' From Z. MORLEY, 
 
 gookselkr ^ ^tatioiur, 
 J 27, Park Terrace, Regent's Park, London. 
 
 I (^Newspaper 6f Advertising Office.') 
 
 j9u^ ^-^-/^^ 
 
 a I B R.ARY 
 
 OF THE 
 U N IVLRSITY 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 825 
 v.t ^
 
 Yv^
 
 THE GABLES: 
 
 ^ BUtu of a f iff. 
 
 BY 
 
 JULIA MELVILLE, 
 
 AUTHOB OF " OLD MEilOEIES. 
 
 •* Learn how sublime a thing it is 
 To Buflfer and be strong !" 
 
 L0MQ7ELL0W. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 T. C. NEWBY, PUBLISHER, WELBECK STEEET, 
 
 CAVENDISH SQUARE. 
 
 1857.
 
 .1. Billing, Pi-iuter and Stereotyper, Guildford, Surrey.
 
 8^5 
 
 THE GABLES: 
 
 A STORY OF A LIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 *' What art thou, Death : An husbandman that reapeth 
 alway ! • 
 
 Out of season, as in season, with the sickle in his 
 hand." — PaovERBiAL Philosophy. 
 
 . A GREY old Manor House, moss-grown and 
 =5 hoary with age, dark with time, and weather- 
 stained ; with its gable windows nearly buried in 
 ivy ; with green lichen creeping over its steep 
 roofs and jutting chimneys, but, like an old 
 beauty, picturesque in its mellow age. A fair, 
 and yet somewhat solemn picture, standing 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 THE GABLES. 
 
 among the dark groups of trees on its lawn. A 
 steep wooded hill rising behind it, and naeadows 
 and orchards stretching around and away to 
 the blue sea, shimmering in the distance ; its 
 murmur, that never sleeps, breaking the stillness 
 pleasantly. A fair picture, under the mild grey- 
 blue sky, shot mth trembling gleams of white, of 
 the soft September day. Ask the brow-n-faced 
 lad, whistling to his team in yonder field, who 
 is the master of this old place, and he will tell 
 you : " Squire Lechmere — and his fathers before 
 him, for many a long year. But," and here he 
 lowers his voice to a tone of awe, " it's like not 
 to be his much longer ; for he's been stricken 
 mortal bad this very day, poor gentleman." 
 Then go through tTie great sculptured stone 
 porch, overhung with floating roses, with the 
 crest and arms of the family quaintly carved on 
 its front ; across a large hall, hung with stag- 
 horns, old arms, and all other paraphernalia of 
 a country house, and into a gloomy dining- 
 room, with oak beams across the ceiling, and the 
 sun vainly trying to brighten it, by shooting 
 quivering bars of light, through the folixige 
 without, on its faded carpet, and there, in the
 
 THE GABLES. 6 
 
 recess of one of the gable -windows, stand two 
 doctors, in grave converse. One is Dr. Decimus 
 Sprigsb}^ the family physician, a portly gentle- 
 man, bald and solemn ; with creaking boots and 
 a ponderous watch-chain. The other is Mr. 
 Jones, the parish doctor, a much humbler 
 individual, with a rather shabby coat, buttoned 
 up tight, and a deferential manner towards 
 his great brother. 
 
 '* Apoplexy, sir," delivers Dr. Decimus 
 Sprigsby, swinging his watch-chain sharply 
 backwards and forwards ; " apoplexy, sir, in a 
 case like that of our esteemed patient upstairs, 
 is, I lament to say, most generally fatal." 
 
 Mr. Jones shook his head, and feared, with 
 a lugubrious aspect, that Dr. Sprigsby's judgment 
 was unhappily too correct. 
 
 *' I have usually found it so," says Dr. 
 Sprigsby, with bland severity. " My opinion is 
 based on an experience of many years. If Mr. 
 Lechmere ever walks down these stairs again," 
 this was uttered with a peculiar sort of melan- 
 choly triumph, " I am content to abjure my 
 practice and retire into obscurity." 
 
 The parish doctor looked alarmed, as in 
 
 B 2
 
 4 THE GABLES. 
 
 duty bound, at the bare possibility of such a 
 calamitous event : " Our esteemed friend will 
 be a great loss to the neighbourhood," he 
 observed, doubtfully. 
 
 *' Sir," returned the doctor, nodding his head 
 with the same gloomy triumph, '* he will be an 
 irreparable loss." 
 
 " I trust Mr. Arthur may arrive in time," 
 said Mr. Jones, throwing an anxious glance at 
 the distant highroad. 
 
 •' Sir," — Dr. Sprigsby prided himself on 
 resembling Dr. Johnson in manner, and conse- 
 quently said Sir, at every second word, — " I 
 trust he may." 
 
 " The patient is most anxious for his arrival 
 — painfully so !" 
 
 " Sir, he is. Calborough is twelve miles 
 distant, and my esteemed friend cannot, I fear, 
 survive above two hours," replied Dr. Sprigsby, 
 in a presaging tone. 
 
 " Most lamentable, indeed — cut-off in the 
 very prime of life and health !" moralised Mr. 
 Jones. " This is indeed a vale of tears. What 
 do you suppose the property to be worth, Dr. 
 Sprigsby ?"
 
 THE GABLES. 5 
 
 " Sir," returned the doctor, with a ponderous 
 sigh and shake of the head, " I should imagine 
 it to be worth — I believe I speak correctly — 
 about eighteen hundred a year. Not more, sir, 
 but about that." 
 
 " A comfortable estate to drop into — for a 
 young man of twenty or thereabouts," said the 
 parish doctor, still looking anxiously at the high- 
 road. 
 
 '* He may never have the enjoyment of it, 
 sir," said Dr. Johnson's image, gloomily; "the 
 boy Arthur's regiment has received orders to 
 hold itself in readiness for service in the 
 Crimea." — 
 
 " And he goes with it ?" queried Mr. Jones. 
 
 " Certainly, sir ; he goes with it." 
 
 " This sudden event will alter his determina- 
 tion, I should fancy. As a man of property, he 
 will have new ties — a new position to support. 
 One could hardly expect " 
 
 " What could one expect, sir ?" demanded 
 Dr. Sprigsby, firing up ; for he had once been 
 a regimental surgeon, in years long gone by, 
 and having served in the Peninsula, was held as 
 a military oracle; " that he should sell out or
 
 b THE GABLES. 
 
 exchange, and so bring himself under the im- 
 putation of cowardice ! No, sir ; permit me to 
 tell you, you don't know the boy ! I do — have 
 know^n him ever since he was a foot high, and I 
 tell you, he would go to the Crimea with his 
 regiment though a dukedom lay in the way !" 
 
 " Very proper indeed of him," said Mr. 
 Jones, somewhat frightened ; " we will wish him 
 safe home, and covered with glory, to the enjoy- 
 ment of his inheritance. Mrs. Lechmere will, 
 I conclude, be his deputy, during his absence." 
 
 " Sir," replied the great man, with an in- 
 voluntary fervour, " she is well capable of being 
 so. But, you may possibly have observed — " 
 
 " That she is a most extraordinary woman," 
 quickly rejoined the other, as if glad of the 
 opportunity of unburdening his mind; *' her 
 calmness and presence of mind under these 
 trying circumstances, are really remarkable. I 
 have not observed one tear — one expression of 
 terror !" 
 
 " Sir," said Dr. Sprigsby, with much dignity, 
 " you are not likely to see one. My remark is 
 founded upon long experience. She is a very 
 superior and remarkable woman. But, sir, as I
 
 THE GABLES. 7 
 
 was about to say, when you interrupted me," — 
 he made a withering emphasis on the word, that 
 made the parish doctor wince — " that my young 
 friend Arthur's prospects are uncertain as all 
 other vicissitudes of human life. He is going 
 on active service, sir, and there are such things 
 as shot and shells in the Crimea, Mr. Jones, and 
 sallies and sorties, and repulses and charges, and 
 bayonets, and gun-shot wounds and premature 
 death in every form ;" waxing w'arm with this 
 warlike outburst ; " and, therefore, sir, it is pos- 
 sible that our young friend may find a glorious 
 grave on the enemy's shore, and that the boy 
 Roland may, after all Here he is !" 
 
 " Thank heaven !" said the parish doctor, 
 heartily. 
 
 A rapid clatter of horse's feet broke on thfi 
 ear, and a breathless rider dashed up the avenue. 
 A tall, slight, handsome lad, of about twenty, 
 who, springing from his panting horse, with one 
 breathless question — " My father?" — to the 
 servant who came out to meet him, darted up- 
 stairs with the speed of grief and terror. 
 
 " Ah ! our young friend is doubtless excited, 
 and quiet is imperatively necessary," said Dr.
 
 8 THE GABLES. 
 
 Sprigsby, stroking his important chin. " We 
 had better, I think, go upstairs, my good sir." 
 
 It was quite needful, Mr. Jones thought ; and 
 so upstairs they marched, witli slow and solemn 
 tread, to the darkened sick chamber, where the 
 soft autumn sunshine was striving, vainly, to 
 pierce the closely-drawn curtains, as though to 
 glad once more the dim eyes that had looked 
 their last on the green earth and the summer 
 glory. But the sentence had gone forth, and 
 they were no use there. A Power mightier than 
 the doctors stood in the shadowy room, where 
 lay the dying man ; stricken down by one blow, 
 in the prime of hfe and strength, and the glow 
 of prosperity, struggling painfully for breath, 
 murmuring brokenly, with white lips, " Arthur, 
 Arthur!" Beside him, moistening every now 
 and then the clammy lips and forehead, sat a 
 lady, too young to be the mother of the lad who 
 had just rushed into the sick chamber, tall and 
 thin, with cold blue eyes, fair hair, and a fixed, 
 pale, immovable face, bearing no trace of terror 
 or emotion. The sufferer murmured some 
 broken question ; she bent her head to listen — 
 
 " Did you say Roland — my boy ? He is at
 
 THE GABLES. 9 
 
 Eton ; we have sent for him," she said, in a 
 cold, clear, perfectly still voice. 
 
 " Too late," gasped the dying man. '' I want 
 Arthur, — my Arthur, Janie Graham's son." 
 
 The two doctors exchanged glances. 
 
 The young man was bending over the bed, 
 sobbing passionately, " Father, father !" kissing 
 the cold, lifeless fingers. 
 
 " This is he — my Arthur — my first-born. 
 You will be master." He spoke in a hoarse, 
 painful whisper. " Listen, be kind to — to — " 
 
 The boy bent his ear to his father's lips, and 
 the lady stooped her head, and listened intently ; 
 they both caught a woman's name. " Promise 
 — swear 1 That's well !" He strove hard, 
 agonisingly, to speak more, but in vain ; the 
 fingers that pressed the young man's hand grew 
 stiff and icy. The two doctors drew closer to 
 the bed. 
 
 " It's all over," whispered Mr. Jones, after a 
 moment of awful silence, and he laid his hand 
 on the young man's arm. " Hush, hush, Mr. 
 Arthur ! be a man." 
 
 *' You will be master." 
 
 B 3
 
 10 THE GABLES. 
 
 He was not yet twenty-one, with all the bright 
 hopefulness and undimmed fancies of youth fresh 
 upon him, the glory of the morn on his head ; 
 but yet the remembrance of this truth, uttered 
 by lips now cold and silent, brought no ex- 
 ultation to his heart, hardly one quickened throb, 
 r.s he stood the evening after his father's death, 
 gazing out on the lawn and the old trees that 
 guarded it, and the green country beyond, 
 bounded by the blue sea ; all growing dim in the 
 thickening twilight of a moonless September 
 night. 
 
 It was early days yet for any anticipations 
 of that mystic future, that now lay shrouded in 
 shining mists to the boy's eyes. For he that 
 lay above, stiff and powerless, was his father ; 
 and cold and careless parent as he had ever 
 been, the lad loved him with his whole warm 
 heart. He could scarcely realize yet, nor did 
 he care to do so, that he was to fill the empty 
 throne ; that the old grey time-worn house, 
 his birth-place and childish home, was to call 
 him master. 
 
 His own mother had died in his infancy ; and 
 his careless father, and his reserved, haughty step-
 
 THE GABLES. 11 
 
 mother, had not much heeded the growth of the 
 inner man; the atmosphere of home had not 
 been a favourable one to the nurture of the 
 spirit-flowers, but the heart had grown for all 
 that, as the outer man had done, fair and 
 comely. The quick affections, and warm, 
 generous faith had not been blighted. And 
 so he thought more of the lost father than of 
 the gained inheritance, as he stood gazing out 
 on the gathering mists of evening, falling over 
 hill and valley, and sea. It was all very still 
 and solemn, and awful. 
 
 " O, Death, what art thou ? A lawgiver that never 
 
 altereth ; 
 Fixing the consummating seal, whereby the deeds of 
 
 life become established : 
 O, Death, what art thou ? a stern and silent usher ; 
 Leading to the judgment for Eternity, after the trial 
 
 scene of time." 
 
 He started with a half shudder as his younger 
 brother, coming softly through the gloom to his 
 side, touched his arm. 
 
 " Roland ! how you startled me ! Well, what 
 is it, old fellow ?" 
 
 He passed his arm kindly, and half protect-
 
 12 THE GABLES. 
 
 ingly, round the boy's shoulder — a tall stripHng 
 of sixteen — and they stood together. 
 
 " It is very dull and lonesome," said the 
 younger boy, in a half frightened tone, as he 
 leant his curly head against the elder's shoulder. 
 
 " So it is ; you are right enough. We will 
 ring for lights, and close the shutters ; where is 
 my mother?" 
 
 " Upstairs, in her dressing-room ; she w^on't 
 come down ; isn't she strange ?" said Roland. 
 " She is sitting in the dark too." 
 
 He spoke in a whisper, as though half fearing 
 the sound of his own voice. 
 
 There was a solemn awe in the still hour, the 
 gathering shadows without, and the presence 
 of death in the silent house ; the elder brother 
 evidently felt it. They did not speak for a 
 moment. 
 
 " You are master now, Arthur," the younger 
 boy said at last, half timidly, as though to break 
 the silence. 
 
 " Aye, what sort of a one shall I make, think 
 you?" 
 
 '* A very jolly one, I am sure," returned the 
 boy affectionately.
 
 THE GABLES. 13 
 
 " I will try, God helping me !" He lowered 
 his voice with a tone of reverence, " I shall 
 not be a sharp elder brother, Roland, old 
 boy. I shall buy your commission when you 
 are a year or two older, — my mother could 
 not part with you just yet,-^for of course you'll 
 be a soldier. And, Roland, I am going to the 
 Crimea, as you know, — my regiment may have 
 to sail next week ; we are daily expecting orders. 
 I must leave all business, all management of the 
 property to my mother and the trustees — I 
 scarcely know who they are. Old Melford, of 
 the lodge, my Katie's father, is one, I think ; 
 but my mother will be mistress here while I am 
 gone ; and, Roland, you must help her in every 
 way you can, and not let her be worried ; and 
 be a good, obedient son. And if 1 am shot, 
 why then — " 
 
 '* Oh ! hush, hush !" cried out the lad, with 
 a shiver ; " what stuff you are talking: — hark ! 
 what's that ?" 
 
 A strange sound truly. A long, low, wailing 
 cry, that seemed to come from the air, passing 
 half round the house, and dying out into the 
 darkness. It was so chilling and unearthly that
 
 14 THE GABLES. 
 
 the younger boy clung to his brother's arm, and 
 dragged him from the window, with exclama- 
 tions of terror. 
 
 " Oh, Arthur ! come away — do you hear it ? 
 It's the ghost of the house, I think, and the 
 maids swear they heard just such a cry the night 
 before my father died !" 
 
 '* Pshaw, Roland ! I thought all Eton fellows 
 were men !" He spoke bravely, but he had 
 shuddered at the first hearing for all that. *' You 
 are not such a coward as to believe all these old 
 woman's stories. It was some drunken fellow 
 on the road trying to frighten us." 
 
 **No man could scream like that," said the 
 boy with a shiver ; but the other affectionately 
 ridiculed his terror, and drawing him from the 
 window, rung for lights, and ordered the curtains 
 to be dosed. The usually imperturbable and 
 serenely gracious man-servant, who answered the 
 bell, looked pale and disturbed, as he placed the 
 lights on the table. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir," he said, hesitating 
 as he looked at Arthur, " but did you hear that 
 cry ?" 
 
 " Yes, it was some tipsy fellow on the road, I 
 suppose," returned his master, sharply.
 
 THE GABLES. 15 
 
 The man shook his head, as he went to draw 
 the curtains. 
 
 " You know, " said Roland, in a frightened 
 whisper, drawing closer to his brother, as the 
 servant left the room, " what the story is — the 
 old man who cut his throat in the library — how 
 can my mother sit there ! And the blood on the 
 floor, that can't be washed out ; and that scream 
 always heard before death or misfortune — " 
 
 " Pooh, Roland I no more of this superstitious 
 folly. You ought to be too much a man to 
 listen to an old house-keeper's twaddle." 
 
 He had scarcely ever spoken so sharply to 
 the boy before. Perhaps he felt he was master 
 now, Roland thought, half angrily. Whether 
 he felt so or not, he sat silent, leaning back 
 in the arm-chair that had been his father's, 
 thinking, with his dark, handsome eyes trying 
 to pierce the misty future. Did death and mis- 
 fortune lurk there, hidden shadows on that 
 enchanted ground ? 
 
 Mrs. Lechmere heard the cry, too, as she sat 
 alone in the dim twilight, in the old haunted 
 library, with — so said the story of the house — 
 the blood of a suicide staining its floor. No
 
 16 THE GABLES. 
 
 light of lamp or hearth could ever effectually 
 brighten that room, with its massive book-cases 
 and array of dark volumes rising from the floor 
 to the ceiling, and topped by frowning busts of 
 black marble, and its time-worn ancient furni- 
 ture. A ghostly place enough, and her own 
 thoughts were ghostly company, as she sat 
 alone — the same pale, immovable face that had 
 looked on the death-bed of yesterday, bowed on 
 her hands. Not with grief. A strange, cold, 
 reserved woman, she never needed or sought 
 sympathy — even from her own son, whom she 
 loved better than her life — and never found it. 
 She had been a ruined merchant's daughter, 
 with a manoeuvring mother, and the rich 
 country squire, met with at Baden, was a 
 mighty match, earnestly laboured for, and 
 quickly entrapped. She had reaped the fruits 
 of her humiliation. He was an unkind, un- 
 faithful husband. The name he spoke on his 
 death-bed was that of a mistress ; and his neg- 
 lected wife — her haughty woman's soul stung to 
 the quick by her wrongs— ^feigned nor felt no 
 sorrow for him. Even in his grave, she thought 
 she could never forgive him. And in her
 
 THE GABLES. 17 
 
 heart — early chilled and stultified by her bringing 
 up, by the miseries and falseness of her whole 
 life — she treasured up the memory of her dead 
 husband's misdoings, and turned that silent 
 wrath upon his heir, the rival of her own boy — 
 her step-son, Arthur. It was hard not to love 
 the lad, so handsome, gallant, and spirited ; 
 so affectionate and generous to her and to her 
 son. But she would strive mightily, strength- 
 ened by the memory of his father's injuries, to 
 shut up her heart from him, to pay back in 
 some slight measure the misery of her whole 
 life upon his head. Ghostly company in truth, 
 were thoughts like these in the haunted library !
 
 18 THE GABLES. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 *' For him she plays, to him she sings 
 Of early faith and plighted vows ; 
 She knows but matters of the house, 
 And he — he knows a thousand things. 
 
 Her faith is fixt and cannot move. 
 She darkly feels him great and wise, 
 She dwells on him with faithful eyes — 
 
 ' I cannot understand; I love.' " 
 
 In Memoriam. 
 
 " Well, all I can say is, Mr. Langton, that if 
 you will sit there, buried in that stupid news- 
 paper, instead of coming to your breakfast like 
 a reasonable mortal, if your toast and coffee are 
 cold, you have nobody to blame but yourself 1" 
 Silence.
 
 THE GABLES. 19 
 
 " Do you hear me, Mr. Langton ? I say 
 you will have nobody to blame but yourself." 
 
 " Very true, my dear, very true indeed ; never 
 was anything more true, and I shall never 
 think of blaming you, my love. And so — I'll 
 come immediately, but I am so deeply interested 
 in this — that — there ! I protest I've lost the 
 place now." 
 
 " And I heartily wish you never could find it 
 again !" 
 
 The persons concerned in this little matrimo- 
 nial discussion were, as you may easily divine, 
 intelligent reader, husband and wife — the latter 
 a pretty, bright-looking, kind-faced woman, 
 rather tall than otherwise, and still slight and 
 almost girlish in figure, looking about thirty, 
 though probably a few years more in reality ; 
 with pleasant blue eyes ; a rather resolute little 
 mouth, with its firm red lips ; and soft, fair, 
 gracefully braided hair. A quick wit, a bright 
 spirit, and a trustful, tender, hopeful heart, 
 bearing with a cheerful smile the world's rubs 
 and crosses, looked out of Mrs. Langton's kind 
 face, so much younger than its years, and lit up 
 the clear depths of her blue eyes.
 
 20 THE GABLES. 
 
 " A creature not too bright or good 
 For human nature's daily food ; 
 For transient pleasures, simple wiles, 
 Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles." 
 
 There are few words that could describe her 
 better than those. Such was the Httle woman 
 — (although of a fair stature, she was one of 
 those to whom the word seems naturally to 
 apply) ; whose pretty lips — very pretty they 
 were, believe it or not as you please, although 
 she had passed the unpoetical age of thirty — 
 had just given utterance to the aforesaid woman- 
 like desire. And the unreasonable man who 
 would not come to his breakfast, but in lieu 
 thereof sat immersed behind the ample columns 
 of the TimeSy utterly reckless of the tough toast 
 and chilly coffee awaiting him, was Mrs. Lang- 
 ton's husband and fellow-voyager in the rough 
 sea of life — a timid, troublesome, though well- 
 meaning man enough, much given to running 
 upon rocks and getting into quicksands, from 
 sheer inability to steer a straight course, and 
 continually requiring the help of his brave and 
 trusty httle pilot to get him adrift again. 
 
 Mr. Langton, gentleman and scholar, man ot
 
 THE GABLES. 21 
 
 taste, learning, and refinement, contributor to 
 several magazines, graceful writer, profound 
 reader, skilful critic, infant in the ways of the 
 world, a head full of book knowledge,' and a 
 heart large and simple enough to open its 
 doors to whoever knocked, without stopping to 
 question their right of entrance — that would 
 have given his dinner to the beggar at his area- 
 gate, without even pausing to consider — im- 
 provident man ! — what misdeeds of his own 
 might have brouo:ht him there — who was an 
 absolute providence to the violet girls in South- 
 ampton Row, who regularly rifled him of all 
 the small change in his pockets, every time he 
 passed that way ; possessed of a fluctuating 
 income of almost two hundred and fifty pounds 
 a year, some of it in railway shares, and a 
 house in Great Coram Street, much too large 
 for him, and charitably bequeathed to him by a 
 deceased maiden aunt, who had omitted to leave 
 the wherewithal to keep it in repair, a wife, two 
 daughters, and one son. Mr. Langton, in age 
 about thirty-five or six, tall, slight, and gentle- 
 manhke in figure, a little slovenly in dress, as 
 men of letters are often wont to be, slightly
 
 22 THE GABLES. 
 
 bald, the hair he had of a light brown colour^ 
 indecision of mind in its very wave, with a 
 pale, delicate, intellectual face, very gentle and 
 refined, and mild, thoughtful blue eyes that told 
 his story plain enough. You read the man's 
 inner history in them as clear as in a written book. 
 This was Mr. Langton, seated in his arm- 
 chair, with his slippers down at heel — those 
 sort of men always do have their slippers down 
 at heel, and wear a dressing-gown in the 
 early part of the day slightly the worse for 
 service, as he did — devouring the newspaper at 
 about half-past ten in the morning, while the 
 breakfast was growing cold, and his pretty wife 
 was scolding him, in the parlour of the afore- 
 mentioned house in Great Coram Street, the 
 bequest of the aforesaid maiden aunt, who 
 thought four walls and a ceiling the most liberal 
 legacy she could possibly leave her nephew, as it 
 would at least ensure his always having a house 
 over his head — and on a soft October morning, 
 when the autumn sunshine was brightening the 
 smoky house-tops, and lighting up the dull 
 houses, and piercing with its mild arrows the 
 leaden sky.
 
 THE GABLES. 23 
 
 " Are you never coming to your breakfast, at 
 all to-day, Mr. Langton?" recommenced his 
 little wife, now beginning to grow somewhat 
 wroth, which disagreeable frame of mind was 
 sometimes caused by his absent ways, and his 
 forgetfulness, otherwise she regarded him with 
 tender faith as the most glorious and wonderful 
 of human beings; and the most exquisite writer 
 in poetry or prose of this generation. Mr. 
 Langton's half-unconscious mutterings over his 
 newspaper were his only answer, so the poor 
 little woman tried a softer tact. 
 
 " Won't you really come to your breakfast, 
 Frederick, darling?" 
 
 This music must have pierced faintly even 
 the columns of the Times, for Mr. Langton 
 laid down that journal, and, contemplating the 
 coffee-pot on the hob with a mystified face, 
 dehvered himself of the following incomprehen- 
 sible remark. 
 
 '' It really is most wonderful, my dear Eliza- 
 beth — most difficult to be understood — affecting 
 matter for deep speculation on the depravity of 
 human nature — " 
 
 " What is the man talking about ?" demanded
 
 24 THE GABLES. 
 
 his pretty wife, lifting her puzzled blue eyes 
 from her work to his face. 
 
 "The lamentable impulse, my love," pur- 
 sued Mr. Langton, shaking his head, and 
 searching the fire for a solution of the mystery. 
 *' that prompts human beings to destroy their 
 fellow-creatures, and conceal them in cellars !" 
 
 " Merciful goodness 1 What can put such 
 horrid ideas into your head, Fred, dear?" in- 
 quired Mrs. Langton, with a little shudder. 
 
 " Into my head ? You surely don't suppose, 
 Elizabeth, my love," returned her husband, 
 slightly aghast, " that I have been murdering 
 anybody, and hiding him in a cellar!" 
 
 " Was there ever such a ridiculous man !" 
 said Elizabeth, jumping up, and running behind 
 her husband's chair, to give him a re-assuring 
 hug. " How can you sit there, talking such 
 nonsense? Come, do throw away that stupid 
 paper, and drink your coffee before it is like ice, 
 and before I get dreadfully angry with you !" 
 
 But the prospect of this impending tempest 
 of wTath did not seem quite so petrifying as she 
 intended it to be ; and Mr. Langton, who, like 
 many other tender and milky-hearted folks I
 
 THE GABLES. 25 
 
 know of. found alwaj^s a morbid fascination in 
 the details of midnight murders, and discoveries 
 of corpses, and other black catastrophes of the 
 great wicked world by which he was surrounded, 
 read and sighed, and muttered on, regardless 
 of the little hand pressing his shoulder, and 
 twitching at his dressing-gown, till he had con- 
 signed the criminal to the Old Bailey, and seen 
 him fullv committed for trial. Then he laid 
 down the paper, with another low lament over 
 the wickedness of mankind, and began slowly, 
 and in his absent fashion, to sip the coffee that 
 his dutiful little wife had been keeping hot for 
 him, and who, after putting close to his plate 
 everything he could possibly require, sat down 
 contentedly to her work, which was repairing 
 very neatly and skilfully a torn buttonhole in 
 one of her lord's waistcoats,— he was one 
 of those troublesome individuals who, as she 
 was wont to aver, are perpetually requiring 
 needle and thread, keeping all the while an at- 
 tentive eye upon his wants. 
 
 " Where are the children — the girls, Elizabeth 
 my dear?" enquired Mr. Langton, still thought- 
 fully sipping, with one eye on the Times, 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 26 THE GABLES. 
 
 *' They are gone out to walk in the square," 
 answered his wife, holding up her work to the 
 light for scrutiny. 
 
 " Ah ! have they had any breakfast ?" 
 
 " Hours ago, bless the man ! At about eight 
 o'clock, I should think; and if somebody did 
 not sit up scribbling till five in the morning," 
 continued the little woman, with a glance of 
 loving admiration at the culprit, " how I should 
 scold him for his laziness !" 
 
 This pretty speech fell unheeded on the ears of 
 him to whom it was addressed : another para- 
 graph had just caught Mr. Langton's eye, 
 arresting the coffee-cup on the passage to his 
 lips. The Times was Mrs. Langton's natural 
 enemy above all its fellow newspapers. Her 
 softest eloquence fell blank on her husband's 
 ears while its absorbing columns were before 
 his eyes : she hated that powerful journal. 
 
 " And where is Septimus, my dear ?" enquired 
 Mr. Langton, having finished his paragraph, 
 sipped his cup, and set it down again. 
 
 Septimus was Mr. Langton's son and heir — 
 to the house and fixtures in Great Coram Street 
 — a round-faced, round-eyed, chubby-cheeked
 
 THE GABLES. 27 
 
 imp of ten, at the Bluecoat School, and the terror 
 of all the old ladies and cats of the neighbour- 
 hood. 
 
 " Septimus is gone to school," said Mrs. 
 Langton ; *' he was off at seven o'clock, bless 
 him !" 
 
 It was one of her innocent peculiarities, that 
 she seldom spoke of anybody she loved without 
 this interjection. 
 
 " Certainly, bless him, my love," returned her 
 husband, slowly, as he stirred his coffee with an 
 abstracted air. " We have all need enough of 
 blessing, and Septimus is a fine boy, and will no 
 doubt by-and-bye be a credit to — to — " Mr. 
 Langton was not very clear as to what ; " to the 
 — profession of arms, perhaps, and — " 
 
 " He swears he'll never be anything but a 
 soldier," interrupted the mother enthusiastically ; 
 " and to see the extent to which he's always 
 firing off little cannons in the back yard, and 
 terrifying me out of my senses — " 
 
 " Very natural, but sometimes slightly incon- 
 venient ebullitions of spirits, my dear, common 
 to boys of his age," returned Mr. Langton with 
 all gravity : *' I doubt not that 1 myself had the 
 
 c 2
 
 28 THE GABLES. 
 
 same propensities, the same love of the scent of 
 gunpowder, and predilection for noise, that now 
 distinguishes Septimus at his years; therefore 
 we must not consider these youthful follies as 
 sure forerunners of future military success. I 
 don't think," pursued Mr. Langton, musing 
 thoughtfully, " that I discern in him at present 
 any love of letters — but perhaps that may come 
 hereafter." 
 
 In truth, except a strong general taste for 
 mischief, and a powerful affection for hardbake, 
 that young gentleman's mental perceptions were 
 in a somewhat undeveloped condition. 
 
 " Dear me ! I am afraid not, Fred. dear. 
 He is a sad dunce at his book, poor boy !" 
 
 " Well, well !" mused her husband ; " we 
 must have patience, Elizabeth. Oliver Gold- 
 smith was a proverbially dull child." 
 
 "Kit were not for those dreadful yellow stock- 
 ings — !" said Mrs. Langton, half to herself, with 
 all a woman's distaste to the peculiar garb to which 
 her darhng was condemned, and which he himself 
 bore with the utmost philosophic indifference. 
 
 "You are silly, Elizabeth, my love !" (This 
 was one of Mr. Langton's most forcible reproofs.)
 
 THE GABLES. 29 
 
 " I thought you superior to such idle considera- 
 tions. Very likely Shakspeare used to wear 
 yellow stockings — it is very probable, considering 
 the fashion of that time, that he did. I should 
 not have the slightest objection to wear theni 
 myself!" 
 
 "No doubt you are right, Fred, dear 1" 
 responded Mrs. Langton humbly, as she scruti- 
 nised the waistcoat, to ascertain if any minute 
 hole had escaped her careful eye. " But I really 
 do wonder, my love," she began after a moment's 
 pause, during which her husband had finished 
 his coffee and toast, and fallen back upon the 
 Times again, " and 1 wonder more every time I 
 think of the dear boy, how you ever came to 
 insist on giving him such a dreadfully ugly name 
 as Septimus." (Silence.) "Eh, Fred, dear? 
 It was a terribly queer name to think of, wasn't 
 it? — I wish that Times was behind the fire," 
 muttered the little woman petulantly. 
 
 " I thought you aware, my dear Elizabeth," 
 resumed Mr. Langton, looking at her with an 
 aspect of resigned melancholy, " that it was the 
 name of my oldest friend and schoolfellow, god- 
 father to the child."
 
 30 THE GABLES. 
 
 " He never did much for him," Elizabeth 
 muttered rebelliously, threading her needle and 
 nodding her pretty head at her husband, with a 
 severe expression, for her. 
 
 " My love, you are wrong," responded her 
 husband, with his air of mild rebuke, absolutely 
 putting down the Times in his quiet eagerness 
 to correct her ingratitude ; " you entirely forget 
 the presentation to Christ's Hospital, the means 
 of a fit education, generously furnished — " 
 
 Perhaps Mrs. Langton had the yellow stockings 
 in her mind's eye ; at all events, she did not seem 
 overpowered by a sense of her error. 
 
 ** Well, my dear," returned the ungrateful 
 little soul, beginning a fresh darn, and tapping 
 the hearth-rug with her dainty foot, as though 
 impatient to elicit something more. 
 
 " You are really speaking inconsiderately, 
 Elizabeth," said Mr. Langton, with a sigh, fall- 
 ing back upon the newspaper. 
 
 " To be sure, he sent Septimus a silver mug, 
 which the naughty boy amused himself with 
 melting down, last week, to try to make money 
 of," said Mrs. Langton, admiringly ; " it was a 
 shocking trick, certainly ; but it really was so
 
 THE GABLES. 31 
 
 clever of him to think of such a thing, wasn't 
 it, Fred ? He wanted to make shillings and 
 sixpences out of the mug, and sovereigns out of 
 the gold lining." 
 
 " Very clever indeed, my dear Elizabeth ; but 
 I would not recommend you to encourage very 
 much this taste for experiments, or we shall 
 have all our silver spoons and forks sharing the 
 fate of the mug,'* returned her husband gravely. 
 '' Genius seldom sticks at trifles." 
 
 " Of course, Fred, and I scolded him terribly 
 I can assure you," said Mrs. Langton, bringing 
 — or trying to — an expression of inflexible 
 maternal severity into her blue eyes, and failing 
 in the attempt. " And you can't think how he 
 cried, poor fellow ! and said, he didn't mean to 
 be wicked, he only wanted to get some money 
 for papa. So, what could I say, Fred?" 
 
 " Just so, my dear," mused Mr. Langton, 
 with his eyes on the fire; " and no doubt the 
 poor child thought he had found an El Dorado 
 in his godfather's mug. His delight must have 
 been very like that of a Californian gold -digger » 
 on discovering a fresh nugget — and about as 
 short-lived. Ah 1 man, man, such is thy — "
 
 S2 THE GABLES. 
 
 " And I talked to him so seriously/* went on 
 Mrs. Langton, " that he seemed quite unhappy, 
 poor dear boy ! and I don't think he'll be melt- 
 ing down any more mugs in a hurry." 
 
 " Very probable indeed, Elizabeth, consider- 
 ing that, I believe, we have no more for him 
 to melt. However, it is worth something to 
 have discovered that the child has some genius, 
 although in a misplaced direction." 
 
 " And now, Fred, dear," eagerly resumed 
 Mrs. Langton, delighted at having, at last, 
 drawn him into something like a conversation, 
 and resolving, with woman's tact, to make the 
 best of a rare opportunity, " do tell me what 
 you'll have for dinner ?" 
 
 But the bare mention of that important ques- 
 tion was sufficient to set Mr. Langton afloat agaiil 
 on a troubled sea of political and foreign intelli- 
 gence, where he floundered for a considerable 
 time in supreme forgetfulness alike of dinner, 
 his pretty wife's appeals, and all other personal 
 and household matters. So the poor little 
 woman had only to sit and darn in silence, again 
 mentally consigning the Times, and all other 
 newspapers whatever, to the back of the fire, as
 
 THE GABLES. 33 
 
 home enemies, and disturbers of domestic peace 
 At last Mr. Langton laid down the paper, with u 
 sigh, and a confused impression on his mind of 
 " war and rumours of wars," and gave his wife 
 to understand that the battle of the Alma was a 
 glorious affair ; that nobody but fools talked of 
 peace now; that the army was flushed with 
 victory ; the country teeming with warlike pre- 
 parations ; regiment after regiment departing 
 for the Crimea, and — warming with his subject 
 — that one great battle-cry was on the hps of 
 the nation. 
 
 Thereupon, Mrs Langton delivered her indig- 
 nant conviction, that plunging the country into 
 the miseries of war for the sake of the infidels 
 who sewed up their wives in sacks, was a shame- 
 ful thing, and that Government ought to know 
 better ; for which common-place opinion, she 
 got well scolded, and was fain to listen submis- 
 sively to a burst of patriotic and poetic eloquence 
 — for the subject had loosed Mr. Langton's 
 tongue, and quickened his faculties, rejoicing, 
 with Tennyson, that 
 " The long, long canker of peace is over and done." 
 And the little woman, listening admiringly to 
 
 c 3
 
 34 THE GABLES. 
 
 the familiar music that had won her girl's heart 
 in " auld lang syne," and ended, at last, by 
 thinking the war a most righteous and justifiable 
 one, in defence of the weak against the wrongs 
 of a tyrant, who would fain overstride the world, 
 only hugging to her heart the thought, that 
 Septimus, at ten years, was too young to serve 
 his country, and blessing heaven that Fred was 
 not a soldier. 
 
 And thinking last, of all, simple little soul ! 
 that the same Fred, with his poetic fervour, and 
 his manly warmth, and English spirit, was the 
 dearest and best, and cleverest of mortal men ; 
 and testifying her opinion by dropping her work 
 and hugging him as he sat, and whispering all 
 sorts of dulcet flatteries, which he disclaimed as 
 woman's nonsense, but with an evident affection- 
 ate relish for them all the time. She did not 
 venture to moot the dinner question again, even 
 after his fit of patriotism had subsided into his 
 usual quiet, absent languor ; but bravely resolved 
 to do the best she could with the not very varied 
 contents of the larder ; and was just about to 
 ring for the breakfast things to be cleared away, 
 when a sharp exclamation of distress from her
 
 THE GABLES. 35 
 
 husband, who was wandering down the column 
 of births, marriages, and deaths, made her drop 
 the bell-rope, and spring to his side in startled 
 affright. 
 
 " Merciful Heaven ! " exclaimed Mr. Lang- 
 ton, dropping the paper, and falling back in his 
 chair, as if he had been shot ; " he is dead !" 
 
 " Dead ! who ? what is it, my dearest 
 Frederick !" entreated the poor little woman, 
 frightened out of her wits ; " speak, for mercy's 
 sake ! — who is dead !" 
 
 " Ay, dead, gone ! and I never saw him," 
 muttered Mr. Langton, covering his eyes with 
 his hands ; *' my dear old friend and school- 
 fellow, and boyish playmate; my child's god- 
 father, Septimus Lechmere." 
 
 Perhaps, and not unnaturally, poor Mrs. 
 Langton's first sensation was that of relief, for 
 never having seen the deceased in her life, she 
 could not be expected to grieve very passionately 
 for him. 
 
 " Bless me, how dreadful 1" was her first very 
 womanly exclamation, " and we were only just 
 talking of him !" 
 
 " And you, ungratefiilly, Elizabeth," said her
 
 36 THE GABLES. 
 
 husband, sadly, " undervaluing what he had done 
 — and he was lying dead !" 
 
 " I am so sorry, dear Fred 1" pleaded his 
 pretty wife, with an earnest look of regret in her 
 blue clear eyes, *' but I couldn't help it, could I ? 
 No one knew that the poor man was dead ; and 
 how terribly sudden ! you never heard of his ill- 
 ness, — what did he die of?" 
 
 But Mr. Langton was in no condition to 
 answer questions; his eyes were dim and misty, 
 and he was murmuring, half unconsciously, and 
 totally regardless of her presence, regrets for his 
 lost friend, and memories of the past, when they 
 were boys together. So his wife picked up the 
 newspaper, and running her eye down the column 
 of deaths, presently found, among the shufflers 
 off of this mortal coil, " Septimus Lech mere, 
 
 Esq., of the Gables, shire ; who for many 
 
 years had been one of the most respected and 
 influential inhabitants of his county ; and who 
 had departed this life in consequence of an attack 
 of apoplexy, to the inexpressible grief of his 
 widow and family ; and universally regretted by 
 a numerous circle of friends. Requiescat in 
 pace.'* The deceased had quitted the world in
 
 THE GABLES. 37 
 
 the most decorous and gentlemanly fashion, as 
 this neat tribute to his respectable memory bore 
 witness. 
 
 . But it was lost on Mr. Langton ; he thought 
 only of the old friend of his boyhood, who had 
 died without a farewell word, or a tender pressure 
 of the hand ; who had gone into the undiscovered 
 country unknown to him, and unblessed by his 
 lips, whose hand he should clasp no more in life ; 
 and he was dreaming sorrowfully and half aloud, 
 over old memories of bright days gone for ever, 
 of his boyish companionship and college times, 
 and dwelling affectionately and sadly on the fine 
 qualities and loveable traits of his old comrade. 
 
