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IVY: 
 
 COUSIN AND BRIDE. 
 VOL. I. 
 
IVY: 
 
 COUSIN AND BRIDE. 
 
 BY 
 
 PEUCY GREG 
 
 AUTHOR OP 
 
 "ACROSS THE ZODIAC," "ERRANT," 
 
 &c., &c. 
 
 " For Love himself took part against himself." 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1881. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
y,] 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Qj 
 o 
 
 O 
 
 .J 
 
 -0 
 
 3 
 IP 
 
 )^ 
 
 r 
 § 
 
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 OP 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 CHAPTEB 
 
 I.— Ferndale Holm 
 
 Page 
 1 
 
 II.— A Wayward Ward .... 
 
 23 
 
 III.— Dreamer and Critic 
 
 42 
 
 IV. — A Poet's Holiday .... 
 
 56 
 
 v.— COUSINHOOD . . . . 
 
 70 
 
 VI.— The First Alarm .... 
 
 116 
 
 VII. — Behind the Scenes .... 
 
 132 
 
 VIIT.— The Skeleton 
 
 . 151 
 
 IX. — A Cruel Dilemma .... 
 
 . 172 
 
 X. — The Cruelty of Cowardice 
 
 . 186 
 
 XI.— Tender or True ? . . . . 
 
 . 216 
 
 XII. — "Love, Honour, and Cherish " . 
 
 256 
 
 XIII.— Chafing 
 
 . 294 
 
 
IVY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 FERN DALE HOLM. 
 
 L ESTRANGE!" I exclaimed. "Surely, 
 Cleveland, that is a curious selection V 
 I was spending a brief holiday at Ferndale 
 Holm, partl}^ to discuss with its master the 
 arrangements of a London daily journal recently 
 purchased by an association of Tory capitalists, of 
 I whom Cleveland was in importance and personal 
 influence, though by no means in pecuniary 
 interest one of the principal. 
 
 " I think, on the whole," he rejoined, " it is 
 
 the best I can make. My colleagues have very 
 
 wisely decided to leave the choice exclusively in 
 
 a single hand, instead of attempting an election 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
^ lYY. 
 
 by vote; and after carefuU}' considering all his 
 qualifications and all the objections you have in 
 
 view, I can fix on no better man. V will 
 
 not take it : you could not ; and Leaf, perhaps in 
 other respects the best qualified of all, has not 
 the capacity of dealing with men that the position 
 requires. You could not find a better Editor if he 
 had to deal only with writings, and not with 
 writers." 
 
 " xA.nd yet," I said, " Leaf is generally liked, 
 I think, and certainly m.ade no enemies when he 
 held a quasi-editorial post on the Trumpet^ 
 
 " No," said Cleveland ; " but he cooled ever}'- 
 body a little. He made a certain amount of 
 needless friction : and you must remember that the 
 
 ultimate control ren^ained in the hands of , 
 
 who, though far inferior to Leaf in knowledge 
 and in intellect, was perhaps the most conciliatory 
 and kindly man that within my memory has filled 
 such a post. Yet you know that there was not 
 under their joint rule that kind of active, hearty 
 co-operation that there had been in former days. 
 You will have Leaf for a colleague. He takes 
 what in his hands will be the second place, the 
 Foreign Editorship ; and I look to him to make 
 
FERXDALE HOLM. 3 
 
 the Courier in a few years the highest authority 
 upon Continental politics." 
 
 " I hoped," said I, " that you were to have 
 been our chief." 
 
 " Did you ? I thought you knew me better. 
 Nothing that English life has to offer would 
 induce me to live in London. I have twice 
 refused to contest a parliamentary constituency, 
 the last time with something more than a fair 
 chance of success. And, despite my twelve years' 
 experience of journalism, I hardly think I could 
 endure the toil of editorship— the hurry, worry, 
 and fatigue, the constant excitement, the inevit- 
 able exaggeration of trifles, and the poverty of the 
 result." 
 
 " A sucessful newspaper is a great power, and 
 gives its Editor a great position." 
 
 " True; but the man himself must be damaged, 
 and his work must be inferior. He has not time 
 to think clearly or to write — or even to direct his 
 staff— carefully and wisely. He must live in the 
 midst of a perpetual ' tempest in a teapot j' his 
 judgments are inevitably half-considered, and his 
 information one-sided. I like to be sure what J 
 do think before I speak ; you, I know, care more 
 
 B 2 
 
4 IVY. 
 
 to have an opinion than to be sure of its sound- 
 ness. You are pugnacious by instinct, and, so you 
 are fighting under the old colours, never care to 
 examine your ground — I mean as a journalist. 
 It is true that my colleagues offered me the place 
 almost on my own terms. But I don't know that 
 I could have done the work better than Lestrange ; 
 and I was astonished that anyone should have 
 asked me to give up a life thoroughly congenial 
 to me for money, w^hich after all I don't 
 want. But why do you object so strongly to 
 Lestrange f 
 
 " I should be sorry to object now I know he is 
 to be my chief, /can get on with him, especially 
 in the department you have assigned to me. But 
 I should have thought him less likel}^ to win your 
 approval than my own.'' 
 
 " You and he have too much in common to 
 appreciate each other thoroughl}^ I am in no 
 danger of exaggerating his defects, because I can't 
 imagine myself ever led astray by them ; and can 
 measure his character truly, because my sympathy 
 with him is purely intellectual. I grant you that 
 he writes more bitterly, stings more deeply and 
 lastingly, than any other writer of our day ; but 
 
FERXDALE HOLM. 
 
 that is in virtue of his force and keenness, rather 
 than his venom. There are abundance of rep- 
 tiles who, with poison bags ten times bigger, 
 never get the credit of ill-nature, because their 
 fangs are blunt and their jaws impotent. I know 
 he often frightened your late chief; but I have 
 no fear of his violence when he is in command. 
 He has one or two very rare faculties. First, he 
 knows himself, and is, I think, a little too dis- 
 trustful of his own judgment. His critical instinct 
 is quite impersonal ; he judges his own work as 
 equitably as another's, and may be trusted to 
 overrule his own crotchets and curb his own 
 humours as strictly as yours or Everett's ; though, 
 when another held the bridle, he was simply as 
 bitter as he knew how to be, trusting Leaf to 
 moderate any excess of vitriol. And, remember, 
 bitter as he is, irritable as is his temper, he never 
 made a personal enemy — has not, I believe, a 
 personal enemy in his own profession, or indeed 
 outside his own family. A family quarrel so 
 sharp as his may argue, generally does indicate, 
 want of temper or judgment ; but such quarrels 
 may be forced on anyone, and outsiders can only 
 judge by the character of the men. Lestrange's 
 
<) IVY. 
 
 .stands far higher than that of any of those with 
 wliom he has quarrelled. He is reputed by all 
 who have known and dealt with him a nian of 
 stainless chivalric loyalty and honour. His 
 enemies certainly are not. Till lately most of 
 those who have -worked with him or under him 
 have been his warm personal friends. Perhaps 
 his most remarkable and exceptional peculiarity 
 is his readiness to do full and generous justice 
 to the work of others. Most of us have a chance 
 in life ; his was a splendid one, came when he 
 was not twenty-five, and he missed it by twelve 
 hours. He would have been where Ferrol is, or 
 higher. Well, we were talking of Ferrol the 
 other day, and Lestrange said, in his quiet 
 matter-of-fact way, ' I never saw but one instance 
 of what people call special providence ; when he 
 stepped over my head. We should never have 
 known it, but we should have lost the best 
 journalist in Europe.' That temper is about the 
 highest qualification an Editor could have. I see 
 you smile. It is rare ; but it is the one quality 
 which induces subalterns to work like chiefs : and 
 I have known that quality, by getting the best 
 out of the best men, make a successful Editor 
 
FERXDALE HOLM. * 
 
 without critical tact, political knowledge, intellec- 
 tual force, or even industry." 
 
 "Well," I said, "if Lestrange can keep his 
 temper with his staff, and will not write, or will 
 get some one else to look over his own articles, I 
 can conceive that he might five years ago have 
 been fit for the place. But surely his health is 
 too utterly broken to endure long the work from 
 which you yourself seem to flinch f 
 
 *' Very likely. He may be quite right in saj^- 
 ing that he will not live five years ; but in that 
 time he will have made the Courier; and the 
 question concerns him rather than his friends. 
 He is willing, for the sake of a wife and children 
 he will never see again, to seize a chance of 
 making a fortune, or at least a competence, in the 
 few years left to him. But he has misgivings 
 on that score, not for himself, but for the paper ; 
 and he has made a condition not very easy to 
 fulfil. I must find him ' a right hand, or rather a 
 body ;' a man who can, under his direction, do all 
 the physical and mechanical work, from taking 
 down articles and confidential letters in shorthand 
 to answering ordinary correspondence, correcting 
 proofs, revising editorial copy, attending in the 
 
8 ivy. 
 
 Galleiy and the Lobby ; in short, an anianuensis, 
 private secretar}^ and deputy-editor in one. 
 Lestrange can always think and speak clearly — 
 thanks to opium — but very often he can neither 
 walk nor write for weeks at a time. His alter 
 ego must have the ability, if not the experience, 
 of a special correspondent or a secondary leader- 
 writer; must be capable of actually editing the 
 Courier for a day or two, at need ; and yet he 
 must be content with absolute subordination — 
 content to be no more than a secretary, and in 
 that capacity to be absolutely, generously loyal 
 to his chief; to do his utmost to postpone his own 
 inevitable succession." 
 
 " A white crow, if not a Phoenix." 
 
 " A black swan, perhaps," said Cleveland, 
 laughing. "But Australia is almost next door 
 now-a-days; and you may see my black swan 
 or white crow nearer than the Zoological Gardens. 
 You will be yet more incredulous when you hear 
 his name. Do you know Ethert Glynne?" 
 
 " Not personally," I replied. " As a reviewer, 
 I have read, I believe, all his writings, and 
 should certainly have thought him loo ambitious 
 to accept such a post." 
 
FERNDALE HOLM. 9 
 
 "Clever as they are," said Cleveland. 
 " Gl3^i]ne's books have scarcely paid. Certainly 
 he could not live by them. For some reason 
 which I may guess, but am not at liberty to 
 guess aloud, he wishes to make within the next 
 three years a secure position, social and 
 pecuniary; and of course Lestrange proposes to 
 pay well for such peculiar service. Glynne is 
 scarcely thirty, and his experience in journalism 
 has been limited. If he married he must give 
 up the fellowship on which he has hitherto 
 depended. His two years' experience in the 
 Gallery has given him a facility in shorthand 
 writing which will be most serviceable, and if, 
 as I think he will, he accepts the post, he is a 
 man who will be thoroughly, earnestly loyal; 
 a man who, with his own eccentric temper and 
 somewhat mystical ideas, is not unlikely to feel 
 a strong personal sympathy for Lestrange. I 
 am going to see him to-day: will you walk with 
 me r 
 
 Our walk, along hills that overlooked two of 
 the loveliest of English lakes, was a pleasant, 
 though it threatened to be a somewhat fatiguing 
 one. Ethert Glynne was now staying at hi« 
 
10 IVY. 
 
 mother's cottage, some ten miles from Ferndale 
 Holm. In consideration for myself, not practised 
 as he was in the daily exercise of a mountaineer, 
 Cleveland proposed to return by boat from Thorn- 
 hurst, a village with a landing-place on the lake, 
 nearly a mile from Mrs. Glynne's home. But 
 about half-way, at the junction of two mountain 
 roads, we encountered a little party, all of whom 
 evidently recognized my companion. The eldest 
 of the three — whom by Cleveknd's " There he 
 is !" I judged to be the object of our quest, was 
 a man of middle height ; of form somewhat 
 slight and spare, but erect and well made, in- 
 dicating in step and bearing the vigour produced 
 and sustained b}^ constant exercise in the open 
 air ; of countenance in nowise remarkable, though 
 at a second glance the capacious skull and ample 
 forehead were suggestive of more than average 
 intelligence — a suggestion very often deceptive. 
 Only the eyes attracted especial notice from an 
 observer stimulated to careful examination by 
 such an acquaintance with the man's achieve- 
 ments in my own field as I possessed. Unusually 
 dark in colour, clear, and of exceptional bright- 
 ness — a brightness which seemed to arrest your 
 
FERNDALE HOLM. 11 
 
 scrutiny at their outer surface — their large orbs 
 fixed at once on the countenance of him who 
 addressed Ethert Gl^mne, or to whom the latter 
 spoke, seeming at first to look you through and 
 through ; then, so speedily as to give the sense 
 of interruption long before his scrutiny was 
 finished, that intent purpose faded out of them ; 
 and you were conscious that they were occupied, 
 not with you, but with something far beyond — 
 some scene very remote in time, place, or 
 imagination ; until perchance his interest was 
 recalled by some passage in the conversation 
 that touched his sympathies or provoked his 
 antagonism. 
 
 One of his companions was a lad of eighteen ; 
 a sixth-form boy from some public school, I 
 guessed, by a certain self-respect that hardly 
 belongs to a boy of that age who has lagged 
 behind ; bright and intelligent, but probably 
 more renowned in the eleven than in the class- 
 room ; more interested in the athletics of which 
 he might be an ornament, than in the books he 
 would be ashamed to neglect; tall, vigorous, 
 active, but somewhat loosely built, and, as 
 soldiers say, ill set-up. A physiologist would 
 
12 IVY. 
 
 have said that, if his parents were sound in 
 mind and bod}^ there was yet some constitutional 
 defect not worked out of the lineage. There was 
 a distant family resemblance between the pair. 
 
 The third member of the group had no 
 likeness to either. A young girl — so young 
 that the earnest courtesy of Cleveland's greet- 
 ing to her, and the formahty with which 
 he introduced to "Miss Mordaunt" a man 
 much more than old enough to be her father, 
 seemed a little incongruous. Her dress and 
 manner, till the latter grew dignified as he 
 turned to her, bespoke her still a child — certainly 
 in the schoolroom, and likely to remain there 
 for some years her figure and features had the 
 look of incompleteness, imperfection characteristic 
 of her actual age, had lost the grace and beauty 
 of childhood without having as yet attained 
 anything of the regular form and rounded delicacy 
 of dawning womanhood. Yet, ere our brief 
 converse ended, I ceased to be surprised at 
 Cleveland's manifest interest in her. Undeveloped 
 in actual shape, her countenance, in its outlines 
 and evident character, gave promise of a rare 
 and very in}pressive beauty — of a very uncommon 
 
FERNDALE HOLM. 13 
 
 union of regular, almost faultless form with, life 
 and mobility of expression. 
 
 Even now, when the eye had lost the sense 
 of that " unfinished" condition which belonged to 
 a stage of growth through which even the 
 most absolute feminine beauty must pass, the 
 face was more than pretty, and was deeply in- 
 teresting. Perhaps a principal cause of the 
 feeling of incongruity it had inspired at first 
 sight was that which would one day be its 
 especial and distinctive beauty ; the unusual 
 combination of colour ; a fair complexion and 
 brilliant colour, with long loose abundant locks 
 of tawny gold — even at her age most girls would 
 have done more justice to such an ornament — and 
 eyes of a deep clear brown, with dark brows and 
 long dark lashes. The broad expanse of the 
 forehead was perhaps too ample, the head a 
 thought too large, as the form wanted stature to 
 suit its proportions perfectly; but such defects 
 two or three years might well correct, and would 
 certainly compensate. The small rosy mouth had 
 not quite relaxed from a distinctly petulant ex- 
 pression ; there was more of thought, and even of 
 moodiness, than of maidenly sweetness or childish 
 
14 I V y. 
 
 softness in the entire meaning of the face and 
 attitude; and I had observed that she walked 
 on the side farthest from Ethert, though she had 
 not seemed to be attending to her j^ounger com- 
 panion. She could be out of humour, evi,dently: 
 apparentl}^ too, she hardly appreciated the at- 
 tention of a man like Glynn e to one not yet 
 entitled to expect such attention in right of sex, 
 though she was visibly gratified by the notice 
 and flattered by the courtesy of a comparative 
 stranger like Cleveland. 
 
 A few words from the latter relieved the boyish 
 awkwardness of Charlie Glynne, who was reading 
 during the long vacation with his elder cousin, 
 preparatory to matriculation at Oxford. Ethert 
 and I shook hands not more cordially and 
 sincerely, but perhaps more unconstrainedly, than 
 we might have done had Glynne known which 
 of the reviews he had no doubt read and re-read 
 with intense attention were due to my pen ; or 
 had I not been perfectly assured of his 
 
 Ignorance. 
 
 " I was coming to call on you, Glynne," said 
 Cleveland. " I wanted to talk business with you. 
 I have heard of something that may or may not 
 
FERNDALE HOLM. 'i 5 
 
 meet the views j^ou mentioned the other day. 
 Can yon turn back with us ? My friend would 
 be glad to escape a prolongation of our walk." 
 
 " Charlie," said Glynn, turning to his cousin, 
 *' will you take Margaret home ? — at once, please; 
 and ask my mother not to wait for me, I cannot 
 tell when I shall return." 
 
 There was a very slight emphasis on the 
 instruction given to the youth, as if his heedless- 
 ness or the young lady's wilfulness might require 
 a special warning ; and then parting from them, 
 we turned to walk back to Ferndale Holm. 
 
 Cleveland explained carefully and distinctly the 
 nature, especially dwelling on the drawbacks and 
 disadvantages, of the proposed situation. It was 
 a maxim of his that the worst side of an offer 
 should always be pressed on a man, the best on a 
 woman, if you wished that it should be willingly 
 accepted and contentedly retained. Glynne 
 accepted at once, but by no means enthusiastically, 
 remarking only that the position would afford an 
 exceptionally complete professional training and 
 experience. 
 
 Then they passed on to discuss its duties and 
 demands in detail ; and I was struck to observe 
 
1^ IVY. 
 
 how well versed was Cleveland — like myself, a 
 writer only, and unlike myself, a writer unfamiliar 
 with the mere technical task- work of leader- 
 writing — in the entire theory and practice of 
 journalism. The truth is, he has known men, and 
 learned from them whatever books could not and 
 experience did not chance to teach him. Equally 
 notable was his insight into the personality of 
 the two men for whom he was preparing so 
 intimate a relation. 
 
 So conversing we reached Ferndale Holm. Its 
 young mistress received the new-comer with 
 something different from, I cannot say more than, 
 the kindly cordial welcome she ever gave to her 
 husband's friends. I could see that either Ethert 
 was a personal favourite of hers, or something 
 in his works, his character, or his situation had 
 attracted her especial interest and sympath3^ 
 Despite her invitation, however, Glynne refused 
 to remain for Cleveland's usual dinner hour, 
 which was always late enough, except in the very 
 middle of summer, to allow us to enjoy the last 
 rays of sunlight, to remain out of doors as long as 
 the air was pleasant ; and Mrs. Cleveland left us 
 to add some more solid refreshment to the after- 
 
FERNDALE HOLM. 17 
 
 noon tea, which she presently brought us with 
 her own hands as we lay on the lawn. I noticed 
 too when Ethert left, that he carried in his 
 button -hole one of the last rosebuds of the season, 
 from a tree which none but herself was allowed 
 to touch, an especial protege and favourite of her 
 own. 
 
 In her absence we had fallen into talk about a 
 recent work of iny own, whose failure to obtain 
 popularit}^ had been a greater mortification than 
 with my experience any such incident should 
 have been. 
 
 " I shall never/' I said, " do anything 
 better." 
 
 "Probably not," replied Cleveland, " for there 
 I recognised not the intentional creation of a 
 month or a year, but the embodied realization of 
 day-dreams, fancies, hopes, and alarms, garnered 
 and talked over for half a lifetime. That harvest 
 of course cannot be reaped twice, and it is that 
 long unconscious incubation which has given the 
 fulness recognised by most of your critics to a 
 book completed from first to last, you told me, 
 in six months. It was daring, too ; especially 
 your half-length picture of a polygamic home," 
 
 VOL. I. C 
 
18 IVY. 
 
 " That," said Glynne, " seemed to me the most 
 startling of all the thousand impossibilities of a 
 story not intended to be possible." 
 
 " And why?" enquired Cleveland. " I suppose 
 most men would be polygamists if they had the 
 courage ? And we know that women do contrive 
 to endure it." 
 
 " That was not my objection," the other replied. 
 " I can manage to understand the distribution of 
 masculine love ; and still more easily the 
 secondary love given in that case to one or two 
 ladies less angelic and more earth-like than the 
 favourite. What seems false to nature is the 
 relation of the Adventurer to wives he despised 
 and disliked, yet who are sorry to part with 
 him." 
 
 " You think they must have found him 
 outr 
 
 " I don't know that that would so much matter. 
 But I can conceive nothing but misery from first 
 to last in a union devoid of conjugal love ; nothing 
 more loathsome than the position of the man, 
 except that of the woman." 
 
 " And yet," said Cleveland, " we know that 
 marriages of interest, of convenience, are some- 
 
FERNDALE HOLM. 19 
 
 times made ; and, according to some cynical 
 moralists — our friend Lestrange has often argued 
 the point with me — are not more unhappy in the 
 long run than most marriages for love. And 
 there, Glynne, is, I think, a fault in your last 
 work. The marriage of interest had everything 
 to recommend it — ambition, need, the hero's 
 taste for wealth and dread of poverty. The lady 
 was not by any means unattractive; and yet one 
 never feels he is tempted for a moment, or wavers 
 even unconsciously." 
 
 " Simply," replied Glynne, " that I cannot 
 understand the temptation. What satisfaction to 
 a man's pride, ambition, love of power, fame, or 
 luxury, could compensate, could render endurable, 
 the necessity of maintaining — I might say, could 
 render it possible to maintain — the most intimate 
 relations with a woman he could never love, how- 
 ever coldly f 
 
 *' And yet," observed Cleveland, " we know that 
 half the marriages of European society, and per- 
 haps most of those of Asia, are marriages of con- 
 venience ; and if not happy they are not found 
 intolerable/' 
 
 " That," said Glynne, thoughtfully, '* is for 
 
 c 2 
 
20 IVY. 
 
 me one of the standing puzzles of life. I suppose 
 each of us could specify things which he knows, 
 but can't believe ; and the satisfaction found in a 
 mercenary marriage is to me the chief of in- 
 credible certainties. The phrase which compares 
 such marriages with the worst form of lawless 
 sensuality seems to me a literal truth, and both 
 are as unintelligible as all other ' sins against 
 nature.' " 
 
 " Can you not understand, then," I asked, 
 *' one of the most familiar phenomena of domestic 
 life ; the love that survives respect or esteem, 
 that sometimes seems to have dispensed with them 
 from the first ?" 
 
 "Yes," returned Ethert, after a minute's con- 
 sideration. "But love has always seemed to me 
 one of those man}'' distinctions between man and 
 the brutes which testify most powerfully to a 
 spiritual element in humanity, wanting or but 
 very slightly developed in the lower creation. 
 Between their passion and ours I recognize not 
 analogy but contrast. AVith birds and beasts that 
 do pair I suppose the choice of mates is little 
 more than an accident, and a lost one is easily and 
 completely replaced. To man, unless brutalized, 
 
FERNDALE HOLM. 21 
 
 the one woman is not clear for lier woman- 
 hood so much as womanhood sacred, interesting, 
 attractive only for or through its reflection of 
 the one woman we love. Is it not a spiritual 
 affection that incarnates itself in the instinct, 
 rather than the instinct that is elevated and puri- 
 fied by a supervening spiritual relation f 
 
 " Ideally, perhaps, it should be so," rejoined 
 Cleveland, seeming to suppress an ironical smile. 
 *' Practically, it is exactly the reverse, save in one 
 case out of ten thousand." 
 
 Mrs. Cleveland's approach terminated an argu- 
 ment to me barely comprehensible. We walked 
 again a short way homeward with Glynne, and 
 as we returned Cleveland observed, in a reflective 
 tone : 
 
 " Now I begin to understand that man's poetry, 
 where it has always seemed to me artificial. It 
 is not, as I thought, that he depicts untruthfully 
 a common sentiment, but depicts truthfully one 
 so uncommon that few of us can understand it ; 
 and I think there is a part of Lestrange's nature 
 with which Glynne will he in very deep accord. 
 You remember * Procyon's' saying, 'There is in 
 one current word of this refined ag-e a coarseness 
 
22 IVY. 
 
 that surpasses the worst impurities of Martial 
 or Rabelais — that is to these what the Poses 
 Plastiques were to the nudity of Olympus. A 
 generation that calls women " females" has for- 
 gotten the instinct of human decency. Who 
 could hear his mother or daughter so defined*? 
 It is the phrase of men who have lost the ideal 
 of womanhood, and of women who never had 
 it f He and Gl^mne must have much in 
 common." 
 
 I can't say that I understood him ; some of my 
 readers possibly may. 
 
2.^ 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A WAYWARD WARD. 
 
 STOP, Charlie," said the young girl, as tlie}^ 
 passed a small inn upon the lake's side, 
 where two or three light rowing-boats were drawn 
 up on the beach, " let us go home by the lake ; 
 you can row, and 1 like it far better than walking." 
 
 The lad hesitated. 
 
 " 1 am afraid it won't do, Meta. Ethert told 
 me to take you straight home ; and that is not 
 all. Though he has not told me never to take 
 you out on the lake, I am sure he would not 
 like it, especially after what he said overnight." 
 
 "I don't care," Meta answered, petulantly. 
 " If he chose to forbid it in so many words, I 
 suppose I must obey ; at any rate, Mrs. Glynne 
 would be very angry with me if I did not. But 
 I don't see that, except for what she might say, 
 
24 I V Y. 
 
 I am bound to obey his wishes, when they are 
 not commands/' 
 
 "I am, at any rate," said her companion, 
 gravely. " I am very sorry to disoblige yon, 
 Meta, but I cannot abuse Ethert's trust ; nor, 
 where you are concerned, can I do what I know 
 he would not like." 
 
 " It is all nonsense !" she exclaimed, angrily. 
 " He is out of humour with me, or means to pay me 
 out, because of w^hat happened last evening. He 
 had told me to hold the sheet, but I didn't care 
 to be bothered by it, and fastened it. Then there 
 came a squall, and he found out what I had done. 
 He cut it loose with his knife, and rated me like 
 a naughty child. Three years ago — but that 
 Ethert never did get me into trouble at home — I 
 should have made sure of being whipped and sent 
 to bed." 
 
 " And serve you right," cried Charlie. " If my 
 fag did such a thing, wouldn't I lick him ! I gave 
 you credit for more knowledge of the lake, Meta. 
 Don't you know it is worse in that way than the 
 sea? The squalls come down these mountain 
 gullies and strike the lake often half-a-mile from 
 the shore, so that they may catch you before you 
 
A WAYWARD WARD. 25 
 
 are warned, even if you happen to be looking to 
 windward, by their ruffling the surface. Ethert 
 might well scold ; you must have had a narrow 
 escape from drowning." 
 
 "Nonsense!" the girl answered, though for a 
 moment a little startled by her companion's 
 emphatic denunciation. ''I can swim, and Ethert 
 knows it, for he taught me." 
 
 " Yes ; how were you dressed then ? Nay, 
 don't be vexed ; but Ivy asked him, for she would 
 have liked to learn. I mean, it was one thing 
 to swim in that light serge, fitting close from 
 neck to knees, and leaving every limb quite free, 
 and a very different one indeed with your every- 
 day clothes clinging round you. When those 
 skirts were once drenched, you might as well 
 attempt to swim in irons. Ethert himself couldn't 
 swim a hundred yards in them." 
 
 "I don't care; I had as soon be drowned once 
 for all as forbidden to go out for the chance of it. 
 But he knows I should be safe when you had no 
 sail, and only the oars. It is only done to punish 
 me.'' 
 
 She gave way, however, and they walked on 
 without more words for a while ; the lad evidently 
 
2fi IVY. 
 
 meditating something in silence which perhaps he 
 was afraid or hardly knew how to say. 
 
 "Meta," he began at last, ''I don't want to 
 offend or quarrel with you — but I am not like 
 Ethert ; you can scold, or cry, as you please, and 
 it will not break my heart. We have been 
 friends since I was a fourth-form lad, and you a 
 child of ten ; and you must know that nothing 
 you say, whether against me or anyone else, will 
 make me like you the less; but I think I ought 
 to tell you what nobody else will. I know you, 
 and I know how much you mean ; other people 
 don't; and any one who heard you speak of 
 Ethert, or even of my aunt, as you speak to me — 
 and I fear you sometimes say the same kind of 
 thing to strangers— would think very ill of you 
 indeed." 
 
 " I don't care, and I don't see it," she answered. 
 " Of course I must not speak ill of one who 
 stands in place of a mother to me ; but I don't 
 see that Ethert has any right to control me, or 
 that if he scolds me as he did, and speaks of me 
 as he must have done to you, I should not say 
 what I think of it." 
 
 Her companion looked in downright amaze- 
 
A WAYWARD WARD. 27 
 
 ment into the girFs face. Young as he was, he 
 had sense to see that she spoke with more good 
 faith than he at first thought possible ; not in the 
 mere childish sullenness which refuses to recognise 
 in words obligations of which the speaker cannot 
 but be secretly conscious, not in the sheer 
 shameless ingratitude so common to her sex. 
 On the other hand the evident surprise she saw 
 in his look startled her into reflection. 
 
 "No," she said, after a minute's pause. "I 
 don't see ; unless it be that he is Mrs. Glynne's 
 son. And she is always angering me by speaking 
 as you do, as if I ought to think even more of 
 Ethert's wishes than of hers. After all, she is 
 not my mother, and he is nothing to me." 
 
 "Do you know what you are saying, Meta? 
 It is not only for being born that children owe 
 respect and gratitude to their parents. Ethert 
 says the first and more obvious duty rests on 
 those who have brought them into the world. But 
 when they have done their best for us, you 
 would be shocked to hear Ivy, or me, speak 
 slightingly of our mother or father. Yet they 
 have only cared for their own. How much more, 
 deeper, is your debt to those who have done as 
 
2S IVY. 
 
 much, in their own way, for one who did not 
 belong to them — had no claim on them ? And 
 as for Ethert, he is so good a fellow, he has 
 been so kind to me, that I could not bear to hear 
 an3^one speak of him in that tone without getting 
 angry. But from you, Meta, it is too bad ; you 
 cannot mean what you say. You must know that 
 all a girl could well owe to a man, you owe to 
 Ethert." 
 
 Her face grew grave at once, but also 
 calm ; the angry light fading from the eyes 
 as much of the colour faded from her bright 
 cheeks. 
 
 " What do you mean ?" 
 
 *' Mean ?" He checked himself suddenly. " If 
 it is news to you, I suppose I ought never to have 
 said it ; if you don't know, it must be because 
 Ethert has taken pains you never should." 
 
 " Tell me," she said. *' You have said too much 
 already to be silent now. If you will not tell 
 me,'^ as he remained silent and perplexed, " I can 
 only ask Mrs. Glynne, and I am sure it will make 
 her very angry." 
 
 " I don't think," he replied, with much hesita- 
 tion, " that I have any right to tell you what it 
 
A WAYWARD WARD. 29 
 
 is clear that neither Ethert nor my Aunt intended 
 that you should know." 
 
 " How do you know it then ? If Ethert told 
 you, and did not tell you not to tell me, you have 
 a right to speak." 
 
 " I don't know that I should ; but Ethert told 
 me nothing, nor my Aunt either, only 1 seem 
 always to have known all about it. And you are 
 quite wrong, Meta," he added, trying to turn the 
 conversation, " in thinking that Ethert said 
 anything unkind, spoke as if blaming you in the 
 least, last night. I did not know that anything 
 unpleasant or awkward had happened ; but he 
 said something about the dangers of the lake, and 
 that if I would go out alone I must never take 
 the responsibility of any one else's safety." 
 
 " Never mind : if what you have said just now 
 is true — I beg your pardon, I mean if you are not 
 mistaken — Ethert had a right to say what he 
 pleased, and I have no right to resent it." 
 
