w 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ //a^J)/>^^-^rrr(^lm^^ 
 
 rr^ « ,., . C 
 
 Oh //k Y'MhAA^ . 
 
 1(
 
 /' 
 
 L I B R.ARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 U N IVERSITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 8S3
 
 A VIRGIN WIDOW.
 
 A VIRGIN WIDOW. 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 
 BY 
 
 OLIVER GREY. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 3:1 n (t a 
 
 REMINGTON & CO., PUBLISHERS 
 
 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C. 
 
 18 8 6. 
 
 YAH R'ujhts rcserved.'\
 
 823 
 
 V. 1 
 
 TO 
 
 E. M. E. 
 
 THESE PAGES, 
 
 WHICH MAY SERVE TO RECALL SOME 
 
 EARLY AND HAPPY HOURS, 
 
 ARE 
 
 y'\ AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 
 
 <3v 
 
 
 
 ^
 
 CONTENTS, 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 PA6K 
 
 INTRODUCTORY, ....... 1 
 
 CHAPTEK II. 
 
 STIRRING EVENTS, 24 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MY LAST DAY ON THE BATTLEFIELD, ... 5^ 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 WHO IS SHE? 76 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 MY OWN REFLECTIONS, AND WHAT FOLLOWED, . . 95 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 CARTHEWIN CASTLE, 115
 
 vln Contents. 
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 PAGK 
 
 OUR HEROINE, 137 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 I GET INTO SAD DISGRACE, . . . . .160 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 I EXTRICATE MYSELF FROM THE DIFFICULTY, . .195 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 OUR heroine's STEP-SISTER, . . . . .219 
 
 C H A P T E R X I. 
 
 TWO ROSES, . . . . . . . . 244 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE, . . . 265 
 
 (To be continued.)
 
 A VIRGIN WIDOW. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 Reader, — Have you amongst your circle 
 
 of acquaintance, that which is generally 
 
 understood to represent a " True Friend," 
 
 one who has grown up with, and is, as it 
 
 were, a part of you ; a friendship that 
 
 quickened in youth, leavened with the 
 
 dearest and happiest associations of your 
 
 early life, and is still nearer and dearer to 
 
 you ; which time has cemented more closely, 
 VOL. I. A
 
 A Virorin Widow. 
 
 a disinterested love, well defined, peciUiar 
 in itself for the absence of any motive ; 
 a friendship growing apace, more and more 
 serene and lasting? I pause,— the word 
 last written gives peculiar force to the 
 meaning, and perhaps will convey to your 
 mind infinitely more than anything I can 
 herein describe. Lasting ! — yes ! " Firm 
 as a rock ! ! " — we will leave it there with 
 two notes of admiration, and, as it were, 
 with bayonets fixed, keeping guard over the 
 words. Let these our watchwords be. 
 
 Have you such a friend ? Could you 
 put your hand upon one, amongst your 
 numerous acquaintances, without the least 
 doubt or difficulty ? Can you walk leisurely 
 amidst a throng of friends (so called by 
 courtesy, and otherwise), and feel a mag- 
 netic influence steal over you, and your 
 heart beat with a true and lively feeling 
 for one out of the number? If so, bear
 
 Introductory. 
 
 with me, whilst, in the most unostentatious 
 way, I take you, from chapter to chapter, 
 through this narrative. We shall not jour- 
 ney in these pages as " intimate friends," 
 but, I trust, and have the vanity to hope 
 and believe, that we shall be better friends 
 long before I close this story ; under any 
 circumstances, I will, with your permission, 
 take such for granted, and start de novo as 
 ^' Novel Friends 1 " 
 
 " Lasting ! " — how one ignores the fact 
 that, in the very best and happiest sense 
 of the word, it is but fleeting : to-day, here 
 is friendship, side by side, in great variety, 
 confiding, full of love, hope, charity, and 
 sympathy, imparting pleasure, and sharing 
 grief : to-morrow, it is cut down by the 
 certain, restless scythe, that, in its onward 
 course, sweeps all before it into vast eter- 
 nity, and, like the green wheat-stalks that 
 daily thrive under the agriculturalist's care-
 
 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 ful manipulation, warmed by the penetrat- 
 ing rays of the summer sun, moistened with 
 the dew-breath of heaven, ripen, bear their 
 increase, and yield in turn to the season 
 that asks them to surrender, — so with every- 
 thing this side of the grave ! 
 
 " True friend ! " Of whom do I speak, 
 and well may it be asked, wdio represents 
 the personal pronoun ? At this juncture I 
 must pause for a moment, to solicit the 
 indulgence of my critics, in a matter which 
 requires a little explanation. 
 
 When first commencing this narrative, it 
 w^as my intention to write it as an imaginary 
 autobiography ; but, finding the construction 
 in that form difficult to maintain in its en- 
 tirety (insomuch as many characters had to 
 be introduced), I departed from the fixed 
 rule, using the personal pronoun, and occa- 
 sionally writing in the third person, when 
 chronicling surrounding events. I therefore
 
 Introdztctory, 
 
 trust that my critics (who are ever ready 
 to deal gently with those who have the 
 moral courage to admit a defect) will accord 
 me their forbearance. 
 
 " True friend ! " — and apropos of the pro- 
 noun "I" — the first question is very easily 
 answered ; but to follow it up, in the de- 
 lineation of the virtues of the fair-haired 
 stripling of whom I have the pleasure and 
 privilege of speaking, is a task which I feel 
 almost incapable of performing. But, in my 
 anxiety to portray a correct refiex of my 
 lamented friend's excellent qualities, I &11 
 short, and stumble over the only tribute I 
 €an off'er to his memory. 
 
 The second question can be answered by 
 this deponent ofi'hand, without hesitation, 
 or, using a well-hackneyed, homely phrase, 
 "" beatino; about the bush," for I am what 
 I am ; and I have a horror of appearing, in 
 the eyes of people, what I am not. There-
 
 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 fore, as my journey with you, courteous 
 reader, will, I trust, be a fairly long one, 
 shut up together, so to speak, in the coach 
 for a considerable time, whilst the wheels 
 fly round, and the boxes occasionally get 
 hot for the want of more oil, or the curb 
 from the leader's bit should be lost on the 
 way, I must claim your indulgence over the 
 rough macadamised road that w^e shall have 
 to traverse. 
 
 First, I am the son of a lord, — yes, a 
 live lord ! — but I hasten to qualify that ob- 
 servation by saying, the only claim my 
 father had to such a distinguished title, rests 
 on the silly appellation given to him by 
 still more silly Manchester men, who dubbed 
 him a '' Cotton Lord," in consequence of 
 his enormous dealings in that description of 
 merchandise ; so I reduce myself at once to 
 the " Commoners," take my name out of the 
 book of ''Whos Whof" and jot myself down
 
 Introductory. 
 
 plain Oliver Grey, or, in other words, as 
 some of ni}' facetious subalterns at mess were 
 pleased occasionally to designate me, " the 
 noble and gallant captain ! " 
 
 I said my father was called a " Cotton 
 Lord ; " be it observed that the sobric[uet 
 was most offensive to him. I well remem- 
 ber, on one occasion, when extravagance 
 brought the contents of my purse to ex- 
 treme low-water mark, and necessitated my 
 appealing to his generosity, in the hope of 
 having it replenished, I stupidly but jocosely 
 referred, in some playful way, to the ob- 
 noxious title, just as he was " finishiug " an 
 extraordinary flourish of his, which was in- 
 variably the conclusion of his signature to 
 all cheques, when he calmly looked into my 
 face, surveyed me from head to foot, shrug- 
 ged his shoulders, arched his eyebrows, and 
 deliberately tore the bilious-looking strip of 
 stamped paper into small pieces, throwing
 
 8 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 them into the waste basket. Althouofh he 
 did not actually use the words, '' Call again 
 to-morrow," his dark, flashing eyes told me 
 how off*ensive my allusion to the '' Cotton 
 Lord " was, — which allusion cost me, at 
 least, two hundred bright sovereigns, and 
 taught me a practical lesson, which I have 
 never forgotten. Thinking that his high 
 dudgeon was ephemeral, I did call again on 
 the morrow, but found my father as " firm 
 as a rock," and therefore had to wait, with 
 an empty purse, for the coming round of my 
 next quarterly allowance — about the most 
 humiliating and unpleasant financial process 
 I ever remember to have scrambled throug:h 
 in my early days. 
 
 Whilst I am writing; a historv of some 
 portion of my life, and introducing other 
 persons with whom I liave been intimately 
 associated, also making, en passant, a cur- 
 sory reference to numerous odd people I
 
 Introductory. 
 
 have encountered, I may perhaps be excused, 
 on the score of running too near the danger 
 signal of egotism, from entering into, or 
 venturing ujDon, very minute details as re- 
 gards myself, leaving one's actions, which 
 not unfrequently speak unutterable things, 
 to be the best test of true friendshijD. 
 
 Should I be permitted in these pages to 
 feebly discharge obligations I owe, and pro- 
 duce some faithful portraits of loving friends, 
 exhibiting their reflex as nearly as an un- 
 practised brush can portray on the canvas, 
 the finishino' touch — soft tints and fine lines, 
 — I will leave to be filled in by an abler 
 and better painter than myself, or, in other 
 words, to the imagination of the reader, who 
 will doubtless gather up the flowers as they 
 <ire strewn, so to speak, broadcast over these 
 pages, and, may be, enjoy their fragrance 
 in some idle moments. There will, how- 
 ever, as a common result of all the work-
 
 lo A Vwgin Widow. 
 
 ings and ramifications in the history of this 
 troubled life, be found here and there, from 
 bud to bloom, cultivated flowers, wild flow^ers, 
 briars, and a conglomeration of entangle- 
 ments. Various pleasures and griefs, too, 
 are bound up in this volume ; a medley of 
 facts and fiction are also recorded herein, 
 but the whole being thoroughly leavened 
 with fiction, it is as well that my indulgent 
 readers may not be able with certainty to 
 discriminate between counterfeit and real. 
 
 I will pass over my early life — those joy- 
 ous, bright, and never-to-be-forgotten days 
 of youth, the wild- oats season, college experi- 
 ence, graduating, and all that sort of thing 
 — and plunge at once into the battle of life, 
 that bleak wilderness of ours, wdth all its 
 surroundings and blandishments. 
 
 When I attained my twenty-second birth- 
 day, I w^as a subaltern in the — th Eegi- 
 ment, in which I subsequently saw^ some
 
 Introductory. 1 1 
 
 active service in the Crimean War, was 
 present and took part in the storming of 
 
 , also at the carrying of , where 
 
 I was twice wounded, and had two horses 
 shot under me, for which service I received 
 a medal, clasp, and my captaincy, a gaping 
 sabre wound in the fleshy j^art of my sword 
 arm, ditto, the result of a gun-shot, which 
 ploughed up an inch or two of the dexter 
 side of my breast, and lastly, from a 
 stamp of my charger's shoe, as a remem- 
 brance of the red roan, or his mark, pre- 
 paratory to his receiving the coup de grace 
 from a round-shot which hailed from the 
 Eussian battery. So much for the early part 
 of the campaign, — my dangers, achievements, 
 and laurels various ! 
 
 A spell of three weeks' comparatively easy 
 work, a general brushing up and restoration of 
 my glorious men, who had hitherto earned 
 fur themselves considerable distinction, briuo;
 
 12 A Vi7'gin Widow. 
 
 me to the memorable night of the — th 
 
 before . 
 
 Those who are left, alas ! how few of my 
 brave fellows, that band of highly-tempered 
 steel and perfection of training under canvas, 
 and, be it recorded, nnder fire, will remem- 
 ber with pride and sadness, the men who led 
 them into the very jaws of the cannon that 
 belched forth its torrents of destruction, mak- 
 ing many wives widows, children fatherless, 
 and parents childless. Good God ! how they 
 withered ! cut into shreds, so to sj)eak, like 
 the grass before the scythe ; again and again 
 to the attack, noble fellows ! " Onward " was 
 our watchword ; but the last grand charge ! 
 — that cheer ! — those empty saddles ! — that 
 reckless stampede of the enemy, like chaff 
 before the wind ! That sudden wrench, and 
 the leap into the trenches, where Nelson, 
 my charger, with his side riddled like a 
 cullendar with bullets, took his final, fatal
 
 Introdttctory 
 
 jump, negotiating an earthwork, quite his 
 height, and landing on the top of his grave 1 
 
 ''Where he died like a warrior brave." 
 
 When I first obtained my commission in 
 the — th, the Gazette of that week contained 
 the announcement of Percival Snowden's ap- 
 pointment to the same regiment, and, in due 
 course, we met officially (though not by any 
 means for the first time) in the mess-room 
 
 of Barracks, full of youth, vigour, life, 
 
 spirits, and hope. He w^as an Eton boy ; 
 I w^as an Oxford one. We had been com- 
 petitors on the river, and also in gym- 
 nasium ; and verily he was an ugly " cus- 
 tomer " at anything when biceps and 
 endurance played a prominent part. He 
 could fairly well hold his own, too, against 
 all comers either at single-stick, boxing, 
 rackets, cricket, and other pastime ; his mas- 
 sive head, muscular developaient, width of
 
 14 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 chest, healthy complexion, lofty forehead, 
 expressive eyes, and the cut of a deter- 
 mined lij), were sure indications of the life 
 he was peculiarly fitted and trained for, and 
 which he so nobly followed, until cruel fate 
 separated us. 
 
 Let me take you back, friendly reader, to 
 the camping-ground, and into our tent on the 
 
 slopes of , within sight of the Eussian 
 
 battery and strong earthwork entrenchments, 
 on the night preceding the memorable — th, 
 and there introduce you to my subaltern, the 
 boy I loved ! I dubbed him " boy," as he 
 playfully styled me, — it was our habit to 
 address each other as " my dear old boy," 
 ignoring altogether the absurd epithet ! 
 
 Chance, and a spice of good luck, once 
 enabled me to render some valuable service 
 in the midst of a scrambling fray with the 
 
 enemy. When the saddle of General 's 
 
 aide-de-camp was emptied, I took the poor
 
 Introductory. 1 5 
 
 fellow's place, and contrived, after cutting my 
 way through the Eussian lines, to convey the 
 general's orders to a battery of Eoyal Horse 
 Artillery, in (it was said) an incredibly short 
 time, for which piece of luck I was promoted. 
 I name this little coincidence, as fortune only 
 placed me a " peg " higher in rank than my 
 friend, whom I always considered an abler 
 and better soldier than myself 
 
 It was a glorious night, that — th, as we 
 sat round the camp fire, wrapped in our great- 
 coats. "We were most of us full of hope and 
 spirits, telling long tales of j^ast stirring 
 events, home scenes, and the merry maids of 
 England. But there were ugly gaps in our 
 ranks ; the dark mantle of war had left its 
 sure and certain mark ; the stentorian voice 
 of our lamented and gallant cajDtain, that once 
 filled the whole camp with merry sounds, was 
 not to be heard, — it was silenced for ever in 
 this world, — he is " slumberiuor on earth's cold
 
 1 6 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 pillow," with " his martial cloak thrown o'er 
 him," and the pale-faced moon shining over 
 his grave. 
 
 " I saw that soldier fall, and the tear that 
 dimmed his eye." 
 
 The flames from our camp fire shot np 
 high into the air, and crackled fiercely, casting 
 their lurid light on the surrounding scene, 
 verily a motley group, smoking their meer- 
 schaums, and staring vacantly into the burn- 
 ing embers, imagination conjuring up end- 
 less battle scenes, castles, forests, homes, 
 sweethearts, and wives ! 
 
 '' Captain," said Percy, " sing us once more 
 that song you composed." 
 
 " I am not much in a siuging humour, my 
 dear fellow," I replied, pulling away at my 
 well-coloured pipe, with great emphasis. 
 
 " Come old boy, T know you will, if only 
 to oblige me, particularly, after my setting 
 the words to music for you," said Percy.
 
 Introditcfory. 1 7 
 
 " I will to-morrow." 
 
 " To-morrow ! why it may never come, 
 Oliver, to either of us, at least in this w^orld ; 
 you may be knocked completely out of tune, 
 and I may be out of time, and perhaps out 
 of—" 
 
 He paused. It w^as a long, dismal, un- 
 satisfactory pause, and suggestive of many 
 interpretations. I took his hand beneath 
 m}^ military cloak, pressed it, and gently 
 whispered, — 
 
 '•' Never, Percy, never ! brave, noble fellow \ 
 As long: as I have a mind to call mine owai, 
 your memory will be revered, if that is wdiat 
 you were alluding to." 
 
 Percy threw^ up his large, blue eyes full into 
 my face. I perceived by the light of the 
 flame as it shot up from our camp fire, that 
 they were suffused with tears ; and I also 
 observed, for the first time during the cam- 
 paign, a certain amount of depression in his 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 1 8 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 spirits ; his attention appeared much divided ; 
 and during our colloquy on several matters 
 relating to the war, his answers to my queries 
 were remarkable for the absence of that 
 enthusiasm which invariably shone out so 
 brightly in his usual temperament, lighting 
 up and cheering the whole camp, at times 
 when success was not quite our portion. 
 
 " What is the matter with you to-night, old 
 boy ? " I said, slapping him on the shoulder. 
 
 " Nothing — why ? " dismally. 
 
 " Well, it occurred to me for the moment, 
 that you had lately received a large legacy, 
 and did not know what to do with it," 
 jocosely. 
 
 " I wish I had," said Percy, stretching his 
 hands above his head, and clenching his fists, 
 ■ — a peculiar habit he had whenever anything 
 closely touched his heart. 
 
 '' Why ? " I replied, my curiosity being 
 excited.
 
 Introductory. 19 
 
 "Because I should, without the least 
 hesitation, find a good use for it," said 
 Percy. 
 
 ** Exactly ; 20 to 4 on Valentine for the 
 Derby," I suggested playfully. 
 
 " No ! " said Percy, vehemently. " No, 
 Oliver, nothiug of the sort. It is my wish, 
 before I leave this world, to do one good act 
 in my life that will benefit — " 
 
 " Others, of course," I interrupted, knowing 
 too well that his whole life hitherto had been 
 -devoted to everyone but himself. 
 
 "Yes," continued Percy, leisurely refilling 
 his pipe, " if only but one small drojD in the 
 stream, it will help to turn the mill." 
 
 " What is your fancy this time, Percy ? " 
 
 " A donation to the widows of those brave 
 fellows, who were so unmercifully sliced up 
 in that horrible trench I so recklessly led 
 them." 
 
 "You have, however," I replied, "the satis-
 
 20 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 faction of knowing that, notwithstanding posi- 
 tive orders, your fluke turned out to be of 
 inestimable value, and your promotion will be 
 as certain as — " 
 
 " Come, come ; your song, Oliver, your 
 song," interrupted Percy. " I should like to 
 hear it once more before I — " 
 
 " The Captain's song,'' from twenty voices. 
 
 As I composed most of my songs, which 
 were set to music by Percy, and our intelligent 
 bandmaster, they always created unusual in- 
 terest in our camp, and I soon had many 
 scores of brave fellows to listen. It was said, 
 too, that I had a fine voice, which, however, 
 did not quite accord with my beloved mother's 
 notion of her youngest son's vocal powers. 
 She always considered my rendering of songs 
 more like a "bee in a pitcher" than any- 
 thing else. I have a shrewd suspicion she 
 was right. Be it so ; nevertheless, let the 
 bee hum.
 
 IntrodtLctory. 2 1 
 
 BIRDS OF PEEY. 
 
 Uproiise, ye sons cf old England ! 
 
 Keep a watchful and sharp look-out ; 
 Eagles are soaring above us, 
 
 And vultures are flying about. 
 
 Awake, then, ye sons of Old England ! 
 
 Britannia's dear brothers of steel, 
 Let your swords fly out of their scabbards. 
 
 Let us give them a jolly good meal. 
 
 Up rouse, then, ye boys of Old England ! 
 
 Let the lion's loud roaring be heard. 
 The wag of whose tail I'm sure cannot fail 
 
 To scare such a treacherous bird. 
 
 Uprouse, ye good fathers of England ! 
 
 Who have wives and dear daughters at home. 
 Just clip both the wings of these vampires, 
 
 And skin them all clean to the bone. 
 
 Ul^rouse, "one and all" of fair England ! 
 
 Let the voice of your rifles be heard ; 
 Leave not a feather of plumage 
 
 On the wings of the ghastly old bird. 
 
 " Bravo ! bravo ! encore, encore," from a 
 hundred voices.
 
 2 2 A Virgin Widozv. 
 
 Pipes are refilled, and, it is needless tO' 
 add, I repeated my song. 
 
 " Now Percy, my lad," I said, ''strike up, 
 none of your dismals if you please ; let us 
 have one of yours ; come, ' Sound the Trumpet 
 boldly.' " 
 
 " I need no pressing, Oliver, particularly 
 as I have a presentiment it will be the last 
 I shall ever sino^." 
 
 Those words, uttered in a measured, de- 
 cided voice, fell upon a score of ears like 
 a funeral knell, and vibrated with intense 
 and painful sensation through our hearts, 
 for we all loved the brave fellow, yea 
 verily ! from the drummer to the colonel. 
 
 " Come, come, Percy, you are dry, lad^ 
 you are dry," I exclaimed, handing him my 
 brandy-flask; ''pull at this; a long pull 
 and a strong pull, drink to our sweethearts- 
 and — " 
 
 " Wives," eagerly interrupted Percy ,
 
 Introditdory. 
 
 seizing the flask, and half finishing its 
 contents. 
 
 Shall I ever forget the look he gave me, 
 or the last song; the clear fellow sang; ? — 
 Never ! 
 
 As the concluding words fell from my 
 brave comrade's lips, the bugle sounded. 
 We knocked out the contents of our pipes, 
 and turned into our tents, with anxious 
 thoug-hts for the morrow.
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 STIRRING EVENTS. 
 
 " Those sounds that bid the life-blood start, 
 Swift to the mantling cheek and beating heart, 
 The clang of echoing steel, the charger's neigh, 
 The measured tread of hosts in war's array. 
 And oh ! that music, whose exulting breath, 
 Speaks but of glory on the road to death." 
 
 Mrs Hemans. 
 
 Somehow, I could not sleep for more than 
 an hour together, and whenever I awoke, 
 I quietly took a peep at Percy, — the small 
 glimmering pendant lamp sw^inging from the 
 top of our tent threw its dismal light on 
 the features of my friend. His bright eyes 
 seemed to me brighter than usual. He 
 smiled, apostrophised a few^ words, drew a
 
 Stirling Events. 25 
 
 locket from under liis waistcoat, which he 
 opened and kissed repeatedly. I knew all 
 about it: it was "the same old story told 
 again," though, this time, at two o'clock in 
 the mornino;. I knew whose reflex he 
 treasured up next his heart in that circle 
 of gold. Many a pipe had been smoked 
 over that portrait ; doubts and difficulties 
 solved, hopes enlivened, and fears scattered, 
 by the soothing influence of the narcotic 
 contents of our black meerschaums, which 
 always had a potent charm for allaying 
 grief. 
 
 I say I knew all about it ; at least, I 
 thought I did. Percy invariably came to 
 me for advice, and made me his confidant. 
 In like manner I looked towards him, whose 
 heart I knew to be the casket of those little 
 secrets I had to impart, which, I must 
 confess, were but few, and at the most, 
 extended to my father, mother, and financial
 
 26 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 matters. As for loving any girl, other than 
 my sister, such never entered my head ; 
 besides, I was not altogether the most pre- 
 sentable fellow in the county. My father 
 declared that, in the jDresence of the fair 
 sex, I was surly, ill-conditioned, clumsy, and, 
 I believe, he went once so far as to say, 
 thick-headed boy in creation. He used also 
 to observe — and I never doubted for a mo- 
 ment his veracity, — " Give Oliver his fishing- 
 rod, two ounces of bird's-eye and cavendish 
 mixed, a bottle of milk, and his mother's 
 blessing, and all his wants are supplied ; " — 
 barring the milk, which was jocosely in- 
 cluded in the quartett of sundry enjoyments, 
 every word was gospel. 
 
 That I was my own dear mother's "broth 
 of a boy " I admit, and that she — Heaven 
 bless her ! — was my " all in all," are the 
 brightest, happiest, and most comforting 
 recollections of my past life. Her good
 
 Stirring Events. 
 
 advice was my daily support ; her pattern 
 and the valuable precedents she established 
 in my young mind, have been mighty 
 bulwarks — bulwarks that have proved im- 
 pervious to the raking shot and shell that 
 are sometimes recklessly hurled by designing 
 men at our frail natures ; a mainstay in 
 the hour of peril, a guiding - star in the 
 camp, my shield and buckler under a 
 galling fire, and — I digress. 
 
 How apt one is on loving themes to dwell; 
 The mind will wander where we cannot tell ! 
 Take wings and fly from here to there, 
 And bask in other atmosphere. 
 
 I again feigned sleep ; now^ and then watch- 
 ing poor Percy, as he restlessly tossed himself 
 from side to side on his camp bed ; at times 
 I thought I could discern, by the flickering- 
 lamp that was almost extinguished, a bright 
 crimson flush on either side of his face. I 
 was uneasy, feeling that these were symptoms
 
 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 of an approaching fever, which accounted for 
 his extraordinary manner and absence of 
 mind durino- the last few hours. I revolved 
 it all silently in my mind, as I lay rolled in 
 the blankets, inwardly hoping that he might 
 fall into a sound sleep, which I knew would 
 do more towards restoring him than anything 
 else. His mind was, manifestly, much dis- 
 turbed, indeed, it had not been tranquil for 
 some time, and my experience in such matters, 
 led me to believe he was about to succumb 
 to a malignant fever, that was just then 
 raging with great intensity in different parts 
 of the camp. An interval of half-an-hour 
 elapsed, during which time, not a sound fell 
 upon my ear, other than the snoring of our 
 comrades ; the steady step of the sentinel, 
 as he tramped up and down the well-trodden 
 path ; the watch ward given to the relief; 
 and the neighing of the picketed horses. 
 At last, finding that sleep had entirely for
 
 Stirring Events. 29 
 
 saken me, and that the pendant light was 
 making desperate efforts to resuscitate itself 
 by periodical spasmodic jerks, I resolved, be- 
 fore we subsided into darkness, to have an- 
 other look at Percy, and see, as far as I could 
 judge, how matters really stood. Slowly and 
 gently raising myself in bed, I bent over my 
 friend, hoping to find him soundly sleeping ; 
 but his large eyes were gazing meditatively into 
 mine, and, as it were, contemplating what was 
 passing within me. For a moment we looked 
 in silence at each other. I was endeavouring 
 to read his thoughts, to anticipate his wants 
 and wishes, thinking to lay down some well- 
 devised plan for checking the consuming 
 fever, that I felt was insidiously beginning 
 its devouring work through all the ramifica- 
 tions of his veins, when he put forth his 
 hand, took mine in his, and said, — 
 ''I have seen her, old boy." 
 " Whom have you seen, Percy ? "
 
 A Vii^s'iii Widow. 
 
 " My—" he paused. 
 
 " My what ? " I contimied. 
 
 "My— my— Nora," softly. 
 
 " Of course you have, old fellow, many, 
 many times," I replied. *' Turn on your side, 
 lad, and endeavour to sleep, for you may 
 require some strength to-morrow, ere the sun 
 rise over the brow of the east hill." 
 
 "You mistake me, Oliver." 
 
 " I don't, upon my soul. Go to sleep," 
 I said. 
 
 " I tell you Oliver, I saw her, yes, as 
 plainly as I see you at this moment. It is 
 no delusion of the brain ; I have not closed 
 my eyes to-night, therefore it is no dream, 
 wild imagination, or flight of the senses. I 
 saw her — yes I saw her, — oh, that look ! that 
 placid angelic look. She came dressed as a 
 bride adorned for her husband, to show me 
 the plain circle of gold around her finger. It 
 was a little worn ; — a keeper, too^ — 1 placed
 
 Stirrino^ Events. 
 
 them there. I gave her the watchword, yes, 
 the same as we agreed upon, long, long ago, 
 when we sat in the shrubbery, and the lark, 
 as it were, heard the vows that were solemnly 
 plighted, thrilling his delicious notes, shoot- 
 ing higher and higher into the dusky vault 
 above, and warblinor the glad tidino;s of our 
 love to the angels in heaven. Oh ! that 
 watchword ! — it was — " 
 
 He stopped, it was a full stop, marked 
 with peculiar emphasis. 
 
 "What was it, Percy?" I said, having 
 now no doubt in my mind that approaching 
 symptoms of a bad fever were surely doing 
 their mischievous and deadly work. 
 
 " Some other day, Oliver. I — I — I mean 
 some other hour," significantly. 
 
 " I wish you fellows would ' shut up ' your 
 intolerable noise. Who on earth can sleep 
 whilst you two are ' jawing ' away at this 
 hour?" said Lieutenant , who was sharino-
 
 2,2 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 our tent, and whose j)resence during the whole 
 of the night, was particularly conspicuous, 
 in consequence of his sonorous renderings in 
 sundry snoring duets with Captain . 
 
 I was too much occupied with more 
 serious thoughts to make any reply at the 
 moment, but quietly slipping out of bed, 
 throwing a military cloak over my shoulders, 
 and jumping into my long regulation boots, 
 I glided out of the tent, determined to look 
 up the doctor, who was sleeping in his own 
 quarters, some distance off near the staff. 
 
 The moon, w^hich had been skulking 
 most of the night behind some ominous- 
 looking dark clouds, was now slowly dis- 
 appearing, and the grey streaks of the 
 earliest dawn were forcins; their way, almost 
 imperceptibly, through the long mass of 
 stragaling:, travelling;, dismal - looking scuds, 
 that were floating away in the dusky 
 firmament with the northerly breeze.
 
 Stirring Events. 
 
 With a light step, but heavy heart, I 
 rapidly wended my way through the group 
 of white tents that were spotted about in 
 all directions. 
 
 I had not travelled far, and was certainly 
 
 not absent long, when my attention was 
 
 suddenly arrested by the firing of shots by 
 
 the outposts ; it w^as repeated again and 
 
 ao'ain. In a few moments the bug;le 
 
 sounded — " To horse." Good heavens ! I 
 
 held my breath to listen. Yes, 'tis true, 
 
 there is no mistaking those sounds ; even 
 
 the very animals snort and paw the ground 
 
 in eager anticipation of wdiat is to follow. 
 
 'Tis too true, the Eussians in considerable 
 
 force are sweeping down on us, not two 
 
 miles distant ; no time was to be lost. I 
 
 made a dash for our tent, and on my 
 
 arrival I found my orderly with first 
 
 charger buckling up the second girth. 
 
 Such was our system and discipline, that 
 VOL. I. c
 
 34 ^ Virgin Widow. 
 
 we were rarely if ever caught " nap- 
 ping." 
 
 I rushed into the tent, and shouted, — 
 *' Percy, Percy ; Lieutenant Snowdon, w^here 
 is Lieutenant Snowdon ? " 
 
 " In his saddle, sir, bringing up his men 
 and waiting orders," w^as the prompt reply 
 of the sergeant-major, who had just galloped 
 in. 
 
