OF THE 
 UNIVERSITY 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 8Z3 
 
 S*38s 
 
 v.l
 
 ST. OLAVE'S 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 ST. L A T E'S. 
 
 'Live for to-day ! to-morrow's light 
 To-morrow's cares shall bi-ing to sight, 
 Go, sleep like closing flowers at night, 
 And Heaven thy morn will bless." 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1863. 
 
 The right of Translation is reserved.
 
 DALZIEL. BROTHERS, CaMPEN PRESS, LONDON.
 
 S£3 
 
 /./ v 
 
 - 
 
 ST. OLAVE'S. 
 
 r 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ^fflROTHER!^ 
 ^pj No reply. 
 Wm " Brother Davie.- 
 Still no reply. 
 
 Janet Bruce looked at the clock over the 
 mantel-piece, and then went on with her knitting, 
 a quaint, half-amused expression creeping into 
 her face. 
 
 A quiet face it was, out of which all that the 
 world calls joy had long ago been quenched, and 
 upon which there rested the benediction that 
 comes when joy has gone — even peace. 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 A face where passionate feeling, either of grief 
 or gladness, would never come again. You might 
 tell by a single glance that the soul which looked 
 through those still eyes had passed the worst 
 that could be passed of human sorrow — and 
 conquered too. It was a face which expressed 
 nothing now but a certain grave, sweet serious- 
 ness, whose very smile was full of calm, and as 
 for laughing — but who ever saw Janet Bruce 
 laugh ? 
 
 The rest of the figure was an exact match to 
 the face; neat — exquisitely neat, but lacking all 
 those graces and innocent little shifts of vanity 
 wherewith happy women love to deck themselves. 
 There was no attempt at style about the grey 
 Llama dress, falling in soft motionless folds to the 
 floor ; nothing piquant and "natty " in the white 
 linen collar with its simple bow of tartan ribbon. 
 No one could say that more than needful time 
 had been spent in the arrangement of the black 
 hair — crisp and glossy yet — which was gathered 
 loosely from the forehead and fastened behind 
 under a knot of velvet. You looked in vain, too, 
 for jewels, in the shape of pin, brooch, or stud ; 
 anything that sparkled would clearly enough have
 
 ST. olave's. 3 
 
 been out of place on that sombre, grey-like back- 
 ground. 
 
 Miss Bruce was matter of fact, — intensely 
 matter of fact ; that was the very expression to 
 designate her outer life in all its phases and 
 manifestations. Of the inner one, no sign was 
 ever given. The springiness and romance of life 
 suddenly wrenched away from her, she buried 
 their memory once and for ever in a grave that 
 no resurrection could open. Instead of weeping 
 over the past, as most do, she turned resolutely 
 away from it, gathered up the countless little 
 cares and duties still remaining, and out of these 
 wove the rest of her life, making it, if not 
 beautiful, at least useful and serviceable. Putting 
 away as something no longer needed, all hope or 
 longing, she did the best she could to walk 
 worthily in the track placed before her, which 
 was that of a quiet maiden lady. 
 
 There are many Janet Brace's in the world ; 
 God bless them wherever they may be ! Jostled, 
 smiled at, ridiculed, ignored, forgotten, — God 
 bless them still ! For there is nothing so noble, 
 — nothing half so noble — as that a woman who 
 has been what society calls "disappointed,'" 
 
 b 2
 
 should thus unselfishly shut down .the memory 
 of early grief, and take the weal of others to be 
 henceforth her care ; day by day, unacknowledged 
 and unthanked, dropping kindly deeds and plea- 
 sant words into a world where for her there is no 
 home, no fireside place; where none calls her 
 dearest, none calls her best. We shall find one 
 day that no martyr's crown is brighter than that 
 which Jesus will give to these patient ones of 
 whom on earth we took so little heed. 
 
 Miss Bruce was sitting in the low, old- 
 fashioned window seat, knitting a dainty little 
 white sock, her chief employment when she was 
 not mending the household linen, or going 
 leisurely about her daily domestic duties. What 
 might be the destination of these useful articles, 
 as pair after pair was narrowed off and com- 
 pleted, no one could tell, save perhaps some 
 needy mother in the Tract district. For Miss 
 Bruce had no nieces and nephews, no baby 
 cousins and godchildren among whom to dis- 
 tribute them. Her only relative in all the wide 
 world was this brother Davie, who sat at the table 
 half- smothered in a pile of manuscript music, 
 and murmuring to himself in an under tone —
 
 5 
 
 " The cliorcl of the dominant seventh to be 
 changed into the chord of the extreme sharp 
 sixth, by changing dominant F into E sharp, so 
 bringing the melody into F sharp major. Alto 
 voice to commence." 
 
 Miss Bruce looked up at the timepiece again, 
 then out into the garden, where the sunlight had 
 already began to make long slanting shadows 
 upon the grass. Then she put down her knitting, 
 and laid her hand gently upon her brother's 
 shoulder. 
 
 Don't fancy, courteous reader, that she is going 
 to say anything remarkable, to him. Miss Bruce 
 never said anything remarkable in her life. 
 
 " Davie, it's half-past six, and Miss Grey will 
 be here to tea at seven. You really must go 
 and change your coat, and put another collar 
 on." 
 
 David shook himself, and pushed aside a quan- 
 tity of tangled grey hair, thereby bringing to 
 view a steady, set, "no surrender" sort of face. 
 He began to consider his coat, a loose study wrap, 
 already betraying symptoms of seediness at the 
 elbows ; certainly not the style of costume in 
 which to receive a stranger, especially if that
 
 6 ST. OLAVE S. 
 
 stranger chanced to be a young lady of graceful 
 presence and aristocratic connections. 
 
 " Who did you say was coming, Jeanie?" 
 
 " Alice Grey, the niece of that old lady, 
 Mistress Amiel Grey, who lives in the Cathedral 
 Close." 
 
 " You mean that pleasant old lady who asked 
 you to tea a month ago ; the same who comes to 
 morning prayers sometimes, and has a face just 
 like one of Mozart's Masses." 
 
 Miss Bruce looked puzzled. Not being given 
 to the use of figurative language herself, she was 
 at a loss to comprehend it from others. 
 
 " I don't know about Mrs. Amiel Grey's face 
 looking like a Mass, Davie ; but it is a very kind 
 face, and she always wears a clear-starched 
 widow's cap, with a plaited frill coming down 
 under the chin, like that picture of our grand- 
 mother." 
 
 David and Janet turned involuntarily to the 
 portrait of an old lady which hung over the 
 piano. The clear chiselling of the face, together 
 with the finely moulded hands and taper fingers, 
 indicated high descent and noble blood. He 
 looked at it until an unquiet expression came
 
 into his rugged face ; but after a single glance 
 Miss Bruce returned to the subject in hand. 
 
 "That old black tie of yours, Davie, I should 
 like you to change it too. I have no doubt, as 
 you say, it's gey comfortable, but it really 
 doesn't do to receive company in. You'll find a 
 new one that I bought you last week in your 
 dressing-table drawer, — black corded silk, with 
 violet spots. And mind how you tie it, Davie, 
 for you haven't had it on before ; and if they get 
 a wrong set the first time you can never make 
 them look nice afterwards. And about the collar, 
 don't get one of those marked < Napoleon.' 
 They're just a thought too wide for you, and 
 don't fit exactly behind. I must have them 
 sorted." 
 
 Miss Bruce gave all these directions with the 
 same quiet, earnest gravity which she would have 
 used in dictating her will, or giving evidence in a 
 court of justice. There were not many points of 
 interest in her life now, and one of them was that 
 her brother should be well cared for in everything 
 to which her oversight could reach. 
 
 " You're just a continual plague to me, Jeanie," 
 but as David said the words he took the hand
 
 8 ST. OLAVE'S. 
 
 which still rested on his shoulder, and drawing it 
 to him, leaned his cheek down upon it in a quiet 
 unconscious sort of way which betrayed how 
 natural the gesture was. 
 
 " I was getting on fine with this alto solo, and 
 if I put it away, the thoughts will never come 
 back in the same track. I wish you hadn't asked 
 any one. I'll be sair weary the night if she stays 
 long. What did you say her name is ?" 
 
 " Alice Grey." 
 
 "Alice Grey; it's a bonnie name, and what 
 like is she ?" 
 
 "Well, I've only seen her once without her 
 bonnet, for she was away when I went to the Old 
 Lodge. But she is a pleasant girl, very lady-like. 
 You know her aunt belongs to one of the best 
 families in St. Olave's, and she has a nice 
 manner." 
 
 Here Miss Bruce paused, having nothing more 
 to say in the way of elucidation. She was by no 
 means skilful in the art of delineating character. 
 
 "Well, it can't be helped. She is the first 
 lady who has taken tea with us since we came 
 here, and how long is that ago ? It wasn't so in 
 Scotland , Jeanie."
 
 ST. olave's. 9 
 
 Miss Bruce ignored the latter part of the sen- 
 tence. 
 
 11 Three months, Davie, just. You know we 
 left Perth at the spring cleaning time/'' 
 
 <c And we've lived very quietly ever since. I 
 don't think anybody cares for us here. Is that as 
 God intended it to be, Jeanie V 3 
 
 "\ daresay there are a great many things in 
 this world as God never intended them to be, 
 Davie/' and with that Miss Bruce drew her hand 
 gently out of his, and began to clear away the 
 scattered music sheets. Her brother took the 
 hint, gave one more wistful look at his manu- 
 scripts, and then went away to dress for the 
 expected visitor. 
 
 When he was gone Janet began to " sort the 
 room." She was the very soul of neatness, not 
 indeed one of those monstrosities of method who 
 seem to have been born with a dusting brush in 
 their hands, and think no perfume equal to that 
 of yellow soap, no music so sweet as the rattle 
 of moving mrniture ; yet somehow there gathered 
 round her, wherever she went, an atmosphere of 
 tidiness, so that quietly and without any show of 
 effort, things seemed to fall into their right places.
 
 10 ST. olave's. 
 
 She began with the table where David had 
 been sitting, and pnt the loose sheets of music 
 back into the portfolio. Then she gathered up 
 his pencils and one or two old pens which he had 
 thrown upon the floor. This was done with a 
 tender, loving carefulness, her hands lingering 
 over the work, her face wearing a contented, 
 peaceful smile. This brother of hers was the 
 only outlet for any home kindness she had to 
 give, and it was given very reverently. When 
 the table was cleared, she went round the room, 
 giving little touches of arrangement here and 
 there, and looking often at the timepiece, whose 
 hands were fast approaching the stroke of seven. 
 
 It was a pleasant room, such as one sees in 
 old-fashioned, well-built houses. The window, 
 which was broad and low, and draperied with 
 curtains of drab moreen, looked out upon a 
 wide plot of grass, spotted with buttercups and 
 daisies. In the centre of this plot was a great 
 sun-dial, half covered with moss, the gnomon 
 tangled over with wild convolvolus and clusters of 
 briony. Round it wound a broad gravel walk, 
 and beyond that a second grass plot, bounded by 
 a belt of linden trees, whose branches shut out
 
 ST. OLAVE'S. 11 
 
 all view of the road, except where space was left 
 for the gate. From this gateway the entire East 
 front of the Cathedral, with the grand sweep of 
 its arched window conld be clearly seen. 
 
 As for the interior of the Westwood sitting- 
 room, it was furnished simply enough, for David 
 Bruce was only just beginning to make his way 
 in the world, and hard work he found it. The 
 carpet of crimson ground, interlaced with a small 
 running pattern of black, was somewhat worn, 
 and to judge from sundry side piecings had not 
 originally been intended for its present place. 
 Upon the square table, which stood near the 
 window, was a crimson cloth, embroidered round 
 the border with armorial bearings, in old- 
 fashioned cross and tent stitch. The paper was 
 very pretty, fresh and spring-like — a silvery grey 
 background, traced over with tiny leaves and 
 tendrils. There was no cornice to the ceiling, 
 for it had been made before this modern device 
 came into fashion ; but to supply its place was a 
 belt of crimson scroll pattern. A very plain 
 looking piano stood in one corner, open now with 
 .music — chiefly cathedral music — upon it, and a 
 little Parian statuette of Beethoven on a bracket
 
 12 ST. olave's. 
 
 just above. The only costly thing in the room 
 was an oval mirror over the fire-place, with a 
 massive carved oak border, where leaves, fruit 
 and flowers, twined and intertwined in rank 
 luxuriance, and stood out in bold relief against 
 the light background of the paper. In one 
 corner by the piano, carefully heaped together, 
 were piles of music, volumes of chants, old brown 
 leather bound folios of anthems, mixed with loose 
 sheets of manuscript and counterpoint exercises. 
 
 But over all the room there was a strange and 
 very noticeable feeling of stillness. It spoke 
 unconsciously, as most rooms do, the character of 
 its occupants, and gave a distinct impression of 
 seclusion and self-containment. It could be no 
 busy, many-coloured, painfully anxious life which 
 was lived here. No gleam of brightness could 
 stay very long \ any shadow of sorrow would be 
 softened too, if not entirely veiled by that unmis- 
 takable presence of repose that was felt as soon 
 as you crossed the threshold. If the thick clus- 
 tering vine and jasmine leaves which grew over 
 the trellis outside the window kept the sunlight 
 from coming through, except in fitful, wandering 
 streaks, they also hid the angry storms and black
 
 ST. olave's. 13 
 
 thunder clouds of summer time ; and these leaves 
 but symbolized others that seemed to gather 
 round and shelter the place from the keen light 
 and shadow, the blinding sunshine and the brood- 
 ing fog, which rest by turns on most human 
 lives. 
 
 Scarcely had Mr. Bruce made his appearance, 
 got up in suitable broadcloth, finished off by the 
 abovementioned black tie, with violet spots, when 
 there was a tread of light footsteps on the gravel 
 walk outside, a dainty knock at the front door, 
 and then, side by side with grey robed matter-of- 
 fact Janet Bruce, bringing with her into that 
 quiet room a strange waft of brightness, there 
 stood a fair English-looking maiden of noble 
 presence and soft, pleasant voice. And she bent 
 half-shyly, half-serenely as her hostess pro- 
 nounced the words — 
 
 "My brother — Miss Alice Grey." 
 
 Poor Alice ! if she had only known how sorry 
 he was to see her.
 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 |HE was a frank, winsome girl of 
 eighteen, or thereabouts. Not pretty, 
 exactly, for her features were none of 
 them moulded with that perfect symmetry which 
 artists and sculptors love to copy. Still, Alice 
 Grey's was a pleasant face. The lines of it were 
 yet unformed, changed by every passing mood of 
 feeling, scarcely cast into any fixed mould by the 
 strong working of the soul within, but just 
 reflecting the sunlight and shade that passed 
 over it. Such a face as middle-aged people look 
 at tenderly, almost sadly, because they know how 
 surely before many years have passed, sorrow, 
 that inalienable heritage of humanity, shall 
 fashion it into higher, more perfect beauty 
 There was not much repose in her countenance ;
 
 15 
 
 it was bright, quick, eager, expectant, and the 
 glance of her wide opened eyes was full of 
 unspoken questionings — unspoken only because 
 life as yet had taught her no language wherein to 
 express them. 
 
 David Bruce could not say for certain whether, 
 confusedly waking out of that pleasant music 
 dream which had occupied him all the time of his 
 toilet, he took the white hand of the visitor in his 
 own, or merely bowed in acknowledgment of 
 Janet's precise and somewhat formal introduction. 
 As was his wont with strangers, he gave but a 
 slight glance towards the face uplifted to him, a 
 glance so slight indeed that any impression which 
 it might have produced soon faded out of his 
 thoughts, and left them free to wander in their own 
 track. After tea — a genuine Scottish tea it was, 
 in which scones and oat-cake formed a prominent 
 part of the entertainment — he betook himself to 
 the copying of some chants that had to be ready 
 for morning service at the Cathedral, only from 
 time to time contributing a stray word or two to 
 the conversation which was going on at the other 
 side of the room. 
 
 Miss Bruce had resumed her knitting and was
 
 16 
 
 working away with that steady mechanical per- 
 tinacity that had become habitual to her. But 
 a half perceptible ruffle now and then upon her 
 face, or a somewhat nervous twitch of her needles, 
 indicated that she was not quite at ease in the 
 duty of entertaining unaccustomed guests. Alice 
 Grey, finding that the hostess was inclined to be 
 industrious, followed her example, and produced 
 from a little pink -lined work case, a bit of white 
 cashmere, — it might be a pin-cushion or a watch- 
 pocket, or some other piece of feminine handicraft, 
 — upon which she began to weave a graceful 
 design in braid work, not seemingly after any set 
 pattern, but only as her own skill and fancy led. 
 Just the sort of work that expressed herself. 
 
 Two more different types of womanhood, it 
 would have been hard to find. Janet Bruce, still, 
 staid, self-contained, even-tinted as a landscape 
 over which the grey twilight has come ; and Alice, 
 with her affluence of youth and hope, like that 
 same landscape steeped in the brightening hues of 
 sunrise. One looking forth with sure expectancy 
 to coming joy, the other knowing it no longer but 
 in memory. 
 
 Miss Grey was not yet, according to techni-
 
 ST. olave's. 17 
 
 cal phrase, " out ;" she had not emerged from the 
 coverture of home life into the great arena of social 
 display, and was therefore unprivileged to assume 
 the insignia of full-blown young ladyhood. Still, 
 though there was neither sheen of silk nor sparkle of 
 jewels about her, she made a pretty enough picture 
 as she sat there in the broad low window seat, the 
 slant rays of sunshine trickling through the 
 curls of her golden brown hair, and making the 
 shadows of the vine leaves play softly to and fro 
 upon her cheek and neck. She wore a dress of 
 light blue muslin, full and flowing, that showed 
 like a bit of Italian sky in the sombre room. Its 
 only ornament was a gleaming coil of black jet 
 fastening the girdle, and into which she had 
 woven a few sprays of white heath. 
 
 Perhaps the word that best described Alice 
 Grey was the one which suggested itself to Janet's 
 thought as she watched her sitting there in the 
 sunlight. She was just " bonnie." Not hand- 
 some, not fascinating, not stylish nor distingue, 
 but simply "bonnie." The sort of character that 
 strong men pet and caress, that they love to have 
 near them, and which little by little twines round 
 the rugged branches of their nature, covering 
 
 vol. i. c
 
 18 ST. olave's. 
 
 them with beauty and fragrance. There was 
 something so frank and fresh and girlish about 
 her, such a fitful maiden-like freedom in her ways, 
 such an unschooled gracefulness in her simple 
 speech. A nature hers was that would have to be 
 tamed down very much as years passed on ; one 
 that would have to learn much, perhaps to suffer 
 much, before it could run smoothly along in the 
 beaten track of life. 
 
 But whatever rank untamed luxuriance there 
 might be about her, was not so perceptible to- 
 night, for the indescribably quiet atmosphere 
 that surrounded the elder lady appeared to have 
 enveloped Alice also, and there was a sort of 
 conscious hesitation about her manner, the faint- 
 est little tinge of shyness, which perhaps by-and- 
 by made Mr. Bruce lift his eyes from the yellow 
 old folio of chants to that corner where she sat, 
 more frequently than he would have done had she 
 been one of those carefully trimmed, admirably 
 self-possessed specimens of young ladyhood which 
 the cathedral city of St. Olave's usually produced. 
 
 The two ladies had the conversation mostly to 
 themselves. It trickled pleasantly on over the com- 
 monplace subjects that rise of their own accord
 
 st. olave's. 19 
 
 between women who know each other but slightly ; 
 women who are neither very intellectual nor 
 profoundly subjective. Innocent, peaceful, home- 
 like chit-chat it was, about the daily little cares 
 and pleasures and belongings of life, about amu- 
 sing books, the most wholesome food for canaries 
 and gold fish, the best way of cultivating flowers, 
 the pretty walks round St. Olave's, and so on ; 
 dropping now and then into silence, broken only 
 by the motion of Miss Bruce's needles, and the 
 scratching of her brother's pen over the paper. 
 
 The evening wore on. The flush of sunset 
 that had long ago crept out of the room, died off 
 from the lower branches of the linden trees which 
 bounded the garden, stretching up and up until 
 at last it rested like a golden diadem on the 
 topmost leaves, and then faded quite away. The 
 talk died out as it often does when twilight comes ; 
 and Alice's busy little fingers glided no longer 
 over her braiding work, but lay folded together 
 upon her lap, or toyed with the vase of fern leaves 
 and harebells which stood in the window-seat near 
 her. Miss Bruce knitted on systematically ; in 
 sunlight, twilight, or no light at all, she wi is 
 equally industrious. Her brother had left his 
 
 c 2
 
 20 st. olave's. 
 
 music and with folded arms stood on the other 
 side of the wide old-fashioned window, looking out 
 into the garden, and gathering up thoughts per- 
 haps as he often did in quiet hours, for the Ora- 
 torio he was composing. So little by little with 
 the deepening evening, a dead silence came down 
 upon all three of them. 
 
 Truly they were a demure couple this brother 
 and sister, most at home in the solitude of an 
 undisturbed fireside, and certainly not apt at enter- 
 taining visitors, either with the feast of reason or 
 the flow of soul. Perhaps Alice thought so, 
 for something like a stifled yawn flitted over her 
 face and she began to fold up her work. It had 
 not been a brilliant evening to say the best of it ; 
 scarcely so chatty, and certainly not so lively, as 
 she would have spent at home with Aunt Amiel. 
 When her silks were safely packed away in the 
 rose-lined satchel, she said — 
 
 " Mr. Bruce, will you play me something before 
 I go?" 
 
 David started, he was lost in the workings of a 
 fugue ; but he gave himself a shak e, and then 
 with a quiet professional sort of air, not staying to 
 ask what style of music she liked best, he went to
 
 ST. olave's. 21 
 
 the piano and began to play what the publishers 
 call a "piece de resistance," a grand musical 
 passage of arms, full of runs and shakes and 
 thunderclaps of sound; such a composition as puts 
 young ladies who are "passionately fond of music" 
 into an ecstacy. 
 
 When it was over, and David was biting his 
 lips in expectation of a hurricane of compliments, 
 she said " Thank you," but the words were spoken 
 in a half unsatisfied tone, covering more of dis- 
 appointment than pleasure, and were not followed 
 by any rapturous outcries of "sweetly pretty,"—- 
 " charming execution," — " perfect love of a 
 piece," such as he was accustomed to receive 
 from the generality of lady auditors. 
 
 David looked at her a good while from beneath 
 the shadow of his overhanging eyebrows. In the 
 half darkness of the room he could do this and 
 not be rude. 
 
 " Well, did you like it ?" he asked at last. 
 
 " No," she replied quietly, "not much." 
 
 He was pleased. 
 
 " Shall I try something else ?" and then with- 
 out waiting for a reply, he began to play one of 
 Mendelssohn's " Lieder," the first in the fifth
 
 22 st. olave's. 
 
 book, — that still, dreamy, wavelike, rippling song 
 that seems to go floating on through mossy banks 
 and under green leaves, now and then flashing 
 out into sunshine, sometimes leaping impetuously 
 forward from note to note, widening out at last 
 into a clear, even, unbroken deep of sound. 
 
 As he played on, Alice leaned forward, then rose 
 to her feet and step by step came quite close to 
 the piano, so close that her dress touched him, and 
 he could feel her breath upon his cheek. Before 
 he finished, Tibbie came in to say that Miss 
 Grey's maid was waiting to take her home. 
 
 "Not yet Miss Brace, please, not yet," said 
 Alice, never moving her eyes from the piano; "let 
 me hear all this first." 
 
 " Send her back Tibbie," David said abruptly, 
 " and say that we will see Miss Grey safely 
 home." 
 
 Janet looked surprised but said nothing, and 
 Tibbie went away. David played on to where the 
 music ended, as all those " Lieder " do, in a few 
 short fluttering upward notes. Alice gave him no 
 word of thanks this time, but her fast clasped hands 
 and quick eager breath told him that it was great 
 joy to her to listen. Then he began a slow move-
 
 st. olave's. 23 
 
 ment full of harmonies, like the old German 
 chorales, marching on from phrase to phrase with 
 grave majestic stateliness, then pausing and drifting 
 off into a quaint melody, and after awhile with a few 
 wandering notes coming back to the old track 
 again ; music that seemed to have no set purpose 
 or sustained thought, but was just vague, sweet, 
 fanciful. 
 
 When David Bruce played, it seemed a pity he 
 should ever do anything else. Each passing mood 
 of feeling, each breeze of impulse that crossed the 
 soul, he could reach and imprison in music. So 
 that listening to him was like reading some sweet 
 poem in which our own thoughts, clothed for us 
 by the poet's skill in grand and noble language, 
 meet us with old familiar faces. Wandering on 
 through track after track of melody, the whole 
 aspect of his countenance began to change. As a 
 man who knows that he stands in his own place, 
 gains power and dignity, so David Bruce in his 
 music-world became a prince, and no longer an 
 odd, awkward, ungainly piece of humanity such as 
 society in general took him for. The wrinkles 
 smoothed out from his great forehead, his eyes 
 grew full of love and tenderness, his face became
 
 24 st. olave's. 
 
 as it were the face of an angel. The only time 
 Janet ever dropped her work and sat with idle 
 fingers, was when this sort of music dream came 
 over her brother, and then she would watch him 
 by the hour together. 
 
 But Alice standing close by him could not see 
 this, for the twilight that had gathered so 
 thickly over them both. She could only feel that 
 this man, rugged, uncouth as he had seemed to 
 her an hour ago, had access to a life far above 
 hers, and that in his music there was a strange 
 power which seemed to reveal her to herself. 
 
 Little by little he was lifting her out of her 
 pleasant world of girlish fancies, into one quite 
 new and untried. With just her own aimless way 
 of following every passing mood of thought, she 
 stepped into his grand, solemn track, and now she 
 began to feel bewildered in it. 
 
 Still he played on. All in the room grew faint 
 and shadowy, and he felt the notes rather than 
 saw them. At last with a few bars of very sweet, 
 hymn-like music, he paused. 
 
 " Ah," said Alice in a half- whisper, " I re- 
 member that ; you played it at the Minster last 
 Sunday after the morning service, and I staid
 
 st. olave's. 25 
 
 behind to listen to it. I dreamed it all over again 
 that same night, and tried to play it for myself. 
 It is a great rest to listen to it." 
 
 David was pleased; it was part of an alto solo 
 for his own Oratorio, but he did not tell her so. 
 Just then the Cathedral bells struck ten, and 
 Tibbie brought in the lamp. Its light showed Alice 
 kneeling by the piano, her hands clasped over 
 some music books, her young face full of reverence 
 and wonder; David with shut eyes and fingers 
 yet wandering lovingly upon the keys, Miss Bruce 
 knitting peacefully on in her low chair by the 
 window, the old quiet look upon her face, the 
 little white sock nearly finished. 
 
 And then David took Alice Grey home. 
 
 "Brother" said Janet, as they sat together an 
 hour later, when Tibbie had locked the doors and 
 tramped up stairs to bed, and nothing was heard 
 but the chirp of a solitary cricket on the kitchen 
 hearth — " Brother, I think we got over the even- 
 ing pretty well on the whole." 
 
 David took his sister's hand and leaned his 
 cheek down upon it. They often used to sit in 
 this way at night.
 
 26 st. olave's. 
 
 " We got over the evening pretty well after all, 
 Davie." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 ' ( I was sorry abont your being disturbed with 
 your composing, and having to walk home with 
 Miss Grey too, but as things turned out it could 
 not be helped, and I daresay we need not ask any 
 one to tea for some time." 
 
 But David said nothing.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Ifllj T. OLAVE'S was an ancient little city, 
 
 i 
 
 j a very ancient little city. It had reached 
 
 faSfigJffl middle life before William of Normandy 
 cut his first tooth ; it was a lusty growing place 
 in the time of the Caesars, and as for its birthday, 
 a Chinese historian could scarcely have lighted 
 upon a date remote enough for that interesting 
 event. Within its three square miles of municipal 
 territory, it enclosed a Cathedral, an Abbey, Roman 
 towers out of count, ruins sufficient to stock Great 
 Britain with rockeries, besides some twelve or 
 fourteen antiquated churches ; and last, but not 
 least, as much family pride and hereditary dignity 
 as would have served half a dozen towns of 
 moderate pretensions. 
 
 What the Apostle Paul might have said had he
 
 28 st. olave's. 
 
 been privileged to follow his tent-making craft 
 beneath the shadow of its grey old Minster towers, 
 is a question which well-disposed people will not 
 press too closely; seeing that by the starched 
 maiden ladies and gowned ecclesiastical magnates 
 who inhabited the Cathedral precincts, any unlucky 
 wight whom stern necessity compelled to ' ' labour 
 with his own hands, working the thing that is 
 honest," — in modern parlance, a tradesman, artizan, 
 or handworker of any kind, was held in profound- 
 est contempt, excluded from the pale of genteel 
 society, and excommunicated from all rights and 
 privileges of the beau monde. But things have 
 changed mightily since the good old times of St. 
 Paul, whether for better or worse, we presume not to 
 say; and doubtless many a one to whom that chiefest 
 of the apostles would have held out the right hand 
 of fellowship, beholding in him a child of the 
 kingdom, and an heir of glory, was kept at arm's 
 length by the good folk of the cathedral city of 
 St. Olave's,. and stigmatized as " an exceedingly 
 low person — in fact, no sort of society at all." 
 
 It was a quaint, old-fashioned little city, with 
 scarcely a street in which you could draw a 
 straight line from one end to the other. Very rich,
 
 st. olave's. 29 
 
 too, it was in winding lanes, and curious tumble- 
 down houses, with gables sticking out in all sorts 
 of places where, according to modern canons of 
 taste, gables ought not to stick out. There were 
 many alleys in which the stories of the old lath- 
 and -plaster tenements projected one over the 
 other, until from the topmost windows people on 
 opposite sides of the street might shake hands 
 with each other. In the central part of the city 
 there was great store of courts and closes, quite 
 ignored by genteel people, and chiefly sought into 
 by self-denying tract distributors, and city mis- 
 sionaries, or more frequently still, by poor-law 
 guardians, and police officers. Centuries ago this 
 had been the aristocratic quarter of the place. 
 Kings and princes once pillowed their heads 
 beneath the roofs that now sheltered the haunts 
 of squalid beggary. Even yet the antiquarian, 
 coming to St. Olave's in search of materials for a 
 paper in the "Archaeological Journal," and pick- 
 ing his way, pocket-book in hand, through heaps 
 of vegetable refuse, and piles of dirty children, 
 would stumble upon grand, time-worn houses, the 
 exuviae of bygone generations ; houses with 
 massive sculptured doorways, broad oaken stair-
 
 30 
 
 cases, and Tudor windows, canopied once with 
 many- coloured arras and gleaming cloth of gold, 
 but whose only drapery now was a string of ragged 
 pinafores hung out to dry, watched by equally 
 ragged mothers, who leaned their gaunt red elbows 
 on the carved stone-work, where, a couple of hun- 
 dred years ago, the jewelled hands of courtiers 
 were wont to rest. 
 
 But besides these crumbling relics of worn-out 
 respectability that seemed to invest with an air 
 of romance the squalid belongings which later 
 years had crusted over them, there were other and 
 dim old whispers of antiquity reaching farther 
 back still. St. Olave's was very rich in remains — 
 Saxon, Eoman, Norman, Mediaeval, all sorts of 
 remains. Scarcely a week passed without some 
 old-world curiosity struggling into daylight, and 
 being immortalized in a newspaper paragraph. 
 The city commissioners could not (Jig a drain in 
 any part of the place, but they came upon shat- 
 tered fragments of tesselated pavement, once be- 
 longing to some Koman citizen's house, or huge, 
 hulking stone coffins, which farmers from the 
 country bought, and turned into drinking 
 troughs for horses. Every now and then, as the
 
 st. olave's. 31 
 
 traveller threaded his way through the central 
 portion of the city, he lighted on some ugly old 
 postern, or maimed tower, or broken archway, 
 which did not, as the poet says — 
 
 " Charm the eye 
 With hints of fair completeness," 
 
 but quite the reverse. And if an inexperienced 
 wretch from the country who had lately bought a 
 house here, and settled in it, betook himself to a 
 little harmless after-dinner diversion with spade 
 and rake, in his garden, ten to one but he turned 
 up some unpleasantly suggestive tooth or bone, 
 or perhaps an entire grinning skull, that sent 
 him helter-skelter into his parlour, with anything 
 but an agreeable impression upon his mind. 
 
 But such untoward occurrences only took place 
 in the old part of the city. St. Olave's was a very 
 cheerful residence for any one who, as the phrase 
 goes, liked a quiet life. A sort of Zoar it was for 
 elderly maiden ladies with long pedigrees and 
 short purses, decayed gentlewomen, retired fami- 
 lies, unbeneficed clergymen, and widows of aristo- 
 cratic descent. For there was no trade stirring 
 in the place. Let the wind blow from what 
 quarter it chose, it brought no vulgar thick smoke,
 
 32 st. olave's. 
 
 no sooty shower of smuts from manufactory 
 chimneys, no stifling odour of heathenish com- 
 pounds from chemical works and dye-houses. 
 The people, too, were well-conducted, never did 
 anything very much out of the way in one direc- 
 tion or another ; never launched out into gigantic 
 speculations, and then exploded with a crash ; 
 never held violent political meetings ; never made 
 sour faces at Government ; never thought of getting 
 up Chartist associations, or questioning the legality 
 of Church-rates ; never made demonstrations of 
 any sort ; never flaunted through the streets with 
 banners about free trade and cheap bread, as the 
 folks did at the neighbouring manufacturing place 
 of Millsmany ; never grew rabid at election times, 
 or made a fuss about taxation ; — in short, never 
 forgot that they lived beneath the shadow of a 
 Cathedral, and had the episcopal benediction dis- 
 pensed over them four times a year. 
 
 And yet, notwithstanding its sober, ecclesiastical 
 tone, there was wholesome gaiety in St. Olave's 
 for those who could be content with homoeopathic 
 doses of the same, administered sparingly, and at 
 judicious intervals. Twice a year came the 
 assizes, when the middle-class people bought new
 
 st. olave's. 33 
 
 bonnets, and the servants got a holiday to go to 
 Court ; when the sheriffs carriage lumbered 
 pompously through the city, preceded by a guard 
 of honour in breeches and bag wigs, and armed 
 with tin halberds and hired trumpets. The 
 County ball, too, in spring, when the Broad Street 
 shops attired themselves in silks of fabulous 
 beauty, and brocades which, as Miss Luckie said, 
 coaxed the sovereigns out of your purse before 
 you knew what you were about ; and the Hunt 
 ball, later on in the year, when superbly whiskered 
 gentlemen lounged about at the hotel doors, and 
 women with majestic Norman faces floated down 
 the streets. Nor was Euterpe without votaries. 
 Now and then, when Covent Garden and the Hay- 
 market had, composed themselves for their yearly 
 nap, a company of artistes who were starring it in 
 the provinces, would spare a night for St. Olave's, 
 and then great was the roll of county carriages 
 and the blaze of family diamonds. 
 
 In addition to these episodes of gaiety, there 
 was a yearly review of the barrack troops, and a 
 very occasional regatta, and — crowning event of 
 all — once in three years, a grand Festival in the 
 Hall of Guild, when St. Olave's washed himself, put 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 
 
 on his best suit, and turned out with his wife and 
 family for a regular holiday. This triennial event 
 served as a sort of Christianized Hegira for the 
 inhabitants of the place, and had become an 
 established tryst for dates and memories, "so 
 many years come next Festival," being an autho- 
 rized way of expressing any chronological occur- 
 rence. 
 
 But the place where the idiosyncracy of St. 
 Olave's asserted itself most positively, the very 
 nucleus and centre of aristocracy, the spot where 
 gentility culminated, and exclusiveness attained its 
 meridian, was the Cathedral Close, a few acres 
 of green sward, dotted by lordly elm-trees, and 
 intersected by winding gravel walks, which sur- 
 rounded the Minster. 
 
 Here the Bishop had his episcopal palace ; here 
 the Canons Resident came and went within canon- 
 ical limits j here, in cosy, warm-lined ecclesias- 
 tical tenements, nourished the Prebends, Vicars- 
 choral and Chanters. Here the widows and 
 maiden sisters of departed Cathedral functionaries 
 kept up their dignity in tall, antique, grey stone 
 houses, that looked as severe and rigidly orthodox 
 as their occupants. The very air had an aristo-
 
 st. olave's. 35 
 
 cratic feel about it, a sensible hush and repose, 
 and aroma of stateliness. The old elm -trees that 
 skirted the Close, swayed their branches with 
 grave, measured dignity, scorning to be blown to 
 and fro like unconsecrated timber. The colony of 
 rooks which from time immemorial had held lodg- 
 ment behind the Chapter House, and amongst 
 the topmost pinnacle uf the Broad Tower, pawed 
 with a perceptible ecclesiastical monotone, as 
 different as possible from the common-place pro- 
 vincial dialect of their country cousins in the 
 adjacent- hamlets. You felt an unmistakable 
 waft of respectability as soon as you passed 
 the ponderous iron gates that led into this 
 sacred enclosure, a certain indefinable influence 
 drifting over you from its grey old arches and 
 cloisters, which said, as plain as any words could 
 speak, ' ' the place is select." 
 
 Select ; yes, that is just the very word that 
 any person of discrimination would have used in 
 describing the Close and its inhabitants. The 
 place seemed to have got a patent for gentility. 
 Vulgar people never turned in here for a walk. 
 The shoals of trippers who poured into St. Okie's 
 at Easter time, from the neighbouring maiiu- 
 
 d 2
 
 facturing districts, ventured not to steer their 
 flaunting draperies and apoplectic baskets of prog 
 along its secluded walks, but contented themselves 
 with reverent glances through the iron gates. 
 Nurserymaids and children were tabooed, school- 
 boys were prohibited from desecrating the place 
 with tops or marbles, or other juvenile gear, and 
 no wheels but those which belonged to private 
 carriages had leave to waken its slumbering 
 echoes. 
 
 Such were the salient points of the aristocratic 
 little city of St. Olave's, a city that had- been the 
 cradle and the grave of dynasties of kings. More 
 anon of the tide of life which worked and worried 
 on within it. And always as you trod the narrow 
 winding little streets, or tracked your path by 
 crumbling gate and ruined postern, you had but 
 to look up, and there was the grand, grey, massive 
 old Cathedral, keeping watch and ward over you. 
 Like the thought of God in the heart of man, 
 facing all his narrow, crooked aims and purposes, 
 his crumbling vows and broken resolutions, with 
 its front of calm, eternal majesty.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 UCH quiet people, such exceedingly 
 | quiet people ; in fact, no sort of addition 
 to the place at all in the way of society. 
 Now, didn't they strike you, my dear Mrs. 
 Scrymgeour, as exceedingly quiet people ?" 
 
 The speaker was Miss Luckie, a cheerful, chatty, 
 quicksilvery little maiden lady of seventy five; 
 for the past fifteen years a denizen of the " Home 
 for Decayed Gentlewomen," or as it was called by 
 ordinary people, the " Old Maid's Hospital/' 
 situate in the Low Gardens, about half a mile 
 from the Cathedral. The lady to whom she 
 addressed the foregoing remark, was Mrs. Scrym- 
 geour, relict of the late Archdeacon Scrymgeour, 
 and daughter-in-law of the former Bishop of St. 
 Olave's, a tall, severe, dignified-looking woman,
 
 38 st. olave's. 
 
 bristling all over with ecclesiastical propriety, and 
 bearing a remarkable family likeness to the gaunt 
 effigies which some old monk, in a fit of ill 
 humour, had carved, centuries ago, on the west 
 front of the Cathedral. Mrs. Scrymgeour was 
 Censor- general of the diocese of St. Olave's, and 
 lady-president of the " Position Committee," a 
 select body of ladies chosen from the Close fa- 
 milies, assembling at stated intervals to decide the 
 social status of strangers who came to reside in 
 the neighbourhood. Miss Luckie did not belong 
 to the Position Committee, that conclave being 
 exclusively confined to ladies who had connections 
 in the Church, but she often dropped in to have 
 a tete-a-tete with Mrs. Scrymgeour, and, as is 
 likely enough in places where intellectual life is 
 very stagnant, their conversation more frequently 
 turned upon men and women than anything else. 
 " Miss Luckie/' replied the Archdeacon's widow, 
 gravely, " if I am called upon to give my opinion," 
 — Mrs. Scrymgeour usually prefaced her little 
 orations with this phrase ; she was so often 
 " called upon " in the committee, that it had 
 become habitual to her. " If I am called upon to 
 give my opinion, 1 must say that I have always
 
 39 
 
 considered strangers, especially when their position 
 is not perfectly well defined, as being mnch better 
 for cultivating a spirit of silence. It shows a 
 becoming feeling of respect to the city, and there 
 is too much talk in the world already — a great 
 deal too much, Miss Luckie." 
 
 "Well, for my part, Mrs. Scrymgeour," said 
 Miss Luckie, nowise daunted by the dogmatic 
 cast-iron tones of her companion, " I can't do with 
 such remarkably reticent people. Retiring man- 
 ners sound very nicely in books, but they're an 
 awful bore when you have to make a morning call 
 upon them. Really when I went to Miss Bruce, 
 a month ago — you know she's in my district for 
 collecting — I was fairly stuck fast for want of 
 something to say, and I'm sure that isn't often 
 the case with me. There's such an indescribable 
 quiet about the place, I declare it's just like being 
 somewhere where there's nothing to breathe. Not 
 that I mean any disrespect, you know." 
 
