^/ 
 
 1/ 
 
 J^^,: /J^,
 
 
 COUNTRY STORIES, 
 
 OLD AND NEW. 
 
 IN PROSE AND VERSE. 
 
 By holme lee, 
 
 ALTHOR OF " SYLVAN HOLT's DAUGHTER," " KATHIE BRANDE," " THE BEAUTIFUL 
 MISS BARRINGTON," ETC. ETC. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES, 
 VOL. L 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 SMITH, ELDER & CO., 15, WATERLOO PLACE. 
 
 1872. 
 
 [all rights RESERVED.]
 
 [ These Stories, chiefly reprinted from various Periodicals, have been 
 Revised and Arranged by the Author. ~\
 
 V, I 
 
 *? CONTENTS OF VOL. I 
 
 >• 
 
 JANUARY. PAGE 
 
 Polly's One Offer" 3 
 
 Hawkswell Place " 74 
 
 FEBRUARY. 
 
 ^ " Coming into a Fortune " ~ 91 
 
 , : ** By the Shore of Life " 122 
 
 MARCH. 
 
 i "Lady Seamer's Long Step" 129 
 
 ^ "The Grave in the Moorland" 150 
 
 s 
 
 APRIL. 
 
 7 "RuFus Helstone" 155 
 
 "^ "St. Mark's Eve" i73 
 
 *0 MAY. 
 
 ^ " Under the Rose " 185 
 
 ^^ "Lost on the Shore'* 217 
 
 JX> JUNE. 
 
 <^ "Three Nights by Ashpool" 227 
 
 J "The Holy Well" _ 258 
 
 ^v "Too Prudent by half; "or. "Proud Nelly Kingsland" 265 
 
 ^
 
 lanuaraj. 
 
 Slow-paced and solemn, through the drifting snow, 
 With heart uplifted comes the hopeful year, 
 Breathing like voice of waves in ebb and flow, 
 To mourners all, O ! be ye of good cheer ! 
 Look back but for a moment to the past — 
 That is in God's own keeping, your's no more ; — 
 The present days that flee as shadows fast, 
 Should leave no loiterers weeping on the shore. 
 Dim though the sky, shifting the subtle sand, 
 Uncertain the loud wind and long the way. 
 Angels keep watch and ward on either hand. 
 Gleams fall from Heaven on the darkest day. 
 Be of good courage ! Cease that faithless moan, 
 Forsaken ye are not when most alone. 
 
 VOL. L
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2009 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/countrystoriesol01leeh
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 
 
 I. 
 
 *M not wishing to complain, but it is a 
 hard life to be left a widow with children, 
 and nothing certain to bring 'em up to. 
 I hope my girls will never marry to be left as I was. 
 Poor James didn't expect it, and I'm sure I looked 
 for something very different, or I should have 
 thought twice before I'd plunged into such troubles. 
 A family comes before you've time to turn round, 
 and nobody would believe the wear and tear of 
 boys but them that have them — not that girls are 
 not a terrible anxiety too. And it isn't so much 
 when they're Httle — when they're little, after 
 you've put 'em to bed, you know they are safe and
 
 4 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 out of mischief, and there is peace in the house ; it 
 is when they're getting up your real troubles begin. 
 Jack is no sooner off my hands then there's Polly 
 to think of — poor little Polly that was seventeen 
 yesterday, and was only a baby when her father 
 died — there she sits!" and as she concluded, 
 Mrs. Curtis raised her right hand and let it drop 
 heavily into her lap again, and groaned as if 
 Polly were engaged in the commission of some 
 moral enormity past expression in words. 
 
 The stout old lady, Mrs. Sanders, to whom 
 the widow was pouring out her injuries at the 
 hands of Providence, groaned responsive, and 
 looked at Polly with a slow shake of the head, 
 which seemed to imply that her case was bad as 
 bad could be. " Thank the Lord, I never had 
 no children," said she, with solemn gratitude ; 
 '' They'd have killed me outright. Sanders is quite 
 enough by himself! Nobody knows, but them 
 that has 'em to put up with, the cu'rous ways of 
 men. Take warning by your mother and me, 
 Polly, and never you go to marry, to be dragged 
 to death with children, and made a slave of by 
 a husband as won't let you have a sixpence in 
 )^our pocket, and him that extravagant with his
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 5 
 
 clubs and his committees, and his nonsense, that 
 I should never be surprised if we was in the Gazette 
 next week." 
 
 Polly's rosy little dewy face laughed all over, 
 and she cried gaily : " That I won't, Mrs. Sanders ; 
 you and my mother are a perfect antidote to the 
 romance of family affection. If ever I feel tempted 
 to fall in love, I'll remember you, and be saved the 
 folly." 
 
 " Folly, indeed, and worse than folly ! " ejacu- 
 lated Mrs. Curtis, and stared wearily into the fire. 
 
 She deserved to be weary. Mrs. Sanders had 
 come in at three o'clock out of the November fog ; 
 it was now five and quite dusk in the little draw- 
 ing-room, and not one cheerful word had either 
 attempted to say to the other. Polly would have 
 run out of hearing of their monotony long since, 
 but there was no other fire in the house to escape 
 to except Biddy's in the kitchen, which was not 
 " redd up " till tea-time ; so she had fallen back on 
 the patience of a contented heart and sweet 
 temper, and her precious faculty of mental abstrac- 
 tion, which she had cultivated to a high degree in 
 her mother's society. And a very wise measure 
 too, for though Mrs. Curtis bemoaned her widowed
 
 6 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 lot without ceasing, Polly well knew that her griefs 
 were fictitious now, and that she enjoyed nothing 
 so much as a good uninterrupted wail with vulgar 
 old Mrs. Sanders. In fact, all her real cares had 
 been taken off her shoulders by other people as 
 fast as they arose, and on this particular November 
 afternoon, she was so much at a loss for a grievance 
 that she could only recur to the event of seven- 
 teen years ago, when a beneficent providence had 
 relieved her of a husband of whom, during his 
 life-time she had never spoken save as a " trying " 
 man. Jane, the eldest daughter, and the eldest of 
 the family, had assumed its headship immediately 
 on her father's vacating it, and had by her teach- 
 ing of music and singing, earned its daily bread 
 since she was as young as Polly was now. Uncle 
 Walter had taken James and Tom from the 
 grammar school successively, after helping to 
 maintain them there until they were of an age to 
 go into training for physic and divinity, the expense 
 of which training he bore with the assistance of 
 TJncle Everard ; then Uncle Everard's wife, who 
 had no girls of her own, had adopted Lily, the 
 second daughter, when quite a little thing, and had 
 brought her up with every luxury and indulgence
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 7 
 
 of a rich man's child ; and, lastly, Uncle Robert, 
 who was a civil engineer, had just taken Jack into 
 his house and office, with the understanding that 
 he would provide for him entirely if his conduct 
 was satisfactory. The worst of this was, as Jane 
 said, that they could never be one house again ; 
 but her mother, who had no sentiment, protested 
 that it did not matter, if they were in the way of 
 promotion in the world : large families must scatter, 
 and all she wanted was to see them get on, and be 
 independent, and not subject to poverty as she had 
 been. Jane acquiesced in the necessity for the 
 boys, and only hoped they might keep little Polly at 
 home, for little Polly was her pet, her heart's darling 
 and delight from the day of her birth until now that 
 she was a sweet, blooming, blushing little woman. 
 
 But little Polly, for a wonder, had a fancy for 
 getting away from the dull suburban cottage 
 whence the boys were now all gone for good, and 
 had lately proclaimed her own intention to go out 
 as a governess, and not continue a burden on Jane. 
 
 " A burden ! " echoed Jane : '' Why, Polly, you 
 are my only joy." 
 
 " But you will not have to work so hard when I 
 can help mother from my salary, and I don't at all
 
 8 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 dislike the idea of going out as some girls do. I'm 
 not afraid," said Polly, with the brightest brave look 
 on her bonnie face. 
 
 " But I dislike the idea for you ; " said Jane, 
 and did not drop her opposition even when Mrs. 
 Curtis interposed with the remark that Polly was 
 very sensible, and for anything she should do to 
 hinder it, might have her own way : she had much 
 better go for a governess than stop at home to be 
 picked up and married by somebody who would 
 die and leave her with a dozen children to fend for, 
 and nothing to put in their mouths. 
 
 Polly laughed : " Don't be anxious, mammy 
 dear, catch me marrying after listening to you and 
 Mrs. Sanders for all these years ! I should as soon 
 think of jumping into the canal .'' " 
 
 " Hush, Polly, don't be silly," said Jane. *' What 
 do you know about it } All men don't die like 
 papa, and all women are not such bad wives as 
 Mrs. Sanders — yes, I call her a bad wife — always 
 speaking ill of her husband, who is no worse than 
 other people's." 
 
 "Then how disagreeable other people's must 
 be," retorted Polly naughtily. 
 
 Jane shook her head at her reprovingly, and
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. g 
 
 the subject dropped for the moment. But it was to 
 this whim of Polly's that Mrs. Curtis was referring 
 when she told her favourite gossip that no sooner 
 was Jack off her hands than there was Polly to 
 think of — as if the anxiety would be hers. She 
 was not an unkind mother, but she had no desire 
 to keep her children at home, and it was her 
 evident willingness to part with Polly, who had 
 never given her a day's pain since she was born, 
 that had most to do with Polly's determination to 
 go. She was a clever little creature, and had been 
 well educated ; kisses, caresses, indulgences had 
 never been in her way, and she felt no need of 
 them. The atmosphere of home was too cold for 
 the development of affectionateness. Jane had 
 wisely ordained that she should be trained to be 
 serviceable, but she had not intended that her pet 
 sister should work like herself while she could work 
 for her ; and she was thoroughly dismayed when 
 she heard the little thing declare that she meant to 
 use the weapons of independence that had been 
 put into her hands, to keep herself, and help her 
 mother. Jane had never been otherwise than rather 
 plain, and when, at twenty. Dr. Shore proposed to 
 her, her mother and everybody else had said that
 
 lo COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 it was so clearly her duty to stay at home, and 
 assist in bringing up the younger children, that she 
 had abandoned all hope of having a life of her 
 own, and had applied herself to extending and 
 strengthening her musical connection, which was 
 already yielding her a nice little income. We may 
 suppose that her affections had not been very 
 deeply engaged, though often afterwards, when 
 tired and jaded with a long day's work, she used 
 to think that if the fates had been propitious, she 
 could have been very happy as Dr. Shore's wife*: 
 he had married then, and there was no place of 
 repentance left her, and she kept her regrets to 
 herself; but it was one of her chief pleasures of 
 imagination to throne Polly in some good man's 
 love, and bless them with children, to whom she 
 was to be a fairy-godmother and special Provi- 
 dence : for Polly was very sweet and pretty, a 
 round, rosy, soft, dimpled little creature, whom it 
 was quite a temptation to kind people to fondle 
 and be tender to. 
 
 But Polly, too sensible, too practical mite that 
 she was, did not care for their fondling, and made 
 a mock at their tenderness. She prided herself on 
 her strength of mind and her capability, and was
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. ii 
 
 quite in earnest to prove them. As for being 
 pretty, and having eyes Hke golden syrup and a 
 complexion of milk and roses, what did it matter ? 
 She had brains, too, and would make quite as good a 
 governess as ugly girls ; and she would a great deal 
 rather be Jane with money of her own, and free 
 and independent, than be dragged to death with 
 children like her mother, or have shillings doled 
 out to her one by one for housekeeping, like 
 Mrs. Sanders. As for falling in love, people 
 didn't all fall in love, and she Vv^as not going to fall 
 in love } Jane might trust her for that — she was not 
 an idiot, and she should take good care to nip any 
 sentiment of that sort in the bud. 
 
 While Polly was still at home her mother had 
 shown her that process of nipping sentiment in the 
 bud, and though Polly spoke of it thus airily when 
 she wanted to reassure Jane, she had manifested 
 some temper at the time of the actual occurrence. 
 It was on this wise. A school-fellow of her 
 brother Tom, who had been at Heidelberg Unlver- 
 sityCor a couple of years, came back to Norminster, 
 and called on Mrs. Curtis. Tom had left home 
 then, but Walter Scott nevertheless called again, 
 and after the second visit, when he had seen Polly,
 
 12 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 and heard her and Jane sing, he sent some German 
 music that he had copied with his own hand, and a 
 nice httle note addressed to Polly. Mrs. Curtis 
 pursed up her mouth as Polly's expanded in a 
 pleased and rosy smile, and said : " That music 
 must be returned, Polly." 
 
 Polly's countenance was solemnized in a 
 moment, and her clear brown eyes sparkled as she 
 asked, briefly, " Why 1 " 
 
 " Because I say so. I know what I am about 
 and what I mean, Polly." 
 
 " Wait till Jane comes in ; it is nothing to make 
 a fuss about." 
 
 " Do what I bid you, and do it at once. Tie 
 up the music again, and write a civil note to say 
 that you never accept presents." 
 
 " This music has not cost him sixpence — only 
 his trouble," said Polly, still reluctant. " Jane will 
 be vexed." 
 
 Mrs. Curtis frowned a brief repetition of her 
 command (she did not want for will, and usually 
 had her own way), and then Polly obeyed — 
 presenting '' her compliments and thanks to 
 Mr. Walter Scott, but her mother did not allow 
 her to accept presents."
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 13 
 
 Jane fulfilled Polly's prediction of being vexed. 
 She said sending poor Walter's music back was 
 making much ado about nothing ; musical people 
 always gave each other music, and she would have 
 liked to see it herself if it was new. She never did 
 see it, however ; for Walter took his rebuff seriously, 
 and called no more on Mrs. Curtis and her 
 daughters. It was after this incident that Polly 
 mooted her longing for liberty, and though nobody 
 suggested any connexion between the two circum- 
 stances, they were connected. If young men had been 
 all roaring lions and fiery dragons, Mrs. Curtis could 
 not have more obstinately shut her doors against 
 them, or preached severer warnings of the danger 
 of them to Polly in private. Two results ensued. 
 Polly learnt to think of young men as vanity and 
 vexation, and of home as dull and cheerless ; and 
 then the idea occurred to her that if other srirls 
 worked, why should not she.'* ''Why should not 
 she } " echoed her mother, and after a very little 
 discussion her idea matured into a positive wish 
 and desire to go out as a governess, Jane resisted 
 until she saw that resistance was fruitless ; then 
 she gave in ; and while Polly began to prepare her 
 modest wardrobe for a start in the world, Jane
 
 14 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 inquired amongst the parents of her pupils for a 
 suitable place where she might earn her first ex- 
 periences mildly. 
 
 " I must have my evenings to improve myself ; 
 and I don't want to be treated as * one of the 
 family' — I'd rather not," Polly announced, full of 
 her coming independence, and contemptuous of all 
 half measures by which the change might be made 
 easy to her. Jane bade her not expect to have 
 everything just as she liked in other people's 
 houses ; she must prepare to conform to their ways, 
 and not expect them to conform one tittle to hers. 
 
 But Polly would take no discouragement ; she 
 was quite gay and valiant in her fashion of looking 
 the world in the face, and she felt glad, absolutely 
 glad, as if some great good fortune had befallen 
 her, when, just before Christmas, after a long nego- 
 tiation on paper and a personal interview, she was 
 engaged as governess to the three children of 
 Captain and Mrs. Stapylton, at a salary of twenty 
 pounds the first year, rising five the second and 
 third. The stipulation for evening leisure was 
 agreed to, and Jane and everybody else allowed 
 that, since she would go out, it was as nice a begin- 
 ning as she could have. Captain Stapylton was a
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 15 
 
 military officer on half-pay, and warden of the 
 royal forest of Lanswood ; his wife was of a Nor- 
 minster family, and if Polly stayed with them three 
 years (not less than three years), and used her 
 opportunities as she ought, she would then, be 
 equal to a higher situation and a handsome salary 
 — so, at least reasoned Miss Mill, who having been 
 a governess and about in the world nearly half a 
 century, of course knew all about it ; and little 
 Polly, listening to her delighted, felt her responsi- 
 bility and assumed grave airs of being about a 
 hundred years old, which tickled the fancy of some 
 foolish people so excessively that they were more 
 than ever inclined to treat her with affectionate 
 disrespect. Jane said to Miss Mill that she was 
 not cut out for a governess, and Miss Mill replied 
 that anybody could see that ; but Polly had a 
 lofty sense of her own dignity, and not the remotest 
 idea of the temptation she was to silly kind folks ; 
 and thus she started on her career with clear-eyed, 
 happy-hearted confidence, brave and safe as Una 
 with the lion, all the aim of her life being personal 
 independence and ability to save Jane and help 
 her mother.
 
 i6 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 II. 
 
 Polly Curtis was blessed in a dear school friend, 
 three months her elder in experience of the world, 
 with whom she kept up a brisk correspondence, 
 nobody but themselves being able to imagine what 
 they found to say in their long and frequent letters. 
 To Margaret Livingstone, with all appropriate 
 seriousness, she had confided every step in her 
 progress towards liberty, and immediately her 
 engagement with Mrs. Stapylton was concluded, 
 she wrote off to her a solemn statement of its con- 
 ditions, winding up with the expression of a hope 
 that she might be strengthened to do her duty in 
 the station of life to which it had pleased providence 
 to call her, and a brief moral essay thereupon : 
 
 " You know, dear Maggie, I am not like you — 
 a bird of the air, a lily of the field, created neither 
 to toil nor spin — I am a brown working bee, and, 
 thank God, I don't care for pomps and vanities. 
 Rich girls can afford to dream of love and lovers, 
 but I have pruned the wings of my fancy, for they 
 are as far from me as the mountains in the moon. 
 All my ambition is to be a good governess, and if I
 
 POLLY'S OXE OFFER. 17 
 
 can ever work myself up to a salary of a hundred 
 a year, I shall be the proudest and happiest of 
 women. Don't talk to me of marrying ; it is not 
 in my way ; my mother never lets a day pass 
 without warning me of its perils and disappoint- 
 ments. She prevented Jane marrying, and she 
 would prevent me, if I wished it ever so ; but I 
 shall be safe from temptation in my schoolroom at 
 the Warden House. If Lanswood is only eight 
 miles from your home, could you not ride over 
 and see me some day when the days are longer ? 
 I am busy getting my things ready, and I go the 
 first week in February. There is something in- 
 spiriting in the thought that henceforth I shall be 
 my own mistress, winning the bread I eat, and 
 depending on no one. But I'll confess it to you 
 (I would not for the world confess it to Jane) that 
 now and then suddenly, when I think of it, m}- 
 heart gives a spasm as if it were going to turn 
 coward ; but my head is not afraid, not a bit. We 
 must make the most of our time in writing before 
 I go, for I do not expect to have very much 
 leisure when teaching begins. You v.ill often 
 think of me, dear Maggie, I know ; but don't be 
 sorry and pitiful over me. I am a tough little 
 J VOL. I. 2
 
 1 8 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 subject, and is not the back made for the burden ? 
 Besides it is the will of God, &c., &c., &c." 
 
 At this point of Polly's letter, Maggie, who was 
 a big-boned tall creature, with a great tender 
 heart, broke down and began to cry. She could 
 not bear to think of the pretty clever little darling 
 she loved and worshipped so having to work, for 
 work and self-dependence were unintelligible ideas 
 to Maggie's indolent dreamy temper. She could 
 not understand her dear Polly slaving like the 
 teachers she had known ; it seemed like setting a 
 lark to plough. Boisterously in on her tears broke 
 Bob, her brother, the man of the house, and heard 
 all her complaint, and laughed at it, and then, to 
 comfort her, suggested that Polly should be invited 
 for a week to Blackthorn Grange before she went 
 to Lanswood. 
 
 "Would you hke her to come. Bob.?" Maggie 
 inquired, with eager wistfulness, as if a thought 
 had sprung up in her mind full grown. 
 
 " Yes, if she is pretty,"' said Bob, coolly. 
 
 " She is as pretty as pretty can be. But per- 
 haps mother won't ; she could not endure Laura's 
 friend," sighed Maggie, and desponded again. She 
 was, however, the youngest daughter of three, and,
 
 POLLY'S OXE OFFER. 19 
 
 being fresh from school, some indulgence was due 
 to her ; and when her grief and its reason why were 
 explained, Mrs. Livingstone consented to Polly's 
 being asked for a week — not for longer — until she 
 saw for herself what sort of a little body she was. 
 Maggie wrote in exuberant joy and haste, putting 
 the invitation into the most cordial glad words, and 
 making everything (with Bob's assistance) so smooth 
 and easy on the way to the Grange, and forward 
 to the Warden House afterwards, that there was 
 no room for doubt or discussion, only for a plain 
 Yes or No. Jane obtained that it should be Yes, 
 and Polly despatched the reply, in which her smiles 
 and dimples and delight were soberly reflected, as 
 became a young woman about to begin the world 
 on her own account. Bob was permitted to read 
 this letter of Polly's, as a reward for his goodness ; 
 but by the time it came, it is sad to record that he 
 was growing rather tired of her praises, which 
 Maggie sang in the ears of the household all day. 
 
 *' Plague take your Polly Curtis ; you can talk 
 of nothing else," cried Laura, whose friend had 
 proved a failure, and this on the very morning of 
 the day when Polly v/as to arrive ; and Fanny, the 
 other sister,, who was very good-natured as a
 
 20 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 fjeneral thinGf, went so far as to add that she should 
 not be sorry when Maggie's " governess friend " 
 had been and gone ; she was not partial to 
 governesses. 
 
 And about half-past four in the soft grey 
 January twilight Polly, came. Mrs. Livingstone, 
 mindful of all courtesies, all hospitalities, met her 
 in the porch, and brought her in with a kiss, and 
 Laura and Fanny were very polite, notwithstanding 
 their previous bit of temper ; and Maggie, after 
 turning her round ecstatically, and looking at her 
 by fire-light and window-light, declared that she 
 •was just like herself, and her own dear darling 
 little mite of a Polly, and what a horrid shame 
 it was to make her a stupid old cross-patch of a 
 governess ! 
 
 " Maggie !" interposed her mother, with a world 
 of rebuke in her voice. 
 
 "Polly does not care what I say, does she .^" 
 murmured Maggie, taking her by the chin affection- 
 ately, and peeping under her bonnet — girls wore 
 cottage-bonnets in those days, which were like 
 eaves over their modest faces. 
 
 "I like it," said Polly, and glanced round at 
 the assembly with ineffable patronage and self-
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 21 
 
 possession. She felt inexpressibly important ; was 
 she not here on an independent visit, previous to 
 entering on an independent career of praiseworthy 
 labour ? 
 
 •' Oh, you wee bit solemn goosey, come up- 
 stairs !" cried Maggie, and bore her off, dignity and 
 all, to the room they were to share ; and the mother 
 and sisters, left behind, laughed gently, and said 
 there w^as something very odd about the little 
 creature, but she seemed nice — not much like a 
 governess, how^ever. 
 
 Polly's box had been carried up-stairs before 
 her, and Maggie watched the opening of it with 
 much interest and curiosity. 
 
 " I want you to look your very bonniest," said 
 she. " My mother takes the queerest fancies for 
 and against people, and I want her to take a fancy 
 to you. She could not bear Laura's friend, Maria 
 Spinks, and she won't have her here again. She 
 took to you at first sight from the way she kissed 
 you — I know she did, and I'm so glad." 
 
 " I am pleased, too — I like to be liked," said 
 Polly. " She is a very grand old lady, Maggie, 
 you never told me." 
 
 ** Bob is like her — the only one of us that is —
 
 22 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 he hasn't come home yet ; he is out with the 
 hounds to-day — the meet was at EUerston Gap 
 this morning, and, here is your old pink frock ; put 
 it on, Polly ; you can't help looking bonnie in your 
 pink." 
 
 ** Must I ? It was my last summer's best. It 
 is too smart a colour for me, now that I am a 
 governess, but Jane said I might wear it out for 
 evenings in the school-room. I have a new brown 
 French merino for Sundays, and this old violet I 
 travelled in for every day ; and Jane gave me a new 
 white muslin — not that there is any chance of my 
 wanting such a thing, but she would insist on my 
 having it — and white satin ribbon. I can wear all 
 white, you know. Do you think it is prettily made, 
 Maggie .? " 
 
 " Oh, you sweet little witch, it's beautiful, and 
 you'll be a fairy in it ! You shall wear it to-night, 
 and everybody shall fall in love with you !" cried 
 Maggie. But Polly, with intense decision, folded 
 it up, and said that, indeed, she was not going to 
 make a show of herself, not even to please her 
 stupid old jewel of a Maggie. 
 
 " You never had any sense of the fitness of 
 things, you precious old dear," said she. " Picture
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 23 
 
 me in white muslin and all the rest of you in thick 
 dresses — this is only for a party or a concert, you 
 know. I had better put on my new brown 
 merino." 
 
 '* I won't have you in brown — brown has 
 nothing to do with my wee little rosy daisy," cried 
 Maggie, and grown suddenly impatient of Polly's 
 grave airs, she seized her, shook her, kissed her, 
 never deranging her dignity, however, a hair's 
 breadth. Polly tolerated her caressing patiently 
 and sweetly, it was Maggie's way ; and when there 
 was nobody to see, she did not object to her petting 
 and spoiling — it pleased Maggie and did not hurt 
 her — so she said with her admirable coolness, which 
 Maggie was much too humble and adoring ever to 
 resent. 
 
 Finally, Polly was arrayed in the pink dress 
 with tucker and cuffs of fine lace, and her glossy 
 brown hair tied round with a pink ribbon — as 
 dainty a little lady as had ever stepped down the 
 stairs of Blackthorn Grange in all the three 
 hundred years since it had been built. It was a 
 farm-house which the Livingstones had tenanted 
 for three generations, but the old beauty of it, with 
 its walled garden and mossy orchard, was still
 
 24 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 cherished, and the Livingstones, by virtue of 
 descent, connexion, and a small entailed estate in 
 the family, ranked with the minor gentry and the 
 clergy of their neighbourhood. Polly, as she tripped 
 along the hall, said she liked the house, and if 
 she was Maggie, she should feel quite romantic, 
 and proud of living in such a fine ancient place. 
 
 The parlour door was ajar, and Mrs. Livingstone 
 overheard the cheerful young voice expressing a 
 sentiment that pleased her. She held out a hand 
 to welcome Polly again, and said : " So I thought 
 when I arrived here after my marriage." 
 
 " The window on the stairs was a picture as we 
 went up, with the moon rising and the red bars of 
 sunset behind tne great bare trees in the garden ; 
 what time of the year did you come ? " said Polly, 
 whose sympathy was very quick. 
 
 " It was a September evening and the sky all 
 aglow with scarlet and fire. I remember resting 
 in that window-seat, my first rest in my new home; 
 there was a fir-tree standing then that is gone now; 
 but you are cold, child ; sit here on this low stool 
 and get warmed. Maggie, you should not have 
 kept her up-stairs so long to starve her." 
 
 " I never felt the cold until I saw the fire," said
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 25 
 
 Polly, pleasantly, and deposited herself in the 
 corner between Mrs. Livingstone and the fender, 
 on the low stool as she was bidden, and then 
 looked calmly about at the room and its occupants. 
 It was a large room, low, and with the beams of 
 the ceiling visible ; the wide window was crimson 
 curtained, and all the furniture was old and substan- 
 tial, but there was neither decoration nor taste any- 
 where. The three sisters had not an ounce of taste 
 amongst them, and when lilacs, gillyflowers and 
 roses were over in the garden, the big china bowl 
 on the centre table stood empty, or served as a 
 receptacle for waifs and strays escaped from care- 
 less hands and pockets. The sisters were in 
 perfect accord with their unadorned surroundings ; 
 large, honest, healthy young women with a good and 
 well-grounded opinion of themselves, and Maggie 
 with just glimmering enough of sentiment besides 
 to feel the charm of a friend like Polly, who was 
 instinct with life and spirit, and a perfect contrast 
 to herself. The inclination to protect and caress 
 her little guest had evidently taken hold of 
 Mrs. Livingstone as it did of so many other warm- 
 hearted people ; for twice or thrice, as Polly sat 
 toasting in her corner, the house-mother took up
 
 26 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 one of her small hands and chafed It gently 
 between her own, and Polly looked at her as she 
 never had occasion to look at her own poor 
 shrewish mother at home. Polly loved her mother, 
 but mothers lose a great deal who keep their 
 children at a distance : so thought Polly thus 
 introduced into the bosom of a family, all the 
 members of which were fond of each other and not 
 afraid to show it. 
 
 They were talking rather noisily and several of 
 them together, when there was a bustle in the hall, 
 a loud voice, a loud step, and then the opening of 
 the door, at which appeared a tall young man in 
 a scarlet coat and velvet cap who asked : " Well, 
 hasn't she come t " not seeing the little figure in 
 the corner half hidden by his mother. 
 
 " Yes ! " cried Maggie, " she is here ; stand up, 
 Polly, and say how d'ye do to Bob ! " 
 
 Polly rose with extreme circumspection and 
 executed the frigid manoeuvre that she had been 
 laboriously instructed to perform when a gentle- 
 man was introduced, only she blushed with it, 
 which was not in the dancing-school order. Bob 
 brought his spurred heels together with a click, 
 and imitated the bow preposterously — the blush
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 27 
 
 was beyond him ; but Polly's eyes were down- 
 cast, and she was spared the anguish of seeing her 
 grave airs made fun of by this disrespectful person, 
 whose mother admonished him to go away and 
 make haste for dinner, it was late. Bob obeyed, 
 with a comical grimace at Maggie, whiclj she re- 
 plied to with a half laugh — rude, very rude ; 
 but there was something about that queer little 
 Polly, turned precisian, that provoked it, and her 
 utter unconsciousness of the effect she produced 
 increased the humour of the joke. 
 
 When Bob came back to the parlour the ser- 
 vant was just announcing dinner, and the young 
 man stepped briskly across the room to Polly, and 
 bending unnecessarily low, offered her his arm 
 with an exaggerated affectation of courtesy that 
 wakened Maggie's alarm and made her long to 
 box his ears. But Polly took it with beautiful 
 serenity, and kept step with him composedly until 
 he placed her by himself at table in the full light 
 of the lamp — the loveliest little thing that had 
 ever sat there since he was master, as he thought, 
 glancing down at her with more serious approval. 
 And it was capital to hear her talk. How he had 
 expected to hear her talk goodness knows ; but
 
 28 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 when she used the right words about a fox-hunt, 
 and asked if they had had a good run to-day, and 
 if he was in at the death, and who won the brush, 
 it is impossible to say whether he was most 
 amazed or enchanted by her wonderful cleverness, 
 all the rnore wonderful in a creature so bewilder- 
 ingly. pretty and sweet. 
 
 She was new too, quite new. Bob had never 
 seen anybody in the least like her. Girls usually 
 pretended to be shy of him, partly from liking 
 and a desire to attract, and partly from the 
 reputation he had of being wild. Polly knew 
 nothing about wildness. His mother and sisters 
 adored him, the maid-servants smiled when he 
 spoke, the dogs lay at his feet and were happy. 
 He was no beauty, but he was a fine manly young 
 fellow, and very popular in his neighbourhood. 
 To Polly he seemed a rather mature person — he 
 was not far from thirty — and after the first blush, 
 the sense of her highly responsible position came 
 to her aid, and re-established her in perfect calm. 
 It was delicious to Bob to be looked innocently 
 in the face by those soft brown eyes, arid talked 
 to without any sham airs and graces. A strain of 
 jocular compliment was all that was usually
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 29 
 
 required of him when he had a pretty girl at his 
 elbow ; but Polly was as good as a lesson in man- 
 ners ; she did not expect compliments, and he had 
 the wit to see she would not like them. So he 
 adopted her tone of conversation with seriousness, 
 only relapsing into his original frame of mind twice 
 or thrice for a moment, when her assumption of 
 sageness and duty became too much for his sense 
 of the ridiculous. 
 
 The formality and propriety of the party held 
 out through dinner, but the instant Maggie got 
 Polly into the parlour, she seized her by the waist 
 and whirled her round in a waltz. " Don't, 
 Maggie," said Polly, but entered into the spirit 
 of it all the same ; and more, when Fanny good- 
 naturedly opened the piano, and offered to play 
 for them, the music brought Bob, who composed 
 himself in his arm-chair, and looked on, until 
 Maggie popped her partner down breathless on the 
 sofa and herself by her. 
 
 " That will do, what a dust you have made," 
 said he, and Polly started and felt abashed at her 
 inappropriate behaviour. Yet a few minutes after 
 Bob was making a dust himself, and learning the 
 new step of Polly, which he knew perfectly ; if
 
 30 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 his sisters had not worshipped him with fear, they 
 would have told her that he was only doing it to 
 tease her and amuse himself. He managed to be 
 most skilfully stupid ; a dozen times, at least, 
 did Polly " put his feet in the way of it," as she 
 said, and a dozen times did he fail to do it cor- 
 rectly. He suggested that perhaps if he did it 
 with her, he might succeed in keeping time, but 
 Polly said '* No, let him try it with Maggie, she 
 was a better height for him." He, however, did it 
 worst of all with Maggie, and Polly for the honour 
 of her teaching was prevailed on to take him in 
 hand herself. 
 
 " But I don't expect you will be able to do it," 
 said she despairingly. 
 
 Fanny at the piano glanced over her shoulder 
 laughing, and even Mrs. Livingstone watched with 
 an amused smile while Bob redeemed his character. 
 He knew how to hold his partner at all events, 
 Polly thought at the start, and it was astonishing 
 how fast he improved with her to keep him in step. 
 In fact, he caught it up directly, though when 
 Polly wished him to try it again with Maggie, his 
 awkwardness was, if possible, more conspicuous 
 than before.
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 31 
 
 " This is very discouraging ; of course I don't 
 mean that you can help it," said Polly, in the most 
 admirable tone of a patient teacher dealing with a 
 dull but willing pupil. 
 
 The inconvenient Maggie burst out in a long 
 suppressed merry peal of laughter : '' O, you dear 
 little comical darling, Bob is only making fun ; he 
 can dance as well as any of us ! " cried she. 
 
 Polly gazed up for half a minute with blank 
 dismay at Bob, then joined in the laugh against 
 herself, and said : " If you are that sort of person, 
 I shall take care how I give you a dancing-lesson 
 again ! " 
 
 III. 
 
 Bob was quite that sort of person. He had taken 
 a fancy to Polly — everybody in the house had 
 taken a fancy to Polly ; but with the exception of 
 Mrs. Livingstone, no one treated her with the 
 respect that was her due. She seemed made for 
 kisses, caresses, teasing, and spoiling, and petting 
 — for anything but grave airs and w^ork. Of course, 
 Polly did not see herself in the light of a good
 
 32 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 joke, very far from it, and yet she was happy in 
 the atmosphere of kindly sarcasm that surrounded 
 her. They were all so good to her, so easy and 
 pleasant, and Bob and his mother especially. Mrs. 
 Livingstone drew her on to talk of herself, and 
 approved of what she heard of the principles and 
 practical sense of the young creature. 
 
 "Yes, I know I am pretty, but children will 
 like me all the better for it, so I am glad," said she, 
 in reply to some comment on her beauty. ** Miss 
 Mill, an old governess near us, thought I might 
 wear spectacles, but the oculist said if I did not 
 require them they would permanently injure my 
 eyes, and I was not going to suffer that. I did 
 alter my hair and cut a lot off, which rather went 
 to my heart, but it will take less time to do, and 
 people who only see me with it plain v/ill never 
 know now much nicer I look in curls. And, 
 besides, I don't think anybody calls me pretty 
 except those who are fond of me. And, after all, 
 I can't help it, and I am not inclined to starve or 
 be a burden on Jane because of my face. I dare 
 say it will prove quite as serviceable a face as if it 
 began by being ugly — governesses age so fast ; 
 Jane has some white hairs already."
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 33 
 
 " But you may marry, dear. Don't you ever 
 dream of a husband and children and house of 
 your own ? My girls do, and it is most natural," 
 said Mrs. Livingstone. 
 
 " My mother does not approve of marrying." 
 said Polly, calmly. "I used to think I should hke 
 it, but since I have heard how much there is to be 
 borne from men, and what trouble in the bringing 
 up of children, I am sure I shall be better out of 
 it, and I have turned my mind to other things. 
 Jane had an offer once, but my mother would not 
 consent ; and she has given up caring. We shall 
 teach as long as we can, and when we have saved 
 up money enough we shall live together and be 
 two old maids. All my ambition now is to be a 
 good governess. 
 
 ** I wish you'd come and be mine, Polly," said 
 Bob, who, entering as she spoke, had caught the 
 last words. " You have no notion what a good 
 boy I should be under wise and judicious guidance, 
 though I am nothing to boast of under present 
 misrule. The fact is, they don't know how to 
 manage me. Say yes, Polly." But Polly only 
 laughed at his air of meek entreaty, and his mother 
 told him Polly had not courage to undertake such 
 
 VOL. I. 3
 
 34 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 a rough handful as he was, and he must apply 
 elsewhere. 
 
 That evening Polly played on the piano, and 
 sang distractingly. There was no end of her ac- 
 complishments. Bob listened till he loved her, till 
 he longed to do as Maggie did, and hug her up and 
 kiss her for pure kindness and pity that she was 
 destined ever to be anything but a pet and darling. 
 That was the state of mind into which she threw 
 many people, while she herself was feeling all the 
 time quite strong and capable and equal to her 
 fortunes. 
 
 In this way the week went on. It was fine 
 weather, but Bob contrived to be much more than 
 usual about the house. He was even troublesome 
 occasionally, as one morning, for instance, when 
 there were custards to make, and it was Maggie's 
 turn in the kitchen. Maggie would have Polly 
 with her, and just when she was standing at the 
 end of the long white table inquiring where she 
 should sit to see, and yet not be in anybody's way, 
 Bob appeared, lifted her up, and set her on the 
 table. Sit there," said he, and then took a small 
 corner for himself close by, and supported his long 
 length with one foot on the floor and one arm
 
 POLLY'S 0.\E OFFER. 35 
 
 round Polly's waist. Such a thing had never hap- 
 pened to Polly before as to be made a prop of, and 
 she felt that it was excruciatingly wrong for a 
 governess (oh, if her mother or Miss Mill could see 
 her !) : but, at the same time, the very novelty of 
 the circumstance made it difficult to extricate her- 
 self without compromising her dignity. She pre- 
 tended not to be aware of the arm, though she was 
 blushing and palpitating all over, and looking at 
 the floor ever so far below her feet, she said, " Let 
 me get down, please." 
 
 *' You are quite safe ; you can't fall while I 
 am here," replied Bob, purposely misunderstanding 
 her. 
 
 " But I don't like it ; I am not used to it," 
 persisted Polly, vexed and ashamed of herself, she 
 hardly knew why. 
 
 " Like it !" echoed Bob, in a voice of tender 
 concern. " Like what .?" 
 
 Polly turned her face and looked at him with 
 sudden tears in her eyes. He would have liked to 
 say or do something rash, but he only took his arm 
 away and moved off to the hearth. It was impos- 
 sible to withstand that touching appeal, which said 
 plainly, "You are my host, and should protect me.
 
 35 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 not offend me." Polly gazed out of the window 
 for several minutes after, but he saw the burning 
 rose on her face, and the bright tears all but 
 brimming over. Maggie seemed not to notice this 
 byplay, and went singing to the dairy, upon which 
 Bob drew hastily near to Polly and begged her not 
 to be angry. " I would not vex you for the world," 
 pleaded he. " Say you forgive me." Polly did 
 not say anything distinctly, but he understood that 
 his peace was made ; and when he heard Maggie 
 coming back he took his departure. " And a good 
 riddance, too," observed Maggie : " the custards 
 would certainly have been ruined if he had stayed." 
 In the evening Polly sang again, and Bob, who 
 had quite recovered his native audacity, proclaimed 
 that he would have a singing wife or none. Why 
 did not his sisters sing } They could do nothing. 
 Polly could do everything. 
 
 " Yes, Polly's a clever little midge," said 
 Maggie, tenderly enfolding her ; '' but you need not 
 take the trouble to set your cap at her. Bob, for 
 she has made up her mind already ; she is going to 
 be an old maid." 
 
 Bob laughed aloud, and seemed immensely 
 tickled in his imagination. " She looks like it.
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 37 
 
 very much like it indeed," said he. " I should 
 think so ! Polly an old maid ! That would be a 
 sin and a shame !'' 
 
