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 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 • Child, would you shun the vulgar doom — 
 In love, disgust ; in death, despair ; 
 
 Know, death must come, and love must come, 
 And so for both your soul prepare."
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD CAMPBELL TAINSH, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "ST. ALICE," "CROWNED," 
 
 &c. &c. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMKS. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1870. 
 
 The right of Translation is reserved.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTEI^ BY MACDONALD ANT) TDGWELL, BLENHKIM IIUI'SK. 
 
 BLENHEIM STREET. OXFORP STREET.
 
 V.I 
 
 CM 
 
 LO 
 
 a^ 
 
 H TO MARY, 
 
 MY WIFE, AND DEAR GIFT OF GOD, 
 
 s 
 
 O I DEDICATE THIS BOOK.
 
 OXE MAIDEX OXLY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A WILD night on the Cornish coast. A 
 long, low-lying shore, looking to the 
 north-west, and backed by a rocky cliff. At 
 one point the cliff swept round, and came 
 down in an abrupt promontory to the water's 
 edge ; beyond the promontory a gorge, 
 through which a stream ran, and on the 
 open-lying slopes of the upper part of which 
 stood the scattered houses of the fishing^ vil- 
 lage of Walcote. 
 
 Under the lee of the promontory (the 
 wind being from the north-west) were a 
 cluster of watchers — an old man, two young 
 men, and a young girl. Beside them, near- 
 ly the whole hamlet was out, for two or 
 three hours before they had heard the guns 
 of a ship in distress. 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 Z ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 The place had no lifeboat, but a lugger 
 had already once put off to the help of the 
 ship. It had been driven back with two 
 men disabled. The sailors were in grave 
 doubt whether they should venture again, 
 but at the last they resolved to do so, and 
 there was a call of "Two hands for the 
 boat !" 
 
 The two young men started forward to- 
 gether, but the old man caught sharply hold 
 of one, saying, 
 
 " Come back, Geoffrey ; you shall not go. 
 Hartley but risks his life, and that it is his 
 duty to do — God help us ! — but you — you 
 would kill yourself, and you shall not do it. 
 Stop here, my boy, I command you !" 
 
 The young man stepped back silently, 
 while the girl went closer to him, and put 
 her hand into his arm as they stood. 
 
 The other young man took his place a- 
 mong the crew, and the lugger put out again. 
 The night was dark, but the lightning came 
 often, and vividly enough to show the watch- 
 ers of the boat the way it took. Geoffrey felt 
 the girl's clasp of his arm grow sharper and
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 6 
 
 sharper as the time lengthened. Presently 
 they could see the boat returning, and at 
 last, on the top of a great wave, it was 
 swept in, while three or four of the crew 
 were hurled on to the beach by the force of 
 the shock, and the rush of the wave that 
 swept over the boat. Among these was 
 Hartley, and as he lay stunned for a mo- 
 ment by the blow, his face looked up, death- 
 like, under the lightning's glare. The girl 
 saw it, and was on her knees by his side in 
 a moment, crying — 
 
 " God, he is dead ! Is he dead ? Will 
 not somebody tell me ? Do not let him be 
 dead, good God !" 
 
 After a moment Hartley opened his eyes 
 and sat up, and then Beata stepped back, 
 leaving her father and Geoffrey standing 
 over him. 
 
 *' Are you hurt, my boy ?" said the old 
 man. 
 
 '' Not a bit, sir," Hartley said, reaching 
 out for a hand to help him to his feet — " a 
 little moist, that's all. Is everybody all 
 right?" 
 
 b2
 
 4 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 " All safe, sir," said one of the sailors. 
 
 They were beyond the shelter of the pro- 
 montory, and a sudden gust of wind nearly 
 carried the old man off his feet. 
 
 ^' Let us be going, sir," Geoffrey said. 
 
 "Can you walk, Hartley?" said the old 
 man. "That's well. Go on, then, with 
 Geoffrey and Beata, while we arrange about 
 housing for these poor people. I'll follow 
 you directly." 
 
 So they went towards home. Hartley 
 taking his brother's arm, and, half playfully, 
 Beata's too. Then Mr. Spenser and two 
 sailors caught them up, and the old man 
 and the sailors talked, but the others walked 
 home in silence.
 
 M 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 R. SPENSER was the Rector of Wal- 
 cote. Beata was the old man's 
 youngest and only remaining daughter. 
 Beata's mother was dead. Geoffrey and 
 Hartley were brothers, foster-sons, since the 
 death of their father, twelve years before, 
 in Mr. Spenser's home. 
 
 Save his drenching, not much harm had 
 come to Hartley, and the gladness of a 
 brave deed shone from his handsome face. 
 
 " You had better go straight to bed. Hart- 
 ley," the old man said. 
 
 "All right, sir." 
 
 The four stood together for a moment. 
 
 " Look at that dear old goose," Hartley 
 said, nodding towards Geoffrey ; "he pre- 
 tends to be ashamed, or unhappy, or some- 
 thing, that he didn't go out too. Whose 
 courage would you give most for, Beata ?"
 
 6 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 Beata smiled a little, but did not answer, 
 and the old man said, 
 
 " You must have been mad, Geoffrey, to 
 think of it ; you'd have been dead in the 
 morning, if you'd ever come back to shore 
 alive." 
 
 " I don't complain, sir," Geoffrey said ; 
 yet he thought just then, for it was hard to 
 bear, that it might be better to die doing 
 one manly deed than to drag on fifty years 
 of his puny, sickly life. 
 
 Then they said good night, and went to 
 their rooms. Beata found one awake to 
 receive her. 
 
 "I am so glad you are come, Berty dear ; 
 I have been staying awake all the time for 
 you ; and the wind was so loud, it frighten- 
 ed me very much." 
 
 " Did it, Eily ? Poor little birdie ! Well, 
 I will soon come and take you into my nest, 
 and then you will not be frightened any 
 more — eh, birdie ?" 
 
 " Oh ! no ; I shall not be frightened then. 
 I could never be frightened while you have 
 me, Beata."
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 7 
 
 So soon Beata got into bed, and took the 
 little birdie into the nest of her arms, and 
 the bird slept sweetly in its nest ; but the 
 nest was tossed by a tempest that Aileen 
 could not hear.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE storm that tossed the heart of Beata 
 had arisen altogether suddenly. Those 
 words that she had uttered by the side of 
 Hartley, dead, as it seemed, kept ringing in 
 her ears, and shocking her again and again 
 with bewildering pain. It was not the thought 
 of what the words might mean to other ears 
 that greatly occupied her then ; it was their 
 meaning to herself that bewildered her. She 
 had gone down to the shore that night rich, 
 as she thought, in her brothers, and in her 
 full sister's love for them. That sister's love 
 had made her, when Geoffrey had had to 
 draw back from the boat, so pity him, that 
 through the weakness of his body his acts 
 might not match the brave heart within. 
 It had made her, without deliberate thought, 
 go nearer to his side, that his manhood 
 might have some sort of comfort in sup-
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. d 
 
 porting her. But she understood that that 
 agony of suspense which she had felt while 
 the boat was out on the sea, and that pain 
 which had nearly killed her when she 
 thought Hartley dead, were not the off- 
 spring of a sisterly love. Hartley was loved 
 best, or loved in a mightier fashion, and 
 this it was that bewildered as well as pained 
 her. Until now she would have said that, 
 though both were well loved, Geoffrey was 
 best loved. There were many reasons why 
 it should be so ; but the revelation of the 
 evening defied all reasons, and through the 
 night the beautiful face of Hartley, as she 
 had seen it, pale and death-like, in the 
 moonlight, kept coming back and shaking 
 her with a tumult of feeling, while the pa- 
 tient, earnest face of Geoffrey seemed to 
 look out sad and reproachful upon her from 
 the distance. 
 
 Only when the morning light came, and 
 showed her her dead sister's child, her dear 
 birdie, more precious now than ever, sleep- 
 ing sweetly in her nest, did Beata, too, get 
 some sleep.
 
 10 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 AFTER breakfast, some callers dropped 
 in at the Rectory. These were a Mr. 
 and Mrs. Winthrop, nearest neighbours and 
 special friends of the Spensers. 
 
 ^'All down, are you? None the worse 
 for last night's doings, I suppose, then. Mas- 
 ter Hartley ? You re a-mind we shan't for- 
 get you when you are gone — eh ? " 
 
 " Hartley is fond of excitement," said Mrs. 
 Winthrop. 
 
 " Quite true," said Hartley, laughing po- 
 litely in Mrs. Winthrop's face, who looked 
 back at him with an inexorable nod, as if to 
 imply, " I mean exactly what I say." 
 
 '' A queer kind of excitement to be fond 
 of," Mr. Winthrop said; and then to Geoffrey, 
 " You didn't go out, did you?" 
 
 " No, I didn't go out."
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 11 
 
 " Xo, you couldn't, of course ; I forgot 
 about your health." 
 
 " You're quite welcome to forget," Geof- 
 frey said ; "I wish you'd leave my idiotic 
 health alone. I was out of swaddling bands 
 some years ago." 
 
 "Now, don't be cross, Geoff; you know 
 what an old blunderer I am." 
 
 " Yes, my dear, we all know," said Mrs. 
 Winthrop, with affectionate conjugal scorn ; 
 at which Mr. Winthrop smiled sympatheti- 
 cally at Hartley. 
 
 "What would you have done, Beata, if 
 Hartley had been drowned?" said he, to 
 turn the subject pleasantly. 
 
 Beata laughed uneasily. 
 
 " What would you have done if nature 
 had given you a little more common-sense ?" 
 said Mrs. Winthrop to her husband, giving 
 yet another turn to the conversation. 
 
 Mr. Winthrop said he did not know what 
 he should have done in that case ; and then 
 little Eily came in and took possession of 
 him, and the need of any more common 
 sense than nature had favoured him with
 
 12 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 did not seem at all to weigh upon his mind. 
 
 " You still go on Thursday ?" Mrs. Win- 
 throp said, turning to Geoffrey. 
 
 " Yes ; Hartley's people will expect him 
 on Friday, and for me, I suppose there are 
 lodgings to let in London most days of the 
 week." 
 
 Both brothers were bound for London — 
 Geoffrey to take up his abode in lodgings, 
 and begin the experiment of trying to live 
 by his pen ; Hartley to fill the post of assist- 
 ant secretary to an Insurance Company, ob- 
 tained for him by the influence of a friend, 
 and for the present, at all events, to make 
 his home in the house of his chief. 
 
 This destiny had come somewhat suddenly 
 upon the brothers. For many years, as has 
 been said, they had been foster-sons in the 
 Rectory, left so by the death of their father. 
 Mr. Spenser was one of their trustees, their 
 property being invested in a mine in the 
 neighbourhood. This mine had almost sud- 
 denly become worked out, and the property 
 consequently fell to nothing. With the boys' 
 property went Mr. Spenser's, for his, too.
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 13 
 
 was invested in the mine. So it came to 
 pass that, as Mr. Spenser expressed it, they 
 were all beggars together. The brothers 
 had nothing. While he lived, Mr. Spenser 
 had, of course, his income as rector, and 
 his home was the boys' ; but with his death 
 the home and income vanished together. 
 Therefore, that they might take time by the 
 forelock, the young men were going out to 
 earn their living at once. 
 
 The boys' destiny was by no means a dire 
 calamity, though to the old man it was not 
 easy to take a cheery view of the matter. 
 For, first, the thing had come about through 
 what he persisted in calling his fault. And 
 second, fault or no fault, the brightness of his 
 life would come, he said, to an end when the 
 boys left him. Against this self-reproach 
 and this fear every one about him did bat- 
 tle, but with small success ; and the old man's 
 melancholy gave occasion to the brothers 
 and to Beata to half forget their own sor- 
 row in the effort to comfort his. 
 
 Yet their own sorrow was no light one, 
 inasmuch as the life which was now to end
 
 14 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 was one to lose with exceeding regret. 
 Beata was now twenty years old, and in 
 many ways young for her years. Hartley 
 was twenty-two, Geoffrey nearly twenty- 
 five. Almost before she could remember, 
 Beata had lost her mother ; and when she 
 was eight years old the brothers had come 
 to live in her home. For years they had 
 been taught in the house, and all the time 
 they had been to her as brothers. She had 
 had sisters older than herself, but one of 
 them had died, and the other had married 
 soon after the coming of the boys, who so 
 had been her only companions. She want- 
 ed no otliers, and her days were spent with 
 them. They were very different compan- 
 ions. Hartley was strong, and full of life 
 and frolic, impulsive in his affections, impe- 
 rative, with many whims, and easy to take 
 offence ; Geoffrey was quiet, and delicate in 
 mind and health, asking little of Beata, but 
 gladly happy to have her whenever she 
 went near him, always the same to her, 
 yielding always to her will, except once or 
 twice, when he thought her will was wrong.
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 15 
 
 and then surprising her with the quiet 
 strength of his persistence, without whims, 
 and never once, that she could remember, 
 angry or offended with her. And then, 
 presently, when she was about sixteen. 
 Hartley went away to college, and as Geof- 
 frey could not go on account of the weak- 
 ness of his health, she was left with him as 
 her sole companion. Then began their 
 great times together. During those three 
 or four years, he made her character, guid- 
 ing her reading, teaching her, helping her 
 to think, filling her mind with his own 
 thoughts, opening out for her those wider 
 vistas of thought which are the reward of a 
 life spent with noble books, yet all the time 
 reverencing her character and womanhood, 
 and teaching her, though without words to 
 that effect, to do the same. 
 
 In the vacations Hartley came home, 
 waking up the whole household with his 
 breezy freshness, and bidding Geoffrey and 
 Beata to throw their cobwebs of sober 
 thought to the winds. And they, for the 
 time, were not unwilling to do so ; they re-
 
 16 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 joiced in his fall life, and loved his beauty 
 and his manly grace, and found his very ty- 
 rannies refreshing through the gay and gal- 
 lant hand with which he enforced them. 
 GeoiFrey seemed to rejoice in him with a 
 kind of maternal pride, and was as little 
 jealous of his strength and exuberant health 
 and never-failing wealth of life as is a mo- 
 ther herself that time she dies that her child 
 may live. These vacations were very happy 
 times to Beata and GeoiFrey, paled only a 
 little, as the later ones came, by the feeling, 
 which they scarcely acknowledged to them- 
 selves, and never hinted to each other, that 
 that tyranny of Hartley's, stripped of its 
 grace and its gaiety, was not altogether a 
 beauty in his character, and that it rather 
 grew than disappeared as his boyhood pass- 
 ed away. 
 
 This was the life that their parting was 
 to end. It needed not the events of the 
 night of the storm to make the grief a poign- 
 ant one to Beata.
 
 17 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 IT was in the afternoon of the day after 
 the storm that Hartley came to find 
 Beata. She was at a window, working, and 
 he sat down on a low seat at her feet, rest- 
 ing his arm upon her knee. She did not 
 speak, but, having greeted him once with a 
 smile, went on workins^ as he sat. She 
 knew that he was looking up into her face ; 
 it was his way. Presently he said — 
 
 " I say, Beata, what would you have done 
 if I had been drowned ?" 
 
 The old pain came back upon her for a 
 moment. She said, 
 
 "" I don't know what I should have done, 
 Hartley ; but how can you ask me such a 
 thing?" 
 
 " I thou2fht of it when I was in the boat. 
 
 o 
 
 I wasn't afraid, of course ; but I knew that 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 we might go down. I wanted to come back 
 for your sake most of all, Beata," 
 
 Beata had been wondering through the 
 morning whether Hartley had heard her 
 words, kneeling by his side, last night. She 
 thoudit now that he had. 
 
 o 
 
 " I suppose I must have been thrown out 
 of the boat and stunned for a moment," he 
 said ; " I don't remember getting out. The 
 first thinsf I remember is the dear old man 
 asking me if I was hurt." 
 
 So he had not heard, she found. She 
 was glad ; it spared them both much pain, 
 perhaps, though her pain would not have 
 been the pain of shame. If suddenly she 
 found herself loving Hartley, there was no- 
 thing to be ashamed of in that, though all 
 the world knew it. The shame would be- 
 gin when her love made her disloyal to her 
 duty, or to herself, or to him. But she was 
 thankful that he had not heard her, never- 
 theless. 
 
 "To think of never seeing you any more, 
 Beata !" 
 
 " Don't, Hartley ; I can t bear it."
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 19 
 
 He sat quiet for a while, looking up into 
 her face still. Then he said, " Beata, I 
 want you to make nie a promise." 
 
 " A promise. Hartley ? What is it ?" 
 
 " I want you to promise to be my wife 
 when I have found my way in life enough 
 to come back and claim you." 
 
 " Please don't, Hartley ; I can't talk about 
 such things. I am too sad at your going 
 away." 
 
 *'But that is just why I want to talk 
 about it, Beata. I love you very dearly." 
 
 '' Yes, Hartley." 
 
 " And I want to have you for my own 
 some day ; and I want to be sure all the 
 time 1 am away that I shall have you." 
 
 "You will always have me, dear." 
 
 " For my wife, do you mean ?" 
 
 " I did not say for your wife ; but you 
 know that I shall always love you." 
 
 " But I must have you for my own, 
 Beata ; do you not love me well enough for 
 that?" 
 
 " I love you as much as possible. Hartley." 
 
 " Then you will be my wife ?" 
 
 c2
 
 20 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 " I do not know. I never thought about 
 it." 
 
 " But you need not think about it, if you 
 love me. Say that you will, Beata ; it will 
 send me away so very happy." 
 
 " I cannot say so, Hartley, because I do 
 not know ; it is a solemn thing to say." 
 
 " Then, if you will not promise, you do 
 not love me." 
 
 She did not answer to this, but looked 
 sadly into his face. 
 
 " I suppose you love Geoffrey better," he 
 said, petulantly, even though bitterly, too. 
 
 " I do not love Geoffrey better," she said. 
 
 " Then say you love me best of all, dear 
 Berty, and promise that you will be my wife 
 some day. I shall be so lonely if you do 
 not." 
 
 She could not see his face now for her 
 tears. She would have given the world to 
 be able to promise him that, or anything 
 that might make him less lonely out in the 
 great strange world of which she knew so 
 little. But she could not have shaped her 
 mouth to utter those words then, though
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 21 
 
 both their lives had hung upon her act. She 
 said, " Have some pity upon me, Hartley ; I 
 cannot promise." 
 
 " Very well, Beata ; then I know that 
 you do not love me. You have spoilt my 
 life, that is all." 
 
 So he rose to go, and even in the midst 
 of her pain for him she felt that his words 
 were verv cruel. And as she thought this, 
 he came back acrain, and stood facincr her. 
 
 " Will you make me another promise, 
 Beata ?" 
 
 " I do not know, Hartley. What is it ? " 
 
 *' Promise that you will not marry anyone 
 else, at all events." 
 
 " I never thought of marrying ; I do not 
 want to marry anyone. But I cannot make 
 any such promise. You should know that. 
 Hartley. It is cruel of you to make me suffer 
 so." 
 
 He turned from her without speaking, 
 though she rose that he might kiss her, or 
 give her some token of their old love. He 
 gave her no token, but, without even looking 
 at her, left the room.
 
 9 
 
 22 OXE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 Beata knew all the time she was talkmg 
 with Hartley that she loved him well enough 
 to be his wife or his slave for life. Yet, as 
 has been said, she had in her no power to 
 shape the promise he demanded of her. 
 
 Had Hartley come but the day before, 
 and demanded that promise of her, he 
 would have stood a better chance, in the 
 sudden awakening of her heart to the con- 
 sciousness of its love, of obtaining his wish. 
 But, though he knew it not, the awakening 
 had taken place in the hour of the storm, 
 and the night had been spent in pondering 
 the new revelation. And the pondering 
 had made clear the shortcomincrs as well 
 as the fulness of her love. Beata had dis- 
 covered that she loved Hartley with an in- 
 tensity of which she had been altogether 
 unaware. But the stature of her love 
 dwarfed, by comparison, the honour in 
 which she held him. Her past love for him 
 had been perpetually touched by regrets for 
 his acts and his words, perpetually pained 
 by a sense of insecurity in the hold which 
 she had upon his love. Of Geoffrey she
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 23 
 
 had had no doubts ; of Hartley she had had 
 many. Yet Hartley was her best-beloved, 
 as it seemed. This it was that had filled 
 her with bewildering pain during the niglit ; 
 for it contradicted all her notions of love, 
 and made her feel as if she were drifting 
 away from those sure foundations upon 
 which her life had been built. " That which 
 is best we must needs love best," expressed 
 her life-long: faith. Of love that did not 
 conform to this law she had known nothing. 
 The first glimpse of it bewildered her, and 
 filled her with a pained sense of insecurity 
 and loneliness. Hartley, least honoured, 
 was best beloved. This she could not help; 
 but when Hartley asked her to promise to 
 become his wife, her unprofaned womanly 
 instincts leaped forth to forbid the promise, 
 which would have been a blind sin against 
 her womanhood. Only to him who was 
 her lord, also, as well as her love, was it 
 possible for her to be wife after her mea- 
 sure of wifehood !
 
 24 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE purpose to ask Beata to be his wife 
 was of old date with Hartley. From 
 the time when he first went away to college, 
 and felt the pain of leaving her, it had been 
 in his mind ; and after each vacation the 
 purpose was strongly renewed. Each time, 
 when he got back to college, his letters came 
 warm and frequent, leaving no doubt that 
 his thoughts were full of her. But as the 
 term went on, warmth and frequency faded, 
 his letters became short as well as rare, and 
 couched in stereotyped terms, instead of that 
 exuberance of petting language of which 
 their predecessors had been full. It was 
 easy for Beata to know that she was but an 
 occasional and lig;htlv- entertained visitor in 
 his thoughts. She was by no means angry 
 or resentful at this ; but it gave a seeming 
 of instability and unreality to his love.
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 25 
 
 which could not but half spoil the pleasure 
 of it to her. 
 
 When the next vacation came, Hartley 
 would return with the light playfulness of 
 an affectionate acquaintance, and only gra- 
 dually would his old warm manner return 
 upon him. But when it came, it grew, and 
 before the time for him to leave arrived, he 
 would scarcely suffer her to be out of his 
 sight. Yet all this time he spoke no defi- 
 nite words of love, and each new term but 
 witnessed the repetition of the history of its 
 predecessors. Geoffrey and Beata often 
 smiled quietly together over the fluctuations 
 in the temperature of Hartley's affections ; 
 but he was their brother, and they scarcely 
 confessed to themselves that they more than 
 smiled. 
 
 ' At those times when his affectionate 
 moods were upon him, Hartley was very 
 exigent in his love. Beata must always 
 be ready to respond to him, and it was 
 tacitly understood that even Geoffrey's 
 wishes must be postponed to his. Indeed, 
 their whole household and circle seemed
 
 26 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 more or less to await his nod, Mrs. Winthrop 
 only irritating him by demanding sometimes 
 a reason as well as a law from him. But 
 then his nod was so frank and royal, that 
 the very servants of the household looked 
 more pleased at liis tyrannies and multitudi- 
 nous demands than at all Geoffrey's substan- 
 tial kindness and self-forgetting courtesy. 
 
 Yet all the time Hartley never altoge- 
 ther snapped the thread of his resolve to 
 ask Beata to be his w^ife. Indeed, he had 
 often spoken to Geoffrey of his purpose, 
 and Geoffrey had listened, saying neither 
 yea nor nay, for the time was not yet, and 
 feeling, too, that at any time his yea would 
 be unnecessary, and his nay useless. Only 
 when, a day or two before the act, Hartley 
 had said to him, " I shall ask Beata to pro- 
 mise to be my wife before we go away," he 
 had said, ^' I think I wouldn't. Hartley ; it 
 will scarcely be kind." 
 
 "Why not?" Hartley said. 
 
 " Because, as our dear old man says, we 
 are beggars." 
 
 " But we shan't be long. I mean to make 
 a fortune."
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 27 
 
 " I hope so, old boy, with all my heart ; 
 but you might make a fluke instead. I 
 think rd wait until the fortune is begun." 
 
 "' And meantime let her forget me ?" 
 
 *' Of course." 
 
 " Or, at all events, let some one else snap 
 her up." 
 
 " And lest she should forget you, or some 
 one else should snap her up, you will make 
 her anxious and troubled and old before 
 her time — for how many years, I wonder ? 
 I think I wouldn't ask her, Hartley, old boy." 
 
 ^' Oh I bother, Geoff ; you are always 
 preaching and croaking. I tell you I shall 
 ask her." 
 
 " Very well, I'm sorry — as sorry as I can 
 be." 
 
 But then Geoffrey had heard the words 
 that Beata spoke, kneeling by the side of 
 Hartley, and these had startled him, and he 
 had not known whether any more to be 
 sorry that Hartley had resolved to speak to 
 her. His first opposition and regret were 
 based upon the assumption that Beata's 
 heart was at peace in this matter. If her
 
 28 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 heart was not at peace, then it was more 
 difficult to know whether it would be well 
 or ill for Hartley to speak to her of his 
 love. Only if he spoke, then he trusted 
 that he would be stable and good to her. 
 For liim, he loved Hartley dearly ; but if 
 Hartley were not good to Beata, then — but 
 he must be good to her when she had given 
 herself into his hands. So he said to him- 
 self. 
 
 Then it happened, on the evening of the 
 day when Hartley had spoken to Beata, 
 that Geoffrey asked him if he had done so. 
 
 "Yes, I have," he said. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Well, that's all" 
 
 " What did she say, Hartley?" 
 
 " She said that she couldnt promise to be 
 my wife?" 
 
 '"Did she?" 
 
 " Yes ; she did. Why ? Are you sur- 
 prised?" 
 
 Geoffrey could not tell Hartley the words 
 he had heard from Beata, now, if in any case 
 he could have told him. Yet, but for these
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 29 
 
 words, he had no reason to feel surprised. 
 So he held his peace, and did not say whe- 
 ther he felt surprised or not. 
 
 " Perhaps she has promised to be your 
 wife, Geoff?" Hartley said. 
 
 '' Perhaps, Harty. What do you think?" 
 
 *' I think I'm a fool." 
 
 '' Did she say she would not be your 
 wife?" 
 
 " No ; she said she didn't know ; she 
 couldn't promise." 
 
 '' Then it is all right, Harty, after all, let 
 us hope. Begin to climb the ladder of your 
 fortune, and stand true to her. Your very 
 askingr must bear some fruit. She has not 
 even refused you, you know." 
 
 "No, and won't now, I reckon. A toss 
 for wives ! I'll make a fortune now for my- 
 self." 
 
 " Be reverent, Harty, my boy. You mean 
 none of all that." 
 
 " So saith the preacher. Good night. 
 I'm going to bed."
 
 30 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE next day Hartley was cold and curt 
 and distant to Beata. At meals he 
 scarcely spoke, and through the whole day 
 he carefully avoided being alone with her. 
 On the morning of the day after, which 
 was, indeed, their last — for the brothers 
 w^ere to leave on the following morning, 
 — she said to him, 
 
 " You will write often to me, Hartley ?" 
 "No, I daresay not," he said ; " what will 
 be the use of writing? You should have 
 
 o 
 
 given me a reason for writing often, Beata." 
 '^ There is reason in our old love, Hart- 
 ley." 
 
 " I daresay I shall manage to let you 
 know whether I am dead or alive," he said, 
 and began to hum a tune. 
 
 All that day Beata was doing things for 
 the boys, in preparation for their departure.
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 31 
 
 Tlie fact necessarily brought her into per- 
 petual contact with one or the other. Nei- 
 ther said much to her, and she could have 
 cried when either was near her. But how 
 different the crying would have been ! How- 
 ever, she did not cry at all, and so that pain 
 and that comfort were spared her. 
 
 With Geoffrey she had to go over all his 
 books and papers, to make sure that he left 
 nothing behind him : for these were his 
 stock in trade. First they did the books, 
 and that was sad work indeed. One after 
 another came all their old favourites — 
 poems that he had read to her ; books they 
 had read together, sitting, her hand in his, 
 as they had been in the habit of sitting for 
 years ; books they had worked at ; books 
 above her, until his teaching made them 
 clear to her. And now they were going 
 away, and each book seemed a part of her 
 as it was put into the box. It was the 
 burying, piece- meal, of their dear old life. 
 Every here and there he gave her one of 
 their special favourites, and put her name in 
 it, under his. Well, that was something;
 
 32 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 but it seemed like writing her name upon a 
 tombstone, under which she was buried 
 ahve. She was half glad and bitterly sorry 
 when the packing of the books was finished. 
 Then came the papers, and at these, spite 
 of its sadness, her heart bounded. There 
 were a great many of them. They were 
 very noble, she thought. They would make 
 his fame, for certain, sooner or later. Many 
 of them were in her handwriting ; she had 
 made the fair copies. Some of them, she 
 remembered, had been altered at her sug- 
 gestion ; and at this she did not know whe- 
 ther to feel a little proud, or very much 
 ashamed, when she thought of his coming 
 greatness. But Geoffrey seemed to have no 
 doubt which she ought to feel. He said — 
 
 '' It will be a simple imposition if these 
 are ever published under my name. It 
 must stand ' Geoffrey Leighton and Co.,' or, 
 ' Beata Spenser and Geoffrey Leighton,' or, 
 ' Geoffrey Leighton, inspired and corrected 
 by Beata Spenser.' That they are not mine 
 is quite certain." 
 
 "They are yours, dear, and only your
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 33 
 
 first-fruits, I am sure. But the richest re- 
 ward will be mine always. I shall be more 
 proud and happy for you when you are 
 great than you can ever be for yourself." 
 
 " Yes, Berty, I know. But I hope you 
 will not have to wait for happiness until I 
 am great." 
 
 Beata thought her thought, but she said, 
 
 " I have only one fear for you, Geoffrey." 
 
 ''And that fear you may put clean away, 
 Berty. I shall not break down, or be ill ; 
 I feel sure of that. My puny time is past. 
 I shall be a strong man yet, I expect, before 
 I die, or strong enough, at all events." 
 
 " But if you should be ill, Geoffrey?" 
 
 "Then I will let you know." 
 
 " And you will send for me ?" 
 
 " If I am very ill, I will send for you, 
 my darling, spite of Mrs. Grundy. You are 
 my sister." 
 
 Why did he say that ? she wondered. 
 Three days before she would not have won- 
 dered at all, for, of course, she was his sis- 
 ter. But the discovery of her own feeling 
 towards Hartley, and Hartley's to her, had 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 made her uneasy and nervous. She had 
 never thought about Hartley as anything 
 but her brother — never imagined that he 
 thought of her as other than a sister. But 
 all of a sudden this had been changed on 
 both sides of it. What now should she do 
 if it turned out that Geoffrey also hoped to 
 have her as his wife ? This would break 
 her heart, if it were so, and the very possi- 
 bility of it made her uneasy and nervous. 
 So her heart caught at his words, " You are 
 my sister," and she said — 
 
 " Yes, Geoffrey, your dear sister for ever." 
 
 " May I ask you a question, Berty ?" he 
 said. 
 
 She felt the blood go from her face. 
 What now? she wondered. But she just 
 answered, 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Will you ever be Hartley's wife ?" 
 
 " I cannot tell," she said, while her eyes 
 fell from his. 
 
 " Cannot tell at all, dear?" 
 
 " Not at all, Geoffrey." 
 
 So it ended. Her fears were not con-
 
 OXE :NrAIDEN ONLY. 35 
 
 firmed, but they were not removed. Sud- 
 denly it flashed across her that she would 
 make one bold effort for certainty. She 
 said, still looking down — 
 
 "Would you like me to be Hartley's 
 wife ? It could not make any difference ; 
 but would you like me to be ?" 
 
 " If you could, and if it would make you 
 happy, I should be very thankful, dear." 
 
 Then she looked up into his face, and his 
 face told her the truth that her face asked 
 of him. And then he kissed her, and she 
 knew that this s^reat sorrow was not added 
 to her cup. 
 
 As the day went on, Hartley softened to 
 her a little. First he saw her trying to 
 move one of his heavy boxes. 
 
 "Let that alone," he said, and put it 
 where she wished it placed. Then he saw 
 her mendins^ one of his coats that he did 
 not know was torn, and he stood for a mo- 
 ment lookino; at her. Then, later, he found 
 her gathering up things about his room that 
 he had forgotten. He stopped her, and 
 kissed her without speaking ; and Beata's 
 
 d2
 
 36 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 heart felt less dark than it had felt all day. 
 
 And then, when everything was done, 
 their last dinner-time together came. They 
 had Aileen with them, and the young men 
 did their best to be cheery. They made 
 bright talk of their hopes and plans, drew 
 play-pictures of the future, with Aileen, and 
 spoke of their first visit home as an event 
 very near, and very pleasant indeed. Their 
 great thought was to lift the old man out of 
 the gloom and self-reproach into which he 
 had settled. And every now and then he 
 did brighten at a cheery view or a pleasant 
 picture ; only the relapse, also, was sure to 
 come. But they made him promise to try 
 to keep a good heart, and that for Beata's 
 sake as well as for his OAvn. 
 
 After dinner Mr. and Mrs. Winthrop came 
 in. 
 
 " We thought we'd better come and say 
 good-bye to-night," said Mr. Winthrop ; 
 " you'll be very busy in the morning. We've 
 brought you some housekeeping things and 
 a case of wine. You'll want plenty of wine 
 in London — it's a dreadfully gloomy place —
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 37 
 
 and as for buying it there, it isn't to be had 
 for love or money." 
 
 •' Do be quiet, John ; what nonsense you 
 talk !*' said Mrs. Winthrop. 
 
 "Nonsense, my dear? Why, you are 
 talking nonsense yourself. Do you think I 
 don't know what wine is? And do you think 
 I have never stayed at a London hotel? And 
 do you think I don't remember what I drank 
 for dinner, and what I paid for it, too, for 
 that matter ? I'll tell you what it is, Master 
 Geoff, if yov drink any of the London wine, 
 you'll be dead in a couple of days." 
 
 '' That's quick work too," said Geoffrey ; 
 " but, bless you, I'm going to live on tops 
 and bottoms, and toast-and- water, flavoured 
 with a little of your wine, when I feel speci- 
 ally inclined to be dissipated. With my 
 delicate health I can't stand stronger food 
 than that." 
 
 '• He's getting ashamed of his health, Eily," 
 said ]\Ir. Winthrop; and with such light, 
 pointless talk, which every one does talk 
 upon such occasions, they passed the time, 
 until Mrs. Winthrop said that they must go.
 
 38 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 ^' God bless you, my boys !" Mr. Winthrop 
 said, when his wife took him away ; " good 
 luck to you ! You will know that you have 
 warm friends at home here whatever hap- 
 pens. Send for some more wine when you 
 want it." 
 
 So they left ; and the old man and Aileen 
 went to bed, and Beata and the young men 
 sat round the fire for a little, before parting 
 for the night, as they had done hundreds of 
 times before ; only that whereas, before, 
 some of their fullest talks had been had at 
 these hours, to-night scarcely a word was 
 spoken. At last they, too, rose to go. 
 Geoffrey kissed Beata and went ; but Hart- 
 ley lingered for a moment. He took Beata's 
 hands in his, and stood looking into her face. 
 
 " You are very cruel to me, Beata." 
 
 She shook her head sadh^, but did not 
 answer. Then he took her into his arms as 
 he had done a thousand times before, and 
 kissed her passionately, as he had never 
 kissed her before ; and then he went. 
 
 Beata lay, through the night, as stonily 
 awake as if sleep had left her for ever. She
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 39 
 
 did not think mucli ; the one blank picture 
 of the future filled her mind. The new love 
 had made her desolation the greater, unless, 
 indeed — and this thought shook her, though 
 she turned her mind again and again away 
 from it — unless Hartley should not change 
 this time, but should come back to her as he 
 left her, and then she would know that she 
 might own him as her lord as well as her 
 love, and so her heart would have blessed 
 peace instead of its present storm and pain.
 
 40 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 LAST times are no times, and morning 
 good-byes are full of cold-blooded 
 pain. The form of breakfast was gone 
 through, and the trap that was to take the 
 brothers to meet the coach was brought to 
 the door. The parting was nearly a silent 
 one. Eily clung to their necks in a passion 
 of tears. 
 
 " You'll remember your promise, sir," 
 Geoffrey said to the old man. To Beata he 
 said, " Don't be lonely, darling ; I am al- 
 ways with you." 
 
 " Don't forget me, Berty," Hartley said ; 
 and they were gone. 
 
 Beata went in at once ; she could not 
 stand to see them fade in the distance. Mr. 
 Spenser and Aileen stayed till they were 
 out of sight ; then Aileen went to Beata's
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 41 
 
 room. Beata took the child into her arms. 
 
 " You must be everything to me now, my 
 precious," she said ; and then tears came to 
 comfort her, and the two crooned out their 
 grief together. 
 