 " Of course. I perfectly comprehend what you 
 wish to convey by your mode of expression, but I 
 am not acquainted with the parties you mention, 
 beyond seeing Miss Bruce at the morning prayers. 
 And as I noticed that the verger in attendance,
 
 40 ST. olave's. 
 
 who has great discernment in such matters, only- 
 placed her in the second tier of stalls, and brought 
 her a prayer-book without the Cathedral arms on 
 the back, I have quite given up the idea of leaving 
 my card at the house. I find it needful to be 
 select, Miss Luckie. Position with me is a 
 matter of conscientious observation." 
 
 " Yes, exactly ; and really, Mrs. Scrymgeour, 
 with such shoals of unmarried ladies as we have in 
 St. Olave's, you know I can say it with impunity, 
 being one myself," and here Miss Luckie laughed 
 that merry laugh of hers, which set her silvery 
 grey curls all in a flutter, and made her white cap 
 ribbons dance again ; "we really have such shoals 
 of unmarried ladies in St. Olave's, that any one 
 who has got past the meridian of life, as Miss 
 Bruce seems to have done, can hardly be looked 
 upon in the light of an acquisition." 
 
 " Just my views, Miss Luckie, just my views. 
 I always say that although we differ on many 
 points, I seldom meet with any one who, on the 
 whole, meets my views more satisfactorily than 
 yourself." 
 
 " Thank you, Mrs. Scrymgeour ; and now how 
 old should you take the lady to be ?"
 
 st. olave's. 41 
 
 " People carry their age so differently," said 
 the Archdeacon's widow, stepping across the long 
 wainscoted room, to draw the crimson cnrtain 
 farther over the window, for the evening sunlight 
 slanting in through the Close elm -trees came too 
 strongly upon her embroidery. " People carry 
 their age so differently. Now for instance, Mrs. 
 Amiel Grey, at the Old Lodge, just across the 
 Close, cannot be less than eighty, at the very 
 least, for you know she went to live there as soon 
 as it was relinquished by the Canons, and she was 
 a person comparatively in years then, and the 
 Canons have occupied their present residence for 
 the last thirty years, to my own personal recollec- 
 tion, at least," and here Mrs. Scrymgeour paused ; 
 it does not answer for a lady, especially a widow 
 lady, and one who is fast approaching the Rubicon 
 of fifty, to be too explicit in her personal recollec- 
 tions. 
 
 " However, that is irrelevant to the present 
 subject," she continued, taking a fresh supply of 
 gold thread, and bestowing a somewhat lengthy 
 investigation on the monogram she was. copying. 
 " I only intended to say that Mrs. Amiel Grey is 
 a remarkably capable woman for her years. As
 
 42 st. olave's. 
 
 for the other lady, I should give it as my opinion 
 that five and thirty is somewhere near the mark." 
 
 " Thirty-five ; a most uncomfortable age for an 
 unmarried woman. You're neither one thing nor 
 another, when you're thirty-five, I always say, 
 though I remember it now from a distance of 
 forty years" — 
 
 " Miss Luckie, impossible \" and Mrs. Scrym- 
 geour, whose face was puckered about like the 
 velvet lining inside the lid of a lady's jewel case, 
 looked with undisguised amazement at her visitor's 
 comely little visage, nestling so cosily within the 
 shade of her white cap and trim curls. 
 
 " Seventy-six next birthday, Mrs. Scrymgeour, 
 and that's the seventeenth of August. You know 
 I've been in the Home sixteen years, and we're 
 not allowed to turn in there until past sixty. But 
 as I was going to tell you I feel quite sympathetic 
 for this sister of our new organist \ thirty-five is 
 such a very uncomfortable age. Now when an 
 unmarried person gets past forty, she gives up 
 looking out, and brings her mind to her circum- 
 stances ; matrimonial chances don't often hand 
 out after that. At least I found it so, but you 
 know poor dear Papa retired from the army then,
 
 st. olave's. 43 
 
 and we left off barrack life, so that nothing 
 was likely to turn up, and I was obliged to settle 
 down to my condition." 
 
 Miss Luckie didn't look as if the settling down 
 had been a very painful process after all. Indeed, 
 to contrast the story which spinsterhood had 
 written upon her face, with that which the holy 
 estate of matrimony had left upon Mrs. Scrym- 
 geour's, one might be tempted to say that single 
 blessedness had decidedly the best of it. 
 
 " Miss Bruce does not give me the impression 
 of a marrying person, Miss Luckie. If I were 
 asked to give my opinion, I should say she had 
 had a disappointment, or something of that nature. 
 There is a great deal of disappointment in the 
 world, Miss Luckie," and Mrs. Scrymgeour sighed 
 as she added a golden ray to the monogram. 
 
 " Oh, as for that, it's just as people take it," 
 rejoined Miss Luckie, the grey curls frisking 
 merrily round again. " I always say a great deal 
 of breath, that might be more usefully employed, 
 is spent in sighs. I never had what's called a 
 disappointment, myself; for in barrack-life you're 
 whisked about so from one place to another, that 
 you haven't time to fix your affections anywhere
 
 44 st. olave's. 
 
 to speak of. If you do try to plant a little sprig 
 of love, the order for the route comes before it's 
 had time to take root. And then you know when 
 poor dear Papa dropped off, and I was obliged to 
 turn my attention to teaching, I was so far 
 advanced in life, being, as I said before, just on 
 the verge of forty, that it was past the time for 
 any one to make a fuss over me. And so you see 
 I've just trotted on through life on my own ac- 
 count ; and I think I'm a standing memorial of 
 the desirableness of single life. I often say, no 
 lady in St. Olave's carries her age better than I do, 
 except, perhaps, Mrs. Amiel Grey ; and then you 
 know she's had such a quiet life." 
 
 " Too quiet," replied Mrs. Scrymgeour, — she 
 had worn her robes of censorship so long, that she 
 found it difficult to cast them. " If I were asked 
 to give my opinion, I should say that Mrs. Grey 
 exerts herself far too little in this locality. A per- 
 son of her influence and property, Miss Luckie, 
 ought to be more of a burning and a shining 
 light in visiting agencies and committees. I have 
 never been able to forget that bazaar last summer, 
 for the restoration of the organ, when she refused 
 to allow her niece to assist in presiding at the re- 
 freshment stall."
 
 st. olave's. 45 
 
 " But Miss Alice was such a child then, dear 
 Mrs. Scrymgeour, scarcely seventeen; and I 
 was told Mrs. Grey subscribed very handsomely." 
 
 ' c Personal effort, Miss Luckie, personal effort, in 
 my opinion, ought never to be withheld ;" and Mrs. 
 Scrymgeour gave her left hand a dignified wave, 
 which seemed to say plainly enough : c< Silence, 
 Miss Luckie, you don't know anything about it." 
 The little maiden lady interpreted it in this way, 
 and offered no further remark, whilst the Arch- 
 deacon's widow continued in a staid, systematic 
 tone, as though addressing a visitation of the 
 clergy— 
 
 " Position, Miss Luckie, especially in a place 
 like this, is a talent which ought not to be buried 
 in a napkin instead of presiding at a refreshment 
 stall. And, indeed, I felt it incumbent upon me, 
 as a person of some influence in this neighbour- 
 hood, to call round upon Mrs. Grey, and remon- 
 strate with her upon what I considered the 
 impropriety of her conduct. But I could make 
 no impression. Mrs. Grey is exceedingly firm, 
 though she has such a quiet way with her. Indeed, 
 if I were asked to give my opinion, I should say 
 she is almost obstinate."
 
 ST. OLAVES. 
 
 Here Mrs. Scrymgeour made a second lengthy- 
 investigation of the design she was copying upon 
 her crimson velvet altarcloth; and then stroked 
 down the soft rich material complacently. This 
 altarcloth was intended as a present to the Ca- 
 thedral, though whether the donor apprehended 
 its use in connection with an ordinance, which 
 inculcates upon all partakers the necessity of 
 being in love and charity with their neighbours, 
 is a question admitting of discussion. 
 
 The dialogue chronicled above, took place in 
 the dining-room of Mrs. Archdeacon Scrymgeour's 
 residence, a starch- and-buckr am looking house at 
 the north end of the Close, almost under the 
 shadow of the Chapter House. It was a very 
 stately old-fashioned room. The sunlight came 
 in through heavily-framed, narrow windows, and 
 rested upon massive oak wainscoting — very few 
 of the Close houses were papered, being built before 
 this modern shift came into vogue. The ceiling 
 was divided in deep panels, with a border of carved 
 oak, containing ecclesiastical devices and inscrip- 
 tions in old English characters. There were a 
 few family portraits on the walls, stiff old ladies 
 in topknots; three or four clergymen in gowns
 
 47 
 
 and bands ; and over the fireplace a bishop — Mrs. 
 Scrymgeour's father-in-law, — almost buried in a 
 huge easy chair, out of which the old gentleman's 
 lawn draperies boiled over in a milky froth, upon 
 a background of crimson curtains. 
 
 Mrs. Archdeacon Scrymgeour occupied her 
 usual position on the outskirts of the hearth-rug, 
 at right angles with the chimney-piece. Of course 
 there was no fire this summer evening ; but that 
 was Mrs. Scrymgeour's place, and therefore she 
 sat in it, being averse to change, which, as she 
 thought, indicated a weak disposition. Miss 
 Luckie was perched near the window, from which 
 she could command a view of the Close, with its 
 groups of elegantly dressed ladies, and gowned 
 Cathedral dignitaries. But now and then, as a 
 remarkably stylish party passed, or a carriage, 
 crested and coronetted, swept along the gravelled 
 sweep, she would leave her chair, and skim to the 
 window seat, with a funny little bobbing gait, 
 that reminded one irresistibly of the motion of a 
 water- wagtail. Miss Luckie's habitat at the 
 Low Gardens was very quiet, much too quiet for 
 the merry little maiden lady, who had no more 
 vocation for retirement than a magpie has for
 
 48 st. olave's. 
 
 silence. Often had she rued the over-much care- 
 fulness of the founders of the Home, who in their 
 anxiety to shelter its inmates from the glare and 
 hustle of outer life, had enclosed the garden with 
 a high wall, and beyond that a row of chestnut 
 trees, whose bushy branches formed a screen 
 through which not even the scarlet of an officer's 
 uniform, nor the most magnificent feminine toilet 
 that was ever accomplished, could penetrate. It 
 was to snatch a stray glimpse of fashionable life, 
 as well as to obtain a little wholesome exercise of 
 her vocal organs, in the course of a tete-a-tete with 
 Mrs. Scrymgeour, that Miss Luckie came so 
 frequently to Chapter Court. Between the two 
 ladies, on a soft crimson cushion, bolt upright, 
 as was its custom, sat the archidiaconal cat. But 
 that cat deserves a paragraph all to itself, and 
 shall have it. 
 
 The last descendant of a noble line, which had 
 nourished in the Close from a period anterior to 
 the memory of the oldest inhabitant, she pos- 
 sessed a pedigree almost as illustrious as that of 
 her mistress ; and she knew it too, and evinced her 
 appreciation of it by an unwonted dignity of de- 
 portment. Mrs. Scrvmgeour's was an ecclesi-
 
 st. olave's. 49 
 
 astical cat, accustomed to mix in genteel society, 
 and as such it scorned to roam the Close in com- 
 pany with others of less aristocratic birth and 
 family connections, or to scour the neighbour- 
 ing roofs, after dark, in quest of worldly amuse- 
 ment. Mrs. Scrymgeour's cat had tastes far 
 above anything of this sort, and preferred to 
 spend its secluded leisure on the hearth-rug of 
 the Chapter Court dining-room, listening to the 
 edifying conversation of its mistress; just step- 
 ping to the window now and then to see how the 
 world went on outside, but scornfully repelling 
 the advances of feline plebeians who sought to 
 lure it into friendly relations. Its proper bene- 
 fice was the crimson cushion, where it now sat 
 in due state and dignity, its shoulders slightly 
 shrugged, its tail decorously folded round its fore- 
 paws, its head drawn back with a supercilious 
 air, which had probably been acquired from the 
 Archdeacon's lady. A model of a Cathedral cat. 
 
 " And so you don't think," said Miss Luckie, 
 when she had resumed courage enough to get back 
 to the original starting-point ; " you don't think 
 they're likely to be an acquisition to the place ? " 
 
 " My dear Miss Luckie, I don't go so far as 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 50 
 
 that. The Dean and Chapter would never have 
 presented Mr. Bruce to the organ, if the family- 
 had not been unexceptionable, perfectly unexcep- 
 tionable, I mean as to moral qualifications. But 
 you must be aware, Miss Luckie, if you have given 
 the subject a judicious consideration " 
 
 ".Oh, Mrs. Scrymgeour, Fm not equal to a 
 judicious consideration ; Fm not, indeed. I never 
 got further than taking things as I find them, and 
 letting the judiciousness alone." 
 
 " That whatever manners and customs may be 
 in Scotland," continued Mrs, Scrymgeour, ignor- 
 ing Miss Luckie' s little parenthesis ; " and I would 
 not be understood to criminate them, as I have 
 never visited the country — in St. Olave's, Miss 
 Luckie, a person must be possessed of considerable 
 advantages, both of birth and position, to be viewed 
 in the light of an acquisition to the place. Now, 
 in a manufacturing district like Millsmany" — and 
 here Mrs. Scrymgeour' s face looked as if the good 
 lady had been suddenly called upon to swallow a 
 dose of black draught — " in Millsmany, Miss 
 Luckie, anybody is received; but in a Cathedral 
 city we look for superiority — superiority, I repeat, 
 is indispensable."
 
 st. olave's. 51 
 
 " Well now, do you know, Mrs. Scryuigeour, 
 it struck me from the very first, that the Bruces 
 had a superior air about them, as if they had 
 been accustomed to something upper class." 
 
 u My dear Miss Luckie," replied the Arch- 
 deacon's widow, with a gentle deprecatory wave of 
 her hand, somewhat wrinkled now and parchmenty, 
 " I should consider it quite out of my province to 
 indulge in any personal remarks on the air of the 
 Bruces. I never allow myself in animadversions. 
 I have no doubt the parties to whom you refer 
 are well conducted and respectable ; but I believe 
 you will allow, Miss Luckie, that in my position, 
 I cannot be expected to offer the right hand of 
 friendship to persons whose antecedents, so far as 
 I know at present, are involved in obscurity. And 
 as for their family " 
 
 " Haven't got one, I suppose, since we never 
 heard of it. But, after all, dear Mrs. Scrymgeour, 
 a pedigree isn't everything." 
 
 " Precisely so, Miss Luckie, precisely so. But 
 if I were asked to give my opinion, I should say 
 it is a great deal, especially in a place like this, 
 where, as I have often said, blood is indispensable." 
 And Mrs. Scrymgeour looked complacently across 
 
 e 2 
 LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF \l.UNO\S
 
 52 st. olave's. 
 
 the room to a compartment of one of the stained 
 windows, which contained her arms, quartered 
 with those of the late Archdeacon. 
 
 Mrs. Scrymgeour was very proud of her 
 pedigree. She considered it a great stay to her 
 respectability. The blood which oozed within 
 those wizened hands of hers had been imported 
 into this country at the time of the Norman 
 Conquest, and grew rich on English plunder for 
 a century or two. After that a little of it was 
 unfortunately spilt in the wars of the Hoses ; but 
 the remainder replenished itself by aristocratic 
 alliances, and flowed comfortably on until the civil 
 wars of Charles I., when it again paid the tax of 
 loyalty, and poured forth one or two libations on 
 Marston Moor and Naseby. During the Com- 
 monwealth it retired into private life, but frisked 
 and frolicked forth again in the Merrie Monarch's 
 Court, held on its course past the Georges, in 
 whose times it got into an ecclesiastical channel, 
 and fattened upon successive Rectories, Deaneries, 
 and Bishoprics. Fifty years ago it had joined its 
 proud current with that of the Honourable and 
 Reverend Marmaduke Mace, of Macefield, in 
 the county of , and the sole result of
 
 53 
 
 that union was the lady who now occupied 
 Chapter Court. 
 
 It was this pedigree, rather than any external 
 charms of face or manner, which won the hand — 
 not to say the heart — of the late Archdeacon, and 
 installed Mrs. Scrymgeour in the goodly fellow- 
 ship of the Close families. But to return to the 
 two ladies, who are still nibbling with true feminine 
 pertinacity, at that bone of contention — the social 
 position of the Bruce's. 
 
 " I rather fancy Mrs. A»»iel Grey has paid 
 them some attention though," said Miss Luckie ; 
 " and you know," added the little virgin, by way of 
 clenching her argument, " the Greys of Stoneby 
 are one of the oldest families in the North." 
 
 " Kindness, my dear Miss Luckie, pure kind- 
 ness. I quite appreciate Mrs. Amiel Grey's 
 motives; she's an excellent old lady, a very 
 excellent old lady. But we know what age is." 
 And the Archdeacon's widow said this with a 
 delightful waft of charity in her tones — " at least, 
 I don't mean practically," she continued, with a 
 glance at the lean and bony fingers which were 
 still manipulating the crimson velvet," " not 
 practically Miss Luckie."
 
 54 st. olave's. 
 
 " So far as you are concerned, not in the least, 
 dear Mrs. Scrymgeour." 
 
 " No. But you see age has its failings, and I 
 feel it my duty to say, that since her residence at 
 the Old Lodge, Mrs. Grey has never paid that 
 attention to her position which the locality de- 
 mands. Sometimes I have almost considered it 
 due to the other families in the Close, to give her 
 a gentle hint on the advisability of not calling 
 quite so indiscriminately on new comers. But 
 you know, poor dear lady, she is, as I said before, 
 so sweetly amiable, that there is no getting her to 
 understand these little matters of etiquette. I 
 really do believe, if she thought it would give 
 pleasure, she would not hesitate to leave a card at 
 the door of that retired merchant, who has just 
 come here from Millsmany to settle." 
 
 At the mention of this profoundest depth of 
 sweet amiability, the archidiaconal cat moved its 
 head round with a scornful sweep, shrugged its 
 shoulders, and slightly raised its left paw, with 
 a gesture that seemed to say — " Well, I never." 
 
 There was something very remarkable in the 
 way that cat had of expressing its sentiments in 
 common with its mistress. It had got a trick of
 
 st. olave's. 55 
 
 turning its head half-way round, and back again, 
 and elevating its back, as it sat bolt upright, with 
 tail decently folded over its fore feet ; and at the 
 mention of anything remarkably disgraceful in the 
 habits of a Cathedral city, It used to pucker its 
 forehead, move its whiskers rapidly backward and 
 forward, and look at the Archdeacon's widow with 
 an affecting expression of wounded dignity. 
 
 " Well, I really must confess/' said Miss 
 Luckie, somewhat hesitatingly, as though staggered 
 by the joint opinion of Mrs. Scrymgeour and 
 Puss, " I never could see the precise use of keep- 
 ing oneself so very much to oneself, although 
 certainly I always give a due regard to my 
 position as an officer's daughter, and have never 
 seen the way clear yet to show more than distant 
 civility to the lady in the next room to mine, 
 because her father was connected with the sugar 
 business; and although I've the greatest respect 
 for her, still you see trade and the army are so 
 very far apart. But sometimes I think the families 
 about here carry it a little too far. I'm afraid 
 there won't be a Cathedral Close for us in heaven, 
 where we can keep ourselves to ourselves, and 
 never meddle with any one else."
 
 56 
 
 " Rank is a divine ordinance, which, in my 
 opinion, will be recognized in the world to come ;" 
 and here Mrs. Scrymgeour's voice took a deeper 
 key, suited to the utterance of such solemn 
 realities. ' ' I have no sympathy with those who 
 reduce the future state to an indiscriminate 
 amalgamation of social degrees. Position, select- 
 ness, refinement, my dear Miss Luckie, will not 
 be entirely overlooked in another sphere of 
 being." 
 
 There was silence for a few moments, whilst 
 Mrs. Scrymgeour's opinions distilled into the mind 
 of her auditor. 
 
 " Well, really now/' resumed Miss Luckie, 
 "that's quite a new view of the case. Fm sure the 
 Dissenters about here ought to look after their 
 manners then, for some of them are sadly behind 
 hand. So you really think, Mrs. Scrymgeour, 
 that the nobility, clergy, and gentry, will have 
 separate accommodation provided for them in the 
 heavenly Canaan." 
 
 " I don't interfere with doctrinal subjects, Miss 
 Luckie. I left all such matters to the late Arch- 
 deacon ; but if I were asked to give my opinion, I 
 should say that birth, and rank, and breeding,
 
 st. olave's. 57 
 
 and, above all, ecclesiastical connections, will be 
 decidedly advantageous hereafter. I should con- 
 sider it quite inimical, under any circumstances, 
 to associate with such people as the merchants 
 of Millsmany, or the Dissenters of this neigh- 
 bourhood " 
 
 Mrs. Scrymgeour pronounced this word " Dis- 
 senters," with a condensed acerbity, a concentrated 
 essence of spleen, which "may be more easily 
 imagined than described." What the locusts 
 were to the Egyptians — what the east wind is to a 
 valetudinarian — what those sturdy vegetarians, the 
 snails, are to the lady florist, who finds them 
 morning by morning munching her choicest 
 annuals — such were the Dissenters to Mrs. Scrym- 
 geour. She confirmed her statement by a decisive 
 wave of her hand, a movement imitated by the cat 
 with its left paw. 
 
 Soon after this, Miss Luckie put on her bonnet 
 and trotted homewards, having been called for by 
 the old woman who acted as chaperone-general to 
 the Establishment at the Low Gardens. By-and- 
 by the shadows of night crept round and about ; 
 the porter shut the iron gates of the Close with a 
 reverberating clang ; the families — Dean, Canons,
 
 58 
 
 Vicars-choral, Prebends, old maidens, widows, 
 and Archdeacons, wrapped themselves up in their 
 gentility, and went to sleep. As the bell in the 
 broad tower rung out the stroke of ten o* clock, 
 Mrs. Scrymgeour summoned her household to 
 family prayers. She opened the silver-clasped, 
 morocco-covered Prayer-book, which lay on a 
 stand at the further end of the long dining-room, 
 and kneeling down on a soft velvet hassock, in- 
 formed the Almighty that she, in common with 
 the tasselled footmen and aproned damsels at the 
 bottom of the apartment, was a miserable sinner. 
 Then she asseverated that she had erred and 
 strayed like a lost sheep, and stigmatized herself 
 as an unworthy servant : both these statements 
 being made in a complacent and perfectly self- 
 satisfied tone, as though the meaning of them was 
 rather complimentary than otherwise. After- 
 wards she requested, as she had been in the habit 
 of requesting regularly every night for the last 
 twenty years, that she and everybody else might 
 be kept from all uncharitableness ; to which the 
 servants, doubtless, in their hearts, vouchsafed a 
 hearty Amen. After this she dispensed over them 
 the Apostolic benediction ; and then, with a com-
 
 st. olave's. 59 
 
 placent consciousness that, in the performance of 
 these duties, she had reached and compassed the 
 bounds of Christian duty, she gathered together 
 the ample folds of her rich black silk dress, swept 
 up the oaken staircase, and resigned herself to 
 dignified repose.
 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 N bygone times of rack and tumult, 
 when foreign armies pillaged the ducal 
 palaces of Italy, those who had rare and 
 valuable paintings bethought themselves of a 
 strange expedient by which these treasures might 
 be secured from the hand of the spoiler. They 
 learned to crust over the priceless canvas with 
 some composition, upon which they painted an 
 inferior picture, in coarse and common colours. 
 So when generals in search of plunder ransacked 
 the galleries, they threw these carelessly aside, 
 finding no worth in them, knowing not how 
 grand were the masterpieces which beneath such 
 rude daubs lay concealed. And now, time after 
 time, some connoisseur hunting amongst piles of 
 art rubbish in London back-streets, or con-
 
 st. olave's. 61 
 
 tinental cities, stumbles upon one of these 
 masked pictures, discerns beneath its rough crust 
 other and finer touches, carries it home, and day 
 by day, with patient, unwearying care clears off 
 the deceitful surface, until the real painting 
 stands confessed in its matchless beauty. 
 
 Something akin to this we find in the world of 
 human life. Often in its rush and hurry and 
 tumult, those of fine, sensitive natures encase 
 themselves within a second and outer life — 
 unseemly it may be — and having no beauty that 
 it should be desired by those whose eyes can only 
 see the outsides of things. Thus they live on, 
 uncared for, unprized among their fellows, until 
 one more skilled than the rest discerns beneath 
 this baffling outer surface the real, truejnature of 
 the man, and sees hidden from human sight 
 the glorious handiwork of the Divine artist. 
 Many such veiled ones there are, walking side by 
 side with us in this world, men of whom we are 
 not worthy, men whose real beauty and grandeur 
 we shall never know, until in the light of eternity 
 God uncovers His own image, and bids us see 
 them as they are. 
 
 It was a very shady, quiet life, such as the
 
 62 st. olave's. 
 
 world calls hum-drum, that David Bruce and his 
 sister lived in that little home of theirs. Slow 
 even for such a slow place as St. Olave's, and 
 one that would have been considered absolutely- 
 stagnant anywhere else. There was great silence 
 in both of their natures ; in hers the silence of 
 rest ; in his the silence of pride. Great strength 
 and resolution for any work that needed to be 
 done, for any effort that needed to be made; 
 great patience, too, for the struggle of life in 
 whatever form that struggle might come. Not 
 exactly the sort of people to be popular anywhere, 
 least of all in this trim little city of St. Olave's, 
 where elegant manners and polite address were so 
 very requisite, and whose whole superstructure 
 of social life was reared upon the foundation 
 stone of position. 
 
 And so after a little preparatory vibration, 
 after a few visits paid and received, one or two 
 wandering tendrils thrown out and withdrawn for 
 want of anything to cling to, David and Janet 
 Bruce drew apart from St. Olave's society, and 
 lived on in their own self-contained, secluded 
 life; chary even to each other of much outward 
 demonstration, yet holding fast a love which was
 
 st. olave's. 63 
 
 all the stronger because so much of it lay unseen. 
 
 Very beautiful, and a little touching, too, it 
 was to see how Janet Bruce deferred to David in 
 all things ; how the whole of her serene, reticent 
 nature had folded itself round "my brother;" 
 how she seemed to look at their life with all its 
 chances and changes and hopes, only as he might 
 be affected. She had an unbounded confidence in 
 him. Much of his mind she could not under- 
 stand — men and women never do know each 
 other thoroughly — but what she did know she 
 reverenced, and the rest she believed in with 
 woman-like trust. 
 
 Just they two living in that old-fashioned house 
 on the outskirts of the cathedral city of St. 
 Olave's. Only they two. Ah ! what great issues 
 of death and separation must have come to pass, 
 what weary sorrows been grappled with, what 
 words of long farewell said, what slow falling off 
 and dropping away of human interests, what 
 breaks in the once crowded fireside circle, what 
 gradual, painful narrowing down of joy and hope, 
 ere Janet Bruce had learned to say "my 
 brother and V — in that little sentence comprising 
 her all of earthly possession and affection. But
 
 64 
 
 of these things they never spoke save to each 
 other, and then only with that grave reverence 
 which is most meet in touching all bygone sorrow. 
 
 David Bruce had come home from afternoon 
 service, and the two were sitting in the little 
 parlour at Westwood. Their evenings were 
 mostly spent there in the pleasant summer time. 
 The new anthem, in which David had been prac- 
 tising the choristers, lay open on the table. He 
 was standing at the window with folded arms, 
 looking past the sunlit trellis work of ivy and 
 vine leaves into the still garden and away to the 
 purple-grey Minster towers, which were set like 
 a picture in a framework of clasping linden 
 branches. Looking, not with the vague, idle 
 gaze of a waking dream, but steadily, fixedly, 
 with absorbed intensity of meditation, as though 
 slowly working out some train of thought that 
 had grown up in his mind. 
 
 David Bruce was not what society terms an 
 elegant man. There was neither style nor 
 fashion about him; nothing but grave, quiet 
 dignity, and a certain steady resolution which 
 could both dare and do great things, if need be. 
 Not handsome either ; his features were too
 
 irregular for that, and his eyes too deeply set. 
 But he had the real musician's forehead, — full, 
 broad, and roundly outlined, — such as one sees 
 in the heads of Cherubini and Beethoven, 
 shadowed by thick tangled hair, already plen- 
 tifully streaked with grey. His face was the 
 face of a man who, in passing through this 
 world, has met with more of disappointment 
 than hope fulfilled; one who has been tried, 
 harassed — perhaps wronged and betrayed — for 
 some of the lines about the mouth were very 
 bitter, and there was a set, resolute, somewhat 
 incredulous expression in the dark-grey eyes, 
 which told of hardness endured and suffering 
 conquered. But the most striking part of David 
 Bruce's face was the perfectly straight line of 
 the eyebrows, always a great beauty in any 
 face, and the only thing which redeemed his 
 from downright plainness. It gave a look of 
 gentleness and purity to the whole counten- 
 ance. 
 
 " Brother," said Janet, looking up from a 
 
 fine damask table-cloth which she was darning. 
 
 She always waited for his answer before she 
 
 . went on with any remark she had to make j 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 st. olave's. 
 
 it was a sort of silent tribute of respect to 
 him. 
 
 "Well, Jeanie." 
 
 "I have been thinking it is much more 
 expensive living here than in Scotland." 
 
 Which matter-of-fact observation, clashing as 
 it did with the first phrases of a symphony 
 which were weaving themselves in David's brain, 
 did not meet with an immediate answer. 
 
 So there was silence again between them — 
 silence whilst the light crept slowly up from 
 branch to branch of the linden trees, and the 
 western sunshine began to flicker in a warm 
 red glow from the topmost windows of the 
 great Cathedral tower. Janet darned patiently 
 on, held the table-cloth up to the light to see 
 if there were any more thin places in it, and 
 then with another glance at her brother, who 
 was still standing at the window with folded 
 arms, she began again upon the old subject. 
 
 It was a very noticeable feature in Janet 
 Brace's character, this habit she had of sticking 
 resolutely to any thought which had once 
 worked its way into her mind. Often when 
 sitting alone with her brother, she would make
 
 st. olave's. 67 
 
 some chance remark that moved neither 
 answer nor comment, and then perhaps an hour 
 afterwards, when he had forgotten all about it, 
 a second deliberate sentence would show that 
 her ideas had all the while been quietly work- 
 ing on in the old track. 
 
 "And I have been thinking, Davie, it is time 
 we began to do something to make ends meet. 
 Your salary now is quite insufficient for the ap- 
 pearance which we are expected to make. I have 
 only five pounds left of the money you gave me at 
 the beginning of the quarter " 
 
 " And it will be — how long before I get any 
 more ?" 
 
 " Just six weeks," said Janet, referring to the 
 little almanack which she always carried in her 
 pocket, u and I really don't think I can manage 
 on sixteen shillings a week until then." 
 
 " I don't see what's to be done, Jeanie. You 
 know I have only had two applications in answer 
 to my advertisement for pupils. St. Olave's 
 appears to be well-stocked with music masters 
 already, and I suppose until I am fortunate enough 
 to get a name in the musical world, there is no 
 other way in which we can better ourselves." 
 
 f 2
 
 68 st. olave's. 
 
 " There was a thought came into my mind this 
 morning, Davie," and Janet went to the sideboard 
 drawer, from which she took the supplement sheet 
 of the " Times." " I was looking over the paper 
 when you brought it in last night, and I found 
 this advertisement. I wonder if we could make 
 anything out about it." 
 
 And Janet read : — 
 
 " A lady desires to meet with board and resi- 
 dence in a quiet famity, where there are no 
 children. The neighbourhood of a small English 
 town preferred. Unexceptionable references given 
 and required. Address A. B., Post Office, Kes- 
 wick, Cumberland." 
 
 c ' Well, Jeanie," and David came and sat down 
 in his great arm-chair with a grave, business-like 
 expression on his face, as of a man who has got 
 something to do and means to go through with it. 
 
 "It would not be a great deal of trouble, 
 brother. I have been considering how things 
 might be managed. There is the bedroom that 
 looks towards St. Olave's, we never use it for our- 
 selves, and as we have no visitors, it is not likely 
 to be wanted at present. That would do very 
 well for a lady of moderate requirements, if we
 
 69 
 
 had it painted, and new hangings put up. Then 
 there is that canny little room where I keep my 
 plants. She might have it for a sort of privat e 
 sitting-room, when she did not wish to be with 
 us." 
 
 " It would use up your time very much, Jeanie. 
 You do not know what amount of attention she 
 might need — at least, I mean, how much she 
 might require ; people often require a great deal 
 when they need very little." 
 
 " As for the trouble, Davie, I don't care much 
 about that. I would as soon work at one thing 
 as another. You know I am not easily worried." 
 
 Any one who looked into Miss Bruce's face 
 might have told that in a moment. She was 
 a member of the Peace Society, in more senses 
 than one. 
 
 " At any rate, Jeanie," said her brother, " we 
 could meet one of the conditions specified in the 
 advertisement. I don't think any one would 
 question the fact of our being a ( quiet family.' 
 We have been here four months now, and in that 
 time we have had, let me see, how many callers — 
 three, have we not ? — the clergyman of the parish, 
 the medical man, who only left his card because
 
 70 st. olave's. 
 
 he heard you were liable to affections of the throat, 
 and — Miss Grey." 
 
 This last name was uttered with that slight and 
 yet perceptible fall of the voice, which people un- 
 consciously use in speaking any name which lies 
 far down in their thoughts. But Janet neither 
 noticed this nor the pause which had preceded it. 
 
 " You have forgotten the tax-gatherers, Davie/' 
 and a touch of quiet humour stole into her face ; 
 " the borough rates, and the water rates, and the 
 Church rates, and the watching, lighting, and 
 paving rates, and the poor rates; besides the 
 ladies who call for subscriptions. You see we 
 are not quite deserted." 
 
 " Oh ! I forgot, and that accounts for my salary 
 melting away so. But there is another thing, 
 Jeanie, have you thought of the loss of position 
 which our taking a lodger would involve ? I don't 
 care for it myself, but it would make me feel 
 wicked rathe*r to see Mrs. Scrymgeour pass you 
 by with more polite scorn than she does now." 
 
 " We will try to do without a position, Davie, 
 at least, until you can take your own, and I am 
 sure you will do that before long. When will 
 that Oratorio of yours be finished ?"
 
 71 
 
 " In November, I hope." 
 
 "Only four months. Shall you really be 
 through with it by then ?" 
 
 " That depends. Sometimes it won't go at all, 
 and I get out of heart about it ; and then again 
 the whole plan unfolds before me, and I can see 
 
 my way right on to the end. But, Jeanie " 
 
 "Well, brother." 
 
 " One ought to be quiet and happy to compose 
 beautiful music. You can't do anything well 
 when you have a sense of not being in your right 
 place whilst you are doing it." 
 
 ( ' But still, Davie, we are very comfortable here," 
 and Janet took a survey of the room — so dainty in 
 its neatness — as though it held all that she cared for 
 now. ' ' We are very comfortable, I mean so far as 
 the house is concerned, and if we could only just man- 
 age to increase our income a little, at least for the 
 present; you know we can do without being rich." 
 " Yes, Jeanie, but think of the 'old house and 
 all that might have been." 
 
 David Bruce paused ; he had forgotten himself. 
 He looked quickly at his sister, as if fearing he 
 might have grieved her by the memories his words 
 had roused. But her face was calm as ever.
 
 72 st. olave's. 
 
 " Brother, by-and-by we shall see that it has 
 all been for the best. You did nobly in doing 
 what yon did. It is one of the proudest things I 
 have to think about, that you had courage to give 
 up all and begin the world afresh. And as for the 
 home " 
 
 m 
 
 Janet looked past her brother into the still, 
 sunlit garden. For her, quiet and peacefulness 
 were all that any home could give now. She had 
 overpast the time when people want something 
 more than these. With him it was different. 
 All the purposes and expectancies of manhood lay 
 brooding under that firm, self-contained face, 
 tightening it down now into a stern, almost harsh 
 expression. Something else than peace, David 
 Bruce wanted ; he is scarcely a man who can be 
 content with that. Name and fame, a grand, true 
 life-work, influence and sway over other minds, 
 a steady, immovable standing place in this world, 
 something to labour at, and some one else to 
 labour for — all these he wanted. But this was- 
 the side of his character which Janet could not 
 understand. 
 
 " For the home, brother/' she continued, " we 
 have each other, and perhaps by-and-by "
 
 st. olave's. 73 
 
 What possibilities lay folded in that " by-and- 
 by " were not destined to come to light. A gentle 
 knock was heard outside, and presently Alice 
 Grey stood in the parlour, startling its quietness 
 like a living flash of sunshine. 
 
 Wherever Alice Grey came, she brought with 
 her a fresh, sunshiny feel. Perhaps it was the 
 bonnie girlish frankness of her ways, or the clear 
 unclouded brightness that shone out upon her 
 face, or the unwritten music of every step and 
 motion that seemed to shrine her round with this 
 joyous presence. Be that as it might, most 
 people felt it. So did David Bruce. It unbound 
 the strong lines of his face, and brought back the 
 old, kind, softened expression, steady and firm 
 withal, that used to come there when some beau- 
 tiful phrase of melody was tracking its way 
 through his thoughts. 
 
 She skimmed across the room to the broad 
 low window seat, and settled down there with 
 -a floating butterfly sort of grace, the rays of 
 sunlight that flickered in through the vine leaves, 
 dancing and playing over her as though glad at 
 last to find something akin to themselves. 
 
 Somehow you always associated sunshine with
 
 74 st. olave's. 
 
 Alice Grey ; it never came into your head to ask 
 how she would look in rain and mist. 
 
 ' ' Won't you let me put you a more comfortable 
 seat ?" said Miss Bruce, with a grave courtesy, 
 that seemed graver still in contrast with the buoy- 
 ant flashing grace of her visitor. 
 
 " No, thank you," said Alice, " don't move. I 
 want to stay where I am. I remember I sat here 
 that evening I came to have tea with you, and I 
 thought it was so nice. Besides, the look-out 
 into this garden, helps to make one happy." 
 
 Had Alice spoken her thoughts, she might per- 
 haps have added, that the look inward did not 
 tend towards that desirable end; but it was one of 
 her unconscious habits to look always on the 
 brightness. 
 
 " This garden of yours is so quiet and pretty, 
 but my fingers tingle to tear down some of those 
 branches, and let more sunlight in. Don't you 
 think it is a good thing to have as much as ever 
 we can get, Mr. Bruce ?" she said, turning round 
 to David, who was collecting his scattered 
 papers. 
 
 He smiled, thinking that if she would come and 
 stay in the room, they should always have plenty,
 
 75 
 
 but with national reserve he kept this thought 
 back, and only said, with a quiet double meaning 
 in his tones — 
 
 " I am obliged to work very hard, Miss Grey, 
 and too much sunshine would dazzle my 
 eyes." 
 
 ' ' Would it ? It never dazzled mine yet, and I 
 always thought you couldn't have too much of a 
 good thing. Somehow I can't get along without 
 it. But I'm afraid I am disturbing you. I 
 remember when I came last time, you were very 
 busy most of the evening until dark." 
 
 David remembered it too, that visit had been 
 to him, though he could scarcely tell why, like 
 a trail of brightness over the unsunned quiet of 
 the month. 
 
 " And then you played for me. Oh ! I have 
 so often thought of it since. But I am not going 
 to interrupt you so much to-night. I have 
 brought a message from Aunt Amiel for Miss 
 Bruce," and she turned towards Janet, who had 
 resumed her work; "we want you to come and 
 spend a long day with us, whilst this pleasant 
 summer weather lasts. Come, will you ?" 
 
 Miss Bruce thanked her, but with an undertone
 
 76 
 
 of hesitation in her voice. Going out to tea made 
 a somewhat violent break in the monotony of her 
 daily life. 
 
 Alice noticed this hesitation, and thought it 
 was perhaps because she did not like to leave her 
 brother alone for so long. So she went on to say 
 in her straightforward, frank way, without any 
 constraint or simpering — 
 
 ' ' And Aunt Amiel told me to say that if Mr. 
 Bruce would come, we should be very glad to 
 see him. Only we have no gentlemen at the 
 Old Lodge, and I don't know anybody that you 
 w r i 1 d like to meet. But if you won't mind the 
 quietness, we will do all we can to make a pleasant 
 evening." 
 
 David smiled again, the rippling smile that 
 came so rarely over that massive face, but once 
 coming would never be forgotten ; it was so deep, 
 and almost womanly in its kindness. To be 
 spoken to with this fair, frank equality, brought 
 back the old home days at Perth. It was plea- 
 sant, too, to have that young, fresh, pure girl-face 
 looking into his. 
 
 " Thank you, I will come if you like ; but 
 Jeanie and I have lived so long in our quiet way,
 
 77 
 
 that we have almost forgotten how to make our- 
 selves agreeable." 
 
 " Then it is quite time you began to learn 
 again. And come soon, will you, Miss Bruce ? 
 I want you to see our acacia-tree before all the 
 blossoms are gone, and they began to fall yester- 
 day." 
 
