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 AGNES 
 
 VOL. III.
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/agnes03olip
 
 AGNES 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. OLIPHANT, 
 
 AXJTHOR OF 
 THE LIFE OF EDWARD IRVIXG, 
 
 ETC. ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. III. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 HUEST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHEES, 
 
 SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1866. 
 
 The right of Translation w reserved.
 
 LONDOir : 
 
 SAVILL Aim EDWARDS, PEINTEES, CHABDOS ETiiXKT, 
 COTJBNl GARDBN.
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OP 
 
 THE T H T E D Y L U :M E. 
 
 CHAP. PAGB 
 
 I. ALONE 1 
 
 II. JACK Charlton's coaimssiON .... 15 
 
 in. SIR Roger's claim 31 
 
 IV. RESISTANCE 49 
 
 V. A PAUSE 64 
 
 VL THE TERRORS OF THE LAW 82 
 
 VII. COUNSEL AND CLIENT 97 
 
 VIII. VILLAGE GOSSIP 112 
 
 IX. A CRISIS 130 
 
 X. TOM U7 
 
 XL THE TREVELYANS' REVENGE 164 
 
 XIL SELF-BETRAYAL 180 
 
 XIIL THE SEARCH 194
 
 vi Contents. 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 XIV. THE CLUE 206 
 
 XV. A DESECKATED HOME 
 
 221 
 
 XVI. MISS TREVELYAJi's SHARE 246 
 
 XVII. NEWS 257 
 
 XVIII. HOW IT ENDED 275 
 
 XIX. AFTER THE END 293 
 
 XX. CONCLUSION 312
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Alone. 
 
 HERE are few tilings in tliis life 
 so sad as tlie aspect of a liouse in 
 Avhicli a long illness lias come to 
 an end J and deatli lias taken away 
 tke object of many cares ; and wlien it is tlie head 
 of tte house^ the chief person in it_, who is gone, 
 the sight is yet more pathetic. The room looks so 
 silent, so deserted, Avhicli used to be the centre 
 of the anxious household. The white vacancy 
 and emptiness where once so much suffering, so 
 many cares and anxieties were, the bold sun- 
 shine entering in unabashed through the win- 
 dow that used to be veiled so carefully, are 
 things that go to the heart. And then when, as 
 in this case, there are children merry upstairs, 
 forgetting or altogether unaware of the loss 
 for all their lives that they have sustained; 
 and down below, all silent, a woman by herself, 
 pale with watching, weary of life^ trying 
 
 VOL. III. B
 
 2 Agnes. 
 
 again^ as far as slie may, to steady herself, and 
 set forth once more on the same road where 
 she has been arrested, and beaten down and 
 trampled on the gronnd. She has to get up 
 again, and pick np the remnants that are left and 
 go on ; there is nothing else for it ; but it is 
 hard work ; and this was what Agnes Trevelyan 
 was making up her mind to do. 
 
 She remained alone all the afternoon after 
 Mrs. Freke left her. She had clung to Walter 
 when ^' all was over/^ and kept him by her ; but 
 then it came into her sad heart to think that the 
 boy was looking pale, and she sent him away ; 
 and then she would have the baby on her lap, 
 which being speechless was a still better com- 
 forter; but this day she continued alone. She 
 had meant to think, but thinking is such hard 
 work ; and then it seemed so natural to ask her- 
 self what was the good of it noiv ; and then, 
 poor soul, she went searching through all her 
 thoughts and recollections for comfort and found 
 so little. The darkness seemed to press round 
 her and baffle her on every side. It is not diffi- 
 cult to speculate upon heaven in the abstract, 
 especially when it is only, so to speak, in one^s 
 own interest ; but then Agnes had parted with 
 her husband upon those dark and mysterious 
 boundaries, and her heart was breaking to find
 
 Alone. 3 
 
 some trace of liim again on tlie otlier side. It 
 -was but little comfort to her to be told lie was 
 liappy. The bard tiling was, to be henceforward 
 nnable to form any idea of him_, where he was, or 
 what he might be doing, or even what changes 
 his nature had sustained in the transition from 
 one world to the other. A saintly white shade, 
 with golden harp and glistening wings, conveyed 
 to her no idea of Roger — no link of connexion 
 with him ; and this was why she turned back so 
 cast down and discouraged from that search into 
 the unknown, which is the grand occupation of 
 the sorrowful. She read over and over all she 
 could find in the Bible on that subject, but it 
 gave her very little enlightenment. ^^ In my 
 Father's house are many mansions — I go to 
 prepare a place for you." Enough for faith, 
 but nothing for the avidity, and curiosity, and 
 longing of love ; not an idea where, or how, or 
 even what he was ; only that he was well ; and it 
 is so hard to content the heart with that. When 
 she roused herself from this search in which 
 there was so little satisfaction, the idea of new 
 arrangements made her heart sick. And yet, to 
 be sure, she had to think of them — to weigh with 
 herself what it was right to do for her children's 
 sake, and to contemplate the position in which 
 she stood, cut off from all defence, subject to- 
 B 2
 
 4 Agnes. 
 
 advice, and reprimand, and exliortation — not 
 knowing what her hnsband''s family might have 
 to say to her, and knowing well that, except 
 snch succour as came from her father, there was 
 nobody to take her part. 
 
 This last consideration, however, was, strangely 
 enough, a kind of comfort to Agnes. She 
 had a consciousness, which even his death 
 could not quite remove, of the weakness of 
 poor Roger's character, and the little good he 
 had been in the world ; but the more she felt 
 his loss the greater her want of protection and 
 defence appeared, the more she was able to exalt 
 Roger in her thoughts. There is a sweetness 
 even in the desolation that says to itself — '^ This 
 would not have happened had he been here.'' 
 She took all the consolation she could out of 
 this, as she sat alone with the tears on her pale 
 cheeks. If Roger had been living, the questions 
 which she was now asking herself would have 
 been unnecessary. If Roger had been living, 
 nobody would have ventured to intrude on her 
 privacy, and give her advice as to her individual 
 affairs, which was, to a certain extent, imper- 
 tinent, however well-meant it might be. Thus 
 she seemed to herself to have the means pro- 
 vided to her hands of exalting and defending 
 poor Roger's memory from any implied censme
 
 Alone. 5 
 
 or faint approbation. And with that her mind 
 returned to the sad freedom in Avhich she found 
 herself — the liberty to have her own way, which 
 is so pleasant in some circumstances, so miser- 
 able in others. There was nobody to hinder her 
 from doing as she pleased, or to contradict her 
 plans, and make her efforts vain. Everything 
 was in her own hands to establish or to destroy. 
 But then there still remained one bond upon this 
 desolate freedom; and that was her father, who 
 was coming in the evening to bear her company, 
 and comfort her as well as he could, as he had 
 done almost every evening since Roger died. 
 
 When Stanfield arrived he found his daughter 
 sitting by the fire, unoccupied, as Agnes had 
 never been in the old days; and Walter standing 
 by her side, with her arms round him, and 
 leaning his head against her. The boy was con- 
 templating wistfully his mother^s tears, not 
 knowing what to do or to say — keeping very 
 quiet and looking at her, as the only practical 
 means of being, as all the servants adjured him 
 to be, " a comfort" to her. He had cried with 
 her at first, but the fountain of his tears was 
 soon exhausted, and now he could only contem- 
 plate with a little awe_, and even perhaps a little 
 weariness, the slow big tears that continued to 
 come to her eyes. And she had talked to him a
 
 6 Agnes, 
 
 little at firsts till it became apparent to Agnes 
 tliat all tlie power of recollection and monrning 
 that tliere was in lier little boy^s mind had been 
 exhansted;, and that it was only with a kind of 
 mechanical melancholy that he listened to what 
 she was saying. And then she recognised that 
 the child conld not follow her^ and that she had 
 already gone far beyond his reach without know- 
 ing it ; and she became silent, bnt yet held him 
 fast, with a sense that the pain in her heart was 
 eased a little when Walter pressed close to her, 
 and moved in his childish restlessness within her 
 arm. Stanfield thought there conld be nothing 
 more sad than the two silent figures by the fire 
 — the mother gazing into it with her eyes 
 dilated and large with tears, and the child re- 
 garding her with wistful wonder and s^rmpathy. 
 There AYas still a sadder picture in store if he 
 had known it ; but in the meantime it was near 
 Christmas, and all the world was making merry ; 
 and the sight of his daughter, thus changed and 
 broken down, went to the blacksmith^ s heart. 
 
 " It is time that Walter should go upstairs,^^ 
 said Agnes ; " I have kept him too long, perhaps, 
 but it was for company. Father, if you have time, I 
 want to speak to you about all our affairs to-night."" 
 '^ I have always time for all you have to say 
 to me, my darling,^^ said Stanfield ; " but don't
 
 Alone. 7 
 
 vex yourself witli affairs. If auvbocly comes to 
 trouble tou_, send tliem to mc/^ 
 
 '' Xobocly lias come to trouble me except Mrs. 
 Freke^ wbo is very kiud/^ said Agues. " Slie 
 offered to get a place for ^Nladelou^ and slie gave 
 me lier advice about leaviug liere. I want you 
 to tell me wbat you tliink. You liave been our 
 support for a long time^, father. I know it very 
 well;, though I have not said much; but now 
 things — are different. ^lany things that were 
 necessary are — not — ; that is_, I can do without 
 them. She was quite right; I should not put 
 you to such expense.^' 
 
 " What is this about expense V' said Stanfield. 
 " That is my share of the business^ little one. I 
 wish I could take your share on my shoulders too ; 
 but I can^t^ for it's against nature. Never mind 
 the easy part of it ; you have enough to bear."' 
 
 " Yes" said Agnes ; " but there are women 
 that have everything to bear — the grief, no less, 
 and all the cares, and perhaps to work for their 
 children — and you spare me everything. I am 
 no better, no weaker than the rest." 
 
 " God forbid !" said the blacksmith. '' Tve 
 known women that had all that to do, and I've 
 heard them say it was well for them ; but a man is 
 not to stand aside and leaA'c the bui'den to his 
 onlv child. That would be out of reason. You are
 
 8 Agnes, 
 
 all I have in tlie worlds and all that I have is 
 yours. Don't speak of this any more/'' 
 
 " But I ought to speak of it/' said Agnes. 
 " Father ! remember the change of circum- 
 stances — there were many things necessary that 
 are necessary no longer. He," said Mrs. Tre- 
 velyan, gasping a little, notwithstanding her 
 composure, " had habits, different — I will never 
 forget your goodness to him — but I am your 
 daughter, and what is good enough for you is 
 very good for me. Father ! Avill you take me 
 home ?" 
 
 A passing spasm contracted Stanfield's heart 
 — a thrill of longing, a pang of self-restraint. 
 To see Agnes in her old place, and watch her 
 children daily, hourly growing up round him ! 
 But then the blacksmith was not used to con- 
 sidering himself. He took time to think before 
 he answered, and his broad calm eyes shone upon 
 Agnes with a radiance like the sunshine. It 
 was not with any little candle of his own that he 
 examined Avhat was before him, but with an im- 
 partial daylight of observation. He shook his 
 head softly as he looked at her. 
 
 " You are at home, little one !" he said ; and 
 his eyes went aside for a moment, to go round 
 the room with a certain caressing pleasure in the 
 look; for had he not chosen everything in it
 
 Alone, 9 
 
 for her, down to tlie minutest particular ? Poor 
 Roger, though his wife put it all to his credit, 
 had counted for very little in the blacksmiths 
 arrangements. It was even a pleasure to him 
 (for, to be sure, he had been only moderately 
 attached to Koger) to think that his daughter's 
 comfort was not of her husband^ s pro^dding, nor 
 in any way dependent upon him, but that it was 
 himself — her father, from whom Agnes derived 
 everj^thing she had. "You are at home,'' he 
 repeated, gently ; " nowhere could you be more 
 at home than you are here." 
 
 " Yes ; but I am dependent upon you, said 
 Agnes ; " I am to be thought of only as your 
 daughter now; and your daughter requires 
 no better lodging, no greater attendance, than 
 you do. I am Agnes Stanfield only, so far as 
 my requirements go." 
 
 This was a hard speech for her father ; perhaps 
 it was harder than all that strangers had said 
 about his daughter's unequal match, and than 
 all the semi-insults and concealed ill temper of 
 his son-in-law. Agnes herself came in, without 
 thinking it, to give the last blow. 
 
 " You have always been Agnes Stanfield to 
 me," he said, with something in his tone that in 
 another man would have been resentment ; and 
 then he made a little pause. " There are many
 
 10 Agnes. 
 
 strange tilings in this -world/^ said the black- 
 smitli_, resuming "witli a painful smile^ wMcli liis 
 dangliter did not understand ; " but it would be 
 strange indeed if at this time you and me sbould 
 begin to vex each other. Such a thing might 
 be^ my darling/^ said Stanfield, meeting the 
 sudden astonished look she gave him with his 
 calm and steady eyes, "because, you see, the 
 chief thing in my mind is that you are my child; 
 and the chief thing in yours, as is but natural, 
 
 is that you are — that you were " 
 
 He stopped short, and she did not make any 
 reply. They understood each other without any 
 fui'ther words ; and they also understood on both 
 sides that there was something between them 
 which prevented them from ever resuming the 
 primitive position of father and daughter. No 
 man could be more tender to the memory of the 
 dead than Stanheld was, as no man could have 
 been more tolerant and forbearing with the living 
 — but his pride was touched in its tenderest 
 point, and he was still fallible, even at the height 
 of his goodness. Even her gratitude vexed her 
 father. Why should his child be gratefid, and 
 think of him and speak of his kindness as if she 
 was not his child, but another man^s wife? This 
 sentiment could never have been spoken in words; 
 but Agnes knew what he meant, because she was
 
 Alone. 1 1 
 
 liis cliilcl^ and iinderstood liini witliout tlie aid of 
 speech. 
 
 And tlien there was a silence between the two^ 
 who thus discovered that they were separated 
 without wishing it^ without intending it, at the 
 time when they had so much need of each other. 
 Agnes felt herself roused up out of her grief by 
 the necessity of saying something — of abridging 
 this pause, which, in its way, was so eloquent. 
 It was so new to her to be embarrassed and con- 
 strained with her father, and to have to search 
 for something to say to him, that the very sense 
 of consti-aint prolonged the pause; and then 
 Stanfield perceived her hesitation, and shared it. 
 It was he, however, who broke the silence at last. 
 
 " We^ll talk no more about expenses or 
 affairs," he said ; " you are here at home, my 
 little one. It is true you are a mother, and 
 have little ones of yoiu' own, but still you are 
 my child, my little Agnes. Somehow I like the 
 name better the more it is out of reason," he 
 went on with the gradual smile that lit up his 
 face by degi'ces. " A man is of little use if he 
 cannot stand between his daughter and the world. 
 If I were to die — and I must die some day — you 
 would have eveiything to do, my darling ; and I 
 know you woidd neither shrink nor fail ; but just 
 now, when anybody speaks to you of expenses or
 
 12 Agnes, 
 
 arrangements^ send them to me. I was not 
 put into tliis world only to liammer iron/^ said 
 the blacksmith ; " and now you are tired^ and I 
 am going away/' 
 
 " Not tired/-* said Agnes. ^' If I could be tired 
 with work^ as some poor Avomen are, I should 
 be better. I have too much ease, that is all 
 that ails me. It would be better for me, if you 
 would only believe it, to send aAvay my servants, 
 and go home to you, as Mrs. Freke says.'"* 
 
 " Mrs. Freke does not know,'' said Stanfield. 
 " Don't say that any more. There are some 
 things that are impossible. You are all I have 
 in the world, but my house is not a place for 
 you — now.^' 
 
 And then he said good-night to her, and 
 went away with a heavy heart. Perhaps it was 
 partly his own doing, that had married a woman 
 who could never be the mistress of a house in 
 which Mrs. Trevelyan came to live ; bu.t chiefly 
 it was the doing of nature, who had broken the 
 first bond to make a second more close and 
 intimate. To be sure, it was for Agnes Stanfield, 
 his daughter, that the blacksmith had done and 
 suffered all that was required of him; but the 
 worst of it was that, in her heart, she was no 
 longer Agnes Stanfield, but Roger Trevelyan's 
 wife — Roger Trevelyan' s widow, a woman
 
 Alone. 13 
 
 conscious of feelings and tlioughts TvMcli her 
 father did not^ and could not^ share. They 
 found this out mutually just at the moment 
 vhen, according to all outward appearance^ the 
 chief cause of their separation was removed. 
 Before that both father and daughter could permit 
 themselves to think that it was Roger — who was 
 fond of his wife^, but not of his father-in-law — who 
 changed the character of their intercoui'se ; but 
 now that Roger was dead^ and a closer union 
 than ever might have arisen • between the sor- 
 rowful daughter and the father, who was so fidl 
 of tender sympathy, the ti'ue state of affairs 
 became painfully clear to them both. Changed 
 circumstances, other experiences, long absence, 
 and what was still more important, the character 
 of ^vife, had made between Agnes and her father 
 a separation which had nothing to do with 
 external obstacles. She could not come back 
 over that boundary, neither could he cross it ; 
 and love itself stood baffled and discoui'aged by 
 the discovery. To be sure it was natural ; but 
 then the only real hardships in existence are those 
 that come by nature — the only ones that are 
 inevitable and incurable, and from which there 
 are no means of escape. 
 
 Agnes sat long over the fire after her father 
 left her, till it faded and died out before her,
 
 14 Agnes, 
 
 like (as slie imagined) tlie fire of life_, ^vliicli 
 seemed to be dying in lier heart. When she 
 paid her nsnal "^-isit to the children's room before 
 she "went to rest^ Walter woke hastily up to see 
 her bending over him. He was half dreaming 
 and half awake^ as children are when disturbed 
 in their sleep. " Let me play/' he said^ with a 
 little fretful toss. " I never have any time to 
 play. I don't want to go to mamma." The 
 child was asleep again almost before he had 
 done sjDeaking ; and Agnes corered him up care- 
 fully, and went away without a word ; but, not- 
 withstanding, her heart bled again at this touch. 
 Her little child was too young to understand her ; 
 and even had he been old enough, he had his 
 own fresh life to occupy him, and was not to be 
 diverted from that by her troubles. And her 
 father, too, the only other living creature to 
 whom she could go, had in a manner refused to 
 enter into her special sorrow. She went down- 
 stairs with a sense of utter loneliness which the 
 most solitary of human beings could not have 
 surpassed. She was not, in actual fact, alone ; 
 she had children fair and promising, and a father 
 who would do anything in the world for her 
 comfort and consolation; but no one ever felt 
 more desolate than Agnes as she went down- 
 stairs, in her own house, from the room where
 
 Alone. 1 5 
 
 her boy was sleeping^ to tlie other room,, in which 
 her baby^s soft breathing made tenderest^ half- 
 andible music. Tliere vras still some one to 
 love her^ and to claim her love, but there 
 was nobody to share the buixlen that was 
 heaviest. Henceforward that closest bond was 
 rent for ever and eyer. ISTobody in the world 
 conld say^ " It is my soitow as well as yonrs.^'' 
 She had to take it all npon her, by herself, and 
 coyer it np and keep it from injuiing or wearying 
 the others, who had so little to do with it. This 
 was also a thing quite natiu^al, and of which no 
 one had any right to complain.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Jack CharUon^s Commission. 
 
 'HUS tlie clays T^-ent on_, and the 
 printer came to an end ; and Agnes 
 made tlie discoA'eiy wLicli everj'-- 
 body lias to make tvIio goes throiigli 
 the nsual experiences of life^ that Death does not 
 rank at all so highly among the influences that 
 affect existence as at the first glance it seems to 
 do. The anticipation of it had not changed 
 Roger^ who descended into the dark valley with- 
 out in any respect losing his identity, without 
 gaining solemnity or even seriousness from the 
 contact; and now, when she stood on the other 
 side of the gi-ave to which she had seen him go 
 down, she also was still the same creature, 
 though her life was changed in so many respects. 
 And common habits and occupations had to be 
 taken up again, and the requirements of every 
 day were on the whole as steady, as persistent as 
 ever. And then, even out of self-regard, she had to
 
 Jack Charlton's Commission, 17 
 
 conquer herself — to look the world in the face, 
 and talk in her old voice, and take an interest or 
 pretend to do so in "vvhat was going on round 
 her; all to defend herself from pity which she 
 could not bear,, and allusions to her " loss/' which 
 sounded like blasphemy to Agnes. So that on 
 the whole it began to be said in the village that 
 Mrs. Trevelyan was bearing it very well. It was; 
 thus that she presented herself to the eyes of 
 Jack Charlton, when he came to pay her a visit 
 in the spring. 
 
 It was the first time he had come since 
 Roger's death. He had written to her then a 
 few words of sympathy, and had offered, if ever 
 he could be of any use to her — as everybody does 
 at such times. But he meant what he said, 
 which, perhaps, is not so general. He had always 
 had an admiration and a kindness for Agnes 
 since the day, long ago, when he had found her 
 alone at Florence, sitting over her work by 
 herself, when all the other women in his sphere 
 were amusing themselves, or trying to amuse 
 themselves. He had been sorry for her in her 
 solitude, and he had seen that she was not sorry 
 for herself; and that seemed to Jack so odd, 
 under all the circumstances, that he had never 
 ceased to take an interest in Agnes. But his 
 interest was of such a kind that he would not 
 
 VOL. III. C
 
 18 Agnes, 
 
 Lare come to see her without a grave reason. 
 He was a careless man enough, and not of an 
 elevated character, but he had a kind of insight 
 in liis heart. He understood that a woman 
 might perhaps hi her weakness wonder why the 
 father of her children should be taken out of the 
 world, and Jack Charlton, who was not much 
 good to anybody, left. To tell the truth, he 
 wondered a little at it himself — not that his own 
 life should continue, which, to be sure, seems a 
 natural thing to every man ; but that so many 
 fellows who had nobody belonging to them 
 should go on all sound and safe, while Roger 
 was hui-ried out of the world from his wife and 
 children. He would not have thought of pre- 
 senting himself before Agnes to put such ideas 
 into her mind, if there had not been, as we have 
 said, a grave reason for it ; and when he saw 
 ^Irs. Trcvelyan, he felt a little ashamed of him- 
 self, as if the sight of her mourning was a 
 reproach to him. He thought to himself that it 
 was verv hard upon her, as he looked at her and 
 saw her beautiful hair covered with the symbol of 
 her widowhood, and the black dress which set 
 her apart from all the bright world. She was 
 vounger than himself by five or six years at 
 least, and yet Jack felt himself at the height of 
 life and its enjoyments ; while to her, that had
 
 Jack Charlton's Commhsion, 19 
 
 come to an end summarily. It was very hard 
 on her^ he said to himself; and this was why he 
 felt almost guilty when he came, in the fulness of 
 his stren^h and in perfect enjoyment of his life 
 into the house where his schoolfellow h.ad died, 
 and where the Avoman whom he had seen a bride 
 was sitting a widow; for Jack, though he had 
 his faults, was in his licart a good fellow, and 
 full of tenderness in his way. It was with this 
 sense of compunction that he came in, sending 
 in his name first, and waiting to know if she 
 would receive him, -svith a respect as great as if 
 he had been asking an audience of his sovereign. 
 Perhaps Agnes felt within herself, as he had an- 
 ticipated, a little thrill of contrast — a sense of the 
 difference — when she heard his name; but she 
 admitted him notwithstanding, after the first 
 movement of disinclination. She was by herself, 
 as she now began to accustom herself to being 
 when her children were out of doors, and the 
 lines of her face were set with a kind of rigid 
 steadiness which Jack had not seen before. It 
 was to keep herself from expressing too much 
 emotion that Agnes gave this rigid look to her 
 face — and though she did not know it, it betrayed 
 her more than tears. 
 
 " I think I saw Watty in the garden,^' said 
 Jack, with the precipitancy of a man who must 
 c 2
 
 20 Jgnes. 
 
 plunge into conversation somehow. " He begins 
 to grow a great fellow, fit for scliool, almost. 
 Have you made up your mind at all on that 
 subject, Mrs. Trevelyan ? Do you mean to send 
 him to Eton ? He used to be a bright little chap 
 when he was little; but I suppose he's not quite 
 such a polyglot now." 
 
 " He is only nine/' said Agnes. " He is too 
 young for a public school." 
 
 " Yes, that is true/' said Jack ; " but there is 
 nothing like beginning there early, you know." 
 This was said, not that Jack Charlton had any 
 educational theories, but simply because he had 
 something very serious to say on this subject and 
 did not know how to begin. 
 
 Mrs. Trevelyan smiled in a faint sort of pallid 
 way — which went to Jack's heart all the more, 
 because he remembered perfectly the time when 
 he had found out first that Trevelyan' s wife, 
 though fiightened, could smile. She said — 
 
 " I did not know you were interested about 
 schools ; but if you will tell me what is the best 
 for him, it will be very kind of you." This, 
 which was so natural a thing for her to say, was 
 so far from having the efiect of opening Jack's 
 mind and experience, that it embaiTassed him 
 more and more. 
 
 " He used to be a sharp little chap," lie
 
 Jack CharliorCs Commission, 21 
 
 ansTrered^ vaguely ; and then grew crimson to 
 his hair, and looked ont of the Trindow with 
 much anxiety, not to see anybody, but to hide 
 his discomfort ; and then he added, abruptly : 
 " I cannot conceal it from you, ^Irs. Trevelyan, 
 or open it up gradually, as I ought to do. I 
 ought to have been a ploughman instead of a 
 lawyer. I am afraid I have come to vex you, 
 and I had rather a great deal break my own 
 head ; however, I have undertaken it, and I must 
 give you my message.^' 
 
 " 'VMiat is it r" said Agnes, looking at him. 
 His words woke a faint sensation in her, wliich 
 was almost too feeble to be called curiosity, 
 much less fear; for her rapid mind took a 
 sur\Ty of the situation in that moment, and 
 now that the one great evil had happened, she 
 did not know of anything else that could alarm 
 her. To have suffered the worst harm that you can 
 conceive, is a wonderful defence against anxiety. 
 What he said seemed to her like a stupid plea- 
 santry. After what had happened, what could 
 it matter what any man said, or what message 
 might have to be delivered to her? She listened 
 languidly, lifting her eyes to him, and tliinking 
 how little he knew of the state of her mind if he 
 imagined that, at present, she was capable of 
 being disturbed by Avhat any one might say.
 
 22 Agnes. 
 
 " I saw Beatrice Trevelyan tlie otlier day/' 
 said Jack_, speaking abi'uptly_, in his anxiety to 
 spare lier — " and — and, indeed. Sir Roger. 
 Did you ever liappen to hear, Mrs. Trevelyan, 
 that something had been said — some arrange- 
 ment contemplated — about Walter? Forgive 
 me,^^ he said, growing a great deal more agitated 
 than she Avas ; " I don't know how to say it, 
 I would not for the world hurt your feelings; 
 but poor Trevelyan " 
 
 ^' If you will speak of him quite simply with- 
 out hesitation, and do not call him poor,'' said 
 Agnes, quickly. She did not cry, nor lose her 
 self-possession; she only drew a long shivering 
 breath, and clasped her hands tight together, as 
 if there was some strength to be got that way; 
 and then she raised her eyes to her visitor's face 
 with a certain mute entreaty that he should go 
 on. 
 
 " Forgive me," Jack repeated, without knowing 
 he said it ; " there is nothing in the Avorld I 
 woidd not sooner do than vex you. I cannot 
 help asking — did he ever speak to you of 
 any proposal about Walter ? The grandfather, 
 you know, offered to take him to put him to 
 school. ^N'othing was settled, but they think it 
 was Ids wish ; and then, perhaps it Avould be better 
 for the child — and save vou something' "
 
 Jack CharltorCs Commission. 23 
 
 It was only tlien that it became visible to 
 Jack tliat Agnes was not at first as pale as a 
 woman could be. She blanched visibly under this 
 demand, so that he seemed to see all the blood 
 that remained rushing back from her face. 
 
 " I heard nothing of it/^ she said ; and then 
 made a pause as if something had stifled her 
 voice. " I cannot believe there was ever any 
 such arrangement made/^ she went on a minute 
 after ; " it must be a mistake/' 
 
 "Xo, it is not altogether a mistake/' said 
 Jack. " I know the proposal was made — and, to 
 tell the truth, I thought it was a good proposal 
 for my part — I think I even advised Trevelyan 
 to accept it. I shall be very sorry if you think 
 the worse of me for that ; but then, you see, there 
 
 are so many things to be considered '' Here 
 
 he stopped short, for it was impossible to say 
 to Agnes that the grandfather, who was a black- 
 smith, had seemed to him rather an unlucky 
 associate for a future baronet ; and he could 
 not help feeling that the mere suggestion of 
 taking her boy from her was a little cruel. 
 " Education is very costly, and it is only right 
 Sir Roger should do something for his grandson 
 — that is why I thought it would be well to 
 accept/' 
 
 Agnes made no direct answer, but only
 
 24 Agnes, 
 
 clasped her hands closer on her lap. '^ He is 
 too young for a public school/^ she repeated, 
 painfully, almost losing her head in the sudden 
 confusion and rush of ideas ; and then she forced 
 herself to take a little time to think; and as 
 Jack, on his side, was silent, waiting for her 
 answer, recovered the thread which she had 
 almost lost. '' I never heard anything of it,^^ 
 she said. " He did not always take my advice, 
 but he never did anything without telling me — 
 without consulting me. He could not mean it ; 
 and now,^' said Agnes, crushing her hands to- 
 gether, " everything is changed." 
 
 " Yes," said Jack. " Mrs. Trevelyan, believe 
 me, I feel how painful it all is. Even if 
 Trevelyan had made up his mind to it, it was 
 under different circumstances. I remember even 
 then he said it was you that had to be thought 
 of. It was just before you were ill, and I 
 suppose that was why he did not speak of it ; 
 and then he had so little time. I thought it 
 would be better for me to come about it than a 
 stranger. The strong point is, that they think 
 they had his consent." 
 
 Agnes remained a long time silent, revolving 
 in her mind many bitter thoughts, feeling more 
 and more distinctly that she had nobody to 
 stand by her. As for the child himself, the
 
 Jack Charlton^s Commission, 25 
 
 novelty of going to school would probably pre- 
 vail over all other sentiments; and it was not 
 certain that Stanfield might not think it a duty 
 to accept this offer of amity towards Walter^ and 
 help to his mother. She kept silent^ almost 
 unconscious of Jack Charlton^s eyes, feeling the 
 bitterness of her solitude pierce to her heart. It 
 seemed to her even as if Roger, in his grave, had 
 abandoned her, which was perhaps the hardest 
 of all. 
 
 " He could not have consented, because he 
 never spoke of it,'"* she said, with a certain 
 hoarseness in her throat. " Have you come to 
 make the proposal to me T' 
 
 " I suppose I must say yes ; that is the com- 
 mission I am charged with," said Jack ; " but 
 Mrs. Trevelyan, I beg you will believe " 
 
 " Yes," said Agnes. Her tone was not so 
 much impatient as preoccupied. She had no 
 time for civilities, nor, indeed, for anything but 
 the most urgent necessity of the case. " I do 
 not think it will do any good to think it over, Mr. 
 Charlton — I can do nothing but refuse to accept 
 it. It may be meant for kindness, and I may 
 be wrong in what I am doing. I am only a 
 woman like other women, though the rest have 
 less to bear than I have. I ought to be con- 
 sidered a little, too. I cannot give up my child.
 
 26 Agnes, 
 
 Tliere are some things ^^liicli I must decide 
 for myself. He is the greatest comfort I 
 have in the ^orld — and I cannot give up my 
 boy/^ 
 
 While she spoke she kept perfectly stilly but 
 a pink flush came and went over her face, and 
 her voice was harsh and irregular, and by times 
 shrill, as if in its range there was, here and 
 there, a broken chord. And she stopped herself 
 with a little effort, as if once ha\dng begun, she 
 could have gone on indefinitely — which was, 
 indeed, true; but then Agnes recalled to herself 
 that her auditor cared nothing about what was 
 going on in her mind, that he wanted only an 
 answer; and she broke off suddenly, as she had 
 commenced, under the dominion of that idea, 
 which was not entirely just. For, to tell the 
 truth. Jack Charlton felt himself in a false 
 position, and though he was carrying Sir Roger's 
 standard, had all the inclination in the world to 
 desert and go over to the enemy without another 
 word being said. 
 
 " Have patience a moment,^^ he said. ^' I am 
 not going to repeat that proposal. I came to-day 
 not for their sake, but because I thought I was 
 better than a stranger. Are you able to explain 
 to me a little ? In case Sir Roger should not be 
 content with this ''
 
 Jack Charlton's Commission, 27 
 
 Agnes was proud in lier Tvay^ thongli it was 
 not a common way of pride : she had it from 
 her father, who was proud^ too, in the height 
 of his humility. "I am all that remains 
 to Walter in the world/^ she said. " I have 
 to be both father and mother to him. I 
 do not see how it can go any farther. There 
 can be no question between Sir Roger and 
 me.^^ 
 
 Jack Charlton was not in any way affected by 
 this little outburst. He continued with what he 
 was saying tranquilly ;, after he had paused a 
 moment, as if to suffer the fumes to escape. 
 " Still I have to ask you to pardon me/' he said. 
 " Did Trevelyan leave a will ? — that is the great 
 thing to know." 
 
 Once more Agnes shivered a little at her 
 husband's name. ^'^He had nothing to leave us/' 
 she said. " I would not have him troubled, nor 
 did he think of it liimself. Mr. Charlton, my 
 father will tell you whatever you desire to 
 know.'' 
 
 " Yes, thank you ; that will be liest," said Jack ; 
 but at the same time he did not conceal from 
 himself that little Walter Trevelyan' s fate would 
 interest him much less when he discussed it 
 with a village blacksmith, than when it was the 
 child's pale mother, in the languor and preoccu-
 
 28 Agnes, 
 
 pation of her grief, T\'ho answered for him. He 
 hesitated still after he had received that dis- 
 missal. He did not know how to make any 
 further offer of his seindces without alarming 
 Mrs. Trevelyan ; and yet he could not go away 
 without letting her know that he was not in 
 the enemy^s interests, but that his assistance^ 
 as far as it went, was at her call. 
 
 " I am to say that this is your final answer ?^' 
 he asked, as he got up from his seat. '' If you 
 should change your mind at all, you will ync'itQ to 
 me ? Perhaps, after you have considered it, and 
 
 consulted with your friends Once more, 
 
 Mrs. Ti'cvelyan,^^ said Jack, ^' don't mistake me. 
 If anything follows, I am not Sir Roger's ad- 
 viser. Trevelyan was one of my oldest friends, 
 and I am at your service the moment you call 
 me. You will not forget ? that is, if you hear of 
 this any more." 
 
 " I cannot think I will hear of it any more," 
 said Agnes, with the decision of ignorance. 
 " What is there that can follow ? His mother 
 now is the only authority ; but thank you, Mr. 
 Charlton, you are very kind all the same." 
 
 And she stretched out her hand to him with a 
 smile, which was at once piteous, and in its 
 way defiant. She wanted him to be gone, 
 because she was nearly at the limit of her
 
 Jack Charlton's Commission. 29 
 
 forces. A woman can bear a great deal, but 
 in most cases there arrives a moment wlien 
 she must weep out her tears, at whatever cost. 
 This was why Agnes was so anxious to get 
 free of her visitor. She was quite sensible 
 that his object had been a kind one^ and she be- 
 lieved his offer of service to be real, but then in 
 her heart she felt sure that she could have no 
 need for his services, and wondered a little that 
 a man of sense should have gone out of his way 
 to offer vaguely once more the aid which she had 
 so little prospect of needing. It was some time 
 before the true sting of what she had heard had 
 access into her mind, disturbed as it was. Allien 
 she began to think that Roger had thus aban- 
 doned her, had thus been willing to give up her 
 child to the care of those who would not receive 
 herself, her heart sobbed as if at last it would 
 surely burst her straitened breast. Perhaps it had 
 only been his father^ s death which had saved 
 Walter to her; and the idea was very hard to 
 bear. Even at that moment Agnes, who, being 
 Stanfield's daughter, could not be altogether un- 
 reasonable, recognised, in spite of herself, that 
 there was nothing out of nature in Sir Roger^s 
 desire to have his grandson; but the more she 
 perceived it, the more constantly she repeated in 
 her mind that she never woidd allow herself to be
 
 30 Agnes. 
 
 persuaded^ or consent that lier son slionld be 
 transferred to his grandfather's hands; and it 
 was thns her thoughts were occupied^ Tvith a 
 strange disturbance and excitement^ and at the 
 same time a sense of victory and secure right 
 which no one could dispute^, at the moment when 
 Jack Charlton made his way through Wind- 
 holm to see the blacksmith — for Jack Charlton, 
 on his side, did not feel equally secure.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Sir Roger's Claim. 
 
 HE blacksmith was in the midst of 
 his work when Jack Charlton en- 
 tered the yard, and the visitor, 
 though he was a man of the world, 
 was a little emban-assed how to address the 
 father of Agnes, who was so manifestly one of 
 the lower classes, and yet was the nearest rela- 
 tion of his friend's wife — a woman who was 
 quite his ovni equal, and for whom Jack had even 
 a chivalrous respect. He approached the forii:e 
 slowlVj, not quite knowing how to open his busi- 
 ness or to introduce himself. He was saved this 
 trouble, however, in an unexpected way. Some- 
 thing small made a rush at him while he was 
 looking doubtfully from a little distance at the 
 forge, where the fires were blazing and the ham- 
 mers ringing, and the work going on men-ily. 
 " Is it grandpapa you want to see, Mr. Charlton ?'' 
 said Walter, who had made a bound out of the
 
 32 Agnes. 
 
 heart of it^ slightly grimed and out of breath. 
 " He is here. He is very busy, and I am help- 
 ing him/^ the child added,, half ashamed, half 
 proud, and he held out his little black hands. 
 ^' I have a little hammer all to myself/^ he con- 
 tinued, changing into entire exultation as he 
 ivent on ; " come along, and I tv ill show it 
 vou.^^ And then Walter, out of his blacksmith- 
 furor, suddenly relapsed into a little gentleman. 
 " Grandpapa, this is IMr. Charlton,^' he said, 
 gravely, with the air of a master of the cere- 
 monies. As for Stanfield, he was always a 
 model of coui'tesy. He received the visitor as if 
 the smithy with its roaring fires had been a 
 chamber of audience. '^ I am glad to see Mr. 
 Charlton,''^ he said, with a smile, and looked at 
 Jack with the natural scinitiny of a man who 
 was accustomed to be consulted, and could form 
 an idea of what his ^dsitor wanted, in some de- 
 gree, from his face. To be sure. Jack Charlton 
 was not like one of Stanfield^s ordinary clientele, 
 who carried for the most part their perplexities 
 in their countenance ; but still the experienced 
 eyes of the Adllage philosopher could read even in 
 the looks of the man of the world that this was 
 by no means a visit of courtesy, but that he had 
 something to say. Perhaps Stanfield, who was 
 not in profound grief, like his daughter, was
 
 Sir Roger's Claim. 33 
 
 more disposed to be anxious and take alarm 
 about her circumstances than she was ; perhaps, 
 he saw something suspicious in the look which 
 his visitor cast upon little Walter. At all events^, 
 he put his coat on hastily^ without any pre- 
 liminarieSj and came out to the yard^, where Jack 
 was waiting. Had he known Jack^ he would 
 have proposed the Common as the place of con- 
 sultation ; but he did not know him, and conse- 
 quently more state and ceremony were needful. 
 Fortunately Mrs. Stanfield was out, and they 
 could be undisturbed upstairs. 
 
 '' Walter/^ said the blacksmith;, '' go home 
 now to your mother. Remember our bargain — 
 I know you are a man of your word. Tell her 
 I shall see her to-night. And now_, Mr. Charl- 
 ton_, your pardon for keeping you waiting. Come 
 this way.^^ He led the way to the outer stair as 
 he spoke, pushing Walter before him, with his 
 large hand on his shoulder. The bargain be- 
 tween them was that the child should come to 
 the forge only when his grandfather was there. 
 Walter, for his part, was smoothing down his 
 little sleeves, with the air of a little workman 
 released from his occupation. To be sure. Jack 
 Charlton was more than ever of opinion, that to 
 have a blacksmith for a grandfather and to spend 
 a portion of his time in a forge was not the best 
 
 VOL. III. D
 
 34 Agnes, 
 
 thing possible for a future baronet ; but some- 
 bow^ even at the moment be was tbinking thus, 
 tbe two made a pleasant picture, and be could 
 not belp feeling a little softened at bis beart. 
 Tben, tbougb Walter was tbe beir of tbe Tre- 
 velyans, it could not be questioned by anyone 
 seeing tbem tbus together that he was Stanfield^s 
 descendant, and that all that was remarkable in 
 his face was directly inherited from the black- 
 smith. Jack could not but note this in passing, 
 as he followed up the outer stairs and watched 
 Walter going off, dutiful and like a man of 
 honour. The smithy bad great attractions, and 
 the workmen were entii'ely disposed to spoil 
 their young visitor. It was sad to have to leave 
 the little hammer and all the important work in 
 which he could have lent such powerful aid ; 
 but then his word was of still greater importance, 
 and while the two others went up to the parlour 
 over tbe archway to consult over his future fate, 
 Walter, regretful but true, put his little black 
 hands in bis pockets and marched away steadily 
 to the bouse on the Green. 
 
 Stanfield gave his visitor a chair, and drew 
 mp the blinds, which were closed to exclude the 
 :sun. The sun was setting red behind the Cedars, 
 making an end of the February day, and those 
 last searching slanting beams revealed all the
 
 Sir Roger's Claim. 35 
 
 respectability of tlie apartment in wMcli he was 
 sitting to Jack Charlton,, to whom it was a new 
 experience. As for Stanfield^ it never occurred to 
 him to think what the stranger's opinion of his 
 house might be. He sat down in his own arm- 
 chair, and fixed his eyes on Jack with an atten- 
 tive, expectant look. He did not ask, ^^ What is 
 your business ?'^ neither was there any express 
 demand in those broad, soft eyes, which had their 
 effect upon Jack Charlton, as upon everybody else 
 who saw them ; but, at the same time, his whole 
 aspect expressed a certain expectation, and that 
 he was prepared and ready to hear. 
 
 " I have just seen Mrs. Trevelyan,^^ said Jack, 
 '' and I was very glad when she referred me to 
 you ; for it is hard to trouble a lady, and espe- 
 cially one in her position, with business. I want to 
 make some inquiries about Trevelyan, if you will 
 have the kindness to tell me. I have known 
 him all my life — we were very old friends.^'' 
 
 " Yes,^^ said the blacksmith. "" I have heard 
 of you, Mr. Charlton; but, in the first place, is 
 it for your own satisfaction, or is there anything 
 else behind ?^^ 
 
 In spite of himself Jack reddened, and grew 
 
 a little embaiTassed. " It is both for my own 
 
 satisfaction, and there is something behind,"" he 
 
 said hastily. ^^ I am here, to a certain extent, to 
 
 D 2
 
 36 Agnes. 
 
 represent Sir Roger Trevelyan^ and at the same 
 time I wish yon to understand that I will have 
 nothing to do with any steps he may take to 
 the injury of Mrs. Trevelyan. It is a stupid 
 position, but at present I am for both sides, if 
 you can understand what I mean/'' 
 
 " I can understand what you mean, but I can- 
 not understand what are the two sides/" said the 
 blacksmith. " There is no connexion whatever 
 between Mrs. Trevelyan and Sir Roger. She 
 gets nothing from him, and he has nothing to 
 do with her, so far as I can see."" 
 
 ^' The first thing I want to know,"" said Jack, 
 " if you will have the goodness to inform me, is, 
 whether Trevelyan made a will ?"" 
 
 " He made no will,"" said Stanfield ; " he had 
 nothing to leave, poor fellow ! It was better not 
 in every way. He had bon'owed money at dif- 
 ferent times, with the idea of surviving his father. 
 I don"t say it was right, but then, you know, his 
 father would do nothing for him ; and all the 
 little he had, went to his creditors. I have 
 arranged all that — that is to say, they have 
 done it. My daughter's living is her own,"' 
 said the blacksmith, with a little natural 
 energy. " She is not indebted to Sir Roger 
 for anything. I can't tell what there can 
 be to raise a question between them; she
 
 Sh' Roger's Claim. 37 
 
 is asking for nothing — there must be some 
 mistake/^ 
 
 "It is about the children/^ said Jack. It was 
 all he said^ and his air was as subdued and un- 
 comfortable as his words were few. As for 
 Stanfield^ he was so much surprised that he 
 started^ and made the room and the house thrill 
 with his sudden movement. 
 
 "The children!" he repeated^ aghast; and 
 then he ^^aused and took courage. " Sir Roger 
 has nothing to do with the children/' he said. 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 " I am not sure that he has nothing to do with 
 the children/'' said Jack ; " that is precisely the 
 point I am in doubt upon. Little "Walter is his 
 heir, and there might be plausible reasons found 
 to give to the Lord Chancellor, you know. But 
 I am going too far, for they did not speak of 
 that. Trevelyan, it appears, half consented 
 that they should have Walter to educate, and 
 Sir Roger has set his heart on having him; 
 and now/"* said Jack, with a troubled counte- 
 nance, " since Trevelyan left no will — and, to 
 be sure, they might find plausible things to 
 say " 
 
 "Walter?" said Stanfield, with the air 
 of a man suddenly knocked down. " They 
 want Walter ? — is that what vou mean
 
 38 Agnes, 
 
 to tell me ? And what did liis mother 
 sayr 
 
 " Mrs. Trevelyan said simply ' no/ and de- 
 clined to consider the matter/^ said Jack; and 
 he saw the blacksmith's face light up as he 
 spoke; ^^but I don't know how far that was 
 prudent/' he went on. " I did not like to alarm 
 her, but I should like you to understand. They 
 may make an application to the Lord Chan- 
 cellor ; that is, Sir Roger may, and there is no 
 telling what the decision may be. Everything 
 depends on how a story is told. They may make, 
 if they are clever about it, a veiy plausiljle case ; 
 they may say, you know, that the child's future 
 rank makes it necessary ■" 
 
 ^''Yes, I understand/' said Stanfield. It was 
 not necessary to go further into the details. The 
 blacksmith had experience enough to know that 
 a story very much opposed to the truth might be 
 built upon the facts that were true, and which 
 nobody could contest. Though he was slow in 
 general to understand evil-dealing, he was, in a 
 way, used to Sir Roger, and expected no good 
 from him. A man that thinks the worst of 
 human nature has, in such a case, perhaps, the 
 advantage of a man who thinks the best ; for the 
 cynic recognises all the restraints of society 
 and public opinion, whereas the optimist, when
 
 Sh^ Roger's Claim. 39 
 
 lie has consented to recognise an evil character^ is 
 glad to concentrate all the varieties and kinds of 
 evil in that one exception to the rule. Stanfield 
 was ready to helieve anything of Sir Roger^ 
 and accordingly, though he was much startled, he 
 was not sceptical, as he might have been imder 
 other circumstances. But he had to take a little 
 time to think it over before that mysterious 
 threat of an application to the Lord Chancellor 
 took form and shape in his mind. If there had 
 been question of some immediate act of despotism 
 or ci-uelty, he would have comprehended it 
 sooner. And then the Lord Chancellor was not 
 to know that Agnes was too good for Roger 
 Trevelyan, nor which of Walter's grandfathers 
 was the one who might best be tiTisted to watch 
 over his education. He paused over all this 
 before it entered his mind, and accordingly it 
 was some time before he answered Jack, who sat 
 regarding him with some curiosity, and a gra- 
 dually increasing interest which he could scarcely 
 explain. 
 
 " You are right there,'' said Stanfield, slowly. 
 ^' Everything depends on how a story is told. 
 But to tell a story of this description would be 
 to make it public. I have read reports myself 
 in the papers, of applications to the Lord 
 Chancellor, and the aflfairs of a family dragged
 
 40 Agnes. 
 
 before the -world. I slioiild not like to see tlie 
 
 name of any of our names/' said the black- 
 
 smith_, with that fastidious and delicate pride 
 M'hich prevented him eA^en from saying that it 
 was for Agnes he feared^ " in vnlgar print. This 
 is a danger so unforeseen that you find me un- 
 prepared, Mr. Charlton. I am not very strong 
 on these points, and at this moment, I tell you 
 candidly, I don't know what to say — but I will 
 take advice and learn.'' 
 
 *'■ Oh, I beg you Avill not take me for Sir 
 Roger's adAdser," said Jack, hastily. ''1 came 
 to-day because I had an idea that I would be less 
 alarming than a stranger to Mrs. Trevelyan. If we 
 cannot make an arrangement, I will have nothing 
 to do with any attack that is made upon her." 
 
 " ^ATiat arrangement could we make ?" said 
 Stanfield ; for though his imagination was not 
 very powerful, the blacksmith's thoughts had 
 gone forward in spite of him, and he could not 
 help realizing to himself the romance in real life 
 which might appear in the papers ; and how 
 Agnes might be represented under the appear- 
 ance of an ambitious young woman, who had 
 made a wonderfully good match, and her boy 
 as growing up under circumstances altogether 
 unsuitable to his father's rank; — a misrepresenta- 
 tion all the more difficult to meet that it would
 
 Sir Roger's Claim. 41 
 
 be founded upon evident facts denied by no 
 one. This picture T^'liich gradually grew upon 
 him of Agnes^s name '' in vulgar print/^ as lie 
 saidj moved him more and more as he thought it 
 over. This was why he asked^ notwithstanding 
 Agnes^s prompt refasal which it had comforted 
 him to hear of — " what arrangement could we 
 make ?" 
 
 " Nothings that I am aware of^ but giving up 
 the child/' said Jack. ^^ It was to poor Tre- 
 velyan himself that the proposal was made^ and 
 I think he had half a mind to accept it. If I re- 
 member rightly^ I advised him to accept it. If Mrs. 
 Trevelyan would consent to think of it^ we might 
 arrange the conditions^ jDcrhaps^ on a friendly 
 footing. He might come home to her for part 
 of the holidays ; and then he must go to school^ 
 you knowj sooner or later/'' Jack continued^ in 
 an involuntarily insinuating tone. So far from 
 desiring to make the blacksmith- grandfather aware 
 that his company was bad for the boy^ Jack had 
 come to feel by this time almost as great a desire 
 to break the shock and make it easy to Stanfield 
 as he had done to Agnes^ and he could not help 
 seeing that the blacksmith^s countenance fell as 
 he went on. Walter had grown to be the apple 
 of his grandfather's eye^ almost without Stan- 
 field's knowledge. He had felt his daughter lost
 
 42 Agnes. 
 
 to liim even at the moment when she had come 
 again to be dependent on him and have but him 
 in the workl ; and her son had filled np that in- 
 timate and tender place from Tvhich Agnes^ pre- 
 occnpied by a closer love_, had unconsciously 
 withdrawn. To have Walter removed, coming 
 back for ^^part of his holidays," separated in 
 mind and ideas, perhaps taught to be ashamed of 
 his low connexions, was an idea that made Stan- 
 field^s heart fail within him. Nevertheless, he 
 did not make any protest, or reject summarily 
 this proposition, as Agnes had done. He looked 
 at it in his grave way from every point of view. 
 He recognised that Sir Roger, too, though an 
 unworthy man, had yet a right to be considered, 
 and that it was reasonable that he should desire 
 to have the training of his heir. It was a ter- 
 rible blow to him, but it did not change good 
 into evil, or make him intolerant of his neigh- 
 bour's rights. 
 
 ^' Mr. Charlton, you speak too lightly," said 
 the blacksmith ; " the child, you know, is not 
 just a child in the abstract to us, but the light 
 of our eyes, so to speak. What was it that his 
 mother said?" 
 
 '^ Mrs. Trevelyan was a little hasty, perhaps," 
 said Jack. " She said no, absolutely, and de- 
 clined to think of it. She thought the rights of
 
 Sir Roger's Claim. 4S 
 
 nature Tvere supreme; but I daresay you know 
 that^ so far as Tvomen are concerned, the law is 
 a little indifferent about natural rights. I would 
 not say to her what I have said to you; and, 
 tlien_, she would not have listened to me. If 
 Trevelyan had only had the good sense to make 
 a will, and appoint her and you the guardians 
 
 But it is of no use lamenting that now. 
 
 To tell the truth, I think there is a little bad 
 feeling in it/'' said Jack. " I think Beatrice is 
 at the bottom of it — I mean Miss Ti'evelyan ; 
 and if they brought it before the Lord Chancellor, 
 what with Trevelyan^s half-consenting, and — and 
 — other things, it seems to me they could make 
 a very plausible case.^^ 
 
 ^'^And all the story would be public pro- 
 perty !" said the blacksmith, with that tone of 
 tender pride and delicacy which Jack Charlton 
 did not understand, but still was conscious of. 
 He could comprehend Stanfield''s reluctance to 
 have the romance of his daughter's life published 
 in the papers, but he was not himself of so fine 
 a nature as to understand why her father was 
 too proud and too delicate to say that he feared 
 this for her. Natui'ally, Jack did not think it 
 needful to maintain the same reserve. 
 
 '^'^No, Mrs. Trevelyan would not like it,^^ he 
 said, " and it would be a tempting story for the
 
 41 Agnes. 
 
 newspapers. I should not like it myself, and 
 no doubt it would be very disagreeable to a lady. 
 That was one of my reasons for thinking an 
 arrangement might be made/'' 
 
 Stanfiekrs face flushed like a woman^s at this 
 speech^ though nothing was farther from Jack 
 Charlton^s mind than any intention of offence. 
 Jack had a wonderful respect for ^Irs. Trevelyan, 
 and indeed could even be chivalrous in his way in 
 respect to her ; but she was not to him a being 
 apart_, whose name must not be brought into vulgar 
 discussion^ as she was to her father. He was 
 a little astonished^ accordingly^ when Stanfield, 
 just as he thought they were about to get upon 
 a confidential footing, broke up the conference 
 summarily. 
 