 Polly blushed, and said, curtly, she wished they 
 would talk sense, and let her alone. What business 
 was it of Bob's, or Maggie's either, for that matter, 
 what she was t As a governess and a working 
 woman, of course she had other things to think of 
 that made her serious, very different to them, who 
 had been born with silver spoons in their mouths. 
 These sentiments, and the tone of them, and their 
 slight incoherence, quite upset Bob's gravity. He 
 laughed long and merrily, and only recovered him- 
 self when Polly sprang up in a tempest and rushed 
 to the door to escape. Then, with one rapid move- 
 ment, he overtook and stopped her, and begged her 
 pardon with pleas enough to soften a heart of 
 adamant. But Polly's was harder than adamant. 
 '* I am not a baby ; you treat me like a baby !" 
 gasped she, crimson and furious. '* I won't be 
 called a mouse ! My name is Mary Curtis !" 
 Mrs. Livingstone was not present to keep order, 
 but Maggie knew by Polly's way that she was really 
 hurt and mortified ; so she interfered, and bade 
 Bob let her alone ; she was not used to be teased.
 
 38 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 " Then it is good for her — rub the starch out," 
 rephed he, exasperatingly, and went so far in his 
 teasing that Polly, quite beside herself with pas- 
 sion, struck him in the waistcoat with all her little 
 might. It was a mistake, as Bob instructed her 
 the next minute, kissing her roughly, and then as 
 roughly letting her go. The instant she was 
 released, she ran across the hall, half blinded with 
 tears, and, after tripping and stumbling twice or 
 thrice on the stairs in the dark, gained the safe 
 refuge of Maggie's room, when Maggie found her 
 presently, weeping fit to break her heart. Polly's 
 self-respect was grievously wounded ; if she could 
 not make Bob behave to her like a lady, what was 
 to become of her amongst children ! Maggie was 
 perplexed. The ways and customs of Blackthorn 
 Grange admitted of a good deal of kissing amongst 
 friends, but Polly evidently considered a kiss a 
 mortal offence. She essayed to comfort her by 
 representing the fact in its local light. 
 
 '* Don't make such a fuss, Polly ; one would 
 think you were half killed," said she. ^' What does 
 a kiss matter } and it was only Bob." 
 
 " He is a perfect bear } " sobbed Polly. " I 
 wish I had never come."
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 39 
 
 " You cross little savage thing ! And it is not 
 very polite to tell me Bob's a bear ! He is nothing 
 of the kind. You ought to feel flattered ; he would 
 not plague you if he did not think you nice. Maria 
 Spinks was here a whole month, and he never 
 offered to kiss her once." 
 
 Polly dried her eyes and looked up. " He is 
 so abominably rough," she began, and then was 
 scared into silence at the recollection of the blow 
 she had given Jiim, which, strictly speaking, was 
 far more in the nature of an assault than a kiss. 
 
 " Ah, you may well stop and bethink yourself 
 of his provocation," said Maggie, significantly. 
 
 " Did I hurt him } " asked Polly, with lovely 
 wistfulness. 
 
 " Dreadfully ! How could you help it, hitting 
 him as you did purposely in the region of the 
 heart } And Bob is w^ry delicate. It is easy to 
 be sorry for it afterwards, but that is the way 
 people get into passions, and commit murder, or 
 manslaughter, at least." 
 
 " I wish I could go away to-morrow before 
 breakfast," said Polly, ready to sink with shame 
 and self-reproach. 
 
 "That is impossible. You will just have to do
 
 40 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 penance and sit by Bob, and if you take my 
 advice you will behave as usual, and say nothing 
 about to-night. It is lucky my mother was not 
 there ; she would never forgive you for hurting 
 Bob." 
 
 " I'm sure I won't mention it, Maggie ; I think 
 I should die if anybody else knew," said Polly, 
 ruefully. " It has made me feel so small and 
 contemptible. If I had only remembered myself 
 and kept my temper it would not have happened." 
 
 "Nonsense; it can't be helped now; think of 
 the old song — * If a body kiss a body, need a body 
 cry } ' If you had been here at our New Year's 
 party, you might have been kissed a dozen times 
 under the mistletoe, if Bob had not intimated that 
 he would not stand it ; nothing varies more in kind 
 and degree than a kiss, you know." 
 
 " I don't know ; but I want no more of Bob's 
 kind and degree ; my cheek and chin are red yet." 
 
 " Well, don't complain — it is your own fault ; 
 you may be sure it is when I tell you so," said 
 Maggie ; and Polly held her peace. 
 
 It was difficult next morning when Polly went 
 down to breakfast a minute or two late. Mrs. 
 Livingstone offered her cheek to her, and Bob,
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 41 
 
 with not a little extra colour in his face, gave her a 
 cordial, expressive shake of the hand. Maggie 
 had reported Polly's wrath and distress in unmiti- 
 gated terms, and Bob was sorry he had been " a 
 perfect bear," and so '' abominably rough." She 
 was much too shy and conscious to talk in her 
 wonted way, and he perceived he had gone too far 
 and frightened her — and heartily vexed at himself 
 he was for his blundering stupidity. He trans- 
 gressed in the opposite direction that day, and was 
 as tenderly assiduous as a lover ; Polly did not 
 appreciate his kindness, but seeing that his repent- 
 ance for his great offence was deep and unfeigned, 
 she forgave him fully and freely — so fully that 
 when he took his leave of her at the Warden 
 House, whither he had driven her and Maggie 
 over in his dog-cart, and said humbly : '' We are 
 friends again, Polly, are we not } And you will 
 come again at Easter t " 
 
 Polly, with a rosy beneficent countenance shin- 
 ing on him, replied, '* Yes — if I may."
 
 42 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Polly's adventures at the Warden House were 
 passed chiefly in the school-room. The children 
 were reasonably good, and Mrs. Stapylton was 
 abundantly satisfied with her new governess's 
 cheerfulness, skill, and industry ; but the first time 
 she sounded her praises to her husband, the captain 
 replied, "Don't expect to keep the little woman 
 long, my dear. She is uncommonly pretty, and I 
 am very much mistaken if Bob Livingstone is not 
 sweet on her ; he always inquires after her so 
 amiably when we meet at the market table." 
 
 " Oh !" says Mrs. Stapylton ; and the next time 
 the meet was at the Warden House, she bade her 
 husband invite Bob to ride over the previous day 
 and sleep ; and she contrived to have a lady short 
 at dinner, and asked Polly to be so kind as to 
 leave lessons for once and fill the gap ; for she was 
 an amiable woman, married after her own heart, 
 and would be glad, as she said, to give such a nice 
 little thing a chance. 
 
 Polly had the sagacity to leave her profession 
 upstairs, and to come down charming in her white
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 43 
 
 dress, and white ribbons, but Bob felt it was not 
 quite like having her to himself at Blackthorn 
 Grange. Yet she was much easier here, and 
 talked, and was as gay as anyone. There was 
 nothing in Polly to provoke or invite an imperti- 
 nence. The ladies made no difference with her, 
 and her face was enough to ensure her kindness at 
 first sight from men. If Bob was a person to 
 be influenced by other people's opinions, he heard 
 many golden ones of PcUy at the Warden House, 
 and all casually expressed without reference to 
 him. Perhaps he did carry away an idea or two 
 of her more meaning than any he brought — Maggie 
 certainly believed it, and began to insinuate the 
 same in her letters to her friend ; but Polly was 
 heedless and indifferent to Bob, and her work and 
 duty were much more in her head than ''non- 
 sense," which sufficiently accounted for her never 
 responding to Maggie's hints and queries. 
 
 Easter did not linger, but was soon come, 
 bringing with it Polly's second visit to the Grange. 
 It was a lovely Easter that year— warm, sunny, 
 serene as May, with hedges green, pear-trees and 
 cherry-trees in blossom, and even roses in bud 
 under the shelter of the eaves on the south wall of
 
 U COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 the old house. They made it quite a gay season 
 at Blackthorn Grange, and Polly, whose dignities 
 had worn easier already, entered into it with al 
 the natural joyousness of her temper and time of 
 life. She was exceedingly pleasant about the 
 house, and the many visitors, kinsfolk, and neigh- 
 bours, who came there during her stay, were 
 charmed, and regarded her with a significant 
 interest which none of the family discouraged. 
 Mrs. Livingstone would walk her about the great 
 walled garden for an hour at a time, talking to her 
 no one but themselves knew what about, but th«e 
 two were excellent company to each other, and 
 often Bob made a third. Laura was rather quizzical 
 on the subject of Maggie's friend and her brother, 
 but that was her disagreeable way, and Fanny and 
 Maggie made up to them for it by all sorts of little 
 consideratenesses, which they profited by without 
 observing. And every day some excursion was 
 planned which threw them together. Now, it was 
 to Cranstown Rocks, now to Haviland Priory, and 
 one day, the most memorable of all, to Beech 
 Grove, the Livingstones' ancestral manor, Bob's 
 inheritance, where Maggie informed Polly that he 
 would most likely go to live when he married and
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 45 
 
 settled. It was an old place, though not so old as 
 the Grange, and it had fallen into some neglect 
 from having been let to a careless tenant, whose 
 lease was, however, nearly run out ; but as Polly 
 said : "With a little trouble and taste, it might be 
 made beautiful." Bob asked how she would go 
 about to improve it, and as he trotted her through 
 the rooms and the garden, he treasured up all her 
 little views and opinions, which she was perfectly 
 free with, not at all as if they were a matter of 
 personal concern. And, perhaps, they were not. 
 Polly had a faculty for planning and suggesting, 
 but she was not conscious of any peculiar senti- 
 ment for the place as Bob's future home, though 
 everybody, himself included, gave her credit for it. 
 And very happy Bob was in his illusion, Polly 
 was quite kind enough to please him, and her shy 
 trick of blushing, and her sudden vivacities and 
 caprices soon charmed his heart away entirely. 
 And hers .-^ She was a mystery to* herself; she 
 liked Bob ; she liked to be near him ; once, when 
 he took her by surprise and kissed her, she was not 
 so furious but that he thought he might some day 
 venture again ; in fact, if she had given way to 
 nature, she would have loved him very sweetly and
 
 46 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 tenderly. But all her principles were against 
 giving way, and whenever she felt inclined to lapse 
 into weakness, she would recite to herself all her 
 mother's litany of impediments, and pains and 
 penalties in marriage. This sufficiently proved 
 her in danger, and set her on her guard against it, 
 poor little Polly ! 
 
 The Easter visit was extended to a fortnight, 
 and before half of it was over, the servants in 
 the house, the men on the farm, the very dogs 
 even had learnt to demean themselves to Polly 
 as to a little lady in whom their master had a 
 special interest. Mrs. Livingstone, Laura, Fanny, 
 and Bob's two chief bachelor friends were ready 
 with their consent whenever it might be required ; 
 and in the absence of the principals would discuss 
 their private affairs without the smallest delicacy 
 or reserve. Only Maggie held herself in an attitude 
 of doubt, and this Laura treated as the supremest 
 affectation. " You know your precious Polly will 
 say ' Yes ' the very first minute Bob asks her, and 
 be only too glad!" the quizzical sister would taunt- 
 ingly aver : to which Maggie would make answer 
 that she only wished she was as sure of it as Laura 
 appeared to be.
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 47 
 
 But Maggie could be sure of nothing. Polly- 
 was a puzzle and trial to her at this moment, and 
 she was constantly trying to solve her by all 
 manner of cunning experiments and questions. 
 On their last evening together she went so far as 
 to say in the privacy of their bed-room: "I fancied 
 once you were going to be fond of Bob for my 
 sake, Polly, and I'm disappointed in you. You are 
 not half good to him, you little cross thing, and 
 you look him in the face as frankly as any of us — 
 that's a sign you don't care for himx : tiresome toad 
 that you are ! " 
 
 " Bob's eyes are blue," said Polly, with abstrac- 
 tion, but as coolly as if she were repeating " two 
 and two are four." 
 
 " You have no particular prejudice against blue 
 eyes, have you .^ " inquired Maggie, in a tone of 
 affront. 
 
 " No I you dear old Maggie, why should I ? 
 Yours are blue." 
 
 After a brief silence Maggie returned to the 
 charge : " You are coming to see us again at Mid- 
 summer — now you need not seek any excuse, for I 
 won't take it ! You are coming to see us again at 
 Midsummer. Say j^j-, or don't open your mouth."
 
 48 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 Polly kept her mouth shut. " Have you been 
 struck dumb ? You are coming, I know you are ! 
 I'll never be friends with you again if you don't." 
 Polly's hps never stirred. " O, Polly, don't be a 
 silly little donkey ! Look here — is there anybody 
 loves you as much as I do, unless it be dear old 
 Bob } and you are going to throw it all to the 
 winds ! " 
 
 " Yes, there's Jane loves me, and I must spend 
 my Midsummer at home with her and my mother," 
 said Polly, thus solemnly adjured. 
 
 " That's all right ; but you'll come heir first — 
 promise — PU shake you if you don't." 
 
 Polly did not exactly promise, but she begged 
 off her shaking with something Maggie accepted as 
 an equivalent ; and in the morning, when she was 
 driven off to her duties at the Warden House by 
 Bob himself, it was considered an understood 
 thing that at Midsummer, before going home to 
 Norminster, she would pay another visit to Black- 
 thorn Grange. It was a lovely April day, with 
 the sun in full glow, and the orchards all pink and 
 white with apple-blossom. The country was very 
 fine and luxuriant between the Grange and 
 Lanswood, and Polly's eyes and soul took delight
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 49 
 
 in its spring beauty. She was feeling happy, 
 unconsciously happy, and the radiance of her heart 
 shone in her countenance. Maggie, at whom she 
 often looked round, thought she had never seen 
 her so sweetly pretty before ; and Bob, though his 
 plan of courtship was all laid out, and he had no 
 intention of being precipitate, found himself more 
 than once on the brink of asking the question 
 which would decide both their fortunes. 
 
 " You would not mind spending your life in the 
 country, Polly, little town-bred lady as you are ? " 
 said he, gaily. 
 
 " I hke the country best," replied Polly, 
 
 "When you come to us at Midsummer, I shall 
 have Stella ready, and you shall learn to ride — all 
 the girls ride hereabouts." 
 
 " But they ride from children. I am rather 
 timid ; I am not sure that I shall like it." 
 
 " I shall teach you myself," said Bob, as if that 
 would remove all difficulties, and he glanced down 
 at the little creature beside him with fond admir- 
 ation. None of her friends' opinions of Polly had 
 yet grown up to her own estimate of her dignit}- — 
 not even Bob's. He laughed indulgently at her 
 practical airs, and called her his Mouse and his 
 
 VOL. I. 4
 
 50 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 Blossom, with a tender patronage that she could not 
 repress, though she sincerely wished to do so. It 
 seemed to Polly sometimes as if his will were the 
 stronger, and controlled hers, however she fought 
 against it ; and that was the fact. Bob was not a 
 particularly profound person, but he perfectly 
 fathomed Polly's mixture of pride and shyness, 
 lo.vingness, doubt, fear, and trembling towards 
 himself, and he believed it quite in his duty and 
 business to tame her with kindness, yet firmness — 
 much as he was taming his beautiful shy filly, 
 Stella ; as for letting her go her own way, or sup- 
 posing she would defeat him in the end, it never 
 entered Bob's head ; and had her mother's warnings 
 and philosophy been laid before him, they would 
 have been far too strange and unnatural for his 
 honest comprehension. He religiously believed 
 that every nice young woman wished to be married, 
 and why not Polly, who was so extremely nice } 
 
 The drive to Lanswood was very pleasant all 
 the way, and when Polly was left behind at the 
 Warden House, to think it over, she could not but 
 know why it had been so. Love is the best of 
 companions. " Dear old Bob, Pm afraid I should 
 grow foolishly fond of him if I went often to
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 51 
 
 Blackthorn Grange. I had much better stop away 
 at Midsummer," said she, to herself ; but perhaps 
 she did not mean it. She was rather dull and 
 absent for a day or two, but she soon brightened 
 up at her work, which was not severe or disagree- 
 able. In truth her situation was very comfortable, 
 and she had no injuries or hardships to make the 
 notion of escape welcome ; but still she counted 
 the weeks to the holidays, and did not grieve to 
 see them pass. And in every letter Maggie told 
 her how much nearer Midsummer was, and men- 
 tioned many delightful parties of pleasure and 
 excursions which were standing over until her 
 coming. At every such allusion Polly's heart 
 underwent that physical spasm which she had 
 described to her friend as afflicting her before 
 she set forth on her career as a governess. To go 
 or not to go to the Grange became her thought by 
 day and night. She was pulled very hard both 
 ways. She did not deny to herself that the Grange 
 was a happy place for a holiday ; but her principles 
 of so many years' careful home cultivation were in 
 peril there, while her head still approved of them so 
 entirely that she felt it was inconsistent and wrong 
 to walk into temptation with her eyes open and her 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 52 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 judgment unobscured. Nobody at the Grange de- 
 nounced marriage as a state of suffering bondage, 
 or children as a perpetual care ; indeed, Laura and 
 Fanny were both engaged, and Maggie, though 
 not so far gone as they were, frankly vowed that 
 she had only refused the curate because she did 
 not like him ; if she had liked him she would have 
 had no scruple about accepting his proposal, and 
 taking her luck for what might follow. 
 
 Polly had no notion of casting her burden on 
 other people's shoulders, or she might have appealed 
 to Jane for counsel in the case ; besides, she was 
 fond of deciding for herself, or rather of drifting 
 into decisions which were generally in accordance 
 with her inclinations, secret or expressed. In this 
 manner she drifted into a decision that she would 
 go to Blackthorn Grange, but it should be for the 
 last time ; and a few days after, there she was, in 
 all her pretty dignity and grace, and everybody in 
 and about the house was talking about her and the 
 master, and drawing only one conclusion from this 
 third visit within the half-year.
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 53 
 
 V. 
 
 Polly did not find her position, under these cir- 
 cumstances, at all unpleasant — rather the reverse, 
 indeed. There was a great deal going on at the 
 Grange ; never was Maggie so busy in the kitchen, 
 or so little at leisure to devote herself to her friend ; 
 Laura and Fanny had, of course, occupations of 
 their own, and were not going to be troubled with 
 Maggie's darling ; and so it fell out that she was 
 often left to Bob, who had plenty of idle time 
 on his hands, and was glad to employ it. ^ 
 
 The first morning after her arrival Polly was 
 introduced to Stella in a large level pasture field, 
 and Bob having put her in the saddle with infinite 
 care, and many assurances that she need not be 
 in the least afraid, led the pretty creatures slowly 
 round the field. They were a capital match, he 
 said, and if Polly liked, Stella should be hers. 
 Then Polly had the bridle in her own hands, and 
 Stella walked quietly and obhgingly after Bob 
 close to the hedge, and then across the field to the 
 gate, where Mrs. Livingstone stood, without being
 
 54 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 led. Mrs. Livingstone said Stella was admirably- 
 trained, and a docile, fine-tempered thing ; and 
 then she commended Polly as sitting nicely and 
 straight up, and bade Bob mind and take care of 
 her. This lesson was repeated every morning after 
 breakfast, and Polly could soon ride well enough 
 to be trusted on the road with Bob and Maggie, 
 and so they took several excursions together, not 
 very long, and Polly made acquaintance and drank 
 tea informally at several neighbouring houses, 
 where she was evidently welcomed for somebody's 
 sake besides her own. 
 
 Every time this significant sort of welcome was 
 given her, Polly's heart suffered that strange 
 physical wrench, and so it did often when she was 
 with Bob alone, and he said kind words, and gave 
 her kind looks that implied his love for her. He 
 was never rough with her now, but very quiet and 
 wary, as if he had an inkling of that hidden pang 
 and was watching for his opportunity to speak 
 without scaring her, and so finally to cure it. His 
 wooing was not at all unlike the process of break- 
 ing-in Stella ; Polly was quite as shy, as proud, as 
 averse to bit and bridle as that pretty thorough- 
 bred ; but, once subdued, Bob thought she would
 
 POLLY'S OXE OFFER. 55 
 
 also be as good and as obedient to his hand. Yet 
 all this while that he was endeavouring to make 
 her compliant and tractable, Polly w^as hardening 
 her mind against him, and perplexing Maggie more 
 and more every day. She had no fear of herself 
 what she should answer if Bob were so rash as 
 to make love to her openly (as if his daily life at 
 present was not all love-making !) ; but she had 
 many doubts whether she had done what she ought 
 to have done in coming to Blackthorne Grange. 
 She had read very few novels, and was a child for 
 worldly wisdom ; but she knew it was not good 
 for a governess to be called a Jlirt, and Maggie 
 had said to her that if she did 7iot like Bob, she 
 was no better than di flirt and a coquette, to which 
 Polly had replied that she did like Bob, and she 
 would not have bad names fastened upon her. 
 But both the girls knew that they were talking at 
 cross - purposes, and that liking meant different 
 things in their vocabularies ; standing for down- 
 right true love in ^Maggie's, and in Polly's for a 
 mere general sentiment free to all the world. 
 
 Thus matters went on for a week, Bob always 
 confident and easy, Polly sweet with him and 
 savage with herself, and Maggie at her wit's end
 
 56 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 over the vanity and vexation of other people's 
 courtships. " If," cogitated she — " if Polly behaves 
 badly to Bob, she'll have such a fall in my 
 mother's esteem that I shall never be allowed to 
 set eyes on her again, the plaguy puss ! She 
 would be awfulljf kind and sensible if she were 
 left to her own discretion, for she has the dearest 
 little warm heart in the world for them that love 
 her ; and she need not think she is blinding me ; she 
 is ever so fond of Bob, bless her ! only she is per- 
 suaded that she's cut out for a single life. What 
 a silly, selfish woman Mrs. Curtis must be to have 
 filled her with such notions ! I have not patience 
 to think of her ! " 
 
 The wrench at Polly's heart was very frequently 
 repeated at this time ; it was renewed, indeed, day 
 by day. There was an old friend of the Living- 
 stone family, a widow lady, who often dropped in 
 with h^r work of an afternoon, and was quite in 
 the confidence of the sisters. She tried to take up 
 Polly in the same way, during one of her visits, 
 and extolled Bob so highly that Maggie sat in 
 dread lest Polly should indulge in one of those 
 sharp satiric speeches for which she was famous 
 at school when provoked. But no ; Polly sat
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 57 
 
 humiliated and in pain, listening to feeble anec- 
 dotes of Bob's babyhood and boyhood, most of 
 which she had already heard from his mother, and 
 wishing she was safe at home and her trials and 
 temptations over. The family friend plainly as- 
 sumed that she had a special ifiterest in Bob, or 
 soon would have, and she did not feel skilful 
 enough to parry the assumption without betraying 
 that she understood it. All Polly's feints consisted 
 in refusing to see what she did not wish to see. 
 While the talk was still at its height, down came 
 a heavy pour of rain, and Bob strolled in from 
 the garden. Polly was in possession of his peculiar 
 chair, and, quite simply, not meaning any offence 
 or expecting it to be taken, he said '* Get up, 
 Polly, and you shall sit on my knee." Polly got 
 up and would have stepped away ; but Bob dex- 
 terously intercepted her and throned her on his 
 knee, adding in a cheerful explanatory tone, " She 
 is going to be my little wife, ]Mrs. Davis — are you 
 not, Polly > " 
 
 "There go two words to that bargain," said 
 Maggie, and laughed nen-ously. Polly did not 
 speak, but she made a gentle decided move to 
 extricate herself, her heart beating with pang after
 
 58 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 pang-, and her eyes turned with pathetic entreaty 
 on Bob's face. Bob, who loved her eyes, smiled 
 at their helpless sweetness, and thought they were 
 like his favourite setter's when she cowered at his 
 feet, fearing punishment. He did not let her go 
 at once, and she did not struggle — dignity forbade 
 — but she slipped away by-and-by, and contrived 
 to say, pleasantly, that though it might be a vast 
 honour to sit on Bob's knee, she greatly preferred 
 a chair, at which Bob laughed, perhaps rather too 
 incredulously. 
 
 The day but one after this was the day fixed 
 for Polly to go home. Mrs. Livingstone was very 
 kind to her, and hoped she would soon return for 
 a longer stay ; and this she repeated so frequently 
 that Polly quite understood that sJu had no doubt 
 of it. Bob left her little peace, but he did not put 
 her out of her pain until the last morning, when 
 she had begun to think she was to get away with- 
 out incurring the worst test. It was settled the 
 night before that she should go to the station with 
 Maggie and Laura in the pony-carriage, which 
 had a front and back seat ; and when she had 
 said good-bye to Mrs. Livingstone and Fanny 
 indoors and came out at the garden-door in the
 
 POLLY'S OXE OFFER. 59 
 
 morning sunshine, there was Bob in a Hght 
 summer suit, looking in the finest spirits, but 
 excited withal. 
 
 " Are yoiL going, Bob ? I have put on my 
 driving gloves," said Laura, who had already taken 
 the reins. 
 
 '* You may drive and welcome ; I only want to 
 go to the turn of Pickett's-lane ; I'll sit behind 
 with Polly," said he, and put her in and followed 
 himself. Then Maggie mounted by her sister, and 
 off the pony went at a frisky trot. 
 
 Polly's parting glimpse of the Grange was 
 adorned by the figures of Mrs. Livingstone and 
 Fanny in the porch, Fanny waving her hand and 
 crying, " Come back soon, Polly ; come back soon !" 
 The road was long and perfectly level and straight, 
 but it wavered in capricious zigzags before Polly's 
 eyes, while roses and lilies contended for the 
 dominion of her face. Bob was there, and watch- 
 ing her, and her heart was all one great swelling 
 pang. She would have given anything for leave 
 to cry, but this was neither the time nor place for 
 tears, and she had forgotten her veil. Bob was 
 apparently occupied with the landscape, but he did 
 not lose one change of her sweet little face, and
 
 6o COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 presently he began to speak of her return to the 
 Grange. 
 
 " But I shall see you before then, Polly," he 
 went on ; "I am going to Norminster next week, 
 and you will introduce me to Jane and your 
 mother. I am only a rough fellow, but I love you 
 dearly, Polly, and you must speak for me. I'll 
 promise to take all the care in the world of you if 
 you'll be my precious little wife — don't you believe 
 me, Polly } " 
 
 " I know you are very good. Bob, but I made 
 up my mind long since that I could take care of 
 myself," said Polly, with sudden, invincible, wicked 
 quiet, that came to her aid from no one could tell 
 whence. 
 
 " What on earth do you mean, Polly } " de- 
 manded Bob, startled out of his happy com- 
 placency. 
 
 " What I say. You are very kind, but — but I 
 don't intend to marry." 
 
 Bob was posed for a moment, though not 
 silenced. *' Change your mind for me, Polly. 
 Don't you think we could be happy together } I 
 have quite set my heart on yoic. I cannot live 
 without you."
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 6i 
 
 " That is what all men say beforehand ; but I 
 have heard my mother talk. No, Bob ; I shall 
 make a better governess than wife ; I am not cut 
 out for anybody's wife." 
 
 " Let me judge of that Polly ; don't shake your 
 head. What has come over you to be such a little 
 savage all at once .'* You were very nice yester- 
 day ; why did you let a fellow go on worshipping 
 you, if you meant to be so hard to him at last 1 
 I don't understand it ; I won't believe you can 
 seriously mean to use a fellow so badly. Is it 
 true then, that you don't care for me } Is it 
 true that you can't be happy with me — that you 
 won't even think of it 1 " 
 
 There was no softening or promise in Polly's 
 countenance. She was feeling that she had come 
 through the dreaded ordeal wonderfully, and the 
 pride and excitement of a complete victory over 
 the traitor in her bosom sustained her. Bob was 
 speechless for a few minutes. They approached 
 the turn of Pickett's-lane. At the supreme mo- 
 ment he looked at her once more with wrathful 
 love, and said, in a constrained voice, "■ Then you'll 
 have nothing to do with me, Polly t " Her heart 
 moved with a cruel spasm, but her " No, Bob,"
 
 62 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 came out cold, curt, and clear as a drop of iced 
 water. 
 
 Bob stepped into the road as Laura checked 
 the pony ; the halt was not for half a minute, 
 and he disappeared, and Polly was left to enjoy 
 her triumph of principle over natural affection. 
 
 Maggie understood but too well what had 
 happened, and, doing by Polly as she would have 
 been done by in similar circumstances, she took no 
 notice of her disappointing friend until they arrived 
 at the station. There were not two minutes to 
 wait, and the train dashed in. Laura stayed out- 
 side with the pony. Maggie took Polly's ticket, 
 saw her luggage safe and herself in a carriag-e 
 alone ; and then, just as the guard came along 
 with his whistle and " all right," she kissed her and 
 said, with a sob, " I am awfully sorry, Polly ; but it 
 is your own fault. You deserve to die an old maid, 
 and I believe you will ! "
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 63 
 
 VI. 
 
 It may, perhaps, be anticipated that Polly repented 
 at once, for she was certainly fond of Bob ; but it 
 cannot confidently be averred that she did. When 
 she arrived at home, her mother and Jane thought 
 her looking remarkably rosy and well ; nothing was 
 observed to be the matter with her spirits, and as 
 she kept her own counsel about Bob's offer, she 
 had neither praise nor blame to endure, nor ques- 
 tion, nor comment, nor criticism. Mrs. Sanders did 
 remark once, " You have not picked up a beait in 
 the country, then. Miss Polly t " and her mother 
 did rejoin that she hoped her girls had more sense 
 than to dream of beaux, but that was the nearest 
 allusion to the subject ; and, when the holidays 
 were over, she went back to the Warden House 
 and resumed her school-room work in her orderly 
 systematic way, as if she had not a care or a 
 thought beyond it. For a month or two Mrs. 
 Stapylton lived in daily expectation of a notice 
 that she must provide herself with another gover- 
 ness, but no notice coming, she concluded that
 
 64 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 Polly had missed her chance, and as she suited 
 her admirably in every way, she was not sorry. 
 Maggie's letters were not much less frequent or 
 affectionate than formerly, but Polly was not 
 invited again to spend her holidays at the Grange, 
 as was very natural. Nor did they meet. People 
 may live half a lifetime within a few miles of each 
 other, and never meet, if neither desire it ; and the 
 three years Miss Mill had decreed as the shortest 
 time any governess who meant to prosper in her 
 vocation should stay in her first place, went over 
 without ever bringing the two friends .within eye- 
 sight of each other again. 
 
 Nobody died, meanwhile, and nobody was 
 broken-hearted ; only Mrs. Livingstone was once 
 heard to say bitterly to Maggie, " Don't let me 
 hear any more of your Polly Curtis !" and hence- 
 forth Polly's letters were read in private, and her 
 name was never mentioned at the Grange. Bob 
 was not the man to rave over a disappointment of 
 the heart ; he was more inclined to console himself 
 in a way that was a sorrow to those at home. But 
 Polly heard nothing of these consolations. When 
 she mused of her old visits at Blackthorn Grange, 
 which she did with a tender paradoxical regret
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 65 
 
 (seeing how she had terminated them), her imagi- 
 nation always represented everything there as it 
 used to be, though she knew Laura and Fanny 
 were married and gone, and that ]\Irs. Livingstone 
 was no longer the active strong house-mother she 
 had been. And an unconscious change had come 
 over Polly herself. A sweeter little woman to 
 behold there was not, far nor near, though she 
 dressed herself indifferently, as women do who 
 have no desire or expectation of attracting. She 
 had great fortitude at her tedious work, and never 
 flagged : she improved herself by private study, 
 and had economised a few pounds, which she meant 
 to carry her to a foreign school, where she proposed 
 to teach English in return for lessons in music and 
 languages. Mrs. Curtis approved of her entirely, 
 and Jane had ceased to complain. Yes, Polly was 
 most exceedingly reasonable and practical, and was 
 an anxiety to no one ; yet sometimes a terrible 
 sense of isolation would come over her, and she 
 would cry softly, with that old spasm of the heart, 
 " Oh, what a fool I have been ! " as if she were sorry 
 for some past irretrievable blunder. She had no 
 longer the conceit of her own strength that was so 
 obtrusive in her at seventeen. She had heard other 
 VOL. I. 5
 
 66 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 people talk besides her mother and Mrs. Sanders, 
 and in the loving kindly family where she was do- 
 mesticated, she saw quite the other side — the happy 
 side — of married life. But she was naturally reserved, 
 and as she had religiously kept her one offer to 
 herself, so she kept her repentance (if it was repent- 
 ance), and at the three years' end she prepared to 
 change the scene of her life, and go to Germany. 
 
 Maggie Livingstone shed a few vexed tears over 
 Polly's letter which brought the first announce- 
 ment of her projected travels, and her brother Bob 
 surprised her again, as he had surprised her on the 
 original occasion which led to Polly's first visit to 
 the Grange. " Going to Germany, is she } " said 
 he, when the communication of her affairs had 
 been made to him — " going to Germany " 
 
 "Yes, and I shall never see her again very 
 likely. Poor little Polly ! I was so fond of her. 
 Bob!" 
 
 " Other people were fond of her, too, Maggie, 
 but it was no use ; she has not a bit of heart." 
 
 " Don't say that, Bob ; she has heart enough 
 for anything, but her head was crammed with 
 ridiculous theories and nonsense. I daresay she is 
 wiser now."
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 67 
 
 " We are all of us that when it's too late," 
 rejoined Bob, and walked out of the room softly 
 whistling. 
 
 It was the same evening that Maggie ad- 
 dressing her brother, said : " Bob, you'll drive me 
 into Lanswood on Saturday ; I have written to 
 ask Polly to meet me at Miss Wiggins's shop if it 
 be fair, for a last walk and talk together. I can't 
 bear the thought of letting her go so far from 
 home without a word of good-bye." 
 
 "All right, Maggie," said Bob, with seeming 
 indifference, but Maggie knew better than to 
 believe it was real. She felt sure that when he did 
 not hear or answer her further talk that he was 
 musing of Polly — perhaps w^iether she was wiser 
 or not now. 
 
 Polly was touched by Maggie's longing to see 
 her again : " Dear old Maggie, she has forgiven 
 me at last," she said. 
 
 Polly arrived first at the place of their appoint- 
 ment, and was sitting up-stairs in IMiss Wiggins's 
 show-room when the Grange dog-cart stopped at 
 the door. She looked out with a pale little emo- 
 tional face, and the cruel wrench at her heart ; but 
 no one looked up from below. There was Bob
 
 68 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 dressed in mourning, and Maggie and a little boy 
 also in mourning, and a groom behind, who 
 assisted Maggie to alight, and then lifted the child 
 down and set him on the pavement by her. Maggie 
 took the boy by the hand to enter the shop, and 
 Bob drove off up the street, and was out of 
 sight before his sister could mount the stairs. 
 Polly stood fronting the door, and as Maggie 
 caught a view of her she cried : " Bless thy bonnie 
 face, Polly, it's just the same as ever ! " and they 
 kissed with all the old love that used to be be- 
 tween them. And, of course, they cried a little 
 together, until the appearance of Miss Wiggins, 
 intent on business, obliged them to clear their 
 countenances, and take an interest in the fashions. 
 
 Maggie said she wanted nothing for herself, 
 but she would look at some children's spring coats, 
 and while Miss Wiggins was bringing forth pat- 
 terns, she called the child to her knee, and taking 
 off his hat, ruffled up his hair, and asked Polly 
 whom he was like. 
 
 " He is like Bob," said Polly, and blushed with 
 soft surprise. 
 
 " It is Bob's son," replied Maggie. " Kiss this 
 pretty lady, Arty." Arty was nothing loth, and
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 69 
 
 Polly having supplied him with a box of harmless 
 sugar-plums from Miss Wiggins's various stores, 
 he sat on a stool at their feet and was extremely 
 content with his own society while the friends 
 talked in hushed and interrupted tones. 
 
 *'A hundred things have happened at the 
 Grange that I never told you of; but you may 
 have heard whispers ? No ! You know nothing 
 about it, then ? You governesses live quite out 
 of the world, I suppose," said ]\Iaggie, and paused. 
 
 " In a very quiet secluded little world of our 
 own," said Polly, and lifted up the child's face to 
 look at him again. 
 
 " He's pretty, isn't he ? It was after — you know 
 what — Bob took up suddenly with a girl in the 
 village, and though we never knew it until she was 
 dead Cshe died last October) he was married to 
 her, and Arty is his heir. Bob dotes on him, and 
 my mother too ; she insisted on having him 
 brought home to the Grange, and if ever you go to 
 our church again you'll see ' Alice, the faithful wife 
 of Robert Livingstone ' on the family monument. 
 She was quite a common person, and Bob would 
 never have acknowledged her in my mother's life- 
 time ; but there's the story, and not so bad as it
 
 70 COUNTRY S TORIES. 
 
 might have been. She was handsome, and she 
 loved Bob, or she would never have borne being 
 looked down on as she was for his sake, or have 
 kept his secret. However, it is out now, and she 
 
 is gone " 
 
 " Hasn't Arty eaten sweeties enough for once } " 
 insinuated Polly, caressing the child, but making 
 no response to Maggie. 
 
 " Yes : give the box to aunty to put in her 
 pocket," Maggie said, and Arty with a little 
 unwillingness yielded it up. 
 
 Then the spring coats were looked at, and one 
 chosen, and. a garden hat, and Arty was put to 
 sleep for an hour on Miss Wiggins's bed, while 
 Polly and her friend took a walk by the river, 
 and continued their conversation. All the news was 
 on Maggie's side. Polly had none — literally none. 
 " And you never will have any while you go on 
 living to yourself — your interests will lessen every 
 day you live. Oh ! Polly, it makes me sad to look 
 at you, and to think what might have been," said 
 Maggie, tenderly. 
 
 '' Never mind ! Let bygones be bygones ; " 
 said Polly, but there were tears in her eyes, and 
 almost a sob in her throat.
 
 POLLY'S OXE OFFER. 71 
 
 Then they discussed Fanny and Laura and 
 Maggie's private concerns which were in a pro- 
 mising way, and the time went so swiftly that they 
 were five minutes behind the hour agreed on for 
 Bob to take his sister and little son up at Miss 
 Wiggins's shop to go home. The dog-cart, how- 
 ever, was not at the door, and Maggie said she was 
 glad, for Bob did not like the mare to be kept 
 standing. They ascended to the show-room to 
 wait, and he was not long in coming ; he was too 
 soon, indeed, for half they had to say. At the 
 sound of the wheels in the street, Polly offered 
 herself for a last hug of her friend's kind arms, and 
 Maggie was all in tears. 
 
 " You'll come down and speak to Bob, just for 
 a minute } " said she, and Polly suffered herself to 
 be entreated, and went with all her heart in 
 her face. 
 
 Bob evidently expected her, though he coloured 
 when she appeared ; and as he lifted his hat, she 
 saw he was ever so much older, but he had his 
 kind rallying smile for her, as he said : " You wear 
 well, Polly ; better than most of us, I think." 
 
 " It is a calm life at the Warden House," said 
 she, quite with a shaken voice.
 
 72 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 " And so you are going all the way to Ger- 
 many — going by yourself? " 
 
 " Yes." She had to stand aside for Maggie 
 and the child to reach their places, and from the 
 step of Miss Wiggins's shop she waved them all 
 her good-bys. She was still standing gazing after 
 them when Bob looked round before turning the 
 corner of the street, and told Maggie to dry her 
 eyes and not fret. 
 
 " I can't help fretting when I think I shall 
 perhaps never, never see her again ; dear little 
 thing that she is ! Oh ! Bob, if you had only 
 waited to ask her till now that she's come to a 
 right sense of things." 
 
 Bob made no answer to his sister's rueful 
 adjuration ; he was lost in thought of Polly's 
 beauty and Polly's sweetness, as they were once 
 and were still, and wondering whether she would 
 have anything to do with him now. 
 
 Perhaps you can guess how it all ended, and I 
 need tell you no more. 
 
 Yes. Bob asked Polly again, and Polly gave 
 him a prettier answer this time. Mrs. Curtis cried 
 at the wedding, and foreboded many evils, but 
 they have not befallen yet While waiting for
 
 POLLY'S ONE OFFER. 73 
 
 them, she is, however, blessed in a standing 
 grievance — namely, that Polly's one boy is not 
 the eldest son, and will not inherit Livingstone 
 Manor. But she is not aware that she is herself 
 to blame for this, her pet mortification, and Polly 
 is not likely to tell her. 
 
 END OF '' POLLY'S ONE OFFER."
 
 HAWKS WELL PLACE. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 ITH greyly-pencilled clouds the twilight creeps 
 Silent along the slope of purple wold, 
 Upon whose brow a lingering sun-touch sleeps, 
 
 Like eye of faded love, caressing cold. 
 Wreaths of white mist, noiseless as spirits, rise 
 
 From the deep hollows of the autumn hills. 
 Steal ghastly up as daylight slowly dies. 
 
 Hovering on skirts of woods and haunting rills ; 
 Hanging in mystery over darkling pools, 
 
 Which hidden, lurk in wild, lone, moorland spots ; 
 Winding about midst stilly wooded knolls 
 
 Where the massed fallen foliage Hes and rots ; 
 Drooping unwelcome over cottage eaves. 
 
 Or gliding, ghostlike, round the churchyard graves ; 
 Melting in noisome dews on russet leaves, 
 
 Shrouding the night in their soft fleecy waves.
 
 HAIVKSU'ELL PLACE. 75 
 
 II. 
 
