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 1 I B R.AFLY 
 
 OF THE 
 U N IVLRSITY 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 G 8694d 
 v.l
 
 m SINCLAIR'S SISTER 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD GREY 
 
 (Author of " Concealed for Thirty Years'") 
 
 IN THREE VOLS 
 
 VOL I 
 
 London 
 
 EDEN, REMINGTON & CO PUBLISHERS 
 
 15 KING STREET COVENT GARDEN 
 
 1891 
 
 [All Rights Reserved]
 
 U3 
 QU°IU 
 
 C < ) N T K N T S 
 
 1 
 
 CHAP 
 I. 
 
 II. 
 
 -2 
 
 III. 
 
 IV. 
 
 
 V. 
 
 
 VI. 
 
 *Y 
 
 VII. 
 
 
 VIII. 
 
 
 IX. 
 
 ^ 
 
 *) 
 
 X. 
 
 1 
 
 XI. 
 XII. 
 
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 XIII. 
 
 5 
 
 XIV. 
 
 1* 
 
 IS 
 
 XV. 
 XVI. 
 
 
 XVII. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 pagit 
 
 Disinherited ... 
 
 1 
 
 After Seven Years 
 
 .. 20 
 
 The Changed Name 
 
 .. 3a 
 
 Abbevslea's Monitor 
 
 .. 50' 
 
 Franz Humbert ... 
 
 .. 71 
 
 Her Idol ... ... . 
 
 .. 89< 
 
 The Great " Bairn-Lover" 
 
 .. Ill 
 
 The Child and the Music 
 
 .. 130' 
 
 Lambert Islay 
 
 . 149 
 
 A Stormy Scene ... 
 
 .. 166 
 
 Suspicions 
 
 .. 187 
 
 Taken to Task 
 
 .. 209 
 
 The Children's Garden ... 
 
 .. 231 
 
 Mrs. Forrester 
 
 .. 255- 
 
 " Are you not too Proud ? " 
 
 .. 276- 
 
 A Stranger 
 
 .. 297 
 
 At Bay 
 
 .. 32a
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 DISINHERITED. 
 
 " Then, you intend going against my wishes?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You mean deliberately to cut yourself off 
 from me and your family, in order that you 
 may follow your own senseless will, and lower 
 yourself and me in standing behind an 
 apothecary's counter ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " May I ask what then are your designs ? 
 Possibly you have been seized by some new 
 brilliant idea, as disagreeable to me and as 
 delightful to yourself as was the first one. 
 Pray propound it. Your sisters and cousin 
 are awaiting with interest, I assure you. 
 They like listening to our amiable dis- 
 cussions ; it whets their appetites and gives 
 flavour to their conversations. And I, also, 
 
 VOL. i. B
 
 2 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 experience feelings of great pleasure, when I 
 hear my son and heir inspired with the wish to 
 follow the noble professions of feeling cloths, 
 or tasting teas, or selling drugs — bah ! ' 
 
 The cool, contemptuous tones of the 
 speaker ceased as, with an exclamation of 
 disgust, he leaned back in his chair and 
 half-closed his eyes. He was a small, thin, 
 elderly man of about sixty years, with a 
 low, slanting forehead and thin-cut lips, that 
 seemed to close in and almost disappear as 
 he articulated rapidly his words. 
 
 The room was a large and luxurious 
 one, with handsome furniture and elegant 
 draperies. It was lighted by lamps sus- 
 pended from the delicately-coloured ceiling, 
 and by a large fire that burnt brightly in the 
 open grate. 
 
 Standing on the left side of the hearth, 
 with one elbow leaning on the high marble 
 mantelpiece, was a young man of apparently 
 twenty-three or twenty-four years. He had 
 remained motionless, with his face half-buried 
 in his hand, while his father had thus bitterly 
 questioned him ; only rousing himself slightly 
 as he gave his monosyllabic answers.
 
 DISINHERITED. 3 
 
 There were three other occupants of the 
 room : — a fair, pale lady with restless, light- 
 coloured eyes that shot quick glances every 
 now and again from father to son ; a child, 
 with dark-hanging, heavy hair, and awkward 
 hands, engaged in some plain needlework 
 that seemed to require careful attention, for 
 her head was bent down low over it ; and a 
 man of about thirty, lounging back in a 
 large arm-chair, reading a newspaper, which 
 be occasionally rustled impatiently. 
 
 The small clock on the mantelpiece ticked 
 loudly and jarringly, during the long pause 
 that ensued, after the elderly man's satirical 
 outburst. 
 
 At length the fair, pale lady spoke. 
 
 " Marc, why do you not answer your 
 father ? If you have changed your mind 
 and mean to go in for the law, as he wishes 
 you, why cannot you say so, and thus end 
 all these discussions. And if not, — well — you 
 are of age, and can cut out your own line of 
 life for yourself, and I suppose father can 
 scarcely put any other impediment in your 
 way than that of his displeasure." 
 
 Her voice was high-toned and clear ; her
 
 4 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 face, with its well-carved features, hard and 
 cold-looking. 
 
 James Islay looked up sharply, with his 
 keen eyes gleaming. A heavy stick leant 
 against his chair ; he seized it and brought it 
 down with a heavy thud on the floor. 
 
 " Except my displeasure, indeed, Beatrice," 
 said he, in derisive tones. "You think that 
 will be but small obstruction put in Marcus's 
 way if he refuse to enter the profession, that 
 I and my father and my father's father have 
 prospered in. A small obstruction — yes — 
 yes ! " 
 
 He laughed ironically. 
 
 " What do you say, Lambert ? " he con- 
 tinued, turning his head slightly to one side, 
 and looking at the fair man holding the 
 newspaper. " You know the history of our 
 family a few generations back as well as 
 I do, and an Islay 's displeasure has never 
 proved a light matter, has it ? Aye ? ' 
 
 "Ah! no — scarcely um — a light matter," 
 replied his nephew, Lambert Islay, speaking 
 in a tenor, drawling voice, " but still um— 
 we live in more enlightened ages — aw now, 
 and anger doesn't — um aw — go down in 
 the same way as — "
 
 DISINHERITED. 5 
 
 " Tut ! tut ! man ! " broke in his uncle, 
 angrily, " more enlightened ages, indeed ! 
 Think that makes any difference to me, or 
 Marcus either? No." 
 
 He turned impatiently from his nephew 
 and looked at the tall, leaning figure near the 
 mantelpiece. As he did so his keen face 
 became darker, and his thin lips drew into a 
 long, narrow line. 
 
 '■ Marcus, I require your answer now, 
 without any more delay. Don't stand there 
 looking like a fool, though genius, such as 
 yours, doubtless, must be shown in certain 
 attitudes. Speak out and say whether you 
 mean to comply with my wishes, and make 
 the law your profession or no. I am not in 
 the humour to be trifled with, and I have 
 waited long enough for your decision." 
 
 Slowly Marcus Islay raised his head from 
 his hand, and, drawing himself up, moved a 
 step nearer his father. 
 
 He had a strange, dark face, almost 
 southern-looking in its colouring. The 
 features were irregular, but strongly marked. 
 The eyes were large and gloomy, set deep 
 beneath thick, rather arched eyebrows. The 
 mouth was peculiar, the lower lip protruding
 
 6 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 slightly and giving the whole face a look of 
 protest and dissatisfaction. The forehead 
 was high, the chin square, and the hair 
 thick, and nearly black in colour. It was a 
 cloudy, sunless face, more that of a dreamer 
 than of a man of the world, and entirely unlike 
 in expression or outline either the faces of 
 his father, or elder sister. 
 
 As he moved forward he glanced at the 
 little girl with the heavy, dark hair; and, as 
 if feeling his gaze resting on her, she raised 
 her head quickly, and their eyes met. For 
 one moment a soft smile lit the young man's 
 countenance, but as he turned from her it 
 passed into a sharp, convulsive look of pain. 
 The face of the girl was that of a child of 
 scarcely more than thirteen or fourteen 
 years ; it was an eager, earnest face, with 
 a half-frightened expression upon it. She 
 looked at her brother silently with clouded 
 eyes ; then, as he turned from her, she 
 lowered her head again, and two great tears 
 splashed heavily down on the hands that lay 
 on her lap, locked tightly together. 
 
 " Father," began Marcus Islay, with a 
 certain dogged determination in his voice,
 
 DISINHERITED. 7 
 
 that made the elder man's eyes glitter 
 fiercely, as he looked at him with mock 
 patience, 6i I cannot and will not enter the 
 law, — I hate it and everything connected 
 with it. Is there no other line in life, that 
 you offer me — nothing else that — " 
 
 "Nothing, there is no alternative. I 
 have one wish, and that wish you shall follow 
 out, or else — " 
 
 James Islay stopped short, and laughed a 
 hard, grating laugh. 
 
 "You are unjust, unfair," exclaimed his 
 son in deep, angry tones, while a hot flush 
 rose to his brow. " Why should you thus 
 force me to do what I hate ? Why do you 
 drive me and badger me, as if I were a mere 
 senseless boy, with no mind of my own, and 
 no desires or inclinations ? Am I a bit of 
 wood or stone that you would hammer 
 me into the shape and into the thing that 
 you would have me be ? Why are you no 
 father to me, only a hard, relentless man, 
 who loves to scorn me, and probe to the 
 quick, because I cannot blindly follow in 
 your wake ? I say I cannot, for it is not 
 that I will not ; I have tried, but to no
 
 8 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 purpose, — everything and all that you want, 
 is more repugnant to me each time I think 
 of it. I tell you, I cannot do as you wish." 
 
 He paused breathlessly, for the words had 
 fallen from his lips in quick, passionate 
 tones. Every nerve and fibre of his body 
 was strung up with painful tension. 
 
 While he was speaking his father had 
 leant back in his chair, with a half-cynical 
 look ; but, as he finished, a shadow, dark 
 and grim, crept over his face, which seemed 
 strangely to contract each feature. With a 
 spasmodic movement he rose from his seat 
 and stood confronting his son. 
 
 11 You have said your say. I now will say 
 mine, and I call Beatrice, — Lambert, — Claire, 
 to witness what I do say." 
 
 He stopped a moment and looked around. 
 
 The fair woman's face grew a shade paler, 
 and her restless, light eyes seemed mes- 
 merized upon her father. The child's head 
 sank down lower and lower on her breast 
 till her face was hidden by her heavy, dark 
 hair.. And Lambert Islay slowly laid aside 
 his paper, and gazed into the fire. There was 
 an odd expression on his fair, handsome face
 
 DISINHERITED. 9 
 
 which baffled all analysis. It seemed to lend 
 a certain look of triumph to his eyes, though 
 at the same time his lip was slightly curled 
 with apparent disdain. No one could have 
 told to which side he lent his feeling, or, 
 rather, interest, for his face was one of those 
 which was expressive of a mind that lent 
 cool, calculating interest — not of a heart that 
 gave deep, genuine feeling. 
 
 " Listen to what I have now to say," 
 continued James Islay, still looking away 
 from his son, and speaking in distinct, clear 
 tones, which seemed to cut as a knife in their 
 pungency. " My son, Marcus, is no longer a 
 son to me, — he is disinherited, and this night 
 he goes from his home for ever. I will not 
 see him again, not though he may come here 
 and beg at my very doors. He is less to me 
 than my lowest dependent — he is nothing — 
 nothing." 
 
 With bitter emphasis he repeated the word, 
 and then drew a step back. 
 
 He looked at the gloomy dark face before 
 him with the flush of wrath upon it, and 
 with every muscle working convulsively. 
 But it did not move him. He had been
 
 10 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 thwarted and withstood ; his will had been 
 put aside and his authority set at nought.. 
 The piece of human nature that he had tried 
 to hammer into the likeness of his own, had 
 refused to be struck. The will that was to 
 have crouched impotently beneath his, had 
 risen and asserted its freedom. Neverthe- 
 less, ifc should feel the burden of his dis- 
 pleasure ; it should suffer for its liberty ; it 
 should sink low for its impolitic folly. 
 
 " This night you go from my doors never 
 to return," he said, his hard measured voice 
 trembling with suppressed ire, " but before 
 you go you shall listen once more to what 
 you, in your witless infatuation, are casting 
 away. I have offered you a berth such as 
 few fathers can place ready for their sons, 
 and you have refused it. I have told you 
 that it would only mean close and sharp 
 work for thirty years or less, and then if 
 you wished you could retire with au income 
 that would make the world envy you ; and 
 you, like a fool, have snapped your fingers 
 at it and replied that all this is nothing to 
 you. I have given you an education, the 
 best and most complete that any son could
 
 DISINHERITED. 11 
 
 have had, and I have lived to regret it, — 
 yes, to regret it, for if I had but forced you 
 into office work, when a boy of fifteen, I 
 should not now be hearing you insist upon 
 following out your mere whims, and find you 
 filling your head with lofty notions of mixing 
 chemicals and preparing poisons. Why 
 don't you go into a shop or counting-house 
 at once ? Why don't you try a curate's 
 pay, or a Congregational minister's ? Why 
 not aim at being a farmer, or bailiff, or 
 something equally select and respectable ? 
 Or if that fails, I believe a professor of 
 music or arts, can manage to scrape along 
 upon his scanty £1 a week. Try them all 
 now if you choose ; it is nothing to me, — less 
 than nothing. Only don't drag my name 
 down with you, — you have no right to 
 it — you have forfeited it, — as you leave this 
 house to-night you cease to be an Islay. 
 Take your second name — your dead mother's 
 maiden name, if it please you, — take that and 
 the miserable £100 a year she insisted upon 
 making over to you at her death, against my 
 will. Take it as your ill-deserved portion — 
 you won't have a penny from me — no, not a
 
 12 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 sou to help you start, — you shall suffer, pinch, 
 die, and it will be nothing to me. Go, — I have 
 said my say. Go, — the hour stands at eight 
 now, and by ten the doors will be closed upon 
 you for ever. Leave this room, — the sight 
 of vou is hateful to me." 
 
 a/ 
 
 James Islay's tones had risen, till they 
 seemed to ring through the room and sting 
 the air with their bitter wrath. 
 
 The face of Marcus Islay was white as 
 marble, and locked and still as death. He 
 stood for a moment after those last words were 
 uttered and gazed as one in a dream, first at 
 his father, then slowly his eyes travelled to 
 his cousin and Beatrice, and then, last, 
 rested on his little dark-haired sister. 
 
 " Claire ! " 
 
 He formed the name with his lips, but it 
 was heard only like a low groan, while he 
 staggered from the room. 
 
 As the door closed the child's self-control 
 gave way, and she broke into a storm of 
 passionate weeping. 
 
 " Father, father, don't send him away, 
 don't— don't." 
 
 She had left her chair, and was standing
 
 DISINHERITED. 13 
 
 with one hand clutching at her father's sleeve, 
 and with her face upturned to his in piteous 
 entreaty. 
 
 The fear and awe that she had of him was 
 forgotten and swallowed up, in the dark 
 terror of dread she had, that her brother 
 would be sent away from her for ever, — the 
 brother in whom her whole child's soul was 
 wrapped. But she looked into the angry 
 man's eyes and saw there no relenting; his 
 face was as hard as adamant. 
 
 " Father," she pleaded again, with tremb- 
 ling lips, " don't send him away. I shall die 
 if he goes. He is so good, and so brave, and 
 so beautiful, only nobody loves him, except 
 me, nobody — nobody. Father, let me call 
 him back." 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 A darker panic seized her. Marcus would 
 be going, was going, perhaps was gone, and 
 still there was no word said that would bring 
 him back. 
 
 Her face grew whiter, and her eyes dilated 
 wide with fear. She looked at her sister, 
 but saw no sympathy, no help, in her cold, 
 fair face.
 
 14 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 The cloud lowered. 
 
 " You won't call him back ? — you won't ? — 
 you wont ? " she cried, unclasping her hands 
 from her father's arm, and dragging herself 
 slowly away, " then, — then, let me go with 
 him, let me — " 
 
 " Send the child to bed, Beatrice ; you 
 should have seen to it before. She is as 
 excitable as her mother was, and ought to be 
 kept in check. It is quite time for her to be 
 sent to a strict school." 
 
 Beatrice opened her lips to speak, but the 
 child was already gone. 
 
 Fair, pale woman ! Had she laid a lump 
 of ice on her heart and frozen it ? Had she 
 clasped an iron band round the soul within 
 her, so that it might not respond to those 
 other souls, with whom it should have held 
 closest communion ? Did she know that a 
 child's nature is soft, pliable, tender, and 
 that it is blighted by even a cold look ? Did 
 she feel verily guilty concerning her brother, 
 in that, in his extremest need, she had given 
 him none of the sympathy he sought; she 
 had spoken no low word of sisterly counsel 
 and love ? Who knows ? A statue could
 
 DISINHERITED. 15 
 
 not have revealed less than did the face of 
 Beatrice Islay, as silently she worked on. 
 
 It was winter time, and the night was 
 stormy. Gusts of wind swept round the 
 house, and moaned mournfully outside the 
 windows. There were lulls now and again, 
 when the sound of heavy rain could be heard 
 coming down in short, sharp showers. It 
 was an inclement night, and all who could 
 would be gathered ro'und their household 
 fires, and would pity those obliged, from 
 duty, to go out and face the elements. 
 
 Upstairs, in a room far removed from the 
 rest by a long passage, the wind seemed to 
 sob more drearily, and the rain to beat 
 against the window panes with more drench- 
 ing force. Perhaps it may have been that 
 there the tempest was catching up and ming- 
 ling with its wail and weeping, the sounds 
 of a man's low voice and a child's bitter 
 sobs. 
 
 " Promise me, promise me, Marc, you will 
 come back in — in — " 
 
 " Listen, Claire, and I will tell you once
 
 16 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 more, and you must try and understand, 
 though I know, dear, it is hard for you." 
 
 The child's arms were pressed close round 
 the brother's neck, and her face was hidden 
 on his breast. 
 
 "You will not see me, my darling, till 
 many years have gone by," he went on, in a 
 low, husky voice, " not till seven long years 
 have passed, and you have grown into a 
 woman, and then — " 
 
 " You mean I shall be twenty-one then, 
 and Father can't make me stay at home, ,, 
 broke in the child, a little gleam of light 
 piercing through the darkness, " and so you 
 may come back and take me to live with 
 you, — with you always." 
 
 " Yes, dear, but it will be a long, long time 
 to wait. You must not hope to see me even 
 once during all that time, you — " 
 
 " 0, Marc, Marc, I can't bear it ! I can't 
 let you go, and not see you again, I can't! ! 
 
 " Hush, darling, hush," he said, sooth- 
 ingly, pressing the trembling little form 
 closer to him and trying to stay the heaving 
 sobs, " don't say that, but help me, little 
 sister, help me, Claire, to be brave. ...
 
 DISINHERITED. 17 
 
 His voice broke. 
 
 Almost fiercely he bowed his head and 
 kissed the child's dark, tear-stained face. 
 By degrees her weeping lessened, then ceased 
 altogether, and there was a long silence. 
 
 At length she lifted her face from his breast, 
 and looked closely at him. Something in 
 the expression of his eyes frightened her. 
 
 " Marc, what is it ? Why do you look 
 like that ?" she exclaimed, pressing close to 
 him again. " What do you mean ? How — 
 how can I help you to be brave ?" 
 
 There was a cloud upon his soul dark as 
 night, but, as the child spoke and gazed at 
 him with great, earnest, loving eyes, it 
 gradually lifted, and, instead, a look of 
 strength and purpose stole upon his gloomy,, 
 brooding countenance. 
 
 "Claire, my darling, you are saving me 
 from myself," he said, laying his hand gently 
 on her dark hair, and looking long and 
 tenderly into her face. "You are my good 
 little angel, helping me to be a true man, 
 and not a coward. If it wasn't for you, dear, 
 I should leave this home to-night, and no one 
 would ever see me or hear of me again." 
 
 vol. I. o
 
 18 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 " Why, Marc?" she questioned, in a 
 scared voice, as she clasped her arms tighter 
 round his neck. 
 
 " Never mind, dear, it is all passed now," 
 .he answered, in firm tones. " I am going to 
 live and work and struggle up, so that one 
 day I may come and fetch my little Claire to 
 be with me, and make my lonely life happy. 
 Claire, my little sister, you won't — ' 
 Loudly, sonorously the clock outside in the 
 passage struck the quarter to ten. 
 
 " Promise me, Claire," he went on, 
 feverishly, his deep voice trembling, as still 
 he hungrily gazed into the mute child's 
 face, so close to his, " promise me you 
 will not change. You will be my little 
 dark-haired darling, with a great, loving 
 heart and wild ways. You won't let 
 the hard; cold world eat into you and 
 harm you. You won't be like Beatrice or . 
 any of the others. Oh ! promise me, my 
 little sister, that when I see you again after 
 seven long years you will be a loving, tender 
 woman, with a child's pure heart and innocent 
 ways. Promise me, Claire." 
 
 Lower and lower he bowed his head, for
 
 DISINHERITED. 19 
 
 there was no sound. The child's face was 
 white, her eyes dull and strained. 
 
 " Promise me, Claire," he whispered 
 again, touching her cold cheek with his 
 burning one. 
 
 The child's lips moved painfully. 
 
 " I promise." 
 
 Gently he unclasped the arms that clung 
 round his neck, and then he tenderly kissed 
 the cold, still face, and placed the trembling 
 little form on a low couch. 
 
 " Good-bye, my darling. . Be brave — be 
 ^ood." 
 
 For one moment he knelt and hid his face 
 in his hands. A kind of worldless, despair- 
 ing prayer was offered up ; theu he groped 
 his way blindly to the door. 
 
 The clock struck ten. 
 
 ■■" Marc, Marc, where are you ? Come back 
 to me ; I can't, can't live all that time with- 
 out you. Come back — come back to me." 
 
 The child's desolate cry rang out through 
 the house, long and loud. But there was no 
 answer to it. ' The front door was already 
 closed, and her brother, Marcus Sinclair Islay, 
 
 was gone.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 AFTER SEVEN TEARS. 
 
 Seven long years have passed away, and 
 Marcus Sinclair and his sister, Claire Islay, 
 have met again. 
 
 There are some periods in our lives which 
 form great, indelible landmarks, up to which 
 all that came before has been dated, and from 
 which all- that comes after is thought of, con- 
 nected, and chartered. Few lives have so 
 even and smooth a course that, in looking 
 back, none of these landmarks are visible, 
 standing out as great, indicatory points of 
 light or shade, bearing the impress of some 
 perennial joy or sorrow. It is these that 
 keep us young, or make us old ; and it is by. 
 these that the years which go by should be 
 reckoned. 
 
 With Marcus Sinclair (now no longer an 
 Islay) and his sister, the great central epoch 
 of their lives was their reunion. This was
 
 AFTER SEVEN YEARS. 21 
 
 the ray of sunlight which steadily lit the 
 dark horizon of those seven lonely years, 
 and towards which each pressed on with- 
 eager anxiety and feverish haste. The light 
 never burnt low, the rift in the clouds never 
 lessened ; for the faith each had in the other 
 was fixed, steadfast, immutable. It shone 
 out clear and bright when colossal difficulties 
 seemed to block the way, and rise as great 
 impregnable walls before them. It streamed 
 with lustrous glow right into the gloom of 
 prostration and despair when the heart was 
 sick with repeated failures, and all efforts to 
 rise above adverse circumstances seemed un- 
 availing; and it shed a hallowed beam into 
 those terrible periods of deepest night, when 
 the soul in agony is unable to stretch forward 
 to its God, or to feel His Presence around it. 
 
 " Be brave, be good," — these were the 
 words that sounded in Claire Islay's heart 
 long after her brother had left, — these, with 
 also the dim remembrance that she had 
 promised him something, which at the time 
 she had scarcely understood. 
 
 As she advanced from childhood into girl- 
 hood, a little of the meaning of this promise
 
 22 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 that she had made, dawned upon her. She 
 trembled at that which was contained in it. 
 What had Marcus asked her to do and to be ? 
 Did he know himself, when he had looked so 
 passionately into the child's face, and the 
 wild hope had seized him that the heart and 
 nature of that child could remain the same 
 through the change of passing years ? Did 
 he understand that he had asked her to go 
 through the fire of evil and wrong and 
 wickedness that was around her, and to 
 come out from thence with not so much as. 
 the hem of her garments singed by the 
 encroaching flames ? Did he realize that he 
 was demanding of her a promise, that was 
 almost impossible to keep in spirit and in 
 truth ? Surely he knew not what he asked, 
 and she, childlike, knew not what she 
 promised, — only she resolved that whatever 
 she thought he would wish her to do, she 
 would do it, because she loved and trusted 
 him. 
 
 And thus it was that Claire Islay, although 
 she only half understood her brother's words, 
 still struggled to do and to be, what she 
 thought he must have meant by them.
 
 AFTER SEVEN YEARS. 23 
 
 She was sent to a school after, the depar- 
 ture of Marcus — to an establishment where 
 severe discipline was kept, and hard, narrow 
 rules made. 
 
 " Send the child to a strict school," James 
 
 Islay had said ; " she must be kept in check, 
 
 for she is excitable like her mother," and so 
 
 , , Beatrice, with conscientious care and pains, 
 
 had selected one. 
 
 The principal of this seminary thought 
 that the fresh young natures were placed in 
 her charge to be made into puppets — to 
 have their life, freedom, fancy, individuality 
 knocked out of them. She instructed them 
 well ; she understood the art of teaching, — 
 all who left her school were highly informed, 
 and, up to a certain poiut, well and 
 thoroughly educated. But in many cases 
 she had also spoilt God's handiwork ; she had 
 stunted all natural growth, — she had bruised 
 and crushed the soft hearts and feelings of 
 these mere children, she had nipped and 
 withered the tender shoots and the expanding 
 flowers. 
 
 There were, however, some natures amongst 
 the many that refused to be hurt by her care-
 
 24 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 ful process. Some that rose up when they 
 were pressed down, and would think their 
 own thoughts, and live in their own fanciful 
 imaginations, and enjoy their own wild 
 humours, and love those special ones round 
 whom their warm, impulsive hearts would 
 cling. And all the discipline and opposition 
 they received seemed to have no effect. Per- 
 haps, indeed, it stimulated rather than stag- 
 nated the wild, free life that was within them. 
 
 Claire Islay had one of these bright, 
 resilient natures, and the five years she 
 remained at that school did not manifestly 
 change the child's deep, loving heart. She 
 passed into her young womanhood with the 
 promise she had made — as far as it was 
 possible — faithfully kept. 
 
 But there were two more years of trial, 
 more severe and more tentative than were 
 these first five years.- These were the two 
 that were spent at her home after her educa- 
 tion was — so-called — finished. 
 
 James Islay was the same hard, bitter 
 father, with his sardonic smile and cutting 
 words. He took a grim kind of pleasure in 
 watching this young, frank spirit, with its
 
 AFTER SEVEN YEARS. 25 
 
 open-hearted ways and quick, free sayings. 
 He liked to curb and probe it. He liked to 
 watch the hot flash mount to the girl's brow, 
 and see the sensitive lips quiver, while he 
 wounded her with arrows poison-tipped, and 
 sought to harden her with his cold, narrow 
 philosophy. She reminded him so forcibly 
 of his wife, whose spirit he had crushed, and 
 whose heart he had broken, and yet the 
 remembrance of whom brought to him no 
 feeling of remorse or compunction. 
 
 Beatrice, also, was the same frigid, self- 
 contained woman, with restless, light eyes, 
 and silent, unsympathetic ways. She was 
 thirty-six now, and the stern marks in her 
 forehead were growing deeper, while her 
 pale face was paler than it used to be. She 
 had lived, and was living, a sunless, love- 
 less life, and so the advancing years told 
 upon her, with nothing to soften or hallow 
 them. 
 
 It was surrounded by these home in- 
 fluences, that Claire Islay had passed the 
 last two years of her life. She had looked 
 for love and help^ but she had found 
 none ; everything around her was cramped,
 
 26 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 rigid, adamant. She had called out for 
 some sign that life was the beautiful, lofty, 
 mysterious thing that her imagination had 
 pictured it, but she had received no answer. 
 She had striven to rise above the weight 
 that was pressing her down ; she had 
 sought to break loose from the cold embrace 
 of she scarcely knew what, — which was 
 wrapping her round. But the trial was 
 too protracted, the probation too severe. 
 Little by little she withdrew into herself. 
 Her laughter became less gay, less frequent 
 •*— her ways less wild and unrestrained, her 
 words less free, open, artless. She hardly 
 felt the difference in herself, only she knew 
 it was harder than it used to be, to be " good 
 and brave ; — " and, though she tried to do as 
 she thought Marcus would wish, she felt 
 that there was somehow a thin shell first to 
 be broken through, before she could do it. 
 Her tender, susceptive nature did not change, 
 her soft heart did not harden, but she drew a 
 veil of reserve over them lest they should be 
 wounded, to the quick, and she should lie 
 smarting and undone before those inexorable 
 wills and stony hearts, that were around her.
 
 AFTER SEVEN YEARS. 27 
 
 The religion that she had had as a child,, 
 and to which during her schooldays she had 
 tenaciously clung, seemed to die down and 
 burn as the feeblest spark within her soul. 
 She acknowledged a great universal God, 
 but she did not know what it was to seek 
 refuge beneath the Shadow of His Wing — to 
 ask strength and help in the time of tempta- 
 tion and trouble of an All-Wise and All- 
 Loving Father. All the light that she had 
 within her, was the light of her brother's love 
 and her love for him. This was the altar at 
 which she worshipped, and this was the god 
 before whom she bowed. 
 
 At length, however, the time of* separation 
 had drawn to a close, and the dark past had 
 begun to fade away in the long-hoped-for 
 dawn of a new morning. When James Islay 
 had received a short letter from one, Marcus 
 Sinclair— once known as Marcus Sinclair 
 Islay — stating that if it were still his sister 
 Claire's wish, he should that day come and 
 fetch her away to live with him, — Claire had 
 felt that all that she had lived in and suffered 
 was even at that very moment fading away. 
 It was but a sombre dream of the past, to be
 
 28 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 * 
 
 looked into only as a thing gone by, but 
 never to be actually felt or realized again. 
 So, with the wrath and scorn of her father, 
 and with the frigid silence and disapproba- 
 tion of Beatrice, she had left her home to 
 cast in her lot with her brother. 
 
 Thus, — they met again after a seven years' 
 separation. 
 
 Marcus Sinclair had developed into a 
 silent, reserved man; grave and almost 
 morose to all outsiders. But he felt his 
 whole nature being stirred to its very depths 
 when, after these long years of waiting and 
 working, his sister, whom, as a child, he had 
 loved with a strange and passionate affection, 
 was once again restored to him. 
 
 After the first close embrace had been 
 given, and the first few words had been 
 
 4 
 
 spoken, he drew her face close to his, and 
 said, in a low, unsteady voice — 
 
 " Claire, let me look at you, and see if my 
 little child-sister is again with me. My 
 heart has been starved so long, — let me at 
 last feed it, — let me satisfy its cravings." 
 
 And he looked long at her, with eyes that 
 sought to read her inmost soul.
 
 AFTER SEVEN YEARS. 29 
 
 The child's expressive, eager face had 
 developed into a woman's dark, beautiful 
 face. Yet the features were not faultlessly 
 regular, neither were they striking when in 
 repose. But the large, brown eyes were soft 
 and limpid, and had a great, earnest look 
 about them, as if they were striving to see 
 the real in all that they looked into. They 
 were set with long lashes that curled up- 
 wards. Above them, were perfectly level 
 eye-brows, which seemed to give the same 
 true, steadfast look. The forehead was 
 straight and rather low; the mouth was" 
 expressive, but, though now parted with 
 intense pleasure, looked as if it were un- 
 happy, — there was a slight droop about it 
 that told of suffering. This look should not 
 have been there. It was a mistake. The 
 whole rounded face, with the clear, deep 
 colouring, would have been bright, happy, 
 girlish-looking, if it had not been for that 
 sadness about the mouth. That look of sad- 
 ness had not been always there ; it had only 
 come during the last two years, when the 
 frank, open nature had shrunk into itself 
 before the probing wounds it had received.
 
 30 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 Well for it, perhaps, that it had closed itself 
 in, otherwise, instead of the sadness there, 
 there might have been a hardness or even a 
 bitterness. 
 
 Marcus looked deep into the soft, brown 
 eyes, and as he did so the stern lines on his 
 face seemed to relax, and he drew a long 
 breath of pleasure, — of entire satisfaction. 
 He looked at the thick masses of dark hair that 
 surmounted the straight, low brow, and he 
 smiled a quick, happy smile, for he pictured 
 to himself again the child's eager little face, 
 set with the loose-hanging, heavy hair. But 
 as still he looked, he saw the trembling lips, 
 saw that they were marked with a kind of 
 suffering — a sort of reserve, — and over his 
 face there passed a shadow, and into his 
 eyes there stole the old look of gloom and 
 protest. Why had his little child-sister 
 suffered ? Why had there been no protecting 
 arm put round her, to guard her from all 
 that would hurt her ? Why had he been 
 banished from her when he could and would 
 have sheltered her from all that was sad, or 
 painful, or dark ? Why had she not been 
 given back to him as he had left her — wild,
 
 AFTER SEVEN YEARS. 31 
 
 happy, sunny—- with no sign to shew that 
 she had been passing through a world of 
 suffering and trial ? 
 
 Strange, unreasoning man ! Yet, how 
 many there are who ask the same questions, 
 and who would have the same impossible 
 answers ! How many would have all the 
 child-sisters grow into women with no marks 
 showing that they are living in a hard world, 
 which clutches hold of them roughly and 
 takes from them, almost .by force, their 
 innocence and unshaken trust ! How many 
 would have them bright, happy, gay, un- 
 touched by any darkness or trouble ! How 
 many cast blame upon those women who 
 have let lines of care furrow their brows and 
 looks of sadness gloom their eyes ! How 
 many think that they would like to look upon 
 them as tipon pictures without shade, light 
 without darkness ! And yet, how could the 
 women be helps-meet for the men, if they had 
 not passed through and felt the fire of sorrow 
 and suffering and sin ? How could they 
 give their true sympathy when their hearts 
 most needed it ; real light when their souls 
 tremble in the darkest abyss of night;
 
 32 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 highest love when in times of temptation and 
 bitterest trial they stand undone before it ? 
 
 Ah ! — it is not the knowledge of evil, it is 
 not the knovjledge of sin and of suffering that 
 need hurt. It is only when the nature is" not 
 true and noble enough, and stoops down and 
 becomes part of the darkness that glooms the 
 world, that that nature must become mortally 
 injured.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE CHANGED NAME. 
 
 " Maec, what a beautiful little house this is, 
 and how happy we shall be ! " 
 
 " Then you won't mind being poor ? You 
 will try not to miss all the luxuries and com- 
 forts, to which you have been accustomed, 
 Claire ?" 
 
 " Miss them, Marc ? Why, — I never cared 
 for them. I used to hate being waited on 
 and bothered. I like doing things myself, 
 and I like — " 
 
 " Even if you have to stop and consider 
 how to make two ends meet, and whether 
 you can afford this or that ? — for it's not yet 
 all plain sailing, you know, Claire." 
 
 Marcus Sinclair said this with a tinge of 
 bitterness in his voice, for he was a proud 
 man, and he would have liked to have been 
 able to prepare for his sister a larger and 
 more luxuriously furnished home. He would 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 only have been satisfied if he could have 
 given her the best of everything, and have 
 had her every wish and desire attended to. 
 
 It was in the neighbourhood of a fairly 
 well-to-do suburb of the large city of — , 
 that Marcus Sinclair had found an opening 
 for a medical career. His path had been 
 beset by numerous giant difficulties, which 
 at times had made him stagger in his resolve 
 to work and struggle upward. He had never 
 known what poverty or low water were at his 
 father's house, where the rich lawyer's in- 
 come had supplied everything with lavish 
 plenty. But when he left that home on that 
 winter's stormy evening, he entered into a 
 new unexplored land, where were high, pre- 
 cipitous hills to climb, and deep w r aters to 
 ford. He became acquainted with life on 
 its darker side; he tasted of its bitters 
 instead of its sweets; he cast in his lot with 
 the striving majority, instead of with the 
 well-to-do minority. The sudden change 
 was harder to him than it would have been 
 to many men ; for, he was sensitive, fanciful, 
 highly refined. He had to stoop and bend 
 his proud head low before many things, that
 
 THE CHANGED NAME. 35 
 
 would scarcely have been felt by others, but 
 which acted as shocks upon his nature. 
 Nameless, poor, without interest or friends, 
 the odds were terribly against him. But he 
 had a fine nature, and he rose above what 
 threatened to crush. He saw a light in the 
 dim future ; he remembered a promise that 
 had been given in the past, and so shielding 
 himself in a steel armour, he struggled on. 
 By degrees the profession which, always as a 
 boy, he had had a wish to enter, began to in- 
 terest and captivate him. He passed through 
 his several examinations with brilliant suc- 
 cess, and pressed on hard and fast. Every 
 spare hour he employed in laboured and 
 earnest study, penetrating cautiously yet 
 deeply into the mysteries of the science to 
 which he was devoting himself. And, as the 
 years passed on, young as he was, clever and 
 prosperous physicians began to take note of 
 him. They saw in the dark, silent man, 
 germs of a future greatness. 
 
 He was morose and reserved, hating 
 society and society's ways. People who did 
 not know him as a doctor feared and disliked 
 him as a man ; still, they learnt to listen to
 
 36 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 his well-weighed opinions, and sought him 
 for his careful advice and unerring skill. He 
 became known in Abbey slea — the neighbour- 
 hood where he spent the latter half of the 
 years since leaving his father's house, — and 
 the name he had taken as his surname, began 
 to be spoken highly of and respected. No one 
 knew of his other name. ISTo one guessed 
 the past that had helped to make him so 
 prematurely grave and silent. They asked 
 questions and wondered, but they received 
 no answer; so, by degrees their curiosity 
 died away. 
 
 But Marcus Sinclair thought of this name 
 and of this secret of his, many times before 
 the day drew near, when he hoped that 
 Claire would come and make her home with 
 him. He knew that her coming would cause 
 surprise — would be the subject of much con- 
 versation and many surmises. And yet he 
 had wished to bury the past ; it was dark, it 
 was cruel — why should he bring any of it up 
 again, except the one bright spot in it ? 
 Why should he have to think of his fathers 
 name, when he had tried to forget that it 
 belonged to hirn ? Would Claire wish to keep
 
 THE CHANGED NAME, 37 
 
 her name of Islay ? It was an old name, 
 and could be traced back many generations, 
 and none of the family would lightly drop it. 
 And yet — it was a hateful name to Marcus 
 Sinclair, and his face would flush and his 
 eyes darken as he thought of it. 
 
 That first evening, — when Claire was ex- 
 pressing her pleasure in the home to which 
 he had brought her, and he, in return, was 
 referring to the luxuries and comforts which 
 she would most surely miss, — the thought in 
 connection with his name flashed across him 
 and struck him coldly. But he would not 
 force the thought from him, even in those 
 sweet first moments of his sister's com- 
 panionship. Better to know then, at the 
 very beginning of their life together, whether 
 she would share his secret and make his 
 name her own, helping him to forget the 
 years of his boyhood, and of the father who 
 had driven him as an outcast from his doors. 
 
 It was a soft, still evening in early spring; 
 so warm and fragrant with the scents of the 
 early flowers, that the large window of the 
 drawing-room was thrown wide open, and 
 the brother and sister sat close to it, looking
 
 38 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 out across the small stretch of grass which 
 formed the little garden attached to the 
 house. 
 
 During the pauses in conversation Claire 
 glanced furtively at the brother, of whom 
 she felt rather afraid. She had longed and 
 vearned to see him again, — to be with him ; 
 and yet, now that they were together, she 
 scarcely knew what to say to him, or how to 
 tell him how happy she was. Her thoughts 
 were in strange commotion, and could find 
 no utterance in words. She felt a strong 
 impulse to put her arms round his neck and 
 love him, as she had done many years ago, 
 when she was a child. But she refrained — 
 she did not like to ; he was so grave, so 
 much older-looking than he used to be, and 
 she had lost her childish frankness and free- 
 dom. She could not do impulsively what 
 she used to ; she shrank from displaying 
 what she was feeling most. 
 
 " Claire." 
 
 She half started, for his deep voice sounded 
 somehow different to what it had been when 
 he had last spoken. 
 
 "Yes, Marc," she said, looking at him
 
 THE CHANGED NAME. 39 
 
 with her large earnest eyes, and wondering 
 what he was going to say. 
 
 " Do you know, Claire, that you have a 
 name that I hate — that I wish to forget and 
 bury as part of a dark past ! Can you, — will 
 you drop it for my sake ? " 
 
 His face flushed as he spoke, and uncon- 
 sciously his voice grew very stern. It was a 
 subject that touched him nearly, and he was 
 so unaccustomed to receive sympathy when 
 he most needed it, that even now he forgot to 
 look to his sister for it. The habit of 
 covering what he deeply felt within a cold,* 
 severe exterior, was not one that could be 
 easily broken through. It had grown on 
 him to a greater degree than he thought, as 
 years had advanced. 
 
 " You mean our surname, Islay ? " said 
 Claire, in low tones, turning from him and 
 looking out of the window. 
 
 " Not our surname, Claire ! " he exclaimed, 
 leaning forward, and speaking in quick, 
 angry accents. " It may be yours, but it 
 is not mine. I have tried to forget it — not 
 to know it. I hate the sound of — '' 
 
 He broke off suddenly, for he felt two soft
 
 40 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 hands trembling in his, and two great brown 
 eyes, full of tears, looking mournfully down 
 at him. 
 
 " Oh ! what a brute I am to speak like 
 this to you, Claire," he said, in tones of self- 
 reproach. " I have grown into a rough bear 
 all these years that I have spent by myself. 
 Forgive me, little sister, forgive me; I did 
 not mean to hurt you." 
 
 His deep voice grew gentle, and his stern 
 face tender, as he drew Claire close to him. 
 How he hated himself for having spoken so 
 fiercely to her, and for having brought those 
 tears to her eyes. 
 
 " It's all rioht, Marc ; I didn't mean to be 
 so foolish," she said, smiling, and her whole 
 face brightening as she heard him call her by 
 an old pet name; " only don't look so dark, 
 because it makes me feel afraid of you, and 
 oh ! Marc, I want to love you — not be afraid 
 of you." 
 
 ".Ah! little sister/' he replied, in an un- 
 steady voice, for he was deeply moved, 
 " have I not waited all these years for you 
 to come and love me, and now — now, even 
 during these first hours of our meeting — I am
 
 THE CHANGED NAME. 41 
 
 making you fear me. Claire, forget it — 
 forget that I spoke roughly and sternly to 
 you. I wouldn't have — " 
 
 "Marc, don't; it was nothing," she broke 
 in hastily, almost frightened at the passion of 
 emotion that was passing over his dark face. 
 " It was only that you spoke and looked quite 
 different to what I thought you used to." 
 
 " And you will find me different, too, in 
 every way, Claire," he said, looking gloomily 
 out into the darkening sky. " I am hard, 
 and stern, and selfish. I do not look on life 
 in the same way as I did when you were a 
 child, and I scarcely more than a boy. I 
 distrust most men, and sweep my hard 
 judgments over all of them. How could it 
 have been otherwise ? What has there been 
 to prevent my growing like this ? W"hat 
 softness has there been in my life to make 
 me a gentle or a noble man ? Nothing — 
 nothing." 
 
 He spoke bitterly, — sadly. Though he may 
 not have been gentle or noble, still, he was 
 honest; and he knew he was not what he 
 would have had himself be. As he looked 
 back over the years that had gone by, he felt
 
 42 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 that once he had made better, higher resolu- 
 tions ; he had kept before him nobler 
 ideals ; he had looked upon human nature 
 with a wider, kindlier eye. And as his 
 deeper feelings were stirred he felt how 
 imperfect he was ; how he had failed in all 
 his noblest aspirations. 
 
 " Marc, won't you forget the past ? " 
 Claire asked, in a low voice, as she softly 
 stroked one of his large, blue-veined hands. 
 " Can't we try and begin again, and not think 
 of what came before to-day ? Shall we — " 
 
 " Will my little sister be content, then, if 
 her name is Claire Sinclair instead of — of the 
 other?" he interrupted, taking her two 
 hands in his, and looking down steadily, but 
 gently, into her face. 
 
 He would not frighten her again with his 
 fierceness. Her nature was the same 
 delicately susceptive one it used to be, 
 and then he had loved and cherished it ; 
 surely now he would not hurt it. 
 
 She paused a moment before she answered. 
 She did not glance away from the eyes that 
 were gazing down into her own, but she 
 looked back earnestly into them. They
 
 THE CHANGED NAME. 43 
 
 were strange, grave eyes, darker than her 
 own, and deeper set. The forehead above 
 them was high and white ; it was a clever, 
 thoughtful forehead, with dark, thick hair, 
 streaked here and there with a premature 
 grey, falling heavily over it. 
 
