J5v 5’w&«CTtp5rofesso^ of Languages, and Instructor in French at the College in the City of New York. This book is a practical guide to the acquisition of the Spanish Language. Address GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, {P. O, Box STSt.) 17 to 27 Vandewater BLceet. New Yortt KING ARTHU ^ I k '' i NOT A LOVE STORY. . s X 3 NV k By miss MULOCK, Author of “ John Halifax, Gentleman.'^ ^kJC / /^o y NEW YORK; GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 17 TO 27 Vandewater Street. MISS MULOCK^S WOEKS; CONTAINED IN THE SEASIDE LIBRARY (POCKET EDITION); NO. 11 John Halifax, Gentleman. First half 11 John Halifax, Gentleman. Second half 245 Miss Tommy, and In a House-Boat . 808 King Arthur. Not a Love Story.... PRICE. 20 . 20 10 . 20 I , o PREFACE. This book is founded on facts, which happened a good many years ago in America; the adopting parents were American; the child died young. I have retold the story. with necessary artistic variations, because it teaches truths not always recognized. The world, voluble enough on the duties of children to parents, is strangely silent on the far more momentous ones of parents to children. This simple, and in the main point true tale, may suggest to some thoughtless readers what the Heavenly Father means when He sends to earthly fathers and mothers the blessing, and responsibility of a child. 677046 KING ARTHUR. CHAPTER I. r Fully twenty years before the great St. Gothard Tunnel was made or thought of, when Andermatt was still the favorite resting-place of travelers passing from Switzerland into Italy, and vice versd, a group of half a dozen persons sat round the table d^hote of the principal hotel there, eat¬ ing their rather meager dinner. For it was early in June, and the stream of regular tourists had not yet begun to flow. Not at any season do travelers pause long here, the val¬ ley of Uri being considered by pleasure-seekers in general a rather dull place. Perhaps; and yet it has its charms. It is a high level plateau, solemn and still, in the heart of the Alps. Through it comes pouring down the wild River Reuss, and up from it climb three desolate mountain roads, leading to three well-known passes—the St. Gothard, the Furca, and the Oberalp. The valley itself is smooth and green, though too high above the level of the sea to be very fertile. Little corn is grown there, and the trees are few and small, but the past¬ urage during the brief summer—only three months—^is abundant, and extending far up the mountain-sides. Every yard of available land is cultivated, and the ground is “ par seme ” (to use a French word for which there is no English equivalent), with that mass of wild-flowers which makes Switzerland in June a perfect garden wherever you turn your eyes. But these and all other beauties of the place were invisi- 8 KIHG ARTHUE. ble to the travelers, for a dense white mist had suddenly come down and blotted out everything. To-day would have been worse even than yesterday for those young fellows to have crossed the St. Gothard from Italy, as they told me they did,^^ said one of the three quiet English-speaking guests at the head of the table, looking across at the three voluble Italians at the foot of it. Scarcely more detestable weather than when we crossed, doctor. My wife has taken all these five days to get over it; and is hardly well yet. ” Oh, yes, dear/^ said the lady—the only lady at table— small and ordinary in ajDpearance, but with a soft voice- and sweet eyes, which continually sought her husband ^s. He was tall, thin, and serious; in fact, had taken the head of the table and said grace in unmistakable clerical fash¬ ion. He looked the very picture of an English clergyman, and she of a clergyman's wife. One seemed about forty, the other fifty years old. The third traveler, addressed as Doctor,^'’ was not English, though he spoke our language with a far better pronunciation than most of us do. But he spoke it with a slight nasal twang, said to be inevitable, in consequence of climate, with our Transatlantic cousins. Also he had a gaunt, lean, dried-up appearance; but his long bony limbs were agile and strong, and his brown face was both shrewd and kindly; full t)f humor, yet at the same time full of tenderness, with no small amount of capacity as well. “ My dear Mrs. Trevena, I guess we had the devihs own weather (begging your pardon!) that day we crossed from Italy. When the snows begin to melt the Pass is worse and more dangerous than in the middle of winter. And in addition, we had that soaking rain. I am sure I was drenched to the skin for eight mortal hours. Medically speaking, I wonder any one of us, especially the women, came through the journey alive. But you say youTe all right now, ma’am?’' KING AETHUK. 9 Oh, yes/^ answered Mrs. Trevena, smiling. She seemed a person so accustomed to be ‘‘ not strong/^ that she pre¬ ferred to smile. at illness, and make as light of it as possi¬ ble. I only hope the other two women—the only women who were in the sledges beside myself—came off as easily. I suppose they went on at once, for I have not seen them in the hotel since. Have you. Dr. Franklin?^^ “ Yes,^'’ said the doctor. He was not a man of many words. Are they here still, do you know?^^ ‘‘ Yes,^^ he answered again, with still greater abruptness and brevity. I wish I had known it, and I would have inquired how they were. I felt so sorry for the lady—she was certainly a lady, though she was shabbily dressed, and so muffled up, it was almost impossible to see her face. The old mulatto woman, who seemed her maid, was very anxious over her. They had not half wraps enough—yet when I offered her a rug she refused it with a mere shake of the head. She couldnT be English, or, hearing me speak, she would surely have spoken. Ho—not English.^'’ ‘ ^ What was she then ? German ? ^ ^ American. My dear lady, you will not find two mouthfuls on that poidet It looks more like an overgrown sparrow; really, the food here is abominable. ” Ho wonder, said the clergyman mildly. 1 believe they have to carry up nearly everything from the valleys below—several thousand feet. Hothing will grow here— not even the chickens. What a place Andermatt must be to live at in winter “Yet they do live here. Madame told me to-day—so far as I could understand her English—I wish I spoke bet¬ ter French, Austin!—that they keep the hotel open all win¬ ter. Her elder children go to school at Lucerne, but the two little boys learn from the pastetir here. They go to .10 KIKG ARTHUK. him everyday in a sledge, drawn by Juno, the huge St. Bernard who is always lying at the hotel door.^^ ‘‘ Listen to her!^^ said the grave clergyman, turning upon the little sweet-faced woman an affectionate look. “ I do believe if my wife were dropped down in the wilds of Africa, within three days she would have made friends with all the blackamoors, big and little-^—especially the little ones—have found out all their affairs, and been made the confidante of all their sorrows.’’^ In the language of signs—as now,^^ laughed Mrs. Tre- vena. ‘‘ Never mind, ma’am; you manage somehow. Ma- dame’s poor little boy with the broken leg and his German tonne look out for your daily visit with great excitement. T guess they’ll miss you when you go away. ” “ And I shall miss Andermatt. I like the place; it is so quiet—so utterly out of the world. And the hotel-people are so simple and good; I seem to know all about every¬ body.” Do you, ma’am?” said the doctor with a sharp ques¬ tioning look, which fell harmless on the innocent face; then, apparently satisfied, he added, How valuable your wife must be in your parish at home, Mr. Trevena!” Invaluable—except that it is so small a parish. But we hope for a better living by and by. We have been hoping all our Lives,” added he, with a slight sigh. “ But we do sometimes get what we hope for, Austin,” said his wife. ‘‘ You can not think. Dr. Franklin, how he has enjoyed his three months’ chaplaincy at the Italian lakes—such a lovely spring! and we are going back to a second spring—or rather summer—in England. We live in the country—^in Cornwall. ” “ A region which very hkely Doctor Franklin never heard of; but we think a great deal of it, being both of us Corn¬ ish-born,” said Mr. Trevena. He was a little slow in speech and formal in manner—this old-fashioned English KING ARTHUR. 11 gentleman; and the qnick^ keen, energetic American re¬ garded him with the.interest of a student of human nature, who had discovered a new phase thereof. They were very different; but both being rarely honest and good men, they had fallen into a sort of liking; and during the six days they had been weather-bound at Andermatt, had become tolerably intimate. Their not too luxurious meal over, the three English- speaking inmates of the hotel still sat on at the table dhote; comparatively silent—at least when contrasted with the voluble young Italians below. What can they be talking about, so fast and furious— almost as if they were going to fight?'’'’ said Mrs. Trevena, somewhat amused, while her husband looked annoyed—as a Briton often does at anything foreign which he does not understand. But the more cosmopolite American only laughed. He had traveled through many lands on both sides the ocean; he spoke at least three Continental tongues, and had been a great help in that and other ways to the English parson, who knew no modern language but his own. “ Why can not people converse without gesticulating like savages and looking as if they were about to tear one an¬ other to pieces,'’'’ observed he, in. some irritation. Not at all!’^ laughed the Kentuckian. ‘‘ They are the best of friends. Two of them belong to the Teatro at Milan, sent in pursuit of a singer there, wlio has broken her engagement, and gone off, ifc is supposed, to London or Paris in search of a better one. They donT think her flight implies anything worse than love of money; they say the signora had no lovers—only a husband, and perhaps a bad one.^^ ‘‘ Poor lady!^’ said Mrs. Trevena. But if she were a real lady she would never be an opera-singer. What a dreadful life it must be!^'’ The doctor laughed in liis dry way—he was more of a 12 SING ARTHUS. laughing than a weeping philosopher, and of practical rather than sentimental mind—then looked at his watch. “ Excuse me; I have a visit to pay this evening. Is it to madame^s little boy with the broken leg? Then I will go first, just for a minute, and leave some pictures to amuse him—poor little patient soul!^^ That is just like my wife,^’ said Mr. Trevena, looking after her with a smile that ended in a sigh. Mrs. Trevena seems uncommonly fond of children. Perhaps she has left some behind her at home? I^m a family-man myself; and after two years in Europe I shahiT be sorry to see those ten little shavers of mine in Ken¬ tucky.^'’ Ten, have you? We have none. We had one—^but it only lived a few hours. My wife has never quite got over the disappointment; and it was to give her a total change for mind and body that I accepted the chaplaincy abroad. We have only been married three years, though we waited for fifteen,’’ added the good man with the faintest shade of a blush on his calm middle-aged face. “ I was a fellow of my college, and at last I got a college living—rather a poor one. But we are very happy—my wife and I. We shall at least end our days together.” Phew!” said the American, repressing a low whistle, while his kindly eyes took a curiously soft expression as they rested on his companion. He had had a fairly happy life himself, and his “ ten little shavers ” were obviously very dear to him. “She’s a good woman—your wife,” con¬ tinued he bluntly. “So is mine. I’d lay you a dollar against ten cents, you’ll not find such a mother anywhere as Mrs. Franklin. I wish all women were like our two, sir.” “ I hope many women are,” answered the mild clergy¬ man—adding anxiously, “ Do not speak to Mrs. Trevena of what I told you—her lost child. It is a sore place in her heart still; never likely to be healed. But we have made KING ARTHUK. 13 up our minds to be content: and we are content. God knows best. ‘‘1 suppose so. I am sure so; and I am a much older man than you. IsnH it strange,^^ continued the clergyman, laying his hand kindly on the doctor'’s arm, “ that you and I should have talked of this and many other things—we who never met before, and in all probability shall never meet again ‘‘ Perhaps for that very reason; I have often found it so. People tell me things that they wouldn^’t tell their most intimate friends. You have no idea the odd secrets and odd people that I have come across during my life. By Jove—what a bother it is sometimes! But I beg your par¬ don—I was thinking of something else—something not too agreeable. And now I must go to my patient—who is not, as your wife imagined, the little broken-legged boy. How¬ ever, in our profession we learn one good thing—to hold our tongues. Good-night, sir. “ Good-night, doctor. YouJl drive up to Hospenthal with us, as my wife wishes, if it is a fine day to-morrow, and your patient can spare you?” ‘‘ Oh, yes—yes. She—” Here Hr. Franklin set his lips together and clinched his fist, as if to beat himself for nearly letting a cat jump out of the bag. “ Certainly— certainly! Good-evening.^ He left the room by one door just as Mrs. Trevena en¬ tered by another. Her husband greeted her with a smile —the welcoming smile of those who have been necessary to one another for years, who never weary of each othePs company, because it scarcely is company—the two having so grown together in all their tastes and habits that they feel like one. If the little life that had come, and then “ Unto stillness passed again And left a black, unknown before”— had been a loss to them, it had undoubtedly but “ Made them love the more.” 14 KING ARTHUK. That is, if more were possible. But the more or the less with regard to love is a question that chiefly troubles younger folh. The old accept it—only too thankfully— and cease to investigate it, or to weigh and measure it, and more than their daily sunshine or the air they breathe. The mist has lifted, Austin, and there is promise of a good sunset—as much as the mountains will let us see of it; and a full moon will soon he creeping over those white peaks opposite. Hark!—there are the bells of the cattle coming home. Are you ready for a walk, dear?^^ Quite ready, Susannah.'’^ “ Shall we go to the DeviPs Bridge—or up toward Hos- penthal? No, for we shall be driving that way to-morrow. I should like to get as far up as the Hospice, and be close under the eternal snows once again—see them in the sun¬ shine and calm, instead of such a deluge of rain as the day we crossed from Airolo. “ I wonder it did not give you your death of cold, my poor wife. “ Those other two women—the old and the young one— were worse off than I, for they had nobody to take care of them —and she patted softly her husband ^s shoulder. “ I felt so sorry for them. I have often thought of them since. You think of everybody, Susannah—except yourself. Come along I and as we go you can tell me what you think about one thing-—our getting back as fast as we can to Eng¬ land. “ Very well, dear.'’^ Somehow, though she was mild-faced, quiet, and small, and he was big and hale—even young-looking for his years —it was evident the good clergyman leaned upon his wife not a little. And there was that in Mrs. Trevena’s sweet composure which implied, not the perpetual acquiescence, feeble and flaccid, which some men think would be so de¬ lightful to have—until they get it; but an amount of dor- KING AKTHUK. 15 mant force, invaluable in the mistress of a household. She is no “ perfect woman who is not at the same time “ Nobly planned To warn, to comfort, and command;” and gentle as Mrs. Trevena looked, a keen observer could detect in her firm little mouth and quiet, silent ways, indi¬ cations of strength and decision, which doubtless would prove the greatest possible blessing to the Eeverend Austin. Not that ‘‘ the gray mare was the better horse!'’'’ for he looked—and was—the most excellent of men, and clergy¬ men; but it was in many things the more useful horse, which fact often makes a pair run all the safer together. Austin Trevena, a student and a book-worm all his days, would have been practically nowhere '’^ in the busy world, but for his wife; who loved him perhaps all the dearer for his very weaknesses. His strength—which lay in his brains, and in a moral nature of such high chivalric honor that he would have gone to the stake without a murmur or a doubt —she more than loved—she worshiped. It had cost her some pangs, and a good many long lonely years, but she worshiped it still. Enough, however, of these two, who had been such a deep interest to Dr. Franklin, m his capacity of student of hu¬ man nature, that he had stayed on at Andermatt chiefly because they stayed. Also for another reason which with the reticence due his profession he did not name. When they met him going out, and asked him to accompany them in their evening saunter to the DeviTs Bridge, he shook his head. “ I'’ve got a DeviTs Bridge of my own to cross—and I wish to Heaven I knew how to manage it,^'’ said he. “ Good-evening—I'’ll see you at breakfast to-morrow.'’^ And go with us up to the Hospice?” If 1 can. All revoir. ” He looks anxious and troubled about something, ob- 16 KING ARTHUE. served Mrs. Trevena, when the placid pair went on their way; stopping sometimes to watch the twilight colors on the mountains, and listen to the tinkle of the cattle-bells, as, one after the other, whole herds of the lovely little Swiss cows crept musically home. ‘‘ I suspect, my dear, that like another person I know, the good doctor often troubles himself with the troubles of other people. He told me he had a patient here'—not your little sick boy—possibly some case of serious illness. ‘‘ I never heard of any, an^ I think I should have heard. Madame and I have grown to be wery good friends.'’^ ‘‘ But madame is a shrewd woman, who probably knows how to keep her own counsel, and not drive away her very few customers by rumors of sickness or death in the house. “ Death in the house? You don’t think that, Austin? If I could be of any use^—” “ You are of most use to me, Susannah, by not wearing yourself out over other folks; so don’t put on that poor lit¬ tle anxious face, but let us enjoy our walk. We, thank Heaven! have nobody bnt our two selves to be anxious over. ’ ’ Ho,” answered his wife softly. But whether she thanked Heaven—Heaven only knew. It was one of those unconscious stabs which even the dearest sometimes give; and which Heaven only can heal. So they strolled on, sometimes talking, sometimes silent, in that happy companionship—just “ one and one ”—with¬ out need of a “ shadowy third,” which is the solace of many childless couples, and which, so long as it steers clear of that fatal dual selfishness which is the bane of conjugal life, is a most enviable and desirable thing. They saw the sun set, the moon rise—at least by reflec¬ tion, for the actual sunset and moonrise were of course in¬ visible behind the mountains; and then they watched the stars come out like jewels in the great blue arch which seemed to rest on the high peaks of the St. Gothard range, white with eternal snow. When they returned, night had KING AETHUK. • 17 already fallen; a glimmering light up at Hospenthal, and another which burned steadily on till morning in the Ander- matt Hotel below, alone testified to the presence of any hu¬ man existence in the silent valley. Next day, at the table dHiote breakfast, the English and American travelers alone remained; the Italians had van¬ ished. Mr. and Mrs. Trevena looked placid and wholesome —as usual—in mind and body; but Dr. Franklin seemed tired and worried; or, as he expressed it, ‘‘ seedyas if he had been up all night—;V/hich he owned he had. “ But why?’^ asked Mrs. Trevena, and then drew back and blushed for the- intrusive question. Work, my dear lady—a doctor^s work never ends. But now I mean to take a few hours^ pla-y* What time shall we start? We can drive up as far as the eternal snow, and down again, before dark. ‘‘Easily."" “All right then. I"m your man. Off we go. I"11 halve the carriage with you."" “Certainly not; we shall be glad of your company,"" said the English clergyman, with stately dignity, and de¬ spite his wtfe"s rather pathetic look—which convinced the honest, warm-hearted American that “ halving the car¬ riage "" was a matter of importance to them—Mr. Trevena held to his point, and Dr. Franklin was obliged to yield. They started. It was one of those gorgeous days—all blueness and whiteness, and fiooded with dazzling, cloud¬ less sunshine—which in Switzerland come as such a strange contrast to the days of mist and storm. The three friends, so lately strangers, found themselves ascending cheerily the mountain, past the tiny village of Hospenthal and the gla¬ cier of St. Anna; crossing the wild river Keuss, which came pouring down the desolate valley; and watcliing how the vegetation, at first bright as the colors of a kaleidoscope with masses of lovely miknown fiowers, gradually dwindled —ceased; until the gray of the huge bowlders, the intense 18 KING AETHUE. blue of the sky, and the dazzling Avhiteness of the mount- ain slopes, were the only colors left. The road became steeper and steeper, and occasionally was fenced on either side by huge walls of unmelted, and apparently never-to- be-melted snow. “ You had better put on your blue'veil, Mrs. Trevena, and here is a pair of blue spectacles for your husband— wouldnT sacrifice my eyes for the grandest snow-landscape in the world. Nor my meals; but I see you have provided against mountain-hunger. Is that another fine, fat—spar- row.'' She laughed, as people do whose hearts are full, then said, with the tears in her eyes, “ How beautiful all is! My whole life through I have longed to come here, and now I am here—we are here together, Austin. We should be ver}^ thankful. I think we are, Susannah,” the clergyman said, in his grave, tender way. And then the two men—so very differ¬ ent outside, and yet with a certain sympathetic union at heart—sat down on either side the little woman, on what they called a comfortable ” stone, just below the shining wall of snow, forty feet high, which refiected the rays of the sun so as to be oppressively warm. Isn^t it curious, Mrs. Trevena, though we sit under a wall of snow we are almost ‘ baked alive ^—as my little monkeys in Kentucky would say?” And stretching out his hand, he washed down the leg of chicken with a mouthful of snow, declaring it was not bad drink after all."’^ Does this huge white wall never melt?” ‘‘Never entirely, ma^am ” (his invariable “ma^am^^ and “ sir,” were so anti-English). “We are just on the verge of the snow-line—perpetual snow. And yet, just look at that patch of blue gentian—isnT it lovely? Are you a botanist, Mr. Trevena?” ‘ ‘ Oh no, but my wife is. At least, she has what I call a speaking acquaintance with almost every fiower that grows. KIKG AETHUE. 19 She knows their separate faces as well as those of the babies of our parish—which seem to me all alike/'’ “Not a bit alike, when you are a woman and love th^m/^ said the wife, smiling. “ You seem Very fond of children, Mrs. Trevena.^'’ “Yes,^"’ she answered quietly—so quietly that the good doctor, feeling as if he could have bitten bis tongue off for the remark, rose and proposed a saunter a little higher up the mountain. “ Decidedly. And my wife can rest here. She never minds being left alone. I tell her it is because she finds her own company so pleasant, and no wonder!'’’ added he, with affectionate courtesy. “ She’s a trump,” said the American—rough, candid, and kirldly, as they walked away. When they were out of sight and hearing of Mrs. Tre- vena, he suddenly stopped, and stuck his stick violently into a fast melting mass of snow. “It’s no use, sir, I can’t stand it any longer; I must tell somebody.” “ Tell what?” said the placid clergyman, very much surprised. “ Something which I have been expecting your wife would find out every day, but she has not done so. Ma¬ dame has kept the secret well. I have often wished 1 could tell it to Mrs. Trevena, who has such capital common sense and right feeling—womanly feeling. Some women seem as if they had none at all; the fashionable life or the public life—Lord knows wliich, for I don’t!—has taken all ordi¬ nary flesh and blood out of them. It does sometimes.” Mr. Trevena listened to this tirade with a perplexity which his politeness vainly tried to hide. “ If there is any¬ thing you would like to confide in me—anything wherein I could be of use—according to my sacred profession. ” “ Mine has its sacredness, too, if people only knew it. Many a troublesome secret have I kept; but this one— 20 KII^G AUTHUE. can^t keep it—I won^t keep it; for, in a sense, it^s like conniving at a murder. The massacre of the innocents I call it—and so I told the woman. ‘‘ What woman asked Mr. Trevena, now thoroughly aroused and uneasy—so uneasy, that he looked instinctive¬ ly back at the little dark figure sitting motionless imder the snow-wall, his wife, with whom he was accustomed to halve all his anxieties. ‘‘ ]N'o—donT tell her—not till we get back to the hotel. You may then; for, after all, she will understand it better than you, or than any man among us all.’’^ And then he detailed how his mysterious patient, on whose account he had lingered these five days at Ander- matt, was a lady—the lady with the mulatto servant who had crossed the St. Gothard the same day as themselves, and that very night had suddenly given birth to a child, with no help except the old woman, and no preparation for her infant except a few clothes borrowed from the kind landlady of the hotel—who, at the mother^s urgent en¬ treaty, had kept the event a secret from everybody. ‘‘ But she insisted on fetching me, as I spoke their language—both the black and the white woman are, I am sorry to say, American born. I told them in good plain English that they were both fools—or Averse—to have at¬ tempted such a journey. It was a miracle that the mother and child survived—the child nearly was dead—and when I told her it lived, her first word was, that she was ^ very sorryA mother, indeed—a brute! No—any brute beast would have been more of a mother. Perhaps,^ ^ suggested Mr. Trevena, with a faint pld- bachelor-like blush—“ perhaps she had some very strong reason for wishing it dead.^^ “Illegitimacy, you mean,^'’ interrupted the point-blank doctor. “ No, I believe not. She had a wedding-ring on her finger, and in her delirium she talked of ' my goose of a husband and ‘ my horrid httle brats at home. There- KING ARTHUE. 21 fore, I conclude she has both a home and a husband. Though why she should have gone wandering about the world in this insane manner is more than I can tell. Both she and her servant are absolutely silent. ‘‘ About how old is she:'’^ Just under forty, I should say. Very handsome still— in a sort of way. Has had four children, but declares she ‘ hated every one of them the minute they were born. Did you ever hear of such a woman?'’^ Mr. T re vena shook his head helplessly. “ Well, my dear doctor, what can I do? Would you like me, in my clerical capacity, to pay her a visit?^^ ‘‘Bless my life—no! She would laugh you to scorn— she laughs at everything serious, except when she gets into her tragedy-fits, when she rants for all the world like a play-actor—or actress. Perhaps she is an actress. ‘‘ May be—I never thought of that. But I have not thought much about her, except as a ‘ case,^ till to-day. It was hard work to keep her alive at all—or the baby either —for she refused to suckle it. She said she wanted it to die; and if it had not been for a blessed old Hanny-goat of madame^s she^d have had her wish by this time. How I think heTl do, for he is quite healthy; and such a fine, fat little fellow. Many a one of your childless English dukes— your ^ noble families •’ that dwindle down to nothing and die out—would give his eyes for such a son and heir.^^ “A strange story,said Mr. Trevena thoughtfully. “ May I tell my wife? She would be so much interested.,^^ ‘‘Yes, and ask her to advise me: a woman—that is, a sensible woman—often leaps by instinct to the right, when a man with his long-headed wisdom goes swithering to and fro, till he finds himself quite at sea—as I own I am. That horrible creature I What do you think she asked of me last night? To take away her child and leave it at the nearest foundling hospital—or by the road-side if I chose, for some 22 KIKG ARTHUR. charitable soul to pick it up! She doesn^t care what be¬ comes of it, so that she gets rid of it. She would sell it, she declares, for she wants money badly—only a baby is a drug in the market—a commodity no one cares to buyl^-’ What a wretch!—oh, dear, oh, dear!^^ murmured the horrified and perplexed clergyman. “ Surely she must be mad.^^ ‘‘Not at all; she is as sane as I am, a capable, clever, healthy woman. She must have a constitution of iron to have struggled through these few days; and she is doing very well now. She talks of continuing her journey im¬ mediately. “ Where to? Has she no friends?^^ “ None, she declares, except her ‘ fool of a husband,^ whom she left six months ago, and has scarcely heard of since. She refuses to give her name or address. So—what can I do? She is my country-woman, and after all, a woman—or I would do nothing at all. She expects me to give her an answer to-night. “ About what?^^ “ About the foundling hospital. There are such in Swit¬ zerland, I know; but I canT present myself there with an unknown new-born baby in my arms—a decent father of a family like me. And if I leave the child with its mother, very likely she’ll murder it, or neglect it till it dies—which IS as bad as murder.” “ But there is the mulatto woman; she may have a heart in her bosom if the mother has none.” “ My dear sir, had you lived as long as I have in our Southern' States, you would know that our niggers have big hearts, but mighty little heads, and no consciences to speak of. If that woman told her servant, who is a paid slav^e, to lie down and be walked upon, she’d do it; and if she bade her throw the child on the back of the fire, she’ll do it also. I’m only too glad she hasn’t done it already, when KII^G ARTHUK. 23 it began to cry—^it has cried incessantly ever since it was bom—and no wonder/-’ “Poor little soul!^’ said Mr. Trevena, roused into un¬ wonted interest. He had lived so long the hfe of a bachelor and a book-worm that he rarely troubled himself much about external things—human things—but left all that to his wife. “ I think we had better tell Mrs. Trevena; she will be sure to know what you ought to do. “Yes—^but not yet. Don’t spoil her pleasure. Look! I am -sure she is enjoying herself. “ My wife has the faculty of enjoying everything.-” And indeed it seemed so, though just now her enjoyment was no wonder. Pew could have seen unmoved those great fields of snow, rising upward into gigantic peaks, white as no fuller on earth could whiten them—like the robes of the righteous described in Eevelations. The whole scene, in its silence, grandeur, and dazzling brightness, was liker heaven than earth. One’s petty mortal life, with its trivial cares and foolish joys, sunk, dwarfed into nothingness, be¬ fore the majesty of those everlasting hills, covered with perpetual snow. It was the nearest image we can imagine, in this poor changing earth, of that Eternity from whence we came and into which we go. She sat gazing with an expression full of peace, though the traces of tears were on her cheeks—so rapt, that she never noticed the approach of the two men. “ Look at her,” said the American, with honest admira¬ tion written on his shrewd brown face. “ By George! how pretty she must have been when she was young.” “She is pretty now—at least to me,” replied the En¬ glishman with dignity. “ My dear Susannah, are you rested? Is it not time we were going home?” “ ^ Going to hum,’ as we say—or as you English say that we say—often a very different thing, ” observed Dr. Frank¬ lin, trying hard to recover his equanimity and good humor. “ Which means going to our hotel; not a bad substitute 24 KING ARTHUR. for home. Madame is very kind. But oh! Austin, I shall be glad to be once again really ^ at home!^ We must try to move on to-morrow. So adieu—forever, most likely— you beautiful San Gottardo!"’"’ Smiling she rose, collected the fragments of lunch, “ They will do for these little lads who were selling edel¬ weiss and alpenrosen beyond Hospenthal, and joined her companions in the carriage. Both Mr. Trevena and Dr. Franklin were very silent on the homeward road; but Mrs. Trevena talked and smiled rather more than usual to make up for it. And they ac¬ quiesced in, or at any rate did not oppose, her plan of going down the next day to Fluelen, and thence on to Lucerne. So this will be our last night in the TJrseren Thai; for, if you go back to America as you intend, doctor, we arfi none of us ever likely to be at Andermatt again.'’-’ “ I earnestly hope I never may be!"’