 " I am obliged to you for letting me know 
 our danger/^ said the blacksmith — " very much 
 obliged to you, Mr. Charlton, and for the way 
 in which you have done it. I will give it all my 
 best consideration, though, of course, you know, 
 it is not for me to decide ; and if any other 
 steps are taken, we shall have time to take pre- 
 cautions. The warning is the great thing ; and 
 if you should conduct the proceedings against 
 us,^-* said Stanfield, turning upon his \4sitor 
 eyes which had a momentary smile in them, 
 though the rest of the countenance was grave,
 
 >S'/?' Roger^s Claim. 45 
 
 ^''you Avill do it with consideration^ not sparing 
 the truth,, but sparing the aggravations. In 
 that case " 
 
 " I beg your pardon/^ said Jack. '' I have 
 already said I will take no part against Mrs. 
 Trevelyan. On the other hand, if she chooses 
 
 to confide her interests to me But I trust 
 
 things may not be carried to such an extremity. 
 Perhaps you will talk it oyer with her^ and let 
 me know what you think V 
 
 This was the end of their first consultation on 
 a subject which, though they did not know it, 
 was to haye such serious results. Jack Charlton 
 went away with a curious sense that he had 
 been wanting, somehow, and had made but a 
 poor second in the interview, though certainly 
 there was nothing on the face of it, nor in what 
 Stanfield had said, to account for this notion of 
 his. He went away, besides, greatly shaken in 
 various ideas which he had entertained on the 
 subject of Roger Trevelyan and his marriage 
 ever since that event took place. Stanfield, 
 though he had been found at work with all the 
 accessories of his trade around him, was no more 
 the ideal blacksmith of Jack's imagination than 
 Agnes was the blooming village beauty whom 
 Beatrice Trevelyan had supposed her brother's 
 wife to be. It was lonor since Jack had dis-
 
 46 Agnes. 
 
 covered tliat Roger^s mesalliance might be con- 
 templated iiiider two aspects_, and that it cer- 
 tainly was not an interested '^ good match'' 
 w^hicli the callage girl had made ; but still he 
 had always entertained the idea that the black- 
 smith must have been a man " wide awake'' and 
 ambitions^ who had managed the matter skilfully 
 to secure for her a marriage so much above her 
 original position. TMien he left Windholm he was 
 of a different opinion. What he began to think 
 was^ that Trevelyan had every inducement a man 
 could have to live and be of some use in this 
 w^orld; that Heaven had favoured him beyond 
 any man he had ever heard of ; that he had had 
 the gratification of making a very foolish mar- 
 riage, and withal_, that this marriage had turned 
 out better than half the reasonable marriages 
 which are made with the consent of everybody 
 concerned. Why, under all these circumstances, 
 Roger should have made such a shipwreck,, was 
 more than Jack Charlton could tell. 
 
 As for Stanfield, he prepared to go down to 
 the Green in the evening with very different 
 feelings. Agnes was the mistress of her own 
 actions — of her own children. He could be her 
 adviser, no doubt, but he did not even know, 
 under the circumstances, whether she would 
 wish to have his advice. And then he was not
 
 Sir Roger's Claim. 47 
 
 sure in his own mind_, in stern equity, that Sir 
 Roger had not a certain right to his heir. 
 Stanfield, it is true, was unable to feel himself 
 the inferior of Sir Roger, but he was not in- 
 different, for all that, to the distinctions of rank, 
 and he would have fought as stoutly for Walter's 
 birthright as if he had been the most devoted 
 admirer of a hereditary aristocracy. The boy was 
 not sacred to his grandfather as Agnes was ; but 
 nevertheless, he occupied a perfectly distinct 
 place, apart from all the children in the village, as 
 much as if he had been a little prince in disguise ; 
 and though the blacksmith permitted him to come 
 to the smithy while he w^as himself there, he would 
 have been probably much more distressed than Sir 
 Roger if the little fellow had transgressed in word 
 or deed what he considered the honour of a gen- 
 tleman. At the same time, Stanfield was tolerant, 
 conscious of other people^s rights, long-suffering 
 to the bottom of his heart, and he could not 
 reject without a little thought the proposal of 
 Sir Roger. The boy was to bear his other 
 grandfather-'s name, inherit his property, carry 
 on his race. The present head of the Tre- 
 velyans was not a good man; but still Stan- 
 field found it difficult to shut him out from 
 his natural privileges ; and he went down through 
 the village in the evening with a little doubt in
 
 48 Jgnes. 
 
 Ms mind. Perhaps lie miglit have to differ from 
 his daughter in opinion, and contest her will ; 
 and yet, in the midst of it all, it was a consola- 
 tion to him to think that she had expressed her 
 will so decidedly, and might reject his advice ; 
 for Walter, after all, was the desire of his 
 heart.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Resistance. 
 
 'GNES was alone wlien her father 
 went into the room where she sat 
 reading. Work^ which is such a 
 resource to a woman^ ceases to be of 
 use when the mind is distracted with grievous 
 thoughts, which can come to nothing. After 
 the children were asleep, IMrs. Trevelyan took 
 refuge in books, where she could still escape 
 from herself; but this evening she was not 
 paying very much attention to her book. Grief 
 has its variations, like everything else that is 
 human, and by times it happens that an un- 
 reasonable demand, a harsh word, a painful con- 
 trast, drives the sorrowful into a kind of troubled 
 momentary rage, which is one of the most painful 
 forms of the malady. Agnes was in this phase 
 of her suffering when her father joined her. 
 She was driven, for the moment, beyond the 
 bounds of her modest and enduring nature. 
 
 VOL. III. E
 
 50 Agnes. 
 
 Oppression^ they say, makes even a wise man 
 mad; and for a woman, whose heart is more ex- 
 posed and her sensations more acute, intense 
 suffering by times takes the form of a temporary 
 passion, very nearly akin to madness. She was 
 silent; she was making no demonstration of the 
 blind hurrying rage and intolerance that pos- 
 sessed her; and yet Stanfield could to some 
 extent read it in the glitter of her abstracted 
 eyes. 
 
 '^^You have seen Mr. Charlton?^' she said, 
 laying down her book ; " "Walter told me he had 
 gone direct to you.^' 
 
 '' Yes, I have seen him,^' said the blacksmith. 
 ^' He seems very kind and friendly. What he 
 had to say was not pleasant, but " 
 
 " Pleasant V^ said Agnes ; ^^ I do not know 
 how you can speak so calmly. Why is it that I 
 have all this to bear ? I do not know what I 
 am saying or doing to-night. I feel as if God 
 was cruel, and mocked me. I am not worse 
 than the other women, whom nobody molests. I 
 do not say I am good, God forbid; but I am 
 neither better nor worse than the others. How 
 is it — oh ! how is it, father ? Is it not enough 
 that I am a widow and alone, and have to go 
 through all my life without any one to share it 
 — ^but that these people — that cruel woman, that
 
 Resistance. 51 
 
 unwortliy man — sliould take my cliild from m8_, 
 and make me angiy with my poor Roger in liis 
 grave ? Father^ kow is it, kow is it ? Can yon 
 not tell me ? Tkis last is more tkan I can 
 bear/^ 
 
 " Agnes !" said tke blacksmitk. He keld ont 
 liis kands to ker Tvitk a kind of dnmb supplica- 
 tion not to say any more ; but ke was too muck 
 startled by tkis unusual outbreak to reply. 
 
 " I could count tkem all up to you/^ said 
 Agnes_, going on witk an excited steadiness, 
 '^ wko are my age, and were married wken I was ; 
 — and notking kas kappened to tkem. Tkey 
 are no better and no worse tkan I am. If I 
 were better or worse, I could understand it a 
 little. Tliey are not tke wicked flourisking like 
 a bay-tree ; and I am not tke just, any moi^e 
 tkan tkey are ; but tkey are at peace, and I am 
 tormented. I could suffer anytking — I could 
 give up anytking, if you would only tell me 
 why \" 
 
 Stanfield could not remain passive and see 
 kis daugkter in an agitation so terrible — an 
 agitation tkat looked all tke greater because of 
 ker ordinary self-restraint. He went to ker 
 side and took ker kands in kis, and tried to. 
 sootke ker. 
 
 " My darling, tkere is nobody wko can tell 
 E 2 " 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 IMIIVERSITY OF ilUNOlS
 
 5.2 Agnes. 
 
 you why/' lie said — " no one — no one. We 
 have to bear it ; it is tlie will of God \" 
 
 " Ah V^ said Agnes, " it is so easy for other 
 people to say that ; if it was the will of God for 
 any good — Did not He create men to live, not 
 to die? Did not He give children to their 
 parents, to those that bore them, and suffered 
 for them? And why should all the rules of 
 nature be overturned to torture a poor woman ? 
 Father, don't speak to me ; I have more than I 
 can bear/^ 
 
 But he held her hands fast, though the 
 impulse of her passion was to snatch them away 
 from him ; and he spoke to her, though she did 
 not listen. Poor soul ! the madness had about 
 run its course ; her just mind regained its 
 balance in spite of herself. But before that 
 could be, as she was only a woman, it was 
 necessary that the momentary frenzy should 
 escape through the medium of tears. Stanfield 
 had never seen such tears as those his daughter 
 shed at this moment. It seemed to him as if 
 they must scald her hands as they fell — great, 
 bitter, burning drops — not many, but terrible, 
 running out of that deepest depth, which never 
 opens to anything less than extremity. He had 
 lived a calm life, and he comprehended but dimly, 
 this standing at bay of the outraged nature
 
 Resistance. 53 
 
 Tvliich was puslied too far. He tliouglit the 
 sudden brief convulsive weeping, instead of being 
 the final relief and termination of the overstrain, 
 was of itself a positiA'e evil. He looked at 
 her with the tenderest pity, for there was no 
 one in the world whom he loved as he loved his 
 only child ; but at the same time, her gi'iefs could 
 not be his giiefs, and he was at this moment as 
 far off from her as if there had been a thousand 
 miles between them. He did not understand it, 
 though he would cheerfully have undergone any 
 personal suffering to remove hers. And Agnes 
 knew he did not understand it ; and as she re- 
 covered, heard the voice of his bewildered exhor- 
 tations and consolations in her ears, and knew 
 that he could no more follow her in the sudden 
 impulse of her passion than if he had been a 
 stranger. Perhaps this was as effectual as any 
 argument could have been to bring her back to 
 herself. 
 
 " Father, forgive me V^ she said ; '^ go to 
 your seat again, and never mind me. I think 
 I had lost my wits. It seems so hard; but 
 that is over now — I know very well, however 
 hard it is, that it must be borne.^" 
 
 Stanfield went back to his seat as she told 
 him, still regarding her with -his serious and 
 pitiful eyes. It would be wrong to say that his
 
 54 Agnes, 
 
 daugliter lost some thing of lier perfection in his 
 sight in consequence of this incomprehensible 
 passion^ for his love was of that kind of supreme 
 love which rules in its own right_, and does not 
 go on the score of merit ; but he was surprised 
 and perplexed^ as men so often are, both "\^ith 
 the weakness and the strength of women. For 
 that moment he could not follow her — he who 
 was used to proceed straightforward in his 
 plain path. He had no experience in his own 
 life that could be put by the side of the crisis 
 which Agnes was going through. 
 
 " Mr. Charlton was kind/^ said Agnes ; " but 
 all the same — he came on an errand that made 
 it almost impossible to receive him with kind- 
 ness. I know he is very friendly; I believe 
 even he came himself, that he might ' spare my 
 feelings/ as people say. Don't think badly of 
 me, father. He made me feel angry — almost 
 angry for a moment with — with ; — but it could 
 not be true.'' 
 
 ^' And you told him you would not consent ?" 
 said Stanfield. ^'^You settled it at once — or, at 
 least, so he said." 
 
 Agnes raised her head, which she had covered 
 with her hands, and looked at her father, as 
 she recovered her composure, with a certain 
 wonder.
 
 Resistance. 55 
 
 " What else do you suppose I could do V she 
 said. " It is not a thing to take into considera- 
 tion; I do not require even your advice for 
 that. I have nothing in the world that you do 
 not give me — except my children ; and there can 
 be no parley, no consultation about anything 
 so plain -, yes_, I settled it the moment he spoke/'' 
 
 And vrith that she drew towards her the 
 basket with her work_, which was on the table, 
 and took out a little matter of her baby^s dress, 
 and began to work with a silent haste, which 
 served her to dissipate the remaining excitement. 
 Nothing could have shown more effectually 
 the full certainty she had that she had settled 
 and completed this business beyond any possi- 
 bility of change. She was ready enough to 
 listen, if necessary, to anything her father might 
 say on the subject, but to alter her decision 
 was impossible ; this was plainly visible in 
 her looks, and Stanfield had no difficulty in 
 recognising it. It was even a little difficult for 
 him to speak at all, in face of that air of silent 
 resolution. Had she looked up, or trusted her 
 eyes within reach of his, he would have known 
 better what to say; but she only worked on 
 with swift and noiseless hands, and with her head 
 bent over her work — the very impersonation of a 
 listener who had made up her mind to oppose
 
 56 Agnes, 
 
 an invincible disregard to all that miglit be 
 addressed to lier_, and for whom all argument 
 and reason were at an end. 
 
 " I am glad, in one way, that you made up 
 your mind at once/'' said the blacksmith. " I 
 don''t know if my strength could have stood the 
 test; and yet I am not so sure that you are 
 right/' he added, more slowly. " You arc 
 Walter's mother ; but then, you see, the more's 
 the pity, poor little fellow ! there is but him 
 now to be Sir Roger's heir. I think, if I was 
 Sir Roger, I miglit think as he does, that I had 
 some right to be consulted. I am not advising 
 you, my darling, because I know you have 
 decided — and I am glad you have decided ; but 
 then I am not perfectly sure it is the right 
 thing to do, for my own part." 
 
 ^^"VVhat else was there to do?" said Agnes, 
 looking up suddenly, and lifting upon her father 
 her eyes, which were at that present moment so 
 large, and worn, and over-bright. '' Xobody 
 could expect me to consent. Such a thing 
 might have been forced from me under — other 
 circumstances. If it is true, as they say," she 
 went on slowly, as if every word was a pain to 
 her, " that — Roger — had consented. But there 
 cannot be any one so cruel as to suppose that I 
 could give him up now."
 
 Resistance. 57 
 
 And then there ensued a silence — a silence 
 more eloquent a great deal than words^ since it 
 proved to Agnes in the most impressive "svay that 
 her father was not satisfied, perhaj^s not even 
 convinced,, by Avhat she said. 
 
 " You don^t say anything ?" she said, "with a 
 little return of excitement. " Why do you not 
 speak, father? Could you suppose it possible? 
 Could you wish me to give him up — Walter, 
 who is so much older than the others, my only 
 companion. I think, if I had the choice, I should 
 rather die without any more ado.^^ 
 
 "My darling!" said the blacksmith, ''it 
 happens sometimes that a worse misfortune 
 comes. Sometimes God himself takes such a 
 child; and even then His creatui^es are not per- 
 mitted to despair and to die." 
 
 She lifted her eyes to him with a look aghast 
 — her mouth a little open, her eyes shining like 
 stars out of her pale face. Stanfield never forgot 
 that look of terror and anguish. She did not 
 say anything. He had told her of a thing that 
 was possible, quite possible — such a blow as 
 other women have sustained and lived — and in 
 her heart Agnes felt the strong life beating and 
 throbbing, and knew as by a kind of instinctive 
 vaticination that she too could live and continue 
 through all descriptions of anguish. It was not
 
 58 Agnes, 
 
 from lier lips but lier hearty wliicli contracted 
 suddenly with a physical pang, tliat the cry came 
 which struck upon Stanfield^s ears ; and he him- 
 self was confounded by the effect his words had 
 produced. 
 
 " Agnes, what I say is not to hurt the child/'' 
 he said ; " he is well and strong, and God will 
 spare him to you and me. I mean to say, when 
 there are women who have to consent to give up 
 their children altogether, that you should not 
 reject, without thinking it well over, what may 
 be for his good — what may reconcile him " 
 
 " Father,^^ said Agnes, recovering herself, 
 ^^ you were wTong to say that. God has a right 
 — He has a right; but then He is more merci- 
 ful than men — more, not less — is not that true ? 
 None of them would take my child quite away 
 from me, not even Sir Roger ; and God — oh ! 
 you do not mean to say God is less kind ? He 
 would not take Abraham's son, you know, nor 
 the woman's — that woman that dwelt among her 
 own people. I can trust Him with mine," she 
 said, with a smile coming over her face. It was 
 not as if she had smiled : the light came over her 
 pale mouth like something independent of her; 
 and fear, deadly and terrible, was lurking in her 
 eyes. Perhaps it had always been there, lying 
 disguised; but from that day Stanfield saw it
 
 Resistance. 59 
 
 contiimally^ more or less distinct,, but always 
 there. 
 
 " Yes/'' said the blacksmith, " we will trust 
 Him with everything — to be according to His 
 pleasure ; but I did not mean to bring such an idea 
 into your mind. They are all happy and well, and 
 all our duty is to be thankful. It is only to think. 
 Agues, if it was for Walter^ s good that he should 
 go partly away — if he ought to be brought up, 
 not humbly in AViudholm, but like other boys of 
 his condition. I speak against myself/' said 
 Stanfield, with a smile ; '' but, my darling, I 
 cannot forget, for my part, that Sir Roger, though 
 I haye not much opinion of him, is Walter's 
 grandfather as well as I am. It's hard upon me 
 to haye to plead his cause ; he never was to say 
 civil either to you or me. But Walter has to 
 succeed him, you know — to get all he has to 
 leave, and to represent the family " 
 
 Agnes put up her hand to beg her father to 
 stop. She was trembling with a nervous tremor, 
 and a sense as if the cold had suddenly gone to 
 her heart. This talk of heirship and succession 
 after the other suggestion was too much for her ; 
 she fell for the moment into that too natural 
 theology of fear which is so apt to disturb a 
 mind oppressed and imaginative. It seemed to 
 her as if there was something impious and dan-
 
 60 Agnes, 
 
 gerous in speaking of Walter's succeeding, after 
 speaking of another and darker possibility. Her 
 instinct whispered to her that it was best not to 
 tempt God — not to say anything to betray the 
 hopes that were on Walter^ s head ; and though her 
 better spirit rose up against that pagan instinct, 
 still it moved her, as it might have done one of 
 the lower creatures. She was not a Christian 
 with a great trust in God, at that instant of 
 sudden and horrible fear — she was only a pagan, 
 a savage, a temfied and helpless creature, shiver- 
 ing before the unseen Power that could do her, 
 if it pleased, such honible harm. It lasted but 
 for a moment, but it left her prostrate and like a 
 creature incapable of thought. She grasped her 
 father^ s hand suddenly with hers, which was cold 
 and trembling. 
 
 " I cannot bear any more,^^ she said, in a low, 
 slow voice ; and then she got on her knees before 
 the fire, not to weep or to pray, but to get a 
 little warmth, chill and shivering as she was ; the 
 fire had burned low while they were talking, and 
 the night was very cold. While she knelt on the 
 hearth-rug, and shivered, and held out her hands 
 over the dying fire, Stanfield, for his part, was 
 struck as with a heavy and sickening presentiment. 
 He was silent, as she had bidden him. He put 
 his hand upon her head, or rather upon the cap.
 
 Resistance, 61 
 
 wliicli now covered licr hair. " She shall wear a 
 veil on her head because of the angels/^ he 
 thought in his heart ; and he did not understand 
 any more than other people what was meant by 
 those mysterious words, except that they came 
 into his head he did not know why, as he sat by 
 and watched her, kneeling, with already the heaw 
 marks of misfortune and giief upon her, and a 
 future before her in which God alone knew how 
 many sorrows might be coming. At this moment 
 she crouched helpless and terror-stricken before 
 the approaching fate, trying to warm her chilled 
 frame at the faint little fire of human happiness 
 that was dying out before her eyes. 
 
 It was at this moment that Walter, who had 
 been enjoying a game of romps — the best he had 
 had for a long time — with ]Madelon, who had re- 
 covered her spirits — came rushing in to say good- 
 night. He threw himself upon his mother before 
 she had any idea of his being there. He was 
 flushed with his play, and full of unsubdued 
 noise and commotion. 
 
 " They say I will wake baby,'' said the little 
 fellow. " It's a good thing there is not a baby 
 here ; I can make as much noise as I like down- 
 stairs. Mamma, I have come to say good- 
 night." 
 
 " Do you like to make a noise, Walter ?" said
 
 62 Agnes. 
 
 Agnes_, putting lier arm round liim and leaning, 
 as slie knelt, upon lier cliild — " I don't see the 
 pleasure in that/^ 
 
 "^ Tliat is because you are old, mamma/^ said 
 tlie boy, promptly. " When people are old, I 
 suppose it is different ; but I heard you say once 
 you liked to hear me making a row in the 
 nursery. It was you she said it to, grandpapa. 
 Wait till I put some coals on the fire — it's nearly 
 out. I wonder what you have been thinking 
 of! But there's such a jolly fire upstairs. 
 Mamma, get up, please, and let me make a good 
 fire.'' 
 
 This was how the attitude, which was full of 
 such painful suggestions to Stanfield, and yet 
 which he did not feel able to disturb, was 
 suddenly changed at a touch. The lively, active 
 little figure, flushed and joyous, breathing nothing 
 but warmth and life and commotion, heaping on 
 new fuel on the half-extinguished fire, was as 
 cheerful a reverse to the pictui'e as could be con- 
 ceived. And most likely it was AYalter's arms 
 thrown round her which had made an end of 
 Agnes's shiver and brought back the light of 
 life to her face. When he disappeared again, 
 she drew her chair near the fire, which was be- 
 ginning to blaze, and held out her hand to her 
 father, who did not know whether he ought to
 
 Resistance. 63 
 
 renew the discussion or to let well alone — for tlie 
 time, at least. 
 
 " Father, don't think me a fool," said Agnes ; 
 ^' it is being alone so much and staying indoors. 
 And then what you said made my heart stop 
 beating. God knows best ! — I don^t mean to be 
 afraid any more. But for the other, do not 
 press me. I know — I am sui'e — it would not be 
 for Walter^s good.^' 
 
 And that was all the satisfaction Stanfield got 
 before he went home, weary and sad, and doubt- 
 ful of the future ; for, after all, it was not a 
 reasonable soul like his own, but the less steadfast 
 spirit of a wayward and suffering woman who 
 was principally concerned.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 A Pause. 
 
 iFTER this, an interval of quiet 
 succeeded in Mrs. Trevelyan's af- 
 fairs. She herself accepted without 
 remark the silence of the other 
 parties concerned, as the simple and natural re- 
 sult of the decision which they had no right to 
 question. But as for Stanfield, his mind was 
 less easily satisfied. After Avhat Jack Charlton 
 liad said to him, the quietness seemed ominous 
 to the blacksmith. He thought Sir Roger would 
 have made a greater stand for his own will, if he 
 had been sure that he could obtain nothing, 
 except by Agnes' s consent ; and when no 
 fiu'ther application came, and nothing at all was 
 heard of the matter, Stanfield grew very uneasy, 
 though he did not say much about it. He took 
 to reading law books, though he did not make 
 much of them, and he even went to London one 
 day under pretence of business, to ask the
 
 A Pause. 65 
 
 opinion of an attorney wlio had managed Hs 
 affairs for him for many years — on the very few 
 occasions^ that is to say^ when Stanfield's affairs 
 required any management. This man was not 
 a gi'eat authority^ but he partially reassured his 
 client,, and the blacksmith came home^ making 
 up his mind that his daughter had nothing to 
 fear from any attempts that might be made 
 against her; though^ to be sure^ it Avas the 
 attempt itself more than the result which he 
 feared. To be publicly proved to be a true 
 and spotless woman, faithful to all her duties, 
 and fit for any position to which she might be 
 called, might have been in some people's eyes a 
 satisfactory result enough for any trial which !Mrs. 
 Trevelyan might have to go through; but that 
 was not her father's opinion. That her name 
 should be called in question at all — that it should 
 be considered necessary to prove anything about 
 her — that the story of her youth should be re- 
 vealed to ATilgar eyes, even should those eyes be 
 admiring and not disrespectful, was an idea in- 
 tolerable to him. He would have suffered any- 
 thing himself rather than have purchased her 
 vindication at such a price. 
 
 But, in the meantime. Jack Charlton said 
 nothing, and no protest nor communication of 
 any description arrived on the part of Sir Roger 
 
 VOL. III. r
 
 66 Agnes. 
 
 Trevelyan. Perhaps the attack had been made 
 wantonly,, without any real intention ; perhaps the 
 baronet was otherwise occupied, and had forgotten 
 all about it ; perhaps — and, indeed, this was true 
 — Walter counted for very little in Sir Roger's 
 thoughts. At all events, everything remained quiet. 
 Nobody molested Mrs. Trevelyan in the house 
 which her father's bounty maintained. There 
 Stanfield found a refuge often from the house 
 which his wife made no home to him ; and there, 
 at the same time, such a splendid visitor as Lady 
 Grandmaison, who had come twice in the six 
 months to see and console the young widow, 
 preserved for Agnes the respect and even awe of 
 the general community. It would have been 
 vain indeed for the village aristocracy to think 
 of putting down a woman whom the great lady 
 of the county condescended to visit. And per- 
 haps Agnes made more impression in her own 
 person on her neighbours, now that she had lost 
 all the imaginary advantages and possibilities 
 for which, in a lower circle, she was supposed to 
 have married. The Trevelyans, it was very well 
 known, were now quite unlikely to " take any 
 notice'^ of Roger's widow, and she never could 
 be Lady Trevelyan. The sole link that remained 
 to her, with what was imagined in AVindholm to 
 be the great worlds was that her little boy was
 
 A Pause. 67 
 
 the heir. If Sir Roger died^ and little Walter 
 became Sir Walter before be was a man^ no doubt 
 bis mother would reign for a certain limited 
 period,, as queen mothers reign occasionally, and 
 would be mistress of the dingy and dismal Hall 
 at Windholm, as well as of the distant magni- 
 ficence of Trevelyan. But that was a far-off and 
 doubtful elevation. 
 
 Notwithstanding, Agnes had never been so 
 popular in her native village as now, when 
 she was seen mostly in her father's company, 
 and was much more visibly the daughter of 
 the blacksmith who lived and laboui'ed on the 
 Green, than the wife of Koger Trevelyan, who 
 had left her, as the gossips said, without a penny. 
 Perhaps Lady Grandmaison had something to 
 do with it — perhaps her widow^s dress, which 
 looked so black in the sunshine, and which some- 
 how gave back to her face the youthful look 
 which in her great anxiety and exhaustion it had 
 lost. To be sui'e, there are a great many people 
 in the world who regard a young widow with 
 le\dty, as a kind of clandestine candidate for 
 the prizes of a second youth. But then to 
 the good women who are themselves happy, 
 there is something in the name that touches 
 the heart. They, too, may all be widows. 
 Heaven knows, one day or another. And then, 
 f2
 
 68 Ag)ies, 
 
 perhaps, it was true that Agnes, when Roger was 
 no longer by her side to confuse her, as he had 
 always continued to do, with a half- conscious 
 criticism, became more fully herself than she had 
 ever been before. Whatever the reason might 
 be, the result was plain enough. Living alone 
 with her children, ha\dng nothing but what her 
 father gave her, without any grandeur either of 
 association or anticipation, and returning in 
 outer respects much to her original position, Mrs. 
 Ti'evelyan found, without being aware of it, the 
 place which belonged to her by nature. She 
 was not above the least, and she was not below 
 the highest. She was far kinder and more 
 tender to the poor than the prosperous shop- 
 keepers, who kept up a kind of war with their 
 poverty ; and than the ladies, who were sorry for 
 them without understanding their case. And as 
 for the fine people in Windholm, there was none 
 of them who did not confess in themselves the 
 finer breeding of Agnes, which they all supposed 
 to arise from the fact that she was Lady Grand- 
 maison^s protegee, and had seen so much of the 
 world ; whereas it was simply because she was 
 William Stanfiekrs daughter, and had inherited 
 from him that only true politeness, wdiich is not 
 of the surface, but of the heart. To be sure, she 
 had been equally her father's daughter in the
 
 A Pause. 69 
 
 earlier part of her career, when she was at 
 Florence, and Lady Charlton disapproA^ed of her. 
 But then, fine manners are of slow growth, and 
 youth is generally incapable of them, except under 
 very rare conditions. Agnes had matured since 
 that time, had lost her timidity, had suffered a 
 great deal, and was more than ever moved with 
 the desire to prevent others suffering, even from 
 the lesser pains of life. And this was how she 
 had acquired what some people called tact, and 
 others style, and which everybody attributed to 
 causes entirely different from the real one. And 
 then her little world seemed to see and find her 
 out for the first time, now that Roger was re- 
 moved from her side. 
 
 With that modification of affau's out of doors, 
 an imperceptible change was going on within, 
 though Agnes was no more aware of the one 
 than the other. As the summer came on, there 
 came a little, almost iuAisible, fluctuating colour 
 to her face ; and then she began to awake out of 
 her lassitude, and to see the past in its true light, 
 and to realise that there was a future still lying 
 unknown before her, and that she had not yet 
 lived thi'ough the half of her life. As the mists of 
 grief dispersed, Agnes found her loneliness less, 
 her consolations greater. Her father, whom she 
 seemed to have left behind when she went into
 
 70 Agnes. 
 
 tlie valley of the shadow of death, came up ta 
 her again on the ordinary path^ and could walk 
 ■\^dth her and know what she meant ; and Walter, 
 too, understood his mother when she was not in 
 the bitterness of those sufferings with which no 
 stranger and even no friend can intermeddle. 
 Thus the sky lightened, though she scarcely knew 
 it, gradually, slowly, by imperceptible stages. 
 
 If Mrs. Trevelyan had been aware that there 
 was in her heart a sense of relief — a freedom 
 from the criticisms, and exactions, and embar- 
 rassments of the past — she would have regarded 
 herself as a monster. And yet, in fact, there 
 was such a sense in her innermost mind ; a 
 feeling of freedom, though she had never desired 
 to be free; a faint consciousness, unexpressed 
 even to herself, that her plans would no longer 
 be thwarted nor her wishes come to nothing. 
 Thus she took up the broken threads of her life 
 without knowing it, and began to make herself 
 manifest, without any intention of doing so, in 
 the community, as her father did in his fashion. 
 She was a widow — a certain want, a certain in- 
 completeness, must always remain iu the exist- 
 ence which had entered upon this obscurer phase ; 
 but the house could not be sad where the 
 children's voices were ringing, and the life could 
 not be flat nor uninteresting which was beating
 
 A Pause. 71 
 
 in a breast so full of delicate strength. She 
 could not but feel herself still young — good for 
 many things^ abounding in personal faculties 
 and energies ; and it was by this means that 
 Agnes had recovered so much of her youthful 
 courage^ and discovered to her neighbours an 
 individuality so much more important than they 
 dreamed of, even when the autumn days re- 
 turned_, and the first year of her widowhood 
 came to an end. She had by this time little 
 fear to speak of, of anything the Trevelyans 
 could do to annoy her; and it did not seem to 
 her that anything could happen that would be 
 worth reckoning a misfortune, so long as health 
 and safety remained in the house on the Green. 
 All this was because Sir Roger was intensely 
 occupied with speculations and pleasures, of a 
 character which made it expedient that they should 
 be carried on undergi'ound, withdrawn from the 
 observation of the clean and honest. He had been 
 lucky in his transactions that year, and the Derby 
 had brought him a little fortune, which, to be sure, 
 he spent becomingly, without recollecting his 
 grandson ; and because Beatrice, on her side, had 
 had a matter in hand which had not gone so 
 successfully. Miss Trevelyan was better than her 
 fortunes, and even now, experienced as she was, 
 a certain shame of the part she was playing
 
 72 Agnes. 
 
 would come over her at uncomfortable moments, 
 and interfere fatally with her success. Her 
 bloom had long ago gone beyond recall, and yet 
 Beatrice had still to think of marrying, urged 
 thereto by a lively horror of the position she 
 would have to drop into, with the very tiny in- 
 come she had, when Sir Roger died ; and partly 
 by disgust for the life which Sir Roger led, and 
 which naturally, to a certain extent, was reflected 
 upon herself. It was still the way — the only 
 way she had remaining, to save herself from the 
 humiliating position of an old and poor woman 
 of fashion, going after all manner of frivolities 
 and amusements without the excuse of doing it 
 for a daughter, or to please her husband, or any 
 other plausible plea. 
 
 It was thus that '^ going into society^"* had 
 come to be Miss Trevelyan^s profession, a labori- 
 ous trade from which she could not escape ; but 
 if she married, that would have changed the face 
 of affairs ; and, at forty- five, she still thought of 
 marrying, and laid out her silken nets and made 
 her plans accordingly. How it happened that a 
 woman, so able and so handsome, and who had this 
 decided aim, had not succeeded sooner, was inex- 
 plicable even to herself. She tried to account for 
 it in various ways more or less humiliating to her 
 self-respect ; but the fact was that Beatrice did not
 
 A Pause. 73 
 
 succeed, because, after all, thoiigli she was not 
 above many little meannesses, she was too good 
 for the role she had taken up. She would have 
 been content to make a marriage of convenance, 
 but she would not marry a man with a damaged 
 character, and she had her antipathies and in- 
 dulged them as if she had been twenty, and had 
 all the world before her ; and then, even in the 
 best cases, by moments, she would get dis- 
 gusted with herself, and suffer her true character 
 to appear, and lose for ever the golden fish that 
 was almost within her net. 
 
 Miss Trevelyan had been absorbed in one of 
 these attempts in the summer which followed her 
 brother's death. She was in mourning, and she was 
 not going into society, as she said ; but then, what 
 was a temporary retirement to herwould have been, 
 at any time of her life, the wildest dissipation to 
 Agnes ; and Beatrice did not lose her opportunities 
 in consequence. The proposed victim was so 
 game J and resisted with so much address, showing 
 himself at the same time as unwilling to escape 
 finally, as to be caught, that the fair huntress 
 was almost interested. But then, at the trying 
 moment, at the crisis, Beatrice as usual suffered 
 herself to be surprised with her mask off"; she 
 suffered the object of the chase to hear some 
 very honest and unequivocal sentences from her
 
 74i Agnes, 
 
 lips^ wliicli were,, as he himself said^ tlie reverse 
 of what he had fondly hoped to hear from Miss 
 Trevelyan. A woman entirely bent upon win- 
 ning at any cost^ would have found means to 
 eat her words or to recant them ; but Beatrice 
 had her special code of honour^ which she 
 never transgressed^ and accordingly this enter- 
 prise failed like the others. She had followed 
 the chase so long and so far that she was a little 
 npset by its failure, and saw the victim who had 
 escaped herself fall all at once and without 
 thought into a more subtile snare, with a sense 
 of despite and disgust which was far from agree- 
 able ; for the disgust was not only with him and 
 her, and the world in general, but with her- 
 self, which is the most uncomfortable of all sen- 
 sations. 
 
 When such a crisis amves, a woman finds 
 it necessary to revenge herself upon some- 
 thing. She could not punish the man who 
 had slighted her, nor the woman who was her 
 successful rival, nor, except by sarcasm and bitter 
 pleasantry, the world which was offering them 
 its congratulations ; and to punish herself was a 
 thing which Miss Trevelyan did continually, 
 without feeling the better for it. It was this 
 conjunction of circumstances which made her 
 turn her thoughts towards Agnes, and to the
 
 A Pause. 75 
 
 boy who one day would be Sii* Walter Trevelyan. 
 A buman creature wbo bas little to make ber 
 bappy^ Tvbo is consti'ained to play a mean part 
 in tbe world wbile sbe feels wortby of a better 
 one^ and wbo finds herself baffled at every turn, 
 bas a certain ti'agic rigbt to be avenged upon tbe 
 world. Beatiice betbougbt berself of Agnes^ 
 wbo was not now_, it is true, tbe blessed creature 
 wbom Providence took pains and trouble to 
 render bappy_, wbicb sbe bad once appeared to 
 be j but tben_, in tbe midst of ber o^tl shabby 
 disappointment and failure, wbicb was not of a 
 nature to be confessed to or compassionated by 
 any one, Miss Ti'evelyan was conscious of another 
 pang of indignant en^-y, as sbe regarded her 
 sister-in-law arrayed in the dignity of a great 
 soiTow, which all the world respected and pitied. 
 It seemed to her as if, even in her griefs, Agnes 
 was somehow unjustly the favoui'ite of Heaven. 
 It was not mortification, humiliation, the bitter- 
 ness of seeing others preferred to ber, and the 
 worse bitterness of despising herself, which were 
 the pains that fell to the lot of the blacksmith^s 
 daughter. In place of these, what she had to 
 bear was the hand of God, which elevated even 
 while it wounded. And thus the very calamity 
 which she berself had, to some extent, shared, 
 awoke when she reflected on it a double bitter-
 
 76 Agnes. 
 
 ness towards licr brother's wife_, in Miss Tre- 
 velyan's mind. 
 
 It was just at tlie moment when Agnes began 
 to recover her courage and cheerfulness that 
 Eeatrice received her last blow from an unkind 
 fate ; she was at the time on a visit in a 
 country-house where there was a large party, and 
 where everybody was more or less conscious of 
 her recent failure. There was nobody there, and, 
 perhaps, scarcely any one in the whole range of 
 her acquaintance who would not have laughed at 
 Beatrice's discomfiture, especially had she be- 
 trayed in any way her own consciousness of it ; 
 and so she had to be gayer than usual, and 
 wittier and more amusing, by way of covering 
 her defeat. But it was different with Agnes, 
 whom Providence seemed to take a delight in 
 setting up opposite to her as a foil. Roger's 
 widow could retire in her weeds (which, in her 
 heart. Miss Trevelyan had no doubt were ex- 
 cessively becoming to the pale woman whom she 
 had seen only in her brother's sick-room), and 
 close her door upon all impertinent curiosit}^, and 
 carry mth her the respect and sympathy of her 
 neighbours. And then she had her children, all 
 her own, whom nobody could interfere with. 
 Beatrice, to be sure, was not " one for children ;" 
 but she was a woman, and she could not but feel
 
 A Pause. 77 
 
 Low different her sentiments might have been 
 had she ever had any one belonging to her^ as her 
 very ovm.. All these ideas fermenting together^, 
 raised Miss Trevelyan^'s antagonism to her sister- 
 in-law — who she conld readily persnade herself had 
 insulted her by refusing her admittance to Roger^s 
 sick-bed — to the height of a passion. She did not 
 say to herself that she had here a means of re- 
 venging herself, if not npon the people who had 
 injured her^ at least upon a woman whom Provi- 
 dence (Miss Trevelyan would not say God^ for 
 she had, if not a reverence,, at least a respect for 
 religion) had Adsibly preferred to her, and set in 
 a more favoiu-able position ; but she directed her 
 thoughts upon Walter with a persistency and 
 force which gradually convinced her that she had 
 the greatest interest in him — that he was in 
 danger, aud that it was her duty to interfere. 
 She began to talk of the child to her friends — at 
 first, without any intention except to divert them 
 from the engaging gossip about herself, which 
 she knew to be circulating even in the house 
 wliere Miss Trevelyan was such a favourite; and 
 from that beginning she gi'adually allowed herself 
 to be guided to active designs. 
 
 " A handsome boy," she said, confidentially, 
 to a little group of listeners — '^ not a curled 
 darling like that, you know" — and Miss Tre-
 
 78 Agnes, 
 
 velyan indicated languidly with her hand a 
 spoiled child, who was the plague of the house. 
 " I could not see exactly whom he resembled, for, 
 naturally, my chief attention was given to my 
 poor brother ; but it is dreadful to think he 
 should be left to people who have so little idea 
 how to train him. Poor Roger, you know, 
 was so infatuated — and yet I do think, if 
 he had lived, he would have seen how dangerous 
 these associations were for his son; indeed, 
 he had consented to send him to us. I think 
 sometimes I shall be driven to kidnap him, 
 that some justice should be done to the poor 
 boy." 
 
 " It is dreadful to think of it,''"' said a sympa- 
 thizing friend. ^^ Could not something be done ? 
 If I were you, I should speak to Sir Robert 
 Blarney, who is coming on Saturday. These 
 law people can do anything, if they try — that is 
 to say, they can frighten people out of their 
 lives — and then, perhaps, they would give him 
 up. My dear, if I were you, I would never rest 
 untn I had tried something. What a thing it 
 would be for all of us to have to receive a young 
 man brought np like that ! and, of course, I 
 should think it was a duty to receive him, for 
 your sake.^^ 
 
 ^' Yes^ I know there is something that can be
 
 A Pause. 79 
 
 done/'' said Miss Trevelyan. " If it had not 
 been that I felt for her a little,, you know^ in her 
 circumstances '' 
 
 '- I never should think of feeling for her^, for 
 my part/^ said Beatrice's counsellor, -^ho was, in 
 reality, the most pitiful of women. " People 
 who make those dreadful marriages, and upset a 
 whole family, never have any feeling ; and then 
 the dear boy's interests. You will be neglecting 
 your duty if you don't do something. I am 
 sure I shall always say it is your fault," added 
 the excitable confidant whom IMiss Trevelyan 
 had chosen. As for Beatrice, she softly shook 
 her head, and set in motion the light featheiy 
 curls which waved here and there among the 
 bands of her coiffure. She had taken off all her 
 crape, but had still a black dress, which was on 
 the whole becoming, though Miss Trevelyan felt 
 that her complexion was not now quite clear 
 enough for black ; but then her beautiful 
 shoulders and arms came out perfect out of their 
 sombre fi-ame, which was a consolation in its 
 way. 
 
 " My dear, they are so dreadfully respectable," 
 she said in her friend's ear — "good, you know; 
 but, at the same time, I think I will speak to Sir 
 Robert when he comes ; for, to be sui'e, there is 
 nobody but me to do anything for him/' Beatrice
 
 80 Agnes. 
 
 added^ with a sigh. She was so occupied with 
 these family considerations, that she did not 
 hear the last bon-mot of the wit of the party, 
 who, INIiss Trevelyan was aware, had been making 
 considerable fun at her expense, and upon whom 
 she had no disinclination to retaliate. She did 
 not hear the hon-mot, and she insisted on having 
 it repeated to her, loud out, so that everybody 
 could hear, and then she demanded that it should 
 be explained. ^^ I don^t know what makes me 
 so stupid," Miss Trevelyan said. ^^ I know it 
 must be funny, since Mr. Salter said it; but I 
 cannot see the joke — can you, Emily ? Do tell 
 us what it means." And then the whole party 
 found out that, after all, the joke was a very 
 small joke indeed. 
 
 Beatrice went to her room after a while, 
 consoled by this little victory, and set herself 
 seriously to consider all the dangers that were 
 awaiting Walter. A blacksmith grandfather, 
 with a forge in the village, which naturally the 
 little boy would haunt, getting corrupted by the 
 company he found there ; an uneducated mother, 
 who naturally would do her best to attach her 
 child to her own friends ; a (no doubt) wide and 
 extensive relationship — for, as Beatrice sagely 
 reflected, these sort of people always have legions 
 of brothers and cousins — with the shopkeepers
 
 A Pause. 81 
 
 and tradespeople of the district ; and all this for 
 a cliild that was the heir of an ancient family, 
 with a baronet's title and a large entailed pro- 
 perty. By the time her maid had done with 
 her for the night, Beatrice had come to feel that 
 her sacred duty to her brother^s cliild demanded 
 immediate exertion ; and nothing could have 
 been more convenient than the arrival of Sir 
 Robert Blarney, who was coming on Satui'day; 
 for that was the year when Sir Robert was 
 Attorney- General, and there could be no doubt 
 that he was qualified, if anybody could be quali- 
 fied, to give a lady the most thorough enlighten- 
 ment possible as to the point of law. 
 
 VOL. III.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The Terrors of the Law. 
 
 HIS was how Agnes was disturbed 
 out of her calm at the end of the 
 first year of her widowhood. She 
 did not understand, at the first 
 glance, what was the meaning of the lawyer's 
 letter, which intimated to her that an application 
 had been made to the Lord Chancellor in respect 
 to her boy. Terror seized her, as was natural, 
 at the first thought. She knew very little about 
 the law, and she knew that by times the law 
 was capable of terrible cruelty to a woman, or, 
 at least, so she had read and heard. She did 
 not know what limits there might be, or whether 
 there were any limits, to that cruel power, and at 
 the first glance it seemed to her as if her child 
 was going to be snatched away from her without 
 any reason. Naturally, the first thing she did 
 was to hasten to her father, who was much sur- 
 prised by her hurried \4sit. Walter was not at
 
 The Terrors of the Law. 88 
 
 the forge^ and had even lost the habit of going, 
 and was at the present moment deep in the 
 early mysteries of Latin^ under charge of Mr. 
 Freke's curate,, who took pupils — so that^ as far 
 as that was concerned^ the little heir of the 
 Trevelyans did not require the active intervention 
 of his aunt and the advice of the Attorney- 
 General so much as Miss Trevelyan hoped. The 
 blacksmith was hard at work when he saw his 
 daughter come in hastily out of the sunshine 
 under the archway^ which enshrined her like the 
 frame of a picture. Stanfield laid down his 
 tools instantly, and stretched out his hand for 
 his coat. If he was careful of Walter, he was 
 still more careful of Agnes, and would not have 
 her come to him among his workmen. He 
 made a little sign to her with his hand to wait 
 for him, and went out to join her as soon as he 
 had got his coat on — for he had his formulas 
 like other men, and this was his grand signal 
 of being ready to encounter the world. As for 
 Agnes, she did not wait for him, but went 
 hastily up into the house, leading the way, 
 where Mrs. Stanfield was moving about in her 
 ordinary morning occupations. When the black- 
 smith followed, his wife came into the parlour after 
 him. 
 
 "Whatever you^^e got to talk about,'^ said 
 G 2
 
 84 Agnes. 
 
 Mrs. Stanfield^ ^^ I aiiiH a-going to be banislied 
 out o' my own h^wse ; I donH care nothing 
 about your secrets,, but I ain''t a-going to be 
 sent away. It^s bad enough as there^s one house 
 in Windholm where I ain''t wanted nor asked; 
 but^ thank Pro\idence, I am at home here.^' 
 
 And she sat down in Stanfield's arm-chair, and 
 turned her fiery eyes from the father to the 
 daughter. There was nothing wonderful in the 
 fact that she thought herself the aggrieved party, 
 and had a firm conviction that they plotted 
 against her, and that it was she who was 
 to be the subject of the discussion; and 
 Agnes, for her part, was too much excited to 
 care particularly who was present. She said, 
 " Never mind,^^ hastily, and without any preface 
 put the letter into her father^s hands; but she 
 could not quite master herself sufiiciently to 
 keep silence while he read it. '' What can we 
 do? — what do you think we can do?" she kept 
 saying. " They cannot have the power to do 
 anything so cruel?" and then she bent over the 
 chair Stanfield had taken, and read it once more 
 over his shoulder. " He is to have an education 
 according to his condition," she said ; " you 
 know what you fixed upon about that. Don^t 
 you think if I were to write, or you^, and 
 explain ''
 
 The Terrors of the Law. 85 
 
 " Yes/' said the blacksmith, " to Mr. Charlton. 
 I have been looking for this for a long time; 
 I don't know if my old Mr. Ponsonby will be 
 of much use. It is out of his way, I am afraid. 
 Write to Mr. Charlton — he is the man.'' 
 
 " But, father, it was he who first spoke of this 
 — who first told me that such a thing was pos- 
 sible," said Agnes, almost with a touch of re- 
 sentment. " He is kind ; but, perhaps, he thinks, 
 
 like the rest, that I am incapable , and he 
 
 does not know you. If I were to write to these 
 people, and tell them exactly what we mean to 
 do, and that they need have no fear for 
 Walter " 
 
 " To Mr. Charlton, little one," said the black- 
 smith, with his tender voice ; "I have been trusting 
 they would spare you, but there is no pity in 
 them. This letter is fi'om agents — men that care 
 nothing about Walter ; is it to them you would 
 write?" 
 
 "I suppose Sir Roger must have consulted 
 them," said Agnes, a little ashamed of her own 
 vehemence ; " that was Avhat I meant. You do 
 not think they have any power to take him? 
 Law may not be justice, but it cannot go in the 
 face of justice. I am his mother," she said, 
 looking with an anxious appeal into her father's 
 face, as if the decision rested with him. AU
 
 86 Agnes, 
 
 this Mrs. Stanfield listened to^ palpitating with 
 cnriosity and exultation as she sat in the corner 
 in the blacksmith's chair. 
 
 "Sir Roger ain't the one to do things by 
 halves/' said the eager spectator. " I don't 
 know what it is as you're making such a fuss 
 over — talking to the master as if he had nothing 
 ado but what you tell him. It ain't the time for 
 that^ Agnes Stanfield. He's done a deal too 
 much for you^ if the truth was known. When 
 you was at 'ome I never said a word; but a 
 daughter as is married is done with. Don't you 
 go a-leading of him into more expenses. If any- 
 thing was to happen to the master^ I've got my- 
 self to look to_, and he ain't got no right to spend 
 everything he has on a mamed daughter. Now 
 you've been and worried poor Mr. Roger into 
 his gi'ave^ you ain't a-going to begin with the 
 master. T\Tiat right have you to keep your 
 children more than another ? What call has 
 everybody to forget themselves for you .^" 
 
 Mrs. Stanfield managed to utter all this 
 notwithstanding her husband's interposition. 
 She had risen from her corner and come 
 forward to the table,, and added the force 
 of action to her eloquence. The blacksmith 
 could not help being abashed and disconcerted 
 when his wife made one of these demonstrations
 
 The Terrors of the Law. 87 
 
 in Ms daughter^ s presence ; for, indeed, it was 
 only after Agnes^s marriage, wlien the restraint 
 of her society was finally removed, that Mrs. 
 Stanfield had quite shown herself in her true 
 colours to the tolerant and long-suffering man 
 who had been content to think that she did not 
 understand. Stanfield felt in his heart that it 
 was he who was to blame for having confided his 
 house and his name to the keeping of such a 
 woman, and then he rebuked the thought, and 
 recollected that she was his wife, and that even 
 in his own mind he ought to keep loyal and in- 
 dulgent to her. But this time he had made so 
 many efforts to stop her ineffectually, that a 
 more decided step had to be taken. 
 
 " Silence, Sally,'' he said ; " go to your own 
 affairs, or be silent if you will stay here. This 
 has nothing to do with you. She does not un- 
 derstand you and me," he said, turning to his 
 daughter, and trying to smile, though he was red 
 with mortification ; " it is not her fault. It 
 would have been better, perhaps, if you had sent 
 for me ; but then there is no time to be lost.'' 
 The blacksmith paused a little, for he was mortal, 
 and he could not quite dismiss from his mind the 
 petty griefs which were his own. " Leave us by 
 ourselves, Sally," he said. " I tell you you don't 
 understand ; and I have told you before, you are
 
 88 Agnes, 
 
 provided for wheii I die — what more would you 
 have V he repeated, with a little agitation. He 
 could not help being ashamed of having con- 
 nected this unruly and lawless creature with the 
 daughter who had always been to him as a 
 princess; and then it came over his mind that 
 Agnes's adversaries might make something of her 
 stepmother,, and might even, if tlieii' attention 
 w^as directed to this weak point, make disco- 
 veries about Mrs. Stanfield, which he himself re- 
 cently had dreaded to make. If it should turn 
 out so, it would be his own blame, and it would 
 be his business to bear it, seeing he had brought 
 it on himself ; but then it was hard to contem- 
 plate shame in connexion with Agnes. He could 
 endm-e all things for himself, but he had much 
 less courage for his child. 
 
 "You have not answered me, father,^^ said 
 Agnes. She, too, was absorbed in her own 
 affairs, as was natural. She turned her head away 
 from Mrs. Stanfield, as from a frivolous inter- 
 ruption. \Vith her, who had her mind full of 
 "Walter, her stepmother counted for so little. 
 "But the more I think of it the more impossible 
 it seems,^^ she said. " What reason could they 
 have for taking my child from me ? Even law 
 cannot go quite without reason — I am his 
 mother. You do not think thcv can do anv-
 
 The Terrors of the Law. 89 
 
 tliing to me V^ After her confident assertion of 
 safety, she looked -svistfully into her father's 
 eves. To be sure she felt certain ; but then, 
 however certain one is, a fact becomes ahvays 
 more apparent when it is repeated by another 
 voice. 
 
 " My darling/' said the blacksmith, ^"^ by all I 
 can hear, 1 don't think that in this respect they 
 can do you any harm/' 
 
 " Ah, thank you, thank you for saying so !" 
 cried Agnes. " That is all I want. You have 
 looked so doubtful and alarmed. I have always 
 had a feeling that you thought me in danger. If 
 they cannot do us harm in this respect, it is im- 
 possible to touch us in any other. Xow that 
 you have said that, father, I will T\Tite to ]Mr. 
 Charlton as soon as you like." 
 
 '' Ay, thaf s always the best to do," said the 
 blacksmith; but there was nothing confident or 
 encoui'aging in his tone — on the contrary, he 
 sighed and took one of those disconsolate walks 
 round the room which people resort to when they 
 are much perplexed, and do not know what to 
 do. ^' I don't deny I've been anxious and in a 
 way," said Stanfield ; " not that I was frightened 
 about Walter — my darling, it was you." 
 
 " Me !" said Agnes, and she smiled a little. 
 '^Thev can do nothing to me, father ; the only
 
 90 Agnes. 
 
 person in the world upon whom I am dependent is 
 aboA^e being moved by Sir Roger Trevelyan/' 
 
 It was at this point that Mrs. Stanfield again 
 broke in. She had gone back to her seat^ and 
 established herself in the role of listener, and 
 had been sitting motionless, paying the closest 
 attention, and growing redder and redder; but 
 when Sir Koger^s name was spoken, she could no 
 longer forbear : she burst in upon the conversa- 
 tion with a strangled sound between a laugh and 
 a sob. She cried out, " Goodness gracious me 1" 
 in the tone of a woman who could restrain her- 
 self no longer. " I should just like to know 
 what the likes of you knows about Sir Roger 
 Trevelyan ?" she said. " He ain^t none of your 
 kind, nor he ain^t the man to take any notice of 
 you, for all so grand as you think yourself. I 
 warned you as you was marrying poor Roger 
 for his ruin. Silence ! I ain^t one to be silenced 
 in my own house. Silence yourself, master, and 
 let her hear the truth for once, if she never 
 hears it again. I told you as it was for his ruin 
 as you married that deceived young man; and now 
 it^s for your father^s ruin as you^re going against 
 Sir Roger. Lord bless us ! if he wasn't one as 
 could make the master shake in his shoes — if he 
 wasnH one as could " 
 
 *^ I will walk home with you, Agnes,^^ said the
 
 The Terrors of the La7v. 91 
 
 blacksmith. '' DonH come here any more ; it is 
 not a place for yon. Stand away from the door, 
 Sally, or I may do myself a mischief. I've been 
 a deal too soft with yon, I don't deny ; bnt I 
 am not a man that can bear other folk's meddling 
 in his affairs. Stand aside from the door !" 
 
 He took her by the arm as he spoke, and 
 di'ew her ont of the way. ^Vhen she felt herself 
 within his grasp, the foolish woman had a 
 momentaiy gleam of pleasure. 
 
 '' You're jealous, that's what you are," she 
 said, with a loud laugh. " ^lany's the time 
 you've wanted to know how it was as I knew 
 Sir Roger. I'm sick of you, and all yoiu* ways ; 
 and if you'll call back your lady daughter I'll 
 let you know " 
 
 The blacksmith grew so pale that he was 
 scarcely recognisable for the moment. Perhaps 
 it was a sudden light that burst upon him — 
 perhaps it was only extreme exasperation work- 
 ing upon the tolerant and tranquil nature, 
 which, ^' much enforced, yielded a hasty spark ;'^ 
 but when Agnes was gone, that was the great 
 point, and he could put up -^-ith the rest. He 
 looked his wife in the face as she threw this 
 defiance at him, and still holding her by the 
 arm, put her back from the door b}^ which he 
 was about to follow his daughter.
 
