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 IS IT FOR EVER? 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 I
 
 IS IT FOR EVER ? 
 
 St Bobtl 
 
 KATE MAINWARING. 
 
 AV THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 ionlion : 
 
 SAMUEL TINSLEY, PUBLISHER, 
 lo, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND. 
 
 1S73. 
 
 (All rights oj translation and reproduction resened.)
 
 8^5 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. 
 
 
 PEOPLE IN EASTHAM 
 
 - 
 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 n. 
 
 
 THE VISITORS 
 
 - 
 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 ni 
 
 
 LUCY'S HOME 
 
 - 
 
 4 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 IV. 
 
 c 
 
 A WALK HOME 
 
 - 
 
 r 
 I- 
 
 BRINGING HOME 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A DETERMINED SUITOR 
 
 PAGE 
 I 
 
 17 
 
 • 
 
 34 
 
 52 
 
 p' CHAPTER V. 
 
 ^ UNDER THE TREES - - - - - 65 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 106
 
 iv Contents, 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE NEWS FLIES - - - - - 121 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MISS GATHORNE SPEAKS HER MIND - - 13^ 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 ANNE'S APPEAL - - - - - ^S^ 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 A MEETING AND WHAT CAME OF IT - - 173 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 JOE'S RESOLVE - - - " "195 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 BETSY HAROLD - - - - " 223 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 IN THE CHURCHYARD _ . . - 242 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 CHOOSING THE WEDDING RING _ - - 266 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 A SLIP BETWEEN THE CUP ANI^ THE LIP- - 282
 
 IS IT FOR EVER? 
 
 ) 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PEOPLE IN EASTHAM. 
 
 Even now methinks 
 Each little cottage of my native vale 
 Swells out its earthen sides, upheaves its roof, 
 Like to a hillock moved by labouring mole, 
 And with green trail-weeds clambering up its walls, 
 Roses and every gay and fragrant plant, 
 Before my fancy stands a fairy bower. 
 
 Joanna Baillie. 
 
 ** n^HE House" stood at an angle of the 
 ■^ Northborough road, that wound past 
 it into Eastham. 
 
 It was no large imposing-looking man- 
 sion, but a square brick building, without 
 even a bay window in its front, which 
 faced the road, to make it appear more 
 imposing to those who only caught a sight 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 2 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 of it in passing. The windows, like the 
 house, were square and old-fashioned, also 
 the front door, with its small portico, over 
 which a scarlet geranium of the giant sort 
 had been trained, and the aspect being 
 sunny and sheltered, it had in the course of 
 time reached above the lower windows. In 
 winter it was protected with matting, but 
 in summer its bright and budding scarlet 
 blossoms shone conspicuously, throwing 
 those of a clustering white rose modestly 
 clinging to its side in the shade. 
 
 There was a carriage drive up to " The 
 House;'' but it was only about a hun- 
 dred yards in extent : you entered at one 
 swing gate, and went out at another not 
 twenty yards off, in a direct line, and con- 
 nected by an iron railing fenced by a thick 
 row of evergreens, with just a tree here 
 and there to intercept the view of the road. 
 A small beautifully-kept plat of grass 
 filled up the space before *' The House," 
 and was divided from it by the gravelled 
 drive. 
 
 Towards the gate on the left hand were 
 a good many large-sized trees, forming 
 quite a dark shady nook in summer, when
 
 People in East ham, 3 
 
 it was pleasant to sit under them on a 
 wooden seat that ran round the bark of 
 one of the largest. A conservatory, well 
 stocked with plants and flowers, was on this 
 side, standing- on another piece of grass, 
 dignified by the name of '* The Lawn." 
 Beyond this again was the fruit garden, 
 and a small gate leading into the church- 
 yard, which adjoined, and was, for so small 
 a place as Eastham, unusually large, and 
 but scantily filled with graves. 
 
 Although there were one or two houses of 
 recent date and consequently more modern 
 style, as also with more pretensions to 
 wealth arid show, than Miss Gathorne's, 
 still, in the minds of the villagers, "The 
 House" was and would be, in despite of a 
 palace being reared in its vicinity, '* The 
 House," par excellence^ to the end of time, 
 or perhaps, more properly speaking, for as 
 long as Miss Gathorne inhabited it and 
 held her domineering sway there. 
 
 Miss Gathorne was an eccentric lady of 
 about sixty, tall, thin, and straight as a 
 needle, but resembling a needle that had 
 seen its best days. It was true she pierced 
 through those with whom she came in
 
 4 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 contact ; but it was with a rusty point that 
 her words cut, — one that wounded and tore 
 as it cut. She worked by dint of force, 
 not because her speech was smoothly 
 pointed or polished. Her words were in 
 general few and hasty, jerked forth as a 
 dulled needle threaded with a short piece 
 of thread, afraid of a longer length for 
 fear of breaking. 
 
 Miss Gathorne • disdained the art of 
 dress, with its frivolities and absurdities, 
 and the utter waste of time it necessitated. 
 A new fashion was to her odious and un- 
 becoming, not to say, of late years, in- 
 delicate, especially when she had adapted 
 and reconciled herself to the old. Yet she 
 was not so very far behind the rest of the 
 world in either the cut or style of her 
 dress ; but it took the run of one fashion 
 for her to adopt it, which she generally 
 did just as another more preposterous — 
 at least in her eyes — was being welcomed 
 and worn. Thus, as crinolines were just 
 at their height and immensely large, Miss 
 Gathorne appeared as thin as an '*Aunt 
 Sally," but with an immense width of skirt 
 ranging about her; for although she pre-
 
 People in Easthain. 5 
 
 ferred and could do with less, still, as she 
 was compelled to buy a certain quantity 
 in dress length, she could not and would 
 not waste it. Her hair was not very grey, 
 but it was very scanty, and in front wound 
 into a small ring on either side of her face, 
 fastened with side combs ; while the few 
 hairs at the back of her head appeared 
 like a tightly wound ball of worsted. She 
 wore no cap, and her bonnets, for the pre- 
 vailing style, were enormous, with a falling 
 curtain behind, very peculiar looking, as 
 the fashion was decidedly in favour of 
 no curtains at all. 
 
 I shall introduce her to my readers 
 on a certain morning in April, as she sat 
 in the drawing-room, with a large basket 
 of work beside her, and, with the aid of 
 spectacles, diligently stitching some flannel 
 which she had singled out from the med- 
 ley beside her, as the easiest and least 
 troublesome. Sometimes the sun shone 
 brilliantly, sometimes it was obscured by 
 clouds floating across its surface, from 
 which fell sharp showers of rain, so that 
 the room was either lit up with a bright 
 dazzling light, or obscured in semi-dark-
 
 6 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 ness. But these sudden changes did not 
 interfere with Miss Gathorne's industry, 
 for she kept a young girl, who sat reading 
 aloud to her, constantly employed in pull- 
 ing the blinds up and down to suit the un- 
 certain light. But presently Lucy forgot 
 to draw up the blind, and Miss Gathorne 
 rebuked her. 
 
 *' What's the use of stammering and 
 stuttering over that passage ? Why 
 don't you pull up the blind ? " 
 
 The girl rose to obey, and with a grace- 
 ful light step went over to the window, 
 performed Miss Gathorne's behest, then 
 returned and resumed her reading. Her 
 face v/as in the shadow ; but the attitude of 
 the slight drooping figure was perfect, 
 and by-and-by, as the sun once more burst 
 forth, and she lifted her head and again 
 went over to the window, its dazzling rays 
 shone across a very beautiful face. She 
 was fair, almost delicately so, but her hair 
 was of no golden tinge, such as is gene- 
 rally seen with such complexions, it was 
 brown, but of that rich hue which is ever 
 varying its shades. Now, as the light 
 played upon it, it almost looked as though
 
 People in East ham. 7 
 
 it was streaked here and there with golden 
 threads. Her eyes were blue, large, and 
 lustrous, yet somewhat sad ; but the 
 mouth had a sweet bright expression 
 floating about it, belying the mournful 
 look of the eyes. Altogether she gave one 
 the impression of being a sweet-tempered, 
 soft-hearted, timid little creature, one 
 whom the adverse winds of this life ought 
 to blow upon gently and mercifully. 
 
 She stood in the attitude of listening, 
 with one hand on the cord of the blind,^ 
 which she had arrested in its downward 
 progress, her eyes anxiously looking to 
 the point where the Northborough road 
 first wound into sight ; and as it took a 
 wide circuitous turn of about a mile, the 
 sound of coming wheels could be distinctly 
 heard long before the vehicle itself was 
 seen, 
 
 Lucy had evidently forgotten all and 
 everything around her ; her thoughts 
 in dreamland, or with the approaching 
 sounds ; for the sun streamed down full on 
 her, and she seemed neither to feel nor 
 heed its dazzling beams. Not so Miss 
 Gathorne, who turned towards her sharply.
 
 8 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 *' What are you star-gazing at ? '' asked 
 she. 
 
 But Lucy was too deep in thought to 
 hear. 
 
 Miss Gathorne did not rep2at her words ; 
 perhaps she was struck with the beauty 
 and grace of the girl's attitude; for she 
 laid down her sewing, and regarded her 
 fixedly. At the same time the sounds 
 without ceased ; but Lucy never moved or 
 stirred save to clasp her hands quietly one 
 over the other. 
 
 She stood thus until once more the 
 sun was obscured and the rain burst forth 
 afresh in a heavier shower than any that 
 had preceded it, in the midst of which a 
 dogcart rattled round the corner by the 
 weeping-willow into sight. 
 
 A bright flush overspread Lucy's face, 
 and as though seized by a sudden impulse, 
 she hastily drew down the blind and 
 went and again seated herself by Miss 
 Gathorne ; and now for the first time she 
 became aware of the earnest way in which 
 that lady was looking at her. 
 
 The rosy flush died away from her face, 
 and she hid its agitation by bending low
 
 People in East ham. g 
 
 over the book as she once more opened 
 it ; but Miss Gathorne arrested her first 
 words. 
 
 *' Who was it ? who did you see ? " she 
 asked in her usual short way. 
 
 Lucy hesitated, but only for a moment ; 
 the next she answered simply : 
 
 ** Mr. Richard, Ma'am." 
 
 Miss Gathorne took off her spectacles 
 and laid them on the table, while her 
 face expressed the utmost astonishment. 
 
 '' Mr. Richard ! " she echoed ; ''Im- 
 possible ! why, he was here on Thursday, 
 and this is Saturday ! Are you sure it 
 was Mr. Richard ? " 
 
 ''Yes, Ma'am." 
 
 Miss Gathorne took up her spectacles 
 and readjusted them on her nose. 
 
 " Give me my bag, Lucy ; he shan't 
 have one farthing this time; of that I'm 
 quite determined," said she decidedly; 
 and taking the bag from Lucy's hand, 
 she placed it on her chair, and, regard- 
 less of crushing its contents, coolly sat 
 upon it. 
 
 In a tremulous voice Lucy resumed 
 her reading; but it was evident Miss
 
 lo Is it for Ever '^ 
 
 Gathorne's thoughts were elsewhere, for 
 she presently interrupted her with : 
 
 *' I don't believe it was Mr. Richard." 
 
 But at the same moment the door lead- 
 ing* from the servants' offices was swung 
 open ; a light whistle sounded ; a heavy 
 tread drew near, and Mr. Richard himself 
 entered. 
 
 ** What, all in the dark ! " he exclaimed. 
 ** Has the poor sick canary given up the 
 ghost?" 
 
 He stooped and kissed his aunt, 
 although the expression of her face was 
 anything but a pleased one, and turning 
 to Lucy, he for a moment held her little 
 shrinking trembling hand in his, while a 
 bright flush once again lighted up her 
 face ; but she did not raise her eyes to 
 his. 
 
 ** It is Lucy's fault we are in the dark. 
 Go and draw up the blind, child;" and 
 Miss Gathorne bent her brows frowningly 
 on the girl. '* It is you, then," added she, 
 to her nephew. 
 
 ** Of course," returned he laughingly, 
 thrusting his fingers through the locks that 
 clustered thickly over his temples ; *^ me —
 
 People in Easthayn. 1 1 
 
 I — myself — at your service, my very good 
 and dear aunt." 
 
 *' Dear to you I hope I am ; but good — 
 humph ! that depends on circumstances, I 
 suppose. H ave you been betting again ? ' ' 
 
 '*My dear aunt, what a bully you are ! " 
 and his face expressed annoyance, which 
 he once more laughed off, adding : " Why 
 not return my compliment by saying how 
 good and dear I am to you ? ' ' 
 
 ** Good I hope you are," was the reply ; 
 ** dear I know you are to my cost. What 
 do you want? for of course you haven't 
 come all the way from Northborough in 
 this weather for nothing." 
 
 *'Are you in earnest? for, seriously 
 speaking, my wants are legion." 
 
 " I've not a doubt of it," said Miss 
 Gathorne drily. 
 
 *' But then, my dear aunt, yours are on 
 a par." 
 
 " Mine ! I thank God I want for no- 
 thing." 
 
 "Then I suppose old Mill's son" (the 
 coachman) " has ceased bothering you 
 about having the chariot painted chocolate 
 instead of its present bright yellow, which
 
 12 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 you wanted. Of course your canaries have 
 a whole host of young ones, which you 
 said you sadly wanted. Teazle has left off 
 biting and flying at the postman's legs, 
 which you voantcd. The old hen is march- 
 ing about the yard with a lot of cackling 
 ducklings, which you wa?ited. The rector 
 has taken to preach shorter sermons, as 
 you wanted^ and which, by-the-bye, I think 
 a very sensible wa7it of yours, and give you 
 all honour for." 
 
 " Richard ! you're a fool ! " 
 
 " Much obliged, I am sure; but I don't 
 think I'm such a fool as I look." 
 
 '' You don't look a fool, but you act like 
 one." 
 
 ''And when I do, you always help me 
 out of the scrape," said he carelessly. 
 
 " Making myself the greater fool of the 
 two." 
 
 *' Wisdom, my dear aunt, will come with 
 years. When I'm fifty, I'll settle down 
 into a regular old screw." 
 
 *' Go on with your reading, Lucy," said 
 Miss Gathorne authoritatively. 
 
 And once more Lucy went on with her 
 reading ; but whether she was conscious
 
 People in Eastham. 13 
 
 or not of Mr. Richard's admiring gaze, 
 she certainly stammered and hesitated 
 dreadfully. 
 
 *' Spell it ! " exclaimed Miss Gathorne, 
 cruelly unconscious of the girl's reason for 
 confusion, as Lucy made several ineffectual 
 attempts to articulate some word ; '* spell 
 it ! " repeated she sharply. 
 
 Lucy hesitated, and again her cheeks 
 flushed, but this time painfully, while tears 
 stood in the large eyes she raised half 
 imploringly, half deprecatingly, to Mr. 
 Richard's face. 
 
 "Not a bit of it!" exclaimed he In 
 reply, gently lifting her book from off her 
 lap. *' Where is it ? Oh ! I see. Hi-e- 
 rar-chi-cal," said he, as he almost spelt out 
 the long word ; *' it's a breakjaw word, no 
 wonder Lucy's lips refused to utter it ; you 
 don't wish for any more of it, aunt, do 
 you? " asked he, shutting the book with a 
 bang. 
 
 " I wish to hear to the end of the chap- 
 ter," returned she. 
 
 *' Hurrah ! There are only two more 
 lines, which I'll read you instead of Lucy. 
 Here goes ! "
 
 14 Is it for Ever J 
 
 ** It winds up very abruptly," remarked 
 Miss Gathorne as he finished. 
 
 *^Ah!" laughed Mr. Richard, ** that 
 shows the unpolished state of the writer's 
 pen. I read it exactly as it was written." 
 
 ** Give me the book," said his aunt 
 suspiciously. 
 
 " Now, you don't mean to suspect me of 
 the abominable bad habit of skipping ? I 
 swear I have not skipped a word. Well, 
 judge for yourself," said he, as he placed 
 the book in her outstretched hand. 
 
 **The last sentence was, * and which 
 nothing can be more at variance,' " said 
 Miss Gathorne, once more readjusting her 
 spectacles, and proceeding to find the para- 
 graph. This she seemed to have some 
 difficulty in doing, for she kept turning 
 the pages, repeating the word, ** variance," 
 ** variance," over and over again; while 
 her nephew smiled and nodded wickedly 
 at Lucy. 
 
 '* I don't believe it's here at all," said 
 Miss Gathorne presently; *'and it certainly 
 does not end the chapter. It's time you 
 left off your old boyish propensity of telling 
 fibs, which to my mind are akin to lies."
 
 People in Eastham. 15 
 
 *^ But I haven't told fibs. I never said 
 it ended the chapter, for it does not ; it 
 ends a paragraph. I have only left out a 
 a page and a half of the wind up." 
 
 " Which Lucy will read," said Miss 
 Gathorne angrily. 
 
 " Heigh-ho ! " sighed Richard, shrug- 
 ging his shoulders; "what an infliction! it's 
 worse than old Nugent' s long sermons ; " 
 and he strolled over to the window and 
 looked disconsolately at the cheerless 
 prospect without. 
 
 The rain still fell heavily ; there were 
 now no bright patches of blue sky fringed 
 with thick fast fleeting white clouds, 
 betokening a coming sunshine, however 
 transient ; a dull leaden look pervaded 
 the atmosphere, bringing a feeling of 
 depression with it, which Richard was not 
 slow to feel ; for his face fell as he gazed 
 without, and he yawned audibly, stroking 
 his long silken moustaches the while. 
 
 Lucy's voice was the only sound that 
 broke the silence within ; but presently 
 Richard's quick ear caught the rumble of 
 distant wheels, even as Lucy's had done 
 scarcely half an hour before.
 
 1 6 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 ** Here are the Eltons ! " exclaimed he 
 suddenly. *' By Jove, what a godsend ! 
 Shut up the book, Lucy." 
 
 " Finish the sentence," said Miss Ga- 
 thorne. ''There, that will do. Now put 
 the book away. I don't agree with one 
 word of it. The man's a fool who wrote 
 it." 
 
 "Amen," replied Richard ; " my 
 thoughts for the last five minutes ; " and 
 he went out to welcome the visitors.
 
 17 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE VISITORS. 
 
 Actions, looks, words, steps, form the alphabet by 
 which you may spell characters. 
 
 Lavater. 
 
 SIR CROSBY ELTON was the owner 
 of the fine old estate of Leighlands, 
 midway between Northborough and East- 
 ham. Of ancient and honourable degree, 
 with ancestors whose names have been 
 handed down to posterity for their brave 
 deeds or staunch adherence to the sove- 
 reigns in whose reigns they flourished, 
 yet Sir Crosby was poor, more than half 
 his land was let to strangers, while sheep 
 and oxen — not his own — grazed over the 
 fields or sought the shelter of the stately 
 trees, where once only deer timidly herded. 
 The baronet would have been a spend- 
 thrift — an utterly ruined man — but for his 
 wife. People said he was afraid of her, 
 and perhaps it was as well he held her in 
 
 VOL. I. 2
 
 1 8 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 awe, or most assuredly Leighlands would 
 have become food for the Jews, with its 
 magnificent timber felled to the ground ; 
 even as it was, gaps were made here and 
 there occasionally when any unexpected 
 outlay required it. No two people could 
 be more dissimilar than Sir Crosby and 
 his wife. She was tall, handsome, and 
 grand in looks and manner : he, short 
 and fat and very fussy, with apparently an 
 immense reverence for his wife, to whose 
 judgment he had so often appealed, or 
 been obliged to appeal, that it had become 
 his habit to end almost every sentence 
 with : ** Don't you think so, Lady E. ? " or, 
 *' You quite agree with me. Lady E.?" 
 And Lady Elton, who, with all her love 
 of power and domineering, had been unable 
 to correct this bad and, as she styled it, 
 low custom of shortening her name, would 
 bend her head loftily by way of reply — 
 a perfectly satisfactory proceeding to Sir 
 Crosby, who would adjust his wig, fuss 
 about in his chair, and add, ** Lady E. 
 is a very clever woman, very." 
 
 And so she was — so she considered her- 
 self; the only foolish thing she acknow-
 
 The Visitors. 19 
 
 leged to having ever been guilty of was 
 the marrying Sir Crosby, who at the time 
 she accepted him was supposed to be a 
 wealthy young baronet, instead of one 
 almost ruined by his own utter simpleness 
 and good-natured folly. 
 
 Lady Elton advanced into Miss Ga- 
 thorne's drawing-room, bearing the mark 
 of a proud aristocrat stamped on her hand- 
 some face, and chilling every movement 
 of her tall form ; her black silk dress, 
 somewhat heavily trimmed with velvet, 
 sweeping around her like a robe of state. 
 Miss Gathorne, whose every movement 
 was that of an express train, formed an 
 extraordinary contrast to her, as she nearly 
 fell over a stool in greeting her visitor, 
 and then kicked it away under the table 
 out of sight. 
 
 Miss Elton followed her mother, her 
 dress and cloak sparkling with glittering 
 beads and bugles, and her wavy dark- 
 brown hair drawn off her face and coiled in 
 thick plaits under the most fashionable of 
 small hats. She was nearly as tall as her 
 mother, but with none of her beauty ; her 
 face was her father's, and a plain one, but
 
 20 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 she was perfectly well bred ; and the 
 natural grace wanting in her movements 
 was supplied with not ungraceful artificial 
 ease. She was very pleasing-looking, with 
 an open frank expression shining in her 
 grey eyes, and a manner that irresistibly 
 drew even strangers towards her. She 
 was a great favourite with Miss Gathorne, 
 who shook hands with her cordially, smil- 
 ing a hearty welcome, which Anna warmly 
 returned ; then nodded in a friendly way 
 to Lucy, who was shrinking within herself 
 in a distant corner, and whom Lady Elton 
 had not condescended to notice. 
 
 ** Whatever brought you out in such 
 weather, so cold and damp? " began Miss 
 Gathorne, who paid as much court to 
 Lady Elton as though she had been nobody 
 greater than Dame Margery, the super- 
 annuated old village schoolmistress. 
 
 '* We have been to call on the curate's 
 bride," returned Lady Elton, who utterly 
 hated Miss Gathorne, although for reasons 
 of her own she was always more than com- 
 monly friendly, trying to put away the freez- 
 ing tones and manner that were so repelling 
 to all those whom she termed acquaintances.
 
 The Visitors. 21 
 
 **What is she like?" asked Miss 
 Gathorne shortly. 
 
 *' So young and elegant ! I liked her 
 extremely. She will, I am sure, be quite 
 an acquisition to Eastham," said Anna 
 before her mother could reply. 
 
 " Is she High or Low Church ? " asked 
 Richard. 
 
 '' How can I tell?" 
 
 *' Can she play croquet ? " 
 
 ** I do not know." 
 
 *' If you had answered my second ques- 
 tion, it would have answered my first ; for 
 if High Church, she will play croquet ; if 
 Low, she won't ! " said Richard. 
 
 '*What nonsense! I am sure she will 
 play croquet or any other such innocent 
 game. She was excessively nice altoge- 
 ther, even her gloves fitted exquisitely." 
 
 *' She will soon have to wear ill-shaped 
 cotton ones ! " said Lady Elton with 
 something of a shudder." 
 
 *' Croquet and gloves," growled Miss 
 Gathorne; "she can't live on the one or 
 eat the other. What kind of a helpmeet 
 is she likely to make Mr. Green ? " 
 
 '* Such a name for a Curzon to take !
 
 22 Is it for Ever 1 
 
 Such a marriage was never heard of in the 
 family," said Lady Elton. 
 
 ** Curzon and 'turnip greens,'" re- 
 marked Richard, '* do not sound pretty 
 together. I hope the young helpmeet 
 will never hear her husband's nickname; 
 it might help to disenchant her. Is she 
 pretty?" 
 
 *' No, not exactly pretty, but there was 
 something about her that I liked. She 
 received us without the slightest gate or 
 mauvaise honte. I confess to being charmed 
 and interested in her," exclaimed Anna. 
 
 '' She is a Curzon," said Lady Elton 
 loftily, " to whom the Curzon family were 
 distantly connected." 
 
 ** She had been going out for a walk, 
 but was prevented by the rain. Mr. Green 
 came in before we left, and seemed devoted 
 to her," said Anna. 
 
 ** An infatuated young man," remarked 
 Miss Gathorne; "he'd better have taken 
 up with some strong healthy lass, who 
 would and could have tramped about the 
 parish with him. It's a foolish marriage, 
 and will turn out so in the end, to my 
 thinking."
 
 The Visitors, 23 
 
 ** It's a very unseemly marriage," said 
 Lady Elton. 
 
 ** She seemed delightfully happy,'* said 
 Anna, rising, with a shade of temper and 
 annoyance in her tone, and moving away 
 to where Lucy sat. 
 
 There were three windows to the draw- 
 ing-room : two old-fashioned nearly square 
 ones, facing the road, and a large bay 
 window — a recent addition — opening down 
 to the ground at the extreme length of the 
 room, taking in a half-concealed view of 
 the church, as the tall trees clustering on 
 this side down to the gate waved their 
 thick wide-spreading branches before it. 
 
 Lucy sat by this last window, her slight 
 figure half turned from it, as she busily 
 worked at some crochet ; and Anna, whose 
 plumes had been slightly ruffled during 
 the preceding conversation, smoothed 
 them by opening her mind to Lucy. 
 
 " I know," said she, *' that it is all out- 
 ward show with her, and entirely the result 
 of the bad habit she has of abusing every- 
 body and everything ; but it is so vexing." 
 
 Lucy raised her soft brown eyes question - 
 ingly, and Anna laughed.
 
 24 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 *' You have chased away my ill temper," 
 she said, '* by looking so thoroughly mys- 
 tified. Of course I mean Miss Gathorne." 
 
 *'She is vexing at times," replied Lucy, 
 ** but she does not mean the severe things 
 she says." 
 
 '^ It is hard to believe that her unchari- 
 tableness covers a world of charity." 
 
 "• But it does," answered Lucy, some- 
 what decidedly for her. 
 
 '' I like her quaint truthful ways, her 
 utter disregard of forms, ceremonies, and 
 dress, which two former are so tiresome. 
 But what a strong-minded woman she 
 must be to stand all the sneers and taunts 
 levelled at her for her eccentricities. Miss 
 Gathorne is an exception to my general 
 idea about strong-minded females of a 
 certain age, for I confess to a partiality for 
 her, and cannot imagine her unlovable." 
 
 **Why should she be?" 
 
 **A11 strong-minded women are more 
 or less so ; they are naturally cold and 
 unloving; their minds, I suppose, being too 
 powerful and energetic to allow of such 
 a weakness as love. Living with such 
 women must make one cold and insen-
 
 The Visitors. 25 
 
 sible, and chill all the best feelings of 
 one's nature." 
 
 Was Anna thinking of her mother? 
 Involuntarily Lucy glanced at Lady Elton, 
 who, with her dress sweeping around her, 
 sat in severe majesty, her cold measured 
 tones falling freezingly, and her face with- 
 out a single soft expression. How terrible 
 it must be to live with such a woman ! 
 one who would censure an inadvertent 
 laugh or carelessly-uttered snatch of song 
 as ill-bred. Lucy thought of her own 
 mother, who died when she was but seven 
 years old, and whom she could only just 
 remember; yet her recollection was of one 
 all love and gentleness. 
 
 The current of her thoughts was sud- 
 denly interrupted by Miss Elton. 
 
 *' Look round, Lucy, and tell me who 
 this strong, muscular-looking young man 
 is standing under the large laburnum, 
 as if," added she slightingly, *' its scarcely 
 covered branches afforded the smallest 
 shelter from the rain." 
 
 Lucy looked round, drawing back the 
 curtain as she did so ; but quickly let its 
 folds fall back again in their place, as in
 
 26 Is it for Ever 7 
 
 a tone of vexation — while her face burnt 
 crimson — she answered : 
 
 ** It is Farmer Simmonds's son." 
 
 ** The idea of his son being' such a fine- 
 looking young man ! What can he have 
 to say to you ? Did you not see him 
 beckon?" 
 
 For all answer Lucy moved away and 
 softly left the room ; and presently Anna 
 heard a door open, and the young man 
 who caused her so much surprise instantly 
 left his post and went towards it. 
 
 Anna's surprise and curiosity increased. 
 What could he have to say to Lucy ? and 
 what relation could he bear her, that he 
 seemed on such familiar terms as to beckon 
 to her in Miss Gathorne's grounds, exactly 
 opposite one of the windows of the house ? 
 Miss Gathorne had a strong objection to 
 vagrants ; " Teazle," a dog of the mastiff 
 breed, had instructions to deny admission 
 within the gates to all strangers ; and 
 these instructions — when loose — he carried 
 out to the letter, by tearing the dresses of 
 women, or trousers of men, who attempted 
 to force an entrance ; and yet Teazle had 
 been quietly snuffing the air under the
 
 The Visitors. 27 
 
 window, and shivering in the wet, all the 
 time the man had stood there, with nothing- 
 unfriendly to Joe Simmonds in either his 
 bearing or his looks. Somehow Anna 
 could never think of Lucy as any other 
 than a lady, although she knew she was 
 but the granddaughter of a gardener ; so 
 Lucy's behaviour in condescending to go 
 out at the beck of such a man to speak to 
 him astonished her greatly, and she list- 
 lessly looked out at the falling rain, and 
 almost wished she could hear what they 
 were saying. By-and-by, as she thought 
 of the man as- he had stood in his brown 
 corduroy suit all soaked in wet, with the 
 rain dropping from his hat down his face 
 and whiskers, the while he beckoned with 
 his great awkward hand, she laughed softly 
 to herself, as the ludicrousness struck 
 her, and she was somewhat startled when 
 Richard, who had approached her unper- 
 ceived, said : 
 
 •' A bright thought on such a day as 
 this is worth I don't know how much ; pray 
 let me share it." 
 
 *'Why not?" returned she. "I was 
 laughing at the strange figure of a man
 
 28 Is it for Everl 
 
 standing under the large laburnum, who, 
 from his dripping state, I should think, 
 must have been there at least half an hour." 
 
 Richard drew back the curtain even as 
 Lucy had done, but far more hastily. 
 
 *'You will not see him," continued 
 Anna ; "for Lucy has taken compassion on 
 him, and given him a temporary shelter ; 
 and it was the remembrance of his great red 
 hand beckoning to her, and the ridiculously 
 anxious look on his handsome bronzed 
 face, that made me laugh. Now you have 
 my bright thought," she said, " and in 
 return must tell me what Lucy can possibly 
 have in common with such a man as Joe 
 Simmonds." 
 
 "Nothing," responded Richard hotly. 
 "It is like his impudence to stand in eye- 
 shot of the window." 
 
 "But he did not look impudent; his 
 looks were quite humble when Lucy looked 
 at him, while his face glowed as though 
 the sun had suddenly shone forth." 
 
 To Anna's surprise something like an 
 oath escaped Richard's lips. 
 
 " I should like to fell him as I would an 
 ox !" he said.
 
 The Visitors, 29 
 
 " It would take more than one man to 
 fell him to the ground," said Anna, as she 
 turned away to join her mother, who had 
 risen to make her adieux to Miss Gathorne. 
 
 **I wish, Anna," said Lady Elton se- 
 verely, as they were being driven home, 
 ** I wish you would not forget you are an 
 Elton, and my daughter." 
 
 " I never forget it," replied Anna, 
 almost as severely. 
 
 *' You forgot it to-day, when you con- 
 descended to put yourself in connection 
 with that vulgar young person at Miss 
 Gathorne' s." 
 
 *' She is not vulgar, mother. If you 
 would only speak to her once, you would 
 never call her vulgar again." 
 
 " How often have I told you that I will 
 not be contradicted ! Learn to subdue 
 your evil temper and wilful ways. That 
 girl, if she were in your own sphere of life, 
 would work you a mischief As it is, she is 
 beneath your notice, and I desire that you 
 will let her see that she is." 
 
 *' I am afraid I cannot, mother. And 
 besides, she is too gentle to work any one 
 any harm."
 
 30 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 ** You have learnt an utter disregard for 
 my wishes, and set your will against mine 
 most undutifully. I forbid your speaking 
 to her again, and I expect my wishes will 
 be attended to. Let Mr Richard see how 
 utterly beneath an Elton's notice she is," 
 said Lady Elton loftily. 
 
 *' She was not beneath the notice of Lord 
 Ronald's son," returned Anna somewhat 
 contemptuously. 
 
 Now this was a severe cut of Anna's, 
 seeing that the young man she alluded to 
 had not only been invited to Leighlands for 
 the fishing and shooting he was so fond of, 
 but secretly in the hopes that, thrown so 
 much in Anna's society, as he of necessity 
 would be, the end would result in an engage- 
 ment between the two ; but unfortunately 
 for Lady Elton's scheme, Lucy's fair face 
 proved an effectual barrier, and although 
 Lucy's refusal to listen to his suit was 
 merely conjecture, yet his hasty departure 
 from the Park, with all the marks of a terri- 
 ble disappointment visible in his face, and 
 this after Lady Elton and Anna had seen 
 him in deep and earnest conversation 
 by the mill-stream with Lucy, was almost
 
 The Visitors, 31 
 
 certain confirmation in this proud woman's 
 heart, and became a rankling sore, which 
 ended in a feeling akin to hatred to Lucy. 
 
 **You might have spared me that 
 thrust, Anna," returned she ; " but it only 
 confirms the dislike I feel towards her, 
 and my suspicion of the schemes she is 
 concocting as regards Richard Leslie." 
 
 **What has Mr. Leslie to do in the 
 matter? " asked Anna. 
 
 ** Much. She has bewitched him ! " 
 
 Anna sat silent, her face a shade paler 
 than it had been ; and Lady Elton con- 
 tinued in the slow, measured, cold tones 
 usual with her. 
 
 "My pride is sorely humbled in 
 acknowledging it ; but my keenness of 
 sight, my inherent knowledge of the weak- 
 ness of men, never fail me. He will slip 
 through your fingers, if your pride do not 
 take the alarm and act." 
 
 " As how ? " questioned Anna, her face 
 turned from her mother. 
 
 *' By treating her with contempt — crush- 
 ing her." 
 
 " How will that save him from — from 
 loving her ? "
 
 2,2 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 ** Ruining her ! Do you suppose, fool 
 as he is, he is such a fool as to think of 
 marrying her ? Are you mad ? " 
 
 Anna bit her lips until the blood almost 
 started. Her mother thought Richard 
 Leslie a fool, and something worse, and 
 yet the dearest wish of her heart was that 
 he should be her son-in-law ! 
 
 ** You are severe, mother," was all she 
 said. 
 
 '' I am. I have learnt to be so ; and I 
 would save you unhappiness. I know that 
 you care for this man ; that where your 
 affections are concerned you are obstinate; 
 that moreover, if this man told you he 
 loved you, you would believe him and 
 marry him with your eyes closed, striving 
 to shut out the whisper of his sins and 
 follies. But suppose he never tells you he 
 loves you ! suppose, moreover, he is pre- 
 judiced against you by one who has art 
 and cunning in place of pride and blood ! 
 What then ? You are silent. I answer for 
 you ; exert now your woman's pride — 7Jiy 
 pride, which must be in you, although as 
 yet dormant ; rouse it ! tarry not ! sleep 
 not! but be up and doing, wakeful and
 
 The Visitors, 33 
 
 vigilant ! so you shall wean him from this 
 low, base-born girl, or you are no child of 
 mine ! " 
 
 And presently Lady Elton, in her coldest 
 manner, descended from the carriage as 
 though nothing had occurred to ruffle her 
 wonted pride or disturb her usual stoical 
 demeanour ; but ere she swept into the 
 house she found opportunity to whisper to 
 Anna, " Remember, you can win him if 
 you like. It is not too late — yet I ' ' 
 
 And Anna recalled to her recollection 
 Richard's half-uttered oath, with his wish 
 of felling Joe Simmonds to the earth, and 
 pondered if it was not too late, or whether 
 she really had the power of making him 
 love her. 
 
 A thought of Lucy's unhappiness, or 
 that Lucy loved him, never crossed her 
 mind. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 34 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Lucy's home. 
 
 Their humble porch with hone/d flowers 
 The curling woodbine's shade embowers : 
 From the small garden's thymy mound 
 Their bees in busy swarms resound : 
 Nor fell disease, before his time, 
 Hastes to consume life's golden prime : 
 But when their temples long have wore 
 The silver crown of tresses hoar ; 
 As studious still calm peace to keep, 
 Beneath a flow'ry turf they sleep. 
 
 Thomas Warton. 
 
 lyjR. SIMMONDS was a wealthy 
 •^^ farmer, living on the south side of 
 Eastham. His son Joe was a fine, strong, 
 athletic young- man, uncivilised to a de- 
 gree; his hair hanging in thick unkempt 
 locks over his handsome sunburnt face ; 
 his movements awkward, his long legs 
 seeming as he walked to bend beneath the 
 weight of his muscular body, his large 
 strong hands keeping time like the pendu- 
 lum of a clock. Joe's manner was rough and
 
 Lucy s Home, 35 
 
 free-spoken ; he was also quick to revenge 
 an injury, or resent a slight ; of passionate 
 and uncontrolled temper, he was like a 
 wild beast when his anger was provoked, 
 and he knocked about with his mighty 
 sledge-hammer fist, inflicting an injury 
 with every blow. Twice he had been 
 summoned before the magistrates for an 
 assault : the first time discharged with a 
 caution, the second time fined ; but still 
 Joe put no moral restraint upon himself, 
 and it was whispered that when twitted 
 about his fine by his father, he had boldly 
 avowed, with an oath, **that he did not 
 care for the whole lot of magistrates that 
 breathed ; it would not take much out of 
 him to smash the heads of them all." 
 Yet notwithstanding his wild, savage 
 temper, Joe had his weak point, like 
 Samson, and he gave way to it by falling 
 over head and ears in love with Lucy, 
 who could not have one idea with him in 
 common. But what cared he for that ? he 
 loved her with his great big strong heart, 
 and although his honest endeavours to 
 please her had been met with quiet cold- 
 ness, or his gifts with silence, still Joe did
 
 36 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 not despair. His was a determined spirit ; 
 a ruthless, almost savage will, and by it 
 he swore that Lucy, and none other, 
 should be his wife. 
 
 Lucy's grandfather, the old Eastham 
 gardener, who when a young man had 
 risen by his own exertions, cleverness, and 
 tact, to be the owner of small nursery 
 grounds, and sent his flowers and fruit — 
 winning almost all the first-class prizes — 
 to Northborough horticultural shows, was 
 now in his eighty-seventh year, totally inca- 
 pacitated for work, or even for superintend- 
 ing it, which was ably undertaken by his 
 only son, John Campbell. The old man had 
 been seized with paralysis on the morning 
 of the day on which Lady Elton had called 
 with her daughter on Miss Gathorne ; and 
 Joe had volunteered to break the news to 
 Lucy, which he had done in his own un- 
 couth way, by standing for half an hour 
 in the pouring rain in front of the window, 
 where by instinct he knew Lucy was, and 
 by-and-by beckoning her. But although 
 Lucy had answered his summons, she had 
 firmly declined his escort, and Joe had gone 
 away in sheepish and not a little angry
 
 Lucy^ s Ho7ne. 37 
 
 dissatisfaction, while Lucy, though anxious 
 and tearful, followed out her aunt's instruc- 
 tions that there was no hurry, by delay- 
 ing her visit until the evening, lest she 
 should stumble upon Joe, and be forced to 
 bear him company ; for Lucy had a dread 
 of Joe, knowing full well that Richard 
 was jealous of him. 
 
 It had ceased raining when Lucy started 
 on her road. The large white fleecy 
 clouds still hung low beneath the bright 
 blue of the sky; but the sun was setting 
 a deep red, throwing a glowing tint over 
 fields and trees, grass and boughs glis- 
 tening with drops of recent rain, while the 
 birds chirped incessantly amongst the 
 budding branches and quick-set hedges. 
 At any other time Lucy would have loi- 
 tered, but her grandfather was ill — might 
 be dying — so, with scarcely a glance at 
 the spring flowers clustering near her 
 path, she hurried on ; and as she went 
 she blamed herself for her delay, for sup- 
 pose the old gardener had succumbed to 
 the terrible disease that had seized him, 
 and she never hear his loving words again ! 
 
 The old man was dotingly fond of Lucy.
 
 38 Is it for Ever? 
 
 While he sat by the fire in winter, or 
 sunny corner of the window in summer, 
 neither her aunt nor her uncle dared 
 make the tears spring in her eyes, or 
 her fair face flush painfully ; and yet, in a 
 certain way of their own, they both loved 
 her. 
 
 Her aunt, Anne Campbell, was a stern 
 woman, who, it was whispered, had not 
 always been so grave and cold ; a disap- 
 pointment in early life had sown seeds 
 which in time bore fruit of a rigid, stern 
 morality. Her maxim was, *' To fulfil 
 her duty in that station of life into which 
 it had pleased God to call her ; " and this 
 she fulfilled to the letter, by persisting 
 in acting as though she were poor and of 
 the same humble class as the cottagers 
 around: they washed at home, and hung 
 up their clothes to dry in the little bit of 
 garden attached to their cottages ; why 
 should not she ? Their children were 
 turned out to play about in the fields and 
 lanes as it pleased their fancy ; so had 
 she done with Lucy, until one day Miss 
 Gathorne, attracted by a child's cries, had 
 found Lucy in the act of being violently
 
 Lucy* s Home. 39 
 
 beaten by a big boy whom she had refused 
 to play with, and, struck with her beauty 
 and utter friendlessness and neglect, had 
 soon after taken her, with her grandfa- 
 ther's permission, to her own home. Miss 
 Gathorne believed she had rescued Lucy 
 from an idle, vagrant life ; but it was not 
 so, for Anne Campbell would have trained 
 her into a hard-working, industrious girl, if 
 Lucy's health, which was always delicate, 
 would have permitted it. It was said 
 that Anne Campbell would go through 
 fire and water for any one, if she thought 
 it her duty so to do ; but never move 
 hand or foot to save them if she believed 
 they deserved their fate. How far this 
 might be true perhaps this tale will show. 
 Her brother, John Campbell, was a surly, 
 morose man, who never wasted more 
 words on any one or any subject than he 
 could well avoid, a monosyllable being 
 his usual reply to a question, or, if possible, 
 a silent shake or nod of the head. He 
 toiled early and late, working as hard as 
 any of his labourers ; but while he did 
 it from a miserly dislike of spending his 
 daily increasing riches, his sister spent
 
 40 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 hours gathering mignonette, or picking 
 peas and beans, simply because she consi- 
 dered it her duty to help if she could, and 
 perhaps on acount of a certain amount of 
 restlessness which possessed her if she 
 remained idle. 
 