^ said Dr. Franklin, as reaching the hotel he looked at his watch. ‘^Half an hour past my time. Well, it doesn’t matter—only—what a hullabaloo she’ll make. You’ll remember, sir? And I’ll see you again at the ^adle d’hote —after you have told your wife.” “ Told me what?” ‘‘ You needn’t be alarmed, ma’am. Take a quiet even¬ ing walk—lucky comfortable couple that you are!—and your husband will explain it. Bless us—what a sunset!— Why did Heaven make the outside world so beautiful, and the people in it so— 'But I beg your pardon, Mrs. Trevena •—not all people—not all.” He took off his hat to her with rough respect, and disap¬ peared toward a small dependence only used when the hotel was full, on the other side of the road. Up that road, shortly afterward, the English couple might have been seen strolling, arm-in-arm, sometimes even hand-in-hand, for those long-divided years had made them almost child-like in their wedded hajDpiness now. KING ARTHUR. They cast a glance at the dependence as they passed, but nothing was visible: so they slowly disappeared along the level road towards that wonderful Devil’s Bridge—^the chief sight of Andermatt; whence they did not return till the table dlwte dinner had already begun. It was a long walk—;and a momentous one—perhaps the most momentous they had ever taken in all their placid lives. When he met them at the dinner-table. Dr. Frank¬ lin was quite sure Mr. Trevena had told his wife ever3rthmg. She was very silent—even for her; she eat little; and be¬ tween the many courses by which the Swiss hotels so cleverly contrive to make a palatable something out of almost noth¬ ing, she fell into long reveries. Still, there was a new brightness—a pleasure amounting to rapture—in her eyes, which made her look quite young, and fairly startled the good doctor. Dinner over, she drew liim aside. My husband has given me your message. I hardly know what to advise. But first, may I go and see that poor woman:” ‘‘ ‘ Poor’ woman, indeed! and you want to go and see her? I knew it!—just like you. But, my dear madame, you can’t. She is madder—or badder—^than ever. All her talk is how to get rid of the child. My impression is if you went to see her she would shut the door in your face. ” “ Try, nevertheless. I might do something—say some¬ thing. We are both women, and”—with a quiver of the lips—mothers—at least I have been a mother. Perhaps, poor thing! her head is a little wrong.” “ Not a bit of it, unless we adopt the theory which some of my profession have started, that all badness is madness. A very comfortable doctrine, and then nobody need be pimished for anything. But, ma’am, if there is a thing true in this world it is that text, ‘ Be sure your sin will find you out.’ As I told her only to-night, you can’t go against nature, but nature will have her revenge some day. How¬ ever, that’s no alfair of mine. ” 26 king arthue. Perhaps not, yet let us try. Go and ask her if she will see me.'’^ Very well, ma^am. During his absence, Mrs. Trevena sat alone—at least practically so, for her husband, according to old habit, had taken a book out of his pocket and become absorbed there¬ in. Susannah, who did not read very much, was content to watch the great white mountains melting away in the twilight; and think—and tliink. ‘‘IPs no use!'’^ said Dr. Franklin, returning. “I be¬ lieve she is mad—quite mad. She will see nobody. She says the best kindness anybody could show her would be to take away the child; that children have been her bane and nuisance all her life,.and she wants no more of them. When I suggested that He who sent them .might require them at her hand, she laughed in my face. I think she believes in neither God nor devil. “ Poor soul! Could you not find out her friends?*^ “ I wish I could, but I have not the slightest clew. I can get nothing out of her, or her servant either—except that she has been living for six months in Italy. Mrs. Trevena thought a minute. “ Do you think it possible she may be the Italian prima-donna who ran away from Milan? To an actress or singer children might be a hinderance—if she had no motherly heart. ^ ^ “ Yes—yes,^^ said the doctor, meditating. “ You women are twice as sharp as we. But she is American. Still, she may have passed under an Italian name. She declares no power on earth shall make her confess her own.^^ “ Poor soul!^^ said Susannah again. “ She has husband, children, home—and she hates and flies from them all. How much she is to be pitied “ Pitied cried the doctor almost angrily. “ Mrs. Trevena, I thiiik you would speak a good word for the devil himself! And truly, if there ever was a she-devil, it^s that woman! I wonder what Mrs. Franklin would say to her! KING AKTHUK. 27 But I know what sheM do—she^d take home the little one, and I should have eleven young shavers to bring up instead of ten. She^d make me adopt it—as we can and often do in America."’^ Mrs. Trevena did not answer at first—then she said gently, ‘‘ Since I can not see the mother, do you think you could manage for me to see the baby?^^ This was not quite easy, for madame, with a creditable dread of scandal in her hotel, had managed so cleverly that no one but herself and the American doctor even knew of the existence of the hapless, unwelcome babe. And only after nightfall, when the inmates had all retired, would she consent tha^t it should be brought for a minute or two to the door of the dependance, wrapped in a shawl, and carried in Dr. Franklin’’s arms. Mrs. Trevena took it softly in hers, and pressed to her bosom the tiny red, puckered face. “ It is a boy, you say? Mine was a boy too. He lived just six hours. It was only a murmur, but the kind- hearted Kentuckian heard it—and understood. If’s a fine child, ma^am; healthy and strong. Ko—it wonT wake. Its mother has given it some sleeping stuff —she will do this, though-1 tell her she might as well give it poison. She’ll kill it some day, if it isn’t taken away from her. She says, new-born brats don’t matter—they’re only half alive. You might drown them like kittens—and no harm done.” Mrs. Trevena did not answer—perhaps scarcely heard. Evidently her heart was full. She pressed her cheek, her lips, with more than tenderness—passion—to the little sleeping face. “ If mine had only lived! I had him but six hours, and yet—I can never forget him. ” And then either her tears, now fast falling, or the unsteady hold of her trembling hands, woke the child; who gave a little cry—that helpless infant wail, to some women so irritating, to others the un- 2S KING ARTHUR. failing key which unlocks every corner of the true motherly heart. I must take it back,^^ said Dr. Franklin. Oh no—^no—let me have it for just five minutes more— for the night perhaps—Ifil take care of it. Any woman of common sense can manage a baby. Let me have it, doctor. I canH,^^ replied the doctor gravely. ^^Ma^am, you forget. What would Mr. Trevena say?^^ Mrs. Trevena resisted no more. She resigned the child, and then stood with her empty hands tightly folded, and her eyes, tearless now, fixed on the stars; which treading their silent courses seemed so far away from human crav¬ ings and human woes. Perhaps she saw them—perhaps not, but there was a light in her eyes as bright as stars. She said not a word but “ good-night and thank you to Dr. Franklin, when, having taken her across the road to the hotel he left her at her own room door; with a hearty grip of the hand—^for he, too, honest man! had been not unmoved. Poor little brat! I wonder what will be the end of it. Well! I guess the Lord' sometimes makes things mighty unlevel in this World of ours. Perhaps He does it that we may try to put them straight ourselves. We often can—if we see our way. Whew! I wish the Lord would help me to see mine.^^ And the good fellow—who had a habit of referring to “ the Lord pretty frequently, not with any irreverence, but in a fashion rather startling to British ears—went off to his bed, whistling, and slept the sleep of the contented and the just. So did Mr. Trevena—in fact his wife found him asleep when she came in, and did not waken him. But she her¬ self lay awake till dawn. KmG AETHUR. CHAPTER IL Hext morning Mr. and Mrs. Trevena sat OTer their early cafe, by their bedroom fire, welcome even in June at Andermatt—a comfortable couple, placid and loving; for, before returning to his book, he stooped and kissed her affectionately. ‘^Youfil be busy over y^ur packing, my dear, for we really will start to-morrow, if I get the letters and some money to-day. Doctor Frankhn will share our carriage to Fluelen; he can surely leave his patient now. By the bye, did you see the baby last night Yes;'’^ and coming closer she laid her hand on her hus- band-’s arm, and her head on his shoulder. “ Can you give me a few minutes, Austin, my dear?^^ A hundred if you like, my darling. Is it to speak about the journey? Well, we shall soon be safe at home, and oh! how glad we shall be. Very glad. But—it is an empty home to come back to."" “ How do you mean?—Oh yes—see. My poor Susan¬ nah! You should not have gone and looked at that baby."" He spoke very tenderly—more so than might have been expected from his usually formal and absent manner. She gave one little sob, then choked it down, put her arms rofind his neck and kissed him several times. An outsider might have smiled at the caresses of these two elderly peo¬ ple; but love never grows old, and they had loved one another all their Lives. ‘‘ Don"t mind my crying, Austin. Indeed, I am happy, quite happy. Yesterday, when I sat under the wall of snow, and looked at the beautiful sights all round me, I thought how thankful I ought to be—how contented with my lot—how blessed in my home and my husband. And 30 KIKG ABTHUE. I ceased to be angry with God for having taken away my baby. ‘‘ Poor Susannah—poor Susannah ‘‘No, rich Susannah! And so, I determined to grieve no more—to try and be happy without a child. But now— “ Well, my darling “ Austin, I think God sometimes teaches us to renounce a thing, and when we have quite renounced it, gives it back to us, in some other way. “ What do you mean?^^ She tried to speak—failed more than once—and then said, softly and solemnly, “ I believe God has sent that child, whom its mother does not care for, to me—to us. Will you let me have it?^'’ Intense astonishment and bewilderment was written on every line of Mr. Trevena^’s grave countenance. “ God bless my soul! Susannah, what can you be think¬ ing of?^^ “ I have been thinking of this and nothing else, ever since you told me what Doctor Franklin told you. From that minute I felt the child was meant for me. Its mother throws it away; she does not care a straw for it—whilst I —oh Austin—you don^t know—you don^t know!"’' She pressed her hands upon her childless breast, as if to smother down something that was almost agony. “ No, my dear,^^ Mr. Trevena answered dryly; “ I can^t be expected to know. And if you were not such a very sensible woman I should say that you don’t know either. How can respectable old folk like us encumber ourselves with a baby—a waif and a stray—a poor little creature that we know nothing on earth about?” “ But God does,” she answered solemnly. “ Listen, Austin. When I was a very little girl I picked up a bit of sweet-william—trodden under foot and nearly dead. My playfellows laughed at me, and said it would never grow; KIKG ARTHUR. 31 but I planted it and it did grow—it grew into the finest root in my garden. An omen, I think; for I have done the same thing several times afterward in the course of my life, and—my sweet-williams always grew! Let me try one more. My dear, you would coax a bird off a bush. But what on earth do you want to do? To buy a baby? The woman will not give it—she wished to sell it, you know. Twenty pounds is her price. I really havenT that much about ‘‘ DonT jest, dear. And when he saw the expression on his wife^s face, Mr. Trevena felt it was no jesting matter. He had ever been a man of one idea, or rather of two ideas —his books and his Susannah; every corner of his heart was filled up by either the one or the other. Perhaps he had felt a natural pang when his hope of fatherhood was quenched, but the regret soon died out, and his life became complete as before. Love of offspring is with men more a pride than an affection; at least till the children are intelli¬ gent human beings. The passionate craving which made the Hebrew mother cry, Give me children or else I die,^^ is to them absolutely unknown. Hor, as a rule, does a man take much interest in any children not his own. But with a woman it is different. Susannah sat down, for she was trembhng too much to stand. Austin saw it, and his heart melted. ‘‘ Come, don^t fret, my love, and we will consider the matter. But—think of the trouble a baby would be. “ I will take it upon myself. I know I can.^^ ‘‘ Then, again, our income is so small—too small to bring up and provide for a child. We should have had to do it for our own, had he lived. ‘‘ Then—there is my brother Hal. Mrs. Trevena ^s sweet face hardened a little—it could not but harden. This scamp of an elder brother had been to 32 KIKG ARTHUR. the younger one a torment^ a disgrace, ever since their col¬ lege days; also a ceaseless drain, hindering his prospects and delaying his marriage. Family pride—it scarcely could be called family affection—had prevented the good clergy¬ man from throwing olf this horrible incubus, until ho got a living and married his Susannah, ^vhose strength had in some degree counteracted his weakness, taught him to say No, and proved to him that to sustain a bad man in his badness, even though he be your own flesh and blood, is not a virtue, but a weakness. T thought we had done with Hal when you paid his passage out to Australia. Ay, but he may come back again—^he often does,^'’ said the husband, with a weary look. ‘‘ He has turned up, you know, from all the ends of the earth, to worry me as much as ever. “ But that was when you had not me beside you. Now— I know—I know. Would that I had had you beside me years ago!^^ As perhaps, but for Hal, and a certain weakness, not sel¬ dom combined with an affectionate nature, he might have had. But his wife said nothing—except to notice that Dr.,,, Franklin was walking outside. Shall we call him in and speak to him?^^ About the baby? Have you set your heart upon it, Susannah? Am I not enough for you? Would you be like Hannah, the wife of Elkanah?^'’ Hannah prayed, and God sent her her little Samuel. Who knows but that He may in His own mysterious way have sent me mine?^^ She spoke in a whisper—solemn and tender. Her voice was so entreating, her expression so rapt—as if she saw further than any but herself could see—that the good kind husband resisted no more. Though he did not always un¬ derstand her, he had an instinct that whatever his Susannaii KII?'G ARTHUR. did was sure to be right. It was always difficult to him to say No to anybody^ but to say No to her was quite beyond his power. “ Well—well, we will at least consider the matter. Let us do as you say—call in Dr. Franklin and talk it over. The talk lasted a long time, without eliciting any new facts or coming to any satisfactory conclusion. Dr. Frank¬ lin was less surprised at Mrs. Trevena'^s quixotic idea, as her husband called it, than an Englishman would have been; he said the adoption of children was a not uncommon thing in America. Indeed, I have often advised it as an absolute duty to rich and childless people, who wished to make themselves happy with young life about them, and avoid a selfish, use¬ less old age. A child in the house helps to educate every¬ body in it. Not that Mrs. Trevena needs much education, added he, with blunt courtesy, but it would make her happy and do her good; and, as the Bible says, she would ‘ save a soul alive. ^ What! save a child by taking it from its parents? That is not according to the Bible,^^ answered the perplexed clergyman. “ I am sorry to say, sir, that there are lots of children in this world who can only be saved by taking them from their parents. This poor little wretch is one. He is a fine, healthy, perfect child—splendid physiological and phreno¬ logical developments—might make a grand fellow, if any¬ body could protect him from the woman that bore him, who doesnT deserve the blessing of a child. Your wife does. I think with her—that the Lord sent it to her."’"' Mrs. Trevena lifted up to him grateful eyes, but said nothing. It seems so ridiculous, and yet so horrible—the idea of buying a child,said Mr. Trevena. ‘‘ Besides, we should have all the responsibility of it, and no legal rights what¬ ever. 8 u KING ARTHTJK. “There we have the advantage of you/’ The Ken¬ tuckian drew himself up to his full long length, and spoke •—more nasally than ever, it must be owned—but with an honest warmth that neutralized all national peculiarities. “ In my country, where every man stands on his own feet, where we have neither the curse of primogeniture nor the burden of hereditary rank, any respectable person, or any married couple, agreeing together, can legally adopt a child. ” Mrs. Trevena looked up eagerly. “ How?” “ By presenting a petition to one of our courts of law, and after due examination of the parents, if alive and de¬ serving, and of the child, if old enough, obtaining a decree of adoption, which is called ‘ the muniment of title. ’ This makes it the adopting parents’ lawful heir, and the real parents have no more right over it, which is, in some cases, a great blessing. It was in two, I know of—one an orphan, the other worse. Both children were adopted—and both saved—as I only wish somebody would save this poor little soul. It’s a great mystery, Mrs. Trevena, but sometimes the Lord seems to send children to those who don’t deserve them, and not to those that do. Many miserable little creatures have I seen, who might have been seized and saved, body and soi^l—as I managed to save those two— But I beg your pardon. I go talking on—interrupting your husband at his letters—;for I see he has got them at last.” There were only two—^but evidently important—^for Mr. Trevena had dropped out of the conversation at sight of them, and sat poring over the first one; till coming to the end he uttered something almost like a cry. His wife came to him. “ "VVhat is the matter?” “ Oh, nothing. Only Hal wanting money—as usual. And why, do you think?” There was a mixture of the pa¬ thetic and the ludicrous in Mr. Trevena’s face as he looked KING ARTHUK. 35 up. ‘'He is married!—actually married this time—to a girl twenty years younger than himself. ” Mrs. Trevena^’s anpous face grew hard and stern. “ It is the maddest—not to say the baddest—thing he has ever done. Who is she?^^ “An Australian—colonial born. HaFs wife! and we know nothing on earth about her. “ And she probably knows nothing on earth about him —which is worse. Poor soul!^'’ « Here Dr. Franklin, feeling he had unawares come upon a family skeleton, was discreetly slipping away. “ Stay a minute, said Mrs. Trevena, “ if you will par¬ don tills discussion of our family correspondence.^ Austin, open the other letter. It may be our money from home, and then we can arrange with Dr. Franklin for our depart¬ ure to-morrow.^'’ There was a sad sort of resignation in her tone, as of a woman who has all her days been accustomed to give up everything she most cared for, and make the best of what was left—eating the crumbs and not the festival meats of life. But no one knows what Fate is bringing. The other letter her husband opened listlessly—and almost dropped out of his hands with a look of amazement and joy. “ Susannah—oh, Susannah! it has come at lastT^ “ What, dear?^^ The living—that college living I have been hoping for these twenty years! It is offered me now. 'No more pov¬ erty—no more struggle. My Susannah will be a well-to- do woman for the rest of her days. Thank God~thank God!^^ Quite overcome, Mr. Trevena sat down, covering his eyes with his hand. His wife, forgetful of the stranger^s presence, knelt down beside him in silence. By their deep joy the doctor could plumb the depth of their past suffer¬ ing, hitherto so well concealed. He walked to the window, imwilling to walk quite away, and contemplated Juno, the 36 KIKG AKTHUR. big St. Bernard, with three gigantic puppies gamboling round her. A mother of sons is a fine sight, be it brute or wom¬ an,’^ said he to himself, apropos of nothing; and gazed sh lently on till he felt a gentle touch on his arm. “ You are so kind—you will rejoice with us. My hus¬ band has just got a new living—the very prettiest rectory in all Cornwall. We are not such poor people now, as we told you we were this morning. “The Lord be thanked! His ways are not so unlevel after all, if one only waits to see,^^ said the Kentuckian, with his own rough but unmistakable devoutness, as he shook hands with both his friends and congratulated them sincerely. “ And now,^’ said he, with his usual directness —“ about the child. “ What childsaid Mr. Trevena absently. “ The baby your wife wants to adopt, and I hope she may. ITl help her to do it, with your permission. You can afford now to give yourselves a son'and heir. “ But—Susannah, what would Hal say.^^^ There is a saying that “ the worm will turn. Mrs. Trevena had never been a “ worm;^'’ but she had been a much-enduring woman—till now. It was the crisis of her patience. Endurance changed into resistance. She rose up, and even Dr. Eranklin was startled by the fire in her eyes. “ I think, husband, it does not matter two straws what Hal says. He has spent all his own patrimony and yours. You have maintained him for years; now he has chosen to marry, and it is the maddest if not the wickedest thing he ever did in his life—which is saying a good deal. He has no further claim upon you—upon us. Let him go. Rarely did Mrs. Trevena speak so much or so fiercely. That last “ Let him goV^ fell hard“and sharp as the knife which has to cut ofi something corrupt, obnoxious—and does it, with a righteous remorselOssness better than any KIKG AKTHUK. 37 feeble pity, which is often only another name for self-ease. Even as there are many people, who are benevolent only to give themselves pleasure, so there are many more who are merciful only to save themselves pain. She is right, said Dr. Franklin, dropping his bony hand heavily on the table as a sort of practical amen to the discussion. ‘‘ Since you have let me into your family se¬ crets, excuse me, sir, if I use the freedom of saying, your wife is right. There are limits, even to the claims of flesh and blood. Let your brother go his way; and do you take the child which the Lord sends you, bring it up as your son, and trust to His making it a real son to you both in your old age. Nobody can look ahead; but at any rate you will make your wife happy, and, as I said, you will save a soul alive. He waxed preternaturally eloquent, as he stood, honest man! his long lean figure drawn up to its full height; his arms folded and his keen eyes glittering—was it with that tender pity which only the strong can feel ? or the generous indignation that only the righteous can show? Any how, his words, so cordially in earnest, had their effect. Mr. Trevena turned to his wife. Susannah, do you really wish this?"” ‘^Yes, Austin, I do. Then I consent. For my wife^s sake. Dr. Franklin.'’^ And for His sake,"’^ added Susannah, with an upward glance of her sweet eyes—eyes that had in them the perpet¬ ual light from Heaven, which a man might thankfully and safely follow all his hfe through. “ He says to us. Take this child and nurse it—for ‘‘And now, said the doctor, clearing his throat, and sticking his hat fiercely down over his brows—“ Fll go and see about this business—^the oddest bit of business I ever came across. Fve bought a good many things—but I never yet bought a baby. M hat form of receipt will the woman want, I wonder? And she must sign her name to 38 KING AKTHUE. it—which will let us know what her name is—for I ha\en’t the slightest idea. By Jove! she’s a queer customer; the most unwomanly woman I ever had to do with. Still—I’ll face her. Here goes!” He gave his soft felt hat another bang, which left it crooked on his head; and soon they saw him striking off ta the dejwndance. They felt that, spite of his address and irusquerWy if there was ever a man fit to be trusted with a troublesome business, and certain to carry it through, it was the long Kentuckian. Hour after hour the'day went by. Husband and wife did not talk much; neither was given to talking—their long-parted lives had been too solitary; besides they under¬ stood one another so well that discussion was unnecessary. Even at this great crisis, when both had plenty to think about, they kept a mutual, tender silence; and as they took their quiet daily walk together, spoke of the mountains, the fiowers, and all other things about them which they were accustomed to notice and take pleasure in—the placid pleasure in nature’s blessings which grows rather than decreases with years. But they never once referred either to Hal and his marriage, or to the transaction which Dr. Franklin was engaged in at the deyendance close by. As they passed it on their return it was as silent as death; the doors and windows closed, as had been the case all along. Mrs. Trevena gave a little sigh. But her husband never seemed to notice anything. The .glowing June day was beginning to melt into tho long twilight of the mountains, behind whose tops the suru disappears so soon; when Dr. Franklin’s knock was heart at their door. Mrs. Trevena opened it with an eager face^ in which hope seemed to struggle with patience—^the pa^ tience of a woman long accustomed to disappointment. The shrewd doctor saw this at once, and held out hiw hand with a smile. ‘‘ Well, ma’am, congratulate me. I think I’ve man- KING AKTHUK. 89 aged it—and her. But she is the queerest fish; a ' woman of genius/ she calls herself^ and not to be judged like other women. Bless my soul!—if she is a woman of genius I^m glad Mrs. Franklin isn’t! But to our business. You hear me, Mr. Trevena?” ” Yes—^yes,” said the good clergyman, closing his book, but looking rather bored as he did so. This lady—queer as she is, I an> sure she is a lady, well-educated and all that—says you may have her baby for twenty pounds English money, paid down; and that then ‘ the sooner you take the brat away the better. ’ Those were her words. She promises never to trouble you about it—she doesn’t even want to hear your name—^which, in¬ deed, I have taken the precaution not to tell her—and she refuses to tell you hers. She says you may call the boy anything you like. ‘ He’s the image of his father—and that’s why I hate him!’ she said one day. Oh, she’s an aw¬ ful woman. ‘‘ Is he ”—the color rose in Mrs. Trevena’s matron cheek, but she forced herself to ask the question—“ is he—do you think—his father’s lawful child?” “ I conclude so. She speaks sometimes of ‘ my fool of a husband,’ and ‘ the little wretches at home. ’ But, as I told you, I know absolutely nothing. You might as well squeeze water out of a stone as any common-sense truth out of that woman. She is a perfectly abnormal specimen of her sex. ” Perhaps she is mad.” “ Hot a bit of it; perfectly sound in mind and body—has made a wonderfully quick recovery. A shrewd person, too —wide-awake to her own interests. If you want the baby to-morrow, she insists upon having the twenty pounds paid down to-night. ” Mr. Trevena looked perplexed, and turned appealingly to his wife—as he seemed in the habit of doing in most emergencies. 40 KIKG ARTHUR. “We have not got the money/'’ she said, simply. “We have hardly any money left; hut our remittances will be sure to come to-morrow. If I might have the baby— “ I wish to heaven you had it now, ma’am—for I don’t want to have to give evidence to the Swiss government in a case of child-desertion, or child-murder. However, I’ll go over again and see what can be done. There is the M/e dHiote bell. Shall we go down to dinner?” They dined, rather silently, amidst the clatter of a party of Germans who had just come up from Lucerne, and were passing on over the St. Gothard next day; and who, with characteristic economy, appealed to the “ rich English ” to take their carriage back, and to save them the expense of paying for the return journey. “We might have done it, had our money come in time,” said Mr. Trevena. “ I am sure I don’t want to stay a day longer in Andermatt than I can help. ” “E’er I,” added Hr. Franklin—then catching Mrs. Trevena’s anxious eyes—“ But I shall make it a point of honor—medical honor—to see my patient safe through. E^ot that she is a paying patient, though she did one day offer me a diamond ring—I am almost sorry I refused it, or it might have been some clew. But no!”—continued he in a whisper to Mrs. Trevena—“ Mother—take your son—if I can get him for you—and forget he ever had any mother besides yourself. ” Once again the childless woman’s eyes flashed upon the goor doctor a look of passionate gratitude. Then she rose, and went and sat patiently in the window recess of the now empty salle-d-manger, watching the full round moon, risen long since, but only now appearing over the tops of the mountains—^like a joy found late in life, yet none the less a complete and perfect joy. Before long she heard Hr. Franklin’s long striding step and cheery voice. “ Well, ma’am, I’ve done ft at last. You will get your KIKG AKTHUE. 41 baby. Not to-night—she ^ can^t be bothered ^ to-night, she says—but to-morrow morning. Also, IVe spoken to madame (whom I had to take into our confidence, for she threatened to turn adrift ‘Madame L'^Anonyme,^ as she contemptuously calls her, within twelve hours), and she will sell you the clothes she lent, and the goat; or get you a nourrice from the next canton, so that you can keep the matter as secret as you choose. ' “ Thank you/^ Mrs. Trevena said. “ But I had rather not keep it secret. I have considered everything, and I am sure it will be better to tell the plain truth at once; that I have adopted a deserted child, and that he is henceforth my son—and I am his mother. The intonation of the last word startled even the good doctor, who knew human nature so well. It indicated one of those natures to whom motherhood is not merely a senti¬ ment or a duty, but a passion. He felt that he had done well—or rather that heaven had done better. “ You are right,he said, “ the outside world need never know any more than that—and I earnestly hope you never will either. As for the boy liimself, when he grows up you may tell him as much or as little as you please. ’ ^ “ I shall tell him everything. The truth is always best. Dr. Franklin shook her warmly by the hand. “ I wish every boy in the world had a mother like you. May he live to ‘ rise up and call you blessed!^ Middle-aged and practical folk as they were, tears stood in the eyes of both. They understood one another. “And now,'’^ continued the doctor, “ Ifil just have to face that woman once more—about ten to-morrow fore¬ noon, she said. But I shall not try to worin anything more out of either her or her servant, who obeys her like a slave —she was her slave, and foster-mother as well—you anti¬ slavery folk donT know the dogged fidelity of our Southern niggers. But ITl wash my hands of both—when I get tho 42 KmQ AKTHUR. baby. And then we three—with the young ^un and the goat, or a bottle of goat^s milk—will go on to Fluelen in that carriage the Germans had. I told the T7oman this; and oh! how she pricked up her ears, as if the only thing she wished was to get rid of her baby and never see it again in this world—as I fervently hope she never may!’^ “ I hope so too; and I intend it,'’^ said Mrs. Trevena, very quietly, but with a firmness that betrayed the possible “ iron hand in velvet glove —even her little hand. And as Mr. Trevena just then lounged in—with his gentle, gen¬ tlemanly, absent manner, and his eternal book under his arm—Dr. Frankhn thought that perhaps the little woman had found out how in this life firmness is as necessary as gentleness. Everybody slept soundly that night; the worthy doctor, because he believed he had done his duty; Mrs. Trevena, because she saw plainly before her in long glad vista hers; and Mr. Trevena, because he did not think about it at all; being absorbed in a new reading which he had hit upon of a line in Horace, and which he tried to explain to his wife before they went to sleep. During the night one of those dense wliite mists, common at Andermatt, swept doTO from the moimtains; by morning ever 3 rthmg outside the hotel had become invisible; and, after the early departure of the German tourists, the almost empty hotel seemed to become as quiet as the grave. The post arrived, bringing Mr. Trevena his expected remittances, which he handed over as usual to his Chan¬ cellor of the Exchequer, as he called her—well for him that she was! With hands slightly trembling she examined the notes—there was enough money to take them home, and twenty pounds over. Mrs. Trevena looked nervously at her watch. “ Is not Doctor Franklin late?