L I B RARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 U N IVLRSITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT, 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 9 
 BY THE W 
 
 AUTHOR OF "AMY GRA^T," "TWO HOMES," &c. 
 
 " Did we but see, 
 When life first opened, how our journey lay 
 Between its earliest and its closing day ; 
 Or view ourselves, as we one time shall be 
 Who strive for the high prize, — such sight would break 
 The youthful spirit."— 5. 
 
 VOLUME I. 
 
 OXFORD AND LOKDON : • 
 JOHN HEXRY and JAMES PARKER. 
 
 MDCCCLVIII.
 
 PRINTED BY MESSRS. PARKER, CORN-MA'.lKET» OXFOKI).
 
 V, 1 
 
 The deatli of the writer of these pages while 
 they were passing through the press, has given 
 them a very pathetic interest for all who knew 
 her. A strong wish was felt to impart something 
 of this interest to those who did not know her, — 
 to associate with the book some faint image of 
 the bright, gentle, and beautiful character of the 
 writer. With this view a brief sketch was pre- 
 pared, but on submitting it to those with whom 
 the decision of the matter rested, so much re- 
 pugnance to its publication was expressed, that 
 it has been withdrawn, and is to be printed for 
 private circulation only.
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Elvaulees. — Our Heroine. — The Past. — How one Lily faded and 
 anotlier grew. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 The Cousins. — Aunt Mabel. — Prospect of a Parting. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 How two young Girls put together the Puzzle of Life. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Another Cousin. — Another View of the Puzzle. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The Future. — Hopes and Doubts. — Coining out. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 An Old Friend in a New Place. — First Glimpse of the World. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The First Ball.— Is it He ?— The brightest Light casts the deep- 
 est Shadow. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 A new Mind. — Art versus Wealth. — Is the Problem solved ? 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Lookers-on. What do they see ? — The first Trouble of Woman- 
 hood.
 
 VI CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Inward Struggles. — How to conquer. — Victory in Flight. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 A morning Mist. Sunshine after it. — A Beginning. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A Blow. — Gainsworth.— A Pleasure. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 "Wounds after Victory. — Looking Back and looking Forward. — 
 Father and Daughter. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 At Home. — That Name again. — Tremendous Responsibility ! — 
 WiU the Ice ever melt ? 
 
 PART II. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 What a Year brings and takes. — The Sedgeleighs in Trouble. — 
 Bad News. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Watching a Sick-bed. — Fear, Patience, and Hope. — How a Man 
 betrays his own Secret. How another Man understands it. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 They are to meet again. — The Return home. — Companionship. — 
 Unconscious Progress. — The New Friend and the Old. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Eustace and Constance. — The Battle still unwon.
 
 PABT I. 
 
 'twas the time of EAELY SPEIIfG." 
 
 Wordsworth.
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " And such is human life ; so gliding on, 
 It glimmers like a meteor and is gone ! " 
 
 Rogers. 
 
 THE sun shone brightly over the park at Elvanleea 
 one April morning, lighting up the trunks of the 
 old trees, and seeming to impart a more delicate tint 
 to the graceful larch, whose tender shoots gave the 
 first token of coming days of warmth and full foliage. 
 The large piece of water shone like a sheet of silver, 
 and the spacious, rambling old mansion, which stood 
 about a hundred yards beyond, looked bright and 
 cheerful as the sunbeams danced on its walls and 
 turrets. 
 
 It was a pleasant-looking old house, though without 
 any direct claims to architectural beauty. It had been 
 so often added to and altered, that the original idea of 
 the architect could hardly be perceived ; but some rich, 
 clustering ivy lent its graceful wreathing to hide de- 
 fects and harmonize the whole, and it certainly was 
 an edifice on which the eye rested with no unpleasur- 
 able sensations. 
 
 Swans and water-fowl were sailing and splashing 
 about on the water, evidently performing their morn- 
 ing ablutions. Eooks were holding converse in the
 
 2 DAWS A.ND TWILIGHT. 
 
 old elms, and little birds were twittering and chirping 
 in the bushes, all seeming to rejoice in the precious 
 boon of bright sunshine, fresh air, and freedom. And 
 if we follow the sun's beams to the mansion itself, and 
 look in at a window which opens on the broad terrace 
 running round two sides of the house, we shall see 
 others besides the birds rejoicing in the delicious 
 freshness of the morning air. The window is open, 
 and a merrj voice calls in a little wild, rough Scotch 
 terrier, whose exuberant mirth, venting itself in loud 
 barking and most exaggerated dancing, seems likely 
 to disturb all the agreeable consultations taking place 
 in the trees and bushes. But he is quieted at last by 
 the gentle, silvery voice, and a young, happy face is 
 bent down over him, and long curls are shaken back 
 as he crouches up to the feet of his mistress. 
 
 In a few moments an old bell from one of the tur- 
 rets rings out its morning salutation, as it had rung 
 for so many years, the time-piece of the neighbour- 
 hood; and ere its loud and somewhat cracked song 
 is ended, the bright face is gone, and the little dog 
 too, with a few sharp and indignant barks at the bell 
 for presuming to make more noise than he could. 
 
 "We will take one look round the room before we 
 go in pursuit of the dog and his mistress, for it has a 
 very inviting appearance. 
 
 It was a moderate-sized, oblong room, with an old- 
 fashioned fireplace at one end, over which was a large 
 mirror in a carved oak frame. The walls were panel- 
 led, the oak dark with age, but enlivened by pictures 
 and prints in handsome frames. There were three 
 windows, — the middle one, an oriel window, deeply
 
 DAVE'S A^'D TWILIGHT. 3 
 
 recessed, opened nearly to the ground, and a step 
 within and without made it a very convenient mode 
 of transit to and from the broad terrace beneath. 
 The room had been furnished in a handsome, old- 
 fashioned style ; heavy, high-backed chaii-s of carved 
 oak, with crimson damask cushions, and an unwieldy 
 sofa of the same material ; but side by side with these, 
 some modern easy- chairs and a comfortable couch had 
 intruded tliemselves. In the oriel window a pretty 
 little writing-table stood ; a harp and piano occupied 
 one end of the room ; well-filled book-cases, tables of 
 all sizes, covered with portfolios, books, and vases of 
 flowers, gave it a most comfortable, habitable look. 
 And now that the pleasant sun poured in his bright 
 beams, it seemed very cheerful. A half-finished draw- 
 ing was on a desk, brushes and paints were lying about 
 in beautiful confusion, though all in order in their 
 mistress's eyes ; and a book was open beside, as if the 
 artist had had a reading companion. 
 
 But we have looked round the room too long, and 
 will now follow its occupant. She was in the dining- 
 room, where breakfast was prepared, seated on a low 
 chair, with a book in her hand. Woolly was rolled 
 up in a comfortable ball on her lap, an occasional wag 
 of the tail and raising of the head shewing that he was 
 not asleep, but expecting an arrival. And whilst they 
 are waiting we will give a short account of her into 
 wliose presence we have been introduced ; and in doing 
 so we must travel back many years in our history. 
 
 Constance Moutrevor was an only child, — the ouly 
 child of a widowed fiither. He had been early left a 
 widower, and early inherited his estate, for his father
 
 4j dawn and twilight. 
 
 had died suddenly, almost immediately after he came 
 of age, and his mother had survived the shock but a few 
 months. He had one brother ; and when these two 
 young men found their home thus suddenly made deso- 
 late, its solitude was so oppressive to them that they 
 resolved on leaving it, and trying to dissipate in foreign 
 lands the sense of loneliness resulting from their be- 
 reavement. They travelled together for a year, and 
 then Edward, the younger, having the intention of 
 taking orders, returned home, leaving his brother still 
 bent on continuing his wanderings. 
 
 This roving life went on for two years, and then 
 home began to revive again in the thoughts of E-e- 
 ginald, the elder brother. He no longer remembered 
 it as the scene of sorrow and gloom, for it was to be 
 the home of another beside himsL4f. He was engaged 
 to be married to one who seemed indeed able to make 
 any home bright. He had passed the winter at Flo- 
 rence, with Lord and Lady Clanraven, and it was their 
 only daughter, Lady Constance Ellermaine, who had 
 brought to him these visions of happiness. They were 
 married in London the following spring, and the old 
 house at Elvanlees once more looked glad and cheer- 
 ful, as in former days. 
 
 Three years of almost unclouded happiness passed 
 away. Home was so full of joy to him and his young 
 wife, that they never cared to leave it. There was 
 something in her disposition that seemed to diffuse 
 peace and calmness around her, and lier husband almost 
 idolized her. They had no children, — perhaps Lady 
 Constance was too liappy to venture to desire any- 
 thing more than was given ; she seemed always fear-
 
 DAWy AXD T^VILIGHT. b 
 
 ful in great prosperity. But it was not so witli her 
 husband : an intense though unexpressed longing of 
 his heart was yet unsatisfied. At length there was a 
 prospect of the fulfilment of his wishes, and great was 
 his joy. 
 
 But meanwhile his sweet wife grew, not sadder, but, 
 if possible, calmer and more subdued. She had a strong 
 presentiment, for which slie could in no way account, 
 that her days on earth were but few. And as she and 
 her husband sat in the park together one lovely sum- 
 mer's evening, she imparted to him this impression. 
 He co2(Id not believe it. He entreated her not to 
 think of it. For his sake, when she had said all she 
 felt it her duty to say, she seemed to banish the 
 thought. They went in, — the evening was passed ns 
 usual ; she sang to him his favourite songs, and tried 
 to talk cheerfully on subjects that interested him. 
 But there was a gloom at his heart which he could 
 not dispel ; and whilst she spoke he would sink back 
 and fix his eyes upon her, as if he feared to waste 
 one moment in watching anything but herself. Be- 
 fore another night came he was bending in trembling, 
 thankful joy over his precious wife, and trying for her 
 sake to rejoice over the little treasure on which she 
 smiled so sweetly ; but the intensity of his delight 
 that she was safe almost took every other thought 
 from his mind, and he could have sat and wept for 
 joy beside her bed. 
 
 Another night came : where was she ? where tlie 
 poor rejoicing husband ? A marble form, with the 
 seal of heaven on the brow, the smile on the lip, lies 
 with folded hands, as if in blessed sleep, on the bed.
 
 U DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 Beside it sits, with the rigid look of almost despairing 
 anguish, he who so lately hung over it in joy unspeak- 
 able. He could have wept then; now his eyes are 
 tearless. Night passes; morning, bright, beautiful 
 morning, dawns, a sunbeam glances through the half- 
 closed shutters, and plays on the lovely face of the 
 dead. To the excited imagination of the mourner she 
 seems to smile. He springs up, leans over her, presses 
 his lips to tlie brow. Ah, the icy cold ! He starts 
 back, sinks on the chair, and again do his features 
 resume that look of agony. 
 
 Yes, he is alone with the dead. The lovely, the 
 lioly, the bright being has passed away. He is alone. 
 She seemed to have dawned on the sight like a bright 
 summer morning, which we say is too bright to last. 
 Yet mourn not ; the sun may be clouded over at noon, 
 but it will rise again in brightness. Life is but a 
 moment of eternity. — But we must not linger here, 
 thougli we fain would muse awhile on her who is gone. 
 In how few words has the tale of her life been told : — 
 she lived and died. And in how few words is the tale 
 of most lives told : — they lived and died. This is often 
 all that is related. All the long, weary hours of suf- 
 fering, that seemed as if they would never pass ; the 
 hope, the despair ; the fears, the anxieties ; the sor- 
 rows, that seemed to crush the heart ; the new life 
 that came with returning joy ; all that Avorld of the 
 inner life ; all those events that seemed so strange 
 and so manifold when passing, — what account is taken 
 of them ? They are forgotten when the atoms of ex- 
 istence are viewed as a whole. Let us learn, then, 
 when troubles seem very heavy, and sorrow most
 
 DXWS A^'D TWILIGHT. 7 
 
 overpowering, to raise ourselves as it were on a height, 
 and view them in retrospect. Will they then appear 
 so great, so overwhelming ? Time will have softened 
 the bitterness ; some we shall hardly trace ; a darker 
 shadow, a cloud on the chequered scene, is all we shall 
 perceive. Take courage, then ; stretch on the view. 
 Scanned from the boundless ocean of eternity, will 
 they be discerned at all ? or if discerned, be assured 
 they will not then appear as the dark shadow, nor as 
 the cloud, but as the bright star that went before and 
 led us on, — the track of light that traced our road 
 from earth to heaven. 
 
 But we have wandered far away, and must return. 
 "VYe will not return to the hallowed chamber of death ; 
 we will pass over the " first dark days." We will not 
 follow the lonely widower through his long, mournful 
 days, his weary, solitary evenings. 
 
 The first event that seemed at all to rouse him 
 was the christening of that little one whose much- 
 desired birth had cost him, oh, what grief! 
 
 When the name was to be given to his child, the 
 father's firmly-pressed lips seemed as if they could not 
 part to frame the word, and there was a moment's 
 pause : the god-parents knew it not, but soon, hollow 
 as from a tomb, came forth the word " Constance." 
 It was her wish, or he could not have borne to have 
 given that, to him hallowed name, to another, — not 
 even to her child. 
 
 Eut from that day the child became an interest to 
 him ; before, though it. may seem strange to say so, 
 he had at times fo: gotten its existence. He lived so 
 with his sorrow, that ofcen all external things passed
 
 8 DAW:jf ASH TWILIGHT. 
 
 from liis mind. Now he frequently told tlie nurse to 
 lay the child, when asleep, on a cushion in the library, 
 and when alone he would sit beside it and watch it, 
 sometimes trjdng to trace some resemblance in its 
 little soft face to the delicately-chiselled features of 
 his Constance, but oftener in a dreamy state, thinking 
 of nothing definite, but with a soothing feeling that 
 she too might be watching beside their child, and 
 smiling upon them both. 
 
 The mourner did not again seek to dispel sorrow by 
 wandering in foreign lands. One of his wife's last 
 requests to him had been, that he would not again 
 forsake his home for a long time. She felt that in 
 the path of duty consolation would sooner be found 
 than in any other. So alone in his ancient home he 
 and his little one dwelt, she becoming more of a com- 
 panion to him as each day of her opening life passed 
 away. It was long before he attempted to take her 
 in his arms, — there was no young mother to lay her 
 fondly there, and wntch his unaccustomed efforts in 
 bearing so frail a being. And strange was the sensa- 
 tion when first he ventured to lift her up from the 
 cushion where she lay ; and as she smiled and nestled 
 her little head close to him, his arm trembled, and the 
 quivering lips were drawn tightly in ; but afterwards 
 the nurse found she was not, as usual, summoned 
 directly " baby awoke." 
 
 Month afrer month passed away, year after year. 
 The little Constance grew up a wild, fairy child, full 
 of merriment, but also full of thought. In many 
 things she was very childish for her age, in others 
 unusually old. She almost adored her father, and
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. U 
 
 seemed as if she could enter into his thoughts and 
 understand him at all times. She would sit still at 
 his feet, half-lying on the rug, without speaking, when 
 she had looked up in his face and seen that his mind 
 was full, or she would dance about the room (she 
 seldom walked), and amuse herself with an innumer- 
 able store of games, the inventions of her own imagi- 
 nation, when his voice spoke merrily to her, as her 
 little hand turned the handle of the door and she crept 
 softly in, — for that she always did, — a sort of instinct 
 telling her in her wildest moods that " Papa " might 
 not like to be disturbed. 
 
 He could not call her by her name, that name which 
 was never heard now. He started so at the sound of 
 his own voice when first he uttered it, that he shrank 
 from it again, and it was years before he attempted it. 
 " My little one," was his usual greeting, which she, in 
 her innocence, concluded was her name, and trying 
 to say it, it was changed into " lillie ;" and Lily at 
 last grew to be her father's name for her : he liked its 
 soft sound and its imagery ; she was to him the lily 
 in his desert. 
 
 Many little anecdotes might be told of her child- 
 hood that would perhaps help to describe her charac- 
 ter, but we will content ourselves with one. When 
 about four years old, her father had taken her, as he 
 often did, into the garden with him. Being suddenly 
 recalled to the house, he left her seated on the grass, 
 busily employed in the construction of a daisy chain, 
 and on his return was surprised to see the flowers all 
 thrown down, the little face very much troubled, and 
 tears in the large eyes. To his enquiry what was the
 
 10 DAWN" AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 matter ? lie could get no answer for some time but 
 " I don't know, papa ; " but after he bad sat down 
 beside her, and looked into ber tearful face very ten- 
 derly, be was asked earnestly, " Papa, what is a mo- 
 tber ? '* He bardly knew bow to answer, and said, 
 " Wbat makes you ask tbat, my cbild ? " And tben, 
 in ber baby language, came out a little bistory : — 
 Wbilst sitting with ber daisy-cbain, sbe bad seen a 
 cbild trotting along tbe gravel-walk : mucb surprised 
 at sucb an apparition, sbe was going to ber, wben the 
 little stranger's foot slipped, and sbe fell and hurt 
 herself; and wben Constance tried to comfort ber, 
 ber only words were, " I want to go to mother, — mo- 
 ther will make it well; — I want mother." And tbe 
 child's look of joy when her father (the gardener, 
 whom unnoticed, she bad followed,) took ber up and 
 said, " I'll take you to mother," set Constance's heart 
 wondering as to what this unknown treasure was, and 
 the natural instinct within yearned at the sweet title ; 
 and wben tbe story was told, tbe question followed 
 with a sigh, " Why haven't I a mother, Papa, like 
 tbat little cbild ?" For some moments the father did 
 not answer ; be felt be must overcome tbat feeling 
 which bad made him enshrine bis sorrow in tbe depths 
 of bis own heart, and speak of lier to ber cbild, whose 
 name bad seemed to him too sacred to be breathed 
 aloud. Mastering bis agitation, that the first tidings 
 of the mother should fall without tbe tokens of gloom 
 on ber child's heart, be answered calmly, as be threw 
 bis arm round ber, " You have a mother, my darling, 
 a dear, sweet mother, but sbe is gone away ; tbe great 
 God in heaven took ber away to a beautiful home, to
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 11 
 
 make hev so liappy ; and you will see her some day." 
 " Oh, let me go now, Papa ! " the little voice exclaimed, 
 in a trembling tone. " Not now, my Lily," lie said, 
 almost frightened at her words, and the agitation of 
 her whole frame ; — " not yet : you would not leave 
 Papa alone ? " " No, no," she answered, and clung 
 closer to him : " But please, Papa, tell me some more." 
 " Not to-day, another day." She asked no more, for 
 she saw he looked grave, though she understood not 
 why. 
 
 From that day, from time to time, in the quiet even- 
 ing, the father would speak to his child of her ^^ hose 
 visible presence shed no light on that child's path, 
 whose loving embrace and words of tenderness had 
 never been felt and heard, but who lived deep in her 
 little heart, a well of bright thought, to which she 
 insensibly turned in her childish troubles, and which 
 always seemed to soothe and refresh her. 
 
 She had few companions of her own age. Her 
 father's brother now held the living of E'.vanlees, and 
 his two sons (the youngest about a year older than 
 herself) delighted in taking long, rambling walks with 
 her, and when they were at home for the holidays 
 Constance was seldom left alone. But though she 
 loved them both as if they had been her brothers, and 
 rejoiced in their society, she was perfectly happy alone, 
 and never felt dull. Her clear, bird-like voice might 
 have been heard warbling to herself, as she wandered 
 through the woods ; or an expression of intense de- 
 light, almost a look of awe, might be seen on her face, 
 as she sat on the hill-side, looking on the lovely land- 
 scape stretched out before her, or watching with never-
 
 12 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 wearying admiration the stormy sky or the setting 
 sun. She was often called a " strange mixture," so 
 wild and childish in her gleeful merriment, so full of 
 thought when her feelings were touched or her imagi- 
 nation excited. But we need not describe her more ; 
 we shall know her better as her history unfolds itself; 
 and we will return to her where we left her.
 
 DAWN AKD TWILIGHT. 13 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 *' The straw-like ti'ifles on life's common stream." 
 
 Young's Night Thoughts. 
 
 "fVE, dear Papa, I am so glad to see you ;" and as she 
 V_/ said it, Constance sprang up, unceremoniously 
 tumbling poor little Woolly on the floor: "it is so 
 unusual for you to be late, that AVoolly and I have 
 been quite in a state of excitement." 
 
 " Have you, indeed ? He at least has managed to 
 get over it," he answered, as be kissed her and looked 
 fondly in her face. 
 
 They had not been long seated at breakfast before 
 a step was heard at the open window, and the tall 
 slight figure of a youth was seen, as Constance and 
 her father raised their eyes at the sound. 
 
 " Good morning, my boy ;" " Good morning, Percy. 
 Come in and have some breakfast," were the greetings 
 he received, and which he responded to by putting his 
 hand on the window-sill, and vaulting into the room. 
 He held up a letter as he walked to the table : Con- 
 stance looked up at it. 
 
 " ' On her Majesty's service.' Oh, Percy, is it your 
 commission ? I did not think it would come so soon." 
 
 Mr. Montrevor looked up. " Tour commission ! — I 
 congratulate you, Ensign Percy Montrevor. Well, 
 we have a soldier in the family again at last : may you 
 do credit to youi* profession and to your name. — I
 
 14 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 must add tliat^'' he said, smiling, "when all our old 
 warriors are lookiug down upon us." 
 
 " Thank you, Uncle. I hope I may not disgrace the 
 old mail-clad knights," he answered: "and when I 
 come home with only one arm and leg, instead of a 
 pair, I hope you will do me the honour to have me 
 hung up among them." 
 
 " Oh, Percy, don't say that; I don't like it at all," 
 Constance interposed : " And now you must have some 
 breakfast." 
 
 " No, thank you. Con ; I have breakfasted an hour 
 ago ; I did not expect to find you at it still." 
 
 " We are later than usual," she answered : " But tell 
 us about your commission : it is in the — th, I suppose, 
 is it not?" 
 
 " Yes, I am glad to say it is, thanks to General 
 Lessington." 
 
 A servant came in with the letters ; they were all 
 for Mr. Montrevor. Constance had very few corre- 
 spondents, and when breakfast was over, she got up 
 and moved towards the door, Percy following her, 
 whilst her father stood by the fire reading his 
 letters. 
 
 " Are you going to the morning-room, Lily," her 
 cousin asked : " and may I come too ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, do come ; I want to ask you so many 
 questions," she answered, and held the door for him : 
 " Don't let it slam, Percy," she whispered, " Papa dis- 
 likes it so much." 
 
 The warning was given just in time. "Woolly, 
 who had welcomed Percy with evident signs of satis- 
 faction, delighted at any excuse for a move, capered
 
 DAW^" AND TWILIGHT. 15 
 
 round them, encouraged by Percy. Constance walked 
 on first, humming, " Malbrook s'en va a la guerre." 
 
 "For Malbrook, read Percy," gravely added the 
 latter. 
 
 " Was T singing that old tune ? what could have put 
 it into my head ?" They entered the morning-room, 
 and Constance sat down in the oriel window, whilst 
 Percy mounted on the step that communicated with 
 the terrace, and sent Woolly into an ecstacy of ex- 
 citement by throwing a stick at arm's-length for him 
 to catch. The stick being found, the temptation to 
 give the wild-ducks chase was too great to be resisted. 
 and a dreadful quacking and commotion took place, 
 which only stirred him up to greater energy in the 
 cause; Percy's remonstrances and shouts were alto- 
 gether unheeded, and it was not till Constance was 
 roused to call home the offender in her clear ringing 
 voice that he returned, very humbly, with his tail be- 
 tween his legs. 
 
 "Are you glad your commission is come, Percy?'* 
 Constance asked, when order was restored : " I 
 thought I should be so pleased, and yet I cannot feel 
 so quite." 
 
 " Yes, I am very glad, though I think it took me 
 rather by surprise ; and my father looked very grave, 
 though he tried to smile ; but altogether, I felt in a 
 great state of excitement, and when I found I was 
 left to myself, I thought I would come here at once, to 
 walk off the restlessness." 
 
 " There seem so many changes all at once, it makes 
 me feel quite strange, as if I must be changed too. 
 Tour going away — Eustace not coming home for the
 
 18 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 long vacation — and then Mrs. Lester being gone — 
 everything seems altered." 
 
 " I don't know that I quite share in your sorrow for 
 the last change. She was a very good woman, and 
 I had a great respect for her, but she was so connected 
 in my mind with grammars and dictionaries, that I 
 must confess that I think the room is as pleasant 
 without her." 
 
 " I miss her very much, and I am so glad she is 
 only gone as far as the cottage in the park. But 
 shall we not have some reading, Percy ? I must finish 
 my drawing, if I am to make you some home-sketches 
 to take with you." 
 
 She went to the table; he followed, lookiug at her 
 drawing, and commenting on it, and then taking up 
 the book, but holding it in his hand, and talking on, in- 
 stead of reading. The conversation turned on by-gone 
 days, and Percy's future life : both were interested, 
 and little knew how time was passing, till Mr. Mon- 
 trevor came into the room witli an open letter in his 
 hand. Constance's head was raised as he entered, 
 and a smile welcomed him, but it vanished as he 
 said, ''I am sorry to say, Lily, one of my letters 
 will oblige me to go up to London to-morrow, for a 
 few days." 
 
 " To London, Papa ! Must you really go ? will not 
 writing do as well?" 
 
 " No, my child ; it is endless work, writing. It is 
 som^ law business, and a few hours' conversation will, 
 I hope, do more than has been done in a month of 
 letters. But I do not like leaving you alone, and I 
 came to propose to you that you should ask your
 
 DAWy A>'D TWILIGHT. 17 
 
 friend Miss Sedgeleigh to stay with you. Tou would 
 like to have- her, would you not?" 
 
 " Yes, I should, very much. Thank you for thinking 
 of it. Shall I send a note ?" 
 
 " Suppose we ride over and call. Tou know you 
 have never returned the visit Mrs. Sedgeleigh paid 
 you. I will order the horses, if you like it. Will 
 you go with us, Percy ?" 
 
 To accompany his IJncle and Constance on a ride 
 was an invitation Percy never refused, and Constance 
 left him to wash her brushes, while she ran np-stairs 
 to get ready, singing as she went. 
 
 Her toilette was completed very soon, — it generally 
 was, — much sooner than her maid thought desirable ; 
 and she was ready, standing with her father on the 
 steps, as the grooms led the horses to the door. 
 
 It is not to be wondered at that her father looked 
 at her with no little admiration, as he lifted her to tlie 
 saddle : the hat, with its long plume, suited her well, 
 and the smile that accompanied the " Thank you, 
 Papa," with the bright glance of the large eyes as 
 they looked down at him from under their veil of eye- 
 lashes, recalled, as they often did, another Constance 
 to his mind. Percy was soon mounted, — his horse 
 capering about to his evident satisfaction, and the 
 admiration of the groom who ran on to open the gate, 
 and stood looking after them. They cantered across 
 the park, the fresh breeze meeting them, and inspirit- 
 ing horse and rider, and called at the Eectory. It 
 stood just without the park, which did not extend very 
 far in that direction, and the church, with its ivy- 
 covered tower, close beside it. It was like many of 
 c
 
 18 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 the pleasant rectories to be found in our quiet Eng- 
 lish country. — A long, low front, with casement win- 
 dows, jessamine, clematis, and roses twining over it ; 
 a very bright flower-garden on a bank sloping towards 
 the house was on one side, and a neatly mown lawn in 
 front. Percy sprang from his horse, his uncle holding 
 the reins with the hook of his riding-whip, and ran in 
 to look for his father. He was generally to be found 
 in his study all the morning, and was soon at the 
 door. He spoke to Constance as aifectionately as if 
 she had been his own child, and then stood talking 
 with his brother. He, too, was a widower ; his wife 
 had died about nine years before. He looked rather 
 older than his brother, for streaks of grey mingled 
 with his dark hair, which was thin on the temples, 
 and displayed a high and peculiarly intellectual fore- 
 head. * 
 
 Percy did not return with his father, — it was some 
 minutes before he reappeared, and when he did, an 
 old lady was leaning on his arm, whom Constance 
 welcomed with evident signs of joy. " Oh, here's dear 
 Aunt Mabel ;"— whilst Percy exclaimed, " Aunt Mabel 
 is quite inclined to mount Count Eobert, and ride 
 with us, if he had only a side-saddle on." 
 
 Aunt Mabel only smiled a* his observation, and 
 turned to speak to Constance. — Dear Aunt Mabel! 
 would that we could describe her as she stood there, 
 her face turned up to the bright young face that 
 looked down so lovingly upon her. She was rather 
 a little old lady, dressed in a black silk dress, a cap 
 and collar of Valenciennes lace, her gray hair smoothly 
 parted on her forehead. She was the only sister of
 
 DAW2^ AXD TWILIGHT. 19 
 
 Mrs. Montrevor, the mother of the present possessor 
 of Elvanlees, and had come to live at the Eectory 
 directly after the Eector, as he was generally called 
 for distinction, had lost his wife. 
 
 It had been a trial to her to give up her own quiet 
 little house near her childhood's home ; yet when she 
 came to visit her nephew after his wife's death, and 
 saw the melancholy state of his home, with no one to 
 be a companion to him, or to take charge of his mother- 
 less boys, and perceived that he had never troubled 
 his mind about household affairs, and knew not how 
 to begin, she made up her mind that it would be her 
 duty to offer to remain, and do the best she could to 
 lighten his load of care and sorrow. 
 
 Her offer was received with great thankfulness, and 
 Aunt Mabel's visit, of which the boys had begun to 
 dread the termination, was prolonged into a residence 
 for life. 
 
 She stood talking to Constance for some minutes, 
 and then, as the riders set off again, the Eector (we 
 must be excused for calling him so, to avoid confusion,) 
 gave her his arm to lead her back to the house ; but 
 they turned, and both sighed as they watched the 
 young horseman. 
 
 " I suppose I did not expect to keep my sons at 
 home all their lives," Mr. Montrevor said, as they 
 moved slowly to the house ; " but I do not know how 
 to make up my mind to the loss of that merry 
 one." 
 
 "The house will seem strange without him, and 
 his holidays will not come twice a-year now, to wake 
 us up ; and yet I fully believe that there was never
 
 20 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 a truer proverb than " God fits the back to tbe 
 burden." 
 
 " You are right, indeed, Aunt Mabel ; I have proved 
 its truth," he answered, as they reached the door. 
 Aunt Mabel went back to her own sitting-room, tlie 
 Rector to his study.
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 21 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ' I float along a summer tide, 
 With blessings crown'd on every side, 
 Enlivening scenes, a balmy bi-eeze, 
 Responsive to a mind at ease. 
 
 Yet tribulation is man's lot." 
 ' Sir a. Edmonstohb. 
 
 CONSTANCE'S invitation to Ada Sedgeleigh was 
 gladly accepted. Ada's home was not happy; 
 the word sympathy was little understood in it. She 
 had but one sister, who was several years older than 
 herself, and of a selfish disposition, with love of ad- 
 miration as her ruling passion. Her mother was a 
 weak, foolish woman ; her father, a thoughtless, ex- 
 travagant man. 
 
 Constance was first drawn towards Ada by seeing 
 how far from happy she was in her own home, and 
 yet how patiently she strove to submit to evils for 
 which there seemed no remedy. And when poor Ada 
 felt- that she had found in Constance a friend who 
 would understand her, it seemed to her as if a gleam 
 of happiness were dawning upon her for the first 
 time. 
 
 Mr. Montrevor set out for London by an early 
 train, and in the afternoon Ada arrived. As it was 
 still early, the friends strolled out in the park. The 
 path which Constance seemed instinctively to take 
 led to a prettily ornamented cottage, in the gay
 
 22 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 garden of wlaich a lady was superintending the wa- 
 tering of her flower-beds. 
 
 Constance walked to the gate to speak to her, and 
 was welcomed, as usual, with much pleasure. As they 
 turned homewards, after a few minutes' conversation, 
 Ada remarked, "How fond Mrs. Lester seems of 
 
 you!" 
 
 " And so am I of her," Constance answered eagerly : 
 ''she has been always so kind to me. It is so plea- 
 sant to have her settled so near." 
 
 "I suppose she quite looks upon this as her 
 home." 
 
 " Yes ; for she has so few relations. She has only 
 oue brother. His history is rather a romantic one. 
 He married, when quite young, a beautiful Italian 
 girl of noble birth, the daughter of a refugee." 
 
 " And do they live in England ?" 
 
 " She does not. They had one little daughter, 
 and after her birth, her mother returned to Italy, 
 taking her child with her. I believe she was not at 
 all happy ; her husband was idle and extravagant ; 
 and Mrs. Lester fears they were in a good deal of 
 distress. But at last her Italian relations urged her 
 to return to Italy, where, under shelter of her English 
 name, she could live unmolested. Mrs. Lester hears 
 very little of them, or of her brother ; but I think it 
 often makes her anxious." 
 
 They reached the house as Constance's little his- 
 tory was finished, and went in to dress for dinner. 
 
 On the following morning they repaired to Con- 
 stance's favourite sitting-room; and as Ada was de- 
 sirous of copying a drawing of Elvanlees which Con-
 
 DAWN AFD TWILIGHT. 23 
 
 stance had just finished for Percy, Constance ofiered 
 to read to her whilst she drew. Many books were 
 turned over before one was decided on, but at length 
 a volume of AVordsworth was selected, and Constance 
 opened it at "The White Doe of Rylstone," and 
 commenced reading. Ada enjoyed listening to her 
 clear, touching voice. 
 
 " It is a beautiful poem. Thank you for reading 
 it," Ada said, as Constance closed the book. ** It is 
 a favourite of yours, is it not ?" 
 
 " Yes ; a great favourite. Is not that a strange 
 expression, * the dimness of heart agony ?' it must be 
 a very expressive one, but it is a feeling I have never 
 had." 
 
 " You must be very, very happy," Ada said, look- 
 ing up at Constance, and then quickly withdrawing 
 her eyes. 
 
 " Oh yes, so very happy," she answered; and then 
 continuing in an under-tone — for she seldom spoke of 
 her feelings, — " It puzzles me sometimes why I should 
 be so happy, and have everything I wish, and every 
 one to love me, and nothing to make me unhappy, 
 when there is so much misery in the world." 
 
 Ada looked at her with interest. " Does life, then, 
 seem so very bright to you ?" she asked. " I some- 
 times wonder why it is not to me; — it seems un- 
 grateful." 
 
 Ada was almost startled as she betrayed so much of 
 her inner self, but when Constance looked at her, full 
 of sympathy and kindness, she went on : "I feel as if 
 no one understood me except my brother, and he is 
 so little at home."
 
 24 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 Constance felt in a moment all the difference be- 
 tween Ada's life and hers : they had grown up in dif- 
 ferent atmospheres ; at her home all was kindness, 
 love and sympathy, but at Sedgeleigh-manor it was 
 quite the contrary. It was a thoughtless, selfish 
 life that was led there, for the most part. 
 
 It seemed a trying lot, certainly ; and yet, as Con- 
 stance dwelt upon it, there came an under-current 
 of thought : — AVhat was life, what was happiness ; why 
 seek it, why try to satisfy the heart with it ? They 
 were vague, unconnected thoughts, and she did not 
 stop to grasp and ponder upon them, but they made 
 her look at Ada with an expression of deeper interest 
 than ever, and say in an under-tone, " My life is very 
 different from yours, but perhaps yours is the safest. 
 It seems almost dangerous to have such unmixed 
 liappiness." She stopped suddenly ; Ada looked at 
 her, as if to ask her to go on, but the gong sounded for 
 luncheon, and the conversation was not resumed.
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 25 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 •• They had been playmates in their infancy, 
 And she in all his thoughts had borne a part, 
 And all his joys." — Southey. 
 
 CONSTANCE and Ada were sitting on a seat at 
 the end of the terrace the following morning, 
 with little Woolly basking in the sunshine at their 
 feet, when they saw two figures approaching. 
 
 " Who has Percy with him, I wonder ?" Constance 
 remarked, as she looked up ; but they had not ap- 
 proached much nearer, when she rose to meet them, 
 saying, " Oh ! Eustace, is it you ?" and the expressive 
 countenance told him how welcome he was. It was 
 very evident that the joy was mutual. 
 
 Percy stood by till after the first greetings were 
 over, and then, as they walked towards Ada, said, " I 
 think it is very generous of me to be glad, for I don't 
 expect to get a word more out of Lily now. — I am 
 quite put on the shelf. Miss Sedgeleigh," he con- 
 tinued, after they had spoken to Ada, " when Eustace 
 comes home : he and Constance are so intellectual in 
 their conversation, that I feel quite out of my depth, 
 and never venture on a remark." 
 
 Constance smiled, and looked at Ada to see if she 
 understood how much she was to believe of this ; and 
 perceiving that it was taken as it was meant, she 
 turned again to Eustace, to ask him how it was that 
 he had been able to leave Oxford.
 
 26 DAWIT AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 A few words explained the cause of his unexpected 
 arrival. Scarlet fever had broken out in his college, 
 and of such a serious nature, that it was considered 
 more prudent by the authorities " to let the men go 
 down." 
 