 92 Agnes. 
 
 " Take care," lie said, '' tliat you donH say 
 something that you will repent. I can bear a 
 deal, but there^s some things no man can bear." 
 
 He had never said anything to her that was 
 so like a menace, and the reckless creature drew 
 back frightened in spite of herself, with an 
 hysterical laugh. Stanfield did not wait either 
 to hear her repentance or the fulfilment of her 
 threat ; he shut the door carefully behind him, 
 and followed his daughter downstairs. 
 
 As for Agnes, she was too much occupied with 
 her own affairs to attach any particular im- 
 portance to what her stepmother had said ; and 
 then she was like Desdemona, and did not 
 believe that there Avas any " such woman." She 
 waited down below till her father joined her, 
 with pity for him, who was bound to such a 
 companion, but no particular curiosity; and she 
 put her arm into his the moment he joined her, 
 and returned to the subject which filled her 
 thoughts. They did not go back to the house on 
 Green, but round by the Common, which was 
 the blacksmiths favourite walk when he had 
 anything to think of. It was morning, and all 
 the village people were about, and some of them 
 thought it not a little strange to see an elegant 
 woman, like what Mrs. Trevelyan had come to 
 be, with her arm in that of the village black-
 
 The Terrors of the Law. 93 
 
 smithy in his blue coat^ ttMcIi lie wore on work- 
 ing days. As for Agnes^ she was unaware what 
 coat her father had on ; and so far as she thought 
 at that moment of anything but "Walter and the 
 danger that menaced her^ her sensation was one 
 of the most entire and unmingled thankfulness 
 to have such a counsellor at hand. 
 
 " But you are still anxious/^ she said : " you 
 tell me you don^'t think they can take Walter 
 from us^ and yet you look disturbed. DonH 
 hide from me, father, what it is. If there is 
 anything further to be feared, I would rather 
 know it all at once.''^ 
 
 " There is all to be feared that ever was to be 
 feared," said Stanfield. '' My darling, it never 
 was Walter that troubled me — it was for you. 
 I believe the child is safe ; but the trial — the 
 exposure — I cannot think of it, Agnes. If it 
 was possible to make a compromise " 
 
 " The exposure ?" repeated Agnes — " of 
 what? Is there anything that we can fear to 
 have exposed? — that I am your daughter, perhaps? 
 But then, as I am proud of that '' 
 
 ^' Hush, little one,^' said Stanfield, sadly ; 
 '^ you donH know what you are saying. In 
 some things you have more experience than I 
 have, that am your father; but in some things 
 you are only a child. Yes, the exposure — all
 
 94 Agnes. 
 
 your life, innocent and sweet as it lias been^ 
 talked of in a public court, and printed in the 
 papers ; and your friends and everybody belong- 
 ing to you ; and whether you are fit, from your 
 antecedents, to have the charge of your child ; 
 and what you have to live on ; and whether your 
 father, who is the blacksmith, will be likely to 
 harm your boy ; and a hundred things more that 
 
 people will read in the papers, as if you were 
 
 IMy darling, I cannot bear it; we must try to 
 make a compromise/'' 
 
 Agnes, too, paused with a start, and took a 
 little time to contemplate this unthought-of case. 
 For a moment it had the effect her father feared, 
 and di'ove the colour from her face ; but at the 
 same time Agnes was, as Stanfield had said, 
 much more experienced than he in some things. 
 She knew better than he did what it was to 
 be put in the papers, how utterly evanescent 
 the effect was, and how few people would remem- 
 ber next day what was the name of the person 
 who had possessed that momentary distinction. 
 She grasped his arm a little closer as she made 
 her reply. 
 
 '■^ I will write to Mr. Charlton at once," she 
 said. '' No compromise, father. What does it 
 matter about the papers? If it should even be 
 so, nobody would remember it next day; and
 
 The Terrors of the Law. 95 
 
 tlien I douH even think tlie papers ^vould put it 
 in. If I had been fashionable, it might have been 
 diflPerent ; or perhaps, if I had been wicked/^ she 
 said, with a momentary flush and smile ; " but 
 people like us, who haA^e never done any harm to 
 speak of — we are not sufficiently interesting for 
 that/^ She smiled as she said so, but Stanfield was 
 not reassured ; for he, with the ideas of his own 
 humble class, did not understand that soft con- 
 tempt for the newspapers which Agnes had learned 
 in the bigger world. It seemed to him that a corner 
 in the leading journal conveyed a kind of dis- 
 agreeable immortality ; and, notwithstanding what 
 she said, he hesitated still. They walked about 
 the Common, half the morning, discussing this 
 matter. Agnes was as much afraid of the very 
 name of a compromise as he was of the ^' expo- 
 sure" in the papers. She would not see that Sir 
 Roger Trevelyan had any claim upon her boy — 
 she would not allow even that the family who 
 had neglected Roger and declined to acknow- 
 ledge herself, had anything whatever to do with 
 her son ; and in sight of a claim which seemed at 
 once insulting and injurious, the Lord Chancellor 
 and the newspapers had scarcely any effect upon 
 her. To be sure, it was she who earned the argu- 
 ment, for Stanfield had only the old plea to repeat ; 
 and she, for her part, refused to acknowledge its
 
 96 Agnes. 
 
 importance. They parted without having, either 
 of them, yielded or convinced the other. The 
 only thing they had agreed on was that Jack 
 Charlton was to be consulted; and this was how 
 it came about that her casual acquaintance of so 
 many years came to have for a time so large a 
 share in Agnes Trevelyan's life.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Counsel and Client. 
 
 IITHOUT any loss of time, Jack 
 Charlton answered tlie call wliich 
 ]\Irs. Trevelvan made upon liim. 
 He had already refused to have 
 anything to do with Sir Roger^s case, and it 
 pleased him when Agnes appealed to him. He 
 was by no means without talent, when he had 
 sufficient motive to exercise it ; but his indolence 
 and carelessness, and want of any sufficient 
 stimulation, kept him quite at leisure to take up 
 at once any matter which interested him. He 
 answered IMrs. Trevelyan^s letter in person next 
 day ; and it would have been difficult for him to 
 have put his motives into words, or to have ex- 
 plained why he was disposed to put himself so 
 promptly at the service of his friend^'s family. 
 It was for Roger's sake — and yet it is doubtful 
 if he would have taken so much trouble for 
 Roger had he been living ; and then the Tre- 
 
 VOL. III. H
 
 98 Agnes. 
 
 velyans were old friends " at home/' and it was 
 awkward to embroil himself thus with a family 
 which was still of some importance in the county 
 and next neighbours to his brother. Jack de- 
 clined to think what his mother would say when 
 she heard of it_, not to speak of the brother who was 
 head of the house. And he went with a certain 
 impulse of expectation and pleasure through the 
 village, to Mrs. Trevelyan's house on the Green. 
 He had a long conversation with her, as was 
 natural. He told her how the application would 
 be made against her, and explained as well as he 
 could how the strength of Sir Roger's case would 
 consist in an attempt to prove herself and her 
 friends unworthy to have the charge of Walter. 
 This was not a very pleasant thing to do, but Jack 
 managed it not unsuccessfully. And then he 
 found that Agnes only smiled at this fear. 
 Stanfield, who was sent for to be present at the 
 interview, looked on with a very grave and even 
 gloomy countenance; but as for Agnes, she 
 smiled — and this smile had a singular effect upon 
 the mind of her defender. It made him look at 
 her again with a new interest. Agnes was not 
 one of the women who know, as it is called, their 
 own advantages, and are aware of the best means 
 of making their strong points visible. Her eyes, 
 for example, were beautiful, but she made no use
 
 Counsel and Client. 99 
 
 of thenij so to speak. Instead of fixing tliem on 
 the individual who spoke to her, she had a habit 
 of occupying them with some piece of stupid work, 
 which was sufficiently annoying sometimes. And 
 then her face was not one which displayed its 
 beauty at the first glance. It was only when she 
 got sufficiently interested to give up the work and 
 give free vent to her sentiments that a stranger 
 found out the grave sweetness and purity of all the 
 lines of her face, and the character and expression 
 of the eyes, which were like two windows opened 
 into an infinite blue heaven. But it was not her 
 beauty, such as that was, which struck Jack 
 Charlton at this moment : it was the strange 
 discordance between her appearance, and looks, 
 and expression, and that ideal of a blacksmith's 
 daughter who had made an ambitious marriage, 
 and was bringing up her son in debased tastes 
 and low society, which would have to be pre- 
 sented by Sir Roger's advocate before the autho- 
 rities. He smiled himself when he thought of 
 that, but it was an angry and indignant smile. 
 
 And as for Stanfield, he continued gloomy and 
 melancholy. He gave his sanction to everything 
 that Mr. Charlton judged necessary, but he was 
 not cheerful, nor sanguine, for his part. Per- 
 haps, being used to see her every day, it did not 
 occur to him that Agnes's appearance of itself; 
 H 2
 
 100 Agnes, 
 
 would have any special effect upon a lofty func- 
 tionary like the Lord Chancellor; but, at the 
 same time_, his reverence for his child^ vrho was 
 also his ideal;, made the idea of a contest about 
 her insupportable to him. So far as he was con- 
 cerned^ he was almost ready to give up Walter, 
 and decide that rcA^olting discussion; for Agnes 
 was above discussion, above question, to her father; 
 and even the man who proved her superiority 
 seemed to his eyes, which were a little fantastic 
 in this respect, to do her wrong. Perhaps she 
 had not the same delicacy for herself; she was 
 no longer a girl, shy and timid. Agnes had now 
 the nobler modesty of a woman who has had 
 many things to do in the world, and who has 
 found herself able to do them without exciting 
 remark. Her humbleness was not the false 
 humbleness which fears to be looked at, but the 
 true humility which knows that the world has its 
 own affairs in hand, and has wonderfully little 
 leisure to stare at an obscure individual. For 
 most of her married life she had been obliged to 
 manage her affairs alone, and to go about unpro- 
 tected, and she had never found any difficulty in 
 her way. Nobody had stopped to stare at her, nor 
 obstructed her path ; and the consequence was 
 that she was not afraid for the Lord Chancellor, 
 nor even for the newspapers, and smiled, with a
 
 Counsel and Client, 101 
 
 sense of sometliing half-comic in her father^'s 
 distress. 
 
 '' What does it matter ?^^ she said to him ; 
 " I am not so important that all the world 
 should occupy themselves with me. The people 
 in Windholm may be amused, perhaps, but then 
 they know it all already/'' said Agnes. ^' You 
 don^t consider how little attention people give to 
 anything which has no connexion with them- 
 selves." 
 
 "You are philosophical, Mrs. Trevelyan," 
 said Jack Charlton, who, on the whole, was more 
 of Stanfield^s way of thinking, at the present 
 moment, than of hers. 
 
 " iSTo,^'' said Agnes ; " I am only a little ex- 
 perienced, that is all. Polly Thompson does not 
 like to go into church alone,'''' she continued, 
 with a soft momentary laugh ; " she thinks 
 everybody is looking at her; and you know you 
 are not looking at her, father, nor thinking of 
 her, even if by chance she should pass before 
 vour eves. It is more disagreeable, certainly, to 
 pass under people^s eyes in a corner of the 
 Times ; but, happily, I am just as unimportant to 
 the world as Polly is to you." 
 
 The blacksmith shook his head and made no 
 answer, for his humility in respect to Agnes was 
 not in the least true humilitv, but rather the re-
 
 102 Agnes. 
 
 serve of intense pride, wliicli cannot believe that 
 Tvhat is so interesting to itself can be indifferent to 
 others. He was even a little irritated by her smile 
 and her illustration. He did not see what there 
 coidd possibly be in common between Polly 
 Thompson and his daughter. Poor Polly was 
 still only Miss Thompson's niece — she was not 
 even married, nor had any separate standing in 
 her own person, and her dread of attracting 
 observation was amusing enough ; but Stanfield, 
 enlightened as he was, was so far biassed by his 
 affections that he could not imagine even the 
 universal British public, big and abstract as it 
 was, to be as indifferent to his daughter as the 
 good people in Windholm Church were to Polly 
 Thompson and her comings and goings. And 
 thus the consultation closed, with the principal 
 party to it still unconvinced in his heart. Jack 
 Charlton, who took his leave at the same time as 
 Stanfield did, and walked with him as far as their 
 way lay together, was as unsuccessful as Agnes 
 had been in reconciling the blacksmith to the 
 " exposure'-' that was inevitable. Stanfield went 
 back to his work, sighing over it, in his heart. So 
 far as he himself was concerned, the idea of 
 shrinking from anything that might happen to be 
 his duty, or keeping anything secret which he 
 had ever performed, would never have occuiTed to
 
 Counsel and Client. 103 
 
 Mm; but the matter changed completely ac- 
 cording to his ideas_, when the subject of the 
 experience was a woman instead of a man; and 
 changed still more when of all women in the 
 world it was Agnes to whom this trial had 
 come. 
 
 And^ as was natural^ this was far from being 
 Jack Charlton^ s last visit to Windholm. He 
 came often to consult with his clients^ and to 
 give them the particulars of the case_, and the 
 oftener he went the more inclined he felt to re- 
 turn. Both father and daughter exercised a cer- 
 tain fascination upon Jack_, who was one of the 
 biases of society, too indolent to make any effort 
 to bring himself to the notice of the world, and 
 yet a little resentful that its notice was not be- 
 stowed upon him. To be sure, it was difficult for 
 a man in his position not to observe the difference 
 which people in general made between himself 
 and his elder brother, and even which his mother, 
 who was a good mother in her way, and loved 
 her children, made between other elder brothers 
 and their juniors. If he had chosen to go a 
 little deeper into the matter, he would have 
 found out without difficulty, that, had he devoted 
 himself to the task of conciliating society, as 
 some men did — or worked hard and acquired the 
 success which gives a legitimate claim upon its
 
 104< Agnes. 
 
 esteem^ he might altogether have distanced the 
 Squire. But then Jack was not disposed to take 
 the trouble of going deeply into anything : ex- 
 cepting always the case of " Trevelyan versus Tre- 
 velyan/^ which occupied his mind to a remarkable 
 extent. The Avinter passed all the more quickly 
 for this interest which occupied it ; and Agnes, 
 too,, became accustomed to see Jack and to ex- 
 pect him, and even to look forward somewhat 
 eagerly to his coming. He was her boy^s 
 champion and her own — the intermediary between 
 her and those omnipotent powers who could, if 
 they would, remove the chief charm from her life 
 — the society of her first-born ; and accordingly it 
 w^as with a sentiment of eager interest, gratitude, 
 and regard that she opened her doors to Jack 
 Charlton, w^hose appearance began to be known 
 in Windholm, and whom many people, of whom 
 he had no knowledge, looked at with great 
 curiosity as he Avent down the village street. 
 
 Mrs. Trevelyan^s adviser had so much to tell of 
 the suit and its progress, of the hearings granted 
 and the delays interposed, and of the devices of the 
 opposite party and his own arrangements to meet 
 them, that the interviews between counsel and 
 client generally lasted for some time ; not to say 
 that the distance between London and Windholm 
 made the visit a kind of little journey, and en-
 
 Counsel and Client. 105 
 
 forced the fulfilment on Agnes^s part of tlie duties 
 of hospitality. It was true that the blacksmith 
 ivas almost invariably one of the party, but that 
 did not stop the smiles and nods and comments 
 of the Windholm folks. Even ^Irs. Trcvelyan^s 
 servants began to look v\'ith curious eyes upon 
 Mr. Charlton, as speculating what kind of a 
 master he would be, if it came to anything ; and 
 Madelon in particular, with a more charitable 
 anxiety, took pains to observe his reception of the 
 children, who might, perhaps, some day be throvrn 
 upon his mercy. And Jack was fond of children, 
 like most men of good conditions and indolent 
 mind. Naturally, the chief person concerned 
 was the last to know what specidations were 
 going on round her ; Agnes, who was occupied 
 with her duties and her anxieties, went and came 
 in her ordinary way all the winter through with- 
 out finding out this conclusion made by her 
 neighbours. There were even laughing allusions 
 made in her very presence, which she alone did 
 not understand in their true meaning. The 
 other inhabitants of Windholm had no doubt about 
 the matter. As for Mrs. Freke, who naturally 
 took a great interest in the report, she felt a 
 little injui'cd and aggrieved at first, as good 
 women are apt to do who have put their faith in 
 the constancy of a widow ; and then having got
 
 106 Agnes. 
 
 over that first sense of desecration^ the vicar^s wife 
 began to make very anxious inquiries about 
 Charlton^ whom be belonged to_, and what be 
 possessed. 
 
 Mrs. Freke, bowever, bad not^ as yet_, made 
 up ber mind tbat it was ber duty to speak 
 seriously to Agnes ; for sbe bad a certain con- 
 sciousness at tbe bottom of ber bcart_, tbat on 
 former occasions wben sbe bad fulfilled tbis duty 
 sbe bad come off invariably second best^ and 
 witb ber prestige impaired; but_, at tbe same 
 time J tbougb sbe kept silent^ sbe reserved all ber 
 rigbts to speak wben tbe proper moment sbould 
 arrive. Tbe vicar^ on tbe contrary^ vi^as pleased 
 witb tbe new idea. He was not^ as we bave 
 said;, a man wbo concluded bappiness to be ne- 
 cessary to existence,, because^ tbougb be got on 
 extremely well on tbe wbolc; be bad no con- 
 sciousness of ever baving been particularly bappy 
 in bis own person ; but it appeared to bis candid 
 mind tbat ProAddence (perbaps^ being a clergy- 
 mauj be did not use tbat abstract word^ but ven- 
 tured on a still bolder expression) owed some- 
 thing to Agnes in return for tbe bard experiences 
 sbe bad gone tbrougb^ and tbe premature termi- 
 nation of tbat life of two^ wbicb^ however either 
 partner may fail in duty or capacity, bears an 
 aspect of completeness which a woman or man
 
 Counsel and Client, 107 
 
 alone^ however excellent^ cannot attain to. He 
 tliought Providence owed Mrs. Trevelyan some- 
 thing to make up for her troubles ; and he had a 
 liking for Jack Charlton; and altogether it seemed, 
 as he saidj a very reasonable arrangement. 
 
 " 'Wh.QTL there are so many idiotic marriages/' 
 the vicar said, ^^ a connexion that has a little 
 reason in it is agreeable to see. No, I don^t 
 speak of love ; I don^t understand anything about 
 love — it is just as mad and stupid as other things 
 in this absurd life. I say there''s a little reason 
 in this ; and that is why I have some doubt in 
 my own mind whether it will ever come to 
 pass.''"' 
 
 " Mr. Freke/^ said his wife, with restrained 
 indignation, " one would think you were speak- 
 ing of the French way of marrying. I 
 don^t say that I approve of Agnes Trevelyan 
 sitting there in her widow^s cap, not eighteen 
 months yet after poor Roger's death, and think- 
 ing of marrying again ; but I don^t think so 
 badly of her as to believe she^s going upon 
 reason. I don''t know anybody but you who 
 could entertain such an idea. It is something 
 too shocking to think of,^"* said the good woman, 
 with an air of disgust. All this the vicar ac 
 cepted calmly, as was his wont. 
 
 '' That is the worst of it,^^ he said ; ^"^ I am
 
 1 08 Agnes. 
 
 not sure that I quite believe myself in lier good 
 sense,, and yet in ordinary affairs slie Las more 
 than good sense. We are all fools, Harriet, 
 that is the truth. Everybody rushes at every- 
 thing without thought, and a good woman like 
 you is disgusted to think that another w^oman 
 goes upon reason — that^s how it is. It's easiest 
 to put the blame upon God; but I don^t feel 
 quite sure, for my part." 
 
 " If you have not any respect for the Bible, 
 Mr. Freke, do have a little respect for me, and 
 donH talk in that frantic manner," said his wife, 
 with a certain calmness of despair. The ^dcar 
 did not give any distinct reply, but made his 
 usual promenade round the room, and went 
 away with his arms under the tails of his long 
 coat. " It would only be just to give her a 
 little compensation,^' he said to himself as he 
 withdrew; but then Mr. Freke, as everybody 
 knew, had curious ideas, especially on the sub- 
 ject of ProAddence, and was far from being a 
 reassuring visitor when, as the villagers said, 
 there was trouble in the house. 
 
 The other inhabitants of Windholm partook 
 the sentiments thus expressed by the vicar and 
 his wife. Some of them were shocked at 
 Agnes's heartlessness, especially as she still wore 
 her widow's cap ; and some thought it was an-
 
 Counsel aiid Client. 109 
 
 other effort of lier ambition to get herself 
 made a lady ; and some, more charitable, 
 imagined, with Mr. Freke, that she deserved a 
 little consolation after having suffered so much — 
 if, indeed, consolation was to be found in a 
 second maniage, vrhich most people thought un- 
 likely; and some bevrailed the poor children 
 who were to be cast upon the tender mercies of 
 a stepfather. And then there was a party in the 
 village who took the supposition as a personal 
 offence. Such was the opinion of little !Miss 
 Fox, whose feelings were so much affected that 
 she had to retire to her own room after hearing 
 this terrible rumour, and whose eyes were red 
 with crying when she was summoned to dinner 
 in the evening — so red that even her papa ob- 
 served it, who was not at all, as ^Irs. Fox said, a 
 noticing man. Miss Minnie could not help 
 crying over poor ]Mr. Trevelyan, who was so 
 soon forgotten, but whom she had not forgotten, 
 though his wife had done so. She could not 
 help thinking how different it would have been 
 had she, and not Agnes, been his disconsolate 
 and inconsolable widow ; and the more she cried, 
 and the more she reflected, the more aggrieved 
 and affi'onted she grew — as if it was not enough 
 distinction for anybody to be Mrs, Trevelyan, and 
 to possess the sad distinction of wearing those
 
 110 Agnes. 
 
 liea\y robes and that widoVs cap ! Miss Minnie 
 went downstairs with such red eyes that her papa, 
 as we have said,, observed it, and demanded the 
 reason, and drove the suffering young woman to 
 desperation. Probably it was on that evening that 
 the report which arose in Windholm, that Miss 
 Pox was subject to " attacks on the nerves," 
 took its origin — for what other reason could a 
 watchful mother give for her daughter's red eyes ? 
 Thus it will be seen that Agnes's supposed 
 flirtation had consequences far wider than she 
 could have dreamt of, had she known any- 
 thing about the matter; but fortunately, or 
 unfortunately, nobody had the courage to say 
 to Mrs. Trevelyan that she was being talked 
 of in the village, or that the lawsuit and 
 the relation of counsel and client were only 
 partially believed in by her neighbours. To be 
 sure, the rumour came, after a time, vaguely to 
 Stanfield's ears ; but he was the last man in the 
 world to disturb his daughter with such a piece of 
 idle gossip. And as ^^ Trevelyan versus Trevelyan" 
 continued to hang on during the whole winter, 
 and was not concluded even when summer re- 
 turned, Jack Charlton still continued his visits, 
 and IMrs. Trevelyan got insensibly more and 
 more used to him and pleased to see him. 
 Agnes had ended her youth prematurely, but yet
 
 Counsel and Client. Ill 
 
 at the bottom of lier lieart slie ^as still young ; 
 and, thougli her children were dearer to her 
 than anything else in the world, and her father 
 was her chief support and prop, still there were 
 moments when it was pleasant to talk to some- 
 body who was near her own age, and who was 
 not confined by those natui'al limits of place, 
 and custom, and locality, which had their efiect 
 even upon the large and liberal nature with 
 which God had endowed the blacksmith. She 
 could talk to Jack Charlton of many things 
 which it would not have occurred to her to 
 discuss with Stanfield; and thus the friendship 
 upon which the Windholm folks built such a 
 pretty romance grew gradually to be of some 
 importance, unconsciously to herself, in Agnes 
 Trevelyan^s life.
 
 CHAPTEH YIIL 
 
 have 
 
 so 
 
 Village Gossip. 
 
 HI^N'GS ^'ere in tliis condition 
 ^vlien ^Trs. Trevelyan was called 
 to that interview with the Lord 
 Chancellor in person^ which vv-as to 
 much inflnence npon the suit of 
 <c Tpevelyan versus Trevelyan.'^ No donbt this 
 event was one which Agnes contemplated with 
 a certain nervousness^ feeling conscious, as she 
 did_, how much depended on it. Perhaps it was 
 the first time in her life that she had considered 
 seriously the effect that would be produced by her 
 personal appearance, her manners, her mode of 
 expressing herself. She looked at herself in the 
 glass on the morning of that important da}^ 
 with a concern something analogous to that 
 with which Beatrice Trevelyan had so often 
 studied her own face ; and even asked herself 
 what people thought of her looks with a curiosity 
 which had never before been fully awakened ;
 
 Village Gossip. 113 
 
 for^ to tsU the trutli^ it was not a subject 
 Tvhicli had occurred to the mind of Agnes, as, 
 according to the general verdict of the world, it 
 does to most women. She had had no mother 
 to admire her, and set off her beauty. To her 
 father she was not, at any time, a pretty girl, but 
 a kind of sacred ideal woman, not to be dese- 
 crated by such poor praise as could be conferred 
 by compliment. And then Roger, after the first 
 short rapture, had become too critical and 
 doubtful to flatter his wife, or inspire her with 
 confidence in herself; and the consequence was, 
 that now Agnes looked into her own face with a 
 little wistfulness, thinking that to be handsome 
 for that one day, to find somewhere the talisman 
 of beauty, which is said to work such rare eff'ects, 
 was something to be wished for with all her 
 heart, if wishes only were any good. What she 
 saw in the glass was a middle-sized woman, of 
 rather ordinary appearance — as she thought to 
 herself in her anxiety — in the profound un- 
 mitigated black of her mourning. What 
 she could not perceive was the wistful grace 
 of her own looks — the serene and candid 
 depths of those eyes, which nobody could dis- 
 believe — the air of absolute purity and truth 
 which was in her countenance. Her forehead 
 was not the smooth, unruffled front of youth, but 
 
 VOL. IIT. I
 
 ] 14 Agnes, 
 
 it had a cliarm perhaps more touching, for the 
 lines on it were lines not of present pain, which 
 go against all beauty, but of sorrow softened and 
 subdued, and of thoughtfulness, which is always 
 lovely in its way. 
 
 All this Agnes did not see ; but she saw — what 
 satisfied her to a certain extent, for she was only 
 human — that her dress, though it was very black 
 and sombre, hung as it ought to do, and was in its 
 utter simplicity the dress of a lady, well made and 
 seemly. Some people may think this was a poor 
 enough consolation ; and yet it did something for 
 Mrs. Trevelyan's courage. She could not flatter 
 herself that she was beautiful, or capable of fasci- 
 nating an unimpressionable dignitary like the Lord 
 Chancellor; but as she looked at herself in the 
 glass, she could not help thinking that he would 
 receive her as an equal, and understand the respect 
 and sympathy which her appearance generally 
 procured for her; so that, on the whole, Agnes 
 turned away from her mirror not unsatisfied. 
 Mrs. Freke had offered to go with her, and was 
 waiting for her do^vnstairs, and the vicar's wife 
 looked but a very homely chaperone for Agnes, 
 notwithstanding that her family was six times as 
 important, and, indeed, not to be named in the 
 same breath as that of the blacksmith, which, 
 indeed, was no family at all. Thus they set out 
 on their important mission ; and it was with white
 
 Village Gossip, 115 
 
 lips that Mrs. Treyelyan kissed her boy, Tvhose 
 fate, though he did not know it_, was hanging in 
 the balance. Perhaps, before she saw him again, 
 she might have been decided — if not in fact, at 
 least in the mind of the judge — unfit to have the 
 care of him; but this dread only gave dignity 
 and gravity to her look as she went to her trial. 
 Mrs. Freke said afterwards that she never saw 
 anybody go through anything more steadily, 
 and that really she did not think Agnes could 
 have much feeling to be so unconcerned at such 
 a' time. It was when they had come back again 
 fi'om that momentous interview that the vicar's 
 wife gave her account of it to her husband, who 
 was showing a degree of anxiety on the subject 
 quite unusual to him ; indeed, it was all Mr. 
 Fi'eke coidd do to keep himself from going to 
 the station to meet them, as Stanfield did, to 
 ascertain what the result had been. 
 
 " I don^t know that there is any result,^' Mrs. 
 Freke said, with a suspicion of crossness. ^' He 
 was \QYy ci^dl — indeed, I may say polite — and 
 took a great deal of notice of Agnes. To be 
 sure, I daresay it was a different kind of woman 
 he expected to see ; and, of course, she gave very 
 sensible answers ; but the vronderful thing to me 
 was, that she did not seem to feel it a bit — not 
 more, Mr. Freke, than if it had been you,'' 
 T 2
 
 116 Agnes. 
 
 "And what did lie say?" asked the vicar 
 with natural curiosity; but it was about the 
 tenth time he had asked the question^, and there 
 seemed little hope of getting an answer. 
 
 " I am sure it would be perfectly impossible 
 to remember all that he said/^ said the vicar^s 
 wife. " He asked her a great many questions ; 
 and she looked as steady all the time ; — I should 
 have been trembling like an aspen-leaf if it had 
 been me ; but somehow^ I don^t think Agnes has 
 much feeling. She answered as quietly as if they 
 had just been talking in a drawing-room ; and I 
 must say^ I think she was too open — she mentioned 
 about her father being the blacksmith, without the 
 least hesitation. Of course, you and I know that 
 Stanfield is a very superior man ; but still, you 
 know, in a case of this kind, I never see the good 
 of going too much into detail. She gave him all 
 the particulars,-'^ said ]Mrs. Freke, taking off her 
 bonnet with an air of vexation and fatigue, " as 
 plainly as she would have done to you or me.''^ 
 
 " Of course she had to tell the truth," said the 
 %dcar. " She is a woman to tell the truth 
 wherever she is ; and — though that is an odious 
 ^dew of the subject, and enough to make one tell 
 a lie if one could — still truth was the only policy 
 in such a case." 
 
 " I am sure nobody ever said of me tliat I was
 
 Village Gossip. 117 
 
 against telling the truth/^ said tlie ^icar^s wife,, 
 with a little indignation^ " but still there are 
 more ways than one of doing it, you know. I 
 don^t see the use of going into every detail. His 
 lordship was very nice all the same, and did not 
 change to her in the least, even after she told 
 him everything. But I must say, the thing that 
 struck me vras her coolness. She was no more 
 put out of the way than I am, talking to you. 
 And then ]\lr. Charlton, you knovr,"'' said Mrs. 
 Freke, with a slight movement of her head, " he 
 was there waiting for us, and paying such atten- 
 tion. I can^t help saying that it makes me 
 dreadfully impatient to see it all, and poor Roger 
 scarcely settled in his grave, and she wearing 
 that widow's cap.''' 
 
 " Poor soul ! if she has a little happiness at 
 last,'' said the charitable vicar, " she had not too 
 much of that with Roger. There is something 
 owing her after all she has gone through. I 
 think Charlton is a good sort of fellow ; and when 
 one thinks how little comfort she has had " 
 
 " ?^ir. Freke, I wish you vrould not speak so," 
 said his wife ; " what you are saying strikes at 
 the root of everything. If a woman is not happy 
 in her married life, it is almost always her own 
 fault; and when you think what Agnes Stan- 
 field was, and how much poor Roger had
 
 118 Agnes. 
 
 to go through — and to see her hi her widow^s- 
 cap " 
 
 It was this that aggravated Mrs. Freke. To 
 be sure_, second marriages were not unlawful, and 
 even took place every day ; but then the costume 
 had to be considered, and the sympathy it awa- 
 kened, which was evidently procured under false 
 pretences. It was this that upset the spectator's 
 temper. She shook her head as she recalled it 
 to her mind. 
 
 " I have always taken, an interest in Agnes," 
 she said j '' I have always stood her friend from 
 the first. Of coiu'se, I knew she had her faults, 
 but I never anticipated anything like this. And 
 to think that you can approve of it, Mr. Freke 1" 
 
 Mr. Freke was not listening, but had gone off 
 at a tangent on his own account. 
 
 " It is not the way things are managed in this 
 world," he was saying to himself. " If she was 
 to win her cause and marry that good fellow, and 
 be happy ever after, it would be like a thing one 
 had arranged one^s self. It^s a great deal too 
 good to happen so ; I have no faith in it, for my 
 part." 
 
 But, on the whole, it was satisfactory to know 
 that Agnes had got safely through this momen- 
 tous interview, and that Jack Charlton had been 
 waiting for her, and had shown her a great deal
 
 Village Gossip. 119 
 
 of attention. Mr. Freke went away to liis study 
 with a sense tliat perhaps for once ProAddence^ 
 instead of procuring Agnes's ^^ good^' by aban- 
 doning and thwarting her — which is the usual 
 popular explanation of the ways of Providence — 
 might be as good to her as he himself would have 
 been had he had the power. It was a forlorn hope ; 
 and yet, under the influence of all the favourable 
 signs which were appearing on the horizon,, the 
 vicar tried to think that such a thing might be ; 
 but without, indeed, pausing to inquire what 
 were the sentiments of the persons who would 
 have to be employed as the instruments of Pro- 
 vidence, could his benevolent intentions be carried 
 out. 
 
 As for Agnes, she made her way home leaning 
 on her father^s arm ; calm enough, as Mrs. Freke 
 had said, and able to behave herself as usual, but 
 with a thrill throughout all her heart and frame, 
 and a strange haze in the atmosphere which sur- 
 rounded her. She had made a supreme effort, 
 and had succeeded. She had restrained all the 
 little feminine impulses towards evasion or in- 
 complete speech, and had answered fully, and 
 largely, and clearly, the inquiries addressed to 
 her. Nobody could doubt henceforward that the 
 accusations brought against her by Sir Roger, of 
 being a person of no family and not much educa-
 
 120 Agnes, 
 
 tion, were perfectly true ; but at the same time, 
 whatever other people might think, Agnes came 
 away with a certain confidence that her judge 
 had discovered the results drawn from these 
 premises to be as false as any invention could be. 
 To be sure, he had not pronounced any decision ; 
 but yet her original confidence in the truth of 
 her cause was confirmed by a sense that the 
 supreme authority in her case had found in her 
 a woman whom he could treat only as an equal. 
 A certain excitement, long suppressed and won- 
 derfully concealed, made her arm thrill and 
 tremble as it rested on her father^s, and filled the 
 air to her with a certain haze, as of a dream. It 
 seemed strange to her to see other people going 
 about their ordinary business, as if this was a 
 day like any other day. She went home and 
 called Walter to her, and put down her head on 
 the boy^s shoulder for a rest after she had kissed 
 him. He was her boy — nobody in the world 
 could take him from her. To be sure, it occurred 
 to her mind at that moment, with a dreadful 
 shudder, that such a boy, quite unassailed by 
 man, had been taken by God out of his mother's 
 arms not very long ago, within the very limits of 
 the village ; but it seemed to Agnes that God 
 was too good to send such a misery upon her. 
 She was a widow, and he was her first-born and her
 
 Village Gossip. 121 
 
 only son. The liardest-liearted man^ the sternest 
 human law^ spares such a one — and was it for 
 her to believe that God was less merciful than 
 man? She put Walter away from her in her 
 excitement a minute after^ and sat up and told 
 her father everything that had happened. It 
 seemed to her^ as she spoke^ as if she must be 
 safe. Men were kind in their way, notwith- 
 standing all the hard things that were said of 
 them; and God was merciful. They could not^ 
 and surely He would not^ take her child from 
 her^ and strike down to the earth all her coiu'age 
 and hope. 
 
 " Lord Norbury was very kind/^ she said ; 
 " I have confidence in him — and so has Mr. 
 Charlton. He thinks we are all safe now."" 
 
 Stanfield was excited^ too, though he also 
 made an effort to preserve his composui'e ; and 
 he had a sense that the worst was over, now that 
 this interview had taken place. " And you were 
 alone, and there were no newspaper people 
 there ?'' he said, with a certain satisfaction in liis 
 voice. 
 
 ^^Why should there be newspaper people ?^^ 
 said Agnes, with a soft laugh. " You think our 
 affairs are more interesting than they really are. 
 'We are safe, because nobody is thinking of us^ 
 father; and then Mr. Charlton says ■'"'
 
 122 Ac/nes, 
 
 It was just at tliis moment that some visitors 
 came to the door — Mrs. Fox and another 
 neighbour, who took an interest in Agnes, and 
 had come full of curiosity in the hope of hearing 
 something. When they came in the conversa- 
 tion was resumed, though in a more general 
 way ; and Agnes continued what she was saying, 
 so far as to repeat that Mr. Charlton now was of 
 opinion that there was little to fear. 
 
 ^^ And it must be so nice to have a man like 
 Mr. Charlton to conduct everything,^^ said one 
 of the visitors, with a significant look. " A man 
 who takes such an interest ! Everybody begins 
 to know him about Windholm. I saw him get 
 into a cab at the station the other day, and the 
 man never asked where he was to go to. You 
 know, my dear Mrs. Trevelyan, everybody con- 
 nects him with you ; it is so nice to have him to 
 manage your affairs. ^^ 
 
 " And he seems so fond of the dear children,^^ 
 said Mrs. Fox, with a sigh and a little solemnity ; 
 " that is such a blessing V' These words, and the 
 way in which they both looked at her, and the 
 sentiment in Mrs. Fox^s voice, and the laugh that 
 was subdued in the other, startled Agnes. She 
 looked up first at one and then at the other, and 
 turned her eyes to her father, finally, to ask what 
 they meant. But Stanfield was looking down on
 
 Village Gossip. 123 
 
 the carpet^ and had a certain embarrassed and 
 confused air^ as if he himself were not quite sure ; 
 and in that moment^ excited as her own faculties 
 were^ and susceptible with all she had just gone 
 through^ a true perception of what they meant 
 burst for the first time on Agnes. For the first 
 time it occuiTcd to her what an interpretation the 
 little world which surrounded her had been 
 putting on her actions ; and words which had 
 puzzled her at the moment^ and smiles for which 
 she had been unable to account,, flashed back 
 upon her mind like lightning with this sudden 
 explanation. Naturally she did the very last 
 thing she ought to have done^ like any other in- 
 nocent woman — she blushed a sudden fiery over- 
 whelming blushj *which being born entirely of 
 surprise, and pain, and innocence, and the shock 
 she had received, looked to the two friendly in- 
 quisitors like the fullest evidence against her. 
 They laughed and shook hands with her warmly, 
 and wished, with much meaning in their looks, 
 that everything might be settled comfortably, 
 when they went away. And Stanfield had gone 
 before, so that Mrs. Trevelyan was left alone, 
 with this new question thi'own like a sudden 
 bomb into her heart, in its commotion of hope 
 and thankfulness. It was then that she sent 
 Walter away to play with his companions.
 
 124 Agnes, 
 
 feeling ashamed,, she could not tell why^ under 
 the chikrs eyes. To be sure^, he could not have 
 understood the words and looks which she had 
 found out only by chance^ as it were ; but still, 
 the very suggestion in her son''s presence, over- 
 whelmed Agnes with a visionary shame. And, to 
 tell the truth, the first feeling in her heart was 
 that of a certain anger and bitterness, not so 
 much against her neighbours as against Provi- 
 dence itself, which had made such a blunder pos- 
 sible. It seemed hard to her, a faithful wife and 
 true woman, to feel herself thus thrown back 
 again in the opinion of the little world that sur- 
 rounded her, into a kind of factitious youth, as if 
 she could begin the world again, and be moved 
 once more by the hopes and fears which she had 
 already had in her day, and done with like other 
 wives. Agnes put her face into her hands to 
 hide from herself the hot and painful blush, which 
 was so different from the blush of youth. She 
 asked herself what she had ever done to ex- 
 pose her to such a suspicion ; and what was 
 worse, she gTew aware, slowly and in spite of 
 herself, that Jack Charlton^s society had been a 
 pleasure to her; and then she came back from 
 that thought to raise such a protest against the 
 inequalities of life, as only suffering can wring 
 from a dutiful heart.
 
 Village Gossip. 125 
 
 Mrs. Trevelyan asked herself ^liy was it that 
 she should be exposed over again to those difficul- 
 ties and dangers which belonged to another period 
 of life, and not to hers ? She felt not only ashamed, 
 but wounded and sore to the depths of her heart ; 
 her woman pride, and all the prejudices of her 
 character, and that prevailing sense of wifehood 
 and motherhood which makes a woman sacred even 
 to herself, had been struck at and wounded deeper 
 than words could describe, and the wounds bled 
 secretly and inwardly. It was this that confused 
 her even in the moment of her apparent victory. 
 Nobody in "\Yindholni meant it as an accusation, 
 not even Miss Minnie Fox, though she cried to 
 think of the inconstancy of Roger^s widow ; 
 nobody made a crime of it, nor did anything 
 worse than laugh at the idea, that the young 
 widow, as they said, had consoled herself. But 
 then Mrs. Ti'evelyan, perhaps, was fanciful; the 
 accusation was horrible to her, and so was the 
 sense that she liked Jack Charlton to come, and 
 had got used to expect him, and might miss him 
 when he came no longer. And this, too, at the 
 very moment when her child was in danger, and 
 when, perhaps, he might be taken from her. At 
 one time Agnes, with the craven impulse of na- 
 ture, thought to herself that she should lose 
 Walter as a punishment for ' having, even una-
 
 126 Agnes. 
 
 wares and for a moment^ suffered the idea of a 
 stranger to enter into her life ; and then her 
 mood changed;, and her heart swelled with a 
 sense of the hardship of her lot. 
 
 It is hard to be left alone^ with life and all its 
 snbtle influences still stirring strong in a spirit un- 
 subdued by age — hard to be exposed to frivolous 
 suspicions^ to untimely laughter^ to self- contempt^ 
 which is the worst of all. This Agnes felt bitterly 
 and sorely — she who for so many years had never 
 recognised herself in any other character than that 
 of wife. From all this it will be seen that she was 
 sadly \dsionary, and^ indeed^, fantastic in her ideas ; 
 for even ]\Irs. Freke had not any serious objec- 
 tions^ though it made her impatient, as she said, 
 to see the wddow^s cap under the circumstances. 
 But the vicar's wife would have opened her eyes 
 in utter amazement had she suspected the high- 
 flown way in which Mrs. Trevelyan w^ould take 
 up a suspicion so natural; for, indeed, nobody 
 had any intention of being hard upon Agnes, 
 and Mr. Charlton had something of his own, 
 though his practice was no great things, and in 
 age and other particulars w^as suitable enough. 
 If there had been supposed to be anything wrong 
 or unseemly in it, Windholm would not have 
 made up its mind so speedily and so cheerfully. 
 But, to be sure, the opinions of Windholm, or
 
 Village Gossip. 127 
 
 even of Mrs. Freke, was not what Agnes took 
 into consideration. And slie was aslianied_, and 
 wounded^ and disgusted to the bottom of her 
 heart. 
 
 It woukl be vain to record all the thoughts 
 that^ under this new stimulus,, passed through 
 Mrs. Trevelyan^s mind; as far as she had any 
 egotism in her, it took this direction. She was 
 not an admirer of herself, but still there was no 
 point at which she could be wounded so keenly 
 as in that delicacy and modesty of a wife, which 
 is almost more susceptible than that of a girl. 
 In this new light she recollected the doubtful 
 look on her father^s face, and interpreted it 
 according to its true meaning. Stanfield, too, 
 had been suspicious of her, and this had made 
 his eyes shy of meeting hers, and given an em- 
 barrassed air to his face. She could not speak 
 to him about it — which would have been the best 
 thing to do — for her pride, which was consi- 
 derable, though she did not know it, prevented her 
 from talking to him, or any one, on such a subject. 
 It was necessary that he and all the world 
 should undeceive, as they had deceived them- 
 selves, without any action on her part. Agnes made 
 up her mind to hear nothing and see nothing, 
 which was a resolution which naturally led to 
 her hearing and seeing far more vividly than
 
 128 Agnes. 
 
 ever before^ and getting tlie benefit of all tlie 
 inuendoes, tbc jokes^ and playful observations 
 whicli bad been so utterly unproductive of any 
 effect up to tbis moment. It was tbis^ as we 
 have said^ tbat cbanged Mrs. Trevelyan so mucli 
 just at tbis crisis ; it made ber a little stiff and 
 distant as_, people said, she had never been before ; 
 it made her reserved and unsympathetic, so 
 far as tbat was possible ; and besides, it did 
 to some extent what Stanfield thought nothing 
 on earth could do — it made Agnes self- occupied, 
 and intent upon ber personal affairs to an incre- 
 dible degree. She would even put aside the suit 
 of '^ Trevelyan ^Tr5MsTrevelyan,''Ho attend to what 
 some gossip was saying. And the blacksmith 
 asked himself what was the secret of his 
 daughter's conduct, and did not like to answer. 
 All this mischief sprang fi'om the looks and 
 words of Mrs. Fox and her neighbours, who 
 Avere so kind as to take an interest in Agnes. 
 It was a small origin, no doubt, but then a 
 very little matter is enough to make a great deal 
 of disturbance ; and it is impossible to limit the 
 issues of any known word or action. It confused 
 her mind at a moment when she ought to have 
 had all her wits about her; it made her im- 
 patient and distrustful of her friends at the time 
 when she had most need to hold by them and
 
 Village Gossip. 129 
 
 their protection ; and finally^ it absorbed her in 
 what ivas at the best a kind of selfish anxiety, 
 when she ought to have been quite free to 
 mark and observe everything that was happening; 
 and thus it was that the piece of gossip which, 
 up to this moment^ had been circulating so 
 harmlessly in Windholm^ having taken shape and 
 form, began to help in the great designs of 
 existence, and to prepare what turned out to be 
 the hardest and most painful chapter of Mrs. 
 Trevel van's life. 
 
 VOL. III.
 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A Crisis. 
 
 HE suit of ^^ Trevelyau versus Tre- 
 velyan" dragged on for some time 
 after the interview wliicli Agnes 
 had Tvith the Chancellor — not that 
 there Tvas much to be done or said, but only 
 that, by dint of postponements and adjourn- 
 ments, it is always easy to lengthen out such a 
 process. And, naturally, in the meantime, it 
 was impossible for her to dismiss or avoid the 
 visits of Jack Charlton, who had more to do in 
 Windholm than ever. AVhen Agnes met him 
 again after that revelation, it was difficult for 
 her to preserve the air of unconscious friendli- 
 ness and ease which had once been so natural. 
 Perhaps Jack, who did not know of anything 
 having happened in the meantime, might not 
 perceive the difference, but Stanfield did vaguely, 
 and did not know what to make of it — whether 
 to believe that Agnes was yielding to the temp-
 
 A Crisis. 131 
 
 tation, Trliiclij after all^ it was^ most probably, 
 tlie best thing for ber happiness that she should 
 do, or Trhether she was going to preserve the 
 ideal perfection of which he was so jealous, and 
 keep the unity of her life unbroken. The black- 
 smith was not like the ordinary mass of fathers 
 and mothers. Had his daughter manied a second 
 time, it would have been not a happiness and 
 relief to him, but a fresh shock, which, no doubt, 
 his love could have got over, but which at the 
 same time would have been a desecration of his 
 idol. It was true that he had man-ied twice 
 himself, not by any means to his comfort or con- 
 solation ; but Agnes would have suffered in her 
 father^s estimation could he have imagined that 
 her happiness could be increased by becoming 
 the wife of Jack Charlton or of any man ; for he, 
 too, was high-flown, and it was from him, though 
 nobody knew it, that Mrs. Ti^evelyan took, on 
 that, and other subjects, those fanciful ways of 
 thinking which this history has set forth. 
 
 As for Agnes, her curiosity was to find out 
 whether, vrhen all the rest of the world had 
 concluded upon it as certain, such an idea 
 had ever entered Jack^s head, or whether he 
 was, like herself, the last to think of such 
 a conjunction. To be sure, she was only a 
 woman, after all, and perhaps a lingering 
 k2
 
 132 Agnes. 
 
 remnant of vanity in some corner of lier heart 
 would have been gratified had Jack shown 
 symptoms of weakness in this respect; though, 
 so far as she was aware_, all her anxiety was to 
 make sure that the suggestion was one of idle 
 gossip merely. But^ however that might be^ it 
 was impossible to make any change in her rela- 
 tions with him until after the suit was over_, and 
 a natural end should arrive to the business which 
 drew them so much together ; so that Windholm 
 still continued to talk — though by times some 
 gossiping neighbour^ in the height of a consulta- 
 tion on the subject^ would turn round and find Mrs. 
 Ti'evelyan^s eyes upon her, bright and kindled up 
 with an inexpressible defiance ; and that there vras 
 a certain disdain of other people^s opinions in 
 Agnes^s manners at that moment which had 
 never, so far as any of her critics were aware, 
 been seen in her before. She did not say any- 
 thing to anybody, but still the public became 
 aware of a certain awakening in her eye and de- 
 meanour which put the good people on their 
 guard. And as for Stanfield, he grew more and 
 more confused, and did not know what to make 
 of it. He was puzzled about Agnes, whose 
 meaning he did not divine, and he was compunc- 
 tious about Jack, to whom he could not wish a 
 lover^s reward for his trouble. It is true that.
 
 A Crisis. 133 
 
 by dint of thinking about it, and accustoming 
 himself to the idea, the report in the newspapers 
 and the '^'^ exposure''^ of the trial had ceased to 
 affect the mind of the blacksmith; but, as that 
 passed away, something more and more painful 
 had come in its place. Thus the time of the trial 
 seemed to Stanfield a crisis full of pain, and dis- 
 comfort, and anxiety — which, to be sure, he made 
 all the more of, as he did not know what was to 
 come. 
 
 But when the suit was finally decided, and the 
 Lord Chancellor had made that little speech 
 under which the blacksmith winced with pain, 
 yet reddened vdth pleasure and pride, matters 
 came to a crisis, as was natural. By this time 
 it was spring, and more than two years had 
 passed since Roger Trevelyan^s death, and Wind- 
 holm in general had got reconciled to jMr. 
 Charlton, and was chiefly occupied in discussing 
 the necessary arrangements, and where they were 
 to live, and what was to be done about the 
 children. Mrs. Freke^s opinion was that Stan- 
 field should settle what he had upon the little 
 girls, poor little things ! 
 
 '^ Mr. Charlton is not rich, but still he has 
 something,^' said the vicar's wife, " and of course 
 Walter must go to school. For my part, I can^t 
 see why his mother was so bigoted against letting
 
 1 34 Agnes, 
 
 Ms father's family have the charge of him ; for_, 
 of course, if there should be another family," 
 said [Mrs. Freke, with prudent prevision — which, 
 to be sure, was a contingency for which nobody 
 had thought of pro^dding. The blacksmith, too, 
 moved by the same sense that the crisis had 
 arrived, had grown very watchful and silent, 
 divided between fear and hope, and never quite 
 able to deliver himself from a certain tremor of 
 expectation when he saw his daughter coming to 
 him, or approached in his own person the house 
 on the Green. 
 
 This complication of events, though it was 
 Walter who had given rise to all the difficulties 
 of the situation, had somehow made Walter of 
 secondary importance, as a child naturally becomes 
 when the fate of older people seems to hang in the 
 balance. He was left more to himself, though 
 nobody was aware of it — he was less with his 
 grandfather, whose mind was harassed and pre- 
 occupied, and he was even less with his mother, 
 and when with her was not so much her com- 
 panion as of old ; for Agnes had thoughts in her 
 mind at that moment which it would have been 
 impossible for her to communicate to her child. 
 And perhaps it was this which made Walter take 
 so sudden a fancy for Mrs. Stanfield^s son, who 
 had come home just at this time, and had stories
 
 A Crisis » 135 
 
 of voyages and shipwrecks to tell wliicli cliarmecl 
 the boy. There Avas not anything to be said 
 against Tom^ so far as anybody knew, though he 
 had been the plague of the village when he w^as 
 a boy. Now that he had come home from sea, 
 with nothing particular against his character, the 
 just and charitable blacksmith could not refuse 
 to let him come to see his mother ; and it w^as 
 there, under Stanfield^s roof, that Walter first 
 saw the sailor, who did all he could to attract 
 his regard. If this had happened a little 
 earlier, Agnes would have withdrawn her son 
 from such equivocal society, and the blacksmith 
 himself would have interfered to prevent so un- 
 suitable a friendship ; but at the present moment 
 they were off their guard, and occupied with 
 another matter — far less important, no doubt, 
 than the interests of Walter, yet possessing a 
 certain fascination in its way. Stanfield had 
 nothing to say against Tom, w^hom he took into 
 his house without much hesitation, though he 
 had refused to receive the elder brother, Roger, 
 who had turned out badly, as everybody was aware. 
 The younger one was a little like his mother, 
 high-coloured and hasty ; but he was young and 
 a sailor, and a certain frankness and good- 
 humour softened down the resemblance. He was 
 very respectful to Stanfield, and even to his
 
 136 Agnes. 
 
 mother in Stanfield^s presence, wliicli was saying 
 a good deal ; for when there was no one there to 
 enforce a regard to observances, the sailor's filial 
 duty was a little at fault. But then, whatever 
 his character might be, it was under his grand- 
 father's roof that Walter made his acquaintance ; 
 and neither Stanfield nor ^Irs. Ti'evelyan ob- 
 served, as they would have done had their minds 
 been less absorbed, the attraction which the 
 sailor's company began to have for the boy. 
 
 Tom had been to India, to America, to China ; 
 he had seen " natives" of every possible kind, 
 and unknown animals, and tropical trees, and 
 desert islands ; and, what was perhaps still more 
 attractive, storms at sea, and at least one ship- 
 wreck. Perhaps Walter did not know that 
 something personal to herself was for the moment 
 withdrawing from him his mother's mind ; but, 
 without knowing what it was, the chances are 
 that he felt the consequences, and was vaguely 
 conscious of being left alone more than usual. 
 And then Tom was always complaisant — ready to 
 leave anything he might happen to be doing, and 
 to resume the story at the exact point where he 
 had left it off. So that insensibly, while Agnes's 
 thoughts were directed to another point — one 
 which, after all, depended entirely on her own 
 will, and involved no external danger — she began
 
 A Crisis. 137 
 
 to encounter a risk for wliicli she had made no 
 provision;, and which it had not even occiuTcd 
 to her to consider. Her fears were over so far 
 as Walter was concerned ; and after ha^-ing her 
 mind directed to her ovrn personal interests in a 
 manner so simple yet so startling, perhaps it was 
 excusable if, for the first time, Agnes experienced 
 in some degree the excitement of a personal 
 .crisis. At least, excusable or not, such at the 
 present moment was the state of affairs in the 
 house on the Green. 
 