 Janet promised to do so, and her staid face 
 brightened a little, as most faces did in the light 
 of Alice Grey's. The day was fixed, and with a 
 little more friendly chit-chat, for none of the party 
 excelled in what could be called brilliant conver- 
 sation, Alice fluttered out of the room. When 
 she had gone, it seemed as if a flash of sunshine 
 had suddenly died out, or some beautiful strain of 
 music ceased ; all seemed so grey and hushed. 
 
 Miss Bruce went to open the door for her. 
 This was a piece of politeness David generally 
 left to his sister. Standing at the window after 
 they were gone, in his old position, his hands 
 folded behind him, he heard Alice say, in that 
 dainty, child-like voice of hers — 
 
 " I have very few friends, and I feel lonely 
 sometimes. I would like to know you if you 
 will let me."
 
 78 
 
 The words, or something in the mnsic of her 
 voice, drifted him away into a dim, pleasant, 
 waking dream, which lasted until long after Janet 
 Bruce had come back, and settled down again 
 to her knitting. She thought he would have said 
 something about their visitor, but he never spoke, 
 and grey evening brought its usual silence into the 
 little room. 
 
 " Ah \" said Janet to herself, as she peered 
 through the deepening twilight into her brother's 
 musing, abstracted face, " Davie is so wrapped up 
 in this Oratorio of his. He has no thought for 
 anything else." 
 
 She took advantage of his silence to steal away, 
 and hold a consultation with Tibbie as to the 
 feasibility of the lodging scheme. 
 
 Tibbie was the maid of all work. She had lived 
 with the Bruces in the time of their prosperity ; 
 and when two years ago, a sudden reverse of 
 fortune compelled them to break up their establish- 
 ment and dismiss their servants, the old Scotch- 
 woman stoutly refused to turn out with the rest. 
 
 "I'll no gang awa," she said with vigorous 
 determination. "Yer mitherwas aye gude to me,
 
 st. olave's. 79 
 
 an' Fve took tent o'ye sin ye were a wee bit lassie, 
 an' I'll no gang awa the noo." So she staid and 
 came with them to St. Olave's. 
 
 Tibbie was a short, stiff, strongly built woman 
 with square shoulders, a thick waist and ancles to 
 match. She generally wore a linsey petticoat, 
 with a checked short gown fastened around her 
 sturdy figure and a cap of snowy white sometimes 
 tied down with a blue kerchief. The only 
 root of bitterness which ever sprang up between 
 Janet and her maid, was Tibbie's obstinate refusal 
 to wear shoes and stockings when they came to 
 Westwood. With true Scottish pertinacity she 
 scorned to abate one iota of her nationality in 
 favour of southern prejudices. 
 
 " But Tibbie/' said Janet, meekly, for she stood 
 rather in awe of the stout Caledonian dame, 
 " everybody in England wears shoes and stock- 
 ings." 
 
 "The mair blame tull em, Miss Janet. I'll just 
 gang my ain gate, an' do as my forbears has done 
 afore me ;" and Tibbie cast a glance of infinite 
 contempt at the pair of Nottingham hose which 
 Janet held out for her acceptance. 
 
 At last a compromise was effected between
 
 80 ST. olave's. 
 
 them, by which it was agreed that Tibbie should 
 go barefoot during the early part of the day, and 
 encase her lower extremities in suitable attire 
 when the work was done. But she grumbled 
 sadly at the arrangement, and over and over 
 again assured her mistress that nothing but most 
 self-denying devotion to the interests of the family, 
 could reconcile her to this violation of old-estab- 
 lished customs. 
 
 Tibbie was always consulted as to the domestic 
 arrangements of Westwood, and would have held 
 it an unpardonable insult had any important 
 change been made without her sanction. She 
 took the family interests — big and little — into the 
 keeping of her tough honest heart, watching over 
 them to the extent of her ability, with as much 
 vigilance and self-importance as any prime min- 
 ister ever showed in guarding the affairs of a 
 kingdom. 
 
 " Well, Tibbie/' said Janet, " what do you 
 think. Could you manage a little more work 
 than you have now V 
 
 " Mair wark," replied Tibbie, looking round 
 on her well-kept pans and candlesticks. " Mair 
 work ! deed an' I'm just wearyin for the time
 
 ST. olave's. 81 
 
 when my twa hands couldna' grip a' the work o' 
 the Pairth hoose. I am through wi' it the noo 
 afore the day is done lang lang, and then its 
 nought but knit knit till my fingers aches. Fd 
 be gey glad gin the wark were double/' 
 
 " We were thinking, Tibbie, of taking a lady to 
 board with us, but I thought I would ask you first 
 if you were agreeable." 
 
 " That's like you, Miss Janet ; ye were aye full 
 o' thocht for a' body but yoursel. It isn't Tibbie 
 as would weary if the wark were thrice mair." 
 
 So that was settled. Janet came back into 
 the parlour looking quite satisfied, and before the 
 household went to bed, a letter was despatched 
 into Cumberland, stating the advantages which 
 Westwood could offer to a lady who desired board 
 and residence in a quiet family. 
 
 VOL i.
 
 m 
 
 aik -^ > ** 1 ^^ 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 jJNE entire day passed, and on the third 
 morning the postman's scarlet cap was 
 
 J seen winding up Westwood lane. Davie 
 and Janet were sitting in the back parlour or 
 "keeping room" as they called it, when Tibbie 
 brought the letter in. It was addressed to Mis- 
 tress Janet Bruce, and was written in a cramped, 
 professional lawyer-like hand. It ran thus : — 
 
 " Madam, 
 
 ( ' "We are in receipt of a communication in 
 which you offer board and residence to a lady of 
 moderate desires and quiet habits. Before we 
 make any definite arrangements, you will oblige us 
 by answering one or two questions. Is St. Olave's a 
 place of much resort for strangers ? Is it situated 
 on, or near any of the grand trunk-lines of
 
 83 
 
 rail ? Is Westwood a village, or simply the name 
 of your residence? If the latter, is the house 
 situated in a public part of the town, or where 
 there are many passers by ? Lastly, in case of the 
 lady taking up her abode in your family, would 
 she see much society, or is your mode of living 
 quiet and secluded ? The names you mention as 
 references are perfectly satisfactory, and we think 
 there could be no difficulty in completing an 
 arrangement should the questions we propose be 
 suitably answered. We have the honour to be, 
 Madam, your obedient servants, 
 
 "Scruten & Co." 
 
 One or two references to parties in the Lake 
 district were enclosed. 
 
 " Rather a curious letter. It seems to be 
 written by the lady's solicitors," said David, ex- 
 amining the thick blue office-like paper and cramped 
 hand-writing. 
 
 " Perhaps she is an orphan, or a ward in Chan- 
 cery with a large fortune." 
 
 "Possibly, for they seem quite disposed to be 
 liberal in money matters. The questions puzzle 
 me rather. I cannot understand why such perfect 
 retirement should be needed." 
 
 g 2
 
 84 st. olave's. 
 
 " The lady may be nervous/' suggested Janet, 
 " and have a dread of society/' 
 
 " I hope not. Whatsoever we do, Janet, don't 
 let us have a nervous lady to come and board 
 with us. It would be worse than living next door 
 to a family where the children all learned 
 music." 
 
 "Yes, much worse, because in the case of the 
 family you might possibly get some pupils. But 
 if she were nervous, she would most likely have 
 advertised for a place quite in the country." 
 
 " I don't think it. Nervous people like the 
 possibility of society without the probability of it." 
 
 "It strikes me that she may be an authoress, 
 brother." 
 
 David shrugged his shoulders ; he had a whole- 
 some aversion to literary women. 
 
 « Worse and worse, Janet," said he. "I should 
 be disposed to back out of the affair altogether, if 
 she is connected with the press. I think though, 
 had she been an authoress, she would have con- 
 ducted her own correspondence. But we must 
 not speculate any more; these questions want 
 answering, and the letter ought to go to-day." 
 
 "In the first place, then," continued David,
 
 st. olave's. 85 
 
 taking up the lawyer-like document, " as to St. 
 Olave's being a place of public resort." 
 
 " Well, Davie, it is a Cathedral city, and I suppose 
 all Cathedral cities are liable to visitations from 
 strangers. And then the ruins up at Norlands 
 might bring people to the neighbourhood." 
 
 ' ' I rather think though, the question refers to 
 public amusements, lectures, concerts, balls and 
 such things, and we don't have many of them in 
 St. Olave's ; it is about as sleepy a place as any one 
 could come to. Next, as to the line of rail." 
 
 "We must tell them that it is on the route from 
 London to the West of Scotland. I would not 
 misrepresent the case on any account." 
 
 "Nor I, but our house is three miles nearly 
 from the station. And now about the residence. 
 The questions are certainly explicit enough, Janet." 
 
 "Yes, the writer might be a Scotchman for 
 precision." 
 
 " We can satisfy him on that subject. We will 
 tell him that the house stands back in a large garden 
 at the end of a lane about a quarter of a mile from 
 the high road, and furthermore that the lane leads 
 nowhere in particular. I believe that is correct." 
 
 "And as to the visitors."
 
 86 
 
 " They come at the rate of three in six months, 
 exclusive of tax-gatherers. I wonder if that will 
 meet their wishes/' and a somewhat bitter smile 
 drew down the corners of David Bruce' s month. 
 
 Janet saw it. 
 
 " Don't look so, Davie ; we love one another, 
 and Fm sure we are very happy. But it is time 
 you were away to the Minster now, and we will 
 send the letter this afternoon." 
 
 David set out. It was a clear, sunny July 
 morning. He took off his Glengarry bonnet and 
 let the wind play through his hair. It came with 
 an idle, sleepy sort of waft; oh ! so different to the 
 healthy life-giving breezes which used to sweep 
 down upon him from the Perth hills. But every- 
 thing about St. Olave's seemed to partake of the 
 nature of the place. The old elm trees in the 
 Close rocked to and fro with grave ecclesiastical 
 dignity; the sunshine, when it came, lay in broad 
 monotonous sweeps, too well-bred to dance or 
 sparkle or glint as Highland sunshine does. Even 
 the very sky remembered that it overwrapped a 
 Cathedral city, and never suffered its clouds to 
 grow black and foamy over the storms they 
 occasionally found it neccessary to hatch. Ah ! it
 
 87 
 
 was a dull place, this St. Olave's — dull mentally, 
 morally, and spiritually; the Seven Sleepers could 
 have wished no quieter spot. 
 
 David got to his place in the organ-gallery a 
 good while before the service began, so he parted 
 the heavy crimson curtains which closed him in, 
 and watched the people assemble. 
 
 The congregation was very select. Mrs. 
 Scrymgeour was there, in her pew at the right of 
 the reading-desk, very near to the little boy 
 choristers, who cherished a mortal hatred towards 
 her because she had once been the means of 
 procuring them a terrible reproof from the Dean. 
 The graceless juveniles had had the audacity, 
 during the chanting of the Psalms, to carry on 
 some private monetary transactions relative to the 
 buying and selling of black-jack. Mrs. Scrym- 
 geour affirmed, upon her dignity as an Arch- 
 deacon's widow, that she heard them sing, " you 
 shall have it for twopence," " say a penny three- 
 farthings, and Fll take it," instead of chanting 
 the proper words as printed by authority in their 
 music books. Of course this was a grave offence, 
 and the boys suffered accordingly, being confined 
 in the vestry a whole day, and fed upon bread and
 
 88 st. olave's. 
 
 water. But they never forgot it, and used to 
 make awful faces at Mrs. Scrymgeour behind their 
 white surplices whilst the prayers were going on. 
 
 After her, Mistress Amiel Grey came in, lean- 
 ing on the arm of Alice. It was rarely now that 
 she got to the service, for she was growing very 
 infirm. Still, though she walked slowly, her 
 figure was quite erect, and there was a grave 
 sweet dignity about her, which made the old folks 
 from the almshouses curtsey as she passed them. 
 Alice looked very bonnie in her brown hat and 
 simple print-dress. David fancied that once she 
 looked up towards the organ-gallery, but he could 
 not tell whether it was the glance of her eye he 
 caught, or only a glint of sunshine which had got 
 imprisoned among her light curls. Before she 
 came in he was intending to play one of Handel's 
 slow movements for the voluntary; when he 
 saw her he changed his mind, and chose instead 
 that symphony from his half-finished Oratorio 
 which he had played to her at Westwood. 
 
 It so chanced that when David Bruce was 
 coming down out of the organ-gallery, after 
 prayers were over, he encountered Mrs. Amiel 
 Grey, who generally stayed in the choir until most
 
 st. olave's. 89 
 
 of the people had dispersed. A fit of shyness 
 came over him, and he would have drawn back 
 again, but Alice sprang forward and held out her 
 hand to him. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Bruce \" she said, " I was so glad to 
 hear that music again ; it has just been living on 
 in my thoughts ever since you played it that 
 night. I wish you would play it very often, it 
 does me more good than all the rest of the service." 
 
 David could not think of anything to say. He 
 felt stupid and awkward, and so, after murmuring 
 a few words about being glad that he had given 
 her any pleasure, he turned away, and set off 
 down the nave to a little side door which led into 
 the Close. 
 
 " Who is that gentleman ? " said Aunt Amiel. 
 
 "It is Miss Bruce' s brother, aunt. He 
 walked home with me from West wood, when I 
 
 was there a few weeks ago. But, " continued 
 
 Alice, after a pause, during which she had been 
 tracing a labyrinth of figures with her parasol on 
 the marble pavement. 
 
 " Well, dear, what is it ? » 
 
 u He is such a quiet man, such a very quiet 
 man, Aunt Amiel/''
 
 90 st. olave's. 
 
 The Keswick letter was sent off by that night's 
 post, and another day intervened, which was 
 spent by Janet in vague speculations as to the 
 expected stranger. The Friday morning on which 
 the answer arrived, began with a regular even 
 down-pour of rain, and a chill breeze, which made 
 the Westwood people glad to have a fire in their 
 little sitting-room. The letter this time was 
 addressed in a delicate, flowing, graceful female 
 hand, very different to the cramped lawyer-like 
 style of the preceding one. It was sodden with 
 wet, having lain at the top of the postman's 
 packet all the way from St. Olave's. Janet scanned 
 it for a long time very carefully without opening 
 the envelope. 
 
 " Come Jeanie," said David, " what are you 
 Waiting for ? " 
 
 " I was only thinking, brother, how very much 
 this writing is like Alice Grey's." 
 
 " I have not seen any of Miss Grey's writing. 
 Did you ever have a note from her ? " 
 
 "Yes, once. But I remember you were out 
 when it came. It was to ask me to go to tea that- 
 first time, about two months ago. Just a line, 
 nothing more."
 
 ST. olave's. 91 
 
 <{ Let me see what like it is." 
 
 Janet went to her writing-desk and took out 
 the note, — a dainty little billet, — with Mistress 
 Amiel Grey's crest upon it. 
 
 David took it from her. It was pleasant to 
 hold in his hand anything that Alice Grey had 
 touched, — anything upon which she had left the 
 impress of her own gracefulness. 
 
 Yes, the handwriting was certainly similar. 
 The same fine graceful lines, no crooks, no angles, 
 no ugly tail strokes running half across the page. 
 It bespoke a character large and free and 
 harmonious. 
 
 David held the note a long time, certainly 
 much longer than was needed for the mere sake 
 of comparing it with the other letter which the 
 postman had just brought. At last he laid it on 
 the chimney-piece within his reach, instead of 
 giving it back to Janet. She did not ask for it, 
 for she was intently spelling out the important 
 missive from Cumberland. 
 
 " This is the lady's name, then/' she said, and 
 read aloud : — 
 
 "Mrs. Edenall thanks Miss Bruce for her full and 
 explicit answers to the inquiries made by Messrs.
 
 92 st. olave's. 
 
 Scruten. On the whole they are satisfactory, as 
 are also the terms which Miss Bruce proposes, and 
 to which Mrs. Edenall agrees. Perfect retirement, 
 freedom from the intrusions of visitors, is all that 
 Mrs. E. desires, and she trusts that in coming to 
 reside at Westwood this will be gained. Mrs. 
 Edenall proposes joining Miss Bruce on the 
 24th inst. The train, arrives in St. Olave's about 
 
 8 P.M." 
 
 This letter bore a crest, and it had a deep black 
 border. 
 
 " Mrs. Edenall. It is a pretty name. She is 
 a fortunate creature, Janet, to desire nothing but 
 retirement, and we shall not be afraid of dis- 
 appointing her." 
 
 u She does not write like an authoress either, 
 Davie." 
 
 "No, the handwriting is too pretty for that, 
 and besides she doesn't use long words. The 
 note is as simple as even Alice Grey could 
 write." 
 
 " I fancy David, she is a widow • of good 
 family too, from the crest on the envelope. I 
 wonder what is the device." 
 
 Janet took it to the window, but could not
 
 93 
 
 decipher it. The rain had sodden the paper and 
 blurred it, so that something like a hand was all 
 that she conld make out. 
 
 " It is no use keeping the note/' she said, 
 " papers litter about so." And Janet put both 
 envelope and letter into the fire. " Eight o'clock 
 on the evening of the 24th. That's a week 
 to-day." 
 
 "You had better have kept the envelope, 
 Janet. When the rain dried off, you might have 
 deciphered the crest." 
 
 " It is too late now/' she said, as the paper 
 shrivelled and crackled in the flames. " I don't 
 think, though, it is of any consequence. But if she 
 comes this day week, I must see about having the 
 toilette covers sent to the wash." And Janet 
 went out. 
 
 When she had gone, David took Alice Grey's 
 note off the chimney-piece and read it over and 
 over again. No one would have said that his face 
 looked harsh or rugged then. A very gentle 
 smile, scarcely a smile, but a sort of reflection 
 from some inner light, swept over it, and made it 
 look almost beautiful. Then he folded the note 
 up and put it in his pocket-book, the first English
 
 U4 ST. OLAVE'S. 
 
 thing that David Bruce had thought worth 
 treasuring. Janet never asked him for it. She 
 had either forgotten it altogether, or supposed 
 that it had been burned with Mrs. EdenalPs. 
 
 Next evening was the one which had been 
 fixed for them to go to the Old Lodge.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 [IKfRft -^ ^ld Lodge, occupied by Mistress 
 fll^SB ^ m ^ e ^ Grey, — widow of Dean Grej 
 ■»J—»3 who had died thirty years ago, — what 
 a quaint, quiet, out-of-the-world spot it was, 
 standing back at the west corner of the Ca- 
 thedral Close, past the Deanery, Bishop' s 
 Palace and Residence. The very air of eld 
 breathed out from its red gables and carved 
 fronts ; stories of long ago days seemed nestling 
 among the shadows which lay so silently behind 
 the grey and mossed oriel windows. It was 
 built in the time of the Tudors, and had been 
 used by one of them as a Court residence when 
 he visited St. Olave's. Even yet the Royal arms 
 and monograms were to be seen traced over the 
 principal entrance and upon some of the panels
 
 96 
 
 in the hall. The old women in the almshouses 
 told a story, that on the thirtieth of January, 
 King Charles used to ride up one of the long 
 corridors with his head under his arm, but they 
 were free to confess they had never seen the 
 gruesome sight, and only believed it on hear- 
 say. 
 
 The Old Lodge did not look like a haunted 
 place at all. It had far too much cosy sub- 
 stantiality to suit the tastes of ghostly visitants, 
 who seem to have a vocation for making them- 
 selves, as well as other people, uncomfortable, 
 and for the most part confine their habitat to 
 damp attics and mouldy passages. It was a 
 low, rambling, irregular house, one end fronting 
 the Cathedral Close, the rest reaching down to 
 the river and the Monastery Gardens. Clasping 
 masses of ivy, and, in summer-time, luxuriant 
 tresses of vine and jasmine, clothed it com- 
 pletely over, forming a delicate fret-work round 
 the oriel windows and little diamond casements, 
 or wreathing fantastically above the brazen 
 weathercocks which surmounted some of the 
 gables. Part of the building formed a quad- 
 rangle round a gravelled court, in the midst of
 
 97 
 
 which was an old-fashioned fountain spirting 
 forth one slow, monotonous jet of water from 
 the mouth of a stone dolphin, surrounded by 
 little stone cherubs with dripping locks. 
 
 For the interior, the Old Lodge was just 
 such a place as wizened antiquary or silence- 
 loving student might wish to inhabit. No 
 noise of bustling life, no busy work- day hum 
 ever got through its thick walls, or had leave 
 to waken any echoes in the long, wainscote 
 corridors. There were many dark, oak-panelled 
 rooms with inscriptions carved round the open 
 fire-places, and heraldic devices emblazoned on the 
 ceilings; grand old staircases, too, with massive 
 balustrades pierced here and there with shot — 
 Cromwell had fired upon the place during the 
 civil wars, — and little closet-chambers, entered 
 by secret doors, which were very silent over 
 whatever memories they might hold. 
 
 Still around all the place there was a plea- 
 sant, sunshiny feel. Spite of its grizzled 
 antiquity, the Old Lodge was a home-like 
 spot. Taste and modern contrivance had 
 made a pleasant enough retreat of the great 
 library which looked out over the Close and 
 
 VOL. I. II
 
 98 
 
 the west front of the Cathedral. The oriel 
 window was bordered with stained glass, and 
 filled in summer and autumn-time with creeping 
 plants — a dainty setting for the grey old Min- 
 ster towers which fronted it. The room was 
 very long, stretching the whole length of that 
 side of the house — high, narrow, with groined 
 roof and carved panelling. The oriel window 
 formed one end, at the other was a stained 
 glass door, through which the lingering sunlight 
 came at evening in long golden sweeps that 
 flooded the stately old room with a soft, warm 
 glow. This door opened into the garden. 
 
 Speaking of gardens, ah! that was a garden. 
 Different enough from our nineteenth century 
 development of the idea, which seems to consist 
 of half an acre of ground chopped up into 
 various compartments, bedizened with mathe- 
 matical diagrams of pink, yellow, blue, and red, 
 stuck over with plaster vases and wire baskets ; 
 a place where there is no shade, no seclusion, 
 no anything but one great, glaring mass of 
 colour. The Old Lodge garden was what our 
 grandfathers aptly termed a "pleasaunce." 
 Quaint and queer it was, full of leafy nooks
 
 st. olave's. 99 
 
 where no intruder ever came with hoe and 
 pruning-knife. There were long, sequestered 
 alleys in which, centuries ago, Stuart princesses 
 had wandered to and fro, where now the 
 golden sunlight trickled through birchen boughs 
 and thick green chestnut tresses. Beyond these 
 were great round flower-beds, bordered with 
 thrift and lavender, and filled with clove-pinks, 
 damask roses, sweet williams, and all the com- 
 fortable old English flowers. Here and there, 
 like prim duennas keeping guard over their 
 wild floral children, were curiously - cut box- 
 trees, preserving still the quaint forms 
 which Elizabethan gardeners had given them. 
 Fragments of stone columns uprose from the 
 grass plots, for the garden came close upon 
 the St. Olave's Monastery, and the high altar 
 had once stood where now a great acacia 
 tossed its feathery branches to the wind. And 
 wherever you went, through winding walks or 
 under the great arching trees, or along lanes of 
 shining laurel, you could see the gables of 
 the Lodge peering up — old red-brick gables 
 faced with stone and tressed with greenery — 
 withered-looking gables, like the worn features 
 
 ii 2
 
 100 st. olave's. 
 
 of a tried and trusty friend — more precious for 
 his wrinkles. 
 
 Room for thought and meditation here, so 
 quiet and restful was the whole feeling of the 
 place, so utterly apart from work-a-day bustle, 
 so full of grey old memories, so brooded 
 over by the very spirit of stillness. It was quite 
 near the cathedral. Standing under the trees 
 by the oriel window you might catch the voices 
 of the choristers and the rolling tones of the 
 organ at morning and evening prayers, or in 
 still summer evenings, hear the soft, musical, 
 harp-like sigh of the wind through the bellfry 
 tower, swelling and dying out like the wail of 
 some prisoned spirit. 
 
 And this was the place where Alice Grey lived 
 — the frank, free-hearted English girl — a human 
 ray of sunshine upon the still beauty of the 
 spot, a strain of merry dance music nickering 
 across its dim old-world quietness. 
 
 " Yes, it is very beautiful ; Ave have no gardens 
 in Scotland like this," said Miss Bruce, as they 
 two sat on the grass under the great acacia tree, 
 the tree that Alice was so proud of, with its drops
 
 101 
 
 of white bloom lying thick upon the delicate foli- 
 age, and wafting thrills of perfume down to them 
 upon every gust of wind that swept across. 
 
 Alice was picking up the scattered flowers and 
 trimming Miss Bruce' s dress with them, then fix- 
 ing them in amongst the folds of her dark, glossy 
 hair, and laughing a light musical laugh as one 
 after another they came tumbling down again. 
 Janet sat very quietly under the process, just a 
 half smile creeping into her face and back again 
 now and then. 
 
 " Ah, you came from Perth here, did you not ? 
 I never was there, but I have heard about it. I 
 know a family at Millsmany who have travelled in 
 Scotland, and I have heard them speak of it as be- 
 ing such a pretty town. What part of it did you 
 live in?" 
 
 " We lived in the Court-house near by the banks 
 oftheTay." 
 
 " What, the Court-house, Miss Bruce, that grand 
 place I have heard Miss Granger talk of; it is a 
 'little way out of the town, isn't it ? " 
 
 " Yes, my brother and I and all of us used to 
 have very happy days there a long time ago, before 
 we grew up. - "
 
 102 st. olave's. 
 
 And with this there came over Janet Brace's face 
 a qniet light, as from the sweep of some pleasant 
 memory, followed by a still, steady, locked-up look, 
 not of pain, but a sort of patient hopelessness. 
 
 Alice saw it and was silent. It spoke to her of 
 something she could not as yet understand ; some- 
 thing she could only reverence. But it seemed to 
 draw her nearer to this quiet woman, between 
 whose life and hers there lay so wide a contrast. 
 And then, looking at the unsunned face, from 
 which all human hope and joy had quite died out, 
 and noticing the half- weary droop of the head and 
 the patient fold of the hands, she wondered what 
 sort of a life Miss Brace's had been ; also whether 
 any future could ever change her, as the past had 
 changed this new-found friend of hers. 
 
 After this they sat for a long time speaking no 
 word. It was one of those drowsy, sunshiny after- 
 noons when even thought moves sleepily along, 
 and we just dream the time away, listening, if no 
 other memory comes between, to the gentle speech 
 of Nature, the musical, soft nutter of leaves, whis- 
 pering to each other in the sunlight, the cool sway- 
 ing of the wind through branches overhead, the 
 chirp of lazy birds.
 
 ST. olave's. 103 
 
 As they sat there the bells began to chime for 
 afternoon service at the Cathedral, and presently 
 the low tones of the organ came creeping along 
 through the still air. The melody was scarcely 
 distinct ; all they could hear was the faint sound 
 drifting hither and thither, sometimes louder when 
 the voices of the choristers joined, and then sink- 
 ing into a murmur scarcely above the nutter of the 
 ivy leaves round the oriel window. 
 
 ' ' That is your brother playing," said Alice, ' f I 
 often come and listen here in service-time; hi*, 
 music is very different from what we used to have 
 in the old organist's reign. Dr. Steele scarcely 
 ever played anything but Handel. My music- 
 master used to be vexed with me for saying it, but 
 I never could get to like Handel. Those immense, 
 thundering choruses of his seem to crush one so, 
 there is such a clamour of sound in them. I think 
 the Titans and Cyclops would have enjoyed those 
 choruses in the Messiah very much." 
 
 Miss Bruce only smiled. She was not ac- 
 quainted with the musical taste of the ancients. 
 
 " Your brother plays Mendelssohn's music, and 
 I like it a great deal better ; there is something 
 tender, and graceful, and understandable about
 
 104 ST. olave's. 
 
 it. Handel always reminds me of that great 
 black elm-tree yonder, where the rooks are cawing, 
 with its rough trunk and bare brown branches 
 standing out against the sky, and Mendelssohn is 
 like this acacia, a fountain of green leaves spark- 
 ling in the sunshine; no majesty about it, but 
 only a beauty that never wearies or crushes 
 you. Do you think so V 3 
 
 Janet looked mystified; these girlish fancies 
 of Alice's were quite out of her way. She 
 would have felt much more at home in talking 
 about her tract district, or some little house- 
 keeping matters. But Alice was in a dreamy 
 mood this afternoon, and did not come down to 
 commonalties. 
 
 ' ' I like to find pictures for things and people 
 that I know," she continued, "when I come 
 here to listen to the music. I was amusing 
 myself yesterday by picking out a tree for each 
 of my friends ; one, you know, that would describe 
 their characters." 
 
 Here Janet almost laughed, these quaint con- 
 ceits amused her so. 
 
 " That is a very new idea," she said ; " and 
 did you find one for each of them ?"
 
 ST. olave's. 105 
 
 " Yes. I thought that ivy yonder," and Alice 
 pointed to one of the gables, " would do for 
 Aunt Amiel; always the same, green in summer 
 and winter, never much show about it you 
 know, but always pleasant and comforting. And 
 then she tries to cover the faults of every one 
 about her, just as the ivy clothes that rough 
 old red brick, and hides all its crumbling 
 places. " 
 
 "I wish ivy grew more plentifully. I shall 
 like to know your Aunt Amiel. And what did 
 you fix upon for yourself V 
 
 " Oh ! I'm nothing. I don't keep the same 
 two days together. I haven't grown into any 
 sort of a thing yet. Well, then, I picked out 
 that yew-tree for you — look yonder, growing 
 beside that piece of broken column." 
 
 Janet looked. It was a tall, straight, sym- 
 metrical tree, its dark outline clearly picked out 
 on the rising green sward behind ; close by it 
 was a grey old column, snapped off two or 
 three feet from the ground, with a few last 
 year's leaves drifted into the broken crevices. 
 As she looked, a great white butterfly poised 
 itself for a moment on the topmost twig of the
 
 106 st. olave's. 
 
 yew, and after fluttering its wings flew upward 
 into the sunshine. 
 
 "Don't be vexed, it really does remind me 
 of you. It is so neat, and close, and quiet, 
 never getting into a fuss when the wind blows, 
 or tossing itself about like the other trees. 
 And in the rain, too, its branches don't droop 
 or drag, or look miserable ; neither showers nor 
 sunshine make any difference to it, it is always 
 still, and calm, and " 
 
 Alice was going to say sad, but stopped ; 
 she did not want to bring back the look which 
 had almost faded away now. 
 
 "Well, then," she continued, "I found one 
 for your brother, too." 
 
 "Ah! what was that ?" 
 
 "Yon old cedar-tree by the library. It is 
 the only tree in our garden that the storm 
 can never beat through. You may sit there in 
 the midst of a pitiless rain, and never a drop 
 will reach you. I remember standing at the 
 library door once in a terrible thunder storm, 
 and a very little young bird came fluttering to 
 one of the low branches for shelter. It nestled 
 there so comfortably, and seemed to feel quite
 
 107 
 
 safe. When the storm was over, it flew out 
 again into the sunshine with not a feather 
 ruffled." 
 
 " My brother would smile to hear that." 
 
 " Oh ! but you must not tell him, it is only 
 my nonsense." 
 
 Alice was still for awhile, and then went on. 
 
 " There is not much beauty in my old cedar- 
 tree, only it is strong, and steady, and trusty. 
 I don't think Mr. Bruce is very attractive, not 
 so much so, at least, as a good many people 
 that I know, but when the rain comes he would 
 be a good place to shelter under." 
 
 <c How do you know ?" 
 
 "I don't know it, I feel it. I can tell 
 directly whether people are to be trusted or not, 
 and I am quite sure it would be safe to get near 
 him in a storm." 
 
 Janet only smiled. She never talked much 
 about this brother of hers, but it was the greatest 
 joy she had to hear any one praise him. 
 
 "There is just one more tree that I picked 
 out. Look at that stag's horn, with the long 
 cornery branches ; the wind always gives a squeak 
 when it has to go through that tree, and so it
 
 108 
 
 reminds me of Mrs. Archdeacon Scrymgeour, 
 because she never opens her mouth without 
 saying something out of tune about somebody." 
 
 " I have not the pleasure of knowing Mrs. 
 Scrymgeour. Is she not that tall, spare lady 
 who sits in a stall near the prebends ?" 
 
 "Yes, and she lives in that house, as tall 
 and spare as herself, up at the north end of 
 the Minster. Chapter Place always reminds me 
 of a strong-minded woman who does not wear 
 crinoline. When your antecedents are properly 
 ascertained, she will call upon you, but not till 
 then. I daresay if she knew you had once 
 lived in the Court-house at Perth, she would 
 ask you to dinner directly." 
 
 "Then I hope you will not tell her." 
 
 " I don't mean to, for you wouldn't enjoy it. 
 I'm sure you wouldn't. But I shall turn into 
 a stag's horn myself if I talk about Mrs. 
 Scrymgeour, so I'll give over." 
 
 All this time the music had been coming to 
 them at intervals. Now a louder strain of it 
 rolled across the Cathedral Close. The anthem 
 had begun. 
 
 "Ah !" said Alice, starting up and listening,
 
 109 
 
 <c I know that — it is Spohr's e Blest are the 
 Departed/ Mr. Bruce often plays that, he 
 must be very fond of it; but it is too grand 
 and solemn for me." 
 
 The west doors had been opened, as they often 
 were towards the close of afternoon service in 
 summer-time, and the notes of the anthem 
 could be clearly distinguished; its strange and 
 weird-like modulations, too, and the sometimes 
 sweet, sometimes mournful cadences. Now and 
 then a young choiring voice would start away 
 from the others, ringing clearly out upon the 
 still air, then gradually sinking back and blend- 
 ing with the graver men's tones, all bound and 
 held in check by the overmastering, stately peal 
 of the organ. 
 
 Alice stood a little apart from Miss Bruce, 
 her young face glowing with emotion, full of rest- 
 less, unspoken thoughts. She looked very beau- 
 tiful, standing there, half in light, half in shade, 
 under the acacia tree, the sunshine cresting her 
 brown hair, and shimmering on her dress, the 
 leaf shadows playing over her face — that fair 
 face upon which as yet no other shadows lay. 
 Miss Bruce looked at her wistfully, as people
 
 110 st. olave's. 
 
 who have suffered much do often look at young, 
 innocent faces. 
 
 When the last notes of the organ had worn 
 themselves away, and only the nutter of the 
 leaves broke the stillness, Alice sat down on 
 the grass again, her arm over Miss Brace's 
 knee, her fingers carelessly toying with the 
 acacia blossoms that lay there. By-and-by she 
 said — 
 
 "It is very noble, it is very grand to be a 
 musician." 
 
 Janet thought she meant Handel or Men- 
 delssohn, or that Spohr, whose strange music they 
 had just been listening to. 
 
 But Alice was thinking of David Bruce. 
 
 Soon through the low bushes they could see. 
 little groups of people wending their way across 
 the Close. Dr. Crumpet, the Canon in Resi- 
 dence, sailed away to his grey nest near the 
 Deanery; the officiating clergy to their respec- 
 tive berths by the cloisters; the little singing 
 boys scampered helter-skelter down the steps, 
 got their tops out of their pockets, and their 
 whips from the statue niche in which they had 
 lain during prayers, and set to work at a fresh
 
 ST. OLAVE's. Ill 
 
 game. Last of all, with slow, tottering, uncer- 
 tain steps, came the old men and women from 
 the St. Olave's Almshouses. 
 
 " The service is over, and Aunt Amiel will 
 have finished her nap. Shall we go in ?" 
 
 Miss Bruce laid the white flowers out of her 
 lap, and then, hand-in-hand, like twin sisters of 
 Hope and Patience, she and Alice Grey went 
 back through that sunlighted garden to the oriel 
 room.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 |! O, she is not awake yet," and Alice 
 closed the door gently ; " Aunt Amiel 
 sleeps long this afternoon. It must 
 be the sunshine that makes her drowsy." 
 
 <( I wonder if you would like to see over the 
 house," she said, as they turned to go back into 
 the garden; "most people are interested in it, 
 because there are so many old stories belonging to 
 it. This way, I will take you over the western side 
 first, for that is the oldest part of the building." 
 
 Janet followed. Alice led her through the 
 broad, low entrance -hall, paved with alternate 
 bars of black and grey marble, and decorated with 
 suits of rusty old armour, to the great staircase. 
 Half way up this stair was a shattered balus- 
 trade, over which they paused, whilst Alice, with
 
 st. olave's. 113 
 
 genuine loyalist fervour, told the story of Crom- 
 well's ruthless assault, and the gallant defence of 
 the Cavaliers. Then they went into what had 
 formerly been the State apartments, which, though 
 disused for centuries, still retained some traces of 
 their former grandeur. There were tall, old- 
 fashioned mirrors, all grey and mildewed now, 
 with many a fold of cobweb drapery wreathing 
 their tarnished frames. There was the bed with 
 its tattered, moth-eaten, crimson velvet hangings, 
 in which James Stuart had slept when he held his 
 Court at St. Olave's ; and the Presence Chamber, 
 as it was called, lined with tapestry of foreign 
 workmanship, where Margaret Tudor received an 
 address from the burghers of the city, as she 
 passed through it on her way to Scotland. Out 
 of this room a secret door behind the hang- 
 ings led into another and smaller one, lighted by 
 a single arrow-slit window, so contrived that it 
 could be slided back into the thick wall, and its place 
 supplied by a block of stone. Here, during the 
 civil wars of Charles the First, one of the Royalist 
 officers lay concealed, and here, when discovered, 
 he was slain by the Protector's men. Alice 
 pointed to a dark spot on the floor. 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 ST. olave's. 
 
 "They say he was killed just here, and that 
 his blood made that stain. I don't believe a 
 word of it myself, but Lettice, that is one of 
 our servants, is terribly afraid of this room, and 
 wouldn't come into it after dark for anything 
 you could give her." 
 
 rt I have surely heard of this place before. 
 A friend,"— Janet paused for awhile, and then 
 went on quietly as ever. " Some one I once 
 knew in Scotland told me of a house like this. 
 The name, I think, was different, but from his 
 description, the place must be the same." 
 
 "Very likely. It was not always called the 
 Old Lodge; indeed, I think that has only been 
 its name since the Canons left it. And we 
 have antiquarians come from all parts of the 
 country, especially people who are going to 
 rite histories. Was your friend an author? — 
 what was his name ?" 
 
 Janet did not answer ; she was gazing down 
 through the little narrow window into the court 
 below, where the water was falling with idle 
 plash into the fountain-pond, scarce moving the 
 lilies which slept upon its surface. Alice thought 
 she had not heard, and from the saddened look
 
 st. olave's. 115 
 
 which came into her face, she concluded Janet 
 was musing over the deeds of darkness which 
 had been done on the spot where they stood. 
 
 " I am afraid I have troubled you with my 
 doleful ditties/' she said ; " we will go down 
 again now, and I will show you the pictures by 
 way of change. Aunt Amiel is very proud of 
 her Claudes and Poussins, though I don't think 
 they are half so pretty as the engravings we see 
 in the print-shops here. But I suppose that is 
 my bad taste." 
 
 They went through a long corridor, lighted 
 at one end by a stained glass window, into what 
 was generally called the drawing-room, though it 
 had little indeed of the airy lightness which we 
 associate with that name, being panelled like most 
 of the Old Lodge rooms, with dark oak. Upon 
 the walls hung some very fine landscapes by the 
 old masters, one or two rare engravings, and 
 a few of those quaint-looking architectural pieces 
 which Prout was so fond of perpetuating. The 
 great interest of the room, however, was in its 
 furniture, which was all of carved oak, beautifully 
 wrought in leaves, and flowers, and mediaeval 
 work. Janet's attention was specially attracted 
 
 i 2
 
 116 ST. olave's. 
 
 by one piece, a cabinet, which stood in a recess 
 near the window. It was small, but exquisitely- 
 carved, almost like a miniature cathedral, with its 
 pinnacles, and statue niches, and queer, grotesque 
 little heads peeping out through masses of foliage. 
 
 ' ' I should like to open that cabinet for you," 
 said Alice ; ' ' there are some rather curious things 
 in it, which were sent to us from abroad. But 
 Aunt Amiel has the key, and I don't like to dis- 
 turb her for it just now." 
 
 " Stay," she continued, for she saw something 
 white gleaming out from one of the doors ; ( ' I 
 believe it is unlocked." 
 
 She pulled the door slightly, and it came open. 
 
 " How strange ! Aunt Amiel is so very par- 
 ticular about keeping this cabinet locked, and she 
 always carries the key herself. She must have 
 forgotten it." 
 
 "Perhaps we ought not to open it," said 
 Janet. 
 
 * Oh ! yes we may. I have often shown it to 
 people, but it is never left unlocked in this way. 
 I suppose for fear any of the things should get 
 lost." 
 
 There were many curious relics in it, such as
 
 st. olave's. 117 
 
 accumulate in ancient families — pieces of plate, 
 of the style in use centuries ago, old coins, some 
 Indian jewels, articles of ivory work — fans, balls, 
 caskets — from China, and other curiosities of more 
 or less value. The gleam of white which had 
 attracted Alice's notice was a cordon of pearls, 
 with tassels of filagree work ; it might be intended 
 for a girdle, or head-dress, or necklace, for it 
 could be untwisted to any size. Many of the 
 pearls were discoloured, and the filagree work 
 tarnished ; it had evidently not been worn for a 
 long time. 
 
