^ J^ > O) .3^ 1> »i^ ED^3> -H > ;:5ji>j I* . :>> _:0^:.,^i^jp 33) 3> 1 - > S r Z l> - 1^ ^ &^^^ ^m ► : 5i^)-Z3 ^J > ^^ ™z^i^ '-^jp > ^ ^ Y -3Z3 33 - '.. > "^ I>3 ^^ ^ » ':pt >3 :>> ^ p ".:> ^)j '2^ "y-, :v>: yy :_ >^ ^^ 2z> h ^ ^y^Z ;^l^ "''l~) ^^'y^-Z :5^ ^ ^ y\ p^ ^■:3 --•:)>■ iO ' >: >TZ » : V) J> . )0 _i> 3 ^> ji 1>:± )-:3 5^-5^ ^^oy ■>■ Z> Z^^ 3^ H '^O '^^ ►^' a^.'.::^0 I^ jj> ""2S> TU p j).''>: ""°^ ► >>^ >V V_) >^A> ">i::3 p '^D^^: , ^^ t3 y y.y > '^> -ife :^ t> ,]:,:. '--^ O^:^ > - ->^ • >^ :>j> :>:: > '1>Z X)"^ ■yy ^'O ^j> j^-rz >^ J> >^:: >~) !^ " > . y>y j>y >z > ■j> '^i » ^ ZS^-' y y'yj> J>^^ 3p_j ^ 1>)Z ); ^> >> .3);>r'. » >. >j* --»- ^ I> -^l^ > ^ 5> ■"" ■> ) -^.> V' ■ ^'^Sfficf e^cS^,^^: M ' <4s-,'i. /v AUTHOa OP "JOHN HALIFAX, Geni-leman," " AGATHit's' HUSBAND,'" "OLIVE," "the OGILVIES," ETC. I eome sot to eall the rigliteons, but Mnners, to repeatanc«/ NEW YORK: CarletoUy Publisher^ 4.13 Broadway. M DCCC LXIV, 3nstx\htb / / TO MARGARET AND MARY. A LIFE FOR A LIFE. CHAPTER I. HER STOEY. Yes, I hate soldiers. I can't help writing it — it relieves my mind. All morn- ing have we been driving about that horrid region into which om- beautiful, desolate moor has been transmogrified ; round and round ; up and down ; in at the south camp and out at the north camp ; directed hither and thither by muddle-headed privates ; stared at by puppyish young officers ; choked with chimney-smoke ; jolted over roads laid with ashes — or no roads at all — and pestered every where with the sight of lounging, lazy, red groups — that color is becoming to me a perfect eye-sore ! What a treat it is to get home and lock myself in my own room — ^the tiniest and safest nook in all Rockmount — and spurt out my wrath in the blackest of ink with the boldest of pens. Bless you ! (query, who can I be blessing, for nobody will ever read this), what does it matter? And after all, I re- peat, it reheves my mind. I do hate soldiers. I always did, from my youth up, till the war in the East startled every body hke a thunder-clap. What a time it was — this time two years ago I How the actual romance of each day, as set down in the newspapers, made my old romances read hke mere balderdash : how the present, in its infinite piteousness, its tangible horror, and the awfulness of what they called its "glory," cast the tame past altogether into shade ! Who read history then, or novels, or poetry ? Who read any thing but that fear- ful "Times?" And now it is all gone by : we have peace again ; and this 20th of September, 1856, I begin with my birthday a new journal (capital one, too, with a first-rate lock and key, saved out of my summer bonnet, which I didn't buy). 'Nov need I spoil the day — as once — by crying over those, who, two years since, 6 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. "Went up Ked Alma's heights to glory." Conscience, tender over dead heroes, feels not the small- est compunction in writing the angry initiatory line, when she thinks of that odious camp which has been established near us, for the education of the mihtary mind, and the hardening of the military body. Whence red-coats swarm out over the pretty neighborhood like lady-birds over the hop gardens — harmless, it is true, yet for ever flying in one'sface in the most impleasant manner, making inroads through one's parlor windows, and crawling over one's tea- table. Wretched red insects! except that the act would be murder, I often wish I could put half a dozen of them, swords, epaulets, mustaches, and all, under the heel of my shoe. Perhaps this is obstinacy, or the love of contradiction. Il^o wonder. Do I hear of any thing but soldiers from morning till night ? At visits or dinner-parties can I speak to a soul — and 'tis not much I do speak to any body: — ^but that she (I use the pronoun advisedly) is sure to. bring in with her second sentence something about " the camp !" I'm sick of the camp. Would that my sisters were ! For Lisabel, young and handsome, there is some excuse, but Penelope — she ought to know better. Papa is determined to go with us to the Grantons' ball to-night. I wish there were no necessity for it ; and have suggested as strongly as I could that we should stay at home. But what of that ? N^obody minds me. Nobody ever did that I ever remember. So poor papa is to be dragged out from his cozy arm-chair, jogged and tumbled across these wintery moors, and stuck up solemn in a cor- ner of the drawing-room — being kept carefully out of the card-room because he happens to be a clergyman. And all the while he will wear his politest and most immovable of smiles, just as if he liked it. Oh, why can not people say what they mean and do as they wish ? Why must they be tied and bound with horrible chains of etiquette even at the age of seventy ! Why can not he say, " Girls" (no, of course he would say "young ladies"), "I had far rather stay at home ; go you and enjoy yourselves," or better still, " go, two of you, but I want Dora ?" No, he never will say that. He never did want any of us much ; me less than any. I am neither eldest nor youngest, neither Miss Johnston nor Miss Lisabel, only A LIFE FOE, 'A LIFE. 7 Miss Dora — Theodora — " the gift of God," as my little bit of Greek taught me. A gift — what for and to whom? I declare, since I was a baby, since I was a little solitary ngly child, wondering if I ever had a mother hke other childi'en, smce even I have been a woman groAvn, I never have been able to find out. Well, I suppose it is no use to try to alter things. Papa v»dll go his own way, and the girls theirs. They think the grand climax of existence is " society ;" he thinks the same, at least for young women, properly introduced, escorted, and protected there. So, as the three Misses Johnston — sweet, fluttering doves! — have no other chaperon or pro- tector, he makes a martyr of himself on the shrine of pater- nal duty, alias respectability, and goes. ^ * ^ ^ jH ^ Hs The girls here called me dow^n to admire them. Yes, they looked extremely well; Lisabel, majestic, slow, and fair ; I doubt if any thing in this world would disturb the equanimity of her sleepy blue eyes and soft -tempered mouth — a large, mild, beautiful animal, like a white Brah- min cow. Very much admired is our Lisabel, and no wonder. That white barege will kill half the officers in the camp. She was going to put on her pink one, but I sug- gested how ill pink v/ould look against scarlet, and so, after a series of titters, Miss Lisa took my advice. She is evi- dently bent upon looking her best to-night. Penelope, also : but I w^ish Penelope would not wear such airy dresses, and such a quantity of artificial flowers, Avhile her curls are so thin and her cheeks so sharp. She used to have very pretty hair ten years ago. I remember being exceedingly shocked and fierce about a curl of hers that I saw stolen in the summer-house, by Francis Charteris, before we found out that they Avere engaged. She rather expected him to-night, I fancy. Mrs. Grantou was sure to have invited him with us ; but, of course, he has not come. He .never did come, in my recollection, when he said he would. I ought to go and dress ; but I can do it in ten minutes, and it is not worth while wastmg more time. Those two girls — what a capital foil each makes to the other! little, dark, lively — not to say satirical ; large, amiable, and fair. Papa ought to be proud of them — I suppose he is. Heigho ! 'Tis a good thing to be good-looking. And next best, perhaps, is downright ugliness — nice, interesting, 8 A LIFJi] FOR A LIFE. attractive ugliness — such as I have seen in some women; nay, I have somewhere read that ugly women have often been loved best. But to be just ordinary; of ordinary height, ordinary figure, and, oh me ! let me lift up my head from the desk to the looking-glass,* and take a good stare at an undeniably ordinary face. 'Tis not pleasant. Well; I am as I was made ; let me not undervalue myself, if only out of rever- ence for Him who made me. Surely — Captain Treherne's voice below. Does that young man expect to be taken to the ball in our fly? Truly, he is making himself one of the family already. And there is papa calling us. What will papa say ? Why, he said nothing ; and Lisabel, as she swept slowly down the staircase with a little silver lamp m her right hand, likewise said nothing ; but she looked — " Every body is lovely to somebody," says the proverb. Query, if somebody I could name should live to the age of Methuselah, will she ever be lovely to any body ? What nonsense ! Bravo ! thou wert in the right of it, jolly miller of Dee ! "I care for nobody, no, not I ; And nobody cares for. me. " So, let me lock up my desk and dress for the ball. ******* Keally, not a bad ball ; even now — when looked at in the light of next day's quiet — with the leaves stirrmg lazily in the fir-tree by my window, and the broad sunshine bright- ening the moorlands far away. Not a bad ball, even to me, who usually am stoically con- temptuous of such senseless amusements ; doubtless from the mean motive that I hke dancing, and am rarely asked to dance ; that I am just five-and-twenty, and get no more attention than if I were five-and-forty. Of course, I protest continually that I don't care a pin for this fact (mem. mean again). For I do care — at the very bottom of my heart, I do. Many a time have I leaned my head here — good old desk, you will tell no tales ! and cried, actually cried — with the pain of being neither pretty, agreeable, nor young. Moralists say, it is in every woman's power to be in a measure all three : that when she is not liked or admired — by some few at least — it is a sign that she is neither like- able nor admirable. Therefore, I suppose I am neither. Probably very disagreeable. Penelope often says so, in A LIFE FOR A LIFE. ^ 9 her sharp, and Lisahel in her lazy way. Lis would apply the same expression to a gnat on her wrist, or a dagger pointed at her heart. A "thoroughly amiable w^oman!" ^Now, I never was — never shall be — an amiable woman. To return to the ball — and really I would not mind re- turning to it and having it all over again, which is more than one can say of many hours of our lives, especially of those which roll on rapidly as hours seem to roll after iive- and-twenty. It was exceedingly amusmg. Large, well-lit rooms, filled with well-dressed people ; we do not often make such a goodly show in our country entertainments; but then the Grantons know every body, and invite every body. ISTobody would do that but dear old Mrs. Granton, and " my Colin," who, if he has not three pennyworth of brains, has the Idndest heart and the heaviest purse in the w^hole neighborhood. I am sure Mrs. Granton must have felt proud of her handsome suite of rooms, quite a perambulatory parterre, boasting all the hues of the rainbow, subdued by the proper complement of inevitable black. By-and-by, as the evening- advanced, dot after dot of the adored scarlet made its ap- pearance round the doors, and circulating gradually round the room, completed the coloring of the scene. They were most effective when viewed at a distance — these scarlet dots. Some of them were very young and very small; wore their short iiau' — regulation cut — ex- ceedingly straight, and did not seem quite comfortable in their clothes. "Militia, of course," I overheard a lady observe, who apparently knew all about it. " ISTone of our officers w^ear uniform when they can avoid it." But these yoimg lads seemed uncommonly j^roud of theirs, and strutted and sidled about the door, very valor- ous and magnificent, until caught and dragged to their destiny — in the shape of some fair partner ; when they im- mediately relapsed into shyness and awkwardness — nay, I might add^stupidity ; but were they not the hopeful de- fenders of their country, and did not their noble swords lie idle at this moment on the safest resting-place — Mrs. Gran- ton's billiard-table? I watched the scene out of my corner in a state of dreamy amusement ; mingled with a vague curiosity as to how long I should be left to sit solitary there, and whether it would be very duTl, if " with G:azing fed" — in- A 2 . ^ ^ 10 A LIFE FOP. A LIFE. eluding a trifle of supper — I thus had to spend the entire evening. Mrs. Granton came bustling up. " My dear girl — are you not dancing ?" " Apparently not," said I, laughing, and trying to catch her, and make room for her. Vain attempt ! Mrs. Granton never will sit down while there is any thing that she thinks can be done for any body. In a moment she would have been buzzing all round the room like an amiable bee in search of some unfortunate youth upon whom to inflict me as a partner — ^but not even my desire of dancing would al- low me to sink so low as that. For safety I ran after, and attacked the good old lady on one of her weak pomts. Luckily she caught the bait, and we were soon safely landed on the great blanket, beef, and anti-beer distribution question, now shaking our parish to its very foundations. I am ashamed to say, though the rector's daughter, it is very little I know about our parish. And though at first I rather repented of my 7'wse, seeing that Mrs. Granton's deafness made both her remarks and my answers most unpleasantly public, gradually I became so interested in what she v/as telling me, that we must have kept on talking for nearly twenty minutes, when some one called the old lady away. " Sorry to leave you. Miss Dora, but I leave you in good company," she said, nodding and smiling to some people behind the sofa, with whom she probably thought I Avas acquamted; but I was not, nor had the slightest ambition for that honor. Strangers at a ball have rarely any thing to say vv^orth saying or hearing. So I never turned my head, and let Mrs. Granton trot away. My mind and eyes followed her with a half sigh, consid- ering whether at sixty I shall have half the activity, or cheerfulness, or kindness, of her dear old self 'No one broke in upon my meditations. Papa's white head was visible in a distant doorway. ; for the girls, they had long since vanished in the whirligig. I caught at times a glimpse of Penelope's rose-clouds of tarietan, her pale face, and ever smiling white teeth, that contrast ill with her restless black eyes ; it is always rather painful to me to watch my eldest sister at parties. And now and then Miss Lisabel came floating, moon-like, through the room, almost obscuring young, slender Captain Treherne, who yet ap- jDeared quite content in his occultation. He also seemed A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 11 to be of my opinion that scarlet and white were the best mixture of colors, for I did not see him make the slightest attempt to dance Avith any lady but Lisabel. Several people, I noticed, looked at them and smiled ; and one lady whispered something about "poor clergy- man's daughter" and " Sir Wilham Treherne." I felt hot to my very temples. Oh, if Ave were all in Paradise, or a nunnery, or some place where there was neither thinking nor making of marriages ! I determined to catch Lisa Avlien the Avaltz was done. She Avaltzes Avell, even gracefully, for a tall Avoman — ^but I Avished, I wished — my Avish was cut short by a collision which made me start up Avith an idea of rushing to the rescue ; however, the next moment Treherne and she had recovered their balance and Avere spinning on again. Of course I sat down immediately. But my looks must be terrible tell-tales, since some one behind me said, as plain as" if in answer to my thoughts, " Pray be satisfied ; the lady could not have been in the least hurt." I Avas surprised ; for, though the voice Avas polite, even Idnd, people do not, at least in our country society, address a lady without an introduction. I ansAvered civilly, of course, but it must haA^e been with some stiffiiess of man- ner, for the gentleman said, " Pardon me ; I concluded it was your sister who slip- ped, and that you Avere uneasy about her," boAved, and im- mediately moved aAvay. I felt uncomfortable ; uncertain AA^hether to take any more notice of him or not ; wondering who it Avas that had used the unwonted liberty of speaking to me — a stranger — and Avhether it Avould have been committing myself in any Avay to venture more than a boAV or a " Thank you." At last common-sense settled the matter. " Dora Johnston," thought I, " do not be a simpleton. Do you consider yourself so much better than your fellow- creatures that you hesitate at returning a civil answer to a civil remark — meant kindly too — because you, forsooth, like the French gentleman aa^io was entreated to saA^e an- other gentleman from drowning — '■'' should haA^e been most happy, but haA'e never been introduced.' What ! girl, is this your scorn of couA^entionality — your grand habit of thinking and judging for yourself — your noble independ- ence of all the folUes of societA^ ? Fie ! fie !" 12 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. To piinisli myself for my cowardice, I determined to turn round and look at the gentleman. The punishment was not severe. He had a good face, brown and dark ; a thin, spare, wiry figure ; an air some- what formal. His eyes were grave, yet not without a lurking spirit of humor, which seemed to have clearly pen- etrated and been rather amused by my foolish embarrass- ment and ridiculous indecision. This vexed me for the moment; then I smiled — we both smiled, and began to talk. Of course, it would have been diiierent had he been a young man, but he was not. I should think he was nearly forty. At this moment Mrs. Granton came up, with her usual pleased look when she thinks other people are pleased with one another, and said, in that friendly manner that makes every body else feel friendly together also, " A partner, I see. That's right. Miss Dora. You shall have a quiadrille in a minute, Doctor." Doctor ! I felt relieved. He might have been worse — perhaps, from his beard, even a camp officer. " Our friend takes things too much for granted," he said, smiling. " I believe I must introduce myself. My name is XJrquhart." " Doctor Urquhart?" "Yes." Here the quadrille began to form, and I to button my gloves not discontentedly. He said, "I fear I am assuming a right on false pretenses, for I never danced in my life. You do, I see. I must not de- tain you from another partner." And, once again, my un- known friend, who seemed to have such extreme penetra- tion into my motives and intentions, moved aside. Of course I got no partner — I never do. When the doc- tor reappeared, I was unfeignedly glad to see him. He took no notice whatever of my humiliating state of solitude, but sat down in one of the dancers' vacated places, and re- sumed the thread of our conversation as if it had never been broken. Often, in a crowd, two j^eople not much interested there- in, fall upon subjects perfectly extraneous, which at once make them feel interested in these and in each other. Thus, it seems quite odd this morning to think of the multiplicity of heterogeneous topics which Dr. Urquhart discussed last A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 13 night. I gained from him much A'arious information. He must have been a great traveler, and observer too ; and for me, I marvel now to recollect how freely I spoke my mind on many things which I usually keep to myself, partly from shyness, partly because nobody here at home cares one straw about them. Among others came the universal theme — the war. I said, I thought the three much-laughed-at Quakers, who went to advise jjeace to the Czar Nicholas, were much near- er the truth than many of their mockers. War seemed to me so utterly opposed to Christianity that I did not see how any Christian man could ever become a soldier. At this. Dr. Urquhart leaned his elbow on the arm of the sofa, and looked me steadily in the face. "Do you mean that a Christian man is not to defend his own life or hberty, or that of others, under any circum- stances ? or is he to wear a red coat peacefully while peace lasts, and at his first battle throw down his musket, shoulder his Testament, and walk away ?" These words, though of a freer tone than I was used to, were not spoken in any irreverence. They puzzled me. I felt as if I had been playmg the oracle upon a subject where- on I had not the least ground to form an ojDinion at all. Yet I would not yield. " Dr. Urquhart, if you recollect, I said ' become a soldier.' How, being akeady a soldier, a Christian man should act, I am not wise enough to judge. But I do think, other pro- fessions being open, for him to choose voluntarily the pro- fession of arms, and to receive wages for taking away life, is at best a monstrous anomaly, l^ay, however it may be glossed over and refined away, surely, m face of the plain command, ' Thou shalt not hiU^ military glory seems little better than a picturesque form of murder." I spoke strongly — more strongly perhaps than a young woman, whose opinions are more instincts and emotions than matured principles, ought to speak. If so, Dr. Urqu- hart gave me a fittmg rebuke by his total silence. Nor did he for some time, even so much as look at me, but bent his head down till I could only catch the fore- shortened profile of forehead, nose, and curly beard. Cer- tamly, though a mustache is mean, pup^^yish, intolerable, and whiskers not much better, there is something fine and manly in a regular Oriental beard. Dr. Urquhart spoke at last. 14 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. " So, as I overheard you say to Mrs. Granton, you ' hate soldiers.' ' Hate' is a strong word — for a Christian woman." My own weapons turned upon me. " Yes, I hate soldiers because my principles, instincts, ob- servations, confirm me in the justice of my dislike. In peace, they are idle, useless, extravagant, cmnberers of the coun- try — the mere butterflies of society. In war — you know what they are." " Do I ?" with a slight smile. I grew more angry. " In truth had I ever had a spark of military ardor, it would have been quenched within the last year. I never see a thing — we'll not say'a man — with a red coat on, who does not make himself thoroughly contempt — " The word stuck in the middle. For lo ! there passed slowly by my sister Lisabel ; leaning on the arm of Captain Treherne, looking as I never saw Lisabel look before. It suddenly rushed across me what might happen — perhaps had happened. Suppose, in thus rashly venting my preju- dices, I should be tacitly condemning my — what an odd idea ! — my brother-in-law ? Pride, if no better feelmg, caused me to hesitate. Dr. IJrquhart said, quietly enough, " I should tell you — indeed, I ought to have told you before — that I am myself in the army." I am sure I looked — as I felt — like a downright fool. This comes, I thought, of speaking one's mind, especially to strangers. Oh ! should I ever learn to hold my tongue, or gabble pretty harmless nonsense as other girls ? Why should I have talked seriously to this man at all ? I knew nothing of him, and had no business to be interested in him, or even to have listened to him — my sister would say — until he had been " properly introduced ;" until I knew where he lived, and who were his father and mother, and what was his profession, and how much income he had a year. Still, I did feel interested, and could not help it. Some- thing it seemed that I was bound to say : I wished it to be civil if possible. " But you are Dr. Urquhart. An army-surgeon is scarce ly like a soldier ; his business is to save life rather than to destroy it. Surely you never could have killed any body ?" The moment I had put the question I saw how childish and uncalled for — in fact, how actually impertinent it was. A LITE FOR A LIFE. 15 Covered with confusion, I drew back, and looked another way. It was the greatest relief imaginable Avlien just then Lisabel saw me, and came up with Captain Treherne, all smiles, to say, was it not the pleasantest party imaginable ! and who had I been dancing with ? " N'obody." " ^ay, I saw you myself talking to some strange gentle- man. Who was he ? A rather odd-looking person, and — " " Hush, please. It was a Dr. Urquhart." " Urquhart of ours ?" cried young Treherne. " Why, he told me he should not come, or should not stay ten minutes if he came. Much too sohd for this kmd of thing — eh, you see ? Yet a capital fellow. The best fellow in all the world. Where is he ?" But the " best fellow in all the world" had entirely dis- appeared. I enjoyed the rest of the evening extremely — ^that is, pret- ty well. Xot altogether, now I come to think of it, for though I danced to my heart's content. Captain Treherne seeming eager to bring up his whole regiment, successive- ly, for my patronage and Penelope's (N.B. not Lisabel' s), whenever I caught a distant glimpse of DrrUrquhart's bro^vn beard, conscience stung me for my folly and want of tact. Dear me ! What a thing it is that one can so sel- dom utter an honest oi^inion without offending somebody. Was he reaUy offended ? He must have seen that I did not mean any harm ; nor does he look like one of those touchy people who are always wincing as if they trod on the tails of imaginary adders. Yet he made no attempt to come and talk to me again ; for which I was sorry ; partly because I would have hked to make him some amends, and partly because he seemed the only man present worth talk- ing to. I do wonder more and more what my sisters can find m the young men they dance and chatter with. To me they are. inane, conceited, absolutely unendm*able. Yet there may be good in some of them. May ? ^ay, there must be good in every human being. Alas, me ! Well might Dr. Urquhart say last night that there are no judgments so harsh as those of the erring, the inexperienced, and the young. I ought to add that, when we were wearily waiting for our fly to draw up to the hall door, Dr. Urquhart suddenly appeared. Papa had Penelojie on his arm ; Lisabel was 16 A LIFE rOK A LIFE. whispering with Captain Trehcrne. Yes, depend npon it, that young man will be my brother-in-law. I stood by my- self in the doorway, looking out on the pitch-dark night, when some one behind me said, " Pray stand within shelter. You young ladies are never half careful enough of your health. Allow me.'' And with a grave professional air, my medical friend wrapped me closely up in my shawl. " A plaid, I see. That is sensible. There is nothing for warmth like a good plaid," he said, with a smile, which, even had it not been for his name, and a sHght strengthen- ing and broadening of his English, scarcely amounting to an accent, would have pretty well showed what part of the kingdom Dr. Urquhart came from. I was going, in my bluntness, to put the direct question, but felt as if I had committed myself quite enough for one night. Just then was shouted out " Mr. Johnson's," — (oh dear ! shall we ever get the aristocratic t into our plebeian name ?) — " Mr. Johnson's carriage," and I was hurried into the fly. I^ot by the doctor, though ; he stood like a bear on the doorstep, and never attempted to stir. That's aUr CHAPTER II. HIS STOEY. Hospital Memoranda^ Sept. 21st. — Private William Car- ter, set. 24'; admitted a week to-day. Gastric fever — ty- phoid form — slight delirium — ^bad case. Asked me to write to his mother ; did not say where. Mem. : to mquire among his division if any thing is known about his friends. Corporal Thomas Hardman, get. 50 — Delmum tremens — mendmg. Knew him in the Crimea, when he was a per- fectly sober fellow, with constitution of iron. " Trench work did it," he says, " and last winter's idleness." Mem. : to send for him after his discharge from hospital, and see what can be done ; also to see that decent body, his wife, after my rounds to-morrow. M. U.— Max Urquhart— Max Urquhart, M.D., M.R.C.S. Who keeps scribbling his name up and down this paper like a silly scliool-boy, just for want of something to do. ^ A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 17 Something to do ! never for these twenty years and more have I been so totally without occupation. What a place this camp is ! Worse than ours in the Crimea, by far. To-day especially. Rain pouring, wind howhng, mud ankle-deep ; nothing on earth for me to be, to do, or to suffer, except — yes ! there is something to suf- fer — Treherne's eternal flute. Faith, I must be very hard up for occupation when I thus continue this journal of my cases into a personal diary of the worst patient I have to deal with — the most thank- less, unsatisfactory, and unkindly. Physician, heal thyself! But how ? I shall tear out this page — or stay, I'll keep it as a re- markable literary and psychological fact — and go on with my article on Gunshot Wounds. :s« ^ ^ ^ H« ♦ ♦ In the whi^h, two hours after, I find I have written ex- actly ten lines. These' must be the sort of circumstances under which people commit journals. For some do — and heartily as I have always contemned the proceedmg, as we are prone to contemn peculiarities and idiosyncrasies quite foreign to our own, I begin to-day dimly to understand the state of mind m which such a thing might be possible. " Diary of a Physician" shall I call it ? Did not some one write a book with that title ? I picked it up on ship- board — a story-book or some such thing — ^but I scarcely ever read what is called " light hterature." I have never had time. Besides, all fictions grow tame compared to the realities of daily life, the horrible episodes of crime, the pitiful bits of hopeless misery that I meet with in my pro- fession. Talk of romance ! Was I ever romantic ? Once^ perhaps. Or at least I might have been. My profession, truly there is nothing like it for me. Therein I find incessant work, interest, hope. Daily do I thank heaven that I had courage to seize on it and go through with it, in order — according to the phrase I heard used last night — " to save life instead of destroying it." Poor little girl — she meant nothing — she had no idea what she was saying. Is it that which makes me so unsettled to-day ? Perhaps it would be wiser never to go into society. A hospital ward is far more natural to me than a ball-room. 18 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. There, is work to be done, pain to be alleviated, evil of all kinds to be met and overcome — here, nothing but pleasure, nothing to do but to enjoy. Yet some people can enjoy, and actually do so ; I am sure that girl did. Several times during the evening she looked quite happy. I do not often see people looking happy. Is suifering, then, our normal and natural state ? Is to exist synonymous with to endure ? Can this be the law of a beneficent Providence ? or are such results allowed to happen in certain exceptional cases, utterly irremediable and irretrievable, like — What am I w^riting ? What am I daring to write ? * * * H« * ♦ * Fhysicia?!^ heal thyself. And surely that is one of a physician's first duties. A disease struck inward — the merest tyro knows how fatal is treatment which results in that. It may be I have gone on the wrong track altogether, at least since my return to England. The present only is a man's possession ; the past is gone out of his hand, wholly, irrevocably. He may sufier from it, learn from it — in degree, perhaps, expiate it; but to brood over it is utter madness. Now, I have had many cases of insanity, both physical and moral, so to speak. I call moral insanity that kind of disease which is superinduced on comparatively healthy minds by dwelling incessantly on one idea; the sort of disease which you find in women who have fallen into melancholy from love-disappointments ; or in men for over- weening ambition, hatred, or egotism — which latter, carried to a high pitch, invariably becomes a kind of insanity. All these forms of monomania, as distinguished from physical mania, disease of the structure of the brain, I have studied with considerable interest and corresponding success. My secret was simjDle enough ; one which Nature herself often tries and rarely fails in — the law of substitution ; the slow eradication of any fixed idea, by supplying others, under the influence of which the original idea is, at all events temporarily, laid to sleep. Why can not I try this plan ? Why not do for myself what I have so many times prescribed and done for others ? It was w^ith some notion of the kmd that I went to this baU, after getting a vague sort of curiosity m Treherne's anonymous beauty, about whom he has so long been raving A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 19 to me, boy-like. Ay, with all his folly, the lad is an honest lad. I should not like him to come to any harm. The tall one must have been the lady, and the smaller, the plainer, though the pleasanter to my mind, was no doubt her sister. And, of course, the name of both was Johnson. What a name to startle a man so — to cause him to stand like a fool at that hall door, with his heart dead still, and all his nerves quivering ! To make him now, in the mere writing of it, pause and compel himself into common sense by rational argument — by meeting the thing, be it chimeri- cal or not, face to face, as a man ought to do. Yet as cow- ardly, in as base a paroxysm of terror, as if likewise face to face, in my hut corner, stood — Here I stopped. Shortly afterward I was summoned to the hospital v/here I have been ever since. William Carter is dead. He will not want his mother now. What a small matter life or death seems Avhen one comes to think of it. What an easy exchange ! Is it I who am writing thus, and on the same leaf which, closed up in haste when I was fetched to the hospital, I have just had such an anxious search for, that it might be instantly burned ? Yet I find there is nothing in it that I need have feared ; nothing that could in any way have signified to any body, unless, perhaps, the writing of that one name. Shall I never get over this absurd folly — this absolute monomania ! — when there are hundreds of the same name to be met with every day ; when, after all, it is not exactly the name ! • Yet this is what it cost me. Let me write it down, that the confession in plain English of such utter insanity may in degree have the same effect as when I have sat down and desired a patient to recount to me, one by one, each and all. of his delusions, in order that, in the mere telling of them, they might perhaps vanish. I went away from that hall door at once. Never asking, nor do I think for my life I could ask the simj^le question that would have set all doubt at rest. I walked across country, up and down, along road or woodland, I hardly knew whither, for miles, following the moon-rise. She seemed to rise just as she did nineteen years ago — nineteen years, ten months, all but two days — my arithmetic is cor- i%3ct, no fear ! She lifted herself like a ghost over those 20 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. long level waves of moor, till she sat, blood-red, upon the horizon, with a stare which there was nothing to break, nothing to hide from — nothing between her and me but the plain and the sky — -just as it was that night. What am I writing? Is the old horror coming back again ? It can not. It must be kept at bay. A knock — ah ! I see ; it is the sergeant of poor Carter's company. I must return to daily work, and labor is hfe — to me. CHAPTER III. HIS STORY. Sept. SOth. l!^ot a case to set down to-day. This high moorland is your best sanatorium. My "occupation's gone." I have every satisfaction in that fact, or in the cause of it ; which, cynics might say, a member of my profession would easily manage to prevent, were he a city physician instead of a regunental surgeon. Still, idleness is insup- portable to me. I have tried going about among the few villages hard by, but their worst disease is one to which this said regimental surgeon, with nothing but his pay, can apply but smaU. remedy — poverty. To-day I have paced the long, straight lines of the camp ; from the hospital to the bridge, and back again to the hos- pital ; have tried to take a vivid interest in the loungers, the foot-ball players, and the wretched awkward squad turned out in never-ending parade. With each hour of the quiet autumn afternoon I have watched the sentinel mount the little stockaded hillock, and startle the camp with the old famihar boom of the great Sebastopol bell. Then, I have shut my hut door, taken to my books, and studied till my head warned me to stop. The evening post-r-but only business letters. I rarely have any other. I have no one to write to me — ^no one to write to. Sometimes I have been driven to wish I had ; some one friend with whom it would be possible to talk in pen and mk, on other matters than business. Yet, cui bono f to no friend should I or could I let out my real self: the only thing in the letter that was truly and absolutely me would be the great grim signature : " Max Urquhart." A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 21 Were it otherwise — were there any human being to whom I could lay open my whole heart, trust with my whole history ; but no, that were utterly impossible now. ^o more of this. ISlo more imtil the end. That end, which at once solves all difficulties, every year brings nearer. Nearly forty, and a doctor's life is usually shorter than most men's. I shall be an old man soon, even if there come none of those sud- den chances against which I have of course provided. The end. How and in what manner it is to be done, I am not yet clear. But it shall be done, before my death or after. " Max Urquhart, M.D." I go on signing my name mechanically with those two^ business-like letters after it, and thinking how odd it would be to sign it in any other fashion. How strange — did any one care to look at my signature, in any way except thus, with the two professional letters after it — a commonplace signature of business. Equally strange, perhaps, that such a thought as this last should ever have entered my head, or that I should have taken the trouble, and yielded to the weakness of wi'iting it down. It all springs from idleness — sheer idleness; the very same cause that makes Tre- herne, whom I have known do duty cheerily for twenty-four hours in the trenches, lounge, smoke, yawn, and j)lay the flute. There — ^it has stopped. I heard the postman rap- IDing at his hut door — the young simpleton has got a. letter. Suppose, just to pass away the time, I, Max Urquhart, reduced to this lowest ebb of inanity by a j^aternal govern- ment, which has stranded my regiment here, high and dry, but as dreary as Noah on Ararat — were to enhven my solitude, drive away blue devils, by Manufacturing for my- self an imaginary correspondent ? So be it. To begin then at once in the received epistolary form — " My dear— " My dear— what? "Sir?" No— not for this once. I wanted a change. "Madam?" that is formal. Shah I in- vent a name ? When I think of it, how strange it would feel to me to be writing " my dear" before any Christian name. Or- i:)haned early, my only brother long dead, drifting about from land to land till I have almost forgotten my own, which has quite forgotten me — I had not considered it be- fore, but really I do not believe there is a human being liv- ing whom I have a right to call by his or her Christian 22 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. name, or who would ever think of calhng me by mine. "Max" — I have not heard the sound of it for years. Dear, a pleasant adjective — my, a pronoun of possession, implying that the being spoken of is one's very own — one's sole, sacred, personal property, as with natural selfishness one would wish to hold the thing most precious. 3Iy dear — a satisfactory total. I rather object to ^^ dear est, ^^ as a word implying comparison, and therefore never to be used where comparison should not and could not exist. Wit- ness, " dearest mother," or " dearest wife," as if a man had a plurality of mothers and wives, out of whom he chose the one he loved best. And, as a general rule, I dislike all ul- tra expressions of affection set down in ink. I once knew an honest gentleman — blessed with one of the tenderest hearts that ever man had, and which in all his life was only given to one woman ; he, his wife told me, had never, even in their courtship days, written to her otherwise than as " My dear Anne," ending merely with " Yours faithfully," or " yours truly." Faithful — true — what could he write, or she desire more ? If my pen wanders to lovers and sweethearts, and mor- alizes over simple sentences in this maundering way, blame not me, dear imaginary correspondent, to whom no name shall be given at all — ^but blame my friend — as friends go in this world — Captain Augustus Treherne. Because, ha^^- pily, that young fellow's life was saved at Balaclava, does he intend to invest me with the responsibility of it, with all its scrapes and follies, now and forevermore ? Is my clean, sober hut to be fumigated with tobacco and poisoned with brnndy and w^ater, that a love-sick youth may unburden himself of his sentimeiftal tale ? Heaven knows why I list- en to it ! Probably because telling me keeps the lad out of mischief ; also because he is honest, though an ass, and I always had a greater leaning to fools than to knaves. But let me not pretend reasons which make me out more gen- erous than I really am, for the fellow and his love-affair bore me exceedingly sometimes, and would be quite unen- ^duraMe any where but in this dull camj^. I do it for a cer- tain abstract pleasure which I have always taken in dissect- ing character, constituting myself an amateur demonstrator of spiritual anatomy. An amusing study is, not only the swain, but the god- dess. For I found her out, spelled her over satisfactorily, even in that one evening. Treherne little guessed it — -he A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 23 took care never to introduce me — he does not even men- tion her name, or suspect I know it. Vast precautions against nothing ! Does he fear lest Mentor should put in a claim to his Eucharis ? You know better, dear Imagm- ary Correspondent. Even were I among the list of " marrying men," this adorable she would never be my choice ; would never at- tract me for an instant. Little as I know about women, I know enough to feel certain that there is a very small re- siduum of depth, feeling, or originality in that large hand- some physique of hers. Yet she looks good-natured, good- tempered ; almost as much so as Treherne himself. " Speak o' the de'il," there he comes. Far away dovvm the lines I can catch his eternal "Donna e Mobile" — ^how I detest that song ! Xo doubt he has been taking to the post his answer to one of those abominably-scented notes that he always drops out of his waistcoat by the merest accident, and glances round to see if I am looking, which I never am. What a young puppy it is ! Yet it hangs aft- er one kindly, like a puppy ; after me too, who am not the pleasantest fellow in the world ; and, as it is but young, it 'may mend if it falls into no worse company than the pres- ent. I have known what it is to be without a friend when one is very inexperienced, reckless, and young. Evening. " To what base uses may we come at last." It seems perfectly ridiculous to see the use this memo- randum-book has come to. Cases forsooth ! The few pages of them may as well be torn out in favor of the new speci- mens of moral disease which I am driven to study. For instance : ISTo. 1. Better omit that. [N'o. 2. Augustus Treherne, set. 22, intermittent fever, verging upon yellow fever occasionally, as to-day. Pulse very high, tongue rather foul, es23ecially in speaking of Mi\ Colin Granton. Countenance pale, inclining to livid. A bad case altogether. Patient enters, whistling like a steam-engine, as furious and as shrill, with a corresponding puff of smoke. I point to the obnoxious vapor. " Beg pardon, Doctor, I always forget. Y»"hat a tyrant you are !" "Very likely; but there is one tiling I never will allow 24 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. — smoking in my hut. I did not, you know, even in the Crimea." The lad sat down,' sighing hke a furnace. " Ileigho, Doctor, I wish I were you." "Do you?" "You always seem so uncommonly comfortable; never want a cigar or any thing to quiet nerves and keep you in good-humor. You never get into a scrape of any sort; have neither a mother to lecture you nor an old governor to bully you." " Stop there." " I will, then ; you need not take me up so sharp. He's a trump after all. You Imow that, so I don't mind a word or two against him. Just read there." He threw over one of Sir Wilham's ultra-prosy moral essays, which no doubt the worthy old gentleman flatters himself are, in another Ime, the very copy of Lord Chester- field's letters to his son. I might have smiled at it had I been alone, or laughed at it were I young enough to sympa- thize with the modern system of transposing into " the gov- ernor" the ancient reverend name of " father." " You see what an opinion he has of you. 'Pon my life, if I were not the meekest fellow imaginable, always ready to be led by a straw into Virtue's ways, I should have cut your acquaintance long ago. ' Invariably follow the advice of Doctor TJrquhart' — 'I wish, my dear son, that your character more resembled that of your friend Doctor Ur- quhart. I should be more concerned about your many fol- lies were you not in the same regiment as Doctor IJrqu- ^hart. Doctor Urquhart is one of the wisest men I ever knew,' and so on, and so on. What say you ?" I said nothing ; and I now write down this, as I shall write any thing of the kind which enters into the j^lam re- lation of facts or conversations which daily occur. God knows how vain such words are to me at the best of times — mere sounding brass and tinkling cymbal — as the like must be to most men well acquainted with themselves. At some times, and under certain states of mind, they be- come to my ear the most refined and exquisite torture that my bitterest enemy could desire to infiict. There is no need, therefore, to apologize for them. Apologize to whom, indeed ? Having resolved to write this, it were folly to make it an imperfect statement. A journal should be fresh, complete, and correct — the man's entire life, or nothing ; A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 25 since, if he sets it clown at all, it must necessarily be for Ms own sole benefit ; it would be the most contemptible form of egotistic humbug to arrange and modify it, as if it were meant for the eye of any other person. Dear, unknown, imagmary eye — which never was and never mil be — yet, which I like to fancy shining somewhere in the clouds, out of Jupiter, Yenus, or the Georgium Sidus, upon this sohtary me — the foregoing sentence bears no ref- erence to you. " Treherne," I said, " whatever good opinion your father is pleased to hold as to my wisdom, I certainly do not share m one juvenile folly — that, being a very well-meaning fel- low on the whole, I take the greatest pains to make myself out a scamp." The youth colored. " That's me, of course." " Wear the cap if it feels comfortable. And now, will you have some tea ?" " Any thing ; I feel as thirsty as when you found me dragging myself to the brink of the Tchernaya. Hey, Doc- tor, it would have saved me a deal of bother if you had never found me at all, except that it would vex the old gov- ernor to end the name and have the property aU going to the dogs — that is, to Cousin Charteris, who would not care how soon I was dead and buried." " Were dead and buried, if you please." " Confound it, to stop a man about his grammar when he is in my state of mind ! Kept from his cigar too ! Doctor, you never were in love, or a smoker." , " How do you know ?" '' Because you never could have given up the one or the other ; a fellow can't ; 'tis an impossibility." " Is it ? I once smoked six cigars a day for two years." " Eh ! what ? And you never let that out before ? You are so close. Possibly the other fact will peep out in time. Mrs. Urquhart and half a dozen brats may be living in some out-of-the-way nook — Cornwall, or Jersey, or the centre of Salisbmy Plain. Why, what? nay, I beg your pardon, Doctor," What a horrible thing it is that by no physical effort, add- ed to years of mental self-control, can I so harden my nerves that certain words, names, suggestions, shall not startle me • — make me quiver as under the knife. Doubtless Treherne will henceforth retam, so far as his easy mind can retain B 26 A LIFE FOIl A LIFE. any thing, the idea that I have a wife and family hidden somewhere. Ludicrous idea! if it were not connected with other ideas, from which, however, this one will serve to turn his mind. To explain it away was of course impossible. I had only power to slip fi-om the subject with a laugh, and bring him back to the tobacco question. " Yes ; I smoked six cigars a day for at least two years." " And gave it up ? Wonderful !" "Not very, when a man has a will of his own, and a few strong reasons to back it." " Out with them — not that they will benefit me, how- ever — ^I'm quite incorrigible." " Doubtless. First, I was a poor medical student, and six cigars 'per dietn cost fourteen shillings a week — thirty- one pounds eight shillings a year. A good sum to give for an artificial want — enough to have fed and clothed a child." " You're weak on the point of brats, Urquhart. Do you remember the little Kuss we picked up in the cellar at Se- bastopol ? I do believe you'd have adopted and brought it home with you if it had not died." Should I ? But, as Treherne said, it died. " Secondly, thirty-one pounds eight shilhngs per annum was a good deal to give for a purely selfish enjoyment, an- noying to almost every body except the smoker, and at the time of smoking — especially when with the said smoker it is sure to grow from a mere accidental enjoyment into an irresistible necessity — a habit to which he becomes the most u1?ter slave. N'ow, a man is only half a man who al- lows himself to become a slave of any habit whatsoever." " Bravo, Doctor ! all this should go into the LancetP " [N'o, for it does not touch the question on the medical side, but the general and practical one — ^namely, that to create an unnecessary luxury, which is a nuisance to every body else, and to himself of very doubtful benefit, is — ex- cuse me — the very silliest thing a young man can do. A thing which, from my own experience, I'll not aid and abet any young man in doing. There, lecture's over — kettle boiled — unless you prefer tobacco and the open air." He did not ; and we sat down, " four feet upon a fender," as the proverb says. " Heigho ! but the proverb doesn't mean four feet iia A LITE FOE A LIFE. 27 men's boots," said Treherne, dolefully. "I wish I was dead and buried." I suggested that the hght mustache he curled so fondly, the elegant hair, and the aristocratic outline of phiz, would look exceedingly well — in a coffin. " Faugh ! how impleasant you are." And I myself repented the speech ; for it ill becomes a man under any provocation to make a jest of death. But that this young fellow, so full of life, with every attraction that it can offer — health, wealth, kindred, friends — should sit croaking there, with such a used-up, lack-a-daisical air, truly it irritated me. " What's the matter, that you wish to rid the world of your valuable presence ? Has the young lady expressed a similar desire ?" " She ? hang her ! I won't think any more about her," said the lad, sullenly. And then out poured the grand de-. spair, the unendurable climax of mortal woe. " She canter. ed through the north camp this afternoon with Granton, Colin Granton, and upon Granton's own brown mare." " Ha ! horrible vision ! And you ? you ' Watched them go : one horse was blind ; The tails of both hung down behind. Their shoes were on their feet.' " "Doctor!" I stopped — there seemed more reahty in his feelings than I had been aware of; and it is scarcely right to make a mock of even the fire-and-smoke, dust-and-ashes passion of a boy. " I beg your pardon ; not knowing the affair had gone so far. Still, it isn't worth being dead and buried for." " What business has she to go riding with that big clod- hopping lout? And what right has he to lend her his brown mare?" chafed Treherne, with a great deal more which I did not much attend to. At last, weary of playv ing Friar Lawrence to such a very uninteresting Romeo, 1 hinted that if he disapproved of the young lady's behavior he ought to appeal to her own good sense, to her father, or somebody— or, since women understand one another best, get Lady Augusta Treherne to do it. '^ My mother ! She never even heard of her. Why, you speak as seriously as if I were actually intending to marry her." Here I could not help rousing myself a trifle. 25 A LIFl!} FOIi A LIFEo ' " Excuse me ; it never struck me that a gentleman could discuss a young lady among his acquaintance, make a pub- lic show of his admiration for her, interfere with hei* pro- ceedings or her conduct toward any other gentleman, and not intend to marry her. Suppose we choose another sub- ject of conversation." Treherne grew hot to the ears, but he took the hint and spared me his sentimental maunderings. We had afterward some mteresting conversation about a few cases of mine m the neighborhood, not on the regular list of regimental patients, which have lately been to me a curious study. If I were inchned to quit the army, I be- lieve the branch of my profession which I should take up would be that of sanitary reform — the study of health rather than of disease, of prevention rather than cure. ■ It often seems to me that we of the healing art have begun at the wi'ong end, that the energy we devote to the allevia- tion of irremediable disease would be better spent in the study and practice of means to preserve health. Thus, I tried to explain to Treherne, who will have plen- ty of money and influence, and whom, therefore, it is worth while taking pains to inoculate with a few useful facts and ideas, that one half of our mortality in the Crimea was owing, not to the accidents of war, but to the results of zpnotic diseases, all of which might have been prevented by common sense and common knowledge of the laws of health, as the statistics of our sanitary commission have abundantly proved. And, as I told him, it saddens me, almost as much as domg my duty on a battle-field, or at Scutari, or Renkioi, to take these amateur rounds in safe England, among what poets and politicians call the noble British peasantry, and see the frightful sacrifice of hfe — and worse than fife — ^from causes perfectly remediable. Take, for instance, these cases, as set down m my note- book. Amos Fell, 40, or thereabouts, down with fever for ten- days ; wife and five sons ; occupy one room of a cottage on the Moor, which holds two other families ; says, would be glad to live in a better place, but can not get it; landlord will not allov/ more cottages to be built. Would buUd himself a peat hut, but doubts if that would be permitted ; so just goes on as well as he can. Peck family, fever also, livmg at the filthiest end of the A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 29 Tillage ; themselves about the dirtiest in it ; with a stream rushing by fresh enough to wash and cleanse a whole tO^Tl. Widow Haynes, rheumatism, from field-work, and living in a damp room with earthen floor, half underground ; de- cent woman, gets half a crown a week from the j^arish ; but will not be able to earn any thing for months ; and what is to become of all the children ? Treherne settled that question, and one or two more; poor fellow, his purse is as open as his heart just now ; but among his other luxuries he may as well taste the luxury of giving. 'Tis good for him ; he will be Sir Augustus one of these days. Is his goddess aware of that fact, I wonder ? What ! is cynicism growing to be one of my vices ? and against a woman too ? One of whom I absolutely know nothmg, except watching her for a few moments at a bail. She seems to be one of the usual sort of oflicers' belles in coimtry quarters. Yet there may be something good in her. There was, I feel sure, in that large-eyed sister of hers. But let me not judge-— I have never had any oppor- tunity of miderstanding women. This subject was not revived, till, the tobacco-hunger proving too strong for him, my friend Romeo began to fidget, and finally rose. "I say. Doctor, you won't tell the governor — ^it would put him in an awful fume ?" " What do you mean ?" " Oh ! about Miss , you know. I've been a great ass, I suppose, but when a gM is so civil to one — a fine girl, too — you saw her, did you not, dancing with me ? Now, isn't she an uncommonly fine girl ?" I assented. " And that Granton should get her, confound hun ! a great logger-headed country clown." " Who is an honest man and will make her a kind hus- band. Any other honest man who does not mean to ofler himself as her husband, had much better avoid her acquaint- ance." Treherne colored again : I saw he understood me, though he turned it oif with a laugh. " You're preaching matrimony, Doctor, surely. What an idea ! to tie myself up at hiy age. I shan't do the ungen- tlemanly thing either. So because some meii, determined on making beasts of them- selves, required to be treated like beasts, by compulsion only, that was no reason why the remainder should not have free-will, man's glorious privilege, to prove their manhood by the choice of good or evil. " Like Adam — ^and Adam fell." " Like a greater than Adam ; trusting in Whom we need never fall." The old man did not reply, but he looked much excited. The subject seemed to rouse in him something beyond the mere disgust of an educated gentleman at what oflfended his refined tastes. Had not certain other reasons made that solution improbable, I could have imagined it the shudder of one too familiar with the vice he now abhorred ; that he spoke about drunkenness with the terrified fierceness of one who had himself been a drunkard. As we sat talking across the table, philosophically, ab- stractedly, yet with a perceptible undertone of reserve — I heard it m his voice ; I felt it in my own — or listening si- lently to the equinoctial gale, which rattled the window, made the candles flicker, almost caused the wine to shake in the untouched decanters — as I have heard table-rapping A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 81 tales, of wine beginning to shake when there was " a spirit present" — ^the thought struck me more than once — if either of us two men could lift the curtain from one another's past, what would be found there ? He proceeded to close our conversation by saying, " You will understand now. Doctor Urquhart, and I wish to name it as a sort of apology for my former close question- ing, my extreme horror of drunkenness and my satisfaction at finding that Mr. Treherne has no propensity in this di- rection." I answered, " Certainly not ; that, with all the temptations of a mess-table, to take much wine was, with him, a thing exceedingly rare." " Rare ! I thought you said he never drank at all ?" " I told you he was no drunkard, nor at all m the habit of drinking." " Habits grow, we know not how," cried the old man, irritably. " Does he take it every day ?" " I suppose so. Most military men do." Mr. Johnston turned sharp upon me. " I must have no modifications. Doctor Urquhart. Can you declare positively that you never saw Captain Treherne the worse for hquor ?" To answer this question directly was impossible, I tried to remove the impression I had unhappily given, and which the old man had taken up so unexpectedly and fiercely, by enlarging on the brave manner in which Treherne had with- stood many a lure to evil ways. " You can not deceive me, sir. I must have the truth." I was on the point of telling him to seek it from Treherne himself, when, remembering the irritation of the old man, and the hot-headed imprudence of the young one, I thought it would be safer to bear the brunt myself I informed Mr. Johnston of the two only instances when I had seen Tre- herne not himself. Once after twenty-four hours in the trenches, when unhmited brandy could hardly keep life in our poor fellows, and again when Miss Lisabel herself must be his excuse. " Lisabel ? Do not name her, sir ; I would rather see a daughter of mine in her grave than the wife of a drunkard." " Which, allow me to assert. Captain Treherne is not, and is never hkely to be." Mr. Johnston shook his head incredulously. I became more and more convinced about the justice of my conject- D2 82 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. ure about liis past life, which dehcacy forbade me to in- quire into, or to use as any argument against his harshness now. I began to feel seriously uneasy. " Mr. Johnston," I said, " would you for this accidental error — " I paused, seeing at the door a young lady's face, Miss Theodora's. " Papa, tea is waiting." " Let it wait then ; shut the door. Well, sir ?" I repeated, would he, for an accidental error, condemn the young man entirely ? " He has condemned himself; he has taken the first step, and his downward course will be swift and sudden. There is no stoppmg it, sir," and he struck his hand on the table. " If I had a son, and he liked wine, as a child does, perhaps — a pretty little boy, sitting at table and drinking healths at birthdays ; or a schoolboy, proud to do what he sees his father doing — I would take his glass from him, and fill it with poison — deadly poison — that he might kill himself at once, rather than grow up to his friends' curse and his own damnation — a drmikardP I urged, after a minute's pause, that Treherne was nei- ther a child nor a boy ; that he had passed through the early perils of youth, and succumbed to none ; that there was little fear he would ever become a drunkard. "He may." *' Please God he never shall ! Even if he had yielded to temptation ; if, even in your sense and mine, Mr. Johnston, the young man had once been ' drunk,' would you for that brand him as a hopeless drunkard? I think not — I trust not." And, strongly excited myself, I pleaded for the lad as if I had been pleading for my own life, but in vain. It was getting late, and I was in momentary dread of another summons to the drawing-room. In cases like these there comes a time when, be our op- ponents younger or older, inferior or superior to ourselves, we feel we must assert what we believe to be right, " tak- ing the upper hand," as it is called — that is, using the power which the few have in guiding the many. Call it influence, decision, will — one who possesses it rarely gets through half a lifetime without discovering the fact, and what a weighty and solemn gift it is. I said to Mr. Johnston, very respectfully, yet resolutely, A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 83 that, in so serious a matter, of which I myself was the mi- happy cause, I must request him, as a personal favor, to postpone his decision for to-night. " And," I continued, " forgive my urging that, both as a father and a clergyman, you are bound to be careful how you decide. By one fatal word you may destroy your daughter's haj^piness for life." I saw him start ; I struck bolder. " Also, as Captain Treherne's friend, let me remind you that he has a future too. It is a dangerous thing for a young man's future when he is thwarted in his first love. What if he should go all wrong, and you had to answer to Sir William Treherne for the ruin of his only son ?" I was not prepared for the effect of my words. " His only son — God forgive me ! is he his only son ?" Mr. Johnston turned from me ; his hands shook violently ; his whole countenance changed. In it there was as much remorse and anguish as if he, in his youth, had been some old man's only and perhaps erring son. I could pity him if he were one of those who suffer to their life's end for the evil deeds of their youth. I abstain- ed from any farther remarks, and he made none. At last, as he expressed some wish to be left alone, I rose. " Doctor," he said, in a tremulous voice, " I will thank you not to name this conversation to my family. For the subject of it, we'll pass it over this once." I thanked him, and earnestly begged forgiveness for any warmth I had shown in the argument. " Oh yes, oh yes ! Did I not say we would pass it over ?" He sank wearily back in his arm-chair, but I felt the point was gained. In course of the evening, when Treherne and Miss Lisa- bel, in happy ignorance of all the peril their bliss had gone through, were making believe to play chess in the corner, and Miss Johnston was reading the newspaper to her father, I -ehpped away to the green-house, where I stood examin- ing some orchids, and thinking how curious it was that I, a ]oerfect stranger, should be so mixed up with the private affahs of this family. " Doctor Urquhart." Soft as the whisper was, it made me start. I ajDologized for not having seen Miss Theodora enter, and began admir- ing the orchidaceous plants. " Yes, very pretty. But I wanted to ask you, what were yon nnd papa talkinp; nboiit ?" 84 A LIFE FOE A LIFE. " Your father wished me not to mention it." " But I heard part of it, I could not help hearing, and I guessed the rest. Tell me only one thing. Is Mr. Treherne still to marry our Lisa ?" " I believe so. There was a difficulty, but Mr. Johnston said he would ' pass it over.' " " Poor papa," was all she replied. " Poor papa." I expressed my exceeding regret at what had happened. " No, never mind, you could not help it ; I understand exactly how it was. But the storm will blow over ; papa is rather peculiar. Don't tell Mr. Treherne." She stood meditative a good while, and then said, " I think you are right about Captain Treherne ; I begm to like him myself a little. That is — No, I will not make pretenses. I did not like him at all until lately." I told her I knew that. "How? Did I show it? Do I show w^hat I feel ?" " Tolerably," said I, smiling. " But you do like him now?" "Yes." Another pause of consideration and then a second decisive "yes." " I hke him," she went on, " because he is good-natured and sincere. Besides, he suits Lisabel, and people are so different, that it would be ridiculous to expect to choose one's sister's husband after the pattern of one's own. The two would probably not agree in any single particular." "Indeed," said I, amused at her frankness. "For in- stance ?" " Well, for instance, Lisa likes talkmg, and I silence, or being talked to, and even that m moderation. Hark!" We hstened a minute to Treherne's hearty laugh and in- cessant chitter-chatter. " Now, my sister enjoys that, she says it amuses her ; I am sure it would drive me crazy in a week." I could sympathize a little in this sentiment. • " But," with sudden seriousness, " I beg you to under- stand. Doctor Urquhart, that I am not speaking against Captain Treherne. As I told you, I hke him ; I am quite satisfied with him, as a brother-in-law. Only he is not ex- actly the sort of person one would choose to spend a week with in the Eddystone Lighthouse." I asked if that was her test for all her friends ? since few could stand it. A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 85 She laughed. " Possibly not. When one comes to reflect there are very few whose company one can tolerate so well as one's own." * " Which is itself not always agreeable." " Ko, but the less evil of the two. I don't believe there is a creature living whose society I could endure, without intermission, for a month, a week, or even two days. 'No. Emphatically no." She must then, though a member of a family, hve a good deal alone — a fact I had already begun to suspect. " Therefore, as I try to make Lisa feel — being the elder, I have a right to preach, you know — what an awful thing marriage must be, even viewed as mere companionship. Putting aside love, honor, obedience, and all that sort of thing, to undertake the burden of any one person's constant presence and conversation for the term of one's natural life ! the idea is frightful !" " Very, if you do put aside love, honor, ' and all that sort of thing.' " She looked up, as if she thought I was laughing at her. " Am I talking very foohshly ? I am afraid I do some- times." " N"ot at all," I said, " it was pleasant to hear her talk." Which unlucky remark of mine had the effect of wholly silencing her. But, silent, it was something to watch her moving about the drawing-room, or sitting still over her work. I like to see a woman sewing ; it gives her an air of peaceful home- likeness, the nearest approach to which, in us men, who are either always sullenly busy or lazily idle, is the imgainly lounge with our feet on the fender. Mr. Johnston must be happy in his daughters, particularly in this one. He can scarcely have regretted that he has had no sons. It seems natural, seeing how much too well acquainted we are with our sex, its weaknesses and wickednesses, that most men should long for, and make much of daughters. Certainly, to have in one's old age a bright girlish face to look at, a lively original girlish tongue to freshen one's mind with new ideas, must be a pleasant thing. Whatever may have been the sorrows of his past life, Mr. Johnston is a fortunate man now. With regard to Treherne, I had the satisfaction of per- ceiving that, as Miss Theodora had prophesied, the old 86 A LIFE rOK A LIFE. man's anger had blown over. His manner indicated not merely forgiveness, but a degree of kindly interest in that light-hearted youth, who was brimming 'over with fun and contentment. I had an opportunity of satisfying myself on this point, in another quarter, while waiting in the hall for Treherne's protracted adieu in the dining-room ; when Miss Theodora, passing me, stopped to interchange a word with me. " Shall you tell your friend what occurred to-night ? — with j)apa, I mean." I rephed, I was not sure — ^but perhaps I should. It might act as a warning. " Do you think he needs a warning ?" " I do not. I believe Treherne is as likely to turn out a good man, especially with a good wife to help him, as any young fellow of my acquaintance ; and I sincerely hope that you, as well as your father, will think no worse of him for any thing that is past. An old man has had time to forget, and a girl is never likely to understand, the exceeding tempt- ations which every young man has to fight through, more especially a young man of fortune, and in the army." " Ah ! yes," she sighed, " that is too true. Papa must have felt it. Papa wished this to be kept secret between himself and you?" " I understood him so." " Then keep it. Do not tell Mr. Treherne. And have no fear that I shall be too hard upon him. It would be sad, indeed, for all of us, who do wrong every day, if every error of youth were to be regarded as unpardonable." God bless her good heart, and the kindly hand she held out to me ; which for the second time I dared to take in mine. Ay, even in tnhie. CHAPTER Till. HEE STOET. I DO not feel inclined for sleep, and there is a large round moon looking in at my window. My foolish old moon, what a time it is since you and I had a quiet serious look at one another. What curious things you used to say to me, and what confidences I used to make in you, at this very win- dow, leaning my elbow in this very spot. That was when A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 87 I was a child, and fond of Colin — " Colin, my dear." How ridiculous it seems now, and what a laugh it would raise against me if any body had known it. Yet what an inno- cent, simple, devoted child-love it was ! I hardly think any after-love, supposing I should ever feel one, will be, in its way, more tender or more true. Moon have you forgotten me ? Am I becoming a mid- dle-aged person ; and is a new and younger generation growing up to have confidences with you as I used to have? Or is it I who have forsaken you? Most hkely. You have done me a deal of harm — and good, too — in my time. Yet you seem friendly and mild to-night. I will forgive you, my poor old moon. It has been a pleasant day. My head aches a little, with the unusual excitement — query, of pleasure ? Is pleasant- ness so very rare, then ? No : I am weary with the exer- tion of having to make myself agreeable ; for Penelope is full of housekeeping cares, and a few sad thoughts, too, may be, concerning the wedding ; so that she takes httle trouble to entertain visitors. And Lisabel is "in love," you know, moon. You would not think it, though, except from the hcense she takes to be lazy when Augustus is here, and up to the eyes in business when he is away. I never thought a wedding was such a "piece of work," as the old women say ; such a time of incessant bustle, worry, and confusion. I only saw the "love" side of it, Lisabel avers, and laughs at me when I wonder at her for wearing herself out from morning till night in consultation over her trousseau, and how we shall possibly manage to accommodate the eight- and-forty particular friends who must be asked to the breakfast. Happily, they are only the bride's friends. Sir WilUam and Lady Augusta Treherne can not come, and Augustus does not care a straw for asking any body. He says he only wants his Lisa. His Lisa unfortunately requires a few trifles more to constitute her bridal happiness ; a wreath, a veil, a breakfast, and six bridesmaids in Indian muslin. Rather cold, for autumn, but which she says she Can not give up on any account, since a wedding-day comes but once, and she has been lookuig forward to hers ever since she was born. A wedding-day! Probably there are few of us who have not speculated on it a httle, as the day which, of all 88 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. otliers, is the most decisive in a woman's life. I am not ashamed to confess having occasionally thought of mine. A foolish dream that comes and goes with one's teens ; imagined paradise of utterly impossible joy, to be shared with some paragon of equally impossible perfection — I could sit and laugh at it now, if the laughter were not bit- terer than tears. There, after writing this, I went and pulled down my hair, and tied it under my chin to prevent cold — oh ! most prudent five-and-twenty — ^leaned my elbow on the window- sill, in the old attitude of fifteen, starmg up at the moon and out across the fir-woods for a long time. Returning, I have relit my candle, and taken once more to my desk, and I say again, O inquisitive moon, that this has been a pleasant day. It was one of our quiet Rockmount Sundays, which Doctor Urquhart says he enjoys so much. Poor Lisabel's last Sunday but one. She will be married to-morrow week. We had our indispensable lover to dinner, and Doctor Urquhart also. Papa told me to ask him as we were coming, out of the church. In spite of the distance, he often attends our church now, at which papa seems grati- fied. I dehvered the message, which was not received with as much warmth as I thought it ought to have been, consid- ering that it came from an elderly gentleman, who does not often pay a yomiger man than himself the compliment of liking his society. I was turning away, saying I con- cluded he had some better engagement, when Doctor Ur- quhart replied quickly — " No, indeed. That were impossible." " Will you come then ? Pray don't, if you dishke it." For I was vexed at a certain hesitation and uneasiness in his manner, which implied this ; when I had been so glad to bring him the invitation and had taken the trouble to cross half the church-yard after him, in order to deliver it; which I certainly would not have done for a person whom every body liked. N.B. — This may be one of the involuntary reasons for my liking Doctor Urquhart ; that papa and I myself are the only two persons of our family who unite in that opin- ion. Lisabel makes fun of him ; Penelope is scarcely civil to him ; but that is because Francis, coming down last week for a day, took a violent aversion to him. A LIFE POR A LIFE. 89 I heard the girls laiigMng within a stone's throw of where we stood. "Pray please yourself, Doctor Urquhart; come, or not come ; but I can't wait." He looked at me with an amused air — yes, I certamly have the honor of amusing him, as a child or a kitten would — ^then said, " He would be happy to join us." I was ashamed of myself for bemg thus pettish with a person so much older and wiser than I, and who ought to be excused so heartily for any peculiarities he has ; yet he vexed me. He does vex me very much, sometimes. I can not understand why; it is quite a new feehng to be so irritated with any body. Either it is his manner, which is rather variable, sometimes cheerful and friendly, and then again restless and cold ; or an uncomfortable sensation of being under control, which I never yet had, even toward my own father. Once, when I was contesting something with him, Augustus noticed it, and said, laughing — " Oh, the Doctor makes every body do what he hkes : you'd better give in at once. I always do." But I can not, and I will not. To feel vexed with a person, to know they have the power of vexing you — that a chance word or look can touch you to the quick, make you feel all over in a state of irritation, as if all the world went wrong, and you were ready to do any thing cross, or sullen, or childishly naughty — until another chance word or look happens to set you right again — this is an extremely uncomfortable state of things. I must guard agamst it. I must not allow my temper to get way. Sensitive it is, I am aware, quick to feel sore, and to take offense ; but I am not a thoroughly ill-tempered woman. Doctor Urquhart does not think so : he told me he did not. One day, when I had been very cross with him, he said " I had done him no harm ; that I often did him good." Me — to do good to Doctor Urquhart ! What an extra- ordinary thing ! I Hke to do people good — to do it my own self, too — a mean pleasure, perhaps, yet it is a pleasure, and I was pleased with this saying of Doctor Urquhart's. If I could but believe it ! I do believe it sometimes. I know that I can make him smile, let him look ever so grave ; that something 90 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. in me and my ways interests and amuses him in an inglo- rious, kittenish fashion, as I said ; yet, still, I draw him out of himself, I make him merry, I bring light into his face, till one could hardly believe it was the same face that I first saw at the Cedars ; and it is pleasant to me to think that, by some odd sympathy or other, I am pleasant to him, as I am to few — alas ! to very few. I know when people dislike me — know it keenly, pain- fully; I know, too, with a sort of stolid patience, when they are simply indifferent to me. Doubtless, in both cases, they have every reason ; I blame nobody, not even myself, I only state a fact. But with si^h people I can no more be my natural self, than I can run about barefooted and bareheaded in our north winds or moorland snows. But if a little sunshine comes, my heart warms to it, basks in it, dances under it, hke the silliest young lamb that ever frisked in a cowshp meadow, rejoicuig in the May. I am not, and never pretend to be, a humble person. I feel there is that in me which is worth something, but a return for which I have never yet received. Give me its fair equivalent, its full and honest price, and oh, if I could e^fpend it every mite, how boundlessly rich I should grow ! This last sentence means nothing ; nor do I quite under- stand it myself. Writing a journal is a safety-valve for much folly, yet I am by no means sure that I ought to have written the last page. However, no more of this ; let me tell the story of my day. Walking from church. Doctor Urquhart told me that Augustus had asked him to be best-man at the wedding. I said I knew it, and wished he would consent. "Why?" Though the abruj)t question surprised me, I answered, of course, the truth ; that if the best-man were not himself, it would be one of the camp officers, and I hated — " " Soldiers ?" I told him it was not kind to be always throwing in my teeth that imfortunate speech, that he ought not to tease me so. " Do I tease you ? I was not aware of it." " Very likely not, and I am a great simpleton for ahow- ing myself to be teased with such trifles ; but Doctor Urqu- hart can not expect me to be as wise as himself, he is a great deal older than I." A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 91 " Tell me, then," he continued, in that kind tone which always makes me feel something like a little pet donkey I once had, which, if I called it across the field, would come and lay its head on my hand — not that, donkey as I am, I inchne to trouble Doctor Urquhart in that way, " tell me what it is you do hate?" *' I hate to have to entertain strangers." " Then you do not consider me a stranger ?" " I^o ; a friend." I may say that, for, short as our acquaintance dates, I have seen more of Doctor Urquhart, and seem to know him better than any man in the whole course of my hfe. He did not refuse the title I gave him, and I think he was gratified, though he said only, " You are very kind, and I thank you." Presently I recurred to the subject of discussion, and wished him to promise what Augustus, and Lisabel, and we all desired. He paused a moment, then said, decisively, " I will come." "That is right. I know we can always depend upon Doctor Urquhart's promises." Was my gladness over-bold? "Would he misconstrue it ? ISTo ; he is too clear-sighted, too humble-minded, too wise. With him I have always the feeling that I need take no trouble over what I do or say, except that it should be true and sincere. Whatever it is, he will judge it fairly. And if he did not, why should I care ? ^ Yes, I should care. I hke him — I like him very much. It would be a comfort to me to have him for a friend, one of my very own. In some degree he treats me as such ; to-day, for instance, he told me more about himself than he ever did to any one of us. It came out accidentally. I can not endure a man who, at first acquaintance, indulges you with his autobiography in full. Such a one must be either a puppy or an idiot. Ah! there I am again at my harsh judgments, which Doctor Urquhart has so tacitly reproved. This good man, who has seen more of the world and its wickedness than I am ever likely to see, is yet the most charitable man I ever knew. To return. Before we reached Rockmount the sky had clouded over, and in an hour it was a thoroughly wet afternoon. Penelope went up stairs to v/rite her Sunday letter, and 92 A LIFE FOE, A LIFE. Augustus and Lisabel gave broad hints that they wished the drawing-room all to themselves. Perforce, Doctor Urquhart and I had to entertain ourselves. I took him mto the green-house, where he lectured to me on the orchidacea and vegetation of the tropics gen- erally, to his own content, doubtless, and partially to mine. I like to hear his talking, so wise, yet so simple ; a fresh- ness almost boyish seems to linger in his nature still, and he has the thoroughly boyish peculiarity of taking pleasure in little things. He spent half an hour in reviving a big brown bee which had grown torpid with cold, and there was in his eyes a kindness, as over a human creature, when he gave into my charge his " little patient," whom I prom- ised to befriend. (There he is, poor old fellow, fast asleep on a flower-pot, till the first bright morning I can turn him out.) " I am afraid, though, he will soon get into trouble again, and not find so kind a friend," said I to Doctor Urquhart. " He will intoxicate himself in the nearest flower-cup, and seek repentance and restoration too late." " I hope not," said the doctor, sadly and gravely. I said I was sorry for having made a jest upon his favor- ite doctrine, of repentance and restoration of sinners; which he seemed always both to preach and to practice. " Do I ? Perhaps. Do you not thmk it is very much needed in this world ?" I said I had not lived long enough in the world to find out. ^ " I forgot how young you were." He had once, in his direct way, asked my age, and I had told him, much disposed likewise to return the question, but was afraid. Sometimes I feel quite at home with him, as if I could say any thing to him, and then again he makes me, not actually afraid — thank goodness, I never was afraid of any man yet, and hope I never shall be — ^but shy and quiet. I suppose it is because he is so very good ; because m his presence my little foUies and wickednesses hide their heads. I cease perplexing myself about them, or about myself at all, and only think — ^not of him so much as of something higher and better than either him or me. Sure- ly this can not be wrong. The bee question settled, we sat down, silent, hstening to the rain pattering on the glass roof of the green-house. It was rather a dreary day. I began thmking of Lisabel's A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 93 leaving more than was good for me ; and witli that pene- trative kindness which I have often noticed in him, Doctor Urquhart turned my sad thoughts away by various inform- ation about Treherne Court, and the new relations of our Lisa — not many. I said, " happily, she would have neither brother nor sister-in-law." " Happily ! You can not be in earnest ?" I hall' wished I had not been, and yet I could not but speak my nund — that brothers or sisters, in law or in blood, were often any thing but a blessing. " I must emphatically differ from you there. I think it is, with few exceptional cases, the greatest misfortune to be an only child. Few are so natm-ally good, or reared under such favorable circumstances, that such a position does not do them harm. A lonely childhood and youth may make a great man, a good man, but it rarely makes a happy man. Better all the tussles and troubles of family life, where the angles of character are rubbed off, and its inclinations to morbidness, sensitiveness, and egotism knock- ed down. I think it is a great wonder to see Treherne such a good fellow as he is, considering he has been an only child." " You speak as if you knew what that was yourself." " No ; we were orphans, but I had one brother." This was the first time Doctor Urquhart had reverted to any of his relatives, or to his early life. My curiosity was strong. I risked a question : was this brother older or youn- ger than he ? " Older." " And his name ?" "Dallas." " Dallas Urquhart — what a nice name." " It is common in the family. There was a Dallas Urqu- hart, younger brother to a Sir John Urquhart, who, in the religious troubles, seceded to Episcopacy. He was m love with a minister's sister — a Presbyterian. She died broken- hearted, and in despair at her reproaches, Dallas threw him- self down a precipice, where his whitened bones were not found till many years after. Is not that a romantic his- tory?" I said romantic and painful histories were common enough ; there had been some even in our matter-of-fact family. But he was not so inquisitive as I ; nor should I have told him farther ; we never speak on this subject if 94 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. we can heljD it. Even the Grantons — our intimate friends ever since we came to live at Kockmount — have never been made acquainted with it. And Penelope said there was no need to tell Augustus, as it could not affect him, or any per- son now living, and, for the sake of the family, the sad story was better forgotten. I think so too* With a sigh, I could not help observing to Doctor Urqu- hart that it must be a very happy thing to have a brother — a good brother. " Yes. Mine was the best that any one ever had. He was a minister of the Kirk — that is, he would have been, but he died." "In Scotland?" " E'o — at Pan, in the Pyrenees." " Were you with him ?" " I was not." .This seemed a remembrance so acutely painful, that short- ly afterward I tried to change the subject by asking a ques- tion or two about himself — and especially what I had long wanted to find out — how he came by that eccentric Chris- tian name. " Is it eccentric ? I reaUy never knew or thought after whom^I was called." I suggested, Max Piccolomini. "Who was he, pray? My unprofessional reading has been small. I am ashamed to say I never heard of Max Piccolomini." Amused by this naive confession of ignorance, I offered jestingly to give him a course of polite literature, and begin with that grandest of German dramas, Schiller's Wallen- Btein. " N'ot in German, if you please ; I don't know a dozen words of the language." " Why, Doctor Urquhart, I must be a great deal cleverer than you." I had said this out of utter incredulity at the ludicrous idea ; but, to my surprise, he took it seriously. " You are right. I know I am a coarse, uneducated per- son ; the life of an army surgeon allows few opportunities of refinement, and, like many another boy, I threw away my chances when I had them." "At school?" " College, rather." " Where did you go to college ?" A LIFE rOR A LIFE. 95 " At St. Andi-ew's." The interrogative mood being on me, I thought I would venture a question which had been often on my mind to ask — ^namely, what made him choose to be a doctor, which always seemed to me the most painful and arduous of pro- fessions. He was so slow in answering, that I began to fear it was one of my too blunt queries, and apologized. " I will tell you, if you desire it. My motive was not un like one you once suggested — ^to save life mstead of de- stroying it; also, because I wished to have my own life always in my hand. I can not justly consider it mine. It is Diced.'''' To heaven, I conclude he meant, by the solemnity of his manner. Yet, are not all lives owed ? And, if so, my early dream of perfect bliss, namely, for two people to spend theu^ lives together in a sort of domestic Pitcairn's Island, cra- dled in a spiritual Pacific Ocean, with nothing to do but to love one another — must be a delusion, or worse. I am be- ginning to be glad I never found it. We are not the birds and butterflies, but the laborers of the earthly vineyard. To discover one's right work, and do it, must be the grand se- cret of life. With or without love, I wonder ? With it, I should imagine. But Doctor Urquhart, m his plan of exist- ence, never seems to think of such an insignificant necessity. Yet let me not speak Hghtly. I like him — I honor him. Had I been his dead brother, or a sister — which he never had — I would have helped rather than have hindered him, in his self-sacrificing career. I would have scorned to jout in my poor claim over him or his existence. It would have seemed like taking for daily uses the gold of the sanctuary. And here, pondering over all I have heard of him and seen in him, the self-denial, the heroism, the religious purity of his daily life — which has roused in even the light heart of Augustus Treherne an attachment approaching to posi- tive devotion, that all the jesting ofLisabel is powerless to shake, I call to mind one incident of this day which startled, shocked me ; concerning which even now I can scarcely credit the evidence of my own ears. We had all gathered round the fire waiting papa's return from the second service ; Penelope, Lisabel, Augustus, Doc- tor Urquhart, and I ; the rain had cleared off, and there was only a soft drip, drip, on the glass of the green-house outside. We were very peaceful and comfortable ; it felt 96 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. almost like a family circle — which indeed it was with one exception. The new member of our family seemed to make himself very much at ease — sat beside his Lisa, and held her hand under cover of her apron — at which I thought I saw Doctor Urquhart smile. Why should he ? It was quite natural. Penelope was less restless than usual, owing, may be, to her long letter and the prospect of seeing Francis in a week; he comes to the marriage, of course. Poor fellow ! what a pity we can not have two weddings instead of one ; it is rather hard for him to be only a wedding guest, and Penel- ope only a bridesmaid. But I am ceasing to laugh at even Francis and Penelope. I myself, in my own little low chair in its right angle on the hearth-rug, felt perfectly happy. Is it the contrast be- tween it and the life of solitude of which I have only lately had any knowledge, that makes my own home life so much sweeter than it used to be ? The gentlemen began talking together about the differ- ence between this quiet scene and that of November last year, when, Sebastopol taken, the army was making up its mind to winter in idleness, as merrily as it could. And then Doctor Urquhart reverted to the former winter, the terrible time, until its miseries reached and touched the English heart at home. And yet, as Doctor Urquhart said, such misery seems often to evoke the noblest half of man's nature. Many an anecdote, provmg this, he told about " his poor fellows," as he called them ; tales of heroism, pa- tient endurance, unselfishness, and generosity — such as, in the mysterious agency of Providence, are always developed by that great purifier as well as avenger, war. Listening, my cheek burned to think I had ever said I hated soldiers. It is a solemn question, too momentous for human wisdom to decide upon, and, probably, never meant to be decided in this world — the justice of carnage, the ne- cessity of war. But thus far I am convinced — and intend, the first opportunity, to express my thanks to Doctor Ur- quhart for having taught me the lesson — ^that to set one's self in fierce aversion against any class, as a class, is both foolish and wicked. We should "hate" nobody. The Christian warfare is never against sinners, but against sin. Speaking of the statistics of mortality in the army. Doc- tor Urquhart surprised us by stating how small a percent- age — ^bless me, I am beguming to talk like a blue-book — A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 97 results from death in battle and from wounds. And, strange as it may appear, the mortality in a campaign, with all its fatal chances, is less than in barracks at home. He has long susiDected this, from the accounts of the men, and having lately, fi'om clear data, ascertained its accuracy, intends urg- ing it at the Horse Guards, or faihng there, in the pubhc press, that the causes may be inquired into and remedied. It will be at some personal risk — Government never likes being meddled with ; but he seems the sort of man who, having once got an idea into his head, would pursue it to the death — and very right too. K I had been a man I would have done exactly the same. All this while I have never told — that thing. It came out, as well as I can remember, thus : Doctor Urquhart was saying that the average mortality of soldiers in barracks was higher than that of any corre- sponding class of working men. He attributes this to want of space, cleanliness, fresh air, and good food. " Also to another cause, which you always find flourish- ing under such circiunstances — drink. It is in a barracks just as in the courts and alleys of a large city — wherever you find people huddled together in foul air, ill smells, and general wretchedness — they drink. They can not help it, it seems a natural necessity." " There, we have the doctor on his hobby. Gee-up, Doc- tor !" cried Augustus. I wonder his friend stands his non- sense so good-humoredly. " You kuow it is true, though, Treherne," and he went on speaking to me. " In the Crimea, the great curse of our army was drink. Drink kiUed more of us than the Russians did. You should have seen what I have seen — the officer maddening himself with Champagne at the mess- table — the private stealing out to a rum-store to booze se- cretly over his grog. The thing was obliged to be winked at, it was so common." " In hospital, too," observed Captain Treherne, gradually listening. "Don't you remember telUng me there was not a week passed that you had not cases of deiath solely from drinking?" " And, even then, I could not stop it, nor keep the liquor outside the wards. I have come in and found drunken or- derlies carousing with drunken ^patients ; nay, more than once I have taken the brandy-bottle from imder a "dead man's pillow." . - " - E 98 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. " Ay, I remember," said Augustus, looking grave. Lisabel, who never likes Ms attention diverted from her charming self, cried saucily : " All very fine talking. Doctor, but you shall not make me a teetotaller, nor Augustus neither, I hope." "" I have not the slightest intention of the kind, I assure you ; nor does there seem any necessity. Though, for those wko have not the power to resist intoxication, it is much safer never to touch stimulants." " Do you not touch them ?" " I have not done so for many years." " Because you are afraid ? Well, I dare say you were no better once than your neighbors." " Lisabel !" I whispered, for I saw Doctor TJrquhart wince under her rude words ; but there is no stoppmg that girl's tongue. " N'ow confess, Doctor, just for fun. Papa is not here, and we'll tell no tales out of school — were you ever in your life, to use your own ugly word, drunk .