 Two more w^ ell-known sounds of the bugle, 
 and saddles are filled ; cavalry sweep round, 
 infantry come on at the double, column 
 after column, with great impetuosity. The 
 bugle again sounds in another direction, 
 more men leap into their saddles ; endless 
 jerks of horses as they spring into collars ; 
 rattling of chains, limbering of guns, ammu- 
 nition and ambulance waggons ; every man 
 is at his post like clock-work, dashing away, 
 and we are face to face with the enemy, 
 who had stealthily crej)t on under cover
 
 Stirring Events. 
 
 of night, in the hope of finding our divi- 
 sion unprepared for an attack, instead of 
 which we were "all there," and not only 
 so, but, in camp phraseology, " fresh as 
 paint," and " fit." 
 
 I found that Lieutenant Snowdon had 
 his men well in hand. He sat his charo;er, 
 notwithstanding his illness, as " firm as a 
 rock ; " but I could see when he saluted me 
 on mv sriving; orders, that his cheeks looked 
 as crimson as the red sun that was slowly 
 rising, so to speak, out of the bowels of 
 the earth, taking a last look at the glitter- 
 ing belt of steel and mass of human beings 
 that hurried up with great speed. We were 
 under orders to charge ''Slaughter Hill" 
 {as we afterwards dubbed it), an important 
 position, which was already bristling with 
 thousands of Russian bayonets ; the bright 
 steel of the swords and helmets flashed, and 
 told their own peculiar tale of impending
 
 J 
 
 6 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 horror. Our riflemen, or sharp-shooters, were 
 spread out in all directions ; they had com- 
 menced their "picking off" work of destruc- 
 tion, and had already emptied many a saddle 
 of its brave occupant. 
 
 Just before the — th field battery received 
 orders to commence operations, and cover us 
 in the work we had to do, I heard Lieu- 
 tenant Snow don distinctly say to the men, 
 in a low but audible voice, as he gaily 
 trotted up, threading in and out of the 
 ranks, a few significant monosyllables. The 
 words were, — 
 
 " Men, be firm as a rock.'' Percy knew 
 too well (no one better) that we were under 
 orders to do a "bis; thing;!" 
 
 ** Lieutenant Snowdon," I said, galloping up 
 to him, "you are — " I hesitated. I was on 
 the point of commanding him to fall out and 
 proceed to hospital, for manifestly the fever 
 was on him. " Lieutenant Snowdon," I con-
 
 Stirring Events. 
 
 tinned, gaining fresh conrage, and taking ad- 
 vantage of a momentary lull, " you are ill ; 
 you had better — " 
 
 " Never better in my life, sir ; never so 
 fit," was the prompt reply, accompanied by 
 the usual salute. 
 
 I ^Yish to heaven I had been firm in my 
 first resolution ; but a cheer from the front 
 rank (though contrary to strict discipline) 
 and a murmur of approval from some ofiicers 
 close by, at the conclusion of Lieutenant 
 Snowdon's words, prevented my saying more. 
 The flash of his eyes, lit up the hateful 
 hectic flush on his cheeks, told me plainly 
 what was passing within, — the war notes had 
 vibrated, and he would not be denied. 
 
 At this moment General 's aide-de- 
 camp cantered up and gave pressing orders. 
 
 " Never ! " I said. " Impossible ! " 
 
 " Those are my instructions, sir." 
 
 *' Are you positive ? " I replied.
 
 2,8 A Virgin Widoiu. 
 
 *' Positive, sir." 
 
 ''AVill admit of no doubt?" 
 
 " None whatever, sir." 
 
 " Eepeat them, please, in the presence of 
 Lieutenant Snowdon." 
 
 As the step to be taken was unusually 
 dangerous, and sheer madness (as I thought) 
 to attempt, I was sceptical. The order being 
 repeated and ratified by another aide-de- 
 camp, I passed it to my subaltern and brave 
 fellows ; then, ramming spurs into my charger, 
 and holding them well in the sore, we 
 dashed headlong into the most desperate 
 struggle I encountered during the whole of 
 the campaign. 
 
 I could give in detail a long and thrill- 
 ing account of that ever - memorable and 
 glorious charge ; but I pause, lest in doing 
 so I should be building up, as it were, 
 something which may come under the ap- 
 pelkition of egotism. Therefore, all I say
 
 Sth'ring Events. 
 
 is, that never in the history of any charge 
 upon record is there one to be accounted 
 more brilliant than that of my brave men 
 on the memorable — th. Alas ! how few 
 there are left to tell the tale, and journey 
 with me ag-ain over the events of that 
 thrilling day. How I rejoice whenever I 
 meet one of those o^^Uant fellows of hig-hly- 
 tempered steel, those hearts of oak, who 
 bore, so to speak, a charmed life amidst 
 the hail of red-hot iron and torrents of 
 lead, as they cut in their mighty flight 
 long straight lanes in our ranks. But our 
 watchword was "Forward!" And in our 
 journey we staggered, — rallied, — wrenched ! 
 and finally cheered one continuous cheer, 
 which echoed from hill to hill, and vied 
 with the thundering artillery that roared 
 in the distance, as it were, approvingly, 
 as our standard (shot into shreds) floated 
 triumphantly in the northerly breeze on the
 
 40 A Vii^gin Wido 
 
 w. 
 
 top of the earthwork, and the ray of the 
 morning sun pierced the dense volume of 
 dusky smoke, which curled and curled into 
 circles and semicircles, passing into infini- 
 tismal particles, exposing a plain of death 
 and destruction ! 
 
 I received two or three wounds, but, hap- 
 pily, felt nothing seriously shattered, neither 
 had my limbs thoroughly given away. 
 Several of my men rushed forward, and 
 carried me off on their shoulders. I recol- 
 lect " Big Paddy " (as he was jocosely 
 called) saying, — '' Bedad, captain, we will 
 make sure of ye this time, anyhow, or, by 
 the powers, a bit of a missinger will be com- 
 ing this way, requiring your service in the 
 other kingdom that is to come." 
 
 On my road to hospital 1 met Sergeant 
 Gregory, spread on a litter. He had distin- 
 guished himself immensely. I said, cheer- 
 fully,-
 
 Stirring Events. 41 
 
 " Hulloa, sergeant ! where are you going, 
 lad ? " 
 
 '^ Homeward bound, sir," was the prompt 
 reply. 
 
 *' Are you much hurt ? " I continued. 
 
 '' I have dropped an arm somewhere, sir, 
 on the road ; but it don't much matter, cap- 
 tain, I sha'n't want it again," he replied, with 
 great sang froid. 
 
 " Brave fellow," I said, at the same time 
 eagerly asking him if he had seen Lieutenant 
 Snowdon. 
 
 " Down, sir, down. Dead as a door 
 nail" 
 
 " How — when — where ? " I asked. 
 
 Poor Sergeant Gregory had said all he had 
 to say in this world, fired his last shot ; his 
 last cartridge was spent. He fainted — it was 
 a long swoon, through a long valley, from 
 which he never returned. 
 
 "Big Padd}^ " and others carried me to
 
 42 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 camp. The doctor soon removed my uni- 
 form, sewed up a small aperture or two ; 
 all of which, except loss of blood, were, I 
 thought at the time, apparently trifling 
 matters, and he ordered me to hospital ; 
 but as I felt I had not finished my work 
 for the day, I would not hear of it, so wrig- 
 gling again into my deeply -stained garments, 
 taking a long and strong pull at the brandy 
 flask, also the arm of our kind-hearted and 
 estimable doctor, I proceeded in search of 
 poor Percy. 
 
 It was a dismal journey, limping along 
 amongst heaps of dead and dying, seeking 
 for one of the best fellows in creation ; but I 
 felt, notwithstanding poor Gregory's informa- 
 mation as to the '' door nail," that there was 
 just a chance of finding him living ; and 
 such jDroved to be the case, for in a few 
 moments I espied his grey charger, doubled 
 up, and occasionally making desperate plunges
 
 Stinging Events. 43 
 
 to get upon his legs, but, with his hind 
 limb completely shattered, the poor brute 
 found it a physical impossibility to accom- 
 plish. About fifty yards from the animal, I 
 discovered Percy, seated on the ground, 
 leaning; his head on the breast of a o'unner, 
 who was bathing his temples, and doing his 
 best to keep life in him. 
 
 The moment I set eyes on my friend, I 
 knew that he had received "notice to quit,'^ 
 for I had too much experience in such mat- 
 ters. The death-like cast of countenance, the 
 film over the eyes, peculiar hue on the lips, 
 cold perspiration, and other signs, w^ere all un- 
 mistakable evidences of a speedy dissolution. 
 
 The doctor placed his finger on his pulse, 
 and whispered something dismally in my ear, 
 — my worst fears wxre confirmed. 
 
 "Why, Percy, my dear old boy," I said, 
 trying, with a jerk, to be cheerful, "what, 
 taking your rest, lad, after a hard gallop ? "
 
 44 ^ Virgin Widow. 
 
 The sound of my voice rallied him won- 
 derfully. 
 
 " What has given way ? " I asked, smooth- 
 ing my hand across his handsome, marble- 
 like forehead, and wiping the perspiration 
 from his face wdth my handkerchief. 
 
 He looked up, smiled, and said, — 
 
 **Only scratched." 
 
 " Where ? " I eagerly asked, endeavouring 
 to ascertain for myself the extent of his in- 
 jury, ignoring altogether, in my anxiety, the 
 presence of the surgeon. 
 
 "Only tapped one of my lungs, that's 
 all," he replied. 
 
 By this time the surgeon knew all about 
 it, and had prepared a capital arrangement, 
 on which my poor dying subaltern w^as 
 placed, and carried aw^ay by four stalwart 
 fellows to my tent, where the doctor un- 
 dressed him, and found a small wound in 
 the right breast. On further examination,
 
 Stirrmg Events. 45 
 
 a corresponding wound was seen near the 
 blade bone, evidently caused by a bullet 
 passing, in its onward course, completely 
 through the lung ; but, strange to say, there 
 was scarcely any external hsemorrhage. 
 
 After propping him well up, and the 
 surgeon having given him a powerful re- 
 storative, I took the latter on one side, 
 and asked him what he thought of the 
 case. 
 
 " He may live an hour or so," was the 
 reply. 
 
 ** Xot longer ? " I ventured. 
 
 " Can't say ; the whole thing is very pro- 
 blematical ; he is bleeding internally, and 
 nothing can be done for him," replied the 
 surgeon, hurrying off to attend scores of 
 other cases that demanded immediate atten- 
 tion. 
 
 I took my camp chair and placed it by 
 the side of poor Percy's bed.
 
 46 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 ''Are you thirsty, my dear old boy!" I 
 asked. 
 
 ''Very," was the meek and feeble re- 
 joinder ; " but I know something that will 
 help to quench it." 
 
 I was about to prepare a refreshing draught, 
 when he took from under his pillow a small 
 pocket Bible, and handed it to me. I knew 
 what he wanted. I ojDened the book where 
 a marker was placed, the latter being a strip 
 of perforated cardboard, used by ladies in 
 their fancy needlework, on which were a 
 cross and the words, '' Firm as a Rock ; " also 
 in the margin of the sacred book there was 
 sketched a small hand, which pointed to the 
 fifty-fifth chapter of Isaiah, — " Ho every one 
 that thirsteth," etc. 
 
 T read him, at his request, the chapter 
 partly through, when he stopped me, and 
 said, in a scarcely audible voice, — 
 
 " Oliver, I am loath to interrupt you, for
 
 Stirring Events. 47 
 
 I could listen, were I permitted, to those 
 comforting words for hours, but hours are 
 not for me — barely minutes." 
 
 He paused for a while ; I bathed his 
 temples, lifted him higher upon the pillow ; 
 I was nearly choking, but did not dare to 
 speak, being anxious to drink in every 
 word he had breath left to give utter- 
 ance to. 
 
 His faithful servant, Martin, was stand- 
 ing at the foot of the bed. Percy motioned 
 him to leave the tent, when he slowly 
 continued, — 
 
 ''My dear old boy, the Author of that 
 book, from which you have just read, is now 
 about to fulfil His promise. He is going to 
 present me with a new life in exchange for 
 the old one." 
 
 Another long pause ; I could not reply. 
 Unha^Dpily, I felt out of my depth ; his re- 
 searches in that Holy Book, my shortcom-
 
 4B A Virgin Widow, 
 
 iogs ; his eyes open, mine closed ; his per- 
 ception clear, mine cloudy, are wholesome 
 facts, established, I trust, in my memory 
 for ever. 
 
 He continued very slowly, — 
 
 " I have endeavoured, Oliver, to keep 
 good company in this world, but I hope 
 soon to move in better, and more lasting. 
 I am endurino^ at this moment three dis- 
 tinct wrenches. I — I — " 
 
 I administered some brandy, and with it 
 a bumping tear, that somehow or other 
 promiscuously rolled into the glass, which 
 I am not ashamed to own, for if ever in 
 this world a tear of friendship tumbled out 
 of the eye of man, I shed one then. 
 
 Poor Percy had no tears left, they w^ere 
 all " wiped away from his eyes." The 
 stimulant I administered somewhat revived 
 him, and he continued, — 
 
 " I have three wrenches — three loved ones
 
 Stirring Events. 49 
 
 to part with, Oliver " — and, taking the 
 locket from his breast, where it hnng by 
 a piece of black ribbon, he touched the 
 spring ; it flew open, and putting it to his 
 lips again and again, clasped his hands 
 together, apparently in great agony of mind, 
 uttering feebly the following w^ords : — " My 
 Nora — my — my — yes. My — and yet not 
 my— 
 
 " Your what ? " I whispered entreatingiy. 
 
 " My — never mind ; come nearer, old boy, 
 nearer still ; put your head close to 
 mine." 
 
 Thinking that he wished to communi- 
 cate something of importance, I placed my 
 ear near his mouth, when he threw the 
 ribbon around my neck, attached to which 
 was the locket holding Nora's portrait, 
 saying, — 
 
 " Wear it, Oliver — this ' Shadow in the 
 
 Gold ' — wear it for my sake, and wdien you 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 look on the reflex of the fair face of my 
 Nora in that little circle, it may remind 
 you of the closest and dearest tie of your 
 devoted friend. Should you in your travels, 
 And yourself face to face with the original, 
 give her this Bible and marker, and say 
 that the former was the most precious gift 
 I ever possessed ; tell her it proved a heal- 
 ing balm to the ugly w^ound here ; and it 
 has fortified my soul for its journey through 
 the long valley I am now entering." 
 
 *' Anything more can I say ? " I inter- 
 rupted dismally. 
 
 "Yes, yes, something more, though but 
 little ; yet much — post this letter ; and should 
 you meet my Nora, say — say — ' Firm as a 
 Eock.'" 
 
 " Anything more, dear Percy ? " 
 
 ''Not in that quarter. I have disposed 
 of one matter, and there is not much time 
 left for me. Give my fondest love to the
 
 Stirring Events. 
 
 darling who gave me birth ; tell her that 
 I have endeavoured to keep the name I 
 own without blemish, and those early and 
 lovinoj admonitions which she inculcated into 
 my mind, have proved of inestimable value 
 in my journey to the threshold of my 
 new and eternal home, to which I am 
 now hastening." 
 
 Perceivino' that he was fast sinkino-, I 
 entreated him to be quiet and rest a 
 while, when he held up his finger, and 
 continued, — 
 
 "It is nearly finished. I have but one 
 more wrench, and that is parting from you 
 my friend, my faithful, devoted companion." 
 
 " God bless you, Percy," I stammered. 
 
 "He has blessed me," replied Percy, 
 with a voice scarcely audible. " I am as 
 happy, Oliver, as the sweetest songster that 
 ever soar'd in yon firmament, and I owe 
 it all to that blessed Book — my mothers 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 ILLINOIS LIBRARY
 
 52 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 tender and careful development, and my — 
 my — yes, my Nora. Don't forget to — to 
 tell her — 'Firm as a — a — a — Eock.' " 
 
 I am alone with the corpse of the once 
 brave and faithful Percival Snowdon.
 
 CHAPTEK III. 
 
 MY LAST DAY ON THE BATTLEFIELD. 
 
 Erect I stood, folded my arms, and gazed 
 a long abstracted gaze on the lifeless form 
 of my departed friend, who, a few moments 
 before, breathed forth such sensible and 
 loving words ; who so recently mingled, 
 heart and soul, in the battle fray, and 
 carried (with a handful of men) all before 
 him, now for ever beyond the reach of 
 further shot and shell. 
 
 Alone with the dead ! 
 
 One would imaoine that death at this 
 juncture could be nothing to me, could 
 create no unusual sensation of horror other
 
 54 ^ Virgin Widow. 
 
 than that which always associates itself with 
 the battlefield. I had only to wander a 
 few steps from my tent and witness it in 
 all its appalling and ghastly form, piled up 
 in places waist deep ; surely, then, it would 
 seem to a superficial observer that death 
 could be nothing to me in the midst of 
 broad acres of it l3^ing scattered here and 
 there ; what, then, was the meaning of those 
 bumping tears ? I imagine I hear some 
 fellow say (who may one day ramble pro- 
 miscuously over these pages), '' A soldier's tear 
 indeed ! and on the battlefield, too ! All 
 bosh ! moonshine ! sensational ! " 
 
 I fancy, too, that there may be — nay, I 
 will take it for granted, there will be 
 others who will dip into this narrative with 
 something more than a cursory glance,. 
 and shed tears to the memory of the 
 brave ; those beloved ones whom they 
 have lost on the plains of a battlefield ; —
 
 My Last Day on the Battlefield. 55 
 
 a husband, father, brother, son, or true 
 friend. 
 
 Such readers will have the clearest pos- 
 sible conception of the intensity of my 
 feelings, as I stood bending over the in- 
 animate form of my once brave companion 
 and faithful colleague, realising my loss, and 
 contemplating the havoc which a few short 
 hours had made, robbing parents of a loving 
 and promising son ; a fond girl of her 
 lover ; his country of a host in himself ; 
 and your humble servant of a friend ! 
 
 " Poor Percy ! " I muttered in half- 
 broken accents, the mighty roar and swing 
 of the battlefield, seeking for glory and 
 honour ! '' Now thou art gone, it will be 
 sorry work for me. I have lost a stimu- 
 lant that always spurred me on the road 
 to victory ; an example that helped me to 
 earn some little distinction on the battle- 
 field." How anxiously he looked forward to
 
 56 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 promotion ; how bis eyes used to sparkle 
 with delight when he contemplated it, and 
 spoke of his Nora sharing with him the 
 honours ; how rejoiced he was when I 
 stepped up the ladder, — noble, unselfish 
 fellow ! He has his reward, though else- 
 where, on the '"staff" above those azure 
 skies ; he is promoted to a rank consider- 
 ably higher than our gracious sovereign 
 could have bestowed upon him. Had he 
 lived, a Victoria cross would, assuredly, 
 have adorned his breast. There is, how- 
 ever, another cross, infinitely greater, of 
 inestimable value, and far more precious, 
 that is now, doubtless, his ; a glory, too, 
 that awaited him, surpassing all knowledge ; 
 a glory which illuminates a crown set w^ith 
 gems of his own procuring on earth. Jewels 
 of the first water that from time to time 
 he picked up, here and there, amongst 
 some of the ungodly rabble of our army.
 
 My Last Day on the Battlefield. 57 
 
 whom he converted from the paths of dissi- 
 pation ; gems of unknown worth, lustrous 
 beyond description, all cut into the most 
 beautiful facets, and set by the hand of 
 the greatest lapidary. 
 
 Who cares to seek the worhi's renown, 
 
 Such products of mortality ; 
 With such a cross, and such a crown. 
 
 There's nothing like reality. 
 
 I felt lost in profound reverie when a 
 hand was j^l^'^ced on my shoulder : it was 
 the doctor, together with the sergeant-major, 
 quarter-master sergeant, and four drummers ; 
 verily, a procession of dismal undertakers, 
 with their impromptu bier ! 
 
 Typhus fever rendered it absolutely neces- 
 sary that there should be a speedy burial ; 
 indeed, the stringent rules laid down ad- 
 mitted of no elasticity in our arrangements, 
 neither was it desirable, under the circum- 
 stances, that there should be any delay.
 
 58 A Virgin Widozv. 
 
 It was a dismal, slow march as we con- 
 veyed the remains of Lieutenant Snowdon 
 to his last six feet of narrow soil for the 
 repose of his bones, over the very ground 
 he galloped with his men but a few hours 
 before with so much dash : a large number 
 of dead were still scattered about in all 
 directions, heaped up where they fell, in all 
 manner of forms, standing out in bold re- 
 lief on the brow of the hill, fitting monu- 
 ments of the ghastly carnage that had made 
 many a beloved wife a widow, and many 
 a child fatherless. We laid him with pride 
 and sadness in a narrow grave, with his 
 arms folded on his breast. I took one long 
 look at that placid face, lit up, though in 
 death, with a beautiful smile which seemed 
 to strike the chords of my heart, and speak 
 one last farewell, when a military cloak 
 was thrown over the body, and shut out, 
 for ever, in this world, the once brio-ht
 
 My Last Day on the Battlefield. 59 
 
 and happy face of Lieutenant Pereival 
 Snowdon. 
 
 A firing party of our best and oldest 
 men completed the only outward honours 
 that could be offered to the brave hero of 
 " Slaughter Hill ; " but, within those massive 
 veteran heads, that bent silently over the 
 grave, there could be found some good 
 material ; loving thoughts, too, -were w^ork- 
 ing in their own form and fashion ; and 
 within those sadly worn and sunken eyes, 
 there were, undoubtedly, manifestations of 
 grief and solemnity. 
 
 Beside that little grave. 
 Stood many a warrior brave, 
 With frames as hard as steel, 
 But hearts that fondly feel. 
 
 Yes, many bumping tears glistened in 
 the sunshine that morning, and were brushed 
 away by the hard brown hands of those men, 
 as they looked down for the last time on
 
 6o A Virgin Widow. 
 
 the form that led them so nobl}^ to victory, 
 earning for himself such distinction, and 
 whose memory will be handed down to pos- 
 terity. 
 
 And they turn'd their heads away 
 From the form they held so dear, 
 
 '' And lent upon their rifles, 
 And wiped away a tear." 
 
 Enough — death-bed scenes, ghastly sights, 
 (^nd alarming events are not altogether in- 
 viting themes to dwell upon in any nar- 
 rative, but, in compiling the reminiscen- 
 ces of these memorable days, I do so as 
 the only tribute I can offer to the brave 
 hero of " Slaughter Hill," and I shall cher- 
 ish up in my heart, with a loving remem- 
 brance, the joys and pleasures of our young, 
 and be it said, active, happy life, on duty 
 and off duty, at home and abroad ; in doing 
 so, I look back with the most lively satis-
 
 My Last Day on the Battlefield. 6 1 
 
 faction, and can safely place it on record, 
 that Percival Snowdon's friendship was faith- 
 ful — yes — *' Firm as a Rock." 
 
 Should the reader, in his travels, ever 
 reach that corner of the Crimea, the plot 
 of sacred Q:round which no Eno-lishman can 
 regard without feelings of jDride and sad- 
 ness, the last resting-place of many departed 
 heroes of the campaign, he may, perchance, 
 drop a silent tear over the spot where 
 
 " The flowers of the country entwine o'er his grave." 
 
 I directed my steps towards our tent, for, 
 by this time, I found my wounds " crying 
 aloud for help ; " feeling faint, weak, and low 
 in spirits, I threw myself on my camp bed- 
 stead, and requested the attendance of the 
 surgeon, who promptly came to my assist- 
 ance. As night drew on, feverish symptoms 
 of a violent character presented themselves,
 
 62 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 followed by delirium, whicli stubbornly con- 
 tinued for a long period — battles were fought, 
 lost and won, marching and counter-march- 
 ing proceeded ; it made, however, little dif- 
 ference to me, for I was utterly incapable 
 of knowing anything that was going on 
 from the 8th to the 19th. On the morn- 
 ing of the latter day, I awoke, as it were, 
 from a dream, the outcome of a second 
 attack of the same description of fever I 
 had before experienced, and which was 
 considerably aggravated by the painful 
 scenes I had recently passed through — my 
 wounds, loss of blood, exposure to bitterly 
 cold weather, and various privations conse- 
 quent on the rapid and uncertain movements 
 of our army. 
 
 When I opened my eyes, with fairly 
 healthy faculties, I saw my faithful Irish 
 servant Curtis busily engaged in preparing 
 a compress, and soaking it in a chloroform
 
 Illy Las I Day oil the Battlefield. 63 
 
 compound, or some such mixture, and at 
 intervals slowly apostrophising a few w^ords 
 in a mechanical sort of way. 
 
 I could discern through my casement the 
 hard lines of the mountainous hills, and 
 their undulations standing out prominently, 
 with their summits tipped with pyramids of 
 driven snow, which sparkled in the rays of 
 the morning sun, and seemed to vie with 
 the white silvery scuds as they floated pro- 
 miscuously in the firmament, casting their 
 shadows in long streaks in the valley be- 
 neath. Some cattle were browsino- on the 
 slopes, vigorously nipping off, with deter- 
 mined jerks, the scant, russet-brown herbage 
 on which they were pasturing ; the juvenile 
 and more agile herd were gamboling with 
 each other merrily up and down the side- 
 land, butting, leaping, playfully biting, and 
 enjoying other frolics. My eyes wandered 
 from one object to another, whilst Curtis,
 
 64 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 who had hold of his lij) between his teeth, 
 seemed lost in thought. 
 
 " Where on earth can I be ? " I muttered ; 
 "not on the battle-field for certain, for I 
 am in a quaint-looking room in some farm- 
 house, a Russian one too, judging from the 
 peculiar furniture that is arranged about the 
 place. I am not altogether with strangers, 
 for there is Curtis, my old and valued Irish 
 servant. There are no sudden clouds and 
 whiffs of that everlasting gunpowder, which, 
 for months past, I had been inhaling. No 
 bugle sounds, roaring of mortars, howitzers, 
 tramping of regiments, roll of fife and drum, 
 galloping of horses, rattling of chains, piling 
 arms, and other sounds so familiar to my 
 ear ; all, except the frolicsome cattle in the 
 sideland close by, and the monotonous bleat- 
 ing of sheep, was as still as the grave. 
 Even my servant seemed to have suddenly 
 subsided into a piece of domestic furniture ;
 
 My Last Day on the Battlefield. 65 
 
 but for a deep sigh which I heard the poor 
 fellow •'' dig up," I should almost have 
 thought he had been transmogrified into 
 the traditional pilLar ! 
 
 " Lost anything ? " I said, in a feeble 
 voice. 
 
 •' Oh, good Lord ! by the powers ! who's 
 that ? " was the reply. 
 
 " Where the deuce am I, Curtis % " 
 
 "Lord bless ye, master! by the powers I 
 if I didn't jist about think ye w^ere w^ll 
 nigh in distant lands ; sure alive, Lm glad 
 ye are come to life again. All I have to 
 say is, lie still, or ye will be jist going 
 oflf again on your old rounds for sure, and 
 there will be no stopping ye." 
 
 "Where am I, Curtis?" I continue. 
 
 ''Faith, in good quarters, anyhow; and 
 
 be satisfied, captain, and don't be after 
 
 asking any more cpiestions." 
 
 " If you will only — " 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 66 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 Weakness asserted its rights, and arrested 
 my speech. 
 
 "To be sure I will," replied Curtis, 
 sharply, taking up the "running"; "jist 
 anything in this blessed world, if ye wdll 
 only jist turn round on that pleasant little 
 heart of your own, and be still as a mouse 
 in a corner for an hour, and I will be 
 fitching someone to see ye, anyhow." 
 
 I squeezed the faithful fellow's hand, and 
 felt thankful I was under his care ; but a 
 sudden termination of blood to the head 
 affected my brain, a sharp spasm attacked 
 my heart, followed by cold shivers. I 
 closed my eyes, and sank again into an 
 unconscious state. 
 
 History reports me to have swooned or 
 slejDt the whole of that day and a part of 
 the night. When I again opened my eyes, 
 I found myself almost in total darkness. 
 There was, however, a small oiimmer of
 
 My Last Day on the Battlefield. 67 
 
 lioiit which hailed from a smoiiklerino; loo- 
 of wood in an arrano-einent which was siig;- 
 gestive of a fire-grate. I gazed a long time 
 at the crimson spark that occasionally shot 
 up and crackled in the stillness of the 
 nio'ht, and collected mv thoiig-hts as well as 
 I could. I felt much revived ; the sound 
 sleep had very considerably refreshed me. 
 I could easily connect some past events and 
 fairly well retain them without the risk of 
 wandering. My wounds began to give me 
 pain for the first time ; this I considered a 
 good sign. Having, in the most satisfactory 
 manner, assured myself of this, I tried to 
 penetrate the surrounding darkness and see 
 how matters stood. Folio win o- the faint 
 
 o 
 
 streak of red light from the embers that 
 threw their dismal glimmer across the 
 twelve-feet apartment in sjjasmodic jerks, it 
 fell on a liuman face. 
 Such a face !
 
 68 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 For the monieut I was absorbed in en- 
 deavouring to trace the features. " Is it 
 Curtis ? No, it cannot be. Curtis hasn't 
 long, bhick, flowing hair." I heard my 
 heart thumjjing away with a peculiar thud. 
 At this moment a burning ember slipped 
 down. A red light suddenly revealed the 
 features of a beautiful girl seated on the 
 floor, her arms folded across her breast, 
 and her large coal-black eyes wandered at 
 intervals from me to the smouldering fire- 
 wood. All was silent, except the mono- 
 tonous tick, tick, tick of an old clock on 
 the mantelpiece. Who hasn't at some j)eriod 
 of his life felt an irresistible impression of 
 some unknown influence steal over the 
 soul, awaken and stir up the best feelings 
 of our nature in a foreign land ? Lan- 
 guishing on a bed of sickness, and amongst 
 strangers, one would naturally feel all the 
 force of love and gratitude for those who
 
 My Last Day on the Battlefield. 69 
 
 come to one's rescue, and, like ministering 
 <xngels, keep watch through the night ! 
 
 " My conscience ! " I murmured, " who 
 ever can it be ? " As a kind of prelimi- 
 nar}^ or notification of my existence in 
 the world, T kicked the bedclothes, and 
 cleared my throat with some emphasis. 
 It had the desired effect, for the brunette 
 was at my side in a moment. 
 
 I felt a soft hand pass gently over my 
 forehead and press back the straggling hair 
 that had j^romiscuously fallen over my brow. 
 
 "Where am I?" I softly asked, at the 
 same time feebly taking hold of the wrist 
 of the oirl • "to whom am I indebted for 
 such kindness ? " 
 
 The nurse placed her finger vertically 
 across her lips as a sign of silence, bathed 
 my temples with some refreshing mixture, 
 which sent forth a balmy odour, and tlien 
 immediately left the apartment.
 
 JO A Virgin Widozv. 
 
 "Jewel!" I muttered. 
 
 In a few moments Curtis was at my 
 side, groping away at my pulse, and blow- 
 ing in my face like distraction. 
 
 "Try your bellows on the fire," I said,. 
 '' and let us have some light on the sub- 
 ject. 
 
 " The Lord be praised ! " ejaculated Cur- 
 tis, clasping his hands, and making a des- 
 perate effort to relight the oil-lamp. 
 
 " Now, old fellow, where am I ? " I asked. 
 
 " Faith now, ye'll have the peliteness 
 just to keep that little wandering musical 
 tongue of yours quiet a bit, or, bedad, if 
 ye won't be after yer old pranks, and 
 leavino; us in the lurch ao^ain, and o;oimx 
 away on yer own ' hook ' on another visit 
 to that blessed Nora." 
 
 " Where ? to whom ? " I eagerly inquired ^ 
 wiping a cokl stream of perspiration from 
 my forehead.
 