 As Lucy passed through the gate which 
 opened from the fields, and went down one 
 of the side paths of the nursery, she saw 
 her uncle, as usual, taking advantage of the 
 sunshine to be busy at work. She turned 
 out of the path and went towards him. 
 He was smoking a short pipe, as was his 
 habit ; and although he must have seen her, 
 he never lifted his eyes as she approached, 
 nor took the slightest notice of her. 
 
 If Lucy, in her youthful grace and 
 beauty, could have looked awkward, she 
 would have looked so then ; but there 
 was no perceptible change in her face, no 
 symptom that she either saw or felt his 
 rudeness. 
 
 ** Uncle John!" she called, ** how is 
 grandfather? " 
 
 **Ah, lass!" he said, as if only just 
 aware of her presence. And then he went 
 on with his work.
 
 Lucy s Home, 41 
 
 *' How is grandfather?" asked Lucy 
 again, with a slight tremor of voice. 
 
 John Campbell took his pipe from his 
 mouth, knocked out the ashes with his 
 finger, and looked at her steadily. 
 
 "I'm here," he replied sullenly; not 
 as though stating the fact of his presence, 
 but in a tone of voice which seemed to 
 say, " If your grandfather was no better 
 / should not be here;" and so Lucy 
 understood it, for she murmured some 
 words which sounded like a thanksgiving. 
 
 Her uncle looked at her with an ex- 
 pression of surprise mixed w^th sarcasm 
 on his face, which induced Lucy to add 
 instinctively, *' I am glad, uncle." 
 
 And • for all answer John Campbell 
 laughed. 
 
 Lucy's soft eyes flashed instantane- 
 ously, and she was turning away, when 
 her uncle called her back. 
 
 ** If ever God visits me with a stroke," 
 he said wrathfully, "I'm d — d, if I'll send 
 for a fine lass as takes four mortal hours to 
 perk herself up in her finery afore she can 
 come to me ! " 
 
 This, the longest sentence Lucy had
 
 42 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 ever heard from her uncle's lips, wounded 
 her dreadfully, and for a moment or two 
 she did not answer. Then she said, 
 
 *' Aunt Anne sent word there was no 
 hurry." 
 
 But John Campbell had had his say, had 
 blurted out his rage, and now remained 
 dumb. If she had talked on for ever so 
 long-, he would simply have smoked and 
 nodded his head ; or listened, smoked 
 again, and shaken it, somewhat in the 
 fashion of the Chinese figure on her aunt's 
 mantel-piece ; so, choking down the quick 
 words of vindication which rose to her lips, 
 Lucy turned to leave him, saying as she 
 did so, 
 
 *' Good-bye, Uncle John." 
 
 And receiving another and less gracious 
 nod of the head, Lucy went on to the 
 house, feeling both mortified and vexed. 
 
 It was a small one-storied house, and 
 stood close to the large entrance, through 
 which the carts passed in and out, and had 
 been built by Lucy's grandfather with some 
 regard to taste. There were four bed- 
 rooms above the sitting-room and kitchen, 
 which two latter stood on each side the
 
 Lucy* s Home, 43 
 
 door as you entered, the staircase between 
 the two. The windows were airy and 
 somewhat of a Gothic shape, as also was 
 the house, while the walls and trellis-work 
 porch were covered with innumerable 
 sweet-scented climbing plants. 
 
 Lucy saw no one as she advanced. The 
 blind in her grandfather's room, which 
 faced the front, was only partly down, and 
 she could see the pots of early mignonette 
 the old man loved standing in the window 
 as the bright beams of the setting sun 
 slanted edgeways across them ; but other 
 sign of life there was none, although she 
 had half expected to see her Aunt's tall 
 figure bending over her work near. Lucy 
 sighed as she thought how soon her grand- 
 father might be taken from her, and she 
 left with only her stern aunt or sullen uncle 
 to care for her in all the world, for Lucy 
 did not deceive herself as regarded the 
 affection Miss Gathorne had for her. She 
 knew that lady had grown to love her ; but 
 she knew also that her love might be lost 
 for ever, and her doors shut upon her, by 
 an unruly word or action. Miss Gathorne 
 had befriended her as yet, but it would
 
 44 ^ it for Ever ? 
 
 turn to enmity if her protegee proved other 
 than yielding and passive in her hands. 
 
 The girl was not altogether right in her 
 surmises, but just now she was very sad. 
 Life seemed clouded over, even as the sky 
 had been that morning ; and though the 
 bright sun was now shining, she forgot it, 
 and only thought of the dark heavy rain that 
 had fallen so gloomily before. She did not 
 attempt to think of a bright future in store, 
 but went on painting her picture, throwing 
 in darker shades at each stroke, until large 
 .tears gathered in her eyes at the misty 
 shadowings she invoked. 
 
 She stood under the porch as she 
 entered ; and by-and-by her thoughts went 
 idly back to their starting-point — her 
 grandfather. Death had been very near, 
 and although he had passed on, it had been 
 slowly and reluctantly ; he would turn back 
 ere long, and then she would be left deso- 
 late. But would she be really desolate, 
 really alone? Had she none beside her 
 uncle and aunt in all the world? Not one 
 other who loved her ? Lucy's hand toyed 
 carelessly with the honeysuckle blossoms ; 
 her eyes lost their sad tears and mournful
 
 Lucy's Home, 45 
 
 expression, and their deep blue looked 
 deeper still, as a manly form rose to her 
 view, and her eyes drooped, even as they 
 had drooped before his not so long ago, 
 and a soft half-smile parted her lips. One 
 moment she stood thus ; the next her airy 
 vision was rudely dispelled by the sound 
 of a loud, sharp, careless whistle, ringing 
 heartily through the mild spring air, while 
 across the fields to the left strode Joe Sim- 
 monds, crushing down the daisies and but- 
 tercups with his uncouth thoughtless tread; 
 and the smile faded from Lucy's face, and 
 the light left her eyes, while her fair smooth 
 forehead gathered into something of a 
 frown, as with an impatient toss of the 
 head she turned into the house. 
 
 There was no one in the small sitting- 
 room, and Lucy was abov;t to ascend 
 the narrow stairs, when the kitchen door 
 opened, and Anne Campbell, who had been 
 watching Lucy from the window the while 
 she had stood so idly in the porch, came 
 out, her face looking harder and more set 
 than usual, and her presence striking her 
 niece with a nameless chill, as, with no 
 welcome expressed or hovering over her
 
 46 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 calm face, she asked Lucy where she was 
 going. 
 
 ** To see grandfather," was the reply. 
 
 ** You are too late. He cannot see you 
 now;" and she turned on her heel and 
 went into the kitchen again. 
 
 Lucy's very lips blanched as she caught 
 at the banisters for support. Too late ! 
 Was he dead? She tried to frame another 
 question, but could not, and tottering 
 lorward, she followed her aunt, and sank 
 on a chair just within the kitchen door, 
 while her terror-struck eyes looked beseech- 
 ingly at Anne Campbell, who did not 
 choose to look at or answer their question- 
 ing gaze ; but a servant who was busy 
 skimming some milk involuntarily seized a 
 cup, and filling it with water, held it to 
 Lucy's trembling lips. 
 
 She was a stout motherly kind of body ; 
 and as she wiped the moisture off the 
 young girl's forehead, whispered pitifully, 
 
 ** There, don't 'ee take on so, there's a 
 good girl. I know' d you'd feel it terribly; 
 but, please God, the old gentleman '11 
 weather it yet." 
 
 Lucy pushed away the cup.
 
 Lucy* s Home, 47 
 
 ** Is grandfather dead? " she asked with 
 an effort. 
 
 ** Dead ! Lord save us, no. Ain't I 
 getting of his tea ready for him as soon as 
 he wakes ? Lord ha' mercy ! only to hear 
 her, Miss Campbell, and the old gentleman 
 in a nice quiet sleep like a hinfant's." 
 
 Lucy turned and faced her aunt bravely. 
 She was very pale still, but she no longer 
 trembled ; her eyes looked steadily and 
 unshrinkingly into Anne Campbell's as 
 she said, '' You have been very cruel, 
 aunt. Why did you try to frighten 
 me?" 
 
 " I did not try to frighten you. Your 
 own conscience has done so. That makes 
 cowards of us all. Surely in vain the net 
 is spread in the sight of any bird." 
 
 ** But you as much as said grandfather 
 was — was dead." 
 
 *^ I said it was late, and that you could 
 not see him. I know my duty to God 
 better than to tell a story about it." 
 
 The reply was steady and determined, 
 and Lucy held her tongue, for she knew 
 how useless it was to argue any point with 
 her aunt ; and besides, she was too gentle
 
 48 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 and meek-minded to attempt to enter into 
 a war of words with one so much stronger 
 than herself. 
 
 *' I have no wish to quarrel with you, 
 Lucy," said her aunt more mildly; *' but 
 why did you delay so in coming ? Father 
 has been asking for you all the afternoon." 
 
 " Joe Simmonds told me that you had 
 said there was no hurry." 
 
 '' No hurry to fash yourself about 
 certainly. But why could you not have 
 come along with him ? He was away an 
 hour or more. I should have thought 
 you'd. lots of time to dress." 
 
 " It wasn't dress that kept me. I would 
 have come without any bonnet or cloak, 
 if I'd only known grandfather wanted 
 
 me. 
 
 " What kept you, then ? " 
 
 Ah, indeed ; what had kept her ? Only 
 the dislike and fear of walking with Joe 
 Simmonds. Her eyes fell before her aunt's 
 gaze, and she coloured painfully. 
 
 Anne Campbell took the tray from the 
 servant's hands and went away upstairs, 
 muttering as she went, 
 
 ** It's the folly of taking her out of her
 
 Lucy' s Hoine, 49 
 
 own proper station that's done it. It will 
 ruin her body and soul in the end ; as I 
 always said it would, only nobody would 
 listen to me." 
 
 Lucy cried bitterly when her aunt was 
 gone, refusing" all comfort at the hands of 
 Janet, the servant, who offered first a 
 cup of tea, and when that was declined, a 
 lot of motherly talk and pity, which only 
 made Lucy cry the more, and her tears 
 were scarcely done when her aunt came 
 downstairs with the empty cup and saucer. 
 She looked at Lucy's swollen eyes, with the 
 tears but half dried on their long lashes, 
 but took no heed. 
 
 " How did you find Mr. Campbell, 
 ma'am? nicely, I hope," asked Janet. 
 
 " Yes, he'll do now ; that is, if the Lord 
 pleases. He's taken his tea and dozed off 
 again." 
 
 ** Did he ask for me ? " Lucy ventured 
 to say. 
 
 "Father asked for you as soon as speech 
 returned this afternoon, and if you'd have 
 come in reasonable time instead of stop- 
 ping to talk to great folks, you'd have had 
 his blessing; now you'll have to go to 
 
 VOL. I. 4
 
 50 Is it for Ever? 
 
 sleep without it, and come for it the first 
 thing in the morning." 
 
 ** Cannot I see him now, aunt ? Oh, 
 do let me ! I will tread so softly, I will 
 indeed." 
 
 *' No ; he's not to be disturbed for any 
 lady in the land," said Anne Campbell, 
 with a meaning stress on the word lady, 
 which struck home to her niece's heart, as 
 she meant it should. . 
 
 Taking the tea-tray which Janet had 
 made ready, she desired Lucy to open the 
 door of the sitting-room, and was soon 
 busily engaged in setting the things ready 
 for tea. 
 
 *' We're late to-day," she said; *' every- 
 thing's been put wrong owing to your 
 grandfather. It's close upon half-past six, 
 quite company hours, so I suppose you'll 
 stop ; and as there's nobody here to wait 
 upon you, you'd best fetch another plate 
 and cup and saucer, and set them over 
 against that side by the fire-place ! " 
 
 Lucy hesitated. She dreaded sitting 
 down to tea with her uncle and aunt in 
 their present frame of mind. 
 
 "Well, we've no dainties such as you're
 
 Lucy' s Home, 5 1 
 
 accustomed to," said Anne Campbell, 
 seeing her hesitation, and mistaking — 
 perhaps wilfully — the cause, " only bread 
 and butter and a lettuce or so; but it's as 
 sweet and clean, and may be cleaner, than 
 any you get up at " The House." 
 
 ** I will stay, aunt," said Lucy, as she 
 went to fetch the cup and saucer. 
 
 **Here! give them to me," said her 
 aunt as she returned; **it's not likely 
 you'll know how to set them. So you're 
 going to stay to tea. Well ! there's no 
 thanks required, of course." 
 
 Lucy felt the rebuff, and wished the tea 
 well over and she on her road home again. 
 She had not been actually scolded, but she 
 had been made to feel thoroughly guilty 
 and ashamed ; and when by-and-by her 
 uncle came in with Joe Simmonds, Lucy, 
 although she hailed the latter' s presence 
 in the existing state of things as a relief, 
 yet felt so much a culprit that for the first 
 time in her life she dared not look in his 
 face ; while he, seeing something was 
 wrong, tried in his awkward way to set it 
 right, and of course failed. 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 B3:IN0IS LIBRARr
 
 52 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A WALK HOME. . 
 
 His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles ; 
 His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate, 
 His tears pure messengers sent from his heart, 
 His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth. 
 
 Two Ge7itlemen of Verona. 
 
 TOE SIMMONDS' presence put a 
 J comparative restraint on both uncle 
 and aunt, so that Lucy was left in peace as 
 regarded sharp words or cutting speeches ; 
 and she took care not to meet the cross 
 cold looks levelled at her, forcing herself 
 to eat as best she could, lest she should be 
 thought guilty of ladylike fastidiousness 
 on account of the plain fare set before 
 her; while, although she was angry and 
 indignant with Joe for bringing her a 
 wrongly-worded message, yet, in the pre- 
 sent state of affairs, she was glad to talk 
 to him ; and he was already in the seventh 
 heaven of blissful hopes, when Anne Camp-
 
 A Walk.Ho7ne, 53 
 
 bell rose, and folding her hands before her, 
 said in a cold measured voice, '* For these 
 and all His mercies, the Lord be praised." 
 Immediately all rose from the table. 
 John Campbell took his hat and went for 
 a last walk round his grounds, while Lucy 
 helped her aunt to clear the table, and Joe 
 Simmon.ds went over and seated himself 
 comfortably in an easy chair by the window, 
 evidently bent upon remaining any length 
 of time. Lucy viewed his proceedings 
 with irritation ; for she felt perfectly certain, 
 as each minute went on and he showed no 
 sign of departing, that he had made 
 up his mind to accompany her home ; and 
 her irritation increased to fever heat, so 
 much so, that when her aunt's absence in 
 the kitchen left her alone with Joe, she grew 
 all at once silent and absent, giving him, 
 as she thought, plainly to understand that 
 his presence was unwelcome, and more 
 than that, irksome to her. But Joe was 
 not one to take a hint, or be frightened 
 away by a woman's angry looks, so he sat 
 on determinedly, if not contentedly, until 
 Lucy, seeing cold looks and words were of 
 no avail, said somewhat rudely,
 
 54 Is it for Ever '^ 
 
 ** It is time you were making a move 
 home, Mr. Simmonds." 
 
 *' Are you going to stay the night, Miss 
 Lucy ? '' he made answer. 
 
 *' It is getting late to walk home," 
 answered she evasively. 
 
 ** I know that. That's why I'm waiting." 
 
 ** I don't understand you," said Lucy. 
 
 *'Well, it just means this. If you walk 
 home, I'll walk with you." 
 
 ** But it does not mean any such thing," 
 said Lucy; **for I'm not accustomed to 
 walk with anybody, and especially without 
 being asked." 
 
 ** You wouldn't say yes if I asked," 
 returned Joe, looking at her half inqui- 
 ringly. 
 
 ** Of course I should not," said she in 
 an angry tone. 
 
 ** So I ain't going to ask. I mean to 
 come without." 
 
 Lucy's eyes flashed. But anger was 
 useless, so she tried persuasion. 
 
 *' No, Joe, you will not, if I ask you not." 
 
 **But I will, though. Why shouldn't 
 I walk along with you ? Where's the 
 harm of it? "
 
 A Walk Home, 55 
 
 " There is no harm certainly. Only I 
 don't wish it." 
 
 **And why not? I'm as good a man, 
 and better too, than a certain sneak as 
 crosses my path at every turn. But let 
 him look to himself! Let him look to him- 
 self, I say!" 
 
 *' I don't know what you mean," said 
 Lucy, while her heart beat fast ; " and you 
 ought to be ashamed of yourself for being 
 so violent." 
 
 ''Well, perhaps I ought," said Joe, 
 recovering himself ; "but somehow I get 
 egged on to lose my temper, and no man 
 can't stand that." 
 
 For a moment or so Lucy did not 
 answer ; then she said, " I do not wish to 
 walk with you, Mr. Simmonds, and surely 
 you will not force your company on a girl." 
 
 *' Yes, I must, when a girl doesn't know 
 what's good for her. You can't stay here 
 the night. You're not wanted. Any one 
 can see that with half an eye ; leastways 
 I can ; and 'tain't proper for you to ramble 
 along home by yourself." 
 
 *' How do you know," said Lucy, *' that 
 I am going home alone ? " and then the
 
 56 Is it for Ever '^ 
 
 next instant she was trembling at her 
 words, as she saw their sudden effect upon 
 Joe. His whole face blazed as he sprang 
 to his feet; and clenching his fist, he wrung 
 it violently in the air, while with an oath 
 he exclaimed, 
 
 ** If it's the man I think, I'll cleave his 
 skull for him!'' 
 
 Terrified and overcome, Lucy wrung her 
 hands, while at the same moment Anne 
 Campbell appeared at the door from the 
 kitchen. She looked from one to the 
 other inquiringly, and then her gaze 
 rested on Joe. 
 
 *'What is the meaning of all this 
 violence?" she asked in a passive, but 
 severe tone; ^' there are none of your 
 swineherds here, only a shrinking, trem- 
 bling girl. What do you mean by such 
 conduct in this house, where there is ill- 
 ness, may be death, hovering over the 
 old and infirm ? " 
 
 Joe answered never a word, only hung 
 his head in a sheepish ashamed way, twirl- 
 ing his cap about in his hands. 
 
 *' Answer ! " continued Anne Camp- 
 bell ; '' what is the reason of this violence ? ' '
 
 A Walk Home, 57 
 
 ** She wouldn't let me walk home with 
 her, and I got riled," said Joe. 
 
 Anne turned to her niece, and, in a voice 
 not to be gainsaid, said, " Tie on your hat, 
 and Joe will see you safe up to ' The 
 House ; ' it is neither meet nor right you 
 should go this hour of the evening by 
 yourself." 
 
 As Lucy's soft lips met hers in a fare- 
 well kiss, Anne Campbell said more 
 gently, "Do as you would be done by, 
 Lucy, and don't set your heart against Joe 
 Simmonds, or listen to soft words and 
 whispers, which may lead you to destruc- 
 tion. Joe is hasty, but he's the proper lad 
 for you, and you'll do well to listen to 
 what he says." 
 
 Lucy went away determined not to 
 give Joe an opportunity of compelling 
 her to listen to what he said ; but Joe, 
 although not a talkative man, or one to 
 lead a conversation, was in this instance 
 on his mettle, and forced her to listen, 
 whether she would or not, by finding so 
 much to say that for the first twenty 
 minutes she could not manage to put in 
 a word edgeways. He talked of the
 
 58 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 weather, the crops, his cows and oxen, 
 his sheep, and of how prolific the lamb- 
 ing season had been ; and by-and-by, when 
 he ceased, and Lucy might have had her 
 say, she found it quite impossible in his 
 present genial mood to snub him. 
 
 Joe felt that he had somehow gained 
 an advantage over Lucy. Never had 
 she been so gentle, or her words so mild. 
 Surely now was his time to speak, to tell 
 her of the wild love in his heart, and, 
 more than that, ask her to be his wife ; 
 and as the thought rushed through him 
 he grew silent and at fault what to say, 
 although his determination of saying it 
 was not shaken. Unconsciously Lucy 
 gave him the clue. 
 
 *' Mr. Simmonds must be one of the 
 richest farmers about here," she said. 
 
 "Aye, is he,'' returned Joe readily; 
 **but Leeside is lonesome for all that, and 
 wants a missus." 
 
 ** Is your father thinking of marrying 
 again ? " inquired Lucy in surprise. 
 
 '* Good Lord ! no. The governor is 
 too old for that, and too fond of having 
 his own way. No, Miss Lucy, it's his son
 
 A Walk Home, 59 
 
 ought to make the old home winsome by 
 bringing a wife home to it." 
 
 *' There are lots of girls down in the 
 village will be glad to share it," said 
 Lucy in a constrained manner ; ** Eliza- 
 beth Harold, for one." 
 
 ** Yes, but lots of girls ain't going to be 
 asked ; I've set my mind on one that don't 
 live in the village, nor consort with Betsy 
 Harold, nor any such bold sluts." 
 
 ** You ought to be ashamed of yourself 
 for speaking of any girl in such disparaging 
 terms," said Lucy, divining, as a woman 
 would, his drift, and anxious to set it aside 
 by provoking a fresh quarrel. 
 
 But Joe would neither be led on to 
 quarrel nor be set aside. 
 
 *' I ain't ashamed of what I've said. 
 Miss Lucy. 'Tis them girls ought to be 
 ashamed as spends every ha'penny on 
 finery. Betsy Harold went fairing in a hat 
 with a streaming feather and a crinoline 
 that beat cock-fighting ; and when the rain 
 came down, if it hadn't been for her wires 
 she'd have showed as limp as any old rag." 
 
 **Let us talk of something else," said 
 Lucy, quite at fault for a reply.
 
 6o Is it for Ever ? 
 
 ** Yes," continued Joe earnestly; *' let's 
 talk of something else. What's the use of 
 wasting words upon Betsy Harold ? If 
 there was fifty Betsy Harolds in the world, 
 I wouldn't look at one of 'em when you 
 was to the fore." 
 
 *^ But why should you speak about me ? 
 Please don't. Let us talk of other things, 
 and of no one in particular. Please don't 
 talk about me." 
 
 " And why for not ? It's you I've been 
 driving at all this time," answered Joe in 
 his bluntest manner. " I've set my heart 
 on you, Miss Lucy; and though I'm rough 
 and want a bit of polish rubbed into me, 
 who's so well able to rub it in as yourself, 
 I should like to know; and though I 
 haven't had the learning nor the edication 
 of some, still I've got my senses about me 
 better than most, and would be willing to 
 shed every drop of blood that's in me to 
 protect you from harm. I mayn't have 
 had schooling nor colleging to stuff up 
 my brains, nor soldiering to make me 
 walk straight," and, as if in defiance, Joe 
 slouched along more awkwardly than 
 ever; *'but I'm as honest a man as any
 
 A Walk Home. 6i 
 
 in the kingdom, and I wouldn't like to be 
 in that man's shoes as would dare gain- 
 say it ! " 
 
 *' You have been cross all the evening, 
 Mr. Simmonds. Let us part friends while 
 we may. Good-bye;" and she held out 
 her hand. 
 
 Joe took it and held it with a grasp like 
 a vice, the while he said, 
 
 " I've no crossness in my heart, Lucy; 
 there's no room for it, for it's filled with 
 strong honest love, love that'll never 
 leave my heart till it ceases to beat. 
 Can't you love me, if it's ever so little? 
 I'll wait for more as patient as may be. 
 God knows I can never expect you to love 
 me as I love you ; it wouldn't be natural ; 
 but I do crave for a little, only just a little," 
 said Joe beseechingly. 
 
 " I shall always like you, Joe ; but I can 
 never love you as you wish," said Lucy, 
 releasing her hand. 
 
 ** No, I don't expect you ever will," re- 
 plied Joe with a sigh ; " for I'm blunt and 
 rough, that there's no denying; and I can't 
 smooth over my words with oil or butter to 
 make 'em go down, or belie the feelings of
 
 62 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 my heart ; and yet there's many a girl in 
 the parish as lowers her eyes when I talk 
 to her ; and that, any one knows, means a 
 tenderish feeling bestirring them, if it's 
 ever so little. Oh ! Miss Lucy, if you'd 
 feel a little shamefaced when I hold your 
 hand, I'd keep a brave heart, and look for- 
 ward patiently to the time when you might 
 come to love me. But there, I'm 'most 
 afraid there's no hope." 
 
 Lucy did not reply. She perfectly 
 agreed with this last assertion, and yet 
 Joe's tone was so sad that she could not 
 rebuke him as she wished. He looked at 
 her wistfully, as though anxious for her 
 answer ; but as none came, he added, 
 
 *' You can't give me ever so little of a 
 hope to catch at ? " 
 
 *' I'm sorry — but no, Joe, I cannot. It 
 is no use to deceive you. I feel that I 
 never can love you ; and it is best that you 
 should cease hoping or expecting what 
 never will be." 
 
 The words were spoken decidedly, more 
 decidedly than Lucy had ever spoken to 
 him, more decidedly than he thought she 
 could speak, and Joe's heart sank within
 
 A Walk Home. 63 
 
 him as the force of their truth seemed 
 to chill his very soul ; while surging- up 
 with his keen sense of disappointment and 
 anguish came his violent temper, like the 
 grasp of an evil genius, prompting and 
 lashing him to fury. The manly, almost 
 noble, look that had lit up his features 
 as he pleaded his love, died away, and 
 although his tall form still reared itself up 
 proudly, his face paled to a deadly white- 
 ness, and his eyes flamed with rage and 
 passion, as, clutching hold of the gate near 
 where they stood, he said fiercely, " If I 
 thought that your heart was bespoke ! " 
 
 ''And what then?" asked Lucy in- 
 voluntarily. 
 
 ''I'd murder him ! " retorted Joe 
 savagely. 
 
 Lucy showed neither fear nor timidity. 
 She drew up her slight graceful figure 
 indignantly, while her eyes shone brightly 
 and steadily. 
 
 *' You forget yourself strangely, Mr. 
 Simmonds," she said ; " such language as 
 this I am totally unaccustomed to ; and 
 moreover, whatever pity, w^hatever kindly 
 feeling your avowal of love for me may
 
 64 J^s it for Ever ? 
 
 have called forth you have now swept away 
 with your last unmanly threat. I consider 
 you a coward, and look upon you with 
 aversion and dread ; while, as for your 
 love, it is an insult for any honest girl to 
 listen to. Take your hand off the gate and 
 allow me to pass ; " and grandly and with 
 dignity Lucy passed him by, and was lost 
 in the dusky shadow of the trees faintly 
 seen in the glimmering twilight. 
 
 Joe gazed after her, seemingly stunned 
 at her words, and then with a deep oath, 
 levelled at some enemy whom he apostro- 
 phised as kirn, he turned on his heel and 
 left the gate.
 
 65 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 UNDER THE TREES. 
 
 Of all the torments, all the cares, 
 With which our lives are curst ; 
 
 Of all the plagues a lover bears. 
 Sure rivals are the worst ! 
 
 William Walsh. 
 
 OC ARCELY had Joe's tall form ceased 
 ^ to darken the gate ere a hushed 
 voice smote Lucy's ear. 
 
 '* Hist ! Lucy ! Hist ! " it said. 
 
 Almost mechanically Lucy stayed her 
 footsteps. 
 
 ** Oh, Mr. Richard," she said in a low 
 voice, and with beseeching earnestness, 
 ** don't talk to me ; please don't ; " and at 
 the same time she glanced round furtively 
 at the gate, only a faint indistinct outline 
 of which could she distinguish ; but she 
 fancied a shadow darkened it. 
 
 '* Why not? " asked Richard Leslie, as 
 he drew near to where she stood. 
 
 VOL. I. 5
 
 66 Is it for Ever? 
 
 **Joe SImmonds Is there," returned 
 Lucy, as though the sound of his name 
 would serve to frighten Richard. But 
 only a short laugh smote her ear. 
 
 ** What do I care for Joe Simmonds, or 
 a hundred thousand Joe Simmonds ! Is 
 he to prevent my speaking to you when 
 and where I like? " returned Mr. Richard 
 a little testily. 
 
 *' Oh ! Mr. Richard, he will hear you." 
 
 '' Let him ! '' 
 
 *' But he is at the gate." 
 
 ** How dare he be prowling about the 
 place ? I have half a mind to go and let 
 Teazle loose ; only I know you'd slip 
 through my fingers, and I don't mean to 
 let you do that. I've been longing to 
 speak to you, Lucy, for weeks past, and I 
 don't mean to let you escape me now;" 
 and he took her hand and drew her away 
 under the trees. 
 
 " There ! " he said, as he drew near a 
 seat running round one of the largest 
 trees ; *' there ! sit down and think no 
 more of Joe Simmonds, for if he was 
 blessed with a cat's eyes, I defy him to see 
 you now."
 
 Under the Trees. 67 
 
 ''But he might hear," returned Lucy; 
 ** for we .are close to the paHngs that skirt 
 the road." 
 
 *' He must be a confounded sneak if 
 he does." 
 
 ** But you don't know him, Mr. Richard ; 
 he is such a passionate, revengeful man ; 
 and if he only guessed that I was here 
 with you " 
 
 "He'd guess I love you, that's all. 
 Lucy, sit still ; what are you trembling 
 for ? " said Richard, as he passed his arm 
 round her small w^aist. 
 
 "I'm — I'm afraid of Joe." 
 
 " Lucy ! answer me one question. Are 
 you so afraid of Joe that you cannot stay 
 to let me tell you that I love you ? " 
 
 "No," replied Lucy softly; and had 
 there been light enough, Richard Leslie 
 would have seen the crimson colour that 
 suftused her face. 
 
 " You don't care — love this savage 
 boor?" 
 
 " But you promised to only ask me 
 one question," returned Lucy, evading an 
 answer that might imply much of what 
 had been long buried in her secret heart.
 
 68 Is it for Ever? 
 
 ** Only this one other, Lucy. You won't 
 refuse ; why should you ? ' ' 
 
 *^But why should you ask it? I don't 
 see that you have the right." 
 
 ** I ask because I love you, Lucy ; " and 
 Richard Leslie drew her so close to him 
 that her soft hair touched his face; '* love 
 you more than my life. Now will you 
 answer me, Lucy ? " 
 
 ** Yes ; I do not care for Joe," whispered 
 she. 
 
 In another moment she was clasped 
 in Richard Leslie's arms, and kissed 
 passionately. 
 
 ** Don't, Mr. Richard; please don't." 
 
 ** But I will over and over again," 
 replied Richard. ** Why, what's this?" 
 added he, as Lucy's tears wetted his cheek. 
 
 **I — I'm so happy," replied she, and 
 then fairly sobbed outright. 
 
 ** My darling, you cry because you are 
 happy." 
 
 ''Yes; and because I ought not to let 
 you love me. I know it is wrong, very 
 wrong." 
 
 ''Why, Lucy?" 
 
 " Because," said she, disengaging her-
 
 Under the Trees, 69 
 
 self from his encircling arm, ** I expect 
 it will bring you unhappiness. Miss 
 Gathorne will never sanction it." 
 
 '* Miss Gathorne shan't know anything 
 at all about it just at present, and when 
 she does I'll take care it's too late for her 
 to interfere." 
 
 *'But she has taken care of me ever 
 since I was a child, and has been very 
 good to me, and spent a deal of time and 
 trouble on my learning." 
 
 *' Good to you, Lucy! Now this beats 
 my comprehension, when she snubs you 
 all day long. I am sure she makes my 
 blood boil at times; and if she'd been a 
 man, I should have knocked her down long 
 ago. Don't talk of her being good to you, 
 unless you wish me to think you a little 
 humbug." 
 
 ** But indeed, Mr. Richard, I am no fit 
 wife for you. You know I'm only a poor 
 gardener's grandchild, and — and I think 
 Miss Gathorne wishes you to — to love 
 some one else.'* 
 
 " Let her wish. I tell you, Lucy, you are 
 good enough for me, and too good, for the 
 matter of that ; and as I sit here talking to
 
 70 Is it for Ever 1 
 
 you I feel what a worthless fellow I am ; 
 and if my aunt knew what was best for 
 me, she'd make you my wife to-morrow; it 
 would cost her some hundreds a year less, 
 and save me from no end of scrapes ; but 
 as it is, Lucy, we must wait,, and keep our 
 own counsel." 
 
 *' Then let us be the same to each other, 
 Mr. Richard, as we were before we knew 
 that — that we cared for each other." 
 
 '* And you ask me this in all faith, 
 Lucy ? " 
 
 ** Yes." 
 
 *' And you think that, knowing the 
 secret of our hearts, we can meet every 
 week, perhaps oftener, and meet as 
 strangers ? " 
 
 ** Yes," replied Lucy ; but it was a very 
 faint *'yes" this time. 
 
 ** Then I may as well tell you that it's 
 just impossible. I am not a cold man, 
 Lucy; and as to never snatching a kiss 
 from these sweet lips, no man could resist 
 it. You'd think me a fool if I did." 
 
 Lucy sighed. 
 
 ** I wish you had never told me you 
 loved me, Mr. Richard," she said pre-
 
 Under the Trees, 7 1 
 
 sently'; *' I can't but think we are acting 
 wrongly, and I am afraid I shall never be 
 able to keep it secret. I shall feel guilty 
 whenever Miss Gathorne speaks to me, 
 and I am sure I shall flush dreadfully if 
 she mentions your name." 
 
 *' You'll become used to it after a bit, 
 Lucy, and must strive to keep our love 
 secret just now for my sake. It would 
 never do for my aunt to disinherit me. I 
 should be a beggar, Lucy." 
 
 " Have you no money at all, Mr. 
 Richard? " asked Lucy simply. 
 
 " Only three hundred a year, and that's 
 going as fast as it can. I was not born to 
 be a poor man, Lucy." 
 
 *' I don't think grandfather has so much 
 money." 
 
 ** But he works, or rather has worked 
 and slaved for it. I am not fit for that 
 sort of thing, Lucy ; and don't you see, 
 little one, that if we only keep quiet, I shall 
 be a rich man some day, when my aunt 
 dies." 
 
 *' But — oh ! Mr. Richard, I hope she 
 won't die." 
 
 '* But she must die some time or other.
 
 72 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 She Is not a young woman, Lucy; and all 
 those passions of rage she works herself 
 into sometimes, must tell upon her." 
 
 *' Only think if she thought I was 
 deceiving her, and — and daring to love 
 you, Mr. Richard!" 
 
 ** It might kill her; and so you see, 
 Lucy, I am right in urging you to keep the 
 knowledge to yourself. Come, promise me 
 you will for the sake of my love." 
 
 '' I will try, Mr. Richard." 
 
 ** You are such a child, Lucy. You 
 must trv and be a woman now, and think 
 and act for yourself." 
 
 ** I am afraid I shall never do that. I 
 don't dare to have a will of my own. 
 Miss Gathorne would say I was ungrate- 
 ful, and Aunt Campbell that I was aping 
 to be a lady.*' 
 
 ** Thank God there is no need for you 
 to do that. You are every inch a lady, 
 Lucy, and will never be anything else." 
 
 *' I will try to be a lady for your sake, 
 Mr. Richard, so that you need never be 
 ashamed of me." 
 
 Richard winced. Lucy's speech grated 
 on his ears and made him feel uncomfort-
 
 Under the Trees. 73 
 
 able. Why should she be perpetually 
 reminding him that she was not a lady? 
 It was a foolish proceeding on her part, 
 and must be nipped in the bud. 
 
 ** Lucy," he said, " now that you are 
 my promised wife, you must forget that 
 you were not born a lady." 
 
 *'But I cannot forget it, Mr. Richard. 
 It is not possible." 
 
 ■** You must cease saying things are not 
 possible. Everything is possible if you 
 only will it;" and once more Richard's 
 tone was a vexed one. 
 
 But Lucy did not seem to see the truth 
 of this sage remark. 
 
 ** Aunt Campbell," she said, '* reminds 
 me of it every time I see her ; she says that 
 if ever I forget I am other than a poor girl, 
 sorrow and trouble will be the upshot." 
 
 '' Aunt Campbell ■' but Richard left 
 
 the rest unspoken, and Lucy did not at- 
 tempt to unravel his meaning. She was 
 feeling troubled at heart when she ought to 
 have felt just the reverse, when nothing but 
 perfect happiness should have been mixed 
 with the blessed knowledge that Mr. 
 Richard loved her. She tried to shut out
 
 74 Js it for Ever ? 
 
 the foreshadowing of evil that clung about 
 her, but could not ; and if it came across 
 her when she was by Mr. Richard's side, 
 with his strong arm encircling and protect- 
 ing her, how would it be when she was 
 away from him and alone, with only her 
 own thoughts for company ? Concealment 
 seemed to her young guileless heart an enor- 
 mous crime ; and already its iron weight 
 had begun to subdue the joyous innocent 
 feeling that had hitherto pervaded her heart. 
 Miss Gathorne's teaching had been 
 severe and stern ; and Lucy had been 
 thoroughly impressed with the danger of 
 deceit and falsehood ; both sins, in all their 
 glaring hideousness, had been laid bare 
 before her from her earliest years, and no 
 loophole of escape pointed out by which 
 the fell consequences of either sin could be 
 evaded. Atonement was next to impossible. 
 If once you neared the edge of either pit 
 and fell, you went down head foremost to the 
 bottom, where, if miraculously preserved 
 from death, it was only to die a more 
 terrible one from the breaking of the rope 
 with which you were drawn up, and that, 
 too, just as you neared the surface.
 
 U7idcr the Trees. 75 
 
 All this passed through Lucy's mind as 
 she sat still and silent by Richard Leslie's 
 side ; while, mingling with the caresses he 
 lavished on her, came a sense of doubt and 
 dread impossible to shake off, while always 
 Miss Gathorne's grieved and angry face 
 seemed to reproach her, and so vividly 
 did her mind portray it, and so completely 
 was she lost to all around, that involun- 
 tarily her lips uttered her thoughts aloud. 
 
 *' Oh, ma'am," she said, " I know it is 
 very wrong and wicked ; but what can 
 I do?" 
 
 But Richard Leslie did not enter into 
 her feelings of doubt and fear, and brought 
 her out of dreamland by saying, 
 
 "■ Lucy, forget all and everything but 
 how I love you." 
 
 But this was just what Lucy could not 
 forget. She knew right well that in 
 listening to his specious reasoning she 
 was doing wrong, and doubly wrong in 
 promising concealment ; but then her love 
 was greater than the strength of mind she 
 possessed. 
 
 It might be but for a time, perhaps a 
 very short time, she would have to bear
 
 76 Is it for Ever? 
 
 the burden of concealment. Perhaps only 
 a month. Oh ! happy thought ! she would 
 ask Mr. Richard. 
 
 *' It will not be for long, will it, Mr. 
 Richard?" 
 
 But Richard was at a loss to under- 
 stand her meaning. 
 
 '' Is it a riddle, Lucy? " 
 
 *' No. It is this secret I am thinking of, 
 this terrible secret." 
 
 ** Terrible ! do you call it. I call it a 
 very loving one." 
 
 *' But shall I have to hide it long ? " 
 
 "A year or so," answered Richard 
 Leslie carelessly, quite unprepared for 
 the decided answer that met him. 
 
 ** I could 7iot, Mr. Richard," she said, 
 firmly and solemnly. *' I should die." 
 
 He pressed her closer to him, as though 
 the very name of death in connexion with 
 her made him feel how near and dear she 
 was to his heart. 
 
 *' Don't speak of death, Lucy. You 
 don't know what a sharp pain it gives me, 
 this shadow — vain shadow of losing you." 
 
 *' It may not be a vain shadow; I have 
 never been very strong, Mr. Richard, and
 
 U?ider the Trees. 77 
 
 I shall think, oh ! so much of this secret. 
 If — if only it could be but for a few 
 months ! " 
 
 '' Let us set It down at six months' 
 duration. Will that ease your mind, 
 Lucy?'* 
 
 ** It is better. I think I can keep it for 
 that time." 
 
 "Then give me a promise, Lucy, that, 
 no matter how tempted, no rhatter who 
 asks you, or even guesses at the relation 
 we stand in towards each other, you will 
 keep faith and never betray us." 
 
 And Lucy did promise, though sorely 
 against her conscience the while ; and 
 tears fell fast from her eyes ; and presently 
 sobs, not to be suppressed, though vainly 
 attempted, smote Richard Leslie's ears, 
 knocking loudly at his heart. 
 
 He was in the midst of hushing and 
 soothing them as best he could, when the 
 gate close by, the gate through which Lucy 
 had entered not half an hour before, 
 opened with a loud click, as though touched 
 by some don't-care determined hand, then 
 swung violently on its hinges to and fro, 
 the while a heavy, quick, resolute tread
 
 78 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 came crunching up the gravelled drive, 
 scattering the small pebbles here and 
 there, and bespattering the evergreens 
 like rain. 
 
 To Lucy's excited and now guilty 
 imagination there was but one man who 
 could walk so roughly, or swing the gate 
 so angrily, and the shadow of his presence 
 had been haunting her more or less all the 
 while she had talked with Richard Leslie. 
 At the first sound of the rough handling of 
 the gate she had sprung to her feet with a 
 frightened but hushed cry, and striven to 
 draw Richard Leslie from the spot, but he 
 had resisted. 
 
 ** Oh ! come, come away. It is he, 
 Mr. Richard." 
 
 But Richard Leslie stood firm. 
 
 ** He would never dare ! " he returned 
 fiercely. 
 
 But Lucy knew better. Flinging her- 
 self from the arm that was once more 
 thrown round her, she fled away swiftly, 
 her light steps almost noiseless on the 
 soft velvet turf of the lawn, nor stayed 
 her flight until she stood on the threshold 
 of the door, where earlier in the day she
 
 Under the Trees, yn 
 
 had spoken with Joe Simmonds. Here, 
 panting and breathless, she stopped, 
 turned, and looking back, strove, but in 
 vain, to pierce the thick gloom of the trees 
 she had left. But Richard Leslie had 
 chosen his trysting place well ; nothing but 
 a large dark shadow, stretching far over 
 towards the house, could she distinguish. 
 Her eyes could not pierce its mysterious 
 depths, but they dilated with fear as the 
 tones of men's voices in angry alter- 
 cation came rushing almost fiercely with 
 the sighing wind towards her, and were 
 carried onwards only to be succeeded by 
 tones more rageful. She clasped her 
 hands together in an agony of fear, but 
 remained outwardly calm, although her 
 heart was beating hard and fast with 
 terror. She did not dare cry for help, or 
 give utterance to the anguished words on 
 her lips, for had she not promised to keep 
 faith with Mr. Richard ? and to send any 
 one to the spot would betray her secret. 
 So she stood passive until the wind ceased 
 to torture her with any sound save that 
 of the waving of the branches of the 
 trees through which it swept, when once
 
 8o Is it for Ever ? 
 
 again she heard the echo of that fierce, 
 almost savage tread ; once again the gate 
 swang backwards and forwards, striking, as 
 it were, against her heart, now loudly, now 
 faintly, as the sound died out.
 