 Alice and Miss Bruce stood for some time at 
 the cabinet, hunting over the little drawers and 
 cupboards which it contained, and which were fall 
 of valuables of one kind and another. One of the 
 doors was rather stiff, and as Alice was pushing it, 
 she gave the cabinet a slight jerk, which seemed 
 to loosen a spring somewhere, for suddenly a panel 
 fell down, revealing two drawers. One of them 
 was half open, it contained some old worn yellow 
 letters tied together in a packet. 
 
 "I suppose these are Aunt AmiePs private 
 property, so we must not meddle with them," said 
 Alice, as she closed the drawer, and attempted to
 
 118 ST. olave's. 
 
 re-fasten the panel. But she could not manage 
 it ; as often as she lifted it, it fell down again. 
 
 " There may be a secret spring/' suggested Janet. 
 
 "Perhaps so. I never knew of any drawers 
 besides those outside ones, and no one would 
 dream of that panel opening. But we will leave 
 it. Aunt Amiel will set it right ; she must be 
 awake by now, and I'll go and tell her about it." 
 
 Alice went, leaving Janet there by the cabinet. 
 Mrs. Amiel Grey was sitting in the oriel room, in 
 her usual place by the window. Opposite to her, 
 within the shade of the crimson curtains, the 
 elaborate folds of Mrs. Archdeacon Scrymgeour's 
 black moire antique rustled like November blasts 
 among dead leaves. 
 
 " Aunt Amiel/' said Alice, " we have been 
 upsetting some of your treasures." 
 
 " What is it, dear ? I did not hear you." 
 
 "Some of your treasures, aunt. You know that 
 old cabinet in the drawing-room. I found it open, 
 and so I showed Miss Bruce some of the foreign 
 things. And then, as I was trying to shut one of 
 the drawers, a panel flew back, and there were 
 some old letters in a drawer." 
 
 Aunt Amiel's face grew pale.
 
 119 
 
 " My child, you have surely not " 
 
 " No, no, aunt, don't be afraid ; we didn't hurt 
 anything. I have left everything just as it was. 
 Only I was surprised to find the cabinet open at 
 all. I know you generally keep it locked. I 
 could not get the panel to fasten again, so I 
 thought I had better come and tell you." 
 
 " Excuse me one moment Mrs. Scrymgeour, — " 
 and rising hastily, — much more hastily than was 
 her wont, — Aunt Amiel left the room followed by 
 Alice. 
 
 Janet was still standing by the cabinet. All 
 that she had seen of the letters when Alice took 
 them out, was that the seal which fastened the 
 outer one bore the stamp of a crest, but what the 
 device was she could not tell, nor, indeed, had she 
 tried, having little or no curiosity in her 
 composition. 
 
 Aunt Amiel looked nervously at her for a 
 moment, then taking a small key from her watch- 
 chain she locked the drawer, and touched with 
 her foot a spring at the bottom of the cabinet, 
 which sent the panel back again into its place. 
 After that she locked the outer door, and tried it 
 to see that it was quite safe.
 
 120 ST. olave's. 
 
 "We will go back with you/' said Alice, as 
 she turned to go away ; ' ' we were just coming 
 into the oriel-room when I brought Miss Bruce 
 in here to show her the paintings." 
 
 They all went together, and Aunt Amiel took 
 her place again near Mrs. Scrymgeour, only just 
 a slight nutter upon her face ruffling its usual 
 stillness. What a contrast there was between the 
 two women. 
 
 A winning old lady was Mistress Amiel Grey. 
 There was a native refinement in all her ways, a 
 quiet music in her voice, a rare purity in her 
 aged face, which only a worthy life could have left 
 there. She always dressed in black satin, with a 
 clear starched neckerchief gathered closely round 
 her throat, and fastened by a tiny gold brooch. 
 Her silvery hair was smoothed beneath a widow's 
 cap that had a plaited frill coming down under 
 the chin,, as we see in old pictures. Her hands 
 were very soft and delicate even yet, though 
 they had thinned and wasted until the worn wed- 
 ding-ring hung loosely upon her finger — the 
 wedding ring which she had kept there through 
 thirty years of widowhood. And there was a 
 certain serene, stately self-possession in her every
 
 121 
 
 step and motion, the courtly grace of high aristo- 
 cratic breeding mingling with the bland urbanity 
 which made the English gentlewoman of fifty 
 years ago so superior to the starched and crino- 
 lined " lady " of the present day. 
 
 As for Mrs. Scrymgeour — but the Archdeacon's 
 widow has already been introduced to the public, 
 and the ceremony need not be repeated. 
 
 She had called to inquire the particulars of a 
 " case/' which had been sent to her by the clergy- 
 man of the parish for relief, and after the needful 
 information was given, she launched out into 
 general conversation, which was interrupted by the 
 entrance of Alice. When the three ladies re- 
 turned from the drawing-room, Mrs. Scrym- 
 geour rose with a stately sweep, which shook out 
 the folds of her dress and made them rustle again 
 more gustily than ever. She shook hands with 
 Alice, and was about to resume her seat. 
 
 "My friend Miss Bruce, Mrs. Scrymgeour," 
 said Alice. 
 
 Mrs. Scrymgeour bowed, very politely of 
 course. Any one whom she met in Mrs. Amiel 
 Grey's house was entitled to a certain amount 
 of politeness, but her look had a " shake-hands-
 
 122 
 
 with-me-if-you-dare " sort of defiance, which 
 Janet did not care to meet, and so she sat down 
 at some distance and took out her work. 
 
 It was Mrs. Archdeacon Scrymgeour's foible 
 — peculiarity she called it — to be very particular 
 as to antecedents. 
 
 "Descent, my dear Miss Luckie," she was 
 accustomed to say to that good-tempered little 
 maiden lady ; " descent is my strong point. I 
 never overlook descent. Birth and breeding in 
 my opinion come before everything else, before 
 everything else." 
 
 To which startling proposition Miss Luckie 
 vaguely assented, standing too much in awe of 
 the Archdeacon's widow to attempt a contradiction. 
 
 In addition, Mrs. Scrymgeour had a peculiar 
 way of looking at people who were introduced to 
 her for the first time, and of whose antecedents 
 she was not perfectly certain, — people for instance 
 who had brought no letters to the Close families, 
 and did not use crests on their envelopes. There 
 was something in her face and the tones of her 
 voice, which seemed to say as plainly as any words 
 could have spoken it, " Who was your father ; 
 — who was your mother ?" Indeed, it is highly
 
 st. olave's. 123 
 
 uncertain whether she would have thought it 
 proper to offer the rites of hospitality to Mel- 
 chisedec himself, had he come in her way, on 
 account of the exceedingly unsatisfactory nature 
 of that individual's parental relationships. 
 
 She and Mrs. Amiel Grey had been in the 
 midst of an interesting subject, and resumed it as 
 soon as the introduction was fairly out of hand. 
 
 "Unpardonable, my dear Mrs. Grey, perfectly 
 unpardonable, and evincing an amount of moral 
 obliquity which is in the highest degree obnoxious/ 
 
 When Mrs. Scrymgeour got into a lofty cen- 
 sorious vein, her language expanded in proportion, 
 until it became truly magnificent. 
 
 " It was wrong," said Aunt Amiel, " very 
 wrong; but her early training was faulty, and 
 therefore I pitied rather than blamed her." 
 
 " Of course, my dearest Mrs. Grey. You are 
 so sweetly amiable," and Mrs. Scrymgeour waved 
 her hand towards the arm chair. "Indeed if I 
 were asked to give my opinion, I should say that 
 charity was the leading peculiarity in your mental 
 idiosyncracy. But excuse me if I say that really in 
 this case you are allowing your beautiful forgiving 
 spirit to lead you quite beyond the limits of
 
 124 st. olave's. 
 
 propriety. The indiscretion you have mentioned, 
 is one which an individual of the female sex would 
 never be justified in overlooking or pardoning/'' 
 
 " The Great Judge is very merciful, and when 
 He can forgive, it is not for us to be inexorable. 
 She was a girl of wild, impetuous nature, and she 
 suffered bitterly for her fault." 
 
 " I hope she did, Mrs. Grey, I hope she did. 
 Such conduct is an everlasting stain upon genteel 
 society, and of double blackness when perpetrated 
 by a young person of such exceedingly respectable 
 family connections. Pray what became of the 
 miserable infant, the wretched offspring of this 
 unprincipled creature V 
 
 Mrs. Amiel Grey winced rather, and shrank 
 back with a deprecating gesture. Mrs. Scrymge- 
 our's expressions were at times too entirely bitter. 
 
 "It was sent — at least some friends took 
 charge of it, and brought it up. The mother 
 never knew what became of it." 
 
 " Of course not, such creatures are utterly 
 destitute of parental susceptibilities. Is she living 
 yet — the woman I mean, or rather the shameless 
 thing, for woman I will not call her ?" 
 
 " I cannot tell. Soon after the birth of the
 
 125 
 
 child her mind gave way, and she was placed 
 under restraint. I have heard nothing of her for 
 many, many years, most likely she is dead or — or 
 still in confinement." 
 
 "A providential dispensation, — quite a providen- 
 tial dispensation. But, my dear Mrs. Grey, I 
 must go. Before I return home I wish to call at 
 the Deanery and inform Dr. Somers that Martin 
 Speller has not been in his place at the Cathedral 
 prayers for the last two mornings; such conduct is 
 reprehensible, very reprehensible, and the autho- 
 rities ought to look into it. I shall suggest that 
 the Dean stops his allowance until the cause of 
 absence is satisfactorily explained. Perfect obedi- 
 ence to the stipulations of the charter is the very 
 least which can be expected from parties who are 
 dependent upon ecclesiastical beneficence." 
 
 Mrs. Scrymgeour rose, pressed Aunt AmiePs 
 hand, performed the same ceremony upon Alice's, 
 and then made an elaborate cast-iron curtsey 
 to Miss Bruce, who had not spoken a word during 
 the conversation. Then she swept majestically 
 out of the room, and when she was gone it seemed 
 as if the scared gods of household peace and 
 quietness returned.
 
 126 
 
 " Come nearer to me, my dears, my sight is not 
 so good as it used to be, and I like to have my 
 friends where I can see them." 
 
 So Alice and Miss Bruce came at Aunt AmiePs 
 bidding, and they all three sat in the oriel-window 
 that looked out on the grey towers of the Minster. 
 
 A quiet trio. Alice just setting sail from the 
 golden shores of girlhood, the whole wide range of 
 life before her, no clouds creeping up over the 
 blue sky of youthful promise, not the faintest 
 murmur of a coming storm to stir the bright 
 waters over which her little craft rocked so gaily. 
 Janet Bruce becalmed in mid-ocean, with neither 
 breeze of hope nor wave of tumult to move her. 
 Aunt Amiel slowly nearing the harbour of rest, 
 where storms come no more, where light and 
 glory wait. 
 
 By-and-by the two elder ladies fell into a chat 
 about their early days, and Alice slipped away from 
 them to the other end of the long room, where she 
 sat down to the piano and began playing little 
 snatches of music softly, so as not to disturb their 
 conversation. It was a way she had of talking to 
 herself when no one else could understand her 
 thoughts — a sort of outlet for the vague, dreamy
 
 st. olave's. 127 
 
 fancies that often went floating through her soul, 
 and for which she could find no other voice. Some- 
 times the music was quiet and low, then quick and 
 sudden, like sunlight trickling through green leaves, 
 anon mellowing down into some old familiar tune. 
 
 Presently she stopped, leaned her arms over the 
 music desk, and looked out into the garden, where 
 long sweeps of shadow were slowly chasing away 
 the lingering lights of evening. Then with a smile, 
 as though gathering up some pleasant memory, 
 she began a strain of solemn cathedral music, 
 Slowly, hesitatingly, with many pauses and breaks 
 she went through it, often mistaking the chords, 
 sometimes playing the melody with one hand only, 
 but always keeping upon her face that same quiet, 
 contented smile. 
 
 Just then David Bruce, who had promised to 
 call for his sister during the evening, came past 
 the window and heard her. It was some of his 
 own music the child was playing — the same piece 
 she had heard at the cathedral. He did not go 
 in, for he was afraid that would stop her, but he 
 stood by the glass door, under the shadow of the 
 great cedar tree, and listened to her for long. 
 
 There was great sweetness to him in her way of
 
 128 
 
 playing. He smiled at the fitful, uncertain man- 
 ner in which she gathered up the air, stopping now 
 and then to correct herself, sometimes playing 
 wrong notes or hurrying the time, or repeating a 
 phrase over and over again. It seemed to him he 
 would rather have heard it so, marred and broken 
 though it was, than with all the grace and finish 
 which a complete orchestra could have given. 
 
 After awhile he passed on to the old porch and 
 through the long corridor that led to the library. 
 Alice was playing still and did not hear his knock, 
 so he went in unseen, in the half-darkness of late 
 evening, and sat down behind the shadow of the 
 curtains, where he could listen to her still. 
 
 The two ladies at the other end of the room 
 talked in quiet monotone of the life that was 
 long ago past for them. Twilight was silently 
 gathering, and the great darkening west front of 
 the Minster seemed to cast a deeper shadow into 
 the room. 
 
 Miss Bruce knitted on with quiet, straightfor- 
 ward energy. It was just a habit she had got 
 into, this of always doing something. Her hands 
 never folded together with that gentle, uncon- 
 scious clasp which happy people use, but were
 
 st. olave's. 129 
 
 always moving with steady mechanical activity 
 in the purpose-like routine of long continued 
 use. Aunt Amiel leaned back in her great arm 
 chair, her fair pale face in the dainty setting 
 of its muslin frill, restful and quiet as an infant's. 
 
 " Your accent/' she said, " reminds me of some 
 friends I knew a long time ago up in the North, 
 near Perth." 
 
 Janet looked at her with a momentary, ques- 
 tioning glance, then the eyelids bent down 
 again, and the face gathered up its hushed ex- 
 pression, in which there was neither hope nor fear. 
 
 " I think I heard some one say you came to St. 
 Olave's from Perth," Mrs. Grey continued. 
 
 " Yes ; we lived there many years." 
 
 " It is a pleasant place, the country round is so 
 very beautiful. I remember those Inches, and 
 the quiet walk under the foot of the brae past 
 Kinnoul." 
 
 So did Miss Bruce remember them, too well. 
 But when eighteen years lie between us and any 
 sorrow, we learn to look at it calmly. Yet the 
 eyelids drooped very low now, and the fingers 
 faltered a little over their work. The voice only 
 was as quiet as ever. 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 st. olave's. 
 
 " Yes, we were very proud of the Perth Inches. 
 I remember it was the first walk to which we took 
 any stranger who came to see us." 
 
 " It is more than forty years/' Aunt Amiel 
 continued, " since I was in that part of the 
 country, and I suppose all my friends must have 
 died away before this. Perth is not my native 
 place, but the Dean had friends there, and I was 
 visiting them." 
 
 Miss Bruce made an attempt to change the 
 conversation by inquiring how long Mrs. Amiel 
 Grey had lived at the Old Lodge. 
 
 ' ' Nearly thirty years my dear." Aunt Amiel 
 had such a way of calling people " my dear" — 
 " nearly thirty years. It is a long time. The 
 place was used as a residence for the Canons, 
 and when they removed to the new house in the 
 Close I came here. But sometimes we go down 
 to the cottage at Norlands. Do you know Nor- 
 lands ?" 
 
 Janet replied that she did not. 
 
 " It is a village three or four miles away from 
 here, where I have a little estate, and in the 
 summer time we generally spend a few weeks 
 there. Alice likes it better than St. Olave's. She
 
 131 
 
 was always so fond of the country. She generally 
 has a young party there on her birthday in Sep- 
 tember, the 7th of September. " 
 
 " Ah ! is Miss Grey's birthday on the 7th of 
 September ? It is my brother's birthday too." 
 
 "Indeed; well then, my dear, I'll tell you 
 what we will do. You and Mr. Bruce shall join 
 Alice's next party. Norlands is a sweet spot, and 
 he can keep his birthday there as pleasantly as 
 anywhere. You must consider it a settled 
 thing." 
 
 Janet smiled, the old lady's pleasant friend- 
 liness touched her heart. After that, there was 
 silence for a little while, and then Aunt Amiel 
 began in that slow, peaceful tone of voice, which 
 aged people often use in talking over their long- 
 ago memories : — 
 
 " Yes, a very pleasant walk, the Perth Inches. 
 There used to be such splendid sunsets over the 
 hills. We often sat and watched them from the 
 drawing-room window at the Firs. That is right, 
 my dear Miss Bruce, do put that knitting of 
 your's down. I am sure you must be very tired." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " It was a nice home. I always said the Scot- 
 it 2
 
 132 
 
 tish people had more heart in them than we 
 smooth-tongued English. But things are very- 
 much changed now. Dunnie was a curly-headed 
 little fellow of three years old then, a frank lad, 
 but wilful rather." 
 
 Merciful twilight, that gathering so closely 
 round them, hid the utter paleness which crept 
 over Janet's face, and the drawn look of the still 
 lips. Oh ! these sudden breaks in the smooth 
 green sod of daily life, these rifts which open at 
 our feet, and show us the graves beneath. It was 
 his name, the name left unspoken for so long. 
 But she held her peace, and Aunt Amiel con- 
 tinued : — 
 
 (C A wilful lad, and fond of change — very fond of 
 change. I always told his mother she spoiled 
 him rather ; but then he was an only child, and 
 heir to a good property, and that you know is a 
 trying position for a child, especially where there 
 is no father to exercise authority." 
 
 " It is," said Miss Bruce, seeing that she was 
 expected to reply. And no one would have 
 noticed any change in her voice. 
 
 " I remember he took to me very much when 
 first I went. He used to come and lav his head
 
 st. olave's. 133 
 
 in my lap — such a bonnie, curly head — and look 
 up in my face with his great blue eyes ; Dunnie 
 had very beautiful eyes,, and he used to call me 
 his dear, dear auntie. But he got tired of it in a 
 few days. Another lady came who used to give 
 him sweeties, and he quite forgot Aunt Amiel. 
 Alice dear/' and Mrs. Grey raised her voice and 
 looked towards the other end of the room, ' ( that 
 is a very curious thing you are singing. What is 
 the name of it ?" 
 
 " ' The Three Fishers/ aunt/' and Alice took 
 it from the desk and read out the last verse : — 
 
 " c Three corpses lay out on the shining sand. 
 In the morning gleam as the tide went down, 
 And the women are weeping and ringing their hands 
 For those who will never come back to the town. 
 But men must work and women must weep, 
 And the sooner it's over the sooner to sleep, 
 And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.' " 
 
 " Very peculiar words, my dear, very peculiar, 
 and I can't say I like them ; but songs now are 
 very different to what they used to be when I was 
 a girl. Dear me, how strange/' and Aunt Amiel 
 dropped her voice to the old low tones, whilst 
 Alice went on with her singing, "how strange to 
 think that it is more than forty years ago. I have
 
 134 
 
 scarcely ever heard of little Dunnie since, except 
 once, I cannot tell how long ago, I got some word 
 of an engagement of his, which was broken off on 
 account of — of a circumstance very disgraceful to 
 him ; in fact, I was speaking of it to Mrs. Scrym- 
 geour when you came in, though I mentioned 
 no names." 
 
 ' ' I was very grieved about it/' continued Aunt 
 Amiel ; " such things ought not to be ; they cause 
 great sorrow. But there was something about 
 Dunnie which made me fear he might turn out 
 rather wild, unless a great change came over him. 
 Alice dear, ring the bell for lights. I am 
 sure Miss Bruce' s fingers fidget as if they wanted 
 to be at that knitting of her's again. Ah ! my 
 dear, you are so industrious, but by the time you 
 are as old as I am, your hands won't move quite 
 so quickly.-" 
 
 Janet looked at Aunt Amiel, and hoped — God 
 forgive her for it — that long ere such weight of 
 years had rolled over her head, she might have 
 done with the weariness of life, and be quietly 
 laid to rest where none of these things ever come. 
 
 Alice turned to ring the bell, and then David 
 Bruce was obliged to come forward from behind
 
 135 
 
 the shadow of the curtain. She sprang to meet 
 him with a pleased,, gay, girlish grace, that had no 
 stiffness, no constraint about it, and led him up to 
 the further end of the room. 
 
 " Aunt Amiel, this is Mr. Bruce. " 
 
 " I am glad to see Mr. Bruce, for his sister's 
 sake, and I bid him welcome," said the old lady, 
 with a certain courtly tone in her voice. 
 
 Dayid hurried forward to prevent her from 
 rising, and she laid her hand in his with grave, 
 sweet stateliness. Then, as if more at home with 
 Janet, she turned to her and resumed the conver- 
 sation which had been interrupted, thus leaving 
 Mr. Bruce to the care of Alice, who skimmed away 
 again to the piano. 
 
 " I have been trying," she said, " to remember 
 that piece you once played for me ; will you play 
 it again ?" 
 
 He began, striking with the vigour of a master- 
 hand the grand chords which she had touched so 
 hesitatingly. Listening to him, there came into 
 her face the old look of wonderment and reve- 
 rence. 
 
 " Ah!" she said, when he had finished, "it is 
 very grand. Will you tell me who wrote it ?"
 
 136 st. olave's. 
 
 " An unknown composer/' replied David, not 
 even the shadow of a smile changing his firm set 
 countenance. 
 
 " Unknown ; I wonder if he is living. I wish 
 I knew him. I think I could reverence him very- 
 much. I could almost " 
 
 He looked at her curiously, questioningly. She 
 paused, and then said — 
 
 ' ' Will you let me play it again now, and put 
 me into the right way ? I want to try it whilst it 
 is fresh in my thoughts." 
 
 " You are fond of church music, then," said 
 David; " there are not many girls of your age 
 that care much for it. They would rather have 
 one of Stephen Glover's songs than the grandest 
 anthem that was ever composed." 
 
 " Yes ; I always liked those old chants and 
 choruses they have in cathedrals, except Handel's. 
 I don't care for Handel's. Perhaps it is because 
 I once saw his portrait, and that took all the 
 charm out of his music. But Tallis, and Bird, 
 and Gibbon, I do like them, and I always envy 
 the little chorister-boys when I see them go into 
 their places hugging those huge old sendee books. 
 I long to turn over the pages too."
 
 137 
 
 " If you care for that, then, you may come to 
 me any time, and I will take you into the organ- 
 pew. There is an old closet there, full of church 
 music, which has been gathering the dust for a 
 couple of hundred years, and you could revel 
 amongst it to your heart's content." 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Bruce," and Alice's eyes positively 
 danced, " how good you are. I should like it so 
 much ; when may I come V 
 
 "Any time before the morning service; next 
 Saturday if you like, I am generally there early 
 on a Saturday morning. But I give you warning, 
 it is a terribly dusty place." 
 
 " I don't care for the dust if only I can see the 
 music, and besides, I have wanted for ever so long 
 to get into that comfortable crimson nest where 
 you are perched up. I shall come then next 
 Saturday morning, an hour before the sendee. 
 And now will you hear me play that air, or rather 
 try to play it ?" 
 
 He gave her his seat and stood beside her. She 
 went on steadily for a little while, choosing out 
 the notes slowly and deliberately. Then she 
 stopped. 
 
 " Oh ! I have forgotten, what comes next ?"
 
 138 st. olave's. 
 
 He bent over her, and put her fingers on the 
 right keys, — those little white taper fingers, 
 how tractably they obeyed the guidance of his 
 strong ones ! 
 
 " Thank you, I shall soon know it now." 
 
 She looked very bonnie, sitting there in the 
 bright lamp-light. Spite of her young face and 
 girlish innocent ways, there was an unmis- 
 takable atmosphere of high breeding about her, a 
 certain royalty of look and gesture. David Bruce 
 felt the contrast. She was the high-born English 
 maiden, affluent in life and enjoyment; he the 
 poor, unknown organist, struggling for a position. 
 She, made to nestle in the warm-lined lap of 
 luxury, he to toil for daily bread and daily 
 comfort. 
 
 "Ah, what a discord \" he said, as she lighted 
 on a false note, and he swept her hand off the 
 keys, and played the chord himself. But it was 
 not that discord which had disturbed him. 
 
 She turned quickly round, and looked intohisface. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said, " it was a sort 
 of professional feeling that came over me. You 
 know I am in the habit of scolding my pupils now 
 and then."
 
 139 
 
 " Yes, I see. I was not surprised, only your 
 voice sounded rather cross." And then she added 
 with a touching gentleness, ' ' I forgot ; it must be 
 very terrible to you to hear anything discordant. 
 "Will you give me the right notes V 
 
 He guided her hand again, and then she went 
 steadily through to the end. 
 
 " You were singing just now, but that piece did 
 not suit your voice. Bring me your portfolio, and 
 let me choose something for you." 
 
 " Mr. Bruce, I cannot sing when any one is 
 listening. If I had known you were here, I should 
 not have tried that song." 
 
 " Just do as I tell you, bring me your port- 
 folio." 
 
 With a quiet, docile air, as if already taking 
 her natural place of pupil, she fetched it. He 
 chose out a translation of the German song 
 " Agatha," and playing over the prelude himself, 
 told her to begin. Her voice shook a good deal 
 at first, but he managed the accompaniment 
 skilfully, changing it now and again, so as to help 
 her. She gained courage soon, and began to sing 
 with more feeling. 
 
 She had a very pure, limpid voice, a high
 
 140 ST. olave's. 
 
 soprano, with a silver-like ring in some of its 
 tones. It had not been much cultivated, and 
 there was no art or skill in its modulations, but 
 it just seemed to flow on with an easy, unconscious 
 sort of grace. Little by little, as he sat there 
 listening to her untaught efforts, guiding and 
 correcting, and sustaining her, David Bruce felt 
 his position readjust itself. Here, at least, she 
 was far beneath him, here he could forget all 
 social difference, and stand proudly enough her 
 superior, treading firmly and regally, where she 
 only came with trembling little footsteps. 
 
 This was a pleasant feeling. For, after all, 
 the relation between a man and a woman is never 
 satisfactory, unless he holds the highest place, and 
 she, through all accidents of birth or fortune, 
 comes to look up to him as superior to herself. 
 And Alice seemed very easily to let him slide into 
 this position of authority. She fell at once into 
 her own place, resting on, and acknowledging 
 his power. 
 
 It was Alice's nature to trust. Everywhere she 
 seemed to feel out for something upon which to 
 lean. It was this assurance of certain strength 
 and steadiness, compensating for her own lack of
 
 ST. olave's. 141 
 
 "both, that had drawn her so to Janet Bruce. It 
 was this same want of some guiding hand which 
 made her now look up to David, and begin, half 
 unconsciously,, to lean upon him, taking his 
 thoughts, so far as she could comprehend them, 
 for her own. 
 
 After that they began to speak of music. For 
 
 David Bruce, unlike many others of his profession, 
 
 had a great and earnest love for it, taking it not 
 
 merely as one way amongst others of earning 
 
 bread or fame, but looking at it as a life purpose, 
 
 a great and noble talent, by which the minds of 
 
 others might be purified. And Alice listened 
 
 with girlish wonderment and mute reverence, 
 
 whilst he, finding in her something that with far 
 
 off voice responded to himself, spoke of his own 
 
 thoughts, and purposes, and longings. Again, as 
 
 before, when she had heard these thoughts shaped 
 
 out, not in words, but music, a strange, new world 
 
 opened before her, glimpses of what she might be, 
 
 of what she would be, if only such a guiding hand 
 
 as his could be always near, to put her ignorant 
 
 steps into the right way. 
 
 And so David Bruce gave Alice her first 
 lesson.
 
 142 st. olave's. 
 
 " Brother," said a quiet voice, from the farther 
 end of the room. 
 
 But neither of them heard. 
 
 " Brother Davie/' and Janet came and laid her 
 hand on his arm, " it is getting late, and I have 
 some little matters to attend to at home. Shall 
 we be going ?" 
 
 The words brought him back into the common 
 track of work-day life. Alice was sorry about 
 their going home so soon, and would fain have 
 made Janet stay another hour, but Miss Bruce 
 said Tibbie would be wearying for their return, so 
 she was obliged to let them go. 
 
 " My dear," said Aunt Amiel, just before the 
 visitors took their departure, " I have been making 
 a little arrangement with Miss Bruce this even- 
 ing, which I am sure will please you very much. 
 She and Mr. Bruce will join your birthday party 
 to Norlands, in September. Neither of them 
 has ever seen the place, and I know it will be a 
 great treat to you to have the opportunity of 
 showing them all the objects of interest in the 
 neighbourhood. Of course that is if Mr. 
 Bruce' s engagements will permit him to join 
 you."
 
 143 
 
 Alice's cheeks Hushed with undisguised pleasure 
 as she looked up into David's face. 
 
 " You will go, Mr. Bruce, will you not ? I 
 wonder I never thought before of asking your 
 sister if she had seen Norlands. Say that you 
 will go, and then I shall have the happiness of 
 thinking about it all the time until September." 
 
 Was it something in the tones of her voice, or 
 the clear, full glance of her sunny blue eyes, or 
 was it a mere fancy that crept over David Bruce, 
 and brought back to his memory as he looked at 
 her, an old remembered face — the face of the man 
 who had wronged his sister, and laid upon her 
 whole life a shadow which could never pass away ? 
 
 It might be only a fancy. And yet, as David 
 turned towards Janet, her eyes, too, were fastened 
 upon Alice Grey, and her countenance seemed 
 drawn, as with sudden pain. 
 
 Alice opened the door for them. Holding 
 David's hand in hers, looking straight up into his 
 face, she said, frankly and innocently — 
 
 " I should like you to come again soon. You 
 have done me a great deal of good."
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 |AVID BRUCE scarcely knew what 
 reply lie made to these last-spoken 
 words of Alice Grey's. Something 
 abont professional duties at the Minster was all he 
 could remember; then he took his sister's arm 
 under his, and they went out together into the 
 still Close. 
 
 They were generally very quiet, so neither won- 
 dered that the other spoke not. It was getting 
 late. The moon had risen an hour ago, and a few 
 stars shimmered out on the scarcely dark sky. 
 
 Like some old Titan, the Cathedral stretched its 
 huge, irregular bulk athwart the straight lines of 
 light and shadow which banded the green sward. 
 
 Greyly, and with a ghost-like glimmer, the 
 moonlight crested its ' sharply-cut battlements,
 
 145 
 
 crept from tip to tip of the airy pinnacles, and 
 pencilled out the delicate fretwork of the statue 
 niches. Clearly, more clearly than ever in sun- 
 shine, the quaint old figures upon the gurgoyles 
 stretched out their lean and battered faces. On 
 the great lozenge window over the south entrance, 
 the light nickered in faint, pearly tints, which 
 seemed continually changing and re-arranging like 
 the shifting forms of a kaleidoscope. 
 
 The east front was in full light. It was a grand 
 dream of architecture that east front of St. Olave's 
 Cathedral. All the dim old fancies and conceits 
 of monkish times, found expression there. Bravely 
 the moonshine traced out the flowing lines of the 
 great window, and lighted up its storied compart- 
 ments. Curiously carved faces looked out from 
 the corbels ; some merry and jubilant, others 
 stormy as with passion, others drawn in sudden 
 pain ; some grotesque and mocking, many stony 
 with despair and hate. Strange weird faces, every 
 human feeling pictured on them as the sculptor's 
 fancy led. Above them, ranged round the arch of 
 the window, with full robes falling to their feet, 
 hands clasped in perfect rest, and brows bound 
 with victor wreaths, were the statues of saints and 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 st. olave's. 
 
 martyrs, looking down with pale, passionless faces 
 upon the struggling figures below. There they 
 stood, asking no questions, betraying no secrets of 
 the monkish times that had fashioned them, 
 speaking no word of the six centuries of human 
 life upon which they had kept watch ; just grand, 
 and calm, and silent. 
 
 Was this some thought of the old monks carved 
 in stone and speaking to the uplifted eyes of men, 
 age after age ? Would they teach us thus silently, 
 of the soul's progress, even the same with us as 
 with them — that only through passion, strife, and 
 suffering, men mount to rest, and climb over wreck 
 after wreck of human hope to the heights of 
 eternal repose? Was that grand old Cathedral 
 front, gleaming out in the moonlight, an allegory 
 of life; joy, tumult, strife, passion, pain, despair; 
 after these the crowned rest, the folded hands, 
 the gathered robes, the wreathed brow ? Perhaps 
 it might be so. And above them all, whitely out- 
 lined on the sky, catching upon it a glory brighter 
 than all the rest, uprose the Cross, symbol of the 
 faith, through which alone all victory is won. 
 
 So David and Janet came home together. 
 For a long time the tread of their own footsteps
 
 st. olave's. 147 
 
 was the only sound they heard, except the whirr of 
 a bat's wing swooping round in the shadow behind 
 the Chapter House, or the eerie, harp-like wail that 
 floated down from the belfry tower. As they 
 reached the north boundary the bell struck ten, 
 and the old porter came out to shut up the Close, 
 rattling his keys and clashing the great gates with 
 a clang that resounded again and again from the 
 old grey houses. After that all was still. 
 
 St. Olave's was a quiet little city — a very quiet 
 little city. At the hour of ten scarcely any one 
 was about, for in the summer time, no lectures 
 or amusements were afloat. Now and then from 
 some public-house a man would skulk out and 
 make his way along the shady side of the street, 
 or some caped and belted policeman flashed the 
 light of his lantern across a dark passage, and 
 broke the silence with his heavy tramp. Once 
 only, as they neared the outskirts of the city, 
 David and his sister overtook and passed a young 
 couple walking arm-in-arm, walking slowly, lin- 
 geringly, looking often into each other's faces and 
 speaking in those low, soft tones which lovers use 
 for a little while and then generally lay aside. 
 
 Passing them, Janet thought of a long-ago time 
 
 l 2
 
 148 
 
 when, over the green and pleasant inches of Perth, 
 beneath snch tranquil sky as this, she had walked 
 not alone, lingering as they did, speaking as they 
 did. And with the thought a slow, dull sense of 
 pain crept through her. But she had learned to 
 cover up all these things under an uncomplaining 
 silence, and she spoke no word. 
 
 Soon they reached home, passed up the laurel 
 walk, tipped now with thousand sparkles of moon- 
 light, and into the quiet little parlour where Tibbie 
 had lighted the lamp, and placed the books ready 
 for worship. The psalm which David read for 
 that night had this verse in it, a verse which has 
 brought its message of healing to many a heart, 
 since, in his wilderness solitude, old David medi- 
 tated it — 
 
 1 ' Oh, tarry thou the Lord's leisure ; be strong 
 and He shall comfort thine heart, and put thou 
 thy trust in the Lord." 
 
 It came over Janet's heart like some sweet tune, 
 charming down discordant thoughts, staying all 
 questionings. Yes, she could wait. 
 
 " Davie ! " she said, when prayer was over, and 
 she was going to bid him good-night. 
 
 He looked at her dreamily, as one who peers
 
 149 
 
 through some pleasant veil of thought to far 
 reality. 
 
 " Davie, I have heard of him to-night." 
 
 No need to say the name — no need to add any- 
 thing to that vague, indefinite word, which, for any 
 one else, might serve for half creation. There was 
 but one for them in all the world who needed to 
 be so spoken of. The dreamy look passed quickly 
 off from David's face, and one fixed, almost angry, 
 came in its place. 
 
 " Jeanie, how could she ? — how dare she ?" 
 
 " Hush, Davie, she knows nothing. She only 
 remembers him as a little child." 
 
 " Cast him off, Jeanie," and David made an im- 
 petuous movement with the arm on which his 
 sister's hand was resting. She kept it there 
 though. " I wish you had never seen him. He 
 has maimed all our life, he " 
 
 " Was once very kind to us — very kind to both 
 of us — we must not forget everything." 
 
 David looked down upon her reverently, now 
 for the first time, in the new light that had dawned 
 upon him, thinking how very bitter the past must 
 have been, which forced her to speak of any human 
 love with that word " once."
 
 150 ST. olave's. 
 
 " Jeanie, you are very good." Then he stooped 
 down and kissed her lips — the quiet, folded lips 
 that would never know any warmer kiss than his, 
 and, bidding her good-night, they parted. 
 
 After she had gone he sat for a long time at 
 the table by the window, leaning his head upon 
 his hands. When, at last he lifted it, the still, 
 peaceful look had come back to his face. Then 
 he took his alto solo from the music desk, where 
 he had left it in the afternoon, and re-arranged it 
 for a soprano voice. Before this was done the 
 small morning hours had struck, but he felt no 
 weariness. Was it the music itself, its grand, 
 sweet chords and luring melodies which brought 
 that pleasant smile, and smoothed out the heavy 
 folds of thought from his great forehead ? Or was 
 it a voice — Alice Grey's voice — that sang on still 
 in his memory, and wiled the night away with its- 
 sweetness ?
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Hi ND Alice— what of Alice Grey 
 I For, that same night, long after 
 
 the lights had been pnt out, one by one, in the 
 grey old houses round about the Close, and not 
 the tramp of a solitary footstep was to be heard 
 any more in the quiet streets, she sat up in her 
 own room, in the shadow of the white curtains, her 
 hands clasped upon the broad, old-fashioned win- 
 dow-seat, her forehead leaning against the heavy 
 carved oak framework. And over her young face, 
 as she sat there looking out into the moonlighted 
 Cathedral Close, there lay a pleasant smile, an 
 innocent girlish smile, half wonder, half hope. 
 
 Alice's was one of those unformed, impressible 
 natures which take the stamp of every passing in-
 
 152 
 
 fluenee. There was much in her that responded 
 to the noble and beautiful, much thought music, 
 which, like that slumbering in the Memnon statue, 
 only needed the dawn to awaken it. She had the 
 longing, native to every girPs nature, for some 
 firm stay to rest upon — some mind stronger than 
 her own, on which she might lean and be safe. 
 Responsive, as a finely-tuned instrument, to 
 every touch of harmony or discord, trembling to 
 every waft of kindness, living upon it as flowers 
 do upon air and sunshine, she was and would 
 always be very much the creature of circumstances, 
 taking on every passing mood of feeling, and re- 
 flecting unconsciously the tone of mind of those 
 among whom she lived. 
 
 And now, in the music of her young life, play- 
 ful hitherto, and tripping, as some merry dance 
 tune, a new chord had been struck, to which she 
 listened wonderingly, thinking it passing sweet, 
 yet scarcely able the while, to fathom all its mean- 
 ing. Dimly stealing over her, with the memory 
 of that evening, there came the pleasant sense of 
 rest in superior strength; of a certain control 
 which, however some people may laugh at it, is 
 always very sweet to a true woman, no matter how
 
 153 
 
 strong or weak her nature. It was the thought of 
 this rest, this sense of protection and strength, sur- 
 rounding her in David Bruce' s presence, that 
 brought the smile to her face as she sat there, in 
 the half dark. And it was the strange, new feel- 
 ing of life which he had given her — life full of 
 thoughts dim as yet, and shapeless, that gave to 
 that smile its wonderment and almost awe. 
 
 Bright, sunshiny Alice Grey ! Flower born 
 to bloom through the light of a summer day; 
 must night ever come to you, as it comes to all 
 things? Must that unwrinkled brow ever wear 
 the crown of suffering, and those hands, clasped 
 very restfully now, grasp the pilgrim staff so rough 
 often, and heavy. How far for you, after this 
 passing girlhood of yours, must that Cathedral 
 allegory come true ! Jubilant and gay-hearted 
 now, have you to toil through pain, passion, weari- 
 ness, despair, to the sceptred rest which is above 
 them all? 
 
 Bonnie Alice Grey ! 
 
 The Minster bell chimed twelve, every stroke 
 smiting with a heavy crash upon the air. After 
 the last, the sound drifted slowly up and down the 
 Close for a long time, beaten back by the high
 
 154 
 
 walls of the Deanery, and getting entangled 
 among the Cloister arches. When finally it died 
 away, there was just one long, sharp, eerie sigh 
 from the haunted belfry-tower. 
 
 Then Alice drew the curtains and lay down to 
 sleep, the winsome smile still brooding on her 
 face, and the chords of that music which David 
 Bruce had played floating dreamily through her 
 thoughts.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 sHilKlBs HE yellow sunlight of a July after- 
 E^JItiSm noon flooded the old elm-trees 
 tet ,LJjS!f at the west corner of the Cathe- 
 dral Close of St. Olave's. It trickled down in 
 a golden shower, from leaf to leaf; it glinted 
 through in little sparkles to the gnarled black 
 branches underneath, and then it rested sleepily 
 on the moss-covered roofs of a row of almshouses, 
 built from the Close boundary down to the gate 
 of the old Lodge. They were quaint, picturesque 
 old houses. Many-coloured lichens, brown, russet, 
 golden and grey, dappled the overhanging eaves ; 
 patches of house -leek, and even whole plants of 
 wall-flowers sprung up between the interstices of 
 the stone coping, and fattened bravely in the sun- 
 shine. The high-pointed gables at each end
 
 156 
 
 afforded shelter to a colony of swallows, who twit- 
 tered pleasantly through the dreamy summer 
 afternoons, or, when conversationally inclined, 
 perched themselves in detachments of threes and 
 fours on the open casement-window of the middle 
 house, to have a friendly colloquy with Mrs. 
 Marris's magpie, who was taking the air in his 
 wicker-cage. 
 