 That did not last long, however. With a 
 sudden curb, Beata pulled herself up sharp- 
 ly, and went about her household duties. 
 Eily kept by her side, wherever she went, 
 the whole mornins;. Beata's heart felt the 
 child near her, but nevertheless she moved 
 about with a strange, far-off feeling, as if all 
 thimzs were but shadows, or she a va^rae 
 shadow moving amongst them. Presently 
 Mrs. Winthrop came in. 
 
 " They are gone ?" she said. 
 
 Beata nodded. 
 
 *' Now you must come out for a walk." 
 
 " No, I can't." 
 
 " But you must ;" and Beata suffered her- 
 self to be persuaded, and set out, going first 
 to her father to tell him. 
 
 " When are we to hear, Berty ?" he said. 
 
 " The day after to-morrow, I hope, papa. 
 Only just a word then — more the next day."
 
 42 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 " I suppose we shall get used to it pre- 
 sently, Berty." 
 
 " I hope so, dear. I will soon be back." 
 She stooped down and kissed him, and her 
 face caught a tear from the old man's as she 
 did so. 
 
 When they returned from their walk, Mrs. 
 Winthrop said to Beat a — 
 
 " Shall I come in, in the evening? " 
 
 " No, not to-night, I think." 
 
 "Very welL Don't be idle, mind; I 
 daresay your music wants arranging. That 
 will be a nice occupation for you." 
 
 By-and-by Mr. Winthrop called in, in pass- 
 ing. He had brought some fruit. He had 
 seen the coach and stopped it for a moment. 
 The boys sent their love ; they looked all 
 right. Then he went away with a " Cheer 
 up, my girl," and stroking her face lightly, 
 as if she were a child. His little visit did 
 her good. 
 
 In the evening she did actually set to 
 work to arrange her music. There were 
 many songs and pieces that the boys had 
 given her, some favourites of her father's, too,
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 43 
 
 md some old pieces that had been her mo- 
 ther's. And by-and-by she found herself 
 touching the keys to recall some dear old 
 lir, and she could not help playing it ; and 
 then her father asked for something that 
 she could not refuse him, and so, before 
 bed-time of the day when her more than 
 brothers had left her, she found herself 
 singing. It did her good, yet there is 
 plenty of crying not half so sad. But it 
 did her good, and softened her heart better 
 than tears could have done. Then she went 
 and sat on a stool by her father, and rested 
 her face upon his knee. And when they 
 went to bed, and she lay down, with her 
 dear birdie once more in the soft nest of her 
 bosom, sleep, which is less obedient to the 
 dictates of happiness and sorrow than is 
 sometimes supposed, came to her, and she 
 passed a quiet, dreamless night, and awoke 
 in the mornin^ more alive to her loss than 
 ever, but a brave woman, nevertheless, 
 whom loss could not cause to forget the 
 meaning of life, nor draw off into self-indul- 
 gent reveries from the duties of the present.
 
 44 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE next morning brought a short joint 
 letter from the brothers, making known 
 their safe arrival in London; and the follow- 
 ing^ morning; came a lons^ letter from each of 
 them. Both were addressed to Beata, 
 though there was a long message in each 
 for Mr. Spenser. 
 
 Hartley's letter did not contain much 
 news. They had reached London in the 
 afternoon of the second day. Then they 
 had sfone together to find lodsino-s for Geof- 
 frey, about which he would tell ; and then 
 he, Hartley, had gone to his place, where he 
 had been kindly received, had dined, and 
 was now in his room for the night, and 
 writing to her a letter, which he would be 
 able to post the next day. Their little joint 
 messeng;er she would have had before this 
 was posted.
 
 ONE MAIDEN OXLY. 45 
 
 The rest of the letter was filled with the 
 passionate expression of his loneliness, of his 
 sorrow at leaving the dear old home and 
 her, of his love for her, greater than even 
 he himself had known it to be, followed by 
 reproaches, half tender, half bitter, that she 
 should have suffered him to go away so 
 lonely, when the promise that she would be 
 his wife some day would have filled his 
 heart with the sense of her presence, and 
 made him glad all the day long. 
 
 So ran the letter. Beata opened it at 
 the breakfast-table, but her glance easily 
 told her which were the paragraphs to read; 
 the rest she kept until, the meal being over, 
 she could go to her own room and there 
 read them. \Yhen she had finished, and 
 had slowly folded up the letter, she put it 
 into her bosom with a sigh that would have 
 sounded strange to one who should, have 
 known that the letter was filled with the 
 passionate expression of love for her from 
 him whom she loved dearest on earth. 
 
 Geoffrey's letter was full of details of 
 news — details of the journey and of their
 
 46 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 lods^inGT-seekinef, and a most detailed de- 
 scription of the lodgings they had found. 
 He did not speak much about his feelings ; 
 he did not once tell Beata that he loved 
 her, or was sorry to have left her, or was 
 lonely without her ; but when they had fin- 
 ished the letter (for she read it all out to 
 her father and Aileen), he himself, in his 
 new surroundings, lived visibly before them, 
 and they had got the picture of a heart and 
 mind whose every thought and feeling was 
 filled with them. When Beata had finished 
 that letter the second time, the distance be- 
 tween herself and her friend seemed to have 
 shrunk by half its length. 
 
 The last paragraph of Geoffrey's letter 
 was as follows : — 
 
 " And now, dear Beata, I am ready for 
 the future. Having put into the drawers, 
 or hung upon the pegs, all my clothes, upon 
 which I tried very hard to find somewhere 
 a missing button, that I might reproach you 
 with it, but none, alas ! was to be found ; 
 having arranged my books in a noble row 
 around the fioor, until some high-souled car-
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 47 
 
 penter can be found willing to make me 
 shelves at a Christian rate of charge; having 
 placed all the dear old papers reverently in 
 the one little book-case that fate has appor- 
 tioned me ; having, now, written this letter, 
 I am ready for bed, and, on the morrow, for 
 the future. To-morrow morning I shall go 
 out, armed with my choicest manuscripts, 
 and then — well, that wants a note of interro- 
 gation in brackets. This, however, is cer- 
 tain. No pain of disappointment can be 
 altogether bitter, because it will bring me a 
 sympathy dearer, almost, than success. No 
 pleasure of success can be altogether flat, be- 
 cause another will be more glad at it than I 
 can be. Your sweet face shines into my 
 heart, and, even to-night, I am not lonely — 
 at least, I don't think I am. Good-bye. 
 
 "Geoffrey."
 
 48 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE family in which Hartley had taken 
 up his temporary home was named 
 Moncton, and consisted of five members — 
 the parents, a young man named Giles, about 
 Hartley's own age, and two daughters, named 
 Ada and Etta, who were respectively seven- 
 teen and twenty years old. 
 
 During the dinner-time of the day of 
 Hartley's arrival he was very silent, and, as 
 soon as the meal was over, he went to his 
 own room. The next day he began his 
 duties at the office, and found them all 
 strange, to be sure, but, apparently, not over- 
 poweringly difficult. Mr. Moncton thought 
 he had got on very well. At dinner that 
 day he was more talkative, and took a 
 fair share in the conversation. After dinner 
 he did not go at once to his room, for he 
 had no excuse for doing so, though he did
 
 OXE MAIDEN ONLY. 49 
 
 very much wish to be writing another letter 
 to Beata. However, he did not go, and 
 presently music began to be talked of, and 
 Mr. Moncton asked Etta to play something. 
 
 "Are you fond of music, Mr. Leighton?" 
 Mrs. Moncton asked. 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Hartley, as everybody 
 does ; and he went to the piano to turn over 
 her music for Etta. His expectations were 
 but moderately rapturous. To his surprise, 
 Etta be«:an a bit of sood music — somethincr 
 of Heller's it was — and to his greater sur- 
 prise, she played it as if, at least, she were 
 trying to understand it. Hartley actually 
 listened, and, at one of the points that he 
 had been watching for, he said, quickly, 
 " No, that's not the way to play it. Look 
 here !" 
 
 The young lady looked there, indeed — 
 astonished and a little alarmed ; and Hart- 
 ley said, 
 
 " I beg your pardon. But it's an old fa- 
 vourite of mine ; and," he Avas going to add, 
 '* I know some one who plays it beautifully ;" 
 but that last he did not say. Then, though 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 he could not himself play the piano much, 
 he managed to show Etta how the passage 
 should be done, so as to get the full meaning 
 out of it, winding up with " I beg your par- 
 don," again. 
 
 Etta, who, though she had never had 
 much education in music, had a genuine 
 love for it, said that he had no need to beg 
 her pardon, for that she was very much 
 obliged to him ; and then she played the 
 passage again according to his direction. 
 
 " Capital !" said Hartley, and Etta's face 
 flushed with pleasure at the praise. 
 
 " You understand music," she said. 
 
 " No, I don't understand it," he said ; " I'm 
 only very fond of it. But not of all music 
 — eh ?" he added, with a soft, interrogative 
 way of his own. 
 
 " No," said Etta, who had been in draw- 
 ing-rooms too. But, also, she flushed again 
 at the implied distinctiveness given to her 
 play. 
 
 Then Hartley was asked if he sang, and it 
 turned out that he did a httle sometimes. 
 AYould he sing ? He had no music. Oh,
 
 OXE MAIDEN ONLY. 51 
 
 there were scores of songs in the house. 
 So the music was looked throuo-h, and a sono^ 
 that he knew was found, and Etta would 
 accompany him. 
 
 " Mind the expression, and keep a little 
 behind me," he said, in a half-coaxing, half- 
 imperative way that he had with girls, and 
 which they found it very hard, and rarely 
 wished, to disobey. 
 
 Hartley sang the song in a musical tenor 
 voice which pleased even Mr. ^loncton, Avho 
 was not over-enthusiastic in such matters ; 
 and when it was finished, Etta, wlio was not 
 of a specially meek disposition as a rule, 
 looked up, almost timidly, to see if she had 
 done well. 
 
 " You accompany very nicely," Hartley 
 said; and Etta flushed for the third thne 
 that evening. 
 
 Nobody praised Hartley's singing, but they 
 appealed to him as an authority in music 
 for the future. He took all such deference 
 in the frankest possible manner. Xobody 
 would have thought of calling him conceited ; 
 but when you praised him, and he laughed 
 
 E 2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 52 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 at ^'^u for it, it never occurred to you that 
 lie was disclaiming the praise. If you 
 thoudit well of him, it was all riixht, and 
 very good fun ; he was not at all inclined to 
 disagree with you. 
 
 Hartley had won his place at once. The 
 girls liked him, and the parents liked him, 
 thoroughly. They had not had so pleasant 
 an evening for months, they said after he 
 was gone. Only Giles was not inclined to 
 feel quite so friendly towards him. " Just 
 a lady's man," he thought, and said to him- 
 self. But, as the good-nights were being 
 said, he asked, a shade sulkily, " Do you 
 smoke ?" 
 
 " A little ; not very often." 
 
 "I always have a pipe before I go to bed, 
 in a room here. Will you come ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Hartley, thinking that he 
 would not get much of a letter written to- 
 night, if he did. 
 
 The two vouno' men sat to^'ether while 
 Giles smoked a couple of pipes, Hartley not 
 finishing his first ; and at the end of the time 
 they shook hands warmly, Giles confessing
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY". 53 
 
 to liimself that Hartley was a jolly, capital 
 fellow — not a bit the ass he took him to 
 be. 
 
 Then Hartley went to his room, and sat 
 clown to his letter ; but it was a little hard 
 to begin. There was plenty that lie could 
 say, to be sure ; he could tell all about his 
 day's work and the doings of the evening. 
 But this was not what he had meant to say. 
 He had had it in his mind all day that he 
 would tell Beata how lonely he was — that 
 all liis thoughts were of her, and how cruel 
 it was of her, &c., &c. But now that he sat 
 down lo write, he could hardly bring him- 
 self to say that he felt so absolutely lonely 
 and unhappy as he wanted to say. To be 
 sure, Beata had been in his thoughts all the 
 evening, but that had not prevented him 
 spending a very pleasant evening with Etta. 
 He must give it up. He could not write 
 to-night. Everything was so strange, and 
 he was confused by it. He should be him- 
 self to-morrow. Beata would not care to 
 know all the trifles that had filled the day. 
 He would write her a long letter to-mor-
 
 54 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 row. That was the best thing, and he would 
 go to bed now. 
 
 Beata wondered if she would get a letter 
 written this night. When the post came 
 and brought her none, she sio;hed, and read 
 her old one again as a substitute. 
 
 Hartley awoke in the morning, however, 
 feeling very tender towards Beata. He had 
 dreamt of being with her and Etta toge- 
 ther, and they had asked him to sing one of 
 the old songs he had often sung with Beata, 
 and Etta, sitting at the piano, had offered to 
 accompany him, and he had wanted to say 
 that it was one that Beata always played 
 for him, but had not had the courage. So 
 he had sung to Etta's playing, and then, 
 looking round, had seen Beata with tears in 
 her eyes, for a moment ; and then suddenly 
 she had disappeared, and he could find her 
 nowhere, thouo;h he had soug;ht her throus^h 
 the house. 
 
 This was his dream ; and, through* it, he 
 woke up feeling very tender to Beata, and 
 the feeling kept near him the whole of the 
 day. He hoped he should get free in the
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 55 
 
 evening to write to lier; and, as it happened, 
 when the evening came, the Monctons were 
 all going out to a party. They asked him 
 to go with them, assuring him of a welcome, 
 but he declined, saying that he had import- 
 ant letters to write. So they went, and he 
 was left quiet by himself, and sat down to 
 write. First he wrote to Geoffrey, that that 
 might be done : and then he wrote a longj 
 letter to Beata. It was full of the influence 
 of the dream, and was more about her and 
 less about himself than perhaps any letter he 
 had ever written had been. He hardly spoke 
 of his loneliness or his love ; there was no 
 reproach in it ; yet it went to Beata's heart, 
 and moved her with a feelino; more akin to 
 5^//-reproach than a dozen such letters as 
 the last could have awakened. 
 
 " Dear Beata !" Hartley said, as he folded 
 up the letter; and, remembering the pre- 
 vious evening, there came over him a sense 
 of half grateful surprise that he could write 
 so warmly, and mean it.
 
 56 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE post that brought Hartley's letter 
 brought also a second letter from 
 Geoffrey, giving an account of his doings. 
 
 "I have just finished," he said, *'ruy se- 
 cond and last day of pedlar's work. The 
 morning after I wrote to you last, I set off, 
 as I pre-announced to you, armed with my 
 choicest manuscripts, and wended my way 
 towards the publisher upon whom I had 
 determined first to call. It was a firm of 
 two names — Messrs. A and B, let us say. I 
 entered the quiet-looking shop, strong in the 
 consciousness of my manuscripts, and asked 
 for Mr. A. 
 
 " ' Mr. what ?' said the clerk to whom I 
 spoke. 
 
 " I repeated, with emphasis, ' Mr. A.' 
 
 " ' There is no one here of that name.'
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 57 
 
 " I mentioned the name of the firm m 
 full 
 
 " ' Oh, I see ! Mr. A retired from the 
 business some years ago.' 
 
 '^'Then Mr. B; I said. 
 
 " 'There is no Mr. B/ he answered, smil- 
 ing. 
 
 " Thinors seemed c^etting^ mysterious, and 
 it was with some hesitation that I suggested, 
 
 " 'Then some member of the firm.' 
 
 " ' ]\lay I ask your business ?' he said. 
 
 "This was not quite what I wished ; but 
 he was very courteous, and I told him. 
 
 " ' I see,' he said. ' The gentleman who 
 manages that department is not at home, 
 but I will speak to one of the partners who 
 is, if you like.' 
 
 " I thanked him, and he went. In a mo- 
 ment he returned, saying that Mr. C. was 
 very sorry, but his hands were so full of 
 business this morning, that he must beg me 
 to excuse him. If I would forward my 
 manuscript to them, it should receive their 
 best attention. 
 
 " So I set off for call Xo. 2. This time I
 
 58 ONE IMAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 was more fortunate, as far as finding a man 
 who answered to his name went. Also I 
 saw the man with the name, and he saw my 
 manuscripts. He turned them over (not as 
 reverently as I could have wished, but I re- 
 flected, afterwards, that he had probably 
 turned over a good many manuscripts in 
 his life), and said that they seemed to be 
 thoughtful, had cost me a good deal of 
 work, no doubt, and so on, but that he 
 should not like to undertake the risk of 
 publishing them. Readers Avere hard to 
 please, and demanded something more, or 
 less, than merit. Merit won sometimes, 
 but it was a chance. So much for call 
 No. 2. 
 
 " No. 3 and No. 4 were pleasant varia- 
 tions upon 1 and 2, but the result was about 
 the same. By that time I had had enough 
 for one day. I was new to the pedlar's 
 calling, and had not even the refreshment 
 and consolation of praising my own wares. 
 If they had been a great deal less my OAvn, 
 and if, therefore, I had not known half as 
 much about them, I might have praised
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 59 
 
 them, which, it must be confessed, seems 
 hard. 
 
 " When I got back to my rooms, I was, 
 for the full space of half an hour, a fool (a 
 greater one than usual, I mean). I was 
 very tired, had my usual consciousness of a 
 body in a more than usual degree, and was 
 sick at heart. One five minutes with some- 
 body I know would have set me right ; but 
 that I could not have, and I hungered for 
 it. I tell you this bit of folly with reluct- 
 ance — not as being ashamed of it, exactly, 
 but as being unwilling to pain you, dear — 
 but then, I promised to tell you all my 
 moods. Now you have it. 
 
 "The next morning^ I besan acrain, in 
 better heart, too, for I remembered that I 
 had never expected my earlier steps, at all 
 events, to be upon roses ; but nothing much 
 better happened to me till towards the end 
 of the day. Then I found a very distant- 
 mannered but kind-hearted man, who would 
 hardly speak to me at first, but who linger- 
 ed a little when he had looked at my writ- 
 ings.
 
 60 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 " ' You may leave this one with me,' he 
 said, ' if you will,' putting his hand upon 
 our favourite. ' I don't think I can do any- 
 thincr witli it, but 1 will look through it 
 carefully.' 
 
 " I thanked him from the bottom of my 
 heart. Then he asked me a question or 
 two about myself and my plans, and I an- 
 swered him freely and gladly. He said he 
 thought that my pedlar-work was a mistake. 
 We talked of what I might attempt, and 
 what I ought not to attempt with the maga- 
 zines. Altogether, my conversation with 
 my new friend was very helpful to me, and 
 I left him in a very grateful frame of mind. 
 
 " So my pedlar career is ended. I am to 
 hear from the publisher in a fortnight, and 
 meantime I shall go carefully over one or 
 two of the other manuscripts. Some of my 
 shorter things I shall send off to try their 
 fortune with the magazines ; but I think 
 that hunger shall be very near me before I 
 sit down to write piecemeal for my daily 
 bread. And have I not fifty pounds ? and 
 ought not fifty pounds to last six months ?
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 61 
 
 Courage ! I am a long way from hunger 
 yet, and I shall have your dear letter in the 
 morning." 
 
 Beata's two letters kept her heart and 
 mind pretty full all that day. Neither her 
 thoudits nor her feeling's were altogether 
 happy. But she was ver}^ grateful. Her 
 dear brothers were very near to her yet. 
 
 In the specified fortnight Geoffrey got his 
 answer from his friend the publisher. The 
 firm was willing to publish the work, but 
 the risk being considerable, the remunera- 
 tion they could offer was but small, and 
 must be contingent upon the sale of the edi- 
 tion. 
 
 Geoffrey sent the letter on to Beatn, with- 
 out saying what his own disposition towards 
 it was. She wrote back immediately that 
 he should accept the publisher's offer, which, 
 indeed, lie had already determined to do. 
 It seemed to him that to get his book pub- 
 lished was the first great thing, notwith- 
 standing the prospect of an addition to his 
 fifty pounds store thereby was not consider- 
 able. It had never occurred to him that
 
 62 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 he was 'likely to make a rapid fortune by 
 liis writings ; but neither had it occurred to 
 him to wish to do so. Live he must ; be- 
 yond that he was not anxious, so that he 
 could find worthy work to do, and do it 
 Avorthily. So he went to the publisher, 
 and settled that the book should be pub- 
 lished in May, it being now the beginning 
 of March. 
 
 Geoffrey was less moved over the matter 
 than an author might naturally be expected 
 to be over the conclusion of the arrange- 
 ments for the publication of his first book. 
 You might have thought him one used to 
 success, or, through constant disappointment, 
 mistrustful of it when it seemed to have 
 come. The reason of his apparent apathy 
 lay partly in his temperament, and partly in 
 his health. Outer things, of any kind, affect- 
 ed him, for pleasure, very little, for they all 
 carried with them enough weariness to take 
 the edge off the possible pleasure. Out of 
 a person whom he loved, out of work that 
 suited him, he got a keen and deep satisfac- 
 tion ; but turn person into people, or to work
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 63 
 
 superadd business, and bis pleasure was over. 
 He bad not pbysical strengtb for both the 
 inner and tbe outer bfe, and tbe intrusion 
 of tbis spoiled tbat for bim. 
 
 But Beata was deeply glad. He was 
 about to speak bis first words to tbe world, 
 and tbe world would be tbe better for bear- 
 ing tbem, sbe tbougbt. Sbe bad good hope 
 tbat tbe w^orld would consent to listen. It 
 was tbe beginning of a noble end, sbe 
 trusted. All tbis and mucb more sbe wrote 
 to bim, and ber gladness was more to bis 
 beart tban if tbe wbole world, witbout ber, 
 bad sbouted bis praises. His was no fame- 
 seeking nature. To fulfil bimself, and to be 
 faitbfully loved, seemed to bim tbe best re- 
 wards of life.
 
 64 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 IT was not long before Geoffrey received 
 an invitation to dine with the Monctons. 
 He went, not eao^erlv on his own account ; 
 but for Hartley's sake he was glad to go. 
 The Monctons received him kindly. As the 
 brother of Hartley, they had been anxious 
 to see him, they said. Hartley w^as a great 
 favourite of theirs, and Hartley had spoken 
 so highly of him that they were very glad 
 to know him. 
 
 At dinner they talked of Hartley, and 
 Mr. Moncton was loud in praise of his busi- 
 ness capacit}^ He had never known any 
 one take to work so quickly, or so quickly 
 master what was strange to him. This was 
 evidently said quite sincerely ; and it Avas a 
 comfort to Geoffrey to hear it. Then they 
 glanced at Geoffrey's own affairs.
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 65 
 
 " You are an author, are not you ?" said 
 Mrs. Moncton. 
 
 " No, indeed, I am not." 
 
 " Indeed ! I thought you had written a 
 good deal." 
 
 " That does not make an author." 
 
 " But you are gomg to pubhsh ?" 
 
 Geoffrey tried to wriggle out of this. He 
 hated big names, and he thought the future 
 tense should be a silent one. But, of course, 
 he did not succeed in hidinsr that a book of 
 his was to be published in ^lay, which bit of 
 information pleased Mrs. Moncton very much. 
 
 After dinner there was music again, and 
 then Geoffrey saw better the footing that 
 Hartley was upon with the family. It sur- 
 prised him. He had never been in society 
 with Hartley, and that half-coaxing, half-im- 
 perative way of his brother's was a new re- 
 velation to him. He, Geoffrey, would have 
 been kindly courteous to Etta, for instance, 
 if he had known her for a year ; but here 
 was Hartley, after a fortnight's acquaintance, 
 tyrannizing over her in his affectionate way, 
 almost as completely as he did over Beata, 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 OIs^E MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 and Etta submitting with child-like simplicity 
 and meekness. Ada was much less obedient, 
 but then Ada was more of a romping girl. 
 Etta was, in some sort, a woman. Geoffrey 
 was inclined to like Etta a good deal ; but it 
 made him very uncomfortable to see her and 
 Hartley together. 
 
 In the course of the evening Giles Monc- 
 ton came and sat down by Geoffrey. 
 
 •' You haven't been long in London ?" he 
 said. 
 
 '' About three weeks — no more." 
 
 '' Do you know many people ?" 
 
 " Scarcely any." 
 
 " We shall always be very glad to see you 
 here." 
 
 Geoffrey thanked him, and he continued, 
 
 " We all like Hartley very much. I was 
 inclined not to do so, at first, because he got 
 on so well with the ladies. I told him so the 
 other day. But I was wrong. He's a good, 
 manly fellow." 
 
 ^' Yes," said Geoffrey, not quite knowing 
 what a good, manly fellow meant, or what 
 natural opposition there was between that
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 67 
 
 and the power of getting on well with wo- 
 men. But he did not ask Giles to explain, 
 and the conversation fell through. 
 
 Geoffrey also had a little talk with Etta 
 before he left. His disposition to like her 
 as an affectionate and simple-minded girl 
 was confirmed, and even increased ; but a 
 certain shade of softness in her tone when 
 she spoke of Hartley filled him with grave 
 displeasure, none the less that it in no way 
 disposed him to like her, personally, the 
 worse for the manner. 
 
 Hartley walked home with Geoffrey. 
 
 " How do you like your people ?" Geof- 
 frev said. 
 
 '' Very much indeed. ■ They are tho- 
 roughly kind-hearted." 
 
 " Yes, they seem so. There isn't much 
 in Giles, is there ? I don't above half like 
 him." 
 
 " Oh ! he's not a bad sort of fellow. Not 
 3^our style quite, I daresay." 
 
 "Etta seems a nice little thing." 
 
 " Yes, she's jolly; and there's more in her 
 than you'd guess at first sight." 
 
 f2
 
 68 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 " I think I wouldn't be too easy with her, 
 Hartley ; girls' hearts are tender." 
 
 "Oh! nonsense, Geoff; you don't think 
 she's ofoinof to fall in love with me. She 
 likes me, and I like her, but girls don't wear 
 their hearts outside in that fashion." 
 
 " I didn't say she loas going to fall in love 
 with you ; but, as a kind-hearted fellow, I 
 think you would rather take too much care 
 than too little not to give pain." 
 
 " What a dear old fidget you are I I 
 wonder you don't commit suicide, for fear of 
 doing some harm by remaining alive !" 
 
 However, Hartley was specially guarded 
 in his manner to Etta for the next two days, 
 and succeeded by his efforts in keeping her 
 thoughts constantly upon the doubt whether 
 in any way she had offended him, and in 
 making her doubly pleased and happy when, 
 after the two days, his old manner to her 
 came back. 
 
 Hartley said that Giles Moncton was not 
 a bad sort of a fellow ; but, if the exact 
 truth be told, he himself was not specially 
 enamoured of him. He liked him, the man
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 69 
 
 not having offended or disgusted him, out of 
 a sort of amiable friendliness that he had 
 for people in general. However, he liked 
 him less as he knew him more ; and one 
 day, when Giles was making some impertinent 
 remark, before his mother and sisters, about 
 women in general. Hartley said bluntly, 
 
 '' Oh, that's a lie ; why, look at your own 
 sisters here ; and I know one woman of 
 whom it's every bit a lie." 
 
 '' That's right, Mr. Hartley," said old Mrs. 
 Moncton. "I wouldn't srive a fis^ for a man 
 who doesn't think well of women. Take 
 that to heart, Giles." 
 
 '* I beg your pardon," said Hartley, turn- 
 ing to Giles ; " I didn't mean to preach. 
 You were only talking stuff, I know." 
 
 Giles was sufficiently placated not to show- 
 any outward signs of offence ; but he never 
 quite forgot the episode, and it nipped in 
 the bud his growing affection for Hartley. 
 Hartley, it may be, was not greatly the 
 loser. 
 
 The girls were pleased Avith Hartley's 
 championship ; Mrs. Moncton w^as half
 
 70 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 pleased, and, perhaps, almost wholly pleased 
 after Hartley's apology to her son ; but Etta 
 could not help wondering who the "one 
 woman " of whom Hartley spoke might be. 
 
 Meantime, Hartley's letters to Beata had 
 been of unequal frequency and temperature. 
 After the first few days he found, as he 
 wrote them, that they did not come quite 
 spontaneously ; but it had not often happen- 
 ed as yet, that if he gave himself up to think 
 about Beata, he could not feel warmly to- 
 wards her, and when he felt warmly, of 
 course he could write warmly. His chief 
 difficulty was in finding language to express 
 his feelings ; for, after a time, the old terms 
 of endearment grew monotonous, and his 
 feelings were not at that radiant heat, at 
 which scintillations of language are spontan- 
 eously thrown off. When he had written a 
 letter that seemed to him to read warm and 
 unconstrained, he was glad. 
 
 " So you have been to see Hartley's peo- 
 ple," said Beata, writing to Geoffrey. " Tell 
 me what you think about them. He scarcely 
 speaks of them at all. Describe them to
 
 OXE MAIDEN ONLY. 71 
 
 me one by one, and tell me how he seems 
 to get on with each of them." 
 
 This was a task that Geoffrey would have 
 gracefully escaped, had he seen his way 
 of doing so. But he did not see his way, 
 and so he addressed himself to the accom- 
 plishment of an ingenious compromise — he 
 described the persons in particular, and 
 Hartley's relations to them in general. 
 Beata, who had old experience of Geoffrey's 
 fidelity to her wishes, understood the eva- 
 sion, and drew her own conclusions.
 
 72 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 AFTER that first gleam of light that 
 shone out of the face of the pub- 
 lisher, not much more seemed in a hurry to 
 come to Geoffrey. One article was accept- 
 ed by a magazine ; the rest were returned 
 again and again. The larger manuscripts 
 were not returned so often, for a reason 
 well enough known to would-be authors. 
 Of money he had received none, though 
 the end of April had come, for his one ac- 
 cepted article had not yet been published. 
 So the outlook was not brilliant. 
 
 But there were compensations, and chief 
 of these was the fact that he had begun to 
 write a new book — a longer and more ela- 
 borate work than he had yet attempted. 
 This was a great happiness to him, and was 
 enough, at most times, to override all lesser
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 73 
 
 cares. And part of this happiness and in- 
 terest brimmed over into Beata's heart, and 
 helped to cheer a life not at present too 
 bright. He wrote to her about his book, 
 and sent her parts of it to read ; he kept 
 her by his side, so to say, as he moved along 
 his path ; and so she had sympathy with, as 
 well as gladness for his happiness. 
 
 Yet, perhaps, in proportion to his happi- 
 ness in his work, Geoffrey's life was growing 
 stilled and saddened. Contemplative by 
 the very make of him, he had from the first 
 been driven into a life of thous^ht and 
 quieter interests by the weakness of his 
 health. The pleasures of the body were 
 almost unknown to him. He could count 
 the times when it had seemed to him, for 
 its own sake, a good thing to be physically 
 alive. That full satisfaction which a healthy 
 man has in breathing, and walking, and eat- 
 ing simple food — in heing^ in fact — was alto- 
 gether unknown to him. He was not such 
 a fool as to plume himself upon his deficien- 
 cies. He had an almost reverence for a 
 complete and healthy body. But in him it
 
 74 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 was a reverence for an unknown good. 
 Even those physical sensibilities that seem 
 to be as much intellectual as bodily, were 
 as often channels of pain as of pleasure to 
 him. And so, by force of his defects, as he 
 would have said, as well as of his proper 
 nature, he was driven into a purely intellec- 
 tual and contemplative life. 
 
 Nevertheless, while he was still in his old 
 home, his lighter thoughts and emotions 
 had food and play. Of genial nonsense, 
 which is the very wine of life, there had 
 been plenty. He had had to flirt with 
 Aileen, to exchange bad jokes with Mr. 
 Winthrop, to storm at Hartley sometimes, 
 under extreme provocation — to incorporate 
 himself, in fact, with the simple, healthy, 
 genial outer-life around him. But now all 
 this was over. From the silent first hour 
 of the day to the silent last hour, the whole 
 day was silence. A few kindly words to 
 the maid who waited upon him was perhaps 
 all he would say during the whole seven- 
 teen waking hours in which silence is not 
 the normal state of man. He did not much
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 75 
 
 want to be talking ; he was not melancholy, 
 not lonely, exactly, for the most part. He 
 was very happy, as has been said. Yet the 
 mode of his living could not but tell upon 
 him, and his life became stilled and sadden- 
 ed in the midst of his happiness. 
 
 About the end of April, the printing of 
 the book began, and Geoffrey sent the 
 proofs down as they came to Beata, that 
 her eye might detect any omissions of which 
 his had been guilty. This was a great plea- 
 sure to her ; to do the work for him was a 
 great pleasure ; but super-added to that was 
 the pleasure of seeing the dear old thoughts 
 and words in their new dress. Great is the 
 mystery of a book — that that which once 
 lay, unthought, even, in the brain from 
 which it sprung, should have come to take 
 bodily form, which the whole world may 
 see and study, if they will. What a pity it 
 is that so often ihejwontf And what a pity 
 that this mystery, like all other mysteries, 
 should so often come to seem no mystery at 
 all through familiarity ! If every book could 
 but be one's first ! If every spring and sun-
 
 76 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 rise could but be one's first ! Babies only, 
 among all sublunary things, are, as mothers 
 universally testify, ever fresh.
 
 77 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 FOR some time after the leaving of the 
 brothers, no change happened in 
 Beata's hfe, except what came from the vari- 
 ations of her own thoughts or feelings. Her 
 household duties, her care of her father, of 
 Aileen, and of the village poor, her inter- 
 course with the Winthrops — these filled her 
 outer life. Filled and yet not quite filled ; 
 for as the spring came on she and Aileen be- 
 gan, whenever her duties suffered it, to take 
 long walks about their beautiful country to- 
 gether and these walks soon came to be 
 among the greatest comforts and refresh- 
 ments of her life. 
 
 About the end of April, too, a visitor was 
 expected in Walcote. This visitor was a 
 nephew of Mrs. Winthrop's, Robert Playfair 
 by name. Beata had learned that he was
 
 78 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 to come, but no one knew on what day he 
 would arrive. 
 
 The last day of April ushered itself in with 
 a fresh north-west wind and a brilliant sun ; 
 and, tempted by both, Beata and Aileen set 
 out on one of their favourite walks. The Rec- 
 torystood above thevillage and the church, 
 higher up the gorge, and, so, fartlier away 
 from the sea. As they stept from the house 
 the village stretched away below them to the 
 left. It looked beautiful this morning, lying 
 scattered upon the open slopes of the gorge, 
 here softened into a valley. For the hills 
 that fronted abruptly out to the sea, and 
 through which the gorge cut, perpendicular 
 and savage, dropped down about half a mile 
 inland, and the perpendicular sides of the 
 gorge softened down into the green slopes 
 of a pleasant inland dell, through which the 
 tiny stream trickled musical and clear. But 
 then beyond the village the hills rose again, 
 and the sides of the valley once more stood 
 up high and grim, and the stream ran dark 
 between walls that never suffered the sun- 
 light to fall upon it.
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 79 
 
 Stopping for a moment to look down upon 
 the pleasant village, and upon their dear 
 church that stood out on a rock that jutted 
 from the western slope of the valley, over 
 all the cottages of the fishermen, Beata and 
 Aileen then turned to follow their walk up 
 the gorge, where it once more entered be- 
 tween the high perpendicular faces of the 
 rock. For a little they had the sunshine 
 upon them, and then they left it, walking 
 along by the bed of the stream that had 
 never seen the sun. Here their path rose 
 rapidly, and the stre|im by their side became 
 a torrent, tumbling over great stones that, 
 through lack of sun-rays, threw no shadow. 
 And then there was no path at all, and they 
 had to step from stone to stone, the stream 
 beneath their feet. Suddenly the gorge 
 turned at a sharp angle, and the fall stood 
 before them. Down sixty feet the stream 
 fell, while the noon-day sun, striking across 
 the side of the gorge that dipped to let in 
 the rays, lit up the foaming water and the 
 wild rocks over which it fell with a cruel 
 beauty that struck them with a fascination
 
 80 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 of almost pain. They stood looking at itfor 
 some minutes in silence, and then the child 
 said, 
 
 "Why, Berty, there's a man climbing 
 down the fall." 
 
 A man there was, sure enough ; a mad- 
 man, too, as Beata was inclined to think. 
 But if mad, he was a skilful madman, for, 
 though the descent was nearly perpendicular, 
 he managed, by means of the ledges that 
 gave him foothold, and the plants that grew 
 out every here and there from the crevices 
 in the rocks, to descend, without slip or fal- 
 ter, and in a minute or two, as tliey sto.od 
 watching him, he had nearly reached the 
 bottom. Then Beata bethought herself 
 that, whether he were mad or sane, it was 
 not quite the thing for her to stand there 
 to give him welcome when he had finished 
 his descent, and she and Aileen turned ab- 
 ruptly round, and began, as quickly as they 
 could, to retrace their road towards their 
 own home. 
 