 Things were in this condition when Jack 
 Charlton came down one ]\Iarch day to announce 
 the final victory. The Chancellor had made a 
 little statement, which all the world read in the 
 Times, as Stanfield had ckeaded, about Mrs. 
 Trevelyan and her family. But, after all, the 
 blacksmith found that this publicity had made 
 wonderfully little difference in the general aspect 
 of the world, and that the effect upon himself, 
 and even upon Agnes, was not so startling as he 
 had expected. What his lordship said was simply 
 that he had seen the parties to the suit on both 
 sides, and had carefully considered all the evi- 
 dence that had been laid before him ; that so far 
 from finding anything against the character of 
 ]\Irs. Trevelyan's relations, he found that her 
 father had the very highest reputation in his
 
 138 Agnes, 
 
 neiglibourlioocl^ and that the family was much 
 respected ; and accordingly^ that he saw no occa- 
 sion to supersede the guardianship of the mother, 
 who seemed to him perfectly qualified to have 
 charge of her child. Circumstances might arise 
 to alter the case^, Lord Norbury added, no doubt 
 with a recollection of the youthful looks of 
 Walter^s mother ; but at present he saw no reason 
 for interfering. All this was printed among other, 
 perfectly uninteresting particulars, in that corner 
 of the Times which records the mysterious doings 
 in Chancery ; and, except the Windholm folks, 
 few people were much the wiser. Jack Charlton 
 came doAvn triumphant with this news, to make 
 Agnes aware of the utter discomfiture of her 
 adversaries, who had all the costs to pay and all 
 the scorn to bear. " Sir Roger lost his temper, 
 poor man,^'' said Jack. " It is a thing he can 
 scarcely be said to possess at any time. But I 
 hope he comdnced the Court that he was qualified 
 to be a child^s guardian ; and now I have nothing 
 to do but congi'atulate you, I suppose,''"' he added, 
 with a sigh. He did not look at Agnes, or he 
 might have seen the colour rising in spite of her- 
 self on her face ; wliich was a very fortunate cir- 
 cumstance, since, had he but lifted his eyes and 
 seen that consciousness, it is possible that Jack 
 might have betrayed himself, and that at such
 
 A Crisis. 139 
 
 a moment of emotion sometliing traitorous in 
 Agnes''s heart might hare responded ; and there is 
 no kno^ng what might have come of it; bnt_, 
 by good fortune^ Jack Charlton did not lift his 
 eyes. He sighed_, but he only fixed his gaze upon 
 his hat^ and there Tvas no inspiration in that. 
 " I am very glad it is well orer^ for your sake/^ 
 said Jack^ with a little cough^ which followed 
 close upon the heels of the sigh ; " but I can^t 
 say I am much exhilarated on my own account. 
 Fm a lazy fellow^ Heaven knows ; but when one 
 
 has an object It has been reiy pleasant/^ 
 
 said Mr. Charlton^ in an inconsequent way ; and 
 then again he fell to looking at his hat^ as if it 
 had suddenly struck him that the shape was not 
 exactly what it ought to be ; and again gave forth 
 from the depths of his breast a kind of strangled 
 sigh. 
 
 " You have been very kind/' said Agnes. '"'' I 
 don't know how I can ever thank you. If we 
 had not had so kind an advocate^ things would 
 not have gone so well with us. To say how 
 obliged and thankful I am is impossible ■" 
 
 "Yes/' said Jack, with an uneasy move- 
 ment ; " I wish you would not say it. I am an 
 odd sort of fellow in that way — I can fancy a 
 beggar is obliged to me when I give him six- 
 pence ; but I hate obligation. One never cares
 
 140 Agnes, 
 
 to have anytliing that anotlier is obliged to 
 give." 
 
 '' It was not in that sense I spoke/"* said 
 Agnes_, who Avas a little wounded^ and yet did 
 not know what to say_, or how to say anything 
 that might not^ so critical as the circumstances 
 were, change the face of affairs. 
 
 " No/^ said Jack, " I am sure you did not 
 mean anything that was not kind and good; 
 hut I seem to have lost my temper as well as Sir 
 Roger, I think. By Jove, how the old fellow 
 blasphemed ! One good thing in us is certainly, 
 that we don^t indulge in bad language as our 
 fathers did ; not that I am one of the peoj^le who 
 think there is much good in us," said Jack, 
 giving up his hat. " On the whole, I do not 
 know a poorer set of snobs ;" and again her suc- 
 cessful champion uttered a sigh and walked to the 
 window, and all but turned his back on Agnes. 
 Perhaps, when he had adopted that position, he 
 found it more easy to speak, under guard, as it 
 were, of the external world; for, to be sure, a 
 man who sees nothing except the woman whom 
 he admires greatly and feels the deepest interest 
 in, and the four walls of an apartment altogether 
 pervaded by the sentiment of her presence, is na- 
 turally in a position more dangerous than he 
 whose eyes, at least, have the safeguard of the
 
 A Crisis. 141 
 
 common universe out of cloors^ and all the things 
 in it that run counter to the indulgence of his 
 feelings. Standing there^ Jack felt himself more 
 able to speak. 
 
 '' I am very glad for your sake/^ he said. " I 
 can't say I ever had much fear after the Chan- 
 cellor saw you, you know; but I thought with 
 your father it might have been disagreeable. And 
 then it's pleasant to win the battle ; but yet I 
 don't know; that's all on your account, and a 
 man is selfish sometimes. It is a bore to be done 
 with a thing one has taken an interest in. After 
 all, there are so few things one cares about ; and 
 then, you know ; I've got into the habit of coming 
 down to Windholm. I hope you'll let me come 
 sometimes and talk over my affiiirs now that 
 yours are done with. An end is about as great 
 a bore as a beginning," said Jack, with a certain 
 oracular vagueness ; but he was not amused to 
 speak of even by his own absurdity, and stood at 
 the window with his profile turned to Agnes, re- 
 garding her with a corner of his eye, and feeling 
 a little anxious about her answer. He was a very 
 good fellow, and his feelings were very true 
 feelings in their way; and there was no saying 
 what he might not have said had she wanted him 
 to say anything, or lent him a helping hand. 
 But then_, Agnes did neither one thing nor the
 
 142 Agnes. 
 
 other,, and lie was not the man to take a ro- 
 mantic plnnge regardless of consequences; but 
 the situation T^'as critical^, perhaps more critical 
 than either of them perceived. 
 
 '^ Indeed, I hope you will come to see us/' 
 said Agnes, who was almost more relieved by- 
 Jack's change of position than he was himself — 
 " I hope you will always let Walter remember 
 that you were his father's friend. I think/' 
 said Mrs. Ti'cvelyan, after a pause, with a certain 
 unconscious hypocrisy, " that I feel your kind- 
 ness all the more because it is for Roger's 
 sake." 
 
 Jack did not make any answer; he made, on 
 the contrary, a kind of deprecating movement 
 with his hand, and gave a slight start as this 
 allusion — which was very sudden, and, as he 
 thought, imcalled-for — fell upon his ear. As for 
 Agnes, when she had found this golden vein, she 
 fell upon it eagerly, as was to be expected, and 
 worked her idea out. 
 
 " Perhaps you do not know — I hope you will 
 never know," she said, with a certain mixture of 
 superiority and humbleness — ^' what it is to feel 
 that the person most dear to you in the world 
 has left the world without showing fully what 
 was in him ; that he has, perhaps, left something 
 behind him that might bring a shadow on his
 
 A Crisis. 143 
 
 memoiy. Mr. Charlton^ it is far more to me 
 tlian anything you could have done for my- 
 self. What you have done has set my husband^s 
 name above reproach. I thank you most of all 
 that it is for Roger^s sake.^^ 
 
 What could Jack Charlton say ? He knew it 
 was not for Roger^s sake^ and so perhaps did 
 she^ even when, with tears in her eyes, she 
 looked him in the face, and set her dead husband 
 thus between them. It was, at the bottom, could 
 any one have searched into it, a kind of deceit 
 and hypocrisy which Agnes practised to put far 
 from her the possibility of that new life which 
 all Windholm had settled upon as a thing cer- 
 tain and evident. She looked him in the face, 
 even in the eyes, with that gaze which has a 
 purpose in it ; and yet perhaps at the moment 
 she spoke, and at the moment when her look 
 was the most full and steady, her heart was 
 trembling more than it had ever trembled before. 
 Perhaps she was nearer being unfaithful to 
 Roger, unfaithful to what she considered her 
 trust and the occupation of her life — the guar- 
 dianship of her children — at that moment than 
 at any other point in her history. But, fortu- 
 nately for them both, Jack Charlton had not 
 eyes to see underneath the surface any more 
 than Roger himself would have had; and he
 
 144 Agnes. 
 
 accepted her look and what she said^ and the 
 moisture which made her eyes so soft and so 
 deep, as exponents of a heart which was not to 
 be touched by any second affection. To be 
 sure, he had not come with the intention of 
 making any declaration, or committing himself 
 in any way; but Jack, who knew no better, 
 could not help feeling a pang in his heart — a 
 pang of mortification and disappointment, when 
 he met the gaze of those dewy eyes. 
 
 " It is nothing,^^ he said, confused and down- 
 cast. " I hope you will always think of me as 
 a friend — always as a friend^^ — and Jack was 
 glad and angry at the same moment to see 
 Stanfield coming in to terminate the interview. 
 There was a certain despair and despondency in 
 it, but yet there was a certain sweetness ; and 
 when her father^s A'oice was audible at the door, 
 and Agnes^s w^atch upon herself relaxed a little. 
 Jack Charlton felt again a momentary doubt 
 whether she, too, was not aware in her heart of 
 the sweetness and the despair. But at that 
 moment Stanfield came in, and the ordinary 
 world opened upon them both, and the crisis 
 was over. Agnes did not inten-ogate her own 
 feelings after her counsellor was gone. It was 
 fortunately not a habit of hers, and at this 
 moment it would have been more than usually
 
 A Crisis. 145 
 
 difficult; but someliow she felt a strange fatigue 
 of body and mind all tbe day after. Slie was 
 tired without knowing how^ as if she had been 
 making some great physical exertion. The 
 strength seemed to fail out of her aU at once_, as 
 if by some treachery. She said to herself that it 
 was the reaction after her long anxiety, and that 
 now, when her mind was quite easy about 
 Walter, it was not wonderful that the strain 
 should tell upon her. But, to tell the truth, she 
 had always had a great confidence in her own 
 rights, and the strain of anxiety had not been so 
 great as she supposed. She had very steady 
 and Yciy vivid conceptions of her duty, and was 
 not likely to fail of canying out what appeared 
 to her the right thing to do; but yet, at the 
 bottom of her heart, she was simply a woman 
 like other women, subject to the same infinnities; 
 and perhaps that was the true reason why, on 
 this March afternoon, though it was so pleasant 
 out of doors, Mrs. Trevelyan felt tired, and was 
 pleased when the evening set in, and she could 
 draw the curtains and light the lamp. She 
 almost forgot to send for Walter at the hour 
 when he ought to have been at home, and had 
 to be reminded by Madelon, and felt a little 
 vexed and annoyed with herself ; but when one 
 is veiy tu'ed, one may be pardoned for a 
 
 VOL. III. L
 
 146 Agnes. 
 
 momentary forgetfulness ; and on tlie whole 
 there could be no doubt that she had " gone 
 through" a good deal that day — and it was not 
 necessary to explain to herself the nature of 
 those experiences which she had gone through. 
 It was enough that they were over now.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Tom. 
 
 iHEN Walter came in, lie was full 
 of Tom^s adventures, and all tlie 
 strange sights liis new friend had 
 seen, and forgot to be penitent for 
 forgetting to come home at the proper time — a 
 sin which Agnes, on her part, forgot to reprove. 
 Mi*s. Trevelyan, to tell the truth, was languid 
 and silent. She heard what her boy said, and 
 she gave him a smile and a monosyllable now 
 and then ; but she had not yet got out of the 
 shadow of her own thoughts, and she was not 
 capable at the present moment of giving the 
 large and ready sym]3athy which a mother can 
 sometimes bestow. To live that vicarious life 
 which is called living in one^s children, it is 
 necessary to avoid all ^^crsonal crises, and those 
 moments of individual existence which will arise 
 by times, even in the mind of a woman, before 
 age has calmed everj'thing down. She listened and 
 L 2
 
 148 Agnes. 
 
 smiled upon Walter^ and received a vague im- 
 pression that tlie boy had been amused and 
 pleased — an impression wliicli gave lier a certain 
 feeling of benevolence towards Tom, who thus 
 took in hand to amuse the child at a moment 
 when she herself had, to some degree, lost the 
 power of occupying herself with him; but, at 
 the same time, Agnes responded but faintly, and 
 was not sorry when Madelon appeared at the 
 door to summon Walter to bed. But he was ten 
 years old now — old enough to understand that 
 something had happened; and perhaps in her 
 heart Mrs. Trevelyan felt that there was some- 
 thing to be explained in her own demeanour ; 
 though Walter, for his part, was a great deal too 
 much occupied with Tom^s stories to be aware of 
 any difference in his mother^s looks. 
 
 ^^ Walter, I want to speak to you,^' said Mrs. 
 Trevelyan; "forget Tom for a moment. You 
 have heard about the lawsuit with your grand- 
 father. Sir Roger? It is over now; I want to 
 tell you about it : you are to stay with me '^ 
 
 "Yes," said Walter; "but then it does not 
 matter, for I never would have left you, mamma ; 
 though I should like to have a yacht when we 
 are rich, if you will not let me be a sailor. I 
 should like best of all to be a sailor; but I 
 suppose that would not please you. Tom says/'
 
 Tom. 149 
 
 the boy added, after a moment^s pause, " tliat 
 Trevelyan is near the sea." 
 
 " AVhat does Tom know about Trevelyan?" 
 said Agnes, hastily. 
 
 " Oh, only that he has been in ConiTrall," 
 said AValter. "When Sir Eoger dies, and we 
 are lining there " 
 
 " Walter," cried his mother, " you must not 
 sj)eak of what may happen when Sir Eoger dies. 
 I do not like you even to think of that. Sir 
 Roger has not been very kind to me, but he is 
 your gi'andfather, and I hope he will not die. 
 He is not going to take you from me now. The 
 Lord Chancellor has seen him, and settled every- 
 thing^" — which was 3Irs. Ti'evelyan^s feminine 
 interpretation of Lord Xorbury's decision — " and 
 I am veiy glad he should have Trevelyan so 
 long as I have you." 
 
 " Yes," said Walter, "with the calm confidence 
 of his age ; " but then I never would have left 
 you, mamma. I am sm-e I don^t want grandpapa 
 to die. Tom says he is very jolly; and then 
 Trevelyan is near the sea." 
 
 " Does Tom know Sir Roger ?" asked Agnes, 
 more and more surprised. 
 
 " Oh, he has seen him, he says ; and ]\Irs. 
 Stanfield knows him too," said Walter. " They 
 say we could have a yacht there, and Tom
 
 150 Agnes. 
 
 would be captain, you know. Fd like to sail 
 away into the Mediterranean, and take you to 
 Sorrento, and Baden-Baden, and all those places 
 where we used to be. I wonder if Giovanni 
 would know me now. I\l like to have him for 
 my servant, if I had a servant. But, mamma, 
 there can be nothing so jolly as to have a yacht, 
 and go everywhere, wherever one wants to go." 
 
 " Not to Baden exactly," said Mrs. Trevelyan. 
 " But, Walter, I don't like you to talk to Mrs. 
 Stanfield and Tom about your relations; they 
 are a different kind of people, you know. "\^Tien 
 you have anything to say about Sir Roger, say 
 it to me." 
 
 " But then, Mrs. Stanfield knows him," said 
 Walter ; " and it is they who speak to me about 
 him. Oh, I forgot, they said I was not to tell 
 you; but I would not promise. They say a 
 fellow should not be always telling everything 
 to his mamma, like a baby. But then, about 
 the yacht ?" 
 
 "What was it they said you were not to tell 
 me ?" said Agnes, growing a little pale. A vrord 
 or two more would have roused her out of her 
 languor, and awoke her to an anxiety graver 
 and more painful than her former anxieties ; but 
 then Walter Avas only a child, and had all a 
 child's vagueness as to particulars ; the yacht was-
 
 Tom, 15i 
 
 so mucli more interesting to Mm. than anytliing 
 about Sir Roger — and then it had never occurred 
 to him that there was any importance in what 
 they said. 
 
 " Oh, I don't recoUect/' said the boy. " Tom 
 said grandpapa was a jolly old fellow. I did 
 not pay so much attention to that. But there's 
 a bay down there_, where the yacht could lie 
 quite safe_, even in a storm ; and then_, you know, 
 it would be such a jolly place to start from. 
 Tom says— — " 
 
 " Walter/' said Agnes, " I do not like you to 
 talk to Tom of your grandpapa, or of Trevelyan. 
 Remember, another time ; and as for yachts, 
 you know, you must wait till you are a man, and 
 you may change your mind before then. Now, 
 mind you don't talk to Tom or Mrs. Stanfield 
 about the Trevelyans ; and look, Madelon is 
 waiting for you. Good-night !" 
 
 " Yes," said Walter j ^^ but it is they who talk 
 to me of the Trevelyans ; and then I don't care 
 much for the Trevelyans. It is the yacht I was 
 thinldng of; no fear of my changing my mind. 
 It is not as if I was a child, and did not know 
 what I was talking of. I have not quite fixed 
 the name yet — whether to call it after you and 
 Agnes, or the Bee after baby — that would be 
 most fun ; but then, St. Agnes with the lamb.
 
 152 Agnes. 
 
 like the Madonna^ on the Sorrento boats ^'said 
 
 the boy, upon Trhom the recollections of his in- 
 fancy had still some visionary power ; and he was 
 still considering the snbject when Madelon made 
 her appearance, arbitrary, and not to be put off 
 any longer. When Walter went away he left his 
 mother all but roused into a panic. If there had 
 been nothing in her mind to preoccupy her 
 thoughts, she would have taken fright and made 
 some immediate effort to secure Walter from 
 the possible influence of her stepmother and her 
 son ; for Mrs. Stanfield had been for a long time 
 an object of suspicion to Agnes, who felt, without 
 asking herself how, that her father^s wife was 
 her enemy, and would injiu'e her if she could. 
 But then, the languor of her fatigue and her 
 preoccupation, and sense of the crisis she had 
 " come through,^^ was still upon Agnes, and 
 dimmed her energies. Instead of doing or re- 
 sohdng upon anything, she only considered the 
 matter and thought it over, and ended by per- 
 suading herself that there was nothing in it — 
 what could there be in it? Mrs. Stanfield had 
 seized the opportunity of talking to Walter of 
 anything that might be supposed likely to thwart 
 and cross his mother; and Tom very likely had 
 actually been in Cornwall and had seen Tre- 
 velyan, and, perhaps. Sir Koger ; and, after all, it
 
 Tom. 153 
 
 Tvas not Sir Roger or Trevelyan of -^liorn tlie boy 
 was thinkings but of tlie yacht^ wliicli was a 
 boyish fancy ;, natural enough. 
 
 With this thought^ ]\Irs. Trevelyan let the mat- 
 ter glide out of her mind^ with a half smile at her 
 stepmother's spiteful endeavours to disturb Wal- 
 ter''s imagination, and a pleased consciousness of 
 the innocence^ which remained unaware even of 
 such an attempt. The whole world might do what 
 it pleased, but to seduce her boy's heart from her, 
 or even introduce into his mind the idea that he 
 could be detached from his mother, was simply 
 impossible. And this being the case, Agnes fol- 
 lowed her child upstairs, and kissed his fair 
 candid face on the pillow when he was just 
 dropping to sleep. The little fellow half opened 
 his sleepy eyes with a drowsy smile in them, as 
 his mother's kiss touched him. He was aware 
 of nothing but love and security, and that sense 
 of perfect, all- surrounding guardianship which is 
 happiness to a child ; and he was fast asleep and 
 lost even to that felicity before she left the room. 
 Agnes went downstairs with that lull at her heart, 
 and sentiment of consolation and safety which a 
 mother experiences when she sees her children 
 safe and asleep ; and without knowing it, fell to 
 thinking again of her own affairs — not of Walter ; 
 he was safe and beyond the reach of any danger
 
 154 Agnes. 
 
 and tliougli she felt herself old in some parti- 
 culars_, still slie was not old^ and life stiiTed in 
 her against lier will. She suffered this conver- 
 sation to fall out of her mind^ and went back^ 
 without intending it or wishing it, to the more 
 exciting interview of the morning. She had 
 no desire to begin life again on her own 
 account. Had the question been put to her 
 she would have answered, and answered with 
 truth, that to live in her children w^as all that 
 remained to her and all that she wished for; but 
 then, a woman who lives only for her children 
 must take unceasing care not to involve herself 
 in the affairs of other people who are alive on their 
 own account. And that is so hard to do in this 
 world. Thus it was that Agnes was not fore- 
 armed, as she ought to have been, by the warning 
 conveyed to her, and free of anxiety about the 
 children, found herself left at a perilous liberty 
 to occupy her thoughts with herself. 
 
 Nevertheless, when she thought of it next 
 morning, it occuiTcd to her that it was her duty 
 to stop this talk about the Trevelyans, if that was 
 practicable. The only thing to be done was, if 
 possible, to induce Mrs. Stanfield, or at least her 
 son, to give up speaking of Sir Roger ; for Agnes 
 did not like to forbid her boy's visits to his 
 grandfather's house. She might have taken such
 
 Tom, 155 
 
 a step if she had been sufficiently alarmed^ or she 
 might even have made use of her father's au- 
 thority ; but then her fears were very trifling, and 
 it was more a sense of unfitness in the interlo- 
 cutors than any alarm for the result of the con- 
 versation that moved her. She waved her hand 
 to her father as she passed through the archway 
 and went on up the outer stairs, a little to his 
 surprise ; but still it was not an unprecedented 
 step, for Mrs. Trevelyan thought it necessary to be 
 civil to her father's wife. Mrs. Stanfield was in 
 the parlour in the heat of a discussion with her 
 son, which Agnes interrupted at a delicate mo- 
 ment. They were both redder than usual, flushed 
 with contention and disagreement, and the red 
 March sun which was coming in, in a flood of 
 level light from behind the Cedars — for it was 
 late in the afternoon, and the sun was near 
 setting — gave a last tint of fiery colour to the 
 scene. As for Tom, he was not only red but 
 sullen, lowering with resistance, and repugnance 
 to something which was being urged upon him. 
 When Agnes entered the room the mother and 
 son came to a sudden confused pause, and looked 
 at her as two thieves might have looked at a man 
 they were conspiring to waylay ; and then Mrs. 
 Stanfield got up with a civility unusual to her. 
 " It ain't often as I see you in this house,'' she
 
 156 Agnes, 
 
 said^ offering lier visitor a chair. " I^^e been a- 
 talking to Tom about — about his going away ; 
 I ain^t one to put upon the master,, and to ask him 
 to keep a man in his house, and him not his 
 own flesh and blood " 
 
 Here Tom growled something inaudible to 
 Agnes, which made his mother turn sharply 
 round upon him. " You can^t deny as I said 
 so, you good-for-nothing !" she said. " You ain^t 
 a drop^s blood to him, though I^m your mother ; 
 I don^t say as I^m always the best of friends 
 with Agnes — but she's his own child, and she's 
 got a right to his house."' 
 
 " Hush, please," said Mrs. Trevelyan ; ^^ I am 
 sure my father has — no objection — to your son 
 being with you ; it would be unnatural if he 
 had. I want to speak to you about my boy for 
 a few minutes, if you will let me. I want to ask 
 you a favour. It is not of any particular import- 
 ance, but still it would be a kindness to me." 
 
 Mrs. Stanfield grew suddenly still at these 
 words; she cast a stealthy glance at her son as 
 if calling his attention, and then composed her- 
 self with an unnatural quietness to listen. The 
 crisis evidently seemed to her so extraordinary, 
 that for the moment she showed herself superior 
 to all her ordinary rules. " It ain't what I ever 
 expected to hear, as I was one as could do Agnes
 
 Tom, 1 
 
 oi 
 
 Stanfield a kindness/^ she said,, with that pause 
 in the midst of her excitement which showed 
 at once how surprised and how watchful she 
 was. As for Agnes, she looked at her step- 
 mother with a certain sense that it was a tiger 
 ready for a spring that was crouching before her. 
 To be sure, the image is not a new one ; but Mrs. 
 Stanfield had placed her plump pink hands on 
 her knees, as if they were the treacherous A^elvet 
 paws upon which she was resting in her mo- 
 mentary quiescence. 
 
 " It is only to ask you if you would have the 
 goodness not to speak to \Y alter of the Tre- 
 velyans/^ said Agnes, in her simplicity — " nor 
 you," she added, turning her eyes upon Tom. 
 '' I am sure you mean no liarm, and it is of very 
 little importance; but still, if you would be so 
 
 good '^ She stopped, for Mrs. Stanfield' s 
 
 eyes were shining with a kind of savage pleasure 
 which it was impossible to explain; and as for 
 Tom, he stamped his foot on the floor as if to 
 call his mother to herself. 
 
 ''Oh no,'*' said Mrs. Stanfield, "we don't 
 mean no harm, and it ain't of no consequence, to 
 speak of. He told you as we was talking of Sir 
 Roger? See what it is to have a child well 
 trained. Mine don't have no such confidence 
 in me "
 
 158 Agnes. 
 
 " Hold your tongue/^ cried Tom^ hastily — and 
 he looked at Agnes with a significance which 
 she could not explain to herself. "What she 
 imagined was that she had come in, in the midst 
 of a qnarrel between them, and that it was at 
 Tom, and not herself, that her stepmother 
 spoke. 
 
 " Oh yes, FU hold my tongue/^ said Mrs. 
 Stanfield — "Fm one as has always a desu-e to 
 please when I^m took the right way. Yon 
 havenH been not to say kind to me, Agnes Stan- 
 field j but Fm one as likes to give back good for 
 evil. Fll give you my word and promise 1^11 not 
 say another word about Sir Roger to your boy. 1^11 
 never name his name no more — if I see Walter ; 
 and I keeps my word when I gives it," she said, 
 with a look of subdued enjoyment very extra- 
 ordinary to see ; and then she glanced round at 
 her son and said, '^ Tom, don't be a fool," with 
 a wonderful red gleam of her fiery eyes. Agnes 
 thought the quarrel was recommencing, and she 
 rose to go away. 
 
 " I am much obliged to you," she said ; " I 
 will not interrupt your conversation any longer," 
 and Agnes left the room with a little courteous 
 salutation to Tom, who was good to Walter, and 
 had never harmed anybody, so far as she knew. 
 But when Agnes had left the forge behind her,
 
 Tom. 159 
 
 and was walking home tlirougli the ^dllage street 
 speculating with a little wonder upon the re- 
 ception she had met with_, and Mrs. Stanfield^s 
 ready promise^ she was profoundly astonished to 
 see Tom a few steps behind,, evidently hastening 
 to join her. Mrs. Trevelyan paused till he came 
 upj with, perhaps, a little of the air of a superior 
 awaiting a message. She was quite friendly, and 
 showed no symptoms of being ashamed to be 
 accosted by him in sight of all the village ; but 
 at the same time she waited with her great lady 
 look, which she could put on on occasion, to 
 know his reason for coming after her, and hear 
 what he had to say. 
 
 '^ Did you want to speak to me T' Agnes said, 
 perhaps a little graciously, as he approached ; 
 but Tom did not show any intention of standing 
 still and delivering his message, and being 
 done with it ; on the contrary, he came up 
 Avitli the evident intention of going on by her 
 side. 
 
 " Yes, but I will not keep you waiting,^-' said 
 Tom. ^'^ I will walk with you a bit;^^ and 
 Agnes, who was taken by surprise, went on 
 without knowing it. It was a conjunction which 
 would have wounded Stanfield deeply had he 
 seen it, though he admitted his wife^s son be- 
 neath his roof; but then, that Tom should con-
 
 160 Agnes. 
 
 sider himself Agnes^s equal liad never entered 
 into the blacksmith^s thoughts. 
 
 '^ Yes, I want to speak to you/^ said Tom, 
 ^' V\Q been looking for a chance, and IVe never 
 been able to get one. We're kind of relations, 
 and I donH see why we shonldn^t be friends. 
 Look here, Mrs. Trevelyan, if I was to tell yon 
 something as would be for your good '^ 
 
 Agnes did not take any notice of this con- 
 cluding sentence ; she only turned her eyes 
 upon him when he spoke of being friends, and 
 smiled a little, and said, " I am sure, if I can do 
 
 anything for you '' for it never occurred to 
 
 her that what he wanted was to do something 
 for her. 
 
 " Hang it, I don^t want you to do nothing for 
 nie,^' said Tom, abruptly, " except be friendly if 
 you like ; — that ain't what I'm a-talking of. Fve 
 always had a kind of a sneaking regard for you, 
 Agnes ; we ain't brother and sister, you know, 
 and I suppose you'd turn up your nose at a 
 rough fellow like me, though you're sweet 
 enough to a snob like that Charlton; but you 
 might be a little friendly all the same," said the 
 sailor, looking at her always with the look of a 
 man who knew something about her more than 
 she herself knew. As for Agnes, she was stupe- 
 fied with amazement and disgust. It seemed to
 
 Tom. 161 
 
 lier sometliing incredible, wMcli slie could neither 
 realize nor believe in ; and vet tliere lie was, with 
 his familiar looks, walking, full in the sight of 
 all Windholm, by her side. 
 
 " You must have forgotten vonrself,^^ she 
 said ; " I am entirely at a loss as to Avhat you 
 mean. I can only think you must have mis- 
 taken me for some one else. Good evening V 
 said Agnes, -with an attempt to leave him ; but 
 Tom was e\idently prepared for that. 
 
 ^' By George, I ain^t the fellow to make mis- 
 takes,''^ said Tom. '' I don^t know nobody in 
 AYindholm a bit like you; and I can just tell you. 
 it ain^t to your advantage to be proud. Suppose 
 you was Roger^s wife " 
 
 " How dare you speak so Y' cried Agnes, 
 flaming into sndden indignation ; " how dare you 
 name ]Mr. Trevelyan so ? He, at all events, was 
 unconnected with yon." 
 
 Tom laughed. 
 
 '■^You'll find out as I ain^t so far off as you 
 think," he said. " Vm Walter^s uncle, I am ; — 
 come now, be a little bit friendly. I could tell 
 you a deal, if I liked — and I could stand your 
 friend " 
 
 " Silence^ sir !" cried Agnes ; " you have no 
 right to speak to me in such a tone — nor to 
 claim any relationship with my son. I will 
 
 VOL. HI. M
 
 162 Agnes. 
 
 speak to my father if you say another ^rord ; he 
 is very good^ but he T^•ill not keep any one in his 
 house to insult his daughter. Be silent, sir, and 
 do not venture to follow me farther!" This she said 
 with a haughtiness which she could not restrain — 
 for naturally it seemed to her that it was through 
 herself, who had already suffered enough from 
 her father's weakness, that this low fellow claimed 
 a connexion with her husband and her son. 
 
 ^^ I advise you to think it over again afore you 
 send me away," said Tom, insolently; and then 
 he lowered his voice, and his tone softened : 
 '^ Fd be a friend to you if you^d let me, Agnes," 
 he said ; '^ I would, upon my honour ; and I can 
 stand your friend, though you donH think it — if 
 you'd only be a little friendly to me." 
 
 Agnes was so angry that the power of speech 
 seemed to forsake her in her emergency. She 
 went on with hurrying nervous steps, and closed 
 her own gate upon him with hands which were 
 perfectly steadfast in their purpose, though they 
 trembled a little. She looked Tom in the face, 
 and shut the gate upon him with a force of 
 disdain under which he shrank dismayed. 
 
 ^^ Good evening !" she said, with clear and 
 cold distinctness, which made the words sound 
 like two stones falling through the still air of the 
 declining day. As for Tom, all this happened
 
 Tom, 163 
 
 so abruptly that he stopped short on the very 
 threshold,, and had to di*aw back a step to avoid 
 the s"sveep of the gate as it closed. He made 
 some furious exclamation, of "which Agnes took 
 no notice, and kept standing there, watching, 
 while, with her heart throbbing and swelling, she 
 went into the house. Indignation and anger, 
 and a sense of humiliation, overwhelmed all her 
 other sentiments as she went in at the open door ; 
 and then a smile came over her face at the 
 utter folly of the whole business. It was so 
 absiu'd that it seemed to her to make her very 
 displeasure ridiculous, as she thought it over. 
 He would stand her friend ! It was like offering 
 her his protection — she, who was under the pro- 
 tection of the sacred laws of earth and guar- 
 dianship of heaven ! — and after awhile she began 
 to smile at the ridiculous presumption. But as 
 for Tom, the sailor, he went away without any 
 smile, and with a furious determination in his 
 heart. 
 
 M 2
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 The Trevelyans^ Revenge. 
 
 HIS unexpected scene had naturally 
 a considerable inflnence on Mrs. 
 Trevelyan; but stilly when she 
 had calmed down a little^ and 
 found herself safe in the secui'e shelter of 
 her home, where nobody could disturb or 
 molest her, the effect passed away from her 
 mind. Now that Sir Eoger Trevelyan had been 
 proved harmless, what could any one else do ? 
 And it was just at this moment that she dis- 
 covered a letter lying upon her writing-table. It 
 was a letter from Jack Charlton. She had not 
 been in the habit of getting letters from him, and 
 the sight of it made her heart beat a little faster 
 in spite of herself. Perhaps even her first im- 
 pulse was annoyance, as of something importu- 
 nate reopening a matter which was of necessity 
 of a disturbing and unsettling character, and 
 which she had imagined herself to have con-
 
 The Trevelyans' Revenge, 165 
 
 eluded. The object of tlie letter was ostensibly 
 to convey to lier some little bits of information 
 which Jack had, as he said, forgotten ; but it was 
 in reality inspired by a very different sentiment 
 from that of business. It was one of those letters 
 which are interesting to women, even by means 
 of the very deficiencies which would make them 
 aimless and foolish to a man. It was a letter which 
 expressed everything or nothing, very much ac- 
 cording to the inclination of the person who 
 received it. Jack could not conceal the attrac- 
 tion he felt towards Windholm, the pleasure he 
 had in Mrs. Ti-CA'clyan's society, the subtle sense 
 of sympathy and accord which he felt to exist 
 between them; and yet he was not a man 
 to make a fool of himself by an unadvised 
 " offer" to his friend's widow, or to run the 
 risk of burdening himself with another man's 
 family, and marrying (which was, perhaps, worst 
 of all) a blacksmith's daughter, without even 
 any certainty that his self-abnegation would be 
 appreciated or his offer accepted. But, at the 
 same time, he could not give her up. He had 
 seen a great many women in his day, but he had 
 never happened to encounter any one quite like 
 Agnes; and he had a sense of blossoming out 
 and looking his very best in her presence, which 
 was very gratifying. He took accordingly the
 
 166 Agnes, 
 
 only middle co iirse that remained to him between 
 the two extremes, and adopted that which per- 
 haps awakens a more fine and subtle emotion, 
 and certainly is the origin of more refined and 
 charming letter- writing, than either happy love 
 or despair. There are cases even, in which a 
 love-letter itself has less attraction than one of 
 those letters which skirt the borders of love, and 
 imply everything to a mind that is open to re- 
 ceive the implication; without committing the 
 writer, if his correspondent is of slow apprehen- 
 sion or is unwilling to understand. 
 
 To be sure, it is a kind of correspondence 
 which, judged by a practical standard, every man 
 must feel himself at liberty to despise. But 
 then such letters are not addressed to men, but 
 to women ; and women are apt to find a charm 
 in them, almost greater, as we have said, than 
 that of the love-letter proper. Such was the epistle 
 which Agnes received, to refresh her mind after 
 her conversation with Mrs. Stanfield and Tom. 
 No doubt it might have meant love, and mar- 
 riage, and a new life, if Mrs. Trevelyan had 
 been of that way of thinking ; but, at the same 
 time, it meant friendshij), the ^dsionary amity so 
 dear to fanciful souls — a tender and delicate 
 alliance of mind and thought, very sweet in 
 itself, and not of necessity leading to anything.
 
 The Trevehjans* Revenge. 167 
 
 if she Avere so minded. To write sucli letters is 
 a fashion of the age^, in which people are so free 
 in correspondence ; but it was the beginning of 
 Agnes^s experience in that way^ and it had a con- 
 siderable effect upon her. She was only a very 
 little startled, and she was a good deal moved; 
 it brought all Jack^s goodness and kindness 
 before her under a sudden warm light of regard 
 and gratitude,, and, at the same time, it did not 
 alarm her, as his personal appearance had done. 
 And then there were some things in it which 
 required an answer; and she sat down to reply 
 with a certain glow of pleasure and consolation. 
 It Avas pleasant to think of having some one who 
 understood her — some one who could feel for 
 her under all circumstances; and it was with 
 this feeling in her mind that Agnes placed her- 
 self at her writing-table, and began her reply. 
 
 It was not a hasty note, to be replied to hastily ; 
 on the contrary, after the first paragraph, which was 
 a direct response to Jack^s question about a matter 
 of detail, Agnes insensibly fell into her cor- 
 respondent's tone. She wanted to give him 
 delicately to understand that, not^vithstanding 
 her regard for him, her life was absolutely fixed, 
 and beyond the possibility of change. And that 
 was so difficult a thing to say as it ought to be 
 said, that she took a long time to it, as was
 
 168 Agnes. 
 
 natural— so long a time,, that darkness over- 
 took lier before she was aware ; and the humble 
 domestic appeal of ^' the children's tea/' which 
 was not a thing which Mrs. Trevelyan had been 
 in the habit of neglecting, came upon her 
 unawares, giving her an uncomfortable sensation. 
 She had forgotten the children — she who had just 
 been reminding herself that the sole and only 
 life she would now live in the world was in them 
 and for them. Her heart smote her as she got 
 up hastily, and put away her unfinished letter, 
 and hastened to her more urgent duties. 
 
 When the guilty mother went into the room 
 where little Agnes was sitting up in her high 
 chair, a certain sense of shame and self- disgust 
 came upon her; for she was aware that her 
 thoughts were elsewhere, and that she had but 
 a distracted and broken attention to give to 
 little Agnes. Mrs. Trevelyan was highflown in 
 these matters, as we have said. She was as 
 much ashamed of herself when she sat down by 
 the side of her little child, and found that her 
 mind was not there, occupied with the legitimate 
 cares and consolations of a mother, but had 
 strayed away on a new course, and interested 
 itself in the regard of a stranger, as if she had 
 done something really criminal; yet, as she 
 sat down absently at the tea-table, she did not
 
 The Trevelyans^ Revenge. 169 
 
 even remark^ at first, tliat Agnes "was alone. 
 It Tras only the little girFs call for " T\'attY \ 
 "Watty V' that ronsed tlie abstracted mother. 
 AMien she found out that "Walter was absent, a 
 momentary alarm took possession of her ; but 
 then it was not an extraordinary event. "Within 
 the last few weeks "Walter had been absent on 
 several occasions, detained by Tom^s attractions 
 at StanfiekVs house, or even tempted to linger 
 with his schoolfellows; for though he was quite 
 unaware of it, no doubt a certain subtle con- 
 sciousness that his presence was less necessary 
 to his mother than of old had entered the chikrs 
 mind. Agnes gave orders that ]\Iadelon should 
 be sent to look for him, with an impulse of 
 impatience which was a relief to her own feeling 
 of guilt. Then she sat do^TL by her little four-year 
 old girl, who understood nothing about all this, 
 and kept on her prattle undisturbed — trying to 
 think that she was displeased by "U^alter's 
 absence, and then relapsing into disgust with 
 herself, and then into a still more painful mood 
 of self-defence. Her early -widowhood had other 
 pangs beyond those of grief and loneliness ; 
 humiliating dangers ; to which Agnes had never 
 thought to be exposed. Faithful soitow, and 
 solitude, and love, have their consolation and 
 their dignity ; but to be thus thrown back against
 
 170 Agnes, 
 
 lier will without her own consent^ into a second 
 factitious and mortifying youth — and to feel again 
 in sjoite of herself the attraction of those fears 
 and hopesj and exhilarations and despondencies 
 which are so sweet the first time^ when they come 
 in due season^ and so humbling when they 
 arrive thus after date^, to disturb the tranquillity 
 of a life which ought to feel itself settled and 
 fixed for ever — was hard upon her; and in the 
 sense that it was hard^ she tried to drown the 
 sense of shame with which she had found herself 
 out. 
 
 ^Irs. Trevelyan^ as we have said, was liighflown. 
 She felt a little soreness in her heart against 
 the decrees of Providence. She thought it almost 
 unjust that of all the women around her, only she 
 should be left exposed to those betraying influences 
 of life. None of them all had been a truer wife, 
 or a more faithful mother ; yet it was only she 
 whose name could be linked with another name, 
 and at whom the world could smile ; and it was 
 not any fault of hers. It was against her will 
 — without her consent, that she had been placed 
 in this position, and subjected to these subtle, 
 unsuspected dangers. All this mist of irritation 
 and pain which arose in her mind, may seem 
 foolish enough to sober-minded people. Had 
 Mrs. Freke seen into Mrs. Trevelyan^'s thoughts.
 
 The Trevelyans' Revenge. 171 
 
 she AYOiild have said sensibly^ '- If she does 
 not like Mr. Charlton, of course she can re- 
 fuse him '/' which, after all, was a veiy succinct 
 and ti'ue statement of affairs. But then Agnes's 
 trouble arose from the fact that her mind was 
 disturbed, not by the thought of marrying Mr. 
 Charlton, but a vague sort of predilection for the 
 presence and society of a person who did not 
 belong to her, and never could belong to her, 
 and whom she ought not to be thinking of. 
 
 Allien she went back to the drawing-room, she 
 took out her half- written letter and put it into 
 the fire, and began to write what she intended to 
 be a very brief note in answer to his question. 
 But then it was difficult to reply so shortly to a 
 letter fall of what the betraying influence in 
 her heart called ^Mdndness.-'^ ^hy should 
 she take trouble to lose a friend ? And thus 
 Agnes began, without being aware of it, to soften 
 again the too brief sentences, and to acknow- 
 ledge again the charm and the attraction which 
 threw sweet fitful unacknowledged lights upon 
 her homely and dim horizon. Why should two 
 people be hindered from being friends, by reason of 
 a distant and impossible possibility that they might 
 become more than friends ? After all, to a woman 
 shut out from the world, and whose existence for 
 herself had been prematurely brought to an end.
 
 172 Agnes, 
 
 was it not an advantage to form sucli a pleasant 
 link of amity with a full and living life ? Thus 
 Agnes argued with herself, persuading herself 
 that the pain in her mind was absurd,, and that 
 nothing could be more rational or sensible than 
 her feelings. This process of reasoning took up 
 her time, and made the evening pass so rapidly, 
 that it was with a start she saw Madelon's flaxen 
 head looking in at the door. Madelon had a 
 scared look on her face, which alarmed Agnes 
 vaguely. She closed her writing-book abruptly, 
 without very well knowing why, and rose up 
 to ask what was the matter. '' What is it ? Has 
 anything happened T' she said ; thinking at the 
 same time, with the natural rapid second- thought 
 of a mother, that it could not be either Agnes 
 or the baby, as everything was profoundly quiet 
 in the silent house. 
 
 " It is AValter, please,^^ said Madelon in her 
 imperfect English. " Why comes he not ? It 
 is late, late, too late for be out. Does Madame 
 know where he is V 
 
 " Walter ? has he not come in ? He must be 
 with my father,''^ said Agnes hastily. 
 
 " No, he is not there,^^ said Madelon. " I 
 have gone there, and — everywhere. I cannot 
 find him. It is too late for be out. Where 
 does Madame think I go for find him ? It is
 
 The Trevelyans^ Revenge. 173 
 
 strange^ and I am frightened. He never did so 
 before/^ 
 
 It was an alarming waking np ont of Agnes^s 
 dreams; but tlie idea of danger did not enter her 
 mind at first. " You mnst be mistaken/'' she 
 said. " It is impossible that he can be any- 
 where but with his grandpapa. When did he 
 go out? I have not seen him for some time 
 — not since I came in. He was in the garden 
 when I came in/"* she said^ recollecting herself; 
 and then a burning colour came over her 
 face. It was this letter, this foolish and 
 shameful self- occupation, that had turned away 
 her attention from her child; and it seemed 
 now as if something must have happened to 
 him, if only to punish her. " Bring me my 
 shawl and my bonnet, and tell Fanny to come 
 with me,^^ she said, hurriedly. 
 
 As for Madelon, her fears were still more 
 serious than those of her mistress, which, after 
 aU, had no foundation except a kind of abstract 
 sense that she herself deserved to be punished. 
 Madelon had a more painful X^owledge at the 
 bottom of her fears ; and she, too, had something 
 to blame herself with, and did not care to be 
 questioned. She rushed upstairs for Mrs. Ti'c- 
 velyan^s bonnet with a kind of desperate, silent 
 haste, which did not strike Agnes, because she_,
 
 174 Agnes. 
 
 too^ felt herself so dreadfully to blame. Vague 
 fears of accident came into her mind as she 
 stood waiting and scarcely able to contain her- 
 self. He might have fallen into the pond, or 
 met with some misfortune in his play. She did 
 not think of anything else ; she began to imagine 
 what sight would meet her eyes if he was carried 
 home lifeless, or, at the best, injured — and was 
 it not her fault, who for a moment, for an hour, 
 had thought of something else rather than of her 
 children ? "When she was just ready to go out, 
 on her way to the door, the sound of the bell 
 rang through her heart, and through those of 
 the two maids who were with her. Fanny, who 
 was going out with Mrs. Trevelyan, made one 
 spring through the little hall and opened the 
 door; but it was only Stanfield who made 
 his appearance there. He came in and shut 
 the door after him, and took his daughter's 
 hand and led her back into the drawing-room. 
 This action seemed to Agnes to confirm her 
 worst fears. She cried out, hastily, '' I can 
 bear it — tell me what has happened — tell 
 me V 
 
 Stanfield was almost as much agitated as she 
 was; but he had not the air of a bearer of 
 tidings. He drew her arm through his to sup-
 
 The Trevelyans* Revenge. 175 
 
 port liei% and liclcl her fast. " I am not come 
 to tell^ but to ask/-* he said. " I know nothing. 
 I hope nothing has happened ? If you are go- 
 ing anywhere,, and it will be easier for you^ come, 
 and you can tell me on the way ^' 
 
 " It is Walter/^ said Agnes ; " he has not 
 come home. I thought he must be with you — 
 oh ! father, tell me, are you sure — is he not with 
 you ? — perhaps about the forge somewhere — with 
 Tom V' This now remained, instead of a fear, 
 her greatest hope. 
 
 " Tom has gone away suddenly/" said Stan- 
 field. " Tell me, Agnes — what is it you fear ? 
 His mother has a look that drives me distracted. 
 There is a sort of triumphant air; — but Walter 
 would never go away with him — I can^t believe 
 it. My darling, try and compose yourself, that 
 we may do what is best to be done. "What is it 
 you fear V 
 
 Agnes did not know what she feared ; a vague 
 darkness seemed to come over her. Instead of 
 the dark pond she seemed to see a wild country 
 road, and her boy lost and wandering, at the 
 mercy of the man whom she had repulsed and 
 turned away from only a few hours before. She 
 drew her arm from her father^s and dropped into 
 the nearest chair and hid her face in her hands.
 
 176 Agnes. 
 
 It was only for an instant^ and yet she felt as if 
 honrs had been lost by that momentary weakness, 
 and as if all the world was standing still and all 
 sncconr and help waiting for her, while she sat 
 helpless trying to realize what she feared. It is 
 true that her father 'waited by her side, and 
 that Fanny and Madelon stood quaking at the 
 door ; bnt none of them were aw^are that she had 
 done anything to delay their search, or that her 
 silence had lasted longer than the time that was 
 necessary to draw a breath. 
 
 ^* I do not know,^^ she said. " I thought of 
 the pond and of those new houses they are build- 
 ing. I never thought there was any danger with 
 Tom; no, oh no — he would not go away. I 
 thought of — of an accident. Come, we are losing 
 time. I thought of going down to the Common 
 to ask if anybody had seen him — and you, father, 
 
 if you would go into the village " 
 
 " Hush V said Stanfield. '' This is no acci- 
 dent; you would have heard instantly of that. 
 Sit down, my darling, and let me ask Madelon. 
 We are not losing time. It might turn out worse 
 than an accident ; but you shall have him back,-'-' 
 the blacksmith said, with a flash out of his 
 luminous eyes, " if I should go to the end of the 
 world after him. My darling, my child, keep
 
 Tlie Trevelyans' Revenge. 177 
 
 up your heart. It is treachery only that I 
 fear/^ 
 
 It would be vain to say that these words con- 
 veyed any information to the mind of Agnes. 
 It was rather a sense of meaning in what he 
 said than any comprehension of that meaning^ 
 itself which gave her strength to keep still while 
 he called Madelon and questioned her. ZNladelon 
 proved a reluctant and terrified witness, and in 
 her panic she forgot, or pretended to forget, her 
 English, and poured forth floods of German, 
 which filled Stanfield with despair, and roused 
 Agnes a little to the reality and to the impor- 
 tance of this evidence. At the end it appeared 
 that Tom had been doing what he could to win 
 Madelon^s confidence for some time back ; that 
 he had joined her in her walks with the children, 
 and had been AYalter^s constant companion, as, 
 indeed, her mistress was partially aware; and 
 that this very afternoon she had spoken with him 
 in the garden and given her consent that Walter 
 should accompany him to the great gardens at 
 Slough, where there were some Indian plants 
 and seeds in the museum which Tom had pro- 
 mised to show to the boy. Madelon confessed 
 reluctantly that Walter had wished to ask his 
 mother, but that she had promised to make all 
 right, under promise that they were to return by 
 
 VOL. III. N
 
 178 Agnes, 
 
 eight o^clock. And tlien Mrs. Trevelyaii ^vas 
 busy, Madelon said, and slie could not say any- 
 thing until she grew frightened, and it was too 
 late. Thus Agnes^s sin, poor soul, though it 
 was not a very terrible one, came back to her at 
 every point. Slough was only three miles off 
 across the country, a practicable walk; but at 
 the end of the walk there was the river, with all 
 its dangers and attractions. Heaven knew what 
 might have happened, while the darkness was 
 falling over the cheerful country, and while the 
 careless mother was losing the precious moments 
 over that letter which she thought of with 
 horror. Agnes sat still, in a kind of stupor, 
 looking on with a frightful callous calm at 
 Madelon^s sobs and cries, and her father^s pale 
 excitement and anxiety. It was not anxiety but 
 despair which seemed to have taken possession of 
 her. Had not God stretched out His hand on 
 the moment, without leaving her a place of repen- 
 tance, to launch at her head this frightful punish- 
 ment? She did not recover her senses till she 
 felt the cold night air blowing on her face, and 
 became conscious that her father was leading her 
 somewhere, supported on his aim, down the dark 
 village street, where the scattered lights twinkled 
 here and there through the soft gloom. She did 
 not ask nor know, though he had told her, and
 
 TJie Trevelyans' Revenge. 179 
 
 supposed she had listened to him; "svhere he ^as 
 leading her. She was going out into the dark 
 world,, which had swallowed him up out oi' her 
 sight, to find her boy. 
 
 N 2
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Self-betrayaL 
 
 HE village street had somclioAv a 
 strange aspect that niglit. It ^as 
 ten o^clock_, and tlie good people 
 had carried their lights upstairs^ 
 where they shone out of the npper windows to 
 light the peaceable villagers to bed. There was 
 bright light in the little tavern^ flaming in a dis- 
 reputable fulness in the midst of the quiet^ and 
 making visible a little circle before the door^, in 
 the centre of which stood the gig of a belated 
 farmer^ who was refreshing himself within. The 
 light fell upon the white rail of the village green, 
 and shed a sort of dreary gloom — what people 
 call darkness visible — on the Green itself, as far 
 as the lime-trees, which rose up black at the 
 farther side. Opposite Stanfiekrs house, at the 
 farther extremity of the Green, there was a 
 flare of faint candlelight blowing about in 
 the night air, which came from the little shop at
 
 Self'betraijciL 181 
 
 the corner — a stniggliug little shop;, compelled by 
 poverty to keep open late_, and to deny itself 
 gas. All this Agnes remarked^ ^itliont knowing 
 why, as Stanfield hurried her along. She made 
 no resistance to his will, but at the same time 
 it was only a passive submission she yielded, as 
 he di'ew her along supported on his arm towards 
 his own house. She did not even understand 
 what his fears were, when he led, or, indeed, seemed 
 to sweep her along by the invisible influence of 
 his great excitement, into the house which had 
 been her home for all the happier part of her 
 life. But Agnes was herself under the influence 
 of emotion so strong, that nobody would have 
 suspected or believed in the stupor which enve- 
 loped aU her faculties, and prevented her from 
 understanding why she had been brought there. 
 It seemed that Mrs. Stanfield had been expecting 
 them. She was sitting by the fire, wliich was 
 almost out, with a thick muslin nightcap on 
 her head, and a short, white bed-gown replacing 
 her dress. It appeared to Stanfield that this 
 costume was intended as an insult to his daugh- 
 ter, but Agnes did not even observe it. She 
 had not come here on her own account, but on 
 her father^s, with a certain vague trust that he 
 knew what he was doing, and did not mean to 
 waste time. As for Mrs. Stanfield, she got up
 
 182 Agnes. 
 
 in her sliort, full skirts, and made Agnes a kind 
 of defiant curtsey. She was redder than nsual, 
 and her fiery eyes blazed with an excitement 
 that was partly fictitious ; but besides this, there 
 was no mistaking the triumph in her looks. 
 
 ^' I ain^t used to it, master, and Pm one as 
 always speaks my mind,^^ she said. " She^s been 
 and paid me two visits to-day, her as is too grand 
 to ask her father^s wife inside her door. But 
 there never was pride yet but was humbled, and 
 so she^ll find — so she^ll find,^^ said Mrs. Stanfield. 
 She was too much roused to await the examina- 
 tion which was coming. " She^ll find it out,-''^ 
 said the excited woman — " them as was too fine 
 to have aught to do with me or mine. FIX 
 thank you, master, to take her off home, for Fm 
 a-going to bed.^'' 
 
 " Sally ,^'' said Stanfield, who was trembling 
 with a certain rage and impatience, which nobody 
 had ever seen in him before, and yet who was 
 intent on subduing himself, that he might get all 
 the information possible, " I don^t ask you to 
 have any sort of feeling for her or me, for you 
 don't understand; but I ask you for your own 
 sake, and that's a strong reason. Fll pass over 
 all that's come and gone, if you'll say straight 
 out what is in your head about Walter; if you 
 know anything — and I can't think but what you
 
 Self-betrayal 183 
 
 know; if there's any plot against him. His 
 niotlier is here ; I have brought her to ask you 
 with her own lips. You are a mother yourself — 
 in a kind of way. Listen to me/' said Stanfield, 
 laying his hand heavily on her shoulders, in the 
 height of his excitement, ^^ we are none of us all 
 bad or all good. God made you as well as her. 
 Tell her what you know about her boy.'' 
 
 The pressure of his hand on her shoulder 
 made her turn her head in spite of herself. 
 Agnes was standing by the table, very pale, and 
 with her eyes enlarged to twice their usual size ', 
 and Stanfield stood by his wife's side, holding her 
 by the shoulder with a suppressed passion, such as 
 she had never seen before. She was so far fright- 
 ened that she lost her composure and her sense 
 of triumph for the moment, and felt herself in 
 the grasp of an energy greater than her own; 
 and in her state of excitement it was as easy to 
 cry as to laugh, and to scream out loud and cry 
 ^^ murder," as either. Fortunately, impulse led 
 her to do the first. 
 