 And blue-eyed Mrs. Langton, in her tender re- 
 gret at seeing her husband so moved — stifled the 
 very natural thought rising within — of whether the 
 departed godfather had left Sepimus anything ; 
 and putting her arms round the mourner's neck, 
 comforted him in the best way she could, which 
 was a very loving and a very good w^ay indeed, 
 and soon productive of the desired result — quiet 
 and unpretending as it was. 
 
 " To think he should have died," Mr. Lang- 
 ton said sorrowfully, " without my having seen
 
 38 THE GABLES. 
 
 him again, without one kind farewell word from 
 lips that loved him so well !" 
 
 " Dear Fred, don't be so unhappy," pleaded 
 Elizabeth, her arm still round her husband's 
 neck, and her fair locks resting lovingly on his 
 shoulder, " please don't ! you vex me so much. 
 And dying so suddenly too of apoplexy, so 
 shocking 1 I think you always said, dear, that 
 the poor man was rather too fond of good living ! 
 — Well, I didn't mean anything wrong," as she 
 met her husband's reproachful glance, "only 
 you know, Fred, that that disorder is generally 
 the result of — well, never mind, I won't say 
 any more. Do you think it likely, darling," 
 the question, so long fluttering on her hps, would 
 not be longer held in, " that — that he has left 
 you, or, at least, Septimus anything." 
 
 " My dearest child," returned her husband, 
 with his air of gentle rebuke, that made the 
 little woman feel her transgression deeply, ** why 
 will you cherish mercenary thoughts so very 
 foreign to your nature? What further claim 
 have we on my old friend, over whom the grave 
 has not yet closed ? We should be content, 
 Elizabeth."
 
 THE GABLES. 39 
 
 " Of course, dear, and I didn't mean any 
 harm ; only I thought it might be possible, as 
 the dear boy was his godson — but never mind ; 
 of course it is wrong to have such thoughts just 
 now;" and she kissed his forehead to testify 
 her repentance. " Who gets the property — the 
 Gables, Fred, dear?" 
 
 But Fred was still dreaming over the past 
 and its cherished remembrances, and it was not 
 till she had repeated her inquiry thrice, and so 
 eflfectually broken his manifest train of thought, 
 that he answered, absently, " The heir, my dear, 
 of course. Arthur, poor Septimus' eldest son, 
 by his first wife." 
 
 " Arthur Lechmere : what a pretty name 1" 
 mused Mrs. Langton, thoughtfully, in her turn. 
 " Arthur Lechmere, Esq., of the Gables — how 
 well it sounds, Fred, dear ! I'm glad they 
 didn't call him after his father, our boy being 
 Septimus too (horrid name !) — it would really 
 have been inconvenient." 
 
 " As they are not Ukely to commingle very 
 frequently, my love, I confess I don't see where 
 the great inconvenience would lie," said Mr. 
 Langton, dreamily.
 
 40 THE GABLES. 
 
 "Well, at all events, dear Fred, Arthur is a 
 much prettier name than Septimus ; you can't 
 deny that ! And now do tell me what he is 
 like, this young man — how old, first ?" 
 
 *' He might be about — " Mr. Langton mused 
 awhile, his eyes misty with faded visions, fixed 
 on the fire — " about one-and-twenty, I should 
 think ; hardly so much, perhaps, if I remember 
 right. Let me see ; how many years is it since 
 I saw him?" and Mr. Langton tumbled again 
 into a profound chasm of thought. 
 
 "Well, never mind, Fred, dear," said his 
 wife, quickly ; perceiving that if he sunk in 
 much deeper, it would be a hopeless attempt to 
 fish him out. " Just tell me if he's handsome ? 
 But he must be, of course: an Arthur Lech- 
 mere could never be ugly." 
 
 To this powerful and conclusive reasoning, 
 Mr. Langton made no reply. Most likely, he 
 never heard it. 
 
 " Eh, Fred, darling, can't you remember 
 what he's like ?" 
 
 " My dear child" (this was a favourite term 
 of Mr. Langton to his wife, whenever he wanted 
 to convey a sense of gentle reproof), "consider-
 
 THE GABLES. 41 
 
 ing that it is — let me see — nearly twelve years 
 since I saw the boy, I cannot be supposed to 
 entertain a very vivid recollection of his person. 
 Still, for your gratification, I have a dim idea 
 that he was a pretty child enough. He may 
 have altered, certainly, since then; but as my 
 dear lost friend,'* his voice softened with a per- 
 ceptible tremor, " was formerly one of the hand- 
 somest young men I ever saw — " 
 
 " Of course his son must be the same," 
 exclaimed Mrs. Langton, springing to that 
 triumphant conclusion with delighted rapidity. 
 " I wonder if he'll come up to town, Fred, and 
 call and see us ? He ought, you know. And 
 wouldn't it be romantic and delightful, if he 
 were to fall in love with Isabel ?" continued the 
 little woman, upraising with marveEous quick- 
 ness a whole pile of fairy architecture in her 
 busy brain. 
 
 " Very romantic and delightful, indeed," re- 
 turned her husband, slowly ; " and not more so 
 than improbable." 
 
 " And why is it so improbable, Fred, dear ?" 
 demanded the pretty mother, waxing warm. 
 " I should think it the most natural thing in
 
 4 '2 THE GABLES. 
 
 the universe. As if the Sultan of Turkey 
 might not be proud to marry Isabel !" 
 
 '' Very likely, my dear Elizabeth," responded 
 Mr. Langton, quietly, as he took down his 
 meerschaum from the chimney-piece, and pro- 
 ceeded slowly to fill and light it ; for, like most 
 men who think deeply, he was a great smoker. 
 *' But as the Sultan of Turkey is, no doubt, 
 amply provided with wives already, and as we 
 don't want Coralie — as I wish you would always 
 call her — to adorn a harem, why, I think your 
 idea falls to the ground." 
 
 " But you are talking nonsense, my dear 
 Fred." He was shrouded by this time in a 
 cloud of smoke, that made her cough and wink, 
 and rub her blue eyes irritably. " Arthur Lech- 
 raere is not the Sultan of Turkey, is he ? And 
 why should not he marry Isabel ?" 
 
 " Coralie," said Mr. Langton, as a correction 
 between the puiFs of his meerschaum. " I have 
 not the least wish to prevent him, my dear 
 child. At the same time, let me warn you, 
 that the elaborate aerial castle you are building 
 up has no foundation whatsoever.'* 
 
 " Not at present, my dear Fred — very likely,"
 
 % 
 
 THE GABLES. 43 
 
 returned the sagacious little lady, with a pro- 
 found nod ; " but it may, some day. And you 
 laugh at me for my castle-building, when you 
 are doing little else all your life. Are you not 
 perpetually dreaming, Fred, dear — ay, and scrib- 
 bling your dreams down upon paper, too ?" 
 
 " Very true, indeed, my dear child,'* sighed 
 Mr. Langton, evidently much struck by his 
 wife's discovery, and rewarding her with an 
 admiring glance. *' 1 am a dreamer: we are 
 all, more or less. * We are of the stuff that 
 dreams are made of, and our little life is rounded 
 with a sleep.' " 
 
 " That is so clever !" said Elizabeth, brushing 
 the threads from the waistcoat, and folding it 
 up. " Is it yours ?" 
 
 "No, my dear, it is a saying of William 
 Shakespeare's, who you may probably have 
 heard of. He was a dreamer, too — a great and 
 glorious one." 
 
 '* Very well," and her honest blue eyes 
 laughed cheerily upon him as she spoke ; ^' then 
 let me, who am but a very humble and insigni- 
 ficant creature, have my dream too. There is 
 no harm in it — is there, Fred ? Just think how
 
 46 THE GABLES. 
 
 eager, aspiring, full of shadowy hopes, " immor- 
 tal longings" — to the level of an automaton ? 
 
 She had her father's refinement of taste, 
 his quick perception of the beautiful, and 
 his dreamy romance, but with infinitely more 
 strength of character ; there was a power, 
 a calm purpose, in the depths of her dark 
 eyes that his nature was utterly a stranger to* 
 Unconsciously, without any wish or intention of 
 so doing, without any assumption of authority, 
 or any thought of it, she led — in matters of 
 every-day life, and often in grave emergencies — 
 both father and mother; the gentleness of the 
 one, and the dreamy simplicity of the other, 
 submitted confidingly to the unskilled strength 
 of the girFs hand, to the quiet power of the calm 
 dark eyes, in which far down a keen observer might 
 have recognised a depth of unawakened passion. 
 And mingled with the mother's love and pride in 
 her eldest darling, in her tender exultation at her 
 talents, there was a slight touch of fear. 
 
 *' Come, mamma, I must be satisfied ; pray 
 consider my feminine curiosity. Who is my 
 future spouse?" 
 
 She stood behind her mother's chair, half
 
 THE GABLES. 47 
 
 leaning on it, stroking the soft fair hair as she 
 might have done to a child. 
 
 ** I am afraid he is a myth — a bodiless crea- 
 tion." 
 
 " Come, papa, won't you take pity on me ?" 
 
 " My dear Coralie," returned her father, knock- 
 ing the ashes from his meerschaum, and taking 
 counsel of the fire, " your mother, from an inno- 
 cent, rather foolish habit of hers, has been 
 talking a little nonsense." 
 
 " WeU, Fred— weU I" 
 
 " Dreaming a little, mamma ? Well, we all 
 dream sometimes ; there is no harm in it. I 
 must know the hero of your air-built castle !" 
 
 *' My old friend Lechmere, whom you have 
 heard me talk of, Coralie, Septimus's godfather, 
 is dead," said Mr. Langton, a volume of subdued 
 sorrow in his quiet voice. 
 
 " I am very sorry, dear papa." 
 
 She spoke with a gentleness that hardly be- 
 longed to her proud face, and quitting her post 
 at her mother's chair, put her arms softly round 
 her father's neck, and bent her queenly head 
 with its dark sweeping bands of hair to kiss him. 
 " Yes, poor man !" said little Mrs. Langton.
 
 48 THE GABLES. 
 
 " So shockingly sudden ! And, Isabel, his eldest 
 son, Arthur, has got the property — the Gables, 
 you know, that delightful old haunted house 
 you have heard papa speak of." 
 
 " A natural consequence. So he is the youth 
 you have fixed upon as my future — you dear, 
 schenaing, manoeuvering little mother ?" and she 
 laughed with a sort of haughty good-nature 
 common enough with her. 
 
 " Dear ! isn't that the old, haunted house, 
 mamma, where a man killed himself in the 
 library, and his blood's on the floor and can't 
 be washed out, and his ghost walks every night, 
 and they hear such awful thumpings ?" 
 
 " My dear Bessie," began Mr. Langton, with 
 a wave of his meerschaum that betokened 
 oratory, " with regard to the vulgar superstition 
 of ghosts — " 
 
 " O ! yes, I know, papa, dear ; they're all 
 nonsense, and fairies too ; but still it's so nice," 
 said Bessie, with an intense relish, climbing up 
 the back of her mother's chair, like a great baby 
 as she was, and catching her round the neck 
 with ferocious affection.
 
 THE GABLES. 49 
 
 Well, well, Bessie, hereafter you will grow a 
 decorous young lady, and learn the artillery- 
 practice of glances, and the mysteries of flirtation, 
 and divers other useful branches of knowledge 
 indispensable in the goggle eyes of that great 
 bugbear Society, but at present you are a pleasant 
 picture enough to plain folks' vision, — a curly- 
 headed romp of twelve, running wild like an un- 
 trimmed rose-tree, in your plump, childish beauty, 
 tall and straight as a willow wand, with your 
 heap of shiny brow^n curls, and your great, frank, 
 honest blue eyes. Earth will never be wholly 
 dark while there are such simple, earthly angels 
 as you, Bess, to brighten its dim places ! 
 
 " I know what the Gables must be ; a dark, 
 frowning old red brick house, with heaps of 
 chimneys and a high roof, and wide oak stair- 
 cases, and dark trees about it, and doors that 
 you can't open, and secret passages, and — 
 and—" 
 
 " And mysterious old portraits that are sup- 
 posed to come down out of their frames at night, 
 and a spirit that has wailed round the house for 
 generations on the eve of any misfortune befall- 
 ing the family." 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 THE GABLES. 
 
 " My love," said little Mrs. Langton, with a 
 shudder, " you positively make my blood run 
 cold." 
 
 " There is some idle superstition, Coralie," 
 mused her father half aloud, " to that effect. I 
 have no doubt everybody in their wisdom took 
 great credit to themselves for hearing some 
 supernatural cry before poor Septimus died." 
 
 Here Mrs. Langton, who evidently felt herself 
 called upon for some expression of sympathy 
 whenever the deceased was mentioned, murmured, 
 with a shake of the head, that it was very 
 shocking indeed ; and Bessie opened wide her 
 great blue eyes, and observed, under her breath, 
 that it must be an awful house to live in, but 
 she should like to try it. 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Langton, confidentially, 
 *' to leave off talking nonsense, my dear, I really 
 should like to see Arthur extremely." In the 
 warmth of her heart, the Httle woman felt quite 
 affectionately towards him already. 
 
 " So should I, indeed, poor lad," responded 
 her husband ; " a sad thing, my dear Elizabeth, 
 for a young man to lose the guidance of an 
 excellent father at one-and- twenty."
 
 THE GABLES. 51 
 
 " Very sad, indeed, Fred, darling ! and — " 
 
 "He is in the army, too," said Mr. Langton, 
 who entertained vague and alarming notions ot 
 the iniquity of the military profession ; "an 
 ensign in — really I forget what regiment — and 
 must therefore doubly stand in need of — " 
 
 " Advice, of course, Fred, dear ! 1 really hope 
 his stepmother is kind to him ; but then, to be 
 sure, he is independent of her. Can't you fancy 
 what he is like, Isabel ? A tall, slight, elegant- 
 looking youth — " 
 
 " With dark eyes, and black curly hair, and 
 a dear little wee moustache, mamma !" broke in 
 Bessie. 
 
 " And the usual amount of brains appertaining 
 to a young ensign, whose entire soul — not a very 
 large one — is in his red coat." 
 
 It was Isabel who spoke, as she stood at the 
 window gazing with a sort of proud listlessness 
 down the street. 
 
 "You are so fastidious and ridiculous, dar- 
 hug," urged her mother, with a girlish pout of 
 her red lips ; " determined beforehand not to like 
 him." 
 
 " 1 hate boys, mamma !" said the stately lady 
 
 D 2 
 
 'UNIVERSITY 01 
 ILLINOIS LIBRA!
 
 52 THE GABLES. 
 
 of eighteen, with a scorn wonderfully suitable to 
 her short upper lip. 
 
 '* Boys, indeed !" burst out Bessie indignantly ; 
 '* perhaps you'd rather have some withered old 
 fellow of sixty !" 
 
 " I have no affection for green youth. I 
 mean to have a man, mamma ;" and she laughed 
 with a sparkle in her deep, dark eyes ; " a strong 
 arm to cling to, and a strong heart to uphold, — 
 Scott's lines personified. Don't you know them, 
 papa? 
 
 " Upon his visage, middle age 
 Had lightly pressed its signet sage ; 
 Yet had not quenched the open truth 
 And fiery vehemence of youth." 
 
 " Ah, very fine, but wait — wait, darling," ex- 
 claimed the mother, with her bright, gleeful 
 laugh, so childlike in its sound, looking proudly 
 at her first born, her tall, stately, clever pet. 
 
 " A.S long as you please, my little mother. — 
 Papa, do you want me this morning?" 
 
 Mr. Langton had smoked his pipe out, and 
 rose slowly in his dreamy fashion, — " Yes, child, 
 I think so, — yes, certainly ; there's a quotation 
 in Shakspeare I want you to look out for me.
 
 THE GABLES. 53 
 
 I don't quite remember the words, nor what play 
 it's in, so you may possibly have some trouble 
 to—" 
 
 " Oh, never mind that, I should like it ;" her 
 dark eyes lit up with a glad willingness — " I am 
 quite ready now." She threw^ the shawl, that 
 had been hanging loosely over her arm, upon a 
 chair, and followed him with a light step to the 
 little, dark study on the ground floor ; where, 
 among his dusty books, the poet and man of 
 letters thought and worked in his simple, happy 
 fashion, and dreamt glorious dreams. 
 
 Isabel adored her father, and was proud of 
 him and his talents. She was never so happy 
 as when copying and transcribing, and hunting 
 up quotations, — no easy task, owing to his 
 treacherous memory ; and fancying that she was 
 helping to lighten, a little, the labours of his 
 brain. She never grew weary of that little 
 gloomy study, fairly running over with books 
 and papers; great, heavy, tarnished volumes, piled 
 on the floor, proof-sheets waiting for correction, 
 encumbering the table ; and amidst all the 
 literary lumber, her father, the most noble and 
 glorious of mortals, in her loving eyes ; the poor
 
 54 THE GABLES. 
 
 author, with his frayed dressing-gown, and his 
 slippers down at heel, and his beautiful, intel- 
 lectual face, and dreamy eyes, scribbling, with 
 his forehead on his hand, for the printer's boy 
 waiting in the passage.
 
 THE GABLES. 55 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Standing with reluctant feet, 
 Where the brook and river meet, 
 "Womanhood and childhood fleet." 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 There was a good deal of work for Isabel that 
 day, as Mr. Langton had a larger quantity of 
 manuscript than usual to furnish that week, so 
 that her black eyes ached somewhat from copying 
 quotations, and searching of old volumes, when 
 she came, rubbing them sleepily, into the draw- 
 ing-room, between four and five in the afternoon. 
 Mrs. Langton just returned from a foraging ex- 
 pedition in Tottenham Court Road, with her 
 round-faced servant-maid, Tabitha Jinks by name^ 
 originally of the Foundling, and a great basket 
 was seated by the window, with an alarming
 
 56 THE GABLES. 
 
 pile of Septimus's buttonless shirts before her, 
 like an indefatigable little soul as she was ; and 
 Bessie, having conscientiously done her lessons, 
 and practiced all her new tunes, was refreshing 
 herself with a battledore and shuttlecock, in the 
 back drawing-room, to the imminent peril of the 
 chimney china. 
 
 " Well, I really think," said Mrs. Langton, 
 resting her eyes every now and then, by a glance 
 from the shirts to the house opposite, '' it's time 
 that Dr. Smithers got his front door painted, — 
 Bessie ! you'll certainly knock down that ala- 
 baster Cupid. Oh, here you are. Bell, my 
 darling — you look almost blinded, poor child !" 
 
 " I have been scribbling for papa all day," 
 Isabel said, throwing herself in an arm chair, and 
 shutting her eyes for a few minutes of comfort- 
 able laziness. 
 
 '* Such a good girl !" said her mother, in her 
 pretty caressing way. 
 
 " Not a bit — I like it," returned Isabel, with 
 what seemed a disrelish for the loving music. 
 
 Perhaps nothing could be more expressive of 
 the difference between the mother and daughter, 
 than the fact that, Mr. Langton, doting, as he
 
 THE GABLES. 57 
 
 did upon the first, never thought of asking her 
 aid in his labours ; and the little woman herself 
 would never have thought of profferring it. 
 
 " And talking of the Smithers, my love," re- 
 sumed Mrs. Langton, taking up another button, 
 " did anybody ever behold such a painful sight 
 as poor dear Mrs. Smithers was last Sunday, in 
 her new bonnet ? even John stared at it — more 
 shame for him ! But then, she was close to the 
 reading-desk, and really one can't wonder !" 
 
 " It was hke herself, precisely suitable, " said 
 Isabel, with her eyes shut ; " and what evil 
 genius can inspire the good soul to drag from 
 the grave of buried fashions, a bird of Paradise 
 plume ?" 
 
 " They don't know any better — poor things !" 
 observed Mrs. Langton, with infinite com- 
 passion. 
 
 The Smithers were a jolly, red-faced surgeon's 
 family, the Langtons' opposite neighbours ; 
 good, hearty, noisy, intensely vulgar folks, — 
 with a house full of girls and boys, two or 
 three bouncing, apple-cheeked, black- ringletted, 
 daughters, much given to practising Italian songs 
 with the windows open ; and a son of twenty, 
 
 d3
 
 58 THE GABLES. 
 
 a student at Bartholomew's Hospital, much 
 addicted to blowing ^e cornet at his bed-room 
 window, with his legs outside — with divers other 
 frolics of the same nature, prejudicial to the peace 
 of the neighbourhood : and, moreover, a frantic 
 admirer of Isabel, to the infinite disgust of that 
 haughty damsel. Poor Tom Smithers ! had he 
 not been the toughest and most long-suffering 
 of medical students, he must have infallibly 
 died of blighted affections, for despite his per- 
 formance of all the softest and most languishing 
 airs he knew, at his window, on summer even- 
 ings ; despite of all the expressive telegraphic 
 signs directed to Isabel's curtain ; despite of 
 love-tokens, conveyed to her by mysterious boys 
 from crossings ; and consisting generally of very 
 glittering cheap jewellery, from the Lowther 
 Arcade, — he never prospered, for the jewellery 
 was always contemptuously sent back, and he got 
 nothing but withering scorn from Isabel's black 
 eyes. She was a Princess in Tom's eyes ; and, 
 indeed, there was a disposition in Tom's family 
 to regard the Langtons as very aristocratic and 
 lofty people indeed, and to look up to them as 
 on an eminence — which inclination was verv
 
 THE GABLES. 59 
 
 agreeable indeed to little Mrs. Langton, who, of 
 course, encouraged the fiction to the utmost of 
 her power ; and was wont to deliver vague stories, 
 and throw out shadowy hints, before her neigh- 
 bours, respecting the extreme loftiness of her 
 and Mr. Langton's connections, whereat the 
 Smithers looked grateful for the privilege of 
 knowing such aristocrats. And the little 
 woman patronized them graciously, and averred 
 that though the Smithers were not very refined ; 
 they were really good, well-meaning people, poor 
 things! 
 
 "Dr. Smithers is a jolly, kind, old fellow," 
 Bessie announced decisively, as she marched in 
 from the back drawing-room, skipping-rope in 
 hand ; " don't you know, Isabel, that he attended 
 that poor crossing sweeper-boy, who had his leg 
 broken the other day by a railway van, for 
 nothing?" 
 
 " No, did he ?" said Isabel, opening her eyes, 
 \^ith a look of interest. 
 
 " Of course he did ; and I know Mrs. Smithers 
 sent the mother all kinds of things while the boy 
 couldn't earn anything at the crossing ; and the 
 doctor's cured him now ; and there he is, as he
 
 60 THE GABLES. 
 
 says, as right as a trivet," said Bessie, admir- 
 ingly. 
 
 " Poor dear man !" murmured Mrs. Langton, 
 
 whose blue eyes had begun to twinkle, "his heart's 
 
 in the right place, and if he wouldn't be so 
 
 hockingly vulgar. — And Mrs. Smithers is a good 
 
 soul too — I really quite love her for that." 
 
 "She is curiously benighted with regard to 
 books," said the poet's daughter. " She says 
 she does not know Tennyson from Longfel- 
 low, and hasn't read two lines of rhyme for 
 twenty years. She says she tried the ' Song 
 of Hiawatha,' the other day, and got choked 
 with the crackjaw Indian names." 
 
 Mrs. Langton had never been able to mas- 
 ter the last-named poem herself, and her notions 
 of Tennyson and Longfellow — she thought her 
 husband infinitely superior to both — were equally 
 vague with those of her neighbours ; but she 
 shook her head, and murmured that it was very 
 sad ; hut what else could you expect ? 
 
 "Nothing, certainly." 
 
 " Did it ever strike you, my dear," returned 
 Mrs. Langton, after a pause, during which she 
 had sewed on the last button, and began to
 
 THE GABLES 61 
 
 fold the shirts up, " that John Wilmot was 
 very likely to come to tea to-night ?" 
 
 " No," said Isabel, laughing, " is this one of 
 his days ?" 
 
 " I think," said her mother, thoughtfully, 
 as she brushed the threads from her lap, " he 
 generally comes on Tuesdays ; and — dear me ! 
 — now I think of it, there is not a bit of brown 
 bread in the house. Bessie, dear, tell Tabby to 
 put on her bonnet, and run to the shop in 
 Southampton Row for a loaf. John always 
 likes brown bread so much, poor fellow." 
 
 Bessie darted out on the staircase, and screamed 
 her message over the banisters, which resulted in 
 the apparition of Tabby flying up the street with 
 her cap strings floating in the ^^^nd, to the 
 evident admiration of the baker's boy opposite. 
 
 " Poor John !" said Mrs. Langton, with a 
 sympathising shake of her pretty head, '* he has 
 no mother to take care of him ; and I'm sure 
 that wretched old landlady of his in Compton 
 Street cheats him dreadfully. I really wish 
 he'd come here oftener ; I've quite an af- 
 fectionate feeUng for the poor fellow !" 
 
 This ill-starred John — for your edification,
 
 62 THE GABLES. 
 
 reader — was the reverend John Wilmot, a nephew 
 of Mr. Langton's, and curate of a neighbouring 
 church, doing the work of half-a-dozen rectors 
 for one hundred pounds per annum ; and for 
 whom Mrs. Langton, albeit she was a little 
 afraid of him, had, in the warmth of her heart, 
 quite a maternal regard. 
 
 "He comes often enough, doesn't he, mam- 
 ma ?" Isabel said, laughing, while a sudden 
 tinge of colour lit her pale cheek. 
 
 " Oh, my dear, he comes but seldom, poor 
 boy ; and you should remember that we are the 
 only people in this great wilderness of London 
 that care whether he is alive or dead !" 
 
 Some unaccountable impulse prompted Isabel 
 to jump up, and clasp her mother round the 
 neck, and kiss her. 
 
 " Dear little mamma 1 I wish I had a nature 
 like yours — full of the milk of kindness, mamma 
 — yours is good measure, * Pressed down, and 
 shaken together, and running over.' — And what 
 a pile of shirts ; and I have never helped you 
 — never done one stitch. I have been dreaming 
 while you were working. Ah, mother, it is 
 always so."
 
 THE GABLES. *63 
 
 " My darling !" began Mrs. Langton, puzzled 
 by the sudden emotion in the girl's proud voice, 
 " give me those shirts ; I am going to take 
 them up stairs." 
 
 "Why don't you scold me — why don't you 
 make me work, I am such an idle, un- 
 profitable, worthless dreamer !" 
 
 "My dear pet!" — the mother was half- 
 frightened, for there were tears shining in the deep 
 dark eyes. " I am afraid you are not well. I don't 
 want you to spoil your pretty hands by mending 
 and sewing, indeed ! You are too clever, love! 
 it does for me, who am a simple body." 
 
 " A simple body I Such a good, true, dear 
 valuable one — worth all the dreamers in the 
 world ! — come, give me all of them.*' 
 
 She snatched another kiss, and ran upstairs 
 with her burden of shirts, leaving her mother to 
 ponder in half-puzzled admiration what a dear, 
 handsome, clever, strange thing she was. 
 
 Isabel came down again calm and clear as 
 before, and glancing at the clock, and saying 
 that if John were coming, he would soon make 
 his appearance, sat down at the piano, and be- 
 gan to play a waltz.
 
 64, THE GABLES. 
 
 And here a shout and a clatter on the stair- 
 case betokened a noisier arrival than the sedate 
 curate, namely, Master Septimus come home 
 from school — a round-faced, curly-pated, blue- 
 gowned, yellow -stockinged imp, who, swinging 
 aside a bag of books — a disagreeable appendage 
 he was glad to get rid of — threw himself bodily 
 upon his pretty mother, like a loving lout as he 
 was ; and, after divers clumsy endearments, de- 
 manded with authority if she had anything 
 good for him. And getting the joyful tidings 
 that the reversion of a cold apple-pie was 
 awaiting him below, repaid her with an exulting 
 hug, and rushed down stairs to be at it, and to 
 refresh himself by a little plaguing of Bessie, 
 who was demurely making toast before the 
 kitchen fire. 
 
 Isabel began to sing, "The murmur of the 
 shell." 
 
 " How strange you should have hit upon 
 that!" said Mrs. Langton. " It*s the only song 
 1 ever heard John say he liked." 
 
 '*And who cares what John likes?" Isabel 
 thought, but did not say, albeit it was a hypo- 
 critical thought enough.
 
 THE GABLES. 65 
 
 Mrs. Langton vanished up stairs to put her 
 
 hair to rights — she was the most fastidious of 
 
 little hodies about those glossy, fair, girlish 
 
 locks of hers, and Isabel sang on, so absorbed 
 
 in her music, that she did not hear a foot on 
 
 the stairs. 
 
 " O love ! by this remember me ! 
 Far inland thou must dwell ; 
 But thou shalt hear the sounding sea. 
 In the murmur of the shell." 
 
 " Love again, Isabel ; nothing but love !" said 
 a voice close to her shoulder. 
 
 She started a little, but went on wqth her 
 song, and when she had ended the last verse, and 
 not before, rose and turned to shake hands with 
 the new-comer. 
 
 " Welcome," said she. 
 
 " Thank you. Do you spend your entire life 
 in warbling love ditties ?" 
 
 " Give me something better to warble : I 
 can't sing hymns all day long ; if I did, perhaps 
 1 should grow^ weary, — familiarity breeds con- 
 tempt. Fault-finding, cousin John, everlastingly ! 
 Will you never bring your white tie and solemn 
 visage into this room without administering a 
 Hioral black dose ?"
 
 66 THE GABLES. 
 
 He laughed : " You forget you are one of my 
 flock." 
 
 She shook her proud head with a half rueful 
 smile ; " You will make small good of me. A 
 stray sheep 1, and a poor credit to my shepherd !" 
 
 "We will hope better things. Nil desperandum 
 has been my motto for many a year." 
 
 " For how many years, cousin ? How old 
 are you ?'* she asked laughingly. 
 
 " Twenty-eight ; so my mother's old Bible, 
 with the date of my birth, tells me. I feel forty- 
 five at least." 
 
 He did not look more than his veritable age, 
 however ; a tall, fair young man, six feet high, 
 and irreverently christened " Long John " by 
 Bessie and Septimus, with nothing remarkable 
 about him, gentlemanlike and quiet, with a high 
 forehead, fair hair, and very tranquil blue eyes, 
 having rather a misty, dreamy look about them 
 at times ; a pattern of clerical neatness in his 
 spotless white tie and irreproachable black coat. 
 It must have cost a struggle sometimes to keep 
 up this sober dandyism, which was as much a 
 part of the man's nature as was the quiet earnest- 
 ness of speech and manner that had something 
 attractive in it.
 
 THE GABLES. 67 
 
 Isabel was fond of speculating about this sober 
 cousin, who had never paid her the shadow of a 
 compliment in his life, and though they had 
 known each other since childhood, would as soon 
 have thought of kissing her as of going over to 
 Rome. Perhaps from feeling in a more than 
 usually restless frame of mind to-night, she 
 charitably resolved to plague him a little, to try, 
 woman-Hke, if she could ruffle this somewhat 
 provoking tranquillity. She had made serious 
 attempts before now to put him into a passion, 
 and had always failed ignominiously. » 
 
 ** You are always very late in your visits, 
 John," she began. 
 
 " I came to drink tea with you," he answered 
 quietly — when did he ever answer otherwise ? — 
 turning over absently the leaves of the song on 
 the piano. 
 
 " Ah ! mamma prophesied you would come 
 tonight, and laid in provisions accordingly. She 
 sent Tabby expressly to get some brown bread 
 for you." 
 
 " She is very kind ; I didn't know 1 liked 
 brown bread better than white." 
 
 " You are the most ungracious of mortals !
 
 66 THE GABLES. 
 
 He laughed : " You forget you are one of my 
 flock." 
 
 She shook her proud head with a half rueful 
 smile ; " You will make small good of me. A 
 stray sheep 1, and a poor credit to my shepherd !" 
 
 "We will hope better things. Nil desperandum 
 has been my motto for many a year." 
 
 " For how many years, cousin ? Kow old 
 are you ?'* she asked laughingly. 
 
 " Twenty-eight ; so my mother's old Bible, 
 with the date of my birth, tells me. I feel forty- 
 five at least." 
 
 He did not look more than his veritable age, 
 however ; a tall, fair young man, six feet high, 
 and irreverently christened " Long John " by 
 Bessie and Septimus, with nothing remarkable 
 about him, gentlemanlike and quiet, with a high 
 forehead, fair hair, and very tranquil blue eyes, 
 having rather a misty, dreamy look about them 
 at times ; a pattern of clerical neatness in his 
 spotless white tie and irreproachable black coat. 
 It must have cost a struggle sometimes to keep 
 up this sober dandyism, which was as much a 
 part of the man's nature as was the quiet earnest- 
 ness of speech and manner that had something 
 attractive in it.
 
 THE GABLES. 67 
 
 Isabel was fond of speculating about this sober 
 cousin, who had never paid her the shadow of a 
 compliment in his life, and though they had 
 known each other since childhood, would as soon 
 have thought of kissing her as of going over to 
 Rome. Perhaps from feeling in a more than 
 usually restless frame of mind to-night, she 
 charitably resolved to plague him a little, to try, 
 woman-Hke, if she could ruffle this somewhat 
 provoking tranquillity. She had made serious 
 attempts before now to put him into a passion, 
 and had always failed ignominiously. ' 
 
 " You are always very late in your visits, 
 John," she began. 
 
 " I came to drink tea with you," he answered 
 quietly — w^hen did he ever answer otherwise ? — 
 turning over absently the leaves of the song on 
 the piano. 
 
 " Ah ! mamma prophesied you would come 
 tonight, and laid in provisions accordingly. She 
 sent Tabby expressly to get some brown bread 
 for you." 
 
 " She is very kind ; I didn't know 1 liked 
 brown bread better than white." 
 
 " You are the most ungracious of mortals !
 
 68 THE GABLES. 
 
 Do you remember some remarkably dainty tea- 
 cakes poor dear mamma manufactured with her 
 own pretty white fingers expressly for your 
 eating, one night when you were here, which 
 you, on your opinion of them being demanded, 
 declared were not nearly equal to Tabby's, albeit 
 Tabby's productions are as tough and tasteless — " 
 
 "As the mutton chops Mrs. Maggs, my 
 landlady, gives me for dinner ! It is somewhat 
 ungenerous of you to rake up that forgotten 
 error of mine, which I really believe my aunt 
 has forgiven long ago." 
 
 " Perhaps she has, in the magnanimity of her 
 soul, although to disparage mamma's tea-cakes 
 is to wound her in her tenderest point." 
 
 " Ah I" 
 
 He was still musing absently over the song 
 he held in his hand. 
 
 ** I never knew you look so long at a song 
 before. Do you really like Mrs. Norton's beau- 
 tiful melancholy ditty ?" 
 
 " Hum— pretty well !" 
 
 "Only 'Hum— pretty well!' Then don't 
 profane it with those cold eyes of yours any 
 longer!" And she snatched it from his hand
 
 THE GABLES. 69 
 
 with a rapidity that discomposed him exceedingly, 
 and made him open his quiet blue eyes with a 
 look of grave rebuke. 
 
 Isabel had ruffled him — stirred the Stillwater, 
 no matter how slightly. She felt exultant. 
 
 "Tell me what you object to? I should like 
 to hear." 
 
 He sat composedly down in the window, and 
 took up a newspaper. " Anything new from the 
 Crimea ?" 
 
 " What have you to do with the Crimea ? 
 Answer my question !" 
 
 He gave her a stare of unfeigned amazement 
 this time, gravely disconcerted and perplexed at 
 her wanting a serious discussion about such a 
 trifle as a song. 
 
 " Come !" she reiterated, with her imperious 
 black eyes on his face. 
 
 " I really don't object to anything : — you are 
 very incomprehensible to-day, Isabel," he returned 
 slowly, and wnth some confusion — he had as 
 much notion of a jest as he had of the unknown 
 tongues. 
 
 " I am always incomprehensible, — so people 
 say. Now, however, I am asking a plain ques- 
 tion enough."
 
 70 THE GABLES. 
 
 " Well — if you will get up an argument about 
 such a ridiculous trifle — 1 think the song a pretty 
 song enough, with less of nonsense, and more of 
 simplicity than most love-ditties : but I don't 
 quite understand why Mary goes mad in the last 
 verse." 
 
 *' Why ! ' the tidings wrecked her simple 
 brain.' For the very reason that it was a simple 
 brain, with — like Longfellow's Evangeline — one 
 absorbing tender idea; one strong, undividcKJ 
 passion filling all its faculties ; and when that 
 love died out, those faculties crumbled with it — 
 when the one star of her life set in the cold sea, 
 the horizon was left dark !^' 
 
 He could not but notice the tone of uncon- 
 scious melancholy in the clear voice — the earnest- 
 ness that shone in the dark deep eyes ; and he 
 looked up with some surprise, but he did not 
 understand it — how should he? 
 
 " And so she goes mad, and wanders, a gentle, 
 harmless, crazed creature, with the same smile 
 for him who never comes, on her wan face, 
 dreaming she hears * death-music in the shell/ 
 till Death himself comes, a merciful messenger, 
 and takes her to meet her lover in heaven !"
 
 THE GABLES. 71 
 
 " What a romantic fancy !" said he, with an 
 indulgent smile on his quiet, good-looking, sober 
 face : " You have conjured up a three-volume 
 history out of those few lines." 
 
 " Don't scorn what you cannot understand," 
 with a sparkle in her dark eye ; " my romance 
 is a precious possession to me — my sole dower 
 and inheritance — a marvellous gladdener of my 
 dull realities of life !" A bright flush lit up her 
 pale cheek, and brightened her face into beauty : 
 
 " It is a pleasant power, that of piling up 
 aerial castles, glowing with sunset colours, even 
 though they have no foundation but the clouds." 
 
 " And what avails it when they crumble 
 into dust at your feet, and leave your world 
 empty ?" he asked with a sigh, and a cloud 
 coming over his calm face. 
 
 "Well, they have at least lightened and 
 smoothed the barrenness of life — shed a glow on 
 the rough road and the dark mountain — if they 
 have done no more ; and who shall say that is 
 a little thing ? I hold like faith with Martin 
 Tupper, who says, in his Proverbial Philosophy, 
 — of course you have never read it? — ' Charge 
 not folly on invisibles, that render thee happier
 
 72 THE GABLES. 
 
 and purer. The fair frail visions of romance 
 have a use beyond the maxims of the real:' — 
 What say you to such a creed ?" 
 
 She stood before him, half leaning against her 
 father's great chair, with a kind of graceful 
 indolence ; but her proud head erect, and her 
 dark earnest eyes on his face, trying hard to 
 draw him out, to see what stuff the inner man 
 was made of. 
 
 " An idle one, I fancy, at all events ; only a 
 poet's creed." 
 
 " Only 1" 
 
 Her whole face flashed up. 
 
 *' Forgive me," he said, laughing in good- 
 natured apology ; " I forgot you were a poet's 
 daughter. But 1 never read the book you speak 
 of. I have no time for reading poetry, or for 
 dreams either." 
 
 And yet, while he spoke, he was gazing out 
 of the window ; yet not at the street, — nor the 
 houses opposite — nor at Miss Sophy Smithers, 
 practising A te, car a with the windows open, 
 but perhaps at the sky above and beyond, and in 
 dreamy fashion enough. 
 
 Isabel's quick eye caught the look —
 
 THE GABLES. 73 
 
 "Ah, you are dreaming now, cousin, in spite 
 of your heresy ! Nay, ne\er deny it ! I see it in 
 your face !" 
 
 He laughed, but the laugh ended in a sigh, 
 and he did not contradict her. 
 
 *' Never blush for it : we are all guilty of the 
 error — if one it be. Sometimes even the very 
 prosiest of every-day folks — even the Reverend 
 John Wilmot, M. A., of Trinity College, Cam- 
 bridge !" 
 
 He wondered why he felt that her girlish 
 raillery was pleasant, and began to take himsflf 
 severely to task for such an idle fancy. 
 
 " But life is not a dream, Isabel," he began, 
 gravely, with some uncomfortable feeling that he 
 ought to try to awaken her to a sense of her errors. 
 
 " Now you are getting professional. Do 
 forget your white choker for half an hour, I 
 beseech you. Don't look shocked." 
 
 He did, for an instant. 
 
 " I am afraid I am very wicked ; and you are 
 right, I know. Life is a battle, a strong surging 
 tide — though sometimes to me it seems like a 
 stagnant stream — and we are soldiers, not 
 dreamers, enlisted under the banner of the 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 74 THE GABLES. 
 
 Cross, and sworn to faithful service. But nny 
 theory does not fall to the ground — we may be 
 dreamers now and then, for all that. If, by the 
 light of fancy, glimpses of the spirit world are 
 given us to brighten our night-watches, we 
 need not shut our eyes to them ; if echoes from 
 the land of song come to us sometimes on the 
 chilly air, we need not close our ears. You 
 cannot chain down the soul by mathematicians' 
 rules, nor stifle the immortal longings that God 
 planted in it. And try as you will, cousin, you 
 may not persuade me that high and lofty 
 dreaming, that lifts us sometimes quite away 
 from this sordid world into the regions of the 
 morning, does not bring us nearer to Jlim." 
 
 He liKed to listen to her romantic nonsense, 
 as all this girl's prattle was to him — liked to 
 watch and wonder at — in his quiet, honest, 
 simple fashion — the bright enthusiasm that lit 
 up her proud, pale, intelligent face. 
 
 " I speak to deaf ears, I see : I shall not make 
 a convert of you. And perhaps your theory is 
 a harder and a nobler one. Work is your creed 
 — you have no time to waste on visions." 
 
 There was a kind of reverence — of half-
 
 THE GABLES. 75 
 
 envying admiration — in the stedfast look she 
 gave him; but he did not notice — and if he 
 had, would not have understood it. 
 