 8i 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 BRINGING HOME. 
 
 Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan ; 
 Sorrow calls no time that's gone : 
 Violets plucked, the sweetest rain 
 Makes not fresh nor grow again. 
 Trim thy locks, look cheerfully ; 
 Fate's hidden ends eyes cannot see : 
 Joys as winged dreams fly past. 
 Why should sadness longer last ? 
 Grief is but a wound to woe ; 
 Gentlest fair one, mourn no mo. 
 
 Samuel Fletcher. 
 
 Ayf ISS GATHORNE read prayers to 
 ^^ her household night and morning-. 
 A large bell, that had been used so long 
 in her service that its bright yellow tint 
 had departed and been succeeded by a 
 dull bronze, rang out in loud resonant 
 tones — so loud that on a clear day or 
 night they could be heard in the cottages 
 beyond the church — a quarter of an hour 
 before the actual time for assembling ; but 
 Miss Gathorne was the soul of punctuality, 
 
 VOL. I. 6
 
 82 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 and with a quarter of an hour to spare no 
 one need be, or indeed dare be, late. This 
 bell had rung out as Lucy had stood with- 
 out but now in the doorway ; yet she had 
 paid no heed to its summons, and now, in her 
 own little room — although from the force 
 of habit she knew that the time had arrived 
 when she should be at her post below — 
 made no attempt at going, but sat still 
 and silent, just as she had seated herself on 
 first entering the room, hef eyes fixed and 
 tearless, and her hands falling listlessly by 
 her side. She heard the opening and 
 shutting of doors and the steps of those 
 below, and then the still silence that 
 reigned throughout the house ; but all 
 power of movement seemed gone, and her 
 limbs powerless. A great weakness and 
 death-like faintness had come upon her, 
 the like of which she had never felt before. 
 
 Miss Gathorne's arm-chair stood de- 
 serted. She sat at the table with spec- 
 tacles on her nose and the large Bible 
 open before her. 
 
 One by one the servants filed in, 
 taking his or her seat in one of the chairs 
 placed side by side in a row before Miss
 
 Bringing Home. 83 
 
 Gathorne, who looked at each comer 
 searchingly and severely, not to say sus- 
 piciously, through her spectacles, as was 
 her wont. 
 
 First came the three •w^omen-servants, 
 according to the respective places they 
 held in the household, and according to 
 age ; namely, the cook and housekeeper, 
 who was almost elderly ; the housemaid, 
 who was middle-aged ; and then a girl, 
 whose work it was difficult to define, but 
 who might be written down as "the 
 help," came last; these were followed by 
 the butler, coachman, and boy. 
 
 All were seated ; but Miss Gathorne 
 did not lower her eyes on the book ; and 
 then all became aware that Lucy was 
 absent — the poor dependant, who was too 
 well drilled to be unpunctual. 
 
 There was a dead silence ; had a pin 
 dropped to the ground it must have been 
 heard, although no one would have dared 
 pick it up, and yet there was no sound of 
 coming footsteps moving ever so gently 
 through the house. 
 
 Miss Gathorne coughed uneasily, and 
 the page boy immediately took the hint
 
 84 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 and shuffled his feet uncomfortably, and 
 then looked terrified at his boldness ; but 
 no one rebuked him. 
 
 ** Has Lucy Campbell returned ? " asked 
 Miss Gathorne sfernly. 
 
 No one knew. 
 
 *'Joe Simmonds has brought no mes- 
 sage, no note ? '' 
 
 **No, ma'am,'' returned Bridget, the 
 housekeeper; *' but all the same Miss 
 Lucy may have come back, and no one 
 known nothing at all about it, for she 
 always steps about so soft." 
 
 ** You're very nearly as deaf as a 
 post," replied Miss Gathorne, elevating 
 her voice. ** Does no one else know any- 
 thing about Lucy Campbell? " 
 
 There being no response to this ques- 
 tion, Bridget thought she might venture 
 a second remark. 
 
 *' Perhaps old Mr. Campbell's dead," 
 said she; ** the butcher's boy told me 
 he was terrible bad. Miss Lucy may be 
 come back and crying in her room. Shall 
 I go and see, ma'am ? " 
 
 **No; " with which monosyllable Miss 
 Gathorne bent her eyes on her book, and
 
 Bringing Hojne. 85 
 
 commenced reading in a sonorous voice a 
 chapter containing certain warnings and 
 admonitions, which she delivered with 
 peculiar stress on each word, and a 
 denouncing manner, as though especially 
 adapted for those of her hearers present. 
 She had only about a dozen verses to 
 finish, when a light footstep sounded from 
 above, making the old stairs creak percep- 
 tibly; yet it seemed as though no one 
 heard it, or if they did, how should they 
 suppose Lucy would be guilty of the im- 
 prudence of entering the room during 
 prayers ? yet not only was the door gently 
 opened, but Lucy, with pale face and eyes, 
 in which a certain expression of horror 
 rested, glided in, and, going over to Alis^ 
 Gathorne's side, laid her cold hand on 
 hers, saying in a husky voice, — 
 
 *' Something has happened, ma'am." 
 Miss Gathorne hesitated — stopped — 
 and, marking the verse with her finger, 
 looked up with an angry astonished look ; 
 then rudely jerking away Lucy's hand, she 
 went on with her reading. 
 
 But again Lucy's cold hand was laid on 
 hers, and again that confused, mysterious
 
 86 Is it /or Ever ? 
 
 whisper of, *' Ma'am ! ma'am ! something 
 dreadful has happened out in the gar- 
 den." 
 
 The terrified, yet unshaken tone with 
 which these words were repeated arrested 
 Miss Gathorne's attention. Involuntarily 
 she closed the Bible, took off her spectacles 
 and laid them on the top. 
 
 ** What has happened ? " she asked. 
 
 But here Lucy was at fault. 
 
 ** I — I — go and see ; oh ! please don't 
 ask, but go and see." 
 
 ** I certainly shall not," replied Miss 
 Gathorne angrily ; *' I shall do no such 
 thing as trot about the garden this damp 
 chilly night for anybody, and most pro- 
 bably on a wild goose chase for nothing 
 at all. I wonder you are not ashamed of 
 yourself, Lucy, behaving in this scanda- 
 lous, unheard-of manner." 
 
 ** Oh ! if you only knew, if you could 
 only guess ! I — I heard some one moaning 
 out there by the gate ; " and Lucy's whole 
 frame shivered. 
 
 *' And suppose you did, what then ? I 
 see nothing to warrant all this fuss and 
 unseemly conduct."
 
 Bringing Home, 87 
 
 ** Won't you go and see who it is?" 
 pleaded Lucy. 
 
 ** No, I won't budge an inch. Fll finish 
 my reading, and then let Teazle loose; 
 he'll soon settle the matter. As for you — 
 go to bed." 
 
 *' But — but I thought it sounded like 
 Mr. Richard's voice, ma'am." 
 
 Miss Gathorne's face grew pale. 
 
 **Are you sure ? Why could you not 
 say so at first ? " It was Miss Gathorne's 
 nature to be suspicious. 
 
 *' I am sure, ma'am," answered Lucy, in 
 a low hesitating voice. 
 
 *' I do not believe you are; but we'll 
 soon convince ourselves. Jane, fetch me 
 my bonnet and a wrap of some kind ; make 
 haste ! what are you dawdling for ? Why, 
 the girl looks fit to faint.. Carter, fetch 
 your gun, and you. Mills, go and let Teazle 
 loose ; come, bestir yourselves, and don't 
 let me think I've a set of idiots about 
 me. 
 
 And Miss Gathorne began pinning up 
 her skirts about her as though she were a 
 red Indian about to find and follow a trail 
 requiring all her swiftness of foot.
 
 88 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 Jane returned with Miss Gathorne's 
 bonnet and shawl, and, with unsteady 
 fingers, was about to help her on with 
 them, but was repulsed angrily. 
 
 ** What are you fitted for, I should like 
 to know? '' said Miss Gathorne sarcas- 
 tically ; '' why, you have no more confi- 
 dence in you than a poor terrified sheep. 
 Out of the way, all of you ! I wonder 
 whether Carter or Mills have either of 
 them had the sense to bring a lantern." 
 
 '' Ma'am," said Bridget, stepping for- 
 ward, ** you're never going out this damp 
 night, and you so bad with the rheumatis 
 last week." 
 
 " It wasn't rheumatism ; and if it was, I 
 am determined to go. I've worked myself 
 up to it, and am the best judge of what's 
 good for me." And she stept forth, pre- 
 ceded by Mills with a lantern, and Carter 
 with a large old-fashioned gun, which he 
 carried aimed in a dangerous way at 
 Miss Gathorne, who, in her zeal and 
 eagerness, walked slightly in advance of 
 him. 
 
 ** For God's sake, take care of the gun, 
 ma'am ! " cried Bridget. 
 
 i
 
 Brmging Home. 89 
 
 Thus admonished, Miss Gathorne 
 looked behind her. 
 
 *' You fool ! " cried she ; " don't point 
 the muzzle like that at my legs." 
 
 In another minute the party were out of 
 sight of those left behind, and only the 
 flash of the lantern now and then showed 
 that they were moving slowly and cau- 
 tiously. 
 
 Bridget shut the front door. " There's 
 no use catching our death of cold," said 
 she to Jane ; " let's go in and look out of 
 the window." 
 
 "Lord save us! look at ]\Iiss Lucy," 
 said Jane, as they entered the room they 
 had so recently quitted. 
 
 Lucy lay on the floor under one of the 
 w^indows. She had been trying to pierce 
 the gloom without, and had partly raised 
 the sash, when a deadly faintness had 
 overpowered her, and she had fallen to the 
 ground. 
 
 The two servants helped to raise her as 
 best they could, and very soon she showed 
 signs of returning life. 
 
 *' Isn't that the mistress returning? 
 Best go and look to the door, Jane," said
 
 QO Is it for Ever ? 
 
 Bridget authoritatively, as Lucy softly 
 murmured to herself in a half unconscious 
 way. 
 
 As Jane went out, Bridget swept the 
 girFs hair off her face, — it had loosened 
 itself as she fell, — and supported the slight 
 form as well as she was able close against 
 the open window. Bridget had caught 
 Lucy's half-murmured words, and guessed, 
 in her shrewd way, at once half, if not the 
 whole, of the secret that agitated her ; only 
 she reversed the circumstances by suppos- 
 ing that it v/as Joe Simmonds who had been 
 courting Lucy, and had been insulted by 
 Mr. Richard, who in turn had been knocked 
 down by the former. *' I warned Miss 
 Gathorne," thought she, ^Mong ago that 
 this would be the upshot of it ; but 
 she would not be warned, and now 
 my words have come true. Let her take 
 the consequences of her folly. I shan't 
 open my mouth against the girl now." 
 As Lucy grew better, Bridget suggested 
 the propriety of her going away to her 
 room ; but Lucy resisted the advice. 
 
 *' I could not rest there," she said 
 simply. "If Mr. — if any one is hurt, I
 
 Bringing Home, 91 
 
 must wait and see who it is ; besides, Miss 
 Gathorne will want me for a hundred 
 things, and would be angry if she heard 
 that I had gone to bed." Thus Lucy 
 thought she had thrown dust in Bridget's 
 eyes, and misled her as to the true cause 
 of her anxiety, and the housekeeper did 
 not care to undeceive her. Just now the 
 possession, — spontaneously offered, — of 
 any secret of Lucy's would have been a 
 burden to her, and one which in justice to 
 her mistress she would have felt bound to 
 disclose. No one had told her anything, 
 so she was not obliged to tell anybody 
 anything, and for Lucy's sake she should 
 keep the few murmured words she had 
 caught but now safe in her own heart. 
 But Lucy must go to her room at once. 
 To stay where she was would be worse 
 than folly, seeing that an incautious word 
 — supposing that it was Mr. Richard who 
 was hurt — would open Miss Gathorne' s 
 eyes at once. 
 
 *^ Miss Lucy, you must go to bed. 
 Leastways you must go to your room," 
 said Bridget authoritatively. 
 
 ** But I cannot. Oh ! Bridget, you do
 
 92 Is it for Ever '^ 
 
 not know what a dreadful thing I guess 
 at." 
 
 *^ May be I do'' answered Bridget 
 meaningly ; " but, there, you take my 
 advice ; for if it be Mr. Richard who has 
 come to harm, though, mind, I don't say 
 that it is, you ain't fit to face it anyhow." 
 
 ^' Oh ! but I am. I will be stronger 
 than death ; " and Lucy's frame shook 
 and shivered again as she unconsciously 
 uttered the last word. 
 
 ** A pretty strength ! Supposing, as I 
 said but now, that it be Mr. Richard, 
 why you'd faint away again, or may be 
 do something worse, and be packed off 
 home for good; and then who's to nurse 
 Mr. Richard ? — not you, of course." 
 
 *' Do you think she will let me nurse 
 him 1 " asked Lucy beseechingly. 
 
 "Why, of course she will. He ain't 
 very badly hurt, I'll be bound; though I 
 can't say but what there's them who have 
 a strong fist as may have done it. But 
 there ! hark to that ! That's them coming 
 back again. Oh, for the love of mercy, 
 Miss Lucy, go upstairs;" and she took 
 hold of the girl, and drew her out into the
 
 Bringing Hofue, 93 
 
 passage, where Jane already had the door 
 wide open to admit Miss Gathorne. 
 
 But Lucy still hesitated. 
 
 *' Will you promise to come and tell 
 me ever^^thing ? " she said. 
 
 " I will, faithfully," responded Bridget ; 
 ** now go away." 
 
 And reluctantly, and tremblingly, Lucy 
 obeyed, just as the flash of the lantern 
 flickered across the doorstep. 
 
 In another moment Miss Gathorne 
 entered, stepping sideways, so as to 
 throw the light she held behind her. She 
 was followed by Mills and Carter, carr}dng 
 the apparently lifeless body of her nephew, 
 while Teazle brought up the rear, sniffing 
 the air mournfully and whining piteously. 
 
 ** There ! " said Miss Gathorne, as 
 soon as Richard was laid on his bed ; 
 ** there! that'll do; now both of you go 
 about your business ; and. Carter, as soon 
 as Mr. Hill (the doctor) comes, bring 
 him up here." 
 
 Then, turning to the two women 
 servants, who were bemoaning each in her 
 own way the disastrous sight, she com- 
 menced abusing them.
 
 94 ^ it for Ever ? 
 
 *'What are you standing- like a pack 
 of fools for ? Did you never see a drop 
 of blood before? Why don't you bestir 
 yourselves ? Do you suppose warm water 
 will make itself legs and walk to us ? Jane, 
 g-o and fetch some directly, and don't 
 make such a fuss; he's only insensible. 
 There's lots of life in him yet. There's 
 a nasty cut on his head," continued she 
 to Bridget, as Jane vanished; *'but I 
 don't think but what it will be all right 
 by-and-by. I won't think but what it 
 will ; no one ehall persuade me to the 
 contrary. I'm as firm as a rock about it. 
 Do you hear, woman? Why don't you 
 answer? Leave his head alone; I can't 
 bear to see you touching and mauling it 
 about." 
 
 Bridget — with tears in her eyes at her 
 mistress's distress of mind, so plainly 
 shown in her angry words and excited 
 manner — turned to leave the room ; but 
 Miss Gathorne stopped her. 
 
 **0h, don't go; don't leave me alone 
 with him. I'm not afraid, but I must have 
 some one with me while I wash and strap 
 up that cut. I'm not afraid. Thank God 
 
 i
 
 Brmgi77g Home. 95 
 
 I've plenty of nerve and presence of mind, 
 but I wish Mr. Hill would make haste. 
 I suppose he thinks I'm making a moun- 
 tain out of a molehill, as he said I did 
 years ago, when Mr. Richard fell off his 
 pony. Well ! well ! this is fifty times 
 worse than that ; but nothing serious, 
 Bridget, nothing serious; I'll stake my 
 life on it, old and well nigh worn out as 
 it is. Don't look at me like that! don't 
 I know that the young are often cut off in 
 their prime and the aged left; but wait 
 until Mr. Hill comes, he'll laugh your 
 fears away. I have none, you poor mute 
 dummy, who have not a word to say, good 
 bad, or indifferent, to your mistress." 
 
 And. so Miss Gathorne rambled on, and 
 Bridget, dropping silent tears, listened in 
 silence, her heart full of commiseration for 
 her mistress, full of fear and dread for 
 Mr. Richard. In silence she helped to 
 wash the poor bruised head, and cut away 
 the thick clustering locks that grew about 
 the deep gaping gash, from which the 
 blood still oozed feebly ; but do what they 
 would, no sign of life returned to the 
 inanimate form, and as the minutes rolled
 
 96 Is it for Ever? 
 
 on, Miss Gathorne not only talked, but 
 took to walking about to and fro, from the 
 bed to the door, where she would stop and 
 listen eag-erly for the expected doctor, and 
 abuse him in no measured terms for his 
 dilatoriness. 
 
 At length he came, and Miss Gathorne 
 began talking more volubly than ever. 
 Leaving Bridget with her nephew, who had 
 just begun to show signs of returning life, 
 she went out and leant her spare body well 
 over the banisters. *' At last ! Mr. Hill," 
 she called from the top, in a shrill 
 voice; *'what in heaven's name have you 
 been about to keep us, so long ? There, 
 never mind your hair, Lucy's in bed hours 
 ago ; come away upstairs, do ! " 
 
 As Mr. Hill began ascending them, she 
 went on again. 
 
 *' It's a cut, sir, — a bad cut, — a nasty 
 cut ; but it only wants strapping to be all 
 right again. I hope you haven't forgotten 
 the plaster ; it'll want a good lot of it, and 
 when you've seen to the head and done 
 that, you can give some of your good 
 nostrums (nasty things) to my nephew, and 
 he'll soon be set up on his legs again,
 
 Bringing Home, 97 
 
 ready to walk into another scrape ; per- 
 haps cut his head open on the other side." 
 
 "He's just coming to himself," she 
 continued, as Mr. Hill reached the land- 
 ing and stood beside her. "Do you hear 
 him moaning? That's a good sign, isn't 
 it? and shows he's conscious of pain." 
 
 " We shall see, my dear lady, we shall 
 see," said the cautious doctor, stepping 
 lightly over the threshold of Richard's 
 door. 
 
 "Oh! see away," said ]\Iiss Gathorne, 
 following him in. "I'm no fool in sick- 
 ness, and should have had a mustard 
 poultice on his neck ages ago if it had 
 not been for that abominably obstinate 
 woman, Bridget." 
 
 There seemed no end to the words 
 that fell from Miss Gathorne's lips ; she 
 partly abused, ridiculed, and trusted 
 Mr. Hill's forthcoming treatment of her 
 nephew, and was presently astonished by 
 the doctor quietly taking her by the hand, 
 and, before she was aware of his intention, 
 she found herself without on the landing, 
 and the door closed and locked behind her. 
 
 Silent and amazed, she stood for a 
 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 98 Is it for Ever 1 
 
 moment or so ; then she fetched a candle 
 and bent her steps towards Lucy's room, 
 having scarcely any settled reason for doing 
 so ; perhaps she thought that prying about 
 there was better than sitting still and think- 
 ing alone. Fuming within herself at the 
 doctor's behaviour, she grumbled and 
 muttered all the way upstairs, so that poor 
 Lucy — who had not followed Bridget's in- 
 structions of going to bed — trembled, as 
 she heard the firm step coming nearer, like 
 a small frightened bird suddenly about to 
 be seized in the fierce talons of a cat. 
 
 Lucy was sitting on the top stair just 
 outside her bedroom, her hands clasping 
 her head, which was buried in her knees. 
 She was, and had been for long, alter- 
 nately sobbing and listening for sounds 
 from below, almost sick at heart that 
 Bridget was so long in coming, and least 
 of all expecting that Miss Gathorne would 
 trouble herself to do so ; but as she heard 
 the wrathful tones coming closer, and the 
 steps actually ascending the flight at the 
 top of which she sat, she rose and fled 
 hastily into her room, wishing that she 
 had but undressed, so that she might have
 
 Bringmg Home, 99 
 
 crept into bed and feigned sleep : as it 
 was, — after one hurried glance at its white 
 dimity curtains, — she resigned herself to 
 her fate, and, with beating heart, turned 
 and faced the door, tremblingly awaiting 
 her visitor. The light of the candle on the 
 dressing-table shone full upon her face, 
 which, with its swollen eyelids and stained 
 patches of red, looked pitiful indeed, 
 while her large dark blue eyes were opened 
 wide with fear and expectancy. She was 
 a touching picture standing there : her 
 slight delicate form bent like that of a fair 
 flower suddenly swept by an unlooked- 
 for storm of rain ; her hair, which she had 
 not cared since her faint to tie up, hanging 
 down her shoulders in a thick, bright, but 
 tangled mass. 
 
 Miss Gathorne's step had drawn very 
 near, and all too soon to Lucy's frightened 
 heart her form darkened the doorway, but 
 her sight being far from good, she did not 
 at first perceive Lucy, and it was not until 
 she had advanced a step or two that she 
 saw the shadowy outline in front of her. 
 When she did she raised the candlestick 
 she carried high above her head, its bright
 
 I oo Is it for Ever ? 
 
 light flashing down full on Lucy, so that, 
 with the help of the light on the dressing- 
 table, the shrinking girl's whole form and 
 face became perfectly revealed. 
 
 Lucy's eyes were too dimmed with her 
 recent tears to distinguish much, but she 
 saw the dreaded spectacles shining at her, 
 and expected the worst. She was not left 
 long in suspense, for, after a moment's 
 survey. Miss Gathorne spoke in an angry, 
 cutting way, meant to wound and intimi- 
 date, or, it might be, get rid of some of 
 the restless, nervous, and mortified feel- 
 ings within her. 
 
 " So!" she began, lowering the candle- 
 stick to a level with her waist ; *' so ! 
 This is very nice — very nice indeed — very 
 maidenly and very proper, upon my 
 word!" 
 
 Lucy's eyes lost their startled expression ; 
 gradually she lowered them, and looked on 
 the ground, but did not attempt. to answer 
 her tormentor, who, after a moment's 
 pause, lifted her head and looked in her 
 own peculiar searching way from under 
 her spectacles at Lucy, but with no result ; 
 when, seeing the latter did not raise her
 
 Brinormor Home, i o i 
 
 eyes, she went on in a tone that demanded 
 a reply. 
 
 ** What do you mean by being- out of 
 bed at this hour, and in this unseemly 
 plight, with your hair all streaming down 
 your back? Ain't you ashamed of 
 yourself? " 
 
 "No, ma'am," answered Lucy, feeling, 
 somehow that she was expected to say 
 something, and answering at random. 
 
 *'What!" exclaimed Miss Gathorne 
 wrathfully; "you are not ashamed of 
 yourself? Well! it's the most brazen 
 answer, the most barefaced assertion. 
 Well! well!" said she, shaking her head 
 and sitting down in a chair near the 
 dressing-table, "things, and girls espe- 
 cially, are altered since my day." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," said Lucy, 
 
 " 'Yes, ma'am,' indeed ! " replied Miss 
 Gathorne. " How can you stand in the 
 middle of the room at midnight, or close 
 upon it, your door wide open, with the 
 chance of Carter's passing it at any moment 
 on his way to bed, your hair dangling 
 down below your waist in a scandalous 
 way, and yet have the face to tell me you
 
 I02 Is it for Ever? 
 
 are not ashamed of yourself! and I say 
 that you ought to be thoroughly and 
 completely ashamed, as also abashed and 
 humbled that I have caught you at it. 
 Now don't say 'yes, ma'am,' again, for I 
 wont bear it ! but just tell me point blank 
 whether you know that that old bear is in 
 the house ? " 
 
 Lucy ventured to lift her eyes to the 
 angry lady, as though looking for some 
 clue wherewith to unravel the last 
 question ; but she found none. 
 
 *' There, don't stand looking in that way 
 at me ; you know very well who I mean. 
 I've suspected it a long time. They say 
 there's nothing so bad as an old fool, and 
 it's about right : a man old enough to be 
 your father, with a wife and four children 
 lying close by in the churchyard, under 
 your very nose, I wonder he has the face 
 to think of such a thing, much less act 
 upon it. Putting off his black coat and 
 trousers within the twelvemonth, and buy- 
 ing a light flimsy pair of the latter, with a 
 bright blue necktie all over yellow stars." 
 
 *^Is it Mr. Hill, ma'am?" said Lucy 
 innocently.
 
 Bringing Home, 103 
 
 *' It Is Mr. Hill, ma'am/' replied Miss 
 Gathorne sarcastically ; " and to my mind 
 you'd better marry that great elephant 
 your aunt's so fond of, Joe Samson, or 
 whatever his name is." 
 
 At the mention of Joe's name all the 
 horror of the past evening came back to 
 poor Lucy afresh, and, sitting down on the 
 bed, she covered her face with her hands, 
 and, totally overcome, wept plentifully. 
 
 Miss Gathorne watched her for a mo- 
 ment, rather surprised at the result she 
 had achieved, for Lucy was not generally 
 given to shed tears at her harsh words. 
 This was owing no doubt to the constant 
 daily recurrence of them, as naturally 
 she was a most sensitive little creature, 
 whom a sharp word from those she loved 
 wounded to the quick. In the present 
 instance Miss Gathorne felt a little guilty 
 as the thought suggested itself of old Mr. 
 Campbell's seizure, which might, for aught 
 she knew, have resulted in death ; and it 
 was with a somewhat modified voice, and 
 an attempt at gentleness, which failed 
 signally, that she renewed the conver- 
 sation.
 
 1 04 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 *' Don't be such a little goose, Lucy, as 
 to sit crying there for a thing that can't 
 be helped. Your grandfather's an old 
 man — a very old man, and God has been 
 very gracious to spare him to you so long; 
 but what is an old worn-out life of eighty 
 years and more ? It was no pleasure to 
 old Mr. Campbell to be boxed up in that 
 stuffy room of his, and never be able to 
 get a mouthful of fresh air, except in 
 summer time, and then only by fits and 
 starts. But look at Mr. Richard," and 
 Miss Gathorne's voice slightly trembled; 
 *' a boy I've nursed on my knee, and even 
 now, big as he is, he isn't much more than 
 a boy at heart. Three and twenty ! less 
 than half your grandfather's age; think of 
 that, child, and don't weep for an infirm 
 old man;" saying which. Miss Gathorne 
 rose and walked towards the door, but 
 as she was in the act of passing out she 
 stopped and said, *' Dry your eyes, Lucy, 
 and don't shed any more useless tears. 
 Good night." 
 
 Lucy sat for a moment quiet and still ; 
 then, with an uncontrollable impulse, she 
 sprang to her feet, and fled after Miss
 
 Bringing Home. 1 03 
 
 Gathorne, who was just in the act of 
 descending the stairs. 
 
 "Oh! ma'am! Mr. Richard, ma'am! 
 he is not very ill — not going to die ? " 
 
 Miss Gathorne looked in surprise. The 
 earnest tone, and beseeching face up- 
 turned to hers, struck her wdth astonish- 
 ment, not unmixed with anger. 
 
 '* Leave go my arm, girl; you nearly 
 knocked the candlestick out of my hand," 
 she said irefully. 
 
 "But Mr. Richard, ma'am — will — will 
 he die? " 
 
 "Die! Fiddlesticks! I wish you 
 wouldn't ask such terrifying questions. 
 Go back and shut your door directly, 
 and go to bed." 
 
 And not at all satisfied with her night's 
 visit, Miss Gathorne w^ent downstairs 
 to await Mr. Hill's report from the sick 
 room.
 
 io6 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A DETERMINED SUITOR. 
 
 Why, what a deal of candied courtesy 
 This fawning greyhound then did proffer me ! 
 The Devil take such cozeners ! — God forgive me ! 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 TT was market day at Northborough, 
 -■- and John Campbell's carts, filled with 
 flowers and vegetables, passed one by 
 one through the large gate of Eastham 
 Nursery. Anne Campbell stood quietly 
 awaiting the exit of the last ere she 
 closed the gate ; but when they had all 
 passed through she seemed in no hurry 
 to change her position, but stood and 
 watched them as they wound slowly up 
 the hill leading to Eastham, which they 
 must of necessity pass through before they 
 struck off for Northborough, which road 
 lay in a direct line from the nursery gar- 
 dens. Generally speaking Anne Camp- 
 bell never loitered ; hers were restless feet
 
 A Determined Suitor, 107 
 
 and busy hands, which Satan would have 
 found some difficulty in finding work 
 for. She never seemed to tire or flag, 
 and yet just now she looked very weary, 
 while an expression of sadness was over 
 her grave face, and its usual hard look 
 was swept away, and replaced by a 
 mournful, almost — if such a thing were 
 possible — soft one. Her hands hung list- 
 lessly by her side, and her eyes, though 
 fixed on the retreating carts, evidently 
 saw not them, but were inwardly looking 
 at scenes long passed away, scenes which 
 w^ere hurr}ang through her mind and 
 making her sigh deeply. There was no 
 grace in Anne Campbell's form; all was 
 sharp, angular, and stiff; every move- 
 ment was quick, though not hurried, and 
 it was a common saying throughout 
 Eastham, that " she never allowed the 
 grass to grow under her feet." Tall, 
 thin, and angular as she was, there 
 were many sturdy men who would 
 have gladly had her for a wife ; but 
 Anne Campbell would have none of 
 them, and snubbed them at the first 
 onset so waspishly and sarcastically that
 
 1 08 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 the courage necessary for carrying on 
 such a tough siege oozed quietly out of 
 their fingers' ends. But one stout red- 
 faced man, who had only recently taken 
 up his abode near Eastham, was not to 
 be so easily repulsed ; certainly he looked 
 — as he said he was — shell and shot 
 proof, when the missiles were only fired 
 from a woman's tongue; for, said he, 
 *' She's a 'ooman worth bearing a few 
 kicks from'; a 'ooman what'll never let 
 a man's stomach faint for hunger so 
 long as life's in her, and strength to 
 work ; " so he carried on the siege not- 
 withstanding Anne Campbell's cutting 
 words and chilling manner. 
 
 He was now coming leisurely along the 
 road on horseback, probably going on to 
 Northborough, where most farmers' steps 
 were bent this day ; but Anne Campbell 
 neither saw him nor heard the jog-trot of 
 his old horse, nor even turned her head, 
 until the question of, *' Why, Mistress 
 Campbell, what are yer gloaming at?" 
 had been twice repeated. 
 
 When she did hear the voice, she turned 
 in a startled way, and something of a
 
 A Determined Suitor. 
 
 109 
 
 colour flushed her cheeks, which Farmer 
 Barrett might construe as it pleased him 
 best ; certainly Anne Campbell was not 
 likely to enlighten him as to its cause. It 
 might have been occasioned by his sud- 
 den and unforeseen appearance, or by his 
 having caught her loitering, or by her 
 consciousness of the thoughts that had but 
 now been in her heart, w^hich his coming 
 had interrupted. . She stared at him for 
 a moment before she could sufficiently 
 collect her thoughts to answer him ; then 
 she said sharply, — 
 
 " Let every one attend to and mind 
 their own business." 
 
 Then she turned on her heel, for she 
 was not given to show much politeness to 
 her suitors, and made as though she would 
 close the gate ; but this was a proceeding 
 the farmer had no intention of allowino-, so 
 with a vigorous kick deftly applied to the 
 side of his old horse he brought him with 
 something like a bound right across the 
 narrow slip of earth that separated him 
 from Anne Campbell, and planted the 
 animal's nose just within the barrier, so 
 that to shut the gate was next to impos-
 
 no Is it for Ever 7 
 
 sible, and Anne quietly let it fall back into 
 its place again, but not without an in- 
 dignant look at her tormentor, who sat 
 breathing hard and coughing lustily at 
 the unwonted exertion he had been put to. 
 
 '* Hist ! " he said, as Anne was turning 
 away; '*hist! is that Muster Campbell 
 out beyond ? ' ' 
 
 **Who else should it be? Arn't the 
 men all gone to market ? " 
 
 *' Wull, I shouldn't be surprised if they 
 had. Fm a going there myself to buy 
 some beasties." 
 
 *' It'll be a poor lot you'll bring along 
 home with you if you do be standing 
 about and talking to every woman you 
 come across." 
 
 " There's few 'oomen worth a ha'porth 
 of oats. You may take your oath, Mistress 
 Campbell, that when I move off from this 
 here spot the comeliest wench this side of 
 Northborough won't get a look from me." 
 
 '•'■ We are told to swear not at all, neither 
 by things in heaven nor things under it," 
 replied Anne Campbell severely. 
 
 ** An oath 'ould sound pretty enough 
 coming from your lips, Mistress Anne."
 
 A Determined Suitor. 
 
 Ill 
 
 **You are a profane man," she 
 answered, "and I want no further words 
 from you;" and, heedless of his call, 
 she went her way into the house. 
 
 But Farmer Barrett was not to be so 
 done. He got off his horse, tied the 
 bridle to the gate, and deliberately 
 followed her. 
 
 **Yer won't be after turning me out," 
 said he, seating himself in the kitchen, 
 where she and Janet were washing 
 up ; ** for if 'tis sinful to swear an oath, 
 'tis about as bad not to take the stranger 
 in as comes to yen" 
 
 There was a merry twinkle in his eye 
 as he said this, which was not lost 
 on Anne, and she answered him almost 
 angrily. 
 
 *' I'd rather a deal have your room 
 than your company." 
 
 "Yer'll have that sooner than I wish 
 for, I can tellyer." 
 
 To this there was no reply. Anne saw 
 to the fire, put on the kettle, and wiped 
 down the dresser, having seemingly for- 
 gotten his presence. He watched h^r 
 with evident pleasure, and presently.
 
 112 Is it for Ever? 
 
 bringing his fat hand down with a loud 
 smack on his knee, exclaimed, 
 
 " By my soul, yer are a handy 'ooman, 
 and no mistake, and lucky '11 be the man 
 (and I hope it's myself) as '11 'ave yer for 
 a missus." 
 
 Anne sent Janet to call her brother, and 
 as soon as she was gone, once more turned 
 angrily and indignantly to the farmer. 
 
 ' * You make a fool of me before Janet, 
 and not only of me, but yourself too. 
 Cease such unbecoming talk. I'm get- 
 ting on in years, close upon an old 
 woman, and don't want to listen to such 
 stuff." 
 
 *' Ould 'ooman !" retorted he somewhat 
 sarcastically; *'wull, yer looks as though 
 yer had had a load of trouble, and I won't 
 be gainsaying but what yer face mayn't be 
 so comely as it once was ; it's lined and 
 perked up here and there ; but it's a face 
 as suits me, and yer the 'ooman as I want ; 
 and if yer was to take yer Bible oath on 
 it, I 'ouldn't believe yer was over forty." 
 
 A spasm of pain crossed Anne's face, 
 and a half-sigh escaped her lips, at the 
 first part of this speech ; but it had passed 

 
 A Determined Suitor, 1 13 
 
 ere he concluded, and she simply 
 answered, 
 
 ^* It is too late to speak to me of 
 marriage." 
 
 '' 'Tain't a bit too late. 'Tisn't my 
 fault if I didn't find yer afore. I'd ha' 
 come fast enough if I'd ha' known it 
 years agone." 
 
 ** Years ago ! " and once again her 
 brow contracted. "* Sufficient for the 
 day is the evil thereof.' " 
 
 *' Do yer mean yer'd ha' snubbed me 
 worse then than yer do now ? " 
 
 ** I do mean it." 
 
 *' God bless us and save us ! " he 
 answered. *' Why, I'll be the en\y of 
 the whole place if I wins yer after all ; " 
 and he laughed loudly, and with apparent 
 satisfaction, as though he were already 
 standing with her at the altar and listening 
 to her reluctant but indissoluble, *' I will." 
 
 There was a dark angry shade on 
 Anne's face ; and John Campbell, who at 
 this moment entered, seemed surprised as 
 he glanced at it ; but he simply nodded 
 his head and uttered a short grunt in 
 return for the farmer's hearty greeting. 
 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 114 ^^ it for Ever? 
 
 " Hast heard the news ? " inquired the 
 latter. 
 
 '* No," answered John Campbell. 
 
 *' Master Leslie's been 'most murdered." 
 
 '* Murdered ! " 
 
 " Aye, murdered. There's news for 
 yen" 
 
 Anne Campbell sank on a chair with 
 pale face and parted lips. 
 
 *' Is he dead?" asked her brother in 
 his short way, and apparently little con- 
 cerned about it. 
 
 "I can't say for certain about that. 
 But there ain't much chance of his getting 
 over a blow as 'ould ha' felled an ox." 
 
 "But when was it? How did it hap- 
 pen? Who did it?" asked Anne in a 
 frightened sort of way. 
 
 "Softly, softly, Mistress Anne; one 
 question at a time." 
 
 " Tell us all about it," she said. 
 
 " You must know," began the farmer, 
 edging his chair closer to her and clearing 
 his throat, " you must know " 
 
 " Is it a long story ? " 
 
 " Pretty longish ; but' 11 be longer if you 
 do be interrupting me at the first onset."
 
 A Determined Suitor, 115 
 
 " Go on," said Anne, *' and make It as 
 short as you can." 
 
 ** Then yer'll only hear the half of It, 
 and where' s the good of that to yer? 
 No, no, let me take my own time about 
 it. Yer must know I was taken terrible 
 bad last night with the colics, eating 
 them stewed mushrooms — devil take 
 them ! and you for growing of 'em. They 
 was a bad lot, they was, for I've eat 'em 
 scores of times and never felt any the 
 worse for 'em " 
 
 " I ha' n't no time to waste," inter- 
 rupted John Campbell ; '* why don't you 
 keep to your story ? " 
 
 " There yer go, interrupting me again. 
 Where was I ? Oh, the colics ; wull, they 
 were terrible bad, and I swore many a 
 oath agin them. Don't be looking that 
 way. Mistress Campbell. I'll allow it was 
 sinful ; but when a man's most doubled 
 up with pain, he loses his temper a bit, 
 and I lost mine ; but all the worstest 
 oaths in the world warn't no good, and in 
 the end I was 'bilged to send the lad off 
 to Muster Hill's, and he comes back with 
 a dose what the 'pothecary boy gived
 
 1 1 6 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 him ; I hadn't much faith in it, but I 
 swallowed it off straight, and here I 
 am." 
 
 *' But Mr. Leslie, " said Anne. 
 
 ** Ain't I coming to him? When Fd 
 swallowed the dose, the lad says, says 
 he, * They've been an' murdered Mr. 
 Leslie, smashed his 'ead in, and Muster 
 Hill's gone up to ** The House " to plas- 
 ter it up.' There, what d'yer think to 
 that ? " 
 
 *' And this is all you know?" asked 
 Anne. 
 
 ** That's all I know; and now you 
 know as much as I do." 
 
 *' But where did it happen ? Who did 
 it ? Was it one or many ? " 
 
 *' There yer come with yer questions 
 agin. I can't answer 'em all ; but Muster 
 Leslie was found in his own garden, 
 close anigh the gate. As to whether 
 'twar one or many, that's for the 'tec- 
 tives to find out, and if they don't be 
 employing a better one nor ould police- 
 man Gage, it'll be a buried secret for 
 ever and ever," said he with a loud 
 laugh.
 
 A Deterjnined Suitor, 117 
 
 "But ain't no one suspected?" asked 
 John Campbell, rousing himself. 
 
 *' I can't tell yen I suspect, and I 
 guess I'm pretty near the mark, that 'twas 
 some 'un as owed he a grudge." 
 
 Anne Campbell, who had until now 
 been eagerly questioning and gazing 
 at the speaker with her eyes, sud- 
 denly averted them, and seemed lost in 
 thought for a few moments. Then she 
 said suddenly, as though half to her- 
 self, 
 
 *' 'Tis a terrible business." 
 
 ** And a most mysterious 'un," said the 
 farmer. 
 
 *' ' Be sure your sin will find you out,' " 
 said she solemnly. 
 
 "Not if he's a 'cute 'un." 
 
 " One ! It may be many." 
 
 "We arn't got many as 'ould up and 
 do such a cowardly thing." 
 
 "Cowardly! He may have had great 
 provocation ; he may have had to defend 
 his own life." 
 
 "Who's the 'he' ? " asked the farmer 
 rather roguishly. 
 
 "Did I say he? "
 
 1 1 8 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 "■ Aye, an' yer did. And, let me tell 
 yer, it's in my thoughts too.'' 
 
 *^Your thoughts!" said she contemp- 
 tuously, *' I've nothing to do with them." 
 
 ** Yes yer 'ave, yer in 'em night and 
 day." 
 
 John Campbell rose. ** Good day," he 
 said morosely; ** all this 'ere ain't no 
 concern of mine." 
 
 Farmer Barrett rose also. 
 
 *' Wull," he said, ** I'm off too, though 
 I'd main like to be biding here all day ; 
 but there's times and seasons for all 
 things, courtship along with the rest. 
 Good day to yer. Mistress Campbell;" 
 and, said he in a whisper, '* I'm sorry for 
 you and yourn if 'tis — but there, I know 
 what I know, and least said soonest 
 mended." 
 
 He stood just without the threshold of 
 the door, and as he ended, Anne Camp- 
 bell deliberately shut it in his face. 
 
 ** She takes the law in her hands prutty 
 tight; and I like a ' ooman as '11 hold 
 her own and not be 'feard to speak her 
 mind. But, God bless us ! what a racking 
 cough yer've got," said he to John Camp-
 
 A Deterfuined Suitor, 1 19 
 
 bell, who, with his hand to his side, was 
 coughing violently; *'how long 'ave yer 
 had it?" 
 
 To this there was no reply, and in a 
 short time the spasm, or whatever it was, 
 passed off, and John Campbell walked on 
 to the gate with his friend. 
 