 But the sight of the man, and the fact 
 that he was certainly behind them, made
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 81 
 
 Aileen nervous, and more than once losing 
 her foothold, she slipped at last into a pool 
 between two great stones, and found herself 
 immersed in water up to her waist. The 
 cliild gave a scream, and began to cry, as 
 was natural enough, though Beata tried to 
 quiet her with the assurance that she would 
 have her out in no time. As it proved, 
 Beata's promise was more easily made than 
 kept, for the stones were wet and smooth and 
 rounded, and so, although they were large, 
 they would by no means afford her such a 
 foothold as was necessary to make it pos- 
 sible to her to lift Aileen out of the water. 
 As soon as Beata perceived the fact, she, 
 too, became very nervous, and the child her- 
 self began to cry with a wail of hopeless de- 
 spair. Just then he of the doubtful sanity 
 came in sight, and, seeing Beata and Aileen, 
 he halted for a moment, to avoid intruding 
 himself upon their privacy. So soon as he 
 saw what had happened, however, he changed 
 liis halt for a quick march, and in a moment 
 he was standing by the side of Beata. 
 
 " A morning bath, little one, which I am 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 afraid you did not intend to take," said he. 
 
 '' You frightened her," said Beata, forget- 
 ting her courtesy in her provocation, " or she 
 would not have been so foolish." 
 
 " I am very sorry," said the offender, with 
 a look of infinite expostulation ; "may I help 
 her out as an atonement ?" 
 
 " If you can, yes," said Beata, more snap- 
 pishly than those who knew her best would 
 have thought possible to her ; " but I don't 
 beheve you can. There's no foothold to be 
 
 got." ' 
 
 " I'll try," said the unknown, and imme- 
 diately sat down to take his boots off. 
 
 " Stockings bite better than shoes," he 
 said ; and then he stood astride across the 
 pool in which Aileen was immersed, and in 
 a moment the little one was out of the 
 water. 
 
 "Thank you," said Beata, looking fairly 
 at him for the first time. 
 
 " Rather forgive me than thank me," he 
 said ; " I am very sorry for having frighten- 
 ed her, still. But now she must make haste 
 home, or she will catch cold ; and she must
 
 ONE :\rAIDEN ONLr. ' 83 
 
 have something wrapped round her, too." 
 
 "Here is my shawl," said Beata, beginning 
 to unfasten it. 
 
 " Then you will catch cold. / never 
 get cold," said he, taking off his coat and 
 wrapping it round the child. 
 
 Beata expostulated, but without effect, 
 and so they set off. But,. after this, Aileen 
 was not more steady on her feet than before, 
 and ere they had gone many steps she had 
 all but slipped into the water for the second 
 time. 
 
 "May I carry her?" said the stranger, 
 with a manner of exceeding meekness. 
 
 Beata could not say nay, and Aileen 
 gladly though shyly consented ; and the 
 stranger took her up into his arms, and 
 walked on, in silence, side by side with 
 Beata. 
 
 Beata, and that not from exercise, found 
 herself getting very hot in the face. The 
 situation was peculiar and a little comical, 
 and she was rather ashamed of herself The 
 situation she could not help, but after a time 
 her shame took words. 
 
 g2
 
 84 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 '^ I ara afraid I was very rude to you," 
 she said. 
 
 '' I don't think so, Miss Spenser," said her 
 companion ; " and if you were, I quite de- 
 served it. I had no right to go prowling 
 about your quiet neiglibourhood, frightening 
 innocent women and children in that way." 
 
 Beata forgot to attend to the substance of 
 the stranger's speech in her wonder at his 
 knowledge of her name; and her face show- 
 ed her wonder. 
 
 " I am Mrs. AVinthrop's Robert," said he, 
 " more commonly called Robert Playfair. I 
 came down late last night, and have been 
 out on a walk ever since early morning. 
 Being very much in want of my breakfast, I 
 thoudit I'd make a short cut home." 
 
 '' A short cut, indeed!" said Beata. " You 
 must be prett}^ used to climbing, I should 
 think." 
 
 " Yes, I am ; but that sort of thing isn't a 
 quarter as hard as it looks, unless you get 
 flustered." 
 
 " You have not told me how you knew 
 who we were.''
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 85 
 
 " Well, know I didn't exactly ; but the 
 guess was a pretty easy one. I have heard a 
 good deal about you. All right, little one," 
 said he, looking down at Aileen, who had 
 by this time recovered both her nerve and 
 her courage, and was looking up at him with 
 a half smile on her face. 
 
 " Yes," said Aileen, blushing and smiling 
 quite. 
 
 " I think she could walk now," said 
 Beata ; " you must be tired, I'm sure." 
 
 " I don't think I am," said Robert, folding 
 his arms closer round the child ; and as 
 Aileen seemed to nestle in responsively to 
 his embrace, nothing more was said about 
 her walking. 
 
 The face that Aileen had to contemplate 
 as they finished their journey home was a 
 pleasant one enough. It stood upon the 
 top of a tall and well-made body, and was 
 itself not without that beauty that bone and 
 muscle can give. Aileen felt a strong tempta- 
 tion to plunge her hand into the full whis- 
 kers, or the great shock of hair that hung 
 about his head. Yet the man was by no
 
 86 ONE IMAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 means burly ; and, notwithstanding his size, 
 there was a childishness and softness about 
 his expression, such as a fine-hearted retriev- 
 er has in his face. In age he was about 
 thirty ; but though it was not at all difficult 
 to tell how old he was, you would not have 
 been inclined to say that he was old for 
 twenty or young for forty ; or, if you like, 
 he would have done exceedingly well for 
 every age between twenty and forty rolled 
 into one. 
 
 AYhen they had nearly reached the Rec- 
 tory, Robert said, 
 
 ^' Mrs. Winthrop promised to bring me in 
 this evening to introduce me to you. May 
 1 still come ?" 
 
 " Surely," said Beata, " we shall be very 
 pleased indeed to see you." 
 
 In the evening, the Winthrops and Robert 
 made their appearance. 
 
 "Well, old friend," said Mr. Winthrop to 
 Mr. Spenser, " you see we've brought you a 
 boy down to make up for the two you've 
 lost." 
 
 " Did you ever know such a dear old
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 87 
 
 bungler ? " Mrs. Winthrop said, aside, to 
 Beata. 
 
 '' Lost ?" said Robert, who thought it 
 could not be that which we call loss of 
 which Mr. Winthrop spoke. 
 
 Then Mr. Spenser told him of the loss of 
 his boys ; and then Robert answered in such 
 cheery, hopeful fashion, dwelling upon the 
 difficulties of his own life, and the good end 
 that had come to tliem all, nevertheless, that 
 the old man's heart was brisrhter about his 
 
 o 
 
 boys than it had been ever since they left 
 him. 
 
 " Not such a dear old bungler, after all," 
 Beata said aside to Mrs. Winthrop ; and if 
 Mrs. Winthrop experienced any sense of 
 drawback to the satisfaction she felt at the 
 old man's heart being cheered, it was in the 
 consideration that the neat little lecture she 
 had prepared for her husband upon his 
 clumsiness would be entirely useless. 
 
 While Robert was talking to Mr. Spenser, 
 Aileen, hovering about his chair, found her- 
 self soon drawn in between his knees, and she 
 stood looking up in his face as he talked, as
 
 88 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 if she had known him and loved him for 
 years. Yet Aileen was a child by no means 
 given to make herself free with strangers. 
 When he had finished his story, Robert 
 turned to her and said — 
 
 " None the worse for the wetting, little 
 one, I see. Will you be afraid to go up the 
 gorge again ?" 
 
 " No, not if you go with me to lift me 
 out," said Aileen, smiling. 
 
 " So ! — I should like to go with you very 
 much, if I might. You take a good many 
 long walks, don't you ?" 
 
 " Yes, with Beata. I like them so much, 
 and we find such beautiful flowers." 
 
 " You love flowers ?" 
 
 " Oh ! yes ; don't you love flowers ?" 
 
 " Yes, I love them very much. Which, 
 I wonder, is your favourite flower of all ?'' 
 
 " I don't know — there are so many. We 
 found a dear little wild geranium this morn- 
 ing — the first we have seen this year." 
 
 " Did you ? And you are fond of that. 
 I wonder if you know how beautiful it is ? 
 Shall I show you ?"
 
 OXE MAIDEN OXLY. 89 
 
 He showed her, besides the beauty of the 
 petals, whicli every loving eye can see, the 
 inner structure of the flower, and told her 
 how, presently, the fairy seeds would hang 
 pendulous upon their silky spirals from tlie 
 beautiful pillar around which now they 
 nestled for shelter and protection. 
 
 "It is very beautiful," said Aileen, with 
 the tears in her eyes. 
 
 Beata had been out of the room while 
 Robert was finishing his story to her father ; 
 and when she came in again, Robert was in 
 the midst of his description of the geranium 
 to Aileen. She stood off a little, listeninsj 
 as he went on ; and when he had finished, 
 he and Aileen looked up and saw her. 
 
 " I had a bioforer audience than I thought 
 for," said Robert ; " I should have been less 
 voluble had I known." 
 
 "That would have been a great pity," 
 Beata said, " both for my sake and Aileen's." 
 
 So Robert and she began to talk, and 
 they chatted on for half an hour, each 
 minute, as it passed, leaving them better 
 pleased with each other than its predeces-
 
 90 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 sor. Before the party left, Robert said to 
 Beata — 
 
 "The little one has invited me to go with 
 you on your walks sometimes. I wonder 
 if you would second her invitation, or not 
 forbid it, even ?" 
 
 " I don't know," said Beata ; " ask Mrs. 
 Winthrop — she'll tell you. I shall be very 
 pleased." 
 
 When Beata got to her room, she wrote 
 a long letter to Hartley, giving him a full 
 account of the doings of the evening, and 
 expressing very freely her hearty liking, so 
 far, for her new acquaintance. She had no 
 definite reason for doing this ; she did the 
 same thing, the day after, to Geoffrey. 
 Quite instinctively she told Hartley first. 
 But to have abstained from telling either of 
 her dearest friends about a person who had 
 interested her so much, even at a first meet- 
 ing, would have been a disloyal reserve al- 
 together inconsistent with her nature. 
 
 Hartley got this letter with his breakfast, 
 as usual, and, which it was not usual for 
 anything to do, it spoiled his breakfast. He
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 91 
 
 went to the office, and did the worst day's 
 work he had done since his advent there. 
 All day long he was reproaching Beata for 
 her fickleness, and pouring roaledictions up- 
 on the head of his successful rival. At din- 
 ner he scarcely spoke, and his behaviour to 
 Etta during the short time he remained in 
 the drawing;-room astonished her more than 
 anything she had yet received at his hands. 
 Then he went to his room and wrote a letter 
 to Beata, full of passionate reproaches. He 
 had loved her from his childhood ; he had 
 trusted her, though she had refused to give 
 him either of the promises that he had begged 
 of her ; he had thought constantly of her, 
 hoping that some day she would respond to 
 his love ; and now this stranger comes, and 
 she gives her heart clean away to him^ and 
 forgets him who had loved her from his boy- 
 hood. She had altogether spoiled his life. 
 
 When he had Avritten this letter, he 
 read it over, endorsing every hard thing 
 as he came to it. Then he sealed it up, 
 and sat brooding for a space, and after a 
 time he went to bed, and presently to
 
 92 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 sleep. In the morning he posted the letter 
 without reading it again. During the day, 
 while for a few minutes he had nothing to 
 do at the office, he read Beata s letter once 
 more, and felt some slig-ht misoivins^s as to 
 whether it quite justified the one he had 
 sent to her. In the evening, though he was 
 quiet, the manner of the previous evening 
 was gone, and Etta once more wondered 
 whether the cause of such strange fluctua- 
 tions were in herself Tlien another day 
 passed, and the next morning came Beata's 
 answer. It ran thus : — 
 
 " Dear Hartley, 
 
 " Your letter of this morn- 
 ing has surprised and pained me beyond ex- 
 pression. I, judging you by myself, and so, 
 thinking that all that interests me would in- 
 terest you, wrote you an account of an evening 
 that had refreshed me, and a stranger who 
 had pleased me. There comes back your 
 letter. I cannot answer it ; but if you think 
 that any man once seen, or fifty times seen, 
 could touch the supremacy of my love for
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 93 
 
 ray brothers, dearest to me since I can re- 
 member, then you little understand me or 
 my love. 
 
 '* Ever your affectionate 
 
 ^' Beata." 
 
 This did not take much reading ; but, for 
 the second time in one week, a letter of 
 Beata's spoiled Hartley's breakfast. As he 
 read this, he felt heartily ashamed of him- 
 self, and Etta, who had noticed these frequent 
 letters in a woman's handwriting, saw him 
 blush as his eye passed along the lines.
 
 94 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 MRS. WINTHROP gave her sanction to 
 Robert Playfair's occasionally joining 
 Beata and Aileen in their walks, and he, in- 
 clined in all things to strike while the iron 
 was hot, called the next morning at the Rec- 
 tory, to know if they were going out. They 
 Avere, and he set off with them. The road 
 they chose was up the slope on which the 
 village stood, to the piece of high moorland 
 above it. It was not a very vast tract, but 
 it stretched away as far as they could see, 
 and, had it been a thousand miles across, it 
 could, to them, have been no vaster. Turn- 
 ing one way, they came to the edge of the 
 cliff, washed by the sea, two or three hun- 
 dred feet below. Turning the other way, 
 they looked down into the upper gorge, 
 and, going still further, they came to the 
 great pool from which fell the water
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 95 
 
 that made the cataract ; for, rising among 
 still higher masses of rock beyond, the rivu- 
 let came down, and was caught in a hol- 
 low of the ground that just overhung the 
 head of the gorge. Facing the gorge, the 
 edge of this basin dipt lowest, and so, as 
 fresh water came in from the rivulet above, 
 as much fell down the cataract and flowed 
 into the sea. Then, sweeping away from 
 both these points, the moor stretched out, 
 rising and falling, here barren, there lit 
 up with a shade of soft grass, at points dip- 
 ping into more fertile dells, in which a cot- 
 tage or a patch of cultivated land would 
 nestle, and, at one point, falling down into 
 a great valley, filled with a dense forest of 
 trees. And all about there stood huge 
 masses of rock that cast long shadows over 
 the land when the sun sank to its setting. 
 
 All this ^vas old ground to Beata. She 
 had been over every foot of it with the 
 boys, and it had for her a thousand happy 
 memories, now all saddened. But also she 
 had been up here very much lately with 
 Aileen. A walk on the moor she called
 
 96 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 her tonic, though it had no bitter in it, save 
 that which her own heart carried. These 
 later weeks the place had become dear to 
 her with a new dearness, and the happiness 
 of her sweet child-comforter in it all gave it 
 a still greater power over her heart. The 
 forest, above all, was a joy to them for its 
 solemnity, and its thousand dainty nooks, 
 and its wealth of wild flowers nestling among 
 the underwood. After an afternoon spent 
 in it, with its murmurous music singing on 
 in their ears, they would come out on to the 
 open moor with a sense of dreamy strange- 
 ness upon them, and the growing shadows 
 of the rock masses would seem to them like 
 vast creatures of an unknown world, and 
 Beata would go home stilled for a time from 
 all the thoughts and cares of the life about 
 her, and would presently come back to those 
 thoughts and cares strengthened by that ele- 
 vation of feeling which quiet resting with 
 nature alone can give. 
 
 But to Robert the moor was new, and be 
 enjoyed it with all the keenness proper to a 
 first drink of fresh beauty. He was happy
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 97 
 
 in his guides. They knew best where to 
 find the beauty, and loved it themselves too 
 truly to mar his pleasure by their raptures. 
 When they set off, Aileen put herself at his 
 side, and he took her hand. Beata walked 
 on the other side of the child. At first 
 they looked for flowers, but presently the 
 wider beauty drew off Robert's eyes from 
 the ground at his feet, and they let him 
 have his way. The sight of his enjoyment 
 made a new pleasure for Beata. On their 
 homeward journey they talked, Robert ask- 
 ing them concerning the boys, of whom he 
 had heard, and telling them about his own 
 life and his travels, for he had travelled a 
 good deal. 
 
 So they chatted, Mr. Playfair talking 
 freelv concernins^ himself with about as 
 little egotism as a bird when it makes the 
 wood ring with its song. He, too, was a 
 living creature, and he supposed that you 
 cared to know about living creatures, as he 
 did. If, by word . or manner, you had 
 shown that you did not care about living 
 creatures in general, or him in particular, 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 you would have silenced him as completely 
 as nightfall stills the light-loving bird of 
 song. 
 
 "I am very glad you let me Avalk with 
 you," he said, as they parted ; " it has been 
 a great pleasure to me. May I come to- 
 morrow ?" 
 
 Beata said yes, he might, and Aileen held 
 up her face to kiss him, and so a pleasant 
 morning for them all was over. 
 
 But the next it rained, and the day after, 
 in the morning, came Hartley's impetuous, 
 passionate letter. This letter perplexed 
 Beata in the matter of Mr. Playfair's walk- 
 ing with her. She knew that^ as far as she 
 was concerned, there was no reason why he 
 should not walk with her, or be with her 
 all the day long. However much she might 
 like him — and she did like him exceedingly 
 — Hartley had no cause to be aggrieved. 
 Hartley aggrieved, indeed ! Hartley did 
 not understand the tenth part of her love 
 for him. But that he certainly would be, 
 or, rather, would feel aggrieved if he knew 
 that she often walked with Mr. Plavfair,
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 99 
 
 she was sure. How then ? She would not 
 pain Hartley unnecessarily for the world, 
 however unreasonable his pain might be. 
 Yet it would be rather hard to tell Mr. 
 Playfair that he must not walk with her 
 any more. What reason could she give ? 
 Just to tell him without a reason would 
 be impossible from her to him. He was so 
 simple and genial, and he had evidently en- 
 joyed the walk so thoroughly, that it was 
 really very hard to have to do it. Yet it 
 must be done. She must not pain Hartley, 
 or give him cause to pain himself 
 
 Even while she was debating the matter 
 with herself, Mr. Playfair made his appear- 
 ance. He came in a little shyly. 
 
 "You must send me off if I plague you," 
 he said; "but I didn't want to lose the 
 pleasure of going with you, if I might have 
 it." 
 
 Beata was not prepared with words to 
 tell him that he must not walk with her any 
 more ; so she just said that she was not go- 
 ing out that day. 
 
 h2
 
 100 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 'Tm sorry for that," he said; ''it's a 
 beautiful mornino:." 
 
 But Beata shook her head, and he went 
 off for a ramble by himself. Then she went 
 straight to Mrs. Winthrop. 
 
 " You must help me," she said. 
 
 ''Well?" 
 
 " I told Mr. Playfair that he might go 
 with us on our walks, and now I don't want 
 him to do so." 
 
 " Why not ?" 
 
 "I'd rather he didn't." 
 
 " But why not ? Don't you like him ?" 
 
 " Yes, I like him very much indeed." 
 
 " Then really I don't see why he shouldn't 
 go with you. 1 wouldn't be one to make 
 you do anything that you had better not, 
 but I think you are over-squeamish this 
 time. It isn't like you." 
 
 " Indeed, it isn't squeamishness a bit. 
 But please manage it for me. I must run 
 indoors now." 
 
 Mrs. Winthrop was very much puzzled 
 with Beata, and chewed the cud of reflec- 
 tion, though without much profit to her
 
 OXE MAIDEN ONLY. 101 
 
 mental organization, for the next couple of 
 hours. She neither liked her task nor un- 
 derstood the reason for it. But when Ro- 
 bert came in, she said, 
 
 "Well, have you had a pleasant walk?" 
 
 " Yes ; but alone." 
 
 " Ah ! Do you know, I think you had 
 better take your walk alone in future." 
 
 " Why, I wonder ?" said Robert, in that 
 pitch of voice that implies a pondering but 
 argumentative state of mind. 
 
 " Women are not good at reasons. 1 give 
 you my opinion, simply." 
 
 " Opinions without reasons are worth no- 
 thing. I shan't act by your opinion." 
 
 " Yes, you will." 
 
 " I tell you I won't." 
 
 " Well, you'll think about it before to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " With pleasure ; but I shall think to- 
 morrow as I do now, that I mean to walk 
 with Miss Spenser, unless Miss Spenser won't 
 have me." 
 
 But presently it happened to be mentioned 
 that Beata had been in.
 
 102 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 " What did she come for ?" said Robert, 
 pricking up his ears. 
 
 " Oh, for a gossip." 
 
 '' Did she come to ask you to tell me not 
 to walk with her ?" 
 
 ^'Do you think that's likely?" 
 
 ^^ Yes, I do, by your answer. Did she ?" 
 
 " Well, suppose she did ?" 
 
 " Nothing at all," said Robert, beginning 
 to whistle, and pulling the ears of the dog 
 that crouched at his feet. 
 
 The next time Robert met Beata, his 
 manner to her was wholly changed. He 
 thought he understood all living creatures ; 
 but he was mistaken this time. Miss Spen- 
 ser was a humbug, or a prudish fool. 
 
 Beata felt the new manner keenly. She 
 went to Mrs. Winthrop. 
 
 " Have you told him ?" 
 
 ^^Yes." 
 
 "You did not say I wished you to do so?" 
 
 " He asked the question, point-blank." 
 
 " What did he say when you told him ?" 
 
 " He whistled, and played with the dog." 
 
 Beata understood, and she knew at once
 
 OXE MAIDEN ONLY. 103 
 
 what she would do. She had had to pain 
 him and herself; that she could not help. 
 But he should not misjudge her, or think 
 that she did not understand him. She had 
 too much reverence for the real worth of 
 life to suffer that. So the next time she 
 saw him, she went straight up to him, and 
 held out her hand. 
 
 " I asked jMrs. Winthrop to tell you not 
 to walk with us." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I could not help doing so. I cannot 
 tell you why. It was not for my sake, nor 
 yours. I was very sorry. I enjoyed our 
 one walk together very much. You under- 
 stand ?" 
 
 He was his old self again in a moment, 
 only he was moved enough to be more con- 
 fused than she was. 
 
 ^' Thank you very much. I am very glad 
 you told me. I understand, quite. Per- 
 haps," said he, breaking into a little smile, 
 " Aileen will go with me sometimes." 
 
 That last touch was very kind, Beata 
 thought. It was the best possible credential
 
 104 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 of his full forgiveness. And Robert Play- 
 fair, being a delicate-minded gentleman, 
 never put it to himself to wonder what 
 Beata's reason for her act midit be. 
 
 D
 
 105 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 WITHIX the space of a few days, Beata 
 received two important communica- 
 tions from Geoffrey. The first was his book, 
 bound and published ; the second was a let- 
 ter from him to her about his book. 
 
 "These two days, since my book came to 
 you," he said, " I have been wanting to 
 write, but have been too busy. I have sent 
 off a great many letters of commendation 
 about my child. I may as well confess it ; 
 I am deeply moved. Up to the very hour 
 of its birth, I believed that I should be — in- 
 terested, to be sure, but calm. But no 
 sooner did it in bodily form appear before 
 my eyes than the dream was over. Indeed 
 my eagerness penetrated the outer wrappers 
 of the parcel that held my incarnated self. 
 My fingers trembled so that I could scarcely 
 open the package, for my heart bounded to
 
 106 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 my offspring within. And, then, there lay 
 my child — a self that at once I felt to love 
 more than the proper self from whom it had 
 sprung. All the weariness of proof-sheets 
 was over ; all calmness coming from the 
 consideration of the experience of authors 
 in general was gone. This Avas my child ; 
 no one had had this child before. I like to 
 touch it, and never baby had a physiognomy 
 more distinctive to its mother, than is my 
 child's physiognomy to me. 
 
 '^ I have a copy by my side all day, and 
 dip into it every now and then. I know 
 every word as it comes ; but every word is 
 fresh, and I feel the points more than when 
 I wrote them. I smile at the little touches 
 of humour (if humour it be) ; am moved 
 by the pathos (if pathos it be) ; and glow re- 
 sponsive to the best thoughts, whatever they 
 may be worth, for I do not pretend to know. 
 I do not feel the least proud, or anything 
 like that. As I read, my book is not me, 
 but one who suits me absolutely. When I 
 look at the outside, it is my dear child, my 
 second self. As I read, it becomes distinct
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 107 
 
 from me, and I respond to it as to another, 
 but an altoo^ether kindred soul. 
 
 " A kindred soul, I say ; yet I am humble 
 before my book. It is better than I am — 
 truer ; more loving and earnest ; more faith- 
 ful. My book does me good. It is my 
 ideal self, reproaching the self that I am ; 
 ray nobler friend beckoning me to come up 
 higher. Where my book is best, I am least 
 near to being proud of it, rather then most 
 humble before it, but humble with a loving 
 humility. 
 
 " Will my book succeed ? I cannot the 
 least conjecture. About the money success 
 I do not think at all, though I want to live. 
 What I do hope and long for is, that it may 
 get some understanding, loving readers, and 
 that it may win me a hearing for future 
 words, a platform for future work. If it 
 succeed in this kind and degree I shall be 
 well content. I think it ought to get a few 
 loving readers. It came out of my heart, I 
 know, and goes back to my heart still. So 
 I think there must be some heart-power in 
 it. But then hearts want getting at. My
 
 108 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 book's heart will want o^etting; at. Will any- 
 one take that trouble ? That is what I can- 
 not tell, because that is what no one can 
 tell. It is a terrible thing to have a heart, 
 and be thrown out into this wilderness of a 
 world, where hearts wear such thick cover- 
 ings. And then my book's heart, though I 
 think it has one, may be a very small heart, 
 and scarcely worth the finding. Never 
 mind ; it is my book, and I wrote it, what- 
 ever happens ; and that is a very great com- 
 fort indeed.'' 
 
 Need it be said that Geoffrey's book had 
 at least one appreciative reader besides him- 
 self? The day it arrived, Beata put it away 
 untouched, until uight should come. Then 
 she had a fire made in her room, for the 
 nights were still chilly. She closed the 
 shutters, that the daylight, when it came, 
 might not interrupt her. She supplied her- 
 self with plenty of candle ; and in her dress- 
 ing-gown and her easy-chair she spent the 
 night with the book. She almost knew every 
 word as it came ; but that only deepened 
 her pleasure. To her, also, the thoughts
 
 OXE MAIDEN ONLY. 109 
 
 came as fresh as ever ; but to her they came 
 laden with meanings and associations that 
 they could have only for her. She lived 
 over again the old college time of Hartley, 
 with his comings and goings, and the still, 
 happy times between with Geoffrey. She 
 w^ent back to the days when the thoughts 
 and feelings which Geoffrey's thoughts and 
 feelings awakened in her w^ere the intensest 
 she knew. That old life she lived over 
 again, as page by page she went through 
 the book ; and when the morning came, 
 and the household woke up, she came back 
 to her present life with a strange, dream- 
 like feeling, and doubted not that the old 
 life was the happier.
 
 110 
 
 CHAPTER XVIT. 
 
 HARTLEY was, of course, warmly inter- 
 ested in Geoffrey's book. He read 
 it through, which was no small achieveroent 
 for him, the book beiuo^ what it was. 
 
 ''Just dear old Geoff!" he said, when he 
 had finished. He praised it without reserve 
 among all his acquaintances, of whom, by 
 this time, he had a good number, and made 
 it a point of honour with them that they 
 should support it. It is to be feared that 
 a good many uncut copies haunted bachelor 
 rooms for some time to come. He gave a 
 copy of it to Etta, writing her name and his 
 own on the fly-leaf; and she, partly because 
 it was written by Hartley's brother, and 
 partly because, in parts, it suited her, be- 
 came a diligent and devoted student of the 
 book. Hartley wrote to Geoffrey that his 
 work was becoming quite the rage, and that
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. Ill 
 
 he must count himself a popuhir author ; 
 which statement Geoffrey, happily for his 
 own peace of mind, knew how to interpret, 
 and to be in the ris^ht fashion thankful for. 
 
 Meantime, Hartley's own affairs were 
 moving on altogether prosperously. Mr. 
 Moncton's opinion of his business powers 
 rose higher every day, and the elation 
 which Hartley felt at the praise which, 
 though he took it so jauntily, he dearly 
 loved, acted as a stimulus to fuller energy, 
 and not, as with duller and less ambitious 
 natures, it is apt to do, as a sedative to tor- 
 por and carelessness. He became, practi- 
 cally, secretary rather than assistant ; busi- 
 ness could go on just as well without him^ 
 Mr. Moncton said. Hartley's name was men- 
 tioned, once, in honour, at a meeting of 
 the board, before he had been three months 
 in his post ; and at the end of the three 
 months his salary was raised from £120 to 
 £150 a year, a reward never heretofore 
 given until a year's service had been accom- 
 plished. So clearly all things moved pros- 
 perously.
 
 112 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 Outside the office, too, Hartley was in 
 good repute. He had taken introductions 
 with him to town, and had used them. 
 Several of the clerks in the office were well- 
 bred men, with friends living in town. 
 Through these two sets, Hartley soon came 
 to know a large number of people, and 
 everywhere he was popular. Men liked 
 him, and women liked him ; mothers and 
 daughters were equally pleased with him. 
 His breezy freshness took everyone ; and 
 while he did not appropriate to himself the 
 office of censor upon things or words that 
 were not according to his mind, there was 
 yet an air about him that told women that 
 he came from a pure atmosphere, and they 
 were sure that his thoughts of them were as 
 simple and frank as his manners were free 
 and his laugh clear from any under-meaning 
 of scorn or inuendo. And then that gene- 
 ral affectionateness of his, altogether sincere 
 as far as it went, made him a most pleasant 
 acquaintance ; while a certain softness and 
 intensity of manner — sincere, too, or, at 
 least, unconscious — which he always had
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 113 
 
 for the person to whom he was speaking at 
 the rcoment, flattered each with a sense of 
 specialness in his regard, which was only 
 false in as far as it extended the specialness 
 of a moment into a total and abiding spe- 
 cialness. 
 
 Witli the Monctons he more than held his 
 ground. His original going to them was 
 intended to be but a temporary arrange- 
 ment ; but both they and he so well liked 
 their life together, tliat they ran the terrible 
 gauntlet of a financial discussion for the 
 purpose of making it permanent. As in 
 that battle of the gauntlet each fought on 
 behalf of better terms for the other, no 
 serious wounds were inflicted, and a perma- 
 nent arrangement on an altogether amicable 
 footing was made. Henceforth Mrs. Monc- 
 ton took Hartley under her maternal wing, 
 and cared for him as for her son. Between 
 Mr. Moncton and the women of his family 
 tliere were constant disputes as to whether 
 Hartley should sit longer with liim over his 
 wine after dinner, or go promptly to them 
 in the drawing-room. He generally left the 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 one and met the others, at such times, in a 
 storm of mild expostulations and reproaches, 
 which he argued against upon the hypothe- 
 sis, theirs, therefore his, of the natural desir- 
 ability of his presence and society. 
 
 Giles left off cultivating Hartley, and 
 treated him, upon those more and more 
 rare occasions when he himself was at 
 home, with a civil or good-humoured in- 
 difference which altogether met the ap- 
 proval and suited the claims of the other 
 members of the family. 
 
 In Etta's life and interests Hartley became 
 more and more larsjelv involved. She 
 undertook to keep his little study (so-called) 
 in order for him. If he had mislaid any- 
 thing, he asked her where it was. She, sur- 
 reptitiously at first, and afterwards openly, 
 saw that his hat and overcoat were carefully 
 brushed. She hinted to her mamma things 
 that she had noticed him to enjoy for dinner; 
 she picked his strawberries for him, when 
 strawberries came, and so on. In the even- 
 ing, in the drawing-room, she would be on
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 115 
 
 the watch to hand him his cup of tea, and 
 felt disappointed when, engrossed in conver- 
 sation, perhaps, he forgot to look up and 
 smile as she gave it to him. She refused 
 invitations for those evenings when she 
 thought it likely that he would be at home. 
 She practised most the pieces that he liked 
 best, and cared little for any new ones that 
 he had not told her to learn, unless indeed 
 they were such as she knew he would like, 
 and with which she might therefore give 
 him a pleasant surprise. Most of all she 
 practised the accompaniments of his songs. 
 To play these for him was one of her very 
 greatest pleasures, and she did not mind 
 how much he corrected her, or how much 
 he scolded, even, so long as that strange, 
 irritable, almost disliking manner of his, 
 which perplexed and pained her so, did not 
 come over him. 
 
 It was after one of these attacks, caused 
 always by some fit of jealousy, or some fit 
 of self-reproach, which he had about Beata, 
 that Hartley, set free, as he sometimes was, 
 
 i2
 
 116 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 an hour or two earlier than usual, from the 
 office, went home and found Etta lying, 
 tucked up, upon the sofa, poorly with a 
 toothache that she had had all day. 
 
 " What, Etta," he said, going up to her, 
 *^ poorly ?" 
 
 '' Yes," she said, " a little. It's only the 
 toothache. I've had it all day." 
 
 '' Poor little soul !" he said, just touching 
 her face. 
 
 " It's better now," she said. 
 
 " Is it ? That's right. Which one is it ?" 
 
 She showed him which one it was, and 
 he stooped down and kissed the place where 
 the pain had been. He had never kissed her 
 before. 
 
 Then he sat down by her, not speaking, 
 but just lightly stroking the hair from her 
 forehead ; and as he sat, he saw a tear upon 
 her face. 
 
 " Crying, Etta ? Is the pain so bad ?" 
 
 '' No," she said. 
 
 " What's the matter, then ?" he said ; but 
 for a long time she would not tell him. At 
 last he made her, and she said,
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 117 
 
 *' I wish you would not be so strange and 
 cross to me, sometimes ; it makes me so un- 
 happy." 
 
 " Does it !" he said — " poor little soul !" 
 But as he spoke he felt uncomfortable and 
 half-shamed at Etta's words. 
 
 " Why are you so ?" she said. " Is it my 
 fault? Do I do anything to vex you?" 
 
 " No, Etta." 
 
 " Then why is it ? Do tell me. I should 
 not mind so much if I understood." 
 
 The child spoke eagerly, having conquer- 
 ed her first reluctance, for her heart was set 
 to know. 
 
 " I don't know, Etta. I can't tell you 
 exactly." 
 
 " Oh ! but you must know. Do tell me," 
 she said, almost pleadingly. 
 
 He did not answer, but sat, as she half 
 rose towards him, looking into her face. 
 There was a struggle in his heart whether 
 he should not, there and then, tell her all 
 about Beata, and his love for her, and his 
 hope even yet to make her his wife. But 
 he shrank from seeing the pain that, at the
 
 118 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 bottom of his heart, he knew his words 
 would give to Etta ; he shrank from the re- 
 proach of her tears and her stony silence; he 
 shrank from her anger, perhaps ; he shrank 
 from the cold deadness which would have 
 fallen upon the house for him, should Etta 
 have ceased to take interest in his interests, 
 and should all the soft touches of her regard 
 have vanished from his daily life. As he 
 sat looking into her face, the struggle went 
 on in his mind; but as he thought, he turned 
 more and more from the present pain, and 
 melted into a spurious tenderness for him- 
 self and Etta, shut in by a law so hard to 
 exact a retribution for every pleasure pluck- 
 ed thoughtlessly, or with disloyalty to sin- 
 cerity and simple honour. 
 
 Etta was still waiting, expectant, for him 
 to speak, and the battle was still, in form, 
 unfinished, when Ada came in and saw them 
 together. 
 
 "There are you two," she said, "love- 
 making." 
 
 "Love-making, indeed I" Hartley said, 
 catching hold of her. " I suppose you are
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 119 
 
 jealous because 1 have not made love to you 
 to-day." 
 
 " Oh ! yes — to me ! You're very likely 
 to make love to me." 
 
 "" And why not, pray ?" 
 
 *' Because you're in love with Etta." 
 
 " I'm in love with all nice, pretty girls, 
 like Etta and you." 
 
 '' Oh ! yes, we know," said Ada, breaking 
 away, and laughing as she went out of the 
 room. 
 
 " Saucy girl ! I'm very much in love 
 with you, as a brother should be, am not I, 
 Etta?" he said. "I shall call you Sissie, 
 I think, in future, and you must always be 
 sure that I am your dear and faithful bro- 
 ther for ever and ever." 
 
 This was Hartley's compromise for telling 
 Etta about Beata. She, simple soul, looked 
 up in his face as lovingly as if, from her ex- 
 perience of brothers, there could be no 
 relation conceivably dearer. She was al- 
 most very happy. Hartley had kissed her, 
 and had said that he was her dear bro- 
 ther for ever and ever, and that he was
 
 120 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 very much in love with her. The tooth- 
 ache day was a very happy day to Etta for 
 some time to come. 
 
 If Hartley had said to Etta that he was 
 only her dear brother for ever and ever, it 
 might have helped her understanding a lit- 
 tle better. But then " only " is a painfully 
 explicit word, and Hartley shrank from giv- 
 ing explicit pain that would have to be borne 
 under his eyes. And, indeed, "only" was 
 implied in his words, as Hartley said to 
 himself Brother is a definite relationship, 
 and does not shade off into lover and hus- 
 band. Ada was only talking nonsense, or, 
 at all events, Etta knew well enough that 
 he was not her lover. He hoped the dear 
 little thing understood it all — he was sure 
 she did, indeed. He would not cause her 
 unhappiness for the world. 
 