 " Little, indeed. I have enough realities to 
 deal with," speaking with his quiet smile: 
 " pain, hunger, penury, and death, form the 
 atmosphere of my daily life." 
 
 " And yet it is a life to envy." 
 
 She spoke more to herself than to him, the 
 old misty look comins: over her face. 
 
 " Ah, because you throw your veil of young, 
 lady romance over it, and so hide its sharp 
 angles and cutting realities," he answered. 
 
 " The roughness will be forgotten in the day 
 when it shall be said, ' Well done, good and 
 faithful servant/ " 
 
 " Yes, that is our hope." 
 
 He said it in his ordinary calm fashion, with- 
 out any change of voice or manner ; and then, 
 as if he had had talking enough, he took up the 
 newspaper again, and became absorbed in a 
 letter from the Crimea 
 
 And Isabel had no time for speculating about 
 him just then, or for wondering, as she usually 
 did, whether under this calm exterior burned 
 
 E 2
 
 76 THE GABLES. 
 
 any hidden fire; for little Mrs. Langton came 
 in, lighting up the quiet room with her fair, 
 kind face, like a gleam of sunshine, and making 
 her way to her tall nephew, put her little hands 
 on his two shoulders — she had to mount on tip- 
 toe to achieve the feat — and lifting to his a 
 pretty face of welcome that would not be 
 baulked, gave him a motherly kiss. This was 
 a conscientious ceremony that she would not 
 have omitted for the world, for in the goodness 
 of her heart she cherished a fiction that poor, 
 dear John was not at all strong — he, himself, 
 averred that he scarcely ever had a head- ache — 
 and, moreover, that his landlady, Mrs. Maggs, 
 half starved and cheated him into the bargain ; 
 which was perhaps true, that worthy woman, 
 like most of her sisterhood, pertaining to the 
 shark tribe. Consequently Mrs. Langton petted 
 John extremely whenever he came to tea in 
 Coram Street, slightly to his confusion some- 
 times. 
 
 " You don't look very well to-night, John," 
 prattled the little woman, sitting down to pour 
 out the tea, which Tabby — a great, tall, brick- 
 dust cheeked maiden, with a perpetual expres-
 
 THE GABLES. 77 
 
 slon of amazement in her big, black eyes — was 
 setting forth upon the table. " Your eyes look 
 dull, i am afraid you have been reading too 
 much lately, or sitting up too late at night. I 
 remember that was a shocking: trick of vours 
 when you were staying with us, just after you 
 were first ordained." 
 
 " I am very well, indeed, thank you — never 
 better." 
 
 " He always says that ; doesn't he, darling ?" 
 said Mrs. Langton, with her bright laugh, 
 glancing at Isabel, but finding no response in 
 the dreamy face. " However, there is your tea 
 for you, John. Now do put down that stupid 
 newspaper, and drink it, like a good boy." 
 
 He obeyed accordingly, like a very good boy, 
 indeed ; and sat sipping it, and answering his 
 pretty aunt's affectionate prattle — she looked 
 considerably more hke his sister — in his quiet, 
 half absent way. 
 
 " Where is my uncle, and — and Bessy ?" he 
 inquired at last, awakening gradually to the per- 
 ception that half the family were abstnt. 
 
 " Why, poor dear Fred's hard at work, as 
 usual," returned Mrs. Langton, with a little
 
 78 THE GABLES. 
 
 sigh. " He's more than usually busy this week, 
 that wretch of an Editor requires so much of 
 him ; and no wonder, for you know, my dear 
 John," and a proud smile lit up the silly little 
 woman's face, " that Fred's writings are the 
 chief support of the magazine ; and since he's 
 the only man of talent they've got amongst 
 them, why of course they must work him pretty 
 hard. And as for Bessy — oh, here she is ! 
 Just take papa's tea to him, dear. 1 know he's 
 too busy, poor dear man, to leave his scribbling." 
 
 " How d'ye do, Bessie V" said Mr. Wilmot, 
 stretching out two fingers. 
 
 " I'm very well," Bessie returned, taking no 
 notice whatever of the fingers, and preparing to 
 march off with her father's tea. 
 
 '* My pet, don't you shake hands with your 
 cousin?" 
 
 " Not fingers, mamma," returned the httle 
 damsel, curling up her nose, like a spoilt child 
 as she was. *' I suppose John doesn't think me 
 worth his whole hand." 
 
 John laughed. 
 
 " Here it is for you, Bessie," said he. 
 
 " Thank you. I don't want it."
 
 THE GABLES. 79 
 
 And she walked off with the air of an in 
 suited empress ; while Isabel laughed, and Mrs. 
 Langton said, with a grave shake of her pretty 
 head, that really Mr. Langton did spoil Bessie 
 terribly. 
 
 Between Bessie and " long John" there ex- 
 isted a sort of tacit feud — principally on her 
 side, certainly — he, snubbing lier a little, in a 
 quiet, friendly fashion, as a little spoilt thing 
 that wanted keeping down ; and she full of an 
 uncomfortable awe of his white tie and sober 
 ways, and angry because he could not be per- 
 suaded to laugh and romp with her. He was 
 ver\' good, thought Bessie, with vague remorse 
 for not liking him more ; but, in short, she 
 knew not how it was, but fire and water agreed 
 better together than her joyous, childish, un- 
 tamed nature, typified by her frank blue eyes 
 and dancing ringlets, with that of her grave, 
 earnest, clerical cousin. Accordingly she sat 
 herself down, after taking her father's tea to the 
 little study, and proceeded to butter her toast 
 with stolid immovability of countenance, which 
 was in some danger of being ignominiously 
 broken by Septimus, seated opposite, with his
 
 80 THE GABLES. 
 
 curly head in a wonderful state of bear's grease ; 
 and who, setting at defiance all established rules 
 of politeness, diverted himself and her, in the 
 intervals of bread and honey, by making 
 hideous grimaces at long John whenever his 
 face was hidden in his tea-cup, to the great 
 scandal of poor little Mrs. Langton. Tea passed 
 off soberly enough, Bessie being mute ; for the 
 visitor possessed that indefinable, and sometimes 
 enviable quality of always creating around him 
 an atmosphere of quiet. Mr. Langton came 
 into the drawing-room soon after — out of 
 dream-land into the realities of life — and sat 
 himself down in his arm-chair by the fire, for 
 the April evening was chilly, to refresh himself, 
 after hours of mental labour, with the home 
 atmosphere and the cheerful prattle. John was 
 forced to talk then, for his uncle really wanted a 
 little conversation. So they both fell, ere long, 
 into a discussion on the one subject then upper- 
 most in everybody's head and heart : the war — 
 the first great victory. The old spirit — rusted, 
 but not quenched, by forty years — blazed up 
 again then, even in peaceful breasts, fierce and 
 keen.
 
 THE GABLES. 81 
 
 Mrs. LaDgton sat by at work, as ever, putting 
 in now and then a few timid words, but for the 
 most part listening in mute admiration to that, 
 to her, finest of earth's music, her husband's 
 voice. Bessie and Septimus prattled in under- 
 tones, and Isabel sat apart in the window, 
 looking out on the quiet street, bright in the 
 mild April moonlight, drawing brain pictures in 
 her usual fashion. This quiet cousin puzzled 
 her, without any earthly reason. She had been 
 trying for a long while to fathom the depth of 
 this still stream — to solve the mystery of his 
 character ; and she little dreamt that there was 
 no depth and no mystery to fathom — that no 
 unseen rocks or shoals lurked beneath the calm 
 waters of the quiet river, no feverish tempests 
 ruffled its tranquil tide. 
 
 It was a simple character enough ; this young 
 curate's — one of those quiet, honest, simple- 
 minded men, doing their duty " with their 
 might," earnestly, manfully working on, day after 
 day, in an almost hourly struggle with vice, 
 ignorance, poverty, and want ; with no hope of 
 fame or reputation, or worldly advancement, — 
 nothing but the one great hope, all Christians 
 
 £ 3
 
 82 THE GABLES. 
 
 hold in common, that at the last their Master's 
 voice may hail them, " good and faithful ser- 
 vants." Such men there are — poor, obscure, and 
 content to remain so — with no thirst for gold 
 or notoriety in their almost childlike souls, work- 
 ing on simply and faithfully — without one back- 
 ward glance at the world they have given up ; un- 
 vexed by feverish desires, unchafed by the seething 
 passions of earth — but human still — and telling 
 only to their God sufferings and trials that men 
 dream not of. Such there are in great cities, and 
 in the nooks and corners of the land ; and the 
 world that treats them but scurvily, is the 
 better and holier that they live. Perhaps they 
 are the salt of the earth. 
 
 But good, and true, and earnest, as he was, 
 there was no sympathy between him and Isabel, 
 their natures were so utterly unlike, that they 
 had nothing in common ; — what should they 
 have, — the quiet, sober, clergyman, working 
 on steadily against time and tide, struggling 
 with sharp realities, and the untamed, inex- 
 perienced girl — teeming with brilliant dreams 
 and restless desires ? 
 
 " Coralie !" said her father's voice, " where 
 art thou, my daughter?"
 
 THE GABLES. 83 
 
 "Dreaming in the moonshine, papa," broke 
 in Bessie, " drawing pictures, as she calls it." 
 turning her blue eyes upon her sister. " Isabel ! 
 how hke a statue you look, with the moon failing 
 upon your pale face, — look, mamma !" 
 
 Isabel laughed and rose. 
 
 " I am flesh and blood again now, Bess. 
 What shall I sing ?" 
 
 Mrs. Langton voted for " Auld Robin 
 Gray." 
 
 " That is your song, little mother ; I won't 
 usurp your sweet old Scotch melodies, that suit 
 you so well. Besides, that is too melancholy — 
 I want something cheerful to night!" 
 
 " John," said Mrs. Langton, " you are a 
 visitor, do you choose." Silence. 
 
 John was buried in the last number of 
 " Household Words," and gave no signs of 
 vitality. 
 
 " John !" shouted Bessie, determined he 
 should hear this time ; " what shall Isabel 
 sing?" 
 
 " Eh ? t beg your pardon," — waking vvith a 
 start to sublunary affairs. " Sing ? whatever 
 she pleases."
 
 84 THE GABLES. 
 
 Bessie laughed, and shrugged her pretty 
 shoulders. " He's a queer fellow, isn't he ?" in 
 a very audible whisper. " Here's the ' Standard- 
 bearer, that rings, doesn't it? — 
 
 " My lady love ! I dare not breathe thy name ; 
 Yet do I wear thy colours for a token." 
 
 Isabel sung it con spirito, with an earnest- 
 ness in her ringing tones, that was almost pas- 
 sionate ; and which made Septimus, from his 
 corner, pronounce the performance "stunning." 
 
 " My pet ! how well you sung that !" said 
 Mrs. Langton, looking up, half surprised. 
 
 John murmured over his book, that it w^as 
 very pretty. 
 
 " Go on, Coralie," said her father, lighting his 
 meerschaum, and leaning back in his arm-chair, 
 with his eyes on the fire. 
 
 The echoes of music stirred, very pleasantly, 
 the shadows of the poet's dreamland; filled it 
 with bright fancies. And Isabel sung song 
 after song, till she was weary ; but her voice 
 could not disturb the still stream, whose quiet 
 baffled her so provokingly, — till she was childish 
 enough to feel decidedly angry — and to indulge
 
 THE GABLES. 85 
 
 in a very womanish longing for a little revenge. 
 But no opportunity came that night. He was 
 more silent than usual ; and when Mr. Langton 
 withdrew, at ten, into his little study, to hegin 
 his nightly work — he was writing a novel, poor 
 man, of whom the heroine was an exact counter- 
 part of Isabel ; and the pubhshers were im- 
 patient — John wished them all good night, 
 kissed his aunt, shook hands with his cousins, 
 and walked home to Compton Street and Mrs. 
 Maggs. And Isabel watched him down the quiet, 
 mocnht street so intently, that she did not even 
 hear her mother's fears that the poor boy must 
 be wretchedly uncomfortable, and terribly lonely, 
 nor Bessie's declamations against his odd ways. 
 It was all quiet in the house ere long. Mrs. 
 Langton — dear, simple little woman — lay down 
 to ecstatic ^nsions of Arthur Lechmere, the hand- 
 somest young man that ever was seen ; kneeling 
 down, estate and all, at Isabel's feet — the queen 
 of his heart ; but it was not of him that Isabel 
 was dreaming, sitting idly by the bed, where 
 Bessie lay asleep, — the moonlight streaming in, 
 and falling on her pale face and black hair.
 
 86 THE GABLES. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " To-day the lists are set, and thou must bear thee 
 bravely, — 
 Tilting for honour, duty, life or death without reproach." 
 Proverbia-l Philosophy. 
 
 Mrs. Langton's visions — perhaps a little 
 moderated by the sober light of day, and further 
 by the want of any sympathetic encouragement 
 — nevertheless continued to flutter very pleasantly 
 about the little woman's heart, for some days, to 
 lighten most magically the dull realities of life. 
 And they had not time to wax cold, ere, bright- 
 ening them gorgeously, came a letter from the 
 hero of them to Mr. Langton. A simple, frank> 
 boyish sort of letter, that brought tears to the 
 good gentleman's eyes. The writer was going 
 to the Crimea — his regiment was ordered to sail 
 in a short time, and he with it. Poor Mrs.
 
 THE GABLES. 87 
 
 Langton's countenance fell dismally at this disas- 
 trous news. He was anxious, before he left Eng- 
 land, to see his father's old friend, whom he had 
 a kind remembrance of as a child ; and as he 
 must come up to London, for a few days, to 
 make preparations for his departure, he should 
 take the opportunity — 
 
 *' Of coming to see us," said Bessie, cutting 
 her father short, and executing a triumphant 
 caper at the prospect — "what fun !" 
 
 " Good gracious ! my dear Fred," began Mrs. 
 Langton, rather fluttered at the thought of such 
 an important guest. 
 
 Mr, Langton passed his hand over his eyes, 
 sat down and took counsel of the fire, fingering 
 the letter absently : 
 
 " My dear Elizabeth," he began, dubiously, 
 " I cannot tell if you will agree with me, but in 
 my opinion, we certainly ought " 
 
 " To ask him to stay here while he is in 
 London 1" exclaimed the little woman, triumph- 
 antly; " of course, Fred, dearest." 
 
 " To stay here !" reiterated Isabel, turning 
 her proud face from the window, with a glance 
 of dismay.
 
 88 THE GABLES. 
 
 " Aye, and moreover, darling," said her 
 mother, with her merry laugh, " you must give 
 up your room to him, for the spare bedroom is 
 very small, you know, and looks out on the 
 back-yard." 
 
 " And he'd get no sleep for the cats on the 
 roof," said Bessie, laughing. 
 
 "And you know, my pet,*' said the mother, half- 
 timidly, as she looked at her proud, clever first- 
 born, " as his father was papa's old friend, and so 
 kind to Septimus," — a pretty little bit of hypo- 
 crisy, that — '* and then seeing him for the first 
 time, of course we must " 
 
 " Kill the fatted calf, and receive him with 
 honour of course. Make a feast for him, and 
 live on the remnants for a week," said the 
 girl, rather bitterly, '* I am afraid. — Eh ! little 
 mother ?" 
 
 " You are so strange, darling," pouted Mrs. 
 Langton, with a disconcerted face. 
 
 She was a strange girl — strange and silly 
 enough to feel vexed and angry for a minute 
 — then to repent of her sin, and clasp her 
 mother round the neck and kiss her. 
 
 " You are right, and 1 am all wrong, as
 
 THE GABLES. 89 
 
 always, mamma, dear. We will make this 
 hero welcome ; set him in high places and 
 feast him with our best. He shall have my 
 room, with all my heart. Bessie, come and 
 help me to move my things." And away she 
 went — this proud, foolish child — ever erring 
 and ever humbling herself — thinking it was 
 not for Arthur Lech mere she took the trouble, 
 but for that sweet, innocent, loving-hearted 
 little mother. 
 
 Bessie was exultant, brimful of chatter ; 
 trembling over everything, dropping books and 
 sketches, in her flutter of delight ; angering 
 her stately sister desperately. What fun to 
 have an officer staying with them ! She hoped 
 he'd come in his uniform — how the Smithers 
 would stare, and wonder, and ask questions ! 
 She wondered if he was handsome — but of 
 course he must be — and whether he'd be 
 good-natured or proud and stuck-up, &c., &c. 
 
 There was no time for Mr. Lang ton to 
 write ; for the young gentleman was to arrive 
 in town the next day ; and the intended invita- 
 tion could not be given till they saw him. 
 Isabel charitably resolved beforehand to hate
 
 90 THE GABLES. 
 
 him — a young ensign of one and twenty, just 
 his own master, just come into possession of 
 property and fortune — filled, of course, with 
 ridiculous notions of his own importance — and 
 spoilt by everybody, what could he be but a 
 pert, insufferable, red-coated young coxcomb, 
 with a devout belief in the entire irresistibility of 
 his varied fascinations ? "A curled and oiled 
 Assyrian bull, smelhng of musk and insolence," 
 as Mr. Tennyson hath it? How he would 
 sneer in his sleeve at the poor author's simple 
 household — at the leg-of-mutton dinners, and 
 Tabby waiting with her red gown and great 
 hands, clattering plates and tumblers together 
 in her awe of the mighty visitor— the very 
 thought made Isabel wince. How strange, per- 
 haps ridiculous to his empty brain, would seem 
 her father's dreamy, absent, unworldly manner 
 — the father she was so proud of! He would 
 find material for barrrack-room jokes out of the 
 whole household. Isabel had a queer fancy, for 
 a girl of nineteen — she disliked young men as 
 a race, and young dandies — she had not seen 
 many, certainly — smart young fellows, civil and 
 military, who wear ambrosial whiskers and
 
 THE GABLES. 91 
 
 moustaches, and lemon kid gloves, and eye- 
 glasses, and lean over ladies' chairs, and whisper 
 soft nonsense in tones of fashionable languor — 
 she abhorred, shrank from with a contemptuous 
 disgust amusing to witness ; pierced with the 
 sharpest arrows of her scorn, that made them 
 — harmless creatures as most of them are — 
 shrink in their patent leather boots. Such as 
 she had seen, be it understood, when, for instance, 
 she went about twice in the season, to a soiree 
 at her aunt's, Mrs. Whittlemore, the member 
 of parliament's wife, in Portman Square, who 
 was wont sometimes to call to mind the ex- 
 istence of the poor, dear Langtons — for, as you 
 know, discerning reader, young men of fashion 
 and consideration do not abound in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Coram Street, respectable locality 
 as it is. 
 
 So Isabel winced and fumed in her silent, 
 haughty fashion at the prospect of the coming 
 infliction on their quiet house ; and grew very 
 impatient indeed on the afternoon of the next 
 day at Bessie's state of restless anticipation, and 
 absurd thrusting of her curls out of the window 
 at every sound of wheels, and at her dear little
 
 92 THE GABLES. 
 
 mother in her silk company dress, fidgetting 
 nervously up stairs and down, and putting 
 finishing touches to the bedroom up stairs, al- 
 ready in a most amazing state of neatness and 
 brightness — then speeding down into the kitchen, 
 to overlook perspiring Tabby, deep in the pre- 
 paration of a festive banquet, to be served in 
 state at six o'clock — the usual dinner-hour was 
 two, and Septimus was to-day to be sent to 
 tea at the Smithers — they were always glad 
 to have him, good folks — lest — Isabel sup- 
 posed, with her disdainful face — the yellow 
 stockings might shock the delicate susceptibility 
 of Arthur Lechmere, Esq., of The Gables, 
 whereupon Mrs. Langton said — 
 
 " You are so odd, darling," with a vexed face. 
 
 *' I am all wrong again, mamma, dear, I 
 always am," with a kiss. 
 
 " Don't run down into the kitchen any more. 
 You will make your pretty face hot ; and I want 
 this distinguished stranger to see you at your 
 best. Martha and Tabby can manage the ban- 
 quet very well between them ; and if they can't 
 here he is !" 
 
 A Hansom cab whirled up to the door. —
 
 THE GABLES. 93 
 
 somebody jumped out. — Bessie and Mrs. Lang- 
 ton fell into extremely uncomfortable company 
 attitudes. — Tabby rushed to the door. — Mr. 
 Langton's kind voice below, emerging from his 
 study, cried — 
 
 " Arthur, my dear boy !" 
 
 And Isabel walked up stairs with heroic 
 resolution; very contemptuous indeed of the 
 bustle of welcome below. She was not long 
 suffered to remain in peace. Bessie came flying 
 up-stairs, brimful of exciting news — 
 
 Oh ! he was so handsome, so good-natured, 
 so delightful, such a jolly fellow ! He had 
 agreed to stay there at once, and seemed so 
 glad ! Mamma was charmed with him — he 
 laughed so sweetly, and had such pretty white 
 teeth — and told Bessie they must be very good_ 
 friends ; and he was going into the city with 
 papa to the outfitter's — fancy papa going into 
 the city with anybody ! — and they were to come 
 home to dinner at six. 
 
 " And it's nearly five, now ! so dress like a dear, 
 and make yourself as handsome as you can !" 
 
 And Bessie pushed her sister into a chair, 
 and twitched down her long black locks.
 
 94 . THE GABLES. 
 
 " Dress myself for an absurd boy !'' Isabel 
 flashed out. 
 
 " Yes, of course, out of respect to papa's 
 visitor. You wouldn't vex him, would you ?" 
 
 Bess had struck the right chord. Her sister 
 was dumb. 
 
 " Dear papa was so glad to see him, shook 
 him by both hands, with the tears in his blue 
 eyes, and said * O lad, I loved your father 
 like a brother.' And then Mr. Lechmere 
 coloured up, and laughed, and looked so hand- 
 some, and said — " 
 
 " Oh, Bessie, spare me all this twaddle — and 
 you are pulling my hair off my head — do go 
 away !" 
 
 " Not a bit of it — you shall hear — and he 
 said, * Then, sir, I hope you'll look upon me as 
 a son,' w^asn't it sweet of him ?" 
 
 " Delightful ! when is this victimising to be 
 done?" 
 
 " When your hair is, not before." 
 
 Bessie wound the long glossy dark curls round 
 her little plump hands with a sort of relish. 
 
 " How handsome I am making you ! There, 
 now for your red velvet bows, and your
 
 THE GABLES. 95 
 
 white dress, and you'll look like Queen 
 Esther." 
 
 " My white dress ! do you take me for a 
 lunatic ?" said Isabel, starting up, indignantly. 
 
 " Manama said you were to put it on," 
 returned Bessie, composedly forcing down the 
 rebellious shoulders. " So don't make a fuss. 
 It's only plain muslin, after all, and I'm going 
 to wear mine !" 
 
 '' How he will laugh !" 
 
 This dismal probability appeared to affright 
 Bessie very little ; who, having got her sister's 
 long black tresses into a state of perfection, 
 turned her away from the glass, and proceeded 
 to curl out her own dainty locks. It took a 
 vast amount of mental exertion, scolding, and 
 coaxing, to get on that white dress of Isabel's, 
 and so much longer to tear her aw^ay from Ten- 
 nyson's Maud, into the seductive pages of which 
 she plunged the moment the last button was 
 fastened, that it was not till the guest had re- 
 turned some time, and everybody was ready for 
 dinner, and Tabby was wiping her crimson face 
 in the kitchen, and the banquet was being 
 dished, and Mrs. Langton's particular pudding,
 
 96 THE GABLES. 
 
 manufactured by her own white fingers, was in 
 a state of perfection, and Mr. Langton had sent 
 up twice to know if Coralie intended to come 
 down that evening — It was not till all these 
 events had come to pass that Conl e replaced 
 her book in her owui httle private shelf of 
 poets, and sailed down- stairs, and into the little 
 drawing-room with the step and mien of an 
 empress. 
 
 Bessie had gone down long before, and her 
 and the visitor were chatting away with the 
 most perfect kindliness, laughing like brother 
 and sister. 
 
 " Bessie was getting very forward," was 
 Isabel's soliloquy on the stairs, " She must be 
 checked" — their guest seemed to have a musical 
 laugh, however. 
 
 " Bessie, my darling, where is your sister ? 
 Oh, here you are, seiiora ! I thought we never 
 were to have the sunshine of your presence to- 
 night. Arthur, my dear boy, this is my Coralie, 
 that tall black-eyed demoiselle. Coralie, this is 
 Arthur Lechmere, of whom the fame has reached 
 your ears. Come, no young lady curtseys ; 
 give him that little hand of yours I"
 
 THE GABLES. 97 
 
 "I am afraid you have heard little good of 
 him, Miss Langton." 
 
 It was extremely tiresome of papa, so utterly 
 to ignore and set aside her determination to dis- 
 like the stranger, and be freezing cold to him. 
 Perhaps it would be harder to do this than she 
 thought. A glance told her that 
 
 *' There is none enchantment against beauty, magician 
 for all time." 
 
 And he was very handsome — try as she might 
 to shut her eyes to the fact ; tall, lithe, and 
 athletic as a young greyhound — in the full, un- 
 dimmed glow of youth and joyousness, and 
 boyish grace, life, and hope shining out of the 
 great, dark, brilliant eyes. A wealth of glossy, 
 brown-black curls and features almost femininely 
 beautiful — with all a woman's delicacy, and all a 
 man's fire. 
 
 " You are to be very loving friends," said Mr. 
 Langton, glancing dreamily — dear, simple man 
 — from the handsome young soldier to his stately 
 Coralie with her classic head, in its shining 
 drapery of jetty hair, and her white dress, looking 
 more statuesque than ever. 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 98 THE GABLES. 
 
 " I will do my utmost, sir, to bring forward 
 such an end. I scarcely dare to hope Miss 
 Langton will make the like promise," said the 
 guest, with his gay, boyish laugh. 
 
 " A soldier and afeard !" exclaimed Bessie, 
 laughing with all her heart. It took very little 
 to make Bessie laugh — Heaven bless her! A 
 sort of freemasonry existed already between her 
 and the stranger. She took up a wonderful 
 pair of cabbage-rose slippers she was working 
 for Septimus, and watched Mr. Lechmere with 
 her blue eyes brimfull of laughter, as he strove 
 hard and conscientiously to get acquainted with 
 Isabel. It was great fun to Bessie — marvellously 
 diverting to that curly-haired little monkey to 
 witness his perseverance and melancholy failures 
 — the half-unconscious curl of his lip, and 
 wrathful twitch ings of his black moustache. He 
 thought himself irresistible. What handsome 
 sunny-hearted lad, with fortune and the world 
 smiling on him — his horizon gorgeous with 
 hope and bright anticipation — thinks other- 
 wise? He was not to be foiled by that 
 cold, proud face ! What did she mean by 
 those haughty eyes of hers resting on his all-
 
 THE GABLES. 99 
 
 powerful attractions as they would upon a brick 
 wall? 
 
 Did she like London or the country best ? 
 
 She had seen very little of the country ; she 
 thought she liked it better than town. 
 
 He was sure she would like the Gables — such 
 a romantic old grey house, with gable windows 
 and stacks of chimneys, and a haunted library, 
 and a ghost in it — an old man with grey hair 
 and wringing hands, and a shriek, going round 
 the house on the wind, before any death or mis- 
 fortune . 
 
 And Bessie held her breath, and asked, in a 
 frightened whisper, if he had ever seen the 
 ghost. 
 
 " No, never," he said, with his blithe laugh ; 
 it w^as all superstitious nonsense; but he had 
 heard, or fancied he heard, the cry. Mrs. 
 Flint, his old housekeeper, told marvellous stories 
 of it, but, of course, nobody believed them. 
 Was Miss Langton fond of flowers? But of 
 course she was. There was such a pleasant, 
 old-fashioned garden at the Gables, a perfect 
 wilderness of roses in summer-time ; and the 
 woods behind the house were beautiful — such a 
 
 F 2
 
 100 THE GABLES. 
 
 view from them ! Why had Mr. Langton 
 never come down to see them ? He had al- 
 ways heard his father — a shade came over his 
 handsome face here — speak so affectionately of 
 him. 
 
 There was some interest in her face as 
 she said that which encouraged him, per- 
 haps. 
 
 " I suppose Mr. Langton has too much to do 
 — he writes a great deal, doesn't he? We 
 always take in the magazine he contributes to. 
 I usually fancied I could tell what was written by 
 him," looking up with a bright laugh into 
 her proud, still face — "I wonder if I was 
 right?" 
 
 " Papa's style was easily known — it was so 
 original a one," Isabel said, with a curl of her 
 lip, meant to strike confusion into this juvenile 
 pretender. 
 
 " Ah ! there were some beautiful lines in a 
 number not very long ago — do you remember 
 them? — on a girl gathering violets — and they 
 began — let me see — oh ! I know — " 
 
 Bessie laughed wickedly — " I am sure you 
 have forgotten, Mr. Lech mere."
 
 THE GABLES. 101 
 
 " No indeed, this was it — 
 
 * Thine eyes are like thy flowers, O child ! — 
 Sweet violet of that greenwood old — ' 
 
 Am I right, Miss Langton ?" 
 
 *' Yes ; they were papa's." 
 
 " Fancy the happiness of being a poet — of 
 pouring out one's thoughts in ' winged words.' 
 Do you know that description of a poet in 
 ' Longfellow's Golden Legend,' where the Abbess 
 Irmiugarde describes her minstrel lover, Walter, 
 of the Vogelweid ?' 
 
 ' His song was of the summer time. 
 The very birds sang in his rhyme, 
 The sunshine, the deHcious air, 
 The fragrance of the flowers were there.' " 
 
 " Oh, dear ! you are as poetical as Isabel," 
 said Bessie ruefully. 
 
 He laughed. " What an irresistible lover he 
 must have been, Miss Bessie — must he not, — 
 that melodious Walter? Do you know the 
 results of his song, when Irmingarde was gazing 
 at the moon — as all romantic young ladies have 
 done, in all times — and heard him utter her name 
 
 " Under the blossoms in the gloom r"
 
 102 THE GABLES. 
 
 *' Why, she fell in love with him, I suppose," 
 said Bessie, laughing, and pulling at a knot in 
 her worsted. 
 
 " Just so ; hear her own evidence, — 
 
 * I grew restless as I heard ; 
 Restless and buoyant as a bird, 
 Down soft, aerial currents sailing.* 
 
 You can guess the end from the prelude of her 
 story — it is easy enough. 
 
 * Gallant, graceful, gentle, tall. 
 Fairest, noblest, best of all — 
 Was Walter of the Vogelweid !"' 
 
 " Something like himself, perhaps," thought 
 that little goose, Bessie, shooting a laughing 
 glance at Isabel. 
 
 " You seem to have the ' Golden Legend * by 
 heart,'' that stately maiden could not help 
 saying. 
 
 " I really believe I have a good deal of it, 
 — it is such a strange, sweet, dreamy thing 
 — with such beautiful ideas in it ; and besides, 
 I am a worshipper of Longfellow." 
 
 Her dark, haughty eyes had softened imper- 
 ceptibly, — he liked Longfellow, and he remem-
 
 THE GABLES. 103 
 
 bered her father's lines — he might not be " an 
 Assyrian bull" after all. 
 
 " Here comes Mrs. Langton, with the an- 
 nouncement of dinner on her lips, as I can see, 
 and a very welcome one, for I am most un- 
 poeticjilly hungry." 
 
 The little woman had slipped down to take 
 a last glance at the banquet, ere the distinguished 
 guest was marshalled down; and she looked 
 uncomfortably conscious of the fact as she 
 laughed and took his arm. Mr. Langton, 
 down below, had succeeded, after considerable 
 exertion, in finding the right stoppers for the de- 
 canters ; and was standing by the grate filled 
 with Californian shavings, musing, with a clouded 
 brow, on the vanity of dinners. But he had 
 little space for musing afterwards — the guest's 
 presence filled the little shady dining-room^ 
 Hke a stream of sunshine ; his voice, his 
 bright, handsome face, his joyous spirits were 
 irresistible. Long before dinner was over, all the 
 party except Isabel, w^ho sat back in her chair, 
 and played with her watch-chain, with empress- 
 like gravity, felt as if they had known him all 
 their lives.
 
 104 THE GABLES. 
 
 His laughter, his boyish nonsense, had some- 
 thing wonderfully taking about it — something 
 fresh and gallant, coming straight from a young, 
 undimmed, hopeful heart. He was full of 
 spirited anticipations of the stirring change 
 before him ; it was such a glorious oppoPlunity 
 — he longed to see service — he did not want to 
 be a peace soldier. 
 
 The victory of the Alma had stirred up the 
 old war-spirit that had slept for forty years, 
 made the pulses of sober old England to beat 
 deliriously, and set all the young blood of the 
 land on fire. Arthur Lechmere was no wiser 
 than his neighbours. It was so unfortunate 
 that his regiment was too late for the battle ; 
 but it seemed likely to be a long campaign now, 
 and he doubted not there would be other actions 
 as glorious — at least he hoped so, with a blithe 
 laugh and a flash of his dark eyes. Isabel 
 looked at him with some interest. She could 
 not shut her eyes to the warm life-like beauty of 
 the picture ; but Mrs. Langton gave a timid 
 woman's sigh, and hoped he would come back 
 safe. 
 
 This was in the drawing-room, after dinner ;
 
 THE GABLES. 105 
 
 and they were standing round the open window, 
 in the soft September moonlight. The banquet 
 had passed off triumphantly, and the little 
 woman came up stairs elate, pleased with her- 
 self, Tabby, the dinner, Arthur Lechmere, and 
 all the world. 
 
 '* It is so dreadful to read the list of killed 
 and wounded — to think of the poor mothers," 
 she began, timorously. 
 
 " Ah, that is the reverse of the medal. We 
 must not look at that now," he said, laughing. 
 "You are as timid as Katie, Mrs. Langton," 
 
 " Katie, who is she ?" 
 
 " Ah ! I forgot you did not know. I beg 
 your pardon ; I mean my Katie, Katie Milford, 
 
 in shire. You must know I am engaged 
 
 to be married. Don't laugh." 
 
 And he laughed himself, in his blithe, boyish 
 fashion; and blushed, doubtless, though they 
 could not see it in the moonlight. 
 
 " You, engaged V reiterated little bewildered 
 Mrs. Langton. 
 
 Oh ! vanity of vanities ! Away melted the 
 bright aerial castles, vanished the rosy- tinted 
 palaces, like frost before the sun ! Arthur 
 
 F 3
 
 106 THE GABLES. 
 
 Lechmere, of the Gables, was engaged ! Alas 
 for human visions, for delightful hopes and 
 fancies ! It was a mercy Isabel could not see 
 her mother's crimsoned cheeks in the moon- 
 shine, as the poor little soul affected to be very 
 busy in the arrangement of some books on the 
 table. It was a cruel shock. 
 
 " Poor little mamma 1" thought Isabel ; and 
 she was wicked enough to laugh, and feel won- 
 drously relieved and contented. 
 
 " I will show you her hair presently, w^hen the 
 lights come," said Arthur, rattling a tiny locket 
 that hung to a watch-chain. " It is very much 
 your colour, Miss Bessie." 
 
 " Oh ! indeed !" said Mrs. Langton. 
 
 " We said good-bye, yesterday," said he. " I 
 called her Kate of my consolation ; but she did 
 nothing but cry, for all that," with a laugh that 
 was rather melancholy. '' She was very indig- 
 nant, indeed, that I wouldn't try to exchange 
 into another regiment ; but, of course, that 
 couldn't be dreamt of Fancy her saying she 
 wouldn't have me, if I lost an arm or a leg — 
 wasn't it cruel ?" and he laughed gaily at the 
 absurdity of such a probability.
 
 THE GABLES. 107 
 
 " She didn't mean it, I suppose?" questioned 
 Bessie, doubtfully. 
 
 "I don't know; I'm afraid she did. Miss 
 Langton, do give me your views on this subject, 
 for my encouragement. Just suppose yourself, 
 by a very wide stretch of imagination, to be in 
 love with me !" 
 
 "Well, Mr. Lechmere?" 
 
 Bessie laughed most ridiculously, and little 
 Mrs. Langton's fingers fluttered over her work 
 faster than ever. 
 
 " Then suppose, likewise, that I had the 
 extreme ill-luck to leave a limb behind me — 
 what would you do ?" 
 
 " Marry you, I suppose — if I had really cared 
 about you, not unless." 
 
 " Would you, indeed ! I am afraid you are 
 a rara avis." 
 
 He spoke with a sigh. But just then the 
 lights made their appearance, followed by Mr. 
 Langton, with his old demand for music, as an 
 accompaniment to his usual arm-chair waking 
 dream ; and the guest went to the piano, and 
 turning over the songs, was his bright, buoyant 
 self again. Isabel touched her mother's shoulder
 
 108 THE GABLES. 
 
 on her way to the piano. The poor little woman 
 was working with tremendous assiduity, and 
 slightly reddened cheeks. 
 
 " Where is the brilliant aerial palace, mother, 
 dear?" Isabel whispered, wickedly enough. 
 
 " Hush, my love. You are very silly." 
 
 " Can you sing ' Excelsior,' Miss Langton ?" 
 Arthur asked, taking up the air. 
 
 " No ; you can, I suppose." 
 
 " How can you tell ?" said he, laughing. 
 
 " From your face, and the tone of your 
 question. Begin : and 1 will play the accom- 
 paniment." 
 
 He began accordingly, nothing loth, as it 
 seemed — -and sang it so well — with such a clear, 
 musical, singing voice, and force of expression, 
 that, in spite of his being engaged, Mrs. Lang- 
 ton dropped her work, and listened breathlessly. 
 Everybody applauded, except Isabel — she would 
 not flatter him. 
 
 *' Go on — do, Mr. Lechmere," was Bessie's 
 tribute ; and on he went, singing song after 
 song con amore, till Isabel was tired of accom- 
 panying him. The glad life, and high aspira- 
 tions of his nature, seemed poured out in those
 
 THE GABLES. 109 
 
 sweet, spirited tones. Then Bessie and he sang 
 duets, — for Bess had a sweet, shrill carol of her 
 own, as the dull passages, and shady bedrooms, 
 of the quiet London house might bear witness, 
 — and a natural taste for music, and her voice and 
 the guest's accorded admirably. Mrs. Langton 
 almost forgave him for being engaged to Katie 
 Milford — some silly little thing, she supposed 
 — and Mr. Langton leant back in his arm-chair, 
 and listened in a state of half-dreamy rapture, to 
 the music floating through the quiet room, with 
 the moonlight falling on the floor. 
 
 '* No nightingale did ever chaunt 
 Such welcome notes to weaiy hands 
 Of travellers, in some shady haunt. 
 Amid Arabian sands. 
 Such thrilling tones were never heard 
 At spring-time, from the cuckoo bird ; 
 Breaking the silence of the seas. 
 Amid the farthest Hebrides." 
 
 That was an evening after Mr. Langton's own 
 heart. Perhaps Arthur Lechmere thought of it 
 too, afterwards, in the visions of home — far 
 away in the Crimea, on a snowy night, in the 
 trenches, — the pitiless wind freezing him and 
 his devoted comrades ; the enemv's shot and
 
 110 THE GABLES. 
 
 shell striking up the earth around them. He 
 had won golden opinions from them all, by the 
 time bed-time came ; even Isabel, though not 
 unbending yet, liked him better than she would 
 confess. It was such an immense relief, to find 
 he was engaged to be married. The four days 
 he stayed with them, certainly fled wonderfully 
 fast. He came, saw, and conquered. — Tabby 
 declared he was the handsomest, and most 
 pleasant-spoke young gentleman she ever see. 
 Septimus pronounced him a regular jolly fellow. 
 Mrs. and the two Misses Smithers, who, having 
 got wind of the visitor, came over to call, in their 
 most brilliant summer finery, with Tottenham 
 Court Road bonnets, amazing to behold, — the 
 old lady in her bird-of-paradise plume, to Isabel's 
 intense horror — fell in love with Mr. Lechmere 
 on the spot ; and grieved considerably that he 
 was going away too soon for them to give a 
 pai'ty in his honour. 
 
 John Wilmot, unconscious of the advent of 
 this brilliant comet in his uncle's quiet hemi- 
 sphere, walked in next evening, in his usual sober 
 fashion, and was straightway introduced, by his 
 little aunt — who was considerably proud of
 
 THE GABLES. 1 1 1 
 
 her tall nephew. The quiet curate, and the 
 dashing young soldier, got on better than Isabel 
 expected. Arthur seemed to take his sober 
 companion for an original, and so grew interested 
 in him ; and it must have been a very stony, 
 and impracticable mortal, that could have held 
 out obstinately against the charm of his joyous 
 spirits and graceful good nature. 
 
 Isabel noticed him, on his last evening, talk- 
 ing, in a low tone, and earnestly, to her mother, 
 as they stood alone, in the recess of the window. 
 He was playing with the locket that he had told 
 them contained Kate ^lilford's hair, and of 
 course Bessie instantly decided he must be talk- 
 ing of her. 
 
 " What was she like ?" Isabel wondered. 
 
 Mrs. Langton was able to enlighten them a 
 little afterwards. 
 
 She was the daughter of a Mr. Milford, who 
 had been for many years a near neighbour of 
 Arthur's father. He had been a manufacturer 
 originally, and had made money. — '* I am sorry 
 for that, my love," said Mrs. Langton, " they 
 are rich, vulgar people, you may be sure ; — and 
 bought considerable property down there \ was
 
 112 THE GABLES. 
 
 a county magistrate, and a M.P. — and thought 
 himself a great man." 
 