^" " Once." Writmg this, I can hardly believe he said it, and yet he did, in a quiet, low voice, as if the confession was forced from him as a sort of voluntary expiation. Doctor TJrquhart drunk ! What a frightful idea ! Un- der what circumstances could it possibly have happened ? One thing I would stake my fife upon — it never happened but that once. I have been thinking, how horrible it must be to see any body one cared for drunk : the honest eyes dull and meaningless ; the wise lips jabbering foolishness ; the whole face and figure, instead of being what one hkes to look at, takes pleasure to see in the same room, even — growing ugly, irrational, disgusting — more like a beast than a man. Yet some women have to bear it, have to speak kindly to their husbands, hide their brutishness, and keep them from making worse fools of themselves than they can help, I have seen it done, not merely by working-men's wives, but lady-wives in drawing-rooms. I think, if I were mar- ried, and I saw my husband the least overcome by wine, not " drunk," may be, but just excited, silly, otherwise than his natural self, it would nearly drive me wild. Less on my own account than his. To see him sink — not for a great crime, but a contemptible, cowardly bit of sensual- ism — from the height where my love had placed him ; to A LIFE rOE A LIFE. 99 have to take care of Mm, to pity him ; ay, and I might pity him, but I think the full glory and passion of my love ivould die out, then and there, forever. Let me not think of this, but go on relating what oc- curred to-day. Doctor Urquhart's abrupt confession, which seemed to surprise Augustus as much as any body, threw an awk- wardness over us all; we slipped out of the subject, and plunged into the never-ending theme — the wedding and its arrangements. Here I foimd out that Doctor IJrquhart had, at first, refused, point-blank, his friend's request that he would be best-man, but, on my entreating him this morn- ing, had changed his mind. I was glad, and expressed my gladness warmly. I would not like Doctor Urquhart to suppose we thought the worse of him for what he had con- fessed, or rather had been forced into confessing. It was very ivrong of Lisabel. But she really seemed sorry, and paid him special attention in consultations about what she thinks the important affairs of Monday week. I was al- most cross at the exemplary patience with which he ex- amined the orange-tree, and pronounced that the buds would open in time, he thought : that if not, he would try, as in duty boimd, to procure some. He also heroically consented to his other duty, of returning thanks for " the bridesmaids," for we are to have healths drunk, speeches made, and all the rest of it. Mercy on us ! how will papa ever stand it ! These family events have always then- painful side. I am sure papa will feel it. I only trust that no chance ob- servations will strike home, and hurt him. This fear haunted me so much, that I took an opportunity of sug- gesting to Doctor Urquhart that all the speeches had bet- ter be as short as possible. " Mine shall be, I promise. Were you afraid of it ?" asked he, smiling ; it was just before the horses were brought up, and we were all standing out in the moonlight — for shame, moon, leading us to catch cold just before our wedding, and very thougTitless of the doctor to allow it, too. I could see by his smile that he was now quite him- self agam — which was a rehef. " Oh, nonsense ! I shall expect you to make the grandest speech that ever was heard. But, seriously, these sort of speeches are always trying, and will be so especially to papa." 100 A LIFE FOE A LIFE. " I understand. We must take care : you are a thought- ful httle lady." He sometimes has called me " Little Lady," instead of " Miss Theodora." " Yes, your father will feel acutely this first break in the family." I said I did not mean that exactly, as it was not the case. And, for the first time, it struck me as sad, that one whom I never knew, whom I scarcely ever think of, should be lost from among us, so lost as not to be even named. Doctor Urquhart asked me why I looked so grave ? At first I said I had rather not tell him, and then I felt as if at that moment, standing quietly talking in the lovely night, after such a hapj)y day, it were a comfort, almost a neces- sity, to tell hun any thing, every thing. " I was thinking of some one belonging to me whom no- body knows of, whom we never speak about. Hush, don't let them hear." " Who was it? But I beg your pardon, do not tell me unless you like." From his tone — he thought, I know he thought— Oh, what a ridiculous, impossible thing ! Then I was determ- ined to tell. " It was one — who was papa's favorite — among us all." "A sister?" " :N^o, a brother." - . I had not time to say any more, for they were just start- ing, nor am I satisfied that I was right in saying so much. But the confidence is safe with him, and he will never refer to it ; he will feel, as we do, that a subject so painful is best avoided, even among ourselves — on the whole I am glad he knows. Coming indoors, the girls made me very angry by their jests, but the anger has somehow evaporated now. What does it matter? As I told Lisabel, friends do not grow on every hedge, though lovers may, and when one finds a good man one ought to value him, nor be ashamed of it either. No, no, my sweet moon, setting so quickly behind that belt of firs, I will like him if I choose, as I like every thing true and noble wherever I find it in this world. Moon, it is a good world, a happy world, and grows happier the longer one lives in it. So I will just watch your silver ladyship — a nice " httle lady", you are too — slippmg away from it with that satisfied farewell smile, and then — I shall go to bed. A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 101 CHAPTER IX. HIS STORY. It is a fortniglit since I wrote a line here. Last Sunday week I made a discovery — in truth, two discoveries — after which I lost myself, as it were, for many days. It will be advisable not to see any more of that family. Il^ot that I have any proof that they are the family — the name itself, Johnson, and their acknowledged plebeian ori- gin, is sufficient e^ddence to the contrary. But, if they had been ! The mere supposition, coming, instinctively, that Sunday night, before reason argued it down, was enough to cause me twelve such hours as would be purchased dearly with twelve years of hfe — even a hfe full of such happiness as, I then learned, is possible for a man. But not for me. Xever for me ! This phase of the subject is, however, so exclusively my own, that even here I will pass it over. It will be con- quered by-and-by — ^being discovered in time. I went to the marriage — ^liaving promised. She said. Doctor Urquhart never breaks his promises, ^o. Tliere is one promise — ^nay, vow — kept miflinchingly for twenty years ; could it be broken now ? It never could. Before it is too late — I ^vill take steps to teach myself that it never shaU. I only joined the marriage party during the ceremony. They excused me the breakfast, speeches, etc. Treherne knew I was not well. Also, she said I looked " over- worked," and there was a kind of softness in her eye, the pity that aU women have, and so readily show. She looked the very picture of a white fairy, or a wood- nymph — or an angel, sliding down on a sifnshmy cloud to a man asleep. He wakes and it is all gone. While the register was behig signed — and they wished me to be one of the attestmg witnesses — an idea came into my mind. The family must have settled at Rockmount for many years. Probably, the grandfither, the farmer who wrote 102 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. himself, plebeianly, "Johnson," was buried here. Or — if he were dead — whether it was so or not, I had no clew — here, probably, would be registered the interment of that brother to whom allusion had been made as " papa's favorite," but in such a manner, and with such evident? dis- tress, that to make farther mquiry about him was impossi- ble. Besides, I must have no more private talk with her — with the one of the Misses Johnston whom I know best. This brother — I have calculated his possible age, com- pared with theirs. Even were he the eldest of them, he could not now be much above thirty — if alive. That per- son would now be at least fifty. Still, at once and forever to root up any such morbid, unutterable fancies, I thought it would be as well to turn over the register-books, as, without suspicion, it was this day easy to do. On my way home I stopped at the church — and, helped by the half-stupid sexton and bell-ringer, went over the village records of, he declared, the last twenty years and more. In none of them was once named the family of Johnston. No proof, therefore, of my cause of dread — not an atom, not a straw. All evidence hitherto gomg directly counter to a supposition — the horror of which would surpass all horrible coincidences that fate could work out for a man's punishment. Let me put it aside. The other thing — God help me ! I believe I shall also be able to put aside — being entirely my own affair- — and I myself being the only sufferer. Now Treherne is married and away, there wiU be no necessity to visit at Rockmomit any more. CHAPTER X. HER STORY. What a change a marriage makes ; what a blank it leaves in a house ! Ours has been very dull since poor Lisa went away. I know not why I call her " poor Lisa." She seems the gayest of the gay, and the happiest of the happy ; two characters which, by the way, are not always identical. Her letters from Paris are full of enjoyment. Augustus takes her every where, and introduces lier to every body. A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 103 She was the "belle mariee" of a ball at the Britisb Em- bassy, and has been presented to my old aversion, though he is really tm^ning out a creditable individual in some things ; " never too late to mend," even for a Louis Napo- leon. Of course, Lisabel now thinks him " the most charm- ing man in the world," except Augustus. Strange that she should take delight m such dissipations. She not three weeks married. How very httle she must have of her husband's society. Now, I should think the pleas- antest way of spending a honeymoon would be to get out of every body's way, and have a httle peace and quiet, rambling about at liberty, and looking at pretty places to- gether. But tastes differ ; that is not Lisabel's fancy, nor was hers the sort of marriage likely to make such a honey- moon desirable. She used to say she should get tired of the angel Gabriel if she had him all to herself for four mortal weeks. Possibly ; I remember once making a sim- ilar remark. But surely that dread and weariness of two people, in being left to one another's sole society, must apply chiefly to cases of association for mere amusement or convenience ; not to those who voluntarily bind their lives together, " for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part." How solemn the words are ! They thrilled me all through on the morning of Lisabel's marriage. I have never set down here any thing about that day. I suppose it resembled most other wedding-days — came and went hke a dream, and not a very happy dream either. There seemed a cloud over us all. One of the reasons was, Francis did not come. - At the last minute he sent an apology, which was not behaving well, I thought. Nor did the excuse seem a valid one. But it might have been a painful day to him, and Francis is one of those sort of people — ^very pleasant, and not ill- meaning people either — who like to escape pain, if possible. Still, he might have considered that it was not Hkely to be the happiest of days to Penelope herself, nor made more so by his absence, which she bore in perfect silence ; and no- body, except Augustus, who observed, laughingly, that it was "just like Cousin Charteris," ventured any comment on the subject. I do not join Mrs. Granton and our Lisa in their tirades against long engagements. I do not see why, when people 104 A LITE FOE A LIFE. are really fond of one another, and can not possibly be mar- ried, they should not live contentedly betrothed for an in- definite time. It is certainly better than living wholly apart, forlorn and hopeless, neither having toward the other any open right, or claim, or duty. But, then, every betrothal should resemble marriage itself, in its perfect confidence, patience, and unexacting tenderness. Also, it ought never to be made so pubfic or allowed to be so cruelly talked over as this engagement ofTenelope's. Well, Francis did not appear, and every body left earlier than we had expected. On the marriage evening we were quite alone, and the day after Rockmount was its dull self again, except the want of poor Lisa. I still call her so \ I can not help it. We never discover the value of things till we have lost them. Out of every corner I miss our Lisa : her light laugh that used to seem heartless, yet was the merriest sound in the house ; her tall, handsome figure sailing in and about the rooms ; her imper- turbable good temper, which I often tried ; her careless, un- tidy ways, that used forever to aggravate Penelope, down to her very foUies and flirtations, carried on to the last in spite of Augustus. My poor Lisa ! The putting away of her music from the piano, her books from the shelf, and her clothes from the drawers, cost me as sharp an agony as I ever had in my life. I was not half good enough to her when I had her. If I had her again how difi*erent it should be. Ah ! that is what we always say, as the great shadow Time keeps ad- vancing and advancing, yet we always let it slip by, and we can not make it go back for a single hour. Mrs. Granton and Colin came to tea to-night. Their com- pany was a relief; our eveniugs are often very dull. We sit all three together, but none has much sympathy with what the other is doing or thinking ; as not seldom hap- pens in families, we each live in a distinct world of our own, never intruded on, save when we have collectively to en- tertain visitors. Papa asked Doctor Urquhart to dinner twice, but received an apology both times, which rather of- fended him, and he says he shall not invite him again until he has called. He ought to call, for an old man likes atten- tion, and is justified in exacting it. To-night, while Mrs. Granton gossiped with papa and Penelope, Colin talked to me. He'bears Lisabel's marriage far better than I expected, probably because he has got A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 105 something to do." He told me a long story about a row of laborers' cottages, which Doctor Urquhart advised him to build at the corner of the moor, each with its bit of land, convertible into a potato-field or a garden. There Colin busies himself from morning till night, superintending, plan- ning, building, draining, " working like a horse," he pro- tests, " and never enjoyed any thing more in his life." He says he has seen a great deal of Doctor Urquhart lately, and had great assistance from him in the matter of these cottages. Then can he be so exceedingly occupied as not to have an hour or two for a visit ? Shame on me for the suspi- cion ! The idea that Doctor Urquhart would, even in a polite excuse, state a thing which was not true ! Colin is much improved. He is beginning to suspect that Colin Granton, Esq., owner of a free estate, and twen- ty-seven years old, has got something to do besides lounge about, shoot rabbits, and play billiards. He opened up to my sympathy a long series of schemes about these cottages ; how he meant to instigate industry, cleanliness, and, indeed, all the cardinal ^drtues, by means of cottagers' prizes for tidy houses, well-kept gardens, and the best brought-up and largest families. He will never be clever, poor Colin ! but may be a most useful character in the county, and he has the kindest heart in the workL By the way, he told me in his ultra-simple fashion that somebody had informed him one of the Rockmount young ladies said so ! I felt myself grow hot to the ears, whick exceedingly astonished Colm. . Altogether, a not unpleasant evening ; but oh, moon ! — whom I saw making cross-panes on the carpet when I came in — it was not like the evenings a month ago, when Lisabel was at home. I think women as well as men, require something to do. I wish I had it ; it would do me as much good as it has done Colin. I am beginning to fear I lead a wretchedly idle hie ; all young ladies at home do, it seems, except, per- haps, the eldest sister, if she chances to be such a woman as our Penelope. Why can not I help our Penelope ? Mrs. Granton took it for granted that I do; that I shall be the greatest comfort and assistance to Miss Johnston, now Miss Lisabel is gone. I am not the least in the world ! which I was tempted to exT)lain, only mere friends can never understand the ins and E 2 2t)6 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. outs of a family. If I offered to assist her in the house, how Penelope would stare ! or even in her schools and par- ish, but that I can not do. Teaching is to me perfectly in- tolerable. The moment I have to face two dozen pairs of round eyes every particle of sense takes flight, and I be- come the veriest of cowards, ready to sink through the floor. The same, too, in district visiting. What business have I, because I happen to be the clergyman's daughter, to go lifting the latch and poking about poor people's houses, obliging them to drop me courtesies, and receive civilly my tracts and advice, which they neither read nor follow, and might be none the better for it if they did ? Yet this may be only my sophistries for not doing what I so heartily dislike. Others do it, and successfully; take by storm the poor folks' hearts, and what is better, their confidence; never enter without a welcome, and depart without a blessing ; as, for instance. Doctor Urquhart. Mrs. Granton was telling about his doings among the poor families down with fever and ague, near the camp at Moor- edge. Why can not I do the same good? not so much, of course, but just a httle. Why can not somebody show me how to do it ? 'No, I am not worthy. My quarter century of life has been of no more use to myself or any human creature than that fly's which my fire has stirred up to a foolish buzzing in the window-curtain before it drops and dies. I might drop down and die in the same manner, leaving no better memorial. There ! I hear Penelope in her room fidgeting about her drawers, and scolding the housemaid. She is always tak- ing juvenile, incompetent housemaids out of her village school, teaching and lecturing them for a twelvemonth, and then grumbling because they leave her. Yet, this is doing good ; sometimes they come back and thank her for hav- ing made capital servants of them ; and very seldom indeed does such a case happen as pretty, silly Lydia Cartwright's, who went up to London and never came back any more. My dear sister Penelope, who, except in company, hard- ly has a civil word for any body, Francis excepted— Penel- ope, who has managed the establishment ever since she was a girl of sixteen — has kept the house comfortable, and main- tained the credit of the family to the world without — truly, with all your little tempers, sneers, and crabbednesses, you are worth a dozen of your sister Theodora. A LITE FOE A LIFE. 107 I wonder if Doctor Urquhart thinks so. He looked at her closely, more than once, when we were speaking about Francis. He and she would have many meeting points of interest, if they only knew it, and talked much together. She is not very sweet to him, but that would not matter ; he only values people for what they are, and not for the manner in which they behave to himself. Perhaps, if they were better acquainted, Penelope might prove a better friend for him than the " little lady." " Little lady !" That is just such a name as one would give to an idle, useless, butterfly creature, of no value but as an amusement, a plaything of leisure hours, in time of business or care to be altogether set aside and forgotten. Does he think me that f K he does — why, let Mm. A fine proof of how dull Pockmount is, and how little I have to write about, when I go on scribbling such triviali- ties as these. If no better subjects can be found, I shall give up my journal. Meantime, I intend next week to be- gin a serious course of study, in history, Latin, and Ger- man. For the latter, instead of desultory reading, I shall try written translations, probably from my favorite Wal- lenstein. To think that any body should have been igno- rant even of the name of Max Piccolomini ! He always was my ideal of a hero^faithful, trustful, brave, and infin- itely loving, yet able to renounce love itself for the sake of conscience. And then once a week I shall have a long let- ter to write to Lisabel — I, who' never had a regular corre- spondence in my hfe. It will be almost as good as Penel- ope's with Francis Charteris. At last I hear Penelope dismiss her maiden, bolt the door, and settle for the night. When, for a wonder, she finds herself alone and quiet, with nothing to do, and nobody to lecture, I wonder what Penelope thmks about ? Is it Fran- cis ? Do people in their position always think about one another the last thmg? Probably. When all the day's cares and pleasures are ended, and the rest of the world shut out, the heart would naturally turn to the only one in whom, next to Heaven, is its real rest, its best comfort, closer than either friend, or- brother, or sister — less another person than half itself. No sentiment ! Go to bed, Theodora. 108 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. CHAPTER XI. HIS STORY. I HAD almost given tip writing here. Is it wise to begin again ? Yet, to-day, in the silent hut, with the east wind howling outside almost as fiercely as it used to howl last winter over the steppes of the Caucasus, one must do some- thing, if only to kill time. Usually, I have little need for that resource ; this barrack business engrosses every leisure hour. The commander-in-chief has at length promised a com- mission of inquiry, if sufficient data can be supplied to him to warrant it. I have, therefore, been collecting evidence from every barrack in the United Kingdom, and visiting personally all within a day or two days' leave from the camp. The most important were those- of the metropolis. It is needless here to recur to details of which my head has been full all the week, till a seventh day's rest and change of ideas become almost priceless. Unprofessional men can not understand this; yonng Granton could not when coming down from town with me last night ; he was lamenting that he should not get at his cottage-building, which he keeps up, in defiance of winter weather, till Mon- day morning. Mr. Granton indulged me with much conversation about some friends of his, which inclines me to believe that "the kindest heart in the world" has not suffered an incurable blow, and is already proceeding to seek consolation else- where. It may be so. The young are pleasant to the young ; the happy delight in the happy. To return to my poor fellows ; my country bumpkins and starving mechanics, caught by the thirteenpence a day, and after all the expensive driUing that is to make them proper food for powder, herded together like beasts in a stall, till, except under strong coercion, the beast nature is apt to get uppermost, and no wonder. I must not think of rest till I have left no stone unturned for the furtherance of this scheme concerning my poor fellows. And yet, the older one grows, the more keenly one feels how little power an individual man has for good, whatever A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 109 he may have for evil. At least, this is the suggestion of a morbid spirit, after aiming at every thing and doing almost nothing, which seemed the brief catalogue of my week's labor last night. People are so slow to join in any reformatory schemes. They will talk enough of the need for it, but they will not act ; it is too much trouble. Most men are engrossed in their own private concerns, business, amusements, or am- bitions. It is mcredible, the climculty I had in hunting up some who were the most active agents of good in the Crim- ea ; and of these, how few could be convinced that there was any thing needed to be done at home ! At the Horse Guards, where my face must be as familiar as that of the clock on the quadrangle to those gentleman- ly young clerks, no attention was wanting but that of fur- thering my business. However, the time was not altogether wasted, as in various talks with former companions, whom I there by chance waylaid, ideas were thro^oi out that may be brought to bear in different quarters. And, as always happens, from some of the very last quarters where any thing was to be expected, the vf armest interest and assist- ance came. Likewise — and this forms the bright spot in a season not particularly pleasant — during my brief stay in London, the first for many years, more than one familiar face has come across me out of far back times, Avith a welcome and re- membrance, the warmth and heartiness of which both sur- prised and cheered me. Among those I met on Thursday was an old colonel, under whom I went out on my first voyage as assistant- surgeon, twelve years ago. He stopped me in the Mall, addressing me by name ; I had almost forgotten his, till his cordial greeting brought it to my mind. Then we fell to upon many mutual questions and reminiscences. He said that he should have known me any Avhere, though I was altered a good deal in some respects. "All for the bettter, though, my boy — beg pardon. Doc- tor — but you were such a shp of a lad then. Thought we should have had to throw you overboard before the voy- age was half over, but you cheated us all, you see ; and, 'pon my life, hard as you must have been at it since then, you look as if you had many years more of work m you yet." I told him I hoped so, which I do, for some things ; and 110 A LIFE FOE A LIFE. then, in answer to his friendly questions, I entered into the business which had brought nie to London. The good colonel was brimful of interest. He has a warm heart, plenty of money, and thinks that money can do every thing. I had the greatest difficulty in persuading him that his check-book would not avail me with the com- mander-in-chief, or the honorable British officers, whom I hoped to stii- up to some little sympathy with the men they commanded. " But can't I help you at all ? can't my son neither ? you remember Tommy, who used to dance the sailor's hornpipe on the deck. Such a dandy young fellow ; got him a place under government ; capital berth, easy hours — eleven till four, and regular work ; the whole Times to read " through daily. Ha ! ha ! you understand, eh ?" I laughed too, for it was a pretty accurate description of what I had this week seen in government offices ; in- deed, in public offices of all kinds, where the labor is so largely subdivided as to be in the responsible hands of very few, and the work and the pay generally follow in an op- posite ratio of progression. In the present instance, from what I remember of him, no doubt such a situation would exactly suit Master Tommy Turton. His father and I stroUed up and down the shiny half- dried pavement tiU the street lamps were lighted, and the club windows began ta brighten and glow. "You'n dine with me, of course — not at the United Service — it's my day with Tom at his club, the New Uni- versal — capital club, too. No apologies — we'll quarter ourselves upon Tommy; he wiH be delighted. He's ex- tremely proud of his club ; the young rogue costs me — ^it's impossible to say what. Tom costs me per annum over and above his pay. Yet he is a good lad, too — as lads go — holds up his head among all the young fellows of the club, and keeps the very best of company." So went on the worthy old father — with more, which I forget. I had been on my feet all day, and was what women call " tired," when they delight to wheel out arm- chairs and push warmed slippers under wet feet — at least so I have seen done. London club-Hfe was new to me; nor was I aware that in this England, this "home" — words which abi'oad we learn to think synonymous and invest with an inexpressi- ble charm — so large a proportion of the middle classes as- A LIFE FOR A LIFE. Ill STime by choice the sort of life which, on foreign service, we put up with of necessity ; the easy, seliish hfe into which a male community is prone to fall. The time-honored United Service I was acquainted with, but the New Universal was quite a dazzle of brilhant plate, a palace of upholstery. Tom had not come in, but his father showed me over his domains with considerable pride. " Yes, this is how we live — he at his club, and I at mine. We have two tidy bedrooms, somewhere or other, hard by, and that's all. A very johy life, I assure you, if one hasn't the gout or the blues ; we have kept it ever since the poor mother died and Henrietta married. I sometimes tell Tom he ought to settle ; but he says it would be slow, and he can't afford it. Halloo ! here's the boy." Tom — a "boy" six feet high, good-looking, and well- dressed, after the exact pattern of a few dozen more, whom we had met strolling arm-in-arm down Pall-Mail — greeted me with great civility, and said he remembered me per- fectly, though iny unfortunately quick ears detected him asking his father, aside, " where on earth he had picked up that old fogie?" We dined well, and a good dinner is not a bad thing. As a man gets old he may be allowed some cheer — in fact, he needs it. Whether, at twenty-four, he requires to dine on five courses and half a dozen kinds of wine, is another question. But Master Tomi was my host, so silence ! Per- haps I am becoming " an old fogie." After dinner the colonel opened out warmly upon my business, which his son evidently considered a bore. " He really did not understand the matter ; it was not in his department of pubhc business ; the governor always thought they must know every thmg that was going on, when, in truth, they knew nothing at all. He should be most happy, but had not the least notion what he could do for Doctor Urquhart." Doctor Urquhart labored to make the young gentleman understand that he really did not want him to do any thing, to which Tom listened with that philosophical laissez-faire^ kept just within the bounds of politeness, that we of an elder generation are prone to find fault with. At last an idea struck him. "Why, father, there's Charteris — knows every thing and every body — would be just the man for you. There he is." 112 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. And lie pointed eagerly to a gentleman, who, six tables off, lounged over his wine and newspaper. That .morning, as I stood talking in an ante-room, at the Horse Guards, "this gentleman had caught my notice, lean- ing over one of the clerks, and enlivening their dullness by making a caricature. Now my phiz was quite at their service, but it seemed scarcely fair for any but that king of caricature, " Punch," to make free with the honest, weather-beaten features of the noble old veteran who was talking with me. So I just intervened — not involuntarily — ^between the caricaturist and my — may I honor myself by calling him my friend? The good old warrior might not deny it. For Mr. Charteris, he apparently did not wish to own my ac- quaintance, nor had I any desire to resume his. We pass- ed without recognition, as I w^ould willingly have done now, had not Colonel Turton seized upon the name. "Tom's right. Charteris is the very man. Has enor- mous influence, and capital connections, though between you and me, Doctor, calls himself as poor as a church- mouse." " Five hundred a year," said Tom, grimly. " Wish I'd as much! Still, he's a nice fellow, and jolly good com- pany. Here, waiter, take my compliments to Mr. Char- teris, and will he do us the honor of joining us ?" Mr. Charteris came. He appeared surprised at sight of me, but we both went through the ceremony of introduction without mentioning that it was not for the first time. And during the whole conversation, which lasted until the dinner sounds ceased, and the long, bright, splendid dining-room was all but de- serted, we neither of us once adverted to the little parlor where, for a brief five minutes, Mr. Charteris and myself had met, some weeks before. I had scarcely noticed him then ; now I did. He bore out Tom's encomium and the colonel's. He is a highly in- telligent, agreeable person, apparently educated to the ut- most point of classical refinement. The sort of man who would please most women, and who, being intimate in a family of sisters, would with them involuntarily become their standard of all that is admirable in our sex. In Mr. Charteris was much really to be admired : a grace bordering on what in one sex we call sweetness, in the other effeminacy. Talent, too, not original or remarkable, but in- A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 113 dicating an evenly-cultivated, elegant mind. Rather narrow, it might be — all about him was naiTow, regular ; nothing in the slightest degree eccentric, or diverging from the ordi- nary, being apparently possible to him. A pleasure-loving temperament, disinchned for active energy in any direction — this completed my impression of Mr. Francis Charteris. Though he gave me no information ; indeed, he seemed hke my young friend Tom to make a point of knowing as little, and taking as slight interest as possible in the state machinery of which he formed a part — he contributed very considerably to the enjoyment of the evening. It was he who suggested our adjournment to the theatre. " Unless Doctor Urquhart objects. But I dare say we can find a house where the performance trenches on none of the ten commandments, about which, I am aware, he is rather particular." "Oh," cried Tom, '"Thou shalt not steal' from the French; and 'Thou shalt do no murder' on the queen's English, are the only commandments indispensable on the stage. Come away, father." " You're a sad dog," said the father, shaking his fist at him, with a dehghted grin, which reminded me of hornpipe- But the sad dog knew where to find the best bones to pick, and by no means dry, either. ISTow, though I am not a book-man, I love my Shakspeare well enough not to like him acted — his grand old flesh and blood digged up and served out to this modern taste as a painted, powdered, dressed-up skeleton. But this night I saw him "in his habit as he lived," presented " in very form and fashion of the time." There was a good deal of show, certainly, it being a pageant play, but you felt show was natural ; that just in such a way the bells must have rung, and the peo- ple shouted, for the living Bolingbroke. The acting, too, was natural ; and to me, a plain man, accustomed to hold women sacred, and to beheve that a woman's arms should be kept solely for the man who loves her, I own it was a satisfaction, when the stage queen clung to the stage King Richard^ in that pitiful parting, where, "Bad men, ye violate A twofold marriage, 'twixt my crown and me, And then between me and my married wife," it was a satisfaction, I say, to know that it was her own husband the actress was kissing. 114 A LIFE FOE A LIFE. This play, which Tom and the colonel voted " slow," gave me two hours of the keenest, most utterly oblivious enjoyment ; a desideratum not easily attainable. Mr. Charteris considered it fine in its way ; but, after all, there was nothing like the Opera. " Oh, Charteris is opera-mad," said Tom. " Every sub- scription-night, there he is, wedged in the crowd at the horrid little passage leading out of the Haymarket — among a knot of his cronies, who don't mind making martyrs of themselves for a bit of tootle-te-tooing, a kick-up, and a twirl. Well, I'm not fond of music." " I am," said Mr. Charteris, dryly. "And of looking at pretty women, too, eh, my dear fellow?" " Certainly." And here he diverged to a passing criticism on the pret- ty women in the boxes round us : who were not few. I observed them, also — for I notice women's faces more than I was wont — ^but none were satisfactory, even to the eye. They all seemed over-conscious of themselves and their looks, except one small creature, in curls, and a red mantle, about the age of the poor wounded Russ, who might have been my own little adopted girl, by this time, if she had not died. I wish, sometimes, she had not died. My life would have been less lonely, could I have adopted that child. There may be more beauty — I have heard there is — in the upper class of Englishwomen than in any race of women on the globe. But a step lower m rank, less smoothly cosmopolitan, more provincially and honestly Saxon; reserved, yet frank; simple, yet gay; would be the Englishwoman of one's heart. The man who dare open his eyes, fearlessly, to the beauties of such a one — seek her in her virtuous middle-class home, ask her of a proud father and mother, and then win her, and take her joyfully, to sit by his happy hearth, a wife, matron, mother — I forget how that sentence was to have ended ; however, it is of hitle consequence. It was caused partly by reflec- tion on this club-life, and another darker side of it, of which I caught some glimpse when I was in London. We finished the evening at the theatre pleasantly. In the sort of atmosphere we were in, harmless enough, but glaring, unquiet, and unhome-like, I was scarcely surprised A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 115 that Mr. Charteris did not once name the friends at whose honse I first met him; indeed, he seemed to avoid the slightest approach to the subject. Only once, as we were pushing together, side by side, into the cool night air, he asked me, in a low, hurried tone, if I had been to Rock- mount lately ? He had heard I was present at the mar- riage. I believe I made some remark about his absence bemg much regretted that day. " Yes — yes. Shall you be there soon ?" The question was put with an anxiety which my answer in the negative evidently relieved. " Oh, then, I need send no message. I thought you were very intimate. A charming family — a very charming family," His eyes were wandering to some ladies of fashion who had recognised him — whom he put into their carriage with that polite assiduity which seems an instinct with him, and in the crowd we lost sight of Mr. Charteris. Twice afterward I saw him; once driving in the park, with two ladies in a coroneted equipage ; and again, walk- ing in the dusk of the afternoon down Kensington Road. This time he started, gave me the slightest recognition possible, and walked on faster than ever. He need not have feared : I had no wish or intention of resuming our acquaintance. The more I hear of him, the more increases my sm-prise — ^nay, even not immixed with anxiety — at his position in the family at Rockmount. Hs ^ H« * ♦ * * Here I was suddenly called out to a bad accident case, some miles across the country; whence I have only re- turned in time for bed. It was impossible to do any thing for the poor fellow ; one of Granton's laborers, who knew me by sight. I could only wait till all was over, and the widow a little composed. At her urgent request, I sent a note to Rockmount, hard by, begging Miss Johnston would let her know if there had been heard any thing of Lydia — a daughter, once in service with the Johnstons, afterward in London — now — as the poor old mother moujnfully expressed it — " gone wrong." To my surprise, Miss Johnston answered the message in person, and a most painful conversation ensued. She is a 116 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. good woman — no doubt of that ; but she is, as Treherne once said of her father, " as sharp as a needle and as hard as a rock." It being ah'eady dark, of course I saw her safe back to her own gate. She informed me that the family were all quite Avell, which was the sole conversation that passed between us, except concerning the poor dead laborer, James Cartwright, and his family, of whom, save Lydia, she spoke compassionately, saying they had gone through much trouble. Walking along by her side, and trying to find a cause for the exceeding bitterness and harshness she had evi- denced, it struck me that this lady was herself not ignorant of trouble. I left her at the gate under the bush of ivy. Through the bars I could see, right across the wet garden, the light streaming from the hall door. ISTow to bed, and to sleep, if this head will allow ; it has been rather unmanageablB lately, necessitating careful watching, as will be the case till there is nothing here but an empty skull. If only I could bring this barrack matter to a satisfac- tory start, from which good results might reasonably be expected, I would at once go abroad. Any where — it is all the same. A rumor is afloat that we may soon get the route for the East, or China ; which I could be well content with, as my next move. Far away — ^far aAvay ; with thousands of miles of tossing sea between me and this old England ; far away out of all sight or remembrance. So best. E"ext time I call on Widow Cartwright shall be after dark, when, without the slightest chance of meeting any one, it will be easy to take a few steps farther up the vil- lage. There is a cranny in one place in the wall, whence I know one can get a very good view of the parlor win- dow, where they never close the shutters till quite bed- time. And, before our regiment leaves, it will be right I should call — to omit this would hardly be civil, after all the hos- pitality I have received. So I will call some wet day, when they are not likely to be out — when, probably, the younger sister will be sitting at her books up stairs in the attic, which she told me she makes her study, and gets out of the way of visitors. Perhaps she will not take the A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 117 trouble to come down. Not even for a shake of the hand and a good-by- — goodi-hj forever. Oh, mother ! imknown mother — who must have surely- loved my father ; Avell enough, too, to leave all friends, and follow him, a poor lieutenant of a marching regiment, up and down the world— if I had but died when you brought me into this same troublesome world, how much it would have saved! CHAPTER XII. HEE STOET. Just finished my long letter to Lisabel, and lingered over the direction, " Mrs. Treherne,Treherne Court." How strange to thmk of our Lisa as mistress there. Which she is in fact, for Lady Treherne, a mild, elderly lady, is wholly engrossed in tending Sii* Wilham, who is very infirm. The old people's rule seems merely nominal — it is Lisabel and Augustus who reign. Their domain is a perfect palace — and what a queen Miss Lis must look therein! How well she will maintain her position, and enjoy it too. In her case, are no poetical sufiermgs from haughty parents, delighted to crush a poor daughter-in- law " With the burden of an honor Unto which she was not born." Already they both hke her and are proud of her, which is not surprising. I thought I had never seen a more beau- tiful creature than my sister Lisa when, on her way to Treherne Court, she came home for a day. Home ! I forget, it is not her home now. How strange this must have been to her, if she thought about it. Pos- sibly she did not, being never given to sentiment. And, though with us she was not the least altered, it was amus- ing to see how, to every body else, she appeared quite the married lady ; even with Mrs. Granton, who, happening to call that day, was delighted to see her, and seems not to cherish the smallest resentment in the matter of " my Col- in." Very generous — for it is not the good old lady's first disappointment — she has been going a wooing for her son ever since he was one-and-twenty, and has not found a daughter-in-law yet. 118 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. Colin, too, conducted himself witli the utmost sangfroid ; and when Augustus, Avho is beaming with benevolence to the whole human race, invited him to escort his mother, Penelope, and me, on our first visit to Treherne Court, he accepted the invitation as if it were the pleasantest in the world. Truly, if women's hearts are as impressionable as Avax, men's are as tough as gutta-percha. Talk of break- ing them — faugh ! I hope it indicates no barbarity on my part if I confess that it would have raised my opinion of him, and his sex in general, to have seen Colin for a month or so, at least, wholesomely miserable. Lisabel behaved uncommonly well with regard to him, and, indeed, in every way. She was as bright as a May morning, and full of the good qualities of her Augustus, whom she really likes very much after her fashion. She will doubtless be among the many wives who become ex- tremely attached to their husbands after marriage. To my benighted mind, it has always seemed advisable to have a slight preference before that ceremony. She told me, with a shudder that was altogether natural and undisguised, how glad she was that they had been married at once, and that Augustus had sold out, for there is a chance of the regiment's being soon ordered on for- eign service. I had not heard of this before. It was some surprise. Lisabel was very afiectionate to me the whole day, and, in going away, said she hoped I did not miss her much, and that I should get a good husband of my own soon ; I did not know what a comfort it was. " Somebody to belong to you — to care for you — to pet you — your own personal property, in short — who can't get rid of you, even when you're old and ugly. Yes, I'm glad I married poor dear Augustus- And, child, I hope to see you married also. A good httle thing hke you Avould make a capital wife to somebody. Why, simpleton, I de- clare she's crying !" It must have been the over-excitement of this day ; but I felt as if, had I not cried, my temples and throat would have burst with a choking pam, that lasted long after Lisa- bel was gone. They did not altogether stay more than four hours. Augustus talked of riding over to the camp, to see his friend, Doctor Urquhart, whom he has heard nothing of A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 119 since the -wedding-day ; but Lisabel persuaded him against it. Men's friendship with one another is worth little, apparently. Penelope here said she could answer for Doctor Urqu- hart's being in the land of the living, as she had met him a week before at Cartwright's cottage, the day the poor old man was killed. Why did she not tell me of this ? But then she has taken such a prejudice against him, and exults so over what she calls his "rude behavior to the family." It always seemed to me very foohsh to be forever de- fending those whose character is itself a sufficient defense. If a false word is spoken of a friend, one must of course deny it, disprove it. But to be incessantly battling with personal prejudice or animosity, I would scorn it ! Ay, as utterly as I would scorn defending myself under similar attacks. I think, in every lesser affection that is worth the name, the same truth holds good which I remember bemg struck "with in a play, the only play I ever saw acted. The heroine is told by her sister, ' ' Katherine, You love this man — defend him." She answers : ' ' You have said, I love him. That's my defense. I'll not Assert, in words, the truth on which I've cast The stake of life. I love him, and am silent." At least, I think the passage ran thus, for I cut it out of a newspaper afterward, and long remembered it. "What an age it seems since the night of that play, to which Fran- cis took us. And what a strange, dim dream has become the impression it left ; something hke that I always have in reading of Thekla and Max — of love so true and strong — so perfect in its holy strength, that neither parting, grief, nor death have any power over it. Love which makes you feel that once to have possessed, must be bhss unut- terable, unahenable — better than all happiness or prosperity that this world could give — better than any thing, in the world or out of it, except the love of God. I sometimes think of this Katheriae in this play, when she refuses to let her lover barter his conscience for his life, but when the test comes, says to him herself, " No — cUeP^ Also of that scene in Wallenstein, when Thekla bids her lover be faithful to his honor and his country, not to her — 120 A LIFE FOE A LIFE. when, just for one minute, he holds her tight, tight in his arms — Max, I mean. Death afterward could not have been so very hard. I am beginnmg to give up — strange, perhaps, that it should have lasted so long — ^my belief in the possible hap- piness of life. Apparently, people were never meant to be happy. Small flashes of pleasantness come and go ; or it may be that in some few lives are ecstatic moments, such as this I have been thinking of, and then it is all over. But many people go plodding along to old age, in a dull, straight road, with little sorrow and no joy. Is my life to be such as this ? Probably. Then the question arises, what am I to do with it ? It sometimes crosses my mind what Doctor TJrquhart said, about his life being "owed." All our lives are, in one sense : to ourselves, to our fellow-creatures, or to God ; or, is there some point of union which includes all three ? K I only could find it out ! Perhaps, according to Colin Granton's lately learned doc- trine — I know whence learned — it is the having something to do. Something to be, your fine preachers of self-culture Vv^ould suggest ; but self-culture is often no better than idealized egotism : people sick of themselves want some- thing to do. Yesterday, driving with papa along the edges of the camp, where we never go now, I caught sight of the slope where the hospital is, and could even distinguish the poor fellows sitting in the sun, or lounging about in their blue hospital clothes. It made me think of Smyrna and Scutari. No ; while there is so much misery and sin in the world, a man has no right to lull himself to sleep in a paradise of self-improvement and self-enjoyment; in which there is but one supreme Adam, one perfect specimen of humanity, namely himself He ought to go out and work — ^fight, if it must be, wherever duty calls him. jN^ay, even a woman has hardly any right, in these days, to sit still and dream. The life of action is nobler than the life of thought. So I keep reasoning with myself If I could only find a good and adequate reason for some things which perplex me sorely, about myself and — other people, it would be a great comfort. * To-day, among a heap of notes which papa gave me to make candle-lighters of, I found this note, which I kept, the handwriting being peculiar — and I have a few crotchets about handwriting. A LIFE rOR A LIFE. 121 " Dear Sir, — Press of business, and other unforeseen circumstances, with which I am fettered, make it impossi- ble for me to accept any invitations at present. I hope you will beheve that I can never forget the hospitalities of Rock- mount, and that I am ever most gratefully " Your faithful servant, " Max Urquhart." Can he, then, mean our acquaintance to cease ? Should we be a hinderance in his busy, useful life — such a frivol- ous family as ours ? It may be so. Yet I fear papa will be hurt. This afternoon, though it was Sunday, I could not stay in the house or garden, but went out, far upon the moor, and walked till I was weary. Then I sat me down upon a heather-bush, all in a heap, my arms clasped round my knees, trying to think out this hard question — what is to become of me ; what am I to do with my life ? It lies before me, apparently as bleak, barren, and monotonous as these miles of moorland — stretching on and on in dull undula- tions, or dead flats, till a range of low hills ends all ! Yet, sometimes, this wild region has looked quite different. I remember describing it once — how beautiful it was, how breezy and open, with the ever-changing tints of the moor, the ever-shifting and yet always steadfast arch of the sky. To-day I found it all colorless, blank, and cold ; its monot- ony almost frightened me. I could do nothing but crouch on my heather-bush and cry. Tears do one good 'occasionally. When I dried mine, the hot weight on the top of my head seemed lighter. If there had been any body to lay a cool hand there, and say, ^' Poor child, never mind !" it might have gone away. But there was no one : Lisa was the only one who ever " pet- ted" me. I thought I would go home and write a long letter to Lisa. Just as I was rising from my heather-bush — my favorite haunt, being as round as a mushroom, as soft as a velvet cushion, and hidden by two great furze-bushes from the road — I heard footsteps approaching. Having no mind to be discovered in that gipsy plight, I crouched down again. People's footsteps are so different, it is often easy to rec- ogTiize them. This step, J- think I should have known any where — quick, regular, determined ; rather hasty, as if no F 122 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. time could be lost ; as if it wotild never " let the grass grow under it," as the proverb says. Crouching lower yet, I listened ; I heard him stop, and speak to an old woman, who had been coming up the road toward the village. No words were distinguishable, but the voice, I could not have mistaken it — it is not like our English voices. How strange it is, listening to footsteps or voices, when the owners do not know you are near them. Something like being a ghost, and able to watch them — perhaps watch over them — without feeling it unnatural or wrong. He stood talking — I ought to explain, Doctor Urquhart stood talking — ^for several minutes. The other voice, by its querulousness, I guessed to be poor Mrs. Cartwright's ; but it softened by degrees, and then I heard distinctly her earnest " thank'ee. Doctor — God bless'ee, sir," as he walk- ed'away, and vanished over the slope of the hill. She look- ed after him a minute, and then, turning, toddled on her way. When I overtook her, which was not for some time, she told me the whole story of her troubles, and how good Doctor Urquhart has been. Also, the whole story about her poor daughter — at least as much as is known about it. Mrs. Cartwright thinks she is still somewhere in London, and Doctor Urquhart has promised to find her out, if he can. I don't understand much about these sort of dread- ful things — ^Penelope never thought it right to tell us : but I can see that what Doctor Urquhart has said has given great comfort to the mother of unfortunate Lydia. "Miss," said the old woman, with the tears running down, "the doctor's been an angel of goodness to me, and there's many a one in these parts as can say the same — though he be only a stranger, here to-day and gone to-mor- row, as one may say. Eh, dear, it'll be an ill day for many a poor body when he goes." I am glad I saw him — glad I heard all this. Somehow, hearing of things like this makes one feel quieter. It does not much matter after all — ^it does not indeed! I never wanted any body to think aboiit me, to care for me, half as much as somebody to look up to — to be satis- fied in — ^to honor and reverence. I can do that still ! Like a fool, I have been crying again, till I ought, prop- erly, to tear this leaf out, and begin afresh. No, I will not. Nobody will ever see it, and it does no harm to any human being. A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 123 " God bless him !" the old woman said. I might say something of the like sort too ; for he did me a deal of good ; he was very Mnd to me. CHAPTER Xni. HEE STOET. Papa and Penelope are out to dinner. I myself was out yesterday, and did not return till they were gone ; so I sit up for them; and, meantime, shall amuse myself with writ- ing here. The last date was Sunday, and now it is only Tuesday, but milch seems to have happened between. And yet noth- ing really has happened but two quiet days at the Cedars, and one gay evening — or people would call it gay. It has been the talk of the neighborhood for weeks, this amateur concert at the camp. We got our invitation, of course ; the such and such regiments (I forget which ; at least, I forget one) presenting their compliments to the Reverend Wilham Henry and the IViisses Johnston, and're- questing their company. But papa shook his head, and Penelope was indifferent. Then I gave up all thoughts of going, if I ever had any. The surprise was almost pleasant when Mrs. Granton, coming in, declared she would take me herself, as it was quite necessary I should have a httle gayety to keep me from. moping after Lisabel. Papa consented, and I went. Driving along over the moors was pleasant, too, even though it snowed a httle. I found myself laughing back at Colin, who sat on the box, occasionally turning to shake the white flakes off him, hke a great Polar bear. His kind- ly, hearty face was quite refreshing to behold. I have a habit of growing attached to places, independ- ently of the persons connected with them. Thus, I can not imagine any time when it would not be an enjoyment to drive up to the hall door of the Cedars, sweeping round in the wide curve that Colin is so proud of making his car- riage wheels describe ; to look back up the familiar hill- side, where the winter sun is shining on that slope of trees ; then run into the house, through the billiard-room, and out again by the dining-room windows, on to the broad terrace. There, if there is any sunshine, you will be sure to get it ; 124 - A LIFE FOR A LIFE. any wind, it will blow in your face ; any bit of color or landscape beauty, you will catch it on this green lawn ; the grand old cedars, the distant fir-woods, lying m a still mass of dark-blue shadow, or standing up, one by one, cut out sharply against the brilliant west. Whether it is any me- teorological peculiarity I know not ; but it seems to me as if, whatever the day has been, there is always a fau' sunset at the Cedars. I love the place. If I went away for years — if I never saw it again — I should always love it and remember it ; Mrs. Granton too, for she seems an integral part of the pic- ture. Her small, elderly figure trotting in and out of the rooms ; her clear loud voice — she is a httle deaf — along the up-stair passages ; her perpetual activity — I think she is never quiet but when she is asleep ; above all, her unvary- ing goodness and cheerfulness. Truly the Cedars would not be the Cedars without my dear old lady ! I don't think she ever knew how fond I was of her, even as a little girl. Nobody could help it ; never any body had to do with Mrs. Granton without becommg fond of her. She is almost' the only person living of whom I never heard any one speak an unkind word, because she herself never speaks an ill word of any human being. Every one she knows is "the kmdest creature," "the nicest creature," " the cleverest creature" — I do believe if you presented to her Diabolus himself, she would only call him "poor crea- ture ;" would suggest that his temper must have been ag- gravated by the unpleasant place he had to live in, and set about some plan for improving his complexion, and-con- ceahng his horns and tail. At dinner, I took my favorite seat, where, seen through this greatest of the three windows, a cedar, with its " broad, green layers of shade," is intersected by a beech, still faint- ly yellow, as I have seen it, autumn after autumn, from the same spot. It seemed just like old times. I felt happy, as if something pleasant were about to happen, and said as much. Mrs. Granton looked delighted. " I am sure, my dear, I hope so ; and I trust we shall see you here very often indeed. Only think, you have never been since the night of the ball. What a deal has hap- pened between now and then." I had already been thinking the same. It must be curious to any one who, like our Lisa, had A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 125 married a stranger and not an old acquaintance, to analyze afterward the first impressions of a first meeting, most like- ly brought about by the merest chance. Curious to try and recall the face you then viewed critically, carelessly, or with the most absolute iudifterence — how it gradually al- tered and altered, till only by a special effort can memory reproduce the pristiAe image, and trace the process by which it has become what it is now — a face by itself, its pecuharities pleasant, its plainnesses sacred, and its beauties beautiful above aU faces in the world. In the course of the afternoon Colin was turned out, that is corporeally, for his mother talked about him the whole time of his absence, a natural weakness, rather honorable than pardonable. She has been very long a widow, and never had any child but Colin. During our gossip, she asked me if we had seen Doctor Urquhart lately, and I said no. " Ah ! that is just like liim. Such an odd creature. He will keep away for days and weeks, and then turn up as unexpectedly as he did here yesterday. By-the-by, he in- quired after you, if you were better. Colin had told him you were ill." I testified my extreme surprise and denial of this. " Oh, but you looked ill. You were just like a ghost the day Mrs. Treherne was at Rockmount — my son noticed it. IsTay, you need not flush jtip so angrily ; it was only my Colin's anxiety about you — he was always fond of his old play-fellow." I smiled, and said his old play-fellow was very much obhged to him. So this business is not so engrossing but that Doctor Urquhart can find time to pay visits somewhere. And he had been inquiring for me. Still he might have made the. inquiry at our own door. Ought people, even if they do lead a busy life, to forget ordinary courtesy — accepting hos- pitahty, and neglecting it — cultivating acquaintance, and then dropping it ? I think not ; all the respect in the world , can not make one put aside one's common-sense judgment of another's actions. Perhaps the very respect makes one more tenacious that no single action should be even ques- tionable. I did think then, and even to-day I have thought sometimes, that Doctor IJrquhart lias been somewhat in the wrong toward us at Rockmount. But as to acloiowl- edging it to any one of them at liome — never. 126 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. Mrs. Grauton discussed him a little, and spoke gratefully of Colin's obligations to him, and what a loss it would be for CoHn when the regiment left the camp. " How fortunate that your brother-in-law sold out when lie did. He could not well have done so now, when there is a report of their being ordered on active service shortly. Cohn says we are hkely to have waf again, but I do hope not." " Yes," I said. And just then Colin came to fetch me to the green-houses, to choose a camelha for my hair. Likely to have war again ! When Mrs. Granton left me to dress, I sat over my bedroom fire, thinkmg — I hardly know what. All sorts of visions went flitting through my mind — of scenes I have heard talked about, in hospital, in battle, on the battle-field afterward. Especially one, which Augustus has often described, when he woke up, stiff and cold, on the moonlight plain, from under his dead horse, and saw Doctor Urquhart standing over him. Colin whistling through the corridor, Mrs. Granton's lively " Are you ready, my dear ?" made me conscious that this would not do. I stood up, and dressed myself in the silver-gray silk I wore at the ball ; tried to stick the red camellia in my hair, but the buds all broke off under my fingers, and I had to go down without it. It was all the same. I did not much care. However, Colin insisted on going with a lantern to hunt for another flower, and his mother took a world of pains to fasten it in, and make me look " pretty." They were so kind— it was wicked not to try and enjoy one's self. Driving along in the sharp, clear twilight, till w^e caught sight of the long lines of lamps which made the camp so picturesque at nighttime, I found that compelling one's self to be gay sometimes makes one so. We committed all sorts of blunders in tiie dark — came across a sentry, who challenged us, and, nobody thmking of giving the password, had actually leveled his gun, and was proceeding in the gravest manner to do his duty and fire upon us, Avhen our coachman shrieked, and Colin jumped out, which he had to do a dozen times, tramping the snow with his thin boots, to his mother's great uneasi- ness, and laughing all the time — before we discovered the gqal of our hopes — the concert-room. Almost any one else A LIFE FOK A LIFE. 127 would have gi'own cross, but this good mother and son have the gayest spirits and the best tempers imaginable. The present — the present is, after all, the only thing cer- tain. I began to feel as cheery as they. Giving up our ticket to the most gentlemanly of ser- geants, we entered the concert-room. Such a blaze of scarlet, such a stirring of pretty heads between, such a murmur of merry chat. For the first minute, coming out of the dark, it dazzled me. I grew sick and could see nothing ; but when we were quietly seated I looked round. There were many of our neighbors and acquaintances whom I knew by sight or to bow to — and that was all. I could see every corner of the room — still that was all. The audience seemed in a state of exuberant enjoyment, especially if they had a bit of scarlet beside them, which nearly every one had, except ourselves. " You'll be quite ashamed of poor Colin, in his plain black, Dora, my dear ?" Not very likely, as I told her, with my heart warmly grateful to Colin, who had been so attentive, thoughtful, and kind. Altogether a gay and pretty scene. Grave persons might possibly eschew it or condemn it ; but no ! a large liberal spirit judges all things liberally, and would never see evil in any thing but sin. I sat enjoymg all I could. But more than once ghastly imaginations intruded, picturing these young officers other- where than here, with their merry mustached faces pressed upon the reddened grass, their goodly limbs lopped and mangled; or, worse, themselves, their kindly, lightsome selves, changed into what soldiers are, must be, in battle — fiends rather than men, bound to execute that slaughter which is the absolute necessity of war. To be the slain or the slayer — which is most horrible ? To think of a familiar hand — brother's or husband's — dropping down powerless, nothmg but clay ; or of clasping, kissing it, returned with red blood upon it — the blood of some one else's husband or brother ! To have gone on pondering thus would have been dan- gerous. Happily, I stopped myself before all self-control was gone. The first singer was a slim youth, who, facing the foot- lights with an air of fierce determination, and probably more inward cowardice than he would have felt toward a ~128 A LiFa roR a life. regiment of Russians, gave ns, in a ratlier uncertain tenor, Ms resolution to "love no more," -wliich was vehemently applauded — and vanished. Next came " The Chough and Crow," executed very independently, none of the vocalists being agreed as to their " opening day." Afterward, the first soprano, a professional, informed us with shrill ex- pression, that — " Oh, yes, she must have something to love ;" which I am sure I hope she had, poor body ! There was a duet, of some sort, and then the primo tenore came on for an Italian song. Poor youth ! a fourth -rate opera-singer might have done it better ; but 'tis mean to criticise ; he did his best ; and„ when, after a grand roulade, he popped down,, with all his heart and lungs, upon the last note, there arose a cordial English cheer, to which he responded with an awkward duck of the head, and a delighted smile ^ very unprofes- sional, but altogether pleasant and natural. The evening was now half over. Mrs. Granton thought I was looking tired, and Colin wrapped my feet up m his fur coat, for it was very cold. They were afraid I was not enjoying myself, so I bent my whole appreciative faculties to the comical-faced young officer who skipped forward, hugging his violin, which he played with such total self- oblivious enjoyment that he was the least nervous and the most successful of all the amateurs ; the timid young officer with the splendid bass voice, who was always losing his place and putting his companions out; and the solemn young officer who marched up to the piano-forte as though it were a redan, and pounded away at a heavy sonata as if feehng that England expected him to do his duty ; which he did, and was dehberately retreating, when, in that free- and-easy way with which audience and stage intermingled, some one called him : " Ansdell, you're wanted !" " Who wants me ?" " IJrquhart." At least I was almost sure that was the name. There was a good deal more of singing and playing; then " God save the Queen," with a full chorus and mili- tary band. That grand old tune is always exciting ; it was so, especially, here to-night. Likely to have war. If so, a year hence, where might be all these gay young fellows, whispering and ffirting with pretty girls, walked about the room by proud mothers and A LIPE FOE A LIFE. 129 sisters ? I never thought of it, never nnderstood it, till now — I who used to ridicule and despise soldiers ! These mothers — these sisters ! they might not have felt it for themselves, hut my heart felt bursting. I could hardly stand. We were some time hi getting out to the door through the long Ihie of epaulets and swords, the owners of which — I beg their pardon, but can not help saying it — were not too civil ; until a voice behind cried : " Do make way there — how do you expect those ladies to jDush past you ?" And a courteous helping hand was held out to Mrs. Granton, as any gentleman ought to any lady — especially an old lady. " Doctor, is that you ? What a scramble this is ! jN'ow, will you assist my young friend here ?" Then — and not tUl then, I am positive — he recognized me. Something has happened to him — something has altered him A^ery much. I felt certain of that on the very first ghmpse I caught of his face. It shocked me so that I never said " how d'ye do ?" I never even put out my hand. Oh, that I had ! He scarcely spoke, and we lost him hi the crowd almost immediately. There was a great confusion of carriages. Colin ran hither and thither, but could not find ours. Some minutes* after, we were stiU out hi the bitter night ; Mrs. Granton talking to somebody, I standing by myself. I felt very desolate and cold. " How long have you had that cough ?" I knew who it was, and tm^ned round. We shook hands. " You had no business out here on such a night. Why did you come ?" Somehow, the sharpness did not ofiend me, though it was rare in Doctor tlrquhart, who is usually extremely gentle in his way of speech. I told him my cough was nothing — it was indeed as much nervousness as cold, though, of course, I did not confess that — and then another fit came on, leaving me all shakhig and trembling. " You ought not to have come : is there nobody to take better care of you, child ? iN'o — don't speak. You must submit, if you please." F 2 130 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. He took off a plaid he had about hun, and wrapped me up in it, close and warm. I resisted a little, and then yielded. " You must !" What could one do but yield ? Protesting again, I was bidden to " hold my tongue." " IvTever mind me ! I am used to all weathers ; I'm not a little dehcate creature hke you." I said, laughing, I was a great deal stronger than he had any notion of — ^but as he had begun our acquaintance by taking professional care of me, he might just as well con- tinue it ; and it certainly was a little colder here than it was that night at the Cedars. "Yes." Here Colin came up, to say " we had better walk on to meet the carriage, rather than wait for it." He and Doc- tor Urquhart exchanged a few words, th"fen he took his mother on one arm — good Colin, he never neglects his old mother — and offered me the other. " Let me take care of Miss Theodora," said Doctor Urqu- hart, rather decidedly. " Will you come ?" I am sure he meant me to come. I hope it was not rude to Colin, but I could not help coming— I could not help taking his arm. It was such a long time since we had met. But I held my tongue, as I had been bidden ; indeed, nothing came into my head to say. Doctor Urquhart made only one observation, and that not particularly strik- ing: " What sort of shoes have you got on ?" "Thick ones." "That is right. You ought not to trifle with your health." Why should one be afraid of speaking the truth right out, when a word would often save so much of misunder- ' standing, doubt, and pain ? Why should one shrink from being the first to say that word when there is no wrong in it, when in all one's heart there is not a feeling that one need be ashamed of either before any human being, or, I hope, before God ? I determined to S]3eak out. "Doctor Urquhart, why have you never been to see us since the wedding ? It has grieved papa." My candor must have surprised him; I felt him start. A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 131 When he replied, it was in that pecuhar nervous tone I know so well, which always seems to take away my nerv- ousness, and makes me feel that for the moment I am the stronger of the two. " I am very sorry. I would not on any account grieve your papa." " Will you come, then, some day this week ?" " Thank you, but I can not promise." A possibility struck me. " Papa is rather pecuhar. He vexes people sometimes, when they are not thoroughly acquainted with him. Has he vexed you in any way ?" " I assure you, no." After a little hesitation, determined to get at the truth, I asked, " Have I vexed you ?" "You! What an idea!" It did seem at this moment preposterous, almost absurd. I could have laughed at it. I beheve I did laugh. Oh, when one has been angry or grieved with a friend, and all of a sudden the cloud clears off — one hardly knows how or why, but it certainly is gone, perhaps never existed but in imagination — what an infinite relief it is ! How cheerful one feels, and yet humbled; ashamed, yet inexpressibly content. So glad, so satisfied to have only one's self to blame. I asked Doctor Urquhart what he had been doing all this whUe ? that I understood he had been a good deal engaged; was it about the barrack business and his memo- rial ? " Partly," he said, expressing some surprise at my re- membering it. , Perhaps I ought not to have referred to it. And yet that is not a fair code of friendship. When a friend tells you his affairs, he makes them yours, and you have a right to ask about them afterward. I longed to ask — ^longed to know all and every thing ; for by every carriage lamp we passed I saw that his face was not as it used to be — that there was on it a settled shadow of pam, anxiety, almost anguish. I have only known Doctor Urquhart three months, yet in those three months I have seen him every week, often twice and thrice a week, and, owing to the preoccupation of the rest of the family, almost aU his society has devolved 132 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. on me. He and I have often and often sat talking, or, in "playing decorum" to Augustus and Lisabel, walked up and down the garden together for hours at a time. Also, from my brother-in-law, always most open and enthusiastic on the subject, I have heard about Doctor Urquhart nearly every thing that could be told. AU this will account for my feeling toward him after so short an intimacy as people usually feel, I suppose, after a friendship of years. As I have said, something must have happened to make such a change in him. It touched me to the quick. Why not at least ask the question, which I should have asked in a minute of any body else, so simple and natural was it — " Have you been quite well since we saw you ?" " Yes — ISTo, not exactly. Why do you ask ?" " Because I thought you looked as if you had been ill." " Thank you, no ; but I have had a great deal of anx- ious business on hand." More than that he did not say, nor had I a right to ask. No right ! What was I, to be wanting rights — to feel that in some sense I deserved them — that if I had them I should know how to use them ; for it is next to impossible to be so sorry about one's friends without having also some httle power to do them good, if they would only give you leave. All this while Colin and his mother were nmning hither and thither in search of the carriage, which had disappear- ed again. As we stood, a blast of moorland wind almost took my breath away. Doctor Urquhart turned, and wrapped me up closer. "What must be done? You will get your death of cold, and I can not shelter you. Oh ! if I could." Then I took courage. There was only a minute more, perhaps, and the news of threatened war darted through my memory hke an arrow — perhaps the last minute we might ever be together in all our lives. My life — ^I did not recollect it just then ; but his, busy indeed, yet so wander- ing, sohtary, and homeless — he once told me that ours was the only family hearth he had been familiar at for twenty years. No, I am sure it was not wrong either to think what I thought or to say it. "Doctor Urquhart, I wish you would come to Rock- mount. It •would do you good, and papa good, and all of us ; for we are rather dull now Lisabel is gone. Do come." A LITE FOE A LIFE. 133 I waited for an answer, but none was given. K'o excuse, or aj)ology, or even polite acknowledgment. Politeness! that would have been the sharpest unkindness of all. Then they overtook us, and the chance was over. Colin advanced to my side, but Doctor Urquhart put me in the carriage himself, and as Colin was restoring the plaid, said, rather irritably, " N"o, no ; let her wrap herself in it going home." N'ot another word passed between us, except that, as I remembered afterward, just before they came up, he had said, " Good-by," hastily adding to it, " God bless you." Some people's words — people who usually exj^ress very httle — rest m one's inind strangely. Why should he say " God bless you ?" Why did he call me " child ?" I sent back his plaid by Colin next morning, with a m.es- sage of thanks, and that "it had kept me very warm," I wonder if I shall ever see Doctor Urquhart again ? And yet it is not the seeing one's friends, the having them within reach, the hearing of and from them, which makes them ours — ^many a one has all that, and yet has nothing. It is the believing in them, the depending on them, assm-ed that they are true and good to the core, and therefore could not but be good and true toward every body else, om'selves included ; ay, whether we deserve it or not. It is not our deserts which are in question; it is their goodness, which, once settled, the rest follows as a matter of course. They would be untrue to themselves if they were insincere or untrue to us. I have half a dozen friends, living within half a dozen miles, whom I feel farther off from than I should from Doctor Urquhart if he hved at the Antipodes. He never uses words lightly. He never would have said " God bless you !" if he had not specially wished God to bless me — ^poor me! a fooHsh, ignorant, thoughtless child. Only a child— not a bit better nor wiser than a child ; full of all kinds of childish naughtinesses, angers, petu- lances, doubts — oh, if I knew he was at this minute sitting in our parlor, and I could run do^m and sit beside him, tell him all the hard things I have been thinking of him of late, and beg his pardon, asking hun to be a faithful friend to me, and heljD me to grow into a better woman than I am ever Hkely to become — what an unutterable comfort it would be ! 