 From out the dark, bronzed shade of ancient woods 
 
 Peer gables, mossed with lichens grey and hoar ; 
 With rose and ivy tangles, wreathed in floods, 
 
 Are mullioned windows quaintly draperied o'er. 
 In the deep porch the lurking winds lie mute. 
 
 Death's silence guards the broken, latchless door, 
 The weed-grown pathways echo to no foot — 
 
 To one swift foot shall echo never more ! 
 Yet, always through the dim and murky night, 
 
 When darkness comes ^\i\h neither moon nor star. 
 Shoots out into the mist a glowing light 
 
 From one low window, shining straight and far : 
 A light of cheery fire, of sparkling brand. 
 
 High piled upon the hearthstone's ample space ; 
 No cot, no hall, no palace in the land, 
 
 Shows ever brighter hearth than Hawkswell Place. 
 
 III. 
 
 One ancient room still wears a look of home — 
 
 A look of home some fifty years ago ; 
 You half expect to see the master come, 
 
 And sit him dowTi to rest all tired and low. 
 Old pictures smile familiar from the wall, 
 
 Old books upon old tables dusty lie ; 
 Rich faded curtains on dim carpets fall. 
 
 The antique chairs are stiff, and worn and high.
 
 76 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 The leaping flames the ruddy wainscot fill, 
 Above the mantel towers a broken glass j 
 
 All is so hushed — so coldly, deadly still, 
 That almost you could hear a shadow pass ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 With dreamy eye, but ear and heart awake, 
 
 Dame Avice sits beside the glowing brands ; 
 She prays, then lists, then prays for his dear sake, 
 
 Who wanders far away in unknown lands. 
 Thus has she watched for thirty years and more ; 
 
 Stiff eld has come upon her, all unheard ; 
 She wearies not though oft her heart is sore : 
 
 Despairs not, though her hope is long deferred. 
 
 V. 
 
 Hoar-fingered ruin crumbles wall and gate ; 
 
 Windows are dark with matted leaves and flowers ; 
 The spider weaves her web in rooms of state ; 
 
 The unroofed hall stands wide to heaven's showers. 
 But this was his^ and he may come again 
 
 Without a warning word — come as he went ; 
 There through long years his favourite books have lain, 
 
 There Avice waits, her faith and hope unspent. 
 Dimly the pictures of old times return, 
 
 Freighted with sorrow, washed and worn with tears ; 
 And yet, in tracing them, her heart will burn, 
 
 Forgotten all that chilling waste of years.
 
 HAWKSIVELL PLACE. n 
 
 Her master's gentle tone, his grave sad face, 
 
 His quiet student ways and dreamy air. 
 His lustrous eyes — those eyes like all his race — 
 
 So beautiful, yet thunder-fraught with care. 
 These shine upon her still from out their frame, 
 
 Tender and kind ; but she remembers well, 
 A moment when they flashed with lightning flame, 
 
 Then, o'er them darkness like a curtain, fell. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 I. 
 
 In the dim rooms a strange fresh voice went singing, 
 
 And he would sit and listen in his chair, 
 WTiile ev'ry pulse in his proud heart was ringing, 
 
 To that sweet tone an echo of despair. 
 A sunny face would come with wild shy smile. 
 
 To beckon Cousin Percie out to play ; 
 And though his strong heart writhed and burned the while, 
 
 He would be firm and frown that face away. 
 A soft, white arm oft round )iis neck would coil, — 
 
 No clasp of serpent deadlier in its might ; — ' 
 He put it off" and sought, in night-long toil. 
 
 To quench his passion's loved yet fearful light.
 
 7^ COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 If her bright perfumed hair but touched his cheek, 
 
 It burnt in pain for many a tortured hour; 
 If her small rosy lips a kiss did seek, 
 
 His soul was melted by their wondrous power. 
 Melted, and weak and wavering for a day, 
 
 Mad-happy with wild hopes and wilder dreams, 
 Till, with the purple tinge of swift decay. 
 
 One deadly thought swept off their roseate beams. 
 
 II. 
 
 Half-child, half-woman, vain as women are. 
 
 Yet tender, loving, passionate and proud ; 
 To him an angel, gracious, kind, and fair. 
 
 At whose bright feet his heart unwilling bowed. 
 The little hands that once would blind his eyes, 
 
 The mimic voice that made him guess who passed, 
 Teased him no more ; instead, a blush would rise ; 
 
 The friendly time was gone — she loved at last. 
 
 III. 
 
 Counsel he took within his stern, closed heart, 
 
 Most bitter counsel in the night's dead hour ; 
 " We love -we love ! for this we two must part : 
 
 The cur^e is on us both — it yet may lour ! 
 O God, my God ! Thou givest me strength to bear 
 
 This heavy, burning cross through my dark life, 
 Shelter thou Lilian from all earthly care. 
 
 Keep her aloof from anguish and from strife !
 
 HAWKSWELL PLACE. 79 
 
 My heritage — a heritage of sorrow — 
 
 Never will I bequeath to son of mine, — 
 To tremble daily for the dread to-morrow, 
 
 Till lost is reason — all of man divine. 
 From Thee I ask but patience, O my God ! 
 
 Patience to live my span of sunless days, 
 Calmly to look beyond the lifted rod. 
 
 While I thread out the rest of this dark maze." 
 
 IV. 
 
 A summer night it was when he departed. 
 
 Moonlight and starlight, hushed as death or sleep ; 
 Still firm and true, he went, though broken-hearted , 
 
 Yet not too proud or firm at last to weep. 
 Dame Avice saw her master near the limes. 
 
 Looking up skyward, with uncovered head. 
 As if he prayed, or listened to soft chimes, 
 
 Or wavelets trickling o'er a stony bed. 
 
 V. 
 
 In that dim hour he listened to his heart, 
 
 To fond warm pleadings far more sweet than bells, 
 Or voice of many waters when they part 
 
 With foamy Naiads in their sparkling cells. 
 Listened and lingered till temptation grew 
 
 Almost too strong for his quick, conscious soul ; 
 Sweet passion round his heart her trammels threw, 
 
 Urging submission to her soft control.
 
 8o COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 VI. 
 
 On him his race's curse might never fall ; 
 
 Was not his reason strong, his spirit clear ? 
 Why put away life's dearest charm of all, 
 
 For such a vague, uncertain, distant fear ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 " Be strong to suffer, be not weak to sin," 
 
 Whispered God's warner in his shrinking ear ; 
 " Be strong and overcome ! If passion win. 
 
 Peace shall pass from thee, leaving with thee, fear — 
 A chill, dim spectre ever at thy side. 
 
 With outspread frozen wings 'twixt thee and heaven 
 A shadow of the grave, an ebbing tide, 
 
 Thy heart upon it from the life-shore driven." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " Lilian, sweet Lilian, wake from out thy dream ! 
 
 Wake, Lilian !" sighed the night-wind 'gainst the pane 
 " O ! Lilian, say farewell ! " The white moonbeam 
 
 Crept to her eyes and kissed them once again. 
 A wavering smile toyed on her parted lips, 
 
 While Percie's name stole from them dreamy low. 
 Like zephyr playing on the daisy-tips, 
 
 When falls the rain-dew, silent, soft, and slow.
 
 HAWKSWELL PLACE. 8i 
 
 O ! Lilian, he is gone !" the winds made moan, 
 All mournfully against the window-pane — 
 Sweet Lilian, wake and weep, for he is gone — 
 Percie is gone — is gone — nor comes again ! " 
 
 PART THIRD. 
 
 I. 
 
 Up rose the dawn, with sunshine on the wold, 
 
 With hymns of birds and incense-breath of flowers ; 
 The shadows fled into the forests old, 
 
 And opening buds looked up for dewy showers. 
 The summer slaked his thirst in the swift rill, 
 
 The breezes hid away in shady nooks, 
 The mavis sang one wild continuous trill. 
 
 And white-eyed pebbles peered from out the brooks. 
 
 II. 
 The ruby light woke Lilian with a kiss. 
 
 Then nestled in her waves of silken hair : 
 Stole to her bosom like a soft caress, 
 
 Then changed to rosy snow and lingered there. 
 
 VOL. I. 6
 
 82 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 Draped in her maiden purity she lay, 
 
 Radiant as early summer, fresh as spring, 
 Half-sleeping, half-awake, with thoughts astray, 
 
 In dreamland wand'ring still on pure white wing. 
 But the vague beauteous vision of the night 
 
 Faded so fast her heart could scarce pursue ; 
 Vainly she strove to stay its wavering light, — 
 
 It died away in formless, shadowy hue. 
 
 III. 
 
 Then rose she up with sudden smile and sigh, 
 
 And let the sun in on her morning prayer ; 
 The moted raylets, floating noiseless by, 
 
 Were fain to stay and make a halo there. 
 Forth from her chamber door she slowly went. 
 
 Lingering from step to step in tranced calm ; 
 Up from the open porch, with odours blent. 
 
 Flew the fresh air with morning kiss of balm, 
 To ope' the blushing rose upon her cheeks. 
 
 The lustrous beauty of her eyes to light, 
 To give her sweet Good-morrow ! and to deck 
 
 Her lips with smiles of gracious, loving might. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Her little foot paused not, nor slacked its pace. 
 As on she went to Cousin Percie's room, 
 
 A moment's kindling blush dawned on her face. 
 To fade as fast before the chamber's gloom.
 
 HAWKSWELL PLACE. 83 
 
 The curtains hung adown upon the floor, 
 
 And o'er the windows, shutting out the moon. 
 And though the risen sun rushed by the door, 
 
 Still it looked dim, forsaken, and forlorn. 
 A little while she waited in the porch, 
 
 And listened for his step with ear intent ; 
 Then through the sunshine yet too pale to scorch, 
 
 Along the garden paths her way she bent. 
 And as she sometimes lingered and then ran. 
 
 Still, " Percie, Cousin Percie ! " was her cry ; 
 "Where are you, Percie?" Then her pulse began 
 
 To beat a little faster, and her eye 
 Ranged o'er the tangled woods, where echoes lay, 
 And answered her with distant mocking tone — 
 " Lilian, sweet Lilian, he is far away ! 
 
 Lilian, bright Lilian, where is Percie gone ? " 
 
 They sought him far and near, in wood, on wold, 
 
 'Neath the black tarn that lurks within the hill, 
 Yet vainly sought. The keen autumnal cold, — 
 
 Yule's frosts were come, but Percie came not still 
 Then Lilian, losing hope, grew wan and weak. 
 
 And faded hke a snow-wreath in the sun; 
 Her morning eyes were dim, white was her cheek. 
 
 Wasted her youth ere it was well begun.
 
 84 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 Dame Avice spoke to cheer her, '' He will come, 
 Be of good heart, O Lilian dear," said she ; 
 
 But Lilian answered, sadly, "Though he come, 
 It is too late — he will not come to me !" 
 
 VI. 
 
 And Lilian truly spake ; for, ere the spring 
 
 Merged into summer over Hawkswell Chase, 
 Across the shadowed hills there thrilled the ring 
 
 Of passing bells for one at Hawkswell Place. 
 For Fairy Lilian, dying in her prime. 
 
 As die the violets ere the rose is blown : 
 For angel Lilian rang fliat gathering chim e, 
 
 With a low, sad rebuke in its deep tone. 
 
 PART THE LAST. 
 
 The snow lay deep upon the open Chase, 
 
 The sky above was murk, and dull, and drear ; 
 
 The winter winds were out on their mad race, 
 Driving the clouds along like hunted deer.
 
 HAWKSWELL PLACE. 85 
 
 In the church tower were clanging Christmas bells, 
 Mingling their carol vnih the loud free breeze, 
 
 Which bore their echoes far o'er the bleak fells, 
 Then left them sighing 'midst the tall bare trees. 
 
 II. 
 
 Twilight was past and darkness had come down 
 
 O'er Hawkswell Place in a thick starless veil; 
 Dame Avice sat beside the fire alone, 
 
 Watching and waiting, silent, grey, and pale. 
 The ancient room was full of fragrant heat, 
 
 From yule-tide logs upon the hearth piled high ; 
 Stood in their ruddy glow their master's seat, 
 
 With Christmas cheer upon the table nigh. 
 Old wine of ruby lustre, clear as light. 
 
 Waited his lip to drain its sparkling tide ; 
 WTiile sconced walls with garlands gay bedight, 
 
 Shone mocking down the stillness to deride ; 
 For they were decked as if for Christmas guests, 
 
 With \\Teaths of bright-gemmed holly twined about, 
 Above the mantel, pictures, and old chests. 
 
 Which shone and glittered as the blaze flamed out. 
 
 III. 
 
 The night sped on, the long, long Christmas night, 
 The bells were still, the wild wind wilder grew,
 
 86 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 Bowed the great oaks before its steady might, 
 
 Shivered the elms, and groaned the darksome yew. 
 
 Lower and lower fell the dying flame, 
 
 Midst the white ashes on the broad hearthstone ; 
 
 The quivering shadows swiftly went and came. 
 The silver sconces darkened one by one. 
 
 IV. 
 
 O ! faded, watchful, honest, hoping eye, 
 
 Look out into the waste of blank white snow. 
 Where windy shadows of the night sweep by. 
 
 With soundless, trackless steps and moaning low ! 
 O ! stretched and starting ear, get thee to rest ! 
 
 Morning is coming from the cloudy east ; 
 The yule-tide fire is out, thy prayer unblest. 
 
 Untouched, untasted, stands the Yule-tide feast. 
 O ! weary vigil, kept with flood of tears ! 
 
 O ! faithful heart ! Oh ! eager, aching heart ! 
 Weariest thou not with all these waiting years ? 
 
 Yearnest thou not to rest thee and depart ? 
 
 v. 
 
 " Not yet, not yet. A little longer space ; 
 
 A few more hours, a few more months of pain j 
 Sooner or later I shall see his face. 
 
 It is a weary watch, but not in vain ! "
 
 HAWKSWELL PLACE. 87 
 
 VI. 
 
 Listen ! a muffled foot upon the snow, 
 A heavy tread across the empty hall — 
 
 " My master ! O ! my master, is it thou ? " 
 Cried A\dce, with a wild and joyous call. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Bronzed was his face, and iron-grey his hair, 
 
 His eyes were dim with thick unfallen tears ; 
 Deep-furrowed w^as his brow with pain and care, 
 
 Stamped with the woe of many hopeless years. 
 He sate him dowTi in his accustomed place — 
 
 " O ! master, welcome, welcome to thy home ! " 
 Cried Avice, gazing on his dark, stem face. 
 
 " I thank thee, Avice. Quick ! bid LiHan come ! " 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " Lilian, my master ? Lilian is not here. 
 Low lieth she beneath the churchyard sod. 
 
 Silent her loving heart and deaf her ear, 
 
 Her body dust, her pure soul gone to God ! " 
 
 IX, 
 
 No word spake he, but from his breast a groan. 
 
 The pent-up agony of his dark life, 
 Burst with the thrill of heart-break in its tone. 
 
 Then ceased for aye his time of earthly strife.
 
 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 They buried him at Angel Lilian's feet, 
 At twilight on the closing year's last day ; 
 
 Through the hoar moss you read the legend yet- 
 " Here lyeth Lilian Leigh and Percie Grey." 
 
 END OF " HAWKSWELL PLACE.
 
 gthnx^x^. 
 
 Half shrouded in a veil of pallid mist, 
 
 Half smiling in wan sunshine on the hills, 
 
 The fruitfm life high swelling in her breast, 
 
 As swells the ripple in the flooded rills. 
 
 Lustres of primrose glistening through the grey, 
 
 First songs low twittered in the leafless wood, 
 
 A tender beam in the blue eye of day, 
 
 A certain forecast of all coming good. 
 
 Like the brave hopes that early youth conceives, 
 
 In the rich soil of pure and happy hearts ; 
 
 Hopes that vnll put forth green and ^^gorous leaves. 
 
 Buds, blooms, and fruitage, ere the year departs. 
 
 Welcome thy wavering brightness for their sake. 
 
 Strengthened to bear the storm when winds awake.
 
 COMING INTO A FORTUNE. 
 
 Y DEAR Brother John, — This letter is 
 to apprise you of our uncle Benjamin 
 Burfield's death, an event which you will 
 perhaps think does not much concern us, since he 
 showed himself neither kind nor kinsmanlike to his 
 sister's children at a time when a very trifling sacri- 
 fice of his abundant wealth would have enabled you 
 to remain in England, and have helped me to a very 
 different lot. But, dear John, he has left me all 
 his money ; I have come into a fortune — half a 
 lifetime too late, it is true, but still I have come 
 into a great fortune ! If he had given me twenty 
 years ago but one hundredth part of what he has 
 bequeathed me now, I could have blessed him. 
 Richard Heywood and I need never have parted,
 
 92 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 and none of the manifold sorrows and regrets that 
 followed on our separation would have come to 
 pass. I have often thought since that if we had 
 had more faith and courage we might have done 
 well ; we were both young, and I, at least, was 
 hopeful. I have never mentioned him in my 
 letters to you, because he did not prosper in the 
 world ; and bad news comes always soon enough. 
 You used to say he had not sufficient perseverance 
 and tenacity of purpose to succeed ; and it was 
 tantalising and grievous to see how sanguinely he 
 would start each new scheme, then in a little 
 while fall weary of it, and give it up, if it did not 
 first give up him. But he is dead now, poor 
 Richard, and has done with his troubles, so it is of 
 no use talking of what might have been ; let me 
 rather still endeavour to make the best of what is. 
 
 The intelligence of Mr. Burfield's death was 
 sent to me by his man of business, Mr. Worsley, 
 the day after it took place. His letter found me 
 at tea with Mrs. Jacques — calm, passive, expecting 
 nothing beyond the rare pleasure of a new good 
 book ever to happen to me any more in this 
 world ! Imagine, if you can, the shock of it. Oh, 
 John, but my great fortune will deprive me of
 
 COMIXG INTO A FORTUNE. 93 
 
 inany keen enjoyments ! There will be no more 
 triumph in achieving possession of a long-coveted 
 volume, when now I have only to ask and to have 
 every luxury under the sun that money will buy. 
 I have been poor and hard-working, but I have 
 had my share of happiness too ; I shall still hold 
 fast my theory of compensations, and believe that 
 if we did not inherit from our dear father much 
 worldly wealth, we inherited what was better, in 
 good health, good spirits, and a taste for good 
 reading. If the last forsake me permanently, as 
 it has done since I heard of Mr. Burfield's death 
 and its consequences to myself, then must the day 
 of my coming into a fortune be marked with 
 charcoal and not chalk ! 
 
 You love a long gossip, I know, for you have 
 often said so ; therefore I shall let my pen run, 
 and tell you all as it happened to me when, by 
 Mr. Worsley's advice, I set off to town by the first 
 train in the morning after the receipt of his letter. 
 He gave me the address of a certain hotel, and 
 thither I caused myself to be driven as soon as we 
 got in. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon, 
 very dull and cold, and with a light rain falling. 
 The people at the hotel appraised my value by my
 
 94 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 luggage and my dress, and when I inquired for a 
 bed and sitting-room, ushered me into the closest 
 and least commodious the estabhshment had to be 
 ashamed of. Sordid little rooms, dark, doleful, 
 looking from a great height upon a narrow back 
 street where grass might and probably did grow 
 between the stones. It was not very distant from 
 Russell Square, nor from the residence and office 
 of Mr. Worsley, and so far it was convenient ; but 
 my riches had, at the outset, introduced me to a 
 meaner and more comfortless habitation than any- 
 thing my poverty had ever made me acquainted 
 with. However, I was glad of its silence, glad of 
 its retirement, and having inquired if there were a 
 messenger on the premises by whom I could send 
 a note which I wished delivered immediately, I 
 wrote three lines to the lawyer's address, notifying 
 my arrival, and then, country fashion, ordered 
 up tea. 
 
 While I was still loitering over my favourite 
 refreshment, a waiter came to the door, announcing 
 that Mr. Worsley was come, and the next moment 
 he was ushered into the room. You would have 
 laughed to see us, John, for I am sure the intro- 
 duction was a mutual surprise. I had expected to
 
 COMING INTO A FORTUNE. 95 
 
 see a sharp, brisk, wiry, stiff-haired gentleman, 
 middle-aged or elderly, and the lawyer was young, 
 handsome, cheerful, gay, and airy. Possibly he 
 anticipated a rosy-cheeked rustic beauty, simple, 
 ignorant, and docile, and, if so, his start of dismay 
 was justified when he beheld a plain woman, no 
 longer young, in last century raiment, and with an 
 intractable expression of will and decision on her 
 countenance, arising out of long years of trial and 
 self-dependence. Oh, John, I am not a bit like 
 what I used to be : when women have to stand by 
 themselves, it makes them hard, and rubs off all 
 the little weaknesses and prettinesses that are their 
 chiefest charm. You would not know me for the 
 Maggie you left at eighteen. I have two lines 
 between my eyes now, and grey hairs. Grey hairs, 
 indeed ; why, all my hair is grey ! But my heart 
 is warm for you, Johnny, and in the right place 
 still, I hope ; and if my face is faded, it is only like 
 the rest of those who were young with me. One 
 would not wish to see others grow old and leave us 
 behind. But Mr. Worsley, I am sure, was dis- 
 agreeably astonished, though he soon recovered 
 his professional decorum, and while I was mentally 
 ejaculating " How, in the world, am I to talk to
 
 96 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 this dandified gentleman ? " he was smoothing the 
 way by his grave utterance of the regulation senti- 
 ments on the occasion, and instilling into my mind 
 the fact that he might be a sober, clever man of 
 business, notwithstanding his Adonis locks, and 
 perfumed scrupulosity of attire ; for he was as 
 smart as if he were going out courting. 
 
 At the first pause I set aside my teacup, and 
 asked if he had been my uncle's adviser long. 
 His answer was, that Mr. Burfield had placed his 
 affairs in the hands of his father's firm as soon as 
 he had any affairs to manage — and that must have 
 been nearly forty years ago. The answer was as 
 curt as the question had been, but it .satisfied me 
 entirely. I said that was all I wanted to know, 
 having had Mr. Burfield's confidence so long, 
 explanations of family divisions would not be 
 required from me. I then intimated that I should 
 remain in town until everything was settled. I do 
 not perceive that there was anything either pre- 
 mature or peculiar in this announcement ; but 
 Mr. Worsley replied, with the ghost of a smile 
 haunting the corners of his handsome mouth, that 
 the funeral was not arranged to take place until 
 the day after the morrow.
 
 COMING INTO A FORTUNE. 97 
 
 " I have never seen my uncle. We were utter 
 strangers to each other," I said, hastily ; for I 
 fancied a rebuke was implied. If it were so, he 
 did me injustice. I am in no haste to stand in the 
 dead man's shoes. I fear they will prove a sore 
 and irksome misfit to my feet ; but there was 
 nothing conventional in my notions, and I sat 
 there without feigning the least regret ; no more 
 mourning in my heart than there was about my 
 person. Mr. Worsley is a man of discernment ; 
 perhaps he might have preferred the exhibition of 
 a little decent hypocrisy, but as that was not my 
 cue, he had no call to quarrel with me for, omitting 
 a merely formal and empty observance. Mr. Bur- 
 field's behaviour had not been kinsmanlike, so 
 there need be no pretence of affection ; and as I 
 am about to reap from his death advantages which 
 I could never have gained during his life, my 
 impassiveness was more than excusable ; under 
 similar circumstances, many persons would have 
 found it hard to repress sentiments of glee and 
 rejoicing. Now, though I was not glad, I should 
 have earned my own contempt had I feigned 
 sorrow ; so, after a pause of somewhat awkward 
 silence, I repeated, " I have never seen my uncle, 
 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 98 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 but I should like to see him — there can be no 
 objection, I presume." 
 
 " None whatever. You can even take up your 
 abode at once in the house, if you wish it," replied 
 the lawyer. I have no doubt he began ^o think 
 me a most unwomanly woman. If I had een only 
 tolerably young and good-looking he might have 
 advanced some words of dissuasion, but entire 
 freedom of action might safely be accorded to so 
 plain-featured and plain-mannered a person. 
 
 It was a motive of curiosity rather than any 
 softer sentiment that actuated me in my desire to 
 see my uncle. I wanted to get a personal idea of 
 him ; to judge, if I could from the clay mask, of 
 the living and acting man, the fruits of whose busy 
 labours I am to enjoy. I was not fatigued by my 
 journey, and as soon as Mr. Worsley acceded to 
 my proposition, I assumed my bonnet and cloak, 
 and walked across with him to Russell Square. It 
 was not dark, but it was darkening, and when we 
 entered the hall of the house where our poor 
 mother's brother had lived and died, it seemed to 
 me filled with a dismalness that might be felt. 
 The door was opened by a thick-set, white-headed, 
 one-eyed little man, in plain clothes, who respect-
 
 COMING INTO A FORTUNE. 99 
 
 fully acknowledged Mr. Worsley, and then glanced 
 with furtive curiosity at myself. 
 
 " This lady is your late master's niece, Roberts," 
 said the lawyer. Roberts performed a stiff obeis- 
 ance, and waggled bow-legged to throw open the 
 dining-room door. Mr. Worsley had partaken of 
 many sumptuous feasts at that mahogany, now 
 reflecting the chandelier in a blank lake of polish. 
 He is not given to sentiment — few of his age and 
 profession are — but the silence and dimness of the 
 familiar room seemed to strike him with a poignant 
 regret. Mr. Burfield had been his friend from a 
 boy, and though he might not entertain a very 
 profound respect for his client's private character, 
 he had for him the liking that grows out of long 
 and intimate habit There were several choice 
 modern pictures on the walls ; for, in his way, 
 Mr. Burfield must have been a man of taste, and 
 while Roberts, in obedience to the lawyer's expla- 
 nations, went to summon Mrs. Proby, the house- 
 keeper, I walked slowly round the room and 
 examined them, as well as the twilight would per- 
 mit. In a few minutes an elderly respectable 
 woman appeared at the door, carrying a green- 
 shaded lamp, and intimated that she was ready to
 
 loo COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 conduct me up-stairs. Mr. Worsley glanced at 
 my face as I turned to go, but he saw no more 
 emotion expressed in it, than he had done when I 
 stood before a landscape of Gainsborough's, or a 
 sea-piece of Stansfield's. He remained below, 
 thinking, probably, what a queer woman his old 
 client's country heiress was, while I followed the 
 housekeeper up the echoing stairs. 
 
 Without a word, Mrs. Proby unlocked the door 
 of a large bare room, uncarpeted and uncurtained ; 
 there was nothing beyond the necessary articles of 
 furniture, a few Indian straw mats, and a great 
 bath. Quite at the further end was a narrow iron 
 bedstead, scarcely raised a foot above the floor, 
 covered by a single mattress, on which rested the 
 coffined remains of a man who was reported to 
 have left upwards of half a million of money. I 
 advanced and stood beside it; and the housekeeper, 
 holding the lamp high in one hand, so as to throw 
 down the most light, with the other uncovered the 
 face. 
 
 It was a very handsome face, large-featured 
 and shapely ; what it might have worn in life of 
 compression and sternness had now disappeared 
 from it. You would have said a man once of keen
 
 COMIXG INTO A FORTUNE. loi 
 
 intellect, generous dispositions, warm feelings, lay 
 before you. I had not anticipated a countenance 
 with any trace of nobleness whatever. Well, 
 perhaps nature had meant him to be of one 
 character, and his experience of the world had 
 made him of another : in almost every life there 
 is something maimed, something crushed, unde- 
 veloped, or concealed. 
 
 " He is not much changed," said ]\Irs. Proby, 
 now speaking for the first time. " When he was 
 alive he was as fine-looking a gentleman as you 
 could wish to see. He stood six feet two in his 
 stockings." I asked if there was any portrait of 
 him in the house. She replied, " No ; the master 
 was not one who thought much of himself, as I 
 might tell from his room, which was as bare as a 
 barrack." She aftenvards added, that he died of a 
 disease of the heart, and would have been seventy- 
 one had he lived until his next birthday. He was, 
 probably, a cold, reser\^ed man to his inferiors, for 
 Mrs. Proby said no single word in honour of her 
 master's memory, neither did she insinuate any- 
 thing to his prejudice. We descended the stairs 
 as silently as we had gone up, and found Islr. 
 Worsley talking to Roberts at the open street
 
 I02 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 door. He met me and asked If I intended to take 
 up my abode in the house, for, if so, the servants 
 had better prepare for me. I said not until after 
 the funeral ; and then we left the square together. 
 
 Mr. Worsley accompanied me to my hotel, and 
 then took leave, promising to see me again on the 
 morrow. When he was gone, to my surprise, the 
 waiter, with great accession of deference in his 
 manner, led the way to a comfortable room, ex- 
 plaining that on my arrival it had not been ready 
 for occupation, and apologising for having put me 
 to the temporary inconvenience of my first lodging. 
 I received what he said with an air of implicit 
 good faith, and afterwards paid for it in the bill. 
 The curtains were drawn, a fire and wax-candles 
 lighted, and a second edition of tea on the table. 
 On the whole, perhaps, I was not wrong in deciding 
 that it is pleasant to possess what commands the 
 outward respect and tangible comforts of this 
 world. 
 
 It was a relief to me to be alone, and to have 
 leisure to think. Life was about to become to me 
 a very different matter from what it had been. 
 The fulfilment of many a wild day-dream was in 
 my hand ; the golden stones to make my castles
 
 COMING INTO A FORTUNE. 103 
 
 in the air realities were heaped about my feet. 
 •How I would build, build, build ! How charitable 
 I would be ! How many desolate hearts I would 
 cause to sing for joy ! How many poverty- 
 stricken homes would I brighten and fill with 
 plenty ! Nothing of personal luxury or indul- 
 gence entered into my previsions ; I would be rich 
 to do good, and rich for that only. 
 
 From which glorified dreams the eye of my 
 mind dropped down upon the narrow iron bed in 
 the bare barrack-room, where the gatherer of the 
 golden stones was resting from his weary labours. 
 I am not usually a nervous or superstitious 
 woman, but at that view my heart beat louder, 
 and I glanced hastily into the dim corners of the 
 room. I was glad to rise up and pace the floor, 
 and count the gas-lamps gleaming through the 
 night for company. Then, I tried to picture 
 what Mrs. Jacques was about at that hour ; next, 
 I brought out a volume of St. Beuve and forced 
 myself to read, but the admirable essayist was 
 dumb for me. I could see nothing but the rigid 
 outline of the massive coffined figure, the straight 
 stiff hands, the feet uplifting the drapery, and the 
 marble hardness of the visage ; and these struck
 
 104 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 on my memory more sharply, more vividly, than 
 they had struck on my senses when I stood in 
 his actual presence, — just as a mortal peril recurs 
 to us with thick heart-throbs when we have passed 
 it and escaped. I recalled an old saw, which says 
 that if we do not touch the dead when we see them 
 they will haunt us until they are fallen into dust, 
 and then I remembered that I had held back from 
 my uncle with the same reserve as I should have 
 met him living. It was a foolish dread that 
 assailed my excited imagination, but after strug- 
 gling with it and endeavouring to battle it down 
 in vain, I determined to return to the house and 
 break the spell. Half way across the square I 
 was ready to laugh for shame at m^y weakness ; I 
 paused irresolute, and thought of turning back. 
 But my folly was equal either way — whether I 
 shrank from the possible ridicule of my uncle's 
 servants, or from the superstitious promptings of 
 my own imagination ; so I went forward and rang 
 at the door. Roberts had put up the chain, drawn 
 bolts, and bars, and locks, and made all secure for 
 the night, and was therefore several minutes in 
 opening to me. I heard the housekeeper speaking 
 to him sharply, and saying, *' Who could it be } "
 
 COMING INTO A FORTUNE. 105 
 
 as she waited. When they saw me, their first idea 
 evidently was that they had misunderstood me as 
 to when I was coming into the house to remain, 
 and that I was coming now. But a few words 
 undeceived them ; I said plainly what I wished, 
 and why I wished it. 
 
 " Master was the quietest man in the world, 
 ma'am," murmured Roberts, smiling, but respect- 
 ful, " and no lover of tricks he wasn't neither, so 
 surely he'd never be up to the mischief of haunting 
 anybody now." 
 
 It* was my distempered fancy, I said, tho- 
 roughly ashamed of my weakness. Then, again, 
 the housekeeper preceded me up-stairs, held her 
 lamp aloft, and uncovered the dead man's face. 
 I laid my hand on his forehead — then kissed him. 
 
 " It is years, and years, and years, I should 
 say, since master owned anybody that kissed 
 him," observed Roberts, who had followed us into 
 the room, and now stood at the foot of the bed 
 with his one serviceable eye screwed up to con- 
 centrate its vision on the countenance. 
 
 I inquired if he had served him long. " Mrs. 
 Proby and me have lived with him a matter of 
 thirty years, haven't we, Mrs. Proby ? " he said.
 
 io6 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 appealing to the housekeeper. She answered with 
 a brief affirmative, replaced the napkin over her 
 master's face, and turned to the door. I apologised 
 for giving so much trouble, which Mrs. Proby 
 assured me was no trouble at all, and Roberts, 
 having dragged on his great-coat, trotted the 
 grotesque shadows of his bow legs beside me until 
 he had seen me safely restored to my inn. 
 
 The fresh air had cooled my brain, for Uncle 
 Burfield haunted me no more, but let me read in 
 peace until I retired to bed. 
 
 Oh, John, I wish you were here to help me 
 under my new cares ! To speak literal truth, I 
 have not enjoyed one serene, lazy hour, since I 
 came into my fortune ; and to me, without leisure, 
 life will soon become a wearisome drag. It seems 
 sometimes like a mockery, a cruel sarcasm, to have 
 made me rich — at my years, too, when I was 
 settled down into a certain monotony and quiet 
 ease which suited my temper marvellously well. 
 My pretty room at Mrs. Jacques's with its old- 
 fashioned bow-window and lovely view ; its shelves 
 choicely furnished with books, the precious gather- 
 ing of a score of years ; its summer seat with a 
 glimpse of sea, and winter corner by the fire, was
 
 COMING INTO A FORTUNE. 107 
 
 infinitely pleasanter than any of the rooms here. 
 I have tried each one in turn, and not a cozy nook 
 can I discover from the top to the bottom of the 
 house. When Air. Burfield had taken possession 
 of his last narrow home in Kensal Green Cemetery, 
 I took possession of his abdicated residence in 
 Russell Square, and here I am. I have arrayed 
 myself in complimentary mourning, have retained 
 my uncle's old servants, and am seeing my lawyer 
 nearly every day. Our business is more tedious 
 than complex. Three years before his death, Mr. 
 Burfield had freed himself from all commercial 
 speculations, and made careful investments of his 
 great wealth. It is difficult for me to realise the 
 vastness of my inheritance. It is all in funds, 
 bonds, shares, debentures, ground-rents, and 
 mortgages ; it brings no territorial associations or 
 responsibilities. It is simply money, the hard 
 gatherings of a hard life which was spent, or 
 wasted, in the mere thankless labour of heaping 
 up riches without object, without honour, and 
 without profit. And yet there was a romance in 
 the old man's youth — a little love-story which was 
 touching in its simple truth. You are going to 
 hear how I found it out.
 
 io8 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 A few days after the funeral, Mr. Worsley 
 called my attention to the necessity I was under 
 of examining my uncle's private papers, which 
 he had kept apart in a bureau in his bed- 
 room, and one wet morning, immediately after 
 breakfast, I set myself to the task, having first 
 ordered a fire to be lighted, and the heavy piece 
 of furniture to be moved into convenient proximity 
 to it. I found them to consist chiefly of letters 
 and memoranda of family interest, entirely dis- 
 connected with business ; and the first thing upon 
 which I laid my hands was a packet of my own 
 notes in acknowledgment of the paltry pension he 
 allowed our dear mother during the four years pre- 
 ceding her death. I separated them and cast them 
 on the fire : I am one of those people who destroy 
 lumber, especially sentimental lumber. The next 
 was a bulky parcel bound round and sealed within 
 a strip of parchment. It consisted of letters, on the 
 outer fold of which was written the name and the 
 date of each. They were about forty in number, 
 and were arranged in numerical sequence. I smiled 
 as I severed the strip of parchment, saying to my- 
 self, that my uncle must have anticipated somebody 
 was lying in wait to write his biography, and so had
 
 COMING INTO A FORTUNE. 109 
 
 got the material ready to his hands ; but I was 
 interested, and carefully arranging the mass, I 
 began my task by taking each letter as it came. 
 
 The first was labelled in a clear female hand : 
 " From dear Benjamin, at Shrewsbury School, 
 1804." It was a thorough schoolboy's letter to a 
 mother who loved him ; less formal than such docu- 
 ments are when overlooked, and worse spelt, but 
 more frank-hearted and affectionate. The writer 
 was in some tribulation with his masters about his 
 non- application to classical learning, and wished his 
 mother to plead with his father that the bent of 
 his education might be changed. It closed with a 
 sort of calendar of the days up to the midsummer 
 holidays. The second was : " From Ben to his 
 sister Hetty." It was in scrupulous round hand, 
 profuse in capitals, and illustrated w^ith grotesque 
 pen-and-ink sketches of boys' games for the amuse- 
 ment of a child. The artist had flattered neither 
 himself nor his companions, but sister Hetty must 
 have chuckled over the pictures with exquisite 
 delight. I laughed over the discoloured paper 
 myself, and felt irresistibly softened towards Uncle 
 Burfield. Once upon a time, that fossilized gold- 
 gatherer had cherished kind family affections.
 
 no COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 Then came a document written on a sheet of 
 sermon-paper : " From my Father at Dene Par- 
 sonage, 1804." The mother had spoken to the 
 father for her son, and here was the answer to that 
 plea. Benjamin was reminded of the exertions that 
 had been made at home to give him an education 
 for the ministry, and exhorted to persevere. A few 
 lines in the same strain, but more tender, had 
 been added by his mother, and at the end sister 
 Hetty sent him kisses. I pictured to myself the 
 lad's impatient disappointment in reading all that 
 vexatious good advice ; and then took up the 
 next letter : " From my dear Mother. The news 
 of my Father's Death. Dene Parsonage, 1808." 
 It was very sorrowful — spoke of poverty, of 
 leaving the home of her married life and the 
 birthplace of her children, almost complainingly ; 
 spoke of her husband with wifely tenderness, 
 respect, and regret. Benjamin must leave school 
 and go to her. " My dear son, though you are 
 but a boy, I place all my reliance on your gene- 
 rous and affectionate disposition," she wrote;' and 
 then went on to say how the plan for his entering 
 the ministry must be given up from lack of means 
 to send him to college. She trusted the Almighty
 
 COMIXG IX TO A FORTUNE. in 
 
 Father to raise up friends to her children, and her 
 heart ached for a sight of her darhng boy. In the 
 next, the poor mother's heart had ceased aching and 
 hoping for ever. Orphan sister Hetty wrote to 
 orphan brother Ben a Christmas letter to cheer 
 him in his " dreadful dull lodging all alone in 
 Holborn." Was he happy } Did he like his 
 master, Mr. Parkinson .^ Had he any friends in 
 the office } How she wished he was with her, and 
 had some of Miss Stock's plum-pudding, though 
 the plums were very scarce because of the high 
 wind that was blowing up at Highgate when it 
 was made. Should they ever, ever, ever have any 
 more such Christmases as the Christmases at 
 Dene when their father and mother were alive .^ 
 She was afraid they never should. Her dearest, 
 dearest love to brother Ben. That was ^z^r mother 
 who wrote, John — can't you fancy you hear her 
 tremulous, loving voice all through .? I shall keep 
 her letters for you till you come home, for home 
 you must come now. 
 
 Though during that wet morning I went 
 through the whole long series of letters, that is no 
 reason why they should be inflicted in continuity 
 upon you — a brief selection will be enough to
 
 112 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 show you what our Uncle Burfield once was, and 
 how he must have changed before you knew 
 him. There were three more from Hetty to her 
 brother at Mr. Parkinson's ; still the same affec- 
 tionate spirit pervaded them, and still the two 
 were all in all to each other. Then I came upon 
 a batch of six-and-twenty letters tied together 
 by themselves, and bearing an inscription in 
 my uncle's hand : " My own letters to Anne 
 Cardigan ; returned to me when she married 
 William Hatherton Gabriel, 1817." 
 