 Arthur told her in all honesty — ** It had heen 
 settled almost since they were children, that 
 Kate and he should marry, and she was the 
 sweetest girl in the world — and so very, very 
 pretty, and he adored her, but she was very 
 young" — Mrs. Langton fancied that there came 
 a touch of sadness into his voice — -" and very 
 giddy, and her mother was a — a very good sort 
 of woman, but foolish, and pompous rather ; and 
 Kate had no sister or friend to help or advise 
 her, and he, going to the Crimea, felt nervous 
 and anxious about her." 
 
 " But your mother — Mrs. Lechmere ?" Mrs. 
 Langton began. 
 
 He did not think, he said, hesitatingly, that 
 his mother was very fond of Kate ; and Kate 
 was rather afraid of her. The Milfords were 
 coming up to Harley Street, where they had a 
 house, for the winter. He hoped Mrs. Langton 
 would see a great deal of Kate, and let her be 
 with her and Miss Langton, and talk to her 
 kindly for his sake. 
 
 And his voice and manner were so very hard 
 to resist, that Mrs. Langton, despite her jealous
 
 THE GABLES. 113 
 
 reluctance of having anything to do with Isabel's 
 rival, and the destroyer of her enchanted castle, 
 promised, in the fulness of her heart, to do all 
 she could. All this did the little woman reveal 
 afterwards to Isabel, with her own private com- 
 ments thereupon ; and Isabel straightway de- 
 termined that Kate Milford was a pretty, light- 
 headed, spoilt child, with too gossamer a nature 
 for her boy-lover — earnest and truthful — to rest 
 his faith on ; and she gave him a sigh, half of 
 pity, and half of contempt. But they were all 
 sorry, very sorry — she, as well as the rest — 
 when the farewell moment came. He had so 
 brightened the dull house with his handsome, 
 joyous presence, with the lustre of his youth 
 and hopefulness, that it seemed sad and strange 
 to think they might never see him again — that 
 a shot might still the throbbing pulses of the 
 gallant young heart, and lay love, hope, and 
 beauty low in a soldier's grave. Mr. Langton, 
 in the warmth of his affection for his old friend's 
 son, went down to Portsmouth with him, and 
 saw the great transport ship, with the regiment 
 on board, heave slowly down the harbour, 
 and stand out to sea, amid the cheers of the
 
 114 THE GABLES. 
 
 crowd on shore — the last farewell and God- 
 speed to husbands, brothers, and sons — and 
 stood gazing — good man — with dim eyes on 
 one gallant young figure, waving its cap on the 
 deck till it could be seen no more ; and then 
 walked slowly back to the station to catch the 
 London train — or lose it, as was more probable 
 — thinking that war, in spite of Tennyson, was 
 a woful and a terrible thing, and praying God 
 to keep Arthur Lechmere safe. " Ah !" sighed 
 the good man, " what are those lines in * Maud ?' 
 let me see. 
 
 ' The long, long canker of peace is over and done — ' 
 
 " Canker of peace ! let us see whether the 
 blood-stained scourge of war, the wailing of 
 widows and orphans, will serve us better!" 
 
 Mr. Langton was growing excited. 
 
 " And now by the side of the Black and the Baltic deeps, 
 And deathful-grinning mouths of the fortress flames, 
 The blood-red blossom of war in a heart of fii 
 
 " Now, sir, are you for London ? train just 
 a-going !" shouted an excited porter, clutching 
 our poet by the shoulder. That vulgar grasp
 
 THE GABLES. 115 
 
 brought him back to earth again. Mr. Lang- 
 ton stumbled nervously into a second-class car- 
 riage, and went back to London in a despondent 
 frame of mind. The meekest member of the 
 Peace Society could not have been more relent- 
 lessly opposed to the war than he was then.
 
 116 THE GABLES. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 *' There is a reaper, his name is Death, 
 And with his sickle keen 
 He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, 
 And the flowers that grow between." 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 "What rain this is ! — pelting and pouring all 
 day long, animals canine and feline dissolved 
 into a torrent ! as Mr. Lechmere said, and 
 everybody so cross and wet — and splashed out- 
 side and — " 
 
 " Do let Mr. Lechmere go to sleep for a lit- 
 tle, Bessie, I am tired of him." 
 
 " Ah ! poor dear fellow ! and he may be shot 
 before long ! How wicked of you !" 
 
 " Certainly he may."
 
 THE GABLES. 117 
 
 " I wonder what he is doing now ?" 
 
 ** You had better not inquire — he is extremely 
 sea-sick, I dare say !" 
 
 " I don't believe it — he is standing on the 
 deck, wrapped in a soldier's cloak, and foraging 
 cap, with his arn:is folded, gazing out on the 
 grey sea, and misty clouds." 
 
 " Bravo, Bessie ! I see him. 
 
 " And thinking of his mother, and the old 
 house at home, and of us, perhaps." 
 
 '* And the lady of his love — you forgot her. 
 He is drawing her picture in the grey, drifting 
 distance, and the clouds are flying, and the 
 vessel speeding on, and the short waves breaking 
 against her sides with an angry hiss, — 
 
 * Yon sun that set upon the sea, 
 We follow in his flight j 
 Farewell ! awhile to home and thee — 
 My native land, good-night !' " 
 
 " That is what he is thinking, Bess ; had we 
 a magic telescope, you would find I was 
 right.'' 
 
 " 1 wish we had !" said Bessie, with a 
 sigh.
 
 1 18 THE GABLES. 
 
 Bessie was dull, this rainy London day — and 
 what rain it was ! coming down in grey, slanting 
 lines, into the nnelancholy puddles of yellow 
 water, from an Indian-ink sky, drenching the 
 be- mired, be-draggled, foot-passengers with 
 their rebellious umbrellas, overflowing the 
 gutters, sending event he little crossing- sweeper 
 to take shelter under a portico, with the 
 collar of his ragged jacket pulled over his 
 ears, from which retirement he cast misan- 
 thropic glances at mankind in general. Bes- 
 sie was dull and listless, as the best of us 
 are at times ; and the cabbage-rose slippers, 
 and the heap of bright wool, lay neglected on 
 the floor, and the kitten was pulling it about. 
 And Bessie, laying her curls in her sister's 
 lap, and gazing out on the streaming clouds, 
 and smoking umbrellas, — began to awake to 
 the conviction, that Solomon was right, and that 
 all is vanity. 
 
 " I wish Mr. Lechmere was here, to make us 
 laugh,'' she began, dolefully. 
 
 " Mr. Lechmere has gone out to fight his 
 country's battles, Bessie, and we must really con- 
 tinue to exist without him."
 
 THE GABLES. 119 
 
 ** Ah ! you like him better now, than you did 
 at first V* 
 
 " I ? not a whit !" 
 
 *' I know better ; nobody could help liking 
 such a sweet-tempered, handsome fellow !" 
 
 '* Vanity, Bessie ; handsome is, as handsome 
 does — beauty is but skin deep, &c. &c." 
 
 " It is very jolly to be handsome, for all that," 
 said Bessie, with a profound conviction in the 
 truth of what she said. 
 
 " Ay, beauty is a divine gift i" her sister's 
 dark eye lit up, — " the rare and precious am- 
 bergris "to quicken each perfume; as Martin 
 Tupper says — You may be sure, Bessie, they 
 were ugly people who invented those two say- 
 ings." 
 
 " Would you like to be handsome, Coralie ?" 
 asked Bessie, simply. 
 
 She knew she was not beautiful ; she flushed 
 a little, and said — *' Very, very much." 
 
 " I don't know that that's quite right, is it ? 
 though I often wish the same myself — John 
 would say, and I think John is very good — 
 that we ought to wish to be better — be more 
 like Christ," Bessie said, reddening very much,
 
 120 THE GABLES. 
 
 at the thought of preaching to clever 
 Isabel. 
 
 " True, little woman," Isabel said, with sud- 
 den energy ; and she bent to kiss the child's 
 forehead, and look down into the depths of her 
 blue eyes, — " true, beyond all truth ! learn that 
 wisdom, Bess, in the fresh morning, before the 
 burden and heat of the day comes on, — before 
 the shadows grow long, and the red sun is sink- 
 ing!" 
 
 Bessie seldom understood her sister ; she only 
 loved her very much, and wondered at her 
 strange ways, and thought, with a sort of awe, 
 that Isabel was very clever indeed. 
 
 "It was only that talking of being beautiful, 
 put me in mind of what John wrote in the be- 
 ginning of the Bible he gave me on my birth- 
 day — ' Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain ; 
 but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be 
 praised !' " 
 
 He had never given her a Bible, Isabel 
 thought ; he cared nothing for her beyond a 
 quiet, every-day liking, this good, honest curate, 
 whom she had dressed up in all the gorgeous 
 colours of her imagination — her soldier of the
 
 THE GABLES. 121 
 
 cross, whom she had set on her heart's inmost 
 shrine, where his Master should have reigned — 
 and worshipped with all the power of her foolish, 
 impetuous girl's heart. 
 
 *' He was very right, Bessie," with a sigh, 
 " and those are good, true words, and — here he 
 comes — wiiat can brmg him here in such 
 weather ?" 
 
 A vision of John, striding across the puddles, 
 with a dripping coat, and a shining umbrella, — 
 broke on their astonished evesi2:ht. 
 
 " He must be crazy," was Bessie's con\4ction. 
 
 Isabel lauo^hed for almost the first time that 
 day — surely the sky looked brighter — Bessie 
 darted down stairs to let him in — an unwonted 
 act of grace ; and leaving his wet coat and um- 
 brella in the haU, John came upstairs, cool, quiet, 
 and unmffled, as usual. Save for his boots 
 being somewhat splashed, with no traces of a 
 man who had been walking about in hard rain, 
 for the last two hours, through courts and alleys, 
 brimming over with mud, and streaming with 
 fetid odours. Ah ! how the sick old men and 
 women, soured and crabbed with misery, lifted 
 their hopeless old eyes when he came in, and 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 THE GABLES. 
 
 loved his good, quiet face, and kind, still voice — 
 how the poor, rough, dirty, shock-headed children, 
 whose play-ground was the gutter, and who 
 never heard the music of a kind word, save from 
 him, — crowded about him, and stared lovingly, 
 and slid their poor little fingers into his gentle 
 hand ; how the lean, unwashed, hardened, some- 
 times ruffianly father, thrust his greasy cap off 
 his eyes, and took his pipe from his lips, 
 and growled a surly good-morrow to the 
 parson ! 
 
 " Are you an amphibious animal ?" was 
 Isabel's salutation, with a laugh as he entered. 
 
 " Yes, entirely ; will my aunt forgive these 
 dirty boots ?" glancing at them with something 
 like confusion. 
 
 For his irreproachable neatness he might have 
 been a Belgravian curate, worshipped by pretty 
 aristocrats, save that he could not afford patent 
 leathers, lavender kids, and a diamond ring on 
 his little finger. 
 
 " I have been trudging about for these two 
 hours, and just remembered, as I was passing 
 this way, that I had a book in my pocket which 
 my uncle wanted to see; and as a particu-
 
 THE GABLES. 123 
 
 larly hard deluge was coming down at this 
 moment — " 
 
 " You thought you would come in, and take 
 shelter. Confess the truth." 
 
 He looked rather uncomfortable at the 
 thought of taking shelter. 
 
 *' No, indeed ; I am in such a damp state all 
 over, that — " 
 
 " I can easily believe it. You have brought 
 a London fog in with you." 
 
 " Do go down to the kitchen lire," said Bessie, 
 in all seriousness. 
 
 He laughed, and sat down with the air of a 
 man who rather enjoys being wet, though still 
 e\idently discomposed by the mud on his boots. 
 
 " Mamma is not here to scold you for dirty- 
 ing her carpet. She and papa have gone to 
 dine with Mrs. Digby, in Montague Place. You 
 l^now her ?" 
 V'No." 
 
 ," Fie ! John. She has a great pew close to 
 thA reading-desk, and admires your sermons 
 intensely. Besides, she is a very good woman, 
 and a district visitor, and gives away such lots 
 of flannel," said Bessie, solemnly. 
 
 G 2
 
 124 THE GABLES. 
 
 " Ah ! yes ; I remember her now. I didn't 
 catch the name. I thought my uncle never 
 went out to dinner?" 
 
 " Mrs. Digby has asked him five distinct 
 times, I think ; and as this evening he had not 
 much to do, mamma carried him off in triumph. 
 Anything like an ordinary party is martyrdom 
 to him ; but she is an old friend, and it won't 
 do to offend her. How^ amiable of you to come 
 and see us this melancholy evening." 
 
 " Is it a melancholy evening ?" said he, in 
 his quiet way. 
 
 " I should call it a dismal one." 
 
 " It rains, and the wind is never weary.'* 
 
 "There is not much wind out of doors, I 
 assure you." 
 
 Bessie laughed. She could not help it. 
 
 " Weather has never much effect on me " 
 
 " What has ?" Isabel thought, looking at 
 him half wonderingly, half envyingly. 
 
 " I rather enjoy getting wet sometimes. It 
 
 freshens one up — washes the cobwebs out of 
 
 one's brain." 
 
 " A great while ago, the world began 
 With, heigho I the wind and the rain,"
 
 THE GABLES. 125 
 
 sang Bessy. " Here comes Tabby and the tea- 
 things. John, will you have some tea to warm 
 you?" 
 
 " I am very warm, thank you," said he. 
 " Well, will you have some tea to dry you ?" 
 said Bessie, laughing with all her heart. 
 
 She had to repeat the question twice before 
 he heard it. Isabel had been watching his face 
 closely, and fancied he looked tired and worn. 
 
 *'Are you not well?" she asked, vexed the 
 next moment at having shown her sohcitude. 
 
 He took the tea from Bessy, and drank some 
 of it ; then looking up, something like a giant 
 refreshed, said, 
 
 " I am never ill. I think I told you so the 
 other day." 
 
 " Then you are tired, or vexed, or something. 
 Come, acknowledge you are human." 
 
 " I was thinking," he spoke after a pause 
 and in a very low tone, " or wondering, if you 
 like, whether the incessant cries and wailings of 
 stricken humanity, for ever floating up to the 
 all -hearing ear of Him who neither slumbers 
 nor sleeps, bring any sorrow to the inhabitants 
 of heaven."
 
 126 THE GABLES. 
 
 " Have you seen much to-day ?" she asked, 
 her face lighting up with a flash of interest. 
 
 "Not naore than usual, though enough to 
 sicken a man's heart. Fortunately, however, I 
 am not easily sickened. As I told you before, 
 death and misery are the atmosphere of my 
 daily life.'' 
 
 He said it in his usual quiet, unpretending 
 way, with no boastfulness or pretence of mar- 
 tyrdom ; and went on sipping his tea, after he 
 had said it, as though he had been talking of 
 the cut of his coat. And she watched him, 
 speculating dreamily, as usual ; while Bessie was 
 cutting up toast and rattling cups and saucers, 
 and teasing them both about being so silent and 
 eating nothing. To all this John answered not 
 a syllable : he finished his tea, set down the cup, 
 and rising, buttoned up his coat with the air of 
 a man whose worldly affairs are settled. 
 
 " Are you going ?" said Isabel. 
 
 *' Yes, I have another visit to make." 
 
 " What sort of a one ? tell me !" she de- 
 manded, quickly. 
 
 He looked a little amazed at her wanting to 
 know ; but he said, a little unwillingly, that i*
 
 THE GABLES. 127 
 
 was a poor girl, in the last stage of a consump- 
 tion. 
 
 "Is it far off?'* 
 *' No, quite near — why ?" 
 " Let me go with you !" She darted out the 
 words with breathless quickness, lest her courage 
 should fail ; and then faced him, the colour 
 rising to her cheek for an instant, with her 
 dark, honest, proud eyes. 
 
 " Go with me ? — you !" The proposition 
 absolutely took his breath away. 
 
 "Yes ! — why not ? I want to do something 
 good, for once in my life — I have never been to 
 see poor people — I have often wanted to." 
 
 " You are mad 1" was his ultimate conviction, 
 breathlessly delivered. 
 
 Bessie laughed with all her heart, somewhat 
 bewildered herself " Not a bit — it doesn't rain 
 now ;" and away she flew upstairs, and returned, 
 after an absence of about two minutes, in her 
 bonnet and grey cloak. " Now I am ready." 
 
 Bessie, who evidently looked upon the whole 
 matter as a good joke, exhorted John to take 
 care of her sister, and bring her back safe ; and 
 then took herself to the window, to nod and
 
 128 THE GABLES. 
 
 laugh at them up the street. John, still stricken 
 mute with amazement, uttered no word, walked 
 down-stairs with a face of the most supreme and 
 hopeless mystification, donned his great coat and 
 hat, shouldered his umbrella, and followed his 
 cousin out into the street. Some faint notion 
 that she was joking, had been fluttering in his 
 brain, but on finding himself fairly on the wet 
 pavement with her, with the streaming, leaden 
 London sky overhead, and the dripping sweeper 
 w^atching them from the opposite portico, and 
 the shiny umbrellas jostling them, and Tom 
 Smithers' disdainful eye upon them, from his 
 attic window, glaring over his uplifted boots, he 
 let the delusion go with a sigh ; and offered her 
 his arm, with all due decorum. Yes, it was un- 
 mistakeably true ; he, John Wilmot, M.A., 
 
 curate of St. , was walking through the 
 
 muddy London streets, on the 'tenth day of 
 October, in the year of grace one thousand eight 
 hundred and fifty-four, with a young lady on his 
 arm ! In intense perplexity, too deep to be 
 broken by words, he pondered this problem, as 
 they walked along, and found no solution. 
 
 " I am afraid you think me crazy,'' Isabel
 
 THE GABLES. 129 
 
 said at last, somewhat frightened at his 
 silence. 
 ' " Not exactly, but" — he began, doubtfully. 
 
 " Very foolish, and very ignorant ? well, you 
 are right enough," with a sigh — but a proud one. 
 
 Do you know what a proud sigh is, reader? 
 perhaps you do. 
 
 " I did not call you any such uncivil names, 
 remember. I would only know what you think 
 you are going to see." 
 
 " I don't know ; it is an unknown country to 
 me, I look to you as my pilot." 
 
 " It is not a green and pleasant land, like that 
 imaginative world you are perpetually visiting. 
 There are no flowers, and no sunshine ; the air 
 is heavy, full of pain, want, misery, suffering, 
 and death. It is not an easy path to walk in.'' 
 
 She made no answer. 
 
 They had left the respectable part of the 
 neighbourhood, and reached the non-respectable : 
 they went down a narrow passage, streaming 
 with the overflowing waterspouts, and droppings 
 from the roofs, across a mews, and emerged into 
 a maze of close, unwholesome streets, reeking 
 with mud and odours, that made Isabel press 
 
 G 3
 
 130 THE GABLES. 
 
 her handkerchief to her mouth, with a sick, 
 oppressed feeling. An offensive steam, called forth 
 by the long day's rain, hung over the shabby 
 houses, the close passages, leading up into bye- 
 courts; over the lean-armed, haggard-eyed woman, 
 over the wan children, saiUng oyster-shells in 
 the gutter ; over the gin-shop, at the corner 
 with its flaring placards, and the sickly, half- 
 drunken loungers about its door. 
 
 " There is no romance here, Isabel," said 
 John. 
 
 The girl did not answer him — she felt sick, 
 heavy at heart, — this was a new world of 
 which she knew nothing — these were beings of 
 another race. 
 
 " Here is dirt, misery, offensiveness — are not 
 your senses shocked — does not your refinement 
 revolt from this vulgar wretchedness '? Shall I 
 take you home again ?" 
 
 " No ! — forward ! " She spoke resolutely, 
 but she drew down her veil, and held his arm 
 closer, for she felt nervous — almost frightened. 
 
 " Remember, it was your own wish to come ; 
 if you leel faint, or sick, or disgusted, I am not 
 to blame. The people we are going to see were
 
 THE GABLES. 131 
 
 simple country folks from shire. They 
 
 were tenants of Mr. Lechinere's father ; the old 
 woman often talks of the young squire, and how 
 the poor people loved him." 
 
 " Indeed ?" 
 
 " She was a widow — a simple creature, whom 
 an infant might deceive ; work was scarce in 
 the country, and she had a married daughter, 
 whose husband, a small shopkeeper, offered to 
 put her in the way of getting a living, if she and 
 her children would come up to London. Ac- 
 cordingly she came, with all her tribe — two 
 daughters, and two sons, one a red-cheeked lout, 
 fresh from the plough, and the other, a younger 
 child. On her arrival, she discovered that her 
 liberal son-in-law had run away to Australia, and 
 left his wife and children on the parish. She 
 had no means of going back, and so here they 
 have been ever since, strugghng on — Heaven 
 knows how. The eldest can get no regular 
 work ; the younger is the little crossing-sweeper 
 opposite your house, who had his leg broken by 
 the van, some little time ago ; I think my aunt 
 has been kind to him ; and I believe the half- 
 pence, and scraps together, in all weathers, have
 
 132 THE GABLES. 
 
 been often their chief funds. The youngest girl, 
 always a sickly, consumptive creature, is in the 
 last stage of a decline. It is sad enough to hear 
 the poor thing, in that miserable place, longing for 
 her native green fields, and free air.'' John had 
 scarcely ever made so long a recital before ; he 
 stopped and drew breath. 
 
 Truly there was no romance here ; no light 
 of fancy could brighten these heavy, grim, 
 realities, Isabel thought, with a sort of fear. 
 She saw that her companion seemed well known 
 — that this was no strange land to him. The 
 worn, haggard women curtsied to him from the 
 doors, as he passed ; some of the tattered children 
 looked up from the gutter and the oyster-shells, 
 and gave a little wan smile to his familiar face ; 
 the half- tipsy men, brawHng and lounging by 
 the public-house door, moved aside to let the 
 parson go by, with an amazed stare at his com- 
 panion. 
 
 " Here we are," said Mr. Wilmot, coming to 
 a halt before a frowsy house, on the ground 
 floor of which was a cobbler, mending shoes. 
 
 He came out of his workshop — a little black, 
 grimy man, with an enormous head — when he
 
 THE GABLES. 133 
 
 saw them, and civilly held a broken candle in a 
 blacking-bottle to light them up stairs, steep 
 and black in the darkening twilight. Was it 
 ever otherwise — did light ever come there ? 
 Isabel thought, half fearfully. John went first, 
 and she followed him, hearing distinctly the 
 brawling of other lodgers, not all so quiet, or so 
 harmless as the little cobbler below, till they were 
 in a close, unwholesome room, too fiill of people, 
 where on a poor bed, close by a broken window, 
 letting in the damp, October night-air, lay a 
 white, emaciated, dying girl. 
 
 *' I have brought my cousin to see you, 
 Lucy," said Mr. Wilmot. 
 
 A. gray-haired woman, with a simple, country 
 face, smooth and ruddy once, but now pinched 
 and wan — with some attempt still at the neat- 
 ness of better days in her mended gown, and 
 the shawl pinned across her — sat by the pillowy 
 wiping every now and then the clammy lips and 
 forehead. There was no need to ask were she 
 the mother : the first glance at the fixed, awful 
 sorrow in the poor, thin, quiet face was enough. 
 The room was very bare and miserable, seen by 
 the flickering light of one poor candle, in a bat-
 
 134 THE GABLES. 
 
 tered candlestick. Across the floor, on a sort 
 of temporary bed of a truss of straw and an old 
 cloak, lay a lad of about sixteen or seventeen — 
 a great, shock-headed lout, strong and sturdy, 
 but sobbing like a baby, in a very agony of 
 grief; deep, hoarse sobs, that shook his stalwart 
 limbs Hke a leaf in the wind. The youngest 
 boy, the little crossing-sweeper, was crouching 
 in a corner, his bare legs splashed with mud, 
 munching a crust of bread, and staring with 
 great, round, half-frightened eyes at the visitors ; 
 and over the bare hearth, with its heap of gray 
 ashes and bits of half-burnt coke, sat a black- 
 haired, sullen-faced girl, of about twenty, brood- 
 ing with her chin on her hands, her shoes down 
 at heel, and her torn, unmended dress hanging 
 loose about her. 
 
 ** How is she to-night ?" asked Mr. Wilmot, 
 speaking to the mother ; for the sufferer seemed 
 beyond answering. The woman had risen, and 
 dropped Isabel a country curtsey ; then she sat 
 down again, and taking up the thin, transparent 
 hand that lay lifelessly on the bed, shook her 
 head without speaking. The movement, the look 
 of dumb, speechless woe in her pale, furrowed
 
 THE GABLES. 135 
 
 face, marked by years of toil and sorrow, spoke 
 plainly enough : there ^Yas no need of words. 
 Isabel stood mute by the bed, glancing round 
 the room with a sort of terror, thinking this was 
 a new and awful world. The girl sitting over 
 the fireless hearth thrust back her loose hair, and 
 scowled sullenly at her as a natural enemy — the 
 lady in her warm cloak and pretty bonnet, so 
 deftly and gracefully worn. John turned to the 
 sobbing boy on the floor. 
 
 " Come, come, Joe ; be a man," he said, very 
 kindly. 
 
 " I can't now. I knows I'se a fool, but I 
 just can't help it." His rough voice quivered 
 in his paroxysm of grief, and broke down 
 hoarsely. " What should she die for ?" 
 
 *' Thou'rt a foolish lad," said the mother, 
 folding her worn, wrinkled hands together with 
 the calmness of despair. '' She's going to her 
 Father's house — the door's open, and the light's 
 shining on her. Would to the Lord" there was 
 something very touching and awful in the deep, 
 trembling earnestness with which this was 
 spoken, " we was all going there, too !" 
 
 " In God's own time, Mrs. Brooks," said
 
 136 THE GABLES. 
 
 John's quiet voice. " Be patient. You would 
 not hold your child back, when the gates of the 
 shining city are open for her, and the everlasting 
 arms stretched out ?" 
 
 " It's hard to let her go — hard to flesh and 
 blood," murmured the woman, in the same low, 
 heart-crushed voice, rocking herself slowly to 
 and fro ; " but I wouldn't hold her when He's 
 calling. No, no, no !" 
 
 The sick girl stirred feebly, and asked for 
 drink. There was some cold tea-water in a 
 broken jug, on a chair by the bedside ; Isabel 
 poured some into a cup that stood there, and 
 gave it to her, tenderly lifting the heavy, power- 
 less head. 
 
 " Have you any water here?" she asked the 
 mother. 
 
 Another remnant of a jug, with some in it, 
 was given her. She dipped her handkerchief in 
 it, and wetted the damp forehead and dry, 
 cracked lips, with her slender, gentle hand. One 
 or two great silent tears had dropped on the 
 tattered quilt. 
 
 " The Lord bless thee !" said the mother, 
 looking at her with a sort of amazement.
 
 THE GABLES. 137 
 
 The dying girl — she did not look more than 
 fifteen or sixteen — lifted her white, sunken face 
 and dull eyes, darkening already with the awful 
 shadow, to the new vision that bent over her. 
 
 " I don't know thee," she said, in her feeble, 
 broken voice. " I never saw thy great, kind, 
 dark eyes before, all wet and shining. Perhaps 
 'tis an angel, coming to carry my soul away to 
 ImmanueFs land. Let me bide a little bit 
 longer, till I've bid them good bye ; then I'm 
 ready — thirsting to go." 
 
 John took the little Bible from his pocket, 
 and opening it, read, " They shall hunger no 
 more, neither thirst any more ; neither shall the 
 sun light on them, nor any heat. For the 
 Lamb that is in the midst of the throne shall 
 feed them, and lead them unto living fountains 
 of waters ; and God shall wipe away all tears 
 from their eyes." 
 
 " Do you feel that, Lucy ?'* 
 
 " Ay," her emaciated face lit up for an in- 
 stant, and her eyes brightened, " that's good. 
 I feel it ! I know it ! Where's mother ? I 
 want thee, mother ! Can't thee come with me ?" 
 
 " Ah ! if 'twas His will I might, my lamb 1"
 
 138 THE GABLES. 
 
 She took the girl to her bosom, and rocked 
 her slowly, as though she would hush her to the 
 quiet rest they were both longing for. " She had 
 been suffering terrible all day," she said, " with 
 her cough, that tore her to pieces, and her pain 
 of breathing; but she was easier now, dear 
 wench !" 
 
 " Ay, I'm easy now — there ain't no more 
 pain coming. Such a poor dear face !" — 
 patting her mother's face with her wasted hand — 
 " all rough and worn wi' trouble and care. But 
 I'll know thee. Mother, on the resurrection 
 morning, for all thee'U be bright and shining. 
 I were wearying to see a green field once more 
 a while ago ; but there'll be green fields where 
 I'm going, and golden streets." 
 
 " The city has not need of the sun nor of the 
 moon to shine in it, for the glory of God did 
 lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof," 
 John read, in his clear, quiet voice. 
 
 " Ah, I know it ! — I shall see it soon ! 
 Who's that crying?" — a look of pain crossed 
 her white, wasted face — " tell them to stop ; it 
 t roubles me. It's poor Joe, ain't it ? He were 
 always fond o' me. Tell him to come here."
 
 THE GABLES. 139 
 
 Isabel made way for the boy, who rose up 
 from the floor, and stumbled, half stupified 
 with his violent sorrow, up to the bed. She 
 patted his rough, shock-head with her attenuated 
 hand. 
 
 "Don't cry, Joe; I love thee — don't cry. 
 Her words came very slow, and gaspingly. 
 " Thee'll come to the land o' Canaan. TU pray 
 for thee. Where's Jemmy ? I want him to 
 say his hymn to me — that hymn he learnt at 
 Sunday School — it's good words." 
 
 The child came slowly and half- frightened 
 from his corner, and stood by the bed, his pretty 
 brown face blistered and blurred with crying. 
 He put his poor little dirty hands together, and 
 began in his childish treble — 
 
 " There is a land of pure delight, 
 Where saints immortal reign — " 
 
 "Oh, 'tisn't that. That's good, too, but 
 
 there's a better one — about a golden harp, and 
 
 — and — " 
 
 " Lord, I believe thou hast prepared. 
 Unworthy though I be, 
 For me a blood-bought free reward, 
 A golden harp for me."
 
 140 THE GABLES. 
 
 "I can't mind no more." The poor child 
 burst out crying, and hid his face in the bed- 
 clothes. John knelt down b}' the bed, and 
 prayed fervently for the soul that was passing 
 through the dark valley. Isabel covered her 
 eyes, and listened awfully shrinking aside. She 
 felt she had no place in that room of death. 
 The sister sitting by the hearth, started up, and 
 hurried to the bed, sobbing, wringing her hands 
 in a passion of rebellious misery. 
 
 " Hast thou naught to say to me, wench ?" 
 she demanded, almost angrily. 
 
 " Poor Maggie ! — I'm troubled for thee ; but 
 try and pray for thy soul, and God will hear 
 thee. He is pitiful;" her voice had sunk so 
 low that the words were scarcely to be caught, 
 and on the white face that lay on the mother's 
 bosom was the shadow of death. 
 
 "Be kind to mother, Maggie. Help them 
 all. Lord ! I'm going through the valley of 
 the shadow, but I'm not afeard. I see the 
 golden hills." 
 
 The light faded out. She had gone, poor 
 daughter of the great King, from this miserable 
 chamber, through her Father's palace gates;
 
 THE GABLES. 141 
 
 never to weep or suffer more. She lay still, 
 white, unmoving, at rest. The boy, exhausted 
 by the vehemence of his grief, lay stretched at 
 the foot of the bed, in a sort of stupor; the 
 mother softly closed the eyes, " hke violets 
 faded," and then — too worn and spent for 
 tears — sat rocking herself slowly as before, white 
 and trembling, but quite quiet. Only the sis- 
 ter's strange mutinous sobs broke the awful 
 stillness. There was a white handkerchief — a 
 remnant of better days — lying near the bed. 
 Isabel took it up, and shivering with a strange 
 awe, never felt before, and first folding the cold, 
 thin hands over the bosom, laid it softly over the 
 stiffening marble features. Then a chill dread 
 fell upon her — she had never seen Death 
 before — " the husbandman that reapeth always, 
 out of season as in season, with the sickle in 
 his hand." 
 
 She looked imploringly at John ; and he saw 
 the look, and pitied her, perhaps. He bent over 
 the mother, and whispered something in her ear, 
 and Isabel saw that he sHpped something into 
 t^lie nerveless hand. 
 
 John ! John ! It must cost a hard strug-
 
 142 THE GABLES. 
 
 gle sometimes to keep up that faultless black 
 coat and white tie of thine, — a struggle of 
 which thy comfortable bishop — snugly con- 
 vinced that " whatever is, is right" — dreams 
 not ! 
 
 He spoke some kind words to the girl sitting 
 on the floor, with her black hair falling over her 
 face, and her head on her hands ; but she never 
 moved nor answered, only shrank impatiently 
 away as he laid his hand on her shoulder. Then 
 he gave his arm to Isabel. 
 
 She had left her Httle purse, in which there 
 was not much, behind her, and he led her, with 
 more of kindness than he had ever showed to 
 mortal woman before, down the broken staircase, 
 and out into the narrow, sloppy, brawling street, 
 and the black, rainy autumn night. 
 
 This is thy world, O young, romantic 
 dreamer! This heavy atmosphere of want, 
 sickness, penury, hunger and death — old people 
 dying in it, children born to it, day after day. 
 Come down from the green, ideal country, wa- 
 tered with sparkling streams, lit with unfading 
 sunshine, and acknowledge you liave learnt sad 
 wisdom !
 
 THE GABLES. 143 
 
 They walked home through the muddy streets, 
 the gas-lights quivering in the wind, and flaring 
 on the pools of rain-water, the black London sky 
 over their heads scowling at them. They never 
 spoke once, except when he wished her good 
 night at her own door — heartily, for him ; and 
 then she rushed past Tabby's round, wondering 
 face, up stairs into the drawing-room, where 
 Bessie sat, frightened at her long absence. 
 
 " Mamma is not come home ?" 
 
 " Not yet. O ! where have you been ?" 
 
 " To such a place ! — Such things I have 
 seen ! Oh, Bessie ! what a life we lead !" 
 
 She burst into tears, and poured out her dis- 
 jointed story. 
 
 " How dreadful ! Can't we do anything for 
 them?" said Bessie, with wet, frightened eyes. 
 
 The old, old cry — and nothing done ! Will 
 it be said to us at the great day, " Inasmuch as 
 ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did 
 it not to me 1"
 
 144 THE GABLES. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Fear no more the heat o' the sun, 
 
 Nor the furious winter's rages ; 
 Thou thy worldly task hast done, 
 
 Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages." 
 
 Cymbeline. 
 
 Mrs. Langton heard Isabel's excited story 
 poured out breathlessly the moment she reached 
 the head of the stairs on her return that night, 
 with a mixture of fright and perplexity. Some- 
 thing ought to be done — of that we are all very 
 sure ; and so was this warm-hearted little soul — 
 but what ? how, and in what way ? In that 
 quiet home- atmosphere — that little world of 
 husband and children — what did she know of 
 that great wilderness of want, despair and misery 
 that hes about — (a startling thought that !) — all 
 our homes? She had heard of such things,
 
 THE GABLES. 14 J 
 
 and they had hrought tears to her blue eyes, and 
 a shudder to her quiet breast ; they frightened 
 her ; but what could she do to help them ? Her 
 heart was large enough to warm and fill all the 
 starving people in London, but her purse and 
 her house were wonderfully circumscribed. The 
 profits spun by poor dear Fred out of that fertile 
 brain of his were poetically small. Some little 
 touch of anger, too, was stirring at the little 
 woman's heart, towards John, for taking her 
 darhng into such a dreadful place, where she 
 might have caught the fever, or some other 
 shocking complaint, and among such sights, the 
 thought of which made her sim.ple brain swim. 
 
 When John walked in the next afternoon, in 
 his usual quiet fashion, Mrs. Langton fully made 
 up her mind to give him a really sharp scolding 
 for his misdeeds ; but, as usual, before his tran- 
 quil face the purpose faded into empty air. She 
 did make an attempt, but it came to nothing. 
 John was somehow or other a difficult person 
 to scold, with those intensely quiet blue eyes of 
 his, and that provokingly imperturbable matter- 
 of-fact face, chilling and confounding your torrent 
 of words. 
 
 VOL. L H
 
 146 THE GABLES. 
 
 " You were really foolish, John, dear," began 
 the little woman, half timidly, " to take Isabel to 
 such a shocking place!" 
 
 " She insisted on going," John returned, com- 
 posedly ; " Bessie will bear witness that it was 
 no proposition of mine." 
 
 " No, indeed, mamma ! You should have 
 seen John's face of bewilderment when Cora 
 came down with her bonnet on. I think he 
 didn't believe her till then." 
 
 Isabel was standing at the window, gazing out 
 witn an unusual look on her pale face. She 
 turned her large troubled eyes on her cousin — 
 " Have you seen them to-day ?" 
 
 "You mean the people we saw last night?" 
 
 " Of course !" she said quickly. 
 
 " Yes, I saw them this morning." He seemed 
 half reluctant to speak on the subject. 
 
 " How is the poor mother ?" Isabel said, im- 
 patiently. 
 
 " Much as when you saw her ; there is little 
 difference yet." 
 
 " I have been thinking all night, and all day, 
 of w^hat we saw last evening 1" The words 
 broke from her half unconsciously.
 
 THE GABLES. 147 
 
 "You had a glimpse into a new world last 
 night," John returned composedly, turning over 
 the leaves of a book that lay on the table. " It 
 was a peep from the dream-country into the 
 black waste of London poverty, and it startled 
 you. Use is second nature — such scenes as 
 you saw last night I witness almost daily. My 
 work lies among them." 
 
 Her great deep eyes on his face, full of wonder 
 and half-reverence, perplexed him. Why did she 
 look at him so — this strange girl? 
 
 " Well, to come back to the question," said 
 Mrs. Langton, with a very decisive drumming 
 of her little foot on the hearth-rug, " can we 
 really not do anything for these poor creatures ? 
 John, can't you put us in the way ?" 
 
 John looked at his pretty aunt with more 
 consideration than he had ever shown before 
 since he was a small boy at the Charterhouse, and 
 she used to bring him oranges and cheese-cakes. 
 
 " Well, John ?" demanded the little impatient 
 soul. 
 
 John was meditating, with his great blue quiet 
 eyes on the carpet. In process of time he lifted 
 them, and spoke : — 
 
 H 2
 
 148 THE GABLES. 
 
 " It is rather a difficult question to answer, 
 my dear aunt. The parish will bury poor Lucy, 
 and " 
 
 Isabel thought, with something like a shudder, 
 of a child opening its little eyes to God's light 
 in a London garret, on the old, dark perspective, 
 ending in a pauper's grave. 
 
 " Poor thing ! how quietly the light faded 
 out from her blue eyes — how peace came down 
 on the w^hite, anxious face, when she said she 
 saw the golden hiUs, and felt the light upon 
 her ; and so fell asleep ! It was awful" — she had 
 never seen death before — and she was but 
 eighteen ; the great tears swelled out from her 
 troubled eyes, and fell slowly, one or two of 
 them, down her pale, proud cheek. 
 
 *' My pet !" said her mother, " I wish you 
 had not gone !" 
 
 " Don't cry ! " said John, suddenly. He 
 did not like to see her tears — why, he knew not, 
 but they vexed him. He absolutely rose from 
 his chair, and went close to her, and took her 
 hand in his, and said two or three kind, brotherly 
 words. Bessie stared in breathless incredulity 
 — she could scarcely believe her eyes. He
 
 THE GABLES. 149 
 
 could not have chosen a quicker method of dry- 
 ing those unwonted tears ; the thought of being 
 pitied, stung her proud heart, and dmnk up the 
 wet upon her eyelashes. He let the little hand 
 fall as though half-ashanaed of having taken it, 
 and turned ao:ain towards Mrs. Lano^ton. 
 
 " I think the eldest girl — Maggie, they call 
 her — would be glad to go out to service. She 
 has been out before, it seenas, as a houseraaid, 
 so if you know any one " 
 
 " Our housenaaid is going to leave us," Mrs. 
 Langton said, quickly — " we might take her.'" 
 
 Isabel looked up — they could do something, 
 however little, though the remembrance of 
 Maggie's aspect and manner was not encou- 
 raging. 
 
 " That would be a good work," said John, 
 composedly. 
 
 " Has she a character from her last mistress, 
 I wonder ?" said little Mrs. Langton, half- 
 dubiously. 
 
 " I don't know ; I am afraid not. Her 
 mother told me, that she had gone wrong; 
 indeed, that is not hard to be seen by the poor 
 girl's face and manner."
 
 150 THE GABLES. 
 
 Mrs. Langton looked frightened, and her 
 quiet nephew laughed. 
 
 •' My dear aunt, if you choose to set about a 
 work of reformation and mercy, you must not 
 be frightened if you find stones and stocks in 
 the way. The path will not always be smooth 
 and pleasant — the recipient of your benefits will 
 sometimes be rough, uncouth, ungrateful.*' 
 
 " I know we mustn't look for a reward here, 
 always," said the little woman, timidly. " But 
 is this girl so rude and uncouth ?" 
 
 " I have scarcely had a fair opportunity of 
 judging yet. She has seemed so, but want and 
 misery are not effectual polishers of the man- 
 ners ; kindness, good food, and clothes, might 
 work a vast difference." 
 