 " You may be very sure you have not, Meta. 
 Do you not know, do you not see every day, how 
 differently Ethert behaves to you than to any 
 other child ? — Oh, I am not to call you a child ? 
 very well — to any other young lady ?" 
 
30 I V Y. 
 
 " What do you mean ? Does he not speak to 
 me and treat me just as he does your sister V 
 
 " Ivy is his cousin ; and Ivy is three years 
 older than you, which makes a great difference 
 just now, whatever it may do three years hence. 
 No, he is very fond of Ivy, makes very much of 
 her, and I don't suppose he would hurt her for 
 the world. I never saw him so disturbed as 
 when something he said and she misunderstood 
 set her off crying. But he don't pick and choose 
 his words with her, and — well, he does treat her 
 like a child, and you — like the Princess of a fairy- 
 tale. With other young ladies he gives himself 
 rather less trouble than most men do ; not that 
 he is not polite, but he does not care a twopenny 
 — straw whether they like it or not." 
 " Nor whether they like him, either ?" 
 " Perhaps," answered Charlie. *' And so, Meta> 
 you may judge how much he cares either that you 
 should like him, or, it may be, that he should give 
 you no cause to do otherwise." 
 
 *'Then," observed Margaret reflectively, " if he 
 felt that, w^hy should he keep back what must 
 oblige me to like him, and more than like him, 
 however he might treat me ?" 
 
A WAYWARD WARD. 31 
 
 " I am sure you can answer that question 
 yourself, if you will think a little. No man 
 would Uke to remind a girl how much she owes 
 to him ; no generous person, man or woman — nay 
 you yourself, I was going to say again, child as 
 you are — you would not care to enforce anyone's 
 affection by letting them know that you had done 
 for them more than they could ever hope to repay. 
 The more they owed you, the more you would 
 wish to win their affection, if you cared for it, 
 independently of that." 
 
 " I understand," she replied, after a moment's 
 consideration; *' and that is just like Ethert. 
 Whatever he has done for me — and he has often 
 taken great trouble to give me pleasure— he never 
 likes to have much said about it. He would 
 rather see that I am pleased, or get ' thank you ' 
 and a kiss in earnest — " she stopped, colouring 
 with the consciousness natural to her character and 
 feehngs, half childish, half womanly. '' Charlie, 
 you must tell me ! You have said all, you have 
 made me understand whatever Ethert did not 
 wish me to find out. Now it is only fair to tell 
 me the exact truth, and let me perceive how I 
 ought to feel and behave. If, as you say, people 
 
32 IVY. 
 
 think ill of me for behaving as I have done, is it 
 fair to keep me in ignorance, when they think I 
 know and judge me as if I did ?" 
 
 " Perhaps you are right ; at any rate, Meta, I 
 don't want to vex you more than I can help, when 
 you have taken so kindl}' what I thought would 
 make you very angry. Don't you remember j-our 
 father ?" 
 
 *• Yes — not very well. I never saw very 
 much of him ; Mamma said he was always so 
 busy." 
 
 " I daresay he was. Well, you know, he was 
 Ethert's tutor. I believe he was doing well, but 
 when he married he lost his fellowship, of com-se, 
 and had nothing but what he could earn. Just 
 when Ether t took his degree, or rather I think 
 when he got his fellowship, which was before 
 he took his degree — a very rare honour — your 
 father died of a brain-fever. He was with a 
 reading party hereabouts when it seized him ; and 
 when Ethert heard of it he came down and 
 nursed him entirely till your mother came, and 
 helped her afterwards till the last. Well, you 
 know, she only survived him a few months ; 
 she was consumptive, I believe, at the time. 
 
A WAYWARD WARD. 33 
 
 Her brother offered to get you into an orphan 
 asylum ; I don't know that he could do more, he 
 has a family of his own, and is not very well 
 off. But Ethert would not have it. He said he 
 could live on less than his fellowship and could 
 earn something, and that he never would have 
 got the fellowship so soon except for your 
 father's teaching. So he came down to us ; Aunt 
 Flora was with us then — the only time she has 
 ever stayed at Glynnehurst that I remember, 
 and Ivy heard a little of their talk and repeated 
 it to me, who, young as I was, understood it a 
 little better. But of course I understood very 
 Httle, only I know from that and from what 
 Mamma has said since, that Ethert persuaded my 
 Aunt to take charge of you, providing for you 
 himself so far as money went." 
 
 There was a little want of delicacy and con- 
 sideration in the boy's frank explanation ; due 
 less to any essential lack of kindness and good 
 feeling than to a certain roughness or deficient 
 sensibility ; partly no doubt the effect of school 
 and home training, partly perhaps inherited from 
 parents, neither of them remarkable for refined 
 or chivalric sentiment. He was sorry at once 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
34 I V Y. 
 
 when he saw in her quivering lip, her deepened 
 colour and tearful eyes, how much his words 
 had affected his childish companion. 
 
 *' I did not mean to hurt you, Meta. Re- 
 member, you would have the story. Of course 
 it was no fault of your father's ; he had done 
 his best, and worked very hard indeed — I believe 
 they said his overwork killed him ; — and you 
 cannot be ashamed to have received the kindness 
 of which you knew nothing." 
 
 " I might have known, though," she said in a 
 low tone and with evident effort. " If I had 
 cared to think I must have known that, since I 
 was not Mrs. Glynne's child, it was most kind 
 of her to give me a home and to care for me : 
 and I ought to have, requited it very differently. 
 And even for Ethert, though I could not know 
 that I owed everything to his charity, I ought to 
 have felt how very, very kind he was to a child 
 who could be nothing but a trouble to him ; how 
 patient and gentle with tempers that Mrs. Glynne 
 would not put up with." 
 
 " Don't talk in that way, Meta. If only 
 because you have made me tell you, Ethert will 
 be vexed enough ; he would be grieved to the 
 
A WAYWARD WARD. 35 
 
 heart to hear you use such words — speak so 
 bitterly of what was certainly not ' charity' in 
 him. You have read his last story ; don't you 
 remember what he says, that it is so much 
 harder to receive kindness generously than to 
 render it?" 
 
 " Ah !" she said. " And that is not a generous 
 way to receive his. Thank you, Charlie. Now 
 please don't say anything, either to him or to 
 your Aunt." 
 
 " That won't do, Meta. It would be cowardly, 
 having done what I know will vex him, to flinch 
 from telling him." 
 
 " You did not do it willingly. You thought 1 
 knew, and you did not find out till you had said 
 so much that I could wring the rest from you. 
 But do you suppose I can let them think I do not 
 know now, or help telling him how diflPerently 
 I should have behaved, I hope, if I had 
 known f 
 
 " I wish you would not, you will only grieve 
 Ethert — I don't know about my Aunt. I daresay 
 she would have told you if he would have let 
 her ; I have heard her say that secrets are foolish 
 things J that it is best to have the truth known 
 
 D 2 
 
86 IVY. 
 
 and understood even when it seems awkward. 
 It is not that I am afraid what Ethert will say 
 to me, but I am sm-e he will be hurt by what 
 you will say. Think, Meta ; will it not be far «- 
 pleasanter to him if you behave as you would 
 wish to do, without letting him know that it is 
 only because you have found out your debt to 
 him?" 
 
 " Yes, perhaps ; but it would not be honest. 
 He would think that I was better, more grateful 
 for his present everyday kindness, that I had 
 learnt to be ashamed of being cross and uncivil 
 to him without the painful lesson that I have 
 needed— that Providence has sent me through 
 you. No, Charlie, I must tell the truth ; but I 
 shall tell it fairly, and if I know Ethert rightly he 
 will say nothing to you." 
 
 They had reached the gate that gave admit- 
 tance into the grounds of Pine Combe Cottage, a 
 small ivied building of limestone in the midst of 
 a garden occupying a nearly level platform of 
 about an acre. The latter rose almost precipi- 
 tously some five or six feet above the surrounding 
 ground, which was rough and broken, occupied 
 partly by a sort of meadow of the somewhat 
 
A WAYWARD WARD. 37 
 
 poor grass peculiar to the limestone country of 
 the Lakes, partly by clumps of Scotch iir and 
 groves of hazel and other brush and underwood. 
 Thus the garden and cottage were entirely 
 secluded. The grounds were of some little extent ; 
 but all that required care, the garden, the cow, 
 the pony that drew Mrs. Glynne's little phaeton, 
 was well within the strength of the elderly man 
 who with his wife and daughter formed tbe house- 
 hold, and had been in Mrs. Glynne's service for 
 more than twenty years. As they approached along 
 the gravelled path that, skirting one side of the 
 garden, reached the upper level about the middle 
 thereof, a lady seated under the shade of a large 
 sycamore in the centre of the lawn rose to meet 
 them. She had long passed her fiftieth, year, but 
 having spent a wholesome quiet life in the 
 country, retained somewhat of the form and 
 beauty of earlier middle age. As tall as her son, 
 a stature not remarkable in a man gave dignity 
 and grace to a woman. Her countenance much re- 
 sembled his, but, perhaps because feminine, seemed 
 even more notably intellectual ; pale and worn a 
 little, as if by suffering or sorrow rather than by 
 time. Her dark hair slightly sprinkled with grey, 
 
38 IVY. 
 
 her compressed lips, and even her dress — which, 
 without the affectation of perpetual widow's weeds, 
 was still distinctly that appropriated to bereave- 
 ment, black relieved here and there only by white 
 without a single vestige of colour — gave a certain 
 severity to her whole aspect; which might 
 account for the sort of nervous anxiety perceptible 
 in Charlie's manner and face before she vspoke, 
 and even in those of his fair companion, dis- 
 tinctly more independent and high-spirited, but 
 just now subdued by the impression which their 
 conversation had left upon her mind. 
 
 " How is this V the lady said. " Has Ethert 
 left you ? Or how come you to have returned 
 alone r 
 
 It was to Meta that she addressed herself ; but 
 for once the young lady left to her companion 
 the task of answering, in which, as a rule, 
 she was sufficiently ready. 
 
 " We met Mr. Cleveland and a friend of his, 
 and Ethert turned back with them, desiring me to 
 bring Meta here directly, as I have done, and to 
 beg you not to wait for him, that he could not 
 say when he would return. It wants two hours 
 to dinner yet, does it not. Aunt ? If I can do 
 
A WAYWARD WARD. 39 
 
 nothing for you or Meta, I should like to go down 
 to the lake with my fishing-rod for that 
 time." 
 
 " You can do nothing for us, unless you can 
 bring us some trout," the lady answered, without 
 a smile. " Meta," as soon as she was left alone 
 with her ward, " it might be as well if you would 
 remember that though Charles Glynne is my 
 nephew, he is not your cousin." 
 
 The girl started and coloured ; then bit her lip, 
 and in a few moments answered, suppressing all 
 outward signs of that temper which her monitress 
 evidently expected and was prepared to 
 rebuke. 
 
 "I don't understand, Mrs. Glynne. It was 
 Ethert who put me in his charge ; and if there 
 has been anything else that has displeased you, 
 will you not tell me what it is ? I will take care 
 not to repeat it." 
 
 The respectful tone, the patient gentleness with 
 which the young girl received a reproof not very 
 gently or consideratel}^ worded, evidently sur- 
 prised the hearer. 
 
 " No, Meta ; I have no right to be displeased, 
 because you have done nothing but what you 
 
40 I V Y. 
 
 have been used to do ; and if there be fault, it is 
 Ethert's rather than yours. Onl}' you are no 
 longer quite a child, and Mr. Glynne," with some 
 emphasis on the name, "is no longer a mere 
 schoolboy. Those who see and hear you with 
 one another remember that you are not near rela- 
 tions, without remembering how you have become 
 accustomed to consider one another almost in that 
 light.'' 
 
 " Am I to call him Mr. Glynne ?" Meta said, 
 simply. " That will seem a little awkward, will 
 it not ? especially when Ethert is here, and every- 
 one about is accustomed to call him by that 
 name." 
 
 " Ethert has chosen," said his mother, " that you 
 should speak to him and of him by his Christian 
 name ; and you do right to comply, in one thing at 
 least, with his wish. But of course Sir Charles' 
 son is Mr. Glynne, and would be so called by 
 any one who remembered who he is, or was accus- 
 tomed to regard the formal usages of society." 
 
 " Will you not tell me then," said Meta, still 
 controlling herself, and suppressing not only the 
 irritation she might naturally have shown the day 
 before, but a disposition to manifest her pain by 
 
A WAYWARD WARD. 41 
 
 tears, with tlie more difficulty that after what 
 she had just heard her guardian's implied reproof 
 and coldness of manner deeply affected her, " what- 
 ever at any time there is that you do not approve ? 
 and," as Mrs. Glynne expressed her assent rather 
 by silence and gesture than by a half- spoken 
 word, "if you think, and I am afraid you are 
 right, that I have not regarded Ethert's wishes as 
 I should have done, remember I had never known 
 exactly why I was bound to think so much of 
 them." 
 
 She turned away as she spoke ; and as Mrs. 
 Glynne at first attached no particular meaning to 
 her words, and only after a minute's reflection 
 began to wonder what the child could have 
 intended — whether accident or instinct had 
 afforded her some insight into facts which her 
 protector had persistently concealed, contrary to 
 his mother's counsel— Meta was not recalled till 
 she had reached her own room, and there given 
 way in natural feminine fashion to mingled 
 feelings which she was more impatient to relieve 
 than careful to analyse. 
 
42 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 DREAMER AND CRITIC. 
 
 DON'T keep me out longer than need be, 
 Ethert," said his mother, as, after his 
 late meal, they stepped forth from the window 
 of their little dining-parlour. 
 
 " Are you afraid of the night air, mother ? I 
 must not risk giving you cold ; shall we go in ?" 
 he asked, in a tone whose anxious tenderness 
 seemed held in check by habitual reserve or awe. 
 
 " No, I have never found it very trying at this 
 season, though I must not, as you know, run 
 risks— at least while my life is of some moment 
 to you and to your ward. I think the fear of 
 night air out of doors— as if it were dayhght air 
 within — is either a folly or an affectation when 
 there is no actual cold or damp to fear. But I 
 
DREAMER AND CRITIC. 43 
 
 don't care to leave Meta and Charlie tete-a-tete 
 very long, especially after the long solitary walk 
 you gave them this afternoon. Ether t, I wish 
 you had not brought him here this time ; and 
 as you have brought him, T must beg you not to 
 throw them together in the way you have done 
 hitherto. I had to remind Meta to-day that after 
 all they are not cousins ; and though Meta be- 
 haved with unusual good sense and temper, I 
 could not help feeling that it was hard on her, 
 that the fault was rather yours than hers." 
 
 Ethert turned round sharply, as if he would 
 have spoken almost in anger, then checked him- 
 self, and a few moments passed before he replied, 
 in a tone that betrayed annoyance held under 
 strict control : 
 
 " I wish you had spoken to me first. Since 
 they meet so often, and he is more of a companion 
 to Meta than I, it is natural that she should 
 behave as she has always done, and a little hard 
 on her to be blamed for what after all is, as you 
 say, my fault." 
 
 " I know," said his mother, " you always think 
 me hard on your favourite. A man would always 
 spoil a young girl, perhaps a child like Meta even 
 
44 IVY. 
 
 more than one a few years older. Ethert, you 
 must make up your mind very soon what line you 
 really mean to take. If Meta is to be in form 
 what she has been hitherto in fact, your adopted 
 child, treat her as you have done, only with 
 more of authorit}^ less of that deference and 
 consideration which always make her fancy her- 
 self more of the young lady than she yet is or 
 ought to be ; and make up your mind that she 
 must know what her position is and has been, 
 and what she owes to you. I suspect she has 
 caught a glimpse of that already." 
 
 "I hope not!" Ethert exclaimed, now really 
 and openly irritated. " Mother, you promised 
 me that should never be hinted to her." 
 
 "I promised you, Ethert, that /would never 
 hint it, or knowingly allow it to be hinted ; and 
 have you ever known me break or evade my 
 word?" 
 
 She paused, evidently expecting the formal 
 apology which her son made as a matter of 
 course. 
 
 " But," he added, " why do you think she has 
 guessed anything, or who could have told her?" 
 
 *' Does she need to be told ? As she grows old 
 
DREAMER AND CRITIC. 45 
 
 enough to think, must she not perceive that her 
 relation to us is anomalous ? And does she not 
 remember enough to know that I had never seen 
 her till she came here ; that j^ou, and not I, were 
 her father's friend ?" 
 
 " Probably," said Ethert : " but that would not 
 suggest the only thing I am anxious she should 
 not guess — that she owes anything to me apart 
 from yourself. My adopted child she never was 
 or will be ; whether she is to be more or less, time 
 and she must decide." 
 
 " And you mean that she shall be much more ? 
 Ethert, if I could take your fancy seriously it 
 would distress me ; and I am aware, at your age, 
 it is more serious than it would be with a boy 
 who had not seen the world. You want to marry, 
 not from your heart, but from your imagination ; 
 you are seeking a wife who will love you, not 
 one whom you can certainly and constantly love. 
 You could not make a greater blunder on the 
 point on which men of your wayward, romantic 
 temper always contrive to blunder most per- 
 versely. If you are really in love with any 
 woman of simple womanly nature, you may trust 
 her to love you — after marriage, if not before. 
 
46 IVY. 
 
 I am not so sure of a girl like Meta, whose fancy, 
 like yours, is the dominant part of her character. 
 Of course you can make sure of her hand, be- 
 cause she will not know her own heart. The 
 girls that interest poets as young girls, and 
 especially as children— who, at Meta's age, have 
 what you call * fire,' ' intelligence,' ' romance' 
 enough to admire your writings and sympathise 
 with your ideas — will be the wives to make 
 you thoroughly miserable. Meta's temper is 
 trying enough now to me who have to 
 control it, however it may amuse and interest 
 you. But after all, a child's petulance, even 
 when she out-grows the discipline of child- 
 hood, is not a very grave matter; a petulant, 
 quick-tempered wife is a serious trial to any 
 man, an intolerable one to men like you and 
 your father. Sensitive yourselves as women, 
 keenly alive to tones, looks, little signs of anger 
 or unkindness that sterner men would disregard, 
 you would be happiest with one who had suffi- 
 cient mind to appreciate yours without trying to 
 follow it, and common sense and practical worldly 
 wisdom enough to make up for your own 
 deficiency ; happier with a kindly good-tempered 
 
DREAMER AND CRITIC. 47 
 
 woman of only sense sufficient for the ordinary 
 business of life, than with a romantic, senti- 
 mental, passionate temperament far too like your 
 own." 
 
 " With such a wife as you describe, mother, 
 my life would be simply thrown away. Caring 
 far more for money, and what money can buy, 
 than for fame, caring nothing at all for all that 
 makes life worth living to me, such a woman 
 would be a heavy drag at best upon my ambition, 
 would check and damp all my aspirations. She 
 would make me feel the indulgence of my own 
 taste, the cultivation of my own genius, if I have 
 any, a wrong or unkiudness to her. Her want 
 of sympathy would dishearten me for any serious 
 eifforts, her influence confine me to those lower- 
 walks of my profession in which alone money is 
 really to be made. For her sake I should feel 
 compelled to think what paid in a way that 
 she would care for. Time and effort given 
 to work not lucrative would seem doubly 
 stolen from her, and I could do nothing worth 
 doing under such discouragement; in fact, I 
 should sink into a regular literary drudge. 
 You will not be so sorry to hear as I am to 
 
48 I V Y. 
 
 tell you that for Meta's sake, or rather for my 
 own, in order to be able when the time comes to 
 ask her to share my future, I have accepted a 
 position of that practical kind. Cleveland and 
 some of his friends have purchased the Courier, 
 and placed Lestrange— the man whose articles 
 over the signature of Procyon we have discussed 
 so often and differed about so much — in charge of 
 it. He wants an assistant to help him, to be, 
 as he phrases it, his right hand at all times, a 
 right hand that will work for a while automatically, 
 under the impulse he has given, when his health 
 or strength may fail him ; and to my surprise 
 Cleveland has thought me fit for the place — so I 
 start for London the day after to-morrow. I 
 shall go home with Charlie for a day or two, and 
 then must take up my work at once. Are you 
 quite resolved not to accept Aunt Caroline's 
 invitation for yourself or Meta?" 
 
 " Quite," she replied. " I don't care that Meta 
 should be intimate there — until or unless she goes 
 there as your wife. Then it will be your affair. 
 And for myself, you know I do not care to accept 
 even ordinary social courtesies from Sir Charles 
 or his wife." 
 
DREAMER AND CRITIC. 49 
 
 " I know, mother ; but I could never under- 
 stand why. My uncle has been, as you yourself 
 admit, most kind, most generous to me." 
 
 " I don't see that he has done anything for you 
 more than, with his means and his small family, 
 it was decent that the head of the house should 
 do for his only brother's only child. But I grant 
 he has done more than I ever expected, ver}' 
 much more than he ever did for your father ; and 
 knowing w4iat I know of him, I cannot but sup- 
 pose that he has good reason for conduct so little 
 in keeping with his general character." 
 
 " I cannot bear," replied Ethert, " to discuss 
 with you a subject on which we both feel so 
 strongly and differ so entirely. At any rate, I 
 must judge a man by his conduct to me ; or if 
 you cannot allow that, at least you will admit 
 that, having accepted his kindness, I must 
 behave as a dutiful nephew to such an uncle." 
 
 " I would not," rejoined his mother, " have you 
 other than respectful to the head of your famil3^ 
 But, remember, you owe him little as yet ; I have 
 done my best, not unsuccessfully, to prevent your 
 placing yourself under obligations that might 
 fetter you hereafter. Pray remember this, 
 
 VOL. I. E 
 
50 IVY. 
 
 Ethert, and beware of accepting anything that 
 might render you dependent on the continuance 
 of his good-will, or hamper you if you had to 
 assert rights of your own against him or 
 his." 
 
 "How could that be, mother?" 
 
 "I can't tell you how it could be," she 
 answered ; *' but I know your uncle too well to 
 doubt that he foresees at least possibile contin- 
 gencies in which it might suit him to have 
 secured your good-will — to be able to put forward 
 what would seem to you, with your exaggerated 
 sensibility, strong claims on your practical consi- 
 deration. I never knew him to do a generous or 
 unselfish thing to any but yourself; certainly not, 
 as I have told you, to your father. Lady Glynne 
 dislikes me as I her, and I am at a loss to under- 
 stand the anxiety she has shown for many years 
 past, first to make up what never was a quarrel, 
 and never could be other than coldness between 
 us, and next, when that was impossible, to win 
 your favour or affection. 1 am sorry you are 
 to leave us so soon ; I am glad you have found 
 regular practical work, and if it do not end in 
 the accomplishment of your particular object, it 
 
DREAMER AND CRITIC. 51 
 
 will, I think, have done you good upon the 
 whole." 
 
 " Very likely," replied her son. " At any rate 
 I am not sorry that fate or Providence has taken 
 the shaping of my career out of my own hands.. 
 Mother, I shall not see much of you or of Meta 
 now. I shall be closely tied to my desk in 
 London. Don't misunderstand me if I ask you 
 not to let my Pearl miss what you call my 
 spoiling ; to be a little more indulgent to her — 
 rather perhaps to her fancies and her sensitive- 
 ness — now that she is, as you say yourself, no 
 longer quite a child." 
 
 *' I am afraid," she returned, coldly, but with- 
 out any sign of that displeasure which Ethert 
 had evidently intended to deprecate, " that there 
 can never be anything like sympathy between me 
 and that wayward child. It is a pity, perhaps, 
 that she has no companion who will be indulgent 
 to her moods, and sympathise with her romance 
 more than I, if less than you do. But depend 
 upon it, Ethert, if you really wish to win her love 
 as a woman, it is well that you should cease to see 
 so much of her while you can hardly consider 
 her more than a ciiild, and she necessarily looks 
 
 E 2 UNIVERSITY OF ILUNOb 
 LIBRARY 
 
52 IVY. 
 
 upon you rather as a guardian than in any more 
 romantic light — while her affection must be neces- 
 sarily filial or sisterly." 
 
 " That she doesn't regard me as a guardian," 
 returaed Ethert, smiling, " I think her keen 
 resentment of any approach to control or reproof 
 from me sufiiciently demonstrates. But for the rest 
 no doubt you are right, though I can hardly help 
 fretting that I shall see so little of either of you 
 for years to come. Well, let her be still to me a 
 child till I do go ; let us enjoy one more 
 holiday together before that change in our 
 relations comes that must be, and that absence 
 will render easier and more natural." 
 
 They re-entered the house, and Mrs. Glynne's 
 eyes turned at once upon her ward, and observed, 
 somewhat to her surprise, and certainly to her 
 satisfaction, that Meta was not as usual engaged 
 in chat, or rather chatter, or on her favourite 
 game of chess, with Charhe. He was reading 
 somewhat listlessly and with many yawns his 
 cousin's last prose work, a book which he honestly 
 endeavoured to admire for its author's sake, while 
 of his incapacity to understand it he was sincerely 
 and loyally ashamed; which Meta bad enjoyed, 
 
DREAMER AND CRITIC. 53 
 
 understood, and, to the writer's intense though 
 secret delight, cried over with sympathy and 
 appreciation as earnest, if not with as full a 
 comprehension, as a woman of twice her years 
 might have shown. Meta herself was occupied, 
 conscientiously but wearily, with needlework, an 
 occupation which she detested so heartily that 
 even Mrs. Glynne's authority could hardly enforce 
 attentive perseverance thereat in her own absence. 
 The latter, approaching her nephew, expressed, 
 with an evident effort to be kindly and cordial, 
 her regret at their speedy parting ; while Ethert, 
 bending over Meta, spoke low, gently, with 
 a sort of studied, not affected, deference and 
 courtesy. 
 
 " I go up to town the day after to-morrow, 
 Pearl, and I am not likely to be here again for 
 many months to come ; certainly not till Christ- 
 mas, perhaps not till next summer. I should 
 have dearly liked to pass my last day among 
 these Lakes in one of those excursions you used 
 to like as well as I. Have you so far forgiven 
 me for yesterday that I may entreat your com- 
 pany?" 
 
 The young girl looked up quickly, half shyly. 
 
54 IVY. 
 
 and to his surprise her colour had deepened, and 
 her eyes were full of tears. 
 
 "Don't talk so, Ethert. Forgive me my 
 petulance ; indeed I am heartily ashamed of it, 
 and you said much less than I deserved." 
 
 The humility, the earnestness, if not the 
 frankness of her apology were so unusual that 
 Ethert, used to the simple child-like ease of her 
 penitence as to her passionate outhreaks of way- 
 ward humour, was actually startled. 
 
 " Has my mother heard, and been scolding 
 her?" he thought. "But it is hardly like Pearl 
 to be the more repentant if she had done penance 
 against her will — I was frightened, and with 
 reason," he answered. " There was more risk 
 than you knew, Pearl, and I could not but be 
 angry even with you while I felt how narrowly 
 you had escaped a serious danger. If anyone else 
 had exposed you to such a chance of droAvning, 
 you would have seen how differently I should 
 have spoken, how hard I should have found it to 
 forgive ; but even fear for yourself should not 
 have led me to speak so sharply to a lady." 
 
 " I am not a lady, yet," she answered, frankly 
 and half-smiling, " and no one but you ever seems 
 
DREAMER AND CRITIC. 55 
 
 to fancy me so. It is like you, who have a right 
 to treat me as a child, that you are always the 
 most polite as well as the kindest to me. Yes, if 
 you will take me with you, and your mother does 
 not object, I should like it so much. I should 
 have been very sorry if yesterday's were to have 
 been our last excursion together." 
 
5Q 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A poet's holiday. 
 
 '' A RE you going with us ?" Meta said, with 
 -lX no little surprise, and with a slight but 
 manifest chagrin in her tone, as, loitering in the 
 garden, awaiting Ethert's leisure shortly after 
 their early breakfast, she was joined by Charlie 
 with his fishing rod and creel. 
 
 Charles Glynne laughed good-humouredly. 
 "You don't want me, Meta, that's very plain. 
 But it is your fault I have got to go with you so 
 far. Evidently Ethert won't put up the sail again, 
 and I am to help him to row you across ; then 
 I shall stay fishing till you return ; or — no— it's 
 so clear you don't want me, I'll take care to get 
 tired before you come back, and leave him to find 
 a boat at the ferry." 
 
A poet's holiday. 57 
 
 *' I am very sorry,'' said Meta, colouring. '' I 
 did not mean — but " 
 
 " Now don't be vexed, and don't try to explain 
 away," said the lad, kindly and laughingly. " I 
 am sure it is ver}^ natural you should wish to 
 have Ethert to yourself on his last day ; and in 
 truth, Meta, I am pretty certain that Ethert 
 wants me just as little as you do. But I am 
 sorry my aunt will not bring j^ou to Glynne- 
 hurst ; can't you persuade her ? It is a very 
 beautiful old-fashioned place ; the castle, though 
 it is small, is interesting to strangers, as most 
 castles are, and comfortable, as they scarcely ever 
 seem to be. Ivy wants to see you again very 
 much indeed, and if she thinks I have not done 
 my best to bring you and my aunt, I shall not 
 have a very cordial welcome home ; and my mother 
 I know pressed most earnestly. If Aunt Flora 
 won't come herself she might let you." 
 
 "Hardly," replied Meta. "If Mrs. Glynne 
 would go, I should be very glad indeed to see Ivy 
 again, and should like above all things to see 
 Glynnehurst, as Ethert has described it so often. 
 It is the original, is it not, of the ' Old Castle ' in 
 his second book?" 
 
58 IVY. 
 
 " Upon my word," said Charlie. " I don't 
 know. It is very stupid of me, but I never 
 thought. I am so dull ; I can understand and 
 enjoy Ethert's society and talk exceedingly 
 when we are alone or there is no clever person of 
 the company ; but when Cleveland, or Gerard, or 
 Sterne are with us I find myself going ofi" into a 
 dream, not understanding a word ; and even when 
 he is talking with you, I find it often nearly as 
 hard to follow as his books." . 
 
 " Nonsense ! I am sure you must understand 
 whatever I can." 
 
 " Indeed I donH, Meta. For instance, now, I 
 canH understand why you should not come to 
 Glynnehurst, even if my aunt will not." 
 
 " Do you, after the way you scolded me 
 yesterday," returned Meta, half earnestly, half 
 playfully, " think that I ought even to wish to 
 leave her alone here ?" 
 
 " Oh, if it is a case of ' ought,' I have nothing 
 to say. So long as you do wish it, I may have 
 some hope after all." 
 
 Ethert joined them here, and the trio walked 
 down towards the landing-place, about a mile 
 distant. 
 
A poet's holiday. 59 
 
 " Ethert," said his cousin, " my mother will be 
 so vexed that Aunt Flora won't come to us this 
 year. She has not been to Glynnehurst for 
 seven or eight years ; and at any rate if she will not 
 come you might bring Meta, and leave her there." 
 
 " My mother must decide ; and I am afraid she 
 has made up her mind that she cannot leave 
 home, and will not part with Meta." 
 
 They reached the boat and unlocked the oars. 
 As Charlie was about to remove the mast with sail 
 wrapped round it that lay in the bottom, Ethert 
 caught sight of the downcast eyes and deepening 
 colour of his fair charge. 
 
 *' Leave them, Charlie. Only promise me you 
 will not put them up when you are alone ; it takes 
 two hands to manage helm and sail safely. The 
 wind is against us crossing, and we shall make 
 more progress with the oars." 
 
 Meta understood his motive; and tears of 
 affectionate penitence came into her eyes as she 
 recalled more than one similar instance of studious 
 consideration for her childish sensitiveness, un- 
 noticed or ungraciously received at the time. 
 She took the tiller ropes, steering carefully 
 among the many boats of various size moored or 
 
60 I V Y. 
 
 fastened in the little bay, and between the islands, 
 as the men vigorously plied the oars. Charlie's 
 athletic eagerness impelled him to pull with a 
 needless energy, which obliged Ethert on his part 
 to put forth his full strength, and neither had 
 leisure or breath for speech. Meta, too familiar 
 with the beautiful scene to be long absorbed in 
 its contemplation, gradually fell into a sort of 
 reverie — perhaps rather reflection, meditating on 
 the explanation she desired to effect with her 
 guardian when they should be alone — inconsistent 
 with the vigilant performance of her duty : and 
 was first aroused to a consciousness of her neglect 
 by an exclamation from Charlie, and a sudden 
 inclination of the right-hand gunwale almost to the 
 level of the water, as the boat ran on a sunken rock 
 with whose locality she was not unacquainted. 
 