 Old love-letters, of course — the faded romance 
 of Mr. Burfield's life. The fascination of curiosity 
 drew me on to read what, perhaps, I ought to 
 have passed over ; and yet I am glad I read them, 
 for they have helped me to think more kindly of 
 his memory. He was dry and concise enough in 
 his correspondence with me, but when he was 
 young he could write very fervently to "sweet 
 Anne Cardigan." She was his " bonnie love," 
 his "darling mouse" — a dozen foolish, fond, en- 
 dearing names, which sounded heartful, passion- 
 ate, tender, after the lapse of more than a quarter 
 of a century ; but I presently found myself doubt- 
 ing whether this " sweet Anne Cardigan " had
 
 COMING INTO A FORTUNE. 113 
 
 in reality been quite worthy of the ardent love 
 shed upon her. I learned our uncle's early 
 struggles from certain passages of this corre- 
 spondence. He was a small-salaried clerk at 
 Mr. Parkinson's, and lived with his sister in 
 indifferent lodgings, where she had a garden 
 " three feet deep and seven feet long on the leads 
 outside her window, and an uncommon show of 
 flowers she had raised, I can tell you, Miss Quiz, 
 though we have not such pure air as blows over 
 your blessed nest." In the midst of his tenderer 
 protestations the lover continually urged his fast 
 improving prospects, and predicted that some day 
 he should be rich enough to "deck his delight 
 in diamonds and cloth of gold, if her vain little 
 heart coveted such sumptuosities." From often- 
 recurring allusions I was led to conjecture that 
 this exacting maiden was possessed of a bewil- 
 dering beauty, and of a vanity that craved much 
 incense of admiration and flattery ; that she was 
 fond of dancing and fine company, gay dresses 
 and extravagant parties of pleasure, and that, 
 though a promised wife, she did not deny herself 
 a train of followers, amongst whom the name of 
 a certain WiUiam Gabriel occurred most fre- 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 114 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 quently. Further on in the correspondence the 
 progressive rises in the writer's salary were chro- 
 nicled, and one letter was almost entirely devoted 
 to our mother's wooing and wedding ; after which 
 event he became gravely urgent that " dear hard- 
 hearted Anne " should complete her engagement, 
 and become his wife. There was a rather bitter 
 passage in this letter, in which he enumerated his 
 claims upon her. '' Four years of service hard as 
 Jacob served for Rachel, loving devotion, faith un- 
 wearied, a heart warm and constant, a home simple 
 and sufficient, and a purse containing three hundred 
 and fifty golden portraits of his gracious Majesty 
 annually renewed. Anne, dear hard-hearted Anne, 
 will you marry me now, or will you put me off 
 until I am as old, rich, and decrepit as Andrew 
 Parkinson, who bought him a handsome wife last 
 week with the fat store in his ancient money- 
 bags .^ " It seemed that Anne must have elected 
 to wait for wealthier days, as the succeeding 
 epistle was intermixed with reproaches on that 
 score. " You think too much of money, Anne," 
 it said : " a fine house would not make you happy. 
 Money will not buy love, joy, youth, health, which 
 are our glorious possession. You are foolishly afraid
 
 COMING INTO A FORTUNE. 115 
 
 of poverty — but you would never be poor with me. 
 Oh, Anne, if you would only be brave for your 
 love ! I know I could content you if once I had 
 you with me all my own. Though we cannot begin 
 with a fine house, a carriage, and contingent em- 
 barrassments, I know my fortune will grow up 
 to them. My darling, you would crowd all life 
 into twelve months' space if you had your will. 
 Write me a dear kind letter like a sweet sensible 
 Anne, and tell me you have reconsidered your 
 hard sentence, and are ready to revoke it. My love, 
 I cannot live and be a good man without you." 
 All the letters after this were alternations of 
 passionate love, bitter reproach, and angry recrimi- 
 nations. The name of William Gabriel now 
 occurred with jealous repetition ; questions, suspi- 
 cions, charges were founded upon it, as the result 
 proved, but too justly. The last, which told 
 the end of the story, was almost cruel in its tone 
 of contemptuous rebuke. "You will be miserable, 
 Anne, miserable in the midst of all WiUiam Gabriel 
 can give you, because you do not love him ; but 
 you will deserve every pang, every mean degrading 
 torture, because you are selling yourself for money 
 where a woman should only give herself for love.'"
 
 ii6 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 Thus closed the one sentimental episode of our 
 Uncle Burfield's life. What think you of it John ? 
 It seems to me that Anne Cardigan soured an 
 honest manly spirit, and turned the sweet waters of 
 his life into bitterness. 
 
 When I continued my researches, another mis- 
 cellaneous packet came to hand, at the top of which 
 were some of our grandfather's letters to his son at 
 school. I read one or two, but finding them mere 
 sonorous Johnsonian compositions, with little per- 
 sonal interest, I passed them over, and went on to 
 a group inscribed : '' From William Gabriel, after 
 the failure of Gabriel's bank, 1826." Another 
 followed : *' From William Gabriel at Bologne, 
 1827 ; " and the next after that was " From William 
 Gabriel's widow — a begging petition to which I did 
 not reply, 1827." The date of this letter placed it 
 ten years after that which closed their correspon- 
 dence as lovers. In that interval Mr. Burfield had 
 got on in the world, had hardened and taken the 
 gold fever, had given up his faith in the better part 
 of human nature, and pensioned his widowed sister 
 with a grudging parsimony. Of this period were a 
 few ill-composed documents in a female hand, 
 curiously intermixed of affection and calculation ;
 
 COMING INTO A FORTUNE. 117 
 
 that correspondence had its climax in an epistle of 
 profuse acknowledgment for some satisfactory- 
 pecuniary arrangement which ]\Ir. Worsley had 
 been empowered to make, and then it ceased 
 altogether. From first to last the letters from 
 this hand spread over a space of eight years. Then 
 came several more from William Gabriel's widow, 
 all uttering a cry of destitution and a plea for 
 help. For a long time it appeared that Mr. Burfield 
 had turned a deaf ear to these petitions, but at 
 length, there was a note thanking him for a dona- 
 tion which, she said, had enabled her to procure 
 medical aid for her child, then lying sick of a fever. 
 All her subsequent letters continued to describe her 
 as poor, and struggling vainly to educate her son. 
 Mr. Burfield's charity was appealed to in every one. 
 and there were many allusions to former days, 
 which, perhaps, she would have been glad to bring 
 back ; but, somehow, she failed of being pathetic ; 
 such allusions echoed less of past affection than 
 of present regret. Her " Oh, my dear and true 
 friend, had I but listened to you, and followed 
 the dictates of my own heart when we were both 
 young, how different now would have been my 
 condition ! " had all the metallic resonance which
 
 1 1 8 CO UNTR V STORIES. 
 
 had jarred out of tune for ever the finest chords in 
 Mr. Burfield's breast. I could not help feeling an- 
 noyed that he should have so often complied with the 
 clamorous demands of this mercenary woman. She 
 wearied him by her importunity. " From William 
 Gabriel's widow, for money. Sent her 50/.," occurred 
 again and again. But at length there came one letter, 
 simpler in expression, briefer, and more natural, upon 
 the enclosure of which was written, " Anne's last 
 letter, two days before her death, 1838." ''Dear 
 friend," she said, towards the end of it, " I have 
 not strength to write much to you now, beyond 
 begging you to be kind to my boy, and humbly 
 entreating you to pardon the great, great wrong I 
 once did you. I have long known how it poisoned 
 your life, though you have been so nobly good to 
 me, who deserved nothing at your hands but scorn. 
 I see now how wicked and cruel my conduct to 
 you was, but I did not see it then, and I have 
 suffered for it sorely since. I pray you and the 
 Almighty to forgive me. If I had my life to live 
 over again, I would live it very differently." 
 
 This brought me to the end of the assorted 
 letters ; there were a few of no moment lying 
 loose in the desk, and a thick bundle of newspaper
 
 COMING INTO A FORTUNE. 119 
 
 extracts, which I kept for leisure perusal, seeing 
 ;hey were contemporary accounts of events most 
 of which have passed into the obscurity of ancient 
 history. Then there was a packet of mourning 
 cards, which showed that Mr. Burfield had outlived 
 many friends and acquaintance ; then there was a 
 dog's brass collar, engraved with his master's name 
 and place of abode ; and there was an old faded 
 red silk huswife, with rusty needles and threads in 
 it still, and within the pocket was a card and a lock 
 of tarnished yellow hair — the card was a common 
 visiting-card, with " Miss Anne Cardigan " printed 
 upon it, and across one corner was written, " Come 
 early to-night" The last thing was a flat case of 
 miniatures painted upon ivory ; each portrait being 
 set separately in a narrow rim of gold, with a ring 
 attached for a chain to be passed through. They 
 are family likenesses : our grandfather, grand- 
 mother, and probably great-aunts and uncles — 
 they are quite old by the costumes, and I do not 
 recognize any. 
 
 When my task was accomplished, I stretched 
 my arms above my head with a grateful sense of 
 relief; then leaving the bureau open to air, after 
 its delivery of its musty secrets, I descended to
 
 I20 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 the drawing-room, to indulge a brief spell of reflection 
 over my discoveries. Do I weary you, dear John? 
 Have I gossiped long enough ? But consider the 
 greatness of the occasion — and I have nearly done. 
 When I came to inquire of Mr. Worsley, I 
 found that the son of Mrs. Gabriel is still living, 
 and in good repute as an artist ; if you read the 
 Art criticisms in our papers and magazines, which 
 probably find their way out to Melbourne, you 
 must know his name. Mr. Burfield brought him 
 up after his mother's death, though without future 
 expectations from himself, but he left him a 
 legacy of a thousand pounds. With the exception 
 of bequests to his old servants, and the gift of 
 two valuable paintings to his physician, no name 
 besides my own occurs in the will. But though 
 our uncle did not choose to remember you, my 
 dear brother, it will be all the same as if he had 
 made us equal ; for what is mine is yours. I am 
 alone in the world, with few friends and no ties 
 of kindred but yourselves — will you come home 
 again with Mary and the children I have never 
 seen 1 I shall be very restless until I hear from 
 you, and for myself I shall neither do nor devise 
 anything. When I can escape from the lawyers
 
 COMING INTO A FORTUNE. 121 
 
 and the inevitable business entailed on me by my 
 heiress-ship, I shall return to my lodgings at 
 Mrs. Jacques's, and there stay until news of you 
 reaches me. Think of me as unsettled and anxious 
 meanwhile, and do not delay to write. It is much 
 to ask of you to break up the connexions and 
 habits of twenty years, but to those born and bred 
 in dear old England, methinks it must always be 
 felt as /wine. My dear love to Mary and all your 
 darlings, and every blessing on yourself. 
 
 Margaret Stansfield. 
 
 END OF '' COMING INTO A FORTUNE.
 
 BY THE SHORE OF LIFE. 
 
 LONE by my fireside dreaming, 
 Counting life's golden sands : 
 Counting the years on my fingers 
 
 Since my youth and I shook hands — 
 Since I stood weak and weary 
 
 On the shores of a troubled sea, 
 And my youth and its hopes went drifting 
 
 Down the ebb tide dark and dree — 
 Counting the years on my fingers 
 
 And looking along the shore, 
 Back to the spot where we parted. 
 
 Parted for evermore, — 
 Many a precious footprint 
 
 Trace I upon the sands, 
 Hence to the shadowed waters 
 
 Where my youth and I shook hands.
 
 BY THE SHORE OF LIFE. 123 
 
 Wavering and slow at their outstart, 
 
 Oft halting and turning back, 
 Alone in the mournful journey, 
 
 Are the first steps on the track ; 
 Looking away at the sea-mists — 
 
 Not at the stumbling feet, — 
 Are the tear-blind eyes of the wanderer 
 
 Where she and Pale Sorrow meet. 
 
 Her passion is mute in this presence, 
 
 And low, with her face on her hands, 
 Keeps she a vigil of silence 
 
 Midst the wrecks on the storm-beat sands ; 
 Till comes through the moonless darkness. 
 
 Wraith-like, unheard and slow. 
 With trailing garments of mourning, 
 
 Patience^ with heavenward brow. 
 
 She rises up fi-om her weeping, 
 
 And looks o'er the sea again ; 
 But night is low on the waters, 
 
 And her eyes may watch in vain. 
 Onward, by Patience guided, 
 
 Onward along the shore. 
 Leaving the wrecks unburied, 
 
 Unburied for evermore.
 
 124 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 Peace comes in the morning twilight, 
 
 Strength comes in the later day, 
 And all these four together, 
 
 Press forward upon the way. 
 Not without bitter struggle, 
 
 Passes the noontide heat ; 
 Turned back and checked and baffled. 
 
 Oft are her weary feet. 
 
 Could she but sit and rest her 
 
 One hour by the whitening wave, 
 And gather old dreams around her. 
 
 It is all that her" soul would crave \ 
 But no ! she must work and suffer 
 
 While the day is daylight still. 
 There is time for rest and idlesse 
 
 In the grave beyond the hill. 
 
 Quicksand and ghastly breakers 
 
 Are there on the forward track : 
 '' Go on," moans the tide advancing, 
 
 " No Hngering, no looking back ! " 
 Swifter, and ever swifter, 
 
 Comes the roll of the mighty flood, 
 And the waves of dark Time sweep over. 
 
 The spot where late she stood.
 
 BV THE SHORE OF LIFE. 125 
 
 A wide, black waste of water, 
 
 Strewn o'er with spar and mast. 
 The waifs that the currents carry, 
 
 To the Present from the Past. 
 Across that heaving whirlpool 
 
 She may look and look again. 
 There is only mist and foaming, 
 
 Thick clouds and driving rain. 
 Dead Hopes, lost Love, lost Happiness, 
 
 Lie pale on the tempest sea — 
 Seed so\Mi in youth for a harvest 
 
 That should never gathered be. 
 
 Forward and ever forward. 
 
 Skirting the haggard rocks, 
 Where no glimmer of golden sunshine, 
 
 The dull grey silence mocks. 
 Footsore and lagging often. 
 
 Weary both heart and brain, — 
 " Courage, faint-heart, and forward ! 
 
 Such travail is not in vain." 
 
 The heat of the day is over. 
 Twilight enshrouds the sky : 
 
 Gone back are the sullen waters, 
 Leaving the foot-prints dry,
 
 126 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 Some faint in the deep-ribbed sea-sand 
 
 In all their wandering maze, 
 When she and her heart went blindly, 
 
 Through long, long aching days. 
 Some clear as if cut in marble, 
 
 Straight on the beaten strand. 
 Steady and true to their purpose, 
 
 Guided by angel hand. 
 
 Sitting alone by my fireside 
 
 Alone this October night. 
 Tracing a backward journey, 
 
 By memory's pale moonlight. 
 Looking through Life's long vista 
 
 To its hours of golden sands. 
 And counting the years on my fingers 
 
 Since my youth and I shook hands — 
 Till bright in the far-off distance, 
 
 Like sun on a pictured scene. 
 As I round the hills of autumn, 
 
 The old spring-times are seen. 
 
 END OF " BY THE SHORE OF LIFE."
 
 gtarr^. 
 
 Fold thy robes close, the loud-voiced blusterer sweeps 
 Over the whitened surges, mad with rage. 
 Like cruel tyrant, heedless of who weeps, 
 So he his desperate battle may but wage ! 
 Pray for all sotds out on the storm-racked sea, 
 That the great Pilot bring them safely home !— 
 Pray for all souls who now their doom must dree. 
 That He will take them where no storms can come ! 
 Pale women watching on the beacon-hill, 
 For fathers, husbands, sons, who'll sail no more, 
 Let your tears cease, your mourning hearts be still, 
 Safe landed are they on the heavenly shore ; 
 
 Quiet in haven where ye fain would be 
 
 Anchored in peace for all eternity !
 
 LADY SEAMER'S LONG STEP. 
 
 ISS DULCY CAREW had, at last, won 
 what she had been begging and praying 
 for all the days of her life — that is to 
 say, all the days of her life since she was wise 
 enough to realise her mother's theory, that it is 
 the first duty of a poor, well-born, highly-educated 
 young lady to marry a man of good family, of 
 good fortune, and of any other good which nature 
 might have made incidental to the bargain. 
 
 Sir John Seamer had proposed to her, and she 
 had accepted him. 
 
 It was in the drawing-room, after a dinner- 
 party ; and, when the momentous transaction was 
 accompHshed, the gentleman went over and talked 
 
 VOL. I. 9
 
 I30 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 to her mother. Dulcy stood leaning against the 
 piano, turning over her music. Mr. George Mihier 
 approached her and spoke ; she answered him con- 
 fusedly, and with the tears in her eyes. Dulcy was 
 not a lachrymose person, and what had occurred 
 flashed upon him immediately. 
 
 Dulcy Carew and he had been great friends 
 once upon a time (once upon a time was about four 
 years ago), but George was even poorer then than 
 now, and she was ambitious and did not use him 
 well. He remembered the miserable pain she had 
 made him suffer, and though he was radically cured 
 of that wound, which had not even left a cicatrice, 
 he had not forgiven her. He did not address her 
 a second time, but turned away with a remorseful 
 generosity. He had first loved and then hated 
 her. When she would have amused her leisure 
 with him again, he mortified her. Now he was 
 indifferent ; she had lost her power of fascinating 
 him. If he had seen the man in the moon courting 
 her he would not have cared. 
 
 The same cannot be said for Dulcy. George 
 was a generous, sensible, affectionate, lovable man 
 — if he only could have gratified her grand desires. 
 More's the pity, George could not. He could only
 
 LADY SEAMER'S LONG STEP. 131 
 
 give her a genuine love and admiration, a share of 
 his younger son's moderate allowance, and a 
 venture in his Bank of Hope. Dulcy preferred 
 certainties and securities, and she refused him at 
 her peril — refused him with much misgiving and 
 reluctance, and a pain, the permanence of which 
 she had yet to learn. She had a certain tender- 
 ness for George which his persistence might have 
 blown up into a flame of devotion ; but her suitor 
 lacked patience and humility, and withdrew alto- 
 gether. So her chance was lost — her best chance. 
 And now, season after season had slipped away, 
 until she was turned of four-and-twenty, until, 
 possibly in the just fulfilment of her destiny, 
 Sir John Seamer, whom she neither loved nor 
 respected, was talking confidentially to mamma, 
 and Dulcy was answering George Alilner with the 
 tears in her eyes. There was no plea for those 
 tears — she had got what she craved most. It 
 behoved her to look triumphant and to feel 
 triumphant, but somehow the mood would not 
 come. Perhaps in the moment of fruition, her 
 heart was sorer than it had ever been since she 
 refused George, and by-and-by found out that he 
 had quite ceased to love her. As he turned away
 
 132 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 from her, she perceived that he had understood her 
 dignified position, and that he despised her for 
 having attained to it. But it was too late to care 
 for that now — Sir John finished his brief colloquy 
 with her mother, and returned to her side with the 
 assured, jubilant air of an accepted lover. Then 
 George was tempted to watch her. He saw her 
 smooth her brow and summon reluctant smiles ; 
 but finding the pastime, after all, rather dismal, he 
 took leave of his hostess and walked away home, 
 smoking a cigar. All sentimental reminiscences of 
 Dulcy disappeared with the vapour, and when he 
 reached his chambers he was his own man again 
 completely. 
 
 After the great event of the evening Mrs. Carew 
 could not be sorry to see her guests depart ; and, 
 by eleven o'clock, the house in Curzon-street was 
 cleared of them all — even of Sir John Seamer 
 himself — and Dulcy was shut up with her mamma 
 in that pretty retirement called the boudoir. With 
 a softness quite unusual to her, Dulcy had stolen 
 one arm round her mother's waist, and was resting 
 her brow against her shoulder. The confession 
 had been made, the successful daughter had been 
 kissed and blessed abundantly, yet still Dulcy kept
 
 LADY SEAMERS LONG STEP. 133 
 
 that firm yet caressing hold upon her mother, as if 
 she had yet more to say. Presently it came. 
 
 " Mamma, I do not want it to be talked about 
 until quite the time ; I am not proud of it, you 
 know." 
 
 " My love, half the world will envy you." 
 
 " Let them ! But remember, mamma, I will 
 not hear it talked about. You are not even to tell 
 Lady Milner." 
 
 "But, sweetest, it must be known. Sir John will 
 speak of it himself Lady IMilner is one of the 
 oldest friends of his family." 
 
 " I told him to say nothing, and he promised 
 me he would not — not, at least, until we are home 
 again, and then I shall not care. There is nobody 
 at Avenham to make a fuss and worry." 
 
 " You look at it in a very strange light, Dulcy. 
 There is nothing to be ashamed of in Sir John, or 
 in being mistress of Netherloup — such a beautiful 
 romantic place ! I am sure it will be one of the 
 proudest days in my life when I give you to him." 
 
 Dulcy shuddered from head to foot. " I was 
 sure you would wish it," said she faintly. 
 
 " My dearest, I have always your good at 
 heart. But come, you are feverish and excited ; I
 
 134 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 shall see you to bed to-night myself, and to-morrow 
 all will look gay and promising." 
 
 So Mrs. Carew led her daughter to her room, 
 and performed for her tender motherly offices such 
 as she had never put her hand to since poor Dulcy 
 was ill of the scarlet fever, and would let no one 
 else touch her. She understood, in part, the girl's 
 sudden revulsion of feeling ; but she knew that it 
 would wear off, and believed that it had better not 
 be expressed. When Dulcy's head was on her 
 pillow she renewed her maternal benedictions, and 
 left her. As Dulcy was quite alone, and no spy 
 peered into her chamber, we have no actual 
 evidence that she passed half the night in miserable 
 tears ; but this is very probable, for she was unfit 
 to appear at breakfast the next morning, and for 
 two days nobody calling at the house saw her, not 
 even Sir John Seamen 
 
 When she reappeared, it was to find that her 
 urgent plea for secrecy had not been respected, 
 and to receive the congratulations of friends, 
 envious, surprised, curious, and compassionate, 
 with a serenity which struck nobody with so much 
 wonder as it struck herself. Any little unreality 
 which she had tried to retain about her fate was
 
 LADY SEAMER'S LOXG STEP. 135 
 
 completely dissipated, and she saw her future very 
 distinctly before her : Lady Seamer of Netherloup, 
 wife of Sir John Seamer, the wealthiest landowner 
 in the county, a man passionately fond of her, 
 likely to surround her with every luxury and in- 
 dulgence her heart could desire, mentally and 
 morally her inferior, but not evil-spoken of by his 
 class though not much looked up to either ; a posi- 
 tion many young women would have embraced 
 with triumphant delight — which had often, in fact, 
 been secretly coveted by herself That was, when 
 it was seen through the illusion of distance and 
 improbabihty ; nearer at hand, its colours were far 
 more sombre than attractive. 
 
 She knew a good deal about Sir John Seamer, 
 and she knew all the particulars of his disastrous 
 family history, which people spoke low about when 
 they spoke at all. Netherloup Hall was but three 
 miles from Avenham, where she had been brought 
 up by her mother, and in a country neighbourhood, 
 gossip, especially romantic gossip, is the current 
 coin of domestic society. Dulcy liked to hear her 
 nurse tell of the curse of the Seamers, who had 
 driven the nuns from Netherloup centuries ago, 
 and got wrongful possession of their estates, which
 
 136 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 had never brought them luck, but only murder, 
 disgrace in battle, early death at home, or a 
 drivelling old age ; and then the chronicler would 
 prove her words by asking, with awful solemnity, 
 who lived in the high-walled garden on the edge 
 of the park, where nobody ever passed by from 
 year's end to year's end ? — who but Sir Reginald 
 Seamer, who had been Bedlam-mad since his 
 marriage almost — nay, some folks said before it ? 
 His one son had been cashiered from the army for 
 cowardice, and was living obscurely somewhere 
 abroad, and his grandson reigned with his frigid 
 mother in the old hall alone. All this was hap- 
 pening when Dulcy Carew was a girl, and she 
 heard whispers of it, as children do ; and when 
 John came to Avenham to play with her brothers, 
 she used to watch him timidly from a distance 
 with a suspicious fear, lest the curse of his people 
 might also have fallen on him, and that he might 
 suddenly spring at her and strangle her. 
 
 But all this nonsense faded from her mind as 
 she grew up to womanhood. The high-walled 
 garden lost its wretched prisoner, and a sumptuous 
 tablet to his memory appeared on the chancel wall 
 of Netherloup Church ; then the disgraced son
 
 LADY SEAMERS LONG STEP. 137 
 
 died in a drunken gambling-house brawl at Hom- 
 burg, and John became Sir John, a young man of 
 importance in his county by reason of his large 
 landed property, if for nothing else. He was about 
 three-and-twenty then, and not ill-looking — far 
 from it. He had a frame of vast muscular power, 
 and a broad fair face, rather vacuously good- 
 natured in its ordinary expression, but with certain 
 indications, nevertheless, that he did, now and then, 
 give himself over to the demon, and suffer himself 
 to be carried away by paroxysms of brutal rage. 
 The servants, when he was a boy, used to give 
 awful accounts of him, but as he grew up open- 
 handed and generous to a proverb, they forgave 
 him rough words, and contented themselves with 
 shaking their heads when alluding to him, and 
 saying he was " every bit a Netherloup Seamen" 
 
 Sir John was just out of mourning for his 
 mother when he made his proposal to Dulcy Carew. 
 He had always liked her, but the late Lady 
 Seamer detested Mrs. Carew as a scheming woman 
 on the look-out to entrap an unwary heir for her 
 handsome, clever, portionless daughter, and she 
 had too much influence over her son's mind while 
 she lived for him to dream of acting in opposition
 
 138 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 to her desires. But when she was gone, Sir John, 
 being thrown entirely on his own resources, natur- 
 ally sought the society of those with whom he was 
 on the friendliest footing. He disliked forms and 
 ceremonies, he disliked, in fact, whatever gave him 
 trouble, and finding a ready welcome whenever he 
 presented himself at Avenham, he soon became a 
 daily visitor there. Mrs. Carew flattered him, and 
 if Dulcy did not flatter him too, she did something 
 very much akin to it, in never discouraging him. 
 She had every opportunity of seeing and knowing 
 what his natural disposition was, and when she 
 accepted his proposal, we must believe that she did 
 so with her eyes open, and laid her account of 
 what she might have to do and endure against the 
 obvious advantages of a rich match. 
 
 Mrs. Carew carried her daughter down to 
 Avenham as soon as her engagement had gained 
 sufficient notoriety to make it binding. Until 
 Dulcy had been repeatedly congratulated, and had 
 as repeatedly acquiesced in her approaching eleva- 
 tion, her mother had a lurking distrust that she 
 might suddenly give way to her feelings of fear 
 and repulsion and break with Sir John ; but 
 George Milner did not cross her path any more ;
 
 LADY SEAMERS LONG STEP. 139 
 
 he had gone to do some mountaineering. There 
 was a fuss of friends, and a fuss of ordering finer}', 
 and there were presents and a hundred things 
 besides, to distract her attention, and about the 
 middle of September, the proudest day of ^Irs. 
 Carew's Hfe arrived, and at Avenham Church, in 
 the face of a crowded and respectable congrega- 
 tion and a small army of friends, she gave her 
 daughter to Sir John Seamer of Netherloup, for 
 better for worse, for richer for poorer, until death 
 should them part. 
 
 There is something very solemn about a mar- 
 riage, whether of love, of convenience, or of ambi- 
 tion — this came, I suppose, under the last head — 
 and none of the young bridesmaids, when they 
 looked at Dulcy's white face and desperate expres- 
 sion, saw anything to covet in the position she 
 had won. George Milner was not present, he 
 was still in Switzerland, but his mother, as one 
 of the oldest friends of the family, was there 
 in great pomp and splendour. The old lady said 
 to more persons than one during the course of 
 the day, that, ill as Dulcy had used her George, 
 she was really sorry for her ; but if a girl 
 would marry for money rather than love, she
 
 I40 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 deserved to look and feel wretched at least on 
 her wedding-day. 
 
 Mrs. Carew remained at Avenham triumpliant, 
 while Sir John and his new wife went to Paris, and 
 overran Italy ; in short, performed the grand foreign 
 bridal tour in the most orthodox way. In March 
 they returned to England, and came down 
 .straight to Netherloup Hall. Then began the 
 series of calls of ceremony, and there were a 
 hundred and one opinions as to how Lady Seamer 
 looked, and a thousand and one speculations as to 
 whether or no she was happy. But her mother 
 was serene and satisfied, and confidently communi- 
 cated to all her intimates that Sir John made 
 the very best husband in the world ; and people 
 agreed to believe that Dulcy Carew's bargain had 
 turned out better than might have been expected. 
 When the London season arrived, Lady Seamer of 
 Netherloup was generally allowed to be the flower 
 of it, and George Milner, regarding her with 
 wonder and admiration, said to himself what a 
 consummate actress she was, and questioned 
 whether the organisation of the female sex was 
 really provided with a heart, or only with a muscle 
 of a plastic and a non-sensitive nature, which
 
 LADY SEAMERS LONG STEP. 141 
 
 could adapt itself to every fate as readily as hers 
 had done. 
 
 Lady Seamer had pride — she had also discre- 
 tion, and she had that faculty, more peculiarly 
 developed amongst women, of concealing what 
 she would have been ashamed to make public, and 
 of enduring in silence, and with a certain dignity, 
 the private pangs which she could not get rid of. 
 Sir John was sufficiently courteous to her in com- 
 pany, and he could not be exactly said to use her 
 roughly at home ; but his dociHty and affection as 
 a husband did not fulfil the professions of his 
 courting days. Like most weak persons, he was 
 suspicious, and suspicion developed in him a 
 cunning watchfulness which soon discovered the 
 signs of his wife's indifference to himself, and 
 exaggerated them into a preference for somebody 
 else. 
 
 He did not proclaim his doubts in so many 
 words, but he put them into prompt action. It 
 had been arranged that when the London season 
 closed they should go abroad for a few months, 
 and Lady Seamer had already settled points of 
 meeting with other wandering friends, when Sir 
 John one night sucfdenly informed her that on the
 
 142 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 morrow she must prepare to go down to Netherloup ; 
 he was tired of London, and he was not in the 
 humour for travelling. 
 
 Lady Seamer ventured to ask why ? He told 
 her that it was his will, and that was enough. She 
 acquiesced with a beautiful meekness, and it must 
 have been a terrible fear that had brought Dulcy 
 Carew to that point of submission, but she said 
 afterwards, in confidence to her mother, " I dare 
 not oppose him ; it would be more than my life is 
 worth ever to say him nay ; when he is in one of 
 his passions he is capable of killing me, and I 
 believe he would be no more responsible for it than 
 a savage animal. O mother ! the days and nights 
 of horrible, sickening terror I went through last 
 winter I can never tell you ! I have wished myself 
 dead many and many a time." 
 
 This was what she had exchanged the chance 
 of love and happiness with George Milner for ! 
 She had fine houses, and fine equipages, costly 
 jewels, and many friends ; but a husband whom 
 she could only compare to a savage animal, and 
 with whom she existed in terror of her life. Fear 
 had rendered her very tractable ; observing per- 
 sons noticed how she deferred to Sir John's wishes,
 
 LADY SEAMERS LONG STEP. 143 
 
 consulted his opinions, and watched his eye if it 
 might be possible for her to forestal a desire before 
 it was expressed ; and thoughtful persons said she 
 was much to be pitied, and her mother was much 
 to be blamed, and they hoped no harm would 
 come of it, but that really they should not at all 
 like to be in Lady Seamer's place, even for twice 
 the pomp and splendour for which she had sacrificed 
 herself. 
 
 During the third week in June, Sir John and 
 Lady Seamer went "down thus unexpectedly to 
 Netherloup ; Mrs. Carew, at the same time, return- 
 ing to her house at Avenham. It was a country 
 neighbourhood, where the gentry had, for the most 
 part, only moderate means, and therefore hved at 
 home nearly all the year round. The arrival of the 
 Seamers at Netherloup was, therefore, a gratifica- 
 tion, and while the summer lasted, they were made 
 the object and excuse for strawberry-parties, and 
 pic-nics, and water-parties without end. Lady 
 Seamer thankfully encouraged these moderate dis- 
 sipations as varying the monotony of her life, and 
 keeping Sir John in good humour ; the last depend- 
 ing now on a continuous effort which it was most 
 wearisome and irksome for her to have to make
 
 144 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 alone. People began to whisper that Lady Seamer 
 led a life far from enviable with " that surly brute " 
 her husband, and when George Milner came home 
 again in October, his mother had twenty ugly 
 stories to tell him of what was said to be going on 
 at Netherloup. 
 
 But it was no concern of George's any more ; 
 Dulcy had chosen her own lot and must abide by 
 it He was a barrister, and, perhaps the wrongs 
 of miserable wives were no secret to him ; he was 
 very sorry, of course, but he had nothing more to 
 say. Dulcy's brothers were angry with their 
 mother for having encouraged the match, but 
 obviously that could do no good ; and as for a 
 separation (which was suggested), there was no 
 absolute cruelty to allege, even if Dulcy would 
 have come forward to claim protection, which she 
 would not ; in fact, when questioned by any one 
 except her mother, she systematically and obsti- 
 nately denied that she had any ground of com- 
 plaint against Sir John ; but the servants' tongues 
 were free to wag, and they wagged to a very 
 different tune. 
 
 During the shooting season, Netherloup was 
 ■filled with constant relays of guests ; and, when
 
 LADY SEAMERS LONG STEP. 145 
 
 the shooting season was over and the hunting 
 begun, Sir John, who was an ardent sportsman, 
 being busy, had less time to annoy his wife, which 
 was fortunate, for, during the month of. December, 
 Lady Seamer gave birth to a son and heir, con- 
 cerning whom there were all the ordinary rejoicings. 
 
 The winter months passed away to the middle 
 of March without any outbreak from Sir John of 
 more than average ferocity ; but about that time 
 George Milner came down into the country on a 
 visit to his mother, in company with whom he 
 called at Netherloup. Sir John was out ; but the 
 visitors saw Lady Seamer looking handsomer than 
 ever, in gay spirits, and with as few signs as pos- 
 sible of being an ill-used wife. Lady Milner said 
 it was all put on. She had seen Dulcy franticly 
 miserable ; but it was quite right of her to keep a 
 veil over her wretchedness with the world in gene- 
 ral ; it did not mend matters to make them the 
 gossip of the country-side. 
 
 For three weeks past there had been dry 
 weather and a parching east wind, which was 
 blowing keenly over the hills as Lady Milner and 
 her son drove away from Netherloup. George 
 looked back at the fine old mansion perched above 
 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 146 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 the Nethercliff, below which roared and boiled the 
 Loup, bounding from ridge to ridge of the rock, all 
 white with foam and spray. Seen from the road, 
 the house appeared in some parts almost to over- 
 hang the precipice, but there was in reality a 
 terrace of some twenty feet in width between the 
 walls and the cHff above the Loup : a very agile 
 and sure-footed man could even descend to the bed 
 of the torrent by clinging to the bushes and spring- 
 ing to projecting ledges on the face of the rock, 
 but it was a very hazardous feat, and not one that 
 was often attempted. The situation was picturesque 
 in the highest degree, with its mingling of wood 
 and water, grey cliff and green turf; but whether 
 it was worth having at the price Dulcy had paid 
 for it. George could not determine. That night, 
 when Mrs. Carew was about to retire to bed, less 
 at ease in her mind now than she used to be on 
 those maxims of worldly wisdom in which she had 
 trained her daughter, she put aside the curtain from 
 the window to look out, as her custom was, towards 
 Netherloup. It was full moon, and the bare out- 
 line of the hills was distinct, even the Netherloup 
 hills, three miles away ; and with a sigh, still tem- 
 pered by a lurking hope that matters would grow
 
 LADY SEAMERS LONG STEP. 147 
 
 more harmonious there by-and-by, she dropped 
 the drapery and betook herself to her slumbers. 
 
 In the dead of the night she was awakened by 
 a cry below her window, " Mamma, mamma! " and 
 then the house-bell rang as if pulled by a terrified 
 tremulous hand, and the agonized voice rose again, 
 " Mamma, mamma ! " Mrs. Carew thought for a 
 moment that she was the victim of a horrible night- 
 mare, but the ringing continued, and she heard a 
 scurry of feet, and by the time she had got out 
 upon the landing the door was being hastily opened 
 below, and her own servant, who had lived with her 
 ever since her own marriage, exclaimed, in accents 
 of awe and amazement, 
 
 " Lord ha' mercy upon us, Miss Dulcy ! but 
 you must be stark staring mad to ha' run across 
 the country a night like this, and nothing on but 
 your night-clothes, and the blessed bairn, too ! 
 Goodness grant you ha' not both gotten your 
 deaths ! " And trembUng as if she had the palsy, 
 Mrs. Carew tottered down the stairs, and received 
 in her arms the form of her daughter, who hugged 
 her vehemently, exclaiming, 
 
 " Oh, mamma, we are safe, we are safe ! " in 
 hysterical sobs of terror and thankfulness.
 
 148 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 By this time all the household was assembled, 
 and the women, in sympathetic sorrow, got the 
 poor young mother and her child into a warm 
 room, and bathed her bleeding feet. The old 
 nurse and Mrs. Carew listened to her spasmodic 
 complaints and exclamations, and tried to quiet 
 her as well as they could. Dreadful shivers ran 
 through and through her frame, and sometimes her 
 words were so wild that they thought she was 
 seized with sudden frenzy ; but they were true 
 enough. 
 
 '' He swore he would kill me," was one of these 
 revelations ; " he has said so often before ; but 
 to-night I know he meant he would, and I waited 
 until the house was still, and then I thought I 
 would get away ; but he had fastened my door on 
 the outside, and there was only the window, and 
 while I was listening and thinking, I heard a 
 crackling in the corridor, and the smoke began to 
 curl in at the crevices, and there was a smell of fire. 
 So I took up baby and put a blanket over him : 
 the window opens easily, and I got down by the 
 great old ivy bushes on the tower. Oh, mother ! 
 and I got down by the Loup and over the water." 
 
 " Eh, Lady Seamer, that was a long step, but
 
 LADY SEAMERS LONG STEP. 149 
 
 the angels helped you, surely ! " cried her nurse. 
 And where Lady Seamer escaped down the cliff 
 and over the Loup, is called " Lady Seamer's Long 
 Step " to this day. 
 
 That night Netherloup was burnt to the 
 ground, and Sir John Seamer, whose mad act it 
 was, never from that time, though he lived to be 
 an old man, was safe to go at large any more. 
 His wife remained at Avenham with her mother, 
 greatly changed in character and temper by that 
 terrible night's escape from a terrible death. Her 
 child did not grow up, and the estates passed, on 
 Sir John's death, to a distant branch of the Seamers, 
 whom misfortune did not persecute with such 
 deadly tenacity. They rebuilt the house, and one 
 of the chief points of attraction to visitors is still 
 to examine Lady Seamer's long Step, and to 
 marvel how she got down it. Some persons de- 
 clare it to have been impossible ; but tradition 
 stands fast amongst the country people, who have 
 added to it a feature of the supernatural, that *' an 
 angel, all in white, helped her." 
 
 END OF "LADY SEAMER'S LONG STEP."
 
 THE GRAVE IN THE MOORLAND. 
 
 OW lieth it, long grass upon it waving, 
 Wide lieth it, storm-winds around it raving : 
 No stone marketh it : it is all alone, 
 The day and the night through, alone, alone. 
 Upon the northern slope of the black fell, 
 Deep hidden midst the purple heather swell ; 
 A little mound, unhallowed, all alone, 
 The day and the night through, alone, alone. 
 
 No foot seeketh it : it heareth no sound of weeping. 
 No heart guardeth it, a faithful vigil keeping. 
 
 They who loved it are gone — all dead and gone, 
 They have their rest 'neath graven stone ;
 
 THE GRAVE IN THE MOORLAND. 151 
 
 It hath the snows and winds and rains of God 
 
 Moaning for ever on its lonely sod ; 
 
 They have their cross and crown — it is alone, 
 The day and the night through, alone, alone. 
 
 Unquiet heart ! poor, sinful, maddened heart 1 
 Is rest with thee, poor broken, weary heart ? 
 
 Or hath its dust a throb and pant of pain — 
 Hast thou ta'en Death unto thyself in vain ? 
 When men speak of thee, they speak hushed and low, 
 As if they feared that sounds could come and go 
 From them to where thou liest all alone, 
 The day and the night through, alone, alone 
 
 When the white glimmer of the moonHght glideth 
 Along the lonely fells, the darkness hideth 
 
 About thy grave, thy wild, unholy grave ; 
 
 No angel step resteth beside thy grave. 
 The sunshine, moon, noon, eve, doth pass it by, 
 The rank grass waveth, but no flowers grow nigh, 
 
 Nor God nor man cometh : it is alone, 
 
 The day and the night through alone, alone. 
 
 O ! coward heart, that could not strive nor bear. 
 
 Thou wast aweary, aweary of despair. 
 
 Thou wouldst have rest, and now thou art alone, 
 The day and the night through, alone, alone.
 
 152 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 Thy name haunteth a memory here and there, 
 Lips breathe it Hke a curse upon the air, 
 
 None with love, remember thee — thou art alone, 
 The day and the night through, alone, alone, 
 
 Ever alone. 
 
 END OF "THE GRAVE IN THE MOORLAND.'
 