134 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. A word or two more about my pleasant morning at the Cedars, and then I must close my desk and see that the study-fire is all right; papa likes a good fire when he comes home. There they are! what a loud ring! it made me jump from my chair. This must be finished to-morrow, when — CHAPTER XIV. HIS STOET. I ENDED the last page with " I shall write no more here." It used to be my pride never to have broken a promise nor changed a resolution. Pride! What have I got to do with pride ? And resolutions, fi^rsooth ! What, are we omnipotent and omniscient, that against all changes of circumstances, feelings, or events we should set up our paltry resolutions, urge them and hold to them, in spite of reason and convic- tion, with a tenacity that we suppose heroic, god-like, yet which may be merely the blind obstinacy of a brute ? I will never make a resolution again. I will never again say to myself, "You, Max Urquhart, in order to keep up that character for virtue, honor, and steadfastness, which heaven only knows whether or no you deserve, ought to do so and so ; and, come what will, you must do it." Out upon me and my doings ! Was I singled out to be the scape- goat of the world ? It is my intention here regularly to set down, for certain reasons which I may or may not afterward allude to, cer- tain events which have happened without any act of mine, almost without any volition, if a man can be so led on by force of circumstances, that there seems only one course of conduct open to him to pursue. Whither these circum- stances may lead, I am at this moment as utterly ignorant as on the day I was born, and almost as powerless. I make no determinations, attempt no previsions, follow no set fine of conduct ; doing only from day to day what is expected of me, and leaving all the rest to — is it ? it must be — to God. The sole thing in which I may be said to exercise any absolute volition is in writing down what I mean to write here ; the only record that will exist of the veritable me — A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 135 Max Urquliart — as he might have been known, not to peo- ple in general, but to — any one who looked into his deep- est heart, and Avas his friend, liis beloved, his very own. The form of Imaginary Correspondent I henceforward throw aside. I am perfectly aware to whom and for whom I write, yet who, in all human probability, will never read a single liue. Once, an officer in the Crimea, believing himself dying, gave me a packet of letters to burn. He had written them, year by year, under every change of fortune, to a friend he had, to whom he occasionally wrote other letters not like these ; which were never sent, nor meant to be sent, during his lifetime, though sometimes I fancy he dreamed of giv- ing them, and of their being read, smiling, by two together. He was mistaken. Circumstances which happen not rare- ly to dreamers like him, made it unnecessary, nay, impossi- ble for them to be delivered at all. He bade me burn them — at once — in case he died. In doing so there started out of the embers, clear and plain, the name. But the fire and I told no tales ; I took the poker and buried it. Poor fel- low ! He did not die, and I meet him still, but we have never referred to those burned letters. These letters of mine I also may one day burn. In the mean time, there shall be no name or superscription on them, no beginning or ending, nor, if I can avoid it, any thmg w^hich could particularize the person to whom they are written. To all others they will take the form of a mere statement, nothing more. To begin. I was sitting about eleven at night over the fire in my hut. I had been busy all day, and had had httle rest the night before. It was not my intention to attend our camp concert, but ■I was in a manner compelled to do so. Ill news from home reached poor young Ansdell of ours, and his colonel sent me to break it to him. I then had to wait about, in order to see the good colonel as he came out of the concert-room. It was, therefore, purely by accident that I met those friends whom I afterward did not leave for several minutes. The reason of this delay m their company may be told. It was a sudden agony about the uncertainty of life — young hfe, fresh and hopeful as pretty Laura Ansdell's, whom I had chanced to see riding through the North Camp not two weeks ago — and now she was dead. Accustomed as I am to almost every form of mortality, I had never faced 136 A LIFE FOE A LIFE. the grim fear exactly in this shape before. It put me out of myself for a little time. I did not go near Granton the following day, but received from him a message and my plaid. She — the lady to whom I had lent it — was " quite well." No more ; how could I possibly expect any more ? I was, as I say, sitting over my hut fire, with the strangest medley in my mind — rosy Laura Ansdell, now galloping across the moor, now lying still and colorless in her coffin ; and another face about the same age, though I suppose it would not be considered nearly as pretty, v>^ith the scarlet hood drawn over it, pallid with cold, yet with such a soft light in the eyes, such a trembling sweetness about the mouth ! She must be a very happy-minded creature. I hardly ever saw her, or was with her any length of time, that she did not look the picture of content and repose. She always puts me in mind of Dallas's pet song when we were boys — " Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane." " She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie, And guileless simplicity marks her its ain, And far be the villain, divested o' feelin', Wha'd blight in its bud the sweet Mower o' Dunblane." I say amen to that. It was — to return for the third time to simple narrative — somewhere about eleven o'clock when a man on horse- back stopped at my hut door. I thought it might be a summons to the Ansdells, but it was not. It was the groom from Rockmount bringing me a letter. Her letter — her little letter ! I ought to burn it, but, as yet, I can not, and where it is kept it will be quite safe. For reasons I shall copy it here. " Deak Sie, — My father has met with a severe accident. Doctor Black is from home, and there is no other doctor in the neighborhood upon whom we can depend. Will you pardon the liberty I am taking and come to us at once? Yours truly, Theodora Johi^stois"." There it lies, brief and plain ; a firm heart guided the shaking hand. Few things show character in a woman more than her handwriting ; this, when steady, must be remarkably neat, delicate, and clear. I did well to put it by ; I may never get another line. In speaking to Jack, I learned that his master and on© A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 137 of the young ladies had been out to dinner ; that master had insisted on driving home himself, probably from Jack's incompetence, but he was sober enough now, poor lad ! that, coming through the fir wood, one of the wheels got fixed in a deep rut, and the phaeton was overturned. I asked, was any one hurt besides Mr. Johnston ? " Miss Johnston was, a little." " Which Miss Johnston ?" " Miss Penelope, sir." *':Nro one else?" "N'o,sir." I had evidence enough of all this before, but just then, at that instant, it went out of my mind in a sudden oppres- sion of fear. The facts of the case gamed, I called Jack in to the fire, and went into my bedroom to settle with my- self what was best to be done. Indecision as to the matter of going or not going was, of course, impossible ; but it was a sudden and startling- position to be placed in. True, I could avoid it by plead- ing hospital business, and sending the assistant surgeon of our regiment, who is an exceedingly clever young man, but not a young man whom women would like in a sick-house, in the midst of great distress or danger. And in that dis- tress and danger she had called ujDon one^ trusted ')7%e. I determined to go. The cost, whatever it might be, would be purely personal, and in that brief minute I count- ed it all. I state this, because I wish to make clear that no secondary motive, dream, or desire prompted me to act as I have done. On questioning Jack more closely, I found that Mr. John- ston had fallen, they believed, on a stone ; that he had been picked up senseless, and had never spoken since. This in- dicated at once on what a thread of chance the case hung. Tlie case — simply that and no more ; as to treat it at all I must so consider it. I have saved lives, by God's blessing — this, then, must be regarded rnerely as one other hfe to be saved, if, through His mercy, it were granted me to do it. I unlocked my desk and put her letter in the secret draw- er ; wi'ote a Ime to our assistant-surgeon, with hosj^ital or- ders, in case I should be absent part of the next day ; took out any instruments I might want; then, with a glance round my room, and an involuntary wondering as to how and when I might return to it, I mounted Jack's horse and 138 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. rode oif to Kockmoimt. The whole had not occupied fif- teen mmutes, for I remember looking at my watch, which stood at a quarter past eleven. Hard riding makes thinking impossible ; and, indeed, my whole mind was bent upon not missing my road in the dark- ness. A detour of a mile or two, one lost half-hour, might, humanly speaking, have cost the old man's life ; for in simi- lar cases it is generally a question of time. It is said our profession is that which, of all others, most inclines a man to materialism. I never found it so. The first time I ever was brought close to death — ^but that train of thought must be stopped. Since, death and I have walk- ed so long together, that the mere vital principle, common to all living creatures, "the life of a beast which goeth downward," as the Bible has it, I never think of confound- ing with "the soul of a man which goeth upward." Quite distinct from the Hfe, dwelling in blood or breath, or at that "vital point" which has been lately discovered, sho wing- that in a spot the size of a pin's head resides the principle of mortahty — quite distinct, I say, from this something, which perishes or vanishes so mysteriously from the dead friends we bury, the corpses we anatomize, seems to me the spirit, the ghost ; which, being able to conceive of and as- pire to, must necessarily return to, the one Holy Ghost, the one Eternal Spirit, Himself once manifest in flesh, this very flesh of ours. And it seemed, on that strange, wild night, just such an- other winter's night as I remember, years and years ago — as if this distinction between the life and the soul grew clearer to me than ever before ; as if, pardoning all that had happened to its mortal part, a ghost, which, were such visitations allowed, though I do not believe they are, might be supposed often to visit me, followed my ghost, harmless- ly, nay, pitifully, I "Being a thing immortal as itself," the whole way between the camp and Rockmount. I dismounted under the ivy-bush which overhangs the garden gate, which gate had been left open, so I was able to go at once up to the hall door, where the fanlight flick- ered on the white stone floor ; the old man's stick was in the corner, and the yomig ladies' hats hung up on the branching stag's horns. For the moment I half believed myself dreaming, and that I should wake, as I have often done, after half an hour's A LIPE FOE A LIFE. 139 rest, with the salt morning breeze blowing on me, in the outside gallery of Scutari Hospital, start up, take my lamp, and go-round my wards. But minutes were precious. I rang the bell, and almost immediately a figure shd down the staircase and opened the door. I might not have thought it flesh and blood, but for the touch of its httle cold hand. " Ah ! it is you, at last ; I was sm-e you would come." " Certamly." Perhaps she thought me cold, " professional," as if she had looked for a friend, and found only the doctor. Per- haps — ^nay, it must be so — she never thought of me at all except as the " doctor." " Where is your father ?" " Up stairs ; we carried him at once to his room. Will you come?" So I followed — I seemed to have nothing to do but tc follow that light figure, with the voice so low, the manner so quiet — quieter than I ever expected to see hers, or any woman's, under such an emergency. I ? what did I ever know of woman, except that a woman bore me ? It is an odd fancy, but I have never thought so much about my moth- er as within the last few months. And sometimes, turning over the sole rehcs I have of hers, a ribbon or two and a cmi of hair, and calling to mind the few things Dallas re- membered about her, I have imagiaed my mother, in her youth, must have been something hke this young girl. She entered the bedroom first. " You may come in now. You will not startle him ; I thiak he loiows nobody." I sat down beside my patient. He lay just as he had been brought in from the road, with a blanket and counter- pane thrown over him, breathing heavily, but quite uncon- scious. " The light, please. Can you hold it for me ? Is your hand steady ?" And I held it a moment to judge. That weakness cost me too much; I took care not to risk it again. When I finished my examination and looked up, Miss Theodora was still standmg by me. Her eyes only asked the question — which, thank God, I could answer as I did. " Yes — it is a more hopeful case than I expected." At this shadow of hope — for it was only a shadow — the deadly quiet in which she had kept herself was stirred. 140 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. She began to tremble exceedingly. I took tbe candle from her, and gave her a chau*. "Never mmd me. It is only for a minute," she said. One or two deep, hard sighs came, and then she recovered herself " Now, Avhat is to be done?" I told her I would do all that was necessary, if she would bring me various things I mentioned. " Can I help you ? There is no one else. Penelope has hurt her foot, and can not move, and the servants are mere girls. Shall I stay ? If there is any operation, I am not afraid." ^For I had unguardedly taken out of my pocket the case of instruments, which, after all, would not be needed. I told her so, adding that I had rather she left me alone with my patient. " Very well. You will take care of him ? You will not hurt him — poor papa.!" Not very likely. If he and I could have changed places — he assuming my strength and life, I lying on that bed, with death before me, under such a look as his child left him with — I think I should at that moment have done it. When I had laid the old man comfortable in his bed, I sat with his wrist under my fingers, counting, beat by beat, the slow pulse, which was one of my slender hopes for his recovery. As the hand dropped over my knee, powerless, almost, as a dead hand, it recalled, I know not how or why, the helpless drop of that^ the first dead hand I ever saw. Happily the fancy lasted only a moment ; in seasons like this, when I am deeply occupied in the practice of my pro- fession, all such phantasms are laid. And the present case was urgent enough to concentrate all my thoughts and fac- ulties. I had just made up my mind concerning it when a gentle knock came to the door, and on my answering, she walked in ; glided rather, for she had taken off her silk gown, and put on something soft and dark, which did not rustle. In her face, white as it was, there was a quiet preparedness, more touching than any wildness of grief — a quahty which few women possess, but which heaven never seems to give except to women, compelHng us men, as it were, to our knees, in recognition of something diviner than any thing Ave have, or are, or were ever meant to be. I mention this, lest it might be thought of me, as is often thought of doc- tors, that I did not feel. A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 141 She asked me no questions, but stood silently beside me, with her eyes fixed on her father. His just opened, as they had done several times before, wandered vacantly over the bed-curtains, and closed again, with a moan. She looked at me, frightened — the poor child. •I explained to her that this moaning was no additional cause of alarm, rather the contrary ; that her father might he in his present state for hours — days. " And can you do nothing for him ?" K I could — at any cost which mortal man could pay ! Motioning her to the farthest corner of the room, I there, as is my habit, when the friends of the patient seem capa- ble of listening and comprehending, gave her my opinion about the course of treatment I intended to adopt, and my reasons for the same. In this case, of all others, I wished not to leave the relatives in the dark, lest they might after- ward blame me for doing nothiug ; when, in truth, to do nothing was the only chancCo I told her my belief that it would be safest to maintain perfect silence and repose, and leave benignant Nature to work in her own mysterious way — Nature, whom the longer one hves, the more one trusts in as the only true physician. " Therefore," I said, " will you understand that, however little I do, I am acting as I beheve to be best ? Will you trust me ?" She looked up searchingly, and then said, " Yes." After a few moments she asked me how long I could stay ? if I were obhged to retm^n to the camp immediately ? I told her " No ; that I did not intend to return till morn- ing." " Ah ! that is well. Shall I order a room to be prepared for you?" " Thank you, but I prefer sitting up." " You are very kind. You will be a great comfort." I, " a great comfort !" I—" kmd I" My thoughts must needs return into their right channel. I believe the next thing she said was something about my gomg to see " Penelope :" at least I found myself with my hand on the door, all but touching hers, as she was show- ing me how to open it. " There : the second room to the left. Shall I go with you ? No ! I will stay here, then, till you return." So, after she had closed the door, I remained alone in the dim passage for a few moments. It was well. No man can be his own master at all times. 142 A LIFE FOE A LIFE. Miss Johnston was a good deal more hurt than she had confessed. As she lay on the bed, still in her gay dress, with artificial flowers in her hair — her face, paUid and drawn with pain, looked almost like that of an old woman. She seemed annoyed at my commg — she dishkes me, I know : but anxiety about her father, and her own suffering, kept her aversion within bounds. She hstened to my medical report from the next room, and submitted to my orders concerning herself, until she learned that at least a week's confinement, to rest her foot, would be necessary. Then she rebelled. " That is impossible. I must be up and about. There is nobody to do any thing but me." " Your sister ?" " Lisabel is married. Oh, you meant Dora ? We never expect any useful thing from Dora," This speech did not surprise me. It merely confirmed a good deal which I had already noticed in this family. Also, it might in degree be true. I think, so far from being blind to them, I see clearer than most people every fault she has. Neither contradicting nor arguing, I repeated to Miss . Johnston the imperative necessity for her attending to my orders : adding that I had known more than one case of a person being made a cripple for life by neglecting such an injury as hers. " A cripple for life !" She started — ^her color came and went — her eye wandered to the chair beside her, on which was her little writing-case ; I conclude that in the intervals of her pain she had been trying to send these ill news, or to apply for help to some one. " You will be lame for life," I repeated, " unless you take care." "ShaUI, now?" " No ; with reasonable caution, I trust you will. do well." "That is enough. Do not trouble yourself any more about me. Pray go back to my father. " She turned from me and closed her eyes. There was nothing more to be done with Miss Penelope. Calling a servant who stood by, I gave my last orders concerning her, and departed. A strange person— this elder sister. What differences of character exist in families ! There was no change in my other patient. As I stood looking at him, his daughter glided round to my side. We exchanged a glance only — she seemed quite to understand A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 143 that talking was inadmissible. Then she stood by me, silently gazing. " You are sm'e there is no change ?" " None." " Lisa — ought she not to know ? I never sent a telegraph message ; will you tell me how to do it ?" Her quiet assumption of duty — ^her thoughtful, methodic- al arrangements ; surely the sister was wrong — that is, as I knew well, any great necessity would soon prove her to be wrong — about Miss Theodora. I said there was no need to telegraph until morning, when, as I rode back to the camp, I would do it myself. " Thank you." ISTo objection or apology; only that soft "thank you" — taking aU things calnily and naturally, as a man would like to see a woman take the gift of his hfe, if necessary. No, not life ; that is owed — but any or all of its few pleasures would be cheerfully laid down for such another "thank While I was considering what should be done for the night, there came a rustling and chattering outside in the passage. Miss Johnston had sent a servant to sit up with her father. She came — ^knocking at the door-handle, rat- thng the candlestick, and tramping across the floor like a regiment of soldiers — so that my patient moaned, and put up his hand to his head. I said — sharply enough, no doubt — ^that I must have quiet. A loud voice, a door slammed to, even a heavy step across the floor, and I would not answer for the consequences. If Mr. Johnston were meant to recover, there must be no one in his room but the doctor and the nurse. " I imderstand- — Susan, come away." There was a brief conference outside ; then Miss Theo- dora re-entered alone, bolted the door, and was again at my side. " "Will that do?" "Yes." The clock struck two while we were standing there. 1 stole a glance at her white, composed face. " Can you sit up, do you think?" " Certamly." Without more ado — for I was just then too much occu- pied with a passing change in my patient— the matter was decided. When I next looked for her she had sHpped 144 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. round the foot of tlie bed, and taken her place behind the curtam on the other side. There we both sat, hour after hour, in total silence. I tell every thmg, you see, just as minutely as I remem- ber it — and shall remember it — long after every circum- stance, trivial or great, has faded out of every memory, except mine. If these letters are ever read by other than myself, words and incidents long forgotten may revive: that when I die, as in the course of nature I shall do, long before younger persons, it may be seen that it is not youth alone which can receive impressions vividly and retain them strongly. I could not see her — ^I could only see the face on the pil- low, where a dim light fell ; just enough to show me the slightest change, did any come. But, closely as I watch- ed, none did come. Not even a twitch or quiver broke that blank expression of repose which was neither life nor death. I thought several times that it would settle into death before morning. And then ? Where was all my boasted skill, my belief in my owti powers of saving hfe? Why, sitting here, trusted and looked up to, depended upon as the sole human stay — my countenance examined, as I felt it was, even as if it were the index and arbiter of fate — I, watching, as I never watched before by any sick-bed, this breath which trem- bled in the balance, felt myself as ignorant and useless as a child. N^ay, I was " as a dead man before Thee," O Thou humbler of pride ! Cryuig to myself thus — Job's cry — ^I thought of another Hebrew, who sought "not unto the Lord, but unto the physicians ;" and died. It came into my mind. May there not be, even in these days, such a thing as " seeking the Lord?" I believe there is : I Tcnow there is. The candle went out. I had sat with my eyes shut, and had not ndticed it till I heard her steal across the room trymg to get a light. Afraid to trust my own heavy step — hers seemed as soft as snow — I contrived to pull the window-blind aside, so that a pale white streak fell across the hearth where she was kneeling — the cheerless hearth, for I had not dared to risk the noise of keeping up a fire. She looked up, and shivered. " Is that light morning ?" A LITE FOR A LIFE. 145 "Yes. Are you cold?" "A little." " It is always cold at daybreak. Go and get a shawl." She took no notice, but put the candle in its place and came over to me. " How do you think he is ?" " No worse." A sigh, patient, but hopeless. I took an opportunity of examming her closely, to judge how long her self-control was likely to last ; or whether, after this great shock and weary night-watch, her physical strength would fail. So looking, I noticed a few blood-drops trickling over her fore- head, oozing from under her hair : "What is this?" " Oh, nothing ! I struck myself as we were lifting papa from the carriage. I thought it had ceased bleeding." " Let me look at it a moment. There — I shall not h4irt you." " Oh, no ! I am not afraid." I cut the hair from round the place, and plastered it up. It hardly took a minute ; was the smallest of surgical oper- ations ; yet she trembled. I saw her strength was begin- ning to yield ; and she might need it all. " Now, you must go and lie down for an hour." She shook her head. " You must." There might have been something harsh in the words — I did not quite know what I was saying — ^for she looked surprised, " I mean you ought ; which is enough argument with a girl like you. If you clo not rest, you will never be able to keep up for another twelve hours, during which your father may need you. He does not need you now," "And you?" " I had much rather be alone." Which was most true. So she left me ; but, ten minutes after, I heard again the light step at the door. " I have brought you this" (some biscuits and a glass of milk). " I know you never take wine." Wine ! Oh, Heaven ! no ! Would that, years ago, the first drop had burnt my lips — ^been as gall to my tongue — proved to. me not drink, but poison — as the poor old man now lying there once wished it might have happened to any son of his. Well might my father, my yoimg, happy G 146 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. father, who married my mother, and, loving and loved, spent with her the brief years of their youth — well, indeed, might my father have wished it for me ! So there I sat, after the food she brought me had been swallowed down somehow — for it would have hurt her to come back and find it untouched. Thus watching, hope lessened by degrees, sank into mere conjectures as to the manner in which the watch would end. Possibly, in this state of half-consciousness, the breath would quietly pass away, without struggle or pain; which would be easiest for them all. I laid my plans, in that case, either to be of any use to the family if I could, by remaining until the Trehernes ar- rived, or to leave immediately all was over. Circumstances, and their apparent wish, must be my only guide. After- ward there would be no difficulty ; the less they saw of any one who had been associated with such a painful time, the better. Better for all of them. The clock below struck — what hour I did not count, but it felt like morning. It was — ^must be — I must make it morning. I went to the window to refresh my eyes with the soft white dawn, which, as I opened the blind, stole into the room, making the candle burn yellow and dim. The night was over and gone. Across the moorland, and up on the far hills, it was already morning. A thought struck me, suggesting one more chance. Ex- tinguishing the candle, I drew aside all the curtains, so as to throw the dayUght in a full stream across the foot of the bed; and by the side of it — with the patient's hand be- tween mine, and my eyes fixed steadily on his face — ^I sat down. "^ His eyes opened, not in the old blank way, but with an expression in them that I never expected to see again. They turned instinctively to the hght ; then, with a slow, wandering, but perfectly rational look, toward me. Feebly the old man smiled. That minute was worth dying for; or, rather, having lived for all these twenty years. • The rest which I have to tell must be told another time. A LIFE FOR A LITE. 147 CHAPTER XV. HIS STOEY. I HAVE not been able to continue this. Every day has been full of business, and every night I have spent at Rock- mount for the last three weeks. Such was, I solemnly aver — from no fixed intention ; I meant only to go as an ordinary doctor — m order, if possi- ble to save the hfe J:hat was valuable in itself, and most precious to some few ; afterward, whichever way the case terminated, to take my leave, like any other medical at- tendant : receiving thanks or fee. Yes, if they ofiered it, I determined to take a fee ; in order to show, both to them and myself, that I was only the doctor — the paid physician. But this last wound has been spared me, and I only name it now in proof that nothing has happened as I expected or intended. I remember I>allas, in reading to me the sermons he used to write for practice — preparing for the sacred duties which, to him, never came — had one upon the text, " Thy will be done ;" where, in words more beautiful than I dare try to repeat in mine, he explained how good it was for us that things so seldom fell out according to our short-sighted plannings ; how many a man had lived to bless God that his own petty will had not been done ; that nothmg had happened to him according as he exj^ected or intended. Do you know, you to whom I write, how much it means, my thus naming to you Dallas — whose name, since he died, has never but once passed my hps ? I think you would have liked my brother Dallas. He was not at all like me — I took after my father, people said, and he after our mother. He had soft, English features, and smooth, fine, dark hau\ He was smaller than I, though so much the elder. The very last Christmas we had at St. Andrew's, I mind lifting him up and carrying him several yards in play, laughing at him for being as thin and light as a lady. We were merry-hearted fellows, and had many a joke, the two of us, when we were together.* Strange to think that I am a man nigh upon forty, and that he has been dead twenty years. 14b A LIFE FOR A LIFE. It is you, little as you guess it, who have made me think upon these my dead — my father, mother, and Dallas, whom I have never dared to think of until now. Let me. con- tinue. Mr. Johnston's has been a difficult case — ^more so in its secondary stages than at first. I explained this to his daughter — the second daughter— the only one whom I fomid of much assistance ; Miss Johnston being extremely nervous and irritable, and Mrs. Treherne, who I trusted would have taken her share in the nursing, proving more of a hinderance than a help. She could not be made to comprehend why, when her father was out of danger, she should not rush in and out of the sick-room continually, with her chattering voice, and her noisy silk dresses ; and she was offended because, when Mr. Charteris, having come for a day from London, was admitted, quiet, scared, and shocked, to spend a few minutes by the old man's bedside, her Augustus, full of lively rattle and rude animal spirits, was carefully kept out of the room. " You plan it all between you," she said, one day, half sulkily, to her sister and myself " You play into one an- other's hands as if you had lived together all your lives. Confess, Doctor — confess. Miss Nurse, you would keep me too out of papa's room, if you could." I certainly would. Though an excellent person, kind- hearted and good-tempered to a degree, Mrs. Treherne -con- trived to try my temper more than I would like to say for two intolerable days. The third, I resolved on a little conversation with Miss Theodora, who, having sat up till my watch began at two, now cam« in to me, while I was taking breakfast, to receive my orders for the day. These were simple enough : quiet, silence, and, except old Mrs. Cartwright, whom I had sent for, only one person to be allowed in my patient's room. " Ah ! yes, I am glad of that. Just hearken !" Doors slamming ; footsteps on the stairs ; Mrs. Treherne calling out to her husband not to smoke in the hall. " That is how it is all day, when you are away. What can I do ? Help me, please, help me !" An entreaty almost childish in its earnestness. Now and then, through all this time, she has seemed, in her behavior toward me, Tess hke a woman than a trusting, dependent child. I sent for Treherne and his wife, and told them that the A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 149 present was a matter of life and death, in which there could be no standing upon ceremony ; that in this house, where no legitimate rule existed, and all were young and inexpe- rienced, I, as the physician, must have authority, which au- thority must be obeyed. If they wished, I would resign the case altogether ; but I soon saw that was not desired. They promised obedience ; and I repeated the medical or- ders, adding that, during my absence, only one person, the person I chose, should be left in charge of my patient. " Yery well. Doctor," said Mrs. Treherne : " and that is — " "Miss Theodora." " Theodora ! oh, nonsense ! She never nursed any body. She never Avas fit for any thing." " She is fit for all I require, and her father wishes for her also ; therefore, if you please, will you at once go up to him, Miss Theodora?" She had stood patient and impassive till I spoke, then the color rushed into her face and the tears into her eyes. She left the room immediately. But, as I went, she was lying in wait for me at the door. " Thank you — thank you so much ! But do you really thmk I shall make a good, careful nurse for dear papa ?" I told her " Certainly ; better than any one else here ; better, indeed, than any one I knew." It was good to see her look of happy surprise. " Do you really think that ? Nobody ever thought so well of me before. I will try — ah ! won't I try ? — to de- serve your good opinion." Ignorant, simple heart. Most people have some other person, real or imaginary, who is more " comfortable" to them than any one else — to whom, m trouble, the thoughts always fly first ; who, in sickness, would be chosen to smooth the weary pillow, and holding whose hand they would like to die. ISTow it would be quite easy, quite happy to die in a certain chamber I know, shadowy and still, with a carpet of a green leafy pat- tern, and bunches of fuchsias papering the walls. And, about the room, a little figure moving ; slender, noiseless, busy, and sweet ; in a brown dress, soft to touch, and mak- ing no sound, with a white collar fastened by a little color- ed bow above it ; the delicate throat and small head Hke a deer's ; and the eyes something like a deer's eyes also, which turn round large and quiet, to look you right in the face — as they did then. 150 A LIFE FOE A LIFE. I wonder, if any accident or illness were to happen to me here, while staying in the camp — something that would make it certain I had only a few days or hours to live — and I happened to have sufficient consciousness and will to say what I wished done, whom I desired to see, in those few last hours, wdien the longing of a dying man could injure nobody — Enough! this is the merest folly. To live, not to die, is likely to be my portion. I accept it; blame me not. Day after day has gone on in the same round — my ride to Rockmount after dusk, tea there, and my evening sleep in "the doctor's room." There, at midnight, Treherne wakes me. I dress, and return to that quiet chamber, where the Httle figure rises from beside the bed with a smile and a whisper, " Not at all tired, thank you." A few words more, and I give it my candle, bid it " good-night," and take its place, sitting down m the same arm-chair, and leaning my head back against the same cushion, which still keeps the indentation, soft and warm ; and so I watch by the old man till morning. This is how it has regularly been. Until lately, night was the patient's most trying time. He used to lie rnoaning, or watching the shadows of the firelight on the curtams. Sometimes, when I gave him food or medicine, turning upon me with a wild stare, as if he hardly knew me, or thought I was some one else. Or he would question me vaguely as to where was Dora? and would I take care that she had a good long sleep — poor Dora! Dora — Theodora — "the gift of God" — it is good to have names with meanings to them, though people so seldom re- semble their names. Her father seems beginning to feel that she is not unlike hers. " She is a good girl. Doctor," he said one evening, when, after having safely borne moving from bed to his arm-chair, I pronounced my patient convalescent, and his daughter was sent to take tea and spend the evening down stairs, " she is a very good girl. Perhaps I have never thought of my daughters." I answered vaguely, daughters were a great blessing — often more so than sons. " You are right, sir," he said suddenly, after a few min- utes' pause. " You were never married, I beheve ?" "No." A LIFE rOR A LIFE. 151 " J£ you do many, never long for a son. IsTever build your hopes on him, trusting he will keep up your name, and be the stay of your old age. I had one boy, sir ; he was more to me than all my daughters." A desperate question was I prompted to ask — I could not withhold it, though the old man's agitated countenance showed that it must be one passing question only. "Is your son livmg?" " No. He died young," This, then, must be the secret — simple and plain enough. He was " aboy" — he died " young," perhaps about eighteen or nineteen — the age when boys are most prone to run wild. This lad must have done so ; puttmg all the circumstances together, the conclusion was obvious, that in some way or other he had, before his death, or in his death, caused his father great grief and shame. I could well imagine it ; fancy drew the whole picture, filling it up pertinaciously, line by line. A man of Mr. Johnston's character, marrying late in life — as he must have done, to be seventy when his youngest child was not much oyer twenty — would be a dangerous father for any impet- uous, headstrong boy. A motherless boy too ; Mrs. John- ston died early. It was easy to understand how strife would rise between the son and father ; a father no longer young, with all his habits and peculiarities formed ; sensitive, over- exacting; rigidly good, yet of somewhat narrow-minded virtue ; scrupulously kind, yet not tender ; alive to the lightest fault, yet seldom warming into sympathy or praise. The sort of man who compels respect, and whom, being one's self blameless, one might even love ; but, havmg com- mitted any error, one's first impulse would be to fly from him to the very end of the earth. Such, no doubt, had been the case with that poor boy, who " died young." Out of England, no doubt, or surely they would have brought him home, and buried him under the shadow of his father's church, and his memory would have left some trace m the family, the village, or the neigh- borhood. As it was, it seemed blotted out — as if he had never existed. No one knew about him — no one spoke about him, not even the sisters, his playmates. So she — the second sister — had said. It was a tacit hint for me also to keep silence — otherAvise I would have liked to ask her more about him — this poor fallen boy. I know how suddenly, how involuntarily, as it seems, a wretched boy can fall — into some perdition never afterward retrieved. 152 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. Thinking thus — sitting by the bedroom fire, with Mi% Johnston asleep opposite — poor old man, it must have been his boy's case, and not his own, which has made him so sensitive about only sons — I suddenly called to mind how, in the absorbing anxiety of the last thrcB weeks — that day — ^the anniversary — had slipped by, and I had not even recollected it. It could be forgotten then ? was this a warn- ing that I might let it pass, if it would, into oblivion — and yield like any other man, to pleasant duties, and social ties, the warmth of which stole into me, body and soul, like this blessed household fire. It could not last — ^but while it did last, why not share it ; why persist in sitting outside in the cold? You will not understand this. Tliere are some thmgs I can not explain, till the last letter, if ever I should come to write it. Then you will know. Tea over, Miss Theodora came to see after " our patient," as she called him, asking if he had behaved well, and done nothing he ought not to have done ? I told her, that was an amount of perfection scarcely to be exacted from any mortal creature ; at which she laughed, and replied, she was sure I said this with an air of depreca- tion, as if afraid such perfection might be required of me. Often her little hand carries an invisible sword. I try to hide the wounds, but the last hour's meditation made them sharper than ordinary. For once, she saw it. She came and knelt by the fire, not far from me, thoughtfullyo Then, suddenly turning round, said, " If ever I say a rude thing to you, forgive it. I wish I were only half as good as you." The tone, so earnest, yet so utterly simple — a child might have said the same, looking into one's face with the same frank eyes. God forgive me ! God pity me ! I rose and went to the bedside to speak to her father, who just then woke and called for " Dora." If in nothing else, this illness has been a blessing ; draw- ing closer together the father and daughter. She must have been thinking so, when to-day she said to me : " It is strange how many mouthfuls of absolute happiness one sometimes tastes in the midst of trouble " adding — I can see her attitude as she talked, standing with eyes cast down, mouth sweet and smiling, and fingers playing with her apron-tassels — a trick she has — "that she now felt as if she should never be afraid of trouble any more." A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 153 ' That also is compreliensible. Any thing which calls out the dormant energies of the character must do a woman good. With some women, to be good and to be happy is one and the same thing. She is changed, too, I can see. Pale as she looks, there is a softness in her manner and a sweet composure in her face, different from the restlessness I once noticed there — the fitful irritabihty, or morbid pain, perceptible at times, though she tried hard to disguise both. And succeeded doubtless ; in all eyes but mine. She is more cheerful, too, than she ever used to be ; not restlessly lively, like her eldest sister, but seeming to carry about in her heart a well-spring of content, which bubbles out refreshingly upon every things and every body about her. It is especially welcome in the sick-room, where, she knows, our chief aim is to keep the mind at ease, and the feeble brain in absolute rest. I could smile, remembering the hours we have spent — ^patient, doctor, and nurse — in the most puerile amusements, and altogether dehcious non- sense, since Mr. Johnston became convalescent. All this is over now. I knew it was. I sat by the fire, watching her play off her loving jests upon her father, and prattle with him childish-hke, about all that was going on down stairs. " You little quiz !" he cried at last. " Doctor, this girl is growing — I can't say witty — but absolutely mischievous." I said, talents long dormant sometimes appeared. We might yet discover in Miss Theodora Johnston the most brilliant wit of her day. " Dr. Urquhart, it's a shame ! How can you laugh at me so ? But I don't care. You are all the better for having somebody to laugh at. You know you are." I did know it — only too well, and my eyes might have betrayed it, for hers sank. She colored a little, sat down to her work, and sewed on silently, thoughtfully, for a good while. What was in her mind ? Was it pity ? Did she fancy she had hurt me — ^touched unwittingly one of my many sores ? She knows I have had a hard life, with few pleas- ures in it ; she would gladly give me some ; she is sorry for me. Most people's compassion is worse than their indifference ; but hers given out of the fullness of the pure, tender, un- suspicious heart — I can bear it. I can be grateful for it. G2 154 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. On this first evening that broke the uniformity of the sick-room, we thought it better, she and I, considering the pecuharities of the rest of the family, which she seems to take for granted I am aware of, and can make allowance for — that none of them should be admitted this night. A prohibition not likely to afflict them much. " And pray, Miss Dora, how do you mean to entertain the doctor and me ?" " I mean to give you a large dose of my brilliant conver- sation, and, lest it become too exciting, to season it with a little reading, out of something that neither of you take the smallest interest in, and will be able to go to sleep over properly. Poetry — most likely." "Some of yours?" She colored deeply. * ".Hush, papa, I thought you had forgotten — you said it was ' nonsense,' you know." " Very likely it was. But I mean to give it another reading some clay. Never mind — nobody heard." So she writes poetry. I always knew she was very clever, besides bemg well-educated. Talented women — modern Corinnes — my impression of them was rather re- pulsive. But she — that soft, shy girl, with her gay sim- plicity, her meek, household ways — I said, if Miss Theodora were going to read, perhaps she might remember she had once promised to improve my mind with a course of German literature. There was a book about a gentleman of my own name — Max — Max somethmg or other — " Piccolomini. You have not forgotten him ! What a memory you have for little things." She thought so ! I said, if she considered a poor doctor, accustomed to deal more with bodies than souls, could comprehend the sort of books she seemed so fond of, I would like to hear about Max Piccolomini. " Certainly. Only—" " You think I could not understand it." " I never thought any such thing," she cried out in her old abrupt way, and went out of the room immediately. The book she fetched was a little dainty one. Perhajos it had been a gift. I asked to look at it. " Can you read German ?" " 'Not a line." For my few words of conversational for- eign tongues have been learned orally, the better to com- municate with stray patients in hospitals. I told her so. A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 155 " I am very ignorant, as you must have long since found out, Miss Theodora," She said nothing, but began taread. At first translatmg line by hue ; then saying a written translation would be less trouble, she fetched one. It was in her handwriting — probably her own doing. No doubt every one, except such an unlearned ass as myself, is familiar w^ith the story — historical, I believe she said — how a yornig soldier, Max Piccolomini, fell in love w^ith the daughter of his general, Wallenstein, who, head- ing an insurrection, wished the youth to join m, promising him the girl's hand. There is one scene where the father tempts, and brmgs the daughter to tempt him, by hope of this bhss, to turn rebel ; but the young man is firm — the girl, too, when he appeals to her, bids him keep to his duty, and renounce his love. It is a case such as may have hap- pened — might happen in these days — were modern men and women capable of such attachments. =^omething of the sort of love upon which Dallas used to theorize when we were boys, always winding up with his favorite verse — ^how strange that it should come back to my mind now — ''I could not love thee, dear, so mucli, Loved I not honor more," Max — odd enough the name sounded, and she hesitated over it at first with a half laughing apology, then, forget- ting all but her book, it came out naturally and sweetly — oh, so sweetly sometimes — Max died. How, I do not clearly remember, but I know he died, and never married the girl he loved ; that the time when he held her in his arms, and kissed her before her father and them all, was the last time they ever saw one another. She read, sometimes hm^iedly and almost inaudibly, and then just like the people who were speaking, as if quite forgetting herself in them. I do not think she even recog- nized that there v/as a listener in the room. Perhaps she thought, because I sat so still, that I did not hear or feel ; that I, Max Urquhart, have altogether forgotten what it is to be young and to love. When she ceased, Mr. Johnston was soundly asleep ; we both sat silent. I stretched out my hand for the written pages, to go over some of the sentences again ; she went on reading the German volume to herself Her face was turned away, but I could see the curve of her cheek, and the smooth, spiral twist of her hair behind — I suppose, if 156 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. untwisted, it would reach down to her knees. This Ger- man girl, TheMa, might have had just such hair ; this boy — this Max — might have been allowed sometimes to touch it — reverently to kiss it. :}c * * sit ♦ * * I was interrupted here. A case at the hosj)ital ; James McDermot — ^fever-Avard — cut his throat in a fit of d.elirium. There must have been great neglect in the nurse or orderly, perhaps in more than they. These night absences — this preoccupation — though I have tried earnestly to fulfill all my duties ; yet, as I walked back, the ghastly figure of the dead man was ever before me. Have I not a morbid con- science, which revels in self-accusation? Suppose there was one who knew me as I knew myself — could show my- self unto myself, and say, " Poor soul, 'tis nothing. Forget thyself. Think of another — thy other self — of me." Why recount this, one of the countless painful incidents that are always recurring to om- profession ? Because, having begun, I must tell you all that happens to me, as a man would, coming home after his day's labor to his — let me write down the word steadily — his imfe. His wife — nearer to him than any mortal thing — ^bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh; his rest, comfort, and delight — whom, more than almost any man, a doctor requires, seeing that on the dark side of human life his path must continually He. Sometimes, though, bright bits come across us — such as when the heavy heart is relieved, or the shadow of death lifted from ofl" a dwelhng ; moments when the doctor, much to his own conscious humihation, is apt to be re- garded as an angel of deliverance ; seasons when he is glad to linger a httle amid the glow of happiness he has been instrumental in bringing before he turns out again into the shadows of his appointed way. And such will always be this, which I may consider the last of my nights at Rockmomit. They would not hear of my leaving, though it was needless to sit up. And when I had seen Mr. Johnston safe and snug for the night, they insisted on my joining the merry supper-table, where, re- lieved now from all care, the family assembled. The family included, of course, Mr. Charteris. I was the only stranger. They did not treat me as a stranger— you know that. Sometimes falling, as the httle party naturally did, into two, and two, and two, it seemed as if the whole world A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 15'7 were conspiring to wrap me in the maddest of delusions — as if I always had sat, and were meant to sit famiharly, brotherly, at that family table ; as if my old solitude were quite over and gone, and that I should never be alone any more. And, over all, was the atmosphere of that German loA^e-tale, which came up curiously to the surface, and caused a conversation, which, in some parts of it, seems the strangest thing of all that strange evening. It was Mrs. Treherne who originated it. She asked her sister what had we been doing that we were so exceedingly quiet up staks ? " Reading — paj^a wished it." And being farther ques- tioned. Miss Theodora told what had been read. Mrs. Treherne burst out laughing immoderately. It would hardly be expected of such well-bred and amia- ble ladies, but I have often seen the eldest and youngest sisters annoy her — the second one — in some feminine way — men would never think of doing it, or guess how it is done — sufficient to call the angry blood to her cheeks, and^ cause her whole manner to change from gentleness into defiance. It was so now. " I do not see any thing so very ridiculous in my reading to papa out of any book I choose." I explained that I myself had begged for this one. " Oh, and I'm sure she was delighted to oblige you." " I was," she said, boldly ; " and I consider that any thing, small or great, which either I, or you, or Penelope can do to obhge Doctor Urquhart, we ought to be happy and thankful to do for the remainder of our lives." Mrs. Treherne was silenced. And here Mr. Chart eris — breaking the uncomfortable pause — good-naturedly began a disquisition on the play in question. He bore, for some time, the chief part in a literary and critical conversation, of which I did not hear or follow much. Then the ladies took up the story in its moral and personal phase, and talked it over pretty well. The youngest sister was voluble against it. She hated doleful books ; she liked a pleasant ending, where the peo- ple were all married cheerfully and comfortably. It was suggested, from my side of the table, that this play had not an uncomfortable ending, though the lovers both died. "What an odd notion of comfort Dora has," said Mr. Charteris. 158 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. " Yes, indeed," added Mrs. Treherne ; " for if they hadn't died, were they not supposed never to meet again ? My dear child, how do you intend to make your lover happy ? By bidding him an eternal farewell, allowing him to get killed, and then dying on his tomb ?" Every body laughed. Treherne said he was thankful his Lisa was not of her sister's mind. " Ay, Gus, dear, well you may ! Suppose I had come and said to you, like Dora's heroine, ' My dear boy, we are very fond of one another, but we can't ever be married. It's of no consequence. ISTever mind. Give me a kiss, and good-by' — what would you have done, eh, Augustus ?" " Hanged myself," replied Augustus, forcibly. " If you did not think better of it while searching for a cord," dryly observed Mr. Charteris. (I have for various reasons noticed this gentleman rather closely of late.) "'Dora's theories about love are pretty enough ; but too much on the gossamer style. Poor human nature requires a little warmer clothing than these ' sky robes of iris woof,' which are not ' warranted to wear.' " As he spoke, I saw Miss Johnston's black eyes dart over to his face in keen observation, but he did not see them. Immediately afterward she said : " Francis is quite right. Dora's heroics do her no good — ^nor any body ; because such characters do not exist, and never did. Max and Thekla, for instance, are a pair of lov- ers utterly impossible in this world." " True," said Mr. Charteris, " even aS Komeo and Juliet are impossible, Shakspeare himself ov/ns, " 'These violent deliglits have violent ends.' Had Juliet lived, she would probably not by force, but in the most legal, genteel, and satisfactory way, have been ' married to the County ;' or, supposing she had got off safe to Mantua, obtained parental forgiveness, and returned to set up house-keeping as Mrs. R. Montague, depend upon it she and Romeo would have wearied of one another in a year, quarreled, parted, and she might, after all, have con- soled herself with Paris, who seems a sweet-spoken, pretty- behaved young gentleman throughout. Do you not think so. Doctor Urquhail; ? that is, if you are a reader of Shak- speare." Which he apparently thought I was not. I answered, what has often struck me about this play, "that Shak- speare only meant it as a tale of boy and girl passion. A LTPE FOR A LIFE. 159 Whether it would have lasted, or grown out of passion into love one need not speculate, any more than the poet does. Enough, that, while it lasts, it is a true and beauti- ful picture of youthful love — that is, youth's ideal of love ; though the love of maturer life is often a far deeper, high- er, and better thing." Here Mrs. Treherne, bursting into one of her hearty laughs, accused her sister of havhig " turned Doctor Ur- quhart poetical." It is painful to appear a fool, even when a lively young woman is trying to make you do so. I sat, cruelly con- scious how little I have to say — ^how like an awkward, dull clod I often feel — in the society of young and clever people, when I heard her speaking from the other end of the table — I mean Miss Theodora. " Lisabel, you are talMng of what you do not understand. You never did, and never will understand my Max and Thekla, any more than Francis there, though he once thought it so fine, when he was teaching Penelope Ger- man, a few years ago." " Dora, your excitement is imlady-like." " I do not care," she answered, turning upon her elder sister with flashmg eyes. " To sit by quietly and hear such doctrines, is worse than milady-like — unwoman-like ! You two gnls may think what you please on the matter ; but I know what I have always thought — and think still." " Pray will you indulge us with your creed ?" cried Mr. Charteris. She hesitated — ^her cheeks burned like fire — ^but still she spoke out bravely. " I believe, spite of all you say, that there is, not only in books, but in the world, such a thing as love ; unselfish, faithful, and true, like that of my Thekla and my Max. I beheve that such a love — a right love — teaches people to think of the right first, and themselves afterward; and, therefore, if necessary, they could bear to part for any number of years — or even forever." "Bless us all; I wouldn't give two farthings for a man who would not do any thing — do wrong even — for my sake." "And I, Lisabel, should esteem a man a selfish coward, whom I might pity, but I don't think I could ever love him again, if in any way he did wrong for mine." From my corner, whither I had gone and sat down a 160 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. little out of the circle, I saw this young face — flashing, full of a new expression. Dallas, when he talked sometimes, used to have just such a light in his eyes — just such a glo- ry streaming from all his features ; but then he was a boy, and this was a Avoman. Ay, one felt her womanhood, the passion and power of it, with all its capabilities for either blessing or maddening, in the very core of one's being. The others chatted a little more, and then I heard her speaking again. " Yes, Lisabel, you are quite right ; I do not think it of so very much importance, whether people who are very deeply attached, ever live to be married or not. In one sense they are married already, and nothing can come be- tween them, so long as they love one another." This seemed an excellent joke to the Trehernes, and drew a remark or two from Mr. Charteris, to which she refused to reply. " No ; you put me in a passion, and forced me to speak ; but I have done now. I shall "not argue the point any more." Her voice trembled, and her little hands nervously clutched and plaited the table-cloth; but she sat in her place, never moving features or eyes. Gradually the burn- ing in her cheeks faded, and she grew excessively pale; but no one seemed to notice her. They were too full of themselves. I had time to learn the picture by heart, every line ; this little figure sitting by the table, bent head, drooping shoul- ders, and loose white sleeves shading the two hands, which were crushed so tightly together, that when she stirred I saw the finger-marks of one imprinted on the other. What could she have been thinking of? " Miss Dora, please." It was only a servant, saying her father wished to speak to her before he went to sleep. " Say I am comifig." She rose quickly, but turned be- fore she reached the door. " I may not see you again be- fore you go. Good-night, Doctor IJrquhart." We have said good-night, and shaken hands, every night for three weeks. I know I have done my duty ; no linger- ing, tender clasping what I had no right to clasp ; a mere good-night, and shake of the hand. But, to-night ? I did not say a word — I did not look at her. Yet the touch of that Httle cold, passive hand has never left mine A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 161 since. If I lay my hand down here, on this table, it seems to creep into it and nestle there ; if I let it go, it comes back again ; if I crush my fingers down upon it, though there is nothing, I feel it still — ^feel it through every nerve and pulse, in heart, soul, body, and brain. This is the merest hallucmation, like some of the spectral illusions I have been subject to at times ; the same which made* Coleridge once say "he had seen too many ghosts to believe in them." Let me gather up my faculties. I am sitting in my hut. There is no fire — no one ever thinks of lighting a fire for me, of course, unless I specially order it. The room is chill, warning me that winter is nigh at hand; disorderly — no one ever touches my goods and chattels, and I have been too much from home lately to in- stitute any arrangement myself. All sohtary, too ; even my cat, who used to be the one living thing lingering about me, marching daintily over my books, or stealing up, purr- ing, to lay her head ujDon my knee, even my cat, weary of my long absence, has disappeared to my next-door neigh- bor. I am quite alone. Well, such is the natural position of a man without near kindred, who has reached my years and has not married. He has no right to expect aught else to the end of his days. I rode home from Rockmount two hours ago, leaving a still hvely group sitting around the fire in the parlor — Miss Johnston on her sofa, Avith Mr. Charteris beside her ; Tre- herne sitting opposite, with his arm round his wife's waist. And up stairs, I know how things will look — ^the shad- owy bed-chamber, the httle white china lamp on the table, and one curtain half-looped back, so that the old man may just catch a glimpse of the bending figure, reading to him the Evening Psalms ; or else she will, by this time, have said " Good-night, papa," and gone away to the upper part of the house, of which I know nothing, and have never seen. Therefore I can only fancy her, as I one night hap- pened to see, going up stairs, candle in hand, softly, step by step, as saintly souls slip away into paradise, and Ave beloAV, though we would cling to the hem of their garments, crush our lips in the very print of their feet, can neither hold them, nor dare beseech them to stay. Oh, if I Avere only dead, that you might have this letter — ^might know, feel, comprehend all these things. 162 A LIFE FOE A LIFE. I have been " doing wrong." I owe it to myself, to more than myself, not to yield to weak lamentations or unmanly bursts of phrensy against an inevitable fate. Is it inevitable ? Before beginning to write to-night, for two hours I sat arguing with myself this question ; viewing the circum- stances of both parties, for such a question necessarily in- cludes both, with a calmness which I believe even I can at- tain, when the matter involves not myself alone. I have come to the conclusion that it is inevitable. When you reach these my years, when you have experi- enced all those changes which you now dream over and theorize upon in your innocent, unconscious heart, you will also see that my judgment was right. To seek and sue a woman's yet unwon love implies the telhng her, when won, the whole previous history of her lover ; concealing nothing, fair or foul, which does not com- promise any other than himself. This confidence she has a right to, and the man who withholds it is either a cow- ard in himself, or doubts the woman of his choice, as, should he so doubt his wife, woe to him and to her ! To carry into the sanctuary of a true wife's breast some accursed thing which must be forever hidden in his own, has always seemed to me one of the blackest treasons against both honor and love of which a man could be capable. Could I tell my wife, or the woman whom I would fain teach to love me, my whole history ? And if I did, would it not close the door of her heart eternally against me ? or, supposing it was too late for that, and she already loved me, would it not make her, for my sake, miserable for life ? I believe it would. On this account, even, things are inevitable. There is another reason; whether it comes second or first, in my arguments with myself, I do not know. When a man has vowed a vow, dare he break it ? There is a cer- tain vow of mine, which, did I marry, micst be broken. 'No man in his senses, or possessing the commonest feel- ings of justice and tenderness, would give his name to a beloved woman, with the possibility of children to inherit it, and then bring upon each and all of them the end^ which I have all my life resolutely contemplated as a thing neces- sary to be done, either immediately before my death, or after it. Therefore, also, it is inevitable. A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 163 That word — ^inevitable — always calms me. It is the will of God. If He had meant otherwise, He would have found out a w^aj — perhaps by sending me some good woman to love me, as men are loved sometimes, but not such men as I. There is no fear — or hope, which shall I say ? — of any one ever loving me. Sleep, child ! You are fast asleep by this hour, I am sure ; you once said you always fall asleep the instant your head touches the pillow. Blessed pillow ! precious, tender, lovely head ! " Good-night." Sleep well, happy, ignorant child. CHAPTER XVI. HEK STORY. " FnnsHED to-morrow." What a lifetime seems to have elapsed since I wrote that line ! A month and four days ago, I sat here, waiting for papa and Penelope to come home from their dinner party. Try- ing to be cheerful — wondering why I was not so ; yet with my heart as heavy as lead all the time. I think it will never be quite so heavy any more. E" ev- er weighed down by imaginary wrongs and ideal woes. It has known real anguish and been taught wisdom. We have been very nearly losing our beloved father. Humanly speaking, we should have lost him but for Doc- tor Urquhart, to whose great skill and unremitting care. Doctor Black himself confessed yesterday, papa has, under God, owed his life. It is impossible for me to write down here the particu- lars of dear papa's accident and the illness which followed, every day of which seems at once so vivid and so unreal. I shall never forget it while I live, and yet, even now, am afraid to recall it ; though at the time I seemed afraid of nothing — strong enough for every thing. I felt — or it now appears as though I must have done so — as I did on one sunshiny afternoon at a picnic about a dozen years ago, when I, following Colin Granton, walked round the top of a circular rock, on a ledge two feet wide, a sloping ledge of short slippery grass; where, if v*^e had slipped, it was about ninety perpendicular feet to fall. I shudder to think of that font even now; and telling it 164 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. to Doctor Urqnliart in illustration of what I am here men- tioning, namely, the quiet unconsciousness with which one sometimes passes through exceeding great danger, he too shuddered, turned deadly white. I never saw a strong man lose color so suddenly and completely as he does at times. Can he be really strong? Those nights of watching must have told upon his health, which is so valuable ; doubly valuable to one in his profession. We must try to make him take care of himself, and allow us — ^Rockmount gener- ally — to take care of him. Though, since his night- watch- ings ceased, he has not given us much opportunity, having . only paid his due medical visit once a day, and scarcely staid ten minutes afterward ; until to-day, when, by papa's express desire, Augustus drove over and fetched him to dinner. It is pleasant to be able to write down here how very much better I like my brother-in-law. His thorough goodness of nature, his kindly cheering ways, and his unaffected, if rath- er obstreperous love for his wife, which is reflected, as it should be, upon every creature belonging to her make it impossible not to like him. I am heartily glad he has sold out, so that even if war breaks out again, there will be no chance of his being ordered off" on foreign service ; though in that case he declares he should feel himself in honor bound to volunteer. But Lisabel only laughs ; she knows better. Still, I trust there may be no occasion. War, viewed in the abstract, is sufiiciently terrible ; but when it comes home, when one's self and one's own are bound up in the chances of it, the case is altogether changed. Some mis- fortunes contemplated as personal possibilities seem more than human nature could bear. How the mothers, sisters, wives, have borne them all through this war is — My head turned dizzy here, and I was obliged to leave off writing and lie down. I have not felt very strong late- ly — that is, not bodily strong. In my heart I have — thor- oughly calm, happy, and thankful — as God knows we have all need to be, since he has spared our dear father, never loved so dearly as now. But physically I am rather tired and weak, as if I would fain rest my head somewhere and be taken care of, if there were any body to do it, which there is not. Since I can remember, nobody ever took care of me. A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 165 While writing this last line old Mrs. Cartwright came up to bring me some arrow-root with wine in it for my supper, entreating me to go to bed " like a good child." She said "the doctor" told her to look after me; but she should have done it herself, anyhow. She is a good old body; I wish we could find out any thing about her poor lost daughter. What was I writing about ? Oh, the history of to-day, where I take up the thread of my journal, leaving the whole interval between a blank. I could not write about it if I would. I did not go to church with them this morning, feeling sure I could not walk so far, and some one ought to stay with papa. So the girls went, and Doctor Urquhart also, at which papa seemed just a httle disappointed, he having counted on a long mornmg's chat. I never knew papa attach himself to any man before, or take such exceeding delight in any one's comjDany. He said the other day, when Augustus annoyed him about some trifle or other, that " he wished he might have chosen his own son-in-law; Lisabel had far better have married Doctor Urquhart." Our Lisabel and Doctor Urquhart! I could not help laughing. Day and night — ^fire and water would have best described their union. Penelope now, though she has abused him so much — but that was Francis's fault — would have suited him a deal better. They are more friendly than they used to be ; in- deed, he is on good terms with all Rockmount. We feel, every one of us, I trust, that our obligations to him are of a kind of which we never can acquit ourselves while we live. This great grief has been in many ways, like most afflic- tions, "a blessing in disguise." It has drawn us all to- gether, as nothing but trouble ever does, as I did not think any thing ever would, so queer. a family are we. But we are improving. We do not now shut ourselves up in our rooms, hidiDg each in her hole like a selfish bear until feed- ing time — we assemble in the parlor — we sit and talk round papa's study-chair. There, this morning after church, we held a convocation and confabulation before papa came down. And, strange to say — almost the first time such a thing ever happened in ours, though a clergyman's family — we talked about the church and the sermon. 166 A LIFE FOE A LIFE. It was preached by the young man whom papa has been obhged to take as cm-ate, and who, Penelope said, she feared would never suit, if he took such eccentric texts and preached such out-of-the-way sermons as the one this morning. I asked what it was about^ and was answered, " the cities of refuge." I fear I do not know my Bible — the historic portion of it — so well as I might ; for I scandalized Penelope exceed, ingly by inquiring what were " the cities of refuge." She declared any child in her school would have been better acquainted with the Old Testament, and I had it at my tongue's end to say that a good many of her children seemed far too glibly and irreverently acquainted with the Old Testament ; for I once overheard a knot of them doing the little drama of Elijah, the mocking children, and the bears in the wood, to the confusion of our poor bald-headed organist, and their own uproarious delight, especially the two boys Avho enacted the bears. But 'tis Avicked to tease our good Penelope ; at least, I think it wicked now. So I said nothing; but after the sermon had been well talked over as " extraordinary," " unheard of in our church," " such a mixing of ]3olitics and religion, and bringing up every-day subjects into the pulpit" — for it seems he had al- luded to some question of capital puiiishment, which now fills the newspapers — I took an opportunity of asking Doc- tor Urquhart what the sermon really had been about. I can often speak to him of things which I never should dream of discussing with my sisters, or even papa; for, w^hatever the subject is, he will always listen, answer, ex- plain — either laughing away my follies, or talking to me seriously and kindly. This time, though, he was not so patient; asked me, abruptly, " Why I wanted to know ?" " About the sermon ? From harmless curiosity ; or, rather" — ^for I would not wish him to think that in any religious matter I was guided by no higher motive than curiosity — " because I doubt Penelope's judgment of the curate. She is rather harsh sometimes." "Is she?" " Will you find for me" — and I took out of my pocket my little Bible, which I had been reading in the garden — " about the cities of refuge ? — that is, unless you dishke to talk on the subject." " Who — I — what made you suppose so ?" A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 167 I replied candidly, his own manner, while they were arguing it. " You must not mind iity manners — it is not kind — ^it is not friendly." And then he begged my pardon, saying he knew he often spoke more rudely to me than to any one else, If he does it harms me not. He must have so many causes of anxiety and irritation, which escape by expres- sion. I wish he would express them a little more, indeed. One could bear to be really scolded if it did him any good ♦, but, of course, I should have let the theological question slip by, had he not, some minutes after, referred to it him^ self. We were standing outside the window; there was no one within hearing; indeed, he rarely talks very seri^ ously unless he and I happen to be alone. " Did you think as they do — your sisters, I mean — ^that the Mosaic law is still our law — an eye for an eye — a tooth for a tooth — a life for a life — and so on ?" I said I did not quite understand him. "It was the subject of the sermon. "Whether he who takes life forfeits his own. The law of Moses enacted this. Even the chance murderer, the man guilty of manslaughter, as we should term it now, was not safe out of the bounds of the three cities of refuge. The avenger of blood ' finding him' might ' slay him.' " I asked what he thought was meant by " the avenger of blood ?" Was it divine or human retribution ? " I can not tell. How should I know ? Why do yoi^ question me ?" I might have said. Because I liked to talk to him, and hear him talk ; because, in many a perplexed subject over which I had been wearying myself, his opinion had guided me and set me right. I did hint something of the kind, but he seemed not to hear or heed it, and continued : " Do you think, with the minister of this morning, that, except in very rare cases, we — we. Christians, have no right to exact a life for a life ? Or do you believe, on religious as well as rational grounds, that every man-slayer ought inevitably to be hanged ?" I have often puzzled over that question, which Doctor Urquhart evidently felt as much as I did. Truly, many a time have I turned sick at the hangings which I have had to read to papa in the newspapers ; have wakened at seven in the morning, and counted, minute by minute, some wretched convict's last hour, till the whde scene grew so 168 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. • vivid that the execution seemed more of a mm'der than the original crime of which it was the expiation. But still, to say that there ought to be no capital punishments ! I could not tell. I only repeated, softly, words that came into my mind at that instant. '•'■ For we know that no ^nurderer hath eternal life in him.-" " But if he were not a willful murderer ? if life were taken — let us suppose such a case — in violent passion, or under circumstances which made the man not himself; if his crime were repented of and atoned for in every possible way — the lost life repurchased by his own — not by dying, but by the long torment of living ?" " Yes," I said, " I could well imagine a convict's exist- ence, or that of one convicted in his own conscience — a duelist, for instance — far more terrible than death upon the scaffold." " You are right ; I have seen such cases." ISTo doubt he has, since, as an officer once told me, the army still holds dueling to be the necessary defense of a gentleman's " honor." The recollections aroused were ap- parently very sore — so much so that I suggested our chang- ing the subject, which seemed both painful and unprofit- able. " Xot quite. Besides, would you quit a truth because it happened to be painful ? That is not like you." " I hope not." After a few minutes' silence, he continued : " This is a question I have thought over deeply. I have my own opinion concernmg it, and I know that of most men ; but I should like to hear a woman's — a Christian woman's. Tell me, do you believe the avenger of blood walks through the Christian world as through the land of Israel, requiring retribution ; that for blood-shedding, as for all other crimes, there is in this world, whatever there may be in another, expiation, but no pardon ? Think well, answer slowly, for it is a momentous question." " I know that — the one question of our times." Doctor Urquhart bent his head without replying. He hardly could speak ; I never saw him so terribly in earnest. His agitation roused me from the natural shyness I have in lifting up my own voice and setting forth my own girlish opinion on topics of which every one has a right to think, but very few to speak. A LITE FOE A LIFE. 169 " I believe that in the Almighty's gradual teaching of His creatures, a Diviner than Moses brought to us a higher law, in which the sole expiation required is penitence with obedience: ^Repent ye? 'Go and sin no more.'' It ap- pears to me, so far as I can judge and read here" — my Bi- ble was still in my hand — " that throughout the New, and in many parts of the Old Testament, runs one clear doctrine, namely, that any sin, however great, being repented of and foi-saken, is by God, and ought to be by man, altogether pardoned, blotted out, and done away." " God bless you !" For the second time he said to me those words — said them twice over, and left me. Rather abruptly ; but he is sometimes abrupt when thinking deeply of any thing. Thus ended our little talk ; yet it left a pleasant impres- sion. True, the subject was strange enough; my sisters might have been shocked at it ; and at my freedom in ask- ing and giving opinions. But oh ! the blessing it is to have a friend to whom one can speak fearlessly on any subject ; with whom one's deepest as well as one's most foohsh thoughts come out simply and safely. Oh, the comfort — the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person — having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are, chaff and grain together; certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then with the breath of kindness blow the rest away. Somebody must have done a good deal of the winnowing business this afternoon ; for in the course of it I gave him as much nonsense as any reasonable man could stand — even such an ultra-reasonable man as Doctor Urquhart. Papa said once, that she was " taking too great liberty of speech with our good friend, the doctor — ^that foohsh httle Dora ;" but foohsh little Dora knows well enough what she is about — when to be siUy and when to be wise. She be- lieves in her heart that there are some people to whom it does great good to be dragged down from their heights of wisdom, and forced to talk and smile, mitil the cloud wears off, and the smile becomes permanent — grows into a sunshine that warms every one else all through. Oh, if he had had a happy life — if Dallas had lived — this Dallas, whom I often think about, and seem to know quite well — what a cheerful, blithe nature his would have been ! Just before tea, when papa was taking his sleep, Doctor H 170 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. Urquhart proposed that we should all go for a walk. Pe- nelope excused herself; besides, she thinks it wrong to walk out on a Sunday ; but Lisabel and Augustus were very glad to go. So was I, havmg never been beyond the garden since papa's illness. K I try to remember all the trivial incidents of to-day, at full, length, it is because it has been such an exceedingly happy day ; to preserve which from the chances of this mor- tal life, " the sundry and manifold changes of this world," as the prayer says, I here write down the account of it. How vague, how incompatible with the humdrum tenor of our quiet days at Rockmount that collect used to sound ! '-'-That amid the sundry and manifold changes of this worlds our hearts may surely there hefixed^ where true joys are to be founds through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen" "Now, as if newly understanding it, I also repeat, "Amen." We started, Lisabel, Augustus, Doctor Urquhart, and I. "We went through the village, down the moorland road, to the ponds, which Augustus wanted to examine, with a view to wild-duck shooting, next, or, rather, I might say, this winter, for Christmas is coming close upon us, though the weather is still so mild. Lisa and her husband walked on first, and quickly left us far behind ; for, not having been out for so long, except the daily stroll round the garden, which Doctor Urquhart had insisted upon, the fresh air seemed to turn me dizzy. I managed to stumble on through the village, keeping up talk, too, for Doctor Urquhart hardly said any thing, until we came out upon the open moor, bright, breezy, sunshiny. Then I felt a choking — a longing to cry out or sob — ^my head swam round and round. " Are you wearied ? you look as if you were." " Will you like to take my arm ?" " Sit down — sit down on this stone — ^my child !" I heard these sentences distinctly, one after the other, but could not answer. I felt my bonnet-strings untied, and the wind blowing on my face — ^then all grew light again, and I looked round. " Do not be frightened ; you will be well in a minute or two. I only wonder that you have kept up so bravely, and are so strong." This I heard too — ^in a cheerful, kind voice— and soon after I became quite myself, but ready to cry with vexation, or something, I don't know what. ^A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 171 " You -will not tell any body ?" I entreated. " N"o, not any body," said he, smiling, " if turning faint was such a crime. Now, you can' walk? Only not alone, just at present, if you please." I do not marvel at the almost unhmited power which, Augustus says. Doctor Urquhart has over his patients. A true physician — not only of bodies, but souls. We walked on, I holding his arm. For a moment, I was half afraid of Lisabel's laugh, and the silly etiquette of our neighborhood, which holds that if a lady and gentleman walk arm-in-arm they must be going to be married. Then I forgot both, and only thought what a comfort it was in one's weakness to have an arm to lean on, and one that you knew,'you felt, was not miwilling to have you resting there. I have never said, but I will say it here, that I know Doc- tor Urquhart likes me — ^better than any other of my fam- ily ; better, perhaps, than any friend he has, for he has not many. He is a man of great kindhness of nature, but few personal attachments. I have heard him say, " that though he hked a great many people, only one or tw^o were abso- lutely necessary to him." Dallas might have been, had he lived. He told me, one day, there was a certain look in me which occasionally reminded him of Dallas. It is by these little things that I guess he likes me — at least enough to make me feel, when with him,- that rest and content that I never feel with those who do not care for me. I made him laugh, and he made me laugh, several times, about trifles that, now I call them to mind, were not funny at all. Yet " it takes a wise man to make a fool, and none but a fool is always wise." With which sapient saying we consoled ourselves, stand- ing at the edge of the larger pool, watching the other couple strolling along, doubtless very busy over the wild- duck affair. " Your sister and Treherne seem to suit one another re- markably well. I doubted once if they would." " So did I. It ought to be a warning to us against hasty judgments. Especially here." Mischief prompted the latter suggestion, for Doctor Ur- quhart must have recollected, as Avell as I did, the last and only time he and I had walked across this moorland road, Avhen we had such a serious quarrel, and I was more pas- sionate and rude to him than I ever was to any body — out of my own family. I hope he has forgiven me. Yet 'he was a little wrong too. 172 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. " Yes, especially here," he repeated, smiling — so I have no doubt he did remember. Just then, Lisabel's laugh, and her husband's with it, rang distinctly across the pool. " They seem very happy, those two." I said, I felt sure they were, and that it was a blessed thing to^ find, the older one grew, how much of happuiess there is in life. " Do you think so ?" " Do yott not think so ?" " I do ; but not in your sense exactly. Remember, Miss Theodora, people see life in a difierent aspect at twenty-five and at — " "Forty. I know that." "That I am forty? Which I am not quite, by-the-by. N'o doubt it seems to you a most awful age." I said, it was perhaps for a woman, but for a man no more than the prime of life, with many years before him in which both to work and enjoy. " Yes, for work is enjoyment, the only enjoyment that ever satisfies." He stood gazing across the moorland, my moorland, which put on its best smile for us to-day. Ay, though the heather was brown, and the furze-bushes had lost their gold. But so long as there is free air, sunshine, and sky, the beauty can never vanish from my beloved moor. I wondered how any one could look at it and not enjoy it ; could stand here as we stood and not be satisfied. Perhaps in some slight way I hinted this, at least, so far as concerned myself, to whom every thing seemed so deli- cious, after this month of sorrow. " Ah ! yes, I understand," said Doctor Frquhart, " and so it should be with me also. So it is, I trust. This is a lovely day, lovely to its very close, you see." For the sun was sinking westward, and the clouds rob- ing themselves for one of those infinitely varied autumu sunsets, of the glory of which no human eye can ever tire. " You never saw a tropical sunset ? I have, many. I wonder if I shall ever see another." After a little hesitation, I asked if he thought it likely ? Did he wish to go abroad again ? " For some reasons, yes !" Then speaking forcibly : "Do not think me morbid ; of all things, morbid, cowardly sen- timentahty is my abhorrence — but I am not naturally a A LIFE FOE A LEFE. 173 cheerful-minded man. That is, I beheve I was, but circum- stances have been stronger than nature ; and it now costs me an effort to attain what I think every man ought to have, if he is not absolutely a wicked man." " You mean an even, happy temper, which tries to make the best of all things, as I am sure you do." "An idle life," he went on, unheeding, "is of all things the very worst for me. Unless I have as much work as ever I can do, I am never happy." This was comprehensible in degree. Though one thing surprised and pained me, that even Doctor Urquhart was not " haj)py." Is any body happy ? " Do not misunderstand me." (I had not spoken, but he often guesses my thoughts in a way that makes me thank- ful I have nothing to hide.) " There are as many degrees of happiness as of goodness, and the perfectipn of either is impossible. But I have my share. Yes, truly, I have my share." "Of both?" "Don't— don't!" 