 And then he thought of Etta and Beata 
 together, and how diflerent these two were 
 to him — the one pushing off his love, and 
 refusing the promise for which he begged so 
 hard ; the other wooing him almost, though 
 all unconsciously, and willing to be and do
 
 ONE MAIDEN OXLY. 121 
 
 anvthincr for him, who was nothinsr to her. 
 And though at the bottom of his heart he 
 knew this contrast to be unjust and insin- 
 cerely made, the feelings of an injured lover 
 came swelling up (though ever so gently) 
 into his throat, and he felt more soft to- 
 wards Etta, to wliom he was nothing, as he 
 said, than towards Beata, of whom he had 
 begged that she would promise to be his 
 wife. 
 
 After that, Hartley's manner to Etta 
 changed once more. He became graver — 
 more brotherly, as he said. He scolded 
 her less over her music, and taught her 
 more. He called her " Sissie " sometimes, 
 and kissed her as a brother niioht have 
 done. Tliere was a little sad touch about 
 his manner to her, such as you have 
 to one dear to you, and to whom sorrow 
 has been so near that the dear one is 
 scarcely yet out of its shadow. He made 
 no more love to her in play or in earnest 
 (he never had made love to her deliberate- 
 ly, except in the veriest play), yet the new 
 manner was dearer to her than the old, and
 
 122 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 that just in proportion as earnestness took 
 the place of playfuhiess, and scolding gave 
 way to teaching. She no more wanted to 
 ask him why he was strange and cross to 
 her, because he was strange and cross to her 
 no more. 
 
 A little while after this it was that Etta 
 was sitting, in the afternoon, working with 
 her mother. 
 
 " Let's see, when's your birthday, Etta ?" 
 said the mother. 
 
 "Oh! not till February, you know, mam- 
 ma." 
 
 " M-m ! I wonder whether we shall 
 want the trousseau before or after then, 
 Etta," said the mother again, looking lov- 
 ingly into her child's face. 
 
 " Neither before nor after, mamma," said 
 Etta, blushing. 
 
 "Well, we shall see, little one, shan't we? 
 It comes to most of us, mother and child, in 
 turn. He is a dear fellow, and I am very 
 glad, little one." 
 
 Etta was very glad, too. Her mamma
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 123 
 
 would not be wrong, she thought. Surely, 
 Hartley loved her, and she was a very happy 
 girl indeed.
 
 124 
 
 CHAPTER XYIIT. 
 
 MR. PLAYFAIR prolonged his stay. 
 He had work to do which could be 
 done as well at Walcote as elsewhere ; he 
 liked the people and the place ; there seem- 
 ed no fear of his welcome quickly wearing 
 out ; so he remained. 
 
 As could not well but happen, the weeks 
 as they passed brought him into closer 
 contact with the life of the quiet Rectory 
 home. The Winthrops were perpetually in 
 and out, and he very often went in with 
 them. Mr. Spenser liked him, and liked him 
 more the more he saw of him. Aileen 
 courted him unblashingly, and laid him 
 under contribution for imposts and duties 
 that neither Hartley nor Geoffrey had ever 
 paid her. Her "walks abroad" were taken 
 so frequently with him, that if Beata and 
 Mrs. Winthrop, her old companions of tra-
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 125 
 
 vel, were not jealous, the fact came rather 
 out of their generosity than from the ab- 
 sence of a provoking cause. These walks 
 w^ere by no means mere dissipation ; they 
 were real pursuits of knowledge as well as 
 of pleasure, and their fruits were apparent 
 not only in the increased strength and fuller 
 healthfulness of the child, but in a perfect 
 menagerie of " reptiles," as old Mrs. Sim- 
 mons, the cook, called them ; named by 
 Aileen her "Zoological Gardens," and lo- 
 cated, as every visitor to the house learned 
 by ocular demonstration, in a deserted pan- 
 try, left vacant when, some years before, a 
 new kitchen was added to the house. 
 
 An accident broudit Robert and the 
 Spensers into still closer acquaintance. Go- 
 ing out eagerly to meet the postman one 
 day when they were expecting letters from 
 the boys, Mr. Spenser slipped, and so severe- 
 ly sprained his ankle that he could neither 
 walk nor stand. Robert, too, was on the 
 look-out for letters, and, sauntering along, 
 he saw the old man fall. In a moQient he 
 was at his side, and, as Mrs. Simmons ex-
 
 126 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 pressed herself iu telling the story to the 
 other servants half an hour after, " he, say- 
 ing neither with your leave nor by your 
 leave, whipped him up in a moment, car- 
 ried him into the house, and popped him 
 on the sofa like a baby." The old gentle- 
 man was for a minute half inclined to be 
 cross at this unceremonious proceeding, but 
 Robert placated him, and being wholly a 
 botanist and half a doctor, and therefore 
 learned in medicaments, undertook the charge 
 of the case. The sprain was a bad one, and 
 wanted some attention. For a day or two 
 Robert doctored it with simples, going in and 
 out of the house at least as often as was ne- 
 cessary to attend to his case. Among the re- 
 medies he employed were talking with Beata, 
 as much as she would let him, playing chess 
 and gossiping with Mr. Spenser, flirting with 
 Aileen, making toys for her, and in general 
 holdinor himself at her momentary beck and 
 call. Under this skilful treatment the case 
 naturally prospered, and the time soon came 
 when the ankle, all inflammation having been 
 reduced, was ready to receive a bandage, and
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 127 
 
 SO enter upon the last stage of its re- 
 covery. 
 
 The bandage was put on one evening 
 when the Winthrops were spending an hour 
 or two with the Rectory folk. Robert pro- 
 tested that he had not bargained for a pub- 
 lic performance ; nevertheless, conquering 
 his natural diffidence, he addressed himself 
 to his task, while the whole party stood 
 round to see the show. 
 
 Robert's way of setting about his work, it 
 may be presumed, did not commend itself to 
 Mrs. Winthrop's judgment, for he had scarce- 
 ly commenced when she said, 
 
 " Here, let me do that ; you men don't 
 understand such things." 
 
 " All right," said Robert, meekly resign- 
 ing the foot into Mrs. Winthrop's hands, 
 and at the same time maliciously, though, 
 of course, quite accidentally, dropping the 
 roUed-up bandage. 
 
 But Mrs. Wintlirop had a soul above 
 rolled-up bandages, and addressed herself 
 vigorously, not to say jauntily, to her task. 
 But putting a bandage upon the ankle-joint is
 
 128 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 a work of art. Bandaging at all is a work of 
 art. The surgeon, who ungallantly declared 
 that " any woman, any fool, can take off a 
 leg," would not have been equally wide in 
 liis admission of competency to put on a 
 bandage. ^Irs. Winthrop was, therefore, a 
 very clever woman, a very brave one, or a 
 very rash one. 
 
 "The bandage is unrolled," said Beata. 
 
 ''That doesn't matter," said Mrs. Winthrop; 
 '' it will have to be." 
 
 So Mrs. Winthrop began to apply the 
 bandage above the heel. She put it round 
 several times, and, as it was rather a long affair 
 to gather up and pass over the leg at each 
 turn, she let it fall over the end of the foot in- 
 stead. But by this means it had before long 
 arranged itself in the form of one of those 
 remarkable cork-screw curls that ladies used 
 to wear down the sides of their faces. 
 
 '^liis rather awkward," said Mrs. Winthrop. 
 '' Here, you uncurl it, Beata, and then stand 
 out there" (pointing in the direction of the 
 patient's toe), " and hold the end, and let it 
 follow, as I go on bandaging."
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 129 
 
 So Beata stood out there, and held the 
 end, ducking gracefully at each turn to let 
 the bandage pass under the foot. But this 
 proved to be very awkward, too, and, more- 
 over, the cork-screw began to make its ap- 
 pearance again. 
 
 '^ I suppose we must roll it, after all," said 
 Mrs. Winthrop ; while Mr. Winthrop, only 
 because he did not dare to chuckle outward- 
 ly, chuckled inwardly. But Robert looked 
 quite sympathetic. 
 
 " It's really very troublesome," he said. 
 
 '* Oh, we shall manage it," said Mrs. Win- 
 throp, with that calm self-reliance which is 
 the best harbinger of success. (It is to be 
 remarked, parenthetically, that Mr. Spenser 
 looked beautifully resigned during the whole 
 process.) 
 
 So Mrs. Winthrop rolled up the ban- 
 dage, and recommenced her bandaging. 
 But because (of course !) the bandage was 
 not rolled tidit enoudi, she could not trust 
 to it to pull by, and it slipped several 
 times out of her fingers. This trick, how- 
 ever, she got used to after a little, and was 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 then one too many for the bandage, so far. 
 
 Mrs.Winthrop worked on above the heel. 
 
 " Don't you think you ve got enough there, 
 my dear ?" said Mr. Winthrop. 
 
 '' You mind your own business. I like 
 to do things my own way," answered Mr. 
 Winthrop's wife. 
 
 But, if the truth were told, this answer 
 was not altogether ingenuous. The fact is 
 that Mrs. Winthrop saw her trouble coming. 
 That (Mrs. Winthrop was a lady, and so 
 had not a suitable adjective) heel was in the 
 way. Ever since Achilles, heels have been 
 a trouble. How to get past that — that heel 
 without creases, she did not see. She tried 
 going across the heel ; but this was too much 
 for even her gravity. So she made a bold 
 dash for the underneath of the instep at 
 once. Creases could not be avoided, she 
 said doggedly. Having got to the instep 
 side of the heel, she kept there as long as 
 she decently could, but at last she had to 
 return, and then a new crop of puckers and 
 creases set in. After an ao^oiiisim? length of 
 time, all the bandage was on, and Mr. Spen-
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 131 
 
 ser's foot looked like a corrugated double 
 turnip set astride a red potato. 
 
 " Do you think that'll do ?" said Mrs. Win- 
 throp. 
 
 " I sliould think it might," Mr. Playfair 
 answered ; " I daresay the flesh will be in- 
 delibly printed by the morning ; but I hope 
 mortification won't set in, in the crevasses." 
 
 "Don't be absurd," said Mrs. Winthrop ; 
 " but if you think you can do it better, you'd 
 better try." 
 
 " Well, I can but fail," he said, and took 
 the foot into his hands. 
 
 Of course he took the bandaere off, and 
 of course he rolled it up tight ; and tlien, 
 because he had mastered the hidi art of 
 doubling, he put it on without a ruck. 
 When he had finished, he looked up quite 
 meekly, and not at all triumphantly, to ^Irs. 
 Winthrop. 
 
 " Will that do, do you think ?" he said ; 
 upon which she boxed his ears, which was 
 both ungrateful and rude. However, Mr. 
 Winthrop told the story of the bandaging- 
 scene a great many times, and felt to have 
 
 k2
 
 132 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 quite the whip-hancl of the wife of his bo- 
 som for a long time to come. 
 
 Robert's intimacy with the Rectory did 
 not come to an end with the cessation of 
 his surgical duties. Rather, as the days 
 went on, he grew more and more at home 
 in the house, and was always sure of the 
 welcome dven to a wished-for visitor. The 
 old man counted on his coming, and to 
 Beata it was a great comfort to see how 
 much brii2jhtness their new friend brouc]fht 
 into her father's life. 
 
 Between Beata and Robert there was of 
 individual intercourse very little, and al- 
 ways as little as she could by any means ac- 
 complish. His manner and tone to her was 
 always all that she could wish, only, unhap- 
 pily, since the commencement of his surgi- 
 cal duties, sometimes a little more than she 
 could wish. So Beata, liking him wholly, 
 had to hold herself off from him ; while he, 
 happy in the intercourse with her tliat he 
 did get, found himself fretted by a vague 
 discontent, whose meaning he, yet, did not 
 understand.
 
 133 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 GEOFFREY'S book moved quietly 
 through tlie world. It did not fall 
 dead exactly, for it be^an to be sold, and 
 kept on being sold, though the sale was a 
 slow one. The publishers were satisfied ; it 
 was quite as much as they expected, they 
 said ; the edition would be got through in 
 time. The critics took little notice of the 
 book. It was small, unaggressive, and by 
 an unknown author, and critics are busy. 
 One or two fools just sneered at it. Several 
 gave it a kindly word in passing ; a few 
 stopped over it. Not all of these last were 
 altogether favourable to it; but Geoffrey 
 valued the thoughtful attention more than 
 the praise. Of readers it picked up a con- 
 genial one here and there. Some of the 
 rank and file of Mr. ^ludie's mighty pha-
 
 134 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 lanx got hold of it, and they dropped it as if 
 it had burnt their fingers. Altogether, for a 
 thoughtful writer, the beginning was a fair 
 one. The book was too good for sudden 
 popularity among the mob, while it was not 
 a great book, and could not hope to take 
 its place at once, as a great book might. 
 Geoffrey was content. 
 
 But yet a while, at all events, it brought 
 nothing to his purse ; and this was begin- 
 ning to be an important consideration. He 
 was tyettiniif a little anxious, for he would 
 have had to be very hard pushed indeed 
 before he would have sent home for money. 
 The fifty pounds he brought with him was a 
 gift from Mr. Spenser, and given with the 
 words, " Write for more as soon as you 
 want it, my boy ; you can't ask for too 
 much while I have it." Geoffrey had taken 
 it without a shade of discomfort, and it was 
 not pride that would have kept him from 
 sending fur more. But to have had to send 
 fur mure would have been a great pain to 
 him, which he hoped he might be spared. 
 
 It was about the end of July when Beata
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 135 
 
 received a bulky letter from Geoffrey, a part 
 of which was as follows : — 
 
 " In obedience (unwilling obedience, for 
 once) to your injunction, I have been going 
 out more. On the whole, I must still say 
 that I don't like it. It takes very good 
 company to be better than one's own. 
 However, for once, virtue has been reward- 
 ed by more than itself, and the reward, of 
 course, took the sliape of a lady. 
 
 "This lady had read my book, and liked 
 it, she was kind enough to say. We talked 
 about it a little. Did I mean to devote my- 
 self to writing ? she asked. I hoped to be 
 able to do so. I wished it very much. She 
 looked interrogative. 
 
 " ' But I also have to live,' I said. 
 " ' Isn't that a way of living?' 
 " I laughed. * Not yet, certainly.' 
 " ' Why don't you teach till it becomes so ?' 
 " ' Well, I daresay there are a good many 
 reasons. I can think of one or two ; I 
 never thought of it ; nobody ever asked 
 me ; I've nothing to teach ; I don't know 
 how to teach if I had.'
 
 136 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 '"'■ ' I think I can ask you/ she said, ^ and 
 that will, at the same time, make you think 
 of it. The answers to your other two rea- 
 sons you might find out, if you began to try.' 
 
 " ^ Can you ask me ?' I said. 
 
 " ' Yes ; I was asked but the other day if 
 I knew of a gentleman who would teach a 
 young girl. I don't know much of the peo- 
 ple, and I don't know exactly what they 
 would want you to teach ; but I have seen 
 the young lady, and I liked her very much, 
 and no doubt the teaching; would be such as 
 an educated man could g^ive.' 
 
 " I daresay I looked dubious, as certainly 
 I felt, for Miss Cleveland (that is the lady's 
 name) said, 
 
 " 'I would strongly advise you to call, at 
 all events. I think you would like the 
 work.' 
 
 " So, as I had no special reason to offer to 
 the contrary, I promised to do so. The 
 next day, accordingly, I went to the address 
 she had given me, she having promised to 
 WTite that I was coming. I sent in my card, 
 and was shown into a room where four peo-
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 137 
 
 pie sat, among them a gentleman, Mr. 
 Brownlow by name, as Miss Cleveland had 
 informed me. 
 
 " ' You have heard from Miss Cleveland?' 
 I said, as soon as I was seated. 
 
 " 'Yes ; she said that you would call this 
 morning. We have been wanting^ to find 
 some one who would give this young lady 
 (pointing to the younger of two young ladies 
 who, with an elder lady, made up the party) 
 some teaching. Her father is abroad, and I 
 am her uncle. She has a fancy to learn a 
 little Greek, and she would like to know 
 more than she does about books in £^eneral. 
 The thing is her own wish, but her father 
 desires to gratify her in all reasonable 
 wishes; and I, for my part, think that all 
 knowledge is useful and improving.' 
 
 " I had looked at the young lady, and 
 thought her face a sweet one ; to the uncle's 
 speech I had nothing particular to answer ; 
 so T held my peace, having only a sort of 
 feeling that knowledge ought to be very 
 much obliged to this gentleman for his good 
 opinion.
 
 138 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 " ' Have you had much experience in 
 
 teaching, Mr. ?' he said, forgetting m}^ 
 
 name. 
 
 " ' I have had none.' 
 
 " ' Indeed ! Do you think you will get 
 on very well with a thing to which you are 
 quite new ?' 
 
 '' ' I should have said not, but Miss Cleve- 
 land urged me to call on you. However, I 
 leave it entirely with you, of course.' 
 
 " ' We might make the trial, my dear,' 
 said Mrs. Brownlow to her lord. 
 
 "'M-m,' said her lord. 'May I ask 
 
 your terms, Mr. ?' forgetting my name 
 
 again. 
 
 " ' I told you that I have never taught. I 
 know nothing about terms. You can think 
 over the matter, and if you care to make 
 the experiment, you will perhaps arrange 
 the details with Miss Cleveland. I believe 
 that she will kindly take so much trouble 
 for me.' 
 
 " I got up from my chair, and making 
 some sort of salutation, escaped from the 
 room. I caught sight of the faces of the
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 139 
 
 sisters as I went out, and thought they looked 
 annoyed, rather for me than at me. I be- 
 lieve that this determined my fate, and that 
 but for this I should have gone straight 
 home and written Mr. Brownlow a note 
 throwing up the whole thing. 
 
 " For, in truth, Mr. Brownlow had the 
 honour of acquiring a larger portion of my 
 dislike than any human being ever got pos- 
 session of in an equal space of time. The 
 creature was evidently born a gentleman ; 
 but as evidently nature had dropped him 
 upon her path for the purpose of showing 
 what she can accomplish, in the way of mak- 
 ing a snob when she pleases, spite of any 
 amount of circumstance against her. I 
 hated his face, I hated his figure, I hated 
 his voice, I hated his manner — I hated him. 
 Even his wife, who was one of those limp 
 pieces of humanity out of which a mild copy 
 of anything can be made, seemed absolutely 
 fascinating beside him. I daresay that I 
 should not have felt this a quarter so strong- 
 ly had I not first felt m}self to be in a false 
 position. But then, if he had not been a
 
 140 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 snob to the core, he would have been a little 
 delicate to my position, too. I am certain 
 that nothing but that last look on the faces 
 of the sisters kept me from writing him my 
 first and last letter. 
 
 " As it was, I wrote to Miss Cleveland 
 instead, bes^orinor her to arrano'e as she 
 thought best for me, but, in an}^ case, to 
 make sure, before she committed me, that I 
 should not come much into contact with the 
 uncle of my pupil. Unless that could be in- 
 sured, I said, I would rather not go. Miss 
 Cleveland wrote back the next day that she 
 had arranged everything for me, that I 
 should be safe from the uncle, and that I 
 was to begin my career as a teacher the 
 Monday following. What comes of it, you 
 shall know." 
 
 A few days later, Beata had a letter from 
 Geoffrey, giving her an account of his first 
 lesson. He had seen the uncle and aunt, 
 but had been politely informed (none know- 
 ing the gratification the announcement af- 
 forded him) that he would not see much of 
 them ; the elder sister would play propriety.
 
 ONE M.UDEN ONLY. 141 
 
 This, SO far, was very satisfactory. Then 
 they had sat down to work, tliough upon 
 the question of what the work was to be 
 his ideas were vaii^ue enoug;h. He asked 
 his pupil what she wanted to do. She 
 would like to learn Greek enough to be 
 able to do a little of the New Testament. 
 And what else ? She wanted him to tell 
 her what to read, and to help her to find 
 out whether she had read to any purpose. 
 These answers she had given shyly, but 
 clearly enough ; she knew what she wanted. 
 Had she thought of any book she would 
 like to begin upon ? Xo, she had not. 
 Well, they would do Greek that morning, 
 and then he would think about the other, 
 and send her word. 
 
 So they began upon the Greek. He 
 found her not exceptionally clever, perhaps, 
 but intelligent and very earnest. Her ear- 
 nestness and her shyness had a strange, 
 touching little battle together. For shyness 
 she could hardly speak to him ; through her 
 earnestness she did, in fact, endeavour to 
 answer everything he asked her. As the
 
 142 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 time went on, a little fun arose out of the 
 work, and they laughed together. This 
 helped them. He glanced at the elder sis- 
 ter's face every now and then. She was 
 following them, he saw, altogether sympa- 
 thetically ; but she left them to themselves. 
 What his pupil's voice was, he could scarce- 
 ly say, for she spoke too shyly for its tone 
 to come out ; but her laugh struck him. 
 "A soft contralto lauo^h," he said, "break- 
 ing into the tenderest ripple of treble you 
 ever heard." 
 
 When they began the lesson, they did 
 not look at each other at all ; but as they 
 went on, and grew more at home together, 
 and as the fun helped them, they became 
 braver. And then her look was just like 
 her manner. When their eyes met, she 
 looked quite simply at him until he with- 
 drew his eyes from her ; but all the time 
 her face was flickered with a little tremor 
 of shyness, that made it the hardest thing in 
 the world, but that he himself was less than 
 half brave, not to touch the face softly, and 
 bid her put away her shyness, because that
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 143 
 
 he was altogether meek and reverent before 
 her sweet girlhood, and held in his heart no 
 thoucrht orfeeliniT before which she need be 
 one shade abashed. 
 
 As soon as they had finished their lesson, 
 he came away, promising to send her word 
 what she should read. He had given the 
 lesson in the room where before he had 
 seen the uncle. 
 
 '' 'And that fellow is of their blood,' I 
 said to myself," he wrote ; " but then I re- 
 membered that, as their names are different, 
 he might not be. The aunt is their relation, 
 perhaps. That would be strange enough, 
 but it would be immeasurably better. His 
 name is Brownlow, as I told you ; their 
 name is Gray — I saw it in one of ray pupils' 
 books. Her Christian name is Elia ; the 
 other sister's name I do not know." 
 
 Always, after this, there was something 
 in Geoffrey's letters about his teaching. His 
 pupil and his new book filled his life. Yet 
 it was very clear to Beata that his new 
 loves did not push her out of her old place 
 in his heart. She was not jealous of her
 
 144 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 girl-rival any more than she was of the 
 book ; but rather she read those parts of 
 Geoffrey's letters which spoke of Elia, and 
 his interest in her, with a reverent tender- 
 ness which she could hardly explain even 
 to herself.
 
 Uo 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 WHEN Etta had confessed to herself 
 the fact that she cared for Hartley, 
 and the hope that he cared for her, she 
 grew more anxious than ever to know from 
 w4iom those frequent letters in a woman's 
 handwritincr came. One dav she asked. 
 Hartley's face darkened somewhat. 
 
 " Little girls shouldn't ask questions," he 
 said. 
 
 Etta looked up quickly at him. 
 
 " Do you mean that I should not have 
 asked that question ?" 
 
 " I was simply stating a general truth, 
 Etta. Those letters are from my sister." 
 
 " Your sister ! You never spoke of your 
 sister." 
 
 " Not of Beata ? — I've spoken of Beata, 
 surely." 
 
 " Oh ! yes ; but Beata isnt your sister." 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 '' I have called her my sister for a great 
 many years." 
 
 " You call me your sister ?" 
 
 Hartley's face darkened more at that. He 
 was a little annoyed at Etta, he said to him- 
 self, though what right he had to be annoyed 
 at Etta he would have found it difficult to 
 say. He wondered how Beata would like 
 to hear her faithful sisterhood of years set 
 over against a new-made sisterhood of days. 
 Etta had made the comparison, and he was 
 a little annoyed at her, he said. But who 
 had given Etta the right to make the com- 
 parison, he thought, or loouldnt think. Did 
 even that exhaust the matter? Not that, 
 even, quite. Did he think of Etta as a sis- 
 ter ? He knew that he did not. Whether 
 he thought of her as more, or as less, he 
 did not think of her as that. Yet Etta was 
 right in saying that he called her his sister. 
 She was right, because he had profaned 
 Beata's sacred title to the use of telling Etta 
 in the gentlest possible manner that lie was 
 not her lover. Clearly Hartley's face had a 
 right to grow somewhat dark.
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 147 
 
 " Do not you ?" Etta said, as he did not 
 answer. 
 
 " Yes ; in play," he said. 
 
 " How do you mean ' in play ' ? Beata is 
 not really your sister. Do you call her so 
 in play, too ?" 
 
 " Of course not," he said, sharply. 
 
 Etta looked up again. He had never 
 spoken to her so before. " You are rude," 
 she said, and left the room. 
 
 Hartley did not attempt to detain her. 
 He Avas angry with her, and irritated with 
 himself, and humiliated at the false position 
 in which he had suffered himself to be 
 placed. He must end this, at any cost. He 
 must make Etta understand that her relation 
 to him, and Beata's, were very different 
 things. There must be no room left for 
 mistake, any longer. Such a position de- 
 o^raded him. He had siven Etta no ridit 
 to say such things to him. And even as he 
 said this to himself the picture of what had 
 happened that evening when Etta had the 
 toothache passed before him. He rem em - 
 
 l2
 
 148 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 bered her sad face when he kissed her, her 
 tears, her appeal to him that he should not be 
 cross to her, her happy, satisfied look when 
 he said that he was her dear and faithful bro- 
 ther for ever and ever. This picture passed 
 before him, and he rose with a sigh, and 
 threw himself w^earily on the sofa, and 
 melted unce more into tenderness for him- 
 self and Etta shut in by a law so hard to 
 exact a retribution for every pleasure plucked 
 thoughtlessly or with disloyalty to sincerity 
 and simple honour. 
 
 And then, presently, Etta came into the 
 room again, as if to fetch something. He 
 called her softly, and she looked round. 
 
 " Come here," he said. 
 
 She came and stood by his side. 
 
 ^' Kneel down here, Etta." 
 
 She hesitated, and he said again, with his 
 half-coaxing, half-imperative manner, 
 
 " Kneel down here, by my side, Etta." 
 
 So she knelt down. 
 
 "Now give me your hands." 
 
 She gave him her hands, and he held them 
 together, within his, upon his breast.
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 149 
 
 " Why did you say that I was rude ?" 
 
 " Because you were rude." 
 
 " I was not rude. You should not hav-e 
 asked if I called Beata my sister in play." 
 
 '* You said that you called me your sister 
 in play." 
 
 " But it is so different. Beata has been 
 my sister for years." 
 
 " You mean that you care so much more 
 for Beata ?" Etta said. 
 
 " I did not say that. But it is so dif- 
 ferent." 
 
 Etta had no objection to its being so dif- 
 ferent ; and she waited that he might tell her 
 how different it was. And he had meant to 
 tell her, though that which he thought to tell 
 her she would not greatly have cared to 
 hear. But, as she waited, he had not the 
 words or the courage to begin. He lay look- 
 ing in her face, till, as he did not speak, her 
 face i?rew a little hard to him. 
 
 " Kiss me, and make it up, Etta," he said. 
 
 '' No," she said, and shook her head ; and 
 when still he did not speak, she drew her 
 hands from him, and said, " I must go," and
 
 150 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 rose from her knees. He, again, did not 
 attenript to detain her, and she went, more 
 deeply pained by far than when he had been 
 rude to her. 
 
 Hartley lay thinking of what he had done, 
 and what he had not done ; half sorry that 
 he had done so much ; half sorry that he 
 had not done more. When they met at din- 
 ner Etta avoided his eyes, and in the evening 
 she pleaded a headache, and would not play 
 or sing. Hartley sang a little to Ada's ac- 
 companiment, but they soon stopped. He was 
 restless and uncomfortable, and kept look- 
 ing at Etta, whose eyes never once met his. 
 He went and sat on a low seat by her side, 
 and played with the corner of the work 
 with which she also was playing. Another 
 time their hands would surely soon have 
 touched ; this time they did not touch. 
 Then bed-time came, and Etta bade hhu 
 good night, her eyes still not meeting his. 
 As soon as she had left the room he went to 
 his study, and in a moment Etta passed his 
 door. He caught hold of her as she passed, 
 though she tried to break away from him.
 
 OXE MAIDEN ONLY. 151 
 
 " Kiss rae," he said. 
 
 '^No, I will not." 
 
 " You shall. I will not let you go until 
 you do." 
 
 "You do not love me." 
 
 " I do," he said ; and then they heard 
 some one coming, and she let her face 
 move towards his, and he kissed her im- 
 petuously. So she left him, and slept 
 presently. She had thought she would 
 not sleep that night. Yet she was not 
 wholly herself again to Hartley for some 
 days, and never thought of Beata but with 
 pain. 
 
 And Hartley? Well, first he felt a little ex- 
 ultation as at a sort of triumph. Then, he had 
 kissed Etta, and that was always a pleasure 
 to him. Then he had got rid of what was 
 to him the great discomfort of feeling that 
 some one was annoyed with him, or cool to 
 him. And, once more, Etta had gone away 
 happier, he was sure, for having made it up 
 with him. And for the rest — that will per- 
 haps best be told by recording how, when 
 he had sat thinking in his arm-chair for ever
 
 152 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 SO long, and then got up to go to his bed- 
 room, he said, 
 
 " Well, I suppose I'm about the weakest 
 fool under the sun." 
 
 But the reader probably has had experi- 
 ence that to call himself the weakest fool 
 under the sun, and to quite mean it, are two 
 different things ; while to leave off being 
 the weakest fool under the sun is a third 
 and still different thing. 
 
 It was soon after this that Beata had a 
 letter from an acquaintance with whom she 
 kept up an occasional correspondence, and 
 who was indeed none other than the daugh- 
 ter of the friend who had introduced Hart- 
 ley to his present appointment and to the 
 Monctons. A portion of the letter ran as 
 follows : — 
 
 " Your brother Hartley (oh, dear ! I wish 
 I could invent a brother, as I seem to have 
 not the smallest chance of getting a husband ; 
 some sort of male creature belonging to one 
 in any relation would be a refreshment in 
 the midst of our dreadful feminine inani- 
 tion !) — your brother Hartley, I was going
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 153 
 
 to say, seems to get on excellently well with 
 the Moncton family in general, not to speak 
 of one member of the Moncton family in 
 particular. I spent an evening there last 
 week, and the young man's devotion to Etta 
 was really touching. Etta is evidently very 
 fond of him, and, but that you never can tell 
 how much or how little men mean, I should 
 think that her affection is by no means un- 
 requited. I gently hinted my suspicions to 
 Mrs. Moncton, who seemed not at all taken 
 aback by my discovery. So I suppose it is 
 all right. All which, I daresay, you know a 
 great deal more about than I do, and so I 
 might as well have saved my paper for some 
 other subject. You don't know of a dis- 
 ennraored brother or lover who would do for 
 me, I suppose ?" 
 
 Now, though Beata's knowledge of the 
 world was not very extensive, it was wide 
 enough to have taught her that such gossip 
 as the foregoing did not necessarily stand 
 for much ; and had it come to her upon its 
 merits simply, she would have suffered it to 
 pass very lightly by. But, in truth, it was
 
 154 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 but the expression, in another's words, of 
 her own gravest fears. Geoffrey's evasion 
 of her question. Hartley's own character, 
 his silence about Etta, the tone, the brevity, 
 and the irregularity of his letters, had all 
 prepared her for this. They had more than 
 prepared her ; she had virtually known 
 what was happening. Yet when another's 
 words expressed her own unacknowledged 
 certainty, it stung her to the quick. This 
 was her love, her lord, who should have 
 been — he who had begged her to promise 
 some day to be his wife — him to whom she 
 had given her whole heart for ever. Well, 
 there was an end, then ; that blessed peace 
 was never to be hers. Her love must be 
 all pain. She was not angry with Hartley ; 
 she did not call him false and traitor. It 
 was just him. She had known it ; she had 
 never really hoped otherwise. He did not 
 intend to be false to her. He had not de- 
 serted her, she knew — had not asked Etta 
 to be his wiTe. But the present was too 
 strong for him. The woman nearest to 
 him to-day was the woman dearest to him
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 155 
 
 to-day. He was quite sincere. He had 
 not made false love to her. He was not 
 makincj false love to Etta. He was alto- 
 gether affectionate and quite sincere while 
 you were with him ; but the present was 
 too strong for him. She did not blame him. 
 It was just her sad fate to need a strong, 
 unwavering, lordly love, and not to have 
 found it. 
 
 Beata's much-demanding nature was her 
 misfortune, and so she could not help its 
 seeming to her that a great, vague, blessed 
 possibility in her life was definitely closed. 
 But when an hour's thought had made that 
 clear to her, she remembered that tonics 
 were good things for weak health, and set 
 out for a walk across the bit of moor. But 
 this time the walk was less potent than 
 usual ; and when, on returning home, she 
 met Robert Playfair near the house, her 
 mind was full of sad thoughts, and her face 
 showed her sadness. He saw her first, and 
 essayed to pass her, seeing that her mind 
 was pre-occupied. But she saw him then, 
 and stopped. He asked after her father.
 
 156 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 and some home affairs of the moment, and 
 was about to pass on. But suddenly, see- 
 ing her sad, anxious face, and feeling very 
 tender and pitiful towards her, he said, 
 
 " I wish I could be of some use, or help, 
 or comfort to you." 
 
 "Thank you," she said quickly, "but you 
 can't, you know. That is to say, you have 
 been very kind and useful to us indeed. 
 But we must all bear our own burdens, 
 after all." 
 
 Robert was going to speak again, wdien 
 one of the people of the village came up, 
 and Beata gave him good-bye to turn to the 
 other. What he Avould have said had he 
 spoken again, he could scarcely have told, 
 and, indeed, by his first words he had not 
 meant any definite thing. Yet tliere can 
 be no doubt that he would have been ready 
 to offer or to do any definite thing under 
 the sun that would have made Beata happy. 
 When he left Beata, he walked slowly home, 
 with a feeling of vague disappointment and 
 ](jnging in his heart, such as he had not 
 known before.
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 157 
 
 After this meeting, Beata more carefully 
 than ever avoided being alone with Robert, 
 while her feeling towards him was more 
 warmly kind than ever, and her manner on 
 all occasions of general friendly intercourse 
 faithfully reflected her feeling.
 
 158 
 
 A 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 LETTER from Geoffrey Leighton to 
 Beata Spenser : — 
 
 " My dear Beata, 
 
 "Your querulous, quarrelsome, 
 and altogether injurious letter reached me 
 this morning, and in wholesome fear of a 
 still more malignant successor, I answer it 
 at once. 
 
 " My letters, you say, have been short, 
 vasjue, and unsatisfactory for the last two 
 or three weeks. Supposing the charge to 
 be true, shall I explain the fact? Well, 
 the chief reason 1 believe to be that I have 
 been feeling specially good to you all the 
 time. I have been very happy, and I have 
 been thinking a great deal of you all through 
 my happiness, and so I have seemed to have
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 159 
 
 DOthing to say. I hope you will understand 
 that as an explanation for short, vague, and 
 unsatisfactory letters. 
 
 "And what have I been so happy about, 
 you want to know? Well, I will tell you, 
 and in doing so my subject will divide itself 
 under three heads, as the dear old man 
 says, answering to your three special inter- 
 rogatives. 
 
 " 1. How am I? Thank you, I am un- 
 usually well. London suits me, evidently ; 
 and steady work suits me, and my teaching 
 suits me. I have had fewer bad days dur- 
 ing the last month than I remember to have 
 had in a month for I cannot tell how long. 
 
 " 2. How^ goes my work ? Well, the first 
 child continues selling (just think of a child 
 selling^ !) and I have actuallv received a stu- 
 pendous cheque from my publisher. I send 
 it you, that you may see a real cheque earn- 
 ed by real brain-work, and that brain-work 
 the w^ork of a brain you know. You may 
 keep the cheque till I want it, and so help 
 to save me from the danger of falling into 
 extravagant habits. It was an act of grace
 
 160 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 on the part of my publisher, as regards time, 
 to send me this cheque ; I had no claim 
 upon him till the whole edition was sold. 
 I am oTateful to him for more than the 
 value of the money. 
 
 '' Further, I have had another paper ac- 
 cepted by a magazine, which makes the 
 fourth, you remember. 
 
 "Last (under this division of my subject), 
 the new book goes on happily. I have had 
 a capital month's work at it just now, and, if 
 all goes well, it will be finished by Christ- 
 mas. 
 
 " 3. What about my pupil ? Under this 
 head I think that the best thing I can do is 
 just to give an account of my last visit. So 
 you will see us as a tableau vivant, and that 
 must surely be the best possible way of see- 
 ing us. 
 