 Sf>^- 
 
 Welcome, O sweet caprice of smiles and tears ! 
 Spoilt darling, with the fickle, flashing eyes. 
 Trembling 'twixt joy and foolish happy fears, 
 Now laughing loud, now shivering through with sighs. 
 Pleasant art thou, young sister of the Spring, 
 Light dancing o'er the golden fronded moss ; 
 To thy fresh notes the merry echoes ring, 
 While larches shake their emerald tassels loose. 
 Soft Aphrodite waits with myrtle croA^Ti 
 To grace thee as the First Love of the World, 
 To soothe thy sigh, beguile thy fretted frowoi. 
 And kiss away thy anger, rain-empearled. 
 Shine out, then, tenderly, bewitching elf. 
 Earth hath no fairer child than thy fair sell I
 
 RUFUS HELSTONE. 
 
 ROUBLES, calamities, judgments of God 
 — ay, sir, they seem terrible when they 
 come one after another on a man's head ; 
 but, to my thinking, the most terrible thing of all 
 that can happen to a bad man is that the Almighty 
 should forget him, and let him alone. Sit down, 
 sir, and let me tell you what happened in this very 
 house, and round about it, when I was a lad, and 
 what has happened since ; all winding from one 
 clue into one piece. 
 
 Right away from this spot to the abbey was 
 forest then ; the house had been the lodge, and is 
 called so yet. When the plough goes over the 
 land, you may trace to this day the black circles
 
 156 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 where the great oaks stood and were cut down, 
 and their roots charred to rot. Up the steep 
 broken ground at the back were twisted, knotted, 
 bearded crabtrees. I cannot tell you how many 
 generations may have said in spring that the rosy 
 blossoms of them were lovely, nor how many may 
 have set their teeth on edge with the sour wild 
 fruit — orchard it was once ; perhaps the sweet 
 veins of the apple-grafts had run dry, and the 
 natural stocks had put forth savage life again in 
 their neglect. I cannot tell. The rift that goes down 
 to the Southampton Water is just what it was — 
 morass at bottom, and up the sides clothed with 
 hollies, firs, bracken, and all luxuriant greennesses. 
 As far back as my memory serves me, the 
 Lodge Farm was tenanted by a family of the 
 name of Helstone, and it is of my master, Rufus 
 Helstone, that I am going to speak as a man God 
 let alone. The Lodge had been gutted by fire 
 since his time, but it was then kept in good repair, 
 and looked outside much as it must have looked 
 in old days, when ladies on a journey, whom the 
 monks might not entertain in the abbey, rode up 
 to its door and claimed a night's lodging and 
 hospitality. There is enough of the ancient walls
 
 RUFUS HELSTOXE. 157 
 
 left to suggest what it was originally, but only 
 just enough ; and inside all the fine old stonework 
 and woodwork are gone. But the shafts of the oriel 
 window stood the fire, and that was re-glazed, and 
 there it is — a grand window, sir, and most beautiful 
 for seeing the moonlight on the water. It was and 
 is the dormitory for the farm-servants. 
 
 I must ask you to go back with me to one 
 night at the end of the last century, when there was 
 everywhere upsetting, overturning, and war in the 
 world, and we were fighting the French at sea. 
 It was harvest-time, and the moon was nearly at 
 full. The oriel window let in the light broad as 
 day, but a more wakeful light. I can sleep in the 
 sun, but the moon shining on my face is like a 
 bad dream to me even now. I had my straw 
 mattress in the darkest corner, but a very little 
 stir would rouse me on these clear nights. At 
 the time I am speaking of, there were only two of 
 the farm-servants housed at the Lodge besides 
 myself, the shepherd and waggoner — young men, 
 and I but a lad to do odd jobs about the place, 
 and help everybody. 
 
 Yes, sir, I was a sailor since. I have been 
 round the world, and have seen fifty years of
 
 158 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 adventures. But for an event to which I shall 
 presently come, here I might have dug and delved 
 all my life at the earth, never raising my eyes 
 above it. I thank God that he has given me a 
 wider view of His world. 
 
 Shaw, the shepherd, was a solitary sort of man. 
 I hardly remember the sound of his voice. He 
 always whistled to his dog, and liked the dumb 
 beast's company better than any Christian's. 
 Waggoner was a rough, good-natured fellow, not 
 readier with kicks and curses than most of his 
 kind. He hardly belongs to my tale. Moonlight 
 or storm was all the same to him. He slept and 
 snored to drown the roaring of the wind in the 
 big chimney on the loudest night. But shepherd 
 was a restless mortal. He knew the stars, and had 
 a deal of queer out-of-the-way knowledge that was 
 not good for him. Not a bird could cry but it was 
 an omen, not a leaf could fall but it was a sign. 
 He knew all the ways of the forest, and all the 
 wild stories people told of what had been done in 
 it since the days when the Norman kings who 
 conquered England made hunting-grounds of their 
 corn-fields and habitations south and north, and 
 were tracked and taken by strange deaths, they
 
 RUFUS HELSTONE. 159 
 
 or their sons, as they pursued the game over cold 
 hearth-stones. When Shaw did talk, it was of 
 such things as these, and he would always dwell on 
 the dark end of his legends with a fierce enjoying 
 pleasure. He could neither read nor write, but he 
 had a wonderful memory and noticing power ; and 
 if he had got the chance, I suppose he might have 
 been made a scholar. But he did not get the 
 chance. 
 
 A favourite notion of his was that somewhere 
 in the abbey, there was hidden treasure. What 
 monastic ruin has not its tradition of rich coffined 
 relics and secret hoards of gold t Ours has, of 
 course, Shaw spent his Sunday afternoons there 
 instead of in church, and it was a joke against him 
 that he spent them questing for gold— a joke he 
 sullenly resented as no joke, being convinced in 
 his mind that a treasure there was, and that sooner 
 or later he should find it. And the strangest 
 thing of all is, sir; that he did find it. I know he 
 found it, though / never handled it, nor even saw 
 the glitter of the coin. He found it, and it was 
 his destruction. 
 
 That night of which I have spoken was the 
 time, and I was the witness. He had lain down
 
 i6o COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 in his place, and had fallen asleep while I was 
 still waking. He tossed, he groaned, he sat up. 
 I think I can see him now, his white face that 
 never tanned, his black hair and eyes, in the 
 ghostly brightness of the moonlit room. He 
 scared me wider awake than ever ; but presently 
 he dropped into another uneasy sleep, from 
 which he started a second time. The same thing 
 was repeated ; but at the third time he got up 
 and dressed himself with stealthy haste, saying 
 over and over, with a low chuckling glee that 
 sounded awful in the hush, " I see where it is ! I 
 see where it is ! I see where it is ! " 
 
 I lay very still, very still, holding my breath 
 till he went out, when I put on my clothes and 
 crept after him. He had left the door ajar, and I 
 saw him just disappearing under the trees, with a 
 pick over his shoulder. I said to myself that he 
 would kill me if he discovered me following him. 
 But I followed, slipping from tree to tree and from 
 shadow to shadow. More than once I thought I 
 saw another man besides himself; but when I 
 looked earnestly to make the figure out, there was 
 none. Shaw never glanced behind him — indeed, 
 he was, no doubt, so possessed by his object that
 
 RUFUS HELSTONE. i6i 
 
 he did not think of pursuit and detection. He 
 came to the abbey, and went straight to a certain 
 spot in the ruins (which I will show you, sir, if you 
 please), where the moonlight was very strong. 
 Without delay he tore the long grass away at the 
 foot of the wall (there is no ivy on that part), and 
 slowly, with his pick, levered out a stone. Then 
 he knelt down. I did not dare to go near enough 
 to see what it was he took from behind it and 
 clutched to his breast with a loud peal of laughter ; 
 but something he did take out, and take away, 
 forgetting the pick that he had dropped in the 
 grass. Fast he set off towards the cliffs. Where 
 could he be going, I wondered. He went down 
 and down the rift, and, when he had got nearly to 
 the bottom, he stopped all on a sudden. I sup- 
 posed -that he had just remembered the pick. 
 He did not, however, return for it, but began to 
 scrape away the dead leaves and soil with his 
 hands under a clump of hollies, and there he con- 
 cealed his treasure, carefully covering it up and 
 drawing the boughs to the earth to hide where it 
 had been disturbed. It was likely to be safe 
 enough ; few people went or came that way. 
 
 Then, sure that he would not remove it ag-ain 
 VOL. I. II
 
 1 62 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 that night, I crept, and crawled, and ran to get 
 back to my bed, and had barely time to cast off 
 my clothes and hide myself breathless in my 
 gloomy corner when he returned. The rest of the 
 night I slept, and I hope so did he, though he was 
 up before me, and when I looked into the tool-shed 
 there was the pick in its usual place, so that he 
 must have fetched it from the ruins the very first 
 thing. 
 
 All that morning there was about Shaw an 
 air of suppressed exultation, which Helstone, when 
 he saw him, remarked with a sneer. " You'll 
 be finding that pot o' gold soon, Shaw," said 
 he. "You have a look of good luck about you 
 to-day." 
 
 " That's more than I can say for you, master," 
 was shepherd's reply. jt 
 
 I had no chance of getting to the abbey, much 
 as I wanted to view the place where Shaw had 
 prised the stone out of the wall. I was clearing 
 the flower-borders in the garden until dusk, and as 
 I was putting by my tools he came and took 
 away the spade. What I began at once to antici- 
 pate happened that night. Shaw got up when the 
 Lodge was all quiet, and stole out again, I follow-
 
 RUFUS HE LS TONE. 163 
 
 ing him as before. For ever so long he went up 
 and down the orchard, seeking a good place to 
 hide his treasure. Where three of the biggest 
 crab-trees stand in a triangle, their roots writhed 
 in and out of the earth, he dug a hole, neither wide 
 nor deep ; for I looked at it well while he was gone 
 to the rift to bring his treasure. When he returned 
 with it, he sat down and nursed it, hugged it, wept 
 over it, seemed hardly able to put it out of his 
 sight. I got back safe, and about half an hour 
 after he came back too. 
 
 Now I had shepherd's secret I did not like it ; 
 it became the terror of my life. He gave up his 
 Sunday afternoon visits to the ruins, and sat either 
 in the orchard itself or in the kitchen which looked 
 upon it. I had opportunity enough now of going to 
 the ruins, but I never ventured. He had taken on 
 to be suspicious. From being a silent man, he 
 became a mute ; but the stealthy watchfulness of 
 his eyes was everywhere, especially on me. I 
 hardly dared sleep o' nights lest he should do me a 
 mischief, and when they grew long with the coming 
 on of winter, I began to cast about in my mind 
 how I would run away from the farm and go to 
 sea. But I kept my plan very close for fear Shaw
 
 1 64 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 should forestal me with his hand or his knife at my 
 throat. 
 
 Running away was, however, none so easy ; 
 and at last I told Helstone, one morning when we 
 were afield together, that I wanted to leave the 
 Lodge, and I told him why. I never knew till 
 then that master was a bad man. 
 
 *'Shsh!" hissed he, as he gathered my mean- 
 ing, and glanced over his shoulder either way, as 
 if the birds o' the air might carry the matter to 
 Shaw. 
 
 As I looked at him I wished heartily that I had 
 kept my own counsel, for now I saw that I had 
 two enemies to dread instead of one, and that 
 Helstone was the more dangerous. For the rest 
 of that day he never let me out of his sight. He 
 was plotting what he would do. Early the next 
 morning he sent Shaw off to Southampton with 
 some sheep for the butcher, and me he ordered 
 into the garden to work under the mistress's eye. 
 He disappeared for a few hours, but about noon he 
 came and told me to go down the rift and gather 
 an armful of holly to deck the Lodge for Christmas, 
 which was close at hand. This was, indeed, unless 
 my memory fails me, Christmas Eve.
 
 RUFUS HELSTOXE. 165 
 
 The finest hollies and the richest in red berries 
 grew near the bottom, and I had cut a big bundle 
 and pocketed my knife again, when I was suddenly- 
 pounced on by two kidnappers of the press-gang, 
 which was always on the prowl in the great war 
 time. " In the king's name," said they ; but I 
 knew it was Helstone's doing, though I held my 
 tongue, except to tell them I'd as Hef serve his 
 Majesty as my master. The men laughed, and 
 one of them answered that there was then no love 
 lost between us, for my master had given them a 
 golden guinea apiece to rid him of me. 
 
 My adventures at sea have no place in this 
 history, so I must ask you, sir, to skip over the 
 three years' cruise that made a sailor of me, and 
 land with me on the Hard at Portsmouth. I had 
 a shore-going leave of three weeks while the War- 
 Horse took in her stores for another cruise, and as 
 the weather was fine and hay-harvest in progress, 
 I walked over to Southampton to look up old 
 friends. The first I dropt on was waggoner 
 coming into the town with a load of grass, and 
 he told me a deal that was news. The master, 
 he said, was flourishing like a green bay-tree. He 
 had added the High Farm to the Lodge Farm,
 
 1 66 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 and was growing mighty rich and prosperous, and 
 bringing tip his sons like young squires. I told 
 him again how I had been caught and carried off 
 by the press-gang (not mentioning Helstone's share 
 in it, of course), and how I was glad of it since I 
 had tasted salt water, and he said they had heard 
 of it at the Lodge. Two queer things had hap- 
 pened on the same day ; I had disappeared, and 
 shepherd had run stark mad. By bit and bit, from 
 one and another, I got the whole story, but I got 
 it from Helstone himself chiefly. I was not afraid 
 of the face of any man now, and I went openly to 
 see my old master, and ask him how he did ; 
 taking heed, you may be sure, not to betray that I 
 knew the good turn he had done me three years 
 and a half before. 
 
 I thought he was a little uneasy at first sight of 
 me, but that went off, and he began to inquire if I 
 recollected a cock-and-bull story I had told him of 
 a treasure that Shaw, the shepherd, had found in 
 the ruins, and buried in the orchard. " Oh yes," T 
 said, " I recollect it ; and was there no treasure 
 there t " " No," he replied, " nothing at all. Shep- 
 herd's pranks of hiding and seeking had ended in 
 dangerous insanity ; and though his ravings were
 
 RUFUS H ELS TONE. 167 
 
 all of gold, no gold had ever been discovered in 
 any of his haunts." I believed only as much of 
 this as I pleased ; but I kept my countenance, and 
 asked what had become of Shaw after. Master 
 raised his voice, and staring me full in the eyes, as 
 if he defied my thoughts, said he had died in the 
 madhouse at Southampton. " The best thing 
 God could send him, if he was mad, was death," 
 I said. 
 
 When I came home from my second cruise, 
 which was not for nearly seven years, Helstone was 
 still in his place, and richer, and higher, and 
 mightier than ever. All things had gone well with 
 him, and all men spoke well of him. I remember 
 one woman in the village who had barely enough 
 to keep body and soul together, pointing out to me 
 how the Lord had blest Jiim ; how he had laid 
 farm to farm, and house to house ; how he had 
 been forced to pull down his barns and build bigger, 
 to store his fine harvests ; but when I came to 
 inquire if he was a merciful man and a charitable 
 man to the poor, she said, " Oh no, there was not 
 a harder man in the forest ; but see how the Lord 
 prospered him." I answered nothing, but 1 
 thought in my heart that the Lord was only letting
 
 1 68 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 him alone. It was easy for hard and greedy men 
 to get rich in those bad times. 
 
 In my next cruise, which was only a short one, 
 we had a fight with the French off the coast of 
 Spain, and I got the wound that disabled me for 
 service aboard ship. But I was not disabled 
 altogether for a life of adventure ; and when I was 
 out of hospital, I made an engagement with a 
 party of scientific gentlemen to go on an exploring 
 expedition to Australia. Peace had beea made, 
 the old king was dead, and Bonaparte was dead, 
 and buried in his sea-island prison before I came 
 back. Ay, sir, what a story that of Bonaparte's 
 will be in the ages to come ! Rufus Helstone was 
 a Bonaparte in a small way — a strong man without 
 scruples. When I was at Southampton again in 
 the year 1824, he was still alive, a hale and hearty 
 man, with an easy satisfied air; the world had gone 
 so very well with him, that he may have come to 
 think his prosperity the best proof of his deserts. 
 Well, sir, well, we know whether that is so or not ; 
 man looks on the outward appearance, but God 
 looks at the heart. 
 
 I was away in America for another six years, 
 and when I came home again Helstone's place
 
 RUFUS HELSTONE. 169 
 
 knew him no more. He had dropt and died one 
 day, without a word, at his own gate, while he was 
 driving a bargain with a cattle-dealer from Ports- 
 mouth. His sons buried him with much pomp and 
 vanity ; but no sooner had the grave closed over 
 his head, than the luck that had followed him all 
 his life turned against them. They were fine 
 young men, good natured, better hearts than their 
 father ; fair scholars too, and gentlemen in their 
 looks and ways. You could not say — nobody 
 could say — where the troubles came from that 
 came on them, but troubles dogged them like 
 a fate, or a providence, as you choose to consider it. 
 The first thing was, the brothers quarrelled over 
 the division of the property ; they lived in the 
 same parish, and they never spoke. The elder, 
 John, who had the Lodge Farm, married a lady 
 from London, and kept her a carriage. She was a 
 handsome and lively madam, but her pride could 
 not brook the shock it sustained when her first 
 child was born deformed, and not deformed only, 
 but, as it soon appeared, a half-wit. She never 
 had another to live, and she fell into low melancholy 
 ways. I suppose she had not much comfort of her 
 life. Her husband was wasteful ; he took to
 
 I70 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 drinking, and his temper was soured with the con- 
 stant vexations and failures he met in his business. 
 If it was a bad year for the crops for other people, 
 it was worst of all for him ; every ear of corn he 
 cut sprouted in the stack, or rotted on the ground. 
 If there was a disease amongst sheep, amongst 
 cattle, it was of his flocks, his herds, that not a 
 hoof escaped. Then came the firing of the 
 Lodge, the farm-buildings, the stack-yard — no 
 uncommon crime in those troublous times when 
 reform in parliament did not bring immediate 
 plenty into the cupboard of the half-starving 
 labourers. It was the act of an incendiary, 
 no doubt ; but for ever so long, though rewards 
 were offered by the county and the government, 
 the constables could get no inkling of who did it. 
 John Helstone was ruined, and his wife died of the 
 fright, and, during the misery of it, the brothers 
 were made friends. James Helstone gave John 
 and his poor lad a home, and they had lived 
 together reconciled for nearly six months, when, 
 on the information of John's former house-servant, 
 James was charged with the arson. He was tried 
 at the Winchester assizes, found guilty, and con- 
 demned to death. And he was hanged for it, sir ;
 
 RUFUS HELSTONE. 171 
 
 and they brought his body home in a cart from 
 the jail, and buried it on the north side of the 
 church, where unbaptized children are buried. 
 The Lord had mercy on his soul, and he died a 
 penitent man ; but would you not say, sir, that the 
 sins of the father were being visited on the children 
 when I tell you that the general belief, and my 
 belief, is that James Helstone's life was falsely 
 sworn away by the very man who committed the 
 crime ? He is walking the earth yet, and, to judge 
 by his countenance, God is not leaving him alone. 
 John Helstone lived a few years longer, a broken, 
 miserable man, but, from what I have heard, he 
 had peace at his death. As for the poor half-wit, 
 his son, he is glad to do a hand's turn wherever he 
 can to earn a mouthful of meat ; hut he can read 
 Latin and Greek, sir, enough to give you the name 
 of a book. He was sent to a good master to be 
 made the best of while his father could pay for it. 
 
 These are facts, sir, that all the world of here- 
 abouts knows ; but over the facts I need not tell 
 you that people have woven now a tissue of roman- 
 tic stories. One is that old Rufus Helstone sold 
 himself to the devil to have good luck in this world, 
 and that the devil supplied him with strange money
 
 172 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 to make him rich. Now, I see a vein of truth in 
 this, sir. I have been shown several ancient coins 
 in and round the parish, coins both gold and silver, 
 that Helstone paid away for rent, and stock, and 
 wages, and which folks have kept for curiosity. 
 One of the finest is a rose noble of Henry the 
 Eighth, which the parson has — he took it in tithe. 
 Now, this devil's money, you may be sure, sir, was 
 the shepherd's treasure. That is my reading of 
 the legend. What is yours, sir, if it is not the 
 same } 
 
 END OF "RUFUS HELSTONE.'
 
 ST. MARK'S EVE, 
 
 ENEATH the Barbican's grey frown, 
 Close by the entrance of the town, 
 Where, by the wood, the hill slopes down 
 With crest of ancient yews for crown, 
 Standeth the Holy Cross. 
 And at its foot a spring clear well, 
 Made, as the country gossips tell, 
 With chanted prayers and chime of bell 
 When this was Blackburn moss. 
 
 II. 
 
 An awful plague was in the land, 
 Each brother shunned his brother's hand ; 
 The brooks ran dry as white sea-sand 
 Till came with cunning hazel wand 
 A grave and hoary monk.
 
 174 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 Came after him a motley tribe, 
 
 With hiss and laugh, and scornful gibe, 
 
 Bidding him foul moor waters bribe, 
 
 Of which those died who drank. 
 
 III. 
 
 He let them scoff till at his prayer, 
 'Tis said, a fountain fresh and fair, 
 Rose sparkling in the heated air 
 And ever after bided there, 
 
 A pure and ice-cold well. 
 Broad stones around its brink were laid, 
 And many a pilgrimage was made. 
 And many a weary vow was paid 
 
 At it as legends tell. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The church is but a pace away, 
 Its porch is wide, its tower is grey. 
 And ring the chimes the self-same lay. 
 They rang through all that olden day, 
 
 When the good water rose. 
 Its crypts are deep, its aisles are vast, 
 All dim and haunted by the past. 
 With shadows ever round it cast. 
 
 From peep of day to close.
 
 ST. MARKS EVE. 
 
 V. 
 
 Once, on the eve of good St. Mark, 
 Just at the twdhght point of dark, 
 E'er the deep sky put forth one spark, 
 Or faithful watch-dogs 'gan to bark, 
 
 Two gentle maidens came. 
 All clad in black, with shrouded heads, 
 Like penitents dropping their aves and beads. 
 Or mourners hidden in funeral weeds 
 
 But laughing, to their shame. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The gusts through the poplars drove like rain. 
 Rattling against the window pane ; 
 Trembled and shrieked the crazy vane, 
 Under the winds long, heavy strain. 
 
 As they passed by the Holy Cross. 
 They sat them downi on the Well-stone, 
 Talking in frolic whispered tone, 
 Yet shivering at the mystic moan, 
 
 Of the night upon the moss. 
 
 vir. 
 The sky was murk, the moon rose late. 
 Was closed the city's outer gate : 
 Slow sped the hours they had to wait. 
 And sure the coming tide of fate. 
 
 While hand in hand they stayed.
 
 176 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 One singing softly passed them by — 
 A little laugh and then a sigh, 
 A blushing cheek, a kindling eye, 
 
 But they were hid in shade. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 He did not see them, he went on. 
 They were silent when he was gone. 
 The night grew darker and more lone, 
 Deeper and louder the ghostly groan. 
 
 Through the dense yew trees came. 
 The younger and fairer was very still : 
 She looked away up the shrouded hill, 
 The vigil was long, and her heart Avas ill. 
 
 With fear as well as shame. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " Let us go home," she gently said ; 
 " The moon is rising murk and red, 
 The rain is falling over head, 
 The storm would almost wake the dead, 
 
 And I am half afraid." 
 '' Nay, leave me not to watch alone ! " 
 The elder cried with pleading tone. 
 " Rest you upon the Holy Stone, 
 
 I in the porch's shade."
 
 ST. MARK'S EVE. 177 
 
 X. 
 
 The younger stayed beneath the Cross, 
 Watching the poplars sway and toss 
 Their boughs the lonely road across, 
 While echoed o'er the bleak bare moss, 
 
 The stroke of every hour. 
 In the church-porch all chill and dark 
 The elder maiden dared to lurk, 
 To watch who of her friends would work 
 
 Their life-thread out that year. 
 
 XI. 
 
 The night stole on from hour to hour, 
 Chimed from the dim and windy tower ; 
 The rain fell in a sleety shower 
 While blew the breeze with sturdy power 
 
 Over the old clock's face. 
 The hands went creeping true and right 
 Second to second swift and straight, 
 Until they paused on drear midnight, 
 
 And twelve rang out apace. 
 
 XII. 
 
 With startled sobs the rain-drops fell 
 Into the gurgling Holy Well ; 
 Chimed out again the ancient bell, 
 The first hour of the morn to tell ; 
 
 The graves showed through the gloom. 
 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 178 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 It struck again and thrice again, 
 And then the moon began to wane, 
 And dawn shone grey on every pane 
 And every mossy tomb. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Then slanting down the eastern hill. 
 Across the road, upon the rill. 
 The sunbeams stole, all slowly still. 
 Each dew-bright heart of flower to fill : 
 
 Died out the glow-worm's torch. 
 The stars were hidden one by one, 
 The moonshine from the tower was gone, 
 Still sat one maiden on the stone. 
 
 And one within the porch. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 A little while — with gradual pace 
 Morn swept o'er moss and wold and chase ; 
 Then lightened up the old clock's face, 
 And touched the hoary walls with grace, 
 
 Then crept into the gloom, 
 That in the porch lay idly hid ; 
 Glanced at the maiden's closed eyelid, 
 Then gently 'neath'its azure slid. 
 
 And told her day was come.
 
 ST. MARK'S EVE. I'jc) 
 
 XV. 
 
 About the porch there grew a crowd, 
 "Where am I ?" cried the girl aloud. 
 An ancient crone with palsy bowed, 
 Echoed her cry with mockery loud — 
 
 "You have kept St. Mark's Eve, — 
 Kept it idly, kept it sleeping ; 
 Others for you shall keep it weeping, 
 The reaper comes his harvest reaping, 
 
 Bending each bonny sheaf ! " 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " All, me ! t'was in a morning dream 
 I saw a steely crimson gleam, 
 Of armed men who crossed a stream. 
 Riding beneath the white moonbeam 
 
 With swift but muffled tread. 
 My cousin Wilfred rode apace, 
 I knew his fonn, I saw his face, 
 He bore his lance ^\dth knightly grace. 
 
 And his right hand was red." 
 
 XVII. 
 
 "The morning dream comes always true — 
 Were any others known to you ? " 
 " Yes, there were Ronald, Albrect, Hugh, 
 And one who wore a sprig of rue 
 Upon his shining helm.
 
 i8o COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 Their plumes waved wildly in the breeze, 
 As wave the upper boughs of trees, 
 And rode they on with thoughtless ease, 
 A host to overwhelm." 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " There shall be wailing throughout the land, 
 For every man of that phantom band ! 
 Against the battle they will not stand, 
 They will fall by sword and lance and brand ! 
 
 The ancient woman cried. 
 Then many a face grew white with fear, 
 For absent soldiers brave and dear, 
 Who in foul fight that passing year. 
 
 Should die where victors ride. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The legend tells that tidings came 
 Erelong of flight, pursuit, and shame ; 
 Died in that flight young Wilfred Graeme, 
 Albrect and Hugh and Ronald Brame, 
 
 Vanquished and ruined men. 
 About the Cross and round the well, 
 While tolled the slow and heavy bell, 
 The people gathered like the swell 
 
 Of ocean waves in storm.
 
 ST. MARK'S EVE. i8i 
 
 Some weeping sore, some full of ^\Tath, 
 Some reft of all they loved on earth : 
 Sons, fathers, lovers, men of worth 
 Cut down like unripe corn in dearth, 
 
 That proud and stately host. 
 Two maidens listened mournful there, 
 The one was Wilfred Graeme's fair, 
 The younger had a meeker air, 
 
 And wept the battle lost. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 They heard and silent turned away ; 
 It was towards the close of day, 
 The twilight crept up clear and grey, 
 As they went weeping on their way 
 
 Across the windy moor. 
 An ancient woman passed them by — 
 " Go home," she said, "the night draws nigh 
 Your dream is true, go home to die, 
 
 Death goeth on before." 
 
 XXII. 
 
 " I care not ; Wilfred Graeme is dead ! 
 In craven flight his soul was sped — 
 I could have lived if he had shed 
 His blood where ran the torrent red, 
 ^Vhere struggled foe with foe.
 
 1 82 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 Come streak me for my maiden grave — 
 If but one spoken word could save, 
 That single word would I not crave, 
 I only long to go." 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 St. Mark's Eve swift came round again, 
 With April sun and April rain. 
 And rattling blasts on window pane, 
 And many a sighing, sobbing strain, 
 
 Amongst the budding trees. 
 There was a grave scarce green with grass, 
 Close by the porch where footsteps pass ; 
 The maiden's grave amidst the mass, 
 
 Wide-lying to the breeze. 
 
 END OF " ST. MARK S EVE.'
 
 :dr). 
 
 Love in her eyes, sweet promise on her Hps, 
 Blossomed abundance in her tender arms, 
 Bird music heralding her sunlit steps, 
 \Vinds hushed and mute in reverence of her charms. 
 Maid veiled in tresses flecked with gems of dew, 
 White lily cro\\-ned and clad in 'broidered green 
 Smiling till hoar and eld their youth renew, 
 And vest themselves in robes of verdant sheen. 
 Where fall her dainty feet meek daisies blow, 
 Lifting their fire-touched Hps to court a kiss ; 
 Heart beats to heart, and soft cheeks warmly glow, 
 W^ith budding hopes of love and joy and bhss. 
 Fern banners wave, and harebells welcome ring, 
 As trips across the meads the Bride of Spring.
 
 UNDER THE ROSE. 
 
 LOVELY May evening. Twilight melt- 
 ing into moonlight — and it wanted only 
 a week to the wedding. Jack Wyvill 
 believed himself the luckiest man alive, and his 
 Minnie the prettiest little darling in Christendom. 
 He assured himself of these pleasing truths a score 
 of times as he marched away towards Skelton 
 Place, smoking his after-dinner cigar, with his 
 honest hands thrust deep into his pockets, and his 
 honest heart free from every shadow of care. He 
 had come down from town, by the six o'clock 
 train, a day earlier than Minnie had been bidden 
 to expect him ; and now he was off for a chat 
 with the squire about the business that had car-
 
 1 86 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 ried him to London, and a glimpse of her before 
 sleeping. 
 
 He had a two miles' walk before him, but the 
 way by the fields was pleasant, and his thoughts 
 were excellent company. He anticipated Minnie's 
 exclamations of surprised delight, her face of joy 
 at his return, and insensibly quickened his steps, 
 flinging away the end of his cigar as he came 
 within sight of the gate into the plantation that 
 bordered the park. It was quite dusk in the wood ; 
 but he could have followed the narrow path under 
 the fir-trees blindfold ; he had known it ever since 
 he was a lad, and for several months past he had 
 traversed it almost daily. The evening air was 
 heavy with the scent of the wild hyacinths, which 
 grew here in lavish profusion, and Jack snuffed 
 it up with a grateful sense of pleasure, feeling 
 quite pastoral in his happiness, until suddenly his 
 nostrils were delicately assailed by another per- 
 fume much less sylvan but much more familiar — 
 the perfume, in short, of a capital cigar. 
 
 " Who has the squire got staying with him } " 
 speculated he ; for the squire was not given to 
 smoke, and this odour Jack inhaled was not the 
 odour of gamekeeper's or gardener's unfastidious
 
 UNDER THE ROSE. 187 
 
 pipe. He looked behind and he looked before, 
 and peered through the trees on either hand ; but 
 seeing no one, and not being covetous just then 
 of any society except Minnie's, he went straight 
 on his way to the house, without further inves- 
 tigation. The squire was taking his customary 
 forty winks in the library after dinner, and as 
 Jack refused to disturb him, he was ushered into 
 the drawincr-room, where the butler told him he 
 would find Lady Wallace ; but " Miss Minnie was 
 out somewhere with Miss Wharton." 
 
 Jack did not approve of Minnie's tempting the 
 dew after nightfall ; he experienced a chill sensa- 
 tion of disappointment at her absence, and Lady 
 Wallace's drowsy welcome did not warm him. 
 
 " Who is it } " asked she, raising herself from 
 the couch, where she, too, had been taking a brief 
 nap. " Oh, Mr. Wyvill, is it you t We none of us 
 expected you back until to-morrow or the day 
 after." 
 
 " My business with the lawyers was done, and 
 there was nothing else to stay in town Yor," said he. 
 
 " And of course you were eager to be at home. 
 Minnie would tell you in her letters that her friend 
 Miss Wharton is here. They went out together
 
 1 88 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 for a turn on the terrace about half an hour ago. 
 They will be in soon, or perhaps you would like to 
 go in quest of them ? " 
 
 " No, I'll wait. They were not on the terrace 
 five minutes hence, and I might miss them if I 
 went into the gardens. That is the conservatory 
 door — here they are ! " 
 
 Yes, here they were. Minnie entered first, with 
 a black lace shawl thrown over her golden curls, 
 and a bright natural rose on her cheek, which 
 deepened to a blush when she espied her lover. 
 
 " Oh, Jack, was it you in the wood } You gave 
 us such a fright ! " cried she, and ran forward to 
 meet him. 
 
 "You should not go into the wood so late, 
 Minnie," said her aunt. " It is damp and un- 
 wholesome." 
 
 Jack Wyvill was as generous-tempered and as 
 little suspicious as any gentleman in Yorkshire ; 
 but he became sensible of a very uncomfortable 
 spasm of doubt clutching at his heart when he saw 
 Miss Wharton furtively twitch Minnie's sleeve, and 
 give her a warning glance. 
 
 *' Yes, I came through the wood ; who was 
 there with you } " said he, dropping the cordial
 
 UNDER THE ROSE. 189 
 
 hand that she had given him with such a pretty- 
 frankness and affection. 
 
 " Nobody ; we were alone," was the unhesi- 
 tating reply ; and then the beaming blue eyes, 
 which were the truthfulest eyes in the world, 
 lifted themselves to his face, and looked straight 
 at him with blank, questioning amazement. It 
 seemed to Jack that Miss Wharton again passed 
 unnecessarily near them in going towards the 
 door, and he was sure she gave Minnie another 
 stealthy admonition ; for Minnie turned her head 
 quickly towards her friend, and then saying she 
 would return in a few minutes, followed her out of 
 the room. 
 
 Jack Wyvill felt like a man in a bad dream. 
 He had never met Miss Wharton before, but he 
 had heard of her as a very fast young woman. 
 Was she teaching his darling Minnie naughty 
 ways } It was Minnie's sweet innocent inge- 
 nuousness that made half her charm. If those fair 
 candid eyes of hers took any veil of slyness, they 
 were not the eyes he could see love in. There 
 must have been somebody in the wood with them. 
 He was very impetuous ; he was very angry ; he 
 was more than half in a mind to go away. It was
 
 I90 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 very lucky Lady Wallace broke up his stormy 
 reverie by a request that he would ring the bell 
 for tea ; for that commonplace action gave him 
 time to reconsider himself, and partially to smother 
 his unworthy suspicions. For had he ever had 
 cause to doubt his Minnie before. Never, never ! 
 And he must not doubt now. Still that cigar, that 
 blush — that blush not of joy only, but of confusion. 
 What could she be concealing from him 1 Dear 
 child ! what could she have to conceal } Need he 
 be a jealous fool because Miss Wharton was 
 odious 1 Still that cigar ! 
 
 At this point of his meditation Miss Wharton 
 reappeared, looking perfectly cool, amiable, and 
 easy — almost too easy to be natural ; for there 
 was a touch of swagger in her manner that was far 
 from prepossessing. Jack Wyvill eyed her askance, 
 and wondered in his own mind how his sweet little 
 Minnie had ever come to call her friend. She had 
 a certain power of countenance which redeemed 
 her irregularity of feature. Her eyes were hand- 
 some, her brow was wide, her hair beautiful and 
 abundant. But at the lower section of her visage 
 no one voluntarily glanced twice, unless he were a 
 student of physiognomy, which Jack Wyvill was
 
 UNDER THE ROSE. 191 
 
 not. He looked at her and did not like her, but 
 he could not have given any valid reason why^ 
 except that he did not like ugly women, and she 
 was the ugliest he had ever seen. But ugly or not, 
 Miss Wharton was clever, and she knew it. She 
 had more humour and originality than commonly 
 fall to the lot of women ; and she prided herself 
 on the possession of that verbal wit which consists 
 in utter unscrupulousness of speech, and whets 
 itself with equal gusto on the foibles of friend or 
 foe. She was ingrained with small vanities, and 
 swathed about with elaborate affectations ; but she 
 had that force of character which assimilates such 
 vanities and affectations until they seem more like 
 the genuine out-come of nature than tlie assump- 
 tion of art. Indeed, the shrewdest observer would 
 have been hard put to it to say where in Miss 
 Wharton nature ended and art began. 
 
 She was popular in society rather than other- 
 wise, for though utterly intolerant of fools, she had 
 great tact, and knew how to ingratiate herself 
 where she had an object in view, and how to avoid 
 offence. She was not so much masculine as she 
 was mannish. She rode to hounds, and talked 
 stable with not more blunders than are inevitable
 
 192 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 to a woman ; she sang a good second to anybody's 
 song, took a hand at whist or at loo, and could 
 always cap a good story with a better. 
 
 Her father had ruined a fair estate on the turf, 
 and she now lived with a broken-down brother of 
 similar tastes, on an encumbered remnant of it, 
 about five-and-twenty miles from Skelton Place. 
 When the elder Wharton died, he besought Squire 
 Conyers, his life-long friend, to be kind to his 
 motherless daughter ; and though Lady Wallace 
 disliked her as a companion for Minnie, the squire 
 kept his promise by annually inviting her to join 
 them, in their sea-side trip to Scarborough, Whitby, 
 or Filey, as the case might be. There was a dif- 
 ference of six years between the girls' ages, but they 
 struck up a friendly alliance by the rule of contraries, 
 to which both had continued staunch down to the 
 present day, when Miss Wharton was four-and- 
 twenty, and Minnie Conyers was just eighteen. 
 
 This was Miss Wharton's first visit to Skelton 
 Place, but she was skilfully manoeuvring that it 
 should not be her last, and the chances were ten to 
 one that she would carry her point. She had won 
 over Lady Wallace not only to forgive her eccen- 
 tricities, but almost to admire them, and the squire
 
 UNDER THE ROSE. 193 
 
 was quite at her feet. He protested that she had had 
 the narrowest escape in the world of being a very 
 handsome woman, and that as it was, when she 
 warmed up after dinner or by candle light, she put 
 all merely pretty faces quite out of countenance — 
 in which the squire was perfectly just. 
 
 Minnie did not present herself in the drawing- 
 room until some time after her friend, and as the 
 squire and tea came in simultaneously with her, 
 Jack Wyvill had nothing to do but to be himself 
 again as far as he could, and take his part in the 
 general conversation. He did not achieve perfect 
 success in either effort, for he was very ill at ease, 
 and Minnie wore a vexed, puzzled air of bewilder- 
 ment such as he had never seen in her before. The 
 good squire was, happily, obtuse ; he congratulated 
 Jack on his prompt return from town, with one or 
 two sly allusions which brought the rosy-red into 
 Minnie's face ; he talked about coming events on 
 the turf, and the four-year-old he was going to 
 enter for the October meeting at York ; then asked 
 what the world of London was doing, all in his 
 roundabout, after-dinner way, until ten o'clock 
 struck by the timepiece over the chimney, and 
 Jack rose to depart. 
 
 VOL. I. 13
 
 194 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 It was his custom to leave the house by the 
 conservatory, whence he could strike across the 
 garden and the park in a direct line towards his 
 own home ; and it had been Minnie's duty and 
 privilege of late to go with him, and let him out 
 at the glass door opening on the terrace. She 
 looked rather shy of her office to-night, but as 
 there was kindness and invitation in his overcast 
 face she did not hold back, and they passed 
 silently side by side between the banks of fra- 
 grance, neither caring to be the first to speak, 
 until just at the last Minnie laid an impetuous 
 hand on his arm, and whispered, tearfully, ''Jack, 
 you are angry with me, and you don't tell me why." 
 
 " I am not angry with you, Minnie, but I don't 
 like your mannish friend," said he. 
 
 " Hush, Jack, she will hear you ! " And, half 
 laughing, half alarmed, she put up a hasty finger 
 to close his indiscreet lips. 
 
 " I don't care if she does," was the reckless 
 response. 
 
 *' But you must care for grieving me. She 
 has a thousand oddities, but she has a thousand 
 good points as well. If you knew her better, you 
 would say so. Ask papa, and he will tell you the
 
 UNDER THE ROSE. 195 
 
 same. Aunt Mary is beginning to like her too, 
 and it is not everybody Aunt Mary likes." (Aunt 
 Mary was Lady Wallace.) She complains that 
 somebody is always trying to improve her figure, 
 or her manners, or her morals. But I am under 
 a vow not to meddle with any of them, and 
 for my sake you must take her as she is, and 
 be gracious, Jack. She is quite disposed to 
 like yoii!' 
 