 "How long 'ave yer had it? The 
 cough, I mean. Don't yer take nothing 
 for it? " 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 '* Then yer ought, or yer'll 'ave to shut 
 up work, or give it over to Mistress 
 Campbell. How old is she?" asked he, 
 bestriding his horse and preparing to start. 
 
 ** Forty-one," answered John Campbell 
 gruffly, as he closed the large gate. 
 
 ** Only a year out of my reckoning. 
 Old 'ooman, indeed ! She'll do for me, 
 anyhow;" and he leisurely walked his 
 horse on to the road, then wheeled him 
 round, and took a survey, first of the house, 
 then the ground and well-stocked con- 
 servatories, and lastly of the house again. 
 Then his eyes ranged up the broad walk 
 and rested on John Campbell, who was 
 once more coughing violently.
 
 1 20 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 '' And he don't take nothing- for It," 
 muttered the farmer; *'wull, 'tain't my fault. 
 There's no mistake but what 'tis a racking 
 cough ; and she'll be a awful rich 'ooman, 
 and riches brings lots of followers ; but I 
 mean to oust 'em all, every one of 'em ! " 
 
 And with a kind of grim satisfaction he 
 jogged on his way.
 
 121 
 
 CHAPTER VITI. 
 
 THE NEWS FLIES. 
 
 Each talk'd aloud, or in some secret place, 
 And wild impatience star'd in every face. 
 The flying rumours gather'd as they roli'd, 
 Scarce any tale was sooner heard than told; 
 And all who told it added something new, 
 And all who heard it made enlargements too, 
 In every ear it spread, on every tongue it grew. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 T3 Y that evening the news of the savage 
 -"^ assault that had been made on Richard 
 Leslie had spread not only through East- 
 ham, but for miles round, and was well on 
 its road to Northborough, in a letter Miss 
 Gathorne had seen fit to write herself 
 to Richard's colonel. Such a quaint, 
 strange, production as it was, filled with 
 angry epithets, levelled at Richard's 
 assailant, w^hom she stigmatized as a 
 cowardly ruffian, who had only half 
 done his work, and that in so blundering 
 a sort of way that there was not the
 
 12 2 Is it for Ever ^ 
 
 slightest chance of promotion for any one ; 
 so nobody need be running into expenses 
 on the strength of it, which would only end 
 in debt, as her nephew had not the very 
 faintest idea of dying, but would live to be 
 a world of trouble to lots of people yet. 
 
 Lady Elton and her daughter were at 
 luncheon when Sir Crosby came in, brim- 
 full of the disastrous news, which in these 
 few hours had been so distorted and mag- 
 nified that the poor victim was reported 
 to be either dead or dying fast ; and Sir 
 Crosby, not knowing or guessing a word 
 about his daughter's state of heart, blurted 
 out the news in his careless way, as though 
 it was a matter of no moment whatever. 
 
 ** We did not wait for you. Sir Crosby," 
 said Lady Elton in her stiffest manner, as 
 he hastily seated himself at the table ; 
 **it is nearly twenty minutes past our 
 hour." 
 
 *'Yes, my dear, yes. Quite right, 
 quite. Anything will do for me ; that 
 is to say, anything that isn't lukewarm. 
 If there's anything I dislike it's a flabby 
 potato." 
 
 *' And I dislike being kept waiting, and
 
 The News Flies, 123 
 
 indeed I feel quite faint in consequence, 
 but am not entitled to any consideration. 
 You spend half the morning over your 
 paper, and generally start for your walk 
 about the time you should be returning 
 home." 
 
 '' Yes, yes ; quite true, I dare say. But 
 not quite true in this instance. It was 
 hearing all about Leslie's business that 
 kept me." 
 
 '' What business of Mr. Leslie's can 
 possibly concern us ? " inquired Lady 
 Elton. 
 
 **Dear! dear, now! Only to think of 
 your not having heard. Why, the whole 
 village is talking about it." 
 
 " About what ? " exclaimed Lady Elton, 
 almost guilty of losing her temper. 
 
 '' Why, of Leslie's having been attacked 
 last night by some ruffian, who knocked 
 him down and cut him about, poor fellow, 
 in a desperate way. There isn't a chance 
 of his life, if he's not dead already." 
 
 Anna's cheeks paled to an ashy white- 
 ness, and even Lady Elton forgot her 
 pride as she uttered a hasty exclama- 
 tion of horror and alarm ; but presently,
 
 124 ^^ it for Ever ? 
 
 glancing at her daughter's white face, she 
 recovered herself and said severely, 
 
 *' You have a most incautious, coarse 
 way. Sir Crosby, of making known such 
 calamitous news. You quite forget you 
 are talking to gentle, delicately-nurtured 
 women. Some wine, William," said she 
 to the man-servant ; '* and be good enough 
 to fill Miss Elton's glass." 
 
 *' Well, now, only to think," said Sir 
 Crosby ; *^ so clever too. I'm sure I had 
 not an idea. Dear ! dear me ! " 
 
 Mechanically Anna drank the wine, 
 and, by a violent control over her feelings, 
 managed to sit on in a stupefied sort of 
 way, until her mother, seeing a faint 
 colour returning to her bloodless cheeks, 
 rose and left the room with her. But 
 there was not sufficient sympathy between 
 mother and daughter for the latter to 
 weep out, as she fain would have done, 
 her frightened anguish on her bosom 
 or at her feet. Anna thirsted for conso- 
 lation, yearned for sympathy now in her 
 great trouble ; but one glance at Lady 
 Elton's face, as she stood in a haughty 
 way before her, convinced her that it
 
 The News Flies. 125 
 
 would be worse than useless to expect it, 
 as never had that face expressed so much 
 coldness or pride. And the band of iron 
 that was binding Anna's heart bound it 
 tighter still ; and her eyes seemed to burn 
 with a hot fire as she clasped her hands 
 together and waited for Lady Elton to 
 speak ; and to Anna's ears her mother's 
 words sounded more chilling than they 
 had ever done, as she attempted a sort 
 of consolation that was in an extreme 
 degree painful to her daughter. 
 
 ** You are right," she began, " to shed 
 no tears over this dreadful business, 
 announced by your father in such an in- 
 delicate way that I do not wonder it has 
 paled your cheeks and filled you with 
 dread. But remember that, however much 
 your heart may grieve, you may not — 
 nay, you dare not, let the world see it. It 
 might mar any future chance you may 
 have of a good marriage. Nothing goes 
 so much against a girl — with a man at 
 least — as any previous doubtful affair of 
 the heart. Mr. Leslie as yet has not 
 given you the right to mourn for him, and 
 I expect you will command your feelings
 
 126 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 and bear yourself as proudly as you 
 oug-ht." 
 
 No answer was returned by Anna, who 
 only clasped her hands tighter together, 
 feeling as though her heart would burst 
 asunder; and after a moment's pause, 
 Lady Elton continued, 
 
 *' It is, if true, a most calamitous busi- 
 ness ; and the matter will of course not be 
 allowed to rest ; it will be sifted thoroughly 
 by Miss Gathorne, who will never suffer her 
 nephew to be — as she will put it — mur- 
 dered without taking ample revenge. But 
 the matter is disastrous in another point of 
 view; for she has often told me that Mr. 
 Leslie is the last of his race ; there is no 
 second nephew, no distant cousin to whom 
 to bequeath her riches, so that if this one 
 dies, all hope for us in that quarter will 
 be at an end. Had you only managed 
 things better you might have been weep- 
 ing to your heart's content as his widow ; 
 and what riches would have been yours ! 
 It quite chafes me, girl, to think how 
 badly you have managed." 
 
 Wild with her love and grief, yet Anna 
 could not take in the sense of her mother's
 
 The News Flies, 127 
 
 words without indignation. Her burning 
 eyes flashed with anger and scorn, and 
 outraged feelings; but her parched lips 
 seemed glued together, and refused to 
 utter the passionate words that raged in 
 her heart ; and Lady Elton, too much 
 absorbed in her own disappointed views 
 of the case, noticed nothing of the fire 
 in her daughter's eyes. 
 
 *' I have ordered the carriage," said 
 she presently ; *' I intend going to * The 
 House ' at once. You had better remain 
 where you are until my return. It is as 
 well to draw no remarks upon yourself; 
 and any one to look in your face would 
 notice its anguish. I do not believe the 
 man's dead; if he is, so much the worse 
 for you ; but if he is not, let this be a 
 warning to manage matters rather better 
 for the future, as it is impossible you 
 should marry otherwise than well: by 
 well I mean for money — with love if you 
 can get it — without it if you cannot." So 
 saying Lady Elton left the room, having 
 succeeded, not in assuaging Anna's grief, 
 but in rousing anger and fierce indig- 
 nation as well, so that as soon as she
 
 128 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 found herself alone she sprang up and, 
 with unsteady hands, hastily dressed her- 
 self for walking. 
 
 *' No one can say I look pale or woe- 
 begone,*' said she, as she tied on her hat 
 before the glass, and saw the bright red 
 spot that burnt on either pale cheek; " I 
 defy them and her ! " And without shed- 
 ding a single tear, which her mother had 
 seemed so to dread, she went downstairs 
 to await Lady Elton. 
 
 No astonishment could equal the latter's, 
 when, on passing out to the carriage, she 
 met Anna prepared to accompany her ; 
 but she dared utter no words of remon- 
 strance, seeing others were within earshot. 
 She gave her a quick look of intense anger, 
 which had no effect whatever, as Anna 
 quietly seated herself by her mother's side, 
 and listened apparently unconcerned to 
 the words, *'To Miss Gathorne's." As the 
 .cumbrous old carriage, a relic of former 
 greatness, rolled heavily away, Lady 
 Elton turned upon her daughter, almost 
 savagely. 
 
 ** Are you mad ? " she asked. 
 
 ** I think not," replied Anna, in a tone
 
 The News Flies. 129 
 
 so quiet that it irritated Lady Elton 
 beyond control. 
 
 *' I say you aix mad ! " cried Lady 
 Elton, grasping her arm rudely in her 
 powerful fingers. But Anna made no 
 movement that she felt the pain inflicted, 
 neither did she attempt to draw her arm 
 away. 
 
 **Do you hear me? " continued Lady 
 Elton. 
 
 *' Yes ; I hear you, mother." 
 " Then why don't you answer ? " 
 *'You are too violently angry to heed 
 what I say." 
 
 ** But you shall tell me the reason of 
 your forcing yourself upon me in this 
 shameful way." 
 
 ** I merely wish to go to ' The House.' 
 I cannot 7'est at home." 
 
 *' Folly ! utter folly and madness, that 
 will entail ruin and disgrace upon us." 
 
 " Not so. I am quite calm — desperately 
 calm, I mean." 
 
 *' Yes, at present, but a small thing, 
 trivial in itself, will melt the ice of your 
 heart, and overwhelm us with shame." 
 *' Never! " 
 
 VOL. I. 9
 
 130 Is it for Ever? 
 
 *' Obstinate, perverse girl ! I will not 
 go with you. I will drive home." 
 
 ** Then I will walk," replied Anna in 
 the same quiet tone, but so determined 
 that Lady Elton felt how useless were any 
 words of hers to dissuade; but before 
 resigning herself to her fate she gave vent 
 to some of the anger consuming her. 
 
 ** It is your fixed determination to go 
 with me ? '' 
 
 *'It is." 
 
 *' You brave the consequences? " 
 
 ** I do. And, mother, what conse- 
 quences can happen ? Have I not known 
 Richard since I was a child ? were we not 
 playmates together ? and did we not share 
 each other's griefs ? He loved me then, 
 whatever he may do now, and — and — I 
 have a right to weep," said Anna, nearly 
 giving way to a burst of pent-up feelings, 
 which she only restrained by a violent 
 effort, and a sense of suffocation. 
 
 *' I see it is useless to talk, and you 
 will only regret when too late having been 
 so self-willed and headstrong. God only 
 knows if I shall not some day think it 
 were tetter that you had never been born,
 
 The News Flies. 131 
 
 or that a millstone had been hanged about 
 your neck and you cast into the deep of 
 the sea. One word more : will you give 
 up this mad visit? " 
 
 "Never!" 
 
 ** Enough ! Enough ! Remember my 
 words ; " and, leaning back in the carriage, 
 Lady Elton bowed to her fate and said 
 not another word. 
 
 And so the drive was accomplished to 
 Miss Gathorne's.
 
 ^32 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MISS GATHORNE SPEAKS HER MIND. 
 
 Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time : 
 
 Some that will evermore peep through their eyes, 
 
 And laugh, like parrots, at a bag-piper ; 
 
 And other of such vinegar aspect, 
 
 That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile, 
 
 Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 ^l/TISS GATHORNE was standing at 
 ^^^ the dining-room window deep in 
 conversation with a gentleman, as the 
 Eltons' carriage drove up. She looked 
 perplexed and out of sorts, and although 
 she nodded her head in an abstracted sort 
 of way to her visitors, she never smiled a 
 welcome as was her wont, nor stopped 
 the conversation she seemed so deeply 
 interested in to go and greet them at the 
 door as she sometimes did, when, as now, 
 she had perceived their approach ; and 
 Lady Elton, who was ready to find fault 
 with everybody, resented it as a slight, as
 
 Miss Gat home Speaks her Mmd, 133 
 
 she haughtily brushed past Carter into the 
 drawing-room, where she seated herself 
 in queenly state and expectation on the 
 sofa facing the window, while Anna 
 shrank away from the light into the 
 darkest part of the room. Presently the 
 door again opened, but instead of Miss 
 Gathorne, Carter once more appeared, to 
 say that his mistress w^as particularly 
 engaged, but would be with them in less 
 than ten minutes. He was about closing 
 the door, when Anna, seized with an 
 uncontrollable impulse, rose from her seat 
 and went towards him. 
 
 ''Stay!" she said, and her voice 
 sounded strangely unnatural ; " Mr Leslie 
 
 " she stopped, unable to utter the 
 
 question her heart suggested and was 
 craving to have answered. 
 
 ** Haven't you heard, Miss ? " asked 
 the man. 
 
 Again Anna felt it impossible to com- 
 mand herself sufficiently to speak, but 
 Lady Elton rose and came to her rescue. 
 
 ''We have heard," she said in her 
 coldest and stateliest manner, "and are 
 come to inquire how Mr. Leslie is. Anna,
 
 134 ^^ it for Ever ? 
 
 sit down ; you have not been well the last 
 few days, and standing is bad for you.'* 
 
 Very gladly Anna did as she was bid, 
 for she felt herself trembling so she could 
 hardly stand. 
 
 ** We scarcely thought last night, my 
 lady, that Mr. Leslie could have lived an 
 hour when we picked him up, his head 
 was so smashed about ; but Missus have 
 never thought him bad, and Mr. Hill 
 gives hopes of him now." 
 
 **That will do," said Lady Elton, re- 
 suming her seat. 
 
 But Carter had no sooner disappeared 
 than Anna burst into a violent fit of sob- 
 bing. Lady Elton looked at her daughter 
 in mingled scorn and indignation. 
 
 "I knew how it would be," she said; 
 *' I foresaw the folly you would be guilty 
 of; but you are so obstinate and wilful. 
 Thank God I have no other children to 
 thwart me and render my life a burden. 
 Had you but listened to me you would 
 have managed matters better, and not 
 now be giving way to such unbecoming 
 babyish tears. The apple has been for 
 months within your grasp, and you
 
 Miss Gathorne Speaks her Mind, 135 
 
 have failed to stretch forth your hand 
 and take it ; and now forsooth, because 
 it has fallen from the tree and been 
 bruised on the ground, you must needs 
 sit like a great overgrown school girl, 
 whimpering about it. For shame ! for 
 shame ! you miserable, graceless girl ! " 
 
 *' For heaven's sake, mamma! don't 
 talk to me," said Anna, almost in a tone 
 of desperation. 
 
 **Not talk! I will talk," said Lady 
 Elton angrily. "Am I to have disgrace 
 and shame brought upon me by my own 
 child, and sit and bear it tamely ? No ! 
 I will talk. It's scandalous, shameful, 
 and unnatural ! But your conduct is 
 nothing but what I might have expected, 
 and what I foretold. Dry your eyes, girl ; 
 or if you cannot do that, at least have 
 the common decency to leave the room 
 before Miss Gathorne enters it; don't let 
 her see you crying for a man who does 
 not care a straw for you, and whose 
 heart, I verily believe, is in the keeping 
 of a vulgar, base-born gardener's brat ! I 
 dare say he laughed in his sleeve at you 
 the last time you were here — enjoyed the
 
 136 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 joke of your being in love with him ; " 
 and Lady Elton laughed mockingly. 
 
 Anna rose in indignation at this cruel 
 speech, and without a word stepped 
 swiftly through the open window on to 
 the lawn, and, hurrying across it, sought 
 the gloom of the wide, thick-spreading 
 trees by the gate ; and wearily seat- 
 ing herself beneath them, she clasped 
 her hands tightly together on her lap, 
 and murmured, " Oh, what a miserable, 
 unhappy girl I am ! Miserable in having 
 such a worldly-minded, cold-hearted 
 mother : unhappy — ah ! yes, woefully un- 
 happy — wretched, at the illness, perhaps 
 death, of him I love. And I do love him ; 
 and he never could have mocked at it, 
 never! never!" Thus she lamented with 
 herself as she sobbed on in wretchedness 
 and wounded pride ; and so we will leave 
 her and return to Lady Elton. 
 
 She breathed a deep-drawn sigh of 
 relief as Anna disappeared through the 
 window, and smiled to think how easily 
 the bait she had offered had been swallowed. 
 It had cost her loss of temper, but in the 
 end she had conquered by rousing her
 
 Miss Gathorne Speaks her Mind, 137 
 
 daughter's pride, thereby saving her from 
 the fatal consequences of a scene before 
 Miss Gathorne, which would — supposing 
 Richard Leslie lived — ruin Anna's chance 
 with him for ever. Richard, she felt sure, 
 was not a man to have a woman thrust 
 down his throat against his will, or before 
 his will had exercised itself in the matter. 
 Most men liked to have some difficulty in 
 their wooing, some impediment in the way 
 of their ultimate success, and Wr. Leslie was 
 no exception to this rule, or his heart would 
 not even now be inclining towards a low- 
 born girl, whom it was next to impossible 
 he could marry ; yet the perverseness of 
 his nature was urging him on to love her, 
 simply — Lady Elton felt — because there 
 were huge obstacles to be surmounted and 
 overcome, the thwarting that wretched old 
 woman, his aunt, adding zest to the pur- 
 suit. There was, she feared — however well 
 she might play her cards — little chance of 
 checking his fancy ; for the greater the 
 difficulty, so much the greater would his 
 love be increased. All minor considera- 
 tions would he thrust aside ; and although 
 ruin might stare him in the face, he would
 
 138 Is it for Ever 1 
 
 close his eyes and shut out the fell monster 
 until the die had been cast which consigned 
 him to his embraces. To say to a man, 
 "Here is a woman who will give you no 
 trouble in the wooing of her. She loves 
 you, and only requires the asking to be 
 yours ; take her and be happy: " what man 
 will be content so to do ? Even if his heart 
 does incline toward her at the first, these 
 words will effectually check its emotions, 
 and turn it towards one with whom it 
 is next to impossible his love can run 
 smoothly. But it is the excitement, the 
 incentive to exertion, that brings charms 
 and enchains a man's soul, even against 
 his better reason ; or it may be the still 
 small voice of conscience itself, so that in 
 the end his love becomes by day a sort of 
 madness, and by night the nightmare of 
 his dreams ; and he never rests until he 
 sees himself in the possession of a wife 
 with whom it is ten chances to one but that 
 he lives long enough to regret the mad 
 infatuation of having married. That men 
 were a selfish, obstinate, perverse set of 
 beings, was the sum-total in Lady Elton's 
 mind when the door opened and admitted
 
 Miss Gat home Speaks her Mind, 139 
 
 Miss Gathorne and the gentleman with 
 whom she had been talking at the window, 
 whom she introduced as her lawyer, ^Ir. 
 Smithers, — ''A good and worthy gentle- 
 man," said she. 
 
 Mr. Smithers bowed and smiled at the 
 compliment, and Lady Elton, anxious to 
 be on good terms v*ith so influential a 
 personage, gave him in return one of 
 her blandest smiles and most courteous 
 bends of the head. 
 
 ** I am ver}^ glad to make the acquaint- 
 ance of one so highly valued by my friend 
 ]\Iiss Gathorne," said she. 
 
 At which Mr. Smithers bowed and 
 smiled again, and there is no knowing how 
 long this bowing and smiling might have 
 continued had not Miss Gathorne come to 
 the rescue, almost startling him with the 
 sharp tone in which she said, 
 
 *' When you have finished all this dumb 
 show, Mr. Smithers, perhaps you'll be 
 good enough to seat yourself; at present 
 you are standing exactly in front of me, 
 and if your coat is out at elbows I shall 
 certainly find it out." 
 
 Mr. Smithers' thin, pale face im-
 
 140 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 mediately assumed a cadaverous hue ; 
 and he laughed nervously, as he seated 
 himself, saying, " Your jokes, my dear 
 Miss Gathorne, are good — very good." 
 
 '•I am glad you find them so," said 
 she drily. '' But where is Anna, Lady 
 Elton?" 
 
 *' Poor Anna," replied Lady Elton, 
 *'she has one of her dreadful headaches, 
 and has strolled out into the garden. The 
 air of this room was too close for her." 
 
 ** Humph ! What's brought it on this 
 time — love or fear ? " 
 
 ** I do not think Anna knows what 
 love is," replied Lady Elton, determined 
 to put on a bold front ; " but as to fear, 
 that I think she inherits in a large degree. 
 Sir Crosby is of an extremely nervous 
 temperament, as you know." 
 
 *' I did not know it," replied Miss 
 Gathorne, somewhat sarcastically. "Ner- 
 vous! certainly not." 
 
 Lady Elton could scarcely control her 
 anger; she bit her lips vengefully, per- 
 haps to stay the angry words on her 
 tongue, and after a moment's pause, said, 
 
 " Anna and I have come to inquire
 
 Miss Gathorne Speaks her Mind, 141 
 
 how Mr. Leslie is ; we have heard such 
 a shocking account of the accident." 
 
 '* Accident!/' exclaimed Miss Gathorne; 
 *' it was no accident, but a deliberately- 
 planned, bloodthirsty attack! and if it costs 
 me my last penny I'll find out who did it. 
 Accident, indeed ! why, the villain actually 
 lay in wait for his victim in the garden, — 
 this garden ! What do you think of that ? 
 To cut my nephew's head open under my 
 ver}^ nose. There's daring and determina- 
 tion for you ! Why, he may take a fancy 
 to chop me up next. But I'll put a stop 
 to his career of crime. I'll have the police 
 on his track. Let him look to himself, for 
 when he's caught he'll get no mercy from 
 me." 
 
 " Do you suspect any one in parti- 
 cular?" inquired Lady Elton. 
 
 ** Suspect any one ? I suspect every- 
 body, from Sir Crosby himself down to 
 the stable-boy and village shoeblack. 
 I'm full of suspicion, as Mr. Smithers has 
 just been made aware of.' ' 
 
 " It's a very disastrous affair," said Mr. 
 Smithers. 
 
 ** Disastrous I Aye, but look at the con-
 
 142 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 sequences. Why, I haven't a man or maid- 
 servant who'll stir out at night after four 
 o'clock, or open the door after dusk, with- 
 out a lot of talk as to who's there, and 
 what they want ; and even if these ques- 
 tions are satisfactorily answered, the door 
 will be only opened to the length of the 
 chain. As to Bridget, she's worse than the 
 whole lot I have about me, for she's old 
 enough and big enough to know better, 
 and I am ashamed of a woman of her age 
 being such a coward. Would you believe 
 it ? she is positively afraid to go to even- 
 ing service with me to-morrow ; and when 
 I reasoned with her and told her what a 
 fool she was, she said she'd rather give me 
 warning than pass the clump of trees after 
 dark." 
 
 ** It's a gloomy spot at night," remarked 
 Mr. Smithers. 
 
 *^ Do you call her bedroom a * gloomy 
 spot' ? I don't, and yet ever since this 
 business she has held out for having a 
 night-light burning there all night long, 
 — a piece of extravagance that even I 
 don't afford myself. She's a coward, Mr. 
 Smithers, not a doubt of it, and if you
 
 Miss Cat home Speaks her Mind, 143 
 
 don't hurry over her cross-examination 
 you talk of subjecting her to to-morrow 
 she'll be making a coward of you, for fear 
 is very contagious, so they say." 
 
 ** I am sure," said Lady Elton, ''that 
 Mr. Smithers is equal to any emergency. 
 If you have entrusted him with the un- 
 ravelling of this dreadful crime it will not 
 be very long before the mystery is made 
 as clear as day." 
 
 Once more Mr. Smithers smiled and 
 bowed, and Miss Gathorne, with a half 
 groan of impatience rose. 
 
 "I suppose," said she to Lady Elton, 
 *' you would like to see the — as Mr. 
 Smithers calls it — 'gloomy spot.' Every- 
 body's mouth is wide open ready to 
 swallow all the news they can get hold of." 
 
 " Really, j\Iiss Gathorne, I hope you do 
 not mix me up with the vulgar herd. As 
 to news, of course people talk about Mr. 
 Leslie, and make suggestions and sur- 
 mises as to who could have borne him a 
 grudge. For my part I make no guesses ; 
 I have certainly my own thoughts upon 
 the subject, and those I mean to keep to 
 myself"
 
 144 Is it for Ever "^ 
 
 *' As not worth the telling," muttered 
 Miss Gathorne, almost audibly. " Come ! " 
 said she aloud ; '* come ! I'll show you the 
 * gloomy spot,' for if we sit here shooting 
 arrows at one another we shall become 
 vengeful enemies. Now, W.x. Smithers, 
 lead the way, and be the ' peep-show ' 
 man, and don't exaggerate or romance 
 ever so little, or I'll pull you up sharp." 
 
 Away went Mr. Smithers, looking very 
 much like a dog in expectation of having 
 a severe thrashing. Lady Elton followed, 
 with anything but a pleased countenance ; 
 but Miss Gathorne walked jauntily along, 
 evidently delighted at aiming the shafts 
 of her sarcasm right and left. 
 
 Anna, who was still seated beneath the 
 trees, rose and came forward as she saw 
 them approaching ; but ere she could say 
 a word, Miss Gathorne accosted her. 
 
 ** So j^^?/ have stolen a march upon us, 
 and chosen the * gloomy spot ' as a cure 
 for the headache." 
 
 *' I like the shade of these trees. They 
 are a grateful shelter from the sun's 
 glare." 
 
 ''• Richard didn't find it a grateful shelter
 
 Miss Gat home Speaks her Mind, 145 
 
 when he nearly received his death-blow 
 here last night. Why, you've been sitting 
 on the very ground where they scuffled, 
 and on the seat where Mr. Hill says 
 Richard's head must have struck. I 
 wonder you didn't see the marks of the 
 blood." 
 
 Anna turned sick and faint, and caught 
 at her mother's arm for support; but before 
 Miss Gathorne had time to notice her, 
 the gate close by swung on its hinges, 
 and Anne Campbell's tall angular figure 
 appeared. 
 
 "Ah! " said Miss Gathorne, "one more 
 gaper for news. Come along, you're only 
 just in time ; another minute and you'd 
 have been too late. There," said she, 
 pointing with her finger, "that's the 
 spot ; take a good look at it and remember 
 it well." 
 
 Anne Campbell curtsied as she passed 
 on to where Miss Gathorne stood beside 
 the large tree, near which the ground was 
 ploughed up with the marks of men's feet, 
 bearing unmistakable evidences of a severe 
 struggle of some kind. 
 
 " Well ! what do you think of it now 
 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 146 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 you've seen it ? Does not come up to 
 your expectations, eh ? Why, bless the 
 woman, there's nothing else to see,'' said 
 Miss Gathorne, seeing Anne did not 
 answer her. 
 
 ** I did not come to see anything, 
 ma'am." 
 
 ''Then you came to hear and report. 
 Now, then, Mr. Smith ers, the story; and 
 remember to stick to the facts." 
 
 ** No, ma'am, I did not," interrupted 
 Anne; ''I am no ^busybody or tale- 
 bearer ; I came to ask how Mr. Leslie 
 was ; and if you will please to tell me 
 I shall be glad to go back home again. 
 'Tisn't nothing to me how he came to 
 be attacked." 
 
 "You're the most sensible woman I 
 know. What, not care for gossip ! when 
 now's your time to pick up no end of 
 it ? Only think of the importance of 
 being able to say, ' I've been to Miss 
 Gathorne' s, and she says this or she says 
 that ; and I've seen the spot all covered 
 with blood where the poor young gen- 
 tleman was murdered.' " 
 
 *' Murdered!" echoed Anne; while
 
 Miss Gat home Speaks her Mind. 147 
 
 once more Anna clung tremblingly to her 
 mother. 
 
 ** Really, Miss Gathorne, your words 
 are so terrifying, they are making me 
 feel quite unnerved," said Lady Elton ; 
 ** and besides, there is no occasion for 
 them." 
 
 ** Nonsense ! I know very well what 
 I'm about. I know they've murdered 
 Richard in the village over and over 
 again before this, and will be quite 
 sorry when they hear he's likely to get 
 over it." 
 
 ** You must be truly thankful, ma'am," 
 said Anne. 
 
 ** No, I'm not, for I was never hope- 
 less. A great strong young man like 
 that die because some one has chosen 
 to drill a little hole in his head. Ridi- 
 culous ! " 
 
 "We are In God's hands," mur- 
 mured Anne Campbell reprovingly ; 
 '' He alone doeth what seemeth Him 
 best." 
 
 *' He alone," echoed Mr. Smithers. 
 
 *' Don't be a hypocrite," said Miss 
 Gathorne, leaving the two last speakers
 
 148 Is it for Ever 7 
 
 to guess at which her shaft was aimed. 
 ** How is your father, Anne? " 
 
 *' A deal better, ma'am. It's wonder- 
 ful how at his great age — eighty- nine 
 come next Christmas — he's struggled 
 against the stroke. But it's a warning, and 
 a merciful one, to set his house in order." 
 
 *' Or for you to do it for him. But 
 where' s the mercy of the warning? It's 
 time at your father's age to be prepared 
 for death at any moment." 
 
 " We are none of us prepared," replied 
 Anne; *' we are such poor, weak, erring, 
 sinful creatures ; we cling to life and its 
 vanities to the very verge of the grave, 
 and even there its pomps and vanities 
 follow us. We ain't half thankful for the 
 mercies we have, nor don't think enough 
 about the evil one, who sits at our elbows 
 all day long tempting of us to do every- 
 thing that's wicked." 
 
 *' There ! " said Miss Gathorne; ** there's 
 for you. Lady Elton." 
 
 '' Me ! " exclaimed Lady Elton. ** Me ! 
 Miss Gathorne." 
 
 '*Yes, you, I, everybody, including Mr. 
 Smithers. Isn't it so, Anne ? "
 
 Miss Gat home Speaks her Mind, 149 
 
 ** I didn't intend my words for anybody 
 in particular, ma'am. I'm sure I'm in as 
 much need of 'em as anybody, though I 
 strive and fight with the evil one, called 
 Satan, all day long, with strivings and 
 wrestlings not to be named." 
 
 "Fudge, woman !" said Miss Gathorne 
 angrily, "go and preach to your niece." 
 
 "Where shall I find her, ma'am?" 
 asked Anne. 
 
 The answer sent dismay into Anna's 
 heart. 
 
 "She's nursing Mr. Richard; but 
 Bridget can take her place. Go and 
 tell her so." 
 
 "Thank you, ma'am;" and with a 
 curtsey to the gentlefolks, Anne moved 
 away, as Lady Elton made her adieux to 
 Miss Gathorne. 
 
 Not until the carriage was fairly out- 
 side the gates and on its road home did 
 Lady Elton give vent to the rage con- 
 suming her. 
 
 '' She gets worse and worse every day," 
 said she, — " a most horrible old woman. 
 Think of her indelicacy in allowing that 
 vulgar young woman to nurse her nephew."
 
 150 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 But Anna made no reply, only shivered 
 as though she felt cold, and crept closer 
 into the corner farthest away from her 
 mother, who relapsed into an indignant 
 silence, which she maintained even after 
 they reached home.
 
 151 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 anne's appeal. 
 
 In doing good we are generally cold, and languid, and 
 sluggish ; and of all things afraid of being too much 
 in the right. But the works of malice and injustice are 
 quite in another style. They are finished with a bold, 
 masterly hand ; touched, as they are, with the spirit of 
 those vehement passions that call forth all our energies, 
 whenever we oppress and persecute. 
 
 Burke. 
 
 TN a room on the landing below Lucy's 
 -^ lay Richard Leslie. The blinds were 
 closely drawn, so as to exclude all light 
 from his heavy eyes, weak in their endea- 
 vours to grasp at the dim shadows of 
 those who seemed to come and go so 
 noiselessly about his bed. It was a sad 
 sight to see one so full of health and 
 spirits lying there so helpless ; added to 
 which the semi-gloom affected the spirits, 
 increasing the depression weighing upon 
 those whose mournful duty it was to nurse 
 him. He looked a sad, pitiable object,
 
 152 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 his face at times painfully drawn, and as 
 colourless as though death had already 
 settled there ; his poor bruised head 
 enveloped in bandages, and his hands 
 either vainly clutching the bedclothes, or 
 moving to and fro restlessly and wearily. 
 All through the long night Miss Ga- 
 thorne had kept watch with Bridget, and 
 it was only at times that Richard was 
 conscious ; at others — although not violent 
 — yet his mind ran riot amidst scenes 
 in which he had lived and borne a part ; 
 and in fancy he moved there once again, 
 but this time without life's fever of excite- 
 ment to charm him. Miss Gathorne had 
 listened outwardly unmoved, and cer- 
 tainly without any symptoms of anger, to 
 the revelations that met her ears ; some- 
 times she rose hastily, and, without a word, 
 and apparently without a motive, fussed 
 and fidgetted about the room ; but gene- 
 rally she remained strangely quiet — for her 
 — by the bedside, looking doleful and 
 desponding, belying her own repeated 
 assertions of being without fear. Once 
 Bridget fancied she was in tears, but it 
 was just as the morning sun burst forth,
 
 Anne^ s Appeal, 153 
 
 and it might have been the quivering of a 
 stray sunbeam across her face which the 
 close-drawn blinds had not wholly been 
 able to shut out. Miss Gathorne gave 
 way to no emotions of grief, neither did 
 she allow that she was fearful and full 
 of nervousness ; yet Bridget, who knew 
 her well, was not imposed upon ; she 
 guessed well enough all the anxious, 
 terrible fears in her heart, and could not 
 avoid letting her mistress see that she saw 
 them, and that her heart was full of the 
 pity she dared not express, and this made 
 ]\Iiss Gathorne doubly anxious to screen 
 herself under an increased amount of 
 bitterness and asperity ; but Bridget bore 
 all without any murmur, save a sigh, or 
 shake of the head, and a thought that, 
 unless her mistress allowed some vent to 
 her pent-up feelings, there would soon be 
 two invalids to nurse instead of one. 
 
 During all the wanderings of Richard's 
 mind, Lucy's name, strange to say, had 
 never passed his lips ; his talk was all of 
 bygone events of stirring and exciting 
 nature ; those softer emotions that had 
 recently stirred his heart did not seem to
 
 154 Is it for Ever 1 
 
 trouble him, or rise in judgment to con- 
 demn him, as they ought to have done. 
 
 Just before the carriage from Leigh- 
 lands, containing Lady Elton and her 
 daughter, had driven up to "The House," 
 a change for the better had passed over 
 Richard ; his restless tossings to and fro 
 had ceased, and he had gradually sunk 
 into a heavy slumber, which Mr. Hill 
 thought might last some time, and be 
 attended with the happiest results. For 
 the first time the doctor's voice lost its 
 quiet, solemn ring, and he might almost 
 be said to be speaking cheerfully as he 
 bade Miss Gathorne take the rest she 
 stood so much in need of. Rest ! as if 
 rest were possible for her so filled with 
 plans and projects, all tending to one 
 point, the unravelling the cause that had 
 so nearly been the occasion of a fearful 
 crime ; and now that she could be spared 
 she installed Lucy as watcher, while she 
 went below to see Mr. Smithers, whom 
 she had sent early into Northborough for 
 that morning, and who had driven over 
 at once, and had been impatiently await- 
 ing her some time.
 
 An7ie'* s Appeal. 155 
 
 Lucy looked sadly pale as she entered 
 the sick room where he to whom but last 
 night she had pledged her faith lay — for 
 all she could persuade herself to the con- 
 trary — dying. Hers was not a very hope- 
 ful spirit, and she could not realise the 
 blessed news that Bridget had brought 
 her, of his being out of danger; and as 
 with faltering steps she softly and trem- 
 blingly approached the bed where he was, 
 her poor pale face looked paler still, and 
 her heart beat painfully as she saw the 
 ghastly countenance of him she loved. 
 She had shed so many tears she had no 
 more left to shed, and silently seating 
 herself by the bedside, she covered her 
 face with her hands, as though to shut out 
 the dread sight, but in reality to still the 
 agony she felt and which she feared 
 Bridget might detect. But Bridget had 
 gone out and left her alone. For more 
 than an hour Lucy sat there and never 
 stirred, save to let her tired hands fall 
 listlessly in her lap. She w^as unused to 
 sad sights, and dared not look at Richard 
 again ; and although she could have 
 touched his hand as it fell over the side
 
 156 Is it for Ever? 
 
 of the bed near her, she did not ven- 
 ture for fear of awaking him. And yet 
 she almost wished he would wake ; this 
 utter stillness of the room awed her. Sup- 
 pose he were to die in this death-like 
 sleep ? It might be so. Death might be 
 sent as a punishment, and oh, how fearful 
 an one ! for the sin of concealing their 
 love. But was this love a sin ? — this love 
 that seemed to cling nearer and closer to 
 her now the object of it was helpless and 
 in danger. Even if Richard were to die, 
 her love would not ; it would live for 
 always, until death should lay its cold 
 hand on her heart, and stop all its throb- 
 bings and burnings. As the minutes 
 wore on, the strain on Lucy's nerves in- 
 creased, until she could scarcely persuade 
 herself that life, the life of him she loved 
 so utterly, was not passing away from 
 before her, and she in some terrible night- 
 mare, bound hand and foot, powerless to 
 call for help to save him. But if she or 
 he needed help it was near at hand ; and 
 Lucy could almost have screamed aloud 
 — to such a pitch had her strained nerves 
 worked themselves — when the handle of
 
 Annes Appeal, 157 
 
 the door softly turned, and Bridget came 
 in, and, without a word, pointed and 
 motioned with her finger towards the door 
 for Lucy to go out. Glad to be relieved 
 from her lonely watch, Lucy rose and left 
 the room with tottering and unsteady steps, 
 but started with something like dismay when 
 without, on the landing, she found herself 
 face to face with her aunt, Anne Campbell. 
 
 *'You did not expect to see me?" 
 said the latter. " 'Tisn't often that I 
 trouble ' The House ' with a visit." 
 
 ** No, aunt — but grandfather? " 
 
 *^Is doing nicely. But hadn't we best 
 go to your room and talk." 
 
 Without a sign of dissent, although 
 with a terrible fear at her heart, Lucy led 
 the way upstairs to her room. 
 
 Anne Campbell closed the door at once, 
 and seated herself. 
 
 *' 'Tis a dainty place," said she, looking 
 round; "and you've got a many gim- 
 cracks about it." 
 
 "Yes, aunt." 
 
 "Who gave you this? " and she pointed 
 to an elegant scent-bottle on the toilet- 
 table.
 
 158 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 '^That, aunt? It— it was—Mr. Richard," 
 said she, falteringly. 
 
 " It's a deal too handsome for a girl in 
 your station of life. You didn't ought to 
 have taken it from him," replied Anne 
 severely. 
 
 Lucy was silent, but her heart was 
 beating fast. 
 
 '^ Do you be minding what I'm saying? " 
 
 ''Yes, aunt." 
 
 "Gentlemen don't be giving such hand- 
 some things to poor girls for nothing. 
 If Mr. Richard was true to his heart's 
 core he'd never have let you have a sight 
 of it, let alone make you a present of it. 
 What have you got in it ? " 
 
 " Only some eau-de-Cologne.^^ 
 
 "Only! only! A girl like you with 
 scents and washes. Fie upon you ! 
 There," said she, taking the bottle off 
 the table and pouring its contents out 
 through the open window; "there! I'm 
 half-minded to throw the bottle along with 
 it, only it's a sin and a shame to be break- 
 ing of it ; but you shan't have none of the 
 scent to make believe with. I wouldn't be 
 doing my duty by you if I allowed it."
 
 Anne^s Appeal, 159 
 
 ** I didn't mean to use it, aunt." 
 
 ** Then there ain't no harm done in 
 throwing it away ; but it's dreadful waste, 
 and we are told, ' Waste not, want not ; ' 
 but you'll never be likely to want that 
 stuff, anyhow. How's Mr. Richard ? " 
 
 ^*Ver}^ill." 
 
 ** How did it happen ? " 
 
 ** I don't know. I wasn't there when 
 he hit him." 
 
 "He! who?" 
 
 *' I don't know." But Lucy never 
 looked at her aunt, while her face and lips 
 were paling perceptibly, and her hands 
 were nervously clasping and unclasping 
 themselves. 
 
 Her aunt looked at her for awhile, and 
 then said solemnly, and in a tone not to 
 be gainsaid, 
 
 *' You do know, Lucy ! " 
 
 Lucy shivered as though with cold, 
 although the bright sun was streaming 
 into the room, making it warm and glad- 
 some. What would she not have given 
 to have shut it out, it and the light alto- 
 gether, so that her aunt's searching eyes 
 might have been unable to detect the fear
 
 1 60 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 that possessed her ? She sat down, totally 
 unable to stand any longer, and feeling a 
 sense of guilt that until now she had never 
 known. Oh, this terrible secret, that 
 Richard had imposed upon her who until 
 now had never known concealment of any 
 kind ! 
 
 *' You do know, Lucy. Answer me ! " 
 said Anne again. 
 
 *' No — no ; not for certain." 
 
 *' You suspect? " 
 
 *'I— I don't know." 
 
 " And I say you do know. You are 
 equivocating and telling falsehoods." 
 
 *' No, aunt ; no, I'm not. I don't know 
 anything for certain." 
 