'Nor ought I to have jested when he was in such heavy earnest. And then for some time we were so still, that I remem- ber hearing a large bee, deluded by the mild weather, come swinging and singing over the moor, and stop at the last, the very last, blue-bell — I dared not call it a hare-bell T^ath Doctor Urquhart by — of the year, for his honey-supper. While he was eating it, I picked one of the flower-stalks, and stroked it softly over his great brown back and -wings. " What a child you are still !" (But for once Doctor Urquhart was mistaken.) " How quiet every thing is here !" he added. " Yes, that wavy purple hne always reminded me of the hills in the ' Happy Valley' of Prince Rasselas. Beyond them hes the world." " If you knew what ' the world' is, as you must one day. But I hope you will only see the best half of it. I hope you will have a happy life." I was silent. " This picture ; the moorland, liills, and lake — your pond is as wide and bright as a lake — will always put me in mind of Rasselas. But one can not live forever in our ' Happy Valley,' nor in our lazy camp either. I often wish I had more work to do." 174 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. " How — and wliere ?" As soon as I had put it I blushed at the intrusiveness of this question. In all he tells me of his affairs I listen, but never dare to inquire, aware that I have no right to ask of him more than he chooses to reveal. Right or not, he was not offended ; he replied to me fully and long ; talking more as if I had been a man and his con- fidential friend, than only a simple girl, who has in this at least some sense, that she feels she can understand him. It appears, that in peace-time, the duties of a regimental surgeon are almost nothing, except in circumstances where they become as hopeless as they are heavy ; such as the cases of unhealthy barracks, and other avoidable causes of mortality, which Doctor Urquhart and Augustus discussed, and which he has since occasionally referred to, when talk- ing to papa and me. He told me with what anxiety he had tried to set on foot reforms in these matters ; how all his plans had been frustrated, by the tardiness of government ; and how he was hopeless of ever attaining his end. Indeed he showed me an official letter, received that morning, fi- nally dismissing the question. ^' You see. Miss Theodora, " ' To mend the v/orld's a vast design,' too vast for my poor powers." " Are you discouraged ?" " 'No. But I suspect I began at the wrong end ; that I attempted too much, and gave myself credit for more influ- ence than I possessed. It does not do to depend upon other people ; much safer is that amount of work that a man can do with his own two hands and head. I should be far freer, and therefore more useful, if I left the army altogeth- er, and set up practice on my own account." " That is, if you settled somewhere as a consulting phy- sician, like Doctor Black ?" " No," he smiled — " not exactly like Doctor Black. Mine would be a much humbler position. You know I have no income except my pay." I confessed that I had never given a thought to his in- come, and, agam smihng, he answered — " No, he was sure of that." He then went on to exj^lain that he believed moral and physical evil to be so bound up together, that it was idle to attack one without trying to cure the other. He thought, better than all building of jails and reformatories, or even A LIFE FOK A LIFE. l75 of cliurclies — since the Word can be spread abroad witliout need of bricks or mortar — would be the establishmg of sani- tary improvements in om* great towns, and trying to teach the poor, not how to be taken care of in work-houses, pris- ons, and hospitals, but how to take care of themselves in their own homes. And then, in answer to my questions, he told me many things about the hfe, say rather existence, of the working classes in most large towns, which made me turn sick at heart ; marveling how, with all things going on around me, I could ever sit dreamily gazing over my moorland, and playing cliildisli tricks with bees ! Yes, something ought to be done. I was glad, I was proud, that it had come mto his mind to do it. Better far to labor thus in his own country than to follow an idle regiment into foreign parts, or even a fightuig regiment into the terrible campaign. I said so. " Ah ! you ' hate soldiers' still." I did not answer, but met his eyes ; I know mine were full — ^I know my Ups were quivering. Horribly painful it was to be jested with just then. Doctor TJrquhart said gravely, " I was not in earnest ; I beg your pardon." We then returned to the discussion of his plans and in- tentions. I asked him how he meant to begin his labors ? " From a very simple starting-point. ' The doctor' has, of ail persons, the greatest influence among the poor — if only he cares to use it. As a commencement, and also be- cause I must earn salt to my porridge, you Imow my best course would be to obtain the situation of surgeon to some dispensary, work-house, hospital, or even jail. Thence, I could widen my iield of work at pleasure, so far as time and money were forthcoming." " If some one could only give you a fortune now !" " I do not beheve hi fortunes. A man's best wealth con- sists of his personal labors, personal life. ' Silver and gold have I none ;' but wherever I am, I can give myself, my labors, and my life." I said something about that being a great gift — ^many men would call it a great sacrifice. "Less to me than to most men — since, as you know, I have no relatives ; nor is it likely I shall ever marry." I believed so. Not constantly, but at intervals. Some<' thing in his manner and mode of thought fixed the convic- tion in my mind, from our earliest acquaiutance. 176 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. Of course, I merely made some silent assent to this con- fidence. What was there to say ? Perhaps he expected something — for as we turned to walk home, the sun having set, he remained a long time silent. But I could not speak. In truth, nothing came into my head to say. At that I lifted my eyes from the ground, and saw the mist beginnmg to rise over my moorland — ^my gray, soft, dreamy moorland. Ay, dreamy it was, and belonging only to dreams. But the world beyond — the struggling, sufferings sinning world of which he had told me — ^that was a reality. I said to my friend who walked beside me, feeling keenly that he was my friend, and that I had a right to look up into his good noble face, wherein all his life was written as clearly as on a book — thinking too what a comfort and priv- ilege it was to have, more than any one else had, the read= ing of that book — ^I said to Doctor Urquhart — ^my old hes- itation having somehow altogether vanished — that I wished to know all he could possibly tell me of his plans and proj- ects : that I liked to hsten to them, and would fain do more than listen — ^help. He thanked me. "Listening is helping, I hoj)e you will not refuse sometimes to help me in that way — ^it is a great comfort to me. But the labor I hope for is exclu- sively a man's ; if any woman could give aid you could, for you are the bravest woman I ever knew." " And do you think I never can help you ?'' ":n'o." So our walk ended. I say " ended," because, though there was a great deal of laughing with Augustus and Lisabel — who had pushed one another ankle-dee]3 into the pond, and behaved exactly like a couple of school-children out on a holiday, and though, they hurrying home. Doctor Urquhart and I afterward fol- lowed leisurely, walking slowly together along the moor- land road — we did not renew our conversation. We scarcely exchanged more than a few words ; though, walk- ing arm-in-arm we did not feel — ^that is, I did not feel — either apart, or unfriendly, or sad. There is more in hfe than mere happiness — even as there are more things in the world than mere marrying and giv- ing in marriage. If, from circumstances, he has taken that resolution, he is perfectly justified in having done so ; and in keeping to it. I would do exactly the same. The character of a man who marries himself to a cause, or a A LITE FOE A LIFE. 177 duty, has always been a sort of ideal of mine — like my Max — Max and TbeMa. But they were lovers — betrothed lov- ers ; free to say " I love you," with eyes and hj^s ; just once, for a day or two — a httle hour or two. Would this have made partuig less bitter or more ? I can not tell ; I do not know. I shah never know aught about these things. So I will not think of them. When we came home — Doctor Urquhart and myself — I left him at the door, and went up into my own room. In the parlor I found CoHn Granton come to tea ; he had iMssed me at church, he said, and was afraid I had made myself ill — so walked over to Rockmount to see. It was very kind — though, while acknowledging it, he seemed half ashamed of the kindness. He and Augustus, now on the best of terms, kept us alive all the evening with their talking and laughing. They planned all sorts of excursions — hunting, shooting, and what not — to take place durmg the grand Christmas gath- ering wliich is to be at Treherne Court. Doctor Urquhart — one of the invited guests — listened to all with a look of amused content. Yes — ^he is content. More than once, as I caught his eye following me about the room, we exchanged a smile — friendly, even affectionate. Ay, he does like me. K I were a httle younger — if I were a httle girl in curls, I should say he is " fond" of me. " Fond of" — what an idle phrase! such as one would use toward a dog, or cat, or bird. What a difference between that and the holy words, " I love !" not as silly young folks say, I am " in love" — but ^^Ilove f with all my reason, will, and strength ; with all the tenderness of my heart ; aU the reverence of my soul. Be quiet, heart ; be silent, soul ! I have, as I said be- fore, naught to do with these things. The evening jDassed pleasantly and calmly enough, all parties seeming to enjoy themselves; even poor Cohn coming out his brihiantest and best, and making himself quite at home. Though he got into a little disgrace before going away, by saymg something which irritated papa ; and which made me glad that the little conversation this morn- ing between Doctor Urquhart and myself had not been in family conclave, but private. Colin was speakmg of the sermon, and how " shocked" his mother had been at its pleading against capital punish- ment. H2 178 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. "Against capital pmiishment, did you say?" cried papa. "Did my curate bring this disgraceful subject into my pulpit in order to speak against the law of the land — the law of God ? Girls, why did you not tell me ? Dora, re- mind me I must see the young man to-morrow." I was mortally afraid this would end in the poor young man's summary dismissal; for papa never allows any "new-fangled notions" in his curates — they must think and preach as he does — or quit. I pleaded a little for this one, who had a brother and sister dependent on him, lodging in the village ; and, as far as I dared and could, I pleaded for his sermon. Colin tried to aid me — honest fellow ; back- ing my words, every one, with the most eager assevera- tions ; well meant, though they did not exactly assist the argument. " Dora," cried papa, in utmost astonishment, " what do you mean?" "Miss Dora's quite right: she always is," said Colin, stoutly. " I don't think any body ever ought to be hanged. Least of all a poor fellow who, like" — (he mentioned the name, but I forget it — it was the case that has been so much in the newspapers) — "killed another fellow out of jealousy — or in a passion — or being drunk — which was it ? I say, IJrquhart — Treherne — won't you bear me out ?" " In what ?" asked Augustus, laughing. " That many a man has felt inclined sometimes to com- mit murder : I have myself, before now — ha ! ha ! and many a poor devil is kicked out of the world dancing upon noth- ing, who isn't a bit worse, may be better, than a great many young scoundrels who die unhung. That's truth, Mr. Johnston, thougl^. I say it." " Sir," said papa, turning white with anger, " you are at perfect liberty to say exactly what you please — provided it is not in my presence. ISTo one, before me, shall so insult my cloth, and blaspheme my Maker, as id deny His law set down here" (dropping his hand over our great family Bible, which he allows no one but himself to touch ; be- cause, as we know, there is the fly-leaf, pasted down, not to be read by any one, nor written on again during poor papa's lifetime). " God's law is blood for blood. ' W/ioso sheddeth mcm^s blood, by man shall his blood be shed.'' That law, sir, my Church beUeves has never been — never will be — annulled. And, though your maudlin, loose char- ity may sympathize with hanged murderers, uphold duel- A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 179 ists, and exalt into heroes cowardly man-slayers, I say that I will no more have in my house the defenders of such, than I would, under any pretext, grasp in mine the hand of a man who had taken the life of another." To see papa so excited alarmed us all. Cohn, greatly distressed, begged his pardon and retracted every thing — "but the mischief was done. Though we anticipate no se- rious results — indeed he has now been for some hours calmly asleep in his bed — still he was made much worse by this unfortunate dispute. Doctor Urquhart staid, at om^ earnest wish, till mid- night, though he did not go into papa's room. When I asked him what was to be done in case of papa's head suf- fering for this excitement — ^if we should send to the camp for him — he said, " ISTo, he would rather we sent for Doc- tor Black." Yet he was anxious, I know ; for after Cohn left he sat by himself in the study, saymg he had a letter to wiite and post, but would come up stairs to papa if we sent for him. And when, satisfied that the danger was past, and papa asleep, he prepared to leave, I never, in all the time of our acquaintance, saw him looking so exceedingly j)ale and weary. I wanted him to take something — wine or food ; or, at least, to have one of our ponies saddled that he might ride instead of walking home, but he would not. We were standing at the hall — only he and I — the oth- ers having gone to bed. He took both my hands, and looked long and steadily in my face as he said good-by. " Keep up your heart. I do not think any harm will come to your father." "I hope not. Dear, dear papa — it would indeed be ter- rible." " It would. Kothing must be allowed to grieve him in any way as long as he lives." "No." Doctor Urquhart was not more explicit than this ; but I am sure he wished me to understand that in any of those points discussed to-day, wherein he and I agreed, and both difiered from my father, it was our duty henceforth, as much as possible, to preserve a respectful silence. And I thanked hun in my heart — and with my eyes too, I know — for this, and for his forbearance in not having contradicted papa, even when most violent and unjust. 180 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. " When sliall you be coming again, Doctor Urquhart ?" " Some day — some day." " Do not let it be very long first. Good-by.'* " Good-by." And here befell a thing so strange, so unexpected, that, if I think of it, it seems as if I must have been dreaming ; as if, while all the rest of the events of to-day, which I have so quietly written down, were perfectly natural, real, and probable — this alone was something unreal, impossible to tell — hardly right to tell. And yet, oh me ! it is not wrong, though it makes my cheek burn and my hand tremble — ^this poor little hand. I thought he had gone, and was standing on the door- step, preparing to lock up, when Doctor TJrquhart came back again along the walk. It was he, though m manner and voice so imlike himself, that even now I can hardly be- lieve the whole is not a delusion. " For God's sake — for pity's sake — do not utterly forget me, Theodora." And then — then — He said once that every man ought to hold every woman sacred ; that, if not of her own kmdred, he had no right, except as the merest salutation, even to press her hand, un- less — ^unless he loved her. Then why — No, I ought not to write it, and I will not. It is — ^if it is any thing — something sacred between him and me ; some- thing in which no one else bas any part ; which may not be told to any one, except in my prayers. My heart is so full. I will close this and say my prayers. CHAPTER XYH. HEE STORY. Treherne Court. Where, after another month's pause, I resume my jour^ nal. %- Papa and I have been here a week. At the last moment Penelope declined going, saying that some one ought to keep house at Rockmount. I wished to do so, but she would not allow me. This is a fine place, and papa enjoys it extremely. The A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 181 enforced change, the complete upsetting of his former soli- tary ways, first by Lisabel's marriage, and then by his own ilhiess, seem to have made him quite young again. Before we left, Doctor Black pronounced him entirely recovered ; that he might reasonably look forward to a healthy, green old age. God grant it ! For, altered as he is in so many ways, by some imj)erceptible influence ; having wider in- terests — is it wrong to write affections ? — ^than he has had for the last twenty years, he will enjoy life far more than ever before. Ah me ! how can any body reaUy enjoy life without having others to make happy, and to draw happi- ness from. Dr. Black wished, as a matter of professional etiquette, that papa should once again consult Doctor Urquhart about his taking this long northern jom-ney ; but, on sending to the camp, we found he was " absent on leave," and had been for some time. Papa was disappointed and a httle annoyed. It was strange, rather; but might have been sudden and important business connected with the plans of which he told me, and which I did not feel quite justi- fied in communicating farther, till he informs papa himself. I had a week of that restless lazuiess, which I suppose most people unaccustomed to leave home experience for the first few days of a visit ; not unpleasant laziness neither, for there was the Christmas week to anticipate and plan for, and every nook in this beautiful place to investigate, as its own possessors scarcely care to do, but which I and other visitors shall so intensely enjoy. JSTow I am trying to feel settled. In this octagon room, which Lisabel — such a thoughtful, kindly hostess as Lisa makes ! has specially appropriated mine, I take up my rest. It is the wee'est room attaiuable in this great, wide, wandermg mansion, where I stiU at times feel as strange as a bird in a crystal palace; such birds as, in the Aladdm Palace of 1851, we used to see flying about the tops of these gigantic, motion- less trees, caught under the glass, and cheated by those green, windless, unstu-red leaves into planning a natural wild- wood nest. Poor little things ! To have once dreamed of a nest, and then never to be able to find or build it, must be a sore thing. This grand "show" house has no pretensions to the character of "nest," or "home." To use the word in it seems half ridiculous, or pathetic ; though Lisa does not find it so. Stately and easy, our girl moves through these 182 A LIFE FOE A LIFE. magnificent rooms, and enjoys her position as if she were born to it. She shows good taste and good feehng, too — treats meek, prosy, washed-ont Lady Augustus Treherne, and httle, fussy, infirm Sir WiUiam, whose brown scratch- wig and gold spectacles rarely appear out of his own room, with unfailing respect and consideration. They are might- ily proud of her, as they need to be. Truly, the best thing this their patrician blood could do was to ally itself with our plebeian luie. But thank goodness that Lisa, not I, was the victim of the union! To me, this great house, so carefully swept and garnished, sometimes feels like a beautiful body with- out a soul ; I should dread a demon's entering and possess- ing it, compelhng me to all sorts of wild and wicked deeds, in order to break the suave harmony of things. For in- stance, the three drawing-rooms, eti suite, where Lis and I spend our mornings, amid a labyrmth of costly lumber — sofas, tables, and chairs, with our choice of five fires to warm at, glowing in steel and gilded grates, and glittering with pointed china tiles ; having eleven mirrors, large and small, wherein to catch at all points views of our sweet selves — in this splendid wilderness, I should, did trouble seize me, roam, rage, or ramp about like any wild animal. The oppression of it would be intolerable. Better, a thou- sand times, my little room at Rockmount, with its little window, in at which the branches wave — I can see them as I lie in bed, my own dear little bed, beside which I flung myself down the night before I left it, and prayed that my coming back might be as happy as my going. This is the first time since then that I have suffered my- self to cry. When people feel happy causelessly, it is said to be a sign that the joy can not last, that there is sorrow coming. So, on the other hand, it may be a good omen to feel one's heart aching without cause. Yet a tear or two seems to relieve it and do it good. Enough now. I was about to describe Treherne Court. Had any of us seen it before the wedding, ill-natured people might have said that Miss Lisabel Johnston married the Court and not the master — so magnificent is it. Estate extend- ing goodness knows where ; park with deer ; avenue two miles long ; plantations sloping to the river — one of the " principal rivers of England," as we used to learn in Pin- nock's Geography — the broad, quiet, and yet fast-running Dee. How lovely it must look in summer, with those great A LITE FOE A LITE. 183 trees dipping greenly into it, and those meadows dotted witli lazy cows. There are gardens, too, and an iron bridge, and statues, and a lawn with a sun-dial, though not half so ^^retty as that one at the Cedars; and a quadrangular stable, almost as grand as the house, and which Augustus thinks of quite as much importance. He has made Lisa a first-rate horse- woman, and they used to go careering half over the coun- try, until lately. Certainly, those two have the most thor- ough enjoyment of life, fresh, young, animal hfe and spirits, that it is possible to conceive. Their whole existence, pres- ent and future, seems to be one blaze of sunshine. I broke off here to write to Penelope. I wish Penelope were with us. She will find her Christmas very dull with- out us all ; and, consequently, without Francis ; though he could not have come to Rockmount under any circum- stances, he said. " Imj^ortant business." This " business," alack, is often hard to brook. Well ! "Men must work, and women must weep." N'o, they ought not to weep ; they are cowards if they do. They ought to cheer and encourage the men, never to be- moan and blame them. Yet I wish — I wish Penelope could get a sight of Francis this Christmas time. It is such a holy tune, when hearts seem "knit together in love" — when one would like to have all one's best-beloved about one. And she loves Francis — has loved him for so long. Doctor Urquhart said to me once, the only time he ever referred to the matter — for he is too delicate to gossip about family love affairs ; " that he wished sincerely my sister and Mr. Charteris had been married — it would have been the best thing which could have happened to him — and to her, if she loved him." I smiled ; little doubt about that "if" In truth, though I once thought differently, it is one of the chief foundations of the esteem and sympathy which I take shame to myself for not having hitherto given to my elder sister. I shall do better, please God, m'tune to come ; better m every way. And to begin : In order to shake off a certain half-fretful dreaminess that creej^s over me, it may be partly in conse- quence of the breaking up of liome habits, and the sudden plunge into a hfe so totally new, I mean to write regularly at my journal, to put down every thing that happens from 184 A LIFE FOE A LIFE. this time ; so that it may be a complete history of this visit at Trehenie Court, if at a futm-e time, I or any one should ever read it. Will any one ever do so ? Will any one ever have the right? No; rights enforced are ugly things. Will any one ever come and say to me, " Dora," or " The- odora" — I think I like my full name best — " I should like to read your journal?" Let me see r to-night is Sunday ; I seem always to choose Sunday for these entries, because we usually retire early, and it is such a peaceful family-day at Rockmount ; which indeed is the case here. We only w^ent to church once, and dined as usual at seven, so that I had a long afternoon's wander about the grounds ; first with papa, and then by myself. I hope it was a truly Sunday walk; that I was content and thankful, as I ought to be. So endeth Sunday. Let us see what Monday will bring. Monday. It brought an installment of visitors , the first for our Christmas week. At church-time a fly drove up to the door, and who should leap out of it, with the brightest faces in the world, but Colin Granton and his mother. I was so surprised — startled indeed, for I happened to be standing at the hall door when the fly appeared — that I hardly could find two words to say to either. Only my eyes might have sho-svn — I trust they did-^that, after the first mmute, I was very glad to see them. I tucked the dear old lady under my arm, and marched her through all the servants into the dining-room, leaving Colin to take care of himself, a duty of which the young man is quite capable. Then I had a grand hunt after papa and Lisa ; finally waylaying the shy Lady Augusta, and begging to introduce to her my dear old friend. Every friend's face is so welcome when one is away from home. After lunch, the gentlemen adjourned to the stables ; while Mrs. Treherne escorted her guest in hospitable state through the long corridors to her room, and I was glad to see the very best bedroom of all was assigned to the old lady. Lisa — bless the girl ! looked just a little bit proud of her beautiful house, and not unnatural either. A wife has a right to be proud of all the good thmgs her husband's love endows her with ; only they might be better things than houses and lands, clothes and furniture. When Lisa has said sometimes, " My dear, I am the happiest girl in the world. Don't you envy me?" my heart has never found the least difficulty in replying. A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 185 Yet she is liappy. There is a look of contented matron- hood growing in her face day by day, far sweeter than any thing her girlhood could boast. She is very fond of her husband too. It was charming to see the bright blush with which she started up from Mrs. Granton's fireside, the in- stant Augustus was heard caUing outside, " Lis ! Lis ! Mrs. Treherne ! 'Where's Mrs. Treherne !" " Run away to your husband, my dear. I see he can't do without you. How well she looks and how happy she seems !" adcled the old lady, who has aj^parently forgotten the sHght to " my Colm." By the way, I do not suppose Colin ever actually pro- posed to our Lisa ; only it was a sort of received notion in our family that he would. If he had, his mother never would have brought him here to be a daily witness of Mrs. Treh erne's beauty and contentment; which he bears with a stoicism most remarkable in a young man who has ever been in love with her. Do men so easily forget ? Some, perhaps ; not all. It is oftentimes honorable and generous to conquer an imfortunate love ; but there is something dis- creditable in totally ignoring and forgetting it. I doubt, I should rather despise a man who despised his first love, even for me. Let me see : where did I leave myself? Oh, sitting by Mrs. Granton's fire ; or helpmg her to take off her things — a sinecure ofiice, for her "thuigs" — no other word befits them — are popped off and on with the ease and untidiness of fifteen, instead of the preciseness of sixty-five : order and regularity being omitted by Providence in the manu- facture of this dear old lady. Also listening — which is no sinecure ; for she always has plenty to say about every thing and every body, except herself. I may never have said it in so many words, but I love Mrs. Granton. Every line in her nice old withered face is pleasant to me ; every creak of her quick footstep ; every angular fold in her everlasting black silk gown — a very shabby gown often, for she does not care how she dresses. She is by no means one of your picturesque, ancient gen- tlewomen, looking as if they had just stepped out of a gUt- frame — she is only a little, active, bright old lady. As a girl, she might have been pretty — I am not sure, though she still has a delicate expressive mouth, and soft gray eyes ; but I am very sure that she often looks beautiful now. 186 A LIFE FOE A LIFE. And why? for, guessing what all the grand people at dmner to-night will think of her and myself, I can not help smiling at this application of the. word. Because she has one of the most "beautiful natures that can adorn an old woman — or a young one, either : all loving-kindness, ener- gy, cheerfulness. Because age has failed to sour her; af- fliction to harden her heart. Of all people I know, she is the quickest to praise, the slowest to judge, the gentlest to condemn. A living homily on the text which, specifying the trinity of Christian virtues, names — " these three — hut the greatest of these is charity.'''' Long familiarity made me unmindful of these qualities in her, till, taught by the observations of others, and by my own comparison of the people I meet out m the world, which may be supposed to mean Treherne Court, Avith my good old friend. *' Have you much company, then ?" asked she, while I was trying to persuade her to let me twist into a little more form the shapeless " bob" of her dear old gray hair, and put her cap not quite so much on one side. "And do you enjoy it, my dear ? Have, you seen any body you liked very much ?" " None that I liked better than myself, be sure. How should I?" A true saying, though she did not understand its under- meaning. I have set more value on myself of late, and taken pains to be pleasant to every one. It would not do to have people saying, " What a disagreeable girl is that Theodora Johnston! I wonder how any body can like her ?" Has Mrs. Granton an idea that any body — ^nay, let it come out ! that any body does like me ? Her eyes were very sharp, and her questions keen, as I entertained her with our doings at Treherne Court, and the acquaintances we had made — a large number — ^from county nobility to clerical dignitaries and gay young officers from Whitchester, which seems made up entirely of barracks and cathedral. But she gave me no news in return, except that Colin found the Cedars so dull that he had never rested till he had got his mother away here, which fact did not ex- tremely interest me. He was always a restless youth, but I trusted his late occupations had inclined him to home-quiet- ness. Can his interest in them have ended ? or is there no friend at hand to keej) him steadily to his work ? We sat so long gossiping that Lisabel, ready for dinner, A LIFE POR A LIFE./^ 187 witli Treherne diamonds blazing on her white neck and arms, called its to order, and sent me away to dress. As I left I heard her say Augustus had sent her to ask if Mrs. Granton had seen Doctor Urquhart lately ? " Oh yes ; Colin saw him a few days since. He is quite well and very busy." "And where is he? Will he be here this week? Au- gustus wants to know." " I have not the slightest idea. He did not say a word about it." Lisabel inquired no farther, but began showing her velvet dress and her beautiful point-lace ruffles, Lady Treherne's present — a far more interesting subject. VerUy, gratitude is not the most lasting of human emotions in young women who have homes, and husbands, and every thing they can desire. Quite well and very busy, though not too busy to write to Colin Granton. I am glad. I have sometimes thought he might be ill. The dinner-party was the largest since we have been here. Two long rows of faces, in not one of whom I took the slightest interest save Mrs. Granton's and Colin's. I tried to sit next the former, and the latter to sit next to me ; but both designs failed, and we fell among strangers, which is sometimes as bad as falling among thieves. I did not enjoy my evening as much as I expected ; but I hope I behaved well ; that, as Mrs. Treherne's sister, I tried to be attentive and courteous to the people, that no one need have been ashamed of poor Theodora. And it was some comfort when, by the merest chance, I overheard Mrs. Granton say to Lisabel "that she never saw a girl so much improved as Miss Dora." Improved ! Yes, I ought to be. There was room for it. Oh, that I may go on improvmg, growing better and better every day ! Too good I can not be. " Quite well and very busy." Again runs in my head that sweet, sad ditty : ' ' Men must work, and women must weep, For there's little to earn and many to keep." Oh! to think of any one's ever working /br 7ne! Tuesday. ISTothing at all happened. Is^o letters, no news. Colin drove out his mother and me toward the Welsh hills, which I had expressed a wish to see ; and, after lunch, asked if I would o-o with him to the river-side 188 " >A LIFE FOE A LIFE. in search of a boat, for lie thought we may still have a row, though it is December, the Aveather being so mild. He re- membered how I used to like his pulling Lisabel and me up and down the ponds in the moorland — we won't say how many years ago. I think Colin also is "improved." He is so exceedingly attentive and kind. Wednesday. A real event happened to-day — quite a surjDrise. Let me make the most of it, for this journal seems very unmteresting. I was standing, " flattenmg my nose," as children say, against the great iron gates of the avenue, peering through them at the two lines of bare trees, planted three deep, and the broad gravel-drive, straight as an arrow, narrowing in perspective almost to a point ; the lodge plainly visible at the end of the two miles, which seems no distance at all ; but when you have to walk it, it's " awfu' lang," as says the old Scotch gardener, who is my very particular friend, and my informant on all subjects, animal, vegetable, and historical, pertaining to Treherne Court. And, looking at it from these gates, the road does seem " awfu' lang," like hfe. I was thinking so when some one touched me, and said, "Dora." Francis startled me so; I am sure I must have blushed as much as if I had been Penelope — that is, as Peneloj)e used to blush in former days. The next minute I thought of her, and felt alarmed. " Oh, Francis, nothing is the matter — ^nothing has hap- pened to Penelope ?" " You silly girl, what should happen ? I do not know any thing about Rockmount ; w^as not aware but that you were all at home till I saw you here, and knew by the sen- timental attitude it could be nobody but Dora. Tell me, when did you come ?" " When did you come ? I understood it was impossible for you to leave London." " I had business with my uncle. Sir William. Besides, if Penelope is here — " " You must know quite well, Francis, that Penelope is not here." I never scruple to speak my mind to Francis Charteris. We do not much like one another, and are both aware of it. His soft, silken politeness often strikes me as insincere, and my " want of refinement," as he terms it, may be quite as distasteful to him. We do not suit, and were we ever A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 189 SO fond of one another, this incompatibihty would be ap- parent. People may hke and respect one another extreme- ly, yet not suit, even as two good tunes are not always capable of being harmonized. I once heard an ingenious performer try to play at once " The Last Rose of Summer" and " Garry Owen." The result resembled many a con- versation between Francis and me. This promised to be one of them ; so, as a preventive measure, I suggested luncheon-time. " Oh, thank you, I am not hungry ; I lunched at Bir- mingham." Still, it might have struck Francis that other people had not. We crossed the gardens toward the river, under the great Portugal laurels, which he stood to admire. " I have watched their growth ever since I was a boy. You know, Dora, once this place was to have been mine." "It would have given you a vast deal of trouble, and you don't like trouble. You will enjoy it much more as a visitor." Francis made no reply, and when I asked the reason of his sudden change of plans, and if Peneloj)e were acquaint- ed with it, he seemed vexed. " Of course Penelope knows ; I wrote to-day, and told her my purpose in coming here was to see Sir WilHam. Can hot a man pay his respects to his uncle without bemg questioned and suspected ?" " I never suspected you, Francis — until now, when you look as if you were afraid I should. What is the matter ? Do tell me." For, truly, I felt alarmed. He was so extremely nervous and irritable, and his sensitive features, which he can not keep from telling tales, betrayed so much inward discom- fiture, that I dreaded some ill, threatening him or Penelope. If one, of course, both^ "Do tell me, Francis. Forgive my rudeness. We are almost brother and sister." " Which tie is supposed to excuse any rudeness. But really I have nothing to tell — except that your ladyship is growing blunter than ever, under the instruction, no doubt, of your friend. Doctor Urquhart. Pray, is he here ?" ":n'o." "Is he expected?" " You had better ask Captain Treherne." 190 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. " Pshaw ! W hat do men care for one another ? I thought a young Lady was the hkehest person to take an interest in the proceedings of a young — I beg his pardon — a middle- aged gentleman." If Francis thought either to irritate or confuse me, he was disappointed. A month ago it might have been. Not now. But j)robably — and I have since felt sure of it — he was merely pursuing his own ends without heeding me. "]^ow, Dora, seriously, I want to know something of Doctor Urquhart's proceedings, and where a letter might reach him. Do find out for me, there's a good girl." And hejput his arm round me, in the elder-brotherly ca- ressing manner which he sometimes adopted with Lisa and me, and which I never used to mind. Now, I felt as if I could not endure it, and slipped away. " I don't see, Francis, why you should not ask such a simple question yourself. It is no business of mine." . "Then you really know nothing of Doctor Urquhart's whereabouts lately ? He has not been to Rockmount ?" "No." "Nor written?" "I believe not. Why do you want to know? Have you been quarreling with him ?" For, aware they two were not over fond of one another, a sudden idea — so ridiculously romantic that I laughed at it the next minute — made me, for one second, turn quite sick and cold. " Quarreling, my dear child — ^young lady, I mean — am I ever so silly, so ungentlemanly, as to quarrel with any body? .1 assure you not. There is^the Dee! What a beautiful view this is !" He began to expatiate on its beauties, with that delicate appreciative taste which he has in such perfection, and in the expression of which he never fails. Under such cir- cumstances, when he really seems pleased — not languidly, but actively, and tries to please others, I grant aU Francis's claims as a charming companion — for an hour's walk. For life — ah ! that is a different matter ! When with him, I often think of Beatrice's answer when Don Pedro asks if she will have him as a husband ? " Ao, tny lord^ unless I might have another for loorMng-days. Your Grace is too costly to wear every dayP Love — fit for constant wear and tear, able to sink safely down A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 191 "to the level of every day's Most quiet «ieed ; by sun and candlelight." must be a rare thing, and precious as rare. " I think I never saw such a Christmas-eve. Look, Dora, the sky is bhie as June. How sharp and clear the reflec- tion of those branches in the river. Heigho ! this is a love- ly place. What a difference it would have made to me if Sir William had never married, and I had been heir to Tre- herne Court." "No difference to you in yourself," said I, stoutly. " Penelope would not have loved you one whit the more, only you would have been married a little sooner, which might have been the better for both parties." " Heaven knows — yes," muttered he, in such anguish of regret, that I felt sorry for him. Then, suddenly : " Do you thmk your sister is tired of waiting? Would she wish the— our engagement broken ?" " Not at all. Indeed, I meant not to vex you. Penelope wishes no such thing. " K she did," and he looked more vexed still, " it would be quite natural." " No," I cried, in some indignation, " it would not be quite natural. Do you suppose we women are in such a frightful hurry to be married, that love promised and sure, such as Penelope has — or ought to have — is not sufficient to make us happy for any number of years ? If you doubt it, you ought to be ashamed of yourself You don't know women ; least of all such as my sister Penelope." " Ay, she has been a good, faithful girl," said he, again sighing. " Poor Penelope." And then he recurred to the beautiful scenery, which I, feehng that extreme want of topics of conversation which always appals me in tete-cl-tetes with Francis Charteris — gladly accepted. It lasted till we re-entered the house, and, not unwillingly, parted company. After luncheon — ^being unable to find any body in this great, wide house — I sat in my own room awhile ; till, find- ing it was not good to be lazy and dreaming, I went to Mrs. Granton's and Hstened to her pleasant gossip about people with whom she had been mixed up during her long life. Who have every one this remarkable characteristic, that they are all the very best people that ever lived. The burden of her talk is, of course " my Colin," whom she makes out to be the most angelic babe, the sweetest 192 A LIFJL FOU A LIFE. schoolboy, tlie noblest youth, and the most perfect man upon this poor earth. One can ncft smile at the fond old mother. Besides, I am fond of Colin myself. Was he not my first love ? Hush ! let me not, even in jest, profane that holy word. I sat with Mrs. Granton a long time — sometimes hearing, sometimes not ; probably saying " yes," and " no," and " cer- tainly," to many things which now I have not the least idea of. My thoughts wandered — lulled by the wind, which began to rise into a regular Christmas blast. Yes, to-night was Christmas-eve, and all the Christmas guests were now gathering in country-houses. Ours, too ; there were rings at the resonant door-bell, and feet passing up and down the corridor. I like to recall — -just for a mo- ment's delusion — ^the sensations of that hour, between the lights, resting by Mrs. Granton's fire, lazy, warm, content. The only drawback to my content was the thought of Pe- nelope, poor girl, all alone at Rockmount, and expecting nobody. At the chressing-bell, I slipped through the long, half- dark staircases to my room. As it was to be a large party at dinner, I thought I would put on my new dress — Au- gustus's present; black velvet; " horridly old-womanish" Lisa had protested. Yet it looked well — ^I stood before the glass and admired myself in it ; just a little. I was so glad to look well. Foolish vanity — only lasting a minute. Yet that minute was pleasant. Lisabel, who came into my room, with her husband following her to the very door, must have real pleasure in her splendors. I told her so. " Oh, nonsense, child ! Why I am as vexed and cross as possible. So many disappointments to-night. People with colds, and rheumatism, and dead relatives." "Oh, Lisa!" " Well, but is it not annoying ? Every body wanted does not come ; those not wanted, do. For instance : Doc- tor Urquhart, who always keeps both papa and Sir William in the best of humors, is not here. And Francis, who fidg- ets them both to death, and who I was so thankful was not coming — he is just come. You stupid girl, you seem not the least bit sorry ; you are thinking of something else the whole time." I said I was sorry, and was not thinking of any thing else. A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 193 "Augustus wanted to see him particularly ; but I forgot, you don't know — however, you will soon, child. Still, isn't it a downright shame of Doctor Urquhart neither to come nor send ?" I suggested something might have happened. "A railway accident. Dear me, I never thought of that," " Kor L" Heaven knows, no * I had a time-table, and searched through it for the last train stopping at Whitchester, then counted how long it would take to drive to Treherne Court, and looked at my watch. N^o, he could not be here to-night. " And if there had been any accident, there was time for us to have heard of it," said Lisa, and she took up her fan and gloves to go down stairs. " So, child, we must make the best we ca.n of your friend's behavior. Ai'e you ready for dinner?" " In two minutes." I shut the door after my sister, and stood still before the glass, fastening a brooch, or somethmg. Mine, my friend. He was that. Whenever they were vexed with him, all the family usually called him so. It was very strange his not coming — having promised Augustus, for some reason which I did not know of. Also, there was another reason — which they did not know of — he had promised me. He once said to me, positively, that this, the first Christmas he has kept in England for many years, should be kept with us, with me. Now, a promise is a promise. I myself would keep one at all costs that involved no wrong to any one else. He is of the same mind. Then something must have happened. For a moment I had been angry, though scarcely with him ; wherever he was he would be doing his duty. Yet, why should he be always doing his duty to every one eoc- eept me ? Had I no right ? I, to whom even Lisa, who knew nothing, called him my friend ? Yes, mi7ie I Of a sudden I seemed to feel all that the word meant, and to take ah the burden of it. It quieted me. I went down stairs. There were the usual two lines of dmner-table faces, the usual murmur of dinner-table talk, but all was dim and uncertain, like a picture, or the sound of people chattering very far off. Colin beside me kept talking about how well I looked in my new gown-^^how he 194 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. would like to see me dressed as fine as a queen — and how he hoped we should spend many a Christmas as merry as this — till something seemed tempting me to start up and scream. At dessert, the butler brought in a large letter to Sir WiUiam. It was a telegraph message — I recognized the look of the thing ; we had several during papa's illness. Easy to sit still now. I seemed to know quite well what was coming, but the only clear thought was still " mine — mine P Sir William read, folded up the message, and passed it on to Augustus, then rose. " Friends, fill your glasses. I have just had good news ; not unexpected, but still good news. Ladies and gentle- men, I have the honor to give you the health of my neph- ew, Francis Charteris, Esquire, Governor elect of ." In the cheering, confusion, and congratulation that fol- lowed, Lisa passed the telegram to me, and I saw it was from *' Max Urquhart, London." As soon as we got into a corner by ourselves, my sister burst out with the whole mystery. " Thank goodness it's over ; I never kept a secret be- fore, and Augustus was so frightened lest I should tell, and then what would Doctor Urquhart have said ? It's Doc- tor Urquhart's planning, and he was to have brought the good news to-day ; and I'm very sorry I abused him, for he has been working hke a horse for Francis's interest, and — did you ever see a young fellow take a piece of good for- tune so coolly? — a lovely West Indian island, with govern- ment house, and salary large enough to make Penelope a most magnificent governor's wife, yet he is no more thank- ful for it — I declare I am ashamed of Francis Charteris." She went on a good deal more in this fashion, but I had nothmg to say — I felt so strange and confused — ^till at last I leaned my head on her shoulder, and cried softly, which brought me into great opprobrium, and subjected me to the accusation of always weeping when there was the least prospect of a marriage in the family. Marriage! just at that moment there might not have been such a thing as marriage in the world. I never thought of it. I only thought of life — a life still kept safe, laboring busily to make every body happy, true to itself and to its promises, forgetting nothing and no one, kind to the thankful and unthankful alike. Compared to it, my A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 195 o^yn insignificant life, with its small hopes and petty pains, all crumbled down into nothingness. " WeU, are you glad, Dora ?" Ay, I was ; very glad — very content. Papa came in soon, and he and I walked up and down, arm-in-arm, talking the matter over, till, seeing Francis sit- ting alone in a recess, we went up to him, and papa again wished him all happiness. He merely said " Thank you," and muttered something about "wishmg to explain by- and-by." " Which means, I suppose, that I am shortly to be left with only one girl to take care of me — eh ! Francis," said papa, smiling. "Sir — I did not mean — I," he actually stammered. "I hope, Mr. Johnston, you imderstand that this appointment is not yet accepted — indeed, I am uncertain if I shall accept it." Papa looked exceedingly surprised ; and, remembering some of Francis's sayings to me this mornmg, I was rather more than surprised — indignant. But no remark was made, and just then Augustus called the whole party to go down into the great kitchen and see the Christmas mum- mers or guizers, as they are called in that county. We looked at them for a long half hour, and then every body, great and small, got into the full whui of Christmas merriment. Colin, in particular, grew so lively that he wanted to lead me under the mistletoe ; but when I de- clined, first gayly, and then seriously, he desisted, saying he w^ould not offend me for the world. Nevertheless, he and one or two more kissed Lisabel. How could she endure it? when I — I now sometimes feel jealous over even a strange touch of this my hand. The revels ended early, and, as I sit wi-iting, the house is all still. I have just drawn up my blind and looked out. The wind has sunk; snow is falliiig. I hke snow on a Christmas morning. Already it is Christmas morning. Whom have I unto whom to wish those good wishes which always lie nearest to one's heart ? My own family, of course ; papa and Lisa, and Penelope, far away. Poor, dear Penelope ! May she find herself a happy woman this time next year. Are these all ? They were, last Christmas. But I am richer now — richer, it often seems to me, than ^ny body in the whole world. Good-night ! a merry — no, for " often m mirth the heart is sad" — ahappy Christmas and a good new year ! 196 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. CHAPTER XVin. HIS STOKY. Dec. Slst, 1856. The meny-making of my neighbors in the flat above — probably Scotch or Irish, both of which greatly abound in this town — is a sad counteraction of work to-night. But why grumble, when I am one of the few people who pre- tend to work at all on so merry a night, which used to be such a treat to us boys ? The sounds overhead put me in mind of that old festival of Hogmanay, which, for a good many things, would be " more honored in the breach than the observance." This Liverpool is an awful town for drinking. Other towns may be as bad ; statistics prove it ; but I know no place where intoxication is so open and shameless. 'Not only in by-streets and foul courts, where one expects to see it, but every where. I never take a short railway journey in the after part of the day but I am liable to meet at least one drmiken " gentleman" snoozing in his first-class car- riage ; or, in the second class, two or three drunken " men" singing, swearing, or pushed stupidly about by pale-faced wives. The sadness of the thing is, that the wives do not seem to mind it — that every body takes it as a matter of course. The " gentleman," often gray-haired, is but " mer- ry," as he is accustomed to be every night of his life ; the poor man has only " had a drop or two," as all his com- rades are in the habit of taking whenever they get the chance ; they see no disgrace in it, so they laugh at him a bit, and humor him, and are quite ready to stand up for him against all in-comers who may object to an intoxicated fellow-passenger. * The^ don't, nor do the women belong- ing to them, who are well used to tolerate drunken sweet- hearts, and lead about and pacify drunken husbands. It makes me sick at heart sometimes to see a decent, pretty girl sit tittering at a foul-mouthed beast opposite ; or a tidy young mother, with two or three bonny children, try- ing to coax home, without harm to himself or them, some brutish husband, who does not know his right hand from his left, so utterly stupid is he with drink. To-night, but A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 197 for my chance-hand at a railway station, such a family- party as this might have reached home fatherless^and no great misfortune, one might suppose. Yet the^^ife had not even looked sad — ^had only scolded and laughed at him. In this, as in most cases of reform, it is the woman who must make the first step. There are two great sms of men : drunkemiess in the lower classes ; a still worse form of vice in the higher, which I believe women might help to stop, if they tried. Would to God I could cry to ev- ery young v/orking woman, "^ever encourage a drunken sweet-heart !" and to every young lady thinking of mar- riage, " Beware ! better die than live to give children to a loose-principled, unchaste father." These are strong words — dare I leave them for eyes that may, years hence, read this page ? Ay, for by then, they wiU — they must, in the natural course of tlungs, have gain- ed at least a tithe of my own bitter knowledge of the world. God preserve them from all knowledge beyond what is act- ually necessary. When I think of any suftering coming to them, any sight of sin or avoidable sorrow troublmg those dear eyes, it almost drives me mad. If, for instance, you were to marry any man like some men I have known, and who indeed form the majority of our sex, and he were un- kind to you, or wronged you in the smallest degree, I think I could murd Hush, not that word ! You see how my mind keeps wandering purposelessly, haAong nothing to communicate. I had indeed, for some time, avoided writing here at all. And I have been, and am, necessarily occupied, lajdng the ground-work of that new plan of life which I explained to you. Its whole bearing you did not see, nor did I intend you should ; though your own words originated it ; lit it with a ray of hope so exquisite that I could foUow on cheerfully for indefinite years. It only lasted an hour or two ; and then your father's words — though, God be praised, they were not yours — plunged me into darkness again ; a darkness out of which I had never crept, had I been still the morbid coward I was a year ago. As it was, you little guessed all the thoughts you shut in with me behind the study door, till your light foot came back to it— that niglit. W'or that in the interval I had had 198 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. Strength to weigli all circumstances, and formed a definite deliberate plan, firm as I believe my heart to be — since I knew you. I have resolved, in consequence of some words of yours, to change my whole scheme of life. That is, I will at some future day, near or far, circumstances must decide — submit to you every event of my history, and then ask you, dis- passionately, as a friend, to decide if I shall still live on, according to my purpose, in prospect of the end^ or, shak- ing off the burden of it, shall trust in God's mercy, consider all things past and gone, and myself at liberty, like any other, to love, and woo, and marry. Afterward, according to your decision, may or may not follow that other question — the very hope and suspense of which is hke passing into a new lile, through the gate of death. Your father said distinctly — but I will not repeat it. It is enough to make me dread to win my best blessing, lest I might also win her father's curse. To evoke that curse, knowingly to sow dissension between a man and his own daughter, is an awful thing. I dare not do it. During his lifetime I must wait. So, for the present, farewell, innocent child ! for no child can be more innocent and happy than you. But you will not always be a child. If you do not mar- ry — and you seem of an oj)posite mind to your sisters in that particular — you will, years hence, be a woman, no longer young, perhaps little sought after, for you are not beautiful to most eyes, nor from your peculiar temperament do you please many people. By then, you may have known care and sorrow — will be an orphan and alone. I should despise myself for reckoning up these possibilities, did I not know that in so far as any human hand can shield you from trouble, you shall be shielded, that while poor life lasts, you never shall be left desolate. I have given up entirely my intention of quitting En- gland. Even if I am not able to get sight of you from year's end to year's end, if I have to stretch out and dimin- ish to the slenderest link which will remain unbroken my acquaintance with your family, I must keep within reach of you. Nothing must happen to you or any one belong- ing to you, without my informing myself of it. And though you may forget — I say .not you will, but you may — I am none the less resolved that you shall never lose me, while A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 199 a man can protect a woman, a friend sustain and comfort a friend. You will probably set down to mere friendship one in- sane outburst of mine. Wrong, I confess ; but to see you standing in the lamplight, looking after me into the dark, with a face so tender, mild, and sweet, and to know I should not look at that face agam for so long, it nearly maddened me. But you were calm — you would not understand. It will never do for me to see you often, or to live in your neighborhood, and therefore it was best to take im- mediate steps for the change I contemj)late, and of which I told you. Accordingly, the very next day, I applied for leave of absence. The colonel was just riding over to call at Rockmount, so I sent a message to your father. I shrank from writing to him : to you it was of course impossible. In this, as in many a future instance, I can only trust to that good heart which knows me — ^not wholly — alas ! will it ever know me wholly ? but better than any other human being does, or ever will. I believe it will judge me chari- tably, patiently, faithfully ; for i^ it not itself the truest, simplest, faithfulest heart ? Let me here say one word. I believe there is no love in it ; nothing that need make a man hesitate lest his own happiness should not be the only sacrifice. Sympathy, affection, you have for me ; but I cT^o not think you ever knew what love was. Any one worthy of you may yet have free opportunity of winning you — of making you happy. And if I saw you happy, thoroughly and right- eously happy, I could endm-e it. I will tell you my plans, I am trying for the appointment of surgeon to a jail near this town. I hope to obtam it : for it will open a wide field of work — to me the salt of life : and it is only fifty miles from Treherne Court, where you will visit, and where, from time to time, I may be able to meet you. You see — this my hope, dim as it is in the future, and vague enough as to present comfort — does not make me weaker but stronger for the ordinary concerns of life; therefore I believe it to be a holy hope, and one that I dare carry along with me in all my worldly doings and plan- nings. Beheve one fact — ^fbr my nature has sufficient unity of purpose never to do things by halves — that no smgle plan, or act, or thought, is without reference to you. Shall I tell you my ways and means, as calculated to- cight, the last night of the year ? 200 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. Selling out of the army will supply me with a good sum. Which I mean to put by, letting the interest accumulate, as a provision for accidental illness, or old age, if I live to be old : or for — do you guess ? My salary will be about £300 a year. ISTow, half of that ought to suffice a man of my moderate habits. Many a poor clerk, educated and obhged to appear as a gentleman, has no larger income, and contrives to marry upon it, too,, if love seizes hold of him while still in the venturesome stage of existence. We men are strange animals : at twenty, ready to rush into matrimony on any prospects whatever, or none at all ; at thirty, having thought better of it, rejoice in our escape ; but after forty, when the shadows begin to fall, when the outer world darkens, and the fii'eside feels comfortless and lone, then we sit and ponder — I mean, most men. Mine is an individual and special case, not germane to the subject. With all deference to young Tom Turton, his friend Mr. Charteris, and others of the set which I have lately been among in London, the sum of one hundred and fifty pounds a year seems to me sufficient to maintain in as much com- fort as is good for him, and in all the necessary outward decencies of middle-class life, a man without any expensive habits or relations dependent on him, and who has neither wife nor child. N'either wife nor child ! As I write them, the words smite hard. To have no wife, no child! ll^ever to seek what the idlest, most drunken loon of a mechanic may get for the asking ; never to experience the joy which I saw on a poor fellow's face only yesterday ; when, in the same room with one dead lad, and another sickening, the wife brought into the world a third, a living child, and the ragged, starved father cried out, " Lord be thankit !" that it was a livino: child. Lord, Thy ways are equal : it is ours only which are unequal. Forbid it Thou that I should have given Thee of that which cost me nothing. Yet, on this night — this last night of a year so moment- ous — let me break silence, and cry. Thou alone wilt hear. 1 want her- — 1 crave her ; my very heart and soul are hungry for her ! Not as a brief possession, like gathering a flower and wearying of it, or throwing it away. I want her for always — to have her morning, noon, and night ; day A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 201 after day, and year after year ; happy or sorrowful, good or faulty, young or old — only mine, mine ! I feel some- times as if, found thus late, all eternity could not give me enough of her. It is not the body she inhabits — though, from head to foot, my love is all fair, fair as daylight and pure as snow — it is herself I want, ever close at hand to be the better self of this me, who have tried vainly all these years to stand alone, to live and endure alone ! Folly ! — proud folly ! such is not a natural state of things ; God himself said, " It is not good for man to be alone." I thmk I never shall be so solitary as I have been. That good heart, pure and unselfish as I never saw woman's be- fore, will always mcline kindly to as much of mine as I dare show ; those sweet, honest eyes will never be less trustful than now — unless I gave them cause to doubt me. Her friendship, hke her character, is steadfast as a rock. But oh ! if she loved me ! If I were one of those poor clerks at a hundred a year; if we had only meat, raiment, and a roof to cover us, and she loved me ! If I were, as I might have been, a young doctor, toiling day and night, with barely tune for food and sleep ; but with a home to come to, and hereto love me ! If we sat in this room, bare and mean as it is, with this scanty supper between us, ask- ing God's blessing upon it, while her hand in mine and her lij)s on my forehead told me, " Max, I love you !" God forgive me if I murmur ! I am not young ; my life is slij)ping away — ^my life, which is owed. Oh! that I might live long enough to teach her to say, " Max, I love you !" Enough. The last minutes of this year — this blessed year ! shail not be wasted in moans. Already the streets are growing quiet. People do not seem to keep this festival here as we do, north of the Tweed ; they think more of Christmas. Most likely she will have forgotten all about the day, and be peacefully sleeping the old year out and the new year in — this little English girl. Well, I am awake, and that will do for both. My letter to Treherne — could you have seen it ? I sup- pose you did. It made no excuses for not coining at Christmas, because I intended to come and see you to-mor- row. I mean to wish you a happy New Year on this, the first smce I knew you, since I was aware of there being such a little creature existing in the world. Also, I mean to come and see you every ]N'ew Year, if 12 202 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. possible; the word possible implying, so far as my own will can control circumstances. I desire to see you ; it is life to me to see you, and see you I will. Not often, for I dare not, but as often as I dare. And — for I have faith in anniversaries — always on the anniversary of the day I first saw you, and on 'New Year's Day. One — two — three ; I waited for the clock to cease strik- ing, and now all the bells are ringing from every church tower. Is this an English custom? I must ask you to- morrow, that is, to-day, for it is ihorning — it is the New Year. My day-dawn, my gift of God, my little English girl, a happy New Year. Max Ueqtjhaet. # CHAPTER XIX. HER STORY. New Year's Mornes^g. So this long-anticipated festi- val week is ended, and the old year gone. Poor old year ! ' ' He gave me a friend and a true, true love, And the New Year will take them away." Ah ! no, no, no. Things are strange. The utmost I can say of them is that they seem very strange. One would suppose, if one liked a friend, and there existed no reasonable cause for not showing it, why one would show it just a little ? That, with only forty miles between — a half hour's railway ride — not to run over and shake hands ; to write a letter and not to mention one's name therein, was, at leas1>, strange. Such a small thing, even under any pressure of business — just a line written, an hour spared. Talk of want of time ! Why, if I were a man I would make time, I would — Simpleton ! what would you do, indeed, when your plain- est duty you do not do — just to wait and trust. Yet I do trust. Once believing in people, I believe in them always, against all evidence except their own — ay, and should to the very last — " until death us do part." Those words have set me right again, showing me that I am not afraid, either for myself or any other, even of that change. As I have read somewhere, all pure love of every kind partakes in this of the nature of the love divine, " nei- ther life nor death, nor things present nor things to come, A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 203 nor height nor depth, nor any other creature," are^able to separate or annihilate it. One feels that — ^or if one does not feel it, it is not true love, is worth nothing, and had better be let go. I write idly, perhaps from having been somewhat tu-ed this week. Let me tell my troubles ; it is only to this pa- per. Troubles, indeed, they scarcely deserve to be called, had they not happened in this festive week, when every one expected to be so uncommonly happy. First, there was Francis's matter, which ought to have been a great joy, and yet has seemed to weigh us down like a great care; perhajis because the individual most concerned took it as such, never once looking pleased, nor giving a hearty "thank you" to a single congratulation. Also, instead of coming to talk over his happy prospects with papa and me, he has avoided us pertinaciously. When- ever we lighted upon him, it was sure to be by accident, and he slipped away as soon as he could, to do the pohte to Treherne cousins, or to play interminably at billiards, which he considered "the most fascinating game in the world." I hate it. What can be the charm of jorowling for hours round and round a green-baize table, trying to knock so many red and white balls into so many holes, I never could discover, and told him so. He laughed, and said it was only my ignorance ; but Colin, who stood by, blushed up to the eyes, and almost immediately l^eft off playing. Who would have supposed the lad so sensitive ? I am beginning to understand the interest taken by a friend of theirs and mine in these two young men, Augustus Treherne and Cohn Granton. Though neither particularly clever, they have both two qualities sufficiently rare in all men to make one thankful to find them in any — upright- ness of character and unselfishness of disposition. By-the- by, I never knew but one thoroughly unselfish man in all my life, and that was — Well, and it was 7iot Francis Charteris, of whom I am now speaking. The aforesaid little interchange of civihty passed between, him and me on the Saturday after Christ- mas-day, when I had been searching for him with a letter from Penelope. (There was in the post-bag another letter, addressed to Sir William, which made me feel sure we should have no more guests to-day, nor, consequently, till Monday. Indeed, the letter, which, after some difficulty, I 204 A LIPE FOR A LIFE. obtained in the shape of cigar-hghters, made no mention of any such possibihty at all ; but, then, it had been a promise.) Francis put my sister's note mto his pocket, and went on with the game so earnestly that when Augustus came be- hind and caught hold of him, he started as if he had been collared by a policeman. " My dear fellow, beg pardon, but the governor want3 to know if yoii have written that letter ?" Lisa had told me what it was — the letter of acceptance of the appointment ojffered him, which ought to have been sent immediately. Francis looked annoyed. *' Plenty of time. My compli- ments to Sir WilUam, and I'll — ^think about it." " Cool !" muttered Augustus. " 'Tis your look out, Char- teris, not mine — only, one way or other, your answer must go to-day, for my father has heard from — " Here he remed up, as he himself Avould say ; but having seen the handwriting in the post-bag, I guessed who was meant. " Heard from whom, did you say ? Some of the officious persons who are always so obligmg as to keep my uncle informed of my affairs ?" " Nonsense — that is one of your crotchets. You have no warmer friend than my father, if only you wouldn't rub him up the wrong way. Come along and have done with it ; otherwise — you know him of old — ^the old gentleman will get uncommon saVage." " Though I have the honor of knowing Sir "WiUJam Tre- herne of old, I really can not be accountable for his becom- ing ' uncommon savage,' " said Francis, haughtily. " Mr. Granton, will you be marker this game ?" " Upon my word, he is the coolest customer ! By George, Charteris, if you wanted Penelope as much as I did my wife—" "Excuse me," returned Francis. "Zhave never men- tioned Miss Johnston's name." Certainly Augustus goes awkwardly to work with his cousin, who has good points if you know how to take hold of them. To use my brother-in-law's own phrase, Francis too gets "rubbed up the wrong way," especially when something has annoyed him. I saw him afterward stand by a window of the library, reading Penelope's letter, with an expression of such perplexity and pain that I should have A LITE FOK A LIFE. 205 been alarmed, had not hers to me been so cheerful. They can not have been quarreling, for then she is never cheer- ful. 1^0 wonder. Silences, or shght clouds of doubt be- tween friends are hard enough to bear : a real quarrel, and between lovers, must be heart-breaking. "With all Francis's peculiarities, 1 trust it will never come to that. Yet something must have been amiss, for there he stood, looking out vacantly on the Itahan garden, wdth the dreary statues half clad in snow — on Antinous, almost seeming to shiver under any thing but an Egyptian sky ; and a white- limbed Egeria pouring out of her urn a stream of icicles. Of my presence he was scarcely conscious, I do beheve, un- til I ventured to speak. " Francis, do you see how near it is to post-time ?" Again a start, which with difficulty he concealed. " Et tu Brute ? You also among my tormentors ? — I quit the field." — And the room : whence he was just escaping, had not his uncle's wheeled-chair filled up the door-way. " Just in. search of you" — cried the querulous voice, which Francis declares goes through his nervous system hke a gal- yanio shock. " Have you written that letter ?" " My dear Sir Wilham— " " Have you written that letter ?" '' N"o, sir, but—" " Can't wait for ' buts' — -I know your ways. There's pen and uik — and — ^I mean to wait here till the letter is done." I thought Francis would have been indignant. And with reason: "Sir William, spite of his good blood, is certainly a degree short of a gentleman ; but old habit may have force with his nephew, who, vv"itho\Tt more remonstrance, quietly sat down to write. A long half hour, only broken by the rustle of Sir Wil- liam's Times, and Lady Augusta's short cough — she was more nervous than usual, and whisjDered me that she hoped Mr. Charteris would not ofiend his uncle, for the gout was threatening. An involuntary feeliug of suspense oppressed even me ; until, slippiug across the room, I saw that a few stray scribbhngs was the only writing on Francis's sheet of paper. That intolerable procrastination of his ! he would let ev- ery thing slij) — ^his credit, his happiness — and not his alone. And, the more people irritated him, the worse he was. I thought, in despair, I would try my hand at this incorrigi- 206 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. ble young man, who makes me often feel as if, clever and pleasing as lie is, he were not half good enough for our Pe- nelope. " Francis !" I held out my watch with a warning whis- per. He caught at it with great relief, and closed the let- ter-case. " Too late for to-day ; I'll do it to-morrow." " To-morrow will indeed be too late ; Augustus said so distinctly. The appointment will be given to some one else — and then — " "And then, you acute, logical, business-like young lady ?" There was no time for ultra-delicacy. "And then you may not be able to marry Penelope for ten more years." " Penelope will be exceedingly obhged to you for sug- gesting the possibility, and taking me to task for it in this way — such a child as you ?" Am I a child? but it mattered not to him how old I seem to have grown. Nor did his satirical tone vex me as it once might have done. " Forgive me," I said ; " I did not mean to take you to task. But it is not your own happiness alone which is at stake, and Penelope is my sister." Strange to say, he was not offended. Perhaps, if Penel- ope had spoken her mind to him, instead of everlastingly adoring him, he might have been the better for it. Francis sighed, and made another scribble on his paper — "Do you think, you who seem to be well acquainted with your sister's mind, that Penelope would be exceed- ingly unhappy if — if I were to decline this appointment ?" " Decline — oh ! — you're jesting." " Not at all. The governorship looks far finer than it is. A hot chmate — and I detest warm weather ; no society — and I should lose all my London enjoyments — give up all my friends and acquaintance." " So would Penelope." " So would Penelope, as you say. But — " " But women count that as nothing — they are used to it. Easy for them to renounce home and country, kindred and friends, and follow a man to the ends of the earth. Quite natural, and they ought to be exceedingly obliged to him for taking them." He looked at me ; then begged me not to fly into a pas- sion, as somebody might hear. I said he might trust me for that ; I would rather not, A LIFE FOK A LIFE. 207 for Ms sake — ^for all our sakes, that any body did hear — and then the thought of Penelope's gay letter suddenly choked me. " Don't cry, Dora — I never could bear to see a gu'l cry. I am very sorry. Heaven help me ! was there ever such an unfortimate fellow born ? but it is all circumstances ; I have been the sport of circumstances during my whole life. 1^0, you need not contradict. What the devil do you tor- ment me for ?" I have thought since, how great must have been the dormant irritation and excitement which could have forced that ugly word out of the elegant lips of Francis Charteris. And, the smile being off it, I saw a face haggard and sallow with anxiety. I told him, as gently as I could, that the only thing want- ed of him was to make up his mind, either way. If he saw good reasons for declming — why, decUne — Penelope would be content. " Do as you think best — only do it — and let my sister know. There are two things which you men, the best of you, count for naught ; but which are the two things which almost break a woman's heart — one is, when you keep se- crets from her ; the other when you hesitate and hesitate, and never know your o^ti minds. Pray, Francis — don't do so with Penelope. She is very fond of you." " I know that. Poor Penelope !" He dropped his head with something very like a groan. Much shocked, to see that what ought to have been his comfort seemed to be his worst pain, I forgot all about the letter in my anxiety lest any thing should be seriously amiss between them ; and my great concern roused him. "Nonsense, child. Nothing is amiss. Very likely I shall be Governor of after all, and your sister govern- or's lady, if she chooses. Hush ! not a word ; Sir Wilham is calling. Yes, sir, nearly ready. There, Dora, you can swear the letter is begun." And he hastily wrote the date ■ — Treherne Court. Even then, though, I doubt if he would have finished it, save for the merest accident, which shows what trifles ap- parently cause important results, especially with characters so impressible and A^ariable as Francis. Sir William opening some letters, called me to look at one with a name written on the corner. "Is that meant for my nephew? His correspondent 208 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. writes an atrocious hand, and can not spell, either. ' Mr. F. Chatters' — the commonest tradesman might have had the decency to put ' Francis Charteris, Esquire.' Perhaps it is not for him, but for one of the servants." It was not ; for Francis, looking rather confused, claimed it as from his tailor ; and then, under his uncle's keen eyes, turned scarlet. These two must have had some sharp en- counters in former days, since, even now, their power of provoking one another is grievous to see. Heartily vexed for Francis, I took up the ugly letter to give to him, but Sir Wilham interfered. " N'o, thank you, young lady. Tradesmen's bills can al- ways wait. Mr. Francis shall have his letter when he has written his own." Kude as his behavior was, Francis bore with it. I was called out of the library, but half and hour afterward I learned that the letter was written — a letter of acceptance. So I conclude his hesitation was all talk — or else his bet- ter self sees that a good and loving wife, in any nook of the world, outweighs a host of grand London acquaintance, miscalled " friends." Dear old Mrs. Granton beamed with delight at the idea of another marriage at Rockmount. " Only," said she, " what will become of your poor papa, when he has lost all his daughters ?" I reminded her that Francis did not intend marrying more than one of us, and the other was hkely to be a fix- ture for many years. " ISTot so sure of that, my dear ; but it is very jjretty of you to say so. We'll see; something will be thought of for your good papa when the time comes." What could she mean ! But I was afterward convinced that only my imagination suspected her of meaning any thing beyond her usual old-ladyish eagerness^in getting young people " settled." Sunday was another long day — they seem so long and still, spite of all the gayety Avith which these country cous- ins fill Treheme Court, which is often so oppressive to me, and affects me with such a strange sensation of nervcuis ir- ritation, that when Colin and his mother, who take a special charge of me, have hunted me out of stray corners, their affectionate kindness has made me feel like to cry. Now, I did not mean to write about myself — I have been trying desperately to fill my mind with other people's af- A LIFE FOR A LIPE. 209 fairs — ^but it will out. I am not myself— I know. All Sunday, a formal and dreary day at Treherne Court, I do think a dozen gentle words would have made me cry hke a baby. I did cry once, but it was when nobody saw me, in the firehght, by Mrs. Granton's arm-chair. " What is ailing with you, my dear ?" she had been say- ing. " You are not near so lively as yon were a week ago. Has any body been vexing my Dora ?" Which, of course, Dora at once denied, and tried to be as blithe as a lark all the evening. N'o, not vexed, that would be impossible — ^but just a lit- tle hurt. ^ KI could only talk about some things that puzzle^ me — talk in a cursory way, or mention names carelessly, hke other names, or ask a question or two that might throw a light on circumstances not clear, then they would be easier to bear. But I dare not trust my tongue, or my cheeks, so all goes inward — I keep pondering and wondering till my brain is bewildered, and my whole heart sore. People should not — can not — ^that is, good people can not — say things they do not mean ; it would not be kind or gener- ous ; it would not be 7'ight in short ; and as good people nsually act rightly, or what they beheve to be right, that doubt falls to the ground. Has there risen up somebody better than I ? with fewer faults and nobler virtues ? God knows I have small need to be proud. Yet I am myself this Theodbra Johnston — as I was from the first, no better and no worse — ^honest and true if nothing else, and he knew it. Nobody ever knew me so thoroughly — faults and all. We women must be constituted differently from men. A word said, a Ime vmtten, and we are happy ; omitted, our hearts ache — ache as if for a great misfortune. Man can not feel it, or guess at it — ^if they did, the most care- less of them would be slow to wound ns so. There's Penelope, now, waiting alone at Rockmoimt. Augustus wanted to go post haste and fetch her here, but Francis objected. He had to return to London innnediate- ly, he said ; and yet here he is still. How can men make themselves so content abroad, while the women are wear- mg their hearts out at home ? I am bitter — naughty — I know I am. I was even cross to Colin to-day, when he wanted me to take a walk with him, and then persisted in staying beside me indoors. Colin likes me — Cohn is kmd to me — Colin would walk 210 A LIFE YOU A LIFE. twenty miles for an hour of his old playmate's company — he told me so. And yet I was cross with him. Oh, I am wicked, wicked! But my heart is so sore. One look into eyes I knew — one clasp of a steadfast, kindly hand, and I would be all right again. Merry, happy, brave, afraid of nothing and nobody, not even of myself; it can not be so bad a self if it is worth being cared for. I can't see to write. There now, there now — as one would say to a child in a passion — cry your heart out ; it will do you good, Theodora. After that, I should have courage to tell the last thing which this evening put a climax to my ill-hmnors, and in some sense cleared them off, thunder-storm fashion. An incident so unexpected, a story so ridiculous, so cowardly, that, had Francis been less to me than my expected brother- in-law, I declare I would have cut his acquaintance forever and ever, and never spoken to him again. I was sitting in a corner of the billiard-room, which, when the players are busy, is as quiet, unobserved a nook as any in the house. I had a book, but read little, being stopped by the eternal click-clack of the billiard-balls. There were only three in the room — Francis, Augustus, and Colin Granton, who came up and asked my leave to play just one game. My leave ? How amusing ! I told him he might play on till midsummer, for all I cared. They were soon absorbed in their game, and their talk between whiles went in and out of my head as vaguely as the book itself had done, till something caught my atten- tion. " I say, Charteris, you know Tom Turton ? He was the cleverest fellow at a cannon. It was refreshing only to watch him hold the cue so long as his hand was steady, and even after he got a little ' screwed.' He was a wild one, rather. What has become of him ?" " I can not say. Doctor Urquhart might, in whose com- pany I last met him." Augustus stared. " Well, that is a good joke. Doctor Urquhart with Tom Turton ! I was nothing to boast of myself before I mar- ried ; but Tom Turton !" " They seemed intimate enough ; dined, and went to the theatre together, and finished the evening— I really forget where. Your friend the doctor made himself uncommonly agreeable." A LIPE FOR A LIFE. 211 " Urquhart and Tom Tiirton," Augustus kept repeating, quite unable to get over his siu'prise at such a juxtaposi- tion, from which I conckide that Mr. Turton, whose name I never heard before, was one of the not too creditable asr sociates of my brother-in-law in his bachelor days. When, some one calling, he went out, Colin took up the theme, be- ing also famihar with this notorious person, it appeared. "Very odd. Doctor Urquhart's hunting in couples with Tom Turton. However, I hope he may do him good — there was room for it." "In Tom, of course, your doctor being one of those China patterns of hiunanity, in which it is vain to find a flaw, and whose mission it is to go about as patent cement- ers of all cracked and unworthy vessels." " Eh ?" said Cohn, opening his good, stupid eyes. " Query — whether your humdrum Scotch doctor is one whit better than his neighbors ? (Score that as twenty, Granton.) I once heard he had a wife and six children living in the shade, near some cathedi'al town, Canterbury or Salisbmy." " What !" and Coiin's eyes almost started out of his head with astonishment. I laugh now — I could have laughed then, the minute after, to recollect what a " stound" it gave us both, Colin and me, this utterly improbable and ridiculous tale, which Francis so coolly promulgated. "I don't believe it," said Colin, doggedly — bless his honest heart! "Beg your pardon, Charteris, but there must be some mistake. I don't believe it." " As you will — it is a matter of very httle consequence. Your game now." " I won't beheve it," persisted Colin, who, once getting a thing into his head, keeps it there. " Doctor Urquhart isn't the sort of man to do it. If he had married ever so low a woman, he would have made the best of her. He'd never take a wife and keep her in the back-groimd. Six young ones too — and he so fond of children." Francis laughed. And all this while I sat quiet in my chair. " Children are sometimes inconvenient — even to a gentle- man of your friend's parental propensities. Perhaps — we know such things do occur, and can't be helped sometimes — perhaps the tale is all true, except that he omitted the marriage ceremony." 