 " Fm much obliged to her, but I don't think 
 I shall fraternize with her. How long does she 
 remain here } " 
 
 Minnie gave him to understand that she was to 
 remain over the wedding. The arrangement did 
 not please him, though he had nothing reasonable 
 to urge against it ; it was only natural Minnie 
 should wish to keep her friend with her, and his 
 sudden prejudice rested on such frivolous grounds 
 that he was ashamed to mention it. He did not 
 mention it, but, standing with his darling beside 
 him in the moonlight, he forgot all about it for a 
 minute or two, and then went his way home as 
 gaily as he had come ; while Minnie, lingering 
 amongst the flowers, felt rejoicingly that the light 
 cloud which had come between them was g-one.
 
 196 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 Jack Wyvill was not the man to try back on 
 an old doubt without strong provocation when 
 he had once thrust it away from his mind ; and 
 the next morning he put a jeweller's case, which 
 he had brought - from town, into his pocket, and 
 set off towards Skelton Place again, just at that 
 hour, when, according to previous experience, he 
 was most certain of finding Minnie disengaged 
 and alone. He took the same direction as on 
 the night before, but he had not quitted the 
 bounds of his own fields when he was met by 
 his steward, who detained him with prosy busi- 
 ness-conversation, and even walked him round 
 half a mile out of his way, to a certain farm- 
 stead where improvements and repairs were going 
 on ; so that, instead of entering the wood by 
 the gate, he had to climb the fence at another 
 part, and make a short cut through what was 
 called the Lower Copse. The undergrowth 
 was very thick hereabouts, but at one spot there 
 was a clearing, in the midst of which stood an old 
 pheasant-house, built of boughs and thatched with 
 reeds, which had not been used for a year or two, 
 and was fast falling into unsightly ruin. The place, 
 altogether, was lonely and unattractive, without
 
 UNDER THE ROSE. 197 
 
 sunshine and without flowers, and Jack Wyvill 
 was, therefore, no Httle surprised when from the 
 distance he saw Minnie Conyers and her friend 
 just vanishing within the hut. 
 
 They did not perceive him, and for a moment 
 he halted, too much startled to analyse his emo- 
 tions ; but even while he halted, he saw Minnie 
 issue forth again, and peer cautiously about, as if 
 watching for some one, or looking out for spies ; 
 but her examination was very brief, and she 
 retreated apparently satisfied without discovering 
 her lover, who, between fear, suspicion, and rage, 
 hardly knew what he did. He drew nearer the 
 pheasant-house, however, keeping in the rear of it 
 until, being within a few yards of the ragged spot, 
 once more that fragrance of a capital cigar, blended 
 with the sweet softness of the May morning, 
 assailed his senses ; and before he had time to 
 rally from the shock of it, he heard Miss Wharton's 
 voice observing, with unctuous deliberation, " There 
 is no better cigar than the Lopez — none ! " 
 
 So there was some one with them in the 
 pheasant-house ! it was an appointment, and 
 Minnie was scout ! He did not suspect lier, but 
 he could have strangled Miss Wharton, that his
 
 198 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 sweet, guileless darling should be tainted even by 
 the knowledge of her clandestine affairs ! He 
 would not surprise their secret, whatever it might 
 be, but gave himself a vigorous shake and tramped 
 on, heedless whether he was heard or not ; and 
 probably he was heard, and even seen through the 
 gaps of the rotten boughs, for when he gained the 
 open ground, on the edge of the wood, there was 
 Minnie, arm in arm with her friend, sauntering 
 leisurely towards him, and looking as innocent as 
 if nothing wrong had happened since the Flood ! 
 
 But there was storm in his face that he could 
 not hide, and Minnie's heart sank as she read the 
 unmistakable signs of it. He had always been so 
 good to her, so truly tender and loving, that the 
 reappearance of last night's gloom in this morning's 
 sudden displeasure frightened her, she hardly knew 
 why. She dreaded explanations and scenes at all 
 times ; there was a large measure of feminine 
 unreasonableness and cowardice in her composi- 
 tion ; and instead of making an opportunity for 
 him to tell her what was on his mind, she detained 
 Miss Wharton as a screen until they met the 
 squire, who carried Jack off to the stables, sorely 
 against his will, to assist at a consultation over the
 
 UNDER THE ROSE. 199 
 
 four-year-old, which was expected to do such 
 wonderful things, and bring such glory to the 
 Skelton stud at the next York Meeting. But Jack 
 was not his own man at all, and he only earned 
 himself the trainer's contempt by his vague re- 
 marks, while he considerably lowered the squire's 
 jubilation. 
 
 He was experiencing a feeling of intense morti- 
 fication that Minnie, who had hitherto never sought 
 to dissemble her simple pleasure in his society, 
 should now, within a few days of their marriage, 
 positively avoid him. *' I'm not a clever fellow, I 
 know I'm not," thought he, humbly, ''but I'll be 
 shot if that friend of hers, who is so wise and witty, 
 and desperately sly, shall come between us, making 
 mischief 1 " And thus thinking, he answered the 
 squire twice or thrice at cross-purposes, until the 
 impetuous old gentleman asked what the devil 
 ailed him that he was so short " Had Minnie and 
 he got wrong } " 
 
 " No, we have not s^ot wron^, but there is no 
 telling what we may do if that Miss Wharton is 
 for ever in the way," replied Jack, blurting out his 
 wTath in one angry gust. " I don't like her for 
 Minnie's friend, and I'll be hanged if I'll have her
 
 200 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 at Heathside as my wife's friend ! " The squire 
 reddened ; he saw the young man's blood was up, 
 and his own warmed, too ; he felt that Jack meant 
 what he said, and that he had, or believed himself 
 to have, excellent grounds for it ; but for a few 
 days past there had been some indistinct sentiments 
 hovering sheepishly about the old gentleman's 
 fancy that made this fiery speech anything but easy 
 or pleasant to digest. He stammered something 
 about Miss Wharton being his guest, and then 
 went on to say, in a tone of almost eager defence : 
 
 " She is a good fellow is Harrie Wharton, Jack ; 
 not sweetly feminine and that sort of thing, but a 
 downright good fellow, and a bit of capital com- 
 pany ! I'll tell you what — if she had been old 
 Ralph's son, instead of that ne'er-do-weel of a Tom, 
 she would have set the estate on its legs again. 
 Such a headpiece as hers is lost on a woman's 
 shoulders. Hang it. Jack, what have you got 
 to say against her t Lady Wallace didn't like 
 her once, but even she is coming round, and 
 I call Mary one of the most prejudiced women 
 alive." 
 
 Jack Wyvill did not consider that he had any 
 right to mention such suspicions as rose merely out
 
 UNDER THE ROSE. 201 
 
 of cigar-smoke ; if Miss Wharton had her secrets 
 she might keep them for him ; but Minnie's quiet 
 heart and conscience should not be marred and 
 suUied by being made the confidential keeper of 
 them ; he, therefore, simply reiterated, in a dogged 
 manner, what he had said before, and then abruptly 
 changed the subject. The squire felt huffed for a 
 moment ; but, after an inarticulate growl or two, 
 he followed the irritated lover's lead, and the 
 hazardous topic of difference was abandoned. Soon 
 after they parted company by mutual consent ; 
 the squire went to look after his woodmen felling 
 timber, and Jack turned his steps towards the 
 house, where he sat for nearly an hour, waiting and 
 hoping for Minnie's appearance. Lady Wallace, 
 who Avas detained from writing her daily dues of 
 letters to entertain him, very naturally wished him 
 away, and at last she proposed sending a messenger 
 in quest of Minnie — a hint to depart which he 
 could not but accept. 
 
 " We shall see you at dinner, this evening, of 
 course t " added she, with a little kindly compunc- 
 tion, as he was on the point of going. He said, 
 " Yes ; he supposed so," and then reluctantly took 
 himself off; the lovely pearls that he had brought
 
 202 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 from town to present to his Minnie reposing 
 forgotten in their case in the depths of his pocket. 
 
 Meanwhile Minnie and her friend were again 
 lounging lazily about the Lower Copse, whither 
 they had retired when the squire carried off Jack 
 to the stables. Miss Wharton was in a mood of 
 serene satisfaction and enjoyment, but Minnie was 
 miserably uneasy. She had not her companion's 
 resources for making herself apathetically comfort- 
 able under adverse circumstances ; and she was 
 afraid lest, having avoided Jack, he should return 
 the compliment, and leave without seeing her 
 again. This dread seized on her so strongly by- 
 and-by, that she said, " Do you mind going in-doors 
 now, Harrie } " She had a hope that she might 
 yet be in time to intercept him, by taking the path 
 through the upper wood to the house ; but she did 
 not like to say so precisely, even to her familiar 
 friend. 
 
 " I don't mind going in-doors if you are tired, 
 though it is pleasanter here. I should like one 
 more turn round by the pheasant-house, if you are 
 not in a fuss. What have you to do } " said Miss 
 Wharton, indifferently. 
 
 Minnie was in the habit of yielding to her
 
 UNDER THE ROSE. 203 
 
 caprices, and she replied now that she had nothing 
 particular to do ; so the one turn more round by 
 the pheasant-house resulted in a dozen turns, and 
 when the servants' dinner-bell rang, at one o'clock, 
 they were still in the copse, and Jack Wyvill was 
 plodding his weary way home, unenlivened by any 
 thoughts but angry thoughts against Minnie's friend, 
 to whose evil influence he attributed his darling's 
 incomprehensible behaviour. Until ^liss Wharton 
 appeared on the scene there had never been word, 
 or look, or fancy, to sow a doubt between them, 
 and now he felt that they were balancing danger- 
 ously on the brink of a serious misunderstanding. 
 But it should not come to a quarrel if it lay in his 
 power to hinder it. He would stand on no foolish 
 ceremony ; he would have it out with Minnie that 
 night, let what would come of the explanation ; 
 and in this wise, firm, substantial resolve, he set off 
 to Skelton Place in the evening, arriving only just 
 in time to give her his arm in to dinner. She looked 
 shyly bright, and happily penitent when he met 
 her with his natural air and manner, but this was 
 no time for any but general chat, and the difficult 
 moment was of necessity delayed. 
 
 Mr. Warren, Squire Conyers's lawyer, made a
 
 204 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 sixth at table that day, and in his company Jack 
 Wyvill left the old gentleman, after a couple of 
 glasses of wine, to seek the society of the ladies in 
 the drawing-room. But when he presented himself, 
 he found Lady Wallace alone ; and she told him, 
 sleepily, that the young people had availed them- 
 selves of the pleasant half-hour that remained 
 before sunset to take a stroll on the terrace, where 
 he had better join them. He waited for no second 
 hint, but immediately snatched his wideawake 
 from the stand in the hall, and, leaving the house 
 by the principal entrance, directed his steps towards 
 the raised walk on the south front, where he ex- 
 pected to find Miss Wharton and Minnie, debating 
 in his own mind by what ingenious devices he 
 should get his darling to himself, and banish her 
 obnoxious friend. 
 
 When Jack Wyvill stepped out upon the 
 terrace, it was deserted. The vases of scarlet 
 geraniums stood along it at equal distances from 
 end to end, but nothing more interesting was 
 visible. He walked down into the flower-garden 
 and through the rosery, but nobody was there. 
 Thence he climbed to the Wilderness, a hilly
 
 UNDER THE ROSE, 205 
 
 ornamental shrubbery of several acres in the rear 
 of the house, where he paced to and for ever so 
 long, whistling a familiar air, not as a signal 
 exactly, but that if Minnie were here she might be 
 made aware he was here too, and seeking her. 
 By this time the sun had disappeared, and twilight 
 was creeping on. He returned to the terrace, 
 pausing to look in at the conservatory as he 
 passed ; but they had not hidden themselves there. 
 They were not in the house, nor about the house, 
 nor, as far as eye could see, were they wandering 
 in the glades of the park ; they must, therefore, 
 have betaken themselves to the wood or to the 
 copse again ! 
 
 Jack felt almost sick with vexation and im- 
 patience. It was clear to him that Miss Wharton 
 had private affairs, and that Minnie lent herself to 
 the furtherance of them. He was not inclined to 
 play the spy on Miss Wharton, but he was strongly 
 disposed to act watch-dog to his Minnie, and the 
 difficulty of separating the one proceeding from 
 the other was very embarrassing. After a brief 
 term of consideration, he judged it expedient to 
 await the reappearance of the missing pair, and 
 returned to Lady Wallace in the drawing-room.
 
 2o6 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 " Have you not found them ? " asked she, 
 surprised to see him come back so quickly. He 
 repHed that they were not anywhere in the gardens 
 or pleasure-grounds through which he had walked. 
 " Miss Wharton is fond of wandering further afield 
 than I like ; I must remind Minnie not to leave 
 the terrace of an evening," added her Aunt Mary. 
 She perceived that Jack was displeased, and allowed 
 to herself that he had some cause to show why ; 
 but with the native kindliness of her disposition, 
 she endeavoured to make a little light conversa- 
 tion to divert his mind from brooding on it, and, 
 probably, magnifying it. She did not meet with 
 the success she deserved ; Jack grew more and 
 more restless and disquieted every minute of 
 Minnie's absence, and at length, unable to bear it 
 with patience any longer, he strayed into the con- 
 servatory, and marched to and fro, watching and 
 waiting in a mood of gathering wrath. 
 
 Presently the squire and Mr. Warren entered 
 the drawing-room, when the squire immediately 
 asked, ''Where are the girls and Wyvill — in the 
 garden } " Lady Wallace's calm reply was 
 grounded upon Jack's information, and, after 
 hearing it, the old gentleman came into the con-
 
 UNDER THE ROSE. 207 
 
 servatory, and with a good-humoured wag of his 
 head at the aggrieved lover, opened the glass door 
 and looked up and down the terrace. " You are 
 a good seeker but a bad finder, Jack ; they are not 
 in sight, therefore they must be in the Wilder- 
 ness," said he. 
 
 "Or in the wood or the Lower Copse," re- 
 sponded Jack, shortly. 
 
 " In the wood or the Lower Copse ! What 
 should they do there at dusk, or what should they 
 do in the Lower Copse at all } " The squire was 
 evidently annoyed at the suggestion ; he looked 
 out on the terrace again, and then went back into 
 the drawing-room and rang the bell. The ancient 
 butler answered it. " Bring tea, and send Jolifife 
 to seek the young ladies. Most likely they are 
 in the gardens or the Wilderness," said his 
 master. 
 
 Jack heard the order and the directions, but 
 he did not interfere. The servant said, " Yes, 
 sir," with perfect respect of tone and composure 
 of feature, but as soon as he was on the other 
 side of the drawing-room door his expression 
 changed, and he muttered sarcastically to himself, 
 " She's a queer sort of young woman is that
 
 2o8 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 Miss Wharton. I'll go and seek 'em myself ; I'll 
 not send Joliffe. He has a tongue as long as to- 
 day and to-morrow, and would be for teUing if he 
 found out her goings on. I wonder, for my part, 
 how Miss Minnie can abide her." And the 
 butler, who had known Squire Conyers's daughter 
 ever since she was born, and esteemed her the best 
 and kindest as well as the most beautiful of young 
 ladies, went stealthily out of the front door, and, as 
 Jack Wyvill, watching from the conservatory, saw, 
 struck across the lawn and the park in a direct 
 line towards the Lower Copse. Whatever Miss 
 Wharton's clandestine affairs, they were evidently 
 known in the servants' hall. 
 
 Jack sat down in a mood of intense disgust and 
 mortification. How long he sat he never knew, 
 but it seemed hours before he heard swift footsteps 
 passing along the gravelled walk, and then Miss 
 Wharton saying, with suppressed vehemence, " If 
 you tell him, Minnie, I'll never forgive you } 
 What is it to him .? My business is not yozir busi- 
 ness. You are not half so kind to me as you were 
 once." To which Minnie replied in as pettish a 
 tone as she could assume : " I am not going to 
 tell him ; you need not be afraid ; but I will not
 
 UNDER THE ROSE. 209 
 
 steal off to the Copse any more when Aunt Mary 
 beheves we are in the garden. You can go alone 
 if you like, but I hate hide-and-seek work ; and I 
 don't know what Bolton must think." 
 
 " That wooden-faced old butler } Oh, he will 
 not be so impertinent as to think at all," replied 
 Miss Wharton ; and with these words she ran up 
 the steps, Minnie following close behind, and so 
 they entered the conservatory. They seemed to 
 espy Jack Wyvill simultaneously, and Minnie's 
 blush was painful ; even Miss Wharton did not 
 quite succeed in keeping her countenance, but she 
 dissembled her confusion to the best of her power, 
 and observed that it was much pleasanter out in 
 the open air than in this atmosphere loaded with 
 the heavy perfumes of green-house plants. Jack's 
 response was utterly incoherent ; he was no match 
 for her coolness. He felt galled to his very soul, 
 and he betrayed it. Minnie stood for a second or 
 two uncertain and wretched ; but as he said 
 nothing, and made no effort to detain her, she 
 passed forward to the drawing-room, where she 
 had to encounter the questions and admonitions of 
 her father. 
 
 " Look at the timepiece, Minnie ; twenty 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 2IO COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 minutes past nine ! Where have you been ? Did 
 you see Joliffe ? " asked he, hastily. 
 
 Minnie hesitated, stammered, looked almost 
 frightened ; but Miss Wharton came to the rescue, 
 and took the difficulty of judicious reply out of 
 her mouth. She answered with a ready wit and a 
 skilful Evasiveness, but while she was in the midst 
 of her inventive exercise. Jack Wyvill followed 
 into the drawing-room with a visage as black as a 
 thunder-cloud, which did not escape the squire's 
 observation. His straightforward shrewdness de- 
 tected something amiss when his open-hearted 
 Minnie could not give him a plain answer to a 
 plain question,- but must stand by and let some 
 one else be her spokeswoman ; and at that moment 
 the fluent Miss Wharton revolted him almost as 
 much as she revolted Minnie's lover. 
 
 " There is underhand business going on, and 
 I'll not have it : that is what Jack Wyvill has got 
 an inkling of," thought he. But he saw tears in 
 Minnie's eyes, and said no more for the present, 
 though it was an awful staggering shock to him 
 when he drew down her sweet face to his by one 
 of her sunny bright curls, and instead of the 
 flowery perfume which ordinarily scented her
 
 UNDER THE ROSE. 211 
 
 golden hair, he detected the odour of smoke — the 
 unmistakable, undeniable fragrance of tobacco ! 
 
 During tea the squire stood on the rug, his 
 back to the fire, his cup in his hand, and his 
 observations travelling from one face to another 
 of the disunited party. Miss Wharton would 
 suffer no awkward pauses in the conversation, and 
 talked incessantly, Mr. Warren supporting her, 
 until the squire gave Jack Wyvill a hint to 
 accompany him to the librarj^, when she glanced 
 anxiously at Minnie's dolorous countenance, and 
 wondered what was about to happen. The lawyer 
 being now left alone to amuse the ladies, exerted 
 himself to the best of his ability, but Miss Wharton 
 presently retired to take counsel within herself 
 " I am afraid somebody suspects," thought she, 
 with genuine but well-concealed alarm. " It is 
 a frightful bore to be amongst such orderly, 
 proper people, and there is another week of it to 
 come ! I'll write to Tom to-morrow, and order 
 him to recall me ; he can say he has the croup or 
 something, and that he wants me to nurse him. 
 I would rather live with poor Tom than live here, 
 strangled with proprieties and conventionalities. 
 Jealous, clod-hopping noodle that Jack Wyvill is ;
 
 212 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 but Minnie is not overburdened with wisdom her- 
 self, so they will be equally mated. She is hke 
 a scared rabbit — * Oh, Harrie this ! ' ' Oh, Harrie 
 that ! ' as if the very trees had eyes, and the birds 
 of the air could literally carry the matter ! The 
 squire is the best of the bunch, but even he is 
 full of old-fashioned notions. I almost wish I had 
 never come ! People are so bigoted ; there is 
 Lady Wallace sniffing and snuffing, and peeping 
 and prying, as if there were a fox in the room ! 
 No — I'll be off ! I thought it would be pleasant, 
 and safe, and easy, to make oneself happy in one's 
 own way here ; but Minnie is always in a fidget, 
 and that makes the risk too great. Le jeit ne vmit 
 pas la chandelle at Skelton place ! " 
 
 While Miss Wharton was working round to 
 this conclusion in the drawing-room, the squire 
 and Jack were holding a private talk in the 
 library. Jack being by no means reluctant to 
 unbosom himself of his wrongs, when he perceived 
 that the squire was smitten with suspicion too. 
 But the subject was scarcely a pleasant one to 
 open, and it was several minutes before either 
 found courage to do more than hover about it. 
 But at last, said the squire, ''Jack, all is not
 
 UNDER THE ROSE. 213 
 
 going quite smoothly betwixt you and Minnie, 
 and that is awkward, seeing what is impending 
 over next Tuesday. My girl is a good girl, and 
 I am sure she loves you " 
 
 " God bless her, sir, I know she does ! " inter- 
 rupted Jack, eagerly. "I have not a doubt of 
 Minnie, but Miss Wharton is making a tool of her 
 to promote some mysterious affairs of her own, 
 and I'll not stand it. This is the second evening 
 that I have not had the chance of a v/ord with my 
 darling, and this morning she fairly ran away from 
 me under her friend's wing. I want to know what 
 it all means, this lurking about after dark, and in 
 that dreary Lower Copse where I saw them this 
 morning. If ]\Iiss Wharton has a lover under the 
 rose, I'll not let her use my innocent Minnie for a 
 fence. You must speak about it, squire, or I 
 shall." 
 
 " You think there is a lover in the case, do 
 you .'' and I have my reasons for thinking so, too ; 
 though why Miss Wharton should make a secret 
 of it, unless it be from a woman's taste for 
 romantic mysteries, I am at a loss to conjecture. 
 If she chose to marry my rcugh-rider or her 
 brother's groom, Tom is not the man to object —
 
 214 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 and I'm sure I'm not. My duties as her guardian 
 ended three years since, but she had taken the 
 reins of government into her hands long before 
 that. I do not Hke to address her, but I'll have 
 in Minnie — perhaps you had better leave us for 
 five minutes, Jack. Go into the conservatory, and 
 when I have had my say I will send her to you." 
 
 There was a second entrance into the green- 
 house through the library, and by this door Jack 
 Wyvill vanished as Minnie came slowly and shyly, 
 summoned by Bolton, to her father's presence. 
 The tender-hearted lover hoped and prayed the 
 squire would deal gently with his darling, as 
 he hurried out o^ sight amongst the flowers ; 
 but he had a very short interval allowed him 
 either to think or to wish ; for not a minute 
 had elapsed since his retirement when Minnie 
 rushed out to seek him, her cheeks a-blaze, her 
 sweet eyes glistening through thick tears. Her 
 father had addressed her with some little sarcasm, 
 which she had taken in earnest, and instead of 
 staying to answer him she carried her defence to 
 head-quarters at once, indignantly sobbing out 
 reproaches to Jack that he could imagine she went 
 with her friend to meet anybody in the wood !
 
 UNDER THE ROSE. 215 
 
 It was impossible to resist the candour of those 
 pleading eyes, and it was equally impossible to 
 resist the temptation of taking his darling's bonny 
 face between his two hands, as he said, " If you 
 met nobody in the wood, then, have you taken 
 to sviokuig ! " 
 
 Minnie's eyes cleared, and she broke into a 
 m.erry laugh ; *' Oh ! it is Harris's cigars !' whis- 
 pered she. 
 
 ''Harriets cigars, indeed!'' stammered Jack 
 
 " Why does she not put on the hang it, IMinnie, 
 
 they might have lost you a husband, and me the 
 dearest little sweetheart in Christendom ! " 
 
 " Don't be a goose. Jack — let me go ! " re- 
 sponded Minnie ; and at that moment Miss Whar- 
 ton appeared coming towards them from the 
 further end of the conservatory. 
 
 " It is moonlight on the terrace ; let us go and 
 smoke a cigar, my friend," said Jack, addressing 
 her, while the squire looked out from the library 
 door all a-grin and delighted. 
 
 Miss Wharton crimsoned. '' It is too bad, 
 Minnie ; you promised you w^ould not tell," began 
 she ; but Minnie interrupted her with lively de- 
 fiance.
 
 2i6 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 " I won't be scolded, Harrie ; your horrid, 
 selfish cigars have nearly made Jack quarrel with 
 me," exclaimed she ; " but, now that he knows, you 
 can enjoy your little pleasure in peace and in 
 public ! There is nothing wicked in smoking a 
 cigar " 
 
 But Minnie had said enough, and more than 
 enough. Miss Wharton had turned away in high 
 dudgeon, and disappeared for the rest of the even^ 
 ing, and the next day, in spite of entreaties and 
 almost of tears, she went away home. The day 
 after Minnie's wedding she received, not cards or 
 bride-cake, but a box of Lopez cigars. 
 
 END OF " UNDER THE ROSE.
 
 LOST ON THE SHORE. 
 
 *-^g'ROWSY sunshine, noonday sunshine, shining 
 i Sy* full on sea and sand, 
 
 ^^==^ Show the tiny, tiny footsteps trending do^vn- 
 wards from the land ; 
 In the dewy morning early, while the birds were 
 
 singing all, 
 My bonnie birdies flew away, loud laughing at my 
 
 call: 
 I did not follow after, for I thought they flew to 
 
 hide. 
 But they went to seek their father's boat, that sailed at 
 
 ebb of tide. 
 Along the dusty lane I track their hurrying little feet : 
 Did no man coming up that way my bonnie birdies 
 
 meet ?
 
 2i8 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 They lisped " Our Father " at my knee, they shared their 
 
 bread with Nap, 
 And kissed, and fought, and kissed again, both sitting 
 
 in my lap ; 
 It was not long — for we must work — and soon upon the 
 
 floor 
 I set my merry little lads before the open door. 
 A white-winged moth came flying in — in chase they 
 
 sprang away ; 
 I watched them, smiling to myself, at all their pretty 
 
 play; 
 The golden-rippled darling heads flashed to and fro' my 
 
 eyes. 
 Until I saw them through a mist, Angels in Paradise. 
 But we who have to work to live must trust so much 
 
 to God, 
 That, with the vision in my heart, I left them on the sod. 
 Plucking the daisies, one by one, to set them on a 
 
 thorn. 
 Which Willie's sturdy little grasp out of the hedge had 
 
 torn. 
 And up and down the house went I, as I go every day. 
 And while I toiled, and father toiled, our darlings stole 
 
 away. 
 I heard my Robin's joyous shout beyond the orchard 
 
 trees, 
 And answered back, " Yes, mother, here, her little birdy 
 
 sees ! "
 
 LOST ON THE SHORE. 219 
 
 The laughing pair cried out again — on with my work, 
 
 worked I ; 
 Waking or sleeping, we believe that God is always 
 
 nigh: 
 And, O ! I must not doubt it now, though the little steps 
 
 I see, 
 Trending along the dusty lane to the fast inflowing sea ! 
 
 Here, where the yellow king cups grow, they have dropt 
 
 the daisied thorn, 
 They have rested under the shady hedge, and Robin his 
 
 frock has torn — 
 Here is a rag of the' faded stuff, he has worn it the 
 
 summer through — 
 My little lad was but three years old when his old frock 
 
 was new. 
 O ! pray they have gone through the ripening fields — 
 
 their footsteps are lost in the grass — 
 Ah ! no ; for I see the king cups strewn down the ravine 
 
 of Small-hope Pass ! 
 O Father ! to whom my darlings prayed, this morning, 
 
 "Thy will be done!" 
 Show me their little golden heads in the gold of this 
 
 summer sun ! 
 Where are they? Here cease the tiny steps that the 
 
 loving hearts wiled on ; 
 Here comes the sweep of the heavy tide — but my babes, 
 
 my babes are gone !
 
 220 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 I cannot see for the burning haze and the glitter upon 
 
 the foam ; 
 But Thoit^ O Thou Merciful! hear my cry, bring me 
 
 them safely home ! 
 
 "Fisherman, came you over the rocks that lie under 
 
 Hurtle Head ? 
 My two children have strayed from home — one white 
 
 clad, the other red ; 
 They have golden hair, and the prettiest eyes — their 
 
 names are WiUie and Rob ? " 
 "No, mistress, I saw no children there, but only the 
 
 waves' deep throb, 
 And a storm brewing up in the windy west — God speed 
 
 your master safe ! 
 There's hardly a boat will live the night that's beating 
 
 outside the reef." 
 
 " Fisherman, saw you the trace of steps, little steps, on 
 
 the farther strand ?" 
 " No, mistress, the tide has been over it ; I saw but the 
 
 wet, ribbed sand." 
 
 " Did you find aught, fisherman, as you came — a cap, or 
 a little shoe ? " 
 
 " I found nought, mistress, as I came, but some hedge- 
 flowers, yellow and blue."
 
 LOST ON THE SHORE. 221 
 
 *' The king cups, the pretty forget-me-nots, they gathered 
 
 the bank below ! 
 My laddies dropt them, fisherman ; how long ere the tide 
 
 is low?" 
 
 " How long ? It is on the turn, mistress ; the rocks will 
 
 soon be bare ; 
 But Almighty God, in mercy forbid you find your 
 
 laddies there!'' 
 
 "The sea-caves, fisherman, under the Head, I have 
 
 taken them in to play. " — 
 " Yes, mistress, yes, but the tide has rolled both hea\'y 
 
 and high to-day." 
 
 " One wild night, when the wind was up, and the waves 
 
 were ebbing out, 
 We three sat waiting under the Head for the coming of 
 
 father's boat ; 
 There was a moon in the ragged clouds, and a swirl of 
 
 rain in the air : " — 
 "Ay, mistress, ay, but Heaven forbid you find your 
 
 darlings there f' 
 
 " Where shall I find them, fisherman, my bairnies, pretty 
 
 and sweet ? " — 
 " If they strayed do^vn on the beach this mom, you ^nll 
 
 find them at Jesus' feet."
 
 222 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 *' Not drowned ! Not drowned in the cruel sea ? Is God 
 
 in heaven unjust ? 
 He could not rob me of both my dears, or why are we 
 
 bid to trust 'i 
 In the working hours they left my side, they only went 
 
 out to play : 
 He knows that we who must earn our bread cannot 
 
 watch and be still all day ! 
 
 " What can I say when the boat comes home, and no 
 
 darling to meet it runs ? 
 Can I tell their father, who loved them so, I have lost 
 
 him his little sons? 
 
 ! 'tis hard in our lives of so little joy to rob us of that 
 
 we had ; 
 Living and dying, the best of days with the poor are 
 always sad ! " 
 
 " Speak low, mistress, when you speak so. God in 
 heaven is great. 
 
 1 had three sons — they all went down — //^^^ perished and 
 
 / wait. 
 You have read it in the Book — * The Lord gave ; the 
 
 Lord have taken away ; 
 Blessed be the name of the Lord ! ' So say I this 
 
 day. 
 And how David, the King, fasted and wept until the 
 
 child was dead,
 
 LOST ON THE SHORE. 223 
 
 Then to the mighty God he gave him up, rose, and was 
 comforted." 
 
 " O ! the tiny, tiny footsteps, trending downwards from 
 
 the land, 
 The blessed little footsteps, softly printed in the sand ! 
 O, my birdies ! O, my birdies ! that have left an empty 
 
 nest, 
 I would I had my birdies now, warm nestled in my 
 
 breast ! " 
 
 END OF "lost on THE SHORE.'
 
 fxtm. 
 
 Queen of the fairies, laughing-browed Rose Queen ! 
 Sunny enchantress, dimpled, warm, and fair ! 
 Sweet witch, on whom young maidens shyly lean, 
 Wreathing star pansies in thy golden hair — 
 Pansies for thoughts lips dare not speak aloud, 
 But mystically whisper in a flower ; 
 While stands the shado%vy Future, pale and bowed, 
 Drawing the emblem-lots that shall them dower : 
 Nightshade to one, to one a red, red bloom. 
 Fresh gathered with the dew in its warm heart, 
 W^ild woodbine, briar, grey moss from a tomb, 
 Balm-flowers, sweet-balsam, stinging-nettle smart — 
 Prophetic oracles that glad and grieve, 
 Given in Elfin Court Midsummer Eve. 
 
 VOL. I. 15
 
 THREE NIGHTS BY ASH-POOL. 
 
 |ARY'S late in coming home, mother." 
 "So she is, Alice ; just put thy apron 
 over thy head and run down the garden 
 to look if she's in sight ; she should ha' been home 
 long afore this. It is on the stroke of ten," 
 
 When x\lice opened the house-door her mother 
 heard the low moaning of the midsummer wind in 
 the trees, and dropping her sewing, followed into 
 the porch. It was a deep, shady porch, garlanded 
 about with roses and honeysuckle as a rustic porch 
 should be, and with a narrow path edged with 
 golden St. John's wort straight down to the gate.
 
 228 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 There was no open prospect on either hand, for 
 the hedges were high and the shrubs thick, but 
 once at the gate, you could look far over the 
 upland fields, and trace for nearly a mile across 
 them the footpath leading to Heckerdyke. 
 
 The Wards' was a lone house amongst the fields, 
 wdth a dense planted hill rising close behind, and 
 the corn-lands and pasture-lands stretching in 
 front. They could not watch the curl of a neigh- 
 bour's smoke for company at any time without 
 mounting up through the wood ; but thence they 
 could see Heckerdyke in the hollow two miles 
 distant, and the haze of other smaller villages 
 further away. It was a moonlight night, very clear, 
 soft, warm, and beautiful, and the melancholy 
 whushing in the leaves only seemed to deepen the 
 stillness. 
 
 When Alice had stood for some minutes peering 
 steadfastly at the white road, she said, " I can't 
 make her out, mother ; let us walk a bit o' the way 
 to meet her." 
 
 " I don't mind if we do, only let me put on my 
 bonnet." 
 
 Alice passed through the gate, and stood lean- 
 i^^g against the post until her mother joined her,
 
 THREE NIGHTS BY ASH POOL. 229 
 
 when they went straight forward along the path 
 without there being much talk between them. Not 
 meeting Mary, perhaps they walked further than 
 they intended, for coming to an inconvenient stile 
 beside a great pond, called in the country-side Ash- 
 pool, from the trees that overhung it, Mrs. Ward 
 stopped, and said she did not see the use of 
 proceeding. 
 
 " She can't be long now, so we might as well 
 wait here. Sit thee down, Alice ; I am well-nigh 
 tired myself." So they rested on the plank put 
 through the bars by way of steps, Alice above her 
 mother, and both with their faces set towards 
 Heckerdyke. 
 
 Ash-pool laved the long meadow-grass almost 
 close to their feet, and when the swaying of the boughs 
 permitted it, the broken moonlight shone through 
 on the water with silvery brightness. It was a 
 lovely spot. The moonlight and the ripple, the 
 quivering leaves, and the dipping reeds fixed Alice's 
 half-sleepy eyes, and she stared at them until she 
 fancied she saw something white moving out of the 
 black shade on the further bank. 
 
 " Mother, I'm glad I didn't come by myself — 
 there's something not right about the pool to-
 
 230 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 night ! " cried she, shuddering all through as I 
 have heard old-fashioned folks say we do when 
 anybody is walking over the place where we are to 
 be buried. 
 
 Mrs. Ward was looking straight along the path 
 to Heckerdyke, but at this exclamation she turned 
 her face towards the water, and replied, " I re- 
 member hearing tell when I was a lass how that it 
 was ha'nted, but I've passed it at all hours, and in 
 all weathers, and I never saw or heard anything. 
 There's nought i' this world much worse than our- 
 selves." 
 
 Notwithstanding this encouragement, Alice's 
 gaze lingered on the water with a kind of fascina- 
 tion. The ash-boughs swayed apart under a stronger 
 gust, and showed her the blackest and deepest of 
 the pool, where the trees arched over like a cavern 
 roof, and the bank was steep and jagged, as if 
 desperate hands had clutched and broken it in a 
 struggling fall. 
 
 " Ay, but it's a dismal, dreary place ! Let's get 
 on a bit further, or else go back ! " cried she, 
 springing suddenly from her seat. *' It gives me 
 such a feel you can't tell." 
 
 " I didn't know I'd such a silly lass, to take
 
 THREE NIGHTS BY ASH-POOL. 231 
 
 flights and fancies for she doesn't know what," 
 responded her mother ; " but come thy ways ; if 
 Mary was over-persuaded to stay supper at th}- 
 aunt's, there's no telHng but she may stop all night, 
 or if she doesn't, Jack'U come with her part o' her 
 road." 
 
 Alice set oft" down the path at a pace which soon 
 left her mother behind ; at the next stile, however, 
 she waited until she overtook her, when Mrs. Ward 
 said, rather testily, " What ails thee to-night, Alice ? 
 One would think thee was daft." 
 
 Alice only laughed, and said she was all right 
 again now that she had left Ash-pool. 
 
 "Such stuft"! tJicc talking o' being feared on it. 
 It's none so long sin' thee would paddle in after 
 marsh-mallows. Don't run, bairn ; who does thee 
 think's after thee .?" 
 
 Alice at this remonstrance moderated her pace, 
 and they regained their home side by side. 
 Mrs. Ward struck a light in the house-place quickly, 
 and as Alice turned back the garment w^hich she 
 had worn over her head during the walk, she stood 
 before her mother's eyes the prettiest girl in Rivis- 
 dale. Mrs. Ward was very fond of her two chil- 
 dren, and very proud of them. They had been
 
 232 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 well brought up, and were esteemed as well-con- 
 ducted as girls could be. Alice was twenty-one, 
 and was engaged soon to be married to Farmer 
 Goodhugh, of Rookwood End ; but Mary was only 
 seventeen, and had no avowed suitor. Alice had 
 a healthy pale face, dark hair, and a figure that 
 was almost perfect in its build and development, 
 as her firm, agile walk and graceful movements 
 showed. Nature had given her the f9rm and pro- 
 portions of an antique model, and also some of the 
 strong passions that moved antique women. Living 
 all her life in that lone house, amongst the woods 
 and fields, taught by her mother, and having no 
 companion but her young sister, she had grown up 
 reserved, and good by habit as well as instinct. 
 Reading her Bible, the Pilgrim's Progress, and a 
 few old-fashioned volumes of spiritual instruction 
 besides, was her highest mental effort ; but she 
 was a clever dairy-woman on her mother's little 
 farm, and had quaint store of practical know- 
 ledge about herbs, roots, bees, and flowers ; she 
 was weather-wise, too, and could tell by the signs 
 in the sky whether it would be fair or foul in Rivis- 
 dale day by day. Her sister Mary was learning 
 millinery and dressmaking with Miss Timble, at
 
 THREE NIGHTS BY ASH-POOL. 233 
 
 Heckerdyke, but Alice had always stayed at 
 home to help her mother, the liveliest of her holi- 
 day excursions being a monthly visit to the village 
 schoolroom, where the young women of the parish 
 met to make clothes for the poor, under the super- 
 intendence of the rector s wife, and after which, for 
 three years past, Mark Goodhugh had always con- 
 trived to join her and little IMary and bring them 
 home. Mr. Ward considered Alice very happy in her 
 prospect of a good husband and a good home, and 
 between the young people there was an attach- 
 ment warm, strong, and true. Alice Avas a woman 
 of very deep feeling ; her affection for her mother, 
 and especially for little Mary, partook of the pas- 
 sionateness of her temperament. 
 
 "I think it is a craze I've got to-night, 
 mother," said she, looking dreamily at the candle 
 standing on the table between them : " for now I 
 am away from Ash-pool I want to go back." 
 
 " I'll hear none of that, at all events," replied 
 Mrs. Ward ; and she locked the house-door and 
 put the key in her pocket resolutely. " Mary'U 
 not come Hbme to-night ; she stayed at her aunt's, 
 or Miss Timble's got a press o' work an' has kept 
 her."
 
 234 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 Alice did not seem satisfied. " It's very queer, 
 mother, the longing I have to go back and seek 
 her ; she's stayed away many's the night before, 
 an' I never felt like this," 
 
 " What's come ower thee, bairn ! longings an' 
 feelings, such a fash ! What can ail thee ? " 
 
 "That's just what I don't know, mother." 
 
 " Nor nobody else either. Get thee to bed, and 
 thee'U soon forget all about it." 
 
 Ahce felt herself very foolish, but very uncom- 
 fortable, as she obeyed her mother's mandate, and 
 went up the narrow cottage stairs to the room 
 which she and Mary were accustomed to occupy 
 together. The little lattice had not been closed, 
 and looking out, there were the fields and the 
 white road stretching away to Ash-pool. She stood 
 gazing on them without any design, until her 
 mother's movements in the adjoining room ceased, 
 and then putting a plaid shawl over her head crept 
 down stairs, unlocked the back door, and was' 
 away across the first field before the aimlessness 
 of this new journey struck her. Then she laughed 
 to herself, and said, " It is silly ; what has Ash- 
 pool to do with Mary, or Mary to do with Ash- 
 pool } But as I have got out I'll go on." And
 
 THREE NIGHTS BY ASH-POOL. 235 
 
 reasoning with herself thus, she quickened her 
 pace, and in a quarter of an hour had reached the 
 stile where she and her mother rested before. 
 