 *' Are you asleep or dreaming, Meta ?" cried 
 her younger companion sharply, as, dropping his 
 oar, the boat was righted by a vigorous pull from 
 Ethert. " If he were not here, I should tell you 
 you deserved — what you talked of yesterday." 
 
 "You are very rude, Sir," the girl answered, 
 but with perfect good temper, not even at the 
 moment disposed to resent the rough criticism of 
 
A rOET'S HOLIDAY. 61 
 
 her playfellow as she had done the gentler repri- 
 mand of her guardian on a similar occasion. " If 
 we had been alone, as you say, I should not have 
 cared if I had given you a ducking." 
 
 " Take care, Pearl," said Ethert, looking round. 
 " Remember we have not eyes at the back of our 
 heads; don't run us aground on yonder shoal." 
 "I bet you ^ve could clear it," said Charlie. 
 " You may try when you are alone ; you will 
 find the lake is two inches too low." 
 " Try, Meta," said the boy, laughing. 
 " I am not going to set the example of mutiny," 
 she answered, " especially after your hint. 
 Ethert, are we going to land at the ferry, or in 
 the bay yonder V 
 
 "Which you please, if you don't mind the 
 scramble ashore in the bay." 
 
 Meta silently exercised the choice assigned to 
 her in favour of the natural shore, where the 
 birches, rooted among the low rocks, dipped their 
 long graceful foliage into the water that just 
 allowed the boat's stern to float while her bow 
 touched the ground. Springing out, Ethert 
 caught her as she was about to step on the wet 
 stones, and swung her clear on to the ledge of 
 
62 IVY. 
 
 rock that afforded a dry convenient landing 
 place. 
 
 "We shall not see you from here, Charlie. I 
 suppose we shall get back to the ferry about four : 
 if we cannot see and hail you then, we must hire 
 a boat." 
 
 " You won't see me," said Charlie, somewhat 
 mischievously ; " Meta has let me know she doesn't 
 wish to see any more of me to-day. I think she 
 means to claim the whole of your last afternoon 
 at home." 
 
 A day or two before the suggestion would have 
 seemed to Meta simply natural ; in her kindlier 
 moods, she would have preferred the claim 
 with perfect frankness. Some change of feeling 
 that she could not have explained to herself made 
 her shy and silent as, without deigning to reply 
 to Charlie's nonsense, Ethert assisted her through 
 the underwood and over the stones till they 
 reached the shady lane that wound at some few 
 yards' distance along the shore of the lake, between 
 the rocky bank and the gradual slopes — thorn 
 and grass covered, shaded by hazel, birch, moun- 
 tain ash, and here and there by larches or Scotch 
 firs— of the low western fells. 
 
A poet's holiday. 63 
 
 " Will you venture on a scramble, Pearl, or 
 shall we wait till we reach the path ? Perhaps 
 you will mind tearing your dress now, more than 
 you did when we made our way through this 
 brush last year ?" 
 
 '*I remember," she answered, " how completely 
 that was my own fault ; how^ much care you took 
 to beat the brambles down and clear me when 
 they caught me, if I had not been too impatient 
 to wait for your help. And my frock would have 
 been drenched and muddied as well as torn, if 
 you had not lifted me in my own despite across 
 the stream. Ethert, I wondered even that day, 
 after we got home, why and how you could be so 
 patient and so polite to an ill-tempered child. I 
 used to suppose that grown men never got angry 
 or careless with girls, and that it was only 
 schoolboys like Charlie who could be provoked to 
 answer one — as I deserved ; or I should have 
 thought more of your kindness." 
 
 " And what has enlightened you now f he 
 asked, smiling. " Have you seen so much of the 
 ways of other grown men 1" 
 
 " Yery little, as you know. But your mother 
 used to tell me, though I never minded it much, 
 
U IVY. 
 
 * No one else will ever put up with you as Etliert 
 does/ and the more you petted the more she 
 seemed resolved to check me. No ; don't you 
 suppose even I must think a little as I grow older, 
 and ask the reason of things I used to take for 
 granted ?" 
 
 The tone in which her last words were spoken 
 had become so grave and earnest that her 
 companion looked at her with observant though 
 brief and carefully concealed scrutin}^ 
 
 " And what," he said, lightly, " has your new 
 thoughtful ness suggested ? Or what has been 
 put into your head to give you new views of what 
 seemed matter of course ?" 
 
 "Your mother said yesterday that your cousin 
 is not quite a schoolboy. I suppose now he is as 
 civil to me as most young men would be ; and 
 though of course he is never rude, do you think 
 I don't see the difference between his ways and 
 yours 1 He says what comes into his head, he 
 does not care whether I like it or not. He 
 as good as told me so; and if I am cross to 
 him he laughs at me, or gives it me back again. 
 
 " I am afraid," he answered, smiling, " that I 
 too have shown that I can be cross." 
 
A poet's holiday. 65 
 
 " Ethert, that just touches what I mean. Will 
 you tell me that another man in your place would 
 not have spoken quite as sharply, without caring 
 whether it hurt me, or dreaming of — well, almost 
 apologising for it afterwards? And, don't think 
 nie presumptuous, you do seem to care, not only 
 whether you hurt me, but that I hurt you. I 
 hope it is not so ; I shall be very glad if you will 
 tell me that when my wayward humours, my 
 rude speeches make you look so grave and sad, 
 you do not really mind." 
 
 " Would not that be to tell you, Pearl, that I do 
 not care for her who was my pet as a little child, 
 and has become my companion and friend of late ? 
 Of course it pains me for the moment when 
 you seem to think that I have treated you 
 unkindly; when I seem to have given you 
 pain." 
 
 "Why should you care?" she asked, im- 
 petuously. "If I had nothing else to thank 
 you for, you have been so kind in every little 
 incident of every-day life, you make the time 
 so pleasant, so bright for me when you are at 
 home, you have taken so much trouble for me — 
 that you ought to treat my temper, even if }'ou 
 
 VOL. L F 
 
6() IV y. 
 
 were as young as Charlie, or I were not a child, 
 only as wilful, ungrateful naughtiness; instead 
 of fancying that you can have been unkind or that 
 I can think you so. But when you know what I 
 really owe you, what could you do, after that, that 
 could give me right or reason to complain ; that 1 
 ought nut to bear, if you had ever given me any- 
 thing to hear, without returning, without presuming 
 to resent it f 
 
 " What has been said to you ? What are you 
 talking of?" he asked quickly. 
 
 "Ethert, you must not be angry except with 
 me, for it was my fault, and only mine. I was 
 cross when Charlie said you would not let him 
 take me home by the lake ; I spoke so ungi-ate- 
 fuUy that he was shocked, and in scolding me 
 he said something that made me insist on 
 knowing what he meant ; and he really could not 
 keep it back." 
 
 " What could he tell you. Pearl ? No,"— as her 
 lips parted and the light in her eyes showed that 
 she was about to answer with passionate eager- 
 ness — " he could only tell you that I owed very 
 much to your father's kindness and care ; that 
 when n)y tutor's child, who had been my pet 
 
A poet's holiday. 67 
 
 and plaj'thing in the holidays, was left alone, I 
 was only too glad to, bring her to brighten my 
 home and my mother's. I am very sorry you 
 have heard anything, thought anything of this 
 
 yet." 
 
 " How can you say so ? Would you have had 
 me go on so thoughtlessly, so ungratefully, till 
 even a boy like Charlie was shocked and ashamed 
 of me, that I could speak so angrily, disrespect- 
 fully of your mother, who had done a mother's 
 part for me, of you to whose kindness I owe not 
 only my bread — that is a less thing — ^but a home 
 — home tenderness and happiness instead of the 
 dreary life of a school or an asylum? Ethert, 
 it makes me bitterly ashamed how T have behaved 
 to you, though I did not know — but I might 
 have known if I had cared to think." 
 
 '* Don't exaggerate, Pearl. You will find, when 
 you are a few years older, that no one would 
 wonder, no one fancy that I at any rate had done 
 anything of which you need think much. Don't 
 talk of gratitude or ingratitude, child — that can 
 only pain me; but be sure that if you can, 
 instead, give us the same simple home-affection 
 you would have given to a mother and a brother, 
 
 F 2 
 
68 IVY. 
 
 we shall both feel, shall be more than repaid for 
 any trouble we have taken for you." 
 
 " But say," she urged earnestly, " say that 
 you believe, you know I would not have behaved 
 so to you, if I had known or thought that — " 
 
 *' I know, Pearl, you would never say or do 
 an unkind thing if you did but think ; that you 
 never had an unkind thought for either of 
 us." 
 
 " And you forgive me ?" 
 
 "If I have anything to forgive, assuredly. 
 Now, Pearl, in kindness to me never speak of 
 this again. Think, speak, behave to me, 1 will 
 not say as you always have done, but as if 
 nothing had ever occurred to you that you had 
 not thought of before now. See, we have reached 
 our favourite resting-place. Look at the bright 
 clear picture of the opposite hills and woods in 
 the lake, smooth as glass just now ; and the bright 
 golden light just there, where the windows of 
 the Castle flash back the sunshine upon the 
 surface. I don't like to think how long it will be 
 Defore we shall see this scene together again. The 
 time I have spent in London has always seemed 
 to me, especially in Spring and Summer, simply 
 
A poet's holiday. 69 
 
 as so much cut wholly out of my life ; and when 
 in April or May I see the limes in the park 
 clothed with their bright fresh green foliage, and 
 hear the chirping of the sparrows, which 
 reminds me of the music that fills our woods, 
 I can scarcely keep the tears out of my 
 eyes." 
 
 " And yet," she replied, " you choose of your 
 own accord to go back and to live, you say, for 
 years in London, and scarcely to come here but 
 for a rare holiday. Why ?" 
 
 " Why does anyone live in London who can 
 help it, except those who care for balls and 
 theatres more than for scenes like this, that no 
 painter, if he gave a lifetime to it, could equal, 
 and walks like ours among these hills ? Simply 
 because one can earn money in town ; one can 
 hardly do more than spend it in the country." 
 
 *'But you don't care so much for money?" she 
 said, enquiringly. " You do not seem to wish for 
 anything you have not. Ethert, it is not for my 
 sake, it is not that you have enough for yourself, 
 but not enough to do what you have always 
 done by me ? I could not bear to think that ! 
 It is not your kindness to me that forces you to 
 
70 IVY. 
 
 leave your home and live in a place you hate 
 
 so?" 
 
 " And to leave you and my mother, whom I 
 
 love better than any place, even this ? No, Pearl ; 
 
 I cannot explain now. Ask me three years 
 hence, and I hope I may be able to tell you, to 
 
 show you that I am neither avaricious nor selfish; 
 no, nor yet making a sacrifice for you : you have 
 never cost me one yet." 
 
 They had reached the highest point on that 
 line of fells, having emerged some time before 
 from the wood, which seldom reaches the summit 
 even of the lower hills ; and where they stood had 
 a clear unbroken view for some fifteen miles of 
 one of the most beautiful, perhaps the most 
 perfectly beautiful scene in England. The upper 
 portion of the lake, immediately at their feet, was 
 more than a mile in width, and for three or four 
 miles of its length unbroken by islands, 
 surrounded on either side by hills ; their lower 
 slopes densely wooded, their upper ridges standing 
 out, covered for the most part with brown heather 
 or greyish-green grass, crowned commonly by 
 masses of grey rock near the actual summit. Far 
 to the left rose the highest hills of Cumberland, 
 
A poet's holiday. 71 
 
 their slopes almost entirely naked, so distant that 
 only their graceful or rugged outlines were 
 distinguishable. To the right, the lower part of 
 the lake so narrowed that among and below the 
 islands it seemed rather to resemble a river, but 
 a river wider than any to be seen in England, or 
 indeed in Western Europe. It was one of those 
 rare afternoons when not a breath of wind 
 disturbs the perfect evenness of the surface, 
 which, not like that of the calmest sea ruffled by 
 a continual swell, was actually smooth and clear 
 as glass, reflecting every object, every detail of 
 the surrounding scenery, as distinctly as the most 
 polished mirror could have done. Both turned 
 and looked upon the scene for some moments in 
 silence, Meta appreciating its exquisite and varied 
 beaut}^ quite as keenly as could the most romantic 
 or artistic lady long since emerged from the 
 childhood which she had not yet left behind. 
 Glancing up at last into the face of her 
 companion, she was painfully struck by the 
 intense sadness of its expression. Ethert knew, 
 as she did not, the dreariness, dulness, dispiriting 
 efi'ect of a town life to a lover of nature; under- 
 stood and felt, while she could only imagine, all 
 
72 I V Y. 
 
 that he was giving up. The years already spent 
 in London had been unspeakably wearisome, and 
 such pleasures as they had afforded had long 
 since utterly palled upon his taste. London 
 had for him none of the consolation that Meta 
 could fancy in picture-galleries, museums, and 
 libraries, even more than in its distinctly social 
 enjoyments. 
 
 *' You must have very strong reason," she said, 
 timidly but earnestly ; " but I must not ask you 
 what it is. But I am very sorry, both for your 
 sake and for my own." 
 
 He pressed her little hand, but did not answer ; 
 and after a pause of two or three minutes she 
 spoke again in a lighter tone, but with equally 
 deep and yet more unselfish sympathy, desiring 
 to divert his mind from thoughts that were 
 evidently painful. 
 
 " Ethert, I wish 1 could paint these views for 
 you, to console you in your London lodging. 
 Why would j^ou never teach me to draw ?" 
 
 " Can you not guess V he said with a smile. 
 
 " I am afraid I can," she answered, gravely. 
 " For the same reason that you would never teach 
 me anything except swimming ; and that I 
 
A poet's holiday. 73 
 
 suppose only because I would venture on 
 the lake, and you thought it too dangerous if I 
 could not swim ; and nobody else could teach 
 me." 
 
 " True, Pearl. I have been thoroughly selfish 
 in the division I made with my mother, leaving 
 to her all that was disagreeable and troublesome 
 in her charge, and taking to myself all I could 
 that was only pleasant, that could leave none but 
 agreeable memories with you." 
 
 "And you think all lessons must have left 
 unpleasant ones ? Well, I dare say I deserve it : 
 but we had no trouble that I remember over the 
 one thing you did teach me." 
 
 " How could we, Pearl ? unless you had been 
 as great a coward as many young ladies, in which 
 case I am afraid I should not have tried the 
 experiment." 
 
 " They were the only lessons that never cost 
 me a tear," she said ; " and I think that was not 
 the onl}^ reason. But now I wish you had taught 
 me to draw, whatever trouble it had given us 
 both, as your mother cannot. And is it really 
 true that most girls are such cowards ? What in 
 the world was there to be afraid of? You would 
 
74 IV y. 
 
 not let me drown, I knew ; and if you had, they 
 always say it is not a painful death." 
 
 *' No, the painful thing is coming back to life. 
 But most people, women at least, fear death itself 
 more than the pain that attends it." 
 
 " I cannot understand that. What is there to 
 fear, unless indeed one expects— what you never 
 would let me learn to think possible ? I remember 
 once, soon after I 6rst came here, Mr. Whitefield's 
 sermons did make me horribly afraid to die, made 
 me so frightened in the darkness. Your mother 
 cured me of screaming ; but till she gave me a 
 light I lay awake night after night crying silentty 
 with terror. I always wondered what made her 
 give Avay about it, after she had been so severe ; 
 for I never dared to tell her what really frightened 
 me so." 
 
 " You told me, Pearl, and I never forgave Mr. 
 Whitefield. Don't you remember, it was your 
 account of your terrors and your dreams that 
 made me talk to you of death, and what 
 may lie beyond it — the only subject of the 
 kind on which I have ever cared to speak to 
 you?" 
 
 " I have taken all my thoughts on those sub- 
 
A poet's holiday. 75 
 
 jects from yon, I think," she answered, " or from 
 Mr. Yere." 
 
 " Who," said Ethert, lightly, " never mentions 
 hell to ears polite." 
 
 " For shame, Ethert ! Mr. Yere never con- 
 ceals, never neglects to insist that evil must be 
 punished, and that its punishment must in some 
 sense be eternal, since the mischief it has done to 
 ourselves, to our own natures, can never be quite 
 undone, must always throw us back behind those 
 who have not erred so much, perhaps may 
 separate us from them for ever. That is terrible 
 enough, and I think would frighten me now more 
 than Mr. Whitefield's flames and red-hot scourges. 
 But surely we can trust ourselves, our future, to 
 the Power that has made this life so fall of 
 beauty? and unless we distrust Him I cannot see 
 why we should be afraid of passing into another 
 state, where many of our troubles here must, I 
 suppose, be left behind." 
 
 " Do you really feel that. Pearl I Did you 
 ever think of death, try to realise it? I hope 
 you do not, but I did before I was your age. 
 Are 3^ou not afraid? Do you not shrink 
 from it more than from any possible pain?" 
 
76 IVY. 
 
 " Not at all," she answered ; " I don't under- 
 stand when I read of people enduring terrible 
 operations rather than die, like Dr. Johnson. 
 Ethert, what can there be to fear, and why does 
 the Church teach us to pray against sudden 
 death r 
 
 '' That," he answered, " is, like most of the 
 prayers in our Liturgy, borrowed I suppose 
 from Rome. She taught that salvation might 
 depend upon death-bed absolution. There I agree 
 with you entirely. I would rather die without 
 having time to fear or suffer." 
 
 "I don't think I should prefer that," she 
 answered, thoughtfully ; " I should like to know, 
 to have a few words to say, perhaps, after I knew 
 that all was over here. But so long as people 
 really believe in Heaven I cannot understand 
 why they are afraid of going there, or why they 
 are heart-broken when their friends or children 
 are gone there. Perhaps they don't remember 
 how many hard things there are in childhood ; 
 they have forgotten their own, or they would not 
 be so bitterly grieved to think that their children 
 are happy where they will rejoin them in a few 
 years." 
 
A poet's holiday. 77 
 
 " I am afraid," he replied, deeply touched, and 
 avoiding the graver aspect of her remarks, " that 
 you have had for many reasons a harder child- 
 hood than others. Of course it must be so; 
 nothing can make up to an orphan the loss of 
 father and mother." 
 
 " You should not say that, Ethert. It is my 
 fault, not yours — or," she added, more con- 
 strainedly, and as if from a sense of duty rather 
 than from cordial feeling, "your mother's — if I 
 have not been as happy as any child could be. 
 But was it only that you would not teach me 
 
 drawing yourself? May I learn it if I can 
 find a teacher at any time, and your mother 
 agrees ?" 
 
 " Most certainly ; and if I had time now I 
 would try to teach you myself— on condition, 
 Pearl, that I should give it up on our 
 first, or, at least, our second, quarrel over it." 
 
 " Ethert, that is so strange a word for you to 
 use ! It struck me last night : what other man of 
 your age, in your position, would talk of quarrel- 
 ling with a child ?" 
 
 *' I ought to be ashamed of it, certainly," he 
 answered, smiling. 
 
78 IVY. 
 
 " No, no : it ought not to have been possible 
 for me. I ought not to have dared, any more 
 than with your mother. And you never quarrel 
 — that has been all on my side." 
 
 " Hardly, dear ; and I am afraid it would not 
 be, even after our last experience, if you should 
 frighten me again as you did then." 
 
 " Were you frightened for yourself, Ethert, or 
 only for me V 
 
 " Both, Pearl. I should dislike exceedingly to 
 be drowned, apart from the humiliation of perish- 
 ing, as strangers on these lakes often do, by 
 sheer neglect or ignorance. If they had found 
 the sheet fast, every Lakesman would have said, 
 'Well, he knew better !' But I believe honestly, 
 so far as I can tell, that it was of you, and not of 
 myself, that I thought at the moment." 
 
 "It was of me that you spoke, certainly, and 
 I fancy that you were too much startled just 
 then not to say exactly what you thought. Well, 
 that was our last quarrel, as you chose to call it. 
 When you tell me three years hence why you 
 leave us, remember and say whether I have 
 quarrelled with you, or given you cause to 
 quarrel with me, again." 
 
79 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 COUSINHOOD. 
 
 WE will walk then, Charlie, if you have no 
 objection, and the trap shall take our 
 luggage only." 
 
 " How is my father, Thomas V said the youth, 
 addressing the liveried servant, who with some 
 little difficulty reined in the high-spirited horse 
 while Charlie's holiday baggage and Ethert's 
 small portmanteau were piled in the dog-cart sent 
 from Glynnehurst to meet them at the nearest 
 railway-station, some three miles distant. 
 
 " Not so well, Sir, I am afraid," said the 
 groom, touching his hat. "Sir Charles has not 
 been out, except in the garden, for three weeks 
 past, and I have not seen him at all this last 
 week. Jackson said that he had been troubled 
 again ; could not say what he seemed to mean to." 
 
80 IVY. 
 
 " Then," said Charlie to his cousin, as they 
 walked on, "I understand why Ivy wrote as if 
 she wished I were at home, before your sudden 
 change of plans. I suppose the Governor is really 
 worse ; I know that thin^ frightened Mamma 
 before." 
 
 "And well it might !" said his elder and better- 
 informed companion, " if I understand the man 
 rightly. You never told me of this, Charlie ; 
 my Uncle's fit must have been something graver 
 than you led me to suppose, or than I inferred 
 from my Aunt's letter. That symptom means 
 mischief." 
 
 " Mamma don't like to talk about it, I know. 
 Surely there's nothing in his hesitating and 
 blundering about words? And Orme never said 
 a word to me, only to Mamma, something — that 
 he had feared paralysis. But that can't be, you 
 know ; he has been about, and even on horseback, 
 since then. But he was nervous, certainly, and 
 didn't care to take his fences ; and now you 
 make me think of it, he told me I might 
 take Prince Rupert. You know how fiery 
 Rupert is, and my father would not let anyone 
 else ride him. It looked, I thought, as if 
 
COUSINHOOD. 81 
 
 he felt himself getting too old for such a 
 beast." 
 
 **More than that, I am afraid. Charlie, if I 
 were you I would put off Oxford for three 
 months, unless he is better." 
 
 "You don't mean that you think there is 
 danger ?" exclaimed the younger cousin, a suffi- 
 ciently dutiful if not a very affectionate son to 
 the father who had shown less than ordinary 
 paternal interest in his only son and heir. 
 
 " We shall know better, perhaps, to-morrow ; 
 and at any rate we will speak of it again before 
 I go. I am rather sorry, if it turns out so, that 
 I cannot stay after Monday." 
 
 They had reached the gates of the park, beau- 
 tifully kept, with splendid old native and many 
 rare and carefully cultivated exotic trees : broken 
 too by woods some hundred years old and by deep 
 narrow glades and ravines, the beds cut by imme- 
 morial streamlets through the soft chalk, as well as 
 by dales filled with thick bracken fern, among which 
 a few deer, almost tame, were couched. These 
 sprang up, but scarcely cared to start away as the 
 pair passed close to their haunts. The park was 
 of no great extent, neither the house nor its 
 
 VOL. I. G 
 
82 IVY. 
 
 appurtenances being proportionate to the present 
 wealth of its owners. 
 
 The Glynnes had held their actual estates, or 
 the greater part thereof, since the founder of the 
 family first emerged from the state of a city 
 merchant in the reign of Elizabeth. But at that 
 time the value of their land had not been great. 
 Careful cultivation, the drainage of swamps, the 
 reclamation of wastes, and the growth of town 
 populations at no great distance, as well as the 
 discovery of valuable minerals on an outlying part 
 of their domain, had greatly increased the fortunes 
 of a family always careful and thrifty, till their 
 present representative, after a long minority, 
 succeeded to the property. Sir Charles had been 
 a man of pleasure, of expensive tastes, but he had 
 never been a gambler ; he had lost his first wife 
 not many years after their marriage, after having 
 lived with her almost exclusively abroad, and he 
 had not married his second and present wife till 
 he had reached middle age. If, therefore, he had 
 spent his full income and saved little or nothing, 
 he had not seriously impaired the value of his 
 property. Some tenants, as Ethert happened to 
 know, had recently asked and even pressed for 
 
COUSINHOOD. 83 
 
 expensive improvements, which they had failed to 
 obtain. But if Sir Charles were embarrassed, 
 which there was no other reason to suppose, it 
 was not by the size of his mansion or the style of 
 his establishment ; which, under the management 
 of the second Lady Glynne, though comfortable 
 and sufficient, was distinctly modest and even 
 economical. 
 
 The house or castle stood on the edge of a 
 portion of the park which rose some fifty feet 
 above the level of the rest, where a chalk cliff, 
 almost precipitous, broke for some miles the 
 general surface of the country, otherwise level or 
 undulating. It embodied a part of an older 
 feudal fortress of secondary importance, the 
 modern portion of the building having been 
 skilfully constructed in the same general style, 
 but of smaller dimensions, and with sole regard to 
 comfort and convenience in the arrangement of 
 the interior. The front, close to the edge of the 
 cliff, was bounded at either extremity by a tower 
 of four stories in height, the one to the left of 
 those who now faced it ancient and worn, the 
 other of Tudor and Stuart date, both projecting 
 far beyond the line and actually touching the 
 
 G 2 
 
84 IVY. 
 
 precipice, so as to render the terrace between them 
 inaccessible save from the house itself. The 
 entrance was in the modem part of the dwelling, 
 in the centre of the side front, approached from 
 the lower land by a road cut in the chalk ; which 
 ascended at an incline the face of the cliff, and 
 then passed round the Spring or south-eastward 
 garden, separating it from the rest of the 
 grounds. 
 
 The gardens and lawns were kept in the most 
 perfect order, shaded by large and ancient trees, 
 among which grew some of the first Welling- 
 tonias and many of the first rhododendrons ever 
 introduced into this country. Though not of 
 great extent, yet whenever in the absence of the 
 family opened to public inspection, they attracted 
 numerous visitors from the neighbouring town, 
 and Ethert had always found in them new and 
 strong attractions on every successive visit. 
 These had, since his entrance at the great public 
 
 school of made him in some measure his 
 
 own master, been frequent. Both Sir Charles 
 and Lady Glynne had pressed him to spend with 
 them first his brief Easter holidays, during which 
 he had hardlv leisure to reach his distant home, 
 
COUSINHOOD. 85 
 
 afterwards a portion at least of each Christmas 
 vacation, when the Lakes were least attractive, 
 and latterly had induced him to pass more than 
 one summer month at Gl3mnehurst. Both had 
 alwa3^s treated him with signal kindness and con- 
 sideration. If Sir Charles could not put himself 
 out of the way for any one, could not take the 
 trouble or derange his own habits for more impor- 
 tant {)ersonages than a schoolboy nephew who 
 was not his heir, he had taken care that all besides, 
 grooms, gamekeepers, horses, should be at his young 
 guest's service ; and had tipped him on his every 
 return to school with a liberality that, to the son 
 of a widowed mother with a straitened income, 
 was almost as surprising as satisfactory. When 
 on his removal to Oxford he had necessarily de- 
 clined this kind of favour, Sir Charles had written 
 to his mother, insisting on his right as head of 
 the family to increase his nephew's allowance, 
 if not to defray altogether the expense of his 
 education ; and when Ethert distinguished himself 
 by gaining an open University scholarship, his 
 Uncle had not only written a letter of what 
 seemed — especially in a man by no means 
 studious— exaggerated praise and congratulation, 
 
86 I V Y. 
 
 but had eDclosed a cheque of pecuniary value 
 greater than that of the scholarship itself. 
 
 But from the first, Ethert, always a considerate 
 and unobtrusive guest, had observed and been 
 affected by the personal kindness and affectionate 
 regard of his Aunt more than even by his Uncle's 
 generosity. Quiet, grave, somewhat languid, and 
 not demonstrative even with her own children, 
 though almost always soft and kindly,Lady Glynne 
 had shown to her nephew a consideration, a half- 
 maternal tenderness, that won his bovish heart 
 the more from its contrast to the cold and 
 somewhat stern manner which, since her widow- 
 hood, his mother could never lay aside. Perhaps 
 the Aunt's kindness and goodwill, her anxious 
 care to render her nephew's visits as pleasant as 
 possible, were more natural than they seemed to 
 the unfriendly observation of her sister-in-law. 
 Even as a schoolboy Ethert was distinguished 
 by two peculiarities rare in bo3s, and not very 
 common now-a-days even in young men. He was 
 as by instinct punctiliously courteous to ladies, 
 and, what probably impressed Lady Glynne yet 
 more favourably, fond of children. 
 
 From their very cradles Charlie and Ivy took 
 
COUSINHOOD. 87 
 
 cordially to the only relative they knew, clung 
 about him, accompanied him everywhere within 
 the bounds to which they were necessarily 
 confined ; and as they grew older relied on his 
 protection in more distant excursions, only 
 permitted when he was with them. He never 
 seemed impatient of the trouble they gave, or 
 weary of their company ; he had helped Charlie 
 alike with his lessons and his sports, had taught 
 him to fish and to row, if not to ride. Both 
 cousins looked forward to his visits quite as 
 eagerly as himself, and were loud in their 
 complaints when his college vacations or the rarer 
 leisure of his later life were devoted to his mother 
 and Margaret rather than to themselves. With 
 an elder brother they could not have been more 
 fully at ease, and would probably have been less 
 consistently and invariably indulged. Charlie 
 looked up to and admired his elder cousin, as boys 
 are apt to look up to men who, if only in right of 
 age, excel in all the pursuits they are beginning to 
 understand and enjoy. But Ivy's quieter affection 
 was, as Ethert and her mother at least well 
 understood, a much deeper, rarer, more tenacious 
 feeling; and had lasted through infancy, 
 
88 I V y. 
 
 childhood, and girlhood, as such attachments 
 seldom can last. Educated entirely at home, and 
 even now too young for general society, Ivy had 
 been far more than most young girls secluded 
 from the habitual companionship of her youthful 
 neighbours. This seclusion was due mainly to 
 accidental circumstances, partly to her mother's 
 evident but hitherto inexplicable shrinking from 
 anything like intimate association with ladies of 
 her own rank, but partly also to her own sensitive 
 shyness. Her father had been indifferent and 
 impatient ; her mother gentle, affectionate, but 
 given to a kind of subdued irritability or suppressed 
 querulousness necessarily unintelligible to her 
 daughter, apt also to suggest by snatches of 
 half-confidential talk a curiosity which frightened 
 her back into silence and capricious repression. 
 Charlie w^as simply and thoroughly boyish, a 
 schoolboy of the rougher Rugboean type, fond of 
 his sister, but not willing to be " bothered " by her 
 claims; seldom wilfully unkind or teasing for 
 teasing's sake, but contemptuous of girlish 
 helplessness and cowardice, and prone to bully her 
 for her own good. He would have made a tom- 
 boy of a high-spirited only sister, ^vho would 
 
COUSINHOOD. 89 
 
 simply have adored him ; but he rather cowed and 
 frightened one too nervous to like rough play and 
 too soft to bear rough words. Ethert only, lonelier 
 than herself, had taken an earnest loving interest 
 in the solitary child, had found or made in her an 
 object of thought and conscious affection, a source 
 of occupation and of happiness. His baby cousin 
 was his first, and till he reached manhood, his only 
 " pet" — the only creature he was free to fondle, to 
 protect, to make happy, to take thought and 
 trouble for. Himself pensive and sensitive even 
 in boyhood, he felt far more attracted by her than 
 by her active, daring, noisy brother ; he was 
 intensely gratified by her infantine fondness, early 
 won and firmly held ; delighted in the lisping 
 syllables of tenderness linked with his name, the 
 soft clinging caresses of the tiny arms that could 
 not yet meet around his neck ; and year by year 
 the hold of each on the heart of the other had 
 grown unconsciously faster and closer. Neither 
 mother, nor nurse, nor even governess could fail 
 to observe how restless, how eager the dull quiet 
 child became, when the anticipation of Ethert's 
 holiday visit came within the narrow horizon that 
 bounds our vision of the future at eight years 
 
90 IVY. 
 
 old ; how intense and intent was her hour-long 
 watch for his arrival at the furthest point to which 
 she and Charlie might go to meet him, how much 
 happier, livelier, more intelligent, even stronger in 
 health and spirits she seemed whilst his visit lasted, 
 how silently she drooped and pined when it was 
 over. It surprised the most observant and 
 thoughtful of her teachers to see that Lad 3^ Glynne 
 rather indulged and favoured a depth and 
 exclusiveness of attachment which most mothers 
 would have done their best for the child's sake to 
 weaken. But it might have proved impossible, it 
 certainly would have been cruel to attempt roughl}^ 
 or hastily to sever that strange tie. As for 
 Ethert, Ivy was the first thing he had dearly 
 loved with that protecting love, conscious of 
 superiority, which is ever the strongest in a 
 masculine nature, so Ethert seemed to Ivy the 
 one person who really '^ cared for her ;" to whom 
 her happiness (not merely her moral and phj^sical 
 well-being) was an object of active solicitude. 
 Her mother compassionated her fears, her father 
 scolded her, her brother teased and laughed at her 
 for them ; Ethert understood, sympathised with, 
 averted them, would not let her be frightened. 
 