 Anne was silent for a minute or so ; and, 
 glad of the respite, poor Lucy tried to 
 nerve herself and collect her thoughts for 
 what was to come next. She was not left 
 long in doubt. 
 
 ** Where were you when it happened ? " 
 
 *' Up here, aunt." 
 
 *'Inbed?" 
 
 **No, aunt." 
 
 ** And they at prayers below ? " 
 
 '' I was feeling so dreadfully upset, aunt,
 
 Anne^ s Appeal, l6i 
 
 first with grandfather, and then with — 
 with " 
 
 Lucy hesitated and stopped short. 
 
 *' Joe Simmonds," suggested Anne; 
 ** he walked home with you ? " 
 
 *'Yes." 
 
 ^'And you bid him good-bye at the 
 gate?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 ** And then you came in — straight ? " 
 
 ** I was a longtime with Mr. Simmonds. 
 He — he talked so." 
 
 '' He must have talked. You left our 
 cottage at sundown, and wasn't in bed 
 by ten o'clock. You didn't come home, 
 girl : do you hear ? " 
 
 " I did. I bid Mr. Simmonds good-bye 
 at the gate ; but it was ever such a time 
 before he'd let me go." 
 
 " He asked you to be his wife ? " 
 
 No reply. 
 
 *' And you said no ; and then he got 
 angry, and you scorned him, and left him 
 with all his hot blood afire, and athirst 
 for revenge." 
 
 Still no reply. 
 
 *' I don't want no answer," went on 
 
 VOL. I. II
 
 i62 Is it for Ever 7 
 
 Anne Campbell ; "I can see it all In 
 my mind's eye. 'TIs you that are to 
 blame, you, and no one else. God forgive 
 you." 
 
 Then she got up, and, going over to 
 Lucy, took hold of her arm roughly In her 
 strong thin fingers, and whispered, 
 
 " Where was Mr. Richard the while ? 
 On your life answer me." 
 
 But there was no answer, neither did 
 Lucy cry out ; but her small form swayed 
 towards her aunt, until It rested, as though 
 for protection, in mute appeal against her. 
 So heavily did she lie, that Anne Campbell 
 involuntarily bent over her, and raised her 
 head, and then she found that the hue of 
 death was stamped on her every feature. 
 Lucy had fainted. In a moment Anne had 
 raised her light form in her arms, laid her 
 on the bed, and commenced chafing and 
 rubbing her hands, trying to restore con- 
 sciousness, and as she did so, the hard 
 look melted away from her face, and she 
 sighed again and again, as, with light, 
 tender hands, she did what she could 
 towards restoring Lucy ; but uselessly, for 
 the poor pale form before her lay still, with-
 
 Anne s Appeal, 163 
 
 out any sign of life, and as Anne began 
 searching about the room for restoratives, 
 her eyes lighted on the scent bottle, keep- 
 ing so prominent a place on the toilet-table. 
 She took it up and turned it upside down 
 over her handkerchief, but she had emptied 
 it too well ; not a drop of the sweet scent 
 her niece stood so much in need of was 
 left ; and putting it down in a vexed way, 
 she unconsciously murmured, "* Waste 
 not, want not.' 'Tis true, anyhow ; " said 
 she, dipping her handkerchief in some 
 water, and going back to Lucy's side. 
 
 *' Are you better? " asked Anne softly, 
 as Lucy feebly opened her eyes. 
 
 But the poor lips remained mute. 
 
 *' There, never mind, don't talk; you 
 ain't fit for it. Best be still- and try to go 
 to sleep ; your eyes are very heavy. I'm 
 thinking you didn't have so much as a 
 wink last night, and you ain't strong 
 enough to do without it." 
 
 The tears welled through Lucy's closed 
 eyes and rolled slowly over her cheeks. 
 She was tired indeed, so tired that she 
 felt as though hands and feet were stricken 
 with palsy, and as to words, her tongue
 
 1 64 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 refused to utter a syllable, while the same 
 feeling of extreme weakness that she had 
 felt once the night before was on her now, 
 and she could not have said one word to 
 refute any aspersion her aunt might in 
 her anger have cast upon her. But Anne 
 had said enough and learnt enough to 
 shape her course of duty by, whether 
 mistaken or otherwise she did not stay to 
 consider, simply because she had not a 
 doubt in her mind but that she was right ; 
 and to feel right was with Anne to set to 
 work with a will, a will that would bring 
 every other will in subjection to hers. 
 There was but one will could withstand 
 hers — Miss Gathorne's ; but Anne felt her- 
 self armed -with a weapon to work with, 
 that must in time bend even that obstinate 
 spirit. God grant that it might bend 
 soon, and before it might be too late to 
 save Lucy ! Desiring her niece not to 
 leave her room for the remainder of the 
 day, but to lie quiet and not think — a 
 command Lucy felt it impossible to 
 comply with — Anne left her and sought 
 Miss Gathorne. 
 
 "And what do you w^ant with me?"
 
 Anne s Appeal, 165 
 
 said the latter abruptly, as Anne was 
 ushered into her presence ; ''I thought I'd 
 seen the last of you for to-day." 
 
 '*I did not mean to trouble you again, 
 ma'am ; but my niece is ill, and " 
 
 **What! Lucy!" interrupted Miss 
 Gathorne ; *' she was perfectly well an 
 hour ago. I suppose you've been croak- 
 ing to her about something or another. 
 Come, what have you been saying ? Out 
 with it! " 
 
 " I've been speaking to Lucy, certainly," 
 replied Anne, evasively; "but I noticed how 
 bad she looked before she fainted, ma'am." 
 
 " Fainted ! Humph. You've been read- 
 ing somebody's last dying speech and 
 confession to her. I'll stake my life on it, 
 you disagreeable woman." 
 
 Anne was probably accustomed to ]\Iiss 
 Gathorne's openly expressed opinion of 
 her, for she did not show the slightest 
 symptom of annoyance, but said shortly, 
 
 " I wish to have my niece back home 
 again, ma'am." 
 
 "You do — do you? Then all I've got 
 to say is, you never had a wish so little 
 likely to be realised."
 
 1 66 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 *' But what if I could show just cause 
 why she should come back ? " 
 
 *^ No, not if you could show me a dozen 
 just causes should you lay hand on her 
 again, and, more than that, I don't want 
 to hear, and won't hear, any of your just 
 causes. I believe you to be a thorough 
 humbug, Anne Campbell." 
 
 *' I'm no humbug, ma'am ; but I've a 
 conscience, and I don't mean to stand by 
 calmly and see my niece go to perdition," 
 said Anne a little more warmly than was 
 her wont. 
 
 ** Perdition seize you for a meddlesome- 
 matty ! " cried Miss Gathorne ; "I'm the 
 best judge as to what is good for Lucy. 
 Go home, indeed ! If you don't take care 
 she shall never set foot inside your doors 
 again." 
 
 *' 'Tisn't good for her to be here, 
 ma'am." 
 
 ** And I say it is for her good, has been 
 for her good, and shall be for her good to 
 stay here." 
 
 *' You'll may be live to be sorry for it, 
 ma'am. It'll be like sackcloth and ashes 
 to you if she does."
 
 Anne^ s Appeal, 167 
 
 *' Cease your croaking, and don't meddle 
 with what does not concern you." 
 
 *' But it does concern me, ma'am. She's 
 my dead sister's child ; and while a word of 
 mine can stop it she shan't fall away like 
 her poor erring, faulty mother." 
 "You're a fool." 
 
 But Anne went on without heeding, 
 *' Lucy's as weak as she was — weak 
 in health, weak in spirit, weak at resisting 
 temptation ; a lamb ready to sacrifice her- 
 self for the sake of her love. Her mother 
 couldn't resist a smooth tongue and soft 
 words. Ain't there others with tongues 
 and words as smooth and soft ? ' ' 
 
 '' Anne Campbell ! " said Miss Gathorne 
 severely. 
 
 '* I wouldn't have named it but for 
 Lucy's sake. I've forgiven, but I can't 
 forget." 
 
 ** You have not forgiven. You are a 
 hard, pitiless woman. It is easy for you 
 to throw stones. You have never been 
 tempted, and if you have, your heart's 
 too cold to feel a pang. You pass through 
 life without a trouble or care of your own, 
 and have no compassion, no mercy, in
 
 1 68 Is it for Ever? 
 
 your heart for another. It is easy for you 
 to take up a stone and throw it." 
 
 Anne drew a step nearer. 
 
 ** God forgive you," said she hoarsely, 
 *'for saying such hard things. Look at 
 my face. Do you call it to mind when I 
 was a girl ? People said it was fair then ; 
 and it was fair. What, think you, has 
 altered it, lined and marked it? 'Tisn't 
 age, for I'm but in the prime of life. 
 'Tisn't illness nor any bodily ailment nor 
 disease. 'Tis my life-blood as has turned 
 cold with the grief and agony of my heart, 
 and is like a canker-worm gnawing of 
 me." 
 
 Miss Gathorne looked up through her 
 spectacles in amazement, and with a look 
 that seemed to wonder whether her com- 
 panion had taken leave of her senses. 
 
 **I ain't bereft of my senses," said Anne, 
 answering the look; *' times and times 
 I've wished I was, so that I might forget 
 and have rest. But I've learnt since then 
 to bear my burden patiently. 'Tain't cast 
 on me for nothing; 'tis God's will, and 
 I've learnt submission." 
 
 There was a silence. Miss Gathorne
 
 Anne's AppeaL 169 
 
 was not in a mood to offer consolation, and 
 besides, she had so long only thought of 
 Anne as a cold-blooded, pitiless, harsh 
 woman, that it was not so easy to disem- 
 barrass her mind of the idea all of a sudden, 
 and feel an interest and compassion for one 
 who, even as she spoke of severe inward 
 suffering, looked as callous and outwardly 
 calm as usual. 
 
 "I'm sorry for you," at length said 
 Miss Gathorne; "and I can tell you 
 that I've had my troubles too, but I 
 don't let them bother me. It's just as 
 well to make the best of the world. It's 
 big enough for everybody to hide their 
 griefs in." 
 
 These words grated on Anne's ears, 
 for the sharp pain she had but now called 
 up in her heart had scarcely died away, 
 and it was a moment or so before she 
 could summon voice to answer. Then 
 she said, 
 
 " I shouldn't have told you of my life's 
 pain for nothing. Lucy, ma'am, is drift- 
 ing into trouble, and I'd like to have 
 her home out of the way of it." 
 
 "Let well alone, Anne Campbell. I
 
 lyo Is it for Ever 1 
 
 have told you my mind about her. I 
 won't be driven into anything. Fm an 
 obstinate woman when the fit's on me, 
 and a bad-tempered one ; so don't you 
 work me up, or I won't answer for what 
 I won't say." 
 
 *' I can't help it, ma'am. It's in m.y 
 heart to say it. It's my duty, and I'd 
 commit a sin if I didn't say it." 
 
 " Very well, then, take the conse- 
 quences. I feel in a rage already." 
 
 ''I must have Lucy home, ma'am. If 
 you won't let her come for good, let her 
 come for a month or so." 
 
 *' I won't! That's plain English, I 
 think." 
 
 *' It'll be her ruin if she stops here. 
 She'll drift away — she's drifting now " 
 
 "Rubbish!" interrupted Miss Ga- 
 thorne. 
 
 *' Away to a shore where she'll find 
 no rest for the sole of her foot " 
 
 "Fiddlesticks!" 
 
 " A quicksand that will engulf her " 
 — swallow her up " 
 
 " Fudge ! " 
 
 " It'll be too late to save her then.
 
 Anni s Appeal, 171 
 
 And yet, ma'am, mark my words," said 
 Anne solemnly, "you'd cut off your 
 right hand then to have listened to me 
 now. She's been a sacred trust to you 
 all these years. Will you perversely 
 refuse to heed my words and wickedly 
 let her be cast away ? " 
 
 ** Go on. Have you much more of the 
 same sort ? I may as well bear it all. It's 
 an infliction I shall take pretty good care 
 to guard against for the future." 
 
 '* Mr. Richard! ma'am." 
 
 " What ! Is he to come in for his share ? 
 Of course he's a brand to be snatched from 
 the burning." 
 
 *'Lucy loves him, ma'am." 
 
 **You are a coarse woman to blurt it 
 out in that way. I won't believe it. I'll 
 judge for myself. You shan't convince 
 me against my will," said Miss Gathorne, 
 waxing wroth. 
 
 *' You'll let me take her home, say for 
 a time, out of the way of temptation ? " 
 
 *' No, I won't." 
 
 *' He'll find out she loves him." 
 
 ** Let him." 
 
 " You're a very wicked woman, ma'am."
 
 172 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 **Very well, Fll be a wicked woman. 
 You shan't interfere with Lucy." 
 
 " It was a sin on father's part ever to 
 have signed that paper that made her 
 over to you." 
 
 ** Safe bind, safe find. I know where to 
 lay my hand on it this moment." 
 
 ** 'Tis only for father's lifetime." 
 
 *' I know that, and I don't forget him in 
 my prayers, I can tell you. I pray God to 
 prolong his life night and morning, and 
 He's listened to my prayer as yet. And 
 now," said Miss Gathorne, *' I won't be 
 annoyed by you any longer. Leave the 
 room, I've had enough of you." 
 
 *' I've done my duty," replied Anne; 
 *'it isn't my fault if I can't move you. I 
 wash my hands of Lucy. On you alone 
 rest the blame and sin." 
 
 *' Wash away, and good morning to 
 you," said Miss Gathorne, turning her 
 back. 
 
 Crestfallen, but not daunted, Anne went 
 out and left her alone.
 
 173 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 A MEETING AKD WHAT CAME OF IT. 
 
 For a man is not as God, 
 But then most Godlike being most a man. 
 So let me think 'tis well for thee and me — 
 111 fated that I am, what lot is mine, 
 Whose foresight preaches peace, my heart so slow 
 To feel it ! 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 He knows no guilt, who knows no sin. 
 
 Swift. 
 
 ''T'XT'HERE was Mr. Richard? On 
 ^^ your life answer me!" These 
 words of Anne Campbell's rang perpetu- 
 ally in Lucy's ears long after her aunt 
 had left her. She could not recover 
 from the shock they had given her. 
 She felt utterly unnerved both in body 
 and mind, and quite unequal to cope 
 with the magnitude of the evil and misery 
 which the concealment of Richard Les- 
 lie's love might cost her. Her aunt sus- 
 pected her. This thought rose darkly and 
 menacingly above all her mental visions,.
 
 174 ^ it for Ever ? 
 
 and vainly Lucy tried to fathom how 
 much or how little she suspected ; but 
 her poor overtaxed brain could not com- 
 pass . it, and ever and anon she thrust 
 the thought away despairingly, and strove 
 to think only of Richard and his love. 
 Surely the certainty of this ought to 
 cheer and support her through whatever 
 trials might await her. Ah ! and so 
 it would, might she but avow his love, 
 not only to Miss Gathorne, but to the 
 whole world : then, like a true and lov- 
 ing woman, she would bear and suffer 
 anything for his sake, without the fear of 
 betraying a secret by an incautious word 
 or act ; without Indeed a fear of anybody 
 or* anything; for what could harm her 
 when she could openly take refuge in Mr. 
 Richard's love, openly cling to him for 
 protection ? Alas ! for a woman when she 
 falls away. If ever so little, from the path 
 of duty and rectitude. The first step In 
 sin may be but a small one, but to how 
 many does it lead, one after another, 
 swifter, and swifter ! Naturally weak, 
 trustful, and loving, she looks not for — It 
 may be never thinks of — deceit; and
 
 A Meeting and what ca7ne of it. 175 
 
 although' her inborn sense of right makes 
 her steps unwilling ones, yet in time 
 they become strides, and, blinded by her 
 love, not even a precipice stops her way ; 
 and soon there is no way of escape save 
 through him who oftener than not leaves 
 her alone in her misery^ until misery 
 becomes madness, and madness death. 
 Lucy's mind was a tumult of love, sorrow, 
 and fear — fear, not only for Mr. Richard, 
 but for Joe Simmonds. What if Mr. 
 Richard were to die ? Oh, the horror of 
 the thought! And would not Joe be a 
 murderer — a man with every man's hand 
 against him, one who would be sought for, 
 found, and hunted to death ? This latter 
 thought swept away the dreadful misery 
 inspired by the thought of Mr. Richard's 
 death, for her conscience seemed to w^his- 
 per and upbraid her as the primary cause 
 of all the evil that had happened ; and 
 restlessly and feverishly she tossed about 
 the bed, and strove to devise some plan 
 of escape for Joe, supposing suspicion 
 pointed to him on the morrow. But why 
 wait for the morrow ? Surely it were 
 better to act at once, before suspicion
 
 176 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 shaped itself into certainty, or her 
 aunt's rigid sense of duty led her to 
 divulge her suspicions to others ; and the 
 bare idea of this swept across poor 
 Lucy's mind like a fierce, cruel storm 
 of wind, and she sprang from the bed 
 determined to warn Joe, even though it 
 cost her Mr. Richard's love. Lucy was 
 dressed for walking when Bridget entered 
 her room with a cup of hot tea and toast. 
 
 *^ Mercy on us!" she exclaimed, 
 *^ you're never going out. Miss Lucy, 
 and you so bad but now ? " 
 
 Lucy's pale face flushed as she met 
 the housekeeper's astonished gaze; but 
 she did not turn away from the proffered 
 food. She drank the cup of tea and 
 forced herself to eat the toast, and 
 strove as she did so to steady her 
 nerves. 
 
 *' I feel so feverish, Bridget," she 
 answered, " and my head aches so that 
 I know the air will do me good — and 
 — and — I'm fidgetting myself about 
 grandfather." 
 
 *^ But Anne Campbell said he couldn't 
 be going on nicer."
 
 A Meeting afid what ccvie of it, 177 
 
 *^Yes; but Fm craving to see — ///w," 
 said Lucy, meaning Joe Simmonds, 
 but foreseeing well that Bridget would 
 believe the *' him " to mean her grand- 
 father. 
 
 '•' And you're going to take that long 
 walk, when you look fit to drop before 
 you start ? Best wait till to-morrow." 
 
 *' No, no ; I cannot. I must see him 
 before night. I — I — don't know what 
 wouldn't happen if I did not— to grand- 
 father, I mean. He's so old, Bridget, and 
 I mayn't ever see him again — and — and — 
 I'm so mise/able, Bridget." And fairly 
 overcome, Lucy sobbed outright. 
 
 The tears relieved her ; and she looked 
 up at the housekeeper with an almost 
 cheerful face. 
 
 ^'I'm going to hope for the best," she 
 said; "but I vmst go out, Bridget, even 
 if Miss Gathorne gets ever so angry 
 about it." 
 
 "Where there's a will there's a way. 
 You won't find much difficulty as regards 
 Miss Gathorne, for I'm just going to send 
 up her dinner, and as soon as it's over 
 she's to watch by Mr. Richard; so you 
 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 178 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 can go further nor your grandfather's if 
 you're so minded ; " and with a meaning 
 look, Bridget went away, after telling 
 Lucy that it was a toss up whether Mr. 
 Richard got over his illness or not. 
 
 In another ten minutes Lucy had left 
 ** The House," and was walking fast down 
 the village. The sun had nearly set ; but 
 the fear of darkness did not hurry Lucy's 
 footsteps, nor make her start and tremble 
 so — it was the fear of being seen and 
 questioned ; but the cottagers were within 
 doors preparing supper for those who 
 would soon be returning from work, and 
 only noisy groups of children played about 
 in front of the doorsteps, and Lucy reached 
 the end of the village in safety. Here a 
 road branched off to Eastham Nursery, 
 along which, some fields to the left, led to 
 Leaside — a roundabout way, but Lucy 
 determined on going it, as being less 
 likely to be frequented. The first field 
 was passed in. safety, the second also, but 
 a sharp turning or curve led to the stile, 
 which could not be seen until you were 
 close upon it, and as Lucy turned the 
 hedge, she saw, to her extreme dismay,
 
 A Meeting and wjiat came of it, 1 79 
 
 her aunt Anne Campbell standing by 
 it. There was scarcely a possibility of 
 retreat, but Lucy could not have done so 
 had she been so minded, for a leaden 
 weight seemed to stay her feet, and with a 
 half-uttered cry of despair she stood spell- 
 bound. But had she not been so fright- 
 ened she must have seen that her aunt 
 was also greatly startled — almost excited 
 — by her niece's unexpected appearance, 
 although she controlled herself presently, 
 and her voice was, if anything, more 
 severe than Lucy had ever known it, as 
 she bade her " Come here." 
 
 Tremblingly the girl approached, striv- 
 ing to make up her mind as to what was 
 to follow. 
 
 *' Where are you going ? ' ' 
 
 A simple question, but what a terrible 
 secret the truthful answering it would 
 disclose ! 
 
 Lucy hesitated, and then without daring 
 to raise her eyes, said, "I — I have a head- 
 ache, aunt — and — and " 
 
 What further she would have said was 
 smothered by her aunt suddenly placing 
 her hand over her mouth.
 
 1 8o Is it /or Ever ? 
 
 '* Don't tell a falsehood. I can see 
 through you as though you were a bit of 
 glass. I know where you are going ; and 
 it would be a deal better if you'd out with 
 the truth, which is no secret to me." 
 
 *' I'm going home, aunt," said Lucy in 
 desperation. 
 
 *' No, you're not. I won't let you. If I 
 did you'd be out again on your mission, 
 even though you couldn't come before the 
 dead of night. You shall go now, and 
 I'll see you back home afterwards. 
 Come!" 
 
 But Lucy hesitated. What if her aunt 
 was trying to decoy her into some snare 
 that would lead her to betray Joe Sim- 
 monds ? 
 
 *' Why do you hesitate ? " exclaimed 
 Anne. " Are you afraid, now it's come to 
 the push, or will you leave him to be 
 baited and hunted to death, and he with 
 a big strong love in his heart for you." 
 
 ** Oh no, no ! I will save him." 
 
 '*From what ? " 
 
 Lucy was silent. 
 
 ** From what ? Are you afraid to shape 
 the word. Is it murder? Is he dead? "
 
 A Meeting and what came of it. 1 8 1 
 
 **No," came from Lucy's white trem- 
 bling lips. 
 
 *' But he may die, and you fear it. 
 You'll weep and break your heart for him, 
 but you'll try and save the other; or it'll 
 be a life-long sorrow to you if through 
 you harm comes to him. Is it so ? " 
 
 ^'^ Yes ! Oh, aunt, if — if I can only save 
 Joe." 
 
 " Hush ! name no names. Walls have 
 ears, and we have no walls to hide us." 
 
 ** If — if I can only save him," repeated 
 Lucy. 
 
 "If! What need of ifs ? You will 
 save him. You shall ! You must ! It 
 shall never be said that one of us hunted 
 him to the death. He shall be saved, even 
 though the whole parish rise against it. 
 * Blood for blood ! ' that will be the cry. 
 They will search ; they will find a clue, 
 and will hunt, pursue, but never overtake 
 him. He shall be saved — saved through 
 me. Are we not told, ' Vengeance is 
 mine, saith the Lord, I will repay ' ? " 
 
 And Anne Campbell, apparently forget- 
 ful of Lucy's presence, swayed her body 
 backwards and forwards, while her whole
 
 1 8 2 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 face was lit up with excitement and enthu- 
 siasm. Lucy had always from a child 
 been afraid of her aunt, but now some- 
 thing like a terror struck her, shaping 
 itself by degrees into the conviction that 
 her aunt was mad. 
 
 ** We will save him, Lucy," said Anne 
 presently; *'he will listen to you, and 
 you shall go and urge him to fly — fly 
 this very night, before a hand can 
 touch him ! Go ! go and see him. I will 
 wait for you here. Go ! " 
 
 ** What if he should not listen to me ? " 
 
 ** He will listen to yoa. Life is 
 sweet, and he loves you. What need of 
 more? " 
 
 And bidding her ''God speed," Anne 
 assisted Lucy over the stile, and they 
 parted. It was not until Lucy was out 
 on the road again, and close to Leaside, 
 that misgivings arose in her mind 
 afresh, and the courage inspired by 
 her aunt's words began to fail her. 
 What if she did not find Joe, or, find- 
 ing him, came across his father, of 
 whom she felt almost as great a fear as 
 she did of her aunt ? She advanced
 
 A Meetmg and what came of it, 1 83 
 
 slowly and hesitatingly, not daring to 
 look behind her, and only felt reassured 
 when she perceived Joe idly leaning 
 against the open doorway with a pipe 
 in his mouth. If he saw her he gave her 
 no greeting, but rather averted his face 
 from the path up which she was coming. 
 Even when she was close to him, and he 
 must have felt her presence, he took no 
 notice of her, and Lucy, timidly raising 
 her eyes, saw a dogged, sullen look on 
 his face, that she at least had never 
 before seen there. She drew nearer still. 
 
 ** Mr. Simmonds," she said. 
 
 But he never answered ; and his eyes 
 were gazing over her head into the far 
 distance. 
 
 She touched his arm. ** Mr. Sim- 
 monds," she said again. 
 
 He shook off her hand. "Don't touch 
 me," he said, and even the tones of 
 his voice were harsh and sullen ; but it 
 was something to have got him to 
 speak. 
 
 *' Why not touch you?" Lucy asked, 
 again laying her soft touch on his 
 arm.
 
 i84 -^ it for Ever 7 
 
 ** I won't have it. Do you hear? You 
 let me alone, or it'll be the worse for you." 
 
 "- I am not afraid," answered Lucy 
 bravely. 
 
 *' Then you ought to be. My blood's 
 up, raging and tearing about in me like 
 a hot fire; and I ain't sorry, not a bit 
 of it, for what I've done ; and, what's 
 more," said he with an oath, ** I'll glory 
 in it to the last day of my life, short 
 as that seems likely to be." 
 
 ** I've come to try and save you, Joe." 
 
 Joe laughed. 
 
 *' You've come on a wrong errand, 
 then," said he. *' If I've killed him I'm 
 ready to die for it, and ain't a bit sorry 
 for it neither. It's a crime agin the 
 law, but not agin my conscience; that 
 same don't accuse me, anyhow; and I'll 
 face my fate boldly, and never flinch 
 from it. He deserved what he got, 
 and if he was standing before me now 
 I'd do it all over again, and less merci- 
 fully too. Bad as I am, and bad as 
 you think me. Miss Lucy, I've never 
 worked a girl's ruin like he has!" said 
 he with another oath.
 
 A Meeting and what came of it, 1 85 
 
 *' Fm not going to vindicate Mr. 
 Richard," replied Lucy, smothering 
 down the wrath which seemed to choke 
 her; **but you've no right to slander 
 me to my face, and I won't stand it. 
 It's a cowardly thing to attack a woman 
 with nobody by to fight for her." 
 
 *' Didn't I tell you my blood was up 
 and afire? Didn't I ask you but now 
 to let me be, and you wouldn't? Who's 
 to blame?" said Joe recklessly. ''Didn't 
 I warn you that I'd smash his skull 
 some day? Why wouldn't you be warned? 
 Haven't my fingers been itching to 
 be at his throat this long time ? and 
 when I'd the chance, didn't a thousand 
 devils possess me, making me tear at 
 him like a wild beast? Aye, and I'd 
 feel the same way to-morrow, and the 
 next day, and every day, if I heard his 
 lying tongue persuading you to your 
 ruin. What if I up and tell the judge 
 as tries me for this same natural feel- 
 ing, all the lies I heard that same night, 
 and how I wasn't in the end master of 
 myself, and how it was a fair exchange of 
 words and blows atween us ? But I won't. 
 
 \
 
 1 86 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 I'll tell him, though, that I'd do the 
 same again, if I'd the chance, if ever he 
 comes across me — am ready to do it this 
 very minute." 
 
 "God forgive you, Joe," said Lucy, 
 In a voice so touchingly sweet and 
 mournful that its tones somehow fell 
 like cooling snow on Joe's burning 
 heart, softening, as by magic, its fierce, 
 • revengeful don't-carishness. 
 
 And there was yet another fact that 
 helped to soften Joe. He had fully 
 thought that Richard Leslie had re- 
 ceived his death blow; for all Eastham 
 said it was an impossibility he could re- 
 cover; but Lucy's appearance dispelled 
 this illusion ; for though sorrowful and 
 careworn, still there were no signs of 
 the wild despair he had expected and 
 nerved himself to meet ; and much and 
 deeply as he hated his rival, and wished 
 his death, yet a sense of relief was 
 struggling in his heart that he after 
 all had not been his murderer. These 
 few words so kindly spoken by Lucy 
 brought a feeling of repentance, if it 
 were possible he could repent ; and
 
 A Meeting and what came of it? 187 
 
 although he smoked away more vigor- 
 ously than ever, yet his whole bear- 
 ing changed ; an d his arms, which had 
 been so tightly clasped across his breast, 
 hung powerless at his sides. 
 
 Lucy's next words helped still further to 
 calm him. 
 
 *' I neither reproach nor upbraid you, 
 Joe ; but when you raised your hand so 
 rashly, why did you have no thought for 
 me? If I was being deceived, did you 
 serve me by this vengeful act? Why 
 had you no thought of my miser}^ and 
 despair? " 
 
 *' Don't put it to me like this, Miss 
 Lucy," returned Joe, throwing away his 
 pipe and entering the house. Here, draw- 
 ing a chair near the table, he sat down and 
 buried his flushed face in his hands. 
 
 Lucy followed him, and stood by, striv- 
 ing to think what she had best say next. 
 She had not urged the plea that had 
 brought her there, and they might be 
 interrupted at any moment. 
 
 *'Joe! Mr. Richard is not out of danger. 
 He may die yet, and — and — God only 
 knows what will be my misery and despair
 
 1 88 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 then. And not all for him, but for you, 
 Joe." 
 
 *' Don't think of me, Miss Lucy." 
 
 ** But I must ; for though I cannot love 
 you as you wish, and — and if Mr. Richard 
 dies," said Lucy, striving to speak as 
 calmly as she could, "I shall have cause to* 
 hate you ; yet you must not heap more 
 anguish on me by getting your death at 
 my hands. For oh, Joe ! if anything so 
 terrible happens to you I shall go mad." 
 
 "" What am I to do ? It's too late now. 
 I can be sorry I done it, but I can't undo it." 
 
 *' No, Joe, you can't. But you need not 
 wait and court death." 
 
 Joe was silent, and partly encouraged 
 that he gave no dissent, Lucy laid both her 
 hands on his, saying, 
 
 "Joe, you must fly." 
 
 But her hands were throv\^n violently 
 aside, as Joe sprang to his feet as though 
 he had been shot. 
 
 ''Never! Miss Lucy," he exclaimed 
 hotly ; '* never ! so help me, God ! " 
 
 '' Oh Joe, Joe ! why will you speak so 
 hastily, and call God to witness an oath, 
 that if you love me you will break ? ' '
 
 A Meetiyig and what came of it. 189 
 
 But he strode up and down the room, 
 waving her away from him, and repeating-, 
 ** Never ! never ! " 
 
 Impatiently Lucy waited for the time 
 when he should grow calm again, for in 
 his present mood words were worse than 
 useless. Yet, determined as he seemed, 
 something told her that she had power to 
 win him over, if she did but touch upon 
 his strong love for her ; and, distasteful as 
 it was, she must put pride and every other 
 consideration aside, and urge him on that 
 plea. Presently his mood calmed down 
 again, and once more she drew^ near him. 
 
 " Why do you get so angry with me, 
 Joe ? You frighten me ; and it's a poor 
 return for one who has ventured so much 
 for your sake." 
 
 ** Not for my sake, ^liss Lucy." 
 
 *' Yes, for your sake — only for your sake ; 
 believe me or not, as you will, Joe, yet — 
 yet it will kill me if any harm overtakes 
 you." 
 
 "I can't help it," replied Joe, doggedly; 
 "I'll meet my fate, and never shrink from 
 it. I never have turned coward and never 
 w411 ! and I've nothing to live for."
 
 1 go Is it for Ever ? 
 
 ** You love me, Joe, and would destroy 
 me. This is a poor love indeed ! " 
 
 ** Death's better than dishonour," 
 replied Joe, meaningly. *' Fd rather a 
 deal look at you in your coffin than see 
 you living a life of shame." 
 
 '' How dare you say such words to me ! 
 You call yourself a man ! " said Lucy in- 
 dignantly and hotly. *' Fm sorry Fve tried 
 to persuade you to anything. Go your 
 own way, I will not put myself in the way 
 of any more insults, and don't care what 
 becomes of you ; ' ' and she moved towards 
 the door at first quickly ; but as no word 
 from Joe recalled her, she stopped and 
 hesitated on the threshold. "Good-bye, 
 Joe," said she softly; *' I don't suppose 
 we shall ever meet again." 
 
 He raised his head and looked at her as 
 she stood facing him. Would it be their 
 last meeting? would they never meet 
 again ? Was he to part thus with the 
 only girl he had ever loved, or was likely 
 to love? She had not reproached him with 
 the attempt to slay her lover, but had 
 come to try and help him escape the 
 doom that was surely his, if his hated
 
 A Meeting and what cavie of it. 191 
 
 enemy should die ; and instead of being 
 grateful, he had — she said — insulted her. 
 Why had he not been gentle with her ? 
 Why had he not spoken some words in his 
 own self-defence ? She said she did not 
 hate him ; but he felt no love for him 
 would ever grow in her heart now. So 
 wonderfully beautiful in his eyes did she 
 look, that a great despair that she never 
 would be his, and that even his crime had 
 not saved her from, the hand of the villain, 
 who, he would not be dissuaded, was 
 seeking her ruin, came over him, and, 
 stretching out . his hands imploringly 
 towards Lucy, as though to stay her, a 
 great cry came from his overcharged heart. 
 
 The next moment Lucy was by his side. 
 '* Dear Joe, you relent," she whispered 
 in his ear. 
 
 He turned — he clasped her in his arms, 
 close — closer to him, until her warm breath 
 fanned his cheek ; and she did not 
 struggle to release herself from his grasp, 
 but mad as he felt, he dared not, in his 
 humility and sense of her immeasurable 
 superiority, touch her lips with his. It was 
 a moment of weakness ; but Joe rose supe-
 
 192 Is it for Ever? 
 
 rior to it. One" instant he held her ; one 
 instant he felt as if nothing, not even death, 
 could snatch her from him. The next she 
 was outside the house, the closed door 
 between them, and her ears ringing with 
 his last words, ** Never ! never! " 
 
 All the way along the road these words 
 seemed to ring like a knell, and to keep time 
 with her steps, which were consequently 
 slow, although she tried to hurry them, 
 while a dead weight dragged at her heart 
 as she felt that her mission had failed, 
 that even Joe's deep love, which she had 
 felt with every word he had uttered, had 
 been unable to move him out of what he 
 considered the right way ; and miserable 
 as Lucy felt at her failure, there was a feel- 
 ing that Joe was not to be lightly despised, 
 and that he was a better man than she had 
 ever dreamed him to be. Her face, as she 
 joined her aunt, told how the interview 
 had ended, without the few short words 
 in which she whispered her defeat. 
 
 *'We must wait and hope," she said; 
 *' for nothing can be done with Joe." 
 
 "Doesn't he love you? What more 
 did you want to work on ? "
 
 A Meeting and what cai7ie of it, 193 
 
 A bright flush crossed Lucy's cheek as 
 she seemed to feel again with these words 
 the tight pressure of Joe's arms. But she 
 merely answered, 
 
 *' He thinks of what he calls his honour 
 more than he thinks of his love." 
 
 '' And he almost ready to worship the 
 ground you walk on ! Why didn't he come 
 along home with you ? " said her aunt in 
 a tone of unbelief 
 
 " He never offered. He thrust me out of 
 the door, and I dared not go back again ; 
 and indeed, aunt, it would not have been 
 of any use if I had, for if I had talked for 
 ever I should not have moved him. He 
 cannot see that he has done wrong, or, if 
 he does, he is ready to meet the con- 
 sequences." 
 
 To Lucy's surprise, instead of the storm 
 of words she anticipated, her aunt meekly 
 crossed her hands at her waist, saying with 
 a sigh, 
 
 '' ' Man proposes, but God disposes.' 
 We must leave the issue in His hands, 
 assured that what it pleaseth Him to do 
 must be right." 
 
 And very silently, but with different 
 
 VOL. I. 13
 
 194 -^ it for Ever ? 
 
 feelings stirring in the heart of each, they 
 reached "The House," and were thankful 
 to learn from the lips of Bridget that Mr. 
 Richard was certainly — if not better — no 
 worse.
 
 195 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 joe's resolve. 
 
 So the dreams depart, 
 So the fading phantoms flee, 
 And the sharp reahty 
 Now must act its part. 
 
 IVeshuood's {BeadsfroDi a Rosary). 
 
 T3UT Lucy was spared all anguish of 
 ^^ mind, for Richard Leslie gradually 
 and surely, as the days wore on, gained 
 health and strength ; but he resisted 
 all Miss Gathorne's eager entreaties and 
 angry appeals to tell who had been his 
 assailant. On this subject he feigned 
 entire ignorance, and asked Mr. Smithers 
 — whom Miss Gathorne had ushered 
 into his room in the vain hope of elicit- 
 ing something likely to give a clue 
 to the mystery — how a man could be 
 expected to identify another who had 
 attacked him from the rear ; and when 
 reminded by that astute lawyer that his
 
 196 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 injuries, especially the one near the 
 temple, must have been received from the 
 front, had refused — since he, the one 
 most concerned in the matter, was not 
 believed — to say another word on the 
 subject; and had fired out at his aunt's 
 persistency in recurring to a subject so 
 distasteful to him. Mr. Smithers was 
 baffled, and reluctantly confessed that the 
 matter must fall to the ground ; but Miss 
 Gathorne, though silenced, was by no 
 means satisfied or easy in her mind ; 
 gradually a suspicion formed and took 
 root there that her nephew was carrying 
 on some underhand game that he was 
 ashamed of; else why did he not speak 
 out, as she was certain he could, and let 
 punishment overtake the wicked ? But 
 though Richard Leslie refused to point 
 out his murderous assailant, all Eastham 
 had quietly selected Joe Simmonds as the 
 man, not only on account of his frequent 
 escapades in the same line, but on account 
 of the animosity that he had been over- 
 heard to express towards Mr. Leslie. 
 Children hushed their play, women mys- 
 teriously whispered together, and men 
 
 J
 
 jfoes Resolve. 197 
 
 shook their heads ominously, and spoke of 
 a bad end in store for Joe, as he passed 
 through the village ; but Joe seemed as 
 though he heard them not, nor perceived 
 the cold looks he met, for he carried his 
 head as high as ever, and his bearing was 
 dauntless and bold ; but his face, for all 
 that, was clouded over, and he walked as 
 one who recks little what others think of 
 him, or what life has in store. Lucy 
 would never be his, and life had no charms 
 for him without her. 
 
 Joe knew that his enemy had refused 
 to criminate him, and for this Joe 
 had no thanks to give, but, on the con- 
 trary, hated him the more that he 
 should be obliged tamely to submit to 
 accept a favour at his hands, and his 
 blood boiled, and he longed to meet him 
 once more and throw it in his teeth. 
 Sometimes in his moments of wild rage 
 he hoped Richard Leslie might yet die, 
 and his vengeance be complete ; yet 
 day by day brought news of increased 
 health and strength, and he ground his 
 teeth as he thought of Lucy, in all her 
 soft beauty, seeing and sitting with
 
 198 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 him, or helping to nurse in the sick 
 chamber. Joe kept his bitter misery to 
 himself, for with whom could he share it ? 
 His father, though he noted his depres- 
 sion and idleness, gave no heed nor 
 asked the cause, perhaps guessing it 
 too truly ; so Joe wandered about aim- 
 lessly, neglecting his duties, for he had 
 no longer heart to follow them. At 
 one moment he determined on leaving 
 Eastham for ever ; but then again his 
 love for Lucy precluded the possibility 
 of his voluntarily renouncing the sight 
 of her. If he waited he might at least 
 watch over her; but if he went he left 
 the field clear, and no obstacle in the 
 way of his enemy's designs, which it 
 never entered Joe's head to doubt were 
 dishonourable. Lucy studiously kept out 
 of his way; and at first she had little 
 difficulty in doing so, for after their 
 memorable interview Joe feared to meet 
 her ; but this fear soon merged into a 
 hope that he might; and by-and-by, as 
 the days passed on, and he never saw her, 
 this hope gave place to a longing ; and 
 the longing to a positive craving. But
 
 Jo^ s Resolve, 199 
 
 in vain Joe roamed restlessly about the 
 village, or even at last, in desperation, 
 ventured over to John Campbell's ; it was 
 only to hear the same story, that Lucy had 
 been and was gone, or that Anne did not 
 expect her; or that, if she did come, Anne 
 could never tell at what moment ; and 
 Joe dared not remain for any extraor- 
 dinary length of time, lest he should be 
 taken to task for his idleness, or perhaps, 
 what was worse, forbidden the house. 
 So for the ten minutes or so that he 
 remained he would be seated at the 
 window, his eyes fixed on the path up 
 which she might come, his ears strained 
 to catch every sound, or his face flush- 
 ing at each recurrence of it, he himself 
 seldom speaking, or answering at ran- 
 dom when spoken to. At length, so daily 
 were his visits that his chair by the 
 window, though out of its place there, 
 was never moved, but dusted and left 
 as he left it, and Anne, if she gave him 
 no welcome, did not receive him coldly 
 or snub him as she might. 
 
 Joe's impatience and craving to see 
 Lucy at length mastered his resolution
 
 200 Is it for Ever! 
 
 of never going near " The House " again 
 while his enemy was in it ; and though his 
 heart burned hotly with rage, and half- 
 uttered curses rose to his lips as he passed 
 its windows the first time, yet soon he 
 bent his steps there most days, only think- 
 ing of Lucy, only hoping to see her ; but 
 she was never in the way, never loitering 
 near, or if she was, she had ample oppor- 
 tunity for escape before Joe had time to 
 prevent her. 
 
 Miss Gathorne had been for a walk 
 and was returning home. As she neared 
 the gate she perceived a man leaning 
 against it, — an unpardonable offence in 
 her eyes, as she allowed her servants no 
 followers. What could he want? She 
 felt no fear : on the contrary, an inward 
 satisfaction in having detected him. She 
 walked softly as she neared him, but had 
 her steps been giant's strides, Joe (for it 
 was he) would not have heard them. He 
 had caught a distant view of Lucy, and his 
 senses, only alive to that fact, were deaf to 
 all surrounding objects. She had been at 
 the open window, and Joe was straining 
 his eyes to obtain if but a passing, faint
 
 Joe^ s Resolve, 201 
 
 glimpse of her again. Suddenly a hand 
 like a sledge hammer descended on him, 
 and a voice resembling a clap of thunder 
 smote his ear : 
 
 *'What are you doing at my gate, 
 man?" 
 