 " You can ask the mother about it ; perhaps 
 she would bring the girl here, for me to see ; 
 and if she is not very bad — that is, if she is 
 honest and cleanly, I should like to " 
 
 "Certainly," said John, "I will see her 
 to-morrow ;" and he took his hat, and de- 
 parted. 
 
 '^ Why not to-night ?" called out impatient 
 Bessie ; but he was gone. " I wish he wouldn't
 
 THE GABLES. 151 
 
 be SO quiet — it's really aggravating," pronounced 
 that curly-headed damsel. 
 
 He delivered his message next day ; and the 
 mother let fall one or two quiet tears, and blessed 
 him, with a half-choked voice, from thedepths of 
 her troubled soul. She might save that poor, sin- 
 ning girl — her black-eyed, wilful Maggie — whose 
 beauty had been her ruin, from the streets ; she 
 had found a friend, an arm stretched out to rescue. 
 John, you will not be the poorer for that 
 widow's prayers. 
 
 Poor Lucy had gone home, there was no 
 more pain or trouble for her ; the mother dw^elt 
 upon that, with a sort of strange luxury. Why 
 do we call the poor unfeeling, because they do 
 not weep and bemoan their lost children, as pas- 
 sionately as do the rich ? Why should they 
 grieve so hard for emancipated captives, bodies 
 and spirits, freed from the weary pressure of life 
 — gone from the perpetual, hard struggle, that 
 existence is to most of them — to their rest ? 
 So poor Mrs. Brooks made herself as decent 
 as she might — her countrified neatness dignified 
 even her London penury — and took her sullen- 
 faced, handsome Maggie, with her wild black
 
 152 THE GABLES. 
 
 hair smoothed down, decorously, under her old 
 bonnet, and gown mended, and wrapped in 
 the only shawl kept back from the pawn-shop, 
 because it used to cover the sick girl, — and they 
 went together to Great Coram Street. 
 
 " Try to look a bit more pfeasant, lass !" Mrs. 
 Langton heard the mother urge in a whisper, as 
 she came into the parlour where they were wait- 
 ing ; " thee'll frighten the lady wi' thy scowl." 
 
 ** I can't, — I won't make my face tell a lie to 
 please her !" the girl returned disdainfully. 
 
 A strange contrast she was to her mild, grey- 
 haired, broken-spirited mother, as they stood side 
 by side, and her look was not promising. There 
 was not much to inspire confidence or liking in 
 her restless, half-sullen manner, the frown on her 
 handsome brows, her great, black, downcast eyes, 
 half angry, half shame- faced. She stood while 
 her mother spoke, knitting her brown fingers 
 together, and shuffling restlessly, first with one 
 foot, and then with the other. 
 
 " I think she'll try to do her best, ma'am — 
 I'm sure she will. Speak, Maggie, lass, can't 
 thee ? She were thought an honest, hard-work- 
 ing lass in her last place, ma'am ; and the lady
 
 THE GABLES. 153 
 
 what she lived with always spoke well o' her. 
 But she were sore tempted, poor wench 1" The 
 mother dropped her voice, and a hot flush of 
 shame made the girl's dark face crimson — " And 
 so she can get no character from her place. But 
 she's sore repented o' her sin, and she'd do right, 
 I well know, could she but get the chance, — 
 wouldn't thee, Maggie ? She's a bit frightened, 
 like, ma'am, you see." 
 
 The girl looked up, touched, perhaps, by her 
 mother's anxious voice ; but the sight of the 
 gentle, fair- haired woman before her, and the 
 pitying blue eyes that met hers, made them droop 
 again. Perhaps the thought of the gulf between 
 them made her shiver. 
 
 " Thee'll try, Maggie, won't thee ?" pleaded 
 the mother again. 
 
 " Ay, I'll try I" she answered, in her low, 
 sullen tone. 
 
 Her good angel made her look up as she 
 spoke, and showed her that tears were running 
 down the widow's wan cheeks, and she threw 
 herself on her neck, clasping her tight, and cry- 
 ing out — " Oh, mother, forgive me ! O, mother, 
 mother !" in a voice in which was poured out 
 
 H 3
 
 i54 THE GABLES. 
 
 all the grief, and shame, and remorse of her 
 sore, mutinous heart. 
 
 Mrs. Langton was frightened ; she had never 
 heard such crying before : but they were whole- 
 some tears, and softened the girl strangely, for 
 when the outburst was over (and it did not last 
 long), she said, pressing her hands close toge- 
 ther, in a subdued voice, that she wanted to get 
 back to the right way, and if the lady would but 
 help her, she'd do her best. 
 
 It needed not much more to overcome and 
 vanquish entirely our most soft-hearted of little 
 housekeepers. She engaged Maggie then and 
 there, on an El Dorado of eight pounds a-year, 
 put a sovereign (which she had been hoarding 
 for the purchase of a long-coveted shawl in 
 Oxford Street) into her hand to get some clothes, 
 peremptorily desired Mrs. Brooks — who was cry- 
 ing too much to thank her — to hold her tongue, 
 and finally, inquiring for Tabby, told her in a 
 whisper to take them into the kitchen, and give 
 them some tea and cold mutton, for they looked 
 half starved, poor things ! 
 
 The next time Mrs. Langton crossed the 
 street to call on her very well-meaning opposite
 
 THE GABLES. 155 
 
 neighbours, the grateful Smitherses, the little 
 crossing- sweeper ran after her, and with his 
 bright, pretty brown face uplifted to hers, put a 
 bunch of flowers into her hand. A sorry bunch, 
 poor little Jemmy ! — faded wall-flowers, half- 
 crushed daffodils — the refuse of some flower- 
 girl's basket, bought for a hard-won halfpenny, 
 but perfumed by the incense of your simple, 
 childish gratitude, fair as the richest blossoms 
 of a duke's garden ! 
 
 Maggie came punctually to the time appointed, 
 looking a Httle more sober and decorous than 
 when Isabel first saw her, in her new print gown 
 and tidy straw bonnet, and very handsome, now 
 she was tamed and quiet. She settled down to her 
 work easily, and gave promise of being a good 
 and active servant ; but for all that, there was 
 something strange about the girl, and they all 
 felt half afraid of her. 
 
 " She was so silent — so reserved, — there was 
 no getting nothin' out of her !" Tabby indig- 
 nantly averred. 
 
 She had no stories to tell of sweethearts, or 
 of her past life. She kept her lips close shut on 
 the subject of her sorrows ; she would sit of an
 
 156 THE GABLES. 
 
 evening at work, without uttering a syllable 
 for hours, unless spoken to, her lips working 
 restlessly, as if talking to herself, and she always 
 had a strange reluctance to look any one full in 
 the face, though, when irritated, there was ever 
 the same lowering look ready — half shame, and 
 half defiance. 
 
 Tabby protested she was " afeard to sit alone 
 with her," and further delivered it as her opinion, 
 in an under-tone to the baker's boy, that " she 
 must have been and gone and murdered some- 
 body, and that this somebody's ghost must be 
 continally afore her eyes, though nobody else 
 could see it !" 
 
 Poor little Mrs. Langton, painfully anxious to 
 begin her work of conversion — to find some 
 counsel and comfortfor a repentant sinner — knew 
 not how. Certainly there were not many signs 
 of repentance about the poor, proud, unhappy 
 girl ; the ground seemed too hard and sterile 
 yet, for the good seed to take root. She heard 
 her httle mistress's words of counsel and sym- 
 pathy, timidly spoken, for there was nothing in 
 herself to invite confidence, with a half sullen 
 civility thanked her and said no more ; took the
 
 THE GABLES. 157 
 
 Bible she gave her, with the tenderly-spoken 
 wish, that there she might find true comfort 
 and guidance, — and never read it. 
 
 Her mother came to see her sometimes, and 
 always went away with an anxious, unhappy 
 look on her thin face. 
 
 But Maggie was very happy and comfortable, 
 she always said to Mrs. Langton, and so grateful, 
 and trying hard to do right ; and Lucy was at 
 rest in the green and pleasant country, where 
 never comes hunger, nor sorrow, nor sin — that 
 seemed the mother's chief comfort. Poor 
 slouching, soft-hearted, rough-headed Joe, had 
 got a place as errand-boy, soon to grow sharp 
 on the grindstone of London streets ; and she 
 was wearying to get back into the country, out 
 of this great, black, smoky, heartless city, with 
 little Jemmy, whom she little thought ever to 
 see begging with a broom in his hand. 
 
 If they could get back to the old place, they 
 might do better, she thought, wiping away a 
 tear ; but still she must not fret and murmur, 
 when such help had been given her out of the 
 very shadow of death. 
 
 Isabel liked to talk to this woman ; it gave
 
 158 THE GABLES. 
 
 her a further glimpse into that unknown world, 
 of whose existence she had but faintly dreamt. 
 Rough, ignorant, toil-worn as the poor soul 
 was, the young untamed spirit might learn wis- 
 dom from her simple faith, her quiet, unpre- 
 tending fortitude, and self-denial. 
 
 " I wish we could get her back into that green 
 country she is always pining after," Isabel said, 
 one day after one of these talks. " There is but 
 herself and Jemmy left now ; and I fancy they 
 would do better there. She thinks she could get 
 two rooms in her own village, if the young squire 
 — so she calls him — were but at home." 
 
 " I wish he was," said Bessie, in a very 
 melancholy voice. 
 
 " So do I, just now. I would ask him about 
 these poor folks. I dare say it would bore 
 him, but I would do it for all that. He does 
 not think of them now — his brain is full of 
 honour and glory." 
 
 Most likely it was ; for the battle of Inker- 
 man had just filled the land with thrilling ex- 
 citement, and Lieutenant Lechmere was honour- 
 ably mentioned for gallantry in the Commander- 
 in-Chief's despatches. He had saved by his
 
 THE GABIES. 159 
 
 daring the life of his colonel, (who afterwards 
 died of his wounds), when surrounded by the 
 enemy ; and the Coram Street household rang 
 with his praises. Mr. Langton read the story 
 in the newspaper aloud, and glowed over 
 it rapturously. Elizabeth cried and laughed 
 together — tender-hearted little simpleton ! and 
 then cut out the scrap of newspaper, and stuck 
 it in Bessie's album, that they might shew it to 
 Arthur, when he came home covered with 
 medals and glory. Even John, coming in upon 
 the news, said he was a fine fellow. And Isabel 
 — her pale cheek kindling into enthusiasm — as it 
 often had need to do, this eventful winter — 
 praised him. Women's hearts — those worthy 
 of the name — always glow and fire up at noble 
 and generous deeds. " How^ proud his mother 
 must be of him !" said Mrs. Langton, with 
 glistening eyes, Uttle dreaming he had no mother. 
 Elizabeth speculated curiously about that lady, 
 and formed divers glowing conceptions of Arthur 
 Lechmere's stepmother, when one day, very 
 soon after the news of the battle, came a note 
 from the object of these rose-coloured conjectures 
 to Mr. Langton, somewhat cold and stiffly
 
 160 THE GABLES. 
 
 worded, though the little woman tried hard to 
 think it all that was cordial and proper. Mrs. 
 Lechmere had come up to town for the winter, 
 to avoid the damp of the country, and had taken 
 a house in Wimpole Street for six months. 
 She was anxious to thank Mr. Langton for his 
 kindness to Mr. Lechmere, and likewise to make 
 Mrs. Langton's acquaintance. She hoped he 
 would come and call on her. 
 
 " I am sure I shall not Hke this woman," was 
 Isabel's conviction. 
 
 "You are so hasty, my darling," said Mrs. 
 Langton, with troubled visions of her winter 
 bonnet floating before her mind's eye — Isabel 
 sighed and went and sat down by the fire, and 
 sewed away at a child's frock she was making 
 for some poor body her cousin had told her of, 
 who was looking out for a tenth baby to open 
 its tiny eyes on the old grim prospect. She 
 wanted to be very good, and she was trying in 
 hot haste, breaking an infinite number of needles, 
 and pulling out long stitches, and wondering why 
 she would rather scribble quires of romantic 
 nonsense than sew one seam ; and deciding 
 — poor child ! — with a sigh, that she was
 
 THE GABLES. 161 
 
 but a useless, white-fingered cumberer of the 
 earth. 
 
 It took considerable exertion to induce Mr. 
 Langton to brush his hat, put on his best coat, 
 and walk to Wimpole Street ; and he came back 
 with a confused notion that Mrs. Lechmere was 
 a well-bred woman of the world, slightly frozen, 
 with blue eyes and fair hair. 
 
 " She shows no signs of grief for her late ca- 
 lamity," said that simple gentleman. *' Indeed, I 
 thought her cold and unmoved when I spoke of 
 my beloved old friend. But she is doubtless ac- 
 customed to conceal outward emotion. There 
 is fire under snow, Elizabeth, my love ; and the 
 deep swelling waters of the human heart are 
 not to be fathomed by every careless eye !" 
 
 And Elizabeth said, " Of course, Fred, dear ;" 
 and thought her husband the greatest genius of 
 his time. Mrs. Lechmere called in Coram 
 Street next day, and they all felt chilled and 
 disappointed, they scarcely knew why. She had 
 come, she said, to make Mrs. Langton and her 
 daughters' acquaintance, and to thank her per- 
 sonally for her kindness to Arthur, who spoke 
 in the most glowing terms of them all.
 
 162 THE GABLES. 
 
 " I am sure we all have reason to speak so of 
 him," said Elizabeth, warmly, her blue eyes 
 shining. " How proud you must be of such a 
 noble fellow !" 
 
 Mrs. Lechmere turned the subject with skill- 
 ful quickness. She was a well-bred woman, 
 with powers of conversation and agreeable man- 
 ners enough when she pleased ; but they did 
 not take to her as they wished to do. Her 
 cold blue eyes — eyes with no depth in them, 
 and whose expression never changed — were not 
 inviting, and her widow's garments gave you the 
 notion, in some strange way, of an unsightly 
 prison dress, which she loathed, and would fain 
 be loosed from, and trample under foot. She 
 would have shrunk with a sort of horror from 
 intimacy with any friend of the dead husband 
 she had never forgiven, who in the faintest 
 degree resembled himself, or woke up any recol- 
 lection of him. But this Mr. Langton, whom 
 she had never seen but once before since her 
 marriage, seventeen years ago, seemed a simple 
 dreamer, in whom there was no harm ; and his 
 family were quiet, strange, unworldly people, dif- 
 ferent from any she had ever seen before.
 
 THE GABLES. 163 
 
 They rather attracted her fancy ; and she might 
 be gracious to them without humbling her proud, 
 revengeful soul. So she asked them to a quiet 
 family dinner, and put aside all denial ; and 
 Mrs. Langton declared, when she was gone, 
 that she was a very agreeable, well-bred woman 
 when her first coldness had worn off; and Mr. 
 Langton drew a long sigh at the thought of a 
 banquet, and went off to his study. 
 
 " So I am going to play cordial to these 
 simple folks," thought Mrs. Lechmere, driving 
 back to Wimpole Street ; " I who never felt 
 my heart warm to living mortal ! Roland will 
 fall in love with that little curly- headed girl, I 
 suppose. Well, my life has been one long lie 
 hitherto, and this is but another variation of the 
 same jarring notes." 
 
 She had come to London for change of air 
 and scene — so she told the Langtons — in reality, 
 because the old, haunted house was an intoler- 
 able prison to her ; and having settled all 
 necessary business, left the tenants and home 
 affairs in the hands of her steward — a sharp 
 man, wth wonderful talents for screwing im- 
 practicable rents out of pigsties, and cabbage
 
 164 THE GABLES. 
 
 gardens ; and left the old house to the winter 
 wind, and the ghost. Perhaps, however, the 
 revels in the servants' hall, were none the less 
 jovial for the absence of the cold-faced 
 mistress; and perhaps, they drunk just as 
 heartily the health of the brave young master far 
 away, and might he come back safe to his own. 
 
 Arthur had written from the Crimea that 
 none of the Christmas dinners to the poor 
 people must be forgotten, and Mrs. Lechmere 
 flung the letter to the old housekeeper, and 
 bequeathed the charge to her. 
 
 So the Langtons went to dine in Wimpole 
 Street, on the appointed day, and found there 
 first and foremost — Roland Lechmere, Esq., 
 a tall, slender, young Etonian, with a handsome 
 sunburnt, English face, in a newly-mounted tail 
 coat, with a bunch of gold charms on his 
 watch chain, a httle grand and magnificent, as 
 Etonians are apt to be, patronizing Bessie very 
 graciously, as a rather pretty httle girl — but a 
 good boy withal as boys go. It was refreshing, 
 amidst his boyish airs and dandyism, to see 
 how enthusiastically fond he was of his brother ; 
 how the mention of his name, or any reference
 
 THE GABLES. 165 
 
 to the late battle, would make his honest young 
 face glow and sparkle. Truly, there is no nobler 
 creature, under God's sky, than your gentle- 
 natured, lion-hearted, generous, English boy ! 
 
 It was a snaall party, in deference to the 
 recent calamity that had befallen the house 
 of Lechmere, shadowed forth in its mistress's 
 widow's cap ; the only other guests were 
 Mr. Milford, M.P., a stout, partially bald 
 gentleman, very hot and short-breathed, and 
 oppressively pompous — his wife to match, only 
 a shade more magnificent, and his daughter, 
 Kate — Arthur Lechmere's betrothed lady- 
 love. She was a very pretty, attractive, 
 little thing, very exquisitely dressed, and very 
 skilfully taught to make the most of herself 
 and her graces ; precisely fit to be the bright 
 particular star of a lad of twenty. One of 
 those graceful little butterflies, whose vocation in 
 life is to flutter in the sunshine, and sip up all 
 the honey they can find, leaving all the sours 
 and crosses to whoever likes to take them, with 
 a dainty selfishness, quite fascinating to behold. 
 She had a caressing, dependent manner, and a 
 low, timid voice, which meant rather less than 
 nothing, but which were pretty enough ; and a
 
 166 THE GABLES. 
 
 trick of lifting a pair of great blue, languid eyes 
 to yours — with an imploring smile, as invoking 
 aid for her graceful helplessness ; and she called 
 her young-lady friends " darling," after two 
 hours' acquaintance — somewhat to Isabel's be- 
 wilderment, — and she trilled Italian and French 
 songs in the softest and most liquid of little 
 voices, having been taught by the first masters, 
 as her mamma said and — and — small marvel 
 that all these dainty devices had conquered, and 
 led captive the boy's simple, brave heart, — that 
 he had laid house and lands, and his handsome 
 self, at her little, satin-slippered feet, and 
 crowned her queen of his imagination, and 
 empress of his affections ; and done divers other 
 foolish things, common to poetical and love-lorn 
 youth. 
 
 She was very pretty really, and with her 
 brilliant skin, and rosy mouth, her blue eyes, 
 and her shining brown hair, curled and 
 coronetted and dressed daintily, with floating 
 silver ribbon, and blue turquoise pins, with her 
 little, fragile figure, in a blue robe of some aerial 
 fabric, and her white arms glistening with 
 bracelets, she made quite a costly little picture,
 
 THE GABLES. 167 
 
 fit to be painted on the whitest ivor}', and 
 framed in the purest gold. Her pretty non- 
 sense, and Roland's spirited, boyish prattle, did 
 good service that evening, which would have 
 been somewhat frosty without some such aid ; for 
 Mrs. Lechmere was freezingly well-bred, and 
 Mr. and IMrs. Milford very suffocating, alike in 
 person and manner ; and poor little Elizabeth, 
 unused to such grand company, felt frightened, 
 shrank within herself, and played timidly with 
 her knife and fork. 
 
 Mr. Langton was a shy man, unaccustomed 
 to company and though the stream of his 
 graceful talk, once set flowing, did not soon run 
 dry, that ponderous M.P., his neighbour, was 
 not the man to draw out the hidden gold 
 After dinner, that gentleman solemnly proposed 
 Arthur's good health, and a safe return to him ; 
 at which sentiment, Mrs. Lechmere coldly 
 bowed her head ; Kate looked down, blushed, 
 sighed and simpered, in the prettiest manner 
 possible, and Roland flushed up proudly, and 
 said, " Hear, hear ! and God bless him !" in a 
 way that delighted Mr. Langton greatly. The 
 frost thawed a little, as they adjourned to the
 
 168 THE GABLES. 
 
 drawing-room. Kate warbled an Italian song, 
 and then seized upon 
 
 ** What are the wild waves saying ?" 
 
 and insisted on Isabel singing with her. 
 
 " You will, wont you now, dear ?" with one 
 of those irresistible beseeching glances, that had 
 vanquished that handsome, foolish, young lion, 
 Arthur Lechmere. 
 
 Kate was so delighted to know Isabel — 
 Arthur had spoken so often of Miss Langton, 
 in his letters, that she had felt half inclined to 
 grow jealous. 
 
 *' I am so glad, dear, that you are dark, and 
 I know that Arthur doesn't admire dark people, 
 so that my mind is quite relieved, and I can love 
 you as much as I like, without any fear, don't you 
 see ?" The little sugared sting, in this speech, 
 made Isabel smile. " And your papa is a poet ? 
 how delightful ! I wash mine was. Arthur 
 was very poetical indeed ; he was always 
 quoting poetry, and he has written such pretty 
 things in my album. I'll show them to you 
 some day." 
 
 Isabel curled her lip, and said " Thank you !"
 
 THE GABLES 169 
 
 "There were some lines that Arthur was 
 always saying to me, when he would talk non- 
 sense. Something about * Fastrada,' and * With 
 magic light its jewels shine ' — I forget the rest. 
 But you'll show me your papa's poems when I 
 come to see you ? Dear me I 1 hope he didn't 
 hear ! I am afraid of such terribly clever people. 
 I'm not a bit clever — and Arthur savs vou are !" 
 
 " How does he know ?" demanded Isabel. 
 
 " Why, you forget he stayed nearly a week 
 with you. I was so afraid you might be fair, 
 and that he might fall in love with you, perhaps 
 — you can't think how I suffered. It's such a 
 relief to find you are dark !" 
 
 All this prattle she poured into Isabel's ear, 
 sitting apart with her in the window — that 
 stately maiden regarding the little butterfly with 
 a look of grave amazement that would have been 
 almost ludicrous to a spectator ; while Roland 
 and Bessie were looking over pictures at the 
 table, and becoming fost friends, his dark crisp 
 curls and her bright ringlets almost mingling, 
 and Mrs. Lechmere from her sofa-corner — for 
 the M.P.'s wife was entertaining Mrs. Langton 
 with a sonorous description of her place in the 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 170 THE GABLES. 
 
 country — watched the two handsome children 
 with her impassive eyes. 
 
 The Langtons went away early, for the head 
 of the family was longing to get back to his 
 beloved back parlour and manuscripts, and Mrs. 
 Langton tried so hard to persuade herself and 
 everybody else, that they had passed an extremely 
 pleasant evening, that she devoutly believed the 
 fact by the time she reached home. 
 
 " She is a pretty little thing, that Kate Mil- 
 ford," thought Isabel, looking out from her 
 window on the moon's all-shining surface, " and 
 no doubt a fit lady-love for a boy. I wonder if 
 all women are like her. I wonder if all men are 
 like — like John, for instance ! What put him 
 into my head ? What a night ! 
 
 * That orbed maiden, with white fire laden. 
 That mortals call the moon.' — 
 
 I wonder what sights she looks down on to-night 
 in this great city !"
 
 THE GABLES. J 71 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " The shades of night were falling fast, 
 As through an Alpine village passed 
 A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
 A banner with the strange device, 
 
 ' Excelsior !' ■ — Logfkllow. 
 
 Kate kept her intent of making a bosom friend 
 of Isabel. She came to call next day with her 
 oppressive mamma, and insisted on carrying off 
 both Isabel and Bessie for a drive in the Park, 
 and almost daily came a cocked-hat, notes and 
 music, and tender messages, by a big footman 
 from Harley Street, to Coram Street, till Miss 
 Langton was well nigh bewildered. She never 
 had a young lady friend before, and she did not 
 know how to treat one. She had no lovers to 
 talk about ; no offers to relate ; no mysterious 
 
 I 2
 
 172 THE GABLES. 
 
 admirers to discuss. She never went to the 
 Opera, seldom to parties, and she knew nohody ! 
 All this Kate found out very soon. She was 
 such a strange gh'l; so fond of poetry, and of 
 talking about poor people to that cousin of hers, 
 — that awfully grave, sober curate, — a style of 
 man Kate did not at all comprehend. 
 
 Miss Milford was very pretty and amusing 
 for the first fortnight, and very loveable when 
 not thwarted. She grew the least bit tiresome 
 the third week, and was decidedly insipid the 
 fourth. And yet it is one of the strangest 
 problems of man's nature — can you solve it, 
 reader? — that this class of women are generally 
 the best loved. I suppose it pleases a man's 
 vanity to know his wife greatly inferior to him- 
 self. 
 
 " The greater goose a woman is, the better 
 the generaUty of men love her," said John one 
 day, when they were discussing Kate in Coram 
 Street ; and this is sober truth, O reader ! 
 account for the mystery as you will. 
 
 "And what sort of woman do you admire, 
 John ?" said Mrs. Langton, with a sly laugh. 
 
 The Reverend John Wilmot, M.A., looked a
 
 THE GABLES. 173 
 
 little confused at this broad question ; then he 
 said, a little hastily, that he had " no time for 
 admiration ;" and taking his hat, departed, as 
 the easiest way of getting out of the scrape. 
 
 Isabel went one night, under Mrs. Lechmere's 
 chaperonage, to hear Grisi and Mario, — enjoyed 
 the music intensely, — but was terribly bortd by 
 Kate's devoted admirers, who were tripping in 
 and out of the box the entire evening, and whis- 
 pering soft nonsense to her, which she evidently 
 enjoyed immensely. 
 
 " Do you admire Arthur's taste. Miss Lang- 
 ton ?" asked Mrs. Lechmere, half audibly, with 
 a shrug of her shoulders, and a glance at Kate. 
 '* Pity me for the intolerable load he has left 
 upon my shoulders, — that of being civil to this 
 doU !" 
 
 Kate both hated and dreaded Mrs. Lechmere, 
 and that lady treated the whole family with such 
 thinly- disguised contempt, that had not the 
 Milford wit been fortunately none of the bright- 
 est, an open rupture must inevitably have ensued. 
 
 Mr. Milford was an old friend of her hus- 
 band's, and she hated the connexion that was 
 forced upon her, and took no pains to hide her
 
 174 THE GABLES. 
 
 sentiments. And Mrs. Milford, who, magnifi- 
 cent and ponderous, saw farther than people 
 thought, was very well aware of all this ; but 
 Arthur was too good a catch to be lost, and so 
 she had to smooth down her rebellious plumes, 
 and bear Mrs. Lechmere's impertinence with 
 smiling agony, and wipe her eyes feelingly when 
 letters came from Arthur, scribbled in his tent 
 after an exhausting night's work in the trenches, 
 full of his devotion and Kate's perfections, and 
 charges to his mother to be kind to her. 
 
 Meantime, the Langtons went to dine in 
 Harley Street, and then to an evening party, 
 and little Mrs. Langton held up her head, and 
 thought there was nothing like good society, 
 and patronised the Smitherses more loftily than 
 ever. 
 
 At the last-named festivity, they encountered 
 Mrs. Whittlemore, Mr. Langton 's sister, from 
 Portman Square, somewhere before spoken of, 
 who was greatly amazed, and highly enraptured, 
 of course, to meet poor dear Fred and his family 
 from the foreign regions of Coram Street, in 
 civilized society, and she congratulated herself 
 extremely, that in spite of the sad place where
 
 THE GABLES. 175 
 
 they lived, they were rather a distinguished-look- 
 ing party, and that Isabel, with her pale, proud, 
 thoughtful face, and classic head, won rather 
 more than her share of notice, though she came 
 from the East end^ and knew nobody. 
 
 Mrs. Whittlemore was a serious lady, of very 
 low- church sentiments, who abhorred Puseyite 
 practices, and shut her eyes when the Pope or 
 Mr. Liddell was mentioned ; gave tracts — and 
 nothing else — to hungry people, and went thrice 
 on a Sunday to be edified by the Rev. Ephraim 
 Snuffles, who called himself a vessel, and was 
 for ever bursting out with fierce pamphlets 
 against Tractarianism, the delusions of Popery, 
 and wolves in sheep^s clothing. 
 
 Nobody understood better than Mrs. Whittle- 
 more the difficult arts of giving advice, and 
 keeping her poor relations at a comfortable dis- 
 tance. However, it was agreeable to be able to 
 say — though poetry was all vanity — " Have you 
 seen my brother's last charming volume of poems, 
 so highly praised by the critics ?" And when 
 she could not get a native Prince, or an Italian 
 Count just escaped from an Austrian dungeon, 
 for her Wednesday evenings, she would have
 
 176 THE GABLES. 
 
 been very glad of poor dear Fred for a small 
 lion. 
 
 But Fred, unfortunately for hinnself, loved that 
 little dark study of his far better than the most 
 brilliant drawing-room in London, and to draw 
 him out of it into a fashionable" soiree was a 
 work of such extraordinary exertion, that even 
 his ambitious little Ehzabeth seldom tried it. 
 
 Mrs. Lechmere patronised Isabel, half from 
 some vague notion of annoying the Milfords, 
 half because there was something that attracted 
 her in the girl's proud originality and honest 
 spirit. She would call to take her for a drive, 
 and talk to her with languid civility, and draw 
 out her strange, straightforward ideas with some- 
 thing like interest. 
 
 She always excluded Kate from these drives, 
 if possible, in a quiet, decided fashion there was 
 no resisting, and Kate would pout and wonder — 
 poor silly little soul ! — why Arthur's mother did 
 not like her, and then go out for a ride with 
 Roland, who was a good-tempered fellow, and 
 liked Katie as a pretty girl, and for her brother's 
 sake. She was so fragile and foolish, and seem- 
 ingly so helpless a little thing, that it was natural
 
 THE GABLES. 177 
 
 to treat her kindly and protectingly, albeit her 
 apparent lack of reason was provoking some- 
 times : and Mrs. Langton, faithful to her promise 
 to the far-away young soldier, who had so won her 
 warm heart, sought Kate as much as she could, 
 and tried hard to find if there was any depth or 
 warmth — any hidden treasure under the fair and 
 shining surface — any sands of gold under the 
 pretty, dancing, sparkling rivulet ! But she 
 found none ; and she felt sorry for that gallant, 
 devoted young fellow. Her Isabel would have 
 made him a noble wife ! 
 
 So the little woman thought, as Autumn 
 faded away, and the year waned, and Winter 
 — the fateful winter of 1854, not soon to be 
 forgotten — darkened over the land : — 
 
 " Lo I the Year is growing old. 
 
 And his eye is pale and bleared ; 
 Death, with frosty hand, and cold. 
 Plucks the old man by the beard. 
 Sorely, sorely !" 
 
 Death was busy that winter at home and 
 abroad — mowing down with his icy scythe our 
 strongest, and fairest, and noblest — a lusty 
 harvest — and Isabel was still restless, and way- 
 
 I 3
 
 178 THE GABLES. 
 
 ward, and ill at ease, and could find no peace. 
 She did not care for her new friends. They 
 were all very well, but they wearied her some- 
 times. She would rather have one half-hour's 
 talk with her inscrutable cousin the curate than 
 listen for days to Kate's pretty platitudes, or her 
 mother's pompous twaddle. She wanted to 
 feel the dignity, the beauty of life, and could not. 
 Her heart was sore with disappointed longings, 
 and baffled hopes. She wanted to do some 
 good — she tried to talk to Maggie, to draw her 
 out, and soften her a little ; but the girl flung 
 her off so resolutely by that cold, half-sullen 
 reserve, that it seemed useless to persevere. 
 She began to teach at John's Sunday School with 
 enthusiastic visions of making every child in her 
 class a miracle of infant piety and obedience ; 
 and then her zeal drooped into dreary disap- 
 pointment to find them, often in spite of all her 
 efforts, stupid, idle, and half-wicked — these poor 
 children of the London desert. Bessie's class 
 prospered much better. The bright face of 
 their little teacher, and her hopeful voice, won 
 love and trust. 
 
 " No child can love me," Isabel thought one
 
 THE GABLES. 179 
 
 night half-bitterly — standing at her old post at 
 the window, looking at the frosty stars ; " and no 
 wonder. And yet I try to be kind to them. 
 I am not building on a right foundation. I am 
 all wrong as ever." 
 
 She could not teach them the wisdom she 
 knew not herself. 
 
 " When shaU I learn ?" The text of John's 
 last Sunday's sermon rose up before her, as if 
 written in the darkness and the stars — "Rise 
 up, ye women that are at ease, hear my voice, 
 ye careless daughters, give ear unto my speech." 
 John was not a brilliant preacher, but bis honest 
 simplicity and earnestness had force in them, 
 and his congregation — not a fashionable one — 
 loved him. 
 
 " I must learn ere I can teach," said Isabel ; 
 and she stood thinking. The two Miss Smithers 
 were spending the afternoon there ; two bouncing 
 good-humoured girls, common-place beyond re- 
 demption, with red cheeks, white teeth, and 
 big black ringlets; and they and Bessie were 
 filling the room with noise and laughter; but 
 they might have been in the desert of Sahara, 
 for all Isabel heeded them, till her dream was
 
 180 THE GABLES. 
 
 broken by the eldest coming up to her with her 
 bonnet and shawl on, ready for departure, and 
 seizing her, preparatory to a hug, with 
 
 " Good-night, Mrs. John Wilmot." 
 
 " What ?" said Isabel, sharply and haughtily. 
 
 '* Don't be angry !" said Miss Sophy, some- 
 what startled by the voice. " I'm only calling 
 you what you will be soon. Everybody says so." 
 
 ** Well done, Soph," said the other sister, 
 laughing uproariously. 
 
 " I am not fond of absurdity. Good-night," 
 said Isabel, with civil contempt. 
 
 " Oh, pooh, nonsense ! You w^on't put it 
 off with these proud ways of yours. Anybody 
 can see how the wind blows. Isn't he here 
 almost every day, (Isabel thought it was very 
 seldom,) and isn't he always walking home from 
 church with you ? I'm sure it's all settled ! 
 Remember Kitty and I are to be bridesmaids ;" 
 half smothering her victim with a hug of 
 clamorous affection. 
 
 " Miserable stuff 1 Go away, Sophy ! I am 
 not fond of fools," said Isabel, half-savagely. 
 Her proud cheek burnt, and her eyes glistened, 
 but Sophy and her sister shouted at the joke,
 
 THE GABLES. 181 
 
 and rallied her clamorously on her modesty, til] 
 having exhausted their present supply of wit, 
 they trooped off, taking Bessie back to drink 
 tea with them, and leaving Isabel, to her infinite 
 relief, alone by the red firelight, to sink into an 
 arm-chair, and think bitterly wdth her cheek on 
 her hand, and her eyes on the red coals, what a 
 fool she was to let such empty chatter disturb 
 her so strangely. But it had moved her cruelly, 
 in spite of her impatience, empty and ridiculous 
 as it was. " A shaft at random sent," it had 
 struck deep into her proud breast, and stung 
 and rankled there. Who shall explain or ac- 
 count for the mighty power of a careless word, 
 and who has not felt it ? With a strange sort 
 of self-abandonment she had never known be- 
 fore, she sunk down on the rug before the 
 blaze, and letting her head fall on the chair, 
 plucked listlessly, scarcely thinking or caring 
 what she did, the cluster of ribbon from her 
 black hair, and it fell loosened in long, glossy, 
 trailing locks over the cushions on which she 
 leant. 
 
 " What are those first lines of ' In Me- 
 moriam ?'
 
 18*2 THE GABLES. 
 
 " I hold it truth, with one who sings, 
 To one clear harp in varied tones. 
 That men may rise on stepping-stones 
 Of their dead selves to higher things." 
 
 Is that true ? I would it were — " 
 
 " What is the matter ? are you not well ?" 
 said a quiet, familiar voice, that brought a quick 
 throb to her restless heart. 
 
 She sprang to her feet and faced him, angry 
 and startled at his noiseless entrance. 
 
 "Not well? of course I am, — what do you 
 want ?" she said, half indignant, and half- 
 confused. 
 
 " What do I want ? — that's a civil reception !" 
 
 " Why do you come in like a ghost then ? — 
 I did not hear you ring." 
 
 " You too were too lost in your musings, — 
 were they pleasant ones ? — I thought you were 
 unwell !" 
 
 " No, I was tired, and my hair fell down ; I 
 did not expect visitors." She twisted it care- 
 lessly round, into a knot, replaced the ribbons, 
 with an indignant contempt of herself, and sat 
 down. 
 
 "What long hair you have !" said John
 
 THE GABLES. 183 
 
 quietly, without the shadow of a compliment in 
 his manner ; " had I any manners, I ought to 
 have offered to twist it up for you, but I should 
 certainly have made a lamentable mess of 
 it—" 
 
 '' Thank you, I prefer being independent ;" 
 falling back into her usual proud, negligence of 
 posture ; " now may I know w^hat brought you 
 out this frosty night — merely the pleasure of 
 our society ?" 
 
 " That ought to be a sufficient motive, but 
 the truth is, I came to tell you of a lecture on 
 the Crimean War, to be held at the National 
 School-room, to-morrow^ evening." 
 
 " You are very kind to take so much trouble, 
 certainly. Mamma is at Mrs. Digby's, Bessie's 
 over the way, papa hard at work, downstairs, 
 Septimus — w^ho counts for nothing in the 
 household, except an embodiment of noise — 
 is letting - off fireworks, I imagine, in Dr. 
 Smithers' back yard, and endangering the safety 
 of the neighbourhood ; and so 1 am left to my 
 own devices. But I wiU deliver your tidings 
 when they all come home. — Mamma wiU be en- 
 chanted to go — I doubt not, especially if you
 
 184 THE GABLES. 
 
 secure her a good seat, near the orator, — who is 
 
 he r 
 
 She rattled on thus^ keeping her eyes on the 
 fire, to avoid the quiet glance, she could not 
 meet to night. 
 
 '' A friend of the rector's, a Captain some- 
 body — Merton, I think — and a veritable Cri- 
 mean hero, wounded at the Alma." 
 
 John might have gone away, no doubt, 
 having delivered his news, but the bright blaze, 
 and quiet snugness of the room, tempted him to 
 draw a chair close to the fire, and sit down, and 
 enjoy it. " He knows your friend, Mr. Lech- 
 mere, very well, it seems," said he, after a mo- 
 ment's silence, for Isabel did not speak. 
 
 *' Ah I" 
 
 " I was at the rector's last night, and heard 
 him singing his praises very loudly. He appears 
 beloved in his regiment." 
 
 " I dare say !" 
 
 Silence again ; there was no drawing her out 
 on that subject, and being alone, they must talk, 
 John thought despairingly. 
 
 " How is your friend Miss Milford ?" said he 
 at last, for sheer lack of anything better.
 
 THE GABLES. 185 
 
 '•' Very well, as far as I know ; I have not 
 seen her for three days, so I cannot give very 
 authentic information." 
 
 "You are getting tired of her? young ladies* 
 friendships are perishable things !" 
 
 " That is a very old and common-place re- 
 flection !" Isabel said, impatiently; "she is a 
 very pretty, loveable, little thing, but she was 
 never my friend." 
 
 There was silence again. She gave him 
 one quick glance — the first — as he leant back, 
 rather wearily, in his chair ; his quiet blue eyes, 
 full of thought and cares, gazing into the fire. 
 His soul was full of love to his Master, she 
 thought, and of his own hard, but life-elevating 
 labours ; there was no room for her. It 
 was strange, with what naagic beauty her eyes 
 clothed those good, fair, every-day features. 
 
 " How does your class get on at the school ?" 
 he asked, with an air of rousing himself. 
 
 " They are rebellious enough, to wear out my 
 patience, sometimes — " 
 
 " Not a very hard task," he said, with a 
 smile. 
 
 " True. I think you have given me the
 
 186 THE GABLES. 
 
 worse children in the school," she answered, 
 petulantly. 
 
 "No, on the contrary, I told the super- 
 intendent to pick out the most orderly. But 
 time and striving, will work marvels. They 
 are but children of the wilderness, remember. 
 Bessie seems to get on bravely." 
 
 " Bessie is better and wiser than I !" Isabel 
 answered in a low tone. 
 
 He did not notice the words, even if he heard 
 them. " This will be a bitter winter, I fear ; 
 heavy with misfortune, at home and abroad. 
 There is great scarcity of work already. There 
 was something else I wanted to ask you." 
 
 " Yes ?" 
 
 " Maggie's mother has heard from some 
 friend, that she could get two rooms for herself 
 and Jemmy, in her old village ; but it seems 
 the late Mr. Lechmere was a hard landlord, and 
 they were not favourites of his, so she is 
 scrupulous about going back, even if she could 
 afford the journey. Would you or my aunt, 
 speak to Mrs. Lechmere about it ? — I suppose 
 she is her son's deputy in his absence." 
 
 " I will speak about it ; I am sorry I forgot
 
 THE GABLES. 1S7 
 
 to do it before," Isabel answered, quickly, with a 
 touch of shame. 
 
 " Poor thing ! she must dread the winter 
 in that black London garret, and wretched 
 street." 
 
 " She says Jemmy will never stand the frost 
 and snow, at the crossing. The poor soul's 
 country pride and decency is sorely grieved at 
 seeing him a sweeper, which she will not be 
 brought to look on as anything save a beggar. 
 She never speaks of it without crying ; and 
 though I have given her many a scolding on the 
 sinfulness of pride, I cannot bring her to a sense 
 of her errors." 
 