 My Last Day on the Battlefield. 7 1 
 
 " I only wish the hussy and all her 
 little bairns had been at the bottom of 
 the briny sea, a-dancing ' Irish jigs like 
 evermore ' with the mermaids, than a-bother- 
 ing yer honour with her tomfoolery from 
 sunrise till sundown. Sure alive, ye haven't 
 had a morsel of pace for her." 
 
 " What on earth are you talking about, 
 Curtis ? " 
 
 " Never mind, master, for, sure then. 
 Some fine evenins; I will be after a-tellino^ 
 ye all about it." 
 
 " You have greatly excited my curiosity, 
 Curtis ; for heaven's sake tell me — " 
 
 " Excited yer what, did ye say ? Bother ! 
 Just take a long pull at this ' pick me 
 up ' that the doctor left for ye a moon 
 since, for ye to pay yer addresses to just 
 wdien circumstances require it, — to be shaken 
 before taken." 
 
 It is needless to add that I cao-erlv
 
 72 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 drank the mixture. Its magic influence 
 soon reported itself favourably to my poor 
 shattered nerves. I rested awhile in deej^ 
 thought, meditating on the past, ponder- 
 ing over the brunette, and anticipating 
 the future. At Last I thought I would 
 try a little finesse with my servant, and 
 continued, — 
 
 "AVhat about Flora, Curtis?" 
 '• Bother," he replied, '' ye know very 
 well ye haven't had any dealings with a 
 Flora at all ; and my advice to ye, master, 
 is, that, judging from what I have been able 
 to 'pick out' on yer long journey, ye had 
 better cut that lady's company, for she hasn't 
 done ve any orood, for cartain." 
 
 "But, Curtis," I feebly remonstrated, "I 
 
 don't know any such person as No]'a ; I 
 
 never saw her in my life," at the same 
 
 time asking for another dose of the cordial. 
 
 "Bother! sure, then, ye can recollect,
 
 My Last Day on the Battlefield. y2> 
 
 master, that 'tisn't Flora, anyhow ; ye had 
 just better be leaving off yer itemings, 
 and compose yer dear self a bit, or I won't 
 answer for the company yell be next 
 keeping, if ye are off again on yer ' march- 
 ing order ; ' sure alive, 'tis all * open order ' 
 wid ye." 
 
 "I tell you, Curtis, I never saw Nora, 
 that I know of." 
 
 "Nor her likeness, I suppose, that is 
 tucked U23 so snug to yer heart under 
 yer flannen waistcoat ; and, by the powers ! 
 if the name Nora isn't chiseled out at 
 the back of it, and nig-ht after nioht ye 
 have been crying out for the ' Shadow in 
 the Gold.'" 
 
 After this piece .of elegant peroration, 
 Curtis left the room, and I soon heard him 
 conversing with some one downstairs, who 
 was busily engaged m beating up an egg. 
 
 "Yes, sure enough, this is the identical pic-
 
 74 ^ Virgin Widow. 
 
 ture," I soliloquised (as I drew forth Nora's 
 portrait from its hiding-place), " that dear 
 Percy, in the last moments of his life, threw 
 around my neck, entreatingly asking me to 
 wear it for his sake, and that if ever, in 
 my travels, I came face to face with the 
 original, to look upon her as his ' nearest 
 and dearest tie ' — how significant, ' nearest 
 tie ! ' — two words sus^ofestive of much." 
 
 I revolved in my mind all my early con- 
 versation with Percy, and connected one 
 event with another ; fitted link to link — 
 one, however, was missing, an imj)ortant 
 one, too, in the chain of his life, which, 
 alas ! so soon parted. 
 
 Whilst I gazed on the reflex of the fair 
 face of the " angel girl " (as Percy called 
 her) in the circle of gold, I dwelt upon 
 the memory of my lamented friend — of my 
 affection for him — of his sincerity for me ; 
 and I was carried away to foreign climes,
 
 My Last Day on the Battlefield. 75 
 
 where we wandered tog;etliei\ and where he 
 told, re-told, and never grew weary of relat- 
 ing, long joyous days he had passed in the 
 society of his dearest Nora ; the love that 
 he had plighted, and how it had been ac- 
 cepted ; the anguish they both experienced 
 on separating ; the secret — the grand secret 
 of his life — that he said he had some day 
 to impart to me. His last dying words are, 
 and ever will be, uppermost in my thoughts. 
 " Foro'et them ? bid the forest birds foro-et 
 their sweetest tune." 
 
 Those words ! so full of touching; sorrow, 
 will ever live in my memory as 
 
 "As FIRM AS A EOCK."
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 WHO IS SHE ? 
 
 A MOST uneventful week elapsed since the 
 close of the last chapter, certainly so far 
 as I was concerned ; but, in order that one 
 may fairly well clear up straggling events 
 as we proceed, and that there may be no 
 unreasonable gap in my narrative, it is as 
 well to explain to the reader exactly what 
 happened after I succumbed to the violent 
 fever on the memorable — th, when prostra- 
 tion and delirium set in. During the whole 
 of that time, I am not aware of having ex- 
 perienced one rational moment, neither have 
 1 the remotest recollection of anything that
 
 Who is She ? jj 
 
 occurred after my return from Percy's 
 funeral. 
 
 I am informed by my servant Curtis that 
 I first fainted, or, to use his own familiar 
 words, "went clean off my head, sure;" he 
 also reports that my mind travelled " heaven 
 knows where." From the very lucid and 
 graphic description he gave of the whole 
 matter, I did not for a moment doubt his 
 veracity. 
 
 The brilliant success of our battalion on 
 the — th somewhat cleared the atmosphere, 
 and a temporary lull ensued, the spell of 
 which, however, was soon broken, for orders 
 
 were given for a forced march on , to 
 
 the immediate relief of General , who 
 
 at that time was sorely ^^i^essed and losing 
 ground. The desperate condition I was in, 
 rendered it impossible to take me any great 
 distance from the ground we then occupied, 
 without imperiliug my life. Jolting along
 
 78 A Vii^gin Widow. 
 
 rough roads, over a mountainous country, 
 in an ambulance waggon, would, the doctor 
 considered, have jolted out the last spark 
 of life that was flickering within me ; ' and 
 as I had contributed my fair share, con- 
 jointly with many brave fellows, towards 
 the achievements of the last strug-o^le with 
 the enemy. Great anxiety, consideration, 
 and forbearance were manifested by the 
 "staff" on my behalf, consequently I was 
 transferred from under canvas to a small 
 Russian farm, situated about three miles 
 distant from the scene of action. The 
 colonel having previously solicited and ob- 
 tained from the owner a faithful promise 
 to thoroughly look after me, at the same 
 time assuring him that " money was no 
 object," a piece of information (coupled 
 with a presentation of something tangible) 
 that greatly accelerated the farmer's hos- 
 pitable movements, wound up his generosity,
 
 Who is She ? 79 
 
 and probably it was (in a great measure) 
 the means of saving my life. 
 
 My old and valued servant Curtis, who 
 had •providentially managed through the 
 campaign to keep clear of the learlen mes- 
 sengers of death, and who also escaped the 
 distressing cholera and fever then 23re vailing, 
 was told off to wait upon me. Sundry well- 
 known specifics in the way of j)hysic, with 
 almost every conceivable restorative that 
 
 the kind-hearted and estimable Doctor 
 
 could think of, and spare from his store, 
 toox'ther with minute written instructions, 
 were left with Curtis, who, in the most in- 
 defatigable manner, discharged the duties 
 entrusted to him ; and a good Samaritan he 
 proved to be, for through long days and 
 lonely nights his sleepless eyes watched 
 over my burning frame. 
 
 Also the dear girl of whom I shall have 
 the privilege of speaking, joined hand to
 
 8o A Virgin Widozu. 
 
 hand in the labour that my desperate state 
 of health forced upon them, and through 
 dint of the greatest care and watchfulness, 
 contrived, with God's blessing, to pull me 
 through ; and I rejoice in making a record 
 in these pages, of my everlasting indebted- 
 ness to my faithful old servant Curtis, and 
 the beautiful little brunette of — — , for 
 their loving and untiring attention to the 
 wants of a helpless, wounded, fever-stricken 
 soldier ; whilst life exists, Heaven knows, 
 that my gratitude will be lasting ! 
 
 In the course of time, I gained sufficient 
 strength to bear the fatigue of beiug dressed 
 by my Irish valet, who, by-the-bye, was 
 uncommonly shy of conversing upon any 
 subject whatever ; from what I gathered, he 
 had received positive orders not to talk in 
 my presence, or permit me to do so, and 
 as my excessive weakness rendered every 
 word I uttered distressing, it is not at
 
 W/wisS/ie? 8 1 
 
 all surprising that I greatly preferred 
 quietude. 
 
 For hours together I sat in my little room 
 wrapped in meditation, sometimes sinking 
 down in the troubled waters of this life ; at 
 others, building '•' castles in the air," in 
 lively anticipation of the future, and ear- 
 nestly lonoinor to be on the move, at the 
 iiead of my brave fellows again ; but the 
 fetters of disease and my w^ounds arrested 
 my best resolutions and clamped my ardour, 
 but a renewal of hope gave consolation. 
 
 I had a few^ books with, me, notably a 
 small pocket edition of Shakespeare, my 
 vade-meciim, which was a library in itself 
 — a " crumb of comfort " in health and in 
 sickness ; there was another book too in 
 my possession, of which I have previously 
 spoken ; it had a marker in it. I held it 
 in trust, to be delivered to Xora. I don't 
 quite know why, but certainly there w^as a 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 82 A Viro;in Widozu. 
 
 charm about that little volume, an irresis- 
 tible attraction, a magnetic influence that 
 bound me, as it were, to every leaf; sensi- 
 tively operating upon, and working a mighty 
 power within me, such as I never before 
 experienced. Was it the outcome of the 
 struggle that I recently passed through be- 
 tween life and death ? Was it the outcome of 
 the reminiscences of my lamented friend ? — 
 or was it the outcome of the anticipation of 
 some day taking the hand of the fair owner 
 of that sacred book and marker, and deposit- 
 ing its w^ealth within her tiny grasj), and 
 personally delivering her lover's last words, — 
 *' Firm as a Eock " ? I pause — and will leave 
 it where it is for the present, to be revealed, 
 as far as it can be made manifest, in the 
 pages that are to follow. 
 
 A gentle knock at the door. 
 
 " Come in ; is that you, Curtis ? "
 
 Who is She ? 83 
 
 '^ And sure 'tis my viry own self, yer 
 honour," was the reply. 
 
 " Come here, Curtis ; sit down, I want to 
 talk with you." 
 
 " Then, indeed to goodness, ye are jist 
 viry much mistaken, if ye think I am ar- 
 rived here to hold gossip with ye, anyhow, 
 for ye are not strong enough, captain, in 
 the back yet ; and the doctor jist about gave 
 me orders not to have yer tongue middled 
 with ; and bother, if that Nora isn't after 
 ye, directly ye close yer weary eyes in 
 the cradle of sleep, and yer cheeks get 
 like thumping red potatoes. Sure she is no 
 good company, anyhow ; bad luck to her, 
 and—" . 
 
 " I request that you discontinue such re- 
 marks, Curtis," I vehemently replied, " and 
 speak not lightly of that name." 
 
 " Och ! bother! then I know master, now, 
 which way the wind blows ; the little straw
 
 84 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 that I threw up caught well in the breeze, 
 and faith I know which way it is flying." 
 
 '' Hush ! " I say ; '' you annoy me. I'll have 
 no more of it. Who was that gipsy-looking 
 woman that I saw sitting in my bedroom, 
 maybe days, weeks, perhaps months since ? 
 for, ■ alas ! of late I have kept no reckon- 
 ing of time." 
 
 A long pause — no reply. 
 
 " Do you hear me, Curtis ? " 
 
 " Never heard anything jDlainer, sir." 
 
 '' Tell me then," sharply. 
 
 " Woman did ye say, yer honour ? " 
 
 " Yes ; that very dark woman, who sat 
 up with me, bathed my temples, quenched 
 my thirst with a cooling draught, knelt at 
 my bedside ; and, although I addressed her, 
 she positively left the room without uttering 
 a word." 
 
 " Sure, then, it wasn't a woman at all." 
 . " You perverter of the truth ! " I ex-
 
 Who is She ? 85 
 
 claimed, in the most irritable manner; "do 
 you think that disease has so robbed me 
 of my senses that I do not know a man 
 from a woman ? " 
 
 " Sure, then, it w^asn't a woman at all, 
 I tell ye agin." 
 
 " Then you tell me a lie — a wicked — " 
 
 " Faith, yer honour, by the powers ! I 
 wouldn't take sich an unwarrantable liberty 
 with ye, or with any creature under the sun." 
 
 " Who then was it, you idiot, that sat at 
 my bedside ? Was it a man, woman, beast, 
 angel, or the " I replied, savagely. 
 
 "Neither the one nor the other, master." 
 
 " Then I was dreamino^," I said. 
 
 " Niver wider awake in yer life, mas- 
 ter, than ye were that blissed night." 
 
 " Then I was mad ; yes, mad as a march hare." 
 
 " Niver more sane in yer life, captain," 
 was the laconic reply. 
 
 I suggested, by way of a last gasp, that
 
 86 A Vii^o^hi IVidozu. 
 
 it was a ghost paying her Doctiirnal visits, 
 and, in my tlien hasty and irritable temper, 
 was about to show the fellow the door, when 
 he continued, — 
 
 " Sure then, yer honour, I have tazed ye 
 enough ; but I vintured to hope, with the 
 very best intentions, so that I should jist 
 about steer ye clear of the information ye 
 are after. But, as ye won't take no for 
 an answer, I'll be after telling ye, by way 
 of a short cut, jist a morsel of the know- 
 ledge ye are fishing with yer hook for ; 
 but ye haven't got the proper bait at the 
 end of yer line, and the fish won't bite ; 
 and if it would, ve haven't o-ot the streng;th 
 to take it, and land it ; but as ye have jist 
 about tickled the trout, I'll help ye with my 
 landing-net, and give ye a peep at her fin." 
 " All right," I replied ; " proceed." 
 " The woman ye spake of isn't a woman 
 at all."
 
 Who is She ? ^7 
 
 " What then ? Come now, Curtis," en- 
 treatingly. 
 
 " Sure, then, it was a lady,'" he con- 
 tinued, at the same time oTinning;, and 
 displaying a set of the most irregular 
 teeth. 
 
 " A lady ! " I exclaimed. 
 
 "Faith, a live lady !" 
 
 "But a lady is a woman," I replied; 
 "did I not declare that — " 
 
 "But a womau, your honour — excuse my 
 liberty — isn't always a lady in our country ; 
 and we wouldn't offer such a hastily com- 
 pliment to highborn persons in County Kil- 
 dare as to call a lady a woman." 
 
 " Lady ! who ? — what ! where is she ? " 
 I asked, in one breath. "' Keep me no 
 longer in suspense." 
 
 "There's your thumping red potatoes 
 coming again, like flashes of fork-lightning, 
 in your face, and tlie perspiring properties
 
 88 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 are standing like marrapat peas on your 
 forehead. If ye bother me so, yer honour, 
 I'll be just after leaving ye to yer o\Yn 
 reflections. 
 
 "Where is that lady, and who is she?" I 
 again asked, at the same time helping my- 
 self to a drop more brandy, by way of for- 
 tifying myself for the climax ; but, as per 
 usual, the old man gently put a stopper on 
 the supply. 
 
 " Fellow 1 " I continued, " where is 
 she ? " 
 
 "Oddfellow you mean, yer honour; sure, 
 then, I belong to the ancient order of 
 Foresters, and I carry the staff and banner 
 of old Ireland and liberty for ever." 
 
 " Good Curtis," I responded, and awaited 
 the continuation of his narrative. 
 
 " Now you promise, captain, to be very 
 quiet, and dhrop all your excitement ? " 
 
 " I promise," I replied, familiarly slapping
 
 Who is She ? 89 
 
 the fellow's shoulder as an earnest of my 
 2:ood-feeling^. 
 
 " Hearken, then. That live hxdy that ye 
 saw when ye ' come to ' in the middle of 
 that bitter night, when the flakes of snow 
 were falling fast and thick, and the howl- 
 ing wind was blowing straight from the 
 steppes of Scythia, is lying — '' 
 
 *' Lying where ? " I shouted. 
 
 '* Lying downstairs, captain." 
 
 " What ! " I gasped ; '' not dead ? " 
 
 " Not yet ; but I don't quite know, cap- 
 tain, how long it will be before her darling 
 soul takes flight, for she has been almost 
 devoured by inches with the horrid fever 
 she took of ye, and no mistake." 
 
 " Good heavens ! let me go to her, with- 
 out a moment's delay, and see for myself," I 
 exclaimed, springing vigorously to my feet. 
 
 " I have locked the door, yer honour ; 
 and what is more, I have got the key in
 
 90 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 my pocket, so ye jist can't go anyhow," 
 said Curtis. 
 
 " I am well, man, I am well ; I am as 
 strong as a lion, and as — ' 
 
 " Weak as a little ' ba-lamb,' " was Curtis's 
 rejoinder. ''No, yer honor, ye must be 
 quiet, and all may come right and tight in a 
 little while. The ' broth ' of a child is just 
 a shade better this morning^ ; and when she 
 tossed up her black eyes, I fancied she knew 
 me a little bit, the darling, she did, sure." 
 
 "Her name?" I asked wildly, clutching 
 the wrist of my servant with some earnest- 
 ness. 
 
 '' Constance Templar ; and a mighty good 
 templar she has proved herself to be, anyhow." 
 
 " Ministering angels protect her ! " I ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 " The Eed Cross, yer honour." 
 
 " The Eed Cross ! Constance Templar I 
 Cannot be true, man, cannot be. How is it
 
 Who is She ? 91 
 
 she sojourns here, and why is she not \Yith 
 the army ? " 
 
 " Miss Templar was invalided, master, and 
 found refuo'e in this farmhouse before ye 
 were brought liere. She was getting better, 
 and prej)aring for another flight and fresh 
 work with the division ; but when we carried 
 ye up the steps on a litter, she met yer 
 honour's body at the porch, and she sighed a 
 long, deep, heavy sort of sigh, like my poor 
 Biddy of Tipperary used to do, and said she 
 had her work cut out ag;ain, and she made a 
 vow that she would not leave what was left 
 of the noble hero of ' Slaughter Hill,' as 
 she called ye, until she had landed ye high 
 and dry, or put ye in ' port ' in yer last 
 little home, — the darling! that's what she did, 
 sure ! And anyhow, she kept her word, for 
 she took her turn day and night, and did 
 for ye, faith, like a tinder mother would do 
 for her sickly babe. From sunrise to sundown
 
 92 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 she was on the watch. When the moon 
 rose, she rose ; and the night and the day 
 was niver too long for her ; but the darling 
 daisy was soon cut down, and she began to 
 wither like the pritty flowers that she placed 
 on yer honour's bed. Scorched and burnt 
 almost to death by the raging fever, she tossed 
 her little restless bones about on her hard 
 couch ; and the Eussian mother downstairs, 
 bless her ! has taken her under her wings day 
 and night, and kept her body and so id together." 
 
 There was a long pause following this 
 painful and sensational narrative ; a dismal 
 lookout over the broad plain. Curtis's head 
 was turned one way, mine another. Neither 
 of us wished to portray what was passing 
 within our hearts, — orathering: within the 
 folds of our eyelids, or show, in any way, 
 the reflex of our thoughts. 
 
 But poor Curtis buried his face in his 
 big brown hand, and wept like a child.
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 MY OWN REFLECTIONS, AND WHAT 
 FOLLOWED. 
 
 " To be found untired, 
 Watching tlie stars out by the bed of pain, 
 
 With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, 
 And a true heart of hope ; though hope be vain. 
 
 Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay. 
 And oh ! to live through all things, — therefore pray ! " 
 
 Mrs Hemans. 
 
 I AM alone, — left, as Curtis remarked, " to 
 my own reflections." The Irish valet has 
 taken my wounded surviving charger for 
 " an airing.' As the poor brute limj^ed 
 along under my lattice window, with several 
 ugly wounds staring me in the face, I almost 
 wished, at the moment, I had given him his 
 coup-de -grace on the — th, and thus ended 
 his military career and misery for ever ; but,
 
 94 ^ Virgin Widow. 
 
 on second consideration, I was anxious to 
 take the noble steed to the home of my 
 fathers ; for bravely he carried me through 
 torrents of shot and fire, — "landing" me 
 safely at last. 
 
 "No," I said to myself, " we will not part. 
 If 1 can heal thy wounds, which, like my own, 
 seem stubborn enough, I will journey with 
 thee once more to the front, and again try 
 our luck ; but if fate should decide against 
 us, and we don't put our harness together in 
 volumes of smoke, then, I say, in ' volumes ' 
 of type thy deeds, ' Rob Roy,' shall be re- 
 corded. Poor brute ! thou cannot speak for 
 thyself, but happily thy master, who knows 
 thy worth, is spared to sound the trumpet 
 boldly, and sing thy praises for thee, — gay, 
 springy, plucky, light-mouthed ' Rob Roy ; ' 
 the very paragon of a horse in all thy paces ; 
 thy good manners and fearless dash are well 
 known ; when thou art grown old, thy bright
 
 My own Reflections, and zvhat follozued. 95 
 
 eyes dim, and thou art unable to carry me, 
 then on the green pastures of our home park, 
 under the shadow of thy master's house thou 
 shalt graze, and spend the residue of thy life 
 undisturbed." 
 
 Alone with my own reflections ! 
 
 What are they ? Torrents of thought pour 
 upon me ! 
 
 I have suddenly experienced a heavy weight 
 — a responsibility which is quite new. I have 
 a duty to perform — a duty which has devolved 
 upon me by sheer accident ; I have a debt to 
 pay — a debt of gratitude. God willing, I will 
 discharo'c the oblig;ation I owe to the utter- 
 most. 
 
 Yes, downstairs, according to my servant's 
 description, there is the dear girl who, through 
 long days and nights, tenderly watched over 
 and nursed me, and exposed herself to the 
 treacherous disease that was hourly consum- 
 ing my body, — which malady she has taken
 
 96 A Vi^'gin Widow. 
 
 in its most violent form, — whilst the object of 
 her care has been spared to tell this narrative. 
 I revolve it all in my mind, and seriously 
 ponder over the best means to adopt in the 
 hope of restoring Miss Templar to health. 
 Though excessively weak, I am much better. 
 I must see her at once, and judge for my- 
 self. A medical man must be procured with- 
 out loss of time. She may have a fond 
 mother, whose prayers invoke Heaven for her 
 child far away ; she may have a father proud 
 of his daughter's glory and honour, with a 
 heart overflowing with affection for her safety 
 on the battle-field ; a lover too, who — I 
 pause in my meditation, and take another 
 longr look out over the snow-clad land in the 
 distance, rising, as it were, by gentle and im- 
 perceptible degrees, and which every day dis- 
 plays some new feature of beauty and sub- 
 limity, with interminable ranges of coast, and 
 promontory after promontory.
 
 My own Reflections, and what followed-. 97 
 
 Curtis is away with " Rob Eoy." I'll grope 
 my w^ay downstairs, and find the Russian 
 mother, who shall at once take me to the 
 bedside of the fever-stricken girl. 
 
 Suiting the action to the apostrophised 
 words, I seized my impromptu crutches, took 
 a nip of cogniac, and was soon at the bottom 
 of the winding staircase, where I stopped 
 awhile to take breath. The door in the pas- 
 sage was open ; and I shall not readily forget 
 how rejoiced I was when I felt the light, 
 renovating air from the hills pouring down on 
 my pale face. How delicious ! How invigor- 
 ating ! I suddenly seemed to leaj) from a 
 sick couch, at a bound, into the open, and lo ■ 
 I breathed again. 
 
 A girl was on her knees in the porch, 
 whitening the flagstones ; an exorbitant 
 black cat approached, familiarly raised her 
 back and tail in the most insinuating man- 
 ner, — voluntarily introducing herself to my 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 98 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 notice by vigorously brushing my leg with 
 her sleek side, which piece of performance she 
 coaxingly repeated several times. I, of course, 
 recognise her endearment, not by a kick, but 
 a good fondle in my arms. We twain were 
 particular friends from that hour ! The girl 
 at last observed me. She sprang to her 
 feet, and, in her haste to beat a rapid re- 
 treat, upset the galvanised pail of water. I 
 motioned her to stop, but she flew the faster; 
 and I heard her gibbering away in the Eus- 
 sian tongue to someone in the dairy. 
 
 Soon a short, comely woman, with an ex- 
 ceedingly short dress, came forth, and, drop- 
 ping a curtsey, made signs (by lifting her 
 hands and arching her eyebrows) of evident 
 amazement at my venturing out alone in 
 such a weak state. In fact it was manifest 
 that she considered me a most refractory 
 invalid, and wound up the whole perform- 
 ance by good-temperedly shaking her head
 
 My own Reflections, and what followed. 99 
 
 in a most suggestive way. She then led 
 me into her spacious kitchen, in the corner 
 of which, ensconced in an enormous fire- 
 place, sat the provident farmer, smoking his 
 pipe ; and on either knee frolicked a curly- 
 headed, bouncing boy, both rubicund, and 
 looking the jDicture of health. On observing 
 me, the father made a peculiar grunt of re- 
 €Ognition. Judging from the sound, one 
 would imagine that he had acquired it by 
 being constantly in proximity to an old sow, 
 who was domiciled close by in the farmyard. 
 I limped up to the little boys, patted their 
 round, polished faces, and gave them each 
 a biscuit, which I happened to have in 
 my pocket. We trio were friends from 
 that hour ; but I cannot say so mucli for 
 the farmer, who, on that and all future occa- 
 sions, appeared grumpy, and seldom disposed 
 to fraternise in the least degree. Probably 
 it was the outcome of the fearful strus^Sfle
 
 loo A Virgin Widow, 
 
 then existing between his country and ours, 
 which, as a common result, was most disas- 
 trous to his farming prospects ; anyhow, he 
 always looked " daggers ! " 
 
 The Eussian mother now fetched the 
 domestic, and to my great delight and 
 surprise, I discovered that she spoke a 
 little English. I afterwards found she had 
 been living with her uncle at Berlin ; he 
 had married an American woman, and from 
 her the girl had picked up a fairly good 
 smattering of our language. I expressed 
 my wish to see Miss Templar at once. 
 
 " Pardon, please, sir, she don't sleep here," 
 was the reply. 
 
 I further express my desire by signs and 
 in much plainer terms. 
 
 * Oh me do see, me comprehend ; yea, yea, 
 me do see," interrupted the girl ; and 
 turning to her mistress, she said something 
 in their own language, and then continued,
 
 Aly 0ZU71 Reflections, a7id what followed, lor 
 
 — " The captain he do say he do ^Yant 
 have sight, dat is, he want to look upon 
 the Lady Red Cross." 
 
 The orirl and the Russian mother held 
 another short colloquy in the most earnest 
 manner, during; which time I was " nowhere," 
 not understanding their lingo ; but I evi- 
 dently showed signs of impatience, having 
 visions of Curtis returning. The woman 
 l^eckoned me to follow her, notwithstanding 
 ^ stentorian o-runt from the farmer in the 
 corner, which was unquestionably suggestive 
 of disapproval. 
 
 After traversing two or three intricate 
 passages, bumping the top of my cranium 
 ^.gainst sundry beams, and climbing up some 
 dilapidated steps, which creaked on every 
 tread, we came to a rouo-h- looking^ door 
 dotted over with ]arg;e iron nut - headed 
 nails. The woman paused, placed her ear 
 close to the key-hole, and listened atten-
 
 I02 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 tively for a few seconds ; then making ^ 
 signal for me to remain where I was, she 
 quietly lifted the latch, and on tip - toe 
 entered the room alone. Eeturning in a 
 few moments, she took my hand and led 
 me to the bedside of the invalid. 
 
 It would be an effort to find words to 
 express the force of my feelings at this 
 moment. Pillowed on a scanty bedstead 
 lay the brunette I had seen in my room 
 but a short time since. How changed ! and 
 yet how exquisitely beautiful, with her 
 wealth of black hair falling loosely in circles 
 and semi-circles over a spotless breast, and 
 terminating promiscuously on the lily-white 
 sheet ; her symmetrical arm, naked to the 
 shoulder, was coiled around her head as if 
 to supjDort it ; her dark hazel, hollow e3^es 
 had lost much of their brilliant flash, the 
 light that animated them but a short time 
 since had toned down under the pressure of
 
 Af}' own Reflections, and what followed. 103 
 
 a fevered brain, to a somewhat vacant stare ; 
 her finely - cut lips, parched ^Yith burning 
 heat, were parted, displaying a set of the 
 whitest and most regular teeth, which seemed 
 to light up her pallid, Grecian face, the 
 lines of which were well defined ; and not- 
 withstanding her illness, and its direful 
 ravages on her poor frame, she was never- 
 theless beautiful to behold ! 
 
 "This is Constance Templar," I said to 
 myself, "of whom I have read and heard 
 so much ; who has earned for herself on the 
 battlefield and in hospital so much esteem 
 and notoriety, now^ stricken almost to death. 
 Fate has so ordained it, that the little hand 
 which fed me day and night should, for a 
 while, lie helpless at her side, whilst mine 
 is growing hourly more vigorous." 
 
 I involuntarily pressed her almost trans- 
 parent fingers, and felt the life blood tingle 
 through my veins. I breathed a vow — a
 
 I04 ^ Virgin Widow. 
 
 solemn vow ; it was — no matter w^hat ; in 
 heaven, I have no doubt, it was registered! 
 
 '' How are you, Miss Temphar ? " I ventured 
 very softly, still holding her hand in mine. 
 
 That hand ! 
 
 A sudden flicker of brilliancy lit up her 
 eyes ; a flush of crimson sufl'used a small 
 patch on either side of her face ; she smiled 
 — but in a moment all was " straight and cold 
 again." 
 
 That smile ! 
 
 " Don't you think you are a trifle better ? " 
 I continued, hardly for the moment knowing 
 what I said, at the same time placing a flower 
 which I had in my coat on her pillow. 
 
 " Who spoke ? Curtis ? — is that you, 
 Curtis ? " 
 
 " No ; it is I." 
 
 " Who's I ?" replied Constance, disengaging 
 her tiny hand from mine, and with it shading 
 the light, that she may discern more clearly.
 
 My owjt Reflections, a7id what followed. 105 
 
 " Have you forgotten me, Miss Templar ?" 
 I continued. 
 
 " Forgotten whom ? " doubtfully. 
 
 " Your patient." 
 
 " Patient," replied Constance, " patient ! 
 What patient ? I have had so many, that 
 it is hard to call events to my mind. Are 
 you the little drummer of the — th ? " 
 
 ('' Not likely," I soliloquise, '' considering 
 that I am more than six feet in my stockings.") 
 
 *' No, Miss Templar," I replied ; " I am the 
 person who was so fortunate as to receive 
 your kind attention during a prolonged and 
 dangerous illness in this farmhouse ; and I 
 have found my way here, with this good 
 woman, to express to you my intense grati- 
 tude for — " 
 
 "Hush," interrupted Constance, ''hush! 
 I have now faint glimmerings of you. Yes, 
 of course, I know you. How silly of me — 
 dear, dear, how silly — how silly."
 
 io6 A Virgin Widow, 
 
 " God be praised ! " I said, in an audible 
 voice, " she has her senses." 
 