^^ she said—or rather was about to say —when she saw him hurrying in from the dependance. ‘‘ I want you, ma^’am. Come back with me. If that KIKa ABTHUR. 43 Voman is not a murderess, she is next door to one. But we may save the child yet if we make haste. Mrs. Trevena threw a shawl over her head and ran. There, in the middle of the one poor room, which had witnessed its unwelcome birth, lay the deserted child, half naked and only half alive, for no one seemed to have taken the trouble to feed or dress it. The floor was strewn with the debris of a hasty packing, and the accumulated untidi¬ ness of many days. In the midst of this chaos the poor infant lay, moaning its little life away—a very feeble moan now, for it must have lain there several hours. Mrs. Trevena dropped on her knees beside it. “ Oh, my baby! my baby!’’^ she cried almost with a sob; took it in her arms, pressing the stone cold limbs to her warm breast, and wrapping it in the skirt of her dress, as she sat on the floor. “ It is naine^ altogether mine now. Oh, doctor, can you save it yet?” “ ITl try,^^ muttered the good man, as he too knelt down and felt the fluttering pulse—rapidly sinking into stillness and death. They did try; and with the help of madame, who arrived presently from the hotel, equally voluble in her fury against ^‘Madame L^Anonyme,” and her wondering re¬ spect for the gentle English miladi — they succeeded. Another hour, and the fleeting life had been arrested: the danger was past; and the poor little babe, warmed, fed, and clothed, lay safe in the bosom of its new-found mother, who rejoiced over it almost as if it had been the child of her own travail, which Heaven had taken away. ‘‘ This little fellow will owe you his life almost as much as if he had been born your own,^'’ said the doctor, regard¬ ing them both with the curious tenderness which sometimes softened his keen, shrewd eyes. If we had not come to the rescue, he would have been dead in another half hour. Kow—^bless us! what a pair of lungs!^^ 44 KTKG ARTHUR. No, lie will not die—as his mother meant him to die,^’ cried indignant madame, who with nearly all the female servants of the hotel had gathered round in compassion and sympathy. ‘‘ The barbarous woman! and, though she had a wedding-ring on her finger, I beheve she was a woman of no character at all.'’^ “ We do not know that,’^ said Mrs. Trevena, trying to understand the French, and speaking firmly in her own tongue. ‘‘ Let us be silent about her. She is—or rather she was—my boy^’s mother. From that hour Susannah always said, “ My boy.^^ ‘‘ Madame L"*Anonyme had in truth disappeared, as anonymously as she came. How she and her servant had contrived to secure the Fluelen carriage, pack up their small baggage, and make what was literally a “ moonlight flit¬ ting,'’^ so quietly that no one had heard them depart, was, and remained, a complete mystery. ' ^ No one sought to unravel it. No one pursued them or cared to do so—what could be gained by it? Nothing could be got out of them. The puzzle was, how, without money, they had managed to get away; and it was not till the up¬ roarious complaints of madame had been a little stilled by the application of a few English shillings—or rather Ameri¬ can dollars—that the doctor, seeing Mrs. Trevena uneasy because her part of the compact had not been fulfilled—she had got the child, and the twenty pounds was still m her pocket—owned, blushing like a girl, that he himself had ‘ ‘ taken the liberty of paying it the night before. ‘‘ It seemed the only way to quiet the woman, and keep her from doing something desperate. But you see she had less of desperation and more of worldly wisdom than I thought. Anyhow she is gone, and we have got rid of her —I hope forever. Thanks to you,^^ said Mrs. Trevena, as she silently put the bank-note in the doctor^s hand; and he took it, for he was a practical man, and a poor man besides. KIKG ARTHUR. 45 I have made everything as safe as I can/^ said he. '' She has no clew to us, or we to her. Neither she nor her servant, who speaks only English, has ever heard your name—only mine; and as I am going back to America at once, she is not likely to find me out there. If she ever does, and wants to know about her child, shefil meet her match—that^s all!^"^ Thank you, said Mrs. Trevena. For Mr. Trevena, he said nothing at all; he only watched with benignant pleasure the unspeakable content of his wife^s face; and thence glanced downward, with a sort of amused curiosity, to the little creature on her lap, especially its hands and feet, as if to find out whether it had the right number of fingers and toes, and was no abnormal specimen of anthro¬ pology. A simple man, and a good man, was the Rever¬ end Austin; never swerving from his one domestic creed, that if his Susannah thought a thing right, it was right. So the exciting episode, which madame in her anxiety for the good name of her hotel wisely hushed up as much as possible, settled down into calmness. The baby did not die, as its natural unnatural mother had probably hoped it might. The goat was an excellent foster-mother; and before forty-eight hours were over, Mrs. Trevena felt—ay, and looked, as if she herself had been a real mother for years. Dr. Franklin watched her with his expression of dry humor, tempered by kindliness. Mrs. Franklin says, all the doctors and nurses going canT manage a baby so well as one sensible woman with a motherly heart. And as she has managed ten, may be she is right. Now—about the journey to Lucerne. If you take a bottle of goat^s milk with you—also a doctor, in case of emergency, we shall get back to civilization without any difficulty. A nice ‘ partie quarree ^—you and your husband, myself, and—this little incumbrance. Incumbrance!^^ echoed Mrs. Travena, looking up to 46 KING AKTHUK. Dr. Franklin with a grateful smile—no, an actual laugh. He had never heard her laugh before. And she had much interested him—this little woman—not merely as a woman, but as a case;'’^ one of those cases which most people dis¬ believe in, yet which, though rare, are possible—a “ broken heart.A disease of which, if they have no absolute du¬ ties and are not physically strong, women can die, without murmur or regret. They neither struggle nor complain; but simply drop out of life as out of a worn garment no longer worth the wearing. No fear of that now for Susannah. Her whole nature seemed changed. Hope seemed to have come into her heart —the hope that comes with young life, rising up to renew and carry on the life which had seemed fading away. Her very face grew youthful; with a look not unlike some of EaphaeFs Madonnas; far away, as if peering into the dim future; and yet content in the present—the small limited present, from day to day, and hour to hour, as mothers learn to look. For she was a mother now to all intents and purposes. She kept saying to herself involuntarily that line of Mrs. Browning^s lovely poem, A chikFs grave at Florence— My little feet, my little hands. And hair of Lily’s color.” As she almost persuaded herself it was; that the hair— quite wonderful for a baby a week old, which she admired and toyed with, was exactly the same shade as that on tlie nameless little head which had been buried, one sad mid¬ night, in a corner of the church-yard by the vicarage gar¬ den-gate. Often it really seemed to her that her lost child had come back alive, bringing with him the future of bliss to which she had looked forward, all through those mysterious months—and then had to renounce forever. It revived again now. Every time she kissed the crumpled-up mot- KING AKTHUK. 47 \ \ tled\face—which had no beauty for any one hut her—she saw in imagination the face of her son, as boy, youth, man; carrying her forward five, ten, twenty years—years full of hope; does not some poet call a child a perpetual hope?^'’ Think what our new home will be—a house with a child in itr"’"’ she said to her husband once; only once, for her happiness lay too deep to be talked about, even to him. Nor could he have understood it. He was not of an imaginative turn of mind. So that nothing troubled him in the present—and his wife took good care of that—he never troubled himself about the future. Like many another contented bookworm, he rarely saw an inch beyond his own nose. Yet he was the most patient and easily satis¬ fied of men, even to remaining a day or two longer at An- dermatt; and going about with Dr. Franklin instead of his wife, whose new-found duties, added to the ordinary travel¬ ing cares, which always fell upon her, not him, absorbed her entirely. But at last the two men, coming home from a quiet wander through the flowery meadows beside the Reuss, and an investigation, chiefly to kill time, of the little chapel, with its strange glass tomb of the mummied knight lying ‘^in his habit as he lived —found Mrs. Trevena sitting, oblivious of Alps and antiquities, with her baby asleep on her lap, and everything settled for their departure to-mor¬ row. ‘‘ It will soon seem all like a dream,’^ she said, as she cast her eyes absently on the wonderful view from the win¬ dow—the great circle of mountains, the georgeously col¬ ored pastures, and the wild rapid Reuss glittering in the sun. ‘‘We are nev^er likely to see this place again; but I think I shall always remember it—the place where my boy was born. “ And born again—if one may say it without irrever¬ ence,^"’added Dr. Franklin, “otherwise he had better be 48 KIKG AETHUE. dead—as he certainly would have been now, except for you. By the bye, you will have to give the young scamp a name—and the sooner you do it the better. Get him christened, and keep a copy of the baptismal certificate. It may be useful yet. And I think you might as well make me his godfather, because I at least know when and where he was born. It will be a certain protection both to him and to you.-’^ ‘‘ Thank you!^^ said Mrs. Trevena gratefully—but she smiled at the idea of her child^s needing “ protection —or she either. With him in her arms she felt as strong, as fearless, as any natural mother—even beast or bird does, with the instinct of maternity upon her. Dr. Franklin stuck to his point, insisting that a baptis¬ mal certificate was the nearest approach they could make to giving the child “ a local habitation and a name in this perplexing worl^, the godparents attesting the place and date of birth, though they could only add ‘‘*parentage unknown. “ And then you must take your chance as to the future, and this poor little fellow also; unless you will come with me to America, where, in our enlightened States, you can lawfully adopt him. But that would be of no use in England, you said, and England must be our home. Yes, we must take our chance,^^ she added, with an under-tone that implied one who meant to control chance, rather than succumb to it. “ And now, about the name—the Christian name. For surname, he will take ours—shall he not, Austinr^^ “ Anything you like—anything you like, my dear.'’^ “ Yes, I think you are right, Mrs. Trevena. Poor little man, his name matters little. He will have to go through life as nobody^s child. “ Except God^s—and mine. And Susannah pressed her lips, as solemnly as if it had been a sacrament or a vow, on the tiny hand with its KIKG AETHUR. 49 curled-up fingers; the feeble right hand, so helpless now— but would it be always so? Dr. Franklin smiled, kindly, paternally, on the creature whose life he had helped to save; why, or to what end, who could tell? All child-lives are a mystery, but this was a mystery above all. The little thing lay sleeping in uncon¬ scious peace on its adopted mother^s lap: the infant who would be a man when they were in their graves. But the two men did not understand. The woman did. Mrs. Trevena at last looked up. A twihght glow reflected from the mountains was on her face; and an inward glow, which made her almost pretty again—almost young. ‘‘I have thought of a name. We are Cornish born, as I told you. Doctor Franklin. When I was a girl, my one hero was our great Cornishman, who was also ‘ Nobody^s child —^found by Merlin, they say, as a little naked baby on the shore at Tintagel, but he grew up to be the stainless knight—the brave soldier—the Christian king. My boy shall do the same—in his own way. It does not matter how he was born, if he lives so that everybody will mourn him when he dies. So he shall have my heroes name. He shall be my ‘ King ^ Arthur.'’^ “ You romantic Httle woman!” said her husband, half apologetically, half proudly. But he listened to her, as he always did; and her decision carried the day. Next morning, when the sun had just risen above the mountains, and was only beginning to warm the silent valley, the little party left Andermatt; Mr. and Mrs. Trevena, Dr. Franklin, and the ‘‘incumbrance,^^ as the doctor called it, but who slept so calmly as to be no incum¬ brance at all. It was evidently an infant of placid mind, able to accommodate itself to circumstances. They were followed by the benedictions and good wishes of madame and the hotel people, who could not, to the last, imderstand the affair, but set it all down to English eccen- 50 KIKG AETHUR. tricity. They departed, and the little remote Alpine Val¬ ley, which had witnessed so mnch, knew them no more. CHAPTER III. Arthur Frahklih Teeyeha— for they had given him also the name of his good godfather, who parted from him at Lucerne, never probably to behold him again—King Arthur arrived at the vicarage which his adopted parents, creating no small sensation in the parish which they had left, a forlorn and childless couple, six months before. But the villagers were simple folks, who accepted the baby upon his “ mother’s own simple statement. Mrs. Trevena was among the few people who have courage to believe that the plain truth is not only the wisest but the safest thing—that he was a deserted child, whom she had taken for her own, and meant to bring up exactly as her own. And those other mothers who remembered her sad looks when she went away, and compared them with her happy looks now, agreed that “ the parson^s wife had done right and best, not only for herself, but most likely for “ the parson also. The only individual who ventured to question this, or in any way to criticise the proceeding, was a neighboring clergyman, a college friend, who in Mr. Trevena’s absence had undertaken the care of the hundred souls his parish contained. This gentleman, a man of fortune and family, remonstrated, in a letter of sixteen pages, with his “ rever¬ end brother on what he had done, in bringing a nameless child, possibly the offspring of sin and shame, into a re¬ spectable and, above all, a clergyman's household. He quoted many texts, such as the sins of the fathers shall be visited on the-children,^^ and “ the seed of evil-doers shall never be renowned,^^ which for a moment staggered the simple-minded vicar. And he ended by asking, What KING ARTHUK. 51 would the Trevenas say?'’ ^—^forgetting that the only Trevena left was Hal at the Antipodes, of whom even his old college acquaintance would have owned, if questioned, that the less said about him the better. But, except this lengthy epistle, which Mr. Trevena read in silence, and passed on to Mrs. Trevena, by whose gleam¬ ing eyes he saw that the silence had better be continued, for there was a dangerous light in them that few men would have cared to face—the couple met with no opposi¬ tion or comment on what they had done or what they meant to do. The nine days'’ wonder settled down; and after the village mothers had come to looK at the baby, and pro¬ nounced it the finest baby, that ever was seen, everybody seemed to take the matter as quite natural. Poor people are often so'kind, sometimes so romantically generous, about other people^s children: many a nursing mother will not scruple to take to her home and her breast some motherless babe; and many a nameless infant, paid for at first, and then forsaken, has been brought up for charity by its foster- parents. So the fact of an adopted child did not strike these innocent villagers as anything remarkable. They only thought it was uncommon kind^^ of Mrs. Trevena, and hoped she would be rewarded for her ‘‘ charity.'’'’ Charity! She laughed at the word. Charity had noth¬ ing at all to do with it. A child in the house—it was a joy incarnate—a blessing unspeakable—a consolation without end. She did her duties, neither light nor few, but through them all she hugged herself in her secret bliss. She used to think of it as she walked—as she chatted to her neighbors —and (oh, sinful Susannah!) often as she sat in church. ‘‘‘My little feet—my little hands.When she came back to them, when she-ran upstairs to the small attic—small but sunshiny—where Manette and Arthur were installed, and taking the baby, sat, rocking him and singing to him in the old-fashioned rocking-chair which had been her mother^s, every care she had—and she had some, a few 5^ KING AKTHUf^. mole-hills that many another woman would have made in. i mountains—seemed to melt away. That morbid self-con¬ templation, if not actual selfishness, which is so apt to grow upon old maids and childless wives-—upon almost all women who have arrived at middle age without knowing the “baby-fingers, waxen touches,’^ which press ail bitterness out of the mother’s breast—vanished into thin air. It could not exist amidst the wholesome practicality of nursery- life; a nursery where the mother is a real mother, and sees to everything herself, as was necessary in this case. For Manette, the young Swiss orphan whom they had found at Lucerne and installed as nurse, was a mere girl, who spoke no English, though she soon taught her mistress to speak French. They two became very happy together, guarding with mutual care, and sometimes just a spice of jealousy, the little warm white bundle which contained a sentient human being—or what would be one day—Manette’s pet and plaything, Mrs. Trevena’s “ perpetual hope. ” Had she been a disappointed woman? Perhaps; in some sense all women of imaginative temperament are. The}^ start in‘life expecting the impossible, which of course never comes; and at last find themselves growing old with their hearts still painfully young~it may be, a little empty; for not even the best of men and husbands can altogether fill the void which Nature makes; even as no woman can fill, or ought to fill, that sterner half of a man’s being which is meant for the world and its work. But now Susannah’s empty heart was filled—her monoto¬ nous life brightened; the future (she was only just over forty, and had a future still)—stretched out long and fair; for it was not her own—it was her son’s. The evening be¬ fore they left the vicar^e for the new rectory—a sweet September evening—since it had takeii fully three months to make the new home ready to receive them—she went out alone and planted a young tree, a seedling sycamore, which no one was likely to notice till it grew a tree—in the church- \ KIKG AKTHUR. 53 yard corner, where was the little grave of which nobody knew. But she scarcely felt it a farewell. She thought how the fibers would wrap themselves tenderly round the buried bones, and the top would spread itseK out into green leaves and branches. And it seemed as if out of her dead baby’s grave had sprung the other child—another and yet the same—sent direct from Heaven to be her comfort and blessing. Unconsciously she repeated to herself the bene¬ diction of the Psalmist; He shall be like a tree planted by the water-side, that will bring forth his fruit in due season; his leaf also shall not wither; and look! whatsoever he doeth it shall pros¬ per.” “ It will be so,” she said to herself, “ if I have strength to bring him up in the right way, to make him into a just man—‘ a man that feareth the Lord. ’ Then, I need have no fear. ‘ Whatsoever he doeth it shall prosper.’ ” And little Arthur—somehow, from the first, he was always called Arthur, never “ baby ’ ’—did seem to prosper: as much in his new home as in his old one. He had a larger and better nursery, not at the top, but at the end of the house; which was a very pretty house, the prettiest as well as the most comfortable that Susannah had ever lived in. From her youth up she had had to battle with the domestic ugliness that accompanies grinding poverty; to smother down her tastes and predelictions, to live in streets instead vt fields—at least till her marriage. And even marriage had brought little respite in the hard work, the ceaseless cares—inevitable from the necessity of making sixpence do the Avork of a shilling. But now all was changed. She had as much money as she needed—enough even to lay by a little (oh! joyful economy!) for the future education of her son. ‘‘We can not provide for him,” she had said to her hus¬ band, “ but we can give him a good education, and then let him work for himself. It is the best thing for all boys. It 54 KING ARTHUE. miglifc have been better for Hal (she thought, but did not say, perhaps also for HaFs brother) if he had been thrown upon the world without a single halfpennjc^^ So when she saw the pretty rectory nestling under its acacia-tree beside the lovely old church, and knew there was income enough to live there comfortably, she yet de¬ termined to waste nothing: to expend nothing foolishly upon outward show, or in keeping up a position —as the owners of the great house close by were reported to have done for generations. Gonsecuently, the Damerels of the last generation had been too poor to occupy their splendid abode—or even to come back to It—except to be buried. Their vault in the old church was all that remained to them, in spite of their ancient name, and an estate which had belonged to them for centuries. Her boy, Susannah often thought, blossoming day by day into rosy infancy— the darling of his good Manette and his devoted “ mother —was happier than the neir of all the Damerels—a poor idiot, report said, never seen or heard of, whose family home was let, and the property put into Chanceiy, until his fortunate death cleared the way for some distant cousins, ready to fight over the title and estate like dogs over a bone. So much for ‘ family ’—so much for ^ fortune!^ medi¬ tated Mrs. Trevena; and was almost glad that she herself was the last of her race, and that her husband^s only rela¬ tion was Hal^—safe away in Australia. “You will start in life all free, my darling—as free as if you had dropped from heaven in a basket. You will stand on your own feet, and make your own way in the world, with nobody to hamper you, and torment you—exce23t your mother!’^ And she kissed with a passion of tenderness the baby eyes, which had already begun to develop intelligence, and the sweet baby mouth, so smiling and content; for Arthur, like most healthy and carefully reared children, was an ex¬ ceedingly “ good child—who gave little trouble to any one. Before the winter was over he had learned to know KING ARTHUK. 55 his mother^s step and voice, to laugh when she entered the nursery and to cry when she left it. Soon, if brought face to face with a stranger, he would turn away, clasp his little fat arms tight round her neck and hide his face on her shoulder, as if recognizing already that she was no stranger, but his natural protector, refuge, and consolation ■—his mother, in short, and everything that a mother ought ' to be. For his father—well! young infants scarcely need one; and certainly the father does not need them—often quite the contrary. But it rather pleased Mr. Trevena to be called ‘‘ papa —as they decided he should be; and now and then, when he met Manette walking in the garden with Arthur in her arms, he would stop her, and, stroking with one finger the rosy cheek, remark that it was “ a very nice baby.^^ But he did not investigate or interfere further. Even had it been his own child, he probably would have done no more. A baby was to him a curious natural phe¬ nomenon, which he regarded with ignorant but benevolent eyes, much as he did the chickens in his farm-yard, or the little pigs in his sty; but taking no individual interest in them whatever. Not until the spring had begun and the leaves were budding and the primroses springing about Tawton Magna, making it truly what it was said to be, the prettiest rectory in all Cornwall—did Manette report that “ Monsieur had actually kissed “ ie bede ^^—that it had crowed to him and pulled ins hair, and altogether conduct¬ ed itself with an intelligence, and energy worthy of nine or even ten months old. “ Is it really nearly a year since we were in Switzerland?^^ said Mr. Trevena to his wiife, as she joined him at the gate; she always went his parish round with him, and did everything for him, exactly as before the coming of little Arthur; only her many solitary hours were solitary now no more. But to her husband everything was made so perfectly the same that he often forgot the very existence of the baby* 56 KING ARTHUE. Arthur—that is his name, I think—really does credit to you, my dear—and the rectory too. It must be a very healthy house, for I never saw you look so well.’’^ She smiled. They loved one another very dearly—^those two; old as they were—and different in many ways. But difference of character does not prevent affection—rather increases it sometimes. “ All the village tells me what a fine child Arthur is— the first child, by the bye, that has been in the rectory for fifty years. My predecessor, as you know, was an old bach¬ elor. Everybody is delighted to have a lady in the village. You and your boy bid fair to be the pets of the parish, Su¬ sannah, my dear.-’^ Which was true—and not unnatural. For her motherly heart, warmed through and through with the sunshine of happiness, opened not only to her own, but to every child she came near; to every poor soul, old or young, that want¬ ed happiness and had it not. Everybody liked her—every¬ body praised her; and husbands are always proud to have their wives liked and praised. The rector was very proud of his Susannah. They strolled peacefully together through the village, ad¬ ministering ghostly counsel and advice; together with creatm’e comforts which Mrs. Tevena held to be equally desirable. She was a capital clergyman's wife—she liked to mother everybody. As usual, their walk ended in the church, which was open for its Saturday cleaning. It was a curious old build¬ ing—very tumble-down,'’^ the parish thought, but was happily too poor to have it ‘‘ restored;’’ so it remained for the delight of archaeologists, and especially of Mr. Trevena. He never wearied of examining the brasses, the old monu¬ ments, the huge worm-eaten, curiously carved pews; and especially “ the squire’s pew,” as large as a small parlor, where the last Damerels, the baronet and his lady, had been accustomed to sit in two huge arm-chairs over the KING ARTHUR. 57 bones of their ancestors. Their own bones were now added to the rest; and the tablet describing their virtues, with a weeping angel on each side, took its place with the recum¬ bent crusader, and the well-ruffled Elizabethan knight, with his kneeling progeny behind him. “ What a splendid old family they must have been! Prob¬ ably Norman—D^’Amiral corrupted into Damerel. AhP^ —and he laid a caressing hand on the head of the noseless and footless crusader—“ it is a great thing to come of a good race, and to bear an honorable name.'’^ Is it?’^ said Susannah quietly, and thought of the poor half-witted boy—the heir whom her neighbors had told her of, and then of her own boy—her nameless baby—full of health and strength and intelligence, yet without a tie in the wide world. Only he was, as she had once said, God^s child —and hers. He had been hers for nearly two years. She had almost forgotten—and everybody else too—that he was not really her own; even the rector himself was taking kindly to his paternity, accepting it as he did the other good things which had dropped into his mouth without liis seeking— when something happened which, for -the time being, shook the happy little household to its very foundations. Mrs. Trevena, one bright June day, had put on her bon¬ net to go and meet her child, who had been “ kidnapped as they called it—by the large kindly plebeian family, one of the many nouveaux riches that conveniently step into the shoes of aristocratic poverty, who inhabited Tawton Ab¬ bas. She was passing through the church-yard into the park, idly thinking how beautiful it was, how bright her life here had grown, and what had she done to deserve it all—when she came suddenly face to face with a strange gentleman, who was apparently wandering about, trying to find his way to the rectory. He was well-dressed and well-looking; but he seemed less like an ordinary visitor than a prowler. Also, though rather a handsome man. 58 KIKG ARTHtlR. there was something sinister in his face; he was one of those people who never look you straight in the eyes. He stood aside as the lady passed, with a half-bow, which she acknowledged. But the instant she had passed a vague terror seized Susannah—the one little cloud which secretly hung over her entire felicity—the fear that her treasure might be grudged her, or snatched from her, by the woman who had thrown it away? She had taken every precaution to leave beliind at Andermatt no possible clew; even ma- dame at the hotel, though she knew the names Trevena and Franklin, knew no further address than England and “ America.'’^ Often when she looked at her bright, beautiful boy, a spasm of fear came over her, so that she could hardly bear to let him out of her sight. This dread took hold of her now. What if the stranger were an emissary from Arthur^s unknown mother—or his father—the “ fool of a husband —whom she had so de¬ spised? At the bare idea Mrs. Trevena^s heart almost stopped beating. But it was not her way to fly from an evil; she preferred to meet it—and at once. She turned back and spoke. ‘^You seem a stranger here. Can I do anything for you?^^ Thank you—yes, I suppose I am a stranger. I have not been in England for some years. A likeness in the tones of the voice—^family voices often resemble one another like family faces—startled Susannah, and yet relieved her. She was almost prepared for the “ stranger^s next words. “ I am told that this is the village of Tawton Magna, and the Eeverend Austin Trevena is rector here?^^ ‘‘Yes.^^ ‘‘ Then would you kindly direct me to the rectory? am Captain Trevena, his brother. ” Hal, of whom they had heard nothing since the letter re¬ ceived at Andermatt—Hal come back from Australia! It KING AKTHUK. 59 was a great blow, and might involve much perplexity; but it could not strike her to the heart, as the other blow would have done, had the stranger been some one coming to claim her child. After a momentary start Susannah was herself again. Now, it so happened that since his boyhood she had never seen her brother-in-law; who evidently did not remember her at all. At first she thought she would accept this non¬ recognition and pass on; but it seemed cowardly. And be¬ sides she would soon have to face liim; for whatever his sudden appearance might bode, she was quite sure it boded no good. HaFs fraternal affection always lay dormant-— unless he wanted something. So, looking him straight in the eyes, but putting out no hand of welcome, she said, briefiy, ‘‘ I am Mrs. Trevena. That is the gate of the rectory,and walked on toward Tawton Abbas. In most families there is one black sheep—happy if only one! for the well-being of the whole family depends upon its treatment of the same, treatment wise or unwise, as may happen. Tew black sheep are wholly black; and some may, with care and prudence, be kept a decent gray; but to make believe they are snow-white, and allow them to run among the harmless fiock, smirching every one they come near, is a terrible mistake. Perhaps Susannah some¬ times recognized, with as much bitterness as her sweet nature could feel, that this mistake had all through life been made by her husband. She knew Austin was at home, and thought it best the brothers should meet—since they must meet—quite alone; while she gathered up all her courage, all her common sense, to face the position. Captain Trevena—as he called himself, having been in the militia once, till he was turned out—^had ngt attempted to follow her. Perhaps he was afraid of her; or thought he had good need to be; which was true. 60 KIliTG AETHUR. A kind of superstitious halo has been thrown round the heads of prodigal sons—doubtless originating in the divine parable, or the human corruption of it. Only people for¬ get how that prodigal son, saying, I will arise, really does arise, leaving behind him his riotous living, his husks and his swine. He goes to his father, humbled and poor, and his father welcomes and loves him. But most prodigal sons bring their husks and their swine with them, nor ever condescend to-say, “ I have sinned."’