 Over the centre doorway was a crumbling coat 
 of arms, surmounted by the statue of an old lady 
 in ruff and farthingale, the foundress of the insti- 
 tution. In her left-hand she held a distaff ; the 
 right was lifted, and pointed to an inscription over 
 her head, wherein it was stated that these houses 
 were built by Dame Margery Grey, in loving re- 
 membrance of her husband, Roger Grey, who de- 
 parted this life in the year of our Lord, 1670, 
 having been Bishop of St. Olave's for twenty years. 
 Round the doorway was a scroll, bearing this in- 
 scription in almost illegible characters — 
 
 " Thine ' * Lord ' are ■ all " things, 
 And • of ' thine ■ own • have ■ we • given * thee." 
 
 Scarce fifty yards away, St. Olave's Cathedral 
 
 towered in grey, majestic stillness. A flood of 
 
 unclouded sunshine poured down now upon the
 
 157 
 
 west front. Sculptured saints and apostles, 
 martyrs with clasped hands, and robes folded 
 closely round their feet ; grotesque-looking gur- 
 goyles, traceried windows, canopied niches — all 
 were clearly pencilled out in the warm afternoon 
 glow. But far away in the east, behind the 
 pinnacles of the Chapter House, were heavy, blue- 
 grey thunder- clouds, slowly piling up and betoken- 
 ing a storm ere long — a storm which would send 
 the gossiping swallows home, and awe the alms- 
 house magpie into unwonted gravity. 
 
 As yet, however, the sunshine had its own way. 
 It lay in a soft, warm glow upon the green sward 
 of the Close ; it came and went in golden flashes 
 upon the stained Cathedral windows ; it crept in 
 and out through the battlemented turrets of the 
 Bishop's palace ; it peered mischievously into the 
 grey aisles of the cloisters, and drifted to and fro 
 upon the massive columns of the Deanery porch ; 
 and over all there lay a strange hush, the hush of 
 a waking dream, as though the tide of busy- working 
 life, which surged so closely up to the very gates 
 of the Close, had turned back there and left for 
 ever in the place an old-world air of unbroken 
 stillness and repose.
 
 158 st. olave's. 
 
 a Well, them may gainsay it as will, but facks 
 is facks, whether folks gives heed to 'em or not. 
 I've lived i' this here nigh hand upon thirty 
 year, comin' and goin', and I never heer'd tell o' 
 nobody yet who could match wi' Mrs. Arch- 
 deacon Scrymgeour. Lor' ! but she's a par'lous 
 talker, she is. Why, she giv'd me t' length of a 
 sermon this morning, 'cause I weren't i' my place 
 at prayers last twice ; an' that didn't do for her, but 
 she mun set t' Dean on, an' I had him at 
 me thick end of an hour, tellin' of me I'd 
 broke through t' Charter, an' goodness knows 
 what. Bless us, if t' Charter ain't to be broke 
 through nohow, it ought to ha' made an agree- 
 ment wi' Providence as poor folks shouldn't never 
 have no rheumatiz nor pains i' their inside, nor 
 nought as quality has." And Martin Speller 
 whiffed out a cloud of fragrant incense into the 
 sunshiny air, following it with that other and 
 not so silent operation, which is the invariable ac- 
 companiment of tobacco-smoking. 
 
 Martin Speller was a pensioner of the St. 
 Olave's Almshouses. A shattered, tumble- down 
 old man, built in the irregular Gothic style, no 
 shape in particular, and the general effect nothing
 
 159 
 
 to boast of. He was a rabid free-thinker in 
 theology and politics, but discreet enough to 
 smother his sentiments when any personal benefit 
 could be gained by such a proceeding. Being 
 disabled by the loss of his right arm — which had 
 been snapped off in the Staffordshire Iron Works 
 — from active work, he had got a living by run- 
 ning messages and posting bills at public times, 
 and, during the last election, served the winning 
 side so well, that the honourable member used his 
 influence to get Martin a settlement in the St. 
 Olave's Almshouses. True, the old man's opinions 
 were not quite up to the mark, but the wording of 
 the Charter was not explicit on that head. It only 
 stipulated that the alms-folk should attend prayers 
 at the Minster twice a day, and receive the sacra- 
 ment four times a-year, both which duties Martin 
 duly performed, and the parish authorities could 
 take cognizance of nothing farther. 
 
 " Look ye," said Mrs. Marris, a stout, com- 
 fortable widow of sixty, or somewhere near 
 it, to whom Martin had confided his private 
 sentiments touching the Archdeacon's widow, "it's 
 here ; she does it genteel, cool and aisy like. Born 
 folks hereabouts never shouts, they does their
 
 160 
 
 scoldin' same pattern as they does everythin g else, 
 quiet and spry, wi'out puttin' theirselves out o't 
 way. Their tongues is allers droppin' n' droppin' 
 n' dropping like a barrel as hasn't got tap clean 
 turned, an ye never know when thy're goin' to 
 be done." 
 
 " Them's my opinions exact, Mrs. Marris. But 
 I likes them as does their scoldin' quick sharp, and 
 knows when to stop." 
 
 "Well, it don't make much difference to me, 
 Mr. Speller, as I looks at things, whether folks 
 draws it out length of a pennorth o' tape, or lets it 
 come tumblin and splashing so long as t'words gets 
 said. But I'm free to confess she worries me, 
 does t' Archdeacon's widdy. I oft think she 
 were born wi' a scoldin' rattle betwixt her teeth, 
 an' she's never dropped it yet." 
 
 " Ay marry," said Martin, " an it's my opinion 
 as she'll set on and scold t' nuss as comes to lay 
 her out to bury. And law, won't she vex the 
 blessed angels up yonder, when she gets near hand 
 'em. She'll sure to tell em their harps is out o' 
 tune, or their feathers isn't white enough, or 
 summut." 
 
 "Whisht, Mr. Speller. If she heered ye say
 
 st. olave's. 161 
 
 that, she bring t' Dean about yer ears again 
 and ye'd loss yer 'lowance i' no time. Folks had 
 ought to be civil to them as hold the bread and 
 cheese." 
 
 " Deans aint no 'count wi' me," rejoined Martin, 
 whose veneration was in inverse proportion to his 
 self-esteem. " They can't do no more nor other 
 folks has a mind to let 'em to. Mistress Amiel 
 Grey, bless her, has say o' these here houses, an' 
 she'll none turn a body out for speakin truth, let 
 alone bein 'lected in wi' a parish meetin' an' gettin' 
 votes and things as is reglar. 
 
 "Bless ye, Mrs. Marris," continued the old 
 man, puffing out a fresh cloud of tobacco smoke, 
 " do you think I'm the sort as'll go down of my 
 knees and do my reverence to a man cause he 
 wears linen enough outside his coat to find a 
 parish wi' shirts ? I nobbut humbles myself to 
 them as has intellect'l ' bilities ;" and Martin 
 dispread himself in his arm-chair with the air of 
 a man who has uttered a sublime moral sentiment. 
 
 " Hould yer whisht, Mr. Speller. Bible tells us 
 we're to order werselves reverent to wer speritle 
 pasture masters, an I allers goes in to do as t' 
 Bible says." 
 
 VOL. I. m
 
 162 st. olave's. 
 
 ' ' That there aint int' Bible," said Martin, con- 
 descendingly, " it's nobbut catechise says that." 
 
 " Well and aint that every bit as good ? I puts 
 in for t' catechise same as I puts in for tf Bible, an 
 takes em 5 both alike." 
 
 " Folks'll print ought now- a- days. I uses my 
 intellects, and don't believe nothin. They're a 
 poor set as swallers just what folks has a mind to 
 stuff 'em wi\ Natur's my book, Bible and cate- 
 chise an' all." 
 
 " Then, savin yer presence, Mr. Speller, ye're a 
 bigger simpleton nor ever I thought ye was. An' 
 if yer intellects as ye call 'em, has landed ye in 
 such a mud heap as that, ye ought to think shame 
 to say it, and you goin' to prayers night an' morn- 
 in' and doin' yer obedience to t' f I believe,' an 
 scrapin' to Mrs. Scrymgeour for odd sixpences." 
 
 " Bad luck to Mrs. Scrymgeour, an all t' rest of 
 'em ; they're a set o' whited sepulchres," and Mr. 
 Speller flung a fresh libation from his lips to the 
 green grass. 
 
 " There ye go again," said Mrs. Marris, who, 
 although she liked to have an occasional fling at 
 individual character, cherished, nevertheless, a pro- 
 found reverence for the whole body corporate of
 
 ST. OLAVE S. 163 
 
 ecclesiastical dignitaries, and would have plucked 
 out her right eye rather than omitted to curtsey 
 until the top tuck of her lilac gown touched the 
 ground, when the Dean or Canon resident passed 
 within a hundred yards of her. " There ye go 
 again; if I was you Fd tie my tongue up wi' a bit 
 o' blue worsted afore Fd let it talk such heathenish 
 stuff." 
 
 "Begging yer pardon, Mrs. Marris, didn't ye 
 say yerself she was a scoldin' rattle/'' 
 
 " Happen I did," replied the repentant reviler 
 of Archdeacons' widows, " but it were you set me 
 on. When one fool says snip, there's allers 
 another to say snap. But I aint a goin' to speak 
 evil of dignities no more, neither for you nor for 
 nobody else. An she's kin to t' ould Bishop, let 
 alone havin' a nevy in t' church, and I aint tongued 
 my catechise this fifty year, besides prayers twice 
 a day, an' my Colic reglar of a mornin' for 
 nothin'." 
 
 To what dire extent this ecclesiastical contro- 
 versy might have raged, is uncertain. It was 
 put a stop to by a stranger, who came slowly up 
 the lane leading to the almshouses, balancing a 
 huge clothes-basket on her head. 
 
 m 2
 
 164 st. olave's. 
 
 She was a tall, well-built, noble-looking woman, 
 with a tawny complexion and grand, strongly- 
 marked features, — too strongly marked perhaps, 
 but for a strange, inner spiritual light which shone 
 through and softened their outline. In her whole 
 attitude and bearing there was that unmistakable 
 dignity which real religion, taking up its abode 
 within however humble a shrine, does always give. 
 Mrs. Cromarty was a Primitive Methodist, and 
 worshipped in the little meeting-house in Nor- 
 lands Lane, just on the outskirts of St. Olave's. 
 
 As her tall figure darkened the doorway of Mrs. 
 Marris's cottage, Mr. Speller took his arm- 
 chair and went farther up the lane, under the 
 shadow of one of the elm trees, muttering to him- 
 self as he limped along — 
 
 " Women folks haven't got no intellects. Can't 
 find out what God Almighty makes such a 
 sight of em for. They're allers comin, n' comin, n' 
 comin, an t' world'll be clean smothered wi' 'em 
 afore long." 
 
 " Come your ways in and rest a bit, Mrs. Cro- 
 marty," said Mrs. Marris, cheerily, when Martin 
 was fairly out of the way. " I'll warrant yer back 
 aches some. It's a weary way fra' Norlands, and
 
 165 
 
 the sun blazin fit to frizzle a body, let alone 
 midges as seems to think ye was made for nowt' 
 but to eat." 
 
 "I ain't tired, they're nobbut starch things/' 
 and Mrs. Cromarty whisked the basket down to 
 the ground as lightly as if it had been a bird cage. 
 " But I'll come in an sit a bit, all the same obliged 
 to you." 
 
 " Happen ye'd like to take a look at 'em/' she 
 continued, seeing that Mrs. Marris was peering 
 curiously, and with professional.] interest, at a 
 tempting little bit of colour which peeped out 
 from under the white cloth; "I've gotten a new 
 sort o' starch as makes things look better n' new." 
 
 And Mrs. Cromarty withdrew the covering 
 from her basket with as much pride as if she had 
 been unveiling a masterpiece of modern painting. 
 Justifiable pride too. Why should not the artiste 
 in starch and powder-blue claim that merit for 
 her handiwork, which, without question we yield 
 to him who dabbles in oils and pigments of divers 
 hue. And never did the far-famed " hanging 
 committee" of the Royal Academy gaze upon 
 their squares of painted canvas with more critical 
 acumen than that which filled Mrs. Marris's
 
 166 st. olave's. 
 
 shrewdy common-sense face as she bent over Mrs. 
 Cromarty's clothes-basket and scanned its snowy 
 treasures. Mrs. Marris was a washerwoman too, 
 though she exercised her calling chiefly in the 
 ecclesiastical line, being employed by the proper 
 authorities to get up the choristers' surplices 
 and other Cathedral vestments. 
 
 " Talk o' things new out o' the shop, why what 
 these here beats 'em to nothin' ; ironed wi'out a 
 crease, and not a speck or a smut, and law, Mrs. 
 Cromarty, what a beautiful stiffness!" 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Marris, they aint to be ashamed of, 
 nohow. Says I to myself when I'd done 'em, 
 Mrs. Cromarty, says I, them there's well done. 
 But I allers puts my best foot foremost for Miss 
 Alice, she's so tender and bonnie, and seems 
 sort o' kin to ought that's pure like these here." 
 
 They were two dresses of light, zephyry, trans- 
 parent muslin. One was pure white, sprinkled 
 over with tiny leaves, softly tinted as the green 
 heart of a snow- drop. The other was a warm 
 bloomy peach colour, perhaps in these days it 
 would be called mauve, but that word had not 
 been invented at the time of which I write. It 
 was trimmed with a profusion of little frills,
 
 167 
 
 ruffled and crimped like the inside petals of a 
 purple iris, and the sunlight shining through it 
 seemed to stain all the room with a soft warm 
 mist. 
 
 " Pretty things allers does me good to look at 
 'em/' said Mrs. Marris ; " I don't know if folks 
 as wears 'em thinks same as them as washes ; em ; 
 but 'pears like to me if I could get a gown like 
 them there, clean on once a week, I should come 
 a long sight nearer being a Christian nor what 
 I is/' 
 
 " Mrs. Marris, get the spotless robe o' Christ's 
 righteousness, an then it won't be no 'count how 
 tiften ye get a clean gown to yer back. Them as 
 He clothes is well covered. Not but what I likes 
 to have things viewly, mind ye, but them as can't 
 be Christians in linsey-wolsey, wouldn't do no 
 better if they tried it on wi' silks an' satins." 
 
 "Well, well, Mrs. Cromarty, mebby ye're 
 right ; but I allers thinks prayers sounds better 
 when I goes to hear 'em in a clean cap an' 
 my best black silk bonnet. I lay them's for Miss 
 Alice." 
 
 " Yes. I mostly does four or five of 'em every 
 week for her."
 
 168 
 
 " She'd ought to wed a soap-boiler then. VThy 
 she'd cost anybody a fortin wi' jest nowt but 
 washin'." 
 
 " Oh ! for that matter, Mrs. Marris, it isn't 
 that she sullies 'em any to speak on ; but ye see 
 Miss Alice, bless her, is that dainty and sweet-like, 
 that if ought about her's got so much as a spreckle 
 or a streak upon it, it ain't good enough for her. 
 She can't abear nowt as isn't just as bonnie and 
 pure as herself." 
 
 " Folks as has white hearts wants white clothes 
 to match 'em, that's it, an' I say nought agin it. 
 But I can't help it comin' into my head, odd 
 times about, why you and me wasn't let to wear 
 such as these here," and Mrs. Marris glanced 
 from the woven air and moonshine draperies to 
 her own lilac-print gown, which having been in 
 wear a week, was variegated with sublunary spots 
 not a few. 
 
 " Never heed them sort o' questions Mrs. 
 Marris, never heed 'em. God Almighty made 
 some folks to wear pretty things, and other folks 
 to wash 'em, and it ain't our track to be a turnin 
 of His reg'lations down-side up. I'm thankful 
 JHe^s made me so as I like pretty things when I see
 
 st. olave's. 169 
 
 ; em. It's nigh hand as good as a sermon when 
 Miss Alice comes trippin' up the garden at Nor- 
 lands, wi' her sweet-bit face, all 'broidered over 
 wi' smiles, an' bonnie sparkles o' light glinting 
 through her blue eyes, like stars shimmerin' i' the 
 
 " That face of her's, though," continued Mrs. 
 Cromarty, " gives me a sort o' achin' feel whiles. 
 It kind o' minds me of a leddy as I lived maid wi' 
 a sight o' years ago, an' she came to no good 
 'cause of her bein' so beautiful." 
 
 " Ay, that's it ; beauty n' misery, beauty n' 
 misery, that's way things goes i' this here world. 
 It clean passes my wits why God makes women 
 so fair-like, an' then lets 'em get trailed i' the 
 mire, so as decent folks can't touch 'em. But 
 tell us about it, Mrs. Cromarty. I ain't had 
 nothin' to listen to, let alone prayers n' sermons, 
 this good bit past, an' though I don't go to say 
 nowt agen 'em, they sort o' lie heavy on my 
 stomach, now and then, like Christmas beef when 
 you've been eatin' over much. I mean no dis- 
 respect to the prayers, 'cause I were allers brought 
 up to tongue 'em proper, and do my reverences 
 when t' times corned. But summut tasty makes
 
 170 st. olave's. 
 
 a change." And Mrs. Marris settled herself in 
 her arm-chair, and opened month and ears for a 
 spiced morsel. 
 
 Mrs. Cromarty stood by the casement-window, 
 leaning her tawny face upon her hands, gazing 
 half dreamily, half sadly, at the leaf shadows which 
 were flickering to and fro upon the grass. 
 
 " It were a young leddy," she said, ' ' far away, 
 to the south. I forget t' name o' t' place, but they 
 don't have no winter there to speak on. Vilets 
 comes peepin' out at Christmas time, an' folks sits 
 wi* their windy open i' March, same as we do now." 
 
 " Bless me/' said Mrs. Marris, whose turn of 
 mind was practical, " but what a sight o' money 
 folks might save there in coal 'n chips." 
 
 " It were a long time back/' continued Mrs. 
 Cromarty, not heeding her companion's matter-of- 
 fact observation, " but I can tell of it just same 
 as if it was last week. She were rare and beauti- 
 ful, that sort as 'ud make a man's heart run down 
 into his shoes to look at her. She'd long shinin' 
 curls hanging down her back, an' the colour 
 came an' went in her cheeks like red i' the sky 
 when the sun's rising, and the beautifulest 
 eyes "
 
 st. olave's. 171 
 
 " Lor, Mrs. Cromarty, she must ha' been pic- 
 ture o' Miss Alice, she's just that way." 
 
 ' ' No, she warn't neither. Miss Alice is soft and 
 winsome-like — that kind as makes you pet and 
 cuddle 'em up, but my leddy had nought o' that 
 sort about her. Not as she wasn't kind, I never 
 had nought to say agen her for pretty behaviour, 
 but she'd a look as could ha' turned ye to stone 
 if ye vexed her." 
 
 ' ' Ay, that's way wi' some folks. Now there's 
 Mrs. Scrymgeour," and Mrs. Marris made 
 a wry face as if at some invisible elf or 
 goblin. 
 
 " Whisht ! don't let us hear nought o' Mrs. 
 Scrymgeour ; her name allers minds me o' salts, as 
 you must ha' summut to take taste out after it. 
 There was a vast o' gentlemen used to come about 
 after my young leddy, but she couldn't fancy none of 
 'em. Her pa and ma was beat to find out t' rea- 
 son, poor things, for she was all the child they 
 had, and they would fain ha' seed her comfortably 
 wed afore they was took. But it cleared itself 
 by-'n-by, it did." 
 
 " I lay she was a pinin' after somebody else. 
 Dandelions and roses is all the same to them as
 
 172 st. olave's. 
 
 hasn't eyes to look/' remarked Mrs. Marris, who 
 had had an " experience " in her own youth. 
 
 ' ' You're near right. About half a year afore 
 I left, there were a young man started comin' as 
 no one knew what he was or where he corned 
 from. He were fair to look upon, gainliest young 
 man's ever I seed, summut that sort as King Saul 
 might ha' been. But his heart was as dark as 
 coal, and as dirty as pitch. I seed that from the 
 first. Mrs. Marris, there's some men's faces — ay, 
 and women's too, more shame to 'em, as the devil 
 makes sign-boards of 'em to show who lives inside. 
 He paints them up beautiful wi' pretty shapes and 
 colours, but his name's printed in all the while for 
 them as has eyes to see it." 
 
 " Mrs. Cromarty, that's a queer way o' puttin' 
 things. An' he stole away her heart and then 
 left her, did he ? They're a graceless set, is t' men." 
 
 " Better if he had, Mrs. Marris, better if he 
 had. A lost heart doesn't smart like one that's 
 broke. I knew she were set upon him from t' 
 first, she allers fluttered so when he came 
 nigh hand her, and her eyes had a beautiful melt 
 inside of 'em if she looked him in the face. Well, 
 as I were tellin' ye "
 
 st. olave's. 173 
 
 " Bless us, Mrs. Cromarty, yon's bell putting in 
 for prayers. I mun go and get my bonnet on, an* 
 ye'H ha' to tell me t' rest when I've got 5 em sided 
 out and back again. I think we're never clean shut 
 o' prayers i' this here place ; you're well off Mrs. 
 Cromarty, as doesn't need to go to 'em all. First 
 lot of a mornin' hasn't got fairly settled afore t' 
 bell puts in for t' afternoon set, an' ye're forced 
 to get agate again. I oft wishes we could say 'em 
 wi' a machine same as folks does such a sight o' 
 things nowadays, it 'ud put off a vast o' trouble," 
 and Mrs. Marris trotted upstairs in search of her 
 bonnet, with a disappointed look upon her face, 
 leaving Mrs. Cromarty and her basket of clothes 
 at the kitchen door. Just as the old lady got out 
 of sight, Martin Speller passed the door on his 
 way to prayers, and paused for a friendly crack 
 with Mrs. Cromarty. He appeared to have over- 
 heard Mrs. Marris' s closing remark, for he started 
 on the same track as soon as he had got over his 
 opening salutation. 
 
 "It's here, Mrs. Cromarty," he said, with a 
 contemptuous sort of glance towards the old grey 
 towers of the Cathedral, " I don't make much count 
 o' prayers myself nohow. I sits up i' my place
 
 174 st. olave's. 
 
 an' hears t' parson go through 'em twice a day 
 regular, 'cause ye see it's in the agreement, and 
 we'd lose our 'lowance if we didn't go. An' as for 
 the sermon twice a week, I mostly shuts up when 
 that gets agate. I nobbut bargained to go to t' 
 prayers reg'lar, wi' no word of a sermon on the 
 back on 'em. Religion ain't no yield's ever I see, 
 I don't believe nothin' as I can't understand." 
 
 " Don't ye," said Mrs. Cromarty, drily; "well, 
 I heered a bit since as how ye didn't believe 
 nought at all, and mebby as ye say that's t > 
 reason. Some folks' intellects can't take in 
 much." 
 
 This unexpected turn rather baffled Martin, so he 
 gave the conversation a twist in another direction. 
 
 "Yon's Mrs. Archdeacon a comin' up th' 
 Close, wi' his reverence the Bishop along-side of 
 her ; my word on it but she's awful stiff upright 
 the day, s'pose it's 'cause she's gotten him to set 
 her to the prayers. Some women's as proud as 
 peacocks if they can get a pair o' coat tails to walk 
 with 'em," and Martin, who had great notions of 
 the superiority of his own sex, took his pipe out 
 of his mouth in readiness to make a bow as the 
 quality passed.
 
 st. olave's. 175 
 
 Mrs. Scrymgeour and the Bishop came slowly 
 along, her ample draperies puffing out behind like 
 the sails of a merchant vessel under a stiff breeze. 
 As they neared the cottage door, Mr. Speller did 
 his " obedience " by doffing his hat and perform- 
 ing a rheumatic bow, but Mrs. Cromarty, who 
 had a share of the genuine north country inde- 
 pendence about her, stood upright as a queen, 
 gazing calmly at the aristocrats out of her great, 
 deep, dark eyes. 
 
 " It's a queer world it is," said Martin, when 
 he had put his hat on again, and resumed the per- 
 pendicular position, " it's a queer world. I oft 
 wonder if we'll all ha' to set on the same bench 
 up yonder in heaven, s'posin' there is such'n a 
 place, and s'posin' any on us gets landed at it, 
 which one thing's as onsartain as t'other, as I looks 
 at 'em. But, lor, it 'ud feel mighty strange if 
 the kingdom o' glory's a real place, to be settin' 
 nigh hand the Archdeacon's widdy, an' hev her 
 morry-antic dress — that's what women folks calls 
 it — a rubbin' agen one's worsted stockin's," and 
 Martin's face grew slightly perplexed as he en- 
 deavoured to realize this possibility of millennial 
 bliss.
 
 176 st. olave's. 
 
 "Hould yer whisht, Mr. Speller/' said Mrs. 
 Marris, who had just landed down stairs with her 
 bonnet on and a black leathered-covered prayer- 
 book under her shawl, ' ( ye were allers as blind as 
 an owl about doctrines. Haven't ye heard 'em 
 readin' at prayers about degrees o' glory and 
 different sort o' stars. Such an unseemly thing 
 as it 'ud be for the likes of us to be sittin' nigh 
 hand the quality. I look out for it as there'll be 
 a place for us somewhere comfortable in the back 
 seats, an' th' Archdeacon's widdy an' them sort '11 
 have front stalls an prayer-books wi' lots o' 
 
 giit.» 
 
 " Nobbut," resumed the old lady after a pause, 
 during which she had locked the door and put the 
 key safely in her pocket, "nobbut I hope we'll 
 only ha' prayers once a day up in heaven, an' 
 them in the afternoon when t' Litany don't want 
 to be said. They're good enough is the prayers, 
 but one gets tired bein' allers tewing at 'em."
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 frasBHHan 
 
 ISS BRUCE, I presume." 
 
 Janet bowed assent, being too 
 much taken by surprise to attempt 
 any other mode of address. What mistress of a 
 household, called upon to receive a stranger just 
 three hours before the appointed time, and whilst 
 clean towels and pending culinary arrangements are 
 yet uppermost in the strata of thought, will 
 not sympathize with her feelings. The lady 
 was announced to arrive at half-past eight, and 
 the little clock on the mantel-piece at Westwood 
 had not yet chimed the hour of six when a 
 carriage drove up to the front door, and Tibbie's 
 services were put in requisition to marshal boxes 
 and count packages. 
 
 "I am Mrs. Edenall; I fear I have incon- 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 st. olave's. 
 
 venienced you by coming so much in advance of 
 the appointed time, but I found there was no need 
 to wait at Manchester as my solicitor informed 
 me, and I preferred travelling in the daytime." 
 
 These words were spoken with that indescrib- 
 ably rich and aristocratic ring, which, apart from 
 all other test of dress or appearance, at once 
 stamps the speaker as belonging to the upper 
 classes ; also with that high-bred indifference and 
 hauteur which said plainly enough, " and if I 
 have inconvenienced you, it is not of the slightest 
 consequence.*' 
 
 She was a tall, elegant woman, dressed in deep 
 mourning of very rich material. Her veil was 
 drawn down and tied closely under her chin, so 
 that Janet could only judge of the new comer by 
 her voice and gesture, both of which were exceed- 
 ing proud. 
 
 " You have not inconvenienced me at all." she 
 said at last, in reply to Mrs. EdenalPs explana- 
 tion. " You will find everything quite ready for 
 you, and I am glad you have got through with 
 your journey so much sooner than you thought 
 for." 
 
 It would be impossible to describe the effect
 
 st. olave's. 179 
 
 which these words, spoken in Janet's quiet, placid 
 voice, produced upon Mrs. Edenall. Her eyes 
 flashed eagerly through her thick veil ; she turned 
 abruptly round, and her hands trembled so that 
 the purse she held fell to the ground, scattering 
 its contents upon the hall floor. It was as if she 
 had been suddenly shaken by some bitter, stinging 
 recollection. But she soon recovered her self- 
 possession. The momentary surprise passed, she 
 picked up the purse and money before Janet could 
 come forward to her help ; and then, having seen 
 all her luggage placed in the hall, she requested 
 to be shown to her own room. 
 
 ' ' Would you not like to come into the parlour 
 and rest ?" said Janet. 
 
 " Thank you," she replied, " you are kind, but 
 I prefer resting in my own room." 
 
 Janet led the way. The room, which had been 
 set apart for Mrs. Edenall's use, was indeed a 
 very pretty little spot, one in which a lover of sun- 
 shine and fresh air might spend many pleasant 
 hours. It was at the corner of the house, and had 
 two windows looking east and south. One com- 
 manded a fine prospect across the rich level pasture 
 lands of Broadshire away to the Wold hills stretching
 
 180 st. olave's. 
 
 in a faint undulating purple line round the horizon. 
 The other looked towards St. Olave's with its up- 
 reaching spires, antique-gabled houses and grey 
 postern. It had besides,, a full view of the 
 north side of the Cathedral and a glimpse of the 
 Deanery and Residence. 
 
 As for the fitting up of the room, Janet had 
 made it as pretty as small means could afford. 
 The furniture was of maple, simple, but tasteful 
 and exquisitely clean. The walls were painted 
 a soft French grey ; the hangings of the bed and 
 windows were of white muslin, and the carpet — a 
 deep rich crimson — gave warmth and colour to the 
 whole room. Janet had hung one or two engrav- 
 ings on the walls ; she also arranged a few flowers 
 in a little Parian vase upon the chimney-piece ; 
 and as she had a notion that English people spent 
 a great deal of time in their bed-rooms, she had 
 brought a small round table out of her own room 
 and set it before the window with a supply of 
 books and writing materials. There was an air of 
 indescribable neatness and refinement over every- 
 thing, and that hushed feeling, which followed 
 wherever Janet Bruce came. 
 
 She naturally paused for a moment to note the
 
 ST. olave's. 181 
 
 impression which the room appeared to make. 
 Mrs. Edenall, however, took not the slightest 
 notice of anything. Completely ignoring Janet's 
 presence, and withont a word of complaint or 
 satisfaction, she began to take off her bonnet and 
 cloak. 
 
 '• Can I assist you at all ? Shall I send the 
 servant up to unpack your portmanteau ?" 
 
 " Thank you, no. I prefer to be alone." 
 
 Janet took the hint and withdrew, closing the 
 door softly after her with a feeling of disappoint- 
 ment. She had expected a little approbation at 
 the very least, after all the pains of preparation, 
 and Mrs. Edenall' s cold manner completely chilled 
 her. 
 
 " What a stiff, proud woman," she said to her- 
 self, as she went down- stairs to help Tibbie with 
 tea. "I was in hopes she might be a sort of 
 companion for us ; but that can never be." 
 
 " Have the scones baked nicely, Tibbie ? Mrs. 
 Edenall has had a long travel, and she'll be sair 
 weary the night." 
 
 " They're just fine, Miss Janet. Sax of 'em an' 
 mair for the morrow. And wad the leddie be for 
 a bit bannock forbye ?"
 
 182 st. olave's. 
 
 " Oh, Tibbie,, English folks will no thank you 
 for bannock, we must have buttered toast and some 
 marmalade." 
 
 "The English folk are a' daft then/' said 
 Tibbie, who had a wholesale contempt for every- 
 thing that was not Scotch. " But I'll do e'en as ye 
 tell me, and gie the leddie her ain likins." 
 
 David Bruce had not got home from the 
 Minster yet. He was training the choristers in a 
 new anthem, and generally kept them an hour after 
 service. Janet had just got tea arranged, and 
 the fireside cleaned up — the evening, though in 
 July, had fallen damp and cold — when Mrs. 
 Edenall came sweeping into the room. 
 
 " You have a fire, ah, that is pleasant ; people 
 in this part of the country are generally so un- 
 willing to give themselves the trouble of lighting 
 a fire/' and she threw herself carelessly down in 
 the great arm-chair which stood on the hearth-rug. 
 
 As Janet sat at the table ' ' sorting " the tea, 
 she had an opportunity of scanning her new guest 
 more carefully. Mrs. Edenall might be five and 
 thirty, perhaps more — certainly not less. Had 
 she been a trifle stouter, people would have called 
 her " majestic," but being slender as well as tall,
 
 st. olave's. 183 
 
 perhaps stately was the word which best described 
 her. She was lithe and graceful in figure,, digni- 
 fied almost to stiffness in her manner; and her 
 voice, when she did speak, which was seldom 
 enough, had a cold, haughty accent — musical 
 very, but full of pride. Her face was pale and 
 worn as if with much suffering — but mental, not 
 physical suffering. Her short, curling upper lip, 
 the uneven eyebrows, the quivering, dilating 
 nostril, told of a dauntless spirit that would 
 both dare and do when the need came. Her hair 
 was of a dull grey-brown, very thick and waving. 
 It was put plainly back from her face, and knotted 
 low down upon the neck, showing the exquisite 
 shape of the head and the fine aristocratic curves 
 of the slender throat. 
 
 She was dressed in deep mourning. There was 
 nothing white about her but the cambric handker- 
 chief with which she shaded her face from the fire. 
 She held it in her left hand. Janet noticed a 
 wedding-ring on her finger, and above that a 
 diamond hoop which flashed and glittered in the 
 firelight. Everything about her betokened high, 
 almost noble breeding — and pride, intense, uncon- 
 querable pride.
 
 184 st. olave's. 
 
 " My brother will be home from the Cathedral 
 soon ; but we will not wait for him/' said Janet. 
 " I am sure you will need a cup of tea to refresh 
 you after your long journey." 
 
 Again that quick, eager, burning look, as Janet's 
 Scottish birth betrayed itself in the ringing " r's " 
 and the peculiar musical rhythm of her words. It 
 was a look of keen intense interest, bursting for 
 one moment over the proud face, and then leaving 
 it pale and passionless as before. 
 
 "Do not let me disturb any of your customary 
 arrangements," she said, stiffly. " I am not at 
 all faint, and I would much prefer that you should 
 wait until Mr. Bruce comes in." 
 
 So Janet sent Tibbie back with the hot scones, 
 and put the cosie over the tea-pot. Then they sat 
 in perfect silence for about a quarter of an hour 
 longer, Mrs. Edenall still leaning carelessly back 
 in the arm-chair, and musing on the carved oak 
 frame above the mantel-piece. As the clock 
 struck half-past seven, David Bruce came into the 
 room with his music-books under his arm. There 
 was a flush of pleasure on his face ; he had met 
 Alice on the road, and walked nearly the length 
 of Westwood lane with her.
 
 st. olave's. 185 
 
 "My brother, Mrs. Edenall." 
 
 Mrs. Edenall rose, drew herself up to her full 
 height and bowed with grave, stately courtesy. 
 Then she offered her hand to Mr. Bruce. It was 
 a very soft white hand, almost the softest and 
 whitest, except Alice Grey's, that had ever lain 
 within his. Indeed there was something in its 
 light clinging grasp which reminded him of 
 Alice's. 
 
 They sat down to tea. A very quiet opportu- 
 nity it proved. David addressed himself once or 
 twice to Mrs. Edenall, and she replied in a care- 
 less indifferent tone, not scornful — there was 
 nothing in Mrs. EdenalTs bearing to which that 
 disagreeable word could be applied — but with a 
 sort of half-unconscious weariness which implied 
 that she would rather be let alone. So David at 
 last, let her alone. It w r as seldom indeed, that he 
 talked more than was absolutely needful. 
 
 After tea, she went back again to her old seat 
 by the fire, while Janet helped David to arrange 
 his music, talking the while, of their visit to the 
 Old Lodge. Their tones were low and quiet and 
 restful. Mrs. Edenall closed her eyes and there 
 came over her face a dreamy look as of one who is
 
 186 st. olave's. 
 
 listening to old but well-remembered music. 
 Janet, turning suddenly round once, was startled 
 by the strange beauty of its expression, and, 
 glancing towards her brother, saw that his gaze 
 was fixed in the same direction. 
 
 One of the old Italian galleries contains a paint- 
 ing of Hero looking out from her watch-tower on 
 the dark, quivering waves of the Hellespont, wait- 
 ing for Leander. Hope and memory give their 
 light and shadow to her pale face. The remem- 
 brance of passion past, the hope of joy to come, 
 meet and blend upon it. It was such a look that 
 stole over Mrs. EdenalFs face, as she listened to 
 the low, measured tones of this brother and sister. 
 They had brought back some far-away memory, 
 and wakened some sleeping hope. 
 
 David saw that their guest was not likely to be 
 much of an acquisition in the way of companion* 
 ship for that evening, at any rate, so he fetched the 
 manuscript of hisoratorio and began'to work at it. 
 
 " Shall I disturb you if I try over this move- 
 ment ? there is only a page or two of it," he said, 
 after a pause of nearly an hour, in which nothing 
 had been heard but the click of Janet's needles 
 and the regular beat of the timepiece pendulum.
 
 st. olave's. 187 
 
 " Not in the least/' Mrs. Edenall replied. " I 
 am never disturbed by anything." 
 
 " She is not nervous, at any rate," thought 
 Janet. 
 
 " And I hope you will not allow me to feel that 
 I am in the slightest degree interfering with your 
 usual plans." And, having said this, she turned 
 her head away from them both as if glad to have 
 the opportunity of escaping from the need of 
 further conversation. 
 
 David began. It was part of the overture to 
 Jael. He soon forgot that any one else was in the 
 room, and appeared to be talking to himself in the 
 music. His face grew bright — it always did 
 whilst he was playing — as if from some light that 
 was slowly kindling within. After a while he 
 paused to note down a new phrase that had struck 
 him. 
 
 " You play very beautifully," said Mrs. Edenall, 
 without turning her head. " It is a great rest to 
 listen to you." 
 
 David was accustomed to have his musical per- 
 formances patronizingly approved by fashion- 
 able amateurs, both ladies and gentlemen, who 
 called his style " charming," " sweetly pretty,"
 
 188 
 
 " soul-subduing/' " so impressive/' and then 
 praised his wonderful facility of touch in very 
 much the same words which the antics of a danc- 
 ing bear would have called forth. But there was 
 something different in Mrs. EdenalTs manner. It 
 was the appreciation of one who could feel and 
 think with himself, and not the idle criticism of 
 an amateur. 
 
 "You love music, then V he said. 
 
 "Yes. I used to enjoy it very much once; 
 but that is many years ago." 
 
 "Many years ago." How strange it is that 
 people in middle life can never say those three 
 words without a certain sadness in their tones. 
 Mrs. Edenall could not. 
 
 " I have not played now/' she continued, " for 
 some time ; never indeed, since " 
 
 She paused- for a moment. 
 
 " Since I lost my husband." 
 
 This was the first time she had in any way 
 alluded to her own affairs, and even now she seemed 
 to think the mention of them had been needless, 
 for she drew herself up very proudly, and then 
 begged Mr. Bruce to go on with his music. She 
 evidently did not wish this chance remark to pro-
 
 st. olave's. 189 
 
 duce either sympathy or questioning. And it did 
 not. 
 
 At half-past nine Tibbie brought in the Bibles 
 for worship. Mrs. Edenall looked bewildered for 
 a moment, and then guessing at what was to fol- 
 low, she *rose hastily. 
 
 " Excuse me, I am tired. Be so kind as to let 
 me have a light. I would like to leave you now." 
 
 Tibbie brought the little lamp. Mrs. Edenall 
 bowed somewhat haughtily and was turning to 
 leave the room, when, as though suddenly remem- 
 bering something, she turned back and shook 
 hands with both of them. This was done in a 
 grave, silent sort of way ; not with any pleasant 
 farewell smile, but with the half-humble, half- 
 defiant air of a very high-spirited child who has 
 done something wrong, and is too proud to ac- 
 knowledge it. Then she went away. 
 
 " Oh ! Davie," said Janet, when worship was 
 over, ' ' what will we do with her, she is so proud." 
 
 " I don't think it is pride, Jeanie. She seems 
 very shy, and when she is more at home with us it 
 will wear off." 
 
 " I am afraid not, Davie. I can't tell how it is, 
 but she seems to magnetize me. The touch of her
 
 190 
 
 hand just now had a strange uncanny feel. I 
 would like to have dropped it again directly. I 
 wish she had never come." 
 
 " Nonsense, Jeanie, you are getting supersti- 
 tious. We shall manage well enough together 
 by-and-by. She is a thorough lady, you can tell 
 that by the tones of her voice and every move- 
 ment." 
 
 " She is a widow it seems ; you remember she 
 spoke of having lost her husband." 
 
 " Yes, Jeanie, and what a sad weary look came 
 over her face when she had said the words. She 
 has had some great trouble, Jeanie, and we must 
 be very gentle with her. She has come here for 
 rest and quiet. I think all that she wants of us 
 is just to be let alone." 
 
 "Well, brother, she shall not need to complain of 
 any interference of mine. For my part I shall be 
 quite willing, as Tibbie says, to let her l gang her 
 ain gate/ " And with these words the brother and 
 sister parted for the night. 
 
 Janet had great faith in Tibbie's perception of 
 character, and so before she went upstairs she 
 stepped into the kitchen to have a consultation with 
 the knowing Scotchwoman.
 
 191 
 
 " Well, Tibbie, and what do you think of the 
 new lodger ?" 
 
 " A gey braw leddy, Miss Janet/' said Tibbie, 
 taking off her blue check apron, and folding it 
 carefully up. " A gey braw leddy, but ower 
 muckle o' the pride." 
 
 And in her heart Janet thought that Tibbie was 
 quite right. 
 
 It was scarcely dark — -just a grey dim twilight — 
 when Mrs. Edenall went into her own room. 
 The first employment to which people betake 
 themselves when they have completed a long- 
 journey is generally that of writing home. But 
 although pen, ink, and paper had been placed 
 ready for her on the little table by the window, 
 Mrs. Edenall did not use them. Perhaps there 
 were no friends in the place she had left, who 
 would care to hear of her safe arrival at St. 
 Olave's. Perhaps in all the world there was no 
 fireside by which that night loving voices spake of 
 her; no home where the thought of her, the 
 absent one, nestled into any faithful heart, or 
 breathed itself forth in a prayer for her welfare. 
 