 The Kussian mother administered some 
 egg and brandy ; and the domestic, who 
 was also present, interpreted to me her 
 mistress's wish that I should not talk any 
 more to the patient just then, which piece of 
 advice I considered thoughtful, aud was j)i'e- 
 paring to leave the room, on my crutches, 
 when the invalid, with most surprising 
 strength, rose from her pillow, and, fixing 
 her placid eyes on me, said, — 
 
 "Poor fellow! poor fellow!" and beckon- 
 ing me to return, she w^hispered feebly; "to- 
 morrow, come to-morrow. I have had a 
 strange dream, I will impart it. Mind and 
 bring Nora w^ith you." 
 
 " Good Lord ! " I ejaculated, sotto voce ; and 
 gently squeezing her hand, and raising it to 
 my lips, I left the room, with my heart, so to 
 speak, in my throat.
 
 My own Reflections, and what followed. 107 
 
 Who is that man standing in the passage 
 outside the door ? 
 
 Only Curtis ! 
 
 " Sure then, I thought it was yer ghost, 
 master, pro\Yling about these drauglity places ; 
 faith I can hardly believe my own eyes." 
 
 " Hold your tongue," I say, " and get me 
 some food." 
 
 " By the powers, ye will have some food 
 presintly, that ye won't be able to digest, if 
 ye are after following up such ' itemings * 
 as this." 
 
 "All right, Curtis," I replied; "I shall 
 not take cold." 
 
 " Bother ! ye don't know at all what ye 
 may take away, or what ye may bring to 
 the darling in that cupboard, or leastwise 
 just what is left of her. God knows, 'tisn't 
 much to look at ; and what little there is, 
 ye'll be after tazing it, and tazing it, until 
 there is nothing to be seen except a bright
 
 io8 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 little speck a long, long way up somewhere 
 above those flying clouds." 
 
 " God forbid," I murmured, at the same 
 time greatly admiring the honest disposition 
 of the man before me. 
 
 The various colloquies between Curtis and 
 myself may not unreasonably strike the reader 
 as somew^hat improbable, and bring to his or 
 her mind the well-known maxim, that one 
 used, by way of exercise, to record in one's 
 copying book in early days, '' Nimia familiari- 
 tatis contemptum parit," which, as a rule, one 
 should not ignore ; but my relations w^ith the 
 faithful Irishman have been brought about 
 under such very exceptional circumstances, 
 that I have not the heart to take him down 
 a "peg," seeing how he struggled day and 
 night to lift me up many pegs, and how far 
 he succeeded in landing me " high and dry " 
 on the shores of health, so I let him have the 
 full swing of his tether. The fellow, in his
 
 My own Reflections , and what followed. 109 
 
 own way, is a strange composition, and by no 
 means scrupulous in what he says, though his 
 judgment is sound, his intentions are good, 
 his heart is faithful. He has no motive in 
 the background other than affection for me ; 
 and should I be spared, he shall surely have 
 his reward, for, if I don't go to the front- 
 again, I will buy him out, and he and his 
 Tipperary consort shall find an asylum for 
 life in one of our lodges at home. 
 
 " Now tell me, Curtis," I said, letting my 
 weak body down as carefully as I could 
 into an antiquated arm-chair, covered with 
 dimity, "how fares 'Rob Roy'? Are his 
 wounds healing to your satisfaction ? " 
 
 " I thought how it would be. Ye just can't 
 breathe a bit, and ye are gasping away as 
 if it were the last morsel of air that's been 
 dealt out to ye ; and the perspiration, like 
 peas, is cropping all out on yer forehead 
 like the steam on the windows of Mother
 
 no A Virgin Widow, 
 
 Blarney's cook shop at AVoolwich ; and yer 
 legs seem as if they didn't belong to ye, 
 and are terrified out of their viry senses, for 
 they are shivering and shaking like evermore!" 
 
 "Any letters ? " I interrupt, not wishing 
 to continue the conversation. 
 
 " Faith, a pile of them in mail bag, sir, 
 and no mistake." 
 
 " Bravo ! " I reply. " By-the-bye, have you 
 heard, Curtis, from your people since you have 
 been here ? " 
 
 " People ! did ye say, master ? I have 
 but one blessed soul upon the face of the 
 earth that's got a thought for Mike Curtis, 
 and that is the Tipperary girl who took 
 advantage of me one fine morning, and 
 asked me if I had anything to part with ; 
 and I said to her, yer honour, * AVell, no- 
 thing, Biddy, worth having.' ' Haven't ye 
 now?' she said. 'Sure, then, 1 haven't,' I 
 replied. ' You don't mane it ? ' she con-
 
 My own Reflections, and what followed. 
 
 1 1 1 
 
 tinned, putting her arm round my neck 
 with the greatest possible affection. ' What 
 are ye after, ye little monkey ? ' ' Well,' 
 she said, ' I'm just come down from the 
 hills to ask ye, before ye go and put your- 
 self up as a target to be shot at, to leave 
 me a wee bit of something.' ' Sure, then, 
 Biddy,' I said, ' name what ye will, and if 
 it belongs to me, and sure my own property, 
 ye shall have it all.' ' No, Mike,' she said, 
 with hot tears in her eyes, ' it isn't all that 
 I want, 'tis only a half.' ' Out with it, 
 Biddy,' I replied, ' and don't ye be after 
 tazing me so.' * Well,' says she, again putting 
 both arms round my neck, ' if you will just 
 give me half yer name, and take the best 
 half yerself away with ye, ye will niver 
 regret it as long as ye live, for whilst ye 
 are in distant lands in the wars, no harm 
 shall ever come to yer name, anyhow, this 
 side of the wather, for Biddy Flanagan is
 
 112 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 as true as the finest gold, and, sure then, 
 don't ye know it, Mike ? ' I couldn't 
 doubt her words, yer honour ; her pretty 
 face and coral lips, and breath like the 
 fresh air on the mountain side, cheeks like 
 scarlet runners, and teeth as white as the 
 fox hounds in Squire Sweeny's kennels, did 
 the trick, sure enough ; faith I couldn't refuse 
 her at all, at all ; so I just caught her up 
 in my arms, sealed the bargain in a very 
 modest way upon her lips, put a life stamp, 
 as I call it, on the little document, and 
 registered it in heaven." 
 
 " Well," I said inquiringly ; '' go on, Curtis/' 
 
 " I just sent for Father O'Connor, sir, and 
 sure then we both relieved ourselves of all our 
 impiriictions ; and Biddy Flanagan, bless her t 
 relieved me of just one half of my name." 
 
 A pause. 
 
 " Proceed," 1 interrupted ; " let me have 
 the whole of the story."
 
 My own Reflections, and what followed. 113 
 
 " Twelve winters, yer honour, and twelve 
 summers have passed away, and my Biddy, 
 my rose of old Ireland, my shamrock of 
 Tipperary, kept her word, and Heaven knows 
 that Mike Curtis has kept his ; and though 
 tarnation big stones have rolled now and then 
 in our path, and blackthorns have sprung up 
 in our w^ay, w^e have got over them, and w^e 
 love each other now dearer than ever ; and 
 we both bless and riverance the day that 
 Father O'Connor cut my name in a half." 
 
 Another full stop. 
 
 " I am charmed, Curtis, with your graphic 
 description of the past and present ; may 
 your future, my good fellow, partake of the 
 fragrance of the same lovely spring flowers 
 that you culled in early life," I said, forget- 
 ting for the moment to wdiom I was speakings 
 
 " I am not ' up,' yer honour, in flowery 
 language, but I am ' up,' to many things 
 though, as ye know. I am up to ' snuff,* 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 114 A Virgin Widow, 
 
 and ' up ' to doing a tiny bit of good when 
 I can get the chance, and I am ' up ' to 
 give ye this advice, yer honour, if I may 
 be allowed most respictfully to offer it ; it 
 is this : — if ye hever marry that blessed 
 Nora that I've heard ye talk so much about 
 in yer sleep, or the Daisy darling lying in 
 yon chamber, just come to me, and, if you 
 won't despise poor Mike's advice, I'll tell ye 
 a thing or two that clenched our happiness, 
 — that pickled it in the very best of pickles, 
 and made it keep ! " 
 
 " All right, old fellow," I said complacently ; 
 ^' run downstairs now and get my dinner in 
 an hour, during which time I wish to be quiet." 
 
 Although we had entirely (by my wish) 
 dropped '' shop " since my illness, Mike pulled 
 himself together, saluted me, then "right 
 about turn," " left wheel," and he marched 
 down the back stairs, humming the tune of — 
 " The drl I left behind me."
 
 CHAPTER YL 
 
 CAETHEWIN CASTLE. 
 
 If travellers hailing from the north take 
 train at Gloucester, or those from the south 
 via Bristol, New Passage, cross the Severn 
 to Portskewet, and from thence book for 
 
 the primitive little village of , they will, 
 
 on arriving at their destination, find them- 
 selves within two miles of Carthewin Castle, 
 a tall turreted castellated building, formerly 
 the residence of the traditional Macdonnell 
 family of chivalrous renown, who maintained 
 the fame of their ancestors, and whose de- 
 scendants, so late as the present generation? 
 endeavoured (conjointly with the lamented
 
 1 1 6 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 Jlarl of ) to revive the tournament, in 
 
 which, however, they signally failed, very 
 much to the disappointment of a large 
 number of young noblemen and squires of 
 notoriety, who were prepared to throw their 
 heart, soul, and w^ealth into the pastime, 
 and, in a modified form, at the flourish of 
 clarions and trumpets, array such a goodly 
 host of knights-errant, and others, as ever 
 bore lance point fair against the shield and 
 crest of opposing forces. 
 
 Carthewin Castle and manor have long 
 since passed into other hands ; in 1740 it 
 was sold by private contract to one Percy 
 St Clare Townsend, a gentleman then full of 
 years, and who did not long survive the 
 purchase. He, however, left issue, and the 
 present owner (of whom w^e shall have to 
 speak) is the grandson, in direct line ; his 
 name is Godfrey Townsend. He married 
 twice ; by his first wife he had one daughter.
 
 Cart hew in Castle. 1 1 7 
 
 Nora — now living ; by his second wife, one 
 •daughter, Gertrude, their ages being twenty- 
 two and fourteen years respectively. 
 
 It will be well, perhaps, for the present, 
 not to dilate in great minuteness on the 
 personal attractions of Nora and Gertrude, as 
 in giving a description in detail, it is quite 
 possible that one or the other of those fair 
 •daughters of England may unintentionally be 
 placed slightly in the shade. Suffice it to say 
 that they are two beautiful girls, — the elder 
 is stepping on the borders of womanhood, 
 and already feeling the sunshine of bright and 
 Jiappy prospects, also the effect produced by 
 the gathering of some of life's dark clouds, 
 that have been and are still hoverino^ over her. 
 ■She is of a highly-sensitive disposition, which, 
 united with remarkable talent and grace of 
 manner, simple demeanour and unaffected 
 hoiihomie always make her a special favourite. 
 
 The younger is of tender years ; — like a
 
 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 rosebud, just opening and spreading its tinted 
 leaves before the warmth of a summer's morn ; 
 the rude tempest has not yet nipped a leaf; 
 no cold nights have robbed it of its beauty 
 and fragrance ; it is yet under culture, un- 
 folding more and more, advancing step by 
 step, by careful manipulation, to maturity. 
 Who will pluck it ? — nourish it when gathered, 
 and protect it from the wild blast of the 
 world ? Echo answers — Who ? 
 
 Of the virtues of these twain — " bloom and 
 bud " — let silence for once be the character- 
 istic feature, until events, past, present, and 
 future, are recorded, — words spoken in love 
 and anger are revealed ; and actions, which 
 speak louder than any words, leave their sure 
 and certain mark behind ; then, and not until 
 then, will the reader have a clear perception 
 of the love, charity, virtue, and shortcomings 
 of the two half-sisters, Nora and Gertrude. 
 
 Just one passing tribute to the memory of
 
 Carthewin Castle. r r 9 
 
 Nora's mother. She was a lady horn and 
 bred ; of the most refined taste ; endowed 
 with inestimable virtues ; of a gentle and for- 
 bearing disposition, and a mind susceptible of 
 the most elevated and generous impressions, 
 with a pious and sensitive heart. She loved 
 her husband with all the tenderness of her 
 fond nature ; her hopes were centred in her 
 only child, who was the pride of her life ; and 
 last, but not least, in the strictest sense of the 
 w^ord, she loved her neighbour. But a black 
 east wind, " many and many a year ago," 
 chilled the parent flower ; the keen blast 
 withered the stalk, killing the root ; it 
 drooped, and bent its head submissively to 
 the Divine will ; the leaves fell one by one, 
 but they left a fragrance behind that will 
 hang around the scenes of her loving me- 
 mory, — the little offshoot, with its blossom, 
 was separated from the standard. That 
 blossom is Nora, the heroine of our tale.
 
 I20 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 Mr Townsend remained single for seven 
 years; but when his child began to grow up, 
 his stringent resolution as to celibacy relaxed 
 by degrees, and he ultimately became enam- 
 oured of a lady in Cumberland, one Julia 
 Kodway, daughter of a rich banker, to whom 
 he w^as married, it is said, with some j)i'ecipi- 
 tation. Her jointure being large, she brought 
 increased wealth to coffers already well filled, 
 and in course of time presented her husband 
 with a daughter, of wdiom we have already 
 spoken. 
 
 There is nothing particular to be said, by 
 way of preliminary, of Godfrey .Townsend, 
 except that he is deserving the appellation 
 commonly given, of being 
 
 "A fine old English gentleman. 
 One of tlie olden time," 
 
 a kind-hearted, genial, easy-going country 
 squire, with eight thousand broad acres sur- 
 rounding his noble domain. He has been
 
 Carthezvin Castle. 1 2 i 
 
 a thorough fox-hunting man in his early 
 days, and always ignored "doing" the lanes, 
 when rattling good fences had to be negoti- 
 ated. He rode clever Irish horses, that could 
 " top " exorbitant walls and big fences in a 
 banking country in fine form and fashion ; he 
 was a capital shot, and, what is more, a keen 
 sportsman ; and, in his day, a steady bat and 
 good oar. He entertained his friends hos]3it- 
 ably, and always relished the society of men 
 wdio spoke the truth, lived correctly ; and 
 who hated anything approaching humbug. 
 His manners were refined and courteous. 
 Through life he had mingled with the world 
 in all its facial attractions, and felt its 
 pleasures, excitement, and dangers. He was 
 never known to suffer his steward to put the 
 *' screw," so to speak, upon any of his poorer 
 tenants. If, from accident, or through any 
 unforeseen circumstance, they couldn't, with a 
 long family, make a "do" of it, he came per-
 
 122 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 sonally to the rescue, found the rusty nail 
 that was choking the mill, extracted it, re- 
 paired the internal arrangements, oiled the 
 wheels, set the mill again in motion, and 
 made many hearts glad. He was a staunch 
 friend to the poor widow, — a prop to the 
 fatherless, — a refuge for the oppressed ; his 
 friendship lasting, and his counsel sought for 
 and valued. Such, in the abstract, is the 
 character of Nora's father. AVhether it was 
 sound judgment to venture upon a second 
 marriage, and thus mix the family of children, 
 or, in other words, the "brood," is a matter 
 which will probably be disclosed in the forth- 
 coming pages ; though one must not disregard 
 the old aphorism and philosophical household 
 words, that " all things that happen are for 
 the best." This, however, requires qualify- 
 ing, and to which should be added, — Pro- 
 vided we endeavour to do what is risht.
 
 Caiiheiuin Castle. 123 
 
 The trees are in leaf, the shrubs are in 
 flower, and the birds are in song : it is the 
 middle of May. The green slopes in the 
 home park, stretching away for two or three 
 miles, intersected here and there with a wide 
 drive or footpath, are covered with rich pas- 
 turage. The silent deer, in small herds, are 
 dotted about over the land ; at the sound of 
 noise, or any unusual sight, they lightly 
 tread, and with a jaunty air move slowly 
 and majestically on, following the stag; as the 
 noise increases, or the strange object draws 
 near, they bound away together, and fly up 
 over the sideland, like "chafl" before the wind." 
 
 Carthewin Castle stands on a promontory 
 half way up the park ; it is surrounded by 
 a wide terrace, and approached by three 
 lodge entrances of the most remote architec- 
 ture, and from the south side, through an 
 avenue of cedars of Lebanon ; on the north- 
 ern l)oundary, at some distance, are rocks,
 
 124 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 precipices, brakes, and thickets, which ter- 
 minate in a wild mountainous country, knee 
 deep in gorse and heather, with here aud 
 there a well-trodden path or rugged defile. 
 
 The sun rises with great glory over the 
 vast domain, and throws his brilliant rays 
 into the east rooms of Carthewin Castle long 
 before the inmates are stirrino; • higher and 
 higher he rises over the giant elms and oaks 
 in the park, throwing gaunt shadows on the 
 green sward beneath, where the deer are 
 nipping off the young grass, which is bathed 
 in dew, and the fawns are gaily sporting 
 with each other in the early sunshine. 
 
 The notes of the blackbird and thrush are 
 heard almost in every direction. The cry 
 of the curlew sounds in the distance, and 
 the lambs are careering on the green knolls. 
 The pretty swallow is skimming overhead, 
 and with graceful sweep, scoops the air, now 
 poised, as it were, high up, then fluttering
 
 Carthewin Castle. 125 
 
 in a promiscuous kind of way, and darting 
 on all sides, he is soon out of sight ; others 
 are homeward bound, industriously engaged 
 in making endless journeys to some favourite 
 spot, where suitable building materials are to 
 be found for the erection of their granite-like 
 dwellings. What lessons of industry they 
 teach ! how cruel to destroy their little home- 
 steads, those exquisite pieces of architecture 
 and fruits of so much labour. 
 
 Later in the day, in the quaint old library 
 of Carthewin Castle were seated the lord of 
 the manor and his consort. The former was 
 taking a cursory glance at the contents of 
 some dusty book he had found on the top 
 range ; but now and then he paused, and in 
 a careless kind of way turned over the leaves, 
 not reading a single line. A person of quick 
 discernment would arrive at the conclusion 
 that his attention was much divided — in 
 other words, that he was considerably lost
 
 126 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 in thought. His spouse was seated on a 
 low lounging chair, with several rich velvet 
 cushions pillowed luxuriously at her back, 
 and her feet were resting on an embroidered 
 footstool, by the side of which were curled 
 up two French poodle dogs (tres hiancs), 
 their tiny heads resting on their paws, whilst 
 their round, limpid black eyes took in every 
 movement in the room with considerable 
 accuracy ; dogs, no doubt, think unutterable 
 things sometimes, and not unfrequently carry 
 out their thoughts by way of sympathy or 
 otherwise. 
 
 Mrs Townsend was busily engaged " casting 
 on" some wool knitting; her attentiou, too, 
 was divided. She was trying to count the 
 stitches in a restless manner, but for the life 
 of her she could not arrive at a satisfactory 
 conclusion. 
 
 " Things are come now to a pretty pass, 
 upon my word," said Mrs Townsend, trying
 
 Carthewin Castle, 127 
 
 m. 
 
 another count, and drawing herself up with 
 an elevated demeanour. 
 
 Poodle number one wagged his tail 
 approvingly. 
 
 " Can't you make it right, Julia ? " said 
 her husband, carelessly looking over his gold 
 spectacles. 
 
 " I am not speaking of my work, Godfrey." 
 
 " What, then, love ? " affectionately. 
 
 " Your daughter, sir." 
 
 " Our daughter, you mean, dear," signifi- 
 cantly. 
 
 " Indeed, I do not ; I have never taken 
 upon myself that immense responsibility, 
 Mr T.; and at my time of life, and delicate 
 state of healtli, it is hardly likely that I am 
 going to try the experiment at this juncture." 
 
 " Juncture ! — what juncture ? " 
 
 " Climax, if you prefer it," continued Mrs 
 Townsend, trying another count. 
 
 " Climax !— AVhat climax ? "
 
 128 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 " Fatality, then — anything you like," snap- 
 pishly. 
 
 " Fatality ! Good heavens ! Julia, what 
 do—" 
 
 " Oh yes, of course, you pretend not to 
 comjDrehend my meaning, Godfrey ; very 
 convenient sometimes." 
 
 " I don't, upon my soul. I — " 
 
 " Hush, Mr T. I wish you would not 
 be so fond of talking so lightly about your 
 soul. We cannot have a little rational con- 
 versation together on domestic matters with- 
 out your introducing, in the most frivolous 
 manner, that invisible part of you." 
 
 "Now, don't put yourself in a pet, dear. 
 You know it makes you cough and ill for 
 days. I will endeavour for the future to 
 keep my soul to myself," said Mr Towns- 
 end, smiling ; " but tell me, what about this 
 'juncture,' 'climax,' and 'fatality'?" 
 
 " Have you seen your daughter this morn-
 
 Carthewin Castle. 
 
 129 
 
 irig; ? " said Mrs Town send, at the same time 
 winding off some wool with great rapidity. 
 
 '' I have not had that pleasure yet," re- 
 plied Mr Townsend. ** I am afraid she is 
 seriously indisposed ; indeed, I know the 
 announcement of the death of poor Snow- 
 don has been a crushing blow to her." 
 
 '' Crushing fiddlesticks ! " interrupted Mrs 
 Townsend. " Crushing blow, indeed ! " 
 
 " In the midst of it all," continued God- 
 frey, " I feel for Nora with all my heart ; 
 and if I had ever dreamt of young Snowdon 
 turning out such a noble and brave fellow 
 on the battlefield, I would never have with- 
 held my sanction to their marriage ; he should 
 have had Nora, he should, ujDon my so — " 
 
 *' There you are again, with your soul," inter- 
 rupted Mrs Townsend warmly; *' fie upon you!" 
 " Pardon me, Julia, I feel strongly in this 
 matter, and therefore, perhaps, speak some- 
 what hastily." 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 130 A Vu'gin Widow. 
 
 '' And indiscreetly, Godfrey." 
 
 " Probably I do ; but you must make 
 allowances for a father's feelings." 
 
 " Yes, Godfrey," replied Mrs Townsend, 
 with evident signs of temper, " and there are 
 very considerable allowances to be made for 
 a mother s feelings ; but that, of course, does 
 not for a moment occur to you." 
 
 " Julia," said Mr Townsend, taking off his 
 spectacles, and slipping them leisurely into a 
 tortoise-shell case, which he closed with some 
 emphasis, " let us, as man and wife, reason 
 together. Difficulties have, no doubt, been 
 created throuorh a little indiscretion on the 
 part of Nora ; but to ^ err is human,' and the 
 very best of us fall short of the landmarks 
 that are placed for our guidance. Her pre- 
 sent sorrow, the cup of which is running 
 over, is known only to her j)oor heart : it 
 has sprung up in a brief season ; her sensitive 
 nature has yielded to the withering blow,
 
 CartJiewin Castle. 131 
 
 struck by a mighty hand. Let us go, clear, 
 to the rescue ; like the father who met his 
 prodigal son, let us, as far as we can, en- 
 deavour to bind up the broken heart, first 
 of all removing the worm that is preying 
 upon it." 
 
 *' But she absolutely refuses to come near 
 us, Godfrey, — locks herself in her boudoir, 
 and w^ill see none of the household but her 
 maid, who, in all matters, is ridiculously 
 reticent : it is simply monstrous ! " 
 
 " The bird, Julia, that is wounded will 
 naturally flutter and limp away to the first 
 hedgerow, and will there conceal the damage 
 it has received, suff*ering in loneliness, whils 
 its life-blood is slowly ebbing away." 
 
 " It is no use talking," replied Mrs Towns- 
 end ; "I have not common patience with 
 Nora. First of all she had no rio-ht, without 
 our sanction, to form an attachment with a 
 young man of such small pretensions, and one
 
 132 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 who was not, strictly speaking, a 'county' 
 man, — whose pedigree, as far as I can ascer- 
 tain, cannot be traced back, with any degree 
 of certainty, beyond his grandfather ; and 
 his mother's antecedents, judging from what 
 I heard the other day at Lady Bole's, are 
 very questionable indeed. To think that your 
 Nora — the lovely and accomplished Nora, as 
 you designate her — should have so far de- 
 scended in the scale of society as to clama 
 our name by the introduction of a person 
 of somewhat obscure origin into our circle, 
 is really most provoking and heartrending." 
 
 " Not likely in your case," said Mr Towns- 
 end, sotto voce. 
 
 " Did you speak, Mr T. ? " 
 
 ''No, dear, at least nothing of importance," 
 was the meek rejoinder. 
 
 " I don't relish that mumbling to your- 
 self, Godfrey : that vague way you have of 
 apostrophising words is most objectionable ;
 
 CartJiewin Castle. 133 
 
 I prefer hearing in a loud and audible voice 
 what you have to say ; in short, I positively 
 detest such smothering of language ; it is not 
 kind to keep from me anything that is in 
 your heart." 
 
 " Years ago, Julia, I gave you all that 
 was there. You then thought that an ex- 
 change of hearts, so to speak, would not be 
 altogether amiss. You promised to be a fond 
 mother to my Nora ; she was to be your 
 child, as well as mine. Her every reasonable 
 desire you undertook to grant ; her educa- 
 tion to superintend ; her general training 
 to cultivate ; and, in fine, to launch the 
 motherless child in the world, as an 
 ornament to society. How far you have 
 iiuted up to those solemn promises, you best 
 know." 
 
 " I have been a good wife to you, Godfrey, 
 and a good mother to our dauo-hter Ger- 
 trude," said Mrs Townsend, aspiring to tears,
 
 134 ^ Virgin Widow. 
 
 in which piece of performance, both poodles 
 contributed and sympathised immensely. 
 
 " You have been, I grant, fond and true," 
 continued Mr Townsend, " and I trust I know 
 how to value a heart that is, and has been, 
 wholly mine. I am not unmindful, Julia, of 
 all your goodness, or insensible of my debt 
 of gratitude ; and if there have been any 
 shortcomings on your part in the attention 
 which I reasonably looked for as due to 
 Nora, it is partly counterbalanced by your 
 unbounded and undying love for our daughter 
 Gertrude ; but," continued Mr Townsend, 
 walking over to his wife, and placing his 
 hand affectionately on her shoulder, " re- 
 member, Julia, in the chancel of yonder 
 church, under that white marble monument 
 which we look upon every Sal)batb, there 
 lies the mother of my Nora, the fond parent 
 who adored her child, — who clung to the 
 little offshoot even in the agony of death, —
 
 Carthewin Castle, 
 
 entwined her infant hands around her neck, 
 and then, with eyes beaming with love and 
 admiration for her suckling^, she handed the 
 charge upon trust to me, with these words, — 
 * Take her, thine ow^n, Godfrey. God in His 
 benignity has considered it wise to separate 
 the branch from the tree : it is, however, only 
 for a short time ; the germ will not die, it 
 will quicken again ; the sap will sjDriug up ; 
 and we, I trust, shall be reunited ! but in 
 the interim that may be accorded you and 
 our beloved offspring, for the affection you 
 bear me, for the vows you plighted, religi- 
 ously discharge your promise, by the careful 
 culture of our beloved daughter ; and God- 
 frey, dear, let me implore you, whilst your 
 paternal roof shelters our child, the object 
 of my most earnest solicitation, whilst you 
 temper your love with the seeds of indulgence 
 and your correction with duty, sow them, 
 Godfrey, by way of example, in good ground,
 
 136 A Virgin Widow, 
 
 that our daughter, as she grows into woman- 
 hood, may see the fruits of your work, and 
 reap a rich reward from them. Above all, 
 be " Firm as a Eock ! " ' Those," continued 
 Mr Townsend, in a solemn voice, " w^ere 
 my lamented and ever-beloved wife's last 
 Avords," and burying his massive head in 
 both hands, he left the room.
 
 CHAPTER VI I. 
 
 OUR HEROINE. 
 
 *^ She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, 
 And lovers around her are sighing ; 
 But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, 
 For her heart in his grave is lying. 
 
 She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, 
 
 Every note which he loved awaking ; 
 Ah ! little they think who delight in her strains. 
 
 How the heart of the minstrel is breaking. 
 
 He had lived for his love, for his country he died. 
 These were all that to life had entwined him ; 
 
 'Nov soon shall the tears of his country be dried, 
 "N"or long will his love stay behind him." 
 
 Jloore. 
 
 Spring, in all its beauty, has now fully 
 appeared. The dark and russet - brown 
 branches of the oak, elm, and ash have 
 put on their summer clothing ; the buds 
 have unfolded into leaf ; the orchards and
 
 13^ A Virgin Widow. 
 
 kitchen gardens are gay with the richest 
 blossoms, which, at every rude gust of wind, 
 throw off a shower of varieo^ated leaves which 
 cumber the ground ; privet and common 
 hedgerows are thickly set ; holly berries, 
 that have fed so many birds through a 
 dreary winter, have now well - niofh dis- 
 appeared ; ivy berries have changed colour, 
 and are ripening fast ; large pink and white 
 May trees stand boldly forth, here and 
 there, and seem to vie with each other for 
 supremacy. There are old feelings, old asso- 
 ciations, happy reminiscences of our child- 
 hood entwined, as it were, around the 
 branches of those May trees. Perhaps we 
 have sported under their shadow ; have 
 climbed to their limbs and summit, at the 
 cost of many a severe scratch and tumble \ 
 have culled from the hard-wooded branchlet 
 pretty bits for a mother, sister, or lover ; 
 and we have enjoyed their sweet fragrance
 
 Our Heroine. 1 39 
 
 in the o-loamino; of a summer's eve, when 
 the o'entle breeze carried with it an odorous 
 perfume, which spoke its own language, 
 denoting the time of year, the bright and 
 happy season, opening in all its loveliness 
 and elegance before us ! 
 
 The birds, too, with their wild, delicious 
 notes, pour forth brilliant renderings of sweet 
 summer's sonor, answerino; each other from 
 the lilac bush to the orchard, the orchard 
 to the meadow, the meadow to the shrubbery, 
 the shrubbery to the park, where the high 
 notes of our beautiful sougster, the thrush, 
 as he lifts his little beak towards heaven, 
 arrests the traveller's attention, awakening 
 the soul of the lover of nature to a keen 
 sense of the supreme work of the Creator, 
 as he listens and enjoys the amenity of the 
 wild songs of the birds, — admires the gay 
 clothing of the trees, — the rich verdure on 
 which he is treading, — the ultramarine vault
 
 140 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 above, with its silvery clouds floating silently 
 overhead ; and the broad, glassy trout stream 
 beneath, on the bosom of which majestically 
 sail before the wind the lady of the lake 
 and her consort, those beautiful wdiite 
 swans, decked out in the richest of plum- 
 age. All this is lovely to behold : such 
 sounds are cbarmino; to the ear ; such siohts 
 delightful to the eye, and food for the mind. 
 It wants no enthusiastic soaring of the 
 imagination to contemplate this supreme 
 work : it is before us in all its glorious 
 reality ; and one cannot but pity the unfor- 
 tunate individual whose soul falls short of 
 realising its splendour ! 
 
 It was a delig-htful eveninc^, with such 
 surroundings as described, that a beautiful 
 girl, draped in the deepest crape, sauntered 
 along the banks of the glassy lake. The 
 young May moon, with pale-faced crescent, 
 faintly beamed on the dusky form that glided
 
 Our Heroine. 141 
 
 noiselessly across the sward ; the birds were 
 singing their dulce domum, ever so sweetly; 
 the lambs in the meadow \vere skipping 
 blithely round their mothers, whose long 
 fleeces of wooL denoted the approaching 
 season for shearing. 
 