 " I don't know why I should be spoke to so," 
 she said, sinking into a whimper. ^^Take off 
 your hand off of my shoulder, master, you're 
 a-hurting of me. Am I one as goes about 
 finding out what's happened to other people's 
 childi'en ? I daresay as he's fallen into the pond,"
 
 184 Agnes, 
 
 said Mrs. Stanfield. The blacksmith had re- 
 moved the salutary pressure, and her courage 
 rose on the moment. " He's fallen into the 
 pond/' she said, '' and nothing particular either. 
 My Tom didn't have no better luck when he was 
 a bit of a lad. She's been and scorned my boy/' 
 cried Mrs. Stanfield, raising her voice, ^^and now 
 she's the one to come and ask questions of me. 
 If I speak, it'll be the worse for her. Master, if 
 you'll take my advice you'll take her away. 
 Let her go home and mind her own business, and 
 look after her precious boy. I should just like 
 to know what's that to me." 
 
 Agnes held out her hands to her father with a 
 suppressed cry. " We are losing time/' she 
 said ; " I think as she does, some accident has 
 happened. Oh ! come away, and do not let us 
 lose any more time." 
 
 For the first time in his life the blacksmith 
 did not answer his daughter's appeal. He kept 
 his eyes fixed on his wife, out of whose face 
 there came a certain gleam of triumph. '^ Ay, I'll 
 give you my word it's that," she said ; " you're in 
 the right, Agnes — don't you lose no time. Maybe 
 he's been took out, and they're a-bringing of 
 him round; maybe — master, if I was you I'd 
 send out Martha to get the drags — she ain't 
 a-bed. I'd go myself and welcome, but, not
 
 Self-betray aL 185 
 
 thinking of notliing^ Fve been and took off my 
 
 Stanfield grasped lier again by ber plump 
 sboiilder^, witb an excess of rage at ber insolence 
 which it -was beyond his power to restrain. 
 ^^ Agnes, compose yourself; there is no accident. 
 Tell her what it is/'' he cried, hoarsely. It was 
 not a woman he had in his hands, but a per- 
 nicious creature taking pleasure in his daughter's 
 pain. He seized her by her overgrown shoulders, 
 and shook her without knowing it, exasperated 
 and di'iren to the end of his patience. '' You 
 know what it is, and where her boy is — tell 
 her !" cried the blacksmith. It was, perhaps, 
 the first time in his life that he had encountered 
 in a vital stiniggle a force inaccessible to reason, 
 inaccessible to moral influence, and which had 
 to be met and overawed by force like itself. 
 
 " Father," said Agnes, " let her go ; she can- 
 not know anything. Never mind if she has 
 no sympathy. Oh, come, come — we are losing 
 time.'' 
 
 The blacksmith loosed his hands with a look 
 of despair. He came to his daughter, and took 
 hers in his gi'asp with a tenderness beyond 
 words. " My darling, have patience, have 
 patience," he said ; " what she says is a lie — 
 nothing but treachery has happened to Walter;
 
 186 Agnes. 
 
 the poncVs all a cursed delusion to turn you 
 off the right track ; Til not touch her, but 
 1^11 have the truth. Speak as long as you 
 have the time/'' he said, suddenly turning round. 
 ^' I^m slow, but I^m not blind ; I know what^s 
 been going on in this house; speak, and PU 
 pass it over. Do you hear what I am saying V 
 said the blacksmith, involuntarily making a step 
 towards her. Again he said to himself she was 
 not a woman, but some kind of fleshly devil, as 
 she sat shrunk np in her chair glaring at him 
 with her red eyes ; and in that thought excused 
 himself for the impulse he felt to seize her in 
 his strong hands, and tear the secret out of her 
 flesh. He was a good Christian, tender and 
 kind by nature, but he faced his wife^s irrational 
 and obstinate wickedness with an impulse which 
 felt like murder; and as for her, she crouched 
 back further and further with a fear which came 
 by instinct, but at the same time a confidence 
 which was the result of experience. She was 
 incapable of comprehending him, but yet she 
 knew, in her miserable way, the nature which 
 was so much above her, and felt sure that no 
 amount of exasperation would urge him to do 
 her any harm. 
 
 "Though you should murder me, as you^re 
 a-going to do,^^ she cried, in her security, '' VW
 
 Self-betrayaL 187 
 
 not say a -word. Let Madame Trevelyan^ as is 
 such a fine lady_, go and find it out. As for 
 your tfii'eats^ I scorns ^em^ William Stanfield. 
 Fm your lawful Tvife, and what^s youi's is mine. 
 Go and get ''em all roused up and drag tlie pond, 
 and you^U find the boy. Master, if you take 
 hold of me like that Fll cry out. jMurder ! 
 murder ! [Martha, he^s a-going to kill me ! 
 Oh ! good Lord, he's a-going to kill me ! But 
 not if I Tvas to be hacked to pieces — not if you 
 was to tear me in little bits — I won't, I won't 
 say a word." 
 
 It was Agnes alone who retained her calm in 
 this crisis ; it was she who di'ew her father's hand 
 from his wife's shoulder, and took him apart. 
 The excitement which ovei'whelmed Stanfield 
 had but just succeeded in awakening her in her 
 impatience and eager anxiety to get away. As 
 she woke up, it seemed to her that her father 
 was right, and that there must be some cause 
 for the determined defiance and resistance of his 
 wife. She put herself between them, trembling 
 as she was, and fixed her eyes on Mrs. Stanfield's 
 face. " ^ly father means you no harm," she 
 said ; " you know he means you no harm. I 
 don't want to have you threatened on my account; 
 but you once had little children yourself — boys 
 like mine. Tell me, for God's sake, if you know
 
 188 Agnes, 
 
 anythmg. Suppose yoiu' cliild liacl been taken 
 from yon without warning, without preparation. 
 Oil ! liave pity, have pity ! and tell me if you 
 know where is my boy." 
 
 Mrs. Stanfield roused herself at this appeal. 
 " I told you always as pride would have a fall/' 
 she said. " It's you to come and ask me for 
 your boy — you as never asked me to go inside of 
 your door when all was well. "WTiat have I got 
 to do with your boy ? INIy Tom's gone oflP to 
 sea — not to be a burden to nobody. Them as 
 grudged him a bit of dinner, and them as was 
 too high to speak to him when they met him, 
 they've got their will. I wouldn't have a son o' 
 mine stay here to be put upon, that's all as I 
 know. I'll tell you o' my boy, but I ain't got 
 nothing to tell you of yours. If it's my advice 
 as you want, Agnes Stanfield," she continued, 
 with a flash of triumph out of her fiery eyes, 
 " my opinion is to drag the pond, and not to 
 lose no time. If you'd not druV my Tom 
 back to sea, he'd have been a help — that's all as 
 I've got to say : he'd have been a great help, if 
 you hadn't drove him away — and don't bear no 
 malice ; but them as is scorned ain't always 
 them as is harmless," she said, forgetting her 
 role for the moment, and blazing out in fresh 
 triumph. " The like of us ain't to be cast off
 
 Self -betray ah 189 
 
 and taken np as folks likes. He^s made up liis 
 mind at last^ and lie's gone off, and you can find 
 liim if you can V^ said Mrs. Stanfield. She liad 
 forgotten^ in the sense of victoiTj, that a minute 
 before she had denied all knoAvledo-e of anvthina' 
 but her own son^s departure. Now she faced 
 her husband and step-daughter with that sense 
 of being able to insult them without fear of re- 
 prisals_, which in its way is the testimony of the 
 base to the noble. " Go after him if you like^, 
 and find him if you can !" she said^ in her 
 exultation ; " if it was me^ I y/ould drag the 
 pond_, and see what^s to be found there.'^ 
 
 Mrs. Trevelyan clasped her hands tightly to- 
 gether, to support herself, as she stood in an 
 agony of mingled disdain and supplication before 
 this woman, who had it in her power to relieve 
 her curiosity, and would not. This mention of 
 the pond, so often rejicated, sent a shiver througli 
 her, notwithstanding that her reason told her 
 that Mrs. Stanfield made use of this horrible sup- 
 position as a snare to lead her off the true track. 
 She stood for a moment irresolute, not knowing 
 what to do ; but recognising, what Stanfield did 
 not recognise, the impossibility of trusting to 
 anything that her stepmother might say. The 
 blacksmith was not of the same opinion. It was 
 so hard for him^ notwithstanding all his expe-
 
 190 Agnes, 
 
 rience^ to believe in an utterly perverse will. 
 He conld not help thinking that it was merely 
 because he had not found the right chord as yet 
 that the heart had not opened and given forth the 
 truth. 
 
 " Sally/^ he said^ coming forward again_, " I 
 don^t want to be hard on you ; Tve been as good 
 to your children as they would let me be. Have 
 pity upon my child ! Don^t urge me to recollect 
 all your boys have done^ and all you\'e done 
 yourself. I will forget everything that has ever 
 happened if you will tell me where Walter Tre- 
 velyan is.^^ 
 
 ^he crimson^ which was suffused over all her 
 face^ flashed into i^urple on jNIrs. Stanfield^'s 
 cheeks; her eyes stood out^ glistening, out of 
 their sockets; her very arms, which were un- 
 covered,, reddened over when these words reached 
 her ears. 
 
 "Your child, and my boys, and Walter Tre- 
 velyan V she cried. " Td just like you to tell 
 me why he^s Waiter Trevelyan? Because she 
 went and man-ied that poor bit of a lad, to his 
 ruin, to make herself a lady. That wasn^t my 
 way. I tell you she thinks herself a fine lady 
 and an honest woman, but she ain^t done for him 
 what I\l have done for him. Walter Trevelyan, 
 I tell you, lies in the pond, and I^m glad of it !
 
 Self-betrayal 191 
 
 Him to be Sir Roger^s lieir ! — a poor little 
 wliipper- snapper of a blacksmith^s grandson ! As 
 if my boys Averen't as good Trevelyans as lie_, and 
 better J and born afore liim '/'' slie cried out, in 
 her excitement. The moment after she paused 
 and sank doA^Ti into her chair, and looked with a 
 certain fright at her hearers. They looked at 
 each other when they heard these words — Agnes 
 with a wondering inqumng look, but Stanfield 
 with a bitter and biu'ning flush, almost as piu'ple 
 as his wife''s. He had started a little, but that 
 was almost imperceptible ; perhaps the sudden 
 discovery, which came like a flash of light, had 
 been so long dawning and rendering itself appa- 
 rent, that the final revelation did not strike 
 him so violently as lie thought it did. He 
 staggered slightly when this last blow was dealt 
 him, and then went up to his daughter and di'ew 
 her arm ^vithin his, to take her away. 
 
 " That is enough,'''' he said ; ^' my darling ! 
 this is no place for you. Fve suspected a deal 
 of things, but I don^t know if I ever suspected 
 just as clear as she has spoken. Neither you 
 nor me has anything more to do here !^^ This 
 he said sadly enough, as he had been in the 
 habit of speaking for a long time. Not only the 
 joy but the honour had gone out of his life, and 
 he had long suspected it. But now the blow
 
 192 Agnes. 
 
 struck liim in spite of himself. He said " Good- 
 bye to this house and all that is in it V as he led 
 his daughter out at the door; he did not even 
 look again at the panic-stricken creature who 
 Mas trembling in her chair. As for Agnes, she 
 was startled; but she was not sufficiently free 
 in her thoughts to ask what it meant. "As 
 good Trevelyans as he^"* kept ringing in her ears, 
 but she did not feel that she had energy for any- 
 thing more than a bewildered inquiry. Only she 
 said it once more under her breath as they w^ent 
 out into the sharp night air, which again roused 
 Agnes to herself. " As good Trevelyans as he/' 
 she said, aloud; '^'^ is it only a piece of folly, or 
 what does it mean V 
 
 " It is true,^^ said the blacksmith, with a 
 strange thrill in his voice. " It is all clear to me ; 
 the cause is lost, and Sir Hoger will have the boy 
 at all risks. He has sent some one to steal him 
 away " 
 
 " But Tom T' Agnes said, wondering; and then 
 it all rushed upon her like a revelation. Nobody 
 could be a better messenger than Tom, who was 
 as good a Trevelyan as little Walter, and who 
 w^as Walter's uncle, as he had dared to say, though 
 not through her, as she had supposed him to mean. 
 When the truth flashed upon her, Agnes's first 
 thought, even in the midst of her trouble, was of
 
 Self -betrayal 193 
 
 lier father, thus enlightened and dishonoured. 
 She put her hands together on his arm, and 
 clasped it tight, with one of those bitter caresses 
 ■which people give each other when both are in 
 mortal pain ; and then she quickened her pace 
 without knowing it, hurrying on she could not 
 tell where, into the darkness and the night, where 
 Tom, whom she had repulsed and repelled, and 
 yet who was doubly connected with her, had 
 carried awav her bov. 
 
 TOL. III.
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 The Search. 
 
 T would be pain to follow eveiy de- 
 tail of the fruitless search for Walter 
 which the father and daughter made. 
 The first step of all^ after the first 
 panic which led Agnes, even against her convic- 
 tions and reason, to haAC the village, and the 
 pond, and every dangerous spot in the neigh- 
 bourhood searched and investigated, was to ad- 
 vertise Mr. Charlton of what had happened. Jack 
 came down instantly full of sympathy, but it was 
 with a kind of horror which she could not ex- 
 plain, and Avhich she even knew to be unjust, 
 that Mrs. Trevclyan looked at him. Somehow 
 his unanswered letter, which was still lying about 
 somewhere at the mercy of anyone who chose to 
 read it, was identified in her mind with her boy's 
 disappearance. No doubt the idea Avas foolish, 
 because, whatever her occupations had been, it 
 would not have occurred to her on that peaceful
 
 The Search. 195 
 
 afternoon^ Trlien eveiytliing was precisely as usual, 
 to put her boy under surveillance; and yet, 
 perhaps, the sentiment was natui^al enough. But 
 it was Jack who conducted the search, showing 
 in it a devotion and disregard of fatigue which 
 won Stanfield^s heart entirely, though it did not 
 move his daughter. Before Jack was appealed 
 to they had traced Walter and his companion to 
 Slough, to the gardens, j&'om which they had been 
 seen to emerge by a side gate. Some one had 
 even remarked that the child was eager to retiu-n, 
 and urging his companion on; while Tom, for 
 his part, limped behind, as if he had lamed him- 
 self. There the evidence paused for a long time, 
 and no further link could be found. It was dis- 
 covered, however, that the next day Tom sailed 
 from Gravesend in a ship bound for China, in 
 which he had been engaged for some time, and it 
 was proved, beyond the possibility of doubt, that 
 he had joined his ship alone. That he should 
 have smuggled Walter on board the vessel in 
 some clandestine way, was no doubt possible ; 
 but there was no time for such an operation, 
 and he had not been seen in the child's com-' 
 pany. The opinion of the detective, who was 
 Jack Charlton^s guide and inspii*ing influence, 
 was that the young gentleman had been left 
 somewhere on the way. When the inquiry had
 
 196 Agnes. 
 
 reached this point_, the cabman was discovered 
 who had taken up a man limping, who said he 
 had sprained his ankle,, and a boy, of Walter's age 
 and appearance, near one of the side gates of the 
 Slough gardens, on the day of the disappearance. 
 It even seemed to have been the child who ni'ged 
 his lame companion to take the cab. The driver 
 testified that it was nearly dark, and that the 
 man gave him his orders in an undertone to 
 drive on to town, if his horse was fit for it. It 
 was a good ten miles, but the horse was fresh 
 and the fare a good one. No doubt the dark- 
 ness and the rapid pace perplexed poor little 
 Walter, and kept him from perceiving the change 
 of route. The cabman, who suspected nothing, 
 remembered to have heard, as he said, ^' some 
 words'' between his fare and the little boy, but 
 that was nothing extraordinary ; and by the time 
 they reached their destination the child was 
 asleep, and was lifted out and carried, still 
 sleeping, to the little public-house to which Tom 
 had requested to be driven. By this time his 
 ankle was a great deal better, and he paid 
 liberally the cabman's fare ; " which was all as I 
 had to think of," he said, naturally, yet with a 
 vague sense of apology. When the trace was 
 thus rediscovered, the search went on rapidly and 
 hopefully for a time. The tavern-keeper remem-
 
 Tlie Search. ]97 
 
 bered perfectly the sudden arrival of a man wlio 
 limped slightly^ with a little boy^ who was fast 
 asleep. Tom was a jovial companion,, and made 
 a good impression npon his host. He even ex- 
 plained that the little shaver was going to sea, and 
 was a bit of a molly-coddle, and wanted to go 
 back to his mother ; bnt that he, Tom, wasn^t one 
 as stood that soii; of nonsense. Finally, it ap- 
 peared that Tom had determined, apparently on 
 the suggestion of the landlord, to take advantage 
 of the child^s sleep, and the night train to 
 Gravesend. 
 
 ^' I said as I thought it was best to get it over 
 at once,'^ the landlord said, who was like the 
 cabman, slightly apologetic, and yet a little 
 defiant, in case any one should say it was his 
 fault. And then there intervened another cab, 
 and the great London Bridge station, with a 
 late train, no doubt, to Gravesend, but many 
 other trains to many other places. And then it 
 was proved that Tom did not arrive at Gravesend 
 until the afternoon of the next day, and was 
 alone when he arrived. Where did he go in the 
 meantime? Had he trusted some of his mess- 
 mates to smuggle Walter on board, or had 
 he never been taken on board at all, but left 
 somewhere on the road? A man, with a little 
 boy asleep, at a late hour at the London Bridge
 
 198 Agnes, 
 
 station^ among travellers returning from all tlie 
 ends of the world,, and travellers setting out — 
 and Crystal Palace trains^ and Greenwicli trains^ 
 and all the flux and reflux of the immense popu- 
 lation — how was any eye^, even that of a detective, 
 to identify Tom and Walter among the mass? 
 Children asleep were not so rare among the night 
 travellers. Here all the evidence, all the inves- 
 tigation broke down. To be sure, Tom turned 
 up again late next day alone, joining his ship at 
 Gravesendj but between the time when he dis- 
 appeared into the London Bridge station with 
 Walter, to that in which he reappeared alone at 
 the Gravesend pier, no trace whatever was to be 
 found. They were obliged to leave it after weeks 
 of bootless labour ; the child had been traced to 
 the railway, which led everywhere — which even 
 led in a roundabout and troublesome way 
 to Windholm. For anything that could be 
 said to the contrary, Tom, with a sailor^s 
 ignorance of detail, might have put Walter in 
 a carriage with the intention of sending him 
 back to his mother; but all that passed during 
 that night was lost in the darkness which gave 
 no sign. 
 
 It Avas the same night which Agnes had spent 
 in vain searches through the village and in the 
 neighbourhood — in frightful waiting for the day-
 
 The Search. 199 
 
 liglit_, in agonized and incolierent prayers. Her 
 heart seemed to sAvell in lier breast ^vlien slie 
 heard of lier sleeping boy carried from one con- 
 veyance to another in the Aveariness and helpless- 
 ness of his childhood. It seemed almost impos- 
 sible that such poor passive properties of nature 
 as time and space should l^e able to baffle love 
 and confuse humanity like this. And that was 
 all; the mother yearning and helpless in her 
 ignorance_, ready to spend her very life for him 
 if she could have done so ; the poor little fellow 
 equally helpless^ saved from pain only by un- 
 consciousness ; and between them onl}^ those few 
 miles of space and that world of darkness ; 
 nothing bnt the distance and the night — and 
 yet they were enough to vanquish the utmost 
 efforts of love at its intensest strain. Such was 
 the thought that went through the mind of 
 Agnes in her despair as she heard all the 
 evidence, and saw how it was that she had been 
 deprived of her boy. 
 
 This extraordinary and almost incredible 
 incident disturbed in a wonderful way the 
 population of Windholm. There was scarcely 
 a man in the place_, when it was first known^ 
 who did not make fui'tive researches on his own 
 account^ with a natural English doubt of any 
 villainous agency, and trust in the power of
 
 200 Agnes. 
 
 accident. The village, whicli liad not always' 
 loved Agnes^ began to take a kind of charge of 
 her, with that universal sympathy which some- 
 times, in a case of well-known hardship or 
 suffering, extends over a whole community, not 
 profound, hut yet vivid. Perhaps, on the whole, 
 her neighbours were disappointed that she did 
 not fall ill of it ; for, to be sui'e, it was not to 
 them to understand that of all times in the world 
 this time of terrible uncertainty, in which there 
 was always a kind of desperate hope that at any 
 moment Walter might return, was the last to 
 fall ill in, even had she had occasion ; and she 
 was strong, and had no occasion, though the 
 people round her could see her wearing into 
 angles, and watch the lines of pain and thought 
 which give age to a face, appearing day by day. 
 Agnes did not fall sick, but Madelon did, who 
 had so much less to do with it, and whose heart 
 was so lightly engaged in comparison, and was ill 
 for some weeks, and Af as nursed by Mrs. Trevelyan 
 with a certain mixture of envy and contempt. 
 And then there was still another matter which 
 remained for the Windholm world to discuss. 
 After that night in which she had made the 
 extraordinary statement we have recorded, the 
 blacksmiths wife had been left to dwell alone. 
 Stanfield ncA^er returned again to the house he
 
 TJie Search. 201 
 
 liacl lived in all liis life. Sometimes lie was 
 seen in the evenings, when lie left off work, 
 to turn his steps by habit to the outer stair, 
 but he turned back invariably. Without saying 
 a word to any one he went down to the house 
 on the Green, and occupied a little room under 
 his daughter's roof. Nobody could tell what 
 was the occasion of this strange step. A vague 
 report first, and then the more distinct certainty, 
 that Tom Smith had something to do with the 
 carrying off of Walter, threw a very vague and 
 partial light upon it ; but even then nobody could 
 understand why he could not send the woman 
 away — the woman who had never been a fit wife 
 for Stanfield. He never explained himself in 
 the least to any of the sympathizers who sur- 
 rounded him, and he bore as he best could the 
 frank allusions to the change he had made, 
 with which the good villagers, meaning no 
 offence, addressed him. Even Jack Charlton, 
 who began to understand him a little, and to 
 whom the matter had been partly explained, 
 could not make out why the unworthy woman 
 should not be sent away and provided for, some- 
 where else than in the house Avhicli her very 
 presence desecrated. Stanfield might have re- 
 sponded like Sir Launcelot, when that flower of 
 chivalry was prayed to use a little discourtesy —
 
 202 Agnes, 
 
 ^^That goes against me; what I can I will/' 
 But tlie blacksmith was behind in the literature of 
 the day^ and knew nothing about Sir Launcelot. 
 He said only that it was best for Agnes not to 
 be left alone, and gave up to his wretched wife 
 the possession of the house. 
 
 There ]Mrs. Stanfield lived_, at first in a vocife- 
 rouS;, and then in a sullen triumph; and then 
 overwhelmed by the terrible pri^dlege of haA^ng 
 her will, went partially mad, as the neighbours 
 thought, and raged about the house, Martha said, 
 like an evil spiiit. Martha was the next to leave 
 her, which she did a day or two after the disap- 
 pearance of the blacksmith, and then the scenes 
 became many and violent which took place in the 
 house. INIrs. Stanfield hired a young girl to be her 
 servant, and held a furious carnival of cleaning, 
 and cooking, and raging for a day or two; and 
 then the unhappy little maid ran away, weeping 
 and disfigured, and told the astonished neigh- 
 bours how she had been cursed and stormed at, 
 and finally beaten. This little episode was re- 
 peated so often that the blacksmith^s wife began 
 to exhaust the poor and defenceless girls of the 
 village. When Mrs. Stanfield had come to an 
 end of her energies in that way, she would open 
 the window which looked out on the com't and 
 abuse her husband from that convenient tribune ;
 
 The Search. 203 
 
 and even when the window was closed the cnrious 
 and excited neighbours couki hear her going 
 about like a wild beast, as they said_, moaning and 
 crying. This was her own ideal of conduct 
 under the unprecedented and unlooked-for cir- 
 cumstances of ha\dng got her own way. 
 
 All this took place while Agnes lived day after 
 day in a kind of agony, feeling every morning that 
 she could not bear to see another, and yet hold- 
 ing on with a desperation which seemed to her 
 to proceed from something exterior to herself. 
 She lived without knowing how she lived — with 
 that same sense of being out of the body which 
 she had been conscious of during Roger^s long 
 illness, when fatigue and excitement had brought 
 her to the end of her powers, and life and all its 
 functions seemed to go on independent of her. 
 All day long she was following Walter through 
 every kind of painful scene, in which she could 
 not get to him to shield him. Her idea was one 
 which nobody else entertained — that he had ac- 
 tually gone in the ship with Tom ; and to please 
 her, letters had been sent to the agents at Singa- 
 pore to make the closest examination when it 
 should arrive. And yet, notwithstanding this 
 notion, she had another idea, which was her great 
 strength — that her boy might suddenly escape 
 and find his way to her, any hour and any day.
 
 204 Agnes. 
 
 When she lay aT^ake at nighty she seemed to 
 hear and even to feel the rush of the dark water 
 against the side of the ship^, the glide and bound 
 of the vessel, as it made its T^'ay in silence 
 over the silent seas. And yet she could not 
 imagine how Walter should have gone with 
 the sailor, and how he did not run away from 
 him and tell his story to the first person he met 
 with, and get home. Tor Mrs. Trevelyan was 
 unaware, or at least did not realise, how easy it 
 is to stop the complaints of a child of ten years 
 old, and even to extinguish its scruples, and 
 content it with a new life. She made a ^dsit to 
 Beatrice Trevelyan with some faint hope of being 
 able to move her, and at least to learn some- 
 thing; but Miss Trevelyan received her with an 
 air of innocent astonishment and pain which 
 silenced Agnes. 
 
 ^'^ Pardon !^^ Beatrice had said. *' It is for 
 us to say that the child has not been suffi- 
 ciently taken care of. Such a thing could not 
 have happened had he been in our hands. ''^ She 
 retui'ned home fi'om this fruitless errand more 
 convinced than ever that it was the Trevelyans 
 who had stolen her child from her, but feeling 
 herself helpless and impotent, and in despair. 
 
 As for Jack Charlton, he had himself gone to 
 Cornwall, and availed himself of his knowledge
 
 The Search. 205 
 
 of tlie country to ascertain everytliing that had 
 passed at Trevelvan since Walter'^s disappearance ; 
 but nothing "svas to he learned there. " They 
 cannot keep him always in hiding/-* Jack said^ 
 •when he came back. " It cannot last long ; 
 they must produce him sooner or later. It is 
 hard to say it_, but you are very brave ; and if you 
 
 can but have patience^ dear ]Mrs. Trevelyan '^ 
 
 Agnes heard it, and smiled as people smile 
 when they are dying. Sooner or later ! — when 
 she did not know how to contain herself and 
 bear her burden from one day to another. But 
 then there are some things which it is useless to 
 say.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 The Clue, 
 
 'HINGS were going on in this way, 
 and tlie summer had come with 
 that brightness which is aivrays so 
 J^^^f^^^^ painful to a heart in pain, when 
 one day Jack Charlton arrived suddenly at Wind- 
 holm. Agnes was sitting with her little girls 
 beside her, who must be a great comfort to her, 
 as everybody said. And so they were a great 
 comfort, and yet an additional pang, reminding 
 her in every word they spoke, and every move- 
 ment they made, continually of the other who 
 was absent — the firstborn, who was so much older 
 than they, and understood her looks and knew 
 what she meant. They were playing at her feet 
 as she sat reading in the soft May afternoon. 
 A few months before she would have been at work 
 with her eyes and ears open to her children; but 
 it was hard to work under her present circum- 
 stances, when thinking was nothing less than
 
 The Clue. 207 
 
 misery. Slie was amusing- herself and readino- 
 
 •,0 
 
 a uovelj, as a spectator would have said; which 
 meant that she was making a forlorn attempt to 
 absti-act her mind a little from the thoughts 
 which were so fruitless^ and which made her in- 
 capable of her ordinary duties. She kept hold- 
 ing by that frail thread of interest in other 
 people^ s concerns which the book gaye her, as 
 to something which kept her from falling oyer a 
 precipice into the terrible depths of her own 
 anxiety. Perhaps it does not require high art 
 to fill such a function as this, but yet it is an 
 ofiice which might console a yrriter of fiction for 
 a few sneers. She kept reading it, not for the 
 sake of the book, but for her own sake, to keep 
 herself at least at the book's length fi'om herself; 
 and this was how she was occupied when JMr. 
 Charlton came in hastily upon her. The sight 
 of him brought a thrill to her heart and an eager 
 glance to her eyes ; not for his sake, for all that 
 momentary sentiment had disappeared under the 
 touch of this hard reality; but because he bore 
 in his face the look of one who has something to 
 tell. He was himself so eager that he almost 
 stepped oyer little Ag-nes in his haste. Perhaps 
 he had not forgotten the awaking of his heart as 
 Agnes had done; but still he was altogether 
 absorbed in what he had to say.
 
 308 Agnes. 
 
 "■ It is nothing," lie said, luirriedly — " at least, 
 it is not mucli — it is nothing certain ; and yet I 
 think it may be the cine. ^ly dear Mrs. Tre- 
 velyan, T do not T\'ant to excite your hopes. It 
 may be nothing. Don't give too much weight 
 to Avhat I am going to say '' 
 
 "No, no, no/' said Agnes, overwhelmed by 
 this exordium ; "■ only say it ; let me know what 
 it is " 
 
 " It may turn out to be nothing,'' said Jack 
 again ; " but I have found out that one of our 
 fellows lent his yacht to Sir Roger Ti'evelyan 
 — ^just two months ago, at the very time. The 
 boat was lying at Southampton with crew and 
 everything ready. He was going to take a 
 cruise — Heaven knows where he was going ! I 
 suppose Stanhope was in with him for some turf 
 business. Stop a moment, that is not all. The 
 yacht sailed, he tells me, but the old boy was 
 not in it. Sir Roger is in town at this moment, 
 though she's still cruising about somewhere. I 
 can't say it's anything," said Jack, growing ex- 
 cited. " He's an old scamp, and somebody else 
 may be in it ; but it's always a chance. I thought 
 it best to come down and tell you before going 
 off to Southampton. It is always a chance, and 
 we must follow it up." 
 
 Agnes gave a little cry without being aware of it.
 
 The Clue. 209 
 
 ^' I knew my boy was at sea/^ she said. " 0\\, 
 Mr. Charlton — go, go this moment ; do not lose 
 any more time. I knew — I was sni'e he was at 
 sea.^^ 
 
 " Yes/^ said Jack, " I am going ;" and then 
 he stopped, perhaps with a feeling that even at 
 such a moment the woman for whom he was 
 taking so much pains might have thanked him 
 for his devotion. If such a feeling existed, it 
 exhaled in a faint sigh and troubled nobody. 
 '' I am going,^"* said Jack, with a certain gleam 
 of humour, which ^Irs. Ti'evelyan was far too 
 much preoccupied to observe ; " but I can^t go 
 until the train goes, and I want to warn 
 
 ^' Ah ! those terrible trains,''^ said Agnes, almost 
 unconscious that he was sjoeaking. " I su23pose 
 they are the quickest, in the end; but it seems 
 as if one had always to wait for them, and 
 lose the precious hours. Mr. Charlton, don^t 
 be angiy with me — he has been two months 
 away '' 
 
 " Angry !" said Jack — he would have liked to 
 have taken her hand, which had grown so thin, into 
 his, and even to kiss it, if there had been an 
 appearance of any room for him in her thoughts ; 
 but he was clear-sighted enough to see that there 
 was not a thought of him in Agnes^s mind, and 
 
 VOL. III. P
 
 310 Agnes. 
 
 that possibly slie would not have noticed his 
 salute,, had he ventured to give it. ^'^But you 
 must not build too much on this chance/^ he 
 said, after a moment^s pause. "I will go to 
 Southampton; but the yacht is not at South- 
 ampton^ but at sea — nobody knows where she is. 
 All I can ascertain is perhaps the exact day she 
 sailed, and if anybody remembers anything about 
 it. Most likely he was put on board at night, 
 if he is there ; and it is two months ago. I will 
 do all I can ; but remember, it is only a chance. 
 There may be no one there who knows anything 
 about it, though I wiU do my best.^^ 
 
 Perhaps it was this iteration which made Agnes 
 raise her eyes. '^ I know you will do your best,''^ 
 she said, holding out her hand to him ; " I know 
 you have done everything that the kindest 
 friend could do. If I can't thank you, ]Mr. 
 Charlton, it is not my fault; I will thank you — 
 after " 
 
 As for Jack, he could not kiss the hand that 
 was put into his with a sentiment so different 
 from that which he felt within himself. It was 
 Walter's mother, grateful and trusting in him for 
 her child's sake, and not Agnes Ti'evelyan yield- 
 ing to the mysterious attraction which draws two 
 minds together, who placed thus her hand in his. 
 He clasped it with a kind of despite and bitter-
 
 The Clue, 211 
 
 nessj notwithstauding his devotion. It was not 
 for him but for Walter ; and he knew she was 
 grudging every moment that he sjDent beside 
 her^ and desiiing only to speed him on his 
 way. 
 
 It was just then that the postman came to the 
 door, bringing a letter addressed to Agnes in a 
 hand which she did not know, and bearing a 
 postmark equally unrecognisable. She looked at 
 it indifferently, for the news she had just re- 
 ceived had turned all her thoughts in one direc- 
 tion, and for the moment satisfied her mind. 
 Jack, who was always good to children, took 
 upon his knees the little Bee who had c^'awled 
 to his feet, to leave her mother at libert}^ to read 
 her letter. Agnes opened it without much in- 
 terest, though only a few hours ago the receipt 
 of any letter would have made her heart beat 
 wildly. But when she had looked at it she gave 
 a sudden cry, and sprang from her chair to the 
 window to devour what was in it. As for Mr. 
 Charlton, he did not know what had happened, 
 but he put down the child from his knees and 
 picked up the envelope which Mrs. Trevelyan 
 had thrown on the ground, and looked at it 
 carefully. The postmark was Thurso, and it was 
 directed in an unknown handwriting; but his 
 investigations were quickly interrupted by Agnes,
 
 21 2 Agnes. 
 
 who came back to liim with her couritcnance 
 radiant and her eyes full of tears. " Mr. 
 Charlton^ he is safe_, he is safe !" she cried, 
 with sobs that checked her utterance ^' Oh, 
 my boy — my darling boy ! he is all safe ! Oh ! 
 thank you_, Mr. Charlton — thank you, thank 
 you ! He is in the yacht — he is all safe — and 
 
 it is all througli you " 
 
 This Agnes said without knowing what she 
 was saying. She was so overwhelmed with the 
 sudden joy, that she was incapable of thought. 
 She threw herself into her chair again and took up 
 little Bee, and held the astonished child against 
 her breast, to be a kind of cover for the storm of 
 emotion which came upon her unrestrained, now 
 that all was over, as she thought. She had not 
 cried much througli all this dreary interval — she 
 had been frozen and stupefied in the depth of her 
 misery. Now it was spring that had come and 
 loosed all the fountains. She held little Bee 
 against her breast, and sobbed upon her baby's 
 little shoulder, as she never could have sobbed 
 for any sorrow. And the little one, who was 
 frightened at first, put up her little hands to her 
 mother's face and drew it round towards her, 
 and searched its expression with, her serious in- 
 fantine eyes, which were a reproduction of Agnes's 
 own. When little Bee read by instinct that it
 
 The Clue. 213 
 
 was not pain that caused those irrepressible sobs^ 
 she took her little part womanfullV;, and laughed 
 the sweet laugh of her age^ and clapped her 
 baby hands together. Bee did not know why 
 she was laughing any more than her mother 
 could have explained why she sobbed. And all 
 this scene was enacted before Jack Charlton 
 without any explanation^ while he sat looking on 
 with an exquisite envy and despite^ like a man 
 outside a magic ring where all the joy and beauty 
 of the world were gathered. For little Agnes^ too, 
 had climbed up to share the commotion_, whatever 
 it was, and the three clustered together in one 
 group, like one being, belonging to each other, 
 sharing, without even understanding them, each 
 other^s emotions. Jack Charlton sat still, and 
 looked on and said nothing. As for him, he be- 
 longed to nobody ; and the clinging arms of these 
 little children seemed to shut out even his sym- 
 pathy, although it was he who had devoted so 
 mtich pains and so many efforts to set the 
 mothei^'s heart at rest. 
 
 " Forgi\ e me,''^ said Agnes, at last ; " I am very 
 foolish, but I could not help it ; to see his hand- 
 writing again, and his own veiy words — oh, for- 
 give me ! I have suffered so much ; I don't think 
 I knew how miserable I was till now. Read it, 
 Mr. Charlton. And, Agnes, run and tell
 
 214 Agnes. 
 
 Madelon to go for your grandpapa. No^ don^t 
 tell lier anything/' said Agnes^ brightening and 
 smiling through her tears^ -without recollecting 
 that the child knew nothing to tell ; " don^t tell 
 her anything to say to him — only that she is to 
 go instantly and tell grandpapa to come — make 
 haste^ make haste ! Oh^ Bee^ my little Bee^ we 
 shall have our boy again/^ the happy mother said, 
 dancing her baby on her knee. It Avas not the 
 same Agnes that had been reading that poor 
 novel by way of deadening a little the anguish 
 of her thoughts. She was pale and worn still, 
 but she was radiant with content and gladness. 
 And this was the cause; but Jack Charlton's 
 countenance fell a little as he read — 
 
 " My dear jNIamma, — I am quite well. I 
 have wanted to write to you a great many 
 times, but they would not let me ; the reason 
 they let me write just now is, that I have given 
 my word not to tell you the name of the yacht. 
 It was not my faidt that I came, and I hope you 
 are not angTy. They carried me on board when 
 it was dark, and I was half asleep and thought I 
 was coming home ; and then I was di'cadfully 
 sick and ill. I am quite well now, and they say 
 I am growing a famous sailor. Dear mamma, I 
 hope you are not angry. I will come home as
 
 The Clue, 215 
 
 soou as ever I can — as soou as tlie yaclit comes 
 in again; but I must not tell you its name, 
 because I have given my word. If I were quite 
 sui'e you were not angry and did not want me, 
 it would be very jolly here. I like being at sea ; 
 but Tom told me lies, and I will never liave 
 anything to do with him any more. Dear 
 mamma, give my love to little Bee, and Agnes, 
 and grandpapa, and to Madelon, and all the 
 seiTants ; and as soon as ever I can I shall 
 come home. 
 
 "Your affectionate Son, 
 
 " Walter Trevelyax.'^ 
 
 When Jack Charlton had read this letter he 
 regarded with a little consternation the joyous 
 mother, who was still danciag little Bee on her 
 lap, and whose pale face was shining with a 
 light of happiness that it seemed cruel to distui'b. 
 Though he did all he could, after the first rapid 
 glance, to conceal his amazement, Agnes^s eye 
 was quick and caught his expression. She 
 paused, and involuntarily her air gi'ew more 
 subdued. " You don^t think it is an im- 
 position, ]Mr. Charlton ? Oh, no ; I know 
 Walter's hand ; and besides, it is just how he 
 would wi'ite. It is he himself. It could be 
 nobody but he.''
 
 210 Agnes. 
 
 " I do not think it is an imposition/* said Jack. 
 " I think only that, after all, it does not give you 
 much information/* This he said with great 
 hesitation, for it seemed cruel to do anything to 
 lessen the content in her face. 
 
 " He says he is quite well," said Agnes 
 quickly, and then she, too, made a pause, and 
 set down her baby on the floor. " To be sure, it 
 is true there is not the yacht*s name ; but then 
 you know the yacht^s name, Mr. Charlton. And 
 he is to come back as soon as it gets to land. 
 
 Ah V said Agnes, with a faint cyj. While 
 
 she was speaking, the vagueness of the letter 
 which had made her so glad came over her ; the 
 light paled out of her eyes a little, and her face 
 lost the expansion which had smoothed out all 
 its incipient lines. It was not that her compa- 
 nion undeceived her, but that she began to un- 
 deceive herself. She took up the letter again 
 and read it over slowly; and then a long sigh 
 came from her breast, and bitter tears filled 
 her eyes — not the tears which had fallen a few 
 minutes since, like a sunshiny shower, but tears 
 burning and bitter, which did not fall. She 
 read it over slowly line by line, with a pitiful 
 attempt to recover her first feeling. Walter was at 
 sea, no one could tell where. He was under strict 
 watch and guard, as was evident; he was ex-
 
 The Clue. 217 
 
 posed to all the nameless dangers of a voyage. 
 She raised her eves to Jack Charlton^s faee 
 after that^ T\ith so strange a re^Tilsion of feel- 
 ing, that it brought a stealthy tear to the 
 corner of his eve. '^ At least he is well, and 
 nothing has happened to him/^ she said, a ad 
 then she put np her letter with a kind of 
 despair. 
 
 Jack conld not bear this change in the eyes 
 which, through all their changes, were getting 
 more and more dear to him; he took to walk- 
 ing about the room, as some men do to hide 
 theii' emotion. " I will bring him back to 
 you, if it lies within a man's power," he said, 
 with a slightly broken voice ; and then, for 
 he was not given to large offers of ser"\dce, 
 he took refuge from his momentaiy attendrisse- 
 ment in the letter, or rather in the envelope and 
 postmark. Thurso, the end of the world, the 
 Ultima Tliule. Jack tried to lead Mrs. Trevelyan 
 back to the practical details ; he tried to con- 
 sult her as to what he should do — whether he 
 should go there and find out whether the little 
 prisoner had been landed, and taken to some 
 hiding-place on shore. But it was unlikely 
 that when they had him safe at sea they would 
 risk the danger of a long journey through the 
 country, where Walter might escape, if he wished
 
 218 Agnes. 
 
 to escape^ or meet somebody who knew him^ or 
 make liis story known somehow. Agnes^ however, 
 was no good to him in the way of counsel that 
 day. She let him talk, and made little answer. 
 Her practical sense seemed to have left her 
 under the excitement and the revulsion. She 
 sat still, with her child playing at her feet, with 
 a look of weariness and hopelessness, that went 
 to the heart of her companion. She had not the 
 heart even to take up her baby, and take a little 
 consolation from its soft caresses. The joy of 
 the moment, overwhelming as it was, had cost 
 Agnes dear. She was not able now even to 
 take comfort from the assurance that Walter 
 lived and was well, and that they were now on 
 his track. 
 
 Hope deferred maketh the heart sick. Mrs. 
 Trevelyan would have given everything she had 
 in the world for that certainty a few hours ago ; 
 but from her sudden causeless seizure of security 
 and gladness, she fell now into the opposite ex- 
 tremity. She was still at this point of profound 
 discouragement and despondency, when Stanfield 
 came in hastily, in answer to her summons. 
 When he heard the news, the blacksmith^s face 
 lightened with hope and confidence. " God be 
 thanked, he's living and well," Stanfield said, in 
 the fulness of his heart. And when she heard
 
 The Clue. 219 
 
 her own words thus cheerfully echoed, Agnes^s 
 strength returned to her in a modified degree. 
 After this they began to consult with the trusty 
 counsellor and friend who was ready to spend his 
 time and his strength for them. As for Jack, 
 he discussed it all as a matter of business, as 
 if to employ himself in the trade of a detec- 
 tive was his natural occupation. He had ceased 
 to think of going to Southampton now that 
 this news had come. It occurred to him 
 even — instead of going to the north, to search 
 into the movements of the yacht there, as 
 had been his first intention — to go to Cornwall, 
 and engage in his service somebody at each 
 of the little ports which were near Trevelyan, 
 to let him know if it should arrive there. 
 When he went away at last, Agnes had regained 
 her self-command and composure, and began 
 again to take hope and comfort out of her letter. 
 But in her calmness as in her excitement. Jack 
 Charlton could not but see that her great 
 anxiety was to expedite his departure, and send 
 him as soon as possible on his way. She had 
 no response to make to the lingering look he cast 
 at her when he left the house. She was not 
 thinking of him, though he was doing everything 
 to serve her — she was thinking of her boy, who 
 had become quite content to be away from his
 
 220 Agnes. 
 
 mother. No doubt it was natural for Agnes, 
 and the sentiment most to be looked for in her 
 position; but still, at the same time, it must 
 be allowed that it was a little hard upon 
 Jack.
 
 CHAPTEH XV. 
 
 A Desecrated Home. 
 
 S the days went on, however, Mrs. 
 Trevelyan found greater and greater 
 comfort in Walter's little letter. 
 She knew it by heart, and yet she 
 read it over, convincing herself ever anew by the 
 sight of the paper, and his handwriting, and the 
 blots of his childish penmanship, of its realitv. 
 There was something more consolatory than any 
 eloquence, to the eyes of Walter's mother, in the 
 pencilled lines which had been ruled to keep 
 him straight, and in the blots which had dis- 
 tressed the little T\Titer, and which he had mopped 
 up so carefully with his blotting-paper. The 
 boy's signature was in them, much more distinctlj^ 
 than in the somewhat sprawling " Walter Tre- 
 velyan'" at the bottom of the page. After a 
 while, Agnes took courage to tell her sympa- 
 thetic neighboui's that she had news of her boy ; 
 and Windholm, though it was not more good-
 
 222 Agnes, 
 
 natured tlian other villages, felt a certain thrill 
 of content at the intelligence. Even the boys 
 on the Common were glad to hear that " the little 
 baronet'' had been heard of, and that his mother 
 expected him back again. But, to tell the truth, 
 Agnes did not like to interrogate herself too much 
 as to her expectations. There was as yet no word 
 from Jack, and there was little that was encour- 
 aging as to his return in the child's letter, which 
 showed him under strict control and authority, 
 and even docile under it ; for there was nothing 
 in what Walter said to lead his mother to believe 
 that he would run away if he had the chance, or 
 that he would appeal to anybod/s protection, or 
 rebel against the power into whose hands he had 
 fallen. " If I knew you were not angry and did 
 not want me, it would be very jolly here.'' 
 These words Avent to her heart, and brought with 
 them a sense of distance — a sense of hopelessness 
 — which was very hard to bear ; but she preferred, 
 as much as she could, to avoid that part of the 
 subject which brought only pain to her thoughts. 
 On the other hand, it was no longer a vague 
 and mysterious darkness, like that of death it- 
 self, into which her boy had disappeared. The 
 unknown region, however vague it may be, from 
 which letters can still come, with lines ruled and 
 natural blots, and a postmark, does not seem a
 
 A Desecrated Home. 223 
 
 region in wliich any one can be lost beyond 
 
 recall. Mrs. Trevelyan Tvas still very anxious, 
 
 and had enough ado many times to keep up 
 
 her courage in her suspense ; but yet that 
 
 suspense had changed its character. She was 
 
 but waiting now for news that^ if it did not come 
 
 to-day_, might come to-morrow ; she Avas not 
 
 standing before a blank darkness which even 
 
 imagination could not penetrate. Imagination 
 
 could figure now but too easily Walter's position 
 
 and circumstances. When she heard the wind 
 
 blow of nights in the lime-trees, Agnes felt her 
 
 peaceable house sway to and fro, and heard the 
 
 rushing vraves in her ears, and the blackness of 
 
 the night. So far as that went, fancy was only 
 
 too serAdceable. And then, on the other hand, 
 
 she could see her boy indulged and petted by the 
 
 sailors, and made a little prince of (as was 
 
 natural, in IMrs. Trevelyan's opinion), and getting 
 
 more and more contented with his position. 
 
 Sometimes it occurred to her to consider what 
 
 might be the effect upon Walter^ s mind of his 
 
 grandfather^ s stately house at Trevelyan, and all 
 
 its advantages. He would not have chosen to 
 
 leave his mother had the alternative been proposed 
 
 to him ; but perhaps, after this apprenticeship in 
 
 the yacht, and such information about his own 
 
 prospects and future rank as he would most likely
 
 224 Agnes. 
 
 have received, -would it be Ti-onderfal if Walter, 
 just ten years old, should feel a natural re- 
 luctance to return to the house on the Green, 
 and give up all the opportunities of amusement 
 and pleasure which might be found in his other 
 sphere ? 
 
 Agnes pondered all this with a sinking at her 
 heart ; and then she resolved, not without pride, 
 to leave him free to choose; and then turned 
 back with a sense of renewed desolation to read 
 the little letter again, and please herself with 
 thinldng of her boy^s anxiety to -s^Tite to her, and 
 of his honourable sense of his promise ; and then 
 of the little figure bending over the letter — of tlie 
 innocent blots and ink- stained fingers, and all 
 the details which it was so easy to conjure 
 up before her. If she had been a man and 
 had to go out into the world, no doubt these 
 things would have had a less effect upon her ; 
 but then she was only a woman, and what she 
 had to do could generally be done, tranquil as 
 her existence was, without any great claim upon 
 her mind. And, to be sui'c, it is this mingled 
 web of recollection and imagination which fills 
 up the most part of a woman^s life. 
 
 The first interruption of these reveries came in 
 a sufficiently disagreeable form, through the inter- 
 vention of Martha, who had been the servant in
 
 A Desecrated Home. 225 
 
 StaiificicVs house as long as Agnes could remem- 
 ber. Martlia_, who had grown almost as stout 
 and red as Mrs. Stanfield_, could not divest 
 herself altogether of a certain interest in the 
 proceedings of a woman who was to some extent 
 a kindred soul : it was the kind of interest 
 which impels people not to do anything them- 
 selves for a supposed sufferer^ but to call the 
 attention of other people upon whom they suppose 
 the sufferer to have " a claim.^^ Martha herself 
 could not put up with such goings-on after Stan- 
 field had left the house ; but still she was of 
 opinion that it was Mrs. Trevelyan^s duty to see 
 after her father's wdfe^ who was going out of her 
 mind, as all the village believed. 
 
 " The noise is like to bring the roof down/' 
 ^lartha said, " for all the world as if they w^as 
 throwing everything in the house about — and a 
 smell of cooking as would turn you sick ; not to 
 say nothing of the pots of beer — and worse V 
 added the faithful servant, loAvering her voice, 
 and with a certain watering of the mouth — 
 for [Martha, under Mrs. Stanfield's rule, had 
 learned to love good cheer, though her respecta- 
 bility had proved incorruptible after the black- 
 smith abandoned his house. " She's got a pack 
 of blackguards about her as robs her,'' said 
 Martha; ^^ it ain't as it's her I'm thinking of; 
 
 VOL. III. Q
 
 226 Agnes. 
 
 but it^s tlie master as has to pay, and it^s all our 
 duties to save the master. And then she^s 
 a-killing of herself, though that ain^t so much 
 matter. If I was you, !Mrs. Trevelyan, as was 
 known for a charitable lady, and her my con- 
 nexion, as it were — I would go and see if I 
 couldn^t do something to stop it. That is what I 
 would do, if it was me." 
 
 " My father would not like me to go, ]\Iartha," 
 said Agnes ; " he would be displeased ; he does 
 not desire to have any communication at present 
 with Mrs. Stanfield.'''' Agnes was glad to have 
 her father^s name to support her; for^ indeed, 
 she had no inclination on her own part to carry 
 the duties of a charitable lady to such an 
 extent. 
 
 " I^d go without asking him, if I was you/^ 
 said Martha. " I asks your pardon, Mrs. Tre- 
 velyan, but it^s along of knowing you when you 
 was but a little bit of a child. I woidd go 
 without asking. He^s a good man is the 
 master, and he^l never find fault with nobody 
 for doing their duty ; and she^ll do a mischief to 
 herself — as youM know if you knew all — if she's 
 left all by herself like this." 
 
 When Martha had said these words she took 
 her leave with the easy conscience of a woman 
 who has done her duty. To be sure, it did
 
 A Desecrated Home, 227 
 
 not occur to her to see after Mrs. Stanfield 
 in her own person; but then she had relieved 
 her mind, and turned over the duty upon Agnes, 
 which was in its way a great deal better, not to 
 say easier, than doing it herself. And the seed 
 thus sown germinated in due time, as such seeds 
 generally do. Agnes could not cast this infor- 
 mation out of her mind, neither could she feel 
 herself altogether free from responsibility in re- 
 spect to her father^s wife. The unhappy woman 
 was unfit to take care of herself, and she was alone, 
 and had nobody to guide her. Agnes never took 
 upon herself to doubt the justice of the step her 
 father had taken, especially as it had always been 
 a pain and horror to her to see his unfit wife by 
 his side ; but she had not been insulted beyond 
 possibility of forgiveness, as her father had been ; 
 and she was a woman, and had pity at least 
 for another woman who was lost in a wTetched- 
 ness all the greater because she did not know it 
 to be wi'etchedness. 
 
 Mrs. TTevelyan resisted these thoughts stoutly 
 for some days, and put them away from her ; but 
 she happened one evening to pass the old archway, 
 when sounds of festivity were coming from the 
 open windows above, at which she had so often sat 
 in her innocent days ; and, before she had got out 
 of hearing, the sounds changed into warfare, and 
 q2
 
 228 Agnes. 
 
 there was a scuffle and struggle^ and calls of 
 murder and for tlie police; which respectable 
 body was represented in Windholm by a very 
 leisurely and well-disposed group of good- 
 natured fellows, who talked to each other at the 
 corners of the tillage street, and took care of 
 little children who were lost, and did sundry 
 other friendly offices to the community. The 
 police came, putting on its official coat by the 
 way, to the admiration of the beholders, while 
 Agnes still lingered to see what it was going to 
 come to. A little crowd collected under the 
 windows which were so sacred to her recollec- 
 tions. She stood at a little distance until she 
 saw a culprit led out, followed by a crowd. Mrs. 
 Trevelyan was moved perhaps by shame and 
 disgust, as much as by more benevolent inten- 
 tions. Without w^aiting to think or even ex- 
 plaining it to herself, she tlirned and went quickly 
 back after the crowd had begun to disperse. 
 "When it was seen that it was she w^ho was going 
 in under the archway, the few spectators, who 
 still lingered, slunk off confused, and left Stan- 
 fiekVs house at peace. Happily it was past 
 worktime, and he was not there to see the dese- 
 cration of the home which had been so long ihe 
 most honourable house in the village, and w^hich, 
 still, was called by his name.
 