 Joe turned and doffed his cap. " It's 
 only me, ma'am," he said. 
 
 ** Only you, indeed, Mr. Samson ? " 
 
 Miss Gathorne knew him well — knew 
 also that his name was Simmonds ; yet it 
 was her sovereign will and pleasure that it 
 should be Samson, and so she always 
 addressed him. 
 
 *' And pray, Mr. Samson, why are you 
 leaning your great big body over my 
 gate?" asked she sternly — so sternly 
 that Joe felt nervous, and not a little 
 guilty. 
 
 Somewhere in his heart he entertained 
 a certain awe of Miss Gathorne ; most of 
 the villagers feared her ; and even bold 
 Betsy Harold, though she laughed at and 
 disparaged her loudly, would turn off to 
 avoid meeting her. Joe dared not look 
 his questioner in the face, and had no 
 reply forthcoming, so Miss Gathorne had
 
 202 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 it all her own way with him, and receiving 
 no answer, repeated her question. 
 
 **What are you doing, idling away 
 your time at my gate? I suppose it is 
 not Bridget you're after? or, if it is, you 
 ought to be ashamed of yourself courting 
 a woman old enough to be your great- 
 grandmother. And it can't be Jane, for 
 she's a big strong girl, able to hold her 
 own, I can tell you, and walk over you 
 rough-shod. And it can't be that loiter- 
 ing girl, Mary, who untidies everything 
 she attempts to put to rights : so who is it, 
 if it's anybody?" 
 
 ** If you please, ma'am, it's Miss 
 Lucy," said Joe, feeling hard pressed. 
 
 **Lucy Campbell!" returned Miss 
 Gathorne, in a tone meant to convey 
 surprise, though all along she had known 
 full well it was her protegee ; ** then all I 
 have to say is that it would be far more 
 becoming and proper if you walked boldly 
 up to my house and spoke your mind. 
 Come ! I'll have no shilly-shallying nor 
 stretching about over my gate ; you shall 
 see Lucy, and we'll finish this busi- 
 
 ness."
 
 Joi s Resolve. 203 
 
 **It has been finished, ma'am," replied 
 Joe, " finished to my sorrow." 
 
 *' Has it? Then why are you such a 
 fool as to be mooning about here ? What's 
 the use of trying to make a broken dish 
 whole ? There's just as good a fish left 
 in the sea, if you angle for it properly." 
 
 '*Not to my mind, and I wouldn't 
 stretch out my little finger to cast a line, 
 not if 'twas likely (which it ain't) to bring 
 up a fortune hooked to it." 
 
 ** Then, as I said before, you're a fool, 
 and don't know what's good for you. 
 Tut ! tut, man ! wait till temptation comes, 
 no man is able to resist that. When 
 the tempter comes, in the form of a 
 pretty woman, you'll go down on your 
 knees to her and swear black's white, 
 and all the rest of it. Everything is 
 anything a woman pleases when a 
 man's courting her. Then he fools her 
 to the top of his bent ; but when once 
 she's bound to him for life, then every- 
 thing is anything her lord and master 
 pleases, and she may whistle to get her 
 own way. Old maid as I am, I have not 
 lived fifty-nine years for nothing; I cut
 
 204 ^^ it for Ever? 
 
 my wisdom teeth when a girl in teens, 
 and time has not robbed me of one of 
 them, nor cut any foolish ones. Fm a 
 very wide-awake old maid, and know very 
 well Fm laughed at behind my back; but 
 I have my laugh in return at these same 
 foolish ones." 
 
 ** 'Tain't foolish to love with all one's 
 heart and soul," remarked Joe. 
 
 ** You'll grow to think so. There is 
 such a thing as ' loving not wisely but 
 too well' " 
 
 ** I don't care if 'tis unwise. Fll love 
 i' spite of it." 
 
 Miss Gathorne looked about her, then 
 drawing a step nearer, said, ** You are an 
 honest man, Samson, and have an honest 
 heart. There's little love like yours in 
 this world. You deserve to win Lucy. 
 Come! Fll give you the chance, at all 
 events. Come with me." 
 
 She preceded him to *' The House," 
 little imagining that she had her nephew's 
 assailant in tow, whom not so many days 
 ago she had, when speaking of, called by 
 every bad name she was mistress of, and 
 whom she had declared her instinctive
 
 Joe s Resolve. 205 
 
 feeling of abhorrence would point out to 
 her were she but within speaking distance ; 
 yet not only had her dress touched him, 
 but her hand had come in contact with his 
 while undoing the latch of the gate, and 
 she had called him — an honest man. But 
 if Miss Gathorne had no misgivings, Joe 
 had. He felt he was doing an unwise act, 
 and one Lucy would despise ; also he had 
 a certain fear that the coming interview 
 would not redound to his credit. He was 
 sailing after Miss Gathorne under false 
 colours ; and an unguarded word might 
 raise a wind which might unfurl his true 
 ones. As he passed the dark clump of 
 trees to the right he felt he dared not 
 turn his eyes in their direction, nor think 
 of that night's work, lest he should betray 
 himself Joe's steps were hesitating, 
 faltering ones, but he lacked the moral 
 courage to deny himself sight and speech 
 of Lucy, while his heart kept whispering, 
 as though to quiet his conscience, " Why 
 has she fought so shy of me ? ' ' 
 
 Joe, like most men desperately in love, 
 could not resist the chance offered him 
 of once more trying to gain the prize he
 
 2o6 Is it for Ever ? . 
 
 so ardently longed for. True he had been 
 refused, but, with Miss Gathorne to back 
 him up, he might extort an unwilling 
 promise, which he persuaded himself 
 would be the means of saving Lucy from 
 her betrayer. And then, as her husband, 
 how gentle he would be ! how loving ! 
 Surely in the end she would grow to love 
 him. His dreams of Elysium were 
 rudely interrupted by his matter-of-fact 
 conductor. 
 
 *' Sit there!" she said, pointing to a 
 chair in the drawing-room and ringing 
 the bell. *'Send. Miss Lucy,'' said she, 
 as Carter answered the summons. **Now 
 don't be shamefaced, nor look sheepish, 
 as you are doing now, Mr. Samson ; 
 but behave like a lion, and speak your 
 mind. A woman does not like to see 
 a man afraid of her." 
 
 To be told he looked sheepish was not 
 reassuring to Joe, and certainly did not 
 tend to make him feel like a lion. He 
 was uncomfortable, too, at all the ladylike 
 belongings and objects of vertu he saw 
 around him, and felt completely out of his 
 element. He placed his cap under his
 
 Joi s Resolve, 207 
 
 chair on the ground, and immediately he 
 had done so felt that he had been guilty of 
 a foolish action, as he had now nothing 
 to hold in his hands or cover them with, 
 and they looked both soiled and rough. 
 His boots also were dirty, and his trousers 
 splashed with mud. Besides which, he 
 caught a view of himself in a large mirror 
 opposite, which increased his discom- 
 fiture, for it reflected a visage that struck 
 him with dismay. His hair was more 
 unkempt than usual, and had tangled 
 itself together over his forehead in a rough, 
 brown mass. He frowned as he gazed, 
 making his black beetle brows meet, while 
 his face bore an expression as though 
 its owner defied the image reflected, and 
 was not only brown from honest toil, but 
 red from standing so long in the hot rays 
 of the sun but now. Joe cursed the hated 
 mirror, and placing his elbows on his 
 knees, he rested his chin on them, thus 
 bringing his eyes below its level. But 
 Miss Gathorne rebuked him severely. 
 
 ** Don't sit bent up in that extraordinary 
 fashion ; but hold up your head, eyes 
 front, and stand — no, I mean sit — at ease ;
 
 2o8 Is it for Ever 7 
 
 that's the way my father used to drill 
 me when I was a girl. Why, what have 
 you done with your cap ? " 
 
 ** Here 'tis/' said Joe, immediately pick- 
 ing up the coveted treasure. 
 
 ** Don't put your hands under it like 
 that. Let me see, where does Richard 
 put his hat? I think on the table, but 
 that won't do for you. Of course not." 
 
 The mention of Richard Leslie's name 
 sent the hot fiery blood rushing like mad 
 through Joe's veins. 
 
 *' I'll hold my cap how I like," he 
 exclaimed; *"tain't no concern of 
 nobody's how I hold it. So where' s the 
 odds?" 
 
 Miss Gathorne was saved a response, 
 which might have ended in a pitched 
 battle, by Lucy's entrance. 
 
 She started, and half stopped on the 
 threshold of the door, when she perceived 
 Joe ; and her face paled, then as suddenly 
 flushed ; while with an almost haughty 
 recognition she passed him by and went 
 up to Miss Gathorne. 
 
 ** You sent for me, ma'am," said she. 
 
 *' Yes, I sent for you, and I did not send
 
 Joe s Resolve, 209 
 
 for you ; there sits the man who really 
 sent for you. Now, young man, speak 
 up!" 
 
 But Joe's courage had completely oozed 
 away. He felt desperately sheepish and 
 shamefaced, while a feeling akin to 
 cowardice came creeping over him that 
 effectually tied his tongue. Besides 
 which, how could he speak all the loving 
 thoughts that were in his heart before Miss 
 Gathorne, who, as if to annoy and put him 
 out yet more, had adjusted her spectacles 
 across her nose and was regarding him 
 fixedly ? So Joe remained dumb, and 
 dared not so much as lift his eyes to 
 Lucy's face, much less would his tongue 
 be loosed, or words come at his bidding. 
 
 Miss Gathorne coughed and fidgetted, 
 as though to give him courage ; but Joe 
 only started at each sound, and looked 
 pertinaciously on the ground. So once 
 again ]\Iiss Gathorne broke the ice. 
 
 ** Well, young man ! how much longer 
 are you going to sit there like a dummy, 
 and use your eyes as though they were 
 weighted with lead ? If after all your 
 braggadocio you have not a word to say, 
 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 2 1 o Is it for Ever ? 
 
 why, the sooner you make yourself scarce 
 the better." 
 
 **Iarn't got nothing- as comes across 
 me to say now." 
 
 *' Well, I'm sure ! this after all your big" 
 talk. Why, I thought you had so much to 
 say that the difficulty would be to know 
 how to stop you. If this is what you call 
 courtship, sitting with your eyes and 
 mouth close shut, then all I can say is, 
 it was carried on in a much pleasanter 
 fashion in my younger days." 
 
 *' I can't loose my tongue, ma'am, when 
 you're to the fore." 
 
 "Why didn't you say so sooner?" 
 asked Miss Gathorne. 
 
 ** Oh, ma'am, don't leave me," pleaded 
 Lucy. 
 
 *' Nonsense ! He's not going to eat you." 
 
 *' Mr. Simmonds can have nothing to 
 say to me that you need not hear." 
 
 *' 'Deed but I have, though," exclaimed 
 Joe; ** I want to tell you how I love you. 
 I want to ask you once more to be my 
 wife." 
 
 '*Why should you seek to pain, not 
 only yourself, but me? " replied Lucy.
 
 Joi s Resolve, 211 
 
 ** Pain ! " exclaimed Joe, pressing his 
 hand on his heart; "don't I feel it 
 here every moment of my life ? Doesn't 
 ^N^ry breath I draw stab me cruelly? 
 I daren't think, for thought maddens 
 me. My whole feeling is one ardent 
 longing for your love. Oh, Aliss Lucy, 
 have some pity for me! If you'd only 
 take me and try me for a husband 
 you'd never regret it. I'd be so good 
 — so gentle — so kind and thoughtful 
 of you, after awhile you wouldn't have 
 it in your heart to dislike me ; and if 
 'twas only ever so little love you gave 
 me I'd be thankful and not grudging." 
 
 Angry as Lucy had felt at Joe's pre- 
 sumption in coming to ask her hand of 
 — as she thought — Miss Gathorne, yet 
 by the time he had ceased speaking all 
 angry feelings had died away, for she 
 could not but feel the force of Joe's 
 passionate appeal. Her soft eyes filled 
 with the tears she had some difficulty 
 to restrain. Yet not for a moment to 
 her loyal heart came the thought of the 
 possibiHty of her marrying Joe, that 
 good might come of it. It would have
 
 212 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 been better had she never loved Richard 
 Leslie ; but once having loved him, she 
 could not be disloyal to him, neither 
 could she ever love him otherwise than 
 with her whole heart. She felt sorry for 
 Joe, perhaps a regret also that she had 
 not loved him, and so been free of the 
 sense of guilt that mingled consciously 
 with her present love, and gave her so 
 many heartaches ; but a thought of 
 sacrificing her love never occurred to 
 her. She loved, and was loved; and 
 though bitters were mixed with its 
 sweets, still it was a love that pervaded 
 her whole being, and would hover about 
 her for ever. 
 
 Joe's eyes were not downcast now; 
 they were watching her anxiously, noting 
 each emotion that flitted so • vividly across 
 her face ; and, as if he would stay the 
 words she was about to speak, he once 
 more addressed her. 
 
 *' You don't know what 'tis to feel as 
 I feel, Miss Lucy. I'm reckless — reckless 
 what happens to me. Reckless and 
 unthankful. What signifies it whether it 
 rains or blows a storm, or whether
 
 Joe^ s Resolve, 213 
 
 there's a glint of sunshine? Fd as lief 
 have the first, because it's like my heart, 
 which 'minds me of a whirlwind, only 
 it's one as never leaves off, but does be 
 whirling about for ever. But the sun- 
 shine makes the birds sing, and the 
 children's voices chatter in the lanes, 
 and that drives me to think that I'm 
 the only one cursed and unhappy, and 
 it just makes me feel mad. Oh, Miss 
 Lucy, I hope, please God, you will never 
 have these awful feelings, nor be so 
 despairing, for 'tis terrible bad to bear." 
 
 "Now this is something like," said 
 Miss Gathorne approvingly. "Go on, 
 young man." 
 
 But Joe seemed as though he heard 
 her not; all his faculties were on the 
 strain to catch but ever so faint a 
 glimmer in Lucy's face that could by 
 any chance be construed in his favour ; 
 meanwhile his heart prompted him to 
 speak words which did but at the best 
 only half express the tumult of feelings 
 throbbing within him. 
 
 ** Miss Lucy," said he, "won't you 
 list to me ? Can't nothing that I can
 
 214 -^ it for Ever .^ 
 
 say warm you towards me? Oh, if I 
 did but know what that something was 
 to say, I'd say it over and over again, 
 but I'd please you. I arn't got no 
 pride as respects you — no, not one bit. 
 There may be some who'll speak more 
 to the purpose : 'cause why, they have 
 more learning ; but learning don't make 
 love, no, nor don't keep it neither ; but 
 I'll learn all the same, Miss Lucy, and 
 so help me God ! it shan't be my fault 
 if I don't make a good scholar, if — 
 if you'll only give me hope, if you'll 
 only say, *Joe, I'll think of it.' 'Tain't 
 much to ask, and I so miserable. 'Tis 
 but a straw to catch at, but that same 
 straw '11 float me, and save me sinking. 
 Oh, Miss Lucy, you don't know what 
 this terrible feeling of despair is. It 
 gnaws and gnaws me like a savage wild 
 beast, and tears me with its claws, 
 'most driving me wild with rage. If 
 'twas an open enemy I'd fight it like 
 a man ; but 'tis a secret one, a cold, 
 dead agony like, that grinds on night 
 and day; no matter what I do, nor 
 where I am, I can't shake it off. I can't
 
 yoi s Resolve, 215 
 
 walk it off. There ain't nothing can't 
 stop it. There ain't no cure, no 
 remedy ; for oh ! I love you, Miss Lucy, 
 and nothing- while I live can ever cure 
 that, nor drive that out of my heart. 
 I arn't got no hope. I'm bereft of 
 hope. God help me ! " 
 
 It was not so much the force of Joe's 
 pathetic words that moved his hearers 
 as it was his manly despairing tone, his 
 utter hopelessness, his forgetfulness of 
 self, and his wonderful, touching love 
 for one who, he evidently felt, had some- 
 how drifted away out of his reach and 
 sphere — that moved them as they had 
 never been moved till now. 
 
 As his voice ceased he drooped his 
 head on his breast, seeking no reply from 
 Lucy, waiting, expecting none ; for had he 
 not watched her face all the while he had 
 been speaking, and seen no relenting, no 
 soft-, stray glimmer of a smile, no half-shy 
 eyes, to bid his heart leap within him ? 
 And he knew — felt his fate — felt that for 
 him there was no hope. 
 
 Miss Gathorne shook her head slowly 
 and mournfully as she took off her spec-
 
 2 1 6 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 tacles and wiped off the splash of a tear 
 that had come somehow and dimmed their 
 brightness, but said nothing ; although 
 she sighed once or twice as if she wished 
 to speak, but perhaps feared to betray her 
 emotion. Lucy also was silent, for Joe's 
 words had roused both sorrow and pity; 
 never while she lived would or could she 
 ever say a harsh word to him again ; nay 
 more, she freely forgave whatever fancied 
 ill she had suffered from him in the past ; 
 while, as for the future, she hoped by-and- 
 by — not that he would forget her, for some- 
 thing told her he never would forget — but 
 that when the poignancy of his present 
 feelings were over he would learn to think 
 and speak calmly of what never could be, 
 and that when that time came, and he 
 ceased to love her, a warm feeling of liking 
 would succeed. But here Lucy was wrong ; 
 for, as a general rule, men neither think nor 
 speak kindly of those by whom they have 
 been rejected. Despair akin to madness 
 wears away, and a sore, irritable feeling 
 ensues ; or an angry malevolent one where 
 the love has been of a mild, dispassionate 
 nature. Even when no fault attaches to
 
 Joe s Resolve, 217 
 
 a woman for encouraging a man, but he 
 has persisted in risking a refusal in his 
 own blind selfishness, no friendly feeling 
 arises hereafter to displace his love, 
 neither does he meet his once love with 
 indifference, nor listen calmly, as he ought, 
 to the praises he may hear lavished on 
 her, nor see her surrounded as a wife and 
 mother by those she loves, unmoved. The 
 more she is admired and sought after, so 
 much the more does he hate her, or dispa- 
 rage the high meed of praise bestowed on 
 her. A woman may like a man sufficiently 
 to wish to keep his friendship, when she 
 rejects his love ; or her pride and vanity 
 may urge her toit; but she will, after a 
 while, find his friendship but a poor cloak 
 after all, one that, if needs be, would never 
 afford her a shelter from the storm. 
 
 Joe was suffering fierce and bitter des- 
 pair. His hands covered his face, which 
 was bowed down upon them, and now and 
 then his strong muscular frame shivered 
 like a huge tree smitten by the force of 
 some mighty tempest ; and tempest it 
 was, for suddenly he raised his head, and 
 exclaimed hoarsely,
 
 2 1 8 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 *' I'm cursed ! That's where it is. 
 Never nothing goes right with me ; 
 never nothing will ! There's a curse 
 on me, that's what there is;" and he 
 relapsed into his former attitude. 
 
 "Young man! young man," ex- 
 claimed Miss Gathorne, feeling that now 
 was come the time for her to speak ; 
 *^ young man! there's no curse on you, 
 save the one we all bear. Everything 
 will go right with you if you only put 
 your shoulder to the wheel with a zuill. 
 We can do nothing without God's help, 
 but with His help any man can do what 
 he wills to do. Tut, tut, man ! don't look 
 at me in that way. You are sorrowful 
 and despairing ; but wait awhile. You 
 have got right good stuff in you to work 
 upon ; and you'll do well one of these days, 
 spite of Lucy and your present disappoint- 
 ment. Will it, Samson, ivill it, my man. 
 That's the great point. That's half the 
 battle. Will to rise above this, and, mark 
 my words, you'll rise." 
 
 ** I'll will to win Miss Lucy, then," said 
 Joe, springing to his feet as though new 
 life had been suddenly given him; "yes,
 
 Joi s Resolve. 219 
 
 ril will it heart and soul. God bless you, 
 ma'am! you've given me hope at last; 
 and God bless you too, Miss Lucy, and 
 keep you free from harm ! ' ' 
 
 *' Amen," said Miss Gathorne solemnly, 
 and watched Joe's retreating form down 
 the drive. 
 
 ** I just took him in the nick of time," 
 said she to Lucy presently ; *' your silence 
 had driven him to despair, when my flow 
 of words suddenly inspired him with life 
 and hope. I don't think I put it to him 
 badly. I am sure I did not. I believe 
 I'm a humbug; no, I don't; for if I did 
 I should be miserable. Poor, wretched, 
 unhappy young fellow ! I wonder if his 
 hope will come to anything ? ' ' 
 
 " I think not, ma'am." 
 
 *' Ah, you only think, you are not sure 
 of it." 
 
 ** I — I am sure of it." 
 
 *'Sure that he won't win you. Very 
 well, if you are sure you must have some 
 good reason for being so sure. So what 
 is it ? Come ! out with it." 
 
 "• I have no reason, ma'am." 
 
 **I ought not to have asked you; you
 
 220 Is it for Ever? 
 
 had no escape but in falsehood or pre- 
 varication. Well, I do not insist upon 
 your loving him ; but all the same you 
 will never find, go where you will, a love 
 so strong, unselfish, true, or lasting as 
 this great big Joe Samson's. This is my 
 opinion, and Fll stick to it; and no one 
 shall convince me to the contrary, 
 and " 
 
 But just at this moment a shadow 
 slanted across the room from without, 
 and Miss Gathorne looked hastily towards 
 the window. 
 
 *' I believe it's John Campbell," said 
 she. ** Now God grant your grandfather 
 is no worse ; run, girl, run and see." 
 
 In evident perturbation Miss Gathorne 
 waited Lucy's return, and amused herself 
 in the interim by uttering her thoughts 
 aloud. 
 
 ** God forbid," said she, " that any- 
 thing should happen to the old fellow 
 just yet, when I was counting my chickens 
 so nicely, even to their very feathers. 
 I thought I was safe for the next three 
 months. Dear me, this must be one of 
 my unlucky days ; and that Samson must
 
 Jois Resolve, 221 
 
 have been the raven who croaked at me. 
 That odious woman, Anne Campbell, will 
 be down on me like a cannon-ball, cutting 
 me up into so many little bits to peck at. 
 How she will work away with her tongue ! 
 But she'll find me tough. I won't give in 
 without a struggle, and a stiff one." 
 
 At this moment Lucy came back with 
 eyes swimming in tears. 
 
 *' Oh, ma'am! Oh, Miss Gathorne " 
 
 *' There, don't stand oJnng there. Have 
 done that whimpering, and speak out. 
 I suppose you've heard bad news of your 
 grandfather? " 
 
 *' Yes, ma'am. May I go ? " 
 
 " A pretty thing, indeed ! May you 
 go ! And what's to become of me, and 
 who's to give Mr. Richard his tea ? " 
 
 *'I don't know, ma'am. Grandfather's 
 dying," said she, with a burst of sobs. 
 
 ** I'm heartily sorry to hear it, and — 
 yes, of course you must go. I can't stop 
 you, or I would, so go along with you ; 
 and, mind, I must insist on your coming 
 back here to-night." 
 
 *' Yes, ma'am." 
 
 '' Very well, then; don't forget you have
 
 222 Is it for Ever? 
 
 promised it. Good-bye, and God bless 
 you; " and, much to Lucy's surprise, she 
 drew her to her and imprinted a kiss on 
 her forehead; " now go," and she almost 
 pushed her from the room. 
 
 *' I could sit down and cry, that I could, 
 cry with sheer vexation and worry," mut- 
 tered Miss Gathorne ; *' to think that this 
 provoking old man should die ! It comes 
 on me at a most worrying time, and is a 
 downright hardship. I have a great mind 
 to go to bed and have a regular sick fit 
 and frighten everybody about me. I'll do 
 it, too, as a sort of dernier ressort to get 
 Lucy back, in case Anne Campbell proves 
 obstreperous. Yes, yes ; I won't be ill 
 now ; I'll 'bide my time, and choose my 
 own day and hour." 
 
 **If you please, ma'am," said Carter, 
 opening the door, ** Betsy Harold wishes 
 to see yon." 
 
 *' Then I'll see her. Send her in. I'm 
 just in the mood for her."
 
 23 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 BETSY HAROLD. 
 
 She was a phantom of dehght, 
 When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 
 A lovely apparition, sent 
 To be a moment's ornament : 
 Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; 
 Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 
 But all things else about her dra\vn 
 From May-time and the cheerful, dawn ; 
 A dancing shape, an image gay. 
 To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 TF Betsy Harold had a weakness it was 
 -*- for bright ribbons. All her little savings 
 went to buy a yard or half a yard of rose 
 or blue. She tied them in her hair, round 
 her neck, and would, if she had dared, have 
 tied one round her shapely waist ; but this 
 her mother would not allow ; so Betsy was 
 obliged to content herself with a bright 
 glistening buckle instead. She was a 
 picture of youthful health and strength ; 
 stout and comely, with a quantity of thick
 
 2 24 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 dark hair, which she fastened up in a fashion 
 of her own, so as to make the most of its 
 luxuriance, with, as I have said, a bright 
 ribbon, which made it look a richer tint 
 of brown, nearly approaching black. Her 
 eyes were bright and sparkling, as dark as 
 sloes, but withal bold-looking, not belying 
 her natural disposition, which was fearless 
 in the extreme. She was wont to say she 
 cared for nought and nobody. As a child 
 she made good her words by leaping into 
 the millstream after a stick, thereby nar- 
 rowly escaping drowning ; and as a girl 
 she had made them good by going fair- 
 ing to Northborough in a hat with a long 
 curling white feather, braving, not alone 
 her mother's wrath, but the disparaging 
 whispers and comments of the whole 
 village. Betsy was inordinately vain, and 
 her vanity prompted her to many sins, one 
 of which was the propensity for flirting. 
 She had many admirers, and even those 
 who in sober moments did not admire her, 
 she somehow, either by flattering their 
 vanity or their senses, or by her pleasant- 
 looking beauty — for her face was generally 
 wreathed in smiles — drew within her net
 
 Betsy Harold. 225 
 
 for awhile, sometimes from those girls 
 whose acknowledged sweethearts they 
 were ; and many were the heartaches and 
 weeping eyes she caused, to say nothing of 
 the fights and drunken brawls, followed by 
 broken heads, of those whom for the time 
 being her bright eyes and cunning tongue 
 had bewitched. Her mother's warnings 
 she disregarded, and indeed laughed at ; 
 and those acquaintances who ventured to 
 remonstrate with her she silenced by ask- 
 ing, "• Who was to fault? — not she, she was 
 sure. If the boys chose to kill one another 
 because God had made her handsomer than 
 her neighbours, she wasn't going to fash 
 herself about it." So Betsy came to be 
 looked upon as an evil-disposed girl, one 
 who would come to harm ; but Betsy 
 only laughed and said she was old enough 
 and big enough to take care of herself 
 At the same time, this same care she would 
 willingly have bestowed on Joe Simmonds ; 
 but he, with his heart filled to overflowing 
 with sweet Lucy Campbell, who was so 
 totally dissimilar, would have nothing to say 
 to her. Betsy resented his coldness and 
 want of discrimination, secretly vowing to 
 VOL. I. 15
 
 2 26 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 displace Lucy by fair means or foul ; but 
 as yet she had had no success, although 
 many had been her opportunities of firing" 
 his jealousy or vanity by parading a rival, 
 especially on the day on which she had 
 gone fairing to Northborough. Joe had 
 fought shy of her during the first part of 
 the day, perhaps afraid to trust himself 
 within the influence of her witching smiles 
 and bright, rosy face ; but eventually he 
 had escorted her home in the drizzling 
 rain, laughing and making a mockery of 
 her draggled dress and limp feather ; so 
 that her handsome face became clouded 
 with shame and anger, and her heart 
 charged with mingled feelings of out- 
 raged pride and vanity, which she in vain 
 attempted to conceal. 
 
 To-day Betsy had put on none of her 
 finery ; possibly — boldly as she made her 
 entrance into Miss Gathorne's drawing- 
 room — there might be a certain fear lurk- 
 ing in her innermost heart that that lady 
 might ridicule her ; but be that as it may, 
 she stood with undaunted bearing in 
 a dark brown dress, rather longer than 
 became a village maiden in the length of
 
 Betsy Harold, 227 
 
 its folds behind, but in front cut away to 
 show her shapely foot ; her bright eyes 
 looking boldly from under a brown straw 
 hat, with a tasty bow of the same, while 
 her head was fearlessly tossed about 
 somewhat pertly, with a sort of spirited 
 don't-carishness. Sober as her dress 
 was. Miss Gathorne's quick eyes detected 
 a flashy brooch with a glittering coloured 
 stone in her snow-white collar, and studs 
 to match in her cuffs, while floating away 
 behind was one of Betsy's recent purchases, 
 the long waving ends of a bright blue rib- 
 bon, which she had not had the strength 
 of mind to resist wearing, and which she 
 flattered herself would escape notice, or, 
 if it didn't, was no odds to anybody. 
 
 *' A peacock," muttered Miss Gathorne, 
 as she looked at her; *' a gaudy peacock." 
 And her words were not spoken so low 
 but what Betsy caught the drift of them, 
 and her dark eyes flashed, as she stood 
 at once on the defensive. 
 
 *' Good morning, ma'am," said she, 
 omitting the curtsey that Lucy in her 
 innate feelings as a lady would have 
 thought it no degradation to have made.
 
 2 28 Is it for Ever? 
 
 ** Good morning," returned Miss Ga- 
 thorne, fixing her spectacles more firmly 
 on her nose, " good morning. To what 
 am I indebted for the honour of this visit ? " 
 And rising from her chair with a kind of 
 mock humility, as if her visitor had been 
 no less a personage than Her Majesty 
 Oueen Victoria, she, as well as the 
 Stiffness of her rheumatic joints would 
 allow, made a sweeping curtsey, as 
 nearly approaching the ground as she 
 could. 
 
 Betsy Harold was taken aback. If this 
 was the way of gentlefolks she wished 
 she had attended to her mother's parting 
 injunction, and made a curtsey on her 
 entrance, but she wasn't going to do it 
 now, and let the old thing think she was 
 afraid of her. 
 
 *' Pray, Miss Betsy Harold, take a seat. 
 Don't be tiring your dainty feet by stand- 
 ing so long." 
 
 Betsy sat down mechanically, hardly 
 able to make out whether the lady was 
 making game of her or not. 
 
 *' You are the second visitor I have had 
 this morning. Mr. Joe Samson has been
 
 Betsy Harold, 2 2g 
 
 here making himself very agreeable for 
 the last two hours." 
 
 ** Simmonds, don't you mean, ma'am ? " 
 
 ** Well, Simmonds, if you Hke; but 
 Samson is more to my taste ; it is so sug- 
 gestive of a broad Herculean frame, 
 massive shoulders, and — no, not handsome 
 face, but a very honest, open one. There's 
 a fine man for a husband ! but, good lack, 
 you would not suit him." 
 
 " Perhaps he wouldn't suit me," replied 
 Betsy with a toss of her head. 
 
 *' He would not. He has a soul above 
 flaunting ribbons, and flashy, worthless 
 tinsel, and would throw such rubbish be- 
 hind the fire." 
 
 " He ain't likely to get the chance," 
 said the girl, waxing wroth ; " besides, 
 there's as good and better nor he indeed 
 down the village, as 'ould give their eyes 
 to tie my ribbon or pin in my brooch, if 
 they be so flashy and flaunting." 
 
 " Poor blind creatures ! They must 
 have parted with their eyes already, or 
 they would never be so foolish." 
 
 *' 'Tain't foolish ! Leastways, some 
 ain't."
 
 230 Is it for Ever? 
 
 *' Jacob Ernslie, the blacksmith?" 
 asked Miss Gathorne, sarcastically. 
 
 **Yes, and scores more," returned 
 Betsy defiantly. 
 
 *' Scores more ! And you call yourself 
 a decent girl ? " 
 
 *' I ain't ondecent, anyhow," said she, 
 daringly. 
 
 ** You're a vain, forward, mocking girl, 
 with neither manners nor breeding." 
 
 *' I'm same as mother brought me up 
 to; no one ain't troubled themselves to 
 give 7ne no learning, nor make a lady of 
 me. ' ' 
 
 "• And a pretty recompense you would 
 be to them if they did." 
 
 '* Perhaps I should, and perhaps I 
 shouldn't. Depends on what I was 
 taught. I ain't thankless." 
 
 " Then be thankful for the love of Jacob 
 Ernslie, and don't trifle with him too long, 
 and don't be angling for what you will 
 never get. There is a fish, and a big 
 strong one too, who is too wide awake 
 to be caught dangling at the end of your 
 line, even if you cast it ever so cunningly 
 and temptingly."
 
 Betsy Harold, 231 
 
 "I ain't going to angle for nobody, 
 ma'am. Men angles for me," said she, 
 with a laugh that showed a row of even 
 pearly white teeth. "As for Joe Sim- 
 monds, why shouldn't I try my luck with 
 him as well any other girl? I ain't 
 ashamed o' loving him. 'Tisn't my fault," 
 said she carelessly. 
 
 *' Yes, it is your fault; and it will cost 
 you a pretty good heartache one of these 
 days, mark my words if it does not. You 
 lead the men a pretty dance as yet, down 
 the middle and up again, and. down the 
 middle and a broken head, and no up 
 again this time. Take care, Betsy Harold ; 
 you will try it once too often, and be a 
 miserable woman in the end. Repent and 
 marry, don't marry and repent afterwards. 
 Settle down while you may, keep your 
 husband's house, and mind the children." 
 " I don't want no children. I know 
 what they is about a house, rumpaging 
 and haggling one another all day long. 
 I've got to mind 'em again, for mother's 
 out on a job, ma'am. Was sent for the 
 first thing this morning." 
 
 "Mrs. Shaw, the baker's wife, I suppose?
 
 232 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 Unfortunate woman ! as if she had not 
 enough mouths to feed already, without 
 a young baby to vex and worry her." 
 
 "■ 'Tisn't her, ma'am ; 'tis Mrs. Thomp- 
 son, she as lost her husband wot was killed 
 a falling down the pit not so long ago ; 
 and mother bid me run up and tell you, 
 'cos she said you particular wanted to 
 know when she was took." 
 
 **And so I did. Wait, I'll ring for 
 Bridget, and she shall give you whatever 
 you want." 
 
 *' Please, ma'am, I don't know what I 
 want. Mother didn't tell me." 
 
 ** Then your mother is a greater sim- 
 pleton than I took her for." 
 
 Mrs Harold, Betsy's mother, was the 
 village nurse, and many were the births 
 she assisted at, and the little strangers 
 she nursed ' and dandled in her great 
 strong fat arms, and not only in Eastham 
 itself, but in some of the better class of 
 houses lying beyond. Since the untimely 
 death of Mrs. Thompson's husband Miss 
 Gathorne had taken his widow under her 
 special consideration, and had promised 
 to do what she could for her when her
 
 Betsy Harold, 2'^'^ 
 
 baby was born ; hence the reason of 
 Betsy's appearance at **The House," Mrs 
 Harold g-iving her no instructions, simply 
 because she never for an instant thought 
 any one could be ignorant, where she was 
 so monthly wise. 
 
 *'Well, Bridget," said Miss Gathorne, 
 as her housekeeper entered, "here is a 
 pretty kettle of fish. Mrs. Thompson has 
 a baby at last, and no one seems to know 
 what can possibly be wanted for it. Can 
 you pack a basket with the needful ? ' ' 
 
 '' Why, of course I can, ma'am, and will 
 set about it this minute." 
 
 Away went Bridget full of importance, 
 as women mostly are when a baby is 
 concerned, and Miss Gathorne once more 
 turned to Betsy. 
 
 ** Well, Betsy, it's of no use keeping you, 
 especially as you don't seem to have two 
 ideas in your head about babies, except 
 to vote them a nuisance ; so you had 
 best go away home, and tell your mother 
 on your road that I'm sending everything 
 she wants ; but at the same time I think, 
 as I always shall, that it's a very foolish 
 piece of business altogether, this of Mrs.
 
 234 -^ it for Ever ? 
 
 Thompson's, having a baby when she has 
 no husband to work for it ; besides, the 
 fact of her having seven children already 
 to torment her — but there, some people 
 are never content." 
 
 *' Bless me, ma'am," said Betsy, some- 
 what rudely, '' she can't help having it. 
 And 'tisn't a baby neither." 
 
 ** Not a baby!" exclaimed Miss Ga- 
 thorne, aghast. ** Good gracious ! Then 
 what on earth is it ? " 
 
 *' Why, 'tis babies, to be sure," returned 
 the girl, laughing, partly at what she con- 
 sidered her own wit, and partly at the 
 horror expressed on Miss Gathorne's face. 
 
 ** Babies — babies ! " — repeated Miss 
 Gathorne, as though she distrusted the 
 evidence of her senses; *'how many of 
 them?" 
 
 **Lor! ma'am, only two, in course; 
 people don't never have a lot of 'em, 'cept 
 'tis for a show to make money by." 
 
 ** How dare you joke about such a 
 dreadful thing, you impertinent hussy? " 
 
 ** Hussy, indeed ! " retorted Betsy; " I 
 ain't no hussy, I's a respectable girl; 
 and I ain't making a joke about the
 
 Betsy Harold, 2'^^ 
 
 babies. Mother calls 'em a pigeon's 
 pair ; and great, fat, strong babies they 
 is, as '11 make a fine shindy in the cottage. 
 I've seen 'em." 
 
 **It's more than I will do, then. I will not 
 look at them, nor have them ever brought 
 here. Big babies, too, as if she couldn't 
 have been satisfied with one small one. 
 The world is turning upside down, and 
 dropping babies by the handful as it turns. 
 Babies, indeed ! I'm positively ashamed 
 of the woman." Then, detecting, as she 
 fancied, a smile on Betsy's mouth, she 
 went on more angrily, " There's nothing 
 to laugh at. It's no foolish, ridiculous 
 thing to make a laughing-stock of, but a 
 heartless sin to her children, and a total 
 want of respect for her dead husband's 
 memor}\ That is what it is ! She may 
 call herself a respectable laundress, but it 
 is more than I think her, and I don't 
 believe I'll ever give her another rag to 
 wash from this house. She may be quite 
 infectious with her babies." 
 
 Betsy rose, with a set, determined reso- 
 lution of lancing a parting shaft at the 
 lady, who had made her wince with morti-
 
 22,6 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 ficatlon and outraged pride more than 
 once during the last half hour ; so stand- 
 ing up, she crossed her hands meekly at 
 her waist, pursing her rosy lips in a pious, 
 saint-like fashion, and without a single 
 toss of the head, said humbly, 
 
 '* 'Tis a trouble and expense, sure 
 enough, having two babies instead o' one, 
 and she a lone widow what has seen a deal 
 of sorrow; but 'tis God's will she should 
 have 'em, and no one can't go against 
 His will. So she's had 'em, and if you 
 don't want to do nothing for 'em, God as 
 sent 'em '11 feed and clothe 'em for her." 
 
 Miss Gathorne looked up at her 
 sharply. 
 
 *' You'll come to a bad end, true enough, 
 Betsy Harold; mark my words if you 
 don't." 
 
 *' 'Tain't a pleasant thing to be told, 
 anyhow, and 'tain't a charitable feeling, 
 ma'am, on your part," replied Betsy, 
 pursing up her mouth more tightly and 
 piously, with a glance meant to be 
 reproachful. 
 
 *' Go along home, you pert minx, and 
 don't show your face here again with
 
 Betsy Harold. 237 
 
 messages, or on any other pretext. I 
 have had enough of you ! " 
 
 "• Thank you, ma'am. Good day." 
 And this time Betsy dropped an hum- 
 ble curtsey. 
 
 *' Be off with you ! " was all the 
 answer Miss Gathorne vouchsafed. 
 
 And Betsy took herself off to the 
 kitchen, where she found Bridget with a 
 basket all ready packed for Mrs. Thomp- 
 son. 
 
 ** There, take it carefully and steadily, 
 and don't be up to any pranks on your 
 road, or you'll spill the drop of brandy 
 about. I suppose you haven't heard how 
 old Mr. Campbell is ? " 
 
 ** No. Is he worse ? " 
 
 *' He's had another stroke. John 
 Campbell says the old gentleman's 
 dying." 
 
 Away went Betsy, her heart dancing 
 and leaping within her at this piece of 
 news ; for all the village somehow knew 
 that Anne Campbell wanted her niece 
 back again, and that as soon as Mr. 
 Campbell died, back she would take her, 
 without so much as by-your-leave to the
 
 238 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 lady who had brought her up ; and the 
 idea of Lucy's grandeur, with all her fine 
 clothes and fine belongings, being about 
 to be stripped from her was nuts to Miss 
 Betsy Harold, whose heart leaped and 
 danced within her at the thought ; while 
 her feet seemed to tread on air, and she 
 could not resist a few pirouettes as she 
 went along ; and the bottles danced 
 about and reproached her with her levity ; 
 but she only twirled about the more, sing- 
 ing a refrain that Bridget ought to have 
 packed them better; and in this reckless 
 mood she reached Mrs. Thompson's, 
 where her mother was for the time being 
 officiating. 
 
 ** There!" said she, *' there's the 
 goodies. I'd a awful deal o' trouble to 
 get 'em ; such a fash as she made about 
 'em, to be sure;" and she gave the 
 basket into her mother's hand. *' The old 
 wretch was as waxy as anything when I 
 told her 'twas a pair o' babies, and said 
 Mrs. Thompson hadn't ought to have had 
 'em, and that she's quite ashamed o' her, 
 and won't let her wash any more o' her 
 old rags, and a lot more as I've forgotten.
 
 Betsy Harold, 239 
 
 Oh, 'twas rare fun. Such a lark ! as 
 good as a pantomime to hear. I wouldn't 
 ha' missed it for anything. No money 
 to pay, and a sight o' acting. My stars, 
 how her old head, did wag." And Betsy 
 laughed until the tears stood in her eyes. 
 
 ''You're a disgrace to me, that's what 
 you are," made answer Mrs. Harold ; 
 *' you jeering, good-for-nothing girl ; 
 you'll come to a bad end, that you will, 
 sure enough." 
 
 '''Twon't be nobody's fault if I don't, 
 seeing every one do be a fortune-telling o' 
 it for me. I suppose I'm likely to go there 
 sharp." 
 