212 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. " Charteris, tliat girl's sitting there." It was this hurried whisper of Colin's, and a certain tone of Francis's, which made me guess at the meaning which, ■when I clearly caught it — for I am not a child exactly, and Lydia Cartwright's story has lately made me sorrowfully wise — sent me burning hot all over, and then so cold. "That girl." Yes, she was but a girl. Perhaps she ought to have crept blushing away, or pretended not to have heard a syllable of these men's talk. But, girl as she was, she scorned to be such a hypocrite — such a coward. What ! sit still to hear a friend sneered at and his character impeached ? While one — the only one at hand to do it — durst not so much as say, "The tale is false — ^prove it." And why? Because she happened" to be a woman! Out upon it! I should despise the womanhood that skulked behind such rags of miscalled modesty as these. " Mr. Granton," I said, as steadily and coolly as I could, "your caution comes too late. If you gentlemen wished to talk about any thing I -should not hear, you ought to have gone into another room. I have heard every word you uttered." " I'm sorry for it," said Colin, bluntly. Francis proposed carelessly "to drop the subject." What! take away a man's good name behind his back, and then merely " drop the subject ?" Suppose the Hstener had been other than I, and had believed; or Colin had been a less honest fellow than he is, and he had believed, and we had both gone and promulgated the story, with a few elegant improvements of our own, where would it have ended ? These are the things that destroy character — foul tales, that grow up in darkness, and, before a man can seize hold of them, root them uj?, and drag them to light, homes are poisoned, reputation gone. Such thoughts came in a crowd upon me. I hardly knew till then how much I cared for him — I mean his honor, his stainless name, all that helps to make his life valuable and noble. And he absent, too, unable to defend himself. I was right to do as I did ; I take shame to my- self even for this long preamble, lest it might look like an apology. " Francis," I said, holding fast by the billiard-table, and trying to smother down the heat of my face, and the beat at my heart, which nearly choked me, " if you please, you have no right to say such things, and then drop the sub- A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 213 ject. You are quite mistaken; Doctor Urquhart was nev- er married ; lie told j^apa so. Who told you that he had a wife and six children hving at Sahsbury ?" " My dear girl, I do not vouch for any such fact ; I mere- ly * tell the tale, as it was told to me.' " " By whom ? Remember the name, if you can. Any one who repea^d it, ought to be able to give full confirma- tion." " Faith, I almost forget what the story was." "You said, he had a wife and six children, h^dng near Salisbury. Or," and I looked Francis direct in the face, " a woman who was not his wife, but who ought to have been." He must have been ashamed of himself, I thmk ; for he turned away and began striking irritably at the balls. " I must say, Dora, these are extraordinary questions to put. Young ladies ought to know nothing about such things ; what possible concern is this of yours ?" I did not shrink; or I am sure he could not have seen me do so. "It is my concern, as much as it is Colin's there ; or that of any honest stander-by. Francis, I think that to take away a man's character behind his back, as you have been doing, is as bad as murdering him." " She's right," cried Colin ; " upon my soul, she is ! Dora — Miss Dora, if Charteris will only give me the scoundrel's name that told him this, I'll hunt him down and unearth him, wherever he is. Come, my dear fellow, try and re- member. Who was he ?" " I think," observed Francis, after a pause, " his name was Augustus Treherne." Colin started — but I only said, " Yery well, I shall go and ask him." And just then it chanced that papa and Augustus were seen passing the window. I was well-nigh doing great mischief by forgetting, for the moment, how that the name of the place was Sahsbury. It would never have done to hurt papa even by the mention of Salisbury, so I let him go by. I then called in my brother-in-law, and at once, without an instant's delay, put the question. He utterly and instantly denied having said any such thing. But afterward, just in time to prevent a serious fracas between him and Francis, he suddenly burst out laughing violently. " I have it, and if it isn't one of the best jokes going ! 214 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. Once, when I was chaffing Urquhart about marrying, I told hull he ' looked as savage as if he had a wife and six chil- dren hidden somewhere on Salisbury Plain.' And I dare say, afterward, I told some fellow at the camp, who told somebody else, and so it got round." "Andthat was all?" " Ui^on my word of honor, Dora, that was all." Mr. Charteris said he was exceedingly happy to hear it. They all seemed to consider it a capital joke, and in the midst of their mirth I slipped out. But the thing ended, my courage gave way; Oh the wickedness of this world and of the men in it ! Oh! if there were any human being to speak to, to trust, to lean upon ! I laid my head in my hands and cried ; oh, if he could know how bitterly I have cried. New Year's night. Feeling wakeful, I will just put down the remaining oc- currences of this New Year's Day. "When I was writing the last line, Lisa knocked at the door. " Dora, Doctor Urquhart is in the library ; make haste, if you care to see him ; he says he can only stop half an hour." So, after a minute, I shut and locked my desk. Only half an hour ! I have the credit of " flying into a passion," as Francis says, about things that vex and annoy me. Things that wound, that stab to the heart, affect me quite differently. Then I merely say " yes," or " no," or " of course," and go about quietly, as if nothing were amiss. Probably, did there come any mortal blow, I should be like one of those poor soldiers one hears of, who, being shot, will stand up as if unhurt, or even fight on for a minute or so, then sud- denly drop down — dead. I fastened my neck-ribbon, smoothed my hair, and de- scended. I know I should have entered the library all proper, and put out my hand. Ah! he should not — he ought not, that night — this very same right hand. I mean to say, I should have met Doctor Urquhart exactly as usual, had I not, just in the corridor, entering from the garden, come upon him and Colin Granton in close talk. " How do you do ?" and " It is a very cold morning." Then they passed on. I have since thought that their haste A LIFE FOK A LIFE. 215 was Colin's doing. He looked confused, as if it were a con- fidential conversation I had interrupted, which very prob- ably it was. I hope, not the incident of the morning, for that would vex Doctor Urquhart so : and blunt as Colm is, his kind heart teaches him tact, oftentimes. Doctor Urquhart staid out his half hour punctually, and over the luncheon-table there was plenty of general conver- sation. He also took an opportunity to put to me, in my character of nurse, various questions about papa's health, and desired me, still in the same general half-medical tone, to be careful of my own, as Treherne Court was a much colder place than Kockmount, and we were likely to have a severe winter. I said it would not much signify, as we did not purpose remaining more than a week longer ; to which he merely answered, " Oh, indeed !" We had no more conversation, except that, on taking leave, having resisted all the Trehernes' entreaties to re- main, he wished me " a hapjDy IN'ew Year." " I may not see you again for some time to come ; if not, good-by; good-by!" Twice over, good-by ; and that was all. A happy New Year. So now the Christmas time is over and gone, and to-morrow, January 2d, 1857, wiU be like all other days in all other years. If I ever thought or expect- ed otherwise, I was mistaken. One thing made me feel deeply and solemnly glad of Doc- tor Urquhart's visit to-day. It was, that if ever Francis, or any one else, was inclined to give a moment's credence to that atrocious he, his whole appearance and demeanor were its instantaneous contradiction. Whether Colin had told any thing I could not discover ; he looked grave, and somewhat anxious, but his manner was composed and at ease — the air of a man whose life, if not above sorrow, was wholly above suspicion; whose heart was steadfast, and whose conscience free. "A thoroughly good man, if ever there was one," said papa, emphatically, when he had gone away. " Yes," Augustus answered, looking at Francis and then at me. " As honest and upright a man as God ever made." Therefore, no matter — even though I was mistaken. 216 A LITE FOE A LIFE, CHAPTER XX. HIS STORY. I CONTINUE these letters, having hitherto been made aware of no reason why they should cease. If that reason comes, they shall cease at once and forever ; and these now existing be burnt unmediately, by my own hand, as I did those of my sick friend in the Crimea. Be satisfied of that. You will learn to-morrow morning what, had an oppor- tunity offered, I meant to have told you on ISTew Year's Day — ^my appointment as surgeon to the jail, where I shall shortly enter upon my duties. The other portion of them, my private practice in the neighborhood, I mean to com- mence as soon as ever I can afterward. Thus, you see, my " Ishmaelitish wanderings" as you once called them, are ended. I have a fixed position in one place. I begm to look on this broad river with an eye of interest, and am teaching myself to grow familiar with its miles of docks, forests of shipping, and its two busy, ever- growing towns along either shore, even as one becomes ac- customed to the natural features of the place, wherever it be, that we call " home." If not home, this is at least my probable sphere of labor for many years to come ; I shall try to take root here, and make the best of every thing. The information that will reach you to-morrow comes necessarily through Treherne. He will get it at the break- fast-table, pass it on to his wife, who will make her lively comments on it, and then it will be almost sure to go on to you. You will, in degree, understand, what they will not, w^hy I should give up. my position as regimental surgeon to establish myself here. For all else, it is of httle moment what my friends think, as I am settled in my own mind — strengthened by certain good words of yours ; that soft, still, autumn day, with the haze over the moorland, and the sun setting in the ripples of the pool. You will have discovered by this time a fact of which, so far as I could judge, you were a week since entirely ig- norant — that you have a suitor for your hand. He himself A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 217 informed me of his intentions with regard to you — asking my advice and good wishes. What could I do ? I will tell you, being unwilling that in the smallest de- gree a nature so candid and true as yours could suppose me guilty of double-dealing. I said " that I believed you would make the best of wives to any man you loved, and that I hoped when you did marry it would be under those circumstances. Whether he himself were that man, it rest- ed with your suitor alone to discover and decide." He confessed honestly that on this point he was as ignorant as myself, but declared that he should " do his best." Which implies that while I have been occupied in this jail business he has had daily, hourly access to your sweet company, with every opportunity in his favor — money, youth, consent of friends — he said you have been his mother's choice for years — with, best of all, an honest heart, which vows that, except a passing " smite" or two, it has been yours since you were children together. That such an honest heart should not have its fair chance with you, God forbid. Though I will tell you the truth ; I clid not believe he had any chance. JSTothing in you has ever given me the slightest indication of it. Your sudden blush when you met him surj)rised me ; also your exclamation — I was not aware you were in the habit of calling him by his Christian name. But that you love this young man, I do not beheve. Some women can be persuaded into love, but you are not of that sort, so far as I can judge. Time will show. You are entirely and absolutely free. Pardon me — but, after the first surprise of this commu- nication, I rejoiced that you were thus free. Even were 1 other than I am — young, handsome, with a large income and every thing favorable, you should still, at this crisis, be left exactly as you are, free to elect your own fate, as every woman ought to do. I may be proud, but, were I seeking a wife, the only love that ever would satisfy me, would be that which was given spontaneously and unsought; de- pendent on nothing I gave, but on what I was. If you choose this suitor, my faith in you will convince me that your feeluig was such for hun, and I shall be able to say, " Be happy, and God bless you." Thus far, I trust, I have written with the steadiness of one who, in either case, has no right to be even surprised — who has nothing whatever to claim, and who accordingly claims nothing. K 218 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. Treherne will of course answer — and I shall find his let- ter at the camp when I return, which will be the day after to-morrow. It may bring me — as, indeed, I have expected day by day, being so much the friend of both parties — def- inite tilings. Let me stop writing here. My ghosts of old have been haunting me every day this week; is it because my good angel is vanishing — vanishing — ^far away? Let me recall your words, which nothing ever can obliterate from my memory — and which, in any case, I shall bless you for as long as I Uve. '^ I believe that every sin, however great, being repented of, and forsaken, is by God, and ought to be by men, alto- gether forgiven, blotted out and done awayP A truth which I hope never to forget, but to set forth continually — ^I shall have plenty of opportunity, as a jail-sur- geon. Ay, I shall probably live and die as a poor jail-sur- geon. And you ? "The children of Alice call Bartrum father." This Hue of Ella's has been running in my head all day — a very quiet, patient, pathetically sentimental fine. But Charles Lamb was only a gentle dreamer — or he wrote it when he was old. Understand, I do not beheve you love this young man. If you do — ^marry him ! But if, not loving him, you marry him — ^I had rather you died. Oh, child, child, with your eyes so like my mother and Dallas — I had rather, ten thou- sand times, that you died. CHAPTER XXI. HEE STOET. Penelope has brought me my desk to pass away the long day during her absence in London — whither she has gone up with Mrs. Granton to buy the first installment of her wedding-clothes. She looked very sorry that I could not accompany her. She is exceedingly kind — ^more so than ever in her life before, though I have given her a deal of trouble, and seem to be giving more every day. I have had " fever-and-agur," as the poor folk hereabouts call it — caught, probably, in those long walks over the moor- A LIPE FOR A LIFE. 219 lands, wMcli I indulged in after our return from tlie north — supposing they would do me good. But the illness has done me more ; so it comes to the same thing in the end. I could be quite happy now, I beheve, were those about me happy too ; and, above aU, were Penelope less anxious on my account, so as to have no cloud on her own pros- pects. She is to be married in April, and they will sail in May ; I must contrive to get well long before then, if possible. Francis has been very little down here ; bemg fully occupied in official arrangements ; but Penelope only laughs, and says he is better out of the way during this busy time. She is so happy, she can afford to jest. Mrs. Granton takes my place in assisting her, which is good for the dear old lady too. Poor Mrs. Granton ! it cut me to the heart at first to see how puzzled she was at the strange freak which took Colin off to the Mediterranean — only puzzled, never cross — how could she be cross at any thing " my Colin" does ? he is al- ways right, of course. He was really right this time, though it made her unhappy for a while ; but she would have been more so, had she known all. K'ow, she only wonders a lit- tle ; looks at me with a sort of half-pitying cmiosity ; is specially kind to me ; brings me every letter of her son's to read — thank heaven, they are aheady very cheerful let- ters — and treats me altogether as if she thought I were breaking my heart for her Colin, and that Colin had not yet discovered Avhat was good for himself concernmg me, but would in time. It is of little consequence — so as she is con- tent and discovers nothing. Poor Cohn ! I can only reward him by loving his old mother for his sake. After a long pause, writing being somewhat fatiguing, I have thought it best to take this opportunity of settmg down a circumstance which befell me smce I last wrote in my journal. It was at first not my intention to mention it here at all, but on second thoughts I do so, lest, should any thmg happen to prevent my destroying this journal during my lifetime, there might be no opportunity, through the omission of it, for any misconstructions as to Colm's conduct or mine. I am weak enough to feel that, not even after I was dead, would I like it to be supposed I had given any encouragement to Colin Granton, or cared for him in any other way than as I shall always care for hun, and as he well deserves. 220 * A LIFE FOK A LIFE. It is a most painful thing to confess, and one for which I still take some blame to myself, for not having seen and j^revented it, but the day before we left Treherne Court Colin Granton made me an offer of marriage. When I state that this was unforeseen, I do not mean up to the actual moment of its befalling me. They say wom- en instinctively find out when a man is in love with them, so long as they themselves are indifferent to him; but I did not, probably because my mind was so full of other things. Until the last week of our visit, such a possibility never entered my mind. I mention this to explain my not having prevented — what every girl ought to prevent if she can — the final declaration, which it must be such a cruel mortification to any man to make, and be denied. This was how it happened. After the new year came in, our gayeties and late hours, following the cares of papa's illness, were too much for me, or else this fever was com- ing on. I felt — not ill exactly — but not myself, and Mrs. Granton saw it. She petted me like a mother, and Avas al- ways telling me to regard her as such, which I innocently promised ; when she would look at me earnestly, and say, often with tears in her eyes, that " she was sure I would never be unkind to the old lady," and that " she should get the best of daughters." Yet still I had not the least suspicion. 'No, nor when Colin was continually about me, watching me, waiting upon me, sometimes almost irritating me, and then again touch- ing me inexpressibly with his unfailing kindness, did I sus- pect any thing for long. At last, I did. There is no need to relate what trifles first opened my eyes, nor the wretchedness of the two intermediate days between my dreading and being sure of it. I suppose it must always be a very terrible thing to any woman, the discovery that some one whom she likes heart- ily, and only likes, loves her. Of course, in every possible way that it could be done, without wounding him or be- traying him to other people, I avoided Colin ; but it was dreadful notwithstanding. The sight of his honest, happy face was sadder to me than the saddest face in the world ; yet, when it clouded over, my heart ached. And then his mother, with her caresses and praises, made me feel the most conscience-stricken wretch that ever breathed. Thus things went on. I shall set down no incidents, though bitterly I remember them all. At last it came to A LIPE FOK A LIFE. 221 an enclv I shall relate this, that there may be no doubt left as to what 2:>assed between ns — Colin and me. We were standing in the corridor, his mother having just quitted us to settle with papa about to-morrow's jour- ney, desiring us to wait for her till she returned. Colin suggested waiting in the library, but I preferred the corri- dor, where continually there were persons coming and go- ing. I thought, if I never gave him any opportunity of saying any thing, he might understand what I so earnestly wished to save him from being plainly told. So we stood looking out of the hall windows. I can see the view this minute, the large, level circle of snow, with the sun-dial in the centre, and beyond, the great avenue gates, with the avenue itself, two black hues, and a white one between, lessening and fading away in the mist of a January after- noon. " How soon the day is closing in — our last day here !" I said this without thinking. The next minute I would have given any thing to recall it ; for Colin answered some- thing — I hardly remember what — but the manner, the tone, there was no mistaking. I suppose the saying is true ; no woman with a heart in her bosom can mistake for long to- gether when a man really loves her. I felt it was coming ; perhaps better let it come, and then it would be over, and there wojild be an end of it. So I just stood still, with my eyes on the snow and my hands locked tight together, for Colin had tried to take one of them. He was trembling much, and so I am sure was I. He said only half a dozen words, when I begged him to stop, " unless he wished to break my heart." And, seeing him turn pale as death and lean against the wall, I did indeed feel as if my heart were breakmg. For a moment the thought came — ^let me confess it — how cruel things were, as they were ; how happy had they been otherwise, and I could have made him happy — this good, honest soul that loved me, his dear old mother, and every one belonging to us ; also, whether anyhow I ought not to try. Ko; that was not possible. I can understand women's renouncing love, or dying of it, or learning to live without it ; but marrying without it, either for " spite," or for money, necessity, pity, or persuasion, is to me utterly incompi'ehensible. ]!^ay, the self-devoted heroines of the Emilia Wyndliam school seem creatuves so weak that, if not compassionating, one would simply despise them. Out 222 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. of duty or gratitude it might be possible to work, live, or even die for a person, but never to marry him. So, when Colin, recovering, tried to take my hand again, I shrunk into myself, and became my right self at once ; for which, lest tried overmuch, and hking him as I do, some chance emotion might have led him momentarily astray, I most earnestly thank God. And then I had to look him in the eyes and tell him the plain truth. " Colin, I do not love you ; I never shall be able to love you, and so it would be v/icked even to think of this. You must give it all up, and let us go back to our old ways." "Bora?" " Yes, indeed, it is true. You must believe it." For a long time the only words he said were : "' I knew it — ^knew I was not half good enough for you." It being nearly dark, no one came by until we heard his mother's step, and her cheerful " Where's my Cohn ?" • — ^loud enough, as if she meant — poor dear ! — in fond pre- caution, to give us notice of her coming. Instinctively we hid from her in the library. She looked in at the door, but did not, or would not see us, and went trottmg away down the corridor. Oh, what a wretch I felt ! When she had departed, I was stealing away, but Colin caught my dress. "One word — just one. Did you never care for me — never the least bit in all the world ?" "Yes," I answered, feeling no more ashamed of telling this, or any thing, than one would be in a dying confession. " Yes, Colin, I was once very fond of you, when I was about eleven years old." " And never afterward ?" " No — as my saying this proves. ]N^ever afterward, and never should by any possible chance — in the sort of way you wish." " That is enough — ^I understand," he said, with a sort of sorrowful dignity quite new in Colin Granton. " I was only good enough for you when you were a child, and we are not children now. We never shall be children any more." " ]SI'o — no." And the thought of that old time came upon me like a flood — the winter games at the Cedars — the blackberrying and bilberrying upon the sunshiny summer moors — the grief when he went to school, and the joy when A LIFE POE A LIFE. 223 he came home again — the loA^e that was so innocent, so painless. And he had loved me ever since — me, not Lisa- bel ;. though, for a time he tried flirting with her, he owned, just to find out whether or not I cared for him. I hid my face and sobbed. And then I had need to recover self-control ; it is such an awful thing to see a man weep. I stood by Colin till we were both calmer ; trusting all was safe over, and had passed without the one question I most dreaded. But it came. " Dora, why do you not care for me ? Is there — ^tell me or not, as you like — is there any one else ?" Conscience ! let me be as just to myself as I would be to another in my place. Once, I wrote that I had been " mistaken," as I have been in some things, but not in all. Could I have honestly said so, taking all blame on myself and freeing all others from every thiag save mere kindness to a poor girl who was foolish enough, but very honest and true, and wholly ignorant of where things were tending, till too late — if I could have done this, I believe I should then and there have confessed the whole truth to Colin Granton. But, as things are, it was impossible. Therefore I said, and started to notice how literally my words imitated other words, the secondary meaning of which had struck me differently from their first, " that it was not hkely I should ever be married." Colin asked no more. The dressing-bell rang, and I again tried to get away; but he whispered, " Stop one minute — my mother — what am I to tell my mother ?" " How much does she know ?" "l^othing. But she guesses, poor dear — and I was al- ways going to tell her outright ; but somehow I couldn't. But now, as you will tell your father and sisters, and — " " ]N'o, Colin ; I shall not tell any human being." And I was thankful that if I could not return his love, I could at least save his pride, and his mother's tender heart. " Tell her nothing ; go home and be brave for her sake. Let her see that her boy is not unhappy. Let her feel that not a girl in the land is more precious to him than his old mother." " That's true !" he said with a hard breath. " I won't break her dear old heart. I'll hold my tongue and bear it. I will, Dora." 224 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. " I know you will," and I held out my hand. Surely, that clasp wronged no one ; for it was hardly like a lover's — only my old playmate — Colin, my dear. We then agreed that, if his mother asked any questions,. he should simply tell her that he had changed his mind concerning me ; and that otherwise the matter should be buried with him and me, now and always — " except" — and he seemed about to tell me something, but stopped, saying it was of no matter — it was all as one now. I asked no farther, only desiring to get away. Then, with another long, sorrowful, silent clasp of the hand, Colin and I parted. A long parting it has proved ; for he kept aloof from me at dinner, and instead of traveling home with us, went round another way. A week or two afterward he called at Rockmount, to tell us he had bought a yacht, and was going a cruise to the Mediterranean. I, being out on the moor, did not see him; he left next day, telling his mother to " wish good-by for him to his playmate Dora." Poor Colin ! God bless him and keep him safe, so that I may feel I only wounded his heart, but did his soul no harm. I meant it not ! And when he comes back to hi& old mother, perhaps bringing her home a fair elaughter-in- law, as no doubt he will one day, I shall be happy enough to smile at all the misery of that time at Treherne Court and afterward, and at all the tender compassion which has been wasted upon me by good Mrs. Granton, because " my Colin" changed his mind, and went away without marrying- his playmate Dora. Only " Dora." I am glad he never called me by my full name. There is but one person who ever called me " Theodora." I read in a book the other day this extract : ^ " People do not sufficiently remember that in every rela- tion of life as in the closest one of all, they ought to take one another ' for better, for worse.' That, grantmg the tie of friendship, gratitude, or esteem be strong enough to have existed at all, it ought, either actively or passively, to exist forever. And seeing we can, at best, know our neighbor, companion or friend, as little as, alas ! we often find he knoweth of us, it behooveth us to treat him with the most patient fidelity, the tenderest forbearance ; grant- ing to all his words and actions that we do not understand, the utmost limit of faith which common sense and Chris- tian justice will allow. Kay, these failing, is there not still A LITE FOE A LIFE. 225 left Christian charity? which, being past 'believing' and ' hoping,' still ' endureth all things.' " I hear the carriage wheels. ^ % H« * * ♦ ♦ They w^U not let me go down stairs at all*to-day. I have been lying looking at the lire, alone, for Francis returned with Mrs. Granton and Penelope yesterday. They have gone a long walk across the moors. I watched them strolling arm-in-arm — Darby and Joan fashion — till their two small black figures vanished over the hilly road, which always used to remind me of the Sleeping Beauty and her Prince : "And on her lover's arm she leant, And round her waist she felt it fold, And far across the hills they went, To that new world which is the old." They must be very happy — Francis and Penelope. I wonder how soon I shall be well. This fever and ague lasts sometimes for months ; I remember Doctor Urquhart's once saying so. Here, following my plan of keeping this journal accurate and complete, I ought to jout down something which oc- curred yesterday, and which concerns Doctor IJrquhart. Driving through the camp, my sister Penelope saw him, and papa stopjoed the carriage and waited for him. He could not pass them by, as Francis declared he seemed in- tending to do, with a mere salutation, but staid and s^^oke. The conversation was not told me, for, on mentioning it, a few sharp words took place between papa and Penelope. She protested against liis taking so much trouble in culti- vating the society of a man, who, she said, was evidently, out of his own profession, " a perfect boor." Paj)a replied more warmly than I had at all expected. " You will oblige me, Penelope, by allowing your father to have a will of his own in this as in most other matters, even if you do suppose him capable of choosing for his as- sociate and friend ' a perfect boor.' And were that accusa- tion as true as it is false, I trust he would never forget that a debt of gratitude, such as he owes to Doctor Urquhart, once incurred, is seldom to be repaid, and never to be ob- literated." So the discourse ended. Penelope left my room, and papa took a chair by me. I tried to talk to him, but we soon both fell into silence. Once or twice, when I thouglit K2 226 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. he was reading the newspaper, I found him looking at me, but he made no remark. Papa and I have had much less of each other's company lately, though we have never lost the pleasant footing on which we lea'i'ned to be during his illness. I^wonder if, now that he is quite well, he has any recollection of the long, long hours, nights and days, with only daylight or candlelight to mark the difference between them, w^hen he lay motionless in his bed, watched and nursed by us two. I was thinking thus, when he asked a question, the ab- rupt coincidence of which with my silent thoughts startled me out of any answer than a simple " 'No, papa." " My dear, have you ever had any letter from Doctor IJrquhart ?" How could he possibly imagine such a thing ? Could Mrs. Granton, or Penelope, who is quick-sighted in some things, have led papa to think — to suppose — something, the bare idea of which turned me sick with fear. Me, they might blame as they liked ; it would not harm me ; but a word, a suggestion of blame to any other person, would drive me wild, furious. So I called up all my strength. " You know, papa. Doctor Urquhart could have nothing to write to me about. Any message for me he would have put in a letter to you." " Certainly. I merely mquired, considering him so much a friend of the family, and aware that you had seen more of him, and liked him better than your sisters did. But if he had written to you, you w^ould, of course, have told me?" " Of course, papa." I did not say another word than this. Papa went on, smoothing his newspaper, and looking di- rect at the fire : " I have not been altogether satisfied with Doctor Ur- quhart of late, much as I esteem him. He does not appear sufiiciently to value what — I may say it without conceit — from an old man to a younger one, is always of some worth. Yesterday, when I invited him here, he declined again, and a little too — too decidedly." Seemg an answer waited for, I said, " Yes, papa." " I am sorry, having such great respect for him, and such pleasure in his society." Papa paused. "When a man desires to win or retain his footing in a family, he usually takes some pains to secure it. If he does not, the natural A LIIB^E FOR A LIFE. 227 conclusion is tliat lie does not desire it." Another pause. " Whenever Doctor Urquhart chooses to come here, he will always be welcome — most welcome ; but I can not ao"ain invite him to Rockmount." " IsTo, papa." This was all. He then took up his Thnes^ and read it through. I lay quiet, quiet aU the evening — quiet until I went to bed. To-day I find in the same old book before quoted : " The true theory of friendship is this — Once a friend, always a friend. But, answerest thou, doth not every day's practice give the lie to that doctrine ? Many, if not most friendships, be Uke a glove, that, however well fitting at first, doth by constant use wax loose and migainly, if it doth not quite wear out. And others, not put off and on, but close to a man as his own skin and flesh, are yet hable to become diseased ; he may have to lose them, and live on without them, as after the lopping off of a limb, or the blinding of an eye. And likewise, there be friendships which a man groweth out of, naturally and blamelessly, even as out of his child-clothes ; the which, though no longer suitable for his needs, he keepeth religiously, unfor- gotten and midestroyed, and often visiteth with a kindly tenderness, though he knoweth they can cover and warm him no more. All these instances do clearly prove that a friend is not always a friend."' " ' Yea,' quoth Fidelis, ' he is. Kot in himself, may be, but unto thee. The future and the present are thine and his ; the past is beyond ye both — an unalienable possession, a bond never disannulled. Ye may let it slip, of natural disuse; throw it aside as worn-out and foul; cut it off, cover it up, and bury it ; but it hath been, and, therefore, in one sense forever must be. Transmutation is the law of all mortal things ; but, so far as we know, there is not, and will not be — until the great day of the second death — in the whole universe any such thing as annihilation.' " And so take heed. Deceive not thyself, saying that -because a thing is not, it never was. Respect thyself — thine old self as well as thy new. Be faithful to thyself, and to all that ever was thine. Thy friend is always thy friend. Not to have or to hold, to love or rejoice in, but to remeinber. " And if it befall thee, as befall eth most, that in course of time nothing will remain for thee, except to remember, 228 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. be not afraid ! Hold fast that which was thine — it is thiu6 forever. Deny it not — despise it not ; respect its secrets — ^be silent over its wrongs. And, so kept, it shall never lie hke a dead thing in thy heart, corrnpting and breeding corruption there, as dead things do. Bury it, and go thy way. It may chance that, one day, long hence, thou shalt come suddenly upon the grave of it — and behold! it is dewy-green !" CHAPTER XXH. HIS STOEY. That face — that poor little white, patient face I How she is changed ! I wish to write down how it was I chanced to see you, though chance is hardly the right word. I looiild have seen you, even if I had waited all day and all night, like a thief, outside your garden-wall. If I could have seen you without your seeuig me (as actually occurred) all the bet- ter ; but in any case I would have seen you. So far as re- lates to you, the will of Heaven only is strong enough to alter this resolute " I will," of mine. You had no idea I was so near you. You did not seem to be thinking of any body or any thing in particular, but came to your bedroom window, and stood there a minute, looking wistfully across the moorlands, the still, absorbed, hopeless look of a person who has had some heavy loss, or resigned something very dear to the heart— Dallas's look, almost, as I remember it when he quietly told me that in- stead of preaching his first sermon he must go away at once abroad, or give up hope of ever living to preach at all. Child, if you should slip away and leave me as Dallas did ! You must have had a severe illness, and yet, if so, surely I should have heard of it, or your father and sister should have mentioned it when I met them. But no mere bodily illness could account for that expression — it is of the mind. You have been suffering mentally also. Can it be out of pity for that young man, who, I hear, has left England ? Wherefore, is not difficult to guess, nor did I ever expect otherwise, knowing him and you. Poor fellow ! But he was honest, and rich, and your friends would approve him. Have they been urging you on his behalf? Have you had A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 229 family feuds to withstand ? Is it that which has made you waste away, and turn so still and pale ? You would just ,do that ; you would never yield, but only break your heart quietly, and say nothing about it. I know you. Nobody knows you half so well. Coward that I was, not to have taken care of you! I might have done it easily, as the friend of the family — the doctor — a grim fellow of forty. There was no fear for any body save myself. Yes, I have been a coward. My child — my gentle, tender, childhke child — ^they have been breaking your heart, and I have stood aloof and let them do it. You had a cough in autumn, and your eyes are apt to get that bright, hmpid look, dilated pupils, with a dark shade under the lower eyehd, which is supposed to indicate the consumptive tendency. Myself, I ctiffer ; believing it in you, as in many others, merely to indicate that which for want of a clearer term we call the nervous temperament ; exquisitely sensitive, and liable to slight derangements, yet healthy and strong at the core. I see no trace of disease in you, no reason why, even fragile as you are, you should not live to be an old woman. That is, if treated as you ought to be, judiciously, tenderly ; wat?ched over, cared for, given a peaceful, cheerful life with plenty of love in it. Plenty of anxieties also, may be ; no one could shield you from these — ^but the love would counterbalance all, and you would feel that — you should feel it — I could make you feel it. I must find out whether you have been ill, and, if so, who has been attending you. Doctor Black, probably. You dishked him, had almost a terror of him, I know. Yet they would of course have placed you in his hands, my lit- tle tender thing, my dove, my flower. It makes me mad. Forgive ! Forgive also that word " my," though in one sense you are even now mine. ISTo one understands you as I do, or loves you. Not selfishly either. Most solemn- ly do I here protest, that could I now find myself your fa- ther or your brother, through the natural tie of blood, which forever prevents any other, I would rejoice in it, rather than part with you, rather than that you should slip away hke Dallas, and bless my eyes no more. You see now what you are to me, that a mere apparition of your little face at a window could move me thus. I must go to work now. To-morrow I shall have found out all about you. 230 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. I wish yon to know how the discovery was made ; since, be assured, I have ever guarded against the remotest possi- bihty of friends or strangers finding out my secret, or gos- siping neighbors coupKng my name with yours. Therefore, instead of going to Mrs. Granton, I paid a visit to Widow Cartwright, to whom I had news to give concerning her daughter. And here, lest at any time evil or careless tongues should bring you a garbled statement, let me just name all I have had to do with this matter of Lydia Cartwright, of which your sister once spoke as my " impertinent interference." Widow Cartwright, in her trouble, begged me to try and learn something about her child, who had disajDpeared from the family where, by Miss Johnston's recommendation, she went as parlor-maid, and in sj)ite of various inquiries set on foot by Mr. Charteris and others, had, to your sister's great regret, never more been heard of. She*^was believed not to be deai^, for she once or twice sent money to her moth- er ; and lately she was seen in a jDiivate box at the theatre by a person named Turton, Avho recognized her, having oft- en dined at the house where she was servant. This in- formation was what*I had to give to her mother. I would not have mentioned such a story to you, but that long ere you read these letters, if ever you do read them, you will have learned that such sad and terrible facts do exist, and that even the purest woman dare not ignore them. Also, who knows but in the infinite chances of life you may have opportunities of doing in other cases what I would fain have done, and one day entreated your sister to do — ^to use every effort for the redemj)tion of this girl, who, from all I hear, must have been unusually pretty, affectionate, and simple-minded. Her poor old mother being a little comforted, I learned tidings of you. Three weeks of fever and ague, or some- thing like it, nobody quite knew what ; they, your family, had no notion till lately that there was any thing ailing you. ISTo, they never would. They would let you go on in your silent, patient way, sick or well, happy or sorry, till you suddenly sunk, and then they would turn round aston- ished : " Really, why did she not say she was ill ? Who would have sruessed there was anv thina: the matter with her?" And I — I, who knew every change in your little face — A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 231 every mood iii tliat strange, quaint, variable si^irit — I have let you slip, and been afraid to take care of you. Coward ! I proceeded at once to Rockmount, but learned from the gardener that your father and sister were out, and " Miss Dora was ill in her room." So I waited, hung about the road for an hour or more, till at last it struck me to seek for information at the Cedars. Mrs. Granton was glad to see me. She told me all about her son's departure — gentle heart! you have kept his se- cret — and, asking if I had seen you lately, poured out in a stream all her anxieties concerning you. So something must be done for you — something sudden and determined. They may all think what they hke — act as they choose, and so shah. I. I advised Mrs. Granton to fetch you at once to the Ce- dars, by persuasion if she could ; if not, by compulsion — bringing you there as if for a drive, and keeping you. She has a will, that good old lady, when she sees fit to use it, and she has considerable influence with your father. She said she thought she could persuade him to let her have you, and nurse you. " And if the poor child herself is obstinate — she has been rather variable of temper lately — I may say that you order- ed me to bring her here ? She has a great respect for your opinion. I may teU her I acted by your desire ?" I considered a moment, and then said she might. We arranged every thing as seemed best for your re- moval — a serious undertaking for an ii?N^alid. You an in- valid, my bright-eyed, light-footed, moorland girl ! I do not think Mrs. Granton had a shadow of suspicion. She thanked me continually in her warm-hearted fashion for my "great kindness." Kindness! She also begged me to call immediately, as her friend, lest I might have any professional scruples of etiquette about interfering with Doctor Black. Scruples — I cast them all to the winds. Come whatJ-will, I must see you — must assure myself that ther^ is no dan- ger — that all is done for you which gives you a fair chance of recovery. If not — if with the clear vision that I know I can use on occasion, I see you fading from me, I shall snatch at you. I will have you ; be it only for a day or an hour, I will have you, I say — on my heart, in my arms. My love, my darling, my wife that ought to have been — you could not 232 A LIFE FOE A LIFE. die out of my arms. I will make you live — I will make you love me. I will have you for my wife yet. I will — God's will be done ! CHAPTER XXIII. HER STOEY. I AM at home again. I sit by my bedroom fire in a new easy-chair. Oh, such care am I taken of now ! I cast my eyes over the white waves of moorland : "Moor and pleasance looking equal in one snow." Let me see, how does that verse begin ? "God be with thee, my beloved, God be with thee. As alone thou goest forth With thy face unto the north, Moor and pleasance looking equal in one snow ; While I follow, vainly follow, With the farewell and the hollow, But can not reach thee so." Ah! but I can — I can. Can reach any where — to the north or the south — over the land or across the sea, to the world's end. Yea, beyond there if need be — even into the other unknown world. Since I last wrote here, in this room, things have befallen me sudden and strange. And yet so natural do they seem that I almost forget I was ever otherwise than I am now. I, Theodora Johns1f)n, the same, yet not the same. I, just as I was, to be thought worthy of being — what I am, and what I hope some one day to be — God willing. My heart is full ; how shall I write about these things, which never could be spoken about ? which only to think of makes me feel as if I could but lay my head down in a wonder-strick- en silence, that all should thus have happened unto me, this unworthy me. It is not hkely I shall keep this journal much longer, but, until closing it finally, it shall go on as usual. Perhaps it may be pleasant to read over some day when I am old — when we are old. One morning, I forget how long after the last date here, Mrs. Granton surprised me and every body by insisting that the only thing for me was change of air, and that I should go back at once with her to be nursed at the Cedars. There was an invalid-carriage at the gate, with cushions, A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 233 mats, and furs ; there was papa waiting to help me clown stairs, and Penelope with my trunk packed ; in short, I was taken by storm, and had only to submit. They all said it was the surest way of recovering, and must be tried. 'Now I wished to get well, and fast too ; it was neces- sary I should for several reasons. First, there was Penelope's marriage, "with the after re- sponsibihty of my being the only daughter now left to keep the house and take care of papa. Secondly, Lisabel wrote that before autumn she should want me for a new duty and new tie, which, though we never spoke of it to one another, we all thought of with softened hearts — even papa, whom, Penelope told me, she had seen brushing the dust off our old rocking-horse in an absent sort of way, and stop in his walk to watch Thomas, the gardener, tossing his grandson. Poor, dear papa ! I had a third reason. Sometimes I feared, by words Penelope dropped, that she and my father had laid their heads together concerning me and my weak health, and imagined things wliich were not true, ^o ; I repeat, they were not true. I was ill of fever and ague, that was all ; I should have recovered in time. If I were not quite happy, I should have recovered from that also in time. I should not have broken my heart. No one ought who has still another good heart to believe in; no one need who has neither done wrong nor been wronged. So it seemed necessary — or I fancied it so, thinking over all things dur- ing the long, wakeful nights — ^that, not for my own sake alone, I should rouse myself, and try to get well as soon as possible. Therefore I made no objections to what, on some ac- counts, was to me an excessively painful thing— a visit to the Cedars. i Pain or no pain, it was to be, and it was done. I lay in a dream of exhaustion, which felt like peace, in the little sitting-room, which looked on the familiar view — the lawn, the sun-dial, the boundary of evergreen bushes, and, farther off, the long, narrow valley, belted by fir-topped hills stand- ing out sharp against the western sky. Mrs. Granton bustled in and out, and did every thing for me as tenderly as if she had been my mother. When we are sick and weak, to find comfort ; when we are sore at heart, to be surrounded by love ; when, at five- and-twenty, the world looks blank and dreary, to see it 234 A LIFE EOK A LIFE. "looking bright and sunshiny at sixty — this does oue good. If I said I loved Mrs. Granton, it but weakly expressed what I owed and now owe her — more than she is ever hkely to know. I had been a day and a night at the Cedars without see- ing any one except the dear old lady, who watched me incessantly, and administered perpetual doses of " kitchen physic," promising me faithfully that, if I continued im- proving, the odious face of Doctor Black should never cross the threshold of the Cedars. "But for all that, it would be more satisfactory to me if you would consent to see a medical friend of mine, my dear." Sickness sharpens our senses, making nothing seem sud- den or unnatural. I knew as well as if she had told me who it was she wanted me to see — who it was even now at the parlor door. Doctor Urquhart came in, and sat down beside my sofa. I do not remember any thmg that was said or done by any of us, except that I felt him sitting there, and heard him in his familiar voice talking to Mrs. Granton about the pleas- ant view from this low window, and the sunshiny morning, and the blackbird that was solemnly hopping about mider the sun-dial. I will not deny it — why should I ? the mere tone of his voice, the mere smile of his eyes filled my whole soul with peace. I neither knew how he had come nor why; I did not want to know ; I only knew he was there, and in his presence I was like a child who has been very forlorn and is now taken care of — very hungry and is satisfied. Some one calling Mrs. Granton out of the room, he suddenly turned and asked me, "how long I had been ill." I answered briefly, then said, in reply to farther ques- tions, that I believed it was fever and ague, caught in the moorland -cottages, but that I was fast recovering ; indeed, I was almost well again now. " Are you ? Give me your hand." He felt my pulse, counting it by his watch. It did not beat much like a convalescent's then, I know. " I see Mrs. Granton in the garden ; I must have a little talk with her about you." He went out of the room abruptly, and soon after I saw them walking together up and down the terrace. Dr. Ur- quhart only came to me again to bid me good-by. But after that we saw him every day for a week. A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 235 He used to aj^pear at uncertain hours, sometimes fore- noon, sometimes evening, but faithfully, if ever so late, he came. I had not been aware he was thus intimate at the Cedars, and one day, when Mrs. Granton was s^Deaking about him, I happened to say so. 'She smiled. " Yes, certainly, his coming here daily is a new thing, though I was always glad to see him, he was so kind to my Colin. But, in truth, my dear, if I must let out the secret, he now comes to see youP " Me !" I was glad of the dim light we sat in, and hor- ribly ashamed of myself when the old lady coiftinued, mat- ter-of-fact and grave. " Yes, you, by my special desire, though he consented willingly to attend you, for he takes a most kindly interest m you. He was afraid of your being left to Doctor Black, whom in his heart I beheve he considers an old humbug ; so he planned your being brought here to be petted and taken care of. And I am sure he himself has taken care of you in every possible way that could be done without your finding it out. You are not offended, my dear ?" "No." " I can't think how we shall manage about his fees ; still it would have been wrong to have refused his kindness — so well-meant and so dehcately given. I am sure he has the gentlest ways and the tenderest heart of any man I ever knew. Don't you think so ?" "Yes." . But, for all that, after the first week, I did not progress so fast as they two expected — also papa and Penelope, who came over to see me, and seemed equally satisfied with Doctor Urquhart's " kindness." Perhaps this very " kind- ness," as I, hke the rest, now believed it, made things a little more trying for me. Or else the disease — the fever and ague — had taken a firmer hold on me than any body knew. Some days I felt as if health were a long way ott', in fact, not visible at all in this mortal life ; and the possi- bihty seemed sometimes easy to bear, sometimes hard. I had many changes of mood and temper, very sore to strug- gle against ; for all of which now I humbly crave forgwe- ness of my dear and kind friends, who were so patient with me, and of Him, the most merciful of all. . Doctor Urquhart came daily, as I have said. We had often very long talks together, sometimes with Mrs. Gran- 236 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. toD, sometimes alone. He told me of all liis doings and plans, and gradually brought me out of the narrow sick- room world into which I was falling, toward the current of outward life — his own active life, with its large aims, duties, and cares. The interest of it roused me ; the power and beauty of it strengthened me. All the dreams of my youth, together with one I had dreamed that evening by the moorland pool, came back again. I sometimes longed for life, that I might live as he did ; in any manner, any where, at any sacrifice, so that it was a life in some way resembling and not unworthy of his own. This sort of life — equally solitary, equally painful, devoted more to duty than to joy — was, heaven knows, all I then thought possi- ble. And I still think with it, and with my thorough reverence and trust in him, and his sole, special, unfailing affection for me, I could have been content all my days. My spirit was brave enough, but sometimes my heart was weak. When we have been accustomed to rest on any other — to find each day the tie become more familiar, more necessary, belonging to daily life, and daily want — ^to feel the house empty, as it were, till there comes the ring at the door or the step in the hall — and to be aware that all this can not last, that it must come to an end, and one must go back to the old, old life, shut up in one's self, with no arm to lean on, no smile to brighten and guide one, no voice to say, " You are right, do it," or " There I think you are wrong" — then one grows frightened. When I thought of his going to Liverpool, my courage broke down. I would hide my head in my pillow of nights, and say to myself, " Theodora, you are a coward ; will not the good God make you strong enough by yourself, even for any sort of life He requires of you ? Leave all in His hands." So I tried to do ; believmg that, from any feeling that was holy and innocent, He would not allow me to suf^ fer more than I could bear, or more than is good for all of us to suffer at times. (I did not mean to write thus ; I meant only to tell my outward story ; but such as is written, let it be — ^I am not ashamed of it.) Thus things went on, and I did not get stronger. One Saturday afternoon Mrs. Granton went a long drive, to see some family in whom Doctor IJrquhart had made her take an interest ; if, indeed, there was need to do more than mention any one's being in trouble, in the dear worn- A LITE FOE A LIFE. 237 all's hearing, in order to unseal a whole torrent of benevo- lence. The peoj^le's name was Ansdell ; they were stran- gers, belonging to the camp ; there was a daughter d^dng of consumption. It was one of my dark days, and I lay thinking how much useless sentiment is wasted upon the young who die ; how much vain regret at their being so early removed from the enjoyments they share, and the good they are doing, when they often do no good, and have little joy to lose. Take, for instance, Mrs. Granton and me : if Death hesitated be- tween us, I know which he had better choose : the one who had least pleasure in hving, and who would be easiest spared — who, from either error or fate, or some inherent faults which become almost equal to a fate, had lived twen- ty-five years without being of the smallest use to any body ; and to whom the best that could happen would apj^arently be to be caught up in the arms of the Great Reaper, and sown afresh in a new world, to begin again. Let me confess all this — because it explains the mood which I afterward betrayed ; and because it caused me to find out that I was not the only person into whose mind such wild and wicked thoughts have come, to be reasoned down, battled down, prayed down. I was in the large drawing-room, supposed to be lying peacefully on the sofa, but in reahty cowering down all in a heap, within the small circle of the firelight. Beyond, it Avas very dark — so dark that the shadows would have fright- ened me, were there not too many spectres close at hand ; sad or evil sjmits, such as come about us all in our dark days. Still, the silence was so ghostly that when the door opened I shghtly screamed. " Do not be afraid. It is only I." I was shaken hands with ; and I apologized for having been so startled. Doctor IJrquhart said it was he .who ought to apologize, but he had knocked, and I did not an- swer, and he had walked in, being " anxious." Then he spoke about other things, and I soon became myself, and sat listening, with my eyes closed, till, suddenly seeiog him, I saw him looking at me. " You have been worse to-day.'^ " It was my bad day.'* " I wish I could see you really better." " Thank you." My eyes closed again — all things seemed dim and far off, 238 A LIFE FOE A LIFE. as if my life were floating away, and I had no care to seize hold of it — easier to let it go. "My patient does not do me much credit. When do yon intend to honor me by recovering, Miss Theodora ?" " I don't know ; it does not much matter." It wearied me to answer even him. He rose, walked up and down the room several times, and returned to his place. " Miss Theodora, I wish to say a few words to you se- riously, about your health. I should like to see you better — very much better than now — before I go away." " Possibly you may." " In any case, you will have to take great care — to be taken great care of — for months to come. Your health is very delicate. Are you aware of that ?" " I suppose so." " You must listen — " The tone roused me. " K you please, you must listen to what I am saying. It is useless telling any one else, but I tell you, that if you do not take care of yourself you will die." I looked up. 1^0 one but he would have said such a thing to me — if he said it, it must be true. " Do you know that it is wrong to die — ^to let yourself carelessly slip out of God's world, in which he put you to do good work there?" " I have no work to do." " None of us can say that. You ought not — you shall not. I wiU not allow it." His words struck me. There was truth in them — the truth, the faith of my first youth, though both had faded in after years — ^till I knew him. And this was why I clung to this friend of mine, because amid all the shams and false- nesses around me, and even in myself — in him I ever found, clearly acknowledged, and bravely outspoken — the truth. Why should he not help me now ? Humbly I asked him " if he were angry with me." " Not angry, but grieved ; you little know how dee23ly." Was it for my dying, or my wickedly wishing to die ? I knew not ; but that he was strongly aflected, more even than he liked me to see, I did see, and it lifted the stone from my heart. " I know I have been very wicked. If any one would thoroughly scold me — if I could only tell any body — " •a LTFE rOR A LIFE. 239 " Why can not you tell me ?" So I told him, as far as I could, all the dark thoughts that had been troubling me this day ; I laid upon him all my burdens ; I confessed to him all my sins ; and when I end- ed, not without agitation, for I had never spoken so plainly of myself to any creature before, Doctor XJrquhart talked to me long and gently upon the things wherein he consid- ered me wrong in myself and in my home; and of other thmgs where he thought I was only "fooli-sh," or "mis- taken." Then he spoke of the manifold duties I had in life ; of the glory and beauty of livuig ; of the peace attain- able, even in this world, by a life which, if ever so sad and difficult, has done the best it could with the materials grant- ed to it — has walked, so far as it could see, in its appointed course, and left the rewarding ^nd the brightening of it solely in the hands of Him who gave it ; who never gives any thing in vain. This was his " sermon" — as, smiling, I afterward called it, though all was said very simply, and as tenderly as if he had been talking with a child. At the end of it, I looked at him by a sudden blaze of the fire ; and it seemed as if, mortal man as he was, with faults enough doubtless— and some of them I already knew, though there is no necessity to publish them here — I " saw his face as it had been the face of an 'angel." And I thanked God, who sent him to me — who sent us each to one another. For what should Doctor XJrquhart reply when I asked him how he came to learn all these good things, but — also smiling : " Some of them I learned from you." " Me ?" I said, in amazement. " Yes ; perhaps I may tell you how it was some day, but not now." He spoke hurriedly, and immediately began talking to me about, and informing me — as he had now got a habit of doing — exactly how his affairs stood. Now, they were nearly wound up ; and it became needful he should leave the camp, and begin his new duties by a certain day. After a little more talk, he fixed — or rather, we fixed, for . he asked me to decide — that day ; briefly, as if it had been like any other day in the year ; and quietly as if it had not rivolved the total endmg for the present, with an indefin- ite future, of all this — what shall I call it ? between him and ne, which, to one, at least, had become as natm'al and nec- -sssary as daily bread. 240 / A LIFE Foil A LIFE.' Thinking now of that two or three minutes of silence which followed — I could be very sorry for myself — far more so than then; for then I hardly felt it at all. Doctor Urquhart rose, and said he must go — he could not wait longer for Mrs. Granton. "Thursday week is the day, then," he added, "after which I shall not see you again for many months." " I &u23pose not." "I can not write to you. I wish I could; but such a correspondence would not be possible, would not be right." I think I said mechanically, " No." I was standing by the mantle-piece, steadying myself with one hand, the other dropj)ing down. Doctor IJrqu- hart touched it for a second. " It is the very thinnest hand I ever saw ! You will re- member," he then said, "in case this should be our last chance of talking together — you will remember all we have been saying ? You will do all you can to recover j)erfect health, so as to be happy and useful ? You will never think despondingly of your life ; there is many a life much hard- er than yours ; you will have patience, and faith, and hope, as a girl ought to have, who is so precious to — many ! Will you promise ?" "I will." " Good-by, then." " Good-by." Whether he took my hands, or I gave them, I do not know ; but I felt them held tight against his breast, and him looking at me as if he could not part with me, or as if, before we parted, he was compelled to tell me something. But when I looked up at him we seemed of a sudden to understand every thing without need of telHng. He only said four words — " Is this my wife ?" And I said " Yes." Then — he kissed me. Once I used to like reading and hearing all about love and lovers, what they said and how they looked, and how happy they were in one another. ISTow, it seems as if these things ought never to be read or told by any mortal tongue or pen. When Max went away I sat where I was, ahnost without stirring, for a whole hour, until Mrs. Granton came in and gave me the history of her drive, and all about Lucy Ans- dell, who had died that afternoon. Poor girl — poor girl ! A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 241 CHAPTER XXIY. HEE STOET. Heke, |)etween the locked leaves of my journal, I keep the first letter I ever had from Max. It came early in the mornmg, the morning after that evening which will always seem to us two, I think, some- thing like what we read of, that " the evening and the morn- ing were the first day." It was, indeed, Hke the first day of a new world. When the letter came I was still fast asleep, for I had not gone and lain awake all night, which, under the circum- stances (as I told Max), it was a young lady's duty to have done ; I only laid my head down with a feeling of inefiahle rest— rest in heaven's kindness, which had brought all things to this end — and rest m his love, from which nothing now could ever thrust me, and in the thought of which I w^ent to sleep, as safe as a tired child ; knoTvdng I should be safe for all my life long with him — my IMax — ^my hus- band, '' Lover" was a word that did not seem to suit him, gi-ave as he was, and so much older than I. I never expected from him any thing like the behavior of a lover ; indeed, should hardly like to see him in that character ; it would not look natural. But from tlie hour he said, " Is tliis my wife ?" I have ever and only thought of him as " my hus- band," ▼ My dear Max ! Here is his letter — which lay before my eyes in the dim dawn ; it did not come by jwst — ^he must have left it himself; and the maid brought it in, no doubt thinking it a professional epistle. And I take great credit to myself for the composed matter-of-fact way in which I said " it was all right, and there was no answer," put down my letter, and made believe to go to sleep again. Let me laugh — it is not wrong ; and I laugh still as much as ever I can ; it is good for me and good for Max. He says scarcely any thuig in the world does him so much good as to see me merry. It felt very strange at first to open his letter and see my name written in his hand. L 242 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. Saturday night. My dear Theodora, — I do not say " dearest," because there is no one to put in comparison with you ; you are to me the one woman in the world. My dear Theodora — ^let me write it over again to assure myself that it may be written at all, which, perhaps, it ought not to be till you have read this letter. Last night I left you so soon, or it seemed soon, and we said so little, that I never told you some things which you ought to have been made aware of at once ; even before you were allowed to answer that question of mine. For- give me. In my own defense let me say, that when I vis- ited you yesterday I meant only to have the sight of you — the comfort of your society — all I hoped or intended to win for years to come. But I was shaken out of all self-control — ^first, by the terror of losing you, and then by a look in your sweet eyes. You know ! It was to be, and it was. Theodora — gift of God ! — ^may He bless you for showing, just for that one moment, what there was in your heart to- ward me. My feelings toward you you can guess — a little ; the rest you must believe in. I can not write about them. The object of this letter is to tell you something which you ought to be told before I see you again. You may remember my once saying it was not likely I should ever marry. Such, indeed, was long my determina- tion, and the reason was this. When I was a mere boy — just before Dallas died — there happened to me an event so awful, both in itself and its results, that it changed my whole character, darkened my Ijjfe, turned me from a lively, carelesSj high-spirited lad, into a morbid and miserable man, whose very existence was a burden to him for years. And though gradually, thank God ! I recovered from this state, so as not to have an altogether useless hfe, still I never was myself again, never knew happiness — ^till I knew you. You came to me as unforeseen a blessing as if you had fallen from the clouds : first you interested, then you cheered me, then, in various ways, you brought light into my darkness, hope to my despair. And then I loved you. The same cause, which I can not now fully explain, be- cause I must first take a journey, but you shall know every thing within a week or ten days — the same cause which has oppressed my whole life prevented me from daring to win you. I always believed that a man circumstanced a& I A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 243 was had no right ever to think of marriage. Some words of yom'S led me of late to change this opinion. I resolved, at some future time, to lay my whole history before you — as to a mere friend — to ask you the question whether or not, under the circumstances, I was justified in seeking any woman for my wife ; and, on your answer, to decide either to try and make you love me, or only to love you, as I should have loved, and shall forever. What I then meant to tell you is still to be told. I do not dread the revelation as I once did : all things seem dif- ferent to me. I am hardly the same man that I was twelve hours ago. Twelve hours ago I had never told you what you are to me — ^never had you in my arms — never read the love in your dear eyes — oh, child, do not ever be afraid or ashamed of letting me see you love me, unworthy as I am. If you had not loved me, I should have drifted away into perdition — I mean, I might have lost myself altogether so far as re- gards this world. That is not likely now. You will save me, and I shall be so happy that I shall be able to make you happy. We will never be two again — only one. Already you feel like a part of me, and it seems as natural to write to you thus as if you had been mine for years. Mine ! Some day you will find out all that is sealed up in the heart of a man of my age and of my disposition — when the seal is once broken. Since, mitil I have taken my journey, I can not speak to your father, it seems right that my next visit to you should be only that of a friend. Whether, after having read this letter, which at once confesses so much and so little, you think me worthy even of that title, your first look will de- cide. I shall find out, without need of your saying one word. I shall probably come on Monday, and then not again ; to meet you only as a friend, used to be sufiiciently hard ; to meet you with this uncertainty overhanging me would be all but impossible. Besides, honor to your father com- pels this absence and silence until my explanations are made. Will you forgive me ? Will you trust me ? I think you wUl. I hope you have minded my " orders," rested all even- ing and retired early? I hope on Monday I may see a 24.4 A LIFE FOR A Lii'l!:. rose on your cheeks — a tiny, delicate, winter-rose. That poor, httle, thin cheek, it grieves my heart. You 77'mst get strong. If b}'' your manner you show that this letter has changed your oi^inion of me, that you desire yesterday to be alto- gether forgotten, I shall understand it and obey. Remember, whatever happens, whether you are ever my own or not, that you are the only woman I ever Avished for my wife — the only one I shall ever marry. Yours, Max Ubqijhart. I read his letter many times over. Then I rose and dressed myself carefully, as if it had been my marriage morning. He loved me ; I was the only woman he had ever wished for his wife. It was, in truth, my mar- riage morning. Coming down stairs, Mrs. Granton met me, all delight at my having risen so soon. " Such an advance ! We must be sure and tell Doctor Urquhart. By-the-by, did he not leave a note or message early this morning ?" " Yes ; he will probably call on Monday." She looked surprised that I did not produce the note, but made no remark. And I, two days before, should have been scarlet and tongue-tied, but now things were quite altered. I was his chosen, his wife ; there was neither hy- pocrisy nor deceit in keeping a secret between him and me. Yie belonged to one another, and the rest of the world had nothing to do with us." ITevertheless, my heart felt running over with tenderness toward the dear old lady, as it did toward my father and my sisters, and every thing belonging to me in this wide world. ,When Mrs. Granton went to church, I sat for a long time in the west parlor, reading the Bible all alone — at least, as much alone as I ever can be in this world again, after knowing that Max loves me. It being such an exceedingly mild and warm day — won- derful for the first day of February — an idea came into my head, which was, indeed, strictly according to " orders," only I never yet had had the courage to obey. Now I thought I would. It would please him so, and Mrs. Gran- ton too. So I ]y\\t on my out-door gear, and actually walked, all by myself, to the hill-top, a hundred yards or more. There A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 2#5 I sat down on the familiar bench, and looked round on the well-known view. Ah me ! for how many years, and un- der how many various circumstances, have I come and sat on that bench, and looked at that view ! It was very beautiful to-day, though almost deathlike in its supernatural sunshiny calm, such as one only sees in these accidental fine days which come in early winter, or sometimes as a kind of spectral antitype of sprmg. Such utter stillness every where. The sole thing that seemed alive or moving in the v>^hole landscape was a wreath of gray smoke springing from some invisible cottage behind the fir wood, and curling away upward till it lost itself in the opal air. Hill, moorland, wood, and sky lay still as a picture, and fair as the Land of Beulah, the Celestial Coun- try. It would hardly have been strange to see spirits walking there, or to have turned and found sitting on the bench beside me my mother and my half brother, Harry, who died so long ago, and whose faces in that Comitry I shall first recognize. My mother. E'ever till now did I feel the want of her. It seems only her — only a mother — to whom I could tell, " Max loves me — I am going to be Max's Avife." And Harry — poor Harry, whom also I scarcely knew — whose life was so wretched, and whose death so awful ; he might have been a better man if he had only knowm my Max. I am forgetting, though, how old he would have been now ; and how Max must have been a mere boy when my brother died. I do not often think of Harry. It would be hardly nat- ural that I should ; all happened so long ago that his mem- ory has never been more than a passing shadovv^ across the family lives. But to-day, when every one of my own flesh and blood seemed to grow nearer to me, I thought of him more than once ; tried to recall the circumstances of his dreadful end ; and then to think of him only os a glorified, purified spirit, walking upon the hills of Beulah. Perhaps now looking down upon me, " baby" that was, whom he was once reported, in one of his desperate visits home, to have snatched out of the cradle and liissed ; knowing all that had lately happened to me, and wishing me a hap'py life with my dear Max. I took out Max's letter, and read it over again in the sunshine and open air. Oh, the happiness of knowing that one can make an- 246 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. other bappy — entirely happy ! Oh, how good I ought to grow! For the events which have caused him so much pain, and Avhich he has yet to tell papa and me — they did not weigh much on my mind. Probably there is no family in which there is not some such painful revelation to be made ; we also have to tell him about poor Harry. But these things are purely accidental and external. His fear that I should "change my opinion of him" made me smile. "Max," I said, out loud, addressing myself to the neighboring heath- er-bush, which might be considered a delicate compliment to the land where he was born, " Oh, Max, what nonsense you do talk! While you are you, and I am myself, you and I are one." Descending the hill-toj), I pressed all these my happy thoughts deep down into my heart, covered them up, and went back in the world again. Mrs. Granton and I spent a quiet day ; the quieter, that I afterward paid for my feats on the hill-top by hours of extreme exhaustion. It was my oAvn folly, I told her, and tried to laugh at it, saying I should be better to-morrow. But many a time the thought came, what if I should not be better to-morrow, nor any to-morrow ? What if, after all, I should have to go away and leave him with no one to make him happy ? And then I learned how precious life had grown, and tasted, in degree, what is meant by " the bitterness of death." But it did not last. And by this I know that our love is holy : that I can now think of either his departure or my own without either terror or despair. I know that even death itself can never part Max and me. Monday came. I was really better, and went about the house with Mrs. Granton all the forenoon. She asked me what time Doctor Urquhart had said he should be here ; with various other questions about him. All of which I answered without confusion or hesitation ; it seemed as if I had now belonged to him for a long time. But when, at last, his ring came to the hall door, all the blood rushed to my heart, and back again into my face — and Mrs. Granton saw it. What Vv^as I to do ? to try and " throw dust" into those keen, kind eyes, to tell or act a falsehood, as if I were ashamed of myself or him ? I could not. So I simply sat silent, and let her think what she chose. A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 247 "Whatever slie thought, the good old lady said nothing. She sighed — ^ah ! it went to my conscience, that sigh — and yet I have done no wrong either to her or Cohn ; then, making some excuse, she slipped out of the room, and the four walls only beheld Max and me when we met. After we had shaken hands, we sat do^ai in silence. Then I asked him what he had been doing with himself all yesterday, and he told me he had spent it with the poor Ansdells. " They wished it, and I thought it was best to go." " Yes, I am very glad you went." Doctor Urquhart (of course I shall go on calling him " Doctor Urquhart," to people in general ; nobody but me has any business with his Christian name), Doctor IJrquhart looked at me and smiled ; then he began telling me about these friends of his ; and how broken-hearted the old moth- er w^as, having lost both daughters in a few months — did I remember the night of the camp concert, and young Ans- dell who sung there ? I remembered some young man being called for, as Doc- tor Urquhart wanted him, " Yes — I had to summon him home ; his eldest sister had suddenly died. Only a cold and fever — such as you your- self might have caught that night — you thoughtless girl. You little knew how angry you made me." "Did I? Somethingv was amiss with you — I did not know what — but I saw it in your looks." " Could you read my looks even then, little lady?" It was idle to deny it — and why should I, when it made him happy ? Radiantly happy his face was now — the sharp lines softened, the wrinkles smoothed out. He looked ten years younger ; ah ! I am glad I am only a girl still ; in time I shall actually make him young. Here, the hall bell sounded — and though visitors are never admitted to this special little parlor, still Max turned restless, and said he must go. "Why?" He hesitated — then said hastily, " I will tell you the truth ; I am happier out of your sight than m it, just at present." I made no answer. "To-night, I mean to start — on that journey I told you of." Which was to him a very painful one, I perceived. " Go, then, and get it over. You will come back to me 248 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. " God grant it." He was very much agitated. The only woman he had ever wished for his wife. This, I was. And I felt like a wife. Talk of Penelope^s long courtship — Lisabel's marriage — it was I that was, in heart and soul, the real imfe ; ay, though Max and I were never more to one another than now ; though I lived as Theo- dora Johnston to the end of my days. So I took courage — and since it was not allowed me to comfort him in any other way, I just stole my hand inside his, which clasped instantly and tightly round it. That was all, and that was enough. Thus we sat side by side, when the door opened — and in walked papa. How strangely the comic and the serious are mixed up together, in life, and even in one's own nature. While writing this, I have gone off into a hearty fit of laughter at the recollection of papa's, face when he saw us sitting there. Though at the time it was no laughmg matter. For a moment he was dumb with astonishment, then he said se- verely, "Doctor Urquhart, I suppose I must conclude — indeed^ I- can only conclude one thing. But you might have spoken to me before addressing yourself to ray daughter." Max did not answer immediately — when he did his voice absolutely made me start. " Sir, I have been very wrong* — ^but I will make amends — ^you shall know all. Only first — as my excuse," here he spoke out passionately, and told papa all that I was to him, all that we were to one another. Poor papa, it must have reminded him of his own young days — ^I have heard he was very fond of his first wife, Harry's mother — ^for when I hmig about his neck, mine were not the only tears. He held out his hand to Max. " Doctor, I forgive you ; and there is not a man alive on whom I would so gladly bestow this little girl as you." And here Max tried me — as I suppose people not yet quite familiar will be sure to try one another at first. Without saying a word, or even accepting papa's hand, he walked straight out of the room. It was not right — even if he were ever so much un- nerved ; why should he be too proud to show it ? and it might have seriously offended papa. I softened matters as vs^ell as I could, by explaining that he had not wished to ask me of papa till a week hence, when he should be able fully to enter into his circumstances. A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 249 "My dear," papa interrupted, "go and tell Mm he may comm^micate them at Avhatever time he chooses. When such a man as Doctor Urquhart honestly comes and asks me for my daughter, you may be sure the very last thing I should ask him would be about his circumstances." With my heart brimful at papa's kindness, I went to ex- plain this to Max. I found him alone in the library, stand- mg motionless at the window. I touched him, with some silly coquettish speech about how he could think of letting me rmi after him in this fashion. He turned round. " Oh, Max, what is the matter ? Oh, Max !" I could no more. " My child !" He soothed me by calling me by that and several other fond names, but all these things are between him and me alone. "ISTow, good-by. I must bid you good-by at once." I tried to make him understand there was no necessity — that papa desired to hear nothing, only mshed him to stay with us till evening. That indeed, looking as wretch- ed as he did, I could not and would not let him go. But in vain. " I can not stay. I can not be a hypocrite. Do not ask it. Let me go — oh ! my child, let me go." And he might have gone — being very obstinate, and not in the least able to see what is good for him or for me either — ^had it not fortunately happened that, overpowered with the excitement of the last ten minutes, my sniall strength gave way. I felt myself falling — tried to save myself by catching hold of Max's arm, and fell. When I awoke, I was lying on the sofa, with papa and Mrs. Gran- ton beside me. Also Max — though I did not at first see him. He had taken his rights, or they had been tacitly yielded to him ; I do not know how it was, but my head was on my be- trothed husband's breast. So he staid. IsTobody asked any questions and he him- self explained nothing. He only sat by me, all afternoon, taking care of me, watching me with his eyes of love — the love that is to last me my whole life. I know it will. Therefore, in the evening, it was I who was the first to say, " Kow, Max, you must go." " You are quite better ?" " Yes, and it is almost dark — it will be very dark across the moors. You must go." L 2 250 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. He rose, and sliook hands mechanically Avith papa and Mrs. Grauton. He was going to do the same by me, but I loosed my hands and clasped them romid his neck. I did not care for ^rhat any body might say or think ; he was mine and I was his — they were all welcome to know it. And I wished him to know and feel that, through every thing, and in spite of every thing, I — his own — loved him and would love him to the last. So he went away. That is more than a week ago, and I have had no letter ; but he did not say he would write. He would rather come, I think. Thus, any moment I may hear his ring at the door. They — papa and Penelope — think I take things quietly. Penelope, indeed, hardly believes I care for him at all. But they do not know ; oh. Max, they do not know ! You know, or you will know, some day. CHAPTER XXV. HIS STOEY. My dear Theodora, I trust you may never read this let- ter, which, as a preventive measure, I am about to write ; I trust we may burn it together, and that I may tell you its contents at accidental times, after the one principal fact has been communicated. I mean to communicate it face to face, by word of mouth. It will not seem so awful then ; and I shall see the expres- sion of your countenance qji first hearing it. That will guide me as to my own conduct, and as to the manner in which it had best be broken to your father. I have hope at times, that, even after such a communication, his regard for me will not altogether fail ; and it may be that his j^res- ent opinions will not be invincible. He may suggest some atonement, some probation, however long or painful I care not, so that it ends in his giving me you. But first I ought to furnish him with full information about things into which I have never yet dared to inquire. I shall do so to-morrow. Much, therefore, depends upon to-morrow. Such a crisis almost unnerves me ; add to that the very sight of this place ; and I went by chance to the same inn, the White Hart, Salisbury. When you have read this letter through, you will not wonder that this is A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 251 a terrible niglit for me. I never would have revisited this town, but in the hope of learning every particular, so as to tell you and your father the truth and the whole truth. He will assuredly pity me. The thought of his own boy, your brother, whom you once mentioned, and who Mr. Johnston informed me " died young" after some great dereliction — this thought may make him deal gently with me. Whether he will ever forgive me, or receive me into his family, remains doubtful. It is with the fear of this, or any other possibility which I can not now foresee, that I write this letter, in order that, whatever happens, my Theo- dora may be acquainted with my whole history. My Theodora! Some day, when she comes to read a few pages which I seal up to-night, marking them with her name, and " To be delivered to her after my death," she will understand how I have loved her. Otherwise, it never could have been found out, even by her — for I am not a demonstrative man. Only my wife would have known it. In case this letter, and those other letters, do reach you, they will then be your last mementos of me. Read them and burn them ; they are solely meant for you. Should all go well, so that they become needless, we will, as I said, burn them together, read or unread, as you choose. You shall do it with your own hand, sitting by me, at our own fireside. Our fireside. The thought of it — the ter- ror of losing it, makes me almost powerless to write on. Will you ever find out how I love you, my love — my love ! I begin by remmding you that I have been long aware your name is not properly Johnston. You told me your- self that the t had been inserted of late years. That you are not an aristocratic, but a plebeian family. My thankful- ness at learning this, you will understand afterward. That cathedral clock — ^how it has startled me ! Striking twelve with the same tongue as it did twenty years ago. Were I superstitious, I might fancy I heard in the coffee- room below the clink of glasses, the tune of "Glorious Apollo," and the "Bravo" of that uproarious voice. The town is hardly the least altered. Except that I came in by railway instead of by coach, it might be the very same Salisbury on that very same winter's night — the quaint, quiet English town that I stood looking at from, this same window — its streets shining Avith rain, and its lights glimmering here and there through the general 252 A LIFJi: FOIl A LIFE. gloom. How I stared, boy-like, till lie came behind and slapped me on the shoulder. But I have a few thiugs to tell you before I tell you the history of that night. Let me delay it as long as I can. . You know about my father and mother, and how they both died when Dallas and I were children. We had no near kindred ; we had to take care of ourselves — or, rath- er, he took cai'e of me ; he was almost as good as a father to me, from the time he was twelve years old. Let me say a word or two more about my brother Dal- las. If ever there was a perfect character on this earth, he was one. Every creature who knew him thought the same. I doubt not the memory of him still lingers in those old cloisters of St. Mary and St. Salvador, where he spent eight years studying for the ministry. I feel sure there is not a lad who was at college with him — gray-headed lads they would be now, grave professors, or sober ministers of the Kirk, with country manses, wives, and families — not one of them but would say as I say^ if you spoke to him of Dal- las Urquhart. Being five years my elder, he had almost ended his cur- riculum when I began mine ; besides, we were at difierent colleges ; but we went through some sessions together ; a time on which I look back with peculiar tenderness, as I think all boys do who have studied at St, Andrew's. You English do not altogether know us Scotch. I have seen hard-headed, possibly hard-hearted men, grim divines, stern military officers-, and selfish Anglo-Indian valetudinarians, melt to the softness of a boy, as they talked of their boyish days at St. Andrew's. . You never saw the place, my little lady? You would like it, I know. To me, who have not seen it these twenty years, it still seems like a city in a dream. I could lead you, hand-in-hand, through every one of its quiet old streets, where you so seldom hear the noise of either carriage or cart ; could point out the notable historical corners, and tell you which professor lived in this house and which in that ; could take you along the Links, to the scene of our cele- brated golfing-match, calling over the names of the princi- pal players, including his who won it — a fine fellow he was too ! What became of him, I wonder ? Also, I could show you the exact spot where you get the finest view of the Abbey and St. Regulus' Tower, and then away back to our lodgings — Dallas's and muTc — along A LIFE FOK A LIFE. 253 tlie Scores, where, of moonliglit nights, the elder and more sentimental of the college lads would be caught strolling with their sweethearts — bonnie lassies too they were at St. Andrew's — or we beheld them .in all the glamour of our teens, and fine havers we talked to them along those Scores, to the somid of the sea below. I can hear it now. What a roar it used to come in with, on stormy nights, against those rocks beyond the Castle, where a lad and his tutor were once both drowned ! I am forgetting myself, and all I had to tell you. It is a long time since I have spoken of those old days. Theodora, I should like you some time to go and see St. Andrew's. Go there, in any case, and take a look at the old place. You will likely find, in St. Mary's Cloisters, on the third arch to the right hand as you ^ enter, my initials and Dallas's ; and if you ask, some old janitor or hbrarian may still remember " the two Urquharts" — that is, if you like to name us. But, go if you can. Faithful heart ! 