 "Well, then, on Monday last I really 
 heard her full natural voice for the first 
 time. They had not heard me knock, and 
 she was talking to her sister as I went up 
 the stairs. The voice is just what I expected 
 — her laughing voice as nearly as can be ; a
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 161 
 
 soft contralto, with a cadence of a most 
 child-like yet pathetic treble. 
 
 " As I entered the room, she was sitting 
 at the piano. She had been practising. She 
 wears a black dress, a little full in the bo- 
 dice, and gathered daintily into a band at 
 the waist. She is not tall nor short, not 
 plump nor slight, exactly ; yet slight, with 
 a blooming child-like slightness. What the 
 old poets seemed to have in their minds 
 when they used the word 'maiden,' that she 
 looks. 
 
 " She looked round from the piano as I 
 entered the room, with her smile, half shy, 
 but altogether frank and confiding. She 
 put the music together in a moment, for she 
 is neat in all that she does, and then we 
 shook hands. Both sisters have shaken 
 hands with me since my second visit. I 
 feel sure that they had determined together 
 to do so before I went the third time ; for I 
 saw my child — my pupil, I should say — 
 glance towards her sister as I went in. 
 Then the sister came forward, with her 
 grave, sad, but very gentle manner, and 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 said ' How do you do ?' and gave me her 
 hand. And then my child gave me her 
 hand, without speaking, but with her half 
 shy, confiding smile, that moves me when I 
 see it, or when I think of it, more than I 
 can understand. Since then, I am always 
 welcomed in the same way, and I look for 
 the shake of the hand and the smile so, that 
 I think I could hardly begin my lesson if I 
 missed it, and I know that I should feel a 
 hunger all the day after. 
 
 " So (last Monday we are speaking of), 
 after a word or two of gossip between the sis- 
 ter and me, we sat down. My child sits at my 
 left hand always. We took our Greek first, 
 as we always do. We are not doing much 
 else than grammar at present, though we 
 try what we can make of a verse or two of 
 a Gospel each time. The way in which she 
 prepares her work astonishes me. She 
 never forgets any detail of what I tell her to 
 do, and she likes heavy tasks. I am sure 
 that she must spend a large part of her days 
 in preparation work. As I thought, she 
 is not exceptionally clever ; but her sweet,
 
 oxE :maiden only. 163 
 
 earnest intelligence is better than any 
 amount of cleverness. If she has not been 
 successful in her preparation work (and I 
 always tell her exactly how she has suc- 
 ceeded), her meek and penitent regret 
 would be too much for me if it were not a 
 shade amusing. I could as soon think of 
 myself as striking her as speaking sharply 
 to her. Altogether, and without exception- 
 al cleverness, the amount of Greek she 
 has mastered in the few weeks I have been 
 working with her, surprises me. Sure I am 
 that the credit is not mine. 
 
 *' After we had done our Greek, we turned 
 to literature, as usual. Sometimes, as pre- 
 paration, she gets together all the informa- 
 tion she can about some one writer, and then 
 we talk about him durinsr the lesson. At 
 other times I give her a poem, or a play of 
 Shakespere's, or some short prose thing to 
 study, and this it is her duty to master, or 
 to show cause, by means of marked diffi- 
 culties, why she has not mastered. This 
 time I had mven her Coleridire's ' Ancient 
 Marinei\' It was not new to her, but she 
 
 M 2
 
 164 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 had never studied it ; and of course she found 
 studying a poem a very different thing from 
 reading it. When we had finished this, I 
 looked at my watch, knowing pretty well 
 what it would tell me ; but while I was 
 looking at my watch, I caught sight of my 
 child looking longingly at the book, and I 
 knew what the little pantomime meant. 
 For you must know that more than once, 
 when the poem has been a loveable one, so 
 that it seemed rather cruel to have been 
 anatomizing it as we had been doing, I have 
 read it aloud, as a kind of atonement. The 
 first time I did this, I proposed the doing of 
 it with a good deal of hesitation ; but my 
 child and her sister gave a rather eager ^ Yes,' 
 and so I felt quite at my ease in the matter. 
 So, this time I read the ' Ancient Mariner ' 
 to them. It is a great pleasure to read to 
 them both. The sister's quiet look of en- 
 tire and appreciative attention, followed by 
 some thoughtful remark, always sympathetic 
 with the spirit of the poem, makes her as 
 good an audience as one dear listener whom 
 I had never thought to match. And then my
 
 ONE MAIDEN OXLY. 165 
 
 child listens with all her heart as well as her 
 inind — with her heart, indeed, more than 
 with her mind, though with her mind too. 
 I know, before I read them, the parts that 
 will touch her, and I feel that the know- 
 ledge intensifies my reading of them. They 
 are not the pathetic, the purely emotional 
 parts that move her most, rather those parts 
 where thought trembles on the versre of 
 emotion, where philosophy thrills towards 
 the sanctities of religion. I read them, a 
 few times ago, a poem which I had found in 
 a magazine, in which the writer, finding in 
 Christ the highest, the saddest, and the lov- 
 ingest that human eyes have seen, draws 
 therefrom some moving and noble conclu- 
 vsions concerning the character of God and 
 of man. My child sat with her head droop- 
 ed, as she always does when I am reading, 
 and I saw her face flush and her breath 
 quicken, and the tears glistened in her meek 
 eyes when I bade her good-bye. Well, this 
 day I read them the ' Ancient Mariner,' and 
 then I found that I had been with them 
 nearly double the proper time. You may
 
 166 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 be sure that I did not state the fact to them, 
 and you may be sure that I did not regret it. 
 
 " However, I came away, and you can 
 understand that it is a great comfort to me 
 to feel that we said good-bye, if not like old 
 friends, yet like heart friends. They do not 
 think of me as a person who goes to teach 
 one of them at so much an hour, and, as 
 such, a rather favourable specimen of my 
 class. They see that I am as well-bred as 
 themselves (that ever that uncle creature 
 should have made me think such a half or 
 wholly snobbish thought !) ; and me they like. 
 How much I like them I cannot tell you. 
 
 " I think I told you that my child's name 
 is Elia ; her sister's name, I find, is Mary. 
 Can you understand my child's face ? I 
 cannot describe it to you. Her eyes you 
 understand, and her mouth, and her smile, 
 do not you ? Her forehead is not high, nor 
 low ; it is rather broad. She is fair, and her 
 hair falls softly about her face. 1 think you 
 understand her look. If not, you will, as 
 you get to know more about her mind. I 
 think she has plenty of mirth in her, though
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 167 
 
 I have had no chance of seeing it, or only 
 the merest glances of it, as yet. In age she 
 is about sixteen, I should think. Her sister 
 is older — twenty, perhaps, or rather more. 
 They are both children, one may say ; yet 
 the elder sister, simple as a child, neverthe- 
 less, has all the earnest gravity of a woman 
 rich in the knowledc^e of the sadness of life. 
 And still you feel how young she is. She 
 seems a child, who has taken up premature- 
 ly, not precociously, the burden of life. 
 Their mother died many years ago, I find, 
 and so the elder sister has been mother to 
 the younger. That is easy to see. But the 
 sisterly relation is not even marred by the 
 fact. To my child the wishes of her sister 
 evidently have the authority of law ; but 
 the sister herself attempts to exercise no au- 
 thority whatever. A strong, wise, loving 
 influence is the fashion of her motherhood, 
 which blends so completely with the un- 
 marred sisterhood, that the relation becomes 
 as beautiful a one as I have ever seen. 
 
 "And now, dear Beata, I have written 
 you, at least, not a short letter. I hope.
 
 168 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 too, that it is not vague. It ought not to 
 be, for that which I have tried to picture 
 for you is vivid enough in my own mind. 
 That it will be satisfactory to you I know, 
 because it shows me to be well content. 
 My dear child and the work with her touch 
 my heart with a brightness that I had not 
 thouE^ht to know. And all the while I am 
 only the gainer — not, as you well know, in 
 any way the loser. That you are not less 
 dear to me, I will not say ; rather I will say 
 that, as my life grows richer and fuller, it 
 seems more glory to have you as my dear 
 sister and friend for ever. Your love seems 
 less ill-spent that it falls upon a heart more 
 quickened to joy at its faithfulness. 
 
 " Ever your true and loving brother, 
 
 " Geoffrey." 
 
 When Beata had read this letter, she sat 
 musing for a long while ; then she folded it 
 up carefully in the old creases, and placed 
 it away in her desk, as you place some few 
 letters, solemn, or joyful, or bitter, that life 
 brings to you.
 
 1G9 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 MEANTIME there were happening or 
 pending events of considerable im- 
 portance to Hartley. At the beginning of 
 September, and when Hartley had been at 
 his post about six months, Mr. Moncton re- 
 ceived an offer of another appointment suf- 
 ficiently tempting to make him think seri- 
 ously of accepting it. He mentioned the 
 matter confidentially to Hartley, who, ot 
 course, for his own sake, felt no particular 
 elation at tlie news, the more especially as 
 the change would involve the removal of the 
 Monctons, and so the throwing of him out 
 on to the world in the desolation of bachelor 
 lod^ing^s. 
 
 In a few days Mr. Moncton announced to 
 Hartley that he had determined upon mak- 
 ing the change ; but at the same time he 
 said —
 
 170 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 " I have been wondenn2r what reason 
 
 o 
 
 there is why you shouldn't attempt to secure 
 my post." 
 
 "I!" said Hartley, in genuine astonish- 
 ment — " that would be too absurd." 
 
 " I confess it seems a rather wild idea at 
 first sight," Mr. Moncton said ; " but no- 
 thing venture, nothing have. It is worth 
 tr3dng for. The salary is £500 a year, and 
 the post is a good starting-point. I should 
 never have had my present offer, if I had 
 not been known in the old connexion." 
 
 ^' Really you may stop," said Hartley ; " I 
 wasn't for a moment doubting the splendour 
 of the vine, only the grapes seem to me so 
 intensely sour at present." 
 
 "Well, I own they look sour at first ; but 
 they improve upon acquaintance. The 
 chances are you wouldn't get the appoint- 
 ment, but there's a chance that you might. 
 In the first place, you are thoroughly quali- 
 fied, and I should say so strongly. Then 
 you have been already favourably noticed 
 by the board. Then the friends who got 
 you here can help you still. And last, dash
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 171 
 
 goes for something in such cases. The offer 
 of the post you certainly won't get ; the post 
 itself you may chance to get for asking." 
 
 Hartley of course said that the thing was 
 out of the question-, and equally of course 
 he began forthwith to take it into question. 
 The result was that before the end of the 
 next day he had resolved to try his fortune. 
 An assistant-secretaryship would be no worse 
 after having missed a secretaryship than be- 
 fore, he said. 
 
 The news of the comini? chancre and the 
 proposed venture went to Beata and Geof- 
 frey, and excited them a good deal. Not 
 strangely, perhaps, they both thought of 
 Etta a little, in connexion with it. In the 
 Moncton family both things were talked of 
 perpetually, and Etta was confused and 
 pained to observe that she seemed to be 
 less mixed up in Hartley's mind with either 
 matter than she would have expected to be. 
 Her mother said to her one day, 
 
 '' If Hartley gets the appointment, that 
 will make everything quite simple and easy, 
 little one."
 
 172 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 But Hartley said no such thing. He spoke 
 regretfully of their coming parting ; he did 
 not speak of his hope that they might soon 
 be together again, and then more closely 
 and dearly than ever. For her, to be parted 
 from Hartley was the saddest thing she 
 could think of; to him, their parting seemed 
 but a painful incident of life. Etta was con- 
 fused ; she could not understand it. Per- 
 haps, when all the business part of the affair 
 was settled, his thoughts would be freeer, 
 and he would come back to the old loving 
 self which now above all times she expected 
 him to be. This she hoped ; and in this 
 hope she comforted herself, and strove to 
 keep calm. 
 
 Hartley saw Geoffrey once or twice while 
 the matter was pending, and talked it over 
 with him. If he got the appointment — 
 which of course he shouldn't ; but if he did 
 — he would go down home for a few days. 
 It would be splendid to cheer up the old 
 man with the good news, to see Beata's glad 
 look, to get Mr. Winthrop's jolly congratu- 
 lations, and to watch the queer expression
 
 ONE MAIDEX ONLY. 173 
 
 on the face of ]\Irs. Winthrop, who thought 
 him an impostor at the bottom of her heart, 
 he knew. 
 
 "And you must go, old fellow^," he said ; 
 " I'll tip you, if you re hard-up. It's no use 
 your sitting there shaking your head. / 
 won't go, if you don't ; and I will go. I 
 daresay you've logic enough in you to make 
 something out of that." 
 
 About the middle of September, the 
 board gave its decision, and Hartley had 
 got the appointment. He took a cab in- 
 stantly, and went off to tell Geoffrey ; and 
 then he wrote an exultant letter to Beata, 
 tellintr her the news, and that he and Geof- 
 frey were coming down to see them before 
 he began his new" duties. Beata's heart 
 shook at that with a feeling so strangely 
 made up of pleasure and pain, that she her- 
 self could not analyze it. She went and told 
 her father and Mrs. Winthrop, and soon the 
 whole place was moved at the approach of 
 this, to it, great and unexpected event. 
 
 The congratulations of the Monctons were 
 loud and sincere. Hartley said warmly to
 
 174 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 Mr. Moncton, " I am very grateful to you ; 
 you have made my fortune." 
 
 To whicli Mr. Moncton answered, " / 
 have not made your fortune ; you have 
 made your own fortune ; the only part that 
 I have in it is that I had the taste to like 
 you, and the sense to see that you had some 
 brains." 
 
 Mrs. Moncton rejoiced as over the success 
 of a son, and that not simply because of the 
 future to wdiich she looked forward for her 
 daughter, but because the boy had taken 
 possession of her heart. His fresh spark- 
 ling temperament, and the breezy simplicity 
 and purity of his moral nature, were just 
 such as mothers love in their sons, and for 
 which boys, not their sons, they love. 
 
 The only member of the Moncton family 
 who w^as distinctly not glad at Hartley's 
 good fortune was Giles. The first flash of 
 good-fellowship between the two had long 
 since died down, and c^raduallv a dislikinc]: 
 tone had crept into Giles's manner towards 
 Hartley. It had begun after that little re- 
 buff, already recorded, which Hartley had
 
 ONE MAIDEN OXLY. 175 
 
 administered to him, and it had continued 
 and grown. It was natural ; the first good- 
 fellowship was the anomalous thing. Hart- 
 ley was just the sort of person to irritate a 
 roan of Giles's type. Giles's chief delights 
 were smoking, drinking, and broad jokes ; 
 Hartley cared for none of these things, and 
 showed his indifference. For Giles no one 
 cared much, while Hartley everybody liked. 
 Giles never exerted himself for any worthy 
 purpose, and was tacitly scorned by his fa- 
 ther and the whole family for his idleness 
 and his meaningless life. Hartley was full 
 of energy, which was carrying him on to 
 rapid fortune, and seemed to be always 
 standing out as the pattern boy to shame 
 him and his shiftlessness. So Giles grew to 
 dislike Hartley considerably, and only ab- 
 stained from the free expression of his dis- 
 like because he was sure to have all the fa- 
 mily against him, and because he feared 
 Hartley's tongue, which could pay back an 
 impertinence with a shaft that seemed to 
 be thrown all in play, but which would 
 rankle in the pulpy tissues of Giles's mind
 
 176 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 long after everybody else had forgotten all 
 about it. But, at all events, when Hartley's 
 good fortune came to him, Giles could ab- 
 stain from either feeling or expressing any 
 gladness, and this he did. 
 
 Mr. Moncton was to enter upon the duties 
 of his new appointment at the beginning of 
 October, though he was to give a day or two 
 each week to the old place until Christmas. 
 For the next week, therefore, after the 
 board had made its decision, he and Hart- 
 ley were very busy, working night and day 
 almost, having no leisure but for eating and 
 sleeping. Hartley also had to look out for 
 a ncAv home, and it was felt to be best that 
 ]ie should do this before he went on his 
 visit to Walcote, that so he might find 
 everything ready for him on his return. 
 By AVednesday evening all his arrangements 
 were made ; on the Friday he was to start 
 for home. On the Thursday he went to the 
 office, and finishing his duties there early in 
 the afternoon, he came home, and went 
 straight to look for Etta. He found her 
 sitting in an arm-chair, reading, or not read-
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 177 
 
 ing a book. She started when he entered 
 the room, and he went and sat down by her 
 side. 
 
 ^' What are you reading, Etta ?" he said. 
 
 " Oh ! it's — I'm sure I don't know exact- 
 ly what it is. You can see." 
 
 "Thank you. You're a capital student, 
 Etta. I'm afraid you were mooning, not 
 reading— eh, Etta ?" 
 
 " I don't know what mooning is. I was 
 just reading sometimes, and thinking some- 
 times." 
 
 " And the thoudits were about — what ?" 
 
 She looked at him. Was he playing 
 with her ? or did he realli/ not know what 
 she was thinking about ? 
 
 "Thinking about our parting, Etta?" 
 
 She did not answer. 
 
 " Eh ?" he said, putting his hand u )on 
 hers. 
 
 "Yes, Hartley." 
 
 He had asked her many times to call liim 
 Hartley, and now and then she had doi. ' it, 
 but generally she did not. 
 
 "I have thoug^ht a orreat deal abo it if 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 too, little one. I am very sorry ; I shall 
 miss you very much. But I shall come and 
 see you very often. It will not be the same, 
 but there maybe many happy times in store 
 for us yet — eh, little one?" 
 
 "Yes," she said, feeling as if some one 
 were talking meaningless words, far off, 
 nearly out of hearing. And there was a 
 deaf, stony look upon her face, as if sad 
 inner words, and no outer words whatso- 
 ever, were filling her thoughts. 
 
 " Have you nothing to say to me, Etta? 
 You have never said how glad you are at 
 my good fortune. Are not you glad ?" 
 
 She smiled a little, as if to say, " Who 
 should be more glad, or less, than I ? " 
 
 Then he talked about his plans, and many 
 things; and she listened, with that far-off look 
 on her face, but said almost nothing. And 
 then he must go and write some letters, he 
 said, before post-time. " And," he said, " we 
 must have our good-bye kiss now, for we may 
 have no chance in the morning. It will not 
 be for long, little one." And then he kissed 
 her. She did not kiss him in return ; but
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 179 
 
 her face still wore that stony, far-off look, 
 and her lips were icy cold. 
 
 So he went, and she sat faintly wondering 
 whether his last words, " It will not be for 
 long, little one," might cover any hope for 
 her. 
 
 At night, when Hartley sat thinking of all 
 the things that had happened and were hap- 
 pening, and remained to happen, he said to 
 himself that at least to-day he had said nothing 
 to Etta for which he had occasion to reproach 
 himself. And as he said this to himself her 
 stony, far-off look came back before him, and 
 the icy coldness of her lips disturbed him, as it 
 had not disturbed him when he kissed her ; 
 and he sighed, vaguely, for a race shut in by 
 a law so hard to exact retribution for every 
 pleasure plucked thoughtlessly, or with dis- 
 loyalty to sincerity and simple honour. And 
 then he made haste to prepare for bed ; and 
 in the morning he woke with that freshness 
 and buoyancy which are the proper fruit of 
 a sound night's sleep. 
 
 n2
 
 180 
 
 CHAPTER XXIIL 
 
 AS Hartley had announced to Beata was 
 to happen, the two brothers went 
 down together. Whether Hartley did tip 
 Geoffrey the expenses of the journey remains 
 unrecorded. They went as far as the rail 
 would carry them on the Friday, going on 
 by coach the next morning. At the point 
 where they left the coach Mr. Winthrop met 
 them, having driven over by himself for the 
 purpose. 
 
 " Well, my boys," he said ; "I thought 
 Fd like to catch the first sight of your faces. 
 I'm as glad to see you as if you were my 
 own boys, and just as glad of your good 
 luck — eh. Hartley ? You're a fine fellow to 
 make your fortune in six months." 
 
 " My fortune has made me, rather," said 
 Hartley, quite sincerely. 
 
 " Well, it is a wonderful slice of luck, cer-
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 181 
 
 taialy. So much the better ; I'm sure you 
 deserved it. And how's the health. Geof- 
 frey ?" he added, smilmg. 
 
 As Geoffrey could give him capital accounts 
 upon that score, there was room for another 
 little burst of congratulations, and there was 
 nothing that Mr. Winthrop more heartily en- 
 joyed than congratulating people ; and, more- 
 over, he never put the drop of vinegar into the 
 cup that some people are so fond of adding. 
 As they drew near to liome, many of their 
 villagers met them on the road with a warm, 
 welcoming smile, to which the brothers gave 
 full return, each after his fashion. And then 
 presently they could see their house, and 
 watchers waiting for them. There were the 
 old man and Aileen together, and Robert 
 Playfair talking to them both, and there 
 were Mrs. Winthrop and Beata. 
 
 "Who's that man?" said Hartley. 
 
 "That? Oh, it's our Robert— Robert 
 Playfair." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I remember ;" and for a mo- 
 ment Hartley was inclined to feel vexed at 
 the sight of Robert ; but he remembered
 
 182 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 Beata's letter, and altered his mind. So 
 they drove up. Hartley was off in a mo- 
 ment. " Well, father," he said, kissing the 
 old man, " alive, you see, and blooming, 
 spite of all the fears. You look splendid, 
 sir. Beata, old darling, aren't you glad 
 we've come? A jolly kiss, Aileen ! And, 
 Mrs. \Yinthrop, perhaps you'd rather not 
 hiss me ; but you will not bite to-day, will 
 you ? Say you're glad to see me ; do.'' 
 
 Geoffrey's greetings followed each of 
 Hartley's without much delay, but with 
 fewer words. And then he passed on to 
 Robert, who was standing looking, not alto- 
 gether unmoved, at the meetings. 
 
 " Oh ! I beg your pardon," said Hartley ; 
 " I forgot you." 
 
 " Quite right, too. I'm very glad to see 
 you, though," and they shook hands. 
 
 Then the Winthrop party went home, Mr. 
 Winthrop talking very fast as they went, in his 
 excitement and happiness at the good looks 
 and prosperity of the boys. 
 
 " Aren't they fine fellows, now ?" he said 
 to Robert.
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 183 
 
 *' Yes, indeed they are," said Robert sin- 
 cerely, but with a queer little breath of pain 
 over his heart as he said it. 
 
 The Rectory party, too, went indoors. 
 The old man was very excited. 
 
 " I never thought to see you again, my 
 boys," he said. " I am very glad ; you both 
 look well, thank God ! " 
 
 ''Well, sir? I should think so! Xo 
 more room for croaking now, is there ?" said 
 Hartley. " But we're disgustingly dirty at 
 the present moment. May we go and wash, 
 Beata ? " 
 
 So the boys went to their old rooms, and 
 Beata with each, to see that he had all he 
 wanted. Hartley took her face between 
 his hands, squeezing it together in his old 
 boy way, and kissed it with a lingering kiss 
 without speaking. Geoffrey said, " This is 
 almost worth having been away for, Beata." 
 For Beata, she wanted neither kisses nor 
 words much, as yet ; to have them there was 
 enough for the present. 
 
 When the young men came back from 
 their rooms, and when they had eaten some-
 
 184 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 thing, the whole party went round together 
 to see how much or how little the old house 
 was changed. They felt that they must be 
 moving at first. They could not sit down 
 to talk, quite yet. Even in six months 
 there were changes enough to make their 
 ramble mean something, and Aileen was a 
 good cicerone. And presently they came in 
 and did sit down for a good talk till dinner. 
 Hartley, by universal consent, had the lion's 
 share of the conversation, and he gave them 
 a vivid account of his business life, and of all 
 that he expected to have to do in the future. 
 But Beata noticed that now, as in his letters, 
 he spoke but little of the home-life at the 
 Monctons. 
 
 Since the leaving of the brothers, the 
 Rectory drawing-room had had a quiet time 
 of it. But to-night it woke up again. The 
 Winthrops and Robert came in, and Aileen 
 stopped up, and the boys were home, and 
 Beata was happy and the old man cheery, 
 and the sleepy old room was full of life. 
 The piano had been tuned, and Hartley 
 hunted out all the music, and their whole
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 185 
 
 life ill the past came back, as one after ano- 
 ther tlie familiar songs, covered with but a 
 film of strangeness, turned up. Hartley 
 sang a good deal, and everybody declared 
 that he had greatly improved in his sing- 
 ing. Beata sang too, and sang her best, 
 though she had practised but little, for there 
 is no art so great as that which deep and 
 happy emotion, touched with a colour of 
 trembling and pain, can inspire. 
 
 Geoffrey sat back in the room, listening to 
 Beata's singing, but talking with whomever 
 came near him. The songs he knew, and 
 the clear voice of the singer could float well 
 enough into his heart through the open tex- 
 ture of common thought and talk. For ever 
 so long Aileen sat on his knee, and cooed 
 her gladness that he had come back to them, 
 and played with his face and hair. 
 
 Old Mr. Spenser and Mr. Winthrop were 
 in beaming spirits. The happiness of the 
 former shone through his face, wliile that 
 of the latter took expression in a string of 
 jokes and nonsense that kept the " affec- 
 tionate conjugal scorn " of his wife in con-
 
 186 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 stant play. The rest of tlie company, hap- 
 pily, were not critical, for this evening. 
 
 Hartley was engrossed with Beata. In 
 the old time he had liked her singing, but 
 at the bottom of his heart he had been best 
 pleased when he was singing, and she was 
 playing for him. It was his nature to like 
 to be the doer. But to-ni^ht he thouo-ht 
 more of her sing-ino^ than of his own. Both 
 it and Beata herself were a half-surprise to 
 him. She had for him all the interest of a 
 new acquaintance, added to the old inter- 
 est, which came back with all its force. He 
 had gained a standard to measure her by, 
 and he kept on comparing her, face and 
 voice and manner, with Etta. In each point 
 Etta suffered, though not coarsely, in his 
 mind. He felt quite soft to her ; but she 
 was Etta, not Beata. " Dear little thing," 
 he called her to himself. Beata he had 
 never thought of so, and to-night he felt 
 less inclined to think of her so than ever. 
 His old imperative manner altogether disap- 
 peared, and he wooed her, rather. There 
 was a little touch of worship in his tone
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 187 
 
 to her, and the touch grew stronger as the 
 evening grew. 
 
 Robert meantime played but a quiet part 
 in the doimrs of the evening^, and was in- 
 clined to feel himself a little out of place. 
 The feeling was a new one to hhn, for the 
 sight of other people happy generally suf- 
 ficed to make him quite at home. But to- 
 night every pleasant word addressed to 
 himself, and every loving word addressed 
 to everyone else, half irritated him, till he 
 was ready to bite his lips with vexation at 
 his own perverse mood. 
 
 "You seem down in the dumps to-night, 
 Robert," said Mr. Winthrop. 
 
 " Oh ! don't bother," said Robert, pettish- 
 ly ; " I'm looking on — that's quite enough 
 for me." 
 
 "Why, what's the matter with the boy?" 
 said Mr. Winthrop ; but then somebody 
 called him to another part of the room, and 
 he left Robert to continue his looking^ on. 
 
 Geoffrey sat in his old place, and Beata, 
 standing, looked down upon him as they 
 talked. Presently Hartley came up to
 
 188 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 them, and placing himself by Beata's side, 
 he put his hand lightly upon her shoulder, 
 and looked into her face with his new 
 pleading manner strong upon him. She 
 did not turn to him, but went on talking 
 with Geoffrey. Geoffrey tried a little to 
 draw off from the conversation, and to pass 
 it rather into Hartley's hands ; but Beata 
 seemed to incline otherwise. There was a 
 little battle, though it was but a battle of 
 shadows, which none but keen eyes would 
 have seen. 
 
 Robert's eyes ivere keen, in a fashion, and 
 he saw the battle of the shadows, and drew 
 his conclusions therefrom, and thought him- 
 self shreAvd in the drawing of them. He 
 made up his mind that Hartley loved Beata, 
 who responded less to him than she loved 
 Geoffrey, who, in his turn, responded but 
 imperfectly to her. Robert was an arrant 
 blunderer, of course, and any young lady in 
 her second season would have been able to 
 show him what a goose he was. But of 
 such experience as young ladies in their se- 
 cond season are rich in, Robert had had but
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 189 
 
 little, and his loving knowledge of nature, 
 with its simple directness, did not help him 
 much in the reading of the great language 
 of obverse signs. So it is no wonder that 
 he blundered. 
 
 As soon as the battle of the shadows was 
 over, Geoffrey went to sit by Robert, that 
 he might chat with him. A day or two 
 before Robert would have said that few 
 things would give him greater pleasure than 
 a conversation with Geoffrey ; for both from 
 his book, which he had read, and from 
 Beata's account of him, he had formed a 
 high estimate of the man. But now, when 
 Geoffrey in bodily presence sat by his side, 
 he seemed to have altered his mind. He 
 was civil, of course, and he tried very hard 
 to be responsive, for he was not pleased 
 with himself or his mood. But his words 
 fell like lead, and the conversation soon 
 dropped through. 
 
 When, later, the chances of the evening 
 brought him into conversation with Hartley, 
 Robert was inclined to behave better. It 
 might not be a positive recommendation that
 
 190 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 Hartley was evidently very much in love 
 with Beata, but it was certainly better than 
 having Beata in love with him and pushing 
 her off. Beata pushed him off, rather. 
 That was pitiful for poor Hartley ; and so 
 Robert was very much disposed to feel kind- 
 ly towards him. 
 
 ^' I have been looking forward to the 
 pleasure of knowing you for some time," he 
 said ; " you are just what I expected to find 
 you." 
 
 " How could you expect to find me any- 
 thing ?" Hartley said. 
 
 " I've heard a great deal about you from 
 your sister Beata." 
 
 " Beata is not my sister." 
 
 "No; but she says that you have always 
 called her so — you and your brother, I mean." 
 
 " Ah ! yes ; that was when we were chil- 
 dren." 
 
 Hartley did not look quite pleased as he 
 spoke; and Robert perceived that he liad 
 committed a blunder. He tried to mend it, 
 but with small success, and this conversation, 
 also, came to a premature end.
 
 OXE MAIDEN ONLY. 191 
 
 When the evening was over, the brothers 
 compared notes. 
 
 " How do you like Beata s friend ?" Geof- 
 frey said. 
 
 " Who's Beata's friend?" said Hartley. 
 
 " Why, Playfair, of course." 
 
 " He's not Beata's friend, that I know." 
 
 " Well, call him what you please. How 
 do you like him ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't care for hira ; he's not much." 
 
 " I don't know. I'm inclined to like him, 
 and think there's a good deal in him. But 
 he rather shut me up. I couldn't get much 
 out of him." 
 
 " Indeed ! I found him ready enough to 
 talk ; but I didn't care much for what he 
 said." 
 
 "That's queer, too. There surely must 
 be something in him, for two such shrewd 
 observers of human nature as our humble 
 selves to have read him so differently." 
 
 " As you like. I don't care a straw whe- 
 ther there is or there isn't." 
 
 So the moral equilibrium of the world had 
 a chance of remaining undisturbed. Geoffrey
 
 192 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 was returning good for evil in his thinkings, 
 and Hartley evil for good in his. Therefore 
 the balance of virtue, in this matter, in 
 the Leighton family might be expressed by 
 a cipher.
 
 193 
 
 CHAPTER XXIY. 
 
 TO say that Hartley came back to Beata 
 as mucli cooled down in his affection 
 as usual after an absence, would not be true, 
 but certainly it would be equally untrue to 
 say that he returned as much in love with 
 her as when he left. His recovery, however, 
 this time, was rapid. Before the evening 
 was over, he was more in love with her than 
 ever he had been. As has been said, he 
 had obtained a standard to measure her by, 
 and this standard she overtopped. And it 
 must be confessed that Beata loas changed, 
 was of higher mental and moral stature than 
 when Hartley had left her. The cause of this 
 development is self-evident, and it had not 
 much to do with Hartley's changed estimate 
 of her. The cause of that change was in 
 him rather than in her. 
 
 Before he went to bed, Hartley had a 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 good think, as men of his temperament are 
 apt to have when no mipleasant subject of 
 thought presses upon their attention. He 
 thought of himself and his sudden prosperity. 
 He thought of Beata and her dignified sim- 
 plicity and sweetness — a woman to be proud 
 of as well as to love. He thought of his fu- 
 ture — his future with her, if she would share it 
 with hhn. Would she share it with him, he 
 wondered ? He hoped so, but he was not 
 sure. He had gone up jauntily to the ques- 
 tion last time ; he would not be jaunty again. 
 Yet he was by no means in bad heart, and, 
 on the whole, the future wore a pleasant 
 aspect to his eyes. And then he thought of 
 Etta. " Dear little thing!" he said to him- 
 self again ; but Etta seemed a long way off 
 — a " dear little thing" whom he had known 
 in a previous state of being, almost. 
 
 The next day, Hartley sat, as of old, at 
 Beata's feet, with his arm upon her knee, 
 and looking up into her face. 
 
 " I asked you to promise me something 
 seven months ago, Beata," he said. 
 
 ''Seven months is a long time. Hartley."
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 195 
 
 " Is it ? It seems a very short time to me, 
 just now. But, long or short, what then?" 
 
 " Simply that time makes many things be 
 as thou2^h thev had not been." 
 
 " This is not one of those thino^s, Beata. 
 I have thought about it constantly, and I 
 want to ask you now, not it, but something 
 still better." 
 
 " Ask me nothing^ now, dear. I want to 
 ask you some things. It is my first turn," 
 she said, with a smile that was not over- 
 laden with mirth. 
 
 " Well, Beata, ask me, then." 
 
 " You have told me nothing about Etta.'' 
 
 *' About Etta? There is nothinsr to telh" 
 
 "Nothing to tell about a person with 
 whom you have lived for seven months? 
 Surely not so !" 
 
 "Nothing particular, I mean." 
 
 " But you have told me nothing at all, 
 particular or otherwise. May I ask you 
 some things ?" 
 
 " Yes, if ypu like. But it is not worth 
 while. Let me say to you what I have to 
 say." 
 
 o2
 
 196 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 "It is ray turn, Hartley. You must in- 
 dulge rae ; else I cannot let you say any- 
 thing^ to me." 
 
 "Well?" Hartley "said, with a touch of 
 vexation in his manner. 
 
 " Do you like Etta ?" 
 
 " Oh! yes, of course ; nobody could help 
 liking her." 
 
 "Does Etta like you?" 
 
 " What a question, Beata ! I suppose she 
 likes me well enough." 
 
 " How nmch does she like you, do you 
 think ?" 
 
 " How can I tell how much ! I suppose 
 Geoffrey has been putting some nonsense 
 into your head." 
 
 " Geoffrey has put nothing into my head, 
 either sense or nonsense, about Etta. Do 
 you think Etta was very sorry when you 
 came away ?" 
 
 " I daresay she was sorry ; we were very 
 good friends." 
 
 " Suppose you were never to go back to 
 her, how would she feel, do you think ? 
 Answer me thoughtfully and quite truly, 
 Hartley."
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 197 
 
 '• Really, Beata, this is too bad. I don't 
 like it. How can I know how Etta would 
 feel ?" 
 
 " I will stop, in a moment, if you wish." 
 
 Hartley did not answer, and Beata said, 
 after a minute, " Shall I stop ?" 
 
 '• Xo," said he, with a vexed and weary 
 air. 
 
 Then Beata put her hand upon Hartley's, 
 as it rested on her knee, and stooping a lit- 
 tle towards him, said, 
 
 "Tell me. Hartley; suppose Etta knew 
 that you had asked me what you say you 
 wish to ask me, how would she feel, do you 
 think ? Would she be indifferent, or would 
 she be glad, as a dear friend might be in 
 such a case ? or would she be pained and 
 angry with you — not pained simply, but 
 angry also ?" 
 
 Beata looked very softly into Hartley's face 
 while she asked him this, but he could not 
 withdraw his eyes from hers, neither, while 
 she looked at him so, could he frame an an- 
 swer to her question. He had never con- 
 fessed to himself that Etta had a right to be
 
 198 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 angry whatever he might say to Beata, or 
 that she would be angry. In time he could 
 have found a dozen reasons why she should 
 be neither angry nor surprised ; but the 
 reasons did not come to him now, and he 
 could frame no answer to Beata's question. 
 
 Beata waited awhile, and then she 
 stooped lower to Hartley, and said, " Kiss 
 me, dear." And Hartley kissed her me- 
 chanically, almost, for the kiss seemed to 
 have a hollow dreamy meaning about it, as 
 if he were kissing the dying or the dead. 
 Then Beata rose from her seat and left the 
 room ; and he could make no effort to stay 
 her. 
 