 Mrs. Harold, who was busying herself 
 examining and unpacking the contents of 
 the basket, here looked up angrily. 
 
 **Why, you bad, careless, lazy wench! 
 If you haven't gone and spilled 'most 
 every drop o' the brandy. I'm 'most 
 ready to lay a stick about your back, 
 that I am. Oh, whatever shall us do, and 
 Mrs. T. a wanting of it so badly? " 
 
 *• Don't you take none o' what's left, 
 and then Mrs. T. '11 have her share, and 
 as much as she'd ha' got if the bottle
 
 240 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 had never been spilled;" and, laughing 
 defiantly at her mother's wrath, Betsy 
 proceeded on her way — not home to mind 
 the house and her younger brothers and 
 sisters, but in a totally opposite direction, 
 across the fields to Eastham Nursery, 
 which, when she reached, she walked 
 boldly up to the house and knocked at 
 the door. It was opened by Anne 
 Campbell, her face flushed and her eyes 
 bearing unmistakable evidence of exces- 
 sive weeping. 
 
 ^'What do you want?" she asked 
 sharply. 
 
 ** Mother's respects, and would be glad 
 to know how old Mr. Campbell is ? " 
 
 ** He's dead," was the short, sharp, 
 answer, dashed forth. 
 
 **rm sorry " began Betsy. 
 
 **Stop! You're not a bit sorry. I 
 don't believe a word of it. You're glad 
 on Lucy's account. I know your bad 
 heart, and I know you're rejoicing at 
 Lucy's come-down, and the loss of all her 
 fine feathers and gewgaws ; but she'll 
 make the better wife for Joe Simmonds ; 
 and there won't be nothing to hinder his
 
 Betsy Harold. 241 
 
 having her for a wife now ; and his wife I 
 mean her to be before the summer's 
 done." 
 
 The door was closed with a sharp bang, 
 peculiar to Anne, and Betsy presently 
 found herself wending her way home- 
 wards somewhat disconsolately. 
 
 "What a cantankerous old witch ! Fd 
 like to scratch her, that I would ! And 
 there's indecent haste, marr}dng Lucy 
 straight off before the old one is stiff in 
 his grave. I wonder how Lucy '11 like 
 plucking the down off her feathers, and 
 being at that old wretch's beck and call. 
 Oh, but it'll be rare fun to see her!" 
 
 All the same Betsy's step was neither 
 so jaunty nor so quick as she went home- 
 wards. The chance of Joe Simmonds 
 being her rival's husband, before long 
 effectually damped her spirits, and the 
 snatch of a song, which she attempted 
 by way of bravado, she broke dow^n in 
 miserably. 
 
 VOL. I. 16
 
 42 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 IN THE CHURCHYARD. 
 
 Her treading would not bend a blade of grass, 
 Or shake the downy blow-ball from his stalk ! 
 But like the soft west wind she shot along, 
 And where she went the flowers took thickest root. 
 As she had sowed them with her odorous foot. 
 
 Beii Jonson. ^ 
 
 /^NE would have thought that the 
 ^^ death of so old a man as Mr. Camp- 
 bell would have been scarcely noticed by 
 the villagers, and that he would have 
 been quite forgotten almost as soon as 
 the earth had rattled down over his last 
 resting-place ; for the aged, although re- 
 gretted, can scarcely be wept or mourned 
 for, even by those nearest and dearest to 
 them, seeing they have run the race 
 allotted them in this world. But there 
 was one circumstance connected with, and 
 brought about by, the old gardener's 
 death which served to keep the remem- 
 brance of him as an evergreen spot in
 
 In the Churchyard, 243 
 
 the minds of the villagers — his grand- 
 daughter's return to her early home. 
 
 Lucy had not been allowed to keep her 
 promise to Miss Gathorne, and had never 
 returned to "The House," although that 
 lady had been to the cottage to have 
 it out, as she said, with Anne, and had 
 stormed and threatened, ridiculed and 
 insisted, and lastly, pleaded, for the re- 
 possession of her protege. But all in 
 vain : Anne was obdurate and inflexible, 
 and gloried in keeping her niece out of 
 temptation and harm's way, or, as Miss 
 Gathorne tritely expressed it, " out of the 
 jaws of the devil ; " so the lady was driven 
 home in her yellow coach, a defeated, and, 
 as Bridget soon detected, disappointed, 
 unhappy woman, more fractious and 
 waspish than ever, and soon to be a 
 lonely one, when Mr. Richard was well 
 enough to rejoin his regiment. 
 
 The days wore on. There was nothing 
 of event to chronicle in Eastham. Richard 
 Leslie advanced steadily towards con- 
 valescence ; and Joe Simmonds returned 
 with a will to his farm -work, yet scarcely 
 with a satisfied mind, although Lucy was
 
 244 Is it for Ever? 
 
 more come-at-able, now she was no longer 
 the fine lady, and he could see her when- 
 ever he went to the nursery ; and it was 
 not his fault if his steps turned another 
 way than the one his heart dictated. 
 Lucy, though she could not be said to 
 encourage his visits, received him kindly, 
 and as yet Joe had seemed content, and 
 had not hinted at anything beyond ; yet 
 the net with which Anne Campbell sought 
 to enclose her niece w^as tightening 
 gradually and — alas for Lucy ! — surely, 
 and she, poor bird, awaiting the chain of 
 events calmly, without a suspicion of her 
 danger. Her aunt treated her kindly, and 
 gave her no hard tasks, no dirty work for 
 her dainty white small fingers to do, yet 
 she was never idle ; she could not be idle, 
 her heart — for all her calm, quiet de- 
 meanour — being restless and dissatisfied. 
 What if her fingers plied swiftly and deftly 
 her needle, and she mended and made 
 whatever there was to be done in the 
 house ? — her heart was all the time as busy 
 as ever her fingers were, conjuring up 
 visions of future happiness, in which Mr. 
 Richard stood pre-eminent, or conjectur-
 
 In the Churchyard, 245 
 
 ing whether he ever thought of her, or 
 sighed and longed to see her as she did 
 him ; while the remembrance of the im- 
 passioned kiss he had pressed on her lips 
 on the day on which she had left "The 
 House," and had managed to steal to his 
 bedside to whisper her adieux, would rush 
 unbidden to her mind, bringing tears to 
 her eyes, and an irrepressible longing to 
 hear if only his voice again, or feel the 
 warm, tight, loving pressure of his hand. 
 
 Two months passed away — two wear}% 
 slow months to Lucy. She was sitting in 
 the little parlour, with her usual work in 
 her lap, for her hands and needle were 
 alike idle. They were often idle now, for 
 Lucy was losing heart — ^was beginning to 
 look uDon her aunt with a something 
 akin to fear, and Joe Simmonds' visits 
 with suspicion — to feel a wish for escape 
 creeping over her, a sense of anxiety as 
 to her future, with a longing to be rid, at 
 all hazards, of her present life. She had 
 accidentally heard that morning what she 
 had been expecting yet fearing to hear 
 for days past — namely, that Mr. Richard 
 was on the eve of rejoining his regiment;
 
 246 Is it for Ever? 
 
 and although Northborough was not so 
 far off but what he might come and go 
 much as it suited him, yet Lucy felt the 
 longing to see him rising in her heart 
 more intensely than ever. How could 
 she let him go without seeing him, with- 
 out speaking with him, without hearing 
 him tell her once again that he loved her, 
 without knowing whether there was a 
 chance that all the misery she was now 
 suffering would soon be at an end, and 
 she known to all Eastham as his promised 
 wife ? Oh, if it might soon be thus, and 
 she able to look at her aunt without fear, 
 and without fear brave her anger ! As 
 the morning wore on, Lucy grew yet 
 more impatient and restless. It might be 
 unmaidenly to seek her lover, but he 
 would not think of that, or, if he did, 
 would forgive and excuse it, seeing it was 
 an act prompted by her great love for 
 him. But how seek him ? how escape 
 her aunt's ever-watchful eyes? — for since 
 she had been at the cottage, Anne had 
 never trusted her out of her sight. She 
 was never allowed out alone, or if she 
 expressed a wish for a walk, her aunt
 
 In the Churchyard. 247 
 
 was always ready dressed to accompany 
 her ; and Lucy had come to see that 
 she was not expected to walk out but 
 once a day, and this at a stated time in 
 the afternoon. Once a week Anne took 
 her to ** The House," but Miss Gathorne 
 never seemed pleased to see her, and her 
 aunt never, under any pretext whatever, 
 allowed her to absent herself from her 
 side in the drawing-room, where she sat 
 an apparently indifferent listener to the 
 tart — not to say rude — speeches Miss 
 Gathorne made; so that poor Lucy, at 
 the risk of being thought ungrateful, had 
 begged earnestly that these unprofitable 
 visits might cease — a request her aunt had 
 not been slow to grant. 
 
 Lucy sat alone by the window ; yet not 
 alone, for Anne Campbell, on some pretence 
 or another, was in and out of the room 
 almost every quarter of an hour; but if 
 her quick eyes saw her niece's abstraction, 
 she paid no heed to it, nor chided her 
 for her idleness. Lucy had forgotten all 
 about her household duties, and sat gazing 
 listlessly forth from the window at the 
 large gates through which she longed to
 
 248 Is it for Ever? 
 
 fly ; through which, come what would, she 
 had made up her mind to fly, either openly 
 or by stealth. As yet she saw no chance 
 of escape : the hue-and-cry would be too 
 hot and fast upon her; her flying footsteps 
 would be arrested before any distance 
 had been gained ; yet the difficulties she 
 detected in no way deterred her, but the 
 rather incited her to hazard all risks to 
 gain the end she had in view. The end 
 was nearer than she thought, for a little 
 girl had been standing peering through 
 the gates nearly all the time Lucy 
 had been sitting there so idly and rebel- 
 liously, the brim of her straw hat flat- 
 tened against the gate, and her bright eyes 
 looking eagerly through the rails, which 
 her small fingers clasped. But Lucy had 
 been too preoccupied, her mind too full of 
 anxious thoughts, to notice her. The 
 little thing seemed patience itself, for she 
 never moved her position all the long 
 time she stood there, but kept her eyes 
 fixed on Lucy; while latterly one of her 
 small fingers had been busily engaged 
 in beckoning her. 
 
 Lucy saw her at last, and her heart gave
 
 In the Churchyard, 249 
 
 a great bound. It was a message from 
 Mr. Richard ; she felt sure it was ! Oh, 
 the rapture of knowing that he had not 
 forgotten her, would not go away with- 
 out a word or sign ! She w^ould have 
 sprung from her seat, have flown down 
 the walk then and there, in the mad 
 exuberance of her joy and excitement; 
 but it was necessary to be quiet and 
 cautious, for overhaste might bring defeat 
 and render her for ever miserable. She 
 waited, for all her apparent apathy, in a 
 fever of agitation, for her aunt to come 
 and go once more, striving in the mean- 
 while to subdue the beating of her heart 
 and trembling of her hands. The minutes 
 seemed hours to her excited fancy. Would 
 they never pass ? She could scarcely 
 control her impatience. But, hark ! at 
 last her aunt comes, with slow step, ill 
 keeping pace with her niece's fast-beating 
 heart. She enters the parlour on some 
 idle pretext, as usual, stays a minute or 
 so, and, with a searching, satisfied glance 
 around, is gone. The next moment Lucy 
 stands on the ledge of the window, and 
 with a bound is in the garden, her
 
 250 Is it for Ever? 
 
 light feet swiftly speeding towards the 
 gate, through which the bright eyes still 
 look eagerly. 
 
 *' Quick, child! don't be frightened; 
 what is it? " 
 
 *' I ain't frightened a bit," replied the 
 girl, producing a handkerchief and be- 
 ginning to search amongst its folds. 
 
 ** Oh, have you got anything for me ? 
 Make haste, child ! make haste ! " 
 
 *' 'Tis only a bit o' paper, after all," said 
 the child ; " 'tain't nothing good." 
 
 Nothing good ! when it was meat and 
 drink and life to Lucy, who snatched at the 
 small note, and laughed aloud in the 
 possession of her treasure, which she 
 placed hastily in her bosom, pressing 
 her hand over it as though she feared to 
 lose it. 
 
 *' Please, Miss Lucy, what must I tell 
 the gentleman ? " • 
 
 *' Tell him I cannot read it — must not 
 read it now. I'm watched." 
 
 " Shall I come again when you've read 
 it?" 
 
 '' Oh no, never come again — unless he 
 sends you. Go ! go away."
 
 In the Churchyard. 251 
 
 *' You won't tell Betsy, will you? 
 She'd beat me ever so much, that she 
 would, if she knew I'd brought you a 
 note." 
 
 ** Is it Betsy Harold you mean ? " 
 
 *'Yes; I'm sister Sophy, and Betsy 
 'ould be mighty jealous if she knowed 
 you'd a fine gentleman a-keeping com- 
 pany along with you." 
 
 *'ril tell nothing— nothing at all," 
 replied Lucy, her cheeks flushing scarlet. 
 *' Go away, child, go ! Betsy might see 
 you if you stop here." 
 
 This was enough for sister Sophy, 
 whose little feet sped away swiftly, too 
 swiftly for Anne Campbell's quick eyes to 
 detect even the fluttering of her dress as 
 she went over the stile ; for Lucy had 
 been missed, and her aunt was coming 
 down the gravel w^alk towards her ; but 
 Lucy seemed as though she heard her not, 
 for she leant idly over the small latched 
 gate, apparently as listless and inactive 
 as she had been all the morning. Nor 
 did she attempt to move until her aunt's 
 sharp voice rang close to her ears. 
 
 "It is time to lay the cloth for dinner.
 
 252 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 Why are you loitering away your time 
 here?" and she gazed suspiciously up 
 and down the road ; but to no purpose, 
 for sister Sophy was plucking buttercups 
 and daisies in the fields away to the right, 
 out of the reach of Anne's eyes and 
 ears. 
 
 Ah, how long the setting the table for 
 dinner seemed to impatient Lucy ! She 
 made a number of awkward mistakes, 
 which she corrected as awkwardly ; for 
 was not her mind set on the small sheet 
 of paper she had hidden in her bosom ; 
 and which, if she had had her will, would 
 have been learnt by heart long before 
 this, every word — every letter imprinted 
 there, never to be erased? But at length 
 her task was done, and she was free, 
 free to go to her room, where, sitting 
 on the side of her little bed, as being 
 furthest away from the door, which she 
 had no key to lock, she drew out her 
 precious letter and opened it ; but her 
 heart beat so, that at first the writing 
 seemed to dance and swim in a thousand 
 strange fantastic shapes, but presently 
 she became more composed, and read : —
 
 In the Chufchyard, 253 
 
 " My Darling, — 
 
 " I leave to-morrow. You must come and see 
 me. I shall be in the churchyard this evening at six. 
 Come to me there. Let me hear you say you love me 
 once more. Don't refuse me, Lucy. Risk all and any- 
 thing, if you love me. Your own 
 
 "R. L." 
 
 This was Lucy's first love-letter. They 
 were hastily penned lines ; but they were, 
 to the girl, beyond price. She was not 
 listenijig to loving words, which might per- 
 chance escape her memory ; but she was 
 reading loving words — words she could 
 have by her always — words which would 
 be treasured in her memory for ever ! 
 Her cheeks flushed and her eyes soft- 
 ened as she read them once again; and 
 then she laid the piece of paper in her lap 
 and sighed, for Lucy was not satisfied 
 with her letter. Richard Leslie had said, 
 ''if you love me." Why had he not left 
 out that little word "?/".? Could he 
 doubt that she loved him ? or had he 
 begun to distrust her ? to guess at the 
 web that was weaving around her, and to 
 fear that she would prove untrue, or her 
 heart fail her at the last ? " He thinks me 
 weak," she murmured; "but I will prove 
 to him that I am strong." And she
 
 254 ^s it for Ever? 
 
 set about thinking how she could contrive 
 to escape the vigilance of her aunt ; for 
 there was no question in Lucy's mind as 
 to whether she would meet her lover as 
 he wished, the question was how it was 
 to be accomplished. Should it be by fair 
 means or foul ? By the first, if practi- 
 cable ; but if not, by the latter, at all 
 hazards. 
 
 And armed and fortified with this reso- 
 lution she went down to dinner, thrusting 
 aside all whispers which would come 
 across her conscience reproachfully, or 
 quieting them, if they knocked loudly, by 
 thinking that she was Mr. Richard's pro- 
 mised wife, and so bound to do as he 
 wished. She could not risk the chance of 
 his thinking badly of her, or that her love 
 would not venture something for his sake ; 
 neither could she resist the temptation he 
 offered of seeing him once more, when it 
 might be months before he came back to 
 Eastham. She longed so to tell him all 
 her troubles, all her fears regarding her 
 aunt's views and purposes respecting Joe 
 Simmonds, all the suspicions that had 
 been creeping to her heart gradually for
 
 In the Churchyard. 255 
 
 weeks past, and which the very thought 
 of giving- utterance to seemed to lighten. 
 Yes, yes ; she must go. Even if it was 
 ever so wrong, she must go. 
 
 The sun was travelling towards the 
 west. It was more than five o'clock, and 
 yet Lucy had not been able to arrive at 
 any resolution as regarded the accom- 
 plishment of her wishes. She was again 
 seated at the window, with her work lying 
 idly and untouched in her lap. Now and 
 then her eyes wandered in the direction of 
 the gate, but no sister Sophy appeared to 
 help her ; and gradually she was nerving 
 herself to brave all, when she heard the 
 latch of the gate go, and turning, saw Jpe 
 Simmonds on his way to the cottage. 
 Then, and not till then, did a way of 
 escape flash through her, and she shaped 
 without hesitation the plan she would 
 adopt. 
 
 *' I will walk with you," she said to Joe, 
 as she extended her hand. "This room 
 is hot and stifling; I can no longer bear it. 
 I told aunt I would not go out ; but she 
 will trust me alone with you if you ask 
 her."
 
 256 Is it for Ever? 
 
 *' Where is she?" asked Joe, as he 
 grasped Lucy's small fingers. 
 
 "Oh, not so very far off — only in the 
 kitchen. Mind, alone. I will only go 
 alone with you." 
 
 Joe obtained the desired permission, 
 without a suspicion arising in his heart as 
 to why Lucy wished to go with him alone, 
 unless it was a flattering one, until Anne 
 whispered, " Don't lose sight of her. He 
 goes to morrow! " and then all flattering 
 hopes died away, and Joe's mind misgave 
 him. 
 
 It was a lovely evening in July, and 
 Lucy seemed to enjoy the soft warm air, 
 for she appeared in no hurry, but loitered 
 on her way across the fields, stopping 
 every now and then to pluck the wild 
 flowers at her feet, or turning out of the 
 beaten path to gather wild roses growing 
 by the streamlet's edge. Joe watched her 
 furtively, resisting all her pretty hints to 
 help gather her flowers; for Joe was wary, 
 and stood with his tall form towering be- 
 side her little stooping figure like the 
 Samson Miss Gathorne nicknamed him. 
 His answers to her merry pleasant chat
 
 In the Churchyard. 257 
 
 were sharp and cross, not to say surly, for 
 Anne Campbell's parting words had raised 
 — as she had intended they should — a 
 fury of jealous demons within him. It 
 was idle to loiter, and, with a some- 
 thing akin to despair, Lucy proceeded on 
 her way towards the village, and conse- 
 quently in the direction of her tr}'Sting- 
 place, which she was nearing at ever}^ 
 Step. The last held was passed. They 
 were in the lane now, within a stone' s- 
 throw of the village. The church was in 
 sight, and the grey wall of the church- 
 yard ; while the hands of the clock in the 
 old tower pointed at a quarter to six. 
 Lucy's heart beat wildly and impatiently 
 — almost despairingly — and then, with a 
 slight quickening of her steps, she went 
 up to the Harolds' door. 
 
 *'Will you wait outside for me, Mr. 
 Simmonds ? " she said, and for the life 
 of her she could not avoid speaking 
 coldly ; "or will you come in ? " 
 ** Who are you wanting to see ? " 
 " Betsy Harold," answered Lucy boldly, 
 then opened the door and went in, leav- 
 ing Joe to follow or not as he liked. And 
 VOL. I. 17
 
 258 , Is it for Ever? 
 
 Joe did not like. He had a wholesome 
 dread of trusting himself within reach of 
 Betsy's wiles; and to-day of all days he 
 wished to keep out of her reach, lest she 
 should play him some trick as regarded 
 Lucy; so he contented himself by keep- 
 ing watch without. 
 
 Sister Sophy was sitting nursing a 
 small brother in her lap, while several 
 children of any age were quarrelling and 
 rioting in a corner as Lucy entered. 
 
 "Where's Betsy ? " asked Lucy. 
 
 *' 'Doming of herself upstairs," was 
 the reply; "just holla to the bottom, 
 she'll hear 'ee," and she pointed out the 
 precise spot with her finger. 
 
 " No, no ; I don't want her. Hush ! 
 Joe Simmonds is there;" and Lucy in 
 her turn pointed to the door. " Don't tell 
 him, nor Betsy, nor any one where I am." 
 And she passed into the small wash- 
 house and closed the door behind her. 
 In another moment she was in the lane at 
 the back, and flying swiftly down it ; then 
 away to the right towards the church, over 
 the stile into the churchyard, which she 
 reached just as the clock in the tower
 
 In tJie Churchyard. 259 
 
 rang out slowly and-solemnly its six strokes. 
 Panting and breathless she flung herself 
 on the ground behind a large tombstone, 
 half fearful lest Joe should be in hot pursuit 
 of her ; but he was keeping guard like a 
 sentinel outside the Harolds' door, without 
 a thought of the ruse she had played him. 
 But while Lucy's heart was beating 
 with love and expectant hopes, Anna 
 Elton's was beating with jealous doubts 
 and fears. She, seated with her sketch- 
 book in her lap under the shade of a large 
 tree overlooking the stile over which Lucy 
 had so hurriedly passed, had been for 
 awhile conjecturing the reason of her 
 hasty flight. She was not long left in 
 doubt, for presently the latch of the small 
 gate at the side of "The House" was 
 lifted, and Richard Leslie sauntered 
 slowly towards the spot where Lucy had 
 but lately gone. Anna's sketching was 
 at an end for a time ; then she suddenly 
 seized her pencil and hastily added two 
 figures to her sketch — those of the two 
 she had but now seen. " Some day I will 
 show my sketch to him," she thought, 
 perhaps a little revengefully.
 
 26o Is it for Ever ? 
 
 And once more Lucy was being pressed 
 to Richard Leslie's heart ; once more his 
 kisses covered her lips ; once more her 
 ears drank in the thousand words of 
 endearment he lavished on her. 
 
 ** My darling! my darling!" he whis- 
 pered, as he pressed her closer — closer 
 still. 
 
 "Did you think I would come?" 
 asked Lucy, shyly. 
 
 *' Yes," said Richard, smiling con- 
 fidently; *'yes, I knew you would come." 
 
 "Oh! but you could not be certain; 
 and indeed I was very nearly disappoint- 
 ing you." 
 
 " I don't believe you," replied Richard. 
 
 " But it is true, quite true." 
 
 And then she told him about her walk 
 with Joe, and how she had evaded him ; 
 at which Richard laughed, but Lucy 
 only looked grave, and sighed ; and, 
 her heart being full, she shed a few half- 
 sorrowful, half-timid tears, as she sob- 
 bingly told him of her fears and dread 
 about her aunt's plans, and of how sure 
 she felt that she would eventually insist 
 on her marrying Joe. " And oh, Mr.
 
 In the Churchyard, 261 
 
 Richard," she said, pleadingly, " now you 
 are going away there will be no one to 
 help, no one to appeal to ! " 
 
 *' But, my precious one, do you not love 
 me?" 
 
 '* Ah ! you doubt it," replied Lucy; 
 *' you said in your note, ' z/ I loved you. ' " 
 
 " No, Lucy, I do not doubt you. I 
 know you love me with all your heart, and, 
 loving me, you will be true to me." 
 
 ** I can never be untrue to you, Mr. 
 Richard. I must always love you." 
 
 '* Then that being so, you will never 
 marry any one else. Is it not so, my 
 own ? ' ' 
 
 " But if they make me ? " 
 
 ** How can they? " 
 
 '' You don't know Aunt Campbell. 
 She is so stern, so cold, so determined ; 
 and I am afraid of her. I dare not refuse 
 
 because — because " and Lucy's face 
 
 flushed. 
 
 *' Because ? " questioned Richard. 
 
 " Because I dare not tell her I love 
 another. I dare not avow that love. If 
 I might I should be strong ; but I have 
 no excuse — no excuse," almost wailed
 
 262 Is it for Ever 1 
 
 Lucy, for she was — notwithstanding Mr. 
 Richard's presence — very troubled and 
 very unhappy. 
 
 ** My little bird, I will give you strength ; 
 you shall write to me." 
 
 *'No, that is impossible, Mr. Richard. 
 Aunt would open your letters. Oh no ! 
 no ! that would never do ; while, as for 
 me, she would watch me too closely; 
 even If I wrote letters I could never post 
 them." 
 
 Richard considered for awhile, and 
 then again drawing her closer to him, he 
 said, *' My darling, it would never do for 
 us to avow our love. No, Lucy ; I hold 
 your promise, your oath that, however 
 tempted, however suspected, you will 
 never confess it ; and I mean to keep you 
 to that oath, however 'hard you may think 
 me. We must — there is no help for it — 
 wait for better times. But, Lucy, you 
 shall, by hook or by crook, write to me 
 one letter — one line will do — and manage 
 to post it somehow, so that if the worst 
 comes to the worst, and they hem you in, 
 I may at least have a chance of helping 
 you. You will promise me this? "
 
 In the Churchyard. 263 
 
 "I will promise," whispered Lucy, 
 ** that, if I see no way of escape from — 
 from this hateful marriage, I will write 
 and ask you to come and save me." 
 
 *' That's my own brave darling," said 
 Richard; *' and now, Lucy, is not your 
 heart lighter? " 
 
 **Yes; but " 
 
 '' What, another but ? " 
 
 ** I am afraid of them all, afraid whether 
 I shall be able to keep my promise ; for 
 Joe " 
 
 ** As to Joe," said Richard, with an oath 
 that startled Lucy, ** let him look to him- 
 self, and not meddle with my belongings. 
 I've an account, as it is, to settle with him." 
 
 *' But you promised me you would never 
 accuse him or get him into trouble." 
 
 *' My lips are tied, Lucy, true, but not 
 my hands." 
 
 '' Oh, Mr. Richard, you " 
 
 ** Hush, you little coward. Hark, the 
 clock is chiming the half-hour, and I must 
 leave you soon; let us forget our fears and 
 troubles, and think only of our love." 
 
 But Lucy, though she suffered Richard 
 Leslie's caresses, and said no more about
 
 264 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 her fears, could not banish them from her 
 heart ; there they clung persistently, damp- 
 ing the happiness of being with her lover, 
 and made their parting more tinged with 
 sadness than need have been ; for, as the 
 clock was on the stroke of seven, she was 
 clinging round his neck weeping passion- 
 ately; and again, as she passed from the 
 churchyard, she leant against the stile to 
 watch Richard Leslie's receding figure, 
 until he had gone through the gate, and 
 with a wave of the hand was lost to her 
 view. Then her heart felt heavier than 
 ever, and her eyes more tearful ; while 
 many a bitter, unsatisfied sigh escaped her, 
 as somehow she could not help the thought 
 that perhaps she should never be so happy 
 with him again. And Anna Elton echoed 
 the same sigh, and her heart felt heavy 
 with the same thought, as, still seated 
 under the shade of the wide-spreading 
 tree, she watched the two lingering over 
 their farewell. 
 
 When Lucy reached home she met her 
 Aunt and Joe Simmonds on the point of 
 starting in hot haste in search of her. 
 
 *' God be thanked ! ' ' said Joe, whose heart
 
 In the Churchyard. 265 
 
 had been beating and boiling with furious 
 jealousy and rage, stirred up by some in- 
 cautious words which, in her fear and dis- 
 may, Anne had let fall. 
 
 But Anne said never a word until they 
 reached the cottage, w^hen, closing the 
 door, she looked Lucy full in the face — 
 until the latter shrank from her g-aze — and 
 said, "You are beyond my control, and 
 must bear the fate you have provoked." 
 Words which sent Lucv tremblingf and 
 quivering with terror to her room.
 
 266 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 CHOOSING THE WEDDING RING. 
 
 I've brought you home a husband, girl ; d'ye hear ? 
 •X- -x- -Jf -x- * 
 
 So use him well, and we shall shortly see 
 Whether he merits what I've done, like thee. 
 
 Bloomfield. 
 
 T UCYwas not left long in doubt as to 
 ^^ her aunt's meaning, for she broke it 
 to her the very next day. 
 
 " I don't ask," said she, ** where you 
 went last evening, nor who you went in 
 such an unseemly, unmaidenly manner to 
 see. * Sufficient for the day is the evil 
 thereof But badly — sinfully- as you are 
 inclined, Joe Simmonds is ready to forgive 
 all, and make you his wife ; and his wife 
 you shall be before the month's done, or 
 I'll know the reason why." 
 
 In vain to urge her repugnance — in vain 
 to plead for longer delay. The blow that 
 Lucy had been so long dreading had fallen, 
 and she dared not make a stand against
 
 Choosing the Wedding Ring. 267 
 
 it ; she had, as she told Richard LesHe so 
 sadly, no tangible excuse to offer, no pos- 
 sible reason to give, save that of her reluc- 
 tance to marr}% or of her having no love 
 for Joe. Both these reasons her aunt put 
 aside, saying the first might stick by her 
 all her life, and the latter was easily got 
 rid of, as love on her part was not wanted. 
 Joe loved her with all his heart ; and love 
 would, in the end, beget love. 
 
 When once Anne Campbell made up 
 her mind to a thing nothing could alter 
 it. All the protestings in the world — 
 and Lucy did protest — were of no avail. 
 Anne, when reasoned with or brought to 
 bay, could be silent, or bring texts of 
 scripture, showing by what standard she 
 had adopted her theory ; but as to altering 
 her resolution once taken, that was vain. 
 
 But Lucy, though she could not move 
 her aunt, would not give Joe reason to 
 think she encouraged him ; so when he 
 came she absented herself either to the 
 churchyard — she was not watched now — 
 or to her own little room, where she spent 
 most of her time in doleful thought and 
 anticipations for the future.
 
 268 Is it for Ever? 
 
 ** Let her be," said her aunt, when Joe 
 ventured to complain; *'you will have 
 enough of her by-and-bye. She's coy 
 and wilful ; but she'll have cause to bless 
 both you and me some day." 
 
 But of this Joe was doubtful, and, like 
 Lucy, inclined to think things a little too 
 hurried. Why not give him time for court- 
 ing and overcoming some of her prejudices? 
 
 And Anne would make reply that 
 courtship was best after marriage, when 
 a girl could not say nay. Most girls 
 tired their lovers out with saying pretty 
 speeches before marriage, so they got 
 none of them after, and if they complained 
 got banged for their pains. No, no ; it 
 was far better as it was. 
 
 And Joe tried to be content, but was ill 
 at ease all the same ; and still more so 
 when one day, on going into Anne's little 
 parlour, he found Lucy sitting there, and 
 instead of leaving, as usual, she laid down 
 her work and, closing the door, Avent up to 
 him, and, laying her hand on his arm, said, 
 ** Joe, I do not want to say anything un- 
 kind to you ; but why do you allow my 
 aunt to deceive herself as regards this
 
 Choosmg the Wedding Ring. 269 
 
 marriage ? You know, Joe, that I do 
 not love you ; you — you have said that 
 I care for some one else. Then, if this be 
 so, you must know that you are making 
 me unhappy and wretched." 
 
 '' You won't be unhappy for long, Miss 
 Lucy." 
 
 *' For ever ! Joe. I will never give 
 my hand where I do not give my heart. I 
 can never be your wife, Mr. Simmonds. 
 You are mad to wish it." 
 
 " I didn't wish it," replied Joe ; " that is 
 to say, I didn't want you to be hurried- 
 scurried into it. I w^anted you to 'bide 
 your own time ; but Anne Campbell 
 wouldn't hear of it. She says marrying 
 me '11 be your salvation." 
 
 ** More likely my destruction," said 
 Lucy, despairingly. " Mr. Simmonds, if 
 you love me, show your love by ceasing 
 this persecution, which can do no good, 
 cannot advance your suit one whit ; nay, 
 the rather retards it, by making me afraid 
 of you. I have no one to stand by me ; 
 and even you, whom I thought my best 
 friend, have sided against me. I have no 
 help — none. I am so very miserable, so
 
 270 Is it for Ever? 
 
 very wretched ; sometimes I wish I was 
 dead, for at least then I should be at rest. 
 Won't you help me, Joe ? " 
 
 It was as much as Joe could resist say- 
 ing he would ; but Anne's words and 
 specious reasonings were not so easily 
 silenced within him. Had she not told 
 him more than once that he and he alone 
 could save Lucy from the ruthless man 
 who would destroy her body and soul ? 
 And had he not, in the hot exasperation 
 which her words had excited, sworn with 
 an oath that he would save her — however 
 unwilling she might be — at all risks, all 
 hazards ? And Joe felt his vow even now 
 knocking at his heart ; and in honour he 
 could not refuse but listen to it ; so 
 putting his hands in his pockets — a way 
 he had when he had made up his mind to 
 anything, and feared being turned from 
 his purpose — he set his face sternly and 
 hardened his heart, so that Lucy's words 
 and sweet pleadings fell harmless. 
 
 ** Don't say anything more. Miss Lucy, 
 I'd help you if I could, but I can't. I'm 
 honour bound to your aunt, and must go 
 on with it now. But, Miss Lucy, I'll never
 
 Choosing the Wedding Ring, 2^1 
 
 let you shed a tear when you're mine, if I 
 can help it. I'll serve you body and soul, 
 and I'll give up my life — no, no; I'm 
 wrong-, that wouldn't serve you, for then 
 there'd be ne'er a soul to take care of you. 
 I'll live, but only to be your faithful slave." 
 
 ** I shall never be your wife, Joe, nor 
 you my slave — never ! ' ' 
 
 And so the subject was dropped, and 
 the preparations for the wedding went on ; 
 but Lucy, in desperation, appealed to her 
 uncle, John Campbell. 
 
 ** Oh, uncle," she said, "save me from 
 this hateful marriage, this worse than 
 death ! You can if you like." 
 
 ** Tut, tut, lass. He's a likely enough 
 young man ; forbye you can't find a 
 better. If you can, why then, hang it ! 
 I'll save yer fast enough." 
 
 "But you don't give me time," 
 pleaded Lucy. 
 
 John Campbell wagged his head, as if 
 discrediting this assertion. 
 
 Lucy urged her plea more earnestly, and 
 once more he exerted himself to reply. 
 
 " What I've said I've said." 
 
 " But only one word to aunt."
 
 272 Is it for Ever ? 
 
 ** Aunt's a wise 'ooman. Let her be." 
 
 "But it will kill me. I cannot, indeed 
 I cannot, go through with it." 
 
 "After storm comes sunshine." 
 
 " After sunshine — and with it sometimes 
 — comes lightning that kills. You can- 
 not wish my death? " 
 
 "I ain't afraid o' it, lass. You're 
 pretty tidy to the fore." 
 
 "You are cruel — you are all of you 
 cruel," cried Lucy. " If — if only I had a 
 mother! " 
 
 John Campbell turned and grasped her 
 arm. 
 
 ^' 'Tis her fault you're in this fix," he 
 said furiously. " Have done ! Never call 
 upon her afore me. I hated her ! " 
 
 And he strode away, leaving Lucy with 
 a terrible sinking of the heart at this 
 outburst against her dead mother, whom 
 she could just remember all gentleness 
 and goodness ; and yet her uncle had 
 hated her. Why had he hated her ? 
 What harm could she have done him ? 
 And had her aunt hated her mother too ? 
 Oh miserable Lucy ! she was doubly, and 
 more than doubly, miserable now. She
 
 Choosing the Wedding Ring. 273 
 
 reviewed her past life, tried to recollect 
 all she had ever heard about her mother, 
 and was obliged to confess that it was 
 very little. But Miss Gathorne had taught 
 her to think lovingly of her dead mother, 
 whom she was bidden to remember in 
 her daily prayers as her ''dear mother." 
 Surely, if she was to be so thought of, she 
 could not have deserved any one's hate, 
 nor been a wicked woman. But Lucy 
 was not satisfied ; she was very troubled. 
 
 The month, a terrible month to Lucy, 
 went by, on wings; so swiftly did the day 
 — Lucy's wedding-day — approach. Anne 
 Campbell talked of it openly now, dating 
 all her work as to be begun or ended on 
 that day, such as, " I shan't trouble my 
 head about this until after the third ; ' ' 
 or, '* I've just four more days before the 
 third to finish this." Congratulations had 
 not been slow; many in the village had 
 come, either to wish happiness or to see 
 what prospect there was of it. Anne 
 Campbell received her visitors alone, mak- 
 ing what excuse she could for her niece's 
 non-appearance, and talking hopefully 
 and joyfully of Lucy's future happiness, 
 
 VOL. I. 18
 
 274 -^ it for Ever ? 
 
 and of how pleasantly things were turning- 
 out ; but all the same she could not hush 
 the whisper, which each day grew louder, 
 that Lucy's heart was not in it, and that 
 the girl's face was so pale that it was sad 
 to see it, and her voice so mournful that 
 it made a body's heart creep to list to it. 
 
 It wanted, as Anne Campbell had said 
 four or five times that morning, but four 
 days to the wedding, and as yet Joe had 
 not bought that most essential thing, the 
 wedding-ring. Somehow he felt unable to 
 broach the subject with Lucy, much less 
 ask for the loan of the ring she always 
 wore ; nor could he judge the size by his 
 own large fingers, the smallest of which 
 was larger than Lucy's forefinger. Joe 
 had been anxious to save Lucy any un- 
 necessary pain. This it was that made 
 him so averse to approaching a topic that 
 had been tacitly dropped between them ; 
 but he could not marry her without a ring ; 
 and at last, at his wits' end, he in despe- 
 ration stated his perplexity to Anne, who 
 clenched the matter at once — much to Joe's 
 dismay, who would have liked some little 
 time for preparation — by calling Lucy.
 
 Choosing the Wedding Ring. 275 
 
 ** Joe wants the size of your finger," she 
 said as soon as her niece appeared. 
 
 " I know of no reason why I should 
 comply with his request," replied Lucy, 
 falteringly, but not without firmness. 
 
 "You can't be married, child, without a 
 wedding-ring," said Anne. 
 
 " I am not going to be married," replied 
 Lucy, feeling she was being brought to bay. 
 
 Anne's face clouded, but Joe came to 
 the rescue. " I don't want to measure 
 your finger. Miss Lucy," he said ; " I only 
 want the loan of your ring." 
 
 Involuntarily Lucy clasped her small 
 fingers over her ring — Richard Leslie's 
 gift. She could not part with that. 
 
 "Don't call her * Miss,' " said Anne; 
 " she's but a poor girl, and no claim to be 
 anything else. Give him the ring, Lucy." 
 
 Never ! She would never give the ring, 
 her only love-token ! No, never ! 
 
 But she answered meekly, " There is no 
 occasion for me to have any ring, and I 
 cannot part with this." And she looked 
 pleadingly at Joe. 
 
 But Joe would not meet her gaze. 
 "Father says he'll give the wedding-
 
 276 Is it for Ever 1 
 
 ring. You'll not refuse father ? " said he, 
 artfully. 
 
 **Yes. I am not acquainted with your 
 father. I do not remember that he has 
 ever spoken to me in all my life ; and even 
 of late he has never been to make acquaint- 
 ance with the daughter-in-law you would 
 force upon him." 
 
 This was true, and Lucy saw that her 
 aunt seemed to feel the shaft she almost 
 unwittingly aimed ; for her breath came 
 quick and short, and she sat down as 
 though seized with sudden weakness. 
 
 '* Father bain't so ready to make new 
 friends. Perhaps your coming home so 
 soon makes him think more of mother, 
 and how she's gone to her long home, and 
 another going to take her place." 
 
 "' Cease this ! " said Anne, sternly, and 
 so sharply that it startled her hearers ; 
 " cease ! — and, Lucy, give up the ring." 
 
 But John Campbell, who had sat a silent, 
 and apparently unconcerned spectator, 
 here interposed. 
 
 " Let the lass be," said he gruffly. 
 "- What the devil do you make such a fash 
 for ? Let her be spliced with the one
 
 Choosing the Weddi?ig Ring. 277 
 
 she's' got, and buy a wedding-ring 
 afterwards." 
 
 His words acted like magic. Lucy 
 crossed over to where Joe stood, and held 
 out the fourth finger of her right hand. 
 
 " It is the same size as the left," she 
 said. *' I cannot part with my ring, but 
 since you will it so, you must measure my 
 finger, although I would fain have spared 
 you so much useless pain." 
 
 '* Well," said Anne, as she handed Joe 
 a piece of tape at his bidding, " it don't 
 much signify, after all ; for you can take 
 the ring in your own right in a day or so, 
 when she is your wife." 
 
 ** When I am his wife," replied Lucy, 
 *' there need be no compulsion. He shall 
 have the ring ; but not until then." 
 
 " Fair and above-board," said John, 
 approvingly. " Let the lass go her own 
 gait, and don't bully her." 
 
 Lucy stood watching Joe as he carefully 
 wrapped up the piece of tape and put it in 
 his pocket. She would have thanked her 
 uncle ; but somehow her heart rebelled at 
 thanks. She had suffered so much ; the 
 three had remorselessly doomed her to a
 
 278 Is it for Ever? 
 
 fate worse than death, and for any mercy 
 they might show she could not be thankful. 
 
 " You can go," said her aunt. 
 
 But Lucy did not avail herself of the 
 permission ; she had resolved — now she 
 had them all together — on making one last 
 appeal ; not that, poor child, she thought 
 it would have much effect, but because 
 she would then have no compunction at 
 availing herself of the help of the only one 
 who could and would save her. 
 
 " Are your minds made up ? " she said, 
 looking at her uncle and aunt. ' ' You — who 
 stand in the light of father and mother to 
 me — are your hearts closed to all appeals 
 of mercy ? Are you determined on com- 
 pelling me to a fate worse than death? 
 Will you have no compassion ? Surely I 
 am a sacred trust in your hands : will you 
 abuse it by forcing me to marry one whom 
 I do not love ? My mother " 
 
 '* Have done !" roared John Campbell 
 with an oath, interrupting her. 
 