 " Well, little sister ? " he said, gently, as 
 still she did not answer. 
 
 His voice roused her. She was wondering 
 how she could have lived all those seven 
 years without him, and whether she had 
 loved him before as much as she felt she 
 loved him that moment. 
 
 With a quick gesture she drew her hands 
 from his, and then, with all the old childish 
 impetuosity, she flung her arms round his 
 neck. 
 
 " Let me love you, Marc," she said, " for, 
 oh ! I am so happy ! " 
 
 The young doctor's face grew softer ; every 
 grave and stern line seemed to vanish. The 
 cloud that had darkened his life lifted, and 
 he smiled and revelled in the brightness that 
 shone on him. If he had been a religious 
 man he would have gone down on his knees 
 at that moment and thanked God for His
 
 U DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 goodness. He would have recognized that 
 the Hand that had withheld so many things 
 from him, was an All- Wise, All-Loving Hand, 
 which had taken from him at one time, only 
 that at another It might restore more richly, 
 more fully blessed. But Marcus Sinclair 
 had buried his religion — he had starved his 
 soul. He had tried to bind the infinite within 
 the finite. He was an upright, conscientious, 
 hard-working, even high-minded man, with 
 many wishes to live a life above the petty, 
 egoistic, narrow lives he saw around him, 
 but, — he was not religious. He had thought 
 he knew better than his God, and so had 
 rebelled against Him. 
 
 The room grew dark ; the night air stirred 
 gently, and sent chilly gusts now and again 
 in at the open window. Still the brother 
 and sister did not move. From time to time 
 they spoke in low voices, but they oftener 
 found silence more eloquent than words. 
 
 At length they both rose, and stood for a 
 moment by the open window. 
 
 " Marc," said Claire, " I have not answered 
 your question yet." 
 
 " No, little sister, you haven't," he replied.
 
 THE CHANGED NAME. 45 
 
 He had not referred again to his name, bat 
 had waited for Claire to give him her answer 
 voluntarily, and she had not yet done so. 
 
 " Make me a promise first, Marc, before I 
 answer you ? " she asked. 
 
 "Nay, nay, Claire, I have grown too old 
 to make promises,'' he replied with a sigh, 
 " they are what we make when we are boys ; 
 then — we keep them, but now, — when we 
 are men, we break them, and think nothing 
 of it. Don't ask me to promise anything, 
 Claire, — I am a doctor, you know, and doctors 
 never keep promises." 
 
 " Ah ! but, Marc, it is only tbat I want 
 you to say that you will let me share every- 
 thing with you. I want you to let me know 
 what you are thinking about and feeling, 
 and what is troubling you, and what you like, 
 and what you don't like. Can't you — can't 
 you tell me everything that is in your heart 
 — always, now that — that we are together 
 again r 
 
 It was too dark for him to see her face, 
 but he heard her breath coming quick and 
 short. 
 
 " What are you asking me, Claire ? " he
 
 46 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 replied, bitterly, half-turning from her, and 
 covering his eyes with his hand, " Can I 
 open what I have closely shut ? Can I 
 unlock the door when I have buried the 
 key and know not where to find it ? Can I 
 undo what seven lonely years have done ? 
 Can I change what this world has made me 
 into ? Claire — what — what are you asking 
 me?" 
 
 Slowly he drew away from her, and flung 
 himself into a chair close by. Once he had 
 been open, impulsive, demonstrative, wishing 
 to tell every thought and every feeling to 
 those around him. Once he had sought for 
 sympathy in everything, and would have laid 
 bare his heart with little or no reserve. But 
 it was not so now. He hated anyone know- 
 ing what he was thinking about. He drew 
 himself in with proud, cold reticence when 
 he was most nearly touched. He repulsed 
 any who sought to draw closer to him, and 
 who wished to know him as he was, and not 
 as he made himself out to be. He had 
 received heavy blows in his youth ; they had 
 not killed him, but they had marked him for 
 life. Could he undo what had been done ?
 
 THE CHANGED NAME. 47 
 
 Could he unsuffer what he had suffered ? 
 
 No; it was too late. Yet he felt a hot 
 
 flush of emotion rising to his brow, and his 
 strong hands trembling. How sweet it 
 would be if — 
 
 Small, cold fingers were laid on his. 
 
 " Marc, I forgot. I have not answered 
 your question yet. What is yours is mine, 
 and I would have no other surname than the 
 one you bear. What you have dropped and 
 tried to forget I will drop and forget . . ." 
 
 She hesitated a moment. He did not 
 speak, for he felt that there was something 
 more that she was going to say. 
 
 But just then there was borne in through 
 the open window a plaintive strain of music. 
 Claire heard it, and raised her head to listen. 
 
 "What's that, Marc?" she asked, in a 
 whisper; "it sounds like a violin." 
 
 " Oh, it's only Franz Humbert and his 
 fiddle," he replied, dragging himself wearily 
 up from his chair and going with her to the 
 open window again. " He lives in the house 
 next to this, not above twenty yards from 
 here, and he is always playing when — " 
 
 " Listen, Marc ! " she interrupted, softly ;
 
 48 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 " surely there is more than one instrument 
 that we hear ! " 
 
 And so it seemed, for the low, complaining 
 air had passed into a storm of vehemence 
 and power, that sounded, as if not one, but 
 many violins, were striving to give utterance 
 to some burst of feeling. 
 
 " No, Claire, it is only one," said her 
 brother, in under tones, knowing the man 
 and the instrument better than she did;. 
 " but he who has the bow in his hand is a 
 genius. An odd, eccentric fellow, some call 
 him, massacring music with his hideous dis- 
 cords. But I don't think it's that; he is- 
 trying to give vent to some of the passions 
 that we feel, and can't — aye, and dare not 
 express in words. He is often in and out of 
 here — fancies this room is good for sound, I 
 believe, so you'll make his acquaintance 
 before long." 
 
 He paused. 
 
 The wild music was dying away again into 
 a soft, sweet melody. 
 
 " Marc, don't you think that by-and-bye, 
 when, perhaps, we have lived some years 
 together, that you will be able to — to trust
 
 THE CHANGED NAME. 49 
 
 me to know what you are thinking and feel- 
 ing ? I want so to help you to forget — for- 
 get the past, and try and make — " 
 
 "What are^ you asking me, little sister ? " 
 he broke in hastily, using, unconsciously, 
 again the same words as he had before. 
 
 But the tone in which they were said, was 
 not the same. He was raising his eyes again to 
 the cup that, years ago, had been dashed from 
 him, and he saw, though dimly, that its con- 
 tents were still sweet. 
 
 vol. I. E
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 abbeyslea* s monitor. 
 
 Abbetslea was a neighbourhood where 
 mostly well-to-do people dwelt. It was at a 
 sufficient distance from the large town of 
 O — to be termed — " in the country.'' Yet 
 it was only a good half-hour's walk from that 
 town, and some of the broad, well-kept roads 
 would lead straight into the narrow slums 
 and streets where poverty reigned. But no 
 one who resided in Abbey slea, had anything 
 to do with — , except to use it for shopping 
 purposes, and, occasionally, conversational. 
 The inhabitants of Abbeyslea were superior 
 in every way, and kept themselves to them- 
 selves in a most refined and praiseworthy 
 manner. If a tradesman and his family were 
 presumptuous and thought that they had 
 toiled hard and long enough behind a counter 
 in — , and would like to be free and at rest 
 in the countrified suburb of Abbeyslea, they
 
 ABBEYSLEA S MONITOR. 51 
 
 might take their good sized villa and its 
 garden, but they might not mix in the 
 society around them. That was forbidden. 
 It was quite sufficient honour and pleasure 
 for them to see the ladies and gentlemen in 
 whose neighbourhood they dwelt, to mark 
 their customs and ways, to hear them speak- 
 ing, and — to receive their snubs. Surely they 
 could not look for, or in any way expect, 
 more than this ! At least this was the idea 
 of the majority of the gentry residing in 
 Abbeyslea; there were, of course, a few 
 exceptions ! 
 
 Curiously, though Abbeyslea was a com- 
 paratively new made district, none of the 
 houses bearing the impress of more than 
 thirty or forty years, it possessed an old 
 Parish Church. How it came to be that a 
 thirteenth century Church stood there, no 
 one knew. But when the district had grown 
 into a distinct and separate Parish, there was 
 some division of opinion as to whether the 
 old, grey-stoned, ivy-covered, partly-ruined 
 Edifice should be restored, or whether a new 
 brick one should be erected. It was decided 
 in favour of the former, and thus it was that 
 
 i 
 
 r\r I"" \ \ 
 
 k_.
 
 52 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 this large, disused House of God became 
 again a Place of Worship. 
 
 All the people in Abbeyslea were good 
 church people ; no such thing as a chapel was 
 heard of or mentioned among them. They 
 attended Divine Service .every Sunday morn- 
 ing, without intermission, unless prevented 
 by ill-health or absence from home. Occa- 
 sionally also, they would drop in to the even- 
 ing Service, in order to show the Rector that 
 they appreciated his kindness, and thought 
 it quite correct that he should hold a second 
 Service on the Sabbath day. Sometimes one 
 or two of them would attend the two weekly 
 Readings of Prayer, which took place on 
 Wednesdays and Fridays. But this did not 
 occur often. 
 
 The grey-haired Rector was one of the old 
 school ; strictly conservative in politics, and 
 strictly conservative in his religious opinions. 
 The world changed its ways of looking at 
 things, its customs and its beliefs, but the 
 Rector did not. He looked at his flock with 
 a quiet, complacent glance, knowing that his 
 own doctrines were sound and good enough, 
 and hoping that theirs were too. The living
 
 ABBEYSLEAS MONITOR. 53 
 
 was a fairly comfortable one ; there were no 
 poor to be attended to, there was no prevail- 
 ing dissent to provoke controversy, and there 
 was no open evil-doing, — though perhaps, 
 there was some inclination to evil- speaking 
 and gossiping. Still, — this last was a thing 
 that could not be prevented ; go where anyone 
 would they would probably hear the same 
 thing, that the inhabitants of each and every 
 neighbourhood were addicted to much talk- 
 ing. And, after all, thought the Rector, 
 this evil, if evil it can be termed, only shows 
 that there is a certain amount of unselfish- 
 ness among people, in that they are not so 
 completely wrapped up in themselves and 
 their own affairs, as to be unmindful of their 
 neighbours and their concerns. 
 
 In one of the largest houses in Abbeyslea 
 lived a lady, who possessed a wide-spread 
 influence upon all those around her. She 
 had a husband, a very kind, generous man, 
 but — he was nobody. It was Mrs. Forrester's 
 house, and Mrs. Forrester's word that was 
 the law, and Mrs. Forrester's opinion that 
 was feared ; for Mr. Forrester was only — Mrs. 
 Forrester's husband. And yet he was a
 
 54 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 good man, and she was not a good woman, 
 though she thought she was. He was a 
 devoted and unselfish husband, and she was 
 a cold, capricious wife, who cared only to 
 make him her slave, and talk slightingly 
 of him and to him. 
 
 She was a clever woman, with a fine 
 face, and distinguished manner; able to 
 fascinate, and able to carry out what she 
 set her mind upon carrying out. Conse- 
 quently she was a very important member of 
 society, and what she thought or said was 
 passed from mouth to mouth, and was 
 seldom disagreed with or disputed. Many 
 admired her, many envied her, many wished 
 that they were like her, but — nobody loved 
 her, except her husband, who overlooked all 
 her faults, forgave her all her petty tyrannies, 
 and went on idealizing her, seeing always a 
 beam in his own eye, but never so much as a 
 mote in hers. Children were frightened of 
 Mrs. Forrester because she said hard things 
 to them, and brought tears to their eyes, and 
 dark terrors to their little hearts. Women 
 feared her, looked up to her, yet, at times, 
 hated her, but wouldn't own to it, because she
 
 ABBEYSZEA'S MONITOR. 55 
 
 was " the best society " in Abbeyslea, and it 
 would not be worldly wisdom to be anything 
 but fast friends with her. And men were 
 attracted by her, complimented her, and 
 excited her vanity and self-love ; but, 
 between themselves, they talked of her as a 
 dangerous woman. Yery clever, but most 
 illogical ; very charming as an acquaintance, 
 but one before whom it would be well for 
 words to* be carefully chosen, and sentiments 
 sparingly expressed. She seemed to possess 
 a marvellous facility for enlarging upon what 
 she saw, heard, and felt; being fluent, even 
 eloquent, in speech, having a hard heart, and 
 not very strict notions of truth. 
 
 The morning after Claire's arrival in 
 Marc's house, as the ill fates would have 
 it, she accidentally became acquainted with 
 this lady. Marcus Sinclair disliked Mrs. 
 Forrester ; why, he scarcely knew, for her 
 character was quite enigmatical to him. 
 Still he always had the feeling about her 
 that she was, amongst women, one that 
 would deteriorate, not elevate. So he had 
 thought whether he should warn Claire 
 against her. He saw that his little frank,
 
 56 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 m 
 
 impulsive child-sister had grown into a 
 woman with an innocent and guileless nature. 
 He could look into her face and see that, not- 
 withstanding the hard and rather bitter 
 experiences of her home life, there was no 
 shadow of alloy upon it. She had seen and 
 known wrong and evil in others, but her own 
 spirit was pure. The knowledge of it had 
 saddened her life, and taken from her her 
 blithe and sunny childhood ; it had made her 
 look upon those around her with a sort of 
 fear and misgiving ; it had wrenched from 
 her her trust and confidence. But she, her- 
 self, was good and true, and her brother 
 
 • 
 
 wished to guard her, with even jealous care 
 and love, from that which would change her. 
 Consequently, he wondered to himself 
 whether it would be best to tell his sister of 
 his dislike to Mrs. Forrester or no. 
 
 But his daily round of visits began early, 
 and there was not time for more than a few 
 minutes' conversation before he started. 
 Twice, however, the thought of Mrs. 
 Forrester crossed his mind, and he half 
 wished to give Claire a few words of caution 
 about her. But he had a man's dislike to
 
 ABBEYSLEAS MONITOR. 57 
 
 touch upon what he could not exactly define ; 
 so he thought he would wait until the 
 evening. There would be more time then, and 
 he would be able to give Claire a clearer idea 
 of what he feared in this lady's society, than 
 he could hurriedly, then, in the morning. 
 
 So, as he stood for one moment at the gate 
 that led from his little garden into the high 
 road, and stooped his tall form down to kiss 
 her, he only said — 
 
 " Good-bye, Claire. Remember this is 
 your home now ; you are mistress of the 
 house, and are to do exactly what you like 
 with it. I have no doubt you will find 
 plenty to do and set in order, — for a .solitary 
 man, absorbed in himself and his own cares, 
 hasn't much idea of how things in a house 
 ought to go. So — do whatever you like, dear, 
 and arrange all as you would have it, and 
 don't fear but that I shall be pleased ..." 
 
 He hesitated a moment, and then added, 
 with a smile that softened the stern lines on 
 his face — 
 
 " Best of all to me, little sister, is this new, 
 strange knowledge, that I have someone in 
 my house waiting for me, and ready to
 
 58 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 welcome me home when I come. — I 
 wondered whether this thought would ever 
 be mine." 
 
 And then he went off to his work and 
 looked out upon the world and saw that the 
 fresh, tender buds of Spring were diamond- 
 dewed, and the clouds of early morning 
 " pure and white as flocks new-shorn ; " and, 
 listening, he heard that there was music 
 around him everywhere. Many other Spring 
 mornings had he looked out upon before; 
 many hundreds of times before had the birds 
 sung to him, but he had seen and heard 
 nothing. Life had not been pleasant to 
 him, and so he had looked upon the beauti- 
 ful world of Nature with a dark, unseeing 
 eye. But now, it was different; the heart 
 within him was stirred, and the path before 
 him was light, for he had the picture of a 
 soft face looking at him all the way, and the 
 sound of a voice mingling all the time with 
 the songs of the birds. 
 
 And Claire went back to her new home 
 and thought to herself that there was nothing 
 so dear in the whole wide world as a brother. 
 That she would do all she could to make
 
 ABBEYSLEA'S MONITOR. 59 
 
 him happy, and to live and be exactly as he 
 would like. That she would try and make 
 his home beautiful for him, and let every- 
 thing run smoothly and well. That nothing 
 should ever come between them, or any 
 dark cloud overshadow them. 
 
 Castles in the air ! Dreams of what might 
 be ! Thoughts with not a touch of worldly 
 reckoning in them ! — This is young life as it 
 looks out on a fair Spring morning, and 
 wonders why the world is unhappy, and 
 wherein lies its sin ! And yet, not many 
 days, perhaps hours before, that same young 
 life had been in the depths of despair and 
 misery, and had thought- all before it was 
 dark, and all joy and hope a myth. Such is 
 human nature ! — 
 
 Claire would have liked to have stayed out 
 in the fresh morning air, and have looked 
 about her to see in what kind of neighbour- 
 hood she had come to dwell ; but she knew 
 there were things she wished to see to and 
 arrange in the house. She had very little 
 idea of what housekeeping meant, or of the 
 care women generally find that it entails. 
 She thought the whole of it could be summed
 
 60 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 up into three parts, i.e. : — ordering what her 
 brother would like, — making the rooms in 
 which he lived pretty, — and being always 
 happy herself and ready to welcome him 
 home. She never conceived for a moment 
 that, after awhile, she might find the duties 
 in the house so arduous and engrossing, that 
 she would forget to be bright when he came 
 in, or to smile when she saw him coming, or 
 to talk when he wished her to. But, perhaps, 
 the knowledge of these things would come to 
 her later on, when the novelty of strangeness 
 and high ideas had worn off. 
 
 The house, her brother had chosen for his 
 home, was one of several that stood a little 
 way off from the high road leading to — . 
 It was smaller, and seemed to be of rather 
 older date than the others, for its stone walls 
 were covered high up with creepers, and its 
 slate roof was in parts lichen-grown. In 
 the small garden that lay around were 
 several trees, which spread their shading 
 boughs far over the wide road on the one 
 side, and shadowed the little stretch of grass 
 on the other. 
 
 " I shall get very fond of this garden,"
 
 ABBEYSLEAS MONITOR. 61 
 
 thought Claire to herself, as, after having 
 spent most of the morning indoors, unpack- 
 ing her worldly goods and arranging various 
 things in the way her fancy led her, she stepped 
 outside to breathe in the fresh balmy air. 
 
 " The grass is soft and mossy, and the big 
 trees make one think there is more garden 
 further on, which one cannot see," she went 
 on, speaking half-aloud to herself, as she 
 wandered slowly down the narrow, unkept 
 and weedy path, which lay close to the thick 
 line of shrubs, forming a barrier between the 
 road and the garden. " I rather wish,* 
 though, that these bushes had grown a little 
 higher, because passers-by can just see me if 
 I stand upright, and — if Marc were here, 
 they would see all his head and shoulders, — 
 he's so tall." 
 
 She paused a moment, as she stood on tip- 
 toe, and tried to look over the shrubs. She 
 could just see that there was a hedge on the 
 opposite side of the road, and fields beyond. 
 But she wanted to see more than this, so she 
 retraced her steps back by the little unkept 
 path, until she came to the gateway which led 
 into the road.
 
 62 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 " I did look out here when I watched Marc 
 go off early this morning," she continued, 
 still half-aloud; " but I think I couldn't have 
 seen anything but him, then. I wonder — " 
 
 The thought, that was crossing her, was 
 evidently a pleasant one, for she broke off 
 with a soft light shining in her brown eyes, 
 and a smile playing on her lips. 
 
 "I wonder . . . ," she repeated, "whether 
 the people about here admire him very much. 
 He is so tall, and strong, and broad, and has 
 such a dark, handsome face. It's like what 
 it used to be in a way, and yet — not like. 
 I remember — remember I used to think he 
 had a beautiful face then — always — but it 
 
 isn't quite not quite beautiful now, except 
 
 when he smiles. He is very grave, and 
 doesn't look as if he ever laughed much, 
 but then — " 
 
 A shadow fell over her face, and she 
 sighed as she stopped abruptly in her 
 sentence. 
 
 The road, up which she was looking, was 
 long and straight. The fields that lay on 
 one side of it sloped gently down to a wide 
 and slow-coursing river, whose waters
 
 ABBEYSLEA'S MONITOR. 63 
 
 gleamed and shimmered in the sunlight. 
 On the other side of the river were more 
 fields, lying flat, with giant trees growing on 
 them. Beyond these, the country was hilly 
 and thickly wooded. 
 
 " I like all that part — very much," thought 
 Claire, forgetting about Marc for the moment, 
 and only thinking of what she was looking 
 at ; " but I wonder where the large town is 
 — I suppose it's — the other way." 
 
 And as she said this she turned her head, but, 
 almost with the same movement, drew back 
 quickly within the open garden gate. For,' 
 not half-a-dozen steps off, was a lady walk- 
 ing in her direction, who evidently, from the 
 expression on her face, had been watching 
 her with some interest. 
 
 " I hope this place is a kind of countrified 
 one, where you can do what you like and not 
 be talked about," thought Claire, turning to 
 go back to the house, and remembering for 
 the first time that she had no hat on. " That 
 lady looked rather as if — " 
 
 "Is it Miss Sinclair I have the pleasure of 
 seeing ? " 
 
 Claire started, but did not turn her head.
 
 64 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 She wondered whom the lady she had just 
 seen could be addressing, for she hadn't 
 noticed anyone else corning along the road- 
 Also, she did not recognise her own new sur- 
 name, having forgotten that she was no- 
 longer Claire Islay, but Claire Sinclair. 
 
 " Pardon me, — but I am not mistaken, am 
 I, — in thinking that you are Dr. Sinclair's 
 sister ? " 
 
 This time the voice sounded so close to her r 
 that Claire stopped short and looked round ; 
 a hot, nervous colour mounting to her brow 
 as she did so. It must be her that this lady 
 was addressing, for she was evidently refer- 
 ring to Marc, when she mentioned " Dr. 
 Sinclair." 
 
 " Yes, I — I am — Marc's sister," she stam- 
 mered, wishing she had not gone to the 
 garden gate to look out ; but, at the same time 
 thinking how strange it was to hear Marc 
 called Dr. Sinclair. 
 
 " I thought you must be, — not from your 
 likeness to him exactly, but because new- 
 comers always like to go just outside their 
 gates to look around. And I knew you were 
 coming this week, though I couldn't find out
 
 ABBEYSLEA'S MONITOR. 65 
 
 from your brother the precise day, — he is 
 inclined to be very — isn't he ? — very close, 
 I can't bear people being close. But I knew 
 it must be you, so I thought I would be 
 friendly and introduce myself without any 
 ceremony." 
 
 As the lady thus spoke Claire looked at 
 her with a half-frightened, half-admiring 
 gaze. She saw before her a tall, handsome 
 woman, very fair, with an exquisite com- 
 plexion and large blue eyes, that looked 
 blandly and complacently into her own, after 
 they had wandered from her bair to her un- 
 covered hands, her lightly-shod feet, and her 
 dress. They seemed to take in the size of 
 her waist, the breadth of her shoulders, her 
 exact height, the way her hair was done, and 
 her manner of standing — all in that glance, 
 before she met Claire's eyes, and before she 
 had finished her sentence. Her voice was 
 clear and rather high-pitched, her tones 
 suave but imperious, her manner conde- 
 scendingly inviting. 
 
 Claire was puzzled. It was very good of 
 this lady to come and speak to her ; but 
 she might just as well have said something 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 nice about Marc instead of calling him 
 " close." 
 
 " Thank you ; it is very kind of you," she 
 said, dropping her eyes before the gaze of 
 those cold, blue ones, and feeling herself 
 getting hotter and hotter as she spoke. " I 
 know I ought not to have been standing out- 
 side our gate just now, but — but I was in 
 the garden, and I could — could only — " 
 
 " I understand, Miss Sinclair, you needn't 
 explain,' 5 broke in the lady, with a short 
 ripple of laughter; "as if I didn't know 
 that all young folks like to look about them, 
 and see whether they can find out who their 
 neighbours are, or whether there is anything 
 particularly interesting about their surround- 
 ings. I daresay — now, I daresay that brother 
 of yours hasn't told you anything. Be open, 
 — tell me, — what has he been saying to 
 you about us all ? Has he given us a good 
 character, or has he been abusing us ? " 
 
 She drew a step closer to the girl, and 
 Claire, feeling the movement, raised her eyes 
 and looked doubtingly at her. 
 
 " I don't know what you- mean, exactly," 
 she said, gravely. " Marc and I havn't talked
 
 ABBEYSLEAS MONITOR. 67 
 
 about anyone yet, except — , except ourselves 
 — at least, not about any outside people. 
 You see, we are so pleased to see each 
 other again, and have so much to tell, 
 that we havn't thought about anything else 
 yet." 
 
 " Ah I it is a good number of years since 
 you met, is it not?" asked the lady, putting 
 the question almost before Claire had finished 
 her sentence. " We have always wondered 
 where Dr. Sinclair's relations could be. It 
 was strange — very strange — that he shouldn't 
 have any, or ever speak of his home before 
 he came here. But I daresay you will tell us 
 all about it, now you have come." 
 
 The voice and the manner were encour- 
 aging and friendly ; but, as Claire's eyes 
 sought those of her interlocutor, she saw 
 there a curiosity and keen desire for informa- 
 tion, which made her think that perhaps this 
 lady was anxious to know more about Marc, 
 than he wished her to. So she did not 
 answer the implied question, but only said, 
 with gentle courtesy of manner — 
 
 " I shall not know whom to tell Marc that 
 I have seen. May I ask what your name is?
 
 68 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 It is so kind of you to have come and 
 spoken to me." 
 
 The slightest shade of annoyance seemed 
 to pass over the handsome, fair lady's face, as 
 -thus quietly and easily Claire evaded her 
 question. 
 
 " This girl is not so soft and innocent as 
 she looks," she thought ; ri close and near 
 like her brother, — though she has such a 
 childish expression." 
 
 Mrs. Forresters logic did not extend so far 
 as to know, that a perfectly true and straight- 
 forward nature baffles unconsciously, where 
 often a more keen and worldly wise one will 
 fail. 
 
 Aloud she said, with an accession of dignity 
 that was unfortunately lost upon Dr. Sin- 
 clair's sister — 
 
 " I am Mrs. Forrester, of whom, no doubt, 
 your brother has told you, — and I am at the 
 head of the best society in Abbeyslea. I shall 
 come and call on you in a few days, and then 
 afterwards I shall hope to see you at my ' At 
 Homes,' — where you will meet everyone whom 
 you ought to know. Good morning, and tell 
 Dr. Sinclair from me, that I am glad I have
 
 ABBEYSZEA'S MONITOR. 69 
 
 made your acquaintance so soon, though it 
 was scarcely — in a conventional way." 
 
 She smiled, and held out her beautifully- 
 gloved hand, which Claire just touched ; 
 feeling, at the same time, that some reproof 
 was conveyed to her, for having stood outside 
 the gate, regardless of appearances. 
 
 " She is not a bad-looking girl," thought 
 Mrs. Forrester to herself, as she walked 
 down the road, only fairly satisfied with 
 her interview with Dr. Sinclair's sister. 
 " Her eyes are rather attractive, but she 
 would have been better a few inches taller, — 
 dresses too plainly, and blushes up when she 
 is spoken to as if she were a school-girl of 
 sixteen. There is some mystery about them 
 both, but — now, she's here — I shall soon find 
 out what it is ; — I always have thought that 
 young Dr. Sinclair, with his dark face and 
 bearish ways, had something unsatisfactory 
 about his antecedents ; — those silent kind of 
 men always have, — that's why they don't go 
 into society, and prefer being alone, — they 
 have something to be ashamed of, and they 
 are afraid of people finding it out. But — 
 but it always happens, after a while, that it
 
 70 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 comes to light, — and then they are done for, 
 and have to leave — to leave the place." 
 
 At which satisfactory conclusion of her 
 charitable hypothesis, Mrs. Forrester seemed 
 fairly pleased ; for she stroked her rich 
 mantle down musingly, drew her tall and 
 stately figure up, and was more pleasant 
 and communicative than usual, to the friends 
 she next met.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 FRANZ HUMBERT. 
 
 There were sounds of a vigorous scraping 
 and tuning of a violin. 
 
 Evidently the instrument was out of sorts, 
 and would not, or could not, respond to 
 the player's earnest entreaties. Either the 
 spring weather had come too suddenly, and 
 the strings rebelled against the softness of 
 the atmosphere around them ; or else they 
 were refusing to recognise, that the new 
 lower Gr string had any right amongst them. 
 They preferred the old one, which had done 
 good service, had borne much erratic usage, 
 and had finally snapped with a bang, which 
 had made them all shudder, and caused an 
 exclamation of dismay to escape from the 
 lips of the wielder of the bow. 
 
 But now their Master's long and delicate 
 fingers were trembling with vexation and 
 high nervous tension, as again and again
 
 72 DR. SINCLAIR'S SIS7ER. 
 
 he slightly raised or lowered the captious 
 string. His sensitive ear told him that the 
 sound was not as it should be. 
 
 At length, with wild impatience, he swept 
 the bow once, — twice, — thrice, — across the 
 strings in hideous discord, exclaiming, as the 
 last unrnelodious notes vibrated in the air — 
 
 " The base fiends take the thing ! In- 
 satiable cormorants. — Didn't I leave them 
 the whole of this long morning, while I 
 tranquilly slept, to play their evil jokes ? 
 And still they are not satisfied, but must 
 needs lay their ugly hands on me and the 
 
 strings and the — the confound them all. 
 
 And I took over three hours selecting that 
 
 string, — there's no nearer, it's — it's the 
 
 exact one, but — there's foul play — foul play, 
 
 say. 
 
 The violinist shook back angrily his long, 
 yellow hair, and strode to the large French 
 window. With fierce haste, he threw it wide 
 open. 
 
 " Walk out, gentlemen, walk out," he said, 
 imperatively, waving his arms backwards 
 and forwards, and speaking to his imaginary 
 host of fiends. " There's plenty of room
 
 FRANZ HUMBERT, 73 
 
 for you out there, and there's no reason — 
 no reason at all — why you should crowd 
 inside with me. Avaunt ! — Avaunt ! — your 
 societies are not needed. — My instrument 
 and I are quite enough, — you've had your 
 
 time, it's my turn now, so begone. 
 
 Rascals, — gourmands, begone ! " 
 
 A whiff of air caught the sweet scent of 
 deep-coloured violets and pale primroses, 
 and bore it up to the expostulating and ill- 
 used man. But it did not soothe his highly- 
 wrought spirit ; it only made him angrier, 
 because the fiends did not seem to be* 
 invading the atmosphere outside, so they 
 must, perforce, be still holding sway within. 
 
 With a frantic gesture, he again reclosed 
 the window, seized his violin, and took one 
 long step into the darkest recess in his music 
 room. 
 
 " They shall die, — I'll choke and smother 
 them by jarrings more hideous than they can 
 make themselves. They shan't have the 
 chance of getting out now, — I'll have my 
 revenge. — Listen, ye fiends, listen, and — be 
 smothered, and — and — die." 
 
 Wherewith, in breathless haste, and with a
 
 74 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 face white and quivering with emotion, he 
 drew from his beloved instrument, a stormy 
 maelstrom of weird, fantastic sounds. Dis- 
 cord upon discord smote through the room, 
 and seemed to draw faint groans of remon- 
 strance from the small organ, piano, and 
 other violins that were there. But the 
 player paid no heed to the appeals around. 
 He seemed to be taking a fierce and horrid 
 pleasure in drawing forth the harshest 
 sounds he could, to choke and kill the 
 fiends, — though it were at no little cost to 
 himself that he did so. 
 
 The hand that held the bow was firm and 
 steady, but the long fingers that ran rapidly 
 over the strings were moist and feverish, 
 while the face that bent down close to them 
 grew strained with a sort of dark dismay. 
 
 " Die, ye fiends, die — die ! " he muttered, 
 between his clenched teeth ; " this — this — " 
 
 He drew his bow heavily and pitilessly 
 across the sensitive notes, and sent a terrible 
 and despairing wail through the room, 
 
 "This is your death-cry, and this — " (the 
 perverse lower G trembled, and muttered 
 out its groaning response,)
 
 FRANZ HUMBERT. 75- 
 
 " This your waiting grave. — Dead and 
 buried fiends — lie there." 
 
 And then Franz Humbert laid his instru- 
 ment down, placed his fingers in his ears, 
 lest he should hear the echo of his wild 
 phantasia, and strode again to the window. 
 
 He stood there a few minutes silently, 
 breathing hard and fast, then he slowly 
 opened it, and stepped out into the garden. 
 
 The madness of his wild humour was 
 passed; — the fiends were dead and buried. 
 So now he smiled as he heard the birds 
 twittering busily in the trees, and as he saw 
 the great slanting rays of light cast around 
 by the setting sun. The fragrance of the 
 spring flowers seemed sweet to him, for he 
 stooped down and gathered some of those 
 most strongly scented, and placed them care- 
 fully in the button-hole of his coat. 
 
 He was a slim built man of medium height, 
 with long hands and long feet. His yellow 
 hair was thrown back high from his white 
 forehead, and fell in a wave at the nape of 
 his neck. His eyes were blue, almost purple 
 in colouring, shaded by heavy lids, which, 
 when at all lowered, entirely altered the ex-
 
 76 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 pression of the whole face. His nose was 
 aquiline, the nostrils being sharply, yet 
 delicately, cut. The mouth was almost 
 entirely hidden by a long moustache, of the 
 same hue as his hair. The whole face was 
 that of an artiste, sensitive, highly- wrought, 
 over susceptible. It was a face that sym- 
 pathetic people would look at and pity, 
 because they would instinctively feel, that it 
 belonged to one who could not bear to be 
 roughly handled by the world, and therefore 
 one that would have to pass through 
 much exquisite torture. Other people — the 
 majority, not sympathetic ones — would stare, 
 laugh at, and jar upon this most unfortu- 
 nately sensitive nature, thinking that such 
 peculiar emotional specimens of humanity 
 ought not to exist, or, at all events, ought to 
 have sufficient control over themselves as to, 
 at least, appear rational beings. 
 
 Franz Humbert strolled dreamily once or 
 twice up and down his little plot of grass, 
 stopping now and again to listen to some 
 note from a bird that seemed sweeter to him 
 than the rest, or occasionally to look across 
 into the garden next to his.
 
 FRANZ HUMBERT. 77 
 
 Suddenly a thought seemed to strike him, 
 for he turned sharp round, laughed a high 
 tenor laugh, which had as much glee in it as a 
 schoolboy's, and hastened back to his house. 
 
 " It's that room — that room ! " he ex- 
 claimed aloud ; " it's out of sorts, and so it 
 harbours fiends. They are dead now, but — 
 but no credit to them, or to it. And I have 
 treated my brother, — my beloved brother, 
 badly, hurt and punished him as much as I 
 hurt myself. Ah ! but I will love him again 
 
 most tenderly. I will yes, Sinclair's room 
 
 — I will go to it, and there — there we will talk 
 most sweetly together, and forget the mad- 
 ness of those moments. Sound never goes 
 wrong in Sinclair's room, it has a charm 
 over it, which cannot be uncharmed. — Come, 
 my brother, come ; no malice-bearing, — no." 
 
 Gently he lifted his beloved instrument — 
 his brother, — and with loving care looked 
 closely at it. Bitter remorse was already 
 rising in his heart at the rough usage, it had 
 received from him. 
 
 " Fool that I was," he went on, in tones 
 of self-reproach ; " I might have known it 
 was this den, and not — not him."
 
 78 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 In an abstracted way he glanced round 
 the room for his hat ; but, not seeing it, he 
 muttered impatiently, and dashed off in haste 
 without it. 
 
 With his instrument under his arm, he ran 
 down to the further end of his garden, where 
 a low stone wall divided it from that of his 
 right hand neighbour's. He was a lithe, 
 agile man, and in a moment had scaled the 
 wide, moss-grown wall, and was rushing up 
 the narrow pathway, down which Claire 
 Sinclair had that morning wandered. 
 
 The front door of the doctor's house stood 
 ajar, and without ceremony Franz Humbert 
 pushed it further open and entered. For he 
 had a free pass into this house, and might 
 go in or out as he liked. 
 
 Marcus Sinclair had felt that this strange, 
 erratic man had somewhere a chord within 
 his nature, that struck in harmony with some 
 of the uncertain notes that were in his own. 
 And so, perhaps, more than anyone else in 
 the district, he let the violinist have his own 
 eccentric ways, and took a kind of pleasure 
 in watching the workings of his sensitive 
 face, and hearing him utter on his instrument
 
 FRAJSIZ HUMBERT. 79 
 
 the wild emotions that seemed to seize him 
 and hold him in their sway. Thus, Franz 
 Humbert thought nothing of entering the 
 doctor's abode, at what time in the day he 
 felt inclined, and whether the owner of it 
 were at home or no. 
 
 Claire was in her brother's drawing-room, 
 and had just sat herself down in his large 
 easy chair, to survey the many small altera- 
 tions and improvements she had been 
 making. She was feeling tired with what 
 she had been doing, and was wondering 
 whether Marc would notice and be pleased 
 with her arrangements, or whether he were 
 too preoccupied and clever to think of such 
 small things. After having lived so many 
 years by himself, and having had no one to 
 take care of his rooms a ad make them look 
 pretty for him, she rather thought that per- 
 haps he^would notice the changes in them. 
 Still, she made up her mind not to be very 
 disappointed if he did not do so. 
 
 Suddenly, she heard quick, rapid footsteps 
 up the door-steps, and she half rose with an 
 exclamation of surprise and pleasure, for she 
 thought it must be Marc come home earlier
 
 80 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 than he had anticipated. But in another 
 moment she was undeceived. 
 
 With his shock of yellow hair disarranged 
 by his hasty run through the air, his long 
 feet encased in bright-red slippers, his short 
 velveteen coat greened by his climb over the- 
 wall, and his eyes looking as if they saw 
 nothing of what was before them, — the 
 violinist darted in. 
 
 He did not see that there was anyone in 
 the room. He was too absorbed in the 
 pleasure of the thought that had brought him 
 here, and in the happy influence that he felt 
 was penetrating him. 
 
 " Now, now, my spirit — ," he murmured, 
 half aloud, " let us talk together. Let us 
 speak most — most sweetly, — angel's wings 
 fluttering, — rays of sunshine, — faces, — little 
 children's faces — " 
 
 There was one short moment of careful 
 tuning, and then, with a grunt of perfect 
 content, the Master raised his violin to his 
 shoulder, and invoked his spirit. 
 
 Claire sank back noiselessly into her chair,, 
 with a look in which amusement and un- 
 certainty as to what to do, were blended.
 
 FRANZ HUMBERT. 81 
 
 She had been considerably startled at first by 
 the eccentric apparition, and with difficulty 
 had suppressed her astonishment and almost 
 fear. But it had flashed quickly upon her, 
 tv hat her brother had said of his next-door 
 neighbour, of his strange genius, and of the 
 likelihood there was, that she would before 
 long become acquainted with him. So, 
 instead of making the unceremonious visitor 
 aware of her presence, she remained quiet 
 and unobserved; at first intently watching 
 the violinist's expressive face, then — seeing it 
 only as in a thick mist, as she lost herself in 
 the deep, subtle power of his music. 
 
 The low, sweet melody that was filling the 
 room, was played with the most delicate and 
 airy grace. The Master and his instrument 
 were no longer at variance with each other ; 
 they were as brother to brother, — soul to soul. 
 The man was asking his almost human com- 
 panion to express forth in the bewildering 
 beauty of sound, the strange and overpowering 
 feeling of rapture that he had within him.. 
 And the instrument, with perfect sympathy, 
 responded to each tiny variation of the touchy 
 each susceptive movement of the inspiring 
 
 VOL. i. G
 
 82 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 spirit. The fanciful, highly-wrought violinist 
 as he played on, seemed to hear the rustle of 
 angels' wings, and saw long robes trailing in 
 fleecy clouds, as they passed over a sapphire 
 sky. 
 
 " My brother, my brother," he whispered, 
 bending his head lower and lower, " more — 
 more still, — little children's faces with — with 
 halos round them." 
 
 Softer and softer grew the melody ; sweeter 
 and more fascinating the harmonious strains. 
 The player seemed no longer leading his 
 instrument on to express what he desired, — 
 the instrument was subduing and leading 
 him ; for there was awe, even surprise, ming- 
 ling with the joy on his face. 
 
 But just as the exquisite refrain was being 
 repeated so delicately and tremulously, that it 
 seemed but an echo of what had come before, 
 Eranz Humbert stopped short and lowered 
 his bow. A spasm of sharp pain crossed his 
 face, and took from it every trace of colour. 
 Trembling, he again raised his bow, and 
 gently, yet firmly, drew it across the strings, 
 sending a cry wailing through the room. 
 
 " There are no children now," he groaned,
 
 FRANZ HUMBERT. 83 
 
 as he listened to the vibrations of those last 
 notes — "no children, — no little angel faces, — 
 all spoilt, — all dressed-up dolls and puppets. 
 Oh, you Mothers — Mothers, where are the 
 angel faces of your — your little children ? " 
 
 Then, laying down his violin, he burst 
 into tears. 
 
 Claire rose, frightened, strangely moved by 
 this unexpected ending to the sweet melody. 
 She scarcely knew what to think or what to 
 say ; only she felt a deep pity rising up within 
 her heart for this eccentric man, who seemed 
 so completely overpowered by his storm of 
 contending emotions. 
 
 She trod softly to him, as he stood with his 
 face buried in his hands, and gently touched 
 his arm. 
 
 " Can I do anything for you ? " she asked, 
 in low tones, half afraid of hearing her own 
 voice break the silence, that had ensued after 
 the burst of tears. " I am very sorry for — " 
 
 At the sound of these words, the violinist 
 started violently, and dropped his hands from 
 his face. Surprise, misgiving, amazement 
 were depicted on his countenance, as he gazed 
 blankly at the girl.
 
 84 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 "What are you doing here?" he asked, 
 interrupting her, and putting the question 
 with scant courtesy. " And who are you ? " 
 
 If the face of the violinist had not been so 
 terribly in earnest, the absurdity of the 
 situation would have made Claire laugh. As 
 it was, she could not prevent a smile breaking 
 over her face as she answered — 
 
 " I am Marc's — I mean — Dr. Sinclair's 
 sister." 
 
 "No, you are not," he said. u Sinclair 
 hasn't a sister, — he hasn't any belongings at 
 all. — You oughtn't to be here. — Gro away." 
 
 " But I am his sister," returned Claire, 
 quite gravely, wondering how she could prove 
 what she was saying, if this strange man con- 
 tinued to disbelieve her. " I am going to live 
 with him always now, and — " 
 
 " But Sinclair hasn't a sister," he repeated, 
 emphatically, pointing to the door as he 
 spoke ; " and you had better go before he 
 returns, for he won't like your being here. 
 Go, — I tell you he hasn't got a — " 
 
 Franz Humbert stopped short, for at this 
 moment the doctor's tall, dark figure ap- 
 peared within the doorway. A look of
 
 FRANZ HUMBERT. 85 
 
 amusement passed over the doctor's face as 
 he glanced from his sister to the violinist, 
 and noticed the latter's disturbed and anxious 
 expression. Before, however, he could speak 
 Claire was at his side, and, raising her face 
 up to his, said — 
 
 " Quick, Marc, quick, give me a kiss. He 
 won't believe I'm your sister, though I've 
 told him I am. But he must believe if he 
 sees you kissing me." 
 
 " Ah ! Claire," said her brother, as he bent 
 his head down, " do you know you spoke 
 then just in the old, impulsive way, you used 
 to when you were a child ? And so this is 
 how you have been passing your time, is 
 it?" 
 
 He turned from her to Franz Humbert, 
 who, he saw, was still looking as if he 
 thought she must be an intruder. 
 
 " So, soh ! Franz, — you won't believe your 
 own eyes won't you ? " he said, going up to 
 him, and laying his hand on his arm. 
 
 There was a short pause, and then the 
 violinist spoke. 
 
 " Have you — have you married a wife, 
 Sinclair ? " he asked, in an awed undertone.
 
 86 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 He still doggedly rejected the idea, that 
 this lady was what she had said she was. 
 
 " No, no, — she's my sister, Franz," replied 
 the doctor. " You've forgotten, old man, — I 
 told you a little time ago that perhaps — 
 perhaps one day I should bring a relation to 
 my house. Too much music, Franz — it 
 makes you forget. — Come, you must apologise 
 to Claire for not believing her." 
 
 Impassively the violinist walked to the 
 doorway, where Claire was still standing. 
 
 " A mistake — a mistake," he muttered; 
 " I had forgotten." 
 
 Then, for the first time, he looked at the 
 doctors sister. Before he had seen that 
 someone was in the room whom he thought 
 shouldn't be there, and so, scarcely regard- 
 ing her, he had told her to go. But now his 
 vision was cleared, and he saw before him a 
 face such as he had often dreamed of, when 
 he and his brother violin had been com- 
 muning together. 
 