 The brothers lingered for some time on the terrace, 
 — Eustace talking to Constance, Percy to Ada. When 
 they left, Percy told Constance that Aunt Mabel had 
 commissioned him to ask if she and Miss Sedgeleigh 
 would spend the evening at the Eectory. Constance 
 glanced at Ada, to read her wishes before she spoke, 
 and having satisfied herself that it would be agree- 
 able to her, the invitation was accepted. 
 
 The evening was so warm, that when Constance 
 and Ada reached the Eectory they found tea prepared 
 on the lawn, and Aunt Mabel and Mrs. Lester ready 
 to welcome them. 
 
 They were a happy little party, and they lingered 
 over the tea-table till the Eector rose suddenly, say- 
 ing that he had promised to walk to the South Lodge 
 this evening, to see old Stephen. ''Are you inclined 
 for a walk, Lily?" he asked; and he drew her arm 
 within his as she joined him. Eustace accompanied 
 them ; and when his father went in to visit the old 
 man, he and Constance, without any consultation, 
 turned and ascended a steep knoll a short distance 
 from the lodge, where there were a few weather- 
 beaten Scotch firs, an old stone seat, and a lovely 
 view. The last was evidently the attraction; and 
 glorious indeed was the prospect stretched out before 
 them, now glowing in the warm bright rays of the 
 setting sun.
 
 Di.WN AXD TWILIGHT. 27 
 
 " How lovely those little islands of cloud look, float- 
 ing in their sea of gold : do they not, Constance ?" 
 was the first remark, after some moments of silence. 
 " It gives one such a delicious, dreamy feeling, to lie 
 down and watch them." 
 
 " I remember it was always a favourite amusement 
 of yours. Tou must have been quite without it lately, 
 I suppose." 
 
 " No, not quite ; for I often pull myself out into the 
 middle of the river near Iflfley, and lie down in the 
 bottom of the boat, and indulge myself : but it is not 
 often one can stay long unmolested ; there are so many 
 boats passing, it is necessary to get out of the way." 
 
 " Tell me something about Oxford, — Have you many 
 pleasant friends ?" 
 
 "Two or three. Harry Sedgeleigh and I have 
 been a good deal together this term. He is a very 
 nice fellow, — I like him much ; I did not know you 
 knew his sister so well." 
 
 " This is the first time she has been staying with 
 me. What is her brother like ?" 
 
 " He is clever, and very enthusiastic, fond of read- 
 ing, and with the peculiar knack of extracting all the 
 good out of a book in about a quarter of the time 
 it would take an ordinary person to read it." 
 
 " Have you been reading anything pleasant lately ?" 
 
 " He and I have both been interested in a strange 
 German book we got hold of. I have seen it since 
 advertised in English, under the title of ' The Sym- 
 pathy of Minds,' but that hardly expresses the real 
 meaning. It is a clever book, — wild, certainly, but 
 full of original thought."
 
 28 DAWK AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 "How wonderful tlie power of conveying your own 
 impressions and feelings to another is," Constance 
 remarked. "Do you think it would be possible for 
 anyone to describe what he never felt ?" 
 
 "I suppose a vivid imagination might. I have 
 heard it said, that it is the power of imagination 
 which makes the only difference between a genius, 
 whether poet or painter, and an ordinary mind." 
 
 " The power of imagination !" Constance said, 
 musingly. "Tell me some more." 
 
 " I do not know that I am prepared to prove the 
 truth of the theory, but it is this : that peculiar in- 
 stinct which, in a true genius, enables him to con- 
 ceive of truth beyond the limits of his experience, and 
 to reject what is false and unnatural, is the power 
 of imagination. His imagination can conceive every- 
 thing, even to the highest perfection." 
 
 "But will being able to conceive perfection give 
 him the power of attaining it ?" 
 
 " He may not attain to the perfection he can con- 
 ceive, but the activity of his imagination, which will 
 be always holding it before his eyes, will prevent his 
 resting satisfied with anything below it." 
 
 " Then imaginative minds are not visionary and un- 
 practical, as is so often said ?" 
 
 '^No; for that faculty which contents itself with 
 dreaming is not to be called imagination ; and to say 
 that a man would be a great poet or painter, if he had 
 only the energy to study, would be false : the very 
 fact of his wanting that energy would prove that he 
 had not the genius to become either." 
 
 " Certainly one reads continually of the greatest
 
 DATTS" AXD TWILIGHT. 29 
 
 geniuses being almost self-educated, and of their ta- 
 lent asserting itself in spite of difficulties, so that 
 energy must have accompanied imagination in their 
 cases." 
 
 She paused, as if thinking. The sun had set, the 
 air was getting chilly, and Eustace, afraid of her 
 sitting still anj longer, proposed that they shouhl 
 move. They paced up and down a path cut in the 
 side of the hill, looking often on the gorgeous sky 
 Prom which the sun had just disappeared. 
 
 They did not continue the conversation, for it had 
 [ed Constance into a vein of thought on which she 
 seemed inclined to linger ; — a favourite one with 
 aer, working out in her own mind an ideal of per- 
 fection. 
 
 She had that strong yearning after perfection which 
 seems to exist in minds of the higher order; — and 
 fhat not always the desire of attaining perfection 
 'hemselves, but a craving after a perfection that they 
 nay look up to, and adore out of themselves. Alas! 
 phat imagination so often clothes frail mortality with 
 ;hat heavenly garb, and forgets where alone it may 
 [•eally be found,— that the adoring gaze is rather fixed 
 ;)n an earth-worm like ourselves, than sent up to seek 
 ;he only true object of adoration. That seeking after 
 dsible perfection, if it may so be called, is a fond 
 lelusion of ardent, aspiring minds ; and bitter is the 
 ;hock which the discovery of its delusive nature brings, 
 vhen the magic vesture falls off the poor object of 
 idoration, and it stands forth in its true character 
 md weakness. Of course, the object will vary end- 
 essly, as minds vary, and according to the mould in
 
 30 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 which each mind is cast will be its idea of perfection. 
 With some, that ideal approaches very near the truth, 
 but with others it is as far from it as the east is from 
 the west. 
 
 Constance's ideal had many features of truth, but 
 she did not soar high enough yet. The meditation 
 lasted with little interruption till the visit to old 
 Stephen was over, and Eustace heard his father's 
 Voice calling him. 
 
 They walked quickly back, and found the rest of 
 the party assembled in the drawing-room. As soon 
 as Constance appeared, there was a request for music, 
 and she and Ada sang duetts together till it was time 
 to return home. It was such a lovely night, that 
 they preferred walking, instead of having the car- 
 riage, and the Rectory party accompanied them. 
 
 Constance lingered on the steps when they reached 
 the hall, unwilling to go in. 
 
 " I am sure you long to walk back with us, Lily, 
 don't you?" Percy asked. "You had much better: 
 it is just the night for your favourite description : — 
 
 ' The stars are forth, the moon serenely bright. 
 Walks iu calm beauty through the waste of night.' 
 
 '' Or,— 
 
 ' While through the sky 
 The pallid semicircle of the moon 
 Past on, in slow and moving majesty.' 
 
 " I am quite proud of myself for being so poetical. 
 Have I not risen in your estimation ? I wish I could 
 think of a little more ; — perhaps 
 
 ' The fox went out one moonlight night,' 
 would do.'*
 
 DAWK AND TWILiaHT. 31 
 
 " Come away, Percy, and let Constance go in, you 
 will give her cold keeping her standing there," his 
 father called. " Run in, my child." 
 
 " Grood-night, Uncle Edward, I will go in, though it 
 is so beautiful," and she ran in \^ arbling : — 
 
 " Com' e gentil' 
 La notte a mezzo April', 
 E azzurro il ciel' 
 La luna e senza vel'."
 
 32 DAWK AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " standing with reluctant feet, 
 "VMiere tlie brook and river meet, 
 Womanhood and childhood fleet." 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 " ~T HAVE had a letter from Papa tliis morning, 
 J- and he is coming home to-day : the carriage is 
 to meet him by the four o'clock train ! " This an- 
 nouncement was made in a very joyful voice, by 
 Constance to Eustace, as he stood on the step out- 
 side the oriel window of the morning-room, where 
 she and Ada wer'fe sitting, — Constance at her drawing, 
 Ada reading aloud to her. 
 
 " Is he ? I am very glad to hear it," was Eustace's 
 answer : " and I suppose you are going to meet him.'' 
 " Yes, Ada is so kind as to insist that I shall." 
 " "Where do you say you are going, Lily ? " asked 
 Percy, who joined them from the terrace, where he 
 and Woolly had, as usual, been indulging in some 
 rather riotous games. " I feel very weary," he con- 
 tinued, as he threw himself on the ground, resting 
 his head on the step, and laying his hat beside him, 
 " And it's all your fault. Woolly, for making me play 
 so much with you in a broiling sun. It's no use your 
 poking your little cold nose into my hand, for I can't 
 come any more." 
 
 Luncheon being ready, they all adjourned to the 
 dining-room. As soon as it was over, Constance went 
 up-stairs to get ready for her drive.
 
 DAWls AND TWILIGHT. 33 
 
 It was a very joyful meeting between the father 
 and his child, though they had been parted but a few 
 days : he had so much to hear, and he delighted in 
 listening to the gentle voice that told him all the ad- 
 ventures of the two or three days in such a lively, 
 half-childish way. And then she in turn listened, 
 whilst he answered her enquiries after her grand- 
 father and grandmother, the old Lord and Lady Claa- 
 raven, and her uncle and aunt, Lord and Lady Eock- 
 wood, her mother's brother and his wife, who, with 
 their children, were also in town. When her father 
 had answered all her questions, he said, " And now, 
 dear Lily, I have been rash, and half made a promise 
 for you; I hope you will not object,— but indeed I 
 hardly knew how to get out of it ; it is that you 
 should go up to London this spring." 
 
 " But, Papa, I thought I was to have an idle year, 
 and have no masters, but take rides with you every 
 day instead." 
 
 " Oh, it is not masters that are now the question. 
 Your aunt regularly attacked me for shutting you up, 
 keeping you in the country, giving you no society, with 
 many more such accusations ; and would not let me off 
 till I had promised to talk over with you the plan 
 of taking you up to Town, to commence your career 
 in the gay world. " He sighed involuntarily as he 
 finished his sentence. 
 
 Constance looked grave, and said, " If you do not 
 wish to go, Papa, I cannot see why we should : I am 
 sure I would rather stay at home. I do not want in 
 the least to begin to go out regularly ; and I should 
 so much more enjoy rides and walks at home than 
 
 D
 
 34 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 any balls in London. Besides, Papa, poor Percy ! 
 how disappointed he will be : this is his last time at 
 home." 
 
 " I thought of him, too, Constance : but then he must 
 go up to London about his outfit before he joins ; so 
 I am afraid we cannot plead him as an excuse, for he 
 might come with us, — and Eustace too, if he likes. 
 Your grandmamma wants us to go to her, but I 
 would rather have a house to ourselves ; and you can 
 be with her as much as you like. Do you think, Lily, 
 we could persuade Aunt Mabel to go with us ? I 
 should so like her to be with you; and you would 
 like it too, should you not ? " 
 
 " I should like it of all things, Papa ; but then, poor 
 Uncle Edward, what would he do without her ? " 
 
 " We must take him too. Should we prevail there, 
 do you think ? " 
 
 " No ; I think it would be quite impossible. I could 
 not fancy Uncle Edward away from his study and his 
 parish, in London with nothing to do." 
 
 " It would certainly be rather a cruel proceeding, 
 so we will give up that idea ; but Aunt Mabel I can- 
 not be so unselfish about. And yet perhaps it is ask- 
 ing too much. With her disinterestedness and fresh- 
 ness of feeling, I fear one is tempted to forget that she 
 is verging on the allotted term of life, — three-score 
 years and ten. I can never fancy her so old." 
 
 It was, however, settled that Aunt Mabel was to be 
 asked, if Uncle Edward agreed, and if he thought it 
 would not be disagreeable to her ; and Eustace and 
 Percy also. 
 
 This projected visit seemed to make a great change
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 35 
 
 in all the intended arrangements. Ada had been in- 
 dulging a secret hope that Constance might come and 
 stay at Sedgeleigh-manor ; Percy had reckoned on 
 many more rides on Count Robert, — Eustace on a 
 repetition of last night's talk and walk in the park. 
 But now all must be given up ; and preparation for 
 the removal occupied some of the time, and much of 
 the thougjits, of the party during the week following. 
 Aunt Mabel consented directly to accompany them : 
 though a visit to London had in itself little charm for 
 her, she was glad to go, if she could be of use to Con- 
 stance. 
 
 On the evening before their departure Constance 
 strolled out on the terrace. Ada had left them a few 
 days before, and her father had not returned from a 
 long ride, with Eustace and Percy for his companions ; 
 so she was alone. 
 
 There was something delightfully soothing in the 
 calm stillness of the hour, and her thoughts floated 
 on to the distant future. The world was now opening 
 upon her ; it looked all bright and cloudless, and yet she 
 could not dispel a sensation of melancholy, that seemed 
 a sort of under-tone to her meditations. Would she 
 feel as light-hearted and child-like when she returned 
 to her home, as she had hitherto felt ? She almost 
 shrank from the future : it might be very bright, but 
 it was unknown, untried. She felt perplexed and 
 bewildered, and sat down on the step without the 
 window, and with her face buried in her hands, 
 thought on. In how many minds has the same train 
 of thought been awakened, how many have stood on 
 the brink and paused ere they took the step that
 
 36 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 should plunge them into the world's whirlpool ! She 
 was so deep in thought that she did not hear her 
 uncle's step approaching. 
 
 " Are you alone still, Lily ? " he said : " I thought 
 Eustace and Percy must have been staying for dinner 
 with you, as they were not come home." 
 
 Constance's face, when it was raised to answer, had 
 such a different expression from the bright, joyous 
 one it generally wore, that he looked at her rather 
 anxiously, and after a few moments proposed to her 
 that they should take a turn on the terrace. He 
 longed to know what troubled her, and alluded to 
 their departure, thinking that was perhaps the cause 
 of her sadness. " This time to-morrow you will be 
 looking on a different scene to this/' he said ; " one 
 you will hardly enjoy so much." 
 
 A sigh was all the answer Constance at first gave 
 him, but after a pause she said, " I wonder why I am 
 so very sorry to leave home this time ! Do you know, 
 Uncle, I feel almost as if I were afraid to go to Lon- 
 don." This was said with a great effort, for to speak 
 of her inmost thoughts was always difficult to Con- 
 stance. 
 
 His answer to her question was more a continuation 
 of her sentence than a reply to it : — " I think you feel 
 sad this evening, dear child, because you are, as it 
 were, bidding farewell to one period of your life, and 
 entering upon a new one. This going to London ' to 
 be introduced * seems as if it were to end your childish 
 days ; and yet, Lily, I hope it will not take the child- 
 like heart away, but that home will be as delightful to 
 you when you return as it is now."
 
 DAWy A>'D TWILIGHT. 37 
 
 " It seems to me now as if it could be only more de- 
 lightful ; and yet I feel as if the amusements in London 
 may get very pleasant to me — so pleasant that it will 
 seem dull without them, and it is that, I am sure, that 
 makes me feel so strange and sad this evening. Is it 
 right to enter upon such a life ? " 
 
 It was her uncle's turn now to pause before he 
 answered. It was a question that he had often put 
 to himself as he thought of her future life, and one 
 which he had sometimes felt it difficult to answer. 
 "Would it be well to exclude one so young, placed by 
 birth in a position where society must come as a mat- 
 ter of course, from sharing in its amusements ? "Would 
 she not be more likely to desire and long after them, 
 if they were altogether forbidden, and would they not 
 appear much more bright in imagination than they 
 ever could be in reality ? at least, to a mind like hers, 
 which certainly would need something more real to 
 satisfy it. Was it not the wiser course to train the 
 mind so that these things should be insipid to it, and 
 it should turn to seek for others more profitable, than 
 to deny them altogether .? 
 
 All these thoughts did not now pass through Mr. 
 Montrevor's mind as he paused before answering 
 Constance's question, though they had often passed 
 through it before. It was a relief to him to feel that 
 she need not disturb her conscience with doubts about 
 her duty at present, for as her father had decided for 
 her to go, it was not left to her choice : he reminded 
 her of this, and added, " Remember, there is always a 
 danger in amusements, lest they engross the mind ; but 
 they are much less likely to do so when we are indif-
 
 38 DAWIS^ AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 ferent about them, or enter upon them unwillingly. 
 When we long after them and find ourselves depressed 
 and dull without them, then it is a certain proof that 
 we are beginning to be intoxicated by them, and to 
 need their excitement ; and this is a state most danger- 
 ous, and one whose evil will go on increasing, if strong 
 remedies are not used. But there are the riders, — I 
 hear the horses ; I shall be glad when I walk with 
 you here again, my child, after this London visit. 
 God bless and protect you." 
 
 They turned round the corner of the house, and met 
 the riding party at the front door, just as they were 
 dismounting. Eustace and Percy declined staying for 
 dinner ; they wanted to have one more quiet evening 
 at home, so they joined their father, and walked across 
 the park to the Eectory.
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 39 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ** My thoughts on ill surmises fed ; 
 The harmful influence of the place 
 She went to, fiU'd mj- soul with dread : 
 She, mixing with the people there. 
 Might come back alter'd, having caught 
 The foolish, fashionable air 
 Of knowing all and feeling nought ; 
 Or giddy with her beauty's praise, 
 She'd scorn our simple country life, 
 Its wholesome nights and tranquil days." 
 
 The Angel in the House. 
 
 THE Eectorj party adjourned to the Hall on the 
 following morning, for breakfast, before setting 
 out. All last things were done, and last words were 
 said ; the carriage drove away, and the Eector stood 
 alone on the steps looking after them ; and then, con- 
 trary to his usual practice, decided that he would set 
 out at once on a long expedition to a distant part of 
 his parish, — active employment being an excellent an- 
 tidote to gkomy thought. 
 
 The travellers pursued their journey, reached the 
 station just in time, got into the train, and were 
 whirled off; and as no other train ran into them, nor 
 did any catastrophe of a similar nature occur, their 
 journey was as uneventful as journeys generally are 
 now-a-days. 
 
 Constance and Aunt Mabel were waiting patiently 
 whilst the luggage was being collected, when the for- 
 mer noticed a tall man in a great coat, with grey hair,
 
 40 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 and a very upright carriage, whose figure seemed fa- 
 miliar to her ; he had an umbrella in his hand, with 
 which he touched the shoulder of a porter who passed, 
 and pointing to a portmanteau and black leather bag, 
 said, in a grave tone, in which was mingled quiet hu- 
 mour, " That's my luggage, and there's my cab ; it 
 would be a convenience to me if you would convey the 
 one to the other." 
 
 There was no mistaking the voice, and as Percy 
 came up at that moment, Constance turned to him 
 with, " Surely that must be General Lessington." 
 " Where ?" he asked, and before the question could 
 be answered, having caught sight of the grey hair and 
 tall figure, darted forward, and soon returned with the 
 object of his pursuit, and a warm greeting ensued. 
 Mr. Montrevor and Eustace came up, and a general 
 explanation of all the movements of the party took 
 place. General Lessington turned to Constance: 
 " Well, Constance, Miss Montrevor, I ought to say ; 
 but you '11 forgive me, will you not, Beginald," he 
 added, turning to her father, — " so they are going to 
 introduce you into this Vanity Fair. Ah, if I hadn't 
 such a white covering to the top of my head, wouldn't 
 I claim the honour of dancing with you at your first 
 ball! But I shall go to it, all the same, though its 
 rather out of my line now. I wonder how you '11 
 enjoy it. I think a ride in the park at Elvanlees 
 would have more charms, but there's no knowing." 
 
 Constance smiled in answer, and in her heart half 
 agreed with him. The servants announced that all 
 was ready, so with a few more words expressive mu- 
 tually of satisfaction at the interview, and hopes that
 
 DAWT?^ AlfD TWILIGHT. 41 
 
 such interviews would be longer in future, and very 
 frequent, they drove off through the noisy streets, 
 teeming with their living multitude, to their different 
 habitations. 
 
 It wanted an hour to dinner-time when they arrived, 
 so Constance and her cousins made the tour of the 
 house, and settled which should be their different 
 apartments. There were two large drawing-rooms 
 opening into each other, and a sitting-roojn on the 
 same floor : tlie latter they immediately decided should 
 be appropriated to Aunt Mabel for her own private 
 sitting-room, for it would be so unnatural not to have 
 "Aunt Mabel's room" to go to; and she would feel 
 so strange without a room to herself, where she could 
 be as quiet as she liked. A sitting-room down-stairs 
 was to be "Papa's study," and a smaller one near it 
 Constance advised Eustace and Percy to adopt as 
 their own, saying she would waive all claims to it. 
 
 " But, Lily, what shall you do for a place to draw in, 
 and read in, and leave all your things about in ?" asked 
 Percy, with some concern : " Those drawing-rooms look 
 as if it would be an insult to them to pull a chair away 
 from the wall to sit down : I shall hardly venture to do 
 so without an apology." 
 
 " Oh, I shall do quite well, Percy : I will beg for a 
 corner in Aunt Mabel's room sometimes ; and then I 
 can use one of the drawing-rooms, and try not to be 
 very untidy. But we will not allow them to have that 
 solemn appearance any longer ; they must look more 
 natural very soon." 
 
 " I think it would be an act of kindness on my part, 
 if, as a preliminary step, I made the chairs all turn
 
 42 DAWN A:ffD TWILIGHT. 
 
 their heels up in the air. — But hark, there's some one 
 calling." 
 
 It was Mr. Montrevor calling Constance, to know 
 if it was decided what rooms he and Aunt Mabel were 
 to inhabit. This settled, thej all adjourned to prepare 
 for dinner. 
 
 When Aunt Mabel and Constance returned to the 
 Qrawing-room after dinner, they were so weary, that 
 sitting down on either side of the fire, it must be con- 
 fessed, they fell fast asleep. Constance was roused 
 by her father opening the door, and tried her best to 
 sit upright, and look very wide awake, but her eyes 
 betrayed her ; and her father wanted to coax her back 
 into the arm-chair, to finish the nap he had so un- 
 wittingly interrupted, but she would not hear of it, 
 and rang the bell for tea. A merry conversation was 
 kept up over the tea-table, as they discussed the dif- 
 ferent exhibitions each wished to see. 
 
 Percy had a string of unheard-of sights that he 
 expressed a longing inclination to visit. Pictures had 
 the greatest charms for Constance, till Eustace excited 
 her imagination with the account of some Lectures on 
 Modern Literature, from which he had read extracts 
 in the Spectator ; — they were still going on, and he 
 longed to attend them. 
 
 ^' Oh, the pursuit of knowledge under difficulties 
 again," groaned Percy. " "Well, Eustace, it is but fair, 
 if Constance goes with you to these literary and 
 scientific meetings one day, she should go with me 
 to see something in my line another." 
 
 "And I am to have no share in her?" said a voice 
 from the fireplace, where Mr. Montrevor was standing,
 
 DAW:S- AND TWILIGHT. 43 
 
 witli his back restiug against the mantelpiece, and a 
 smile on his lips, as he listened to their eager discus- 
 sion. " At any rate, I think I must claim a voice in 
 the matter now, and send you off to bed, you white 
 face, or we shall none of us have the pleasure of your 
 company to-morrow." 
 
 There was a slight grumble, — " Oh, must you go ?" 
 from Percy ; but Constance shook her head at him 
 merrily, and then turning round to wish her father 
 good-night, missed Aunt Mabel. 
 
 "Auut Mabel crept off quietly half an hour ago, 
 and would not wish you good-night, for fear of inter- 
 rupting that eloquent description of Eustace's," Mr. 
 Montrevor said, in answer to her look of surprise. — 
 No one felt much inclined to sit up after Constance's 
 departure, so there was a general move. 
 
 iS'ext day, about one o'clock, as Constance was busy 
 in Aunt Mabel's room, helping her maid to give it the 
 peculiar look that Aunt Mabel's room always had, 
 but at present having succeeded no farther than in 
 disarranging everything, the butler came in to an- 
 nounce that Lady Eockwood and the Miss Ellermaines 
 were in the drawing-room. Aunt Mabel was reading 
 quietly in the corner of her room, whilst the improve- 
 ments were taking place, and did not notice the an- 
 nouncement, till Constance went up to her saying, 
 " My aunt and cousins are in the next room : will 
 you come in w^th me ? for Papa is out." 
 
 Aunt Mabel went with her at once. She had met 
 Lady Eockwood formerly at Eivanlees, so there was 
 a polite greeting for her, and a kind one for Con- 
 stance. Lady Eockwood was a tall, striking-looking
 
 44 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 person, still handsome, very well dressed, and with 
 kind, though rather brusque, manners. She scruti- 
 nised Constance, and then gave her another kiss, and 
 said, " Well, we must not blame your father for keep- 
 ing you at Elvanlees ; its air agrees with you, it is very 
 evident ; but it's time you should see something more 
 than sheep and cows, woods and fields. What en- 
 gage-ments have you for this week?" 
 
 " None, I think : I have not heard of any." 
 
 " I have brought you an invitation that I shall not 
 allow Mr. Montrevor to refuse ; it is the thing of all 
 others for your introduction. My sister gives a ball 
 next week : I have just come from her ; she begged me 
 to invite all your party. She will send you a card 
 immediately. You would like to go, should you not, 
 Constance ?" 
 
 " " Yes, I should, very much. But Papa will be in 
 directly, and you will see him, Aunt, and hear what 
 he says." 
 
 " As if he were likely to say no, if you say yes," 
 her Aunt added, laughing. " It will be Dora's first 
 ball, too, so I shall have the pleasure of introducing 
 two young ladies. I suppose your father will entrust 
 you to my chaperonage : I am afraid you will not pre- 
 vail on Mrs. Percy to take that office." 
 
 " I think I should want some one to take care of 
 me, Lady E-ockwood, if I were to find my way to a 
 ball-room," was Aunt Mabel's answer: "I can do 
 pretty well to sit in the house, and receive visitors, 
 but that is all I am good for now." 
 
 Constance seemed almost inclined to deny this as- 
 sertion, but it ended in her looking at Aunt Mabel
 
 DAWI?" AITD TWILIGHT. 45 
 
 with a smile, which shewed how much more she was 
 worth in her estimation. — Lady Eockwood and Aunt 
 Mabel entered into conversation, and Constance and 
 her cousins, Frances and Dora Ellermaine, did the 
 same. The ball at their Aunt's, Lady Titzmaure, 
 seemed the subject of most interest with them. They 
 answered Constance's questions about the exhibitions, 
 but their descriptions lacked the warmth and bright 
 colouring with which her imagination had tinged the 
 pictures ; so she came to the conclusion they must be 
 less good than usual, and was listening to Frances* 
 account of a concert they had been at the night before, 
 given with the same want of zest, when Lady Eock- 
 wood rose, saying, " If we are to go back to luncheon, 
 we must be off." 
 
 " Will you not take luncheon here, and wait to see 
 Papa?" Constance asked. 
 
 " I should be very glad to stay, dear ; but I asked 
 an old friend from the country to take luncheon with 
 me to-day at two, and drive out afterwards : so good- 
 bye ; tell your father you are engaged on Thursday, 
 and I will call for you. Do not let London air fade 
 those roses before then," she said, as she kissed her 
 cheek. 
 
 They had hardly driven off before Mr. Montrevor, 
 Eustace, and Percy came in, and with them General 
 Lessington. " Why, Lily, you have had visitors al- 
 ready," was her father's exclamation : " who could find 
 their way here so early ?" 
 
 "Aunt Eockwood, Papa, and Prances and Dora. 
 They hoped to have found you in." And after Greneral 
 Lessington had had his greeting, Constance proceeded 
 to an account of the invitation to the ball.
 
 46 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 " You must go, Eeginald, there's no escape, and so 
 you may as well put a good face on for tlie occasion," 
 was General Lessington's comment on a look of 
 weariness that came over Mr. Montrevor on hearing 
 of it. " Lady Fitzmaure's ball will be just the thing 
 for you to exhibit your Lily at ; — and there will not be 
 many like her," he murmured to himself. "I shall 
 go too ; I would not miss it for anything. Thursday 
 night :— I'll come here and dine with you first, if you 
 have no objection." 
 
 '^ Oh, do come," M-as Constance's answer. — "I shall 
 be glad to see you whenever you can find time to come 
 to us, General," was Mr. Montrevor's, said with more 
 than usual earnestness. There were many pleasant 
 memories of early days linked with that white head 
 and kind, open countenance. 
 
 After luncheon the carriage was ordered, and they 
 paid a short visit to the Water- Col our Exhibition, 
 which Constance, after her cousins' cool description, 
 was surprised to find as charming as ever, and then 
 drove in the Park for an hour. 
 
 There was no lack of visitors or invitations, and 
 what with seeing former friends of Mr. Montrevor's, 
 driving about, riding in the Park, sight-seeing, (for 
 they were all fresh enough to enjoy that,) every hour 
 in every day was occupied. 
 
 Constance used to creep into Aunt Mabel's room 
 before dinner, to have a little talk. It was all very 
 delightful, and she enjoyed it very much, but she felt 
 in a whirl, and wanted to stop the incessant motion 
 of mind and body, and understand herself. It seemed 
 a very diff"erent self from the one that had left Elvan- 
 lees the week before, she used to think, till she had
 
 DAW^' AKD TWILIGHT. 47 
 
 been quietly with Aunt Mabel for half an hour. In 
 that little room there never seemed any change. It 
 looked bright and cheerful; there was always the 
 same welcome for her; the book or work was laid 
 down, and the spectacles taken off, and the kind face 
 looked full of sympathy, ready to listen or to talk, 
 just as her visitor wished. A stool at her feet, with 
 her head resting on Aunt Mabel's lap, was Constance's 
 favourite position ; and there the events of the day 
 were detailed, and many of the thoughts that thronged 
 into her mind were let out, that Aunt Mabel might 
 help her to arrange them. And the bright, glossy curls 
 were stroked, and the forehead kissed, as Aunt Mabel 
 gave out her little words of advice ; — hardly advice, 
 rather judicious comments on Constance's words, that 
 helped her to feel where she was right, and where 
 wrong. 
 
 General Lessington dined with them more than 
 once in the week intervening before the ball, and the 
 Montrevors spent one evening at Lady Hockwood's, 
 and another at Lady Clanraven's. The Lecture on 
 Modern Literature had been attended, and Percy was 
 obliged to confess he was very well amused, though 
 he did not see why Eu^>tace and Constance need have 
 spent the evening after it hunting out passages in 
 books, which he declared he was quite willing to be- 
 lieve were as beautiful as the lecturer had asserted, 
 without judging for himself. 
 
 The only drawback to their enjoyment was thinking 
 of the deserted Eectory. Constance took care that 
 L'ncle Edward should be written to regularly, and 
 obtained constant reports from Mrs. Lester of how he
 
 48 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 looked, and wlaetlier lie seemed dull. His answers to 
 the letters were so cheerfully written, that they would 
 never have betrayed any loneliness of feeling; and 
 Mrs. Lester's accounts, too, were satisfactory: so Aunt 
 Mabel and Constance consoled themselves by thinking 
 that he did not mind being alone ; and the former 
 took good care that none of his domestic affairs should 
 trouble him, for she managed everything for him by 
 letter. 
 
 In her life and feelings there was little change : she 
 missed her daily occupations — her visits in the parish 
 and the school ; but there was plenty of work for her 
 here, and she was always ready to take it up and do 
 it, let it be what it would. She had, after many years' 
 hard study, learnt the great lesson, " to keep the heart 
 with all diligence," and all other lessons and duties 
 were easy now.
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. .49 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 « Artless one ! though thou gazest now 
 O'er the white blossom with earnest brow. 
 Soon will it tire thy childish eye ; 
 Fair as it is, thou wilt throw it by. 
 Throw it aside in thy weary hour, 
 Throw to the ground the fair white flower ; 
 Yet, as thy tender j^ears depart. 
 Keep that white and innocent heart." 
 
 Bryant. 
 
 THUESDAY arrived, and with it Lady Eockwood, 
 who called early to beg Constance not to go out 
 and tire herself before the evening. She felt rather 
 pleased at having to introduce Constance, feeling sure 
 that she would make a sensation. Her dress she 
 considered a very important matter, — but for once 
 Mr. Montrevor had chosen it : he had expressed a 
 wish to Constance that it should be white, and added, 
 " And if you wear flowers in your hair, I wish you 
 would get some lilies of the valley ; I should like them 
 better than anything." 
 
 It was such a new thing for "Papa" to volunteer 
 any opinion about dress, that Constance was deter- 
 mined that it should be exactly as he wished ; and 
 though Lady Eockwood expressed doubts as to the 
 becomingness of the wreath of lilies she selected, she 
 would not be deterred from having it. 
 
 Aunt Mabel could not help adjourning to her room 
 whilst the toilet was taking place, and was amused to 
 see that it evidently was a much more important 
 
 E
 
 50 daw:n^ and tvVIlight. 
 
 point witli the lady's-maid than the mistress. Con- 
 stance gave some rather weary sighs over the hair- 
 dressing, though she meant to be very patient ; and 
 begged Aunt Mabel to let her read out to her some 
 beautiful passages of "Evangeline," which she had 
 taken up to beguile the time. 
 
 At last all was ready; the bracelets were clasped 
 on, and with a very triumphant air the maid followed 
 with a candle, under the excuse of lighting them 
 down stairs, but in reality, that she might hear the 
 exclamations of admiration which she felt that her 
 operations deserved. 
 
 "Here comes a Lily indeed!" was General Les- 
 sington's greeting, whilst Eustace raised his eyes 
 from the book he was reading, and fixed them upon 
 her ; Percy sprang up and ejaculated, half to himself, 
 ''Well, you do look lovely!" Her father came for- 
 ward, took both her hands, and looked earnestly in 
 her face, and then with a sigh kissed her forehead, 
 and sat down in the arm-chair, leaning back. How 
 well Constance knew all that was passing in his mind : 
 she knew he had travelled back eighteen years ; she 
 said nothing, but quietly sat down by him, and put 
 one hand in his as it rested on the arm of the chair. 
 
 In a few minutes there was a thundering rap at 
 the door: ''Lady Eockwood is waiting" was the an- 
 nouncement. 
 
 "You'll come with me, Lily," her father said : "we 
 will join your Aunt at Lady Fitzmaure's ; — the carriage 
 is ready. Is your carriage here, General, or shall we 
 give you a seat ?" 
 
 "It's here, thank you. And I had better convej
 
 DAWIs" A>'D TWILIGHT. 51 
 
 you, Percy, I think ; we must not crush that flower : 
 and we can all set off together." 
 
 Lady Eockwood had determined to go early, so the 
 rooms were not crowded when they entered. They 
 were brilliantly lighted, and very well arranged : a 
 conservatory that opened into one of the drawing- 
 rooms was hung with coloured lamps, and it all 
 looked so gay and bright, that Constance, to whom 
 such scenes were new, was carried in imagination 
 back to one of the fairy tales that had been such a 
 favourite study in her childhood. She had not long 
 to enjoy the scene, for the rooms were soon filled to 
 overflowing, and dancing commenced. 
 
 Lady Fitzmaure introduced some one to her for the 
 first quadrille, and after that there were such con- 
 tinual requests for an introduction, that Percy began 
 to grow quite impatient, and declare he should not 
 dance once with her the whole evening. His turn 
 came at last, and he led her off in triumph ; and as 
 they were dancing, he called Constance's attention to 
 a young man who stood with folded arms in the re- 
 cess of one of the windows. "Look there, Lily: what 
 do you think of that fine fellow opposite ? I think he 
 must have been hired to represent a statue. It has 
 quite amused me to see how long he has stood in the 
 same place without moving." 
 
 His immoveableness seemed to attract the attention 
 of another besides Percy, for a young man walked up 
 to him at the moment, with the exclamation, " What 
 has happened to you, Gerard, to-night } I have been 
 looking at you for the last half-hour, and wondering
 
 52 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 what could possess you to stand in that Napoleon 
 attitude all the evening." 
 
 "IN'ot all the evening, at any rate, Charlie," was the 
 answer, while the Napoleon attitude was slightly 
 altered ; " but I might retaliate, and ask what has 
 possessed you not to be dancing ?" 
 
 " Oh no ; come, I shall not let you off : tell me the 
 subject of your evening's meditation." 
 
 "A vision of beauty hath floated before me." 
 
 "Floated before you, and you did not pursue it! 
 Oh, you must be in a bad way. But do let me see the 
 vision, if it has not quite disappeared." 
 
 ''If you cannot discover it for yourself, I certainly 
 shall not help you." 
 
 " That young girl opposite, with the lilies in her 
 hair, do you mean ? Well, certainly she is lovely. Do 
 you know who she is ?" 
 
 " Not I. I am not sure I care to know. I have not 
 enjoyed any picture so much for a long time, as her 
 floating about the room. It's like watching a lovely 
 child at play ; she looks so bright and happy, and so 
 perfectly unconscious. There, watch her now, talking 
 to her partner. I wonder who he is ; they seem quite 
 at home : she looks up at him so merrily sometimes, 
 and yet there is not the smallest particle of flirting or 
 coquetry in her manner." 
 
 "Now I know all the time you are longing to know 
 who she is, only you don't choose to confess. Come 
 down from your lofty perch, and own to a little of 
 the common weaknesses of humanity, and I'll gratify 
 your curiosity."
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 53 
 
 '' If I say I should like to know, will that do ? for 
 I know you are longing to tell." 
 