1 know you will always care for any thing that concerned me. All the happy days of my life were spent at St. Andrew's. They lasted until Dallas fell ill, and had to go abroad at once. I was to follow, and stay with him the winter, missing thereby one session, for he did not like to part with me. Perhaps he foresaw his end, which I, boy-like, never thought of, for I was accustomed to his being always delicate ; perhaps he knew what a lad of nineteen might turn out, left to himself. I was " left to myself," in our Scotch interpretation of the phrase ; which, no doubt, originated in the stern Pres- byterian belief of what hmiian nature is, abandoned by God. "Left to himself." Many a poor wretch's more wretched parents know what that means. How it came about I do not call to mind, but I found myself in London, my own master, spending money Hke dross ; and spending what was worse, my time, my con- science, my innocence. How low I fell God Imows, for I hardly know myself! Things which happened afterward made me oblivious even of this time. While it lasted, I never once wrote to Dallas. A letter from him, giving no special reason for my join- ing him, but urging me to come, and quickly, made me recoil conscience-stricken from the Gehenna into which I was falling. You will find the letter — the last T had from 254 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. him, in this packet : read it, and burn it with mine. Of course, no one has ever seen it, or will ever see it, except yourself. I started from London immediately, in great restlessness and anguish of mind; for though I had been no worse than my neighbors, or so bad as many of them — I knew what Dallas was — and how his pure life, sanctified, though I guessed it not, by the shadow of coming death, would look beside this evil life of mine. I was very miserable ; and a lad not used to misery is then in the quicksands of temptation. He is grateful to any one who will save him from himself — give him a narcotic and let his torment sleep. I mention this only as a fact, not an extenuation. Though, in some degree, Max Urquhart the man has long since learned to pity Max Urquhart the boy. — Here I paused, to read this over, and see if I have said all I wished therein. The narrative seems clear. You will perceive I try as much as I can to make it a mere history as if of another person, and thus far I think I have done so. The rest I now proceed to tell you, as cu'cumstantially and calmly as I can. But first, before you learn any more about me, let me, bid you remember how I loved you, how you permitted me to love you — ^how you have been mine, heart and eyes and tender hps, you know you were mine. You can not alter^ that. If I were the veriest wretch ahve, you once saw in r^ something worth loving, and you did love me. 'Not after the fashion of those lads and lassies who went courting along the Scores at St. Andrew's — but solemnly — deeply — as those love who expect one day to be husband and wife. Remember we were to have been married, Theodora. I found my quickest route to Pan was by Southampton to Havre. But in the dusk of the morning I mistook the coach ; my luggage went direct, and I found myself, having traveled some hours, on the road — not to Southampton, but to Sahsbury. This was told me after some jocularity, at what he thought a vastly amusmg piece of " greenness" on my part, by the coachman. That is, the gentleman who drove the coach. He soon took care to let me know he was a gentleman — and that, like many young men of rank and fashion at that time, he was acting Jehu only " for a spree." He talked A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 255 SO large, I should have taken hiin for a nobleman, or a bar- onet at least — had he not accidentally told me his name ; though he explained that it was not as humble as it seemed, and expatiated much upon the antiquity, wealth, and aris- tocratic connections of his "family." His conversation, though loud and coarse, was amusing, and he patronized me extremely. I would rather not say a v/ord more than is necessary concerning this person ; he is dead. As before stated, I never knew any thing of him exceptmg his name, which you shall have by-and-by, but I guessed that his life had not been a creditable one. He looked about" thirty, or a little older. When the coach stopped — at the very inn where I am now writing, the White Hart, Sahsbury — he insisted on my stopping too, as it was a bitter cold night, and the moon would not rise till two in the mornuig. He said that, I mind well. Finally he let the coach go on without us, and I heard him laying a bet to drive across Salisbury Plain in a gig or dog-cart, and meet it again on the road to Devizes by day- break next morning. The landlord laughed, and advised him to give up such a mad " neck-or-nothing" freak; but he swore, and said he always went at every thing " neck- or-nothing." I can remember to this day nearly every w^ord he ut- tered, and his manner of saying it. Under any circum- stances this might have been the case, for he attracted me, bad as I felt him to be, with his bold, devil-may-care jollity, mixed with a certain English frankness not unpleasant. He was a small, dark man, hollow-eyed and dissipated looking. His face — no, better not call up his face. I was persuaded to stay and drink with this man and one or two others, regular topers, as I soon found he was. He appeared poor too ; the drinking was to be at my ex- pense. I was very proud to have the honor of entertain- ing such a clever and agreeable gentleman. "Once, watching him and listening to his conversation, sudden doubts seized me of what Dallas would think of my new acquaintance, and what he would say, or look — ^he seldom reproved aloud — were he to walk in and find me in the present company. And supper being done, I tried to get away, but this man held me by the shoulders, mocking me, and setting the rest on to mock me as a " milksop." 256 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. The good angel fled. From that moment, I believe, the devil entered both into him and me. I got drunk. It was for the first time in my. life, though more than once lately I had been " merry," but stopped at that stage. This time I stopped at nothing. My blood was at boiling heat, with just enough of conscience left to make me snatch at any means to deaden it. Of the details of that orgie, or of those who joined in it, except this one person, I have, as was likely, no distinct recollection. They were habitual drinkers ; none of them had any pity for me, and I — I was utterly " left to myself," as I have said. A raw, shy, Scotch lad, I soon became the butt of the company. The last thing I remember is their trying to force me to tell my name, which hitherto I had not done, first from nat- m-al reserve among strangers, and then from an instinctive feeling that I was not in the most creditable of society, and therefore the less I said about myself the better. All I had told was, that I was on my way to France to join my brother, who was ill. They could not get any more out of me than that. A few taunts, which some English peo- ple are rather too ready to use against us Scotch, made me savage as well as sullen. I might have deserved it, or not — ^I can not tell — but the end was, they turned me out — the obstinate, drunken, infuriated lad — into the street. I staggered through the dark, silent town into a lane, and fell asleep on the road-side. The next thing I call to mind is being awakened by the cut of a whip across my shoulders, and seeing a man stand- ing over me. I flew at his throat like a wild creature, for it was he — the " gentleman" who had made me drunk and mocked me, and whom I seemed then and there to hate with a fury of hatred that would last to my dying day. Through it all came the thought of Dallas, sick and solita- ry, half way toward whom I ought to have traveled by now. How he — the man — soothed me I do not know, but think it was by offering to take me toward Dallas. He had a horse and gig standing by, and said if I would mount he would drive me to the coast, Avhence I could take boat to France. At least, that is, the vague impression my mind retains of what passed between us. He helped me up beside him and I dozed off to sleep again. My next Avakening w^as in the middle of a desolate plain. A LIFE FOK A LIFE. 257 I rubbed my eyes, but saw notliing except stars and sky, and this black, black plain, which seemed to have no end. He pulled up, and told me to "tumble out," which I did mechanically. On the other side of the gig was something tall and dark, which I took at first for a half-way inn, but perceived it was only a huge stone — a circle of stones. "HaUoo! what's this?" " Stonehenge — comfortable lodging for man and beast — so you're all right. Good-by, young fellow ; you're such dull company that I mean to leave you here till morn- ing." *■ This was what he said to me, laughing uproariously. At first I thought he was in jest, and laughed too ; then, being sleepy and maudlin, I remonstrated; lastly, I got half- frightened, for when I tried to mount he pushed me down. I was so helpless and he so strong ; from this solitary place, miles and miles from any human dwelling, how should I get on to Dallas ? — Dallas^ who, stupefied as I was, still re- mained my prominent thought. I begged, as if I had been begging for my life, that he would keep his promise, and take me on my way toward my brother. " To the devil with your brother !" and he whipped his horse on. The devil was in me, as I said. I sprang at him, my strength doubled and trebled V\dth rage, and catching him unawares, dragged him from the gig, and threw him vio- lently on the ground. His head struck against one of the great stones — and — and — ]N'ow, you see how it was. I murdered him. He must have died easily — ^instantaneously; he never moaned nor stirred once, but, for all that, it was murder. 'Not with intent, God knows. So little idea had I he was dead, that I shook him as he lay, told him to " get up and fight it out ;" oh, my God ! my God ! Thus I have told it, the secret, which until now has nev- er been written or spoken to any human being. I was then nineteen — I am now nine-and-thirty ; twenty years. Theodora, have pity ; only think of carrying such a secret — the blood of a man, on one's conscience for twenty years ! If, instead of my telling you all this, as I may do in a few days, you should have to read it here, it will by then have become an old tale. Still, pity me. To continue, for it is getting fir on into the night. 258 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. The first few minutes after I discovered what I had done, you will not expect me to s^Deak of. I was perfectly sober now. I had tried every means in my power to revive him ; and then to ascertain for certain that he was dead ; I forgot to tell you I had already begun my classes in medicine, so I knew a good deal. I sat with his head on my knee, fully aware that I had killed him ; that I had taken the life of a man, and that his blood would be upon me forever and ever. Nothing short of the great condemnation of the last judgment-day could parallel That horror of despair ; under it my reason seemed to give way. I was seized with the delusion that, bad and cruel man as he was, he was only shamming to terrify me. I held him up in my arms, so that the light of the gig-lamps fell full on his face. It was a dead face — not frightful to look at, beautiful rather, as the muscles slowly settled — ^but dead, quite dead. I laid him down again, still resting his head against my knee, till he gradually stiffened and grew cold. This was just at moonrise ; he had said the moon would rise at two o'clock, and so she did, and struck her first ar- rowy ray across the jDlam upon his face — ^that still face with its half-o]Den mouth and eyes. I had not been afraid of him hitherto ; now I was. It was no longer a man, but a corpse, and I was the murderer. The sight of the moon rising, is my last recollection of this night. Probably, the fit of insanity, which lasted for many months after, at that instant came on, and under its influence I must have fled, leaving him where he lay, with the gig standing by, and the horse quietly feeding beside the great stones ; but I do not recollect any thing. Doubt- less, I had all the cunning of madness, for I contrived to' gain the coast and get over to France ; but how, or when, I have not the slightest remembrance to this day. As I have told you, I never saw Dallas again. When I reached Pau, he was dead and buried. The particulars of his death were explained to me months afterward by the good cure, who. Catholic as he was, had learned to love Dallas like a son, and who watched over me for his sake, during the long melancholy mania which, as he thought, resulted from the shock of my brother's death. Some day I should like you, if possible, to see the spot where Dallas is buried — the church-yard of Bilheres near Pau ; but his grave is not within the church-yard, as, he A LITE FOR A LIFE. 259 "being a Protestant, the authorities would not allow it. You will find it just outside the hedge — the head-stone placed in the hedge — though the little mound is by this time level with the meadow outside. You know, we Pres- byterians have not your English feeling about "conse- crated" ground; Ave beheve that "the whole earth is the Lord's," and no human consecration can make it holier than it is, both for the worship of the living, and the interment of the dead. Therefore, it does not shock me that the cat- tle feed, and the grass grows tall, over Dallas's body. But I should like the head-stone preserved — as it is ; for yearly, in diflerent quarters of the globe, I have received letters from the old cure and his successor, concerning it. You are much younger than I, Theodora ; after my death I leave this charge to you. You will fulfill it for my sake, I know. Must I tell you any more? Yes, for now comes what some might say was a crime as heavy as the first one. I do not attempt to extenuate it. I can only say that it has been expiated — such as it was — ^by twenty miserable years, and that the last expiation is even yet not come. Your fa- ther once said, and his words dashed from me the first hope which ever entered my mind concerning you, that he never would clasp the hand of a man who had taken the life of another. What would he say to a man who had taken a life, and concealed the fact for twenty years. I am that man. How it came about, I will tell you. For a twelvemonth after that night, I was, you will re- member, not myself; in truth, a maniac, though a quiet and harmless one. My insanity was of the sullen and taciturn kmd, so that I betrayed nothing, if indeed I had any re- membrance of what had hajDpened, which I believe I had not. The first dawn of recollection came through reading in an Enghsh newspaper, which the okl cure brought to amuse me, an account of a man who was hanged for mur- der. I read it line by line — the trial — the verdict — the lat- ter days of the criminal — ^rv^ho was a young lad like me — and the last day of all, when he was hanged. By degrees, first misty as a dream, then ghastly clear, impressed on my mind with a tenacity and minuteness all but miraculous, considering the long blank which followed — came out the events of that night. I became conscious that I too had killed a man, that if any eye had seen the act I should have been taken, tried, and hanged for murder. 260 A LIFE rOK A LIFE. Young as I Avas, and ignorant of English criminal law, I had sufficient common sense to arrive at the conclusion, that, as things stood, there was not a fragment of evidence against me individually, nor, indeed, any clear evidence to show that the man was murdered at all. It was now a year ago — he must have long since been found and buried — probably with little inquiry ; they ivould conclude he had been killed accidentally, through his own careless, drunken driving. But if I once confessed and delivered myself up to justice, I myself alone knew, and no evidence could ever prove, that it was not a case of willful murder. I should be ha^iged — hanged by the neck till I was dead — and my name, our name, Dallas's and mine — blasted forevermore. The weeks that elapsed after my first recovery of reason were such that, when I hear preachers thunder about the hteral " worm that dieth not, and fire that is never quench- ed," I could almost smile. Suflicient are the torments of a spiritual hell. Sometimes, out of its depths, I felt as if Satan himself had entered my soul, to rouse me into atheistic rebehion. I, a boy not twenty yet, with all my future before me, to lose it through a moment's fury against a man who must have been depraved to the core, a man against whom I had no personal grudge, of whom I knew nothing but his name. Yet I must surrender my life for his — ^be tried, condemned, publicly disgraced — ^finally die the death of a dog. I had never been a coward — yet night after night I woke, bathed in a cold sweat of terror, feeling the rope round my neck, and seeing the forty thousand upturned faces — as in the newspaper account of the poor vf retch who was hanged. Kemember, I plead nothing. I know there are those who would say that the most dishonorable wretch alive was this same man of honor — ^this Max Urquhart, who car- ries such a fair reputation ; that the only thing I should have done was to go back to England, surrender myself to justice, and take all the consequences of this one act of drunkenness and ungovernable passion. However, I did it not. But my sin — as every sin must — be sure has found me out. Theodora, it is hardly eight hours since your innocent arms were round my neck, and your kisses on my mouth — and now ! Well, it will be over soon. However I have lived, I shall not die a hypocrite. I do not attempt to retrace the course of reasoning by A LIFE FOK A LIFE. 261 which I persuaded myself to act as I did. I was only a boy ; this long sleep of the mmd had re-established my bod- ily health — life and youth were strong within me ; also the hope of honor, the dread of shame. Yet sometimes con- science struggled so fiercely with all these, that I was half tempted to a medium course, the coward's last escape — suicide. You must remember, religion was wanting in me — and Dallas was dead. N'ay, I had for the tune ah-eady forgot- ten him. One day, when, driven distracted with my doubts, I had almost made up my mind to end them in the one sharp, easy way I have spoken of, while putting my brother's pa- pers in order, I found his Bible. Underneath his name he had written — and the date was that of the last day of his life — my name. I looked at it, as we look at a handvvritmg long familiar, till of a sudden we remember that the hand is cold, that no earthly power can ever reproduce of this known writing a single line. Child, did you ever know — no, you never could have known — that total desolation, that helpless craving for the dead who return no more ? ■ After I grew calmer, I did the only thmg which seemed to bring me a little nearer to Dallas — I read m his Bible. The chapter I opened at was so remarkable, that at first I recoiled as if it had been my brother — he who, being now a spirit, might, for all I could tell, have a spirit's knowledge of all things — speaking to me out of the invisible world. The chapter was Ezekiel x^di., and among other verses were these : "When the wicked man tnrneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive. ' ' Because he considereth and turneth away from all his transgressions that he hath committed, he shall surely live ; he shall not die "For I have no pleasure in the death of him that dieth, saith the Lord God: wherefore turn you:5^elves and live ye." I turned and lived. I resolved to give a life — my own — for the life v/hich I had taken ; to devote it whoUy to the saving of other lives ; and at its close, when I had built up a goo^l name, and shown openly that after any crime a man might recover himself, repent, and atone, I meant to pay the full price of the sin of my youth, and openly to ac- knowledge before the world. How far I was right or wrong in this decision I can not tell — perhaps no human 262 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. j udgment ever can tell. I simply state what I then resolved, and have never swerved from — till I saw you. Of necessity, with this ultimate confession ever before me, all the pleasures of life, and all its closest ties — friend- ship, love, marriage — were not to be thought of I set them aside as impossible. To me, life could never be en- joyment, but simply atonement. My subsequent history you are acquainted with — how, after the needful term of medical study in Britain (I chose Dublin as being the place where I was utterly a stranger, and remained there till my four years ended), I went as an army surgeon half over the world. The first time I ever set foot in England again was not many weeks before I saw, in the ball-room of the Cedars, that little sweet face of yours. The same face in which, two days ago, I read the look of love which stirs a man's heart to the very core. In a moment it obliterated the resolutions, conflicts, suffer- ings, of twenty years and restored me to a man's right and privilege of loving, wooing, marrying. Shall we ever be married ? By the time you read this, if ever you do read it, that question will have been answered. It can do you no harm if for one little minute I think of you as my wife ; no longer friend, child, mistress, but my, wife. Think of all that would have been implied by that name. Think of coming home, and of all that home would have been — ^however humble — to me who never had a home in my whole life. Think of all I would have tried to make it to you. Think of sitting by my fireside, knowing that you were the only one required to make it happy and bright ; that, good, and pleasant, and dear as many others might be — the only absolute necessity to each of us was one an- other. Then the years that would have followed, in which we never had to say good-by — in which our two hearts would daily lie open, clear and plain, never to have a doubt or a secret any more. Then — if we should not always be only two ! — thmk of you as my wife — the mother of my children — ******* I was unable to conclude this last night. ISTow I only add a line before going into the town to gain information about — about this person ; by whom his body was found, and where buried; with that intent I have already been A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 263 searching the cathedral bnr3dng-groiind, but t^iere are no signs of graves there — all is smooth green turf, with the dew upon it, glittering like a sheet of diamonds in the bright spring morning. It reminded me of you, this being your hour for rising, you early bird — you little methodical girl. You may at this moment be out on the terrace, looking up to the hill- top, or down toward your favorite cedar-trees, with that sunshiny spring morning face of yours. Pray for me, my love, my wife, my Theodora. * * H«* ♦ ^ * I have found his grave at last. "J";^ memory/ of Henry Johnston^ only son of the Reverend William Henry Johnston^ of Rockmoun% Surrey^ who met his death hy an accident near this toion^ and was buried here. Born May 19, 1806. Died JSTovemher 19, 1836." Farewell, Theodora. CHAPTER XXYI. HEK STOEY. Many, many weeks — months, indeed, have gone by sincp I opened this my journal. Can I bear the sight of it evep now ? Yes, I think I can. I have been sitting ever so long at the open window, i» my old attitude, elbow on the sill, only with a difference that seems to come natural now when no one is by. It \^ such a comfort to sit with my lips on my ring. I asked him to give me a ring, and he did so. Oh, Max ! Max ! Max! Great and miserable changes have befallen us, and noT^ Max and I are not going to be married. Penelope's mar' riage also has been temporarily postponed for the same reason, though I implored her not to tell it to Francis, uu' less he should make very particular inquiries, or be exceed- ingly angry at the delay. He w^as not. Nor did we judge it well to inform Lisabel. Therefore, papa, Penelope, and I keep our own secret. Now that it is over, the agony of it smothered up, and all at Rockmount goes on as heretofore, I sometimes won- der do strangers or inmates — Mrs. Granton, for instance — fiuspect any thing? Or is ours, awful as it seems, no spe- 204 A LIFE rOK A LIFE. cial and peculiar lot ? Many another family may have its own lamentable secret, the burden of which each member has to bear, and carry in society a cheerful countenance, even as this of mine. Mrs. Granton said yesterday mine w^as " a cheerful coun- tenance." If so, I am glad. Two things only could really have broken my heart — his ceasing to love me, and his changing so in himself^ not in his circumstances, that I could no longer worthily love him. By " him" I mean, of course, Max — Max XJrquhart, my betrothed husband, whom henceforward I can never regard in any other light. How blue the hills are — ^liow bright the moors ! So they ought to be, for it is liear midsummer. By this day fort- night — Penelope's marriage-day — we shall have plenty of roses. All the better ; I would not like it to be a dull weddmg, though so quiet ; only the Trehernes and Mrs. Granton as guests, and me -for the solitary bridesmaid. " Your last appearance, I hope, Dora, in that capacity," laughed the dear old lady. " ' Thrice a bridesmaid, ne'er a bride,' which couldn't be thought of, you know. ^No need to speak — I guess why your wedding isn't talked about — ^the old story, man's pride and woman's patience. I^ever mind. I^obody knows any thing but me, and I shall keep a quiet tongue in the matter. Least said is soonest mended. All will come right soon, when the doc- tor is a little better off in the world." I let her suppose so. It is of little moment what she or any body thinks, so that it is nothing ill of him. " Thrice a bridesmaid, never a bride." Even so. Yet, would I change lots with our bride Penelope or any other bride ? No. IsTow that my mind has settled to its usual level — ^lias had time to view things calmlj^ — to satisfy itself that noth- ing could have been done different from what has been done, I may at last be able to detail these events. For both Max's sake and my own, it seems best to do it, unless I could make up my mind to destroy my wdiole journal. An unfinished record is w^orse than none. During our life- times we shall both preserve our secret; but many a chance brings dark things to light, and I have my Max's honor to guard as well as my own. This afternoon, papa being out driving, and Penelope gone to town to seek for a maid, whom the governor's lady will require to take out with her — they sail a month hence — I A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 265 shall seize the opportunity to write down what has befallen Max and me. My own poor Max ! But my lips are on his ring ; this hand is as safely kept for him as when he first held it m his breast. Let me turn back a page and see where it was I left off writing my journal. ***** ^ ^ I did so, and it was more than I could bear at the time. I have had to take another day for this relation, and even now it is bitter enough to recall the feelings with which I put my pen by, so long ago, waiting for Max to come in " at any minute." I waited ten days ; not unhappily, though the last two were somewhat anxious, but it was simply lest any thing might have gone wrong with him or his affau'S, As for liis neglecting or " treating me ill," as Penelope suggested, such a thought never entered my head. How could he treat ^me ill ? — he loved me. The tenth day, which was the end of the term he had named for his journey, I, of course, fully expected him. I knew if by any human power it could be managed, I should see him ; he never would break his word. I rested on his love as surely as in waking from that long sick swoon I had rested on his breast. I knew he would be tender over me, and not let me suffier one more hour's suspense -or pain than he could possibly avoid. It may here seem strange that I had never asked Max where he was going, nor any thing of the business he was going upon. Well, that was his secret, the last secret that was ever to be between us ; so I chose not to interfere with it, but to wait his time. Also, I did not fret much about it, whatever it was. He loved me. People who have been hungry for love, and never had it all their hves, can under- stand the utterly satisfied contentment of this one feeling — Max loved me. At dusk, after staying in all day, I went out, partly be- cause Penelope wished it, and partly for health's sake. I never last a chance of getting strong now. My sister and I walked along silently, each thinking of her own affairs, when, at a turn in the road which led, not from the camp, but from the moorlands, she cried out, " I do believe there is Doctor XJrquhart." If he had not heard his name, I think he would have M 266 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. passed us without knowing us. And the face that met mine, when he looked iip — ^I never shall forget it to my dy- ing day. It made me shrink back for a minute, and then I said : " Oh, Max ! have you been ill ?" " I do not know. Yes — possibly." " When did you come back ?" *"I forget — oh! four days ago." " Were you coming to Rockmount ?" " Rockmount ? — oh, no !" He shuddered, and dropped my hand. " Doctor Urquhart seems in a very uncertain frame of mind," said Penelope, severely, from the other side of the road. " We had better leave him. Come, Dora." She carried me off almost forcibly. She was exceeding- ly displeased. Four days, and nevdl* to have come or Avritten ! She said it was shghting me and insulting the family. " A man, too, of whose antecedents and connections we knew nothing. He may be a mere adventurer — a penni- less Scotch adventurer. Francis always said he was." "Francis is — " But I could not stay to speak of him, or to reply to Penelope's bitter words. All I thought was how to get back to Max, and entreat him to tell me what had happened. He would tell me. He loved me. So, without any feeling of " proper pride," as Penelope called it, I writhed myself out of her grasp, ran back to Doctor Urquhart, and took possession of his arm — my arm — which I had a right to. " Is that you, Theodora ?" " Yes, it is I." And then I said I wanted him to go home with me and tell me what had happened. " Better not ; better go home with your sister." " I had rather stay here. I mean to stay here." He stopped, took both my hands, and forced a smile : " You are the determined little lady you always were ; but you do not know what you are saying. You had better go and leave me." I was sure then some great misery was approaching us. I tried to read it in his face. " Do you — " did he still love me, I was about to ask, but there was no need. So my answer, too, was brief and plain. " I never will leave you as long as I live." Then I ran back to Penelope, and told her I should walk A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 267 home with Doctor Urquhart ; he had something to say to me. She tried anger and authority. Both failed. If we had been summer lovers it might have been different, but now in his trouble I seemed to feel Max's right to me and ray love, as I had never done before. Peneloj)e might have lectured for everlasting, and I should only have hstened, and then gone back to Max's side, as I did. His arm pressed mine close ; he did not say a second time, " Leave me." " i^ow, Max, I want to hear." ^N'o answer. " You know there is something, and Ave shall never be quite happy till it is told. Say it outright ; whatever it is, I shall not mind." 'No answer. " Is it something Very terrible ?" . " Yes." " Something that might come between and part us ?" "Yes." I trembled, though not much, having so strong a belief in the impossibility of parting. Yet there must have been an expression I hardly intended in the cry, " Oh, Max, tell me," for he again stopped suddenly, and seemed to forget himaelf in looking at and thinking of me. " Stay, Theodora — you have something to tell me first. Ai'e you better? Have you been growing stronger daily? You are sm-e ?" " Quite sure. E'ow — tell me." He tried to speak once or twice, vainly. At last he said, " I — I wrote you a letter." " I never got it." " No ; I did not mean you should until my death. But my mind has changed. You shall have it now. I have carried it about with me, on the chance of meeting you, these four days. I wanted to give it to you — and — to look at you. • Oh, my child, my child." After a little while, he gave me the letter, begging me not to open it till I was alone at night. " And if it should shock you — ^break your heart ?" " Nothing will break my heart." *' You are right, it is too pure and good. God will not suffer it to be broken. Now, good-by." For we had reached the gate of Kockmount. It had never struck me before that I had to bjd him adieu here. 268 A LIFE FOE A LIFE. that he did not mean to go in with me to dinner; and when he refused, I felt it very much. His only answer was, for the second time, " that I did not know what I was saying." It was now nearly dark, and so misty that I could hard- ly breathe. Doctor Urquhart insisted on my going in im- mediately, tied my veil close under my chin, and then hastily untied it. " Love, do you love me ?" He has told me afterward, he forgot then, for the time being, every circumstance that was likely to part us ; every thing in the whole world but me. And I trust I was not the only one who felt that it is those alone who, loving as we did, are every thing to one another who have most strength to part. When I came indoors the first person I met was papa, looking quite bright and pleased ; and his first question was, " Where is Doctor Urquhart ? Penelope said Doctor Urquhart was coming here." I hardly know what was done during that evening, or whether they blamed Max or not. All my care was how best to keep his secret, and literally to obey him concern- ing it. Of course, I never named his letter, nor made any at- tempt to read it till I had bidden good-night to them all, and smiled at Penelope's grumbling over my long candles and my large fire, " as if I meant to sit up all night." Yes, I had taken all these precautions in a quiet, solemn kind of way, for I did not know Avhat was before me, and I must not fall ill if I could help. I was Max's own person- al property. How cross she was that night, poor Penelope ! It was the last time she ever scolded me. For some things, Peneloj)e has felt this more than any ^ne could, except papa, for she is the only one of us who has a clear recollection of Harry. jN'ow his name is written and I can tell it — the awful se- cret I learned from Max's letter, which no one except me must ever read. My Max killed Harry. 'Not intentionally — when he was out of himself and hardly accountable for what he did ; in a passion of boyish fury, roused by great cruelty and wrong ; but — ^he killed him. My brother's death, which we believed to be accidental, was by Max's hand. A LIFE rOR A LIFE. 269 I write this down calmly now, but it was awful at the time. I think I must have read on mechanically, expecting something sad, and about Harry likewise ; I soon guessed that bad man at Salisbury must have been poor Harry, but I never guessed any thing near the truth till I came to the words " I murdered him." To suppose one feels a great blow acutely at the instant is a mistake — ^it stuns rather than wounds ; especially when it comes in a letter, read in quiet and alone, as I read Max's letter that night. And — as I remember afterward seeing in some book, and thmking how true it was — ^it is strange how soon a great misery grows familiar. Waking up from the first few minutes of total bewilderment, I seemed to have been aware all these twenty years that my Max killed Harry. O Harry, my brother, whom I never knew — no more than any stranger in the street, and the faint memory of whom was mixed with an indefinite something of Avicked- ness, anguish, and disgrace to us all, if I felt not as I ought, then or afterward, forgive me. If, though your sister, I thought less of you dead than of my living Max — ^my poor, poor Max, who had borne this awful burden for twenty years — Harry, forgive me ! Well, I knew it — as an absolute fact and certainty — though as one often feels- with great personal misfortunes, at first I could not realize it. Gradually I became fully conscious what an overwhelming horror it was, and what a fearful retributive justice had fallen upon papa and us all. For there were some things I had not myself known till this spring, when Penelope, in the fullness of her heart at leaving us, talked to me a good deal of old childish days, and especially about Harry. He was a spoiled child. His father never said him nay in any thing — never, from the time when he sat at table in his own ornamental chair, and drank Champagne out of his own particular glass, lisping toasts that were the great amusement of every body. He never knew what contradic- tion was, till, at nineteen, he fell in love, and wanted to get married, and- would have succeeded, for they eloped (as I believe papa and Harry's mother had done), but papa had prevented them in time. The girl, some village lass, but she might have had a heart nevertheless, broke it, and died. Then Harry went all wroug. Penelope remembers how, at times, a shabby, dissipated 270 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. man used to meet us children out walking, and kiss us and the nursery-maids all round, saying he was our brother Harry. Also, how he used to lie in wait for papa coming out of church, follow him into his library, where, after fear- ful scenes of quarrelmg, Harry would go away jaimtily, laughing to us, and bowing to mamma, who always show- ed liim out and shut the door upon him with a face as white as a sheet. My sister also remembers papa's being suddenly called away from home for a day or two, and, on his return, our bemg all put into mourning, and told that it was for broth- er Harry, whom we must never speak of any more. And once, when she was saying her geography lesson, and want- ed to go and ask papa some questions about Stonehenge and Salisbury, mamma stopped her, saying she must take care never to mention these places to papa, for that poor Harry — she called him so now — ^had died miserably by an acci- dent, and been buried at Salisbury. She died the same year, and soon afterward we came to Rockmount, living handsomely upon grandfather's money, and proud that we had already begun to call ourselves Johnston. Oh me, what wicked falsehoods poor Harry told about his "family." Him we never again named; not one of our neighbors here ever knew that we had a brother. The first shock over, hour after hour of that long night I sat trying by any means to recall him to mind, my fa- ther's son, my own flesh and blood — at least by the half- blood — to pity him, to feel as I ought concerning his death, and the one who caused it. But do as I would, my thoughts went back to Max — as they might have done, even had he not been my own Max, out of deep compassion for one who, not being a premeditated and hardened criminal, had suf- fered for twenty years the penalty of this single crime. It was such, I knew. I did not attempt to palliate it, or justify him. Though poor Harry was worthless, and Max is— what he is — that did not alter the question. I believe, even then, I did not disguise from myself the truth — that my Max had committed, not a fault, but an actual crime. But I called him my Max still. It was the only word that saved me, or I might, as he feared, have "broken my heart." The whole history of that dreadful night, there is no need I should tell to any human being ; even Max himself will never know it. God knows it, and that is enough. By A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 271 my own strength, I never should have kept my life or rear son till the morning. But it was necessary, and it was better far that I should have gone through this anguish alone, guided by no outer influence, and sustained only by that Strength which always comes in seasons hke these. I seem, while stretchmg on the rack of those long night hours, to have been led by some supernatural instinct into the utmost depths of human and divine justice, human and divine love in search of the right. At last I saw it, clung to it, and have found it my rock of hope ever since. When the house below began to stir, I put out my can- dle, and stood watching the dawn creep over the gray moorlands, just as on the morning w^hen we sat up all night with my father — Max and I. How fond my father was of him — my poor, poor father ! The horrible conflict and confusion of mind came back. I felt as if right and wrong were inextricably mixed to- gether, laying me under a sort of moral paralysis, out of which the only escape was madness. Then out of the deeps I cried unto Thee, O Thou whose infinite justice includes also infinite forgiveness ; and Thou heardst me. " IVlien the wicked man tumeth away from his icicTced- ness that he hath comtnitted^ wild doeth that lohich is law- ful and rights he shall save his soul alive.'''' I remembered these words : and unto Thee I trusted my Max's soul. It was daylight now, and the little birds began waking up, one by one, until they broke into a perfect chorus of chirping and singing. I thought, was ever grief like this of mine ? Yes — one grief would have been worse — if, this sunny summer morning, I knevv^ he had ceased to love me, and I to beheve in him — ^if I had lost him — never, either in this world or the next, to find him more. After a little, I thought if I could only go to sleep, though but for half an hour, it would be well. So I undressed and laid myself down, with Max's letter tight hidden in my hands. Sleep came; but it ended in dreadful dreams, out of which I awoke, screaming, to see Penelope standing by my bedside, with my breakfast. Now, I had already laid my plans — ^to tell my father all. For he must be told. No other alternative presented it- self to me as possible — nor, 1 Imew, would it to Max. 272 A LIFE rOK A LIFE. When two people are thoroughly one, each gnesses in- stinctively the other's mind ; in most things, always in all great things, for one faith and love includes also one sense of right. I was as sure as I was of my existence that Max meant my fatherr to be told. Not even to make me happy would he have deceived me — and not even that we might be married, would be consent that we should deceive my father. Thus, that my father must be told, and that I must tell him, was a matter settled and clear — but I never considered about how far must be explained to any one else, till I saw Penelope stand there with her familiar household face, half cross, half alarmed. " Why, child, what on earth is the matter ? Here are you, staring as if you were out of your senses — and there is Doctor tjrquhart, who has been haunting the place like a ghost ever since daylight. I declare, I'll send for him and give him a piece of my mind." " Don't, don't," I gasped, and all the horror returned— vivid as daylight makes any new\ anguish. Penelope soothed me — ^with the motherliness that had come over her since I was ill, and the gentleness that had grown up in her since she had been happy, and Francis lovmg. My miserable heart yearned to her, a woman like myself — a good woman, too, though I did not appreciate her once, when I was young and foolish, and had never known care,, as she had. How it came out I can not tell — I have never regretted it — ^nor did Max, for I think it saved my heart from breaking — ^but I then and there told my sister Penel- ope our dreadful story. I see her still, sitting on the bed, listening with blanched face, gazing, not at me, but at the opposite wall. She made no outcry of grief or horror against Max. She took all in a subdued, quiet way, which I had not expected would have been Penelope's way of bearing a great grief. She hardly said any thing, till I cried with a bitter cry : " Now I want Max. Let me rise and go down, for I must see Max." Then we two women looked at one another pitifully, and my sister — ^my happy sister, who was to be married in a fortnight — took me in her arms, sobbing, " Oh, Dora — my poor, poor child." All this seems years upon years ago, and I can relate it calmly enough till I call to mind that sob of Penelope's. A LIFE FOK A LIFE. 273 Well, what happened next ? I remember Penelope came in when I was dressmg, and told me, in her ordinary man- ner, that papa wished her to drive with him to the Cedars this morning. "Shall I go, Dora?" "Yes." " Perhaps you will see hhn in om- absence." " I intend so." She tm^ned, then came back and kissed me. I suppose she thought this meeting between Max and me w^ould be an eternal farewell. The carriage had scarcely driven off, when I received a message that Doctor Urquhart was in the parlor. Harry — Harry, twenty years dead — my own brother killed by my husband ! Let me acknowledge. Had I known this before he was my betrothed husband, chosen o]3en-eyed, with all my judgment, my conscience-, and my soul, loved, not merely because he loved me, but because I loved him, honored him, and trusted him, so that even marriage could scarcely make us more entirely one than we were already — had I been aware of this before, I might not, indeed I think I never should have loved him. Nature would have mstinctively prevented me. But now it was too late. I loved him, and I could not unlove him ; nature herself forbade the sacrifice. It would have been like tear- ing my heart out of my bosom ; Jie was half myself, and, maimed of him, I should never have been my right self afterward. ^N'or would he. Two living lives to be blasted for one that was taken unwittingly twenty years ago ! Could it — ought it to be so ? The rest of the world are free to be their own judges in the matter, but God and my conscience are mine. I went down stairs steadfastly, with my mind all clear. Even to the last minute, with my hand on the parlor door, my heart — where all throbs of happy love seemed to have been long, long forgotten — my still heart prayed. Max was standing by the fire ; he turned round. He and the whole sunshiny room swam before my eyes for an instant— then I called up my strength and touched him. He was trembling all over. " 3Iax, sit down." He sat down. I knelt by him. I clasped his hands close, but still he sat as if he had been a stone. At last he muttered, " I wanted to see vou just once more, to know how you M2 274 A LIFE FOE A LIFE. bore it — to be sure I had not killed you also — oh, it is hor- rible! homble!" I said it was horrible, but that we would be able to bear it. "Wer " Yes— we." "You can not mean that .^" " I do. I have thought it all over, and I do." Holding me at arm's length, his eyes questioned my in- most soul. "Tell me the truth. It is not pity — ^not merely pity, Theodora?" "Ah! no, no." Without another word the first crisis was passed — every thing which made our misery a divided misery. He opened his arms and took me once more into my own place, where alone I ever really rested, or wish to rest until I die. Max had been very ill, he told me, for days, and now seemed both in body and mind as feeble as a child. For me, my childishness or girlishness, with its ignorance and weakness, was gone forevermore. I have thought since that in all women's deepest loves, be they ever so full of reverence, there enters sometimes much of the motherly element, even as on this day I felt as if I were somehow or other in charge of Max, and a great deal older than he. I fetched a glass of water and made him drink it — ^ba^ed his poor temples and wiped them with my handkerchief — persuaded him to lean back quietly and not speak another word for ever so long. But more than once, and while his head lay on my shoulder, I thought of his mother— my mother who might have been — and how, though she had left him so many years, she must, if she knew of all he had suffered, be glad to knoAv there was at last one woman Avho would, did heaven permit, watch over him through life with the double love of both wife and mother, and who, in any case, would be faithful to him till death. Faithful till death. Yes, I here renewed that vow, and had Harry himself come and stood before me I should have done the same. Look you, any one who, after my death, may read this, there are two kinds of love : one, eager only to get its desire, careless of all risks and costs, in defiance almost of heaven and earth; the other, which in its most desperate longing has strength to say, " If it be A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 275 right and for our good — if it be according to the will of God." This only, I think, is the true and consecrated love, which therefore is able to be faithful till death. Max and I never once spoke about whether or not we should be married ; we left all that in Higher hands. We only felt we should always be true to one another, and that, being what we were, and loving as we did, God him- self could not will that any human will or human justice should put us asunder. This being clear, we set ourselves to meet what was be- fore us. I told him poor Harry's history, so far as I knew it myself; after w^Ird we. began to consider how best the truth could be broken to my father. ...And here let me confess something which Max has long forgiven, but which I can yet hardly forgive myself. Max said, " And when your father is told, he shall decide what next is to be." " How do you mean ?" I cried. " If he requires atonement he must have it, even at the hands of the law." Then, for the first time, it struck me that, though Max was safe so long as he made no confession, for the peculiar circumstances of Harry's death left no other evidence against him, still, this confession, once public (and it was, for had I not told Penelope?), his reputation, liberty, life itself were in the hands of my sister and my father. A horror as of death fell upon me. I clung to him who was my all in this world,, dearer to me than father, mother, brother, or sister; and. I urged that we should both, then and there, fly — escape together any where, to the very ends of the earth, out of reach of justice and my father. I must have been almost beside myself before I thought of such a thing. I hardly knew all it implied, until Max gravely put me from him. " It can not be you who says this. Not Theodora." And suddenly, as unconnected and even incongruous things will flash across one in times like these, I called to mind the scene in my favorite play, w^hen, the alternative being life or honor, the woman says to her lover, " A^o, dieP'' Little I dreamed of ever having to say to my Max almost the same words. I said them, kneehng by him, and imploring his pardon for having wished him to do such a thing even for his safe- ty and my happiness. 21Q A LIFE FOR A LIFE. " We could not have been happy, child," he said, smooth- ing my hair, with a sad, fond smile. " Yon do not know what it is to have a secret weighing like lead npon your soul. Mine feels lighter now than it has done for years. Let us decide ; what hour to-night shall I come here and tell your father?" Saying this, Max turned white to the very lips, but still he comforted me. " Do not be afraid, my child. I am not afraid. ISTothing can be worse than what has been — to me. I was a coward once, but then I was only a boy, hardly able to distinguish right from wrong. Now I see that it would have been better to have told the whole truth at once, and taken all the punishment. It might not have been death, or if it were, I could but have died." "Max, Max!" " Hush !" and he closed my lips so that they could not moan. " The truth is better than life, better even than a good name. When your father knows the truth, all else will be clear. I shall abide by his decision, whatever it be ; he has a right to it. Theodora," his voice faltered, " make , him understand some day that if I had niarried you he nev- er should have wanted a son — your poor father." These were almost the last words Max said on this, the last hour that we were together by ourselves. For min- utes and minutes he held me m his arms silently ; and I shut my eyes, and felt, as if in a dream, the sunshine and the flower-scents, and the loud singing of the two canaries in Penelope's green-house. Then, with one kiss, he put me down softly from my place and left me alone. I have been alon^ ever since; God only knows how alone. The rest I can not tell to-day. CHAPTER XXYH. HIS STOEY. This is the last, probably, of those " letters never sent," which may reach you one day ; when or how we know not. All that is is best. You say you think it advisable that there should be an accurate Avritten record of all that passed between your \ A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 277 family and myself on the final day of parting, in order that no farther conduct of mine may be misconstrued or mis- judged. Be it so. My good name is worth preserving ; for it must never be any disgrace to you that Max Urqu- hart loved you. Since this record is to be minute and literal, perhaps it will be better I should give it impersonally, as a statement rather than a letter. On February 9th, 1857, I went to Rockmount to see Theodora Johnston, for the first time after she was aware that I had, long ago, taken the life of her half-brother, Hen- ry Johnston, not intentionally, but in a fit of drunken rage. I came, simply to look at her dear face once more, and to ask her in what way her father would best bear the shock of this confession of mine, before I took the second step of surrendering myself to justice, or of making atonement in any other way that Mr. Johnston might choose. To him and his family my life was owed, and I left them to. dispose of it or of me in -any manner they thought best. With tliese intentions I went to Theodora. I knew her well. I felt sure she would pity me, that she would not refuse me her forgiveness before our eternal separation; that though the blood upon my hands was half her own, she would not judge me the less justly, or mercifully, or Christianly. As to a Christian woman, I came to her — as I had come once before, in a question of conscience ; also, as to the woman who had been my friend, with all the rights and honors of that name, before she became to me any thing more and dearer. And I was thankful that the lesser tie had been included in the greater, so that both need not be entirely swept away and disannulled. I found not only my friend, upon whom, above all others, I could depend, but my own, my love, the w^oman above all women who was mine ; who, loving me before this blow fell, clung to me still, and, beheving that God Himself had joined us together, suffered nothing to put us asunder. How she made me comprehend this I shall not relate, as it concerns ourselves alone. When, at last, I knelt by her and kissed her blessed hands — my saint ! and yet all wom- an, and all my own — I felt that my sin was covered, that the All-merciful had had mercy upon me. That while all these years I had followed miserably my own method of atonement, denying myself all fife's joys, and cloaking my- self with every possible ray of righteousness I could find, 278 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. He had suddenly led me by another way, sendmg me this child's love, first to comfort and then to smite me, that, be- ing utterly bruised, broken, and humbled, I might be made whole. 1^0 w, for the first time, I felt like a man to whom there is a possibility of being made whole. Her father might hunt me to death, the law might lay hold on me, the fair reputation under which I had shielded myself might be torn and scattered to the winds ; but for all that I was safe, I was myself, the true Max Urquhart, a grievous sinner ; yet no longer unforgiven or hopeless. " I came not to call the righteous^ hut sinners to repent- aneeP That line struck home. Oh ! that I could strike it home to every miserable heart as it went to mine. Oh ! that I could carry into the uttermost corners of the earth the mes- sage, the gospel which Dallas believed in, the only one which has power enough for the redemption of this sor- rowful world — the gospel of the forgiveness and remission of sins. While she talked to me — this my saint, Theodora — ^Dal- las himself might have spoken, apostle -like, through her lips. She said, when I listened in wonder to the clearness of some of her arguments, that she hardly knew how they had come into her mind, they seemed to come of them- selves ; but they were there, and she was sure they were true. She was sure, she added, reverently, that, if the> Christ of N^azareth were to pass by Rockmount door this day, the only Avord he would say unto me, after all I had done, would be, " Thy sins are forgiven thee — rise up and walk." And I did so. I went out of the house an altered man. My burden of years had been lifted off me forever and ever. I understood something of what is meant by being " born again." I could dimly guess at what they must have felt who sat at the Divine feet, clothed and in their right mind, or who, across the sunny plains of Galilee, leaped, and walk- ed, and ran, praising God. I crossed the moorland, walking erect, with eyes fixed on the blue sky, my heart tender and young as a child's. I even stopped, childlike, to pluck a stray primrose under a tree in a lane, which had peeped out, as if it wished to in- vestigate how soon spring would come. It seemed to me so pretty — I might never have seen a primrose since I was a boy. A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 279 Let me relate the entire truth. — she wishes it. Strange as it may appear, though hour by hour brought nearer the time when I had fixed to be at Rockmount, to confess unto a father that I had been the slayer of his only son — still that day was not an unhappy day. I spent it chiefly out of doors on the moorlands, near a wayside public-house, where I had lodged some nights, drinking in large draughts of the beauty of this external world, and feeling even outer life sweet, though nothing to that renewed hfe which I now should never lose again. I^ever — even if I had to go next day to prison and trial, and stand before the world a con- victed homicide. ISTay, I believe I could have mounted the scaffold amid those gaping thousands that were once my terror, and die peacefully in spite of them, feeling no longer either guilty or afraid. So much for myself, which will explam a good deal that followed in the interview which I have now to relate. Theodora had wished to save me by herself explaining all to her father ; but I would not allow this, and at length she yielded. However, things fell out differently from both our intentions : he learned it first from his daughter Penel- ope. The moment I entered his study I was certain Mr. Johnston knew. Let no sinner, however healed, deceive himself that his wound will nesv^er smart again. HI is not instantly made a jiew man of, whole and sound ; he must grow gradually, even through many a returning pang, into health and cure. If any one thinks I could stand in the presence of that old man w^ithout an anguish sharp as death, which made me for the moment wish I had never been born, he is mistaken. But alleviations came. The first was to see the old man sitting there alive and well, though evidently fully aware of the truth, and having been so for some time, for his coun- tenance was composed, his tea was placed beside hmi on the table, and there was an open Bible before him, in which he had been reading. His voice, too, had nothing unnat- ural or alarming in it, as, without looking at me, he bade the maid-servant " give Doctor Urquhart a chair, and say, if any one interrupted, that we were particularly engaged." So the door was shut upon us, leaving us face to face. But it was not long before he raised his eyes to him. It is enough, once in a lifetime, to have borne such a look. "Mr. Johnston" — but he shut his ears. " Do not speak," he said ; " what you have come to tell 280 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. me I know already. My daughter told me this morning. And I have been trying ever since to find out what my Clmrch says to the shedder of blood ; what she would teach a father to say to the murderer of his child. My Harry, my only son ! And you murdered him !" Let the words which followed be sacred. If in some de- gree they were unjust, and overstepped the truth, let me not dare to murmur. I believe the curses he heaped upon me in his own words and those of the Holy Book, will not come, for its other and diviner words, which his daughter taught me, stand as a shield between me and him. I re- peated them to myself in my silence, and so I was able to endure. When he paused and commanded me to speak, I answer- ed only a few words, namely, that I was here to offer my life for his son's Hfe; that he might do with me what he would. " Which means that I should give you up to justice, have you tried, condemned, executed. You, Doctor Urquhart, whom the world thinks so well of. I might live to see you hanged." His eyes glared, his whole frame was convulsed. I en- treated him to calm himself, for his own health's sake, and the sake of his children. " Yes^I will. Old as I am, this shall not kill me. I will live to exact retribution. My boy, my poor, murdered Har-^ ry — ^murdered — murdered." He kept repeating and dwelling on the word, till at length I said : " If you know the whole truth, you must be aware that I had no intention to murder him." " What, you extenuate ? You wish to escape ? But you shall not. I will have you arrested now, in this very house." "Beit so, then." And I sat down. So, the end had come. Life, and all its hopes, all its work, were over for me. I saw, as in a second of time, ev- ery thing that was coming — the trial, the conviction, the newspaper clatter over my name, my ill deeds exaggerated, my good deeds pointed at with the finger of scorn, which perhaps was the keenest agony of all — save one. "Theodora!" Whether I uttered her name, or only thought it, I can not tell. However, it brought her. I felt she was in the A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 281 room, though she stood by her sister's side, and did not ap- proach me. Again, I repeat, let no man say that sm does not bring its wages, Avhich 7nust be paid. Whosoever doubts it, I would he could sit as I sat, watching the faces of father and daughters, and thinking of the dead face which lay against my knee, that midnight, on Salisbury plain. " Children," I heard Mr. Johnston saying, " I have sent for you to be my witnesses in what I am about to do. Not out of personal revenge — which were unbecoming a clergyman — but because God and man exact retribution for blood. There is the man who murdered Harry. Though he were the best friend I ever had, though I esteemed him ever so much — which I did — still, discovering this, I must have retribution. " How, father ?" Kot Jier voice, but her sister's. Let me do full justice to Penelope Johnston. Though it was she who told my secret to her father, she did it out of no malice. As I afterward learned, chance led their con- versation into such a channel that she could only escape betraying the truth by a direct lie. And with all her harsh- nesses, the prominent feature of her character is its truth- fulness, or rather its abhorrence of falsehood. ISTay, her fierce scorn of any kind of duplicity is such, that she con- founds the crime with the cruninal, and, once deceived, nev- er can forgive — as in the matter of Lydia Cartwright, my acquaintance with which gave me this insight into Miss Johnston's peculiarity. Thus, though it fell to her lot to betray my confession, I doubt not she did so with most literal accuracy; acting toward me neither as a friend nor foe, but simply as a re- later of facts. ]^or was there any personal enmity toward me in her question to her father. It startled him a little. " How, did you say ? By the law, I conclude. There is no other way." " And if so, what will be the result ? I mean what will be done to him ?" " I can not tell — how should I ?" " Perhaps I can, for I have thought over and studied the question all day," answered Miss Johnston, still in the same cold, clear, impartial voice. " He will be tried, of course. I find from your ' Taylor on Evidence,' father, that a man can b.e tried and convicted, solely on his own confession. 282 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. But in this case, there being no corroborating proof, and all having happened so long ago, it will scarcely prove a capital crime. I believe no jury would give a stronger ver- dict than manslaughter. He will be imprisoned, or trans- ported beyond seas ; where, with his good character, he Avill soon work his liberty, and start afresh in another coun- try, in spite of us. This, I think, is the common-sense view of the matter." Astonished as Mr. Johnston looked, he made no reply. His daughter continued : " And for this you and we shall have the credit of hav- ing had arrested in our own house a man who threw himself on our mercy ; who, though he concealed, never denied his guilt; who never deceived us in any way. The moment he discovered the whole truth, dreadful as it was, he never shirked it, nor hid it from us, but told us outright, risking all the consequences. A man, too, against whom, in his whole life, we can prove but this one crime." " What, do you take his part ?" "l!»^o," she said; "I wish he had died before he set foot in this house — ^for I remember Harry. But I see also that, after all this lapse of years, Harry is not the only person whom we ought to remember." " I remember nothing but the words of this Book," cried the old man, letting his hand dro]3 heavily upon it. '" Who- so slieddeth inaiiUs blood, by man shall his blood be shed.'' What have you to say for yourself, murderer .^" All this time, faithful to her promise to me, she had not interfered— she, my love, who loved me; but when she heard him call me that, she shivered all over, and looked to- ward me. A pitiful, entreating look, but, thank God, there was no doubt in it — not the shadow of change. It nerved me to reply what I will here record, by her desire and for her sake. " Mr. Johnston, I have this to say. It is written, ' Who- so hateth his brother is a murderer,' and in that sense I am one — for I did hate him at the time — ^but I never meant to kill him ; and the moment afterward I would have given my life for his. If now my death could restore him to you, alive again, how willingly I would die." " Die, and face your Maker ? an impardoned man-slayer, a lost soul ?" " Whether I live or die," said I, humbly, "J trust my soul is not lost. I have been very guilty ; but I beligve in A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 283 One who broiiglit to every sinner on earth the gospel of repentance and remission of sins." At this, burst out the anathema — not merely of the fa- ther, but the clergyman — who mingled the Jewish doctrine of rembutive vengeance during this hfe with the Christian behei of rewards and punishments after death, and con- founded the Mosaic gehenna with the Calvinistic heU. I wiU not record all this — it was very terrible : but he only spoke as he believed, and as many earnest Christians do believe. I think, in aU humihty, that the Master Himself preached a different gospel. I saw it shining out of her eyes — ^my angel of peace and pardon. O Thou from whom all love comes, was it impious if the love of this Thy creature toward one so wretched should come to me like an assurance of Thine ? At length her father ceased speaking, took up a pen, and began hastily writing. Miss Johnston went and looked* over his shoulder. " Papa, if that is a warrant you are making out, better think twice about it, for, as a magistrate, you can not re- tract. Should you send Doctor Urquhart to trial, you must be prepared for the whole truth to come out. He must tell it, or if he calls Dora and me as witnesses — she having already his written confession in full — ^oe must." " You must tell— what ?" "The provocation Doctor Urquhart received; how Har- ry enticed him — a lad of nineteen — to drink, made him mad, and taunted him. Every thing will be made public ; how Harry was so degraded that from the hour of his death we wQre thankful to forget that he had ever existed ; how he died as he had lived, a boaster, a coward, sponging upon any one from whom he could get money, using his talents only to his shame, devoid of one spark of honesty, honor, and generosity. It is shocking to have to say this of one's own brother ; but, father, you know it is the truth, and as such it must be told." Amazed I listened to her — ^this eldest sister, who I knew disliked me. Her father seemed equally surprised, until at length her arguments apparently struck him With uneasiness. " Have you any motive in arguing thus ?" said he, hur- riedly and not without agitation : " why do you do it, Pe- nelope ?" "A little on my own account, th*ough the great scandal 284 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. and publicity will not much affect Francis and me ; we shall soon be out of England ; but for the family's sake — for Harry's sake — when all his wickednesses and our miseries have been safely covered up these twenty years — consider, fother !" She stung him deeper than she knew. I had guessed it before, when I was almost a stranger to him, but now the whole history of that old man's life was betrayed in one groan which burst from the very depth of the father's soul. " Eli, the priest of the Lord — his sons made themselves vile, and he restrained them not ; therefore they died in one day, both of them. It was the will of the Lord." The respectful silence which ensued no one dared to break. ' He broke it himself at last, pointing to the door : " Go, murderer, or man-slayer, or whatever you are ! you must *go free. Moreover, I must have your promise — no, your oath — that the secret you have kept so long you will now keep forever." " Sir," I said, but he stopped me fiercely. " 'No hesitations — no explanations — I will have none, and give none. As you said, your life is mine, to do with it as I choose. Better you should go unpunished than that I and mine should be disgraced. Obey me. Promise." I did. Thus, in another and still stranger way, my resolutions were broken, my fate was decided for me, and I have to keep this secret unconfessed to the end. " Now go. Put half the earth between us, if you can — only go." Again I turned to obey. Blind obedience seemed the only duty left me. I might even have quitted the house with a feeling of total irresponsibility and indifference to all things, had it not been for a Ioav cry which I heard as in a dream. So did her father. " Dora — ^I had forgotten — there was some sort of fancy between you and Dora. Daughter, bid ]iim farewell, and let him go." Then she said — my love said, in her own soft, distinct voice — " IsTo, papa, I never mean to bid him farewell — that is, finally — never as long as I live." Her father and sister were both so astounded that at first they did not interrupt her, but let her speak on. "I belonged to Maxbefore all this happened. If it had A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 285 happened a year ]^ence, when I was his wife, it would not have broken onr marriage. It ought not now. When any two people are to one another what we are, they are as good as married ; and they have no right to part, no more than man and wife have, nnless either grows wicked, or both change. I never mean to part from Max Urqii- hart." She spoke meekly, standing with hands folded and head drooping, but as still and steadfast as a rock. My darling — my darling ! Steadfast ! She had need to be. What she bore dur- ing the next few minutes she would not wish me to repeat, I feel sure. She knows it, and so do I. She knows also that every stab with which I then saw her wounded for my sake is counted in my heart as a debt, to be paid one day, if between those who love there can be any debts at all. She says not. Yet, if ever she is my w^ife — People talk of dying for a woman's sake — but to live — ^live for her vnth the whole of one's being — to work for her, to sustain and cheer her, to fill her daily existence with tenderness and care — ^if ever she is my wife, she will find out what I mean. After saying all he could well say, Mr. Johnston asked her how she dared think of me — ^me, laden with her broth- er's blood and her father's curse. She turned deadly pale, but never faltered. " The cm'se causeless shall not come," she said, "for the blood upon his hand — whether it were Harry's or a stranger's makes no difierence — it is washed out. He has repented long ago. If God has forgiven him and helped him to be what he is, and lead the life he has led all these years, why should I not forgive him ? And if I forgive, why not love him ? And if I love him, vv^hy break my promise, and refuse to marry him ?" " Do you mean, then, to marry him ?" said her sister. " Some day — if he wishes it — yes !" From this time, I myself hardly remember what passed ; I can only see her standing there, her sweet face white as death, making no moan, and answering nothing to any ac- cusations that were heaped upon her, excej^t when she was commanded to give me up, entirely and forever and ever. " I can not, father. I have no right to do it. I belong to him ; he is my husband." At last. Miss Johnston said to me — rather gently than 286 A LIFE FOR A LIFF. not, for her : " I think, Doctor Urquhar^, you had better go." My love looked toward m \ and afterward at her poor father ; she too said, " Yes, Max, go." And then they wanted her to promise she would never see me, nor write to me ; but she refused. " Father, I will not marry him for ever so long, if you choose — ^but I can not forsake him. I must write to him. I am his very own, and he has only me. Oh, papa, think of yourself and my mother." And she sobbed at his knees. He must have thought of Harry's mother, iiot hers, for this exclamation only hardened him. Then Theodora rose, and gave me her little hand. " It can hold firm, you will find. You have my promise. But w^hether or no, it would have been all the same. ^N'o love is worth having that could not, with or without a promise, keep true till death. You may trust me. Now, good-by. Good-by, my Max." With that one clasp of the hand, that one look into her fond faithful eyes, we parted. I have never seen her since. * * * * * This statement, which is as accurate as I can make it, except in the case of those voluntary omissions which I be- lieve you yourself would have desired, I here seal up, to be delivered to you with those other letters in case I should die while you are still Theodora Johnston. I have also made my will, leaving you all my effects, and appointing you my sole executrix ; putting you, in short, in exactly the same position as if you had been my wife. This is best, in order that by no chance should the secret ooze out through any guesses of any person not connected mth your family; also because I think it is what you would wish yourself You said truly, I have only you. Another word, which I do not name in my ordinary let- ters, lest I might grieve you by what may prove to be only a fancy of mine. Sometimes, in the hard Avork of this my life here, I begin to feel that I am no longer a young man, and that the re- action after the great strain, mental and bodily, of the last few months, has left me not so strong as I used to be. 'Not that I think I am about to die, far from it. I have a good constitution, which has worn well yet, and may wear on for some time, though not forever, and I am nearly fifteen years older than you. A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 287 It is very possible that before any change can come, I may leave you, never a wife, and yet a widow. Possible, among the numerous fatalities of life, that we may never be married — never even see one another agam. Sometimes, when I see two young people married and happy, taking it all as a matter of course, scarcely even recognizing it as happiness — just like Mr. and Mrs. Tre- herne, who hunted me out lately, and insisted on my visit- ing them — I think of you and me, and it seems very bitter, and I look on the future with less faith than fear. It might not be so if I could see you now and then — ^but oftentimes this absence feels like death. Theodora, if I should die before we are married, with- out any chance of writing down my last words, take them here. iN'o, they will not come. I can but crush my lips upon this paper— only thy name, not thee, and call thee "my love, my love !" Remember, I loved thee — all my soul was full of the love of thee. It made life happy, earth beauti- ful, and Heaven nearer. It w^as with me day and night, in Avork or rest — as much a part of me as the hand I write with, or the breath I draw. I never thought of myself, but of " us." I never prayed but I prayed for two. Love, my love, so many miles away — O my God, why not grant me a little happiness before I die ! Yet, as once I wrote before, and as she says always in all things, Thy will he done. CHAPTER XXYIH. HER STOEY. Friday night. Mt dear Max, — You have had your Dominical letter, as you call it, so regularly, that you must know all our do- ings at Rockmount almost as well as ourselves. If I write foolishly, and tell you all sorts of trivial things, perhaps some of them twice over, it is just because there is nothing else to tell. But, trivial or not, I have a feeling that you like to hear it — you care for every thing that concerns me. So, first, in obedience to orders, I am quite well, even though my handwriting is " not so pretty as it used to be." Do not fancy the hand shakes, or is nervous or uncertain. 