 " Come to the window," he said, in his 
 quick, unceremonious way, " I want more — 
 more light." 
 
 And before she knew what he was doing,
 
 FRANZ HUMBERT. 87 
 
 he had seized her hand and led her to the 
 window. 
 
 Marcus Sinclair looked apprehensively at 
 him. He didn't mind this man's queer ways 
 and manners to himself, but it was a very 
 different thing when they were seen in con- 
 nection with his sister. So, with a half- 
 frown on his dark face, he also drew nearer 
 to the light. 
 
 He needn't have feared. 
 
 The violinist had withdrawn his hand 
 from Claire's, and was now regarding her 
 with a gentle and reverent gaze. 
 
 " He is only looking at her as if she were 
 some kind of a picture," thought the doctor 
 to himself, as the frown died off his face. 
 " He scarcely knows that she is real, and she 
 — she is thinking of his music, not of 
 him." 
 
 Are these things possible in real life? 
 Could the violinist gaze upon Claire Sinclair, 
 and think to himself that he was looking on 
 a picture — a dream-face — a phantasia of his 
 softest melodies ? Yes, — it was possible for 
 him, perhaps also for her; but for many 
 people, — those who think that half life's duty
 
 88 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 is to crush and stamp out their God-given 
 imaginations, it would have been impossible. 
 
 " It is a beautiful face," said the violinist, 
 dreamily, as he looked into the earnest brown 
 eyes, and saw the questioning, straight- 
 forward look, that was so strangely child- 
 like. " I would like to look at it a long time, 
 and play to it, and see — see if it couldn't be 
 real." 
 
 Ah ! but the face was real, and over it 
 swept a burning colour, as with a quick 
 gesture it turned from him. 
 
 " Marc, tell him to go," Claire faltered ; 
 "he is a strange man. But his music — his 
 music, Marc, was so — so wonderful. Whose 
 face was he speaking of ? Was it a picture 
 he saw ? Tell me, Marc, — he wasn't speaking 
 of mine, for — fori — I am not beautiful." 
 
 She paused, trembling with emotion, and 
 turned again to look at the violinist. 
 
 But Franz Humbert had caught up his 
 instrument and left the room. She and her 
 brother were alone.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 HER IDOL. 
 
 A few uneventful days passed by. 
 
 Claire Sinclair began to feel herself quite 
 settled in her brother's house. The uncon- 
 genial, loveless life of her father's house 
 seemed to her, as something that she must 
 have lived in months, even years ago, — so 
 distant, so far removed from her did it now 
 appear. 
 
 Fortunately, most human beings possess 
 this happy faculty, — not exactly of forgetting 
 what has gone before, but of letting the 
 knowledge of it slip by, only recalling it at 
 intervals, when some word or event seems to 
 strike into it and bring it forcibly back. It 
 is a beneficent thing that it is so ; for, so often 
 is it that the Past holds much that is dis- 
 agreeable and painful, much that makes us 
 wonder how it were possible that we should 
 have been able to pass through it, and yet be
 
 90 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 living in the Present as we are now doing. 
 And not only a bare existing in the Present, 
 but an actual and true enjoyment of the 
 existence, a revelling in it, a drinking in 
 new life, and power and thought with it. It 
 is not that we are shallow, — frivolous, — super- 
 ficial ; it is not that we do not suffer deeply ; 
 it is not that, at times, living, — breathing, — 
 thinking, — are not a terrible agony to us; it is 
 not that we imagine that we feel and yet do 
 not. No ; — all that has gone by has been a 
 giant reality. It is no dream, no nightmare, 
 this misty Past of ours. But, the Omnipotent 
 Wisdom that thought of and devised these 
 strange, susceptive natures, these workings 
 of immortal souls, — knew what was best for 
 the mysterious growth of the Infinite. He 
 knew of man's frailty, of the seeds of Death 
 that were in the Life, of the immutable 
 strength that could only be perfected in 
 weakness. He gave to man, — Memory, Recol- 
 lection, Retention — God-like gifts, Divine 
 presentations. But because they were given 
 to men and not to gods, to fallen natures, not 
 to infallible beings, — therefore he ordained 
 that the Hand of Time should step in and
 
 HER IDOL. 91 
 
 lend a haze to the full realization of these 
 gifts. Thus, men have the power to look 
 back into the dark Sanctuary of Sorrow and 
 Suffering, without tears, without anguish — 
 aye, still further, after a while, even to press 
 the memories of these to their hearts, and to 
 cherish and love them. 
 
 It could scarcely be said, that Claire did 
 not miss all the luxuries and grandeur of her 
 father's house ; she did, but each time she 
 felt the loss it was coupled with a strong 
 sensation of pleasure. Her temperament was 
 one that was weighed down and oppressed 
 by conventionalities. She felt trammelled 
 by them. She liked doing things for herself 
 and for others, when and how she fancied ; and 
 hated the stiff and formal waiting for all to 
 be done precisely in the right way, at the 
 right time, and by the right person. 
 
 Those who feel the pinch of poverty, who 
 regard with dissatisfaction their plain furni- 
 ture and small rooms, who grumble at having 
 to do so much for themselves, and at having 
 so few attendants to wait on them, — seldom 
 think that those rich and opulent ones in 
 their grand houses, whom they envy, would
 
 92 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 at times give anything to strip themselves of 
 their appurtenances, get rid of the empty 
 pageantries that hem them in, and live for a 
 short while in a little home, with true love, 
 and with the pleasure — yes, the 'pleasure — of 
 doing and working for themselves and for 
 those around them. 
 
 " I like thinking and planning," Claire 
 Sinclair said to her brother, as he was 
 explaining to her, that though his income 
 was steadily on the increase, still it would 
 require careful and economical management, 
 at first, to arrange all as it should be. " And 
 I know I am very ignorant about all house- 
 hold matters, or anything to do with money. 
 Still, you see, — I might ask you about every- 
 thing." 
 
 The young doctor's grave face relaxed 
 somewhat, at his sister's concluding sentence. 
 She evidently had such perfect trust in him 
 and in his knowledge, that she thought that 
 by consulting him, everything must neces- 
 sarily then go right. 
 
 Women have such a strange facility in 
 believing, that the man they love and 
 reverence is infallible, — his wisdom all wise, —
 
 HER IDOL. 9a 
 
 his knowledge all sufficient, — his judgment 
 incapable of error. At least, many of them 
 have this strong faith and trust when they 
 are young. It seems to die away when they 
 get older, either because they discover that 
 they love themselves and their own opinions 
 and judgments better than anything or any- 
 body else, or they find their confidence rudely 
 shaken and deceived. 
 
 " Well, I'm not much of a hand myself at 
 keeping accounts, or knowing the costs or 
 expenses of things," replied Marc, " but if 
 you like to tell me about any of the difficul- 
 ties, I daresay we might manage to find some 
 way out of them. Only, — do not talk to me 
 about them when I am busy." 
 
 " Of course I shan't, Marc," said Claire, 
 flushing as she spoke. " I'm not going to be 
 a bother to you. I shall be able to see 
 when you are very occupied and want to be 
 quiet, or when you have nothing particular 
 to do and won't mind my talking to you." 
 
 " What a good little sister you are going 
 to be, Claire," he said gently, as he looked at 
 her, just then, serious face. 
 
 He wondered vaguely whether it were pos-
 
 94 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 sible for two people to live together in perfect 
 harmony. Whether the different tastes, 
 inclinations, and opinions must not always be 
 clashing. Whether, even, the very presence 
 of this dearly-loved sister would not, some- 
 times, in his darkest hours irritate him, — 
 however sweet and sympathetic it were. For 
 Marcus Sinclair had fierce and restive moods ; 
 times, when the sight of his fellow human 
 beings was hateful to him, and the sound of 
 their voices maddening. These were the 
 hours when he would have given up years of 
 his life, if he could but grasp hold of a religion 
 — of a faith — of a knowledge. When his mind 
 would reel, as it saw nothing before it but 
 darkness, and nothing behind it but night. 
 He cried out for a God, but could hear no 
 answer, for, even as he called, he closed his 
 ears and bound in his soul with his dogged 
 unbelief. In his moody bitterness he would 
 level men down to the beasts of the field ; he 
 would deny the existence of a soul ; he would 
 narrow life within the limits of the finite. He 
 had told Claire on the first evening of her 
 arrival that he distrusted most men — that he 
 was a hard and merciless cynic. He had
 
 HER IDOL. 95 
 
 spoken truly of himself in one way, for his 
 isolation, his reserve, the very sensitiveness 
 of his nature, had combined to make him 
 suspicious of those around him, and ever 
 ready to judge their ways and actions from 
 a low standpoint. He seldom praised or 
 expressed approval; he hated to hear other 
 men doing so ; for, he argued, the main 
 ambition and object of all men and women 
 were to get praise, to win glory, to feed and 
 satiate their self-love. And this, — he con- 
 sidered contemptible. Better never to do a 
 kind action at all, better never to accom- 
 plish a thing well, better never to rise above 
 other men by close industry and hard toil, 
 than to do it in the spirit of competition, or 
 for the desire of receiving praise. For, 
 to what did it all lead, — and what did it all 
 mean ? Nothing ; it was empty, hollow, a 
 simulacrum. Vanity of vanities ! With a 
 turn of the wind it would be all gone, and 
 but the shadow of a mocking memory 
 remain ! 
 
 Yet, like other wiser, further-sighted men, 
 Marcus Sinclair, though he could expose, 
 eondemn, and pull to pieces, though he could
 
 96 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 point out that men's aims were petty, their 
 motives small, and their desires perishable, — 
 still was unable, or, more truly, perhaps, was 
 unequal, to the higher task of proposing,, 
 expanding, and building up. So many in the 
 world are content to say, with all sincerity 
 and earnestness, " These things ought not so 
 to be ; " so few advance to the declaration of 
 " Thus and thus should it be ; " and fewer 
 still strengthen the unveiling and wording of 
 their ideas and conclusions, by themselves 
 living up to what they have set forth. True, 
 natural instinct and, perhaps, cultured tastes, 
 give men the ability to see that what is, is not 
 as it should be. Little labour of thought is 
 required for this. It is not hard to condemn m y 
 it is not difficult to expose errors that, in 
 themselves, are palpable, to all whose eyes are 
 not blinded. But it requires penetrating 
 insight to propound and to reconstruct. 
 Men who do this have need to concentrate 
 their keenest intellectual powers, and to press 
 on in much patience and with hard toiL 
 They find as they advance theories, that the 
 limited methods of practice hem them in on 
 every side, and often make mock of what has
 
 HER IDOL. 97 
 
 cost them much arduous effort. Yet even 
 these men, — though they are great, in that 
 they not only attack and denounce prevailing 
 abuses, but also suggest improvements and 
 shew forth the ways and the means by which 
 they can be carried out, — often, aye, almost 
 universally, lack the crowning virtue of true 
 greatness. They will propose, but they will 
 not practice ; they will unveil high ideas and 
 noble possibilities, but they will not them- 
 selves live up to them, though time after 
 time they reiterate their firm belief, in the 
 feasibility of what they assert. For, — to 
 practice, to live up to theory, to show forth 
 in daily life the grandness of what they 
 preach, requires more than penetrating insight 
 or intellectual power. In one word — -a full 
 comprehensive, limitless word, it requires — 
 Self- Sacrifice. 
 
 And men like not Self- Sacrifice ! 
 
 Marcus Sinclair could pull down, but he 
 could not reconstruct. Strongly he felt that 
 his maxim — "Work for work's sake" — was 
 not, by any means, the full and ultimate 
 endeavour of life. He was conscious that he 
 was not satisfied with this, and that, though 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 unacknowledged, his motives for working 
 were oftentimes widelj opposed to it. The 
 science he studied was a deep and all-absorb- 
 ing one, and he took keen and real pleasure 
 in it. But, honestly, he knew it was not only 
 for science's sake that he laboured. There 
 had been a stronger incentive for this, 
 impelling him onward. It was not the 
 thought of winning glory and renown ; it was 
 not even the higher motive, of being the 
 means of further relieving the sum of human 
 suffering ; it was not for the Honour and 
 Glory of God, — for Sinclair hardly acknow- 
 ledged the existence of a God. But it was for 
 a single deep affection — the continual craving 
 and preparing for the presence and com- 
 panionship of one, who was dearer to him than 
 all else besides — that had made him struggle 
 upward, surmount difficulties, and press 
 forward in the path of fame. The pleasure 
 of searching and delving in the exhaustless 
 mines of knowledge for knowledge's sake, was 
 great ; but it sank into insignificance before 
 the complete and boundless happiness, of 
 doing it for the sake of love. For " a man's 
 heart is king over his intellect, and can lead
 
 HER IDOL. 99 
 
 him on to do and suffer, where his intellect is 
 powerless to move him. ,, 
 
 And yet — Dr. Sinclair preferred people 
 thinking him a taciturn, gloomy, cynical 
 man, working only for work's sake, than 
 that they should know that he hated himself 
 for condemning and distrusting his fellow 
 man ; that he had shelled himself in in an 
 exterior of hardness, because he was acutely 
 sensitive; and that his medical researches 
 were not the whole occupiers of his thoughts. 
 
 — The conversation between Claire and her 
 brother wandered off, after awhile, from 
 accounts and economies to the subject of 
 Mrs. Forrester. Claire had naturally told 
 him, some days previously, of her encounter 
 with this lady. He had then seemed rather 
 disturbed and put out, as she lightly related 
 what had passed between them. But he had 
 said little besides, — 
 
 " I don't like her, Claire ; and I don't wish 
 you to become friends with her. She will 
 work mischief — mischief, perhaps, even — 
 between us." 
 
 But further than this he had not spoken. 
 Claire had wished to ask him what he meant,
 
 100 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 and why he disliked Mrs. Forrester ; but she 
 had not dared, for she saw by his face that 
 he was even more annoyed than his words 
 expressed. Now, however, he himself 
 broached the topic, and she was glad of 
 it. There is always a certain sense of un- 
 comfortableness, when anyone studiously 
 avoids speaking on some matter, without 
 there being for it any apparent, or known, 
 reason. 
 
 He began abruptly, in his peculiar, stern 
 tones, which had become customary with 
 him, whenever he was conversing upon some 
 subject that did not exactly please him, or 
 upon which he had difficulty in expressing 
 what he instinctively felt. 
 
 "Mrs. Forrester has not been here again, 
 Claire ?" he asked, making a negative state- 
 ment as he put the question. 
 
 " No, Marc, — and I'm glad she hasn't." 
 
 " Why are you glad ? — Who has been 
 telling you anything about her ? — Who have 
 you been talking to ? " 
 
 He put the questions hastily, with a touch 
 of suspicion in his voice. 
 
 Claire detected it. Notwithstanding the
 
 HER IDOL. 101 
 
 hard experiences of her father's house, she 
 was still acutely sensitive to every change in 
 manner, voice, expression. She shrank, as a 
 child would, from anything that meant more 
 than the actual words conveyed. 
 
 " Nobody, Marc," she said, nervously, 
 twisting and untwisting her fingers while 
 she spoke. " Why do you ask me ? You 
 know I tell you everything that happens 
 while you are out. I only said I was glad 
 she hadn't been to call, because the other 
 day, when I spoke of her, you said you 
 didn't like her." 
 
 " Oh ! " 
 
 He didn't mean anything by his mono- 
 syllabic expression, except that he was half- 
 ashamed of himself, for having allowed the 
 ghost of a suspicion to enter his mind. But 
 it made the hot blood rush to Claire's face, 
 and her delicate lips droop, as she heard it; 
 for, she did not know what was passing in 
 his mind, and the involuntary ejaculation 
 might mean anything. She did not, how- 
 ever, speak, but waited for him to continue. 
 Former experiences had taught her that it is 
 often best to be silent and wait. Insisting
 
 102 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 upon explanations, upon often imaginary 
 points, brings no balm. 
 
 " She called me ' close, Claire," he went 
 on, not looking at her, but down at his foot, 
 as it clumsily traced the pattern of the 
 carpet, " and said it was strange I had never 
 spoken of my relations ? " 
 
 "Yes, but — " 
 
 " She would like to know all about me," 
 he continued, unmindful of her, while his 
 voice hardened, and his heavy, arched brows 
 contracted ; " she would be pleased to hear 
 that I was turned out of my father's house 
 like a dog, — or worse than a dog; — that I 
 belong to a family with an old and well- 
 known name, which I am not worthy to — or, 
 rather, would scorn to bear. She would love 
 to re-enact, for the benefit of Abbeyslea, that 
 scene of years ago — to let it pass from house 
 to house, till exaggeration, and — and this 
 world's charity had blackened me with 
 criminal designs, and — " 
 
 "Marc!" 
 
 She did not mean to interrupt him, but his 
 name escaped from her lips against her will. 
 
 Often the thought crossed her, that her
 
 HER IDOL. 103 
 
 brother was very different to what he used 
 to be. This time, it struck her with greater 
 force. He used sometimes, she remembered, 
 to be quick and fiery, but never bitter like 
 this. His face had never looked forbidding: 
 
 CD 
 
 as it now did. 
 
 He paused a moment and gazed across at 
 her, but he was too occupied with his own 
 thoughts, to notice the trouble and fear in 
 her eyes. He was not naturally a selfish 
 man, but this was one of his dark days, when 
 everybody and everything was distorted by 
 his grim and sickly fancy. Neither was he 
 naturally bitter, but the circumstances of his 
 life had tended to make hi in different from 
 what Nature would have had him be. 
 
 " You don't know what she is like," he 
 said, lowering his voice, but still speaking 
 moodily ; " women who don't do good — and 
 there are many enough of them — do a great 
 deal of harm — far more than men do. They 
 go about amongst all their friends, relations, 
 acquaintances, — and talk, and lie, and take 
 away people's characters. They don't always 
 say outright what they think and mean, 
 because they don't exactly know, — but they
 
 104 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 insinuate, which is ten times as bad, for — 
 insinuations can be twisted into anything, 
 and people always twist into evil if they can." 
 
 " And what about the men, Marc ? They 
 are the lords of creation, — couldn't they 
 stop all this if they chose ? " asked Claire, 
 thinking how clever her brother was to speak 
 and see things as he did. 
 
 For herself, she never thought much about 
 the why and the wherefore of what puzzled 
 her. She only wondered, and thought when 
 she was older, she would perhaps come to 
 understand. 
 
 " Oh ! the men, Claire/' answered he, 
 recklessly ; " did I say they were any better 
 than the women ? Well, I was wrong. All 
 they say in their houses is ' Let us eat, 
 drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die.' — 
 In work, they hasten forward, — press others 
 down, — bear in with sharp and hard prac- 
 tices, — trample, and — " 
 
 He stopped short. 
 
 It was not many days ago that, as he had 
 looked into his sister's earnest, child-like 
 face, with its touch of suffering and pain 
 upon it, he had vowed to himself that, from
 
 HER IDOL. 105 
 
 henceforward, be would guard it from all 
 that would hurt it. He had felt that he 
 hated those who had not cherished and loved 
 her, and kept her untouched by the rough 
 and hard ways of the world. And yet, here 
 was he, already forgetting his self-imposed 
 trust, and opening out and enlarging to her 
 the ways of this same untrue world — seen, as 
 he honestly knew, not from the highest or 
 most liberal vantage ground. 
 
 Hastily he sought to pull himself together 
 again, and to set a seal upon the dark 
 thoughts and experiences which were assail- 
 ing him. Why should his sister know what 
 he himself knew ? Why should he roughly 
 open her eyes to see as he saw ? Why not 
 let them open naturally, to see as her purer, 
 sweeter nature would instinctively lead her, 
 after awhile, to see ? 
 
 Marcus Sinclair was a proud man, but, in 
 his own way, he was also high-minded. He 
 did not belong to the class of little-minded 
 men, who possess that false pride which 
 prevents them ever owning themselves — 
 even to themselves — in the wrong. So he 
 did the simplest and most straightforward
 
 106 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 thing lie could do at that moment, hoping to 
 dispel the effect of what he had just said. 
 
 " Claire, little sister," he said, gently, 
 " come here — come close to me." 
 
 In a moment she was at his side, with 
 that light of love and trust shining in her 
 brown eyes, which had the power at times of 
 making them appear so strangely beautiful. 
 
 " Claire, dear/' he went on, hesitating 
 slightly as he spoke, for it cost him a great 
 effort, " you must not always think that 
 what I think is right, and you must not 
 always hold that what I do is the best, 
 because, little sister, I judge hardly and 
 crookedly, aud sometimes I am ashamed of 
 what I think and say. And so — I would 
 not have you think as I do ; no, — no, Claire. 
 You must never, never think what I think — 
 never.' 9 
 
 He spoke gravely, almost authoritatively. 
 He meant every word that he said. But he 
 was scarcely prepared for the low, passionate 
 answer he received. 
 
 " Marc, I shan't be able to help myself. I 
 can't do what you ask ; I must believe you. 
 I must think that what you say is right, and
 
 HER IDOL. 107 
 
 what you do is the best. You are my idol> 
 and my idol is — is perfect to me." 
 
 She also meant what she said. This faulty, 
 imperfect man — her brother — was perfect to 
 her. He had been her idol in childhood, 
 and now, as a woman, he was still her idol — 
 believed in and worshipped . With her " love 
 was blind," then. 
 
 Her words seemed to the young doctor as 
 bitterest irony, though he knew they were 
 not intended to be such. He tried to answer 
 back lightly, and to laugh at the very idea of 
 such a notion. 
 
 " Your idol — perfect — Claire ? ' he said, 
 with forced gaiety in his tones, while he rose 
 from his chair. " I should say he was about 
 the most imperfect idol that ever existed. 
 Wait a few years — wait — you will find that 
 you will have another idol then, for you will 
 marry, Claire, and then — then your idol will 
 be your husband." 
 
 " But I am never going to marry," said 
 Claire, seriously and decidedly. " I am 
 always going to live with you, and I am 
 always going to love you the best." 
 
 " And what if I marry, Claire ? "
 
 108 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 " But you won't, Marc." 
 
 She asserted this as if she felt convinced 
 of what she was saying. And he did not 
 contradict her, though he wondered why she 
 should say it. 
 
 With a sigh, he turned the conversation 
 once again to its former course. 
 
 " Claire, I want you to remember this," 
 he said, with that grave intonation of his 
 deep voice which had the power of marking 
 and impressing his words ; " the Past is 
 passed. Our family history is not anything 
 to you or me now, — it is gone by. Neither 
 is it anything to anyone else. If people, 
 such as Mrs. Forrester and others, seek 
 to inquire into it, — if they want to know the 
 how and the why of this or that, — remember 
 that I tell you plainly now, I do not wish it 
 known, neither for your sake, nor my own, 
 nor — nor for his — your fathers, I mean. 
 Never tell a lie about it, — never invent 
 excuses, but simply and firmly shew that 
 you and I are one in this matter. Do you 
 see what I mean ? " 
 
 " Yes, I think I do. It will be difficult, 
 but — "
 
 HER IDOL. 109 
 
 She paused, hesitating a moment, then 
 seemed to take courage and went on — 
 
 " Supposing, Marc, I should make a 
 mistake, — supposing I should forget, because 
 I'm not clever and thoughtful like you are, — 
 may I — may I — tell you at once about 
 it?" 
 
 He smiled at the frank request. So few 
 like to tell when they have made a mistake ; 
 so few petition that they may be allowed to 
 confess an error at once. 
 
 He looked gently down at her upturned, 
 earnest face, and then slowly lowered his 
 head and kissed her smooth forehead. And 
 that was his answer to what she had asked 
 him. 
 
 Then he said — 
 
 " Run and fetch your hat, Claire, — we'll 
 take a stroll. I think we are too serious for 
 such young people ; we ought to be enjoying 
 life, not talking anxiously over it, as if we 
 knew all about it. Get a shawl, or jacket, or 
 something, too, for — I'm not going to work 
 to-night, so we'll stay out till it's dark and 
 enjoy ourselves." 
 
 Possibly companionship would shorten
 
 110 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 Marcus Sinclair's dark moods, or, in time, 
 drive them away altogether. For this was 
 the evening of a day, when he had felt fierce 
 and antagonistic to everybody and every- 
 thing. Yet — he was proposing " enjoying " 
 himself.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE GREAT " BAIRN-LOVER. 
 
 Claire ran to fetch her hat and her shawl, 
 and then, with the snatches of a song on her 
 lips and a light in her heart, she joined her 
 brother in the hall. 
 
 " I'm too happy to talk," she said, as they 
 closed the garden-gate behind them, — " be- 
 sides, — listen ! — everything's music ! " 
 
 Her last words were scarcely grammatical, 
 still, — they were decidedly expressive. For 
 the evening was one of those Spring evenings, 
 when April is merging into May, and all 
 Nature seems bursting forth into Songs 
 of Thanksgiving and Praise. 
 
 The sweet, tremulous notes of the thrush 
 and the blackbird, sounded rich and clear 
 
 
 
 and harmonious in the soft-stirring air; 
 while lower, — as subdued accompaniment, — 
 came the twitterings and warbliugs of the 
 humbler hedge-sparrows, the tit-mice, and
 
 112 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 the wrens, as they coyly wooed their silent 
 mates. Softer, dreamier, lower still, to 
 those who cared to listen, could be heard 
 the murmur and buzz of tiny insects \ 
 and now and again the hum of some early 
 bee, as, mad and bustling in its pride at 
 being first among the flowers, it flits here 
 and there unmindful of the cold, moist nights 
 that yet will be, and which will chill it, — soft,, 
 velvet thing, only fit for full summer's 
 gentle caress ! 
 
 At no time is the scent of the flowers so 
 sweet, so fragrant, as on these fair Spring 
 evenings, when the delicate petals still 
 tremble, glistening with the diamond rain- 
 drops, that the vapouring clouds have, from 
 time to time, during the day dropped down 
 upon them. The meadows with their tender, 
 new-growing grass are patched white with 
 plots of daisies, or down by the river bank 
 look golden with luxuriant marigolds. And 
 close beneath the budding hedges, hide the 
 scented violets and pale primroses — nearly 
 over now, but still sweet, still fragrant. 
 
 Far away lay the hills, all wood begirt;, 
 with the new green of the birch and larches,
 
 THE GREAT " BAIRN-LOVERr 113 
 
 shining out emerald and silver against the 
 red and amber of the later-sprouting oaks. 
 Nothing was silent ; — all was astir with the 
 breath and the throb of awakened life. The 
 lowing of the kine, the bleating of the lambs, 
 the murmuring and rippling of the flowing 
 river, the stirring of the air in the trees, the 
 hum of the insects, the song of the birds, 
 made music in everything — music, music 
 everywhere. 
 
 Once, long ago, it was strangely told, there 
 lived a child, who was the child of Nature. 
 Day and night he heard the sound of low, 
 sweet singing, borne up from the beautiful 
 earth on the wings of the wind. But though 
 he listened long and earnestly, he could hear 
 no words to the Song. At length, weary of 
 waiting, he smiled at his loved companions, — 
 at the birds and the insects, the flowers and 
 the trees and the rivers, and asked, — " What 
 are you always singing ? I cannot hear the 
 Words." And they answered, sadly, — " We 
 do not know the Words ourselves, — we are 
 waiting for the s Children of the Earth ' to 
 sing them ; then the melody will be complete, 
 but now it is but a ' Song without Words. 1 " — 
 
 VOL. i. 1
 
 114 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 Alas ! it is still a Song without Words. The 
 Children of Earth are hastening on and on to 
 learn all, to know all, except one thing. 
 They will not stop to learn the Words of the 
 Song, and so they cannot sing it. But 
 Nature, beautiful melodious Nature, is 
 singing on, still waiting for those Words that 
 must rise from the Children of Earth, before 
 the Song can be complete. 
 
 — The brother and sister wandered on, out 
 of the broad highway into the narrow lanes. 
 Claire had said she was too happy to talk, 
 but, for all that, at times she chatted un- 
 thinkingly on, and mingled her merry laugh 
 with the music of all around. The exuber- 
 ance of her high spirits was infectious, for 
 once, — twice, — the tall, gloomy-faced young 
 doctor, whom the people of Abbeyslea spoke of 
 as seldom even smiling, laughed too, — a deep, 
 hearty laugh, which made him even wonder 
 at himself, so strange, so foreign was it to 
 him. He felt almost as though he were a boy 
 again, full of wild hopes and mad desires ; 
 building castles in the air, knowing scarcely 
 what he felt or thought, conscious only that 
 the shadows of life were scattering fast, and
 
 THE GREAT "BAIRN-LOVER." 115 
 
 that broad gleams of sunlight were flashing 
 across his pathway. 
 
 " We have left Abbey slea far behind us," 
 he said, as for a moment they stopped to 
 take breath at the summit of a hill, up 
 which they had hurried ; " but look, Claire, — 
 just down on this side, stands the furthest 
 outlying house of the parish — quite separate 
 from the rest, you see. — Do you know, I 
 like this house almost better than any other." 
 
 11 Why ? — I don't think it is very pretty. 
 Ours is a much nicer built one than that 
 one, though, of course, our grounds are not 
 so large or countrified." 
 
 Women love to compare with the all- 
 absorbing " ours." Nothing becomes so 
 thoroughly interesting to them as when, by 
 any way whatsoever, they can make this 
 standard comparison. 
 
 " I scarcely meant that I liked the actual 
 house, — but I like the people who live in it, 
 the little I know of them, better than any 
 others in Abbeyslea. They are regular good 
 sort — no nonsense about them, — compara- 
 tively newcomers, you see, and so — not yet 
 fully initiated into — into — "
 
 116 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 " What's their name ? " interrupted Claire, 
 not anxious to hear what they were not 
 initiated into, as she did not exactly know 
 what the word meant. 
 
 " Oh, their name's — Trevor — Mr. and Mrs. 
 Trevor and two children. I had a good deal 
 to do with the little girl about a year ago — 
 such a delicate, highly-strung nervous child. 
 I was obliged to order her off to the sea for 
 six months or so, for her life was hanging on 
 a very slender thread. She's come back now 
 much stronger and — better, but I doubt — I 
 doubt much if she will ever live to grow up." 
 
 He spoke abstractedly, and a slight shadow 
 passed over his face, as still he remained 
 standing, looking down at the house. 
 
 Suddenly, a thought struck him. 
 
 " Claire, — I should like you to know Mrs. 
 Trevor," he said, abruptly, — " we will go in 
 there now. I have, once or twice, before in 
 the evenings, and I know she will give you a 
 welcome." 
 
 He moved on as he spoke. 
 
 " See, — if we go through this gate," he 
 continued, " and pass down that steep 
 meadow, we shall get into a side-pathway,
 
 THE GREAT "BAIRN-LOVER." 117 
 
 leading through the garden. We shall be 
 trespassing, — for this is Trevor's private 
 short-cut, but I don't think he will mind." 
 
 Claire half wished that their way had not 
 led them in this direction, for she would 
 rather have strayed on and on in her 
 brothers company, than to have lessened the 
 time with him by an evening call. However, 
 — he wished it, and therefore it was best. 
 
 " They're not grand people, I hope, — are 
 they, Marc?" she asked, thinking how ner- 
 vous she should feel, when they were shown 
 inside, " and there won't be anyone else 
 except themselves, will there ? " 
 
 " No, not grand at all, Claire, — very 
 homely people," he replied, quickly, as, 
 having reached the bottom of the hill, they 
 passed through a little gate, and almost 
 directly arrived at the front door. " I don't 
 expect there will be anyone here, except,— 
 
 perhaps, John Forrester. He often 
 
 comes here, when his wife doesn't want him 
 at home, I believe. Possibly, also — " 
 
 At this point, he was interrupted by their 
 summons at the bell being answered, and the 
 door opened.
 
 118 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 Mrs. Trevor was at home. 
 
 As they entered the hall, they heard, — 
 issuing from a room at the further end of it, 
 the sound of children's voices and the bass can- 
 nonading — it could not otherwise be described 
 — of a man's laughter. 
 
 " What a laugh ! " exclaimed Claire, 
 beneath her breath, to her brother. " Is it 
 Mr. Trevor's ? " 
 
 " No, — John's, — I should know his laugh 
 anywhere. Besides, — he evidently has the 
 children with him now, so there will be no 
 stopping it." 
 
 Another cannonade of laughter, and chil- 
 dren's shouts of delight. 
 
 Claire's face twitched all over. It was 
 almost impossible to hear such a laugh and 
 not laugh too. 
 
 As the servant turned the handle of the 
 drawing-room door, the shouts partially 
 ceased, and instead, a gentle voice was heard, 
 saying - — 
 
 11 Hush, children, hush ! There's someone 
 being shown in. Mr. Forrester, you really 
 are quite turning the children's heads ! — 
 Enid, — Robin, — try to be steady ! "
 
 THE GREAT "BAIRN-LOVER." 119 
 
 Steady? — How could the children be steady, 
 when the great, big-statured c lover of chil- 
 dren,' — John Forrester, — was appearing, 
 enveloped in a large tiger-skin, from beneath 
 the folds of the bow-window curtains, — ready 
 to pounce upon them at any moment ? — And 
 he was deaf to Mrs. Trevor's entreaties. 
 There was a low roar, the sound of children's 
 treble voices, and the pattering of hasty 
 little feet across the room, and — as Dr. 
 Sinclair entered at the door — a little flaxen- 
 haired girl, with rumpled frock and excited 
 eyes, almost fell against him, in her haste to 
 get away from the advancing " tiger." 
 
 The fair, delicate-looking child coloured 
 crimson, as she glanced timidly up, and saw 
 her tall doctor's dark face. 
 
 " So sorry," she murmured, bashfully, — 
 " thought it was Father coming in, and I 
 knew he'd hide me.'' 
 
 Before Sinclair could reply, Mrs. Trevor 
 had advanced to meet them. 
 
 11 Oh ! what will you think, Dr. Sinclair, of 
 this kind of bear-garden we have here?" 
 she said, apologetically, "but the children 
 have been looking forward to this game all the
 
 120 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 day, because they knew our kind friend, Mr. 
 Forrester, was coming this evening. And — " 
 
 " My sister," he said, quickly ; " I have 
 brought her in to see you, Mrs. Trevor; — she 
 is living with me now, — and I want her to 
 know you." 
 
 He said the words clumsily, in cold, abrupt 
 tones. But it mattered not. He was speak- 
 ing to a woman who had true instinct, ready 
 sympathy, and a kind heart. And, though, 
 comparatively, she knew little of Marcus 
 Sinclair, with that wide charity which 
 characterizes so few, she knew not the worst 
 part of him, but the best. She had pene- 
 trated beneath the hard outer crust of proud 
 reserve, and had seen that the nature that 
 lay beneath was a fine one. Thus, now, she 
 received simply what he said, and took no 
 note of the way in which he said it. 
 
 " I am very pleased to see you," she said, 
 in "her kind, gentle voice, holding out her 
 hand to Claire as she spoke ; " I had heard 
 of your arrival, and was coming soon to call 
 on you. But I am so glad Dr. Sinclair 
 hasn't waited for that, and has brought you 
 to see me, first."
 
 THE GREAT "BAIRN-LOVER." 121 
 
 " Thank you," said Claire, warmly, her 
 shyness vanishing as she looked at the quiet, 
 pleasant face close to hers, " I think — I 
 mean — I'm glad too, though — " 
 
 She was going on to say, that before she 
 had come in, she had not wished to come ; 
 for she was singularly frank and open, and 
 did not like anyone to think differently, from 
 what was actually the case. 
 
 But she would have scarcely heard herself, 
 •even if she had continued speaking, for the 
 great bass voice that belonged to the great 
 bass laugh, was filling up the room, and 
 nothing else could be heard. 
 
 " How d' you do, Sinclair. — Just caught 
 me — eh ! Ha, ha — exciting your little patient 
 too much, you'll say ? But, — look here, you 
 doctors don't always recommend the best 
 remedies, — you think your medicines and 
 stuffs are wanted, when nine times out of 
 ten, it's a game of play that will set matters 
 to rights with the children, and — and with 
 the grown up children too, I believe. Take 
 my advice, Sinclair, — give up your nasty 
 draughts and physics, and take to making 
 your patients laugh instead, — they'll get well
 
 122 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 far quicker, and it's a much wholesomer way 
 of getting better. Now, — just look at my 
 little friend, Enid, — did you ever manage 
 to put such a fine colour in her — " 
 
 " My little patient coloured up because she 
 nearly knocked me over," interrupted the 
 doctor, saying the words gravely, but smiling 
 at the child, as she stood with ber little hand 
 hidden in John Forrester s large one, and her 
 face upturned to his. 
 
 " Well, — well, that only carries out the 
 truth of what I was saying," went on the 
 great voice again; " let the children knock 
 you down if they want to, and have a good 
 laugh over it, and then they'll feel quite well, 
 — won't you, little one ? " he added, bending 
 down to the flaxen-haired child at his side, — 
 " But where' s Robin ? — I can't see him." 
 
 "He's hiding," whispered the little girl, 
 standing on tip-toe to tell the secret ; " look, 
 — he's over there, — he's peeping." 
 
 " Mr. Forrester, I want to introduce you 
 to — " 
 
 But the great man- was already half-way 
 across the room, in search of the missing 
 Robin.
 
 THE GREAT "BAIRN-LOVER." 123 
 
 " He'll spoil my children, — he's too good to 
 them/' said Mrs. Trevor, more to herself 
 than to her visitors. 
 
 There was a short scuffle in the curtains, 
 — several cannons of laughter, with high, 
 childish shrieks, and then Robin, — a little 
 fair boy of between four and five years, — 
 was borne in triumph on the great, broad 
 shoulders, back to where the others were still 
 standing. 
 
 " Now, Mrs. Trevor, I'm ready to be in- 
 troduced," said Mrs. Forrester's husband, — 
 not, however, waiting for her to speak, but 
 holding out his hand to Claire, and smiling 
 down at her as he did so. 
 
 Claire thought she had never seen such a 
 great kind face before. No wonder the 
 children loved it. No wonder his laugh was 
 loud and hearty, and his voice deep and true, 
 when the kind eyes were smiling and twink- 
 ling, and the face, — with its brown beard and 
 straight, untidy hair — was strong, and plain, 
 and manly, but, at the same time, tender as 
 a woman's. 
 
 Robin, from his safe position on high, 
 watched Claire's face as she looked up ; and,
 
 124: DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 with a child's quick perception, he saw the 
 light and smile that passed over it. A 
 thought entered his little mind, which, quick 
 as lightning, was put into words. Bending 
 down from the broad shoulders on which he 
 was perched, with perfect trust that the arm 
 that held him there would prevent his falling, 
 — he touched Claire's cheek confidently with 
 one of his chubby hands, and asked, in his 
 broken, baby language — 
 
 " Doesn't you love him ? Enie and me 
 does, and Muvver says he's — he's — " 
 
 " Never mind now, Robin," said Robin's 
 mother, thinking how sweet were her boy- 
 baby's words, yet at the same time seeing, 
 that the innocent prattle must be rather 
 awkward in its straightforward simplicity, 
 to her visitors than otherwise ; " it's time for 
 Mother's son to go to sleep, — so he must 
 give his kind friend a hug, and then get 
 down and — " 
 
 " Muvver, — I 'member now," broke in the 
 little boy triumphantly, pulling himself back to 
 his former position, by clutching hold of Mr. 
 Forrester's hair; "you says Mr. Fowwest 
 are Wobbin's bestest fwiend — "
 
 THE GREAT "BAIRN-LOVER." 125 
 
 "'Tisn't bested, it's best, Robin," put in 
 Enid, with her superior knowledge of 
 grammar, shaking back her hair from her 
 hot face, as she looked reprovingly up ; " and 
 'tisn't are, it's is ; — and you shouldn't only 
 say — • Robin's best friend,' but — £ Enid's ' 
 too." 
 
 " Both to both bestest,'' said the little boy, 
 sweetly, putting his sturdy arms tightly 
 round his great friend's neck ; " but — 
 Wobbin gives the huggest of all ! " 
 
 " You certainly do, little man, — but I hope 
 when you get bigger, that you won't clutch 
 hold so fast, or I shall have neither hair nor 
 beard left," exclaimed Mr. Forrester, laugh- 
 ing, as he unclasped the clinging baby hands, 
 and then, with a deft turn, brought the little 
 boy safely down on the ground near his mother. 
 
 " Poor Mr. Forrester," said the mother; 
 " sa y you're sorry, Robin/' 
 
 "Me's sowwy not to hug more longer," 1 
 said Robin, obediently, — as he thought, — and 
 opening his round blue eyes wide, at the 
 laugh that followed his words. 
 
 "Mayn't he just stay till Father comes 
 in ? *' pleaded Enid, " he's been so good all
 
 126 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 day, and — he loves to ride up to bed on 
 Father's back." 
 
 This delicate, old-fashioned little girl, was 
 strangely motherly to her small brother. 
 She watched him, and took care of him, and 
 petitioned for him, and marked his quaint 
 sayings, and devoted herself to him. Robin 
 was first in everything ; she wanted no atten- 
 tion to herself, if only everyone would admire 
 him, and love him, and be kind to him, and 
 see how good he was, and how clever he was 
 growing. It was the germ, in its first sweet 
 freshness, of that unselfish and all-enduring 
 devotion, that most girls bestow freely and 
 fully upon their schoolboy brothers; who 
 come home from their hard training at school, 
 to be petted and spoiled and waited on, — till 
 they, themselves, are as kings in their homes, 
 and accept all favours and kindnesses and 
 8 slavings,' as their bounden rights. This is 
 why, perhaps, when they get older, that 
 Carlyle advocates — " the barrelling of all 
 young men from a certain age to a certain 
 age," — that they may get rid of all claim 
 upon rights^ before they start out in a world 
 that only offers them — duties.
 
 THE GREAT « BAIRN-LOVERr 127 
 
 — As Enid finished speaking, Robin raised 
 his chubby hand, and that look of intent and 
 all-absorbed listening, that can only be seen 
 on a little child's face, with its wonderful 
 power of expression, — came over his ; and 
 made the mother stay her words a moment, 
 and listen also. 
 
 " It's Farder ! ' whispered the little fellow, 
 in an awestruck tone, as if he had never 
 listened before to the well-known step. 
 u Muvver, — Wobbin may go ? " 
 
 Every evening, when he heard his father's 
 step, he asked to go and meet him ; and he 
 knew he might, — but still he asked, because 
 he liked doing what " Muvver said yes to," 
 better than doing anything without asking her. 
 
 Stepping from side to side, in earnest 
 endeavour to tread on tip-toe, and not over- 
 balance himself as he did so, he reached the 
 half-closed door. 
 
 " Hush ! " he turned to say, in a child's 
 whisper, which is always louder than its 
 ordinary talk. 
 
 Then he disappeared, and the pattering of 
 unsteady little feet was heard on the tiled 
 floor of the hall.
 
 128 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 " I think Father must have got somebody 
 with him," said Enid, still listening. " Robin 
 hasn't jumped yet, or called out." 
 
 Enid was right ; Mr. Trevor had someone 
 with him, and there was no jump and no call. 
 
 Robin had scarcely got halfway across the 
 hall when, — seeing a stranger talking to his 
 father, — he stopped a moment and looked in 
 doubt at him ; then, a fit of shyness seized 
 him, and with quick, uncertain steps he 
 pattered back to the drawing-room. 
 
 " There's a man with wellow hair and a 
 big penthil box," he whimpered, hiding his 
 face in his mothers lap ; "and — and — poor 
 Wobbin can't go pick — pick-a-back." 
 
 " Never mind, we'll all go pick-a-back 
 together," said the great bass voice of 
 Robin's friend. " Come, Enid, — there's room* 
 for both ; — and Father will come and kiss you, 
 when you are tucked up safe in your cots." 
 
 John Forrester said this in his usual 
 hearty tones, as he steadied the children on 
 his broad back. But, he said something else, 
 too, which the mother of Enid and Robin 
 alone heard, and which was not even meant 
 for her ears.
 
 THE GREAT "BAIRN-LOVER." 129 
 
 " Lucky man ! *' he growled, beneath his 
 breath, "to have bairns of his own." 
 
 For, — the lover of children, with his great 
 heart and kind face, had no bairns of his own. 
 The God of Heaven had denied him the 
 desire of his heart. 
 
 He was a childless man. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTER YIIL 
 
 THE CHILD AND THE MUSIC. 
 
 The gentleman with " wellow hair and the 
 big penthil box," was Franz Humbert with 
 his violin-case. 
 
 He had been on his way to the old Parish 
 Church, there to revel in the music of his 
 loved companion, when he was met by Mr. 
 Trevor, who had persuaded him to change 
 his intention, and come, instead, to spend the 
 evening at his home. 
 