 But who is this beautiful girl in black, 
 with the pensive countenance, pallid face, 
 and golden hair flowing over her craped 
 shoulders, gazing so abstractedly on the 
 shadows of the huge trees, as they swayed 
 to and fro ? It is Nora, the heiress of 
 Carthewin Castle. Draw closer, friendly 
 reader, nearer and nearer to her heart and 
 thoughts. She is lonely and sad, for — 
 
 " Her heart for her minstrel is breakino;." 
 
 "Happy couple," soliloquised Nora, as her 
 eyes dreamily followed the swaus, wdio grace- 
 fully breasted the stream towards her, stretch- 
 ing forth their crane-like necks in the hope
 
 142 A Virgin Widow, 
 
 of receivinor the usual broken biscuit from 
 her gentle hand. " Happiness itself,'" said 
 she ; " would that I could take at this mo- 
 ment such spotless plumage as thine, and 
 glide away with you twain on these peace- 
 ful waters, and so get rid of the tearing 
 pains of anguish I am enduring. It seems 
 but yesterday, dear birds, that my lamented 
 Percy enticingly stretched forth his hand to 
 feed you. Little did I think that the ' crumbs 
 of comfort ' which you eagerly took were to 
 be his last offering. Oft in the summer's 
 eve, in the gloaming, have we traversed these 
 paths together. It was here, by this cooling 
 stream, we plighted our love ; it was here 
 we invoked Heaven to grant us our desire, 
 and make us one. The dark clouds parted 
 in the firmament, the sun smiled upon us, 
 the atmosphere cleared, the summer looked 
 gay, the birds were in song, and oh, how 
 happy we were ! But the new moon came,
 
 Oitr Heroine. 143 
 
 and with it dense clouds ; and then I walked 
 these banks alone — my noble boy, my be- 
 loved , and yet not my , went to 
 
 the wars ; darkness truly has set in on the 
 early morn of my life, on the spring-tide 
 of my womanhood, and left me sad and 
 desolate." 
 
 " Desolate ! " said a deep-toned voice, 
 that seemed to echo through the colonnade 
 of trees, " desolate ! dost say, girl ? " con- 
 tinued the lord of the soil, who had crept 
 lip unobserved ; '' come, come, I'll have none 
 of this ; desolation is unknown whilst the 
 owner of Carthewin Castle and his fair 
 daughters' voices can ring in the hall of 
 our forefathers ; come, come, Nora, throw 
 dull sorrow away, tear the veil of grief 
 from thy sad heart." 
 
 " My beloved father," sobbed Nora, " my 
 heart will surely break." 
 
 " Your mind, my child, can be read on
 
 144 ^ Virgin Widow. 
 
 your brow. I know all about your trouble, 
 Nora, and from my very soul I sympathise 
 with you, because I feel that I have helped 
 to bring it about, by allow^ing Snowdon to 
 go to the Crimea ; but have courage, child, 
 have courage." 
 
 " You don't know all about my trouble, 
 dear father, and it is impossible for you to 
 sympathise with me, utterly impossible. I 
 must bear that grief to myself: it is of my 
 own seeking. The thunderbolt has struck 
 the child of disobedience, and the lightning 
 of God's vengeance has rent my heart ia 
 twain." 
 
 " That is precisely w^hat He does, Nora, 
 to the children of disobedience, to humble 
 them before He binds up the broken heart 
 again," said Mr Tow^nsend, gently placing 
 his arm around his sobbing child's neck. 
 
 '* My own dear father," gasped Nora, 
 resting her head on his broad manly breast.
 
 Gur Heroine. 145 
 
 and raising her liquid blue eyes full in his 
 face in the most pitiful manner, 
 
 ''Come, come, my daughter, what ails 
 thee ? Have done, have done, or thy 
 mother's spirit will come from her grave to 
 us." 
 
 " Hush, dear father," said the trembling 
 girl, timidly looking around in all directions, 
 " speak that name beneath the breath ; I 
 have offered an indignity to her memory ; I 
 have not adhered to her written injunctions, 
 — that letter containing a stream of never- 
 endino^ love. Her affectionate warnino- her 
 anxiety for me, has been ignored ; all of 
 which I should have treasured up in my 
 mind as a beacon wherein I could find 
 shelter when no other counsel was near. 
 Oh, how richly do I deserve the pain and 
 sorrow which I now endure ! Had you 
 listened to my earnest pleadings, father, 1 — " 
 
 "Be calm, my daughter, be calm; it is 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 146 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 never too late to mend. Your voice, your 
 language, your very look denote reparation. 
 The fountain of your heart is flowing in the 
 right direction. I breathe more freely. I 
 have you still, my own dear child, by my 
 side, unsullied, untouched by the rough 
 hand of time, and in all your youthful 
 simplicity. Look into my face, show me 
 those features where the reflex of thy 
 lamented mother is portrayed in all its 
 grace and beauty." 
 
 Nora tore herself from her father's embrace, 
 stepped from him two or three paces, pressed 
 back with both hands the waving wealth of 
 hair that had fallen promiscuously over her 
 face, and said vehemently, — 
 
 '' I cannot, I dare not receive another 
 caress until I have told you all ; yes, all, 
 dear father. T am undeserving the confidence 
 you reposed in me ; I must hasten from your 
 presence until a suitable opportunity presents
 
 Our Heroine. i^^j 
 
 itself for disclosing to you, sir, how far I have 
 forfeited your love and esteem." 
 
 There was a bewildering pause. A shudder 
 ran through the bulky frame of Godfrey 
 Townsend as the last words fell from the 
 quivering lips of his daughter. The shrill, 
 well-remembered voice of his termagant wife 
 rang out the words, as it were, ''juncture!" 
 ''' climax ! " and " fatality ! " The blood rushed 
 to his face and back ag-ain to his heart with 
 
 o 
 
 mighty force, leaving a countenance deadly 
 pale. The soft rays from the young moon fell 
 faintly on father and child as they stood 
 gazing tearfully at each other in distressing 
 silence. 
 
 Nora was about to fly from her parentis 
 presence, when he intercepted her, and draw- 
 ing himself up with an elevated demeanour, 
 he pointed to the turreted castle and battle- 
 ments that stood out in bold relief under 
 the woodland, and said, —
 
 148 A Virg-in Widow. 
 
 " Listen to me, Nora, listen to what I have 
 to say. Mark well, and inwardly digest. In 
 yonder walls, from time out of mind, our 
 people have lived and brought up their chil- 
 dren with credit and distinction ; not one dark 
 spot has ever stained the escutcheon of our 
 family ; and if a blemish is to sully our 
 fair name, then truly your father's grey hairs 
 will go dow^n in sorrow to the grave. Speak, 
 child, I implore you." 
 
 Nora appeared riveted to the earth, and,, 
 with hands clasped, was lost in silent reverie. 
 She listened to the solemn words of her 
 father ; she was a witness to his disturbed 
 state of mind. She realised her position in 
 all its intensity, and felt that the "juncture," 
 the "climax," and the "fatality" had arrived 
 with a vengeance. Now, or never, must the 
 secret be disclosed. 
 
 There was another long pause. Not a 
 sound could be heard except the delicious
 
 Our Heroine. 1 49 
 
 notes of the black-caj) warbler on a dis- 
 tant bough of a tree, who poured forth 
 from his little throat a shower of diamonds 
 that echoed through the valley of the 
 park. 
 
 " Say on, Nora, say on ; I am impatient ; 
 I am prepared for the worst," said Mr Towns- 
 end, tattooing the ground with his foot in 
 an excited state. 
 
 " Lord give me strength ! " murmured Nora, 
 placing her hand upon her heart, which was 
 violently beating. " Father, dear father, I — 
 I— I—" 
 
 " I what ? " shouted Mr Townsend. 
 
 " I what ? " again interrupted her father 
 vehemently. 
 
 " I — I am a widow ! " 
 *' A widow ! Nora ? " dubiously. 
 "Yes, sir, a widow!" impressively. 
 ^'Oh! is that all?"
 
 150 A Vii'gin Widow. 
 
 " All ? I do not comprehend you," rejoined 
 Nora, sobbing loudly. 
 
 •' Only married ? " continued Mr Towns- 
 end, evidently greatly relieved. 
 
 '* Married, sir, and yet not married," timidly.. 
 
 " Legally, Nora ? " 
 
 ^'Legally." 
 
 " Where ? " said Mr Townsend eagerly. 
 
 " At the registrar's office." 
 
 " When ? " anxiously. 
 
 " Ten minutes before, we parted for ever."" 
 
 " God be praised it is no worse ! " ejacu- 
 lated Mr Townsend. " I comprehend it all." 
 
 Then — father and child were locked in 
 each other's arms. 
 
 The weight of trouble that had pressed so- 
 heavily on Nora's heart is lifted ; the secret 
 known only to herself and a lady friend is 
 disclosed. The fond parent whose heart 
 thumped so loudly against the pale face of
 
 Oitr Heroine. 1 5 1 
 
 the '' Virgin Widow," has not, in the hour 
 of intense grief, turned from her with the 
 ominous word — Begone ! He is still the tree 
 of her life, so to speak, whose branches she 
 can cling to, whose shelter she can seek when 
 the blasts of the world drive her to look for 
 repose under its boughs ; or when the clouds 
 of adversity, sickness, or sorrow shall gather 
 around her, she can climb to its centre, and 
 nestle there as in days of yore ! 
 
 Poor Nora, she had no mother to counsel 
 her ! — no fond parent, at that sure and certain 
 age of life when the young mind, green as 
 the twig just cut, can be bent to any 
 shape ; like the ivy that promiscuously forces 
 its way through an aperture in the wall, can 
 be trained by a careful hand and watchful 
 eye in the way it should go. Though Nora's 
 governess, a lady of rank and high attainments, 
 had brought her acquirements to bear upon 
 her pupil, yet the fringe only of her gentle
 
 152 A Virgiit Widow. 
 
 nature could be touched, the heart coukl not 
 be reached, and its inmost recesses searched 
 and purified by any other person with the 
 same precision and results as by the tender 
 manipulation of a mother, who can, in most 
 cases, mysteriously define the way her off- 
 spring should go ; whilst a stranger, however 
 estimable, talented, virtuous, and loving she 
 may be, will fall considerably short of the mark. 
 So it was with the Honourable Mrs Mac- 
 kenzie, who had the conduct of Nora's ad- 
 vancement. This lady seemed charged with 
 determination, and with the important duty 
 of educating her pupil to opera pitch ; or, 
 in other words, to the highest pressure. It 
 was study, study, from Monday morning 
 until Saturday night, — the same old story 
 over and over again, with little intermission 
 or recreation. At last it became exceedingly 
 painful: the constant ''cramming" surfeited 
 Nora's young mind. As the morning dawned,
 
 Otir Heroine. 153 
 
 instead of bringing with it sunshine, happi- 
 ness, health, and spirits, the days seemed 
 irksome. She longed for other scenes, for 
 the sunny side of life, for a heart she could 
 €all her own, and her flesh cried aloud for 
 rescue. 
 
 When Nora was seven years of age, her 
 stepmother cast her anchor within the walls 
 of Carthewin Castle, — a lady, be it said, of 
 considerable talent and personal attractions, 
 who w^as always looked upon in Cumberland 
 as a thorough "blue stocking," and who, at 
 one time, was likely to remain true to 
 her maiden name for the rest of her days. 
 Though on her preferment, and in the prime 
 of her life, none of her relations or friends 
 €ver dreamt of her (using a homely phrase) 
 " settling " in life. Her nephews and nieces 
 adored their maiden Aunt Julia : she was 
 such a "jolly good soul." They never went 
 to see her without a ten-pound note was
 
 154 ^ Virgin Widow. 
 
 quietly slipped into some pocket, which was 
 conveniently left open for the occasion ; or 
 the folds of the dress so arranged that there 
 was not much difficulty in finding a safe 
 repository for " sovereign remedies ! " 
 
 Apropos of marriage, ladies not unfre- 
 quently change their minds, and they have, 
 undoubtedly, a right so to do. At one time, 
 Julia did not altogether believe in men : she 
 considered them vain, selfish creatures, and 
 abominable deceivers ; there was only one 
 dear soul on the face of the earth, in her 
 estimation, who was worth a " rag," and that 
 was her father, Cuthbert Rodway, old " Ready 
 Money," as the people used in vulgar par- 
 lance to call him, a kind of sobriquet which 
 he rather liked than otherwise, for he was 
 never known to be annoyed with anyone 
 for taking such flxmiliarity. But the said 
 father could not live for ever, and in the 
 usual course of events, in the affluxion of
 
 Oit7^ Heroine. i 5 5 
 
 time, he departed this life, full of years, 
 greatly respected, and much beloved ! at 
 least history so records it on piles of black- 
 edged cards, which were freely circulated at 
 the time. Legatees too, placed their hands 
 significantly on their hearts, and spoke in 
 the hiohest and most endearino- terms of 
 the lamented Mr E., and the "reward that 
 w\as surely his. " There was another class, 
 too, that spoke freely and unreservedly, some 
 disappointed "loafers," wdiose pockets are 
 turned inside out, as an emblem of dissatis- 
 faction ; this very " select circle " are rather 
 sceptical as to the whereabouts or repose of 
 the soul of old " Ready Money ; " they shake 
 their heads ominously, and express their 
 views freely that things w^ould, no doubt, 
 have been better wdth the late proprietor of 
 " Eodway Hall," had he remembered them 
 in a corner of his will ! 
 
 Nevertheless Cuthbert Eodway was a good
 
 156 A Virgin Widow. ' 
 
 tnan in tlie eyes of the world ! He was a 
 fond parent, an excellent friend, and good 
 to the poor ; therefore, peace to his memory ! 
 
 At the death of her father, Julia, with a 
 quarter of a million of the current coin of 
 the realm, began to revolve in her mind 
 as to whether there could not be found in 
 the county a thoroughly reliable, present- 
 able, and, in every sense, advantageous 
 suitor. So Julia, in cours(3 of time, just 
 at that period w^hen it w\as " becoming," the 
 " correct thing," and the usual formalities 
 had been scrupulously complied w^ith, by 
 placing aside deep crape for half mourning, 
 and finally slight ditto, she availed herself 
 of the approaching Easter season, and again 
 reappeared in the most recherche costume, 
 direct from the distinguished firm of Misses 
 Eobealls, of Eegent Street, who had obtained 
 great notoriety for close fit, ease, and ele- 
 gance ! Customers had only to apply to
 
 Ottr Heroine. 
 
 157 
 
 that firm, personally, and they could be re-? 
 jiiveniled to a most extrordinary extent. 
 Money being no object, Julia (promj^ted 
 inwardly by a desire to cut the acquaint- 
 ance of celibacy at the earliest possible 
 moment consistent with the conventionali- 
 ties of society) went " in " extensively for 
 the counterfeit method of being made 
 *' beautiful for ever," and it was not the 
 fault of the house of the Misses Robealls 
 if the brilliant and artful display of cos- 
 tume they brought to bear, did not earn 
 for Julia Eodway considerable reputation as 
 a lady of beauty and leading fashion ! 
 
 In time, garden parties were organised with 
 gorgeous display, great variety of entertain- 
 ment, and marked selection of " circle," 
 which, it is needless to add, were all 
 " county." A new archery club was in- 
 stituted, to be held periodically in the 
 picturesque grounds of Eodway Hall, under
 
 158 A Vh^gin Widozv. 
 
 the immediate control of Julia, at which 
 place assembled all the " big " peojDle (so- 
 called) of the neighbourhood. 
 
 At one of these orarden entertainments or 
 greensward soirees given by Julia Rodway, 
 appeared the lord of the manor of Carthewin, 
 and his lovely little daughter Nora, who 
 was then a child of seven years. It is 
 needless to add that the handsome widower 
 and tlie late rich banker's dauo;hter thoug;ht 
 it advisable to form an alliance. The lady 
 claimed for herself great attainments, and 
 her wealth was undisputed ; added to which, 
 she was in possession of her fair share of 
 other adornments in the way of good looks ; 
 but had Godfrey Townsend, like a far-seeing 
 and sensible man (as he had the credit of 
 being), sent some good and pious sister to 
 spend just one month with his fiancee 
 they never would have married. Those 
 sisters ! how clever they are ! How they can
 
 Our Heroine. 1 59 
 
 pry, dive, dig, u^Droot, sift, and weed ; indeed, 
 where a brotlier's interest and future happi- 
 ness are concerned, no one so fit as a sister 
 to discover weak points, facial disposition, 
 and evil tempers, thereby not unfrequently 
 arresting at an early stage, matches which 
 may prove to be unequal, unsound, ill- 
 assorted, and fraught with many dangerous 
 breakers ahead.
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 I GET INTO SAD DISGRACE. 
 
 Oup^ surgeon managed, during rather an easy 
 time at headquarters, to gallop over to the form. 
 He pronounced me to be very much better, 
 though by no means (in camp phraseology) 
 " fit," except to go home on leave, for I 
 had a deep sabre wound that refused to heal 
 to the doctor's satisfaction, much less to my 
 own ; nevertheless I felt that I was picking 
 up my " crumbs," and that my general 
 health was mending apace, notwithstanding 
 the doctors disagreed on the subject. Such 
 being the present position of matters, I most 
 reluctantly gave up all hope and thought of 
 going again to the front, and have deter- 
 mined, at the earliest possible moment con-
 
 / (ret mto Sad Disgrace. 1 6 1 
 
 sistent with prudence, to bid good-day to 
 my Russian landlady and her precious sur- 
 roundings, and embark with Curtis and " Eob 
 Roy " for England, to my father's seat in 
 Gloucestershire. 
 
 But there is just the slightest attraction 
 here, a magnetic influence, which I can only 
 express by saying that — 
 
 "I feel just here, but I cannot tell how." 
 
 Now I have intimated before in this narra- 
 tive that such a thing as loving a girl, 
 other than w^ith a brotherly love for my 
 sister, never for one moment entered my 
 head, neither have I the vanity to suppose 
 that any of England's fair daughters ever 
 cared a "straw" for me; notw^ithstanding, I 
 felt an inclination to sojourn for a while in 
 these quarters. I also had a desire to get 
 home, and by way of an attempt to make 
 a clean breast of it, I will simply say, — 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 1 62 A Virorin Widow. 
 
 That picture ! 
 
 That brunette ! 
 
 It is a trite saying that "a wheel cannot 
 run in two ruts, nor a man keep opposite 
 sets of intimates ; " but how true it is 
 that expectation will darken to disappoint- 
 ment, disappointment to anxiety, anxiety 
 to despair, but the renewal of hope will 
 generally revive all, and give consolation, 
 and the man who abides with unshrinking 
 firmness the bitterest blasts that fall upon 
 our poor frail nature, may indeed be said 
 to have achieved much worth possessing. 
 
 Around my neck is suspended in a circle 
 of gold (or, as poor Percy called it, the 
 *' Shadow in the Gold") a likeness of cer- 
 tainly one of the fairest and most beautiful 
 girls that eyes ever looked upon. If it be 
 a faithful representation of Nora, she must 
 be intensely exquisite, and her graceful 
 figure the most charming to behold. One
 
 I get into Sad Disgrace. 163 
 
 is carried back to some words in the Irish 
 melodies, — 
 
 '^ my Norah Crena dear, 
 
 My mild, my bashful Norah Crena ; 
 Beauty lies in woman's eyes, 
 
 But love in yours, my Norah Crena." 
 
 "How extraordinary," I soliloquise, "that 
 my friend Percy should have invested me 
 with this miniature portrait, — decorated me 
 with all that was dear to him, requesting 
 me to see the original, — to deliver that Bible, 
 the marker too, and to repeat his dying 
 words. Then again, that sealed letter, ad- 
 dressed to " Nora," Cart he win Castle, South 
 Wales, which he charged me to post immedi- 
 ately after his death. Heaven and the dear 
 girl only know its contents. I shall have 
 little peace of mind until I visit Carthewin 
 Castle and discharge the duty entrusted to 
 me. How vividly I call to remembrance 
 those long chats with Percy, which not
 
 164 A Virgin Widozv, 
 
 unfrequently ran into the small hours of the 
 morning, the prevailing conversation being 
 Nora, Nora ; if we branched oft' to other 
 subjects, back he came with increased vehe- 
 mence to the old and favourite story. Some- 
 how I seldom if ever grew tired of listenino: 
 I loved the brave fellow, and felt an in- 
 creasing pleasure in loving anything that he 
 loved, disliking whatever he disliked, and 
 opposing whatever he opposed. I had confi- 
 dence in him, and he in me. Long travel, 
 and the closest intimacy, brought out the 
 reflex of our hearts, and exhibited to each 
 other, as in a mirror, that which was passing 
 within ; — also the nature, value, and durability 
 of our friendship, which time had cemented 
 more and more closely. 
 
 Yes, as soon as my health will admit, I 
 must contrive to see this lovely girl, — look, 
 if only but once, upon the idol of my 
 lamented friend. The little creature haunts
 
 I get into Sad Disgi'ace. 165 
 
 me day and night ; yea, verily, when my 
 eyes were closed in sleep she appeared to 
 me in a dream more like an angel in heaven, 
 with tears of affection for her slaughtered 
 lover coursing one another down her pallid 
 -cheeks. She came, and, as it were, leant over 
 me, spoke not, but looked unutterable things, 
 and then smiled sadly — that smile I — combed 
 her long wealth of hair between her tiny 
 fingers, pointed to the book-marker and then 
 to heaven, showed me a wound in her breast, 
 and vanished from my bedside. 
 That dream ! 
 
 '* In slumbers, I prythee, how is it, 
 That souls are oft taking the air, 
 And paying each other a visit, 
 
 Whilst bodies are Heaven knows where?" 
 
 But, God willing, I will see the original, 
 and, if I can help, in the most disinterested 
 way, to heal the wound that must be preying 
 on Nora's heart, I will religiously do so.
 
 1 66 A Virorin Widow. 
 
 Whatever may have been the inward 
 thoughts and wishes (to say nothing of the 
 outward manifestations) of my dear friend, 
 as to my future, in connection with his Nora, 
 it is idle to conjecture. I will offer no in- 
 dignity to his memory by seeking his be- 
 loved w^itli any feelings charged with aught 
 save the purest friendship ; to do otherwise 
 would be to draw upon her affection by 
 discounting the materials I have at my 
 command. No ; I will dismiss from my 
 thoughts all that is past, and leave the 
 future in hig-her hands. It shall never be 
 recorded that Oliver Grey made " capital " 
 out of the dying words of his friend. 
 
 " The path of sorrow, aucl that path alone. 
 Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown." 
 
 As yet I have disclosed but a brief outline 
 of the thoughts that are passing through my 
 mind. Vw yonder woods, leaning on the arm 
 of her servant, is Constance Templar, taking
 
 I get into Sad Disgrace. 167 
 
 an airinoc. She has so far recovered as to 
 admit of venturing for a walk, but she has 
 hardly strength to drag her jjoor bones in 
 the sunshine, and is manifestly making des 
 perate efforts to pull through the tedious ill- 
 ness from which she has barely escaped with 
 her life. How I long to run up and put my 
 hand forth to help her, and enjoy a tete-d-tcte, 
 but the little creature has o-rown of late so 
 confoundedly reserved that it is with diffi- 
 culty I can induce her to hold more than a 
 few minutes' conversation with me ; she in- 
 variably has some important letter to write, 
 which will admit of no delay, or the cold 
 blast from the mountain is too much for 
 her — she must return to the f^irm ; and down 
 go those black eyelashes fringed on her cheeks 
 as she glides from my presence, leaving me 
 simply " nowhere ! " But never was there a 
 more benevolent heart, or a more simple, sincere 
 disposition. Dear girl ! how she watched over
 
 1 68 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 me, how earnestly she attended to my wants, 
 which she considered to be her duty ; but it 
 was all for the " red cross." Now her work 
 is at an end, — she is pining for other scenes 
 of labour : I, of course, am nothing to her. 
 She may be nothing to me, but there are 
 springs of the heart that will not easily dry 
 up ; and so long as Constance Templar lives, 
 so long I shall consider that I owe a debt of 
 gratitude not sufficiently repaid. I feel that 
 were I like many other men in disposition, 
 I should be very quickly " coquetting " with 
 her, and serenading the little brunette in the 
 most endearino; manner. But there is nothins; 
 of the sort about me ; in other words, I am 
 lamentably deficient of self-esteem, and the 
 peculiar material requisite for such gushing 
 display, and should certainly break down at 
 the last moment and let another fellow pluck 
 the flower, whilst I am dreamily enjoying 
 its frao^rance in the distance !
 
 I get into Sad Disgi-ace. 169 
 
 And thus I continued thinking as I saun- 
 tered into the back room, where, when night 
 comes on, I rest my weary bones on a rickety 
 bedstead. Not being in the best of spirits 
 to-day, I paced my dormitory in mute reverie, 
 and flattened my nose against one of the 
 panes of glass, contemplated the active scene 
 that was going on in the farmyard over which 
 my room looks. There was a Muscovy duck 
 and another quarrelling over their liquor (as 
 Washington Irving has it) ; judging from the 
 oscillation of their tails, they w^ere in high 
 dudgeon. Yes, there was the old sow, too, that 
 had for the last month been sounding the 
 loud timbrel early and late under my window, 
 and filling my room with villainous perfumes, 
 wafted from her bijou residence. Looking over 
 a dilapidated stone fence was the " w\all-eyed" 
 roan cob that carried the proprietor of the farm 
 twice a day round the estate. By no means 
 the least interestins; scene w^as the serenad-
 
 170 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 ing of the sultan, that game cock. Verily 
 he is a nobleman, every inch of him. His 
 pedigree is considered good ; he is a paragon 
 of a bird ; just watch him. See his wealth 
 of plumage ; note his politeness, as wdth ele- 
 vated head he approaches his consorts, who, 
 manifestly, look up to and place the most 
 absolute confidence in his spurs and protec- 
 tion ! Like a knight-errant of old, who led 
 a roo^uish, roving- kind of life, wooed and w^on 
 many a fair lady by his lance and spurs. 
 Should our feathered sultan find a termagant 
 wife in his harem, how gently he chides her, 
 and how soon he makes it up again by 
 manipulating endless little acts of kindness 
 in his own way. See how anxious he is over 
 their bodily welfare, how particular not to 
 allow his wives to quarrel with one another. 
 He is obviously philosopher enough to know 
 that " a house divided against itself cannot 
 stand." What valuable lessons they teach
 
 / get into Sad Disgrace. 1 7 1 
 
 us ! AVatch them as they come out of their 
 tiny shells ; follow them from incubation to 
 maturity ; note their actions ; see their in- 
 dulgent mothers training their young in the 
 way they should go ! 
 
 I take one, just one, more hasty look at 
 "Dandy Jim and Caroline" in the happy 
 farmyard, make my own deductions, light my 
 pipe, and limp downstairs humming, — 
 
 "What's all this dull town to me, Robin's not here?" 
 
 On my return home, an hour later, I found 
 Curtis in a disturbed state of mind as to my 
 absence, and very anxious to make some pro- 
 posal, though I wished him, for the moment 
 at Halifax or anywhere else, having important 
 letters to prepare for the mail-bag, notably to 
 my beloved mother, and, " dear sir." 
 
 " If you please, yer honour," said my valet, 
 at the same time drawino^ his hand down his
 
 172 A Virgm Widow. 
 
 partly bald cranium, " what do ye say this 
 morning to a nice little drive through the 
 forest ? I am just thinking it may do ye a 
 tiny bit of good, — take yer 'tintion away from 
 other things, and ye just won't be brooding 
 over matters." 
 
 " What can we drive, Curtis ? " I in- 
 terrupted. 
 
 " Never fear, yer honour, I have made 
 arrangements with the farmer, wdio is going 
 to lend us the wall-eyed roan colt in the 
 orchard ; and sure then, I have borrowed a 
 rare o-ood sleds^e for the occasion." 
 
 " How about my wounds, Curtis, over those 
 atrocious roads ? " I reply, shrugging my 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Oh, bother the wounds, master ; ye have 
 had sharper w^ork than that, sure enough, 
 many and many a time, over a tarnation 
 rougher country than this, and no mistake." 
 
 " All right, Curtis, order dinner at six ; be
 
 I get into Sad Disgrace. i ^2> 
 
 sure you see that the trappings of the har- 
 ness are sound, breeching and kicking-strap 
 adjusted, and put the reins in the lower bar ; 
 one does not quite know what may happen 
 with these " higli flying," strange Eussian 
 horses; besides, the brute may be touched 
 with the same complaint as the Czar, and 
 may have a great horror of us English just 
 now, and kick over the traces." 
 
 '' Sure I niver heard ye discourse about 
 the risks of horse flesh before in my life ; it 
 cannot be Captain Oliver Grey that is spaking 
 about danger signals, bolts, bars, and sich 
 like." 
 
 " To tell you the truth, Curtis," I replied, 
 **I am not altogether in the best of 'fiddle/ 
 physically, or otherwise, to deal with strange 
 tempers, and raw colts are ticklish ' cus- 
 tomers.' " 
 
 *' Niver fear, master, I'll manage it all to 
 yer intire satisfaction, and make a fine bed
 
 174 ^ Virgin Widow. 
 
 of roses for ye to lie on. But ye will ex- 
 cuse my being so bold, wouldn't ye jist like, 
 by way of company, to ask that lonely 
 little black -eyed daisy darling to go wdth. 
 ye for a drive ? " 
 
 "Well done, Curtis; capital thought, my 
 good fellow, capital thought ; notwithstand- 
 ino^, I don't think she'll o;o." 
 
 " Bless ye, master, ye jist don't know 
 her as well as I do. A little bird came one 
 evening, and sang me the prettiest song I 
 hiver heard in my life : it w^as all about the 
 daisy darling and yer very own self, sure." 
 
 " About me ! " I anxiously replied ; " wdiat 
 on earth do you mean, Curtis ? " 
 
 " Faith then, I like to unbutton the collar 
 of my coat, and spake out freely all at once, 
 whilst I'm about it ; sure then, the little 
 darling has preserved the pretty Howers that 
 ye placed on her pillow, wdien w^e all thought 
 she was going to live with the cherubims,
 
 I get into Sad Disgrace. 175 
 
 and she has tumbled over head and ears in 
 love with ye, anyhow." 
 
 "With me!" I exclaimed; "humbug, 
 Curtis ! " 
 
 " I niver heard it called by that name be- 
 fore, master, not niver." 
 
 "Who is your authority?" I asked doubtfully. 
 
 " Authority, did ye say ? " 
 
 " You know perfectly well what I mean ; 
 who told you all this ridiculous nonsense ? " 
 
 " A devil a bit of nonsense is there in the 
 daisy darling, and ye may take my word for it." 
 
 ''' Who is the little bird, Curtis ? " I ask 
 playfully. 
 
 '^ Sure then, it was a charming^ little nio-ht- 
 ing-gal, who always sings the Irish melodies 
 without any ' blarney.' " 
 
 It w^as useless my attempting any further 
 questions on this head ; nevertheless, Curtis's 
 gratuitous information caused me to pace the 
 room in mute and anxious delight.
 
 176 A Vu'gin Widow. 
 
 " Did ye tell me to do anything, yer 
 honour ? " asked my valet, who was intently 
 eyeing me with some astonishment. 
 
 " Yes," I replied, somewhat incoherently. 
 " I wish you to ask — yes — of course — I wish 
 you to — let me see — " 
 
 " Oh bother ! " said Curtis, sotto voce ; '*' if 
 I don't just about think that the captain is 
 going ' off his head,' and is taking another 
 journey Heaven knows where." 
 