^ They appear, as Hal Trevena did, as he had always been in the habit of doing—• neither hungry nor naked, but quite cheerful and comfort¬ able. They may cry ‘‘ Peccavi,^^ but it never occurs to them to forsake their sins, or to feel any more penitence than is picturesque and convenient to show. This had been Halbert Trevena^s character for the last forty years; and Susannah, suddenly meeting him after a long interval, and judging him by feminine instinct, as well as by the bitter experience of the past, did not think he was likely to be altered now. She walked rapidly on through the pleasant, solitary park, both to calm her mind, and to consider how she was to face this emergency; which on the outside appeared nothing more than the meeting—supposed a welcome meet¬ ing—^between long separated brothers. But, underneath— she knew, only too well, what it implied. And not the least of the difficulties was her good, tender-hearted hus¬ band, who, absorbed in his books, never looked ahead for a single week, and whose own nature was so sweet and simple, that he could not imagine the contrary in any human being. Susannah hastened on with quick i roubled steps, till she saw Manette and little Arthur coming down the path. “ Mammy,‘«nammy!'’^—he could just say that word now, and oh, what a thrill had gone through her heart when she first heard it! Stretching out eager arms, .he tried to struggle out of his perambulator and get to her—Up, up! in mammy's arms!" KIISTG ARTHUR. 61 She took him up and clasped him tight—her one bless¬ ing that was all her own. More so perhaps than if he had been really her own, and had to call Hal Trevena “ Uncle. As the thought smote her, involuntarily she said “ Thank God. But the clinging of his baby arms, the kiss of his baby mouth, melted the bitterness out of her heart; after a few minutes she felt herself able to return to the house, and meet whatever was required to be met there. The sooner the better, for who could tell what might be happening in her absence? She found the two brothers sitting, together in the study, looking as comfortable as if they had parted only yesterday. At least Hal did; but Austin had a troubled air, which he tried to hide under an exaggeration of ease. When his wife opened the door he looked up with great relief. My dear, this is. Hal, from Australia. You must re¬ member Hal, though it is so many ears since you saw him.^^ Twenty-four years. But half an hour age he asked me to direct him to the rectory. He was not aware, I think, that he was speaking to the mistress of the house. And she sat down, still without offering her hand, as if to make clear that she was the mistress of the house, and had determined to assert her position. Captian Trevena was a shrewd man, a good deal shrewder and more quick-sighted than his brother; he too saw his position, and recognized that things might not go (|uite so easily with him as when the Eeverend Austin was a bachelor. Still he smiled and bowed in bland politeness: “ I am delighted to come to my brother’s home, and see it adorned with a wife. I only wish I had brought mine here. Mrs. Trevena (excuse me, but as the eldest son’s wife she has. the first right) is a very handsome person, and our eldest son, the heir to the Trevena name, takes after her. I should have liked you to see them, Austin; but. 62 KIKG ARTHUK. considering all things, I thought it best to leave them both in Australia for the present/^ Of course—of course/^ said Mr. Trevena. Mrs. Trevena said nothing. If tor a second a natural pang smote her heart, it was healed immediately. Tor, through the window she could see a pretty vision of Manette^s blue gown, witli two little fat legs trotting after it along the gravel path. She turned round, smiling—she could afford to smile. “ I am glad you are happy in your wife and son. But why leave them? What call had you to England?^^ “ To see my brother—was it not natural? An old ‘ Times fell into my hands, in which I read what (of course by some mistake) he had never told me—the pres¬ entation of the Eeverend Austin Trevena to the living of Tawton Magna—value—I forget how much. So I thought I would come, just to—to congratulate him.^^ “ A long journey for so small an object. And having accomplished it, I suppose you will return ?^^ If my brother wishes it, and if he will give me a little brotherly help.'’^ “ I thought so.'’^ Brief as this conversation was, it showed to both the brother and sister-in-law exactly where they stood. The big, hearty, well-dressed man looked across at the homely little woman, and felt that times were changed; it was war to tbe knife between them, and could not be otherwise. Had he come like the proverbial prodigal, in rags and repentance, Susannah^s heart might have melted. She might have killed the fatted calf, even though fearing it was in vain: she might have put the ring on his finger, tliough with a strong suspicion that he would pawn it the very next day. But now, when he came, fat and well¬ liking, yet with tlie same never-ending cry, like the daughters of the horse-leech, “ Give, giveT^ she felt her¬ self nardening into stone. KING ARTHUR. 63 “ I am sorry, but your brotlier^s income, of which you have evidently known the extent, is absorbed by his own family and his parish. He has for years supplied you with so much that he can not possibly d.o any more. He ought not. ^ Ho, Hal,^^ said the rector, gathering a little courage, and taking Susannah^s hand as she sat beside him, indeed, I ought not. You know I was telling you this before my wife came into the room.^^ ‘‘ My husband is right,^^ said Susannah firmly. There¬ fore, Captain Trevena, all I can offer you is a night^s hos¬ pitality. After that we had better part.^^ “ My dear sister, why?’^ “ A man with a wife and child has no business to leave them and go wandering about the world, even for the very desirable purpose of begging money from his relations. He had better stay at home and work. “ A gentleman work!^"’ Hal laughed; that easy, good- natured laugh which made people think him to charming. My dear lady, it is out of the nature of things—you caiiT expect it. I never did work—I never shall. I believe you. The only thing he could say, Susannah might have added, that she did believe. He was such a confirmed liar that she began to think even the wife and child might be mythical creations, invented in order to play upon Austin ^s feelings. “ Hor,^^ he continued lightly, ‘‘ is there any special rea¬ son why I should work. My wife is an heiress—her father made his fortune at the gold-diggings. The old fellow dotes upon her—even more than upon me. He likes to keep her all to himself, and so makes it easy for me to run away and amuse myself.^'’ “ How comes it then that you want money?’^ My dear Miss Hyde (beg pardon, but I heard of you as Susannah Hyde for so many ears that I almost forget you are anything else now), a gentleman always wants money. 64 KING AKTHUR. But it is only a temporary inconvenience. I sliall be delighted to repay Austin every farthing—with interest too, if he wishes it—as soon as ever I get back to Australia. “ And when will that be?’"’ “ Cela depend. By the bye, there is a pi^tty young tonne upon whom I was airing my French an hour ago in the road. I see her now in your garden with her ‘ tehed. Whose child is thatr'^^ ‘‘ Mine/’ said Susannah firmly. Yours? I thought Austin told me he had no children.” Nor have we. This is our adopted child. We found him, and we mean to keep him and bring him up as our son. ” And heir? To inherit all you possess?” “ What little there is left—certainly. ” ‘‘ As Susannah spoke—slowly and resolutely—y, who shortly after also came home for the holidays. The ‘‘last of the Trevenas/^ as her uncle sometimes pathetically called her^ was, Mrs. T revena thought, very inferior to her own Arthur. IN'anny was a good little girl; but she was prim and quiet, taciturn and plain. She could not compare at all with the big school-boy—^full of life, health, and activity. Not that Arthur was ever unkind to her; but he just ignored her, as school-boys do ignore little girls, unless specially attractive. He tried to be civil and jDolite—^brought her flowers and condescendingly took her a walk now and then; but he told his mother confidentially that “Nanny was a big baby^^—and escaped from her society whenever he politely could. At which poor Nanny used to look so miserable, that Mrs. Trevena considered seriously whether it would not be better in future to ar¬ range the child ^s home-coming at a different time from Arthur^ s. But next year Fate took the decision out of her hands; for Miss Grogan had a severe illness, and Nanny, with a resolution which her uncle and aunt had not exj)ected in so small a child, absolutely refused to leave her. “ Nanny always was a devoted little creature, said Mrs. Trevena, remembering those few days in the sick-room— the room of death. But still she was not sorry to have her boy all to herself for those brief, too brief holiday weeks; when she could watch him growing up to manhood—the delight of her heart—the desire of her eyes. He was in truth a very fine young fellow. At sixteen he was little short of six feet high. Slender and supple as a willow-wand, yet not lanky; very muscular and strong for his age. He was good at all athletic sports, and made as much use of his body as he did of his brains. His mother'’s maxim, “ Better to wear out than rust out,^^ seemed ex¬ emplified in “ King Arthur—though he did not seem likely to Wear out for the next threescore years at least; for 118 klHU ARTHUH tlie wliolesonie upbringing of liis childhood had resulted in a healthy youth, and bade fair to develop into a splendid manhood. Often when she looked at him, she wondered whence all this came—this wealth of physical and mental power; much as Merlin must have wondered, when he saw grow up under his eyes the “ little naked child;” naked of every hereditary blessing; owing fortune nothing^—not even a name. The hoys always call you Trevena?” she once said to him, anxiously. ‘‘ They—they ask no questions?” Arthur blushed, as he had done more than once lately when strangers made unconscious ignorant remarks; such as noticing his height, and saying he ‘ ‘ took after his papa. ” They did chaff me at first, mother—just a little. And one fellow called me Nemo—but I thrashed him to within an inch of his life. And then I told the other fellows the plain truth about myself, as you advised me. Nobody ever said an ill word to me afterward. ” So, already had begun for Arthur that battle with the world, from which his mother coidd not defend him—she could only give him strength for the conflict. “ That was well,” she answered, gently. Indeed, I thinK: only a ‘ sneak ^ or a ‘ cad, ^ as you call them, would have been unkind to you. A name and even a family are not worth much sometimes—were not to jDOor little Sir Eustace Damerel, who died last Christmas. We shall see what the new Damerels will be like. They came to Taw- ton Abbas last week, and will likely be at church next Sunday. ” Thus said she, to turn away her boy’s thoughts from himself. But she need not have feared—Arthur’s nature was too wholesome, and his youth too full of hope and brightness, to have any morbid or sentimental feelings about either his origin or his future lot. ^ And Winchester had not made him oblivious of Tawton Magna. He took KING AKTHUK. 119 the vividest interest in hearing about the Damerels—Sir Charles and his lady; who had Inherited the title and es¬ tates, and come to reside at the great house—^which, being the only house except f 9 ;rm-houses for miles round, was a matter of some importance to the rectory. Do yon mean to call there, mother? You ought,^^ said Arthur—who was a little given to laying down the law—as is not uncommon at sixteen. ‘‘ Are they young folks or old? Have they got any children?'’^ “ I believe they are rather elderly people; distant cousins, whom nobody ever heard about till lately. And I think, but I am not sure—they have no children. At which Arthur ^s interest died down—^he said he didnH care for “ old fogies.'’^ And next Sunday he scarcely glanced in the direction of the Tawton Abbas pew, where, in the two arm-chairs which had stood there for genera¬ tions back, sat the new Baronet and Lady Damerel. They sat, with dead Damerels underfoot and monuments to the same overhead—the last representatives of the race. Only their two selves; though report declared they had had several children—all dead now. Susannah wondered how a childless couple should ever have cared to claim either title or property. Of course they were stared at eagerly by the whole con¬ gregation. A curious pair—she, a fine-looking, fashionable woman, with a complexion much too fair and hair much too dark for her age; but the simple villagers suspected nothing, and set her down as being younger than her hus¬ band, who was a feeble-lookmg, melancholy little man, nigh upon seventy. Two footmen had helped him into church, and set him in his chair, whence he never moved, for his feet and hands were all knotted and distorted with rheumatism. But he had a mild and not un]pleasing face— aristocratic—aquiline—‘‘as big a nose as mine,Arthur said, in commenting upon them after church. “ But, oh) I wouldnT be Sir Charles Damerel for the worldB' 120 KIKG AETHUR. “ Nor I Lady Damerel/^ said Mrs. Trevena. Poor woman—what an unhappy face! No wonder, if she has lost all her children. And Susannah almost regretted having stopped to speak to them at the church door, introducing herself as the rector’s wife, and Arthur as my son.” How she must envy me!” thought the tender-hearted soul, and blamed herself for flaunting before the childless woman her own superior bliss. ‘‘ I don’t think Lady Damerel’s children could have been very fond of her,” remarked Arthur sententiously. “ She may be good-looking, but she has the hardest and most un¬ pleasant face I ever saw. My little mammy is worth a hundred of her,” added he, putting his arm round his mother’s waist as of old; he was now growing past the age when boys are ashamed of their mothers, and he petted and patronized her to her heart’s content. Still, he was too much of the school-boy to care to go about visiting,” and absolutely declined—unless she par¬ ticularly wished it—to accompany her to Tawton Abbas, or make acquaintance with that horrid old couple;” over whom she had such unnecessary compassion that even the rector smiled. ‘^My dear Susannah, I can’t see that Lady Damerel needs the least pity—or desires it. I hear she is a most. accomplished woman; will fill the house with brilliant society, and be popular ever 3 rwhere. The rector’s wife will be nobody—the squire’s wife will take the shine out of you completely. ” I'd like to see it!” cried Arthur, blazing up; ^H’d like to find the lady w^ho was fit to hold a candle to my mother!’ ’ he continued, dragging forward the easiest arm-chair and putting her into it, and waiting upon her unremittingly during their pleasant Sunday supper, when all the servants were out and Arthur did everything. He had. that happy knack of true gentlemanhood, never to be ashamed of doing • « 1 - KING AKTHXJK. I2l everything—or anything: always ready to notice every one^s need, and supply it—especially his mother’s. ‘‘You are my eyes, my hands, and my feet,” she some¬ times said to the boy; and gave herself up, more and more every holidays, to the delight of being dependent—of lean¬ ing on her big son, with a sort of triumphant weakness that was utmost joy. But he was an obstinate young monkey for all his good qualities; possessmg strongly the violent likes and dislikes of youth. And so it happened that for two whole years he never crossed the threshold of Tawton Abbas. bTor did the rector and his wife very often—not oftener than politeness and their position demanded. Susannah had few interests in common with the fashionable woman of the world, who was afraid of growing old, and who seemed to have no youth to remember; at least she never mentioned it. Austin, too, had little sympathy with Sir Charles, who, though gentle and gentlemanly, did not seem to have two ideas in his head—read no books, took no special interest in anything, and seemed mortally in fear of his clever wife. She on her part noticed him very little, and led a regular society-life—at least as gay a one as she could accomplish—going to London whenever she could, and bringing London people down With her on every possi¬ ble occasion. But she mixed very little with the neighbor¬ ing families, who, being unable to discover her antecedents (Sir Charles’s, of course, were patent-s-he was a Damerel and that was enough), concluded there was “ something odd ” about her. Perhaps, as she had some slight accent not quite English, and spoke several continental tongues, she was a foreigner—never much approved of in provincial society. Still, she was very handsome—very lady-like; all the gentlemen admired her, but the ladies thought her not domestic,” and wondered that at her age she should care for concerts, private theatricals, and the like. However, to their opinion of her Lady Damerel seemed 122 KIKG ARTHtJXi. wholly indifferent. « She gave a tenants’ ball at Christmas, and a garden-party, to all classes not lower than doctors and lawyers, every summer. But beyond that the village and the rectory saw almost nothing of her, except at church, which she attended regularly, and where Mrs. Trevena, tender-hearted still, ofter compassionated the dis¬ contented look and restless manner of the rich, clever, prosperous woman, who had neither son nor daughter—not even niece or ne^diew—at her empty fireside. . How very empty it must be when the visitors go, and Sir Charles and she are left alone,” Susannah said one day. ‘‘ I think I will really pluck u|) heart; go and call at Taw- ton Abbas, and take Nanny with me. ” Nanny happened to be staying for a fortnight at the rectory, and her uncle and aunt had found her so harmless, even pleasant in the house, that they had kept her for a month. But the call resulted in nothing—-not even an invitation to tea for the quiet unimpressive little maiden, who was stared at from the piercing black eyes, through a double pince~7iez. Miss Trevena—did you say? Your daughter, I con¬ clude?” My niece; I have no daughter. It is my son you see at church. Lady Damerel.” “ Oh yes, I remember now. A tall young fellow—rather good-looking. You must bring him to see me some day. But we have no young peo23le here. Miss Trevena. Your mother—I mean your aunt—is more fortunate than I. All my children are dead. ” She said this, not with any tone of regret, but simply as stating a fact; then proceeded to discuss a new book and a new opera; talking miles above the head of poor innocent Nanny, who thought that Cousin Arthur—whom she seemed to miss extremely from the rectory in spite of his ignoring of her—w^as right in considering Lady Damerel the finest of fine ladies, and the most unpleasant. Nanny was now getting old enough for her future to re- KIKG ARTHUK. 123 quire consideration. I^'ot from her imcle^ who never looked a day ahead: but she and her aunt sometimes talked it over. Nanny was an independent little soul. She knev7 she had not a penny in the world; except the value of that diamond ring; nor a friend, save Miss Grogan, wdio was growing old and frail. Perhaps her mother’s sore experi¬ ence still lingered in her little soul—for she was not a bit of a Trevena, nor seemed much drawn to the Trevenas. She said calmly, “ I shall be a governess;” and though very grateful to her uncle for all his goodness, made it clear enough that as soon as she could earn her own bread, she w^ould never eat the bread of dependence. Her aunt saw, not without thankfulness, that PlalbertTrevena’s daughter was, as often happens, the very opposite of himself. But though she was very kind to Nanny, and liked her sincerely, she scarcely loved her—one can not make one’s self love even a child. And -then all her heart was bound up in her own boy. When Nanny went away, and Arthur came home for the holidays, Susannah felt the difference. “ King ” Arthur was much altered—much improved. He was in his last year at Winchester, and looked quite the young man. There had never been much of the hobble¬ dehoy ” in him, probably because he was not shy—he did not think enough about himself for sh 3 mess. Eeserved he was, in a sense; but that painful bashfulness, which as often springs from egotism as modest}^, never troubled him much. By nature—and also by wise upbringing—he was a complete altruist—alw^ays interested in other people, and “ bothering ” himself very little about himself and his own affairs. But just now he could hardly hel]3 it. He had come*' home greatly excited by an incident—a coincidence such as iiappens in real life oftener than we think, and yet when put into books everybody cries out, “ How unnatural!” One day a little “ commoner ” he knew was visited by a Jiitlaei-to unknown grandfather, whom all the boys were KING AKTHUK. inclined to laugh at, for his strong American accent and queer American ways, till they found out what a kindly old fellow he was, and what funny stories he told. He tipped us all round and asked our names,and when he heard mine, he started as if I^’d hit him. Who do you think he was mother? Guess now—guess?^^ It needed no guessing. ‘‘ Doctor Franklin! I am so glad he is alive. ‘‘ Very much alive, indeed!’^ cried Arthur. “ He^s as sharp and clever as ever he can he; and so kind—all the fellows liked him, though he was a foreigner and an Ameri¬ can. Fm not a bit ashamed of my godfather; and I like him very much. “ You have need to,^^ said Susannah gravely. And when a few days after Dr. Franklin appeared at the rectory as large as life and twice as natural,^’’ said he, with his queer internal chuckle), the welcome he received was al¬ most pathetic in its earnestness. When Susannah sat talk¬ ing to him, and found him scarcely changed—as gaunt and lanky, quaint and kind, as ever—it seemed as if eighteen years were rolled away like a cloud, and she were once more the woman who sat beneath the snow-wall above An- dermatt—gazing on the snow-mountains, and trying not to be broken-hearted, but to accept God^s will, whatever it was, and make for herself a happy life—unconscious how even then that Holy Will was preparing for her a happi¬ ness she never dreamed of. Look at him,'^ she said, as Arthur just then crossed the lav/n with his two big dogs, ’v\Fistling to them, and then breaking out into a stave of “ Dulce domum,^^ in a voice which promised to be a fine tenor some day. “ Who would have thought my baby—^your baby, doctor, you saved him for me!—would have grown up to that!^'’ It^s a trick they have, ma'^am. My ten are all men and women now—uncommonly good-looking too, some of them, ” KING ARTHUR 125 And then he explained that his eldest daughter—‘‘ fine girl—very fine—took after her mother, not me —had mar¬ ried a rich English baronet, v/hich accounted for the fact of himself being grandfather to a Winchester boy. Your boy might be a baroneEs son too, ma^am, if there^s anything m blood. Mrs. Franklin says there isn^t; that it’s all upbringing. But in that case even, Arthur does you the greatest credit.” Thank you,” said Susannah; and then tacitly follow¬ ing the young fellow—for it seemed such a pleasure to look at him—they passed through the church-yard into the park of Tawton Abbas; still talking like old friends and regret¬ ting that a very natural incident—Dr. h’ranklin’s losing their address, and therefore being unable to give them his own—had made them strangers for so many years. Which have been happy years, by your looks, Mrs. Trevena? Yo anxiety over your boy? you have never heard anything about that woman?” Dr. Franklin did not say that mother ”—who had no right to the name. Never. Have your” • ‘ ^ Dr. Franklin looked uncomfortable. /‘I did not mean to tell you unless you asked me the direct question; but— she has bothered me a little. At least I suppose it was she. ” And then he explained that a year or two ago there had appeared in a New York paper an advertisement for a Dr. Frankhn, who would hear of something to his advan¬ tage,” which his wife had insisted on his answering; and then had come a letter, in an evidently feigned hand, re¬ questing particulars about a child that was born at Ander- matt—whether “ it ” was alive—and where “ it ” was? Perhaps she had forgotten whether ^ it ’ was a boy or a girl. ‘ Can a mother forget her sucking child?^ Well— some mothers do.” ‘‘ And what did you reply?” Mrs, Trevena could scarcely speak for agitation. 126 KING ARTHUR. Least saidj, soonest mended—I never answered one single word. “ Thank yon—thank you! Did yon keep the letter? What address was given?'’^ Mrs. Franklin has it. Some milliner or dress-maker, I think, in London. ‘‘ In London!’^ A shudder of repulsion and dread passed over Susannah; and then that stern sense of justice, so strong in her, conquered it. “ Perhaps she was a dress¬ maker—some poor working-woman who was almost starv¬ ing, and did not wish her baby to starve too. Pshaw! Does that boy look like the son of a working- woman? And it was herself she wanted to save from star¬ vation, not her baby. No, no, ma^am; I saw her—^you never did. She used always to rave about being a ‘ woman of genius ^—very likely an actress or singer—that very singer who ran away from Milan. “ I have sometimes thought so. And the musical fac¬ ulty descends. Just listen to that boy.'’^ Arthur was singing Dulce domum at the top of his voice—a rather cracked voice now; but it was not ignorant singing—he evidently knew what he was about. Music is his jDassion, as it is with many a boy, till the work of the world knocks it out of him. But this letter—- Stop, there^s the Tawton Abbas carriage—let us step aside. For Mrs. Trevena felt that to interchange polite nothings with the great lady would, at this moment, be beyond her power. She and Dr. Franklin passed under a group of trees, so that Lady Damerel never saw them. xYrthur, however, did not step aside. He ceased his gay school-song, and standing on the grass, lifted his hat, as the carriage drove by, with a gesture so carelessly graceful, so unlike country youths in general, that Lady Damerel turned to look after him. He was, in truth, worth looking at, in his rough gray clothes, with a gray cap set on the top of his crisp fair curls KING AUTHUlt. 127 —-it was before the time when the fashion made young men crop themselves hke returned convicts. Lithe and slender as a yomig David, and in manner neither shy nor forward, because thinking more of other people than himseif—Ar¬ thur never came to, and had now quite passed, that awk¬ ward stage when a boy does not know what to do with him¬ self, and especially with his legs and arms. It was no wonder, Mrs. Trevena thought, that Lady Da- merel, indifferent as she was to her neighbors, should turn and glance after him. “ Poor woman said she, explaining to Dr. Franklin a little of the domestic history of Tawton Abbas. I dare say she would give the world to have a son like mine.'’^ May be. But there are mothers—and mothers, like the woman we were talking about. Shall I tell Mrs. Frank¬ lin to send you her letter? if she hasn^t burned it, which perhaps may have been the best thing. ‘‘Perhaps,'’^ echoed Susannah, wishing in her heart— though her conscience reproached her—^that it might be burned, and forgotten. It could do no good to Arthur. “ No, for the lad doesn^t care a straw about his mother. ” I am his mother,-’^ said Susannah, with a certain grave dignity. ‘‘YoiFre right, ma^am. May he never have any other as long as he lives!’*’ But mothers, even the happiest mothers of the best of sons, have their anxieties. Some days after this. Dr. Franklin, with the practical common sense of a man of the world, asked Iris godson, very naturally, what he was going to be? Arthur hesitated, and looked uncomfortable. His moth¬ er, thinking this arose from diffidence or modesty, answered for him. “ My son’s career is already cut out for him. There are six New College scholarshij)s given at Winchester every year. Arthur is so good at mathematics, the head-master m KIKG ABTHUE. tells US, tliat he is quite sure of one. He will go in for it next year and take himself to college as he did to school. Then—a boy who has earned his own education can gen¬ erally earn his own living; especially at Oxford.*’^ But, mother,said Arthur slowl}^ I may not go to Oxford at all. I mean to be a musician. A what?^’ cried Dr. Franklin, bursting into laughter. A street-singer, or an organ-grinder, going about the country Vv^ith a monkey and a coi:ple of white mice!’^ Eidicule is the sharpest of weapons with the young. Arthur turned white with anger, but controlled himself, and ex¬ plained that a friend of his, just returned from a German Conservatoire, had advised him to go there and study mu¬ sic as a profession. At whose expense, my boy?^^ asked Dr. Franklin, dry- ly- Arthur colored. “ I donT know. I have never thought. But you ought to think—^you are old enough. How old?^^ ‘‘Eighteen past. Next year I should go in for the scholarship, if I go in at all. Mother?^ ^ She did not answer. It was the first time she had heard of this idea; the first time her boy had kept back an 3 rthing from her, or that his will had run counter to hers, never an arbitrary will. From his very childhood, as soon as he could reason at all, she had taught him to use his reason, and had never from him exacted blind obedience. Expla¬ nation, whenever possible, she gave; and her argument v/as never “ Do it because I command it,but, “ Do it because it is right. This fancy of Arthur ^s struck her with a sharp pain. No wonder she looked sad and grave—and even the second anxious appeal—“ What do you say, mother?^ ^ brought no response. Just then Mr. Trevena was heard calling all over the house, “ Susannah—Susannah —as he usually KING ARTHUR. (lid if he missed her for five minutes, find slioliiirried away witliout having said a word. Well, young man? You are a nice young man, to make your mother look like that! Still nicer to expect your father to maintain you in expensive study for the next five or iten years. Arthur fiushed crimson. He liked his godfather sincere¬ ly; still, l)r. Franklin often “rubbed him up the wrong way. It was the contrast between the practical and the artistic temperament; the born democrat, and—well. Heaven only knew what Arthur’s birth was, but he looked the young “ aristocrat,” every inch of him. “ I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “ I had no idea of vexing my mother; and I wish to stand on my own feet as soon as ever I can. ” “ That’s right, lad. I did it, before I was your age. I was message-boy at a chemist’s store. But I soon went ahead—we all go ahead in the States. Our motto is ‘ Every man for himself, and ’—taking off his ca]! reverent¬ ly—‘ God for us all.’ That’s what I said to my six sons,” continued he. “ I gave them a good education, and tlien I left them to shift for themselves. And they have done it —uncommonly well, too. There isn’t one of them now that ever wants a cent from his father.” “ I hope I shall not from mine—at least, not for v^ery long,” said Arthur, proudly. “ That’s right, my boy; for Mr. Trevena isn’t as young as he has been, and he has another incumbrance besides yourself—that little girl your mother told me of. What’s her name?” “ Nanny.” “ I hear she’s a plucky little thing, and means to go out as a governess—which is quite right. A woman should earn her own bread as well as a man. But if her uncle helped anybody, he ought to help her; because, you see, she is his own flesh and blood, and you—” 130 KING AETHUR. “ I understand r ^ And again came that violent blush, which showed what keen sensitiveness lurked under Ar¬ thur’s merry and manly outside. Then, speaking with evi¬ dent effort, “ Godfather, you are right to remind me of that. Tell me—for I believe you were present at my birth —who were my father and mother?” ‘‘ My poor lad, I declare to you I haven’t the slightest idea.” They had gone outside 1:116 drawing-room window, and were lying on the grassy slope—the Kentuckian puffing at his pipe, and Arthur sitting beside him, his arms round his knees, gazing straight forward, with a graver expression than his wont. Dr. Franklin scanned him sharply. It was an awkward business, Arthur. If I were you, I’d think about it as little as possible.” ‘‘So do I. As mother often says, a man is responsible for himself and his children, but certainly not for his par¬ ents. Still I should like to know all I can.” “ How much has your mother told you?” “ Only that you found me—you and she—somewhere in the Alps. I suppose I had a father and a mother, but she never speaks of them at all. ” “ Bravo!” muttered Dr. Franklin. But he himself felt no inclination for such generous reticence; he thought it fairer on all sides that the boy should know everything; so he then and there told liim everything. Arthur listened, his cap drawn over his eyes, his hands— such long, slender, beautiful hands—clasped together round his knees. “Thank you,” he said at last. “lam glad I know. The—old lady—was, you suppose, an opera-singer?” ‘ I don’t say that, but it’s possible.” “ And she sold me, you say—sold me for twenty pounds?” “Yes.” He was just on the point of adding, “and she’d like to buy you back again now,” when he remem¬ bered Mrs. Trevena’s caution, that until they heard from KING AETHUK. 