 All was just as still, just as beautiful, just as 
 softly mysterious as when she left it ; the water 
 dimpling in the moonhght, and the great ash- 
 boughs swaying slowly to and fro. She stood 
 looking across it, and blaming herself for her folly, 
 and hoping her mother would not discover her 
 absence for ever so long. Indeed she made no 
 attempt to go home, but presently sat down, 
 exactly as if she had come out in the deliberate 
 intention of waiting for somebody. And as she 
 sat, there flowed irresistibly over her mind vivid 
 recollections of certain things she had read in her 
 few books, especially of Christian coming to the 
 shores of the waters of Death, and taking leave of 
 wife and children before going over the flood alone ; 
 till suddenly she was startled from her dreams by 
 the sight of a figure rushing across the field where 
 there was no pathway, straight towards Ash-pool. 
 In an instant she knew that it was little Mary, and 
 springing forward, caught her in her arms. Then 
 a struggle ensued ; the younger sister was slight 
 and weak in comparison with Alice, but she had
 
 236 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 the frenzied strength of the despair that Is covetous 
 of death. 
 
 *' Let me go — let me go, AHce," she panted, 
 and twisted herself, and struck with all her little 
 might ; but Alice had clasped her firmly round the 
 body, and trailed her by main force along the 
 hedge-side, out of sight of the water ; then she 
 purposely dropped to the ground herself, pulling 
 Mary with her, and there held her with a more 
 gentle restraint. 
 
 Mary's efforts to escape ceased gradually, and 
 she fell Into a quivering, moaning, sobbing agony, 
 with her head resting on her sister's knees, and her 
 pretty long yellow hair all loose about her face 
 and neck. Ahce put It away, and, bending down, 
 kissed her soft cheek, and then lifted her up, and 
 made her rest against her breast with the fondest 
 tenderness. 
 
 " You have got into trouble, Mary darling ; but 
 all's not over yet," said she. " I've been sent here 
 to save you from a great sin." 
 
 '' Who sent you > " 
 
 " It was God himself, Mary. I've had it borne 
 in upon my mind all night to come and seek you 
 by Ash-pool."
 
 THREE XIGHTS BY ASH-POOL. 237 
 
 Mary said nothing for several minutes, but at 
 last, in a gush of tears, she broke out : " Oh, Alice ! 
 what shall I do— what shall I do? You'd better 
 have let me go. I'd have been lying like a stone 
 at the bottom now ! " 
 
 " Nay, Mary ; your poor body would, but ycni 
 would ha' been standing before the throne of 
 God." 
 
 " I don't think He'd be as hard as Miss Timble, 
 Alice, if I was." 
 
 Ahce was silent for a little while, and then, 
 thinking Mary somewhat quietened, she began to 
 say, " You'll go home now, ^lary } " 
 
 " No, no ; I daren't, Alice — I daren't !" And 
 then the circumstances, or the consequences of her 
 calamity overpowered her reason again, and, with 
 vehement cries, she renewed her efforts to escape. 
 Alice was so excited that she did not see her 
 mother until she was close upon them. The old 
 woman had heard her stealthy departure, had 
 dressed herself, and followed her out into the fields. 
 Someway off she had heard j\Iar>^'s agonised voice. 
 Now she loved Alice, but little Mary^ was the idol 
 and darling of her mother's heart ; and when she 
 saw the strange, unnatural strife, she stood for a
 
 238 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 moment paralyzed ; but Mary had seen her, and 
 was still. 
 
 " We will take her home, mother," said Alice, 
 quietly. 
 
 " Ay, yes, we'll take her home, to be sure — take 
 her home. Come, Mary dear, come now an' be 
 good." And Mrs. Ward put her arm round her 
 waist and lifted her up. 
 
 " Oh, mother, mother ! I'm not worth it — I'm 
 not worth it," sobbed Mary, drawing herself 
 away. 
 
 " We are none on us worth much, but thou art 
 our Mary, an' thee must come wi' thy mother an' 
 thy sister, let what will ha' happened thee. I say 
 nought, only thee must come home." 
 
 "■ Oh, mother, that it should be me to break thy 
 heart and shame Alice afore everybody ! I wish I 
 were dead — I wish I were dead." 
 
 " Hearts take a deal o' breaking, Mary, that has 
 their help i' the Lord Almighty," was Mrs. Ward's 
 answer ; and then she said to Alice, with an in- 
 voluntary sigh, " Take hold of her, and let us get 
 her home." 
 
 It was a miserable walk. Mary cried hysterically, 
 and twice again made her insane efforts to get
 
 THREE NIGHTS BY ASH-FOOL. 239 
 
 back to Ash-pool. It was something, indeed, to 
 thank God for aloud, as Mrs. Ward did, when they 
 had her safe in the house-place and the door 
 locked. They put her into the great chair that 
 had been her father's, and Alice kindled the fire, 
 while her mother sat still and soothed the unhappy 
 girl. But Mary was not in a condition to listen 
 or profit much. She was sensible that they whom 
 she had most dreaded to see had taken her to 
 their hearts and had not reproached her ; but she 
 was sensible also that she had brought shame and 
 sorrow upon all belonging to her, and that her 
 own troubles were but just begun. Miss Timble 
 had made her understand that too distinctly ever 
 to be effaced from her memory. Neither Mrs. 
 Ward nor Alice asked a single question, though 
 what had happened came upon them like a 
 thunder-clap ; for the present they were only 
 intent on getting Mary quietened and put to rest. 
 This was not easy : she rejected food, and declared 
 she would starve herself to death — she would not 
 live to be a disgrace to everybody who loved her — 
 if she were in her grave they would forgive and 
 forget her by-and-by. 
 
 " Hush ! Mary darling, don't talk like that,"
 
 240 CO UNTR V STORIES. 
 
 said Alice ; " if God forgives thee, surely thy 
 mother an' thy sister can." 
 
 " Miss Timble said you couldn't, and that the 
 best thing I could do would be to die out of the 
 way." 
 
 " Miss Timble has not had the same tempta- 
 tions as thee, Mary, or she'd know better than to 
 speak like that. Thy mother's heart will never 
 turn again thee ; we maun't try to be more just 
 than God, Alice. Thee has been very wrong, but 
 thee belongs to us, Mary, if thee had been ten 
 times as wrong ; I ha' no right to cut thee off. 
 Alice, a sup o' hot tea would do all o' us good. 
 Mary'll drink out o' my cup." 
 
 And when the tea was made, Mary was pre- 
 vailed on to put her trembling hps to it and 
 drink, and then she let herself be taken up-stairs, 
 undressed, and laid on the bed without any re- 
 sistance, only now and then she looked wonder- 
 ingly in her mother's face, as if what was passing 
 bewildered her, and every few minutes a con- 
 vulsive fit of sobs and tears shook her sHght frame 
 from head to foot. 
 
 Alice busied herself in folding up her sister's 
 clothes, and when that was done she stood by
 
 THREE NIGHTS BY ASH-POOL. 241 
 
 the bed-foot, looking pityingly at ]Mary, until her 
 mother spoke. " Go thee to my bed, Ahce ; 111 
 sleep with thy sister to-night, for the less she gets 
 talking the better." So Alice went away and shut 
 the door. 
 
 But Mary could not sleep, and before the 
 morning she had confessed herself to her mother — 
 her love and her weakness, her misery and her 
 despair. It was not without some entreaty that 
 Mary would tell the name of him who had de- 
 ceived her ; but at last, having exacted a promise 
 of silence from her mother, she did so. Nothinq; 
 was likely to astonish Mrs. Ward after the lament- 
 able discovery of her darling's frailty, and when 
 she heard the name of the rector's son, she only 
 sighed and said, " Who could have thought it." 
 
 Good people are often awfully severe ; the 
 next day Mrs. Ward had this severity to suffer. 
 She was alone in the house-place, about noon, 
 Alice and Mary being together up-stairs, when she 
 saw the erect, solemn figure of the rector coming 
 over the fields. She did not meet him reveren- 
 tially at the gate, as her custom was, but let him 
 knock at the door, and then silently admitted him. 
 The rector was not an unkind man at heart, but 
 
 VOL. I. 16
 
 242 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 he was rather magisterial in his office ; he was 
 more priest than pastor, and he was neither by- 
 nature nor habit used to tender deaHng with the 
 bruised sinners of his flock. Mrs. Ward coloured 
 painfully as he metaphorically put her into the 
 witness-box. 
 
 " Mrs. Ward, is this true that I hear about 
 Mary — her misconduct t " said he, as if he were 
 pre-assured of his answer. 
 
 *' I am not one to defend wrong-doing, Mr. Las- 
 celles, as you very well know, but Mary's my 
 child, and I will say this for her — she's more to be 
 pitied than blamed, and him that deceived her is 
 the greater sinner o' the two," replied Mrs. Ward, 
 firmly. " He had better knowledge o' what's 
 good an' what's bad than she had, an' it was a 
 very poor thing o' him to ruin her that loved him. 
 My girl's not vain like some, an' her undoing would 
 never ha' come about had she not been ower- 
 persuaded through the tenderness o' her poor 
 heart" 
 
 " Really, Mrs. Ward, you make a confusion 
 between right and wrong that surprises me ! I 
 thought that yoii of all people would have kept 
 your daughter better ! " said the rector. Mrs, Ward
 
 might have asked him why he had not kept his- 
 son better, but she refrained herself, and held her 
 peace. " For a girl so young, and who had every 
 attention from my wife at the school, she must 
 have a very depraved disposition indeed." 
 
 " No, Mr. Lascelles, Mary's not depraved," 
 returned Mrs. Ward, indignantly ; " she has been 
 led away, and there's no telling what she might 
 become if we flung her out from among us like a 
 bad weed. But God made me her mother, and 
 let who will cast hard words at her I shall stand up 
 for her an' shield her as long as I live." 
 
 "Would it not be well to remove her from the 
 neighbourhood, at least for a time .' " suggested the 
 rector ; " such a bad example to the other young 
 women of the parish " 
 
 " No, sir, I will not send my Mary away from 
 her mother an' sister," was the resolute answer ; 
 " as for her being a bad example, it seems to me 
 she'll be a sad warning rather to her old lake- 
 fellows. The poor thing will be punished enough 
 by the cold looks o' one an' another, an' the sorrow 
 o' bringing into the world a babe without any o' 
 the love an' pride that helps us women through 
 without Alice an' me turning our backs on her.
 
 244 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 She'll stay wi' me, sir, and we shall do what we 
 can to comfort her." 
 
 " I am sorry to find you of this way of think- 
 ing, Mrs. Ward ; if such early wickedness is not to 
 be discouraged, I don't know what we shall come 
 to by-and-by ! " 
 
 " Mary'U have enough to bear, sir, never fear ; 
 nobody need come near us that would rather stay 
 away." 
 
 The rector rose with an air of displeasure : 
 *' And who is the other delinquent } " asked he, 
 coldly. 
 
 " Mary'll not tell " 
 
 " Worse and worse ! Does she mean to carry 
 on her intrigue .'* " 
 
 ** He's far enough away by this, sir " 
 
 " Humph ! Very bad case altogether, very bad. 
 Mary will come to no more of my wife's Dorcas 
 meetings, and perhaps Alice would prefer to stay 
 away just at present. I must show the young 
 people that vice is to be discouraged, Mrs. Ward. 
 Mary has only herself to blame that she is an 
 outcast. I trust it may be put into her heart to 
 repent of her wickedness and to amend her ways." 
 He said nothing of the returning sinner being
 
 THREE NIGHTS BY ASH-POOL. 245 
 
 taken back with welcome and rejoicing. And so 
 he went away, leaving poor Mrs. Ward somewhat 
 mystified between his Sunday preaching and his 
 week-day practice. 
 
 II. 
 
 Alice Ward's marriage with Farmer Goodhugh 
 was deferred by this sad trouble which had be- 
 fallen IMary, and there was even some talk of its 
 going off altogether ; but though evil tongues 
 spoke, the young people, being truly attached to 
 each other, fulfilled their engagement the next 
 spring, and Alice removed to Rookwood End. 
 Mary was then left alone with her mother and a 
 bright-eyed, four-months old baby, which she 
 worshipped as fondly, and mothered-up as de- 
 lightfully, as if the blessing of God had been upon 
 it at its coming. Old friends were shy of the 
 house, but Mrs. Lascelles had been to see her ; 
 and though she came primed with stern counsel,
 
 246 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 somehow she did not find the occasion to utter it. 
 Mary showed her baby with a perfect motherly 
 tenderness, and the sedate modesty of her young 
 face would have made rebuke very inappropriate. 
 Her child had comforted her, and though Mary 
 was now and then sorrowful, she was not 
 miserable ; she looked upon her little one as she 
 would have done had she been a happily wedded 
 wife, and this her crowning joy. Mrs. Lascelles 
 had not the heart to scold her ; and when she went 
 away she even kissed the child as it lay in its 
 mother's arms, and touched its dimples with a 
 playful caress. The tears flashed into Mary's eyes 
 --she had been so longing to ask a question, and 
 this emboldened her, though her heart beat very 
 heavily all the time. 
 
 " Are you likely to lose Master Frank, ma'am t 
 Will he be going away to this war they talk of t " 
 
 "I am afraid he will, Mary. I am sorely afraid 
 he will," replied Mrs. Lascelles, sighing. Mary's 
 face drooped ; she said no more, and her visitor 
 went away without any more words. 
 
 Farmer Goodhugh took in a weekly newspaper, 
 and every Sunday evening Mary used to meet her 
 sister at the stile by Ash-pool to receive it, and
 
 THREE NIGHTS BY ASH-POOL. 247 
 
 look for the intelligence of the removals of regi- 
 ments — of Frank Lascelles's regiment that is. 
 Mary had never been to church since her calamity. 
 She used to go and sit through the long Sunday 
 afternoons on the hill-top with her baby alone and 
 offer her prayers there— the coldness of old friends 
 had made her feel herself unworthy to join the 
 Christian congregation in Heckerdyke church. 
 After tea Airs, Ward walked with her to the stile, 
 and when Alice and her husband appeared she 
 would join them, and leave Mary to con her paper 
 with the baby in her lap until they returned. 
 This was done, as usual, one beautiful Sunday 
 evening, and ]Mary had read, through blinding 
 tears, that Frank was immediately going abroad. 
 Nobody but herself knew why she was always so 
 anxious for the paper ; no matter what she ought 
 to have done, she had not ceased loving him — she 
 thought she never should cease to love him. 
 When she had seen the fatal words, she let the 
 paper drop to the ground and laid her lips to the 
 baby's cheek — sobbing and crying. But Ash-pool 
 dimpled its dark waters in vain — she had that now 
 worth loving and living for, and the shame v/as 
 not greater than she could bear.
 
 248 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 She bad sat thus with her eyes hidden for 
 some time, when a hand was laid on her shoulder, 
 and a well-remembered voice said, in the pleasant 
 old accents, *' Mary, Mary ! " She sprang up : 
 she never reproached him ; all was forgotten in 
 the greeting of the woman who loved. For a 
 moment only — they had been guilty together — 
 both very young, passionate, happy, heedless of 
 consequences — but the heavy sense of sin was 
 between them and its living evidence in Mary's 
 arms. After the first impulse both were silent. 
 Frank was the first to speak : 
 
 ''They were all in church — I felt that I must 
 see you once more, Mary — just once before I go. 
 You got my letters } " 
 
 " Yes — I can't bid you send no more, but my 
 mother does not like it. She would be grieved to 
 know you were here now. Oh ! Frank, Frank, it 
 would have been better for me if we had never 
 met ! " 
 
 " I will marry you before I leave England, if 
 you will, Mary " 
 
 '' It's too late, Frank — it's too late ; you shall 
 not waste your life for me. I know it would be 
 your ruin to marry me, and it could not help its.
 
 THREE NIGHTS BY ASH-POOL. 249 
 
 We shall stay with my mother— so give us one 
 kiss, and then go " 
 
 '^ But when I come home again, Mary " 
 
 " You must not see me any more." Her voice 
 trembled, and her face drooped as she said so, 
 and Frank declared that he should not obey 
 her. " It oughtn't to please me, Frank, to see 
 you're fond of me as ever, but it does — Fm 
 afraid Fve a bad heart," said Mary, looking up at 
 him, tearfully. " But what I said first was right — 
 we mustn't see one another any more." 
 
 " Perhaps we never shall — who knows whether 
 I may live to come back } " 
 
 " Oh, Frank, Frank ! " and then the sad tears 
 came. 
 
 They had not met till now since Mary's disgrace 
 became public, but neither made any allusion to 
 it ; she said nothing of the hard words which had 
 frenzied her and driven her to the verge of self- 
 destruction — of that terrible hour she never thought 
 without fear and trembling. But Frank guessed 
 much. At home he had heard his mother speak 
 with a severe compassion of Mary, and mention it 
 as commendable that she kept herself in seclusion, 
 not appearing even at church. And he had brought
 
 250 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 this upon her ! She and her mother and sister ha<. 
 kept his share of her secret faithfully, and she hai 
 borne all the contumely in her own person wher 
 the mere mention of his name would with many 
 have gone far to mitigate the blackness of her sin. 
 He could not thank her for this — any ■zc/fj'r^^^ seemed 
 poor and cold, and she would none of his caresses. 
 They stood side by side looking over to the sunset 
 and the gilded trees, and speaking httle ; but there 
 was the aching pang of remorse in both their 
 hearts. The after-taste of guilt is very bitter. 
 
 Presently there was a sound of distant children's 
 voices, and Mary knew that the people were coming 
 out of church. 
 
 " Now, 'Frank dear," said she, turning her sor- 
 rowful pale face up to his. 
 
 " Must I go, Mary t " 
 
 There were a few tears mingled, scalding tears. 
 Heart-drops that could not heal the heart-ache, 
 lave out the sin, lessen the remorse. 
 
 The little one was asleep in Mary's arms all 
 the time, closely pressed to her bosom. Frank 
 kissed the rosy, dimpled face, and kissed its 
 mother. '* Mary, I w^as very cruel to you — very 
 selfish," he said.
 
 THREE NIGHTS BY ASH-POOL. 251 
 
 " Never mind, love, that is all over. I will like 
 to remember, when — when I don't see you any- 
 more, that you loved me. Oh, Frank, Frank ! " 
 
 And thus they parted ; and ]\Iar>^ ran home, 
 crying, crying. 
 
 III. 
 
 One night, rather more than two years after 
 this parting, Mary Ward again took her way up 
 to the stile by Ash -pool. Her little lad was now 
 old enough to toddle beside her, clinging to her 
 gown, to run on before and then scamper back, 
 laughing and crowing, to hide his face against her 
 knees. He was a very beautiful child, with great 
 dark blue eyes, and brown hair curling in rings 
 all over his head, and every day to Mary's 
 mingled joy and dread, he grew more like his 
 father, who was far away with the army in the 
 East. 
 
 All the long morning there had been the
 
 252 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 ringing of Heckerdyke church-bells for a great 
 victory. Mary had heard the sound over the hills, 
 and had paused in her work often to listen, and 
 to think where was Frank all the time that the 
 sun was shining and the bells were ringing through 
 bonny Rivisdale ? Was he lying dead on the 
 crimson battle-field, or was he writhing, in wounded 
 misery, in an hospital tent, or was he one amongst 
 the happy saved and victorious ? She was in 
 feverish haste, for Alice was to meet her at the 
 stile, with any news she could get from the rectory, 
 whither she could never go, and once or twice she 
 would have carried the boy, that they might get 
 on faster ; but he was full of spirits and mischief, 
 and would use his own little legs to run in amongst 
 the wheat, to gather the poppies and gay blue 
 corn-flowers, and kept her waiting again and again. 
 But when she reached the stile, she was all too 
 soon — no Alice was there, nor in sight upon the 
 path ; so she went further and further, until she 
 came to the brow of the hill, which looked down 
 upon the village. A little way off was the church, 
 with the rectory and rectory gardens, and, leaning 
 over the last stile, with the boy playing at her feet, 
 she tried to school herself to wait patiently. At
 
 THREE NIGHTS BY ASH-POOL. 253 
 
 first it did not strike her that, though the sun had 
 gone round from the south side of the house, all 
 the blinds were down and the lower shutters half 
 closed. But there was a strange silence and hush 
 about the place ; the door into the flowery porch 
 was shut, and Mr. Lascelles was not taking his 
 evening stroll of inspection amongst his roses. 
 The joy-bells had ceased five hours ago, and 
 though the day's work was done, there was no 
 noise of cricket-players on the village-green, or of 
 quoit-players at the alehouse. 
 
 She knew that Alice would go to the back- 
 door at the rectory, and she kept her eyes on 
 that, distinguishing curiously the green ivy 
 leaves with the sunshine slanting round the corner 
 at the west. So intent was she, that she did not 
 notice a young woman who was coming from a 
 little dairy-farm that she had passed a few hun- 
 dred yards behind, until she had twice asked her 
 to make way for her to cross the stile. She had a 
 jug of milk in her hand, and, with mechanical 
 civility, Mary held it for her until she had got over, 
 and then she recognised an old school companion 
 who had gone into service at the rectory. 
 
 " I can't stop, Mary, but I'm glad to see you
 
 254 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 looking so well. And is that your little boy ? " 
 said she. "There's trouble at home — you've heard, 
 oerhaps. They stopped the bells directly." 
 
 " I have heard nothing." 
 
 *'Poor Master's Frank's dead — yes, he's dead — 
 and missis is nearly distracted. I've just been for 
 t' milk for our teas. I knew you'd be sorry — he 
 was a very fine young man. Ay, true it is, t' best 
 alius goes t' first ! " 
 
 Mary never spoke, but just turned round, and 
 taking up her child, now tired enough to be quiet, 
 tottered back to Ash-pool. Afterwards she told 
 Alice, that when her old companion said, '' Master 
 Frank's dead — yes, he's dead," something struck 
 her heart like a death-blow. Her sister found her 
 sitting there by the water, still as a statue, dumb 
 and tearless, and white as a corpse. 
 
 " You have heard, Mary } " she said, kneeling 
 beside her. " They got the news this noon. It's 
 very sad. They say he was riding into the battle, 
 and cheering his men to come on, with his sword 
 waving over his head, when a shot struck him in 
 the breast, and he died. Oh, love, love ! I wish 
 you had a right to be sorry for him ; but it's like 
 a judgment on him for his wickedness to you."
 
 THREE NIGHTS BY ASH-POOL. 255 
 
 "Then it's a judgment on both of us, for I was 
 as much to blame as he," repHed Mary, still clear 
 enough to defend her lover. 
 
 " I never said so before, but I have hated him, 
 Mary — oh ! I have hated him ! I believe I was 
 glad when I heard he was killed." 
 
 " Don't Alice, don't ! " And poor Mary shud- 
 dered with a blind, blank look of misery in her 
 pretty eyes. 
 
 They were in no haste to go home either of 
 them, and they stayed by the pool as the sun went 
 down. The child fell fast asleep in Mary's arms, 
 but her anguish only seemed to deepen in watch- 
 ing the innocent, unconcious little face. Alice 
 wished she would give way and cry, but of any 
 such outlet for her feelings she was at present 
 incapable. Her heart swelled, and her throat 
 ached, but the tears would not come. And 
 while these two women sat silently grieving, 
 the bereaved father was coming slowly towards 
 them, his head bent down, his spirit within 
 him weak as water. He had lost his only 
 son — his only child. There was little sign in 
 his subdued presence of the magisterial priest 
 who had condemned Mary and rebuked her mother
 
 256 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 — the flood of sorrow had come over him and swept 
 him down to the level of suffering humanity. He 
 had come to the fields by Ash-pool to be alone 
 with God in his anguish, for Frank had been the 
 joy and pride of his heart, and that he had died as 
 became a brave soldier but little mitigated it. And 
 so it happened that he saw Mary for the first time 
 since she was an innocent merry girl, resting so 
 still, broken-hearted, with his child upon her lap. 
 Self-absorbed as he was, he could not but read 
 aright the utter sense of prostration that her atti- 
 tude and countenance betrayed, and with the 
 frightened glance she cast at him as she moved to 
 let him pass, a sudden suspicion came into his 
 mind. 
 
 " Mary, you know what trouble has come to 
 us. You are in great sorrow again. Are our griefs 
 akin } " said he, sharply. 
 
 " Oh, sir, sir ! " That piteous exclamation con- 
 fessed all, and with a quick gesture she uncovered 
 the child's face. 
 
 The rector could not speak — than anger, than 
 all righteous reprobation, love is stronger. Mary's 
 love for the son he had lost suddenly overcame his 
 indignation. By-and-by he recovered his voice,
 
 THREE NIGHTS BY ASH POOL. 257 
 
 and said, with a gesture towards the home where 
 the bereaved mother was weeping, " I think, 
 Mary, it would comfort her to see him, and to 
 know " 
 
 My sketch is done. While there is death in the 
 world, and sorrow and parting, and sin, let love 
 and Christian forgiveness triumph as they triumphed 
 here. Mary Ward's life was short — she died 
 within two months of the night by Ash-pool, where 
 she heard the tidings of her lover's death. The 
 child was taken to the rectory, and is being brought 
 up by the rector and his wife — all the world knows 
 now that Mary Ward's son was also the son of 
 Frank Lascelles. 
 
 There is a grey slab in an out-of-the-way 
 corner of Heckerdyke church with this inscription : 
 "Francis Lascelles, aged 23. Mary Ward, aged 19, 
 Who art thou that condemneth } Let him that is 
 without sin among you cast the first stone." 
 
 END OF " THREE NIGHTS BY ASH-POOL. 
 
 VOL. L 17
 
 THE HOLY WELL. 
 
 jIDDEN in a deep wood hollow, 
 
 Girt about with ancient trees, 
 i Where the mocking echoes follow 
 In the track of every breeze, 
 
 Lies the Holy Well. 
 Hoary stones up-heaped around it, 
 Worn and moss'ed with age surround it 
 In the lonely dell. 
 
 n. 
 
 Down the hillside frets the water, 
 Gurgling to the shadowed pool. 
 With a trickling, ringing laughter, 
 As it fills the basin full. 
 
 The grey-green stones among. 
 And a music like bells pealing, 
 Wavelets gushing, eddies reeling. 
 
 With a wild, wild song !
 
 THE HOLY WELL. 259 
 
 III. 
 All about its brink the aspen 
 
 Quivers into sun and shade : 
 Asphodel and vindweed, claspen 
 
 Tendril--v\-ise, thick bowers have made 
 The noisy rill about. 
 And always 'mongst the broad ferns waving, 
 When the summer storms are raving 
 
 Zephyrs play in and out. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Softly, in the evening twilight, 
 
 When the air is hushed and still, 
 Closed the little peering eye-bright, 
 And the shadows on the hill 
 
 Are fast asleep. 
 Down the dark and windy hollow, 
 Where the traitor echoes follow, 
 
 Cometh one to weep. 
 
 V. 
 
 She is young and fresh and blooming. 
 
 Has a brow most pure and fair: 
 Through the purple summer gloaming 
 Come her step and form of air, 
 
 Secretly and slow ; 
 Lest some lurking spy should follow, 
 Down the dark and windy hollow. 
 
 Where she fain would go..
 
 26o COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Trailing with a laggard footfall, 
 
 Drawn by hope, withheld by fear. 
 Through the plumy ferns at nightfall, 
 When the sky shows dim and drear 
 Beyond the trees ; 
 With a cheek, now flushing, paling, 
 To her heart's wild inner wailing 
 
 Starting at each breeze. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Slowly, down the steep, green hill-side, 
 
 Over slippery, lichened stones, 
 Slowly, by the Holy Well-side 
 Listening to its murmured tones, 
 
 Down on her knee ; 
 With the black boughs o'er her swaying, 
 Softly weeping, softly saying, 
 
 " Loveth he me? " 
 
 VIII. 
 
 By the Holy Well down kneeling. 
 
 Watching for her gain or loss. 
 O'er its mirror-darkness stealing 
 Light, with shade of pines across, 
 
 Like pale moonbeams ; 
 Slow and solemn as the warning 
 Easter light of winter morning, 
 
 On our waking dreams.
 
 THE HOLY WELL. 261 
 
 IX. 
 
 Brightening still until the lustre, 
 
 Glows like topaz in the shade : 
 And the tiny eddies muster 
 
 I jke a framework round it laid, 
 
 Fretted o'er w^th gold ; 
 And the inner circle glistens, 
 And the night stands still and listens, 
 
 To that question old 
 
 X. 
 
 On the brink low bends the maiden, 
 
 Peering down into the glass, 
 All her soul with terror laden, 
 Asking of the shades that pass, 
 
 " Loveth he me ? " 
 With a tone of sad complaining, 
 While the light is slowly waning, 
 
 " Loveth he me ? " 
 
 XI. 
 
 Thrice her white lips opening quiver, 
 
 E'er she dares to speak again ; 
 Creeping down the little river. 
 Steals the darkness back again. 
 
 " Loveth he me ? " 
 Comes a sound of fairy laughter, 
 Trilling sweep the echoes after — 
 
 " He loveth thee ! "
 
 262 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Up she rises, gaily, gladly, 
 
 On her lips the rose flush warms ; 
 All the tiny zephyrs madly 
 
 Wake and toy with her alarms. 
 
 As she trips away ; 
 Startled by a dead leaf falling. 
 Or a wakeful echo calling. 
 
 To the coming day, 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Hastes she from the haunted hollow, 
 
 Light of heart and swift of foot ; 
 Ever as she goes there follow, 
 Voices murmuring like the lute, 
 
 " He loveth thee ! '' 
 All her spirits inly ringing, 
 To their wild and tuneful singing, 
 
 "Helovethme!" 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Many a mile of lonely woodland 
 
 Lies between her and her home ; 
 
 Hill and dale and heathery moorland 
 
 Where the hunters frequent come, 
 
 Seeking their game. 
 And it chanced that morning early 
 While the dew lay white and pearly 
 
 Herbert Wilford came.
 
 THE HOLY WELL. 263 
 
 XV. 
 
 With a downcast brow and darkling, 
 
 Full of pride and full of ire, 
 And an eye both hot and sparkling 
 Kindled at his wild heart's fire, 
 
 And his teeth set. 
 Suddenly within the shade. 
 In the deepest of the glade 
 
 There they two met, 
 
 XVI. 
 
 O'er her face there came a flushing— 
 
 Could it be the morning light ? 
 Or a tide of blushes rushing, 
 From her pure love into sight 
 
 To betray her ? 
 Herbert in her fair face peering, 
 With hot gaze her forehead scaring, 
 
 Looked as he could slay her. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 '•' Hast thou been to Haunted Hollow, 
 
 Wilful, false, proud, fickle May ? 
 Art thou pleased to see me follow, 
 On thy steps till break of day. 
 
 Vain little heart ? 
 'Tis said that on the Eve St. John, 
 IMaids to Holy^vell have gone 
 
 To ask their fate.
 
 264 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " 'Tis a year, May, since we parted, — 
 
 I in anger, thou in tears. 
 I liave seen thee merry-hearted, 
 Joyous with thy young compeers, 
 Forgetting me. 
 If the echo told thee truly. 
 As I read thy blush unruly, 
 
 It said ' still loveth he ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 From his dark brow passed the glooming. 
 From her heart fled all her fears ; 
 
 While the purple fells were blooming 
 Under mornings' lustrous tears. 
 Upon the lea. 
 
 And tinkled as they went the hair-bells, 
 
 All the little fairy joy-bells, 
 
 "Loveth he me?" 
 '' He loveth thee ! " 
 " Loveth she me ? " 
 " She loveth thee ! " 
 
 END OF THE " HOLY WELL.
 
 TOO PRUDENT BY HALF; 
 
 OR. 
 
 PROUD NELLY KIXGSLAXD. 
 
 LL lay you a pound to a penny that 
 proud Miss Nelly marries John Ormandy 
 in the end." 
 
 " John Ormandy ! Who is John Ormandy, and 
 what has he got that he should lift his eyes to 
 Miss Eleanor Kingsland ? " 
 
 " John Ormandy's the son of her father's best 
 friend, and he has got the making of a man in 
 him — that's what he is, and that's what he has 
 got." 
 
 " He is a clerk with a hundred a-year, and his 
 family on his hands. Miss Eleanor will never wait
 
 266 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 for him ; indeed, if all's true, they say she has her 
 eye on Larke of Lark Hill." 
 
 " Larke of Lark Hill ? " 
 
 " You have heard it, then ? " 
 
 " Yes, we are deafened with gossip in this 
 country ; but I'm not one to beHeve all I hear. 
 I've said it before, and I'll say it again — a pound 
 to a penny Nelly Kingsland marries John Ormandy, 
 and none but John Ormandy, in the end." 
 
 " She'll go round the wood seven times before 
 she'll bring her mind to it. She's a rare beauty, 
 and as well she knows it ; earth is hardly good 
 enough for her to step on." 
 
 " That's not to be gainsaid ; she is mighty high 
 and uplifted in her own conceit, but where will you 
 see such another face or fine-made figure of a 
 woman t Larke of Lark Hill would be lucky to 
 win her. It's a worn-out old stock, the Larkes, 
 and Philip not much better than a natural, poor 
 shambling fellow that he is." 
 
 " It's not Philip I was meaning — what woman 
 that is a woman would look at him ? It's young 
 Archibald that's home from India." 
 
 " Gossip tells her stories half-a-dozen ways ; 
 but Philip or Archibald, I lay you a pound to a 
 
 i
 
 TOO PRUDENT BY HALF. 267 
 
 penny proud Miss Nelly marries John Ormandy 
 before this day ten years. There she comes in her 
 new carriage — a sight for sore eyes is that bonny 
 face of hers, God bless my darling every day she 
 lives, with all the faults of her ! " 
 
 The two cronies (the widow of the late and the 
 wife of the present doctor of Milnthorpe) rose 
 simultaneously to watch the transit of the beauty 
 of the district. She was sitting erect in her car- 
 riage, looking straight before her ; a large, fair girl, 
 in blue and white raiment lying all soft and cloudy 
 about her, and her face sunny, beaming, glorious as 
 the face of a goddess ; the wind blew her pale 
 chesnut ringlets away from her bloomy cheeks and 
 white brow, and every man, woman, and child stood 
 still to stare and wonder as she passed. The village 
 street fell into eclipse in the dust of her chariot- 
 wheels, and the widowed Mrs. Ford resumed her 
 easy chair with a sigh and a supposition that ]Miss 
 Nelly was going out for the day. From her tone 
 and manner the event might have been a personal 
 disaster. 
 
 " The Kingslands are quite the big people of 
 Milnthorpe now, so far as money goes," remarked 
 her friend, Mrs. Binks.
 
 268 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 "Yes, old Kingsland hardly can know what he's 
 worth — everything he touches seem to turns to gold. 
 He is liberal with it, but too much prosperity is not 
 good for a man — and see how set up with it Miss 
 Nelly is. I remember the time when he came first 
 to Milnthorpe — an overseer in Clayton's works he 
 was, and married to a pretty woman out of West- 
 moreland, who did not take over kindly to this 
 country ways. She had her family very thick, and 
 many's the five pound bill poor Tom Ormandy let 
 him have to help him in his straits — for Tom was 
 that generous he'd have given the coat off his back 
 to a friend in need. She had a great spirit had 
 Mrs. Kingsland, and battled through her twelve 
 children without ever looking behind her, and just 
 as prosperity dawned on 'em she died. Miss Nelly 
 was the baby, and she's grown up quite on the 
 sunny side of the wall. She'd open her blue eyes 
 a deal wider if she knew all I could tell her of 
 John Ormandy's father and her own. Eh, well, 
 let's trust the Lord does what's best ; for it puzzles 
 me above a bit to think who's gone up and who's 
 come down in this curious see-saw of a Milnthorpe 
 world since I've been in it." 
 
 *• The Ormandys have never had their heads
 
 TOO PRUDENT BY HALF. 269 
 
 above water since I have heard of them," remarked 
 Mrs. Binks. '* It sounds Hke a bad joke to me 
 when you talk of plain John Ormandy and that 
 sweet Miss Eleanor Kingsland." 
 
 " Then don't repeat it — I love 'em both dearly, 
 and I'm of opinion that for all the great gulf you 
 fancy there is between them, they'll end by clasping 
 hands across it. I know John's heart has been set 
 on her for, long — ever since he was a lad ; and she, 
 with all her conceit and nonsense, has wit enough 
 to know that he's better worth as a man than any 
 of her sprigs of gentility that she's so keen about 
 pleasing and visiting among." 
 
 *^ I can't see it ; he's only a pale-faced young 
 fellow to look at, and not a deal to say for him- 
 self Now Captain Larke is something like — and 
 he is sure to come into the property when Philip 
 drops off, as drop off he must soon. You may 
 back John Ormandy, but I would much prefer to 
 see Miss Eleanor Mrs. Archibald Larke, and 
 mistress at Lark Hill." 
 
 Mrs. Forde thought they had jaded the subject, 
 
 and closed it with a favourite platitude : " We that 
 
 ■ live shall see : — After all it is no personal concern 
 
 of yours, who hardly ever spoke to either of them
 
 270 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 in your life, Mrs. Binks, and I don't approve of 
 speckilating on people's deaths — poor Mr. Philip 
 may see us both out — a creaking gate hangs long, 
 and I never heard my husband say that he'd any- 
 thing wrong with him to signify." 
 
 Mrs. Binks nodded her head with much signifi- 
 cance, implying that her husband was of quite 
 another opinion ; and after a little further talk on 
 domestic matters, and the market-price of eggs, 
 she bade her friend good-day. Mrs. Ford re- 
 mained at her window in thoughtful meditation for 
 some minutes after she was gone. 
 
 Her house, which was called the Corner House, 
 commanded the two chief thoroughfares of Miln- 
 thorpe, but at this hour, midway the afternoon, all 
 was quiet. The men-folk were at the works, the 
 children in school, the wives and mothers at the 
 wash-tub or the oven. The Kingsland carriage 
 was the last that had passed, for the polite society 
 of the neighbourhood was assembled at a straw- 
 berry party at Lark Hill, the first of the season, and 
 the usual diversion of the time of day was absent. 
 Suppose we leave the smoky purlieus of Milnthorpe, 
 where money is made like coining, and go through 
 the shady woods to the gardens on Lark Hill, too.
 
 TOO PRUDENT BY HALF. 271 
 
 It was a very gay and charming, scene under 
 the trees in the July sunshine. Mrs. Larke was 
 an old lady, but sprightly as youth itself, and as 
 apt at promoting amusement as if she were be- 
 ginning Hfe, instead of waning to its conclusion. 
 She was exceedingly popular in the country, for 
 lady of quality born, bred and married though she 
 was, she had not the exclusive airs of ancient 
 gentility that are so obnoxious to new-made mag- 
 nates. If people were nice in themselves, and 
 wiUing to contribute their quota of pleasantness to 
 her parties, she was not rigorous to consider 
 whether they were toum or county, whether they 
 had inherited a fortune, or dug one out of the 
 Milnthorpe mines. This social code of hers had 
 been in force since her husband's death, now nine 
 years past. Her son Philip, was nominal master 
 in the house, but nothing more. " Poor Philip," 
 his mother called him, and was kind, but made no 
 account of him any more than if he were still in 
 his nonage. Archibald was her favourite, who 
 took after herself in frank disposition and hand- 
 someness. He had won his laurels in India, and 
 had come home on leave to recruit his strength 
 after a wound in the face which had marred his
 
 272 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 beauty a little, but had as certainly increased his 
 attraction to the romantic and heart-free maidens 
 of the neighbourhood— proud Eleanor Kingsland, 
 the brightest, and fairest of them all. He was too 
 manly to be vain, but he had humour enough to 
 be amused by the flattering attentions of the girls. 
 His mother especially distinguished Eleanor in 
 her introductions, and the others quietly subsided, 
 as it seemed right they should, into secondary 
 places. Eleanor felt herself set on a level with 
 the hero of the day, and was as happy as a queen. 
 She loved admiration, and to be the first in her 
 company, all in an open, simple, innocent way that 
 made shrewd people smile, but never made any 
 one dislike her. 
 
 ''She is not particularly refined, but she is 
 as beautiful as the summer," was Captain Archi- 
 bald's private criticism on her ; and he drew a 
 silent comparison between Eleanor's full rose-like 
 womanhood, and the lily grace of Mary, the poor 
 vicar's daughter, whom he had a fancy for when he 
 was a boy, and did his lessons with the vicar. 
 