 *** There is one,'" said Anne, "'who 
 lieth in wait secretly as a lion in his den : 
 he lieth in wait to catch the poor, when 
 he draweth him into his net.' "
 
 Choosing the Wedding Ring. 279 
 
 Lucy looked at her somewhat con- 
 temptuously. "Is this my answer?" 
 she said. 
 
 " Yes," replied Anne ; "we would save 
 you from hifu.''' 
 
 Lucy's eyes fell on Joe reproachfully ; 
 but he answered her mute appeal : — 
 
 " No, no ; as God is my witness, no." 
 
 " I did not believe you could be so 
 base. It was but a momentary suspicion ; 
 forgive me, and try and persuade them that 
 whatever happens I strove to do right." 
 
 Then she left them and went away to 
 her own room, her purpose fixed and 
 unalterable. All hope of turning their 
 hearts was at an end, and utterly futile ; 
 there was but one way of escape, and she 
 must avail herself of it. Her letter had 
 been written a long while, in case of 
 emergency, and lay in her bosom for 
 fear of accidents. It contained only a few 
 simple words : '' I have no hope. Come!^'' 
 but oh, with what a misery of anguish had 
 she written them ! Lucy knelt down and 
 prayed for help, and strength, and God's 
 blessing on the step she was about to 
 take ; but alas ! whether she thought it
 
 28o Is it for Ever? 
 
 right or wrong, I doubt if she would have 
 hesitated; for to her harassed mind -any 
 fate was at that moment preferable to the 
 one of becoming Joe Simmonds' wife. 
 
 In the afternoon Lucy posted her letter, 
 having imitated as closely as she could 
 Miss Gathorne's handwriting on the en- 
 velope. Crossing the fields on her road 
 home she met Farmer Simmonds. She 
 was passing him, when he accosted her. 
 
 **Soho! you are the girl that has be- 
 fooled my son for so long, and that he's 
 going to be such an ass as to marry." 
 
 " I am not going to marry him," re- 
 plied Lucy inadvertently, and scornfully. 
 
 The farmer snapped his fingers deri- 
 sively. *' It's fine talk, but Fm not going 
 to swallow it," he exclaimed. 
 
 " It is immaterial to me," she answered ; 
 ** but I shall never be your son's wife." 
 
 ** Fm mighty glad to hear it, and no 
 mistake," was the reply ; ** for Fd sooner 
 have Betsy Harold, with all her finery, than 
 a girl whose mother was a * light-o'-love.' " 
 So saying he left her to pursue her way, 
 her heart filled with horror, anger, and 
 shame.
 
 28l 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 A SLIP BETWEEN THE CUP AXD THE LIP. 
 
 But who can tell what cause had that fair maid 
 
 To use him so, that loved her so well ? 
 Or who with blame can justly her upbraid, 
 
 For loving not — for who can love compel ? 
 And sooth to say, it is a fool-hardy thing ' 
 
 Rashly to witen creatures so divine ! 
 For demigods they be, and first did spring 
 
 From heaven, though graft in frailness ferhinine. 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 FARMER SIAIMONDS' words rankled 
 in Lucy's heart. Even if she had 
 loved his son, she thought she would have 
 flown now, for no man should call her wife 
 who slighted her dead mother and spoke 
 so shamefully of her. Lucy would not 
 acknowledge to herself that what she 
 had been told might be true. It was a 
 cunningly-deviled fable of the farmer's, 
 which he in his anger at her marriage with 
 his son had seen ht to cast at her; yet 
 Lucy dared put no questions to those who
 
 282 Is it for Ever? 
 
 might, if they would, have enlightened 
 her. 
 
 And so two days passed ; and if Lucy's 
 cheeks grew paler, her step and bearing 
 showed no sign of weakness : they both, if 
 anything, had a touch of haughtiness un- 
 usual with her — so much so that her aunt 
 spoke of meekness and lowliness of heart, 
 and of how watchful she should be to check 
 all such unseemly sins, and root them out 
 before she took upon her the marriage 
 state. 
 
 It was the evening before her marriage, 
 and Lucy had received no intimation from 
 Richard Leslie that he had received her 
 letter ; yet she was in no wise despairing. 
 She loved and trusted ; what need had she 
 of words or signs ? She believed firmly 
 that her lover would save her, even though 
 she might be standing at the altar with 
 another, on the point of plighting her 
 vows — believed, therefore she hoped, and 
 went on her way calmly, albeit it might 
 not be contentedly, at the path she was 
 rushing on ; but others were to blame for 
 that, and had driven her to it — so she 
 thought.
 
 A Slip between the Cup and the Lip. 283 
 
 Miss Gathorne — who had held aloof ever 
 since her engagement with Joe — had sent 
 for her, and Lucy was on her way to *'The 
 House," not without certain qualms and 
 fears as to what cross- questions she might 
 not be subjected to. As she rung the bell 
 her heart beat quickly, almost suffocating 
 her; for might not Mr. Richard have 
 arrived and be awaiting her there even 
 now ? But only Miss Gathorne sat in the 
 drawing-room to welcome and wonder at 
 the trembling of the fingers she held in 
 hers, and to note the pallor and thinness 
 of cheeks that used to be round and full of 
 health. She was no longer the blooming 
 graceful girl ; but a wan shadow of her 
 former self, with a somewhat despairing, 
 desponding, absent look, as though for 
 her life's pleasures had passed away, and 
 only its bitters remained, or her heart 
 were dead to either joy or sorrow. Miss 
 Gathorne looked at her for a moment ; 
 then drew the girl towards her and kissed 
 her tenderly. 
 
 '* My dear Lucy! " she said. 
 
 And then the child's heart gave way — 
 for she was little better than a child — and
 
 284 /^ it for Ever? 
 
 she clung to Miss Gathorne, weeping 
 passionately. 
 
 ** My poor, poor Lucy!" said Miss 
 Gathorne again. 
 
 Such gentleness and tenderness from 
 one who had always seemed the very re- 
 verse, brought a fearful longing to Lucy's 
 heart to unburden her secret, tell her all, 
 and implore forgiveness for herself and 
 Richard ; but while she was thinking, the 
 impulse passed away and was lost, even 
 as Miss Gathorne' s spark of feeling died 
 away too. 
 
 *' Sit beside me, child," said Miss 
 Gathorne ; *' don't show me your face, 
 it's so doleful." 
 
 Lucy dried her tears and did as she 
 was bidden. 
 
 *' There, that's right. Now let us talk 
 about your wedding. Why, you will be a 
 married woman to-morrow, Lucy, and you 
 only sixteen ! It's too young to begin 
 life, I think." 
 
 ** And so do I," said Lucy, with thoughts 
 of how and where she should begin life. 
 
 ** Well, perhaps it's best. Your aunt is 
 too cold and stern a woman for you, Lucy ;
 
 A Slip between the Cup and the Lip. 285 
 
 and the life with her was not fit for you. 
 You must have been miserable." 
 
 ** I could have lived with her and never 
 repined — have worked and slaved will- 
 ingly." 
 
 ** It would not have djne. It is best 
 you should have some one to love and 
 protect you." 
 
 "It is best," answered Lucy again, with 
 thoughts which wandered to some one 
 whom she loved with all her strength. 
 
 " And so, child, your aunt has done 
 well. Is it not so ? " 
 
 But Lucy answered firmly, "If to give 
 me to a man whom I do not love, and 
 whom I must swear to love and obey before 
 God's holy altar, knowing all the time 
 that I am swearing a lie, be well, then it 
 is well." 
 
 " Nay, child, you take things too 
 seriously. Besides, when you take upon 
 yourself that vow it will be with the full 
 intention of fulfilling it .^ " questioned 
 Miss Gathorne. 
 
 * * Yes, when I take upon myself that vow. ' ' 
 
 "You are a brave girl, Lucy. I have 
 no fear but what your heart will cease
 
 286 Is it for Ever? 
 
 repining at hopeless fancies, and be 
 wholly with your husband before long." 
 
 *' It will. With him I shall forget all my 
 misery ; for I have been very miserable." 
 
 *' I know you have," replied Miss 
 Gathorne. " It was all my doing — my 
 fault. I ought not to have thrown you so 
 much together. But there, I was in hopes 
 — but what's the use of hopes now? He 
 doesn't care for you, and you with a half- 
 broken heart, all owing to my folly, are on 
 the eve of marriage with another. There, 
 child, don't look at me like that. I am 
 talking a deal of nonsense, what your 
 aunt would say, unsettling your mind ; 
 but you'll forgive me, and think kindly 
 of me, won't you? for I did it with the 
 best of motives" 
 
 '* Forgive what, ma'am ? What did 
 you do ? " asked Lucy, her heart beating. 
 
 " Forgive me for any sins I may have 
 committed against you. I used to be 
 very cross and hard, didn't I ? " 
 
 " No, ma'am ; I was very happy with 
 you — very. I should like those days to 
 come all over again. But they never — 
 never will. I never thought you cross or
 
 A Slip between the- Cup a?id the Lip, 287 
 
 hard ; and oh ! how very, very miserable 
 I have been since. It would make your 
 heart ache if I were to tell you all that I have 
 suffered and had to bear; and I with no 
 mother — none ; and I don't think I ever had 
 one that — that was good. Mr. Simmonds 
 said I had not, so it will not make much 
 talk whatever happens to me. Good-bye, 
 ma'am ! Won't you kiss me once more ? " 
 
 And Miss Gathorne did kiss her once 
 more, not knowing- what answer to make. 
 But Lucy seemed to expect none. She 
 stood quite passive for a moment, then 
 lifting her eyes timidly, she said, — 
 
 "You will think I am striving to do 
 right, whatever you hear said of or about 
 me ? You will never believe I am a wicked 
 girl, will you ? ' ' 
 
 '*No! never! " replied Miss Gathorne. 
 
 "Thank you," said Lucy, "for this 
 promise, as also for all your former good- 
 ness to me, and, believe me, I never would 
 have caused you a moment's pain if I 
 could have helped it. God bless and have 
 you in His keeping, dear lady! " 
 
 And Lucy went out sorrowfully — leav- 
 ing Miss Gathorne somewhat perplexed
 
 288 . Is it for Ever ? 
 
 and mystified — and bent her steps towards 
 the churchyard, her old trysting-place, to 
 seek if she could some trace of Richard 
 Leslie. But there was none. And she 
 sat on until it was dusk, and her muslin 
 dress quite damp with the fast-falling dew. 
 She rose then with a sigh — perhaps of 
 disappointment, perhaps of regret ; but 
 there was no need for either, for a dark 
 shadow covered the stile, a tall figure 
 advanced quickly towards her, and, with 
 a cry of unspeakable happiness, she was 
 caught in Mr. Richard's arms, and clasped 
 tightly to his heart. 
 
 And the morrow's sun rose brightly; 
 and the birds chirped and sang blithely ; 
 and the little streamlet where Lucy had 
 gathered her wild roses danced along, 
 splashing as it went over the glistening 
 pebbles right joyously. And this bright 
 morrow was to have been Lucy's wedding- 
 day. Was to have been — for the bride had 
 disappeared and left no trace ; and the 
 bridegroom was, as the villagers expressed 
 it, " 'most beside himself." 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
 APRIL, 1874. 
 
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 " Carey Hazelwood can write well." — Examiner. 
 
 ' ' Many traces of good feeling and good taste, little touches of quiet 
 humour, denoting kindly observation, and a genuine love of the country." — 
 Standard. 
 
 HILLESDEN ON THE MOORS. By Rosa Mac- 
 kenzie Kettle, Author of " The Mistress of Langdale 
 Hall." 2 vols., 2 IS. 
 
 " Thoroughly enjoyable, full of pleasant thoughts gracefully expressed, 
 and eminently pure in tone." — Public Opinion, 
 
 IS IT FOR EVER ? By Kate Mainwaring. 3 vols., 
 3 IS. 6d. 
 
 " A work to be recommended A thrilhngly sensational novel." — 
 
 Sunday Times. 
 
 KITTY'S RIVAL. By Sydney Mostyn, Author of 
 'The Surgeon's Secret,' etc. 3 vols., 31s. 6d. 
 
 " Essentially dramatic and absorbing We have nothing but 
 
 unqualified praise for 'Kitty's Rival,' which we recommend as a fresh and 
 natural story, full of homely pathos and kindly humour, and written in a 
 style which shows the good sense of the author has been cultivated by the 
 study of the works of the best of English writers." — Public Opinion. 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand.
 
 Samuel Tinsley's Publications. 5 
 
 lyEARER AND DEARER. By Elizabeth J. 
 -^^ Lysaght, Author of "Building upon Sand." 3 vols., 
 3 IS. 6d. 
 
 "A capital story. . . very pleasant reading . . . With the excep- 
 tion of George Eliot, there is no other of our lady writers with whom Mrs. 
 Lysaght will not favourably compare." — Scotsman. 
 
 " We have said the book is readable. It is more, it is both clever and 
 interesting. " — Sunday Times. 
 
 ]yO FATHERLAND. By Madame Von Oppen. 
 
 -^^ 2 vols., 2 IS. 
 
 IV'OT TO BE BROKEN. By W. A. Chandler. 
 
 •^^ Crown 8vo., los. 6d. 
 
 pERCY LOCKHART. By F. W. Baxter. 2 vols., 
 
 -^ 2 IS. 
 
 "A bright, fresh, healthy story Eminently readable." — ■ 
 
 Standard. 
 
 ' ' The novel altogether deserves praise. It is healthy in tone, interesting 
 in plot and incident, and generally so well \vritten that few persons would 
 be able justly to lind fault with it." — Scotsma?i. 
 
 "DAVENSDALE. By Robert Thynne, Author of 
 -LV "Tom Delany." 3 vols., 31s. 6d. 
 
 "A well-told, natural, and wholesome story." — Standard. 
 
 " No one can deny merit to the writer." — Saturday Review. 
 
 QONS OF DIVES. 2 vols., 21s. 
 
 •' A well-principled and natural story." — Athenceum. 
 
 STRANDED, BUT NOT LOST. By Dorothy 
 Bromyard. 3 vols., 31s. 6d. 
 
 THE EARONET'S CROSS. By Mary Meeke, 
 Author of " Marion's Path through Shadow to Sunshine." 
 2 vols., 2 IS. 
 
 "A novel suited to the palates of eager consumers of ^cWon." —Sunday 
 Times. 
 
 rpHE HEIR OF REDDESMONT. 3 vols., 31s. 6d. 
 
 " Full of interest and \iie."—Echo. 
 
 npOO LIGHTLY BROKEN. 3 vols., 31s. 6d. 
 
 " A very pleasing story voxy ^r^iiWy \.o\d." —Morning Post. 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand.
 
 Samuel Tinsley's Publications. 
 
 'OWER HALLOWDEANE. 2 vols., 21s. 
 
 T^HE D'EYNCOURTS OF FAIRLEIGH. By 
 -■- Thomas Rowland Skemp. 3 vols., 31s. 6d. 
 
 "An exceedingly readable novel, full of various and sustained interest. 
 . . . . The interest is well kept up all through.'' — Daily Telegraph. 
 
 'yHE SECRET OF TWO HOUSES. By Fanny 
 -■- Fisher. 2 vols., 21s. 
 
 *' Thoroughly dramatic." — Public Opinion. 
 " The story is well told." — Sunday Times. 
 
 'yHE SEDGEBOROUGH WORLD. By A. Fare- 
 
 -■- BROTHER. 2 vols., 2 IS. 
 
 ' ' There is no little novelty and a large fund of amusement in ' The 
 Sedgeborough World.' " — Illustrated London News. 
 
 TIMOTHY CRIPPLE; or, ''Life's a Feast." By 
 Thomas Auriol Robinson. 2 vols., 21s. 
 
 ' ' This is a most amusing book, and the author deserves great credit for 
 the novelty of his design, and the quaint humour with which it is worked 
 ®ut." — Public Opinion. 
 
 " For abundance of humour, variety of incident, and idiomatic vigour of 
 expression, Mr. Robinson deserves, and will no doubt receive, great 
 credit . ' ' — Civil Service Review. 
 
 'T'HE TRUE STORY OF HUGH NOBLE'S 
 ^ FLIGHT. By the Authoress of " What Her Face Said." 
 IDS. 6d. 
 
 "A pleasant story, with touches of exquisite pathos, well told by one 
 who is master of an excellent and sprightly style." — Standard. 
 
 ' ' An unpretending, yet very pathetic story. . . . We can congratu- 
 late the author on having achieved a signal success." — Graphic. 
 
 'yHE INSIDIOUS THIEF: a Tale for Humble 
 -*- Folks. By One of Themselves. Crown 8vo., 5s. Second 
 Edition. 
 
 'yOM DELANY. By Robert Thynne, Author of 
 -■- " Ravensdale." 3 vols., 31s. 6d. 
 
 " A very bright, healthy, simply-told story." — Sta?idard. 
 
 ' ' All the individuals whom the reader meets at the gold-fields are well- 
 drawn, amongst whom not the least interesting is 'Terrible Mac.'" — Hour. 
 
 " There is not a dull page in the book." — Scotsman. 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand.
 
 Samuel Tinsley's Publications. 
 
 nPHE SURGEON'S SECRET. By Sydney Mostyn, 
 -L Author of " Kitty's Rival," etc. Crown 8vo., los. 6d. 
 
 " A most exciting novel — the best on our list. It may be fairly recom- 
 mended as a very extraordinary book." — yohn Bull. 
 
 "A stirring drama, with a number of closely connected scenes, in which 
 there are not a few legitimately sensational situations. There are many 
 spirited passages." — Public Opinion. 
 
 YV/^AGES: a Story in Three Books. 3 vols., 31s. 6d. 
 ' ' A work of no commonplace character. " — Sunday Times. 
 
 AXTEIMAR'S TRUST. By Mrs. Edward Christian. 
 * ^ 3 vols., 3 IS. 6d. 
 
 ' ' A novel which deserves to be read, and which, once begun, will not 
 be readily laid aside till the end." — Scotsman. 
 
 w 
 
 ILL SHE BEAR IT? A Tale of the Weald. 
 3 vols., 31s. 6d. 
 
 "This is a clever story, easily and naturally told, and the reader's 
 interest sustained throughout. ... A pleasant, readable book, such as 
 we can heartily recommend as likely to do good service in the dull and 
 foggy days before us." — Spectator. 
 
 ' ' Written \vith simplicity, good feeling, and good sense, and marked 
 throughout by a high moral tone, which is all the more powerful from 
 never being obtrusive. . . . The interest is kept up with increasing 
 power to the last." — Standard. 
 
 " The story is a love tale, and the interest is almost entirely confined to 
 the heroine, who is certainly a good girl, bearing unmerited sorrow with 
 patience and resignation. The heroine's young friend is also attractive. 
 . . . As for the seventh commandment, its breach is not even alluded 
 to." — At/iencsum. 
 
 " There is abundance of individuality in the story, the characters are all 
 genuine, and the atmosphere of the novel is agreeable. It is really in- 
 teresting. On the whole, it may be recommended for general perusal." — 
 Sunday Times. 
 
 ' ' ' Will She Bear it ? ' is a story of English country life. . . . It is no 
 small praise to say that the tone of the book throughout is thoroughly pure 
 and healthy, without being either dull or namby-pamby." — Illustrated 
 Review. 
 
 ' ' A story of English country life in the early part of this century, 
 thoroughly clever and interesting, and pleasantly and naturally told. 
 . . . . In every way we entertain a very high opinion of this book." 
 — Graphic. 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand.
 
 Samuel Tinsley's Publications. 
 
 NOVELS RECENTLY PUBLISHED AND IN THE PRESS, Feb. 20tli, 1874. 
 
 BARBARA'S WARNING. By the Author of '* Re- 
 commended to Mercy." 3 vols., 31s. 6d. 
 
 BORN TO BE A LADY. By Katherine Hen- 
 derson. Crown 8vo., 7s. 6d. 
 
 pHASTE AS ICE, PURE AS SNOW. By Mrs. 
 ^ M. C. Despard. 3 vols., 3 IS. 6d. 
 
 DISINTERRED. From the Boke of a Monk of 
 Carden Abbey. By T. Esmonde. Crown 8vo., 7s. 6d. 
 
 DR. MIDDLETON'S DAUGHTER. By the Author 
 of " A Desperate Character." 3 vols., 31s. 6d. 
 
 GAUNT ABBEY. By Mrs. Lysaght, Author of 
 " Building upon Sand," " Nearer and Dearer," etc. 3 vols., 
 3 IS. 6d. 
 
 JOHN FENN'S WIFE. By Maria Lewis. 
 ^ Crown 8vo., 7s. 6d. 
 
 NEGLECTED ; a Story of Nursery Education Thirty 
 Years Ago. By Miss Julia Luard. Crown 8vo., 5s. 
 cloth. 
 
 LORD CASTLETON'S WARD. By Mrs. B. R. 
 Green. 3 vols., 31s. 6d. 
 
 OVER THE FURZE. By Rosa M. Kettle, Author 
 of the " Mistress of Langdale Hall," etc. 3 vols., 31s. 6d. 
 
 ^HINGLEBOROUGH SOCIETY. 3 vols., 31s. 6d. 
 
 THE MAGIC OF LOVE. By Mrs. Forrest-Grant, 
 Author of " Fair, but not Wise." 3 vols., 31s. 6d. 
 
 THE THORNTONS OF THORNBURY. By Mrs. 
 Henry Lowther Chermside. 3 vols., 31s. 6d. 
 
 TWIXT CUP and LIP. By Mary Lovett-Cameron. 
 3 vols., 31S. 6d. 
 
 TVTEBS OF LOVE. (I. A Lawyer's Device. 
 ^' II. Sancta Simplicitas.) By E. P. H. Crown 8vo., 6s. 
 cloth. 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand.
 
 Samuel Tinsley's Publications. 
 
 T 
 
 Notice : 
 
 NEW SYSTEM OF PUBLISHING ORIGINAL NOVELS. 
 
 Vol. I. 
 
 HE MISTRESS OF LANGDALE HALL: a 
 
 Romance of the West Riding. By RosA Mackenzie 
 Kettle. Complete in one handsome volume, with Frontispiece 
 and Vignette by Percival Skelton. 4s., post free. 
 
 {From THE SA TURD A Y RE VIE W. ) 
 
 Generally speaking, in criticising a novel we confine our observations 
 to the merits of the author. In this case we must make an exception, 
 and say something as to the publisher. The Mistress of Langdale Hall 
 does not come before us in the stereotyped three-volume shape, with 
 rambhng type, ample margins, and nominally a guinea and a half to 
 pay. On the contrary, this new aspirant to public admiration appears 
 in the modest guise of a single graceful volume, and we confess that 
 we are disposed to give a kindly welcome to the author, because we 
 may flatter ourselves that she is in some measure a proUgde of our own. 
 A few weeks ago an article appeared in our columns censvuing the 
 prevailing fashion of publishing novels at nominal and fancy prices. 
 Necessarily, we dealt a good deal in commonplaces, the absurdity of the 
 fashion being so obvious. We explained, what is well known to every 
 one interested in the matter, that the regulation price is purely illusory. 
 The publisher in reality has to drive his own bargain with the libraries, 
 who naturally beat him down. The author suffers, the trade suffers, 
 and the libraries do not gain. Arguing that a palpable absurdity must 
 be exploded some day unless all the world is qualified for Bedlam, we 
 felt ourselves on tolerably safe ground when we ventured to predict an 
 approaching revolution. Judging from the preface to this book, we 
 may conjecture that it was partly on our hint that Mr. Tinsley has 
 published. As all prophets must welcome events that tend to the 
 speedy accomplishment of their predictions, we confess ourselves grati- 
 fied by the promptitude with which Mr. Tinsley has acted, and we 
 heartily wish his venture success. He recognises that a reformation so 
 radical must be a work of time, and at first may possibly seem to defeat 
 its object. For it is plain that the public must first be converted to a 
 proper regard for its own interest ; and, by changing the borrowing 
 for the buying system, must come in to buy the publisher out. He 
 must look, moreover, to the support and imitation of his brethren of 
 the trade. We doubt not he has made the venture after all due de- 
 liberation, and that we may rely on his determination seconding his 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street Strand.
 
 10 Samuel Tinsley's Publications. 
 
 enterprise. All prospectuses of new undertakings tend naturally to 
 exaggeration, but success will be well worth the waiting for, should it 
 be only the shadow of that on which Mr. Tinsley reckons. He gives 
 some surprising figures ; he states some startling facts ; and, as a 
 practical man, he draws some practical conclusions. He quotes a state- 
 ment of Mr. Charles Reade's, to the effect that three publishers in the 
 United States had disposed of no less than 370,000 copies of Mr. Reade's 
 latest novel. He estimates that the profits on that sale — the book being 
 published at a dollar — must amount to ;,^25,ooo. Mr. Reade, of course, 
 has a name, and we can conceive that his faults and blemishes may 
 positively recommend themselves to American taste. But Mr. Tinsley 
 remarks that if a publisher could sell 70,000 copies in any case, there 
 would still be ^5,000 of clear gain; and even if the new system had a 
 much more moderate success than that, all parties would still profit 
 amazingly. For Mr. Tinsley calculates the profits of a sale of 2,000 
 copies of a three volume edition at _;i^i,ooo; and we should fancy the 
 experience of most authors would lead them to believe he overstates it. 
 It will be seen that at all events the new speculation promises bril- 
 liantly, and reason and common-sense conspire to tell us that the 
 reward must come to him who has patience to wait. Palmam qui 
 meruit ferat, and may he have his share of the profits too. Meanwhile, 
 here we have the first volume of Mr. Tinsley's new series in most legible 
 type, in portable form, and with a sufficiently attractive exterior. The 
 price is four shillings, and, the customary trade deduction being made 
 to circulating libraries, it leaves them without excuse should they deny it 
 to the order of their customers. 
 
 We should apologise to Miss Kettle for keeping her waiting while we 
 discuss business matters with her pubhsher. But she knows, no doubt, 
 that there are times when business must take precedence of pleasure, and 
 conscientious readers are bound to dispose of the preface before proceeding 
 to the book. For we may say at once that we have found pleasure in 
 reading her story. In the first place, it has a strong and natural local 
 colouring, and we always like anything that gives a book individuality. 
 In the next, there is a feminine grace about her pictures of nature and 
 delineations of female character, and that always makes a story attractive. 
 Finally, there is a certain interest that carries us along, although the story 
 is loosely put together, and the demands on our credulity are somewhat 
 incessant and importunate. The scene is laid in the West Riding of 
 Yorkshire ; nor did it need the dedication of the book to tell us that the 
 author was an old resident in the county. With considerable artistic 
 subtlety she lays her scenes in the very confines of busy life. Cockneys 
 and professional foreign tourists are much in the way of believing that the 
 manufacturing districts are severed from the genuinely rural ones by a hard- 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand.
 
 Samuel Tinsley's Publications. 11 
 
 and-fast line ; that the demons of cotton, coal, and wool blight everything 
 within the scope of their baleful influence. There can be no greater blunder ; 
 native intelligence might tell us that mills naturally follow water power, 
 and that a broad stream and a good fall generally imply wooded banks 
 and sequestered ravines, swirling pools, and rushing rapids. Miss Kettle, 
 as a dweller in the populous and flourishing West Riding, has learned all 
 that, of course. She is aware besides of the power of contrast ; that peace 
 and solitude are never so much appreciated as when you have just quitted 
 the bustle of life, and hear its hum mellowed by the distance. Romance 
 is never so romantic as when it rubs shoulders with the practical, and 
 sensation ' piles itself up ' when it is evolved in the centre of common- 
 place life 
 
 The story is interesting and very pleasantly NVTitten, and for the sake 
 of both author and publisher we cordially wish it the reception it deserves. 
 
 "The most careful mother need not hesitate to place it at once in the 
 hands of the most unsophisticated daughter. As regards the publisher, 
 we can honestly say that the type is clear and the book well got up in every 
 way." — AthencBum. 
 
 ' ' There is a naturalness in this novel, published in accordance with Mr. 
 Tinsley's very wholesome one-volumed system." — Spectator. 
 
 " ' The Mistress of Langdale Hall ' is a bright and attractive story, which 
 can be read from beginning to end with pleasure. " — Daily News. 
 
 ' ' A charming ' Romance of the West Riding, ' full of grace and pleasing 
 incident." — Public Opinion. 
 
 '' The story is really well told, and some of the characters are deUneated 
 with great %T[vidness and force. The tone of the book is high." — Non- 
 conformist. 
 
 " It is a good story, with abimdant interest, and a purity of thought and 
 language which is much rarer in novels than it ought to be. The volume 
 is handsomely got up, and contains a well-drawn vigpnette and frontispiece." 
 — Scotsman. 
 
 " Not only is it written with good taste and good feeling, — it is never duU, 
 while at the same time it is quite devoid of sensationalism or extravagance. 
 It deals with life in the West Riding." — Globe. 
 
 ' ' The book is admirably got up, and contains an introductory circular 
 by the publisher." — Civil Service Gazette. 
 
 "A model of what a cheap novel should be." — Publisher s Circular. 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand.
 
 12 Samuel Tinsley's Publications. 
 
 "A circular from the publisher precedes the opening of the novel, 
 wherein the existing conditions of novel-publishing are concisely set forth. 
 It is ably and smartly written, and forms by no means the least interesting 
 portion of the contents of the volume. We strongly recommend its 
 perusal to novel readers generally." — Welshman. 
 
 " Few will take up this entertaining volume without feeling compelled to 
 go through with it. We cannot entertain a doubt as to the success of this 
 novel, and the remarks made by the publisher in his prefatory circular are 
 of the most sensible and practical kind." — //uli Packet. 
 
 Vol. II. 
 
 pUTTYPUT'S PROTEGEE; or, Road, Rail, and 
 -*- River. A Story in Three Books. By Henry George 
 Churchill. Crown 8vo., (uniform with "The Mistress of 
 Langdale Hall"), with 14 illustrations by Wallis Mackay. 
 Post free, 4s. Second edition. 
 
 *'It is a lengthened and diversified farce, full of screaming fun and 
 comic delineation — a reflection of Dickens, Mrs. Malaprop, and Mr. 
 Boucicault, and dealing with various descriptions of social life. We have 
 read and laughed, pooh-poohed, and read again, ashamed of our interest, 
 but our interest has been too strong for our shame. Readers may do 
 worse than surrender themselves to its melo-dramatic enjoyment. From 
 title-page to colophon, only Dominie Sampson's epithet can describe it — it 
 is 'prodigious. '"—British Quarterly Review. 
 
 " It is impossible to read ' Puttyput's Prot^g^e ' without being reminded 
 at every turn of the contemporary stage, and the impression it leaves on 
 the mind is very similar to that produced by witnessing a whole evening's 
 entertainment at one of our popular theatres. "—Echo. 
 
 NOTICE— A new work by the Hon. Grantley F. Berkeley. 
 
 T^ACT AGAINST FICTION. The Habits and 
 -^ Treatment of Animals Practically Considered. Hydro- 
 phobia and Distemper. With some remarks on Darwin. By 
 the Hon. Grantley F. Berkeley. 2 vols., 8vo., 30s. 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand.
 
 Samuel Tinsley's Publications. 13 
 
 NOTICE.— New Story Suitable for Girls, &c. 
 
 "PLORENCE; or, Loyal Quand Meme. By Frances 
 -*- Armstrong. Crown 8vo., 5s., cloth. Post free. 
 
 " It is impossible not be interested in the story from beginning to end. 
 . . . We congratulate Mr. Samuel Tinsley on continuing to break at 
 intervals the monotonous line of three-volume novels." — Examiner. 
 
 "A very charming love story, eminently pure and lady-like in tone, 
 effective and interesting in plot, and, rarest praise of all, ^vritten in excellent 
 English." — Civil Service Review. 
 
 ' ' We should gladly welcome many more such novels, in preference to the 
 trash which but too frequently passes current for such.'' — Brighton Observer. 
 
 ' ' We cannot close this very interesting work without commending it to 
 every reader." — Durham Coimty Advertiser. 
 
 "The book is excellently printed and nicely bound — in fact it is one 
 which authoress, publisher, and reader may alike regard with mingled 
 satisfaction and pleasure." — Nottingham Daily Guardian. 
 
 '' ' Florence' is readable, even interesting in every part." — The Scotsman. 
 
 " Suffice it to say that from beginning to end each character is well 
 brought out, and what is perhaps best of all, there is a healthy vigour and 
 genuine ring about the whole composition which goes far to show that a 
 truly chaste tone, sustained throughout, is in no way incompatible with a 
 most engrossing story." — Cornish Telegraph. 
 
 ' ' ' Florence ' is a healthy, high-toned story, which every one can read 
 with pleasure and gratification. . . . The author wTites with vivacity 
 and effect. To her the creation of Florence has e\adently been a labour 
 of love, and we feel convinced that few readers will close the book without 
 feeling that they share in the affection with which the heroine is regarded 
 by the author." — Leeds Mercury. 
 
 " Several of the characters introduced are drawn with a master hand, 
 Florence herself being especially worthy of admiration." — Hastings and St. 
 Leonards Advertiser. 
 
 ' ' The book is decidedly far superior in tone to the generality of novels, 
 and is well worth reading. . . . Miss Armstrong gives us much ground 
 for hope that her pen will be fertile." — Lloyd's Weekly Newspaper. 
 
 " ' Florence' is therefore (as we said to begin with) a pleasant and read- 
 able story, and as its influences cannot be otherwise than beneficial, we 
 hope it will be widely read." — Edinburgh Daily Review. 
 
 " It is essentially a lady's book, and is deserving of the highest praise." 
 — Lrish Daily Telegraph. 
 
 ' ' XVe cordially wish the work may meet with the success it desen'es ; 
 but of this we have no doubt." — Derbyshire Courier. 
 
 '' Miss Armstrong has wTitten a very agreeable story, much more in- 
 teresting than many three-volume novels it has been our misfortune to read, 
 . . . Instead of spinning out a dreary, colourless romance of interminable 
 length. Miss Armstrong has preferred to present to her readers a bright 
 lively, natural story of every day Ufe." — Public Opinion. 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand.
 
 14 Samuel Tinsley's Publications. 
 
 "PPITAPHIANA; or, the Curiosities of Churchyard 
 -*-^ Literature : being a Miscellaneous Collection of Epitaphs, 
 with an INTRODUCTION. By W. Fairley. Crown 8vo., 
 cloth, price 5s. Post free. 
 
 " An amusing book. . . . A capital collection of epitaphs." — Court 
 Circular. 
 
 "Mr. Fairley's industry has been rewarded by an assemblage of gro- 
 tesque and fantastic epitaphs, such as we never remember to have seen 
 equalled. They fill an elegantly printed volume." — Cork Examiner. 
 
 " Although we have picked several plums from Mr. Fairley's book, we 
 can assure our readers that there are plenty more left. And now that the 
 long evenings are once more stealing upon us, and the fireside begins to be 
 comfortable, suggesting a book and a quiet read, let us recommend 
 Mr. Fairley, who comes before us in the handsome guise and the capital 
 type of the enterprising Mr. Samuel Tinsley." — Derbyshire Advertiser. 
 
 " His collection is not only amusing, but has a certain historical value, 
 as illustrating the rough humour in which our forefathers frequently in- 
 dulged at the expense of the departed." — Staffordshire Advertiser. 
 
 "We have quoted enough to show that Mr. Fairley has produced a 
 curious and entertaining volume, which will well repay perusal. " — Oxford 
 Chronicle. 
 
 ' ' On the score of novelty, at least, ' Epitaphiana ' will attract consider- 
 able attention." — Irish Daily Telegraph. 
 
 " Mr. Fairley has a keen eye for a quaint epitaph, and an excellent sense 
 of what is humorous or pathetic. . . . The volume contains an 
 excellent introduction relating to ancient and modem burials, and is 
 published in an attractive form." — Civzl Service Gazette. 
 
 "Mr. Fairley has made a quaint and curious collection," — The Court 
 Circular. 
 
 ' ' A very interesting book, the materials industriously gathered from many 
 cities of the Silent Land, and the miscellaneous collection carefully pre- 
 pared for publication." — Colliery Guardian. 
 
 "In noticing this most interesting book, we feel we can commend it in 
 all sincerity ; for just as a chapter from ' Pickwick ' is an antidote to ennui, 
 'Epitaphiana' maybe pronounced as equally reviving to dull spirits. . . . 
 The volume itself is quite a work of art." — The Forester. 
 
 ' ' Mr. Fairley seems to have gathered these scraps from village church- 
 yards and elsewhere, simply for his own amusement, but they have swollen 
 to such proportions that he has been induced to publish them ; and the 
 subject matter of his volume is particularly entertaining." — Public Opinion. 
 
 "A very readable volume." — Daily Review. 
 
 Samuel Tinsley^ 10, Southampton Street, Strand.
 
 Samuel Tinsley's Publications. 15 
 
 T^HE PHYSIOLOGY OF THE SECTS. Crown 
 -■- 8vo., price 5 s. 
 
 A NOTHER WORLD; or, Fragments from the Star 
 -^^ City of Montalluyah. By Hermes. Third Edition, re- 
 vised, with additions. Post 8vo., price 12s. 
 
 SUMMER SHADE AND WINTER SUNSHINE: 
 Poems. By Rosa Mackenzie Kettle, Author of "The 
 Mistress of Langdale Hall." New Edition. 2s. 6d., cloth. 
 
 rPHE TICHBORNE TRIAL. The Evidence of 
 -■- Handwriting, comprising Autograph Letters of Roger 
 Tichborne, Arthur Orton (to Mary Ann Loder), and the 
 Defendant (early letters to Lady Tichborne, &;c.), in facsimile. 
 In wrapper, price 6d. 
 
 MARY DESMOND, AND OTHER POEMS. By 
 Nicholas J. Gannon. Fcp. 8vo., 4s., cloth. 
 
 'THE WITCH of NEMI, and other Poems. By 
 ■-■- Edward Brennan. Crown 8vo., los. 6d. 
 
 A TRUE FLEMISH STORY. By the Author of 
 -^^ "The Eve of St. Nicholas." In wrapper, is. 
 
 OALAK AND BALAAM IN EUROPEAN COS- 
 -■-' TUME. By the Rev. James Kean, M.A., Assistant to 
 the Incumbent of Markinch, Fife. 6d., sewed. 
 
 A NOTHER ROW AT DAME EUROPA'S SCHOOL. 
 -^^ Showing how John's Cook made an Irish Stew, and 
 what came of it. 6d., sewed. 
 
 THE GOLDEN PATH : a Poem. By Isabella 
 Stuart. 6d., sewed. 
 
 'T'HE FALL OF MAN : An Answer to Mr. Darwin's 
 -■- " Descent of Man ; " being a Complete Refutation, by 
 common-sense arguments, of the Theory of Natural Selection. 
 IS., sewed. 
 
 THE REDBREAST OF CANTERBURY CATHE- 
 DRAL : Lines from the Latin of Peter du Mouhn, some- 
 time a Prebendary of Canterbury. Translated by the Rev. 
 F. B. Wells, M.A., Rector of Woodchurch. Handsomely 
 bound, price i s. 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand.
 
 16 Samuel Tinsley's Publications. 
 
 HARRY'S BIG BOOTS: a Fairy Tale, for ''Smalle 
 Folke." By S. E. Gay. With 8 Full-page Illustrations 
 and a Vignette by the author, drawn on wood by Percival 
 Skelton. Crown 8vo., handsomely bound in cloth, price 5s. 
 
 *' ' Harry's Big Boots ' is sure of a large and appreciative audience. It 
 is as good as a Christmas pantomime, and its illustrations are quite equal 
 to any transformation scene. . . . The pictures of Harry and Harry's seven- 
 leagued boots, with their little wings and funny faces, leave nothing to be 
 desired." — Dally News. 
 
 "Some capital fun will be found in ' Harry's Big Boots.' . . . The illustra- 
 tions are excellent, and so is the story." — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 "We call special attention to ' Harry's Big Boots,' " — Examiner. 
 
 " ' Harry's Big Boots ' is a fairy-story in the style of Alice." — Graphic. 
 
 " ' Pretty and poetical. . . . the drawings graceful and unreal. . . . We 
 can conceive of few more acceptable presents." — Court Circular. 
 
 "The illustrations are all to the point, and full of entertainment." — 
 Morning Post. 
 
 ' ' An attractive volume. The story reminds us of Kingsley's ' Water 
 Babies.' " — Standard. 
 
 "The illustrations are excellent. The young people . . . will find abimdant 
 amusement ." — Mirror. 
 
 " Darwinian theories . . . distilled in the alembic of the author's imagi- 
 nation and lit by her vivid fancy, constitute a series of wonders which will 
 astonish the ' smalle folke.' " — Queen. 
 
 "Miss Gay's contribution to our children's stock of fiction . . . requires no 
 ' apology. ' We recommend our young friends to get the book and read 
 for themselves." — The Hour. 
 
 ' ' Those who have read ' Alice in Wonderland ' will find this to be a book 
 of the same order." — Literary World. 
 
 ' ' Told in a natural, vivacious manner." — Liberal Review. 
 
 ' ' A wonderfully clever and entertaining book . . . full of things in which 
 children intensely delight." — Watchman. 
 
 "Genuine amusement. . . . Sure to assist children to spend many a 
 pleasant hour. " — Leeds Mercury. 
 
 "Amusing and entertaining." — Edinburgh Courant. 
 
 "A number of wonders all attractively described." — Bristol Mercury. 
 
 " A charming volume ... It is sparkling with humour." — Hull Packet. 
 
 " Invention and dash and originality." — Nonconformist. 
 
 "One of the most charming gift -books of the season." — Bradford Ob- 
 server. 
 
 "A healthy book . . . merrily and frankly told." — Gloucester Journal. 
 
 " A pleasant little manual. . . . The author has succeeded. " — Cheltenham 
 Chronicle. 
 
 "A most attractive book. . . . Drawings simply perfection. . . . We 
 cannot speak of it too \i\^^\.y ." —Caermarthen Journal. 
 
 "An enchanting fairy-tale." — Northampton Mercury. 
 
 "An equisite fiiiry-tale." — Cheshire Observer. 
 
 " Most Qvv\.&x\.VL\m\\g." —Folkestone Chronicle. 
 
 " Beautifully illustrated. . . A capital gift-book." — Wakef eld Express. 
 
 " The interest increases page after page." — Banbuty Advertiser. 
 
 Samuel Tinsley, 10, Southampton Street, Strand.