 Beata w^ent to her room, and sat ponder- 
 ing what the fashion of her future life should 
 be. She had no fresh grief, she told her- 
 self; she had learned nothing of which she 
 had not already been sure. And, as a fact, 
 there was no tumult in her heart. Only 
 there is calmness that is more pitiful than 
 any tumult, and strength which is but the 
 measure of the weakness to be conquered. 
 
 Hartley's feelings were a strange mixture
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 199 
 
 of bewilderment and pain and shame. 
 Beata's questions about Etta had in some 
 measure revealed him to himself, and in 
 some measure half revealed Beata's feelinc^s 
 to him also. But neither revelation was 
 complete, and so her manner and her act 
 bewildered as well as pained him. He was 
 not indignant and resentful, as before ; in 
 some measure, indeed, he was humble, and 
 when some silly thought about Robert Play- 
 fair in connexion with Beata tried to ob- 
 trude itself into his reflections, he put it 
 down as it deserved. Yet, after a while, he 
 began to cast about for some means of justi- 
 fying himself to Beata, or at least of placing 
 his conduct before her in a more favourable 
 light. Only he thought that he would not 
 speak to her again just yet, but would wait, 
 rather, until the end of his visit was near at 
 hand. 
 
 When next Beata met Hartley, and after- 
 wards, there was scarcely a change in her 
 manner to him. She was as affectionate 
 and unreserved as ever. Only when the 
 night came, she no longer sat up for the old
 
 200 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 last talk with the boys ; and when she was 
 writing, or had work to do, unless she could 
 be with Geoffrey or others, she did it in her 
 own room. Hartley had no more the 
 chance to sit at her feet, and look up into 
 her face. 
 
 Geoffrey said to Beata one morning, when 
 Hartley had just left the room, and when 
 the relations between the two had puzzled 
 him for a day or two — '' Well, Beata ?' 
 
 She looked at him, and shook her head. 
 
 "Never?" 
 
 " No, never." 
 
 " I am sorry, dear." 
 
 " Are you ? I want you to talk to me 
 about your child — will you ?" 
 
 " Oh ! yes, very gladly to you, though I 
 have little new to tell you." 
 
 " How did she like your taking a holi- 
 day?" 
 
 '' I cannot tell. I don't think I would 
 have taken a holiday for any other purpose 
 than coming to you." 
 
 " Is there any chance of your hearing from 
 them ?"
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 201 
 
 " I don't know. I am afraid not. I have 
 to write about work, but there will be no 
 occasion for them to answer." 
 
 ^' I wish I had seen her, though I think I 
 know just what she is like. You used to 
 catch a likeness very well with the crayons ; 
 try and suggest her face for me from me- 
 mory." 
 
 And then she got him paper and crayons, 
 and he, never hoping to succeed, tried to 
 set down his chihls face. And he succeed- 
 ed so well, that Beata said, " Yes, that is 
 just what I thought her ;" while he said, 
 " But it is not like her a bit." Yet, even as 
 he said the words, he caught his breath with 
 a half siorh, as vou sigrli when, in some alto- 
 gether different face, you catch a look of 
 one dear to you, to be seen by you no more 
 on earth for ever.
 
 202 
 
 CHAPTER XXY. 
 
 AMONG the pleasures which he had pre- 
 pared for the boys, Mr. Winthrop 
 had included one concocted entirely out of 
 his own head, except that the just then 
 commencement of the fashion for gymnastic 
 exploits gave the cue to his imaginings. 
 Standing up on the moor above the village, 
 there were, as has been said, some great 
 masses of rock. The largest of these, near- 
 ly a hundred feet high, stood quite alone, 
 perpendicular on all sides save one, which 
 rose in three or four ledges to the summit. 
 In the mass there were several great chasms, 
 some of them many feet across, and at points 
 trees grew out from the rocks, at all sorts 
 of angles, and distorted into various shapes. 
 Opposite the ledged face of this mass of 
 rock, on Tuesday morning, all the people 
 of Walcote were assembled, and with them
 
 OXE MAIDEX ONLY. 203 
 
 friends and acquaintances of the Spensers 
 and the Winthrops for miles round. A 
 tent was set up, and filled with provisions, 
 while seats of all possible and impossible 
 kinds were extemporized in sufiicient num- 
 bers to satisfy all comers. There was to be 
 a great athletic contest, after a novel, or, at 
 least, an unusual pattern. The lists were 
 open to all, and the fashion of the contest 
 was to be what boys call " follow my 
 leader." Each competitor was in his turn 
 to take the lead, and to do w^hatever he 
 pleased upon the rock ; the rest were to 
 follow, or, failing, were to retire from the 
 lists. He who at last should do something 
 in which no one would follow him, w^as to 
 be declared the victor of the day, and was 
 to have as his reward a prize from the hands 
 of Beata, and the right to lead her out in 
 the first dance of the rustic ball which was 
 to close the pleasures of the occasion. 
 
 The competitors numbered about fifty, and 
 included Robert and Hartley, many of the 
 young men of the village, and a few rustics 
 and. gentlemen from the neighbourhood.
 
 204 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 Mr. Winthrop and Geoffrey laughingly re- 
 served to themselves the right of entering 
 the lists at a later stage of the proceedings. 
 
 The spectators were seated in a semi- 
 circle in front of tlie face of the rock, Beata, 
 as queen of the occasion, occupying the mid- 
 dle of the curve ; near her were Mrs. Win- 
 throp and her father, Geoffrey, and some 
 acquaintances of the neighbourhood. Aileen 
 and Mr. "Winthrop walked about together, 
 master and mistress of the ceremonies, as he 
 said. Robert and Hartley stood chatting 
 with their people until the contest began. 
 
 " You hope to win. Hartley," said Mrs. 
 Winthrop. 
 
 " I wish to win, of course." 
 
 " Yes, and you liope it, too." 
 
 ^' I always hope for Avhat I wish. I 
 shouldn't like to leave off doing that," he said, 
 looking down at Beata. 
 
 " But wishes often outlive hopes," said 
 Geoffrey. 
 
 "Do they? I don't think mine would. 
 That is a waste of wishing power." 
 
 Mrs. Winthrop laughed.
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 205 
 
 " You are fortunate," she said, " if you 
 can turn your wishes on and off hke that." 
 
 " Robert and Beata said nothing; : but 
 Robert looked at Beata, while Beata won- 
 dered whether Hartley was speaking sin- 
 cerely, or talking at her, simply. Then 
 came the call for the encounter. 
 
 " May I win if I can ?" Robert said to her. 
 
 '^ Yes, indeed," she said ; yet she wished 
 that it had not been her duty to give the 
 prize to Hartley or away from him. 
 
 The first feat was the climbing the ledged 
 face of the rock. The lead had fallen by 
 lot to a stranger, and he reached the top 
 followed by the majority though not the 
 whole of his rivals. The weeding began 
 earl}'. 
 
 A new leader led down the face of the 
 rock, and again some more weeding was 
 done. Among the spectators the comments 
 were numerous and the laughter was con- 
 siderable, for the modes of climbing were in 
 many cases amusing enough. But all voices 
 praised Hartley's agility and grace, though 
 Robert was perhaps not at all behind him
 
 206 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 in either. But Robert, though liked by the 
 villagers, was not theirs ; and an athlete, how- 
 ever it may be with a prophet, gets honour 
 in his own country. 
 
 Dinner stopped the contest, when there 
 were but a dozen competitors left in the 
 lists. Soon after dinner Hartley got the 
 lead, and by a climb and a leap reduced the 
 number of his rivals to two. These were 
 Robert and a neighbour. Then for the next 
 two hours the lead passed from one to the 
 other of these three, but neither could do 
 wdiat the others could not imitate. At the 
 end of the two hours Mr. Winthrop called 
 for a halt. 
 
 " How much longer do you mean to go 
 on ?" said he. 
 
 " Till tw^o give in, of course," Hartley said. 
 
 " But you have done nothing really new 
 for the last hour." 
 
 " We must go on doing the old things, 
 then. It is a trial of strength now." 
 
 "Strength, simply?" said Geoffrey. 
 
 " I am afraid so." 
 
 "May I enter the lists on equal terms ?"
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 207 
 
 •' Surely. But you had better not, 
 Geoff; you'll knock yourself up." 
 
 However, as all three were willing, Geof- 
 frey said he would, though Mr. Winthrop 
 was actually silent with astonishment, and 
 Beata only did not plead with him against it 
 because she did not want to seem to shame 
 him before all those people. 
 
 Geoffrey had been over the ground the 
 previous day, as, indeed, the others also had. 
 Hartley and Geoffrey were about of a lieight, 
 and both were taller than Robert and the 
 neighbour. But Geoffrey's arms were rather 
 longer than Hartley's. 
 
 Over one of the chasms, too wide to leap 
 without a spring, and where no spring could 
 be got, there hung the branch of a tree. 
 The lowest twig of this branch Geoffrey 
 could reach, and by its means he got firm 
 hold of the branch itself, still standing well 
 upon his feet. Then, leaping from the 
 ground, he swung himself to the other side 
 of the chasm by the branch, and got easy 
 foothold there. It was nothing. Anybody 
 as tall, and with arms as lonc^, could have
 
 208 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 done it. Then Robert tried. He could not 
 touch the twig ; he was beaten. The other 
 competitor also was beaten for the same 
 reason. There remained but Hartley. By 
 a great effort he got hold of the branch ; but 
 to hold it firmly, and to stand firmly on his 
 feet at the same time, was impossible to him. 
 However, he swung himself, and reached the 
 other side of the chasm. But an unsteady 
 foothold here gave him an unsteady foot- 
 hold there, and but for a touch of Geoffrey's 
 hand, he would have toppled over and down 
 the chasm. Only a touch w^as needed, and a 
 touch saved him. Beata saw the whole 
 thing, and while she had trembled for Geof- 
 frey, her heart stood still with terror as for 
 a moment Hartley was poised upon the 
 edge of death. It was but for a moment, 
 and then there rose a shout from the spec- 
 tators, which you could scarcely say was 
 meant most for Geoffrey, or for Hartley. 
 
 ^' Thank you, Geoff," said Hartley; "I 
 don't mind being beaten that way." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Hartley ; I was a 
 fool. I didn't think there was any danger,
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 209 
 
 and I didn't want to spoil your day. I beg 
 your pardon." 
 
 " You've spoiled no day, Geoff; I like it 
 better than the prize even from Beata." 
 
 So they went down together. 
 
 '' Well, Master Geoff," said Mr. Winthrop, 
 " that's very nice, too, for an invalid, to go 
 and snatch an athletic prize away from these 
 fellows, who have been working all the day 
 for it." 
 
 Mr. Winthrop was half vexed at the pro- 
 ceeding. It seemed to him to spoil sport, 
 and it contradicted all his notions of Geof- 
 frey's right place in the order of creation. 
 
 " I have snatched no prize," said Geof- 
 frey ; " the prize is Hartley's. I was not in 
 the lists." 
 
 " The prize is not mine," Hartley said ; 
 *' I will never take it ; it is yours. We let 
 you into the lists." 
 
 Both were firm, and it seemed as if no 
 prize would be given. But an umpire was 
 named, and he decided that the three had 
 no power to let Geoffrey into the lists after 
 the contest was commenced, and that the 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 danger from which Geoffrey had saved 
 Hartley did not touch the question. If he 
 had fallen down the chasm and been killed, 
 the prize would have been his heir's. To 
 perform, not to perform safely, an un- 
 matched feat was the condition of the prize. 
 So Hartley unwillingly received the prize, 
 and, with more abashment than pride, led 
 Beata out to dance when the ball com- 
 menced. To Beata the thing was all pain, 
 save only the thought that Hartley, who had 
 been so nearly dead, was not dead. She 
 could not even be glad that Geoffrey had 
 saved him, for it was Geoffrey who had 
 first endancrered him. Yet she did not 
 
 o 
 
 blame Geoffrey, for she knew that no un- 
 worthy thought had prompted him to his 
 act. It was all an accident, most trivial in 
 its sources, but full of grave and foreboding 
 pain to her. 
 
 Geoffrey himself was exceedingly angry 
 at his own act. 
 
 '' How could you do it ?" Mrs. Winthrop 
 said to him ; "it was so utterly unlike you." 
 
 '' I don't know. It was a mere thouglit-
 
 OXE MAIDEN ONLY. 211 
 
 less freak. I had been thinking all the 
 time how much the whole thing turned 
 upon merely physical accidents — not even 
 upon strength and skill, sometimes — and I 
 remembered that my arms were longer 
 than Hartley's, and that yesterday I could 
 just reach that bough ; and I thought what 
 fun it would be to win the prize by being 
 an inch or two of arm nearer to a gorilla. 
 But I am bitterly ashamed of it now ; I 
 shall never be such a fool again." 
 
 The reflection was characteristic, though 
 the thoughtlessness was by no means so. 
 Geoffrey had often remarked how frequent- 
 ly the prizes fall to accidents that have in 
 them neither grace nor beauty, nor any 
 general utility. He had a friend, an accom- 
 plished surgeon, but small of make and weak 
 of wrist. He saw this friend once perform- 
 ing an operation in a masterly manner, but 
 conquered by a bit of bone through wliicli 
 he could not persuade the nippers to bite. 
 There stood behind him a large-made fel- 
 low, with a twentieth of his brains. " Here, 
 let me do it,"" said the giant, and the tiling 
 
 p2
 
 212 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 was done ; but the little surgeon did not 
 look as grateful for the assistance as he 
 might have done. So a contempt for physical 
 accidents had become a dominant idea with 
 Geoffrey, and his thoughtless act arose but 
 from an impulse to exhibit in himself the 
 reduciio ad absurdum of such. 
 
 Robert, who knew neither of Geoffrey's 
 reasons nor his penitence, shared, and in a 
 still larger measure, Mr. Winthrop's irrita- 
 tion against him. In Mr. Winthrop's mind, 
 indeed, the thing was over in half an hour, 
 but with Robert it was not so. The inci- 
 dent of to-day deepened the impression of 
 Saturday evening. In both cases Geoffrey 
 seemed to him irresponsive and unsympa- 
 thetic. When Beata, after her manner, 
 wooed him, he was but half won ; when 
 now a whole multitude had their interests 
 set in one direction, and the hopes of three 
 w^ere pitc:hed high, he marred the whole 
 thing by a touch, and rendered success 
 worthless to him who in form had attained 
 it. Certainly Robert was not annoyed at 
 having lost the prize ; his vexation was
 
 ONE MAIDEN OXLY. 213 
 
 deeper anrl subtler than that. He had set 
 his heart upon finding Beata's favourite 
 friend one thing ; he found him, or seemed 
 to find him, another. Moreover, — and that 
 moreover Robert, though a naturalist, never 
 completed even to himself. 
 
 To how many has it happened to mis- 
 judge, and to be misjudged, in this fashion. 
 Some act you do — and you know as you do 
 it that the just inference from that act is in 
 point-blank contradiction to any true esti- 
 mate of your character — yet the thing is 
 done, and you feel that you will be fortu- 
 nate if in months or years your just mis- 
 judger reverses his judgment, and returns 
 from your act to you. 
 
 This time Geoffrey saw how he had im- 
 pressed Robert, yet for the life of him he 
 could not go and plead his cause, and set 
 himself right with the man whom he felt, 
 and regretted to feel, that he had estranged. 
 
 Beata was very grateful when the day 
 was over. From beginning to end it had 
 been more painful to her than, logically, it 
 had had any right to be ; and even logically
 
 214 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 it had had some right to be painful. She 
 went quickly to her room, and presently 
 slept ; but her dreams were not peaceful. 
 She dreamed of Hartley's future — she not 
 with him. She saw him entering upon 
 a bold and dangerous career, without the 
 shadow of misg-ivinf^ in his heart. She saw 
 him, conquering one difficulty after another, 
 rise to heights of success and fame — she still 
 not with him, and he not lookinoj her wav 
 any more at all. She saw him near the 
 summit of his hopes, all men smiling upon 
 him, and even his rivals speaking good 
 words concerning him ; and still he never 
 glanced her way, and no thought of her 
 seemed to cast a shadow across his face. 
 And then she saw Geoffrey step forward, 
 and he neither smiled nor praised, but 
 uttered grave, sad words that turned the 
 smiles of all the others into frowns, and 
 their praises sank down into low mutterings 
 of displeasure, and half-heard curses came 
 from their lips. And then she saw that 
 Hartley turned deathly pale, and would 
 have fallen, but that Geoffrey, who uttered
 
 ONE :\rAIDEN ONLY. 215 
 
 no more grave words, and whose face was 
 soft with infinite tenderness and pity, caught 
 hold of hiiu, and led him through the crowd 
 of frowning faces and muttering lips, and 
 brought him to her. And Geoffrey said to 
 her, as she dreamed, " The prize now, 
 Beata." But Hartley answered bitterly — 
 " The prize, indeed ! — my prize is shame 
 and death." And Geoffrey said, " Xot so, 
 my brother ; a little shame only, and then 
 life and peace. But now the prize, Beata." 
 So, as she thought, she looked round, and 
 the prize lay at her side. It was a victor's 
 wreath, but she shrank to put it upon Hart- 
 ley's head, for it seemed to her that there 
 were poison-berries intertwined among its 
 leaves. But Geoffrey bade her place it, and 
 she did so ; but as she did so. Hartley raised 
 his hand to resist her, and in resisting crushed 
 the berries, and the poison burst out upon 
 his face and hand, and stung him, and he 
 called out with the pain. Then Geoffrey said 
 to her, " Cherish him, Beata, until the pain 
 be healed, and then the victor s wreath will 
 blossom."
 
 216 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 So she took his hand, and the juice that 
 was upon it, and that had fallen from his 
 face, knit their hands together, and they 
 would not part. But neither did she Avish 
 to part them, nor did Hartley, and she sat 
 rapt upon his face all pale with sorrow and 
 shame, and her tears poured down like water, 
 and with the passion of her weeping she 
 awoke. 
 
 When, in the morning, she met Hartley, 
 buoyant and cheery, as if no disappointment 
 could find a lodgment in his heart, she 
 started at the contrast he made with her 
 dream, nor could she throughout the day 
 escape from a sense of strangeness and un- 
 reality when she looked at Hartley as he 
 was.
 
 217 
 
 CHAPTER XXVL 
 
 AMOXG the traditions of Walcote was 
 one that, at a period farther back than 
 the memory of any living person could 
 reach, the great pool that fed the cataract 
 had overflowed or burst its bounds, and sent 
 a great and destructive flood pouring down 
 the sori?e. By some this tradition was dis- 
 believed ; and those who held it as true held 
 it in that dim, shadowy way in which we 
 are all apt to hold unseen truths. That the 
 pool was ever going to burst its bounds 
 a^ain, nobodv for a moment imamned. 
 
 For some weeks before the brothers came 
 home, there had been continuous and heavy 
 rains in the neischbourhood of Walcote. On 
 the Thursday before they came, the weather 
 cleared, and it remained fine until the fol- 
 lowing Wednesday, the day affer the athletic
 
 218 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 contest. Then the rain commenced once 
 more, and continued, night and day, through 
 Wednesday, and Thursday, and Friday. On 
 the last of those days especially the stream 
 that ran throug-h the aovfze was very much 
 swollen, while tlie cataract thundered down 
 Avith a roar that could be ]ieard within the 
 Rectory itself. 
 
 On the Friday morning, Geoffrey and 
 Hartley, with Robert and Mr. Winthrop, all 
 wrapped up well against the rain, set off to 
 ascend the upper gorge and see the cataract ; 
 but they soon found that the quantity of 
 water forbade their getting near to the fall. 
 So they returned, and ascended the slope of 
 the valley instead, and reached at last the 
 edge of the pool. Here they were very 
 much impressed by what they saw. The 
 pool was quite full; and the force with which 
 the water rushed over the point of the edge 
 at which it found its exit into the gorge, 
 suggested vividly to them the might of the 
 rush that would take place should any por- 
 tion of that edge give way. But even to 
 them the thifig was but a conception ; of
 
 ONE MAIDEN OXLY. 219 
 
 serious anticipation that such an event would 
 happen they had none. 
 
 All that day, however, the rain continued 
 heavily, and its monotony, and the unceasing 
 roar of the stream, following, as it did, two 
 former days of the same thing, had a most 
 depressing effect upon their spirits. Even 
 Hartley's light-heartedness gave way, and he 
 gloomed about the house as if some great 
 calamity were coming, or had come. 
 
 About ten o'clock at niglit, for very weari- 
 ness of monotony, they proposed to go to 
 bed ; and they had already said their good- 
 nights and gone to their rooms, when they 
 heard a tremendous, thunderous boom that 
 shook the house to its foundations, and was 
 followed instantly by a roar of the stream 
 that filled their ears so that those who were 
 together could not hear each other speak. 
 Hartley and Geoffrey knew what it meant 
 in a moment, and, snatching up the coats 
 which they had taken off, they rushed to the 
 door. At the door Hartley stopped. 
 
 *' Your great-coat, Geoff," he said ; and 
 when Geoffrey impatiently tried to push
 
 220 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 by him, he forced the door to, and held it 
 till his brother obeyed him. The thing 
 took but a moment, and then they were out 
 together. They ran, as fast as they could in 
 the darkness, down the slope of the valley to 
 where the houses lay near the stream. 
 
 Meantime Beata, who was nearly as quick 
 as the young men, and who, after a minute's 
 thought, guessed what the roar meant, ran 
 into the Winthrops' house. She found Mr. 
 Winthrop and Robert that moment gone 
 down to the village. 
 
 " Go in to my father and Aileen," she said 
 to Mrs. Winthrop. 
 
 " (?6> in? I will come in." 
 
 " I am g^oinsr down to the villao^e." 
 
 '' You I You are not indeed, Beata. You 
 are mad, I think." 
 
 '' No, I am not mad. But I must go 
 down. I beseech you not to hinder me ! 
 Go indoors at once, please." 
 
 " I would force you to stop, if I could. I 
 am sure you are mad. Put this cloak on, at 
 least. Now go, if you will, and God help you." 
 
 So Beata went. She found the village in
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 221 
 
 wild commotion. The u^reat torrent was 
 fiercer than she had dreamed, and was suck- 
 ing savagely at the foundations of the houses 
 that stood in its way. One of these fell 
 with a crash soon after she arrived, and 
 others were in instant danger. Geoffrey 
 and Hartley and Robert and Mr. Winthrop, 
 with the men of the village, were hard at 
 work tr}dng to save the goods from these 
 endangered houses; the people were already 
 safe. 
 
 Beata moved in and out among the cot- 
 tages in which the unhoused people had 
 taken refuge, and into wliich their goods 
 were being brought. The night was quite 
 dark, and only lights placed in the cottage 
 windows showed the workers which way to 
 move. The whole scene w^as weird and de- 
 solate in the last degree. Children, half- 
 dressed, crouched, crying, about the rooms ; 
 women, stunned or frantic, tried to help, but 
 hindered the work ; the men, soaked with 
 the rain, came into and out of the cottages, 
 carrying hard-earned household treasures, 
 that seemed now scarcely worth the saving.
 
 222 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 The darkness of the outside night, and the 
 feeble light within the houses, appeared but 
 a contrast of desolations ; while the roar of 
 the stream, ceaseless and unvarying, capped 
 the gloom of the whole, and dinned into 
 their ears the helplessness of man before 
 the dogged will of the imperturbable ele- 
 ments. 
 
 All the men worked bravely, but Hartley 
 was the life of them all. Mr. Winthrop was 
 past his youth, and Geoffrey was weak ; yet 
 both worked well, and surprised even them- 
 selves. Robert was full of energy and 
 heart. But about Hartley there was an en- 
 thusiasm for effort and for danger that made 
 him the life of the party. And, moreover, 
 all the people looked up to him. The men 
 took his orders by a nod ; the women grew 
 calmer when he was near; the children were 
 stilled from their crying by his touch, or his 
 word, or his smile. In " Master Hartley " 
 lay the hope of all ; all others were counted 
 but helpers to him. 
 
 And every now and then Beata met him, 
 in one cottage or another, or, it might be, in
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 223 
 
 the darkness outside. He smiled towards 
 her, so brave and so handsome, so exultant 
 in a strength then used all for others, that 
 her heart burst almost at the thought that 
 he was not hers. And once outside in the 
 darkness, he stopped to kiss her, and though 
 she had not meant that he should ever kiss 
 her so again, she had no power in her to 
 put him from her. 
 
 At last all the work was done, and there 
 came a pause. The goods of the endangered 
 houses were all safe, and no second house 
 had fallen as yet. Then there was a little 
 time of waiting and suspense, and they be- 
 gan to consider what should next be done. 
 But suddenly there came a second thunder- 
 ous boom, and then a fiercer roar of water 
 in the upper gorge, and in a moment a new 
 and mightier flood was upon them. Down 
 went the empty houses one by one, and 
 then there came a cry, " The Moss Cottage 
 is flooded !*' and then a woman's shriek — 
 
 "My child, she will be drowned ! God, 
 my poor child !" and the woman rushed to- 
 wards her house.
 
 224 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 Hartley stopped her as she was passmg 
 him, and held her with all his force. 
 
 ^'Stay here," he said; "I am stronger 
 than you. I will bring Janie to you, be 
 sure. You could not save her. You will 
 trust me, ^von't you ?" 
 
 The woman looked at him wildly for a 
 moment ; and then, pushing him eagerly off, 
 said, " Yes ; go quickly," and sat dow^n on 
 the ground, burying her face in her lap. 
 
 "Take care of her," Hartley said to Geof- 
 frey ; and then he and some others ran 
 down to the cottage. It lay in a little hol- 
 low higher up the slope, and so the water 
 had reached it, and now swept all round it. 
 Janie was a cripple, nearly a woman in 
 years; and her mother, a widow, had left 
 her safe above the flood, as she thought, 
 while she went to give what help she could 
 to her neighbours. The poor girl was in 
 the upper room of the cottage, and had 
 dragged herself to the window, and was 
 crying piteously to be saved from the flood. 
 
 "All ridit," said Hartlev, "I'll come to 
 you in a moment."
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 225 
 
 The water was deep in some places, and 
 rapid everywhere, and it was minutes be- 
 fore he could find a place w^here he dared 
 venture to cross it. At last he found one, 
 and then he was up in the poor girl's room 
 in a minute. She clung to him as he went 
 near her, but he said, 
 
 "It is all right now, Janie ; let us be 
 quiet. See, here's a shawl ; I will wrap 
 you in that, and tie it round, so. It rains, 
 you know. Now, here's a blanket. We'll 
 have that too. There, that will do, I think. 
 Now put your arms round me when I take 
 you up, and don't move or scream. We'll 
 be safe in a couple of minutes." 
 
 So he took her down the stairs, and out 
 of the door, and the other men helped him 
 to cross the torrent safely with his burden, 
 and so, at last, he took her to her mother. 
 The girl had neither moved nor screamed ; 
 she trusted Hartley wholly. 
 
 The woman had sat trembling till her 
 child was brought to her ; then, when she 
 had seen with her own eyes that no harm 
 had come to her darling, she burst into a 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 passion of grateful tears, clinging round 
 Hartley's neck in the abandonment of her 
 joy. And, meanwhile, Beata sat by, and 
 could but bend over the rescued girl to hide 
 the tears that would not be stopped. 
 
 To save anything else from the Moss Cot- 
 tage was imposbible, and so the work of the 
 night was done, for no fresh rush of waters 
 came, and the other cottages stood well up 
 out of its reach, even had such come. 
 
 But the men would stay the night in the 
 village. Beata should go home, and Hart- 
 ley should take her, and come back. Beata 
 pleaded to stay, but they would not suffer 
 it ; she w^ould want all her strength the next 
 day, they said. So she set off, and Hartley 
 with her. Through the darkness, and the 
 rain, and the roar of the torrent, and with 
 the thought of all that they were leaving 
 behind them, it was a very solemn walk, 
 and Beata's feelings were strung to the top 
 of their intensity. Had Hartley spoken to 
 her, she could scarcely have answered him. 
 But he did not speak to her, and only draw- 
 ing her hand closely into his arm, he walk-
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 227 
 
 ed by her side in silence. So they went on 
 till they came to their house. A servant 
 opened the door, and they went into a 
 morning-room, where they had so often 
 been together, and they were alone for a 
 minute. Then Hartley turned quickly to 
 Beata and said — 
 
 " I have worked better to-day than on 
 Tuesday, Beata. Give me a better prize." 
 
 There was but one dim light in the room, 
 and he could scarcely see her face. He saw 
 only that her head drooped, and her eyes 
 looked towards the ground. 
 
 " I must have you !" he said, passionately, 
 " or no other prize will be worth the hav- 
 ing ever. May I not be happy, Beata ?" 
 
 His seemincT dead face on the niu^ht of the 
 storm flashed across her ; his joyous strength 
 and his beauty all this night ; his pale shame- 
 stricken face, as she crowned him in her 
 dream, and tlie pain that knit their hands so 
 that they would not part ; and by all this 
 complex picture she was conquered, and she 
 looked up into his face, and he saw through 
 the dim light that she gave herself into his 
 
 q2
 
 228 ONE :\IAIDEX ONLY. 
 
 hands, but the look of unflecked pain that 
 filled her face he did not see. 
 
 He took her into his arms, and the long 
 kiss of his mouth, to which hers gave no 
 response, consecrated her to his love for 
 ever. So it seemed to her, and the sense 
 of the fact had no comminglings but of awe 
 and pain. 
 
 Then Mrs. Winthrop came dow^n, and 
 Hartley went back to the village. She 
 asked Beata of all that had occurred, and 
 Beata commenced to tell her ; but in the 
 midst of her story she broke down, and 
 said, " I must go to my room, please ; I 
 will tell you all about it in the morning." 
 
 " Of course, my dear ; it was very thought- 
 less of me. You are knocked up. You 
 hadn't the least right to go down there. I 
 knew it would be too much for you. I w411 
 come and see you into bed." 
 
 Slie went wath her to her room, and 
 helped her to undress, and left her while 
 she prayed, or tried to pray, and then went 
 back to her, and tucked her into bed snugl}' 
 like a child, and kissed her, and stroked lier
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 229 
 
 face, and left her, saying, "Now go to sleep, 
 and get a good night's rest, what there is left 
 of it. I will go home now, and sleep too. 
 I will come in in the morninfi^." 
 
 And so Beata was alone, and the first 
 thing that she did w^as to weep out her 
 sense of mother-want, awakened into keen- 
 ness by the half-motherhood of Mrs. Win- 
 throp's tenderness. She had never felt to 
 need a mother so much before ; yet to Mrs. 
 Winthrop, truly as she loved and wholly as 
 she trusted her, she could utter no word of 
 all that was in her heart, for she had that 
 instinct of absolute reticence in such matters, 
 proper to the most sensitive natures, but 
 found only in them, by which all emotion is 
 consecrated, and all pain increased fourfold. 
 
 Hartley went back to the village full of 
 glad exultation of heart. He had obtained 
 his great wish, and to his gladness there was 
 no recoil. This last it may seem strange to 
 say ; but Hartley said it to himself He 
 had longed for Beata to promise to be his 
 wife ; she had, by her act and her silence, 
 promised, and he was wholly glad. He
 
 230 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 looked into his heart, and found that he was 
 wholly glad, and he rejoiced that he was so 
 glad. In the exultant swing of his footstep 
 there was no drag ; between the dear face 
 of Beata and his heart there came no film of 
 weariness. Hartley was young, and knew 
 himself not much ; but he knew himself 
 enough to know that such heart-wholeness 
 was not common with him. He had more 
 pleasure in wooing than in winning ; or, 
 rather, he had more pleasure in wooing than 
 in having won. He wooed altogether sin- 
 cerely ; but with the winning came the re- 
 coil and the weariness. But now it \vas not 
 so, and he rejoiced that Beata was his, and 
 not less that he was so wholly glad to have 
 it so. 
 
 Hartley rejoined the others, with his ex- 
 ultation beaming from his face. 
 
 " You seem to enjoy such times as these," 
 said Mr. Winthrop ; " if our friend at home 
 were here, she would say that you are fond 
 of excitement." 
 
 " He has a right to look glad," Robert 
 said ; " he has had the best of the sport."
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 231 
 
 Hartley thought so too, in Robert's sense, 
 and in more than Robert's sense ; and he 
 responded graciously to Robert's remark. 
 
 Geoffrey saw some deeper significance in 
 Hartley's exultant manner, and when pre- 
 sently the rain lulled, and Mr. AVinthrop 
 and Robert strolled out into the village, no 
 more work being to be done until the morn- 
 ing, he said, 
 
 " You look glad, Hartley." 
 
 " And I am glad, old fellow." 
 
 "About what?" 
 
 " Can't you guess ?" 
 
 "No." ' 
 
 " Then you are duller than I took you to 
 be. Did I look so glad when I left you ?" 
 
 "And I have been home with Beata." 
 
 " les. 
 
 "You surely don't want me to be more 
 explicit !" 
 
 " Beata has not promised to be your 
 wife ?" 
 
 " She Aa.s\ though, in effect, if not in 
 words."
 
 232 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 ^' Are you sure, Hartley ?" 
 
 " Good heavens, Geoff, do you think I'm 
 mad? Of course I'm sure. Why not, I 
 wonder ?" 
 
 " All right, Hartley. Only it took me by 
 surprise." 
 
 "And why should it take you by surprise?" 
 
 "Don't bother. Hartley. Tell me all 
 about it." 
 
 "There is nothing to tell but the fact, 
 and that I am the happiest and the proudest 
 fellow in the world. What a woman she 
 is ! I never knew half what she is until 
 now. I shall be so proud to take her 
 among my friends — so proud of her face 
 and her singing, and her manners, and 
 everything. Did you ever notice, Geoff, 
 what a wonderful amount of expression 
 there is in her mouth ?" 
 
 Geoffrey smiled. Did he ever notice, in- 
 deed ? Did he ever fail to notice anything 
 that belonged to Beata ? And her mouth, 
 above all things ! Why, her mouth had 
 been her to him for years ; and that meant 
 just his ideal of earnest, simple, brave, self-
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 233 
 
 renouncing, and most pure womanhood. So 
 Geoffrey smiled at Hartley's question, and 
 said that he had noticed Beata's mouth. 
 
 *' You told me to hope and stand true to 
 her, GeoiF; and I have," he was going to 
 add, but the shadow of Etta's face just then 
 crossed his mind, so he said instead, " but I 
 have had many fears as well as hopes. Now 
 I have better than hopes. And it comes so 
 splendidly just now, when my fortune is 
 made. Are not you glad for me, old fellow ?" 
 
 " I am glad for whatever makes you hap- 
 pier, Hartley, you know." 
 
 " And this will make me happier, won't 
 it, old cautious ?" 
 
 " It would be stranc^e if Beata did not 
 make anyone happier wlio loved her truly 
 and faithfully." 
 
 " I should like to see you in a witness- 
 box, Geoff; you would not easily commit 
 yourself. But I don't care. You mean all 
 right, I know. And I shall have the laugh 
 at your caution when our wedding-day 
 comes round. I wish we could find a Beata 
 for you, though."
 
 234 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 "Thank you," said Geoffrey; and again 
 he did not commit himself to a yea or a nay 
 to this wish. 
 
 About Hartley and Beata, Geoffrey felt 
 that he could not commit himself. If Beata 
 loved Hartley, and if Hartley loved Beata, 
 and would be loyal and true to her, then 
 nothing could be happier, he thought, and 
 he would be verv o;lad. But also he thouo-ht 
 
 I/O o 
 
 of his little conversation with Beata the 
 other day, and in the light of her '^ no, 
 never," he could not understand the pre- 
 sent. For Beata was not one to say '* no, 
 never," lightly or insincerely ; and yet Hart- 
 ley could not be mistaken in so great a mat- 
 ter. Therefore, he was confounded and 
 disturbed. Yet it would come right, he 
 trusted. Beata would be true to herself, 
 and to all others, and the end of that must 
 be right, however, for a little, or for long, it 
 might seem.
 
 235 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 MRS. WIXTHROP told Beata to get a 
 sood nig-ht's rest ; but Beata did not 
 Co ' 
 
 obey her, nor had ■ she closed her eyes for 
 sleep when she arose in the morning. For 
 Beata was betrothed, by her silence and by 
 Hartley's kiss ; and had her betrothal been 
 altogether a happy one, following so much 
 else, it might well have kept her awake for 
 this night. But it was not a happy be- 
 trothal, but rather one of unmingled pain, 
 
 to be followed by and that was the 
 
 great question that occupied her through 
 the nis^ht. 
 
 By the morning, before Aileen was awake, 
 or the servants were stirring, her course had 
 become clear to her ; so she arose and 
 dressed herself, and sitting at her window, 
 which overlooked the gorge and the stream 
 and the ruin of the night, she wrote a letter
 
 236 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 to Hartley, and the letter ran as follows: — 
 
 " Dear Hartley, 
 
 "Last night, though I spoke no 
 words, I know that you understood — as, 
 indeed, I meant you to understand — that I 
 promised to be your wife. And now I 
 write to tell you that I cannot be your wife. 
 I have pondered the whole sad question 
 through the night, and I feel that it is my 
 duty to tell you my whole heart, that you 
 may know why I am compelled to draw 
 back from the promise which I gave you. 
 