 The two men were not well acquainted ; 
 but, as Mr. Trevor saw the figure of the 
 eccentric violinist, coming along in its peculiar 
 absorbed way, he thought of his own bright 
 home, his sweet-faced wife, his merry bairns, — 
 and determined to bring the solitary, solilo- 
 quizing violinist, for a time, out of the 
 visionary world in which he lived, into a 
 warmer and healthier atmosphere. He had 
 never asked him in before, or cared to know
 
 THE CHILD AND THE MUSIC. 131 
 
 him further than to nod in a friendly way, 
 or make some short remark when he hap- 
 pened to meet him. But that spring even- 
 ing must have brought with it a softening 
 and genial influence, for he felt his rather 
 narrow heart — narrow because it contained 
 only a love for and interest in just the 
 few, and had no all-encompassing care for 
 humanity in general — expand with the wish 
 that other men could be as happy as he was. 
 It seemed to him, just thee, that the life of 
 Franz Humbert, with its intangible aspira- 
 tions, was the personification of all that 
 would make a man thoroughly miserable. 
 Thus, without knowing the reason why he 
 did it, or why it mattered to him whether 
 the violinist were happy or no, — he pressed 
 him to give up his pre-determined intention 
 of going to the Parish Church, and accompany 
 him instead to his own bright home, where 
 he would have other listeners to his melodies, 
 than crumbling walls and cold, dark aisles. 
 
 As they walked along together, even a 
 casual observer could not fail to note, — by 
 the very build of their figures, their bearing, 
 features, and expression, — that they were
 
 132 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 men of two distinctly different types. Arthur 
 Trevor — upright, well-set, with his quick, 
 firm step, his precise manner, his smooth 
 hair, his lined and rather stern face when in 
 repose, his even intonation of voice, the 
 absence of all gesture, and the comparatively 
 little change of expression — was essentially 
 the business man. He could have little or 
 nothing in common with the dreamy musician 
 — trembling in every limb with nervous ex- 
 citement, the muscles in his face working, 
 his colour coming and going, his thin legs 
 and long -feet seeming to dance or skip 
 along, never moving like an ordinary man's, 
 his head and shoulders and arms all gesticu- 
 lating as he spoke, to lend emphasis to what 
 he was saying. The one stood on firm 
 ground, the other floated in cloud-land. The 
 one lived in the world of practical action, the 
 other in the world of visionary thought. The 
 one had work, — sorrows, — pleasures, — that 
 were realities in life, the other knew of 
 nothing that lay not in the realms of fancy 
 and imagery. 
 
 The business man looked upon the artiste 
 with a kind of scornful commiseration, think-
 
 THE CHILD AND THE MUSIC. 133 
 
 ing it would have been better if he had been 
 a woman and not a man. It would have been 
 less peculiar in a woman to be so aesthetic, 
 so nervously susceptible, so capricious, so 
 unpractical, and so — as he summed up his 
 opinion of him, not unkindly, but, as he 
 thought, truly — " soft" Those philosophers 
 who study the different grades of life, and 
 who have given forth their carefully- weighed 
 opinion, that the highest form of life exists 
 in those natures which are most flexible, im- 
 pressionable, passionate, and least generally 
 understood, — must have been visionaries 
 themselves to have made such a statement. 
 At least, so thought Arthur Trevor, and 
 mostly everyone else who knew anything 
 about wise men's foolish sayings. For surely, 
 they argue, the highest form of life must be 
 in being manly, and looking like a man, and 
 speaking like a man, and acting like a man, — 
 in short, in being like other men. 
 
 Franz Humbert, though he could not under- 
 stand Arthur Trevor, or, indeed, any of the 
 men with whom he occasionally came in con- 
 tact, yet did not for that reason despise them. 
 He looked up to them, admired them, and
 
 134 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 marvelled at their strange great power of 
 doing, when he himself was completely lost 
 in the maze of only thinking. At times, when 
 lie felt calmer and less excited than usual, he 
 would, in his rapid, emotional way, try to 
 think why it was that all the things that so 
 deeply interested other men, awoke no equiva- 
 lent feelings in his own heart. Why it was 
 that he had no desire to press forward in the 
 Race of Life ; no earnest wish to win laurels, 
 to outstep other men, and to rush on to some 
 far-off, golden goal, to which they all seemed 
 to be hastening. But he always lost himself 
 in his own thoughts, and came back nearly 
 to the same point from which he had started, 
 namely, that of Wonder; which, after all, 
 is no mean vantage-ground on which to stand. 
 At least it shows a higher and more liberal 
 mind, than that of a man who never wonders, 
 but only despises and looks down upon what 
 he cannot or, often, does not even take the 
 trouble to understand. 
 
 Mrs. Trevor had only come across the 
 violinist twice, since she and her husband 
 had settled in this house on the outskirts of 
 Abbeyslea. The second time she had met
 
 THE CHILD AND THE MUSIC. 135 
 
 him, had been at an afternoon gathering held 
 at Mrs. Forrester's. Long after that day 
 had passed by, she had felt her heart burn 
 hot within her, as she thought of what she 
 had witnessed there. It was one of those 
 c afternoons ' which, despite the efforts to 
 court all the musical talent of the neighbour- 
 hood, would have been exceptionally dull 
 and flat, had it not been for the presence of 
 one unlucky person. And that person, upon 
 this occasion, happened to be — Franz Hum- 
 bert. Possibly, he ought only to have felt 
 flattered at being the cause for loud, personal 
 whispers, smothered guiltily, — would-be inno- 
 cent questions, and pointed remarks from 
 the fair sex, as bit by bit they picked him to 
 pieces. Bat he was not, — he quivered and 
 trembled beneath the petty vein of humour 
 which was brought out especially for his 
 gratification ; his head throbbed, his heart 
 seemed to be bursting, his very life being 
 taken, little by little, from him, as he 
 listened to what was not exactly meant for 
 him to hear, and saw what was not exactly 
 meant for him to see. For, unfortunately, 
 men and women who are somewhat singular
 
 136 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 in their ideas and tastes, are always supposed 
 to hear nothing, to see nothing, and, most 
 mistaken of all, to feel nothing. This, 
 apparently, is the only charitable conclusion 
 that could be drawn, to account for what, 
 otherwise, seems a lack of all ordinary 
 courtesy and feeling, in connection with 
 them. Strange is it that women, when they 
 come together in some of these social gather- 
 ings, forget that they are supposed to possess 
 tender hearts and deep sympathies ! 
 
 — As Arthur Trevor arrived with his com- 
 panion at the door of his house, he gave a 
 half sigh of relief. The thought that his 
 wife was always ready to welcome cordially 
 anyone whom he might bring back with him, 
 was a pleasant one. Further also, he knew 
 that her tact and graciousness had the power 
 of putting even total strangers, after a short 
 while, completely at their ease. He, himself, 
 had found it difficult, in any way, to conform 
 himself in conversation with the erratic 
 violinist, even during the length of their 
 short walk together. But Arthur Trevor 
 had entire trust that, had Franz Humbert 
 been even odder than he was, his wife would
 
 THE CHILD AND THE MUSIC. 137 
 
 still have been able to make all go smoothly. 
 In everything he looked to her ; she was the 
 queen of his heart and his home, and he held 
 that there was no one in all the broad world 
 to be compared with her. 
 
 The violinist entered the room a few paces 
 or so behind Trevor, with a shifty, uncertain 
 step. He wore his usual old velveteen coat, 
 his walking boots which were yellow, and, 
 with his fingers, he clutched hold of a much- 
 squashed grey hat. 
 
 If Trevor had brought in anyone else, Sin- 
 clair would probably have risen to go ; but, 
 as it turned out to be his next-door neigh- 
 bour, to whom he was partial, he only looked 
 across at Claire upon his entrance, and 
 smiled. 
 
 Claire returned the glance, and, still 
 smiling, looked up at Franz Humbert. They 
 were already on friendly terms, for he now 
 acknowledged her as the doctor's sister, and 
 she regarded him as her brother's friend. 
 
 The violinist was looking somewhat hope- 
 lessly about him, from side to side. Sud- 
 denly, he caught sight of Claire, and, though 
 Mrs. Trevor was at that moment speaking to
 
 138 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 him, he made a hasty stride past her, to where 
 the doctor's sister was sitting. 
 
 " I have been wanting you," he said, with 
 reproach in his high tenor tones. 
 
 " Why ? " she asked. 
 
 " I wanted to see you," he said, gazing 
 full at her. 
 
 " To see me ? — What do you mean ? " she 
 questioned again, puzzled. 
 
 " See you in the Church, playing on the 
 organ, while — while I and he looked and — 
 and thought." 
 
 " What a funny man you are ! " she said, 
 in her artless way ; " I never told you I could 
 play the organ. And, — what can you want 
 to look at ? " 
 
 " At you." 
 
 She took what he said prosaically, for she 
 was becoming accustomed to his queer ways. 
 
 " You couldn't play your violin if you 
 looked at me," she said; "people can't do 
 two things at once well." 
 
 " We weren't going to play," he answered, 
 querulously, (the " we " meaning him and his 
 violin), — " we were going to look and dream, 
 and be filled with — "
 
 THE CHILD AND THE MUSIC. 139 
 
 " Come, Humbert," broke in Arthur 
 Trevor, laughing, " you mustn't ignore us 
 altogether. Here's my wife wanting to 
 speak to you, and I am waiting to see some- 
 thing of Miss Sinclair." 
 
 The violinist turned away rather discon- 
 solately. They might have let him finish 
 what he wanted to say, he thought, dropping 
 his hat in his vexation, and treading upon it. 
 But the hat was accustomed to this ; it was 
 always being trod on, or sat upon, and it 
 didn't make much difference now either to 
 its shape or colour. 
 
 Mrs. Trevor laid a soft, friendly hand on 
 his arm, and, speaking in her gentle tones, 
 which always gave the person she spoke to, 
 the idea that she knew of what he was think- 
 ing and feeling, and could sympathize with 
 him, she said — 
 
 " Mr. Humbert, you will be giving us 
 quite a treat this evening, if you will play to 
 us. My husband is very fond of good music, 
 and — " 
 
 " Is he ? Do you mean it ? " interrupted 
 the violinist, his whole face lighting up with 
 pleasure. " What ? — shall we be a company
 
 HO DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 of music lovers ? — Miss Sinclair, and Sinclair, 
 and Mr. Trevor, — and we, delighting in its 
 enchantment ! And you — you spoke not of 
 yourself, is — is it possible — can it be ? — have 
 you no love for the Muse of music—no 
 transport in it ? " 
 
 Arthur Trevor looked at his wife. He 
 knew she had no taste for music ; that, 
 though she liked fairly well to listen to an 
 ordinary tune on an ordinary instrument, 
 — the weird, fantastic strains that Franz 
 Humbert would indulge in on his violin, were 
 far beyond her power to comprehend or enjoy. 
 But he knew also that, with all his wife's 
 courtesy and graciousness, she never told a 
 lie, not even a society one. 
 
 She caught his look, as she invariably did, 
 for the husband and wife were one in every- 
 thing, and always seemed to know of what 
 each was thinking. 
 
 " I am not musical," she said, as she looked 
 into the artistes excited eyes, " but I always 
 like to have music in our home, because it is 
 a pleasure to my husband. So I, also, shall 
 enjoy hearing you play." 
 
 She spoke perfectly truly, for, though
 
 THE CHILD AND THE MUSIC. 141 
 
 music was no actual pleasure to her, still, as 
 she knew it was to her husband, that, in 
 itself, gave her full power to enjoy it. 
 
 And the violinist was satisfied. 
 
 11 We shall all enjoy together,' ' he said, 
 laughing gleefully, and running his long, 
 thin fingers through his yellow hair, " and 
 hear songs, and see pictures, and cloud-lands 
 and all — all that is beautiful." 
 
 " Shall I fetch your case ? " asked Sinclair, 
 rising as he spoke, for Franz Humbert had, 
 all at once, become engrossed in examining 
 the shape and architecture of the room,, in 
 its relation to sound. 
 
 11 No — yes — I mean — no. — I shall have 
 finished in a moment," replied the violinist 
 abstractedly, walking to the bow- window and 
 looking closely at the rather heavy curtains 
 that hung there. 
 
 Dr. Sinclair disappeared from the room. 
 
 " I believe Franz would become quite a 
 rational being," he thought to himself, " if 
 people would only take him in the right way. 
 I suppose, however, I might say much the 
 same thing of myself — I shouldn't be the 
 surly, silent stick that I am, if the world
 
 J 42 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 Lad treated me differ ently. Ha ! — everything 
 seems mismanaged, except perhaps, this house- 
 hold, which is right — rightly balanced, rightly 
 governed — in fact right altogether, strangely 
 enough ! " 
 
 He looked at the violin case a moment, 
 before he took it up. Franz Humbert was 
 Yerj watchful over this which contained his 
 precious possession, and seldom allowed any- 
 one to touch it. 
 
 " Why should a man find such a soul in a 
 mere instrument, — a thing which has no 
 vitality or soul in it ? " he thought as he lifted 
 it gently, and began making his way back to 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 Just before he reached the door, he felt the 
 sleeve of his coat being timidly pulled. Look- 
 ing down, he saw that his flaxen-haired little 
 patient, Enid, was walking by his side. 
 
 11 Haven't you gone to bed ? ' he said, 
 surprised to see her again. " I thought you 
 went up with Robin on Mr. Forrester's back.'' 
 
 " I don't go at the same time as Robin," 
 explained the little maid shyly, for, though 
 she liked her grave doctor, she was afraid of 
 him. " 1 only pretend to go, and then some- 
 times I come down again, if Mother likes."
 
 THE CHILD AND THE MUSIC. 143 
 
 " But you're looking a very tired little 
 girl," said the doctor, noting that the child's 
 delicate face, so flushed before, was pale and 
 worn-looking now, " you ought to be fast 
 asleep and dreaming." 
 
 " But I can't go to sleep," said the little 
 girl, wearily, " I only lie awake, and think, 
 and think." 
 
 "What do you think about?" 
 
 " Oh ! about Robin, and Father, — and 
 Mother, — and Mr. Forrester — " 
 
 Here she stopped, and gave a great sigh. 
 
 " And — and sometimes I think of — of 
 you," she went on timidly, when the sigh was 
 quite finished. 
 
 " Of me ? " he said, slowly, liking the 
 thought that the child should think of him 
 sometimes. 
 
 " Yes, — but nurse says, that I have no 
 business to think of anybody, and that it's 
 1 wilful wicked of me to keep on at it.' 
 But Mother says, she knows I don't do it 
 on purpose, but only because it will come. 
 I think Mother must know everything about 
 everything, don't you ? " 
 
 Enid had never said such a long sentence 
 to her doctor before. But she seemed less
 
 144 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 frightened of him than usual ; he wasn't so- 
 dark or grave-looking, she thought. 
 
 She didn't now wait for him to answer her r 
 but as he moved forward again, she gave a 
 little laugh, and said, as she looked at the 
 violin-case he was carrying — 
 
 "Wasn't it funny of Robin to call that a 
 pencil box ? — Do you know why he did ? ' 
 
 The doctor shook his head. He was 
 scarcely listening to the child's prattle, but 
 was wondering how it was that Franz hadn't,, 
 before now, darted impatiently out to secure 
 his instrument, 
 
 " "Well, — it's because," went on the little 
 girl, very intent in her explanation about 
 Robin's words, " Mother gave him a little 
 box to keep a pencil and a pen in, and now 
 everything that looks like a kind of box, he 
 thinks must be a ' pencil box.' It doesn't 
 matter how large it is — sometimes he calls 
 his cot a ' pencil box.' Isn't he a funny 
 little — " 
 
 They had, by this time, arrived inside the 
 drawing-room. Enid stopped short, and 
 looked from her father to her mother, 
 wondering to which she should go.
 
 THE CHILD AND THE MUSIC. 145 
 
 Mr. Trevor was engaged in talking to 
 Claire ; and his wife was seated close to the 
 violinist, who, for once, seemed to be per- 
 fectly contented, sitting still and pouring 
 out some of bis ideas and feelings to his 
 sympathetic listener. 
 
 But as Sinclair entered, bearing the 
 beloved instrument, he sprang up from his 
 seat, exclaiming — 
 
 " Ah ! my brother, — you have brought 
 him ? — Have you told him that we are quite 
 a company of music-lovers together, — and 
 that we shall have sweet, — sweet strains — - 
 all that is lovely ? " 
 
 The violin was already out of its case, and 
 close to the master's ear, as he stooped to 
 tune it. 
 
 " My little girlie looks tired," said Enid's 
 father, taking his little daughter on his knee 
 and kissing her ; " doesn't Mother say that 
 she ought to go to rest ? " 
 
 He wanted to keep her with him, but he 
 thought the all-wise mother knew best, as to 
 whether she ought to stay up or no. 
 
 "Father, let me stay just a little bit, if 
 he's going to play. I love music, Father," 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 pleaded the child, who never asked a favour 
 for herself, though she was always petition- 
 ing for Robin. 
 
 The father wavered, and looked across at 
 the mother. 
 
 " She looks very white and tired, Arthur; — 
 I think she had better go," said Mrs. Trevor, 
 gently. 
 
 But Dr. Sinclair had heard the request, 
 and he saw the clouding tears gathering in 
 the little one's eyes ; moreover, he recalled 
 what the child had told him, of lying awake 
 thinking — thinking, and not being able to 
 get to sleep. 
 
 He drew near to Mrs. Trevor. 
 
 " Let her stay," he said, with a doctor's 
 authority. 
 
 And so the mother yielded. 
 
 The scrapings ceased, — the violin was 
 ready, — the Master stood erect, ready to 
 begin. 
 
 " Father, I love music," whispered Enid 
 again, as she lay back in her father's arms, 
 and looked with her large, unnaturally bright 
 eyes up at the violinist's face. 
 
 Then it began.
 
 THE CHILD AND THE MUSIC. 147 
 
 Ah ! — the Master must have been strangely 
 inspired to have played as he did ! Every 
 note was sweet and tremulous with delicate 
 feeling. In each graceful movement, the 
 refrain fascinated with its bewildering and 
 appealing charm, and the fulness of joy all 
 unalloyed, was heard in the soft, repeating 
 melodies, as they rose and swelled, then sank 
 into the merest whisper. 
 
 The player's flushed face grew calm and 
 quiet ; upon it stole a look of peace. And the 
 listeners stirred not, fearful lest they should 
 break the charm. 
 
 But the child lay back in her father's 
 arms, with a glow of colour upon her cheeks, 
 and her eyes growing larger and more 
 brilliaut, as still she feverishly watched the 
 player. 
 
 Suddenly, a cry broke from her lips. 
 
 " Father, let me go." 
 
 He started, and would have grasped her 
 closer to him. But she was not there. She 
 was standing touching the unseeing player, 
 with both her hands held high above her head. 
 
 Another cry came — a strained, unnatural 
 cry.
 
 148 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 "Let me feel — let tne touch — I must — 
 Mother, let me — " 
 
 Franz Humbert lowered his violin — not 
 suddenly, not as if he were startled by the 
 interruption, but gently, with a strange light 
 passing over his face. 
 
 " It's a child-angel come — come at last," 
 he murmured, dropping his bow and laying 
 his hand on her flaxen hair. 
 
 But the child paid no heed to him. She 
 clutched hold of the still vibrating instru- 
 ment and pressed it to her burning cheeks. 
 Then, — another faint, struggling cry came, 
 as the slight, little figure swayed. 
 
 " I can play — say, oh ! say I — " 
 
 But the sentence was never ended. The 
 child was lying stiff and white in her 
 mother s arms. 
 
 Had Dr. Sinclair made a mistake ?
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 LAMBERT ISLAT. 
 
 One morning, about the middle of June, a 
 gentleman stood at the door of Dr. Sinclair's 
 house, and rang the bell. 
 
 He was a handsome-looking man, with a 
 long, fair moustache, curled carefully at the 
 points. His hands were gloved, his clothes 
 faultlessly cut, and his shoes uncomfortably 
 pointed. 
 
 " Is Mr. Sinclair in ? " he asked, in a 
 drawling voice, as 'Buttons' opened the door. 
 
 No, he was not; but he would probably 
 be back from his rounds in half-an-hour or so. 
 
 ' Buttons' thought to himself, that this 
 grand-looking gentleman must be a stranger 
 to these parts, or he wouldn't have asked for 
 Mr. Sinclair. He would have known that 
 his master had passed all " the examins, and 
 got whole certifits of a reel genuwine 
 docter."
 
 150 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 The next question of the gentleman, con- 
 firmed the truth of ■ Buttons' ' supposition. 
 
 "H'm — h' w — /'said the gentleman, fiddling 
 with his heavy gold watch-chain ; " has — 
 has Mr. Sinclair anyone living with him ?" 
 
 Certainly he had. There was his sister, 
 Miss Claire, who was as pretty as any young 
 lady could wish to be ; only " ' Buttons ' 
 wasn't going to tell the gentle m'n that — not 
 he. The gentlem'n would see it quick 
 enough when he set his eyes on her, or, 
 if he didn't," then, in ( Buttons' ' opinion, 
 " he wouldn't be much of a real genuwine 
 gentlem'n." 
 
 " Was Miss Claire at home ? " 
 
 Yes, she was ; but she was called Miss 
 Sinclair by everyone except those who knew 
 her. 
 
 This intelligence " Buttons ' vouchsafed to 
 say aloud, as he thought the gentleman 
 " shouldn't be too intimate at first with his 
 young missis's name." And, as he said it, he 
 looked at the gentleman's fine moustache, and 
 thought " he'd carry just such another when 
 he was a grow'd man." 
 
 So busy was he in looking at the way it
 
 LAMBERT ISLAY. 151 
 
 was curled, that he didn't notice that the 
 grand gentleman raised his eyebrows in 
 surprise at what he, 'Buttons,' was saying 
 " about his young missis's name." 
 
 g Buttons ' was sixteen years old ; his 
 Christian name was Jack, but he was usually 
 called ' Jock.' He had been a twelvemonth 
 in Dr. Sinclair's service " come next July." 
 He was very much afraid of his master, but 
 he was staunch and loyal. No boy about 
 dared say, but what he was at the best place 
 in all the country round. If they did Jock 
 knew quick enough how to give them " what 
 for." More than this, — Jock had opinions 
 upon a great many subjects, " 'pinions not 
 caught from nobody else, but just come clean 
 out o' his own mind." 
 
 But, there was no time for him to form 
 many just then, for " the gentlem'n seemed 
 kind o' impatient." 
 
 " Take that to Miss Sinclair," he said, giving 
 Jock a card, and preparing to follow him in. 
 
 " Miss Claire's in the drawin'-room, sir," 
 replied Jock, doggedly, not moving, " so I'll 
 just take this for her to look at first, if you 
 would please to wait here a minute."
 
 152 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 Jock thought that, as his master was out, 
 and " the gentlem'n wasn't one as he knew, 
 that he'd like to give Miss Claire a chance of 
 thinking whether she'd see the gentlem'n 
 whose name was on the card or no, and not 
 have him following in close as if he had a 
 right to." 
 
 But, the gentleman thought otherwise. 
 
 " Take that card in first, and I'll follow 
 you," he said, authoritatively. 
 
 And ' Buttons ' gave way about the 
 matter. He thought " this gentlem'n must 
 be a duke or a lord, or something very high, 
 or he wouldn't think to speak so big to 
 him. 9 ' 
 
 Claire was engaged in carrying the plants 
 that stood on a stand in the drawing-room, 
 out into the garden. She had a large 
 holland apron on, and her small hands 
 were encased in rough working gloves ; for 
 she had been busily gardening ever since her 
 brother had left her, early that morning. 
 She loved gardening ; — it always made her 
 forget how long the time without Marcus 
 was, and, besides this, whilst so engaged, 
 she could sometimes see the violinist in his
 
 LAMBERT ISLAY. 153 
 
 garden, and he was so funny that it made 
 her laugh as she watched him. Claire was 
 not what might be called cs conventional," 
 and had no very strict ideas of propriety, 
 though it had been dinned into her again 
 and again, during the years she had passed 
 at the ' Seminary for High-born Young 
 Ladies.' So she looked at many things, 
 and laughed at many things, and enjoyed 
 many things, because they were not what 
 *' proper people " called " proper." 
 
 Some people look draggled, and untidy, 
 and dirty when they are gardening, — but 
 Claire didn't. She had a dainty little figure, 
 and a dainty, well-set head, with its quantity 
 of soft, dark hair, and she had a dainty way 
 of moving; and so, whether she had a large 
 apron and ugly gloves on or no, she still 
 looked well. 
 
 As Jock entered the room, she was 
 standing bending over one of her favourite 
 flowers, that looked weakly and out of sorts. 
 
 " Who was at the door, Jock ? " she asked, 
 not looking up, but curious to know. 
 
 " Please, miss," answered Jock, presenting 
 the tray to her with the card on it. If this
 
 154 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 was a duke or a lord following him so close, 
 " he'd not trifle with words, not he. He'd 
 wait till he was a growed man, then he'd 
 have speech with these lords fast enough." 
 With which thought in his mind, Jock dis- 
 appeared from the room. 
 
 Claire had taken the card from off the tray, 
 almost mechanically. She supposed it had 
 on it, some written message or something for 
 her brother, which Jock had thought best to 
 commit to her keeping. She might as well 
 just see what it was, though, for it had been 
 given to her, and therefore couldn't contain 
 any private matter. 
 
 But as she looked at it and saw simply 
 
 the name 
 
 Lambert Islay 
 
 printed there, she started back with an 
 exclamation of dismay. 
 
 And the fine gentleman, whom Jock had 
 mistaken for a lord or a duke, was standing 
 close by, not two yards off her. 
 
 " What a pretty — aw — cousinly greeting I' 1 
 he said in his drawling voice, with a bland 
 smile passing over his face ; " it sounded 
 almost as if um — you'd rather I hadn't
 
 LAMBERT /SLAY. 15& 
 
 come to see you, which — aw — to say the 
 least is — " 
 
 11 Oh, Lambert ! — I wish you hadn't come," 
 she exclaimed, interrupting him, and not 
 taking any notice of the gloved hand he was 
 holding out to her. " What will Marc say ? ,r 
 
 And she looked around her in a frightened, 
 helpless manner, as if she were completely 
 overwhelmed at the thought of what his 
 feelings would be, when he knew that 
 Lambert had found out where they lived. 
 
 " I should think he'd say — aw — that as I've 
 appeared on the scenes, that you'd aw — 
 better um — take off that great apron and 
 those ugly gloves," he said, regarding her 
 critically, " and that it would be just as well 
 — um aw — not to lose your head so com- 
 pletely with the aw — pleasure of seeing 
 me, that you forget to ask me to — um — sit 
 down after my long walk." 
 
 He laughed softly at his own pleasant way 
 of saying things, and thought as he watched 
 Claire tear off her apron and gloves, that his 
 cousin was certainly a very pretty woman, 
 and it suited her face remarkably well to be 
 rather put out and distressed.
 
 J 56 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 But she paid no heed to him. 
 
 " Why did you come, Lambert?" she 
 asked, fixing great troubled eyes on his face. 
 
 "I came to see you, fair cousin," he 
 answered, seizing her hand, and raising it 
 with mock respect to his lips ; " I always 
 said — um — you'd grow into a good-looking 
 woman, and, — by my word, — aw — you have 
 too ! " 
 
 *' Don't talk like that," Claire said, snatch- 
 ing her hand away, and there came a look 
 into her usually gentle face, which forbade 
 any, even, slight liberty being taken with her. 
 
 " Well — we're cousins — you little wild- 
 fire," he remarked in his drawling tenor, as 
 he began carefully and slowly to take off his 
 tight kid gloves, " but I remember — um — 
 aw — when you were a little bit of a girl, you 
 used to be as hasty and fiery as any — " 
 
 " I don't care what I used to be," she 
 broke in with, impatiently, " all I want to 
 know is, — why have you come here, and how 
 did you get to know we lived in this part? 
 Tell me, Lambert — and then — then — " 
 
 But she could not finish the sentence she 
 had begun so rapidly. What would happen
 
 LAMBERT ISLAY. 157 
 
 then ? What would come to pass, now that 
 Lambert had discovered where Marc was 
 living, and was forcing himself upon them ? 
 Where would be the end of it all ? 
 
 Claire had never cared much for her 
 cousin, Lambert Islay. Though he had been 
 a frequent inmate of her father's house, and 
 had always been patronizing and, in his 
 teasing way, kind to her, she had been in- 
 clined to look upon him with something, that 
 was as near akin to suspicion, as her innocent, 
 unsuspicious nature could. She supposed he 
 was handsome in a way, with his long fair 
 moustache and his fine-cut nose. But she 
 could not bear the glitter in his steel eyes ;— 
 eyes that could look upon any cruelty, any 
 wrong, any outrage with a calm unfeeling 
 gaze, as if nothing on which they rested, were 
 worthy of being considered or commiserated. 
 She had seen him comparatively little during 
 the last year she had spent in her home, and 
 she remembered she had been rather glad of 
 it than otherwise ; rather relieved that she 
 hadn't to see him always reclining in some 
 easy chair, with a newspaper or sporting 
 dramatic in his hand ; or else, find him stroll-
 
 158 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 ing about twirling his moustache, and giving 
 his opinions upon things he knew nothing 
 about. She hated men who had no profession 
 and who idled their life away, just because 
 they happened to have money enough not to 
 work. She often wondered how her father, 
 with his sharp, business-like capacities, could 
 tolerate so lazy a man as Lambert. Yet, he 
 appeared to get on very well with him. 
 Lambert had a bland, suave manner, and an 
 oily tongue that seemed to deceive even the 
 acute, work-loving old man. For, strangely 
 enough, even in men's most strained and 
 hard-contested points, there may in them 
 generally be traced some unaccountable 
 weakness, some startling inconsistency. And 
 so it was with James Islay, who, though 
 throughout his life he had upheld the maxim 
 that " men who did not work ought to starve,' : 
 yet did not thrust this at his idle nephew, or 
 see that he was one of those very men whom he 
 most thoroughly despised, and most severely 
 censured. He believed in the plans that 
 Lambert was always setting before him, and 
 he extolled his wisdom, in being slow and 
 sure enough " to look before he leapt."
 
 LAMBERT /SLAY. 159 
 
 — There was a short pause, before Lambert 
 Islay answered the sentence that Claire had 
 been unable to finish. Either he was wait- 
 ing to see if she were going to say anything 
 further, or else he was considering how best 
 to answer her repeated question. He had, 
 practically, made up his mind what to say 
 before he had come, before even he had 
 begun to employ his time in tracing out 
 where Marcus Sinclair had made his home, 
 and where Claire now also lived. In his 
 loose, indolent fashion, he had considered it 
 easy enough to invent some plausible excuse, 
 for doing what he knew was evidently desired 
 not to be done, and in ferreting out that 
 which he was certain had no wish to be dis- 
 closed. He knew also that it was no affair of 
 his ; that James Islay had never expressed 
 the slightest wish either for the return of 
 Claire, or for any knowledge concerning his 
 disinherited son, Marcus. Far otherwise ; 
 in strong and bitterest language, he had re- 
 peatedly declared that they were both 
 nothing to him, and that he never wished 
 to hear or see anything of them again. And, 
 therefore, it was only on his own account,
 
 3 60 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 for his own gratification and for his own 
 ends, that Lambert Islay had determined to 
 do, that which would be disagreeable to all 
 parties concerned, except himself. Still, as 
 he himself was always, in his estimation, the 
 most important and principal person to be 
 taken into consideration, and, as it mattered 
 not in the least to him what other people's 
 ideas and feelings upon any subject were, it 
 was scarcely surprising that he took the step 
 he did. 
 
 But Claire's blunt questions puzzled him. 
 The many plausible reasons he was going to 
 bring forward, seemed suddenly to have 
 become no reasons at all. He found he 
 must invent some new ones, or else attempt 
 to change the current of Claire's thoughts. 
 It was not easy to do either of these; but 
 Lambert Islay had vast confidence in himself 
 and in his own powers, and that, in itself, 
 would help to carry him through the 
 difficulty. Also he had a glib tongue, and 
 possessed the talent of running on smoothly 
 with a good many words, containing little 
 matter. 
 
 His cousin was still standing up, moving
 
 LAMBERT /SLAY. 161 
 
 restlessly about in unconcealed distress. He, 
 himself, had sunk into an easy chair, and, 
 having finished the removal of his gloves 
 from off his ringed hands, began the usual 
 satisfied handling of his moustache. 
 
 "I must tell you plainly, Claire,' * he 
 drawled, in would-be bantering tones, " that I 
 don't — aw — think much of your manners. 
 Here have I arrived at this out-of-the-way 
 place — for you can't — aw — deny, it's urn — 
 out of my way — and instead of receiving me 
 with open arms and declaring — um aw — 
 that I'm a good sort of fellow to trouble 
 myself about you, why you do — aw — nothing 
 of the sort ; — all you do is to pace um — aw 
 — np and down there, making me giddy with 
 your — aw movements. I wonder now what) 
 um — aw — Beatrice would say if she saw — '* 
 But Lambert found that his cousin was 
 not heeding him in the least ; so, he tried 
 another tactic. He had always known that 
 she was inclined to be obstinate and im- 
 petuous, — and he rather liked these traits 
 in her than otherwise. Still, he had no idea 
 she would have so little control as this, even 
 if his arrival had upset her. 
 
 vol. I. m
 
 162 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 " Look here, Claire, can't you — aw — call 
 that block of a boy and tell him to hasten on 
 luncheon a bit? For — um aw — I have not 
 walked so far as I have this morning — aw — 
 since goodness knows when, and — " 
 
 " Lambert, — can't you go, before Marcus 
 comes in ? " 
 
 Claire had worked herself up to such a 
 pitch, that she scarcely knew what she was 
 saying, or for what she was asking. Some- 
 thing, she feverishly thought, must be done 
 to stop Lambert's flow of talk, — to get him 
 out of that chair, — away from the house, 
 before Marc saw him. For, what would 
 happen if her brother came in, and found 
 him there, cool, and bland, and smiling, 
 making himself perfectly at home, and 
 evidently more pleased with himself than 
 usual. 
 
 " Go away, Lambert," — she said, coming 
 close to him, and, in her eagerness, laying 
 her hand on his arm, " we don't want you 
 here. You will spoil our lives and make it 
 all wretched and unhappy, just when — when 
 we thought everything was going to be so 
 perfect. Do — do go, before Marc comes in."
 
 LAMBERT ISL4Y. 163 
 
 The words were scarcely out of her lips, 
 before she heard the expected heavy tread in 
 the hall. She heard Jock's voice, big with its 
 bit of news — 
 
 " Please, sir, there's a very fine gentlem'n 
 with Miss Claire in the drawin' room," — 
 she heard the step hasten, and draw nearer 
 and nearer, and yet — she did not move. She 
 still stood by the side of Lambert's chair, 
 with her hand on his arm, and her eyes fixed 
 on the door, with a kind of wild terror in 
 them. The worst had come ; — in another 
 moment, Marc would see Lambert lounging 
 therewith his handsome face and self-satisfied 
 smile. In another moment, he would see the 
 work of years undone, and all the past that 
 he had striven to bury, rise up again before 
 him. She tried to move from the door, — to 
 take her hand from Lambert's arm, — to utter 
 some sound, just her brother's name, — but 
 she could not. 
 
 And so, Marcus Sinclair strode in with his 
 head held high, and his heavy brows lowered. 
 Who was this gentleman with his sister ? 
 And why this strange, unnatural silence ? 
 
 Still powerless to think or move, Claire
 
 164 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 watched him coming, and saw him start and 
 his firm steps halt, as he found her standing 
 motionless there. 
 
 She felt him slowly drawing closer, till his 
 tall figure almost touched hers. She could 
 hear his breath coming quick and short, as 
 he gazed down at the bland, smiling face of 
 the handsome man, lying back in his chair. 
 
 Then — the spell was broken. 
 
 A terrible oath broke from Marcus Sin- 
 clair's lips, and with a face white and rigid, 
 he turned from his cousin — whom he had 
 not failed to recognise — and looked at his 
 sister. 
 
 A horrible doubt and suspicion arose in 
 his mind. The sight of Lambert, and the 
 knowledge that the strivings of so many 
 long years had, in one moment, become fruit- 
 less, — sank into nothing, before the darker 
 thought that assailed him. 
 
 Had Claire deceived him ? Had she be- 
 trayed his trust ? Had she lured Lambert 
 here? Was she, in secret, bound to this 
 man? 
 
 He looked at her fiercely. But she, — know- 
 ing nothing of the hateful thought that had
 
 LAMBERT ISLAY. 165 
 
 seized him, — looked back at him with great 
 eyes, misty with gathering tears. 
 
 " Marc ! " she said, snatching her hand 
 from Lambert's arm, and laying it, trembling 
 and cold, in his. " I am so sorry for you,— 
 oh, my brother ! " 
 
 Then, — thank God, the bitter doubt that 
 had arisen in his heart, died out. His nature, 
 which was a noble one, refused to yield 
 to the Devil's temptation to suspect. He 
 wouldn't stoop, to what a smaller-minded 
 man would have done. 
 
 " Go, little sister," he said, gently, leading 
 her to the door. " Go, dear, — you must 
 leave me alone — with this man."
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A STORMY SCENE . 
 
 Lambert Tslay had remained silent, during 
 the time that intervened between the entrance 
 of Marcus and the exit of Claire. 
 
 He did not, in the least, regret the step he 
 had taken in coming, when he saw the dis- 
 tress and anger it was causing. On the 
 contrary, he was simply amused by it. The 
 game he was playing, bid fair to be more 
 exciting than he had anticipated. 
 
 But, as he watched the young doctor close 
 the door, and noticed his powerfully-built 
 figure, and the determined set of his head, he 
 thought to himself, that it was just as well 
 he had timed his arrival when he had, — 
 just as well that he was there just then, 
 complacently seated in Sinclair's room, and 
 not demanding admittance at Sinclair's door. 
 For he remembered that this cousin of his, 
 who had been little more than a grown-up
 
 A STORMY SCENE. 167 
 
 boy when he had last seen him, had been a 
 hot-headed, peculiar young fellow, with his 
 own perverse notions and high-standard 
 views. One who would not be turned an 
 inch from what he upheld. One who looked 
 at life on its serious, gloomy side, and didn't 
 see anything in it, that led him to consider it 
 a playground, or an idle lounging-seat. 
 
 But Lambert Islay also remembered that 
 Marcus was slow of speech; that words did 
 not flow easily from his lips ; that arguments 
 only came after careful forethought. There 
 was little chance that he would have changed 
 much in tins latter respect ; — probably, not at 
 all. Thus, if there was going to be a stormy 
 interview between them, there could be no 
 doubt that he, Lambert Islay, would have 
 the upper hand. He could argue and talk 
 on more volubly than most men ; besides, he 
 wouldn't be handicapped by any such things 
 as feelings, which generally seemed to disturb 
 and trouble other people. 
 
 So, as Dr. Sinclair turned from the door, 
 he found his cousin still leaning back in his 
 chair with nonchalant ease, and with the same 
 tempered, irritating smile passing over his face.
 
 168 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 The young doctor was not quick of speech, 
 otherwise he would have spoken first. He 
 meant to, but Lambert was before him. 
 
 " Well, Marc, old fellow, how are you?" he 
 drawled, slightly raising himself, and holding 
 his hand out in a friendly way, " awful long 
 time um — since we met. Don't know that 
 I should have aw — recognised you if I had 
 — um aw seen you about anywhere. Why 
 — um — you've got grey hairs, old boy ; — how 
 d'you come aw — by those, eh ? Here am I 
 years — um — older than you, and haven't got 
 one. Glad — um — aw to see me, eh ? — eh ? 
 Why don't you speak, man ? " 
 
 " What has brought you here ? " growled 
 Sinclair, standing before his cousin, with 
 folded arms and head bent slightly, as he 
 glared down at him. His face was pale, and 
 the veins on his high forehead, were standing 
 out in angry, purple knots. 
 
 Lambert Islay laughed softly, and shifted 
 his position. 
 
 " Come — come, my dear fellow, don't glare 
 away like that," he said, avoiding the gaze, 
 by casting his eyes around the room. " Why, 
 you've got — um aw — a comfortable enough
 
 A STORMY SCENE. 169 
 
 •berth here, — there's — um — no reason why 
 you should be ashamed of my seeing it. 
 And Claire, — she seemed all right too, though 
 um — I must say she's lost something — 
 um aw — by er — this bargain, for, of course, 
 money's — " 
 
 " That's no affair of yours," broke in 
 Sinclair, hurling the words at him, while a 
 deep flush overspread his dark face. 
 
 Had this man come here to insult, as well 
 as injure, him by his presence ? 
 
 "Well, I don't know," rejoined Lambert, 
 forgetting to drawl, but still laughing — " you 
 think it is — ha ha, — Claire's and your affair; 
 — but — I think — ha ha — it's mine. And I'll 
 tell you why, if you'll sit down and talk to a 
 fellow rationally, and not stand looming over 
 me like that. It — um aw — makes one un- 
 comfortable, too, to see you standing when 
 there's no need for it. Or — um — by-the-bye," 
 — drawling, — " couldn't you ring for 
 luncheon first, and then have a — aw — good 
 talk and a smoke after ? What — um aw — 
 do you think now ? " 
 
 Lambert Islay thought that his coolness 
 and good-nature, would be most likely to
 
 170 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 carry the day. But he was mistaken. He 
 was miscalculating the man he had to deal 
 with. He was overstepping the bounds of 
 anger's patience, he was ignoring altogether 
 that he, the designing injurer, was speaking 
 to the injured. 
 
 " You insolent dog — you confounded fop," 
 exclaimed Sinclair fiercely, seizing his cousin, 
 and dragging him forcibly from the chair in 
 which he was lounging, " can't you stand up 
 as a man and not lie there like a — a — a 
 scented, — soft-headed fool, — drawling out 
 your cool insults, — taking possession of my 
 room, — and asking for my food, when you 
 are perfectly aware that you have come here 
 against my express wish, that — " 
 
 "My dear fellow, don't excite yourself , ,r 
 interposed Lambert, resenting somewhat the 
 violent hands his cousin had laid on him, but 
 determined, notwithstanding, to hold the 
 game by his pertinacious good temper. 
 " I've not bothered myself to come here, or 
 laboured my time away, for the purpose — aw 
 — of annoying you. We never — um aw — 
 cared enough for each other for that, you 
 know — did we, you know ? Eh, now ? — Just
 
 A STORMY SCENE. 171 
 
 recollect, we were never the — uin — best of 
 chums, were we, eh ? " 
 
 But Sinclair vouchsafed no answer. If 
 Lambert's object was to gain time, he 
 wouldn't assist him in any way. In his 
 anger and bitterness, he would have liked 
 to have kicked him out of the house there 
 and then, but he knew he would be com- 
 mitting a fatal mistake by so doing. So, 
 with a powerful effort, he controlled himself, 
 though the shadow on his face darkened, and 
 the fire in his angry eyes gleamed danger- 
 ously. 
 
 Evidently, Lambert's aim in coming, 
 was not simply curiosity or the desire to 
 annoy him. "What, then, was it? Surely 
 his (Marcus's) father, could not be wishing 
 for a reconciliation ? He knew the man — 
 James Islay, — inexorable, ruthless — too well, 
 to hold that supposition for a moment. But 
 there was another thought that forced its 
 way into his brain, which brought the re- 
 membrance of that suspicion that had arisen 
 in his mind, when he had first entered the 
 room, and found his sister standing with her 
 hand laid on this man's arm. The recollec-
 
 172 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 tion, for the moment, seemed to turn him 
 sick and dizzy, making the figure of Lambert, 
 as it lolled against the high mantelpiece, look 
 like a black splotch in a room, where a 
 brilliant June sun was mockingly shining 
 in. He tried to cast it from him, as he dimly 
 heard Lambert's meandering drawl begin 
 again ; — but it was of no avail, it stood out 
 there in his brain colossal, with every other 
 thought in shadow beside it. 
 
 " Why, — you seem um aw — to have a 
 shorter memory than I have," Lambert was 
 saying, as he calmly examined the massive 
 rings on his white, womanish hands, " for I 
 recollect we used to — used to um — clash in 
 pretty nearly everything. You were so abomi- 
 nably um aw — righteous, you know, and 
 rather — rather overbearing, considering you 
 were but a — um — youngster, you know, com- 
 pared with me. Even Uncle James used to 
 beard me on, you know, to put you down 
 when um aw — you got upon some of your 
 — -urn — confounded querities. But — um — 
 by-the-bye, Uncle James would be rather 
 — rather — " 
 
 " Rather what ? — you slow, babbling idiot,"
 
 A STORMY SCENE. 173 
 
 demanded Sinclair, catching the meaning of 
 the last few words. 
 
 He had heard nothing of what had come 
 before. 
 
 "Well, you know, rather — rather off — off 
 — well, I mean — um — a little surprised and 
 possibly — possibly wrathful, you know, at 
 
 my-" 
 
 " Then, it's only for your own ends, that 
 you have annoyed Claire and me, by coming 
 here ? " said Sinclair, in a measured voice, 
 his anger not in the least abating, but feeling 
 a certain numbness of patience creeping over 
 him. 
 