 One might have thought that she was accus- 
 tomed to a very warm climate, for she shivered
 
 192 
 
 once or twice when she went into the room, and 
 then wrapped her crimson cashmere dressing- 
 gown ronnd her as if it had been mid- winter. The 
 first thing she did was to examine the lock of the 
 door, trying it once or twice to see if it was qnite 
 secnre. Then she looked into the closet ; it con- 
 tained nothing but pegs for dresses, and one or 
 two drawers, which were empty. After this, she 
 sat down on a low seat by the dressing-table and 
 began to unbind her hair, letting it fall in heavy 
 grey brown masses on her shoulders. It was only 
 part, just the outside, which time or sorrow, or 
 both, had bleached. Underneath, and at the ends 
 of the long, waving tresses, it was of a rich golden 
 brown, that glorious tint which poets love to sing 
 and artists to paint. Years ago, when her hair 
 was all like that, Mrs. Edenall must have been a 
 magnificent woman. 
 
 She took up one of the shining locks and 
 smoothed it over her finger, looking at it long 
 and earnestly. Then she buried her face in her 
 hands, and soon the quick tears came dropping 
 one after another upon her lap ; sometimes with 
 great, bitter sobs that shook her whole frame, 
 sometimes with low, mournful sighs, tender and
 
 193 
 
 regretful, full of passionate longing and weariness' 
 And she was still sitting there rocking to and fro 
 in her grief, long after the Cathedral bells had 
 struck eleven, and the quiet little Westwood 
 household had packed up for the night. 
 
 VOL. 1.
 
 194 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 mm 
 
 iwnwnwi 
 
 HE hours wore away. Daylight crept 
 slowly on, disturbing the lazy grey 
 shadows that lay sleeping in the city. 
 One by one the battlements of the Broad Tower 
 gleamed out into the sunshine, then glints of 
 light stole down to the pinnacles of the east front 
 and flickered from the topmost compartments of 
 the great window, deepening and brightening until 
 the whole looked like one mass of many- coloured 
 gems, set in a framework of foliated tracery and 
 cunning broidery work of stone. 
 
 All sound of human life and motion was hushed 
 unawakened yet from the deep sleep which the 
 midnight chime of the bell had left unbroken. 
 But Nature was up and busy at her handiwork.
 
 195 
 
 She roused the nodding flowers from their night's 
 rest by slant rays of sunshine peeping in under 
 their dewy petals. She stirred with fresh, playful 
 breezes the motionless leaves of the Close elm- 
 trees, and bid them begin their pleasant whisper- 
 ing talk again. She reminded the drowsy birds 
 in the vine and jasmine branches that whatever 
 time the Minster service began, their morning 
 hymn was already due, and forthwith the little 
 minstrels tuned up and gave it, rather feebly and 
 huskily at first, but breaking out by-and-by into a 
 loud jubilant chorus, which rang through the 
 latticed window at the east end of the Lodge, and 
 roused Alice Grey from her sleep. 
 
 She woke with a pleasant sense of coming joy. 
 How or when it was to come she could not tell, 
 until she shook herself out of the dreamland in 
 which she had been wandering, and remembered 
 this was the morning for her to meet David 
 Bruce at the Minster, and look over that old 
 music of his. 
 
 She liked to be with him now. She had 
 unconsciously crept up to him, and wound herself 
 round about his strong, true nature, as the little 
 wild convolvolus will clasp the gnarled, knotted 
 
 o2
 
 196 st. olave's. 
 
 trunk of some old forest tree. Something to lean 
 upon and rest against, was what she wanted when 
 she first met David Bruce, and that support — 
 steady, firm, strong — he had become to her. 
 What she was to him, Alice did not know. 
 
 She was to be at the Minster at half-past nine. 
 The time wore heavily on, until the bells began to 
 chime. Then she tied on her straw hat, and 
 wrapping a black lace scarf over her dress, she 
 ran across the Close, and entered the great west- 
 door which was standing open, as it always did in 
 summer-time. There was nobody in the place 
 that she could see, but an old verger, who was 
 whistling a psalm-tune to himself as he rubbed 
 down a fine monumental brass which had re- 
 cently been erected to the memory of a Cathedral 
 dignitary. 
 
 "When she crossed the transept into the south 
 aisle, she found David Bruce waiting for her at 
 the door of the narrow stair which opened into 
 his little sanctum. He led the way, and she fol- 
 lowed. The organ of St. Olave's Cathedral was 
 built over the entrance to the choir, nearly under 
 the great centre tower. From the little gallery at 
 each side of it, there was a splendid view of the
 
 197 
 
 whole building ; eastward, over the choir, with its 
 long ranges of richly- canopied stalls, its crimson 
 cushions and draperies, its pure white marble 
 altar-screen, stained now with the many-coloured 
 light that poured through the great east window 
 — westward, down a dim perspective of clustered 
 columns to the massive carved oak doors, which 
 led out into the Close. The organist's place was 
 covered with a canopy of oak, wrought like the 
 stalls in elaborate tabernacle work. It was 
 enclosed within crimson curtains, and furnished 
 with seats for the use of the amateur musicians 
 and dilletanti, who in the late organist's time, 
 often came to listen and look on during the per- 
 formance of the service. 
 
 On one side there were shelves piled up with 
 volumes of music, old and worn and moth-eaten. 
 There were manuscript fugues too by English and 
 German composers, original scores of anthems, 
 almost dropping to pieces, but worth their weight 
 in gold, and carefully treasured in chests of which 
 David Bruce kept the key. These last were what 
 Alice had come to see. She pored over them 
 with eager interest and such reverence as only 
 those can feel who have been bred under the
 
 198 st. olave's. 
 
 shadow of a Cathedral, and listened from their 
 babyhood to the grand stately march of the old 
 church music. 
 
 While she was looking at them, David chose 
 out the anthem for the morning service and wrote 
 the names of the different chants which were to 
 be given to the choristers. 
 
 " Ah," said Alice, as she lighted upon a yellow 
 moth-eaten piece of antiquity, " here is that beau- 
 tiful canon of Bird's, ' Non nobis Domine/ will 
 you play it for me, Mr. Bruce ?" 
 
 et I would do so gladly, but we poor organists 
 are dependent upon the bellows-blower, and he 
 has not made his appearance yet." 
 
 " I forgot that ; cannot I blow them for you ? Is 
 it very hard work ?" 
 
 " Too hard for you to manage, I am afraid," 
 and David smiled at the notion of those slender 
 arms working up and down at the bellows. 
 
 Alice looked disappointed. 
 
 ' ' But I can play it for you if you like during 
 the service, instead of the voluntary I had chosen ; 
 give me it and I will put it aside with the rest of 
 my music for this morning." 
 
 Soon the second bell began to chime, and the
 
 st. olave's. 199 
 
 old almshouse people came to their places in the 
 choir. Martin Speller first with his leather- 
 covered prayer-book tucked under his arm, next 
 to him Mrs. M arris with the blind woman Ruth 
 Cane leaning on her shoulder, then Betsy Dowlie 
 and Anne Kirk. They filled one of the forms 
 near the reading-desk, a position selected by the 
 Dean with a view to keeping the old folks awake 
 during the service. After them the Close families 
 came dropping in one by one. 
 
 David rose and opened the door for Alice. 
 
 " You will go in to the service I suppose," he 
 said, " it will soon begin now." 
 
 Alice hesitated a little while. Then she replied, 
 
 " If you don't mind, I would a great deal rather 
 stay here with you than go down into the 
 choir." 
 
 He could scarcely help smiling at her frank, 
 girlish simplicity ; but he was glad enough for her 
 to stay, and came back again to his seat at the 
 organ. 
 
 She held the curtain aside and watched the 
 people come in. Mrs. Scrymgeour rustled up the 
 broad centre aisle in a severe-looking black dress. 
 She carried a parasol, which she handled some-
 
 200 st. olave's. 
 
 what after the fashion of a beadle's staff, and as 
 she stepped along she cast petrifying glances at 
 the little chorister boys who were privately making 
 faces at her behind their music-books. 
 
 If our happiness in this world depends upon the 
 amount of kindly feeling we can draw out of it, 
 then Mrs. Archdeacon Scrymgeour's life was not 
 passing sweet. After her came Dr. Hewlett, head- 
 master of St. Olave's Grammar School, and one 
 of the sub-canons of the Cathedral. He was a 
 beautiful old man, grand and scholarly-looking, 
 yet gentle withal and benignant, as we picture to 
 ourselves the Prophet Simeon. 
 
 " There is Miss Bruce," said Alice. " She is 
 always so quiet and still, just like a piece of 
 music that has no accidental flats and sharps in it, 
 
 and oh, Mr. Bruce ! who is that magnificent 
 
 looking woman walking behind her ?,' 
 
 " Don't pull the curtain so far back, Miss Grey, 
 the people below will see us/' and David laid his 
 hand on her's to draw it away. 
 
 " I beg pardon, I forgot. But tell me who the 
 lady is ?" 
 
 " Her name is Edenall. She is a lady who has 
 come " For a moment David was tempted to
 
 st. olave's. 201 
 
 ignore that part of the Church Catechism which 
 inculcates the speaking of the whole truth. How- 
 ever, conscientiousness came to the rescue,, and he 
 said boldly — 
 
 " She is a lady out of Cumberland, who has 
 come to lodge with us." 
 
 Alice did not say anything, but watched the 
 stranger as she came up the aisle. Mrs. Edenall 
 followed Janet with the step and bearing of a 
 princess, her rich dress glancing in the sunshine 
 and setting itself into fresh folds with every move- 
 ment of her lithe, graceful figure. The Close 
 people scanned her very curiously, but she 
 seemed quite unconscious of their polite scrutiny. 
 One of the vergers came forward, and conducted 
 her to a seat in the stalls, near the place Mistress 
 Amiel Grey usually occupied, and then, without 
 pausing to ascertain whether her dress was serge or 
 satin, he brought her a gilded Prayer-book with 
 the St. Olave's arms emblazoned on the cover ; a 
 fact whereof Mrs. Scrymgeour took notice. 
 
 The service began. It was a stranger who read 
 the prayers. Alice could not tell who he was, for 
 he sat nearly under the organ. But he had the 
 finest voice she had ever heard. It was distinct
 
 202 st. olave's. 
 
 and clearly modulated as the tones of a perfectly 
 tuned instrument. Alice turned to ask Mr. 
 Bruce who the reader could be, but his head was 
 bowed and his eyes closed,, and she did not dare to 
 interrupt him. Then she pressed her face against 
 the open fretwork, and tried to look down into 
 that part of the choir ; all that she could distinguish 
 however was a little bit of white surplice and a 
 gleam of crimson silk, which told her that the 
 stranger belonged to Oxford. 
 
 She listened and listened. It seemed to her 
 she had never heard any music like that voice. 
 Alice had a very correct ear ; few things gave her 
 greater pleasure than a clear, well managed 
 voice. And certainly those old arches, and that 
 groined roof had never echoed to sweeter tones than 
 those which rang upon them now. Sometimes the 
 words came very soft and low, as in the opening 
 sentences of confession and supplication. When 
 he read the Absolution, they were clear, ringing, 
 and authoritative \ and then in the Lord's Prayer 
 that followed, they fell into a tender sustained 
 monotone, blending with the chanted response of 
 the choristers. 
 
 Alice loved to build castles in the air. Like
 
 203 
 
 most other young girls she spent the half of her 
 life in that fascinating but profitless employment. 
 And so she began, as she sat there leaning her face 
 against the oaken canopy, to weave a little romance 
 about the owner of this wondrous voice. She 
 pictured him to herself an Apollo of beauty, grand 
 and tall and strong, with a face tender, and perhaps 
 holy as those of the saints who stood in silent 
 majesty within their marble niches in this old 
 Cathedral. He must be very noble, so Alice thought 
 in her own mind, and the soul must needs be good 
 that spoke through a voice so sweet. So she 
 dreamed on through all the opening prayers of the 
 service, and the angel who kept watch over that 
 morning's worship, recorded no petition of hers on 
 his open page. 
 
 Then the music began, and Alice's thoughts 
 fluttered back again to waking life. David Bruce 
 was her hero once more. What a king he looked 
 as he sat there in his place at the organ. How, 
 obedient to the slightest touch of his fingers, the 
 great tones rolled and surged and tumbled, now 
 pouring out in a full overmastering torrent of 
 sound, now tender as the mother's whispered 
 prayer for her sleeping child, then thrilling into a
 
 204 
 
 long wail that made her heart grow still, it was so 
 wild and sad, or rising into a bright joyous 
 jubilant strain which almost woke a smile upon the 
 quaint sculptured faces peering out from the 
 capitals of the clustered columns. And he did it 
 so easily. There was no straining, no show of 
 effort. Like Moses of old he had but to touch the 
 rock and the flood poured forth. 
 
 Alice knelt on one of the cushions by his side 
 and looked up at him with child-like reverent awe. 
 He took no notice of her; he had gone where she 
 could not follow him. His uplifted face grew 
 nobler and grander. It seemed to her fancy that 
 a strange light beamed from it, transfiguring the 
 rugged features into such beauty as she had 
 never seen before. She trembled, the tears came 
 into her eyes, and then she turned her face away 
 and buried it in the crimson curtains. He touched 
 her soul through the music, and made it respond 
 to him in unspoken wonder and fear. She dared 
 not speak any more, and when David turned by 
 chance, and saw her kneeling there with bowed 
 head, he thought she was joining in the sendee. 
 But there was no prayer in the breast of Alice, 
 only a dim vague wondering respect for the man
 
 205 
 
 whose power she had never known until now ; this 
 man who had been so kind to her. 
 
 Then came the lesson, read, not by the stranger 
 but by another clergyman, a little man with 
 a shrill piping voice, which sounded like the 
 scraping of a street fiddle after the full rich tones 
 of a Cremona. So Alice did not care to listen to 
 him, and amused herself instead by watching the 
 sunlight as it strayed through the tangled grey 
 masses of David's hair, and admiring the grand 
 outline of his head pictured upon the background 
 of the crimson curtains. She heard the stranger's 
 voice no more until he began to intone the Creed 
 and the versicles which follow it. Then came the 
 music again, and then more prayers, and so Alice's 
 thoughts fluttered backwards and forwards from her 
 hero in the reading desk to her hero in the organ 
 pew, until the service was over. 
 
 The last tones of the chanted Amen died slowly 
 out, and then the people began to disperse. Alice 
 leaned forward to catch a glimpse of the mysterious 
 clergyman amongst the surpliced dignitaries who 
 were marching in solemn procession to the vestry. 
 But she was too late. The passing sheen of a 
 crimson silk hood and a momentary glint of sun-
 
 206 st. olave's. 
 
 shine on some crisp brown curls were all that she 
 saw. Soon the choir was empty , the little chorist- 
 ers whisked off their snowy vestments, and appeared 
 once more as sublunary youngsters, with very 
 dirty collars and hands to match ; the bellows man 
 came out of his little den, and set off to his shop in 
 the back College Yard, where he carried on the 
 occupation of a tailor. Only a few amateur 
 musicians loitered about in the nave and criticized 
 the anthem which had just been performed. 
 
 " Can you inform me," said Mrs. Scrymgeour 
 to the old verger as he held the door open for her 
 to pass, " can you inform me who the stranger is 
 who came into the stalls this morning, and to 
 whom you gave the Prayer-book ? " 
 
 "A lady Ma'am, who is staying with Miss 
 Bruce." 
 
 " You did not catch the name, I suppose." 
 
 " No Ma'am." 
 
 Mrs. Scrymgeour swept down the steps, and 
 into the sunshiny Close. 
 
 " A visitor," she murmured, " and most certainly 
 that was a crest upon the corner of her handker- 
 chief. I must ask Mrs. Mams about it ; I believe 
 she washes for the Bruce's."
 
 st. olave's. 207 
 
 David locked the organ and began to pack up 
 his books. It had been a very pleasant hour, and 
 now it was over. 
 
 " Where does that lead ?" said Alice, pointing to 
 a little doorway at the further end of the organ pew. 
 
 " To the gallery round the broad tower, and 
 then through a narrow passage over the choir 
 arches to the arcade above the east window. 
 Strangers are not allowed to go, but the Dean lets 
 me have the key, and I often walk up and down 
 there when I want to be quiet." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Bruce, do take me ! Ever since I can 
 remember anything, I have wanted so much to 
 find out where those queer winding passages lead. 
 May we go now ? " 
 
 " I am not sure that it would be safe for you. 
 In some parts the pathway is narrow and very 
 slightly protected. You might turn giddy with 
 looking from such a height. 
 
 " But you know Mr. Bruce, you would be with 
 me, and so I could not be afraid." 
 
 David's eyes smiled ; all the rest of his face kept 
 its wonted gravity. He opened the little door. 
 As he did so, a gust of damp mouldy air swept 
 down upon them. Alice shrank back from it.
 
 208 st. olave's. 
 
 ' c Ah, Miss Grey, your courage soon fails ; we 
 had better turn back." 
 
 " No. I don't think I am very much afraid ; 
 only » 
 
 " Take hold of my hand." 
 
 Without a word she put her hand in his, and 
 they began slowly and carefully to climb the narrow 
 stair. After mounting some sixty feet they reached 
 the gallery round the tower. Here they rested for 
 awhile, and then made their way along the 
 corridor above the choir, at the end of which was 
 a second stair, winding up the interior of one of 
 the columns. It was hard work mounting this, 
 though David led the way and helped her over 
 the rough places. Once only in all the steep 
 ascent did the faintest glimmer of light come to 
 them. It was from an arched opening in the 
 outer wall. Through this opening a huge battered 
 gurgoyle leered mockingly upon them with a 
 malicious grin. Alice shivered back. Almost 
 she expected the gaunt thing to spring forward 
 and grip her in its shapeless jaws. Only Mr. 
 Bruce was there, and where he stood no harm 
 could come. After a little more climbing he 
 opened a heavily barred door, and they entered the
 
 209 
 
 arcade above the east window, from which the 
 whole building, with its vast ranges of clustered 
 columns necked now with alternate bands of sun- 
 light and shadow, was visible at a single glance. 
 
 David Bruce stood apart, with head reverently 
 bowed. Familiar as the sight had grown, he 
 could never look without awe at the majestic form 
 into which the human life of bygone centuries 
 had shaped itself. Not chiefly, or indeed in any- 
 wise as a mere masterpiece of cunning handicraft, 
 did that grand old cathedral impress him. Rather 
 it was the spirit-history of those mediaeval monks, 
 their hope, joy, reverence, aspiration, graven for 
 ever in the stone. Their sins and their penitence 
 too. For as children who have unwittingly hurt 
 you, bring flowers to lay upon and cover the 
 wound, so these men, in the childhood of Christian 
 belief, sought to hide with sculptured marble the 
 scars of evil memories and deeds that would not be 
 forgotten. 
 
 From the height where David Bruce and Alice 
 stood, the choir, with its gorgeous array of eccle- 
 siastical furniture, seemed diminished to a hand's- 
 breath. Dim enough now was the gold embroidered 
 velvet of the Episcopal throne ; quite blurred and 
 
 VOL I. P
 
 210 ST. olave's. 
 
 indistinct the dainty fretwork of the carved and 
 canopied stalls. The massive brazen lectern ap- 
 peared like a child's toy flashing in the sunshine ; 
 the splendid altar-cloth, a crimson stain npon the 
 pure white marble pavement. The whole place, 
 from which scarce an hour ago the sheen of priestly 
 garments and the pomp of chanted worship had 
 vanished, showed now but as a speck hardly 
 noticed amidst the matchless symmetry that sur- 
 rounded it. 
 
 Was there in this a shadowing forth of the 
 truth, that as human souls climb the dark stair of 
 life, compassed with gloom, beset with the spectral 
 forms of doubt and superstition, from all which 
 they emerge at length into the royal sunlight of 
 pure religious faith, — these time-worn forms and 
 ceremonies, grand though they be, do fade into 
 insignificance, and there flows in upon the spirit 
 ever more and more the beauty of that temple 
 made without hands, whose best service is not the 
 chanted prayer but the holy life. 
 
 Alice perplexed herself with no such thoughts 
 as these. The first gush of wonder spent, she 
 began to spell out the designs upon the bosses of 
 the groined roof, those quaint devices which had
 
 st. olave's. 211 
 
 so often perplexed her as she sat in the choir 
 below. Surely those monkish sculptors must have 
 wrought for love and not for fame, or they would 
 never have placed such cunning workmanship 
 where few could scan its beauty. Here was a 
 medallion of exquisite diaper pattern, chiselled as 
 carefully as the ivory work of a jewel-casket ; there 
 a cross, wreathed round with clasping foliage; next a 
 cluster of vine leaves ; then a trefoil, a rose, a 
 marigold. Alice wearied her eyes with tracing out 
 the infinite variety of design ; and then for change 
 she bent down over the marble floor a hundred 
 feet below. 
 
 " Look," she said, by-and-by, " how easy it 
 would be to reach that pavement ; a single step 
 would do it." 
 
 Involuntarily, David drew nearer to her, and 
 put his arm over her to hold her safely. 
 
 She did not offer to move, but still kept look- 
 ing steadily down. And then, after a pause, she 
 began again upon the same subject, showing that 
 her thoughts had all the while been busy with it. 
 
 " I have heard that this sort of feeling, I mean 
 this impulse to throw oneself down from a great 
 height, is hereditary." 
 
 r 2
 
 212 st. olave's. 
 
 " In that case, Alice/' replied David, " I hope 
 your parents were very steady- headed people. If 
 not, this is no place for you," and he turned as if 
 wanting to go away ; still, however, keeping hold 
 of her dress. But she lingered. 
 
 " I don't know, I can't remember my papa and 
 mamma at all. I believe I have lived with Aunt 
 Amiel ever since I was a little baby. See, now, 
 Mr. Bruce/' and she let fall a tiny shred of paper, 
 " how gently it falls ! It would be very easy for 
 me to go too." 
 
 David did not like the look on her face ; it was 
 deepening into a sort of fascination, and her eyes 
 were fixed keenly and intently on the little white 
 fragment that was falling like a snow-flake beneath 
 them. Something in those eyes reminded him of 
 Mrs. Edenall, how, or why, he could not tell ; but 
 certainly there was a resemblance. 
 
 " Come away," he said. ' c It grows late, and 
 Mrs. Grey will wonder what makes you so long." 
 
 " Must we go, then ? it is so pleasant standing 
 here. Aunt Amiel will not wonder about me, but 
 if you say so I will go/' and she turned away 
 docile and meek as a little child. She never thought 
 of disobeying anything that David Bruce said.
 
 213 
 
 He made her go before him, keeping her always 
 within arm's length, and in places where the 
 parapet was very low, holding her dress or her 
 hand that she might be quite safe. For a long 
 time as they came through the damp musty pas- 
 sages, neither of them spoke. At last she said 
 very softly — 
 
 "Mr. Bruce." 
 
 "Well." 
 
 " You called me ' Alice ' just now." 
 
 " So I did. It was a mistake. I did not think 
 of what I was doing. In Scotland we use people's 
 names more freely than you do here. But I am 
 glad you have told me of it, I shall not do it 
 again." 
 
 " Oh ! no, no !" and she looked troubled. " I 
 did not mean that. I was glad for you to call me 
 so, I was really. Only you know you are the very 
 first person, except Aunt Amiel, who has called me 
 anything but ' Miss Grey/ But I like it." 
 
 And then, after a moment's pause, she repeated, 
 " I like it very much." 
 
 They had now got to the little door which led 
 into the organ-pew, and a flash of sunshine, 
 streaming upon them as they entered it, showed all
 
 214 st. olave's. 
 
 the mischief which the morning's ramble had worked 
 on Alice's toilette. Her pink dress, which had 
 looked as dainty and fresh as a new-blown rose 
 when she left the Old Lodge that morning, was 
 discoloured with mildew from the damp mouldy 
 walls ; in many places her black lace scarf showed 
 evident traces of contact with lime dust ; and as 
 for her sunny brown curls — over and over again 
 her straw hat had been knocked off by a project- 
 ing beam or unexpectedly low archway — the less 
 said about their smoothness the better. 
 
 It is a popular delusion that hair out of curl 
 adds to the beauty, or at least the interest of a 
 lady's personal appearance. Public opinion on 
 this matter is wofully misled. Poets and novelists 
 have sung the praises of untidy coiffures with 
 most unprincipled eloquence. To depict a romantic 
 heroine, according to the present accepted canons 
 of taste, her head must look as if it had been trailed 
 through a bramble bush. Without the shadow of 
 a doubt, the heroines of Ossi?n's poems owe much 
 of their popularity to their contempt for combs and 
 brushes. The Malvinas and Leonoras and Cath- 
 Lodas, whose streamy locks were spread upon their 
 snowy bosoms, and whose white hands gathered up
 
 st. olave's. 215 
 
 their loose tresses from the rolling winds, Avould 
 not have been a tithe so bewitching if they had 
 worn their hair in chenille nets, or had it nicely 
 rolled over frizettes and smoothed with bandoline, 
 like well-conducted girls of the present day. And 
 because untidy hair has made Ossian^s women 
 famous, damsels of the nineteenth century are apt 
 to think it will suit them too. There could not be 
 a greater mistake. Dishevelled locks look well in a 
 picture, and don't read badly in a cleverly written 
 tale, but in actual life the case is widely different. 
 For a single young lady who looks well with her 
 hair in a state of chaos, there are nine hundred and 
 ninety-nine for whom the experiment is most 
 hazardous, and one which they will be wise not to 
 try. 
 
 It must be confessed, however, that Alice Grey 
 bore the test remarkably well. Her straying curls 
 only caught and entangled extra sunbeams, and 
 the consciousness of her somewhat disorderly ap- 
 pearance brought a flush to her young cheek, which 
 made her look, in David Brace's eyes, prettier far 
 than the most elaborately got up ball-room belle 
 that ever stepped out of a carriage. 
 
 " I ought to have told you what dirty places
 
 216 st. olave's. 
 
 those passages are before I took you through them/' 
 he said; "It hasn't been worth all the trouble, has 
 it now?" 
 
 " I don't care a bit for the trouble/' Alice re- 
 plied, laughing merrily and shaking the dust out 
 of her dress. " I didn't know there were half so 
 many queer places in this old Cathedral. It is 
 like finding fresh ins and outs in the character of 
 some one you have known a long while. I dare 
 say I do look something of a fright though, but 
 you must not look at me." 
 
 David did look at her, nevertheless ; although he 
 said nothing. 
 
 And so they came back again into the cushioned 
 organ pew. It was in terrible confusion ; all the 
 chant and anthem books lying just as they had 
 been left an hour ago, and the precious old manu- 
 script fugues scattered some on the floor and 
 others on the music desk. David began to re- 
 arrange a little. 
 
 " Let me help you," said Alice, " I can put 
 those books away for you at any rate." 
 
 He told her the shelves to which they belonged. 
 It pleased her to be useful, and she set to work 
 with the happy, contented, half-important look of
 
 st. olave's. 217 
 
 a little child that is allowed to help its mother in 
 some trifling household duty. David could not 
 help smiling at her as she tugged away at the 
 great unwieldy folios, and covered her little fingers 
 with the dust that had been accumulating for 
 scores of years. When she had done, she seemed 
 quite out of breath with the unwonted exertion. 
 
 " You are tired. I am afraid you are not ac- 
 customed to such hard work." 
 
 " Oh, no," she said, eagerly, a I am so glad to do 
 it for you. I always like to do anything for people 
 that have been — for people that I care for " 
 
 David Bruce moved forward a little, so as to 
 stand in front of her, and taking the two dusty 
 little hands into his, looked steadily down into her 
 flushed face. 
 
 "So then, Alice, — you see I am going to do as 
 you told me, and call you by your name — you do 
 care for me a little V 
 
 She returned his glance with one frank, free, 
 innocent — one in which all her soul looked through 
 to his. 
 
 " Yes ; I care for you very much. You have 
 been very kind to me, and I have been a great 
 deal happier since I knew you."
 
 218 st. olate's. 
 
 He let her hands go again. He would have 
 been as well pleased had she not looked him so 
 fearlessly in the face, had the sunny curls drooped 
 closely over the flushed cheek, instead of being 
 shaken back with such a frank, fearless gesture. 
 Still he smiled quietly, and made that smile serve 
 instead of any words. 
 
 For, indeed, as Alice had said not long ago to 
 her Aunt Amiel, Mr. Bruce was such a quiet man, 
 — such a very quiet man. 
 
 He stood back for her to pass him, and they 
 went down the narrow organ stair into the north 
 aisle, through which there was a private door that 
 led into the Close. Here Alice shook hands with 
 him. 
 
 " You have given me a great treat this morn- 
 ing. Thank you very much for it/' 
 
 Then she darted away from him across the 
 Close, and almost before he could realize that she 
 had left his side, the last gleam of her pink dress 
 was disappearing behind the low bushes of the 
 Lodge garden. 
 
 He stood there for awhile as one in a dream, 
 looking towards the place where she had flitted
 
 219 
 
 out of sight. And then, with slow footsteps and 
 thoughtful face, turned into the little lane that led 
 down to the Westwood Road.
 
 220 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 HE summer wore on, and St. Olave's 
 began to manifest the usual symp- 
 toms of the season. Young col- 
 legians, with elaborate neckties and miracu- 
 lous whiskers, sauntered round the Cathedral 
 Close, and ogled the young ladies at morning 
 and afternoon prayers. The shooting season com- 
 menced. The quiet little railway station, quiet 
 at least for most part of the year, was overrun 
 with blase-lookmg men of fashion, who returned 
 at intervals of ten days or a fortnight, with sprigs 
 of heather in their wide-awake hats, and a general 
 air of having seen the world about them. Besides 
 these great guns of gentility, who were solicitously 
 waited upon by the porters, and before whom 
 hotel waiters stood cap in hand, there were others,
 
 221 
 
 not a few, of rougher social ordnance, who came 
 into the place, some by parliamentary trains, and 
 some by cattle trucks, in search of hay-making 
 or harvest work. Bronze-faced, brawny- chested, 
 hard-handed men they were ; the workers of the 
 community, who form the pavement, stout and 
 well-trodden down — in more senses than one — of 
 that national platform whereon we of the upper 
 classes perform our graceful steps. And night 
 after night these might be seen trooping down 
 the country roads which led into St. Olave's, and 
 drafting off into dingy back alleys, where they kept 
 the police constantly at work quieting their small 
 broils and disturbances. 
 
 Then the purple sunsets of early autumn came, 
 steeping the Cathedral front in soft warm haze, 
 and studding, as with many coloured jewels, the 
 famous old west window ; and in early morning the 
 hedge-rows were spangled with dew drops, and 
 thin gossamer films, the embroidery work of 
 fashionable lady spiders, who had nothing else to 
 employ their time, floated from branch to branch 
 of the reddening bramble bushes. 
 
 But Janet Bruce and Mrs. Edenall made little 
 or no headway with each other. They " got on/
 
 222 
 
 as the saying is, well enough. Mrs. Edenall 
 settled down very patiently into the quiet ways 
 of the Westwood people, made no complaint of 
 the dulness and utter inanity of the place, never 
 gave Tibbie needless trouble in fetching or carry- 
 ing for her, and took things as they came with a 
 grand, quiet, lofty sort of indifference, that would 
 neither be pleased nor pained by anything. 
 Holding each other's hand night by night in a 
 friendly parting clasp — they always kept up this 
 fiction of good fellowship — meeting each other 
 morning by morning with words of pleasant 
 greeting, sitting by the same fireside, and ex- 
 changing every day the customary courtesies of 
 life, these two women were as utter strangers 
 to each other's real self, as when, eight weeks 
 ago, fate or fortune had first thrown them 
 together. 
 
 One reason for this might be that Janet Bruce 
 was singularly wanting in the element of curiosity. 
 That quality which in great minds strikes out new 
 tracks of thought and reaches after fresh discoveries, 
 in medium minds stores up information about facts 
 and things, and in little minds busies itself with 
 the pitiful peddlings of gossip, was in her wholly
 
 st. olave's. 223 
 
 lacking. She had not the art, which some women 
 use to such advantage, of asking little innocent side 
 questions seemingly vague and unimportant, and 
 then from the answers to them deducing conclu- 
 sions by no means so unimportant. She was not 
 expert in gathering up chance remarks, or inadver- 
 tent expressions, and weaving from them an hypo- 
 thesis of history or character. Janet Bruce was 
 purely simple and truthful. What information 
 she required she asked for straightforwardly with- 
 out shifts" or excuses, but it was little that she 
 cared to know about any one. 
 
 Also, except where her affections were con- 
 cerned, and these now were almost entirely gather- 
 ed round her brother, Janet had little perception, 
 little of what society calls tact. She was not very 
 observant, not very sympathizing. Perhaps this 
 was just the reason why she and Mrs. Edenall got 
 on so well together. Neither made any very great 
 demands upon the affection of the other. Neither 
 felt herself wounded or grieved by the absence of 
 those little caressing attentions which seem to make 
 up the entire happiness of many. 
 
 Some women are like grape vines, always throw- 
 ing out little tendrils of love and longing, yearning
 
 224 
 
 for expressed sympathy, for the touch of a human 
 hand and the warmth of a human heart ; restless 
 until something is found round which they may 
 cling, and when found covering it with rich luxuri- 
 ance of affection and friendliness. And others are 
 like reeds, — straight, even, upright. Weak 
 enough truly, yet ever condemned to stand alone, 
 having not even the power to cling to anything. 
 All that they can do is to stretch upwards, to keep 
 erect as long as they can; then when the time 
 comes, break and fall and die. 
 
 Such, at least, so far as any outward observer 
 could judge of her, was Mrs. Edenall. She lived 
 within herself. All of intensity and passion that 
 stirred beneath the surface, all hope and longing, 
 all kindness even and gentle womanly love, had 
 never leave to pass the portal of speech or action. 
 She was one of those for whom, 
 
 " Being observed, 
 When observation is not sympathy ; 
 Is just being tortured." 
 
 Janet Brace's quietness of mind and manner, 
 her dulness of comprehension, was a positive rest 
 to Mrs. Edenall. It was pleasant to her to feel 
 that she could do as she liked without fear of ob-
 
 st. olave's. 225 
 
 servation or remark. She liked to know that she 
 might crouch down for hours on that low window 
 seat in the Westwood parlour, gazing dreamily out 
 into the still garden, or lie on the sofa, evening 
 after evening, with shut eyes and clasped hands ; 
 and the quiet woman at her side would think 
 nothing about it, know nothing about it ; would 
 never inquire if she had a headache, and offer 
 smelling salts; never look " sympathizing," or 
 ask if anything was preying on her mind ; never 
 even, by a closer clasp of the hand, a tenderer 
 glance of the deep limpid dark eye, betray ac- 
 knowledge of the struggle within. 
 
 Yes ; as David Bruce had told his sister that 
 first evening, all that Mrs. Edenall wanted was the 
 luxury of being let alone. And in truth, when 
 one comes to think about it, how rarely does any 
 human being enjoy this luxury. 
 
 It was only at Westwood that Mrs. Edenall got 
 it. The good people of St. Olave's, especially the 
 Close families, had no notion of letting alone any- 
 one who came into their select midst. Non-inter- 
 ference was no article of their creed. The least, 
 according to their opinion, that any new resident 
 in the place ought to do, was either to give, or 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 
 
 allow to be taken by a committee of ladies ap- 
 pointed for tbat purpose, a full, perfect and com- 
 plete account of his or ber antecedents, including 
 birth, parentage, family connexions and previous 
 manner of life. Until this preliminary ceremony 
 had been gone through, matriculation in the Col- 
 lege of social status was impracticable, and the 
 diploma of position unattainable. 
 
 The architectural fabric of society in a Cathedral 
 city, has this peculiarity. A definite place is 
 assigned to every stone that is carted to the 
 building, and into that place, or none at all, must 
 it find its way. 
 
 Now in a heterogeneous, carelessly put together 
 edifice like a manufacturing town for instance, 
 things are very different. If a stone is fractious, 
 and won't fit into one position, the master mason 
 finds another for it. If it refuses to form the 
 pediment of a doorway, it may help to support the 
 framework of a window ; or failing this, it may be 
 made useful in blocking up an aperture, or finish- 
 ing off a stack of chimneys. Or come the worst 
 that may, it can but be quietly hustled into some 
 back corner where no one hears anything more 
 about it.
 
 st. olave's. 227 
 
 Not so in an ecclesiastical city ; not so in St. 
 Olave's. No loose stones mnst be left littering around 
 to mar the propriety of the social edifice. From 
 the topmost pinnacle of the building, the Lord 
 Bishop himself, the pride and glory of the place, 
 down to the washerwoman who " did up " the 
 choristers' surplices at eighteenpence per dozen, 
 starching them for Easter Sunday and Christmas 
 Day included, every stone had its own place and 
 did its own duty. Where, then, was Mrs. Edenall 
 to be put ? 
 
 So far as the outer woman went, she was unex- 
 ceptionable. This the ladies of the Close families 
 had decided in solemn conclave. Her moire-an- 
 tiques were of the softest and richest fabrics, her 
 shawls of veritable Cashmere. The cloak that 
 sailed so majestically up the Cathedral aisle morn- 
 ing after morning, was of Spanish lace, not a 
 doubt about it j so said Mrs. Crumpet, the Canon's 
 lady, who had moved her seat two or three stalls 
 nearer Mrs. Edenall's place one fine morning, 
 in order that she might get a good view of it during 
 the reading of the lessons. Her bonnets were such 
 as could not be had for love or money, except from 
 the costly warerooms of Regent Street milliners. 
 
 Q2
 
 228 st. olave's. 
 
 Gloves, handkerchiefs, boots, — those little straws 
 which, as every lady knows, tell how the current of 
 good taste goes — were exquisitely neat and fitting. 
 So far then Mrs. Edenallwas eligible for admission 
 into the guild of polite society. 
 
 As to intelligence, if that might be permitted to 
 put a weight into the balance, she had enough of 
 it and to spare. More than once she had been 
 seen poring over the musty tomes of the Latin 
 Fathers, or reading in their original tongue, the 
 numbers of Virgil and Homer. The Minster 
 Library was open three times a week, and visitors 
 going there, generally found her at work on some 
 of its dusty old treasures. Moreover the librarian 
 of the St. Olave's Athenaeum affirmed that she 
 was well-up in the literature of the day, and 
 could hold arguments on social and scientific sub- 
 jects as well as any of the masculine loungers 
 in that temple of the muses. 
 
 But the ladies of the Close families scorned to 
 give the right-hand of fellowship to such mere 
 externals as these. They did not gauge gentility 
 by Genoa velvet paletots, or throw open their re- 
 ception rooms to the potent charms of a twelve 
 guinea moire- antique. The richest shawl that
 
 229 
 
 Indian looms ever wove was of small value in their 
 eyes,, unless the heart over which it was folded 
 beat with the pulse of blood three centuries old at 
 the very least. Intellect too, except so much of it as 
 came by descent, was nothing cared for. The 
 granite of mental and moral worth, which, by its 
 own unaided force, heaves up from beneath and 
 pushes up stratum after stratum of social degree, 
 until at last it proudly overtops them all, won for 
 its possessor neither place nor favour in the aristo- 
 cratic circles of St. Olave's. The veriest shallow- 
 pate with a title on his back and a crest on his 
 teaspoons, was of more standing there than the 
 kingliest king that science ever crowned. Blood ; 
 this was what the St. Olave's people cared for; this 
 they would have or nothing at all. 
 
 "Birth and breeding, my dear friends/' said 
 Mrs. Scrymgeour — the Archdeacon's widow was 
 generally Lady-president of these "Position" 
 committee meetings. " Let us assure ourselves of 
 these indispensable requisites, and the rest can be 
 easily adjusted." 
 
 But by-and-by, report, which is always busy in 
 a small Cathedral city, began to whisper that, in 
 these "indispensable requisites," Mrs. Edenall
 
 230 st. olave's. 
 
 could stand an examination. Her linen was 
 marked with a crest j so said Mrs. Marris, the 
 washerwoman, who told it to the parlour-maid at 
 Chapter Court, one morning when she came for 
 the tea leaves ; and the parlour-maid took advan- 
 tage of a good-tempered interval to tell it to the 
 Archdeacon's widow herself. 
 
 She had a courtly tread, a regal hearing, which 
 not even the Bishop's lady could match. Her 
 face was fine, clear, exquisitely chiselled, of that 
 grand calm contour which blossoms out from cen- 
 turies of unblemished pedigree. Her accent — 
 they had occasionally heard her speak to the 
 librarian, or to the old vergers at the Minster — was 
 proud and dainty ; the H, that pons asinorum of 
 plebeian conversationalists, honestly dealt with, and 
 the intonation perfect. 
 