 A Desecrated Home, 229 
 
 Agnes went hastily up the familiar stair with a 
 heavy heart, and pushed open the door_, which was 
 ajar_, and went in. The house bore the air of 
 disturbance, which was natural after a struggle; 
 a chair in the passage had been thrown down 
 and broken, the carpet was dragged out of its 
 place, and everything that used to be so trim was 
 out of order. The parlour door at the end of the 
 passage was partially open, and out of it came a 
 voice interrupted now and then, but never ceasing 
 altogether — a voice which scolded, and cried, and 
 entreated, and threatened all in a breath. It 
 was Mrs. Stanfield who was talking, calling 
 somebody to her assistance, who would not come, 
 or perhaps, more likely, could not come, being 
 absent ; for not another sound was audible in the 
 house, the door of which had been left open, no 
 doubt to facilitate the unfaithful servant's return* 
 
 Agnes shut the door, and went quickly on to 
 the sitting-room. When she entered the old 
 parlour, it was a strange scene — a scene quite un- 
 paralleled in her experience — which met her eyes. 
 Mrs. Stanfield was sitting in a corner rocking 
 herself, crying and moaning, and calling for Lizzy. 
 The table was covered with bottles and glasses, 
 some of which had been upset and broken — and 
 several of the chairs round the table had been 
 thrown down. It was evening, and the light began
 
 230 Agnes. 
 
 to grow faint^ and the aspect of the place filled 
 Agnes^ in spite of herself, with a certain instinct 
 of horror and anger. But then these inanimate 
 things^ after all_, counted for little in comparison 
 with the living creature in the midst of them, 
 degraded as she was. Mrs. Stanfield^s cap was 
 awry on her head, and her ruddy, unfaded locks 
 had been pushed off her face, and stood up 
 round her forehead like the metaphorical hair, 
 which stands on end. She was sitting quite in 
 the corner, embracing her knees, and calling for 
 Lizzy. All the restraint which StanfiekVs pre- 
 sence had imposed upon her was gone ; she had 
 been doing " whatever she liked'''' for two months 
 back, and naturally she talked as she liked, now 
 that there was nobody who could control her 
 to hear. She called upon Lizzy to come and be 
 hanged, come and be d — d; and when the girl 
 did not answer these encouraging" appeals, she 
 changed her tone. 
 
 '^ VW. forgive you if you^U only come,^^ she 
 cried. " Lizzy ! do you hear ? Til forgive you. 
 It^s come on dark, and I can^t stir, and there 
 ain^t a soul to do anything for me. Do you 
 call that having one's way? It''s that de^dl 
 Stanfield or his daughter as has put a spell 
 on me. Lizzy \" cried the unhappy woman ; but 
 still Lizzy who, like Mrs. Stanfield, preferred 
 her own way, made no response. When she
 
 A Desecrated Home, 231 
 
 saw Agnes come in^ and stand silent for a 
 moment on the threshold^ Mrs. Stanfield gave 
 a gTeat cry. Perhaps she thought for the 
 moment that it was a ghost. After that excla- 
 mation she became silent^ and stared at her 
 visitor with a fright that it was impossible to 
 disguise. She was like the unclean spirits^ who 
 said^ " What have I to do with thee ?" It seemed 
 to her_, certainly,, as if Agnes — if it was Agnes, 
 and not a ghost — must have come to torment 
 her before her time. 
 
 " I heard you calling/^ said Agnes ; " I don^t 
 think there is any one in the house. I came in 
 because the door was open. Ai'e you ill ? Tell 
 me what you would like me to do for you, now 
 that I am here.''^ 
 
 " You look like Agues Staniield — come to 
 worry me/^ said Mrs. Stanfield, with a momen- 
 tary gleam of her old sjDh'it. 
 
 " I am Agnes Trevelyan, and I have come to 
 help you, if there is anything I can do,-*^ said 
 Agnes. She could not altogether command her 
 looks or conceal her disgust ; but her patient 
 was not at that moment very clear-sighted. 
 TVTien she had got over her fright, she put up 
 her hands by instinct to her head^ and made an 
 effort to set her cap straight and recover her 
 faculties. To be sure, she was incapable of
 
 232 Ag7ies. 
 
 understanding the influence to wliicli slie yielded 
 in spite of herself. 
 
 " I know Avhat you Tvant/^ she said^ making 
 greater and greater efforts to rouse herself, as 
 Agnes, without saying anything, picked up the 
 fallen chairs and put them in their places. Her 
 very presence in the room seemed to restore an 
 element of order of which even Mrs. Stanfield 
 was vaguely conscious. " I know what you 
 want," she repeated, with an attempt at her old 
 tone of triumph ; " you^'e took me unawares, to 
 find out about Walter; but I ainH one to be 
 taken in with false fi-iends. It^s just like them 
 all,-*^ said the unhappy creature, bitterly ; " they 
 comes to you when you has anything, and when 
 theyVe got everything you have, they deserts 
 you. Lizzy ! And as for you, it^s to worry my 
 life out about your precious boy as you^e come 
 here '' 
 
 " No," said Agnes, '' you are mistaken. I 
 know about my boy, thank God ! I have got a 
 letter from him ; and I know, too, ^^hat part 
 your son had in taking him away ; but it is not 
 for that I am here." 
 
 " You^^e got a letter from him ! You^-e 
 telling me a lie, Agnes Stanfield, or they^re 
 all fools, d — d fools !" cried the blacksmith's 
 wretched wife. ^^ Good Lord, they^ll take me up
 
 A Desecrated Home. 233 
 
 for mad next ! Yoii^e got a letter ? Yoii^l 
 best tell me as you^re going home to Trevelyan 
 to be made a lady of at the last. It would be 
 just like them ; oh, the fools ! the d — d fools ! — 
 and it would be like you, INIadame Impudence, as 
 always was one to make yourself better than 
 your neighbours ; but TU kill you first — I'll 
 poison you first — afore you go there." 
 
 She got up as she spoke, and, though her 
 limbs trembled under her weight, the aspect of 
 the staggering fury was yet sufficiently alarming. 
 Whatever the cause might be, the idea that her 
 step- daughter was to be made a lady of at the 
 last, roused the wretched woman into frenzy. 
 She supported herself against the back of a 
 chaii', and clenched her pink hand, which even 
 now, unwieldy as it was, had not altogether lost 
 the dimples of its fleshly and sensual beauty. 
 " If you tell me that, I'll kill you," she said, 
 with her hazel eyes blazing red, sweeping the air 
 with her heavy but nerveless fist. As for Agnes, 
 the emergency made her heart beat a little more 
 quickly, for she knew well enough that the woman 
 before her was half mad with excitement, and 
 despite, and dissipation, and owned no restraint 
 in the world either of law or prudence. And 
 the door Avas shut upon Agnes's retreat, and she 
 would rather have died than summon help from
 
 234 Agnes. 
 
 the open windows^ from which ah'eady so many 
 disgraceful sounds had proceeded. However,, she 
 did not recede from the danger she had brought 
 upon herself. 
 
 " I came here not to tell you about myself, 
 but to answer your call/^ she said, calmly. 
 ^' There is nobody in the house. If I can do 
 anything for you, tell me. You are abandoned, 
 as it seems, by your friends. Shall I send 
 somebody to you to put all this disorder right, 
 and to take care of you ? If you do not want 
 anything, I will go away.''' 
 
 At this moment Mrs. Stanfield dropped back 
 into her chair, unable to support herself. Even 
 the presence of Agnes, though she looked like 
 an avenging angel, was better than absolute 
 solitude. The wretched creature fell to crying, 
 as was natural enough. " Oh ! Agnes Stanfield,^' 
 she sobbed out, ^^ Td have been a mother to you, 
 if you^d have let me ; I'd have loved you like my 
 own. I^e got a daughter of my own, but I 
 ain't set eyes on her for fifteen year. Oh, Fm 
 a poor creature — Fm a poor creature ! There 
 ain't nobody in the world as minds what I say. 
 Lizzy ! Lizzy ! Tve been good to that lass, I 
 have, and give her all as heart could desire ; and 
 look you now how she goes and leaves me. Oh, 
 Agnes Stanfield, I'll die — that's what wiU be the
 
 A Desecrated Home. 235 
 
 end of it ; and there ain^t a soul bnt will be glad 
 to hear !" 
 
 Agnes conld answer nothing to this maudlin 
 fit_, and she did not attempt it. She was think- 
 ing less^ indeed^ of the miserable woman than of 
 the familiar place which was thus desecrated; 
 and Mrs. Stanfield went on bemoaning herself. 
 '^ As for the bovs^ they don^t mind me ; there^s 
 been years and years as they haA^enH minded me/' 
 she said ; '^ and I don't believe as Sir Roger ; — 
 but he's gone through a deal since then." When 
 she said this the cunning instinct of her semi- 
 insanity returned to her. She gave a stealthy 
 look at AgneSj to see if she had remarked the 
 name_, and then^ with the rapidity of rage and 
 dislike, rushed back into the other branch of the 
 subject. '^ If anything should happen to Walter, 
 you ain't got no more claim/' she said, drying 
 her fiery eyes — " it's him as is your only hope, 
 my lady. No, you'll never be my lady now — 
 I'm glad of that ; I was glad for that when poor 
 Roger was took, though I was sorry for him. 
 He was no better nor my Roger, but he was the 
 heir; and now there's your boy as hasn't half 
 the right ; but I don't see as your boy'll ever 
 come to the title. He's puny, like aU your 
 children. I never lost one, not of mine ; they 
 was all as hearty as hearty. He'll ncA'Cr be
 
 236 Agnes, 
 
 Sir Walter^ that bit of a child ; and I'd like to 
 know, if he dies like the rest,, what good it is 
 being Mrs. Trevelyan ? There ain't one of the 
 family as will take any notice of you." 
 
 " Mrs. Stanfield/' said Agnes — who, notwith- 
 standing all her self-possession, could not help 
 trembling from head to foot at this horrible 
 prophecy — " I came not to discuss my own pros- 
 pects or my son's, but to ask if I could help 
 you. You know as little as I do of what is 
 going to happen/^ she said, yielding, in spite of 
 herself, to her natural terror. " Oh ! be silent, 
 I bear of you : I will stay with you till your 
 servant comes in, if you will say no more." 
 
 " Oh yes, you're one of them as don't like to 
 hear the truth," said !Mrs. Stanfield, with tri- 
 umph. " I tell you if Walter dies you haven't 
 got no claim; you and your little girls, you 
 ain't got no expectations from the Trevelyans 
 no more than if you was like me ; and that's 
 what'll be the end of it, my lady," cried the 
 fruy — " you as set your heart on being my lady. 
 If he dies — and there's a deal of likelihood as 
 he'll die — you ain't no more than me ; and 
 you're a deal worse than me," she continued, 
 after a pause, " for I never had no ambition, and 
 knew my place, and never set my heart on 
 such a thing. It's a deal worse for you. You
 
 A Desecrated Home. 287 
 
 woiTied the father to deaths and you'll see as 
 the son ^11 be took for a j)unisliment ; and 
 you and your babies, don't you think as you 
 have got no claim; and as for being Mrs. 
 Trevelyan " 
 
 Agnes had come to the end of her patience 
 and her strength. She could bear no longer this 
 dreadful voice of madness, which was mad and 
 miserable, no doubt, but yet in its very wicked- 
 ness sounded like a prophecy of e^-il. She fled 
 out of the room when the last possibility of en- 
 durance was over, making her escape noiselessly 
 like a ghost; but, before she could open the 
 outer door, ^Irs. Stanfield had changed her tone^ 
 and was again uttering lamentable cries and 
 entreaties. 
 
 "Don't leave me by myself; oh, don't leave 
 me by myself. Oh, Agnes Stanfield, come back 
 and I'll not say nothing. Oh, Lizzy, as I've 
 been so kind to, I can't stay in the dark — I can't 
 be left by myself. Oh, good Lord, they're a 
 forsaking of me !" cried the miserable woman. 
 
 Agnes went back without saying a word, and 
 lighted a candle, and placed it on the disordered 
 table ; then she left the room and waited at the 
 door till ]Mrs. Stanfield's young maid came 
 flying upstairs in consternation. The girl was 
 one of those suspected girls whom " charitable
 
 238 Agnes. 
 
 ladies" recognise by instinct in every parisli 
 under the sun — not bad as yet^ but fully in the 
 way of being bad_, and without any particular 
 wish to aA'oid the knowledge of good and evil. 
 When she saw Mrs. Trevelyan, Lizzy fell back 
 dismayed,, and began to stammer out an apology. 
 It was almost dark by this time^ and the sight of 
 the pale face and black dress at the top of the 
 stands impressed Lizzy almost as much as a young 
 Catholic of her years and inclinations might have 
 been impressed by the sudden appearance of the 
 Madonna or of her patron saint. Agnes put 
 her hand on the girFs shoulder and tiu'ned her 
 back. 
 
 " You are not able to take care of her in her 
 present state^ and it is not a fit place for you/' 
 she said. " Go and call Nurse Meadows to me ; 
 I shall wait here until you come back.'^ 
 
 Mrs. Trevelyan sat down by herself in the 
 dark^ in the little recess where the linen presses 
 were^ and the window which looked into the courts 
 and waited for the return of her messenger. Down 
 below^ opposite to her, was the forge where her 
 father did his honest work day by day, and 
 the court where she herself had played when she 
 was a child, and where her boy had played. A 
 momentary wonder and self-discussion whether 
 she herself was really the Agnes Stanfield who
 
 A Desecrated Home. 239 
 
 liad once lived liere^ and kno-wn no interest 
 beyond those Aralls, came into Agnes^s mind. 
 That girl, with all her beautiful hopes, -v^as dead, 
 Heaven kno'ws how many years ago ; and the 
 woman who sat there on her watch, was so dif- 
 ferent, as she thought, from anything that could 
 have been prophesied of the first Agnes. Ah, if 
 she had but actually died then before the world 
 began ! But when AValter^s image came back 
 to her mind a great horror and anguish seized 
 upon Agnes. There was nothing, surely nothing, 
 but a wicked woman^s fancy, which could connect 
 death with the name of her boy. This was how 
 she occupied herself as she sat and trembled, 
 partly with a neiwous panic and teiTor, partly 
 with the night-air fi'om the open window, wait- 
 ing the arrival of the niu'se who alone was fit at 
 such a moment to have charge of the black- 
 smiths miserable wife.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Miss Trevelyan^s Share. 
 
 URING tliis time, which had pro- 
 duced so much misfortune and pain 
 to Agnes, Beatrice Trevelyan had 
 been pursuing her course as usual. 
 She had put off the last vestige of her mourning, 
 and had even, people said, recovered the despite 
 and rage into which she was thrown by the deci- 
 sion of the Lord Chancellor in favour of her 
 sister-in-law. Not that Beatrice had betrayed 
 her rage in an unladylike way ; but then the 
 people who knew her, knew the meaning of her 
 looks and ways ; and there were unfortunately a 
 great many people who knew !Miss Trevelyan. It 
 was even said that the lost law- suit had added one 
 or two fine and delicate wrinkles, which several 
 persons in society declared themselves able to 
 identify on her well-conserved countenance. 
 From which it will be seen, as has, indeed, been 
 before said, that Beatrice retained, notwith-
 
 Miss Trevelyan's Share. 241 
 
 standing all the arts necessary to lier position^, a 
 certain tmtlifulness at the bottom of her cha- 
 racter. Perhaps the person who suffered most on 
 the whole was_, however, the great dignitary con- 
 cerned, the learned and noble lord, the Clian^ 
 cellor himself, who had his weaknesses, as evens 
 Lord Chancellors will have, and, indeed, i>"a'j 
 known to possess some of those which are pecu- 
 liar to Lord Chancellors. Everybody knows 
 what is the power of an nnscmpulous and acnte 
 antagonist, with a place in society, and. the 
 character of being amusing. Beatrice found out 
 with a praiseworthy zeal, and put into lively cir- 
 culation, several very pleasant anecdotes of these 
 chancellorly weaknesses; and following the or- 
 dinary rule of vicarious punishment, it was poor 
 Lord Norbuiy who suffered for the Trevelyans^ 
 humiliation and defeat. 
 
 Beatrice was more brilliant than ever in the 
 commencement of the season, notwithstandine: 
 those signs of defeat which she was said to bear in 
 her face. She might have been discomfited for the 
 moment, but she was not overcome nor discou- 
 raged; and then she was a woman of resources, 
 and now that her pride and temper, and almost 
 everything that makes life worth having, were in- 
 volved, it will be believed that Miss Ti-evelyan did 
 not lose her time. It had become a necessity of 
 
 VOL. III. a
 
 242 Agnes. 
 
 existence^ even^ that the upstart who presumed to 
 call herself Mrs. Trevelyan^ and to claim the cus- 
 tody of Sir Roger's heir, should be once for all 
 put down and made an end of. Beatrice had been 
 galled to the heart by what she supposed Agnes' s 
 happiness^ and she had been smitten with dire 
 and miserable envy at the thought of Agnes's 
 grief ; feeling to the bottom of her heart with 
 that perception of the tnith which showed the 
 fallen angel in her, that her own mean and 
 paltry existence was not good enough either for 
 the grief or the happiness. But if this had been 
 the case, while Agnes did her no further harm 
 than that which was implied in her capacity for 
 a loftier, though more grievous lot, it may be 
 imagined what Beatrice's sensations were when her 
 sister-in-law attained the clear culpability of a 
 victory over her. It was no longer a matter of 
 mere feeling; the face of affairs changed in a 
 moment. It became a necessity to re- arrange 
 this fallible mortal decision, and reverse the posi- 
 tion of the parties. If it could have been done 
 by law it would have been well, but since the 
 law had acted so badly, nothing remained for 
 the Trevelyans but to act in their own right. 
 
 Sir Roger himself was more moved than he 
 had been by anything since his son's mar- 
 riage. His mind revolted against the idea of
 
 Miss Trevelyan^s Share. 243 
 
 leaving his grandson and lieir in the hands of the 
 woman who had, as he said, ^^ inveigled my poor 
 boy into marrying her, by Jove V — a righteous 
 sentiment, in which !Miss Trevelyan upheld him 
 with all her might. It is true that Beatrice was 
 not acquainted with all the details by which this 
 just act was to be accomplished. Miss Trevelyan 
 knew nothing about Mrs. Stanfield or Tom 
 Smith — or if she had, perhaps a vague impression 
 that such people existed, they were beings with- 
 out names for Sir Roger's daughter. But she 
 knew what was being done as the miner knows 
 about the powder, though it may be another 
 hand who fires it. And while this project was 
 being carried out, which would expose both " the 
 family" and their nameless assistants to certain 
 unpleasant consequences if it should be disco- 
 vered. Miss Trevelyan occupied herself in telling 
 pleasant anecdotes al^out Lord Norbuiy, and 
 lamenting that a chancellor should so often be 
 low, and unvrorthy of admittance into good 
 society ; which, to be sure, was an innocent and 
 even meritorious way of taking her revenge. 
 There were but two persons in the gi-eat world, so 
 far as INIiss Trevelyan was aware, who regarded 
 her with a doubtful eye on account of this family 
 affair. The one was, as was natural. Lady Grand- 
 maison, who was Agnes's friend, and consequently, 
 r2
 
 244 Agnes. 
 
 by tlie operation of the most ordiiinry and well- 
 known influences, Miss Trevelyan^s enemy ; and 
 who, from the first moment of Walter's abduc- 
 tion, had regarded Beatrice with suspicion ; the 
 other, which was much more singular (for 
 Miss Trevelyan acknowledged the justice of the 
 antipathy in Lady Grandmaison's case), was the 
 lady who once made her juvenile appearance 
 in this history under the name of Lottie 
 Charlton. As might have been expected, she 
 was not Lottie Charlton now, but Mrs. Old- 
 ham, the wife of a man who had covered a mul- 
 titude of sins, in the way of descent and con- 
 nexions, by being frightfully, almost, as Lottie 
 herself said (but that was before her marriage), 
 disgracefully rich. Mrs. Oldham was not spe- 
 cially attached to Agnes, nor had she kept up 
 any friendship with her ; but she had retained, 
 notwithstanding the dangers and difficulties of 
 her position, the amiable weakness of a belief in 
 her brother, which did credit to her heart at 
 least, if not to her discrimination. Tlie cause 
 which Jack defended was to a certain extent 
 sacred to Lottie, though she was sufficiently well 
 brought up to have known better. Had she 
 known of that letter to which Agnes Trevelyan 
 had never replied, the probabilities are that she 
 might have modified her opinion. But then
 
 Miss Trevelyan's Share. 245 
 
 Lottie liacViio means of seeing the letter, and had 
 no friends, neither had her maid any friends in 
 Windholm, which was wonderfnl enongh, so that 
 she never knew up to the present moment how 
 often Jack went to the house on the Green, nor 
 how long he stayed there, nor what people were 
 saying in the Adllage of his inclinations and aims. 
 This being the case, of all persons in the world, 
 her old friend and neighbour Lottie Charlton, 
 whom she had held on her knee, who had 
 acted baby chaperon to her early flirtations, 
 and who had superseded her even in the 
 regard of the county when her day came, 
 developed into one of Beatrice's enemies and 
 watchers. It was difficult to realize the fact, but 
 still such was the case ; and, as it happened that 
 season. Lady Grandmaison and Mrs. Oldham Avere 
 everywhere. If by chance the one did not make 
 her appearance, cruelly civil and menacing, the 
 other was there, familiar and a little fast as of 
 old, but equally on the watch as to all ^Miss Tre- 
 velyan''s words. Lottie, on the whole, was the 
 more troublesome of the two. She said to 
 Beatrice, in the midst of a group of people, 
 ^' Your little nephew has been stolen, and Jack 
 is in a terrible way about it, after winning the 
 cause and all. Do tell me where he is, Beatrice. 
 You are so clever — they will never find him, if
 
 246 Agnes. 
 
 you don^t give in to tell me." Of course this- 
 was nonsense,, "wliicli no one could take the pains 
 to contradict gravely; but still it had a certain 
 effect^ and was highly disagi'eeable^ to say the least 
 of it ; and Lottie^ though she spoke so lightly^ had 
 an air of belie^dng^and even meaning what she said. 
 Under these circumstances, there sometimes 
 arrived a moment when the graver possibilities of 
 her position would flash upon Beatrice, bringing 
 the moisture to her forehead, and even taking 
 the curl out of her wonderful hair. If by any 
 chance it should be discovered what had been 
 done, and her complicity in it — if even it should 
 be discovered in Sir Roger's lifetime, when he 
 would naturally throw all the blame on his 
 daughter, and declare it to be " the d — d spite of 
 these women'^ — the consequences might be such 
 as even INIiss Trevelyan shrunk from contem- 
 plating. She knew better than most people how 
 far the forbearance of society can go; she felt 
 even that a happy combination of circumstances 
 — such, for example, as a low second marriage 
 on Agnes's part — might make the abduction of 
 her little nephew an heroic act, entitling her to 
 the admiration of the world. But then, on the 
 other hand, if nothing of that sort should occui' 
 to justify her, and if, on the conti-ary, she was 
 simply found out in an attempt which was cer--
 
 Miss Trevelyan's Share. 247 
 
 tainly against the law, Miss Trevelyan could not 
 but feel that a woman who had a hand in the kid- 
 napping of an innocent child was not likely to 
 gain much from the act either in the estimation of 
 men or women. When this thought struck her^ 
 Beatrice trembled, notwithstanding all her self- 
 command. But then almost everytliing depended 
 on success, in that as in most other matters in 
 which it is necessary to take into consideration 
 the opinion of the world. 
 
 In this position of affairs, it may be imagined 
 what were the feelings of Beatrice when, one day, 
 in the very height of the season. Sir Roger sent 
 for her to make the following unparalleled pro- 
 position — namely, that she should go, without 
 loss of time, to a dreary house which he pos- 
 sessed in Hampshire, to take charge of the little 
 prisoner, who was to be conveyed there at the end 
 of his cruise. " Fm sick of it all, by Jove V' said 
 Sir Roger. " If it weren't that a man can^t stand 
 being beat, Fd be d — d sorry I ever took it in 
 hand. I^m not as spiteful as a woman, by Jove ! 
 and since it^s your doing, Til thank you to take 
 
 it in hand in future. By , here''s that ass 
 
 Be\is writing to me for money — as if I was a 
 man to be asked for money ! Hang him ! he 
 knows I never have enough for myself. They 
 can^t keep cruising about for ever and ever, by
 
 248 Agnes. 
 
 Jove ! all for a d — d boy. Take liim and shut 
 him up in the cottage till it blows over. There^s 
 
 Jack Charlton setting spies at Trevelyan_, by 
 
 And it's all along of you that Fm worried to 
 death like this. Til give it up_, by Jove ! and 
 send him back to his d — d mother^ if you don^t 
 take it in hand yourself.'^ 
 
 ^' I V' said Miss Trevelyan. She was ashamed 
 to be moved to this extent by any command of 
 her father's^ but yet she could not help showing 
 her confusion and annoyance. " I beg your 
 pardon^ papa. If you choose to have youi' heir 
 brought up by a blacksmith, it is nothing to me ; 
 but as for leaving town in the height of the 
 season '^ 
 
 " By /' said Sir Roger, " I should think it 
 
 wasn^t such a dreadful sacrifice. I should think 
 you were sick of it, by Jove ! Never picked np 
 a husband yet, Bee, after twenty years' hard work 
 
 and more. By , Fd give in, if I were you. 
 
 You're deuced well got up, but you're ageing. 
 You're a d — d deal older than I am, for that 
 matter. If you don't go, I'll send the little 
 wretch home, that's clear. I've got my book to 
 make up, which is a deal more important than 
 your parties ; either you'll go, or " 
 
 " It is impossible I can go," said Miss Trevel- 
 yan — " utterly out of the question ; my engage-
 
 Miss Trevelyan^s Share. 249 
 
 ments do not permit me to entertain tlie idea for a 
 moment. You should have thought of the dif- 
 ficulties sooner. I don't say your pursuits are 
 not most important and instructive/' continued 
 Beatrice, in steady tones ; " but you forget this 
 is not my business, but yours.'' 
 
 Upon this, Sir Ptoger got up and began to 
 Tvalk about the room in a transport of rage and 
 
 blasphemy. " By , you know it's all your 
 
 doing/' he said ; " it ain't in my way to kidnap 
 children. But for that d — d yacht of Stanhope's, 
 and no other use for it, I'd never have given in to 
 your spite ; you and the rest — ha ! ha ! ha ! — 
 you'd be pleased, you would, if you knew who 
 was your collaborateur, Miss Trevelyan. By 
 Jove ! V\Q half a mind to tell her. What am 
 I to do, I'd like to know ? I've sent off Bevis 
 all this while, and put up with a d — d blockhead 
 that has to be told everything, d — n him, and 
 spends a lot of money — or at least gets a lot 
 of bills, which comes to the same thing. 
 Hang it all ! what am I to do ? That d — d 
 cottage ain't let, and it's near the sea. I can't 
 send him to Trevelyan; and it's all along of 
 your spite against that deuced widow. By Jove^ 
 I'll have him pitched into the sea and be done 
 with him, or I'll send him back to his d — d 
 mother. Am I a man to be worried to death
 
 250 Agnes. 
 
 about tlie brat ? 1^11 do one or tlie other if you 
 don't come to your senses — by Jove^ I'll do 
 it " 
 
 " Please to recollect/^ said Beatrice, coldly, 
 interrupting her father without any ceremony, 
 ^^ that if you throw him into the sea you are 
 liable for murder, and if you send him back you 
 are liable for something else, which no doubt 
 will be quite as bad; and you may be sure they 
 won^t let you off. And it will be pleasant to 
 see Sir Eoger Trevelyan brought to the bar 
 by a country blacksmith, and compelled to pay 
 damages, or costs, or something " 
 
 " By V cried Sir Roger, with a renewed 
 
 access of frenzy. When he came to himself, he 
 changed his tone a little. " Hang it, what is a 
 man to do ?" he said. '^ Look you here. Bee, I 
 don^t want to be disagi-eeable. Fm deuced 
 sorry I ever had anything to do with it; but 
 now, since we^re in for it — and, by Jove, we're 
 both in for it, for I ain't going to let you off if 
 it should come to that ; let's stand by each 
 
 other, by , and get out of it the best way 
 
 we can. The country's the deuce, especially at 
 this time of the year, when there's nothing 
 doing. ^' If you'll go and see after the d — d 
 
 * It was early in June — which some people think the most 
 beautiful part of the year ; but then that was not Sir Roger's 
 way of thinking.
 
 Miss Trevelyan's Share. 251 
 
 little monkey and settle him^ and get a woman 
 to look after liim — ; by Jove^ we cannot keep liim 
 always there — He^ll have to be put to school 
 sooner or later, and then tbere^s sure to be a 
 row. Jack Charlton is going after him like — 
 blazes/'' said the baronet ; " he^s after the widow^ 
 I suppose." 
 
 " Never ! " cried Beatrice, roused to some 
 excitement. " Poor Eoger was enticed into it 
 when he was only a boy, but Jack Charlton is 
 not the man to destroy all his prospects," she 
 cried, with a fire and energy which did not escape 
 her father. Sir Roger laughed and sneered — as 
 men of his class sneer Avhen a woman gets ex- 
 cited — thinking it much more natui'al to account 
 for the sentiment by associating it with liking 
 for a man than with dislike for another woman. 
 
 " So, Beatrice, it^s Jack you^re thinking of," 
 said her father, with his odious laugh. ^' He's a 
 deal too young for you, but I don^t suppose 
 that matters at your age. Hang it, I don^t 
 want him for a son-in-law. But he's after the 
 boy like blazes, I tell you. Nobody knows 
 about the cottage ; it's been a bad speculation 
 has that cottage. Make a run down, and visit 
 the little beggar and settle him. By Jove, I 
 don't ask you to stay." 
 
 ^' I will tell you what to do,'^ said Beatrice ; 
 "take a little house in St. John's Wood or
 
 252 Agnes. 
 
 somewhere. It is nonsense losing the rent of 
 the cottage ; and then^ you know, I could see after 
 him ^vithont giving up everything, and you could 
 have Bevis back. It is far more difficult to find 
 anybody in London than in the country. If 
 you Tidll do that, T undertake to manage it/' 
 said ]Miss Trevelyan. It is true that Sir 
 Roger did not give up his own plan without 
 many objections and a gTcat deal of profane 
 language ; but, then, Beatrice was used to that. 
 She carried her point at last, notwithstanding 
 that her father had the most urgent dislike of 
 spending money; which, as he thought, would 
 have been unnecessary had he been able to de- 
 posit his grandson in the cottage ; but then, 
 nothing could be done without the co-operation 
 of Beatrice, and thus it became necessary to 
 give in. 
 
 Sir Roger went away from this interview 
 SAvearing horribly at himself for having been 
 such a fool as to have anything to do with 
 it, and perhaps it was with a similar sentiment 
 that Beatrice withdrew to her own section of 
 the house — at least, she was paying rather 
 dear for her revenge ; and the idea of the 
 danger she had escaped — the danger of being 
 sent off to Hampshire to a semi-inhabitable 
 cottage, made not to be lived in but to be let.
 
 Miss Trevehjan's Share. 253 
 
 just at tlic moment wlien life is most exciting- 
 and town fullest^ thrilled through her when she 
 thought of it. It was bad enough even to have 
 to go out to the unknown suburban solitudes to 
 look after this tiresome child ; and then^, J\liss 
 Trevelyan was not one for children. It was 
 pleasant to smite Agnes at the moment of her 
 victoiy^ and carry away her boy, and drive her 
 half distra cted wdth anxiety; but still such 
 amusements cost dear, and Beatrice began to see 
 more clearly than at first the difficulties in the 
 way. They could not keep a boy of Walter^s 
 age a strict prisoner; after a while, he would 
 have to go to school, and if the whole matter 
 got A'cnt and came to the ears of the world — 
 which Beatrice's experience told her was but 
 too likely — the result would be little to her ad- 
 vantage. And then Miss Trevelyan, for himself, 
 felt wonderfully little interest in the boy; it was 
 not so much as her brother's son, but as Agnes's 
 son, that she regarded him ; and Agnes had been 
 for a long time her type of opposition and rival- 
 ship. She wanted to humiliate and mortify the 
 woman who had been, as she thought, so much 
 better off than herself — so much more favoured 
 of Heaven ; and to avenge the defeat Agnes had 
 brought upon the house of Trevelyan, and even to 
 punish Walter for presuming to be the heir — he
 
 254 Agnes, 
 
 who was the blacksmitli's grandson. These were 
 the objects that Beatrice placed before her. If any- 
 thought of love had come in — any yearning to- 
 wards the child Avho was her own blood — the 
 chances are that this strange woman would have 
 found herself out in a moment^, and seen through 
 all her own self-excuses ; but she made no 
 account of natural affection so far as her little 
 nephew was concerned^ and thus went on steadily 
 to accomplish what some people would call the 
 decrees of fate. 
 
 It was indeed a moment in which Miss Tre- 
 velyan would have felt it fatal for her interests 
 to leave town, and which made even her occa- 
 sional absence extremely critical ; for, in fact, all 
 this happened very shortly after the time when 
 Beatrice had presented to her a Nabob of the 
 Indian Civil Service, who had grown rich as 
 people never grow rich nowadays. He said he 
 had had the honour to know Miss Trevelyan 
 before he went to India, but was sadly afraid she 
 must have forgotten him. It was not artifice 
 that called up the sudden passing flush which 
 was so becoming to Beatrice, at that startling 
 moment; for this speech and his name together 
 made her aware that it was her young suitor of 
 Heaven knows how many years ago who was 
 speaking to her. Of course, she did not recog-
 
 Miss Trevelyan's Share. 255 
 
 nise him as lie seemed to have recognised her ; 
 iDiit she knew his name, having made much use 
 of it to herself in past years^ as representing 
 Tvhat she was pleased to call the great disap- 
 pointment of her youth. And it was not Miss 
 Trevelyan^s fault if her old lover took it as a 
 personal compliment that she was still Miss 
 Trevelyan. He had not himself married, perhaps 
 because he was constant to his first love, perhaps 
 because he found it most convenient ; but, at all 
 events, he was unmarried, and things, on the 
 whole, looked very promising. 
 
 At such a crisis it may be supposed how serious 
 a matter it would have been had she been com- 
 pelled to go to Hampshire ; it was even very 
 inconvenient to have a secret, and to be 
 obliged to interrupt the natural course of her 
 life in order to look after this tiresome little 
 boy, who, very likely, would try to escape, 
 and make himself as disagreeable as possible. 
 But when she thought of her father^s supposi- 
 tion about Jack Charlton, Beatrice''s heart closed 
 tight against all charitable ideas. The readers 
 of this histoiy will not, however, think, like Sir 
 Roger, that this sentiment was on Jack^s account. 
 Jack was no more to Miss Trevelyan than any 
 other Cornish man whom she was civil to when 
 occasion required ; nor was it on Roger's account.
 
 256 Agnes, 
 
 nor from that sense of inconstancy and disregard 
 for his memory^ which shocked so profoundly the 
 feelings of little Miss Fox at Windholm ; it was 
 because Jack Charlton^ though he was not rich,, was 
 quite as good a gentleman as Roger Trevelyan^ and 
 would vindicate his choice^ and place the black- 
 smithes daughter once again in a position superior 
 to that of her sister-in-law^ who wanted to 
 despise her^ and could not. Naturally, this idea 
 was quite enough to close up all the modes of 
 entrance into Miss Trevelyan^s heart.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 News. 
 
 GXES went home, wheu slie had 
 established Xurse Meado^ys iu 
 charge of ]Mrs. StaiiQekl, with a 
 sense of weight and ])urden on her 
 mind, which all her efforts conld not shake off. 
 It was a lovely summer evening, just betAveen 
 the light and the dark, at the moment when all 
 the tints of the sky are temj^ered, and all the 
 sounds and odoiu's most softened and sweet. 
 Nothing of all that she saw around her gave any 
 warrant to these thoughts. The night air came 
 in her face a little fi'esh, perhaps, but without 
 giving her any excuse to conjure up a storm at 
 sea. On the contrary, it was an air, soft and 
 dewy, with the breath of the hawthorn in it from 
 the lanes. And yet her heart lay in her breast 
 like a stone — but that is a poor image ; it lay in 
 her breast like a wounded bird, making a sudden 
 flutter now and then against the bars of its cage ; 
 
 VOL. III. s
 
 258 Aynes. 
 
 and she could not have given any due reason for 
 the heaviness that was in her. Perhaps it vras 
 thinking of the miserable soul whom she had 
 just left. But then, a woman may be sorry for 
 her neighbours, and yet, if she is a mother, and 
 all is well with her children, there is nothing in 
 the Avorld that can give her such a sense of panic 
 and trouble. It was that a sudden fear had 
 seized her — that horror of great darkness which 
 comes as the wind does, without any one know- 
 ing whence or how. She was saying to herself 
 that there were other women in the world who 
 had lost their children, and why not she? If 
 God could have the heart to take him, the first- 
 born — the only son of his mother ! — it was not 
 irreverence that made her frame her thoughts 
 like this, but a dreadful reality in the position, 
 as if God and she were standing on opposite sides^ 
 and the poor woman, who was His creature, 
 pleading against Him. The only son of his 
 mother, and she a widow ! It was reason enough 
 why man should not take him away from \\q\\ 
 but was it reason enough for God? A great 
 many people, perhaps, would blame Agnes for 
 having such thoughts ; but it is hard not to have 
 them sometimes, as there are other people who 
 know. All this, most likely, was brought inta 
 her mind bv Mrs. Stanfield^s maunderings, which
 
 Neivs. 259 
 
 were cruel eiiougli; but eveu these would not 
 have had such an effect upon Agnes^s mind had 
 she not been discouraged and cast down, and 
 sadly worn out with her deferred hope. And 
 then it seems so natural to a mother that 
 something should happen to her child when she 
 is away from him. There was only God to take 
 care of Walter^ and who could tell what God^s 
 mind was about him — to save or to slay ? It 
 is well for those to whom these heathen thoughts 
 do not come by times_, when darkness covers the 
 earth and the sea. As she walked home alone, 
 with all those soft influences of Natui'e on her 
 way to calm her, her heart now and then started 
 and gave a wild flutter, and then was quiet. It 
 is possible that this mother-passion was, as the 
 French say, the only passion of her life ; and that 
 might be why these fits of panic took her with- 
 out any adequate cause. 
 
 Mrs. Stanfield was ill, as Agnes had foreseen 
 that she was going to be. It was an illness 
 caused by having her own way, and it went 
 rather hard with her, for perhaps she had had 
 her will a day or two too long; and when the 
 fever went to her head, as her attendants said, 
 she talked enough to make Nurse Meadows and 
 Lizzy — and, through them, all the village — more 
 fully acquainted with her past history than even 
 s 3
 
 260 Agnes. 
 
 Stanfield Tvas_, who had divined it^ and separated 
 himself from the dishonour without venturing to 
 ask any questions. Then it was that the truth 
 burst upon the Windholm folks in all its naked 
 horror. It was so extraordinary that some time 
 passed before the village could habituate itself to 
 the idea. And then they began to remember 
 that the eldest of Mrs. Stanfield^s two sons was 
 named Roger^ and to wonder why they had not 
 found it out sooner. To think that these two 
 lads^ who had been the pest of the place^ should 
 be Trevelyans also, in a kind of a way — and that 
 Agnes Stanfield should have married the young 
 gentleman who, without knowing it, was their 
 brother ! It was enough to fill the ^dllage with 
 natural consternation, and supersede all other 
 subjects in the ordinary talk. 
 
 All this, when he came to knoAV of it — and 
 he could not but come to know of a story 
 which was floating about him on the very air — 
 broke the heart of Stanfield. He began to grow 
 an old man — he, who had been a model of vigour 
 and strength up to this last revelation. He 
 went down to the house on the Green in the 
 evening, not caring to look at any one or speak 
 to any one. Disgrace, that dreadful ghost, 
 which is more terrible in his rank than in any 
 other, weighed upon him, and he could not stand
 
 News, 261 
 
 lip against it. To be sure, nobody better than 
 William Stanfield could have explained to any 
 other that a man can be disgraced but by bis own 
 actions. But reason is only good Trben people 
 are in no need of it. He could liave borne up 
 stoutly and cheerfully against any sort of loss or 
 suffering, but shame went to his heart — though 
 he had done nothing to bring shame upon him, 
 but rather was the object of everybodr's pity. 
 Thus it was that discouragement, complete and 
 oyeru'helming, fell on the house on the Green. 
 The little children were gay enough, but the 
 father and daughter would make great efforts to 
 say a few words to each other, and then fall 
 silent and say nothing. There was so little to 
 say that it could be any comfort to hear. 
 
 Jack Charlton, in the meantime, was rush- 
 ing about to all the corners of the island in 
 Mrs. Trevelyan^s service. He had insisted, after 
 all, upon going to Thurso, though that seemed 
 so little use ; and had heard there that the yacht 
 had sailed for Norway, and then that she had 
 been reported off Cork, and then that she had 
 been signalled at the Channel Islands. All this 
 kept Agnes in a perpetual conflict of hope and 
 fear. And the last intelligence was that the 
 yacht was lying at Cowes with her passengers 
 out of her, and all trace of Walter was again
 
 S62 Agnes. 
 
 lost. After tliat Jack Charlton came back and 
 came to see Agnes^ and sat by her^ with very 
 little to say. The only comfort he conld give 
 was, that they conld not keep Walter long in 
 hiding; that he ayouM be sent to school some 
 time ; and that he must tnrn np sooner or later, 
 if Agnes wonld but keep np her heart. She 
 used to smile when she heard this in a heart- 
 breaking way, but made no reply : it seemed the 
 only consolation that could be offered to her now. 
 And all this time Mrs. Stanfield^s fever lasted, 
 and she lay and raved, and made Windholm ac- 
 quainted with all her wretched history, "YikQ a 
 fool as she was." Mr. Freke said, who did not 
 believe very much in delirium, but had a strong 
 man's assured belief, that the body never did any- 
 thing without at least the tacit permission of the 
 mind. Her voice sometimes reached Stanfield in 
 the forge, and then the workmen used to say he 
 changed colour and faltered at his work ; but for 
 all that, the blacksmith returned day by day to 
 his ordinary labour. His was not tlic kind of 
 nature which is made unfit for its work by even 
 the heaviest calamities of life. He said little on 
 any subject, and nothing about that, but went 
 about his daily occupations, and daily passed 
 through the village street, coming and going, 
 leaving to the woman who had shamed his name
 
 Neivs, 263 
 
 and clouded over the end of liis life^, all tlie tend- 
 ance and care wliicli liis toil could procure for 
 her. If he ever spoke about his changed cir- 
 cumstances at all^ it was to say that his daughter 
 had need of him — and what he said was true ; 
 they had need of each other at that moment, as 
 never before in their lives, dearly as they had 
 loA'ed each other; and they were of all the more 
 mutual comfort,, because each had a special 
 wound, and it was not simply one grief between 
 them. Thus the same Providence which, in 
 her heart, Ao-nes feared and doubted so sorely, 
 not knowing what God^s meaning might be, 
 aided her in that moment of trial, and gave her 
 the only support which was possible to her. 
 She was not left alone to bear her suspense by 
 herself. 
 
 Ten or twelve days of utter silence had inter- 
 rupted the thread of Walter's history, as made 
 out by Jack Charlton. Jack himself came as 
 often as he could venture, always bringing with 
 him a sickening expectation ; but he had not 
 been able to obtain the smallest clue. The child 
 had not been taken to TYevelyan, that was 
 certain ; he had not been sent to the Hampshire 
 cottage, w^hich Jack knew to belong to Sir 
 Roger, and, consequently, kept watch upon ; and 
 no information even as to his disembarkation had
 
 264 Agnes, 
 
 been procured at Cowes or Southampton. Mr. 
 Charlton^s idea was tliat lie had been landed at 
 some other part of the coast, but it was so hard 
 to decide where ; and, as it happened, Jack was 
 as before, sitting by Mrs. Trevelyan, tiying to 
 console her with the old argument, that Sir 
 Koger could not keep Walter shut up for ever, 
 and that he must turn up, if she could but have 
 patience, sooner or later, when the second com- 
 munication from AValter arrived. 
 
 It was evening, and the blacksmith had re- 
 turned from the forge, and sat in his easy 
 chair in the Sunday suit which he always com- 
 pelled himself to put on for his daughter's 
 credit, with the newspaper in his hand. But 
 Stanfield, who had been so strong and so 
 upright, sat stooping forward like an old man, 
 holding the paper before him without read- 
 ing it, with that broken aii' which it is impos- 
 sible to mistake, the look of a man exhausted 
 and no more capable of hope. He was not 
 taking any part in the conversation ; indeed, it 
 could scarcely be said that there was any con- 
 versation going on ; Agnes was sitting near the 
 window doing some work, which was more in a 
 kind of deference to the presence of the stranger 
 than any inclination on her part towards the 
 tranquil woman's work for which her heart was
 
 News. 265 
 
 now too fiill. jS'ow and then Mr. Charlton said 
 something to which she responded faintly ; and 
 the voices of the two little gii'ls, and the somid 
 of their plav^ was all that was audible in the 
 intervals. It was jnst then that Walter's second 
 letter was brought to Mrs. Trevelyan. This 
 time it was a large letter^ dii'ected in an nn- . 
 even and imperfect writing, and sealed with a 
 great blotch of red wax, marked with a thimble. 
 She dropped the cover ont of her hands in her 
 eagerness when she had torn it open and saw 
 what it was. Her excitement was not so gi'eat, 
 and yet it was greater than the first time. She 
 no longer expected to find him at once, and 
 come to an end of her anxiety ; and yet her 
 thirst for news of him — any news, was more 
 intense almost than it had ever been before. 
 She left even her father in suspense while she 
 herself read the letter. It was impossible at the 
 fii'st moment, when her heart was beating so 
 loud in her throat that she could hardly breathe, 
 to share the first ncAvs with any one, or to read 
 it aloud : — 
 
 ^' Deaii Mamma, — I have tried ever so often to 
 ^YY\te to you, but they would not let me ; I did 
 not like to do it secret, because they had let me 
 once. Oh mamma, dear, I do so want to see
 
 266 Agnes, 
 
 yoU;, and grandpapa^ and everybody ! I am very 
 unliappy here. I am qnite well, but I am very 
 unhappy. They shnt me up, and then I have 
 to go and play in the garden, and there is no- 
 body to play vrith. Oh, mamma, if you would 
 only come ! Ifs in a village, but I don^t know 
 .the name. I know it^s High Street, and I think 
 it is Hampstead, or Highgate, or Finchley, for I 
 once got a peep of an omnibus with all thi'ee 
 names. Why do they shut me up like this? 
 I have seen my Aunt Beatrice twice. Oh, 
 mamma, donH you think you could find me out ? 
 I am going to try to get out to-night when 
 Be^is is away. If I can get out, I mean to run 
 away and come home, and it will be no good 
 posting this letter ; but 1^11 post it all the same, 
 if I can get out; it's through a window, and I 
 think there is one of the maids that perhaps 
 will helj) me. Dear mamma, good-bye ! and 
 perhaps I shall be able to get out ; and if not, 
 oh "wdll you come and look for me ? for it's just 
 like being in prison, and I would rather die. 
 " Your affectionate Son, 
 
 ^' Walter Trevelyax.-" 
 
 When she had read this over, Agnes began, 
 scarcely knowing what she did, to read it aloud, 
 and then she gave it to her father, who came
 
 Nevjs. 267 
 
 forward to the light to recei^'e it, and go over it 
 again; for snch communications do not enter 
 into the mind at one hearing. 
 
 " Have you seen this V' said Jack Charlton. 
 He took her hand as he held up the paper before 
 her. It was a thing which he had never ven- 
 tured to do before ; and besides,, there was mean- 
 ing in his looks. Agnes was still trembling with 
 the shocks and with the hope. Perhaps he was 
 on his way home even now ; perhaps^, for any- 
 thing she could tell^ he might be coming up the 
 A-illage street — the weary^ blessed little traveller ! 
 She was tembly startled in the midst of her ex- 
 citement^ when Jack Charlton took her hand in 
 this extraordinary way. He took it as a surgeon 
 might have taken it^ who wanted to see how 
 much torture she was capable of bearings and 
 held up before her the paper^ upon which some- 
 thing Avas scrawled in the same uneven and 
 wretched writing in which the letter was 
 directed. It was some time before Agnes, pre- 
 occupied as she Avas, could make out what the 
 sprawling characters meant, or if they meant 
 anything. As she looked at them, hoAvever, 
 the devious lines grew into meaning; and this 
 is what was written : — 
 
 " E^s been and ad a fall out o' Avinder — if is
 
 268 Agnes. 
 
 Mamma can come its best not to lose no 
 time/' 
 
 Such was the brief and awful comment, 
 which shone before Agnes like the writing on 
 the wall before the Eastern king. As she 
 deciphered it she gave a sudden cry, and looked 
 Jack in the face, who still held her hand. 
 Jack Charlton thought afterwards that there 
 was in that cry a sound as if some chord had 
 broken in her heart. That was how he explained 
 it, not being eloquent ; and, for his part, he 
 held her hand fast, and responded to her look 
 with all the pity and sympathy of which he was 
 capable. The grasp of his hand, the look of his 
 eyes, had nothing in them of selfish sentiment ; 
 they said only, " I am ready to go with you and 
 stand by you to the end of the world.'' Agnes re- 
 covered her composure — or if not her composure, 
 something, at least, which stood in its place — be- 
 fore her father, whose faculties were not so vivid 
 as of old, and who was still absorbed in Walter's 
 letter, had time to perceive that anything new 
 had happened. Then she loosened her hand 
 from Jack Charlton's grasp, and got up, and 
 turned to go away. 
 
 '' Tell my father," she said ; " I will go and 
 put on my bonnet — it is time for the train."
 
 News. 269 
 
 As for Stanfield;, when he saw that fatal 
 postscript, it ovei-powercd him so entirely that he 
 had to sit down to keep himself from falling. 
 His own trials had weakened him mind and 
 body. He was an old man, and his strong 
 vitality seemed to have been weakened at the 
 fountain-head ; a mist came over his eyes, and a 
 faintness over his heart. " I am no good to go 
 with her ; God help my darling V' he said, with 
 an exceeding bitter cry — a cry which forced the 
 tears into Jack Charlton^s eyes. Almost more 
 than the despair of the mother, who was able to 
 do everything that God might require, to the last 
 throb of her heart, for her boy, was the despair 
 of the old man, who, for the first time, found 
 himself unfit for the emergency ; unable to guide, 
 and help, and sustain his child; altogether 
 incapable of bearing her burden for her. He 
 sat leaning his head upon his two hands before 
 the sympathetic spectator, who, however, was 
 ready to swear a son's service to him, and a 
 brother''s help to Agnes — silent in the bitterness 
 of his heart. All this time the two little 
 children were playing at the other end of the 
 room. There was nothing extraordinary to 
 them in the agitation about the letter, or in 
 the grandfather's hopeless attitude, with his face 
 bent down upon his hands ; and their merry
 
 270' Agnes. 
 
 little voices ran on all tlie same^ adding the last 
 tragic tonch of comparison to the scene. When 
 Agnes came downstairs, ready to go out, and 
 with a little travelling-bag in her hand, Stanfield 
 ronsed himself from his torpor of incaj^acity and 
 despair. 
 
 ^' My darling, keep np your heart," he said ; 
 " Mr. Charlton will do you more good than me. 
 Vyg turned an old man in a day. But 1^11 come 
 after you — 1^11 come after you. And if you 
 donH find the place?" he said, turning with an 
 anxious look to Jack. 
 
 " My sister is in town. I will take Mrs. 
 Trevelyan there," said Jack ; and as he spoke he 
 could not restrain a sudden flush, which was 
 partly exquisite pleasure, and partly intense pain. 
 It was the first time he had thought of himself 
 since he perceived the writing on the envelope ; 
 and now to feel himself the only man ayIio could 
 stand by Agnes in her trouble, instinctively 
 accepted and trusted by her, and yet counting 
 for nothing, and having no place whatever in 
 her mind, which was filled with Walter — this 
 mingling of sensations made itself visible in a 
 sudden hot flush of colour; but nobody paid 
 Jack so much attention as to remark even this ; 
 their thoughts were fixed so upon one point, that 
 they were incapable of observing anything beside.
 
 News. 27] 
 
 Agnes smiled faintly as slie met her father's 
 eye. '' I shall find him/^ she said, thongh she 
 had scarcely breath enough to make herself 
 andiblc;, calm as her appearance was. And then 
 she kissed her babies and her father hnrriedly, 
 and hastened away, not to waste her strength. 
 The evening, when they went out into it, ont of 
 the excitement and the gloom that seemed to 
 have collected in the atmosphere indoors, was so 
 tranquil and so sweet, that it seemed an aggra- 
 vation of their trouble. And as for the Wind- 
 holm folks, when they saw Mrs. Trevelyan pass, 
 leaning on ^Ir. Charlton^s arm, they smiled 
 to each other, and were glad like good neigh- 
 bours — having been softened much in their 
 judgment by a consciousness of " all she had 
 gone through'^ — to see that she had been per- 
 suaded to take the air a little. " It would do 
 her good, poor thing!" they said, and the good 
 people smiled, but with a smile that was full of 
 charity — for, after all, as INIr. Freke said. Provi- 
 dence seemed to owe her a little consolation. 
 Such was the opinion entertained by the village of 
 that unusual spectacle. It was accepted as a tacit 
 ratification of the rumoiu', and acknowledgment of 
 Agnes's plans. And yet more than one person 
 remarked that it was droll they never spoke to 
 each other, and that Mrs. Trevelyan kept her
 
 272 Agnes. 
 
 veil do^vn so obstinately; though, indeed, for 
 that matter, the chances were that she was a little 
 shy, or even ashamed of herself. " For when 
 things is at their best, a second marriage ain^t 
 never like a first,^^ said one of the wise women 
 of Windholm ; which, no doubt, was the ex- 
 planation of the whole matter. And nobody 
 imagined that Agnes leaned upon Mr. Charlton's 
 arm almost without knowing whose arm it was, 
 because her limbs were scarcely able to support 
 her — and did not speak because her heart was 
 fluttering to her very lips, and she could not. 
 She passed rapidly through the village, as in a 
 trance, seeing nothing, and Avas seated in the 
 railway carriage before it occurred to her even 
 to think where she was going. Then she asked 
 with parched lips, " What shall we do to find out?'^ 
 Jack Charlton understood what she meant, 
 because in his intense sympathy he had been 
 following even her thoughts, though she did not 
 confide them to him — and now he took the en- 
 velope of AValter's letter out of his pocket. " I 
 suppose it has been the maid whom he hoped 
 Avould assist him,'' said Jack. " She must have 
 got a head, or perhaps a heart, which serves the 
 same purpose sometimes. She has put the ad- 
 dress like a rational creature. AVe have nothing 
 to do but go there."
 