 " Poor mother ! what are my fanciful woes to 
 such as these ?" Isabel thought, remorsefully. 
 
 " And ^>Iaggie ? — how does she get on ?" 
 
 " She is a very good servant — at least 
 mamma says so ; but the same strange, sullen 
 creature. She seems to have some cruel grief 
 weighing her down, some wounds which she 
 shuts up in her heart to fester there, — I wish I 
 knew her story !" 
 
 "It is a dark and a sad one, I suspect, poor 
 child ! You must not yet get disheartened that
 
 188 THE GABLES. 
 
 you do not convert her all at once. Prayer and 
 patience only, will cast out the evil spirit." 
 
 " I convert her !" said Isabel, with a bitter- 
 ness that seemed to startle him. 
 
 " It was a wrong word, certainly," he said, in 
 his quiet voice ; " I meant, help her — conversion 
 is no work of man." He rose to depart. " Good 
 night ! I have a dozen boys and girls to 
 examine for confirmation, this evening. Tell 
 my aunt, that the lecturer to-morrow is a friend 
 of her favourite, Mr. Lechmere, — she will be 
 sure to come ?" 
 
 " Yes ; — good-night-" 
 
 He shook hands with her, as affectionately as 
 he would have touched the chimney-piece, and 
 was gone. 
 
 '* And all the place was sad, and all 
 The chamber emptied of delight.*' 
 
 " He is a strange fellow ; I don't think many 
 women would like him. I wonder why — I am 
 always wondering." She checked herself sharply. 
 " I am not going to be a love-sick fool." She 
 rose up, and smoothed, and settled her dis- 
 ordered hair. She would sit still, and work or 
 read, and keep down, by a hard, strong effort.
 
 THE GABLES. 189 
 
 the passionate throbbings of her proud, sore 
 heart; stifle the ever- recurring, fruitless, miser- 
 able question, — why — why — that our restless 
 souls are ever asking of the empty air. A 
 rattle of wheels, and a knock at the door 
 scattered these brave resolutions, and presently 
 Mrs. Lechmere's tall, dark figure loomed on the 
 red firelight of the little room. 
 
 " T am going to the Milfords," she said, 
 answering Isabel's amazed looks, "and a Me- 
 d'tete with such a party is so insupportable ; 
 for in deference to my widow's cap they ask 
 nobody else — that I have come to ask you to 
 take pity on me, Miss Langton, and come too." 
 
 " Without an invitation ?" 
 
 "Oh, you will be welcome enough. Kate 
 has been bemoaning piteously her three days* 
 separation from you. You need not dress ; 
 there wiU be no one there. Go, and get ready, 
 and I will wait for you." 
 
 There was a sort of passionless command in her 
 cold, moveless manner, even on trifling occasions, 
 that it was hard to resist. So, thinking, per- 
 haps, that even Kate's prattle might help her in 
 what she was striving to do, Isabel went up-
 
 190 THE GABLES. 
 
 stairs to make some changes in her dress. 
 When she came down, Mrs. Lechmere was 
 standing at the table, looking at a daguerreotype 
 of Arthur's, which he had had taken, and 
 laughingly given to Mrs. Langton, as a reminder 
 of him when he w^as far away. Mrs. Lechmere 
 was examining it closely ; and Isabel saw by the 
 firelight that her under lip was working restlessly, 
 as if in the struggle to keep down some keen 
 emotion. But she looked up as Isabel came 
 in ; and spoke in her usual cold, careless voice. 
 
 " Is that one of Kilburn's ?" 
 
 " I believe so. Mr. Lechmere left it as a 
 legacy to mamma." 
 
 " It is a very good likeness," Mrs. Lechmere 
 said, still fingering the case absently. You never 
 could look at her without being forcibly struck 
 by the utter incongruity and unfitness of her 
 widow's weeds to her person and bearing. They 
 seemed such mockeries, that you longed to drag 
 them off, and free her from the unwelcome and 
 galling restraint 
 
 "We had better go. We shall be late," 
 she said, still playing absently with the picture. 
 Isabel had forgotten her shawl, and called to
 
 THE GABLES. 191 
 
 Maggie, who had been helping her to dress, to 
 bring it down. The girl came down with a 
 light in one hand and the shawl in the other ; 
 and as she placed it on her young mistress's 
 shoulders, her eyes and Mrs. Lechmere's met. 
 Maggie started so violently that she dropped 
 the shawl, and made Isabel ask what ailed her — 
 while a strange sound broke froni Mrs. Lech- 
 mere, something like an exclamation of rage, in- 
 stantly stifled in its birth. It was a momentary 
 flash ; the next minute she was cool and calm 
 again ; stooping to pick up Arthur's daguerreo- 
 type, which in the start she had let fall. It was 
 broken. Isabel felt Maggie's hands — busy about 
 her shoulders — tremble like leaves; and she 
 was muttering inaudibly, and half savagely, be- 
 tween her teeth. A glance at her gleaming eyes, 
 and restlessly working mouth — as though she 
 were longing to tear some one with it — w^as not 
 reassuring. 
 
 " Go down stairs, Maggie," said Isabel, 
 quickly, bewildered and frightened. The girl 
 rushed down with a rapid, passionate step, chafing 
 and muttering still, like an enraged child. She 
 darted into the kitchen, and shutting the door,
 
 192 THE GABLES. 
 
 and flinging her head on the table, to poor 
 Tabby's infinite terror, cried loudly and wrath- 
 fully. Mrs. Lechmere, taking no notice of 
 Isabel's disturbed and wondering looks, was 
 quietly expressing well-bred regret at her mis- 
 hap in breaking the daguerreotype. 
 
 " Mamma will be so sorry," Isabel could not 
 help saying, really vexed herself at the dis- 
 figuring crack right across the bright face and 
 eloquent eyes. 
 
 "It was unlucky, but I have two of him at 
 home ; not quite so good as this, perhaps" — 
 she thrust it aside as if she hated it — " I will 
 send her one to console her for this calamity. 
 We had better go." 
 
 As they drove along, Isabel still musing per- 
 petually over Maggie's strange passion, ventured 
 to ask her companion if she had ever known 
 the girl before. 
 
 " Her mother was a tenant of Mr. Lech- 
 mere's." 
 
 " Yes, for some years 1 used to know this 
 girl, and she was no favourite of mine. She 
 seemed disagreeably startled at meeting me to 
 night, aware, perhaps, that I know something of
 
 THE GABLES. 193 
 
 her history, and soraethmg she would fain keep 
 hidden from the world." 
 
 Her voice was so harsh, with so much of 
 concealed passion in it, that Isabel half shrunk 
 from her ; and she saw by the gleam of a street 
 lamp that while she spoke she was biting her 
 under-lip fiercely. A hot stream of rage, which 
 she was holding down by main force, was lighting 
 its way up into her cold, hard voice. 
 
 " You are aware she has no character what- 
 ever," she said, after a pause, in the same tone. 
 
 " Yes, the mother told me she had been un- 
 fortunate, and gone astray." 
 
 " A long way !" broke out Mrs. Lechmere, 
 as with a burst of scorn that would not be held 
 in. — Isabel was startled. How could she plead 
 the cause of the poor woman, longing for her 
 old country home, with such an arbi tress as 
 this ? But she had promised ; and it was weak 
 and cowardly, foreign to her proud, straight- 
 forward nature, to shrink. She was silent a 
 moment, thinking how to begin ; and when she 
 did, it was in a blundering fashion. 
 
 " Did you know the mother ? She is a good, 
 simple, quiet creature." 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 THE GABLES. 
 
 *' No ; I know nothing of the family," Mrs. 
 Lechmere said, sharply. " This girl's wrong- 
 doing made her stand out from her belongings, 
 ordinary bumpkins, I suppose." 
 
 Isabel told as shortly and plainly as she could, 
 feeling grateful that it was too dark to see her 
 companion's eyes, the story of the poor soul's 
 misfortunes ; touched as feelingly as she could 
 on the youngest girl's death ; on the want and 
 destitution so patiently borne ; and, lastly, on the 
 mother's anxiety to get back to her old home. 
 
 " She has heard of some place she can get, 
 and she begged us — no, she did not, it was my 
 
 cousin, the curate of St. , that wished me 
 
 to ask you about it." She felt she had never 
 explained herself so clumsily. The half con- 
 sciousness that the listener was biting her lip 
 with impatience, did not help her. 
 
 " Your cousin, the curate of St. , is very 
 
 good, Miss Langton." 
 
 " He is, I believe," Isabel said, quietly. 
 " And you would, no doubt, be glad to gratify 
 his benevolent propensities," Mrs. Lechmere 
 rejoined, with a laugh that was not pleasant. 
 
 To this impHed raillery, Isabel vouchsafed no 
 answer.
 
 THE GABLES. 195 
 
 *' The mother was a quiet, harmless creature, 
 I believe. I have no objection to her going 
 back, if Higgins can find room for her. He is 
 my — I mean Mr. Lechmere's steward ; and I 
 leave all the tenants' affairs, cottages, rents, &c., 
 in his hands. Do not bore yourself any more 
 about these people. Does your housemaid wish 
 to return with her mother ?" 
 
 " No, indeed ; she says she never wishes to 
 see the village again." 
 
 " I should imagine so," said Mrs. Lechmere, 
 drily. " Let the mother go, if she will. You 
 are too soft-hearted, I am afraid, Miss Langton ; 
 and really we seem to have talked an immense 
 time on a very uninteresting subject." 
 
 It had an interest for Isabel, of which she 
 did not dream. They were in Harley Street by 
 that time, and scarcely had the big footman ad- 
 mitted them, than Kate, brilliant in pink and 
 black velvet streamers, came flying down into 
 Isabel's arms, full of reproaches for the cruel 
 separation of three days — kissing and scolding 
 all in one breath, till her friend was fairly 
 bewildered ; and then proceeded to drag her up 
 stairs to her own private fairy bower, to read 
 
 K 2
 
 196 THE GABLES. 
 
 her the most charming, delicious letter in the 
 world from Arthur. 
 
 " Such a letter, written with the stump of a 
 pen, on a three-legged stool for a table. And 
 only fancy, he says his uniform is all in rags, 
 and that he hasn't washed his hands for a 
 week ! Isn't it dreadful !" said Kate, with a 
 despairing face. 
 
 Isabel could not help laughing. 
 
 " He must look like a crossing-sweeper. 
 Fancy ; — my dear beautiful Arthur !" and Kate 
 looked strongly inclined to cry at the dismal 
 notion. 
 
 But Isabel stoically persisted that it did not 
 matter what he looked like, provided he came 
 home safe. And so she comforted the pretty 
 little goose, more tolerant of her nonsense than 
 she had ever been before. I wonder why? 
 — and Kate, at last growing more reconciled 
 to the vision of her magnificent young war- 
 rior, in a ragged uniform, with hands and face 
 unwashed for a week, — they went down to the 
 drawing-room, in loving fashion, and there 
 Isabel was presented to a new guest, — a pale, 
 sickly-looking boy of eighteen, just returned
 
 THE GABLES. 197 
 
 from the Crimea, a great friend of Roland's, 
 wounded in the trenches ; whom Mrs. Milford 
 thought extremely interesting, because he was 
 a lord's grandson, — and whom she kept hover- 
 ing about with a suffocating tenderness all the 
 evening, like a great bird. 
 
 He had brought letters from Arthur. He 
 seemed to have one all-engrossing idea in his 
 boyish brain, and that was Arthur's perfections, 
 — Arthur, who had been so kind to him when 
 he was wounded, who had helped to carry him 
 to his own tent, and nursed him like a wo- 
 man. 
 
 Arthur was the first man in the British army 
 — in the Crimea. Lord Raglan and General 
 Canrobert were nothing to him. It brought 
 tears to Isabel's eyes to hear the boy's simple, 
 earnest gratitude. Kate could not listen to his 
 thrilling Crimean stories of daring and suffer- 
 ing ; they were too shocking, she said. So she 
 sat down to the piano and murmured over some 
 new songs. But Isabel and Roland gathered 
 round him, and Hstened breathlessly to the 
 young soldier's talk of the field of Inkerman — 
 of the Balaklava charge, when
 
 198 THE GABLES. 
 
 " Into the jaws of Death, 
 Into the mouth of Hell, 
 Rode the six hundred ;" 
 
 — of life in the trenches, and all other tales of 
 that stirring time. 
 
 Mrs. Milford averred, mopping her eyes de- 
 licately, that it was really heartbreaking, to 
 think what poor Arthur must be enduring ; and 
 that war was a most horrible, and unchristian 
 wickedness ; to which the M.P., fast asleep in 
 his easy chair, with a silk handkerchief over his 
 head, returned a corroborative snore, to the in- 
 finite amusement of Roland and his friend ; 
 while Mrs. Lechmere, imprisoned in her costly 
 mourning, as in a penal robe, lay back in her 
 chair, shading herself from the fire with a 
 handscreen, with not the faintest gleam of in- 
 terest or change of expression crossing her fair, 
 blank, haughty face. 
 
 Roland felt rather contemptuous of Kate, for 
 sitting so resolutely at the piano, and shutting 
 her ears against all talk of Arthur, and his 
 perils and glories. And he liked Isabel from 
 his honest boy's heart, for her warm interest in 
 all these exciting themes, and her military
 
 THE GABLES. 199 
 
 ardour. " She was a trump of a girl, not 
 handsome, nor pretty, but just like a queen. 
 Wish Arthur had seen her before he was 
 hooked by that goose of a girl Katie," thought 
 the young gentleman, in schoolboy fashion ; she 
 would just do for a Joan of Arc, — slender, 
 spirited, and commanding — but all womanly.*' 
 
 The boy had some of his brother's romance 
 in him ; most young and generous spirits have. 
 He would make a sketch of her, in that half- 
 martial dress of the Maid of Orleans, and send 
 it out to Arthur for his criticism. He gave her 
 a hearty squeeze of the hand at parting that 
 night, and had the boyish impertinence to 
 whisper — " Miss Langton, I wish you could 
 change places with Katie ;" for which her proud 
 laugh was rebuke enough. And he sat down to 
 make her Joan of Arc, or to sketch out his idea 
 on a half sheet of paper ; and Isabel went home 
 in a cab alone, to find her little mother waiting 
 for a minute account of the whole evening ; 
 and Maggie upstairs, brushing out Bessie's 
 curls, cold and quiet as usual, with no signs of 
 that night's strange passion upon her.
 
 iOO THE GABLES. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 " We did not fear them once— the cold, grey mornings 
 No cheerless burden on our spirits laid ; 
 The long night-watches did not bring us warnings 
 That we were tenants of a house decayed." 
 
 The Winters. — Frances Browne. 
 
 Roland walked over the next day to Coram 
 Street, with his sketch of Joan of Arc, and 
 showed it, in his boyish way, to Isabel, as her 
 likeness. 
 
 " It was rather like," she said, laughing, 
 " only too handsome ; and she could not fancy 
 herself in that Amazonian dress." 
 
 He had another errand ; he brought a note 
 from his mother to Isabel, containing a sove- 
 reign for Mrs. Brookes, to help her on her
 
 THE GABLES. 201 
 
 journey .home. Isabel felt surprised and re- 
 pentant. She had done Mrs. Lechmere wrong ; 
 she could not be such a hard, cold woman as they 
 had all thought her. Mrs. Langton, when told 
 of it, extolled her liberality, and felt very re- 
 morseful for not liking her better ; and Isabel 
 waited impatiently for the evening. When 
 Mrs. Brookes came up, with her sad, toil-worn 
 face, looking out wearily from her old black 
 bonnet, to know if there was any news — if 
 madam had spoken about her. But, to their 
 great amazement, the simple soul refused the 
 bit of gold, so scornfully flung to her by " the 
 squire's lady," w^hom she had no reason to 
 love. 
 
 Mrs. Langton coaxed and argued, but in 
 vain ; and Isabel Uked the woman better for 
 her pride. She only wanted to go home, back 
 to her native place, and work her honest, simple 
 way, in-doors or in the fields, — she cared not 
 how — and to send .Femmy to school. To take 
 her pretty, bright-faced boy from the mud and 
 mire, and wickedness of London streets, seemed 
 her chief aim and prayer ; to see him again in 
 a clean pinafore, with his books and slate over
 
 202 THE GABLES. 
 
 his shoulder, singing on his way to school — a 
 happy, apple-cheeked, country boy, as in old 
 and better times, ere her stalwart, sunburnt, 
 firm-hearted husband, and bread-winner, had 
 been laid to his long sleep, under the elms of 
 the village churchyard, where the " shadow of 
 the cross" in the tower was resting on his 
 grave. 
 
 A carrier, going down into the country, 
 offered to take her and Jemmy for a trifle. So 
 with no other aid than ten shillings, lent by 
 Mrs. Langton, and faithfully repaid by degrees 
 afterwards, and blessing them in her plain 
 fashion for the good they had done to her and 
 hers, the widow went her way — still bearing 
 in her untaught, simple soul, some words, 
 spoken by One, higher than the kings of the 
 earth, " Leave thy fatherless children, I will 
 preserve them alive, and let thy widows trust 
 in me." 
 
 But first came the parting from Maggie, and 
 that was a sore and a tempestuous one. The 
 girl clung round her mother's neck, when they 
 were left alone, stifling the prayers and sob- 
 bings, that might have melted her stubborn soul,
 
 THE GABLES. '" 203 
 
 and cried with the old passion. There was no 
 softening in it. 
 
 '* Oh, Maggie ! try not to be so hard ! Pray 
 to thy merciful Saviour, dear lass, to soften thy 
 heart, and make thee see his will, rightly !— 
 Think, Maggie, what he suffered for thee !" 
 
 The girl trembled at the awful words ; but 
 she cried passionately, still, with the same, half- 
 angry, half-remorseful \dolence of grief, " Oh, 
 mother ! thou art good — do thee pray for me, 
 and perhaps — perhaps thee'll be heard 1" 
 
 " I do, I do ! my lass, 'most every hour o' 
 the livelong day ; but thee must pray for thyself, 
 Maggie. Oh ! 1 wish thee'd come home with 
 me ; thee'd be better there, perhaps." 
 
 " In that hateful place ? — never, never, 
 never !" She poured out the words, with hot, 
 breathless rapidity. " I left my curse there — 
 rU never go there, no more, while I've limbs to 
 carry me elsewhere. 
 
 " Oh, hush, hush, Maggie ! try to do well 
 here then ; try to please thy kind mistress, who's 
 so good to thee." 
 
 " Ay, I'll try, — I like her well enow, she's 
 a good, gentle, httle body. But oh, if that
 
 204 THE GABLES. 
 
 other woman might never come here. — I met 
 her face to face the other night, and she looked 
 as if she could have spit upon me. I hate her, 
 I ,hate her !" repeating the words with hot, 
 wrathful passion. *' She wakes up all the black, 
 evil thoughts within me, — I'll never forget that 
 
 one day " 
 
 Her mother cut her short, with imploring 
 haste, hugging her in her arms, and leaving 
 kisses and salt tears on her handsome, sullen 
 cheeks. " Oh, never talk o' that time — never 
 think of it ! Pray to God Almighty it may be 
 forgiven and forgot. Oh, Maggie ! I must 
 leave thee, my poor lass ; — God keep thee, and 
 give thee grace to repent, and help thee, my 
 poor, sinful child !" 
 
 And so with this prayer on her Hps, the 
 mother went away, and the girl choked back her 
 tears — half-scornful of them — and went about 
 her work, shutting up her sore, angry heart, 
 with all its freight of wrongs and sorrows, from 
 the gracious, pitying influence ; keeping out the 
 light that might have saved her. 
 
 Isabel and Bessie missed the little sweeper for 
 a long while, missed his pretty, brown face
 
 THE GABLES. 205 
 
 greeting them with a smile as they went by, 
 and his Httle hand, outstretched^ half-shyly, for 
 the poor child had never well learnt the trick 
 of begging ; and both felt sorry that the poor 
 people they loved to help and talk about, had 
 melted away out of their httle world. And so wore 
 slowly on, that long and terrible winter of '54, 
 when darkness at home and abroad lay over the 
 land, and men's hearts grew sick, and no ray of 
 light, save that from human courage and de- 
 votedness, pierced the horizon. A long and 
 weary time in sooth ; — 
 
 *' Darkness in chieftain's hall — 
 Darkness in peasant's cot." 
 
 Rich and poor alike mourning for brave and 
 beloved lost ones ; weeping maidens and mothers, 
 crying, fatherless children ; every newspaper 
 filled with dreary hsts of killed and wounded, 
 and bitter tales of loss and disaster, and priva- 
 tion before Sebastopol ; and brave men, the 
 flower of the army of old England, dying of want, 
 cold, pestilence, miserable neglect, and mis- 
 management, and nothing gained. Only shin- 
 ing calmly amidst the darkness and the horror, 
 one face, like an angel's.
 
 206 THE GABLES. 
 
 Honour to thee, Florence Nightingale, — 
 worthily named — strong, lofty, thrice-noble 
 woman's soul ! 
 
 At home, keen frost and want, and war 
 prices ; the Thames frozen over, all work 
 stopped ; crowds of gaunt, famishing men, fill- 
 ing the street, clamouring for bread; women 
 and children perishing quietly in their naked, 
 frost- stricken alleys ; all efforts strained to the 
 utmost, inadequate to meet the terrible distress 
 — there seemed no hght nor comfort any- 
 where. 
 
 Even Arthur Lech mere's brave, hopeful 
 letters drooped in tone a little, at this mournful 
 time of suffering, death, and universal de- 
 spondency. They ceased for a little while, to 
 poor little Kate's infinite terror — she was so 
 totally childish, so utterly devoid of all strength 
 or self-reliance in her sorrow, that her very help- 
 lessness evoked pity-*-and the cause was soon 
 known. He bad been very ill, of fever and 
 ague, caught by exposure in the trenches, and 
 was sent to Malta for change of air. Roland's 
 anxiety, during this time of heavy doubt, was 
 a touching thing to see, while Kate's tearful be-
 
 THE GABLES. 207 
 
 wailings over her poor, dear, sick Arthur, with 
 nebody to nurse him, were mixed up, queerly 
 enough, with conjectures w^hether he would send 
 her any silver Maltese ornaments. It was a 
 wonderful relief to everybody, even to Isabel, 
 though she never cared to acknowledge it, when 
 letters, wiitten with an echo of the old blithe 
 strain, came to say, his youth, and good consti- 
 tution, and hopeful nature, had cured him ; that 
 he was well again, and had gone back to the 
 old, grim, camp life, — to the snow, the mud, 
 and the trenches. 
 
 The Langtons did not see much of John 
 Wilmot now, except on Sundays. He was 
 working harder than ever, this dark winter, toil- 
 ing with all the powers of heart and hand in this 
 grim atmosphere of frost, high prices, no work, 
 bitter cold, and penury. If he could have 
 dreamt, ever so faintly, how that strange, proud 
 girl, his cousin, watched him, with those deep, 
 dark, dreamy eyes of her's, what a hero of high 
 romance she made him, how she reverenced 
 him, and whispered his praises to her inmost 
 soul ! But this he never did, and perhaps it 
 was as well.
 
 208 THE GABLES. 
 
 One cold, March morning, when the snow lay 
 thick, the Langtons were startled by Roland's 
 bursting in to wish them good-bye. He and 
 his mother were going home — an announcement 
 that made Mr. Langton drop his tea-cup — they 
 were at breakfast — and Maggie, who had just 
 come in with some toast, stood still, for an in- 
 stant, and shot a glance of eager, half-wrathful 
 inquiry, from under her dark, handsome brows, 
 at the lad. He gave her a look of instinctive 
 dislike; they were old acquaintances too, it 
 seemed. 
 
 " Going home just at the beginning of the 
 season !" marvelled Uttle, simple, Mrs. Lang- 
 ton. 
 
 Roland didn't know much about it — he only 
 knew he was sorry to leave London, for the 
 country would be awfully dull just now. But 
 there had been a great deal of distress down 
 there ; and some of the tenants had been kick- 
 ing up a row, he believed — at least, so Higgins, 
 his mother's steward, said ; and as Arthur was in 
 the Crimea, she thought it best to go home for 
 a time. 
 
 They were all sorry to say good-bye to Roland,
 
 THE GABLES. 209 
 
 with his honest, sunburnt face, and school-boy 
 frankness ; but they had not much regret for 
 Mrs. Lechmere — their intercourse had not pros- 
 pered lately ; she had wearied of them, as she did 
 of every human face, and every earthly associa- 
 tion. The chafing, unquiet spirit, working and 
 rending itself, under her calm, blank exterior, 
 found no rest — saw no beauty or wisdom in 
 earth or sky. Her agent's letters had been dis- 
 agreeable lately : there had been bread-riots at 
 Thorsbury — their market town, where Arthur 
 had some property — as at most other places, this 
 sad winter, when hunger and nakedness, and the 
 wail of famishing children made men desperate — 
 the soldiers had been called out, and had been 
 forced to fire on the people. 
 
 One young man, a tenant of Arthur's, had 
 been killed, and his family were vowing ven- 
 geance ; several of the Lechmere tenants had 
 been very conspicuous in the riot. 
 
 Mr. Higgins, the agent — a man very fit for 
 his stewardship, with a voice and manner of vel- 
 vet, and a heart of steel, was quivering and 
 frightened, — hay-ricks were blazing about his 
 ears, tenants wei-e running away — the very boys
 
 aiQ THE GABLES. 
 
 were becoming ferocious, and robbed orchards, 
 and broke down fences, and stole partridges' 
 eggs, with fearless impunity. So Mr. Higgins, 
 in a somewhat uncomfortable state of mind, lest 
 some night he might chance to awake and find 
 his own roof-tree in a blaze about his ears — re- 
 spectfully insinuated, that it would be as well, 
 perhaps, if Mrs. Lechmere and Mr. Roland 
 were to come home, and divide the odium that 
 rested entirely on his own devoted shoulders. 
 
 Another reason she had for leaving London 
 was, that a short time before, she had accidently 
 met some of her husband's relations. There 
 had been some quarrel between him and them, 
 during the last years of his life ; but the shadow 
 of the grave had swept that away, and they were 
 wiUing to heal the breach of past years, and to 
 be friendly with his widow. They were good, 
 simple, kindly people, and tried honestly to 
 hold out the hand of fellowship to that strange, 
 freezing woman; but she shook them oflf re- 
 solutely, and would have none of their advances. 
 Anything or any one connected with the dead 
 man, who had heaped so many wrongs upon her 
 head, she shrank from, almost with loathing.
 
 THE GABLES. 2 1 1 
 
 She would fain have buried fathoms deep all 
 associations and memories of her married life — 
 have trodden them down, like ugly ghosts of a 
 fevered dream, — and shut the doors of her hus- 
 band's grave upon them, that they might never 
 rise up and vex her more. 
 
 And thus she went home, and as her carriage 
 rolled through the old sculptured stone gates, 
 half-a-dozen urchins, who had been birds'-nest- 
 ing in the Lechmere woods, and breaking down 
 the Lechmere fences, caught a glimpse of her 
 cold face, and raising a war-cry of defiance, tore 
 home to tell the news that Madam had come 
 back. 
 
 " If it had but been the young Master," was 
 the universal comment, spoken with a half-de- 
 spairing scowl. 
 
 The old haunted house was a less pleasant 
 abode now than ever. Even frank, cheer}^- 
 hearted Roland came in for a share of the 
 general disfavour, and met w^ith none but sullen 
 faces ; and but few hat-touchings, as he strode 
 up the village street, with his gun on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 One day, as Mrs. Lechmere's pony-carriage
 
 212 THE GABLES. 
 
 rolled by, a withered, half-crazy old woman, 
 mother of the young man shot in the riot at 
 Thorsbury, who was warming her old bones at 
 her gate, in the feeble gleam of March sun- 
 shine, raised her cracked voice, and clenching 
 her trembling fist, poured out a torrent of shrill 
 wrath, on the cold-faced, handsome lady, leaning 
 back like an empress in her silks and furs. The 
 poor, old, desolate soul, somehow connected her 
 with her son's death ; and she shrieked out her 
 impotent woman's rage, with some crazy fancy 
 of stinging and humbling the proud, relentless 
 woman, that had no pity for her boy. 
 
 They had all some dim, confused notion — 
 these poor people — ignorant, toil-hardened sons 
 of labour, that their young landlord, gone out to 
 the wars, in that far-away, unknown land, was 
 lost to them for ever, and that his step-mother, 
 and her son — though of old they had loved the 
 bright, merry-hearted lad, for his own sake — 
 were unworthy interlopers in the old house, 
 w^here they had no right, usurpers of a pow^r to 
 which they could lay no just claim; and the 
 poor, howsoever ignorant they may be, have 
 always a stubborn idea of justice.
 
 THE GABLES. 213 
 
 They utterly refused to accept Mrs. Lechmere 
 as her son's deputy. 
 
 " Who sent the young squire to the wars, in 
 hopes he might get killed — which Lord forbid — 
 and her son get th' estate V screamed the crazy 
 mother, after Mrs. Lech mere's vanishing carriage, 
 and the loungers about the village street, the 
 neighbours brought to their doors by the dis- 
 turbance, laughed half-applaudingly at the poor 
 demented old creature's insolence. Mrs. Lech- 
 mere heard the laugh, and drove home, inwardly 
 raging. 
 
 There were several notices to quit served that 
 week. They were poor, ignorant souls, with 
 nothing to hft them above the mean round of 
 their daily drudgery, with no one to teach them 
 the dignity of life and labour. The curate, a 
 good, simple, easy man, with a wife and seven 
 children to keep on a hundred a year, did his 
 duty faithfully as far as he could, laboured 
 among his turbulent flock as well as his 
 strength and energies would sufl'er him, but that 
 was not much ; they had no one to teach them 
 the great truth — " Lahorare est orare'' 
 
 And so they cried out, in their blindness, and
 
 •214 THE GABLES. 
 
 found no answer — on earth, — while some of 
 them were dull and stolid as the clods they 
 ploughed amongst ; others, as is sometimes the 
 case near large towns, grew restless and dis- 
 contented, and weary of the cart- tail; and some 
 found out that there was a world beyond. 
 
 The recruiting-sergeant, this dismal winter, 
 had carried off a fair proportion of raw lads — 
 their simple brains fired with some dim vision 
 of glory, and a red coat — to die in the trenches 
 before Sebastopol. 
 
 But Spring came at last, and h(r golden 
 smile pierced the black horizon, and thawed the 
 frozen earth ; and Hope — she is never dead, 
 praised be Heaven ! though she sleeps sorne- 
 times — rose up from her long torpor, on the 
 wings of a new summer, and men breathed 
 once more, — laid the dead to rest, and lifted 
 their heads to greet the coming morning ; and 
 Mr. Higgins, feeling that work was now to be 
 had, and that provisions were growing cheaper, 
 drew a long sigh of relief, and hoped he might 
 now begin to sleep quietly in his bed, and walk 
 out without the pleasing anticipation of being 
 shot from behind a hedge.
 
 THE GABLES. 215 
 
 Meantime, Isabel, in the quiet house in 
 Coram Street, was striving to learn wisdom 
 from that stern teacher, Experience — trying to 
 tame down her restlessness, " to labour and to 
 wait" — hardest of all human efforts. She had 
 seen so much real and startling misery this 
 winter, that she had grown ashamed of her 
 fancied sorrows. 
 
 " What ails me ? I have no pain nor illness, 
 no outward trouble. Why is there no beauty 
 in the sunlight ; no wisdom in the world, for 
 me ? Why does the wind, that used to lift my 
 spirit on its wings, sound like a dirge ? Why 
 cannot I sleep at night ? Why do painful and 
 distressing dreams break my rest, when I do ? 
 This must be a diseased mind, — a poor, weak, 
 contemptible thing." And so, passionately and 
 hotly, she wrestled with herself, — not dreaming, 
 poor child — for child she was in wisdom and 
 experience — that hers was the sickness of the 
 soul which only the great Physician can heal. 
 She had not learnt yet to own and feel the truth 
 of those words, on which her eyes fell listlessly 
 one evening, in the Christian year, vvhich John 
 had given to Bessie on some past birthday.
 
 216 THE GABLES. 
 
 " These momenta of wild wrath are thine ; 
 
 Thine, too, the drearier hour. 
 When o'er the horizon's silent line 
 
 Fond, hopeless fancies cower ; 
 And on the traveller's listless way 
 Rises and sets th' unchanging day, 
 No cloud in heaven to slake its ray, 
 
 On earth no sheltering bower." 
 
 That was her case ; but as yet she had not 
 found balm in Gilead. She was to need it yet 
 more, for a sharper and an undreamt-of trial was 
 at hand. That very evening, as she sat think- 
 ing over those words in the grey twilight, a 
 hasty step on the stairs aroused her, and her 
 father came in with a pale, frightened face. 
 
 " Papa, what is it ?" she cried out, with a 
 sharp, sudden terror. 
 
 " Where is your mother ?" said Mr. Langton, 
 hurriedly. 
 
 " Up-stairs ; I'll call her. Won't you tell 
 me?" 
 
 She pressed her hands tight together, and 
 looked imploringly at him. 
 
 " My child, 1 don't want to frighten you, but 
 — but I am afraid poor John is dangerously ill. 
 He has not been here lately, you know ; and I
 
 THE GABLES. 21 7 
 
 called at his lodgings to-night on my way back 
 from the editor's office, and found him — " 
 
 She stayed to hear no more. She flew up- 
 stairs to her mother's room, and panted out the 
 news to that poor, little bewildered woman ; 
 then she ran to her own, and locking the door, 
 sunk down on the bed, and trembling awftilly, 
 wondered what was coming next upon her. 
 Death, the grave, separation for evermore, fruit- 
 less, hopeless cryings, were the phantoms that 
 swam before her dim and throbbing brain. In 
 her speechless distress, she had not seen that 
 Bessie was binishing her curls at the glass, till 
 the child, terrified at her white face, ran to her, 
 and clasped her arms round her neck, with a 
 cry of " Oh, what is it ? what is it ?" 
 
 " Nothing — at least, John is very ill," Isabel 
 said, hoarsely. 
 
 Bessie looked almost relieved — not unnatu- 
 rally. 
 
 " Dear ! I thought it was papa or mamma — 
 I didn't know what it was by your face," said 
 she. 
 
 Isabel thrust her away, half- distractedly, and, 
 sinking down on the bed, lay motionless and 
 
 VOL.1. L
 
 218 THE GABLES. 
 
 drooping, her mind groping its way through a 
 labyrinth of darkness. Bessie spoke to her two 
 or three times ; but meeting with no answer 
 from the prostrate figure, grew frightened, and 
 went down-stairs to get sympathy from her 
 "mother; but Mrs. Langton had put on her 
 bonnet, and hurried off to Compton Street, — her 
 warm heart full of motherly pity and sorrow 
 for the luckless lad lying helpless in Mrs. Maggs' 
 tender hands. 
 
 So Bessie sat down alone in the dim twi- 
 light, and thought about Isabel and her myste- 
 lious ways, and poor long John dying, till she 
 grew frightened, and ran down stairs to Tabby 
 for company. Isabel lay still for awhile, and 
 then rose up, and walked restlessly about ; but 
 the cloud that had come over her was thick, and 
 black, and stifling, and held her in grim thral- 
 dom — no light came through it. 
 
 " My soul from out that shadow that lies floating on 
 the floor 
 Shall be lifted nevermore !" 
 
 It seemed as if a heavy mist rested on her, 
 benumbing every sense, except that of one in-
 
 THE GABLES. 219 
 
 
 
 tolerable, throbbing pain, one restless craving 
 to know the worst. 
 
 Mrs. Langton spent the night at her ne- 
 phew's lodgings. She routed Mrs. Maggs, 
 brooding like a hideous griffin over the luck- 
 less invalid, forthwith — the little wonnan 
 had a brave spirit when need was — and took 
 triumphant possession of the sufferer, to the 
 poor fellow's infinite gratitude. He had caught 
 a fever in some of those dark places of the 
 London wilderness where lay his daily work, and 
 for two or three weeks lay in heavy danger, 
 trembling at the very doors of death, till after a 
 sore struggle, youth and a good constitution 
 won the mastery ; and he slowly veered round 
 to the green shores of X\^q once more. Little 
 Mrs. Langton had nursed him with motherly 
 tenderness and care all through that dark and 
 perilous time, and the sufferer woke from his 
 trance with the dim perception growing stronger 
 as Hfe came slowly back to him, that, humanly 
 speaking, he owed his life to that little, gentle, 
 fair-haired woman. The fever was not of an 
 infectious kind ; and as soon as he could be 
 moved without danger, Mrs. Langton, in the 
 
 L 2
 
 220 THE GABLES. 
 
 warmth of her heart, carried him off from Mrs. 
 Magg's dominions, and installed him in the best 
 bed -room in Coram Street. He would be quieter 
 and more comfortable there, poor fellow ! said 
 she. Good, little, tender soul, scarcely could 
 she have been more unwise ! In the hurry and 
 distraction of nursing a dangerously sick man, 
 she had no time to read what she might have 
 read in her clever darling's pale, sunken cheek, 
 and deep, anxious, half-beseeching eyes. Ten- 
 derly as they loved each other, there was little 
 or no sympathy between the young, restless 
 dreamer, and her good, simple, gentle mother. 
 It would have been better for the girl if there 
 had been, if she could have laid her haughty 
 head on the loving breast, and poured out her 
 woe there ; if the shame of her own weakness, 
 and the exquisite dread of being pitied, that 
 stung her proud nature like a barbed arrow, had 
 not made her shut up her sore heart in silence, 
 and let the wound ache and bleed as it would, 
 unseen and unknown. The mother marked the 
 pale, weary young face, and fretted and marvelled 
 at it. What ailed her darling ? She must b( 
 ill ; she wanted medicine or change of air.
 
 THE GABLES. 221 
 
 Mrs. Whittlemore was going to the sea-side at 
 the end of the season, she would ask her to take 
 Isabel with her. And Isabel scouted the notion 
 contemptuously. She wanted no change ; and 
 going to the sea-side with aunt Frederica would 
 be a remedy w^orse than the disease. 
 
 " And what is the disease, Coralie ?" said her 
 father, looking up suddenly from his books and 
 his dreams. 
 
 " Ah, is she not looking ill, Fred, dear ?*' 
 questioned the mother, anxiously. 
 
 Isabel hoped her father would sink into dream- 
 land, and the question be forgotten; but his 
 blue eyes, with a shadow of the mother's anxiety 
 in them, were resting inquiringly on her pale 
 face ; so she coloured violently, and said — 
 
 " Nothing, papa, thank you. I am not ill." 
 And she tried a faint laugh. 
 
 " That laugh did not sound true ; it was a 
 false, deceitful laugh, child. A ver}' little — a 
 very, very little — would make a fount of tears 
 bubble up in its place," said her father, looking 
 intently at her. 
 
 She had coloured red before, but now she 
 grew white as a ghost in the warm evening light 
 that filled the little room.
 
 222 THE GABLES. 
 
 " Come to me, maiden fair, I want to read 
 that pale face of thine ; there are strange his- 
 tories written there." 
 
 She went to him half unwillingly, leant over 
 his arm-chair, and bowed her proud head, with 
 its drooping folds of black hair, on his shoulder. 
 He repeated half to himself these lines of Be- 
 ranger's, which mean so much more than they 
 express — 
 
 *' QuM va lentement, le navire 
 A qui j'ai confid mon sort, 
 Au rivage on mon coeur aspire 
 Qa'il est lent k trouver un port !" 
 
 " Eh, ma brunette ? Is it a rough, tempestuous 
 sea, in which thou hast set afloat that tiny bark 
 of thine, freighted with its precious cargo ? Are 
 there rocks and shoals ahead ?" 
 
 Hardly conscious of answering, she sighed, 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Are not some of thine own creating, daugh- 
 ter of mine ? Why do you look so pale and 
 dreary, child, and frighten your mother ? What 
 ails thee ? — fancy-sick ?" 
 
 " Nothing, indeed, papa."
 
 THE GABLES. 223 
 
 " Nothing ? the old, old story ! You are like 
 Tennyson's * Mariana in the South.' 
 
 * And ' Ave Mary,* made she moan — 
 * Madonna, sad is night and morn/ 
 And oh, she said, to be alone, 
 
 To live forgotten and die forlorn !' 
 
 You are thinking those words all day, though 
 you do not say them. I have a fanciful ordeal 
 for you, Senora — keep still." 
 
 He laid his hand half-jestingly, half- tenderly 
 on her heart, as she leant still on his shoulder. 
 " Why does it beat so fast — this little, restless, 
 unquiet thing ? Now look me in the face. Are 
 you anxious about your cousin ?" 
 
 The experiment was so sudden a one, tliat it 
 acted like magic. The little beating heart gave 
 one quick, restless throb under the father's 
 hand, the pale cheek flamed with girlish shame. 
 His doubts were solved, the riddle read. 
 
 " Unfair !" was the cr}^ that broke almost un- 
 consciously from her, with an indignant heat, as 
 she started from her bending posture, with a 
 flash of her dark eyes. 
 
 " Unfair ? that I should try to read the mys-
 
 224 THE GABLES. 
 
 tery that I and your mother have been grieving 
 over so long, my child ?" said her father, in his 
 sweet voice of mild rebuke. " You cannot know 
 what you are saying." 
 
 It was true, she did not. Her young, untamed, 
 undisciplined heart rebelled against the voice of 
 gentle kindness : it was full of shame, and keen, 
 indignant pain. She shrank aw'ay from the 
 little tender, compassionate mother, coming lov- 
 ingly, and yet half timidly, towards her, and 
 walked out of the room, and upstairs, with her 
 proud, unfaltering step, that trod down pity with 
 disdain. 
 