131 America they should say nothing about the letter. It would not benefit Arthur—perhaps only unsettle him. And they had the dress-maker’s address; while the unmotherly mother —her brief note, if hers, was. Dr. Franklin declared, “ as cold as a stone ”—had to them no clew whatever. “ All the better!” thought he. And Mr. and Mrs. Trevena just then appearing, he ended the conversation. It was not renewed; though he stayed some days longer at the rectory. The annual garden-party at Tawton Abbas was coming off, and the old Kentuckian said he should like to study life ” in an English country-house. So in addition to the invitation for ‘‘ Mr. and Mrs. Trevena, and Mr. Trevena, junior” (‘‘you see, mother” — laughed Arthur—your fine lady doesn’t even take the trouble to discover my Christian name ”)—a note was sent to Tawton Abbas for permission to bring a friend from America” to join the party. Then you’ll not want me, ” said Arthur, very reluctant to go. But his mother wished it. He had been unlike himself, she thought, the last day or two; and though she had carefully abstained from reviving the Oxford question till Dr. Franklin was gone, still she saw that something was on his mind. He followed her about with extra ten¬ derness, divining all she wanted, and doing everything for her more like a girl than a boy. But he said nothing until they were walking together across the park to the garden- party; only they two, for Dr. Franklin had home letters to write by the mail, and he and Mr. Trevena could not ap¬ pear till late. So Susannah had her boy all to herself; and very nice he looked, and very proud she was of him. He was proud of her, too, he said, after eying her over with the sharp criticism of youth—approving her new dress, and wishing she would wear it every day. “ But I can’t afford silk every day,” said she, laughing. “ I am not Lady Damerel.” 132 KING ARTHUR. No, thank goodness! I wouldn^t change my little mother for a dozen Ladv Damerels.^^ %/ ‘‘ Well, then, 1^11 try to dress a little better and talk a little more, just to please you and papa. I am glad my son is not ashamed of me.^^ I ho23e my mother is not ashamed, of me,^^ said Arthur, gravely. And then he told her in a few words—so few that it was easy to see how deeply he felt—of the conversation between his godfather and himself; and how he had made up his mind to go in for mathematics and give up music entirely. Susannah breathed a sigh of thankfulness, and then re¬ plied, “ Not entirely, my son. Music may still be your pleasure—your staff, if not your crutch.’^ Not at present. I love it so that I must give it up, if I mean to be anything. And I do mean to be something, some day,^-’ added he, tossing his head and planting his foot firmly on the ground. The young think the old were never young. It did not occur to Arthur that his quiet little mother felt her heart throb while he spoke. She, too, had had her dreams—of fame, ambition, love—had written verses by the yards and stories by the dozen;, yes, she had earned her bread as'a daily governess, and finally would end her d4ys as the old wife of a country parson. But she had eaten cheerfully the dry bread of existence, and made it sweet by thankful¬ ness. Though tears were in her eyes now, they were not regretful tears. ‘‘ I think, Arthur, you are right. The secret of life is not to do what one likes, but to try to like that which one has to do. And one does come to like it—in time.'’-’ Yes, mother. And if I turn out a great Oxford don— shall you be pleased? Would you like me to make a name for myself?—the only name Fve got,^^ added he, with a slight bitterness of tone, which went to Susannah^s heart. “ So I’ll go in for the scholarship at New College, and KING ARTHUR. 133 papa need not spend a halfpenny upon me at Oxford. Then—poor little N’anny need not he a governess. ^ What made you think of Nanny asked Mrs. Trevena, with some surprise. For the children had scarcely met for years, until last week, and then only for a few hours; since Arthur came home at night, and Nanny left next morning. She had been very shy with him, and he had treated her with the majestic bearing of a big boy toward a very little girl. “ My godfather said papa ought to help Nanny and not me. He is right; she is a girl—and she is papa^s own.^'’ ‘‘ And you are my own!^^ answered Susannah, with the passionate tenderness that she so seldom expressed. But she said no more. The wisdom of parents sometimes lies in accepting rather than in making sacrifices. Arthur found himself less miserable than he had expect¬ ed to be at the garden-party, even though it was, as some one graphically described, “a penn^orth of all sorts,'’^ through which the hostess moved like a condescending queen. She had various out-door amusements for the in¬ ferior folk—^performing dogs, hand-bell ringers, etc.—and for her choicer guests there was very good music in the drawing-room. She looked politely surprised when she saw the Trevenas eagerly listening. ‘‘ Do you play or sing, Mrs. Trevena?’^ ‘‘No, but my son does. “ Oh, indeed."’'’ Here Mr. Hardy, the High Church curate, said a word or two, which caused the great lady to put up her pince-nez (she was old enough to wear spectacles, but never would) and scan Arthur sharply. Most elderly women—mothers or not-—like to look at a graceful handsome boy. As this childless woman did so, a vexed expression passed over her face—not regret or pain, but a sort of irritation. An outcry against Providence, Mrs. Trevena thought it was, and felt sorry for her, till 134 KING ARTHUR. Lady Damerel broke into the most gracious of careless smiles. Perhaps Mr.-I forget his Christian name—Mr. Tfevena will come to our rescue in accompanying a trio? Our own pianist has not come. And our soprano says she is too hoarse to sing. "We are very unfortunate."^’ ‘‘ Not if we can induce you to take her place/’ said some one near. ‘‘ You know you have sung. Lady Damerel. ” Oh, yes—a little—when I was a girl,” said she care¬ lessly, listening to the touch of Arthur’s long fingers on the keys—the magic touch which all musicians recognize. It was a magnificent piano, and the artist’s delight over¬ came the boy’s shyness. ^^Play something,” she said; and Arthur played—ex¬ ceedingly well. Do you read at sight?” and she placed H the trio before him. It was one of those dashing operatic - scenas of the last generation, full of show and difficulty, . and embellished yfith. fioriture. Arthur dashed into it—so did the tenor and bass—and finally, as if she could not • help it, the soprano. Lady Damerel must have had a fine voice once; and even ^ now had the brilliant remains of it; a thoroughly culti¬ vated voice—not tender, not pathetic, but high and flexible : as a musical instrument, and capable of executing those : wonderfuWowrs deforce which “ bring the house down. She did it now; seeming quite to forget herself in the pleas¬ ure of her own jDerformance; so much so that she thought . necessary to apologize. ^ ‘ I am almost too old to sing—but I used to like it once. Now^—in my position—with my many social duties—of ' course a lady is different from a professional.” You might have been a professional, ma’am: you sing so splendidly. I never heard an 3 dhing better, even in America. ” The honest Kentuckian had been standing outside tlie open French window, and now Avalked in—in his enthiisi- KING ARTHUR. 135 asm not; waiting to be introduced. When Mr. Trevena mentioned Doctor Dranklin^'’^ Lady Damerel suddenly turned round. I guess you never saw an American before; And per¬ haps, ma^am, in my compliments to your singing, I was more honest than polite. But when we like a thing we also like to say so.^’’ Lady Damerel bowed. She looked white — possibly with the exertion of singing. ‘‘ Americans a fine country, ma^’am, and weWe some uncommonly fine singers there—fine women, too, especially in the South. You remind me of my country-women ex¬ ceedingly. Again Lady Damerel bowed, rather haughtily; and sat down, almost hiding her face with, her large fan. But no blush came to her cheek except the permanent one which it owed to art: and she had the stereotyped smile of a person well used to fiattery. Mrs. Travena, rather annoyed at her good friend^s blunt¬ ness, took the first opportunity of getting him away—much to his amusement. ‘ ^ I wanted to talk to Lady Damerel. She^s an uncom¬ monly handsome woman still, and very like an American. I wonder where she was raised. I^m sure Lve seen her -.somewhere—or somebody very like her. Has she got a sis¬ ter, do you know? And what sort of a fellow is the hus- :band?^^ ^ Poor Sir Charles was meekly seated outside in his self- propelled chair; sjieaking to few people, and apparently •very much §fraid of everybody, especially his wife; for he ' kept out of her way as much as possible. Wreck as he was, 'he had a refined, amiable face—and stretched out a long feeble hand, knotted.^and distorted with rheumatism, to the , stranger. “ Glad to see you—glad to see you—and so will my wife i be. Lady Damerel is an American. 13G KIKG ARTHUK. why clidn^t she say so?” muttered the doctor; and;, after a few words of civil conversation, went back to the drawing-room and watched her again. She sung no more, but stood talking, or rather listening, the center of a group of talkers, with a polite absent smile, melting grad¬ ually into the weary dissatisfaction which was the perma¬ nent expression of her face whenever she ceased speaking. That isiiT a happy woman, or a good woman,” said the doctor to Mrs. Trevena. “ Perhaps if she were happy she might be good. ” ‘‘ I donT believe it. People make their own bed—nearly always—and as they make it they have to lie upon it. What a life she must have led that poor old fellow! Is she his second wife, do you think?” ‘‘No. He once told my husband they had been mar¬ ried over thirty years, and had, had four children—two boys first, and then two girls—all of whom are dead. She never cared for them, he said; but the poor old man seemed to have been fond of his children.” “ Pve seen her before—I^m certain I have,” said Dr. Franklin meditatively, as he leaned against the window outside; watching ^everybody and everything, but himself unobserved. ‘ ‘ There, she has taken off her gloves. I al¬ ways notice hands; they are as characteristic as faces. And what a diamond ring!” The Kentuckian was beginning a whistle—a long, loud whistle of intense astonishment—but stopped himself. “ Good Lord! Yes. *I was right. I have seen her before. IPs the very woman. “ "VYiat woman?’^ asked Susannah innocently. She had drifted away from the subject, and become absorbed in weak contemplation—of Jier boy, of course! his graceful figure, his happy, handsome, interested face, as he stood talking to the tenor singer. In looking at him and think¬ ing of his future—how soon he would be a man—and what a good, clever, noble man he Avas likely to be—a common KING AKTHUK. 137 delusion of mothers! she had entirely forgotten Lady Damerel. “What woman, Mrs. Trevena?^^ echoed Dr. Franklin in a sharp whisper. “ Why—that woman at Andermatt.^^ CHAPTER VIL Theee is an old comedy entitled “ The Wonder! A Woman keeps a Secret!^'’ Its author could have known very little of human nature. How many secrets, not always their own, do women keep every day—out of love, or a sense of honor, or even pure pity! What wonderful strength they J30ssess in hiding what they wish to hide! able to smile with a breaking heart—to wrap their robes smoothly and even gracefully over the beast that is gnawing their vitals. Men may be very good at concealment on some affairs—es¬ pecially their own; but for absolute silence—^years long— life long, if necessary—there is, in spite of the old dramatist, no secret keeper like a woman. When Dr. Franklin made the discovery of “ the woman at Andermatt —who, by the bye, must have kept her se¬ cret pretty well—Mrs. Trevena, startled as she was, had strength to whisper “Hush!^^ for her husband was close behind them, and Arthur in front; and the good doctor had the sense to take the hint, and also to suggest that she was looking tired, and they had better go home. “ Make my excuses to Lady Damerel. She wonT miss me very much,"’^ said he to the unconscious rector, and, tucking Mrs. Trevena under his arm, he walked away. Not too soon. Susannah tottered blindly—almost with¬ out speaking a word—along the path which led to the rec¬ tory. But as soon as she got home she fainted outright. However, it was too seriods a crisis for any outward be¬ trayal. Dr. Franklin brought her to herself without telling the servants, and by the time Mr, Trevena and Arthur cante 138 KING AETHUK. back, he and she had talked the whole thing calmly over, and made up their minds to keep it at present entirely be¬ tween their two selves. That the boy was Lady DamereTs son—^her legitimate son—was more than possible—probable; but how was this to be proved? Not by herself—she dared not. Having concealed his birth so long—for Sir Charles, in speaking of his four children, was evidently quite ignorant that he had had a fifth child—to confess her folly, or wickedness, to the world and her husband, would entail an amount of scandal that few women could dare to brave. Born in wed¬ lock the boy undoubtedly was; but what wife^s fair fame could come, out quite unspotted after such a disclosure? ‘‘ To run away from her husband—whether or not she went alone—to hide for months from liim—^to conceal her baby^s birth and then sell it for twenty pounds—Phew!” said the doctor with his low, long whistle, which meant so much. “ You are quite saf©-, ma^am. SheTl never own her son—she dare not.^^ Susannah looked up. She had at first been utterly stunned^—now there came upon her a sort of despair, or rather desperation—the blind fury which poets describe as that of a lioness robbed of her whelps. ” He is my son—mine! No one has any right to him but me.^^ That true,answered Dr. Franklin soothingly. And I doubt if Arthur would wish to have any mother but you. As for that woman there, she has tied up her own hands, cut her own throat, as one may say. He^d never care two¬ pence for her. As for herself, it isnT a son she wants, it’s an heir to the baronetcy. Let her be. It serves her right. ” Such were the good doctor’s arguments. Susannah’s brain whirled so, that for a wonder she let another lead her, and did not attempt to think out the question for her¬ self. When, two hours after, Arthur came in, bright and gay, having been exceedingly amused, especially by kiKG ARTHUK. 139 ‘‘ that dreadful Lady Damerel—who is one big sham from top to toe—though she does sing so splendidly —the whole thing seemed a ghastly nightmare^ out of which she should wake soon and find it nothing. Yet when she did wake next morning—after lying aWake half the night—ah! well she understood those pathetic lines: “ The tears o’ my heart fa’ in showers frae my ee’ While my gudemen sleeps soim’ by me.” —then, Susannah found that yesterday had been not quite nothing. The mental agony, the perpetual self-restraint which it imposed, were so hard to bear that she was almost relieved when Dr. Franklin, who was obliged to leave next day, proposed taking his godson with him; and Arthur, with a boy’s natural delight at the idea of seeing London, was eager to go. But not if you want me, mother. Ill not go anywhere, or do anything, that you don’t wish.” I only wish what is for your good, my darling!” She had of late given up all pet names, knowing how school-boys dislike them; but to-day she felt he was her darling—the very core of her heart, and the delight of her eyes—in whose future she had re-embarked many a shipwrecked hope, many a broken dream. With difficulty she restrained her¬ self from falling on Arthur’s neck in a burst of bitter tears. It is for his good,” said Dr. Franklin, with emphasis, and yet with a compassionate look in his kind eyes. “ Give him a bit of pleasure with me, and then let him set to work. It’s the best thing in the world for a lad to be obliged to work. Far better for him ”—this was said with meaning and decision—far better than if he were heir to a title and several thousands a year.” ‘‘Thank you—God bless you!” murmured Mrs. Tre- vena, as she wrung her friend’s hand at parting; feeling that under his rough speech and queer un-English ways there lay hidden a heart of gold. 140 KIN'G ARTHUR. After fiwliile, her agony of api^reliension, her feeling that the whole Avorld was slipping away from under her feet, slowly subsided. Ltfe at the rectory went on as usual —nothing happened—nobody came. She did not see Lady Damerel at church, for Sir Charles had caught cold at the garden-party; an attack of rheumatism severer than ordi¬ nary had supervened; and the village heard, with little inter¬ est, that he and ‘‘ my lady had gone to Bath for several months. Tawton Abbas was shut up, and the rector and his wife wandered at ease about the. lovely park—she with the strangest of feelings, and sometimes, in spite of what Dr. Franklin had said, with a doubt whether she were right or wrong in accepting the position of things, and letting all drift on in silence, as heretofore. It may seem almost incredible, even in this simple- minded and unworldly woman—but the last thing she thought of was the worldly benefits—the title and estate to which her Arthur might be the lawful heir. Had he been proved the legitimate son of worthy parents, she could have given him up, she thought, though it broke her heart—but to give him up to such as Lady Damerel—never! Better that he should begin life simply as an adopted son—^work his own way in the world, and win a name for himself, for which he was indebted to nobody. Unworthy parents are worse than none. Three months had gone by, and Arthur was just coming home for Christmas, after having worked ‘‘ like a brick,^'’ he wrote, and being in cheerful hope of the scholarship— before Mrs. Trevena found herself again face to face with the woman whom she believed to be her boy^s mother. It happened in this wise—apj^arently by accident. Lady Damerel suddenly appeared at church; having come to Tawton Abbas for three days, to order the distribution of coals, blankets, and Christmas beef—she never omitted those external duties by which many people square accounts with Heaven, and keep up a good character on earth. Con- ktkct authur. sequently slie alwa 3 "s went to church, rain or fair—and this day there fell a heavy storm of December rain. The rector and his wife found her lingering near the chancel door. Will you give me shelter for a few minutes?^'’ she asked, in her Sweetest and most condescending manner; and Mr. Trevena courteously escorted her under his umbrella to the rectory. She had seldom been there; only for one or two formal calls; but now she sat down in the little drawing-room as if she meant friendliness rather than formality. After some courteous small talk about Sir Charleses illness, and the cause of it, chiefly directed to Mr. Trevena—Lady Damerel was always charming to gentlemen—she said carelessly— You went away from my garden-party quite early, Mrs. Trevena, before I had time to speak to that tall friend of yours—Mr.- what was his name? An American, did you say? I rather like Americans. Susannah was not a coward—her husband sometimes said of her, Avith his tender jesting, that she would go up to a cannon^s mouth ”—if necessary. She felt something like it now. Looking full in Lady DamereLs face, she replied: “ He is not Mr. but Dr. Franklin, a countryman of yours (Sir Charles said you are American)—and a physician in New York.^’ Ah! New York. But I am Southern. I was born in Baltimore. “ He said you reminded him of the Baltimore belles, innocently observed the rector. ‘‘ He thought he had met you somewhere. He is an excellent man. We made acquaintance Avith him long ago, Avhen traveling abroad; where he once did my Avife, and me too, what has turned out to be a great service. Our son, whom of course you knoAV all about, is his godson. “ Oh, indeed, carelessly answered Lady Damerel, with U2 KING ARTHURi tlie air of a person not much interested in other people aifairs. Has your friend gone back to America?^^ ‘‘ He sailed yesterday—Arthur went to Liverpool to see him off/^ How kind! By the way, that son of yours^I must secure him as our accompanist next time I have musical people in the house. He plays extremely well. Is he to be a professional?^^ “ Oh no!^^ said the rector with something more than dis¬ taste. “ He is trying for a scholarship at New College, Oxford, which his Winchester masters think he is sure to get. He is a very clever, as well as a diligent boy.'’^ And the good, unobservant, unreticent Austin went into details about Arthur^s future university career, without noticing the absent smile with which Lady Damerel listened; most people—even parents—are indifferent enough to other people^s children. “ Ah, yes—Mr. Arthur^s success must be a great pleas¬ ure to his father and mother. My children were never clever, nor handsome either, poor little things! Your son is your only one, I conclude? Born late in life, and of course his parents^ darling?^^ All this while Susannah had sat silently observant—also, not a little amazed. First, at the extraordinary self-com¬ mand of the woman, supposing she really was the woman that Dr. Franklin believed her to be; and next, that’she should be so ignorant of her neighbors^ affairs as never to have heard about Arthur. And yet this was not impossi¬ ble. In eighteen years the story had died out; people had accepted him so completely as the rector^s son—at least in the village; and beyond it the Trevenas knew almost nobody. With a sudden desperate resolve Susannah determined to put Lady Damerel to the test—to tell her the facts, which she must hear ere long, and which it was astonishing she had never heard before. ‘‘ Tell the truth and shame the devil —but it was equally to exorcise the devil—that evil KING AliTHUK. 143 spirit which prompted her, the gentle Mrs. Trevena, to fly at Lady Lamerers throat and strangle her. Looking her full in the face she said distinctly, ‘‘ I think you do not understand—though it is surprising you should never have heard—that Arthur is not oiir own son; we have no living children. Dr. Franklin found him for us, and advised us to adopt him. We do not know who were his parents, but he was born at Andermatt, in Switzer¬ land.^^ Human nature can not altogether suppress itself. What¬ ever Lady Damerel had come to seek, she had evidently found something she neither sought nor desired. Her cheek grew ghastly under its paint. She clutched the arm of the chair as if to save herself from falling. Even the unob¬ servant Austin could not help seeing something was amiss, and, courteously observing that the room was very hot, went to open the window. Thank you—but I am not ill—only fatigued—worn out with nursing my husband."’^ And then, turning round to Susannah with that mechanical smile which people learn to use in society as well as on the stage, she said—It is kind of you to give me this confidence. I did not know the boy was not your own. He is—a fine boy—and does you great credit. And again that ghastly pallor—was it emotion or only fear?—came over her face, till Mr. Trevena offered to fetch her a glass of wine, and looked toward his wife for sympathy and assistance. But there was no pity—not a jot!—in Susannah^s eyes, or in her hard, cold voice. ‘ ‘ Lady Damerel should have ordered her carriage. I am sorry I have no servant here to send. And my son is not at home. ” “My son.There was no mistaking the word—or its meaning—its intentional meaning. Lady Damerel re¬ moved her hand from her eyes, and the two women steadily 144 KING ARTIIUK. regarded one another. In that moment both recognized, without need of words, that each was in possession of the other^s secret, and that between them there Avas war to the knife. All the more deadly because it was a silent war— confined entirely to their two selves. The two mothers be¬ tween whom King Solomon judged could not hate one another with a more deadly hatred than these—the flcsh- and-blood mother who had thrown her blessing away; the real mother who had found it, aiid kept it—yes, and W'ould keep it, in defiance 'of the whole world. Susannah, just and tender woman as she was, could on occasion be a stern woman too. She had no belief in parental rights, or any rights at all, without their corre¬ sponding duties. Years ago she carried off little Kanny, and would have hidden her from her father, separated them entirely, by fair means or foul, until the child was old enough not to be harmed by the man to, whom she owed nothing but the mere accident of paternity. What Mrs. Trevena then did—and would have persisted in doing had not fate made it unnecessary—from pure pity, without any personal love for Nanny—would she not be ready now to do for her own Arthur? Had Lady Damerel confessed all, and begged for the boy —perhaps even then Mrs. Trevena might have had no mercy. She might have said, with Hr. Franklin—“ As you made your bed you must lie on it —and dared the unworthy mother to win one atom of either duty or affec¬ tion from the son she had cast away. But if any struggle ' as to the right course was in Susannah^s mind, she soon saw it was wholly unnecessary. ‘‘ Self preservation* is the first law of nature,says the philosopher; and though sometimes experience has con¬ tradicted this—especially in the case of mothers—it exists still. After a minute or two Lady Damerel rose, her usual stately self, and addressed the rector: KIKG AETIIUE. 145 “ The rain has abated now, and I must not trouble you any longer. I will walk home, for I never like to use the carriage on Sundays, except for Sir Charles. "VVe think of trying the German spas immediately—so this must be a farewell visit. Make my compliments to your son—I mean your adopted son—and say I congratulate him and his parents." Evidently the so-called maternal instinct was not in the woman. Whether from conscious guilt or cowardice, she had apparently not the slightest intention of acknowledg¬ ing her child. A few words of polite adieu, and she had made her escape, having betrayed absolutely nothing. Susannah was thankful that she too had betrayed nothing -—that she had had strength all these months to bear her own burden and trouble no one. The crisis had come, and passed. Now she could breathe again. Many more weeks and months went by; and untroubled peace. Arthur was • at Winchester—Sir Charles and Lady Damerel were traveling abroad. Nothing had haj^pened: and she began to feel that nothing would hapjpen: that she might live and die—dying did not seem so far off at nearly sixty—with her secret unrevealed, keeping Arthur as her son till death. He seemed more than ever her son, when coming back for summer holidays—triumphant too, for he had gained his scholarship, and was going up to Oxford next term—he found his ‘‘dear little mother^'’ a good deal changed. Her pretty brown hair bad grown silver-white; her bright cheerfulness—the gayety of sound pure health, though she was never robust—had greatly departed. He could not understand it. She said she was “ quite well —“ quite happy —but she seemed so quiet, so suddenly changed from a middle-aged into an old woman. He wondered nobody saw it—not even her husband. “ Papa,^^ he said, “ I think mother wants a little nursing and companionship. When I am gone to Oxford, suppose 146 KING AETHUK. you send for Nanny? Let her come a day or two before 1 leave^ and 1^11 teach her how to take care of mother; only she is such a child still—perhaps she might not under¬ stand. But in spite of Arthur^s gentle patronizing, and firm conviction that nobody could take care of his mother except himself—it was found that Nancy did understand; that Miss Grogan had made a little woman of her already, and a capital nurse. Neat, accurate, practical: chary of words but prompt in deeds; and doing everything necessary with¬ out making any unnecessary fuss about it, Nanny, though at first not exactly welcome to her aunt, soon became so, as well as to her uncle. And though still small, dark, and plain, there was a sweetness in her brown eyes, a fairy lightness in her dainty figure, which made her decidedly not ligly. Youth never is ugly, unless it has got an ugly soul. She^s not so bad, is she, mother?^^ said Arthur, after the first two days. ^he isn^t a beauty certainly—she doesii^t sweep about the room like Lady Damerel; but I hate tall women! No woman should ever be bigger than my little mother. Nanny will never be pretty—like you —but she^s a nice little thing. What mother could resist such tender flattery from a big son, not twenty yet, but fully six feet high? What mother could look into that boyish face—knowing the heart was as innocent as the face—and not feel that whatever he said was true, and whatever he did was right? As for thenice little thing —was it surprising that she adored Arthur? as she had done ever since she was a small child; though she had ceased to show it now—at least not very much^—but Mrs. Trevena saw it in her eyes, and sometimes felt a little sorry for Nanny. Still, the child was only a child; and Arthur could not be expected to take much notice of her—such a man as he was grown—and just KTNG ARTHtm. * going up to Oxford. Nor did lie notice her at first; being absorbed by his matriculation work. But all young creatures hke one another's company; and wdien of summer evenings the children went off a walk together, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Trevena sitting quietly in the arbor, Susannah said to herself that it was quite natural. She herself could not take long walks now—nor could she see to read and sew as she once did. She had made over her work-box to the busy useful fingers of Nanny. And instead of reading of evenings, she sat with her hands folded, and thought—we often like thinking as we grow old. Only it is not of ourselves we think; our day is all done—it is of other people. Strange it was—and yet perhaps not strange—that the last subject which entered Mrs. Trevena^s mind should have been that which was most probable, most natural; the story even now beginning to act itself out under her very eyes. The old story, ever new, and which will be new until the end of the world. She had enacted it herself more than forty years ago, for she was very young when she first met Austin Trevena; and yet it never struck her to think of her boy as anything but a boy, or of Nanny except his small girl-satellite— circling round him with untiring and perfectly natural devotion, but of no importance to him whatever. That one was nearly a man, and the other—alas!—perhaps quite a woman, did not occur to Susannah. Nor, for a good while, to the young people themselves. Their relations from childhood upward had been completely “ Ihin qui aime, Vautre que se laisse Ure aime —rather liked it indeed, in an innocent way, for Arthur was neither selfish nor conceited. He had never had a sister, and honestly accepted Nanny as such: teased her, petted her, and took counsel of her by turns: ruled her, yet was led by her—for the little quiet girl had a strong will of her own; 148 KIKG ARTHUIt. and the winning power that many plain-looking but sweet- natured woman have, even over the other sex. And neither he nor any one else suspected that he was gradually slipping into what worldly mothers would call an ‘^en¬ tanglement —^but of which the knots are often woven by a kindly Providence to be a man^s protection throughout life. Especially such an one as Arthur, who, out of his very simplicity, affectionateness, and lack of personal vanity, was likely to attract every woman he came near. It was not an ordinary “ falling in love —^that headlong tumble which parents and guardians so dread; but a grad¬ ual gliding into love; love awaking so early that the young- people understood neither its nature nor its name. Eor instance, the caress began when, the child’s poor mother lying dead in the next room, Susannah had said, “ Arthur, kiss Nanny ”—was continued quite naturally, at meetings and partings, until the very day that Arthur left for Ox¬ ford; when his mother noticed, with some momentary sur¬ prise, that they merely shook hands. But she soon forgot it—her own heart wag so full. And when the little Nanny, who found her wandering forlornly about the empty house '—so very empty now Arthur was gone—took her hand and kissed it, Mrs. Trevena embraced her with a burst of feel¬ ing, as being the one other person who missed Arthur near¬ ly as much as his mother did. ** Shortly afterward, Nanny was summoned back to Miss Grogan, who was seriously ill, and needed her sorely. Both her uncle and aunt missed her too—a good deal. Likewise at Christmas, when she had promised to return, but did not, and the rectory household had to make the best of the busy time without her. Mr. Trevena distributed his coals and blankets alone; and Arthur wandered aimlessly about the deserted park—for the Damerels were still away. Both father and son openly lamented Nanny, who was “ so fun¬ ny,” and “ so useful,” to which the mother, shut helplessl}" in-doors, agreed with a sympathizing smile, hiding a silent KTNOt AKTlTUll. U9 pain tliat.slie could l3e no longer all they required,, to either husband or son. But it soon passed—they were botli well and strong and happy—and they loved her so much that as long as she sat^, even with folded hands, at the fireside, they were sure to tliink it bright. After Christmas caiHe a sudden event, ominous of changes—Miss Grogan died. [Nanny was left—as she said in her sorrowful letter—“ alone in the world. But, as she also said, she meant to face the world, and trouble nobody. She had had a good education—thanks to her uncle, and her dear dead friend; and through all her grief there ran a thread of cheerful courage which touched everybody's heart. Nanny is sure to do well,^^ said Mrs. Trevena, affec¬ tionately. “ Shall we have her here for awhile?