 " Did ye spake, sir, plase ? " 
 
 " Yes, Curtis ; execute my order, and let 
 me know the result as soon as possible." 
 
 " Faith ye didn't give me any structions, 
 master, and that's all the result I can offer." 
 
 I felt, for the moment, "small," my atten- 
 tion being divided, consequent on the new 
 feature in my life in connection with the 
 pretty little brunette ! 
 
 " Curtis," I said, " when Miss Templar 
 returns from her walk, go to her room ;
 
 I get into Sad Disgrace. lyj 
 
 knock quietly at her door ; give her my 
 compliments, and ask her if she will do me 
 the honour of — No, no ; simply say this, 
 word for word, — ' If you please, miss, the 
 captain sends his kind regards, and hopes 
 you are feeling better this morning ; and he 
 wishes to know if your health will admit of 
 your taking a little drive this afternoon in 
 the forest with him.' Now be sure, Curtis, 
 you let her know that you are going to 
 accompany us." 
 
 " Sure, master, wouldn't it be much more 
 the ' ticket for soup ' if ye went by yer- 
 selves. Yer honour will find me very much 
 in yer way, and I may be after just hearing 
 what I didn't ought to." 
 
 "I have nothing to say to Miss Templar, 
 Curtis, but you or anyone else may hear." 
 
 " Fie upon ye, master ! I'm ashamed of 
 
 ye, sure then I am. When I was yer age, 
 
 if I had suddenly found myself tucked up by 
 VOL. I. M
 
 178 A Virgin Widow, 
 
 the side of such a splendid polished bit of 
 * stufi' ' as that, sure then my tongue would 
 Lave been too big for my mouth ; and, by 
 the holy poker, if I shouldn't a made her 
 mouth wather, anyhow, with the fine choice 
 things I should have to say about the honey- 
 moon, — the splendid little home I should take 
 her to on the Tipperary hills, — the cow and 
 the fine pig I should buy her, — the tatee field 
 I should till for her, — the bright prospects of 
 a rising generation, — how good and kind I 
 should be to her when she was ill, — how we 
 would oro tog:ether to mass every week, and 
 
 t)"^ ^^tD 
 
 T 
 
 confession every new moon, and unburden 
 our hearts, and get rid of our imperfictions, 
 and start fresh ; and, above all, yer honour, 
 how I would love her ten times more than 
 ever when old age crept upon us ; yes, that 
 I would, sure ! " 
 
 During this gratuitous peroration, I turned 
 my head away to conceal my mirth. I did
 
 I get into Sad Disgrace, 1 79 
 
 not dare openly to portray my feelings, or 
 I should have run the risk of having, sooner 
 or later, too much of a good thing, and 
 was obliged to exercise a little finesse in 
 steering clear of what we should say, in 
 ordinary parlance, " too much familiarity 
 breeds contempt." 
 
 " Attend to my instructions, Curtis ; and 
 let me know what Miss Templar says." 
 
 " Exactly, captain. Compliments, ye said, 
 didn't ye ? That's the only thing I'm both- 
 ered over," replied Curtis, scratching his 
 head, a curious habit which he had when in 
 doubt. 
 
 " No. I told you as plainly as words can 
 express, — kind regards ; now be careful 
 and — " 
 
 " Oh, kind regards," rejoined Curtis, much 
 perplexed. 
 
 " Yes ; now be off with you, for I wish 
 to write my letters."
 
 i8o A Virgin Widow. 
 
 *'By way of variety, master, may I be 
 so bold as to take upon myself the spon- 
 sibility of giving yer love instead of that 
 cold-'arted thing compliments ? " 
 
 '' No, you idiot ! " I replied, with con- 
 siderable emphasis, ** do as I tell you, and,. 
 for Heaven's sake, don't make a hash of it ! " 
 
 " But I'd make yer honour the viry best 
 Irish stew of it, if I only had the chance ; 
 sure the little daisy darling don't want any 
 of yer compliments, regards, or sich like : 
 she wouldn't know what to do with such, 
 trifling matters ; but if ye send her something 
 worth having, that she can pickle up close to 
 her little loving heart, sure then ye never will 
 regret it, anyhow ! " 
 
 Having impressed Curtis with my full 
 determination in the matter, and given him 
 a quiet hint that the sooner he made tracks 
 the better I should be pleased, I plumped 
 down in my dimity arm-chair, filled my
 
 I get into Sad Disgrace, 1 8 1 
 
 meerschaum, and sent endless circles and 
 .semi-circles of smoke here, there, and every- 
 where, and with each puff, many anxious 
 thoughts as to the future. 
 
 The contents of the mail-bag received in 
 the morning filled me with alarm, for the 
 health of my beloved mother was anything 
 l)ut cheering ; my favourite sister's approach- 
 ing marriage is spoken of; and reference is 
 made to my brother Stanley's " wild oats," 
 also father's acute gout, and how much he is 
 hypped with it. There is, however, a " crumb 
 of comfort " in dear sir's letter, by way of a 
 draft for two hundred pounds, and a refresh- 
 ing P.S. at the close, viz., "More to follow, if 
 absolutely needed." The word "absolutely" 
 ^as scored, and in parentheses. 
 
 I felt much concerned about my mother, 
 w^hose health of late has been sadly declining. 
 How I long for home, to bask once more in 
 the sunshine of her countenance, — listen to her
 
 i82 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 loving voice, and a repetition of the sound 
 and valuable precedents she endeavoured to 
 establish in my young mind. Bless her ! how 
 far I have profited by them, or how I shall 
 bring her earnest injunctions to bear on my 
 future career, will be made manifest hereafter. 
 Alas ! many good resolutions have been made 
 and broken in a day, — duties neglected, — 
 promises unfulfilled, — vows plighted, — con- 
 tracts bearing a solemn seal registered in a. 
 " volume of a book," and attested by a mighty 
 witness, have been disregarded, torn asunder,, 
 and trampled, so to speak, under foot. What 
 poor creatures we are ! How the mind wan- 
 ders, wavers, twists, and turns from sound 
 ground to unsound ; from deep waters to 
 shallow ; from pure streams to murky and 
 stagnant pools ; from sunshine to darkness ; 
 and from hope to despair. Notwitstanding 
 all such varieties, and continual oscillations 
 of our nature, there is a landmark straio^ht
 
 I get into Sad Disgrace. 
 
 ahead, standing out in bold relief. The 
 " look-out man " can see it plainly ; it only 
 requires a well-adjusted compass, a little 
 nicety of navigation, to reach the haven. If 
 the good mariner run his bark before the 
 wind, select the proper inlet, and keep clear 
 of dangerous points that are jutting out, he 
 will cast anchor safely under lofty battle- 
 ments ; but if he tack with long reaches, the 
 chances are that he will " fetch " on a rock, and 
 his frail ship will break up in sight of home. 
 
 The preceding are some of the meditations 
 which not unfrequently creep into one's mind 
 just at that uncertain hour of twilight, in the 
 gloaming, when the shades of evening fall 
 upon us, and press back the light of heaven. 
 Thoughts of one's childhood, one's happy 
 home, and one's beloved mother, are pleas- 
 ant themes to dwell upon. May I continue 
 to appreciate her goodness, and treasure up 
 in my heart the sound maxims she incul-
 
 184 ^ Virgin Widow. 
 
 catecl, and imitate as nearly as I can her 
 exemplary life and excellence ; but all things 
 depend upon an infinite and incomprehensible 
 bounty. Without it nothing can be effected 
 or obtained, and, after it is obtained, be of 
 any value, force, or power, without the same 
 concurring grace. 
 
 Still revolving in my mind endless and 
 very anxious thoughts respecting the little 
 brunette, — the odd speech of my eccentric 
 servant, I again take from under my waist- 
 coat the " Shadow in the Gold." Somehow I 
 treasure it more than anything I possess. 
 There is a history attached to the portrait, 
 making it of inestimable value to me. Though 
 it contain but the shadow, the reality or sub- 
 stance may ultimately prove a gem of price- 
 less worth. Though I never looked upon 
 that sweet face and graceful figure, yet there 
 is something in the placid countenance that
 
 I get into Sad Disgrace. 185 
 
 •speaks volumes to my soul — yes, peaceful as 
 a summer's dream. 
 
 " Gardez, Oliver Grey," I soliloquised ; 
 " gardez I Remember the trite maxim, that 
 things done in haste are often repented of at 
 leisure. Be watchful over your thoughts, 
 your words, your actions ; and be discreet ; 
 take not a single step without mature con- 
 sideration ; and, above all things, don't by 
 any indirect means work upon the feelings 
 of the girl who sacrificed so much for your 
 benefit, and then leave her in doubt, per- 
 plexity, and grief. 
 
 I knocked out the ashes of my meerschaum, 
 and deposited the jewel of a picture in its old 
 quarters, when I perceived Curtis very leis- 
 urely coming down the gravel path, brushing 
 •off some snow from his regulation boots, and 
 finally wiping his mouth with the back of his 
 hand. He proceeded up the winding stairs, 
 but his step was much slower than usual; he
 
 1 86 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 stopped on the landing ; there was an ommous 
 silence, suggestive of much. He was evidentl3r 
 thinking. I know him of old, and I intui- 
 tively felt there was something ''up." 
 
 '* Come in. Well, Curtis, what does Miss- 
 Templar say ? " I asked again, pulling away 
 vigorously at my meerschaum, which I had 
 refilled for the occasion, and blowing a cloud 
 of smoke across the room. 
 
 "No, yer honour," dismally. 
 
 "No! What else?" 
 
 " Sure, captain, she must have been 
 uncommon short of breath, for that's 
 all the blessed word I could get out of 
 her." 
 
 " Nonsense, man. Miss Templar never sent 
 such a message ; I'll answer for that," pull- 
 ing again at my pipe. 
 
 '* Faith I don't call it a message at all, at 
 all ; the mess of a word isn't worth looking 
 at a minute."
 
 I get into Sad Disgrace, 187 
 
 "Tell me, Curtis, what is the meaning of 
 all this ? " 
 
 "Maybe, master, the little daisy darling 
 has had a bit of a nightmare, and a d — 1 a 
 bit does she want the dose repeated with a 
 day mare, for maybe she doesn't like the 
 look of the high-flying colt in the orchard, 
 and maybe she — " 
 
 A gentle tap at the door. 
 
 It is Miss Templar's maid, with a note for 
 Captain Oliver Grey. 
 
 At the sight of the caligraphy, I felt my 
 heart make one solitary bound. I eagerly 
 tore open the envelope, and read as follows : — 
 
 " Dear Captain Geey, — The message your 
 servant brought, has filled me with amaze- 
 ment ! and I cannot but think there must 
 be some mistake, — either that you intended 
 it for someone else, or that your valet has 
 become suddenly demented. If your request
 
 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 has been interpreted correctly, I have yet to 
 learn that the duties of my calling, which 
 necessitated my attending you in your sick- 
 ness, are to be construed into anything other 
 than the faithful discharge of a responsibility 
 I religiously undertook, — a vocation entrusted 
 to me, and which has always filled me with 
 delight ; but, happily, I know how to protect 
 my spotless name from anything like tarnish, 
 and it is well I am so fortified, seeino; in 
 what an atmosphere one occasionally breathes. 
 — Yours faithfully, Constance Templar." 
 
 *' Sure then, captain, ye are getting some 
 more thumping red potatees in yer face, any- 
 how ; what is the matter with ye ? " 
 
 "Matter with me, you rascal," I said, 
 dropping the letter on the table with positive 
 fright ; *' tell me instantly what message you 
 delivered to the lady ! " 
 
 "What lady, yer honour?"
 
 I get into Sad Disgrace. 189 
 
 " Why, Miss Templar." 
 
 " Oh ! the daisy darling, ye mean ; sure 
 then, I gave her a very tidy missage, and 
 one which I thought would make her little 
 mouth wather." 
 
 " What did you say, you old idiot % " I 
 gasped. 
 
 '* I said, yer honour, what ye told me." 
 
 " Will you swear you did not add to 
 it?" 
 
 *' My memory isn't over clear, master, 
 jist now^ I know I told her w^hat ye 
 told me." 
 
 " Your memory isn't clear, is it ? Now^, 
 look here, Curtis," I said, tucking up the 
 sleeves of my coat, " much as I like you 
 when you are sensible, and weak as I am,. 
 if you don't refresh your memory instanter, 
 I'll break every bone 'in your body." 
 
 " Sure, then, ye will be after a-sarving 
 me like the thaif on the cross, and sure I
 
 IQO A Virgm Widow, 
 
 am not desarving so much attintion from 
 ye, anyhow." 
 
 *' Out with it, you old fool," I interrupted, 
 pretending to make a grab at his collar, " or 
 I'll send you to the front with the forlorn 
 hope to be shot, as sure as eggs are eggs." 
 
 " Well, yer honour," replied Curtis, with 
 great sang fvoid, " as sure as there is bread 
 in nine loaves, I'll be after telling ye the 
 whole epistle and gospel, chapter and verse ; 
 I)ut ye must take yer hand from my collar, 
 and release my throat, or the Irish blood 
 that my respicted father and mother gave 
 me may go from simmering to boiling, and 
 maybe it will boil over and scald one of 
 the very best of creatures that ever lived, 
 and Mike Curtis, of Tipperary renown, forget 
 himself, whilst the red-hot poker is stirring 
 up live coal under him." 
 
 The poor fellow was right. In my hasty 
 temper I had sadly forgotten myself, and I
 
 I get into Sad Disgrace. 191 
 
 am sure my friendly reader will make con- 
 siderable allowance for impetuosity, seeing 
 how choleric he made me. I released my 
 hold of his throat, folded my arms, and 
 walked to the other end of the room, 
 saying, — 
 
 " I am sorry, Curtis, for displaying so 
 much temper ; but come, let us be rational, 
 give me word for word the message you 
 delivered to Miss Templar." 
 
 " AYell, yer honour, now that ye have 
 anchored your tongue, and put into the 
 cradle your weak, spider-like arms, I'll just 
 about accommodate ye. I saw the daisy 
 darling hanging on the arm of her maid in 
 the w^oods yonder, limping along like a duck 
 with a w^ounded leg. Well, I says to myself, 
 Mike, now is yer time, lad, to deliver the 
 message, so I took the pipe that I was 
 smoking out of my mouth, and cleared my 
 throat of all obstructions, prepared myself
 
 192 A Virgin Widow, 
 
 generally for the occasion, and walked up to 
 the stile, where I saw the darling, very weak, 
 yer honour, so I just said to her, in my very 
 softest manner, — ' Maybe ye'll let me lift ye 
 over, my dear ; ' and she tightened herself 
 straight as a poplar tree, and asked me if 
 I knew to whom I was speaking, and her 
 bright eyes flashed like fire at me ; so I 
 thought, captain, I had made a bit of a mis- 
 take somewhere, and that I would rectify it 
 at the earliest moment, so I says, ' God be 
 praised, it is the good nurse of the Eed 
 Cross I am speaking to, my own dear 
 master s binifactor ; and, please, miss, the 
 captain sent his compliments and very best 
 love to — ' " 
 
 " D — " I said vehemently. 
 
 " What did ye say, master ? Fie upon 
 ye ! fie upon ye ! and not a father-confessor 
 in the neighbourhood either." 
 
 ''Go on," I say, "you—"
 
 I get into Sad Disgrace, 193 
 
 " Ye bother me so, I don't know quite 
 where I left off. Oh, now, I recollect. I 
 said, — ' Master sends his comj)liments and 
 very best love, and to ask ye to go for a 
 drive with him into the forest.' So she be- 
 ofan to tio'hten herself ao^ain like a steel ram- 
 rod, and two scarlet runners climbed into her 
 cheeks ; and the maid that was with her 
 caught the same complaint, tossing her head 
 about also ; and they both looked ' daggers ' 
 at me." 
 
 " Well," I gasped ; '' what did she say ? " 
 
 " She shrugged her shoulders, threw her 
 eyes aloft like a dying duck in a thunder- 
 storm, lifted her hands like Father O'Connor 
 when he gives us a blessing, and said, 
 ' Go back to yer master, and tell him, 
 No.' " 
 
 " I don't want to hear any more, Curtis, 
 
 that is quite enough," I replied, pacing up 
 
 and down the room. 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 194 ^ Virgm Widow. 
 
 ** Sure, then, she never gave me another 
 word to tell ye, anyhow." 
 
 " I should think not ; you have finished 
 it, and can now retire as soon as you like." 
 
 Curtis instantly made tracks, and I am 
 left again to my own reflections to heal, 
 by some potent means, and by prompt 
 action, the wound that my thick - headed 
 nondescript has innocently given to the 
 feelings of a lady to whom I am so 
 much indebted. 
 
 I light my pipe again, as the best thing 
 to do at this juncture, the narcotic fumes 
 of which generally have a tendency to enable 
 me to solve a difficult problem. I re-read 
 Miss Templar's caustic letter with anything 
 l3ut complacency : her high dudgeon is con- 
 spicuous in every line. I arrive at this 
 conclusion, and am more than ever con- 
 vinced that the representative of the " Eed 
 Cross" is one of the risfht sort.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 I EXTEICATE MYSELF FROM THE 
 DIFFICULTY. 
 
 I REVOLVED in my mind the whole difficulty 
 in which I was placed with the Red Cross 
 nurse, through the stupidity of my servant 
 Curtis, and determined to go down and have 
 a personal interview with Miss Templar, in 
 the hope of putting matters straight. It may 
 appear somewhat odd, during the last few 
 weeks, that Miss Templar and I have not 
 met ; but it is explained by the fact of her 
 j)ersistently keeping so much to her room, 
 and for some reason showing manifest symp- 
 toms of aversion to encounter me. If at any 
 time the brunette, en route to the garden, 
 heard my step in the hall or on the stairs.
 
 196 A Vh^gin Widow. 
 
 she would rush off at the " double " and hide 
 herself, like a discreet bird in the hedgerow 
 in a thunder-storm. Being a sensitive man, 
 and a keen observer, I was alive in a moment 
 to anything like standoffishness, so in time 
 I somehow seemed to have caught the same 
 complaint, and invariably made " tracks " 
 when I should have gone on. How quick 
 girls are, as a rule, to observe ; how well 
 they know when a man is " putting it on ; " 
 how easily, and with surprising certainty^ 
 they discriminate the difference between that 
 which is facial and that which is real, and 
 occasionally decipher one's countenance, and 
 arrive at a fairly correct conclusion as to 
 whether one's actions are really the outcome 
 of good and honest thoughts or not. 
 
 Yes, I must see Miss Templar without 
 further delay. Apostrophising a word or 
 two — something like ''Bother!" "Great nuis- 
 ance ! " — I make an attempt to hum a merry
 
 I extricate Myself from the Difficulty. 197 
 
 tune, but lamentably failed. Probably Miss 
 Templar may think that I have some sinister 
 motive. How I hate motives. I mean those 
 ignominious chess-like moves that people not 
 unfrequently take in their journey through 
 this life, checkmating their neighbour, thereby 
 putting in pawn, so to speak, what should 
 otherwise be our noblest thoug-hts and best 
 actions, which sometimes we are never in 
 ^ position to redeem. 
 
 Having made up my mind as to the course 
 I should pursue, I walked down the back 
 stairs to Miss Templar's room, via the larder. 
 Pausing at the latter, I took out the " Shadow 
 in the Gold," had a hasty peep at the jewel it 
 contained, and said within myself, — " Gardez, 
 Oliver ; gardez ! " 
 
 I made a full stop at Miss Templar's door. 
 ■Good Lord ! how my heart thumped. I could 
 face a storm of shot and shell from the Eus- 
 ^ian batteries without flinching or turning a
 
 198 A Vii'gin Widow. 
 
 hair ; but the thought of the brunette's- 
 caustic remarks in her letter took all the 
 '' fight " completely out of me, and the wind. 
 out of my sails. 
 
 I knocked at the door ; oh, such a humble 
 knock ! — so gentle — just such as one would 
 probably give at a dentist's establishment 
 when requiring his services, and yet at the 
 same time not requiring them, if I may so ex- 
 press it, heartily hoping that Messrs Dragum 
 & Tearum may be anywhere but at home. 
 Who hasn't felt at some time of his life a 
 sense of false relief, when told by an apple- 
 faced youth in bright buttons that his master 
 could not be seen until ten o'clock the fol- 
 lowing morning. Anyway, the writer owns 
 to that cowardly feeling. But I digress. 
 
 ''Come in." 
 
 Miss Templar was intently reading the 
 Times; and on my entering, thinking, 
 probably it was the domestic, she did not
 
 / extricate Myself from the Diffictdty. 1 99 
 
 trouble to look up, neither did her maid, 
 who sat by her side, vigorously plying her 
 needle, though evidently in deep thought. 
 I cleared my throat — the usual preliminary 
 of a nervous man — Miss Templar then calmly 
 lifted her eyes with the greatest sangfroid. 
 What an absence of excitement, I thought. 
 As for the maid, she did something spasmodic, 
 as though an apparition had appeared from 
 heaven knows where. Her young mistress 
 looked at her with astonishment, and draw- 
 ing herself up with a lofty air, said, — 
 " Has anything happened, Clara ? " 
 " The captain, miss," was the meek re- 
 joinder, pointing to me. 
 
 The girl was about to leave the room ; but 
 I detected Miss Templar making a vigorous 
 motion for her to remain, and the maid subsided 
 again into her low-backed chair, settling down 
 to her work with increased industry, every now 
 and again looking askance at her mistress.
 
 JO o A Virgin Widow. 
 
 "How do you do, Captain Grey?" said 
 the Red Cross nurse, recovering herself, and 
 walking across the room to meet me, hold- 
 ing out her thin white hand in the most 
 friendly manner ; and, with some enthusiasm, 
 continued, " I am so glad to see that your 
 health is rapidly mending. Pray take a 
 chair." 
 
 " It is very kind of you to say so, Miss 
 Templar," I replied ; " and I am greatly in- 
 debted for all the attention you paid this 
 poor wounded, fever - stricken soldier on 
 the—" 
 
 . " Pardon my interrupting you. Captain 
 Grey. I make a point of never receiving 
 any thanks or acknowledgment for services 
 rendered, — duties which have been entrusted 
 to me, and which I endeavoured to discharge 
 unostentatiously and creditably. Should I 
 not, I trust my patients will report me at 
 headquarters. One thing is certain, I ex-
 
 I extricate Myself from the Difficulty. 201 
 
 ercise the same amount of zeal, and feel as 
 much interest in a drummer or gunner as 
 I should in a general." 
 
 " In returning you my thanks, Miss Tem- 
 plar, I am simply discharging the obligations 
 I owe to your kind favour." 
 
 " It is there," rejoined Miss Templar, " that 
 you fall into error. Pray believe me sincere 
 when I assure you that you need not for 
 one moment consider yourself under any 
 obligation for services rendered by me. If 
 you have very strong feelings of gratitude 
 — which you naturally would experience 
 in common with all convalescents — you 
 know exactly where to make acknowledg- 
 ments for endless mercies vouchsafed unto 
 you," at the same time pointing her finger 
 towards heaven, and throwing her beautiful 
 dark hazel eyes, with the longest of lashes, 
 full in my face. 
 
 Those eyes !
 
 202 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 " I feel, Miss Templar, that I have 
 yet another duty to perform, and were I 
 not to discharge it, I should be wanting in 
 courtesy and sincerity ; therefore, notwith- 
 standing your protest, I thank you most 
 heartily for all your goodness and your 
 untiring energy day and night, when my 
 life seemed to hang upon a thread, and 
 quivered in the balance, so to speak, between 
 this world and the next." 
 
 "You will, I am sure. Captain Grey, 
 pardon my observation, but permit me to 
 say that I think you are mistaken. At 
 the very worst time of your illness you 
 were a very long way from the entrance to 
 that long valley to which you refer. There 
 is no such thing as chance in these matters. 
 True, you were brought apparently to death's 
 door, but the portal was closed. The great 
 God of all creation works out the map of 
 our lives on sound and good principles of
 
 / extricate Myself fro7Ji the Difficulty. 203. 
 
 His own ; we know^ nothing of the measure 
 or scale, but on the chart there are clearly 
 laid down warnings of sunken rocks, head- 
 lands, and other indications of danger and 
 obstruction ; lighthouses and lightships too 
 are jotted down to guide the mariner on his 
 perilous voyage. Your illness. Captain Grey, 
 depend upon it, was one of those blessings 
 which come to us in disguise ; the result 
 will, no doubt, make itself clearly manifest 
 in due course, and you may rejoice some 
 day, w^hen you look back on the hours of 
 anguish you spent in this lonely farm-house^ 
 and contemplate with infinite joy the w^arning 
 voice that reached you when your frail bark 
 was tossing about in mid - channel and in 
 imminent peril of foundering." 
 
 "Blue stocking, for a hundred," I thought. 
 
 " Yes, Miss Templar," I stammered, " I 
 shall contemplate with infinite gratitude how 
 I have been rescued, and the mercies vouch-
 
 204 A Vi7^gi7t Widow, 
 
 safed to me by the Giver of all good gifts ; 
 and I shall also remember, with feelings of 
 inexpressible joy, the oar you so religiously 
 pulled in helping my frail boat to land 
 safely," — at the same time wishing myself 
 anywhere else but in front of the brunette, 
 who was cutting me nicely into ribbons, or, 
 in other words, paddling me very consider- 
 ably out of my depth ; I therefore thought 
 it best to turn the subject, by continuing, — 
 '^ I must ask you. Miss Templar, to kindly 
 excuse my paying you a visit at this early 
 hour." 
 
 " Pray don't offer any apology. Captain 
 Grey," replied the Eed Cross nurse, playing 
 with a bunch of charms attached to her 
 waistband, and evidently anticipating what 
 was about to follow. 
 
 ''I was going to observe, Miss Templar, 
 that my visit here at this unreasonable hour 
 has a threefold object."
 
 / extricate Myself from the Difficulty. 205 
 
 Miss Templar bent her head inquiringly, 
 and smiled complacently. 
 
 " First and foremost, in spite of your pro- 
 test, to thank you for your goodness to me 
 in sickness. Secondly, I come to say how 
 rejoiced I am to find that kind Providence 
 has permitted you to be restored to health ; 
 and lastly, to put right one of the most 
 absurd blunders that was ever made by a 
 stupid servant." 
 
 "Oh — exactly — yes; I presume you refer to 
 your Irish nondescript," replied Miss Templar, 
 considerably scrutinising my features for some 
 indication of what may be passing in my 
 mind. 
 
 " You could not think me guilty, Miss 
 Templar, of oflfering you an indignity ? " 
 
 " Pardon me. Captain Grey, my know- 
 ledge of you, and all your brave, noble, and 
 generous actions in the camp and on the 
 field, is such that I am quite sure you could
 
 2o6 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 not be guilty of offering an indignity to any- 
 one, much less to a lonely woman in a foreign 
 country. I must confess I wrote you that 
 letter somewhat in haste : it was the outcome 
 of a disposition made extremely irritable by 
 protracted illness ; but looking at my posi- 
 tion, the course I adopted was the only one 
 open to me — don't you think so ? " 
 
 "Well, to tell you the truth, Miss Tem- 
 plar, '^ I replied, evidently warming to my 
 work, " I certainly thought you rather 
 * down ' upon me. The contents of your 
 letter greatly alarmed me, and it was very 
 nearly the means of having my servant 
 pitched out of the window, for, in my haste, 
 I was that way inclined ; and I think I should 
 have enforced the extreme measure, but the 
 fellow, just as I was about to commence 
 operations, told me word for word what 
 transpired ; and it is needless for me to say 
 that a great portion of the thoughtless mes-
 
 / extricate Myself from the Diffictdty. 207 
 
 sage he gave you as coming from me was 
 purely his own invention, and may be attri- 
 buted to a freedom of speech which the 
 lower class of Irislimen not unfrequently in- 
 dulge in." 
 
 " Good, kind Curtis," said Miss Templar. 
 '' I have a very clear perception of the sus- 
 ceptibilities of Irishmen, having mixed so 
 much with them in hospitals. Your servant 
 is, undoubtedly, an oddity ; but I have a 
 great respect for the man. Upon further 
 reflection, do you not think that I acted 
 perfectly right in sending you that letter ? " 
 
 " Well, Miss Templar, you will pardon my 
 saying so, but I am afraid we must agree to 
 differ." 
 
 " Ah, I see," said Miss Templar, pinking 
 up very considerably, " you are sceptical ; 
 you pause over admitting the prudence of 
 the stern epistle I wrote you. AVell, well, 
 let us reason too'ether for a few moments,
 
 2o8 A Virgiji Widow. 
 
 and consider, as far as we can, how matters 
 stand, and how far I acted prudently. We 
 will suppose, by way of illustration, and 
 bringing the case nearer to your domestic 
 circle, that you had a sister, — one you dearly 
 loved, one in whom you placed the most 
 implicit confidence, one who had given up 
 the gaieties of life for a season, for such an 
 arena as you find me at this moment engaged 
 in, and in which I have been working (I 
 hope zealously) for some considerable time ; 
 or we will imagine, by way of striking, per- 
 haps, more closely home, you were afiianced 
 to a young lady whose inclination led her to 
 pursue the vocation I have the honour and 
 privilege of following ; and we will further 
 suppose that your fiancee, in the dis- 
 charge of the duties entrusted to her, had 
 to attend to some dashing wounded officer 
 through a long and trying illness ; he re- 
 covers, but during the progress of recovery
 
 I extricate Myself from the Diffictdty. 209 
 
 he is stimulated, either by a sense of grati- 
 tude or otherwise, to make overtures beyond 
 the bounds of courtesy, limits of custom, or, 
 in other words, conventionalities of society. 
 The meek-hearted, guileless sister, or fiancee ^ 
 as the case may be, at first mistakes the 
 approaches of her convalescent : her mind 
 may be too pure to have anything like a 
 clear perception of the motive in the back- 
 ground ; until the man, emboldened by ap- 
 parent advantages he has obtained, tears a 
 portion of the veil from his heart, so to speak, 
 and exposes some of the dark mixture with 
 which it is charged ! What then would you 
 say of your sister, or coming bride, were she 
 to resent a familiarity with all the force of 
 her chaste nature ? " 
 
 "What should I say. Miss Templar," I 
 replied, with some degree of earnestness ; 
 "why, just one word." 
 
 " May I ask what that one word would 
 VOL. I.
 
 2IO A Virgin Widow. 
 
 be ? " rejoined the brunette, tattooing her 
 little foot impatiently on the floor. 
 " Jewel ! " I replied. 
 
 "May such a 'jewel,' Captain Grey, be 
 yours, and may your daughter, should you 
 ever have one, reap the benefit of the prisms 
 that such a lustrous brilliant would reflect." 
 
 "The mighty force of your observations, 
 Miss Templar, admits of no doubt whatever. 
 Every w^ord you have uttered has conveyed 
 to my mind a soundness which is the charac- 
 teristic feature of a well-trained — " 
 
 " Suppose we now change the subject to 
 matters more agreeable," interrupted Miss 
 Templar, evidently fearing that I was about 
 to say something immensely " gushing ; " and 
 I am not quite sure that I was not going 
 to make a fool of myself, but the presence 
 of Miss Templar's maid, who was ensconced 
 in one corner of the room stitching away 
 like mad, was very provoking.
 