 Lambert noticed the change, and thought 
 his plan of procedure was beginning to make 
 way. So he advanced on a little quicker 
 towards the end he had in view, which was, 
 practically, to state the reason for his pre- 
 sence in Sinclair's house. It wouldn't have 
 done at all, he thought, to have come out 
 with it at once ; but now that Sinclair had 
 cooled down a bit, he might just as well 
 hasten on, get it over, and have some lunch. 
 For he was feeling the novel sensation of 
 hunger, and 6 lunch ' was occupying an
 
 174 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 important area in his brain. His cousin 
 seemed to be helping him along, too, by 
 mentioning Claire's name. So, fully satisfied 
 with himself for having advanced favourably, 
 — as he thought, — so far, he took his elbow off 
 the mantelpiece, moved a few paces off, and, 
 seeing the chair he had lately occupied, tbrew 
 himself into it again with a sigh. He wasn't 
 going to stand, when he could sit. Why 
 should he ? 
 
 " Oh ! well, of course, it's for my own 
 ends," he said, hastening his drawl some- 
 what, and regulating his voice to a certain 
 even intonation, to give his listener the idea 
 that he was saying a quite ordinary and to- 
 be-expected thing. "No man in his senses, 
 my dear fellow, would think — aw — of taking 
 the trouble I have, — except for his own — urn 
 aw — purposes and ends. And, as I said before, 
 it wouldn't have — er — been um — worth my 
 while to have put myself out simply for the- — 
 er — excitement of annoying you, — not worth 
 my while, you know, — you agree with me, 
 don't you, eh ? " 
 
 He paused for an answer ; but, getting 
 none, lounged further back in his chair, and
 
 A STORMY SCENE. 175 
 
 continued in rather quicker tones, as he thus 
 neared his point — 
 
 " We agree then about it — wouldn't have 
 been worth the candle, — at all events on my 
 side of the question. But, you know, it was 
 rather a different thing, when you came and 
 took what I had — well, had um — settled 
 upon for my own property, — when you just 
 calmly walked off with my kettle of — " 
 
 " Speak out plainly, or, by Heaven, I'll — v 
 exclaimed Sinclair, once more gripping hold 
 of his cousin. But, this time, he pinioned 
 him down in his chair in a grasp of iron, 
 beneath which the cool, handsome, irritating 
 man found himself powerless to move. 
 
 Yet, Sinclair was only waiting to hear his 
 own thought and conviction put into words. 
 He knew what was coming ; but the know- 
 ledge of it maddened him none the less. 
 
 Lambert Islay's steel eyes glittered. He 
 had made a false move. There was no re- 
 trieving the error ; so, the only way was to go 
 on, and get to the end of this scene as quickly 
 as possible. No other course lay open to 
 him, situated as he now was. 
 
 " Oh ! you want my reason given rather
 
 176 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 plainer, do you ? " he said, still with dogged 
 determination, preserving his cool insolence 
 of tone. " Well, it's all the same to me, 
 only I don't particularly care about being — 
 er — in such close quarters when I'm speak- 
 ing — um — to the point, you know. How- 
 ever, here goes," — raising his tenor voice a 
 tone higher, and slurring over the ends of 
 his words with a more affected drawl than 
 he had yet put on, — " I've had enough — um 
 — of bachelordom, and am going to marry — 
 aw — a pretty girl with a bit of um aw — 
 money, and um — the girl I'd chosen was 
 01 — " 
 
 He stopped short. The hand of Claire's 
 brother was not pressing more heavily on 
 him. On the contrary, — Lambert Islay sud- 
 denly found himself liberated, and the face 
 of his aggressor no longer close to his. 
 
 Marcus Sinclair had walked to the window. 
 This bit of platonic mechanism fairly took 
 him aback. This phlegmatic, cold-blooded, 
 soulless insouciance, of what he knew should 
 draw out a man's deepest emotions and feel- 
 ings, for the moment completely staggered 
 him. If his cousin had come and passionately
 
 A STORMY SCENE. 177 
 
 avowed his love for Claire, and in word or 
 look shown his devotion to her, — Sinclair 
 would have been angry, but not speechless. 
 He would have been chafed, but not revolted ; 
 indignant, but not dumbfounded. 
 
 There was a certain farcical humour in the 
 scene, which an onlooker might have observed. 
 It didn't strike Sinclair in that light at all. 
 Naturally, everything took a grave and serious 
 turn with him, and an interview of this kind 
 was not likely to prove an exception. 
 
 His stupefaction was but momentary. He 
 turned from the window, and faced his cousin. 
 
 " You have come here, then, I presume, to 
 ask for the return of Claire ? '' he said, 
 forcing each word out in a peculiar marked 
 way, but otherwise speaking with a strange 
 calmness ; " and you wish for her return for 
 the sole reason — that her father may settle a 
 sum of money on her during his lifetime, and — 
 after his death — , that she may be left joint 
 heiress with Beatrice of all his possessions. 
 You have taken the trouble, — you have under- 
 gone the inconvenience, — you have spent 
 much valuable time in doing this, — yet, as it 
 is not for her interest but for yours, — these 
 
 vol. I. N
 
 178 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 may be taken as very small considerations. 
 Not for her interest, I rep — " 
 
 " Stay a moment, my dear fellow, — it's 
 hardly fair to — " 
 
 But Sinclair was in no mood to brook 
 interruptions. He had waited long enough ; 
 — it was his turn now. 
 
 " What I have to say you'll hear to the 
 end," he said, in tones so decisive, that his 
 cousin almost unconsciously inclined his head, 
 in obedience to his will, " and, further still, — 
 what I have to ask you will answer. I will 
 not detain you here long, as it will neither 
 benefit you nor me to enter into any lengthy 
 discussions. All we have to do is, to come 
 to an understanding. Thus, I repeat, it is 
 not for her interest that you have forced 
 yourself upon us here, but for your own. 
 May I ask, therefore, as it is — money you want 
 to marry, — why did you not fall in love with 
 Beatrice's money, which is secure and ready 
 to hand ? " 
 
 The question was evidently not a difficult 
 one for Lambert to answer, for he handled his 
 moustache and smiled serenely, as he said — 
 
 " Well, — you know, it's like this — um aw
 
 A STORMY SCENE. 179 
 
 — I omitted, I think, to tell you that I'm — 
 well, I'm — aw — in love with Claire, and I'm 
 not with Beatrice. It makes — aw — a little 
 difference, you see." 
 
 " Indeed ! " 
 
 The contempt in Sinclair's tone was un- 
 veiled, as, in this single word, he expressed 
 his opinion of the difference. 
 
 " And, I believe, I mentioned to you that — 
 um — I wanted a pretty wife," continued 
 Lambert, with calm indifference ; " and, 
 though Beatrice wasn't bad in her way once, 
 still — you know, she — " 
 
 " We have no time to enter into par- 
 ticulars ! " exclaimed Sinclair, impatiently ; 
 " if you confine yourself to just answering 
 what I ask, — it will be sufficient." 
 
 The expression on Lambert's face altered, 
 as he muttered a few words about age, 
 brevity, and the desirability of lunch. 
 
 Sinclair paid no heed to him. His brain 
 seemed every moment to grow clearer, and 
 every difficulty to shape itself in distinct lines. 
 
 " I want, secondly, to know," he went on, 
 " upon what ground you are working ? Are 
 you assured, — supposing Claire did agree to
 
 180 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 return to her home, — that her father would 
 overlook her grave offence, in having cast in 
 her lot with me? Otherwise, I don't see 
 your object in wishing to make her your 
 
 wife." 
 
 " I'm as assured as — urn- — I wish, or need 
 to be," answered Lambert, carelessly ; " your 
 father and I get on very well together, you 
 know, — we never thought it necessary to — " 
 
 " I understand," said Sinclair, — " you in- 
 tend that the money question shall be favour- 
 ably settled. That's your chief concern, of 
 course. But, — unfortunately for you, there 
 lies another difficulty which you have to get 
 over, before your path is cut out perfectly 
 clearly. Probably, you consider it a very 
 slight one, and scarcely worth a passing 
 thought, but still, that doesn't dispense with 
 it altogether. To me, it appears a rather 
 important item in this distinctly mechanical 
 affair. But, — to the point, — you say you are 
 in love with Claire, or, rather with her face 
 and the money you expect from her; but 
 how do you know that she is — well, — in love 
 with you ? " 
 
 Sinclair brought out these last words in a
 
 A STORMY SCENE. 181 
 
 voice absolutely expressionless, followed by 
 a low laugh. The calmness with which he 
 had hitherto spoken, had been painfully 
 forced. It was not natural to him to ex- 
 press himself either clearly or concisely. He 
 had never before been able to conceal all 
 feeling so completely that, as he was speak- 
 ing, he listened to himself, and thought that 
 it was not his, but another man s voice, 
 uttering the words. Thus, he laughed 
 ironically at his own metamorphosis. 
 
 The last question that he meant to ask, was 
 this one. As he formed it, he seemed to hear 
 Claire's voice saying again, " I shall never 
 marry," as she had gravely told him not 
 many weeks ago. Heavens ! if Fate had 
 this only to offer her, — then, indeed, wisdom 
 lay in her words. 
 
 Lambert Islay paused half a moment be- 
 fore he answered. His cousin had, unfortu- 
 nately, touched upon — what he considered — 
 the only weak point in his pleasant arrange- 
 ment. He, himself, knew that Claire was 
 not in love with him, but his confidence in 
 himself and his own powers to charm, were 
 not likely to be shaken by this.
 
 182 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 He thought he would treat the question 
 lightly. 
 
 " My dear fellow," he drawled, affectedly, 
 " what a thing — aw — to ask me. One would 
 think you knew nothing of the fair sex — 
 urn — why,—— a good-looking man, knowing 
 something — aw — of the art of love-making, 
 has simply — urn aw — the whole game in his 
 
 own — " 
 
 " Has he ? " roared Sinclair, striding up 
 to Lambert, his forced calmness gone and 
 his anger and scorn breaking madly out, — 
 " but I tell you that the game is not entirely 
 his, and never will be if he seeks to play 
 it with any true and right-minded woman. 
 You men, who go seeking after money and 
 looks, — cast a slur upon all the deepest and 
 most sacred feelings of which man is capable. 
 You mock at love, — you make your homes 
 places of discord, ending in your shameful 
 divorces and dishonoured separations. If 
 you want to play your game with any 
 moneyed woman, — go elsewhere. Go to those 
 who lay themselves out to captivate such as 
 you. Go to those who know of no other duty 
 in life, than the duties of spending time, —
 
 A STORMY SCENE. 183 
 
 money, — talents, — upon disfiguring them- 
 selves to look well. — What have you come 
 here for ? To offer Claire a stone and call it a 
 man's heart ? To re-enact that ghastly farce 
 in which your uncle — I call him not my 
 c father ' — played, when, bit by bit, he wrung 
 from my mother all that made life dear to 
 her ? " 
 
 He stopped breathlessly, his whole face 
 quivering, and great drops of moisture 
 standing on his brow. 
 
 " Go on, my dear fellow, go on," sneered 
 Lambert, seizing the opportunity to puj> in 
 his ever-ready word. " I've not listened to 
 so good a sermon for a long time. You've 
 the making of a strait-laced parson in you, — 
 it's really a pity you have missed your 
 evident vocation." 
 
 " Your very shadow darkens these doors," 
 went on Sinclair bitterly, unheeding the 
 other's stinging words. " Why could you not 
 have gone after those many women, who would 
 have loved to have toyed with your smooth 
 words, and gazed at your handsome face ? 
 Why come to despoil me of my one posses- 
 sion? Why thrust yourself in here when
 
 184 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 we have no need of you ? Why cast more 
 bitters into my life, when already my path 
 has been strewn thickly with them ? Why 
 have — " 
 
 " Either a parson or an eloquent street 
 pr— 
 
 11 Enough ! — I waste my words on you, — I 
 should have known — I should have thought 
 — a man, such as you, has need to be treated 
 differently from other men. You live in a 
 lower grade, — you are without heart or feel- 
 ings, — you are made up of conceit and 
 mockery, — your bland tongue hides your 
 lying words, — your fair face covers your 
 hideous deceits, your contemptible devices, 
 your debasing motives. — Aye, you shall have 
 my answer to — " 
 
 " Stay," — broke in Lambert again, rising 
 from his chair, and advancing towards the 
 closed door; " if you think I am going to 
 take your answer, when Claire is now of age 
 to give me her own, you are mistaken. 
 Lower grade or no, I am neither such a 
 fool nor such a dullard, as you are. Policy, 
 at least, should have led you to have chosen 
 your words and your epithets rather more
 
 A STORMY SCENE. 185 
 
 nicely. — I, at least, am a gentleman — you, 
 perhaps, by the profession you have entered, 
 — are not" 
 
 As the last words stang from his lips, 
 he turned the handle of the door with a 
 sharp click. But Sinclair's foot was against 
 it. 
 
 Lambert's face grew livid with rage. He 
 raised his fist to strike, — but quickly dropped 
 it again. His cousin was a taller, broader, 
 more powerfully built man than he was. 
 Lambert would be carrying the game beyond 
 his own play, if he made a move in this 
 direction. 
 
 M I will not leave this house till I have 
 seen Claire, and received her own answer," 
 he said, doggedly. 
 
 " Yes, you will," replied Sinclair ; " for 
 you will not see Claire again to-day, and — 
 you leave this house now." 
 
 " I shall return after a few days, and claim 
 her answer then." 
 
 "No; — you will leave this house and this 
 neighbourhood now, and you will not return 
 until three months have gone by. Then, 
 claim your answer if you will."
 
 186 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 For a moment, the two men's angry eyes 
 met. The two wills silently fought. The 
 two natures measured their powers. Then, 
 — the weaker yielded. 
 
 " At the end of three months, from this 
 day, I return to see Claire alone," said 
 Lambert Islay ; " meanwhile, — I will amuse 
 myself by working you harm." 
 
 " As you will," said Sinclair, opening the 
 door, "but I should hardly think it was 
 worth your while" 
 
 Lambert laughed sneeringly. 
 
 " You speak truly," he said, assuming 
 his customary drawl ; " it wouldn't be worth 
 my um — while. Besides, in taking the 
 trouble to work your harm, I might perhaps— 
 um — er — betray our close relationship. And 
 I, — for my part, have no wish to — um aw : — 
 run the risk of — so lowering myself."
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 SUSPICIONS. 
 
 Theee months ! 
 
 Why had Marcus Sinclair stated that that 
 period was to elapse, before Lambert Islay 
 might return and claim his answer from 
 Claire ? Why did he wish to put off the dis- 
 agreeableness of the affair ? Why protract 
 the annoyance ? Why not, rather, have named 
 three days after, and not three months ? 
 
 Lambert Islay, as he slowly made his way 
 back along the high road to the town of — , 
 indolently wondered at what his cousin's 
 motive, in this respect, could have been. Not, 
 however, able to come quickly to any very 
 probable conclusion, he changed the current 
 of his thoughts, and speculated instead upon 
 which hotel he should lunch at, and whether 
 he should stay the night in — , as he was 
 there, — or no. 
 
 His anger had passed with the turn of the
 
 188 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 wind. It was too much trouble to be roused 
 for more than a few moments together ; 
 besides, — really, nothing was worth the 
 while. The hot insults his cousin had 
 showered upon him, scarcely rankled or caused 
 him any disturbance. He dismissed them 
 from his mind, with an inward laugh at the 
 ridiculous amount of trouble people give 
 themselves for such little causes. He sneered 
 good-humouredly at the commotion they 
 seemed to get into over the merest trifles. 
 He smiled serenely at the feeling — sentiment, 
 emotion, — or whatever they choose to call 
 it, — that they so readily display. 
 
 Still, — if he hadn't been so well-bred and so 
 gentlemanly, he would certainly have thought 
 twice about staying for a few days in — ; 
 and, by some means or other, paying Marcus 
 out for his incivility. It was preposterous 
 that these men, with their superior height 
 and strength, should lash themselves into a 
 fury, and say and do what they liked, and 
 carry all before them with a high hand, 
 simply owing to their brute force, and to 
 the little control they seem to possess over 
 their movements.
 
 SUSPICIONS. 189 
 
 But, it did not at all suit Lambert Islay's 
 view of life, to mix himself up in any broils, 
 either for the sake of the girl he thought he 
 was in love with, or for her money. There 
 were other girls about with pretty faces, and as 
 to money — well, though he had run through 
 most of his, there was nothing so safe or so 
 sure as borrowing — at least, for a while. 
 But to put himself out about the matter, and 
 to lower himself so far as to acknowledge his 
 connection with a medical man, who lived in 
 a small house, the rent of which could not 
 amount to much more than £50 or £60 a year, 
 — this was out of the question altogether. 
 Lambert Islay was too gentlemanly — as 
 he understood the word — too indolently, too 
 disdainfully good-natured, too torpid, — to do 
 anything more just then, than swear genteelly 
 that he would continue to play the game 
 after a while, take his time about it, and in 
 the end win. But, for the present, he would 
 have his lunch, and a good one too. He 
 might concoct some kind of love-letter to 
 Claire afterwards, while he was enjoying a 
 smoke over his wine — it would warm him up 
 to the sentiment. Not that he required
 
 190 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 much warming up, for Claire was un- 
 doubtedly a very pretty girl, and possessed 
 of just so much obstinacy and passion as 
 to make her both interesting and amusing. 
 
 This, then, was the state of Lambert 
 Islay's ideas — they could scarcely be termed 
 feelings — shortly after his stormy interview 
 with his cousin. He was one of those hand- 
 some, self-satisfied, easy-going gentlemen at 
 large, of whom the fewer there are in the 
 world, the better for the world. They are 
 polished, but not chivalrous ; smooth in 
 speech, yet coarse in thought ; scrupulous as 
 to their rights as gentlemen, yet unscru- 
 pulous in their actions as gentlemen ; fair on 
 the outside of the platter, but soiled and 
 stained on the inside. Morally and intellec- 
 tually, they are living in a lower sphere of 
 life, than that in which their fellow-men are 
 living. The god they worship is that low 
 one — Self ; it is not worth their while, they 
 practically hold, to worship any higher one. 
 It would place too much check upon them 
 to bow down to an Omnipotent; though, for 
 the sake of their standing in society, they 
 will just acknowledge the existence of a
 
 SUSPICIONS. 191 
 
 Creator. It would scarcely place them on 
 so good or sure a footing in the world, if 
 they called themselves — Atheists. So for 
 their god — Self's — sake, they go to a Place of 
 Worship sometimes, use occasionally the name 
 of the Most High, and, at seasons, even 
 demean themselves so far as to enter into 
 religious discussions. 
 
 These are the men who, morally and in- 
 tellectually, degrade and lower society ; they 
 being, seemingly, without special virtue, and 
 equally without special vice, yet — their whole 
 characters and existences leaven mortally for 
 evil. ( Instead of aspiring to a high type,' 
 as a deep thinker remarks, ' they submit to 
 reversion of type, following out that principle 
 by which the organism, failing to develope 
 itself, failing even to keep what it has got, — 
 deteriorates, and becomes more and more 
 adapted to a degraded form of life.' Men 
 like Lambert Islay are more to be feared as 
 leavenors for evil, than the men with glaring- 
 vices or contemptible weaknesses; the latter 
 warn by those very vices, while the former 
 allure by their apparent freedom from them. 
 
 But more of Lambert Islay anon.
 
 192 DR. SINCLAIR^ SISTER. 
 
 Very different from his cousin's, were the 
 thoughts and feelings of Marcus Sinclair, 
 As he closed his house door upon Lambert, 
 the prominent feeling in his mind was that 
 of a vague, yet real, relief. 
 
 "He is gone," he muttered to himself; 
 " never again will I see him. Of all men, he 
 is one of a kind which I hate and loathe 
 most. And for him — to force himself in here, 
 to— to— " 
 
 He did not finish uttering his thoughts; 
 his indignation was too great. Besides, at 
 that moment, as he stepped uncertainly, as 
 if darkness were around him and not broad 
 daylight, he felt a hot, feverish hand laid on 
 his, and in the apparent gloom he saw a white 
 face looking up. 
 
 " Marc — my brother," said Claire, for she 
 had crept trembling down the stairs, the 
 moment she had heard the steps in the hall, 
 and the door closed ; " he has gone ? — You 
 were stronger than he ? — He won't ever come 
 again, — you — you have made him promise ? 
 You — you — " 
 
 He interrupted her darkly, — sternly. 
 
 "We shall not see him again, Claire, I sw — "
 
 SUSPICIONS. 193 
 
 11 Oh ! Marc ! " she exclaimed, leaning 
 against him. " What — never ? — Is it all a 
 bad dream about his coming ? It wasn't 
 that he wanted to break up our life together, 
 and force me to go back to Father and 
 Beatrice again ? Marc, — Marc, I have been 
 so unhappy, — I thought — thought — " 
 
 Then, with a woman's usual weakness at 
 times of great relief, she burst into tears, as 
 she clung tightly to her brother. 
 
 Gently, he led her to a chair, and tried to 
 calm and soothe her. But he did it mechani- 
 cally, scarcely knowing what he was doing 
 or what he was saying. All that rose up 
 before him was, that he must just then put 
 his own feelings and anger in the background, 
 and try and comfort and reassure her — his 
 child-sister — who seemed doubly precious to 
 him now. 
 
 By degrees, she grew calmer; the heavy 
 sobs lessened, and the great, wistful eyes lost 
 something of their frightened look. 
 
 Tell me, Marc," she whispered, " how did 
 he come here ? How did he find out where 
 you lived? " 
 
 " I don't know," he said, gloomily ; 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 " wouldn't have made any difference for me 
 to ask him how he came, — when he was 
 already here." 
 
 " Ah, but — " she began ; then, seeing the 
 peculiar strained look on her brother s face, 
 she changed what she was going to say into, 
 "Marc, you look so tired — so grey. Can't 
 you sit down and close your eyes and rest, — 
 rest just a little, and, if you can, forget a bit, 
 because — because now it is all oyer." 
 
 He looked at her and did not for a moment 
 answer. 
 
 She could feel that, though he was gazing 
 hard at her, he was not seeing her. It 
 was the blind stare of an over-occupied and 
 half-bewildered mind. 
 
 " Marc," she said again, raising herself from 
 the chair in which he had placed her, for she 
 felt dimly afraid of his strange look. 
 
 He gave a hoarse laugh. 
 
 " What are you talking about, Claire ? " 
 he said, making a ghastly attempt to hide the 
 state of his feelings from her. " Rest ? — 
 Bah ! — Am I a man at large, that I can take 
 rest when I need it — lounge here thinking — 
 just because I want to ? Eh ? I'm no
 
 SUSPICIONS. 195 
 
 Lambert, thank Heaven. — What are you 
 talking about rest to me for ? Do you know 
 it's close upon three o'clock, Claire ? " 
 
 11 Yes, but—" 
 
 "No time for buts and talk," he said, 
 harshly, turning from her. " I ought to 
 have been out at two, so there, — I'm an 
 hour late as it is. Time waits for no man, — 
 and I tell you it isn't for long, Claire — it 
 isn't for long — but I'd better not let them 
 know it yet — not yet, why should I? It'll 
 feed their minds nicely after, when — when — " 
 
 He paused. 
 
 " What do you mean, Marc ? " asked she 
 timidly, wondering, as Lambert was never 
 going to return again, why Marc should be 
 so upset and so queer. She couldn't under- 
 stand, in the least, to what he was referring. 
 
 " It doesn't matter what I mean," he 
 answered, rather more gently, but still 
 enigmatically ; "I didn't say I meant any- 
 thing. I don't think, or mean, or say 
 anything, — except that my whole afternoon is 
 filled up, and as I am late now, I shall not be 
 back till — till — well, — don't expect me or 
 wait for me, until you see me; — do you
 
 196 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 understand, Claire ? I may be late — very 
 late." 
 
 As he spoke, he tossed a cap on his head, 
 and began going out. 
 
 " Where are you going ? " she asked, 
 growing more and more perplexed by his 
 strange manner. " Do you know, you've 
 put your old garden cap on instead of — " 
 
 " Have I ? — stupid ! " he interrupted, 
 laughing again. " Find my hat for me, 
 Claire — I can't see it. Where am I going ? 
 Why, — to my patients, of course. D'you 
 think they get well just because trouble has 
 come to us ? No — no, the world's not made 
 like that. Ha ! — I'm off. Good-bye, Claire, 
 —why, — how white you look, child." 
 
 "Marc, I'm frightened for you," she said, 
 as he stooped and looked anxiously into her 
 scared face. " Can't you eat or drink some- 
 thing before you go out, for I know — yes, I 
 feel sure — you are not well." 
 
 " Eat — drink ? No — no," he said, frown- 
 ing,, " Why, the first mouthful would choke 
 me. I'm all right, Claire, — don't fuss about 
 me, and don't bother yourself when I'm gone 
 — about that man."
 
 SUSPICIONS. 197 
 
 11 If only I knew that you weren't fretting 
 yourself about him, — I shouldn't, Marc,'' she 
 said, trying to smile as she spoke. " But do 
 just promise me one thing, — you won't be 
 very, very late, will you ? — because it will be 
 so long without you, and with that thought 
 with me alone all the time." 
 
 His face softened. 
 
 "No, dear; I won't be very late," he said, 
 more gently. " I forgot about your feelings, 
 and was only thinking of my own — selfish 
 brute that I am. I believe I'm only fit to 
 live by myself, after all, — and yet — " 
 
 He did not finish his sentence. 
 
 " Marc, — don't say that," said Claire, pas- 
 sionately, throwing her arms round his neck, 
 " How can you, when we love each other so 
 much, and you are everything to me ? " 
 
 Then he went off to his round of duties, 
 and she, like all women, was left at home to 
 think and brood over what had happened, and 
 wait and long for the continual sympathy, 
 which it is part of woman's nature to require, 
 and which she so seldom gets. Ah ! the 
 women, — the women ! Is their lot so easy? 
 Are their burdens so light ? Is their path so
 
 198 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 strewn with flowers ? — Aye, their lot would 
 be easy, their burdens be but light, and their 
 pathways strewn with flowers, — if, oftener, the 
 men would stoop to lend them a hand, or find 
 time in the midst of their greater thoughts 
 and works, to give the look and word of 
 sympathy. But, alas ! in the rush of labour, 
 in the press of occupation, in the necessity 
 for speeding on in the Race of Life for the 
 bread of life, — the beauty and value of culti- 
 vating the finer instincts is lost sight of. 
 And thus, the women also fail in their duties 
 and in their higher desires, and become cold 
 and unlovable. It is very wrong of them, 
 doubtless ; yet there is such a thing as " hope 
 deferred making the heart sick," — and, it 
 is that the women's hearts become so weary 
 and sick with waiting for what they do not 
 get — or, perhaps, for what they so sparingly 
 get — that makes many of them what they 
 are : so imperfect, so incompetent, so unable 
 to be the helps-meet for the men ! 
 
 Fortunately for Dr. Sinclair, his work that 
 afternoon was close and heavy. He had a 
 consultation of grave importance to attend in 
 the town of O — , besides several cases to in-
 
 SUSPICIONS. 199 
 
 quire into, out of his usual routine. Both 
 required deliberate and serious thought ; any 
 preoccupation, or, other than weighed opinion, 
 might prove fatal. Sinclair knew this, and 
 with the strength that had been born to him, 
 by the many ordeals through which he had 
 already been forced to pass, he pulled himself 
 together and determined, notwithstanding the 
 leaden weight at his heart and the fever of 
 restless thought in his brain, to prove equal 
 to what lay before him within those next few 
 hours. 
 
 Thus it was not until late that night, when 
 Claire had retired to rest and the duties of 
 the day were over, that Marcus Sinclair broke 
 from the restraint in which he had forcibly 
 bound himself, and looked face to face at the 
 calamity that had come to him. For, he could 
 regard the arrival of Lambert in no other 
 light than that of a calamity. As it had 
 dimly struck Claire, so it plainly struck him. 
 In the same way as she had questioned to 
 herself, when she first saw her cousin — 
 "Where would be the end of this? What 
 would it not lead to ? What did it not 
 entail?" — so it shaped itself in his mind.
 
 200 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 In the natural exaggeration of the evil, which 
 is a part of the realizing shock of it, he 
 seemed to see in it the death-blow of all his 
 hopes. His heated fancy pictured himself 
 cast back to where he was seven years ago, — 
 his social standing undermined, — his en- 
 deavours fruitless, — his hard-earned popu- 
 larity as a clever physician lost, — his honour- 
 able name trampled upon, — and, worse still, 
 perhaps, his home, which had become within 
 the last few months so dear to him, desolated. 
 Yet now, as, with a certain amount of 
 calmness, he looked back upon the details of 
 that interview with Lambert, he saw clearly 
 that he had been upheld throughout, by the 
 knowledge of one thing. Heavy as the blow 
 was, he recognised that it might have been 
 heavier. Cruel, bitter, remorseless, as fate 
 seemed to be — for he saw no Hand of a God 
 in it — she might have been more cruel, more 
 bitter, more remorseless. Deeply as he was 
 again to drink of the cup of this world's gall, 
 he might have had to drink still deeper, even 
 to the very dregs thereof. For he knew, as 
 he had turned with that dark and hideous 
 doubt in his heart to look at his sister, that
 
 SUSPICIONS. 201 
 
 his trust in her was dearer to him and far 
 more preciously held, than his own honour, 
 welfare, or happiness. From the moment 
 that he had looked into her face, and found 
 written there all that was open, guileless, and 
 true, he felt upheld by a certain fortitude and 
 strength, which would not otherwise have 
 been his. 
 
 But Marcus Sinclair was a fierce and 
 proud-tempered man. Lambert's insolent 
 allusions to the poor exchange Claire had 
 made for herself, in choosing to live with 
 him, had cut his pride to the quick. Foolish 
 and almost childish the feeling was, yet it 
 rankled as a sore. It was what the world 
 would have said; it was what terse common 
 sense would have said ; it was even what 
 Sinclair had thought and worried over him- 
 self at times ; and yet, when plainly put into 
 words by a man, whom he from the bottom 
 of his heart despised, he was stung anew by 
 it. Bitterly he questioned himself, as to what 
 right he, against whom every man's hand 
 seemed turned, had had to ask this sacrifice 
 of Claire. For, sacrifice, he blindly argued it 
 must be, — changing a home of luxury to that
 
 202 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 of comparative poverty ; giving up the com- 
 panionship and care of a father, sister, and 
 all family connections, to live with him, — a 
 moody, sceptical, morose man, unfit for 
 society, or for anything so sweet as devotion 
 and love. For everything appeared crookedly 
 and darkly to him ; his knowledge and con- 
 victions were clouded, his judgment nar- 
 rowed, his finer instincts for the time in 
 subservience to his lower and baser ones. 
 He was as a man with all that was wise, 
 true, noble in him, bound tight with chains ; 
 while all that was foolish, untrue, and per- 
 verse, at large and revelling in its freedom. 
 
 This was one of the bitter pools of the 
 Waters of Marah, of which he was drinking. 
 But there was another far bitterer, and far 
 more dangerous and deadly, of which he 
 drank still more deeply. 
 
 The appearance of Lambert, and with him 
 of all the hated recollections of the past, 
 stirred up within Sinclair's nature, that 
 which was already darkly smouldering there. 
 And this was his disbelief in man, — his 
 denial of any good or any nobility in human 
 nature.
 
 SUSPICIONS. 203 
 
 He laughed grimly to himself, as he 
 thought of the cool, easy way, in which he 
 had answered Lambert's threat that he would 
 work him harm by — 
 
 "As you will." 
 
 Did he, — Marcus Sinclair, — believe for an 
 instant, that his cousin would leave the whole 
 matter alone, overlook and count as nothing 
 the unpalatable opinions upon his conduct, 
 that he, Siuclair, had expressed ? Did 
 Lambert mean what he said when he re- 
 marked that — 
 
 " It would not be worth his while ? " 
 
 Did he think that Lambert would keep 
 away from Abbey slea for the agreed period, 
 — that he would retire back to his usual 
 routine of idleness and pleasure, — forget the 
 reception he had received at his cousin's 
 house, — and the way in which his offer for 
 Claire's hand had been regarded ? Did he 
 imagine that Lambert's bitter sneer in 
 reference to Sinclair's position in society, 
 and the consequent dislike he would have 
 in owning his relationship with him, was 
 anything but a blinding snare ? In other 
 words, and to sum up shortly what appeared
 
 204 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 to Sinclair, only as a confused string of burn- 
 ing questions, — did he trust Lambert Islay to 
 do as he said he would, or no ? Had he 
 any reason for believing that Lambert's 
 coming, would prove simply an incident in 
 his and Claire's life, — to be repeated again 
 when three months had gone, and then 
 to pass away like other events in life, 
 without leaving much effect behind — only a 
 remembrance which might, after a while, 
 sink into entire oblivion ? 
 
 No ; — Marcus Sinclair took the darkest and 
 moodiest view of the case. He couldn't 
 trust or believe. Few men could have, 
 probably, in his situation. Few men would 
 have been able, even had they been closely 
 intimate with a man of Lambert Islay's 
 stamp, to understand the disinclination of 
 such a man to give himself any trouble, to 
 put himself to any inconvenience, because 
 simply, — " Nothing was worth the while." 
 For it is almost an impossibility for men of 
 highly-strung and sensitive natures, to com- 
 prehend, in the least, those of phlegmatic and 
 torpid ones. They cannot grasp or take in, 
 that the matters that stir their hearts and
 
 SUSPICIONS. 205 
 
 souls to their verimost depths, that make 
 their blood course madly through their 
 throbbing veins, — are things of no account, 
 or, at least, of less account to those others, 
 than the flavour of the wine they drink, or 
 the cut of the coat they wear. 
 
 Therefore, it was scarcely strange in Dr. 
 Sinclair, that he imagined and mooted over 
 the probable steps that Lambert Islay would 
 be taking to work his harm, and the devices 
 he would project for further prospering his 
 suit with Claire. His whole mind became 
 filled with an all-absorbing suspicion. He 
 felt it eating into his very being, cramping 
 his every thought, contracting his every feel- 
 ing, and encircling his every movement. 
 
 Why, then, had he attempted to exact any 
 promise from Lambert, whose word he 
 doubted and whose motives he suspected ? 
 Of what avail was it to him ? How would it 
 improve or strengthen his position, or in 
 what way did it protect Claire ? 
 
 In the heat and confusion of thought at 
 the moment, when Lambert had declared his 
 intention of returning to receive Claire's 
 answer from her own lips, Sinclair, — who was
 
 206 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 neither quick at compassing difficulties, nor 
 able to arrive at wise conclusions without 
 deliberate thought, — felt that the only thing, 
 just then, was to gain time. Wild ideas of 
 throwing up his practice in Abbeyslea, of 
 disappearing from the neighbourhood, and 
 of settling in some far-off country, flashed 
 through his brain. How could he stand 
 having his footsteps dogged by Lambert ? 
 How could he live through his past history 
 being raked up again, and thrown, with 
 insulting exaggerations, into his face ? How 
 could he bow his proud head and have his 
 honourable name, made the bye-word of 
 every gossiping tongue in Abbeyslea ? And 
 how, once more, could he bear to have his 
 heart torn by the knowledge that his sister 
 — his dearest one, — was being dragged down 
 with him, to become the stock for common 
 talk and common scandal ? 
 
 These had been some of the feverish and 
 maddening thoughts, that had flashed through 
 Sinclair's head, as, with outward calmness, he 
 had said to his cousin — 
 
 "You will not return, till three months 
 have gone by." 
 
 Time — time was all that he could then
 
 SUSPICIONS: 207 
 
 insist upon. Time to think, time to plan, 
 time to act — wisely, if possible. 
 
 Yet as the hours went by, and still he leant 
 back in his chair, or paced to and fro within 
 the small compass of the room, till the dim, 
 cold dawn crept in and competed its sickly 
 light with the yellow glare of his lamp, — he 
 felt every difficulty was increasing tenfold by 
 time and thought, and that he was no nearer 
 being able to form any plan of action now, 
 or, as far as he could see, was likely to, than 
 he was before. 
 
 One thing only had he come to a conclu- 
 sion upon, and that was, — that Claire must be 
 made aware at once, of the object of Lam- 
 bert's visit. It would be a wrong to her not 
 to do so. Further than this, it would be an 
 error of judgment ; for, what surety had he 
 that his cousin was not still in the neighbour- 
 hood, and would not, notwithstanding the 
 promise exacted from him, seek an interview 
 with Claire, and forthwith press his suit ? 
 
 Somehow, up till then, Sinclair had 
 cherished the idea, that he could and would 
 shield Claire from the knowledge of the true 
 intent of Lambert's visit. He, at first, vainly 
 strove to argue to himself, that he could keep
 
 208 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 this from her, and thereby spare her much 
 pain and anxiety. But the folly of even 
 attempting to carry this out, became more 
 and more apparent the more he thought of 
 it, or tried to prove it possible. Claire must 
 know of it that very morning, for, — what 
 might not a day bring forth ? And not 
 only should she know of it, but also he would 
 tell her of his fears and suspicions, his 
 maddening thoughts, and his utter inability 
 to form any reasonable plan, as to what was 
 best to be done. 
 
 He, — Sinclair, — half smiled, as he thought 
 of being able to open his mind to her, and of 
 layingbefore her the burden that was weighing 
 him down. He felt his heavy heart for the 
 moment almost lightened. He did not know 
 it, but even as within every evil sent some 
 good lies, so it was that the bond of union 
 between brother and sister would be, by this 
 calamity, made threefold sure. 
 
 ci Perhaps," thought he, as he pulled out 
 his watch to see the time, " perhaps she may 
 be able to see more clearly what to do, than I 
 can. I think she will, for her nature has 
 not been stunted and cramped as mine has, 
 so everything appears to her in a truer light.' 5
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 TAKEN TO TASK. 
 
 Just about the time when the quiet and 
 happiness of Sinclair's and his sister's lives, 
 were being rudely disturbed by the appear- 
 ance of Lambert Islay, a tremor of excite- 
 ment was agitating the minds of the 
 inhabitants of Abbeyslea. 
 
 It was seldom that an excitement upon so 
 large and unexpected a scale fell to their lot. 
 Generally, they had to feed their minds upon 
 very ordinary and every-day occurrences, 
 upon which, to make impressive, a consider- 
 able amount of imagination had to be 
 brought into play. But, this time, there was 
 a great deal of real fact and a great deal of 
 striking novelty in the rumour, which was 
 flying about from house to house. 
 
 The Eeverend George Gambray, incum- 
 bent of the church of Abbeyslea for over 
 fifteen years, had announced his intention of 
 
 vol. I. p
 
 210 DR. SINCLAIR'S SIS7ER. 
 
 retiring from any further work or calls upon 
 the powers and energies of a life, already 
 well-advanced in years. He was not what 
 could be called, in any way, broken down in 
 health, from over labour or injudicious zeal 
 on behalf of the Church, of which he was a 
 kind and benevolent representative. But he 
 had, — he thought, — so far done and finished 
 his duty in that state of life in which God 
 had called him, as to, with a peaceable 
 conscience, have earned the enjoyment of 
 complete rest and freedom, from the toils 
 and restraints which the position of a work- 
 ing clergyman necessarily imposed upon him. 
 His stipend was a matter of little account to 
 him ; and thus, though in some way regret- 
 ting it, he had, after several months of care- 
 ful and silent consideration, resolved to make 
 this unexpected move. It was rather a trial 
 to his conservative opinions and to his love 
 of monotony, regularity, and fixture. But he, 
 at this period, advanced out of his usual 
 routine of thought, and argued to himself 
 that, whether pre-arranged or no, changes 
 must, at intervals, take place; therefore, in 
 this case, why should not he, in an orderly
 
 TAKEN TO TASK. 211 
 
 manner, take time by the forelock, and make 
 the move which sooner or later would have 
 to be made ? 
 
 Anxious to do it all as quietly as possible, 
 and knowing somewhat of the propensities 
 of his parishioners, the Reverend George 
 Gambray thought good to keep his inten- 
 tion in the dark, until within a very short 
 while of the actual time of his departure. 
 Possessing few relatives and being naturally 
 reserved about his own private affairs, he 
 had found this possible. His only child, a 
 daughter, — delicate, retiring, shy, was the one 
 and only person whom he consulted upon the 
 matter; and, as his slightest wish was law 
 to her, he knew that, until he spoke of his 
 intention, no hint or surmise of his move- 
 ments would become knowu. Thus, he 
 hoped to limit to the confines of a short fort- 
 night, the disagreeableness of being the talk 
 of his own parish. He was a quiet, amiable, 
 peace-loving man, disliking talk when it 
 came too near home, and wishing only to 
 make this change in his Jife as quickly and 
 unobservedly as possible. He had found it 
 quite unpleasant enough to bring himself to
 
 212 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 any determination upon the matter itself; 
 without wishing to have any further trouble, 
 in having it opinionated upon and quizzed 
 by those around him. 
 
 But, be the time never so short for some 
 piece of unexpected news to circulate, it will 
 pass through much the same process of 
 manipulation, as if the period given it were 
 longer. It will have to be submitted to the 
 fire of public opinion, — to be rapidly digested, 
 to be rapidly reviewed. Perhaps, indeed, 
 when the time given is only a short one, the 
 piece of news stands at a disadvantage ; it 
 gives more chance for the sweets of exag- 
 geration, misrepresentation, and hasty con- 
 demnation. Thus, it was questionable 
 whether the Reverend George Gambray 
 profited anything by his care, or no. If he 
 thought to escape the remarks and c too 
 late ' advice of his parishioners, he was mis- 
 taken. If he hoped that his kindness, 
 geniality, and long-suffering docility, during 
 the past fifteen years of his ministry in 
 Abbeyslea, would spare him, in any way, from 
 his share of that which no man holding any 
 public office ever escapes, — he had not learnt
 
 TAKEN TO TASK. 213 
 
 one of the tacit, though uupleasant lessons 
 of life. Grey hairs and long service do not 
 shield, when the public's advice has not been 
 sought, and thus the public's rights have not 
 been acknowledged. 
 
 In this case, — which not unfrequently 
 happens, — a lady, standing high in the social 
 circles of Abbeyslea, took upon her, not un- 
 willingly, the difficult task of letting the 
 Eector know what a mistake he had made in 
 settling his own affairs, without consulting 
 others — others, who, perforce, must know 
 better than he. Mrs. Forrester was- the 
 acknowledged spokeswoman of the Parish; 
 if those around her shrank from letting a 
 delinquent know wherein he had, iu their 
 opinion, erred, she never omitted the per- 
 formance of this duty. 
 
 Thus it was, that scarcely two days had 
 passed since the rumours had spread, before 
 the Rector, who was trying sedulously to 
 avoid single-handed encounters with any of 
 his people, was brought face to face with the 
 lady, whom he most wished to avoid. He 
 would rather have discussed his motives and 
 reasons a hundred times over with any, or
 
 214 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 all, the men in Abbeyslea, than be brought to 
 bay by Mrs. Forrester. For, charming, 
 clever, charitable even, as he repeatedly 
 acknowledged this lady to be, the "Rector — 
 priest of God, yet not exempt from human 
 frailties — stood in the same fear and awe of 
 the keen-pointed arrows that quivered from 
 her smooth tongue, as did all others, who had 
 not even the vantage-ground upon which to 
 stand that he had. 
 
 He had been holdinar one of the two ser- 
 vices of the week in the old Parish Church ; 
 one of those services which were so scantily 
 and grudgingly attended. It had com- 
 menced with only one member forming a 
 congregation, besides the all-attendant clerk. 
 The responses and alternate verses in the 
 Psalms were repeated by only one voice, 
 besides the stentorian mumble issuing from 
 that lowest seat. For the Rector's daughter 
 — a fair, slight girl of some seventeen or 
 eighteen years, with a pale, sweet face, and a 
 stooping, undeveloped figure, the only regular 
 worshipper in the House of God at these 
 1 Readings of Prayers,' — was in her usual 
 place, and, as usual, alone. But, before the
 
 TAKEN TO TASK. 215 
 
 second lesson was read, the Rector became 
 aware of another presence, of another 
 more devout, more supplicating, and more 
 exacting worshipper. He did not raise his 
 eyes to see which of the parishioners had 
 favoured the service ; which had spared the 
 few moments wherein to bow the kuee to 
 their Creator. He had no need. The high- 
 pitched voice, that so effectually drowned the 
 weak and reverently-lowered voice of his 
 daughter, the exact changes of expression in 
 it — denoting devout confession, supplication, 
 praise — that reached his ear, told him that 
 the most punctilious Churchwoman of 
 Abbeyslea was on her knees, with bowed 
 head and locked hands, pharisaically cleaning 
 the outside of the platter. But the Rector 
 was a good man, his personal religion was 
 sincere ; and so, though he unconsciously 
 roused his rather drowsy-sunk tones into 
 those more befitting a presiding minister, 
 because he was in the presence of Mrs. For- 
 rester, still, his inner man was seeking its 
 God, and within a few moments he had for- 
 gotten the addition to his congregation, only 
 becoming aware of it again when the service
 
 216 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 was over, and he was making his way to the 
 vestry. 
 