 "Yes; I'll accept that concession. I have heard 
 the whole history of your vision from General Les- 
 sington. And first of all, turn your head this way. Do 
 you see that tall man with a fine, noble face, standing 
 as a sort of pendant statue to you." 
 
 His companion smiled and assented. 
 
 ** That's the father of the beauty, Mr. Montrevor : 
 his daughter is an only child, a great heiress ; ' as good 
 as she is fair,' according to the old G-eneral. This 
 is her first ball. She lost her mother in infancy, and 
 the mournful-looking father shut her and himself up 
 in strict retirement in some ancient castle, allowing 
 no one to have access to her but a staid duenna. Is 
 it not a romantic tale ?" 
 
 '' Yes, very. You had better offer it, with a portrait, 
 to the ' Book of Beauty,' for I suspect you invented 
 it for the occasion." 
 
 ^'No, indeed I did not: it's all true, or, at any rate, 
 * founded on fact.' Now don't you long for an intro- 
 duction ? I have had one : but she was engaged so 
 deep, that I fear my chance is but small." 
 
 " No ; I think I should prefer not. Perhaps the 
 illusion would be dispelled on closer acquaintance; 
 and it's pleasant to imagine there is such a thing as 
 a lovely woman without affectation to be met with 
 in a ball-room." 
 
 '' What a crabbed speech ! The grapes are sour, I'm 
 afraid. Besides, you'll meet her all through the sea- 
 son; and do you mean always to practise this self- 
 denial?''
 
 54 DAWK AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 " If she is to be seen tliis season, she will not tlie 
 next, I'm inclined to believe." 
 
 "And why not?" 
 
 " Because, if I mistake not, she's not of the right 
 metal to stand the wear and tear of this kind of life. 
 If she does not grow weary of it, that freshness and 
 simplicity will go, and then in my mind her beauty 
 will go too." 
 
 " What on earth makes you so morose this evening, 
 my good fellow ?" 
 
 " Surely you'll allow a man to have a reasonable 
 thought for once in his life !" 
 
 "I call it anything but reasonable. — But there; 
 I'm engaged for the next waltz, so I shall leave you 
 to your agreeable reflections." 
 
 The reflections seemed to be continued for some 
 minutes, for after his companion left him Gerard 
 still stood watching, as if fascinated, the object of his 
 admiration : and then with a smile, and a half-shrug 
 of the shoulders at his own folly, he disappeared 
 among the crowd, and soon left the room. 
 
 His companion, a young Guardsman, managed at 
 last to dance with Constance, and looked round for 
 his friend, that he might give him a triumphant 
 glance ; but not seeing him anywhere, he contented 
 himself with the thought, ""Well, won't I make 
 Gerard Cliff'ord jealous to-morrow with my account 
 of his beauty !" 
 
 The evening was over at last, and the Montrevor 
 party returned home. Percy was in great spirits, 
 and full of quaint thoughts and remarks. Eustace 
 leant back in the carriage, and felt rather grave. He
 
 DAWN AlsB TWILIGHT. 55 
 
 was not half-sure that he had enjoyed the ball, and 
 thought, if this was the way their evenings were to be 
 passed, he would much rather be back at Elvanlees, 
 taking some more evening walks on the hill-side. 
 He felt a little bit cross with Constance, when, in 
 reply to Percy's observation, "Has it not been fine 
 fun, Lily ?" she confessed that she had enjoyed her- 
 self exceedingly. 
 
 But now that it was over she was rather grave too, 
 for her last walk with her uncle on the terrace came 
 over her, and awoke a train of reflections. But the 
 carriage soon stopped, and she was too thoroughly 
 tired out to do anything more than go to bed as fast 
 as she could, and fall asleep. 
 
 Aunt Mabel's room next day seemed the favourite 
 resort ; they were in and out by turns incessantly. 
 Constance longed for a quiet talk, but did not get it 
 till after dinner, when the gentlemen were safe in the 
 dining-room ; then, instead of talking of the ball, as 
 she thought she was inclined to do. Aunt Mabel read 
 her a letter from Uncle Edward, which led to a long 
 conversation on home afiairs ; and was so engrossing, 
 that they were surprised when Percy knocked at the 
 door with, "Shall I make tea, Lily? for I think the 
 urn will go off of itself, if you don't come soon ; the 
 steam's up in such a wonderful way." 
 
 " Oh, is it tea-time, Percy ? I'll come. — Aunt Mabel 
 and I have been so comfortable." 
 
 " So you look ; but you must come now. I want 
 you so much to play to me after tea. I have had that 
 delicious, swimming waltz they played the last thing 
 last night, ringing in my ears all day, and you must
 
 56 DAM^ AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 pla}^ it. I know you can, if you try. I have made it 
 out with one finger." 
 
 They adjourned to the drawing-room, and found 
 Mr. Montrevor buried in one arm-chair, Eustace in 
 the other, — one beside the fire, the other opposite. 
 Mr. Montrevor was shading his eyes with his hand, 
 deep in thought; he looked very grave — so grave, that 
 Constance gave almost an anxious glance at him, and 
 tlien a little gentle kiss on his forehead, as she passed 
 to make tea. A smile came over his face as he felt 
 her pass, but the grave thoughts were resumed again. 
 Eustace seemed intent on some book, but it was put 
 down as Constance came near ; though he did not, as 
 usual, repair to the tea-table. Aunt Mabel sat down 
 on the sofa, with a little round table before her, and 
 took out her knitting. Percy helped Constance to 
 make tea, hummed scraps of waltzes, and checked 
 himself, and finally sat down with the exclamation, 
 "I wish we were going to another ball to-night. Oh, 
 by-the-bye, I want you to give me that wreath of 
 lilies you wore last night, as a remembrance of your 
 first ball : will you, Lily ?" 
 
 "My wreath, Percy, that I have only worn once! 
 Oh, indeed, I cannot be so extravagant." 
 
 " Promise me then, that you'll keep it for me, when 
 it has done duty all through the season. I don't 
 care how faded it is ; though I'm inclined to doubt, 
 notwithstanding your sudden little fit of prudence, 
 whetlier you will ever wear it again. Will you 
 promise, Lily ?" 
 
 '' I had better mention it to Eoberts, then, for she 
 generally decides when any article of dress is su-
 
 DAWIS" AND TWILIGHT. 57 
 
 perannuated. But please take Aunt Mabel her 
 tea." 
 
 " Let me take my uncle's too." 
 " No, thank you ; I will do that." She took it, and 
 still looked rather anxiously in his face, which bright- 
 ened up again as her gentle presence was felt. 
 
 Tea over, Percy begged Constance to go to the 
 piano : she sat there playing airs from operas, waltzes, 
 and old songs, to amuse him, till nearly bed-time, and 
 then getting up, walked towards the fire, where Eus- 
 tace still sat, apparently very deep in his book. She 
 rested her hand on the back of the chair, whilst she 
 looked over his shoulder at the book, saying, " What 
 have you been so intent upon all the evening, Eustace ? 
 You have not spoken one word, I think." Eustace 
 was going to close the book rather hastily, but not 
 before Constance's quick sight had discovered it was 
 upside down. " Oh, Eustace, and have you been 
 thinking, too, all the evening? Then all my com- 
 passion for your being interrupted in your studies by 
 the scraps of waltzes and songs was quite wasted." 
 
 "How do you prove that, my Lily?" her father 
 asked, in a cheerful tone : " AVhy may not thinking be 
 as great a part of study as reading ?" 
 
 fehe was so much pleased to see him roused from 
 his thoughts, that she answered in a merry voice, 
 " They must be rather different thoughts from mine 
 this evening, when they are." 
 
 "Or mine either," said Percy. 
 
 **And what have yours been about, poor little 
 Woolly ?" continued Constance, as, having seated her- 
 self in a low chair by the fire, Woolly comfortably
 
 58 DAWS^ AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 ensconced himself on her lap, — " that you are leading 
 a most uninteresting life ?" 
 
 *' He only said, I am weary, I am weary, — 
 This London is so very dreary ; 
 I wish I hadn't come," 
 
 chimed in Percy. 
 
 " Oh, Percy, are you presuming on a parody of 
 Tennyson ?" 
 
 " It is far beyond me, I assure you. I am reciting 
 from memory," he answered, with mock gravity. 
 
 '* That is not so great an offence. — Papa," she went 
 on, turning to her father, " do let us take a long ride 
 to morrow, for the good of our health, — quite out of 
 London, — and take poor Woolly with us, somewhere 
 where he will not be run over by cabs and om- 
 nibuses." 
 
 " But how are we to convey him to that Elysium, 
 Lily ?" 
 
 " I think Percy would carry him in his pocket. Will 
 you not, Percy ?" 
 
 There was a general laugh, and Percy answered, 
 ^' Certainly, if you will carry a needle and thread to 
 sew on the pocket afterwards." 
 
 " That I have not the least objection to do. Then 
 it's agreed: and Woolly shall have one day's enjoy- 
 ment. And now I think I shall go to bed, for I am 
 so tired. Will you ring for candles, Percy ?" 
 
 When the servant answered the bell, he brought 
 with him a note for Constance, saying, " The servant 
 is waiting for an answer." 
 
 " Who is your nocturnal correspondent, my child ?"
 
 If±WS Als^D TWILIGHT. 59 
 
 her father asked ; and then added, " But oh ! I forget, 
 it's only the beginning of the evening here." 
 
 "It's from Aunt Eockwood, — an invitation. Shall 
 I read it out ?" 
 
 " Pro lono puhlico," added Percy. 
 
 "Do," said her father. 
 ''My Dear Constance, — 
 
 "I hope you are not the worse for last night's 
 dissipation. I have been wishing all the afternoon to 
 call and see how you were, but was prevented ; and I 
 wanted also to tell you of a little expedition we 
 planned for to-morrow, and in which we much hope 
 you will all join us. It is to go over to Windsor, 
 see the Castle, (Dora has never seen it ; nor have you, 
 I think,) spend the morning in the park, taking 
 luncheon with us, return home to dinner, (we shall 
 expect you to dine with us,) and go to the Opera 
 in the evening. I hope your father will not vote 
 the pic-nic 'a bore.' Assure him it is not one of 
 those gigantic meetings of which I remember of old 
 his horror, but a pleasant little party of friends, ar- 
 ranged last night at my sister's ; but you vanished 
 before I had time to tell you of it. Much hoping for 
 a favourable answer, I remain, 
 
 " Your aifectionate Aunt, 
 "Feaxces Eockw^ood." 
 
 " How delicious !" was Percy's comment. 
 
 Constance looked at her father before answering, 
 to see whether it would be "a bore" to him or not; 
 but Percy's ''how delicious" made him smile, and he 
 said in answer to her eyes, "If you and Eustace 
 agree with Percy, Lily, you had better write at once
 
 60 DAWN ATfD TWILIGHT. 
 
 and say we will join them. But tell your aunt she must 
 send us full directions as to the hour of starting, place 
 of rendezvous, and all other needful particulars, that 
 we may not have to pic-nic alone. I don't know what 
 to say about the Opera afterwards. I think they will 
 make an end of you, my child, at this rate : you are 
 not seasoned yet to this sixteen hours' hard labour." 
 
 '' Oh ! the Opera, Papa ! Do let us go ; that will 
 be delicious. I don't think it will hurt me." 
 
 "I think we must see what effect Windsor, and 
 the pic-nic, and the dinner have first, before we can 
 decide: but if you accept for all those entertain- 
 ments, we can settle about the Opera afterwards." 
 
 When Constance's note was finished, she felt less 
 inclined to go to bed than before. The thought of 
 to-morrow was rather exciting to her ; — besides, she so 
 rejoiced to see every one happy, that Eustace's con- 
 tinued grave looks troubled her. She knew him too 
 well to ask him before others what caused them, but 
 tried to soothe him with some pleasant little remarks 
 addressed especially to him. They had the desired 
 efiect, and she had the satisfaction of seeing him smile, 
 before Aunt Mabel, at her father's request, got up 
 to go to bed. She was in the midst of consoling 
 Woolly for the loss of his promised day's amusement, 
 when Aunt Mabel said, ''Your father thinks you 
 will be quite unfit for yours, Constance, if we don't 
 make the best of our way to bed directly."
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 61 
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 " Yes, yes ! that boon, life's richest treat, 
 He had, or fancied that he had,— 
 Say, 'twas but in his own conceit, 
 
 The fancy made him glad ! 
 Crown of his cup, and garnish of his dish. 
 The boon prefigured in his earliest wish, 
 The fair fulfilment of his poesy. 
 When his young heart first yearned for sympathy." 
 
 Coleridge. 
 
 THE day for the pic-nic was all that could be de- 
 gij-ed — neither too hot nor too cold, too cloudy nor 
 too sunshiny; and there was a universal congratula- 
 tion when the party met at the station. Most of those 
 assembled were strangers to Constance, but General 
 Lessington's kind face soon appeared, and with him 
 the young Guardsman who had been so desirous of an 
 introduction to her the night of Lady Eitzmaure's 
 ball. He had made no greater impression on her 
 than any other of her numerous partners ; and at the 
 first moment she hardly recognised him, but General 
 Lessington introduced him to her father as Captain 
 Everington, and then she remembered the name, and 
 gave the token of recognition he was evidently await- 
 ing rather anxiously. He joined her father and her- 
 self; and as General Lessington talked with the 
 former, he devoted himself to Constance. 
 
 Eustace hovered near for some little time ; but he 
 had taken himself to task last night, in a solitary sit-
 
 62 DAWN A:tfD TWILIGHT. 
 
 ting over tlie drawing-room fire, after the rest of the 
 party had retired, and made wise resolutions which 
 he was determined to carry into effect ; and the first 
 proof of his self-command was his joining Lady Fitz- 
 maure's party. She was a clever, lively woman, and 
 had taken rather a fanfcy to the intelligent-looking 
 Oxonian, and invited him into the carriage in which 
 she and her daughters, and some others, were seated. 
 The little railway journey was soon o. er, and the party 
 walked through the town to the Castle. Its com- 
 manding situation, and the grand old building looking 
 down so proudly over the surrounding country, awoke 
 many thoughts in Constance's mind; and she would 
 rather have been left to herself to enjoy them, or 
 have had only her father or Eustace to say a word to 
 now and then. But Captain Everiugton was at her 
 side; and though she tried to feel grateful to him 
 for the trouble he was taking to make himself agree- 
 able, his conversation just then was rather wearisome 
 to her. 
 
 The Castle was viewed, the pictures discussed, 
 the splendid view admired, and then the party pro- 
 ceeded to visit Virginia Water. It was quite delight- 
 ful to Constance to breathe fresh air, and look on 
 trees and grass unstained by a smoky atmosphere. 
 Percy came up to her, and glad she was to have some 
 one to whom she might, unrestrained, give vent to her 
 enjoyment; slightly saddened though, for a moment, by 
 the thought of " how poor little Woolly would have 
 enjoyed himself." 
 
 Percy had a favourite view to shew her, and begged 
 her to come with him. Windsor was familiar to him
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 63 
 
 from his Eton days ; and almost like a child released 
 from an irksome task, she turned gladly with him, 
 entirely unconscious of the vexation Percy's appear- 
 ance had caused to her former companion. 
 
 Constance had breathed too pure an atmosphere of 
 love in her own home to crave after mere admiration. 
 It did not even gratify her vanity, for she had been 
 BO accustomed to the warm, deep admiration of her 
 own kindred, that she inhaled it like the common air, 
 unconsciously. 
 
 The day passed away pleasantly to all parties, (ex- 
 ternally, at any rate: we will not presume to say 
 there were not some little inward drawbacks); and 
 Constance and her father and cousins arrived home 
 just in time to dress for the dinner at Lady Eock- 
 wood's. 
 
 '• AVe have had such a delightful day, Aunt Mabel ! 
 How I wash you had been with us : it would have done 
 you so much good to have breathed such deliciously 
 fresh air," was Constance's first exclamation, as Aunt 
 Mabel came out of her sitting-room to greet them on 
 their arrival. 
 
 " I think you look all the better for it, Lily. Young 
 plants want more care than old, withered ones," Aunt 
 Mabel answered. 
 
 The dinner and the Opera were gone through, not- 
 withstanding some rather uneasy glances from Mr. 
 Montrevor, which, however, Lady Rockwood took 
 care Constance should not see ; and her pale, wearied 
 look next morning made him feel himself very weak 
 to have yielded. 
 
 They passed a quiet day, and drove to see a small
 
 64 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 collection of Erench pictures, which Greneral Lessing' 
 ton had told them of, and where he promised to meel 
 them. Constance's enthusiasm, and Eustace's quid 
 enjoyment and intense appreciation of the art, inter 
 ested him ; and as they were standing in silent ad 
 miration before a small historical painting, he joinec 
 them. " I did not know, Eustace, you were such ai 
 amateur," he remarked: "I should like to introduce 
 you to the studio of a friend of mine : you would sui 
 each other exactly. "Will you come with me to 
 morrow ? and I will shew you some of the pretties 
 drawings to be seen in London." 
 
 Eustace willingly acceded to his proposal, and thi 
 next day found himself walking up a quiet stree 
 leading into the Park, and listening to Greneral Les 
 sington's account of his friend, who he assured hir 
 was well worth knowing, though to strangers he some 
 times appeared misanthropical and eccentric. The; 
 had reached the house, and the General's knock wa 
 answered by a foreign servant, to whom his appeal 
 ance was evidently familiar, for no name was asked ; bu 
 in answer to the question, " shall I find your master uf 
 stairs ?" he was requested to walk up. They walke 
 to the door of what was meant for the back drawing 
 room, and to a rap with the knuckles, intended t 
 represent a double knock, the answer, "at home, 
 was called out from the inside, and they entered. 
 
 The room at first sight appeared in a strange stat 
 of confusion; half-finished drawings, paintings, booki 
 bottles of oil and varnish, portfolios, and innumerabl 
 other articles being scattered about in every directioi 
 Its occupier was seated at his easel, on one side (
 
 DAWK AND TWILIGHT. 65 
 
 which he looked out to greet the General, and then 
 bowed politely to the visitor he introduced. Eustace 
 at once recognised him as the statue-like figure who 
 had attracted his, as well as Percy's, attention at 
 Lady Eitzmaure's. 
 
 Seated on a table near him, his hat on his head, 
 and a riding-whip in his hand, was Captain Evering- 
 ton. After a few words had been exchanged, the 
 artist began, " You have arrived at a most fortunate 
 time, General : Everington and I were in the midst 
 of an animated discussion, and you shall be umpire. 
 Allow me to state the case to you." 
 
 Captain Everington gave a rather uneasy glance to- 
 wards Eustace, which his friend evidently noticed, 
 but with a quiet smile went on : — " The case is this. 
 This good man is greatly prepossessed in favour of a 
 lovely lady whom he has lately had the happiness to 
 meet. After describing her in rapturous terms, end- 
 ing with her being so very ' distingue,' — a favourite ex- 
 pression of his, which we will conclude means some- 
 thing the same as distinguished, — he continued, ' Really 
 I should have set her down at once as one of the 
 aristocracy ;' — all very well for him, the son of a tenth 
 earl, but at which my gentle blood rises, and I con- 
 tend for the nobility of the English gentry, and see 
 not why they may not be equally distingue with the 
 lords and ladies. I tell him his line of argument 
 would lead to the admiration of rank absolute. Eor 
 may not the ancient gentry of England have at least 
 as noble blood in their veins as the modern nobility ? 
 A man, for instance, makes some fortunate discovery 
 or speculation, and grows rich, (the former without the
 
 66 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 latter would avail him nothing) ; — allow it, though, to 
 be a fortunate discovery: he invents some new and 
 eifectual method of fastening on pins' heads. Pins, who 
 will deny, are a most important article of commerce. 
 The nation's gratitude rises ; — surely the man who has 
 so benefited society at large, saved all the women of 
 England from pricking their fingers, deserves some 
 reward. His gracious Sovereign must testify her ap- 
 probation, and dub him a Knight. Meanwhile, the 
 demand for his invaluable pins becomes greater; his 
 riches increase, and so does the nation's gratitude : 
 he is created a Baronet. A Baronet! is that suf- 
 ficient honour for the man who has made such an 
 extraordinary discovery, — realized such an immense 
 fortune, — purchased such fine estates ? No ! let him 
 become one of the nobility of the land ; and forthwith 
 his rank increases. Now, remember, I say nothing 
 against this worthy man ; I have a great respect for 
 him and his good luck, or industry, or both; all I 
 contend for is, that I do not exactly see that it should 
 follow as a matter of course that his daughter, be- 
 cause she is the Honourable Miss Pinspoint, or even 
 the Lady Theodosia Stecknadel, should at once be- 
 come so infinitely more distingue in appearance than 
 the ladies who cannot affix that agreeable little handle 
 to their names. Do you take my view of the case, 
 General?" 
 
 "Who would decide in such an important matter, 
 without hearing both sides ?" General Lessington 
 answered, turning towards Captain Everington. 
 
 " Oh, my good Sir, if you think you are going to 
 inveigle me into an argument with that lawyer-head,
 
 'dawn axd twilight, 67 
 
 you are greatly mistaken. I have not yet acquired 
 that rapidity of utterance which is so very desirable, 
 and in which Clifford has attained such proficiency, 
 that I suspect he has been taking a few lessons of 
 Albert Smith. But allow me to say that, with his 
 liberal views, I should not have suspected him of 
 holding such sentiments as he has set forth. Why, 
 I thought he maintained that rank was nothing, merit 
 and intellect were to carry all before them ; and now 
 he contemns the poor fellow who rises by his wits." 
 
 " Oh no, Charlie ; allow me to difi'er. Did I not say, 
 I respected him greatly ? I only comment on the 
 strange power of wealth, — that it can transform a 
 clodhopper into a distinguSAodkmg individual. But 
 it can't be helped, it's no use struggling against it ; 
 it is the course the age has taken, and the stream has 
 flowed on so rapidly, the channel is worn very deep, — 
 money-worship." 
 
 "I think you contradict yourself, Gerard. "What 
 harm is there in a man growing rich, if he has the 
 power to make bimself so ?" 
 
 " None whatever, my good fellow. But herein lies 
 the evil : the age worships his wealth, not the power 
 of mind that made it. Let him be poor, and have the 
 wisdom of Socrates, and then where are his admirers ? 
 It is the effect, not the cause, that is held in estima- 
 tion. Let him be prosperous, tmd he will be the idol 
 of the world ; let him fail, and he will be a poor, con- 
 ceited fellow, who thought he knew better than the 
 rest of mankiud, and deserved his fate : whereas the 
 failure and success alike may have depended on some 
 trivial circumstance over which he had no control."
 
 68 DAWK AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 The brush was moving with ceaseless activity all 
 the time this energetic discussion was going on. But 
 as Mr. Clifford finished speaking, Captain Everington 
 dismounted from his table, saying in a solemn tone 
 that he did not own himself vanquished, and that 
 "e'en though vanquished, he could argue still," did 
 time permit, but that on the present occasion im- 
 perative engagements compelled him to request an 
 adjournment of the case till some future day; and 
 then, bowing to the company, he left the room. 
 
 As his descending footsteps were heard, a merry 
 whistle accompanied them. General Lessington smiled, 
 as he remarked, " Your opponent has lost none of his 
 good-humour." 
 
 " He could not get rid of it, I verily believe. I often 
 wish he would bestow a little of what is superfluous 
 on me. But, General, have you found a secure seat 
 for yourself ? Mr. Montrevor, you had better take up 
 Everington's position on the table : he always calls it 
 the only habitable part of the room." 
 
 Eustace accepted the offer, and placed himself there. 
 He had been an amused listener of the debate, and 
 was, at the moment Mr. Clifford addressed him, study- 
 ing his countenance, and feeling puzzled in his attempt 
 to read the inner man from the outward lineaments. 
 It was a peculiar countenance, certainly, and one that 
 puzzled many. But it was like opening a book with 
 an uncommon title-page ; one longed to turn it over, 
 and see what was in it. 
 
 As Eustace was seated, General Lessington rose, 
 saying, " Clifford, I promised Mr. Montrevor a sight of 
 some of your drawings ; please to allow me to hand
 
 DAMS AND TWILIGHT. 69 
 
 over one of your portfolios to him, and then I will 
 generously vacate my chair, for I must be off." 
 
 " I am ashamed to let you reach it, General, but I 
 am in rather a ticklish position here just now. The 
 Italian one is in that corner ; I believe it is the most 
 entertaining." 
 
 Eustace sprang off his seat to reach it for himself, 
 and giving the portfolio his place, and taking General 
 Lessington's, he sat down, prepared to enjoy himself 
 thoroughly. 
 
 For some time the conversation was on the drawings 
 and the scenes they represented, which Mr. Clifford 
 described with a few graphic touches, commenting on 
 his own work with such just criticisms, and detailing 
 every now and then, rapidly and briefly, some amus- 
 ing adventure or striking incident connected with the 
 scene depicted, that Eustace felt as if he had been 
 travelling with him. 
 
 A lovely view of Venice from the sea turned the 
 conversation to its melancholy history, and, from that, 
 to the cause in general of the rise and fall of king- 
 doms, and then back again to the subject Captain 
 Everington and Grerard had been discussing. 
 
 " I entirely agree with you," Eustace continued ; 
 " I think there is something quite contemptible in 
 the strange infatuation which almost leads to an adora- 
 tion of wealth, and of those who possess it." 
 
 Gerard Clifford looked at him with a searching 
 glance, while he said, " You are young, and may have 
 escaped it yet. jS^oble sentiments are common when 
 first entering on life. "Will you truly hold and act 
 upon that opinion ten years hence ? — And yet it is not
 
 70 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 wealth in itself that is to blame, but the miserable 
 vanity of making known the possession of it in useless 
 and absurd display that is the really contemptible 
 part," he continued, after a pause. " If a man who 
 has realized great wealth will be simple and unpre- 
 tending, and not value himself upon the amount of 
 gold he possesses, but spend it for his country's good, 
 all must hold him in respect. But when he imagines 
 he must immediately ape the manners and customs of 
 the great, entail on himself habits and ceremonies that 
 are simply irksome to him, because others who have 
 been born to them (and in that alone is there any 
 excuse for them) use them, — fill his house with idle, 
 powder-headed rascals, who waste his substance and 
 laugh at his folly, — it is nothing but the old story of 
 the jackdaw in the peacock's feathers, and casts a slur 
 on mankind. I declare I always feel it is an insult to 
 one's self to suppose that so much outward show and 
 splendour is required to command respect." 
 
 Eustace was interested in hearing him talk, and 
 the conversation was prolonged far beyond the time 
 he had intended staying, when he suddenly remem- 
 bered he was engaged to ride out with his uncle after 
 luncheon. He got up hastily, on finding how near 
 the hour it was, and thanked Gerard for the pleasure 
 he had given him. 
 
 " Pray come again, if you think it worth while. You 
 will find me in the same place most days in the week, 
 about this time ; and I will promise to have more va- 
 cant chairs at your next visit." 
 
 Eustace hurried home, full of his new acquaintance, 
 and gave Constance a long account of him and his
 
 DAVrS AXD TWILIGHT. 71 
 
 drawings during their ride, — for she accompanied 
 them. 
 
 Eustace found himself often wending his way in 
 the next few days to Mr. Clifford's lodgings, and each 
 visit came away more charmed with his apparently- 
 universal genius, general iuformation, and originality 
 of thought. He was very anxious to introduce him 
 to his uncle and Constance, but there seemed no open- 
 ing, for he evidently was not desirous of increasing his 
 acquaintance, if it entailed morning calls and dinner- 
 parties ; and so Eustace had to content himself with 
 retailing his conversation and remarks to Constance. 
 Slie always listened with great interest ; but one day, 
 when Eustace was sitting with lier in the drawing- 
 room, and had been gi\^ng a glowing description of 
 the inexhaustible resources of his mind, she asked 
 with earnestness, " And does it satisfy him ? tell me, 
 Eustace, does it satisfy him ? " 
 
 '•' How do you mean, Constance ?" 
 
 '^ I don't know how to explain it ; but don't you 
 understand ? Does it take off all restlessness ; does 
 he never feel an emptiness, — a craving after something 
 fuller, deeper," she went on eagerly, " as if some part 
 of his being were yet unfulfilled?" 
 
 " I don't know, Lily ; how should I ?" 
 
 " Does he look happy r" 
 
 *' Happy, — no. I hardly think I should apply that 
 word to him. He often lights up, and looks full of 
 enthusiasm and energy ; but sometimes, after he has 
 been speaking most earnestly, he looks very grave, 
 and gives a sort of inward sigh, and then he seems to 
 laugh at himself, and rouses himself to energy again."
 
 72 DAWN A.^D TWILIGHT. 
 
 " And yet, Eustace, I suppose it is tlie search after 
 happiness that makes him seize upon all those pursuits 
 with such eagerness." 
 
 " Do you think so ? I do not know that it has 
 struck me in that light." 
 
 " I only mean, I suppose it is the need of filling the 
 mind with something, to prevent it preying upon itself^ 
 that makes one take up one pursuit after another, for 
 none seem to satisfy." 
 
 " None, Lily ! Don't you think acquiring knowledge 
 does ? There seems something so real and life-like in 
 adding to the treasures of the mind ; so d liferent from 
 mere amusements, because what you gain abides with 
 you, and does not pass away and leave nothing but a 
 weariness beliind." 
 
 She sighed as she answered, " Oh yes, it is a far 
 higher, nobler pursuit ; much better than the life I 
 am leading now, and seem growing quite fond of. I 
 do not wonder at your not caring for balls and par- 
 ties, Eustace, when you can pass your time with such 
 people as Mr. Clifford and those you tell me you meet 
 there." 
 
 " Are you growing very fond of going out, then, 
 Constance .'' " he asked, in rather an anxious tone : 
 " Do you generally meet the same people ?" 
 
 " Some we seem always to meet : I really think 
 I hardly go anywhere without meeting Captain Ever- 
 ington." 
 
 " And do you like him ? " Eustace asked, in a still 
 more eager tone. 
 
 But the innocent, child-like manner in which the 
 answer, " Oh yes, very much," was given, seemed to
 
 DAWK" AND TWILIGHT. 73 
 
 set him at ease directly. — '' He is so good-natured," 
 she went on ; " he seems quite like an old friend. He so 
 often joins us in the Park when we are riding. And 
 Percy likes him too : he has told him a great deal 
 about tlie army. AYhy do you so seldom ride with 
 us now, Eustace ? I suppose you find us too stupid." 
 
 " Too stupid ! Oh, Constance !" Eustace began, and 
 seemed as if he must have said a great deal more ; but 
 he checked himself, and made some rather incoherent 
 remarks on the state of the weather, which caused 
 Constance to look at him in bewilderment. Aunt 
 Mabel, however, entered at that moment, and some 
 question of hers drew off the attention of both. 
 
 They were going out that evening, as usual; and 
 when dinner was over, and Constance and Aunt Mabel 
 went up-stairs, Constance begged they miglit go into 
 the sitting-room and have a quiet talk ; and when she 
 had placed Aunt iNIabel in lier arm-chair, and taken 
 her favourite seat on tlie footstool, her mind being full 
 of the conversation with Eustace, she began relating 
 it, and then said, " AVhat a strange thing it is that 
 the heart is never satisfied with pleasure ; the more 
 it has, the more it seems to desire. When first we 
 came to London, I did not care half so much about 
 going out as I do now ; then I should have been quite 
 contented without it, but now, Aunt Mabel, I seem 
 quite to look for it and expect it, and should miss it, 
 I am afraid, if it did not come. "Why is ifc that we 
 seek aft^r that which, when attained, leaves such a 
 void, and never seems to stifle the craving ? I won- 
 der if there ever was any one who was quite satisfied 
 with pleasure, and felt he had all his heart desired."
 
 74 DAWN AN^D TWILIGHT. 
 
 "Wo, dear," Aunt Mabel answered gravely; "I 
 do not believe such a thing to be possible. Eemember 
 the words of the Wise man, after he had obtained all 
 that he desired, ' And behold, all was vanity and vexa- 
 tion of spirit.' It is the same story still, my child, I 
 think, if we could read tlie hearts of those who, like 
 him, withhold not their hearts from any joy." 
 
 " Then, Aunt Mabel," Constance said, earnestly, 
 raising herself up from the recumbent position she 
 was in, and turning round, and looking up in her 
 Aunt's face, " I think it is a most unprofitable life to 
 lead, to be always pursuing tbat which we know be- 
 forehand will not satisfy when gained." 
 
 " Yes, dear," Aunt Mabel answered, calmly ; " if 
 self-indulgence or self-gratification are our end, it is 
 indeed a most unprofitable life ; but it is possible to 
 take these things simply and quietly, — not to rest in 
 them, but through them, if they fall to our lot in the 
 place God has chosen for us, to pass on to a world 
 where no perplexities and difficulties will ever beset 
 our path." 
 
 Constance leant back again, as Aunt Mabel finished 
 speaking, and went on with her own thoughts, till her 
 father's footsteps were heard on the stairs ; and then 
 she roused herself to get up and go into the drawing- 
 room to make tea, before going up to dress. 
 
 Aunt Mabel assisted at her toilette, as usual, in the 
 capacity of spectator. The book Constance took up 
 that night, while her maid was dressing her hair, was 
 a volume of Cowper, which Eustace had been looking 
 through, to find out some line that haunted him, and 
 left on the drawing-room table. Constance's eyes fell
 
 DAWX AND TWILIGHT. 75 
 
 on these lines, and slie read them to Annt Mabel in 
 rather a sad tone : — 
 
 " Happy, if full of days — but happier far 
 If, ere we yet discern life's evening- star, 
 Sick of the ser-vdce of a world that feeds 
 Its patient drudges with dry chaiF and weeds. 
 We can escape from custom's idiot sway. 
 To serve the Sovereign we were born t' obey." 
 
 The toilette was completed, the carriage ^vas at the 
 door, — Constance went off to the ball, Annt Mabel 
 quietly to bed. 
 
 That night, when they returned, as Constance passed 
 her aunt's room to go to her own, she thought she 
 heard her speak, and softly turned the handle of the 
 door and crept in. Aunt Mabel had not spoken, but 
 she was awake, and Constance staid some minutes by 
 her bed-side. As her aunt, noticing her pale face, 
 wished her good-night, she said, " Oh, Aunt Mabel, is 
 it not strange, the thousand changes which our minds 
 undergo in one short day ! If we could retain them, 
 it would be like a life. High aspirations, noble reso- 
 lutions, miserable weaknesses ; contempt one hour for 
 things that we seek after eagerly the next. I cannot 
 understand it. I think one's own heart is the great- 
 est mystery in the world. But good-night, dear Aunt 
 Mabel; I am so weary, — I wish I were in bed and 
 asleep."
 
 76 DAWN AND TWILiaHT. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " A mighty pain to love it is, 
 And 'tis a pain that pain to miss ; 
 But of all pain, the greatest pain 
 It is to love, and love in. vain," 
 
 Cowley. 
 
 THE time tliat was to elapse after Percy was- 
 gazetted, before he joined the depot of his regi- 
 ment in the Isle of Wight, was fast expiring, and he 
 began to turn his thoughts towards home and his 
 father; for, however agreeable his London life was 
 to him, — and very delightful it certainly was, — he could 
 not leave home to enter on his future career without 
 some quiet days and talks with his father. 
 
 Constance felt very sorry to lose him. His going 
 into the army seemed to make a much greater change 
 than his going to school did ; and she Avas quite out of 
 spirits when lie reckoned over the number of rides 
 they should be able to have. He was sad too, — at least, 
 as sad as his elastic mind would allow him to be, — but 
 no one was permitted to see it besides Constance. 
 All his thoughts were open to her, and as a brother 
 and sister who were about to be separated, did they 
 feel towards each other. He often wondered, as Con- 
 stance did, what had happened to Eustace, that lie 
 was so much less with them than formerly. " 1 do 
 believe, Lily, it's all that dreadful love of study that 
 makes him so grave,'" was Percy's solution of the
 
 DAWN AKD TWILIGHT. 77 
 
 difficulty, as he and Constance were talking it over 
 during a ride, in which they had distanced Mr. Mon- 
 trevor and Greneral Lessington, and found themselves 
 about half a mile in advance. " I know you won't 
 agree with me," he went on, "because you have such 
 a hankering after it yourself; but really, I hardly like 
 to reflect on the consequences, when I am gone, and 
 you have no one to talk nonsense to you ; and when 
 you and Eustace put your two wise heads to hard 
 labour all day, and especially if he introduces his 
 learned friend the Statue, I shall fear for the result. 
 Will you promise me, Con, to read half-a-dozen pages 
 of ' Pickwick ' every day as an antidote ?" 
 
 Constance laughed outright at the originality of the 
 proposal. Her clear, ringing laugh always delighted 
 him. " There, I am sure that little laugh did you more 
 good than twenty pages of any of your hard books," 
 he said : " You will promise about ' Pickwick,' will 
 you not ?" 
 