 These things the Close families could compre- 
 hend, and they took out their card- cases in readi- 
 ness for a call at Westwood. But still there were 
 a few little matters which they could not so well 
 comprehend. Mrs. Edenall had been known to set 
 the laws of etiquette at shameless defiance by 
 walking out alone after dusk. She was also accus- 
 tomed to sit in the Minster Library reading,
 
 231 
 
 meditating, or sometimes writing for hours to- 
 gether, a thing which no lady, except, indeed, one 
 or two professed blue stockings who thought them- 
 selves great in dead languages or wished others to 
 think them so — had ever done. Indeed the Canon ; s 
 lady had almost persuaded her husband to promise 
 that he would take an early opportunity of hinting 
 to the stranger that in St. Olave's, at any rate, it 
 was not customary for unprotected females to per- 
 form such assiduous public devotions at the shrine 
 of literature. Mrs. Scrymgeour too, proposed, and 
 another member of the committee seconded the 
 motion, that Mrs. EdenalTs behaviour at the 
 Cathedral service was not such as suited the dignity 
 of the place. She was in the habit of leaning back 
 within her canopied stall, and either staring up to 
 the bossed roof — it was very beautiful certainly, 
 but the reading of the First Lesson was not the 
 time to admire it, — or eagerly criticizing, as if she 
 expected to recognize a face amongst them, the 
 groups of loungers who strolled in to listen to the 
 music. And as for finding the places in her prayer- 
 book, Mrs. Scrymgeour was quite sure she never 
 attempted to do such a thing. Indeed that femi- 
 nine censor of public behaviour thought she should
 
 232 
 
 not be going too far if she asserted that the gold 
 embroidered marker in the book which Mrs. Eden- 
 all used had not moved forward a single page since 
 the first Sunday after Trinity. Such conduct Mrs. 
 Scrymgeour thought was reprehensible — to say 
 the least of it — and ought to be inquired into be- 
 fore the lady who practised it was admitted to the 
 rights and privileges of fellowship with the Close 
 families. 
 
 So the result was that after the Position Com- 
 mittee meeting had sat once or twice upon Mrs.- 
 Edenall — they found the case rather a difficult one, 
 the pros and cons being so nicely balanced — she 
 was placed along with Janet and David Bruce in 
 an out -building of the great social edifice, there 
 to remain until further notice ; and the pearl card- 
 cases were replaced in the pockets of the owners. 
 
 The fact was, that for once in their lives the 
 Close people were obliged to own themselves 
 baffled. They really could not tell what to make 
 of the new comer. They felt somewhat as a brood 
 of ancient, well-connected, highly respectable hens 
 may be supposed to feel, when a stray moor-fowl, 
 with its keen eye, its unaccustomed note, and alien 
 plumage lights in their midst.
 
 233 
 
 So Mrs. Scrymgeour and her committee con- 
 tented themselves with talking Mrs. Edenall over 
 at their tea-tables and luncheon-trays. They 
 darted inquisitive glances from the corners of 
 their eyes when she passed them in the Close — to 
 turn bravely round and satisfy their curiosity by 
 an honest stare was an enormity of which no St. 
 Olave's lady would have been guilty — they criticized 
 her with might and main as she walked morning by 
 morning, pale, passionless, stately, to her place in 
 the Cathedral choir; but until they were well 
 assured that she was " respectable " not a step 
 further would they go. 
 
 Poor folks ! Well, they had their little foibles, 
 but so have other people. Manufacturing towns 
 want wealth. Cathedral cities ask for pedigree. 
 St. Olave's would allow its daughters to dance with 
 the vilest roue in Christendom if he had the re- 
 version of a baronetcy or was brother to a Countess. 
 Millsmany forces its young ladies into the arms of 
 cotton lords whose brains are as shallow as their 
 coffers are deep. In St. Olave's, pedigree was a 
 lever which could raise the most worthless to social 
 rank and distinction. In Millsmany, gold does 
 the same kind office for those who can scatter
 
 234 st. olave's. 
 
 it broadcast through the streets : the devotees of 
 
 Mammon bow down to the man who owns acres of 
 
 machinery, while they despise the poor fellow 
 
 whose imagination is his manufactory and whose 
 
 only warehouse is his brain. The good folks of 
 
 St. Olave's would gladly have paved Mrs. Edenall's 
 
 sitting-room with visiting cards had she been the 
 
 daughter of a Knight, or possessed connections in 
 
 the Church, but they would never, no never, call 
 
 upon a lonely woman who went out unattended 
 
 after dark, and came to the place without any 
 
 letters of introduction. 
 
 And so the world goes.
 
 235 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 m 
 
 iHnwnn w> 
 
 ! LICE GREY was the first to break 
 through this chevaux defrise of conven- 
 tionality. As Janet's friend she had 
 often called at Westwood, but it always chanced 
 that Mrs. Edenall was out, or secluded in her 
 own room, so that they never saw each other 
 except at the Cathedral service. About a week 
 before the picnic, Alice set off to Westwood pur- 
 posely to see her, and get her to join'their party. 
 
 It was early, quite too early for a call of cere- 
 mony, but Alice came to Janet Bruce now at all 
 hours of the day, sometimes before the dew had 
 dried up from the little grass plot, sometimes 
 when the evening shadows were creeping round 
 and about the quiet garden.
 
 236 st. olave's. 
 
 This morning Tibbie had got the front door 
 wide open, and with a huge harden apron tied 
 down over her blue petticoat, was on her hands 
 and knees scouring the stone entrance. It was 
 a roomy, old-fashioned hall, rather wide for so 
 small a house. It was paved with alternate 
 squares of grey and white marble, similar to the 
 floor of the Cathedral, and perhaps like it too, 
 made of old gravestones, for here and there were 
 tracings which looked as if they might once 
 have formed parts of monumental inscriptions. 
 
 "Ye be speerin' for Miss Janet then/' was 
 the old woman's greeting, as she heard Alice's 
 step on the gravel walk; " she's awa the noo wi' 
 her tracs, but she'll no be lang, I'm thinkin'." 
 
 " And," added Tibbie, after a pause, pointing 
 with her scrubbing-brush to the best parlour 
 door, f ' t'other leddy's ben, an' ye can go in an' 
 crack tull her a wee. I'm feared she's awfu' 
 lonesome whiles." 
 
 " Thank you, Tibbie, I'll come in and rest, if 
 you think Miss Bruce won't be long." 
 
 Tibbie led the way, passing with Amazonian 
 strides from mat to mat, a feat which Alice tried 
 to imitate, knowing that the canny Scotchwoman
 
 st. olave's. 237 
 
 was particular about not having her wet floors 
 trodden upon. She was fain, however, to jump 
 instead of stride. 
 
 "It's marry to yersel' is that Miss Grey/' 
 said Tibbie ; ' ' ye're sae thochtfu' ; it ain't mony 
 a young leddy as'll save an auld wife's back 
 that way. Go your ways in, she's all her lane." 
 
 Alice knocked at the door and entered, bringing 
 with her, as she always did, into that quiet room, a 
 waft of air and sunshine. 
 
 Mrs. Edenall was sitting in the window seat, 
 looking out into the garden ; not the front part of 
 it, across which Alice had come, but that little 
 plot of grass bordered with lilac and linden trees, 
 which opened out towards the east front of the 
 Minster. She rose as the young girl came in, 
 drawing herself up with that half-defiant, touch- 
 me-not sort of stateliness which seemed to be 
 her wont when addressing strangers. 
 
 " Excuse me, I have not the pleasure of know- 
 ing you." 
 
 She said this in a rich, musical voice, which 
 thrilled down into Alice's soul, and a slight ges- 
 ture of recognition, whose exquisite grace a queen 
 might have tried in vain to imitate.
 
 238 st. olave's. 
 
 " I am Alice Grey, a friend of Miss Bruce's," 
 and Alice, loving as she was, shrank somewhat 
 from asking this icicle of a woman to join the 
 merry little birthday party. However, the thing 
 had got to be done. 
 
 " Miss Grey. Yes, I have heard that name before. 
 Miss Bruce has spoken of you sometimes." 
 
 She came forward and took Alice's hand. For 
 a full moment the two looked at each other with 
 that first questioning, intercommuning look, which 
 sometimes finds out more than years of after inter- 
 course. 
 
 Have you never had a curious, inexplicable feel 
 when holding the hand of a stranger in yours, 
 and searching his or her face ? A most clear and 
 unmistakable consciousness that you have clasped 
 that hand before, that somewhere, in this or 
 another world you have seen that face ? Have you 
 not felt that indeed the stranger is no stranger, but 
 familiar to you as the faces of your own fireside ? 
 Nay, even the voice has a ring in it that has 
 fallen on your ears in dreams a hundred times, 
 and comes to you like the music of an old song, 
 that dimly works its way back again through the 
 winding tracks of memory.
 
 239 
 
 With just such a clear, and yet undefinable 
 consciousness, these two now held each other's 
 hands, and looked into each other's faces, and 
 listened to each other's voices. Alice standing 
 there with her innocent, happy past ; Mrs. Eden- 
 all with 
 
 Well, who shall say that her past was other 
 than innocent? Certainly there was no acknow- 
 ledgment of guilt in the regal port and gesture 
 in the proudly lifted head and clear, steady 
 glance. That the past had not been happy, Mrs. 
 Edenall's face, with its deep worn lines, told beyond 
 question ; but who, as yet, should put the brand of 
 sin upon it ? 
 
 She dropped Alice's hand at last, and went 
 back to her seat in the window, a little sadder 
 looking perhaps, but grand and quiet still. And 
 then there fell a silence between them. 
 
 Mrs. Edenall did not seem inclined to break it, 
 and Alice knew not how. She twined and un- 
 twined the long fringes of her parasol, studied 
 more closely than ever before the carved oaken 
 frame of the mirror over the fireplace, and longed 
 for Miss Bruce to come back. She was thankful 
 for the sound of Tibbie's floorcloth and scrubbing
 
 240 st. olave's. 
 
 brush to break the dead stillness which grew more 
 and more wearisome. 
 
 At last she made a desperate effort and said, 
 "I hope you find it pleasant and comfortable 
 here." 
 
 Mrs. Edenall started. The words had evidently 
 roused her from a reverie. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I manage well enough. I don't 
 want anything but quietness, and I get plenty of 
 that. The Bruces are thoroughly steady people." 
 
 " But I was not thinking of Westwood only. I 
 mean how do you like St. Olave's." 
 
 " St. Olave's appears to me to be an elaboration 
 of Westwood. It is like a pool of stagnant 
 water." 
 
 " Perhaps if you had a microscope you might 
 find plenty of life in the stagnant pool," suggested 
 Alice. 
 
 Mrs. Edenall smiled, no, it was scarcely a smile, 
 just a momentary softening of the quiet, almost 
 stony face. 
 
 ( ' I daresay the St. Olave's animalculse have a 
 life of their own, such as it is. I have not cared 
 yet to examine it minutely. The place seems 
 to me hopelessly dull and stupid."
 
 241 
 
 "Well, so it is, except at certain times." 
 Alice was getting into quite a conversational vein 
 now. " For instance, at the Festival, strangers 
 come from all parts of the country." 
 
 " Ha, do they ?" 
 
 Sometimes there came a strange change over 
 Mrs. EdenalTs countenance, which showed that 
 its habitual quietness was but like the grey ashen 
 film of burning charcoal, beneath which the red 
 heat ever and anon strikes out in fierce quivering 
 flashes. She turned quickly round. 
 
 " From all parts of the country did you say ?" 
 
 " Oh yes, Ireland and Scotland too. I believe 
 very many come out of Scotland." 
 
 There was no repose in Mrs. EdenaH's face now, 
 none of the careless pride which queened it 
 there a moment ago. A keen, restless look 
 came into her eyes, the same look as when 
 she had first heard Janet Bruce's voice ; and the 
 hands which were clasped together in her lap 
 almost trembled. Alice went on, glad enough to 
 find something to talk about. 
 
 " In the height of summer the place is certainly 
 dull, but just about now, when the shooting season 
 has commenced, a great number of strangers come 
 
 vol. I. R
 
 242 st. olave's. 
 
 to St. Olave's. You know the railway station is 
 on the route from London to the West of Scot- 
 land, and the express stops three-quarters of an 
 hour, just long enough for people to see the 
 Minster." 
 
 ' ' Indeed, that accounts for the groups of people 
 I have seen lately strolling in about service time — 
 upper class people, too." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose half the nobility in the kingdom 
 get strained through our little station from August 
 to October. Dressmakers go there on purpose to 
 see the fashions, and milliners get the new shapes 
 for hats. I saw such a pretty one there the other 
 day when I went to meet a lady." 
 
 But Mrs. Edenall did not want to hear about 
 hat-shapes, pretty or the reverse. 
 
 ( ' And about the Festival which you mentioned, 
 when is it V* 
 
 " It comes once in three years. The place is 
 turned upside down for about a week, and then 
 things go back to their old quietness. It is a great 
 time for the painters and paperers." 
 
 u And when will the next take place ?" 
 
 " About the middle of February. I expect it 
 will be very grand, more so than the last one.
 
 st. olave's. 243 
 
 They say the Hall of Guild is to be entirely refitted 
 for the occasion." 
 
 Here Miss Bruce came in, and the subject was 
 discontinued. Mrs. Edenall looked slightly dis- 
 appointed, but she made no effort to keep it up. 
 Janet began to tell them about a case of distress 
 ■which she had met with in the district. 
 
 " A poor woman/' she said, laying down her 
 tracts and a little satchel from which she had 
 been ministering to the temporal wants of the 
 people ; for Janet wisely thought that tracts alone, 
 however beautifully written, were not sufficient 
 to keep body and soul together. "A poor 
 woman, who has been deserted by her husband. 
 I'm sure it is quite disheartening the number of 
 such instances one meets with now. There must be 
 a. great amount of wretchedness in married life 
 amongst the lower classes." 
 
 " Did you do anything for her, Miss Bruce ?" 
 said Alice. 
 
 " I gave her a little relief, and promised to call 
 again. I scarcely liked to say much until I knew 
 more about her. One of the neighbours told me 
 the man was not her husband. If it is so, of 
 course it is very sad, but still the poor thing's 
 
 r 2
 
 244 st. olave's. 
 
 distress is the same. Don't you think so, Mrs. 
 Edenall? You know some people judge these 
 cases very severely, but I scarcely know what to 
 think." 
 
 Mrs. Edenall answered not a word. She had 
 turned her face away from them both, and was 
 looking out into the garden. Her hands were 
 fast clenched together, her lips compressed into a 
 narrow crimson streak. She often used to stand 
 in this way. 
 
 Janet did not ask her again, but went on talking 
 to Alice about the woman, and devising some 
 scheme for her relief. By-and-by Alice explained 
 the errand on which she came to Westwood. 
 
 " I want to arrange," she said, c ' about our going 
 to Norlands on Thursday if the day is fine — and 
 if it is not we shan't go at all. It would be much 
 pleasanter walking than riding. The cottage is 
 scarcely three miles away, and the road is so shady 
 we could manage it nicely. You will join us Mrs. 
 Edenall, will you not ?" and Alice turned towards 
 the window. " Indeed it was my chief object in 
 coming this morning, to ask you. I am sure you 
 will be pleased with the place." 
 
 (i Thank you," replied Mrs. Edenall in tones to
 
 st. olave's. 245 
 
 which all their old coldness and hauteur had come 
 back. "I shall much prefer remaining quietly 
 here. I rarely go into society, and never enjoy it.'' 
 
 Truly she was a strange woman this lodger of 
 Miss Bruce's ; one moment eager and interested , 
 the next chill and gelid as an iceberg. She of- 
 fered no further apology for declining the invi- 
 tation, and did not even smooth the abruptness of 
 the refusal, with any of those graces of speech by 
 which people of tact make the waiving of a favour 
 as pleasant as its acceptance. 
 
 Alice looked pained. It was seldom any kind- 
 ness of hers was so completely thrown back in her 
 face ; but she did not press the matter, and went on 
 making her arrangements with Miss Bruce. 
 
 " I don't think you will care for staying in the 
 grounds all the afternoon. We generally play 
 games, or dance, or have music, and that sort of 
 thing, which would not be much in your way. 
 And so I thought after dinner you and Mr. Bruce 
 and I would walk to the village of Norlands. It 
 is about a mile and a half farther on. There are 
 some interesting Roman remains and an old tower. 
 The country round about there too is rather wild 
 and beautiful, I think you would like it/'
 
 246 st. olave's. 
 
 " Yes, your aunt was telling me, the evening I 
 came to take tea with you/' said Janet, counting 
 over her tracts and noting down in her visiting 
 book the number of bread tickets she had given 
 away. " Indeed I had heard of those Roman re- 
 mains before I came to St Olave's." 
 
 " You mean in Scotland. I daresay you would. 
 You know the Scotch people are rather partial to 
 Norlands ; they say it is the scene of part of one 
 of Sir Walter Scott's novels. And then the scenery 
 round being so fine too, makes it a favourite place 
 with them. Aunt Amiel thinks it is almost 
 equal to some parts of the Highlands. Perhaps 
 you don't know Scotland, Mrs. Edenall," and 
 Alice turned once more to the stately figure, 
 draped in black, which still stood by the window. 
 
 " I have been in the country once." 
 
 " Ah, then, you won't care for anything in the 
 way of landscape scenery that we can offer you 
 here. But I think Miss Bruce," and Alice turned 
 back to Janet, ' ' we can make a pleasant day of it, 
 and at any rate the little change will do you 
 good." 
 
 " You are very kind," said Janet. " Then shall 
 we call for you at the Old Lodge ?"
 
 st. olave's. 247 
 
 c ' Yes, please, about ten o'clock. The rest of 
 the people will not come till later on in the morn- 
 ing, but I must be there to see that Mrs. Cro- 
 marty has made everything ready. Miss Luckie 
 has promised to help me this year as Aunt 
 Amiel can't go, and so we shall make a nice little 
 party. But I must go now/' 
 
 She went forward to shake hands with Mrs. 
 Edenall. 
 
 " I am so sorry you cannot join us, but I do 
 not like to press it upon you. Still we should 
 have been very glad of your company/' 
 
 Alice said this in her frank, kind-hearted, genial 
 way, with no show of stiffness or offence. Was it 
 just a sudden fit of caprice, or regret for having 
 wounded the feelings of another, or had Alice 
 unconsciously touched some old sleeping memory 
 in her heart, that Mrs. Edenall as she held out 
 her hand said gently, almost humbly — 
 
 "If Miss Grey will allow me to change my 
 mind, it would give me pleasure to join the party 
 on Thursday. And I hope she will not think I 
 am quite insensible to her kindness in asking me. 9i 
 
 And so it was settled that they were all to go 
 together.
 
 248 
 
 mm 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 U S— !S I ^-"^ birthday pic-nic passed off very suc- 
 cessfully. It was oue of those luscious 
 fall-ripe early autumn days, with a dash 
 of crisp frostiness mingling with the 
 golden warmth of its sunshine, and making it all 
 the more piquant and racy ; like the spice of pepper 
 in a well-seasoned dish, or the tiniest ruffle of ill- 
 temper on»the face of a very beautiful woman. 
 
 Mistress Amiel Grey's cottage at Norlands, was 
 a primitive-looking spot — something after the 
 pattern of the Old Lodge itself, only on a smaller 
 scale. The outside still remained, as some sturdy 
 squire of Queen's Anne's time had left it, quaint, 
 and queer, and irregular. Three tall gables fronted 
 the west, trailed over with ivy, green, and luxu-
 
 st olave's. 249 
 
 riant in some parts, in others showing nothing 
 but gnarled, rugged, grey stumps, round which, in 
 summer-time, yellow jasmin and Virginian 
 creeper wound their tinted sprays. A huge 
 jargonelle pear-tree monopolized the whole of the 
 south wall and paid for the sunshine which it 
 consumed, in annual bushel-baskets full of 
 juicy, golden fruit. The inside of the house had 
 been changed, from time to time, to suit the tastes 
 of different occupiers ; but still there was an air of 
 eld about the place which no modern improvements 
 could charm away. Most of the rooms were low, 
 with oaken beams running across the ceiling, and 
 small lattice windows, whose diamond- shaped 
 panes were traced over, here and there, with the 
 names of former tenants. Uncouth, old-fashioned 
 names most of them were, written in careful text- 
 hand, finished off with elaborate flourishes that 
 must have cost many an hour of patient labour. 
 And bits of carving still lingered about, here and 
 there, over doorways and round chimney-pieces 
 and panels, which hinted of bygone wealth and 
 grandeur ; just as, sometimes, a single flower will 
 bloom up amongst the brown and withered leaves 
 of autumn-time to tell of the glory that is past.
 
 250 
 
 Across the window of the front parlonr a huge old 
 elm-tree flung its straggling black branches, cast- 
 ing fanciful shadows into the room, and making 
 a famous resting-place for the rooks, who cawed 
 in undisturbed peace through the long, still, dreamy 
 summer days. 
 
 The garden of the cottage at Norlands was just 
 a pleasant untrimmed wilderness of old English 
 herbs and flowers. Rank, seldom-mown grass 
 plots wandered about and lost their way amongst 
 bushes of lilac, white and purple, or struck up 
 against thick beech -tree hedges into sunny banks, 
 where violets and primroses bloomed all through 
 the flowery spring-time. 
 
 Scarcely had the last of these died out, when the 
 lilies of the valley, under the south gable, unclos- 
 ing their green sheaths, shook out thousands of 
 fluttering perfumed bells ; and the wild hyacinths 
 bloomed up like a soft blue-grey mist on the grassy 
 path that led to the orchard. 
 
 Later on, when the sunshine grew hot and 
 weary, pansies, with golden cheeks and purple 
 eyes, peered out from among their nestling leaves ; 
 and roses, red, white, and damask, lifted up their 
 royal heads upon a background of dark Portugal
 
 251 
 
 aurels, which had been fattening in the rich soil 
 for a hundred years and more. And, branching off 
 from these untamed masses of colour, cool, shel- 
 tered alleys of honeysuckle and lilac led you away 
 to some pleasant seat under cedar or drooping 
 beech, where you might sit for hours listening to 
 the caw of the rooks in the elm-tree by the parlour 
 window, or watch the idle bees go floating through 
 the air. 
 
 a Idle bees \" says some one, and then comes a 
 quotation from the " Moral Songs for Children." 
 
 Yes, spite of Dr. Watts' poetical wisdom, I be- 
 lieve in the idleness of bees. Don't talk of their 
 being always on the look-out for work as they buzz 
 past in the sunshine, or poise themselves on the 
 petals of the nodding flowers. They love play as 
 well as kittens and children do. There would 
 speedily be a revolution in the bee-hive if its 
 queen enforced amongst her subjects the unmiti- 
 gated industry for which naturalists give them 
 credit, and not a ten but a five hours' bill would be 
 brought into the Apiarian Parliament by some 
 sturdy member whose constituents had only re- 
 turned him on condition that he should beefully 
 resist any encroachment on their recreative rights
 
 252 
 
 and privileges. No, bees love idleness as well as 
 we do, and, depend upon it, they laugh in their 
 sleeves — speaking figuratively, of course — at us 
 for thinking otherwise. 
 
 In front of the cottage the garden sloped down 
 to a deep ravine, which cleft its way through the 
 uplands north of St. Olave's, and stretched to the 
 Wold-hills ten or twelve miles away. Great heavy 
 masses of foliage, waving clusters of fern, and tall 
 spikes of purple foxglove clothed the sides of this 
 ravine, and at the bottom flowed the little river 
 Luthen. Further up, amongst the hills where it 
 had its rise, the Luthen was a brawling, trouble- 
 some, ill -behaved stream, often falling into a terri- 
 ble passion, and using very rough language to the 
 rocks that reined it in, pouring out its ill-temper 
 in sheets of white speckled foam, and almost tear- 
 ing itself to pieces in its fury. Before it reached 
 Norlands, however, these corrupt inclinations 
 gradually subsided, and it only murmured forth an 
 occasional grumble as a vexing boulder got into its 
 way, or some rude overhanging bush kept the sun- 
 shine from it. After passing the cottage it tamed 
 down wonderfully, gradually widening and deepen- 
 ing, until at last it flowed past the old houses of
 
 253 
 
 St. Olave's as quiet and well-conducted a little 
 river as even a Cathedral city need wish to over- 
 shadow. 
 
 The real village of Norlands — if village it might 
 be called, where village there was none save half- 
 a-dozen tumbledown houses, and a dilapidated 
 pump — was about two miles farther on. Its 
 ancient name was Moncaster, and it had been a 
 Roman settlement. 
 
 Part of their handiwork still remained in the 
 shape of a multangular tower, built on the ledge 
 of the ravine, and numerous fragments of red pot- 
 tery, which, from time to time, stray travellers, or 
 inquisitive antiquarians dug out from masses of su- 
 perincumbent rubbish. Any other interest which 
 the place had was derived from a tradition that Sir 
 Walter Scott had chosen it as the scene of one of his 
 most celebrated novels. This notion, whether cor- 
 rect or not, brought many Scottish tourists to the 
 place. But to return to the pic-nic. 
 
 Of course there was a great turn-out of un- 
 dress uniforms on the part of the ladies. Muslins 
 were displayed of every tint and fashion, none so 
 pretty, however, as Alice Grey's — that white one 
 sprinkled with tiny green leaves, which has already
 
 254 st. olave's. 
 
 been introduced to the reader in Mrs. Cromarty's 
 clothes-basket — and hats varying in magnitude 
 from the slightly elongated black velvet button, 
 which surmounted the flaxen locks of Elene 
 Somers, the Dean's youngest daughter, to Miss 
 Luckie's huge brown cover-all, beneath whose 
 spreading shade the merry little maiden-lady's 
 grey curls frisked and fluttered like young swal- 
 lows under a pent -house thatch. 
 
 Mistress Amiel Grey's health had been failing for 
 the last year, and she was no longer able to bear 
 the excitement of many fresh faces, so Miss Luckie 
 had come to lend a helping hand, and look after 
 things in a general way. She was the handiest 
 little body imaginable at a pic-nic. She knew 
 everything that ought to be done, and the best 
 way of doing it. She found out, as if by instinct, 
 what people would like to sit next each other at 
 dinner, and then, without anyone suspecting the 
 device, contrived to bring them together. Also 
 she carried under her brown tweed cloak, a courier 
 bag, which seemed as productive as the wizard's 
 inexhaustible bottle, and out of its close green lined 
 depths, she was continually bringing a supply of 
 those indispensable trifles which most people make
 
 255 
 
 a point of forgetting at pic-nics. Was there a 
 lamentable outcry for missing salt just as the cold 
 chicken was carved round? — Miss Luckie was sure 
 to have a little box-full at hand. Was there a 
 frantic outcry for knives and forks? — " Oh ! I put 
 two or three at the bottom of my satchel in case 
 they might be wanted/' and forthwith things grew 
 calm again. Did some unfortunate young lady 
 rend her muslin dress half across the skirt ? — Miss 
 Luckie had the daintiest little needle- book, with 
 thimble, scissors, and thread, all complete, and her 
 nimble fingers repaired the mischief. She had no 
 end of funny stories if the conversation flagged ; 
 reminiscences of barrack life which made people 
 laugh until the tears ran down their cheeks ; inno- 
 cent little jests and repartees wherewith to set the 
 craft of conversation free again, when it was in 
 danger of being stranded on the sands of dulness, 
 or choked in the mud -banks of gossip. Added to 
 this, she was purely unselfish, cared nothing about 
 her own convenience, so long as other people 
 were comfortable ; would shift here and there, sit 
 anywhere or nowhere, turn out of her place at a 
 moment's notice to give a pair of young lovers 
 the chance of a tete-a-tete, and was tender as the
 
 256 st. olave's. 
 
 most anxious mamma in the world in picking out 
 sheltered sunshiny spots for delicate ladies who 
 were " so apt to take cold." So [no wonder that 
 Miss Luckie was in great request at pic-nics. 
 
 The male sex was well represented on this occa- 
 sion, remarkably so, in fact, for a place like St. 
 Olave's, where whiskers were by no means so plen- 
 tiful as crinoline, and the givers of evening enter- 
 tainments were sorely perplexed in finding dress- 
 coats to match the pyramids of tulle and tarlatan 
 which floated through their sumptuous reception 
 rooms. There were several undergraduates from 
 Oxford and Cambridge, one or two young curates 
 reading for orders, a sprinkling of professional 
 men who were glad to get a turn out into the fresh 
 air and sunshine, and a few officers from the 
 barracks. 
 
 As for the ladies, Elene Somers, the Dean's 
 daughter, was there, and the Bishop's niece, a 
 pleasant girl of eighteen. She was an object of 
 great interest to the feminine part of the company 
 on account of her face, which was universally pro- 
 nounced beautiful, and to the gentlemen, by reason 
 of her figure, she being heiress to a fortune of 
 twenty thousand pounds. The Close families also
 
 257 
 
 contributed their quota of guests, and some of the 
 officers' wives were there ; bright, pleasant, intelli- 
 gent women who acted as carbonate of soda to 
 the exceedingly small-beer of St. Olave's society, 
 frothing it up now and then into a state of whole- 
 some effervescence, without which it would have 
 become hopelessly flat, or possibly degenerated into 
 irretrievable vinegar. 
 
 Amongst this gay assemblage, the Westwood 
 people felt ill at ease. Except by Miss Luckie, 
 who had a bright smile and a pleasant word for 
 every one, Janet and David Bruce were almost 
 entirely unnoticed. It was one of Mrs EdenalFs 
 quiet days, and she held herself apart from the rest, 
 sometimes wandering alone up and down the shady 
 alleys of the cottage garden, sometimes sitting on 
 the edge of the ravine and gazing away to the little 
 murmuring Luthen, which tracked its course over 
 the rocks below. One or two of the military men, 
 struck by the exceeding dignity and queenly bear- 
 ing of the stranger, endeavoured to play the 
 agreeable to her, but she met their advances with a 
 c ool unconscious sort of indifference which speedily 
 quenched the feeble spark of g dlantry. It was a 
 
 vol. i. s
 
 258 st. olave's. 
 
 question whether any of the Bruce party enjoyed 
 the day very much. 
 
 Alice noticed this, and after dinner, when most 
 of the company had sauntered away by twos and 
 threes into the woods, with the understanding that 
 they were to return at six for coffee and a dance, 
 she set off with Janet and David and Mrs. Edenall 
 to the ruins. 
 
 The road to Norlands — at least the usual foot- 
 road — lay close along the edge of the ravine 
 which bounded the cottage-garden. It was pass- 
 able for horse and foot travellers only, for about 
 half-way there had been a land-slip, and the earth 
 had fallen away until only a few feet of road re- 
 mained. The City Commissioners had often talked 
 of having a rail put up, for the place was rather 
 dangerous, even for horsemen, but up to the pre- 
 sent time their councils had ended in talk and 
 nothing more. When Alice and her companion 
 reached this spot, they sat down to rest. 
 
 The view from the land-slip at Norlands was 
 very beautiful. Close behind the bank which they 
 had chosen for their resting-place was a plantation 
 of fir trees, stretching for nearly a mile in close 
 compact phalanx, and then scattering over a rough 
 heathy common.
 
 st. olave's. 259 
 
 The sunlight was peering through it now, lying 
 in golden patches amongst the fern and ivy, and 
 toying playfully with the] flowers that trailed 
 their white blossoms over the moss. Just at their 
 feet the ravine sloped down with many a rift and 
 break, many a chasm filled with bracken and 
 golden gorse, many an outreaching hazel bush and 
 miniature forest of purple foxglove, to the babbling 
 Luthen hundreds of feet below. Westward and 
 northward the Wold hills girded the horizon 
 with a belt of undulating grey, and to the right 
 framed in by the overhanging boughs of a great 
 ash tree, the three towers of St. Olave's Cathedral 
 showed their faint outline upon the clear sky. 
 
 It might be something in the quiet beauty of 
 the scene, or it might be Alice's frank winning 
 way, but certainly Janet and David Bruce bright- 
 ened up. Mrs. Edenall only remained cold as ever, 
 with just the same fixed, proud look that had 
 neither pain nor passion in it. 
 
 " Davie," said Janet, " You will work better at 
 your Oratorio now. I can fancy the memory of 
 this picture finding its way out into a symphony 
 or an overture." 
 
 " Or weaving itself into one of those quiet rest- 
 
 s 2
 
 260 st. olave's. 
 
 ful chorales that come like a still small voice after 
 the clash and tumult of the choruses. But Mr- 
 Bruce/' said Alice, "I can't think why you 
 should have chosen that wrathful cold-blooded crea- 
 ture Jael, for your heroine. Surely you don't 
 intent to accept her as your ideal of womanhood." 
 
 " Jael was a grand woman, Miss Grey. She 
 was the Joan of Arc of the Old Testament, and 
 you have no business to say anything against 
 her ! ' Blessed above women shall Jael, the wife 
 of Heber the Kenite, be ! ' But I chose her more 
 for the times in which she lived, than for herself; 
 the history of the country just then was so grand 
 and stirring. Besides Deborah is the more leading 
 character in the Oratorio, though it bears Jael's 
 name, and 1 hope you have nothing to say against 
 Deborah." 
 
 "No, I suppose sh^ was the type of a 
 strong-minded female. I remember our Dean 
 preached a sermon not long ago about her, in 
 which he held her - up as a model for English- 
 women." 
 
 u And a noble model too ; just contrast her with 
 the flounced and crinolined women of the present 
 day."
 
 st. olave's. 261 
 
 " She was an epitome of feminine virtue, 
 no doubt/' said Alice, mischievously. " But how 
 would you have liked her for a wife ? Try to 
 fancy that now." 
 
 David did fancy it, at least he attempted to do 
 so, and was constrained to admit that the Hebrew 
 prophetess would have been a serious undertaking, 
 viewed matrimonially. 
 
 " As we seem to have got into the subject, let 
 us each choose our favourite woman character out 
 of the Bible/' said Janet. " Miss Grey, you shall 
 begin." 
 
 Alice was not long in making up her mind. 
 
 " Ruth is the most lovable creature I know in 
 all the Bible. There was not a bit of what people 
 call greatness about her /she was just true-hearted, 
 faithful, and affectionate, and tried to make 
 those about her as happy as she could. And it 
 is my ideal of a real woman that there should be 
 an influence of pleasantness and graciousness about 
 her, a something which makes you feel comfortable 
 and glad to have her near you. I would like very 
 much to have had Ruth for a friend, but I can't 
 say the same for Jael or Deborah." 
 
 " Bravo," said Mrs. Edenall, half scornfully,
 
 262 
 
 " and now will you let us have your ideal of a 
 man V 
 
 There was great bitterness,, a sort of veiled 
 sarcasm in the manner of her speech, but Alice did 
 not notice it, and spoke out frankly aud freely. 
 
 " Yes, I can tell you that, too. A man should 
 be grave, and steady, and trusty. I wouldn't care 
 for his being very handsome, at least" — Alice 
 paused awhile — "at least I think not, but he 
 should be firm and quiet, and have a way about 
 him that would make you feel it safe to get near 
 him in a storm. Not very attractive either, some- 
 thing like " 
 
 " Like the cedar tree by the library window at 
 the Old Lodge," said Miss Bruce, quietly. 
 
 Alice's face grew red all over, and to hide her 
 confusion she claimed Mrs. EdenalFs description 
 of her favourite character. 
 
 Mrs. Edenall was sitting just at the edge of the 
 ravine, idly moving the loose pieces of gravel with 
 her foot, and watching them as they rolled down 
 the precipice. And her face all the while had a cold, 
 weary, passionless look, like a picture from which 
 the sunlight has faded out. She kept on loosening 
 the stones and pushing them down, as she said in 
 a low tone —
 
 st. olave's. 263 
 
 u There is no woman so noble as Rizpah. There 
 is nothing in the Old Testament grander than 
 the picture of that lonely,, scathed, desolate crea- 
 ture, keeping her solitary watch over those bleach- 
 ing bones. I love the still undying intensity of 
 her grief; it is very sublime. Destiny was too 
 cruel to her, and she is so strong in her silence 
 and her patience." 
 
 Janet was the first to speak. 
 
 "I am not sure whether to sit out on those 
 rocks was the best thing she could have done 
 I don't think God ever sends any sorrow to 
 crush us entirely. So long as life lasts at all, 
 there must be some sort of value in it not to be 
 wasted." 
 
 It was so like Janet Bruce to say this. 
 Long ago in her heart, duty had battled with 
 regret, and conquered it. She had let the grass 
 grow over memory's old graves, and spoke of them 
 never. How much wiser should we be if all could 
 do the same. 
 
 u Very correct," said Mrs. Edenall with a mock- 
 ing ring in her voice which startled Alice, it 
 was so harsh and untuneful. " I have no doubt you 
 would have recommended Rizpah to pack away her
 
 264 st. olave's. 
 
 bit of sackcloth and take a tract district, or help 
 in the kitchen on baking morning. Some people 
 think there is nothing so good for a wounded spirit 
 as minding the oven and going to see sick 
 people. But forgive me, Miss Bruce/' she said 
 in a softened tone, " I had forgotten, will you 
 tell us your character now V 
 
 Janet was very slow to take offence. She 
 never winced at Mrs. Edenall's words, and 
 scarcely perceived the satire they contained. 
 This quietness of spirit saved her many a wound. 
 She replied in her usual gentle deliberate way, 
 
 " I don't think any of you will quarrel with me 
 for the possession of my heroine. It is only for 
 one trait in her character that I love Vashti so 
 much/'' 
 
 " Vashti, Vashti ?" said Mrs. Edenall, her stock 
 of Scripture lore was evidently not profound. 
 " Ah, I remember ; she was the Persian queen 
 who turned obstinate and refused to obey her lord's 
 behests. Miss Bruce, you are the last person in 
 the world I should have suspected of encouraging 
 matrimonial rebellion." 
 
 " I love her/' said Janet, " for her true dignity 
 and modesty. I think the memory of that night,
 
 st. olave's. 265 
 
 when at the risk of losing all, she refused to com- 
 ply with the drunken curiosity of a set of libertine 
 courtiers, would be such a grand thing for her to 
 look back npon all her life. Ahasuerus might 
 take away her crown of gold, but he could never 
 rob her of that other crown of pure, stainless 
 womanhood, so much nobler and brighter. I 
 think."— 
 
 "Stay, Miss Bruce," said Alice, springing 
 from her seat on the bank by Janet's side, 
 "Look at Mrs. Edenall !" 
 
 There was need to look. Her face was deathly 
 pale as one in a swoon. She had fallen helplessly 
 forward, and only the slender stem of a birch tree 
 which every moment kept swaying lower and lower 
 with her weight, prevented her from falling down 
 the ravine and being dashed to pieces on the 
 rocks below. David Bruce started up, and lean- 
 ing over the edge of the slope, lifted her from her 
 perilous position. She seemed quite unconscious. 
 He laid her down npon the grass, and they fanned 
 her face. By-and-by she revived ; a vague gleam 
 of returning intelligence passed across her face 
 and slowly she raised herself. 
 
 "Thank you," she said calmly, as soon
 
 266 
 
 as she was able to speak. " I am sorry to 
 have given you so much trouble. Most likely I 
 turned faint with looking down that precipice ; it 
 was foolish of me to have sat so long upon the 
 brink." 
 
 " Rest awhile on this bank/' said Alice, " whilst I 
 run back to -the cottage and fetch you some wine. 
 You look very white yet. I shall be back in a few 
 minutes." 
 
 " Not for the world. Indeed there is not the 
 slightest need. If you will let us walk on now, 
 the air will do me more good than anything 
 else." And she began to tie on her bonnet and 
 arrange her dress, with hands that scarcely trembled 
 at all. The little weakness passed, all her rigid 
 self-control returned, and she was Mrs. Edenall 
 again, cold and still and stately. 
 
 So they set forward. She and Janet walked 
 on first, Janet taking care to keep her on 
 that side of the path farthest away from the 
 precipice. But a few yards after they passed the 
 landslip, the road turned off into a lane which led 
 them to the bleak common where the Tower 
 stood. 
 
 "We have not had your favourite character,
 
 267 
 
 Mr. Bruce/' said Alice,, when they had gone a 
 little way ; " we don't Avant to be disappointed, so 
 you must get it ready." 
 
 " I have my ideal/' David replied, " and 
 some of these days I will tell you it." 
 
 " But now/' persisted Alice, " now, why not 
 tell us it just now ?" 
 
 Instead of answering her, he turned the conver- 
 sation into another channel, and kept her talking 
 about different matters until they reached Nor- 
 lands. 
 
 The Roman Tower, though famous, was not 
 exactly to be called beautiful. It was very un- 
 like those picturesque old abbeys and monasteries 
 whose ruins give such distinctiveness to many an 
 English landscape. No green and clasping ivy 
 twined it round; no fragments of tracery, no 
 clustered columns, no richly-pierced and mul- 
 lioned windows told their story of glory past, or 
 brought back the olden times of cloistered piety. 
 Moncaster Tower was just an empty shell of 
 mason work, without the slightest attempt at 
 ornament, built partly of concrete, and partly of 
 those flat red tile-like bricks which the old Romans 
 used in the erection of their forts. It was just
 
 268 
 
 on the verge of the ravine, and from one side of it 
 southwards stretched a thick solid wall, parts of 
 which had been traced for at least half a mile. 
 
 The inside was overgrown with grass and weeds. 
 A few stone coffins, that had been dug up in the 
 neighbourhood, were lying about near the en- 
 trance, forming water-troughs, to which the 
 cattle from the common came and slaked their 
 thirst. In the loopholes, and all amongst the 
 crevices of the stone, moss and grey lichen had 
 sprung up, with here and there a yellow wall- 
 flower or a tuft of stunted foxglove. A ledge, 
 about two feet wide, ran round the top, reached 
 by a wooden stair, built about a hundred years 
 ago. From this ledge, for those who were 
 venturesome enough to climb it, a splendid out- 
 look might be obtained over the city of St. Olave's 
 and the richly wooded vale of the Luthen. 
 