^^ I wish we could have her here for always,^^ answered the rector. But, to the surprise of both, Nanny refused their kind¬ ness—very gratefully, yet very firmly. She wished to begin to work at once. Nothing would induce her, she said, to eat the bread of idleness. She intended to go out as a gov¬ erness immediately. ■ “ Impossible!” said her uncle, thinking of her as the last of the Trevenas. “ Impossible,'^ ^ wrote Arthur from Ox¬ ford, assigning no reason. And impossibleadded, gravely, Mrs. Trevena, who knew what governess-life is to a girl of eighteen. But fate—in the shape of Mr. Hardy—Arthur-’s High Church friend, stepped in and settled the difficulty. He had a widowed sister come to live with him, who would be most thankful to get a daily governess for her only girl. “ If Miss Trevena would condescend,^"’ he said. At least so far as to come on a visit to the rectory, and try it for the summer. Miss Trevena, being humble-minded, and strongly urged by both uncle and aunt, did condescend—- and cdfne. She looked so sweet, with her pale face and her deep ISO KING ARTHUKi mourning, that all the curate family fell in love with her at once; and when Arthur came home for his Easter vaca¬ tion he found her quite settled: living at the rectory, and walking across the park every day to her wOrk. It, and what she laughingly called her‘‘parish duties^’—as her aunt^s substitute—absorbed her so much that, as Arthur openly complained, he saw almost nothing of her, and was left “ out in the cold. At which his mother so compas¬ sionated him that she took every opportunity of sending him and Nanny for an evening walk together; rejoicing to see them come back merry and happy. Their youthful happiness was the greatest* bliss she knew. It helped her to bear her own feebleness and weariness; that shadow of fast-advancing old age—which had come all the faster since the blow of last year. Do what she would, she could not escape-a perpetual fear of “ something happening —some effort on Lady Dame- reffs part to reclaim her son; or worse, some discovery which might make Arthur^s birth not the safe mystery that it now was, but an open disgrace that might wound him to the quick—if a man ought to be wounded by any¬ thing in which he himself is entirely innocent. It was not difficult to divine, or at least to guess at. Lady DamereEs history. The beautiful “ public woman—half a pariah—as it was then thought, though now, thank, heaven, many a public and professional woman leads as domestic a life as any private matron who “ suckles fools and chronicles small-beer —married early to a poor gen¬ tleman; resenting and hating the restraints of home; heart¬ less, pleasure-loving, though not actually vicious; incapa¬ ble of love, but too selfish to degrade herself; a “ woman of genius,’^ possibly, but with an unwomanly heart; de¬ testing children, and the burden of them; disliking dull¬ ness and poverty, and ready always to act on ij^pulse rather than judgment—it was easy to see how all had come about. KING AKTHUR. 151 Not so easy to see how all would end, or how it ought to end. Sometimes Susannah thought and thought, till she was half-dazed—she had come to the time when one must think, for one can do little else; and all one’s thoughts are for others—one’s own future is of no interest now; but her thoughts all came to nothing, for she could do nothing. Also Dr. Franklin, whose wife had burned the important letter, wrote advising her to do nothing till he came back to England next year. ' So she drifted on, nor noticed how other things and peo¬ ple were drifting on too, unto a future over which she had no jurisdiction and no claim. That year spring came in early, deliciously; the tempting spring, when “ A young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love,” and even old men—at any rate old women—turn half ten¬ derly to memories of what love was, or might have been— when the sight of a face, the touch of a hand, brought un¬ utterable, impossible bliss. Even the rector and his wife, sitting in their lovely garden, with trees budding, primroses blooming, and thrushes singing—felt the nameless charm, and kept their silver wedding-day in tender content; Su¬ sannah telling the children,” with a sweet faint blush on her old cheek, how she and papa had met when quite young, and had made a solemn vow among some gooseber¬ ry-bushes—eating gooseberries plentifully meantime—that they would certainly be hnarried some day; which vow, after half a life-time, they kept. But she never noticed— nobody noticed—that at her innocent little story Nanny turned very pale, and Arthur very red; and they scarcely spoke to one another for the rest of the day. It was a rather momentous day, for both inward home pleasure and outside news. Mr. Hardy appeared, in much excitement. His gr^eful bishop had that day rewarded his long service by an unexpected living; and though now 152 KING AKTUUR. nigh upon fortythe good curate was as happy as a boy. His vicarage was only a few miles olf^ so he would not lose his friends at the rectory; though, Mrs. Trevena suggested, Nanny would lose her pupil. To which, in some confu¬ sion, Mr. Hardy answered that ‘‘ he was not sure.^'’ Something constrained in his manner—and Nanny^s too —startled Mrs. Treven^t into remembering how very often he had been at the rectory of late, and how continually he had walked home with Nanny across the park. She smiled to herself, not ill-pleased, for Mr. Hardy was an old friend and an excellent man, young and cheerful for his age. And Naiiny, though so much his junior, was such a grave, steady, reliable little thing—just the girl for a country clergyman's wife. She wondered she had never thought of this before—and, woman-like, was thinking it over with unmixed satisfaction, when a name caught her ear—the name which, now she had grown weak and nervous, always seemed to go through her like a knife. Have you seen Lady Damerel, Arthur? I met her driving, and she asked me how all was going o^i at the rec¬ tory, and if you and I would come and have an evening of music—quite quietly—they have brought no company down with them. I hear Sir Charles has broken down very much, and can not live long. Poor Lady Damerel “Poor Lady Damerel, indeedechoed Mr. Trevena. “ What a change for her! And they say she hates the heir- at-law—a needy man with seven children. What a pity Lady Damerel has none!^^ Mr. Hardy agreed, and again asked Arthur to come, as “ her ladyshi]3 —^lie always spoke with much awe of her ladyship—had said she especially wished for him, on ac¬ count of his music. “ I won’t go,” said Arthur decidedly. “ I don’t care for Lady Damerel, though she does sing so well. And why doesn’t she invite my mother? I’ll not go to Tawton Ab- KING ARTHUR. 153 bas, or anywhere, without my little mother,added he ca¬ ressingly. “ But your mother is not able to go, and I think you ought,^^ said the rector, who, like most men, was not in¬ different to the charming flattery of Lady Damerel. Arthur looked at his mother. ‘‘Yes, go,^^ she answered—for a sudden desperation had seized her. Her boy should see with his own eyes, and judge with his own heart, between his natural unnatural mother, and the woman who had been to him everything that a mother ought to be. “ Go,^^ she said, knotting her trembling hands together, and hoping that no one noticed in her the slightest hesitation or pain. So it came about that during his Easter vacation Arthur went several times to Tawton Abbas, which, notwithstand¬ ing Sir Charles’s critical state, was full of company—Lady Damerel would not live without it; company among whom a young Oxford man who was handsome and ready-witted, could play and sing, act and dance, with equal facility and enjoyment, was most valuable—and valued. Arthur de¬ clared it was “ capital fun,” and took all his “ spoiling ” W'ith the most frank unconcern, coming home and joking about it to his mother and Yanny. Between the Arcadian life of mornings with Nanny, and the fashionable life of evenings, or rather nights—for he genei’ally came back from Tawton Abbas when all the rectory had gone to bed —the young fellow seemed to be thoroughly enjoying him¬ self—till one day. Mr. Hardy after a long walk with Arthur, an interview with Mr. Trevena in the study, and another with Mrs. Trevena in the garden, formally made an offer of marriage to Miss Trevena; he did it in the ]3roperest, most orthodox way—indeed the good man’s wooing seemed like a bit out of Sir Charles Grandison, only that he proved to be not the “ man of men ” to his Miss Byron. Exceedingly agitated, more,„so than her aunt ex^jected or 154 KING ARTHUR. could account for, the little girl,^’ now advanced to the dignity of a woman, declared she had never given the slightest encouragement to her suitor, and would certainly not many him. To all arguments from Mrs. Trevena, and a few very lame ones from Arthur—whom Mr. Hardy had made his confidant, and imj)lored to use his brotherly influence—Hanny answered, jjale as death, but with firm composure, that she had made up her mind not to marry anybody, and did not wish another word said on the subject. So, within a few hours, the thunder-storm came, broke, and passed away; but it left a troubled atmosphere in the happy family. The rector could not get over his startled per¬ plexity at finding his little niece a woman, and Mrs. Trevena knew enough of the cares of governess-ship to regret that Nanny should not escape from them into the blessed haven of domestic life. To her Mr. Hardy seemed very lovable; but evidently Nanny did not love him—and this wise fool¬ ish old woman, who still believed in love, had not another word to say. The storm had passed, but it left its traces behind. Nan¬ ny looked dull and sad, and Arthur, who for some reason or other did not ‘‘ go up for a few days after term began, was not himself at all. Is anything vexing you, my boy?^^ asked his mother one night when he came in from his usual evening enter¬ tainment at Tawtbn Abbas. He tried to put her off—scold¬ ing her for sitting up, and declaring it was because she knew how pretty she looked in her dressing-gown and her picturesque night-cap. But she saw something was amiss, and at last, taking his candle out of his hand, and making him sit down beside her, she found it out. ‘‘ That Lady Hamerel is an odd woman—a very odd woman,he said. ‘‘ What do you think she wants me to do? To give up my quiet life at Oxford—I^m obliged to be a reading man, you know, or else I couldn^t make ends meet—and go in for a re^lar jolly life. And she’d give^ KING ARTHUK. 155 me three hundred a year to do it with. Did you ever hear of such an offer—from a complete stranger too?'’^ And you answered?'’^ I said I was much obliged, of course, but that I had no idea of being a pensioner^ on any oner’s bounty. I meant to stand on my own feet and earn my own living as soon as ever I could. “ And she?^^ Oh! she took it coolly enough—as she does everything; said I might please myself, but I had better think it over —only I must speak to no one about it. ‘ Except my mother, ■’ I said, and then she laughed—Lady Damerel has the most unpleasant laugh I ever heard. I canH like her for all her kindness, and I won^t try. And so I won^’t ac¬ cept anything from her—not a thing, added Arthur de¬ cidedly. Don’t you think I am right, mother?” “Yes,” Susannah said beneath her breath. She was clutching her boy’s hand—caressing it and patting it, as she used to do when he was a baby. “ I can’t imagine why she should make such a fuss over me. It’s bothering—it’s humiliating. Can she do it out of compassion? or impertinent patronizing from a grand lady to— Mother,” he added abruptly, “ do you think Lady Damerel knows who I am? I mean—does she know I have no right to the name I bear?” “Everybody knows everything, my darling,” said Su¬ sannah. “ It was the only right, safe, and honorable way. Everybody recognizes you as our dear adopted son, who will be a credit to our name, and make a name for himself besides—as a brave man can. ” “ And I will. But, mother, sometimes—it’s rather hard.” Susannah did not deny. She knew, to the very bottom of her soul, that it was hard. “ If I were a girl now, it wouldn’t matter. King Co- phetua may woo the beggar-maid; and if she js a queenly 15 6 KIKG ARTHUR. maid, and deserves him, it’s all right—nobody asks any questions. Poor old Hardy asked none about Nanny. She might never have had a father or a mother for all he cared. He loved her for herself. And he was sure of himself— that he could offer her a good income and an honest name, and creditable relations. Now, if I were to ask a girl to marry me—not that I’m going to, without one halfpenny to rub upon another—but if I were~and her father j^nt the plain question, ‘ Who are you?’ what should I say? It’s funny, mother! but you must allow it’s a little hard.” He laughed—not without bitterness—the bitterness that she had long foreseen must come, and wondered it had not come sooner. How could she help him? By telling him the truth, which might be cruder than ignorance? *And besides, she herself did not absolutely know the truth—she only guessed at it. If she could have proved it, and there¬ by given her son name, fortune, every possible worldly prosperity, no matter though she robbed herself of all the joy of her life—still Susannah was the kind of woman to have done this. Not now. It might be that Arthur’s finding out the truth would take from him what he had, and give him nothing in return—leave him worse than nameless, worse than parentless. She looked up at him as he stood there— pale with a deeper emotion than she had ever yet seen in him, but young, strong, resolute, able to take his destiny in his own hands and carve out his own future—the best thing that can happen to any young man. ‘‘ Arthur,” she said, “it is hard—in some ways; but if I were you I would not be afraid. What does your favorite poet say? “ ‘ For man is man and master of his fate.* So are you. And sometimes,” she spoke bitterly, remem¬ bering old days, “it is almost a blessing to have no rela¬ tions, ” KING AKTHUR. 157 ‘'You are thinking of papa and his brother—Nanny’s father—Avhom I hated. He was so cruel to Nanny.” “ Yes, but we have forgotten that now. Nanny has not a bit of her father in her, except his name. She is upright, honest, independent—sure to do well in the world. And so will you.” Arthur’s eyes brightened. “ I will try.” “ And remember, my boy—every one has something to fight with—some evil fate to master. I mastered mine, and God gave me you. My dear, isn’t it worth a little to you that He also gave you your mother?” She held out her arms to him; and, big fellow as he was, the boy knelt down, laid his head on her lap, and wept like a child. That night Susannah made up her mind. Come what might, she would be resolved; she would find out the whole truth. Her son should not be lured from her by tempta¬ tions of the world, the flesh, and the devil. If he went he should go open-eyed—choosing deliberately between her and Lady Damerel; the simple, pure, righteous life in which he had been brought up, and the shallow worldly life they led afc Tawton Abbas. So, next day, when the rector and Nanny had gone on their parish rounds together, and Arthur was amissing somewhere—he was often amissing now; being restless, unhappy, weary of his own company, and other people’s, too—Mrs. Trevena gathered up all her feeble strength, and set out to walk alone across the park to the great house. A short stroll, yet she had not done so much for many months. But the more fast-increasing she felt her weak¬ ness, the more she was determined to conquer it, and to work while it was day. It was a lovely morning; the sky bright with floating wliite clouds, the trees in the park ah’eady growing green. What a beautiful park it Avas! For nearly twenty years she had watched it, budding Avith spring, deepening mto m KING ARTHUK. the full verdure of summer; then melting to the glowing tints of autumn, and the scarcely less lovely whiteness of winter. How she had admired and enjoyed it! much more, probably, than its successive tenants had done. Infinitely more, alas! than its owner, poor Sir Charles! whom she- saw coming toward her down the path in his Bath-chair. At first she thought she would avoid him; and then—no! Sir Charles was such a permanent invalid, such an un¬ considered nothing in the Damerel establishment, that Mrs. Trevena had rarely spoken to him. The chair, with its melancholy occupant and the tall footman lounging beside it, was passing her by, when she stopped it—half ashamed of herself to think that it was not for pity she did so. She addressed the old man courteously and kindly, but vainly she tried to get a coherent word from him. He “was evi¬ dently paralyzed, for his speech was thick, and his face ex¬ pressionless. His hands, distorted with rheumatism, lay helpless in his lap—yet he must have been a handsome man once. He had sweet soft eyes, blue even yet—as blue as Arthur^s; and the clear-cut aquiline features of the JDamerels—a nose as big as mine,^^ she remembered Arthur had once said. Yes, withered and old as it was, the face was Arthur^s face—the smile was Arthur^s smile. Nature nad avenged herself upon the careless wife, the un¬ thankful mother, with circumstantial evidence stronger than any words. Mrs. Trevena saw-—and wondered she had never seen it before—that if Sir Charles Damerel and Arthur were set side by side, no one could doubt that the boy was his father^’s son. Well, it was good to be assured—whatever might hap¬ pen; also with a sad pity that removed all conscience-stings as to any claim of the father on the son, she felt that this poor dead-alive wreck of humanity was long past being affected, for good or ill, by anything that did happen. To find a son would be to Sir Charles now neither joy nor pain. It was Lady Damerel only with whom Mrs. Trovena KIKG ARTHUH. 159 had to do battle; and would do it, putting herself and her feelings entirely aside—as she had had to do all her life; a curious contrast to that other woman, to whom self had been first object always. It was so still, to judge by the luxury of the morning- room, into which Mrs. Trevena was shown. All looked couleior de rose, down to the very hangings, which were so placed as to throw a becoming glow on the faded face of the passee beauty who was afraid to be old. Susannah, catch¬ ing sight of herself in the numerous mirrors, and conscious of her trembling limbs and beating heart, knew that she was old—no doubt about that now! But she grieved not, feared not. All the more reason that she should do what she had to do, without delay. AVhat was there to do? Nothing, it seemed, by the easy condescending smile with which the great lady received the rector^s wife, and the pleasure she expressed at Mrs. Tre- vena^s being able to walk so far, for a mere call. “ It is not a mere call. I wanted to speak to you.^^ Lady Damerel started an instant—and then resumed her pohte smile of attention. I am sure anything I can do for you, or for our excel¬ lent rector— “ Thank you—my husband and I want nothing. But you have offered to do something for my son, which he can not accept—which I do not wish him to accept.'’^ .‘‘Whynot?^" “ Because it is unseemly, and humiliating, for a young man to receive a large annual income from the bounty of— a stranger. Lady Damerel put her fan before her face, with an air as nonchalant as it was graceful; scarcely to hide emotion; there seemed none to hide. “ I hope that Arthur she saw Mrs. Trevena wince—* “ I beg his pardon, Mr. Arthur, does not consider me quite a stranger. I like the young man; he is useful and pleas- IGO KIKCt ARTHUK. ant to me—who have no children of niy own. If I wish to help him why should you hesitate to accept my olTer?^^ “ I do not hesitate/^ said Susannah; I absolutely re¬ fuse. While I live, my son shall never he indebted for a halfpenny to any one but his mother. I thought you told me you were not his own mother?"’^ “ I am not. Are you?^^ The question was so sudden—so direct—delivered with the intensity almost of a blow, struck as it were for dear life—that it fell upon Lady Damerel like blow. She sprung up in her chair. What right have you to say this—what proofs can you give?—Mrs. Trevena, how dare you—?^^ I dare do anything, if it is for'my son^s sake, my hoy, whom I took as a little baby—whom I have brought up— who has been all in all to me these twenty years—the best son that ever mother had. How dare you come between me and him? How can you, if, as I believe, you are the wom¬ an that deserted him, sold him, think to buy him back again with your miserable money? How dare you, I say?^^ As Susannah spoke, the passion of her voice startled even herself. But it met no response, either of fear or anger. Lady Damerel sat down again with a slight laugh. This is—an amusing fiction. But even if it were the truth— 'Ht is the truth, and you know it. And you know that Dr. Franklin knows it too. He will be coming back to England shortly; he and I between us can prove everything —everything. And we will do it.^^ Lady Damerel smiled still; but in somewhat ghastly fashion: That would be unwise, Mrs.’ Trevena. You would lose your son, and I should not gain mine. One question—does he—the boy—know it too?” ‘‘ He does not. If he did, how he would despise youl” There was no attempt at disguise now. The two women sat looking at one anorher—open enemies; tiger-like, each KIKG ARTHITB. lei l*ea(ly for tlie next spring. But both were very quiet; the one through fear, the other from speechless contempt. What would have happened next—-who can tell?—but for one of those coincidences which occur sometimes, in a way so natural that we call it providential. As Susannah did, to the end of her days. The door opened, and Arthur walked in: * I hope I am punctual. Lady Damerel. You told me to come at eleven. What?^^—seeing Mrs. Trevena—“ Oh, mother, how wrong of you to come alone! How tired you look! Sit down—sit down. And he stood beside'her, with his hand laid caressingly on her shoulder, and his eyes full of anxiety. He had evi¬ dently no thought of anybody but his mother. Then, with the intuition of love, he saw that something was the mat¬ ter; and, with his usual frankness, faced it at once. “I conclude. Lady Damerel, you know already what I came to tell you—that my mother would rather I did not accept your kindness. I agree with her. I wish to make my own way in the world, owing nothing to anybody—ex¬ cept my mother. ^ ^ Was it a lingering touch of human nature—maternal jealousy if not maternal tenderness — that made Lady DamereTs lip quiver as she looked at the handsome, grace¬ ful youth, and the little old woman over whom he leaned so affectionately. ‘‘ Your adopted mother, you mean. But decide as you choose. I hope you may not live to regret it. Arthur flushed painfully: ‘‘ Since you know the truth about my birth. Lady Damerel, you will allow that I am right, not only in loving, but in obeying my mother.^'’ As Susannah clung to her boy^s hand—the strong young hand which infolded hers (and here again Nature had asserted herself, for it was the very image of Lady Dame- reDs)—a sudden revulsion came over her. She felt com¬ pelled by that sense of absolute right, quite irrespective of Q KIKCt ARTHUR. worldly widsom or personal feeling, that stern law—Fais ce que tu dois, advierme que pourra!^^ which strengthens some people—women especially — to do by impulse that which in cold blood they would perhaps have shrunk from doing. “ Thank you, my own good boy!^’ she said, with a sob. ‘‘ You know hwv I have loved you. But I am not your mother. Your real mother—the woman who bore you—is —that woman there Arthur sprung up as if he he had been shot. She my mother! the mother who deserted me—sold me?—oh no, mother darling! it can’t be true—it isn’t true!” It is true. She does not deny it. Look at her.” Lady Lamerel sat bolt upright in her chair—as white and as hard as marble. Arthur took one step toward her, and then drew back. ‘‘ Thank you, mother, for telling me. I am glad I know this. It was right I should be told.” “ I did not wish him to be told. Ho good can come of it, for his father never knew of his existence. I shall be glad to help him—with the half of my fortune if he wishes -—after Sir Charles’s death. But I never can acknowledge him publicly. It would ruin me.” Lady Lamerel spoke in a slow, cold, impersonal voice, never looking at her son. Nor did her son look at her. Bather he turned away his eyes, as if the mere sight of her were painful to him. At last he said, very quietly—and with a strange absence of emotion which made liim for the moment almost resemble her— You need not fear: I shall never intrude upon you. I think it would almost kill me to have to do my duty to your as your son. Good-morning, Lady Lamerel. Come, mother, let us go home.” He placed Mrs. Trevena’s hand within his arm, and, with a distant, stately bow—a bow worthy of the heir of all the Damerels—he quitted without another word “ the woman KIKG ARTHUK. 10:3 that bore him —who had been to him merely that and nothing more. Lady Damerel sat, in her unshared splendor, childless and alone. Her sin had found her out. It was a just and •a righteous retribution. CHAPTER VIIL • For several days after Arthur discovered the truth about his parentage, he and his “ mother never spoke on the subject. He had whispered to her on their way home from Tawton Abbas—Please don’t say a word to me—I can’t bear it ”—and indeed she was utterly unable to say a word. The long strain being ended, a reaction came. Ere night¬ fall she was so ill that Arthur silently put off his departure for Oxford; and for many days neither he nor any one at the rectory thought of aught but her—the center of all their love and care. When she revived, she found that Arthur had told both the rector and Eanny what had happened—the bare fact —no more—to save mother the pain of telling it ’’^—but that he had requested of them total silence on the subject, since this discovery ‘ ‘ made no difference in anything. ” He repeated the same to herself in the few words that passed between them before he started for Oxford: she had thought it right to speak, and explain to him that even though he were the lawful heir of Tawton Abbas, unless Lady Damerel acknowledged this, it would be most difficult to prove his rights. ‘‘It does not matter, mother,” he said calmly. “I have thought it all over, and perhaps ‘ ’Tis better as it is ’ —as your friend Shakespeare says. I will make my own way in the world, and be indebted to nobody. Except you ■—except you!” He stooped and kissed the silver hair—winter even within KIKG ARTHUK. K>4 the last few weeks. Then, holding his head high, though he too looked older and graver—much, he bade her and them all a cheerful good-bye, and went back to his work. From that time Arthur^s letters came regularly, even more regularly than usual. But they were only to his mother—not to l^anny, who had once shared them. And they were wholly about his work—or his play, for he was equally good at both; as noted on the river as he was in the schools. But he never in the least alluded to what, had occurred, or implied that he himself was in any way diifer- ent from the Arthur Trevena who had been the Trevenas* only son, dearly beloved, for the last twenty years. And Lady Damerel made no sign. She still stayed on at Tawton Abbas—which, it was clear, poor Sir Charles was never likely to leave again; but she filled it with com¬ pany, as usual, and lived her usual lively life there. Her sole appearance in the village was at church, where she sat, erect as ever, in her arm-chair; her cold, handsome, painted face, under the thin gauze veil which she always wore, contrasting strangely with the backgound of marble monuments—the old Damerels to whom her husband would soon be gathered. Sir Charles, it was rumored, would be the last of the name, though not of the race; for the next heir being by the female line, the baronetcy would become extinct. Though she was little known, and less liked, one or two of the more thoughtful of the congregation, looking at her, and recognizing what a downcome must follow her husband/s death, sometimes said—Poor Lady Damerel!^^ Not Mrs. Trevena. Under all her gentleness Susannah could, if need required, be as hard as stone, and as silent. She never, in or out of the house, except upon compulsion, mentioned the name of Lady Damerel. She rose up from her illness, and went about her duties as heretofore—not even allowing Nanny to share them; Nanny, who still lived at the rectory, nominally, but was rarely at home, having obtained teaching in a neighboring town. She was KING AllTHUR. 165 cheerfully earning her honest bread, and evidently malting up her mind to do this all her days, as if there had been no such person as Mr. Hardy in existence. She worked hard, poor little thing!—as her aunt had done before her; and her aunt appreciated this, as well as the tenderness which made Nanny, whenever she was at home, as good as any daughter. But Susannah did not want a daughter. All her heart was bound up in her son; and it was a great pang to her, even though she acknowledged it might be ‘‘ all for the best —when Arthur announced his intention of spending the long vacation with a reading party in Wales. He could afford it, having earned some extra money by acci¬ dental “ coaching. It was good for his health, his mother argued to herself; and would be more cheerful to him than home—which he must find rather dull now he was a grown¬ up young man. So she said to Nanii}^, who listened and said nothing; Nanny never did speak much at any time. Therefore it befell that for a whole year Arthur appeared at the rectory only on very short visits; between terms, or after having passed successfully all his examinations. He would never set the Thames on fire —as he one day bade Nanny impress upon his mother; but he had no fears of failing in his university career. Indeed he hoped to get through it in such a way as to secure afterward his daily bread, at least, probably as an Oxford coach. Of music, or the musical career, he now never spoke a word. Indeed, in many ways the boy was much changed—a boy no longer, but a man. In one thing, however, there was no change, but rather a growth—his tender devotion to his mother. Ay, even though life, which with him was pouring on toward fiood-tide, with her was at its quiet ebb. Though she could not share in his pleasures, could never be to him the sympathetic companion that young and active mothers often are to their boys—and a lovely sight it is!— still, to see Arthur with his little old mother, as careful as 16G KING AKTHUR. a girl, as devoted as a lover, as tender as a son—was also a sight never to be forgotten. Lady Damerel never saw it—nor they her. Once, when walking in the park, they came across Sir Charles’s wheeled chair; Arthur, taking off his hat, stood aside to let it pass, with its melancholy occupant, behind whom walked the valet, or keeper, always his sole companion. It is no use speaking to Sir Charles; he doesn’t know anybody now,” said the servant carelessly; and they walked on. But, m the blank white face of the old man, and the strongly marked profile of the young one, Susannah saw again that unmistakable likeness—fate’s confirmatory evi¬ dence against the cruel bar-sinister which the world would be sure to impute to a deserted child. And though to judge a man by this, to lay to his charge his parents’ sin, is wholly unjust and unchristian; still, since the world is neither christianized nor just, it will be always so. She watched her boy as he walked on beside her, with a grave fixed look on his face, but showing no other emotion. ‘‘ Sir Charles will not live long,” she said, “ and nobody could wish it.” “ No; but I am glad to remember he was always kind to me.” This was all. Intercourse between Tawton Abbas and the rectory had now stopped entirely. The rector wished it to be so. Austin Trevena did not often take the law into his own hands. His own instincts bad been so pure, and his life so blameless, that he did not understand sinners, and was apt to be only too lenient to them. But in this case he was very firm. The church-door is open to any one,” he said, ‘‘ and I can not refuse her the sacrament, for I know nothing against her moral character—but there it ends. I hope, Susannah, that Lady Damerel will never darken our doors again. ” She did not. For a whole year no trouble entered those KTKG ARTHUH. 