 " Indeed, Percy, I can't : it's only when you read it 
 to me that I care to hear anything of it. I'll read 
 your letters, and they will be quite as entertaining. 
 I hope you will not go out of England for a long time, 
 and then we must meet again before long, and I'll 
 promise to listen to ' Pickwick,' or anything else 
 you'll read to me, and enjoy it as much as the hard 
 books you fancy I read; for it is only fancy now, at 
 any rate: the time for reading never seems to come." 
 
 They talked on till they reached home, and then, as 
 Constance w^ent in, on the hall-table, with the visitors' 
 cards she espied a little note for herself. She read it 
 as she walked up-stairs.
 
 78 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 " Oil, I am so glad !" was the comment upon it. 
 
 " AVhat are you so glad about, Constance ?" Percy 
 asked. 
 
 " Ada Sedgeleigli is come up to London. They are 
 come to stay for a month or six weeks. It was quite 
 unexpected, she says, or she should have written to 
 tell me of it before. We will go and see her early to- 
 morrow, — will we not, Percy?" 
 
 " Perhaps I shall be in the way, if you call early." 
 
 " Oh no, you must come : remember how few days 
 you have left." 
 
 So before luncheon next day the carriage was or- 
 dered, and Aunt Mabel, Constance, and Percy set oif 
 for the visit. They found the party at home; only 
 Mrs, Sedgeleigh was in the room, but the name had 
 reached Ada's ears, as they were announced, and she 
 flew down-stairs. She did not think about her shy- 
 ness, she was so glad to see Constance again, and Aunt 
 Mabel. Percy, as he was connected in her mind with 
 her delightful visit to Elvanlees, came in for his share 
 of the welcome. Constance and Ada were soon en- 
 gaged in conversation, and before the visit was over 
 they had made many plans for meeting frequently. 
 
 They drove on afterwards to a print-shop, where 
 Percy wished to go to procure a favourite print for his 
 barrack-room. It was early, so the sliop was not full, 
 and Aunt Mabel and Constance were soon seated be- 
 fore a portfolio of engravings, Percy standing behind, 
 commenting on them. 
 
 They had not been long so engaged before Con- 
 stance heard her name spoken, and turning round, saw 
 Lord Eockwood and Prances Ellermaine. After a
 
 DAWX A^D T^YILIGHT. 79 
 
 few words of conversation, Lord Eockwood said lie 
 would leave bis daughter there, and go on to his club, 
 and call for her on his way back. The prints did not 
 seem to have the interest for her they had for Con- 
 stance, and a lively conversation with Percy was much 
 more to her taste. Constance's quiet enjoyment was not, 
 however, to go on long uninterrupted, for another voice 
 addressed her, and turning round, she saw Captain 
 Everington at her side. He offered to turn over the 
 engravings for her, but the charm stemed partially dis- 
 pelled, and after a few moments, conversation super- 
 seded the inspection of the portfolio, — conversation 
 that was evidently very absorbing to one of the party. 
 Constance tried to draw Aunt Mabel in, but though 
 she answered the questions very readily, Constance 
 saw it was an effort to her, and that she would rather 
 be allowed to lean back in her chair, and be a listener 
 instead of a speaker. 
 
 Others there were who were observers too, but not 
 listeners. I;a a distant part of the shop, Eustace and 
 Mr. Clifford had been busily engaged in examining 
 some engravings after Turner, and were just thinking 
 of departing, when their eyes alighted on the little 
 group at the portfolio. Eustace was on the point of 
 going towards them, when his friend touched his arm, 
 saying, " Let us look on a little. Do yon not like 
 sometimes to read a passage in your friends' histories, 
 without their knowing that you are looking over the 
 pager" 
 
 Eustace stopped, though he felt restlessly inclined 
 to draw near. There was something in Captain Ever- 
 ington' s eager, earnest manner and expression that
 
 80 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 gave him a strange sensation, certainly not of pleasure. 
 Constance looked gentle and attentive, some degrees 
 graver than was her wont when with an enlivening 
 companion, but far from absorbed. Eustace watched 
 them with an eagerness that was almost painful. He 
 was roused by his friend's remarkiDg, " I think that 
 fair lady's history will be an eventful one: there is 
 something in that face that does not speak of calm, 
 unruffled days." 
 
 " It has been very uneventful hitherto," Eustace 
 answered, rather abruptly. He was not sure he quite 
 liked hearing Constance talked of by a stranger to 
 her, and as a " fair lady." 
 
 Clifford gave him a somewhat scrutinising glance, 
 and said with a smile, " It's presumptuous in me to 
 doubt it, and yet I'm half-inclined to do so. But 
 mark, by eventful I do not mean that she will travel a 
 great deal, meet with many extraordinary adventures, 
 or that any of the marvellous occurrences wdll neces- 
 sarily take place that are used by novelists to make 
 an interesting and exciting tale. These may, or may 
 not, be her lot. But her life will still be, in my sense, 
 eventful, I think. The mind will decide it. Much 
 often passes within, though outwardly all may be 
 calm and quiet. How little we know of each other! 
 How often, could the life of one near and dear to us 
 be put into our hands, should we fail to trace the ori- 
 ginal, and maybe deem the tale overwrought and 
 unnatural. If I mistake not, life has already begun 
 there." 
 
 " I grant that in your sense it may have done so," 
 Eustace answered.
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 81 
 
 Neither spoke for some minutes, and then Clifford 
 broke the silence with, " I hope the first event in the his- 
 tory is not going to be, breaking Charlie Everington's 
 heart. It's as sound and good a one as I know any- 
 where, with as few cracks or jlaics in it, and I should 
 be sorry to see it rent asunder. But I'm inclined 
 to doubt," he continued, after a momentary pause, 
 " whether it would ever come to such an untoward 
 end. I rather think you may bend it like a cane, 
 double, and it would spring back again — a little warped, 
 though, I fear. But it is a dangerous proceeding to 
 bask in the rays of those eyes, and all to so little profit. 
 I wonder why he does not try the other side," he went 
 on, glancing towards Frances ; " he would have no 
 trouble there, I fancy. I don't read the same destiny 
 for her.— But strange, perverse things are we mortals ; 
 nothing will satisfy us but what we cannot get, and 
 we throw away in scorn what comes in our paths, and 
 may be plucked without any trouble." 
 
 " WeU, Clifford, what picture has arrested your 
 attention V asked a voice from behind, while a hand 
 was placed on his arm. Cliff'ord turned, "Is it you. 
 General ? I thought, in our position, we were the ob- 
 servers, and not the observed." 
 
 " Yes, you are pretty well screened, but I caught a 
 glimpse of you notwithstanding, and, with my unfailing 
 deference to your taste, came up to admire the picture 
 that had so fascinated you : pray point it out." 
 
 " You see it opposite," Mr. Clifford answered, 
 smiling, with a motion of his head towards Constance 
 and Captain Everington. 
 
 " You could not have a better model, Sir Artist :
 
 82 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 pray carry it home in your mind's eye. Tou can call 
 the picture, ' The Lily of Elvanlees.' " 
 
 "Shall the other figure be introduced, as green 
 leaves to set ofi" the Lily ?" Clifford asked, glancing 
 at Everington. 
 
 " I don't know what to say to that ; they have never 
 grown together yet in my mind. It's a new idea, and 
 I don't quite take to it, for I doubt their harmonizing. 
 — But Where's Eustace Montrevor ? I thought I saw 
 him by you." 
 
 *' Yes, he was here, — he has been with me all the 
 morning; and pleasant company I find him; — some 
 fresh ideas, and a new mind to follow the working of. 
 He has walked oflf now, at any rate. I fancy he did 
 not quite approve of Miss Montrevor' s being the sub- 
 ject of conversation. Does he aspire to the posi- 
 tion of green leaves to the Lily, General, do you 
 imagine?" 
 
 " Oh dear no, such a thought would never enter his 
 mind: they have grown up like brother and sister. 
 But there he is : shall we join him ?" 
 
 They went towards him, and left the shop together. 
 As they reached the door, Gerard Clifi'ord turned, and 
 gave one more look at his friend and Constance, and 
 muttered to himself, "Ah, poor Charlie, you havn't 
 hit it, and I don't think you will. I am afraid you 
 will not find the key that will open that door." 
 
 Eustace turned too, but it is doubtful whether his 
 thoughts were simply compassion for Captain Ever- 
 iligton's apparently hopeless attentions, or mingled 
 with some anxiety as to how Constance received 
 them.
 
 DAWN AK^D TWILIGHT. 83 
 
 Lord Eockwood soon returned and claimed Fran- 
 ces, and Aunt Mabel, Constance, and Percy returned 
 home. 
 
 Percy's few days came quickly to an end, and with 
 a heavy heart he took leave of Constance and the 
 rest of the party, and set out on his journey home. 
 His depression diminished as each successive station 
 brought him nearer Elvanlees ; and when at the last 
 he saw his father himself waiting for him in the gig, 
 he bounded out with boyish glee. There was none of 
 the would-be man about Percy, and the thought of 
 concealing his satisfaction, and putting on an indif- 
 ferent air, never crossed his mind, though he was 
 eigiiteen, and an officer in her Majesty's service. Nor 
 did his father's greeting of, " Well, my hoy^ how are 
 you ?" grate at all on his ears. 
 
 The next few days were happy, though at times 
 rather grave. Mr. Montrevor laid aside all but neces- 
 sary duties and occupations, that he might be free to 
 give himself up to his son, and he was his constant 
 companion in all his walks and rides. It was an 
 anxious time for him. His son was going forth into 
 the world, — into new scenes, new temptations : would 
 he bear into them the noble, manly heart that can 
 keep its own course in the midst of sin and frivolity, 
 never seduced by that miserable cowardice which 
 trembles before a sneer, into doing that which in 
 its better moments it despises ; but calmly walk- 
 ing on in the path it has marked out for itself, 
 too strong in the consciousness of right to be influ- 
 enced by that contemptible mirth which can laugh at 
 vice, or by that moral lie which puts bitter for sweet,
 
 B4 3)AW!T AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 and sweet for bitter. What a different world this 
 would be, if men had but the courage to be singular 
 in doing right, instead of weakly following a multi- 
 tude to do evil. 
 
 The day of parting came ; the Eector again drove 
 in the gig to the station, saw the train whirl off, and 
 his son smile as he looked after him, and then re- 
 turned once more to his deserted house. 
 
 And how has it fared with Constance during these 
 few days ? Could Eustace have read Captain Ever- 
 ington's heart, he would have been even more uneasy 
 than he was. The image of Constance was never 
 absent from it, and to win her was the one desire 
 of his life. He came much less often to Mr. Clif- 
 ford's lodgings, and when he did come, his merry, 
 handsome face looked so grave and anxious, that his 
 friend quickly concluded that " he was in for it, poor 
 fellow." 
 
 Meanwhile Constance, quite unconsciously, was 
 adding fuel to the flame. She felt more at home 
 with Captain Everington than with any of her ball- 
 room acquaintances, and talked to him so naturally 
 and merrily, that each interview only served to rivet 
 more firmly the chains by which he was bound. Her 
 feelings with regard to him were so entirely different 
 from his towards her, that the possibility of inspiring 
 such deep affection never crossed her mind, and it was 
 most painful to her when one evening, at the opera, 
 unable to contain himself any longer, he disclosed the 
 state of his feelings to her. It took her so entirely by 
 surprise, that she did not at the first moment under- 
 stand what he meant ; but when it flashed across her.
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 85 
 
 and the altered, and painfdly anxious, expression of 
 his face told how much he felt, it cost her much to 
 give the answer that must put an end to all his 
 hopes, but the only answer that it was in her power 
 to give. For, however well she mi^ht have liked him 
 as a common acquaintance, love, she knew, she had 
 never felt for him. She had always felt, when they 
 were talking together, as if he knew but the outside 
 of her heart and mind, and that if they were to know 
 each other for years, he would never get down any 
 deeper. 
 
 So the answer was given, very gently and very 
 sadly. Oh, how she longed to spare the pain she 
 inflicted, could she have done so ! He started up as 
 soon as her words were spoken ; — he thought he could 
 have pleaded so well, so earnestly ; but all that in 
 iaiagination he had so often said, vanished, and he 
 felt that his doom was fixed, and she was not for him. 
 He could not take leave of her, or of Mr. Montrevor, 
 but darted from the box, down the stairs, and out at 
 once ; and, regardless of the rain, which was failing, in 
 torrents, set off, at the rate of five miles an hour, to 
 his lodgings. 
 
 His abrupt departure startled Mr. Montrevor, who 
 had been talking with General Lessington between 
 the acts : he looked towards Constance, and the ex- 
 treme paleness of her face quite frightened him: 
 *-You are not well, my child, I'm sure," he said, 
 drawing near her. 
 
 " Not very, Papa. T should be so glad to go home. 
 Will the carriage be here ?" 
 
 " No, the carriage will not be here for an hour, at
 
 86 DAWTT AKD TWILIGHT. 
 
 least ; but I can call a cab, if you do not mind going 
 in it." 
 
 " Oh, no, Papa ; I don't mind anything. Can we go 
 at once ?" 
 
 " Let me go, Montrevor, first, and call a cab, and 
 you can bring Constance quietly," Greneral Lessing- 
 ton said, leaving the box instantly. 
 
 The cab was quickly found, and Constance placed 
 in it, and her father beside her. She did not speak 
 a word going home ; she felt it would have been quite 
 impossible to have steadied her voice. But when 
 they reached the drawing-room, and her father began 
 to urge her to take something, and looking at her 
 anxiously, said, "What is the matter, my child?" the 
 words came out, "I am very foolish. Papa; but I feel 
 so miserable." 
 
 " What is it, dearest ? Are you ill, or has anything 
 happened to distress you?" 
 
 " Oh, Papa, poor Captain Everington ! I have made 
 him so unhappy ; and I am sure I did not mean it." 
 
 Her father understood all in a moment. " Oh, my 
 child, how unwatchful I have been. I should have 
 seen all this, and warned you, and spared you this dis- 
 tress," he said, in a self-reproaching tone. 
 
 " I feel as if I had been so wrong, Papa ; but indeed 
 I knew nothing of it." 
 
 **I am sure you did not, my child." 
 
 " I hope he knows I did not. It seems to me such 
 a dreadful thing, so dishonest, to take that which is 
 most precious from another, without any intention 
 of repaying it." 
 
 " Yes, love, had you known his mind, or attempted
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 87 
 
 to gain admiration or attention from him, I should 
 have agreed with you that it was most wrong, most 
 trifling, and unworthy of any noble-minded woman; 
 but as it is, you must not blame yourself. I wish 
 much it had not happened ; but it cannot be helped : 
 it is a painful experience that most have to go through 
 once, at least, in their lives. You will be better able 
 now to avoid its recurrence," he added, half sadly, as 
 he thought his child would, perhaps, learn to check 
 her bright, gleesome ways, which were so very win- 
 ning, that he wondered not any should be taken with 
 them. 
 
 They sat up some little time longer, and then, as 
 her father kissed her w^hen he left her for the night, 
 lie said, " You must not let it give you a bad night, 
 Lily, or I shall take fright, and convey you safely 
 b;ick to Elvanlees." 
 
 ''I wish we were going, Papa," was the answer; 
 *'' I feel weary of this life."
 
 88 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 0, fear not, in a world like this, 
 And thou shalt know, ere long, — 
 
 Know how sublime a thing it is 
 To suffer, and be strong." 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 WAS there none besides Constance in that house 
 who could have pleaded guilty, too, to feeling 
 " weary of this life ?" Was not Eustace such an one, 
 with his hard struggle not to let his feeliugs overcome 
 his reason and duty, with the restless longing to be with 
 Constance, and yet the reproachful conviction that he 
 always left her with weakened powers of self-control ? 
 He devoted himself more than ever to study, to get 
 rid of himself and his wearing thoughts, and found in 
 Gerard Cliftord an able assistant. He delighted in 
 getting into a metaphysical discussion with Eustace, 
 and amused and interested himself in perplexiug him, 
 and watching him winding his way out of his difficul- 
 ties. Eustace sometimes doubted whether he was any 
 the happier after these long arguments ; but it was a 
 sort of excitement, and excitement of some kind he 
 seemed to crave after. Constance's doubt whether 
 these pursuits satisfied the mind, came at times to his 
 thoughts, and was always pondered on in uncertain 
 spirit. He looked forward with a kind of restlessness 
 to the long vacation, and the tour abroad that he and
 
 DAWy AXD TWILIGHT. 89 
 
 Harry Sedgeleigli had agreed to make, thinking that 
 in change he should find rest. 
 
 His uncle felt uneasy about him ; he thought he 
 looked ill and out of spirits : he never imagined the 
 real cause. He had been so accus omed to see Con- 
 stance and her cousins together, looked upon them 
 almost as brothers and sister, and still, in a certain 
 sense, fancied them cliildren, that the real state of the 
 case never suoj^ested itself to his mind. Had there 
 been anythiog on Constance's side, perhaps his eyes 
 might have been opened ; but she was entirely uncon- 
 scious, and wondered with her father what had worked 
 the change. 
 
 Aunt Mabel alone had some insight, but seeing 
 how Eustace was acting, she wisely forbore from any 
 comments. She knew that it would only make his 
 position more uncomfortable, were he aware that he 
 had betrayed his secret. She felt a great admiration 
 for his self-denial, and fully understood all his feel- 
 ings; and knew that he, as the son of the younger 
 son, would think himself acting almost dishonourably 
 in trying to gain his cousin the heiress's aftections, 
 before she had seen anything of the world, when she 
 was hardly old enough to know the state of her 
 own mind. It would be an ungrateful return for 
 the confidence her father had always reposed in 
 him. 
 
 Therefore, as matters stood, it was not to be won- 
 dered at that none of the party had much inclination 
 to prolong the stay in London. But the time they 
 had originally intended remaining had not yet ex- 
 pired, and jyir. Montrevor disliked acting on the im-
 
 90 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 pulse of the moment, and giving up any intention 
 without some good reason ; so they stayed on. The 
 impulsive, and therefore desultory, way in which he 
 had passed some of his early years had made him 
 watch himself afterwards, that it should not grow 
 upon him; and now he seldom altered a plan he 
 had once laid down, unless it were clearly wiser to 
 do so. 
 
 Constance had a nervous dread of meeting poor 
 Captain Everington again. She felt a great interest 
 in him, and it would have been painful to her to have 
 spoken to him coldly or tried to avoid him ; and yet 
 that, her calm judgment told her, would be the wisest 
 course to pursue. Her natural impulse would have 
 been to have comforted and consoled him, and beg- 
 ged him not to be unhappy about her; but that 
 was a thought that never, even in imagination, was 
 realized. 
 
 She went to several parties without seeing him, 
 and heard nothing of him. But one evening some 
 one casually remarked that it was strange what could 
 have taken Captain Everington away in the height 
 of the season; and she then heard that he had a 
 month's leave, and was gone into the country. It 
 was more than he could bear to go out now in 
 London, and the day after that unhappy night at 
 the opera he applied for leave, and went down to a 
 place of his father's, feeling and looking much more 
 grave and unhappy than he had ever been known to 
 be before. 
 
 It was some satisfaction to Constance that her 
 being in London was a great comfort to Ada : they
 
 DAWX X-SD TWILIGHT. 91 
 
 met very often, and frequently passed the mornings 
 together. She hardly ever went to Mrs, Sedgeleigh's 
 house, but Ada came constantly to her, and seemed 
 so thankful for the quiet intercourse with her, that 
 Constance was quite glad at last that they had re- 
 mained. 
 
 They used to settle sometimes to pass industrious 
 mornings, in reading, drawing, and music ; but Con- 
 stance was almost always too weary with the late 
 hours of the preceding night to give her mind ear- 
 nestly to anything. 
 
 They had now entered on a regular London life of 
 gaiety; it was exciting, and Constance had been be- 
 ginning to enjoy it very much, when the interview 
 with Captain Everington gave a check to her spirits ; 
 and now, as she found, in trying to read with Ada, how 
 wandering and unsettled her thoughts had become, 
 the old reflection woke up, was this a profitable life ? 
 Or rather, what was its influence on her soul ? that 
 was the question. For it is not on the circumstances 
 and events of our outward life that so much depends ; 
 the work we let them do within is the all-important 
 point. In review it all passed before her. The morn- 
 ings, — how were they spent ? sometimes in almost 
 entire idleness, leaning back in a chair in Aunt 
 Mabel's room, in a kind of dreamy state ; or, if rather 
 better, reading with a wandering mind. The after- 
 noons, — was their occupation more profitable? The 
 drives in the Park came before her, the hours lounged 
 away in shops or exhibitions. The rides with her 
 father could be dwelt upon with more satisfaction ; 
 but in them alone was there any comfort, — all else
 
 92 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 seemed vanity. And then the evenings, — the even- 
 ings, with their exciting, feverish pleasures. The 
 opera came first in review. The opera! what could 
 she say of that ? It was so very delightful ; far more 
 enjoyable than the gayest ball, the most brilliant re- 
 union. But Constance was truthful, andshe forced 
 herself ' to enquire whether the strange state into 
 which she was always thrown by hearing beautiful 
 music, — the quivering ecstacy, the tumultuous feelings, 
 half sorrow, half delight ; the longing to weep, with 
 the restless yearning after something undefinable, — 
 was of any profit to her soul. Strong feelings w^ere 
 stirred up, wild imaginings, — which did they savour 
 most of, earth or heaven ? Alas ! the sympathies that 
 are aroused by the drama of the opera are seldom 
 those that we would calmly encourage when not under 
 the strange, magic power of bewitching music. Did 
 not the evenings at the opera do as much, if not more, 
 to unstring and dissipate her mind than any of the 
 other amusements ? And it needed but to recall how 
 she felt w'hen she returned home, in the calm morning 
 light, from a hot, crowded ball-room, fevered in body 
 and mind, w^earied and excited, to lead her to confess 
 that this was not the most profitable way of passing 
 the time of this little span of life, lent to train the 
 soul for the years of eternity. 
 
 She was sitting in the drawing-room one sultry 
 afternoon, leaning back in an easy- chair, brooding 
 over these thoughts, when Eustace came in. The 
 blinds were all down, and he did not notice her in 
 her darkened corner. He came in for a pamphlet 
 of Mr. Clifford's which he had left there ; but after
 
 DAWTT AI^D TWILIGHT. 93 
 
 taking it np he stood for a few moments, aod giving 
 a deep sigh, murmured, " It will not always be so 
 hard." 
 
 Constance raised herself up at his mournful voice, 
 and looking anxiously at his troubled face, said, 
 " Eustace, are you well ? Tou are reading too hard, 
 I am sure. Do sit down quietly a little, and rest." 
 
 He started when he saw her, and his first impulse 
 was to leave the room, but he could not do so with- 
 out answering her question ; and then rushed in the 
 thought, should he tell her all, — why go on wearing 
 himself out with this misery ? he might win her for 
 himself. It was a moment of strong temptation. 
 Happy those who meet such moments with firmly- 
 established habits of self-control; who have not ac- 
 customed themselves to self-indulgence ; and who 
 instinctively seek help where help is never sought 
 in vain. A¥hat will intellect, reason, science avail 
 in such an hour? 
 
 The temptation was overcome, and Eustace was 
 able to answer in his natural voice, " I am not read- 
 ing hard, Lily ; but I think this hot weather makes 
 every one feel tired." 
 
 She looked up half anxiously and timidly, while she 
 said, "Then there is really nothing the matter with 
 you, Eustace ? You must not mind my asking, but 
 you often look so very grave now, almost unhappy, 
 so different from what you do at Elvanlees." 
 
 He paused before he answered, and half turned 
 away, bending his forehead down against the cold 
 marble of the mantelpiece. A sudden determination 
 came over him to ask her advice, and to abide by it ;
 
 94 DAWIsT AKD TWILIGHT. 
 
 and in as calm a voice as lie could command, he said, 
 " Yes, Constance, I do feel very unhappy, and I want 
 you to advise me. You often used to advise me in my 
 schoolboy troubles; tell me what I should do now. 
 I have a longing after something, no matter what, 
 which I know it is not well for me to seek after: 
 What shall I do ?" 
 
 " Oh, Eustace, I cannot advise you ; you know so 
 much better than I do." 
 
 "No, Lily, I don't, indeed I do not; you must tell 
 me. What shall I do?" 
 
 The anxious, trembling tone of his voice frightened 
 her, and she answered, ''Eustace, you know that there 
 is but one way to overcome temptation — to pray and 
 strive against it." 
 
 " Yes, Lily, but how strive against it, when all one's 
 efforts seem in vain ?" 
 
 "They cannot be in vain, if you persevere, and 
 avoid what gives rise to temptation." 
 
 " You are right, Constance, quite right, that's it ; 
 thank you for what you have said." He could not 
 say more, and taking up the book he had come in 
 search of, he left the room, leaving Constance in dis- 
 tress and perplexity. Was she following out the ad- 
 vice she had given ? The answer had risen almost 
 instinctively to her lips, but did she act upon it her- 
 self? The struggle had begun in her heart, the struggle 
 tliat goes on in every human soul in its lonely pilgrim- 
 age, till evil or good gain the mastery. 
 
 The next morning, when Constance came down to 
 breakfast, she found her father expressing his surprise 
 to Aunt Mabel at Eustace's sudden resolution to re-
 
 DAWN ATfD TWILIGHT. 95 
 
 turn that day to Elvanlees. "I have thought him 
 looking ill," he continued, "and I hope the change 
 may do him good ; but I do not like his going down 
 that he may read harder, for I think he wants 
 rest." 
 
 Constance made no comment : she could give in 
 her own mind a reason for this unexpected deter- 
 mination, though all unconscious what the temptation 
 he strove against was ; and she greatly honoured his 
 strength of will and self-command. She took her 
 place in silence at the head of the table, whilst Aunt 
 Mabel and her father talked on a little more about 
 Eustace, — the latter saying he should write a line to 
 his fiither, to warn him not to let him wear himself 
 out with reading. 
 
 Eustace was later than usual in coming down to 
 breakfast, and when he entered the room Constance 
 was struck by his expression ; he looked paler and 
 more unwell than usual, but there was a calm noble- 
 ness in his face, and his lips were firmly compressed. 
 There was very little conversation at breakfast, and 
 when it was over the party dispersed. Eustace was 
 to go by the mid-day train, and Constance sat in the 
 drawing-room alone, grieving over his altered, sad- 
 dened mood, and feeling a longing to comfort him, 
 as she had hitherto done in his little trials all his life 
 through, and reasoning herself into thinking that now 
 he was grown up, a man, and so clever, it was very 
 natural that he should no longer find any relief in 
 pouring out all his heart and his thoughts to her. 
 She wished it could have ever gone on as it was, 
 but she was very silly to expect he should care for
 
 96 DAWN a:n^d twilight. 
 
 her so much, now he had Mr. Clifford and so many 
 clever friends. 
 
 The timepiece on the mantel-shelf chimed out the 
 half-hour ; she looked up, — it was half-past eleven ; it 
 wanted but an hour till he left : what was he doing all 
 the morning? Another quarter of an hour passed, 
 and Constance M'as just rousing herself, and deciding 
 that she was very wrong to be giving way to such 
 idleness, when the door gently opened, and Eustace 
 came in. He had a packet of books in his hands, 
 which he brought Mith him as a sort of excuse to 
 himself for seeking her out, and he asked her to send 
 them in the course of the day to Mr. Clifford's lodg- 
 ings. She willingly assented, and added, "Is there 
 nothing else I can do for you? Your going seems so 
 sudden. But you can send me any commission you 
 think of." — He thanked her, but his manner was sad 
 and constrained. 
 
 " Does Uncle Edward know you are coming ?" 
 she asked : " How pleased he will be ! and old Stephen. 
 Do you remember our walk to the Lodge, one of the 
 evenings Papa was in London, Eustace ; and our sit- 
 ting on the hill-side ? What a lovely evening it 
 was !" 
 
 "Yes, Constance, I remember it all. I think I 
 remember all the walks we have taken together." 
 
 " Do you?" she asked merrily; "then you have a 
 good memory, for they have been very numerous. 
 Oh, how strange it will seem when I go home, not 
 to have you and Percy to walk and ride with." 
 
 " You and Percy,"— why did it grate on his ear ? 
 He knew the love she bore him, he knew he was to 
 
 I
 
 DAWN AXD TWILIGHT. 97 
 
 her as a brother. Yes, she would miss them both 
 equally. It was pain to him to stand there beside 
 her, but it was agony to go. There was one request 
 he felt a longing to make before he left, there was one 
 way in which he longed to ask her to remember him, 
 and yet it was so difficult to him to speak. She looked 
 up anxiously in his face, wondering at his perturbed 
 expression, and as if she woidd ask what caused it; 
 when in a low, hurried tone he said, " Lily, I want to 
 ask you one thing : will you pray for me now, as you 
 used to do when you were a little child ?" 
 
 " Oh, Eustace, I always do ; I have never left it off. 
 Do you remember how I used to want to say ' my 
 brothers,' instead of Eustace and Percy, becauise you 
 and Percy used to pray for ' my papa and my brother :' 
 I often feel still as if it would be more natural to say 
 it. And we may always be like brothers and sister, 
 may we not ? though you want better and cleverer 
 companions than I am, now." 
 
 It was well for Eustace's self-command that the 
 door was thrown open, and the announcement, ''The 
 cab is at the door, Sir," was made. 
 
 There was time for nothing more than a hurried 
 farewell. His eager, excited pressure of her hand 
 made her raise her eyes once more timidly to his face, 
 but he could not command himself a moment longer, 
 and rushed down stairs, leaving Constance standing 
 bewildered where he had left her.
 
 98 DAWIS AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 *• 'Tis sweet to think our path-besetting ills 
 And trials are from Thee that lovest us, 
 And knowest, and thereby unto Thyself 
 Would draw us, waiting for our loTe." 
 
 The Christian Seasons. 
 
 THEY were oppressive, dull days to Constance, 
 wliich followed Eustace's departure. She was 
 beginning to be mentally and physically wearied by 
 the life she was leading, and was getting into that 
 unhealthy state, in which excitement seems an almost 
 necessary stimulant to exertion ; and her mind, as we 
 have already said, was continually haunted by the 
 thought, was this a life to fit the soul for immor- 
 tality ? How does the Spirit of God cease not from 
 time to time to move over the stagnant waters, and 
 the breath of life to lighten the heavy atmosphere ! 
 Others might have gone on unquestioningly, or, at 
 least, with this salvo to their conscience, — what so 
 many do cannot be so very wrong; why should I 
 trouble myself about it ? But Constance's was not 
 yet a mind that could indolently dismiss a doubtful 
 point with that convenient evasion ; and she grew 
 less bright and mirthful, or rather, there were hours 
 in the day when the sunshine of her hitherto cloud- 
 less heart did not gleam forth so radiantly. Aunt 
 Mabel marked it, and marvelled not. She knew of 
 those higher regions which are not affected by every 
 passing cloud, but where the calm soul can look
 
 DAWX A^'D TWILIGHT. 99 
 
 down from its mountain hold, and see the storms 
 passing over the troubled scene below. She knew the 
 rugged path, the scorching heat, the chilling frosts, 
 the tempest's fury, that must be endured ere that 
 height is reached, and she marvelled not. 
 
 Constance was gone up to her own room one day to 
 dress for a morning concert, when Ada arrived to sit 
 for ha'f an hour with her. 
 
 Aunt Mabel saw her as she passed the open door of 
 the little sitting-room, and invited her to come in and 
 wait there till Constance should be ready. 
 
 This was at all times an agreeable invitation to 
 Ada, and to-day especially, for she was feeling worn 
 and jaded, not with dissipation, but with the daily 
 trials of her home ; and often had an apparently un- 
 conscious word from Aunt Mabel seemed to clear 
 away the mists that clouded her mind. Aunt Mabel's 
 quick sympathy needed no explanation of the trou- 
 bled fac-^, and the very tone of her voice was soothing, 
 as she placed her visitor in a low easy-chair beside 
 her. They talked for some time before Constance ap- 
 peared, and when she came in Aunt Mabel gave her 
 up her seat beside Ada, and left the room. 
 
 " Oh, Ada ! are you here, and I knew nothing about 
 it r But I will not grudge having missed your com- 
 pany, for I am sure you have been happy," Constance 
 said. 
 
 ^' Yes, so happy," Ada answered, as she returned 
 her kiss and warm pressure of the hand : " But are 
 you going out ?" 
 
 " Yes, I am going to a concert : my aunt will call 
 for me ; she is never very punctual, so we shall have
 
 100 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 half an hour together, I dare say. Have you had a 
 pleasant talk with Aunt Mabel ?" 
 
 " Yes, very pleasant ; I do not know how it was, 
 but we began to talk about trials, and bearing things 
 that trouble one. I had said that I thought it would 
 be so much easier to bear any great trial once, than 
 little daily troubles, that were not worth mentioning, 
 but yet went on incessantly, and seemed to wear one 
 but." 
 
 "I should have quite thought with you: did Aunt 
 Mabel?" 
 
 " No, not exactly ; but she gave me such a pleasant 
 answer. She said, we must be quite certain we had 
 exactly what was best for us, and that the little daily, 
 fretting trials were so very useful. They were like 
 the constant chiselling on a block of marble, that 
 cleared and cut away all that was not wanted, till out 
 of the shapeless block the perfect idea of the artist 
 stood before us. It was not done in a day, it was by 
 long, persevering efforts, often little seeming to be 
 done, and many days of patient working before the 
 result of the labour could be seen. And then she 
 said very quietly, we must think of the Heavenly 
 Architect, who is working out in our souls His own 
 intention, and, if we will only be passive, and let Him 
 work on, fitting them, by what seem to us daily, 
 wearing, profitless trials, for the place He has de- 
 signed that they should adorn and fill in His eternal 
 mansion. Is it not a pleasant thought ?" Ada asked, 
 as she finished speaking, and looked up at Constance. 
 
 "Yes, very," Constance answered, and she looked 
 down, and seemed very grave.
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 101 
 
 Before many minutes, the carriage arrived to take 
 Ada home. She thought, as she was driving home, that 
 Constance seemed less merry and bright than when 
 she had firat seen her, though not less sweet and 
 loveahle. 
 
 She wondered whether trouble was beginning to 
 find its way into that gleesome heart. Did that 
 statue need chiselling ? was it not already fit to 
 adorn the heavenly palace ? No, Ada : He who 
 created it for Himself rests not satisfied with genius, 
 gentleness, nobleness, when all these, His most pre- 
 cious gifts, are lavished at another shrine than that 
 where alone they should be dedicated. Would that 
 it were ever remembered, that no natural gifts of 
 mind or temper, though they may make their pos- 
 sessor beloved, honoured, admired in tliis world, can 
 ever profit him in that which is to come, unless tliey 
 are sanctified by obedience to and love of God. Here 
 is the all-important distinction : without this hallow- 
 ing impulse they are valueless for eternity ; with it, 
 they are the talents that shall lay up for us treasure 
 in heaven. 
 
 Ada went home, Constance to the concert, with 
 Lady Rockwood and her daughters. They were, as 
 usual when Lady Rockwood was of the party, rather 
 late, and the room being full, there was a difiiculty in 
 getting seats ; but they had not advanced far, before 
 General Lessington came towards them and led them 
 to a bench which he and some other gentlemen had 
 been occupying. One of these was Gerard Clifibrd; he 
 bowed to Lady Rockwood and her daughters ; — Gene- 
 ral Lessington observed that he did not bow to Con-
 
 102 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 stance, and whispered to him, " Surely you know the 
 model for your picture, the Lily of Elvanlees ?" 
 
 ''No, I do not, General. You know my idleness 
 about making new acquaintances." 
 
 " Yes ; but I should have thought your penetration 
 would have made you overstep the rules your indo- 
 lence has laid down for itself, in this case. You would 
 have been repaid for the exertion." 
 
 "I shall be very willing to make it now, then. 
 That nice young fellow Eustace Montrevor, when 
 first I knew him, seemed not unwilling to have in- 
 troduced me, but latterly his lelle cousine was never 
 named nor alluded to in our long tete-a-tStes, and 
 ' a change came o'er the spirit of his dream,' I think. 
 I shall be really quite glad to be introduced : my 
 curiosity has been excited." 
 
 '' She is too intent on this thema of Mozart's, that 
 we are so ungallantly discoursing over, to be dis- 
 turbed now, but when there is a pause we will move 
 towards her. It is a sweet young face, is it not ?" 
 
 " Yes, very ; one that tells of deep feeling. I pro- 
 phesy that her future will be a very bright or a very 
 dark one ; she will neither do nor feel anything by 
 halves." 
 
 The looked-for pause occurred, and the introduc- 
 tion took place. General Lessington moved away, 
 and watched them. Constauce looked happy and 
 animated: Mr. Clifford's name was familiar to her, 
 and as Eustace's friend he had a peculiar interest. 
 She, too, seemed to have such for him, for instead of 
 making a few remarks and passing on, as was often 
 his wont after an introduction, he stood beside her,
 
 DATVIf AlfD TWILIGHT. 103 
 
 watcliing her face with its varying expression, as the 
 music told its tale to her, and occasionally making 
 some little comment, which she responded to in a 
 tone which shewed that the sentiments found an 
 echo in her mind. 
 