 / extricate Myself from the DifficiUty. 211 
 
 '* I am rejoiced to see," went on the Ked 
 Cross nurse, that in the last despatches 
 
 sent home by General your services 
 
 liave been prominently noticed, and in due 
 season you will undoubtedly have your reward 
 for the distinction so nobly and dearly earned." 
 
 " All scraps, Miss Templar, most thank- 
 fully received," I replied ; " but, alas ! there 
 were brave comrades far more deserving than 
 myself, now ' slumbering on earth's cold pil- 
 low,' who, had they been spared, would have 
 shared those honours with me." 
 
 " Yes," replied Constance Templar, " such 
 are the fortunes and misfortunes of those en- 
 gaged in this horrible struggle, when hosts 
 against hosts are arrayed in a mighty con- 
 flict, such as we are now experiencing ; but 
 to those fond relations who have lost a mem- 
 ber of their family in the discharge of his 
 duty, it must be eminently consoling to know 
 that he distinguished himself"
 
 212 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 At this juncture I should have brought our 
 tete-a-tete to a close, but Miss Templar gave 
 me another of her extraordinary searching- 
 looks, at the same time poiuting to the locket 
 which I had stupidly managed in my excite- 
 ment to drag out of my pocket, and which 
 was dangling at the side of my waistcoat. 
 
 " You will lose your pretty picture, if you 
 don't take care," said Miss Templar signifi- 
 cantly. 
 
 Good Lord ! how I coloured. Miss Tem- 
 plar noticed my embarrassment, and the 
 rubicund tint. I am quite sure she made 
 a mental note of it, for one of her subdued 
 smiles lit up her beautiful face, and there was 
 a playfulness about her manner, somewhat 
 suggestive of pleasure, * but which I could 
 not at the moment exactly decipher. The 
 precious locket had flown open, and exposed 
 the ivory painting of Nora. 
 
 " I hope. Captain Grey," said Miss Tem-
 
 / exhdcate Myself from the Difficttlty. 2 1 3 
 
 3)lar, with the sweetest expression, " I shall 
 not appear inquisitive if I ask whether that 
 picture in the locket is the reflex of the 
 lady who so much occupied your delirious 
 thoughts durino; those long; nis^hts I watched 
 over you ? " 
 
 Up went the colour to my face and neck 
 again, and I stammered out something to 
 the effect that " I was not aware of having 
 exhibited any manifestations respecting the 
 young lady whose image that j)oi'trait re- 
 presented, particularly as I never had the 
 pleasure of seeing her." 
 
 " Never seen her ? " dubiously. 
 
 " Never, Miss Templar, on my honour," 
 vehemently. 
 
 " Surely, then, you saw her plainly in 
 your imagination, and conversed freely and 
 tenderly with her," jocosely. 
 
 '' Good heavens ! " I said, very sotto voce, 
 but recovering myself, and, with well-forced
 
 2 14 ^ Virgin Widow. 
 
 sang-froid, I continued, — ''' What on earth I 
 could have to say about a person I never 
 saw, is certainly a riddle to me, and I am 
 rather curious to know." 
 
 Miss Templar folded her long white fingers 
 within each other, sceptically shook that w^on- 
 derfully powerful and thoughtful head of 
 hers, and said, — 
 
 '' A greater riddle to me to see a gentle- 
 man w^earing a locket containing the likeness 
 of a lady he has never seen ; but I trust I 
 do not appear the least inquisitive." 
 
 *' Not at all, Miss Templar, not at all ; there 
 is an old saying, ' In for a penny, in for a 
 pound,' and now that we are by degrees 
 getting up the ladder, perhaps you will ob- 
 ligingly tell me, miss " (I laid the stress on 
 miss), " what I had to say about the lady in 
 question ? " 
 
 *' No, indeed ! I would much rather not," 
 replied the Ked Cross nurse decisively ; " those
 
 / extricate Myself from the Difficulty. 2 1 5 
 
 matters are profound secrets which nurses 
 never disclose." 
 
 " Well, just the name, please ? " I asked 
 playfully. 
 
 *' No ! " seriously, and down went those 
 long; lashes on her cheeks. 
 
 '^ You say ' No,' Miss Templar. I presume 
 that that is but a moiety of the name. iVs we 
 have got as far as ' No,' suppose I add the 
 other half, and submit ' ra,' will that answer to 
 the name, or come anywhere near the mark ? " 
 
 '* Precisely, Captain Grey, and most in- 
 geniously you have arrived at the truth ; yet 
 you tell me (though not without signs of 
 embarrassment) that you have never seen 
 the lady ; how very curious ! " 
 
 " Well, it may seem strange, nevertheless 
 it is an absolute fact. I shall shortly be 
 homeward bound. Miss Templar, and hope, 
 on my arrival, to have that pleasure accorded 
 me, and surrender to the lady this picture,
 
 2 1 6 A Virgin Widow, 
 
 which was given to me by my lamented 
 friend and comrade-in-arms, Lieutenant Per- 
 cival Snowdon, on his deathbed." 
 
 " Good heavens ! you don't speak it ! " ex- 
 claimed Miss Templar. " What ! one of the 
 heroes of ' Slaughter Hill ' ? — the brave Snow- 
 don of so much notoriety ? " 
 
 " Even so, Miss Templar." 
 
 " Do let me look at it, Captain Grey, — just 
 one look at that face." 
 
 I detached the locket from my chain and 
 handed it to Constance Templar, with, I am 
 ashamed to say, a trembling hand. 
 
 She gazed at it for several moments in 
 silence, and then said sorrowfully, — 
 
 ** Yes, it is, it is — how much like her most 
 excellent father. There are old associations 
 connected with my people and the Towns- 
 ends of Carthewin Castle, also the Rodways 
 of Rodway Hall, in Cumberland, that fill me 
 with intense emotion."
 
 / extricate Myself from the Difficulty. 2 1 7 
 
 ''How extraordinary," I replied, ''that 
 you should have known Miss Townsend." 
 
 Miss Templar gave me another searching 
 look, as she replied, — 
 
 " I cannot say I know much of Nora. I 
 met her at Eodway Hall many years since. 
 Poor girl ! her horizon was that of romance, 
 and she has paid the penalty ; yes, poor girl, 
 I have no doubt that is a correct picture, 
 
 Thoiigli very small, 
 
 Much like her shadow on the wall. 
 
 Ah me ! " went on Miss Templar, with slow 
 a,rticulation, "in so short a time, too — a 
 bride — a wife — a widow, and — " 
 
 "A mother," I gas^^ed, hardly knowing 
 what I said. 
 
 '• Oh, dear no," replied Miss Templar, evi- 
 dently pitying my ignorance, and showing 
 no disposition to enlighten me on a subject 
 which I would have given one of my eyes,
 
 2i8 A Vii'gin Widow. 
 
 so to speak, at that moment to have been 
 made acquainted with. 
 
 " I am obliged, Miss Templar, for accord- 
 ing me this prolonged interview. I trust I 
 have not bored you ? " 
 
 " Not at all, Captain Grey, your visit has 
 afforded me infinite pleasure, and I shall 
 look forward to meeting you in dear old 
 England, when we shall be able to compare 
 notes, and look back with feelings of intense 
 gratitude for being rescued from a furious 
 fever that assailed us both ; by then, I hope 
 you will have recovered from the wounds 
 that I know are still troubling you." 
 
 " God bless and protect you for all your 
 kindness," I replied, and taking her hand 
 in mine, I respectfully bent low and pressed 
 it to my lips. 
 
 **How unemotional she is," I thought, as- 
 with measured steps I left the room.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 OUK HEROINE'S STEP-SISTER. 
 
 Pensive and sad the maiden wandered 
 Down by the deep translucent stream ; 
 
 Where her lover so oft had pondered 
 O'er his happy young life's dream. 
 
 There, beneath the old oak spreading 
 
 His wealth of branches of verdant green, 
 
 Knelt the lonely maiden, shedding 
 Tears where her gallant boy had been. 
 
 Immediately after Noras most sensational 
 interview with her father was over, she 
 hastened home, went straight to her boudoir, 
 where, throwing herself on her knees, she 
 thanked the Giver of all good gifts for his 
 tender mercy vouchsafed to her. 
 
 How rejoiced she was when she found that
 
 2 20 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 her only earthly prop was still by her side 
 to lean upon, — that he had not turned from, 
 rejected, and despised her in the hour of 
 crushing sorrow. She reviewed every word 
 that had been uttered down by the lake, — 
 lier father's temporary agony as he listened 
 to the disclosure of her secret, — his amiability 
 and forbearance ; one event after another 
 kept crowding in rapid succession upon her 
 bewildered brain ; but the prevailing grief 
 was still preying upon her heart ; uppermost 
 it would rise in spite of everything, and 
 pour forth breathings of lamentation into her 
 very soul. 
 
 Who has not, at some period of life, had 
 a trouble that outweighed every other, which 
 seemed to wrestle and grapjDle with every 
 pleasure that presented itself to the mind, 
 and in one fell swoop cleared the brain of 
 all joy and happiness ? But hope, that sweet 
 restorer, that everlasting harbinger of peace,
 
 Our Heroine s Step-Sister. 221 
 
 comes to the rescue, and we live in repose 
 again for a brief season. Alas ! how brief ; 
 for too frequently the same vexatious trouble 
 is ready at any moment to spring on the 
 first gleam of happiness that forces its way 
 into our hearts, throwing a damp, dark mantle 
 over the bright prospects of our lives ! 
 
 There is only one way of disposing of 
 the evil consequences attending the frequent 
 presence of such an enemy, and that is, to 
 strike a well-tempered axe at the root of the 
 evil. It has been said by a learned man, 
 that the true physician first purifies the blood 
 before he attacks the tumour ; so, in like 
 manner, let us endeavour to be careful of the 
 trashy seed that we are constantly (and very 
 often innocently) dropping into our nature, 
 from which the rankest weeds and the bitter- 
 est herbs spring up, and in their wild growth 
 entangle our limbs, ensnare our bodies, en- 
 trap our minds, engross and warp our best
 
 2 22 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 thoughts, and cumber our pathway through 
 life with serious obstacles. 
 
 In our heroine's case, no one is more alive 
 to the fact of the false step she has taken, 
 and for which disobedience and violation of 
 her parents' injunctions she is now bowed 
 down with sorrow= In an uno-uarded mo- 
 ment she yielded to the earnest solicitation 
 of her lamented lover ; she became his bride 
 after considerable persuasion ; she precipitated 
 a clandestine marriage, fearing that her father 
 and Mrs Townsend (who had threatened her 
 with a convent life if she persisted in re- 
 ceiving the attentions of Lieutenant Snow- 
 don) would take steps, when her lover left 
 for the Crimea, to separate them for ever. 
 But Nora's mind was so pure, so free from 
 guile, that nothing on earth would ever have 
 induced her to consummate the marriage 
 until her Percy returned from the war, 
 and they were reunited openly in Carthewin
 
 Oiu^ Hei'oine s Step-Sister. 
 
 ■church, where her mother's remains are 
 deposited. 
 
 In order that the course of action which 
 they pursued should not hereafter be subject 
 to misconstruction, or liable to get tarnished 
 with suspicion by idle rumours and uncharit- 
 able remarks, it was so arrang;ed that in 
 the registrar's office they should separate, 
 and separate they did, alas ! for ever. 
 
 Nora sat at her chamber window watching 
 the rising of the young May moon, wdiich 
 shed her pale light on the pallid features of 
 the sorrows-stricken girl as she gazed vacantly 
 over the noble domain in front of her, and 
 the long streak of mountainous country that 
 stretched away in the distance as far as the 
 eye could reach. The stars sparkled brightly 
 in the firmament ; the huge sons of the forest, 
 those majestic oaks, elms, and cedars spread- 
 ing their wealth of branches in all directions, 
 stood out in bold relief, round and about the
 
 2 24 ^ Virgin Widow. 
 
 park, and threw their loDg, curiously-shaped 
 shadows on the greensward beneath, verily 
 fitting monuments of Nora's illustrious ances- 
 tors ; the deer are silently browsing on the 
 slopes ; the white owl, with his beautiful 
 plumage, noiselessly pursues his course from 
 the roof of the thatched barn to the granary, 
 then round the castle, at intervals passing 
 the casements, as it were to take an occasional 
 peep at the fair-haired, lonely girl ; the bat& 
 are flitting here and there ; the \\^hispering 
 brook that suj)plies the moat at the base 
 of the battlements with the pure mountain 
 stream, speaks its own sweet language as it 
 falls down precipitous places, carrying with 
 it pebble after pebble over mimic waterfalls,, 
 meandering its way through circuitous routes. 
 Oh what melody! — what peace! — what repose, 
 to a mind stricken with grief ! 
 
 Since the death of Nora's lamented hus- 
 band, the " Virgin "Widow " sought such
 
 Ottr Heroine s Step-Sister. 225 
 
 secluded scenes as the manor and its wild 
 surroundings afforded. From dawn to meri- 
 dian she wandered on the banks of the 
 glassy lake, climbed the rugged defiles of 
 the mountain, or picked her way through 
 the entangled underbrush of the coverts and 
 growth of laurel and seringo, mechanically 
 appearing at the castle at luncheon time, 
 eating with haste and apparent relish, and 
 then to her rounds again until sunset, when 
 she would get her light guitar, seek her 
 lily-white swans on the lake, and beneath 
 the shadow of the umbrageous trees sit down 
 on the moss-covered bank, and sing — 
 
 He's far, far away, o'er the bright silvery cloud, 
 
 It is there that his banner is flying j 
 His body's at rest, with a cloak for his shroud, 
 
 On the banks of Crimea it's lying. 
 
 The same pale-faced moon that is beaming on me, 
 
 O'er the grave of my hero is shining ; 
 But the voice of thy Nora shall warble to thee, 
 
 For the heart of thy lover is dying. 
 VOL. I. P
 
 226 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 Nora thought of all her father's good- 
 ness, — how he promised he would support 
 her in the hour of trial ; but she was not 
 so sure of her step-mother, who, she felt 
 satisfied, would view things in quite a 
 different light to Mr Townsend. There 
 would, in all probability, be an everlasting 
 outstanding grievance, having, by her pre- 
 cipitate and clandestine marriage, cast a dark 
 shadow over the prospects of her step-sister. 
 She knew, alas I too well, that the terma- 
 gant lady, having now something to handle, 
 would use the powerful lever she had at 
 <!ommand to humble her, and thus bring 
 iibout a scheme for a separation from her 
 father and her paternal roof. She felt, as 
 loner as she remained at the castle, there 
 was nothing left looming in the future but 
 3-ears of inexorable dulness and detestable 
 bickerings. She knew, too, how particu- 
 larly desirous Mrs Townsend was to affiance
 
 Our Heroine s Step-Sister. 227 
 
 lier to her (Mrs T.'s) nephew, Cuthbert 
 Rodway, a gentleman of moderate fortune, 
 and J. P., a member of a very old county 
 family, presentable enough, but he is reported 
 to be of reckless habits and vicious temper. 
 It is needless to add that the very sight 
 of such a man, to a sensitive, chaste girl 
 like our heroine, was most offensive, and 
 made her choleric, when she would have 
 otherwise been gentle and forbearing ; hence 
 many little family domestic feuds sprang up 
 when Cuthbert Eodway's name was intro- 
 duced. It is not, therefore, to be wondered 
 at that such lugubrious surroundings pressed 
 heavily, and made sad havoc in the mind of 
 Nora, driving her to the secluded retreats of 
 her father's domain, where she could enjoy 
 undisturbed the amenity of the wild songs 
 of the birds, — watch the spring flowers un- 
 folding, day by day, to the season, — gather 
 some truant bees that wandered far from
 
 2 28 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 home, and got caught in the evening, and, 
 with her gentle hand, restore them to their 
 homestead ; and listen to the murmuring 
 brook telling its little tale, so to speak, of 
 pleasure and sadness. 
 
 As before stated, our pale-faced heroine 
 sat in her boudoir, looking over the moon- 
 light scene in silent reverie, meditating on 
 the past and anticipating the future, when 
 a gentle knock is heard at her door. 
 
 " Come in." 
 
 " Oh, Gertrude, is that you ? " said Nora, 
 at the same time brushing away some gather- 
 ing tears, and hastily folding a letter that 
 was lying on her lap, in the handwriting of 
 the late Percival Snowdon, whilst the en- 
 velope disclosed the well-known caligraphy 
 of Oliver Grey. 
 
 Gertrude at first made no reply, but taking 
 a chair, and placing it close to Nora, sat 
 down, resting her head on her step-sister's.
 
 Our Heroine s Step-Sister, 229 
 
 shoulder, and entwining her arm round her 
 neck, said softly, — 
 
 " Sissy, come, love, come, love, with me ; 
 you are lonely, you are sad." 
 
 Nora, gently pressing her back, and gaz- 
 ing thoughtfully into her sister's face, said, — 
 
 " Child, what do you know of my sad- 
 ness ? What whisperings have reached your 
 guileless ears, to make you thus feel interested 
 in the troubled waters of my life ? " 
 
 '' You have a papa, have you not ? " 
 
 " The Lord be praised, I have," responded 
 ^our heroine. 
 
 " I have a papa, haven't I, Nora ? " 
 
 " You have, child, and a noble father he is." 
 
 " Your papa is my papa, is he not, Nora ? " 
 
 *' Even so, dear," affectionately. 
 
 '* He loves you tenderly, Nora, does he 
 not?" 
 
 " With all his soul," responded Nora, 
 vehemently.
 
 230 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 " And me ? " asked Gertrude. 
 
 " With all the force of his good nature. 
 Yes, Gerty, he loves you as earnestly as he 
 loves me ; but why all this ? " 
 
 " Why ? Oh, nothing, at least nothiug 
 very particular. I have only been thinking 
 a little lately," was the meek rejoinder. 
 
 " Tell me, Gerty, what have you been 
 thinking about ? " said Nora, entwining 
 her snow-white arm round her sister's 
 waist. 
 
 " Oh, nothing." 
 
 " Do say — do tell me," entreatingly. 
 
 Gertrude clasped her arms round her 
 sister's neck, buried her face in her bosom, 
 and sobbed aloud. Oh those loving, innocent 
 tears, that flow from the fountain of the in- 
 most recesses of a fond, childish heart ! What 
 volumes they speak ! How they open up the 
 springs of our sluggish nature, and soothe the 
 drooping spirits !
 
 Our He7'oines Step-Sister. 231 
 
 ''I do love you so, Sissy," sobbed Ger- 
 trude, with eyes suffused with tears. 
 
 " Your words and actions denote your love, 
 my dear," replied Nora ; '' but, alas ! I have 
 no tears to shed, — the fount is dry, yes, dry 
 as hay," at the same time casting a glance at 
 the letter she held in her hand ; " but go, 
 dear, go. Your mother may wonder where 
 you are, and — " 
 
 " Love me all the more. Sissy, for coming 
 here to cheer you, I hope." 
 
 ** But w^hat makes you think I require 
 cheering ? " continued Nora thoughtfully. 
 
 *' Oh, I have heard mamma and papa say 
 ever so many things about you ; and papa 
 said, that if things did not alter at once, he 
 should send you abroad : I think he said to 
 Uncle George's at Cadiz." 
 
 '' And what did Mrs Townsend say to such 
 a sensible proposition ? " asked Nora, twisting 
 a bunch of keys rapidly betw^een her fingers.
 
 232 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 ^^ Oh she—" 
 
 A pause. 
 
 " She what ? " earnestly. 
 
 " She said it was the very best place for 
 you to go, to bring you to your senses, and 
 that the sooner you changed your name to 
 Eodway the better, and that she would be 
 able to arrange and put matters right with 
 Cuthbert." 
 
 A shudder visibly passed through Nora s 
 frame as she replied, by way of a ruse, — 
 
 *'And would you like me to change my 
 name, child ? " searching into the very 
 depths of her sister's countenance, to see 
 if she had a knowledge of what had taken 
 place. 
 
 " Don't ask me such a thing. Sissy. If 
 you marry that horrid cousin of mine, you 
 will be leaving me, and — " 
 
 " And what, love ? " interrupted Nora, with 
 gentle earnestness.
 
 Our Heroines Step-Sister. 233 
 
 " You will soon be grey," continued 
 Gertrude. 
 
 " But I am grey." 
 
 "Nay, Sissy, only a tiny fleck, just here. 
 I never noticed that before last Sunday, at 
 church, and I then thought it was owing to 
 the stained glass window. What is the 
 ■cause of it, dear Nora, and you so young, 
 too ? " 
 
 '' Your years, dear Gerty, are much too 
 few ; your loving heart too innocent and 
 pure, to understand such things. As your 
 days roll on, they will bring with them, as 
 ^ common result, vanity and vexation of — " 
 
 " But mamma says," interrupted Gertrude, 
 "that I am much beyond my years, and that 
 I know as much as any grown-up woman." 
 
 " Would you like to be a grown-up wo- 
 man ? " asked Nora musingly, and evidently 
 bent upon fathoming the mind of her sister. 
 
 "No, indeed, I should not."
 
 234 ^ Virgin Widow. 
 
 '' "Why ? " 
 
 "Because grown-up persons lialf their 
 time seem to be fretting and troubling about 
 little things ; and they get sometimes angry 
 and spiteful ; and they say so many cross 
 words ; and never seem as happy when they 
 get up in the morning as they do at dinner, 
 and all that sort of thing." 
 
 "Dear child," soliloquised Nora, '' how true 
 every word. As the tide flows on, how it 
 picks up on its way endless weeds. So with 
 our journey through life — pleasures, griefs, 
 hopes, fears, success, non-success, care, be- 
 reavements, and crushing blows of various 
 kinds, all tend to disturb the tranquillity of 
 the mind, and render us more or less subject 
 to its influences." 
 
 " Then j^ou would not like to be a tall 
 lady, Gertrude ? " 
 
 " If there is one reason more than another, 
 Sissy dear, that I should like to jump out of
 
 Our Heroines Step-Sister. 235 
 
 these short clothes into long, it would be to 
 get clear of those horrid lessons I have to 
 learn night after night ; and Miss Reignforth 
 is so very exacting. Mamma insists on hav- 
 ing me crammed with all kinds of accomplish- 
 ments. You don't know how I am worried, 
 dear, and how my poor head and heart ache 
 when I o;o to bed at night. Then the first 
 thing in the morning, before breakfast, I 
 start with two hours' piano practice of those 
 everlasting scales, that Monsieur Gardier 
 calls •' brilliant runs.' I know I should 
 greatly prefer a run somewhere else. Then, 
 after breakfast, one hour at French and Ger- 
 man exercises — oh that horrid German gram- 
 mar ! — and Markham's France, afterwards 
 natural history, MagnalVs Historical Ques- 
 tions, then Butler s Arithmetical Questions^ 
 then singing lessons with that miserable little 
 red-faced oddity, Signor Paletsky, who sticks 
 up a mirror on the piano, and I have to adjust
 
 236 A Virgin Widow, 
 
 my mouth exactly to his fancy, and try to 
 smile as I gasp out those horrid do, re, mi, 
 Ja, sol, la, si, dos, until I am absolutely 
 ready to faint ; then, in the afternoon, Latin 
 exercises, the globes, and twice a week danc- 
 ing and modern cookery — so you see, dear 
 Sissy, how I am bothered. But I prefer even 
 all this rather than be a cross old lady ; for I 
 do love kind words, and I do love to come 
 to you, Sissy, you are so gentle — you never 
 scold ; but lately you have got a little dis- 
 mal, and whenever I ask dear mamma why 
 you don't come downstairs like you used, and 
 do your pretty wool work, crochet, sing, play 
 your guitar, and gather sweet flowers for the 
 tiny vases in the rooms, she says, because you 
 are upstairs ' moping.' I asked what she 
 meant, and she replied, nothing particular. 
 Now, Sissy dear, tell me something about 
 moping." 
 
 " Alas ! I know too well, dear one, to what
 
 Ou7^ Heromes Step-Sister. 237 
 
 your mother refers ; and to impart to you 
 all the dismals that have created the ' mop- 
 ping ' to which she alludes, would be an act 
 of indiscretion on my part, and would be 
 only filling your young mind with bubbles, 
 empty bubbles, and vanity." 
 
 " But you know mamma says I am a 
 woman in reality, though not in years." 
 
 '* God forbid, child, that you should be. 
 Your young days, like the wildflow^ers in 
 the hedgerows, will soon die away ; the 
 bloom of your youth will pass fast enough,. 
 and the thorns as well as the roses will 
 spring up in clusters around you ; the 
 beautiful sunshine, the bright morning of 
 your life, will swiftly fly, and the night 
 with its dark mantle will — " 
 
 *' Oh you dismal Sissy!" interrupted Gert- 
 rude, "you are getting like all the grown-uj) 
 ladies, only you don't look angry, and you don't 
 scold one bit. I wish you would, sometimes."'
 
 238 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 " I could not find the heart to scold you, 
 dear," interposed Nora, smoothing her hand 
 down her sister's wealth of hair. 
 
 " Not if I deserved it ? — why ? " 
 
 " I could not bear to see such a pretty 
 face in trouble," said Nora, afi"ectionately 
 kissing her sister on both cheeks. 
 
 " Sissy, dear," said Gertrude, " you re- 
 member when we went into North Wales, 
 to that beautiful estate belonging to Lady 
 someone, do you not ? You know when we 
 stopped at the private hotel by the name of 
 Pwllycrochon (or some such name), in Colwyn T 
 
 " Yes, dear ; or, as papa jocosely called 
 it, ' Put-the-clock-on.' " 
 
 "And you remember we all went by rail 
 to Bangor, don't you ? " continued Gertrude. 
 
 " Perfectly well, dear." 
 
 " And you recollect we saw — oh, such a 
 wonderful bridge ; they called it the Menai, 
 I think?"
 
 Our Heroine s Step-Sister, 239 
 
 "Yes, you are correct," rejoined Nora. 
 
 ** The bridge was not so high, or nearly 
 ^s Clifton Bridge, at St Vincent's Eocks, 
 but it was longer, I think." 
 
 " Very much so," replied Nora thought- 
 fully, at the same time wondering at the 
 child's curious detail. 
 
 " And we had a carriage and four horses, 
 and a tipsy postillion, if you remember, and 
 w^e drove to the foot of a wonderfully high 
 mountain, that went up ever so far into the 
 clouds ; am I right ? " 
 
 " We did," replied Nora abstractedly, *' and 
 most thoroughly enjoyed our visit. The 
 scenery was beautiful, and the air supremely 
 invio;oratino\" 
 
 "And w^e were so happy, were we not, 
 •Sissy ? " rejoined Gertrude. 
 
 " Yes, love, as happy as doves." 
 
 There was a long pause at the end of 
 this colloquy, during which time Gertrude
 
 240 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 was making an attempt at biting the back 
 of one of her nails, a habit which was not 
 usually hers ; then she continued, archly, — 
 
 "Do you remember. Sissy, the name of 
 that lofty mountain — the highest, I believe,. 
 in England and Wales ? " 
 
 "Very well indeed, Gerty, it was Sno — " 
 
 A shudder ran through the frame of Nora. 
 She saw in a moment that her sister had 
 ingeniously led up to her own name ! 
 
 " Don't stare so, Sissy, or look so wild ! " 
 exclaimed Gertrude ; "I know all about it,. 
 Mrs Snowdon, all about it." 
 
 " You know all about it ? " 
 
 " Dear me, yes, everyone in the castle, 
 servants and all, are aware that you are 
 married, and that you are a widow." 
 
 " The ice is broken, then," rejoined Nora. 
 " God be praised, a weight is removed 
 from my brain. Go, child, go downstairs 
 and leave me ; I wish to be alone."
 
 Our Heroines Step-Sister. 241 
 
 " One more kiss, Sissy," said Gertrude, 
 " one more — and another. I shall come to- 
 morrow, shall I not ? I do love you so. I 
 have a half holiday, let us spend it together 
 at the waterfall in Barley Wood, all amongst 
 the beautiful ferns we are so fond of." 
 
 " Yes, dear Gerty, if we are spared to see 
 the morning, and we are well, we will go to- 
 gether, and enjoy the amenity of the wild- 
 flowers in the valley and coppice : the place 
 you name is my favourite retreat." 
 
 " Call me early, won't you, dear Sissy ? 
 don't forget. Mamma says I am in reality 
 a little woman 1 " 
 
 The door closed, and all was still except 
 the sound of the receding steps of the light- 
 hearted girl as she tripped through the 
 corridor humming a lively tune. 
 
 "If one bright gleam of happiness has 
 been torn from me," soliloquised Nora, "there 
 are evidences of God's infinite goodness por- 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 242 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 trayed in that child, who comes, as it were, 
 as a physician to bind up a broken heart, 
 to administer to my sick mind some mild 
 restorative. She possesses a charm which 
 has a powerful antidote for allaying grief. 
 The girl, of all others, who, I thought, would 
 have nursed in her breast bitter feelings, and 
 opposed me, now comes to my rescue, charged 
 with the milk of human kindness, and, as it 
 w^ere, imparts new life. 
 
 Thoroughly worn with anxiety and brood- 
 ing over the past, present, and the future, 
 Nora sought the repose she so much needed ; 
 but her mind was restless, the counteraction 
 of events brouo;ht her brain into more active 
 play, thus driving sleep from her weary eyes. 
 
 As the clock in the old tower of Carthewin 
 Castle struck the midnight hour, and the 
 whole of the inmates were supposed to have 
 forgotten, for a brief season, the things of this 
 life, Nora's bedroom door was gently ojDcned.
 
 Ottr Heroine s Step-Sister. 243 
 
 " Who's there ? " 
 
 No answer. 
 
 A fairy-like form glided into the room — 
 a whisper — a kiss — a question — an answer 
 — a gentle hand turned back the bedclothes, 
 and Nora and Gertrude nestle in each other's 
 arms until the faint streak of early dawn 
 forced its way through the lattice casement, 
 and the plaint of the cuckoo was heard in 
 the distance.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 TWO ROSES. 
 
 " In youth how wide the field of hope — in age 
 how narrow ! " 
 
 It is in the middle of July, the sky is filled 
 with ultramarine blue, scarcely a flying scud 
 is to be seen ; the lark, poised high in mid- 
 air, sings joyously ; every living thing is 
 breathing the sweetness of the fields : the 
 green wheat - stalks are growing higher,, 
 stronger, and waving majestically to the soft 
 breeze of a summer's morning;, and the brig;ht 
 poppies stand up here and there in the 
 furrows in gorgeous bloom. The balmy odour 
 from the broad beans, honeysuckle, and cle- 
 matis perfume the air with ambrosial scents ;.
 