288 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. Not a bit of it. I am never nervous, nor weak either — now. Sometimes, perhaps, being only a woman after all, I feel things a little more keenly than I ought to feel ; and then, not being good at concealment, at least not with you, this fact peeps out in my letters. For the home-life has its cares, and I feel very weary sometimes — and then, I have not you to rest upon — visibly, that is — though in my heart I do always. But I am quite well. Max, and quite content. Do not doubt it. He who has led us through this furnace of affliction, will lead us safely to the end. You will be glad to hear that papa is every day less and less cold to me — poor papa ! Last Sunday he even walked home from church with me, talking about general subjects, hke his old self, almost. Penelope has been always good and kind. You ask if they ever name you ? l^o. Life at Rockmount moves slowly, even in the midst of marriage preparations. PeneloiDC is getting a large store of wedding presents. Mrs. Granton brought a beautiful one last night from her son Colin. I was glad you had that long friendly letter from Colin Granton — glad also that, his mother having let out the secret about you and me, he was generous enough to tell you himself that other secret, which I never told. Well, your guess was right ; it was so. But I could not help it ; I did not know it. For me — ^how could any girl, feeling as I then did toward you, feel any thing toward any other man but the merest kindhness ? That is all : we wiU nev- er say another word about it; except that I wish you al- ways to be specially kind to Colin, and to do him good whenever you can — ^he was very good to me. Life at Rockmount, as I said, is dull. I rise sometimes, go through the day, and go to bed at night, wondering what I have been doing dm^ing all these hours. And I do not always sleep soundly though so tired. Perhaps it is l^artly the idea of Penelope's going away so soon; far away, across the sea, with no one to love her and take care of her, save Francis. * Understand, this is not with any pitying of my sister for what is a natural and even a happy lot, which no woman need complain of; but simply because Francis is Francis — accustomed to think only of himself, and for himself It may be different when he is married. He was staying with us here a week ; during which I A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 289 noticed him more closely than in his former fly-away visits. When one hves in the house with a person — a dull house, too, hke ours, how wonderfully odds and ends of character " crop out," as the geologists say. Do you remember the weeks when you were almost continually in our house? Francis had what we used then to call "the doctor's room." He was pleasant and agreeable enough, when it pleased him to be so ; but, for all that, I used to say to myself, twenty times a day, " My dear Max !" This merely implies that by a happy dispensation of Providence, I, Theodora Johnston, have not the least de- sire to appropriate my sister's husband, or, indeed, either of my sisters' husbands. By-the-by — -in a letter from Augustus to papa, which reached me through Penelope, he names his visit to you. I am glad — glad he should show you such honor and affec- tion, and that they all should see it. Do not give up the Trehernes; go there sometimes — for my sake. There is no reason why you should not. Papa knows it; he also knows I wiite to you — but he never says a word one way or other. We must wait — wait and hope — or rather trust. As you say, the difference between young and older people is, the one hopes, the other trusts, I seem, from your description, to have a clear idea of the jail, and the long, barren, breezy flat amid which it lies, with the sea in the distance, I often sit and think of the view outside, and of the dreary inside, where you spend so many hours; the corridors, the exercise yards, and the cells ; also your own two rooms, which you say are almost as silent and solitary, except when you come m and flnd my letter waiting you. I wish it was me ! — ^pardon gram- mar — ^but I wish it was me — this living me. Would you be glad to see me ? Ah ! I know. Look! I am not going to write about ourselves — it is not good for us. We know it all ; we know our hearts are nigh breaking sometimes — mine is. But it shall not. We will Ave and wait. What was I telling you about? oh, Francis. WeU, Francis spent a whole week at Rockmount, by papa's special desire, that they might discuss business arrange- ments, and that li^ might see a httle more of his intended son-in-law than he has done of late years. Business was soon dispatched — papa gives none of us any money during his lifetime ; what will come to us afterward we have never 290 A LIFE YOR A LIFE. thought of inquinng. Francis did, though — which some- what hurt Penelope — but he accounted for it by his being so " poor." A relative phrase ; why, I should think £500 a year, certain, a mine of riches — and all to be spent upon himself. But, as he says, a single man has so many inevi- table expenses, especially when he lives in society, and is the nephew of Sir William Treherne, of Treherne Court. All " circumstances !" Poor Francis ; whatcA'^er goes wrong he is sure to put between himself and blame the shield of " circumstances." Now, if I were a man, I would fight the world bare-fronted, anyhow. One would but be killed at last. Is it wrong of me to write to you so freely about Fran- cis ? I hope not. All mine are yours, and yours mine ; you know their faults and virtues as well as I do, and will judge them equally, as we ought to judge those who, what- ever they are, are permanently our own. I have tried hard, this time, to make a real brother of Francis Charteris ; and he is, for many things, exceedingly likable — ^nay, lov- able. I see, sometimes, clearly enough, the strange charm which has made Penelope so fond of him all these years. Whether, besides loving him, she can trust him — can look on his face and feel that he would not deceive her for the world — can believe every line he writes, and every word he utters, and know that whatever he does, he will do simply from his sense of right, no meaner motive interfer- ing — oh. Max, I would give much to be certain Penelope had this sort of love for her future husband ! Well, they have chosen their lot, and must make the best of one another. Every body must, you know. Heigho ! what a homily I am giving you, instead of this week's history, as usual — from Saturday to Saturday. The first few days there really was nothing to tell. Francis and Penelope took walks together, paid visits, or sat in the parlor talking — ^not banishing me, however, as they used to do when they were young. On Wednesday, Francis went up to London for the day, and brought back that important article, the wedding-ring. He tried it on at supper-time, with a diamond keej)er, which he said would be just the thing for " the governor's lady." " Say wife at once," grumbled I, and complained of the modern fashion of slurring over that word, the dearest and sacredest in the language. " Wife, then," whispered Francis, holding the ring on my sister's finger, and kissing it. A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 291 Tears started to Penelope's eyes ; in her agitation she looked almost like a girl again, I thought ; so infinitely- happy. But 'Francis, never happy, muttered bitterly sojie regret for the past, some wish that they had been married years ago. Why were they not ? It was partly his fault, I am sure. The day after this he left, not to return till he comes to take her away finally. In the mean while he will have enough to do, paying his adieux to his grand friends, and his bills to his tradespeople, j^rior to closing his bachelor estabhshment forever and aye — how glad he must be ! He seemed glad, as if with a sense of relief that all was settled, and no room left for hesitation. It costs Francis such a world of trouble to make up his own mind — which trouble Penelope will save him for the future. He took leave of her with great tenderness, calling her " his good, faithful girl," and vowing — which one would think was quite unnecessary under the circumstances — to be faithful to her all the days of his life. That night, when she came into my room, Penelope sat a long time on my bed talking ; chiefly of old days, when she and Francis were boy and girl together — how handsome he was,, and how clever — till she seemed almost to forget the long interval between. Well, they are both of an age — time runs equally with each ; she is at least no more altered than he. Here, I ought to tell you something, referrmg to that which, as we agreed, we are best not speaking of, even be- tween .ourselves. It is all over and done — cover it over, and let it heal. My dear Max, Penelope confesses a thing for which I am very sorry, but it can not be helped now. I told you they never name you here. Not usually, but she did that night. Just as she was leaving me, she ex- claimed, suddenly : " Dora, I have broken my promise — Francis knows about Doctor Urquhart." "What!" I cried. "Don't be terrified — not the whole. Merely that he wanted to marry you, but that papa found out he had done something wrong in his youth, and so forbade you to think of him." I asked her, was she sure no more had escaped her? 292 A LIFli; ¥011 A LIFE. Not that I feared much : Penelope is literally accurate, and scrupulously straightforward in all her words and w^ays. But still, Francis being a little less so than she, might have questioned her. " So he did, and I refused point-blank to tell him, saying it would be a breach of trust. He was very angry; jeal- ous, I think," and she smiled, " till I informed him tliat it was not my own secret — all my own secrets I had invaria- bly told him, as he me. At which, he said, ' Yes, of course,' and the matter ended. Are you annoyed ? Do you doubt Francis's honor ?" " ISTo. For all that, I have felt anxious, and I can not choose btiit tell Max ; partly because he has a right to all my anxieties, and, also, that he may guard against any pos- sibility of harm. None is likely to come though ; we will not be afraid." Augustus, in his letter, says how highly he hears you spoken of in Liverpool already ; how your duties at the jail are the least of your work, and that whatever you do, or wherever you go, you leave a good influence behind you. These were his very words. I was proud, though I knew it all before. He says you are looking thin, as if you were overworked. Max, my Max, take care. Give all due energy to the work you have to do, but remember me likewise; remember what is mine. I think, perhaps you take too long walks between the town and the jail, and that may be the pris- oners themselves get far better and more regular meals than the doctor does. See to this, if you please, Doctor Urquhart. Tell me more about those poor prisoners, in whom you take so strong an interest — your spiritual as Avell as medical hospital. And give me a clearer notion of your doings in the towm, your practice and schemes, your gratis patients, dispensaries and so on. Also, Augustus said you were em- ployed in drawing up reports and statistics about reforma- tories, and on the general question now so much discussed : What is to be done with our criminal classes ? How busy you must be ! Can not I help you ? Send me your MSS. to copy. Give me some work to do. Max, do you remember our talk by the pond-side, when the sun was setting, and the hills looked so still, and soft, and blue ? I was there the other day, and thought it all over. Yes, I could have been happy, even in the solitary A LITE FOR A LIFE. 293 life we both then looked forward to, but it is better to be- long to yon as I do now. God bless yon and kee]3 yon safe ! Yours, TlIEODOEA. P.S. — ^I leave a blank page to fill up after Penelope and I come home. We are going into to\\Ti together early to- morrow, to inquire about the character of the lady's maid that is to be taken abroad, but Ave shall be back long be- fore post-time. However, I have written all this over- night to make sure. Sunday. P.S. — You will have missed your Sunday letter to-day, which vexes me sore. But it is the first time you have ever looked for a letter and " wanted" it, and I trust it will be the last. Ah! now I understand a little of what Penel- ope must have felt, looking day after day for Francis's let- ters, which never came ; hoAV every morning before post- time she would go about the house as bhthe as a lark, and afterward turn cross and disagreeable, and her face would settle into the sharp, hard-set expression, which made her look so old even then. Poor Penelope ! if she could have trusted him the while, it might have been otherwise — men's ways and lives are so different from women's — ^but it is this love without perfect trust which has been the sting of Pe- nelope's existence. I try to remember this when she makes me feel angry mth her, as she did on Saturday, It was through her fault you missed your Sunday letter. You know I always post them myself in the town ; our village post-oflice would soon set all the neighbors chatter- ing about you and me ; and, besides, it is pleasant to walk through the quiet lanes we both know well with Max's let- ter in my hand, and think that it will be in his hand to- morrow. For this I generally choose the time when papa rests before dinner, with one or other of us reading to him ; and Penelope has hitherto, without saying any thing, always taken my place and set me free on a Saturday — a kindness I felt more than I expressed many a time. But to-day she was unkind — shut herself up in her room the instant we returned from town ; then papa called me and detained me till after post-time. So you lost your letter ; a small thing, you will say, and this was a foolish girl to vex herself so much about it, es- 294 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. pecially as she can make it longer and more interesting by details of our adventures in town yesterday. It was not altogether a pleasant day, for something hap- pened about the servant which I am sure annoyed Penel- ope ; nay, she being overtired and overexerted already, this new vexation, whatever it was, made her quite ill for the time, though she would not allow it, and, when I A^entured to question, bade me, sharply, " let her alone." You know Penelope's ways, and may have seen them reflected in me sometimes. I am afraid. Max, that, however good we may be (of coiirse !), we are not exactly what would be termed " an amiable family." We were amiable when w^e started, however : my sister and I went up to town quite merriiy. I am merry some- times, in spite of all things. You see, to have every one that belongs to one happy and prosj)erous is a great element in one's personal content. Other people's troubles Aveigh heavily, because we never know exactly how they will bear them, and because, at best, we can only sit by and watch them suiFer, so little help being possible after all. But our own troubles we can always bear. • You will understand all I mean by " our own." I am often very sad for you. Max ; but never afraid for you, never in doubt about you, not for an instant. There is no sting, even in my saddest thought, concerning you. I trust you ; I feel certain that whatever you do you will do right — that all you have to endure will be borne nobly and bravely. Thus I may grieve over your griefs, but never over you. My love of you, like my faith in you, is above all grieving. Forgive this long digression ; to-day is Sun- day, the best day in all the week, and my day for thinking most of you. To return. Penelope and I were both merry as we started by the very earliest train in the soft May mornmg, we had so much business to get through. Yotc can't un- derstand it, of course, so I omit it, only confiding to you our last crowning achievement — the dress. It is white moire antique ; Doctor Urquhart has not the slightest idea what that is, but no matter ; and it has lace flounces half a yard deep, and it is altogether a most splendid afiair. But the governor's lady — I beg my own j)ardon — the governor's wife must be magnificent, you know. It was the mantua-maker, a great West-end personage employed by the grand family to whom, by Francis's ad- A LIFE FOE A LIFE. ' 295 vice, Lydia Cartwright was sent some years ago (by-the-by, I met Mrs. Cartwright to-day, wlio asked after you, and sent her duty, and wished you would know that she had heard from Lydia) — this mantua-maker it was who recom- mended the lady's maid, Sarah Enfield, who had once been a workwoman of her own. We saw the person, who seem- ed a decent young woman, but delicate-looking ; said her health was injured by the long hours of millinery- work, and that she should have died, she thought, if a friend of hers, a kind young woman, had not taken her in and helped her. She was lodging with this friend now. On the whole, Sarah Enfield sufiiciently pleased us to make my sister decide on engaging her, if only Francis could see her first. We sent a message to his lodgings, 'and were considerably surprised to have the answer that he was not at home, and had not been for three weeks; indeed, he hardly ever was at home. After some annoy- ance, Penelope resolved to make her decision without him. . Hardly ever at home ! What a lively life Francis must lead ! I wonder he does not grow weary of it. Once he half owned he was, but added, " that he must float with the stream — it was too late now — ^he could not stop himself." Penelope will, though. As we drove through the Park to the address Sarah En- field had given us — somewhere about Kensington — Penel- ope wishing to see the girl once again and engage her — my sister observed, in answer to my remark, that Francis must liave many invitations, " Of course he has. It shows how much he is liked and respected. It will be the same abroad. We shall gather round us the very best society in the island. Still he will find it a great change from London." I wonder is she at all afraid of it, or suspects that he once was ? that he shrank from being thrown altogether upon his wife's society, like the Frenchman who declined marry- ing a lady he had long visited because " where should he spend his evenings ?" Oh, me ! what a heart-breaking thing to feel that one's husband needed somewhere to spend his evenings. We drove past Holland Park ; what a bonnie place it is (as you would say) ; how full the trees were of green leaves and birds. I don't know where we went next — I hardly know any thing of London, thank goodness ! — but it was a pretty, quiet neighborhood, Avhere we had the greatest dif- 296 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. iiculty in finding the house we wanted,, and, at last, had re- course to the post-office. The post-mistress, who was rather grim — "knew the place, that is, the name of the party as lived there, which was all she cared to know. She called herself Mrs. Chay- tor, or Chater, or something like it," which we decided must be Sarah Enfield's charitable friend, and accordingly drove thither. It was a small house, a mere cottage, set in a pleasant little garden, through the palings of which I saw walking about a young woman with a child in her arms. She had on a straw hat with a deep lace fall that hid her face, but her figure was very graceful, and she was extremely well dressed. Nevertheless, she looked not exactly " the lady.'* Also, hearing the gate bell, she called out, " Ai-riet," in no lady's voice. Penelope glanced at her and then sharply at me. "I wonder — " she began, but stopped — told me to re- main in the carriage while she went in, and she would fetch me if she wanted me._ But she did not. Indeed, she hardly staid two minutes. I saw the young woman run hastily in-doors, leaving her child — such a j)i-etty boy ! screaming after his " mammy" — and Penelope came back, her face the color of scarlet. " What ? Is it a mistake ?" I asked. " No — yes," and she gave the order to drive on. Agaui I inquired if any thing Avere the matter, and was answered, " Nothing^nothing that I could imderstand." After which she sat with her veil down, cogitating, till all of a sudden she sprang up as if some one had given her a stab at her heart. I was quite terrified, but she again told me it was nothing, and bade me "let her alone ;" which, as you know, is the only thing one can do with my sister Pe- nelope^ But at the railway station we met some people we knew, and she was forced to talk ; so that by the time we reached Rockmount she seemed to have got over her annoyance, whatever it was, concerning Sarah Enfield, and was herself again. That is, herself in one of those moods when, wheth- er her ailment be mental or physical, the sole chance of its passing away is, as she says, " to leave her alone." I do not say this is not trying — doubly so now, when, just as she is leaving, I seem to understand my sister bet- ter and love her more than ever I did in my life. But I A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 297 have learned at last not to break my heart over the pecnl- iarities of those I care for, but try to bear with them as they must with mine, of which I have no lack, goodness knows ! I saw a letter to Francis in the post-bag this morning, so I hope she has relieved her mind by giving hun the ex- planation which she refused to me. It must have been some deception practiced on her by this Sarah Enfield, and Penelope never forgives the smallest deceit. She was either too much tired or too much annoyed to appear iigain yesterday, so papa and I spent the afternoon and evening alone. But she went to church with us as wsual to-day, looking pale and tired, the ill mood — "the little black clog on her shoulder," as we used to call it — not having quite vanished. Also, I noticed an absent expression in her eyes, and her voice in the responses was less regular than usual. Perhaps she was thinking this would almost be her last Sunday of sitting in the old pew, and looking up to papa's white hair, and her heart being fuller, her lij)S v/ere more silent than usual. You will not mind my writing so much about my sister Penelope? You like me to talk to you of what is about me and uppermost in my thoughts, which is herself at pre- sent. She has been very good to me, and Max loves every one whom I love, and every one who loves me. I shall have your letter to-morrow mornmg. Good-night ! Theodoea. CHAPTER XXIX. HIS STOET. My dear Theodoea, — This is a line extra, written on receipt of yours, which was most welcome. I feared some- thing had gone wrong with my httle methodical girl. Do not keep strictly to your Dominical letter just now ; write any day that you can. Tell me every thing that is happening to you — you must, and ought. Nothing must occur to you or yours that I do not know. You are mine. Your last letter I do not answer in detail till the next shall come ; not exactly from press of business — I would make time if I had it not — but from various other reasons, which you shall have by-and-by. M2 298 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. Give me, if you remember it, the address of the person with whom Sarah Enfield is lodging. I suspect she is a woman of whom, by the desire of her nearest relative, I have been in search for some time. But, should you have forgotten, do not trouble your sister about this. I will find all I wish to learn in some other way. Never apologize or hesitate at writing to me about your family — all that is yours is mine. Keep your heart up about your sister Penelope ; she is a good woman, and all that befalls her will be for her good. Love her, and be patient with her continually. All your love for her and the rest takes nothing from what is mine, but adds thereto. Let me hear soon what is passing at Rockmount. I can not come to you and help you — would I could ! My love ! my love ! Max Ueqtjhaet. There is little or nothing to say of myself this week, and what there was you heard yesterday. CHAPTER XXX. HER STORY. My dear Max, — ^I write this in the middle of the night ; there has been no chance for me during the day, nor, in- deed, at all — until now. To-night, for the first time, Penel- ope has fallen asleep. I have taken the opportunity of stealing into the next room, to comfort — and you. My dear Max ! Oh, if you knew ! oh, if I could but come to you for one minute's rest, one minute's love. There, I will not cry any more. It is much to be able to write to you, and blessed, infinitely blessed to know you are — what you are. Max, I have been weak, wicked of late ; afraid of ab- sence, which tries me so, because I am not strong, and can not stand up by myself as I used to do ; afraid of death, which might tear you from me, or me from you, leaving the other to go mourning upon earth forever. Now I feel that absence is nothing, death itself nothing, compared to one loss — ^that which has befallen my sister Penelope. You may have heard of it, even in these few days — ill news spreads fast. Tell me what you hear ; for we wish to save my sister as much as we can. To our friends gen- erally, I have merely written that, " from unforeseen difier- ences," the marriage is broken ofi*. Mr. Charteris may A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 299 give what reasons he Kkes at Treherne Court. We will not try to injure him with his uncle. I have just crept in to look at Penelope ; she is asleep still, and has never stirred. She looks so old — like a wom- an of fifty, almost. No wonder. Think — ^ten years — all her youth to be crushed out at once. I wonder, will it kill her ? It would me. I wanted to ask you — do you think, medically, there is any present danger in her state ? She hes quiet enough ; taking little notice of me or any body — with her eyes shut durmg the daytime, and open, wide-staring, all night long. What ought I to do with her ? There is only me, you know« If you fear any thing, send me a telegram at once. Do not wait to write. But, that you may the better judge her state, I ought just to give you full particulars, beginning where my last letter ended. That " little black dog on her shoulder," which I spoke of so lightly ! God forgive me ! also for leaving her the whole of that Sunday afternoon with her door locked, and the room as still as death ; yet never once knocking to ask, " Penelope, how are you ?'* On Sunday night, the curate came to supper, and papa sent me to summon her ; she came down stairs, took her place at table, and conversed. I did not notice her much, except that she moved about in a stupid, stunned-hke fash- ion, which caused papa to remark more than once, " Penel- ope, I think you are half asleep." She never answered. Another night, and the half of another day, she must have spent in the same manner. And I let her do it with- out inquiry ! Shall I ever forgive myself? In the afternoon of Monday, I was sitting at work, busy finishing ker embroidered marriage handkerchief, alone in the sunshiny parlor, thinking of my letter, which you would have received at last ; also thinking it was rather wicked of my happy sister to sulk for two whole days, because of a small disappointment about a servant — if such it were. I had almost determined to shake her out of her ridiculous reserve, by asking boldly what was the matter, and giving her a thorough scolding if I dared ; when the door opened, and in walked Francis Charteris. Heartily glad to see him, in the hope his coming might set Penelope right again, I jumped up and shook hands cordially. I^or till afterwarcl did I remember how much this seemed to surprise and relieve him, - ' 300 A LIFE FOE A LIFE. " Oh, then, all is right !" said he. " I feared from Penel- ope's letter, that she was a little annoyed with me. Noth- ing new that, you know." " Something did annoy her, I snspect," and I was about to blurt out as much as I knew or guessed of the foolish mystery about Sarah Enfield, but some instinct stopped me. " You and Penelope had better settle your own af- fairs," said I, laughing. " Pll go and fetch her." '' Thank you." He threw himself down on the velvet arm-chair— his favorite lounge in our house for the last ten years. His handsome profile turned up against the light, his fingers lazily tapping the arm of the chair, a trick he had from his boyhood — this is my last impression of Fran- cis — as 0117' Francis Charteris. I had to call outside Penelope's door three times, " Fran- cis is here." "Francis is w^aiting." "Francis wants to speak to you," before she answered or apj^eared ; and then, wdthout taking the slightest notice of me, she walked slow- ly down stairs, holding by the wall as she went. So, I thought, it is Francis who has vexed her after all, and determined to leave them to fight it out and make it up again — this, which would be the last of their many lov- ers' quarrels. Ah ! it w^as. Half an hour afterward, papa sent for me to the study, and there I saw Francis Charteris standing exactly where you once stood— you see, I am not afraid of remembering it myself, or of remmding you. No, my Max ! Our griefs are nothing, nothing ! Penelope was also present, standing by my father, w^ho said, looking round at us with a troubled, bewildered air : " Dora, what is all this ? Your sister comes here and tells me she will not marry Francis. Francis rushes in aft- er her, and says, I hardly can make out what. Children, why do you vex me so ? Why can not you leave an old man in peace ?" Penelope answered, " Father, you shall be left in peace, if you will only confirm what I have said to that — that gen- tleman, and send him out of my sight." Francis laughed — " To be called back again presently. You know you will do it, as soon as you have come to your right senses, Penelope. You will never disgrace us in the eyes of the w^orld — set every body gossiping about our af' fairs, for such a trifle." My sister made him no answer. There was less even A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 301 of anger than contempt — utter, measureless contempt — in the way she just hfted up her eyes and looked at him — looked him over from head to heel, and turned again to her father. "Papa, make him understand — I can not — that I wish all this ended ; I wish never to see his face again." " Why ?" said papa, in great perplexity. " He knows why." Papa and I both turned to Francis, whose careless man- ner changed a little ; he grew red and uncomfortable. " She may tell if she chooses ; I lay no embargo of silence upon her. I have made all the explanations possible, and if she will not receive them, I can not help it. The thing is done, and can not be undone. I liave begged her pardon — and made all sorts of promises for the future — ^no man can do more." He. said this sullenly, and yet as if he wished to mate friends with her, but Penelope seemed scarcely even to hear. "Papa," she repeated, still in the same stony voice, "I wish you would end this scene ; it is killing me. Tell him, will you, that I have burned all his letters, every one. In- sist on his returning mine. His presents are all tied up in a parcel in my room, except this ; will you give it back to him ?" She took off her ring, a small common turquoise which Francis had given her when he was young and poor, and laid it on the table. Francis snatched it up, handled it a minute, and then threw it violently into the lire. " Bear witness, Mr. Johnston, and you too, Dora, that it is Penelope, not I, who breaks our engagement. I would have fulfilled it honorably — I would have married her." " Would you ?" cried Penelope with flashing eyes, " no — not that last degradation — no !" " I would have married her," Francis continued, " and made her a good husband too. Her reason for refusing me is puerile — perfectly puerile. No woman of sense, who knows any thing of the world, would urge it for a moment. N^or man either, unless he was your favorite — who I be- • lieve is at the bottom of this, Avho, for all you know, may be doing exactly as I have done — Doctor Urquhart." Papa started and said hastily, " Confine yourself to the subject on hand, Francis. Of what is this that my daugh- ter accuses you? Tell me, and let me judge." 302 ' A LIFE FOR A LIFE. Francis hesitated, and then said, " Send away these girls, and you shall hear." Suddenly it flashed upon me lohat it was. How the in- tuition came, how little things, before unnoticed, seemed to rise and put themselves together, including Saturday's story — and the shudder that ran through Penelope from head to foot, when on Sunday morning old Mrs. Cartwright courtesied to her at the church-door — all this I can not ac- count for, but I seemed to know as well as if I had been told every thing. I need not explain, for evidently you know it also, and it is so dreadful, so unspeakably dreadful. Oh, Max, for the first minute or so, I felt as if the whole world were crumbling from under my feet — as I could trust nobody — ^believe in nobody — until I remembered you. My dear Max, my own dear Max ! Ah ! wretched Penel- ope. I took her hand as she stood, but she twisted it out of mine again. I listened mechanically to Francis, as he again began rapidly and eagerly to exculpate himself to my father. " She may tell you all, if she likes. I have done no worse than hundreds do in my position, and under my un- fortunate circumstances, and the world forgives them, and women to. How could I help it ? I was too poor to marry. And before I married I meant to do every one justice — ^I meant — " Penelope covered her ears. Her face was so ghastly, that papa himself said, " I think, Francis, explanations are idle. You had better defer them and go." " I will take you at your word," he replied haughtily. " If you or she think better of it, or of me, I shall be at any time ready to fulfill my engagement — -honorably, as a gentleman should. Good-by ; will you not shake hands with me, Penelope ?" He walked up to her, trying apparently to carry things off with a high air, but he was not strong enough, or hard- ened enough. At sight of my sister sitting there, for she had sunk down at last, with a face like a corpse, only it had not the peace of the dead, Francis trembled. " Forgive me, if I have done you any harm. It was all the result of circumstances. Perhaps, if you had been a httle less rigid— had scolded me less and studied me more — But you could not help your nature, nor I mine. Good-by, Penelope." A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 303 She sat, impassive ; even when, with a sort of involuntary tenderness, he seized and kissed her hand ; but the instant he was gone — fairly gone — with the door shut uj)on him and his horse clattering down the road — I heard it plainly — Penelope started up with a cry of " Francis — ^Francis !" Oh, the anguish of it ! I can hear it now. But it was not this Francis she called after — I was sure of that — I saw it in her eyes. It was the Francis of ten years ago — the Francis she had loved — now as utterly dead and buried as if she had seen the stone laid over him, and his body left to sleep in the grave. Dead and buried — dead and buried. Do you know, I sometimes wish it were so ; that she had been left, peace- fully widowed — knowing his soul was safe with God. I thought, when papa and I — papa, who that night kissed me, for the first time since one night you know — sat by Penelope's bed, watching her — " K Francis had only died !" After she was quiet, and I had persuaded papa to go to rest, he sent for me and desired me to read a' psalm, as I used to do when he was ill— you remember ? When it was ended, he asked me, had I any idea what Francis had done that Penelope could not pardon ? I told him, difficult and painful as it was to do it, all I suspected — indeed, felt sure of For was it not the truth ? the only answer I could give. For the same reason I write of these terrible things to you without any false delicacy — they are the truth, and they must be told. Papa lay for some time, thinking deejDly. At last he said, " My dear, you are no longer a child, and I may speak to you plainly. I am an old man, and your mother is dead. I wish she were with us now — she might help us ; for she was a good w^man, Dora. Do you think — take time to consider the question — that your sister is acting right ?" I said, " Quite right." " Yet, I thought you held that doctrine, ' the greater the sinner the greater the saint;' and beheved every crime a man can commit may be repented, atoned, and pardoned ?" "Yes, father; but Francis has never either repented or atoned." JSTo ; and therefore I feel certain my sister is right. Ay, even putting aside the other fact, that the discovery of his long years of deception must have so withered up her love — scorched it at the root, as with a stroke of lightning — 304 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. that even if she pitied him, she must also despise. Fancy despising one's hushcmd! Besides, she is not the only one wronged. Sometimes, even sitting by my sister's bedside, I see the vision of that pretty young creature — she was so pretty and innocent Avhen she first came to live at Rockmount — with her boy in her arms ; and my heart feels like to burst with indig- nation and shame, and a kind of shuddering horror at the wickedness of the world — yet wdth a strange feeling of unutterable pity lying at the depth of all. Max, tell me what you think — you who are so much the wiser of us two ; but I think that, even if she wished it still, my sister ought not to marry Francis Charteris. Ah me ! papa said truly I was no longer a child. I feel hardly even a girl, but quite an old woman — familiar with all sorts of sad and wicked things, as if the freshness and innocence had gone out of lifcy and were nowhere to be found. Except when I turn to you, and lean my poor sick heart against you, as I do now. Max, comfort me ! You will, I know, write immediately you receive this. If you could have come — ^but that is impossible. Augustus you will probably see, if you have not done so already — for he already looks upon you as the friend of the family, though in no other light as yet; which is best. Paj)a wrote to Sir William, I believe ; he said he consid- ered some explanation a duty, on his daughter's account ; farther than this, he wishes the matter kept quiet. Not to disgrace Francis, I thought ; but papa told me one half the world would hardly consider it any disgrace at all. Can this be so ? Is it indeed such a wicked, wicked world ? — Here my letter was stopped by hearing a sort of cry in Penelope's room. I ran in, and found her sitting up in her bed, her eyes starting, and every hmb cgaivulsed. See- ing me, she cried out, " Bring a Hght ; I was dreaming. But it's not true. Where is Francis ?" I made no reply, and she slowly sank down in her bed again. Recollection had come. "I should not have gone to sleep. Why did you let me ? Or why can not you put me to sleep forever, and ever, and ever, and ever ?" repeating the word many times. " Dora," and my sister fixed her piteous eyes on my face, '' I should be so glad to die. Why won't you kill me ?" I burst into tears. A LIPE FOE A Ll^E. 305 Max, you will understand the total helplessness one feels in the presence of an irremediable grief like this ; how con- solation seems cruel, and reasoning vain. " Miserable com- forters are ye all," said Job to his three friends ; and a mis- erable comforter I felt to this my sister, whom it had pleased the Almighty to smite so sore, until I remembered that He who smites can heal. I lay down outside the bed, put my arm over her, and remained thus for a long time, not saying a single word — that is, not with my lips. And since our weakness is often our best strength, and when we wholly relinquish a thing, it is given back to us many a time in double measure, so, possibly, those helpless tears of mine did Penelope more good than the wisest of words. She lay watching me — saying more than once, " I did not know you cared so much for me, Dora." It then came into my muid, that as wrecked people cling to the smallest spar, if, instead of her conviction that in los- ing Francis she had lost her all, I could by any means make Penelope feel that there were others to cling to, others who loved her dearly, and whom she ought to try and live for still — it might save her. So, acting on the impulse, I told my sister how good I thought her, and how wicked I my- self had been for not long since discovering her goodness. How, when at last I learned to appreciate her, and to un- derstand what a sorely-tried life hers had been, there came not only respect, but love. Thorough sisterly love, such as people do not necessarily feel even for their own flesh and blood, but never, I doubt, except to them. (Save that, in some inexplicable way, fondly reflected, I have something of the same sort of love for your brother Dallas.) Afterward, she lying still and hstening, I tried to make my sister understand what I had myself felt when she came to my bedside and comforted me that morning, months ago, when I was so wretched ; how no wretchedness of loss can be altogether unendurable, so long as it does not strike at the household peace, but leaves the sufierer a little love to rest upon at home. And at length I persuaded her to promise that, since it made both papa and me so very miserable to see her thus — and papa was an old man, too ; we miglit not have him with us many years — she would, for our sakes, try to rouse herself, and see if life were not tolerable for a little longer. " Yes," she answered, closing her heavy eyes, and fold- 306 A llFE FOR A LIFE. ing her hands in a pitiful kind of patience, very strange in our quick, irritable Penelope. " Yes — just a little longer. Still, I think I shall soon die. I beheve it will kill me." I did not contradict her, but I called to mind your words, that, Penelope being a good woman, all would happen to lier for good. Also, it is usually not the good people who are killed by grief; while others take it as God's vengeance, or as the work of bhnd chance, they receive it humbly as God's chastisement, live on, and endure. I do not think my sister will die — whatever she may think or desire just now. Besides we have only to deal Avith the present, for how can we look forward a single day ? How little we expected all this only a week ago ! It seems strange that Francis could have deceived us for so long : years, it must have been ; but we have lived so retired, and were such a simple family for many things. How far Penelope thinks we know — ^papa and I — I can not guess; she is totally silent on the subject of Francis. Ex- cept in that one outcry, when she was still only half awake, she has never mentioned his name. There was one thing more I wanted to tell you. Max ; you know I tell you every thmg. Just as I was leaving my sister, she, noticing I was not undressed, asked me if I had been sitting up all night, and reproached me for doing so. I said " I was not Aveary — that I had been quietly occu- pying myself in the next room." "Readmg?" "No." " What were you doing ?" with sharp suspicion. I answered, without disguise, " I was writing to Max." " Max who ? Oh, I had forgotten his name." She turned from me, and lay with her face to the wall — then said, " Do you believe in him ?" "Yes, I do." " You had better not. You will live to repent it. Child, mark my words. There may be good women — one or two, perhaps — ^but there is not a single good man in the whole world." My heart rose to my lips, but deeds speak louder than words. I did not attempt to defend you. Besides, no won- der she should think thus. A LIFE FOK A LIFE. 30 7 Again she said, " Dora, tell Doctor Urquhart he was in- nocent comparatively, and that I say so. He only killed Harry's body, but those who deceive ns are the death of one's soul. N"ay," and by her expression I felt sure it was not herself and her own wrongs my sister was think- ing of — "there are those who destroy both body and soul." I made no answer ; I only covered her up, kissed her, and left her, knowing that in one sense I did not leave her either forsaken or alone. And now I must leave you, too, Max, being very weary in body, though my mind is comforted and refreshed — ay, ever since I began this letter. So many of your good words have come back to me while I wrote — words which you have let fall at odd times, long ago, even when we were mere acquaintances. You did not think I should remem- ber them ? I do, every one. This is a great blow, no doubt. The hand of Providence has been heavy upon us and our house lately. But I think we shall be able to bear it. One always has courage to bear a sorrow which shows its naked face, free from sus- pense or concealment ; stands visibly in the midst of the home, and has to be met and lived down patiently by every member therein. You once said that we often live to see the reason of af- fliction ; how all the events of life hang so w^onderfully to- gether, that afterward we can frequently trace the chain of events, and see in humble faith and awe that out of each one has been evolved the other, and that every thing, bad and good, must necessarily have happened exactly as it did. Thus I begin to see — you v>^ill not be hurt. Max ? — ^how well it was, on some accounts, that we were not married — that I should still be livmg at home with my sister ; and that, after all she knows, and she only, of what has hap- pened to me this year, she can not reject any comfort I may be able to offer her on the ground that I myself know nothing of sorrow. As for me personally, do not fear ; I have you. You once feared that a great anguish would break my heart, but it did not. Nothing in this world will ever do that while I have you. Max, kiss me — in thought, I mean — as friends kiss friends who are starting on a long and painful journey, of which they see no end, yet are not afraid. Nor am I. Good-by, my Max. Yours, only and always, Theodora JoHNSTOisr. 308 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. CHAPTER XXXI. HIS STOEY. Mt dear Theodora, — You will have received my let- ters regularly, nor am I mucli surprised that they have not been answered. I have heard, from time to time, in other ways, all particulars of your sister's illness and of you. Mrs. Granton says you keep up well, but I know that, could I see it now, it would be the same little pale face which used to come stealing to me from your father's bedside last year. If I ask you to write, my love, believe it is from no doubt of you, or jealousy of any of your home-duties, but because I am wearying for a sight of your handwriting, and an as- surance from yourself that you are not failmg in health, the only thing in which I have any fear of your failing. To answer a passage in your last, which I have hitherto let be, there was so much besides to write to you about — the passage concerning friends parting from friends. At first I interpreted it that in your sadness of spirit and hope- lessness of the future you wished me to sink back into my old place, and be only your friend. It was then no time to argue the point, nor would it have made any difference in my letters either way ; but now let me say two words con- cerning it. My child, when a man loves a woman, before he tries to win her he will have, if he loves unselfishly and generously, many a doubt concerning both her and himself. In fact, as I once read somewhere, " When a man truly loves a woman, he would not marry her uj)on any account unless he was quite certain he was the best j)erson she could possibly marry." But as soon as she loves him, and he knows it, and is certain that, however unworthy he may be, or however many faults she may possess — I never told you you were an angel, did I, little lady ? — they have cast their lot to- gether, chosen one another, as your church says, "For better for worse" — then the face of things is entirely changed. He has his rights, close and strong as no other human being can have witli regard to her — slie has her- self given them to him ; and if he Jias any manliness in A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 309 liini he never will let them go, but hold her fast forever and ever. My dear Theodora, I have not the slightest intention of again subsiding into your friend. I am your lover and your betrothed husband. I will wait for you any number of years, till you have fulfilled all your duties, and no earth- ly rights have povrer to separate us longer. But, in the mean time, I hold fast to my rights. Every thing that lover or future husband can be to you, I must be. And when I see you, for I am determined to see you at inter- vals, do not suppose that it w^ill be a friend's kiss — if there be such a thing — that — But I have said enough — it is not easy for me to ex23ress myself on this v\'ise. My love, this letter is partly to consult you on a matter which is somewhat on my mind. With any but you I might hesitate ; but I knovf your mind almost as I know my own, and can sjDeak to you as I hope I always shall — frankly and freely as a husband would to his wife. About your sister Penelope and her great sorrow I have already written fully. Of her ultimate recovery, mentally as Avell as bodily, I have Httle doubt : she has ui her the "foundations of all endurance — a true, upright nature and a religious mind. The first blow over, a certain little girl whom I know will be to her a saving angel ; as she has been to others I could name. Fear not, therefore — " Fear God, and have no other fear:" you will bring your sister safe to land. But, you are aware, Penelope is not the only person who has been shipwrecked. I should not intrude this side of the subject at present, did I not feel it to be in some degree a duty, and one that, from certain information that has reached me, will not bear deferring. The more so because my occupation here ties my own hands so much. You and I do not live for our- selves, you know — nor indeed wholly for one another. I want you to help me, Theodora. In my last I informed you how the story of Lydia Cart- wright came to my Ivuowledge, and how, beside her father's cofiin, I was entreated by her old mother to find her out, and bring her home if possible. I had then no idea who the " gentleman" was ; but afterward was led to suspect it might be a friend of Mr. Charteris. To assure myself, I one day put some questions to him — point-blank, I believe, for I abhor diplomacy, nor had I any suspicion of him per- 310 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. sonally. In the answer, lie gave me a point-blank and in- sulting denial of any knoAvledge on the subject. When the whole truth came out, I was in doubt what to do consistent with my promise to the poor girl's mother. Finally, I made inquiries ; but heard that the Kensington cottage had been sold up, and the inmates removed. I then got the address of Sarah Enfield — that is, I commis- sioned my old friend, Mrs. Ansdell, tq get it, and sent it to Mrs. Cartwright, without either advice or explanation, ex- cept that it was that of a person who knew Lydia. Are you aware that Lydia has more than once written to her mother, sometimes inclosing money, saying she was well and happy, but nothing more ? I this morning heard that the old woman, immediately on receiving my letter, shut up her cottage, leaving the key with a neighbor, and disappeared. But she may come back, and not alone ; I hope most earnestly, it will not be alone. And therefore I write, partly to prepare you for this chance, that you may contrive to keep your sister from any unnecessary pain, and also from another reason. You may not know it — and it is a hard thing to have to enhghten my innocent love, but your father is quite right ; Lydia's story is by no means rare, nor is it regarded in the world as we view it. There are very few — especially among the set to which Mr. Charteris belonged— who either j^rofess or practice the Christian doctrine that our bodies also are the temples of the Holy Spirit — that a man's life should be as pure as a woman's, otherwise no woman, however she may pity, can, or ought to respect him, or to marry him. This, it appears to me, is the Christian principle of love and marriage — the only one by which the one can be made sacred and the other " honor- able to all." I have tried, invariably, in every way to set this forth ; nor do I hesitate to write of it to my wife that will be — whom it is my blessing to have united with me in every work which my conscience once compelled as atone- ment and my heart now offers in humblest thanksgiving. But enough of myself. While this principle of total purity being essential for both man and woman can not be too sternly upheld, there is another side to the subject, analagous to one of which you and I have often spoken. You will find it in the seventh chapter of Luke and eighth of John : written, I conclude, to be not only read, but acted up to by all A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 311 Christians who desire to have in them " the mind of Christ." Now, my child, you see what I mean — how the saving command, " Go and sin no ^tnore^^ applies to this sin also. You know much more of what Lydia Cartwright used to be than I do ; but it takes long for any one error to corrupt the entire character ; and her remembrance of her mother, as well as her charity to Sarah Enfield, imply that there must be much good left in the girl still. She is young. N'or have I heard of her ever falHng lower than this once. But she may fall ; since, from what I know of Mr. Charteris's present circumstances, she must now, with her child, be left completely destitute. It is not the first similar case, by many, that I have had to do with ; but my love never can have met with the like before. Is she afraid ? does she hesitate to hold out her pure right hand to a poor creature who never can be an innocent girl again ; who also, from the over severity of Rockmount, may have been let slip a little too readily, and so gone wrong ? If you do hesitate, say so ; it will not be unnatural nor surprising. If you do not, this is what I want ; bemg my- self so placed that, though I feel the thing ought to be done, there seems no way of doing it, except through you. Should the Cartwrights reappear in the village, persuade your father not altogether to set his face against them, or have them expelled the neighborhood. They must leave — it is essential for your sister that they should ; but the old woman is very poor. Do not have them driven away in such a manner as will place no alternative between sin and starvation. Besides, there is the child — ^how a man can ever desert his own child ! — ^but I will not enter into that part of the subject. This is a strange 'Hove" letter; but I write it without hesitation — my love will understand. You will like to hear something of me ; but there is *little to tell. The life of a jail surgeon is not unlike that of a horse in a mill ; and, for some things, nearly as hope- less ; best fitted, perhaps, for the old and the blind. I have to shut my eyes to so much that I can not remedy, and take patiently so much, to fight against which would be like knocking down the Pyramids of Egypt with one's head as a battering-ram, that sometimes my courage fails. This great prison is, you know, a model of its kind, on the solitary, sanitary, and moral improvement system ; ex- cellent, no doubt, compared with that which preceded it. 312 A LIFE FOii A LIFE. The prisoners are numerous, and as soon as any of them get out they take the greatest pams to get in again ; such are the comforts of jail life contrasted with that outside. Yet they seem to me often like a herd of brute beasts, fed and stalled by rule in a manner best to preserve their health, and keep them from injuring their neighbors ; their bodies well looked after, but their souls — they might scarcely have any ! They are simply Nos. 1,2, 3, and so on, with nothing of human mdividuality or responsibility about them. Even their faces grow to the same pattern, dull, fat, clean, and stolid. During the exercising hour I sometimes stand and watch them, each pacing his small bricked circle, and rarely catch one countenance which has a ray of expression or intelligence. Good as many of its results, are, I have my doubts as to this solitary system; but they are expressed on paper in the MS. you asked for, my kind little lady ! so I will not repeat them here. Yet it will be a change of thought from your sister's sick-room for you to think of me in mine — not a sick-room though, thank God ! This is a most healthy region : the sea-wind sweeps round the prison walls, and shakes the roses in the governor's garden till one can hardly believe it is so dreary a place inside. Dreary enough sometimes to make one beheve in that reformer who offered to con- vert some depraved region into a perfect Utopia, provided the males above the age of fourteen were all summarily hanged. Do you smile, my love, at this comjDhment to your sex at the expense of mine ? Yet I see wretches here who I can not hardly believe share the same common womanhood as my Theodora. Think over carefully what I asked you about Lydia Cartwright ; it is seldom suddenly, but step by step, that this degradation comes. And at every step there is hope ; at least, such is my experience. ^ Do not suppose, from this description, that I am dis- heartened at my work here ; besides rules and regulations, there is still much room for personal influence, especially in hospital. When a man is sick or dying, imconsciously his heart is humanized — he thinks of God. From this simple cause, my calling has a great advantage over all others ; and it is much to have physical agencies on one's side, as I do not get them in the streets and towns. To-day, looking up from a clean, tidy, airy cell, where the occupant had at A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 313 least a chance of learning to read if he chose, and seeing through the window the patch of bright blue sky, fresh and pure as ever sky was, I thought of two lines you once repeated to me out of your dear head, so full of poetry : ** God^s in His Heaven ; Ail's rigiit with tlie world. " Yesterday I had a holiday. I took the railway to Tre- herne Court, wishing to learn something of Rockmount. You said it was your desire I should visit your brother-in- law and sister sometimes. They seemed very happy — so much as to be quite inde- pendent of visitors, but they received me warmly, and I gained tidings of you. They escorted me back as far as the park gates, where I left them standing, talking and laughing together, a very picture of youth and fortune and handsome looks; a picture suited to the place, with its grand ancestral trees branched down to the ground; its green slopes, and its herds of deer racing about — while the turrets of the magnificent house which they call " home" shone whitely in the distance. You see I am taking a leaf out of yom* book, growing poetical and descriptive ; but this brief contrast to my daily life made the impression particularly strong. You need have no anxiety for your youngest sister ; she looked in excellent health and spirits. The late sad events do not seem to have affected her. She merely observed, ** She was glad it was over, she never liked Francis much. Penelope must come to Treherne Court for change, and no doubt she w^ould soon make a far better marriage." Her husband said, "He and his father had been both grieved and annoyed — indeed. Sir William had quite disowned his nephew — such ungentlemanly conduct was a disgrace to the family," And then Treherne spoke about his own happiness — how his father and Lady Augusta perfectly adored his wife, and how the hope and pride of the family were centred in her, with more to the same purport. Tru- ly this young couple have their cup brimming over with life and its joys. My love, good-by ; which means only " Ood be with thee!" nor in any way implies "farewell." Write soon. Your words are, as the Good Book expresses it, " sweeter than honey and the honey-comb" to me unworthy. Max Ukquhaet. O 314; A LIFE FOR A LIFE. I should add, though you would almost take it for grant' ed, that, in all you do concerning Mrs. Cartwright or her daughter, I wish you to do nothing without your father's knowledge and consent. CHAPT^ XXXII. HER STORY. An-qther bright, dazzlingly bright, summer morning, on which I begin writing to my dear Max. This seems the longest-lasting, loveliest summer I ever knew outside the house. WitMn all goes on much in the same way, which you know. My moors are all growmg pm'ple. Max ; I never remem- ber the heather so rich and abundant ; I wish you could see it. Sometimes I want you so ! If you had given me up, or were to do so now from* hopelessness, pride, or any other reason, what would become of me ? Max, hold me fast. Do not let me go. You never do. I can see how you carry me in your heart continually, and how you are forever considering how you can help me and mine, and if it were not become so natural to feel this, so sweet to depend upon you and ac- cept every thing from you without even saying "thank you," I might begin to exj)ress " gratitude ;" but the word would make you smile. I amused you once, I remember, by an indignant dis- claimer of obligations between such as ourselves; how every thing given and received ought to be free as air, and how you ought to take me as readily if I were heiress to ten thousand a year, as I would you if you were the Duke of N'orthumberland. IsTo, Max ; those are not these sort of things that give me toward you the feeling of "gratitude;" it is the goodness, the thoughtfulness, the tender love and care. I don't mean to insult your sex by saying no man ever loved like you, but few men love in that special way which alone could have satisfied a restless, irritable girl like me, who finds in you perfect trust and perfect rest. If not allowed to be grateful on my own account, I may be in behalf of my sister Penelope. After thus long following out your orders, medical and A LIFE FOB A LIFE. "315 mental, I begin to notice a slight change in Penelope. She no longer hes in bed late, on the plea that it shortens the day, nor is she so difficult to persuade in going out. Far- ther than the garden she will not stir, but there I get her to creep up and down for a little while daily. Lately she has begun to notice her flowers, especially a white moss- rose which she took great pride in, and which never flow- ered until this summer. Yesterday its first bud opened; she stopped and examined it. " Somebody has been mindful of this ; who was it ?" I said, the gardener and myself together." " Thank you." She called John, showed him what a good bloom it was, and consulted how they should manage to get the plant to flower again next year. She can then look forward to " next year." You say that, as " while there is life there is hope," with the body, so, while one ray of hope is discernible, the soul is ahve. To save souls alive — that is your si^ecial calling. It seems as if you yourself had been led through deep waters of despair in order that you might personally un- derstand how those feel who are drownmg, and therefore know best how to help them. And lately you have in this way done more than you know of. Shall I tell you ? You will not be displeased. Max, hitherto nobody but me has seen a line of your let- ters. I could not bear it. I am as jealous over them as any old miser ; it has vexed me even to see a stray hand fingering them before they reach mine; yet this week I actually read out loud two pages of one of them to Penel- ope. This was how it came about. I was sitting by her sofa, supposing her asleep. I had been very miserable that morniDg — tried much in several w^ays, and I took out your letter to comfort me. It told me of so many miseries, to which my own are nothing, and among which you live continually, yet are always so patient and tender over mine. I said to myself, " how good he is !" and two large tears came with a great splash upon the pa- per before I was aware. Yery foolish, you know, but I could not help it. And, wiping my eyes, I saw Penelope's wide open, watching me. " Has Doctor Urquhart been writing any thing to wound you?" said she, slowly and bitterly. I eagerly disclaimed this. "IsheiU?" 316 A LIFE FOK A LIFF. " Oh no, thank God !" " Why then were you crying ?" Why, indeed ? But what could I say, except the truth, that they were not tears of pain, but because you were so good and I was so proud of you ? I forgot what arrows these words must have been into my sister's heart. No wonder she spoke as she did — spoke out fiercely, and yet with a certain solemnity. ''Dora Johnston, you will reap what you sow, and I shall not pity you. Make to yourself an idol, and God will strike it down. '•Tliou shalt have none other gods hut me? Remember Who says that, and tremble." I should have trembled, Max, had I not remembered. I said to my sister, as gently as I could, "that I made no idols ; that I knew all your faults, and you mine, and we loved one another in spite of them, but we did not worship one another — only God. That, if it were His will we should part, I believed we could part. And — " here I could not say any more for tears. Penelope looked sorry. "I remember you preaching that doctrine once, child, but — " she started up violently — " Can't you give me some- thing to amuse me ? Kead me a bit of that — that nonsense. Of all amusing things in this world, there is nothing like a love-letter. But don't believe them, Dora," she grasped my hand hard — " they are every one of them lies." I said that I could not judge, never having received a "love-letter" in all my life, and hoped earnestly I never might. " IsTo love-letters ? What does he write to you about, then?" I told her in a general way. I would not see her half- satirical, half-incredulous smile. It did not last very long. Soon, though she turned away and shut her eyes, I felt sure she was both listening and thinking. " Doctor Urquhart can not have an easy or pleasant life," she observed, " but he does not deserve it. No man does." " Or woman either," said I, as gently as I could. Penelope bade me hold my tongue ; preaching was my father's business, not mine, that is if reasonmg were of any avail. I asked, did she think it was not ? "I think nothmg about nothing. I want to smother thought. Child, can't you talk a little ? Or stay, read me A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 317 some of Doctor Urquliart's letters ; they are not love-let- ters, so you can, have no objection." It went hard, Max, indeed it did ! tiU I considered — perhaps, to hear of people more miserable than herself, more wicked than Francis, might not. do harm but good to my poor Penelope. So I was brave enough to take out my letter and read from it (with reservations now and then, of course), about your daily work and the people concerned therein ; all that interests me so much, ancVmakes me feel haj^pier and proud- er than any mere "love-letter" written to or about myself. Penelope was interested too, both in the jail and the hos- pital matters. They touched that j^ractical, benevolent, energetic half of her, which till lately has made her papa's right hand m the parish. I saw her large black eyes bright- ening u]), till an unfortunate name, upon which I fell una- wares, changed all. Max, I am sure she had heard of Tom Tm'ton. Francis knew him. When I stoj)ped with some excuse, she bade me go on, so I was obliged to finish the miserable history. She then asked : "IsTurtondead?" I said " N'o," and referred to the postscript where you say that both yourself and his poor old ruined father hope Tom Turton may yet live to amend his ways. Penelope muttered : " He never will. Better he died." I said Dr. Urquhart did not think so. She shook her head impatiently, exclaiming she was tired, and wished to hear no more, and so fell into one of her long, sullen silences, which sometimes last for hours. I wonder whether, among the many cruel things she must lie thinking about, she ever thinks, as I do often, what has become of Francis ? Sometimes, puzzling over how best to deal with her, I have tried to imagine myself in her place, and consider what would have been my own feelings toward Francis now. The sharpest and most prominent would be the ever-abiding sense of his degradation — he who was so dear — united to the constant terror of his sinking lower and lower to any depth of crime or shame. To think of him as a bad man, a sinner against heaven, would be tenfold worse than any sin or cruelty against me. Therefore, whether or not her love for him has died out, 318 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. I can not help thinking there must be times when Penelope would give any thing for tidings of Francis, Charteris. I wish you would find out whether he has left England, and then perhaps in some way or other I may let Penelope un- derstand that he is safe away — possibly to begin a new and better life, in a new world. A new and better life. This phrase — ^Penelope might call it our " cant," yet what w^e solemnly believe in is sure- ly not cant — ^brings me to something I have to tell you this week. For some reasons I am glad it did not occur until this week, that I might have time for consideration. Max, if you remember, when you made to me that re- quest about Lydia Cartwright, I merely answered " that I would endeavor to do as you wished,", as, indeed, I always would, feeling that my duty to you, even in the matter of " obedience," has already begun. I mean to obey, you see, but would rather do it with my heart, as well as my con- science. So, hardly knowmg what to say to you, I just said this, and no more. My hfe has been so still, so safely shut up from the out- side world, that there are many subjects I have never even thought about, and this was one. After the first great shock concerning Francis, I put it aside, hopmg to forget it. When you revived it, I was at first startled ; then I tried to pander it over carefully, so as to come to a right judgment and be enabled to act in every way as became not only myself, Theodora Johnston, but — let me not be ashamed to say it — ^Theodora, Max Urquhart's wife. By-and-by all became clear to me. My dear Max, I do not hesitate ; I am not afraid. I have been only waiting ojD^ortunity, which at length came. Last Sunday I overheard my class — Penelope's that was, you know — whispering something among themselves, and trying to hide it from me. When I put the question di- rect, the answer was : "Please, Miss, Mrs. Cartwright and Lydia have come home." I felt myself grow hot as fire — ^I do now in telhng you. Only it must be borne — it must be told. Also, another thing, which one of the bigger girls let out, with many titters, and never a blush, they had brought a child with them. Oh, Max, the horror of shame and repulsion, and then the perfect anguish of pity that came over me ! These A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 319 girls of our parisli — Lydia was one of them ; if they had been taught better ; if I had tried to teach them, instead of all these years studying or dreaming, thinking wholly of myself and caring not a straw about my fellow-creatures. Oh, Max, would that my life had been more like yours ! It shall be henceforth. Going home through the village, with the sun shining on the cottages, of whose inmates I know no more than of the New Zealand savages — on the group of ragged girls who were growing up at our very door, no one knows how, and no one cares — I made a vow to myself. I that have been so blessed — I that am so hap- py — ^yes, Max, happy ! I will work with all my strength while it is day. You will help me. And you will never love me the less for any thing I feel — or do. I was going that very afternoon to walk direct to Mrs. Cartwright's, when I remembered your charge, that noth- ing should be attempted without my father's knowledge and consent. I took the opportunity when he and I were sitting alone together— Penelope gone to bed. He was saying she look- ed better. He thought she might begin visiting in the district soon, if she were properly persuaded. At least, she might take a stroll romid the village. He should ask her to-morrow. " Don't papa. Oh, pray don't !" and then I was obhged to tell him the reason why. I had to put it very plainly before he understood ; he forgets things now sometimes. " Starving, did you say ? Mrs. Cartwright, Lydia, and the child? What child?" "Francis's." Then he comprehended, and, oh, Max, had I been the gii'l I was a few months ago, I should have sunk to the earth with the shame he said I ought to feel at even alluding to such things. But I would not stop to consider this, or to defend myself; the matter concerned not me, but Lydia. I asked papa if he did not remember Lydia ? She came to us. Max, when she was only fourteen, though, being well-grown and handsome, she looked older ; a pleas- ant, willing, aifectionate creature, only she had " no head," or it was half-turned by the admiration her beauty gained, not merely among her own class, but all our visitors. I remember Francis saying once — oh, how angry Penelope was about it — that Lydia was so naturally elegant she could be made a lady in no time, if a man liked to take her, edu- 320 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. cate, and many Iier. Would he had done it ! spite of all broken vows to Penelope. I think my sister herself might have forgiven him, if he had only honestly fsMen in love with poor Lyclia and married her. These thmgs I tried to recall to papa's mind,, but he an- grily bade me be silent^ " I can not," I said, " because, if we had taken better care of the girl, this might never have happened. When I think of her — her pleasant ways about the house — how she used to go singing over her w^ork of mornings, poor inno- cent young thing, oh, papa ! papa 1" " Dora," he said, eying me closely, " what change has come over you of late ?" I said I did not know, unless it was that which must come over people who have been very unhappy — the wish, to save other people as much uniiappiness as they can.. " Explain yourself. I do not understand." When he did, he said abruptly, " Stop. It was well you waited to consult with me. If your own delicacy does not teach you better, I must. My daughter — ^the daughter of the clergyman of the parish- — can not possibly be allowed to interfere with these profli- gates." My heart sunk like lead. " But you, papa ? They are her^e ; you, as the rector, must do something. What shall you do ?" He thought a little. " I shall forbid them the church and the sacrament, omit them from my charities, and take every lawful means to get them out of the neighborhood. This, for my family's sake and the parish's, that they may carry their corruption else- where." " But they may not be wholly corrupt. And the child — that innocent, unfortunate child 1" "Silence, Dora. It is written '-TTie seed of evil-doers shall never he renowned. The sinless must suffer with the guilty ; there is no hope for either." " Oh, papa," I cried, in an agony, " Christ did not say so. He said, ' G-o^ and sin no more.'' " Was I wrong ? If I was, I suffered for it. What fol- lowed was very hard to bear. Max, if ever I am yours, altogether in your power, I won- der will you ever give me those sort of bitter, cruel words ? Words which people, living under the same roof, think noth- A LIFE FOK A LIFE. 321 ing of using, mean nothing by them, yet they cut sharp hke swords. The flesh closes up after them, but oh, they bleed —they bleed ! Dear Max, reprove me as you will, how- ever much, but let it be in love, not in anger or sarcasm. Sometimes people drop carelessly, by quiet firesides, and with a good-night kiss following, as papa gave to me, words which leave a scar for years. Next day I was just about to write and ask you to find some other plan for helping the Cartwrights, since we nei- ther of us would choose to persist in one duty at the ex- pense of another, when papa called me to take a walk with him. Is it not strange the way in which good angels seem to take up the thread of our dropped hopes and endeavors and wind them up for us, we see not how, till it is all done ? N^ever was I more surprised than when papa, stopping to lean on my arm, and catch the warm, pleasant wuid that came over the moors, said suddenly : "Dora, what could possess you to talk to me as you did last night ? And why, if you had'^any definite scheme in your head, did you relinquish it so easily?" " Papa, you forbade it." " So, even Avhen differing from your father, you consider it right to obey him ?" " Yes — except — " " Say it out, child." " Except in the case of any duty which I felt to be not less sacred than the one I owe to my father." He made no reply. Walking on, we passed Mrs. Cartwright's cottage. It was quiet and silent, the door open, but the window-shut- ter half closed, and there was no smoke from the chimney. I saw papa turn round and look. At last he said, " What did you mean by telling me they were ' starving ?' " I answered the direct, entire truth. I w^as bold, for it was your mind as weU as my own I was speaking out, and I knew it was right. I pleaded chiefly for the child — it was easiest to think of it, the little creature I had seen laughing and crowing in the garden at Kensington. It seemed such a dreadful thing for that helpless baby to die of want, or five to turn out a reprobate. " Think, papa," I cried, " if that poor little soul had been our own flesh and blood — if you were Francis's father, and this had been your grandchild !" 02 322 A LIFE FOK A LIFJi]. To my sorrow, I had forgotten for the tune a part of poor Harry's story — the beginning of it ; you shall know it some day — it is all passed now. But papa remembered it. He faltered as he walked — at last he sat down on a tree by the road-side and said, " he must go home." Yet still, either by accident or design, he took the way by the lane where is Mrs. Cartwright's cottage. At the gate of it a little ragged urchin was poking a rosy face through the bars ; and, seeing papa, this small fellow gave a shout of delight, tottered out, and caught hold of his coat, calling him " Daddy." He started — ^I thought he would have fallen, he trembled so : my poor old father. When I lifted the little thing out of his way, I too start- ed. It is strange always to see a face you know revived in a child's face ; in this instance it was shocking — pitiful. My first thought was, we never must let Penelope come past this way. I was carrying the boy off — I well knew where, when papa called me. " Stop. Not alone — not without your father." It was but a few steps, and we stood on the door-sill of Mrs. Cartwright's cottage. The old woman snatched up the child, and I heard her whisper something about " Run — ^Lyddy — run away." But Lydia, if that white, thin creature, huddled up in the corner, were she, never attempted to move. Papa walked up to her. "Young woman, are you Lydia Cartwright, and is this your child ?" " Have you been meddling with him ? You'd better not ! I say, Franky, what have they been doing to moth- er's Franky?" She caught at him, and hugged him close, as mothers do. And when the boy, evidently both attracted and puzzled by papa's height and gentlemanly clothes, tried to get back to him, and again called him " Daddy," she said angrily, " No, no, 'tis not your daddy. They're no friends o' yours. I wish they were out of the place, Franky, boy." " You wish us away. No wonder. Are you not ashamed to look us in the face — my daughter and me ?" But papa might have said ever so much more, without her heeding. The child having, settled himself on her lap, playing with the ragged counterpane that wrapped her in- stead of a shawl, Lydia seemed to care for nothing. She lay back with her eyes shut, still, and white. We may be sure of one thing — she has preferred to starve. A LIFE POE A LIFE. • 323 "Diinnot be too hard upon her, su*," begged the old woman. " Dunnot, please, Miss Dora. She bean't a lady like you, and he were such a fine coaxing young gentleman. It's he that's most to blame." My father said sternly, " Has she left him, or been desert- ed by him — I mean Mr. Francis Chart eris ?" " Mother," screamed Lydia, "v/hat's that? What have they come for ? Do they know any thing about him ?" S)he did not, then. " Be quiet, my lass," said the mother, soothingly, but it was of no use. " Miss Dora," cried the girl, creeping to me, and speak- ing Jn the same sort of childish, pitiful tone in which she used to come and beg Lisabel and me to intercede for her when she had annoyed Penelope, " do, jViiss Dora, tell me. I don't want to see him, I only want to hear. I've heard nothing since he sent me a letter from prison, saying I was to take my things and the baby's and go. I don't know what's become of him, no more than the dead. And, miss, he's that boy's father — ^miss — ^please — " She tried to go down to her knees, but fell prone on the floor. Max, who would have thought, the day before, that this day I should have been sitting mth Lydia Cartwright's head on my lap, trying to bring her back to this miserable life of hers ; that papa would have stood by and seen me do it without a word of blame ! "It's the hunger," cried the mother. "You see, she isn't used to it now ; he always kept her like a lady." Papa turned and walked out of the cottage. I afterward found out that he had bought the loaf at the baker's shop down the village, and got the bottle of wine from his pri- vate cupboard in the vestry. He returned with both — one in each pocket — ^then, sitting down on the chair, cut the bread and poured out the wine, and fed these three himself, with his own hands. My dear father ! Nor did he draw back when, as she recovered, the first word that came to the wretched girl's hps was " Francis." " Mother, beg them to tell me about him. I'll do him no harm, indeed I won't, neither him nor them. Is he mar- ried ? Or," with a sudden gasp, " is he dead ? I've thought sometimes he must be, or he never would have left the child and me. He was always fond of us, wasn't he, Franky ?" I told her, to the best of my knowledge, Mr. Charteris 324 A LIFE FOE A LIFE. was still living, but what liad become of him we could none of us guess. We never saw him now. Here, looking wistfully at me, Lydia seemed suddenly to remember old times, to become conscious of what she used to be, and what she was now. Also, in a vague sort of way, of how guilty she had been toward her mistress and our family. How long, or how deep the feeling was, I can not judge, but she certainly did feel. She hung her head, and tried to draw herself away from my arm. " I'd rather not trouble you. Miss Dora, thank you."' I said it was no trouble, she had better lie still till she felt stronger. " You don't mean that. I^ot such as me." ^ I told her she must know she had done very wrong, but if she was sorry for it, I was sorry for her, and we would hel}3 her if we could to an honest livelihood. " What, and the child too ?" I looked toward papa ; he answered distinctly, but stern- ly : " Principally for the sake of the child." Lydia began to sob. She attempted no exculpation — expressed no penitence — -just lay and sobbed, like a child. She is hardly more, even yet — only nineteen, I believe. So we sat — ^papa as silent as we, resting on his stick, with his eyes fixed on the cottage floor, till Lydia turned to me with a sort of fright. " What would Miss Johnston say if she knew ?" I wondered, indeed, what my sister would say. And here, Max — ^you will hardly credit it, nobody would, if it were an incident in a book — something occurred which, even now, seems hardly possible — as if I must have dream- ed it all. Through the open cottage door a lady walked right in, looked at us all, including the child, who stopped in its munching of bread to stare at her with wide-open blue eyes — Francis's eyes ; and that lady was my sister Penelope. She walked in and walked out again, before we had our wits about us sufficiently to speak to her, and when I rose and ran after her, she had slipped away somehow, so that I could not find her. How she came to take this notion into her head, after being for weeks shut up indoors ; wheth- er she had discovered that the Cartwrights had returned and came here in anger, or else, prompted by some restless instinct, to have another look at Francis's child — none of us can guess ; nor have we ever dared to inquire. A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 325 When we got home, she was lying in her nsual place on the sofa, as if she wanted us not to notice that she had been out at all. Still, by papa's desire, I spoke to her frankly — told her the circumstances of our visit to the two women — the destitution in which we found them ; and how they should be got away from the village as soon as possible. She made no answer whatever, but lay absorbed, as it were — ^hardly moving, except an occasional nervous twitch, all afternoon and evening, until I called her in to prayers, which were shorter than usual — papa being very tu'ed. He only read the collect, and repeated the Lord's Prayer, in which, among the voices that folio v/ed his, I distinguished, with surprise, Penelope's. It had a steadiness and sweet- ness such as I never heard before. And when — the serv- ants being gone — she went up to papa, and kissed him, the change in her manner was something almost startling. " Father, when shall you want me in the district again ?" said she. " My dear giii !" "Because I am quite ready to go. I have been ill, and it has made me unmindful of many things ; but I am better now. Papa, I will try to be a good daughter to you. I have nobody but you." She spoke quietly and softly, bending her head upon his gray hairs. He kissed and blessed her. She kissed me, too, as she passed, and then went away to bed, without any more explanation. But from that time — and it is now three days ago — Pe- nelope has resumed her usual place in the household — taken up all her old duties, and even her old pleasures ; for I saw her in her green-house this morning. When she called me, in something of the former quick, imperative voice, to look at an air-plant that was just coming into flower, I could not see it for tears. N'evertheless, there is in her a difference. N'ot her seri- ous, almost elderly-looking face, nor her manner, which has lost its sharpness, and is so gentle sometimes that when she gives her orders the servants actually stare — but the mar- velous composure which is evident in her whole demeanor ; the bearing of a person who, having gone through that sharp agony which either kills or cures, is henceforth set- tled in mind and circumstances, to feel no more any strong emotion, but go through life placidly and patiently, with- 326 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. out much farther change, to the end. The sort of women that nuns are made ol^ — or Soeurs de la Charite ; or Prot- estant lay -sisters, of whom every village has some ; and al- most every family owns at least one. She will, to all ap- pearance, be our one — our elder sister, to be regarded with reverence unspeakable, and be made as happy as we pos- sibly can. Max, I am learning to think with hope and without pain of the future of my sister Penelope. One word more, and this long letter ends. Yesterday, papa and I walking on the moor met Mrs. Cartwright, and learned full particulars of Lydia. From your direction, her mother found her out, in a sort of fever, brought on by want. Of course, every thing had been taken from the Kensington cottage, for Francis's debts. She was turned out with only the clothes she wore. But you know all this already, through Mrs. Ansdell. Mrs. Cartwright is sure it was you who sent Mrs. Ans- dell to them, and that the money they received week by week in their worst distress came from you. She said so to papa while we stood talking. " For it was just like our doctor, sir — as is kind to poor and rich — Pm sure he used to look at you, sir, as if he'd do any thing in the world for you — as many's the time Pve seed him a-sitting by your bedside when you was ill. If there ever was. a man living as did good to every poor soul as came in his way, it be Doctor Urquhart." Papa said nothing. After the old woman had gone, he asked if I had any plans about Lydia Cartwright. I had one, which we must consult about when she is bet- ter — whether she might not, with her good education, be made one of the schoolmistresses that you say go from cell to cell instructing the female prisoners in these model jails. But I hesitated to start this project to papa, so told him I must think the matter over. " You are growing quite a thinking woman, Dora ; who taught you — who put it into your mind to act as you do? you, who were such a thoughtless girl. Speak out, I want to know." I told him, naming the name of my dear Max, the first time it has ever j)assed my lips in my father's hearing since that day. It was received in silence. Some time after, stopping suddenly, papa said to me, " Dora, some day, I know you will go and marry Doctor Urquhart." A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 327 What could I say? Deny it — deny Max — my love and my husband ? or tell my father what was not true ? Ei- ther was impossible. So we walked on, avoiding conversation until we came to oui* own church-yard, where we went m and sat in the porch, sheltering from the noon heat, which papa feels more than he used to do. When he took my arm to walk home, his anger had vanished ; he spoke even with a sort of mel- ancholy. " I don't know how it is, my dear, but the world is alter- ing fast. People preach strange doctrines, and act in strange ways, such as were never thought of when I was young. It may be for good or for evil — I shall find out by- and-by. I was dreaming of your mother last night ; you are growing very like her, child." Then suddenly, " Only wait till I am dead, and you will be free, Theodora." My heart felt bursting ; oh. Max, you do not mind me telling you these things ? What should I do if I could not thus open my heart to you ? Yet it is not altogether with grief or without hope that I have thought over what then passed between papa and me. He knows you — ^knows, too, that neither you nor I have ever deceived him in any thing. He was fond of you once ; I think sometimes he misses you still, in little things wherein you used to pay him attention, less like a friend than a son. Now, Max, do not think I am grieving — do not imagine I have cause to grieve. They are as kind to me as ever they can be. My home is as happy as any home could be made, except one, which^'^hether we shall ever find or not, God knows. In quiet evenings such as this, when, after a rainy day, it has just cleared up in time for the sun to go down, and he is going down peacefully in amber glory, Avith the trees standing up so purple and still, and the moor- lands lying bright, and the hills distinct, even to their very last faint rim — in such evenuigs as this. Max, when I want you and can not fiind you, but have to learn to sit still by myself, as now, I learn to think also of the meeting which has no farewell, of the rest that comes to all in time, of the eternal home. We shall reach that some day. Your faithful Theodoba. 