 There was a pause for ten minutes between the 
 parts, and Clifford drew a chair near Constance's seat, 
 and sat down beside her, and they commenced an 
 earnest conversation on music. There was a depth 
 and originality in his remarks that soon absorbed 
 Constance's attention, and as he talked on with eager- 
 ness and intentness, she felt as if he were striking 
 hitherto untouched strings in her mind, — strings that 
 she had never sounded herself before, and of which 
 she hardly knew the existence, but now rejoiced in 
 finding what rich tones they could produce under a 
 master's hand. The music began again all too soon, 
 but he sat on beside her till the concert was over, 
 and then escorted her to the carriage. General 
 Lessington gave Lady Eockwood his arm, and as the 
 carriage drove away turned to Gerard Clifford, and 
 said, "Tou do not regret your unwonted exertion, 
 I hope?" 
 
 "jS'o, General, not at all; on the contrary, I am 
 grateful to you, and shall request you to find some 
 excuse for conducting me to Mr. Montrevor's house, 
 for our conversation was only half over, and I must 
 finish it: I feel as if an interesting book had been 
 snatched out of my hand when I was in the middle 
 of it." 
 
 " Come with me, then, to-morrow, and we will try 
 our luck at finding them at home."
 
 104 DAWIT AISB TWILTGHT. 
 
 "Thank you, that will do capitally. I am glad 
 you said to-morrow, for I shall be out of London in a 
 few days, and it may be my only chance." 
 
 ''Out of London ! "What, are you on your travels 
 again P" 
 
 " Yes ; till next spring I mean to undergo volun- 
 tary exile from this land of civilization and self- 
 esteem." 
 
 " What makes you class the two together?" 
 " I cannot say : but it is evident that we think 
 ourselves at the top of the tree, and look down with a 
 patronizing air on those who, in our estimation, are 
 on the lower branches. By-the-bye, General, talking 
 of exile, have you heard anything of poor Everington 
 lately ? I assure you I thought of him to-day when I 
 was sitting by Miss Montrevor, and mused on what a 
 misfortune it was to have a soft heart." 
 " Then you are in his confidence ?" 
 "No, I am not; but I have a pair of eyes in my 
 head, and a pair of ears, and they compared notes, 
 and the conclusion was easily arrived at." 
 
 " Poor fellow, I suspect it was a right one. He 
 has another month's leave, I hear, and is going 
 yachting with his elder brother. I think he will get 
 over it soon." 
 
 " I think so too, and hope so ; selfishly, I am afraid, 
 in some measure, for he is one of the kindest-hearted 
 fellows I ever came across, and did me as much good 
 as a warm sun or a bright fire, when he frequented 
 the table in my painting-room. But, good-morning, 
 G-eneral ; I must leave you here, for I am going into 
 Newman-street to look at a picture by a young artist.
 
 DATTN' AXD TWILIGHT. 105 
 
 and must make tlie best of my way. Don't forget 
 your promise for to-morrow. What o'clock shall I call 
 for you : or will you come to me ?" 
 
 " I will call for you : we will not be later tban tliree. 
 Good-morning : go home, and commence a study for 
 your picture." 
 
 " It must be the Lily without green leaves, then," 
 was the answer, as Gerard Clifford turned quickly 
 down another street. 
 
 Gerard had contrived, in his conversation with Con- 
 stance, to ascertain where she was going that evening, 
 and, contrary to his usual custom of eschewing balls, 
 he found himself at one at Lady Rockwood's. 
 
 Mr. Montrevor noticed with much satisfaction that 
 Constance's usual animation seemed to have returned 
 to-night : and perhaps, as she drove home, after 
 Gerard had handed her into the carriage, she would 
 no longer have confessed to " feeling weary of this 
 life."
 
 106 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " What ! do I love her, 
 That I desire to hear her speak again ?" 
 
 Measuee foe Measure. 
 
 " J^OT at home, Sir," was the answer, as General 
 Lessington and Gerard Clifford knocked at Mr. 
 Montrevor's door at three o'clock the following 
 day. 
 
 " What, gone out already ?" the General asked. 
 
 ''Yes, Sir: they took luncheon at one to-day, and 
 the carriage was ordered at two, and I do not expect 
 them to rv^turn till dinner-time." 
 
 " Well, Clifford, what shall we do } leave no cards, 
 and try our luck to-morrow .''" 
 
 Tliere was more expression of disappointment on 
 Gerard's face than General Lessington thought his 
 philosophical disposition would have allowed to ap- 
 pear, as he answered, " As ill-luck will have it, I shall 
 be out of town all day to-morrow, — an engagement 
 I cannot get rid of now ; so I fear I must wait with 
 patience till next year to pay the visit." 
 
 " Oh no ; we will try the day after, if we cannot 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " Be it so, then. General," he answered, in an in- 
 different tone ; and as they turned away from the 
 door, Gerard began a tirade against street architec- 
 ture, with as great apparent interest as if the sub-
 
 DAW>' A>'D TWILIGHT. 107 
 
 ject of their visit bad altogether passed from his 
 mind. 
 
 *' My dear Lily, you are tired, I fear ; you have been 
 out so very long to-day: come and lie down on the 
 sofa in my room, and rest till your father comes up 
 into the drawiug-room ;" and Aunt Mabel drew Con- 
 stance in, and settled her comfortably on the sofa, 
 before she would listen to the assurance that she was 
 not at all tired, and had so much to tell. — " jN'ow I 
 am all ready to hear," Aunt Mabel answered, as she 
 seated herself on the end of the couch : " I began to 
 think you were never coming home." 
 
 " Oh, Aunt Mabel, what do } ou think ! Papa and I 
 have been arranging such a delightful little tour. I 
 daresay you know that there has been a great fuss 
 
 and trouble about his shire property. It has 
 
 made me quite uneasy lately, whenever I have gone 
 into papa's room in the morning, to see Mr. Brown 
 there with his spectacles on, looking so wise and 
 solemn, and papa so grave and wearied, and the table 
 strewed with papers and parchments, covered with 
 hard words about leasehold, copyhold, &c., that I 
 should have to look in the dictionary to understand 
 the meaning of. And to-day papa told me that he 
 
 had made up his mind to go to shire himself, and 
 
 visit Gainsworth ; and as Uncle and Aunt Eockwood 
 want us very much to go and see them this summer, 
 he thought he might leave me with them, and go on 
 by himself; but I have begged him to stay there with 
 me, and then let me go on with him afterwards, and 
 he has agreed : and when his business is transacted,
 
 108 DAWN AT^D TWILIGHT. 
 
 we are to go to the sea for a week, to a little vil- 
 lage papa remembers as a boy, very nenr Gainsworth, 
 where there are such beautiful rocks and sands, and 
 such lovely walks. "Will it not be pleasant ? Only I 
 wish Eustaca and Percy could come too." 
 
 " I am sure they would enjoy it, dear. I am quite 
 pleased to hear of it, for I think the change of air 
 will do you good ; and I don't know what Uncle 
 Edward and Mrs. Lester will say to me for bringing 
 them home such a drooping Lily. Our stay here is 
 very nearly over : I do not think you could have gone 
 on much longer without fresh air ; but you will have 
 it soon." 
 
 " Yes, only one week more here, and then you will 
 go back to dear Elvanlees, Oh, how pleased Uncle 
 Edward will be, and all the school-children and the 
 poor people. It has been so kind to spare you to us 
 so long, and so kind of you to stay. I have often 
 wondered, dear Aunt Mabel, how you could be 
 so happy and cheerful when you have nothing you 
 care for here, and everything must be so dull for 
 
 you." 
 
 Aunt Mabel pressed Constancy's hand while she 
 repeated the words, " Nothing that I care for !" 
 
 " No, no. Aunt Mabel, I did not mean that lite- 
 rally ; but no occupations like those you have at home, 
 and so little to interest you. I think you must so 
 often long to be back." 
 
 " I will not say, dear, that I shall not be very happy 
 to return, but I am very happy here. I find it a great 
 help, never to indulge in the wish to be in one place 
 when I am in another, and to see the good instead of
 
 DAWN A>'D TWILIGHT. 109 
 
 the evil in everything : you cannot think what a help 
 those two little rules have been to me." * 
 
 " Do you remember that line in the ' Fairie Queen,' 
 'The noblest mind the best contentment hath ?' Ever 
 since Uncle Edward read parts of it to us, that line 
 has always seemed to me so applicable to him and 
 you." 
 
 " I am sure it would be great ingratitude in me 
 not to be content. "We make more than half our 
 troubles for ourselves ; the old proverb is most true, 
 * He that seeks trouble never misses ;' and when one 
 remembers all one's blessings, there is no time left 
 for thinking of the troubles. But I hear your father's 
 door shutting ; we will go into the drawing-room to 
 wait for him." 
 
 General Lessington and Gerard Clifford were more 
 fortunate in their next attempt at finding the Mon- 
 trevors at home : and had Gerard's face been watched 
 as he aw^aited the answer to the question, " Is Mr. 
 Montrevor at home?" it would have been evident 
 that his apparent indifference had not been altogether 
 unfeigned. When they were shewn into the draw- 
 ing-room it was empty, and when the door opened 
 Mr. Montrevor came in alone. General Lessington, 
 though an old man, had not forgotten a young one's 
 feelings, and Gerard's face told more to-day than it 
 was generally allowed to do ; so after a few minutes 
 he said, " Can I see your Lily to-day, Reginald ? it is 
 so long since we have had any talk, that it will be 
 quite a treat to sit quietly with her for a few mi- 
 nutes."
 
 110 DAMS AKD TWILIGHT. 
 
 "Certainly, General; I will let her know you are 
 here," and Mr. Montrevor's tall figure rose, and with 
 his usual prave manner he rang the bell, and told the 
 butler to let Miss Montrevor know that General 
 Lessington was in the drawing-room. 
 
 Constance came running down-stairs, humming a 
 little song to herself, quite unconscious that an3^one 
 but her father and the Greneral were in the room. 
 The latter smiled as he noticed the look of half-sur- 
 prise, half-pleasure, that came over her face as she 
 saw Eustace's friend among the party. She had al- 
 ways fancied, when Eustace had talked of him to her, 
 that he would be much too clever for her to enjoy 
 talking to, and had been amazed, in thinking over her 
 conversations, to recollect how easily, and without any 
 fear, she had talked with him. The conversations had 
 left fully as pleasant an impression on her mind as on 
 his, and as he was considerably her senior, there had 
 been a little feeling of reverence mingled with her 
 admiration for his genius. 
 
 The General soon engaged Mr. Montrevor's at- 
 tention, and Gerard addressed himself to Constance. 
 They spoke first of the concert, then of the exhibitions. 
 The catalogues were on the table, and Gerard com- 
 mented on the different pictures, and drew out Con- 
 stance to speak of those that had interested her most. 
 They were principally figures, not landscapes, he 
 noticed, and remarked it to her, asking if she gene- 
 rally preferred them. 
 
 "I think I do," she answered, "though I hardly 
 know why, for some of the landscapes are so very 
 beautiful."
 
 daw:n' akd twilight. Ill 
 
 " I did formerlj, but I am not sure that I do now. 
 Perhaps it may be, that with the feelings and emotions 
 of our fellow-beings we have more immediate sym- 
 pathies than with nature. Such pictures speak more 
 directly to the heart, and the imagination fills up the 
 whole history from the one scene depicted. But then, 
 to make figure-painting superior to landscape, it must 
 represent human nature in its highest, noblest state ; 
 not such scenes as some of the Dutch painters could 
 detail with such careful exactness ; not even strong 
 earthly passions, — but heroic deeds of self-devotion 
 which raise the mind while the eye gazes on them. 
 He who spends his time and wastes his talent in 
 painting a scene at an estaminet, or a street- quarrel, 
 is sunk lower in his appreciation of the beautiful and 
 the true, than he who would paint a canal in pre- 
 ference to a rushing, foaming river, or a gas-chimney 
 instead of a cathedral spire." 
 
 Constance liked hearing him talk, and looked up 
 and smiled when he ceased — a smile that shewed she 
 entered into and understood him. After a few mo- 
 ments he alluded to a picture of Tintoret's in the 
 Camera di Collegio at Venice, in illustration of some 
 remark. 
 
 " I do not know Venice," Constance answered. 
 
 " Have you not been in Italy ?" he asked in some 
 surprise : *' Oh, what a world will open out before you 
 when you get there !" 
 
 " You know it \vell, then ?" 
 
 *' Yes ; I have spent many winters there, and pro- 
 pose being in Venice again this November. It is the 
 place in which to understand and appreciate art :
 
 112 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 one sees there what it has done, and almost vene- 
 rates those who brought it to such a transcendent 
 height." 
 
 Constance looked up at him, as if demanding some- 
 thing further, but at that moment more visitors were 
 announced, and she had to rise to receive them, and 
 there was no opportunity for any more conversation. 
 She heard her father say to Mr. Clifford, " You are 
 on the point of leaving England, General Lessington 
 tells me ;" and then, after some further remarks, she 
 caught the words, '' I deserted my home much too in 
 my early days, but I have lived long enough to regret 
 having passed so much time in desultory wanderings ; 
 but you have doubtless a settled purpose in your 
 travels." 
 
 Mr. Clifford's answer she did not hear, and a few 
 moments afterwards he and General Lessington wished 
 her good-bye, and took their leave. 
 
 " Thank you, General, for your introduction," was 
 Gerard's first speech as they left the house ; " it has 
 been a pleasant little variety in the dry routine of a 
 London season. I like Mr. Montrevor's grave, ear- 
 nest manner, though it is somewhat cold." 
 
 '' And your opinion of his daughter you will keep to 
 yourself, eh ? and not trust even my old grey head 
 with it." 
 
 ''I am not surprised now at poor Charlie Everiug- 
 ton's fate," was Gerard's answer. 
 
 I 
 "When their visitors had departed, Mr. Montrevor 
 and Constance went out riding. '' I am glad to have 
 •«een Eustace's beau-ideal," was Mr. Montrevor's re-
 
 daw:n^ a^^d twilight. 113 
 
 mark on their visitor ; " lie seems a gentlemanly^ clever 
 man. I only hope lie is not letting bis talents run to 
 waste witli his love of moving. I trust there is some 
 object in his journejings, besides the search after 
 enjoyment." 
 
 Constance thought, too, a little of him, though she 
 did not say much, and they met no more. 
 
 The day before the Montrevors left London, Ada 
 called and spent some hours with Constance. She, 
 too, was about to return home, but Constance noticed 
 with joy that she did not seem to shrink as much as 
 formerly from the trials that awaited her there. 
 
 She told Constance that she felt braced and strength- 
 ened; Aunt Mabel's words would often recur to her 
 mind, and she thought everything would be easier 
 to bear now. 
 
 Constance thought for some moments on their 
 different lots, and then said, " Do you remember our 
 talk the first morning that you stayed with me at 
 Elvanlees in the spring. I remember thinking then, 
 and I do so now, that youis is a much safer life than 
 mine. Tou liave been struggling against, and I have 
 been floating down, the stream. Sometimes for a 
 little time I seem able to realize that this life is not 
 meant only for enjoyment, but then again with amuse- 
 ment and excitement the thought quite vanishes, and 
 it seems like a bright summer's day without a cloud, 
 and I have no recollection of anything but the passing 
 hour." 
 
 Their conversation ended abruptly, for before Ada 
 had responded to Constance's words, the carriage, 
 I
 
 114 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 with her mother and sister in it, called to take her 
 home. They parted with the mutual hope of soon 
 meeting again. 
 
 That evening Constance and Aunt Mabel had one 
 last long talk, and at the station next day they 
 parted : Constance and her father set off for Eock- 
 wood Castle, Aunt Mabel returned to Elvaulees.
 
 DAWK AND TWILIGHT. 115 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Brave conquerors I for so you are, 
 That war against your own affections." 
 
 Love's LABorR Lost. 
 
 OX a calm, lovely evening about a week before the 
 party left London, the sun was setting most glori- 
 ously, sbedding its warm, rich glow over the park at El- 
 vanlees and the surrounding country, whilst stretched 
 on the ground underneath the old Scotch firs, on the 
 hill-side, lay Eustace, his head resting on his hand. An 
 open book was on the turf beside him, but his eyes 
 were not upon it; but fixed on the golden clouds. 
 There was a sad, worn expression on his face, mak- 
 ing it look older than it had any right to do, and 
 ever and anon he passed his hand over his forehead, 
 and then shaded his eyes with it, as if he would 
 close them, the better to collect and concentrate his 
 thoughts. The words " If it ought to be overcome, 
 I can and must overcome it," were murmured forth: 
 *' Oh, how weak I must be to find it such a terrible 
 struggle ! " and as they were said, he roused himself 
 from his position, and then starting up, paced hastily 
 up and down, and again words were murmured, — 
 " Dreaming will not do it." 
 
 "When Eustace came down from London, his father 
 quickly saw something was amiss with him, and longed 
 to get him to open his heart, where hitherto there 
 had been no secrets from him ; but though Eustace
 
 116 DAWN AKD TWILIGHT. 
 
 longed too to speak, he could never summon resolu- 
 tion to do so ; but in an indirect way proposing cases 
 to his father and gathering his opinion, he gained an 
 answer to the perplexing doubts and desires that 
 would ever arise, telling him that perhaps, after all, 
 there was no need for him so entirely to banish hope 
 from his mind. But it was an answer that extin- 
 guished all hope. Perhaps his father's eye, quick- 
 ened by affection, detected the secret struggle, and 
 judged it better to allow no lingering expectation to 
 protract it ; for his answer was given even more fully 
 and decidedly than Eustace's questions demanded, 
 and it made him clearly see that to both his father 
 and uncle, any attempt on his part to win his cousin's 
 affections would cause great sorrow and discomfort. 
 His eager, anxious look, so different from that which 
 any imaginary case would have called forth, only con- 
 firmed his father in his suspicions, and his heart ached 
 at the thought of one so young having to commence 
 life with a struggle which would cloud for long the 
 bright joyousness of youth, even granting, as he earn- 
 estly hoped, that in the end he came off victorious, 
 " And yet," he argued with himself, " I am wrong 
 to grieve over that which may deepen and strengthen 
 his whole character, and powers of endurance and 
 self-command." 
 
 There was a struggle in Eustace's mind this evening, 
 as he continued his restless pacing to and fro, — one of 
 the many struggles that must take place in every mind 
 that striveth for the mastery, ere the victory is gained ; 
 struggles that depress and agitate the whole inner 
 man, — in which the contest is so prolonged, and the
 
 BATWS AXD TWILIGHT. 117 
 
 enemy in the camp so clamorous to be heard with his 
 deceitful counsels, and success so doubtful, that even 
 if the hard-won fight is crowned with victory, there is 
 no strength left to rejoice ; but, trembling and ex- 
 hausted, the poor combatant casts himself down, feel- 
 ing only the strength of the powers that are against 
 him, and the weariness of the strife, and tempted to 
 say, " How little ground is gained by all this desperate 
 wrestling, how much yet remains to be overcome I" 
 Yet not so ; strive earnestly at the first, let not the 
 enemy triumph at the onset, and far harder contests 
 will seem but child's play, for the warrior will be 
 inured to the discipline and hardship. 
 
 Eustace had agreed to meet Harry Sedgeleigh in 
 London, before they set out on the foreign tour which 
 was to occupy the whole of the long vacation ; and 
 the longing was strong upon him to go up at once 
 and see Constance again, but the resolution which 
 he had made, to avoid temptation, held him back. 
 Fierce was the combat between duty and longing 
 desire. He was come to one of the turning-points 
 of life. How much would depend on the issue of 
 this contest ; how much of the tone of his whole 
 future life would take its colouring from this one 
 decision. Joy for him that, in a strengtli not his 
 own, resolution stood firm, and was not driven from, 
 its stronghold. The letter was written and sealed 
 that night which decided that he would remain at 
 home till the day his uncle and Constance left Lon- 
 don for Eockwood Castle. 
 
 The days that intervened between this decision and
 
 118 "DA-WS AlfD TWILIGHT. 
 
 his leaving home hung heavily and wearily on his 
 hands : he tried to read and occupy his mind, but it 
 was hard, up-hill work. The thoughts would ever 
 return to their loved resting-place ; and how painful 
 was it to feel that they must not abide there, but 
 be driven away. 
 
 The last evening before he left, he had been taking 
 a solitary ramble, and returning through tlie south 
 lodge, he thought he would call in and wish old Ste- 
 phen good-bye. This was an old man who had lived 
 from his childhood on the Elvanlees property, and had 
 worked for sixty years in the Hall garden. Of course 
 he had known the two elder Mr. Montrevors from child- 
 hood, and felt a great interest and affection for Eustace 
 and Percy, who, he always said, "'minded him of 
 Master Eeginald and Master Edward when they were 
 young gentlemen." He was quite crippled with age 
 and rheumatism, and seldom moved out from the lodge 
 but to hobble to church on two crutches. As Eustace 
 came in, he thought what a fine picture the old man 
 would make : he was leamng back in his arm-chair 
 in the chimney-corner, a ray of light from the set- 
 tino- sun fell on his silver hair and fine open forehead ; 
 a little round table stood beside him, on which was a 
 Bible, with his spectacles laid upon it to mark the 
 place. He tried to raise himself as Eustace came in. 
 "Don't move, Stephen," Eustace said: ''I called in 
 to wish you good-bye, for I am off to-morrow." 
 
 " Ah, I heard, Sir, as you were a-going into foreign 
 parts. God's blessings go with you. You'll not be 
 long away, I hope."
 
 DAAVN AND TWILIGHT. 119 
 
 ^' I shall be home for Christmas, Stephen ; but not 
 much before, I think." 
 
 " Well, you are young, and have the use of your 
 limbs : it's a fine thing. But yet it's a fine thing, too, 
 to get to the end of one's journey ; and mine's nearly 
 over. I have been reading in the Book of Eevelations 
 this evening, and was a-thinking what ii sight it says 
 about overcoming. Yes, Master Eustace," the old 
 man went on in a musing tone, "that's it; I'm a- 
 thinking we have all a battle to fight before we'll get 
 to heaven; no matter whether, like David, it's with 
 the giant, one struggle and kill the enemy, or all our 
 life long a-driving out the Philistines, a fight we must 
 have, and it will never do to go to sleep on our 
 post." 
 
 The old man talked on, and Eustace listened: the 
 words seemed strangely in accordance with his own 
 thoughts. Yes, this poor old man in his weakness 
 and helplessness, and he in his youth and strength, 
 were fellow- combatants, and had the same end before 
 them, and must attain it by the same means. After 
 he wished him good-bye, he took one more turn in 
 the park before he went home, and his father was 
 cheered by thinking he seemed in better spirits that 
 evening than he had any day since his return from 
 London. 
 
 They sat up late that night, and had a long talk on 
 his future prospects. His father had hoped that his 
 mind would ha\e been drawn towards taking holy 
 orders, but on alluding to it this evening he could see 
 that there was an evident shrinking from the respon-
 
 120 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 sibilltj. He had at times a restless desire to get a 
 commission in a regiment on foreign service, and go 
 far awaj from home, and all its now too dear asso- 
 ciations ; but his father gave such a start of painful 
 surprise when he hinted at it, that he did not allude 
 further to it. The bar seemed open to him, but his 
 inclinations did not lead much that way, and they 
 agreed that it would be better to make no decision till 
 after he had taken his degree ; it would be time enough 
 then to decide ; so the question was left in abeyance. 
 The nest day he went, and Aunt Mabel returned to 
 the Eectory. 
 
 It seemed strange both to her and the E-ector to be 
 there without any of the young people, but they had 
 much to occupy them, and letters from Constance 
 gave them full and lively accounts of the proceedings 
 at Eockwood. A few lines, just like himself, full of 
 fun and merriment, came occasionally from Percy, 
 and always enlivened the breakfast-table. 
 
 Constance's letters spoke of long rides with her 
 father, and uncle, and her young cousins, Walter and 
 Philip, two merry schoolboys of fifteen and thirteen : 
 Prances and Dora seemed to have no love for the 
 exercise. There were visitors in the house ; dinner- 
 parties and an archery-meeting ; so altogether Aunt 
 Mabel thought that there was not much more rest 
 than in London, and rather longed for the three 
 weeks to be over, and Eockwood exchanged for Gains- 
 worth. Mrs. Lester often called at the Eectory to 
 gain tidings of the absentees, and was not sure that 
 her cottage was as cheerful and pleasant n6w the Hall
 
 T)A.WS ASB TWILIGHT. 121 
 
 was empty as it had been wlien she first took pos- 
 session, and Constance's bright face so often looked 
 in at the window. 
 
 One morning when she arrived at the Eectory on 
 her usual errand, and was seated in Aunt Mabel's 
 room, just as the latter was beginning to read parts 
 of Constance's letter aloud, she was summoned away 
 by the arrival of one of her many poor visitors, and 
 putting the letter into Mrs. Lester's hands as she left 
 the room, she said, *'I daroFay you \^ill enjoy reading 
 it yourself." Mrs. Lester drew near the window, and 
 having taken out and wiped her spectacles, put them 
 on, and proceeded to read ; — 
 
 " GainsicortJi, August 18. 
 
 " Mt deae Aunt Mabel, 
 
 ""We have been here two days, and I have not 
 written one word; but we have been oub so much 
 each day, that when evening came I was too much 
 tired to do anything. Now we have just done break- 
 fast, and papa is gone out to call upon some one, and 
 said he would leave me to write. I shall so enjoy 
 having a talk with you. I seem to have so much to 
 say, — at least, I should have so much to talk to you 
 about, if I were sitting by you, that I shall try to 
 fancy I am doing that now, and w^ite whatever comes 
 into my head. We left Eockwood on Monday, after 
 luncheon, and reached Grainsworth in the evening. 
 Papa had told me such pleasant histories in the train, 
 of the happy days he and Uncle Edward had passed 
 at the old manor-house when they were little boys, 
 that I had quite forgotten all the changes that had
 
 122 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 passed over it since, and was thinking of it standing 
 just at the entrance of the little town, with the 
 beautiful park reaching far away, as papa described 
 it, when the train stopped at the outskirts of a black, 
 smoky town, with a forest of chimneys and large 
 houses, looking much like prisons, rising up at in- 
 tervals. I could hardly believe it was Gainsworth, 
 though the guard shouted it out most vociferously, 
 and we had to dismount. We drove through the 
 dirty, gloomy-looking streets to the principal inn, 
 and were shewn into a large, comfortless room, in- 
 tended to serve as a ball-room, when needed. After 
 breakfast the next morning, we set out exploring. 
 The manor-house has still a considerable quantity 
 of land on one side not disfigured by building. It 
 is let to one of the mill-owners, and he was very 
 kind in begging us to go about as mucb as we liked. 
 It must have been such a nice old house : some of the 
 rooms are painted, and there is a long gallery hung 
 with tapestry, but all is smoky and sooty, like the rest 
 of the place. Papa says that what strikes him as 
 most strangely altered, is the whole appearance of 
 the people ; his generation seems to have passed 
 away, and a new one has taken its place ; and instead 
 of kind little greetings when he passes them, they 
 look strangely and surlily upon him. They are cer- 
 tainly a great contrast to our dear, cheerful-hearted 
 Elvanlees people, for they all look care-worn and 
 morose, sharp and intelligent enough, (I was asto- 
 nished at the shrewdness of some little children I 
 spoke to,) but as if they thought themselves placed 
 in a natural state of antagonism to those above them.
 
 DAWN A2fD TAYILIGHT. 123 
 
 Oh, liow I have rejoiced since we have been here, that 
 papa does not reside here any part of the year. It 
 would, indeed, be sad to live in such a place, and I do 
 not feel as if I could ever get interested in the people. 
 Dear Aunt Mabel, I know you have looked grave 
 over that speech, and it ought not to have been said, 
 but I fear it came out quite naturally ; and indeed I 
 have reproached myself for my distaste to them, and 
 have had many of the old thoughts you know so well, 
 on the strange mixture of joy and sorrow in the world. 
 But, as you have often said, a day will come when 
 we shall see and understand all that is dark and misty 
 now; and I say this to myself as I walk about, aiiC;. 
 look on the crowds of gloomy faces, and still the 
 wondering thoughts that come, why all is so bright 
 to me, and whether this brightness can last. There 
 seems much more real poverty here than at home. 
 They say ' work has been slack' lately, and then, I 
 believe, there is always much suffering. 
 
 " We leave this afternoon, and go on to Easthaven, 
 where the Eockwood party talked of joining us, if we 
 can find a house large enough to take us in. Papa 
 thinks it will very probably have grown, too, since he 
 remembers it, for then there were but two or three 
 small lodgings to be had. I hope there will be a 
 letter from you at the post-office : I have sent out to 
 see. I long for home-news. Has anything been 
 heard of Eustace since he left London? and will 
 Percy be able to get leave between the return- days 
 to come home the beginning of September? What 
 a pity he will not be there for the first. I will not 
 write more now, as I expect papa in every minute,
 
 124 DAWN AND TWTLiaHT. 
 
 and I promised to be readj to go out witli him when 
 he came back. Good-bye, dear Aunt Mabel. Give 
 my love to Uncle Edward and Mrs. Lester. 
 " Believe me, 
 
 " Your affectionate niece, 
 
 " Constance Montretoe. 
 
 " P. S. — Woolly is quite well, and so good : he does 
 not bark at any of the little ragged children, though 
 he feels a strong inclination to do so." 
 
 "When Aunt Mabel came back, Mrs. Lester had 
 finished the letter, but still held it open in her hand, 
 and seemed musing over it. 
 
 *' She seems well and happy, I think, from the tone 
 of her letter," Aunt Mabel said. 
 
 " Yes," Mrs. Lester answered, in a considering 
 tone; and then went on, "I cannot think why she 
 has those thoughts about happiness and sorrovA^ : I 
 am sure I never put them into her head. Dear child, 
 she never seems able to enjoy herself thoroughly, but 
 that some grave thoughts will come in. There always 
 seems to me to be a kind of contest going on in her 
 mind." 
 
 Aunt Mabel smiled, and said, "There is in most 
 minds, I suspect, that have not stifled it, or decided it 
 by a resolute choice." 
 
 " Perhaps so ; but I always long to see her per- 
 fectly happy : she seems so good, as if she had a 
 right to be happy." 
 
 " Would it not be a happiness without foundation ?" 
 Aunt Mabel asked ; and as she spoke the door opened,
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 125 
 
 and the Rector came in to speak to lier, and Mrs. 
 Lester, fearing she might be in the way, got up to 
 take her leave. 
 
 The week at Easthaven was very enjoyable to Con- 
 stance : the sea was an endless source of delight ; she 
 thought she should never have felt wearied, had she 
 passed the whole time on the rocks watching "its 
 chime of restless motion." The neighbourhood was 
 very interesting, the place itself rather the contrary. 
 It was making great efforts to grow into a fashionable 
 watering-place, and had not yet succeeded. A row 
 of staring white houses, to build which the rocks had 
 been blasted, and a buildiug, imitation Grecian, of 
 stucco and plaster, intended as reading-room, ball- 
 room, or anything else, formed the grand part of the 
 town. Some little, low, old-fashioned houses and cot- 
 tages stood on either side, but seemed shrinking into 
 obscurity beside their smart modern neighbours. 
 
 The Eockwood Castle party joined them, and the 
 two merry schoolboys found a delightful companion 
 in Constance. Her skill in climbing up the rocks, 
 and scrambling over difficult places, caused great ad- 
 miration, and her not minding a noise was more 
 praiseworthy still. 
 
 One afternoon Constance found Walter and Philip 
 intent upon an excursion to a ruined castle. They 
 were rather impatient at Frances' want of interest in 
 the plan, and Constance's approach was hailed with 
 delight, as Walter was somewhat augrily assuring 
 Frances that the only reason she did not care to go 
 was because there was no one to look at her here. 
 Dora had caught some of Constance's art of enteriug
 
 126 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 into every one's amusements with zest, and she and 
 Constance listened with such attention that "Walter's 
 indignation quickly subsided, and Philip was despatched 
 to summon Lord Rockwood and Mr. Montrevor to the 
 consultation. 
 
 The expedition took place. The castle was about 
 three miles off; there was a wild, rough road to it, 
 over the cliffs and across an open heath that was 
 impassable for wheels, so the ladies were mounted on 
 donkeys, and the boys on ponies, and they set off, 
 the two gentlemen walking, which they much pre- 
 ferred, notwithstanding the praises of ponies and 
 mules that were poured into their ears by energetic 
 and vociferous owners. 
 
 The castle, which stood on the edge of a bold rock 
 overhanging the sea, was well worth a visit, and there 
 were many expressions of enjoyment and admiration ; 
 but Constance noticed a shade of melancholy on her 
 father's face, and her mirth was subdued. She had 
 fancied several times in the day that he looked grave, 
 but then, when she watched him, it seemed to pass 
 away ; now there was almost a settled sadness in his 
 eyes, though he was evidently striving to exert him- 
 self, to shake off his depression, or at least to prevent 
 its being noticed ; but it could not escape her quick, 
 loving eye. After a little time, when all were scram- 
 bling about the ruins, she managed to detach herself 
 from her two constant attendants, and join her fVither, 
 who was leaning over the battlemented wall of the 
 keep. He drew her arm within his, and they moved 
 away together; they descended the broken stairs, 
 and went without the ruins, and sat down on the
 
 DAWX AND TWILIGHT. ' 127 
 
 edge of tlie cliff, leaning back against the wall. For 
 some moments neither spoke, but sat gazing on the 
 immense expanse before them. The sea was calm 
 as a lalvC, but a monotonous, soothing sound broke 
 on their ear, as the tide came in with its peculiar 
 rushing noise over the pebbly beach, 
 
 " Constance," Mr.Montrevor began, after the silence 
 had lasted some minutes, ''I was once here before." 
 
 ""Were you really, Papa?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, in that visit to Gainsworth I told you of; 
 and, by one of those strange coincidences that some- 
 times occur in our lives, on this very day of the 
 year." 
 
 "How strange!" 
 
 ''It does seem very strange to me. I hardly know 
 whether I am living in the past or the present ; both 
 seem strangely blended together. She sat beside me 
 as you do now, and we watched the heaving, bound- 
 less ocean. Twenty years have passed away, and yet 
 it seems but as yesterday. For all those twenty years 
 old ocean has gone on with its ceaseless motion, its 
 daily ebb and flow, its dashing, foaming wave, its calm, 
 gentle ripple. And this life has gone on with its rest- 
 less stir, its hurrying to and fro, its absorbing interests, 
 its passionate emotions. And life in paradise has 
 gone on with its blessed rest, its soothing power." 
 He paused, and buried his face in his hands; but 
 raising it again after some moments, he resumed, 
 in a graver tone, his train of thought: — ''Twenty 
 years is a long chapter in a man's life. Many pages 
 have been turned over, a long account has to be 
 given in. You were not bestowed on me then, my
 
 128 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 Lilj ; and wliat care ba:ve I taken of the gift and the 
 charge ? Have I done well and right by you, my one 
 precious treasure ?" 
 
 " Oh yes, Papa ; all well, all right," Constance 
 answered eagerly, and almost unconsciously. 
 
 " I fear not^ my child. Alas ! I have not done well 
 and right by myself; and till we are ourselves what 
 we ought to be, we cannot do our duty by others." 
 
 "Oh, Papa, don't say that; you who are so good, 
 so kind." 
 
 "Stop, my child," he answered solemnly: "you 
 see but the outside, you know not the tumultuous 
 current that rushes on underneath the calm surface. 
 And it is better you should not. I see not life now, 
 though twenty years have passed over my head, as 
 she saw it then. In the midst of all her joy, all her 
 happiness, it was to her but a shifting scene, that 
 might be drawn up at any moment and disclose an 
 eternity behind, and in the thought of that eternity 
 she habitually lived." He paused, again burying his 
 face in his hands ; when he raised it, and turned to 
 Constance, he saw that her eyes were full of tears. 
 
 "What is it, my child?" he asked: ''have I made 
 you sad too ?" 
 
 " I was only thinking," she answered, while she 
 strove to calm her voice, " how different I am." 
 
 "You are very like in some things." 
 
 "But oh, Papa, not in what you have said. Life 
 has been so engrossing, so absorbing lately, — it has 
 shut out eternity." 
 
 "You mean, my child, that the thought of it has 
 been less present to your mind of late ?"
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 129 
 
 '•'Yes, Papa, so much less," she answered earnestly, 
 as if it were a relief to pour out her thoughts ; "so 
 many more links to life seem to have been forged. I 
 feel within me a whole new set of feelings, all binding 
 to earth." 
 
 " AVhy do you call them binding to earth, Lily ?" 
 
 "Because," she answered sadly, "they make it so 
 much more difficult to me to fix my thoughts on 
 heavenly things; it is much harder to me now than 
 it was before I went to London; such thoughts never 
 seem to come habitually now, it is an effort to rouse 
 them. And," she added, very gravely, "I find my 
 mind so much more wandering at my prayers." 
 
 " Is it so, my child ? is the world struggling for an 
 empire in your young, pure heart ? must you too go 
 through the heat of the battle ? AYe can none escape ; 
 but, alas ! how often do we lay down our arms in 
 weariness, or feigned ignorance of the presence of our 
 enemy. And yet we contend for a glorious prize, a 
 prize that might well make all others appear valueless 
 and empty, — the crown of immortality. Does it not 
 seem, Lily, as if a magic glass were held before our 
 eyes, which prevented our seeing things as they really 
 are, but gave its own colouring to them r" 
 
 " Yes, Papa, indeed it is so. And in London the 
 magic glass seemed almost always there, and it was 
 only now and then that it was taken away. But, 
 Papa, it cannot be with you as it is with me, I am 
 sure. You care for none of the things that I do." 
 