 " She will waylay me," thought he, as he 
 disrobed, "and I'd rather not see her." 
 
 The Eector was not exactly a coward, but 
 if he could avoid what he didn't like, he 
 would, providing no actual or striking duty 
 lay in the path. And, at this moment, he 
 felt he particularly disliked the idea of con- 
 versation with Mrs. Forrester. 
 
 " Eva will be talking to her outside the 
 porch," he thought to himself again, as he 
 slowly reached down his hat from a well- 
 worn peg; — et rather a penance for her, poor 
 darling, still — it would be worse for me, so 
 I'll — " 
 
 "No, I won't," he said aloud, knitting his 
 brows. " Eva will get the brunt of it all, 
 if I don't show myself, and that's scarcely 
 fair on the poor child, — shy, gentle puss, that 
 
 she is ;- besides, it's my doing, not hers, — 
 
 not that that will make much difference to 
 our worthy friend ! I wish — " 
 
 But the Rector did not express aloud what 
 his wish was. At that moment, he must 
 certainly have desired most, to be anywhere
 
 TAKEN TO TASK. 217 
 
 but within a few paces of Mrs. Forrester. 
 And probably, he would have kept at some 
 distance off, if it had not been for Eva. But 
 to save her, and for her sake, he had often 
 gone through what cost him great effort. 
 His gentle, motherless daughter was dearer 
 to him than his own self. So now, to release 
 her from what he knew she was shrinking, — 
 yet, sorely against his own will and inclina- 
 tion, he advanced consciously into the lion's 
 mouth. 
 
 The land lay just as he fully expected that 
 it would. Outside the Church, barely an jell's 
 length from the porch, stood Mrs. Forrester 
 towering over his daughter. For Mrs. For- 
 rester had a great deal of " presence ; ' she, 
 somehow, nearly always looked as if she were 
 towering: over whomever she was in conver- 
 sation with. Even the Rector had this un- 
 comfortable feeling, when he was talking to 
 her. Not that she was such an extraordinary 
 tall woman or that he was a short man, but 
 it was the impression that her finely-formed 
 and fully- developed figure, with the high set 
 of her beautiful head, gave. Perhaps it was 
 this, or perhaps it was the subtle magnetism
 
 2J8 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 of her thoughts, which had the power of 
 giving this impression to all those, who came 
 in immediate contact with her. 
 
 As Eva heard her father's step, she raised 
 her face that had been half-lowered, while 
 she had been stammering out some kind of 
 scarcely audible answer, to one of Mrs. 
 Forrester's difficult questions. The face 
 raised was hot and flushed, and the shy 
 eyes, that looked as if tears were not far 
 from them, gave a quick glance of relief. 
 The Rector, though not a particularly 
 observant man, noticed both ; and felt 
 thankful that his natural pusillanimity, had 
 not kept him longer in the vestry. 
 
 "How d'you . . ." he began, extending 
 his hand genially to his parishioner. 
 
 He could get no further, for he was slow 
 of speech, and Mrs. Forrester was very 
 quick. 
 
 " Oh, I was just telling your daughter, Mr. 
 Gambray," she said, in her clear voice, still 
 bending a severe and critical blue eye upon 
 Eva's stooping shoulders, and nervously 
 twitching hands, " that it's a perfectly un- 
 heard-of thing for — "
 
 TAKEN TO TASK. 219 
 
 " Yes, yes, no doubt — no doubt," inter- 
 rupted the Rector uneasily, not waiting to 
 hear to what it was he was giving his assent, 
 but only anxious to make some excuse for 
 his daughter's speedy departure ; " quite 
 probably you are right, Mrs. Forrester, but 
 still — still " — he laid his hand on Eva's arm, 
 — " Eva, my dear, go home, dear — go home. I 
 expect dinner might be waiting — mightn't it, 
 dear? Rather early, perhaps, but still — it 
 might— don't you think ? " 
 
 Never in all the days of his fifteen years' 
 sojourn in Abbeyslea, had the Rector been 
 known to be able to make an excuse. He 
 ought to have given up trying long ago. His 
 attempts were always such palpable failures ; 
 Eva had laughingly told him so many times. 
 This was one of his worst efforts, for it was 
 scarcely half-past eleven in the morning, and 
 all he could think of was, — to tell her to go 
 home and have dinner. 
 
 Mrs. Forrester, however, did not see the 
 absurdity of the reason given; she only 
 clutched at the opening for a little further 
 comment. 
 
 "In my opinion, Mr. Gambray," she said
 
 220 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 imperiously, moving a step from the Rector, 
 and glancing at intervals from his face to 
 Eva's slight, retreating figure, " that girl of 
 yours ought to have been helping you in the 
 parish for some years now. If you had 
 taken my advice, you would have knocked 
 all that silly school-girl shyness out of her, 
 and brought her forward to be your right- 
 hand. You should have sent her to a good 
 finishing school, where they would have 
 polished her up, and straightened her figure, 
 and — " 
 
 "Thank you — thank you — very likely — 
 very nice," interrupted the Rector con- 
 fusedly ; " but — but she's delicate, you know, 
 Mrs. Forrester. Eva's a good girl — very 
 good girl ; in fact — in fact, I might say 
 she's everything I could wish her to be — 
 everything." 
 
 By the time the Rector concluded his 
 sentence, he had compassed quite a firm 
 voice, and was able to turn a brave face 
 upon his adviser. Some people had said that 
 they were certain that beneath Mr. Grambray's 
 heavy red and grey moustache lay a weak 
 mouth, for there was no other sign of
 
 TAKEN TO TASK. 221 
 
 irresolution in his face, from the broad brow 
 to the steady chin ; and yet, his character 
 often showed a gentleness that bordered 
 upon docility and indecision. 
 
 "Opinions differ," remarked Mrs. Forrester 
 distantly, with just so much contempt in her 
 voice that politeness and high-breeding 
 allowed, " and it's certainly fortunate they 
 do, and — " 
 
 "Urn — um — ah ! " murmured the Rector, 
 looking lovingly at the turn in fche path 
 round which Eva had just disappeared, " I'm 
 glad they do." 
 
 He was thinking: that if others didn't think 
 as highly of Eva as he did himself, there 
 would be the more chance for him to keep 
 her with him all the remaining years of his 
 life,- — which was the desire of his heart. Mrs. 
 Forrester, however, thought he had mis- 
 understood her, and so went through the 
 trouble of explaining herself more clearly 
 and more lengthily. 
 
 " I said, — opinions differed, Mr. Gambray," 
 she said, drawing up her head and speaking 
 with a still more distinct and marked 
 utterance, " and it's a good thing they do,
 
 222 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 because if your daughter were everything 
 that could be wished, the standard of 
 manners, and appearance, and toute ensemble 
 wouldn't be very high. People do say — say, 
 well, I scarcely like to tell you what they 
 say, Mr. Gambray — I don't really." 
 
 " No matter, Mrs. Forrester, no matter," 
 answered the Rector, genially, " don't trouble 
 yourself on that account, pray don't. Another 
 time will do just as well, — indeed it will." 
 
 Other people held that Mr. Gambray's in- 
 variable good-nature and mildness, were the 
 outcome of a nobler and further-sighted nature 
 than was usual to men. 
 
 "Another time, — Mr. Gambray? " repeated 
 Mrs. Forrester, lightly laying her delicately- 
 gloved hand upon his arm, and looking full 
 at him as she spoke. " Then the rumour 
 isrit true ? I thought not — I said not — I have 
 told everyone I have met that it isn't true — 
 that it's too bad of them to attribute such an 
 unwarrantable move to you. I asked them, — 
 was it likely that you, a clergyman in good 
 health and still with many years of — " 
 
 " Yes, yes, — I'm not broken down yet, I 
 know I'm not, — very kind of you to say so, —
 
 TAKEN TO TASK. 223 
 
 to point it out so delicately, Mrs. Forrester," 
 interrupted the Rector, anxiously drawing off 
 a little, and looking studiedly away, " but 
 you see it — it — " 
 
 "I always uphold those who do their 
 duty," said Mrs. Forrester piously; "though, 
 of course, no one could say but what mis- 
 takes have been made parochially at times, 
 which wouldn't have happened if advice — 
 good advice that was given — had been 
 taken. And then people have been always 
 rather inclined to say that your sermons in 
 Church were — were very excellent, and all 
 very well in their way, but still they are a 
 little dull, and rather — same ; not that I 
 should like to go so far as to say that, Mr. 
 Gambray — " 
 
 Mrs. Forrester had brought her sentence 
 to no logical conclusion. Her sentences 
 often contained so many important details 
 and parentheses, that the real point about 
 them was forgotten. At this place, she 
 paused significantly for the Rector's approval 
 of her moderation and loyalty. 
 
 But simple, single-minded as the Rector 
 was, he was yet aware — he could scarcely
 
 224 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 help being so after so many years— that 
 Mrs. Forrester's "people say," or "they 
 say," was the kernel, of what she had first 
 created and spread abroad. She often 
 affected a lofty disdain of what she repeated 
 under the title of " people say." This, how- 
 ever, was a little harmless habit of hers, 
 which was understood and appreciated to its 
 full value by those who knew her. The 
 Rector understood Mrs. Forrester a little, 
 more than she knew, or than any around her 
 had any idea of, but still not sufficiently. 
 
 He was rather disturbed in his mind just 
 now, for evidently his excellent parishioner 
 was bent upon misinterpreting his words, 
 either on purpose or by accident. But 
 whether it were one or the other — either 
 was embarrassing enough. 
 
 " You are very kind — very lenient to — to 
 me," stammered he, standing still and facing 
 Mrs. Forrester; "but, indeed, it's — it's 
 quite true, the — the people have not made 
 
 a — a — " 
 
 "True—? true — , Mr. Gambray?" inter- 
 rupted the lady, moving backwards gracefully, 
 with her hands upheld in righteous horrcr, and
 
 TAKEN TO TASK. 225 
 
 her eyes turned away with would-be dramatic 
 effect; "no mistake in the rumour? Im- 
 possible ! You are — are joking, Mr. Gam- 
 bray — you must be, — not that I think it 
 correct to joke upon such subjects, for it's no 
 joking matter when a Rector has it rumoured 
 about him that in the midst of life and 
 health, he is thinking of deserting his — " 
 
 " I have reasons, Mrs. Forrester," broke 
 in the Rector, with some dignity, for there 
 were times when the doubt would arise as 
 to whether his mouth were cut in a weak 
 form or no — " private reasons, — which every 
 man has a right to possess, and especially in 
 a move of this kind, the decision for which 
 must rest with himself." 
 
 For the moment, Mrs. Forrester was taken 
 aback. She silently gazed at Mr. Gambray's 
 fine, composed face, and wondered at his 
 courage in addressing her thus. Then, her 
 indignation broke forth and got the better of 
 her judgment. To her mind, Mr. Gambray's 
 gravest offence did not lie in his decision to 
 give up his living and desert liisfloch — as she 
 called it — , but in his presumption and folly in 
 not first asking her advice about it, and in 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 not first obtaining her leave and sanction 
 for it. 
 
 II It's a disgraceful thing — perfectly 
 scandalous, I call it," she said indignantly, 
 not particular as to the application of her 
 epithets, but only intent upon showing how 
 great was her grievance, " to think that it 
 should be allowed in the Church of England, 
 for the clergymen to leave their duty and 
 their work, just when they fancy. They 
 should only leave, in my opinion, when their 
 parishioners advise them to, and not before. 
 It's not for them to go and do what they like 
 about it. And you, — of all people, Mr. 
 Gambray — you, a widower, with no wife to 
 tell you what's the right and proper thing 
 to — " 
 
 II I should be obliged if you would spare 
 me any reference to my dear wife," broke in 
 the Rector, rather hoarsely. 
 
 Though it was some years since her death, 
 he could not, even yet, face having her name 
 brought up in the course of ordinary conver- 
 sation. 
 
 " And with only a raw, badly-educated 
 girl in your home," continued Mrs. Forrester,
 
 TAKEN TO TASK. 227 
 
 with increasing wrath. " It is not as if 
 you were a man with a large family, and you 
 wanted to give them educational advantages, 
 and so you thought it best to travel, or settle 
 in London ; — there's no excuse like that for 
 you, — not that that would be a sufficient 
 excuse either. But for you, in your position, 
 to think of — Mr. Gambray, it's simply 
 ridiculous ! Why, pray, didn't you come and 
 ask my advice about it, — it would have been 
 very different then." 
 
 " Very likely, very likely," murmured the 
 Rector, coughing slightly as he spoke', to 
 hide the amusement he felt at Mrs. 
 Forrester's unvarnished avowal. " But 
 then, if I had laid my proposition before 
 my parishioners, there might have been some 
 difficulty connected with it, — that of variance 
 of opinion, for instance." 
 
 " Variance of opinion indeed ! " repeated 
 the lady scornfully ; " as if you couldn't 
 depend upon me, Mr. Gambray, to have 
 pointed out to you which was the best. 
 There would have been no question about 
 the matter, — I would have made it plain for 
 you. I have always said, Mr. Gambray, and
 
 228 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 many have agreed with me, too, that in your 
 position as a widower and clergyman, ib would 
 have been much more becoming if you had 
 consulted me, upon a great many more matters 
 than you have done. Others would have 
 taken offence and withdrawn all their sub- 
 scriptions long before now, if they had been 
 me — I have heard them say so ; but I 
 wouldn't, because it would have been against 
 — against my Christian principles " 
 
 " Indeed, I'm very sorry, if there has been 
 any — um, um — neglect on my part," said the 
 Rector mildly, beginning to wonder how he 
 could conclude the conversation, and get 
 away ; " but I thought I had always been 
 most — most careful in all matters where you 
 were connected — " 
 
 " Really, — I scarcely know whether to take 
 what you are saying as a compliment, or as 
 an insult," she interrupted haughtily, " I 
 think people should always speak plainly — I 
 do." 
 
 That " I do," was the criterion of what 
 was right, evidently. 
 
 " It would be as well if I — I reconsidered 
 my — um, um — " continued the Rector, heed-
 
 TAKEN TO TASK. 229 
 
 less of the interruption ; " so, perhaps, if 
 you'll excuse me, I'll — I'll wish you a very 
 good morning, Mrs. Forrester. — A wonder- 
 fully fine day it is, is it not ? The farmers 
 will be rejoicing in such a summer as we 
 are — " 
 
 " Are you going straight back to the 
 Rectory, Mr. Gambray ? " inquired Mrs. 
 Forrester, steadfastly refusing his out- 
 stretched hand, and maintaining a much- 
 aggrieved intonation of voice. 
 
 "I don't — don't know exactly," replied the 
 
 1 
 
 Rector, with some hesitation. 
 
 Then a happy thought struck him. 
 
 " Which way are you going, Mrs. Forres- 
 ter ? " he asked, genially. 
 
 " Whichever way my duty leads me, Mr. 
 Gambray," she answered, severely. 
 
 " Very good, — very right, — most excel- 
 lent," he murmured, withdrawing from her 
 as he spoke. " If everyone regarded duty 
 in the same steady light that you do, Mrs. 
 Forrester, then I think — " 
 
 " That you, for one, Mr. Gambray, would 
 not be turning your back upon your duty as 
 you are doing now," she concluded trium-
 
 230 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 phantly, preparing to follow the Rector 
 whichever way he was going to take, as she 
 had plenty more to say to him. Her duty 
 was not finished yet. 
 
 But the Rector's head was bared, as, with 
 a courteous bow, he said — 
 
 " I wish you good-morning again, Mrs. 
 Forrester, — our ways, I think, lie in an 
 opposite direction.' ' 
 
 The hint was too evident to be disregarded. 
 The Rector made his way back to the Church 
 again, and Mrs. Forrester — with her head 
 held high, and all her plumage much ruffled 
 by, what she considered, his insult in not 
 wishing for her company — retreated down 
 the church pathway. 
 
 " I deserved that hit," said the Rector, to 
 himself. " My bit of soft speaking, or satire, 
 — whichever way she chose to take it — 
 brought its own reward. Ah ! me, — the 
 straightest path would always be the best if 
 —if— " 
 
 But the Rector sometimes omitted to finish 
 his sentences. When difficulties arose, he 
 was apt to wander unconsciously off into 
 other channels of thought.
 
 CHAPTEB XIII. 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S GARDEN. 
 
 ,c Will I dig how deep, Enie ? " 
 
 "Only a little way, Robin. It's so hot, 
 and Mother said — " 
 
 " Will I dig wight down — down to Astwa 
 — Austwaly ? " 
 
 "Down to Australia, Robin? How could 
 you do that ? It isn't under the earth. — What 
 are you thinking about ?" 
 
 "Doesn't you know, Enie, Muvver said 
 that if — if — if a big stick was hammered 
 wight into Wobbin's garden, as deep — as 
 deep as ever it shall go, it would come to — 
 to — other little boys' gardens in Austwa — ly. 
 Do you know — " 
 
 A profound pause. 
 
 " What, Robin ? " asked Enid, stopping in 
 the middle of her weeding, and looking ex- 
 pectantly at her little, round, pinafored 
 brother. She felt sure he was going to say
 
 232 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 something funny, that she could tell father 
 about. 
 
 " Do you know what Wobbin are going to 
 do, Enie ? " said the little fellow con- 
 fidentially, leaning on his baby spade, and 
 gazing with wide and wondering eyes down 
 into the little hole he was digging ; " Wob- 
 bin's going to dig a big, big hole, big as — as — 
 what's vewy big, Enie ? " 
 
 " The house is rather big, I think, Robin," 
 answered his sister dubiously, scarcely know- 
 ing what kind of bigness he wanted. 
 
 " No, no, — me doesn't mean big all ways, 
 but only — big long; — doesn't you know, 
 Enie ? a kind of ' penthtl ' box long, only more 
 longer. Long as f worn — fvvom — here, wight 
 over to — to — here." 
 
 Eobin toddled off to a neighbouring seat, 
 to measure the length he wished to explain. 
 
 " Only more longer still," he panted, 
 coming back to his little spade, and looking 
 expectantly into the hole again, to see if it 
 had grown any bigger since he left it. 
 
 "I can't think what's as long as that — 
 thin, — Eobin," said Enid, thoughtfully, " ex- 
 cept, perhaps, a bit of Father s string."
 
 THE CHILDREN'S GARDEN. 233 
 
 " That's wather vewy thin, aru't it, Enie ? " 
 asked the little boy in doubt, looking 
 round and round to see if he couldn't see 
 something, that explained what he wished to 
 even better. " Wobbin wanted a thing as 
 would be thin as me one part, and thin as me 
 leg other part, but long, long as — as Favver's 
 bit of cotton." 
 
 " What for, Robin ? " questioned Enid, 
 leaving her plot of garden, and coming to 
 his, to look down into his little hole with 
 him. 
 
 " Wobbin thought me'd like to go down it 
 meself" said Robin, in an awestruck voice, 
 letting one of his sturdy feet drop into 
 his shallow digging; "then if — if Muvver 
 wouldn't mind, Wobbin would like just to — 
 to go down the big, — long, — thin hole, and 
 see the other little boys' gardens in — in 
 Austwaly. Does you think Muvver ould 
 cwy if Wobbin went, Enie ? " 
 
 The question was asked very anxiously. 
 
 The little fellow felt almost afraid of his 
 own thought, about going down his hole to 
 Australia to see the other little boys' 
 gardens, and rather hoped Enid would say
 
 234 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 that mother would cry, because then he 
 needn't go, though he had said he would. 
 
 Enid was a great deal wiser than her little 
 five-year-old brother, and knew that Robin 
 would never be able to dig right through the 
 earth. But she loved Robin's strange, little 
 thoughts and wishes, and with her sweet, 
 motherly care for him, she always let him 
 keep his baby illusions, thinking to herself 
 that when he got as old as she was, he would 
 know better. 
 
 " I don't think Mother would like you to 
 go for long, Robin," she answered, bringing 
 her fair, delicate face down on a level with 
 his, and looking tenderly into the grave blue 
 eyes ; " and I, Robin, — what do you think I 
 would do, if you went down and stayed there 
 a long time ? " 
 
 " Me doesn't know, Enie, weally," said the 
 little fellow earnestly, putting his arms 
 round her neck, and trying to speak in a 
 whisper, as though it were a great secret. 
 " Tell me, — will you — will you cwy, like 
 Muvver ? " 
 
 " I'd cry on my fiddle, Robin," answered 
 Enid excitedly, her face flushing. " I'd ask
 
 THE CHILDREN'S GARDEN. 235 
 
 Mr. Humbert to teach me how to cry all the 
 time on it, until you came back. 0, Robin, 
 I love Mr. Humbert, and I love my new fiddle, 
 but I love you the best of all. You mustn't 
 go down the hole to Australia — never." 
 
 The little boy unclasped his hands, and 
 looked wonderingly at Enid. It was seldom 
 that the self-possessed, demure little maid 
 spoke like that. Eobin felt he couldn't 
 understand it at all. 
 
 "Don't cwy now, Erne," said he sooth- 
 ingly, looking at the two great tears that 
 were trembling upon Enid's long eyelashes ; 
 " Wobbin won't go not — not until he has dig 
 a hole big enough for Muvver and Favver and 
 Enie and me — and — and — " 
 
 " Nobody else, Eobin ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, Enie," cried he, toddling away 
 from his garden to the soft turf close by ; 
 "one — two more — Mr. Fowwest, and your — 
 your Mr. Humble, Enie. Hip — hip — hip — " 
 
 A pause. 
 
 " What comes next, Enie, after hip ?" 
 
 " Hurrah, Eobin." 
 
 "Hip, hip, huwah," shouted the little 
 fellow, dancing round and round, and clap-
 
 236 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 ping his hands, "Mr. Fowwest and Mr. 
 Humble, and Muvver and Favver and Enie, 
 and Mr. Humble, and — " 
 
 But the second round of names came to an 
 abrupt termination. Eound, pinafored Robin 
 had lost his balance, and had come with a 
 bump and a roll to the ground. 
 
 Enid ran to him. 
 
 " It are loverly, loverly, loverly," chuckled 
 the little rolling ball of pinafore, and fair, 
 tumbled hair. 
 
 " What's lovely ? Tumbling ? " 
 
 " No, no, kicking ; but — but — " 
 
 A whimper. 
 
 " It did hurt Wobbin tumberling, only — 
 l'se forgot — forgot where. Feel me knee, 
 Enie." 
 
 Enid gently felt the knee that was sup- 
 posed to be hurt, but notwithstanding the 
 gravely puckered face of Robin during the 
 process, there was no wincing. 
 
 He began rolling and kicking again. 
 
 " It's loverly — loverly, Enid," he panted 
 again ; " come and kick too." 
 
 "But I don't seem to like kicking and 
 rolling about like you do," said his sister,
 
 THE CHILDREN'S GARDEN. 237 
 
 rather ruefully ; " but, Robin " — a flood of 
 light bathing her face — " I love fiddling, and 
 Mr. Humbert will soon, very soon be here." 
 
 " I'll teach fidderling with Mr. Humble," 
 said Robin graciously. 
 
 He always muddled up the words " teach " 
 and " learn ; ' they generally exchanged 
 places in his sentences. 
 
 " Let's try and get cool before he comes," 
 suggested Enid, collecting her tools together, 
 and looking from time to time at Robia, to 
 see how much hotter he was getting by roll- 
 ing. 
 
 "Take me pinner off," said Robin, 
 struggling, notwithstanding, to get it off 
 himself, " and — and then — " 
 
 " What shall we do then, Robin ? " asked 
 Enid, carefully folding up the crumpled 
 pinafore as she spoke. 
 
 " You tell me a stordy, and me tell you a 
 stordy, Enie," cried the little fellow, looking 
 proudly down at his white frock and gay 
 sash, which had all been hidden beneath the 
 large overall pinafore, " and then — what does 
 you think ? " 
 
 He paused, with his head set well on one
 
 238 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 side, and looked wisely at his sister, patting 
 his two chubby hands together, as he did so. 
 
 "Mr. Humbert will be here by then," said 
 Enid. 
 
 " No, no, Mr. Humbert won't — won't," 
 cried Robin, confidently, " not then, not till 
 you and me has told one stordy all together. 
 Both to both, Enie." 
 
 " Perhaps he won't come till then," said 
 Enid, giving in, with a big-drawn child's 
 sigh. She would have liked him to come 
 now, that very moment. But Robin wanted 
 " stories," so perhaps she would forget her 
 own want in supplying his. 
 
 " Come and let's sit in Father's big garden 
 chair under the tree," she said, taking 
 Robin's hand and leading him across the 
 smooth level turf to the further end of it, 
 which lay shadowed by a great oak tree. 
 
 " Both to both in Favver's chair," chuckled 
 Robin, trying to take big strides with his 
 baby legs, — " telling both to both big 
 stordies." 
 
 And so, hand in hand, the two children 
 arrived at ' father's chair.' It was a large, 
 low, lounging one, room enough in it for more
 
 THE CHILDREN'S GARDEN. 239 
 
 than two children, with their little legs and 
 tiny rounded forms. 
 
 Ah ! sweet innocent children, telling their 
 little thoughts and stories to each other ! 
 What would God's fair, fair earth be, with- 
 out the music of children's voices and the 
 wisdom of children's prattle, and the dear- 
 ness of children's love ? Thank God for 
 those precious gifts that He gives not 
 grudgingly. 
 
 It was one of those lovely early evenings 
 of June. The day had been hot, almost sultry 
 at noontide; but, late in the afternoon, there 
 had sprung up a light breeze, — a kind, sweet 
 breeze, which softly fanned the flagging 
 flowers and invited them to lift their droop- 
 ing heads, and drink in fresh life and beauty. 
 Each breath of passing air was scent laden, — 
 intoxicating in its sweetness. Every bloom 
 seemed revelling in its own particular beauty, 
 every colour was most perfect in- its hue, and 
 every form most rare and matchless in its 
 symmetry. June is ever lavish ; — she seems to 
 pet and spoil her countless, peerless blossoms; 
 she seems to take possession of all the 
 sweetest, brightest, most radiant of flowers,
 
 240 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 and tend them with tenderest care, bathing 
 them with the freshness of early spring,, 
 clothing them in dazzling hues, and steeping 
 them deep in lotus perfume. 
 
 The Trevors' garden was one of those old- 
 fashioned, untrimmed gardens, where the 
 soil was rich and kind, and all the flowers 
 grew and flourished in it from year to year. 
 It would have shocked the nice, skilled 
 gardeners, who love to see each flower in its 
 own exact place, and each shade of colour 
 most carefully planned to dovetail in with 
 those other shades of colour, which must lie 
 close by. When every tender blossom must 
 keep within a certain compass, and not shoot 
 forth in its exuberant life to mar the neat- 
 ness of the line of path. It is not right that 
 they should pass beyond a certain point, — if 
 they do, they must suffer for it; the sweet 
 bloom must be nipped, its life must pay the 
 penalty for its desire to stretch beyond its 
 sister-blooms. But in the Trevors' garden, 
 the flowers and shrubs grew mostly as they 
 wished ; only now and again came a pruning 
 hand, and that not a very experienced one, — 
 so, perhaps, all the gentler for its inexperience.
 
 THE CHILDREN'S GARDEN. 241 
 
 " Let us have the garden wild and sweet, 
 Arthur," Mrs. Trevor had said to her hus- 
 band that day, when together they had come 
 over to iuspect the house and grounds to see 
 if they would suit them, " let us have it all 
 luxuriant with roses and honeysuckle, and 
 sweet william and mignonette, and all that 
 is bright and trailing and scented, so that 
 when you come home from your work, 
 Arthur, you may find it all fair with loveliest 
 flowers and — " 
 
 " Nothing can be fairer to me than my 
 own wife and our sweet bairns," Arthur 
 Trevor had interrupted, stooping to kiss his 
 little wife, who was more precious to him 
 than all else besides, "you make our home 
 fair, Marion." 
 
 "Do I, Arthur?" she had said softly in 
 return, laying her two hands upon his 
 shoulders, aud turning her sweet smiling face 
 up to his, " and you, dear, make it sweetest 
 of all to me. But shan't we have it all fair 
 around about us, with God's own beautiful 
 flowers, too? Flowers and bairns, — they 
 grow so well together, Arthur." 
 
 " Dear, it shall be as you like best," he 
 
 vol. i. R
 
 242 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 had answered, " we will have it wild and 
 sweet-scented as you say, and no one shall 
 keep it in order except ourselves. A garden 
 with so many turns and nooks, so many 
 sloping bits of turf and moss, and so much 
 variety of shrub, will look best with flowers 
 growing everywhere and anyhow. And we 
 can see to that, can't we, Marion p" 
 
 "Yes, Arthur; that is just what I should 
 like. Only, we must keep a boy to do the 
 kitchen-garden, because we are not wise 
 enough to understand the vegetable depart- 
 ment. And then you see — " 
 
 And so, on they had talked of their arrange- 
 ments, when the move should be made, which 
 would transport them from their little town- 
 bouse, surrounded by its other same-looking 
 houses and straight ugly streets, to the 
 pretty country villa which lay on the out- 
 skirts of Abbeyslea, in the midst of its 
 sloping garden and many trees. 
 
 The few people who knew the Trevors 
 intimately, and the world outside a little, — 
 would chaff them for their never-ending 
 courtship. To think that they, — an old 
 married couple of over ten years' standing, —
 
 THE CHILDREN'S GARDEN. 243 
 
 should be to each other as much and more 
 than they were in those first early days, 
 when just before the altar they had vowed to 
 love, obey, and serve each other. But they 
 together had learnt an answer, which made 
 friends go on their way more thoughtfully, 
 surprised that, in the common round of 
 practical life, any two people should be so 
 mad as to fulfil a poet's vision of life. To 
 think they should find it possible to hold 
 that — 
 
 " In true marriage lies 
 Nor equal, nor unequal ; each fulfils 
 Defect in each, and always thought in thought, 
 Purpose in purpose, will in will, they grow, — 
 The single, pure and perfect animal, 
 The two-celled heart beating with one full stroke, 
 —Life," 
 
 That he should turn, and smiling say to 
 her — 
 
 " Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself, 
 Lay thy sweet hands in mine, and trust to me." 
 
 And she make answer — 
 
 " In that I live, I love ; because I love, 
 I live." 
 
 which perhaps is the only key-note of many 
 women's lives, and the explanation of much
 
 244 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 that seems — to some, most foolish and weak 
 in them, but — to others most winning and 
 sweet. 
 
 Thus it came about that, when the 
 Trevors took possession of this house with 
 its rambling garden, the flowers and 
 shrubs grew together all unchecked and 
 wild, with only now and again a changing 
 and richening of the soil, to give the roots 
 fresh growth ; and only upon whiles, the 
 cutting back and training up by hands that 
 knew little of any scientific way, and so only 
 touched gently, so as least to spoil or alter 
 the appearance. 
 
 — In a sweet shaded spot, which lay within 
 view of the drawing-room windows of the 
 house, had been parcelled out a little plot of 
 ground called " the children's garden." Here 
 it was that Robin dug his shallow holes with 
 his baby spade, and thought in time to dig 
 right through the earth to the countries on 
 the other side of it ; and here it was that 
 Enid weeded busily and tended and watered 
 her flowers, while she dreamed and thought 
 of her new friend and Master and her fiddle. 
 For, since that night, when it was doubtful as
 
 THE CHILDREN'S GARDEN. 24 5 
 
 to whether Dr. Sinclair had not made a mis- 
 take, in asking that the delicate child should 
 sit up and hear some of Franz Humbert's 
 wild and plaintive music, — there had 
 come about, at first, a kind of tacit 
 arrangement, but later on, as it had seemed 
 to succeed so well, a settled one, that 
 Franz Humbert should look upon little Enid 
 Trevor as his pupil. Strangely enough, — after 
 that long dead faint, which had seemed as if 
 it would never end, as if the natural flow of 
 blood and life would never return, — there had 
 come very slowly, yeb perceptibly, to. the 
 loving, anxious eyes around her, a certain 
 increase of strength and robustness to Enid's 
 feeble constitution. The child's request to 
 possess that "vibrating instrument" and 
 the desire to learn from that wonderful 
 gentleman, who had touched it and played 
 upon it, as if he were loving it and as if it 
 were alive, — had been granted her. 
 
 " Give her what she asks for," had been 
 Dr. Sinclair's advice ; " some natures have 
 such strong instincts, such all-devouring 
 desires, that it is death to them to deny 
 what their souls must have. These natures
 
 246 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 and constitutions are not the ones that 
 require medicines, and treatments, and 
 doctor's care, for everything affects them 
 mentally and morally, not physically. The 
 child, herself, has discovered what will bring 
 her new life and health, and she asks you for 
 it. It is not a matter of spoiling to give 
 these natures the few things for which they 
 ask, because they are so formed and con- 
 structed, that what they ask for, they really 
 need for their growth and health. You either 
 stunt or kill, if you deny. Your little girl 
 does not want any doctoring further than 
 advice ;— I give you mine, which I think you 
 will do well to take." 
 
 Dr. Sinclair had sometimes to study human 
 nature in connection with his physician's 
 work; — otherwise, his success would not 
 have been so marked. His subtle insight 
 into hidden causes and effects, had given 
 to his name a wider renown than simply 
 that of his skill in physics. He seemed to 
 see far deeper down into the reasons of the 
 wherefore, and to be able to propose a not 
 always strict physician's remedy for the why, 
 which, nevertheless, had the unfailing virtue
 
 THE CHILDREN'S GARDEN. 247 
 
 of proving the cure, for what had seemed to 
 baffle all other attempts. Thus, strangely 
 inconsistent was Dr. Sinclair's own nature. 
 He hated Man, yet he had the power within 
 him of more finely understanding Man, than 
 most men about him. He refused to see the 
 reasons and explanations for many of men's 
 doiugs ; and yet, when he let his thoughts 
 bear upon them and their natures, though 
 nominally only in a physician's light, he 
 could solve problems, and prove equal to 
 enigmas, which demanded more of wisdom 
 than that possessed by an ordinary man of 
 his profession. 
 
 The Trevors took Dr. Sinclair's advice, 
 unhesitatingly. And, well they did so. The 
 fragile, pallid child, with her wild flashes of 
 emotion and many sleepless nights, grew 
 quieter and more at rest, with her new 
 possession and interest. The large, dark 
 eyes that had at times, before, looked almost 
 preternaturally bright and large in the thin 
 little face, seemed to lose their hungry, long- 
 ing gaze; the marks beneath them vanished, 
 and the cheeks grew rounder and less colour- 
 less. All the spare moments that were not
 
 248 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 given to Robin, or to doing little things 
 " that Mother liked," did the child bestow 
 upon her instrument. It was to her a source 
 of ceaseless pleasure and discovery ; for, 
 though, as yet, it was all new to her, still the 
 sympathy that existed between the child and 
 the ' beauty of sound,' was so close and pro- 
 found, that the difficulties that ever sur- 
 round this most living of instruments, 
 seemed to grow less in her case. The 
 mother, though unmusical and scarcely 
 understanding how satisfying to her child's 
 nature was this new companion, yet watched 
 with delight and surprise the gradual change 
 in health and spirits, that every day grew 
 more evident. But, instinctively, Enid fled 
 to her father whenever he was at home, to 
 show and explain to him the results of fresh 
 exertions; for, however sweet and sympathetic 
 her mother ever was in all things, still the 
 little girl had the innate knowledge that, in 
 this thing, — in this love of music and sound, 
 — her father would understand best. 
 
 But, great as was this passion that seemed 
 as a new life-giving sap to little Enid's 
 nature, — Robin, her baby-brother, still always
 
 THE CHILDREN'S GARDEN. 249 
 
 came first in her thoughts. Thus, as the 
 two children lay back in father's great 
 lounging chair, Enid's whole mind was given 
 to telling Robin a story that he would like, if 
 possible, more than all the others she had 
 ever told him before. Only now and again 
 did she find herself thinking about Mr. 
 Humbert, and wondering whether it were not 
 nearly time for him to come. 
 
 — At length, both having told their stories, 
 it was time to begin the one that was to be 
 told both together. This was quite a plan 
 of Robin's own ; they had never thought of 
 it, or tried it before. 
 
 " How shall us does it, Enie ? " asked Robin 
 wonderingly. He often found his own thoughts 
 and devices too big for him, single-handed. 
 
 " Well," said Enid, slowly and thought- 
 fully " we mustn't try and tell all at the 
 same time, because — because we couldn't" 
 
 Even Enid found Robin's proposition 
 rather a hard one this time. 
 
 " Shall Wobbin say one word and then 
 Enie another one?" suggested Robin gravely, 
 *' and then Wobbin another one, and Enie 
 another one, and Wobbin another — "
 
 250 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 How children love reiteration ! How many 
 times would they not repeat over and over 
 again, so as to convey their little meanings, 
 as they think, quite clearly, if it were not 
 that they are always interrupted in their 
 baby methods, by someone who understands 
 before they get to the real end of their lucid 
 explanations ! 
 
 " P'raps," — interrupted Enid, knitting her 
 delicately marked brows, " p'raps, — that 
 would be one way, a very nice way, Robin, 
 but supposing — supposing we just think of 
 another and see which is best." 
 
 Somehow she fancied, that they wouldn't 
 be able to get on very fast with a story if 
 they told it like that. But she didn't want 
 little Robin to know that she was afraid his 
 plan wouldn't succeed. She never damped 
 him if she could help it, for she couldn't 
 bear to see his round, chubby face fall 
 with disappointment. So she put it thus 
 gently. 
 
 Robin thought he could think better if he 
 untucked himself out of father's chair, and 
 took a roll on the grass. 
 
 " Shall I'se has a kick, Enie, — first, for to
 
 THE CHILDREN'S GARDEN. 251 
 
 help us tell it best way ? " he asked, scram- 
 bling on to his feet. 
 
 " no, — Robin," cried Enid, alarmed, 
 jumping up too, " what would Mother say, if 
 you got your frock all green ? She'd — " 
 
 " Her wouldn't cwy," broke in Robin 
 stoutly, looking round and round to see what 
 else he could do, as he might not roll and 
 kick just then. 
 
 Enid laughed. 
 
 " What a funny boy you are, Robin," she 
 began, "you think that — " 
 
 " Enie, Enie," shouted he, toddling away 
 from her as fast as his fat legs would take 
 him, " Wobbin sees Mr. Humble — Mr. 
 Humble, Enie, he's got his wellow, wellow 
 hair on, Wobbin will teach fid — fid — fidder- 
 ling with Mr. Wellow-hair." 
 
 Enid looked up. 
 
 Stepping from one of the low French 
 windows of the drawing-room, she saw the 
 figure of her violin master. He had his 
 usual light coloured boots on, that seemed 
 always to be catching some gleam, and to 
 look lighter and longer and more con* 
 spicuous than they really were. His head
 
 252 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 was bare, showing his yellow hair, which 
 shone like wrought gold in the sunlight, as he 
 half-turned back. Enid could just see that her 
 mother was standing inside the window, and 
 — close by her, but further in, — was another 
 lady. She could not tell who it was, but she 
 guessed it must be some visitor, making a 
 rather late call, as the day had been so hot. 
 
 Smoothing her dress down and straighten- 
 ing her sash, as even little girls will do, 
 before they show themselves to anyone who 
 does not belong to the home circle, — Enid 
 hastened forward. 
 
 " I'm so glad he's come at last," she said, 
 half aloud, with a great satisfied sigh . 
 
 There were two sets of steps, — rough, 
 uneven steps cut in the turf, which helped to 
 reduce the sharp slant down just below the 
 house. Then came the nearly level piece of 
 grass, bordered by flowers and shrubs and 
 shaded by several well-grown trees. At the 
 end of this stretch of lawn, grew the great 
 oak tree beneath which " father's chair" 
 always stood. Beyond this came turns and 
 bye-ways in the garden, and all those parts 
 that do not belong to a ' lawn proper.'
 
 THE CHILDREN'S GARDEN. 253 
 
 Enid heard the ringing, gleeful laugh that 
 was her master's peculiar sign of content 
 and happiness, as — with a low inclination of 
 the head — he turned from the window, shoved 
 on his great, broad-brimmed, much squashed 
 grey hat, and began a rapid descent. 
 
 " Mother's not coming out with him," 
 thought she, with a quake of fear and shy- 
 ness seizing her, " what shall I do ? " 
 
 " Mr. Humble, Mr. Humble," shouted 
 Robin, bundling along as fast as he could. 
 " Wobbin's coming to teach fid — fidderling." 
 
 But the violinist did not see the round, 
 sturdy figure, or — apparently — hear the baby 
 voice. He was bent upon finding his little 
 pupil, and this alone occupied his mind. 
 
 " Fairy, Fairy," he exclaimed, seeing her 
 coming towards him. " Come, they have 
 made me late, we have only — only — " 
 
 Fortunately at this point, to be precise, he 
 stopped to take out his watch and look at it. 
 Otherwise, he would heedlessly have knocked 
 over the baby boy, who was within a yard's 
 length of him. 
 
 " Only fifty-three and a half minutes, 
 Fairy," he finished, standing on the last turf
 
 254 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 step of the lower set, and speaking in a com- 
 plaining voice. 
 
 " You never saw Robin, Mr. Humbert," 
 remarked Enid, with gentle reproof, "and 
 you might have knocked him over." 
 
 He started and looked down close to him. 
 
 " Only fifty-three and a half minutes, 
 Fairy," he said again, stooping to pat 
 Robin's head, — " she made me late, — she did." 
 
 « Who did ? " asked Enid. " Mother ? " 
 
 " No, no," answered the violinist, almost 
 sharply, and frowning as if he were recalling 
 something not altogether pleasant, " it was 
 the other — the beautiful lady with the — the 
 loud, talking voice." 
 
 " Cawwy me, Mr. Wellow-hair — please 
 cawwy me. Fse so tired," pleaded Robin, 
 holding up his fat arms pathetically. 
 
 " I don't know how," said the violinist 
 helplessly, looking at Enid, "but I'll try, if 
 you like." 
 
 " I'll stwoke you wellow hair, Mr. 
 Humble," promised Robin, graciously, " if 
 you cawwies me."
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 MRS. FORRESTER. 
 
 Is it an accident of nature or a small vice, 
 that some people are gifted with ' imagina- 
 tions untutored by reason ? ' Is it a thing 
 excusable that, in their hands, truth becomes 
 untruth, untruth becomes truth, — right be- 
 comes wrong, and wrong becomes right ? . Is 
 it a matter for condemnation or admiration, 
 that what they say, be it only upon the most 
 ordinary of matter, must first be sifted, 
 altered, and metamorphosed, before any grain 
 of veracity can be found in it ? Is it to be 
 deplored or only smiled at, that they them- 
 selves are, seemingly, so unconscious of their 
 fatal propensity ? And — finally, once having 
 felt the charm of giving their imaginations 
 full play, is there any earthly possibility or 
 probability, that anything will ever again 
 induce them to draw in the reins ? 
 
 A few of the people of Abbeyslea, — those
 
 256 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 who occasionally found time to think, — 
 allowed their minds to be afflicted by questions 
 such as these, in reference to Mrs. Forrester. 
 She was a lady who, both from her position 
 and from the important part that she 
 nominally took in everything that concerned 
 everybody, provoked a good deal of attention 
 in all ways. Many misunderstood her words, 
 ways, and actions entirely. It was not 
 stupidity on their part, that prevented them 
 seeing in her character traits that made 
 others fear and wonder at her, — but it was, 
 rather, a guileless inability to comprehend 
 what was entirely foreign to their own 
 natures. This was unfortunate in one way* 
 not to themselves so much as to her, for it 
 served as a means for continually raising her 
 still higher in her own opinion. 
 
 Mrs. Forrester, in her mind's eye, was 
 never in the wrong, never made a mistake, 
 never wished to undo what she had done, 
 and thus, apparently, never had need of the 
 confession that she confessed every week, so 
 humbly and meritoriously. She had not 
 always been like this. In years gone by, she 
 had been, perhaps, more self-satisfied than
 
 MRS. FORRESTER. 257 
 
 was wise, more domineering than became 
 her as a woman, more skilled in taking 
 crooked ways than in keeping to the straight, 
 and more inclined to under-rate everyone 
 else's methods and doings, than to under- 
 rate her own. But the beautiful, brilliant 
 woman, that John Forrester had married 
 fourteen years ago, had other points in her 
 than these, — good ones, that had as fair a 
 chance to grow and bring forth fruit, as the 
 bad ones had. She had been endowed with 
 a mind singularly clear and delicately 
 balanced, combined with a quick, womanly 
 instinct, that might have given her an in- 
 fluence widespread for good. She had 
 possessed a sweet and honeyed tongue, which 
 could have been used to soothe and bless 
 and comfort those around her. And greater 
 still, — she had been divinely given a nature, 
 with such a strange encircling charm and 
 power to draw in it, that she could have 
 been a queen amongst women, — inspiring, 
 ennobling, moulding for right. But alas !' 
 there is in every human being a gravitation 
 towards evil, a bias towards degeneracy. 
 The gifts God gave her so lavishly, were 
 vol. i. s
 
 258 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 misused and abused; the beautiful possi- 
 bilities He put before her, were ignored. 
 The nature, that in His Hands and under the 
 direction of His "Will, would have been a fine 
 and elevating one, became under her own 
 supremacy one to be feared, shrunk from, 
 and avoided. Her very virtues became as 
 vices ; her very powers as weaknesses. 
 