COUSINHOOD. 
 
 91 
 
 and had effectually deterred others from practising 
 on her nerves. Ethert she knew was never too 
 busy to attend to her, never too eager to hear her 
 call or catch her look of appeal. Her timidity 
 when mounted even on her quiet Shetland pony 
 irritated her father's impatient temper, and pro- 
 voked the ridicule of her daring brother. But 
 Ethert would always w^alk beside her, and, when 
 his patient teaching and gentle encouragement 
 had brought her to dispense with such close 
 attendance, w^as content to forego his own pleasure 
 in a ride across country, or a gallop on the road- 
 side turf, to hold her leading rein and keep the 
 pace that suited her, Ethert only was never 
 angry with her slowness of movement or of appre- 
 hension ; and yet, she thought, how good a right he 
 had ; how much cleverer was he, who could always 
 understand, was never impatient, than those who 
 evidentl}^ thought and sometimes called her a fool ! 
 Ethert could even make her school hours tolerable ; 
 if she could but bring a lesson to him before she 
 had to present it, she felt safe. He could always 
 enlighten and explain where her teachers could 
 but repeat the set explanation that only bewildered 
 her still further ; could but perplex, frighten, ^and 
 
92 I V Y. 
 
 punish. And, indeed, no one liked to deal harshly 
 with Ivv, stubborn and wilful as her fits of dulness 
 sometimes seemed, when her cousin was at hand ; 
 so touching was the child's unselfish anxiet}^ that 
 Ethert should not he pained by knowing her in 
 trouble or disgrace, so evidently earnest was the 
 man's sympathy with the passing sorrows of the 
 sensitive child. To scold Ivy in Ethert's actual 
 presence was what, somehow, none but Sir 
 Charles would wittingly have ventured. 
 
 As she grew towards those inconvenient years 
 when young men hardly know how to bear them- 
 selves toward young maidens who are neither 
 strangers nor sisters — the earliest teens, when 
 girls are not children, yet are not young ladies, no 
 longer open to the freedom of play, but incapable 
 of conversation, and not yet licensed to flirt — 
 his mother's warnings, tinged with the gTavity 
 that gave exaggerated force to her every reproof 
 or admonition, and sharpened by her instinctive 
 distrust of her brother and sister-in-law, startled 
 and disturbed Ethert. His own childhood had 
 known no girl playmate ; he had never made 
 acquaintance with the younger sisters of his 
 schoolfellows ; and so interpreting his mother's 
 
COUSINHOOD. 93 
 
 counsel as to feel that he must lose, when she 
 passed completely into the schoolroom, the sister- 
 like cousin who had been his darling since he 
 first lifted her from her cradle, he turned for 
 solace and compensation to Meta, then for the 
 first time a companion as well as an object of 
 compassionate interest. 
 
 But on his next visit to Glynnehurst the con- 
 straint and awkwardness of his first meeting 
 with Ivy at once revealed to Lady Glynne what 
 had passed. She knew as well as if she had 
 heard it what her sister-in-law had said; knew 
 what came from her, what was the work of 
 Ethert's own imagination, and was amused to 
 think that the poet and critic of five-and-twenty 
 had little more knowledge of life, little more 
 command of countenance and manner than the 
 schoolboy of fifteen. It pleased or it suited her 
 to restore the affectionate ease and intimacy of 
 old, and she had the tact, the instinctive insight 
 into character, that taught her how thoroughly 
 both cousins might be trusted without a word of 
 guidance to fulfil one safe rule of conduct — the 
 only one that could be given or obeyed without 
 awakening self-consciousness in her child's mind 
 
94 IVY. 
 
 — to act when alone exactly as they acted in her 
 presence. 
 
 Finding that his constraint only hurt and sur- 
 prised Ivy, that her welcome was as simply, 
 frankly affectionate, her manner the same sweet 
 compound of shyness and confidence as ever, and 
 reading in her mother's face no sign of coming 
 rebuke to her — bidden as freely as ever to take 
 Ivy walking, riding, or driving wherever it was 
 still seemly that she should go — "and Charlie 
 has no patience with the pony's paces, he is sure 
 to desert you " — Ethert fell back at once into 
 the pleasant ways of former years, pleasanter 
 than ever, because Ivy's mind, opening under the 
 influence of the encouragement she received from 
 him alone, disclosed charms of natural grace, 
 visions wherein maiden fancy mingled strangely 
 with childish ignorance and absolute innocence of 
 evil, that were, even to Ethert, utterly novel and 
 wholly individual. On one well remembered occa- 
 sion Charlie and Ivy had been indulged with a tour 
 among the Lakes, in part of which Ethert was 
 induced to accompany them ; and on which, almost 
 for the first time, they made the acquaintance of 
 their Aunt, whom they feared and somewhat 
 
COUSINHOOD. 1)5 
 
 avoided, and of Margaret, whom Charlie 
 patronized and Ivy adnjired, petted, and pitied. 
 Latterly the boy had been often at the Lakes, 
 nominally as Ethert's pupil. If he did not learn 
 as much as his tutor might have wished, at least 
 he never grumbled at the doom which punished 
 his school idleness by requiring him to spend a 
 considerable portion of his holidays under his 
 cousin's instruction. Perhaps his sister did not so 
 cordially approve an arrangement which not 
 only deprived her of her brother's company, but 
 rendered her cousin's visits to Glynnehurst shorter 
 and less frequent. 
 
 Their luggage preceded and announced the 
 visitors, and as they approached the house they 
 saw, on a gravelled terrace which crossed the 
 garden at some fifty yards from the entrance, a 
 few feet above the general level, two female figures, 
 both in the light dress and light straw hats that 
 suited the lingering warmth of summer. The 
 face of the elder, so far as it was visible, seemed 
 to Ethert's more discerning and observant eyes 
 somewhat sad, worn, and anxious, and her move- 
 ments were slow, as if with physical or mental 
 weariness. Much younger than his mother, and 
 
96 IVY. 
 
 unaffected by the bereavement and lifelong loneli- 
 ness the latter had endured so firmly, as free 
 fr^om the failing health of her later years. Lady 
 Glj'nne had about her far more of the languor of 
 an invalid, and if less of severe gravity, more of 
 that kind of depressed melancholy which indi- 
 cates weakness of character often er and more dis- 
 tinctly than physical suffering or actual misfor- 
 tune. By her side, when she first caught sight 
 of the young men, was another slighter, more 
 signally graceful, and more youthful figure. 
 
 The fashion of the day, which neither she nor 
 her mother had carried into its straitest ugli- 
 ness, just served to display the grace and beauty 
 of that slender, delicate, exquisitely-proportioned 
 form. Very young, and looking younger than she 
 was, almost childish, though no one but her 
 mother could have called or thought her still a 
 child, the girl's light summer dress of pure white, 
 relieved only by a broad belt of rose-coloured 
 ribbon and some admixture of the same colour 
 about the throat and arms, her simple head-gear, 
 her long, loose, dark curls, preserving the more 
 natural and far more elegant fashion of an earher 
 time, confirmed the first impression of extreme 
 
cousiNnooD. 97 
 
 youthfuliiess suggested by her form and carriage. 
 This impression was in some degree corrected on 
 closer observation by the sweet but somewhat grave 
 character of hur face, b}' a certain pallor, or rather 
 absence of colour, which was not due to lack of health, 
 but natural to her complexion, and by the ex- 
 pressiveness of the dark brown eyes when they were 
 not veiled, through shyness or timidity, by the long 
 black lashes. Faultless in every other feature — 
 the perfect, clearly-pencilled arch of the dark eye- 
 brows, the straight fine nose, the short upper-lip, 
 soft dimpled chin, and beautiful outline of the 
 face, just sufficiently oval to save it from the 
 defect of actual roundness — the only objection 
 a critic of feminine beauty could have taken to 
 her countenance was a similar lack of bright colour 
 in the soft lips, now parted with a smile to greet her 
 approaching relatives. 
 
 Charlie sprang forward eagerly to receive his 
 mother's and sister's welcome, meeting the latter 
 as she ran down the terrace steps with a w^arm 
 but somewhat hasty caress, and passing on to 
 embrace the former, and to enquire after the 
 father, forwhom Ethert's remarks had rendered him 
 anxious. Hardly delayed by her brother's greet- 
 
 YOL. I. H 
 
9S IVY. 
 
 ing, Ivy ran on to meet with equal frankness and 
 freedom — perhaps, though certainly she was not 
 aware of it, with even greater eagerness — the 
 cousin she had not seen for many months, whose 
 plaything she had been in infancy, whose 
 favourite intimate companion in earliest girlhood. 
 There had been no interruption in their acquaint- 
 ance, no such long absence at the second critical 
 period, when the schoolgirl slowly or suddenly 
 passes into the maiden grown, as might have 
 changed the feeling or the manner of either. 
 
 If Ethert's embrace were less close than 
 Charlie's had been, it was less hasty; if he kissed 
 her brow, and not her lips, that had always been 
 his habit, even when he had carried her in his 
 arms over all the rough places in the park where 
 the child might have slipped and soiled her frock 
 or torn her soft dainty palms; and Ivy's smile 
 and spoken greeting were as cordial and free 
 from self-consciousness as those she had bestowed 
 on her brother. AVhen they reached the terrace, 
 Lady Glynne, leaving her son, placed her hand 
 upon her nephew's arm, and allowed her 
 children to precede her towards the house, 
 while she turned and paced the terrace once 
 
COUSIXHOOD. 99 
 
 or twice with Ethert before she followed 
 them. 
 
 "How is my Uncle f the visitor enquired. 
 "I had not gathered that there was cause for un- 
 easiness, till something Charlie let fall just now 
 made me ftar that the attack had been more 
 serious than I was aware." 
 
 " Very serious, I am afraid," Lady Glynne 
 answered, gravely. " Not for its actual conse- 
 quences so much as the probability of its recur- 
 rence. It was distinctly paralytic in character, 
 and though Sir Charles seemed to have shaken 
 off its effects, Mr. Orme warned me that another 
 might occur almost at any time, and for several 
 weeks past your uncle's energy and strength have 
 been visibly failing. It was on his account, 
 Etbert, that I pressed you so earnestly to come 
 here, and I wish you could have given us a longer 
 visit. He is always greatly pleased by your 
 company, and this time he has been most anxious 
 to see you : I think partly on business." 
 
 " Business V^ her nephew said, somewhat sur- 
 prised ; and turning to her he observed a certain 
 embarrassment in her face, which, while it 
 enhanced his wonder, forbade him to follow up 
 
 H 2 
 
100 IVY. 
 
 the subject. " Well, of course if I can be of any 
 service to my uncle I shall be only too glad. 
 But you know, Aunt Caroline, I have now chosen 
 my career, somewhat late perhaps ; but I have 
 taken up a regular fixed work, and I am afraid 
 shall have but few opportunities of quitting it. 
 Journalism allows fewer and shorter holidays 
 than most professions, and my post will require 
 
 very close and assiduous attention." 
 *' I cannot think why you should have accepted 
 
 such a position," she answered. " It affords no 
 opening to your ambition, no chance, as I under- 
 stand, of making a name, and less even of interest- 
 ing or independent work than most newspaper 
 writers appear to find, and surely you might look 
 to something better and more hopeful ? What 
 has made you adopt a career that can hardly be 
 
 to your taste f 
 
 '* What determines the choice of most men, I 
 
 suppose, Aunt. My books did not pay, and this 
 
 will." 
 
 "But the pay must be poor, and while you are 
 
 not married money cannot be a great object to 
 
 you, Ethert. I am sure if you are in any difiSculty, 
 
 if you want money at once, it could be arranged 
 
COUSINHOOD. 101 
 
 for you, and with your own proved talent and 
 your uncle's Interest you could have done very 
 much better than this." 
 
 *' A man must earn his living, Aunt, for himself, 
 and as kind as my Uncle has always been, and as 
 you are, I should be sorry to wrong Charlie, still 
 more Ivy, of a penny that Is rightfully theirs. 
 You will find, when Charlie goes to college, he 
 will want a larger allowance than might suffice 
 young men with smaller expectations, and what- 
 ever it is, my Uncle must count on having 
 to pay it at least twice over/' 
 
 " I am sorry to hear you say so," she 
 answered gravely. *' Charlie will have to learn 
 better." 
 
 " Nay, Aunt, I never said or thought that he 
 was extravagant, considering his position. But 
 he will find every encouragement to spend, no 
 one disposed to press for payment, and will hardly 
 know what he is spending till experience has 
 forced the fact upon him. You cannot force him 
 to pinch, and it is best to give him no motive for 
 postponing payment, the most expensive of all 
 forms of extravagance." 
 
 " He must not do it," she answered, with an 
 
102 IVY. 
 
 earnestness that under the circumstances seemed 
 somewhat unreasonable. Then, as if conscious of 
 real or apparent exaggeration, she sought to 
 explain. "You know, or you may guess, Eth.ert, 
 that with his elections, his seat in Parliament, his 
 political subscriptions, and his indisposition to 
 small economies, your uncle has always spent 
 nearly his whole income. It is only of late 
 that we have saved anything, and whatever 
 we can save is due to Ivy. It will be little 
 enough." 
 
 " There will be your jointure, Aunt, of course. 
 Besides, I hope and trust my Uncle will live till 
 Charlie comes of age, and then of course a proper 
 settlement can be made on his sister. Charlie is 
 not selfish, and he will be ready enough to do her 
 justice." 
 
 '•It will not do to trust to that," she answered, 
 evidently much disturbed. " He must learn not 
 to waste money, if onl}' in justice to her. If he 
 really cares either for her or me he must prove it 
 by abstaining from waste or debts which will 
 hamper him fatally in the future. By the way," 
 she said, breaking off a subject on which she 
 seemed impelled to say more than she could 
 
COUSINHOOD. 103 
 
 explain or justify, "you know Mr. Brand — I 
 mean personally ? Of course you know him as 
 your Uncle's solicitor f 
 
 "My Uncle introduced me to him in London 
 some years ago, when I was eating my way to 
 the Bar. He was very kind, and very willing to 
 have helped me forward, hut he was less sur- 
 prised, or less willing to express his surprise, 
 than I expected when I gave up the idea of be- 
 coming a lawyer in earnest." 
 
 " Well, you will meet him here to-morrow ; 
 he is our only other guest at present. Strangers 
 worry and fatigue your Uncle too much." 
 
 Ethert did not see Sir Charles Glynne till the 
 party assembled in the drawing-room before 
 dinner, and was then struck by the manifest 
 change that had come over the old man since 
 they last met, a change which to him appeared 
 fully to justify Lady Glynne's apprehensions. The 
 baronet listened with less attention and cheerful- 
 ness than usual to Charley's chatter, and seemed 
 needlessly impatient of little errors or delays, of 
 which indeed there were few, Lady Glynne's 
 household management being as good and strict 
 as her gentle and rather languid temper per- 
 
104 I V Y. 
 
 mitted. She, and still more her daughter, 
 were, thought Ethert, more than usually 
 timid and silent. Ivy had always been most shy 
 and reserved in her father's presence, not under- 
 standing perhaps, at any rate afraid of him ; and 
 now, on any little contretemps in conversation or 
 otherwise, however trivial, she looked towards 
 him almost furtively with a frightened glance, as 
 if she expected to be scolded herself, or to hear 
 such an outbreak as, though directed against 
 another, might disturb her comfort or her 
 mother's. 
 
 "I am sorry," said Sir Charles, when the ladies 
 left them, "that Charlie has taken to smoking 
 already, in spite of all I could say. I would not 
 listen to advice on the subject, and I suppose he 
 is right, or it serves me right that he disregards 
 my warning. But no lad can begin that vice 
 be fore he is one-and-twenty without having cause 
 to repent it. However, it is as well that polite- 
 ness will not deprive you of your cigar, as I can- 
 not enjoy it in your company ; will you smoke in 
 his den or on the terrace, as I know you wdll 
 not take an^^ more wine ?" 
 
 " My cigar is not a pressing necessity as with 
 
COUSINHOOD. 105 
 
 some men, Uncle; I can put it off indefinitely if 
 my company would be agreeable to you." 
 
 '' Thank you, Ethert," said the baronet, with 
 more of real cordiality in his tone than was usual 
 even when his kindness to his nephew had been 
 most sul)stantial, "but T am sleepy now after 
 dinner, and what talk I want with you may wait 
 till to-morrow. Cannot you stay a while longer 
 with us r 
 
 " Impossible, I am sorry to say. I have made 
 my engagement, and am bound to take up my 
 work on Monday evening." 
 
 *'Ay, I remember; Ethert, it was a stupid 
 thing for you to do." 
 
 " I don't think so. Uncle." 
 
 " Well, well, we won't discuss it now. Charlie, 
 take this key ; get out some of my regalias ; but 
 mind, don't smoke more than one yourself, they'll 
 do you nothing but harm. Mind, Ethert," as his 
 son left the room shrugging his shoulders, " the 
 reason I gave Charlie is the real one. I have ten 
 times as many of those old regalias as I shall 
 ever smoke now, and if you don't smoke them 
 here I shall send half of them to your London 
 address." 
 
106 IVY. 
 
 His Uncle had been commonly less given to 
 small courtesies and kindnesses of this kind, in- 
 volving personal thoiightfulness, than to more 
 serious favours ; and there was something in the 
 old man's manner, as well as in the words which, 
 lightl}^ as they were spoken, implied a conscious 
 abandonment of many of life's pleasures and 
 interests, that touched one who, if he could not 
 greatly respect his relative's character, was sin- 
 cerely grateful for goodwill shown and kindness 
 rendered to himself. 
 
 " What do you think of the governor ?" said 
 Charlie, as they reached the terrace. 
 
 '*I think," answered Ethert, reluctantly, " more 
 and more what I told you. You had better not 
 go up to Oxford yet, if you can possibly help 
 it.^' 
 
 "Do you think sof said Charlie, seriously 
 disturbed. " I hope not, but Mamma looks very 
 grave indeed, and even Ivy is frightened about 
 something ; I wish I knew what. ^^ hy, I 
 declare, there she is I and she has put on her hat 
 and scarf. She meant to catch us here — or you, 
 Ethert. I fancy she'll talk to you more than to 
 me. She thinks me giddy ; perhaps I am when 
 
COUSINHCOD. 107 
 
 there's nothing special to sober me. I think I 
 will leave yon presently — not just yet, or she will 
 feel that she has driven me away. Well, Ivy, 
 do yon want a cigarette? Or if you will go for 
 it in earnest, ask Ethert for one of the governor's 
 regalias. He wouldn't allow me a second." 
 
 Ivy had smiled with natural brightness and 
 liveliness at her brother's first saucy word ; the 
 reference to her father clouded her sweet face at 
 once. 
 
 " I am afraid Papa has ceased to enjoy them. 
 It is not only that Mr. Orme objects — he doesn't 
 seem to care. The doctor said one after breakfast 
 and dinner would not hurt him, but I go into the 
 library twice a day to seal and direct his letters — 
 Mamma has given that up to me — and I gene- 
 rally see the cigar lying beside him half smoked 
 or not lighted. Ethert, you are not putting down 
 yours ? You know if you do that it is sending 
 me away." 
 
 " I did not remember, Ivy. The truth is, I 
 never learned to smoke in a lady's presence, 
 except yours.'' 
 
 *'What!" she answered, smiling, "not in 
 Meta's? I cannot imagine that any one would 
 
108 ITY. 
 
 venture to think of a cigar in Aunt Floras 
 presence. But surel}^ in youv long walks and 
 sails with Meta you are not so punctilious?" 
 
 *' Yes, lie is, though, Ivy," answered her 
 brother ; " unless it be affected to keep me in 
 order. I never saw him take out his pipe when 
 she was by, and I have seen him put it 
 out half a dozen times when sbe joined us." 
 
 "Really?" enquired Ivy, much amused. 
 " Ether t, are you reaUy more polite to her than 
 to me f ' 
 
 " If it is a point of politeness," he answered, 
 again laying his cigar on the low wall of the 
 terrace, ''I must postpone the indulgence 
 now." 
 
 " Nonsense, Ethert," she answered, half- 
 eagerly, half- laughing, taking up the regalia 
 herself, and forcing it between his lips with 
 perfect sisterly playfulness, " only I wonder that 
 you should so flatter — shall I say Meta or 
 myself?" 
 
 " Whichever you please, my little cousin ! 
 The difference is simply this. You have been, 
 since you were a baby, almost my sister, and Meta 
 is nothing of the kind." 
 
COUSINHOOD. 
 
 109 
 
 " No ?" she said ; " what then f 
 
 "That I cannot tell you, Ivy; but so much or 
 so little that I think it best to err on the side of 
 treating her too little, perhaps, as a child. Mind, 
 she has no brother to teach her to expect men to 
 smoke in her presence, as you have." 
 
 " Charlie," she answered, laughing, " gave me 
 to understand that I must endure his cigar or 
 dispense with his company." 
 
 " It is too bad, Ivy, to tell tales out of school in 
 this way. But you always did so. How many 
 times did you make Ethert thrash me for bullying 
 you ? Now I don't mean to be bullied any more, 
 certainly not out of my cigar. I shall go where I 
 may smoke in peace." 
 
 She let him depart without even a playful 
 remonstrance. As soon as he was out of hearing, 
 she turned gravely and earnestly to her cousin, 
 pressing, to demand his attention, the arm on 
 which she had placed her slender, ungloved 
 fingers. 
 
 " Ethert, can you not tell me what is the 
 matter here ? Even Mamma will not trust me ; 
 she forgets that I am no child now. But you will; 
 you will tell me what it is f 
 
110 IV r. 
 
 " Surely you know, Ivy ? Yon must have seen 
 so much as to know more than I had guessed till 
 I saw your mother this afternoon. Your father's 
 illness was a serious one ; the attack may return, 
 and might be " he paused, but Ivy had under- 
 stood him full3\ 
 
 "I know," she said, ''and that is bad enough. 
 But I have realised that for some time now. That 
 is not all, Ethert. There is some mystery, some 
 trouble besides, something I think that depends 
 upon chat, which I don't understand. ]\Iamma 
 seems so troubled and anxious, and has let fall 
 words as if that meant some terrible change 
 beyond, to herself and me, perhaps to Charlie. 
 What can it mean f 
 
 " I dun't know, ma petite. I don't think it can 
 mean much, beyond what you know. My Aunt 
 does not fully appreciate Charlie, and no doubt he 
 is very young, and perhaps a little heedless, to be 
 the head of a family, the owner of so great a 
 property. But she is safe, and even if no proper 
 provision has yet been made for you, I think 
 you will agree with me that Charlie may be 
 trusted to do you justice." 
 
 "Of course," she answered, half-indignantly. 
 
COUSINHOOD. Ill 
 
 " But Mamma would know that. There must be 
 something more." 
 
 *'I think not. I don't see what there can be. 
 M}^ Uncle has been more explicit with me than 
 most men would be under the circumstances, and 
 I know he can hardly be embarrassed. Your 
 mother is naturally nervous and verj^ anxious, 
 and no doubt her fears for your father have made 
 her more susceptible just now." 
 
 " Tlien, Ethert, do talk to her and set her mind 
 at rest. I cannot. She has never spoken to me 
 at all about business or about family concerns ; 
 but do tell her that there is nothing to fear, if you 
 know it is so ; and if it is for me she is fretting, 
 tell her I am sure Cliarlie will be just to me, but 
 if he were not, I should be far more hurt by the 
 unkindness than by any injury he could do me. 
 And do — can you not? — make her renjeniber that 
 I am old enough to be trusted, to be a comfort to 
 her if she would only trust me." 
 
 " I am sure you would, dear child, the greatest 
 comfort; and depend upon it in real trouble she 
 will turn to you and find it so. But while it is 
 only fearing what can neither be hc-lped nor 
 delayed, what may or may not come, I daresay 
 
112 IVY. 
 
 she feels loth to talk about it even to 
 you." 
 
 " I don't know," Ivy replied, sadly. " You will 
 see, Ethert. I am so glad you are here; but 
 I cannot help thinking there is something more. 
 You see I am not clever — not as clever even as 
 your little Meta. I read and like your books 
 because they are yours, and now and then T find 
 something in them that reminds me of you, 
 of things you have said and done ; and par- 
 ticularly when you write of children, it reminds 
 me of the days we have spent together, of all 
 your kindness to Charlie and me, and still more 
 perhaps of her ; but I cannot understand or 
 follow your thoughts as she does. I am so 
 dull." 
 
 " But you are good and sensible, my dear Ivy ; 
 and even were you not so much older than Meta, 
 you have a temper, a consideracion for others, a 
 gentleness and a quiet good sense of your own, 
 which after all do more for women, and especially 
 do more to make you a comfort to others in 
 trouble, than any talent can do." 
 
 " Do you really think so t Or do you say it to 
 please me, to console me f Her eyes brightened, 
 
COUSINHOOD. 113 
 
 her cheek flushed a little, and a slight change of 
 tone and bearing showed how much she was com- 
 forted and gratified by her cousin's praise, even if 
 she were not quite confident in its sincerity. 
 " You see, Ethert, when I read your books I 
 always think : ' His ladies are so clever ; even 
 his young girls are as clever as men. How 
 stupid, how dull a companion he must think 
 me !' " 
 
 " I never found you so, ma petite,*^ he answered, 
 amused and touched at once. " You are a severe 
 critic, dear child. Only one or two of my critics 
 in print have hit on the blot that seems so 
 palpable to you." 
 
 "Ethert, you know 1 did not mean that; I 
 could not pretend to find fault, and it would be 
 very impertinent if I did. But I do so wish I 
 had been clever, could understand all those clever 
 things I read in books or hear Papa's friends talk 
 with him." 
 
 " It is not cleverness, dear, that you want. The 
 men you think of are concerned with things you 
 do not happen to know anything about. But in 
 their way they are no cleverer, though they are 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
114 IVY. 
 
 Ministers or Members of Parliament, than those 
 you might meet every day here or in London, and 
 would understand perfectly because they would 
 speak on subjects you happened to com- 
 prehend." 
 
 " You are very kind, Ethert, but it won't do. 
 Ever since I saw Meta and heard her talk to 
 you, I have understood what a difference there is 
 between us. She is three years at least younger 
 than I, but she is ten years quicker and better 
 read.'' 
 
 "Perhaps that is because I have chosen her 
 books, and she has had less of amusement and 
 interest from other sources than you." 
 
 " I wish, then, you would find me books that 1 
 I can understand ; that would tell me about the 
 things you say I do not know. Will you 
 
 not r 
 
 " I don't think I should care to make a female 
 politician of you, dear child. I like yoU far too 
 well as you are, my little cousin, to change you 
 in any way." 
 
 Touched by the half-tearful eyes, the wistful 
 expression of her countenance, he stooped and 
 kissed her forehead. 
 
COUSINHOOD. 115 
 
 " Now, ma petite, I had better take you in. I 
 have finished my cigar; and your mother will 
 think me inattentive to her, as well as forgetful of 
 you, if I keep you out longer in the night air, and 
 with this heavy dew falling." 
 
 I 2 
 
116 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE FIRST ALARM. 
 
 THE proposed conversation between Sir diaries 
 and his nephew w^as again postponed next 
 morning. Mr. Brand had arrived late the night 
 before and spent the greater part of the daj' with 
 his client, insisting on the necessit}^ of his return 
 to town that evening. 
 
 " Ethert," said his Aunt, after breakfast, " I 
 know you don't care much for riding across 
 country ; I am sure I don't wonder ; but Charlie 
 will go out to-day, and he has got his father to let 
 him ride that fiery chestnut I wish you were 
 going with him, unless you can persuade him to 
 leave Prince Pupert in the stable." 
 
 " He won't do that, Aunt. But of course I will 
 go out if it will be any relief to you. Not that I 
 should be of use. Charlie is a far better rider 
 than myself, and knows it." 
 
THE FIRST ALARM. 117 
 
 As, booted and spurred for riding, Ethert passed 
 through tlie garden, he was intercepted by Ivy. 
 
 " Are you going to ride f she said, " Will you 
 not take me with you? Mamma wants me to 
 call on the Vavasours; and I am so afraid of 
 them, I put it off till you would go with me. 
 Mamma contrives to excuse herself very much 
 from going out now ; it is hard on me, and Charlie 
 is no help, or very little. He has nothing to say, 
 and he is as much afraid of Miss Vavasour as 
 I am." 
 
 " I am very sorry, dearest, hut I promised your 
 mother to go out with Charlie, to see whether he 
 breaks his neck or Prince Rupert's back ; not that 
 I could prevent him from doing either." 
 
 " Then I shall see nothing of you," she said. 
 "I did think we might have one ride or walk 
 together, if you really must go on Monday." 
 
 " Will it not do," he asked, looking into her face 
 and touched as well as flattered by its expression 
 of affectionate disappointment, "if I engage to 
 take you to Church to-morrow ? We can walk if 
 it is fine, and coming back— well, I suppose we 
 may be allowed to make a round-about return 
 through the fields f 
 
118 IVY. 
 
 " Allowed ? I suppose so !" she answered. 
 " What do you mean ? But you always avoid 
 Church, Ethert, I know — unless you think that 
 self-sacrifice must always be meritorious." 
 
 " I am afraid," he replied, laughing, " I could 
 not plead any such excuse. An hour's walk with 
 you will make up for two of Dr. Whymper's 
 droning. Since you and Miss Vavasour took the 
 choir in hand, it don't set one's teeth on edge 
 quite as it used to do." 
 
 The ride was prolonged, so that the two young 
 men did not return till late, though no accident 
 occurred to justif}^ Lad}^ Glynne's anxiety. 
 Ethert, however, noticed how hard his cousin's 
 steed pulled, how uncontrollably he was wont to 
 rush at his fences, and spoke a word or two of 
 serious warning, which had as much effect as such 
 counsels from their elders commonly have on 
 spirited lads of Charlie's age. As they came in, 
 Mr. Brand the solicitor was about to start. 
 
 " Mr. Ethert," he said, " I am glad to have 
 
 caught you. Can you spare an hour to walk 
 down with me to the station ? I have time to 
 walk if you will give me your company." 
 
 " With pleasure," said Ethert, very insincerely ; 
 
THE FIRST ALARM. IIU 
 
 for, besides that he was tired, he would decidedly 
 have preferred the company of his auut and cousin 
 to that of the kindly and well-meaning but not 
 very interesting lawyer. Something, however, in 
 the tone and manner of the latter, and the half- 
 conscious anxiety inspired by Ivy's questionings 
 and his Aunt's peculiar observations, made him feel 
 that the request was not one to be refused. Yet at 
 first it seemed as if the lawyer had nothing 
 important to sa}^, or did not know how to begin. 
 He had entered on more than one topic and 
 dropped it somewhat awkwardly, before a political 
 observation afforded him an opportunity of 
 asking ; — 
 
 '* 1 suppose a seat in Parliament is the height 
 
 of your present ambition, though it might be only 
 a step to a much higher one V 
 
 "I dream of such a thing, but hardly as a 
 practical possibility, for some day twenty years 
 hence or more, when I may have made a name 
 and Parliament may no longer require a 
 fortune." 
 