167 quiet doors; where old age was now beginning to claim its Sabbath of peace, which ought to be so welcome and so blessed. For what energetic action is to youth, so is mere reat to declining years. After sixty—sometimes, alas! be¬ fore then—we learn to say, ‘‘ There is no joy but calm;'’"’— and to be thankful for it if we get it. So, when month after month slid by, and nothing hap¬ pened, nothing broke the monotony of the peaceful house, hold, except Arthur^s flying visits, and his constant, com¬ forting letters—Susannah’s worn face gradually recovered its look of sweet content, justifying her boy in telling her, as he did sometimes, that she was the prettiest .old lady that ever was seen.’"’ Or would be, one day—for he refused to allow that she was old •” yet; and often proposed the most unheard-of feats for her in the way of picnics, and other expeditions with himself and Nanny. At which she smilingly shook her head, and sent “ the children •” away by themselves. Arthur, come home now for the long vacation, seemed again his merry boyish self. He had got triumphantly through his ‘‘schools”—and seemed determined to enjoy himself. He went singing about the house as when he was ten years old; though now just past one-and-twenty; he walked, he fished, he bicycled; he “tramped” the parish for the rector, and visited the old women with Nanny, who was also at home for her holidays. Nanny had changed very little within the last few years. She was still the same plain little thing, except for her great dark eyes, and her exceedingly sweet-toned voice—a pleasant voice is better to live with than even a pretty face. But she had an atmosphere of prettiness about her too—ex¬ ceeding neatness of dress, and grace of movement; so that, though not a beauty, she could never be called decidedly ugly. Some day, perhaps, some other man—probably, her aunt thought, an elderly man—might find in her the same nameless charm that Mr. Hardy had done. Poor Mr. 168 KIUG ARTllL'E. Hardy! He still came to the rectory sometimes, but he never said a word more to Miss Treveua. Once, wlien talk¬ ing to Arthur about the future of “ poor little Nanny, ^ Hi is mother suggested that perhaps she might be an old maid after all. At which the boy laughed—which Susannah thought rather unbrotherly and unkind—but he made her no answer whatever. It was August, and he had been two weeks at borne; going about everywhere, except in the direction of Taw ton Abbas. It was emptied of guests, at Jast, they heard; for Sir Charles was slowly dying. Lady Damerel seldom ap¬ peared at church now; but one day a stranger gentleman was seen there, in the Damerel pew. He was stout, pomp¬ ous, and common-looking. Eeport said he was the heir, come to pay a duty visit, and investigate the state of affairs; wliich made the village talk him over rather curiously, and say again—Poor Lady Damerel! But nobody ever said Poor Mrs. Treveua I There was little need. Though feeble and elderly now, she looked so content and at rest—so proud even, when walking into church on her tall soiiH arm—that no one would ever have thought of pitying her. Nor did she pity herself. Her life’s storms seemed to have sunk into peace. Her boy knew everything about himself; and yet was satisfied to be still her boy. Accounts reached her on all sides of his well¬ doing at Oxford; where, his university curriculum being gone through, a fellowship, and possibly a tutorship, were almost sure to follow: one of the many proofs that a boy with a fair amount of brains, and the determination to use them, can make his way in the world without any extrane¬ ous help, either of friends or fortune—if he so choose. Where there’s a will there’s a way,” Arthur used to say, as a boy; and as a man he bade fair to carry out his creed. His mother thought of him now with that restfulness of perfect trust, not so much in his fortunes as in himself—a safer stronghold—wliich, God help them! not all mothers KING ARTHUK. 169 have, or deserve to have. But He had given her that blessing, and she was thankful. No doubt, Arthur was not quite as perfect as she thought him; but he was a very good fellow, and a favorite with everybody—including all the young ladies of the neighborhood. For he and Nanny together had gradually brought young life about the rec¬ tory; where there were occasionally garden-parties, lawn- tennis meetings, and such-like mild country amusements. Susannah shared them, and was amused by them; some¬ times speculating upon how much her boy was admired, and wondering who would fall in love with him; and whom, in some far future day, he would fall in love with himself, and marry. She would be very fond of his wife, she thought; and oh! it would be delightful to see his children. ‘‘ Only fancy! me a grandmother!'’^ she thought, and laughed to herself at the oddness of the idea. She was sitting, after one of these parties, in the warm August darkness, lit with sturs, and fragrant with deli¬ cious scents. It was about nine o^clock; Arthur and Nanny had walked a little way down the road with their friends, and the rector was in his study. Susannah sat in the sum¬ mer-house, all alone. But she did not mind solitude; she rather enjoyed it. She liked to sit and think—as now; for the scent of clematis and jasmine always brought back the August nights of her youth-—when Austin came back from Oxford, and they used to walk in his father^’s garden to¬ gether for hours. Then, life was all before them; now it was behind. What matter? It had not been all she ex¬ pected; a ship or two had gone down, but much had been saved—enough to make the old scents always sweet to her, and the old days dear. She was looking back upon them, dreamily; and forward, into the days to come—not so many now! when she heard steq)3 upon the gravel, and there passed two figures—a man and a girl. She thought at first it was her house-maid, who she knew had a “ lad —for the man^s arm was round 170 KING ARTHUE. the girFs waist^ and she was sobbing on his shoulder; which kept Mrs. Trevena from speaking to them. Shortly they passed again, and then, to her utter bewilderment, she saw it was Arthur and Nanny—whom she still sometimes called —“ the children.,'’^ She was so accustomed to think of them as such, that at first her only feeling was a slight vexation that Nanny should be bothering Arthur with her troubles. She had heard him say, ‘‘ Don^t cry, poor little Nanny—ifiease don^t.^^ But Nanny was a little too old to be soothed and caressed like a baby, and should be careful as to how such caresses looked outside—Arthur not being her real brother. As to anything else, Mrs. Trevena dismissed the idea as simply ridiculous. Her Arthur—such a fine young fellow, everybody-^’s favorite; and Nanny—such an ordinary creat¬ ure—whom he had played with, petted, tyrannized over all his life—for them to be anything but brother and sister was perfect nonsense! She would not speak to Arthur, or put such a notion into his head; but she would speak to Nanny, who was a sensible girl, and would understand. ‘ Howevei’, when she went in-doors, she found Nanny had gone to bed; very tired,^^ Arthur explained; and that he himself, after supper and prayers, was evidently waiting for a talk with his mother—as he. often did of Saturday nights when the rector was busy over his sermon. “ I have rather a serious word or two to say to you, mother darling,^^ he whispered, as he took her hand and sat down beside her. ‘‘Not very serious,smiled she—for his eyes were shin¬ ing and his manner cheerful and happy, though a trifle nervous. At which she hardly wondered, when he came out suddenly with a startling idea. “ Mother, I want to leave you for a little. I am think¬ ing of going to Switzerland—to Andermatt.’’^ “ To Andermatt? Why? Oh, rny boy, what good would it do?’^ KTKG ARTHUR. 171 Arthur soothed her momentary distress—^he had unlimited power of soothing his mother; and then told her that in consequence of a letter from his godfather, ‘‘ and for other reasons/’ he had lately thought it advisable to tell his whole history to a friend he had, the son of an eminent Lon¬ don barrister—who had taken connsel’s opinion. This was, that if he ever meant to claim the estate and the baronetcy, he ought immediately to take steps to obtain what is called ‘‘ perpetuation of testimony,” that is, the affidavits of all those witnesses who could prove his birth and his identity; which evidence could belaid up, and 'would be sufficient, in case of the death of any of them before the time came for the heir to assert his rights. I will never do this in Sir Charles’s life-time; but after¬ ward, I may, if I can afford the money. One’s birthright is one’s birthright, and worth fighting for. Ko man could be expected not to fight, if he has the right on his side, both for his o'vvn sake and those belonging to him. ” “ But that is only papa and me; and we would rather keep you as our son than have you the heir of all the Dame- rels. ” No sooner had she said this than she felt how selfish it was, and how natural, how right, that Arthur should feel as he did, and should have done what he had done—as any young man would have done—though it hurt her a little that he had done it without consulting her. But he was so tender, so thoughtful, and withal so prudent, that the feel¬ ing soon passed. If her son did what was right and wise, it mattered little whether Ke did it with her or without her. So they went into the details of his proposed journey with their usual mutual confidence. He had saved enough to defray all expenses, he thought, if he traveled very econom¬ ically; and when she offered-him money, he refused it. He preferred being on his owni hook.” “ You see, I am ngt doing badly, mother, for a fellow of 172 KING ARTHUR. twenty-one. It’s odd—but I am really twenfc 3 ^-one now. I could be sued for my own debts—or for breach of promise, if I had asked any one to marry me.” He said this with a laugh and a blush—but also with an anxious look out of the corners of his bright honest eyes. His mother laughed too, in unsuspicious content. ‘‘All in good time, my dear. I hope 3 "ou will many some day, when you find anybody you care for—which you have not found yet, you know.” Arthur looked grave and answered, very gently, “ I am not sure. ” A sudden wild apprehension flitted across the mother’s mind. Could her boy have fallen in love? The girls of the neighborhood—she counted them over swift as thought. Not one seemed j^^ssible, probable, or desirable. “Arthur?” she cried, in an almost agonized question. Arthur hung his head a little. “ Yes, mother, it’s quite true. I did really ask her—this evening. I think I must have loved her all my life—though I didn’t find it out till Mr. Hardy wanted her, and couldn’t get her. ” “ Nanny! OJi, Arthur, it isn’t surely Nanny! Impossi¬ ble!” “ Why iriipossible?” said Arthur, drawing herself up. “ Such a—” “ such a plain little thing,” the mother was going to say, but stopped herself—“ a dilferent kind of person from you. And she has been your cousin—almost your sister—ever since you were children together.” “But she is not my cousin, and not my sister, and I don’t want her as either. iVant her for my wife.” The young man—he was a man now—spoke firmly the strange new word. It went through his mother like a shaft of steel—^yet she had the sense not to show it. “ You asked Nanny, you say, this evening? And she answered—” “ She would not give me anv answer at all till I had told you—and her uncle. But I think, indeed I know—” And KIKG ARTHUB. m Artliur lifted his head prouder than ever—with the honest pride of a young man who knows that the girl he loves loves him. ‘‘She is such a good girl/’’he added. “ IN’obody in the world could ever say a word against my little Nanny. “ Ml/ ’’ little Nanny! the sense of possession—^the pas¬ sionate protection of his own against all the world — it touched the mother in spite of herself. So many lovers are such cowards—so ardent to seize;, so feeble to defend. Here was the true chivalric lover, who, it was clear, meant to hold to his “ little Nanny through thick and thin. What could Susannah say? It was the very kind of love she most admired—the ideal of faithful tenderness which she herself had taught him; though it broke her heart she could not but respect it. And yet—and yet— Arthur saw her evident distress, but did not attempt to console her. There is a time—God forgive them, poor lambs!—when all young people think of themselves only. Happy for them if their elders have self-control enough to recognize this—to remember the time when they also went through the same phase of passionate egotism—or dual egotism. It can not last long. If lovers are proverbiallv selfish, except to the object beloved, husbands and wives, fathers and mothers, must inevitably soon learn that self- abnegation which is the very soul of marriage and parent¬ hood, which often makes even the most thoughtless boy or girl into a noble man and woman. There is much to be said for and against what the world¬ ly-minded call “ calf-love.'’^ ft may not always endure— perhaps best not—for a man^s last love is sometimes deeper than his first. But sometimes it does endure; and then it is the strongest thing in life; I have known people who loved one another in their teens, and loved on for sixty years. By a sort of inspiration, Susannah ^s mind leaped at tins truth, or at least this possibility; and it strengthened her to 174 KIKG AETTIUR. bear wliat to no mother can be a joy, and may be a i^harp pang—the discovery that she has ceased to be her child first object—that anotliet, perhaps a total stranger, has suddenly become far closer, far dearer, far more important than she. Restraining a sob, and compelling herself into something like a smile, Mrs. Ti'evena held out both her hands to her boy. He seized them, and, flinging himself on his knees before her, put both his arms round her waist and kissed her again and again. “ My good mother^—my kind mother!^^ was all he could say, almost with a sob. She stroked his hair, and patted his shoulder. “ You silly boy—such a mere boy still! And she such a baby—little Nanny, whom you have known all your life.'’' “It is because I have known her all my life—because I am quite sure of her, that I love her so. She would never despise me. She is willing to marry a man without a name —and therefore for her sake I will try to get one. I’ll do> nothing just yet—as I told you; I will stand on my own feet: and make myself respected as I am. But, by and by, I will move heaven and earth to obtain my own. For Nanny’s sake—for Nanny’s sake! And, if I fail, I shall still have her—and you.” “ Her ” first—“ you ” afterward. Well! it was right— it was natural; the law of nature and of God. Arthur was unconscious of having said it—nor did his mother betray that she had^heard it. It was the final love-sacrifice which all mothers must make: if the smoke of it ascends to heaven, God accepts it, and that is enough. “ You are not vexed—not angry with me, mother dar¬ ling?” said Arthur, anxiously. “ How could I be? You are a couple of little geese— that is all. And you will probably have to wait for years and years. ” “ Never mind,” laughed Arthur, now quite happy— KIKG AJiTHLK. 175 actually radiant in his happiness—so handsome, so graceful, that more than ever it was an actual amazement to her how he, her King Arthur, the cynosure of all eyes—the sort of preux chevalier whom most girls fall in love with— he, who might have chosen anybody, should have gone and chosen Kanny—poor little Nanny! “ You will speak to herP^ pleaded he. She is gone to bed, but she is not asleep, I am sure. You will not wait till morning—you^ll go now, mother?^^ “ Certainly.'’^ And Mrs. Trevena rose, steadying her¬ self by the back of her chair—and feeling blindly for the door handle. Then she turned: ‘‘ I think, dear, wedlnot tell papa of this Just yet—not till after Sunday."’^ When they did tell him Mr. Trevena’was, as his wife had foreboded, a little vexed. He took the masculine and worldly view of the subject, and did not like being dis¬ turbed out of the even tenor of his way by any such youth¬ ful nonsense. ‘ ‘ Foolish children I—they have not a halfpenny between them,said he. ‘‘And the idea that at their age they should know their own minds—it^s ridiculous “We did,^"" said Susannah, softly. And she may surely be forgiven if, looking at the Austin Trevena of to-day, she remembered the Austin Trevena of forty years ago, and thought perhaps it might have been better for both had he too been “ young and foolish —if they had trusted themselves and Providence; married as early as prudence would allow, spent the flower of their days together, not apart; fought through their cares and enjoyed their bless¬ ings; and lived to “ see their children'’s children and peace upon Israel.'’^ Such might be the lot of Arthur and Nanny —and, remembering her own lot, she was glad of it. “ Husband,^* she said, and put her arm on his shoulder with the love that had never failed him all his life—never would fail him till death—“ we did' not make this marriage —it made itself, or God made it—who knows? DonT you 176 KIKG ARTHUR. think we had better leave things alone, and let the young people settle their own affairs?’^ A sentiment which coincided so much with the rector’s dreamy, lazy ways that possibly he was glad in his heart to leave things alone. He told his niece “ she could do as she liked,” and Arthur, too; went back to his books and forgot all about it. In his gentle undemonstrative way Austin was the tenderest of husbands—the kindest of men; but with him, as was not unnatural, the days of romance were all over and done. Were they with Susannah? are they ever with any real woman who recognizes that love is the heart of life; and, for either man or woman, its utmost salvation, its most perfect joy? Arthur had only a few days at home before he started for Andermatt with his friend, who was also a lawyer, and capable of transacting the necessary legal business. The boy arranged all with the cleverness, shrewdness, and firm¬ ness of a man. Between whiles he went about, also like a man, with the girl he had chosen; beamingly happy, and not a bit shy or ashamed. His mother watched him with a full heart—she also had been in Arcadia. ” But it was a sore heart, too. She had always liked Hanny, and been very kind to her; but kindness and liking are not necessarily love. People of wide sympathies and active benevolence are often misconceived, and supposed to love everybody. They do not. They feel kindly to every¬ body, but they only love one or two people in the whole course of their lives. It is like a man putting all his money in one bank; if the bank breaks—and it does break sometimes—God help him! He may carry on business very successfully outside, but at heart he is bankrupt all his days. ^ One of these rare loves—strong as rare—in Mrs. Tre- vena’s life, had been the maternal passion for her adopted son. His going to school and college had made him less a KIKa ARTHUK. 177 part of her daily existence than if he had been a girl; but his falling in love was a greater blow to her than any daughter's would have been. In spite of the cruel jocu¬ larities against mothers-in-law, many a woman inclines tenderly to the man her daughter marries; often loving him like her own son. For her daughter’s her daughter all her life ”—and she gains a son besides. But when her son marries she loses him in degree, and sometimes does not gain a daughter. Watching Nanny, and wondering more and more how Arthur ever came to choose her—yet plain little women have ruled paramount, and for life, in the hearts of clever and handsome men—Susannah sometimes felt as if she could never love the girl; and then again as if she must love her, because Arthur did. It was a desperate struggle —a small tragedy in a tea-pot ”—but none the less a tragedy; and all the more pathetic that it went on in the silent heart of an old woman, in whom age, which deadens most things, had never yet deadened the power of loving and of suffering. But it could not last—it ought not to last. Best to bury it—and let all the sweet charities of life grow up round it, like grass and flowers round a stone. The household at the rectory soon found out the truth of things; so did the village, and came with its innocent con¬ gratulations to Mr. Arthur and Miss Nanny. Mr. Hardy came, too—sad, but resigned—saying with comical pathos, “It’s not lost that a friend gets.” By and by all the neighborhood brought good wishes, too, except Tawton Abbas, where Sir Charles still lay in that lingering death in life which might last for months or years. Susannah herself expected little result from Arthur’s journey to Andermatt; but she thought it right he should go; and his godfather, who expected to be in England shortly, wrote, insisting on the same. Nanny said nothing '—all she cared for was Arthur himself. Her absorbing 178 Rlls^G ARTHUR. and exclusive devotion to him, which had evidently existed hojoeless for years, touched his mother^s heart more than anything else; and made a little easier that salutary hut rather melancholy performance of playing second fiddle, which all parents must learn, soon or late. It is the law of nature—and therefore the law of God. Mr. Trevena was the only person in the household who dwelt much on the worldly phase of the matter; thought it l^ossible that Arthur might one day be Sir Arthur Damerel, and suggested that the last of the Trevenas would prove a not unsuitable Lady Damerel. ‘ ‘ And then, my dear, you and I must make up our minds to spend our old age together. The common lot! When the young birds are flown we must snuggle down in the empty nest. I dare say we shall bear it. Oh, yes—we shall bear it,^^ smiled Susannah, as she kissed him tenderly—the one man she had loved all her life through. She knew all his weaknesses—all his faults, as he knew hers; still he was himself, and she was herself —nothing could divide them but death. There is a sen¬ tence—if to quote it be not profane—and yet how can it be so, to those who try in all things to imitate tlie Divine Mas¬ ter? ‘‘ Having loved his own, he loved them unto the end.^^ And in all true loves we do love—we can not choose but love^—unto the end. Arthur wrote from Andermatt that he had “ found all he hoped for, and done all he’ wanted to do.^^ Nothing more. Explanations could wait. He and his companion meant to “ have their fling, for a week or two; it might be many years before he could afford more foreign travel¬ ing, and then he would come home. Home to the bright¬ est and best bit of a young man^s life, or a girEs either— when their lot is all settled, their love openly acknowledged; and they start, a betrothed pair, with everybody’s good wishes, to begin the journey of life together. “ My dear,” said Mrs. Trevena to Nanny, as they sat at KING ARTHUR. 179^ tlieir sewing, though the younger did it chiefly now, for Su- sannah^’s eyes were fast failing her—My dear, what day is Arthur coming home?^^ It was a new thing, a rather sore thing, for the mother to have to ask anybody else “ when Arthur was coming home?^^ but the reward, to a generous heart, was Nanny^s bright up-look, and happy blush. ‘‘ I think, aunt, he will be here the day after to-morrow. But I told him he was not to come till he had done all he wanted to do, and seen everything he wanted to see.-’^ This proud maidenly possession of a man, not to queen it over him in selfish vanity, but to use her influence nobly, for his good and hers—it was a pretty thing to see; and it comforted the mother^s heart. She knew well that a many’s whole future often depends upon the sort of girl he falls in love with in his first youth. I agree with you, my- dear; still, if you write again, tell him I think he should come home at once. His god¬ father is in England, and will be here to-day. You re¬ member Doctor Franklin ‘‘Oh, yes. There was nothing connected with Arthur which Nanny did not remember. Hers was the most en¬ tire, absorbing devotion, reasonable, not-blind devotion, that any girl could give; and day by day ih was reconciling Arthur’s mother to things as they were—even though they were wholly contrary to what she had expected or desired. She could not withstand the pathetic appeal of Nanny’s dark eyes—like that of Helena to the countess, in “ All’s Well that Ends Well. ” “ Let not your hate encounter with my love For loving where you do.” Also, another thing reconciled her—a thing hard to learn, but when learned, bringing with it a solemn peace. Dearly as she loved her own, she felt she could take care of them no more. As she watched Nanny flitting about like a little 180 KIKG ARTHUE. brown bird, carrying out ber orders, suggesting tilings sbe bad forgotten, and doing everything sbe was unable to do, tbe wife and mother learned to say to herself, ‘‘ So be it! When Dr. Franklin arrived she made Nanny explain to him the position of Arthur^s business affairs; which the girl did so clearly and well that the old man—^lie was quite an old man now—patted her on the shoulder approvingly. My godson has fallen on his feet, whether he ever is Sir Arthur or not. When you write, tell him I say so.'’^ But fortunately there was no need of writing. Next day Arthur came home, and Dr. Franklin^s evidence, conclu¬ sive as to identity, and including Lady DamereFs own ad¬ mission that the child was hers and her husband^s, was for¬ mally taken. “ Depend upon it, if she finds out I^m here, shefil shake in her shoes,said the Kentuckian, laughing his silent laugh. And truly, when the same evening, the Tawton Abbas carriage passed him, as he stood leaning on the rec¬ tory gate, the face that looked out from it turned deadly pale. But Lady Damerel made no sign of recognition. On both sides there seemed an armed truce, to last as long as fate w'ould permit—which could not be very long after all. Nor was it. Two days after, when the young people, shy but proud, and unspeakably happy, had slipped away for their daily walk togethei*, leaving Dr. Franklin and Mrs. Trevena sitting in the garden, and the rector in his study—there came a message from Tawton Abbas. The church-bell suddenly began to toll, as it had tolled for cen¬ turies on the death of any Damerel—once every minute for every year of age. They counted seventy-three strokes. It was Sir Charles Damerel then who had gone to his rest. All met on the doorsteps of the rectory, listening. Arthur removed his hat, and stood bareheaded, with a grave, com¬ posed air, till the bell ceased—then, taking Nanny^s hand, led the way in-doors. They all followed, for they knew tlie crisis was come. KIKG ARTHUR. 181 A long consultation followed. Le roi est mort; vivele roi /” There could be no doubt that the heir-presumptive would immediately claim his rights, and that the heir-ap¬ parent must claim his, or else forever hold his peace. There were two ways of procedure: one was that, sup¬ posing the remote cousin appeared at the funeral, having already taken possession^ to bring an action of ejectment against him in behalf of the direct heir; the second, involv¬ ing greater difficulties, was, that Arthur should take pos¬ session of Tawton Abbas, and leave his opponent to bring the action of ejectment. But this could not be done with¬ out the consent and assistance of Lady Damerel, which would be equivalent to a public acknowledgment of her son. It was decided to adopt the former course. If I have to fight—fight I will,'’'’ said Arthur, with a quiet resolution that surprised everybody. But I will not do it untender- ly. She shall not be troubled in any way till after the funeral. This was fixed for an earlier day than the village expect¬ ed. Usually the Damerels had the special honor of re¬ maining above ground for a week or more, before being left to sleep with their fathers under Tawton Church. That poor Sir Charles should be buried on the third day, looked far too unceremonious—almost as if his widow were glad to get rid of him. And when it was noised' abroad that the heir was “ somewhere on the continent,^'’ taking one of his numerous sons to school in Germany, and that consequent¬ ly Lady Damerel would be the only chief mourner, every¬ body was still more astonished. Except Dr. Franklin. ‘‘ That woman'’s a shrewd one,^'’ he said. “ She knows on which side her bread^s buttered. I shouldnT wonder— And there he stopped. Nobody talked very much at the rectory, except on commonplace, extraneous subjects dur¬ ing those three anxious days. The funeral day was a cheerless one, such as comes some- 182 KIKG ARTHUR. time in September; a settled downpour, wlien it appears as if the weather has broken, and the summer is gone. Nevertheless half the neighborhood assembled in the chilly church—so damp and cold that Nanny entreated her aunt not to attempt to go; and carriage after carriage rolled past the rectory gate on its way to pay respect to the last of the Damerels. It was to be a very fine funeral, everybody agreed; Lady Damerel having spared no expense to make her sorrow for her husband as public as possible. The long procession had been already seen wending along the park,' and the rector was puttmg on his canonicals, when Arthur came into the study, dressed in complete mourning. My boy?^^ said Mrs. Trevena questioningly. She only questioned now—she never controlled: he had a right to judge and act for himself; and she knew he would do both rightly. He stooped and kissed her tenderly. You do not ob¬ ject? I am going to my father’s funeral.” It was the first time he had ever used the word: he* said it now with a lingering pathos, as we speak of something wholly lost— the loss of which teaches us what it might have been. “ I ought to go, I think. He was a good man. There is one thing I shall find it hard to forgive; that I was prevented —she prevented me—from ever knowing my father. ” But that gained you a mother, young fellow!” said Dr. Franklin sharply. “ You’ve won much more than you lost.” I know it,” said Arthur earnestly. And if all fails, I shall come home here, and then go to Oxford and earn my honest bread, with Nanny beside me. ” It w^as Nanny’s hand he took—Nanny’s eyes he looked into when he spoke. Then, as wich a sudden though, he added—“ But I shall be my mother’s son all my days. ” Again he kissed her, and his mother kissed him back K^G AliTHL'iR. 183 again; nor hindered him.;, nor grieved him, by a single look or word. They all w^ent to the church together, for Mrs. Trevena refused to be left behind. Arthur did not enter the rectory pew with the rest, but stood at the entrance, waiting till the body was borne in to those solemn sentences which all of us know sadly well, beginning—Man that is born of a woman. After it walked Lady Damerel, in her widow^s weeds; erect and steady, but alone—in that utmost heart-loneli¬ ness which a woman, if she has a heart at all, can feel, when husband and children have gone to the grave before her, and she only is left, to a desolate old age. As she passed him, she looked up and saw Arthur. He did not look at her—his eyes were fixed on the coffin: but at some slight gesture she made he stepped forward—as he might have intended to do in any case—and took his place beside her. The service continued. The body was lowered into the vault—the solemn spadeful of ‘‘earth to earth rattled down—heard.distinctly through the dark, chilly church;— there was the final pause—the last gaze into that gloomy cave of death—and Lady Damerel turned to go. “ She^s fainting,^ ^ Arthur heard somebody whisper. AVhether she took the help, or he offered it, he never knew; but her hand was upon his arm, and leaning heavily, almost staggering sometimes, she passed through the re¬ spectful if not very sympathetic crowd, to the church door. There, almost in her path, stood the gaunt figure of the 'Kentucky doctor; who knew—had known—everything. Perhaps the woman felt that all was over, and deter¬ mined to do with a good grace what she would soon be com¬ pelled to do; which after all might be the best and most prudent thing for her to do. Or—may be—let us give her the benefit of the doubt—even thus late, nature was tug¬ ging at her heart. When Arthur had put her into the 184 KIN-G AETHUR. carriage, and was lifting liis hat with a formal farewell bow, she leaned forward and seized his hand: “ Come home with me! You must—it is necessary. I will confess;—you shall claim your rights—everything will be yours, The boy hesitated a moment—he was a man and yet a hoy; he turned very pale, and looked round—was it for his real mother, who was not the woman that bore him? But Dr. Frankhn behind said imperatively Go!