 Tivo Roses. 245 
 
 the wild rose, the traditional little friend, 
 attracts the traveller's attention, as the queen 
 of the lane with her host of off-shoots and 
 tiny buds peep out invitingly from sw^et 
 briar branchlets and, as it were, tell of their 
 joyous spring days of old. The bees are 
 industriously plying their vocation as they 
 vigorously search flower - cup, blossom, and 
 leaf for maliferous food ; many are returning 
 loaded w^ith pollen, homeward bound. Those 
 rascally poachers, the crows, are cawing and 
 swarming on the arable land, ploughing up 
 with destructive beaks the soil, whilst others 
 ■are perched high on the top of surrounding 
 trees keeping w^atch — how different are the 
 habits of the rooks ! The mill-stream flows 
 slowly and silently on until it reaches the 
 ponderous machine w^hose motive power 
 grinds the corn and cuts the timber for 
 Carthewin Castle and estate ; the monotonous 
 sounds of the hug;e w^heel movino^ round in
 
 246 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 solemn like motion, and the dropping of the 
 water as it is carried over on its shiny verdant 
 surface, fills one with reminiscences of old, — 
 days of our childhood, the bright and happy 
 time of our youth, when the toy boat — that 
 traditional little galley — was gaily sailed on 
 the mill-stream, — the thatched cottage, the 
 dun cow with the crumpled horn, the apple- 
 faced dairy-maid, the miller all in white, the 
 old impromptu rustic bridge, the stile at the 
 bottom of the orchard, the deep well in the 
 yard, with its large coil of chain, — 
 
 " The old oaken bucket, 
 The iron-bound bucket, 
 The moss-covered bucket. 
 That stood by the well,"— 
 
 the small fishery of our childhood, with 
 withy stick, cork, thread, crooked pin and 
 worm, — the old mountain roan shaggy pony,, 
 that one used to catch in the meadow by 
 coaxing with bread, saddling with various
 
 Two Roses. 247 
 
 shifts, and tally-hoing in the rear of the 
 stream of hunters, sometimes creeping where 
 best hunters could not jump, — the spills, 
 the laughter, the return home with torn and 
 dirtj clothes, — the fun in the home orchard 
 with Carlow, our favourite spaniel, — that 
 bonny brown loaf and strawberry jam, with 
 best of appetites, — the vigorous pull at the 
 jug of new milk, — the fun in our bedrooms, — 
 the war with pillows and bolsters, — the twelve 
 hours' sleep, — the morning bath, — the rosy 
 cheeks, — the bat, ball, fife, drum, and re- 
 newed peals of laughter round the hawthorn 
 tree ; are all pleasant recollections for those 
 who have a soul for the memory of days 
 long gone by. It may be so with some 
 of my readers, as it is with the author, 
 melodies of old singing within, an undying 
 sweet soDg of early days, and all the light- 
 hearted, joyous surroundings ever rising to 
 the surface. In the words of Moore —
 
 24B A Virgin Widow. 
 
 " You may break — you may ruin the vase if you will, 
 But the scent of the roses will hang around it still." 
 
 Yes ; all is peaceful as a summer's dream. 
 The longest day has scarcely passed — there 
 is but little night ; and, when the dew 
 begins to fall, it bathes wdth refreshing 
 breath the thirsty flowers ; the balmy odour 
 fills the air with delicious scents. 
 
 " Summer, O sweet summer ! 
 How I love thy sunny hours ! " 
 
 There were some beautiful roses j)eeping 
 in at the window of Carthewin Castle, and 
 there were two roses peeping out — one in 
 bloom and one in bud. Let us step inside 
 and enjoy their fragrance. 
 
 Our heroine is eno^ao^ed in " fillins: in " 
 some wool work. Gertrude is seated on a 
 small footstool by her side, looking very 
 picturesque, reading aloud an interesting 
 tale out of the monthly magazine. How
 
 Two Roses. 249 
 
 lovely those twain looked ; how fond, too, 
 they were growling of each other. Nora's 
 sad bereavement brought her step - sister's 
 fountain of love and sympathy into play. 
 It flowed copiously, and, like a shower of 
 pure w^ater, invigorated the drooping bloom, 
 and refreshed the leaves. 
 
 *' Gerty, love," said Nora, parting the 
 wealth of her sister's flowing hair, and 
 kissing the back of her neck, " don't read 
 sccq more of that tale." 
 
 " Oh, do let me. Sissy," replied Gertrude ; 
 ^' it is so pretty. We have not got into 
 the best of it yet, and I am so anxious 
 to know what became of little Alice, and 
 whether Clara marries Podmore, and whether 
 that horrid old Dapper is hanged, and — " 
 
 '' Never mind, pet, oblige me by not read- 
 ing it. I v/ill go to the library and bring 
 you something infinitely more amusing, and 
 much more instructive."
 
 250 A Virgin Widow, 
 
 '' I daresay, Sissy, dear, some cold, rusty, 
 dismal thing or other. Paj^a is always 
 boring me about travels and improving my 
 mind. Why, I have read almost every book 
 of travel in the library." 
 
 ** Well, Gerty, travels, as a rule, are 
 anything but dry ; on the contrary, most 
 amusing, and the best of them very in- 
 structive. You have not yet read Central 
 Europe, or Dr Earth's Central Africa, or 
 Washington Irving's Columbus, or — " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; go on. Sissy. I expect you 
 will conclude with Gibbon's Decline and 
 Fall of the Roman Empire,'' interrupted 
 Gertrude. " Now, I don't object to reading 
 a life amongst the Indians. I think it is 
 splendid to follow the customs and habits 
 of the 'braves,' their old squaws and 
 woolly - headed children ; but why, Nora, 
 don't you like me to finish this tale ? 
 Harry Podmore is such a nice, noble char-
 
 Tzuo Roses. 251 
 
 acter, and old Dapper is such a horrid, 
 nasty thing, that — " 
 
 " Notwithstanding, dear one," interrupted 
 Nora, " I would rather you did not read 
 aloud that book. It is not the best in 
 the library for young minds ; indeed, there 
 is much in it objectionable, and you can 
 spend far sounder hours in possessing your- 
 self of good material, instead of sowing the 
 seed of those trashy novels. Bacon says, 
 ' Eeading makes a full man, writing, a 
 correct one, and speaking, a ready man. 
 
 " Ah, now^ I have it ! " said Gertrude, 
 with a little toss of her head. " You are 
 at your naughty tricks again, — those horrid 
 dismals. I don't wonder at papa saying 
 that he will send you to Uncle George at 
 Cadiz, where you will mix with some lively 
 ladies. I say, Nora, that reminds me, do 
 you know mamma said this morning that 
 w^e are going to have a swell garden-party ?
 
 252 A Virgin Widow, 
 
 The * best people ' are coming, and there is 
 to be a wind-up in the large ballroom in 
 the evening. It is to be an awfully grand 
 affair, most recherche! All the Brans- 
 combs and the Winkworth girls are coming ; 
 also old Sir Robert Simens and the pretty 
 girl— what's her name ? who was not to be 
 found on the memorable morning; of the 
 proposed wedding — the little wretch ! I 
 wonder at mamma having any desire to 
 receive her after so much gossip ; but 
 mamma says she is so ' strictly county,' 
 that it must be looked over. Now, tell 
 me, what will you wear, Sissy ? " 
 
 " Such things seldom enter my head," 
 replied Nora, with a weary sigh. 
 
 "Well, I never!" exclaimed Gertrude. 
 *' You are certainly what my governess calls 
 an imperturbable being." 
 
 " I care but little for these ' swell ' enter- 
 tainments, as you call them, neither have I
 
 Tivo Roses. 253 
 
 ever liacl an inclination to mingle in the vor- 
 tex of frivolous society, Gerty." 
 
 " Anyhow, Sissy, I like a bit of fun," re^Dliecl 
 Gertrude, " and I like to be able to hold my 
 own in the way of a little finery * tip-top,' 
 as Cousin Cuthbert says ; and, to that end, 
 Messrs Kobeall, of Eegent Street, are to make 
 me, oh, such a lovely dress ! with ever so 
 many flounces, and it is to be looped up in 
 festoons of I don't know what, so no more 
 short dresses for me, Nora. Hurrah ! what 
 fun it will be ; won't it ? " 
 
 " Tell me, Sissy, how old were you last 
 birthday ? " said Nora, a little reproachfully. 
 
 " Last birthday ? — why, fifteen — that is, I 
 am going in sixteen, don't you know ? " 
 
 " Ah, my child, there is ample time yet ; 
 your mother had better keep you a child as 
 long as she can. Nature, in all its rapid, 
 certnin course, will press back the springtide of 
 your life fast enough without the aid of Messrs
 
 254 ^ Virgin Widow. 
 
 Eobeall, or consulting any artificial means for 
 the purpose of making you look older than 
 you really are." 
 
 " But you know, Sissy dear, as I told you 
 before, mamma says, though I am a child in 
 years, I am really a woman in manner ; and 
 you know papa calls me his ' little old woman.' 
 Upon my word, you are a naughty Nora. I 
 do believe, had you the power, you would 
 place me in a kind of Chinese slipper, so 
 that I shouldn't grow one bit." 
 
 '' No, Gerty, I would do nothing of the 
 kind. I would rather see you grow day by 
 day into more and more usefulness, and watch 
 your youthful intellect expanding and ripen- 
 ing, but not unnaturally forced ; for do we not 
 know that hothouse plants, cultured under the 
 blaze of a scorching noonday's sun, pushed 
 forward at night by artificial means, and 
 denied the dew breath of heaven, are always 
 tender plants."
 
 Two Roses. 255 
 
 " I think I shall give you a new name, 
 l^ora, — say Mrs Dismals, instead of Mrs 
 Moping, as mamma calls you ; for you are 
 everlastingly comparing me in some way or 
 other to flowers ! If you could transmogrify 
 me at this moment, what on earth would 
 you convert me into ? " 
 
 A long pause. 
 
 ''I am not particular, Sissy," went on 
 Gertrude, pursing up her pretty little mouth 
 very considerably ; " though it is well to re- 
 mind you that I detest dandelions, and I 
 should object to sweet peas and John Quills 
 — I get too much of them already with Miss 
 Eeignforth — and none of your Tom Thumbs, 
 for I want to grow to something tall. Now, 
 Sissy, out wdth it, dear, and I have no doubt 
 I shall be in the vase as a decoration for the 
 dinner-table before I can say ' Please, don't ! '" 
 
 " That will do, Gerty, I have hit upon it. 
 I change you instantly into a scarlet-runner,"
 
 256 A Virgin Widow, 
 
 said Nora jocosely ; " and now run into the 
 garden as fast as you can, and don't stop 
 running until you have climbed up the green 
 knoll at the top of the hill, that is covered 
 with the mountain herbage." 
 
 ''Dear Sissy, dear Mrs Mopings, I shall 
 soon get you out of your dismals, I hope ;; 
 why, you have positively laughed this 
 morning. Nothing very crescendo though, 
 as my professor of do, re, mi would say,"" 
 and snatching up her garden hat, Gertrude 
 opened the French window, bounded over 
 the closely-shaven lawn, paused in the dis- 
 tance, kissed her hand again at her step- 
 sister, waved her snow-white handkerchief, 
 and the little light-hearted " scarlet runner " 
 soon climbed out of sight. 
 
 The play of Gertrude's intellect was pre- 
 cisely what was wanted : the child seemed 
 intuitively to know the exact antidote her 
 sorrowing sister and her only close com-
 
 Two Roses. 257 
 
 panion in life required ; her innocent ways 
 and playful manner cheered and comforted 
 the mourner when every other method 
 failed. In the words of the poet Moore, — 
 
 " Eai-th has no sorrows that Heaven cannot heal." 
 
 ** I love that child," said Nora, within 
 herself; "what should I do without her? 
 She is sent, as it were, like an angel from 
 heaven, to cheer me in my lonely widow- 
 hood," and burying her face in her hands, 
 she shed tears of gratitude, and softly mur- 
 mured, — " Percy, my beloved Percy, T shall — " 
 
 *' Soon be on board the BuceplialuSy 
 bound for Cadiz," said Mr Townsend, who 
 approached unobserved. 
 
 " Oh dear ! how you frightened me, papa ! " 
 exclaimed Nora, ]Dlacing her trembling hand 
 upon her heart. 
 
 " Well, my daughter, what is it all about 
 now ? " said Mr Townsend, pulling both ends 
 
 VOL. I. K,
 
 258 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 of his whiskers, his habit when things did 
 not please him. 
 
 " Nothing, papa," thoughtfully. 
 
 " Nothing, papa ! " repeated Mr Townsend, 
 in a mimicking tone; " absurd ! I know better 
 than that. Now, none of your old tricks, 
 if you please, Nora, or, as sure as fate, I 
 will have your boxes packed, and send you 
 and — " A pause. 
 
 " Who ? " ventured Nora inquiringly. 
 
 " Your mamma to Cadiz, for change of 
 air," continued Mr Townsend significantly. 
 
 "■ You could not be so unkind, I know," 
 said Nora, throwing up her soft eyes, which 
 were suffused with tears, into her father's 
 face, and resting her hand on his manly 
 shoulder. 
 
 " I think it would be an act of kindness," 
 ventured Mr Townsend. 
 
 " Say rather one of cruelty," responded 
 Nora, with a sob in her throat. " God for-
 
 Two Roses, 259 
 
 give me for using such a term, papa. I 
 know right well, from past experience, that 
 •cruelty forms no part of your nature." 
 
 Mr Townsend flamed crimson, but it in- 
 stantly faded away, as he continued, — 
 
 "• I will not adopt any course, my dear 
 daughter, or force a thing upon you, unless 
 it meet with your approval. At the most, 
 Nora, I can have but a few years to live, 
 and I should like to spend the residue of 
 them in something like tranquillity ; without 
 that peace, life becomes a burden. I lay 
 myself out in every possible way, shape, 
 and form, for the benefit of my wife and 
 you girls. My hopes are built in you, and 
 no pleasure is so great to me, or lasting, as 
 to see you all pulling together in the most 
 united way, in harmony and happiness. The 
 trial that you have passed through, my 
 daughter, the eJBfects of which you are mani- 
 festly still sufiering from, has been a crushing
 
 26o A Vh^gin Widow, 
 
 one, and it is fortunate for you that things 
 are no worse. Sympathy, I fear, will avail 
 but little, else I would hasten to the rescue,. 
 and try to help you out of the difficulty. 
 As the scythe clears the meadow of the long 
 grass, or the hook the thistle in the hedge- 
 row, so will time in its season clear your 
 brow of the dark clouds that hover over it." 
 
 *' Never ; never entirely ! " said Nora. 
 
 '' Tush, child ! tush ! you offer an in- 
 dignity to your heavenly Father by nursing 
 such wild thoughts, and giving way to 
 desponding imagination." 
 
 The moving pathos of Mr Townsend's- 
 words greatly affected our heroine, as she 
 said, — 
 
 " Dear papa, how I love to be with you,, 
 and feel the warmth of your sunny smile." 
 
 " Now, Nora dear, throw off all dismals, 
 and go to the library and sit with your 
 mamma for an hour or so. I know, from
 
 Two Roses. 261 
 
 what she said this morning, she wishes to 
 see you." 
 
 *•' Oh, papa, please don't, I — I — " 
 
 " It is my desire," said Mr Townsend, 
 -drawing himself up impressively, with a 
 lofty air. 
 
 " I am ever obedient, father, to your 
 commands, but you know nothing of my 
 trouble." 
 
 " Pish ! what absurdity ! it cannot pos- 
 sibly be a Townsend who is talking such 
 nonsense. Think of your lamented mother's 
 moral and intellectual excellence, and what 
 she would have said to you had she been 
 spared. Come, come, no more of this, child ; 
 no more ; go, now, and sit awhile with Mrs 
 Townsend ; put your first foot foremost, the 
 best side, so to speak, towards London ; 
 brace up your nerves ; be watchful over 
 your w^ords ; recollect, love, to whom you 
 will be speaking, — my wife ! — your step-
 
 262 A Virgin Widow, 
 
 mother ! be humble, as you have need to be,, 
 after what has transpired ; but with be- 
 coming pride stand fast to the traditions 
 of your family ; and, above all things, lose 
 sight of the fact that you are the heiress 
 of Carthewin. For the future, Nora, I rely 
 upon you with the most absolute confidence ; 
 I obliterate the past from my memory ; I 
 anticipate that which is before us with all 
 the fervour of a devoted parent, and I shall 
 look for, as a natural result, a reciprocation, 
 on your part." 
 
 " I feel, dear father, that I am wholly 
 unworthy of so much thought and considera- 
 tion ; you have chosen, however, in your 
 paternal love to deal gently with me — yes, 
 with astounding forbearance — and my 
 sweet sister, that lily of the vale, that 
 cherub of the spring, is something worth 
 living for. And you, oh, my dear 
 father, so long as there is left a caressing,
 
 Two Roses. 263 
 
 tendril to my frail nature, it will cling to 
 thee ! " 
 
 " If there be one thing more than another 
 I am rejoiced at, my daughter, it is seeing 
 Gertrude and you growing up together in 
 perfect harmony, bearing with one another, 
 and loving one another w^ith all earnestness 
 and purity of your fond nature." 
 
 ** Do you wish me to go to Uncle George's 
 at Cadiz, father ? " said Nora, with the sweet- 
 est expression. 
 
 '' Cadiz be hanged ! Not I, child. Throw 
 off all your dismals, and I can devise plans 
 whereby your happiness, and my happiuess, 
 and all our happiness will, with God's bless- 
 ing, be complete." 
 
 "■ Mamma will be kind to me, won't she ? " 
 
 " Kind, child ! of course, she will. Do you 
 think for one moment I should allow her to 
 be otherwise ? God forbid ! Besides, she is 
 so good and considerate ; I am sure my pretty
 
 264 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 blue eyes," continued Mr Townsend, pressing 
 his daughter's chiselled face with both hands, 
 *' she loves you, and she will, if you mind 
 your p's and q's, be devoted to you." 
 
 Those p's and q's ! ! 
 
 "Thank you very much, dear father," said 
 our heroine, pinking considerably, whilst the 
 flash of her eyes and subdued pout of her 
 coral li^Ds showed some little signs of tumult 
 within. " I will strenuously endeavour to 
 take very considerable care of those letters 
 of warning, if only for your dear sake,'' and 
 Nora struggled with emotion. 
 
 " Heaven bless you, my daughter," re- 
 sponded Mr Townsend, turning his head 
 suddenly away to avoid exposing tears that 
 had quickly gathered in his eyes. 
 
 And then followed the heavy step of the 
 lord of the manor, as he walked up the 
 highly-polished oak staircase to his dressing- 
 room.
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE. 
 
 On the morning of the last day of July- 
 there were assembled in the old oak room 
 of Carthewin Castle, Mrs Townsend, Nora, 
 and Gertrude. The former was seated at 
 her secretaire, busily engaged in replying 
 to numerous letters which had accumulated 
 through slight indisposition. A keen ob- 
 server could have detected that the lady of 
 the house, as she paused now and again in 
 her correspondence, and gazed abstractedly 
 through the open French window on the 
 closely-shaven lawn, looked somewhat worn 
 and anxious ; the slight rubicund tinge 
 that usually prevailed on either cheek had
 
 266 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 vanished, leaving her a complexion sallow 
 and suggestive of much gastric derangement^ 
 contrasting immensely with her large dark 
 lustrous hazel eyes, and the ample folds of 
 black tresses, which were wreathed in various 
 devices around a well-moulded head. The 
 point of a tiny purple satin slipper peeped 
 from the skirt of a cream-coloured morning^ 
 dress ; the little foot at intervals seemed 
 greatly agitated, by tattooing the floor when- 
 ever its wearer's eyes wandered from the 
 letter she was writing, to Nora, and from 
 Nora to Gertrude. 
 
 Some beautiful roses were peeping in at 
 the window, their offshoots gracefully bend- 
 ing to and fro at every slight breeze, carry- 
 ing with it sweet, balmy odours of honey- 
 suckle, clematis, and other summer scents. 
 
 Nora is looking very picturesque, more 
 cheerful and animated ; and although her 
 bright fresh colour has not re-appearedy
 
 Past, Present, and Ftiture, 267 
 
 nevertheless, from constant exposure to the 
 sun, and her wild rambles in all kinds of 
 weather over her father's domain, her skin has 
 become much bronzed, and a superficial ob- 
 server would arrive at the conclusion that she 
 was brimful of health, without even a sem- 
 blance of care or anxiety. Her fairly tall and 
 graceful figure, as she silently moved about 
 the polished floor decorating the tiny vases 
 with the choicest of hot-house flowers, greatly 
 resembled the full-sized portrait of her late 
 mother, which hung in the oak room. 
 
 Placid she sits in her picture, 
 
 Reposing in velvet arm-chair ; 
 Her form stands out on the canvas, 
 
 "Whilst her soul is heaven knows where. 
 
 Pensive and silent she watches 
 
 Loved ones that are flitting so near, 
 
 Breath, as it were, of her spirit, 
 Breathes softly on all that is dear. 
 
 Gentle the sigh that's uplifted, 
 
 And wafted with swift wings above ; 
 
 Tender the throes of a fond heart, 
 And throbbings of exquisite love.
 
 26S A Virgin Widow. 
 
 Sweetly she smiles on her offspring, 
 
 Her brow is divested of care ; 
 Angels are now her companions, 
 
 Some here, there, and everywhere. 
 
 Calmly she sits in her picture, 
 
 Her half-parting lips seem to speak, 
 
 Her eyes with tears are o'erflowing, 
 A bright pink suffuses her cheek. 
 
 'Tis not the outcome of sadness, 
 But rather the voice of the dead 
 
 Whispering of love and affection, 
 And warnings of breakers ahead ! 
 
 No one could look on that portrait, and 
 then on the stately form of our heroine, 
 "without being struck with the close resem- 
 hlance to the mother and child ; the finely 
 formed head ; the sweet frank eyes ; the rose- 
 bud mouth ; the well-defined Grecian nose ; 
 the dimpled chin, and sloping shoulders, are 
 portrayed in every line of the shadow and 
 substance. 
 
 Karely a night passed without Nora crept 
 quietly into the old oak room, and gazed, 
 unobserved, on her beloved mother's portrait :
 
 Past, Present, a^td Future. 269 
 
 though an infant in arms when her parent 
 died, nevertheless there was an irresistible 
 attraction to that room and its surroundings. 
 Our heroine never felt happier than when she 
 could find an opportunity to procure her late 
 mother's portfolio, in which could be found 
 some valuable and touching memoirs of her 
 life. Unfortunately for Nora, she possessed a 
 painfully sensitive disposition, and felt keenly 
 the effect of any observation which had the 
 slightest taint of unkindness, whether its 
 arrow were directed towards her, or any of 
 her family or friends. During the whole 
 period of her life, that most excellent trait 
 in her character earned for herself the highest 
 esteem of all her circle of acquaintance. 
 
 Gertrude is of a somewhat different stamp. 
 She is now fifteen years old, tall, sprightly, 
 a perfect blonde, with a warm, rich colouring 
 which lit up the sweetest of eyes. Though her 
 forehead is low, it is broad — gentleness and
 
 270 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 .sympathy can be read on her brow. She is 
 .as joyous as the lark, and as innocent as the 
 lamb careering in the home park. Her lithe 
 rounded form, superb neck and arms, filled 
 one with rapture at every turn she took ; ber 
 merry laugh, which rang out peals of gladness 
 in the hall of Carthewin Castle, spoke its own 
 fiweet language of her young, bright, happy 
 life, — her spring-tide flowing gently into 
 womanhood, like a beautiful flagrant flower 
 unfolding its leaves day by day. Truly it 
 may be said that she blossomed brightly 
 beneath her fether and mother's fostering 
 care. Her unbounded love for her step- 
 sister, which was reciprocated by Nora with 
 all the tenderness of her fond nature, her 
 touching child-like ways and playful dis- 
 position, were most attractive. 
 
 Mrs Townsend threw down her long quill 
 pen with some determination, sealed ber 
 last letter with apparent haste, closed the
 
 Past, Present^ and Future. 271 
 
 secretaire, one thought a little violently, 
 saying,— 
 
 " There, dear girls, I have now finished all 
 my arrears of correspondence ; if I had to con- 
 sult my own feelings in the matter, I should 
 not write another letter for the next three 
 months," and, with a very dignified air, she 
 •walked across the room to Gertrude, con- 
 tinuing, "My love, I want you to take this 
 letter over to the rectory — the walk will do 
 you good — and if the Eeverend Mr Brans- 
 comb and Lady Branscomb are at home, 
 deliver it yourself, and wait for an answ^er." 
 
 ** With all pleasure, mamma," replied Ger- 
 trude, turning the letter over musingly. 
 
 '* Well, what now ? " said Mrs Townsend. 
 ^' You are an inquisitive little puss. If the 
 truth w^ere known, you are anxious to learn 
 the contents." 
 
 '' I partly guess, mamma, for I heard you 
 talking with papa at the breakfast - table
 
 272 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 yesterday ; is it not an invitation for the 
 Branscombs to dine here on Friday ?" 
 
 *' Yes, my pet, you are right for once. 
 Nora, love, you have not promised to go 
 anywhere on that day, I hope ? " 
 
 " I have not made any engagement," re- 
 plied Nora, pinking slightly ; " neither should 
 I think of doing so, without consulting you,, 
 mamma." 
 
 " If you had consulted me, Nora, in an- 
 other matter at an early stage, I might have 
 rescued you from the very distressing ordeal 
 you have had to pass through," replied Mrs 
 Townsend, somewhat cynically. 
 
 Nora held down her head ; the colour 
 crimsoned her cheeks to her very ears ; she 
 felt the home-thrust ; a deep sigh and a glis- 
 tening tear on the longest of lashes, told its 
 own tale of sadness, and the chaotic tumult 
 that w^as wrestling within. There was a mani- 
 fest tone of mockery in Mrs Townsend's re-
 
 Past, Present, and Future. 273 
 
 marks, but our heroine concealed to the 
 utmost her agitation, as she tremblingly 
 replied, — 
 
 " I sincerely hope that you will not again 
 refer to my clandestine marriage. Heaven 
 only knows what I have suffered, and how 
 much I am now enduring, on account of my 
 precipitation." 
 
 " Fiddlesticks ! " interrupted Mrs Townsend 
 
 "The act," continued Nora, "was mine 
 own ; the crushing blow has fallen on my 
 head, and affects me only." 
 
 " I am not quite so sure of that," said 
 Mrs Townsend sarcastically. 
 
 "I fail to see," continued Nora, "that 
 it seriously concerns any other person than 
 my father, to whom I have made every 
 possible reparation for an act of indiscretion." 
 
 " Indeed ! that may be your view, Nora, 
 
 but I beg most emphatically to state that 
 
 it is not mine ; and I consider your obser- 
 VOL. I. S
 
 274 ^ Virgin Widow. 
 
 vations but a very poor return for the 
 anxious days and nights I have endured 
 on your behalf since I took up my abode 
 in this dreary castle, and watched over 
 you in your tender years with a maternal 
 love — your own lamented mother could not 
 have done more." 
 
 " I am very sensible of the obligation I 
 owe to your kind favour," replied Nora, 
 somewhat discomposed, " and I trust that 
 Providence will permit me to return to 
 3^ou and yours, those acts of kindness 
 and duty that my extreme youth and your 
 position with my father rendered almost 
 imperative for you to pursue." 
 
 At the word '' imperative," Mrs Townsend 
 visibly flushed, and fussily crossed and re- 
 crossed the room, with somewhat mixed 
 feelings of pleasure and grief — pleasure, be- 
 cause she felt pleased at the manifestations 
 of obligation — and grief, because she seemed
 
 Past, Pi^esent^ and Fiititre. 275 
 
 to regret that Nora should have touched 
 upon a moral duty which she well knew 
 was hers, from the very hour she became 
 the wife of Godfrey Townsend, and which 
 duty, she was well aware, had been to a 
 certain extent neglected. 
 
 After the birth of Gertrude, almost the 
 entire conduct of our heroine (as before 
 stated) devolved upon the Honourable Mrs 
 Mackenzie, whose antecedents were of the 
 very highest order, and it is due to that 
 lady to place upon record that she most 
 religiously discharged the duties entrusted 
 to her : but there was one vital things want- 
 ing — a mothers fostering care, a parent 
 who could take the child at intervals from 
 her studies, and mould her little heart and 
 brain, teaching her (as only a parent can 
 teach) the way she should go, instilling into 
 her youthful mind the lights and shades of 
 the world, with all its bright and best in-
 
 276 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 fluences, as well as its allurements, disap- 
 pointments, and vanities. 
 
 *' My dear Nora," said Mrs Townsend, 
 with a voice gentle in its accents, and aspir- 
 ing to tears, then drawing her chair in close 
 proximity to her step-daughter's, continued, 
 '* I have an exposed nerve, and you have 
 touched it. Come, dear child, we will hope 
 and endeavour to be better friends for the 
 future. Upon second consideration, I some- 
 times think it would have been infinitely 
 preferable, in the interest of your future 
 advancement in life, if I had not left you 
 so much to the care and discipline of the 
 Honourable Mrs Mackenzie, whose aptitude 
 for—" 
 
 " Mamma, suffer me to interrupt you ; I 
 cannot allow anyone, directly or indirectly, 
 to cast the slightest reflection on my late 
 governess for any shortcomings of my own ; 
 she is not here to defend herself, but, happily,
 
 Past. Present, and FiUure. 277 
 
 I know how to value the past devoted ser- 
 vices of that good and pious lady. I look 
 back over years of my childhood with the 
 fondest remembrance of her inestimable 
 worth. I can never feel too grateful for 
 the sound hours she spent in the hope of 
 training her little Nora (as she called me) 
 to the standard of her own moral excel- 
 lence. Were I to feel otherwise, I should 
 not only be unworthy of the position I 
 hold in her kind, loving heart, but I should 
 forfeit her esteem." 
 
 Mrs Townsend was a lady of unaccountable 
 impulse, with a countenance that one could 
 not easily decipher : love and hatred, likes 
 -and dislikes, warmth and coldness, under- 
 went swift changes ; devoted to her husband, 
 and passionately attached to her own daugh- 
 ter, in whom all her hopes were centred ; 
 but from the hour she became the consort 
 of Godfrey Townsend —
 
 278 A Virgin Widow. 
 
 *' If the veil from the heart could be torn, 
 Or the mind could be read on the brow." 
 
 we should discover that there was a want 
 of love and devotion which, to all right- 
 thinking women, should have existed for 
 the motherless child she promised her hus- 
 band to protect, and it should have formed, 
 as it were, a part of her marriage contract. 
 
 The frou-frou of Mrs Townsend's ample 
 dress, as she hurriedly left the room, pass- 
 ing through the French casement to the 
 lawn, was suggestive of some displeasure 
 at the eulogistic terms used by Nora in 
 favour of her late governess. May be it 
 was the outcome of the lio^ht and shade 
 that she thought was portrayed in the 
 weakness of her ow^n past actions and the 
 strength of the Honourable Mrs Mackenzie. 
 Anyhow, the observation that emanated 
 from Nora jarred very considerably on Mr& 
 Townsend's sensitive ear, as she tremulously
 
 Past, Present, and Future. 279 
 
 requested the footman to order the car- 
 riao'e for the usual moniino; drive. 
 
 Nora inwardly felt that she may have 
 unconsciously ventured too far, as she Avell 
 knew that her late governess was never any 
 favourite of her step-mother's. She could 
 well recollect, when first entering her "teens," 
 and for many subsequent years, the numer- 
 ous trifling disputes that arose from time to 
 time between her father and Mrs Townsend, 
 relative to the Honourable Mrs Mackenzie's 
 profound attachment to her. She had often 
 been a witness to words spoken in anger on 
 iDehalf of herself, the remembrance of which 
 Tushed with mighty force to her memory as 
 she followed her step-mother to the conser- 
 vatory, and, placing her arm round her waist, 
 said, with her sweetest expression, — 
 
 " I hope I have not vexed you, dear 
 mamma ! " 
 
 " Vexed me, child ! " replied Mrs Towns-
 
 28o A Virgin Widow. 
 
 end. in low, sympathetic tones, and carelessly^ 
 picking some dead leaves from a plant. 
 
 " I fear I may, unknowingly, have said 
 something offensive to you," said Nora. '*If 
 I have, oh, bear with me, forgive me, my 
 heart is so full ! " 
 
 {To he continued.) 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 ^