 " It would cost you very little to get in for 
 Stapleton, if your Uncle should withdraw or resign 
 the seat, as he soon must." 
 
120 IVY. 
 
 " Perhaps not. Sir Charles's influence is very 
 great there, I know ; but I have no reason to 
 think that he would exert it in my favour. And 
 if he did, Mr. Brand, you are surely aware that I 
 could not afford the other expenses of the costliest 
 of all luxuries— political ambition ; nor have I 
 time to work as a man must work who means to 
 get on in Parliament. For years at least he 
 should do nothing else, and I have my bread to 
 earn." 
 
 " I don't know that you need," remarked the 
 other. " If anything happened to Charles, you 
 are of course your Uncle's heir." 
 
 '' Heir to the title, not the estates. For which 
 reason, if for no other, I sincerely hope Charlie 
 will survive me." 
 
 " Your Uncle," observed the lawyer, " would be 
 glad, I fancy, to do something for you ; and at 
 any rate there is one course which might reconcile 
 all interests and avoid all difficulties, while fully 
 gratifying your ambition. Why don't you marry 
 your cousin ?" 
 
 This was not the first occasion on which Ethert 
 had observed Mr. Brand's peculiar method of 
 introducing a startling idea. What must amaze 
 
THE FIRST ALARM. 121 
 
 and might offend he would state with such 
 absolute abruptness, such nonchalant coolness, 
 that the hearer was too utterly astounded to 
 express either surprise or anger, and generally 
 committed himself by an effort to imitate the 
 other's matter-of-course tone and premeditated 
 indifference. But Ethert was too completely 
 confounded to speak at aU until a silence, lasting 
 full two minutes, had given him leisure to realise 
 first the audacious impertinence of the advice, 
 and next the certainty that such impertinence 
 had not been idly ventured. 
 
 '^ There are several reasons," he said, when he 
 found voice to answer, "but one is sufficient. I 
 don't wish Sir Charles to kick me down 
 stairs, or my Aunt to forbid my further inter- 
 course with a cousin I greatly respect and 
 esteem." 
 
 " And who would make you a very good wife," 
 said the other, as coolly as before. 
 
 " A wife whom any man might be proud to 
 win. But, while I would never marry money 
 to be accused of marrying for money, I should 
 presume that my cousin could as little afford to 
 accept a penniless suitor as I to marry a lady 
 
122 I V Y. 
 
 brought up as she has been ; or indeed to marry 
 at all." 
 
 " No other, perhaps ; but for bis nephew and 
 possible heir tbere are things Sir Charles 
 might be able to arrange, which it would be 
 difficult, if not impossible, to do for a stranger." 
 
 " Mr. Brand," said Ethert, stopping and look- 
 ing his companion full in the face, " if you were 
 not my Uncle's solicitor I should treat your 
 suggestion as a simple impertinence. Being his 
 solicitor, if I did not know something of your 
 relations with him, I should think it even worse. 
 I must suppose you think you have a right so 
 to speak. I decline to believe that you are 
 really warranted in such a suggestion." 
 
 "Ask Sir Charles for his daughter's hand," 
 replied the lawyer, coolly, "and if no arrange- 
 ment that will render your marriage possible 
 and convenient, even in your eyes, be proposed 
 to you, come and see me. Otherwise, as you 
 must be aware, I can say no more." 
 
 " I have no wish to hear any more ; except 
 that I am fond of my cousin, and should be 
 sorry to think that she was likely to meet with 
 less than justice from her father or brother, as 
 
THE FIRST ALARM. 123 
 
 her mother seemed to fear. For the rest, neither 
 ambition, nor fortune, nor even regard for her 
 would induce me to he guilty of the presumption 
 3''ou suggest." 
 
 Mr. Brand made no rejoinder, and presently 
 turned the conversation ; nor was another word 
 said on the subject before the}^ parted. 
 
 After dinner Sir Charles invited his nephew 
 to smoke a cigar in his own study. Taking one 
 himself, but laying it aside after a few whiffs, 
 he said: — 
 
 " I hope, Ethert, you will find reason to 
 give up the strange fancy you have adopted. 
 Journalism is not a profession that pays well 
 either in honour or in money ; and I had rather, 
 if it pinched me, give you out of my own pocket 
 what you expect to earn till we can find you 
 something better in both respects. But if that 
 won't do, this at least you cannot refuse to 
 accept, for it would be a convenience to both. 
 I cannot at present give up my chambers in 
 Victoria Street, and shall not want them again 
 till spring, if ever — which is not likely. They 
 are larger of course than you want. Lady 
 Glynne has stayed there with me, and even 
 
124 IVY. 
 
 Ivy — of course it was a crush to get her in. 
 But I must keep them up, and I must pay the 
 wages and board of Edwards and his wife. He 
 is a good valet and she a capital cook, and you 
 can live there rent free at no greater cost than 
 in lodgings. I don't want them left empty so 
 long ; it would really suit me best that you 
 should occupy them." 
 
 It was evident that the old man was thoroughly 
 in earnest, and Ethert felt it would be ungracious 
 to refuse an offer so kindly intended and one 
 that imposed no serious obligation. He accepted 
 it therefore with simple courteous thanks, and 
 this acceptance seemed to encourage Sir Charles 
 and loosen his somewhat fettered tongue or em- 
 barrassed mind. 
 
 " You are ambitious, Ethert," he said, after 
 a while ; " and you have, I think, the brains, 
 certainly the industry, to get on in any career. 
 L should like to see you adopt that which would 
 give you the highest field and the best rewards. 
 I should have applied for the Chiltern Hundreds 
 three months ago but for two reasons ; first on 
 party grounds, next that I have thought how 
 the vacancy might be filled. I can never sit 
 
THE FIRST ALARM. 125 
 
 again. "Would it suit you to come forward in 
 our interest for Stapleton ? It shall cost you 
 nothing." 
 
 Despite the recent conversation with the 
 solicitor, Ethert was a second time taken by 
 surprise. The offer was the most tempting that 
 could have been made to him. An eager 
 politician, by temperament an orator rather than 
 a wTiter — the distinction between the poet and 
 the orator is often little more than an accident 
 of early training — ambitious, self-confident, he 
 had seen enough of ParHamentary life from the 
 Gallery to excite, not sober, his imagination. 
 It was in the last degree imprudent to accept ; 
 and yet, unmarried, unencumbered, unpledged — 
 why should he not! If he failed, he could 
 surely secure, as the price of retirement, a 
 position better than he could earn in any other 
 way. Such were his first thoughts; then, the 
 suggestion which the lawyer had coupled with 
 this recurring to his mind, he fell back at once 
 into the mental attitude of a fencer on guard, 
 and replied with a cold reserve whose motive 
 his uncle could hardly misconceive, if he had 
 any idea what had passed that afternoon : 
 
126 IVY. 
 
 "My professional work will fill my hands, 
 and though a seat in Parliament would be in- 
 tensely gratifying to my ambition, I cannot pos- 
 sibly afford it." 
 
 Sir Charles hesitated more and more as 
 he seemed to approach a subject yet more 
 important, but much more difficult even to hint 
 at, clearly not accepting as yet his nephew's 
 refusal. 
 
 " Ethert, it is useless to conceal and unmanly 
 to avoid plain facts. I know, and you cannot but 
 guess, that I shall not last much longer. None 
 of our house are long-lived — many die young, 
 and if anything happen to Charlie you inherit the 
 title, which from your point of view would be 
 simply a burden." 
 
 " A terrible burden, uncle, and one which I 
 sincerely hope may never fall upon me. I trust 
 you will wear it longer than you think, and if 
 Prince Rupert does not break his neck, Charlie 
 has every chance of outliving me by ten or 
 twenty years. God send he may !" 
 
 "Charlie is not wise, and is younger even than 
 his years. I cannot but wish to see all things 
 settled whilst I live— the future of all provided 
 
THE FIRST ALARM. 127 
 
 for, yourself as well as your cousins ; for, 
 Ethert, I think you can believe I do like you ?" 
 
 " You have been as kind to me as a father," 
 said Ether t, much moved, and not very careful 
 to keep the expression of his genuine gratitude 
 and affection within the exact limits of accuracy. 
 " I can take care of myself, Uncle ; and for Ivy, 
 I trust that Charlie will do full justice to her, if 
 you have not been able to do so." 
 
 " There lies my worst anxiety," the old baronet 
 answered, looking with troubled eyes for a 
 moment into his nephew's face, and then letting 
 his glance sink again. " She is not clever, 
 Ethert, but she is good and kind, and will make 
 a good wife to any man who has sense and kind- 
 liness to take good care of her. I would rather 
 see her married to one who had talent and cha- 
 racter, if he had nothing else, than to a man of 
 even higher fortune and station than my own, 
 and above all I would rather see her safely 
 married while I live than leave her to the chance 
 of the most brilliant fortune afterwards." 
 
 " If you think fit," said Ethert, parrying the 
 thrust he felt to be intended, " to make me one 
 of her guardians, you may be very sure I will do 
 
128 I V Y. 
 
 my part by Ivy as loyally and anxiously as I 
 would by a sister of my own." 
 
 " Ethert, I cannot provide for you both — sepa- 
 rately — and you know it is by no means im- 
 likely that the title should come to you ; the 
 estates are entailed.'' 
 
 He paused, and Ethert still resolutely avoiding 
 all recognition of the hint, pointed as it had 
 been, and speaking only of his own future as 
 sufficiently assured, his uncle sighed and let the 
 subject drop. 
 
 "I told you," said Lady Glynne, after her 
 nephew had returned to town. "I told you, 
 Charles, that you were taking the wrong line. 
 Tell Ethert the truth, tell him that Ivy's only 
 chance of safety and honour is in marrying him, 
 and liking for her and gratitude to you, and what 
 young men call chivalry, may very probably 
 induce him to — to consent. Put to him what he 
 must regard as a proposal to marry for money— 
 what he must see will appear to everyone else 
 as well as to himself in that light — and he cannot 
 for very shame.'' 
 
 ''■ Do you really think, Caroline, that all that is 
 anything more than talk ? Some men want a 
 
THE FIRST ALARM. 129 
 
 more decent pretext than others for making a 
 prudent and selfish marriage, and I gave him 
 excuse enough. But tell him that it is not his 
 interest, that the estates as well as the title are 
 really his — what should he marry Ivy for, who 
 may have his choice, if he cares to marry 
 at all, among the rank and beauty of London 
 society f 
 
 "You don't understand him, Charles. You 
 have failed, and Brand tells you his hint, which 
 seems to have been plain enough, was even indig- 
 nantly rejected. Eemember, the secret will be 
 kept only whilst you Kve ; when it comes out it 
 will be too late. Tell Ethert, put it to him as 
 the only means to save the family from scandal, 
 and Ivy and myself from disgrace, and— very 
 likely he may refuse, he has a right to do so — 
 but that is the only chance." 
 
 "Bah!" said Sir Charles, "I don't at all 
 despair of his proposing to Ivy the next time he 
 sees her." 
 
 " I wish you had seen what I have," his wife 
 replied, sadly and earnestly. "When he came 
 here he greeted her as he had always done — too 
 much like a brother, of course, but kindly and 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
130 IVY. 
 
 affectionately ; and Ivy brightened, was happier, 
 more lively than she had been since your illaess. 
 He was as fond of her company, as frank in 
 showing his affection and kindness for her as 
 before, till after he had talked with Brand and 
 you. I thought there was something cold and 
 constrained in the way he wished her good night 
 that evening, but it might be fancy. Next morn- 
 ing she reminded him that he had promised to 
 take her to Church. He tried to get out of it, 
 and when he saw that it hurt her he first tried to 
 persuade me to go, and afterwards fairly bullied 
 Charlie into it. He was determined that day not 
 to be again alone with her. That evening his 
 manner had evidently saddened and perplexed 
 her; she cares more for him than she knows. 
 Our plan would be no sacrifice to her. But she 
 rallied after dinner, when he evidently made an 
 effort to talk to her naturally and as usual in the 
 drawing-room, till he gave her her candle and 
 bade her good night in the same careful, metisured 
 manner, as if he dared not be natural ; and when 
 next morning lie parted from her again without 
 offering to kiss her— I don't think such a thing had 
 happened since she was born — she, knowing they 
 
THE FIRST ALARM. 131 
 
 would not meet again for months, was so hurt, 
 wondering what she could have done to displease 
 him — I am sure he saw it, and if he had not 
 made up his mind to avoid her, not felt that you 
 had put a fatal constramt between them, he could 
 not have done it. Well, you have had your way 
 this time. Wait, if you will, and see what 
 follows ; but if another and a last chance is 
 given us, remember that you have failed, and try 
 my plan. It can do no harm then ; for remember, 
 Charles, the secret cannot and will not be kept 
 when once his right becomes practical and 
 present. You have been fairly warned of that. 
 I cannot say that Brand is wrong ; it would be 
 making himself a party to a fraud, and if Brand 
 did not betray it you know who certainly 
 would." 
 
 " Not he," said her husband, hard as he was 
 evidently avoiding to look in her face, into 
 which a painful flush had come as she spoke the 
 last words. " It is not bis interest, and malicious 
 as he is he cares more for money than for 
 malice." 
 
 K 2 
 
132 
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES. 
 
 I WAS surprised and well pleased to receive, in 
 an envelope bearing the stamp of the Courier, 
 a thoroughly legible letter ; and I suppose that 
 most of my colleagues blessed the fortune which 
 had obliged or induced Lestrange to, as Leaf said, 
 " set up a private secretary who had learnt to write, 
 and was not journalist enough to have unlearnt 
 the art.'' The formal commencement, suited to 
 Glynne's position, and aptly fitted to the variety 
 of topics he had to treat on Lestrange's behalf, 
 had evidently been well considered : — 
 
 *'I am instructed to ask your attention to 
 several matters of more or less importance. Will 
 you be good enough to make a point of attending 
 our meetings on Friday afternoon ? Please con- 
 sider whether ' Christian Effeminacy ' had not 
 
BEHIND THE SCENES. 133 
 
 better be given to Yere. Would it not be best 
 answered by a tborongh believer? Except during 
 a Presidential election, the American correspond- 
 ence and articles should be kept within some three 
 columns per. week at most. Can you take up the 
 Copyright debate? It begins on Tuesday next, 
 and will probably be adjourned. Government 
 will be asked to give a day. If they consent it 
 will be on Monday or Thursday of the next week 
 — next Thursday is engaged. Lestrange agrees 
 with you that as a rule it is absurd to make a 
 point of reviewing important books before you 
 have time to read them ; but for the first year of 
 the Courier s new existence begs you to prefer 
 promptitude to thoroughness. Please hint to our 
 New York correspondent that he is too strong a 
 Southern partisan, now the Civil War is forgotten 
 here. Can you explain in a half-column leader 
 the whole history of the Yirginia debt?" and so 
 on, and so on. 
 
 " Yours truly, 
 
 " Ethert Glynne." 
 
 At three on the next Friday afternoon I joined 
 for the first time the informal assemblage of the 
 
134 IVY. 
 
 leading members of Lestrange's staff. We 
 gathered in a sort of common room, bare enough 
 of other furniture than bookshelves, table, writing 
 and a few lounging chairs, spittoons, cigar boxes, 
 pipes, and so forth. The older among us for the 
 most part refused other beverage than coffee at 
 that hour. One or two veterans wbo bad by force 
 of original constitutional strength outlived scores 
 of their colleagues of similar habits, and some of 
 our younger friends, prided themselves a little on 
 an '^ athletic " preference for ale or brandy and 
 soda. " Among these I was glad for bis sake to 
 observe w^as not Glynne, who sat next to the head 
 of the table, immediately on the left of our chief. 
 The latter lounged, or perhaps it would be more 
 just to say reclined, in an easy chair, his appear- 
 ance more than confirming my apprehensions for 
 his health. Of quite average height, he was, I 
 should think, the lightest weight of the party ; 
 wasted almost to a skeleton, with thin long white 
 hands and face almost equally pale, rendering the 
 contrast of his dark eager e3^es, except when 
 weariness or indifference dimmed their fire, very 
 striking and almost startling. His long loose 
 hair was not actually white, but much more than 
 
BEHIND THE SCENES. 135 
 
 grey, and his long beard was almost equally 
 divided between streaks of black and silver. His 
 restrained impatience, the difficulty with which he 
 refrained from interrupting or hurrying a slow 
 speaker or cutting short an irrelevant or inappro- 
 priate argument, were marked by a certain quiver- 
 ing of the under-lip, and now and then an almost 
 irritable beating of his right hand on the table. 
 As a colleague and equal be had been too prone 
 to hasty interruption, especially when he thought 
 himself imperfectly comprehended, or was irritated 
 by the slow expression of viev/s he could him- 
 self have summed up in half a sentence. He 
 recognised as a chief the imperative necessity of 
 self-control ; not merely out of courtesy, but because 
 he fully appreciated the importance of eliciting 
 full and free discussion and unbiassed criticism. 
 
 Next hira on the right sat Leaf, by far the 
 best informed, coollest, most reliable among u s 
 seldom or never wrong on a point of fact, never 
 ungrammatical or incorrect, but apt to be brief 
 and bald in utterance, especially on paper : the 
 only journalist I ever knew who felt a difficulty 
 in expanding his thoughts to the full space of 
 the prescribed column. 
 
136 IVY. 
 
 Opposite him, next to Glj^nne, sat Everett, in 
 charge of the Indian and Colonial Department, 
 a large, tall, powerful, and rather heavy-looking 
 man; quiet and a little slow in speech; some- 
 what impetuous as a writer. Half his life had 
 been spent out of England, and his knowledge, 
 though geographically limited, was practical and 
 varied within the range of his experience beyond 
 that of most adventurers in journalism. 
 
 Beside him was a man much younger, and 
 looking younger than he was : a soldier by 
 education, a war-correspondent of no mean 
 distinction for several years ; to whom Lestrange 
 looked for accurate information and effective 
 criticism on military and naval administration ; 
 somewhat too partial, perhaps, to inventors, 
 certainly too bitter and arrogant in his criticism 
 on the action of responsible commanders in the 
 field and at home ; but possessing one rare merit, 
 that his criticisms were not governed by popular 
 clamour or practical results. He could do as 
 full justice to a soldier who had failed in an 
 impossible task as to one who had succeeded 
 brilliantly in a feat more easy than it appeared. 
 The wing-like continuation of his moustache — 
 
BEHIND THE SCENES. 137 
 
 the one martial affectation in his attire or ap- 
 pearance — constantly caught and teased my eye, 
 especially when a draught of air blew the wide, 
 thin stream of hair backwards and forwards, and 
 presented an effect at which I found it difficult 
 not actually to smile. 
 
 At the further end of the table, besides some 
 junior personages, whose duties answered to those 
 of the general-utility performer on the stage, 
 were two gentlemen w^ho filled posts of extreme 
 if not always fully-acknowledged importance. 
 The chief of our reporting staff had for thirty 
 years written the best Parliamentary summary 
 in London, and knew% perhaps, as much of the 
 rules and practice of Parhament as Mr. Speaker 
 himself. He had supplied sense and grammar 
 to a whole generation of self-esteemed states- 
 men and would-be orators, but had for himself 
 little to say, and generally said that little ill. 
 
 Next him sat the experienced, careful, silent, 
 somewhat irritable sub-editor — wiry, enduring 
 strength the most notable characteristic of his 
 physique ; who played on the newspaper the 
 same part which the Financial Secretary of the 
 Treasury plays in the Commons ; who must 
 
138 IVY. ^ 
 
 come early and stay till the very last, must fill 
 up and fit in everything, do everything that was 
 nobody else's especial duty, and everything 
 that those whose duty it was might have failed 
 in or forgotten; who got less credit, less notice 
 than any of his co-operators, save from our 
 chief, but on whom, next to our chief, more 
 depended than on anyone. He was wont to say 
 that " a newspaper killed an editor every twelve 
 years, a sub-editor every six," and that he himself 
 had survived three successions of those who 
 filled similar posts in London journalism. 
 
 Glynne was remarkable onl}^ as the most 
 thoroughly gentlemanlike in manner and ap- 
 pearance of the whole stafi", the one man whom 
 no journalist would have picked out as an 
 aristocrat, no man of the world as belonging to 
 a profession in which affectations and eccen- 
 tricities have a traditional licence. Certainly the 
 best dressed of the party except the soldier, he 
 was the one man whose dress could b}^ no 
 possibility attract notice. When we were all 
 assembled, Lestrange first lighted his own huge 
 cheroot as a sort of invitation to us, and passed 
 the boxes around the table. 
 
BEHIND THE SCENES. 139 
 
 " This," he said, " is the first time we have all 
 met, and I may perhaps as well repeat what I 
 said at our first meeting. The organisation of 
 the Courier is Cleveland's, not mine ; hut the' 
 plan is one in which T heartily agree. In giving 
 each department into a single hand, in leaving 
 to each principal the charge, not merely of 
 leaders on his own subject, but of all the 
 correspondence and information that bear upon 
 it, we have made a complete innovation on 
 newspaper practice. It is for us so to co-operate 
 that innovation may for once be improvement. 
 It is not less but more necessary that the chief 
 of such a cabinet should be not a constitutional 
 prime minister, but a despotic sovereign. I 
 assume I shall be wrong in half my decisions, 
 but that doesn't matter. Somebody must decide ; 
 and on a newspaper it is a trifle to be wrong, 
 it is fatal to be slow or irresolute. One great 
 difficulty in all cases is to keep writers who have 
 all minds and views of their own from contra- 
 dicting one another more or less directly ; to 
 adhere to a common policy, a common set of 
 ideaS' — the ideas not of individuals, nor even 
 of the Editor, but of the newspaper. 
 
140 IVY. 
 
 "For example, Everett must bear in mind ttiat 
 our course in regard to Colonial marriage legisla- 
 tion must be governed, not by Colonial, but by 
 English considerations. This question has to be 
 treated next week, and I think it may be well 
 to hear other opinions on it than my own. I 
 don't see how a Conservative journal can do 
 otherwise than defend the existing law ; but that 
 law may be defended on two entirel}^ different 
 grounds, and we must choose ours. Are we to 
 affirm that marriages of affinity are un-Christian, 
 and should therefore be forbidden in a Christian 
 land ; or, avoiding to assume either that the 
 country is Christian or the marriages are not, to 
 rest simply on social necessity and the certainty 
 that one infraction of the principle must speedily 
 sweep away affinity altogether?" 
 
 Leaf, that ver}^ raraavis in modern journalism, 
 a man thoroughly orthodox in divinity, not 
 merely for want of thought, but as the 
 result of thought, spoke a few earnest, 
 almost indignant, sentences in support of the 
 former view. Everett denounced the practical 
 injustice of interference with personal liberty on 
 merely theoretical grounds; and then our chief 
 
BEHIND THE SCENES. 141 
 
 called upon myself, probably as the strongest 
 supporter of the strictest doctrine for the laxest 
 reasons, 
 
 " I see," said I, " no direct reasons why a 
 widower should not marry his sister-in-law. I 
 think it an intolerable evil that a wife should 
 look on lier sister as her possible successor. The 
 advocates of change argue as if we had only 
 to consider the widower's case, and this 
 proves them thoroughly disingenuous. For one 
 family in which the aunt is a desirable step- 
 mother there are twenty in which the brother-in- 
 law is the best or the onl}^ guardian. For the sake 
 of a hundred second marriages, you would make 
 ten thousand first marriages uncomfortable, 
 deprive a thousand young girls of their only 
 home, and soil the whole idea of English family 
 life. The iuipossibility of marriage is the safe- 
 guard of domestic affection : it extinguishes desire. 
 Except among the savages who haunt the 
 moral outskirts of civilization, forbidden unions 
 are the rarest of all crimes." 
 
 ''Ay," said Lestrange. *' But ^A^sg marriages 
 are just frequent enough to take from the sister- 
 in-law both social and moral security." 
 
142 IVY. 
 
 " A poor reason," I retorted, " for altering the 
 law to suit and reward the law-breakers who 
 have deprived us of its benefits. And that is 
 not all. Infringe the principle of affinity at one 
 point, and it must be swept away altogether. At 
 present most men regard a sister-in-law — all men, 
 I suppose, except Lord Granville, a step-daughter 
 or a wife's niece — precisely as a sister, child, or 
 niece of their own. What a revolution in 
 domestic life, wdiat an inroad on social intercourse 
 and social morality, if the wife's relations are 
 henceforth to be strangers to the husband^ and 
 his to her ! For the sake of home comfort and 
 social peace and purity, religion altogether apart, 
 I would resist to the death the first step to 
 such a change. And if the present law be in- 
 effective to secure its end, strengthen instead of 
 destroying it — punish forbidden marriages like 
 other crimes." 
 
 After some further debate Lestrange summed 
 up. 
 
 " We must take }'our line, I think," he said to 
 me ; " and you had best take it yourself. Only 
 w rite from your brain, not from your heart, not as 
 if every opponent were a Republican, an anti- 
 
BKHIND THE SCENES. 143 
 
 vivisectionist, or a teetotaller. And now for a 
 subject of more general and, except for you, 
 
 more exciting interest. What of the General 
 
 * 
 
 Election evidently at hand ? It won't do to say 
 that we shall be beaten. Now-a-days nothing- 
 succeeds like success ; the Democracy have not, 
 as the upper and middle classes always had, 
 loyalty and pluck to light a losing battle; they 
 desert by thousands, to the luckier colours." 
 
 If I remember rightly, every second person present 
 expressed an opinion of his own entirely different 
 from that of every One else ; and held to it with 
 an obstinacy the more remarkable that none of us 
 could give a tangible reason, drawn from real 
 valuable knowledge of any society outside of 
 London and its suburbs. Lestrange turned to 
 his secretary, who had remained silent. 
 *' And what do you think, Gflynne?" 
 "I know nothing," Glynne answered. "But I 
 have not been in London for some years, and it 
 seems to me that you all take London for England. 
 London thought may be, and probably is sounder 
 than that of any provincial society ; certainly less 
 prejudiced, less narrow, formed on wider know- 
 ledge, far larger and more general opportunities of 
 
144 IVY. 
 
 intercourse with men of all views and characters. 
 But it is the provinces, not London, that decide a 
 general election ; and in the north, speaking as a 
 "Westmoreland man not wholly unacquainted with 
 Lancashire, I think we shall lose heavily. But 
 this is only an impression, derived I don't know 
 how in the absence of anything like personal 
 experience, and may be worth nothing." 
 
 '' I think," said Lestrange, " it is worth more 
 than any of ours, for the one reason you give ; 
 and unhappily Cleveland agrees with you. The 
 probability is ahvaj^s against us, because we are 
 right and the majority is generally wrong. I 
 should think ill of my political creed if it were 
 that of the multitude. Moreover, I can never 
 take our present Prime Minister seriously.'* 
 
 "His enemies don't agree with you," said 
 Leaf. 
 
 " I suppose not, or they would not be so rabid. 
 I don't like to imitate their arrogance. There is 
 something almost too contemptible for anger, 
 almost too irritating for contempt, in the sublime 
 conceit of third-rate magazine-writers, who set 
 down * the Duke's ' dislike of reform to ' blind 
 prejudice,' and second-rate professors who habitu- 
 
BEHIND THE SCENES. 145 
 
 ally speak of the universities, that is of the elite 
 of English intellect, as * always wrong,' because 
 scholars and thinkers presume to differ from 
 Beesleys and Dilkes. It is still more offensive, if 
 not quite so silly, to talk of a constituency * dis- 
 gracing itself by daring to prefer a Tory gentle- 
 man to a brawling demagogue. But I shall not 
 be surprised if in this case the constituencies do 
 in some sense disgrace themselves. It will not 
 be honourable to England if we are beaten.'' 
 
 " And why V asked Ethert. 
 
 " Because, if it be so, this will be the first great 
 contest in English history since the Revolution 
 which has been carried simply by hard lying. I 
 suppose I must not say so in print f 
 
 " I should think not," said Leaf, the only one 
 among us who felt suflSciently on equal terms 
 with our chief to exercise that kind of friendly 
 control of which all knew, and none better than 
 himself, that Lestrange sometimes stood in need. 
 
 " No, I suppose not. But this I will do. I will 
 show that their leaders have made such charges, 
 used such language as should exclude either 
 themselves or those they assail from the society 
 of gentlemen." 
 
 VOL. I. li 
 
146 IVY. 
 
 '' What do yon mean," asked Everett, " by 
 saying that you cannot take the Prime Minister 
 seriously f 
 
 " Well, is he not a practical joke ? Does not 
 Vivian Grey feel himself a living sarcasm, an 
 incarnate piece of irony? — he who believes in 
 nothing except the superiority of the Semite races, 
 who had ridiculed Conservatism at large and 
 everything Conservatives most cherish except the 
 monarchy — the chief of the Conservative party, 
 the representative of EngKsh Imperial pride and 
 national self-will ; he, the cosmopolitan by birth 
 and temper, the exponent of the most John 
 Bullish phase of John Bull feeling! Is he ever 
 in earnest when he addressses himself directly to 
 Parliament or to the public? For my part, I 
 believe that his politics are a fiction, and that his 
 fictions represent all that is real in his politics, 
 and that is but skin deep." 
 
 " I think," said Leaf, somewhat indignantly, 
 " he is a sounder and better man than his 
 rival." 
 
 ' " I agree with you ; the one is a hypocrite, the 
 other only a humbug. Well, I must write the 
 election articles myself; but. Leaf, will you be 
 
BEHIND THE SCENES. 147 
 
 good enough to look tliem over ? They should 
 not embody one man's views or reflect one man's 
 temper." . 
 
 Another council of the same kind held a 
 few weeks later was disturbed in a manner 
 which left its impression on the mind of more 
 than one among us. Lestrange had forbidden 
 interruption, except on very grave occasion, 
 during these councils, and we were k little sur- 
 prised when the office-messenger entered, saying 
 that Mr. Glynne's presence was urgently re- 
 quested by a Mr. Brand. He did not return till 
 we were on the point of breaking up; then 
 entered somewhat hastily, with a face in which 
 surprise, distress, and even horror were pain- 
 fully manifest, and handed to his chief an open 
 telegram. 
 
 " I am very sorry to hear it," said Lestrange, 
 with a sympathy so earnest as, to those who 
 knew him, to imply either a very serious and 
 startling misfortune, or a liking for his young 
 assistant such as he had seldom shown for old 
 and steady friends. " Well, there is no help l?lr 
 it; of course you must go." 
 
 " I need not go yet. Mr. Brand, my uncle's 
 
 L 2 
 
148 IVY. 
 
 solicitor, is going down at once ; but I must be 
 tliere for the funeral, and probably the day before, 
 and I am afraid I shall have some difficulty in 
 getting back^at once. How long can you spare me?" 
 *' I will spare you as long as you think it 
 right to stay. I can trust you, Glynne, not to 
 imder-estimate the binding character of profes- 
 sional obligations like yours. Stay while you 
 are more wanted there than here; only let me 
 know as soon as you can exactly what I am to 
 expect. Will not this," he continued, when they 
 were left alone together, " deprive me altogether 
 of your services'? Of course it must greatly 
 change your position ?" 
 
 "Not at all, so far as I know," Ethert 
 answered, "except for the worse. The estates 
 are entailed on Sir Charles's daughter, now his 
 only surviving child. I am afraid the shock to 
 my uncle will prove even more serious than this 
 telegram suggests, and in that case I shall be 
 burdened with a baronetcy without the slightest 
 means of supporting it. Please don't let any- 
 thing get out ; if so, I shall drop the title as 
 absolutely as my acquaintances and my enemies 
 will permit. I am terribly distressed about this 
 
BEHIND THE SCENES. 149 
 
 in every way,'* he went on, after a short pause, 
 speaking with manifest emotion. " Charlie was 
 a capital fellow. I have known him well from 
 his infancy, and I cannot help feeling as if I 
 were to blame for this. He was accustomed to 
 set some store by my advice, though less in the 
 field than anywhere else. His mother begged me 
 to warn him against the horse, and I ought no 
 doubt to have said more than I liked to say ; but 
 I thought him so sure to disregard advice on 
 that point that I did not care to press it." 
 