 "That may be, my child; and yet it follows not 
 that I care as I should for the only things that are 
 worth caring for."
 
 130 DAW2^ A2fD TWILIGHT. 
 
 A shouting of merry voices above tliem made Mr. 
 Montrevor stop speaking: Constance longed to re- 
 sume the conversation, but their retreat was soon dis- 
 covered, and "Walter and Philip left them no longer 
 undisturbed. 
 
 " Shall I send them away, Papa ?" Constance 
 asked, looking up in her father's face with one of 
 her old childish glances, that wished to gather what 
 his mood was. 
 
 " No, my Lily ; I think we must not do that." 
 
 "Then, Papa, I will go with them, and you stay 
 here in peace." 
 
 Her father's smile told her she had divined his de- 
 sires, so she got up and went to meet the two boys, 
 not without casting in her heart some longing glances 
 behind. They wandered about for another hour or 
 two, till the shades of evening came upon them, and 
 the fading streaks of crimson light warned them they 
 must make the best of their way home, if they did not 
 wish to be benighted. 
 
 This expedition was one of their last, and a day or 
 two afterwards they took their leave of Easthaven and 
 parted company: the llockwoods returned to their 
 home, Mr. Montrevor and Constance to Elvanlees.
 
 DAWN ASB TWILIGHT. 131 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 " She was the pride 
 
 Of her familiar sphere— the daUy joy 
 Of all who on her gracefulness might gaze, 
 And in the light and music of her way 
 Have a companion's portion." 
 
 N. P. Willis. 
 
 " f\^, Papa, there are Uncle Edward and Aunt 
 
 yJ Mabel on the platform." 
 
 " And who else, Lily ? " said a voice, as a hand and 
 a head were thrust into the carriage, when the train 
 stopped at the Elvanlees Station. " Oh, what fun to 
 see you home again ! How are you, Uncle ? " 
 
 '' Percy, is it you ? They never told us you were 
 come." 
 
 " Because I was not, my dear Lily, till an hour ago. 
 I was setting off for Elvanlees, when I met the carriage 
 with Papa and Aunt Mabel coming to meet you, and 
 got into it and came back with them." 
 
 " Let us out, Percy, if you can, or shout to the 
 guard," said his uncle. 
 
 The carriage was waiting, and a cart for the luggage ; 
 so they were soon en route for Elvanlees. It was a 
 very happy meeting on all sides, but the loudest ex- 
 pressions of satisfaction were between Woolly and 
 Percy. 
 
 '' Tou will spend the evening with us, of course, 
 Aunt Mabel and Edward, so we may drive at ouce to 
 the Hall," ^Ir. Montrevor said.
 
 132 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 The proposal was readily agreed to, and a very plea- 
 sant evening they had. Aunt Mabel and Constance 
 left the gentlemen in the dining-room when dinner 
 was over, and adjourned to the morning-room, which 
 looked particularly comfortable, with the crimson cur- 
 tains drawn and a bright fire, and where they had one 
 of their pleasant talks. When the gentlemen came in 
 for tea, Percy took his usual place at the tea-table, 
 and had so much to hear and to tell, that their sitting 
 was prolonged beyond the ordinary limits, and when 
 at last Constance made a move to adjourn, it was not 
 received without a slight remonstrance from Percy, 
 whose speech ended with — '' Now, Lily, I am only 
 come home for a fortnight, so you must make much 
 of me." 
 
 *' "Well, Percy, I will do my best," was the answer. 
 
 " Then you must begin by singing to me all my 
 favourite old songs in regular rotation. ' My heart is 
 sair for somebody' shall come first. Where's the 
 book ? " 
 
 " Never mind the book : I think I can remember it ; 
 and you will help me if I forget." 
 
 He opened the piano, and there was soon silence at 
 the fireplace, where the two brothers had before been 
 engaged in conversation, as her clear, sweet voice 
 warbled the simple air. 
 
 Her uncle moved, to have a full view of her as she 
 sang, and his thoughts turned to his noble-hearted 
 boy, and he could but fancy what his feelings would 
 have been had he been standing in Percy's place, and 
 he felt it was well he was away, not exposed to daily 
 suffering and daily struggles. She sang the little
 
 DAW]S- AND TWILIGHT. 133 
 
 ballad with such sweet, touching emphasis, that he 
 wondered whether she had her " own dear somebody," 
 or was her heart still free and unshackled ? He thought 
 he could mark the traces of the mind and heart having 
 past through some new stages of feeling, as he watched 
 her countenance whilst she sang. There was less of 
 the child and more of the woman there now. Other 
 songs followed, at Percy's request : a little pause for 
 conversation, however, was secured after each, and 
 at ten o'clock the Eectory party departed. Mr. 
 Montrevor went out with them into the hall, and 
 when he came back found Constance standing by the 
 fire, humming " Home, sweet home." 
 
 " I am glad you find it so, my child," was his re- 
 mark, as he stood beside her. " But that you may 
 thoroughly enjoy its pleasures to-morrow, I am going 
 to ring for candles and send you to bed, and then 
 you will be ready for a ride with me in the morn- 
 ing." 
 
 Directly after breakfast nest morning, whilst her 
 father was engaged with the steward, Constance set 
 off for the Rectory. Her uncle was in Aunt Mabel's 
 room, with an open letter in his hand, of which he 
 and Aunt Mabel were evidently talking. He looked 
 grave, and after speaking a few words to Constance, 
 went into his own room. 
 
 " Uncle Edward looked so grave, Aunt Mabel ; I 
 hope he has had no bad news," Constance said. 
 
 " No, dear, no. He has had a letter from Eustace ? " 
 
 " Oh, has he } where from ?" 
 
 " It is dated from Heidelberg, but they only intended 
 remaining there a day or two. They have fallen in.
 
 134 DAWK AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 with Mr. Clifford, and mean to join (Company and 
 travel on together." 
 
 " How pleased Eustace will be." 
 
 " Your uncle was asking me about Mr. Clifford. I 
 do not think I ever saw him, at least not to speak to. 
 You met him, I think, dear .>" 
 
 " Yes, once or twice ; but I know much more of 
 him from Eustace's description than from personal 
 acquaintance. He thought him delightful, you know, 
 Aunt Mabel." 
 
 " Yes, I know he did. I have no doubt he is a very 
 clever, agreeable man. Your uncle does so hope it is 
 not only intellect that is the charm in him. A very 
 clever man will have a great influence over another 
 some years his junior, who is able to appreciate his 
 genius." 
 
 " And is not that a very good thing, Aunt Mabel ? " 
 
 " That must depend on the way the influence is 
 used." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Clifford could only use it in a right way.** 
 
 " That he would not intentionally do so wrongly, I 
 fully believe ; but what of all things would be of service 
 to Eustace now, would be to be thrown with a very 
 good as well as a very clever man, — one who valued 
 holiness above intellect. Eustace is but young — little 
 more than twenty ; he is clever, and has, as you know 
 well, dear, an intense admiration for genius ; and your 
 uncle has just been saying, that perhaps there are 
 more snares and dangers around the path of such, 
 than of those who apparently have far less noble and 
 gifted natures." 
 
 Constance did not answer immediately, but seemed
 
 DAWy AND TWILIGHT. 135 
 
 burled in thought. " AYho values lioliness above in- 
 tellect," were the words she pondered on. '' It ought 
 to be valued above everything," she thought; "but 
 how far am I from thus valuing and striving after it !" 
 
 xlunt Mabel was just going to ask what made her 
 look so grave, when Percy appeared at the window in 
 his shooting-jacket, and called Constance to look at 
 the dogs. 
 
 He insisted on an arrangement being made that 
 their evenings should all be passed together, and 
 wanted to persuade his uncle to promise to dine every 
 other day of the week at the Eectory : but to that 
 Mr. Montrevor would not agree, saying he had been 
 too much away from home of late ; so a compromise 
 was made, by which it was settled that the Eectory 
 party should adjourn to the Hall every evening but 
 the last of Percy's stay, and tliat on that day his 
 uncle and Constance should join them at the Eec- 
 tory. His mornings were always passed in pursuit 
 of the partridges, but in the afternoon he generally 
 joined Constance and herfather in their rides. 
 
 As Mr. Montrevor and his brother sat together that 
 evening, the latter asked the same questions with re- 
 gard to Mr. Clifford that he had asked Aunt Mabel 
 in the morning. 
 
 " I saw very little of him," was Mr. ]Montrevor's 
 answer ; " but one cannot converse with him for five 
 minutes without feeling that he is a man of first-rate 
 abilities. He interests you at once ; and yet I hardly 
 know why — with the interest there is a certain feeling 
 of uneasiness. A man of great genius has a heavy 
 responsibility entailed upon him, and one feels anxious
 
 136 DAWir ATiTD TWILIGHT. 
 
 to know whetlier liis talents are expended for liis 
 country's good. To cultivate the intellect, or study 
 the fine arts, with no aim beyond self- gratification or 
 enjoyment, is profitless work." 
 
 There was a pause, and then Mr. Montrevor said, 
 " You heard from Eustace this morning, I think?" 
 
 " Yes : he tells me Mr. Clifford will introduce them 
 to some clever German professors. JS'ow without ever 
 having seen Mr. Clifibrd, I feel tempted to form an 
 opinion of him from what I have gathered from Eu- 
 stace's conversation, and I fear it is unjust to do so." 
 
 " But snrely Eustace's words could have given no 
 derogatory impression of him ?" 
 '* Not intentioually." 
 
 " Your feeling is, that with him intellect is trans- 
 cendent ? " 
 
 " Exactly so : am I right ? " 
 
 " I cannot say ; but a temperament like his would, 
 I should think, be peculiarly susceptible of such a 
 temptation.** 
 
 " I fully believe it," his brother answered gravely, 
 for his thoughts were with another, whose welfare he 
 had more at heart. 
 
 When he went into his study that night, after his 
 return home, he sat long pondering over Eustace. 
 The letter he had had that morning, read with the 
 key that his own insight into his son's state of mind 
 furnished, told to him an anxious tale. He could see 
 that in his weary struggle to stifle the affections of 
 the heart, he was striving to concentrate all his ener- 
 gies in the studies of the brain ; and though such 
 pursuits might aff*ord temporary relief, and, under due
 
 DAWiS" A^'D TWILIGHT. 137 
 
 restraint, be of incalculable benefit, yet tbe remem- 
 brance of his own early experience made him tremble 
 for one who felt the almost irresistible enchantment 
 of " reason's awful power." Perhaps, had he known 
 more of the discipline his son's heart was under, he 
 had feared less for his mind ; but his fears were not 
 groundless. After long pondering, long deliberating, 
 lie seized on a sheet of paper, and sat down to write. 
 
 It seemed a relief to write, though even as he 
 wrote he felt uncertain whether the letter would 
 meet the case. After commenting on some part of 
 his son's letter, he continued — " All things that are 
 noble, good, true, beautiful, must be derived from 
 the Source of all good. How strange and sad, then, 
 it is that we si.ould rest in them, as if they them- 
 selves, apart from Him from whom they came, 
 could have any inherent virtue, — how vain to think 
 that they can fill our souls ! And if this be true of 
 beauty, nobleness, truth, how will it apply to intel- 
 lect, tliat ensnaring gift that has so many worship- 
 pers, and worshippers from among the noblest of 
 human kind. It is in itself so far removed from the 
 gross objects of sensual adoration, so lofty, so grand, 
 so pure, that its danger of engrossing the soul is ten- 
 fold greater, because under the shadow of its temple 
 we think we must be safe. And yet bear to look it 
 well in the face, to examine and scrutinize this shrine 
 before which the soul bows down, and see how false 
 its claim. What is intellect, the noblest human in- 
 tellect, but a faint ray from that Almighty Intellect 
 which alone conceived, devised, arranged, maiutained 
 all that system in nature whose laws are still a
 
 138 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 mystery to iis, and of which all the noblest human 
 intellects of nigh six thousand years have, by slow 
 working, — one age ascending a step beyond that 
 which the last had mounted, — at last only gained 
 some gleams of knowledge. When we consider this 
 well, must we not confess that he who turns from the 
 adoration of the Infinite to the idolizing of the finite, 
 is but like one who would contend that the ray of 
 light that pierced through the crevice in his dungeon 
 wall exceeded the dazzlhio: brisfhtness of the sun that 
 shone 'so gloriously without ? And yet I seek not to 
 undervalue intellect : it is a great gift from God, 
 only be it ever remembered that the talent was en- 
 trusted to be traded with for Him who gave it. It 
 must not be slothfully buried in the earth, but even 
 less may it be put out to usury for our own profit, to 
 gratify ambition, to gain human applause, to iiidulge 
 in the ensnaring pleasures it affords. It then becomes, 
 from one of the noblest, one of the vile things of earth, 
 and but nourishes the mortal, earthly part of man. 
 But let it only be dedicated to its lawful Master and 
 Owner, — offered up in humility at His throne, to be 
 used to His honour and glory, — and then truly does it 
 resume its noble character ; a gleam of light from 
 another sphere, a ray from heaven, a treasure (in an 
 earthen vessel, it is true, but a treasure) that may be 
 expended so as to repay a hundred-fold, and obtain 
 the glorious meed of commendation, ' Thou hast been 
 faithful.' " 
 
 He had written on rapidly and eagerly, but was 
 roused now by the church-clock striking twelve ; and 
 putting his unfinished letter into his desk, he went up
 
 DAW^ A^-D TWILIGHT. 139 
 
 to his own room. The letter was finished and went 
 next day, and it was a relief to him when it was 
 gone. 
 
 Percy's fortnight's leave passed much too quickly 
 away, and rather lamenting that it had come to an 
 end so soon, he departed. 
 
 But little was heard of Eustace daring the rest of 
 the vacation. His father had one long letter in answer 
 to his, but aftervrards very short notes, mentioning 
 where letters would find them next. He and Con- 
 stance had been the correspondents, and now he for- 
 bore writing to her, and yet had no heart for any other 
 letters. She wondered he did not write, but supposed 
 he was too busy, and again blamed herself for being 
 exigeante in expecting it when he had so much to do, 
 and such pleasant friends with him. 
 
 He delayed his return till the last, only allowing 
 himself just time to get to Oxford before Term began, 
 without coming home. At any other time this would 
 have seemed most strange, but his father understood 
 and honoured his motives now. 
 
 Constance and her father meant to settle down into 
 a quiet, regular life, but there came a succession of 
 invitations, for visits of two or three days, to the dif- 
 ferent houses in the country that were not within 
 reach of dinner-parties, and almost every week was 
 broken in upon. 
 
 Mr. Montrevor had been very popular during the 
 three short years that he had visited and entertained 
 guests after he married. Since then, with the excep- 
 tion of occasional visits from old and early friends, he 
 had lived a very secluded life. But now that it became
 
 140 DAWN" AT^'D TWILIGHT. 
 
 known that he intended no longer to shut himself up, 
 invitations came in in abundance. Constance knew 
 very little of the families in the neighbourhood : Ada 
 Sedgeleigh was her only friend. But now that she 
 began to be known, she was very much liked. Though 
 greatly admired, she never presumed upon it, nor gave 
 herself the airs of one flattered and courted in society ; 
 and it must have been an evil mind that could have 
 felt jealous of her powers of attraction, for she was 
 kind and gentle to every one, and especially so to those 
 who appeared most unattractive, and least likely to 
 meet with attention. Then she was so indifferent 
 about admiration, so entirely free from any seeking 
 after it, that others could hardly grudge her that 
 which was almost forced upon her, and which she 
 made no efl'ort to obtain. 
 
 After some weeks of visiting, Mr. Montrevor came 
 to the conclusion that it would not do to let it be all 
 on one side ; he must give invitations also. Constance 
 did not enjoy the thoughts of having to do the honours 
 of the house at all, and longed sadly after a mother's 
 care ; but she would 'not have said one word that could 
 have betrayed that longing to her father, or have made 
 him feel that it would be irksome to her to entertain 
 his guests. If she felt that longing, what must he feel, 
 — what was her loss compared to his ! So she wrote 
 all the invitations, as he wished, and began to think 
 about large unoccupied bedrooms that she very seldom 
 went into, and that she had visions of, looking very 
 cold, and dreary, and stately ; and as soon as she saw 
 her father take up his book and sit down in his arm- 
 chair, and she had sealed and directed her last note,
 
 DAWX AND TWILIGHT. 141 
 
 she ran up-stairs, and putting on her bonnet and 
 shawl, came down and told him she was going across 
 to the Eectory for a few minutes. 
 
 It was a great relief to find herself in Aunt Mabel's 
 room ; not to grumble, — no ; Constance would have 
 felt as if she were talking treason, if she ever grumbled 
 at anything her father proposed, — the organ of venera- 
 tion was too strongly developed in her to have allowed 
 of such a thing, — but to tell Aunt Mabel all, and con- 
 sult with her how she could best arrange : " For," she 
 continued, in rather a perplexed tone, " I would not 
 trouble Papa with such things ; I know it would be 
 so disagreeable to him to have to think about them at 
 all ; yet really. Aunt Mabel, there are only three rooms 
 besides Papa's and mine, and Mrs. Lester's, that look 
 at all habitable, — the blue room, where Greneral Les- 
 sington always sleeps, and the two rooms in the north 
 corridor." 
 
 " Surely, dear, there are more that would do very 
 weU." 
 
 " Have you been in them of late years ? I cannot 
 tell you how gloomy and forlorn they look. There 
 are no sofas, no easy-chairs, no wardrobes for hanging 
 dresses ; the high-backed chairs are all placed round 
 the room; and I always feel a longing to get out of 
 them if I look in, and a sort of nervous dread lest 
 the door should shut upon me and fasten me in, 
 — especially those three that are hung with tapes- 
 try." 
 
 " Oh, I feel sure, dear, when you have had the fur- 
 niture comfortably arranged, and the blinds all drawn
 
 142 DAWIT AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 up, and a good fire burning brightly, you will have a 
 very different opinion of them. I will come any day 
 3'ou lil?:e, and go over them with you ; and I think we 
 will manage to make them quite snug." 
 
 " Thank you. Aunt Mabel, that is more than I could 
 have ventured to expect ; but I will take it upon trust, 
 if you say so. I know you have wonderful powers 
 of giving that air to every room you take in hand. 
 And now — please don't laugh at me — about the 
 dinner ? May I leave it all to Mrs. Evans ? I am 
 sure she knows a great deal better than I do ; and I 
 cannot tell you how much I dislike having to order 
 dinner." 
 
 Aunt Mabel did not laugh, but she smiled very 
 pleasantly whilst she said, " I am not quite sure that 
 your disliking it is not an argument in favour of your 
 doing it : but don't trouble yourself beforehand about 
 it, only let Mrs. Evans know in plenty of time what 
 party there will be each da}^, and how many days your 
 guests will remain, and then I think you will hardly 
 have to give it a second thought ; though I should de- 
 cidedly advise your going most punctiliously through 
 the form of ordering dinner each day. — It takes me 
 back a great many years to think of Elvanlees full of 
 visitors again." 
 
 *' How I should like to hear about the last time you 
 were there when the house was full of people. "Was 
 it soon after Papa married ? " 
 
 " The last time I have a vivid recollection of a large 
 party in the house, was the year before you were born. 
 I had been staying for some weeks at Elvanlees, — part
 
 DA^N AXD TTVILIGnT.' 143 
 
 of the time here, and the latter part at the Hall: the 
 week before I left there was a large party of visitors 
 in the house. It was beautiful, bright summer wea- 
 ther, and one evening after dinner — (dinner was not so 
 late then) — we were sitting in the saloon with all the 
 windows open. Some of the gentlemen were standino- 
 outside the windows, when there was a request for 
 music. Tour mother's sweet voice was a great charm, 
 and no sooner had she sat down to the piano and begun 
 to sing, than there was a complete silence. "When 
 one song was ended, another was called for, and there 
 came a particular request from some one that she 
 would sing one of Moore's melodies, 'All that's bright 
 must fade.' I had often heard her say that she did 
 not like singing that song, that there was something 
 painful in its repiaing tone, but she sang it at once 
 when it was asked for. "When it was over, there was 
 a general movement to the window, to look at some- 
 thing in the sky, when almost the whole party went 
 out on the terrace. Tour mother, who was not very 
 strong, did not go, nor did I, nor your aunt, — I mean 
 your Uncle Edward's wife : you hardly remember her, 
 do you?" 
 
 " Tes I do, quite well : she was slight and fair, and 
 very gentle and kind. But please go on." 
 
 " She and your dear mother were great friends ; they 
 entirely understood each other ; and .your aunt had 
 the greatest admiration for your mother. But as I 
 said, she and I staid in, and sat on by the piano. 
 Tour aunt said, ' ATe quite want something to put 
 that melancholy tune out of our minds. Can you not 
 think of something else ?' Tour mother thought for
 
 144 DAWI^" AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 a moment, and then she began, in a voice that sounded 
 more than ever sweet and thrillicg, — 
 
 * WTio, but a Christian, througli all life 
 
 That blessing may prolong ? 
 Who, through the world's sad day of strife, 
 Still chant his morning song ? 
 
 * We may look home, and seek in vain 
 
 A fond fraternal heart. 
 But Christ hath given His promise plain 
 To do a brother's part. 
 
 ■* Nor shall dull age, as worldlings say. 
 The heavenward flame annoy : 
 The Saviour cannot pass away, 
 And with Him lives our joy. 
 
 * Ever the richest, tenderest glow 
 
 Sets round th' autumnal sun, — 
 But there sight fails : no heart may know 
 The bliss when life is done.' 
 
 " I have always thought the music was extempore, 
 for I never heard her before or afterwards sing those 
 words. Though well known then, they were not uni- 
 versally known, as they are now, and to many they 
 were new. "We were alone when the song began, but 
 the voice attracted many back to the windows, and 
 there was quite an audience ere it was finished, but 
 your mother was altogether unconscious that any were 
 listening. I met some of those listeners again ; it was 
 many years after the evening I speak of, and when the 
 voice that sang was heard no longer in earthly strains ; 
 but all told me that the memory of those words, and 
 the expression of the singer as she sang them, were
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 145 
 
 fresh in their memory then as when they heard them. 
 Eut I have kept you longer than you intended to stay, 
 have I not ?" she asked, as she finished her story. 
 
 " Oh, Aunt Mabel, I could listen all day. Can you 
 not remember any more ?" 
 
 " I think the chance would be, that I should not 
 know where to stop, dear, if I began to look through 
 the old storehouse of memory ; but it must be done 
 another day, not to-day, I think.— Tell me who are 
 your visitors ?" she continued after a pause : " I shall 
 know their names, though very likely many of them 
 were but children in the days I speak of." 
 
 " I do not feel as if I knew much more than the 
 names of several; but if they all come, the house 
 will be full, I think. General Lessington and the 
 Sedgeleighs are the only old friends ; the Hamiltons, 
 the Phillips', Lord and Lady Tremaine, Sir Edward and 
 Lady Butler, the Griahams, and two or three more." 
 
 " Well, let me know if I can be of any use." 
 
 " You will be of the greatest, dear Aunt Mabel. 
 And now I suppose I must go back, for I see by your 
 little timepiece it is just luncheon-time." 
 
 And Constance got up, and called Woolly, who was 
 stretched out asleep before the fire, and set off on her 
 way home through the park. 
 
 The second morning's post brought answers to the 
 invitations : there was only one refusal. Mr. Montre- 
 vor was busily engaged over the paper as Constance 
 read her notes, and seemed entirely to have forgotten 
 his visitors, when Constance's rather troubled voice, 
 saying, " Papa, they will all come but the Grahams," 
 roused him.
 
 146 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 "What, my child?" he asked, as he lowered the 
 newspaper and raised his cup of tea. 
 
 " The answers to the invitations, Papa." 
 
 " And do they say yes, or no ?" 
 
 " Yes, every one but the Grahams." 
 
 'Trom Tuesday to Priday, was it not, love, that 
 you asked them to stay ?" 
 
 " Yes, Papa." 
 
 *' About the rooms, Lily: shall you be able to ar- 
 range it all ? I hope it will not trouble you. Can I 
 help you in anything ? I daresay there is a great deal 
 to be done to make them comfortable." 
 
 '' Aunt Mabel has promised to come, and she will 
 see that all is right." 
 
 " Oh, that will do, then," Mr. Montrevor answered, 
 in a tone of evident relief: ''I am afraid I should 
 have been but a bad assistant. I was spoilt by having 
 all the trouble taken from me, and only the amuse- 
 ment left to my share, in tbe days when this house 
 used to have visitors in it before," he continued, in a 
 saddened tone. 
 
 ** And, I hope, dear Papa, you will never have any 
 of the trouble now," Constance answered, in such a 
 gentle, loving voice, it quite went to his heart. 1 
 
 " I know I should never have any, could you take 
 it from me, my Lily," he said, while he pressed the 
 little hand that rested on the table,— got up and went 
 into the library. 
 
 Aunt Mabel's prophecy was true ; Constance had a 
 very different opinion of the forlorn-looking rooms 
 after they had been cheered by the sun's rays and the 
 fire's warmth. A few comtorts in the way of sofas
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 147 
 
 and arm -chairs were added, and then sJie even pro- 
 nounced they were very comfortable, and ran merrily 
 down-stairs to bring "Papa" up to shew bim the 
 metamorphosis that had taken place in them. 
 
 She rather wished Friday was come, as she sat on 
 Tuesday afternoon in the drawing-room, waiting to 
 receive the visitors. She did not feel at all at 
 home in that room, for the morning-room and the 
 library were the only rooms she and her father ever 
 occupied. The drawing-room and saloon were sel- 
 dom used. 
 
 The Sedgeleighs were the first to arrive. Constance 
 was so glad to see Ada, that she had almost forgotten 
 there were other visitors to arrive in the pleasure of 
 talking with her, when the door was thrown open, 
 and Sir Edward and Lady Butler were announced. 
 
 Ada liked watching her doing the honours of the 
 house, so prettily and naturally, and was filled with 
 admiration at her self-possession and collectedness. 
 The truth was, Constance was not thinking of herself 
 at all, but of those to whom she was speaking. In 
 an hour all had arrived, and when she had shewn the 
 ladies to their rooms, and left them to dress for dinner, 
 she went to Ada's room, knocked at the door, and was 
 received with the warmest welcome, and, in spite of 
 her remonstrances, was placed in the arm-chair by the 
 fire, whilst Ada took another for herself beside it, and 
 they continued the conversation that had been inter- 
 rupted down-stairs, which was not an altogether un- 
 interesting one, for Ada had been detailing some . of 
 her brother's and Eustace's adventures in their travels. 
 It was clear that Harry Sedgeleigh had the same ad-
 
 148 DAWK AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 miration for Eustace, that Eustace had for Mr. Clif- 
 forJ, and Constance heard more of him from Ada than 
 she had from any one since he parted from her in 
 London. 
 
 Ada had brought her brother's sketch-book with 
 her, filled with sketches and caricatures, giving almost 
 as amusing an account of their journey as the cele- 
 brated one made by Messrs. Brown, Jones, and B/obin- 
 son, and in a not dissimilar style. 
 
 Ada's maid knocking at the door made Constance 
 remember that she had to be dressed and down stairs 
 before any of her guests, and she sprang out of her 
 arm-chair, with the exclamation, " Papa will not like 
 me to be late." 
 
 No one was in the drawing-room when she went 
 down, but General Lessington, who had arrived after 
 she went up- stairs, and who received her with many 
 expressions of satisfaction. The evening passed away 
 as evenings generally do in such cases : there was some 
 music nnd singing, which was listened to with a toler- 
 able amount of attention ; and there were attempts at 
 conversation, which in some few instances succeeded, 
 but in many never got beyond the smallest small-talk. 
 Constance met with her usual share of admiration ; there 
 was a young Mr. Hamilton who fancied himself des- 
 perately in love with her ; and two or three might have 
 laboured under the same delusion, had they not had 
 more experience, and learnt that some small amount 
 of encouragement was required to prevent its vanish- 
 iug away. But one and all paid her great attention, 
 which she received so simply and naturally, though at 
 times it rather bored her, that it was impossible to
 
 DATVN AND TWILIGHT. 149 
 
 help wisliing that it were an easier matter to make an 
 impression. 
 
 The next day the gentlemen went out shooting. 
 One or two, though, found their way back to the house 
 about luncheon-time, and rode with Constance, Ada, 
 and some of the other ladies, in the afternoon, while 
 the rest of the party drove out. The evening was 
 more agreeable than the preceding one had been, as 
 all were more at home with each other. There was a 
 proposition that a quadrille should be got up, which 
 was warmly seconded. Constance seated herself at 
 once at the piano to act the part of musician, but 
 there was an outcry at her doing so ; and Mrs. Hamil- 
 ton, who, with a mother's quickness, had noticed her 
 son's admiration for Constance, immediately volun- 
 teered her services, and he had the supreme satisfac- 
 tion of dancing the first quadrille with her. 
 
 The last evening went off most successfully, and 
 Constance was quite pleased to see that Ada seemed 
 really to enjoy herself, and did not appear nearly so 
 shy as usual. Hers was a nature that longed to make 
 every one happy, and had not poor Mr. Hamilton seen 
 that to all, young and old, she was equally kind, lively, 
 and gentle, he might have laid the flattering unction 
 to his soul, that her pleasant manner betokened that 
 he had made an impression. But, alas ! for that sooth- 
 ing illusion, he saw her talking with more than usual 
 animation and interest to General Lessington for full 
 ten minutes, while he was standing near, apparently 
 entirely overlooked and forgotten, longing for the 
 pleasure of dancing with her. 
 
 As the visitors were about to depart next day, there
 
 150 DAWN^ AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 were many remarks on the agreeable time they had 
 passed, and the winning manners of the daughter of the 
 house. ''Poor Montrevor will be left alone again in 
 the old Hall," was the observation of more than one : 
 " that young heiress will soon be carried off from him ; 
 and would be if she had not a sixpence, with such a 
 fascinating way about her." 
 
 General Lessington was one of those to whom this 
 remark was made : '' That many will try to win her, 
 there's little doubt," was his answer; "but how to 
 succeed,— that's the question."
 
 PART 11. 
 
 w'estimez dans les hommbs que l'amoue du devoie." 
 
 Matsillon.
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Day and night, day and night. 
 Dawn and darkness, gloom and light. 
 On, still on, with measur'd tread. 
 Over living, over dead." 
 
 I, W. Roe. 
 
 THERE are few tilings more strange than tlie dif- 
 ferent pace with which, to different minds and 
 hearts, time seems to tread his onward course. 
 
 To the little child a year appears almost endless ; 
 to the full-grown man it seems in memory but a few 
 days, and those so confused with the days which pre- 
 ceded them, that he can with difficulty disentangle 
 and fix the limits in his thought of any single period : 
 when he attempts to review a year, and assign to it 
 the events which marked its progress, he will pro- 
 bably reckon amongst them the occurrences of some 
 previous year, per'haps far removed from that which 
 he is contemplating, but which, with its companions, 
 has sunk into the boundless abyss of the past. 
 
 To the sorrowful, time's bark seems becalmed, and 
 the slow, stagnant current on which it floats seems 
 scarce able to move it onwards. They wake in the 
 morning to find themselves only where they fell asleep 
 at night, the same sad scene around, the same dreary 
 desert before. While to the gay and light-hearted 
 the voyage is all too rapid, — they would fain linger 
 and revel in the sunshine which irradiates a prospect so 
 beautiful and so tempting. But no ; the bark bounds 
 on, — and ere they thought their sails were set, they
 
 1,54 DAWN AlfD TWILIGHT. 
 
 have been whirled from one end of the year to the 
 other. 
 
 And yet to each and all — to the weary-hearted, to 
 the lonely watcher, to the pain- stricken suiFerer, to 
 the joyous child, to the young and prosperous man — 
 time really is one and the same. It neither hastens 
 nor retards its pace, — its course is even and silent, — 
 it flows but drop by drop from the Eternal Fountain. 
 
 The changes are not in time, but in those to whom 
 time is given, who either use or squander it, and who 
 seldom wake to know its value till the portion allotted 
 to them is escaping from their grasp. 
 
 The winter's storms and the summer's sun had 
 passed over the old trees in the park at Elvanlees, and 
 done their part towards mouldering the time-worn, 
 weather-stained stones of the old Hall since last we 
 looked upon it. And the soft October breeze is again 
 playing through the elms, and from time to time 
 making the yellow leaves of the horse-chestnuts rattle 
 against the windows. 
 
 To some, the past year has been a very eventful 
 one ; it has unfolded to them new scenes in the great 
 drama of human life, it has taught them secret lessons 
 of those heart-bitternesses which make the soul shiver 
 at their approach, as the forest tree shivers before the 
 gathering storm. 
 
 To others, its course has been calm, bright, and 
 uneventful, like a summer's day, checkered, it may be, 
 at times, by fleeting clouds, which only served to 
 make the sun's rays shine more joyously when they 
 had passed, and left not a token of gloom upon the 
 heart.
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 155 
 
 And such has it been to Constance and her father. 
 All has gone well and happily. The long winter 
 evenings by their cheerful fireside, the bright days of 
 spring, and the dreamy summer hours all seemed to 
 bring a sense of happiness and enjoyment with them. 
 They paid their annual visit to London in the 
 spring, but left it earlier than usual, longing to re- 
 turn to the country, and soon fell again into their 
 accustomed routine of long rides, and late evening 
 wanderings in the garden. Constance missed the 
 companionship of her cousins ; but her father was so 
 much to her, and when they were without visitors — 
 which did not often occur — they were so constantly 
 together, that it was seldom that she had time or in- 
 clination to wi:sh for other society. 
 
 But if she felt not much their absence, one there 
 was to whom that absence was still, in spite of all 
 strivings to forget, the bitterest privation. To Eus- 
 tace, that year had been anything but a bright sum- 
 mer's day ; gloomy and sad were many of its hours, 
 full of pain and restlessness. And yet his outward 
 career had been the envy of many. He had left 
 Oxford with the highest honours, and was spoken of 
 as one who must rise to eminence in any profession. 
 But to him life seemed a dreary blank, and he had 
 no desire nor energy to devote himself heart and 
 mind to any calling. He had been at home twice for 
 a short time ; but his manner to Constance was so 
 altered — he seemed so constrained and distant — that 
 her warm nature was almost hurt, and a barrier of 
 restraint and coldness was gradually rising up be- 
 tween them. At first it pained her much, but her
 
 156 DAWN AXD TWILIGHT. 
 
 womanly pride came in to help lier, and slie blamed 
 herself for grieving that he was no longer open and 
 affectionate to her as of yore, and resolved that, if he 
 needed not her friendship, she would not sigh after 
 his. 
 
 It was not without some struggles that this little . 
 determination was acted upon ; but, oh ! how she 
 would have repented having made it, had she known 
 the pangs and heart-aches which her apparent in- 
 difference caused. And yet she unconsciously acted 
 in the way of all others that was best for him whom 
 §he thus caused to suffer. 
 
 His future plans were still quite undecided, and he 
 had again joined Grerard Clifford in a foreign tour. 
 
 If the gloom of autumn seemed to overshadow and 
 dim the brightness of his springtide of life, it was 
 not on him alone that the sun had ceased to shine. 
 He had to struggle on in loneliness with his secret 
 sorrow, his friend Harry Sedgeleigh had come to 
 know sufferings of a sterner kind; his fortune was 
 ruined, his name well-nigh blighted. 
 
 It has been before mentioned that Mr. Sed2:eleio:h 
 had a taste for racing ; to this was soon added one for 
 gambling, which quickly grew into a passion, — a pas- 
 sion that became a fierce, insatiable tyrant, and he its 
 poor abject slave. Often in secret did he groan be- 
 neath the yoke, but he was too weak and cowardly to 
 rid himself of it ; so on, on he went in his downward 
 career, his diJBBculties and embarrassments becoming 
 greater and more complicated every year, till he 
 dared not look them in the face, but madly shut his 
 eyes and rushed on to destruction. Money must be
 
 DAWK AND TWILIGHT. 157 
 
 had — he could not get on without it ; and when every 
 estate was mortgaged till he. could raise no more 
 money upon it, the dreadful temptation came upon 
 him to use that which had been intrusted to him by 
 others, and was supposed to be put out to interest. 
 His fiither had been an upright, kind-hearted, easy- 
 going English squire, and no suspicion of dishonesty 
 would ever have been cast for a moment on a son of 
 his ; nor would he, poor, miserable victim, have be- 
 lieved it possible in his early days that he should be 
 the robber of the fatherless and the widow. No ; the 
 enemy of souls takes good care to hide the distance 
 he means to lead those whom he invites to travel a 
 little way with him; he tells them they need take 
 but a few steps and return. So he persuaded Mr. 
 Sedgeleigh, and so he persuades thousands more ; but 
 the time to return never came. 
 
 A few days' illness, during which he was utterly 
 unconscious, brought his miserable life to an end. 
 In his delirium he raved of the enemies who were 
 upon him, of ruin and destruction. 
 