 For awhile, the party sauntered about inside 
 the tower, and then Alice proposed that they 
 should climb the stair. 
 
 " Leave me behind, then," said Mrs. Eden- 
 all, " and I will wait for you down here. I 
 don't think I could bear to stand on that ledge 
 just now." So they left her.
 
 269 
 
 " We won't be more than a quarter of an hour/' 
 said Alice, as she gathered up her dress and pre- 
 pared to ascend the black, mildewed old steps. " I 
 hope the Roman ghosts won't come out of their 
 graves and do you any harm. But if you want 
 us to come down, you have only to call, and we 
 shall hear you ; there is such a splendid echo here. 
 Listen now, what is your name V 
 
 " Marian." 
 
 Alice called it out loud. A moment passed. 
 Then, from far away over the ravine it came 
 back in a soft, tender, whispered sound — 
 " Marian." 
 
 Mrs. Edenall started as though some one had 
 indeed called her. For so long that old familiar 
 name had been left unspoken. When and where 
 had she heard it last ? She shivered, and then 
 passed it off with a light laugh. 
 
 " Don't let me keep you any longer now," she 
 said, " I am not afraid of ghosts, at least these 
 Roman ghosts of yours. And there is no need 
 for you to hurry. I can bear to be left alone." 
 
 When they were gone, she walked listlessly 
 round the inside of the tower, sometimes striking 
 off with her parasol the heads of the great yellow
 
 270 st. olave's. 
 
 dandelions that shot np amongst the grass, some- 
 times gathering daisies and pulling off one by one 
 their crimson-tipped leaves, while she repeated the 
 words " He loves me, he loves me not/' and as 
 blossom after blossom gave with its last leaflet the 
 words " he loves me/' there came into her face a 
 glad quiet look, the far-off reflection of a sunshine 
 that was not yet quite gone. When she was tired 
 of this, she sat down on a stone coffin, and leaning 
 her elbows on her knees and her head on her hands, 
 she seemed to fall into a reverie. 
 
 Close by her side was another coffin, a very tiny 
 one, scarce three feet long. It was a baby's coffin. 
 Over it, hundreds and hundreds of years ago, some 
 Roman matron had wept bitter burning tears as 
 she laid away her darling into its stony grasp. 
 Only the dews of heaven fell upon it now, and a 
 few withered last year's leaves had drifted into the 
 hollow where once the baby head had lain. Mrs. 
 Edenall stooped over it with tender woman -like 
 pitifulness. Did any child's face, wearing her own 
 look upon it and smiling once with the life that 
 she had given it, rest now beneath the sod ? For, 
 as she measured the little death-cradle with her 
 long thin fingers, she murmured very gently,
 
 271 
 
 " Dead, long ago, dead ! But it is better so. 
 There could have been no rest for her. He would 
 never have loved her, never at all." 
 
 She was yet musing over the life that had 
 been quenched hundreds of years gone by, or 
 that for which the tears were scarcely yet dry and 
 whose memory was still warm and fresh, when 
 Alice's merry laugh came rippling down with the 
 wind that swirled through the arrow slits of the 
 old tower. The soft light died off from Mrs. 
 EdenalFs face, into it there came again the cold 
 steady expression which overlaid her real soul 
 like a mask. 
 
 " It's a rare outlook," said Janet, who came down 
 first. " The country side looks £0 rich and golden 
 in this autumn light. I was just vexed you did 
 not come with us. But some day, when you are 
 quite strong again, we will come and see it. You 
 have not wearied for us, have you ? We staid longer 
 than I expected, but it was so beautiful." 
 
 " No ; this is not a wearisome place to wait in. 
 You might have stayed much longer if you wished. 
 These old ruins give one a restful feel ; they 
 seem to have done with life and all its toil." 
 
 " Ah, then you are fond of ruins," said Alice.
 
 272 
 
 " I am glad I thought of bringing you here, and the 
 old Roman ghosts that they say haunt this place 
 have not meddled with you whilst we have been 
 away V 
 
 Pain and pleasure mingled on Mrs. EdenalFs 
 face as she said : — 
 
 "No spirits have come to me this afternoon, 
 but those I could wish to meet again." 
 
 " Some people don't like to come here/' Alice 
 continued, wiping from her muslin dress some of 
 the dust and mildew which it had gathered upon 
 the broken stair, " the place has such an eerie feel, 
 and often towards evening the owls hoot so that 
 we can hear them almost as far as the Cottage. I 
 suppose such things don't frighten you, though. I 
 should like to take you to another tower about a 
 mile further on ; but it grows late and Miss Luckie 
 will think us long. We won't go home by the 
 landslip this time though." 
 
 ' ' No, not there again," and Janet Bruce shud- 
 dered. But Mrs. Edenall's face never changed. 
 Still with a sort of fascination it was turned to- 
 wards the little baby coffin. 
 
 " There are two other roads that will take us 
 home," said Alice, " one along the turnpike, but
 
 273 
 
 we shall meet all the harvest people coining home 
 by it, for it is the shortest, the other leads through 
 the corn-fields about a quarter of a mile round ; 
 which way would you like best, Mrs. Edenall T 3 
 
 "The corn-fields by all means," said Mrs 
 Edenall, with something like a curl on her lip, 
 " and then we can meditate by the way on your 
 model of womanhood." 
 
 They went down a little lane, out of which a 
 barred gate led them into the fields. After that 
 they had nothing to do but follow the track through 
 the corn, that stretched over field after field 
 until it reached the high-road, only a few yards 
 from Norland's cottage. 
 
 Janet and Mrs. Edenall walked on first, Alice 
 and David Bruce followed, gradually falling further 
 and further back, for she loitered often to pluck 
 the wild flowers and weave them into a posy. 
 David employed himself in the apostolic fashion, 
 plucking the ears of corn and rubbing them in 
 his hand as he went. Alice was in one of her 
 lively moods. The shy feeling that used some- 
 times to come over her in Mr. Bruce' s presence 
 had quite passed away, and she chatted to him in 
 her frank graceful way, just talking out as it were 
 
 VOL. i. t
 
 274 st. olave's. 
 
 the chance thoughts which went floating through 
 her mind. ^Innocent thoughts they were, like 
 the young girl herself, not brilliant, not remarkably 
 original, and certainly not characterized by unusual 
 profundity or strength. 
 
 And yet it pleased David Bruce to listen to 
 them ; pleased him more perhaps than if they had 
 been profound in catechisms and encyclopaedic lore 
 or sparkling with poetic grace, or lit with the fire 
 of grand enthusiasm. That talk with Alice Grey 
 in the corn-fields lingered longer in his memory, 
 and left a pleasanter fragrance there, than many a 
 one which in after years, when he became a man 
 of note, he was privileged to hold with the wits 
 and queens of London drawing-rooms. 
 
 After all, girls mistake when they think that 
 elaborate conversation enhances their charms, and 
 recommends them to those whose favour they 
 seek. For the most part men care little for 
 genius, or poetry, or enthusiasm ; still less for 
 feminine epitomes of science, and walking manuals 
 of useful information. What they want in a 
 woman is rest and quietness, perhaps also a never- 
 failing willingness to acknowledge their own 
 superiority. She must be content to glow, not
 
 275 
 
 sparkle. She must cover the flame of her intellect, 
 if she have any, with the ground-glass of humility 
 and modesty; otherwise, like the glare of an 
 unshaded lamp, it will first dazzle and then weary. 
 Far more than any genius, or powerful range of 
 thought, they value in a woman friend what Alice 
 described as an " influence of pleasantness and 
 graciousness, a something which makes you glad 
 to have her near you." And she is the truest wo- 
 man, not she who has amassed the most knowledge 
 or cultivated the most enthusiasm, not she who can 
 hold the toughest argument and wield the 
 weapons of logic most deftly, but she who has won 
 this God-given grace of meekness and quietness, 
 who has put on over all other virtues this calm, 
 sweet loving-kindness which makes her presence 
 a benediction, and her influence an unspoken 
 prayer. If only there were more such women. 
 
 Perhaps it was from a reverie in which he had 
 been thinking some such thoughts as these that 
 Alice roused David Bruce, by saying to him : — 
 
 " Your favourite character, Mr. Bruce. Come 
 tell me it now ; perhaps I shall forget to ask you 
 again, and I want very much to know. Is it 
 Jael cr Deborah V* 
 
 t2
 
 276 
 
 David paused and smiled, that strange, quiet 
 smile which came so seldom over his rugged 
 face. It was like the rare flush of sunset on 
 the old Cathedral front, gone in a moment, but 
 unforgotten for a life- time. All around them was 
 the yellow corn, swaying hither and thither as 
 the evening wind swept over it. He plucked a 
 few ears, and taking off Alice's hat, wove them in 
 and out among her curls. 
 
 Truly she made a very pretty Ruth, a very 
 modest one too, as she stood there with down- 
 cast eyes, and the rosy colour flitting over her 
 face. When David had crowned the sunny 
 ringlets with this garland, he looked at her long 
 and earnestly, and then said : — 
 
 " This is my ideal." 
 
 With one quick upward glance she understood 
 his meaning, and then her head drooped lower 
 and lower ; but she said nothing, she could only 
 play nervously with the wild flowers she held 
 in her hand. He said nothing either, and so 
 for some minutes they stood in perfect silence. 
 
 Alice Grey was accustomed to pretty speeches. 
 Ever since she could know their worth or worth- 
 lessness, they had been scattered round her
 
 st. olave's. 277 
 
 thickly as the red leaves in autumn time. But 
 she felt that this had a deeper meaning than the 
 idle compliments she was used to hear. It 
 woke a strange, new feeling in her heart, a 
 feeling for which she could find no name. She 
 could not prattle on now in her gay, 
 careless way. Almost she wished he had not 
 spoken to her so. And yet that she had 
 pleased him at all, that there was anything in 
 her which he, this rock-like David Bruce — 
 this man whom she reverenced so much, could 
 admire and care for, made her feel very glad. 
 Alice just lived for the affection of those she 
 loved, and any praise from them was passing sweet. 
 
 " Let us go," she said, shyly ; " Miss Bruce is 
 such a long way before us now/' 
 
 "Yes," he said, and led the way, without 
 speaking another word. She thought he looked 
 grander and nobler than ever, pacing along 
 before her, and a sort of dim childish fear of 
 him stole into her heart. She dare not walk by 
 his side any longer, and crept behind him, just 
 glancing up to him now and then, and watching 
 the majestic sway of his figure as he strode 
 through the corn track*
 
 278 st. olave's. 
 
 They came to the little gate which led out into 
 the high road. David Bruce turned round,, and 
 with a face utterly grave and quiet, took out 
 the wheat ears from her hair. He was going to 
 throw them back into the field, but she asked 
 for them. 
 
 Without a word, he gave them to her, and she 
 kept them carefully in her hand. After a while, 
 she put them under her cloak — somehow, she did 
 not want him to see that she was taking care of 
 them. But he seemed to take no notice of her as 
 he walked along, with folded arms and face towards 
 the ground. Those wheat ears were the first relics 
 Alice had ever possessed. They were the wave- 
 sheaf of a harvest of joy or sorrow, which? — that 
 should come to her ere long. They were the first 
 of the little beads that cluster so fast with the 
 thickening years on memory's rosary, and over 
 which, perhaps, in time to come, she might say 
 Aves of remembrance as pitiful and as profitless 
 as those which sorrow -laden devotees murmur 
 before the shrines of patron saints.
 
 279 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 UT, of this latter contingency, Alice 
 never thought. It was her way to 
 take the joy that came to her without 
 an onward glance. She had not yet reached 
 that stage when life becomes a composite thing, 
 and doubt for the future or regret for the past, 
 mingles largely with any scheme of present gladness. 
 Almost as soon as they turned into the high 
 road, the sound of merry music came floating to 
 them from the distance ; and when they reached 
 the cottage garden, the groups of dancers were 
 already busy over their graceful sports. 
 
 " Oh, I must go and join theni/' said Alice, 
 < ( I promised Captain Madden a quadrille before 
 we went out, and I have never thought of it once
 
 280 
 
 since. You and Miss Bruce and Mrs. Edenall 
 shall go in and rest, for/' she added, with a 
 roguish glance towards the stranger lady, " I 
 know Mrs. Edenall does not care for watching 
 the evolutions of the St. Olave's animalculae." 
 
 So the Westwood people went into the old- 
 fashioned little front parlour, where Miss Luckie, 
 who was sitting in the window-seat with her knit- 
 ting, soon engaged them in a vigorous conversa- 
 tion. And Alice, who had no more conscience of 
 weariness than an India-rubber ball, and to whom^ 
 after the slight restraint of David's presence was 
 removed, all her old gay-heartedness had come 
 back, fluttered away to fulfil her engagement with 
 Captain Madden. 
 
 The dancing was to be the finale of the enter- 
 tainment, and it did not continue long. The dew 
 was already falling, and the wind whistling coldly 
 through the fir-tree wood, when the last quadrille 
 came to a conclusion. Then there was a call for 
 plaids, carriage-rugs, and mantles, and the party 
 broke up. Some of the romantic ones walked 
 down the river side to a little boat-house about a 
 mile away, and did the rest of the journey by 
 water to the accompaniment of flutes and concer-
 
 st. olave's. 281 
 
 tinas, which had been brought for that purpose. 
 One or two of the couples, anxious to prolong the 
 sweet pleasure of what, to them, had been a red- 
 letter day, returned to St. Olave's by Norlands 
 lane, and through the plantation; and those of 
 the Close families who had honoured the assembly 
 with their presence, were driven home discreetly 
 in private carriages. Before seven o' clock all the 
 visitors, except the Bruces and Mrs. Edenall, had 
 taken their departure. 
 
 It had been arranged that they were to walk 
 home, and then Miss Luckie, who stayed to 
 straighten things up a little, was to drive Alice 
 home in the basket carriage, which would only 
 hold two. But Miss Luckie had got into an 
 interesting disquisition with Janet about the best 
 modes of managing their respective tract districts, 
 and when the time for parting came, she was so 
 unwilling to discontinue the argument, that she 
 proposed to walk home with Janet and turn over 
 her office of charioteer to David Bruce, who was 
 quite ready to aecept it. So things were arranged 
 to the complete satisfaction of all parties. 
 
 " He's frisky, sir, to-night, is Benjie," said 
 Colin, the little stable-boy, as he gave David the
 
 282 st. olave's. 
 
 whip and reins. " He's allers sort o' marraclous 
 when he's been havin' a good feed 'n a long rest. 
 You mun keep a tight hand on him, sir, or he'll 
 spill you." 
 
 " Not as it would he much matter, sir/'' con- 
 tinued the lad, " 'cause you see t' carriage is nob- 
 but low, and he's spilled it so often, while it knows 
 all about it. Now then, Benjie, whoop, boy, and 
 mind your manners," and with this parting in- 
 junction to the obstreperous little pony, Colin led 
 the carriage out into the yard and then stood at 
 the gate watching them down the road. 
 
 The beauty of the day was gone. The grey mist 
 from the river came creeping slowly up the sides 
 of the ravine, and curling over the garden and 
 meadows beyond. The wind cut with a sharp 
 whistling sound through the black pine-trees that 
 skirted the Norlands road. The sky was yet 
 clear, but the sun was setting behind a bank of 
 yellow, watery-looking clouds, which betokened 
 rain ere long, and heavy rain, too. 
 
 As soon as they were on the broad high road, 
 Benjie set to work and went through his evolu- 
 tions. Very deftly he did them, too. One might 
 have thought that he had been accustomed to per-
 
 st. olave's. £83 
 
 form at circuses and country fairs, and received 
 his equine training from clowns and mountebanks 
 instead of having been brought up in a sober, well- 
 conducted Cathedral city like St. Olave's. He 
 commenced by standing on his hind legs and wav- 
 ing the two others with vigorous declamatory 
 motion as if addressing a company of electors from 
 the hustings. Then he reversed the attitude, to 
 the imminent risk of the fore-part of the carnage; 
 next he went through a very graceful pas-de-seul 
 on the smooth, well-kept road, and concluded the 
 performance by careering frantically onward for 
 about a quarter of a mile, and then running up 
 against a grassy bank, where he verified Colin's 
 prediction, and " spilt " his load. This done, he 
 stood quietly enough, evidently quite satisfied with 
 the result of his proceedings. 
 
 Alice was neither hurt nor frightened. She 
 only shook herself, and began to laugh heartily at 
 the ludicrous termination of their ride. She 
 stopped, however, when she saw David Bruce lean- 
 ing against the bank with a face somewhat paler 
 than its wont. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Bruce, you are hurt ! I am so sorry. 
 What is the matter V and she sprang to his side.
 
 284 st. olave's. 
 
 "Nothing very much. I have sprained my 
 right wrist, and something is amiss with my 
 shoulder. But I was thinking how we are to get 
 home. I can't hold the reins myself now, and I 
 am afraid it wouldn't be safe for you to attempt 
 to drive Benjie in his frisky humour." 
 
 " Oh, no, I couldn't drive him even if he were 
 as quiet as a lamb. I never learned to manage a 
 pony." 
 
 "How far are we from the cottage ? scarcely 
 half a mile, I suppose ?" 
 
 ' ' About that, I should think ; not more at any 
 rate." 
 
 " Then perhaps the best thing we can do will be 
 to lead Benjie back. I can manage to do that 
 with my left hand. Then Colin will drive you 
 home, and I will walk." 
 
 "No Mr. Bruce, indeed you shall not do that. 
 And yet I'm sure I don't know how we can 
 manage." 
 
 " If Miss Grey will allow me, I shall consider 
 it a great pleasure to escort her home to the Old 
 Lodge." 
 
 Alice started j she recognized that voice. Few 
 indeed who had once heard its tones soon forgot
 
 st. olave's. 285 
 
 them. It was the same voice she had heard at 
 the Minster a few weeks ago. Turning quickly 
 round, she found that the speaker was a stylish, 
 elegant-looking young man. Not in clerical 
 costume though. Except on Sundays, it was 
 fashionable for the more ambitious sprigs of the 
 church to don their canonicals over fancy vests 
 and cut-away coats, instead of the orthodox 
 black raiment and cravat of spotless white to 
 which the older clergy adhered. 
 
 " I have not had the honour of a formal intro- 
 duction to Miss Grey/' he continued, as Alice 
 turned her fair young face, somewhat flushed now, 
 towards him. " But you may possibly have 
 heard my aunt at Chapter Court speak of her ne- 
 phew, Cuthbert Scrymgeour," and as he said this 
 he presented his card. 
 
 Alice received it very courteously. She had 
 that natural politeness that always enables its 
 possessor to say the right thing in the right place ; 
 and mingling with all her girlish frankness, was 
 that grace of quiet self-possession that makes 
 the genuine lady. Then perceiving that all this 
 time the new-comer had taken no notice of her 
 companion, she introduced Mr. Bruce.
 
 286 ST. olave's. 
 
 The Rev. Cuthbert Scrynigeour performed his 
 part of the ceremony prescribed by etiquette as 
 stiffly as possible, and with that air of manifest 
 patronage which was usually assumed by the 
 scions of the Close families when extending the 
 rites of politeness to undistinguished persons. As 
 soon as the introduction was over, he walked away 
 to examine the carriage. 
 
 "What must I do, Mr. Bruce?" said Alice 
 when he was gone. " I do not want to leave you." 
 
 David thanked her with a single look, but his 
 voice was quiet and business-like, perhaps a shade 
 colder than before the stranger turned up. 
 
 "Never mind me, Alice; perhaps you had better 
 ride with Mr. Scrymgeour, as your aunt will begin 
 to be anxious about you." 
 
 ** But you, Mr. Bruce, I am sure that arm of 
 your's is very painful, and the road is so long for 
 you to walk to St. Olave's. Will you go back to 
 the cottage? Mrs. Cromarty will soon make a 
 room ready for you, and I will send a message 
 down to Westwood to say that you cannot return 
 to-night. Do stay, will you ?" 
 
 That half-wistful, half-anxious expression stealing 
 up into her face, made her look so good and kind,
 
 287 
 
 David Bruce hesitated. It was hard to let her 
 leave him and go away with this stranger. But 
 there was no other way. 
 
 u You are very good, Alice/' he said at last, 
 " but Janet will think something terrible has 
 happened if I do not get home. A message would 
 scarcely satisfy her. Don't trouble yourself about 
 me, I shall manage somehow." 
 
 And yet the thought that she had troubled her- 
 self about him was worth a good deal of pain- 
 But whilst she yet lingered, as if unwilling to go 
 away from him, Mr. Scrymgeour came up to 
 them again. 
 
 " Allow me to hand you into the carriage. The 
 pony appears very quiet now, and I do not think 
 you need be in the slightest degree alarmed. 
 
 Was ever any music like that voice ? Who 
 could listen to the melody of its tones and 
 refuse compliance to anything it requested ? Not 
 Alice Grey. 
 
 ' f This — this person will follow on foot, I presume, 
 Miss Grey ; we need not wait any longer." 
 
 Alice coloured. " Yes, I suppose we may start 
 now." She turned and whispered a good-bye to 
 the " person ;" then Mr. Scrymgeour put her arm
 
 288 st. olave's-. 
 
 in his and led her to the carriage. He assisted 
 her to her seat with all the grace of an accom- 
 plished cavalier, and off they drove, leaving 
 David Bruce still very pale and weary leaning 
 against the bank. 
 
 Benjie had had enough of play for that night at 
 any rate, and performed the remainder of the journey 
 with a sobriety which would have done credit to 
 the woolsack. At first Alice often turned back 
 to look at David. He was following them now 
 with slow uncertain steps, very different to that 
 steady tramp with which he had gone through the 
 corn-fields an hour ago. Alice's kind little heart 
 was grieved for him, but it was too late to make 
 any alteration, or she would gladly have walked 
 by his side. At last a sudden turn in the road 
 quite hid him from her sight, and then she began 
 to take a more leisurely survey of the new pro- 
 tector upon whose gallant offices she had been so 
 unexpectedly thrown. 
 
 At first she only stole shy little glances at him, 
 as was her wont with strangers, but by-and-by as 
 she got into more familiar conversation, she dared 
 to look him full in the face ; and when she had 
 once looked she looked again and again, as indeed
 
 st. olave's. 289 
 
 most people did who had the chance of sitting side 
 by side with Cuthbert Scrymgeour. 
 
 He was the sort of man whose portrait would 
 make young ladies cry out in an extasy — " Oh, 
 how handsome ! how very fascinating ! what a 
 noble bearing ! what a distinguished presence V 
 He had a well-shaped head, over which the dark 
 brown locks curled as gracefully as acanthus leaves 
 round a Greek capital. His features were regular, 
 perfectly so, and very beautifully chiselled, of 
 that clear, well-defined type familiar to the fre- 
 quenters of Rotten Row and Belgravia. It was 
 a face which a photographer in these days would 
 covet for a carte de visite, or an artist for an 
 Academy picture. The only element it lacked 
 was power. It was not the index of a character 
 that would either do or endure any great thing. 
 You might expect from the man exquisite taste, 
 love of everything dainty or pretty, exactness in 
 all that he did — from the buying of a neck-tie to 
 the choosing of a wife. A physiognomist would 
 guess too that in either case beauty and elegance 
 would sway his selection ; perhaps in the latter 
 bargain something more solid than either of these, 
 for Cuthbert had the hooked nose, and somewhat 
 
 VOL I. U
 
 290 
 
 keen hawk -like glance of the eye, which is usually 
 supposed to accompany a judicious respect for the 
 circulating medium. 
 
 But unexceptionable as was Mr. Scrymgeour's 
 face, his glory resided without question in the hir- 
 sute appendages which decorated the lower portion 
 of it. These certainly were very beautiful, quite 
 as " marraclous/'' only in a different line, as Benjie's 
 recent exploits. They were of a little lighter 
 shade than the rest of his hair, and descended in a 
 soft, waving, glossy cataract of at least six inches 
 perpendicular fall on each side of the well-formed, 
 though somewhat diminutive chin. 
 
 Those whiskers were fascinating; they were 
 more, they were irresistible, at least to any one of 
 ordinary human susceptibilities. They had been 
 the envy of half his fellow-students at College, and 
 had hopelessly entangled in their golden meshes 
 the wandering affections of, we are afraid to say how 
 many forlorn maidens. Possibly also their exceed- 
 ing luxuriance might compensate for the lack of 
 internal qualifications, for surely the upper stories 
 of the brain needed but little furniture when the 
 basement was so sumptuously adorned. 
 
 Alice soon found a great difference between her
 
 291 
 
 new cavalier and Mr. Bruce, in the matter of those 
 polite little attentions which some men offer with 
 such exquisite grace and tact. David made smal . 
 show of solicitude in his manner towards her. 
 When they first got into the carriage he had just 
 fastened his cloak round her with one decisive 
 wrap, and taken care that her feet were well folded 
 up in the fur lined rug \ and then cautioning her 
 that the air was damp and she must keep her 
 mouth shut, he had left her almost entirely to her 
 own meditations. 
 
 Mr. Scrymgeour was full of tender little assidui- 
 ties. Was Miss Grey quite comfortable ? Were 
 the cushions properly adjusted ? Did the cloak 
 protect Uer throat sufficiently, and would she 
 allow him to wrap it more closely round her ? 
 which operation he performed with elaborate 
 politeness. Were her feet quite warm, or might 
 he have the pleasure of getting another rug from 
 the bottom of the carriage ? Was he driving the 
 pony at the pace most exactly suited to her con- 
 venience ? — and so on, and so forth. 
 
 Most young ladies — the pretty ones especially, 
 perhaps others cannot speak from experience — are 
 very fond of these and similar little attentions. 
 
 u 2
 
 292 st. olave's. 
 
 They find it pleasant to be waited on hand and 
 foot, to have all their dainty wants forestalled, all 
 their pretty little whims and fancies attended to 
 with solicitous deference. At home they like their 
 attendant squires to be very alert and watchful in 
 opening doors, picking up handkerchiefs, filling 
 tea-pots, handing books, and helping them in all 
 sorts of needless ways. Abroad, they exact un- 
 remitting gallantry, and delight to receive from 
 those who escort them to promenades and con- 
 certs as much care as a nursery-maid wtfuld need 
 to bestow on a detachment of babies. It is just 
 what they feed upon, this idle, empty homage ; it 
 stands to them in the place of real true affection, 
 and they never look onward to the surely coming 
 time when it will altogether cease to be offered, or 
 be offered only with constraint and weariness. 
 
 There are others again who feel themselves an- 
 noyed and pestered by this small coin of love. It 
 worries them to be " pottered after," and waited 
 on. It is by no means essential to their happi- 
 ness that the fortunate possessors of their affec- 
 tions should be always at hand to open doors and 
 pick up thimbles and attend with dutiful devotion 
 all their feminine behests. Strong, quiet, steady
 
 st. olave's. 293 
 
 love given, all the rest may go. This to rely upon 
 and look np to, they are content to wait upon 
 themselves like ordinary mortals, and give up the 
 charming dependence that, at the first, was 
 so fascinating, but which, by-and-by, to those who 
 have to support it, becomes a slight bore. 
 
 Alice was not exigeante in her demands upon 
 the courtesy of others. She had certainly been 
 accustomed to flattery and compliment, but if 
 need be she could do very well without either. 
 David 'Bruce's calm, undemonstrative, almost 
 careless manner, had not offended her in the least, 
 but still Mr. Scrymgeour's graceful and winning 
 politeness contrasted favourably with it. It 
 pleased her to know that she was cared for and 
 looked after. His countless little attentions did 
 not worry her ; on the contrary, she rather enjoyed 
 them, and they were received with that half shy, 
 pleased sort of consciousness, which was the best 
 compliment she could have paid to the giver. So 
 that, on the whole, the ride home from Norlands, 
 after David Bruce had so unexpectedly slipped 
 off the scene, was much more successful than 
 might have been expected. 
 
 Alice and Mr. Scrymgeour soon glided into a
 
 294 
 
 harmless little babble of conversation. He was an 
 adept in the art of making himself agreeable. He 
 had that rare indescribable tact which perceives 
 at once little weaknesses of character and adapts 
 itself to them. He never failed to make people 
 pleased with themselves, and then it followed as a 
 natural consequence that they were pleased with 
 him. It was this almost woman-like perception, 
 seizing at once and availing itself of every varying 
 shade of character, that made Cuthbert Scrym- 
 geour such a charming companion, and forced 
 almost every man and woman upon whom he 
 exerted his conversational powers to yield to their 
 irresistible fascination. 
 
 " I remember you very well," said Alice, after 
 they had driven about half a mile, " I remember 
 you very well, though I have never seen you before. 
 I heard you read morning prayers at the Cathedral 
 a few weeks ago." 
 
 Mr. Scrymgeour turned and looked down into 
 her face with real honest pleasure. A different 
 expression, very different from the shallow phos- 
 phorescent smile which habitually gleamed over 
 his fine features, came into them now. It was a 
 bit of the real man peering through the blinding
 
 st. olave's. 295 
 
 veil of conventionality. There was nattered vanity 
 in the countenance that bent over Alice, and 
 pleased surprise in the rich tones of his voice, as 
 he said — 
 
 " Ah ! do you indeed remember me ? It is 
 very pleasant to be remembered." 
 
 Yes, it is. Without doubt, there is something 
 very enjoyable in being told by a young and in- 
 teresting girl whom you have never seen before, 
 that she remembers you, especially if that remem- 
 brance rests upon some superiority, real or fancied. 
 The wisest man in Christendom would be pleased 
 if the stranger lady whom he is escorting to supper 
 should chance to inform him that she had seen 
 him, perhaps years and years ago, and that he had 
 had a place in her memory ever since. The men- 
 tion of the fact would doubtless produce a pleasant 
 sensation in that brain district where the bump of 
 Approbativeness is located. Now, Cuthbert Scrym- 
 geour was not the wisest man in Christendom, 
 very far from it ; but still the phrenological organ, 
 No. 12, was largely developed in his cerebral anatomy, 
 and produced corresponding results in his cha- 
 racter. If there was one personal qualification 
 more than another — except, of course, the
 
 296 st. olave's. 
 
 whiskers — upon which Mr. Scrymgeour prided 
 himself, and concerning which he was open to a 
 little judicious admiration, it was this voice of his, 
 this fine, rich, exquisitely modulated voice, that 
 had been trained under the best professors of elo- 
 cution that Oxford could produce, and cultivated 
 with an industry far exceeding in patience any 
 which its possessor had thought fit to bestow on 
 Latin Fathers and Greek Testaments. Alice had 
 unconsciously touched the right chord ; she could 
 not have done it more effectually had she been a 
 veritable Talleyrand in her discernment of 
 character. 
 
 " You have the advantage of me," he said. " I 
 don't recollect having seen you before ; and," he 
 added, with a graceful bow, " I should surely no 
 forget so sweet a face." 
 
 Except for a slight blush, Alice ignored this 
 passing compliment. 
 
 tc You would not see me. I was sitting " — she 
 was going to say in the organ gallery with David 
 Bruce ; but checked herself, and said, instead — 
 " I was where you could not see me." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I understand. In some of those 
 seats behind the Episcopal throne most likely. I
 
 st. olave's. 297 
 
 sometimes go there myself, and then I can slip out 
 when the anthem is over. It's such a nuisance, 
 you know, having to stay all the service, when the 
 music is the only thing you care for." 
 
 Alice was so accustomed to hear the Cathedral 
 prayers spoken of as merely subsidiary to the 
 music, that the remark did not appear irreverent. 
 After this propitious commencement, the conversa- 
 tion prospered exceedingly. Alice told her com- 
 panion all about the pic-nic, the walk to Norlands, 
 the dance in the evening. She wished that she had 
 known he was staying in Chapter Court, and then 
 Aunt Amiel would have asked him to join their 
 party, and it would have been so nice. 
 
 To which piece of information, given in Alice's 
 fresh innocent manner, so different from the deport- 
 ment of most of the St. Olave's young ladies, who 
 invariably spoke to a member of the opposite sex 
 as if they were addressing a gorilla, Mr. Scrym- 
 geour could not help replying that a day at Nor- 
 lands with Miss Grey and her friends would 
 indeed have been a sunny spot in memory's land- 
 scape ; but he hoped another year the Fates would 
 be more propitious, and not debar him from so rare 
 a felicity ; — with a great deal more to the same
 
 298 
 
 effect. Mr. Scrymgeour had such exquisite 
 grace in expressing the airy nothings of polite- 
 ness. 
 
 And so the time wore on, not heavily at all. 
 Indeed Alice was quite surprised when, looking up, 
 the grey west front of the Minster was close upon 
 them, and the gables of the Old Lodge peering 
 through the twilight. It had seemed such a short 
 hour. Of course it was only the most natural thing 
 in the world that after he had given the pony and 
 carriage into the care of the man who had come 
 to meet them, Mr. Scrymgeour should walk to the 
 front door with Alice, and see her safely in. And 
 then as they were waiting in the porch, the rain 
 which had been dropping at intervals for the last 
 half-hour, began to come down in right good ear- 
 nest, and it seemed nothing more than kind that 
 Alice should ask him to wait until the storm was 
 over. 
 
 Mr. Scrymgeour readily accepted the invitation ; 
 he was well practised in that part of the code of 
 etiquette which forbids bashfulness and mauvaise 
 honte. Indeed, apart from any hospitality that 
 it might furnish, most strangers were glad to get 
 a glimpse of the interior of the storied old
 
 st. olave's. 299 
 
 mansion. Alice took him through the wide 
 hall, with its black oak panellings and carved 
 ceilings, into the oriel room, where a pleasant fire 
 was burning. They scarcely ever gave up fires at 
 the Old Lodge. 
 
 " Aunt Amiel," she said, " this is Mr. Cuthbert 
 Scrymgeour, the nephew of Mrs. Archdeacon 
 Scrymgeour." 
 
 Mistress Amiel Grey rose to receive him with 
 that grave courtly dignity which, spite of age and 
 infirmity, still lingered in every movement of hers. 
 Alice might have noticed, had she been so disposed, 
 that he did not hurry forward as David Bruce 
 once did, to prevent the aged gentlewoman from 
 standing in his presence. But she did not 
 notice it. 
 
 u Mr. Scrymgeour was kind enough to bring me 
 home from Norlands," she continued. " You 
 know I was to have come with Miss Luckie, but 
 she walked on with Mrs. Edenall, and Mr. Bruce 
 and I set off together. Before we got half way, 
 Benjie turned frisky and upset us both on a 
 grassy bank." 
 
 " But it didn't do us any harm, though," said 
 Alice, seeing that Aunt Amiel was looking
 
 300 
 
 anxious; and then in her straightforward frank 
 way, she told the whole story of Mr. Cuthbert 
 Serymgeour's timely appearance, and the ride 
 home. 
 
 They seated themselves round the blazing fire, 
 and seemed likely to spend a long evening there, 
 for the rain splashed furiously down the wide open 
 chimney, and the wind had risen to a tempest, 
 beating the branches of the trees against the 
 window, and driving with keen eerie wail through 
 the belfry tower of the Cathedral. Strange, that 
 Alice never wondered how David Bruce fared 
 amidst it all. But girls so soon forget. 
 
 It is well for our love, though uot always safe 
 for our happiness, that we only know our friends 
 as they are seen by us, and not as others see 
 them. Could David Bruce have watched Alice as 
 she sat there in the flashing firelight, shaking the 
 meaningless rattle of chit-chat, and exchanging 
 merry jests and repartees with her new companion, 
 he would have been sorely grieved. The sight of 
 her would have marred the beautiful ideal of 
 womanhood, into which, for him, she was passing, 
 and perhaps broken the spell that she was slowly 
 weaving around him.
 
 301 
 
 Yet Alice Grey was neither false nor fickle. 
 She was simply impressible, very impressible. 
 She just reflected, as in a mirror, the characters 
 of those with whom s*he came in contact. She 
 was just what others made her. With the light- 
 hearted she was gay and thoughtless ; in the com- 
 panionship of noble minds, she was quiet and 
 subdued. She drifted along with the mental air- 
 currents which overpast her. She had as yet no 
 settled anchorage, no spiritual stand-point upon 
 which she could rest and be quiet. 
 
 Some people have an intense, steady, unchange- 
 able individuality about them. Once having seen 
 them, you always know where to find them again, 
 and what to expect from them. Such people 
 mould circumstances, instead of being moulded 
 by them. Underlying the infinite variety and 
 richness of their characters, there is one true, firm, 
 rock-like principle, which supports the whole life 
 of thought and action. God seems to have fash- 
 ioned them as He fashions rose and jasmin 
 flowers, which, whether planted in the fresh air 
 and unclouded sunshine of Italian gardens, nor pent 
 up in the stifled atmosphere, and compelled to live 
 in the foul miasma of London garrets, do still
 
 302 
 
 gather out from these diverse influences the same 
 result of rich colour and fragrance. Put some 
 characters where you will, bring them under any 
 conditions, let them live 'in the clear sunshine of 
 truth, or amid the pestilential vapours of error 
 and ignorance, and the life that is in them, the 
 real God-given life, will always blossom out into 
 beauty and fragrance. There is an individuality 
 about them which will assert itself, which no 
 external circumstances, no accidents of birth or 
 fortune, can destroy. 
 
 Other people, again, are like musical instruments, 
 totally dependent for harmony or discord on the 
 finger that touches them. To a master-hand they 
 will yield the grand sweet chords of faith and 
 reverence, the pealing anthem, or the psalm of 
 praise. Let another play upon the keys, and the 
 idle song, the rattling dance tune, is all that he 
 brings forth. You do not know what to expect 
 from them. They will give just what you have 
 the power to take, and no more. You may make 
 them what you please, and gather from them what 
 you will of harmony or discord. 
 
 Such, to a great extent, was Alice Grey. 
 There was that in her which responded to the
 
 st. olave's. 303 
 
 beautiful and the noble, but only so far as the 
 master-hand brought it out. When David Bruce 
 played, the music was sweet and solemn, and 
 listening to it, he forgot that the instrument could 
 yield tones less worthy. Now another had the 
 keys in his power, and it was well that David was 
 not by to hear, for the tune was babbling and 
 meaningless. Graceful still, though, and not 
 without a certain sweetness, even as a well-strung 
 harp cannot answer to the idlest touch without 
 some hint of the melody that is latent in it. 
 
 " I see the days of Ruth are not yet quite 
 gone," said Mr. Scrymgeour, playfully, as he 
 touched a single wheat ear, which had clung to 
 Alice's dress. "You have been busy with the 
 gleaners to-day." 
 
 Alice took it up and played with it, turning it 
 carelessly round her fingers. Ah ! how far back 
 that walk through the corn-fields seemed now ! 
 How long ago and almost forgotten that steady, 
 earnest look which David Bruce had bent upon 
 her as they stood side by side in the narrow track. 
 Plow the whole scene had dwindled down into 
 a mere speck on the disc of Memory. And yet it 
 was scarce three hours ago.
 
 304 
 
 Alice coloured a little, just a very little ; but it 
 was getting dusk in the oriel room, and neither 
 Aunt Amiel nor Mr. Scrymgeour noticed it. 
 
 " Yes/' she said, carelessly, ' ' I picked up one 
 or two ears of corn as we came along the fields 
 from Norlands tower. How pretty the country 
 begins to look now that the reapers are at work, 
 and there seems to be such a good harvest/' 
 
 " That is well/' said Aunt Amiel, " I hear it is 
 very abundant. The Dean was speaking only the 
 other day of having the Thanksgiving read in the 
 St. Olave's churches next Sunday. I hope he will 
 see the Bishop about it." 
 
 So the conversation got into a different track, 
 and whilst Aunt Amiel and Mr. Scrymgeour talked 
 about ecclesiastical regulations and the possibility 
 of the order for Thanksgiving being issued through- 
 out the diocese before next Sunday, Alice slipped 
 the wheat ears quietly into her pocket. They 
 were not quite so precious now as they had been three 
 hours ago ; still she would take care of them, for, 
 after all, that walk through the corn-fields had 
 been pleasant. It must not be quite for- 
 gotten, though she did not care to dwell upon it 
 at present.
 
 st. olave's. 305 
 
 Strange, how many half-open doors lead ont into 
 the corridor of a single quiet evening's talk ; but 
 the merest accident, the turn of a sentence, the 
 speaking of a word closes them again, and we 
 never know the great secrets of pain or pleasure 
 which they have shut away from us. 
 
 The rain kept on, not very greatly to Alice's 
 disappointment, for she enjoyed the merry chat 
 with which the hours were passing. It was not 
 until after supper that Aunt Amiel would allow 
 Mr. Scrymgeour to take his departure. Alice 
 went into the hall to open the door for him. As 
 they two stood in the lamp-light, he shook hands 
 with her, and said in those musical tones of 
 his — 
 
 " May I come and inquire after you in the 
 morning ? It will be pleasant to know that we 
 have not forgotten each other." 
 
 Alice held down her head and murmured out 
 some sort of reply, which, whether Mr. Scrym- 
 geour heard it or not, he interpreted as favourable 
 to his request. Then after coming back for one 
 good-night kiss from Aunt Amiel, she ran away 
 to her own room, where neither the pelting of the 
 pitiless storm, nor any thought for David Bruce, 
 
 vol. i. x
 
 30G st. olave's. 
 
 nor the memory of all that had happened during 
 the day, prevented her from sleeping soundly 
 and comfortably until morning light. 
 
 Ah, Alice Grey ! your young heart will not 
 break vet. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 (*