 " Of course not," Lestrange answered. " Don't, 
 for your own sake and the sake of your future use- 
 fulness, yield to this kind of superstitious self- 
 reproach. It is of no use to say you did your 
 best, because when the consequence turns out 
 ill one always doubts if it was one's best. But if 
 you felt content with yourself then, never recon- 
 sider the counsel after the event. If you do, you 
 learn either to shirk responsibility, or to advise for 
 safety, not for truth ; and inability to take responsi- 
 bility boldly and firmly is perhaps the worst of 
 those feminine faults which impair the strength 
 and usefulness of manhood, since hardly any man 
 is so humbly placed but that he may have to 
 
150 IVY. 
 
 decide questions irretrievably affecting the happi- 
 ness of other hves." 
 
 " I don't know. Perhaps, though I might have 
 made him more obstinate at the moment, the 
 recollection of my advice might have turned the 
 scale." 
 
 "It might of course, or it might have done 
 exactly the reverse. You did what you thought 
 best, and if it has turned out ill you cannot help 
 that. Well, we had better drop the subject, and 
 keep to our work till 3^ou have to go. Of course 
 if this, or the funeral and all its distressing 
 incidents, have unnerved or should unnerve you, T 
 don't want you to take up your work again till you 
 feel fit for it. But, as a rule, I think the sooner 
 one can return to regular occupation — even after 
 the gravest of those domestic calamities that 
 make an actual void in our daily life — the 
 better." 
 
151 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER Vlir. 
 
 THE SKELETON. 
 
 N the evening after his cousin's mangled form 
 
 had been consigned to the family vault, 
 Ethert paced thoughtfully and sadly a path more 
 remote from the house than the Eastern terrace, 
 on which he and his lost relative had so often 
 walked together. His loss was the loss of a well- 
 loved companion, but one too young to be an 
 Intimate personal friend. It affected him keenly, 
 but rather through pity for the life so bright, so 
 promising, so early closed, and as it seemed to 
 him so recklessly and uselessly sacrificed, through 
 compassion and sympathy for those whose own 
 lives must at any rate for years to come be more 
 or less saddened and overshadowed thereby, than 
 through a sense of personal bereavement. The 
 calamity, though from every other point of view 
 grave indeed, was one of those which, according 
 
1 52 IV Y. 
 
 to Lestrange's practical distinction, would not 
 create a void in his daily life — would not take 
 from him anything that he must hourly miss, 
 would not be recalled to his mind by daily inci- 
 dents or omissions. It concerned his personal 
 welfare chiefly as it threatened him at no distant 
 date with the burden of a barren and most un- 
 welcome honour. Whatever property inde- 
 pendent of the entailed estates might have been 
 designed for Ivy would have been doubtless trans- 
 ferred to himself, but that his uncle's present 
 state would hardly justify, even did it legally 
 permit, any alteration in testamentary or other 
 dispositions already made. At any rate he could 
 not consent to accept any change in his own 
 favour made, as it would inevitably seem, under 
 his own influence, however just in itself to a 
 nephew and the heir of the title, however cor- 
 dially it might have been approved by Ivy and 
 her mother as well as 'by the world. Still less 
 could he allow the heiress hereafter to carry out 
 any views, however clearly evidenced, which she 
 might suppose her father to have entertained in 
 his behoof. From such reflections he soon re- 
 verted to softer memories and deeper musings ; 
 
THE SKELETON. 153 
 
 absorbed in which, he was almost violently 
 startled by a light step immediately behind him, 
 and turned abruptly as soft fingers gently and 
 even timidly touched his ai-m. Ivy was in deep 
 mourning, her face pale with sleeplessness and 
 sorrow, her eyes swollen with frequent tears ; but 
 there was more than sorrow, more than the sense 
 of dependence which, sorrow and especially be- 
 reavement, so deepens and quickens in soft and 
 clinging feminine natures — there was something of 
 direct, anxious, though shy and almost unconscious 
 appeal for comfort and sympathy — in the look 
 turned upward to his countenance. 
 
 " You came here to be alone, Ethert, did you 
 not ? Forgive me for troubling you ; I will not 
 stay long." 
 
 " What can you mean, Ivy ? You cannot sup- 
 pose me selfish enough to have come here out of 
 your w^ay, if I had thought I could give you the 
 slightest help or comfort? I fancied both you 
 and my aunt would prefer to be troubled with no 
 other company ; and I have seen my uncle just 
 now, and found that the effort to talk in his 
 present state is too much for him. Indeed, the 
 doctor forbade him to attempt it this afternoon, 
 
154 IVY. 
 
 anxious as he seemed to say something he could 
 hardly make intelligible." 
 
 " May he not feel, Ethert, that he must speak 
 and has little time ? ... It is not one loss only. 
 I shall have no one left in the world but 
 Mamma — and you — if we are anything to you 
 still." 
 
 Ethert could not maintain, could hardly re- 
 member at that moment the guarded coldness of 
 manner which the hints of Mr. Brand and Sir 
 Charles had caused him to assume, partly in con- 
 scious precaution, partly perhaps in unconscious 
 irritation. Ivy at least was perfectly innocent of 
 a proposal which would have revolted her femi- 
 nine modesty as much as it had offended his 
 pride and self-respect ; and doubtless aU ideas 
 of that kind, if not set at rest b}^ his peremptory 
 refusal, had been dispelled by her changed posi- 
 tion. Now she was safe and wealthy, and could 
 look for a far better match than a cousin who 
 could offer her nothing but the family title. 
 
 " My aunt has been as kind to me as a mother. 
 You, Ivy, have been as a favourite sister from 
 the first days I carried you, almost before you 
 could walk, through these gardens. Except my 
 
THE SKELETON. 155 
 
 mother and Meta, do you think anything in this 
 world can ever be half as much to me as you 
 are?" 
 
 " Then, Ethert, what did I do when you were 
 last here? for certainly something had changed 
 you, had made you displeased, or more than dis- 
 pleased, with me. I thought till then, if I did 
 offend you, you would tell me, scold me if you 
 chose ; you know I should have listened, and been 
 only anxious to amend whatever had annoyed 
 you." 
 
 Ethert's heart smote him ; natural and neces- 
 sary as it had seemed at the time to disregard 
 the pain that his changed manner might give to 
 one whose affection, perfectly childlike and sis- 
 terly as he believed it, he had dearly prized and 
 warmly returned. 
 
 '* Don't reproach me with that now, Ivy ; I 
 should like to say that you were altogether mis- 
 taken, but you would not believe me. Certainly 
 you had done nothing to offend, nor did I mean 
 to seem unkind or angry ; but I cannot explain, 
 dear. Try to forgive and forget. Is there any- 
 thing I can do for you now ? " 
 
 " Do ? Only be kind to me, treat me as you had 
 
156 IVY. 
 
 always done till then. Yes — ^just one thing. 
 Ethert, do stay a little while with us. I know 
 Mamma wants you very much, though I cannot 
 fully understand why. She has not liked to say 
 so just yet ; hut when something was said ahout 
 your going to-morrow or the next day in my 
 father's hearing, he was so excited and vexed, he 
 tried so hard to speak and protest, I am sure you 
 would not have thought of going if you had seen 
 how much it disturbed him." 
 
 " You know, dear child, that I am much wanted 
 in London. My employer is an invalid and 
 greatly dependent on my help. Without me his 
 work is almost too much for him, and I am the 
 more bound to remember this because he has been 
 so kind in offering to release me. But I will stay 
 so long as there seems any real occasion ; so long 
 as you or my aunt do not feel you can spare me." 
 
 '• Mamma would not like to spare you for a 
 long time if she could help it. But you will see, 
 Ethert. I am sure Papa has something to say to 
 you if he can manage to speak. At any rate you 
 will not go to-morrow ? For my sake," she 
 added, seeing that he hesitated to give a positive 
 promise. 
 
THE SKELETON. 157 
 
 " No, I will not, Ivy ; if it be only you that 
 feel as if you needed me. Your loss, dear, is a 
 very heavy one ; what it must be to my aunt and 
 uncle neither you nor I could bear to think, even 
 if we could realise it." 
 
 " To mamma, yes," Ivy answered. *' Charlie 
 was always her favourite, though something lately 
 seemed to trouble her and make her anxious, I 
 thought almost unreasonable with him. But 
 perhaps she knew better than I. But I did not 
 think it would have crushed Papa so utterly. I 
 suppose it was only his manner — that he really 
 loved us much as she. But — do you know, 
 Ethert, I could have thought he cared more for 
 you than for either of us ? He never showed 
 so much feeling, or talked quite to us as he did to 
 you." 
 
 "You forget, dear, that he looked on you as 
 children — that he had grown to treat me more as 
 a friend, and in some things almost as an adviser. 
 I was sure this blow would be terrible to him, 
 and — I think, Ivy, you are prepared " 
 
 ** I hope so," she answered, ver}^ gravely, but 
 with more perhaps of anxiety and of solemnity 
 than of the bitter grief and fear of an affectionate 
 
158 IVY. 
 
 child, apprehendiDg in the midst of a present 
 bereavement the probable speedy loss of a beloved 
 parent. " I am afraid, very much afraid, for 
 Mamma. She expects it, but I do not know how 
 she is to bear it." 
 
 "She has expected it longer than you have, 
 and it will not come to her as the sudden, 
 fearful shock that this has been." 
 
 He had drawn her hand within his arm ; and. 
 her fear of intrusion forgotten, sensible only of 
 the comfort derived from his affection and sym- 
 pathy, Ivy had remained with her cousin for 
 more than an hour, lapsing gradually into talk of 
 past memories in which the lost one had filled 
 a kindly and pleasant part, when a servant 
 approached them. 
 
 " Mr. Glynne," he said — and Ethert almost 
 started at the name, formally given to him in 
 that house for the first time — *' my lady has asked 
 for you. She wishes, when you are at liberty, to 
 see you in her boudoir." 
 
 "I will come at once,'' he answered. "Ivy, 
 will you go with me ?" 
 
 " I think not," she answered. " I think 
 Mamma will want to see you alone. I know 
 
THE SKELETON. 159 
 
 ever since — after the first day, she spoke of you 
 and was anxious for your conaing ; half-afraid at 
 first that you would not be able to get away, and 
 
 then, I thought, fretting that you could not come 
 
 « 
 
 sooner. Remeniber what I told you : I am sure 
 there was something when you were here last 
 besides Papa's illness, and there is something now 
 that I do not understand." 
 
 The reminder was unfortunate, recalling to 
 Ethert the strange proposition that had followed 
 on Ivy's former expressions of apprehension ; that 
 he had, though till now unconsciously, connected 
 therewith. He made no reply, and few words 
 were exchanged before they re-entered the house ; 
 but even in these Ivy felt or fancied a return 
 of the coolness that had so pained her 
 before. 
 
 Lady Glynne seemed to have no little 
 difficulty in addressing her nephew ; and yet it 
 was not that she could not command her voice or 
 her feelings on the subject that might be sup- 
 posed entirely to exclude all others from her 
 thoughts. On the contrary, the few sentences 
 interchanged on this topic were on her part almost 
 absently spoken, as if uttered in a sort of routine 
 
160 IVY. 
 
 preparation for something that really weighed 
 upon her mind, to which she was anxious yet 
 feared to come at once. 
 
 *' Ethert," she said at last, abruptly, " when 
 you were here last something passed between 
 you and your uncle, perhaps with Mr. Brand 
 also, about — about family arrangements?" 
 
 " Yes," he replied, reluctantly, as she paused 
 for his answer, and would not be satisfied with 
 silent acquiescence. " But surely, Aunt, there 
 can be no need to revert to that now ? If you 
 heard what passed, you know that what my 
 uncle meant in exaggerated kindness to me would 
 not have suited my pride or my Independence, 
 even had it been less certain to be j^et more 
 repugnant to another." 
 
 "You are mistaken there," she said hastily. 
 " Ivy likes — I mean. Ivy would have obeyed her 
 father's wishes and mine with no painful feeling. 
 Of course she has not thought of such a thing ; 
 it has not been put into her head ; but I know 
 her and you well enough to wish that you could 
 have thought differently." 
 
 " At any rate. Aunt," said Ethert, not a little 
 surprised and somewhat annoyed by her persistent 
 
THE SKELETON. 161 
 
 reference to such a topic at a time so unsuitable, 
 " the situation is now entirely changed, and there 
 can be no occasion to return to a subject which 
 was painful at the time; and wbich I could not 
 bear to discuss with you. Only, you will not 
 think that I do not appreciate Ivy, that I do 
 not dearly love my cousin, because I — I — — " 
 
 ** Ethert, you know now that the title must be 
 yours — may be yours within a few weeks, or even 
 days. Are you still of the same mind ? Do you 
 not feel that the arrangement your uncle then 
 desired has become yet more desirable now f 
 
 " It is of course," he answered, " a great mis- 
 fortune to me; but that cannot be helped. I 
 may think it hard that the title should have been 
 entailed without any means of supporting it ; 
 but I have always known the state of the entail ; 
 my uncle was always frank about that, kindly 
 intending, I think, to spare me the disappoint- 
 ment of unfounded expectations.^' 
 
 " You know,'' she said, hastily, " the entail was 
 not your uncle's work. He was almost an infent 
 when Sir Herbert made that disposition. We 
 think as you do. Need you scruple, need you 
 think it beneath you to accept an arrangement 
 
 VOL. L M 
 
162 IVY. 
 
 which would oiil}^ give you what we all feel to be 
 your right ?*' 
 
 " You go too far, Aunt. I don't complain ; and 
 in no case could I dream of redressing an unjust 
 settlement by an interested marriage. Now please 
 drop the subject." 
 
 " I cannot, Ethert," she answered, more em- 
 barrassed and pained than ever, but persisting, 
 to bis infinite astonishment, despite a refusal so 
 peremptory that but for the studied softening 
 of his tone and his manifest reluctance to offend 
 it must have been almost insulting. " I thought 
 then, as I see now, that Sir Charles had put the 
 question to you in the wrong way and in the 
 wrong light. I told him you would never accept 
 a wife for the sake of her fortune — that 3^our 
 heart was only to be reached through your 
 sympathy and feeling for others. Ethert, you 
 have always been a good nephew to me; you 
 have seemed fond both of Ivy and of^iim. You 
 would make, I think, a sacrifice of pride and of 
 feeling, much more a sacrifice of interest if that 
 were needed, for the honour of the family name : 
 to save me from disgrace and Ivy from a terrible 
 calamity." 
 
THE SKELETON. 163 
 
 *' My dear Aunt, I should be only too glad to 
 make any return in my power for your kindness 
 and my uncle's ; and Ivy is as dear to me as I 
 think a sister of my own well could be. For no 
 kindness of yours am I so grateful as for the 
 confidence that entrusted her to me as to an 
 elder brother ; and all you could ask of a brother 
 it would be my delight to do for her. Unfor- 
 tunately, I don't see how she can need more 
 than that friendly guardianship which any 
 titular head of a family must give as of course 
 to its daughter." 
 
 " No, you do not see, Ethert, and I must tell 
 you. Do not look at me" — the daylight was 
 growing very dim, but Ethert had noticed, though 
 without surprise, that his aunt had not rung for 
 the lamp, or. even asked him to light the candles 
 that stood upon the mantelpiece. It was natural, 
 he thought, that in sorrow so deep and so recent 
 the dim light should be more congenial to her. 
 But her present words gave a new meaning to 
 this natural preference — " Do not look at me : I 
 cannot bear it while I have to tell "such a 
 story." 
 
 " Need you tell me anything, Aunt ? Be sure 
 
 :\i 2 
 
164 ivy. 
 
 I will do all 1 can for you : I have no wish to 
 know any secret it is painful to you to tell. Can 
 you not trust me without explanation f 
 
 " No, Ethert, you can help me only by doing 
 what you will not do unless you recognise its 
 absolute necessity. And — and, besides, you must 
 be. told. You think you refused to — to make 
 what you call a mercenary marriage. It would 
 not be so, Ethert. If— on Sir Charles's death— 
 the estates wiU pass to you, not to Ivy." 
 
 "Aunt, you must be, you are mistaken! I 
 know the terms of the entail, and my uncle him- 
 self explained to me how Charlie could, on 
 coming of age, cut it off and resettle it. I know 
 you are mistaken. The estates are entailed 
 on Sir Charles's children, not only on his 
 sons." 
 
 " The}'' would not have passed to Charlie ! 
 And, Ethert, that is not all. There is no pro- 
 vision worth the name for Ivy, or even for me. 
 Can you not understand, without my explaining, 
 how that can be ?" 
 
 "Aunt— no; only — I could not insult you by 
 thinking of the only possible case." 
 
 " But it is so," she said, her voice failing, her 
 
THE SKELETON. 165 
 
 face half-averted, so that he could hardly hear 
 her words distinctly. "Do you remember any- 
 thing of your uncle's first marriage f 
 
 "It was before I was born, you know; and 
 she died abroad soon after my father's marriage. 
 I think they had never lived in England. No, I 
 may say I know nothing about it except the 
 date, and some little of her family history, or 
 rather of its absence.^' 
 
 "Do yon know,' she said, "that her father 
 died insane f 
 
 " No, I did not know it. But how is that to 
 the point f 
 
 " You say, Ethert, that she died abroad before 
 your birth. You are mistaken— she is living 
 
 yet." 
 
 Ethert was utterly struck dumb — astounded. 
 Forgetful for a moment of his aunt's injunction, 
 he could only turn and look earnestly at her, 
 doubting whether he heard aright the low, 
 broken, brief sentence it took so long to utter ; 
 or whether her reason had not been upset. He 
 could speak no word of reply and ask no 
 question. The silence had lasted for two or 
 three minutes before she, could continue; and 
 
166 IVY. 
 
 by that time he had realized that the story must 
 be true, though without understanding how it 
 could be so. 
 
 "Nothing was known of her — and it suited 
 Sir Charles to publish everywhere that she was 
 dead. She was always violent, passionately 
 unreasonable, and made him very uncomfortable 
 and wretched. At last, while they were in a 
 remote part of Austria, her insanity became 
 absolutely certain and incurable. She was put 
 under restraint — became worse and worse — and 
 has remained in confinement ever since — abso- 
 lutely devoid of reason — and remembering little 
 or nothing of the past. Of course I did not 
 know this when — but it is true I suspected 
 something — knew — or guessed — or understood 
 that there were painful and awkward circum- 
 stances in your uncle's history — that he did not 
 care to publish at first the fact of his marriage 
 with me — did not choose to marry in England. 
 It was not till after both your cousins were 
 born that I learnt the truths And then of course 
 I ought to have left him — of course it was a 
 crime — but — how could I publish my own shame 
 and my children's ?" 
 
THE SKELETON. 167 
 
 She had spoken with a strong persistent effort, 
 in broken sentences, uttered at considerable 
 intervals. The story had thus come out in frag- 
 ments, not in coherent and connected words ; and 
 for that reason perhaps each isolated fact had 
 made a deeper, more distinct impression upon 
 the hearer's mind. 
 
 "You see, then," she said, "that my boj^'s 
 death has saved him from much trouble, it may 
 
 be from It is in your hands, Ethert, that 
 
 it may spare Ivy — yes, it is of Ivy I think more 
 than of myself— indelible disgrace. How Sir 
 Charles thought that the secret could be kept, 
 if you married while your cousin lived, I can 
 hardly understand. Probably he thought you 
 might come to terms. But now — Ethert, Mr. 
 Brand knows, and one other man ; but I think 
 that is all, and ... it is in your power. Of course 
 the estates are yours, and will remain yours if 
 you marry her. I ask no settlement for her, 
 nothing for myself, but what you may be pleased 
 to give. Of course my jointure is forfeited, or 
 rather was never more than waste paper, since 
 the marriage was void. But in this way, and 
 in this way alone, the secret can be kept." 
 
168 IVY. 
 
 *'No, not in that way alone," Etliert replied 
 at last. " I must take time to think ; but it is 
 open to me to preserve the secret by doing as 
 evidently Sir Charles hoped I should do but for 
 this last misfortune ; to leave things as they are 
 and say nothing." 
 
 " Ethert," she answered, " you do not suppose 
 I have not thought of that ? I do not think you 
 would make up your mind to so extreme and 
 unreasonable a sacrifice ; nor if you did, and Ivy 
 knew it, would she or could she accept it. You 
 will see on reflection, you will find if you talk 
 to Mr. Brand, that that is impracticable. You 
 do not think that that possibility has been 
 absent from my mind? I have discussed the 
 subject with your uncle and with Mr. Brand 
 in every point of view long ago — before tliis 
 happened ; and I have seen, as Mr. Brand did, 
 that you could not simply and in secret give 
 what is yours, or any part of it, to 3'our cousin. 
 The truth must come out, unless — now — it be 
 concealed in that one way. If after all it did 
 come out years hence, when she is your wife, 
 when I may be at rest and safe from the censures 
 of this world, it would be less disastrous, it 
 
THE SKELETON. 169 
 
 would not greatly injure her then ; and for me — 
 it would not matter. But do not deceive your- 
 self, Ethert ; understand clearly what it is you 
 have to decide. You can save me from infamy, 
 Ivy from indelible disgrace and from utter 
 worldly ruin, only in this one way. If you 
 decline that, yoa take the estates with the title ; 
 and Ivy is known at once as an illegitimate 
 
 child, and her mother as . Ethert, can you 
 
 bear to brand me and Ivy with that intolerable, 
 unutterable dishonour? Canyon bear to let the 
 world give us for your sake, to vindicate your 
 right, the name I cannot bear to speak — that 
 you — I believe, I am sure, Ethert, could not 
 yourself endure to utter, or even to hear ?" 
 
 "Do you think," he answered, in a faltering 
 tone, after a few moments' pause, wondering at 
 the resolute sternness with which his aunt, gene- 
 rally weak and somewhat soft, easily moved to 
 weep, restrained her feehngs as she stated her 
 case— with passionate earnestness, indeed, but 
 without a sign of tears, and with scarcely a sob 
 in her voice, " can you think, Aunt, that I honour 
 you the less because you were deceived, or Ivy for 
 what may have been her father's sin— though I 
 
no IVY. 
 
 do not presume to judge him, considering his 
 temptation, the terrible misfortune of his early 
 life — but certainly was no fault of hers or of her 
 mother's ? You must give me time, Aunt ; time 
 to think, and to see whether my uncle and Mr. 
 Brand view this matter as you do ; whether the 
 simple and straightforward way of dealing with 
 it be not still practicable." 
 
 " Ethert, you cannot have long to consider. 
 Your uncle is dying; that he knows, and the 
 doctor knows ; and he is eager beyond all things 
 to see this matter settled, to know what Ivy's fate 
 is to be, to see it assured before he dies. You 
 must give him your answer when you see him 
 next, or you will kill him. And it is only while 
 he lives that such an arrangement can be carried 
 out" 
 
 " Aunt !" 
 
 "Mind, Ethert, this is his thought, not mine. 
 I would be content with your word once given, 
 but he will urge by all the kindness he has ever 
 shown you, by all your feeling for the family 
 honour and for ours, that all should be settled, 
 done at once, and while he lives. Afterwards 
 there would be difficulty — it would be too late." 
 
THE SKELETON. 171 
 
 Ethert made no other answer than to rise, bend 
 over his aunt where she sat with averted counte- 
 nance, and taking her hand in his, to press an 
 earnest kiss upon her forehead. 
 
 "I will see you again before we sleep," he 
 said , " I think I can give you my answer then. 
 Now I will see Mr. Brand ; afterwards, perhaps, 
 my uncle. — Aunt, what about Ivy 1 You say she 
 knows nothing either of her misfortune, of that I 
 am sure, or of your — of her father's wish. Till I 
 have decided, you will not give her a hint of 
 either V 
 
 She bent her head, giving the promise re- 
 quired by gesture, though not in words. 
 
 " If — if things are settled otherwise, you will 
 not tell her that you have made such a sug- 
 gestion, or that I — objected to it? You will not let 
 her know that such a thought has ever occurred 
 to us, and it will never occur to her. If — but of 
 what is to be done in that case, which I hope 
 and believe will not arise, we need not speak 
 now." 
 
172 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A CRUEL DILEMMA. 
 
 WHEN Ivy knew that her cousin had been 
 closeted for some two hours with Mr 
 Brand, she had expected him to come at once, or 
 almost at once to herself. He knew her state of 
 mind, was probably now acquainted with the 
 truth, and she hoped from his sympathy" and con- 
 sideration for herself prompt relief for her 
 anxiet}-. He would surely be eager to set her at 
 rest respecting the mystery which weighed all 
 the more heavily on her spirits that she was 
 utterly unable to conjecture its character. That 
 some terrible trouble pressed upon her mother's 
 mind, that something affecting deeply the future 
 fate of both was there and then to be decided, 
 Lady Glynne's manner and her few words had 
 rendered painfully apparent during the time that 
 
A CRUEL DILEMMA. 173 
 
 elapsed before, unable to endure the effort of 
 self-control, much more unable to keep up indif- 
 ferent conversation even with her daughter, she 
 shut herself up in her own room. Left thus 
 alone, Ivy was all the more harassed by distress- 
 ing anxiety as well as by sorrowful remembrances; 
 anxiety far less for herself than for her mother. 
 It surprised and pained her that, after his long 
 interview with the lawyer, her cousin's step, 
 pausing for a moment at the door of the drawing- 
 room where she sat, passed on. 
 
 " He must know that I am here, that if Mamma 
 is not with me I am alone. If he thought she 
 were here surely he would come, and if he knows 
 I am alone he might care to comfort me ; would, 
 if ... . Can it be that this mystery, whatever 
 it is, has changed his feeling for me ; that he 
 learnt something, when he was here before, that 
 I do not know 1 I think he could make it so much 
 easier, whatever it may be, if he would let me 
 lean on him ; if he would explain in his kind 
 gentle way, would pity and advise me — I could 
 bear it, whatever there may be to bear. But to 
 have lost so much — if Mamma and I are left 
 alone, and Ethert does not care — what will 
 
174 IVY. 
 
 becorDe of me ? He told me I should be a comfort 
 to her: but I know without his support I cannot : 
 I shall only break down and make things worse 
 for her. She would lean on him — she will always 
 lean on somebody — but I am not strong 
 enough." 
 
 It was well that Ivy could not hear, could 
 not dream of that which was passing in the 
 meantime, in the boudoir, to which her cousin had 
 gone directly, after a brief interview with his 
 uncle in the presence of the family solicitor. 
 
 " Aunt," he said gravely but quickly, realizing 
 instinctively her intense eagerness to know her 
 fate, the torturing suspense she had already 
 endured so long, the agony of impatience she 
 would feel in listening to any long preface, any 
 preliminary explanation of his motives — " I 
 believe I must say — yes ! I am sorry to find that 
 Mr. Brand agrees to the full in your view ; sorrier 
 to be compelled to own that, after hearing all he 
 has to say, I am unable to answer or dispute his 
 conclusion ; that the secret cannot be kept, that 
 the renunciation of my legal claims would be 
 practically very difficult, and perhaps in the long 
 run ineffectual : in short, that the choice lies as 
 
A CRUEL DILEMMA. 175 
 
 3^ou put it, between the revelation more or less 
 immediate of your painful secret and .... the 
 formal identification of Ivy's interest and my 
 own. I have seen my uncle and have heard, so 
 far as it was possible for him to speak or for Mr. 
 Brand to explain what he was unable to say at 
 length, the motives that rendered him so anxious 
 for an immediate, I might say an instant, arrange- 
 ment. The heir of the house is bound to be as 
 jealous of your good name and Ivy's as her 
 brother would have been. God knows," he went 
 on, in a voice broken by passion into spasms that 
 were almost sobs, ''whether I would willingly 
 wrong her : He may know, I don't, how I am to 
 help it. If I could escape by renouncing all 
 claims, all interest in the family property— but it 
 seems that cannot be. I offered it, urged it again 
 and again. To me, either side of the dilemma 
 seems cruelly hard ; and if Ivy feels it less than I, 
 it will be only because she has less idea what she 
 is doing. If I refuse to sacrifice my whole 
 existence, I seem the selfish asserter of a legal 
 right ; enriching myself by robbing a young girl, 
 whose natural guardian and protector I am, not 
 only of fortune but name and fame, dishonouring 
 
176 IVY. 
 
 near and dear relatives for my own profit. If I 
 make the sacrifice of my life, my peace of mind, 
 I seem to take a mean advantage of a parent's 
 humour — it will be said of a sick man's weakness 
 and a child's simplicity — to snatch her fortune ; 
 and after all I shall probably render her as 
 miserable as myself. In anj^ case I shall look 
 like a cur, and in no case can I feel satisfied with 
 my own conduct. Aunt, it is cruelly hard on me : 
 I don't affect to underrate the sacrifice I am 
 making before you who know why I make it. But 
 I will not make it unconditionally. I will not 
 help to wrong another; and I submit to so 
 much wrong myself, that I will endure none 
 against which I can provide. I obey your wish 
 and my uncle's ; I am entitled to ask that you 
 win carry out earnestly and faithfully what I 
 require in return." 
 
 The words were harder than the tone, which 
 was grave, sad, perhaps cold, but not angry or 
 severe. In truth, Ethert judged his Aunt some- 
 what too hardly. He underrated, if she 
 exaggerated the horror of the impending exposure. 
 The same feeling, half-conscientious, half-chivalric, 
 that induced him to admit her claim, quickened 
 
A CRUEL DILEMMA. 177 
 
 his sense of her selfish injustice in enforcing it. 
 He could not but perceive that the past kindness, 
 which had seemed so generous towards a junior 
 scion of the family, looked very differently as 
 rendered to an heir of whose claims his uncle and 
 aunt had been from the first fully aware. It 
 was most painful to believe, but not easy to 
 doubt, that their apparent affection and liberality 
 had been interested, if not necessarily insincere. 
 Ethert could not bear to think that his relatives, 
 and especially his aunt, in the sympathetic 
 natural- seeming tenderness that had endeared her 
 to him, had been simply acting a part : could not 
 bear to lose so utterly some of the sweetest re- 
 membrances of his own rather dreary life. He 
 could not, would not think that Lady Glynne, 
 when she entrusted his cousin so frankly to his 
 care in childhood, to his companionship of late, 
 had constantly kept in view the day when she 
 might put an unscrupulous pressure on the 
 affection she had fostered ; but he felt none the 
 less that the pressure was unscrupulous, the 
 pretext disloyal. All of chivalrous or poetic 
 romance that tinged his character, all his respect 
 for maidenhood and for maternity, revolted from 
 VOL. L N 
 
178 IVY. 
 
 the selfishness that, to escape from open scandal 
 and from extravagant reproach, sacrificed a 
 kinsman's future and a daughter's happiness. 
 Herein he did his aunt some injustice. She 
 had persuaded herself that the wound inflicted 
 on her child's feelings, if sharp, would not be 
 deep ; that the violence done to her instincts was 
 sentimental rather than essential, was humbling 
 to maiden pride rather than fatal to wedded 
 happiness. She believed that, under the in- 
 fluence of conjugal duty and conjugal intimacy, 
 Ivy's present aff"ection for her cousin w^ould 
 quickly ripen into warm wifely love. And 
 though her fear for her daughter's fame and 
 peace was secondary to her more selfish terror, 
 it was both more genuine and better grounded 
 than Ethert supposed. 
 
 " It is generous of you," she said, as he paused. 
 " I hope you will not in the end have cause to 
 repent : and of course you have a right to impose 
 whatever terms may mate your position easier, 
 and to count on my doing my utmost to satisfy 
 you." 
 