^^—and he went. What the two said to one another when shut up in the carriage together, or what revelations were made that afternoon, when Dr. Franklin, having been sent for by the family lawyer, who of course had come for the funeral, went up to Tawton Abbas, was never clearly explained, hut before night-fall the news had run like wild-fire through the village that Arthur Trevena, the rector^s adopted son, had been suddenly discovered to he Sir Arthur Damerel, Sir Charleses lawful heir. Of course a large amount of fiction was mingled with fact. The presumptive heir—^the second cousin once removed—arrived post-haste next day—just too late for the hasty funeral—(she was a clever womau. Lady Damerel!)'—and it was said he intended to fight it out by law. However, either he became convinced that litigation was hopeless; or had no money to waste among lawyers; he swallowed his disappointment and stayed on placidly at Tawton Abbas. He even, some weeks after, assisted cheer¬ fully at the ringing of bells, the roasting of oxen, and other festivities—which indicated the delight of the neighborhood that poor Sir Charles was not the last of the Dame- rels. The strange story was a nine days’ wonder; and then it all died out. It was nobody’s business except the Dame- rels’; and they were satisfied. The widow—who had been seen by nobody except the lawyers—went away ‘ ^ for change of Sir,” and Sir Arthur Damerel reigned in liis KiKCI AUl’HtJfi: 18 d father^ s stead—the father who had never known of his ex¬ istence. It was a strange chapter in human life—so strange that at first hardly anybody believed it; until, one by one, everybody got used to it, and accepted things as they were, without overmuch questioning. As, of course, all this change was hkewise accepted at the rectory. Mrs. Trevena looked a trifle paler—she had become excessively pale and thin within the past year; “ worn to a shadow,people said; but she answered, with a peaceful smile, all the questions and congratulations. Only she never spoke of Sir Arthur except as ‘ ^ my son. There was another thing which she had to settle; and be also congratulated upon, and that was my son^s mar¬ riage. ^ ^ ‘‘ You couldn’t expect me to live in that big house all alone, mother,” pleaded Arthur—with amusing simphcity. “ And since I can not possibly get you, why not let me have Nanny to take care of me?” It did indeed seem the wisest plan. Though they were both so young—only nineteen and twenty-one—still they were not ‘‘ foolish;” for both had already battled with the world sufficiently to gain premature wisdom. And perhaps after all, though this generation does not think so, early marriages, when not rash or improvident, are best. Our grandfathers and grandmothers, who did not wait to be rich, but began life simply, as their parents did before them, and spent together their fresh, unstained hopeful youth, their busy maturity, their peaceful old age, were probably happier than we of to-day; who fritter away in idle flirting, or more harmful things, our blossoming time; marrying late in life with all the heart gone out of us; or never marrying at all, and then arguing sagely that to ‘‘ faU in love ” is a folly, and to marry is little less than a crime. Mrs. Trevena did not think so—would not have thought so, even had her son been still poor ” Arthur Trevena. AVhen, now he was !Sir Arthur Damerel, he began to speak 186 KIKG AHTHUR. of his marriage, all she suggested was that he should wait a year, out of respect to the d^ad; and to gain a little experi¬ ence in managing his large property, for the good of the living. A year is a long time,^^ said he disconsolately. ‘‘ Is it?^^ answered his mother, with a strange, far-away look, which startled liim a nioment, till he saw it melt into her usual smile. Then let it he six months, my dear. Leave me Nanny, and stay you beside me for just six months more. Then—do as you will.’’^ For the young people, neither of whom had seen the world, were determined, as soon as ever they were married, to go abroad and enjoy themselves; visiting Switzerland, Italy—perhaps even going on to Constantinople! They were so happy—so full of plans—so resolved to do no end of good on their estate; but they wanted just this little bit of pleasure—a harmless frohc together before they settled down. And so the winter passed, very happily; Arthur being at the rectory almost as much as when he used to live there; but never failing to go back of nights to his large dull house. He also spent conscientiously every forenoon in his study with his steward, repairing much evil that had come about in his father^s days, and planning no end of good to be done in his own. A happy time! full of hope for every¬ body. Nobody noticed much that Mrs. Trevena was the only one who smiled more than she spoke, and made no personal plans for the future at all. She had had, ever since Sir Charles’s funeral in the chilly church, her usual winter cold; rather worse than usual; for she ceased to fight against it; left everything to Nanny and gradually kept entirely to the house, then to her own room—a new thing, wliich her husband could not understand at all. He went wandering about, the rectory like a spirit in pain; or walked out into the village and wandered there, paying necessary or unnecessary pastoral KIN'G ARTHUR. 187 visits, and telling everybody '^tliat Mrs. Trevena bad a bad cold, but would certainly be about again in a day or two. ” And sometimes, strong in this expectation, when he returned he would come to the foot of the stairs and call “ Susannah!'’^ just as usual; expecting her to come, as she always used to come, nobody knew from where—till he be¬ thought himself to go in search of her to her room. There he always found her, and sat down content by her side. But, beyond that room, always so cheerful and bright— with sunshine if there was any sun, with firelight if there was none, the house and he had to endure her absence, to learn to do without her. Under Nanny^s charge all went on as usual—the old original clock-work way,'’-’Arthur called it, and hoped his wife would keep his big house as well as his mother had kept this little one. But day after day there was the empty chair at the head of the table, the empty sofa by the drawing-room fire, the work-box that nobody opened, the book that nobody read. Did any of them understand? Did Susannah herself un¬ derstand? Who can tell? There comes to us all a time when we begin to say, si¬ lently of course, our Nunc cUmittis. We are tired—so tired! Perhaps we ought not to be, and many good people would reprove us for being so, but we are tired— “We have had all the joys that the world could bestow, We have lived, we have loved.” Or else, we have had no joys, and have long since given up the hope of any. Which was scarcely Susannah'’s case, and yet she was tired. When they left her alone—though they never did it for long—she would lean her head back against her pillows, with the weary look of one who waits for bed-time. All about her was so busy and bustling. One day she had watched her husband, hale and hearty, march down the garden to inquire about the first brood of chickens, and a Pebruary lamb. 188 KIKG AETHUE. It will soon be spring/^ slie said to herself, and listened to what seemed like a thrashes note in the garden; soon drowned by Arthur^s piano below stairs, where he sat play¬ ing, with his ‘‘ little Nanny beside him—the girl who was almost as good as a wife to him already; taking care of him, guiding him, and adoring him by turns. ‘‘ How happy he is—that boyP'’ and a tear or two dropped from Susannah'’s eyes; human tears! I should like to have seen his children—just one little baby, like himself—my little baby that I loved so. It would have been the old days over again; when I sat in the rocking-chair—he in liis night-gown, sucking his thumb, with his eyes fixed on my face, and his two little feet in one of my hands. Wasn^t he a pretty baby?^^ The last sentence was said aloud, and in French, to Manetfce—^now grown stout and middle-aged, but with her faithful Swiss heart still devoted to her mistress, creeping up on every excuse from her cooking to see if madame wanted anything. No; Susannah’s wants were few—as they always had been. She was an invalid who gave no trouble to anybody. The coming Angel came so stealtliily, so j^eacefully, that no one ever heard his step. Stop a minute, Manette,” she said, after a few min¬ utes’ cheerful chat. I wish you would bring the rocking- chair out of the nursery—I mean Miss Nanny’s room—dear me, how stupid I am growing! I should like to have it here. ’ ’ Manette brought it: and when the young people came upstairs—which they did very soon, for they were not self¬ ish lovers—Arthur greeted it with a shout of delight, and declared it made him feel like a little baby ” once more. All that evening he insisted on sitting down on the floor at his mother’s feet; and let her play with his curls, or what remained of them, for he was a fashionable young man now, and had his hair cut like other golden youths. ” He .KING AETHUE. 189 told iN’anny ridiculous stories of liis childhood, making himself out to be twice as naughty as he ever had been; forcing even his mother to laugh, and laughing himself till the tears ran down his cheeks. In fact, cheerful and con¬ tent as they always were at the rectory, they had seldom spent so merry an evening; the rector included—who came up from his Saturday night ^s sermon, put off as usual till the last minute—and begged to have tea in his wife^s room. Everything seems so out of order down-stairs when you are not there, Susannah,'’^ said he restlessly. “You really must try to come down to-morrow. Yow, pour out my tea, Yanny. Yo—not ISTanny this time,^^ her aunt said gently, and bidding Arthur move the table closer, she poured out her husband^s tea, and gave it to him with her own hand—a rather shaky hand; as they remembered afterward, and wondered they had never noticed it, nor how white and quiet she sat, long after the meal was over. When Arthur had kissed his mother and bade her good¬ night, and Yanny came back, extra rosy, from the other rather lengthy good-night which always took place at the hall door—she thought her aunt looked more tired than usual, and said so, offering to stay beside her for awhile. Oh, no!^^ Mrs. Trevena answered. Let everybody go to bed, except Manette. She can sit with me till your uncle comes out of his study. Hanny —holding the girffs hand, and looldng hard into her face—“ youffl take care of your uncle? And—no, I need not tell you to take care of Arthur. Kiss me, my dear. Good-night. That was all. An hour later, Nanny was startled out of her happy sleep, as sound as a child^s, to see Manette standing, white with terror, at her bedside. That had happened which nobody feared or expected—except, perhaps, the sufferer herself. A sudden and violent fit of coughing had produced hemorrhage of the lungs, and Mrs. Trevena was dying, 190 KIKG ARTHUK. Nanny sprung out of her bed—she had had long experi¬ ence in sick-uursing, enough to know that this was a ques¬ tion not of days or hours, but of minutes—that there was no time to summon anybody, that what help could be given must be given at once, by herself and Manette alone, for there was nobody to aid them, and no time to call any¬ body. Susannah let them do all they could. She was quite con¬ scious—smiled her thanks several times, but she never at¬ tempted to speak a word. Except once, when she heard Manette proposing to fetch Mr. Trevena, and motioned a feeble but decided negative. ‘‘ No, no! Save him from—from anything painful. Don^t let him see me—till afterward. And so it befell that the breast upon which the parting soul relied was not her husband^s, not Arthur^s, both so tenderly beloved, but Nanny^s, whom she had always been land to, and liked much without actually loving—Nanny, the blameless daughter of her lifelong foe. There, just before midnight, while the rector was still busy over his sermon, and Arthur at Tawton Abbas was sleeping the sleep of healthy, happy youth, Susannah gradually lost all memory even of them, all consciousness of the world about her, and passed peacefully away into the world unknown. When the two who to her had been so infinitely dear came to look at her, there was, as she had wished, ‘‘ nothing painful —only a beautiful image of eternal rest. Did she love them still? Who knows? Let us pray that it may be so. None can mourn forever: it is not right they should. But it was a whole year before Arthur recovered from the blow which, to him, had fallen like a thunder-bolt out of a clear sky. The young seldom realize death unless it comes quite close to them. It had never entered his mind that his mother would die—until she died. He could not imagine existence without her. The shock was so great, and the change it wrought in him so piteous, that Nanny was for a time absolutely terrified. Both the young people seemed to grow suddenly old. They spoke of love and marriage no more, but devoted themselves like a real son and KIKG ARTHUE. 191 daughter to the desolate man who had lost even more than they. The rector was very quiet from first to last. Whether he grieved or not^ no one could tell; from the day of her funeral he rarely mentioned hiswife^s name. But he often went wandering mournfully about the house as if in search of her, and then went silently back to his books; taking very little interest in anything else. He seemed to have suddenly turned into an old man—quite patient and quite helpless. It was not without cause that Nanny always answered when questioned about the date of her marriage, I couldnT leave him; she told me to take care of him.'’^ In truth, for a long time all that the forlorn three appeared to think of was to do exactly as she had said, or would have wished. And they were doing it, they felt sure, when, as the primroses of the second spring began to blossom over her grave, Arthur took courage and again asked for Nanny. The birds were singing, the little lambs bleating, the chickens chirping—all her young‘‘family,^^ as Susannah used to call them—the creatures whom she had so liked to see happy about her. She would like us to be happy, I know,^^ Arthur said, when he urged the question, and insisted to Nanny that Manette was quite able to take charge of the rector now, and that she herself would not be more than a few minutes'’ walk from her uncle. When Mr. Trevena was told all this he assented without hesitation to the marriage. It did not much matter to him who took care of him now. He might live many years yet—the bookworm'’s placid self-absorbed life; but the half of himself was missing forever. So, one bright spring day, Arthur led his bride past his mother^s grave. His mother would not have grieved: she would have been glad—as is the instinct of all unselhsh souls. “ On that grave drop not a tear . . . Rather smile there, blessed one, Thinking of me in the sun; Or forget me, smiling on.” But she was not forgotten—she never could be. She had lived long enough to make her boy all that he was; to form his mind and character, heart and soul; to fit him for the aims and duties of life; high aims and serious duties; m KIKG ARTfitlH. for Sir Arthur Damerel is not the sort of man to hide hini-‘ self, or submit to be hidden, under a bushel. His position must inevitably bring him many a responsibility, many a trouble and care; but he will fight tlirough all, with his wife beside him—little Nanny, who has given the neighbor¬ hood an entirely new and revised edition of the Lady Hamerels of Tawton Abbas. Active, energetic, kindly, benevolent—he is so well loved both by rich and poor that no one stops to consider whether or not she is beautiful. Nor does her husband. To him she is simply “little Nanny. One of their duties—not always a pleasant one—is their yearly visit of a day or two to the Dowager Lady Damerel, who has turned very religious, and is made much of in a select circle who have taken the title of “ Believers,'’^ one of their points of belief being that nobody can be saved, ex¬ cept themselves. Such a creed is the natural outcome of that pleasure-loving egoism which had characterized her earlier days. The greater the sinner, the greater the saint —if such sainthood is worth anything. She takes very little interest in her son or his belongings; except perhaps in one very handsome baby granddaughter, who she declares is just like herself; but they are on terms of the utmost politeness. Only he never calls her anything but “ Lady Damerel.'’^ He feels that his real mother—“ my mother, as he always speaks of her, and scarcely a day passes that he does not speak of her—w^as she who sleeps in that quiet grave within sight of the dining-room window of the dear old rectory. And Susannah, had she known this, and seen how her influence will descend through Arthur to his children’s children, would have died content, feeling that those one- and-twenty years had not been thrown away—that she had not only made her own life and her husband’s happy—but, as good Dr. Franklin once said, she had “ saved a soul alive. THE END. ADVEKTISEMEKTS, Allow Your Clothing, Paint, or Woodwork washed in the old rub¬ bing, twisting, wrecking way. Join that large army of sensible, economical people who from experience have learned that Uames,Pyle’s Pearline, used as directed on each package, saves time, labor, rubbing, wear, and tear. 5rour Clothes are worn out more by washing than wearing. It is to your advantage to try Pearline, For Sale Everywhere., JA-IWEES IPYEE, KeTV Yorlc. GLUTEN* I SUPPOSITORIES CERE COI^STSRATIOIV AI\1> PIEES. SO Cents by Mail. Circulars Free. HEALTH FOOD CO., 4tli Avemie and lOtli St. j IVrY. These famous and unrivaled Pills PURIFY THE BLOOD, and act pow¬ erfully, yet soothingly, on the LIVER and STOMACH, and relieve INDIGES¬ TION, NERVOUS DEBILITY, DYSPEPSIA, SICK HEADACHE, SLEEP¬ LESSNESS, BILIOUSNESS, and are wonderfully efficacious in all ailments incidental to FEMALES, Young or Old. Sure cure for PIMPLES and ALL ERUPTIONS of the SKIN. Price 50 cents per box, 6 boxes for $2.50. Sent by mail on receipt of price. Address GRAHAM MEDICAL CO., 40 West 59th Street, N. Y, P. O. Box 2124. Please mention this publication. WHAT IS SAPOUO? It is a solid, handsome cake of scouring soap, which bas^ no equal for all cleaning purposes except the laundry. To use it is to value it. vVhat will Sapolio do? why, it will clean paint, make oil-cloths bright, and give the floors, tables and shelves a new appearance. It will take the grease off the dishes and off the pots and pans. You can scour the knives and forks with it, and make the tin things shine brightly. The wash-basin, the bath-tub, even the greasy kitchen sink, will be as clean as a new pin if you use SAPOLIO. One cake will prove all we say. Be a clever little housekeeper and try it. BEWARE OF IMITATIONS. % MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. Old Slentli Library. A Series of the Host Thrilling Detective Stories Ever Published! ISSUED Q 1 Old Sleuth, the Detective. 10c 2 The King of the Detectives.... 10c 3 Old Sleuth’s Triumph (1st half) 10c 3 Old Sleuth’s Triumph (2d half) 10c 4 Under a Million Disguises. In two parts, each. 10c 5 Night Scenes in New York. 10c 6 Old Electricity, the Lightning Detective. 10c 7 The Shadow Detective (1st half) 10c 7 The Shadow Detective (2d half) 10c 8 Red-Light W^ll, the River De¬ tective. In two parts, each 10c 9 Iron Burgess, the Government Detective. In two parts,each 10c 10 The Brigands of New York. In two parts, each. 10c 11 Tracked by a Ventriloquist.... 10c 12 The Twin Detectives. 10c 13'The French Detective. 10c 14 Billy Wayne, the St. Louis De¬ tective. 10c 15 The New York Detective. 10c 16 O’Neil McDarragh, the Irish Detective. 10c 17 Old Sleuth in Harness Again... 10c 18 The Lady Detective. 10c 19 The Yankee Detective. 10c 20 The Fastest Boy in New York.. 10c 21 Black Raven, the Georgia De¬ tective. 10c 22 Night-hawk, the Mounted De¬ tective. 10c 23 The Gypsy Detective. 10c 24 The Mysteries and Miseries of New York. 10c 25 Old Terrible. 10c U A RTERL Y. 26 The Smugglers of NewYork Bay 10c 27 Manfred, the Magic Trick De¬ tective. 10c 28 Mura, the Western Lady De¬ tective. 10c 29 Mons. Armand; or. The French Detective in New York.10c 30 Lady Kate, the Dashing Female Detective (1st half). 10c 30 Lady Kate, the Dashing Female Detective (2d half). 10c 31 Hamud, the Detective. 10c 32 The Giant Detective in France (1st half)... 10c 32 The Giant Detective in France (2d half). 10c 33 The American Detective in Russia. lOc 34 The Dutch Detective.,10c 35 Old Puritan, the Old-Time Yan¬ kee Detective. (1st half)_ 10c 35 Old Puritan, the Old-Time Yan¬ kee Detective. f2d half)_ 10c 36 Manfred’s Quest; or, The Mys¬ tery of a Trunk (1st half)... 10c 36 Manfred's Quest; or. The Mys¬ tery of a Trunk (2d half).... 10c 37 Tom Thumb; or. The Wonderful Boy Detective (1st half).10c 37 Tom Thumb; or, The Wonderful Boy Detective (2d half). 10c 38 Old Ironsides Abroad (1st half). 10c 38 Old Ironsides Abroad (2d half). 10c 39 Plucky Black Tom; or, The Greatest Curiosity on Earth. (1st half). . 10c 39 Plucky Black Tom; or. The Greatest Curiosity on Earth. (2d half). 10c The above books are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage prepaid, on receipt of the price. 10 cents each. Address GEOllGE MUNKO, Miiiiro’s Publishing House, (P. O. Box 3751.) 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. iVIUNitO’S PUBLICATIONS. Tbe Seaside Library 25-Geiit Edition. WITH HANDSOME LITHOGRAPHED PAPER COYER. Persons who wish to purchase the following works in a complete and unabridged form are cautioned to order and see that they get The Seaside Libkary, as works published in other Libraries are frequently abridged and incomplete. Every number of The Sea¬ side Library is ALWAYS UNCHANGED AND UNABRIDGED. Newsdealers wishing catalogues of The Seaside Library— 25 Cent Edi¬ tion, bearing their imprint, will be supplied on sending their names, addresses, and number required. The works in The Seaside Library—25 Cent Edition, are printed from larger type and on better paper than any other series published. The following works are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage prepaid, on receipt of price, 25 cents each, by the publisher. Address GEORGE MUNRO, Muni'o’s Publishing House, (P. O. Box 3751.) . 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. Vo. PRICE. 1 Lady Val worth’s Diamonds. By “ The Duchess ”. .... 25 2 A True Magdalen. By Charlotte M. Braeme. 25 3 A House Party. By “ Ouida.”. 25 4 For Another’s Sin; or, A Strug¬ gle for Love. By Charlotte M. Braeme. 25 5 Mohawks. By Miss M. E. Brad- don. First half. 25 5 Mohawks. By Miss M. E. Brad- dqp. Second half...25 6 Dick’s Sweetheart; or, ‘‘ O Ten¬ der Dolores!” “ The Duchess ” 25 7 A Woman’s Error. By Charlotte M. Braeme. 25 8 La dy Branksmere. By “ The Duchess”. 25 9 The World Between Them. By Charlotte M. Braeme. 25 to Wife in Name Only. By Char¬ lotte M. Braeme. 25 11 Kidnapped. By Robert Louis Stevenson. 25 12 A Mental Struggle. By “The Duchess ”. 25 13 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. By Robert Lohis Stevenson. 25 14 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. By Charlotte M. Braeme. 25 16 Set in Diamonds. By Charlotte M. Braeme... .. ....25 NO. PRICE. 16 A Broken Wedding-Ring. By Charlotte M. Braeme.. 25 17 Her Martyrdom. By Charlotte M. Braeme.25 18 Beyond Pardon. By Charlotte M. Braeme. 25 19 Doris’s Fortune. By Florence Warden. 25 20 Doctor Cupid. Rhoda Broughton 25 21 The Guilty River. Wilkie Collins 25 22 A Golden Heart. By Charlotte M. Braeme . 25 23 By Woman’s Wit. Mrs. Alexander 25 24 Siie: A History of Adventure. By H. Rider Haggard. 25 25 Pure Gold. By Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron. First half. 25 25 Pure Gold. By Mrs. H. Lovett Camei-on. Second half. 25 26 A Cardinal Sin. Hugh Conway 25 27 My Friend Jim. W. E. Norris. 25 28 That Other Person. By Mrs. Al¬ fred Hunt. First half. 25 28 That Other Person. By Mrs. Al¬ fred Hunt. Second half.25 29 Called Back. Bj'Hugh Conway 25 30 The Witch’s Head. By H. Rider Haggard—;. 25 31 King Solomon’s Mines. By H. Rider Haggard.25 32 Locksley Hall Sixty Years After, etc. By Alfred, Lord Tennyson...,,,..,,,.25 2 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— 25-CENr Edition. NO, PRICK 83 At War With Herself. By Char¬ lotte M. Braeme. 25 84 Fair Women. By Mrs. Forrester 25 35 A Fallen Idol. By F. Anstey... 25 35 The Mark of Cain. By Andrew Lang. 25 37 A Crimson Stain. By Annie Bradshaw... 25 38 At Bay. B 3 ' Mrs. Alexander_ 25 39 Vice Versa By F. Anstey.25 40 The Case of Rei^l^n Malachi. By H. Sutherland Edwards. 25 41 The Mayor of Casterbridge. By Thomas Hardy. 25 42 New Arabian Nights. By Rob¬ ert Louis Stevenson. 25 43 Dark Days. By Hugh Conway. 25 44 King Arthur. By Miss Mulock.. 25 45 Living or Dead. Hugh Conway 25 46 A Wicked Girl. Mary Cecil Hay 25 47 Bound by a Spell. Hugh Conway 25 48 Beaton’s Bargain. By Mrs. Alex¬ ander.25 49 I Have Lived and Loved. By Mrs. Forrester. 25 50 The Secret of Her Life. By Ed¬ ward Jenkins. 25 51 The Haunted Chamber, By “ The Duchess ”. 25 52 Uncle Max. By Rosa Nouchette Carey, First half.25 52 Uncle Max. By Rosa Nouchette Carey. Second half. 25 53 Maid, Wife, or Widow? By Mrs. Alexander. 25 54 A Woman’s Temptation. By Charlotte M. Braeme. 25 55 Once Again. Mrs. Forrester_ 25 66 Vera Nevill; or. Poor Wisdom’s Chance. Mrs.H.Lovett Cameron 25 57 The Outsider. Hawley Smart.. 25 68 Jess, By H. Rider Haggard_25 59 Dora Thorne. By Charlotte M. Braeme. 25 60 Queenie’s Whim. By Rosa Nou¬ chette Carey. 1st half.25 60 Queenie’s Whim. By Rosa Nou¬ chette Carey. 2d half. 25 61 Hilary’s Folly. By Charlotte M. Braeme.25 62 Barbara Heathcote's Trial. By RosaN. Carey. 1st half.25 62 Barbara Heathcote’s Trial. By Rosa N. Carey. 2d half.25 63 Between Two Sins. By Charlotte M. Braeme. 25 64 A Bachelor’s Blunder. By W. E. Norris.25 65 Nellie’s Memories. Rosa Nou¬ chette Carey. 1st half.25 65 Nellie’s Memories. Rosa Nou¬ chette Carey. 2d half.25 66 Repented at Leisure. By Char¬ lotte M. Braeme. 25 67 Wooed and Married. By Rosa Nouchette Carey. 1st half... 25 67 Wooed and Married. By Rosa Nouchette Carey 2d half... 25 NO. PRICK, 68 The Merry Men. By Robert Louis Stevenson.25 69 Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa Nouchette Cai'ey. 25 70 0thmar. l^j’’“ Ouida.” 1 st half 25 70 Othmar. By ‘‘Ouida.” 2d half 25 71 Robert Ord’s Atonement, By Rosa Nouchette Care.y.25 72 Sunshine and Roses. By Char¬ lotte M. Braeme.25 73 For Lilias. By Rosa Nouchette Carey. First half. 25 73 For Liiias. By Rosa Nouchette Care 3 '. Second half.25 74 Les Mis 6 rables. By Victor Hugo. Parti. 25 74 Les Mis^rables. By Victor Hugo. Part II. 25 74 Les Mis 6 rables. By Victor Hugo. Part III. 25 75 One Thing Needful. By Miss M. E. Braddon.25 76 The Master Passion. By Flor¬ ence Marry at.25 77 Marjorie. Charlotte M. Braeme 25 78 Under Two Flags. By “Ouida” 25 79 Tlie Dark House. By George Manville Fenn. 25 80 The House on the Marsh. By Florence Warden. 25 81 In a Grass Country. By Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron. 25 82 Why Not? By Florence Marryat 25 83 Weavers and Weft; or, “ Love That Hath Us in His Net.” By Miss M. E. Braddon. 25 84 The Professor, By Charlotte Bront 6 . 25 85 The Trumpet-Major. By Thomas Hardy. 25 86 The Dead Secret. Wilkie Collins 25 87 Deldee; or. The Iron Hand. By Florence Warden. 25 88 Springhaven. R. D. Blackmore 25 89 A Vagrant Wife. By Florence Warden.. 25 90 Struck Down. By Hawley Smart 25 91 At the World’s Mercy. By Flor¬ ence Warden.25 92 Claribel’sLove Story;or,Love’s Hidden Depths. By Charlotte M. Braeme. 1 .25 93 The Shadow of a Sin. By Char¬ lotte M. Braeme. 25 94 Court Royal. By S. Baring- Gould.25 95 Faith and Unfaith. By “The Duchess”. 25 96 Cheriy Ripe. By Helen B. IVT At*G OiR 97 Little Tu’penny. By S, Baring- Gould. 26 98 Cojneth Up as a Flower. By Rhoda Broughton.25 99 From Gloom to Sunlight. By Charlotte M. Braeme. 25 100 Redeemed by Love. By Char¬ lotte M- Braeme,. .26 THE SEASIDE LTEEATIY—25 Cent Edition. 3 NO. PRICE. 101 A Woman’s War. By Charlotte M. Braeme.25 102 ’Twixt Smile and Tear. By Charlotte M. Braeme. 25 103 Lady Diana’s Pride. By Char¬ lotte M. Braeme. 25 104 Sweet Cymbeline. By Charlotte M. Braeme. 25 105 The Belle of Lynn. By Char¬ lotte M. Braeme. 25 106 Dawu. By H. Rider Haggard.. ^ 107 The I'iu ted Venus. B 5 'F. Anstey 25 108 Adclie’s Husband; or, Through Clouds to Sunshine. 25 109 The Rabbi’s Spell. By Stuart C. Cumberland. 25 110 Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye. By Helen B. Mathers. 25 111 Phyllis. ByThe Duchess .. 25 112 Tinted Vapours. By J. Maclaren Cobban. 25 113 A Haunted Life. By Charlotte M. Braeme. 25 114 The Woodlanders. By Thomas Hardy. 25 115 Wee Wide. By Rosa Nouchette Carey. 25 116 Worth Winning. By Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron. 25 117 Sabina Zembra. By William Black.25 118 For Maimie’s Sake. By Grant Allen.25 119 Good-bye, Sweetheart 1 By Rhoda Broughton. 25 120 Dolores. By Mrs. Forrester_ 25 121 Rossmoyne. By “TheDuchess” 25 122 A Girl’s Heart. 25 123 Garrison Gossip; Gathered in Blankhampton. By John Strange Winter. 25 124 File No. 113. By Emile Gaboriau 25 125 King Solomon’s Wives. By Hyder Ragged. 25 126 He. By the author of “ King Solomon’s Wives”. 25 12? The Romance of a Poor Young Man. B}’ Octave Feuillet_25 128 Hilda. By Charlotte M. Braeme 25 129 The Master of the Mine. By Robert Buchanan.25 130 Portia. By “ The Duchess ”... 25 131 Matt: A Tale of a Caravan. By Robert Buchanan. 25 132 Mr.'S. Geoffrey. “The Duchess” 25 133 June. By*Mrs. Forrester. 25 134 In Durance Vile By “ The Duchess ”.25 135 Diana Carew. Mrs. Forrester. 25 136 Loys, Lord Berresford. By “ The Duchess ”.25 NO. PRICK. 137 My Lord and My Lady. By Mrs. Forrester. 25 138 Airy Fairy Lilian. By “ The Duchess”. 25 139 Viva. By Mrs. Forrester.25 140 Molly Bawn. “ The Duchess ” 25 141 Rhona. By Mrs. Forrester_25 142 Beauty’s Daughters. By “ The X)iic‘ii6SS ^^4 * 25 143 A Maiden All Foriorn. By “The X)lic1i0ss 25 144 The Mj^stery of Colde Fell; or, Not Proven. By Charlotte M. Braeme. 25 145 Borderland Jessie Fothergill 25 146 A Prince of Darkness. By Florence Warden.25 147 Roy and Viola. By Mrs. For- T0st0r 25 148 Doris. By “ The Duchess ”_ 25 149 Mignon. B.y Mrs. Forrester... 25 150 The Crime of Christmas Da}'... 25 151 The Squire's Darling. By Char¬ lotte M. Bmenie. 25 152 Robur the Conqueror. By Jules Verne. 25 153 A Dark Marriage Morn. By Charlotte M. Braeme.25 154 Within an Inch of His Life. By Emile Gaboriau. 25 155 Other People’s Money. By Emile Gaboriau. 25 156 Gold Elsie. By E. Marlitt.25 157 Her Second Love. By Charlotte M. Braeme. 25 158 East Lynne. Mrs. Henry Wood 25 159 On Her Wedding Morn. By Charlotte M. Braeme. 25 160 Allan Quatermain. By H. Rider Haggard. 25 161 The Duke’s Secret. By Char¬ lotte M Braeine. 25 162 Old Ma’m’selle’s Secret. By E. 25 163 The Shattered idol. By Char¬ lotte M. Braeme. 25 164 A Modern Circe. By “ The Duch¬ ess ”. 25 165 As in a Looking-Glass. By F. C. Philips.. 25 166 The Earl’s Error. By Charlotte M. Braeme.25 167 Scheherazade: A London Night’s Entertainment. By Florence Warden.25 168 The Duchess. By “ The Duch¬ ess”.25 169 The Strange Adventirres of Lucy Smith. By F. C. Philips 25 170 Driver Dallas. By J. S. Winter. 25 The foregoing works are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, on receipt of price, by the publisher. Address GEORGE MUNRO, IRiiuro’s Publishing House, (J*. O. Box 3751 > 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York, MCNRO^S PUBLICATI05JH A WONDKRFUIL. BOOK. The Autobiography of a Barrel of Bourbon. WEIRD, UNIQUE, POWERFUL. AN EXTRAORDINARY HANDLING OF THE DRINK QUESTION. VIVID LIFE PICTURES. A THKILLIN-G REALISTIC NARRATIVE. A STAETLINa PRESENTMENT OF THE EVILS OF INDULGENCE REPLETE WITH ORIGINAL AND SUGGESTIVE ILLUSTRATIONS. WRITTEN BY THE KEENEST OP OBSERVERS, 01^0 SLEUTH.” Every man, woman, and child in the United States should read thig singular narrative. Wives should present it to their husbands, fathers to their sons, sisters to their brothers, friends to friends. IT IS THE GREAT BOOK OF THE AGE. PRICE 25 CENTS. For sale by all newsdealers, or sent by mail, postage free, on receipt of price, 25 cents, by the publisher. Address GEORGE MUNRO, Monro’s Publishing House, (P. O. Box 87B1.) 17 to 27 Vaudewater Street, New York. NOW READY. ★ now ready. MUNRO’S STAR RECITATIONS. Compiled and Edited by Mrs. Mary E. Bryan. PRICE 25 CENTS. Entirely New, Choice and Entertaining Collection of Humorous, Cornier Tragic, Sentimental, and Narrative Poems for Recitation. SUITABLE FOR Parlor Entertainments, School Exhibitions, Exercises In Elocution, Summer Hotel Entertainments, Evenings at Home. MUNRO'S STAR RECITATIONS CONTAINS ALSO A. I4vely One-Act Comedy, and Character and Tableau Recitations Suitable for Private Theatrical Entertainments. The whole carefully revised. Innocently amusing, instructive and enter> Gaining, forming a delightful reading book of poetical selections from the best authors. For sale by all newsdealers, or sent by mail to any address, postage pre paid, on receipt of price, 25 cents, by the publisher. Address GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House,