 " For many years I have loved you as 
 your sister, as you know — for many months 
 I have loved you, or have known that I 
 loved you, with all the power of love that 
 is in me. Since the night of the storm, 
 when I saw you lying dead, as I thought, 
 upon the beach, I have known this. But 
 as soon as I learned this, I learned also that 
 there was an incompleteness in my love. 
 My new love yearned to rest upon a heart- 
 whole worship, and this it could not do. 
 The new love yearned to find you its lord —
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 237 
 
 a strong heart, of whose stability, for love 
 or indifference, it could be sure. But this 
 you were not. Though you had not loved 
 me at all, my love and worship for you 
 could have been complete, had you been 
 strong and stable. But this you were not. 
 You left me loving ; you came back half- 
 forgetful and cool. I was never offended 
 or resentful ; the old sister's love never 
 flickered before your variations ; but the 
 new love was dwarfed of its completeness, 
 because you were not staunch and loyal. 
 
 " And then 3TJU asked me to promise to 
 be your wife, and half-blindly I felt that I 
 could make you no such promise. You 
 were angry with me ; and I searched into 
 my heart to know the reason of my half- 
 blind impulse. I found that, though I loved 
 you so that I could die for you, I did not 
 honour you enough to call you my lord. 
 Do not misunderstand me. A thousand 
 times I have been proud of you. Last 
 night I was prouder of you than ever. But 
 I wanted to be able to say to myself, ' He is 
 altogether loyal ; to me or to any he will
 
 238 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 not change,' and this I could not say. 
 " But, Hartley, when you left me, and 
 went away to your new life, I hoped a little. 
 ' It may be,' I said, ' that the deeper heart 
 will spring up.' But it was not so. You 
 did not leave off loving me ; you did not 
 love Etta instead. But if I became your 
 wife, Etta would call you traitor, in her 
 heart, and would have some reason for doing 
 so. This would be bitter for Etta ; it would 
 be bitter, tenfold, for me. You are not a 
 traitor. Hartley, with any deliberate treason ; 
 but you are not loyal to the deepest ; nor are 
 you so true to others as to thoughtfully fore- 
 go the pleasure of the moment to spare 
 them pain. My punishment is too bitter 
 that I should have to write such words. My 
 heart is full of your beauty and your cou- 
 rage, the fresh heart shining out from your 
 dear face, your gentleness to the weak, 
 and your kindly affection to all. All love 
 you, and I who love you dearest of all must 
 write these bitter words against you. If you 
 could but have been loyal ! It was not for 
 nivself I wanted it, but for you. I would
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 239 
 
 rather now be bidding you an eternal fare- 
 well, but owning you my lord, than be writ- 
 ing this bitter letter to you. 
 
 " For one thing I ask your forgiveness. 
 Do not be angary with me for mv weakness 
 last night. Think of all that we had seen, 
 and of all the pride I had been feeling at 
 your strength and your courage, and then 
 you w^ill understand and forgive nie. My 
 night of agony and this letter are my punish- 
 ment. You must never kiss me again. I 
 can promise you now that second thing you 
 asked of me. I will never be wife to an- 
 other. Your kiss did not betroth me to 
 you, for my soul did not go with it. But it 
 betrothed me from all others. I shall pass 
 into the new life alone. Perhaps there I 
 shall find you my lord. I do not know. I 
 only know that in this life you cannot be ; 
 and I am desolate. 
 
 '' Beata." 
 
 Beata folded up the letter, and took it 
 herself to Hartley's room, and placed it upon 
 his table. Then she went downstairs, and
 
 240 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 found tlie house still quiet. So she came 
 back to her room, and waited until Aileen 
 awoke. 
 
 " Why, Beata, have not you been to bed 
 at all?" 
 
 " Yes, little one. But it is time to get up 
 now." 
 
 " Is it ? I never felt you come. I woke 
 up once, and you were not here ; and I tried 
 to stay awake for you, but I couldn't. I am 
 so sorry." 
 
 So Beata helped the little one to dress ; 
 and then they went down and prepared the 
 breakfast, and before it was ready the bro- 
 thers came home. Tliey had washed in the 
 village, and sat down at once without going 
 to their rooms. Beata, b}^ being busy with 
 her father, managed that neither of them 
 should kiss her this morning ; and there 
 being so much for the brothers to tell to the 
 old man saved her from the need of taking 
 any active part in the conversation. Hart- 
 ley tried to touch her, or to get a word with 
 her; but she avoided both. Geoffrey's be- 
 wilderment at what Hartlev had told him
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 241 
 
 was increased fourfold when he saw Beata's 
 pale, sad, absent face. Such a look if some 
 one dear to her had died he could have 
 understood better. 
 
 As soon as breakfast was over, Beata said 
 that she would go down to the village. Both 
 Hartley and Geoffrey pressed to go with 
 her ; but she put them off. She could talk 
 best with the women alone, she said. So 
 she went. Six cottages had been destroyed ; 
 six families were homeless. The widow of 
 ]\Ioss Cottage had neither goods nor home. 
 There was, therefore, much for Beata to 
 arrange. x\ll permanent arrangements must 
 be left in other hands than hers ; but pro- 
 vision for the hour it was hers to make. 
 Quickly, as if no great personal sorrow 
 pressed upon her, she planned it all. Be- 
 fore she had finished, Mrs. Winthrop joined 
 her, and then all was soon made clear. In 
 the cottages of their neighbours, at the house, 
 or at the Rector}^, room was found for all. 
 Then ^Irs. Winthrop and Beata left ; pre- 
 sently they would return with Mr. Winthrop 
 and the Rector, and see what was to be 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 242 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 done about restoring the fallen houses. 
 
 " You seem quite knocked up, child," said 
 Mrs. Winthrop ; "1 never saw you look so 
 pale." 
 
 " I'm quite well ; a little tired, perhaps, 
 but I shall be all right soon." So they went 
 home together, and parted at Mrs. Win- 
 throp's door. 
 
 Beata would have given very much not 
 to have had to enter her own, for which 
 reason it was, perhaps, that she entered it 
 more quickly than usual. She hoped that 
 Aileen or Geoffrey might meet her, but she 
 saw neither. Instead, Hartley waited for 
 her at the door of the morning-room. He 
 held her letter in his hand, and his face was 
 set and pale. 
 
 " I want you, Beata," he said; and she fol- 
 lowed him without resistance into the room. 
 
 " Do you mean this letter ?" 
 
 " I would not have written it lightly." 
 
 "Yet you love me?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And you take yourself from me because 
 of my faults ?"
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 243 
 
 " Not because of your faults, but because 
 I could not be your true wife." 
 
 ^' And you think it generous to watch for 
 my faults in this way ?" 
 
 " Watch for your faults, Hartley ? I have 
 watched for the one great hope of my life, 
 not for your faults." 
 
 " I have never thought of asking Etta to 
 be my wife." 
 
 " No." 
 
 '' Never left off hoping to have you for 
 my wife." 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Yet you are so jealous of her that you 
 will not forgive me, and let me have you as 
 my own." 
 
 " Jealous of her, Hartley ? Do you un- 
 derstand me so little as that ? If you had 
 clean left off loving me, and had loved her 
 instead with a heart-whole love, I should be 
 less unhappy than I am now." 
 
 " You soar too high, Beata. Now I ask 
 you ; will you take back this bitter letter, 
 and let me take you into my arms again, 
 and promise to be my wife, and never draw 
 
 r2
 
 244 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 back any more, and so make me as happy 
 as I have been all the night, not knowmg 
 what you were preparing for me ?*' 
 
 " I would to God that I could, Hartley ; 
 but I cannot — I cannot be your wife." 
 
 " You say so, Beata ?" 
 
 " Yes. And now let me go, please ; I 
 cannot bear any more." 
 
 " You may go, Beata; and I never want 
 to see you again. You have Immiliated me 
 as no one ever did ; have said bitterer things 
 to me than any enemy ever uttered. You 
 do not love me. I will tear you out of my 
 heart, and leave you no place in it at all. 
 Enough of woman's love for me. I will 
 take life lightly, and enjoy pleasure as it 
 comes. And if some day 1 have become 
 what you will hate to see me, you can say, 
 a did it.'" 
 
 " For God's sake. Hartley, do not speak 
 so ! Have pity upon me, and tell me that 
 you do not mean those dreadful things. Kiss 
 me once more as your dear sister. I will be 
 faithful to you for ever !" 
 
 As she spoke she went near to him, and
 
 ONE MAIDEN OXLY. 245 
 
 stretched out her arms to him, pleading 
 that he would kiss her, and draw back 
 those bitter words that stabbed her heart 
 to death ; but he put her off, and said, 
 
 " Xo, Beata, T will kiss you no more, as 
 you bade me in your letter. What I have 
 said, I mean. I draw back nothing ; and 
 my pity I must keep for myself now ;" and 
 so saying, he passed her, and left the room. 
 
 Beata stood where he left her, stunned 
 by the awful blow that had fallen upon her. 
 If he had cursed her, the words would not 
 have rung so dreadful in her ears. She 
 grew giddy, and felt her way to the nearest 
 chair, and there she sat. All the words that 
 he had spoken were stamped upon her me- 
 mory, and she kept on repeating tliem over 
 and over again in her mind, and every time 
 the bitterest words returned, they came 
 back with increased rather than diminished 
 force. He had refused to kiss her, tliough 
 she begged him to do so ; he never wanted 
 to see her again ; he would tear her from 
 his heart. These things she said over and 
 over to herself; but, most dreadful of all.
 
 246 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 came back to her the words, " If, some day, 
 I have become what you will hate to see me, 
 you can say, ' I did it.' " So she wearied 
 her heart. 
 
 Presently Mrs. Winthrop came in and 
 found her. 
 
 " Why, Beata, you are ill !" she said. 
 
 " I don't feel very well. Shall I go to 
 bed for a little ?" 
 
 "You can do nothim? better, I should 
 think. I told you how it would be last 
 night. Shall I send for the doctor?" 
 
 But Beata assured her that she wanted 
 no doctor. A little rest and quiet would 
 soon put her right, she said. 
 
 So Mrs. Winthrop went with her to her 
 room again. It is possible that, had Mrs. 
 Winthrop been altogether favourable to 
 Hartley, Beata might now have told her 
 something of her great pain and fear. As 
 it was, it was impossible. So she said in- 
 stead — " Let me be quite quiet. Don't let 
 anyone disturb me. You may lock the door 
 if you like ; I shan't want anything." 
 
 Mrs. Winthrop would not lock the door,
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 247 
 
 but she promised Beata that she should be 
 left undisturbed. And she was. Except 
 for one or two short visits from Mrs. Win- 
 throp, she spent the whole day alone, and 
 at night she was calm enough to be glad to 
 have Aileen come to sleep with her as usual. 
 Beata's exertions of the night before 
 formed a grand cloak for her present sor- 
 row. Hartley knew what had taken place, 
 and Geoffrey guessed that something had 
 happened, but, except these, no one saw 
 under the cloak. No one ; and yet Mrs. 
 Winthrop more than once through the day 
 found Beata's face before her with a look 
 upon it of more than physical pain or weari- 
 ness. It was when she was away from her 
 that she seemed to see the look ; present, 
 the face told no tales. When she saw her 
 the last time that night, she kissed her lin- 
 geringly and said, " I wish I were your mo- 
 ther, little one ;" but of more than a vague 
 meaning in her words there was none ; 
 while, when Beata put her arms round her 
 neck, and wept as she held her, she was 
 not sure that more than a vague sadness
 
 248 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 and loneliness was expressed by the act. 
 
 In the mornincr when Beata went down- 
 stairs. Hartley was gone. Geoffrey was 
 waitinsf for her to tell her so. A orreat 
 pain seized her heart as he told her, though 
 she had been dreading, unspeakably, the 
 meeting with him. The breakfast-time 
 passed in silence, thougli a room-full of talk 
 would not have made much difference to 
 Beata. Her sense of heart-break filled her 
 enough to dull every other sense. 
 
 The reason given by Hartley to everyone 
 but Geoffrey for his sudden departure was 
 that he had letters from London which de- 
 manded his instant presence. To Geoffrey 
 he said, an hour or two after he had parted 
 from Beata — 
 
 " I'm sjoin^ back to town to-morrow, 
 Geoff ; I've had enough of this place ; will 
 you come ?" 
 
 "What do you say. Hartley? — going back 
 to town to-morrow?'" 
 
 "Why, yes, man ; I spoke plainly enough." 
 
 " Hartley, you won't be such an impetu- 
 ous fool as that."
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 249 
 
 " Fool !— It is about the only thing left to 
 do to prove me not a fool. Anyhow, I'm 
 fToimr." 
 
 *' And the reason ?" 
 
 Hartley laughed scornfully. 
 
 "Bravo, Geoff! — orthodox to the last! 
 Well, the reason is that your most wise 
 doubts of last night were truer than my 
 fool's certainty. My lady who icould then, 
 now will not ; so I am exactly one too many 
 in the party." 
 
 " I wish you would not take that hateful 
 tone. Hartley. Tell me exactly what has 
 happened." 
 
 " Thank you, I'd rather not. You have 
 my full leave to ask Beata all about it. For 
 me, I've done with such stuff for ever ; so 
 we'll turn to a new subject. Will you go 
 with me to-morrow?" 
 
 " Of course not. Sit down here and tell 
 me what has happened." 
 
 " I tell you I won't. I'm off to-morrow ; 
 and if you persist in trying to talk about 
 that, I won't come near you for the rest of 
 the day."
 
 250 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 Hartley was firm, and Geoffrey could get 
 no more from him. He told no one else 
 that he was going until quite late in the 
 evening, but went about the place apparent- 
 ly in more boisterous spirits than usual. He 
 went down to the village with Mr. Winthrop 
 and the others, and joined in the planning 
 for the rebuilding of the cottages in a secur- 
 er place. With the villagers he was as al- 
 ways, or even more jovial and hearty than 
 usual. Their fondness for him was warmer 
 than ever. His achievements of the night 
 before had made him more their hero than 
 ever. Even Mrs. Winthrop felt more kind- 
 ly to him than was her wont ; and while 
 his bitter anger and disappointment rankled 
 in his heart, he had a sort of enjoyment, 
 though half-bitter too, in all these smiles 
 from all these faces. One face only frown- 
 ed upon him, he said, and that was the face 
 that should have smiled most of all. AVell, 
 he must manage to do without that one 
 smile. 
 
 Geoffrey could get no more serious talk 
 with him. " I shall see you in London
 
 OXE MAIDEN ONLY. 251 
 
 directly," he said. And at night he an- 
 nounced that he must go, and to all expos- 
 tulations and expressions of surprise, said 
 that he had been thinking about it since the 
 morning, and hated to make a fuss about a 
 thing until the time came. In the morning 
 he went. 
 
 "Did Hartley leave any message for me?" 
 Beata asked Geoffrey, when later they were 
 alone together. Geoffrey shook his head. 
 " Did he tell you all about it?" 
 '' No, dear. Just the fact ; no more." 
 ''I must tell you," she said; "I cannot bear 
 it alone. My own sorrow I could bear ; but 
 I want you to tell me whether I have done 
 wrong." 
 
 So she told him all. Of her love, and 
 its shortcomings ; of her hopes when Hart- 
 ley went away, and the dying down of her 
 hopes as she understood how he was being 
 to Etta ; of their first talk when he came 
 back ; of her hour of weakness ; of her let- 
 ter ; of their final meeting, and of Hartley's 
 dreadful words — she kept nothing back. 
 And then she said,
 
 252 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 " Tell me if I have done wrong — if I 
 ought to have gone to hiin for ray love, 
 spite of all that was wanting? I do not 
 care for my pain ; I do not care for his pain 
 so much ; but if he should be wicked, and 1 
 should have made him so, wliat shall I do, 
 Geoffrey? I should love him though lie 
 were a murderer; I can never love him less; 
 ought T to have gone to him for my love, 
 though I could not honour him as my lord ? 
 If you show me that I have done wrong, I 
 will write and implore hira to take me even 
 now ; if you can show me, for certain, that 
 it was right, I will be strong, spite of all my 
 pain. I think it was my duty. It never 
 for a moment seemed otherwise to me." 
 
 Then Geoifrey, who had nothing to teach 
 Beata of the instincts of right, set forth 
 the justification of her conduct under its in- 
 tellectual forms. He showed her, as in- 
 stinctively she knew, that almost more fun- 
 damental to true wifehood than love, is 
 honour. He did not say much, for he was 
 not good at preaching, and Beata did not 
 seem to him one who needed much teaching
 
 ONE MAIDEX ONLY. 253 
 
 from him ; yet he said enough to make her 
 cahii ill her bitter pain. To do the right 
 she felt sure was her business ; with even 
 the moral results of right-doing she might 
 not dare to concern herself while the ridit- 
 
 c 
 
 domg itself was in question. 
 
 In this sad conclusion Beata and Geof- 
 frey w^ere agreed, and so she hoped that she 
 could presently be strong. And then they 
 talked of Hartle}' himself, and their hopes 
 that his bitter mood would not last. Beata 
 had no touch of an^^er in her heart a^rainst 
 him for his hard w^ords. Rather she could 
 not forgive herself for her moment of weak- 
 ness, and her heart was full of pity and self- 
 reproach for the pain that that weakness 
 had caused him. 
 
 " I hope he will send me a softer message 
 some day, by you," she said; "that would 
 make me almost happy." 
 
 When they had done their talk about 
 Hartley, Geoffrey dared an act of seeming 
 egotism that a less heart-wdiole love would 
 not have ventured to commit. 
 
 " I had a letter this morning," he said.
 
 254 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 " From whom ?" said Beata, still thinking 
 of Hartley. 
 
 "From my child." 
 
 " Indeed ! I am so glad ! Is it a long 
 one r 
 
 " Oh, no ; only a little note ; but I like to 
 have it. It is about her work, just. Shall I 
 show it you ?" 
 
 " I should be very grateful," she said. 
 
 So he showed it to her. It was a little 
 note, beginning " Dear Mr. Leighton," and 
 ending " Yours sincerely, Elia Gray." The 
 post-office transmits such by the thousand 
 every day; and the whole world might have 
 read it, and would have pronounced it sim- 
 ply a note from a pupil to her teacher. Yet 
 to these two, the one personally and the 
 other sympathetically, it had an altogether 
 deeper significance. They discovered no 
 hidden meanings under its words. When 
 she said, " We are very glad that you are 
 coming back soon, for we are longing to 
 begin the lessons and the reading again," 
 they understood her to mean just what she 
 said, and neither more nor less. Yet the
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 255 
 
 letter was sacred to them, as a bit of her 
 dress would have been. To Geoffrey, and 
 to Beata also — because she entered so en- 
 tirely into his mind — everything about this 
 child was touched with reverence and a 
 most tender pathos. 
 
 " I cannot explain it," he said ; " I can 
 find no name for what she is to me. She 
 seems neither sister nor lover, wife nor 
 child. But I go about all the day with her 
 meek, earnest face shining into my heart ; 
 and life seems tender and holy, and prayer 
 easy and very real under its sweet softness.
 
 256 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 THREE clays remained of Geoffrey's holi- 
 day ; though, in truth, for any hohday- 
 niaking purposes to himself and to Beata, 
 his holiday was already over. Happily, 
 there was much to do. They both spent 
 the greater part of the day in the village, 
 Beata attending to the people who had lost 
 their homes, Geoffrey helping to form the 
 plans for the speedy restoration of those 
 homes. 
 
 After her talk with Geoffrey, Beata car- 
 ried herself bravely. A grief that grows 
 out of fidelity to the right, and that has no 
 self-seeking or self-reproach behind it, can 
 be borne bravely by a brave heart. Beata 
 could see no look-out of briohtness in her 
 life ; but then she understood that a bris^ht 
 look-out is a luxury, not a necessity, of liv- 
 ing. She by no means despaired of life.
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 257 
 
 Duties survive hopes ; and the uses of life 
 can be lived for. when its pleasures have 
 come to an end. 
 
 Nevertheless, Beata understood that she 
 had a heavy burden of sorrow to carry. 
 Over and above her own sense of personal 
 loss and hunger, there would be her con- 
 stant anxiety about her son Hartley (as he 
 seemed to her), rendered tenfold poignant 
 by the reflection that it was she who, how- 
 ever mnocently and helplessly, had been 
 the means of bringing on the crisis of his 
 trial. Until now, Beata had had a personal 
 stake in the demonstration of Hartley's man- 
 hood. Now, that was over. Yet not less 
 keenly, and, in some respects, more keenly 
 than ever, she longed that his true manhood 
 might be developed or proved. Hartley 
 a strong, loyal-hearted man, and the bitter- 
 ness of her grief was past. 
 
 As has been said, both Beata and Geof- 
 frey had much to do; and, as a consequence, 
 not many opportunities of conversation were 
 left to them. When they talked, they 
 talked chiefly about Hartley ; and Geoffrey 
 
 VOL. I. 3
 
 258 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 promised to let her know all he could about 
 him. Of their own afiiiirs there was not 
 much to say, even if their minds had been 
 that way inclined, which they were not. 
 Their last conversation, however, did turn 
 in that direction. Geoffrey said, 
 
 " I hope you will not mind my speaking 
 of it, Beata, but I have been thinking very 
 much of what you would do if our dear old 
 man were to leave us. Have you thought 
 about it ?" 
 
 " Not much. A little, vaguely, sometimes." 
 
 " There would be homes open to you, of 
 course ; but you would not like to take 
 them." 
 
 " No ; I should work." 
 
 " If it does not come till I have prospered 
 a little " 
 
 " Well, what then ?" 
 
 "Why, you would let me be your r^eal 
 brother, then." 
 
 " Surely ; though not more real than 
 now. But I would not let a reed brother 
 work for me, nor you, dear, who are a real 
 brother too, unless indeed I could not work.
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 259 
 
 then you should work for uie, as I would 
 for you, if you could not work." 
 
 ''And t'he work, dear?" 
 
 " There is but one kind for women. I sup- 
 pose ; I must teach." 
 
 " I ho}.o, for many reasons, that it will 
 not be for a long time yet." 
 
 " Do you ? I hope it for one, only." 
 
 Geoffrey left, and of rll the visitors to 
 Walcote there remained but Robert ; and, 
 as it came to pass, Robert also began to 
 think of movincr. It was hidi time, he said 
 to Mr. and ^Irs. Winthrop ; he had already 
 stretched his stay to an unreasonable length. 
 To himself Robert gave a somewhat differ- 
 ent reason. It was high time to be gone, 
 he said to himself, lest, instead of beins^, as 
 he was now, very nmch a fool, he should 
 become a fool whole and entire. 
 
 Robert's grounds for thinking himself al- 
 ready very much a fool were, in brief, as 
 follows: — 1. Two fine youmr fellows, with 
 whom he ought to have struck up an eternal 
 friendship, had, in the course of a few days,
 
 260 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 awakened in his heart more mean, selfish, 
 and malignant feelings than he remembered 
 to have experienced in the whole term of 
 his natural life before. 2. He never entered 
 the Rectory but with a feeling of going 
 there under false pretences. 3. The sw^eet 
 little child Aileen, whose companionship 
 would at any other time of liis life have 
 made him as happy as the day was long, now 
 but half contented him (though he ivas 
 very fond of the child), because he was, all 
 the time he was with her, thinking of some 
 one else, and wondering wdiat chances there 
 were of her also joining their society. 4. 
 Though that somebody else after whose 
 company he w^as perpetually hankering had 
 shown him that, while she liked him very 
 well, she liked him much best at a distance, 
 he found himself perpetually trying to di- 
 minish the distance she had fixed, and to 
 push himself, if only cornerwise, into some 
 sort of nearness to lier. 5. His work was 
 goinf? to the dosfs, because he never could, 
 by any chance, write or think for an un- 
 broken half-hour upon any subject except
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 261 
 
 the multitudinous attractions and excellences 
 of the lady who, nevertheless, persistently 
 kept him at a distance. 
 
 Upon those grounds Robert came to the 
 conclusion that any greatly prolonged stay 
 at Walcote would result in making of him 
 an absolute fool, and that he had better take 
 his departure at once. This, therefore, he 
 resolved to do. But he also resolved that 
 before he went he would for once have free 
 speech with Beata, if he never had it a second 
 time. That she would care to hear what 
 he had to say, he thought exceedingly im- 
 probable ; but he could not be absolutely 
 certain of her indifference, and in such a 
 case he had a right to certainty. So, wait- 
 ing his opportunity, he one morning saw 
 the old man and Aileen set oif for a walk 
 together, leaving Beata at home. Then he 
 went in. 
 
 They made their greetings, and then Beata 
 said, " Papa and Aileen are out, I am sorry 
 to say. They will be very grieved to have 
 missed you." 
 
 ^' I knew they were out," said Robert ;
 
 262 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 '' that is w' / came in ; I wanted to have 
 one talk with you before I left, if you would 
 let me." 
 
 " Is there any need for us to talk to- 
 gether?" Beata said ; "you will not say any- 
 thing to pain me, will you? I am very 
 tired." 
 
 " I would not pain you for the world," 
 Robert said ; " and I would do anything in 
 the world to save you a moment's pain, if 
 you would let me." 
 
 " Yes, I know," said Beata ; " and I am 
 very grateful to you. Let us go out to meet 
 papa and the little one, now, shall we ?" 
 
 " If you will," Robert said, being neither 
 coarse enough nor selfish enough to press 
 for the one talk for which he longed. 
 
 So they walked side by side, Robert 
 touched by this courtesy done him, and 
 Beata so moved by her gratitude for all 
 Robert's goodness to her, and by her sorrow 
 that she could so ill requite his goodness, 
 that she could scarce restrain her tears. 
 It seemed this man's fate to bring out all 
 that was weakest in her. After a little
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 263 
 
 they found the two they were in search of. 
 
 " Why, here are Beata and Robert !" said 
 Aileen, clapping her hands ; " have you 
 come to find us?" 
 
 " Yes," said Beata, turning to her father ; 
 "Mr. Playfair came in, and, as he is so soon 
 going away, I thought we had better come 
 and look after you together. You would 
 have been sorry to lose any opportunity of 
 being with him, I know." 
 
 " You are quite right, my dear. I am al- 
 ways glad to see Mr. Playfair. We shall 
 miss him very much. T am very sorry in- 
 deed that he is going." 
 
 So the four fell in together, and Beata's 
 ordeal was over. 
 
 When, a day or two after, Robert came 
 to say good-bye, Beata's manner to him was 
 warmer and less constrained than ever it 
 had been before. The change was not all 
 pleasure to Robert, thougli by no manner of 
 his, now, could it have been told that it was 
 either special pleasure or special pain. 
 
 The old man parted from Robert with a 
 wail. " My lights go out quickly now," he
 
 264 ONE MAIDEN ONLY 
 
 said. " I shall never see you again, sir. 
 You have cheered us more than you can 
 tell." 
 
 Between Aileen and Robert the good- 
 byes were pathetically amusing. 
 
 "What shall I do without you, Robert?" 
 said the child, with tears in her eyes. 
 " There will be no one to go out with me 
 when Beata is busy, and no one to play 
 with me, and no one to tell me what to do 
 when my poor creatures are ill. Oh ! Ro- 
 bert, vv^hy do you go away and leave me ?" 
 
 Robert tried to comfort her with many 
 promises. He would think of her every 
 day; he would write to her often; he would 
 send her some rare new creatures to increase 
 her store ; he would tell her exactly what 
 to do when the old ones were ill ; and some 
 day he hoped he would come to see her 
 again. 
 
 " You are sure you won't forget me, Ro- 
 bert ? — you will always love me ? I shall 
 love you for ever, and ever, and ever." 
 
 " I shall never forget you, little one, and 
 I wdll love you always, be quite sure."
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 265 
 
 So they parted. Robert, according to his 
 promise, wrote often to the little one, and 
 had from her in return answers (not less 
 dear to him that they came in Beata s hand- 
 writing) full of play-love and earnest love, 
 that did him more s^ood than auvthin^^ else 
 under the sun could have done. And pre- 
 sently there came a letter from liim to the 
 old man, saying that he was going abroad. 
 A post had been offered him in an explor- 
 ing expedition about to set out for South 
 America. He had accepted the post, and 
 did not expect to be in England again for 
 two years. Aileen was greatly troubled at 
 this long absence of her friend, and found 
 no consolation in her sadness, save his pro- 
 mise to bring her back such a collection of 
 "reptiles" as should make the glories of her 
 present menagerie pale into the dimness of 
 oblivion.
 
 266 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 HARTLEY left Walcote in an intenser 
 state of mind than he had ever in his 
 life before been in. He had never before 
 been so much in love ; he had never been 
 so disappointed ; he had never been so hu- 
 miliated ; and, by consequence of all these, 
 he had never been so angry. On the whole, 
 the indignant mood predominated. Beata 
 had been very cruel to him, he thought. 
 The real reason of her conduct he could, at 
 best, but have dimly understood ; in his 
 present mood he could not understand it at 
 all. The wealth of love which, to his own 
 surprise, he had lavished on her during the 
 last hundred hours had been wasted and 
 despised, and he was most justly indignant, 
 as he said. 
 
 Hartley was not due at his office for three 
 or four days, and to have made his appear-
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 267 
 
 ance there before he was due would have 
 caused some troublesome surprise. So he 
 lingered on his road. He hunted up two 
 or three college friends, whose whereabouts 
 he knew, and surprised them with the change 
 in his tone and manner. London life had 
 developed him quickly, they thought ; the 
 estimate they formed of the development 
 itself depending upon the quality of the in- 
 dividual judges. 
 
 Geoffrey and Hartley reached town on 
 the same day, and in the evening the for- 
 mer sought the latter at his new rooms. It 
 was early in the evening, and Hartley was 
 at home. 
 
 "Well, Geoff," Hartley said, "1 thought 
 you might turn up to-night. You'd have 
 made an excellent mother for such a scape- 
 grace of a son as I am." 
 
 " I wish there were no bigger scapegraces 
 of sons than you, Hartley ; for me, I've no- 
 thing better than brotherly affection to offer 
 as the reason of my visit." 
 
 " That will do as a makeshift. Now you 
 shall have my own particular easy-cliair that
 
 268 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 is to be. I haven't used it yet^ but I mean 
 to keep it sacred to my best-beloved self." 
 
 " Not used it yet ?" 
 
 "No; I only came to town to-day. They 
 weren't prepared for me at the office earlier, 
 and I might have alarmed them." 
 
 " Where have you been, then ?" 
 
 Hartley told him. 
 
 "You'd have left several people happier 
 if you had stayed those three days at Wal- 
 cote." 
 
 "Thank you, Geoff. I like your preach- 
 ing immensely ; but I'd rather you should 
 choose another text this time." 
 
 " I'm not going to preach, but I don't 
 mean to be at arm's-length with you upon 
 this subject. We must have it out once, at 
 all events." 
 
 " As you please. I'd advise you not to 
 waste your breath ; but if you prefer to do so, 
 I'm resigned." 
 
 " I am writing to Beata to-night. May I 
 send her a message from you ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " She is wishing for one very much."
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 269 
 
 " I'm sorry. I can't help it. T can't send 
 one." 
 
 "Not your old love ?" 
 
 " I haven't any old love. The old love 
 changed into the new, and that she will not 
 have." 
 
 " You can't be hard to her, Hartley. She 
 was a very faithful sister to you for years, 
 and now she loves you better than you can 
 understand. She suffers more than you do, 
 I think." 
 
 " I can't help it, Geoff; I can send her no 
 message. I'd rather not say anything hard, 
 but then you must let me alone. Talk of 
 something else." 
 
 Geoffrey felt, sorry as he was, that it was 
 no use trying to pursue the subject, so he 
 fell silent. Presently Hartley said, 
 
 " I may as well tell you. Of course you 
 will be disgusted with me, but I can't help 
 that. I shall propose to Etta." 
 
 " Good God ! Hartley, you won't do any- 
 thing as wicked as that." 
 
 " Where's the wickedness? I expect that 
 Etta cares for me enough to be willing to
 
 270 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 have ine, and if not she can say so, and 
 that'll settle the question. I like Etta a 
 great deal better than most people like 
 their wives. So we shall both be fairly con- 
 tent. That and five hundred a year, and such 
 a brother as you, what more can a reason- 
 able man expect? I suppose everybody be- 
 gins with a bit of youthful romance. It does 
 to sigh over when you get old." 
 
 '' If you propose to Etta, Hartley, it will 
 be the worst act of your life thus far." 
 
 '' I don't see it, and I can't help it. Any- 
 how I shall propose to Etta ; that's settled." 
 
 " Shall you tell her what has passed be- 
 tween you and Beata?" 
 
 " Of course not. What would be the use 
 of that ? We should try to forget our follies, 
 not publish them." 
 
 Geoffrey even pleaded with Hartley against 
 this resolve ; but his pleadings were of no 
 avail, and lie could but finish by saying, 
 
 '•If you do it. Hartley, nothing but harm 
 can come of it, I'm sure." 
 
 " I take my chance," Hartley said, and so 
 the matter ended.
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 271 
 
 Geoffrey went to his own room sick at 
 heart. None the less for his defects, his 
 brother was very dear to him. And those 
 defects had hitherto been Httle more than 
 defects. Hitherto you could say of Hartley, 
 this and that thing are wanting in him ; but 
 more than that against him you could scarcely 
 say. He had not been deep-natured ; but he 
 had not been insincere. You could not call him 
 loyal ; but a traitor he had never been. His 
 impulses flickered, and his affections rose and 
 fell with a not admirable rapidity ; but he 
 had been obedient to the strongest affection 
 of the moment. Shallow, not false, you 
 would at worst have called him. And then 
 his graces were so many, and his very shal- 
 lowness w^as so mixed up with his graces, 
 that you could not but accept him as he was, 
 and love him with a warmth that deeper na- 
 tures often fail to win to themselves. 
 
 But now Hartley was about to play the 
 traitor. This was how Geoffrey put it to 
 himself He loved Beata best among wo- 
 men. He was about to ask of Etta that 
 which a man may not ask of a woman un-
 
 272 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 less he loves her best of all. If Hartley 
 asked Etta to be his wife, she would under- 
 stand that he loved her best of all, as any 
 woman would understand, unless she were 
 utterly worldly, and lost to her true woman- 
 hood. So here was deliberate treason, and 
 nothing but harm could come of it, Geoffrey 
 thought. 
 
 As he pondered the matter, it entered his 
 mind to ask whether his duty suffered him 
 to remain passive at this crisis. If Hartley 
 was about tacitlv to lie to Etta in that mat- 
 ter which was of the deepest importance of 
 all to her, and if he knew of the purposed 
 lie, and was convinced of the pernicious re- 
 sults that must follow from it, was it his 
 duty to remain silent wdiile the thing was 
 done? The question tossed him terribly. 
 He would not have known of Hartley's pur- 
 pose, but for Hartley's telling. Was his 
 honour bound by that confidence ? He had 
 made no promise of silence. If a stranger 
 told him of his purpose to tell a malignant 
 lie, was he bound by the stranger's confidence 
 to do nothing to avert the consequences
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 273 
 
 of that lie. He had not asked Hartley's 
 confidence, nor had he promised silence. 
 Yet he knew quite well that Hartley in tell- 
 ing him, assumed his silence. What then ? 
 He was bound to Hartley, not to Hartley's 
 assumptions. If the question were one of 
 acting for Etta s happiness, as against Hart- 
 ley's, it would be different. But Geoffrey 
 believed that this treason would be as fatal 
 to Hartley as to Etta. What, then, \vas it 
 his duty to do ? One thing was clear. If he 
 acted in the matter, he must first tell Hartley 
 that he intended to act, and then he feared 
 greatly wdiat would follow^ for such an in- 
 terference was one that Hartley would least 
 of all tolerate. 
 
 Geoffrey's mind was terribly tossed by 
 this question, but at last, and to his infinite 
 pain, it seemed to him that his duty was 
 clear. He must not suffer this treason to be 
 committed. He must tell Hartley of his 
 conclusion ; he w^ould implore him to draw" 
 back from his purpose ; but if he refused to 
 do so, he must act. This was the bitterest 
 conclusion he had ever come to in his life. 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 He trembled before the coiisequeuces, and 
 could but pray God to help hiai through 
 with the duty. 
 
 It was late mto the night when his 
 thoughts had reached this point. He at 
 once wrote a note to Hartley, ready to send 
 in the morning, and the note ran thus : — 
 
 " Dear Hartley, 
 
 " Come round to me directly you 
 leave tlie office to-morrow, or, if you prefer 
 it, I will come to your rooms. I want to 
 talk with you upon an important matter. 
 Do not fail. If I do not hear from you, I 
 shall expect you here. 
 
 " Your affectionate brother, 
 
 " Geoffrey." 
 