 " Elizabeth," said Mr. Langton, leaning back 
 in his chair, and fixing his eyes, full of a dreamy 
 distress, upon his wife's, " the child is in love 
 with her cousin !" 
 
 " In love with John ?'' reiterated Elizabeth, in 
 sore perplexity and vexation. " Ah ! do say you 
 are joking, Fred, darling ! In love with John ! 
 Merciful goodness !" — and the poor little woman 
 fairly cried.
 
 THE GABLES. 225 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " Learn how sublime a thing it is, 
 To suffer and be strong." 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 John Wilmot's convalescence was a slow and 
 doubtful one ; for fever is a strong demon, and 
 does not easily loose his captives ; and his hot, 
 spirit-crushing gripe had left the tall, strong 
 young man, of six feet high, weak and helpless 
 as an infant, with scarcely strength to lift his 
 head from the sofa, where he was likely to be 
 still a prisoner for weeks. 
 
 Perhaps in those hours of prostration of body 
 and spirit, he had learnt the hard lesson so 
 wounding to human pride, but which we must 
 all learn at some time of our mortal journey, — 
 
 l3
 
 226 THE GABLES. 
 
 our own utter weakness, — our total dependence 
 upon God and each other. He, and men like 
 him, whose whole life has been spent in bearing 
 other men's burdens — in supporting and teaching 
 the weak, fallen, and ignorant, — are even slower, 
 naturally, to learn this lesson, than are the rest 
 of humanity. 
 
 On this bright summer evening he was lying 
 on the sofa, in the room given up to him by his 
 careful little aunt, watching, with the dream.y 
 languor natural to his weak condition, the golden 
 sunset quivering on the wall, listening to the 
 softened hum of the great city, floating, like a 
 murmur of companionship, through the half- 
 open window, more than to Bessie's clear, childish 
 voice, as she read aloud to him. For Bessie, in 
 the warmth of her innocent heart, had forgotten 
 long John's odd ways, and the quiet feud be- 
 tween them, and only saw a thin, paUid, sick 
 man, in need of help and tending. 
 
 " I am sure you are tired of reading, Bessie,'' 
 said he, languidly. He had not heard much of 
 the last page ; he had been thinking of the poor 
 folks that wanted him, — of the untended dying 
 beds ; the uncomforted widows and orphans ;
 
 THE GABLES. 227 
 
 and he sighed, and thought he had no business 
 to be ill. 
 
 " I am not tired of reading, but perhaps you 
 are of listening," said Bessie, compassionately, as 
 the sigh met her ear. " Do you want anything, 
 John?" 
 
 *' Nothing at all, except to get well," he an- 
 swered, with a sickly smile. 
 
 " And so you are, as fast as you can," said 
 the little maiden, consolingly, as she laid her 
 plump, rosy hand on his thin one, and patted it. 
 
 " You are a good Httle girl, Bessie ; I never 
 thought so before. Thank you for reading to 
 me. Did I ever kiss you ?'* he said, in all 
 seriousness, after a pause of consideration. 
 
 " I don't know, Pm sure," returned Bessie, 
 reddening violently, but laughing, too, with all 
 her heart, at his odd ways : " Good gracious ! 
 how funny you are !" 
 
 " Funny ! why ?" said John, rather discon- 
 certed ; *' I don't mean to be funny. I only 
 asked a plain question, whether I ever did kiss 
 you or not ?" 
 
 " I really can't remember, — I don't know that 
 you ever did," said Bess, laughing and colouring
 
 228 THE GABLES. 
 
 still more. " Why should you ? — you are such 
 a queer fellow '/' 
 
 " You won't mind if I do now, then V" He 
 drew her closer to him, and kissed her in bro- 
 therly fashion. " Thank you, little woman, for 
 your kindness. You are not vain, are you, 
 Bessie?" continued he, still holding her by the 
 dress, with some dim idea that he ought to try 
 and impress on her the vanity of beauty. 
 
 " No — I hope not 1'' said Bessie, flushing 
 hotter than ever, under her brown tresses : " I 
 don't think I am — You are so queer, John !" 
 
 " What did I write on the leaf in the Bible 
 I gave you on your last birth-day ?" 
 
 " I know," said Bessie, quickly ; — " ' Favour 
 is deceitful, and beauty is vain ; but a woman 
 that feareth the Lord she shall be praised.' " 
 
 " Aye ; so keep these words in mind, little 
 woman, and — I am not up to preaching to you 
 now," he broke off, with a sigh. 
 
 " And indeed I am not vain, John ; I don't 
 care a bit what I look like, and I don't want to 
 be beautiful ! It is Isabel who is always wishing 
 that !" 
 
 *' Is she ?" said John, somewhat startled ;
 
 THE GABLES. 229 
 
 " why, I wonder ?" and he pondered the marvel 
 for a moment, and ended by thinking his eldest 
 cousin rather more idle and foohsh than he had 
 before imagined her. In the blindness of his 
 good, honest, unruffled nature, he judged her 
 severely ; and, as if in answer to his thought, 
 came her quiet, proud step without, passing to 
 her room, with a drooping slowness not belonging 
 to her years. 
 
 " That is Isabel ; I know her step so well !" 
 Bessie exclaimed. She ran to the door and 
 opened it, laughing in her childish fashion — 
 
 "Ah, I knew it was you, Queen Corahe !" 
 
 *' Ask her to come in and see me,*' John 
 said, as a matter of course. 
 
 Bessie had to repeat the request twice, before 
 her sister seemed to understand it. She wanted 
 to go to her own room, to think in silence and 
 darkness — to reason with, and quiet that sick, 
 miserable, wrathful throbbing of the spirit with- 
 in, — to set herself free, if she might, by a despe- 
 rate struggle, from this sore and oppressive 
 captivity, weighing down and fettering every 
 power of her being. 
 
 This was not the w^ay ; but she could not
 
 230 THE GABLES. 
 
 refuse to come in, and so she went noiselessly 
 up to the sofa, and gave its occupant her little 
 cold, trembling hand — 
 
 " Are you better to-night, John ?" 
 
 *' Yes, thank you. I have turned the corner 
 now, and am coming round again. How cold 
 your hand is I Is anything the matter ?" 
 
 *' Nothing. I think you look better to night," 
 she said, vaguely, scarcely knowing what the 
 words were she uttered. 
 
 " I have had nursing enough to set me up, 
 have I not? I have given you all no end of 
 trouble." He still held her hand, perhaps half 
 unconsciously, for he was weak and low in 
 spirits, and her tremulous touch seemed com- 
 forting. She made a feeble effort to draw it 
 away. 
 
 " Don't go away. Sit down and talk to me," 
 he said, half entreatingly. 
 
 She sat down in Bessie's vacant low chair ; 
 but to speak quietly and cheeringly, as one 
 should speak to an invalid, with that sore, tu- 
 multuous throbbing in her heart and brain, was 
 beyond human strength. She sat silent, striving 
 hard to talk to him, but finding no words, no
 
 THE GABLES. 231 
 
 thoughts, to bring forth. Bessie had tripped 
 down stairs, not sorry for a holiday ; 'and Isabel 
 felt, with a strange pang of misery, that she and 
 John were alone. 
 
 " You are ver)- silent," said he, after a long, 
 oppressive pause. " Have you no romantic 
 fancies to cheer me with ? I would listen gladly 
 to-night." 
 
 " Your appeal to be amused was quite suf- 
 ficient to drive away all my ideas. I have an 
 unromantic headache this evening ; and feel 
 dull and dreary." This was true ; for her head 
 ached fiercely. 
 
 " I am sorry for that. Never mind me, if it 
 worries you to stay here." 
 
 " Besides, I have no news ; and — and I can 
 tell you nothing that you wiU care to hear." 
 
 "Why, Isabel?" 
 
 He spoke half reproachfully, as though 
 thinking her unkind. 
 
 " We never think alike," she said vaguely. 
 
 " That doesn't prevent amicable talk, does it ?" 
 John answered, with an attempt at a laugh. 
 " Besides, I am too weak to be obstinate to 
 night''
 
 232 THE GABLES. 
 
 He looked at her with his honest, blue eyes ; 
 and, strange as she always was to him, perhaps 
 he read something more than usually startling 
 in the pale, changed, averted face. 
 
 "Come, Coralie," he said, taking her hand 
 again, half awkwardly, as though fearful lest 
 she might misinterpret so unusually affectionate 
 a movement, " what is it ? Make me your 
 father confessor," 
 
 " Do I wear my secret in my forehead, that 
 all the world may read it ?" she wondered bitterly 
 to herself. 
 
 " I have no confession to make. You had 
 better not talk too much, John." 
 
 " That is a polite hint to hold my tongue ! 
 But there is a hidden romance — enough to fill 
 three volumes — in your face to night, if I 
 could but read it ! 1 hope you are not in love, 
 Isabel ?" 
 
 A few tender words would have called forth 
 a passionate burst of tears ; but this unseemly, 
 almost revolting jest, as it seemed to her, though 
 uttered in all innocence, choked them back con- 
 temptuously ; and stung her to the quick. 
 
 " Good-niffht. You are facetious this even- 
 
 o
 
 THE GABLES. 233 
 
 ing," she said, rising, all her native haughtiness 
 in her cold voice. 
 
 "Impossible! You are not offended? I 
 spoke in the purest jest, as you well know. 
 Why are you so angry ?" John said, in amaze. 
 
 "Not the least — but I hear mamma coming 
 up stairs. So you will not want me. Good- 
 night." 
 
 She did not shake hands with him again, 
 but, feeling as though she could not bear much 
 more then, went out of the room to her own, 
 and John thought about her for a few seconds 
 in his usual puzzled fashion ; and ended by 
 concluding that his cousin, Isabel Langton, was 
 half mad, poor girl ! 
 
 Perhaps we are all mad, more or less, at 
 some time of our lives. Who knows not mo- 
 ments when all the harmony of existence, all 
 the fairest of earth's music, sounds 
 
 *' Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh ?" 
 
 So it seemed now to the untaught girl, sit- 
 ting on her bed alone, watching the twilight 
 falling over the great city, and the stars coming
 
 234 THE GABLES. 
 
 out in the deep blue liquid depths above. Her 
 burden seemed sorer now than ever — she winced 
 and smarted under it. To have her oppressive 
 secret, which she had deemed so safely shut up 
 from human eyes — which she had clasped and 
 held so tightly, though it had blighted her 
 young life, and was slowly consuming her, as 
 the flame wears out the lamp — to have it 
 guessed and laid bare, though only to the gentle 
 eyes of that tender father and mother, was a 
 hard misery — a galling sore to her proud spirit. 
 Once as she sat, cold in the August twilight, 
 mellowed by the rising glory of the harvest 
 moon, unseen yet behind the forest of roof and 
 chimney, a little gentle tap came at the locked 
 door. She knew who it was, before she asked. 
 
 " Won't you let me in, my darling ?" faltered 
 little Mrs. Langton. 
 
 "Not now, mamma, not now," faltered the 
 girl, imploringly ; and the mother's step went 
 slowly and sorrowfully away. 
 
 " What a wretch I am !" was the remorseful 
 thought that followed. "Why, why, cannot I 
 learn that gentle wisdom, that quiet faith ?" 
 
 The moon rose higher, the sky seemed to
 
 THE GABLES. 235 
 
 melt and brighten with the glory ; till it fell, a 
 track of magic gold, across the dull, dark house- 
 tops. So falls a more glorious light, if we will 
 but open our eyes and see, across our dim and 
 dreary road. Woe to us if we cannot acknow- 
 ledge — 
 
 " That He, by whom our bright hours shone. 
 Our darkness best may rule." 
 
 She watched it, with hushed breath, thinking 
 how beautiful and tender it was, emblem of a 
 holier and a higher glory, till tears sprang out 
 to soften her hot eyelids and her wilful heart. 
 She rose up. She thought she would go down 
 stairs, and see if she were wanted ; try to do 
 away with the impression of this evening's folly, 
 if she might, when a sharp slamming of the 
 door next to her room — a dull sound, as though 
 some one had thrown themselves on the floor, 
 and then a quick, tumultuous sobbing, made 
 her heart and her feet alike stand still. Mag- 
 gie had slept in that little room next to hers, 
 since Mr. Wilmot's illness, in order to be within 
 easy reach, were she wanted in the night. 
 Selfishness was not one of Isabel's many errors
 
 236 THE GABLES. 
 
 — that sound of real, tangible agony banished 
 all shadowy phantoms. She went to the door, 
 knocked, and getting no answer — for the wild 
 weeper within did not even hear the sound — 
 opened the door. Maggie started up, crying 
 out almost fiercely — 
 
 " Who's there ? Go away, go away !" 
 
 She was sitting on the floor, the moonlight 
 streaming on her unheeded, making her almost 
 ghastly, her cap fallen off, and her black hair 
 tumbling loose about her neck, bowing her head 
 on her knees, weeping, wringing her hands in 
 an agony of desperate sorrow. Such an image 
 of ruin and wretchedness was the crouching 
 figure, that Isabel looked at her in affright. 
 
 "Don't look at me — don't stay here! Go 
 away, please, go away, for mercy's sake !" 
 
 She sobbed hoarsely, rocking herself to and 
 fro, hiding her eyes from the moonlight. 
 
 " Maggie, Maggie, poor girl ! what is the 
 matter ? Tell me this instant ! I am frightened 
 to see you so !" 
 
 At another time, the natural tone of com- 
 mand in her voice would have drawn an answer 
 from the prostrate figure, but now the power of
 
 THE GABLES. 237 
 
 collected speech seemed to have deserted her as 
 she rocked to and fro with great heaving, wrath- 
 ful sobs terrible to hear. 
 
 " Maggie, speak this instant ! Have you had 
 bad news from home ? Is your mother ill, or 
 Jemmy ?" 
 
 She saw now that she held a letter tight 
 clenched in her fingers. The tumult that shook 
 the girl's body and soul seemed strangely com- 
 pounded half of grief and half of passion ; she 
 choked back her great sobs by a powerful effort 
 after a while, and gasped out — 
 
 " Mother's well, and Jemmy's well ; there's 
 nought ails them at home. But I have had bad 
 news for all that — news that's enough to kill 
 me!" 
 
 She broke out passionately, kissing the letter 
 she held tightly with the same strange mixture 
 of grief and wrath. It was an old letter, worn and 
 thumbed, written in a stiff, labourer's scrawl; 
 Isabel could see that in the bright moon- 
 light. 
 
 *' Tell me what it is," she said, soothingly ; 
 " perhaps I could help you ; at all events, you 
 would feel easier if you were to tell me."
 
 238 THE GABLES. 
 
 " Perhaps I would ; but no, nothing would 
 make me feel easier on this side o' the grave ! 
 Somebody's dead," — her hoarse, tearful voice 
 broke down again. 
 
 " Somebody you knew and were fond of?'* 
 
 " Aye, somebody I knew, and somebody who 
 knew me, and were fond o' me in days long ago, 
 afore — afore." 
 
 She bent her black locks again on her knees, 
 and let the gesture finish the sentence. Days 
 long ago, Maggie, days never to come back, — 
 bitter, bitter to think of now ! 
 
 " Poor child !" Isabella said, compassionately, 
 with a new interest in the poor, lost, drooping 
 thing, " teH me who it is." 
 
 " Thee w^ouldn't know if I told thee. — James 
 Sharpe his name were. It was my sin first 
 sent him wrong, God forgive me ! He were a 
 fine lad then ; but oh, woe's me !" She wrung 
 her hands with an agony that shook her frame 
 like a leaf in the wind. '* They needn't have 
 shot him like a dog !" 
 
 " Shot him !" exclaimed Isabel, in horror. 
 " Was he murdered ?" 
 
 *' Thee wouldn't call it murdered, but 'tis all
 
 THE GABLES. 239 
 
 as one. There were a fight — a riot 'tis called — 
 down at Thorsbury — that's our town — back 
 here in the winter." 
 
 She tossed her black hair back from her hot 
 cheeks, and spoke in a low, thick voice, plucking 
 at her dress in the restlessness of her anguish, 
 as if she would have torn it to atoms. 
 
 '* There was neither bread nor work ; and 
 hunger made men crazy when they saw their 
 children crying for food, and had nought to gie 
 them. Well, there were a riot, and they broke 
 open the bread shops, and ill-used the bakers, 
 and Jem, Lord help him, were one o' th' fore- 
 most among 'em. Young Squire Lechmere — 
 the captain, the folks down there calls him — 
 has a lot o' property in the town. He's a better 
 man than his father, they say, but he comes o' 
 that black breed." Her mouth worked passion- 
 ately, and her teeth chattered " They were all 
 mad svi' misery ; and as th' police couldn't 
 manage 'em, the soldiers w^as called out ; and — 
 and — " her voice trembled pitiably as she drew 
 near the climax — " the lads flung stones, and 
 the soldiers was told to fire on 'em, and — and 
 poor Jem — "
 
 240 THE GABLES. 
 
 " Yes, I see," said Isabel, trying to soothe the 
 unhappy girl, " don't say any more." 
 
 " Oh, 'twas a woful end for a young lad ; and 
 'twas I drove him to it, sinful wretch !" 
 
 She cried wildly, burying her head in her dress, 
 in her passion of grief and remorse. 
 
 " Hush, hush, poor Maggie!" Isabel entreated, 
 laying her slender hand on the crouching 
 shoulder, and trying to comfort her. " Pray to 
 God to forgive you — don't think such dreadful 
 things." 
 
 '' How can I comfort this poor creature ?" she 
 thought, despondently. 
 
 Perhaps the womanly pity in her dark eyes, 
 made Maggie feel more bitterly the great gulf 
 between them. 
 
 " Don't touch me — I'm not fit," she said, 
 shrinking from Isabel's hand, with a kind of 
 shamefaced sullenness, and yet w^ith a touch of 
 gratitude. 
 
 " Yes you are. Was it only to-night you 
 heard this news, poor thing ?" 
 
 *' Aye ! It happened back in the winter, but 
 my mother kept it from me ; — only to-night, a
 
 THE GABLES. 241 
 
 girl called to see me — who had come from those 
 parts — she told me." 
 
 She rose up from the floor, thrust the letter 
 into the bosom of her dress, muttering that it 
 was one Jem had written her, long ago ; and 
 then, still shivering with the violence of her past 
 emotion, gathered up her disordered hair, and 
 smoothed it before the little glass on the w^all. 
 
 " I've done now%" she said, in a low, husky 
 tone. " I've had my moan out over him, and 
 now — " her voice dropped lower still, — " I'll 
 think of vengeance !" 
 
 " Hush, hush 1" Isabel exclaimed, frightened 
 at the words, and the whisper that spoke them. 
 
 Here came a cry for Maggie, from below in 
 Bessie's voice. — Mr. Wilmot wanted his cho- 
 colate. 
 
 " I w^ill go and tell Tabby to get it," Isabel 
 said, in her womanly compassion ; " you ought 
 not to be worried with work to-night — poor 
 thing!'' 
 
 ** No — I'll go. You're very good, Miss" — it 
 was the first grateful word she had spoken — 
 " but work's best for me, — it drives off thinking. 
 I shan't cry no more — it's all over now\" 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 THE GABLES. 
 
 She still spoke in short, abrupt sentences, as 
 though fearful to trust herself with too many 
 words. She had smoothed her ruffled garments 
 and hair, dried her smarting eyes for the last 
 time, and went out, her bosom still heaving, and 
 her lips trembling, but otherwise calm. 
 
 Isabel went slowly back to her own room, — 
 not downstairs, as she had before meant, — 
 agitated by the stormy scene just passed through, 
 pitying the unfortunate, lost girl, from the 
 depths of her woman's soul ; and yet half-fear- 
 ing her. Thinking too, that between Maggie's 
 wild, restless, untamed nature, and her own, 
 there was an awful likeness — that it was that 
 unquiet heart, ever striving and chafing, and 
 never knowing peace, that had led her first astray 
 from the straight and narrow path, into that 
 broad, green road, trodden so easily and lightly 
 — how strange and sorrowful to think that ! — by 
 such thousands of dreaming feet. 
 
 It w^as a startling and a humbling thought — 
 one to w^eep and pray over till the moon sunk, 
 and the summer dawn broke in grey and gold, 
 over Maggi', sighing and muttering, in her 
 broken feverish sleep ; and over hundreds like her.
 
 THE GABLES. 243 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " O, somewhere, weak, unconscious dove, 
 Thou sittest ranging golden hair, 
 And glad to find thyself so fair, 
 Poor child, that waitest for thy love !" 
 
 Ix Memoeiam. 
 
 Robert Milford, MP., and family were going 
 out of town, to refresh their jaded spirits in the 
 green shades of their elegant country seat — 
 Milford Lodge, shire. 
 
 The Thorshury Advertiser grew eloquent on 
 the exciting theme of its loved member's return, 
 to invigorate himself, after his Parliamentary 
 fatigues, in his green, paternal fields, and under 
 the shade of his ancestral trees. 
 
 Everybody was going out of town ; the 
 fashionable swallows were dispersing in clouds, 
 north, south, east and west. London would ere 
 
 M 2
 
 244 THE GABLES. 
 
 long be a melancholy, parched, sunburnt, dusty, 
 arid Sahara. 
 
 That great, flaunting, brazen-faced, painted 
 beauty, the London season, began to pant, and 
 loosen her bedraggled robes, and sigh for sea- 
 breezes to cool her hot cheeks. She had not 
 been as bright and dazzling as was her wont, 
 this year. The shadow of the war, darkened 
 old England's hearths and homes ; great houses 
 were shut up, and great people — and little peo- 
 ple too — were mourning alike. 
 
 Such times stifle all the folly in us, and draw 
 forth all the good. We begin to long for some- 
 thing not dreamt of in our philosophy — we grow 
 weary, and sicken of the piping, and flaunting, 
 and revelry, and deceit of this great Vanity 
 Fair. 
 
 But no such wise and sober cogitations found 
 place in Kate Milford's pretty Httle head, with 
 its silken ringlets, — why should they? They 
 were going out of town, like all the rest of the 
 world — or the genteel part of it — at all events. 
 Milford Lodge would be rather dull — Kate 
 would rather go to Brighton first, and so would 
 mamma — and mamma usually won her point.
 
 THE GABLES. 245 
 
 This fact she confided to Isabel, when she drove 
 to Coram Street, for a farewell embrace of her 
 darling Coralie. It was not a very heart-break- 
 ing parting, on one side at least. 
 
 Isabel was not a very warm young-lady friend, 
 with small sympathy or patience for petty dis- 
 tresses, and confidential secrets ; and Kate and 
 she did not commingle readily. The eaglet and 
 the love-bird do not agree very well. Howbeit, 
 they embraced lovingly, as young ladies are wont 
 to do ; and Isabel tried to listen gratefully to 
 Kate's pretty, aifectionate nonsense. If she 
 could but take her darling with her, she would 
 be so happy ! Why couldn't Isabel come back 
 to Milford Lodge with them ? she must be sick 
 of that horrid street, w^here the air was perfectly 
 suffocating. Perhaps she was a little tired of it, 
 and perhaps she gave a sigh to the thought of 
 green lanes, and rustling woods, and free hill- 
 tops — kissed by the sunshine and the winds ; but 
 she refused Kate's invitation with a decision that 
 startled the little lady. To leave London now 
 would be like signing a death-warrant to those 
 flickering hopes she would not acknowledge even 
 to herself.
 
 246 • THE GABLES. 
 
 There was a glory in the dull house in Coram 
 Street, that all the palaces of the East would not 
 have held for her. Then she strove to Hsten, 
 sympathisingly, to Arthur's last letter, poured 
 forth in such a pretty flutter of girlish love and 
 pride. 
 
 The government were beginning to wake up 
 now, and were doing things with a little spirit ; 
 there was no sickness to speak of; the troops 
 were in good condition, and high mettle, and 
 Sehastopol must be down now, before long. 
 Then he should come home to his heart's darling, 
 with the medal with three clasps on his breast ; 
 and then, — ah ! what then, young, handsome 
 head, and gallant heart, throbbing with golden 
 dreams? Something very pleasant and silly, 
 that might not be spoken of without a blush, 
 thought Kate's little, fluttering brain — dressing 
 all the world, and its rough realities, in magic 
 hues of rose-colour and gold. Isabel thought 
 gently, almost tenderly, of the httle bright-faced 
 hopeful thing, trembling with her delicious 
 fancies, living in such a fair atmosphere of 
 golden visions. 
 
 She had never listened so patiently, so envy-
 
 THE GABLES. 247 
 
 ingly, to her little prattle ; never let her go with 
 such a sympathising kiss ; seldom felt so weary 
 and sick-hearted as when the Milford brougham, 
 with its sleek horses, and mighty coat-of-arms, 
 rolled from the door, and she was left alone with 
 the burden of her life — with " the heart-sick 
 faintness of the hope delayed," that had been 
 hers now for a long time — so long that it had 
 grown a part of her existence. Strange and 
 dreary mystery ! " Life to that bright-haired 
 girl, — life to Bessie yonder, singing at her work, 
 — is a pleasant, hopeful thing, lit with bright 
 anticipations ! To me it is a weary weight 1" 
 she thought. 
 
 Why ? Truly spoke the prince in the Golden 
 Legend — 
 
 " This life of ours is a wild ^'Eolian harp of many a 
 joyous strain j 
 But under them all there runs a loud perpetual 
 wail, as of souls in pain." 
 
 " Here's another visitoi' !" said Bessie, jump- 
 ing up and turning to the window, at the sound 
 of wheels. 
 
 It was a different visitor this time — coming 
 in a cab ; but a tall, aristocratic, portly lady, in
 
 248 THE GABLES. 
 
 deep widows' mourning. She was another new 
 acquaintance the Langtons had made this event- 
 ful winter — and an earl's daughter — a fact which 
 caused little Mrs. Langton some bewilderment 
 of mind, as to how she should behave herself 
 towards so awful a personage. 
 
 There was nothing very awful about her, 
 however, when once known — this Lady Sarah 
 Wentworth — a kindly, simple, brave-hearted 
 w^oman, wearing gracefully the relics of great 
 youthful beauty. She was the widow of Arthur 
 Lechmere's colonel, saved by him from being 
 bayoneted in his wounded state at Inkerman ; 
 and that fact was enough to give her an interest 
 in Isabel's eyes. 
 
 " I have come to return a book of Mr. Lang- 
 ton's poems, that Miss Milford left at my lodg- 
 ings the other day." 
 
 One of Kate's pretty peculiarities was, inva- 
 riably losing everything lent to her. 
 
 " I know you w^ould be sorry to lose it ; and 
 I go back to my country cottage tomorrow." 
 
 *' Indeed, we should have been sorry ! Thank 
 you, Lady Sarah, very much. — Bessie, call 
 mamma down."
 
 THE GABLES. 249 
 
 Mamma was up stairs, reading to John, 
 Bessie believed, and Lady Sarah insisted on 
 their not being disturbed : she could only stay 
 a few minutes. 
 
 She sat down by Isabel, in the window, 
 wanting a talk with that strange, pale, silent 
 girl, whom her mother's fancy pictured as bear- 
 ing some resemblance to a dark-eyed daughter 
 of her own — her dead husband's darling — who 
 died at seventeen. 
 
 She scarcely knew how to draw her out : — 
 " My business in town is over ; so part of my 
 errand here to-day was to wish you good-bye. 
 Will you come back with me. Miss Langton ? 
 You look pale and weary — " 
 
 '* And smoke-dried," said Isabel, with a smile 
 — not that of a girl of nineteen. 
 
 "The elixir of the sea-breezes would bring 
 some colour to your romantically pale cheek, 
 and sweep all the black vapours out of your 
 brain.'^ 
 
 *' How do you know there are any there ?" 
 Isabel asked. 
 
 " I can read them : — you see I have sharp 
 eyes," Lady Sarah said, with a smile, shrewd, 
 
 M 3
 
 250 THE GABLES. 
 
 yet kindly. "Will you confess what brought 
 them there, to an old woman like me ? You 
 are too young to have that pale cheek, my child ;" 
 laying the white, delicate hand of a bygone 
 beauty on Isabel's arm ; " whither has the rose 
 gone that ought to be there ?" 
 
 Bessie had slipped up stairs to prepare her 
 mother's mind for the aristocratic visitor, and 
 they were alone. 
 
 " I am always pale ; it is natural to me." 
 
 " But you have not always that look in your 
 eyes, have you ? that look of longing for what 
 never comes? Don't colour so prettily, — or 
 rather, do, for it is a relief to see a little rosy 
 tint in that white roundness ! Well, if there is 
 a corner of your heart you want to keep veiled, I 
 have no right to pry into it." 
 
 " There are not many of us that would wil- 
 lingly lay bare our hearts to the sunshine, Lady 
 Sarah !" 
 
 " True.-- -How is Mr. Wilmot ? getting well, 
 I hope?" 
 
 She WRS a constant admirer of John's, and 
 used to come regularly on Sunday evenings to 
 the out-of-the-way church near Russell Square, 
 to hear him preach.
 
 THE GABLES. 251 
 
 " He is wonderfully better : mamma's nursing 
 has done marvels." 
 
 '' He can scarcely look whiter than his cousin. 
 I have a strong reluctance to say good-bye ; 
 you look so like a stricken deer ! I suppose 1 
 am growing a meddling, foolish old lady ; but I 
 have a strange curiosity to know your disease — 
 I am sure the sea would cure it. Won't the 
 blue, curling waves, and the wind-music that 
 sweeps over them, tempt you ?" 
 
 Her kind, graceful, motherly voice and manner 
 had a charm in it. 
 
 " Can't I take you back with me ?" 
 
 " You are very kind, indeed ; but I think not, 
 now." 
 
 She was quite unaware of any emphasis on 
 the last word, but there was one. 
 
 "Why not now?" She had taken the little 
 listless hand in hers, and was pressing the fingers 
 kindly. 
 
 " I think I had better not," Isabel answered, 
 scarcely knowing what she said. 
 
 " And I think you had better. One day by 
 the sea-waves would alter those linen cheeks. I 
 must consult with Mrs. Langton about it,"
 
 252 THE GABLES. 
 
 The words made Isabel shrink involuntarily : 
 " No, pray do not, Lady Sarah !" and her cheek 
 flushed earnestly ; " poor little mamma frets far 
 too much about me already. And there is really 
 nothing the matter with me — and what there is, 
 is my own fault !" she added, half unconsciously. 
 
 Her companion looked startled, perhaps by 
 the entreaty in the girl's eyes: "Well, I will 
 not ; but I would fain have you cured of that 
 fanciful disease of yours, my love." 
 
 She spoke very tenderly, as she laid her white 
 hand on the slender shoulder — " Will you listen 
 to an old woman's story?" 
 
 " Yes, willingly ; you are very kind." 
 
 " It is but a short one. Once, — many years 
 ago, — I knew a girl about, your age. She was 
 handsome, and moreover, a romantic young lady, 
 as you are ; and also in love, as most romantic 
 young ladies are. (I shall not take your blush 
 as a sign of guilt.) She loved with all her soul, 
 — that love ' strong as death,' — trusted with aH 
 lier blind young faith one who mocked, deceived, 
 and forsook her, and then tried to fling the mire 
 of his slander on her spotless name ! What 
 would you have done in such a plight ?"
 
 THE GABLES. 253 
 
 She paused an instant, as if for an answer, 
 and then went on quickly — 
 
 " Died ! — I see it on your lips ; I read it in 
 your face. But she did not die. Her life for a 
 long time was a dark trance of suffering ; but 
 she did not let herself sink in those whelming 
 waters. She stood upright, though it w^as a 
 sore struggle, wrapping her innocence round her 
 as a mantle, never ceasing, when the cloud was 
 thickest and blackest, to cry for help to One 
 from whom cometh light and healing ! 
 
 " * Heaviness may endure for a night, but joy 
 cometh in the morning.' 
 
 " It came to her. She woke from that baleful 
 dream to see light, truth, and beauty in the 
 earth, wisdom in God's mysterious dealings with 
 her. She came, as from a ruined tower, into 
 the light of day, out fi'om the shattered wrecks 
 of that old lost love and sorrow. Will you de- 
 spise her very much if I teU you she married ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " She married, and saw then that all had 
 been well. And she lived many years of peace 
 with that brave and noble soul till God took him 
 from her by a glorious death." Her voice faltered 
 a verv little.
 
 254 THE GABLES. 
 
 " It was you, Lady Sarah, I see now." 
 *' You have found out the old woman's story,'* 
 with a smile that lit up the faded face into what 
 might have been the loveliness of its youth ; " it 
 is done now, and needs no comment. I hear 
 Mrs. Langton coming down. Only remember " 
 — she still held Isabel's hand in hers, and kept 
 patting it kindly — " that this stout lady of forty- 
 five, who would not lecture you for the world, 
 was once a young, hot-headed, untamed thing 
 much like yourself, with the burden of a darker 
 woe upon her than I trust may ever fall on your 
 young shoulders. Her remedy is yours." 
 
 Here Mrs. Langton tripped in, with evident 
 signs on her pretty, flurried face of having slipped 
 on her best gown in a great hurry. Of her and 
 Lady Sarah's talk Isabel heard not a word ; she 
 was dreaming over the story that had just been 
 told her, till she was roused by the sound of her 
 own name, and becailie aware of her little mo- 
 ther's troubled blue eyes upon her. 
 
 " Does she not look pale, Lady Sarah ?" 
 " She does now ; but she will have brighter 
 cheeks when I come to town in the winter, per- 
 haps." She drew Isabel close to her, and gave
 
 THE GABLES. 255 
 
 her a motherly kiss and a bright smile of en- 
 couragement. " Aide-toi ; la ciel t'aidera. God 
 bless and keep you, my child !" in a whisper. 
 " Think of the old woman's story. I had a 
 child that died at seventeen, whose name was 
 nearly the same as yours. I think you are like 
 her. Good-bye 1" 
 
 So she went ; and Isabel watched her till she 
 drove away, thinking envyingly and admiringly 
 of the kind, simple-minded, brave-hearted wo- 
 man, and her life's sad story, now looked back 
 upon so calmly and gratefully. 
 
 " Adversity has taught her heavenly wisdom. 
 Her sorrow was darker and heavier than mine, 
 her strait was a sorer one, and yet faith upheld 
 her, and now her heart-wounds are healed. 
 Why—" 
 
 " My darling," said Mrs. Langton, wistfully. 
 
 " Yes, mamma. I beg your pardon ; I was 
 dreaming again about Lady Sarah," Isabel said, 
 starting ; " do you want me ?" 
 
 She went to her mother, and bent her proud, 
 erect head to kiss her ; and Mrs. Langton 
 smoothed the dark, silky locks half-timidly. 
 Except by an increased tenderness of manner
 
 256 THE GABLES. 
 
 towards her daughter, a more than wonted soli- 
 citude in her tender eyes, she dared show no 
 knowledge of the truth she had now divined — 
 no recollection of that evening's experiment. 
 Perhaps Mr. Langton, in that poet's fairy-land, 
 where he was ever wandering, had forgotten it 
 already. Poor, little, anxious mother how she 
 longed to take her proud darHng to her heart, and 
 whisper all loving comfort, — and feared to do it ! 
 
 " Did you want to tell me anything ?" asked 
 Isabel again, waking her mother with a kiss, 
 from a troubled reverie into which she had 
 fallen. 
 
 "No, my love; at least, nothing particular. 
 Why would you not go with Lady Sarah ?" said 
 Mrs. Langton, sadly. 
 
 " What would you have done without me ?" 
 demanded the girl, forcing a smile. 
 
 ** Ah, what, indeed ?" said the mother, de- 
 voutly believing that, without the presence of 
 her clever, idle pet, the household w^ould fall to 
 ruins. 
 
 " But the change would have done you good, 
 my little queen !" 
 
 " Never mind that ; I am all right ;" and she
 
 THE GABLES. 257 
 
 stopped the little anxious mouth with another 
 kiss. But it might not be stopped. Mrs. 
 Langton had plainly a tale to unfold, and, after 
 some uneasy fidgeting about the room, it came 
 out in a nervous, frightened way, the poor little 
 woman evidently very apprehensive of its effect 
 on the auditor. But it was no marvel to Isabel, 
 and so she heard it in silence, to her mother's 
 infinite relief. John was going away to Wales, 
 for change of air. He was wonderfully reco- 
 vered, but not yet strong enough to go back to 
 the arduous work of his London parish. So he 
 was to go away, on six months' leave of ab- 
 sence, to recruit himself with the air of the 
 Welsh mountains, and stay with a married sister, 
 whose husband was a clergyman, and who, as 
 John grew stronger, he was to assist in his 
 country duties — 
 
 " Which are much lighter, of course," said 
 Mrs. Langton, timidly ; " and I hope he may get 
 quite well in that beautiful air, poor fellow ! It 
 will be a good thing for him, won't it, dar- 
 ling ?" 
 
 " Excellent," Isabel said, quite quietly. 
 
 The news had been long expected ; and after
 
 258 THE GABLES. 
 
 the first painful start and thrill were past, she 
 almost thought it better he should go. Per- 
 haps, when there was nothing to remind of him, 
 no living voice, or presence, she could fight more 
 resolutely with that sickness of the soul that now 
 held her in fetters. She was so calm and com- 
 posed that Mrs. Langton almost began to doubt 
 the reality of what that infallible oracle — her 
 husband — had told her that bright August 
 evening. 
 
 " John was to go very soon — almost directly," 
 she said. 
 
 " She supposed so," Isabel said, with an un- 
 ruffled brow that bravely hid the sharp throb of 
 inward, insufi'erable pain. Mrs. Langton mar- 
 velled, sorely and keenly perplexed, all that 
 evening, all the few days that intervened before 
 John's departure. 
 
 Isabel was so wonderfully quiet and composed, 
 and industrious, working so hard at her poor 
 people's clothes, keeping so entirely away from 
 Mr. Wilmot, avoiding so skilfully all talk of, or 
 reference to, him. Truly she played her part 
 bravely, the poor child ! And when the mild 
 September morning that was to see him go,
 
 THE GABLES. 259 
 
 broke upon her, her over-wrought heart, sore 
 and faint from its oppressive burden, almost 
 hailed it with an agony of relief. 
 
 The time came. Septimus kept from school 
 by a suppositious toothache, and, greatly relieved 
 at getting long John out of the house, had an- 
 nounced that the Hansom was at the door. 
 John had kissed Bessie, dutifully submitted to 
 his pretty aunt's embrace and affectionate charges 
 to take care of himself, and not get wet feet, 
 and then went up to Isabel, standing apart as 
 usual. 
 
 " Good-bye," — he shook heartily her cold, 
 shaking hand — "God bless you, Isabell" in a 
 warm, quite brotherly tone ; " promise to have 
 rosier cheeks when I come back again, will you ? 
 We are cousins, and may kiss, I suppose." 
 
 She made no resistance, and he kissed her 
 white cheek in frank fashion, and was gone. 
 The Hansom rolled from the door, Septimus 
 let loose his long-imprisoned lungs, in one 
 deafening shout of exultation, and dashed across 
 the street to see if Sam Smithers had any fun 
 hatching. 
 
 Bessie tripped off to her music lesson.
 
 260 THE GABLES. 
 
 Mr. Langton brushed a tear from his mild 
 eyes, said, ** Well, God keep him ; he is a fine 
 lad, though a strange one ;'* and retired to the 
 back parlour, and fairy-land. Isabel did not 
 move ; she stood still by the window, gazing out 
 on vacancy, with a passionless, listless, hopeless 
 intensity, sad to see. 
 
 " Isabel !" said Mrs. Langton. 
 
 The girl did not hear her. 
 
 " Isabel, my darling !" repeated the mother, 
 in her tender, frightened voice — all the love and 
 sorrow, and deep anxiety of her full heart, speak- 
 ing out in those three words. They reached the 
 mark this time. 
 
 She turned her white, proud, young face, and 
 met her mother's eyes. There needed no 
 more — all shadow of pretence or concealment 
 dropped into nothing ; she ran into the waiting, 
 loving arms, and sinking on the floor, dropped 
 her haughty head into her mother's lap, as she 
 had done when a child, with a passionate cry for 
 help. 
 
 " Oh, mother, teach me your wisdom ! oh, 
 mother, tell me w^hat to do — for my idol is of 
 clay, and it is shattered at my feet !"
 
 THE GABLES. 261 
 
 " I knew it, I knew it, my cliild — my 
 darling — better loved now than ever !" 
 
 It was so strange, so delicious to have her 
 proud, lofty, daughter, clinging to her — kneeling 
 at her feet, asking aid and counsel ! never before 
 had Mrs. Langton known this luxury. 
 
 How long they stayed thus, she could not tell ; 
 how long she spoke wisely and tenderly, in her 
 lovely, simple wisdom ; comforting and teaching 
 the sick, restless spirit, faint with the wound so 
 long hidden, stroking back softly the dark hair 
 from the pale forehead, kissing the young head, 
 resting wath such a dull weight of languor on 
 her lap. A long — long time. 
 
 They might have heard voices without, had 
 they listened — the clash of distant church bells, 
 coming nearer and nearer, as each steeple broke 
 out into triumphant clangour, the running and 
 shouting of excited people ; but they were too 
 deeply absorbed, the mother in her child, the 
 child in her first soul-sorrow, and so they heard 
 nothing, till Septimus burst in upon them, 
 glowing with heat, and panting with excite- 
 ment. 
 