 Neios. 273 
 
 " God bless lier !" was all that Agnes could 
 say. It did not occur to lier^ as it did for a 
 moment to Jack^ tliat the address might possibly 
 be intended not to guide^ but to mislead. She 
 accepted it -«'ith a simplicity which gave him 
 faith in it, and then she relapsed into silence. 
 It was a kind of consolation to her to see the 
 long flats of the level landscape flying past the 
 window of the carriage,, and to feel the wind of 
 the rapid moYcment in her face ; but her voice 
 was stifled in her throat, and her heart in her 
 breast, before they had made all the necessary 
 changes, and began to ascend the hill at Hamp- 
 stead. It was there that Walter had been taken, 
 and it was necessary to slacken the pace of the 
 horses going up the hill, and the slow progress 
 made Agnes desperate. All this time Jack 
 Charlton sat by her side, careful of her as a 
 brother, and without doing or saying anything, 
 loyal gentleman as he was, to call himself to 
 her attention. There are people who exchange 
 love-looks, and are comforted in their deepest 
 trouble — but Mrs. Trevelyan was not of that 
 fashion of woman; neither was Jack Charlton a 
 man to take advantage of his position by so much 
 as a glance. He sat by her, close to her, her 
 sole guardian and help, and saw that in her heart 
 there was not a thought of him — and perhaps 
 
 VOL. III. T
 
 374 Agnes, 
 
 he felt it hard ; but a woman who is a mother is 
 different from other women ; and it was thus that 
 Agnes pursued her anxious way through the 
 summer darkness^ through the soft^ odorous, 
 dreamy gloom, now verging on midnight, to find 
 her boy.
 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 How it Ended, 
 
 T was a house enclosed in a garden 
 surrounded with walls clothed and 
 rustling mth ivy and jessamine. 
 Some of those white flowers dropped 
 upon Agnes's head^ among the hea^y folds of her 
 veil, as she passed underneath the long sweej)ing 
 branches,, and lay there enclosed till the next 
 time she put it on, which was not until sad and 
 sore events had made the hours look like ages. 
 The door was opened by a maid, not very clean 
 nor particularly prepossessing, who, nevertheless, 
 went forward eagerly at the sight of Agnes. The 
 first words this woman said went to !Mrs. Tre- 
 velyan^s heart like a sentence of death. She 
 said, " Is it you, ma^am, as is his mamma l!^' 
 Agnes was not able to answer except by a hurried 
 nod of her head. She went in, into the little 
 square hall which looked so peaceful and pleasant ; 
 the light of the bright little lamp dazzled her 
 T 2
 
 276 Agnes. 
 
 eyes coming out of the darkness^ and the sudden 
 confirmation of her fears made her sick and 
 giddy. She stumbled and tottered for the "mo- 
 ment^ so that Jack Charlton hastened forward to 
 support her^ and the maid came to her side. 
 But Agnes was not the kind of woman that can 
 faint on an. emergency — consciousness neyer for- 
 sook her in these gi-eat crises of her life. The 
 momentary blindness, and darkness, and tot- 
 tering, lasted only while one could draw breath. 
 Then, as she stopped to recover herself, she 
 turned to the woman who had admitted her. 
 '^ Was it you V Mrs. Trevelyan asked ; and un- 
 connected as the question was, it needed no ex- 
 planation to the kind soul who was to be sure a 
 little untidy, and did not know, as her fellow» 
 seryant said, how to keep herself to herself. 
 
 '' I hope as I didn^t do no harm,^' she said. 
 "There wasn^t none intended. He was took 
 bad and he cried for his mamma. What could 
 I do ? And I'm as thankful as I can be that 
 you're in time." 
 
 When IMrs. Trevelyan heard this she started 
 again as if something had stung her. In time \ 
 It seemed to imply everything that was most hard 
 to think of. She turned her face towards the 
 stair without very clearly seeing it, and went 
 straight forward, stumbling against a bench thai
 
 How it Ended. 277 
 
 "was ill her way^ as in her present state cf mind 
 she would have stnmbled against anything 
 animate or inanimate that stood between her and 
 her child. And what made it even more and 
 more temble was that her companion made no 
 sort of effoii: to restrain her. The maid eri- 
 dently felt AValtei'^s circumstances to be too ur- 
 gent for any ceremony. She followed Agnes up 
 the stairs with a promptitude that said more 
 than a long explanation. As for Jack Charlton, 
 after he had stood looking after them for a 
 minute or two_, he set straight again the bench 
 which Agnes had stumbled against, and sat down 
 on it with a kind of disconsolate patience. If 
 there are times in life when a strong man feels 
 the good of his strength, there are also moments 
 when its utter uselessness and impotence comevery 
 clearly before him. He had been of a great deal 
 of service to ]\Irs. Trevelyan, and he had in his 
 heart a longing to do everything for her — to save 
 her from every pain ; and yet at this moment all 
 that he could do was to sit down forlorn outside 
 and wait for her until she had done the work, 
 and, perhaps, suffered the agony Avith which he 
 could not interfere. This sense was bitter to his 
 heart, for Agnes had grown dearer and dearer 
 to him, though he scarcely knew how. He sat 
 down against the wall in the little vacant hall
 
 378 AgneSk 
 
 to waylay the maid if slie should appear again, 
 aud obtain some information if that was possible ; 
 and to Avait for Mrs. Trevelyan, if, perhaps, she 
 shoidd want anything — support and succour, 
 perhaps — or even if it should only be a medicine 
 to fetch, or some one to go for the doctor. Jack 
 was so honest and thorough in his sentiments 
 that he sat down quite simply Avith his back 
 against the wall, waiting very sad and very anxious 
 to know if there was anything he could do. 
 
 And Agnes, in the blindness and dumbness of 
 her great suffering, went upstairs. She lingered 
 for a moment at the door of the room, struck at 
 the very height of her eagerness with that reluc- 
 tance to look her sorrow in the face, which some- 
 times strikes by moments a much -suffering souL 
 She had not asked any questions about Walter, 
 Avhat had happened to him, or how he was. He 
 might have only had a severe accident for any- 
 thing she could tell, or he might be dying. She 
 stopped for that second at the door, and her 
 mind naturally rushed forward to the worst, and 
 then her heart roused up and contradicted her 
 mind. It seemed to her as if it were not 
 possible — as if God could not have the heart to 
 do it; and then, it occurred to her that she 
 was going into a sick room, where there ought to 
 be no unnecessary bustle or noise. She put ojff
 
 How it Ended, 279 
 
 her bonnet and cloak where she was standing 
 and laid them softly down in a corner ; and all 
 these accompanying thoughts moved so swiftly, 
 that the maid, who was with her_, thought she 
 had only paused to take off her cloak, and won- 
 dered at her self-possession. At this moment 
 Agnes heard a voice from the room in which all her 
 anxieties seemed centered. It said, " What do I 
 want ? — I want mamma. Aunt Beatrice. You are 
 kind enough — oh, yes, I know you are kind ; but 
 I want mamma — mamma ! and now I canH go 
 to her, though she will be looking for me V^ and 
 then there came a sound of tears. 
 
 It was at that moment that Beatrice Ti'evelyan 
 gave a strange cry and stood aghast to see a 
 black figure, with uncovered head and the air 
 of a woman in her own house, go up to the bed- 
 side. Miss Trevelyan thought she was looking 
 at a spirit, so extraordinary was the apparition. 
 She caught hold of the bedpost to support her- 
 self, and looked on with a consternation that 
 drove all the blood back upon her heart. If she 
 could but have seen the cloak and the bonnet 
 which lay outside on the landing, they would 
 have reassured her a little. It was the sight 
 of Agnes in her indoor dress, as if she be- 
 longed to the house, which struck Beatrice so 
 strangely. Was it possible that anxiety and grief
 
 280 • Agnes. 
 
 had. killed the mother, and that it was her spirit 
 which was coming to nurse her boy? While 
 Miss Ti'cvelyan stood trembling, Agnes went up to 
 her chikVs bedside. She said_, " ^ly darling, I have 
 come to you f' and bent down over him and took 
 his two hands in hers, and put her face down 
 upon his. Though it seemed to herself as if her 
 heart was beating audibly within her, she held. 
 Walter's hands fast to tranquillize him, and 
 smiled, as if she had but parted from him yes- 
 terday. ^^ Hush, hush \" she said ; " be good 
 and keep quiet — I am here, my own boy !" For 
 her part, she was not conscious of Beatrice. 
 Nothing and nobody in the world could have 
 divided her attention with that little face on the 
 pillow. She bent over him like a bird over her 
 nest, with a satisfaction and an anguish incon- 
 ceivable. What was it that was wi'itten in Wal- 
 ter's face, in the widened circles round his eyes, 
 and the wonderful look of gravity and age that 
 had come to him? — Something which tore with 
 sharp violence her very heart asunder, and yet 
 was of all sights the dearest to her in the world. 
 Her babies at home, all safe and peaceful, passed 
 out of Mrs. Trevelyan's mind — her father, and all 
 the lighter ties that bound her to her life. She 
 saw or thought of nothing in the world but her 
 boy, her firstborn — the child who had been hers
 
 How it Ended. 281 
 
 for so many long svrcet years, and yet was God's 
 first, and niiglit soon be Iiers no more. She liad 
 no eyes, no ears, no capacity for anything but 
 that he was here, and she had him now, and 
 perhaps, God knew, might soon be without him. 
 The bitterness was the bitterness of death, and 
 yet the sweetness was more than that of Para- 
 dise. She took him out of the strange hands 
 that had misused him so cruelly, without even 
 being aware of any natural rage at such an 
 injmy; and saw no more and thought no more 
 of her enemy, who was trembling and holding 
 by the bed, than if she had been a woman cut 
 out of wood or stone. 
 
 As for Walter, the child's joy was wonderful 
 to see. His delight fought against the solemn 
 look in his face, and for a moment got the better 
 of it, and gleamed like wintiy sunshine from the 
 edges of that overwhelming shadow. " Is it 
 you — is it really you ?^' he cried. " I have 
 dreamt it so often, and always woke up ; oh, 
 mamma, I think I can feel you; I don't think 
 I am dreaming — is it you?" 
 
 " ]My darling, you must keep still,'' Agnes said ; 
 and then Walter accepted the whole matter as if 
 it had been the most natui'al thing in the world. 
 He had no longer any strong sentiment to war 
 against his weakness ; he yielded himself up
 
 282 Agnes, 
 
 with a cliikVs unquestioning confidence. One 
 thing was snre^ that since his mother was there 
 all was well;, and there was no longer anything 
 to desn'e. He held her hand against his cheek 
 and caressed it^, and clasped his arms round it. 
 From that moment he was once more wrapped 
 round and round in natural safety and tran- 
 quillity^ such as make the profoundest happiness 
 of a child. 
 
 " Take me home_, mamma, to our own home/^ 
 he said, looking up at her with the eyes that 
 had no doubt in them ; and Agnes said, " Yes, 
 my darling/^ She said yes, and she knew when 
 she said it that she should never take him home. 
 Ah, my God ! was it as hard to be crucified ? 
 All the world receded from the mother and the 
 child, and left them there alone. If matters had 
 been less serious, Agnes would have been eager 
 to ask how it was, and if everything had been 
 done that could be done ; but in the air of 
 the sick room, and in the solemn little face of 
 the dpng child, there was something which 
 hushed inquiry. When there is no hope there 
 is no ground for asking questions. Yet the 
 spectator who was looking on at this speechless 
 junction of the living and the dying, could not, 
 when the first fright was over, keep silent. She 
 drew close to Agnes, and at length plucked at
 
 How it Ended. 283 
 
 lier sleeve^ seeing there was no otlier -way of 
 gaining lier attention. Wlien ]Mrs. Trevelvan 
 looked np she saw a face^, which she could 
 scarcely recognise^ hovering over her like an 
 apparition from the clouds. It was the face of 
 Beatrice^ so pallid and stricken with teiTor^ so 
 contracted with care and self-reproach, so shaken 
 out of its pride and high estate, that for the first 
 moment Agnes did not recognise whose face it 
 was. 
 
 ^^ It was not my fault/^ Beatrice said in a kind 
 of hoarse whisper ; even at that moment her heart 
 sunk within her with envy. Agnes was suflfering 
 as Miss Trevelyan had never suffered in her life. 
 The cross had just been laid upon her with a 
 heavier and more crushing weight than Beatrice 
 knew anything of; and yet the woman whom 
 God had not even taken the pains to bestow 
 suffering upon, looked at the other whose heart 
 was breaking under it, with an env}^ beyond ex- 
 pression. She en\ied even the abstraction, the 
 momentary wonder at her apology which woke 
 in Agnes^s eyes. She had never been so deeply 
 stinick from Heaven as to be deadened to the 
 lesser evils of human enmity and opposition. 
 She envied Agnes her heart which was breaking, 
 her anguish which was bitterer than death ; for 
 never, never in her paltry life, had such shadows.
 
 284 Agnes. 
 
 wliich were reserved by God for his cliosen, 
 given grandeur and dignity to her. 
 
 " Your fault V said Agnes, looking in lier 
 face with a slow apprehension of her Avords. 
 '^ Oh no ! It is nobody's fault — except God." 
 She did not know what she was saying. She 
 was angry with her Father, poor soul ; and she 
 knew Him so well that she dared say it. He 
 could have saved her child from the death that 
 was coming — if He would; and He had not 
 willed it. It was His fault, and the creature 
 He had made upbraided Him — He who had 
 taken to Himself the supreme luxury of dying 
 for the world He loved ; and yet He would not 
 let her die for the son of her heart. Ah me ! 
 the pulses were going so steadily in her veins 
 while they were failing, failing in her child's, 
 for whom she would have counted it joy to drain 
 them drop by drop. She put away with her 
 hand the other woman, the poor human thing 
 that in her feeble way was to blame. She had 
 no heart to think of secondary means at such a 
 moment. She had to do with God only, who 
 has the issues of life and death in His hand. 
 
 As for Beatrice, though this house had been 
 chosen as a place in which to hide Sir Roger's 
 heir from his mother — though he had been 
 brought here to satisfy her old envy, her old
 
 Hoiv it Ended. 2S5 
 
 rage a<2:ainst tlie woman of whom ProWdence liad 
 made a favoarite and treated so miicli better 
 than herself — she withdrew without a word, and 
 left AYalter^s mother in possession of the place. 
 Nobody said or tlionght that it was not [Mrs. 
 Trevelyan's own house into which she had en- 
 tered. Tlie doctor came and he asked no ques- 
 tions, nor even looked as if he thought it strange. 
 Beatrice went down below and lived there, un- 
 sleeping and uneating, like Agnes herself, but 
 possessed by a kind of despair, and guilty horror, 
 and miserable impotence, instead of the dreadful 
 anguish, and composure, and familiar words and 
 smiles that Averc above. But this change, 
 tliough it made ^A' alter happy, did nothing for 
 the little bniised body which even happiness and 
 safety could not cure. He had fallen out of 
 the window in his attempt to escape; and his 
 injuries were such, that from the first there 
 had been nothing to hope. He might linger 
 a few days, more or less, but he could not 
 live. 
 
 All this Agnes heard, and yet had to bear 
 it, and to know that nothing in this life was 
 possible, except to comfort and solace him a 
 little. Her bonnet and shawl lay outside on the 
 landing where she had placed them, nobody 
 having had the heart to carry them away ; and
 
 286 Agyies. 
 
 the white stars from the jessamine lay all covered 
 up in the thick folds of her crape veil. Stanfield 
 followed her the same evening, and came into 
 the room in the middle of the night Tvith such 
 a heartbroken face that the cheerfid mother sent 
 him away. " "We are telling stories to make us 
 sleepy/^ she said, with that smile which was all 
 the sunshine remaining in the world for Walter ; 
 and took her place again by the bedside,, and 
 took up once more the thread of the never- 
 ending, oft-beginning story, which beguiled the 
 pain and tedium of the death-bed. "When Stan- 
 field went downstairs, he found Jack Charlton 
 still sitting, forlorn, in the hall. He had not 
 been wanted for anything, and yet he had not 
 the heart to go away, or even to change his 
 position. While Agnes sat telling stories by 
 Walter's death-bed, the two men kept together 
 downstairs, with blank, miserable faces, listening 
 to every sound. There were many smiles in 
 the sick room, and even little thrills of feeble 
 laughter; but in the other parts of the house 
 nobody could smile. It had all come so quickly, 
 so suddenly, to all except the two chief actors in 
 the scene. As for W^alter, it seemed to him as 
 if he had always been ill and in bed, and to his 
 mother as if she had known this fate for years, 
 and had never done anything but nurse him and
 
 How it Ended. 287 
 
 "tt^atch liim ; biit^ on tlie other liand^ Beatrice 
 Trevclyan was saying to herself — Oh, if she had 
 but yielded yesterday to the suggestion made by 
 her own comfort, and sent back the li\dng, long- 
 ing cliild to the mother, from whom all her skill 
 could not detach him ! and Jack Charlton 
 thought if he had but been a little more anxious 
 in his search ; and even the kind, untidy house- 
 maid — if she had but di^dned sooner what was in 
 the little prisoner's heart ! To think that he had 
 been well and strong only twenty-four hours 
 ago ! — this filled everybody with an additional 
 despair down below; but in the sick room they 
 were beyond any such thought. 
 
 Great anguish of body or mind has the effect 
 of superseding time; it seemed to Mrs. Tre- 
 A-elyan as if she had been for years telling 
 stories, smiling and caressing her dying child, 
 and in her heart saying to God that it was 
 He who had done it. No doubt it was He 
 who had done it — the Father, who hateth no- 
 thing that he hath made ; the Son, who alone in 
 all the world could taste the supreme blessedness 
 of dying for those He loved. Ah, me ! they 
 know what is best up in those tender, inexorable 
 heavens ! But do not you think it was hard 
 upon her, who could see no farther, that the 
 poor soul could only smile and kiss him^ and tell
 
 288 Agnes. 
 
 liim lier ^voefiil, clieerfiil story^ and could not die 
 for her first-born child ? 
 
 This went on for two of those long recur- 
 rences of light and darkness, which people who 
 have nothing particular on their mind call day 
 and night; two days — but there was not be- 
 tween the mother and the child any of those 
 conversations about death and heaven which 
 sometimes occur in similar circumstances, and 
 which are so heartbreaking and so sweet. '\^^ alter 
 knew he was ill, but he did not know nor think 
 anything about death, and it did not occur to 
 Agnes to bring in that new thought, to thrill 
 with wonder and apj)rehension the little mind 
 which could not understand it. They said their 
 prayers together, and by times, when he was 
 able, Walter would tell his mother about what 
 had happened in his absence, and how he had 
 longed for her ; and then they would return to 
 the story-telling 
 
 But I who write cannot give you any account 
 of these days, oh my friends, because I know too 
 well how such days pass. The world went and 
 came all round and about this dim chamber, and 
 the doctor entered from time to time, and so 
 did Stanfield, who had a right, and even 
 Beatrice, and the kind maid; and the summer 
 sun shone all round, and tried hard to get in at
 
 How it Ended. 289 
 
 the windows, to make his specious pretence that 
 life is sweet ; and, at the same time, the moments, 
 which no one could arrest, swept on, and the 
 hours ended one by one, and the will of God 
 worked itself out. Xo doubt it was the will of 
 God. It was He who was doing it, and not 
 men and enemies, such as worked out Da^Hid^s 
 afflictions in the Psalms ; so that even the 
 Psalms were not the comfort to Agnes that they 
 are to many a mourner. It w^as God only who 
 was against her; and it seemed as if it would 
 have been so small a thing for Him to have 
 healed instead of killing. As for little "Walter, 
 he was troubled with no such questions. He 
 grew confused by times in his mind, and some- 
 times did not know his mother, but was always 
 capable of being roused up to recognise her, and 
 find all the clouds clear away in the sense of her 
 presence. And then it was all over in two davs, 
 and the little life became perfect, ^^ rounded with 
 a sleep. ^'' I tell you again, my friends, I who 
 write Agnes Trevelyan^s story, that I cannot teU 
 you, step by step, how this came about. Some- 
 body at last took the poor woman out of the 
 room where Walter was no longer — led her awav 
 awful in the force of her life and self-control, 
 unable to faint, or fall ill, or lose anyhow for a 
 moment the sense of what had befallen her. 
 
 VOL. III. u
 
 290 Affnes. 
 
 Tims it all encled_, God knows why. He who 
 had taken the trouble^ by the slow processes of 
 nature, to bring the child into the world, and 
 keep him there so many sweet years ; to take 
 care of him in his childish illnesses, and temper 
 the wind to him, and keep the little heart beat- 
 ing in his breast ; and, more than that, to put in 
 him all manner of budding thoughts, and com- 
 prehensions, and dear suggestions of what was 
 to come — of what was never to come. If any- 
 body on earth could tell why or what it meant, 
 it might be a little consolation ; but then, perhaps, 
 even that consolation would have been but of 
 little use to Agnes Ti'evelyan, as she knelt down, 
 crushed down under the weight of the cross 
 which her Father had lain on her, and which she 
 did not know how to bear. 
 
 And thus it had all come to an end — all their 
 anxiety, and their search, and everything that 
 had been most interesting for months past in 
 the lives of the three people who mourned most 
 for Walter in that Hampstead cottage. To 
 think it should have taken so large a place in 
 their minds, and occupied them with so many 
 labours, and yet end in a moment, like the 
 snapping of a thread ! All the hopes that had 
 been centered in the boy, and all the schemes 
 against him, and all the anxieties — ^where he
 
 Hoiv it Ended. 291 
 
 was, and who had charge of him; and all the 
 dear daily cares, ever recurring sweetly with every 
 new vicissitude, which had once done so much 
 to charm his mother^ s heart back again to life — 
 all over in one brief breathless moment ! This^ 
 perhaps, was what Jack Charlton was thinking, 
 and even to some extent Beatrice Trevelyan; 
 and, indeed, Stanfield too a little, who had 
 still his child, though hers was gone. But as 
 for Agnes, I cannot tell you what she was 
 thinking ; there are so many, oh ! so many, 
 who hioiv ; and it would be hopeless to tell 
 you who are outside, good, kind people as 
 you are ; you too will understand, if ever it 
 pleases God to cut you in portions, and carry 
 you away piecemeal, through those darkling 
 passages which are the way to His heaven. It 
 was a strange household that evening ; and it 
 was a lovely evening, so fresh, and tender, and 
 sweet, breathing of nothing but peace and bless- 
 edness. Jack Charlton went and came, going 
 about the dreadful business, which, though he 
 could not do anything else for Agnes, he could 
 spare her; and Stanfield went up and down 
 stairs, into the room where she was, and into 
 another room still more sacred, and back again 
 to the hall, where Jack Charlton, who had 
 grown a comfort to him in his weakness, might 
 u 2
 
 292 Ag)ies. 
 
 be expected ; and in another room Beatrice 
 Ti-evelyan, for the first time in her life, down 
 npon her knees_, in the abasement of a consci- 
 ousness which felt like crime, was crying to God 
 that she never would forgive herself, and crying 
 wildly for His forgiveness in the same breath. 
 And there enthroned in the centre of the 
 house, as in all tlieir hearts, was lying, all 
 shrouded and silent, that which had been AValter 
 Ti'evelyan ; and all the young flowers were grow- 
 ing, and the soft dews falling, and the sound of 
 children's voices in the golden sunset air, though 
 this child neither lieard nor saw. That was how 
 it ended abruptly, Jike a thread suddenly snapped 
 upon the wheel, when nobody was thinking; 
 and no one yet could understand the dread cer- 
 tainty, the blank and final repose,^ which had 
 succeeded to so much anxiety and suspense. 
 He was dead, and hope was dead, and ^dth hope 
 fear ; and yet, at the same time, the eager throbs 
 of the old anguish had not learned to cease con- 
 tending with the awful stillness of the new. 
 They still started at the sounds outside, as if, 
 perhaps, it was a dream they had been dreaming, 
 and he, who now needed no name, might still 
 come in, all welcome and glad, at the blessed 
 door.
 
 p::^*^; ,^?;^. :^ 
 
 
 1^^^^ 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 After the End. 
 
 iT lias been said,, in the earlier part 
 of tliis history^ that Agnes Trevelyan 
 liad in no way an exceptionally hard 
 fate. The griefs of her early days 
 were^ not that her husband was cruel to her, or 
 wittingly unkind^ or that there was any want of 
 love between them : it was only the common 
 lot^ with its drawbacks and compensations^ that 
 had fallen upon a creature only half-awakened 
 out of the ideal, and seeking the absolute in all 
 things, as is the manner of youth. And now, in 
 the moment of her deepest distress, Agnes Avas 
 not left utterly desolate, as some women are. 
 She had her father by her, who loved her 
 above evcn'thinsr in the world ; and she had 
 Cliarlton, who loved her too, and Avould fain have 
 taken his place beside her, and supported her in 
 all her afflictions. Neither of the two could 
 enter with her into the sacred innermost chamber
 
 294 Agnes. 
 
 of sorrow. But that was no lack of love, no 
 faintness of sympathy, but only the human dis- 
 ability which sentences every human creature in 
 the supreme moments of existence to be alone. 
 She thought the father of her child, had he been 
 there, could have gone with her and shared all 
 her heart; but most likely, had Roger been 
 alive, his wdfe would not have been able to enter- 
 tain that dear delusion. She was alone, because 
 to be alone was inevitable to humanity, not be- 
 cause she was abandoned by dear love and un- 
 speakable sympathy. She recognised this dimly in 
 her own mind, though she got little consolation 
 from it ; for it seemed to urge upon her more and 
 more the sense that man would have spared her 
 . in her widowhood and weakness, but that God 
 had not spared her ; and it was so hard to see why. 
 It was when she was trusting in Him, clinging 
 to Him, with prayer on her lips and faith in her 
 heart, that the Father had turned upon her and 
 struck her all unawares. It was He who had 
 taken the part of the cruel rich man, and taken 
 the one laml:) ou.t of the poor man^s fold; and 
 her heart bled and sobbed out of all its wounds 
 with the wonder of a baffled trust and the sore 
 humiliation of disappointed love. She was 
 stunned and silenced in her temble sui'j)rise, and 
 could not understand it, nor find any clue to the
 
 After the End, 295 
 
 dark and dread mysterj^. And then God did not 
 give her any of those softenings which He 
 bestows npon weaker people. The spectators 
 said to each other that it was well her health did 
 not snffer; but^ in reality, that was one of the 
 hard circumstances of her lot. She could not 
 get to be unconscious ; none of those merciful 
 films of bodily suffering which sometimes dim the 
 strained sight for a moment,, came over her eyes. 
 She was unaware, indeed, of having any body, 
 and lived without its aid, as she could have ima- 
 gined, feeling every pang of the soul to the 
 uttermost, and drinking to the last dregs the cup 
 that had been given her to drink. 
 
 When everything was over in the melancholy 
 house, Beatrice, who had stayed all this time 
 in the cottage without very well knomng 
 why, asked to see Mrs. Trevelyan. The 
 house had grown to be Mrs. Trevelyan^s house, 
 unconsciously to everybody; and no one had 
 made any account of Beatrice, who kept in her 
 own room, and felt the shame and misery of her 
 position Avith a force which did not occur to any 
 one else; for naturally she was more interested 
 in herself and what she had done than any one 
 else was. And then something had happened to 
 Miss Trevelyan besides the death which had oc- 
 curred in the family. The morning that Walter
 
 296 Agnes. 
 
 was laid in his grave^ while she in her heart was 
 feeling herself his murderer, a letter was brought 
 to her which made a great change in her life. 
 It made an end of the petty schemes for which 
 she despised herself, without being able to aban- 
 don them, and it opened the only life which she 
 thought worth living — the long- delayed and 
 hoped-for existence — at last before her. 
 
 Beatrice stood aghast when she had read the 
 letter, wondering at first, with pallid cheeks and 
 heart that had stopped beating, whether there 
 might not be some punishment deeper than any- 
 thing she had dreamed of hid beneath this appa- 
 rent happiness. She could not believe it was 
 actually true that at last good fortune and com- 
 fort, and something worth living for, should come 
 to her for the first time, just as the people round 
 her were preparing to carry away the little victim 
 of her selfish pride to his grave. After all her 
 abasement and suffering, it seemed to her more 
 like an exquisite revenge which somebody was 
 taking upon her than a real and substantial good 
 fortune. It was the man whom Beatrice within 
 herself called her first love — though, to tell the 
 truth, she never had been sufficiently interested 
 in him to have given up anything for his sake — 
 he to whom she had been re -introduced but 
 lately, and who, if he had been like her, would
 
 After the End. 297 
 
 have forgotten lier in lier absence — it was lie 
 who wrote offering to her his good hearty and 
 honest hand, and comfortable fortune. He 
 had loved her all along (or at least he said 
 so), as she sometimes tried to flatter herself 
 she had loved him ; and he accepted tenderly 
 the explanation of her disappearance which had 
 been current among her friends — to wit, that Miss 
 Trevelyan was nursing her little nephew in an ill- 
 ness. ^' It was a dreadful mesalliance, you know/' 
 Beatrice's friends said, '^ and these sort of mothers 
 are no good to their children." And so it hap- 
 pened that Miss Trevelyan' s suitor had the most 
 earnest and admiring belief that she had gone 
 to do a mother's duty to the little invalid 
 whose own mother was unworthy of that sacred 
 office. 
 
 It would be saying little to say that Beatrice 
 trembled when she received this letter. A young 
 girl recei^dng her lover's declaration after misunder- 
 standing, and doubt, and delay, could not have 
 been half so much excited as was Miss Trevel- 
 yan. She grew pale, aU the blood went back out 
 of her veins upon her heart, and her whole frame 
 shook with the violence of the shock. If it 
 could be believed in, it was a higher conclusion 
 than she had for years hoped to reach to — for 
 the man who thus offered to her a new life was
 
 298 Agnes. 
 
 one who could put her in harmony with good- 
 nesSj and throw a certain tender light even over 
 the petty struggles of her past existence. If it 
 could be believed in ! But then that new voice — 
 that voice of true affection which Miss Trevelyan 
 was so little used to — awoke in her a certain 
 impulse of truthfulness which had never been 
 utterly dead in her mind, and yet was new to 
 her under the new form it took. A certain lin- 
 gering fundamental sincerity had come many a 
 time in the way of Beatrice's plans, hindering 
 her from taking the last step of social dissimu- 
 lation, preventing her even occasionally from 
 accepting a man whom she had pursued, 
 but whom she could not finally make up her 
 mind to marry, and betraying her at unsuitable 
 moments into a revelation of her natural senti- 
 ments, which she herself regarded with disgust 
 after it was over, but could not prevent. This, 
 however, was different from the new impulse 
 which seized upon Beatrice. First of all, startled 
 nature, seeing the prize within its grasp, thought 
 in a sudden horror how to conceal the truth and 
 keep the joy ; and then truth rose up in her mind 
 with a kind of tragic force. The sweetness of 
 knowing herself loved — which was something 
 almost inconceivable — of imagining, too, that she 
 had been loved all through those lingering years
 
 After the End. 299 
 
 — of feeling in lier dry and witliered heart an 
 impulse of gratitude^ in wliicli the pleasant delu- 
 sions of her youth found resuiTection and began 
 to look tiTie_, — all this seemed to make it impos- 
 sible to Beatrice to leaye a falsehood between 
 herself and the man who was going to do so 
 much for her. If it had been a mere matter of 
 convenience^ a marriage proposed because it 
 suited him to marry and her to be married,, 
 any such refinement would have been unneces- 
 sary j but Truths though buried deep down, was 
 still at the bottom of the well of Miss Tre- 
 velyan^s mind; and when there came such an 
 unhoped-for apparition as the face of Love gleam- 
 ing in the unexpectant water, the other spirit of 
 light, surprised, sprang up to meet him and would 
 not be kept down. This was why Beatrice asked, 
 with a humility quite unusual to her, to see her 
 sister-in-law. They had not again met since the 
 first moment when Beatrice had said it was not 
 her fault, and Agnes, in her first despair, had 
 answered, " No.''"' 
 
 It was now the evening of the funeral-day, 
 and the next morning the poor mother was going 
 home, and there was no time to lose. Miss 
 Ti'evelvan questioned the maid with a closeness 
 which was altogether unlike her usual manner 
 with her servants. She asked how Mrs. Tre-
 
 300 Agnes, 
 
 velyan v/as looking ; Avlietlier slie was able to be 
 up^ whether she was ill; ancl_, to tell the truth, 
 notwithstanding her new-born pity, a certain 
 contempt for her because she was not ill^ came 
 into Beatrice's mind. She herself felt ill^ or 
 supposed she felt ill, in the excitement of the 
 moment ; and to hear that Agnes was neither in 
 bed, noj ha^dng the doctor to see her, nor taking 
 anything, brought her back to a little of that 
 inyoluntary contempt for '^ that sort of person^' 
 which she had entertained so long. " These 
 kind of people have so little feeling/'' she said to 
 herself. The thought was consolatory in its way ; 
 and it was with something of this sentiment, 
 mingling with extreme personal excitement, that 
 she proceeded to the interview she had sought. 
 
 Agnes was in the room which she had occupied 
 since her watch was over. She had been putting 
 away all the little sacred things which had be- 
 longed to "Walter, which were few, for it was 
 almost a relief to ]Mrs. Trevelyan to find that 
 the dresses he had been wearing were unknown 
 to her, and unassociated with him in her mind. 
 She was not lying down, as Beatrice would have 
 thought right under the circumstances, but mov- 
 ing about with those languid, listless movements 
 which betray the utter prostration of the heart ; 
 trying in a forlorn way to defend herself against
 
 After the End. 301 
 
 the recollections that consumed her. She gave 
 Beatrice a chair with the same hopeless^ listless 
 look, and herself sat down near her, like a crea- 
 ture in a dream. Even in the depths of her 
 affliction Agnes could not go against the tolerant 
 nature and sweet courtesy of the heart which she 
 had derived from her father. She felt that Miss 
 Trevelyan must have some explanation to make, 
 something to say; and she could not refuse her 
 the opportunit}^ As for the pain to herself, 
 vrhat did it matter, a little more or a little less ? — 
 for, to tell the truth, there were no such trifling- 
 words as less or more in the vast and silent an- 
 guish which filled Agnes's heart. Her cup was 
 brimming over already, and another or another 
 bitter drop could make no difference. She sat 
 down feeling a momentary relief in any change of 
 position, sinking on her seat in her languor and 
 exhaustion ; and turned the eyes that were worn 
 with watching and weeping, to her sister-in-law^s 
 face. But it was for Miss Trevelyan, who had 
 something to say, to begin. As for Agnes, she 
 had nothing to say to any one in the world. 
 
 Beatrice did not find it much more easy, for 
 her part. The only way for a woman to speak 
 to another woman in such circumstances is when 
 supporting her or clinging to her, holding the 
 poor hand that trembles, or offering a charitable
 
 302 Agnes, 
 
 bosom for the support of tlie fainting head. 
 But there was no such rapprochement between the 
 two as to make that possible; and Miss Tre- 
 yelyan found it less easy^ when the moment ar- 
 riA^edj to throw herself at the poor mother^ s feet 
 than she had imagined. She sat instead and 
 looked at Agnes^ whose eyes seemed to have 
 turned inwards^ and whose whole aspect be- 
 trayed a heart absorbed ; and did not know what 
 to say to her. When she did speak she said^ as 
 was natural,, something which she did not mean^ 
 and which came to her lips mechanically. 
 
 '^ Don^t you think you ought to lie down ? I 
 am sure your head aches/^ Beatrice said; and 
 then the colour came to her face when she saw 
 something like a faint movement of wonder in 
 Agnes's eyes. 
 
 " No, thank you/-* said Mrs. Trevelyan, " my 
 head does not ache ;" and then Agnes took pity 
 on her old enemy. " It is kind to come to 
 me/^ she said, faintly. " I know you are 
 sorry j^^ and this was all her strength would let 
 her say. 
 
 " Oh, sorry is a poor word/^ cried Beatrice. 
 " You ought to hate me — it is only just that you 
 should hate me. I donH know what to say to 
 you. I should like to go down on my knees, as 
 I have done to God ''
 
 After the End. 303 
 
 '^ No, uo/^ said Agnes. She made a little 
 movement -witli lier hand, as if of fear. " If it 
 could do any good/^ she said, with a voice that 
 was scarcely audible. She was not upbraiding 
 Beati-ice. The question was one that Beatrice had 
 so little to do with ; it was between herself and God. 
 
 And then !Miss Trevelyan paused, humbled 
 more than ever ; for she had naturally expected 
 either in hate or in forgiveness to count for some- 
 thing, when she of herself sought her brother^s 
 widow; and the fact was, that Agnes was rapt 
 out of her reach, and was scarcely aware either 
 of the part she had had in bringing about this 
 overwhelming misfortune, or in her repentance 
 now that all was over. !Mrs. Trevelyan repeated 
 softly, " I know you are sorry.'^ It seemed to 
 Beatrice as if the mother would not permit her 
 to be anything more than soriy, and was jealous of 
 her chikVs love even when he was in his grave ; 
 but, in reality, Agnes used the word because it was 
 the first one. that came. If she could have had 
 the heart to think of anything but her grief, 
 she Avould herself have been sorry for the woman 
 who had banned her so profoundly, and who 
 could do nothing to mend it. But it was not 
 for a woman who had occupied herself only -v^-ith 
 the selfish emotions of life to understand what 
 was in Agnes Trevelyan's eyes.
 
 304> Agnes. 
 
 And tlien tliere was a pause, and the two sat 
 facing eacli otliei% Agnes only half conscious and 
 caring for nothing, but Beatrice wildly con- 
 scious, and feeling as if all the future hung upon 
 a thread which the least accident might snap 
 asunder. It made her shudder to bring the 
 hopes that were beating so strong in her into the 
 stillness that surrounded Agnes, and in which 
 everything seemed dead ; and yet she felt it ne- 
 cessary, even for the sake of those hopes, to get 
 her sister-in-law^s forgiveness. It did not occur 
 to her to think that her presence and her voice, 
 and the sight of her, were rousing Mts. Trevelyan 
 from the passive and exhausted condition in 
 Avhich she was. Beatrice thought first of herself, 
 as was natural ; a little pain, more or less, what 
 coidd it matter ? but to establish her own good 
 fortune on safe grounds, and balk all possibility 
 of further disturbance, was of unquestionable 
 importance; so that she made an effort upon 
 herself. 
 
 '' Mrs. Trevelyan," she said, " if you and I 
 had been friends, I could have told you all my 
 feelings and thoughts, and how I was to blame; 
 but you hate me, and you have reason to hate 
 me; I am humbled to the very dust," cried 
 Beatrice, with her better nature again breaking 
 through ; ^' it is my fault, and I did not mean it ;
 
 After the End. 305 
 
 I would give my life — I avouIcL have given my 
 life '' 
 
 " Ah/^ said Agnes^ witli an irrepressible cry ; 
 " why your life ? God vrould have only his_, none 
 but his. If it had been a matter of life for life, 
 God knows '^ 
 
 But here her strength gave way, and Beatrice 
 sat by and saw the wave of fierce anguish go over 
 her head, and heard the long sob in her throat that 
 would not be choked doTMi. Miss Trevelyan sat 
 and looked on, and then got up and walked about 
 the room, not daring to go and kneel down by 
 Agnes^s side and give her the sacramental kiss, by 
 which one woman takes her share of another 
 woman^s sorrow. Beatrice could only ^Tingher 
 hands and look on, and wait until the brief pas- 
 sion was over, and Mrs. Trevelyan had regained 
 the control of herself. If she had been a wise 
 woman she Avould have accepted this as enough; 
 or if she had been more than a vrise woman — if 
 she had had the wisdom of a tender heart, she 
 would have given at that moment the magic touch 
 of sympathy, and won the woman whom she 
 feared as an enemy, to be her friend for ever and 
 ever. For that, all that Beatrice had to do was 
 to have taken courage ; to have said, " I, too, 
 had begun to love him,-''' and to have wept the 
 tears with which her eyes were hot and frtll. 
 
 VOL. III. X
 
 306 Agnes. 
 
 But she had no confidence in 1oyc_, not knowing 
 it much more than by hearsay^ and she had not 
 the courage. And then she was not wise enough 
 to be satisfied and go away^ nor to see that 
 Agnes would never betray her. She stayed still, 
 agitated and trembling as she was, and went on. 
 " I know you must hate me/' she said ; " but 
 listen to me a moment. It will be better to 
 say what I have to say now, though it may be 
 painful for us both. I did not mean any harm, 
 Mrs. Trevelyan. I meant to do good, and not 
 harm. No doubt I was wrong. AYe thought of 
 a better education than, perhaps, you could have 
 been in the way of giving him — we thought, 
 
 perhaps, that Walter '' 
 
 Agnes had borne a great deal and said no- 
 thing ; but she could not bear her child's name — 
 the name that was now almost as sacred as 
 God's name — to be pronounced by profane lips. 
 She started and rose up in that sudden irri- 
 tation, which is as much a part of grief as 
 its tears. " Oh, go away from me !" she cried ; 
 '^ I cannot bear it ; I am tired, tired and sick 
 to death. Oh ! go away. I do not hate you. 
 What does it matter if I hated you ? It is God, 
 it is not you. Leave me with Him ; I cannot 
 bear any more." 
 •But still Beatrice was not content. She
 
 After the End. 307 
 
 Tveiit up to Agnes_, holding out lier hand. 
 "Forgive me!" she said — "Oh, forgive me! 
 Give me yoiu' hand, and I will leave you, 
 as you say. I meant no harm ; accidents 
 happen everywhere. ^Irs. Trevelyan, say that 
 you do not hear me any malice before I go 
 away." 
 
 Agnes was trembling all over with the torture 
 which was being applied to her. She caught at 
 the chair to support herself, and turned her 
 head, which she could not keep steady, away 
 from ^liss Trevelyan^s look, which moved her 
 to a kind of sick frenzy, she could not tell 
 how. " I have never borne you any malice," 
 she said, feeling her voice flutter in her throat, 
 as her heart seemed to be doing ; " but I 
 am not able to talk to any one. Have you 
 forgotten what has happened to-day? I will 
 forgive you ; I will say anything you like — only, 
 for pity, do not talk to me any more." "UTien she 
 had said this, Agnes sank down wearily into her 
 chair. It was weariness, prostration, utter ex- 
 haustion, which were apparent in all her move- 
 ments, and at the same time a sense of the in- 
 tolerable, which took away all her patience. Miss 
 Trevelyan took her hand and pressed it in hers, 
 and tried yet to say something ; but there was an 
 imperative movement in the disengaged arm 
 X 2
 
 308 Agnes. 
 
 which stopped even Beatrice. She murmured 
 something that sounded like " God bless you !" 
 but which conveyed no meaning to Agnes's 
 tortured ears ; and then at last closing the door 
 with studied softness behind her, [Miss Tre- 
 velyan finding no more Avas to be made of it, 
 contented herself, and went away. 
 
 When she was gone, Agnes sat still where 
 Beatrice had left her, in that sad inertness 
 which does not care to move. As the light 
 waned out, she looked more like a mass of black 
 drapery, flung down anyhow upon a chair, than 
 a living and independent creature. What did it 
 matter? The heaven was brass and the earth 
 iron. No power could open the ear of God 
 which had shut fast against her prayer, and no 
 power could open the grave which had closed its 
 jealous gates upon her child. The psalms of the 
 service that had been read over him kept ringing 
 in her ears — " Turn thee again, O Lord, at the 
 last; satisfy us with Thy mercy, and that soon; 
 comfort us again now after the time that Thou 
 hast plagued us" — and it was hard to think 
 what they could mean. For even God himself 
 could not, or at least would not, in the order of 
 his Providence, mend what He had done. ^' Take 
 Thy plague away from me ; spare me a little !" 
 Ah, my God ! was it not cruel to say so ? when
 
 After the End. 309 
 
 one knew that this plague could never be taken 
 away, and that the suffering had not been spared. 
 Her thoughts should have been different ; but I 
 am not talking of what should have been — this 
 was what was sweeping and surging through her 
 mind as the evening waned. It angered her to 
 think of being comforted, or spared, or recover- 
 ing her strength. Such things would be just to 
 say if there had been no loss that could not be 
 repaii'ed ; but now not even God himself could 
 make the world anything but a changed world. 
 Thus the night went on to darkness as she sat 
 alone in her despaii', and was glad of the ob- 
 scurity to cover her; and all this time her pulse 
 kept on beating, and her heart throbbed steadily, 
 and the physical frame refused to deaden or 
 soften the anguish of the soul. And down below, 
 Stanfield, who had aged ten years since that first 
 nighty and Charlton, who had a haggard look in 
 his eyes, said to each other that, thank God, her 
 health was not affected ; for, to be sure, they did 
 not know. 
 
 As for Beatrice, she went to her room and 
 put her things together to go away in the morn- 
 ing, for she had not brought her maid, and it 
 had been a great trouble to her; and, as she 
 pursued this occupation, the thought of the dead 
 bov grew fainter and fainter in her mind, and
 
 310 Agnes. 
 
 tlie new event that had happened to herself 
 became more prominent. She was very sorry 
 for Walter^ and blamed herself for her " foolish " 
 conduct in the matter; and yet^ by this time, 
 perhaps, began to be more sorry for herself than 
 for anybody else concerned; for, to be snre. 
 Miss Trevelyan had meant no harm. It was for 
 the chikVs good she had acted — and the accident 
 was not her fanlt — and yet it was she who would 
 have to bear the penalty. Agnes, always the 
 favourite of Providence, would go home pitied 
 and mourned by everybody, while Beatrice had 
 still before her a trial which chilled her blood in 
 her veins — a confession which perhaps might 
 make her suitor turn back, and overshadow again 
 in a moment the fair prospect that was shining 
 before her — although, certainly, it was not she who 
 had killed Walter, or done anything except what 
 was for his true good and ultimate advantage. 
 
 Such were the thoughts that occupied Beatrice 
 after she had done her penance to Walter^s 
 mother. And below Jack Charlton could not 
 but wonder in his mind whether in her grief it 
 would be any comfort to Agnes Trevelyan to 
 know that there was one in the world who would 
 gladly stand by her in her trouble and console 
 her with his love ; and whether he had sufficient 
 courage, and confidence in himself and her.
 
 After the End. 311 
 
 to decide upon offering her tliat support and 
 consolation. And thus new thoughts of life 
 awoke again in the house he had left^ while 
 yet the first dews were still falling upon Walter^s 
 little grave.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Conclusion. 
 
 EXT morning Mrs. Trevelvan ^'ent 
 home ^ith lier father. The AYind- 
 holm folks^ though they had their 
 fanlts^ had hearts in their bosom, 
 and a great many of the shops were partially 
 slmt^ and many a wistful face looked from the 
 windoAvs as the blacksmith took his daughter to 
 her own house. But no one saw Agnes, who 
 had sank back in a corner of the cab which con- 
 veyed her from the railway, coyering her face, 
 and not daring to look upon the world. It was 
 bright day, the sun shining, and the birds sing- 
 ing, and the sweet air blowing on the Common 
 with tliat breath of life and health which seems 
 fi'esh enough to restore the feeblest. But 
 these blessed circumstances of external life do 
 nothing but make the gloom harder for those 
 who are in the yalley of the shadow of Death, 
 Stanfield did not go in y»ith his daughter to her
 
 Conclusion. 313 
 
 clianged house. He had to go up the village 
 again in his black dress, with his worn looks, to 
 see after the work which he had been neglecting, 
 and the wife, who was still living and getting 
 better, though Walter was dead. 
 
 As for Agnes, she went in alone to her house 
 and shut the door, and seemed as she did so to turn 
 her back upon, and leave behind her, all her actual 
 life. When the first anguish of her return was 
 over, and when she felt herself settled again in her 
 old apparent tranquillity, with everything around 
 her exactly the same as it had been a month ago, 
 and nothing to denote the terrible change which 
 had taken place, this was the feeling that re- 
 mained most in her mind. She had lived her 
 life out and was done with it. Her vitality, 
 which was so strong, had survived the first great 
 fundamental blow, but it had not survived, and 
 could not survive, the second. Hope could not 
 get up again from that unlooked-for stroke. She 
 could not grow ill or die. She could not 
 abandon the duties which God had laid upon 
 her in the world ; but life, so far as life is a 
 matter of personal desire, and satisfaction, and 
 actual being, had ceased and stopped short. It 
 would have been vain to say so to the external 
 world which comprehends so little ; but she knew 
 it in her heart. Her neighbours gave her the
 
 314 Agnes, 
 
 profoundest pity of Tv^hicli the general mind is 
 capable, and some tender ^vomen who had chil- 
 dren of Walter^ s age, wept for her with a kind 
 of anguish, feeling always that what Agnes 
 had borne to-day, they, too, to-morrow might 
 be called upon to bear; but no one knew 
 the thoughts that ]Mrs. Trevelyan carried with 
 her into the silent house, where the absence 
 of Walter^s voice, and of his step, and of his 
 presence, made an audible and visible solitude, 
 which was something more than mere negation. 
 What Agnes felt was, that she had had her day. 
 Once there were father and son together within 
 these walls, and she had lived her life with full 
 measure of all its cares and complications ; but 
 now all that was over for ever. 
 
 Calm and silence had fallen upon the house. 
 But for a certain golden gleam in the baby^s eyes, 
 that episode of lining life which had made the vil- 
 lagers emdous of the blacksmiths daughter — that 
 marriage which had taken her, as people thought, 
 out of her sphere, for any trace it had left behind 
 might never have been. The Trevelyans and their 
 distinctions, and small nobility, had disappeared 
 from the horizon altogether. These matters had 
 counted for little at any time in Agnes's mind; but 
 still they had tinged her life, and now they were 
 gone like the rest. She was now no more than the
 
 Conclusion, 315 
 
 blacksmitVs daugliter^ as she had been at first — 
 motlier of two little cliildreii_, who could never take 
 anything from the TreYelyans except their name. 
 Perhaps this external circumstance^ in its way, 
 contributed to detach from the sombre existence 
 that remained that fair round globe of actual life, 
 which had been completed for ever. She sat in the 
 silence of her house and felt that she had had her 
 davj and it was past ; and yet scarcely the half was 
 past of that hard tale of years which sometimes God 
 exacts to the last moment from those of His crea- 
 tures to whom He has given strength to endure. 
 It would be false^ however^ to say that this 
 thought was the hardest which came to trouble 
 Agnes in her solitude. A woman is so miich at 
 the mercy of her thoughts. She kept looking 
 over all the busy worlds and wondering to see it 
 so out of jointj and bewildering herself as to 
 God^s meaning — that meaning which He so 
 seldom shows to man. Was it that by all these 
 various ways of li^dng it was His purpose to show 
 the world how impossible it was to live ? Some- 
 times she thought so as she pondered ; — that as a 
 king was accorded to Israel to prove, as nothing 
 else could^ the harm of a king, so life was also 
 permitted to prove, by its never-ending, always- 
 failing experiment, how^ life was out of possibility. 
 She sat sometimes aU the day long with these
 
 316 Agnes. 
 
 musings in her mind^ and tliere was little conso- 
 lation to be found in tliem. Mrs. Stanfield was 
 getting better — she whose life was so doubtful an 
 adA^antage to herself ^ and so great a misfortune to 
 those who were connected with her ; she who, so 
 far as human eye could see, had nothing to look 
 back upon or to look forward to, but the lowest 
 form of existence — mean, and selfish, and unlovely. 
 But yet she lived, while Walter was dead; and 
 myriads of unfortunates were living on, to whom 
 death would have been the great and only conso- 
 lation. The strongest intellect in the world might 
 be troubled by such a thought, and much more the 
 mind of a solitary woman mourning for her first- 
 born. And then it came to her sometimes like 
 a gleam of light to think that, if this was indeed 
 God^s meaning — if He meant to prove life impos- 
 sible, as a father might Avell prove to his children 
 the impracticability of their desires ; it was all 
 the more and more a proof that He had some- 
 thing better behind — something to fulfil all 
 longings and complete all loves. Perhaps it was 
 only a woman^s reasoning, which is not worth 
 much, they say ; but then reason is never worth 
 much on such subjects — and it gave a little 
 comfort to her. 
 
 As for Stanfield, though his daughter was in 
 the depths of human anguish, this was not to
 
 Conclusion, 317 
 
 him the unhappiest time of his life; for, to be sure, 
 a man can go even ^ith his nearest and dearest 
 only to a limited extent ; and he had his child, 
 though she had lost hers. He was very sad and 
 sorrowful, but in the midst of his sorrow there was 
 a kind of happiness which was sweet. When 
 he went down of nights to the house on the 
 Green, where once Walter had run to meet him 
 at the door and greet his arrival, his heart grew 
 full, and was sometimes ^^ike to break.^' But 
 still it was sweet to go in to his own child, to 
 sit by her silently, to understand her as they 
 both thought, and spare her the need of words. 
 To be sure, the two had little to say ; for what 
 Avas the good of talking when the thoughts of the 
 one were inexpressible, and the other understood, 
 so far as it was possible to understand ? 
 
 Stanfield, however, instead of being cast down 
 by it, had a certain consolation in the thought 
 that his daughter now belonged to him alone, and 
 had nothing to look for on any side, except the 
 cherishing, and love, and support,which he himself 
 was so ready and anxious to give her. That 
 disjunction from the past which marked to her 
 what she thought the ending of her life, was to 
 him a kind of happiness. His wife got better, 
 thanks to the nurse Agnes had sent her, and 
 ceased to rave for the benefit of the village, and
 
 318 Agnes. 
 
 made her appearance so subdued and humble, 
 that it was hard for the charitable and tolerant 
 man to carry out his resolution of sending her 
 away. After a little time, however, when Mrs. 
 Stanfield ceased to be frightened, she took to 
 her old ways ; and then her husband had her re- 
 moved kindly and carefully out of his house, 
 and out of the village. He said again, in the 
 pitifulness of his tender soul, that it was not her 
 fault if she could not understand; and though 
 he would never see her again, he provided for 
 her comforts, and even such luxuries as pleased 
 her, with a liberal hand. All this made it neces- 
 sary for the blacksmith to resume his work as if 
 he had been a young man. He began to be early 
 and late at the forge ; to be more silent, less 
 prompt to give his time and counsel to others, 
 than he had once been. He could not abandon 
 that position of the " worthiest,''^ which the vil- 
 lage folks had instinctively given him ; but per- 
 haps he was a little less ready to listen and to be 
 drawn aside from his work than in former days. 
 His time was no longer his but belonged to 
 his daughter, and to her daughters — the helpless 
 little things who had nobody but him to look to, 
 as the Windholm folks said. 
 
 And by-and-by the two fair children cling- 
 ing about his knees, became to Stanfield
 
 Conclusion. 319 
 
 what Agnes herself in her baby days had 
 been. They belonged to him, and Walter 
 never could have belonged to him. Thus it was 
 that the great blow which cut short the life 
 of Agnes^ was softened down and smoothed away 
 to eveiybody but her. To other people, her 
 child was only I\Irs. Trevelyan's little boy who 
 died; and sometimes it struck Agnes with sur- 
 prise to see that nobody suspected it was she 
 who had died, nor understand how her life had 
 come to an end. 
 
 Life must end one time or another in this 
 world. It is true that some people live until 
 they die ; but perhaps they are the minority 
 of human creatures. Sometimes it is as Dante 
 says^ a demon who takes possession of the existing- 
 bodvj when the true soul goes down to Hades ; 
 sometimes, instead, it is a patient angel who 
 enters in when the dear life is past; and years 
 come and go, and nobody knows of the substi- 
 tution, unless it be now and then some weird 
 soul like the Ancient ^Mariner, who catches the 
 glance that is from heaven or hell in the eyes 
 of the lifeless people. The spirit that inhabited 
 jMrs. Ti'cvelyan^s form after her life was over, 
 was a most human spirit ; it was even one that 
 could simulate actual existence, and live a vica- 
 rious life in the little children who were growing
 
 320 Aynes. 
 
 older every day. But for all that, it was a spirit 
 and not her very self. And her life — her indi- 
 vidual existence — the life that it was pleasant to 
 possess, and happiness to go on with, had broken 
 off short, and come to an end. 
 