 And then, when that was done, Geoffrey 
 had his letter to Beata to write. Never 
 before had he sat down reluctantly to write 
 to her. This time he was very reluctant in- 
 deed. No painful thing need he tell her 
 about Hartley, yet, at all events, while 
 everything was pending. But he had not a 
 pleasant thing to say, and so he had to write
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 275 
 
 to her a letter which it would be painful to 
 her to read. Whatever good things the let- 
 ter roiiiht conceivably contain, this absence 
 would outbalance them all, and she would 
 put dowm the letter with disappointment and 
 sadness. 
 
 However, Geoffrey wrote his letter, and 
 then, for what of the night was left, he went 
 to bed. In the morning he sent off his note 
 to Hartley, and got out his papers, and be- 
 gan his life with his new^ book again. In 
 the afternoon he went to his pupil, and tlie 
 warm, quiet gladness of both the girls to 
 have him ag;ain, softened and cheered his 
 heart. Then he came home and waited for 
 Hartley. But Hartley did not come ; and 
 wdien, after w^aiting an hour for him, he was 
 about to set off to try and find him at his 
 rooms, a note came instead. Tlie note said : 
 
 " Dear Geoff, 
 
 " Can't come to-day. Just out for 
 the evening. Will come to you to-morrow. 
 Hope your ' important matter ' will keep. 
 " Ever yours, Hartley." 
 
 T 2
 
 276 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 Geoffrey was very sorry at this ; but he, 
 too, hoped that the " important matter " 
 would keep for one evening. However, 
 that no time might be lost, towards the end 
 of the evening, he took a book with him, 
 and went round to Hartley's rooms to wait 
 for his coming home.
 
 277 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 HARTLEY'S evening engagement was 
 to the Monctons. The history of 
 those friends, or of all of them save one, dur- 
 ing his absence, is easily told. They were 
 in the happy condition of the comitry which 
 has no history. Giles, Ada, and Mrs. Monc- 
 ton went through their ordinary duties and 
 pleasures in the ordinary way. The cares 
 and perils of moving had not yet com- 
 menced. Mr. Moncton carried on his old 
 work at the office until Hartley's return. 
 Etta only, of the whole family, had a his- 
 tory during these days. 
 
 That history, indeed, continued from the 
 time when Hartley gave her his good-bye 
 kiss, and saying, " It will not be for long, 
 little one," left her, and saw her no more 
 alone. After he left her, Etta sat, faintly
 
 278 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 wonclerino; whether those words mi^ht 
 cover any hope for her. She sat so, until 
 Ada came to bid her dress for dinner. The 
 rest of the evening she spent with her fami- 
 ly, and with Hartley amongst them. All 
 through that evening she pondered Hart- 
 ley's manner. He was gay and happily ex- 
 cited, talking of his good fortune and his 
 visit home. This need not have pained 
 Etta, and would not have done so, but for 
 what she missed, as well as what she found. 
 Had she been going away, every thought of 
 the future would have been coloured by 
 Hartley. She could not find that she 
 coloured his thoughts. There was no un- 
 der-tone of her in his talk. His eyes did 
 not often turn her way ; his manner never 
 yearned towards her. There had been 
 evenings when a dozen times he had con- 
 trived to touch her hand. It was not so 
 that evening. He was not cool or cross to 
 her a bit. x\ny positive attitude towards 
 her would have meant something ; but his 
 attitude was altop^ether necrative. To the 
 whole familv he was an affectionate son and
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 279 
 
 brother ; to her he was neitlier more nor 
 less affectionate than to the rest. 
 
 When tlie evening^ was over Etta went to 
 her room. She had his portrait there, and 
 some books that he had given her, and one or 
 two little notes that he had written. She got 
 all these toQ:ether on her dressinfj-table, and 
 then she took off some of her tilings, and 
 put on her dressing-gown, and let her soft, 
 pleasant hair fall about her shoulders, and 
 so sat down opposite the looking-glass. She 
 looked at her face ; he had made it tingle 
 with hinted praise of its sweetness many 
 times. She could remember all sucli things 
 that he had ever said to her. And in re- 
 membering, it came to pass that she went 
 over the whole history of his time with 
 them ; and as this passed before her, her 
 heart began to darken. His pettings, and 
 the tyrannies he had seemed to exercise by 
 right, his tendernesses, and the property he 
 had seemed to claim in lier, were enougli to 
 have won her heart ten times over. But 
 she could call to mind no expression of love 
 from him that had not been qualified by
 
 280 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 some explanation or drawback that in the 
 light of her present thoughts cancelled all 
 its value. In truth, he had never been 
 given to speak love at all — he had but acted 
 it. He had done ten times enoucfh to win 
 her heart ; he had given her no proof that 
 his heart was hers in return. 
 
 So poor Etta, sadly Avise of a sudden, 
 told herself. She did not say that Hartley 
 had been playing with her. This, indeed, 
 was not the question. The time for blame 
 and reproaches had not come. At present 
 it stood that she loved Hartley, and that 
 she greatly feared that he did not love her 
 in return. This was conclusion enough for 
 one night. If this were true, the rest mat- 
 tered little at present. 
 
 And was it true ? Had Etta had the 
 courage to probe her heart to the bottom, 
 she would then and there have told herself 
 that it icas true. But she had not the cour- 
 age. His last words, " It will not be for 
 long, little one," kept glimmering back into 
 her heart, and waking up her pain with 
 returning gleams of hope. Perhaps he
 
 ONE MAIDEX OXLY. 281 
 
 would write to her while he was away. 
 Perhaps he would tell her in tlie morning 
 that he would write to her. She would 
 not quite lose heart till he was gone. And 
 so she undressed herself and went to bed, 
 and slept, or lay awake wearily until the 
 morning. 
 
 But in the morning Hartley did not say 
 that he would write to her, nor did he give 
 her any token of greater affection than he 
 gave to Ada and the rest. After that Etta 
 found it hard work to cheat herself into 
 hope even for a moment, and the days pass- 
 ed darkly, and she wondered why so many 
 people were born into the world. 
 
 But presently the mood of Etta's grief 
 was changed. On the day before Hartley 
 returned to London, she received a letter 
 from a friend, who was, indeed, none other 
 than the one who some time before had 
 sent to Beata the letter that disturbed her 
 so much. 
 
 Etta's letter turned out to be a very 
 brief one, with an inclosure. The letter ran 
 thus : —
 
 282 one maiden only. 
 
 " Dear Etta, 
 
 " This morning I received the en- 
 closed. Knowing from sad experience the 
 monotony of life, I send it you to amuse 
 you. To me, who know a little, it is amus- 
 ing ; to you, who know so much, it will be 
 absolutely comic. Pray thank me by re- 
 turn. Ever your devoted, 
 
 " Laura." 
 
 The enclosure was a long one. The part 
 that concerned Etta w^as lon^ enous^h for its 
 reader. It was this : — 
 
 " We had gay doings here the other day. 
 That delightful old Mr. Winthrop, to cele- 
 brate the safe return of the tw^o prodigal 
 sons at the Rectory (only that I am afraid 
 they are both the very pink of propriety !) 
 gave an athletic fete. They did a lot of 
 wonderful things, I believe ; but my keenest 
 recollections are of iced champagne, and 
 two or three nice young fellow^s I talked to. 
 Among these last was Hartley Leighton, 
 who would have been very nice indeed, had 
 he been a little less enorrossed with Beata
 
 ONE IMAIDEX ONLY. 283 
 
 Spenser. However, his devotion there was 
 so heart-whole, that I could not feel myself 
 ao^orrieved. And in serious earnest she de- 
 serves at least as good a man as he is, and 
 that is not saying a little, as men go. I hope 
 she will be gracious to him. They would 
 make a rare couple. Unless you and I 
 could be mated, dear Laura, I should not 
 know where to look for a rarer." 
 
 This was the passage ; but to the letter 
 there was a postscript. 
 
 "P.S. — It is just post-time, but I must 
 add a bit of wonderful news. Hartley 
 Leighton has gone off suddenly this morning 
 — on business, they say ; but I cannot help 
 suspecting a mystery. A little excitement 
 would be a great comfort ; but I should be 
 heartily sorry for any miscarriage there." 
 
 These were the parts of the letter that 
 concerned Etta, and as she read them they 
 chansfed her mood with a venn^eance. Her 
 instinct had been true, then ; she had always 
 feared Beata, and Hartley's manner about 
 her had never been satisfactory. That, how-
 
 284 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 ever, was not Beata's fault. The meaning 
 of Hartley's conduct was the question. Was 
 this liking for Beata a new thing? — and had 
 he so immediately forgotten lier ? Or had 
 he loved Beata before, and so had been 
 pleasing himself with her when Beata was 
 not to be had? Of these two the latter 
 would be perhaps the most odious, but be- 
 tween them it was scarcely worth while 
 to choose. Was there another alternative ? 
 The letter was all idle gossip, perhaps. No, 
 the letter was not idle gossip, Etta said ; of 
 that she was sure. But Hartley called Beata 
 his sister. Perhaps it was but brotherly affec- 
 tion, after all. Etta smiled bitterly to her- 
 self at that. Hartley had called himself 
 her brother, and through the name had won 
 the right to break her heart, if, indeed, her 
 heart w^as broken. " Her dear and faithful 
 brother for ever and ever." She, poor silly 
 fool, had taken these words for affirmation, 
 not denial. " Brother" sounded a soft Avord 
 from Hartley's mouth ; she had never dreamt 
 that it was meant to conceal the softness of 
 *' dear and faithful " and " ever and ever."
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 285 
 
 Etta did not love Beata much ; but she did 
 not hate her so deeply as to hope that the 
 name "brother" had been the minister of 
 such pain also to her. 
 
 There remained, however, the sudden 
 leaving What did ^/^a^nean? Etta could 
 not guess what it meant. That Hartley had 
 not left for business she quite well knew. 
 Slie could but wait and see. She would not 
 be hasty. She would take time to learn the 
 whole truth. But she would not be a fool 
 a second time, she said. And so she waited, 
 feeling very hard and bitter towards Hart- 
 ley, and very scornful to that which calls it- 
 self love, — an Etta as different from the 
 child whom Hartley six months before had 
 found, as the devil himself could have wished 
 in the time. Yet Hartley, who had done 
 the devil's work so well, was no more a devil 
 than nine-tenths of us who read and write 
 are devils. 
 
 Then the next day. Hartley came back, 
 and the following morning he made his ap- 
 pearance at the office. The first thing he 
 found there was Geoffrey's letter, and he re-
 
 286 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 solved that he would go round after work 
 was over and see what Geoff wanted. After 
 a little, Mr. Moncton came. 
 
 '' Well, my boy," he said ; " I'm heartily 
 glad to see you. We've wanted you here 
 and at home. When did you leave Wal- 
 cote ?" 
 
 Hartley turned it rapidly over in his mind 
 whether he should say that he had left home 
 some days ago, and he resolved that he would 
 not ; so he said, 
 
 " I got to town last night, you know." 
 
 "Ah ! yes, of course. Did your brother 
 come with you ?" 
 
 " We did not come tosrether. I had some 
 
 o 
 
 calls to make on the road. But he is in 
 town now." 
 
 " That's right. He must come and see us 
 soon. Yoiill dine with us to-nisfht ?" 
 
 o 
 
 " I'm afraid not. Geoffrey wants me to 
 go round to him after office." 
 
 " Oh ! you can put him off till to-morrow. 
 I want you to come. Mrs. Moncton and 
 Ada are away for a day or two ; but Etta is 
 at home, and I've one or two men coming.
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 287 
 
 Etta will be immensely glad of you. She 
 doesn't know the others, and you'll be com- 
 pany for her. You'll come ? " 
 
 Hartley promised to go, and resolved 
 to write a note to Geoffrey to say that he 
 would see him to-morrow. But he was so 
 busy all day that he forgot it, and only be- 
 thought himself just as he had finished 
 dressing, and was about to start. Then he 
 WTOte the line which Geoffrey received. 
 
 When Hartley reached the Monctons, the 
 two other guests had arrived, and were in 
 the drawing-room talking to Etta. As he 
 entered the room, Etta's face grew a shade 
 paler, but she turned and shook hands with 
 him calmly, as she would have done with 
 any of her father's visitors. As she w^ould 
 have done now^ that is to say, for Etta's 
 manners were appreciably older since her 
 friend Laura s letter came to her. Hartley 
 noticed this, and also the calmness and dis- 
 tantness of her manner to him ; but he at- 
 tributed both to the fact that she was play- 
 inoj hostess to two strangers in the absence 
 of her mother.
 
 288 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 During dinner, the two strangers sat on 
 the right and left of Etta, and talked to 
 her, so that Hartley's conversation was chief- 
 ly with Mr. Moncton. He, however, natur- 
 ally had to speak to Etta now and then, and 
 when he was not speaking to her, he could 
 observe her. Both changes in her manner 
 continued to impress him, but for both the 
 first explanation seemed still sufficient. 
 
 When Etta had left the table, and the 
 men were at their wine, and the talk turned 
 upon business matters foreign to the interest 
 of Hartley, he said to Mr. Moncton, 
 
 " I don't want any wine to-day ; may I 
 go upstairs ?" 
 
 Mr. Moncton nodded, saying, 
 "If you're sure you won't drink," and 
 Hartley left the room. 
 
 The three men smiled together, and went 
 on with their conversation. 
 
 Hartley found Etta in the drawing-room, 
 sitting in a low easy-chair near the fire, for 
 the evening was chilly. She started a little 
 as he entered the room ; she had not ex- 
 pected anyone for an hour.
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 289 
 
 " Well, Etta," he said, going near to her. 
 
 "Well," she echoed, looking up at him 
 without smiling. 
 
 " Are not you glad to see me ?" 
 
 " Oh ! of course ; people are always glad 
 to see their friends." 
 
 Hartley was taken aback by this tone. 
 
 " You are cross with me," he said, draw- 
 ing a chair near to Etta's, and sitting down 
 by her. 
 
 " Cross with you ? — oh! no. Why should 
 I be cross with you ?" Etta said, with a man- 
 ner that seemed to put him far off out of 
 the sphere of her crossness or her approval. 
 His old impetuous desire to break down 
 whatever set itself in antagonism to him 
 came back upon him, and that mingling with 
 the half-formed resolve which he had spoken 
 of to Geoffrey, as if it were wholly formed, 
 he said — 
 
 " Etta, I want to ask you to be my wife." 
 
 Etta's heart and breath were almost too 
 much for her at that, and it took her a 
 minute to master tliem enough to look at 
 him or to speak. Then she looked at him 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 and said, in a pained, wondering tone — 
 
 "Your wife, Hartley?" 
 
 "Yes," he said, " my wife." But he could 
 not meet her look, even though that ready 
 tenderness for the sorrows of the moment, 
 in which his heart was rich, moved him to 
 some fondling of Etta for the pain manifest 
 in her face, but the nature or the cause of 
 which he did not understand. 
 
 " May I ask you a question or two ?" she 
 said. 
 
 " I want you to answer, not to ask, now, 
 Etta." 
 
 " I must ask first, or I can never answer. 
 May I ?" 
 
 Hartley could not know what she wanted 
 to ask ; yet he would have given much that 
 the questions had not been to come. But 
 there was no avoiding them now, and he 
 said wearily, " If you wish." 
 
 Etta had mastered her heart and her 
 breatli by this time, and she spoke coldly 
 and strongly, so unlike her old speaking to 
 Hartley, or to any, that she wondered at 
 herself She felt very hard to him ; yet.
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 291 
 
 even 3'et, could her hard thoughts of hiui 
 have been proved to be false, the old Etta 
 would have come back in a moment, and 
 the tenderness of the past would have been 
 swallowed up in the fulness of a love ripen- 
 ed by pain. But now there was no tender- 
 ness. She said, 
 
 " Beata is your sister ?" 
 
 "Yes, she was." 
 
 " Did you ever ask her to be your wife ?" 
 
 The soft, yielding Etta was master now ; 
 Hartley could not throw off her questions 
 with irritation or playfulness. 
 
 " Yes," he said. 
 
 " Before you came here ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Did she refuse ?" 
 
 " She neither refused nor promised." 
 
 "Then did you give up the thought of 
 wishing her to be your wife ?" 
 
 Hartley hesitated at this. Instinctively 
 he felt that all Etta's questions turned upon 
 this one. How could he answer? The 
 thought had grown faint many times. Had 
 he ever given it up? He could not say that 
 
 u 2
 
 292 ONE MAIDEN OXLY. 
 
 he had ever given it up. Etta waited for 
 his answer, looking quietly at him. 
 
 " Xo," he said. 
 
 "And you meant to ask her again ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And now j^ou have asked her, and she 
 has refused you, and that is why you left 
 home three days before your time?" 
 
 " Who told you that I left home three 
 days before my time ?" 
 
 "Here is a letter. You may read it." 
 
 "I don't wish to read it," he said, pushing 
 it back to her. 
 
 " Beata refused you. Hartley?" 
 
 "Yes, she did," he said doggedly. 
 
 " And so you come and ask me. I am 
 honoured. Well, I refuse you too, and I 
 hate you !" All the calmness was gone from 
 Etta's manner now, and she flashed out her 
 last wT)rds with a bitterness and a passion 
 that made Hartley quail before them. 
 
 " I have answered your questions," he 
 said, " and have told you the truth, but I 
 have made myself seem worse than I am in 
 doino^ so."
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 293 
 
 Etta did not answer, but sat, with her 
 hands clasped, and looking down upon 
 them. 
 
 " I did love Beata all the time,*' he con- 
 tinued, ^' but I was not deceiving you. I 
 never meant to make love to you in that 
 way. I thought of \om as my sister." 
 
 " I see." she said scornfully. " Though 
 you seemed to put me first in all your 
 thoudits, and tried to fill mv thoudits with 
 nothing but you ; though you petted me, 
 and forced from me all sorts of endear- 
 ments ; though, child as I was, you made 
 me become a woman by my love and by my 
 faith in your love for me, you were not mak- 
 ing love to me, and it never entered your 
 head that I should be such a fool as to mis- 
 take so many signs of love for love itself. I 
 understand your explanation, but I cannot 
 think 3'ou any better for it at all. I did 
 love you. Hartley ; but now I hate you 
 more than ever I loved you. I only wish I 
 could die, for I can never again be the 
 child you found me. You will not come 
 here any more. I am going to my room
 
 294 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 now ; you can say that I had a headache 
 when they come up." 
 
 So she passed him to go. He tried to 
 detain her to say some less bitter word to 
 him in parting ; but she would not be de- 
 tained, and she spoke to him no more. 
 
 Hartley sat till the other men came up, 
 and then he gave Etta's excuse for her ab- 
 sence. Then he stopped for an hour, mix- 
 ing^ vas^uelv in the talk of the others : and, 
 as soon as he could, he went home and 
 found Geoffrey awaiting him.
 
 295 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 YOU here !" said Hartley, when he saw 
 Geoffrey. 
 
 " Yes. You're earlier than I expected." 
 
 '^ So mucli the better for you. What do 
 you come to-night for ?" 
 
 '' I want to talk to you." 
 
 " Upon a very important matter indeed, 
 I should think, by your impatience." 
 
 " Well, it is ; I was very sorry you didn't 
 come this afternoon." 
 
 " I couldn't. I had to dine with the 
 Monctons. Let's get the talk over. I'm 
 tired." 
 
 "It's about the Monctons, or one of them, 
 that I want to speak." 
 
 " Oh, for pity's sake, don't ! Let me 
 have some peace." 
 
 " I'm very sorry to teaze you, Hartley,
 
 296 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 but I must. I can't let you propose to 
 Etta." 
 
 "O 
 
 'v^au 
 
 t Jet me ; what do you mean ?" 
 
 " Just that I can't let you, Hartley ; that's 
 all." 
 
 '^ But suppose I choose, what then ?" 
 " But you won't choose. Hartley. It 
 would just be the blackest treason, you 
 know. Etta would of course believe that, 
 in asking her, you loved her best ; and as 
 you do not love her best, the act would be 
 the bitterest lie that you could tell to a wo- 
 
 man." 
 
 " You use strong language, Geoffrey ; I 
 was a fool to tell you my intention. You 
 can't let me, you say. Suppose I choose, 
 what then ?" 
 
 Hartley would have found it difficult to 
 tell Geoffrey what had happened to-night, 
 in any case. But now also he was irritated 
 at having the painful subject again forced 
 back upon him, and there was a touch in 
 Geoffrey's manner that stung him and pro- 
 voked him. 
 
 "Then, Hartley," Geoffrey said, with a
 
 ONE iNIAIDEX ONLY. 297 
 
 manner of extreme reluctance, '^ I should 
 be compelled to tell Etta what happened at 
 home the other day." 
 
 '' You would be compelled to do luliat ?" 
 Hartley said, rising from his chair. 
 
 "Because, Hartley, I know that for you 
 to ask Etta to be your wife would be trea- 
 son ; and for you, loving Beata, to marry 
 Etta, would be ruin to the lives and charac- 
 ters of you both ; therefore, if you persisted 
 in your resolve, I should be compelled to 
 tell Etta that Beata, and not she, had your 
 love." 
 
 "And then you talk to me of treason? 
 Why, I should call that the most impertinent 
 treason you could be guilty of." 
 
 "I should think it the truest loyalty, 
 Hartley, to you both." 
 
 " But you only know of it through my 
 telling. You are false to my confidence, to 
 bemn with." 
 
 o 
 
 " Your intention was the confidence, if 
 confidence there were. The fad would be 
 public. But is there any need of confidence 
 and loyalty to tliat^ with such love as ours.
 
 298 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 There is no room for honour, where love is 
 perfect. That which it would be wicked- 
 ness and misery for you to do, I must stop 
 3^our doing, if I can. Tliat is my loyalty, 
 Hartley." 
 
 '* And the particular application of your 
 loyalty in this case, Geoff, I should call the 
 meanest treason. I'd have staked my life 
 upon your honour." 
 
 '' Of course you would ; and you would 
 still." 
 
 " Not if you stand to what you have said. 
 I should call you a dishonourable traitor." 
 
 " Gently, Hartley." 
 
 ^' Why gently ? You have called me a 
 traitor. I may be as free with my tongue as 
 you." 
 
 " I never called you a traitor. I said that 
 the act which you thought of would be trea- 
 son, that you, who are not a traitor, might 
 draw back from it." 
 
 " You must first draw back from yours, 
 Geoff." 
 
 " I cannot. Hartley." 
 
 *' Then you are a dishonourable traitor."
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 299 
 
 Geoffrey rose from his seat at that. Hart- 
 ley's face burned with anger. All the pent- 
 up feeling of these later clays broke out in 
 a burst of unreasoning passion, and he poured 
 forth words as bitter as, had he been sane 
 when he uttered them, lie would have known 
 they were false. 
 
 " You are all set against me. Beata re- 
 jects me and insults me, and makes you her 
 confidant. You take sides with her against 
 me ; and, no doubt, echo her insults. You 
 accept my confidence, and then threaten to 
 betray it, if I will not bend to your will. 
 You would chain me to Beata, though she 
 is but a dead corpse to me ; or would have 
 me lie down meekly while she spurns me. 
 I have had enough of you, Geoffrey. You 
 have played me false. You may go ; I will 
 stand alone now." 
 
 " I would not say a bitter word to you, 
 Hartley ; so I had better go." 
 
 Geoffrey turned to leave. But Hartley said, 
 
 " It may save you trouble to know that I 
 have proposed to Etta, and tliat she also has 
 rejected^ me. I hope you are satisfied now."
 
 300 ONE MAIDITN ONLY. 
 
 "Why did you not tell me, Hartley, and 
 keep back my words ?" 
 
 "Thank you. I am very glad I did not 
 keep back your words. I know you the bet- 
 ter for them, and have a false brother the 
 less." 
 
 Geoffrey saw that Hartley's bitter feelings 
 would not relent, and he went, sick at heart 
 for his brother's heaped-up paui. There 
 was something weird and unreal about the 
 thought of the light-hearted, high-spirited 
 boy under all this load of humiliation and 
 sorrow, and Geoffrey went home feeling as if 
 some strange inversion of the natural order 
 of things had taken place, and oppressed 
 with the burden of a darkness he could not 
 lighten. 
 
 And Hartley was left alone. He threw 
 off his clothes quickly, and got into bed. 
 He would have a e^ood nidit's rest, none the 
 less, he said. And, as a fact, he did im- 
 mediately all but drop oft" to sleep. Only 
 when he was nearly gone, the face of Etta, 
 with the hard and scornful look upon it, 
 growing out of the darkness, woke him up
 
 OXE MAIDEN OXLY. 301 
 
 with a start. Tlien, for the first time in his 
 life, Hartley was awake for the night. One 
 by one, his tirues with Etta, the thousand 
 endearments that had passed between them, 
 her manifold thoughtfulness for liim, the 
 trustful, tremulous, childish love that shone 
 from her face, came before him. And then 
 came back her changed face, with all the 
 childishness, and trustfulness, and happiness 
 gone from it, and her words " I did love 
 you. Hartley ; but now I hate you more than 
 ever I loved you." It might have been that 
 instead of these words he should have heard 
 from her such words as '' I love you with 
 all my heart for ever and ever." In some 
 such form she would have put it, had he 
 asked her, and had not her love been turned 
 away from him. But her love ivas turned 
 away from him ; for the reason that he had 
 turned to Beata ratlier than to her. And 
 then Beata'sface came before him. Towards 
 Etta he was full of regret and self-reproach ; 
 towards Beata liis heart was hard, and re- 
 sentful, and bitter. Etta's face and words 
 he could understand ; Beata was altoizether
 
 302 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 beyond his comprehension. Etta's " I loved 
 you ; you slighted and trifled with me for 
 another, and now I hate you," was no pro- 
 blem to him. Beata's " I love you ; but you 
 are not noble and loyal enough for my wor- 
 ship ; and so, though I love you no less, I 
 cannot give myself to you," was a problem 
 inscrutable to him. She had robbed him 
 doubly, he said ; she had robbed him of her- 
 self, who would not be his ; she had robbed 
 him of Etta, who would gladly have given 
 herself to him. Under the influence of this 
 thought, he forgot almost to reproach him- 
 self with Etta's grief, and rather began to 
 set her down as a fellow-sufferer with him- 
 self from Beata's cruelty. 
 
 Nor against Geoffrey was he less bitter. 
 He understood it all now, lie said. They 
 were in league against him, and Beata's 
 cruelty to him was but the fruit of his in- 
 stio^ation. He chafed himself in his irrita- 
 tion, and as he turned his anger over and 
 over in his mind, he wished that he had let 
 his false brother go to Etta, and make a fool 
 of himself by carrying stale news to her.
 
 ONE MAIDEX ONLY. 303 
 
 But in the iiiidsc of all these thoughts, 
 proud and petulant, remorseful and insincere, 
 there every now and then swept over him a 
 sense of the loneliness that was before him 
 that made him tremble. Always until now, 
 in all his troubles and anxieties, in all his re- 
 grets and repentances even, the strong sense of 
 Geoffrey and Beata to fall back upon at last, 
 came to his support. When, sometimes, the 
 sense of his own moral weakness had op- 
 pressed him with the fears of utter miscar- 
 riage, the thought of Beata or of Geoffrey 
 would come to him, and he would hope that 
 he could never become altogether wicked 
 while they kept true to him. But now 
 he was adrift from them, and he trembled 
 at the thought of the future. AVhile these 
 moods were on him, he was more just to 
 them both. In the light of this thought, 
 Beata's face grew full of meaning to him ; 
 and he no longer dared to link such words 
 as " impertinent treason " with Geoffrey's 
 name. But as soon as he bethought himself, 
 he would battle against these relentings, 
 and would set his face hard once more
 
 304 ONE MAIDEX ONLY. 
 
 against those who were teiiderest of all to 
 him. And in the morning when he got up, 
 the only softness left in his heart was to- 
 wards Etta, and even this was scarcely at all 
 the softness of repentance. 
 
 While Hartley was still at breakfast, a 
 messenger who was instructed to wait for an 
 answer brought to him a note from Geoffrey. 
 Its contents were these : — 
 
 " Deak Hartley, 
 
 " 1 have spent the night think- 
 ing of you. I did not know last night how 
 unfit you were to bear more irritation and 
 worry. I know how full of pain these last 
 days have been to you, and I do not wonder 
 that your nerves gave way, and that you 
 said things which you did not mean. I want 
 to come round to you very umch. Send me. 
 a line to say that you did not or do not 
 mean those hard thinii^s which vou said of 
 me, and I will come round tliis evening. I 
 will not speak of anything that you do not 
 want to talk about. Our old love is too 
 dear to be broken bv a few hastv words.
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 305 
 
 Just say that you hold me as ever, for I am 
 " Ever your affectionate brotlier, 
 
 " Geoffrey." 
 
 Hartley read this, and made no delay in 
 the answering. His answer was : — 
 
 " I meant exactly what I said last night, 
 and I mean it still. I do not want to see 
 you. " Hartley." 
 
 When he had written and sent off this, 
 he said to himself, " That's settled, then. 
 I'll see if I cannot do without a nursery 
 governess now." 
 
 Geoffrey received this answer with exceed- 
 ing disappointment and pain. He had had 
 strong hope of quite a different one. And 
 he was pained for more than himself The 
 first ni^^ht of his return to London he had 
 written to Beata ; but, as Hartley would suf- 
 fer him to send no message to her from him, 
 he had altogether omitted the mention of his 
 name. The next evening he was witli Hart- 
 ley, and did not write. But to-day he must 
 write, and he must speak of Hartley. What 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 should he say ? The whole rapid story would 
 indeed be a sad one to tell. For the second 
 time in his life he wished that he had not to 
 write to her. When he did write, he wrote 
 vaguely, telling, in fact, nothing worth know- 
 ing. But Beata would not be put off thus. 
 She wrote back, reproachful and hurt at his 
 attempted concealment of something from 
 her. 
 
 "Do you think," she said, "that vague 
 doubt and fear will be better than any cer- 
 tainty you can give me? Never attempt 
 that again, Geoffrey. I can only be brave 
 in the daylight. If you keep me in the dark 
 I shall fail." 
 
 So then Geoffrey had to write her the 
 whole sad story from beginning to end ; and 
 in the bald, cruel daylight of that it was that 
 Beata had to be brave. Geoffrey's conceal- 
 ment she could not have borne; how to 
 bear his revelation was the problem that 
 lay before her.
 
 307 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 ETTA went to her room, and spent the 
 nisfht with no softness in her heart to 
 anyone. In the morning she came down 
 and gave her father his breakfast, with her 
 headache still upon her, she said. Mr. 
 Moncton went to the office, and saw Hart- 
 ley several times during the day. He 
 thought his manner strange, but could not 
 make out the cause of the strangeness. In 
 the course of the day Mrs. Moncton came 
 home, and found Etta with her headache. 
 She studied the headache for a while, and 
 thought it a peculiar one. So she said to 
 Etta, 
 
 *' What's the matter with you, my child?'' 
 " I told you, mamma. I have a head- 
 ache." 
 
 "Yes, I know you told me so. But
 
 308 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 there's more the matter with you than a 
 headache." 
 
 " Xo, mamma, I think not — nothing 
 worth speaking of, at all events." 
 
 " Come here, Etta. It's your mind, not 
 your head, that's suffering." 
 
 " Don't, mamma. I'd much rather not 
 talk about it. I shall be all right to-mor- 
 row. 
 
 " Did Hartley and you have any unkind 
 words last night ?" 
 
 ^'You must never speak to me about 
 Hartley any more." 
 
 "Why not, my darling? What has hap- 
 pened ?" 
 
 " Nothing has happened, but I hate him, 
 and I never want to hear his name again." 
 
 " Hate him, Etta ! You must tell me why 
 you say so. You must not keep your mother 
 out of your sorrows." 
 
 Etta tried very hard to be suffered not to 
 speak about the matter, but slowly, and bit 
 by bit her mother drew from her the whole 
 story, and her sorrow and her anger moved 
 even Etta to forget her own pain in the
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 309 
 
 eifort to soften the pain of her raotlier. 
 
 " My poor darling ! — so happy and so 
 simple, that I thought no harm could ever 
 come to her. And I have helped it all ! I 
 thought you would make eacli other so 
 happy. I loved him like a son, and he 
 seemed so affectionate and so sincere. How 
 can there be such a hard and wicked heart 
 under a face like his ? What shall I do for 
 you, my darling ?" 
 
 " Xever you mind for me, mamma. I 
 shall soon get over it. I hate him too much 
 to suffer long. He says he didn't mean to 
 make love to me ; so he isn't so very wicked, 
 you see. Let us forget all about him. 1 
 shall not be in danger of such pain any 
 more, mamma, so I daresay it's all for the 
 best. I was just a silly fool, you know ; and 
 you were a silly fool too. We did not know 
 any better, did we ? But we shall be wiser 
 now." 
 
 And then, at night, Mrs. Moncton told her 
 husband of all that had happened. He 
 — an honourable man of the world — was 
 in a towering passion. " A consummate
 
 310 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 scoundrel !" he said. The manifest cruelty 
 of Hartley's conduct was very clear to him. 
 Of those subtler shades of weakness and 
 feeling which removed this conduct from 
 the category of deliberate treachery, he 
 could have no comprehension. Hartley 
 had made love to Etta, and won her affec- 
 tions, without the least intention of marry- 
 ing her ; that was how he put the matter. 
 Could Hartley have placed before him the 
 exact history of his feelings and his conduct, 
 he would not have understood it. Still less 
 could he imagine for himself such a history. 
 Beata's estimate of Hartley he would have 
 laughed to scorn. "The fellow is a con- 
 summate scoundrel," he would have said ; 
 " that settles the matter." 
 
 In accordance with this estimate was his 
 letter to Hartley. It ran : 
 
 " Sir, — I write to tell you that you are 
 never to set your foot inside my house 
 again, and that, when we meet, we are to 
 meet as strangers. I received you into my 
 home, and all in that home treated you as
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 311 
 
 a son and a brother, and you return our 
 kindness by tampering with the affections of 
 my child, and doing your best to break her 
 heart. This, sir, is the conduct of a scoun- 
 drel, and as such I hold you. But that I 
 have helped to place you in a position that 
 ought to be filled by an honourable man, 
 and cannot now disgrace the employers 
 whom I have served for years, I would 
 horsewhip you for your pains. 
 
 " I remain, sir, your obedient servant, 
 
 " William Moncton." 
 
 This letter seemed to harden the one soft 
 place there was left in Hartley's feelings, 
 while it stung him with a still deeper humili- 
 ation than he had yet endured. From be- 
 ginning to end it stung him, but most of all 
 he writhed under the taunt about his new 
 appointment. A scoundrel he was not ; of 
 deliberate deception and malice he had not 
 been guilty ; and to this charge, bitter as it 
 was, he could fling back the answer " a lie." 
 But to the other taunt he had no reply. 
 Etta's father had made his fortune, and he^
 
 312 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 
 
 scoundrel or no scoundrel, had done his best 
 to break Etta's heart. That was the bal- 
 ance, and, try how he would, he could 
 scarcely put it better. Against this putting 
 his pride chafed and foamed, and fretted 
 him almost to madness, till at last a resolve 
 came upon him. As this resolve grew clear, 
 his breath quickened, and lie set his teeth 
 hard, and there came over him a sort of ex- 
 ultation at his re-awakenhig self-respect after 
 the heaped-up humiliation of those later 
 days. Beata and Geoffrey might half-de- 
 spise him, Etta might hate him, and her 
 father insult him ; but he would show them 
 all that he was no mean sneak, to hold on to 
 fortune at any price, even though beggary 
 stood on the other side of the account. Be- 
 fore many hours after the receipt of Mr. 
 Moncton's letter, he had written two of his 
 own, the one of which will explain the other. 
 This one was to Mr. Moncton, and it ran: — 
 
 " Sir, — I write to you to say that I have 
 sent in to the directors my resignation of the 
 appointment which your influence went so
 
 ONE MAIDEN ONLY. 313 
 
 far towards securing for rae. I remain, sir, 
 your obedient servant, 
 
 " Hartley Leighton." 
 
 When Hartley had written and sent off 
 these two letters, he became calm again, and 
 his wonted self-content recovered somewhat 
 of its old strength. He did not plume himself 
 upon having done any very fine thing. But 
 at least he had put an end to that state of 
 things in which all the profits of the past 
 were his, and all the penalties someone 
 else's. Of all the profits of the past he was 
 stripped naked ; and, so, naked, he liked 
 himself better than in the now shameful 
 Moncton hvery of £500 a-year. The next 
 morning found many of the traces of his re- 
 cent mental conflict clean gone from his 
 spirit ; and if he was a friendless beggar, he 
 w^as a beggar with a good heart, a long way 
 from a pauper yet, spite of the old man's 
 fears, as he said. It was for him now to 
 see in what new way a fortune might be 
 carved out. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 
 
 
 3_gil2_055294950 
 
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