 A sad explanation of these mournful ravings was 
 brought to his son's mind when he began to look 
 into his affairs. It was some days before he could 
 take in the astounding fact that they were utterly 
 ruined, actual poverty staring them in the face. And 
 that was by far the least part of the misery that was 
 come upon them, for there were debts which made the 
 blood rush with bitter shame to his brow as they 
 were announced to him, — debts to those who would 
 have to ascribe their ruin to his name if they were 
 not paid. Oh! there were bitter, fearful hours of
 
 158 DAW]^ AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 misery. A few days before, and he met with a light, 
 open heart his equals ; now he shrank from looking 
 his servants in the face, and felt like one dishonoured 
 and disgraced. His first impulse was to give up 
 everything into the hands of the creditors, and fly the 
 country, never to return. But when he spoke thus 
 to the only one to whom the burning, bewildering 
 thoughts of his heart were revealed, his gentle sister, 
 she who, by patient endurance of the little ills of 
 daily life, was enabled to meet calmly these over- 
 whelming calamities, spoke so soothingly and cour- 
 ageously to him, that he nerved himself to endure, 
 and resolved to wait, and try to see how things might 
 best be settled, and every one righted, before he fled 
 from the scene of desolation. 
 
 His mother, at all times a weak-minded woman, 
 was entirely crushed by the blow, and unable to realize 
 its eflTects. At first she refused to believe what was 
 told her, and when Ada had made her understand 
 that they must leave their home for ever, she busied 
 herself in speculating and considering where they 
 should go to, and in arranging what they should take 
 with them. Her son and daughter had not the heart 
 to tell her that those arrangements would not be left 
 to them to make ; but, relieved by seeing that she 
 could occupy her mind with such thoughts, they set 
 themselves earnestly to consider what must be done 
 for the future. 
 
 It was a comfort to think that their eldest sister 
 was, at any rate, well provided for. She had married 
 in the previous winter, and her husband having a 
 good appointment in India, she had gone there with
 
 DAWIS^ AND TWILIGHT. 159 
 
 him. Ada's first proposition for herself was that shd 
 should go out as a governess, but her brother started 
 at the idea, and entreated her not to mention it again. 
 He surely could get something to do, and be enabled 
 to support her and their mother, he argued ; and what 
 was to become of the latter, if she left her ? He felt 
 that he had ability enough to do something, if only' 
 he could find an opening ; and often the brother and 
 sister sat up till late in the night, suggesting, con- 
 sidering, pondering over plans for the future, trying 
 to calculate on how little they could possibly live, and 
 where they could go to be forgotten and unknown. 
 His father's disgrace hung on Harry like a weight 
 that pressed him to the earth. He felt that poverty, 
 privation, toil, would have been nothing, could he 
 have known that no shadow of dishonour rested on 
 his name ; and this mournful thought so weighed upon 
 him, that he would see no one, and entreated Ada to 
 give no clue to anyone which might lead to the dis- 
 covery of tlieir future abode. 
 
 The affairs were at length wound up. House, 
 plate, furniture, everything was sold. Everything 
 that could be given up to meet the demands of the 
 creditors was unhesitatingly given ; only a small 
 annuity for his mother was retained. A few thou- 
 sand pounds had been left to her by some relative, 
 who was possibly aware of her husband's propensi- 
 ties, for it was so tied up that he could not touch it : 
 the interest of this sum would give them an income 
 of rather less than £200 a-year to live upon. 
 
 Constance and her father were from home at the 
 time that all these misfortunes came upon their
 
 160 DAWN" AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 friends. Slie -wrote to Ada, and longed to go to Tier, 
 but Ada, in compliance with her brother's wish, which 
 possessed him so strongly, it seemed almost a mono- 
 mania, did not tell her where they should go, though 
 she longed to do so, and ere the Montrevors re- 
 turned home, Sedgeleigh Manor had been sold, and 
 the sad tale that had been in every one's mouth was 
 beginning to lose its interest in some new topic. 
 
 Constance mourned truly for them, and longed 
 eagerly and earnestly to be able to help them, but it 
 was all in vain. She wrote to Ada and heard from 
 her, but no letter ever gave any clue to their abode. 
 Constance's letters were always directed, by Ada's 
 request, to some lawyer's office in London, and she 
 concluded that the answers came through the same 
 channel, for there was no other post-mark on them. 
 Ada often mentioned her brother, but Constance could 
 not understand from the letters whether he lived with 
 them or not, and he himself wrote to no one. In 
 Ada's letters there was a calm, unrepining tone, a 
 patient submission to what had befallen them, with 
 a steady resolve not to look back with longing, linger- 
 ing eyes on what they had been called to resign, that 
 filled Constance with admiration, and made her wish 
 more than ever that their intercourse had not come to 
 an end. Aunt Mabel quite shared in her regard for 
 Ada, and to her she often spoke of her friend, and 
 mourned over her sad lot ; but Aunt Mabel's gentle 
 remark one evening, when she had grieved longer 
 than usual over their trials, " The Lord loves her 
 better than you do, my child," made her think, as 
 she had often thought before, " Are those the really
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 161 
 
 happiest with whom all goes prosperously, and who 
 have every desire of the heart gratified ?" 
 
 A fire was burning brightly in the library at Elvan- 
 lees on the October morning on which we return to 
 it again : Mr. Montrevor was leaning against the 
 mantelpiece, and listening to Constance, who was 
 sitting opposite to him, reading aloud a note of in- 
 vitation which that morning's post had brought ; 
 whilst Woolly, rather like a spoilt child, was making 
 every efi'ort to attract her attention, — putting his fore- 
 paws on her lap, and rubbing his little nose against 
 her hand. As she read, a figure passed the window, 
 and turning round, she saw her uncle on his way to 
 the house: "How unusual to see Uncle Edward at 
 this hour of the morning, is it not, Papa?" she re- 
 marked, and as she spoke his hand was on the door ; 
 he partially opened it, saying, " May I come in ?" 
 
 " Good morning, Edward," his brother said : " it is 
 quite a pleasant surprise to see you so early in the 
 morning;" but looking up at him, he saw at a glance 
 that there were traces of agitation on his face, and 
 waited for him to speak. 
 
 " I have had a letter this morning from — " 
 
 "Erom Eustace?" 
 
 " No ; from Mr. Cliflrard. They have had an accident ; 
 Eustace is ill. But here's the letter; yoii had better 
 read it." 
 
 Constance watched her father's face with breathless 
 anxiety whilst he read: "Poor fellow," was his only 
 remark, as he gave the letter to Constance. It was 
 written evidently in much distress, and told of an 
 
 M
 
 162 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 accident they had met with whilst crossing the 
 Danube. Tlie boat had been upset. Eustace and 
 Mr. Clifford had swum to the bank, when Eustace 
 perceived that the boatman, who must apparently 
 have become entangled with a rope or the folds 
 of the cloaks, and so prevented from using his limbs 
 in swimming, was floating helplessly down the stream. 
 To throw off his dripping coat and plunge in again 
 was but the work of an instant, and with unna- 
 tural strength he held him up till a boat came 
 to their assistance. Mr. Clifford said that he had 
 trusted at first that Eustace had not suffered, but 
 to his great sorrow the next day he had fallen ill; 
 he had hoped it was only a cold, but he had the 
 best advice the neighbourhood would afford, yet he 
 did not mend: fever had come on, and though the 
 letter was worded so as to cause as little anxiety as 
 might be, it was clear there was much felt. Mr. 
 Clifford spoke in the warmest terms of Eustace's 
 conduct, and said he hardly dared to think of what 
 his father's feelings would be, for never was there 
 a son more worthy of a father's pride and love. 
 
 ''I mean to set off" immediately," the Eector said ; 
 " and I thought I would call in and wish jou good- 
 bye." 
 
 *' Shall you go to-day ?" 
 
 " Oh yes ; I shall try to be in time for the express." 
 
 " Edward, I shall go up to London with you, and 
 see you off. I do not like the thought of that long, 
 solitary journey for you." 
 
 " Thank you much, Eeginald ; but I hardly like to 
 take you on a useless journey."
 
 DAWIs" AND TWILIGHT. 163 
 
 '' It will not be that ; — but you have no time to lose ; 
 it is ten now, and the express is due at 11.30. Ring 
 the bell, Lilj, will you ?" 
 
 The butler soon appeared. " Say I want the 
 phaeton to be at the door a quarter before eleven," 
 was the order. 
 
 " Thank you, Eeginald ; I will go back at once and 
 prepare." 
 
 "Yery well. I will drive round by the Eectory, 
 and call for you there in three-quarters of an hour. — 
 Poor Edward," he continued, as he watched him walk- 
 ing along the path, " this is a sad anxiety for him. 
 Here, my child, just look through these letters, and 
 see if there are any that must be answered to-day. 
 I must answer the one I have in my hand." 
 
 He moved to the writing-table, and Constance sat 
 beside him whilst he wrote, looking through his 
 letters for him. 
 
 " There is nothing but what I could answer, Papa, 
 I think, if you will trust me ; if you will only tell me 
 if I am to say yes or no," she said. 
 
 He glanced through them, and gave her a few 
 directions. The preparations for his departure were 
 soon made, and then, as the carriage was not come to 
 the door, they walked up and down the terrace till it 
 arrived. 
 
 " Will you go to the Eectory, my child ; or will 
 Aunt Mabel come to you ?" he asked. 
 
 "Whichever she likes, Papa. But it will not be 
 long before you are back ?" 
 
 "No, I think not. Edward expects to cross to-
 
 164 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 morrow ; I Lope he may. But you will have tidings 
 of Eustace before he gets there; Mr. Clifford will, no 
 doubt, send constant reports." 
 
 The carriage drove up, and Constance went in it 
 with her father to the Eectory. Aunt Mabel's calm 
 face looked pale, and there was a tremulous motion 
 in her hand as she held Constance's. They stood to- 
 gether at the door, and watched the carriage as it 
 drove away, and then with heavy hearts turned into 
 the house. The last hour had been such a busy one, 
 there was little time for thought; but now all need 
 for exertion being over, they both sat down, feeling 
 as if they could do nothing but think. 
 
 Aunt Mabel's occupations, however, were not those 
 that could or need be omitted because sorrow had 
 entered her heart, and she had not sat quiet more 
 than half an hour before a knock at the door sum- 
 moned her away. It was some time before she re- 
 turned, telling Constance of a sudden case of illness 
 that had occurred in a distant part of the parish, and 
 her wish to go herself and see the sufferer. Con- 
 stance begged to be allowed to accompany her, and 
 they set out together. In the afternoon Constance 
 wrote to Percy, and when her letter was finished 
 Aunt Mabel asked her to read aloud, so that the long, 
 anxious hours wore away ; and when tea-time arrived 
 Constance's heart, with the buoyancy of youth, was 
 again full of hope, and she went to bed with the 
 longing desire that a letter of good tidings might 
 reach them to-morrow. 
 
 Aunt Mabel said gently, as she wished her good-
 
 DAWIS" AKT) TWILIGHT. 165 
 
 nigbt, " Though we may not watch beside him, Lily, 
 we may help him still : — ' Call upon Me in the day of 
 trouble ; I will deliver thee.' " 
 
 A grateful pressure of the hand was the only answer, 
 and her aunt left the room. When Constance was left 
 alone, she felt no inclination to sleep ; she walked to 
 the window and looked out ; it was a clear, moonlight 
 night, and all was still save that mysterious whisper 
 that seems ever going on in the branches of the trees, 
 and the occasional bark of some distant watch-dog. 
 Constance thought of Eustace, not as he was now, 
 but as he was in the days when they were children, — 
 when they were all in all to each other, and she used 
 to tell him, when Percy was not listening, the thoughts 
 that perplexed her young mind, and ask if he ever 
 had the same. And they would sit for hours in the 
 hot summer days under the shade of the chesnut-tree, 
 talking in childish language of things above child- 
 hood's comprehension, shewing each other passages 
 in their favourite books, and forming wild, bright 
 schemes for the future. And then she thought of 
 him sad, perplexed, and excited, as he was when he 
 parted from her that day in London, when he asked 
 her so earnestly to pray for him ; and there came re- 
 proachful thoughts that she had fulfilled her promise 
 but coldly, and she wondered whether he had overcome, 
 and what it could be, that he so good, so noble-minded, 
 should have to struggle against. And the next image 
 that rose up was so painful that she could not look 
 upon it long, but turned for refuge to the childish 
 one, for it was of Eustace, grave, restrained, and cold ,
 
 166 DAWN AlfD TWILIGHT. 
 
 saddened and changed, and slie could bear no thoughts 
 in her heart to-night but those that kept alive the 
 warm sister's love she felt towards him. When at 
 last she lay down to sleep, her night was passed in 
 happy, childish wanderings with Eustace through the 
 woods and park. It made the morning's awakening, 
 to take up again the weary load of anxiety, very 
 mournful.
 
 DAWS' AND TWILIGHT. 167 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 *'Thy sad tong cannot tell more heavy plight, 
 Then that I feele, and harbour in mine hart : 
 Who hath endur'd the Trhole, can beare each part. 
 
 If death it be, it is not the first wound, 
 That launched hath my brest with bleeding smart. 
 Begin, and end the bitter baleful stoimd ; 
 If less than that I feare, more favour I have found." 
 
 Spensee's Faerie Queen. 
 
 A LAMP was burning dimlj, and even its faint light 
 was shaded in the low, uncarpeted, uncurtained 
 room of the little village inn where Gerard Clifford 
 kept his midnight watch. The whole household had 
 retired to rest, and he had desired his servant, wha 
 had hitherto shared his watch ings, to lie down and 
 sleep in a room opening into the bed room. He was 
 holding in his breath to listen to Eustace's quick, 
 deep-drawn breathing, and doubting whether he slept 
 or not, when a heavy, rumbling sound broke on his ear 
 in the stillness of the night. He turned anxiously 
 towards Eustace, fearing it must awake him ; but he 
 did not move : perhaps unconsciousness would not 
 allow him to attach any meaning to the sound, if it 
 did reach his ear. It drew nearer and nearer, and 
 was clearly some heavy vehicle approaching. 
 
 " Impossible that it can be Mr. Montrevor," thought 
 Gerard : " he could not have made the journey in this 
 time." 
 
 Suddenly it ceased, and in the perfect stillness that 
 reigned around, Gerard could distinguish voices, in
 
 168 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 an under-tone, and then a footstep beneath the win- 
 dow. After a few moments there was a knocking at 
 the door, (the inn did not possess a bell) : he crept 
 softly to the window. The knocking had aroused no 
 one ; and it was repeated with a tremulous, hurried 
 motion. " It can be no one else," was his conclusion 
 at the sound, and moving as noiselessly as he could, 
 looking anxiously at the sufferer, he left the room 
 and descended the stairs. 
 
 He had never seen Eustace's father, — but there was 
 no doubting for a moment who it was, as Mr. Mon- 
 trevor's face of intense anxiety asked the question his 
 lips could not frame. 
 
 "I trust he is better," was Gerard's answer; — he 
 could not have given another, as he looked at that 
 face. 
 
 " God be praised !" were the words which uncon- 
 sciously passed the father's lips. " May I go to him ? 
 does he sleep ?" 
 
 "I hardly know: he has been less restless the last 
 hour, and I have hoped that it was sleep, but I cannot 
 tell whether it is sleep or stupor. — But shall I not 
 rouse the good people, and order a room to be got 
 ready for you, and something to eat ?'* 
 
 " I could not touch anything, and I could not sleep. 
 If I might without risk take your place of watcher, it 
 would be a real relief." 
 
 Gerard could not offer any objection, though he felt 
 nervous at the arrangement ; but he thought there was 
 no chance of Eustace recognising his father. Mr. 
 Montrevor went out again into the clear, cold air, 
 settled with his postilions, got one of them to carry
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 169 
 
 Lis portmanteau into tlie house, and then with a heart 
 that strove hard to be calm, followed Clifford up-stairs. 
 He waited without whilst his companion went into 
 the room to ascertain that his patient was still in the 
 same state of unconsciousness. Gerard stood beside 
 him for some time, but without attracting his notice, 
 and so determined there could be no risk in allowing 
 his father to come in. 
 
 " He looks worse by this dim lamp-light," he mur- 
 mured: "you will not think him looking so ill in the 
 morning." 
 
 It was well he had given those few words of caution, 
 or the thin, worn face, with its hollow, sunken eyes, 
 would have indeed startled the father. " Can a week 
 have made that change," he thought. 
 
 Gerard looked at him anxiously, to see what effect 
 the sight had upon him, but he could gather nothing, 
 for he had covered his face with his hand, and stood 
 leaning for support against the wall. ] 
 
 Clifford lingered a little, and tried to say a few 
 cheering words; and having begged to be called if 
 consciousness should return, he moved into the next 
 room, where, at Mr. Montrevor's entreaty, he promised 
 to lie down, and stretching himself on some chairs, he 
 left the father to watch beside his son's sick-bed, and 
 all was again as silent as before. • 
 
 The father sat alone beside his unconscious son, 
 listening with painful intentness to his breathing, 
 and feeling at his heart each restless start or moan. 
 He had watched for about an hour, when his son's 
 voice startled him; he was on the point of calling 
 Gerard, thinking he was waking, when he noticed
 
 170 DAWN" AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 that his eyes were still closed, and it was evidently 
 but a dream or delirium. " Oh, save her, save her," 
 were the words he first uttered: "she will sink; I 
 cannot hold her up any longer." He then muttered 
 some incoherent words, of which " the black, heavy 
 waters, how they press upon my brain," were the only 
 ones intelligible. 
 
 For some minutes there was silence, and then again 
 his voice was heard, troubled and earnest, as if he 
 were pleading with some one. ''I did not speak, — I 
 did not betray myself, —I have not broken my resolve. 
 I have struggled. Oh, how hard it is ... . The waters 
 weigh me down .... but I will not give up. I will 
 struggle on till the end. . . . No, she shall never know 
 the agony it has been to me. She is safe .... she is 
 on the other shore .... the waters will not reach her 
 there," and again the words turned into incoherent 
 mutterings ; once or twice the word Excelsior was 
 distinctly uttered, but nothing else was intelligible, 
 and the night passed in restless meanings and tossings 
 to and fro, till the morning light broke in, and re- 
 vealed more distinctly the face of the troubled sleeper. 
 His father could not think that face looked less ill 
 than it did by the dim lamp-light, and the burning 
 spots on the hollow cheeks, and the dry, cracking lips 
 told as truly as the night's delirium of the raging 
 fever. 
 
 Grerard had slept but little, and with the morning 
 dawn he crept again into the room. The father sat 
 just where he had left him, and there was an expres- 
 sion of calm patience on his face that was very touch- 
 ing. He turned his eyes anxiously towards Mr. Clif-
 
 I)AW2r AND TWILIGHT. 171 
 
 ford, to gather whether hope or fear was inspired by 
 the sight of the sufferer. ^'I do not think he looks 
 any worse," Gerard whispered : " Will you not let me 
 take your place, and lie down r" 
 
 *' iSTot just yet, thank you." 
 
 " The doctor will be here directly, I expect." 
 
 As Gerard spoke, the sound of wheels was heard, 
 and he went down to meet the doctor. He was soon in 
 the sick-room, and Mr. Montrevor, to whom the Ger- 
 man consultation was unintelligible, looked anxiously 
 from face to face to glean the opinion. After several 
 nods, and some shakings of the head, and " So" uttered 
 again and again, in every variety of tone in answer 
 to Gerard's report, the doctor touched his arm, and 
 beckoned him into the next room, where a further 
 whispered consultation took place. 
 
 In a few minutes, which seemed literally an hour to 
 IVIr. Montrevor, Gerard returned, and trying to look 
 hopeful, signed to him to follow him into the other 
 room. The doctor evidently knew who he was, and 
 bowed to him, while he looked to Gerard to give the 
 required information. Mr. Montrevor felt like one 
 who waited to receive the sentence of death. Gerard 
 knew the intense painfulness of the suspense, and 
 delayed not a minute. 
 
 " Dr. Steinberg," he said, 'Moes not take at all a 
 hopeless view of the case, but he says the strongest 
 measures must be resorted to immediately. He had 
 hoped the leeches that were applied last night after 
 he went would have relieved the brain, but they have 
 not done so, as he expected, and more must be put on 
 directly, and another large blister at the back of the
 
 172 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 head. He lias everything with him, so we can begin 
 at once, and he will call again in a few hours and judge 
 of the efFect." 
 
 The doctor nodded and bowed, and left the room, 
 Gerard accompanying to receive the leeches and blister 
 which he had with him in his coupe. 
 
 The report was not so hopeless as Mr. Montrevor 
 anticipated, and to do something, rather than sit by 
 helplessly and watch his son's suffering, was a relief: 
 so when Mr. Clifford returned, he was glad to see the 
 poor father was not so utterly cast down as he had 
 feared. 
 
 The servant had slept soundly the whole time, and 
 was much astonished, when his master woke him up, 
 to j&nd that he had had a companion in his night-watch. 
 Greater was the surprise of the good-tempered, kind- 
 hearted maid, who, with a freedom seeming strange 
 to Mr. Montrevor' s English habits, came in without 
 knocking, to ask " Wie gehfs mit dem armen, jungen 
 Serrn diesen Morgen ? " And the incessant exclama- 
 tion of " Je" and '^ >So," when she informed her mis- 
 tress of the midnight arrival, testified that her asto- 
 nishment was not unshared. 
 
 Meanwhile in the sick-room they were noiselessly 
 but anxiously employed. Antonio, Gerard's Genoese 
 servant, who, among his numerous qualifications, pos- 
 sessed that of an excellent nurse, applied the leeches, 
 while the father stood beside, aiding when he could, 
 and grieving in his heart that his hands were so un- 
 skilled in such offices. They bled profusely, and when 
 the blister was put on and he was left undisturbed, 
 they all thought they could notice an amendment^ and
 
 DAWS AND TWILIGHT. 173 
 
 that the burning hands were less hot, and the throb- 
 bing pulse quieter. Antonio quickly and quietly pre- 
 pared breakfast in the next room, and Gerard pre- 
 vailed on ]Mr. Montrevor to leave the sick-bed and 
 take some. 
 
 There was but one subject that interested them 
 both, and when Mr. Montrevor had learnt every par- 
 ticular of the accident, he crept back to the sick- 
 room. The day passed sadly and heavily away ; there 
 was little change in the invalid, though they all 
 tried to think he looked better. The doctor paid 
 another visit in the middle of the day, and without 
 actually confirming their hopes, allowed, if there was 
 any change, it was on the right side. Mr. Montre- 
 vor tried to write a cheering letter to Aunt Mabel, 
 and joined Gerard at dinner, but the rest of the 
 time was passed beside Eustace. A bed was made up 
 in the next room, on which he promised to lie down 
 some part of the night, whilst Antonio took the office 
 of watcher. 
 
 Morning aroused them to another long day of 
 anxiety. There was less of delirium and restlessness, 
 but more of stupor about Eustace, at which they 
 knew not whether to be alarmed or hopeful. The 
 doctor's visit was a relief: he pronounced a slight 
 improvement in the pulse, and admitted that there 
 was more hope. He told Gerard in German that 
 there would soon be a second invalid, if Mr. Montrevor 
 was allowed to sit all day in the sick-room. So after 
 he had taken his departure, Gerard used many per- 
 suasions to induce his companion to go out, feeling 
 convinced all the time that he was tormenting him ;
 
 174 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 however, lie succeeded, and the fresh air made Mr. 
 Montrevor able to go through another night's watch- 
 ing with less exhaustion. 
 
 It is needless to detail these days of anxiety. The • 
 hours seemed lengthened out to twice their ordinary 
 span, as hope and fear followed each other in succes- 
 sion. How well Mr. Montrevor and Gerard knew 
 every hill and tree that their eyes rested upon from the 
 little village inn, and every part of the country within 
 a mile. Their walks, or rather Mr. Montrevor's, sel- 
 dom extended further ; Grerard roamed far and wide 
 when he was not wanted in the house. Mr. Montrevor 
 had tried to persuade him to pursue his journey, and 
 leave him alone with Eustace, but to that he would 
 by no means consent. 
 
 Eustace was now often conscious ; he knew his fa- 
 ther, but shewed no surprise at his presence : at first 
 he fancied himself at home, but by degrees the truth 
 seemed to dawn upon him. He spoke very little, 
 and often lay for hours in a state of stupor. When 
 he slej)t, his sleep was disturbed and restless, and when 
 awalce his mind frequently wandered. He appeared to 
 have the greatest difficulty in keeping his thoughts 
 fixed upon any subject, no matter how trivial, for many 
 moments together. "When his father tried occasion- 
 ally to interest him by the mention of home, or any- 
 thing that had occurred in their daily walks, he would 
 open his eyes wide and fix them upon him, as if 
 he were straining to take in some difficult subject, 
 but generally, before the sentence was ended the 
 eyes were closed, and he would pass his hand rest- 
 lessly and uneasily ^ver his brow, as if he sought in
 
 DAyrS AXD TWILIGHT. 175 
 
 vain to steady bis thoughts. This and his continued 
 weakness made his father very ajixious, though in 
 many ways there was a decided amendment. 
 
 " Eest, rest," was the doctor's only answer to Ge- 
 rard's repeated enquiries, *' What can be done for 
 him ?" — "rest of mind and body. If I mistake not, 
 the former has done work enough for the two, and 
 made both suffer in consequence. All the strings of 
 the instrument are unstrung, — if we draw them up 
 they will burst ; we must leave them alone till they 
 regain their tone." 
 
 So there was nothing to be done but to wait — wait 
 with patience. This was a harder matter to Gerard 
 than to Mr. Montrevor, and in his own mind he called 
 the doctor a fool many times, and thought something 
 might have been done, had they had better advice. 
 
 But weary days do pass away as surely as joyful 
 ones, and at length the day arrived which Gerard had 
 begun to think never would come, and which Mr. 
 Montrevor had forbidden himself to long for any more, 
 when the doctor gave his consent to their setting oif 
 by easy stages on their way home. Gerard begged to 
 be allowed to accompany them, at any rate to Calais, 
 from whence they intended to cross, and was so really 
 in earnest in his request, that Mr. Montrevor gladly 
 and thankfully accepted his company. A letter was 
 written to Elvanlees to tell of their intended move- 
 ments, — and oh ! the comfort it was to Mr. Montre- 
 vor to think it was the last that he should have to 
 write from this little inn, so full of painful asso- 
 ciations, though mingled with feelings of deep grati- 
 tude. Antonio and Gerard made all the arrange-
 
 176 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 ments, secured an easy carriage, in which Eustace could 
 half lie down, wrote to the inn which was to be their 
 first resting-place, to engage rooms, and took every 
 trouble off Mr. Montrevor's hands but that of at- 
 tending to his son. 
 
 Eustace was almost as silent on the journey as he 
 had been in his sick-room ; he took no notice of the 
 country through which they passed, made no enquiries 
 as to their route, and appeared indifferent to every- 
 thing. ^Notwithstanding railroads, they were many days 
 on the journey : the doctor had given such repeated 
 warnings on the danger of over- fatigue and excitement 
 for Eustace, that perhaps the fear was lest they should 
 err on the side of prudence, and keep him longer 
 on the road than was actually necessary. However, 
 according to the old adage, " All's well that ends 
 well," and they did reach Calais without having any 
 fresh alarm or anxiety. Once there, Gerard said he 
 thought he should cross_ over, as he intended to go to 
 London for a few days ; and after this decision it 
 did not require many persuasions on Mr. Montre- 
 vor's part to prevail upon him to travel on with them 
 to Elvanlees. 
 
 They crossed to Dover, and as it was late in the 
 afternoon when they landed, agreed to stay there that 
 night. When Eustace was comfortably settled on a 
 sofa at the hotel, Gerard went out for a stroll before 
 dinner. It was a clear, mild evening, and he sat down 
 on the edge of Shakespeare's Cliff, where his ramblings 
 had taken him, at first, like a boy, amusing himself by 
 throwing stones into the sea, and then musing on 
 many things. He thought of Eustace, with his genius
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 177 
 
 and his sorrow, and wondered what it was that op- 
 pressed him. His delirium had given some clue to 
 his grief, and this had deepened the interest Gerard 
 felt in him. In his wanderings he had betrayed that 
 he was deeply attached to some one ; that it must be 
 Constance, Gerard never doubted, but why this should 
 so trouble him he could not understand, for there was 
 nothing in his wild lamentations that spoke of unre- 
 quited love. He had never seen Constance since that 
 day he had called on her father with General Lessing- 
 ton, for he was not in London last year till quite late 
 in the season, and rather wondered that he remem- 
 bered her so well, and that she still rose up be!bre him 
 with her deep, earnest eyes, and glowing, speaking 
 face, which seemed almost tremulous when anything 
 interested her intensely. He laughed at himself for 
 conjuring up so vividly General Lessington's Lily, as 
 he used to call her, threw half-a-dozen more stones 
 impetuously into the sea, got up, lighted a cigar, and 
 turned to retrace his steps, half muttering to himself, 
 *' Well, I wish to my heart Eustace may get her for 
 bis wife, and that she may soothe and heal all his sor- 
 rows, and let his genius have room to work. It will 
 be pleasant to see them together." 
 
 And Eustace, what had been his thoughts as he lay 
 still on the sofa — as his father imagined, asleep ? When 
 it was proposed to return to Ehanlees be was too 
 weak, too much exhausted, mentally and physically, to 
 make any resistance or objection. And since his partial 
 recovery these long fits of stupor seemed mercifully 
 sent to save him the painful, wearing effort of strug- 
 gling against forbidden thoughts. But now that the
 
 178 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 journey was nearly over, and they were actually in 
 England, the truth forced itself upon him, a few hours 
 more and he should see Constance : was he better pre- 
 pared for that meeting?— had he taught his heart to 
 still its yearnings — its hopeless love ? He thought 
 he returned as weak as he had gone forth; he con- 
 sidered not that strength is not our own, and that to 
 every effort, faint and feeble in itself, it may be, is 
 given a tenfold might by Him who recompenses not 
 actions by their results, but by their intention, and 
 who needs not success as a proof of toil. 
 
 He had some mournful, painful thoughts as he lay 
 on his sick-bed; and the enfeebled state of his mental 
 powers had made him feel, as he lay there in stillness 
 and helplessness, as if he were again a child, and as if 
 that intellect, in whose deep reasonings and soaring 
 imaginings he had felt at times such exulting joy — on 
 which he thought to rest his soul and stay its yearn- 
 ings after happiness, was vanishing from him : and 
 then from the depths of the soul the solemn thought 
 uprose, " Where shall the immortal rest, save on Im- 
 mortality ? "
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 179 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 "A goodly dream ; 
 But thou art right to think it was no more, 
 And study to forget it." 
 
 TALF0X7RD. 
 
 COXSTANCE is tliinkiiig, too, this evening, as she 
 leans back in an easy-chair in her favourite sitting- 
 room, by the fire-side, watching the fleecy clouds that 
 chase each other over the moon's fair, calm face ; but 
 her thoughts are not of the moon nor of the clouds. 
 Can we tell of what they are when she hardly knows 
 herself, and is almost unconscious what causes those 
 half-smiles to flit across her face ? 
 
 She had felt a strange sensation of pleasure all day, 
 ever since her early visit to the Rectory, where she 
 went, as usual, after breakfast, to hear the daily bul- 
 letin of the travellers, and had this morning, in addi- 
 tion to the happy intelligence of their safe arrival at 
 Calais, been told by Aunt Mabel, "Your uncle says 
 that Mr. Cliff'ord has promised to accompany them 
 home, and spend a few days here." 
 
 She warbled some very lively airs on her way home 
 across the park, indulged Woolly by throwing a stick 
 for him to catch, and indeed had a little run with him 
 herself, and then, instead of going home, turned to- 
 wards the south lodge, and took the path that led to 
 the seat on the hill- side, and there, in spite of the
 
 180 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 J^ovember morning, sat down and indulged in a little 
 dreaming. 
 
 Constance had now been introduced about a year 
 and a half; in that time she had met with as much at- 
 tention as must naturally fall to the share of any young 
 heiress, very pretty, and decidedly what is styled fasci- 
 nating. But all this attention had been received pas- 
 sively, and had left no impression ; and the remem- 
 brance of all her numerous " devoted admirers " would 
 not have had the power to stir up the thoughts that 
 the mention of Mr. Cliflford's name aroused. The in- 
 terviews with him had not been forgotten ; he had 
 spoken to an inner being that no one else had ad- 
 dressed, and had aroused thoughts that she was hardly 
 conscious of possessing till the joy at meeting a kin- 
 dred spirit made her feel they were not new, though 
 none hitherto had called them forth from their hidden 
 cells ; and he had given life and vesture to ideas that 
 seemed so visionary and spectre-like, she had hardly 
 hoped to grasp them as they floated through the brain : 
 his mind seemed to have the secret key that would 
 unlock hers. And now she should see him again, and 
 hear him talk, and she wondered whether she should 
 find him all that she had fancied him to be. And 
 again she smiled, and felt so merry and light-hearted 
 that old Stephen, who was sunning himself at the cot- 
 tage-door, murmured, as he watched her running down 
 the hill, " Well, she looks as if nought but sunshine 
 had ever passed over her heart." 
 
 She stopped to speak to him, and to tell the good 
 news, " that the Eector and Mr. Eustace would come 
 home to-morrow."
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 181 
 
 " God bless him, poor young gentleman ! " was the 
 old man's answer : " and mighty proud and pleased 
 he'll be to see you, Miss. He looked quite lost now 
 when he was here without you, and used to wander 
 up to the old seat yonder, as I've seen him and you 
 do a sight of times. It will look very natural like to 
 see you two together : I've watched you since you 
 both could walk, playing about hand in hand." 
 
 " I am afraid he will not be strong enough to walk 
 much yet, Stephen," Constance answered ; " but when 
 !: > can, I dare say one of his first visits will be to you." 
 And after a little more talk with the old man, she 
 turned her steps homeward, musing as she walked 
 whether Stephen's words were true, that Eustace 
 would be pleased to see her. 
 
 " "Well, Lily, shall we go to the Rectory this even- 
 ing and meet the travellers, or will it be too much for 
 Eustace after his journey ?" her father asked, as they 
 rode together on the afternoon of the next day. 
 
 *' I cannot tell, Papa ; you must decide." 
 
 " JN'ay, my child, this is a case in which I would 
 rather take a woman's judgment than a man's. But 
 shall we compromise matters, and call at the Eectory 
 and ask Aunt Mabel ? " 
 
 Aunt Mabel was decidedly in favour of their com- 
 ing ; she thought that Eustace would most probably 
 go at once to his father's study, where sbe had pre- 
 pared a sofa for him, and then they could pay him 
 visits there in turn, and it would be a pleasure to Mr. 
 Clifford to meet Mr. Montrevor. So before the return 
 of the. carriage which was sent to the station to meet 
 them, Constance, her father, and Aunt Mabel sat to-
 
 182 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 gether in the snug little drawing-room at the Rectory, 
 discoursing on indifferent subjects, and fancying every 
 gust of wind was the sound of carriage-wheels. 
 
 It came at length, — but the expressions of welcome 
 took rather a hushed tone as Eustace's thin, tall form, 
 leaning on his father for support, entered the hall. 
 He went, as Aunt Mabel had imagined, to the study 
 at once, spoke but few words, and soon stretched him- 
 self on the sofa. After a few minutes his father signed 
 to them to leave the room, and Antonio, who con- 
 sidered himself head nurse, came in, arranged the pil- 
 lows, and in a confidential whisper suggested to his 
 father that he should have some tea at once, and be 
 left quiet the rest of the evening. 
 
 He could not have recommended anything better, 
 and Eustace felt grateful to him for the suggestion. 
 All adjourned to the dining-room, where " high tea '* 
 was prepared. Aunt Mabel begged Constance to take 
 her place at the head of the table, that she might be 
 at liberty to creep in and out and see that Eustace 
 had all he needed ; and Constance was glad that she 
 was behind the urn, and could listen without being 
 obliged to take part in the conversation. 
 
 Their journey and its. adventures were amusingly 
 and originally detailed by Gerard : he and Mr. Mon- 
 trevor had the conversation to themselves, for the 
 Rector seemed too much tired and too full of thought 
 to take part in it. By degrees Constance found her- 
 self being drawn into it, for remarks were addressed 
 to her and questions asked, and after the commence- 
 ment it seemed as easy to talk as to listen. 
 
 "When tea was over, her uncle took her to the study
 
 DATra" AND TWILIGHT. 183 
 
 for a few minutes to wish Eustace good-niglit before 
 lie went up-stairs, and then they returned to the 
 drawing-room, where the two brothers were soon en- 
 gaged in conversation, and she and Mr. Clifford found 
 no difficulty in being similarly occupied. Having in 
 his own mind determined that Constance and Eustace 
 had a mutual interest in each other, he thought he 
 could not enter on a more agreeable subject than 
 what related to Eustace, and told many pleasant anec- 
 dotes of their summer wanderings, in which Eastace 
 was always the hero. With his graphic desciiptions 
 he quite carried her with them on their journeys — up 
 lofty mountains, into wild, secluded valleys, and then 
 into beautiful old churches, and over ruined castles, 
 while Constance's face brightened with animation and: 
 intelligence. Gerard decided she was just the wife to 
 suit Eustace ; and they parted, — he to dream that he 
 was at a wedding in one of the old churches he had 
 been describing to Constance, and she was the bride 
 and Eustace the bridegroom ; but the bridegroom waa 
 always changing into some one else, and the marriage 
 was never completed ; — she to determine in her own 
 mind that he was what she had fancied him, and that 
 she was not disappointed, and to consider whether his 
 was the character her imagination had so often wrought 
 out for itself as its ideal of perfection. 
 