 Mary looked up at him with sweet, shy, soft 
 brown eyes, and called him " Archy " still ; and 
 much as it would have astonished his lady friends
 
 TOO PRUDENT BY HALF. 273 
 
 to hear it, he was more content recounting his 
 hair-breadth 'scapes to her than to any more 
 briUiant Desdemona of them all. Several times 
 during the afternoon, in pauses of the croquet and 
 the shooting, he made occasion to inquire how she 
 was getting on ; and every time she said, '* O, 
 very well ; never mind me, Archy," he felt that he 
 minded her more than all the other guests together. 
 And she was a mere nobody to them — a little 
 creature, pretty, it is true, but insignificant, and not 
 at all well-dressed : only in a muslin that had been 
 several times washed, and a leghorn hat not in the 
 fashion — a broad hat with brown strings — an 
 every-day hat that was quite familiar in the parish. 
 
 Eleanor Kingsland gave her one glance as a 
 princess might to a way-side flower, and thought 
 of her no more. Naturally Eleanor thought most 
 of herself. She had been brought up to it. Old 
 Mr. Kingsland, her brothers, her elder married 
 sisters, all the servants of the house admired per- 
 fection in her. No one's ear at home was sensitive 
 to her loud voice and provincial accent. Her hot 
 bursts of temper, her vanity were treated with 
 indulgence as the whims of a spoilt child ; and 
 that she promised to mature and blow into a florid 
 
 VOL. I. 18
 
 274 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 Rubens' beauty was everything the taste of the 
 Kingslands desired. But it will be readily con- 
 ceived that out of the circle of domestic adulation 
 she was liable to criticism, especially in a circle 
 of county gentility such as was met at Lark Hill 
 on the present occasion. Old Lady Greystock 
 inquired who she was, and then remarked that she 
 Avas handsome, but decidedly vulgar. 
 
 ** She speaks at the top of her voice as if we 
 were a community of deaf people ; and what 
 an accent ! " said Miss Houghton. 
 
 " She looks like a peony in a posy of exotics," 
 observed the mother of four blanched aristocratic 
 daughters. 
 
 But Eleanor was blest in a fund of easy, un- 
 doubting, self-confidence which made her proof 
 against any such small censures ; and even had 
 she heard them, the chances are that she would 
 have consoled herself with the reflection that the 
 finest fruit is always the most pecked at. She was 
 vastly elated by her triumphs this afternoon, for it 
 could not be denied that Mrs. Larke distinguished 
 her, and that Captain Archibald was wondrous 
 polite. The mischief was that she laid his polite- 
 ness to a wrong cause, and let her imagination rove
 
 TOO PRUDENT BY HALF. 275 
 
 in a labyrinth of tender improbabilities where 
 " poor John Ormandy " was quite a superfluous 
 shadow. If he had been amongst the guests at 
 Lark Hill he would have secured a safe place in 
 her esteem ; but John had no present chance of 
 society, and Eleanor thought of him to-day with a 
 flavour of unconscious contempt in her affection ; 
 for she was fond of John as a person she was used 
 to, and perhaps a little more, but not enough to 
 prefer him and his lower rank before the great 
 worlii of county folk, amoligst whom she was 
 being graciously welcomed since her father had 
 grown very rich, and had been put in the Com- 
 mission of the Peace. 
 
 The entertainment, -v^hen the heat of the day 
 was over, concluded with a dance on the lawn, and 
 Mr. Philip honoured Eleanor with his hand in the 
 first quadrille. He was a puny, absent, shy man, 
 without a word, but he was the squire, and that 
 was the dignity of it. 
 
 " Take out Miss Kingsland, she is the greatest 
 stranger, my mother says, and I want to dance 
 with Mary," whispered his brother ; and Philip, 
 good-naturedly, but without any peculiar sense of 
 satisfaction, bowed and sidled through the figures
 
 276 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 with "the bouncing beauty," as he irreverently 
 and disrespectfully called Eleanor in the secret 
 chambers of his heart. 
 
 It sounded well, however, and Eleanor was 
 flattered and pleased to proclaim when she reached 
 home in the dusk that the party at Lark Hill had 
 ended with a dance, and that she had danced first 
 with the squire, and next with Captain Archi- 
 bald. 
 
 " And I'll take my oath there was not a bonnier 
 lass on the lawn than my Eleanor ! " responded 
 her fond father, and drew her cool rosy face down 
 to kiss it. 
 
 Mr. Kingsland was still sitting over his wine in 
 the dining-room at her return, and John Ormandy, 
 quite unexpectedly, was keeping him company. 
 Eleanor gave him a cool easy greeting, and asked 
 what brought him there. Her father took the 
 answer out of John's mouth. 
 
 " He has come to bid us good-bye, and will 
 stop over Sunday, Nelly," said he, patting her 
 hand soothingly, as if he fancied himself the teller 
 of ill news. " He has accepted a situation a long 
 w^ay from home, right away in Gloucestershire ; 
 and he's off next week. We shall miss him, my
 
 TOO PRUDENT BY HALF. I'll 
 
 beauty, shan't we, for there's nobody like John — 
 nobody like constant John, eh, chuck ? " 
 
 Eleanor smiled with amiable superiority : 
 '' Poor John, I hope you'll do well, wherever you 
 go ; I'm sure you deserve it," said she, " and our 
 good wishes will always follow you." 
 
 John twirled an empty glass and replied : 
 *' Thank you, Nelly," quite meekly, as if to a 
 grandmother's blessing, and then he looked up in 
 her plump fair face with placid grey eyes full of 
 respect and affectionate admiration. He was young 
 still, and not versed in coquettish ways. There 
 was no misunderstanding his sentiments of serene 
 worship : Eleanor might be too florid, noisy and 
 confident for the rarified atmosphere of Lark Hill, 
 but ta John Ormandy she was the chief and 
 loveliest amongst women. She yawned ; ruby lips, 
 white capable teeth displayed themselves, and with 
 this undisguised preface, she made her good-nights 
 short, and ran away to her sleep and her dreams, 
 wonderfully little discomposed by the news of her 
 humble adorer's near departure. 
 
 '' He can tell me all about it to-morrow ; " said 
 she to herself, and straightway forgot it, and took 
 a fancy-flight back to Lark Hill.
 
 278 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 John Ormandy was not much thought of in 
 Milnthorpe by people in general. His father's life 
 had been a failure there. His mother and sister 
 lived amidst old friends and acquaintance in the 
 narrowest genteel penury. Only his mother, Mrs. 
 Ford, and Mr. Kingsland professed any faith in his 
 capacity, and none of them discerned its real 
 depth. For some time back his native shrewdness 
 had suggested that if he meant ever to prosper and 
 increase in the world, he must transplant himself 
 to new soil where no bind-weeds of ancient pre- 
 judice or poor kindred could hamper his growth. 
 He was not without judgment either in his 
 apparently hopeless love for proud Nelly Kings- 
 land. He was one of those men who can bear to 
 bide their time, and know how to prize an oppor- 
 tunity. He had a gift of self-assurance which 
 enabled him to keep cool and silent under diffi- 
 culties and discouragements, and ultimately to 
 overcome them. He was not handsome, for though 
 tall and well-made, grace he had none, and only 
 such beauty of countenance as results from the 
 possession of health, sense and an equable tem- 
 perament. As Eleanor had begun disparagingly 
 to confess to herself since she went amongst
 
 TOO PRUDENT BY HALF. 279 
 
 military heroes, " poor John " had not the dis- 
 tinguished appearance of a gentleman ; but then 
 he employed a country tailor, and was in a sub- 
 servient position yet. There was no saying what 
 independence and well-cut clothes might do for 
 him ; and to the achievement of these desirable 
 possessions he had bent his mind in seeking em- 
 ployment away from the scenes of his family 
 disasters. He was perfectly satisfied with the new 
 beginning that he was about to make in Glouces- 
 tershire, foreseeing that it might lead him far. 
 He had set his affections and ambition on Eleanor 
 Kingsland prematurely, but permanently. At first 
 it had seemed to him in his ignorance and inex- 
 perience that he had only to work himself up to a 
 certain position (a house and perhaps two hundred 
 pounds of salary) to win her ; but during the 
 past year he had discovered that Nelly could be 
 ambitious as well as he, and that her aspiring 
 temper might prove as troublesome an obstacle in 
 his path as any rival. Nevertheless he had a pre- 
 science that his she would be at last, and with 
 this prescience he had imbued his good old friend 
 Mrs. Ford. 
 
 Eleanor's present weakness was for " family,"
 
 28o COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 "birth," "good blood." Brown old portraits and 
 rickety suits of armour fascinated her. She sang 
 songs about lovers of high degree, and thought 
 she could be perfectly happy in a moated grange. 
 John laughed to himself with sly good humour at 
 her mediaeval airs, and thought she looked much 
 more like becoming an alderman's helpmate. His 
 love did not make him insensible to her deficiencies 
 in the way of refinement ; he perceived the incon- 
 gruity between her loud Milnthorpe manner and 
 the solemn dignity of Greystoke Castle, and never 
 professed to believe that they could by any means 
 amalgamate. But she suited him, and when she 
 came down from her room on Sunday morning, 
 rustling and splendid in royal blue silk, he met 
 her with the look of serious admiration and tender 
 approval which she not only tolerated but expected 
 from ** poor John ; " for woman-like, though she 
 did not mean to reward him, she liked to dazzle 
 and would have cruelly resented any sign that he 
 was wearying of his captivity. 
 
 Mr. Kingsland's residence was Milnthorpe 
 Priory, a nice old place which the rich man had 
 leased from its impoverished owner. Lord Monke, 
 and gorgeously embellished to render it fit for his
 
 TOO PRUDENT BY HALF. 281 
 
 own occupation. The park and gardens were 
 fortunately beyond his spoiling ; and John 
 Ormandy who had a naturally correct but, as yet, 
 uncultivated taste, preferred being out under the 
 old beeches on the lawn, to taking his ease amidst 
 the velvet, gilding and plate-glass which destroyed 
 the repose of the ancient apartments of the 
 Monkes. There was no ser\^ice at church in the 
 afternoon, and he persuaded Eleanor to go for a 
 stroll in the woods with him. It was very hot, 
 and the green shadow and soft stir under the 
 leaves was grateful to them both. Presently they 
 sat down to enjoy them more at leisure, w4th their 
 feet nearly touching the shallow babble of Miln- 
 thorpe Beck, which ran with a devious course 
 through the woods, and formed one boundary of 
 the Priory demesnes. 
 
 " Isn't this sweet, John } " exclaimed Eleanor 
 who was always the chief speaker in their tete-d-tetes. 
 " Look at that bird dipping in the water, and those 
 immense plumes of lady-fern ! " John agreed that 
 it was all charming. "And how much more 
 aristocratic than the Newbold's Italian villa ! " 
 Eleanor continued scornfully. " You ought to see 
 it, John. Mr. Newbold is trying to rival papa at
 
 282 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 every turn, and boasts that Gimlet has carte 
 blanche for his furnishing. But he can't have the 
 Priory towers or the Priory beeches, as we tell 
 him. So absurd of those Newbolds laying them- 
 selves out to visit with the county-people nobody 
 had heard of three years ago ! I can't bear Jane 
 — she has no style at all and she is so very satirical. 
 They say she is clever — I'm sure she is ugly 
 enough to be quite a blue-stocking. And she 
 expects when they are settled, that the Larkes 
 will call on them — so truly absurd, you know ! " 
 
 *' Who are the Larkes t " inquired John, with a 
 languid affectation of ignorance. 
 
 " The Larkes ! Why, John, you imist know 
 who the Larkes are ! The Larkes of Lark Hill 
 where I was yesterday ! They have never done 
 anything for ages, and they have always lived 
 there." 
 
 " Those Larkes } I thought Master Archibald 
 had won great renown," said John, with a sudden 
 revival of memory. ^' He was in every battle 
 during the mutiny. Do you call that doing 
 nothing — fighting in India .^ " 
 
 ''Don't be provoking, John; you know what I 
 mean. I mean that the Larkes have been gentle-
 
 TOO PRUDENT BY HALF. 283 
 
 folks as far back as anybody can trace," replied 
 Eleanor, rather affronted. " The eldest son has the 
 family property, and is, of course, the squire, and 
 the younger sons have always gone into the Church, 
 or the army, or navy. They were Cavaliers, the 
 Larkes, and took the King's side in the Civil Wars, 
 as all the people of quality and consideration in 
 these parts did." 
 
 " You are wrong there, Nelly ; the Ormandys 
 were Parliament men," said John, coolly. 
 
 " Oh ! " echoed the young lady. She had never 
 heard of the Ormandys as people of quality or 
 consideration before ; but John was pleased to 
 assume that being notoriously a decayed family, 
 they had been a family of real ancient dignity, 
 and he had assumed it so long that he had ended 
 by almost beheving it. Eleanor was pleased to 
 beHeve it, too, and " poor John " rose quite a degree 
 in her estimation. 
 
 " Have you any interesting memorials of your 
 family 1 " she inquired. " Pictures or seals or 
 
 arms .'' 
 
 " I have these," said John, laughing, and stretch- 
 ing out his two long muscular members. 
 " I wish you would be serious ! "
 
 284 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 " I am — awfully serious. These arms will stand 
 me in better stead than any rusty weapons on a 
 wall, Nelly. You'll see if they don't— our tin-pots 
 and blunderbusses are all gone to kingdom come 
 generations ago." 
 
 " Captain Archibald Larke has both his arms 
 of flesh, and arms of honour, sir. Tell me in 
 earnest, John, do you come of a good old family ? 
 I think so much of race, you know." 
 
 John was too honest to deceive her further than 
 he had deceived himself. " In Graythwate church- 
 yard," said he, '' there are tombstones of the 
 Ormandys more than three hundred years old, but 
 they were only a family of yeomen, I fancy. 
 There was a Captain Reuben Ormandy in Crom- 
 well's army at Marston Moor, and he was killed." 
 
 " But Cromwell's captains were butchers and 
 bakers and canting old leather-sellers." 
 
 John laughed, not altogether pleased. " Per- 
 haps," said he, " we had better not enter into ques- 
 tions of pedigree. If I am ever great man enough 
 to want armorial bearings, I have no doubt that I 
 can buy them at the market-price." 
 
 " For shame, John ! How can you make fun 
 like that } Papa is having a die sunk with his
 
 TOO PRUDENT BY HALF. 285 
 
 crest for the new library chairs. It is so quaint," 
 said Eleanor, innocently, " a dragon's head with a 
 ring through the nose." 
 
 " Indeed. Mine is a bloody hand holding a 
 nut in a pair of nut-crackers," added John, with 
 perfect gravity. 
 
 " How very curious ! What odd ideas these 
 old heralds had ! The Ormandys must have been 
 somebody if they sport a crest, J ohn. Do have it 
 cut on your seal and stamped on your note-paper. 
 The Newbolds have only a monogram on theirs." 
 
 " You dear httle beautiful fudge," cried John, 
 with tender inconsequence, to which Nelly re- 
 sponded by bidding him not be so silly, and to sit 
 further off. " One tire's of talking sense for ever," 
 said he, and would do nothing but banter and jest 
 and fan her with fern leaves all through the re- 
 mainder of the afternoon. 
 
 " You will find somebody much nicer in Glou- 
 cestershire," retorted she, by-and-by, to some sweet 
 exaggerated compliments, but there was a faithless 
 look in her blue eyes which showed she did not 
 believe it. 
 
 " It will be your fault if I do. You love me a 
 little, Nelly, just a little. Come, say 'just a little' " 
 
 '^0^: 
 ■'*?
 
 286 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 "Well, ^ jiLst a little^ " echoed she like a mock- 
 ing-bird, and to the provocation that naturally fol- 
 lowed, she said : "John, if you were not going 
 away to-morrow I should be very angry. Give 
 you an inch and you take an ell. Here's papa — 
 we might as well go in now. Well, papa, have you 
 had your Sunday sleep t We have had a delight- 
 ful walk in the wood." 
 
 It was with the impression of this pleasant day 
 at the Priory on his mind that John Ormandy went 
 his way from Milnthorpe. Had he not a right to 
 carry a good hope with him } 
 
 John Ormandy went his way from Milnthorpe, 
 and Eleanor was sorry for longer than a day. He 
 was one of those familiar friends of the house who 
 frequently " dropt in," and made a cheerful even- 
 ing of a dull one. But Mrs. Ford, who had his 
 sentimental interests deeply at heart, and was 
 critically observant of Eleanor, began presently to 
 fear that " out of sight was out of mind " with her, 
 and that he would soon be forgotten in absence. 
 The fact was, that Nelly had never been pro- 
 foundly interested in him : she liked him "just a 
 little," and felt no discomposure from it. Mrs.
 
 TOO PRUDENT BY HALF. 287 
 
 Binks, whose way it was to worry her acquaint- 
 ance on their raw spots, never met the widow 
 without bringing the subject of Eleanor's wooings 
 forward ; and she particularly liked to inquire if 
 her gossip was aware how often the Prior> young 
 lady went to Lark Hill. Mrs. Ford knew the 
 history of every visit she paid there. Nelly was 
 not secretive, and she delighted in telling her 
 triumphs. She thought a great deal of her inti- 
 macy at Lark Hill, and was never pre-engaged 
 when there came an invitation from Mrs. Larke. 
 After every one she made a call at tea-time on her 
 old friend Mrs, Ford, and all her talk was of Cap- 
 tain Archibald, his honours and glories, his virtues, 
 graces, and manifold accomplishments. She had 
 not an atom of shyness in expatiating upon them. 
 
 " He is extolled to the skies in the ' History 
 of the Mutiny' that came down in Smith's last 
 box of books ; you shall have it to read," said she 
 to the widow. " Then he is so handsome, and such 
 a perfect gentleman. High breeding vmst tell, 
 Mrs. Ford, you know. He looks born to com- 
 mand ; and I really think he can do everything — 
 draw, dance, sing, and speak a dozen languages — 
 so different to the Milnthorpe men, who have been
 
 288 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 in offices, and mines, and factories, all their lives ! 
 But what I most admire in him is his courteous 
 behaviour to his mother. Amongst our old set 
 the men seem to think it witty to make jests at 
 their wives, and to tell them in public they are 
 tired of them, and will have "a second." I am 
 sure Captain Larke would be incapable of such 
 rude joking ; his respect for his mother is beau- 
 tiful to see, and her devotion to him is as nice. 
 She may well be proud of him ! Not many 
 mothers have such a noble son." 
 
 " Captain Larke is a highly distinguished young 
 man ; has he ever dined at the Priory yet ? " 
 inquired Mrs. Ford with an ulterior meaning which 
 Eleanor did not penetrate. 
 
 " No. We have invited him twice, and our 
 best people to meet him ; but the first time he 
 was going to join a shooting-party at Langton 
 Moor ; and the next he was laid up with neural- 
 gia ; they say his wound aches bitterly at change 
 of weather. I hope we shall have better luck next 
 time ; we must ask him again when my brother 
 Charley is here with his wife. Mrs. Charles is 
 quite a lady, you know ; she was a navy captain's 
 daughter. The Lark Hill parties were over for
 
 TOO PRUDEXT BY HALF. 289 
 
 the season last month, and I was very sorry ; they 
 were delightful for bringing people together on easy 
 terms, and one was quite sure to meet none but 
 unexceptionable people there, you know." 
 
 " Unexceptionable people, my dear ! what sort 
 of people may they be ? " said Mrs. Ford, with an 
 inclination to smile. 
 
 " County people, I mean : the Greystocks and 
 Larkes themselves, not the Xewbolds and their 
 mixed multitude ; they have artists and authors, 
 and such like down from London ; quite a rabble, 
 I say." 
 
 " Mr. Newbold is all for education, and art and 
 science, and spends his money promoting them. 
 Jane is partial to science." 
 
 "Jane is a perfect horror ! Have you seen how 
 she does her hair, like the leaning Tower of Pisa 
 wrapped round with red ribbon t She calls it 
 ' classical' I call it ' frightful' " 
 
 " Fashions change, Nelly. How do you like 
 the old lady, Mrs. Larke } " 
 
 " Oh, very well. She is extremely polite to 
 me. Indeed, I flatter myself that I am quite a 
 favourite there. Philip is a poor stick. What a 
 pity it is he should be the eldest, and the heir ! 
 
 VOL. I. 19
 
 290 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 Archibald would make a capital squire ; but he is 
 not in the least jealous of his brother. Philip has 
 one merit, however ; he is a good son." 
 
 " I know somebody else who is a good son, 
 too, Nelly. Have you heard of John Ormandy 
 lately 1 " 
 
 " No. What is poor John's best news .'' " 
 
 '' He has begun to allow his mother a guinea 
 a week out of his salary ; it will make the 
 difiference to her between plenty and just enough ! 
 She told me, poor thing, with the tears in her 
 eyes, last Sunday, coming out of church." 
 
 " There is a great deal that is nice in John — if 
 he were only rather more of a gentleman. I don't 
 care much for the girls, except Patty ; as for Mrs. 
 Ormandy, I don't like her ; she can talk of nothing 
 but the shifts she is put to to make both ends 
 meet. If people are badly off, I wonder they 
 don't keep it to themselves. I am sure no one 
 shall ever hear me dilate on my mortifications and 
 disappointments, if I have any. Nobody shall 
 either pity or laugh at 7ne." 
 
 So said proud Nelly in her glory with a toss of 
 her radiant head which caused Mrs. Ford to laugh, 
 indulgently, even while she quoted Holy Writ, and
 
 TOO PRUDENT BY HALF. 291 
 
 bade the young beauty heed what she was about 
 lest contempt should overtake her. " Pride goeth 
 before destruction and a haughty spirit before a 
 fall," said she, and Nelly laughed too, feeling 
 quite secure in her prosperity, and even gaily 
 retorting that she should " never be moved." 
 
 Nevertheless soon after the turn of the year, 
 she was moved, and very seriously moved, by a 
 report that she heard from Jane Newbold whom she 
 encountered one morning in the show-room of the 
 chief milliner who was displaying the choice winter 
 fashions in bonnets, caps and mantles just arrived 
 from town. 
 
 "Well, dear, as you are so great at Lark Hill, 
 of course you have heard the news first of all of 
 us. What do you think of Captain Larke's engage- 
 ment to little Mary Paget .-* Quite a romance for 
 these days, is it not t " said Jane with the cheerful 
 good-humour which foresees a handsome rival's 
 humiliation and rejoices in it. 
 
 Eleanor coloured so vividly that Jane perceived 
 she was the communicator of highly unexpected 
 and unwelcome intelligence. " Did you not know } "" 
 added she with still livelier delight. " Everybody 
 else saw what it was coming to six months ago.
 
 292 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 She is a sweet little creature, and a lady every 
 inch of her. I am quite glad of her luck, for I 
 always admired little Mary ; she is so bright and 
 clever. Only to think you did not know ! " 
 
 " I might have guessed if I had taken any 
 particular notice of her, but I did not. Isn't this 
 blue terry bonnet pretty .? I think I shall decide 
 on blue terry — blue is my colour," replied Eleanor 
 twirling the bonnet about on its block, and speak- 
 ing with well-assumed carelessness. But the news 
 was nevertheless a heavy blow to her vanity, 
 and the only adequate balm she possessed for 
 the stunning pain of it was the assurance that 
 she had always John Ormandy's love to fall back 
 upon. 
 
 And for several weeks "poor John" was much 
 and kindly in her thoughts. She even paid a long- 
 promised and long-deferred visit to his mother and 
 sisters, and made minute inquiries into his Glou- 
 cestershire prospects and proceedings. His sister 
 Patty was inclined to predict great things for him, 
 and his mother was sure he would do more than 
 retrieve the family credit. Eleanor went home 
 again in better spirits, and said Captain Larke 
 might marry any body he liked for her, John was
 
 TOO PRUDE XT BY HALF. 293 
 
 worth a score of military heroes and aristocrats ; 
 and if he got on (as he seemed Hkely to do) he 
 would suit her very well in a few years' time. She 
 had not the smallest fear that he would transfer 
 his affections to anyone else ; and the danger was 
 not imminent ; he had no leisure for sentimental 
 fancies now, but was entirely absorbed in the 
 business of self-advancement. Patty invited him 
 to come home at Christmas, and look after his 
 interests at the Priory ; but John thought they 
 were perfectly safe, and might wait his leisure, now 
 the peril at Lark Hill was past. He was a prudent 
 man as well as a patient lover — a little too prudent 
 and a little too patient, I\Irs. Ford said ; but he 
 knew Eleanor, and his own affairs best, and it was 
 no use advising him ; for he always went his own 
 way from a lad- 
 Eleanor Kingsland was secretly piqued and 
 aggrieved by John Ormandy's cool assurance, 
 which Patty indiscreetly betrayed to her, and from 
 a gentle leaning towards him, she fast retreated 
 into a prouder and less propitious disposition than 
 before her disappointment in the Lark Hill 
 Othello. At the time the Milnthorpe gossips were
 
 294 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 all agog about pretty Mary Paget's wedding, a 
 new arrival took place in the neighbourhood — Sir 
 Joseph Gregson, a widower and man of national 
 reputation, but whether of enviable reputation was 
 quite a matter for private and individual taste to 
 decide. Mr. Newbold and Mr. Kingsland called 
 upon him without delay. He was fabulously rich, 
 and had been knighted on some remote occasion 
 which people in general had forgotten. Popular 
 biographies made a hero of him as a self-raised 
 man, and he had all the bumptious loud assertion 
 which characterizes that type when the method of 
 rising has been by dexterous application of other 
 men's powers, and not by a man's own mental 
 effort and labour. He had speculated in a thousand 
 concerns, and had speculated with wonderful good 
 luck ; and his last move was the purchase of the 
 Bareacres estate, six miles from Milnthorpe. which 
 he had got for money down, at less than half its 
 value. He began at once to rebuild the ancestral 
 mansion, and talked of standing for the northern 
 division of the county at the next general election. 
 In person he was big, burly, and red-faced ; his 
 jaw was large and his forehead low, but some 
 people called him a fine-looking figure of a man
 
 TOO PRUDENT BY HALF. 295 
 
 His voice and manner were overbearing, and he 
 liked to be king of his company. 
 
 Mr. Kingsland admired success exceedingly, 
 and was not scrupulous to ask how it was achieved. 
 He paid assiduous court to Sir Joseph, and 
 invited him to his house. At the very first visit, 
 the great man showed hi-s admiration for his host's 
 daughter, and Eleanor did not discourage it. He 
 came again and again ; he was made at home at 
 the Priory, and his conversation with her was all 
 in a strain of fulsome compliment. Mrs. Ford 
 now heard as much of Sir Joseph Gregson as she 
 had formerly heard of Captain Larke. Eleanor's 
 enthusiasm was no longer for birth and blood, but 
 for talent and native energy. The gossips laughed, 
 and were very ill-natured. 
 
 " She wants to be * My Lady ' — Lady Gregson. 
 Oh, the euphonious name ! " tittered Jane Newbold ; 
 and that grew by-and-by to be the common opinion 
 in Milnthorpe, though it was a grievous puzzle to 
 all who wished Eleanor well. 
 
 " What can she see in him .^ " said Patty 
 Ormandy ; " such an ugly fellow — such a vidgar 
 fellow." 
 
 " And a man who behaved so shamefully to his
 
 296 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 poor first wife that she died broken-hearted," said 
 Mrs. Binks. 
 
 " I would not have him if he was as rich as 
 Croesus," cried Jane, the learned and witty. 
 
 John Ormandy, serene and secure in Gloucester- 
 shire, heard nothing of Sir Joseph Gregson and his 
 intimate footing at the Priory for several months. 
 Patty first mentioned it, but only in a cursory way 
 as idle Milnthorpe talk ; John took no notice, nor 
 was he disturbed when she enlarged on it in a 
 serious, admonishing strain. He knew Sir Joseph 
 both personally and by reputation, and felt no 
 alarm at what Patty spoke of as '' his pretensions 
 to Eleanor." 
 
 " Mere pastime," thought John. " If Sir Joseph 
 is developing political ambition, he will need poli- 
 tical connexion, and the Kingsland connexion 
 would be of very little use to him in that way. The 
 astute Sir Joseph knows quite well what he is about." 
 
 So reasoned the prudent John, and his lover's 
 delicacy was not offended that Eleanor should be 
 talked about. He was sure she could not possibly 
 love such a man as Sir Joseph Gregson, and he felt 
 equally persuaded that she would never marry him 
 for mere worldly interest and wealth. Meanwhile,
 
 TOO PRUDENT BY HALF. 297 
 
 Sir Joseph would serve as a barrier to keep off 
 more dangerous aspirants* to her favour, and in 
 that character John tolerated him with the long- 
 suffering of a man who knows he has the first 
 place in his lady's heart, though she be somewhat 
 lavish of idle fancies. He could not marry her 
 yet, and he did not care to bind her by any pledge 
 that might grow irksome ; and therefore he did 
 not assume a right to interfere with her amuse- 
 ment. '' Poor John " she went on calling him, and 
 liked him enough to feel him a comfort in all her 
 little vexations ; and " Dear Nelly " he went on 
 calling her, and found his love a spur to keep his 
 energy and ambition always alert and watchful of 
 opportunities. 
 
 Time runs by fast with young people who take 
 their lives thus philosophically, and one fine morning 
 proud Nelly Kingsland woke up to remember her- 
 self six-and-twenty and Eleanor Kingsland still. 
 John Ormandy had been seven years in Gloucester- 
 shire, and though he had come and gone many 
 times between his post there and his mother's 
 house at Milnthorpe, proud Nelly and he were on 
 precisely the same footing still as at his first leaving 
 home. Sir Joseph Gregson kept his easy familiar
 
 298 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 welcome at the Priory, but he had neither come 
 forward as a candid^e for the county nor for 
 Eleanor's beautiful hand. People gave her credit 
 for wishing " to catch him," and he certainly kept 
 all other would-be suitors at a distance, if any 
 other would-be suitors she had ; but he made no 
 sign of appropriating her. Eleanor's mind had 
 deteriorated a little in this position. She almost 
 hated Sir Joseph, but she would dearly have en- 
 joyed the triumph of rejecting him, could he have 
 been inveigled into giving her the chance. But he 
 was far too shrewd and crafty to do anything of 
 the kind, especially as he had no intention of 
 marrying again unless for his own aggrandizement. 
 It was a pity and wonder such a lovely and nice 
 girl had not married, many persons said, but in fact, 
 as she once told Mrs. Ford, " Nobody had asked 
 her," which was the very best of good reasons why. 
 
 "What, not John Ormandy, my dear! You 
 surprise me ! " exclaimed the widow, and grew 
 extremely meditative. 
 
 ^' No, not even John Ormandy. John is so 
 awfully patient and prudent," rejoined Nelly, with 
 a touch of scorn and bitterness. 
 
 It was about a month after this and during
 
 TOO PRLDENT BY HALF. 299 
 
 the Christmas hoHdays that John Ormandy came 
 down to Milnthorpe again. Mrs. Ford saw him at 
 church, admired his appearance, was glad, and 
 hoped he would give prudence the go-by now, and 
 not fool away the time of youth and love any 
 longer. His own people had received him with a 
 joyous welcome ; and had killed the fatted calf in 
 honour of his coming. He spent half a day 
 amongst them, and on the Sunday afternoon walked 
 over to the Priory, anticipating that Eleanor's 
 sunny smiles would warm him to the heart's core, 
 and with his mind almost made up to put his 
 fortune to the proof But he found Sir Joseph 
 Gregson domesticated, as it were, by the drawing- 
 room fire, and Eleanor richly arrayed for cap- 
 tivation, in violet silk wdth ruffs of swansdown 
 about her fair throat and wrists. She blushed 
 violently, and with undisguised pleasure as he was 
 ushered in ; and Sir Joseph stared with an angry 
 frown as she loudly expressed her satisfaction at 
 his unexpected visit. 
 
 " John Ormandy was the son of my oldest and 
 best friend," said Mr. Kingsland, introducing him 
 to the big man. 
 
 Sir Joseph Gregson bowed arrogantly, and
 
 300 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 stated that he believed he had heard of the late 
 Mr. Ormandy ; his tone implying that he had not 
 heard anything to his credit. John, who was 
 furiously honourable in business, and did not value 
 Sir Joseph's honours one chip, but rather despised 
 them, fired up and said : " Sir Joseph Gregson has, 
 of course, heard of everybody, as everybody has 
 heard of Sir Joseph Gregson," and the two eyed 
 each other with conscious defiance for the space of 
 a minute. After that trial of moral force, Sir 
 Joseph's haughty tone was modified, and he conde- 
 scended to say in an abstract, generalizing manner, 
 that men in trade were not always responsible for 
 their failures any more than the conspicuously 
 successful were always to be lauded for their success. 
 
 *' There is an old and vulgar saying, but true as 
 it is old, ' Money breeds money,' " he added, 
 mouthily, and would have led the conversation to 
 John Ormandy's Gloucestershire experiences, but 
 John disappointed him by turning to Eleanor, and 
 asking her what news there was in Milnthorpe. 
 
 " Not much," she said, but she contrived to 
 tell him many little things very amusingly and 
 pleasantly. 
 
 Meanwhile John was observing to himself that
 
 TOO PRUDENT BY HALF. 301 
 
 " Dear Nelly " was no longer a pretty girl, though 
 she was a very fine woman. The first radiance 
 and bloom of her beauty were past. Her figure 
 was fuller and less flexible ; her colour was brighter 
 but less pure, and her floods of chestnut hair were 
 considerably thinner. Nevertheless, she was still 
 his " dear Nelly." 
 
 " Does she know how she is changing ? " he 
 thought ; and then he noticed the costly materials 
 and fashion of her dress, and the luxuries that 
 surrounded her on every hand, and said to himself, 
 " It would not do yet ; " he must wait awhile 
 longer; and there was nothing in Sir Joseph 
 Gregson to tell him there was peril in his patience. 
 
 And, in fact, there was no peril. John Ormandy 
 went back to Gloucestershire as he came, and 
 within six months after Sir Joseph Gregson led to 
 the hymeneal altar in Hanover Square the Lady 
 Betty Paragon, fourth daughter of the Earl of 
 Wastwater. The announcement of the marriage in 
 the Times YidiS the first note of it that reached Miln- 
 thorpe ; and Jane Newbold gaily spread it abroad 
 with the remark, that " Proud Nelly Kingsland had 
 managed badly indeed to let her elderly rich suitor 
 slip through her fingers ; but Nelly was notorious
 
 302 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 for mismanaging her little affairs. Didn't they 
 remember how she tried for Colonel Larke, and 
 lost him by her bare-faced tactics ? " 
 
 " Poor Nelly, that ever I should live to hear 
 her spoken of so ! " cried Mrs. Ford, and literally 
 wept with vexation. 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Binks, to the widow, "I 
 begin to think you may turn out a true prophetess 
 after all. Do you remember saying years ago that 
 you would lay me a pound to a penny that Miss 
 Eleanor Kingsland would end by marrying John 
 Ormandy .? I did not believe it then, but I fancy 
 John Ormandy, or being an old maid, is all she 
 has before her now. I wonder how the young fellow 
 has got on in that part of the world. Have you 
 any notion, Mrs. Ford } " 
 
 To learn how John Ormandy had " got on in 
 that part of the world," we will pay him a visit in 
 Gloucestershire ourselves, which will be more than 
 any of his own people have done yet. 
 
 To say that John Ormandy had got on well in 
 the new scenes to which he had transferred his life, 
 would not be to express half that he had accom- 
 plished. It will be better understood if we say
 
 TOO PRUDENT BY HALF. 303 
 
 that there was not a house of the gentry within 
 twenty miles round his gem of a cottage at Severn- 
 Rise, where he was not a welcome and an honoured 
 guest. He was a bachelor, without any known 
 entanglement, with a large and increasing income, 
 a spotless character, an agreeable person, and an 
 immaculate temper. As acting director of more 
 than one profitable Company that he had origi- 
 nated, he had obliged most of his neighbours, and 
 enriched several The men admired his energy 
 and trusted his judgment ; the married ladies re- 
 flected their husband's views, and the young ones 
 did not consider that a dance or a croquet-party 
 had any real spirit without him. The conscious- 
 ness that he was liked, respected, and looked up 
 to, had developed the pleasantest view of John's 
 character. He relished his position, and had grown 
 in love with the various good things it gave him. 
 The only circumstance that excited surprise was, 
 that he invited no charming girl of his acquaint- 
 ance to share them. He was a universal admirer, 
 a flirt, some girls said ; but not any one could 
 pride herself on being distinguished above another. 
 From time to time a rumour was raised, assign- 
 ing him now one fair blessing and now another,
 
 304 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 but each died away in turn, and John Ormandy 
 lived on in soHtary luxurious independence. He 
 had no special temptation to give it up, but many 
 selfish inducements to maintain it. He did not 
 envy his friends, whose personal enjoyments were 
 limited by the number of children they had to 
 provide for. The long habit of thinking only of 
 himself had confirmed him in expensive tastes, and 
 he had no longer the courage to undertake a 
 burthen such as once he would have carried lightly, 
 and with joyful pride. "Dear Nelly" was still a 
 pervading, but not now an imperative thought. 
 He dreamed of no other woman as his wife, and of 
 her less often than formerly ; but he knew that 
 some day they would marry and make their home 
 together, but that future was not decked with 
 flowers, as in the years before he grew prosperous. 
 Men and women cannot have everything. If they 
 will wait on fortune, and let youth and young 
 desire pass, they cannot have exuberant joy. Proud 
 Nelly Kingsland felt rather left in the cold behind 
 her generation, but she made no moan ; she was 
 lucky, after her steady pursuit of a better match 
 for ten years, in having her constant John Ormandy 
 to fall back upon at last.
 
 TOO PRUDENT BY HALF. 305 
 
 Thirty struck upon her — that ominous knell of 
 past noon to woman — before John fulfilled their 
 mutual expectations. Perhaps he might have 
 deferred them for another decade but for the inter- 
 vention of death. One evening old Mr. Kingsland 
 complained of being a little ailing ; the next he 
 refused his dinner and sent for the doctor. The 
 doctor came, and spoke of preparing for the worst. 
 Eleanor sent for her brothers and sisters, and 
 soothed her father's last days with admirable 
 tenderness. The task was hard, for he was very 
 restless and troubled in his mind, and did not die 
 until after six months of painful lingering by the 
 way. Then appeared a change at the Priory. All 
 Milnthorpe was shocked at the poverty of the 
 funeral that issued from its gates ; but it was 
 infinitely more shocked when it heard that the 
 rich Mr. Kingsland had died insolvent. Bad 
 speculations and extravagant living combined had 
 melted away his fortune, and so little was rescued 
 for Eleanor (who incurred the general blame for 
 what was not her fault), that she was glad to accept 
 an invitation to Mrs. Ford's hospitable roof in the 
 first depth of her mourning. 
 
 Poor proud Eleanor ! The tears she shed 
 VOL. I. • 20
 
 3o6 COUNTRY STORIES. 
 
 during that period of sorrow, mortification and 
 rage brought her high spirit very low ; and when 
 John Ormandy, tardily apprized of her position 
 by his sister Patty, made a hurried journey to 
 Milnthorpe, the sight of him was such a comfort, 
 that she threw herself into his open arms without 
 reserve, sobbing and crying : " Oh, John, John, 
 I don't think anybody ever loved me but you ! " 
 John kissed her and patted her on the back, and 
 bade her never mind, he knew she was fond of 
 him a little too, and he would take care of her 
 now. 
 
 So they were married, a prudent mature pair, 
 and John astonished his wide circle of Gloucester- 
 shire friends by carrying home to his gem of a 
 cottage an unannounced and unknown bride. 
 Eleanor's contentment restored her beauty, and 
 everybody allowed that she was a pretty woman, 
 btU — all the world had a but of exception against 
 her which perhaps we need not cite. 
 
 They have been man and wife three years now 
 and no httle voices enliven their beautiful home ; 
 but Mrs. Ford, who is inveterate in her habit of 
 looking always for the best, encourages Eleanor 
 with the assurance that there is time enough yet —
 
 TOO PRUDENT BY HALF. 307 
 
 she may still be the joyful mother of half-a-dozen 
 children. 
 
 " Ah ! " says Eleanor, " I wish we had had the 
 wisdom to marry half-a-dozen years ago ! John 
 does not care for children now — he is wrapt up in 
 business, and only cares to be a big man. He has 
 got far beyond me, and some of his fine lady 
 friends treat me like his housekeeper. There is no 
 doubt that if he had wished he might have done a 
 deal better than marrying me. But I always knew 
 he loved me, and that I had him to fall back upon 
 at last. Poor old John ! " 
 
 They are, however, with all their drawbacks, a 
 happy couple. If they had spent the heyday of 
 their life together they would have had more ex- 
 periences, recollections, joys, and sorrows, in 
 common. But the past is past, and will not be 
 recalled. They are fortunate that they have not 
 lost love in putting it off so long ! 
 
 END OF VOL I.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BY SMITH, ELDER AND CO. 
 
 OLD BAILE'5, E.C.