 " Oh, my stars — here's news !" vociferated
 
 262 THE GABLES. 
 
 that breathless young gentleman. " Mother ! — 
 Isabel ! — haven't you heard ? — Don't you hear 
 — the folks are half-crazy ! — Why, Sebastopol's 
 taken ! " And with another war-whoop of 
 martial ardour, down stairs he dashed, to hear 
 more. 
 
 The news made even Isabel lift her head, 
 and called a flush to her wan cheek. True at 
 last. The great stronghold, stained with our 
 dearest blood — before whose cruel walls so many 
 thousands of brave, noble hearts had wasted their 
 life in vain — was dowm. 
 
 The exciting news was running like wildfire 
 through the great city, bells were clashing, and 
 flags flying ; men, pale with excitement, seeking 
 for news — of the last great struggle ; the heart 
 of the whole land throbbing as one man's, with 
 the intoxication of long-deferred, long-waited-for 
 triumph. 
 
 The wailings of the widows and fatherless 
 come after — that is the reverse of the medal. 
 
 Mr. Langton, rudely summoned from dream- 
 land by the shout of his son and heir, waited 
 but the word " Sebastopol," and rushed out in 
 a breathless state, and without his hat, to his
 
 THE GABLES. 263 
 
 little wife's infinite terror — she deeming him to 
 have gone suddenly mad from excitement — into 
 the street for a newspaper. This obtained — by 
 dint of collaring a passing news-boy, screaming 
 forth the tidings — Mr. Langton, bare-headed — 
 to the alarm of the Smithers' opposite — came 
 slowly back, and read the doings of the fateful 
 eighth of September, to the little circle — listen- 
 ing with suspended breath. 
 
 " And Arthur Lechmere ? " faltered Mrs. 
 Langton, fearfully. 
 
 Isabel, looking over her father's shoulder, and 
 running her quick eye down the sheet — pointed 
 out a paragraph that made Mr. Langton's voice 
 falter, and his eyes grow dim. 
 
 Lieutenant Lechmere — whose regiment had 
 been greatly cut up — had done his part gallantly 
 through that disastrous day ; and was severely 
 wounded. 
 
 *' Poor, dear boy !" said Mrs. Langton, burst- 
 ing into tears, like a silly little woman — as she 
 was. 
 
 " Poor Kate !" said Isabel. 
 
 Meantime Tabby, down in the kitchen, was
 
 264 THE GABLES. 
 
 congratulating herself that we should have peace 
 now — to be sure ; and soap and candles would 
 be cheaper, and Maggie, to whom peace or war 
 were alike, listened to the news with her sullen, 
 indifferent eyes ; and Septimus fired off crackers 
 and cannons without end, in the back yard — for 
 joy of the event. And Mr. Langton sat down, 
 when the first flush of excitement was over, and 
 thought sorrowfully about Arthur — severely 
 wounded, dying perhaps — or dead. 
 
 And so daylight faded away, and night, with 
 its silence and its stars, came down on the throb- 
 bing, shouting city. 
 
 And Kate, her blue eyes dim with terror- 
 struck tears, watched the sun sink in a crim- 
 son mist, — the same sun that had shone alike 
 upon her, in her English home, dreaming of 
 Arthur, and on the salient of the Redan, slippery 
 with blood, and piled with dead, where Arthur 
 lay, stricken down in the flower of his youth and 
 beauty ; shot through the knee, his dark curls 
 clotted with blood from a deep cut on the fore- 
 head, dealt by a savage Russian, in the death 
 agonies, her picture in his breast, — a prayer for 
 her faltering on his lips.
 
 THE GABLES. 265 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 A slave is he who bends the knee. 
 
 Imploring aught of grace, 
 Beyond the gift, unstained to lift 
 
 His eyes upon thy face !"' 
 
 E. L. Hf.rvey. 
 
 " Lieutenant Lechmere severely." These 
 three words had been read at the Gables ; they 
 had become an awful spell to Mrs. Lechmere, 
 resting on her like a nightmare. She caught 
 herself repeating them unconsciously lying awake 
 at night, sitting by day watching Roland's pale, 
 anxious face, as he fidgetted nervously about the 
 room in his restless misery. 
 
 " How the boy loved his brother," she thought, 
 wonderingly. But that love could not save him ; 
 he was severely wounded ; he might dip, far 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 266 THE GABLES. 
 
 away from home, friends, and country — from 
 love and pity, and be laid in his cold, lonely, 
 Crimean grave, never to vex her spirit more 
 with his living beauty. And then, with the 
 thought shame and remorse would smite her — 
 for she was not yet lost — and the tears spring to 
 her cold blue eyes. They shone there one grey, 
 chilly October morning as she sat facing Roland, 
 over their almost untasted breakfast waiting for 
 the post, one with a wild, intense anxiety, born 
 of strong affection, the other with a terrible, 
 half-formed hope that she dared not acknow- 
 ledge even to herself.^ — " Here comes the post- 
 man r' 
 
 Roland darted out and came back breathless 
 with the bag in his hand. He opened it with 
 trembling fingers, and shook the letters out on 
 the table. Some fell on the floor, in his haste 
 and agitation. 
 
 " See, there is one, a Crimean letter, post- 
 mark Balaklava 1" panted the boy ; " it is di- 
 rected to you. It is Fitzgerald's hand, Arthur's 
 senior captain. Oh, mother, read, read !" 
 
 Mrs. Lechmere broke the seal, a mist came 
 over her eyes, and her hand shook. Honest Pat
 
 THE GABLES. 267 
 
 Fitzgerald, what a great, rough, honest, kindly 
 scrawl it was. 
 
 "My dear Madam, 
 
 " It's a painful task I've got before me, 
 which, in your kindness, you must excuse," (Pat's 
 early education had been somewhat neglected, 
 in the wilds of Tipperary,) " and, believe me, it's 
 with the greatest pleasure I inform you that my 
 friend Arthur, poor, dear boy, has lost his leg, 
 which is mighty unlucky, and will be, of course, 
 a terrible shock to you, my dear Madam, which, 
 upon my soul, I'm more sorry for than I know 
 how to say. Please excuse, in your kindness, 
 this scrawl and spelling, for I hav'n't written to 
 a* lady for, I'm afraid to say how many, years. 
 But Arthur, poor, dear fellow, not being any 
 way able — worse luck ! — to write himself, begged 
 me to do it for him, and I couldn't in rason 
 refuse, of course." 
 
 (Roland broke out with a great, hoarse sob — 
 " Oh, Arthur, Arthur ! poor, poor fellow !") 
 
 " However, it's a mighty consolation to you, 
 my dear madam — I hope I'm not making too 
 free, if I am, please excuse it — to know that he 
 
 N 2
 
 268 THE GABLES. 
 
 behaves like a hero, and fought for all the world 
 like a lion, as might be expected. I saw him 
 myself cheering on his men across that bloody 
 salient with the shot raining about us like hail, 
 hke a broth of a boy as he was, till that unlucky 
 bullet hit him in the knee, and brought him 
 down." 
 
 (Mrs. Lechmere's hand trembled very much, 
 and a cry of grief and excitement broke from 
 the breathless boy looking over her shoulder.) 
 
 " No doubt you've seen his name in the Ga- 
 zette, for his gallantry was noticed by the big 
 wigs. I went out with some of our fellows 
 — you should see how fond they were of him — 
 to look for him after it was all over ; and no 
 small work we had to find the poor boy, for 
 friends and foes were all heaped together ; and 
 a mighty, bloody scene it was, I assure you ; so 
 you might have had your own brother right 
 foreninst you, and not found him. However, 
 by blissed luck, we spied him out at last. — Some 
 thief of a Russian sprawling near — bad luck to 
 him — had given him a slash over the forehead, 
 from which the blood was running in fine style. 
 Archer, his own servant, who went out with us.
 
 THE GABLES. 269 
 
 cried over his master like a babby, which was 
 mighty touching ; and to be sure, when I had 
 hfted up the poor fellow, and laid his head on 
 my shoulder, and given him a drop of brandy 
 and water, he opened those handsome eyes of 
 his, and sighed out ' Oh, Pat, I am bleeding to 
 death, won't you help me ?' Murder ! I thought 
 it was up with me then. But to make a long 
 story short, my dear madam, we got a stritcher, 
 and carried him to the hospital tent, where there 
 was but one thing to be done, to my sorrow, 
 and that was to amputate the limb, to save the 
 poor boy's life ; for the knee was shattered, and 
 the doctor — bad luck to him — shook his head 
 the minute he looked at it. I stayed with 
 Arthur all the time, and he bore the operation 
 like a hero ; and when it was all over, whispered 
 me to write and tell you, and said, poor, dear 
 boy, that he'd give a mighty deal to see your 
 face." 
 
 Mrs. Lechmere groaned, and flung the letter 
 away in bitterness of soul. 
 
 " Oh, mother, go on 1" Roland faltered. 
 
 " He is going on well, thank God, and bears 
 it so bravely, dear fellow ! He sends his love ;
 
 270 THE GABLES. 
 
 and we must not be unhappy, only pray for him. 
 Oh, mother, mother !" 
 
 The boy flung himself on the sofa, in his pas- 
 sionate sorrow and excitement, and wept hke a 
 child. Mrs. Lechmere tried to comfort him, 
 with her whole obdurate soul melted by what she 
 had heard. Smarting with her remorse, she sat 
 down beside the sobbing boy, and drew him to 
 her bosom, and tried to speak tender and en- 
 couraging words ; but so utterly numbed were 
 her cold lips to utter them, so foreign were they 
 to her chiUed and petrified nature, that they 
 came slowly and unnaturally, and sounded almost 
 like mockery. Perhaps she felt this, for she 
 soon ceased her attempt at comfort. She loved 
 Roland better than her own soul, but she had 
 no more power of expressing tenderness, even to 
 him, than a savage might have. A youth of 
 design and manoeuvring, a womanhood of false- 
 hood, and misery, and wrong, are not skilful 
 nurses of the higher and purer emotions of the 
 soul. As she had never known love for any 
 human creature since her childhood, until this 
 son was born to her loneliness, so this life had
 
 THE GABLES. 27 1 
 
 taken from her — not the power of loving, for 
 that never leaves a woman while she breathes — 
 but the power of expressing that love. 
 
 " I am so proud of him !" broke out Roland, 
 his face flushing through his tears : " I am so 
 glad he behaved so gallantly, dear old boy ! We 
 shall both be proud of our hero, sha'n't we, 
 mother ? Oh, mother ! I am glad you cried — 
 that shows you love him more than I thought 
 you did ! I'm a great fool, but — but I can't 
 think of him yet, crippled for life, without cry- 
 ing — so young, and such a dear, handsome 
 fellow !" and Roland's voice broke down into a 
 sob. 
 
 " Hush, hush, Roland ; you vex me ! You 
 are too old to cry Hke a baby — be a man ! He 
 — he will be able come home before long, I 
 trust." What a strange effort it cost her to say 
 these kind words ! " And we will nurse and 
 take care of him. Let me go to my room now ; 
 I don't feel well." She longed feverishly to be 
 alone ; but ere she could rise, the door was thrown 
 open, and Mr. Milford was announced. 
 
 The good man looked flustered and discom- 
 posed; his magisterial countenance was red.
 
 272 THE GABLES. 
 
 bewildered, and lugubrious; his manner a strange, 
 almost laughable mixture of honest regret, and 
 fidgetty misgivings. He had heard the news — 
 they had all heard the news — and very deplorable 
 news it was. 
 
 Kate had fainted away on first hearing the 
 intelligence. Fainted entirely away, — yes, in- 
 deed ! This fact he particularly emphasized, and 
 repeated several times, looking hopelessly into 
 Mrs. Lechmere's blank, unmoved face for en- 
 couragement or sympathy of some sort. 
 
 Mrs. Milford was very uneasy about Kate ; 
 the poor girl was quite alarmingly upset. And 
 no wonder ; for her attachment to Arthur had 
 been of the very strongest kind. 
 
 Here Roland, still prostrate on the sofa, 
 utterly regardless of his flushed cheeks and tear- 
 ful eyes, blurted out disdainfully, " She won't 
 have him now, I suppose !" 
 
 Whereat Mr. Milford looked pitiably dis- 
 composed, wiped his forehead, looked into his 
 hat, and gasped for breath. He had evidently 
 come fresh from a stormy scene at home — a very 
 tempest of tears, and faintings, and lamenta- 
 tions, which had ruffled his nerves most uncom-
 
 THE GABLES. 273 
 
 fortably, and he wanted some safety-valve to 
 let off the pent-up steam of his thoughts. 
 But he might as well have looked to a stone 
 image for sympathy, as to Mrs. Lechmere's 
 unmovable face; and those passionless blue 
 eyes of hers, resting upon his excited counte- 
 nance, had much the same effect as ice would 
 upon a red hot oven. 
 
 *' This is, indeed, lamentable news, Mrs. 
 Lechmere, to think of poor Arthur having lost 
 his leg ! Dear me ! dear me ! I never, I 
 solemnly declare, was so shocked and distressed 
 in my hfe ! And as for Kate ! poor child — " 
 
 " I am sorry for Miss Milford," said Mrs. 
 Lechmere, frigidly. 
 
 •' Bless my soul ! it is a dreadful business !" 
 rejoined Mr. Milford, wiping his forehead nen-- 
 ously, for his neighbour's eyes always frightened 
 him ; " It has been the most frightful shock, 
 both to Martha and our poor Kate. She was 
 devoted, as you must be well aware, to your 
 step-son." 
 
 *' She is no longer devoted to him, then ? — 
 He is still living, and likely to hve," said Mrs. 
 Lechmere, with the slightest possible sneer. 
 
 N 3
 
 274 THE GABLES. 
 
 To this Mr. Milford returned no answer, save 
 a tremendous sigh. 
 
 Roland lifted his head, and looked hard at 
 him. 
 
 " She is not going to be such a heartless little 
 baggage," he burst out. 
 
 " Be silent, sir," said his mother. 
 
 "Young gentleman," delivered Mr. Milford, 
 with ponderous dignity, " you are speaking of 
 my daughter." 
 
 Roland's sole reply to this appalling speech 
 was a very tearful growl. 
 
 '* Miss Milford is altered possibly, as well as 
 her lover !" said Mrs. Lechmere's cold voice. 
 
 " Oh, Arthur, Arthur ! poor fellow !" burst 
 out Roland, in the heat of his honest grief and 
 compassion. 
 
 " Why did he ever go to the Crimea, Mrs. 
 Lechmere ?" demanded Mr. Milford, turning on 
 her in a fever of testy sorrow and irritation ; " it 
 was the maddest, the most rash, imprudent ac- 
 tion ! What could be expected from such folly, 
 but some lamentable result such as this ? To 
 go out at such a time — his father, my excellent 
 friend, just dead — the property just fallen to
 
 THE GABLES. 275 
 
 him — such new and heavy responsibilities de- 
 volving upon him — an entirely different and very 
 important life just opening before him — such an 
 excellent opportunity for selling out of the army, 
 and taking his father's place and position in the 
 county — at such a time obstinately to go out to 
 the Crimea with his regiment, to get shot." 
 
 The bare idea of such infatuation made the 
 worthy man wipe his forehead, and give vent to 
 a melancholy groan, which action called forth 
 from Roland — whose private conviction that 
 Robert Milford, M.P., was a decided "muff" 
 was now stronger than ever — an outburst of 
 schoolboy heroics — that his brother was a brave 
 soldier, and had done his duty nobly, and that a 
 dukedom wouldn't have tempted Arthur from 
 the path of honour, and that he was proud of 
 him — ending all in a sob. 
 
 " Here is a note here," said Mr. Milford, 
 taking one from his pocket with the same odd, 
 fretful indignation, struggling with real sorrow, 
 " a note to Kate. It was enclosed in a few lines 
 from one of Arthur's brother officers to me,-^ 
 not written by the poor fellow himself, but evi- 
 dently dictated by him. Here is a distressing
 
 276 THE GABLES. 
 
 note ! Kate sobbed and cried over it so alarm- 
 ingly that Mrs. Milford was really obliged to 
 take it from her by force." 
 
 He held it out, and Roland snatched it from 
 him. Poor Arthur ! the soldier spirit, the cou- 
 rage, and tenderness in those few lines made his 
 brother sob harder than ever. 
 
 " My darling Kate," said the scrawl (ho- 
 nest Pat Fitzgerald's again) — " You will know by 
 this time I am severely wounded. I have worse 
 news for you, anima mia — I have lost my leg 
 above the knee. My poor pet, I know your 
 blue eyes are weeping for me, God bless them ! 
 Kate, I remember some words of yours before 
 I left England ; did you mean them ? 1 am so 
 weak now that I cannot bear to think you did. 
 Every one is very kind to me, and I am going 
 on well, the doctor says. I mean to bear my 
 fate like a soldier. Will you pray for me ? Pat 
 writes this for me. I am too exhausted to say 
 more. Oh, Katie, write to me, my life, my 
 darling. God keep you. 
 
 " Arthur."
 
 THE GABLES. 277 
 
 " Such a terribly trying note to the poor 
 child's nerves/' said Mr. Milford, with some 
 fatherly indignation ; " it was really inconsiderate 
 of Arthur " — Roland stared wildly at him — 
 " but then w^e must remember the poor lad's 
 weak condition." And so, miserably conscious 
 of Mrs. Lechmere's impassive blue eyes, and of 
 Roland's hot, passionate, dark ones, both intent 
 upon him, the worthy gentleman maundered 
 on, a strongly perceptible vein of compassion 
 for his injured and disappointed daughter 
 running through the w^iole of his flustered 
 speech. 
 
 Some strange conglomerated notion tbat Kate 
 was a sorely aggrieved mortal, and an object of 
 the most profound pity, and that Arthur had 
 behaved extremely ill, and brought misery on an 
 infinite number of unoffending heads by his 
 rashness, had entire possession of his bewildered 
 brain ; and after vainly striving to impress this 
 conviction on the minds of his hearers, he went 
 away, in a profoundly gloomy and mystitied con- 
 dition. 
 
 " He is gone, thank heavens 1" buist out
 
 278 THE GABLES. 
 
 Roland, in a fever of long-restrained impatience, 
 " the old ass !" 
 
 " Arthur will have a fortunate escape, in my 
 mind," said Mrs. Lechmere, with her bitter smile. 
 " Fools — one and all."
 
 THE GABLES. *279 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " No more of love ; your sex is known. 
 I never will be twice deceived : 
 Henceforth I trust in man alone — 
 The woman cannot be believed." 
 
 TeX>'YSON. 
 
 ALL-unconscious of his epitaph, Mr. Miltbrd 
 rode home drearily enough, to find his Martha, 
 having put her daughter to bed, and commanded 
 her to go to sleep, waiting to confront him with 
 a brow of stern majesty. It was all his fault 
 that Arthur Lechmere had ever gone to the 
 Crimea — he ought to have opposed it more en- 
 tirelv, said she: and Mr. Milford devoutly beheved 
 her, as he ever did. He had naturally a soft 
 heart, and a not more than commonly thick 
 head ; but the ruling principle of his nature was
 
 280 THE GABLES. 
 
 sheer terror of his wife. His Martha was the 
 cleverest woman in the country. She took him 
 captive twenty years ago at a Brighton boarding- 
 house ; and she had led him in triumph ever 
 since. Mighty man as he was in the House of 
 Commons, thundering speeches as he poured 
 forth on the scandalous mismanagement of Cri- 
 mean affairs, and the terrible condition of our 
 troops, to the utter confusion of her Majesty's 
 Government, — he quailed in his shoes under the 
 glare of his Martha's spectacles. Staunch Pro- 
 testant as he w^as, had she told him to go to 
 Rome and kiss the Pope's toe, he would have 
 done it. 
 
 The good woman was this day in a not en- 
 viable frame of mind. That misguided young 
 man had gone out strongly against her wishes ; 
 he had acted in direct defiance of them ; he had 
 risked Kate's happiness most unfeelingly ; he 
 had shown no regard whatever for her feelings ; 
 and really these disastrous consequences were no 
 more than his folly and obstinacy deserved. Mr. 
 Milford winced a little, perhaps, as she railed 
 thus against the brave lad who had gone forth 
 and nobly done his part for queen and country ;
 
 THE GABLES. 281 
 
 and he did make some feeble protest, but a 
 glance of the dreaded spectacles stifled it in its 
 birth. Kate had been cruelly injured, treated 
 most unfeehngly, that was Mrs. Milford's decided 
 conviction. She and her Arthur had never agreed 
 very well ; her dull pomposity suited ill the boy's 
 frank, ardent temper ; and as for that cold, super- 
 cilious, haughty Mrs. Lechmere, Martha hated her 
 — no, not hated — despised her thoroughly. The 
 sentiment had been pretty mutual for some time ; 
 neither took much pains to conceal it. The Ga- 
 bles was only worth about sixteen or seventeen 
 hundred a year, and it was much saddled with 
 debts, ^Irs. Milford began to think, and its master 
 had lost a limb. Kate might do better with her 
 pretty face, and silky curls, and Italian singing, 
 and first-rate education at Miss Selina Backscrew's 
 establishment at Blackheath, three hundred a 
 year, and all the first masters in London. — Ah, 
 me ! vanitas vanitatum. Poor Arthur Lechmere, 
 loving and trusting that pretty puppet with all 
 the earnest faith and strong affection of your 
 brave young heart ! You were the most charm- 
 ing of all matches but one short year ago, but 
 you are not good enough for her now.
 
 282 THE GABLES. 
 
 Kate cried till she spoilt her eyes, and gave 
 herself a terrible head-ache ; and she moaned 
 over her wounded warrior, and elevated herself 
 into a heroine of romance ; but she never an- 
 swered that poor, imploring scrawl, nor one that 
 came three weeks later, more touching still, 
 written with his own trembling hand, with in- 
 finite pain and difficulty, from Scutari Hospital, 
 whither he had been carried. 
 
 " I am coming home as soon as I can stand 
 the voyage, but I cannot move yet. You do 
 not know how long and dreary the days and nights 
 are ! Oh ! Kate, have you no pity for me, maimed 
 as I am ? Why, why won't you write to me ?'* 
 
 Kate cried dreadfully over this, with remorse 
 and shame, and Mrs. Milford decided for her 
 daughter that she must infallibly lose her senses 
 if she received many more such inconsiderate 
 epistles. She drove over to the Gables, and 
 told Mrs. Lech mere so ; and Mrs. Lechmere 
 replied, looking over Martha's head — she was 
 taller than her — in a manner intensely irritating, 
 that Miss Mil ford's extreme sensitiveness was to 
 be deplored, but that she trusted Arthur would 
 ere long awake to the error he had committed
 
 THE GABLES. 283 
 
 in ever writing to her at all ; and Roland burst 
 in with some fiery impertinence, about the young 
 lady's fickleness and cruelty ; and he and Martha 
 had a furious quarrel, which Mrs. Lechmere 
 evidently viewed with some satisfaction ; and 
 which ended in the first-mentioned lady sweeping 
 back to her carriage in intense wrath, and 
 whirling out of the old gates, never to reenter 
 them more. 
 
 "Kate was a contemptible little jilt," Roland 
 said, hotly. But for all that, he cried for 
 Arthur, for the bitter disappointment of his 
 dearest and brightest hopes. He lay awake at 
 night, in the autumn moonlight, thinking sadly 
 of his wounded, forsaken brother, stricken in the 
 flower of his youth and hope, lying in that far- 
 away Scutari Hospital, the cold, wide sea between 
 them ; and the boy's honest, tender heart would 
 melt out in hot tears, and he would start upon 
 his knees, and pray for him. 
 
 And so the time wore heavily away, till, two 
 months after the fall of the great stronghold' 
 in grey, damp November weather, when the 
 yellow leaves lay thick, came news that Arthur 
 had sailed from Scutari, and was on his way
 
 284 THE GABLES. 
 
 home, with other invalids, under the care of the 
 surgeon of the regiment. Mrs. Lechmere re- 
 fused to go to Portsmouth with Roland, to meet 
 the ship, when the time for its arrival drew 
 near. She coldly faced the boy*s indignant 
 wonder, and said it would be a severe trial, and 
 she did not feel fit for it. She would stay at 
 home, and receive the invalid there. She felt 
 she must fight out alone the battle of her dark, 
 troubled heart. But Roland did not under- 
 stand these mysteries ; he could not fathom the 
 secrets of those cold, remorseless, blue eyes ; 
 and so he took her kiss with a sort of half 
 fear of her, and went his way alone. 
 
 An early train whirled him up to London, 
 where he hurried at eight o'clock in the morning 
 to Coram Street, before Tabby had even laid 
 the breakfast cloth, to the confusion of that 
 round-faced maiden, and demanded Mr. Lang- 
 ton. He was not out of bed — he had been 
 writing till three in the morning — but he was 
 not long coming down, though it seemed two 
 hours to Roland. 
 
 What was the matter? his kind blue eyes 
 brimfull of astonishment.
 
 THE GABLES. 285 
 
 "Arthur is coming home — the ship is ex- 
 pected in to-day," panted Roland. " Will you 
 come to Portsmouth with me to meet him? 
 Do, Mr. Langton T' 
 
 He was not very hard to persuade. 
 
 " With all my heart — with all my heart ! I 
 can spare to day, I think — or if I can't, it won't 
 matter. Poor, dear lad ! Sit down, Roland, 
 my dear boy, and take some breakfast, and then 
 we'll be off." 
 
 It was hard work to persuade the excited boy 
 to eat anything ; even Bessie's blue, sorrowful 
 eyes, and Mrs. Langton's tea-cakes were alike 
 powerless just then, and he knew no rest till 
 they were whirling away in a Hansom to the 
 Waterloo Station to catch the Portsmouth 
 train. An age it seemed to Roland — a century 
 of torturing delay and suspense, till he and Mr. 
 Langton stood on the jetty, and saw the great 
 transport, with its crowded deck, casting anchor 
 alongside. 
 
 ** Can you see him ?" asked Roland, strain- 
 ing his anxious eyes, and throbbing brain, 
 for a ghmpse of what he longed, and feared 
 to see.
 
 286 THE GABLES. 
 
 *'No," said Mr. Langton. 
 
 His eyes were dim, — he was thinking of 
 another day, only a year ago, when the poor 
 wounded lad they had come to welcome back to 
 his fatherland, had gone forth from it in far dif- 
 ferent guise. 
 
 On they came, those who could walk, — a 
 long, sad line of wounded soldiers, back to old 
 beloved England — holding out her arms to wel- 
 come her noble sons — back to aching and ex- 
 pectant hearts of 'wives, mothers, and children, 
 a long line of pale, wasted faces, young and 
 handsome, many of them — flushed and lighted 
 up with happiness, to feel the old home-air 
 again, to tread the old, familiar ground. Some- 
 times, an officer, or soldier, distinguished above 
 his fellows, for some more than common bravery, 
 would be recognized, and a cheer would rise 
 from the crowd, but for the most part, they 
 stood silent — with respectful faces — many with 
 uncovered heads. 
 
 " I don't see him, I don't see him !" panted 
 Roland. 
 
 " Hush !" said Mr. Langton, laying his hand 
 on the boy's arm.
 
 THE GABLES. 287 
 
 A cot, slung on poles, and carried by four 
 stout sailors, containing one of the sufferers, who 
 was unable to walk, approached. Roland's eyes 
 devoured it, as it came near. 
 
 " This is Arthur — I am sure of it." 
 
 It came closer — a thin hand parted the cur- 
 tains, and they caught a passing glimpse of a 
 young man, wrapped in a grey soldier's cloak, 
 with a pair of crutches beside him, his pale, 
 sunken face, looking the whiter for the dark 
 hair and black moustache. 
 
 " Arthur, Arthur !" broke out Roland, in an 
 inexpressible agony of boyish grief 
 
 *' Poor boy !" said a thin, anxious widow, 
 watching, with straining eyes, for her only son, 
 coming home in a consumption. " He is living 
 — put your trust in God !" She touched his 
 arm gently with her pale hand. 
 
 Roland gave her a grateful look, even in his 
 misery, ere he hurried to the side of the cot, and 
 laid a detaining hand on it its bearers. *' It is 
 my brother," he faltered hoarsely. 
 
 They stopped, and Roland bent over him, and 
 kissed his forehead, with a swollen, suffocating 
 heart. His dark eyes had closed from exhaus-
 
 288 THE GABLES. 
 
 tion ; but they opened at the touch, and a smile 
 of delight broke faintly over his worn face. 
 This was Arthur. 
 
 " Welcome, welcome, dear old fellow ! " 
 whispered the boy, wringing his brother's hand. 
 
 They carried him to the hotel close by, where 
 Roland had secured rooms, and where the 
 landlady — woman-like — had lit a blazing fire, 
 and heaped the sofa with pillows. Arthur 
 moaned faintly, as they laid him down on it. 
 
 It was a bitter November day, with a cutting 
 wind, whistling up the harbour, and howling 
 round corners. 
 
 " I am so cold, — so dreadfully cold," he com- 
 plained, mournfully — shivering from head to 
 foot, and looking so white and wan that Roland 
 feared he had only come home to die. He 
 wrapped the cloak his brother wore, closely 
 round him, and pushed the sofa nearer to the fire ; 
 poor Mr. Langton aiding as well as his dim eyes 
 and shaking hand would allow, while the land- 
 lady bustled off to concoct some hot brandy-and- 
 water for the wounded man — whom she felt sin- 
 cerely convinced, was at death's door. 
 . He looked very like it, in truth, as he lay
 
 THE GABLES. 289 
 
 white, and still — his eyes shut, and a look of 
 utter exhaustion on the beautiful colourless 
 features, 
 
 "Is he dying?'' faltered Roland, looking up 
 hopelessly, into poor Mr. Langton's pale, dis- 
 mayed face. 
 
 " Dying ? not a bit of it — don't alarm your- 
 self, my boy,'* said a voice, cool and composed, 
 but kindly — Mr. Wellwood's, surgeon of the 
 
 th, a young man, calm, shrewd, iron-nerved 
 
 imperturbable, but tender withal — as an army 
 doctor should be, who having lodged his wounded 
 men in the invalid depot, and seen them all 
 right, had come to look after another patient — 
 in whom, though he would not have acknow- 
 ledged it, he did feel some slight, especial in- 
 terest. 
 
 " Dying ? he's not going to do anything so 
 foolish, are you, Lechmere, old fellow ?" said 
 he, kindly. " It was terribly cold on board, and 
 he's only knocked up with the voyage. — I beg 
 your pardon. Sir, might I trouble you to move 
 a little r 
 
 Poor Mr. Langton, feehng painfully how use- 
 less he was, drew a despondent sigh, and walked 
 
 VOL. L O
 
 290 THE GABLES. 
 
 to the window, where he stood, glancing ner- 
 vously at the doctor's proceedings. 
 
 " He wants rest — he is exhausted — that's all. 
 He'll be another man in a little while, when 
 we've put some warmth into him, and when 
 he's had a little sleep. What's this — brandy- 
 and-water ? Mrs. Jones, you're a woman of 
 sense, which is more than can be said for most 
 of your sex ; but I've something here that will 
 do better." He took a little bottle from his 
 pocket, and poured some cordial into a glass, 
 then raising Arthur very tenderly, told him to 
 open his eyes and drink it. 
 
 The poor fellow gave a sigh of exhaustion, 
 and obeyed with difficulty, for the effort made 
 his heart flutter with the nervous agony of in- 
 tense weakness, but the draught revived him — 
 for a tinge of life came into his wasted cheek ; 
 and presently he looked up into his brother's 
 face, with a shadow of his old smile. 
 
 " Cheer up, you feel better now, my boy," 
 said the surgeon, kindly. 
 
 *' So he looks — thank God !" said Roland, 
 kissing the hand he held. 
 
 " Mrs. Jones," said the doctor, " I am sure
 
 THE GABLES. 291 
 
 you*re wanted below— excuse me, Ma'am ; but 
 the Captain must be kept quite quiet." 
 
 Mrs. Jones 'oped with lofty dignity that 
 she knowed her situation, and sailed out ac- 
 cordingly, giving, in spite of her injured feelings, 
 one last motherly glance at the young sufferer, 
 who thanked her with a smile that made her put 
 her apron to her eyes when she got outside the 
 door, and then called herself a fool. 
 
 " I must be off to my other invalids,'* went 
 on the doctor. " I've no end of work to do, 
 but I'll come in again to-night, and see you. 
 Lechmere. Are you quite comfortable, old 
 fellow ? be still and keep all vexing thoughts 
 out of your head, and try to sleep as soon as 
 you can." 
 
 " When shall I be able to go home ?" said 
 Arthur, looking up anxiously at him. 
 
 " We'll see how you are to-morrow ; but I 
 strongly advise two or three days' rest." 
 
 Arthur looked mournfully disappointed ; he 
 let his head drop languidly on the pillows that 
 supported him, and sighed. 
 
 " Keep up your spirits, there's a good fellow ! 
 Mr. Lechmere, I leave your brother in your care 
 
 O 2
 
 292 THE GABLES. 
 
 — don't let him fret, and don't excite him by 
 talking. I'll look in again by and bye." 
 
 And so he departed, with a good-natured 
 nod, and Roland felt his spirits sink when he 
 ceased to hear his light, springy step. 
 
 " Wellwood is a good fellow — he has been 
 so kind to me," Arthur said. 
 
 Mr. Langton ventured to come near the sofa, 
 now that the doctor was gone, and his mild, 
 kind voice, as he took the young soldier's hand, 
 and held it tenderly, was about as soothing 
 music as could greet a sick man's weary ear. 
 
 " It was so kind of you, sir, to come and 
 meet me — thank you a thousand times ! Is 
 Mrs Langton quite well? I should like so 
 much to see her ! You did not forget you were 
 my father's friend !" 
 
 " That was not likely, lad !" said Mr. Lang- 
 ton, his blue eyes growing dim. " Oh, war, 
 war ! are these thy fruits ?" muttered the poor 
 gentleman, in sore distress of mind. 
 
 " I am very weak ; my fever at Scutari was 
 very long and severe, and the voyage has half- 
 killed me," Arthur said, languidly ; '* but this is 
 England again, thank God !"
 
 THE GABLES. 293 
 
 He shut his eyes, and let his dark masses of 
 hair droop wearily on the pillows. 
 
 It was a hard thing for Mr. Langton to call 
 to mind, in the gathering November twilight, 
 that he had a long night of hard scribbling be- 
 fore him, and no choice but either grievously to 
 offend the grim editor, and perhaps lose the 
 chief means of keeping the hearth in Coram 
 Street alight, or to take his hat and stick forth- 
 with, and run to catch the London train. But 
 necessity has no law ; and so he had to brave 
 poor Arthur's melancholy eyes, take a tender- 
 leave of him, and promise to return to-morrow. 
 
 " Will you bring Mrs. Langton to see me ? 
 She will not be afraid of an unfortunate fellow, 
 with one leg," Arthur said, trying to smile. 
 
 " She shall come ! God bless you, my dear 
 boy !" 
 
 When he was gone, and the brothers were 
 left alone in the quiet, firelit room, Arthur 
 asked for his mother. 
 
 Roland said she was at home, and as he said 
 it, his cheek flushed with something very like 
 shame. 
 
 " She felt nervous about it, old fellow, and
 
 294 THE GABLES. 
 
 said she would stay at home, and wait for 
 you." 
 
 Arthur looked hurt and disappointed. 
 
 •' She is in no hurry to see me," he said, in 
 a low tone. 
 
 " Nonsense ! You must not think that, dear 
 old boy. She was very unhappy about you 
 when the news came. Cheer up ! you have 
 behaved like a brick all along, as all the world 
 knows ; and when the leg gets well, as it will 
 soon, you'll be all right." 
 
 Arthur tried to smile, but he was weak and 
 worn out with pain and fever ; and, as he met 
 his brother's glance of boyish affection, the tears 
 that he had not strength to control rushed to 
 his eyes. 
 
 " See how weak I am l" 
 
 He hid his face in his hands, and one or two 
 low, quivering sobs followed. 
 
 " O hush ! Arthur ; you frighten me !" 
 
 " 1 am so exhausted — you must have patience 
 with me, Roland," his brother faltered. 
 
 " As if I wouldn't !" said Roland, his whole 
 grieved honest heart speaking out in his un- 
 steady voice. He sat by the sofa, all the
 
 THE GABLES. 295 
 
 long evening, tenderly watching the sufferer, 
 holding his hand in his, wetting his feverish 
 lips with wine and water, and cheering him with 
 his boyish talk, till the doctor paid his promised 
 visit, and Arthur was carried to his room. 
 When he had sunk into the troubled sleep of 
 exhaustion — not before — Roland laid his curly 
 head on the table, and cried like a baby. 
 Some dim perception began slowly to dawn on 
 his boy's brain that war — shorn of its dazzling 
 robes, and martial wreath of song and glory — 
 was but a grim reality after all. His handsome, 
 brilliant brother, the shining, wonderful Arthur 
 of his schoolboy days, lying on the sofa, pale 
 and wounded, with a pair of crutches beside 
 him, was such a new, strange vision ! 
 
 He was too ill next day, after a night of 
 pain and restlessness, to leave his bed ; and 
 all hope of going home that day had to be 
 thrust off indefinitely. 
 
 " I only want rest," he said, faintly ; and so 
 all day he lay back on the pillows that supported 
 him, that weary shadow of suffering darkening 
 his young face — his proud, handsome head of yore 
 erect and stately, in its wealth of dark curls,
 
 296 THE GABLES. 
 
 resting on his hand with the same dull weight of 
 languor, that made even Roland's brave heart 
 droop sorrowfully. But with the grey afternoon 
 time came a sunbeam into the melancholy room. 
 A cry of welcome from poor weary Roland hailed 
 its advent, and Arthur woke from a painful, 
 half-waking dream to find Mrs. Langton's blue 
 eyes and gentle face bending over him. 
 
 " O ! how kind of you !" were his first startled 
 words. 
 
 "Didn't you expect me," said the little 
 woman, her smile glistening through the tears 
 that would come, in spite of her, for his sadly 
 altered looks. 
 
 " I made Fred keep his promise. I am come 
 to bid you welcome to Old England again, and 
 to nurse you if you will let me, poor, dear fel- 
 low ! Lie still, and don't try to move or talk ; 
 I can see how weak you are." She kissed 
 him as she w^ould her own son, and put back 
 his hair with her little soft hand, as might 
 have done the mother he had never known. 
 Her tenderness moved him so strongly that 
 he had no power to thank her except by a few 
 broken faltering words. She sent poor tired
 
 THE GABLES. 297 
 
 Roland for a walk with Mr. Langton, and sat 
 beside the invalid, talking gently and soothingly 
 to him, till, with a sense of almost supernatural 
 comfort in her presence and her sweet voice, 
 Arthur sunk into the first restoring sleep, un- 
 haunted by dreams and starts of terror, that he 
 had known since the storming of the Redan. 
 It was so impossible to the little woman's tender 
 heart to leave him in his suffering and helpless 
 state, in only a lad's care, that, despite her 
 terror of Septimus blowing up the house in 
 Coram Street with his juvenile artillery in her 
 absence, she sent Mr. Langton home to his 
 scribbling, and stayed with Arthur those few, 
 dreary days till Mr. Wellwood issued his man- 
 date that he should return home. She was 
 the richer by the young man's gratitude, by 
 his earnest prayer that God would bless her, 
 when at last the carriage rolled from the hotel 
 door — and she, watching with dim eyes the 
 last fareweU wave of his thin hand, went her 
 quiet way home again. 
 
 Arthur's journey was very slow and painful, 
 and exhausted the little strength he had gained at 
 Portsmouth. His soldier-servant had been left
 
 298 THE GABLES. 
 
 sick at Scutari, so there was only Roland to 
 help and cheer the sufferer, and thus came back 
 the long-looked-for young squire, in other guise 
 than that in which he went forth, to the old house 
 that called him master. Mrs. Lech mere was but 
 human — the first sight of him melted the icy 
 barrier she had been striving to pile about her 
 soul ; the good angel was triumphant for once 
 when she took him to her heart, and laid his 
 head on her bosom, as in old days. 
 
 When, about a week after his first coming 
 home, he was able to come down stairs, with 
 Roland^s help, and lie on the sofa in the library, 
 too languid and worn out to move without pain, 
 but bearing all his sufferings so patiently and 
 bravely, it was harder still to shut up her heart 
 against him, harder still to resist his frequent en- 
 treaty, " Come, and sit by me, and talk to me, 
 mother," and the beseeching look of his great, 
 mournful, dark eyes. 
 
 She could not yet drive out the better angel 
 — struggling, alas, so long and hard — that 
 prompted her to bend over his sofa sometimes, 
 push back his hair with her cold hand, and 
 whisper a few comforting words. There was a
 
 THE GABLES. 299 
 
 fiery struggle waging on that awful battle-field, 
 the woman's soul. She had opened the doors 
 of her inward palace to ** the strong man 
 armed," and the name of the enemies he brought 
 were Legion. 
 
 One winter evening she sat alone in the draw- 
 ing-room, musing how strangely and awfully, 
 with what incredible and silent speed, a newer 
 and darker self had grown up within her. She 
 was alone, for Roland was in the library, whence 
 he seldom stirred. The lad loved his brother 
 with woman's afi'ection ; it was strange what a 
 patient, skilful, and tender nurse he had be- 
 come, taught by that mighty love-magic. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 J. Billing, Printer, Guildford, Sorray.
 
 
 m 
 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILUN0I9-URBANA 
 
 3 0112 051365234 
 
 
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