 Mrs. Trevor was not amongst those women, 
 who were unable to see through the double 
 parts in Mrs. Forrester's character. She 
 was a plain, practical little woman, able in 
 her own mind to call things by their right 
 names, and to give to actions their true value. 
 She seldom cared to tender opinions or advice 
 to her circle of acquaintances, but whenever 
 she felt, from sense of honour, obliged to 
 do so, it was always with a gentleness and 
 width of thought, invariably leaving the im- 
 pression, that what she said had been spoken 
 rightly, and only with true charity of feeling. 
 She did not hold that she was placed in the 
 world to condemn the world. She had never 
 found it a part of her woman's duties and 
 privileges, to judge or to be hard upon those 
 others around her. She had never discovered
 
 MRS. FORRESTER. 259 
 
 it a pleasure to be spiteful. She never saw 
 the charm of settling other people's affairs 
 for them, or of thrusting herself forward in 
 matters that had nothing to do with her. 
 She knew that people had a strange way of 
 thinking to improve upon truth, by adding 
 something from their own imaginations to it ; 
 she knew that thus truth became untruth, 
 and right became wrong, — but, it never 
 occurred to her, that she would like to do 
 this herself. 
 
 As Mrs. Trevor's house lay so far from 
 all the others in the parish, she came in for a 
 less frequent round of calls, than would other- 
 wise have been her share. However, just 
 at the juncture of the Reverend George 
 Gambray's departure from Abbeyslea, Mrs. 
 Forrester thought it possible, that " that 
 quiet, homely Mrs. Trevor " might not have 
 heard the news. So, strictly from a sense 
 of " duty," she made the effort to walk out 
 as far as Mrs. Trevor's house, in the cool of 
 the early evening of that same hot day, 
 which had found Enid and Robin in the 
 garden, waiting for the arrival of Franz 
 Humbert.
 
 260 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 About a quarter of a mile before she 
 reached her destination, she was overtaken 
 by the violinist, hurrying along, regardless 
 of heat, in his usual wild, erratic way. 
 He was rather vexed and put out, at having 
 to slacken speed in order to conform his steps 
 to those of Mrs. Forrester, and several times 
 attempted to leave her and hasten on alone. 
 But the lady preferred his company, and so 
 would not let him go. The violinist's open 
 look of admiration, whenever his eyes fell 
 upon her beautiful blonde face, was, perhaps, 
 sufficient in itself to make her wish to keep 
 him by her, — however difficult it was to 
 carry on any ordinary or consecutive conver- 
 sation. 
 
 But whatever topic she had found to speak 
 on, there must have been in it something of 
 a ruffling nature ; for when they arrived at 
 the door of Mrs. Trevor's home, there was a 
 flush of angry colour upon the violinist's 
 sensitive face, and his great purple eyes were 
 dark and flashing, as — forgetful of all cere- 
 mony — he noisily pushed open the hall door 
 and entered, calling out his pupil's name in 
 quick, impatient tones as he did so.
 
 MRS. FORRESTER. 261 
 
 Mrs. Trevor, who had been watching the 
 movements of her children from the drawing- 
 room window, heard the noise and call, and, 
 laughing as she thought of how true were 
 some of Dr. Sinclair's remarks upon the 
 strangeness of the violinist's ways, she 
 hastened out to meet him. 
 
 She was rather taken aback at finding that 
 outside the door, in dignified silence, stood 
 Mrs. Forrester, evidently regarding Franz 
 Humbert's free and easy entrance, as a dis- 
 tinct breach of all society's laws, and, there- 
 fore, a thing much to be resented. But Mrs. 
 Trevor, with her sweet grace and courtesy 
 of manner, in a moment seemed to soothe the 
 ruffled violinist, and even Mrs. Forrester, in 
 entering, refrained from expressing her 
 opinion of what had taken place. 
 
 " Enid is out on the lawn, Mr. Humbert," 
 said Mrs. Trevor, turning to him as they 
 entered the drawing-room. " She and Robin 
 have been sitting under the old oak tree at 
 the further end of it, for the last half-hour. 
 If you wouldn't mind, you — " 
 
 " I'll go to her — I'll fetch my Fairy," broke 
 in the violinist, springing to the open window.
 
 262 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 " I'm late, I know I am ; but — but it wasn't 
 my fault." 
 
 He looked reproachfully at Mrs. Forrester, 
 who, however, did not deign to look back at 
 him. 
 
 " Shall we play together in the school- 
 room, Mrs. Trevor ? " he asked gaily, already 
 half-outside. 
 
 But he waited for no answer, only gave 
 that tenor gleeful laugh that Enid had heard 
 all down the lawn, and then danced down the 
 steps to meet his little pupil — his Fairy, as he 
 called her. 
 
 " Mrs. Trevor, I'm surprised to hear about 
 this arrangement of yours," began Mrs. 
 Forrester, in cold, dignified tones, before 
 the last notes of that laugh had died away. 
 
 She spoke as if the arrangement — what- 
 ever it was — mortally affected her. 
 
 " Do you mean about Mr. Humbert giving 
 Enid lessons on the violin ? " asked Mrs. 
 Trevor, smiling, and turning her head rather 
 reluctantly away from the window, so that 
 she could not see what was going on outside, 
 but give her full attention to her visitor. 
 
 " Yes, I do" Mrs. Forrester said, with
 
 MRS. FORRESTER. 26 
 
 Q 
 
 marked disapproval in her voice. " I think 
 it a very injudicious thing, to let any child 
 have her whims and fancies granted her." 
 
 Mrs. Trevor paused a moment before she 
 answered. She seldom spoke very quickly ; 
 sometimes, even, she would give her reply 
 just a rapid thought, before she expressed 
 herself in words. She held that so much lay 
 in words, that it was a mistake to trifle with 
 them heedlessly. Mrs. Forrester, however, 
 thought she was trying to make up some 
 excuse. 
 
 "Don't you think that the child's mother 
 is the best judge of that?" said the little 
 woman, bending forward, and speaking so 
 gently that the words which, handled other- 
 wise, might have sounded as if she had taken 
 offence and wished to retaliate, seemed only 
 as a soft suggestion. 
 
 " Certainly not, Mrs. Trevor," replied her 
 visitor, in not to be disputed tones ; "a child's 
 mother is the worst judge. It's only out- 
 siders who can see what's right and proper 
 for a child. Of course you like to spoil and 
 pet your children, and give them everything 
 they ask for, just because you are their
 
 264 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 mother, and think that's the best way of 
 showing your love for them. Bat 2 have a 
 very different opinion about the matter." 
 
 " We all do think so differently, though, 
 don't we?" said Mrs. Trevor, not anxious 
 in any way to enter into an argument. Mrs. 
 Forrester — she thought to herself — has no 
 children of her own, so perhaps it wasn't 
 strange, that she should have such a low idea 
 of a mother's training and love for her 
 children. 
 
 "Yes, there are different ways of thinking, 
 but there's only one right way," answered 
 Mrs. Forrester, folding her hands on her Jap 
 as she spoke. " Mothers are all too weak 
 a nd foolish with their children, that's my 
 opinion about it. And it's a very queer 
 thing for you to have this Mr. Humbert here 
 to teach your little girl, when everyone knows 
 that he isn't quite right in his mind, and — " 
 
 "Not right in his mind?" interrupted 
 Mrs. Trevor. " Why, — he's as right as you or 
 I are, — only he's a genius, which perhaps we 
 are not, and that's why he is sometimes 
 strange in manner and speech. It would 
 be — "
 
 MRS. FORRESTER. 265 
 
 " I tell you upon good authority, Mrs. 
 Trevor, that that Mr. Humbert isn't right in 
 Lis mind," repeated the fair lady, grandilo- 
 quently ; " and he'll make your little girl 
 have fits, or something. Why, — he ought to 
 be shut up, or have a keeper to follow him, 
 for — he's quite mad sometimes. What do you 
 think of his proposing to that Dr. Sinclair's 
 sister, the very first time he saw her ? And 
 then the doctor had words with him, — but 
 they have made it up now, I hear. I tell 
 you he's quite mad! " 
 
 Mrs. Forrester's words and manner implied, 
 that Franz Humbert was nothing less than 
 some dangerous lunatic at large in the land. 
 His proposal to Claire Sinclair was entirely 
 a feature of her own imagination, drawn 
 from something she had heard dropped, of 
 his intimacy with Dr. Sinclair, himself. How- 
 ever, there was no saying but what she 
 thought she was speaking the truth at the 
 time, so ingenious is some people's reasoning. 
 
 But gentle, right-minded Mrs. Trevor's 
 wrath was roused at this scandalous gossip. 
 
 "Mrs. Forrester," she said, not loudly, but 
 in that excessively quiet voice, that is always
 
 266 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 a gentlewoman's way of shewing how hurt 
 and sore she feels, " I cannot allow such 
 ideas and opinions to be expressed in our 
 house. My husband would not like it, and 
 I, myself, cannot bear to hear any one of our 
 friends spoken of, as you have just done of 
 Mr. Humbert. You will not object, I hope, 
 to changing the subject, otherwise — " 
 
 " Certainly, Mrs. Trevor, — as you wish it," 
 replied her visitor haughtily, not waiting to 
 hear the alternative, " though in the society 
 to which I am accustomed, such a request 
 would not have been made ..." 
 
 She paused a moment, and stared full at 
 Mrs. Trevor, waiting for an apology. But 
 it did not come. So she continued, — the 
 desire to repeat some of what she had just 
 said, being too great to resist. Also, she 
 had had some intention from the beginning, 
 of softening it all down a little. 
 
 "It was simply as a matter of duty," 
 she said, in rather aggrieved tones, " that 
 I warned you about Mr. Humbert, — as 
 he has just informed me, while we came 
 along together, of your arrangement with 
 him. I did not know of it before to-dav, or
 
 MRS. FORRESTER. 267 
 
 I would have given you my advice earlier. 
 Of course he's a very nice man, — and so 
 musical and so uncommon-looking too, that 
 it's quite a treat to meet him sometimes, — only 
 it's a very different thing to give him free 
 access to your house, and allow him to teach 
 your little girl. But now, — that you know 
 about him, you will naturally be anxious to 
 put a stop to all this.'' 
 
 The last sentence was spoken in an inter- 
 rogative voice, with that look of curiosity 
 passing over the speaker's face, that seemed 
 to come there without her knowledge or wish. 
 
 " I do not think that what you have told 
 me of Mr. Humbert will, in any way, lead us 
 to wish to alter our arrangement with him," 
 answered Mrs Trevor, decidedly ; — then she 
 added, smiling as she spoke : " We are such 
 conservative people, — Arthur and I, — 
 you know, — that we don't at all like 
 making changes." 
 
 Unfortunately, this proved a fine opening 
 for Mrs. Forrester to commence the topic, 
 expressly for which she was making this call. 
 But the experience she had just had of Mrs. 
 Trevor's unreadiness to hear or approve
 
 268 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 of having her friends discussed or spoken 
 against, warned Mrs. Forrester that she must 
 feel her way more carefully, and — though 
 she would not express so much to herself — 
 more judiciously. 
 
 " Ah ! you don't like making changes, 
 then?" she remarked carelessly, perhaps 
 quite unconsciously letting her eyes, at that 
 moment, rest upon Mrs. Trevor's smooth, 
 unfashionably-arranged hair, and then drop- 
 ping them lower to take in the simple cut of 
 her dress. 
 
 " No, indeed we don't," answered the little 
 lady, relieved that her visitor seemed really 
 inclined to be interested in something exclu- 
 sive of Mr. Humbert's peculiarities, " we 
 prefer sameness in nearly everything. Cus- 
 toms and habits are such singularly restful 
 things, we seldom care to have, or make, 
 changes. Except sometimes, I hope — we do 
 not mind making them for the better." 
 
 " But some people make them for the 
 worse," remarked Mrs. Forrester, slightly 
 shrugging her shoulders at the imbecile 
 possibility of such a thing ; " What do 
 you think of our Rector, — for instance? 
 
 «j >>
 
 MRS. FORRESTER. 269 
 
 Again Mrs. Trevor paused a moment before 
 she answered. She did know about the 
 Rector's decision, having been told a day or 
 two previously by her husband. Therefore, 
 she was not taken entirely by surprise, by 
 Mrs. Forrester's question. But she did wish 
 to weigh her words, so that her reply should 
 be both wise and true. And it is not always 
 easy either to combine the two, or even — 
 under society's laws — to venture to express 
 what is either wise or true. 
 
 " I think our Rector knows himself what 
 is best," she said quietly, looking away from 
 Mrs. Forrester as she spoke, for she felt it a 
 great effort to express any opinion before 
 her, though she knew, in this case, it was 
 right that she should do so. 
 
 " But I asked you -what you thought about 
 his intention and conduct," repeated Mrs. 
 Forrester, with distinct and slow utterance, 
 determined not to let her off so easily. 
 
 " I think, as I have just said, that what 
 the Rector has done, he has done in all pro- 
 bability entirely for the best, both for him- 
 self and for his parishioners," said Mrs. 
 Trevor, in a low voice. " Surely it is not a
 
 270 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 matter for us to give our opinions upon. 
 Mr. Gambray is more experienced than we 
 are, and we may be quite sure that he has 
 his own reasons and motives for taking this 
 step. I am very sorry he is leaving Abbeys- 
 lea, and I think everyone will be, for he is 
 a most kind-hearted, genial man, and no one 
 about could have a word to say against him." 
 
 Mrs. Forrester's blonde face wore a look 
 of scarcely veiled contempt, as she patiently 
 regarded Mrs. Trevor, waiting for her to 
 bring her insane remarks to an end. 
 
 " Then you haven't at all a high idea of 
 people's ' duties, 5 Mrs Trevor," she said, 
 giving a little ripple of laughter to hide the 
 sting of her words. ' ' Why, — if people carried 
 out your plan, everyone would do exactly as 
 they liked or fancied, without even thinking 
 what other people would say, or think, or 
 arrange for them. — Did you really, Mrs. 
 Trevor, know what your last words were 
 expressing just now ? " 
 
 Mrs. Trevor flushed slightly. 
 
 " I did, Mrs. Forrester," she said, turning 
 her soft eyes with some surprise upon her 
 visitor.
 
 MRS. FORR ES TER. 2 7 1 
 
 Mrs, Forrester felt flawed ; she had ex- 
 pected her to twist and turn, and get out 
 of what she had said with all speed. Mrs. 
 Trevor was more stupid and obstinate even 
 than she had taken her for. It was no good 
 mincing matters with her, evidently. These 
 stupid, quiet people were always trouble- 
 some to deal with. 
 
 " Then, I can only say that I am glad I 
 don't hold your ideas," she said plainly, 
 drawing herself up and towering over the 
 little lady as she spoke. " I'm thankful I 
 don't, — indeed, I'm thankful I'm not -like 
 many people, for I should be ashamed to 
 call myself — a Christian, and yet hold the 
 views they do. To think of Mr. Gambray 
 telling me himself, that I did my duty, but 
 that there was no need for him to do his. 
 What can you say to that, — from a clergy- 
 man of the Church of England, too ? " 
 
 Mrs. Trevor made no reply. She did not 
 believe that Mr. Gambray had ever made 
 such a remark. 
 
 " And he said a good deal more, that I 
 should be ashamed to repeat," continued 
 this punctilious Christian, quite hotly, as she
 
 272 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 thought of all his sins. " I think he must be 
 quite a bad man, Mrs. Trevor, — and I can 
 only feel glad that he is leaving the parish. 
 It's a dreadful thing to think of a man being 
 such a hypocrite, and holding such loose 
 views, and yet — " 
 
 " I thought you always upheld the Church 
 and the clergy, Mrs. Forrester," interrupted 
 Mrs. Trevor, trying to raise her voice and 
 wishing that something — aye, anything — 
 would happen that would put a stop to this 
 hateful conversation. 
 
 " So I do," answered the regular church- 
 goer and subscriber to all charities, with 
 some severity ; " and that's what makes me 
 so indignant to hear of the scandal that there 
 is afloat about it, — I mean — " 
 
 Mrs. Forrester was caught in her own 
 meshes. ' Stupid ' Mrs. Trevor could scarcely 
 forbear a smile. Luckily, however, the 
 former was spared the humiliation of explain- 
 ing what she did mean, by a summary inter- 
 ruption. 
 
 Outside, was at this moment heard, a great 
 voice inquiring if Mrs. Forrester were here ; 
 and on being replied to in the affirmative,
 
 MRS. FORRESTER. 273 
 
 the possessor of it, without delay, made his 
 appearance. 
 
 " How d'you do, Mrs. Trevor — how are 
 you?" exclaimed John Forrester, entering, 
 and taking two strides towards where the 
 ladies were seated, while the room seemed 
 swamped by his big presence and voice. 
 " Sorry to break in upon you — sorry to 
 appear in this guise, indeed, I am — ha, ha ! 
 Just look at me ! ha, ha ! — but such a hot 
 day — must keep cool — and I forgot all about 
 my appearance until I got halfway here, — 
 driving, too, because — " 
 
 He turned to his wife, and the voice, that 
 had been so big, grew almost gentle, not 
 exactly in its compass, but in its expression 
 and tone. 
 
 " Adelaide, dear, I thought you might be 
 tired with your long walk here, — so I brought 
 the little trap for you. But I don't wish to 
 hurry you, mind, — stay as long as you like, 
 and don't mind me ; — I'll keep the pony on 
 the move till you're — " 
 
 " How stupid of you, John ! " exclaimed 
 his wife irritably, leaning further back in 
 her seat with the air of a martyr ; "you 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 might have known I should wish to walk 
 back in the cool of the evening. Mr. Hum- 
 bert was going to accompany me, too." 
 
 11 I'm sorry — very sorry, dear," said the 
 great voice penitently ; " but you needn't 
 use the trap, though it's here. I'll drive it 
 back empty; but I did — did think it would 
 be nice if I could have taken you back and 
 saved you tiring yourself. But — it's no 
 matter." 
 
 No matter ! Ah ! no, — it never mattered 
 in the least, that she wilfully opposed every 
 thought and care of his for her comfort ! It 
 never seemed to occur to her, that she took 
 an almost inhuman delight in wounding him. 
 It never weighed upon her that she was 
 casting from her, as the very dirt beneath 
 her feet, rare and priceless love, — love, that 
 other women would have given up years of 
 their life to possess even for a few hours ! 
 
 Patient, long - suffering, great - hearted 
 John. This was his life — giving, but never 
 receiving ; hoping, but never realizing ; 
 waiting in the dark with his love for the 
 light that never came ! How bravely he hid 
 the bareness and desolation of his inner life !
 
 MRS. FORRESTER. 275 
 
 How valiantly he went his way, and saw in 
 those other homes, glimpses into the sweet- 
 ness that was roughly and continuously 
 denied him ! Ah ! if his heart had not been 
 so great, he would have given up long ago. 
 He would have returned snub for snub, 
 grievance for grievance, coldness for cold- 
 ness, ingratitude for ingratitude. This is 
 what most do, when there is no responding 
 love to the love they give. But it was not 
 possible for a man of John Forrester's nature 
 to do this. Having loved once, he could not 
 unlove. 
 
 And, — she ? There can be no words for 
 her, except — pity those women in the world 
 who are like her !
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 "are you not too proud?" 
 
 " I tell you, Marc, — I don't only dislike him, 
 but I hate him I " 
 
 " Ah ! but you forget, Claire, that if you 
 returned to your father's house, and fell in 
 with his arrangement for you to marry Lam- 
 bert, you'd get back aH the position you have 
 lost in becoming my sister again ; and, also, — 
 you would be fairly wealthy. The odds 
 against your staying here are very heavy." 
 
 He was arguing dead against his own 
 opinions and wishes ; but, that was only a 
 secondary matter to him just then. 
 
 " Why don't you believe me, Marc, when 
 I tell you that I hate position, and I hate 
 money ; and now I shall go further, because 
 you make me, and I shall say — that I shall 
 hate marrying, and I shall never, never 
 marry. So there — are you convinced ?' 
 
 Claire's brown eyes flashed across the 
 breakfast table at her brother. Why did
 
 "ARE YOU NOT TOO PROUD 9" 277 
 
 he keep on tormenting her with this same 
 question about Lambert ? 
 
 " Did you never meet anyone, Claire, 
 whom you would like to marry ? " he asked, 
 irrelevantly. 
 
 " Yes — no — I mean no — yes, Marc," she 
 replied, looking down. 
 
 " Affirmatives and negatives don't agree," 
 he began, drily ; then, laughing, added, 
 " Come, Claire, what did you mean by that 
 answer, now ? " 
 
 " I meant — well, I meant, Marc, that I 
 have seen a man who — if he hadn't been 
 married, and if he had wanted me to marry 
 him — I might have married him," confessed 
 she grammatically, " if — " 
 
 " What, another « if ' ? " 
 
 " Yes, — two more. If I hadn't you for a 
 brother, and if I hadn't made up my mind 
 never to marry." 
 
 " Well, and if these e ifs ' were done away, 
 who is this individual ? Anyone I know, or 
 someone you saw before you came here ? " 
 he asked, with some curiosity, for men are 
 not as free from this weakness as they like 
 to make out. 
 
 "Do you really want to know, Marc?"
 
 278 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 asked she, lifting her straight brows as if in 
 protest. 
 
 " Yes, I do ; — I want to see if there be any 
 resemblance between him and that snob, 
 Lambert," said he with some violence. 
 
 " Oh ! you shall know, then," she answered, 
 demurely, but with eyes that would dance as 
 she spoke, " it's Mr. Forrester — John, as you 
 all call him. I should like to call him — John." 
 
 Marcus Sinclair leant back in his chair and 
 laughed outright. Claire joined in. This 
 was the first time they had had a good laugh 
 together, since that hateful visit of Lambert's, 
 which had seemed to set everything awry. 
 No, — there was certainly no resemblance 
 between that cool, dandified Lambert Islay 
 and the great, warm-hearted, much loved 
 John Forrester. If Claire liked a man of 
 John Forrester's type, she was not likely to 
 admire auyone his direct opposite. 
 
 " But do you know, Claire," her brother 
 felt himself called upon to say, as soon as 
 the amusement had somewhat subsided, 
 " you shouldn't like John Forrester and 
 wish to call him c John.' The world doesn't 
 allow of this feeling."
 
 "ARE YOU NOT TOO PROUD?" 279 
 
 « "Why ?— I don't see why I shouldn't," she 
 replied perversely ; " nice men must be 
 liked, and there's no harm in my wanting to 
 call him c John,' because I am quite sure 
 there are some people in the world who 
 ought always to be called by their Christian 
 names, because — they suit them so well. I 
 think it's quite idiotic to call him Mr. 
 Forrester when his name's — c John.' " 
 
 " Well, don't forget yourself and come out 
 with ' John ' one day by mistake," said he 
 gravely, " for, unfortunately, you can get into 
 much more trouble by being unnaturally 
 natural, than naturally unnatural, — if there 
 is such a thing to be expressed in words." 
 
 " That's too muddled up to understand," 
 said she idly, jumping up from her seat, and 
 then standing and looking wickedly down 
 into his grave face, " and I don't care what 
 it means, and I think c John's ' a very nice 
 man, and I think his wife's a very nasty 
 woman, — and I'll tell her so one day." 
 
 " So likely you will ! " he said, smiling 
 grimly, " when you've time after time con- 
 fessed, that you are so frightened at the very 
 sight of her, that you instantly escape if
 
 280 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 you can, and that all you can do when she is 
 speaking to you is to answer ' yes ' or ' no ' 
 in the wrong places. You're very flighty 
 and wild this morning, Claire. ,, 
 
 " Of course I am, Marc, — you silly ! Don't 
 you know why ? " exclaimed she, skipping 
 down the room in the exuberance of her 
 spirits. 
 
 "No, not exactly," replied he, looking 
 after her and wondering — as if he, himself, 
 were quite elderly — what it must feel like to 
 be as young and lively as that. 
 
 "Well, — it's because I'm right, and you're 
 wrong ! " cried she, chanting the words 
 melodiously ; then, with sudden gravity, 
 she ceased her skipping and trod softly up 
 to him, and, laying her two hands on his 
 shoulders, added earnestly, " Marc, have I 
 not every reason to be happy and light- 
 hearted? — Didn't you say to me that 'you were 
 sure that all the peace and sweetness of our 
 home would be broken up, because Lambert's 
 word could not be depended upon ? ' And 
 didn't I say to you that I knew he wouldn't 
 take the trouble, either to do you any harm 
 or to bother himself about me just now ?
 
 "ARE YOU NOT TOO PROUD?" 281 
 
 And it's just a month to-day, — this 
 Saturday, since he came, and — and, — aren't 
 you glad, too, Marc ? '' 
 
 She ended off with a certain pathos in her 
 voice, as if she were tired of waiting for him 
 to show his relief about the matter. But 
 men have so much bigger minds than women, 
 that they like to see a whole, great, finished 
 mercy vouchsafed to them, before they care 
 to show their gratitude. They do not like to 
 say too much — 6 in case ; ' they would rather 
 not express what they feel — ' because ; ' they 
 would prefer to wait a little longer and see 
 — 'if — .' And, perhaps, they are wise; but 
 the silly women would like them sometimes 
 not to be so judicious or so wise, and to suit 
 their great minds to their smaller minds, 
 and to be grateful for and happy over the 
 little things, as they are. 
 
 A month had passed by, and there had 
 been no sign or sight of Lambert. Claire's 
 spirits had gradually risen, as day after day 
 had passed by uneventfully, and all her fears 
 as to how he would come, — when, — and what 
 she would say to him, to show him that she 
 hated him, were as yet unrealized. She knew
 
 282 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 that really, she did not expect him to turn up 
 until the appointed three months were over. 
 But her brother had so entirely put on one 
 side this feeling of hers, as being widely im- 
 probable, that she had come practically to 
 think his thought about it, — though holding 
 to the undercurrent of her own idea all the 
 time. 
 
 She had been dumbfounded, revolted, and, 
 in a way, humiliated, when her brother had 
 told her on that next morning, after Lambert's 
 visit, what the Irue cause of that visit had 
 been. What it was that had spurred Lambert 
 on to travel the route she had taken, when 
 she had left her home ; and what it was that 
 had made the interview between him and 
 Lambert, more stormy and antagonistic than 
 it would otherwise have been. 
 
 Marcus had put it gently to her, — gently, at 
 least, as he could, at a time when his whole 
 heart was stirred up with indignation and 
 wrath, not only at Lambert's insolence, but 
 at his presumption (as Claire's brother 
 thought it) in even thinking of making 
 Claire his wife. So that, perhaps, he had 
 said more than he had wished to do, or than
 
 "ARE YOU NOT TOO PROUD?" 283 
 
 he would have, if circumstances had allowed 
 him a little more time for consideration. 
 However it was, the very thought of Lambert 
 and of the hateful meaning of his visit had, 
 for the first few days after, positively 
 sickened Claire. She had never liked her 
 cousin ; she had always felt that she would 
 rather him be anywhere except near her, 
 and she thought she had always plainly 
 showed him her repugnance. And in her 
 straightforward, natural way of thinking, 
 she could not understand how he could have 
 any liking for her, when she had so con- 
 tinually showed him her dislike for him. 
 Therefore it could only be that those words 
 that Marcus had uttered so bitterly, as if 
 they were as myrrh and aloes to his lips, — 
 " It is only your money that he wants, it is 
 only your face that he admires,'' — were true. 
 Her money ! — She could not altogether 
 take in about this. One of the many 
 pleasures, that breaking off from her home 
 ties and coming to live with Marcus was, in 
 leaving behind all thought of that trouble- 
 some appendage — money. Had she not cast 
 in her lot with the disinherited, and thus
 
 284 ■ DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 become an outcast with him ? How, then, 
 could there be thought of her possessing the 
 money, that only would have been hers ? But 
 her brother explained to her what was his 
 conjecture upon this point. It was this, — 
 that her father, favouring by that strange 
 inconsistency of his, all plans and ideas of 
 Lambert's would, supposing Claire to be 
 willing and humble, have received her back 
 and reinstated her in his favour. And 
 why ? — To carry out a purpose. To marry 
 her to his nephew, and thus keep in the 
 family of Islay both money and estate. 
 This was only supposition on her brother's 
 part, but still he thought it not at all 
 an impossible one. And he could see no 
 other reason for Lambert's indolent, yet 
 evident assurance, that all would be well 
 in that respect, were Claire only to acknow- 
 ledge her mistake and return, then or shortly, 
 to her father's house. 
 
 It is undoubtedly a mercy that, in this 
 world, where the ties of sympathy are so close 
 and subtle, a person's individual grievance, 
 sorrow, or wrong cannot, however much he 
 may think it will, entirely engross all his
 
 " ARE YO U NOT TOO PRO UD ? " 285 
 
 ■ 
 
 thoughts and attention. A thoroughly 
 egotistic man (or woman) alone understands 
 more truly how to suffer lengthily for him- 
 self, and how comprehensively to lay himself 
 out to be pitied by himself, than anyone else 
 does. It is one of the sweets or bitters, — 
 whichever way it may be regarded, — of 
 egotism. But, to the majority of mankind 
 who feel bound to some one other, or to 
 some many others, by those deep, mysterious 
 bonds which even Death cannot sever, it is 
 impossible to lend all their thoughts and 
 suffer all their feelings, to bear upon wJiat 
 has happened to themselves, only. They have 
 to — aye, and they are glad to, though perhaps 
 they do not recognise it in this light at 
 the time, — turn their ideas and sympathies 
 upon that other or those others, who have 
 been grieved, wronged, or afflicted, as well as 
 they themselves. The feeling for them, thus 
 lessens even the inclination to be over- 
 wrought and morose upon the individual 
 grievance. Trials diminish in value, by com- 
 parison ; and sorrows soften by the know- 
 ledge of, and the fellow-feeling for, other 
 sorrows.
 
 286 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 Even during those first days, when Claire 
 had had that horrible sickening sensation, 
 caused by the continual thought of Lambert 
 and of his motive in coming, she had found, 
 as often as not, that her thoughts were 
 dwelling also upon her brother's grievance 
 in connection with him. " What would be the 
 state of his feelings ? " had been her first 
 thought, when she became aware of her 
 cousin's presence. True, then, she did not 
 know the real object of his visit. She only 
 thought of one of her brother's most 
 cherished hopes, being dashed to the ground. 
 She only passionately saw that one of the 
 deep, sensitive wounds, which had been 
 inflicted upon him as a boy, was about to be 
 reopened and tortured again. And therefore, 
 in the emergency of the moment, and to tide 
 off the evil even for a short while, she had 
 begged and implored Lambert to go, before 
 her brother should see and recognise him. 
 She had had no time to think how this would 
 benefit him, — how this would spare him, — how 
 this would save him from knowing what he 
 must know. All her thoughts had been to 
 drive off the evil just then, and afterwards, if
 
 "ARE YOU NOT TOO PROUD?" 287 
 
 possible, to have lessened it by preparing him 
 for it. 
 
 Her brother's fellow-feeling for her, had 
 taken much the same form and shape. 
 Through those long early hours of morning, 
 when he had sat in his room trying to think 
 out what was best to be done, his thoughts 
 had not alone been occupied by the extent 
 of his own wrong, or by the bitterness of his 
 own trial. Up to the last moment, when the 
 rays of mocking sunlight had shone in upon 
 him, he had fought hard to find, if perchance 
 there might be, any alternative to spare her 
 the pain of hearing what had been her 
 cousin's true motive and reason in coming. 
 But though he had tried to see if there were 
 not some loop-hole, he had found none. He 
 had had to tell her, — there had been no 
 alternative. 
 
 In connection with himself, Dr. Sinclair 
 had had strange and seemingly, perhaps, 
 unreasonable ideas. 
 
 " I will not, — I cannot stay here," he had 
 said to Claire, in a voice deep with contend- 
 ing emotions. " I tell you, Lambert will 
 come and spread a tale, — perhaps based upon
 
 288 DR. SINCLAIR'S SIS7ER. 
 
 fact, but so twisted and turned to his own 
 ends, that he will dishonour my name and 
 ruin my reputation. I could not live through 
 
 this; 1 will throw up my practice and 
 
 leave the place. What else is there for me 
 to do ? — All is against me." 
 
 But Claire had begged him to wait, — to 
 consider, even if it were but for a few days. 
 Such a step, such a renunciation of all that he 
 had gained during those past years of hard and 
 incessant study and work, — was not lightly 
 to be thought of. Regret generally follows 
 hard in the course of haste. If he acted 
 upon the spur of the moment, if he did what 
 he would not do in calmer times, if he allowed 
 his indignation and bitterness to get the 
 better of his judgment, — the thought of these 
 causes would prove no balm to him in the 
 after. It would not retrieve the irretrievable,, 
 or revoke the irrevocable. Thus, restless, 
 moody, irritable, — he had been for some days 
 uncertain what to do or what not to do. At 
 one time ready to give up everything, at 
 another, wondering at his own folly and 
 wretchedness. Truly, — Claire had had her 
 heart so full of her brother and his diffi-
 
 "4^E YOU NOT TOO PROUDV 289 
 
 culties, uncertainties, and considerations that, 
 perforce, the greatness of her own grievance 
 was diminished. 
 
 She knew the innate indolence of Lambert's 
 character, far better than her brother did. 
 She had often had the chance of seeing that 
 that " it will not be worth my while " of his, 
 had been the cause of many unworked-out 
 propositions, and unfinished actions. She 
 had noted his inclination to labour for a short, 
 — a very short while, and then as all had not 
 gone smoothly, and there had some trouble 
 and annoyance been entailed, to idly say it 
 was too much labour, and give it up until 
 such time when he might feel inclined for it 
 again. 
 
 But, perhaps, it was not so much her 
 knowledge of Lambert's characteristics that 
 made Claire so sure in her own mind, that he 
 would not return until the appointed three 
 months was up, as it was the secret instinct 
 she had within her. This instinct — which 
 they say some women have so strongly — 
 seemed to grow in power and certainty, as 
 time wore on. 
 
 "I can't explain to you exactly what I 
 
 vol. i. w
 
 290 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 feel," she had said to her brother, quite 
 seriously, after he had rather repudiated her 
 arguments ; " but I am sure we are only 
 making ourselves miserable over what isn't 
 going to happen just now. Lambert won't 
 come, — not, at least, for some time ; for he 
 wouldn't think of going through another such 
 an exertion, either in the hopes of getting an 
 answer from me or for the pleasure of 
 annoying you. It would be too much trouble 
 just yet for him. Let's try and be as we 
 were before he came." 
 
 " Some things are comparatively easy to 
 say, but superlatively difficult to carry out," 
 had been Marcus's sceptical remark in reply. 
 " Perhaps you can do this, Claire, but I 
 cannot. I can't believe and trust to the best 
 as you can — my time and inclination for that 
 is passed — so, fortunately, I am past the age 
 of disappointments." 
 
 He scorned himself always after, for be- 
 traying to her the bitterness of his spirit. 
 How he vowed each time that he would set a 
 watch upon his tongue and force himself to 
 keep silence, rather than come out with 
 sayings such as these. But though he had a '
 
 "ARE YOU NOT TOO PROUD 7" 291 
 
 certain power over himself, though he could 
 shut himself within a case of iron to the 
 outside world, and simply show nothing of 
 what he was feeling, — he found this an im- 
 possibility in his sister's presence. He felt 
 himself compelled to tell her something of 
 what was working within him ; he longed for 
 her sympathy, and yearned for her to know 
 him as he was. Yet, when at times he laid 
 his heart bare before her, he was ashamed 
 of what lay there. He looked aghast at the 
 lowness and desolation of his own ideas. He 
 bowed his head in despair, when he recognised 
 how great was the difference between the 
 man he had grown into, from the man he had 
 once sought to become. What likeness was 
 there now between them ? And what 
 strength or will had he now, to mould 
 himself into other than what he now was ? 
 
 But Claire was glad whenever her brother 
 lifted the veil of reserve ; though, at times, 
 she almost shuddered to see what was dis- 
 closed. 
 
 " One day, he will tell me everything," she 
 thought, "not only these dark, miserable 
 ideas that he has, but also some of the
 
 292 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 beautiful ones. He must have some beautiful 
 ones, only — I suppose, he crushes them all 
 because he thinks them too good to be true. 
 But he couldn't love me as he does if he 
 hadn't them, — and he couldn't be so tender 
 with his patients, and he couldn't like good 
 people like Mrs. Trevor, and he couldn't be 
 so kind to that strange Mr. Humbert, and he 
 couldn't do many things that he does, — if he 
 hadn't many good and beautiful thoughts, as 
 well as all these dark ones. But I wish — I 
 wish I could be more help to him — I wish I 
 knew what to say when he does tell me 
 what he feels — I'm sure Mrs. Trevor would 
 always know what to say, — why can't I be 
 like her ? " 
 
 And then, Claire Sinclair would seek an 
 answer to this question and find none; She 
 did not know that between her and the 
 woman she wished to be like, — lay a wide gulf. 
 She did not know that in her own nature lay 
 a possibility which was, to all appearance, 
 not only dormant, but dead. And she did 
 not know yet, that until that possibility was 
 aroused and quickened into life she could 
 never be to her brother — however deep her
 
 u 
 
 ARE YOU NOT TOO PROUD V 293 
 
 love for him — what Mrs. Trevor was to 
 her husband, and to all those who were 
 influenced by her. 
 
 There was, however, a note that Sinclair's 
 sister had been able to strike, to which his 
 nature had responded. She had struck it at 
 the time almost unconsciously, amongst many 
 others which had passed unnoticed. It was 
 only a little word, a little suggestion ; but it 
 had fruit to bear, and it bore it. 
 
 " Marc,'' she had said softly, leaning over 
 him, and running her fingers through his 
 dark hair with its many grey streaks, " a/re 
 you not too proud to let this grievance of Lam- 
 bert bear you down? I remember, — when 
 you were a boy, you used to hold your head 
 so high, and look as if you could be afraid of 
 nothing you would ever do or say, and that 
 nothing should ever cause you to lower * it. 
 Are you not as proud now ? " 
 
 Long after she had said these words, they 
 rang and rang again in his ears. 
 
 "Are you not too proud to let this griev- 
 ance of Lambert's bear you down ? " 
 
 Where, indeed, was his pride ? "Where 
 his self-respect, that he should let the thought
 
 294 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 of Lambert, and the harm he might do him, 
 haunt, depress, and darken again his whole 
 life? Had he committed any wrong that he 
 should fear ? Had his former life contained 
 any wild oats, that threatened to expose him 
 to the world's condemnation ? — No, his life 
 had been singularly guarded, singularly pure ; 
 there had been nothing in it that had not 
 come within the strictest rules of honour, 
 uprightness, and truth. What, then, was it 
 that was striking him with a cold and clammy 
 hand, whenever he thought of the future ? 
 Surely it was something beneath which his 
 pride and self-respect need not to bow. 
 Surelv it was the false fear of a revelation, 
 which, if revealed truly, would no whit sully 
 his reputation, or soil the name which he had 
 in honour adopted. Had he not been aggra- 
 vating his own trial ? Had he not been 
 stooping when he might have, and might 
 still — even if the worst came to the worst — 
 stand upright ? Had he not been bowing his 
 proud head beneath a fictitious and utterly 
 delusive view, of the powers of Lambert ? 
 
 This was the fruit of Claire's word. Marcus 
 Sinclair came to regard what had happened,
 
 " ARE YOU NOT TOO PROUD ? " 295 
 
 no longer in an exaggerated and extravagant 
 light, but in the clear light of reason. He 
 was able with a certain amount of calmness 
 to anticipate Lambert's arrival, having come 
 to the conclusion that his first ideas of leav- 
 ing Abbeyslea, through fear of the harm that 
 he might do him — were unworthy of his con- 
 sideration. Whatever might happen, what- 
 ever evil might lie in his path, he decided 
 that he would face it, not flee from it. And 
 this decision became immediately the means 
 of lifting somewhat, the shadow that had 
 fallen upon him. He was able again to take 
 up the thread of his life, with a lightened 
 heart. Fellow-feeling and sympathy were 
 beginning to work their way. 
 
 But — little as Dr. Sinclair thought it — the 
 change parochially that, was about to take 
 place in Abbeyslea, was going to affect him 
 far more than anything else. It was going 
 to play a part in the higher development of 
 his nature, beside which, the long longed-for 
 companionship of his sister, sank almost into 
 insignificance. This latter had been one of
 
 296 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 the wise and kind orderiugs of an All-Wise 
 God; but it was granted only as a leading 
 up to, and a preparation for, what was — in a 
 far greater degree — to expand and ennoble 
 this nature of his, wherein lay so much of 
 good that, had been bruised and almost 
 crushed. 
 
 Yet — at this point in his life — if Dr. Sinclair 
 had been asked whether anything outside his 
 house, and outside his own limited circle of 
 friends — would materially or permanently 
 affect him, — he would have replied with re- 
 peated assurance in the negative. 
 
 So little do we recognise how the Hand of 
 the Great Weaver, will weave in the woofs 
 and warfs of our lives, — so as best to fulfil His 
 Purpose.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 A STRANGER. 
 
 "Are you coming to Church, Marc ? " asked 
 Claire, on the Sunday morning after that 
 Saturday, dating a month from Lambert 
 Islay's visit. 
 
 " No ; — what's the good?" he said moodily. 
 
 " Oh, well — you used to come with nie 
 when I first came here," said she, giving 
 him her reason, which might have been a 
 better one. " But I think I have been alone 
 now every Sunday for about nine or ten 
 weeks — and I don't like going by myself. 
 — Why don't you come ? " 
 
 " I hate being a hypocrite," said he, 
 shortly, getting up and going out of the room. 
 
 Claire sighed, but did not attempt to 
 follow him. This matter of going to Church 
 on a Sunday, was one upon which they could 
 not quite agree. She thought that, as the 
 custom was to go to a Place of Worship on the
 
 298 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 first day of the week, therefore all should go, 
 whether they felt inclined to do so or no. 
 He held, that unless good were obtained from 
 going, and unless worship of the Creator was 
 sincere and heartfelt, that it was nothing less 
 than hypocrisy to go. Therefore, he main- 
 tained that he, — being not exactly an c un- 
 believer,' but being far advanced in the 
 stage of indifference, — should be classed 
 amongst those, who would do more good by 
 staying away from Divine Worship, than by 
 attending it. He had accompanied Claire to 
 Church the first several Sundays after her 
 arrival at Abbeyslea, because — he had argued 
 to himself — for her sake, he might for a time 
 put his own scruples on one side. But now 
 that she was no longer quite a stranger, he 
 had — upon some pretext or other — fallen off 
 from what he had first begun. He thought 
 he was no longer called upon to relinquish 
 his own views upon the subject. 
 
 — The bells had already begun to peal on 
 the Sunday morning, when these few words 
 were interchanged between them. 
 
 " I suppose I must go and get ready," 
 thought Claire to herself, a few minutes
 
 A STRANGER. 299 
 
 after her brother's exit from the room ; " but 
 I do wish he'd come with me. I hate that 
 Mrs. Forrester staring at me, and looking 
 with fresh surprise every time I come in 
 alone. And then she always seems to catch 
 hold of me after Service to say, ' it ought to 
 be my duty to bring my irreligious brother 
 with me.' I wonder now— -whether he's more 
 irreligious than I am — or than she is, or — 
 than anyone is." 
 
 How shocked Mrs. Forrester would have 
 been to have heard Claire's looseness of 
 1 religious principle ! ' And the presump- 
 tion, too, of classing her — Mrs. Forrester's 
 religion — with their own ! 
 
 " I wish he'd come," she said again, half- 
 aloud, as she dawdled irresolutely up the 
 stairs. " I'll ask him once more, — he some- 
 times likes being coaxed." 
 
 " Marc ! — Marc ! " she called invitingly, 
 " do come ! — it's Mr. Gambray's last Sunday 
 but one, and then he'll go away and you'll 
 never see him again perhaps ; — and it's such a 
 lovely day, — and I'm rather late, — and the 
 bells will have stopped before I get there, — 
 and I can't walk in by myself and get hot,
 
 300 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 because everyone will turn round and stare 
 — and — and — " 
 
 "Any more reasons, Claire?" he called 
 back good-humouredly, from his study. 
 
 " Yes, a lot more, but no time to cata- 
 logue them," she replied, laughing; "but 
 I'll tell you them on our way, and occupy all 
 your time there and back with reasons if 
 you will come ! 
 
 " But I have far better reasons for staying 
 away, than you have for going," he remarked, 
 rather gruffly — not to her, for she was already 
 at the top of the stairs and half-way in her 
 room, trying to make up for lost time. 
 