 There was something in her words and 
 manner that to Ethert's sore and sensitive spirit 
 
A CRUEL DILEMMA. 179 
 
 seemed to disparage the sacrifice she had extorted. 
 Of course she did not know, could in no case 
 have understood its full bitterness. How fondly 
 he had cherished the hope or dream of a future 
 of which Meta was to be the paramount object, 
 the supreme inspiration, he knew at this moment 
 as he had never known before ; and this remem- 
 brance embittered his tone more than he was 
 aware. 
 
 " My sacrifice, and it is the bitterest I could 
 make in this world, is made for Ivy and for Ivy's 
 mother. She must never say that I helped to 
 sacrifice her. The hardship might well be as 
 great — might, if an enforced marriage were all it 
 exacts of me, seem greater — to her than to me. 
 Aunt Caroline, my first condition is that she shall 
 understand distinctly what she does, and why. I 
 don't mean that she shall know the real reason : 
 I would not for Avorlds that she should learn the 
 meaning of such shame and sorrow as you have 
 suffered, should know their very name. She shall 
 not come to me — if she would come — so pained, 
 shocked, and humiliated ; but she shall be told, by 
 the one person she must believe, that it is a sac- 
 rifice made for her as well as by her. She shall 
 
 N 2 
 
180 
 
 ivy. 
 
 never say, now or hereafter, that I married her for 
 money— the one imputation I could never forgive. 
 And she shall not be forced. Aunt, I know, 
 though I can never understand it, that there is a 
 coercion which crushes and compels a young girl's 
 will as forcibly as physical punishment. It shall 
 be her choice in the same sense in which it is mine. 
 It is very hard on her at best, so young, so timid, 
 so innocent, to bind her to a man like myself, even 
 if I desired it. But she must understand all she 
 can understand, that it is her parents' wish, for 
 her sake — at any rate not for mine ; a marriage of 
 necessity, and no more of interest than of 
 inclination." 
 
 " Ethert, you are wrong. Ivy would be very 
 likely to accept you if you asked her simpl}^, with- 
 out any pressure ; but how can she be persuaded if 
 she is to be told that you submit to it as a painful 
 necessity, and is not to be told why it is 
 necessary ?" 
 
 " That you must manage, Aunt. The thing is 
 cruel enough : I will be no party to the more cruel 
 wrong of deception. And further, I renounce all 
 that could make marriage a blessing ; it must not 
 be a daily misery and disgrace. I might say to 
 
A CRUEL DILEMMA. 181 
 
 you, I have the right to exact submission, since I 
 cannot hope for affection ; — that I am fully entitled 
 — to make what terms I please. But that is not 
 what I feel. If I will have no domestic quarrel, 
 no cat and dog contest, it is as much for Ivy's 
 sake as my own. Better for her that I should 
 play the tyrant than she the rebel. She must 
 understand, then, that — since the very condition 
 of our marriage is that there is no confidence 
 between us, that she cannot be trusted and con- 
 sulted as she ought to be ; since she cannot be 
 
 expected to yield from natural affection — she must 
 obey implicitly as a child. Put it as pleasantly 
 as you will : best that she accept the compact as 
 part of an arrangement, no part of which can be 
 other than hateful to her." 
 
 " But, Ethert, you have always liked Ivy : she 
 has learnt to look up to you, has often, I know, 
 sought and relied on your advice and help. Why 
 expect trouble with her, gentle, simple, trustful as 
 she is ? Above all, why proclaim your distrust 
 by exacting formally what should be matter of 
 course — what she promises and must expect to 
 render by the very terms of her marriage 
 vow?" 
 
182 IVY. 
 
 " You know how nmch. that vow is generally 
 worth ! If a wife obeys, it is either because she 
 loves, or because she fears — not because she has 
 promised. In our case the whole marriage vow 
 is a solemn fiction — a hollow form. And as the 
 secret must be kept from her quite as closely as 
 from the world, as one chief object with me is to 
 spare her the pain and humiliation she would feel 
 in the knowledge even were it confined to her own 
 breast, as I will not have her filial reverence dis- 
 turbed or let her fancy herself degraded or abased 
 in my eyes— as she cannot know why /am com- 
 pelled to marry without love — she cannot but 
 resent the falsehood and chafe under the seeming 
 affront. She cannot submit from love ; she shall 
 not be controlled by fear ; therefore she must give 
 me beforehand, and independently of promises I 
 cannot pretend to treat as serious, the right and 
 the authority to maintain peace and avoid dis- 
 cussions between us. And when I have to act 
 with or for her, I must needs demand from duty 
 the obedience I cannot claim from loving con- 
 fidence. I ask no more ; — none of the lies by 
 word or deed that I refuse to speak or act myself, 
 nothing that she should be loth to yield. You 
 
A CRUEL DILEMMA. 183 
 
 know what Ivy cannot understand — exactly ivhy I 
 must give her my hand. If she accept it, and 
 enable me to fulfil that one end, I shall grudge 
 nothing that can soften or lessen her sacrifice ; I 
 make no claim on her affection or her duty, and 
 she need never dream that there could be a 
 demand on her gratitude." 
 
 The words were spoken in a tone, emphasized 
 by a look, which not a little disturbed the mother. 
 But it suited her to regard them as no more than 
 the expression of strong disinclination ; as giving 
 vent only to a keen sense of the hollo wness of a bond 
 not secured by voluntary choice and mutual love. 
 " Ethert, the fewer of such w^ords used the 
 better. Ivy will give all you can ask : she will, 
 she must be content to take only what you can 
 give." 
 
 "But she must know — God help us both! — 
 how little that is ; must understand that in return 
 I pretend to nothing that is not nominated in the 
 bond : I don't treat her formal promises as 
 binding and real while my own are avowedly un- 
 true. However, I cannot reason ; I can only say 
 — I do for her sake and yours what you desire ; 
 you must do for me what I think it necessary to 
 
184 lYY. 
 
 ask. You, not I, must obtain, and obtain of her 
 own free will, Ivy's consent to this marriage, and, 
 if need be, to that haste upon which her father 
 insists. And it must be made plain to her if not 
 what are, at any rate what are not, my motives, 
 and what condition I require." 
 
 " Do you mean to say, Ethert, that you will 
 not ask her to be your wife ? " Lady Glynne 
 enquired in great dismay. 
 
 " Most distinctly. I join her in lying to the 
 world : I will not lie to her. Nor can I insult 
 her, nor would I insult any woman whom I re- 
 spected far less than I respect my cousin, by the 
 brutal plainness of the truth. You know what 
 tbe truth is : /will not tell it her. I hope you 
 may be able to satisfy her natural surprise and 
 scruples without making it too apparent to her ; 
 but 1 will not lead her to expect what cannot 
 exist, and what, if without explanation I asked 
 for her hand, she has a right to take for granted. 
 When my cousin has made up her mind — that I 
 suppose must be soon— I must see her, and see 
 her alone. Till after our interview no word must 
 be said to others, neither of us held to be finally 
 committed. After that, I leave it to you and to 
 
A CRUEL DILEMMA. 185 
 
 her to arraDge matters as you will, to fix the time 
 and circumstances of the ceremony. I presume 
 the reasons that make Sir Charles so anxious to 
 hasten it will render it necessarily private. 
 Before or after that I must return to London ; I 
 cannot leave Lestrange long to himself, and Ivy 
 would not wish to quit her home while her 
 father Hes as at present almost between life and 
 death." 
 
 He rose to leave the room. Then for the first 
 time some touch of really natural, generous 
 feeling appeared in Lady Glynn e's manner and 
 conduct. She rose, and arresting his departure, 
 laying her hand on his arm and looking up 
 earnestly in his face, she said : 
 
 " Ethert, you know I am grateful, if I seem 
 selfish. It is more for Ivy's sake than my own. 
 But you love her, you have l^een kind to her so 
 long ; you will be kind to her still ? Ethert, it is 
 not her fault." 
 
 " Not her fault — her misfortune, and mine." 
 
186 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE CRUELTY OF COWARDICE. 
 
 HEE mother's summons was a most welcome 
 relief to Iv3^'s momently increasing dis- 
 tress. It liad been painful to feel herself for a 
 long time excluded from her parents' confidence 
 on matters in which she could not but believe 
 herself personally interested. It was not that she 
 resented or was aggrieved by slight or neglect. 
 From her father she had never received anything 
 approaching to that confidence which, as their 
 daughters grow up, judicious and forecasting 
 fathers as well as mothers will gradually extend. 
 Her mother, soft and affectionate, at times con- 
 fidential, had always maintained a certain reserve, 
 the more apparent because it was wont to come 
 now and then as a sudden unforeseen check, 
 
THE CRUELTY OF COWARDICE. 187 
 
 breaking the thread of partial explanations, sup- 
 pressing appeals to her children's sj^mpathy. But 
 the raost absolutely trustful and trusted child 
 could not have been better content than Ivy to 
 leave her future in the hands of those for whom 
 she felt true filial submission and deference, if not 
 the warm filial affection that only a parental 
 tenderness and control, justifying themselves to 
 the intelligence as well as the hearts of children, 
 can secure. 
 
 What had grieved her so deeply was that she 
 seemed forbidden to know or even to sympathise 
 with her mother's sorrows and anxieties, instinc- 
 tively as she felt that that mother did not lean 
 upon her husband with such entire sympathy, 
 such assurance of support, as could enable her to 
 dispense with any other. It was yet more cruel 
 now to feel herself isolated, kept as It were at 
 arm's-length by her parent, in the midst of their 
 deep common sorrow. But when at last her 
 mother's message invited her presence, she was 
 eager at once to believe that what had seemed like 
 coldness or forgetfulness of her was due only to 
 the intense sensitiveness which could not bear the 
 tenderest touch on a recent wound ; to reproach 
 
188 IVY. 
 
 herself for exaggerated self-conscious sensibility 
 rather than her mother for self-absorption or un- 
 kindness. 
 
 Such being her thought, she failed altogether 
 to understand the meaning of the strange em- 
 barrassment, hesitation, and trouble visible in 
 that mother's look and manner. She could only 
 think that, while desiring to invite sympathy, the 
 bereaved parent could hardly trust herself to 
 speak or hear of him whom they had lost ; and 
 her first words of intended consolation, pity, and 
 fellow-feeling were broken and half articulate. 
 There was something timid rather than tender in 
 the caress, something almost pleading in the look 
 and tone of Lady Glynne, as she passed her arm 
 round the shoulder of her kneeling daughter and 
 gazed earnestly and anxiously into her face ; 
 something that jarred on Ivy's sensitive expect- 
 ancy as she answered, after a few moments' 
 silence : 
 
 " Iv}^ death, even for those who are left be- 
 hind, is not always the worst or hardest thing. 
 Children may cause their parents worse griefs 
 than this, bitter as it is ; and the dead, at any 
 rate, are safe themselves from sin and from its 
 
THE CRUELTY OF COWARDICE. 189 
 
 consequences — safe from the sorrow they leave 
 behind them." 
 
 " But," said Ivy, " Charlie was always a com- 
 fort, always kind and good ; there was nothing to 
 fear from him or for him." 
 
 " From him — no. And it was not of the 
 trouble that some children bring upon mothers 
 through their foUy or ill-conduct that 1 thought 
 and spoke. But, Ivy, there is so much possible 
 trouble before us, so much that might have been 
 even worse for him — I cannot help feeling that 
 Heaven has taken him from a trial that would 
 have been only harder for us if he had shared 
 it." 
 
 " He would have helped you to bear it, what- 
 ever it may be," Ivy said, much startled, and all 
 her vague alarms re-awakened and intensified, by 
 such a reference at such a moment. 
 
 " Perhaps, Ivy ; but the difficulty would have 
 been greater. Now it falls on you — you take his 
 place ; and it may be harder on you, but there 
 is a mode of escape for you that might not, per- 
 haps would not have been possible had he 
 lived." 
 
 " What is your trouble, Mamma ? I have been 
 
190 IVY. 
 
 afraid, almost sure for some time past that there 
 was something; and I cannot help fearing it 
 must be a very great trouble if it dwells so much 
 on your mind, even to-day. Can you not trust 
 me"? you might be sure of me. You know I 
 should not speak of anything, should not say any- 
 thing to hurt you, knowingly. Would it not com- 
 fort you to talk to me openly ? I know I can 
 only feel with you and feel for you, I cannot 
 help you. . . . Well then, will you not talk to 
 Ethert ? He has been so much with us, always 
 so kind to him; and you know he will be thought- 
 ful and considerate for you, especially now. And 
 after all it is he who really fills Charlie's place. . . . 
 Is it that, Mamma? Is it that Ethert will be 
 Papa's successor? No, that would not — and it 
 cannot be that ; you were troubled about some- 
 thing before now." 
 
 " I have talked to Ethert, dear, and he knows 
 everything now. I am glad you trust and like 
 him so thoroughly. Ivy ; for it rests with him and 
 you to relieve my trouble." 
 
 *' With me ? What can I do ? You know if I 
 could do anything to comfort you, to help you, 
 I would try my very utmost. But I know I can 
 
THE CRUELTY OF COWARDICE. 191 
 
 do SO Kttle, I always feel so weak, and now I am 
 so lonely. If you could have Ethert here oftener, 
 he — perhaps he will, now that so much will 
 depend on him." 
 
 " He will succeed to the title, of course. And 
 —Ivy, it is there that my difficulty, my fear 
 begins ; for you, darling, as much as for m}^- 
 self." 
 
 " Why ? I am sure you may trust Ethert just 
 as you might have trusted Charlie," replied Ivy, 
 with a certain slight unconscious touch of in- 
 dignation in her tone ; feeling her mother's 
 apparent mistrust rather as a wrong to those 
 she loved than as evidence of over-careful anxiety 
 for herself. 
 
 "I cannot explain everything, dear child, though 
 I must try to tell you all I can. What I cannot 
 tell, you must take for granted. My daughter 
 will take her mother's assurance ; will not press 
 for explanations I could not bear to give V^ 
 
 " Of course, dearest mother," said Ivy, clasping 
 caressingly her mother's waist, and looking up 
 fondly into the sad, harassed face and wistful but 
 half-evasive eyes. " Only I wish you were not 
 so much afraid for me. Is it that you think me 
 
192 IVY. 
 
 too much spoilt by j^our indulgence to bear any 
 trouble, to have courage for difficulty or mis- 
 fortune r 
 
 Lady Glynne hardly cared to face her daughter's 
 look, affectionate, dutiful, trusting as it was ; 
 conscious of her intention to represent things 
 not as they were but as they might most 
 favourably impress Ivy's mind ; as the proposed 
 course might appear least selfish, most just or 
 advantageous to Ethert as well as to herself. 
 Hardly appreciating the young girl's thoroughly 
 unselfish, loving, devoted nature, she knew 
 at least that an appeal to mere self-interest 
 was more likely to revolt than to coerce 
 her. 
 
 " You cannot understand, darling, but it is 
 worse than misfortune. You suppose that the 
 property would of course go with the title, as 
 it has always done. But — your grandfather 
 married twice, and his uncle, the last baronet, 
 disliked Ethert's grandmother and her family ; 
 and settled the estate not on your father's sons 
 onl}^ but on all his children." 
 
 " You don't mean that it is to be mine ? How 
 shamefully unjust ! Would Sir Herbert ever have 
 
THE CRUELTY OF COWARDICE. 193 
 
 had it if daughters had not been put aside for 
 him r 
 
 " 1 suppose not, and it is hard on Ethert ; hut 
 it seems as hard on you to be deprived of your 
 father's inheritance. But it comes to this, Ivy ; 
 neither you nor Ethert can well take the estate 
 from the other. He would have to say why he 
 disputed your right, and that would bring out a 
 very shameful story, whether he succeeded or 
 not ; and if he let you keep it, others would 
 think him wronged and tell the story to prove 
 his right." 
 
 " Mamma, I am sure Ethert would never hurt 
 us." 
 
 " Wait, Ivy," said her mother, impatiently. 
 *' Hear me to the end. You cannot expect 
 Ethert not to feel that the property ought to be 
 his and try to claim it ; and whether he be right 
 or not the story would be told. And, Ivy, that 
 means shame such as you cannot understand 
 or imagine ; — shame that we had better die than 
 endure." 
 
 " But, Mamma, let Ethert have it without 
 any dispute. Do you think T wish to rob 
 him ?" 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
194 IVY. 
 
 " Nonsense, Iv}^ ! Whichever way it goes, if 
 it is to be decided by law the truth must come 
 out. You know Ethert could not take the 
 estates as a gift from you ; and if they are not 
 yours i^ can be only because this terrible thing 
 is true. After your father, either you or Ethert 
 must be the heir, — which, is the question that 
 depends on this story. Ivy, that question must 
 never be asked ; the matter must be settled while 
 your father lives. Afterwards, you could do 
 nothing for four years ; and to keep the secret 
 things must be arranged at once, so that your 
 interest and Ethert's shall be the same. You 
 could not even arrange that when once — your 
 father's ownership is at an end. They tell me 
 the Court of Chancery would interfere to protect 
 your interest, and tlien all would come out. 
 No, people must not know whether the estates 
 come to Ethert directly or through you " 
 
 "What do you mean. Mamma?" Ivy exclaimed, 
 in the first impulse of sheer wondering per- 
 plexity. She checked herself, as a faint dubious 
 perception of the meaning dawned on her mind. 
 After a few moments of silent thought she rose, 
 averting her face, and walked to the closed and 
 
THE CRUELTY OF COWARDICE. 195 
 
 curtained window, studiously turning away from 
 ttie lamp that now lighted the room. The 
 anxious, harassed, excited woman could see only 
 her youDg daughter's bent head, the long dark 
 curls that shrouded her hidden face, the slight 
 tremor of her slender form, and the unconscious 
 nervous movement of her small white hands. 
 The silence lasted so long that the mother could 
 endure the suspense no more, tortured as she 
 had already been by the protracted expectancy of 
 which this scene was but the climax. 
 
 " Iv}^ must I plead to my child ; entreat her 
 to spare me shame and suffering worse than 
 death, to save her own honour and fortune ? Is 
 it so terrible a price to pay ? You know no man 
 you like better ; you have, you can have, no other 
 fancy ; and what do you resign ? You will hardly 
 have another chance if the truth became known ; 
 and Ethert, in character as well as in rank and 
 fortune, is all that any girl's fancy, any mother's 
 heart could desire. Another girl would be only 
 too glad of such an offer, if she had nothing to 
 lose by refusing. Am I so cruel, so selfish in 
 asking you to save yourself and me from ruin by 
 accepting what any lady might be glad and 
 
 o 2 
 
196 IVY. 
 
 proud to take? He might have rebelled, have 
 objected, perhaps, with reason ; but you — if you 
 have no pity for me, gratitude to him might for- 
 bid you to hesitate.'^ 
 
 In a storm of anxious excitement very alien to 
 her native temper, and therefore the less con- 
 trollable, feeling that she bad reached that 
 decisive crisis the expectation of which had long 
 harassed her days and disturbed her nights, 
 conscious that the security or misery of the future 
 hung on that moment's issue, the speaker had lost 
 her head — had forgotten womanly tact and pru- 
 dence as well as motherly kindness, and gave 
 way to that real contempt for her sex which so 
 often underlies the assumed dignity and self- 
 respect of womanhood. She spoke to one whose 
 truthful, genuine humility was the strength and 
 safeguard of a truer dignity, a far deeper delicacy ; 
 and her words utterly outraged both. 
 
 Ivy turned, flushing to the brow with pas- 
 sionate indignation ; amazed, stung to the quick, 
 and feeling herself for the first time in her life 
 directly and outrageously insulted. But the sight 
 of her mother's agitated, almost terrified counte- 
 nance, the strange, eager vehemence of one 
 
THE CRUELTY OF COWARDICE. 197 
 
 usually quiet and even languid, startled her with 
 a sense of some urgent, unknown motive ; some 
 peril whose nature she could not imagine, but 
 which must be terrible indeed. Filial affection 
 and sympathy as well as habitual respect checked 
 the unwonted impulse of natural anger; re- 
 strained the instinctive revolt of feminine pride 
 and maiden dignity against such harsh deprecia- 
 tion; against the cruel and even coarse expres- 
 sion of a view in itself coarse and worldly. In 
 another moment the girl's keen sense of truth 
 and justice made her ask herself whether, rough, 
 unfeeling as her mother's language sounded, it 
 were not literally accurate ? No one could be too 
 good for Ethert ; beauty, rank, and fortune would 
 not entitle any lady to look down on such a 
 suitor : and she, she told herself sincerely, though 
 not truly, possessed none of these attractions. 
 She had nothing to give in return for all that 
 was offered her— if indeed it were offered, not 
 extorted. Lady Glynne's eagerness had overshot 
 the mark. The moment that Ivy ceased to 
 resent the humiliating truth, she felt the 
 wrong inflicted on her cousin, if he were 
 induced from tenderness to her, gratitude 
 
198 IVY. 
 
 to her parents, or regard to family honour 
 to accept a match of whose inequality her 
 own mother could so speak. She could give him 
 neither equal companionship, intelligent appre- 
 ciation and encouragement, nor even the poor 
 compensation of personal charms ; for Ivy, simply 
 sweet, graceful and lovely, never realized the 
 loveliness which did not assert itself to her own 
 senses as striking or signal beauty. 
 
 " You are hard on me. Mamma," she said at 
 last, with quivering lip, moist eyes and tremulous 
 voice, the indignant colour still lingering in her 
 cheek, the subdued passion in her manner; looking 
 like a high-spirited child coerced to reluctant 
 submission by cruel punishment. " I would not 
 think of myself; I would do anything to comfort 
 and spare you, that did not seem wrong. But if 
 Ethert has so much to give and I so little : — 
 because I know what he is, how kind and clever 
 and thoughtful, and I am so silly and childish and 
 shall never be fit to understand or help him — it 
 cannot be right. Why should he marry me to 
 save us from what you say would be disgrace ? 
 I' suppose it would not hurt him if all were 
 known ?" 
 
THE CRUELTY OP COWARDICE. 199 
 
 " Let Ethert judge of that, Ivy," replied her 
 mother, well aware by this time of her error, and 
 secretly thankful for the sweet submissive temper 
 that had never before been subjected to so severe 
 a trial. " The honour of his family cannot be a 
 matter of indifference to its futuue head. Leave 
 him to judge whether a quiet settlement of all 
 doubts and disputes, the certain enjoyment of 
 your fortune, the avoidance of scandal, be worth 
 his while. Leave him to make up his mind 
 whether he do not love his pet cousin well enough 
 to be happy with her for a wife. Men of genius, 
 Ivy, want peace and quiet, not clever talk and 
 learned discussion, in their homes. Poets look 
 for gentleness, tenderness, comfort in the com- 
 panions of their leisure ; and if you love and 
 admire Ethert, he will never fret because you do 
 not always understand him. Do you remember, 
 he read to us a review of his book said to be 
 written by his friend Mr. Lestrange? The 
 reviewer said that the very last bride a poet 
 or novelist should choose would be iiis favourite 
 heroine." 
 
 The last sentence was far more telling than the 
 speaker could have guessed : for Ivy had divined 
 
200 IVY. 
 
 in the half-infantine heroine of Ethert's favourite 
 tale the idealized portrait of Meta, of whom she 
 was quite unawares half suhmissively-envious, 
 half admiringly -jealous. The suggestion, that she 
 could be more to her cousin than Meta could be, 
 touched her fedings in their most sensitive point. 
 Of this however she was not herself conscious, as 
 after a long thoughtful pause she answered : — 
 
 " If Ethert thought so, if he felt under no com- 
 pulsion, if he wished for me for my own sake— or 
 even if he thought it would be best for him — if I 
 could give him wealth and leisure and the life he 
 prefers, if I were an heiress or a beauty — but why 
 should he ? — except that he would not be unkind ; 
 he could not bear to take my home, and what 
 might have been mine, away from me. Mamma, 
 if he wanted me, Ethert should have me, and do 
 as he pleased with me if he were disappointed in 
 me ; but he shall not take me out of pity !" 
 
 Though the last words amounted to a direct 
 denial of the very thing she was really striving to 
 accomplish, they greatly encouraged Lady Glynne. 
 She saw or fancied that the poor child — used all 
 her life long to find her chief happiness in Ethert's 
 gentle and considerate kindness — was nowise dis- 
 
THE CRUELTY OF COWARDICE. 201 
 
 inclined to the proposed marriage ; that she would 
 at heart he glad of a pretext that might content 
 her conscience and her unselfish admiring affec- 
 tion. Seizing the hint that Ivy's doubts afforded 
 her, she mingled truth and fiction as adroitly as 
 she could and dared in her reply. 
 
 *'Ethert would be ashamed to profit by the 
 chances of the law, if the law decided in his favour, 
 to enrich himself at your cost. It could not look 
 well for him to bring a suit that must reveal a 
 family scandal, for the purpose of ruining a young 
 girl both in name and fortune. By marrying you 
 he reconciles everything : he obtains without 
 delay or doubt or reproach all that the law could 
 give him. It is weU worth his V7hile, dearest. If 
 you had been undoubtedly your father's heiress, 
 he might have feared to seem a fortune-hunter. 
 As it is, no one can reproach him, and yet he is 
 certainly the gainer. And, Ivy, he did not speak 
 of your want of knowledge or talent, when he 
 looked in the face all the reasons on either side. 
 He did consider what difficulties or objections there 
 might be : he made one — shall I call it demand 
 or condition ? — that yom- promise of obedience 
 should be real, made and kept in earnest. He 
 
202 IVY. 
 
 said truly that there were things of which he 
 could never speak, things he could not explain, 
 upon which you must obey like a child, without 
 reasons. Will that seem very hard to you. Ivy ? 
 1 think not. And if that were the only thing he 
 cared to mention, the only doubt he had that he 
 would be happy with you, you need hardly be 
 troubled. He will be content with you as you are, 
 my darling." 
 
 Did the Father of Lies dictate the happy phrase 
 that once more told Avith an effect of which the 
 speaker could know nothing 1 Ivy remembered 
 Ethert's own words to her, and fancied that she 
 recognised his own thought. 
 
 " Mamma," she said, after another long pause, 
 " is this quite fair to me ? Can you not tell me 
 what you have told Ethert?— tell me what is the 
 reproach we have to dread, the terrible secret that 
 must be kept at such a cost?" 
 
 " No, Ivy ; and you ought never to have asked 
 it. If its disclosure to the world would so shame 
 me that I would rather die ten times than bear it, 
 how could I tell my own child ? How can you 
 wish to make your mother blush in her daughter's 
 presence f 
 
THE CRUELTY OF COWARDICE. 203 
 
 The girl was deeply hurt by the stern, sharp 
 reproof she had not consciously merited ; a reproof 
 calculated to wound to the uttermost a nature 
 whose sensitive delicacy was one of its deepest 
 charms. 
 
 " I don't understand," she said, sadly and 
 quietly. "If I must decide for myself, it did 
 seem as if I ought to know the reasons on which 
 I am to act. If you could — if you will command 
 me, I suppose I ought to, at any rate I will, 
 obey ; but it hardly seems just that I should 
 have to decide for myself without knowing 
 why." 
 
 " You know that your parents both desire this 
 marriage, both tell you that it is for your own 
 safety, your own welfare. Your mother tells you 
 that nothing else can shield her from intolerable 
 disgrace. The cousin you profess so to esteem 
 and trust sees no other escape from a dilemma of 
 which either alternative seems impossible. Do 
 you think Ethert has not considered everything, 
 or that the calamity from which he would pro- 
 tect us in this w^ay is a trifle ? I dare not tell 
 you ; if I could and would, Ethert distinctly and 
 deliberately forbade me. He at least thinks the 
 
204 I V Y, 
 
 secret unfit for you to know. Ask him, Ivy, and 
 see how he answers you ; only, after that, do not 
 expect me to meet again the child who could 
 demand the secret of her parent's shame." 
 
 " Cruel !" exclaimed Ivy, tried beyond even her 
 endurance. " You know I cannot guess what the 
 secret is ; I could not know why it is unfit to be 
 told me. But I will never ask again. I take you 
 at your word, mother, though I cannot believe 
 that there can he any real disgrace resting on 
 you. You could never knowingly have done a 
 shameful thing ; there can be no act or thought 
 of yours that you could be ashamed to tell me or 
 that it could wound me to hear." 
 
 Again Ivy was silent, again averting her 
 countenance ; and for a while her mother was 
 silenced by her last words, spoken in true, trust- 
 ful, filial reverence, but for that very reason 
 stinging with such bitterness of irony her who 
 knew how ill that perfect trust was founded. 
 But once more the long suspense, though she 
 could hardly now doubt the issue, became in- 
 tolerable to her over-wrought nerves and half- 
 distracted brain. 
 
 " Well, Ivy, may I know my fate ; or will you 
 
THE CRUELTY OF COWARDICE. 205 
 
 wait for more counsel, more entreaty, when you 
 know what all who best love you, and know most 
 of the truth, desire for your own sake f 
 
 At last that gentle docile spirit was fairly 
 roused; stung to uncontrollable indignation by 
 the cold ironical tone that struggling irritability 
 assumed. Her mother, with true feminine in- 
 justice, probably strove by adopting an injured 
 air to conceal from herself the tyrannical if not 
 cruel coercion she was exercising over her 
 daughter's will, her present feelings, her future 
 destiny ; the systematic misrepresentation by 
 which that tyranny had been enforced. 
 
 '* I do not see that I have anything to say — 
 yet — and to you. If Ethert asks me .... to 
 be his wife .... have you not said enough — 
 can you not leave me to answer him f 
 
 Lady Glynne was at once made aware how 
 thoroughly, in her eagerness to coerce her 
 daughter's will, she had overlooked the effect she 
 might produce upon her daughter's feelings. 
 She saw how the mood of pain and humiliation 
 which her language was calculated to produce, 
 while it was favourable to the submission she 
 desired and had thus far secured, might enhance 
 
206 IVY. 
 
 the difficulty that had still to be overcome. She 
 had so stung and wounded Iv3^'s spirit that such 
 another drop of bitterness as that she had next 
 to administer might cause the girFs indignation 
 fairly to overflow. She was confounded by the 
 recollection that, while her nephew would not 
 play the suitor, Ivy was not even yet prepared to 
 dispense with — it would be less just to say the 
 compliment than — the guarantee of a personal 
 request. 
 
 Was it not but too probable that, after 
 what liad passed, its absence might excite her 
 suspicion of Ethert's real willingness, as well as 
 exasperate her wounded self-respect ? And Ivy 
 must meet Ethert in person and alone ; while, to 
 secure their union, it must be already taken for 
 granted in that critical meeting. 
 
 She was sorely perplexed and embarrassed. 
 With another girl the task might have been 
 simply impossible. Perhaps Ivy's unselfish temper 
 and unexacting modest}^ might be successfully 
 wrought upon to accept the formal, as she had, 
 whether consciously or not, submitted to the 
 essential humiliation imposed on her. The 
 situation might be so represented as to ap])eal 
 
THE CRUELTY OF COWARDICE. 207 
 
 effectually to a heart so gentle and so generous ; 
 Ivy might be persuaded that Ethert's motives in 
 avoiding to prefer a personal suit were such as 
 implied no reluctance on his part and no wilful 
 slight to her. 
 