328 A LIFE FOE A LIFE. CHAPTER XXXIII. HIS STOEY. Treherne Courts Sunday night. My deae Theodoea, — ^The answer to my telegram has just arrived, and I find it is your sister whom we are to expect, not you. I shall meet her myself by the night train, Treherne being quite incapable ; indeed, he will hardly stir from the corridor that leads to his wife's room. You will have heard already that the heir so ardently looked for has only lived a few hours. Lady Augusta's letters, which she gave me to address, and I took care to post myself, would have assured you of your sister's safety, though it was long doubtful. It will comfort you to know that she is in excellent care, both her medical attendants being known to me professionally, and Lady Augusta be- ing a real mother to her in tenderness and anxiety. You will wonder how I came here. It was by accident — ^taldng a Saturday holiday, which is advisable now and then; and Treherne's mother detained me as being the only person who had any control over her son. Poor fel- low ! he was almost out of his mind. He never had any trouble before, and he knows not how to bear it. He trem^ bled in terror — thus coming face to face with that messeiv ger of God Avho puts an end to all merely mortal joys — - was paralyzed at the fear of losing his blessings, which, nu- merous as they are, are all of this world. My love, whom I thought to have seen to-night, but shall not see — for how long ? — ^things are more equally balanced than w^e suppose. You will be sorry about the little one. Treherne seems indifierent, his whole thought being naturally his wife ; but Sir William is grievously disappointed. A son, too — and he had planned bonfires, and bell-ringings, and rejoicings all over the estate. When he stood looking at the little w^hite lump of clay, which is the only occupant of the grand nursery prepared for the heir of Treherne Court, I heard the old man sigh as if for a great misfortune. You will think it none, since your sister lives. Be quite content about her — which is easy for me to say, when I know how long and anxious the days -will room at Rockmount. A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 329 It might have been better for some things if yon, rather than Miss Johnston, had come to take charge of your sis- ter during her recovery, but maybe all is well as it is. To-morrow I shall leave this great house, with its many happinesses, which have run so near a chance of being over- thrown, and go back to my own solitary life, in which noth- ing of personal interest ever visits me but Theodora's let- ters. There were two things I intended to tell you in my Smi- day letter ; shall I say them still ? for the more things you have to think about the better, and one of them was my reason for suggesting your presence here rather than your eldest sister's. (Do not imagine, though, your coming was urged by me wholly for other people's sakes. The sight of you just for a few hours — one hour — People talk of water in the desert — ^the thought of a green field to those who have been months at sea — well, that is what a glimpse of your little face would be to me. But I can not get it, and I must not moan.) What was I writing about ? Oh ! to bid you tell Mrs. Cartwright from me that her daughter is well in health, and doing w^ell. After her two months' probation here, the governor, to whom alone I communicated her history (names omitted), pronounces her quite fitted for the situa- tion, and she will be appomted thereto. This is a great satisfaction to me, as she was selected solely on my recom- mendation, backed by Mrs. Ansdell's letter. Say also to the old woman that I trust she receives regularly the money her daughter sends her through me, which indeed is the only time I ever see Lydia alone. But I meet her often in the wards, as she goes from cell to cell teaching the female prisoners ; and it is good to see her sweet, grave looks, her decent dress and mien, and her inexpressible hu- mility and gentleness toward every body. She puts me in mind of words you know, which in another sense other hearts than poor Lydia's might often feel — ^that those love most to whom most has been forgiven. Hinting this, though not in reference to her, in a conversation with the governor, he observed, rather coldly, " He had heard it said Doctor IJrquhart held peculiar opinions upon crime and punishment — that, in fact, he was a little too charitable." I sighed, thinking that, of all men, Doctor TJrquhart was the one who had the most reason to be cliaritable, and the governor fixed his eyes upon me somewhat unpleasantly. 330 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. Any one running counter, as I do, to several popular prej- udices, is sure not to be without enemies. I should be sor- ry, though, to have displeased so honest a man, and one who, widely as we difler in some things, is always safe to deal with, from his possessing that rare quality, justice. You see, I go on writing to you of my matters just as I should talk to you if you sat by my side now, Avith your hand in mine and your head here. (So you found two gray hairs in those long locks of yours last week. Never mind, love. To me you will be always young.) I write as I hope to talk to you one day. I never was among those who believe that a man should keep all his cares secret from his wife. If she is a true wife, she will soon read them oh his face, or the effect of them ; he had better tell them out, and have them over. I have learned many things since I found my Theodora ; among the rest is, that when a man marries, or loves with the hope of mar- rying, let him have been ever so reserved, his whole nature opens out — ^he becomes another creature, m degree toward every body, l)ut most of all to her he has chosen. How altered I am you would smile to see, were my little lady to compare these long letters with the i3rief, business-Hke pro- ductions which have heretofore borne the signature " Max Urquhart." I prize my name a little. It has been honorable for a number of years. My father was proud of it, and Dallas. Do you like it ? Will you like it when — ^if — No, let me trust in Heaven, and say when you bear it ? Those papers of mine which you saw mentioned in the Times — I am glad Mr. Johnston read them ; or, at least, you suppose he did. I believe they are doing good, and that my name is becoming pretty well known in connection with them, especially in this town. A provincial reputa- tion has its advantages ; it is more undoubted — more com- plete. In London a man may shirk and hide ; his nearest acquaintance can scarcely know him thoroughly : but in the provinces it is different. There, if he has a flaw in him, either as to his antecedents, his character, or conduct, be sure scandal will find it out, for she has every opportunity. Also pubhc opinion is at once stricter and more narrow- minded in a place like this than in a great metropolis. I am glad to be earning a good name here, in this honest, hard-working, commercial district, where my fortunes are apparently cast, and where, having been a " rolhng stone" A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 331 all my life, I mean to settle and " gather moss" if I can — moss to make a little nest soft and warm for — my love knows who. Writing this about the impossibility of keeping any thing secret in a town like this reminds me of something which I was in doubt about teUing you or not ; finally I have de- cided that I will tell you. Your sister being absent will make things easier for you. You will not have need to use any of those concealments which must be so painful in a home. [NTevertheless, I do think Miss Johnston ought to be kept ignorant of the fact that I believe — nay, am ahnost certain — -Mr. Francis Charteris is at this j)resent time living in Liverpool. ISTo wonder that all my mquiries about him in London failed. He has just been discharged from this very jail. It is more than likely he was arrested for liabihties long owing, or contracted after his last fruitless visit to his un- cle, Sir Wilham. I could easily find out, but hardly con- sider it delicate to make inquiries, as I did not, you know, after the debtor — whom a turnkey here reported to have said he knew me. Debtors are not criminals by law — their ward is justly held private. I never visit any of them un- less they come into hospital. Therefore my meeting with Mr. Charteris was purely ac- cidental. Nor do I beheve he recognized me — I had step- ped aside into the warder's room. The two other dis- charged debtors passed through the entrance-gate, and quitted the jail immediately; but he lingered, desmng a car to be sent for, and inquiring w^here one could get hand- some and comfortable lodgings ui this horrid Liverpool. He hated a commercial town. You will ask, Avoman-like, how he looked ? Ill and worn, with something of the shabby, " poor gentleman" aspect, with which we here are only too familiar. I overheard the turnkey joking with the carman about taking him to " hand- some rooms." Also, there was about him an ominous air of what we iti Scotland call the " down-draught ;" a term the fuU meaning of which you probably do not understand — ^I trust you never may. * * * * * * * You will see by its date how many days ago the first part of this letter was wi'itten. I kept it back till the cruel suspense of your sister's sudden relapse was ended — think- ing it a pity your mind should be burdened with any addi- 332 A LIFE FOE A LIFE. tional care. Yon have had, m the mean time, the daily bulletin from Treherne Court — the daily line from me. How are you, my child ? for you have forgotten to say. Any roses out on your poor cheeks ? Look in the glass and tell me. I must know, or I must come and see. Re- member, your life is a part of mine now. Mrs. Treherne is convalescent — as you know. I saw her on Monday for the first time. She is changed, certainly ; it will be long before she is any thing like the Lisabel Johnston of my recollection, fvill of health and physical en- joyment. But do not grieve. Sometimes, to have gone near the gates of death, and returned, hallows the whole future life. I thought, as I left her, lymg contentedly on her sofa, with her hand in her husband's, who sits watch- ing as if truly she were given back to him from the grave, that it may be good for those two to have been so nearly parted. It may teach them, accordmg to a Ime you once repeated to me (you see, though I am not poetical, I re- member all your bits of poetry), to ' ' hold every mortal joy With a loose hand," since nothing finite is safe, unless overshadowed by the be- lief in and the glory of the Infinite. My dearest — my best of every earthly thing — whom to be parted from temporarily, as now, often makes me feel as if half myself were wanting — whom to lose out of this world would be a loss irremediable, and to leave behind in it would be the sharpest sting of death — ^better, I have sometimes thought, of late — better be you and I than Tre- herne and Lisabel. In all these letters I have scarcely mentioned Penelope — ^you see I am learning to name your sisters as if mine. She, however, has treated me almost like a stranger in the few times we happened to meet — until last Monday. I had left the happy group in the library — Treherne, tearing himself from his wife's sofa — honest fellow ! to fol- loAV me to the door — where he wrung my hand, and said, with a sob like a schoolboy, that he had never been so happy in his life before, and he hoped he was thankful for it. Your eldest sister, who sat in the window sewing — her figure put me somewhat in mind of you, little lady — bade me good-by — she was going back to Rockmount in a few days. I quitted them, and walked alone across the park, where A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 333 the chestnut-trees — you remember them — are beguming not only to change, but to fall ; thinking how fast the years go, and how little there is in them of positive joy. Wrong, this ! and I know it ; but, my love, I sin sorely^ at times. I nearly forgot a small patient I have at the lodge gates, who is sHppmg so gradually, but surely, poor wee man ! mto the world where he will be a child forever. After sit- ting with him half an hour, I came out better. A lady was waiting outside the lodge gates. When I saw who it was, I meant to bow and pass on, but Miss Johnston called me. From her face, I dreaded it was some ill news about you. Your sister is a good woman and a kind. She said to me, when her explanations had set my mind at ease, " Doctor Urquhart, I believe you are a man to be trusted. Dora trusts you. Dora once said you would be just, even to your enemies." I answered, I hoped it was something more than justice that we owed, even to our enemies. " That is not the question," she said, sharply ; " I spoke only of justice. I would not do an injustice to the meanest thing — the vilest wretch that crawls." "1^0." She went on : " I have not liked you. Doctor Urquhart ; nor do I know if my feelings are altered now — but I respect you. There- fore, you are the only person of whom I can ask a favor. It is a secret. Will you keep it so ?" " Except from Theodora." " You are right. Have no secrets from Theodora. For her sake and your own — for.your whole life's peace — never, even in the lightest thing, deceive that poor child !" Her voice sharpened, her black eyes glittered a moment, and then she shrank back into her usual self. I see exactly the sort of woman, which, as you say, she will grow into — sister Penelope — aunt Penelope. Every one belonging to her must try, henceforth, to spare her every possible pang. After a few moments, I begged her to say what I could do for her. " Read this letter, and tell me if you think it is true." It was addressed to Sir WiUiam Treherne ; the last hum- ble appeal of a broken-down man; the signature, "Francis Charteris." 334 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. I tried my best to disguise the emotion which Miss John- ston herself did not show, and returned the letter, merely inquiring if Sir William had answered it. " No ; he will not. He disbelieves the facts."' "Do you, also?" " I can not say. The — the writer was not always accu- rate in his statements." Women are, in some things, stronger and harder than men. I doubt if any man could have spoken as steadily as your sister did at this minute. While I explained to her, as I thought it right to do, though with the manner of one talking of a stranger to a stranger, the present position of Mr. Charteris, she replied not a syllable. Only passing a felled tree she suddenly sank down upon it, and sat motion- less. " What is he to do ?" she said, at last. I rephed that the Insolvent Court could free him from his debts and grant him protection from farther imprison- ment ; that though, thus sunk in circumstances, a govern- ment situation was hardly to be hoped for, still there were in Liverpool clerkships and mercantile opportunities, in which any person so well educated as he might begin the world again, health permitting. " His health was never good — ^has it failed him ?" "I fear so." Your sister turned away. She sat — we both sat — for some time so still that a bright-eye(^ squirrel came and peeped at us, stole a nut a few yards off, and scuttled away with it to Mrs. Squirrel and the little ones up in a tall syca- more hard by. I begged Miss Johnston to let me see the address once more, and I would pay a visits friendly or medical, as the case might allow, to Mr. Charteris on my way home to- night. " Thank you, Doctor Urquhart." I then rose and took leave, time being short. " Stay, one word if you please. In that visit you will, of course, say, if inquired, that you learned the address from Treherne Court. You will name no other names ?" " Certainly not." " But afterward you will write to me ?" "I will." We shook hands, and I left her sitting there on the dead tree. I went on, wondering if any thing would result from A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 335 this curious combination of accidents ; also, whether a woman's love, if cut off at the root, even like this tree, could be actually killed, so that nothing could revive it again. What think you, Theodora ? But this trick of moralizing caught from you shall not be indulged. There is only time for the relation of bare facts. The train brought me to the opposite shore of our river, not half a mile's walk from Mr. Charteris's lodgings. They seemed " handsome lodgings," .as he said ; a tall, new house, one of the many which, only half built, or half inhabited, make this Birkenhead such a dreary place. But it is im- proving year by year. I sometimes think it may be quite a busy and cheerful spot by the time I take a house here, as I intend. You will like a hill-top and a view of the sea. I asked for Mr. Charteris, and stumbled up the half- lighted stairs into the wholly dark drawing-room. " Who the devil's there ?" He was in hiding, you must remember, as, indeed, I ought to have done, and so taken the precaution first to send up my name, but I was afraid of non-admittance. When the gas was lit, his pale, imshaven, sallow counte- nance, his state of apparent illness and weakness made me cease to regret having gained entrance under any circum- stances. Recognizing me, he muttered some apology. " I was asleep ; I usually do sleep after dinner." Then, recovering his confused faculties, he asked with some hauteur^ " To what may I attribute the pleasure of seeing Doctor Urquhart ? Are you, hke myself, a mere bird of passage, or a resident in Liverpool ?" " I am a surgeon of jail." " Indeed, I was not aware. A good appointment, I hope. And what jail did you say ?" I named it again and left the subject. If he chose to wrap himself in that thin cloak of deception, it Avas no business of mine to tear it off. Besides, one pities a ruined man's most petty pride. But it was an awkward position. You know how haughty Mr. Charteris can be ; you know also that unlucky peculiarity in me, call it Scotch shyness, cautiousness, or what you please, my little English girl must cure if she can. Whether or not it was my fault, I soon felt that this visit was turning out a comj^lete failure. We conversed in the civilest mannea', though somewhat disjointedly, on 336 A LIFE FOE, A LIFE. j)olitics, the climate and trade of Livei'iDool, etc. ; but of Mv. Charteris and his real condition I learned no more than if I were meeting him at a London dinner-party, or a supper with poor Tom Turton, who is dead, as you know. Mr. Charteris did not, it seems, and his startled exclama- tion at hearing the fact was the only natural expression during my whole visit; Avhich, after a few rather broad hints, I took the opportunity of a letter's being brought in to terminate. Not, however, with any intention on my side of its being a final one. The figure of this wretched-looking invahd, though he would not own to illness — men seldom will — lying in the solitary, fireless lodging-house parlor, where there was no indication of food, and a strong smell of opi- um, followed me all the way to the jetty, suggesting plan after plan concerning him. You can not think how pretty even our dull river looks of a night, with its two long lines of lighted shores, and other lights scattered between in all directions, every vessel's rig- ging bearing one. And to-night, above all things, was a large, bright moon, sailing up over innumerable white clouds, into the clear, dark zenith, converting the town of Liverpool into a fairy city, and the muddy Mersey into a pleasant river, crossed by a pathway of silver, such as one always looks at with a kind of hope that it would lead to " some bright isle of rest." There was a song to that ef- fect popular when Dallas and I were boys. As the boat moved ofi", I settled myself to enjoy the brief seven minutes of crossing — thinking, if I had but the little face by me looking up into the moonlight she is so fond of, the little hand to keep warm in mine ! And now, Theodora, I come to something which you must use your own judgment about telling your sister Pe- nelope. Half way across, I was attracted by the peculiar manner of a passenger, who had leaped on the boat just as we were shoved off, and now stood still as a carved figure, staring- down into the foamy track of the paddle-wheels. He was so absorbed that he did not notice me, but I recognized him at once, and an ugly suspicion entered my mind. In my time I have had opportunities of witnessing, stage by stage, that disease — call it dyspepsia, hypochondriasis, or what you will — it has all names and all forms — which is peculiar to our present state of high civiUzation, where the A LIFE FOR A LIFE. • 331 mind and tlie body seem cultivated into perpetual warfare one with the other. This state — some people put poetical names upon it — but we doctors know that it is at least as much physical as mental, and that many a poor misanthrope, who loathes himself and the world, is merely an unfortu- nate victim of stomach and nerves, whom rest, natural liv- ing, and an easy mind would soon make a man again. But that does not remove the pitifulness and danger of the case. While the man is what he is, he is httle better than a mon- omaniac If I had not seen him before, the ex|3ression ofiis coun- tenance, as he stood looking down into the river, would have been enough to convince me how necessary it was to keep a strict watch over Mr. Charteris, When the rush of passengers to the gangway made our side of the boat nearly deserted, he sprang up to the steps of the paddle-box, and there stood. I once saw a man commit suicide. It was one of ours, returning from the Crimea. He had been drinking hard, and was put under restraint, for fear of delirium tremens ; but when he was thought recovered, one day, at broad noon, in sight of all hands, he suddenly jumped overboard. I caught sight of his face as he did so — it was exactly the expression pf Francis Charteris. Perhaps, in any case, you had better never repeat the whole of this to your sister. N'ot till after a considerable struggle did I pull him down to the safe deck once more. There he stood breathless. *'You were not surely going to drown yourself, Mr. Charteris ?" "I was. And I will," *' Try, and I shall call the police to prevent your making such an ass of yourself." It was no time to choose words, and in this sort of dis- ease the best preventive one can use, next to a firm, impera- tive will, is ridicule. He answered nothing — but gazed at me in simple astonishment, while I took his arm and led him out of the boat and across the landing-stage. " I beg your pardon for using such strong language, but a man must be an ass indeed who contemplates such a thing ; here, too, of all places. To be fished up out of this dirty river, hke a dead rat, for the entertainment of the crowd ; to make a capital case at the magistrate's court to-morrow, and a first-rate paragraph in the Ziverpool Mercury — * At- P 338 ■ A LIFE FOR A LIFE. tempted Suicide of a Gentleman.' Or, if you really suc- ceeded, which I doubt, to be ' Found Drowned' — a mere body, drifted ashore with cocoa-nut husks and cabbages at Waterloo, or brought in as I once saw at these very stairs, one of the many poor fools who do this here yearly. They had picked him up eight miles higher up the river, and so brought him down lashed behind a rowing boat, floating face upward — ^" "Ah!" I felt Charteris shudder. You will, too, my love, so I will repeat no more of what I said to him. But these ghastly pictures were the strong- est arguments available with such a man. What was the use of talking to him of God, and life, and immortality ? he had told me he believed in none of these things. But he believed in death — the Epicurean's view of it — " to lie in cold obstruction and to rot." I thought, and still think, that it was best to use any lawful means to keep him from repeating the attempt. Best to save the man first, and preach to him afterward. He and I walked up and down the streets of Liverpool almost in silence, except when he darted into the first chem- ist's shop he saw to procure opium. " Don't hinder me," he said, imploringly, " it is the only thing that keeps me alive." Then I walked him about once more, till his pace flagged, his limbs tottered, he became thoroughly passive and e^i- hausted. I called a car, and expressed my determination to see him safe home. " Home ! l^o, no, I must not go there." And the poor fellow summoned all his faculties, in order to speak ration- ally. "You see, a gentleman in my unpleasant circum- stances — in short, could you recommend any place — a quiet, out-of-the-way place, where — where I could hide ?" I had suspected things were thus. And now, if I lost sight of him even for twenty-four hours, he might be lost permanently. He was in that critical state when the next step, if it were not to a prison, might be into a lunatic asylum. It was not difficult to persuade him that the last place where creditors would search for a debtor would be inside a jail, nor to convey him, half stupefied as he was, into my own rooms, and leave him fast asleep on my bed. Yet, even now, I can not account for the influence I so soon A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 339 gained, and kept; except that any person in his seven senses always has power over another nearly out of them, and to a sick man there is no autocrat like the doctor. N^ow for his present condition. The day following, I re- moved him to a country lodging, where an old woman I know will look after him. The place is humble enough, but they are honest people. He may lie safe there till some portion of health returns ; his rent, etc. — ^my j^rudent little lady will be sure to be asking after my " circumstances" — • well, love, his rent for the next month, at least, I can easily afford to pay. The present is provided for — as to his fu- ture, heaven only knows. I wrote, according to promise, to your sister Penelope, explaining where Mr. Charteris was, his state of liealth, and the position of his affairs ; also, my advice, which he neither assents to nor dechnes, that, as soon as his health will per- mit, he should surrender himself in London, go through the Insolvent Court, and start anew in life. A hard life, at best, since, w^hatever situation he may obtain, it will take years to free him from all his liabilities. Miss Johnston's answer I received this morning. It was merely an envelope containing a bank note of £20, Sir Wil- liam's gift, possibly; I told her he had better be made aware of his nephew's abject state — or do you suppose it is from herself? I thought beyond your quarterly allow- ance, you had none of you much ready money ? If there is any thing I ought to know before applying this sum to the use of Mr. Charteris, you will, of course, tell me ? I have been to see him this afternoon. It is a poor room he lies in, but clean and quiet. He will not stir out of it ; it was with difficulty I persuaded him to have the window opened, so that we might enjoy the still autumn sunshine, the church bells, and the little robin's song. Turning back to the sickly drawn face, buried in the sofa-pillows, my heart smote me with a heavy doubt as to what was to be the end of Francis Charteris. Yet I do not think he will die ; but he will be months, years in recovering, even if he is ever his old self again — bodily, I mean ; whether his inner self is undergoing any change, I have small means of judging. The best thing for him, both mentally and physically, would be a fond, good woman's constant care ; but that he can not have. I need scarcely say I have taken every precaution that he should never see nor hear any thing of Lydia, nor she 340 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. of him. He has never named her, nor any one ; past and futm-e seem alike swept out of his mind ; he only lives in the miserable present, a helpless, hopeless, exacting invalid. Not on any account would I have Lydia Cartwright see him now. If I jndge her countenance rightly, she is just the girl to do exactly what you women are so prone to — for- give every thing, sacrifice every thing, and go back to the old love. Ah ! Theodora, what am I that I should dare to speak thus lightly of women's love, women's forgiveness ! , I am glad Mr. Johnston allows you occasionally to see Mrs. Cartwright and the child, and that the little fellow is so well cared for by his grandmother. If, with his father's face, he inherits his father's temperament, the nervously sensitive organization of a modern "gentleman," as op- posed to the healthy animalism of a working man, Hfe will be an uphill road to that poor boy. His mother's heart aches after him sorely at times, as I can plainly perceive. Yesterday, I saw her stand watching the line of female convicts — those with infants — as one aft- er the other they filed out, each with her baby in her arms, and passed into the exercising ground. Afterward, I watch- ed her slip into one of the empty cells, fold up a child's cap that had been left lying about, and look at it wistfully, as if she almost envied the forlorn occupant of that dreary nook, where, at least, the mother had her child with her continually. Poor Lydia! she may have been a girl of weak will, easily led astray, but I am convinced that the only thing which led her astray must have been, and will always be, her affections. Perhaps, as the grandmother can not write, it would be a comfort to Lydia if your next letter enabled me to give to her a fuller account of the welfare of little Frank. I wonder, does his father ever think of him, or of the poor mother ? He was " always kind to them," you tell me she declared ; possibly fond of them, so far as a selfish man can be. But how can such a one as he understand what it must be to be 2, father ! My love, I must cease writing now. It is midnight^ and I have to take as much sleep as I can ; my work is very hard just at present ; but happy work, because, through it, I look forward rto a future. Your father's brief message of thanks for my telegram about Mr. Treherne was kind. Will you aclmowledge it in the way you consider would be most pleasing — that is, least unpleasing, to him, from me ? A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 341 And now farewell — farewell, my only darling. Max TJeqtjhaet. P.S. — After the fashion of a lady's letter, though not, I trust, Avith the most imj^ortant fact therem. Though I re- open my letter to inform you of it, lest you might learn it in some other way, I consider it of very slight moment, and only name it because these sort of small unpleasantnesses have a habit of growing like snow-balls every yard they roll. Our chaplam has just shown me in this morning's paper a paragraph about myself, not complimentary, and decid- edly ill-natured. It hardly took me by surprise ; I have of late occasionally caught stray comments, not very flatter- ing, on myself and my proceedings, but they troubled me little. I know that a man in my position, with aims far beyond his joresent circumstances, with opinions too obsti- nate and manners too blunt to get these aims carried out, as many do, by the aid of other and more influential peo- ple, such a man micst have enemies. Be not afraid, love — ^mine are few ; and be sure I have given them no cause for animosity. True, I have contra- dicted some, and not many men can stand contradiction — but I have wronged no man to my knowledge. My con- science is clear. So they may spread what absurd reports or innuendoes they vv^lU — I shall live it all down. My spirit seems to have had a douche-bath this morning, cold, but salutary. This tangible annoyance will brace me out of a little feeble-heartedness that has been growing over me of late ; so^be content, my Theodora. I send you the newspaper paragraph. Read it, and burn it. Is Penelope come home ? I need scarcely observe, that only herself and yoii are acquainted, or will be, with any of the circumstances I have related with respect to Mr. Charteris. CHAPTER XXXIV. HEE, STORY. A FOURTH Monday, and my letter has not come. Oh, Max, Max ! You are not ill, I know ; for Augustus saw you on Saturday. Why were you in such haste to slip away from him ? He himself even noticed it. 342 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. For me, had I not then heard of your well-being, I should have disquieted myself sorely. Three weeks — twenty-one days — it is a long time to go about as if there were a stone lying in the corner of one's heart, or a thorn piercing it. One may not acknowledge this : one's reason, or better, one's love, may often quite argue it down ; yet, it is there. This morning, when the little postman went whistling past Kockmount gate, I turned almost sick with fear. Understand me — not with one sort of fear. Faithless- ness or forgetfulness are — well, with you they are — simply impossible ! But you are my Max ; any thing happening to you happens to me ; nothing can hurt you without hurt- ing me. 'Do you feel this as I do ? if so, surely, under any circumstances, you would write. but got no far- ther than the first three words, which, often as I have writ- ten them, look as new, strange, and precious as ever : '■'-My dear Theodora^ Dear — God knows how infinitely! and mine — altogether and everlastingly mine. I felt this, even now- In the resolution I had made, no doubts shook me with respect to you ; for you would bid me to do exactly what conscience urged — ay, even if you differed from me. You said 'once, with your arms round my neck, and your sweet eyes looking up steadfastly in mine : " Max, what- ever happens, always do what you think to be right, with- out reference to me. I would love you all the better for doing it, even if you broke my heart." I was pondering thus, planning how best to tell you of things so sore ; when there came a knock to my room door. Expecting no one but a servant, I said " Come in," and did not even look up — for every creature in the jail must be fa- miliar with my disgrace by this time. " Doctor Urquhart, do I intrude ?" It was the chaplain. Theodora, if I have ever in my letters implied a word against him — for the narrowness and formality of his re- ligious belief sometimes annoyed and was a hinderance to me — remember it not. Set down his name, the Reverend James Thorley, on the Hst of those I wish to be kept al- ways in your tender memory, as those whom I sincerely honored, and who have been most kind to me of all my friends. ^ The old man spoke with great hesitation, and when I thanked him for coming, replied in the manner which I had many a time heard him use in convict cells : " I came, sir, because I felt it to be my duty." " Mr. Thorley, whatever was your motive, I respect it, and thank you." And we remained silent — both standinsf — for he declined 372 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. my offer of a chair. ISToticing my prej)arations, he said, with some agitation, " Am I hindering yom- plans for de- partm*e ? Are you afraid of the law ?" "No." He seemed relieved ; then, after a long examining look at me, quite broke down. " O Doctor, Doctor, what a terrible thing this is 1 who would have believed it of you !" It was very bitter, Theodora. When he saw^that I attempted neither answer nor de- fense, the chaplain continued sternly : "I come here, sir, not to pry into your secrets, but to fulfill my duty as a min- ister of God ; to urge you to make confession, not unto me, but unto Him whom you have offended, whose eye you can not escape, and whose justice sooner or later will bring you to punishment. But perhaps," seeing I bore with compos- ure these and many similar arguments ; alas, they were only too familiar ! " perhaps I am laboring under a strange mistake? You do not look guilty, and I could as soon have believed in my own son's being a criminal, as you. For God's sake break this reserve, and tell me all." " It is not possible." There was a long pause, and then the old man said, sigh- ing: " Well, I will urge no more. Your sin, whatever it be, rests between you and the Judge of sinners. You say the law has no hold OA^er you ?" " I said I was not afraid of the law." " Therefore it must have been a moral rather than a le- gal crime, if crime it was." And again I had to bear that searching look, so dreadful because it was so eager and kind. " On my soul. Doctor Urquhart, I believe you to be entirely innocent." " Sir," I cried out, and stopped ; then asked him " if he did not believe it possible for a man to have sinned and yet repented ?" Mr. Thorley started back — so greatly shocked that I per- ceived at once what an implication I had made. But it was too late now ; nor, perhaps, would I have had it other- wise. " As a clergyman — ^I — I — " He paused. " '•If a man sin a sin ichich is not unto death — ' You know the rest. '■And there is a sin which is unto death ; J do not say that he shall pray for it."* But never tliat we shall not pray for it." A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 373' And falling down on his knees beside me, the old chap- lain repeated in a. broken voice : •' '• Remeimber not the sins of my youth nor ony trans- gressions y according to thy mercy ^ think thou tipon me^ O Lord^for thy goodness^ Kot ours, which is but filthy rags ; for Thy goodness, through Jesus Christ, O Lord." " Amen." Mr. Thorley rose, took the chair I gave him, and we sat silent. Presently he asked me if I had any plans ? Had I considered what exceeding difiiculty I should find in estab- lishing myself any where professionally, after what hap- pened this day ? I said I was fully aware that so far as my future pros- pects were concerned, I was a ruined man. " And yet you take it so calmly ?" "Ay." " Doctor," said he, after again Avatching me, " you must either be innocent, or your error must have been caused by strong temptation, and long ago retrieved. I will never believe but that you are now as honorable and worthy a man as any Kving." "Thank you." An uncontrollable weakness came over me ; Mr. Thorley, too, was much afiected. " I'll tell you what it is, my dear fellow," said he, as he wrung my hand, " you must start afresh in some other part of the world. You are no older than my son-in-law was when he married and went to Canada, in your own profes- sion too. By the way, I have an idea." The idea was worthy of this excellent man, and of his behavior to me. He explained that his son-inJaw, a phy- sician in good practice, wanted a partner — some one from the Old Country, if possible. " If you went out, with an introduction from me, he would be sure to like you, and all might be settled in no time. Besides, you Scotch hang together so — my son-in-law is a Fife man — and did you not say you were born or educated at St. Andrews ? The very thing !" And he lu'ged me to start by next Saturday's American mail. A sharp struggle went on within my mind. Mr. Thorley evidently thought it sprang from another cause, and, with much delicacy, gave me to understand that in the promised introduction, he did not consider there was the slightest 374 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. necessity to state more than that I had been an army sm-- geon, and was his vahied friend; that no reports against me were likely to reach the far Canadian settlement, whith- er I shonld carry, both to his son-in-law and the world at large, a perfectly unknown and unblemished name. If I had ever wavered,, this decided me. The hope must go. So I let it go, in all probability, forever. Was I right ? I can hear you say, " Yes, Max." In bidding the chaplain farewell, I tried to explain to him that in this generous offer he had given to me more than he guessed — faith not only in heaven, but in mankind, and strength to do without shrinking what I am bound to do — trusting that there are other good Christians in this world besides himself who dare believe that a man may sin and yet repent — ^that the stigma even of an absolute crime is not hopeless nor eternal. His own opinion concerning my present conduct, or the facts of my past history, I di<^ not seek ; it was of little moment ; he will shortly learn all. My love, I have resolved, as the only thing possible to my future peace, the one thing exacted by the laws of God and man — to do what I ought to have done twenty years ago — to deliver myself up to justice. Now I have told you ; but I can not tell you the infinite calm which this resolution has brought to me. To be free ; to lay down this living load of lies, which has hung about me for twenty years ; to speak the whole truth before God and man — confess all, and take my punishment — my love, my love, if you knew what the thought of this is to me, you would neither tremble nor weep, but rather rejoice ! My Theodora, I take you in my arms, I hold you to my heart, and love you ivith a love that is dearer than life and stronger than death, and I ask you to let me do this. In the inclosed letter to your father, I have, after relating all the circumstances of which I here inform you, implored him to^ release me from a pledge which I ought never to have given. N'ever, for it was putting the fear of man be- fore the fear of God ; it was binding myself to an eternal hypocrisy, an inward gnawing of shame, which paralyzed my very soul. I must escape it ; you must try to release me from it — my love, who loves me better than herself, bet- ter than myself, I mean this poor worthless self, battered and old, which I have often thought was more fit to go down into the grave than live to be my dear girl's husband. A LIFE FOK A LIFE. 375 Forgive me if I wound you. By the intolerable agony of this hour, I feel that the sacrifice is just and right. You must help me, you must urge your father to set me free. Tell hmi — indeed I have told him — that he need dread no disgrace to the family, or to him who is no more. I shall state nothing of Henry Johnston excepting his name, and my own confession will be sufficient and sole evidence agamst me. As to the possible result of my trial, I have not overlook- ed it. It was just, if only for my dear love's sake, that I should gain some idea of the chances against me. Little as I understand of the law, and especially English law, it seems to me very unlikely that the verdict will be willful murder, nor shall I plead guilty to that. God and my own con- science are witnesses that I did not commit murder, but un- premeditated manslaughter. The punishment for this is, I believe, sometimes trans- portation, sometimes imprisonment for a long term of years. If it were death — which perhaps it might as well be to a man of my age — I must face it. The remainder of my days, be they few or many, must be spent in peace. K I do not hear within two days' post from Bockmount, I shall conclude your father makes no opposition to my determination, and go at once to surrender myself at Salis- bury. YoiL need not write ; it might compromise you ; it would be almost a relief to me to hear nothing of or from you until all was over. And now, farewell ! My personal effects here I leave in charge of the chaplain, with a sealed envelope, containing the name and address of the friend to whom they are to be sent in case of my death, or any other emergency. This is yourself. In my will I have given you, as near as the law allows, every right that you would have had as my wife. My wife — my wife in the sight of God, farewell ! — that is, until such time as I dare write again. Take good care of yourself; be patient, and have hope. In whatever he commands — he is too just a man to command an injustice — obey your father. Forget me not — ^but you never will. If I could have seen you once more, have felt you close to my heart — perhaps it is better as it is. Only a week's suspense for you, and it will be over. Let us trust in God ; and farewell ! Remember how I loved you, my child ! Max Urquhart. 376 A LIFE FOR A LIFE^ CHAPTER XXXYI. HIS STORY. My dear Theodora, — By this time you will liave known all. Thank God, it is over. My dear, dear love — my own faithful girl — it is over ! When I was brought back to prison to-night, I found your letters ; but I had heard of you the day before from Colin Granton. Do not regret the chance which made Mr. Johnston detain my letter to you, instead of forwarding it at once to the Cedars. These sort of things never seem to me as accidental; all was for good. In any case I could not have done otherwise than I did ; but it would have been painful to have done it in direct opposition to your father. The only thing I regret is, that my poor child should have had the shock of first seeing these hard tidings of my surrender to the magistrate, and my public confes- sion, in a newspaper. Granton told me how you bore it. Tell him I shall re- member gratefully all my life his goodness to you, and his leaving his young wife — whom he dearly loves, I can see — ^to come to me here. ISTor was he my only friend ; do not think I was either contemned or forsaken. Sir Wil- liam Treherne and several others offered any amount of bail for me ; but it was better I should remain in prison during the few days between my committal and the assizes. I needed quiet and solitude. Therefore, my love, I dared not have seen you, even had you immediately come to me. You have acted in all things as my dear girl was sure to act — wise, thoughtful, self-con- trolled, and oh ! how infinitely loving. I had to stop here for want of daylight ; but they have now bi^ought me my allowance of candle — slender enough, so I must make haste. I wish you to have this full ac- count as soon as possible after the brief telegram which 1 know Mr. Granton sent you the instant my trial was over. A trial, however, it was not ; in my ignorance of law, I im- agined much that never happened. What did happen I will here set down. You must not expect me to give many details ; my head A LIFE POR A LIPE. 377 was rather confused, and my health has been a good deal shaken, though do not take heed of any thing Granton may tell you about me or my looks. I shall recover no^v. Fortunately, the four days of imprisonment gaA'e me time to recover myself in a measure, and I was able to write out the statement I meant to read at my trial. I preferred reading it, lest any physical weakness might make me confused or inaccurate. You see I took all ra- tional precautions for my own safety. I was as just to myself as I would have been to another man. This for your sake, and also for the sake of those now dead, upon whose fair name I have brought the first blot. But I must not think of that — it is too late. What best becomes me is humility, and gratitude to God and man. Had I known in my wretched youth, when, absorbed in terror of human justice, I forgot justice divine — had I but known there were so many merciful hearts in this world ! After Colin Granton left me last night I slept quietly, for I felt quiet and at rest. Oh, the peace of an unburdened conscience, the freedom of a soul at ease, which, the whole truth being told, has no longer any thing to dread, and is prepared for every thing ! I rose calm and refreshed, and could see through my cell window that it was a lovely spring morning. I was glad my Theodora did not know what particular day of the assizes was fixed for my trial. It would make things a little easier for her. It was noon before the case came on : a long time to wait. Do not suppose me braver than Twas. When I found myself standing in the j)risoner's dock, the whole mass of staring faces seemed to whirl round and round before my eyes ; I felt sick and cold ; I had lost more strength than I thought. Every thing present melted away into a sort of dream through which I fancied I heard you speaking, but could not distinguish any words — except these, the soft, still tenderness of which haunted me as freshly as if they had been only just uttered : " My dear Max ! my dear Max!" By this I perceived that my mind was wandering, and must be recalled ; so I forced myself to look round at the judge, jury, witness-box, in the which was one person sit- ting with his white head resting on his hand. I felt who it was. 378 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. Did you know your father was subpoenaed here ? If so, what a day this must have been for my poor child ! Think not, though, that the sight of him added to my suffering. I had no fear of him or of any thing now. Even pubUc shame Avas less terrible than I thought ; those scores of in- quisitive eyes hardly stabbed so deep as in days past did many a kind look of your father's, many a loving glance of yours. The formalities of the court began, but I scarcely listen- ed to them. They seemed to me of little consequence. As I said to Granton when he urged me to employ counsel, a man who only wants to speak the truth can surely manage to do it, in spite of the encumbrances of the law. It came to an end — the long, unintelligible indictment — and my first clear perception of my position was the judge's question : " How say you, prisoner at the bar, guilty or not guilty?" I pleaded " guilty," as a matter of course. The judge asked several questions, and held a long discussion with the counsel for the crown on what he termed " this very remarkable case." The purport of it was, I believe, to as- certain my sanity, and whether any corroboration of my confession could be obtained. It could not. All possible witnesses were long since dead, except your father. He still kept his position, neither turning toward me nor yet from me — ^neither compassionate nor revengeful, but sternly composed, as if his long sorrows had obtained their solemn satisfaction ; and, even though the end was thus, he felt relieved that it had come. As if he, like me, had learn- ed to submit that our course should be shaped for us rath- er than by us, being taught that even in this world's events the God of Truth will be justified before men — will prove that those who, under any pretense, disguise or deny the truth, live not unto Him, but unto the father of lies. Is it not strange that then and there I should have been calm enough to think of these things ? Ay, and should calmly write of them now. But, as I have told you, in a great crisis my mind always recovers its balance and be- comes quiet. Besides, sickness makes us both clear-sighted and far sighted — wonderfully so, sometimes. Do not suppose from this admission that my health is gone or going, but simply that I am, as I see in the look- ing-glass, a somewhat older and feebler man than my dear love remembers me a year ago. But I must hasten on. A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 379 The plea of guilty being recorded, no trial was necessa- ry; the judge had only to pass sentence. I was asked Y/hether, by counsel or otherwise, I wished to say any thmg in my own defense? And then I rose and told the whole truth. Do not grieve for me, Theodora. The truth is never really terrible. What makes it so is the fear of man, and that was over with me ; the torment of guilty shame, and that was gone too. I have had many a moment of far sharper anguish, more grinding hmniliation than this, when I stood up and publicly confessed the sin of my youth, with the years of suffering which had followed — dare I say, ex- piated it ? There is a sense in which no sin ever can be expiated except in One Blessed Way ; yet in so far as a man can atone to man, I believed I had atoned for mine ; I had tried to give a life for a life, morally speaking — ^nay, I had given it. But it was not enough ; it could not be. Nothing less than the truth was required from me, and I here offered it. Thus, in one short half hour, the burden of a lifetime was laid down forever. The judge — ^he was not unmoved, so they told me after- ward — said he must take time to consider the sentence. Had the prisoner any witnesses as to character ? Several came forward. Among the rest, the good old chaplain, who had traveled all night from Liverpool, in or- der, he said, just to shake hands with me to-day — which he did, in open court — God bless him ! There was also Colonel Turton, with Colin Granton — who had never left me since daylight this morning — but they all held back v^^hen they saw rise and come forward, as if with the intention of being sworn, your father. Have no fear, my love, for his health. I watched him closely all this day. He bore it well — it will have no ill result, I feel sure. From my observation of him, I should say that a great and salutary change had come over him, both body and mind, and that he is as -likely to enjoy a green old age as any one I know. When he spoke, his voice was as steady and clear as be- fore his accident it used to be in the pulpit. " My lords and gentlemen, I was subpoenaed to this trial. ISTot being called upon to give evidence, I wish to make a statement upon oath." There must liave been a " sensation in the court," as 380 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. newspapers say, for I saw Granton look anxiously at me. But I had no fears. Your father, whatever he had to say, was sure to speak the truth^ not a syllable more or less, and the truth was all I wanted. The judge here interfered, observing that, there being no trial, he could receive no legal evidence against the prisoner.. " Nor have I any such evidence to give : I was only for justice. My lord, may I speak?" Assent was given. Your father's words were brief and formal ; but you will imagine how they fell on one ear at least. " My name is William Henry Johnston, clerk, of Hock- mount, Surrey. Henry Johnston, who — died — on the night of November 19th, 1836, was my only son. I know the prisoner at the bar. I knew him for some time before he was aware whose father I was, or I had any suspicion that my son came to his death in any other way than by acci- dent." " Was your first discovery of these painful facts by the prisoner's present confession ?" " No, my lord." Your father hesitated, but only mo- mentarily. " He told me the whole story himself, a year ago, under circumstances that would have induced most men to conceal it forever." The judge inquired, " Why was not this confession made public at once ?" "Because I was afraid. I did not wish to make my family history a by-word and a scandal. I exacted a prom- ise that the secret should be kept inviolate. This promise he has broken ; but I blame him not. It ought never to have been made." " Certainly not. It was thwarting the purposes of jus- tice and of the law." " My lord, I am an old man, and a clergyman ; I know nothing about the law ; but I know it was a wrong act to bind any man's conscience to live a perpetual lie." Your father was here asked if he had any thing more to say. " A word only. In the prisoner's confession, he has, out of delicacy to me, omitted three facts, which weigh materi- ally in extenuation of his crime. When he committed it he was only nineteen, and my son was thirty. He was drunk, and my son, who led an irregular life, had made him A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 381 SO, and afterward taunted him more than a youth of nine- teen was likely to bear. Such was his statement to me, and, knowing his character and my son's, I have Httle doubt of its perfect accuracy." The judge looked up from his notes. " You seem, sir, strange to say, to be not unfavorable toward the prisoner." "I am just toward the prisoner. I wish to be, even though he has on his hands the blood of my only son." After the pause which followed, the judge said : " Mr. Johnston, the Court respects your feelings, and re- grets to detain you longer or put you to any additional pain. But it may materially aid the decision of this very peculiar case if you w^ill answer another question. You are aware that, all other evidence beuig wanting, the pris- oner can only be judged by his own confession. Do you believe, on your oath, that this confession is true ?" " I do. I am bound to say, from my intimate knowledge of the prisoner, that I believe him to be now, whatever he may have been in his youth, a man of sterling honor and unblemished life ; one who would not tell a he to save him- self from the scaffold." . " The Court is satisfied." But before he sat down your father turned, and, for the first time that day, he and I were face to face. " I am a clergyman, as I said, and I never was in a court of justice before. Is it illegal for me to address a few words to the prisoner ?" Whether it was or not, nobody interrupted him. "Doctor Urquhart," he said, speaking loud enough for every one to hear, " what your sentence may be, I know not, or whether you and I shall ever meet again until the day of judgement. If not, I believe that if we are to be for- given our debts according as we forgive our debtors, I shall have to forgive you then. I prefer to do it now, while we are in the flesh, and it may comfort your soul. I, Henry Johnston's father, declare publicly that I believe what you did was done in the heat of youth, and has ever since been bitterly repented of. May God pardon you, even as I do this day." I did not see your father afterward. He quitted the court directly after sentence was given — three months' im- prisonment — the judge making a long speech previously ; but I heard not a syllable. I heard nothing but your fa- ther's words — saw no one except himself, sitting there be- 382 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. low me, with his hands crossed on his stick, and a stream of sunshine falling across his white hairs — Theodora — Theo- dora — I can not write ; it is impossible. Granton got admission to me for a minute after I was taken back to prison. He told me that the " hard labor" was remitted; that there had been application made for commutation of the three months into one, but the judge declined. If I wished, a new apphcation should be made to the Home Secretary. 'No, my love, suffer him not to do it. Let nothing more be done. I had rather abide my full term of punishment. It is only too easy. Do not grieve for me. Trust me, my child, many a peer puts on his robes with a heavier heart than I put on this felon's dress, which shocked Granton so much that he is sure to tell you of it. Never mind it — my clothes are not me, are they, Httle lady ? Who was the man that wrote " Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage ; Minds innocent — " Am I innocent ? No ; but I am forgiven, as I believe, before God and man. And are not all the glories of heav- en preparing, not for sinners, but for pardoned souls ? Therefore I am at peace. The fii'st night of my impris- onment is, for some things, as happy to me as that which I have often imagined to myself when I should bring you home for the first time to my own fireside. Not even that thought, and the rush of thoughts that come with it, are able to shake me out of this feeling of un- utterable rest — so perfect that it seems strange to imagine I shall ever go out of this cell to begin afresh the turmoil of the world — as strange as that the dead should wish to return again to life and its cares. But this as God wills. My love, good-night. Granton will give you any farther particulars. Talk to him freely — it will be his good heart's best reward. His happy, busy life, which is now begun, may have been made all the brighter for the momentary cloud which taught him that Providence oftentimes blesses us in better ways than by giving us exactly the thing we desired. He told me when we parted, which was the only allusion he made to the past, that, though Mrs. Colin was " the dearest little woman in all the world," he should al- ways adore, as " something between a saint and an angel," Miss Dora. A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 383 Is she my saint and angel ? Perhaps — if she were not likewise the woman of my love. What is she doing now, I wonder? Probably vanish- ing, lamp in hand, as I have often watched her, up the stair into her own wee room, where she shuts the door and re- members me. Yes, remember me, but not with pain. Beheve me, that I am happy — that whatever now befalls me I shall always be happy. Tell your father — No, tell him nothing. He surely knows all. Or he wiU know it, when, this life having passed away like a vapor, he and I stand together before the One God, who is also the Redeemer of sinners. Write to me, but do not come and see me. Hitherto your name has been kept clear out of every thing ; it must be still, at any sacrifice to both of us. I count on this from you. You kjQow, you once said laughing, you had already taken in your heart the marriage vow of " obedience," if I chose to exact it. I never did, but I do now. Unless I send for you — which I solemnly promise to do if illness or any other cause makes it necessary — obey me, your husband ; do not come and see me. Three months will pass quickly. Then ? But let us not look forward. My love, good-night. Max Ueqxjhaet. CHAPTER XXXVII. HER STOEY. Max says I am to write an end to my journal, tie it up with his letters and mine, fasten a stone to it, and drop it over the ship's bulwarks into this blue, blue sea. That is, either he threatened me or I him, I forget which, with such a solemn termination ; but I doubt if we shall ever have courage to do it. It would feel something like dropping a little child into this " wild and wandering grave," as a poor mother on board had to do yesterday. " But I shall see him again," she sobbed, as I was help- ing her to sew the little white body up in its hammock. "The good God will take care of him, and let me find him 384 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. again, even out of the deep sea. I can not lose him; I loved him so." And thus, I believe, no perfect love, or the record of it, in heart or in word, can ever be lost. So it is of small mat- ter to Max and me whether this, our true love's history, sinks down into the bottom of the ocean, to sleej^ there — as we almost expected we should do yesterday, there was such a storm — or is sealed up and preserved for the bene- fit of — of our great grandchildren. Ah ! that poor mother and her dead child ! Max here crept down into the berth to look for me, and I returned with him and left him resting comfortably on the quarter-deck, promising not to stir for a whole hour. I have to take care of him still ; but, as I told him, the sea Avinds are bringing some of its natural brownness back to his dear old face, and I shall not consider him " interest- ing" any more. During the three months that Max was in prison I never saw him. Indeed, we never once met from the day we said good-by in my father's presence till the day that — But I will continue my story systematically. All those three months Max was ill ; not dangerously — for he said so, and I could believe him. It would have gone very hard with me if I could not have relied on him in this, as in every thing. Nevertheless, it was a bitter time, and now I almost wonder how I bore it — now, when I am ready and willing for every thing, except the one thing, which, thank God, I shall never have to bear again —separation. The day before he came out of prison Max wrote to me a long and serious letter. Hitherto both our letters had been filled up with trivialities, such as might amuse him and cheer me. We deferred all plans till he was better. My private thoughts, if I had any, were not clear even to myself until Max's lett-er. It was a very sad letter. Three months' confinement in one cell, with one hour's daily walk round a circle in a walled yard — prisoner's labor, for he took to making mats, saying it amused him — prisoner's rules and fare — no won- der that toward the end even his brave heart gave way. He broke down utterly, otherwise he never would have written to me as he did — bidding me farewell — me 1 At first I was startled and shocked ; then I laid down the let- ter and smiled — a very sad sort of smile, of course, but still A lilFJE FOR A LIFE. 385 it was a smile. The idea that Max and I conld part, or desire to do so, under any human circumstances, seemed one of those amusingly impossible things that one would never stop to argue in the least, either with one's self or any other person. That we loved one another, and there- fore some day should probably be married, but that any how we belonged to one another till death, were facts at once siniple and natural, and immutable as that the sun stood in the heavens or that the grass was green. I wrote back to ]Max that night. I^ot that I did it in any hurry or impulse of sudden feel- ing. I took many hours to consider both what I should say, and in what form I should put it. Also, I had doubts whether it would not be best for hun, if he accepted the generous offer of Mr. Thorley's son-in-law,- made with fuU knowledge of all circumstances, to go first to America alone. But, think how I would, my thoughts all returned and settled in the same track, in which was written one clear truth ; that, after God and the right — which means all claims of justice and conscience — ^the first duty of any two who love truly is toward one another, I have thought since that if this truth were plainer seen and more firmly held by those whom it concerns, many false notions about honor, pride, self-respect, would slip off; many uneasy doubts and divided duties would be set at rest; there would be less fear of the world and more of God, the only righteous fear. People would believe more simply in His ordinance, instituted " from the beginning" — ^not the mere outward ceremony of a wedding, but the love which draws together man and woman untU it makes them complete in one another, in the mystical marriage union, which, once perfect, should never be disannulled. And if this union begins, as I think it does, from the very hour each feels certain of the other's love — surely, as I said to Max — ^to talk about giving one another up, whether from poverty, delay, altered circumstances, or compulsion of friends, any thing, in short, except changed love or lost honor — like poor Penelope and Francis — was about as foolish and wrong as attempting to annul a marriage. In- deed, I have seen many a marriage that might have been broken with far less unhohness than a real troth plight, such as this of ours. After a little more " preaching" (a bad habit that I fear is growing upon me, save that Max merely laughs at it, or R 386 A L.IFE FOll A LIFE. when he does not laugh he actually listens!), I ended my letter by the earnest advice that he should go and settle in Canada, and go at once, but that he must remember he had to take with him one trifling encumbrance — me. When the words were written, the deed done, I was a httle startled at myself. It looked so exceedingly like my making hvm an ofier of marriage ! But then — good-by, foolish doubt! good-by, contemptible shame! Those few tears that burned my cheeks after the letter was gone were the only tears of the sort that I ever shed — ^that Max will ever suffer me to shed. Max loves me ! His letter in reply I shall not give — not a line of it. It was only for me. So that being settled, the next thing to consider was how matters could be brought about, without delay either ; for, with Max's letter, I got one from his good friend Mrs. Ansdell, at whose house in London he had gone to lodge. Her son had followed his two sisters — they were a con- sumptive family — Cleaving her a poor old childless widow now. She was very fond of my dear Max, which made her quick-sighted concerning him^ and so she wrote as she did, delicately, but sufficiently plainly to me, who she said he had told her was, in case of any sudden calamity, to be sent for as " his nearest friend." My dear Max ! ISTow, we smile at these sad forebod- ings ; we believe we shall both live to see a good old age. But if I had known that we should only be married a year, a month, a week — ^if I had been certain he would die in my arms the very same day, I should still have done exactly what I did. In one sense, his illness made my path easier. He had need of me — ^vital, instant need, and no one else had. Also, he was so weak that even his will had left him ; he could neither reason nor resist. He just wrote, " You are my conscience ; do as you will, only do right." And then, as Mrs. Ansdell afterward told me, he lay for days and days, calm, patient — waiting, he says, for another angel than Theodora. Well, we smile now at these days, as I said ; thank God, we can smile ; but it would not do to Uve them over again. Max refused to let me come to see him at Mrs. Ansdell's until my father had been informed of all our plans. But papa went on in his daily life, now so active and cheerful ; he did not seem to remember any thing concerning Doctor A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 387 Urquhart and me. For two whole days did I follow him about, watching an opportunity, but it never came. The first person who learned my secret was Penelope. How many a time, in these strange summers to come, shall I call to mind that soft English summer night, under the honeysuckle bush — Penelope and I sitting at our work ; she talking the while of Lisabel's new hope, and consider- ing which of us two should best be spared to go and take care of her in her trial. " Or, indeed, papa might almost be left alone for a week or two. He would hardly miss us, he is so well. I should not wonder if, like grandfather, whom you don't remember, Dora, he lived to be ninety years old." " I hope he may — ^I hope he may !" And I burst out sobbing ; then, hanging about my sis- ter's neck, I told her all. " Oh !" I cried, for my tongue seemed unloosed, and I was not afraid of speaking to her, nor even of hurting her — if now she could be hurt by the personal sorrows that mine recalled to her mind. " Oh, Penelope, don't you think it would be right? Papa does not want me — ^no- body wants me. Or if they did — " I stopped. Penelope said, meditatively, " A tncm shall leave his father and his mother and cleave unto his wife!''' "And equally a woman ought to cleave unto her hus- band. I mean to ask my father's consent to my going with Max to Canada." " Ah ! that's sudden, child." And by her start of pain I felt how untruly I had spoken, and how keenly I must have wounded my sister in saying, " I^obody wanted me" at home. Home, where I lived for nearly twenty-seven years, all of which now seem such happy years. " God do so imto me, and more alsj^" as the old Hebrews used to say, if ever I forget Rocfiaount, my peaceful maiden home ! It looked so pretty that night, with the sunset coloring its old walls, and its terrace walk, where papa was walking to and fro, bareheaded, the rosy Ught falling like a glory upon his long white hair. To think of him thus pacing his garden, year after year, each year growig older and feebler, and I never seeing him, perhaps never hearing from him — either not coming back at all, or returning after a lapse of years to find nothing left to me but my father's grave ! 388 A LIFE rOE A LIFE. The conflict was very terrible ; nor would Max bimself have wished it less. They who do not love their own flesh and blood, with whom they have lived ever since they were born, how can they know what any love is ? We heard papa call us : " Come in, you girls ! The sun is down, and the dews are falling." Penelope put her hand softly on my head. " Hush, child, hush ! Steal into your own room, and quiet yourself I will go and explain things to your father." I was sure she must have done it in the best and gentlest way ; Penelope does every thing so wisely and gently now ; but when she came to look for me, I knew, before she said a word, that it had been done in vain. " Dora, you must go yourself and reason with him. But take heed what you say and what you do. There is hard- ly a man on this earth for whom it is worth forsaking a happy home and a good father." And truly, if I had ever had the least doubt of Max, or of our love for one another ; if I had not felt as it were al- ready married to him, who had no tie in the whole wide world but me, I never could have nerved myself to say what I did say to my father. If, in the lightest word, it was unjust, unloving, or undutiful, may God forgive me, for I never meant it ! My heart was breaking almost ; but I only wanted to hold fast to the right, as I saw it, and as, so seeing it, I could not but act. " So I understand you wish to leave your father ?" "Papa! papa!" " Do not argue the point. I thought that folly was all over now. It must be over. Be a good girl, and forget it. There!" I suppose I must have turned very white, for I felt him take hold of me, and press me into a chair beside him. But it would not do to let my strength*'go. ^ " Papa, I want your consent to my marriage with Doc- tor Urquhart. He would come and ask you himself, but he is too iU. We have waited a long time, and sufiered much. He is not young, and I feel old — quite old myself, sometimes. Do not part us any more." This was, as near as I can recollect, what I said — said very quietly and humbly, I know it was, for my father seemed neither surprised nor angry ; but he sat there as hard as a stone, repeating only, *' It must be over." "Why?" A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 389 He answered by one word ; '•'• Harry P " Xo other reason?" " IsTone." Then I dared to speak out plain, even to my father. " Papa, you said pubHcly you had forgiven him for the death of Harry." "" But I never said I should forget." "Ay, there it is!" I cried out bitterly. "People say they forgive, but they can not forget. It would go hard with some of us if the just God dealt with us in like man- ner." " You are profane." " N^o ; only I am not afraid to bring God's truth into all the cu'cumstances of life, and to judge them by it. I be- lieve, if Christ came into the world to forgive sinners, we ought to forgive them too." Thus far I said, not thinking it just toward Max that I should plead merely for pity to be shown to him or to me who loved him, but because it was the right and the truth, and as such, both for Max's honor and mine, I strove to put it clearly before my father. And then I gave way, pleading only as a daughter with her father, that he should blot out the past, and not, for the sake of one long dead and gone, break the heart of his living child. " Harry would not wish it — I am sure he would not. If Harry has gone where he, too, may find mercy for his many sins, I know that he has long ago forgiven my dear Max." My father, muttering something about " strange theolo- gy," sat thoughtful. It was some time before he spoke again. " There is one point of the subject you omit entirely. What wiU the world say ? I, a clergyman, to sanction the marriage of my daughter with the man who took the life of my son ? It is not possible." Then I grew bold : " So, it is not the law of God, or jus- tice, or nature, that keeps us asunder, but the world? Father, you have no right to part Max and me for fear of the world." When it was said, I repented myself of this. But it was too late. All his former hardness returned as he said, "I am aware that I have no legal right to forbid your marriage. You are of age ; you may act, as you have all along acted, in defiance of your father." " Never in defiance, nor even in secret disobedience ;" 390 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. and I reminded him how all things had been carried on — open and plain — from first to last ; how patiently we had waited ; and how, if Max were well and prosperous, I might still have said, "-We will wait a little longer." Now — "WeU,andnow?" I went down on my very knees, and with tears and sobs besought my father to let me be Max's wife. It was in vam. " Good-night ; go to yom' bed, Dora, and weary me no niore." I rose, certain now that the time was come when I must choose between two duties — ^between father and husband ; the one to whom I owed existence, the other to whose in- fluence I owed every thing that had made me a girl worth living or worth loving. Such crises do come to poor souls ! God guide them, for He only can. " Good-night, father." My lips felt dry and stiff; it wag scarcely my own voice that I heard. " I will wait ; there are still a few days." He turned suddenly upon me. "What are you plan- ning? Tell the truth." " I meant to do so." And then, briefly — ^for each word came out with pain, as if it were a last breath — I explained that Doctor Urquhart would have to leave for Canada in a month — that, if we had gained my father's consent, we intended to be married in three weeks, remain a week in England, and then sail. " And what if I do not give my consent ?" I stopped a moment, and then strength came. " I must be Max's wife still. God gave us to one anoth- er, and God only shall put us asunder." After that, I remember nothing till I found myself lying in my own bed, with Penelope beside me. No words can tell how good my sister Penelope was to me in the three weeks that followed. She helped me in all my marriage preparations, few and small, for I had httle or no money except what I might have asked papa for, and I would not have done that — not for worlds ! Max's wife would have come to him almost as poor as Griseldis, had not Penelope one day taken me to those locked-up drawers of hers. " Are you afraid of ill luck with these things ? No ? Then choose whatever you want, and may you have health and happiness to wear them, my dear." A LIFE FOE A LIFE. 391 And so, with a little more stitching — for I had a sort of superstition that I should like to be married in one new w^hite gown, which my sister and I made between us— ^we finished and j)acked the small wardrobe which was all the marriage portion poor Theodora Johnston could bring to her husband. My father must have been well aware of our preparations, for we did not attempt to hide them ; the household knew only that Miss Dora was " going a journey," but he knew better — that she was going to leave him and her old home, perhaps forevermore. Yet he said nothing. Sometimes I caught him looking earnestly at me — at the poor face which I saw in the looking-glass — growing daily more white and heavy-eyed — yet he said nothing. Penelope told me when, hearing me fall, she had run into the hbrary that night, he bade her "take the child away, and say she must not speak to him on this subject any more." I obeyed. I behaved all through those three weeks as if each day had been hke the innumerable other days that I had sat at my father's table, walked and talked by his side, if not the best loved, at least as well loved as any of his daughters. But it was an ordeal such as even to re- member gives one a shiver of pain, wondering how one bore it. During the daytime I was quiet enough, being so busy, and, as I said, Penelope was very good to me ; but at night I used to he awake, seeing, with open eyes, strange figures about the room — especially my mother, or some one I fan- cied was she. I would often talk to her, asking her if I were acting right or wrong, and whether all that I did for Max she would not have once done for my father ; then rouse myself with a start, and a dread that my wits were going, or that some heavy illness was approaching me, and if so, what would become of Max. At length arrived, the last 'day — the day before my mar- riage. It was not to be here, of course, but in some Lon- don church, near Mrs. Ansdell's, who was to meet me her- self at the railway station early the same morning, and re- main with me till I was Doctor Urquhart's wife. I could have no other friend ; Penelope and I agreed that it was best not to risk my father's displeasure by asking for her to go to my marriage. So, without sister or father, or any of my own kin, I was to start on my sad wedding morning — quite alone. 392 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. During the week I had taken an opportunity to drive over to the Cedars, shake hands with Cohn and his wife, and give his dear old mother one long kiss, which she did not know was a good-by. Otherwise I bade farewell to no one. My last walk through the village was amid a del- uge of August rain, in which my moorlands vanished, all niist and gloom. A heavy, heavy night ; it will be long before the weight of it is lifted off my remembrance. And yet I knew I was doing right, and, if needed, would do it all over again. Every human love has its sacrifices and its anguishes as well as its joys — ^the one great love of life has often most of all. Therefore, let those beware who enter upon it lightly, or selfishly, or without having counted its full cost. " I do not know if we shall be happy," said I to Penel- ope, when she was cheering me with a future that inay nev- er come ; " I only know that Max and I have cast our lots together, and that we shall love one another to the end." And in that strong love armed, I lived — otherwise, many times that day, it would have seemed easier to have died. When I went, as usual, to bid papa good-night, I could hardly stand. He looked at me suspiciously. " Good-night, my dear. By-the-by, Dora, I shall want you to drive me to the Cedars to-morrow." " I — I — ^Penelope will do it." And I fell on his breast with a pitiful cry. "Only bid me good-by! Only say ' God bless you,' just once, father." He breathed hard. "I thought so. Is it to be to-mor- row?" "Yes." "Where?" I told him. For a few minutes papa let me lie where I was, patting my shoulder softly, as one does a sobbing child ; then, still gently, he put me away from him. " We had better end this, Dora ; I can not bear it. Kiss me. Good-by." " And not one blessing ? Papa, papa !" My father rose, and laid his hand solemnly on my head : " You have been a dutiful girl to me in all things save this, and a good daughter makes a good wife. Farewell! Wherever you go, God bless you !" And as he closed the library door upon me I thought I had taken my last look of my dear father. A LIFE POE A LIFE. 393 It was oiily six o'clock in ttie morning when Penelope took me to the station. Nobody saw us — nobody knew. The man at the railway stopped tis, and talked to Penelope for full two minutes about his wife's illness — two whole minutes out of our Jast five. — My sister would not bid me good-by, being determined, she said, to see me again, either in London or Liyerpool, before we sailed. She had kept me up wonderfully, and her last kiss was ahnost cheerful, or she made it seem so. I can still see her — very pale, for she had been up since daylight, but otherwise quiet and tearless, pacing the soli- tary platform — our two long shadows ghding together be- fore us in the early morning sun. And I see her, even to the last minute, standing with her hand on the carriage do or — smiling. " Give Doctor Urquhart my love ; tell him I know he will take care of you. And, child," turning round once again with her " practical" look that I knew so well, " re- member, I have written ' Miss Johnston' on your boxes. Afterward, be sure that you alter the name. Good-by — nonsense, it is not really good-by." Ay, but it was. For how many, many years ? In that dark, gloomy London church, which a thundery mist made darker and stiller, I first saw again my dear Max. Mrs. AnsdeU said, lest I should be startled and shocked, that it was only the sight of me which overcame him — that he was really better. And so when, after the first few min- utes, he asked me, hesitatingly, " if I did not find him much altered ?" I answered boldly, " ISTo ; that I should soon get accustomed to his gray hair ; besides, I never remembered him either particularly handsome or particularly young ;" at which he smiled ; and then I knew again my own Max ! and all things ceased to feel so mournfully strange. We went into one of the far pews, and Max tried on my ring. How his hands shook ! so much that all my trem- bling passed away, and a great calm came over me. Yes, I had done right. He had nobody but me. So we sat side by side, neither of us speaking a word, until the pew-opener came to say the clergyman was ready. There were several other couples waiting to be married at the same time — who had bridesmaids, and friends, and fathers. We three walked up and took our places — there was no one to pay heed to us. I saw the verger whisper something to Max, to which he answered " Yes," and the R 2 394 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. old man came and stood behind Mrs. Ansdell and me. A few other folk were dotted about in the pews, but I only noticed them as moving figures, and distinguished none. The service began, which I — indeed we both — had last heard at Lisabel's wedding, in our pretty church, all flower- adorned, she looking so handsome and happy, with her sis- ters near her, and her father to give her away. For a mo- ment I felt very desolate ; and hearing a pew door open and a footstep come slowly up the aisle, I trembled with a vague fear that something might happen, something which even at the last moment might part Max and me. But it did not ; I heard him repeat the solemn promises — how dare any one make them lightly, or break them aft- erward ? — to " love^ comfort^ honor ^ and keep me^ in sick- ness and in healthy and^ forsaking all other ^ keep me only unto him^ so long as we both shoidd Uve.^'' And I felt that I also, out of the entire trust I had in him, and the great love I bore him, could cheerfully forsake all other, father, sisters, kindred, and friends, for him. They were very dear to me, and would be always ; but he was part of myself — my husband. And here let me relate a strange thing — so unexpected that Max and I shall always feel it as a special blessing from heaven to crown all our pain and send us forth on our new life in peace and joy. When in the service came the ques- tion, " Who giveth this woman, etc.," there was no answer, and the silence went like a stab to my heart. The minister, thinking there was some mistake, repeated it again : " Who giveth this woman to be married to this man ?" "I do." It was not a stranger's voice, but my dear father's. ******* My husband had asked me where I should best like to go for our marriage journey. I said to St. Andrew's. Max grew much better there. He seemed better from the very hour when, papa having remained with us till our train started, we were for the first time left alone by our two selves. An expression ungrammatical enough to be quite worthy. Max would say, of his little lady, but people who are married will understand what it means. We did, I think, as we sat still, my head on his shoulder and my hand between both his, watching the fields, trees, hills, and dales fly past like changing shadows, never talking at all, nor thinking much, except — the glad thought came in spite of all A LIFE FOK A LIFE. 395 the bitterness of these good-bys — ^that there was one good- by which never need be said again. We were married. I was dehghted with St. Andrew's. We shall always talk of our four days there, so dream-hke at the time, yet afterward become clear in remembrance down to the mi- nutest particulars. The sweetness of them will last us through many a working hour, many an hour of care — such as we know must come, in ours as in all human lives. We are not afraid ; we are together. Our last day in St. Andrew's was Sunday, and Max took me to his own Presbyterian church, in which he and his brother were brought up, and of which Dallas was to have been a minister. From his many wanderings it so happen- ed that my husband had not heard the Scotch service for many years, and he was much affected by it. I too, when, reading together the psalms at the end of his Bible, he show- ed me, silently, the name written in it — Dallas Urquhart. The psalm — I shall long remember it, with the tune it was sung to — which was strange to me, but Max knew it well of old, and it had been a particular favorite with Dal- las. Surely if spirit, freed from flesh, be every where, or, if permitted, can go any where that it. desires — not very far from us two, as we sat singing that Sunday, must have been our brother Dallas. "How lovely is thy dwelling-place, O Lord of hosts, to me ! The tabernacles of thy grace, How pleasant, Lord, they be ! My thirsty soul longs vehemently, Yea, faints, thy courts to see ; My very heart and flesh cry out, O living God, for thee Bless'd are they, in thy house who dwell, Who ever give thee praise ; Bless'd is the man whose strength thou art, In whose heart are thy ways ; Who, passing thorough Baca's vale, Therein do dig up wells ; Also the rain that falleth down The pools with water fills. Thus they from strength unwearied go StiU forward unto strength, Until in Zion they appear Before the Lord at length." Amen ! So, when this hfe is ended, may we appear, even there still together, my husband and I ! 396 A LIFE FOK A LIFE. Contrary to our plans, we did not see Rockmount again, nor Penelope, nor my dear father. It was thought best not, especially as in a few years, at latest, we hope, God will- ing, to visit them all again, or perhaps even to settle in En- gland. After a single day spent at Treherne Court, Augustus went with us one sunshiny morning on board the American steamer, which lay so peacefully in the middle of the Mer- sey, just as if she were to lie there forever, instead of sail- ing, and we with her, in one little half hour — saihng far away, far away, to a home we knew not, leaving the old famiHar faces and the old familiar land. It seemed doubly precious now, and beautiful — even the sandy flats, that Max had so often told me about, along the Mersey shore. I saw him look thoughtfully toward them, after pointing out to me the places he knew, and where his former work had lain. " That is all over now," he said, half sadly. " ll^othing has happened as I planned, or hoped, or — " "Or feared." " No. My dear wife, no ! Yet all has been for good. All is very good. I shall find new work in a new coun- try." "And I too?" Max smiled. " Yes, she too. We'll work together, my little lady!" The half hour was soon over — ^the few last words soon said. But I did not at all realize that we were away till I saw Augustus wave us good-by, and heard the sudden boom of our farewell gun as the Europa slipped off her mail tend- er, and went steaming seaward alone — ^fast, oh ! so fast. The sound of that gun, it must have nearly broken many a heart many a time ! I think it would have broken mine had I not, standing, close-clasped, by my husband's side, looked up in his dear face, and read, as he in mine, that to us, thus together, every where was Home. THE IHSTD.