 After several weeks' absence from home, the Eector 
 found he had much to do, and therefore gladly availed 
 himself of his brother's offer to ride with Mr. Clifford, 
 if the latter were inclined. The proposition was very 
 pleasant to him, and the next day, after luncheon, he 
 joined Constance and her father in one of their long
 
 184 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 rides. It was just as pleasant to Constance to hear 
 him talk with her father as to talk with him her- 
 self, and the ride was a very enjoyahle one to all 
 parties. 
 
 Mr. Montrevor found Gerard a very agreeahle com- 
 panion ; he was himself naturally reserved, (or perhaps 
 had become so from having lived so much alone in his 
 early years,) and therefore did not easily form an ac- 
 quaintance. Reserved people must be met more than 
 half-way ; it is not enough to knock at their doors and 
 ask if they are at home — they must be sought out in 
 their private chambers : very likely, at first they will 
 be rather morose and sullen at the intrusion, but if 
 they are not only drawn out, but entertained when 
 brought forth, they will generally end in being much 
 obliged to the rash invader, and in all probability he 
 will soon rank as an intimate friend. Gerard Clifford 
 had the art, not of roughly forcing out his companion's 
 mind from its hidden recess, but of beguiling it ; dis- 
 covering what would tempt it abroad, and laying that 
 at the open door : and Constance was interested and 
 pleased in hearing her father talk more easily with 
 him than he did with many much older acquaintances. 
 Eeauty of scenery had equal attractions for both, and 
 Gerard was not one who could discover nothing to 
 admire in pretty rural views, because he had looked 
 on nature in her grand and majestic scenes. With his 
 true artist's eye, he could find beauty everywhere : no 
 landscape could be uninteresting to him. When their 
 ride was over, and they were returning through the 
 home-park, and near the Eectory, Constance said to 
 her father, *' I must call in and see Eustace, Papa ; I
 
 HAVrS AND TWILIGHT. 185 
 
 have not seen him all daj: I can get down at the 
 Rectory, and walk home." 
 
 "Very well, do so, dear; I will send across for 
 your horse." 
 
 They rode up to the Eectory, Gerard jumped down 
 to assist Constance, and turning to Mr. Montrevor 
 said, "Thank you for a very pleasant ride; I have 
 enjoyed it thoroughly." 
 
 " I am glad to hear it. "Will you dine with us to- 
 mon'ow ? We have a few friends coming, — but not a 
 very entertaining party, I think, Lily ?" 
 
 " I should have been very glad," Gerard answered; 
 " but I thought of leaving to-morrow." 
 
 " To-morrow ! surely you will not go so soon ? You 
 must let us shew you some more of the country ; my 
 brother will not let you off yet. I shall consider it an 
 engao'ement." 
 
 Gerard smiled, thought for a moment or two, and 
 said, ''Well, thank you, Mr. Montrevor, if your brother 
 will not be tired of me, I will stay with pleasure." 
 
 " I'll answer for him. And now run in, Lily, and 
 don't stop talking too long ; remember the fogs, and 
 the cold evenings, and all those things that are to be 
 so carefully avoided." 
 
 Lily had disappeared almost before the sentence 
 was finished, with a merry look at her father. 
 
 Aunt Mabel, hearing the horses' feet, came out to 
 meet her, and speaking in that suppressed tone that 
 becomes habi ual to those who are watching in a sick- 
 room, told her Eustace was asleep, but if they went 
 in quietly, they should not disturb him. 
 
 " How is he ?" Constance asked before they went in.
 
 186 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 **I hardly know; he strikes me as looking very ill, 
 and he is so weak ; but your uncle, who is a much 
 better judge, says he is as well as he expected." 
 
 " Does he seem cheerful ? He looked so grave last 
 night." 
 
 " No ; he is very grave and very quiet, but it is from 
 weakness, I think. He has slept for some minutes 
 frequently to-day. Tour uncle has written to Dr. 
 Walton to come over and see him, which will be a 
 great comfort. He has a constant little cough ; but that 
 will pass off, they think, as he regains his strength." 
 
 Constance's face looked very different from what it 
 did when she left her father at the door, as she said, 
 " Oh, Aunt Mabel, I feel as if I had been quite un- 
 feeling ; I have been enjoying myself so much, and you 
 have been so anxious." 
 
 *']^o, dear, you must not think of such a thing; 
 and I have not been so very anxious : besides, how 
 happy and thankful we ought to be to have him safe 
 home again. But shall we go in now ? — perhaps he 
 will awake." 
 
 She opened the door gently, and they went in : the 
 blinds were down, and the curtains drawn, and to 
 Constance, coming in from the open air, the room 
 seemed almost dark. She sat down, and in a few 
 minutes could distinguish Eustace's pale face and 
 white hands, which seemed to tell almost more of 
 illness than the colourless cheeks. He soon awoke, 
 and looked from one to the other. ""Who is it?" 
 he asked, and then, as Constance got up and moved 
 towards him, " Oh, Lily, I could not make out the 
 hat."
 
 DAWX AND TWILIGHT. 187 
 
 "How are you to-daj?" she asked, as slie drew a 
 chair nearer the sofa. 
 
 *' Pretty well, thank you," he answered, clearing 
 his throat, and trying to speak in his natural voice : 
 ''Have you had a nice ride ?" 
 
 " Yes, a beautiful ride.. TVe went through the park 
 to Mayard's Dingle, and then round by Cox's farm, 
 and home through the woods." 
 
 ''How natural it all sounds. "What a beautiful 
 breeze you must have had on Lanmore-hill !" 
 
 " Yes ; it made the horses so merry, they would 
 hardly let us stand to look at tlie view. You will be 
 able to ride soon, shall you not, Eustace?" 
 
 " Oh yes, in a week or two, I should think;" and 
 he leant back, wearied with the exertion of raising his 
 head to talk. 
 
 Aunt Mabel drew nearer and joined in the conver- 
 sation, that Eustace might listen, instead of talking, if 
 he felt inclined. The little home details seemed to 
 interest him, and he was more like himself than he 
 had been all day. Constance sat on till Aunt Mabel 
 warned her she would be late for dinner. As she 
 passed the drawing-room, the door of which was 
 open, Gerard came out to meet her. He looked at 
 her with kindness and interest, as he said, " I fear 
 he must look very ill to you ; but you would be quite 
 satisfied with him, if you had seen him before we left 
 Kutusdorf." 
 
 " Then he really does look better ? I could hardly 
 have imagined him looking more ill than he does." 
 
 Gerard shook his head, and answered, "I wonder 
 what your uncle would say to that: he arrived
 
 188 DAWK AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 when lie was at the worst. But I am keeping you 
 standing : are you going home alone ?" 
 
 *' Oh yes ; it is such a little distance.'* 
 
 " But may I wallc with you, and see that no harm 
 befalls you by the way ?" 
 
 ** Thank you," Constance answered, with a smile, 
 " we are a great deal too good in this peaceful country 
 to dream of such things." 
 
 The answer was not taken for a refusal, and Grerard 
 took up his hat and accompanied her. He talked so 
 easily and naturally, Constance felt quite at home with 
 him. Every now and then, in commonplace conver- 
 sation, he would make some original remark, that 
 seemed to give freshness to a hackneyed subject, and 
 to suggest a new train of thought to his companion. 
 
 "When Constance, on her return, walked into the 
 library, where her father was sitting, the expression 
 of her face, as he looked up at her from his book, led 
 him to ask, ''"Well, Lily, what pleasant thought is 
 passing through your mind ?" 
 
 Her answer made him smile, for it was, ''Kr, Clif- 
 ford walked with me from the Eectory, Papa, and I 
 was thinking how pleasant it was to be with some one 
 who could talk." 
 
 " A melancholy reflection on the rest of your ac- 
 quaintance, my child. You would have us all sent 
 to the Deaf and Dumb Asylum, as incapable of the 
 art, I suppose ?" 
 
 " Oh, Papa, you know I was not thinking about 
 
 you." 
 
 "Very possibly: I am not quite sure that mends 
 the matter."
 
 I>A.WS AlfD TWILiaHT. 189 
 
 She stood a moment by "his chair, looking lovingly 
 in his face, and then kissing him on his forehead, ran 
 away to dress for dinner. 
 
 Gerard Clifford was puzzled by Eustace's manner 
 when he spoke to him of Constance; there was a 
 quickness in his answers, and almost an irritability 
 in his tone, and he directly changed the subject. 
 
 Gerard concluded that he did not like to hear her 
 spoken of, and determined to avoid doing so in future. 
 Constance's interest in Eustace, her daily visits to 
 him, and the pleasure with which she listened when 
 he was spoken of, confirmed him in the opinion that 
 they were mutually attached, and he spoke more 
 openly to her, and took more pains to know her well, 
 than he would otherwise, perhaps, have done. 
 
 When he dined at the hall next day, though he did 
 not take Constance in to dinner, he contrived to sit 
 next her, and she was rather in danger of forgetting 
 to make herself agreeable to a somewhat prosy, mid- 
 dle-aged baronet who sat beside her at the head of 
 the table, as she listened to Gerard's animated con- 
 versation. He noticed her efforts to get interested 
 in, and pay due attention to, remarks which never 
 went beyond most commonplace observations on 
 most common subjects. In one of the intervals when 
 he engrossed her attention, he said, with a rather 
 mischievous expression, " Do you ever feel, when you 
 are talking to some people, as if you were pumping 
 away at a dry spring, and all your efforts to force out 
 an idea were useless ?" 
 
 Constance smiled, for she could not help it, but she 
 felt rather guilty as she did so ; she feared there was
 
 190 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 sometliing personal in the observation; and Grerard 
 went on : '' There are others who certainly require 
 a great deal of pumping before one can get rid of all 
 the rubbish which has choked up the spring, but one 
 feels, if one has but patience to work on, there may 
 come some fresh, clear thoughts at last." 
 
 " I do not think I have the skill to pump effectually, 
 if the thoughts do not flow easily," Constance an- 
 swered, " for I so seldom have any conversation with 
 those I meet." 
 
 "Are you so very silent, then?" 
 
 " Oh no, I did not mean that : we often talk a great 
 deal ; but it is not what I call conversation," she said, 
 hesitatingly. 
 
 *' Perhaps you find it difficult to get interested m 
 the subject under discussion, which is decidedly ne- 
 cessary before conversation can be agreeable. To 
 many people, their neighbours' doings are the most 
 important affairs ; to some of the fair sex, (you do 
 not think me impertinent, I hope ?) the dress of their 
 friends, or the appointments of their dinner-table, if 
 they are married ladies, claim their first attention: 
 and then, alas! for those to whom those interesting 
 subjects awake no delightful train of ideas ; they are 
 tempted to find their companions stupid, and are no 
 doubt denounced as such themselves by all rational 
 people." 
 
 Constance smiled, and said, " But it is not only 
 with those who talk on those subjects that I find it 
 difficult to get on." 
 
 "I myself think it very uninteresting to talk to 
 people who have no ideas, of which property I con-
 
 DATV^q- X^J) TWILIGHT, 191 
 
 sider at least one-half of our fellow-beings to be 
 destitute. Facts they may have in abundance, often 
 an extraordinary supply, but they are unable to use 
 them with any profit to themselves or tlieir friends. 
 They lack that faculty \\hich would enable them to 
 deduce conclusions from them, and to bring them to 
 bear profitably. I have known people of that de- 
 scription who were great readers, — never of works of 
 imagination, though, — fiction they scorned ; they must 
 have their quantum of information for every page 
 they consumed. They store up their heaps of facts 
 in their brains, supposing they have brains capacious 
 enough to contain them, which is not often the case, 
 and many times they are leaJcy, and will not hold 
 what is put into them; but allowing the best, that 
 they are sound and weather-tight, and will keep what 
 is stowed away in them, yet they have no list of the 
 goods they contain, no index to their great volume of 
 knowledge, which will enable them to find the article 
 they require at the right moment, or turn to the 
 page that would throw light on the subject under 
 discussion. Do you not know the kind of people I 
 mean?" 
 
 "I have certainly often talked with people who 
 were said to have a great deal of information, and yet 
 have been surprised to find the conversation so un- 
 interesting; but I always thought the fault was in 
 myself." 
 
 Gerard smiled at the naturalness with which this 
 was said, and observed, "I am inclined to think it 
 might have arisen from the cause I have mentioned : 
 they were in possession of facts, not ideas. If I kept'
 
 192 DAWN AND TWILIGHT, 
 
 a school, and had some of these fact-lovers among my 
 pupils, — though I do not think I should have many, as 
 it is not a characteristic of childhood, — I should set 
 them to work on metaphysics, and entertain them 
 with poetry and fiction, encouraging them at the 
 same time to lay up a goodly store of their treasures ; 
 and I am convinced they would become more useful 
 men, and that their information, instead of being 
 piled up as so much useless lumber in their brains, 
 would have a better chance of being well arranged 
 and classified, and ready for use." 
 
 ** But if your pupils cared for nothing but meta- 
 physical speculations, what would you do then?" 
 Constance asked, amused and interested by the con- 
 versation. 
 
 " Diet them on facts, history, biography, — and yet 
 not dry histories, such as those charming abridgments 
 with which knowledge is professedly made easy, but 
 generally odious, to children, but histories that make 
 them realize that the great battle of life has ever been 
 fought by living, thinking, feeling men, like them- 
 selves, not by machines. Without facts to test, 
 prove, and arrange them by, all the ideas in the world 
 would be useless, and would eud by making him who 
 had the largest stock of them a visionary and en- 
 thusiast. One of their great uses is to lay a founda- 
 tion for the mind to work upon, to supply the ma- 
 terials for raising an edifice ; for without them, how- 
 ever fair it may be to the eye, it will have an insecure 
 basis : but by themselves they are but blocks of 
 stone, hewn and polished it may be, but wliich need a 
 master-hand to arrange in one harmonious whole. To
 
 ■DA.WS AND TWILIGHT. 193 
 
 teach a child how to think is, to my mind, a more 
 profitable work than to cram it with knowledge. But 
 I think you are being addressed by your neighbour 
 on the other side." 
 
 Constance turned with " I beg your pardon," for 
 the last word only of a sentence reached her ear. 
 
 *'I observed," was repeated in a deliberate tone of 
 voice, " that we have had unusually fine and pleasant 
 weather for the time of year." 
 
 Constance assented entirely ; but it is probable that 
 she would have done so had the observation been that 
 the weather had been unusually wet and disagreeable, 
 for her thoughts were quite engrossed with the ob- 
 servations which this interesting remark had inter- 
 rupted. But she resigned herself very patiently to 
 the eflfort of listening, and trying to be agreeable, 
 during the rest of dinner. 
 
 When the gentlemen came into the drawing-room, 
 Mr. CliflTord found means to indemnify himself for 
 the loss of his conversation at dinner, and sat beside 
 Constance till there was a request for music. He 
 walked with her to the piano, to open it and arrange 
 her music-book, and asked, " What shall you sing ?" 
 
 " I do not know. I do not think there is anyone 
 who cares much for music in the room !" she an- 
 swered. 
 
 " Perhaps you will allow me to make an exception 
 in favour of one individual with whom I am inti- 
 mately acquainted." 
 
 Constance smiled, and said, " Well, then, your inti- 
 mate acquaintance shall choose the song." 
 
 She wondered why she felt so much at home with 
 o
 
 194 DAWIf A^D TWILIGHT. 
 
 him ; but it was in reality his manner that made her feel 
 so. Lookiiig upon her as a great deal younger than 
 himself, and thinking her affections engaged, and 
 finding her very interesting, it was both pleasant and 
 easy to talk to her. It was not in his nature to be 
 stiff and formal, and he had quite forgotten they were 
 only " slightly acquainted." 
 
 But to return to the piano. The choice of the 
 song being left to him, he said, '^ There is one song 
 I have a longing to hear you sing, because Eustace 
 had it so often ringing in his ears, and I know it was 
 your voice that was echoing there — Excelsior'^ 
 
 There was a faint blush in her cheek when he 
 spoke ; he ascribed it to his having spoken of Eustace, 
 and felt annoyed with himself for the speech, though 
 she did look so very pretty, as, with a little graceful 
 dignity of manner, she turned to the song, and kept 
 her eyes resolutely fixed on the book, that his annoy- 
 ance could not last. A sigh escaped, which he did 
 in truth rebuke himself for, as the thought passed 
 through his mind, " Well, Eustace will have a charm- 
 ing wife." 
 
 Song after song followed ; but Gerard resigned his 
 place at the piano to some one else who came up to 
 thank and admire, and retired to the further end of 
 the room. 
 
 It was raining hard, and a rough, blowing night, 
 when he left the Hall to return to the Eectory ; but he 
 took many turns in the park before he went up to 
 the bouse, and cared not for, nor heeded, the raging 
 of the elements. And the owls, if they had been 
 listening, might have heard him condemning the folly
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 195 
 
 of his "intimate acquaintance" in rather uncivil terms. 
 He seized a candle from the hall table when he came 
 in, and went up hastily to his own room, without 
 going into the drawing-room. When morning came, 
 and he- appeared at breakfast, no tokens of last 
 night's storm could be discerned ; there was the same 
 easy, qniet manner, and he talked as agreeably as 
 usual with the Eector. 
 
 This was the day he had fixed on for his departure. 
 He walked after breakfast to the Hall, to take L ave of 
 Constance and lier father; and having assured himself 
 several times, that when he next saw the former it 
 would probably be as the wife of Eustace, he felt he 
 could talk to her as easily as before, and smiled at 
 himself for the fierce little tempest of last night, and 
 wondered " AYhat on earth could have raised it !" 
 
 He was shewn into the library when he arrived, 
 where Mr. Montrevor was sitting alone writing. After 
 some little time, Gerard asked after Constance: "She 
 is in her own sitting-room," Mr. Montrevor answered ; 
 ** I am sure she would like to see you before you go ; 
 perhaps we may as well go to her ; I dare say she will 
 admit us." 
 
 He got up, and Gerard followed him to the morn- 
 ing-room. He knocked at the door before going in, 
 and putting his head in, said, " Will you receive 
 visitors ? Mr. Clifford has called ; shall I bring 
 him in ?" 
 
 " Very well, Papa," Constance answered, and tum- 
 bled httle Woolly off her lap, where he had been en- 
 joying a siesta while she read, that she might be able 
 to get up and receive her visitor.
 
 196 DAWS A-SD TWILIGHT. 
 
 This admittance into her own peculiar haunts was 
 very pleasant to Gerard, — it seemed to give him a 
 further insight into her character. He would very 
 much like to have had a peep at the book she was 
 reading, and he took notice of the music that was 
 open on the piano. The conversation was less inter- 
 esting than usual, at least to him, for Constance said 
 but little, and only responded to his remarks or 
 questions, without making any further comlnents. She 
 did not know why, but she could not talk this morn- 
 ing. Gerard and Mr. Montrevor spoke on many in- 
 teresting subjects, and she listened, till the time came 
 for him to leave. Then, when he had wished her 
 good-bye, and told her that it was long before he 
 should have such pleasant rides again, and left the 
 room, there came a feeling of regret and annoyance 
 with herself, and her book was thrown down, and 
 little Woolly was pushed alrrjost pettishly aside, and 
 she walked to the window, and stood gazing out in 
 a frame of mind so unusual that she did not under- 
 stand herself. 
 
 A ride with her father had never appeared so little 
 agreeable as it did that afternoon, and she reproached 
 herself again and again for feeling so restless and dis- 
 contented ; and when a suspicion arose in her mind 
 whose absence it was that caused the gloom, she felt 
 the blood rush to her cheeks, and the thought was 
 dismissed rather indignantly. 
 
 Aunt Mabel thought she looked very grave when 
 she paid her daily visit to the Rectory after her ride, 
 but her thoughts had been so taken up with Eustace 
 since his return, that she had no difficulty in finding
 
 DAW^' A2s'D TWILIGHT. 197 
 
 a cause for her depression, in the fact of his being 
 more unwell than usual to-day. He certainly did not 
 gain ground, and Dr. Walton did not like the sound 
 of a constant, irritating little cough, which they hoped 
 was half nervous, and arose from weakness. He told 
 his father Eustace must on no account remain at 
 home during the winter; he did not wish him to 
 leave England, but advised his beiii^ removed to some 
 mild spot on the south coast as soon as possible. Aunt 
 Mabel told all this to Constance before she went in 
 to see him, and all other thoughts but that of anxiety 
 and interest about him left her then. 
 
 He was lying on the sofa, trying to read, but feel- 
 ing the book almost too heavy for his hand, and his 
 head and eyes too tired to dwell long upon it. After 
 enquiries after his health, which always had the same 
 answer, " Pretty well, thank you," she asked what he 
 was reading, — it was so like old times to talk together 
 of books. 
 
 " I do not think I was reading," he answered, half 
 sadly: "my reading days seem over. It is a volume 
 of Southey, 'Eoderick,' that I have here: but I be- 
 lieve I must borrow old Stephen's spectacles, for the 
 print seems to be grown very small !" 
 
 " Shall I read a little to you, Eustace ?" she asked : 
 ^^I should like it so much, if you would." 
 
 '' Thank you, Lily, I should very much, for a little 
 time ; I don't think I could listen long." 
 
 " Then will you tell me directly you feel tired ?" 
 
 *' Yes, I wiU." 
 
 " Shall I read any particular part?" 
 
 *' I had turned to the canto in which Eoderick
 
 198 3)AW]S" ATfD TWILIGHT. 
 
 makes himself known to his mother. "Will you read 
 some part of that?" 
 
 She began, and read on till she came to those 
 lines, — 
 
 " Dreams such as thine pass now 
 Like evening clouds before me ; if I think 
 How beautiful they seem, 'tis bat to feel 
 How soon they fiide, — how fast the night shuts in. 
 But in thab other world to which my hopes look oh. 
 Time enters not, nor mutability : 
 Beauty and goodness are unfading there; 
 Whatever there is given us to enjoy. 
 That we enjoy for ever still the same." 
 
 He stopped her then, saying, "Are those lines 
 there ? How strange that they never struck me before. 
 Will you read them again, Lily ? th jy are very beau- 
 tiful." She read them again. 
 
 " Once more ?" he asked. " Tou will not think 
 me troublesome?" 
 
 " Oh no : I like them so much." 
 
 When she had read them the third time, he said, 
 " Thank you; it has been very pleasant. I don't think 
 I shall care for any more to-day." 
 
 She sat on for some time by him ; he talked more 
 than he had any day that she had been with him. It 
 was in his old, natural way, as they used to talk long 
 ago, before the visit to London, only graver ; and he 
 seemed quite calm, and free from restlessness and 
 excitement. It was a happy hour to Constance, she 
 was sorry when it was over, and she had to re- 
 turn home. 
 
 As she walked along the gravelled path, crushing
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 199 
 
 the dead leaves with her feet, her thoughts were still 
 beside the sofa in the study, and Eustace's worn face 
 was the image that arose. When another presented 
 itself, and would have claimed to fill the shrine, it 
 was dismissed. It came shrouded with unquiet, trou- 
 bled thoughts, and those she could not again admit ; 
 there was a hushed repose upon her mind now which 
 she feared to break.
 
 200 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " To tliy noble heart 
 Tlie hardest duty might appear the highest." 
 
 Coleridge. 
 
 AS Eustace's departure for the winter was decided 
 on, there seemed no reason to delay the journey. 
 Many places were talked over, and many plans pro- 
 posed, but no decision had been arrived at, when one 
 morning's post brought a letter from General Les- 
 sington, saying that he had been suffering from a ra- 
 ther severe attack of bronchitis, and had been urged 
 by his medical man, as a precautionary measure, to 
 move to a warmer place for the winter. He lamented 
 a little over this piece of advice, as he said he always 
 felt like a fish out of water at a watering-place ; but 
 added, that it would alter the state of the case if Eu- 
 stace would go with him, and they could grumble in 
 company over their misfortunes. He would leave it 
 to him to decide how, when, and where,— explaining 
 the first adverb to mean whether they should take 
 up their abode at an hotel, or lodgings, or engage 
 a house. 
 
 Eustace was very glad to avail himself of this pro- 
 position, for he had been quite uneasy at the idea of 
 taking his father and aunt from home, who would 
 certainly feel more out of their element than even 
 General Lessington at a watering-place, removed from
 
 DAWN A:!n) TWILIGHT. 201 
 
 all their daily interests and occupations. Aunt Mabel 
 was not quite happy at first at the arrangement ; she 
 thought Eustace would not be taken half enough care 
 of, and would certainly be allowed to over-tire himself; 
 but his father set many of her fears at rest when he 
 told her he should insist on his taking his servant with 
 him. This servant had come to Mr. Montrevor quite 
 as a boy, and lived with him ever since. He had a 
 great affection for Eustace and Percy, and was much 
 charmed at the office assigned to him. 
 
 Torquay was the place decided on, and as the wea- 
 ther was becoming daily colder and more winterly, an 
 immediate removal was judged expedient. 
 
 Constance was seldom absent from the Eectory for 
 many hours at a time during the last days of Eustace's 
 stay at home, and much quiet, happy time was passed 
 in reading and talking. It seemed so natural to see 
 them together, that no one but themselves knew how 
 great the change in their intercourse really was. And 
 though Constance felt very anxious about Eustace, as 
 she looked at his thin, sunken face, and heard his 
 frequent, hollow-sounding cough, she was notwith- 
 standing far happier with him now than she had been 
 for many months. 
 
 And how was it with him ? had he given up the hard 
 contest he had waged for so long ? After his weary 
 wrestling, was he now yielding without an effort ? He 
 could hardly understand his own feelings. All thoughts 
 and desires for the future seemed to have fallen asleep. 
 He no longer felt it needful to avoid Constance's so- 
 ciety ; he could enjoy it as he had done in his boyish 
 days, and think of and wish for nothing more than to
 
 202 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 see lier bright and natural with him, as she was of old. 
 There was a solemn feeling within him that he should 
 never be called upon to take part in an earthly future, 
 and with that feeling came a deep sense of the un- 
 reality and transitoriness of all earthly joys, and a glad- 
 ness that, in the desire to grasp the one most precious 
 to him, he had not acted in opposition to the dictates 
 of conscience. At times a strange feeling came over 
 him, when he noticed Constance's awakened attention 
 if Gerard Clifford's name was mentioned, and the plea- 
 sure with which she listened, if his father spoke of the 
 comfort he had found in him during the long, anxious 
 watching at Rutusdorf. But even the bitterness which 
 the suspicion that another might be filling the place 
 he had yearned to occupy at first caused, was lessened 
 by degrees, and he almost thought he could endure to 
 know that the treasure more precious to him than 
 all beside on earth, was placed beyond his reach for 
 ever; though when he forced himself to dwell on 
 the thought his heart beat so wildly, that a sort 
 of hope arose that the ^rave ere then might have 
 stilled its throbbings. 
 
 Yet he had not laboured in vain, nor spent his 
 strength for nought. 
 
 The last evening of his stay at home had come, and 
 Constance had persuaded her father to pass it with 
 her at the Eectory. He would hear of no change 
 being made for him from the early dinner and tea 
 that had been the practice since Eustace's return, 
 and that evening Eustace said he felt well enough to 
 join them in the dining-room. But the restless mov- 
 ing on his chair and continual change of posture con-
 
 DAWy AND TWILIGHT. 203 
 
 vinced Aunt Mabel he was tired ; and the whisper, that 
 he had better move to the sofa in the study, was not 
 disregarded. 
 
 Constance followed him at her aunt's request, to 
 see that the fire was burning brightly, and having 
 given it a satisfactory poking, and placed a slippery 
 cushion in the right position under Eustace's head, 
 she sat down on a low chair beside the sofa, feeling 
 as if she had much to say this last evening, but that 
 the thoughts lay too deep for even that dim fire-light 
 to allow their being called forth and clothed with 
 words. She sat still, resting the book against her fore- 
 head that she held as a screen before her face, and 
 her eyes were half closed, when Eustace's voice made 
 her turn them towards him. He seemed to have been 
 musing too, and the words came out slowly at first, 
 but eagerly as they proceeded : — " What a strange 
 thing life is, Lily ! so full of restless excitement, such 
 striving and straining every nerve after some ima- 
 ginary treasure, all important in our eyes, which yet 
 we never grasp, but is ever gliding from us, or for- 
 saken for some other bauble ; and we toil, and pant, 
 and weary ourselves, as if this life were endless, and 
 forget that there is only one thing we have really to 
 do — to die." 
 
 She started at the solemn tone of the last word, and 
 said earnestly, " Oh Eustace, how little I have thought 
 of that!" 
 
 " And so have I, too, Constance ; but it will force it- 
 self on me sometimes, and then when it does come, oh 
 how hollow and empty do all the things appear one has 
 longed after! 2s ot quite all, though," he murmured
 
 204 DAWlf AKD TWILIGHT. 
 
 to himself; and then went on : ''I cannot tell you the 
 strange thoughts it has given me about intellect and 
 reason, and all that used to seem so important, so all- 
 engrossing. How would they sustain the soul on the 
 bed of death ? of what use do they seem then, except 
 as they have been used to His glory who gave them ? 
 It has been well to have been taken aside and laid by, 
 to have been a spectator instead of an actor ; you see 
 the whole, then, in all its bearings, instead of the one 
 little part that was so engrossing, because it was the 
 role you were engaged in performing ; and oh, Lily, 
 one marvels then that the painted scenes and empty 
 baubles should have seemed the reality, and have had 
 power to shut out the eternal!" 
 
 He leaned back as he ceased speaking, and both 
 sat in silence for some moments. Constance's mind 
 was full of thronging thoughts — thoughts that were 
 not strangers, for they visited her often ; but still her 
 heart was not yet their abiding-place, though again 
 to-night, as oft before, they seemed to plead earnestly 
 that there they might be allowed to dwell. She could 
 seldom speak when her heart and mind were full, and 
 Eustace's voice was again the one to break the silence. 
 The window-curtains were undrawn, and the soft, pure 
 light of the full moon shone in, as he said, " This is a 
 time when one longs to hear some beautiful strain, 
 that should help the thoughts to rise when the mind 
 is too weak to uplift them. Will you sing me some- 
 thing, Constance?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, with pleasure," she answered, rousing 
 herself: "tell me what it shall be." 
 
 "I should like Excelsior; — that song has been a
 
 DAWK A-^H TWILIGHT. 205 
 
 kind of watchword to me," he added, as if excusing 
 his choice. 
 
 The colour rushed into Constance's cheeks as he 
 named it, and strange thoughts came into her mind 
 as she recalled when last she had been asked for that 
 song, — the words that had been spoken of Eustace, 
 and then the troubled look and deep sigh of the 
 speaker, as he had turned from the piano;— but she 
 forced them away. There was a different expression 
 in the face that looked upon her now so calmly ; there 
 was another light in those eyes that were fixed ere- 
 while on her with a calm, sad look, and then turned 
 towards the deep blue heavens, where the moon sailed 
 on in cloudless glory. 
 
 There was no piano in the room, and Constance had 
 some little difficulty at first in steadying her voice : 
 that face pained her, and her thoughts pained her ; but 
 all was forgotten as she threw herself into the song, 
 and her voice rose higher and clearer, and seemed to 
 soar away till lost in the distance with the strange 
 word Excelsior. 
 
 " Yes, that's it," Eustace said, dreamily, when she 
 finished, as if he had been listening to sounds from 
 another land, — onward, onward, higher and higher 
 still, — no rest till the mountain-top is gained ;" — and 
 then, after a pause, " Thank you, Lily ; it has been a 
 great pleasure : you don't know how I have wished to 
 hear that song, and yet felt half-afraid to ask for it ; 
 illness makes one so weak." 
 
 " "Weak in body, but strong in soul," Constance 
 murmured, — but she was unconscious that the words 
 were uttered.
 
 206 DAWIS- AKD TWILIGHT. 
 
 They were silent again, and the door gently opened, 
 and Mr. Montrevor came in. 
 
 " Well, Eustace, are you feeling up to to-morrow's 
 journey ?" his uncle asked, and then stopped and 
 gazed on the two young faces that looked so calm and 
 white in that solemn moonlight. He sat beside Con- 
 stance and took her hand in his, while he looked half- 
 wonderingly at the sadness of her expression ; but 
 Eustace had roused himself now, and answered his 
 questions, and began to speak of their hour of starting, 
 and the journey ; and Aunt Mabel came in, and or- 
 dered candles, and had the curtains drawn, and the 
 fire was made to blaze brightly, and there seemed 
 another world in that little room then. 
 
 Eustace was gone, and Constance stood beside Aunt 
 Mabel at the house-door, looking after the carriage. 
 " "We hardly thought to have him home again, my 
 Lily, when we stood here together watthing the 
 carriage that took your uncle to his sick-bed : 
 we must hope on, and be thankful," were Aunt 
 Mabel's words ; and Constance gave her a kiss, but 
 said nothing, as she turned away and went back to 
 her father. 
 
 The winter months wore away, — the accounts of 
 Eustace varied from week to week ; at one time he 
 seemed much better, and then came a fresh attack of 
 cold, and he was again confined to his room. He gave 
 them tidings of Gerard Clifibrd, who had gone abroad 
 for the winter ; and none knew the pang it gave him 
 to write these words : " He asks me to give his kind
 
 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 207 
 
 remembrance to all at Elvanlees, and says lie shall never 
 forget the days he passed there; it was one of the 
 pleasantest little episodes in his life." He knew the 
 bright expression of the eyes that would read those 
 words, but the troubled thoughts were soon stilled, 
 and the word Excelsior was murmured. 
 
 There were occasional parties at Elvanlees, and fre- 
 quently Constance and her father had to accept invita- 
 tions to spend a few days at different houses in the 
 county. She rather wondered at herself why she 
 cared so little for going out now, and thought that 
 she must be growing old, as dancing had lost some of 
 its charms. One day, when they returned from one 
 of these visits, Mr. Montrevor found among the heap 
 of letters that always a\Aaited his arrival, one from his 
 agent for the Gainsworth property, which ought to 
 have been answered immediately ; he found that seri- 
 ous inconveniences might arise from the delay, and 
 suddenly resolved that going himself to Gainsworth 
 would smooth all difficulties. He was very unwilling 
 to leave Constance, but having deposited her at the 
 Eectory, he drove to the station and ^et off. 
 
 Her father's absence from home was one of the 
 few little trials Constance had, and to her it seemed 
 rather a great one, therefore the day of his return was 
 very joyful. And before he could by any possibility 
 be arrived at the station, she summoned her con- 
 stant little attendant, "Woolly, and with cheerful steps 
 hastened homewards. There was a bright sunsJiini- 
 oiess in lier presence that certainly helped to make her 
 home a very happy one ; and as she sat beside her 
 father's arm-chair, and listened to his history of his
 
 208 DAWN AND TWILIGHT. 
 
 journey and its effects, he thoroughly agreed to the 
 truth of there being " no place like home." 
 
 It was a rough, blowing night, and the strong east 
 wind seemed as if it would penetrate everywhere ; but 
 the shutters were shut and the curtains drawn, and a 
 blazing fire shed its ruddy light over the room, and 
 Constance and her father thought nothing of the 
 storm, but sat together in perfect enjoyment and re- 
 pose, wondering how quickly the hours passed away. 
 
 " Oh, Papa, what a comfort it is to have you back," 
 were Constance's last words, as they were going to 
 bed : " you know I never can like Gainsworth, and I 
 do not feel any interest in it or its dissatisfied, dirty- 
 looking people ; and I do not like their taking up your 
 time or thoughts, and taking you away from me." 
 
 And she went into her own room, where the fire 
 was burning brightly ; and there we will leave her, 
 while we take one look at the Gainsworth which in- 
 terested her so little.
 
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 9
 
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 10
 
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 The Congregation ; its duties, (Parochial Papers, "No. X.) Is. 
 
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 198. Part V. 6 for Is. 
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 62. 
 
 160. 
 93. 
 97. 
 
 165. 
 
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 95. 
 
 16. 
 
 going to the same place. 
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 121. Make your Will before you 
 
 are iU. 33 for Is. 
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 for Is. 
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 C. S. 1. The Cottage Pig-stye. 
 
 6 for Is. 
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 6 for Is. 
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 for Is. 
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 for Is. 
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 86. Mrs. Morton's Walk. 6 for Is. 
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 156. The Widower. 6 for Is. 
 146, Twelve Rules to Hve by 
 
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 for Is. 
 
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 117. Reverence. 16 for Is, 
 58. Schism. 9 for Is. 
 109. Conversion. 12 for Is. 
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 138. Honesty, or paying every 
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 162. Evil Angels. 12 for Is. 
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 201. Pray for yovu* Pastor. 16 
 for Is. 
 47. The right way of reading 
 Scripture. 12 for Is. 
 
 13
 
 Just publi8lied, 2 vols. ^f cap. %vo.^ 10s. 6^., cloth, 
 
 A PLAIN COMMENTARY 
 
 ON 
 
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 14
 
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