 "When Mr. Freke came to sec her — as it was 
 his duty to do — the vicar was in great confusion 
 of mind, and did not know what to say; and, 
 indeed, except that it was mysterious and in- 
 scrutable, and beyond all explanation, what could 
 anyone say? He confused her more and more — 
 or at least, did all he could to do so — with his 
 own bewilderments and perplexities. 
 
 " I won^t say it is for your good, as so many 
 people say,*^ the vicar exclaimed ; " for I cannot 
 see how it can be for your good ; but perhaps it 
 is for his good, poor dear child ! And I cannot 
 tell you that it is to show God^s love to you, for, 
 God knows, I cannot feel that myself. I think 
 He will explain it, if you can but wait ; and, so 
 far as I can see, that^s all. It is your fellowship 
 in the sufferings of Christ.^'' 
 
 " Ah V said Agnes ; '^ I think so sometimes. 
 But tell me what that means.^^ 
 
 But ]\Ir. Freke could not tell no more than 
 most people can tell what is the meaning of the 
 divine words which they snatch up at random, 
 with but a vague general sense of their powers 
 of healing, to staunch the wounds, for which
 
 Conclusion, 321 
 
 human art has no remedy; bnt lie did better 
 than try any explanations. He said^ ^^Tell 
 me what it is yon think sometimes/' knowing — 
 because he had a tender affection for Agnes, 
 which gave sight to his eyes — that the best help 
 for her would come out of her own multitude of 
 thoughts. 
 
 " I think sometimes that there is a kind of 
 mass being always said in the world/' said Agnes 
 — " a kind of repetition every day of His sacri- 
 fice; not because of any priest's saying, but 
 because of God's appointing. Perhaps it is only 
 fancy ; and some of us are always being chosen 
 to carry it on. We ought to be glad ; but at 
 the end even He was not willing, except because 
 it was God's will — any more than we are willing. 
 It is hard to be put up on the cross to show the 
 other people how blessed they are; but that is 
 not what I wanted to say. Sometimes I think it is 
 to keep up and carry on the spectacle of loss, and 
 pain, and anguish ; and I have my mass to say, 
 though I am not willing. Sometimes it com- 
 forts me a little ; I think He would have raised 
 them all like Lazarus, if it had been possible; 
 and it was not possible ; and now we have all to 
 put on our priest's garments, and hold up the 
 host, that all the world may see. We were a 
 long time in Italy," she said, with a faint smile, 
 
 VOL. III. Y
 
 322 Agnes. 
 
 breaking off; and as she gave this last apology 
 and explanation of what she had been saying, 
 there came before Agnes^s eyes_, as if by a gleam 
 of sunshine, the lovely Sorrento sea, and the ter- 
 race, and the orange gardens, and the procession 
 winding up the steep streets, with the priest 
 under his canopy, and the faint candles flaring 
 in the daylight. The oflPering she had to make, 
 which was not made willingly, was perhaps as 
 far from a perfect one as was the poor wafer in 
 the Sacramentary j but yet there was in it a 
 fellowship with His offering which was divine. 
 
 This we quote, not because there is much satis- 
 faction in it, but because it explains a little the 
 kind of thoughts that were coming and going in 
 Mrs. Trevelyan^s mind; and how now and then 
 she fell upon some fancy — for, to be sure, it was 
 little better than a fancy — which was a momentary 
 balm to her wound. And then she would take her 
 children in her arms, and clasp them close to her, 
 close against her breast, as if the pressure could, 
 perhaps, deaden a little the pain in her heart ; 
 and thus got through the heavy days, and 
 chanted her sad mass like the nightingale, that 
 " leaned its breast up till a thorn '^ 
 
 As for the other people, Beatrice Trevelyan told 
 her story very frankly and honestly to her old 
 lover; but yet in the telling, either because she 
 herself, being acquainted with it, could explain the
 
 Conclusion, 323 
 
 intention as it existed in her own mind_, and not 
 the mere bungling performance which people 
 could judge for themselves ; or because of some 
 involuntary softening in the narrative; the re- 
 sult was that he admii^ed and trusted her more 
 than ever, and thought her penitence and can- 
 dour noble ; and they were married, and Miss 
 Trevelyan, though so late, entered into the life 
 which she had so long longed for, and was a very 
 good wife, and made her husband happy. She 
 would have kept up a kind of friendship with 
 her sister-in-law, had Agnes been disposed to it, 
 and did not hesitate to say, that though it was a 
 dreadful trial to the family, Roger's marriage had 
 turned out a great deal better than could have 
 been expected, and that Mrs. Trevelyan was an 
 estimable person, in her way. 
 
 As for Jack Charlton, he kept always loitering 
 vaguely about Windholm ; and though it was hard 
 to say whether he was most afraid to risk a rejec- 
 tion or an acceptance, his good sense kept him from 
 doing or saying anything to commit himself. And 
 Mrs. Stanfield lived on and was very comfortable 
 in the place where the blacksmith had placed her. 
 And Stanfield himself worked harder than ever, 
 and was more patient than ever, though more 
 difficult to be persuaded to give counsel; and 
 every night he put on his coat and came slowly 
 down the Green, until from the open door little
 
 324 Agnes, 
 
 Agnes and little Bee^ tlie youngest tottering on 
 her baby feet, came out witb a rush to meet bim. 
 For his own bouse was shut up, and be could 
 not leave Agnes, who bad need of him ; and the 
 blacksmith, as we have said, was not unhappy. 
 
 It is thus once more apparent that Agnes Tre- 
 velyan^s was no tragic exceptional case, but that 
 she had only the common lot, darkened by great 
 sorrows, but not without consolations. Yet her 
 epic was over, and her indi\idual life ended. 
 The vicarious life in which most women spend 
 the latter part of their days might still remain 
 for her; but her own life was over and done, 
 and the Amen said. Life must come to an end 
 somehow, and she was not one of those who live 
 till they die. So that I have told you all her 
 story, as well as if I had put a gravestone over 
 her and written the last date on it, which may 
 not be ascertained for many years. 
 
 But when you say your prayers, oh, good 
 people, good friends ! — when you come to that 
 which names the little children, pause and take 
 a charitable thought, if not for Agnes Trevelyan, 
 yet for many another woman who has no other 
 heritage — that the good God may grant to them 
 to find again, at the end of many days, a sweet 
 life by proxy to heal their bitter wounds. 
 
 THE END.
 
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 A JOURNEY FROM LONDON TO PERSE- 
 
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 >! " This work is in eveiy way creditable to the author, who has produced a mass 
 of pleasant reading, both entertaining and instructive. Mr. Ussher's journey may 
 be defined as a complete oriental grand tour of the Asiatic west-central district. 
 He started down the Danube, making for Odessa. Thence, having duly ' done ' the 
 Crimea, he coasted the Circassian shore in a steamer to Poti, and from that to 
 Tiflis. This was the height of summer, and. the season being favom-able, he crossed 
 the Dariel Pass northwards, tm-ned to the east, and visited the moimtain fastnesses 
 of Shamil's country, recently conquered by the Eussians. Thence he returned to 
 Tiflis by the old Persian province of Shirvan, along the Caspian, by Derbend and 
 the famous fire-springs of Bakti. From Titiis he went to Oumri, and over the 
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 great monastery of Etchmiadzin. From Bayazid he went to Van. and saw all the 
 chief points of interest on the lake of that name ; thence to Bitlis and Diarbekir. 
 From Diarbekir he went to Mosul by the upper road, visited Nineveh, paid his 
 respects to the winged bulls and all our old friends there, and floated on his raft of 
 inflated skins down the Tigris to Baghdad. From Mosul he made an excursion to 
 the devil-worshipping coimtry, and another from Baghdad to Hilleh and the Birs 
 Nimrud, or so-called Tower of Babel. After resting in the city of the Caliphs, he 
 followed the track of his illustrious predecessor, Srndbad, to Bassora, only on board 
 of a different craft, having got a passage in the steamer Comet ; and the English 
 monthly sailing packet took him from Bassora across the gulf to Bushire. From 
 thence he went to Tehran over the 'broad dominions of the king of kings,' stopping 
 at all the interesting places, particularly at PersepoUs ; and from Tehran returned 
 home through Armenia by Trebisonde and the Black Se&."— Saturday Review. 
 
 "This is a book of travel of which no re\'iew can give an adequate idea. The 
 extent of coimtry ti-aversed, the number and beauty of the coloured illustrations, 
 and the good sense, himiour, and information with which it abounds, all tend to 
 increase the author's just meed of praise, while they render the critic's task all the 
 harder. We must, after all, trust to our readers to explore for themselves the many 
 points of amusement, interest and beaitty which the book contains. We can assure 
 them that they will not meet with a single page of dulness. The coloured 
 illustrations are really perfect of their kind. Merely as a collection of spirited, well- 
 coloured engravings they are worth the cost of the whole volimie." — Herald. 
 
 "Mr. Ussher went by the Danube to Constantinople, crossed thence to Sebastopol, 
 and passed through the Crimea to Kertch, and so on to PotL From Poti he went 
 to Teflis. and made thence an excm-siou to Gunib and Baku on the Caspian. The 
 record of this journey is the most interesting part of the book. Having retmned to 
 Teflis, ilr. Ussher visited Gmnri and Kars, and went thence to Lake Van, and so by 
 Diarbekr and Mosul to Baghdad. From Baghdad he went to Babylon and Kerbela, 
 and retui-ning to Baghdad, descended the river to Basra, and crossed to Bushire. 
 Thence he went by yhiraz and Isfahan to Tehran, and retm-ned to Europe by the 
 Tabreez and Trebisonde route. Tho reader will find the author of this pleasant 
 volume an agreeable companion. He is a good observer, and describes well what 
 he sees." — Atlten-xum. 
 
 2
 
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 MESSRS. HURST AXD BLACKETT'S 
 NEW ^YORKS-^CuntmuecL 
 
 THE LIFE OF JOSIAH WEDGWOOD. From 
 
 his Private Correspondence and Family Papers, in the possession 
 of Joseph Mayer, Esq.. F.S.A., Fraxcis Wedgwood, Esq., C. Dar- 
 wix, Esq., M.A., F.R.S., Miss "Wedgwood, and other Original 
 Sources. With an Introductory Sketch of the Art of Pottery in 
 England. By Eliza Meteyard. Dedicated, by permission, to the 
 Right Hon. W. E. Gladstoxe, Chancellor of the'^Eschequer. Vol. 1, 
 8to, with Portraits and above 100 other Illustrations, price 21s. 
 elegantly bound, is now ready. The woi'k will be completed in 
 one more Tolume. 
 
 " Tliis is the Life of Wedgwood to the expected appearance of which I referred 
 at Bui'slem." — Extract from a Letter to the Author by the Bight Hon. W. E. Gladstone. 
 
 " This very beautiful booli is the first of two vohmies which will contain that 
 Life of Wedgwood which for the last fifteen years Miss Meteyard has had in view, 
 and to which the Wedgwood family, and all' who have papers valuable in relation 
 to its subject, have been cordially contributing. In his admirable sketch of Wedg- 
 wood, given at Burslem. it was to the publication of this biography that Mr. 
 Gladstone looked forward with pleasure. It is a very accm-ate and valuable book. 
 To give their fullest value to the engravings of works of art which largely enrich 
 the volume, the biography has been made by its publishers a choice specimen of 
 their own art as book-makers. Neither care nor cost have been grudged." — 
 Examiner. 
 
 "The appearance of such a work as Miss Meteyard's 'Life of Josiah Wedgwood' 
 is an event of importance in the sister spheres of literature and art. The biographer 
 of our great potter has more than ordinary fitness for the fulfilment of her labour 
 of love. She is an enthusiastic admirer and a practised connoisseur of Ceramic 
 Art, and she brings the pleasant energy of individual taste and feeling to the aid of 
 complete, authentic, and weU-arranged infoniiation. and the well-balanced 
 style of an experienced litterateur. The interest of the book grows with every page. 
 The reader will peruse the numerous interesting particulars of Wedgwood's 
 family life and affairs with unusual satisfaction, and will lay down the work 
 with undoubting confidence that it will rank as a classic among biographies — an 
 exhaustive work of the first rank in its school" — Morning Post. 
 
 " No book has come before us for some time so stored with interesting informa- 
 tion. Miss Meteyard is a biographer distinguished by a clever and energetic stjde, 
 by delicate judgment, extensive information, and a deep interest in her subject 
 The history of the Ceramic Art in England, and the biography of the eminent man 
 who brought it to perfection, have evidently been to her a labour of love : and of 
 the spu-it and manner in which she has executed it we can hardly speak too highly. 
 The splendid getting up of the work reflects much credit on the house from which 
 it is issued." — Dublin University Magazine. 
 
 "The biography of Josiah Wedgwood has fallen into good hands. Miss Meteyard 
 has infused into her task a congenial spirit, a cultivated taste, and. in addition to 
 fifteen years' study of her subject, she has been able to enrich her book with a mass 
 of private letters and docimients relating to Josiah Wedgwood which have been 
 wholly inaccessible to other -n-riters. These give the work a character of reliable 
 information to which no rival can lay claim. The publishers have spared neither 
 labom- nor expense in the costly illusti-ations of the exquisite artistic gems which 
 adorn the book." — The Shilling Magazine. 
 
 " It needs no special advertisement to make us aware, so soon as we open the 
 book, that this is the life of the great Wedgwood executed with an enthusiastic in- 
 dustry and illustrated with a taste which wiU be sufficient to satisfy Mr. Gladstone 
 himself. Messrs. Hm'st and Blackett may be fairly congratulated on having turned 
 out the best EngUsh book of the year on art." — Macmillan's Magazine. 
 
 "■ In this magnificent volume we welcome one of the very noblest contributions to 
 the history of the Ceramic art ever published. We place it at once and perma- 
 nently side by side with Bernard Palissy's Memoirs and Avith Benvenuto Cellini's 
 Autobiography. An abundance of rare and verj- precious materials is here admir- 
 ably put together by the dexterous hand and exquisite taste of Miss Meteyard. A 
 more conscientious discharge of the responsible duties devolving upon the biogra- 
 pher of a really great man has not been witnessed, we believe, since the days of 
 Boswell, the greatest of all biographers.'" — Sun. 
 
 3
 
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 NEW V^OnKS— Continued, 
 
 HISTORIC PICTURES. By A. Baillie Cochrane, 
 
 M.P. 2 vols. 21s. 
 
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 generally known in a light and, if possible, a picturesque manner.' Mr. Cochrane 
 has been quite successful in canying out this intention. The work is a study of the 
 more interesting moments of history — what, indeed, the author himself calls it, 
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 agreeable to read." — Saturday Review. 
 
 BRIGAND LIFE IN ITALY. By Count 1sU.yyy.i. 
 
 2 vols. 8vo, 283. 
 
 "Two voliunes of interesting research." — Times. 
 
 "Count Maffei's work is obviously of an authentic character. The preface is 
 dated from the Italian Embassy, and the volumes show many evidences of their 
 author having had the advantage of special information not hitherto made public. 
 The volmnes nmst be read by all who would understand the present position of 
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 with the entertainment of a romance." — London Review. 
 
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 which the narratives are chiefly taken. Let Comit Maffei's two volumes be read as 
 they ought, and assm-edly will be, for their more than romantic adventures and 
 obvious truthful relations, and all true-hearted Englishmen will for ever hold all 
 parties associated -with Italian brigandage in righteous abhorrence. In all respects 
 the book is worthy of its distinguished author, and of the enterprising publishing 
 house from which it has issued." — Star. 
 
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 own day and its causes, for which use has been made of the report presented by 
 Comme'ndatore Massari to the House of Deputies on the investigations of the 
 special Commission charged by the Italian Government to report on the causes of 
 brigandage. The second volume includes a report sent to the author by General 
 FaUavacini on his last expeditions against brigands of the Southern provinces. 
 'His book,' says Count Maffei, 'wiU perhaps destroy that strange confusion of 
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 ment in the old kingdom of Naples the character of a civil war, and will point out 
 by whose hand the reaction was kindlecL" — Examiner. 
 
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 ABROAD. By Lord Eustace Cecil, M.P. 1 vol. 8vo. 143. 
 
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 YACHTING ROUND THE WEST OF ENG- 
 
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 and mgged west coast of England, which forms the coasts of l omwaU and Devon- 
 shira The bold character of these coasts, the Lizard. Mount St. Michael, the fine 
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 which the Eddystone braves the fury of the storm, and guides the mariner up 
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 small towns and villages, and their inhabitants, must have jielded a considerable 
 amount of pleasure to those who for the first time visit these interesting counties. 
 "We might, if space permitted, give many interesting extracts from the work, which 
 would convey to the reader the same good opinion of the work which we have our- 
 selves formed from its perusal" — Observer. 
 
 " Mr. L'Estrange's course seems to have led him from North Devon round by the 
 Land's End and Scilly Isles to Plymouth, and the reader may well imagine how 
 much of the beautiful and romantic, both in natural scenery and historic legend, 
 such a voyage opened out. The writing is simple and natural. Mr. L'Estrange 
 tells things as he saw, me with, or heard them, with no effort at display or effect, 
 and those who trust to his I'lages need not fear being disappointed. We commend 
 this handsomely got-up work to the attention of aU desirous of pleasant informa- 
 tion upon a comparatively but imperfectly known portion of her Majesty's do- 
 minions." — Era. 
 
 A PERSONAL NARRATIVE OF THIRTEEN 
 
 YEARS' SERVICE AMOXGST THE WILD TRIBES OF 
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 MY LIFE AND RECOLLECTIONS. By the 
 
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 The book is fiUl of pleasant stories, all told as easily and clearly as if they were 
 related at a club-window, and all with point of greater or less piquancy." — Spectator. 
 
 HAUNTED LONDON. By Walter Thornbury. 
 
 1 vol. 8vo, with Bumerous Illustrations by F. W. Fairholt, F.S.A. 
 
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 antiquarian, topogi'aphical volume, amusing both to the Londoner and the country 
 cousin." — Star. 
 
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 " As pleasant a book as well could be, forming a very handsome volume — an 
 acquisition either for the table or the bookshelf. A capital title is ' Hamited 
 London ' — for is it not haunted, this London of ours? Haunted happily, by ghosts of 
 memories that wUl not be laid. What footsteps have not traversed these cause- 
 ways, inhabited these dwelling-houses, prayed in these churches, wept in these 
 graveyards, laughed in these theatres? And of all these Mr. Thombuiy dis- 
 courses—shrewdly, like an obsers'ant man of the world ; gracefully, like a skilled 
 man of letters ; lovingly, like a sj-mpathizing fellow-creatnre ; courtier and play- 
 wright, student and actress, statesman and mountebank, he has an eye for them 
 all. Saimter with him do-wn any street, and before you get to the end of it we 
 wager you will be wiser than at starting — certainly you will have been entertained." 
 —San.
 
 13, Great Marlborough Street. 
 
 MESSRS. HUEST AXD BLACKETT'S 
 NEW V^OnK^— Continued. 
 
 COURT AND SOCIETY FROM ELIZABETH 
 
 TO AXXE, Edited from the Papers at Kimbolton, by the Dcke 
 OF Manchester. Second Edition. 2 vols. 8vo, with Fine Portraits. 
 
 " The Duke of ^lanchester has done a welcome service to the lover of gossip and 
 secret history by publishing these family papers. Persons who like to see greatness 
 without the plumes and mail in which histoiy presents it, will accept these volumes 
 with hearty thanks to their noble editor. In them will be found something new 
 about many men and women in whom the reader can never cease to feel an inte- 
 rest — much about the divorce of Henry the Eighth and Catherine of AiTagon — a 
 great deal about the love affairs of Queen Elizabeth — something about Bacon, and 
 (Indirectly) about Shakspeare — more about Lord Essex and Lady Rich — the very 
 strange story of "Walter Montagu, poet, prolligate, courtier, pervert, secretagent, abbot 
 — ^many details of the Civil War and Cromwell's Government, and of the Restoration — 
 much that is new about the Revolution and the Settlement, the exiled Court of St. 
 Germains. the wars of William of Orange, the campaigns of Marlborough, the in- 
 trigues of Duchess Sarah, and the town life of fine ladies and gentlemen during the 
 days of Anne. With all this is mingled a good deal of gossip about the loves of great 
 poets, the frailties of great beauties, the rivalries of great wits, the quarrels of great 
 peers. ■■ — A thenxum. 
 
 "These volumes are sure to excite curiosity. A great deal of interesting matter is 
 here collected, from sources which are not within everybody's reach." — Times. 
 
 THE LIFE OF THE REV. EDWARD IRVING, 
 
 Minister of the National Scotch Church, London. Illustrated by 
 his Journal and Correspondence. By ]\Irs. Oliphant. Fourth and 
 Cheaper Edition., Revised., in 1 vol., with Portrait, os., bound. 
 
 " We who read these memoirs must own to the nobility of Irving's character, the 
 grandeur of his aims, and the extent of his powers. His friend Carlyle bears this testi- 
 mony to his worth: — -I call him. on the whole, the best man I have ever, after trial 
 enough, found in this world, or hope to find.' A character such as this is deserving of 
 study, and his life ought to be written. Mrs. Oliphant has undertaken the work and 
 has produced a biography of considerable merit. The author fully understands her 
 hero, and sets forth the incidents of his career with the skill of a practised hand. The 
 book is a good book on a most interesting theme." — Tinii^s. 
 
 " Mrs. Oliphanfs ' Life of Edward Irving ' supplies a long-felt desideratum. It is 
 copious, earnest, and eloquent. On every page there is the impress of a large and 
 masterly comprehension, and of a bold, fluent, and poetic skill of porti-aiture. Irvmg 
 as a man and as a pastor is not only fully sketched, but exhibited with many broad, 
 powerful, and life-like touches, which leave a strong impression." — Edinburgh Review. 
 
 "A truly interesting and most affecting memoir. Irving's life ought to have a niche 
 in eveiy gallei-y of religious biography. There are few lives that wiU be fuller of 
 instruction, interest, and consolation." — Saturday Review. 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. By Victor Hugo. 
 
 Authorized English Translation. 1 vol. 8vo, 12s. 
 
 "M. Victor Hugo has produced a notable and brilliant book about Shakespeare. 
 M. Hugo sketches the life of Shakespeare, and makes of it a very effective picture. 
 Imagination and pleasant fancy are mingled with the facts. There is high colour- 
 ing, but therewith a charm which has not hitherto been found in any portrait of 
 Shakespeare painted by a foreign hand. The biographical details are manipulated 
 by a masters hand, and consequently there is an agreeable air of novelty even 
 about the best known circumstances." — Athenwum. 
 
 LIFE IN JAVA; WITH SKETCHES of the 
 
 JAVANESE. By Wh^tjam Barrin'gtos D'Almeida. 2 vols, post 
 8vo, with Illustrations. 21s., bound, 
 " ' Life in Java " is both amu.slng and instnictive. The author saw a good deal of 
 the country and people not generally known." — Athenxum. 
 
 " Mr. D' Almeida's volumes traverse interesting ground. They are filled with good 
 and entertaining matter." — Examiner. 
 
 " A very entertaining work. The author has given most interesting pictures of the 
 country and the people. There are not many authentic works on Java, and these 
 volumes wiU rank among the best." — Post. 
 
 7
 
 13, Great ^Marlborough Street. 
 
 MESSRS. HURST AND BLACKETT'S 
 NEW WQ-RKS— Continued, 
 
 REMINISCENCES OF THE OPERA. By Ben- 
 
 jAMix LuiviLEY, Twenty Tears Director of Her Majesty's Theatre. 
 8yo, with Portrait of the Author by Count D'Orsay. 16s. 
 
 "Mr. Lumley's book, with all its sparkling episodes, is really a well-digested his- 
 tory of an institution of social importance in its time, interspersed with sound 
 opinions and shrewd and mature reflections." — Times. 
 
 " As a repertory of anecdote, we have not for a long while met with anything at 
 all comparable to these unusually brilliant and most diversified Reminiscences. They 
 reveal the Twenty Years' Director of Her Majesty's Theatre to us in the thick and 
 throng of all his radiant associations. They take us luringly — as it were, led by the 
 button-hole — behind the scenes, in every sense of that decoying and profoundly 
 attractive phrase. They introduce us to all the stars— now singly, now in very con- 
 stellations. They brmg us rapidly, delightfully, and exhilaratingly to a knowledge 
 so intimate of what has really been doing there in the Realm of Song, not only be- 
 hind the scenes and in the green-room, but in the reception-apartment of the Director 
 himself, that we are au courant with all the whims and oddities of the strange world 
 in which he fills so high and responsible a position. Reading Mr. Liunley, we now 
 know more than we have ever known before of such Queens of the Lyric stage as 
 Pasta, Catalmi, Malibran, Grisi, Sontag, and Piccolomini — of such light-footed fairies 
 of the ballet as Taglioni, Fanny Ellsler, and Cerito — of such primi tenori as Rubini, 
 Mario, G-ardoni, and Giuglini— of such baritones as Ronconi and Tambmini — or of 
 such bassi profondi as the wondrous Staudigl and the mighty Lablache. Nay, Mr. 
 Lumley takes us out of the glare of the footlights, away from the clang of the 
 orchestra, into the dream-haunted presence of the great composers of the age, bring- 
 ing us face to face, as it were, among others, with Rossini, Mendelssohn, Meyerbeer, 
 Verdi, Balfe, and Donizetti He lets us into the mysteries of his correspondence — 
 now with Coimt Cavour, now with Prmce Metternich — for, in his doings, in his 
 movements, in his negotiations, Sovereigns, Prime Ministers, Ambassadors, and 
 Governments are, turn by turn, not merely courteously, but direct^ and profoundly 
 interested I Altogether, Mr. Lumley's book is an enthralling one. It is written with 
 sparkling vivacity, and ia delightfully interesting throughout" — Sun. 
 
 "Everyone ought to read Mr. Lmnley's very attractive • Reminiscences of the 
 Opera.' In the fashionable, dramatic, and literarj' worlds its cordial welcome is 
 assured. It is a most entertaining volume. Anecdote succeeds to anecdote in this 
 pleasant book with deUghtful fluency." — Post. 
 
 MEMOIRS OF JANE CAMERON, FEMALE 
 
 CONVICT. By a Prison Matron, Author of "Female Life in 
 Prison." 2 vols. 21s. 
 
 " This narrative, as we can well believe, is truthful in every important particular — 
 a faithful chronicle of a woman's fall and rescue. It is a book that ought to be widely 
 read. ' ' — Exam mer. 
 
 TRAVELS AND ADVENTURES OF AN OFFI- 
 CER'S WIFE IN INDIA, CHINA, AND NEW ZEALAND. 
 By Mrs. Muter, Wife of Lieut.-Colonel D. D. Muter. 13th (Prince 
 Albert's) Light Infantry. 2 vols. 21s. 
 " Mrs. Muter's travels deserve to be recommended, as combiniug iustruction and 
 
 amusement in a more than ordinary degree. The work has the iuteresi of a romance 
 
 added to that of history." — Athenssum. 
 
 TRAVELS ON HORSEBACK IN MANTCHU 
 
 TARTARY: being a Summer's Ride beyond the Great Wall of 
 
 China. By George Fleming, Military Train. 1 vol. royal 8vo, 
 
 with Map and 50 Illustrations. 
 
 " Mr. Fleming's narrative is a most charming one. He has an untrodden region to 
 
 tell of, and he photographs it and its people and their ways. Life-like descriptions are 
 
 interspersed with personal anecdotes, local legends, and stories of adventm-e, some of 
 
 them revealing no common artistic iwwer."— Spectator.
 
 13, Great ^Maelborough Street. 
 
 MESSRS. HUEST AXD BLACKETT'S 
 NEW \s' OYAi.^— Continued. 
 
 ADVENTURES AND RESEARCHES amoncr the 
 
 AXDAMAX ISLAXDERS. By Dr. Mouat, F.R.G.S., &c "l vol. 
 
 demy 8vo, T^-itli Illiistratious. 
 " Dr. Mouat's book, whilst forming a most important and valuable contribution 
 to ethnology, wUl be read with interest by the general reader." — Athenaeum. 
 
 MEMOIRS OF QUEEN HORTENSE, MOTHER 
 
 OF XAPOLEOX III. Cheaper Edition, in 1 vol. 6s. 
 
 " A biography of the beautiftd and unhappy Queen, more satisfactory than any we 
 have yet met with." — Daily Skics. 
 
 A WINTER IN UPPER AND LOWER EGYPT. 
 
 By G. A. HosKixs, Esq., F.R.G.S. 1 vol., with Illustrations. 
 
 POINTS OF CONTACT BETWEEN SCIENCE 
 
 AX'D ART. By His Eminence Cardinal Wiseman. 8vo. os. 
 
 GREECE AND THE GREEKS. Being the 
 
 X'arrative of a Winter Residence and Summer Travel in Greece 
 and its Islands. By Fredrika Bremer. Translated by ]\Iaiit 
 HowiTT. 2 vols. 
 
 MEMOIRS OF CHRISTINA, QUEEN OF 
 
 S^^TIDEX", By Hentiy Woodhead. 2 vols., with Portrait. 
 
 ENGLISH WOMEN OF LETTERS. By Julia 
 
 Kavanagh, Author of " Nathalie," " Adele," " French Women of 
 Letters," " Beatrice," &c. 2 vols. 
 
 THE OKAVANGO RIVER: A NARRATIVE 
 
 OF TRAVEL, EXPLORATIOX, AXD ADYEXTURE. By 
 C. J. AxDERSsox, Author of " Lake Ngami." 1 vol., with Portrait 
 and numerous Illustrations. 
 
 TRAVELS IN THE REGIONS OF THE 
 
 AMOOR, A>,T) THE Russia^- Acqositions on the Confixes of Intdia 
 AND China. By T. W. Atkinson, F.G.S., F.R.G.S., Author of 
 " Oriental and Western Siberia." Dedicated, by permission, to 
 Her ]\L\jestt. Second Edition. Royal 8yo, with Map and 83 
 Illustrations, elegantly bound. 
 
 ITALY UNDER VICTOR E]\BIANUEL. A 
 
 Personal Narrative. By Count Chakles Arrivabent:. 2 vols. 8vo. 
 
 THE LIFE OF J. IM. W. TURNER, R.A., from 
 
 Original Letters and Papers furnished by his Friends and Fellow- 
 Academicians. By Walter Thornburt. 2 vols. 8vo, with Por- 
 traits and other Illustrations. 
 
 THE CHURCH AND THE CHURCHES; or, 
 
 THE PAPACY AXD THE TEMPORAL PO^^'ER. By Dr. 
 DoLLiNGER. Translated by W. B. Mac Cabe. 8vo. 
 9
 
 THE MW AND POPULAR NOVELS, 
 
 PUBLISHED BY HUBST & BLACKETT. 
 
 A NOBLE LIFE By the Author of Mohn Halifax, 
 
 Gentleman,' ' Christian's Mistake,' &c. 2 vols. 
 
 MILLY'S HERO. By tlie Author of ' Grandmother's 
 
 Money,' &c. 3 vols. 
 
 CHEOXICLES OF DARTMOOR. By Mks. 
 
 3Iarsh. 3 vols. 
 
 GREATHEART. By Walter Thoknbury, author 
 
 of ' Haunted London,' &c. 3 vols. (In January.) 
 
 HESTER'S SACRIFICE. By the Author of ' St. 
 
 Olave's,' &c. 3 vols. (Just ready.) 
 
 THE CLYFFARDS OF CLYFFE. By the Author 
 
 of " Lost Sir Massingberd," &c., 3 vols. 
 
 " The Clyffards of Clyffe has very considerable merits. It is a very readable 
 novel, written in a good style. The Author can give excellent descriptions both of 
 sceneiy and character." — Saturday Review. " The interest of this stoiy is well sus- 
 tained to the last." — Reader. "The Author displays imaginative faculties of a 
 higher order than in his previous works. Throughout the whole bo jk there is a 
 pervading sense of power and finish." — Post. " A clever novel." — Examiner. "A 
 charming book. From incident to incident the reader is led in pleasant surprise 
 and ever growing interest" — Star. 
 
 DOCTOR HAROLD. By Mrs. Gascoigxe, Author 
 
 of •' Temptation, or a ^yife's Perils," &c., 3 vols. 
 
 " ' Dr. Harold' is a clever story, elegantly written, well devised, natural, and 
 developed with gradually growing interest. The Doctor is charmingly sketched." 
 — Post. " A very charming book ; it is of great interest, is gracefully written, and 
 full of true and tender human feeling."— ,S'tor. " The merits of ' Dr. Harold' are 
 great It is a really good book." — Spectator. 
 
 FIDES. By Sir Lascelles Wraxall, Bart. 3 v. 
 
 " A capital story." — Observer. " A very clever novel" — Messenger. 
 
 OSWALD HASTINGS; or, the Adventures of a 
 
 Queen's Aide-de-Camp. By Capt. W. W. Kxollts, 93rd Sutherland 
 
 Highlanders, 3 vols. 
 " This is a brisk, rattling story of military life and success, by a writer who has 
 personally seen much of that about which he writes, and can. moreover, write well 
 about that which he has personally seen. With young soldiers ' Oswald Hastings' 
 will be popular, and it will be heard of in drawiag-rooms."— -4f/i€n««?«, 
 
 ANDREW RAMSAY OF ERROL. By the Author 
 
 of "John Arnold," &c., 3 vols. 
 
 " ' Andrew Eamsay ' is a story quite interesting enough to ensure perusaL"— 
 Athenieum. 
 
 THE LADY OF WINBURXE. By Alice King, 
 
 Author of " Eveline," &c., 3 vols. 
 
 "This work is much better than either of the author's former stories, pleasant as 
 they were.." — Examiner. 
 
 WILLIAM BATHURST. By Lewis Hough, M.A. 
 
 " One of the best, most interestiag and enthralling novels we have seen this season. 
 The style is very animated, and sparkles with wit and himaour." — Sun. 
 
 10
 
 THE XEW AXD POPULAR NOVELS, 
 
 PUBLISHED BY HUEST & BLACKETT. 
 
 AGXES. By Mrs. Oliphant, Author of » The Life 
 
 of Edward Irving," &c,, 3 vols. 
 
 " ' Agnes' is a novel superior to any of Mrs. Oliphant's former works." — Athenosum. 
 
 " 'Agnes" has that stamp of flrst-rate power which no one can mistake. It is a 
 narrative of deep interest." — Reader. 
 
 " Mrs. Oliphant is one of the most admirable of om- lady novelists. In her works 
 there are always to be f omid high principle, good taste, sense, and refinement The 
 grace of her style, its tranquUlity, its mistudiedbut by no means negligent elegance, 
 have a peculiar charm. 'Agnes' is a stoiy wrought out with the skill and imex- 
 aggerated pathos with which Mrs. Oliphant's readers are famUiar. Its pathetic 
 and refined beauty will appeal irresistibly to all readers." — Post. 
 
 " ' Agnes" will certainly take a high place among Mrs. Oliphant's writings. It is 
 a beautiful story, full of deep human interest, and is, moreover, pervaded through- 
 out with a keen hmnour. The characters stand out almost like bodily presences. 
 To those who read works of fiction for something more than the amusement of an 
 hour this novel wUl be a perfect treasure." — Star. 
 
 CHRISTLAN'S MISTAKE. By the Author of 
 
 " John Halifax, Gentleman." 1 vol. 
 
 " A more charming story, to our taste, has rarely been written. ^Vithrn the 
 compass of a single volume the writer has hit off a circle of varied characters all 
 tnie to nature — some true to the highest nature — and she has entangled them in a 
 stoiy which keeps us in suspense till its knot is happily and gracefully resolved; 
 whDe. at the same time, a pathetic interest is sustained by an art of which it would 
 be difficult to analyse the secret. It is a choice gift to be able thus to render 
 human nature so truly, to penetrate its depths with such a searching sagacity, and 
 to Uluminate them with a radiance so eminently the writer's own. Even if tried 
 by the standard of the Archbishop of York, we should expect that even he would 
 pronounce 'Christian's Mistake ' a novel without a fault." — Times. 
 
 " This is a story good to have from the circulating library, but better to have 
 from one's bookseller, for it deserves a place in that little collection of clever and 
 wholesome stories that forms one of the comforts of a well-appointed home. ' — 
 Examiner. 
 
 THE PEMBERTON FAMILY. Edited by the 
 
 Author of " Margaret and her Bridesmaids," &g. 3 vols. 
 
 " This is an admirable novel, as pure and noble in motive and moral as it ia 
 interesting and affecting as a story. The delicate and refined taste, the unex- 
 aggerated simpUcity of style, and the fervour and pathos which marked the former 
 works of this lady, are all recognizable in ' The Pemberton Family.' " — Post 
 
 MISS CAREW. By Aj^ielia B. Edwards, Author 
 
 of " Barbara's History," &c. Second Edition. 3 vols. 
 "Never has the author's brilliant and vivacious style been more conspicuously 
 displayed than in this very original and charming story."— ,S?/k. 
 
 BLOUNT TEMPEST. By the Rev. J. C. M. Bellew. 
 
 Third Edition.^ Revised. 3 vols. 
 " This book is well written. The story is interesting and full of incident. The 
 accounts of the various old families and family places are extremely well done. 
 The picture of life at Hampton Court is vei-y good, and there is an amusing account 
 of a commemoration day at Oxford.." — Athenxitm. 
 
 CHEAP EDITION OF ST. OLAYE'S, IHustrated 
 
 by J. E. MrLLAis, R.A. Price os. bound, forming the New Yolume 
 
 of " Hurst and Blaekett's Standard Library of Cheap Editions of 
 
 Popular Modern Works." 
 
 "This charming novel is the work of one who possesses a great talent for 
 
 writing, as well as some experience and knowledge of the world. ' St. Olave's' is 
 
 the work of an artist. The whole book is worth reading." — Athenxurn. 
 
 " A good novel It is written with unflagging ability. The author has deter- 
 mined to do nothing short of the best, and has succeeded."— Posf. 
 
 11
 
 ^Mer tlje (Espethtl |1cilr0nirge xif per ||Iajesti|. 
 
 Published annualhj, in One Vol, roijal Svo, icith the Anns beautifully 
 engraved, handsomely bound, with yilt edges, price 31s. 6d. 
 
 LODGERS PEERAGE 
 
 AND BAROXETAGE, 
 
 CORRECTED BY THE NOBILITY. 
 
 THE THIETY-FIFTH EDITION FOR 1866 IS NOW EEADY. 
 
 Lodge's Peerage astd Baronetage is acknowledged to be the most 
 complete, as well as the most elegant, work of the kind. As an esta- 
 blished and authentic authority on all questions respecting the family 
 histories, honours, and connections of the titled aristocracy, no work has 
 ever stood so high. It is pubhshed under the especial patronage of Her 
 Majesty, and is annually corrected throughout, from the personal com- 
 munications of the Xobihty. It is the only work of its class in which, the 
 type being kept constantly standing, every correction is made in its proper 
 place to the date of publication, an advantage which gives it supremacy 
 over all its competitors. Independently of its full and authentic informa- 
 tion respecting the existing Peers and Baronets of the realm, the most 
 sedulous attention is given in its pages to the collateral branches of the 
 various noble families, and the names of many thousand individuals are 
 introduced, which do not appear in other records of the titled classes. For 
 its authority, correctness, and facihty of arrangement, and the beauty of 
 its typography and binding, the work is justly entitled to the place it 
 occupies on the tables of Her Majesty and the Xobihty. 
 
 LIST OF THE PRINCIPAL CONTENTS. 
 
 Historical View of the Peerage. 
 
 Parliamentary EoU of the House of Lords. 
 
 Enghsh, Scotch, and Irish Peers, in their 
 orders of Precedence. 
 
 Alphabetical List of Peers of Great Britain 
 and the United Kingdom, holding supe- 
 rior rank in the Scotch or Irish Peerage. 
 
 Alphabetical list of Scotch and Irish Peers, 
 holding superior titles in the Peerage of 
 Great Britain and the United Kingdom. 
 
 A Collective Ust of Peers, in their order of 
 Precedence. 
 
 Table of Precedency among Men. 
 
 Table of Precedency among Women. 
 
 The Queen and theKoyal Family. 
 
 Peers of the Blood KoyaL 
 
 The Peerage, alphabetically arranged. 
 
 Families of such Extinct Peers as have left 
 Widows or Issue. 
 
 Alphabetical List of the Surnames of all the 
 Peers. 
 
 The Archbishops and Bishops of England, 
 Ireland, and the Colonies. 
 
 The Baronetage alphabetically arranged. 
 
 Alphabetical List of Surnames assumed by 
 memljere of Noble Families. 
 
 Alphabetical List of the Second Titles of 
 Peers, usually borne by their Eldest 
 Sons. 
 
 Alphabetical Lidex to the Daughters of 
 Dukes, Marquises, and Earls, who, hav- 
 ing married Commoners, retain the title 
 of Lady before their own Christian and 
 their Husband's Surnames. 
 
 Alphabetical Index to the Daughters of 
 Viscoimts and Barons, who, having 
 married Commoners, are styled Honour- 
 able Mrs. ; and, in case of the husband 
 being a Baronet or Knight, Honourable 
 Lady. 
 
 Mottoes alphabetically an-anged and trans- 
 lated. 
 
 "Lodge's Peerage must supersede all other works of the kind, for two reasons: first, it 
 is on a better plan ; and secondlj^ it is better executed. We can safely pronounce it to be 
 the readiest, the most useful, and exactest of modem works on the subject." — Spectator 
 "A work which corrects aU errors of former works. It is a most useful publication."— Tiwies . 
 " A work of great value. It is the most faithful record we possess of the aristo- 
 cracy of the day."— Pos<. 
 
 " The best existing, and, we believe, the best possible peerage. It is the standard 
 authority on the subject" — Herald. 
 
 12
 
 NOW IN COURSE OF PUBLICATION, 
 
 HURST AND BLACKETT'S STANDARD LIBRARY 
 
 OF CHEAP EDITIOXS OF 
 
 POPULAR MODERN WORKS, 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 3IILLAIS, HOLMAX HL^XT, LEECH, BIRKET FOSTER, 
 
 JOHN GILBERT, TEXXIEL, ice. 
 
 Each in a single volume, elegantly printed, bound, and illustrated, price 5s. 
 
 VOL. L— SAM SLICK'S NATURE AND HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 "The first volume of Messrs Hurst and Blackett's Standard Librarv of Cheap Editions 
 forms a ver\- good beginning to what will doubtless be a very successful undertaking. 
 ' Xature and Human Xature' is one of the best of Sam Slick's wittv and hmnorous 
 productions, and well entitled to the large circulation which it cannot' fail to obtain in 
 its present convenient and cheap shape. The volume combines with the ereat recom- 
 mendations of a clear, bold type, and gond pappr. the lesser, but attractive merits of 
 being well illustrated and elegantly honnd."— Post. 
 
 VOL. II.— JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN. 
 
 " This is a very good and a very interesting work. It is designed to trace the career 
 from boyhood to age of a perfect man — aChristian gentleman, and it abounds in incident 
 both well and highly wrought. Throughout it is conceived in a high spirit, and written 
 with great ability. This cheap and handsome new edition is worthy to pass freely from 
 hand to hand as"^a gift book in many households."— Uxarniner. 
 
 " The new and cheaper edition of this interesting work will doubtless meet with great 
 success. Jolui Halifax, the hero of this most beautiful story, is no ordinary hero, and 
 this his history is no ordinary book. It is a full-length portrait of a true gentleman, 
 one of nature's own nobility. It is also the history of a home, and a thoroughly English 
 one. The work abounds in incident, and many of the scenes are full of gral:)hic 
 power and true pathos. It is a book that few will read without becoming wiser and 
 better." — Scotsman. 
 
 " The story is very interesting. The attachment between .John Halifax and his wife 
 is beautifully painted, as are th^ pictures of tlieir domestic life, and the growing up of 
 their children ; and the conclusion of the book is beautiful and tou.chmg."—Athenceum. 
 
 YOL. III.— THE CRESCENT AND THE CROSS. 
 
 BY ELIOT WAEBURTOX. 
 
 " Independent of its value as an original narrative, and its usefid and interesting 
 information, this work is remarkable for the colouring power and play of fancy with 
 which its descriptions are enlivened. Among its greatest and most lasting charms is 
 its reverent and serious sinnt."— Quarterly Review. 
 
 "A book calculated to prove more practically useful was never penned than 'Tho 
 Crescent and the Cross '—a work which surpasses all others in its homage for the sub- 
 lime and its love for the beautiful in those famous repions consecrated to everlasting 
 immortality in the annals of the prophets, and which no other writer has ever de- 
 picted with a pencil at once so reverent and so pictm*esciue.'— ^Sw'/i. 
 
 VOL. IV.— NATHALIE. BY JULIA KAVANAGH. 
 
 " ' Xathalie ' is Miss Kavanagh's best imaginative effoi-t. Its manner is gracious 
 and attractive. Its matter is good. A sentiment, a tenderness, are commanded by 
 her which are as individual as they are elegant. AVe should not soon come to an end 
 were we to specify all the delicate touches and attractive pictures which place 
 ' Xathahe' high among books of its c\a,?,s."—Atlienceum. 
 
 [CO-TIXUED ON IKE FOLXOWIKG PAG^S.]
 
 HURST AND BLACKETT'S STANDARD LIBRARY 
 
 (CONTINUED). 
 
 VOL. v.— A WOMAN'S THOUGHTS ABOUT WOMEN. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF "JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN." 
 
 '• A book of sound counsel. It is one of the most sensible works of its kind, well- 
 written, true-hearted, and altogether practical. Whoever wishes to give advice to a 
 youns lady may thank the author for means of doing so."— Examiner. 
 
 " These thoughts are worthy of the earnest and enlightened mind, the all-embracing 
 charity, and the well-earned reputation of the author of ' John Halifax.' "—Herald. 
 
 VOL. VI.— ADAM GRAEME OF MOSSGRAY. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " MRS MARGARET MAITLAND." 
 
 " ' Adam Graeme ' is a story awakening genuine emotions of interest and delight by 
 its admirable pictures of Scottish life and scenery. The eloquent author sets before us 
 the essential attributes of Christian virtue, their deep and silent workings in the heart, 
 and their beautiful manifestations in life, with a delicacy, a power, and a truth which 
 can hardly be surpassed."— Pos^. 
 
 VOL. VII.— SAM SLICK'S WISE SAWS 
 AND MODERN INSTANCES. 
 
 " We have not the slightest intention to criticise this book. Its reputation is made, 
 and will stand as long as that of Scott's or Bulwer's Novels. The remarkable ori- 
 ginality of its pvirpose, and the happy description it affords of American hfe and man- 
 ners, still continue the subject of universal admiration. To say thus much is to 
 say enough, though we must just mention that the new edition forms a part of Messrs 
 Hurst and Blackett's Cheap Standard Library, which has included some of the very 
 best specimens of light literature that ever have been wYiilGn."— Messenger. 
 
 VOL. VIIL— CARDINAL WISEMAN'S RECOLLECTIONS 
 OF THE LAST FOUR POPES. 
 
 " A picturesqvie book on Rome and its ecclesiastical sovereigns, by an eloquent Ro- 
 man Catholic. Cardinal Wiseman has here treated a special subject with so much 
 generality and -geniality, that his recollections will excite no ill-feeling in those who 
 are most conscientiously opposed to every idea of human infallibility represented in 
 Papal AomiiiBXion.."— Athenaeum. 
 
 VOL. IX.— A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF "JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN." 
 
 " We are always glad to welcome Miss Mulock. She writes from her own convic- 
 tions, and she has the power not only to conceive clearly what it is that she wishes to 
 say. but to express it in language effective and vigorous^ In ' A Life for a Life ' she is 
 fortunate in a good subject, and she has produced a work of strong effect."— 
 Athemeum. 
 
 VOL. X.— THE OLD COURT SUBURB. BY LEIGH HUNT 
 
 " A delightful book, that will be welcome to all readers, and most welcome to those 
 who have a love for the best kinds of Y^a.{\.m^."— Examiner. 
 
 " A more agreeable and entertaining book has not been published since Boswell pro- 
 duced his reminiscences of Johnson "—Observer. 
 
 VOL. XI.— MARGARET AND HER BRIDESMAIDS. 
 
 " We recommend all who are in search of a fascinating novel to read this work for 
 themselves. They will find it well worth their while. Thexe are a freshness and origin- 
 ality about it quite charming, and there is a certain nobleness in the treatment both of 
 sentiment and incident which is not often found." — Athenceum.
 
 HURST AND BLACKETT'S STANDARD LIBRARY 
 
 (CONTINUED). 
 
 VOL. XII.— THE OLD JUDGE. BY SAM SLICK. 
 
 "The publications included in this Library have all been of good quality; many give 
 infoi-mation while they entertain, and of that class the book before us is a specimen. 
 The manner in which"^the Cheap Editions forming the series is produced deserves 
 especial irention. The paper and print are unexceptionable ; there is a steel engraving 
 in each volume, and the outsides of them will satisfy the purchaser who likes to see a 
 regiment of books in handsome \\nifoi-m."—i:xamiHer. 
 
 VOL. XIII.— DARIEN. BY ELIOT WARBURTON. 
 
 "This last production of the author of ' The Crescent and the Cross ' has the 
 elements of a very wide popularity. It will please its thousands."— Globe. 
 
 VOL. XIV.— FAMILY ROMANCE ; OR, DOMESTIC 
 ANNALS OP THE ARISTOCRACY. 
 
 BY SIR BERXARD BURKE, "Ulster King of Aems. 
 
 " It were impossible to praise too highly this most interesthig book. It ought to be 
 found on every drawing-room table. Here you have nearly fifty captivating romances 
 with the pith of all their interest presei'ved" in imduniuished poignancy, and any one 
 may be read in half an h.o\ir."—Standard. 
 
 VOL. XV.— THE LAIRD OF NORLAW. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " MRS MARGARET MAITLAND." 
 The Lau-d of Norlaw fixUy sustains the author's high reputation."— /SuwcZa^ Times. 
 
 VOL. XVI.— THE ENGLISHWOMAN IN ITALY. 
 
 " We can praise Mrs Gretton's book as interesting, unexaggerated, and full of oppor- 
 tune instruction."— TAe Times. 
 
 VOL. XVII.— NOTHING NEW. 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF "JOHX HALIFAX, GEXTLEMAX." 
 
 " ' Nothing New ' displays all those superior merits which have made ' Johnllalifax' 
 one of the most popular works of tiie da.y."— Post. 
 
 VOL. XVIII.— FREER'S LIFE OF JEANNE D'ALBRET. 
 
 " Nothinsr can be more interesting than Miss Freer's story of the life of Jeanne 
 D'Albret, and the narrative is as trustworthy as it is attractive."— Pos^. 
 
 VOL. XIX.— THE VALLEY OF A HUNDRED FIRES. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF "MARGARET AXD HER BRIDESMAIDS." 
 
 " We know no novel of the last three or four years to equal this latest production of 
 the popular authoress of ' ^Margaret and her Bridesmaids.' If asked to classify it, ws 
 should give it a place Ix'twcen • John Halifax ' and ' The Caxtons.' "—Herald. 
 
 VOL. XX.— THE ROMANCE OF THE FORTJM. 
 
 BY PETER BURKE, Serjeant at Law. 
 
 " A work of singular interest, which can never fail to charm. The present cheap and 
 elegant edition includes the true story of the Colleen Bawn." Illustrated News. 
 
 VOL. XXL— ADELE. BY JULIA KAVANAGH. 
 
 " ' Ad^le ' is the best work we have read l\v Miss Kavanash ; it is a charming story, 
 full of delicate character paunms."—Atlienatim.
 
 HURST AND BLACKETT'S STANDARD LIBRARY 
 
 (CONTINUED). 
 
 YOL. XXII.— STUDIES FROM LIFE. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN." 
 
 " These ' Studies from Life ' are remarkable for graphic power and observation. The 
 book will not diminish the reputation of the accomplished author ."—<Sa^Mr£Za^ Review. 
 
 VOL. XXIII.— GRANDMOTHER'S MONEY. 
 
 "We commend ' Grandmother's Money ' to readers in search of a good novel. The 
 characters are tnie to human nature, the story is interesting, and there is throughout 
 a healthy tone of morality."— ^^/iewiSM/rt. 
 
 VOL. XXIV.— A BOOK ABOUT DOCTORS. 
 
 BY J. C. JEAFFRESON, ESQ. 
 " A delightful hook."— Athetueum. " A book to be read andre-read ; fit for the study 
 as well as the drawhig-room table and the circulating library." — Lancet. 
 
 VOL. XXV.— NO CHURCH. 
 
 •• "We advise all who have the opportunity to read this book. It is well worth the 
 study." — Athenceum. 
 
 VOL. XXVI.— MISTRESS AND MAID. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF "JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN." 
 
 " A good wholesome book, gracefully written, and as pleasant to read as it is instruct- 
 ive." — Athenceum. " A charming tale charmingly told. All the characters are drawn 
 with life-like naturalness."— ^era?rf. " The spirit of the whole book is excellent. It 
 is written with the same true-hearted earnestness as ' John Halifax.' "—Examiner. 
 
 VOL. XXVII.— LOST AND SAVED. 
 
 BY THE HON. MRS NORTON. 
 " ' Lost and Saved ' will be read with eager interest. It is a vigorous novel."— Tme*. 
 " A novel of rare excellence ; fresh in its thousrht. and with a brave soul speaking 
 through it. It is Mrs Norton's best prose wor"^."— Examiner. 
 
 VOL. XXVIII.— LES MISERABLES. BY VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 AUTHORISED COPYRIGHT ENGLISH TRANSLATION. 
 
 " The merits of ' Les Misei-ables ' do not merely consist in the conception of it as a 
 whole • it abounds, page after page, with details of unequalled beauty. In dealing \vith 
 all the emotions, doubts, fears, which gr* to make up our common humanity, M. Victor 
 Hugo has stam])ed upon every page the hall-mark of genius." — Quarterly Review. 
 
 VOL. XXIX.— BARBARA'S HISTORY. 
 
 BY AMELIA B. EDWARDS. 
 
 " It is not often that we light upon a novel of so much meiit and interest aa 
 ' Barbara's Histoi-y-' It is a work conspicuous for taste and literarj- culture. It is a 
 very graceful and charming book, with a well-managed stoiy, clearly-cut characters, 
 and sentiments expressed with an exquisite elocution. The dialogues especially sparkle 
 with repartee. -It is a book which the world will like. This is high praise of a work 
 of art, and so we intend it." — Times. 
 
 VOL. XXX.— LIFE OF THE REV. EDWARD IRVING. 
 
 BY MRS OLIPHANT. 
 
 " A good book on a most interesting theme."— Times. 
 
 "A truly interesting and most affecting memoir. Irving's life ought to have a niche 
 in every gallery of religious biography. There are few lives that will be fuller of in- 
 struction, interest, and consolation." — Saturday Revieiv. 
 
 " Mrs Oliphant's Life of Ining supplies a long-felt desideratum. It is copious, 
 earnest, and eloquent. Irving, as a man and as a pastor, is not only fully sketched, but 
 exhibited with many broad, p. werful, and life-like touches, which leave a strong im- 
 ljeession."—Edinburgh Review. 
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF ILLIN0I9-URBANA 
 
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