 " I believe he's thinking of coming," she 
 said to herself, feeling particularly happy at 
 the thought. " I am awfully proud when I'm 
 walking in with him, he's so tall and so fine- 
 looking. If I were a girl I'd fall in love with 
 him directly." 
 
 She meant " if she weren't his sister ; " 
 but she hurried over the expression of her 
 thoughts at times so much, that they were 
 apt to get a little mixed. 
 
 Of course, she stood before the looking- 
 glass a minute or so before she went down, —
 
 A STRANGER. 301 
 
 as all girls do, whether they have plain or 
 pretty faces. But they don't always do it 
 from a sense of vanity ; only from a wish to 
 see if they are looking as well as they can 
 look. And this, perforce, arises only from 
 self-respect, nothing baser. 
 
 It was certainly a very pretty face that 
 Claire saw reflected in the glass, — prettier far 
 than it was when she had first come to her 
 brother's. The soft, dark cheek was rounder 
 and more richly coloured. The great brown 
 eyes — so wistful and almost sad before — 
 were brighter and more beautiful, with still 
 that steady, earnest look about them. And 
 the sweet lips, that had had that unhappy 
 droop in their corners, were oftener parted 
 now in laughter; and so, when in repose, 
 the slight haug-down that had somewhat 
 marred their beauty, seemed almost to have 
 disappeared. For, — notwithstanding the ill- 
 timed and ill-fated visit of Lambert's, — not- 
 withstanding the anticipation of his return 
 and of his reason for returning, — notwith- 
 standing the little glimpses into her own 
 and Marcus's lives, which showed that even 
 the most golden thoughts and wishes are not
 
 302 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 all quite golden when they are realized, — still, 
 Claire was very happy. Happier, she thought, 
 than she had ever been before ; happier than 
 when she had been a child and had had Marc 
 to herself during his holidays, because then 
 there had always been the knowledge that in 
 a few weeks would come the parting again. 
 But now they had a home together, and 
 there need be no reckoning of time. 
 
 No wonder then, that Claire Sinclair's face 
 was prettier than Claire Islay's had been. As 
 a great writer once said, — " The key to a 
 woman's whole being is to be found in 
 her unfettered affections. The moment 
 she loses her individuality, in her earnest, 
 engrossing and self-sacrificing devotion to 
 another, the hidden springs of feeling are 
 unsealed, and energies and capabilities of 
 which she was before unconscious, become 
 revealed." Some of Claire's deepest and most 
 inspiring feelings had been fettered before, 
 thus, — her beauty had lacked the crowning 
 grace of beauty ; but now, she was free to love 
 and be beloved, and in the sweetness of her 
 freedom, her beauty grew. 
 
 She smiled at her own face in the glass, —
 
 A STRANGER. 303 
 
 not because she was so satisfied with it, but 
 because she meant to go down that very 
 moment to Marc, and smile the same smile, 
 and see if she couldn't persuade him to come 
 with her. 
 
 But, — before she reached the bottom of the 
 stairs, treading demurely with a certain Sun- 
 day, churchy tread, — she found that she 
 shouldn't need that sweet smile of hers, to 
 draw him with her to the Church. For, to her 
 surprise, she found him waiting, hat in hand, 
 for her. 
 
 "I'm coming," he said shortly, giving no 
 reason, and looking as if he would rather 
 she shouldn't ask him why he had changed 
 his mind. 
 
 And so, Claire, — who watched each expres- 
 sion of his face, and knew what every 
 slightest one implied, — tried not to look too 
 surprised or too glad ; but only to take it 
 as a matter of course, that he was going to 
 accompany her. 
 
 The way to the Church lay along the level 
 road for a short quarter of a mile, then — 
 branching off from this high road was 
 another road much narrower, — a lane it might
 
 304 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 be called, — not running flat along, but with a 
 steep and curved incline. It was round the 
 curving of this steep incline, that Mr. 
 Gambray had watched with loving eye his 
 daughter, Eva ; she, escaping from the hands 
 of his fair parishioner, — Mrs. Forrester, — and 
 he, just within her grasp. 
 
 Many people — especially those who were 
 apt to start from their homes just a few 
 minutes too late to arrive punctually at the 
 Church, — blamed their forefathers of some 
 centuries ago, for having built their Place 
 of Worship on a hill. But those others, — 
 who always could manage to be in time, and 
 thus could afford to be severe upon the 
 6 few minutes-too-late ones, 5 — changed just 
 one word of a scriptural phrase and said, 
 " A Church that is set on a hill cannot be 
 hid ; " — and so they maintained, this Church 
 of Abbeyslea was surely in its right position. 
 
 The Church itself, — with its ancient grey- 
 stoned walls, — was a quaint and curious build- 
 ing. Its tower was square and low, with 
 thick trailing. ivy, not only clinging to it, but 
 seeming — in its weight and massiveness — to 
 be grasping it, holding up its little height, and
 
 A STRANGER. 305 
 
 giving it a breadth and bigness, that was not 
 distinctly all its own. The architecture of 
 the body of the church, could neither boast 
 of purely Norman or early English origin ; it 
 seemed to have passed through many stages, 
 — each fine and noble in itself, but, when com- 
 pared, marred by lack of symmetry. 
 
 Still, the people of Abbeyslea and even all 
 inhabitants of the large town of — , and 
 many of the towns and villages around, 
 were proud of their ancient " Abbey," as they 
 sometimes loved to call it. 
 
 Exquisite care and tender precaution, had 
 been used in restoring it. There had been no 
 ruthless defacings of the delicate carvings ; 
 there had been no rough handlings of those 
 old and crumbled parts, which had needed 
 only adding to and strengthening; there 
 had been no desecrating removals of those 
 ancient tombs and monuments, which stood 
 within the nave and chancel of the Church, 
 marking spots where the remains of great 
 and honoured men . had once been lowered. 
 The architect, to whom the restoration of 
 this ancient House of God had been com- 
 mitted, must have had a soul within him 
 
 vol. i. x
 
 306 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 that had a love for all that is old and quaint 
 and time-worn ; and an eye, not only capable 
 of seeing, but of discerning, — which makes a 
 difference, when things beneath its notice 
 need delicacy of touch and tenderness of 
 handling. 
 
 Contrary to Claire's expectations, the bells 
 still continued ringing as she and her 
 brother, having turned the sharp curve of 
 that winding lane, came to the sloping 
 Church yard, which was bound in by a low 
 and moss-grown wall. 
 
 " I thought we should have been late," 
 said she, perhaps a little disappointed that 
 they were not, as she had Marc to walk in 
 with. 
 
 " So, — one of your reasons has fallen 
 through," remarked her brother drily'; 
 " what a hypocrite I am, to have come with 
 you ; and what a bad little sister you are to 
 have even wished me to come ! " 
 
 " I don't see that," said she, lowering her 
 voice, for they were within a few feet of the 
 porch, and several of the c regular ' congre- 
 gation were hurrying in. 
 
 "Don't you?" said he cynically, not
 
 A STRANGER. 307 
 
 heeding who was near, " well, I do then. I 
 see that, in entering this Building, I am 
 acting a double part, — I am appearing what 
 I'm not, — in fact, I'm as good as coming here 
 to — mock God. That's plain speaking, but 
 — it's true." . 
 
 " Hush ! " whispered Claire. 
 
 But, her warning came too late. Her 
 brother's words, or, at least some of them, 
 had been overheard. 
 
 Standing just outside the porch, intent 
 upon examining its curious, deep sculpturing, 
 was a man of rather below the medium 
 height. His back had been towards them, 
 as they had advanced up the narrow path, — 
 bordered only by its high, uneven tomb- 
 stones, — which led to the old oak door. But, 
 — as Dr. Sinclair's deep voice ceased, — this 
 man turned suddenly, and looked full at him, 
 — not in astonishment, aghast at the words 
 that he must certainly have heard, .but with a 
 certain curious and unfeigned admiration. 
 
 " This must be a stranger," thought 
 Claire, glancing timidly at him, while he was 
 still gazing at her brother. " How fortunate ! 
 I shouldn't have liked any of the people we
 
 308 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 know, to have heard Marc's words, just 
 then." 
 
 At that moment the bells stopped, and 
 there came from within the sound of the 
 organ. At the sound, the stranger half 
 started, as if recollecting himself ; then, with 
 a hasty gesture, he uncovered his head, and 
 disappeared through the heavy oaken door- 
 way. 
 
 Dr. Sinclair looked after him, with a light 
 gleaming in his dark, melancholy eyes. 
 
 " That man's a man," muttered he, hp.lf to 
 himself. 
 
 " I think he looks like a monk," whispered 
 Claire, " and, — I believe he is one, too." 
 
 Nominally, — all the seats in Abbeyslea 
 church, were free; and rags and tatters 
 could sit by velvets und satins. Nominally, — 
 there wer^ no pews set apart for the poor 
 and the despised, because every seat was 
 open to all; the miserable sinners might 
 bow the knee by the side of the respectable 
 sinners. Nominally, — the Pharisee and the 
 Publican could overhear each other's con- 
 fessions, for nominally, in this house of God, 
 differences and claf=s distinctions, — the world's
 
 A STRANGER. 309 
 
 contrivances — were set aside. But, all this 
 was only nominal. The vast majority of 
 Christians find it impossible to think and be 
 different, during the hour and a half that 
 they spend in the Church once a week, to 
 what they are during the lifetime they 
 spend out of it. Perhaps it is too much to 
 expect that they should, even ! 
 
 Thus, it had come to be an acknowledged 
 thing that seats, though unpaid for, were 
 appropriated and regarded in the light of 
 both right and possession. The families of 
 best position, birth, and most rich in this 
 world's goods, selected, or had selected for 
 them by the Rector, the seats in the central 
 aisles, where a good view of the clergyman, 
 the choir and the pulpit, was assured. The 
 side aisles might be occupied by those who 
 possessed but medium standing in the social 
 circles, or by those trades, or poor people 
 who chose to take a country walk from the 
 city of — , to worship God in a country 
 church. And this was a very fair and 
 proper arrangement, regarding it in a certain 
 light, and taking it for granted that the 
 people, who entered the house of God, kept
 
 310 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 within the limits of even nominal Christians. 
 But, sometimes, they even forgot that they 
 laid claim to this ! 
 
 Dr. Sinclair had had selected for his sister, 
 previous to her coming, and sometimes for 
 himself, two seats in a pew about half-way 
 up the central aisle, on the left aisle side. 
 He did not want, either for himself or Claire, 
 to occupy a conspicuous position. 
 
 Two pews above theirs were Mr. and Mrs. 
 Forrester's seats, on the central aisle side. 
 The fine old oak pews in Abbeyslea Church 
 were wide, seating with ease and comfort, quite 
 six persons of ordinary size. But, Mrs. For- 
 rester liked to regard the pew she occupied, 
 as her pew. She liked to have room to seat 
 her visitors, whenever she had any staying 
 with her, in the same pew. When she had 
 none, a very high-bred widow lady occupied 
 the corner seat, opening into the side aisle, — 
 thus, at the opposite end of the pew to Mrs. 
 Forrester. If the Church were very full, 
 some other high-bred lady or gentleman of 
 Mrs. Forrester's acquaintance, might venture 
 into the large, empty space, between Mrs. 
 Forrester and the widow lady, — but, not 
 otherwise.
 
 A STRANGER. 311 
 
 As Claire entered with her brother, and, 
 as quickly as possible, made her way to their 
 seat, she caught sight of the dark, monk's- 
 looking head of the stranger who had just 
 preceded them. He was in an end seat of 
 the side aisle seats, close on a line with 
 theirs. His head was bowed low in prayer, 
 and his face was completely buried in his 
 hands. She could not help noticing that 
 they were beautiful hands, — nervous, blue- 
 veined, feeling, — with long, shapely fingers, 
 trembling slightly over the face they hid. 
 
 "1 wonder whether he'll look at Marc like 
 that again," thought Claire, as her brother, 
 holding back to allow her to pass first into their 
 seat, almost touched the kneeling stranger 
 with his coat ; for the aisles were narrow, and 
 one of the low, massive, Norman pillars rose 
 just there, and narrowed it still more. 
 
 Just as Claire passed into her seat, she 
 caught Mrs. Forrester's vigilant, back-look- 
 ing eye. The eye expressed approbation at 
 her irreligious brother's presence ; but, almost 
 in the same glance, reproof, for being ' not 
 just in time.' 
 
 Eyes are such wonderfully expressive 
 monitors, — especially in church !
 
 312 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 The high-bred widow lady was not present. 
 Perhaps she was away, or perhaps in ill- 
 health. Mrs. Forrester had laid her sun- 
 shade and her' husband's hat, along her 
 unoccupied pew. She didn't want any late 
 comers, or any set of people she didn't 
 know, — to come and disturb her devotions. 
 Besides, John was so big and clumsy, — he 
 must have plenty of room. 
 
 John was a good, straightforward, Christian 
 man. When he came to Church, he came with 
 the purpose of joining in the Service,, of 
 praying to and praising his God. He came 
 to get strength to lead aright, the not- 
 altogether easy home-life he had to lead. 
 He came to ask pardon for the times he 
 failed, and the mistakes he made. He loved 
 the Service, — every part of it, and joined 
 heartily in it ; too heartily, with not enough 
 refinement and choice of intonation, his wife 
 thought, and repeatedly told him. But, 
 though he loved her and did all he could to 
 please her, he could not change in this. He 
 was not aware of the outward effect of his 
 worship, so he did not know how to alter 
 what was as nothing to him. He never
 
 A STRANGER. 313 
 
 knew who was in Church, or who was not; 
 except sometimes, when a little child came 
 shyly up to some pew above theirs, and then 
 he couldn't help smiling at it. Perhaps, 
 also, then would arise the not-included-in- 
 the-Prayer-Book-prayers, — a petition for a 
 baby hand and heart to be pressed to bis 
 great heart, that he migbt call and know to . 
 be his own. ' For, John Forrester had laid 
 this secret, great desire before his Maker ; 
 waiting patiently, if yet it might be granted 
 him. 
 
 Ah ! — if his great love for his wife had Hot 
 made him so blind, he would have known 
 how, instead, to thank God for His merciful 
 denial. ' 
 
 It was not until the organ voluntary had 
 died away, and the measured, rather drowsy 
 voice of Mr. Gambray had opened the 
 Service by exhorting his brethren " to confess 
 their sins," — that the stranger in the side- 
 aisle rose from his knees. He gave a quick 
 glance up at the chancel, — saw the white- 
 robed choir of boys and men, saw the 
 Rector's fine, docile face, saw the surround- 
 ing congregation of well-dressed and appar-
 
 314 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 ently good and cultivated people, and saw 
 the man who had made the open confession 
 before he had entered the Church, that his 
 coming there was simply making a mock of 
 God. 
 
 This was what Dr. Sinclair thought, as he 
 watched that one short, rapid glance given 
 by the stranger, before the eyes were dropped 
 upon his open Prayer Book. But Dr.. Sin- 
 clair himself, — as he had not come to worship 
 God, — let his eyes still rest on the face of the 
 man, who had overheard his words. ' He 
 watched it all through the Exhortation, the 
 Confession, the Absolution; and then, as the 
 congregation knelt and joined in the " Lord's 
 Prayer," he said again, what he had said 
 before, — though this time low down, and only 
 to himself — 
 
 " That man's a man.' 1 
 
 The stranger's face was a striking one. It 
 was a thin, pale face, clean shaven, and 
 strongly marked with lines, not wrinkles. 
 The eyes — quick, far-seeing, long eyes,; — 
 were not particularly deep set or large, but 
 were strangely kindling under their straight,, 
 coal-black brows. Beneath them were lines, —
 
 . A STRANGER. 315 
 
 horizontal lines ; the cheeks were too thin 
 and straight for hollows. Above the coal- 
 black brows was a low, yet wide, forehead ; 
 it looked as if it should have been higher, as 
 if Nature had made rather a mistake about 
 it. But, if she had not done ample justice to 
 the forehead, she had meted out full measure 
 to the mouth. The stranger's mouth was 
 beautiful ; exquisitely cut, wide, — but so 
 curved, so tender, so full of delicate expres- 
 sion, that every bit of its width was needed. 
 Round the mouth and up the sides of the 
 face, was that blue look that very dark men 
 have when closely shaven. The head was 
 rather small and narrow, with black hair 
 growing thickly at the back, but more 
 sparing in the front, and thinner still upon 
 the top. This rather strange growth of the 
 hair, had made Claire think he was a monk ; 
 perhaps he was one, — but Dr. Sinclair thought 
 not. 
 
 He had a clerical coat on, long, rough, and 
 rather worn. His figure was spare, more 
 lithe than strong, more that of an .^Esthete 
 than of an Epicure. It was too thin, and 
 the shoulders were not square or broad*
 
 316 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 enough to make it a good figure. But the 
 ' whole man ' lay in the power and expres- 
 sion of his face, which — even in repose — had 
 a strange, fascinating strength about it. It 
 seemed to be the face of a good man, — 
 highly-susceptive, strong-willed, intellectual ; 
 but, withal, — tender, gentle, capable of loving. 
 
 Dr. Sinclair did not see all this in that first 
 long gaze of his. He -only saw then, that 
 there lay in this stranger's face something 
 that attracted and electrified him, and made 
 him not sorry, but glad that he had over- 
 heard those words of his outside the Church 
 porch. . He would have wished to have 
 looked even longer, and to have met his 
 eyes again, but a feeling of courtesy made 
 him refrain from again regarding him. So 
 he looked away as they rose from their 
 knees, or from their lounging stoops, — in 
 which position many of the worshippers had 
 been lazily and contentedly confessing their 
 sins, and receiving absolution from them. 
 
 As they rose, there was the sound at the 
 door of the Church of some late-comers 
 entering. They may have been waiting 
 outside until the congregation moved, and
 
 A STRANGER. 317 
 
 become, perhaps, impatient at the length of 
 the prayers they were not themselves joining 
 in. However it was, they seemed to hasten 
 up the first aisle that they saw, anxious to 
 get into seats as quickly and unnoticeably as 
 possible. They were not parishioners, but 
 the seats in Abbeyslea Church were known 
 to be free, and so they might enter any pews 
 where were vacant seats. 
 
 From the sound of shuffling feet, several 
 of them must have slipped into seats behind 
 where the Sinclairs sat, but there remained 
 still three, who, — seeing that long pew with 
 only a lady and gentleman in the further end 
 of it, just a little above the central pillar, — 
 passed the Sinclairs and prepared to enter it. 
 
 Claire looked at her brother, to see if he 
 were looking. Everyone knew Mrs. For- 
 rester's feeling about her pew; and every- 
 one knew, as they saw the distinctly shoppy 
 look of the three late comers, that — upon some 
 pretext or other — Mrs. Forrester would pre- 
 vent their entering what she considered,— her 
 own personal property and possession. 
 
 Her vigilant eye had caught sight of the 
 three smartly-dressed young women, who
 
 318 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 had ventured further up than those other 
 people, who had come in at the same time as 
 they. She seemed to have a presentiment 
 that they were going to presume to enter 
 her pew, for with almost imperceptible move- 
 ment, and whilst repeating devoutly 
 
 " The Lord's name be praised," 
 she sidled half-way down the pew, slipping her 
 husband's hat and her sunshade further along 
 the empty seat as she did so,- till the point of 
 the latter touched the unoccupied end of it. 
 
 At this juncture, one of the smart young 
 women, entirely unconscious of the prepara- 
 tions of defence, and of the rebuff she was 
 going to meet with, made one step into the pew, 
 at the same time signing to her companions 
 that there was ample room for all of them. 
 
 But no second step was taken. Mrs. For- 
 rester, with a dignified look of calm truth, 
 leant forward, and said in a nearly^audible 
 * whisper, — pointing to the end seat as she did 
 so — 
 
 " That seat is taken." 
 
 All three young women looked askance at 
 the seat. They could not see that it was 
 occupied. They could not guess at Mrs. 
 Forrester's playing at truth, in meaning that
 
 A STRANGER. 319 
 
 that particular corner seat was reserved, occu- 
 pied and taken, — as a rule. So they did not 
 move, but looked from the seats — upon which 
 were outlaid the hat and sunshade — to Mrs. 
 Forrester, and simply waited for her to move 
 back to her position near the gentleman, and 
 leave room for them all to enter. 
 
 But Mrs. Forrester meditated doing 
 nothing of the kind. 
 
 " That seat is taken," she repeated, in 
 tones no longer lowered, drawing herself up, 
 and regarding the would-be intruders, as if 
 they were as so much dirt beneath her feet, 
 — " and there is no room further in." 
 
 Scarcely were the words out of her mouth, 
 when the slight figure of the stranger, with 
 the dark,. monk's-looking head, was seen to 
 dart from his seat in the side aisle, and reach- 
 ing from behind the young woman who had 
 still one foot in Mrs. Forresters pew, he 
 caught up the sunshade and hat, and said in 
 a voice that could be distinctly heard all over 
 the Building — 
 
 " This House is the House of God, but you are 
 making it a den of thieves." 
 
 And, as he spoke, he bent his kindling eye 
 upon — Mrs. Forrester.
 
 CHAPTER XYIL 
 
 AT BAY. 
 
 " A most disgraceful thing ! — It ought not 
 to be allowed ! — Policemen in plain clothes 
 should be stationed ' about ! — It was my pew, 
 and I had a right to choose who should come 
 into it, and who should not. "Where is that 
 man, — that common man who took up my 
 sunshade, and made those people sit in my 
 seat, and caused such a commotion in the 
 service ? — I say it's a disgraceful thing, that a 
 lady of my position can't go into Church, and 
 do what's right and proper, without being 
 interfered with, and having blasphemous 
 language, — blasphemous, I say, used and — " 
 But Mrs. Forrester could get no further. 
 Her indignation was too great. Words even 
 failed her to express what she felt. Terms 
 were too mild to convey any idea, of the 
 wrong that had been done. The whole 
 range of language was inadequate to express
 
 AT BAY. 321 
 
 • 
 
 the blow her dignity had received, and the 
 storm of Christian feelings that had been 
 aroused. 
 
 The service had ended ; Mr. G-ambray's 
 last sermon, but one, had been preached ; 
 tbe Blessing of Peace had been passed upon 
 the kneeling congregation, — and then, there 
 had been a hurried retreat into the Church- 
 yard. 
 
 Most of the people had been longing 
 for the service to end. Most of them had 
 been occupied by thoughts, far removed from 
 the topic of Mr. Gambray's sermon. Most 
 of them had felt in a hurry, during the 
 delivery of that final Blessing of Peace, — 
 thinking of the lively expressions of war and 
 ill-feeling which would, a minute or two 
 later, be circulating in the outer court of 
 the Sacred Precincts. 
 
 Though the whole congregation had not 
 witnessed the little Christian scene, between 
 Mrs. Forrester and those three late-comers 
 who had wished to enter her pew, — the whole 
 Church had heard the stern denouncement 
 of her doings. And, more than this. The 
 whole Church seemed to know that she had 
 
 VOL. I. Y
 
 322 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 been worsted. That, after those few, brief, 
 telling words, Mrs. Forrester had retreated 
 back to her place near to her husband — 
 nearer than usual, — and had left those four 
 vacant seats in her pew -unguarded. And 
 those seats were occupied during the whole 
 Service, by those three smartly-dressed young 
 women, whom she had snubbed and tried to 
 drive out, because they were shoppy-looking, 
 and not the kind of people she liked to have 
 -sitting next to her. 
 
 This was the climax of humiliation, — she 
 had been worsted. Beneath the stern, un- 
 flinching gaze of that spare, stranger man, 
 Mrs. Forrester's eyes had sunk. Against 
 her will, she had moved back to her end of 
 the pew. During the whole of the remain- 
 ing part of the Service, she had not been her 
 usual self: she had felt cowed, restrained, 
 beaten. She had chafed against this un- 
 customary sensation, and had tried to rise 
 above it. But it was of no avail. Until 
 she rose to leave the Church, Mrs. Forrester 
 was unable to regain the dignity, assurance, 
 and command of herself, that were her usual 
 appendages.
 
 • AT BAY. 323 
 
 But, by the time she had reached the outer 
 porch, and had many of the congregation 
 pressing around her, — Mrs. Forresters self 
 had returned to her. Mrs. Forrester's self 
 with less of a veil thrown over it, than on 
 most occasions. For, Mrs. Forrester's self 
 had been crushed and almost paralyzed for a 
 while, and was both injudicious and un- 
 governable, when its power returned to it. 
 
 " "Where is that man, — that rude, inter- 
 fering man ? " — she said, moving further out 
 into the Churchyard, and not deigning to 
 notice the many exclamations of surprise, 
 condolence, and sympathetic indignation, that 
 rose around her, — " he used blasphemous lan- 
 guage, — he must be a heathen, or a methodist, 
 or something dreadful. He oughtn't to be 
 allowed in any church, — he ought to be black- 
 balled and thrust out. He was only a common 
 man, I believe, too, — and, using those words 
 to me, — to me, a lady, and he — a com- 
 mon — " 
 
 " Yes, a common man, — and you, Madam, 
 are a common woman. We are all common 
 men and women, and in that light, we worship 
 one Father common to all?
 
 324 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 The words were spoken very quietly, but 
 it was by the same voice that had said — 
 
 " This House is the House of God, but you 
 are making it a den of thieves." 
 
 For the stranger man, with the worn, 
 long coat, was standing amongst others of the 
 congregation not far from Mrs. Forrester. 
 
 All eyes were turned upon him to see what 
 manner of common man this was, that was 
 daring to address a lady like this ; to see, 
 also, what kind of common man this was, with 
 so distinct and refined an utterance, and with 
 so musical and modulating a voice. 
 
 Mrs. Forrester's face paled, as she, also, 
 turned slightly round ; for the voice had 
 seemed to have come slightly to one side of 
 her. She had not thought this man could 
 be anywhere near, or she would have chosen 
 her words and epithets more nicely. He 
 might be a gentleman after all, and not a 
 common man. She didn't know in the least 
 who he was, only, — she had never been 
 accustomed to any gentleman speaking in 
 the way he had to her, and, therefore, she 
 had concluded that he couldn't belong to 
 that class. But, whatever he belonged to, or,
 
 AT BAY. 325 
 
 whoever he was, — Mrs. Forrester was deter- 
 mined, notwithstanding the qualm of fear 
 she felt within her, and the unusual quicken- 
 ing of her pulses, — to show him what she 
 thought of the words he was addressing to 
 her now, and of those he had pointed at her 
 in the Church. 
 
 But the stranger also had a mission to 
 perform, before which Mrs. Forrester's would ■ 
 have to give way. 
 
 He was standing, with his low, clerical hat 
 pressed rather down on his forehead, giving 
 that peculiar look of the eyes gleamjng 
 straight from beneath it. They were fixed 
 upon Mrs. Forrester, — not angrily, not 
 fiercely, but with a certain burning power, 
 as if he were compelling her to look at him, — 
 compelling her to acknowledge that, before 
 God, she was but a common woman, as he was 
 but a common man. His mouth, slightly 
 compressed, straightened the curves in it, and 
 thus hid, somewhat, its natural tenderness 
 and mobility. 
 
 The moment his eye caught Mrs. 
 Forrester's, he made a movement towards 
 her; and, as if understanding the intention
 
 326 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 of his will, — the ladies and gentlemen who 
 were standing between her and him, without 
 a word or gesture, parted before him. 
 
 "Madam," he said, standing a few feet 
 from her, lifting his hat and baring his head 
 as he spoke, with a courtesy that is not 
 usual to those common men, amongst whom 
 Mrs. Forrester had classed him, " before 
 God, I have a word to speak to you. That 
 House which you have just left is a Place set 
 apart, consecrated, and sacred to the worship 
 of God. In it, men and women, high and low, 
 rich and poor, educated and uneducated, 
 well-dressed and ill-dressed, — are as one 
 before God. There is no difference between 
 you and what you call the lowest of creatures, 
 save only, that if that lowest one has a heart 
 near to God, he is far higher and far nearer 
 the Kingdom of God, than you are. For 
 your heart, Madam, is not right before God; 
 otherwise, you would neither have told a lie 
 in His House, nor have refused .to see kneel- 
 ing at your side three of His people. What 
 right had you to rob God ? What right had 
 you to take what was not yours ? What 
 right had you to deny the whole principles of
 
 AT BAY. 327 
 
 Christ's religion, and to make as a mockery 
 the bond of brotherhood, in which every man 
 and woman, bearing His name, is knit? — 
 Better for you to keep from public worship ; — 
 better for you to avow openly your disbelief 
 in what you profess; — better for you, even, 
 not to have known of Him, whose name is 
 Love, — than to have this condemnation pass 
 forth against you : — c Woe unto you, hypocrite, 
 — ye shut up the Kingdom of Heaven against 
 men; — ye neither go in yourself, neither 
 suffer ye them that are entering, to go in.' " 
 
 For a moment after these last strong words 
 had sounded forth, there was a profound 
 silence. Some of the people around, looked 
 with shocked wonder and pious indignation 
 at this bold and blasphemous stranger ; 
 others gazed mutely at him, in open admira- 
 tion. Not an eye was turned upon Mrs. For- 
 rester ; not a word was upraised to defend her. 
 Good and bad, righteous and unrighteous, 
 Pharisee and Publican, knew, in the bottom 
 of their hearts, that the words which this 
 stranger had boldly spoken, were fair, — right, 
 — true — words, and that in the sight of God, 
 he had done his duty in speaking them.
 
 328 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 What is this House of God, — that men do 
 make it " a den of thieves ? " What is this 
 Place of Worship, in which the rich turn to 
 the poor, and — as good as, say, " Come not 
 near unto us, we are holier than you, we 
 are more privileged creatures than you, we 
 have money and position, and can take unto 
 us the upper seats, — while you may sit in the 
 lower, amongst those like unto yourselves. 
 We are fastidious ; — we care not to soil our 
 fine garments with your poor ones ; — we care 
 not to hear your ill-pronounced jargon with 
 our refined enunciation ; — we care not to be 
 seen of our neighbours to be sitting next to 
 such as you. We are more righteous, — we 
 are more acceptable, — we are more learned in 
 doctrine and dogma. Therefore, — sit ye apart 
 from us ; we will take the best, you shall 
 take the worst ; we will be comfortable, you 
 shall sit where you can, — only, come not near 
 us, — disturb not our devotions, — mingle not 
 your miserable " God, be merciful" with our 
 contented " We thank God we are not as 
 other men are." — Worship God as you will, 
 or, don't worship Him at all, it won't matter 
 to us, only — only, spare our refined senses,
 
 AT BAY. ^329 
 
 v- 
 
 — spare our cultivated tastes, — spare our love 
 of class distinctions, and — come not near 
 us !" 
 
 Is there a God of the rich and a God of the 
 poor? Is there a God who says — " Ye are 
 all members one of another," — and a God 
 who would separate in His own House even, 
 the outwardly rich from the outwardly 
 poor ? Is there a God who says — " Love the 
 brotherhood," — and a God who would have 
 you gather up your skirts, lest even the hems 
 thereof shall be soiled in the contact with 
 those, whose bodies are clothed with stuffs of 
 coarser fibre than your own ? Is there a God 
 who has declared — " All souls are mine," — and 
 a God who holds that the souls of the rich, are 
 more precious and more privileged than those 
 of the poor ? Lb there a God Who gives forth 
 His word, and a God Who never intended that 
 word to be kept ? Is there a God who says 
 — " Do this," — and a God who says to the 
 same thing — "Do it not." Or — is it that 
 men, though acknowledging and nominally 
 serving the one High God, yet take unto them 
 another god — even the god of their own will ; 
 to let him interpret the words of their Creator
 
 330 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 as it seemeth most pleasant and most easy s 
 and most according to their own pampered 
 tastes ? 
 
 The House of God should be as " the Gate 
 of Heaven. " There, we think, there will alone 
 be the division between — good and bad. The 
 worldly distinctions will not exist ; they will 
 have been swept away amongst all other 
 earthly things — perishable. Yet, there comes 
 a time even now, when in the public worship 
 held in the House of God — men and women 
 stand before their Creator as they will stand 
 then, and not as they to their fellow creatures 
 do now appear. Is it therefore a thing 
 incredible that, for a while, the veil that 
 covers them now, should be regarded only as 
 a veil ? That the things outward should be 
 as nothing before the things inward ? That, 
 — not only in the sight of God, but in the sight 
 of all men — a rich man should stretch forth 
 his hand to a poor one and say, " Hand to 
 hand, and heart to heart?' That a rich 
 woman should tenderly draw in the poor one 
 and make room for her by her side, telling 
 her of the law of Love which makes all 
 things common between them ? Is it im-
 
 AT BAY. 331 
 
 possible that this should be even in the House 
 of God ? — even at the Gate of Heaven ? If so, 
 — there must be a flaw in the religion we hold, 
 and a stumbling block in it, over which many 
 will stumble and fall. But, — the flaw and the 
 stumbling block must be of man's own 
 making, they cannot be of God's. • 
 
 The stranger man's face was white and 
 quivering, as silently he turned from the 
 gaze of those many eyes, that were upon 
 him. For one moment he looked back at the 
 beautiful old Parish Church, with its low 
 square tower and clinging ivy, and as hejdid 
 so, the sternness on his mouth vanished, and 
 instead, a smile — exquisitely soft and tender 
 — played upon his parting lips, and crept into 
 his dark, kindling eyes. 
 
 " The Love and Long suffering of the Father 
 passeth understanding," he murmured, half 
 to himself; but some of those who stood 
 close by him, heard the words, and re- 
 membered them, and the strange sweetness 
 of the smile that lit his face, long afterwards. 
 Then, with a slight bow, and covering again 
 his bare head, — he passed rapidly through the 
 midst of the people, down the sloping Church-
 
 332 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 yard, down near the little moss-grown wall, 
 where the entrance covered gateway lay. 
 
 And the people stood and looked silently 
 after him, and watched him disappear round 
 the turning of that steep and winding lane, 
 which led downward from Abbeyslea's old 
 Church. 
 
 He slackened his speed somewhat, as he 
 felt himself once more alone ; once more dis- 
 tant from the stare and wonder of his fellow 
 human beings. Strange it is, how people do 
 stare and wonder, when one amongst them is 
 man enough to stand forward and do a duty, 
 which is not an easy or a pleasant one ! 
 
 " I feel as if I should like to turn into a 
 
 field, like the common man that I am, and 
 
 lie down in the ditch and have a good rest," 
 
 said the stranger aloud, as no one was within 
 
 hearing and he was in the habit of talking to 
 
 himself. For, he felt weary ; every limb 
 
 seemed aching as if he had walked miles, 
 
 and had thoroughly overdone himself. He 
 
 had not really walked far that day, and he 
 
 had felt perfectly fresh and strong before the 
 
 Service he had attended had begun. 
 
 By the wayside hedge he saw one of those
 
 AT. BAY. 333 
 
 few wild flowers that bloom so late in the 
 summer, and, looking at it, he thought how 
 beautiful and fair it was. So, he plucked it 
 gently, delicately, as, with a woman's hand, 
 and laid it in the buttonhole of his coat. 
 
 " It's company to me,'' he explained to 
 himself, thinking not, how incongruous the 
 pretty flower looked in his worn coat, and 
 with his white, weary face above it. For, 
 though this man had but just stood forth in 
 the name of his Master, and boldly rebuked 
 one of the well-to-do and ne'er- to -be-inter- 
 fered-with rich ones of the world, — though 
 he had done a duty, in which he had been 
 divinely lent both power and wisdom, — yet, 
 when the deed was over, when the strength 
 was no longer needed, — the not unusual 
 reaction set in. The stranger, whose God 
 was so near to him, yet felt himself just then 
 — alone, estranged from his fellow-men. So 
 solitary, that he plucked a wayside flower to 
 bear him company ; so weary, that he would 
 fain have lain himself down in a field to rest. 
 
 After he had reached the bottom of the 
 hilly lane that led into the high road, — he 
 paused in his onward course and looked first
 
 334 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 along the straight, white road, and then to 
 the left of him, across some flat-lying fields, 
 which seemed to stretch right in the direction 
 of the city of — . A high, awkward stile 
 was the means of access to these fields ; 
 along which could be seen a faint, white- worn 
 footpath. 
 
 "I wonder whether that, will lead me 
 more directly to the little inn where I am 
 lodging,'' said the stranger again 'aloud, 
 perplexed as to which way he should take, — 
 " 1 feel half inclined to try it, — so much 
 pleasanter as it would be, than along that 
 great white road, with so few trees and so 
 many houses. Let me see — " 
 
 He looked down at his flower, and a happy 
 thought struck him. 
 
 " Little flower, which shall I do ? " said he, 
 standing facing the high road, and smiling as 
 he did so, — " you shall be my guide. Which- 
 ever way your head turns, I will go ; only it 
 irfust look either straight in front, or else to 
 the left ; — the other directions are strictly 
 prohibited." 
 
 Then, bending his head quite close to his 
 .flower, he saw that, on its tender stem, it
 
 AT BAY. 335 
 
 leant a little to the left, where the awkward . 
 stile arose. It did not seem to like the look 
 of the dusty road, and had turned its head 
 away. 
 
 " Ah ! said the stranger, almost with 
 alacrity, stepping briskly forward to. the stile, 
 " it has pointed out the way I wished to go. 
 Sweet flower ! — Pretty little companion ! " 
 
 What would the cultivated, intellectual 
 people of Abbey slea have said, if they had 
 heard this stranger talking thus simple — 
 almost like a child — to a wayside flower, 
 that he had plucked? What would they 
 have thought if they had come upon him 
 unawares, and found him wishing that he 
 could go into a field as a tramp, and lie down 
 in a ditch to rest ? What would have been 
 their glance of incredulous wonder, if — look- 
 ing at his clerical hat and coat — they had 
 heard him talk of the little inn where he was 
 lodging ? And what would have been the 
 opinion they would have given, if, at the 
 same time, they had recalled the strong, 
 authoritative words he had spoken but a 
 while ago, — which had held them all as in a 
 charm, — silent — rebuked — immovable ?
 
 336 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 But, perhaps, the ideas about him and his 
 strange, contradictory ways, — had better not 
 be premised. Or, perhaps, it would be as 
 well, to follow him yet a little further, to see 
 whither his way led him. 
 
 It was the hottest part of the day, — a day 
 towards the end of a July, that had been hot 
 and rainless all the way through. The sun 
 shone down, bright and fierce, upon the 
 shorn grass, where the hay had all been cut 
 and gathered in. The first field, through 
 which the stranger passed, was thus dipt, 
 and looked rather brown by the steady, 
 shadeless heat of the burning sun. But the 
 second field, along which the little white- worn 
 path still lay, was one, waving fair and 
 beautiful, with bright green corn ; not 
 yellowed vet with maturing ripeness, but 
 still fresh, and young and very green, — as if 
 the sun had no power to turn and golden it 
 before its proper time. 
 
 " How refreshing ! — it does not even look 
 hot ! " said the stranger, lifting his hat from 
 the brow, which was moist with heat and 
 fatigue. " I sometimes think it would be 
 nice to lose oneself so entirely in something
 
 AT BAY. 337 
 
 different to oneself, as to be unconscious 
 of oneself, — unconscious, physically and 
 mentally. What would it not be, to be for a 
 minute or so, — as a blade of corn, growing 
 amongst other corn ? " 
 
 He paused a moment, thinking ; then, 
 seeing that the field was wide and long, and 
 that the city of — still looked quite a 
 distance off, he hastened on faster than 
 before, thinking half -aloud as lie went along. 
 
 " At least, to be a blade of corn would 
 take away one's individual consciousness ! — 
 At least, it would give a closer fellowship.! — 
 At least, were I but a blade of corn, I should 
 have other blades so close to me that never, 
 never could I be — as it were — alone. God ! 
 O Father ! — how lonely I am, — how separate, 
 — how solitary ! Overshadow me, Father, 
 — overshadow me, lest I die of weariness of 
 being alone ! " 
 
 At the end of the field of bright green 
 blades, stood a gate, — unfastened and slightly 
 ajar. It led into a very narrow lane, with a 
 high hedge on either side overshadowing the 
 pathway that lay between, and keeping the 
 air quite cool and damp-feeling, shut off from 
 
 vol. i. z
 
 338 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 all the heat of the burning sun. A slight 
 breeze seemed to flutter through the hedge 
 leaves, — a breeze that had been unheard and 
 unfelt before, but now, in the stillness of the 
 shadowed lane, it was just enough to stir the 
 little leaves, and to faintly fan the stranger's 
 hot and aching brow. It revived him, and 
 he lifted up his face with a smile and a light 
 in his clouded eye, to thank the God Who, in 
 his loneliness, had made him feel how close 
 was the shadowing of His Care and Love. 
 
 The little lane was long and straight ; but, 
 at length, it opened out into a field of . 
 fragrant clover, where the many-coloured 
 butterflies were revelling in its fragrance, 
 and the small field bees were humming and 
 byrrhing and sucking sweetness from the 
 pink and crimson heads. It was a sight so 
 beautiful, so rich in colour, so busy with 
 motion, — that the stranger stood a moment to 
 look at it. 
 
 " How happy' it all seems," said he, follow- 
 ing the pathway that was cut right across 
 the field, without looking where it led to. 
 But, when he had traversed it right to its 
 further end,— he saw that, if he had wished to
 
 AT BAY. 339 
 
 bear on straight in the direction of the city, 
 he should have kept along close by the hedge, 
 which, he could see now, would have taken 
 him, after a while, into a road leading him to 
 his destination. But the field was wide and 
 covered many acres of land, and, being un- 
 sheltered, the stranger was hot again and 
 very thirsty. He looked on, wondering if he 
 must turn back all that way again, and 
 retrace his steps. Was there no cottage 
 near, where he could ask a glass of water to 
 cool his parched tongue, — and, beneath whose 
 roof, he might rest awhile, until the heat of 
 the mid-day sun had lost something of its 
 fierce power ? 
 
 Abbeyslea Parish had no cottages ; but he 
 must be on the western borders of the Parish 
 now, not far from where the next-lying, not- 
 so-prosperous suburb lay. 
 
 Glancing around, he saw that his pathway 
 took him straight to the angle of a hedge ; 
 and, in this hedge was a large and passable 
 gap. He could see on looking through this 
 gap, that there lay on the other side of it, 
 a field of stubble. The hedge dividing the 
 field of clover from the field of stubble was
 
 340 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 very high; and here and there along it 
 grew great overspreading elms, and the 
 thick, short trunks of shorn willow trees. 
 
 The stranger hastened on to the gap. The 
 hedge was too high and thick, and the 
 blockade of trees too impenetrable for him 
 to see through, from a distance, whether 
 what lay beyond was all a field of stubble. 
 
 He gained the gap ; and, as he caught hold 
 of a firm, fence stick to help himself up, — a 
 white fowl, surrounded by a brood of milk- 
 white chickens, chuckled and fluttered and 
 bustled away, cackling at the intrusion. 
 
 And just beyond lay a little hen house, 
 round which were gathered other fowls ; and 
 close to that, again, stood a wicket gate 
 which led into a garden, in the midst of 
 which, standing right beneath that high 
 hedge and an overshadowing elm, rose a 
 low thatched cottage. 
 
 The door, overhung by sweet-scented 
 honeysuckle and flushing monthly roses, was 
 half -opened. And, as the stranger reached 
 the wicket gate, he could look inside to the 
 little low-roofed room; and there he saw, 
 seated at their Sunday dinner, — a working
 
 AT BAY. 341 
 
 man in his Sunday clothes, and his neat- 
 haired wife, and two bonny bairns. 
 
 " My friends, I am hot and thirsty, — might 
 I beg a glass of water ? " asked the stranger, 
 stooping somewhat beneath the trailing 
 honeysuckle, and bringing his face in close to 
 the door that stood ajar. 
 
 " An' welcome, sir, — mighty hot an' it be," 
 replied the man heartily, rising as he spoke, 
 and looking at the spare figure standing half 
 within his threshold. 
 
 Something upon the tired face of the 
 stranger, must have attracted him ; for, on the 
 spur of the moment, he further added, what 
 he would not, otherwise, have made so bold as 
 to say — 
 
 " An' you be not too proud, sir, you'd just 
 step in and sit down along a' us. You looks 
 a bit done and squeamish, an' I reckon the 
 sun ha' been a' his work a' you. But, — ye be 
 a gent, I knaws, — and we be but puir, 
 common folk. You be too proud, — an' 
 sure ? " 
 
 " I am only a common man myself," said 
 the stranger smiling, and taking the offered 
 chair, — next to the labouring man's wife, —
 
 342 DR. SINCLAIR'S SISTER. 
 
 " and you, my friend," — grasping the work- 
 ing-man's hand, — " are my brother/' 
 
 Two Sundays after, Mr. Gambray had left 
 Abbeyslea parish ; and, this stranger — the 
 Reverend Ambrose Liddon — was reading 
 himself in, in the old Parish Church, — as 
 Hector of Abbeyslea. 
 
 END OP VOL. I.