 "I don't think you could expect Ethert to say 
 more than he has already said to me. He could 
 not speak to you, of course, without explaining ; 
 and he could no more bear to have told than you 
 to hear from him all that he left me to explain. 
 Now that you know how things stand, and under- 
 stand your own position, what would you have 
 him say to you *? Remember, he cannot allow 
 that, as I have told you, the quiet admission of 
 his claims is a great gain to him ; to allow that 
 would be to confess that his title is doubtful. 
 He offers to save us both from beggary and dis- 
 grace — from utter ruin ; he offers you home and 
 rank and fortune. Would you have him pretend 
 to forget all this, and speak as if there were no- 
 thing amiss, nothing strange, or forced, or 
 hurried ; as if you could afford to answer him as 
 you chose ? Would you have him sue to you to 
 accept all at his hands '? I believe he would do 
 it, if he did not feel you would think it a 
 
208 IVY. 
 
 mockery; that he leaves me to speak for him, 
 because he cannot bear to speak, and not to sue. 
 Would 3^ou have him stoop to plead ? And if he 
 would, have you thought — I am sure he has — 
 what refusal would involve ? He offers you so 
 much, and you are so utterly in need of what he 
 offers, that a refusal could only mean that the 
 very worst that can befall a woman is less hateful 
 to you than the idea of belonging to him. And 
 after that, if his claim be sustained, you are — 
 we both are — dependent on him for daily bread. 
 He means that, if you are mad enough to refuse, 
 you should still remain his cousin, his ward. 
 Nothing would make him unkind to you ; but he 
 will not let you so insult him that you could not 
 be happy in accepting his kindness. It is out of 
 consideration for us — out of delicacy to you — that 
 he has left it to me to tell you all he could not 
 endure to tell, and to learn your determina- 
 tion." 
 
 Ivy's varying colour, the light that flashed and 
 faded in her eyes, showed the conflict and change 
 of feeling, as with some hesitation her mother 
 pressed an argument so strange, founded on mis- 
 representations which of course the daughter 
 
THE CRUELTY OF COWARDICE. 209 
 
 conld not detect, but wholly inconsistent with 
 those just before employed. She felt, however, 
 that there was something kept back from her, 
 something concealed or unspoken as yet. She would 
 not admit to herself the thought that her mother 
 could be paltering with the truth, especially at so 
 critical a moment. 
 
 "Is that quite accurate. Mamma? Is it really 
 Ethert's wish, his own suggestion, and not yours ? 
 "Was it his wish, without any hint from you, not 
 to speak — not to see me himself?" 
 
 This question, as the reader knows, could be 
 answered without any violation of truth, at 
 which under less exciting circumstances, when 
 her conscience was less completely over- 
 powered by fear and anxiety, the mother would 
 have scrupled. 
 
 " It was Ethert's own unbiassed determination 
 not to ask you himself. I hardly see how he 
 could have done so. He could not tell you that 
 he would have spoken at this time if there had 
 been no kind of compulsion upon either of you, 
 no need for haste or secrecy; and he could not 
 have explained the necessity — could not have told 
 you what he left me to tell. But he will see you 
 
 VOL. L P 
 
210 I V Y. 
 
 — of course he expects to see you — if you mean 
 to agree to that which we all feel to be 
 necessary for the sake of all. You can say to him 
 what you will, then ; only of course you will not 
 affront him by seeming to doubt his sincerity, 
 or me by doubting that I have told you the 
 truth." 
 
 In any other matter Ivy could hardly have 
 been so imposed upon or bewildered ; but where 
 her feeling towards Ethert was concerned she 
 could hardly as yet be perfectly straightforward 
 and truthful with herself. The light in which 
 she was now called upon to regard him was so 
 novel, the circumstances so painful and perplex- 
 ing, that she was conscious of no one clear 
 definite wish or conviction. Could she have 
 analysed, have stated to herself her own thought, 
 her own desire, she might have found that she 
 wished earnestly to believe that Ethert really 
 loved her ; really cared for her so far as to be at 
 least a willing party to the marriage, indepen- 
 dently of the pressure of family necessity. If he 
 were a willing, even though not an ardent suitor, 
 she could not be an unwilling bride. Perhaps 
 she trusted unconsciously to the truth of her own 
 
THE CRUELTY OF COWARDICE. 211 
 
 affection, her own intended loj^alty and devotion 
 to him, to win a warmer love than he probably 
 felt at present. But the one thing most in- 
 tolerable to her affection, as to her delicacy, would 
 be to be forced upon a reluctant bridegroom 
 accepting her from necessity, or, worse still, from 
 compassion. She was, however, shy even with 
 herself, ashamed to think what she did feel or 
 wish, confused by the conflict of her own half- 
 conscious emotions ; and therefore the more easily 
 bewildered by her mother's sophistry. 
 
 " Answer me one thing, one thing only, 
 Mamma, but quite truly, quite frankly, keeping 
 back nothing, not telling me half the truth and 
 hiding something to spare my feelings. Is this 
 Ethert's own wish, or has he yielded only to your 
 wishes and my father's f 
 
 " It is his own wish, Ivy. He sees, as we see, 
 no other possible escape from a position in which 
 he would be forced to do what he would feel dis- 
 creditable and dishonouring to him, as it would 
 be disgraceful beyond words to us. And for his 
 feehng towards you — you know what you have 
 found him : are you vain enough to think that 
 your conversation or company could have had 
 
 P 2 
 
212 IVY. 
 
 such charms for him, had he not loved you 
 dearly?" 
 
 " He was kind — yes, I think he was fond of 
 me. But it was just as he was fond of me five or 
 ten years ago. Mamma, does it follow he will 
 like me, that he will not he annoyed, impatient of 
 me as a — as things stand now, because he liked 
 me as a cousin and a child V* 
 
 " I think you may trust Ethert," her mother 
 replied evasively. "Yes, Ivy, the wish, the 
 decision is his, all things heard and considered. 
 You must not wonder that he left it to me to 
 speak for him. However much he might have 
 washed it — and I do not know what he would have 
 wished had Charlie lived — you must remember 
 that the idea, the need of acting in such a moment 
 and in such haste, took him by surprise. It is 
 almost as awkward and painful for him as for 
 you ; and it is natural that he should be chafed 
 and vexed by finding himself so driven and 
 hurried, and shrink from proposing such a thing 
 to you. But he wishes it, on all accounts. 
 You had better not ask him such a question, 
 but if you do he will tell you that it is his 
 wish." 
 
THE CRUELTY OF COWARDICE. 213 
 
 " Then, Mamma, 1 will do what Ethert wishes : 
 I will try to please him in this as in everything 
 else. But — " and here she utterly broke down. 
 It may be hoped that her burst of tears relieved 
 her sorely tried, cruelly strained spirit — "it is 
 very, very hard ! I did think a girl might know 
 
 that she is loved before she is asked to 
 
 If Ethert had said one word before he knew 
 
 this " 
 
 For the moment her mother dared hardly speak, 
 and could do little to soothe her. Many minutes 
 had elapsed before, still considerate, still gentle 
 and thoughtful for one who had shown little 
 tenderness for her, Ivy regained perforce her self- 
 control ; and glancing at the clock bade good- night 
 to the mother of whose long and weary watchings 
 during the last few nights she was fully 
 aware. 
 
 " One minute, darling," the mother said, com- 
 punction and something approaching to remorse 
 giving a yet softer tenderness to her tone than it 
 . generally possessed even in her kindest moods : 
 *^a more anxious, earnest searching look to her 
 eyes. " Is this — this marriage really so hard upon 
 you, so painful to you'? I know, though you 
 
214 IVY. 
 
 ma}' not believe it for some time to come, that I 
 have advised you for your own good, that in the 
 end you would have bitterly repented if you had 
 acted otherwise. Don't think i doubt or under- 
 rate the sacrifice of pride, of feeling, of delicacy 
 even, you are making for me, for I know that as 
 yet it is for me ; you cannot dream how far what 
 is necessary to my peace of mind is also needful 
 to your own. But it would grieve me to think 
 that the sacrifice was one of affection and per- 
 manent happiness, as well as of the feelings of the 
 moment. Ivy, you have always liked Ethert; 
 there is no one you like better; — there cannot be. 
 You are not unhappy at marrying him, surely ? 
 only at being in some sense forced to do so T 
 
 Ivy turned away the face her mother strove 
 with natural anxiety to read, but answered with a 
 very strong effort and in a low tone. Her words 
 conveyed to the mother's heart such comfort as 
 the consciousness of a hard somewhat selfish part 
 harshly performed — consciousness too of the 
 terrible responsibility involved in a decision not 
 only enforced by pressure, but obtained by what 
 was little better than deliberate falsehood— had 
 left her capable of receiving. 
 
THE CRUELTY OF COWARDICE. 215 
 
 " It is not that I am to marry Ethert, not even 
 that I am forced to it. I could have borne that, 
 especially if he had been the one to enforce it. 
 It is that I fear— I fear, though of course you do 
 not know it— but though you have not pressed 
 him, if you have told Ethert all and he sees 
 things as you do, I fear .... he is so generous, he 
 has alwaj^s been so grateful to you, and so tender 
 to me — I fear .... it is not that I am forced, but — 
 that he is." 
 
216 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 TENDER OR TRUE? 
 
 IT was late when Ethert retired that evening ; 
 but, as he well knew, sleep was out of the 
 question. For a long time he paced his room 
 without even an attempt to rest. Thoroughly 
 displeased with his aunt, and scarcely less dis- 
 satisfied with himself, the utterly intolerable 
 character of either possible alternative forced 
 itself in turn upon his mind. 
 
 He grew hourly more and more provoked by 
 his utter inability to decide even what he really 
 wished to happen. His fancy for a future mar- 
 riage with Meta seemed, like all day-dreams of 
 romance, stronger, sweeter, and dearer, perhaps 
 more real, now that it must be abandoned for 
 ever. 
 
 The affection he had felt since her very baby- 
 
TENDER OR TRUE? 217 
 
 hood for his cousin, warmer and deeper than he 
 was himself aware — truer perhaps, certainly 
 more impulsive, instructive, and less fanciful, and 
 prohahly more firaily rooted, than his regard for 
 her rival — vanished, if it were not yet exchanged 
 for actual antipathy, when he was forced to tliink 
 of her as a wife ; and a wife thrust upon him by 
 circumstances, by her parents, by gratitude for 
 kindness which now proved to have been by no 
 means disinterested, by a delicacy which his 
 cooler judgment half condemned as overstrained, 
 by care for a question of family honour that 
 hardly touched his own. He could see, however, 
 no third solution of the problem that day so 
 suddenly forced upon his consideration. If the 
 marriage would be hateful and w^ould seem 
 discreditable, yet infinitely worse in appearance 
 if not in fact was the only alternative course — a 
 course which might yet be virtually imposed upon 
 him. 
 
 He, a strong man, who had always prided 
 himself on his power to care for himself under 
 any circumstances in which he could probably be 
 thrown — he to snatch fortune, fame, social posi- 
 tion, from a young and soon to be fatherless girl ; 
 
218 IVY. 
 
 he to proclaim her illegitimate, and her mother 
 the mistress, where she had for twenty years been 
 received as the wife, of the head of his own 
 family ! He dared not wish that Ivy should 
 refuse, yet he could not endure to contemplate 
 the position in which her consent would place 
 him. He knew that the social sneers his mar- 
 riage might provoke would be inspired quite as 
 much by envy as by disapprobation ; but he could 
 not bear to feel that, if not deserved, they were 
 unanswerable. He could despise the world's 
 opinion — so long as the world must feel that he 
 had the right ; he could defy censure — if he could 
 have felt the power to make his defiance effective. 
 But he could not bear that fortune-hunters 
 should be entitled to fancy him, not the Quixotic 
 fool he might be, but a hypocrite like them- 
 selves. 
 
 Nothing galled his pride more than the recol- 
 lection of the bitter uncompromising language 
 in which, as novelist and poet, he had held up 
 to scorn the very thing he must now submit to 
 seem. The marriage, really a sacrifice most 
 trying and cruel, a sacrifice of liberty, of love, 
 even of interest, must, to all but Ivy and her 
 
TENDER OR TRUE? 219 
 
 parents, appear a selfish and interested bargain. 
 Nay, could he be sure that Iv}^ herself would 
 understand it ; could he trust her mother to tell 
 the truth, or could he stoop himself to explain, 
 or even to enquire how far it was understood 1 
 And afterwards, when the sacrifice had been made 
 for her, would he not, as he had too truly said, 
 have made her utterly miserable ? 
 
 What could their future be? A formal mar- 
 riage formally and immediately repudiated by 
 any overt act — the idea which had at first dimly 
 and vagely occurred to him— would be worse 
 than useless. Not only would it inflict on Ivy 
 an unprovoked affront, an unwarrantable stigma ; 
 it would fail, and more than fail, to achieve its 
 only purpose. The world, startled by so violent 
 a contradiction to its natural inferences, would 
 be piqued to tenfold curiosity ; and if it did not 
 detect the truth, would invent some yet more 
 Injurious explanation. But the prospect of an 
 actual union was too cruel to be fairly and man- 
 fully faced. 
 
 Its pain would be enhanced, exacerbated, by all 
 that would have rendered a marriage of love with 
 one like Ivy especially sweet and happy ; by the 
 
220 I Y Y. 
 
 charms of person and of character that would 
 have endeared her to a stranger, by all the 
 recollections and associations that entwined her 
 image with many of the brightest and happiest 
 scenes of a not very bright or cheerful life. 
 Ethert had known bat two close and cherished 
 ties — that which bound him to the ward whose 
 love he must renounce, and that which attached 
 him quite as strongl}^ to the cousin whom in 
 marrying he would lose for ever. 
 
 The death of those we love is a light, a soft 
 affliction compared with the death of love ; with 
 that change of life-long feelings which not only 
 embitters the present and darkens the future, but 
 robs us of the past. And the absence of love 
 Avas not the worst. Ethert felt as if he must 
 inevitably hate the wife he had not chosen. The 
 conflict of feeling was sure to engender a bitter- 
 ness that must break out in taunts, reproaches, 
 quarrels — a prospect ugly enough in any eyes, 
 inefi'ably hideous to one whose nature rendered 
 peace at home not merely the paramount object 
 of desire, the first necessity of mental comfort, 
 but the indispensable condition of intellectual 
 efficienc3^ 
 
TENDER OR TRUE? 221 
 
 If Ethert had less appreciated his cousin, he 
 would have shrunk with less horror from the 
 necessity of making her his wife. As it was, to 
 the poignancy of his own disgust, his own misery, 
 was added an anticipatory sting of remorse and 
 regret for her — for the clinging tenderness that 
 must be torn and withered, the childlike inno- 
 cence that must be soiled, the sweetness that 
 must be soured and embittered, in a position the 
 most fatal to all that was best and loveliest in 
 womanhood. Yet the idea of loyally accepting 
 the situation, and, having made Ivy his wife, of 
 honestly trying to treat and love her as such, 
 never entered his mind. Not that he was 
 wanting either in conscience or compassion, but 
 that the situation seemed, to his deepest and 
 strongest instincts, too intensely abhorrent for 
 such acceptance. 
 
 It was in truth his very affection for Ivy that 
 rendered this marriage so repugnant. That affec- 
 tion had been so thoroughly and loyally fraternal 
 — the intimacy subsisting and encouraged since 
 her infancy had so distinctly required as well as 
 fostered such a sentiment — honour and duty as 
 well as habit had so peremptorily excluded the 
 
222 IVY. 
 
 possibility of passion, and almost of romance, from 
 a relation so confidential — that the closer but 
 utterly different and incompatible union now 
 forced upon him was felt, if not seen, to be un- 
 natural, and the feelings that belonged to it were 
 impulsively rejected as wrong and impossible. 
 He was not clearly conscious of such an inward 
 conviction ; but it lay deeply rooted at the base 
 of the instinctive reluctance and aversion which 
 actuated him, and paralysed his conscience by 
 rendering its utterances incoherent and self-con- 
 tradictory. 
 
 The morning light had stolen into his room 
 before he fell into a restless slumber ; and it was 
 late indeed when, suddenly starting from dis- 
 turbed dreams, he awoke to the consciousness of 
 that which lay before him, and became aware 
 that, according to the habits of any life but that 
 of poKtics, journalism, or London fashion, the 
 hour was past when men should be out at their 
 work or sport, and women left to domestic duties 
 or drawing-room dawdling. But his supposed 
 laziness would ensure him an escape for the 
 moment from a meeting that might have been 
 very awkward. 
 
TENDER OR TRUE? 223 
 
 Nothing could be worse than to meet his aunt 
 and Ivy at the breakfast-table, while still ignorant 
 of his cousin's decision ; to go through the form 
 of unconstrained indifferent conversation with 
 that one thought in all their minds to which none 
 could refer. Yes, there was one thing worse ; 
 and of course that was exactly what happened. 
 Lady Glynne was not in the breakfast-room, and 
 her daughter was. 
 
 It was eminently characteristic of Ivy's sweet 
 native courtesy and unselfish simplicity that she 
 had never dreamed of evading so awkward a 
 meeting. It was for her a thing of course that 
 she should wait to give her cousin and guest his 
 breakfast ; and it never occurred to her to avail 
 herself either of the formal excuse afforded by 
 her recent affliction — formal, because that of itself 
 would but have drawn her closer to Ethert — or of 
 the plea which, if she could not prefer, he must 
 have assumed and accepted though unspoken.. 
 But despite the strange and novel constraint, the 
 intolerable awkwardness of their mutual position, 
 while as yet the question has neither been asked 
 nor answered, she felt as if even on this subject 
 she could better trust to Ethert's considerate 
 
224 IVY. 
 
 silence or gentleness of speech than to her 
 mother's forbearance or her father's mercy. 
 Ethert would know, as he had always known, 
 how to spare and set her at ease. Her presence 
 therefore seemed to herself a mere duty of 
 domestic courtesy, and she ascribed his start, 
 his manifest discomfiture, only to embarrassment, 
 and in no wise to surprise at seeing her 
 there. 
 
 Left alone with Ivy, Ethert felt even less at ease 
 than she. He had never supposed that she would 
 choose to meethim alone till the decisive and formal 
 interview should be forced upon her ; and in his 
 dismay at finding her there, almost assumed that 
 she had come to some unforeseen and probably in- 
 convenient resolve. The momentary impulse to 
 question her, as a man feels impelled to fling him- 
 self over the precipice to which he has come too 
 close, was Instantly exchanged for an intense 
 apprehension of the approaching disclosure. It 
 was one thing to hold the language of practical 
 truth to the mother, who had no especial claim to 
 have it softened for her ear ; it was another and 
 a very difi'erent one to deal with the half- conscious 
 motives and half-spoken feelings of a young and 
 
TENDER OR TRUE ? 225 
 
 sensitive girl. He would fain have escaped when 
 his hasty meal was ended, without a word of 
 reference to the subject which engrossed the 
 thoughts and fettered the tongues of both ; and 
 Ivy, naturally averse to anticipate the scene she 
 could not but dread, and feeling of course that it 
 was not for her Urst to approach the subject, 
 would willingly have let him do so. But her 
 perfect simplicity, her utter freedom from all 
 affectation, gave her at this moment a clearness 
 of judgment, a gentle courage which were want- 
 ing to others. After all, she had been told that 
 Ethert would not ask her ; had been forced to 
 content herself with the question as already put 
 through her mother. It only remained that she 
 should give to himself her reply to that question : 
 and, painful as this would be, no scene with 
 Ethert could be half so distressing as another 
 appeal from her mother either to him or to 
 herself. Her soft, low, wavering accents arrested 
 him as his hand was on the door. 
 
 " Ethert — you will not go away without .... 
 Mamma will want you . . . and" — she contrived 
 to say at last distinctly, though with tremulous 
 voice and faint but painful blushes— "I believe 
 
 VOL. I. Q 
 
226 IVY. 
 
 .... I understood .... you wished to speak to 
 me this morning." 
 
 He had sense and good feeling enough to 
 appreciate the effort, to understand the perfect 
 innocence and loyalty of nature that had made it 
 possible ; and while once more fretting against 
 the curb, strove to exhibit neither reluctance nor 
 impatience before her. 
 
 " I shall not go beyond the garden, Ivy, in case 
 I am wanted." 
 
 Some impulse made him look back, and feel 
 rather than see her glance, half of pained sur- 
 prise, half of reproachful appeal. That glance 
 shamed him instantly out of the masculine 
 cowardice or unconscious resentment which would 
 have thrown on her an initiative befitting neither 
 her years nor her sex. 
 
 '' I beg your pardon, Ivy. Yes ; I must ask 
 to speak to you presently, when you can make it 
 convenient." 
 
 " Papa," she said, " sent to desire me to come 
 to him as soon as your breakfast was over. I 
 suppose I shall not be very long with him, 
 and then I will come to you wherever you 
 please." 
 
TENDER OR TRUE ? 227 
 
 " Will the library or the garden suit you best, 
 Ivy?" 
 
 She could not have told what there was in the 
 question, and in all the brief conversation, that 
 chilled and stung her heart, making it hard to 
 restrain tears of wounded feeling ; and she re- 
 proached herself with unprovoked petulance. 
 Ethert's tone was cold and constrained ; but that 
 was not all. Quite unawares, Ivy felt without 
 observing two slight but very significant omis- 
 sions — the absence of a few trivial syllables 
 which she would hardly have noticed, yet missed 
 none the less ; and yet more, the studied avoid- 
 ance of the unconscious kindly direction to which 
 all her life long, she had been accustomed 
 in her intercourse with one so much her 
 elder. 
 
 "May I find you in our old favourite walk 
 under the beeches — where I came to you yester- 
 day f she replied, in a low shy and faltering 
 voice. 
 
 Ethert felt that there was much of sweet natural 
 sentiment in the choice ; perhaps an unconscious 
 appeal to the associations of a past whose tender- 
 ness might be estranged, but could hardly be for- 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 I V Y. 
 
 gotten. Ill as it suited his own mood, it could not 
 but soften his heart towards her. 
 
 " As yon please, of course," he said, in a some- 
 what altered tone. " I will wait as long as j^oii 
 like, Iv3' ; don't hurry yourself." 
 
 Profoundly embarrassed, intensely irritated, 
 Ethert, as he paced the familiar path, instinctively 
 turned, though no inveterate smoker, to the one 
 resource wherein, belying proverb and poetry, 
 men now-a-days seek help in difficulty^ counsel in 
 need, and comfort in trouble. Poets may say 
 what they please ; in practice, like the rest of us, 
 they tacitly own that woman is life's chief source 
 of vexation, and tobacco its best solace. Unhap- 
 pily, like other "ministering angels" it has its 
 caprices; like the drugs of the acknowledged 
 pharmacy, it is least effective when most wanted. 
 Sir Charles's choice regalias had no flavour ; for 
 the first time in Ethert's experience, they would 
 not burn steadily. One had been angrily thrown 
 away, another twice rehghted, before Iv}^ appeared. 
 True to her sweet genuine simplicity, to that 
 highest courtesy which springs from unconscious 
 habitual consideration for others, she had not in- 
 dulged for a moment her natural shrinking from 
 
TENDER OR TRUE? 229 
 
 an interview to which she could not but look with 
 discomfort and embarrassment, even while she 
 hoped and believed that it would be made less 
 painful in fact than it seemed in prospect. Her 
 trust in Ethert's kindness was not yet shaken, and 
 anxious to learn his real feelings, she had full 
 faith that in any case he would make her trying 
 task, the hard alternative before her, as easy as 
 the situation itself allowed. As soon as released 
 by her father, she had hastened to put on her hat, 
 cloak, and gloves; allowingherself only that neces- 
 sary interval to recover from the effect of a scene 
 which had jarred and grated on her feelings. Sir 
 Charles Glynne's way of treating such a subject 
 would at any time have been repugnant to her 
 sensitive spirit ; and his anxiety had made him 
 harsh and imperious ; but his paternal commands 
 had not strained and tried his daughter's endur- 
 ance as had her mother's less authoritative and 
 dictatorial but — partly perhaps for that reason — 
 more searching and painful pressure. 
 
 There were traces of recent tears in the girl's 
 eyes, and her step was slower than usual; not 
 that she consciously sought respite or delay, but that 
 the distress and disquiet of her spirit were involun- 
 
230 IVY. 
 
 taril}^ reflected in lier movement and bearing. 
 Ethert noticed her altered carriage and demeanour 
 as she approached ; not without pain. Other 
 trifles of the same kind aff'ected him still more 
 painfully ; for he was not consistent enough to 
 observe without being hurt thereby those symp- 
 toms of change in Ivy's feelings which corre- 
 sponded most closely to the change in his own. 
 It wounded him to miss the upward glance of 
 confident afi'ection, the trustful smile of simple 
 open pleasure, with which she had been wont 
 to invite or accept his companionship— the light 
 touch of the little hand upon his arm, typical at 
 once of the perfect ease and the loving dependence 
 that had characterized their intimacy. Ivy on 
 her part felt a sort of evil omen in a yet more 
 trivial incident, as she saw Ethert fling away his 
 cigar ; it had especially pleased her to learn that 
 on this minute point of etiquette she had hitherto 
 been treated with less ceremony than a childish 
 ward like Meta. She walked beside him for a 
 few moments in silence, with bent head and half- 
 averted countenance. It was hardly her part, as 
 Ethert inwardly acknowledged, to speak first ; 
 though in truth he had asked for the interview 
 
TENDER OR TRUE ? 231 
 
 not to utter his mind, but to hear hers ; though 
 all he had chosen to say had already been com- 
 municated to her, and he had only to learn her 
 decision. 
 
 "Iv}^," he said at last— his own voice sounded 
 to himself painfully cold and strange, echoing 
 the discord in his heart produced by the jarring 
 notes of habitual tenderness and actual resent- 
 ment, of respect and pity for Ivy herself, im- 
 patient irritation under the compulsion of which 
 she was the object and instrument—" I suppose I 
 have nothing to tell you ? You have heard from 
 your mother — what I only learnt when she sent 
 hither for me last evening — what has been 
 thought necessary .... in the interest of ... . 
 of the family — to what hurried measure I am 
 compelled to ask your consent f 
 
 Her faint, timid " Yes" was so nearly in- 
 audible that he paused till it was reluctantly 
 repeated. 
 
 "Forgive me, Ivy, if I seem unkind or dis- 
 courteous. You know, do you not, that this has 
 taken me as completely by surprise as yourself? 
 It is not my fault that we ... . that I am forced 
 to act so hastily and at a time so unsuitable. I 
 
232 IVY. 
 
 suppose I have but two questions to ask .... 
 you must not be hurt or oflPended if in so strange 
 a position I seem wanting in consideration. . . . 
 The thing I most care for is, not to deceive you. 
 Pardon me if my first question is not . . . . what 
 you would expect. You know what is required 
 of us, and required at once. Do you understand 
 why — that we must choose between this — this 
 hurried step and .... disclosures that should 
 not be risked, for others' sake as well as ... . 
 our own?" 
 
 The last two words, totally unexpected, made 
 on that account the sharper impression on her 
 mind. Perhaps she unconsciously sought to post- 
 pone the more difficult part of her task, or hoped 
 that Ethert's explanation might help her over it. 
 
 *' Our own ? No, Ethert, I did not know .... 
 I thought it was only Mamma and I that had 
 anything to fear ; I understood .... Nothing 
 could touch you, could it f 
 
 "I cannot separate my interest, my honour, 
 from yours. Anything that touched the women 
 of my house must touch me to the quick ; and it 
 would disgrace me to be the means of injuring 
 you." 
 
TENDER OR TRUE? 233 
 
 "Ah, yes .... I remember. Mamma said 
 you could not claim your rights without bringing 
 shame on us. You mean— you cannot bear to do 
 that ?" 
 
 Ethert felt that they were on very dangerous 
 ground. 
 
 Scornful of his Aunt's social cowardice, he 
 had been coerced by a horror of the threatened 
 disclosure deeper than her own. All the world 
 might have known it, if he could have kept Ivy 
 innocent of a knowledge so fatal to her stainless 
 purity of soul. His reverence for maidenhood in 
 general might be extravagantly credulous, but 
 there was no exaggeration in his poetic appre- 
 hension of Ivy's maiden innocence; and he simply 
 could not endure that any glimpse of the truth, 
 any vague shadow of shame or sin, should darken 
 that snowy chastity of thought, or startle that 
 perfect ignorance of evil which was for him the 
 deepest charm of her exquisite nature. Alarmed 
 by her approach to the point of peril, he spoke 
 hastily and heedlessly ; 
 
 " Enough, Ivy, if you understand that this is 
 not a question of money, of selfish interest 
 merely. If that were all, I would never have 
 
234 IVY. 
 
 insulted you by such a suggestion. But you 
 know there are secrets which it is essential to 
 keep, and which can only be kept in this way ?" 
 
 "Yes, I think so. Mamma told me that; she 
 would tell me no more. Ethert," she added with 
 a sudden effort and in a less tremulous voice, 
 '* Mamma said — I understood her — that you 
 would not have me told any more. Don't mis- 
 understand me. I promised — even if you would 
 tell me what it is, I must not hear. But only — 
 if I must decide — do you really think I ought to 
 have to decide without knowing wh}^ what it is 
 that compels ? . . . Ethert, was it your desire that 
 I should not know ?" 
 
 He realized for the first time how unjust that 
 obligation to decide upon imperfect knowledge 
 must seem to the helpless girl ; nay, how cruelly 
 unjust it actually was. But that injustice was 
 an inevitable incident of the position. He felt 
 also, what certainly Ivy had not intended, that 
 her anxious desire for fuller information implied 
 under what sense of compulsion she would yield, 
 if she consented at all, to a marriage which she 
 appeared to regard with a repugnance as deep as 
 his own. 
 
TENDER OR TRUE? 235 
 
 " I am very sorry that you should be forced to 
 decide without knowing what it is that you 
 purchase at such a price. But — you cannot be 
 told. It would be most cruel to your mother, 
 almost as cruel as to let all the world know ; and 
 for my sake and for your own I could not bear 
 that you should^I would not have my — I could 
 not let you be pained, wounded by such know- 
 ledge. If you consent to this sacrifice— I well 
 understand how bitter a sacrifice it is — it must 
 be on trust; on your parents' assurance that this 
 is better, less terrible than the disclosure which 
 they think can be prevented in no other 
 way." 
 
 " Do you think so, Ethert ?" she asked quickly, 
 unconsciously betraying how much more weight 
 she attached to his counsel than to theirs. 
 
 " Yes, Ivy. I hoped at first it might be possi- 
 ble to protect you without — without telling you 
 anything ; but when all was considered and 
 discussed, I had to own that it was beyond my 
 power to make you safe in any other way. Do 
 me the justice, Cousin,'^ he added earnestly, with 
 a voice that trembled almost as much as hers had 
 done, " do me the justice to believe that I would 
 
236 IVY. 
 
 be no party to such an exaction if I thought it 
 possible otherwise to avoid — what I cannot bear 
 to let you suffer." 
 
 Ethert had no idea how fatallv decisive were 
 the expressions he used ; for he had no adequate 
 conception of Ivy's implicit trust in himself, nor 
 did he realize the exaggerated nature of the 
 terrors he confirmed. Here, as throughout, his 
 determination to leave explanation to another, 
 and the impossibility of full, frank confidence 
 between the cousins in this critical interview, 
 placed them hopelessly at cross purposes. Had 
 Ethert made his offer in person, though he could 
 never have told or hinted at the facts, all the 
 better would he have conveyed a just idea of 
 their actual weight to a mind which the facts 
 themselves would simply have shocked and 
 terrified out of all self-possession. 
 
 Informed and guided by a clear-headed man 
 over-contemptuous of the world's opinion, instead 
 of an eager, excited, frightened woman whom 
 fear of that opinion had driven frantic. Ivy would 
 have escaped the infection of her mother's panic, 
 she would not have felt that sense of a terror 
 the more appalling because unknown, a necessit}^ 
 
TENDER OR TRUE? 237 
 
 the more cogent that she could not estimate the 
 penalty enforcing it, hy which she had been 
 practically almost deprived of choice. At any 
 rate, she would not have been misled by the 
 apparent concurrence of views really as distinct, 
 as w^ell could be views of the same facts leading 
 to the same issue. Few sentiments could be less 
 alike than Lady Glynne's abject dread of worldly 
 scandal, and Ethert's passionate shrinking from a 
 revelation that would bring home the sense of 
 disgrace and dishonour, the consciousness of shame, 
 to herself. But this difference of meaning, wide 
 as it was, Ivy necessarily failed to perceive ; so 
 that her cousin's measured sentences only served 
 to impress on her spirit the conviction that her 
 mother had scarcely exaggerated the evil she 
 apprehended, or the necessity of the only alter- 
 native. 
 
 As regarded that alternative itself, the cousins 
 were again at cross-purposes. Ivy had felt, as the 
 simplest maiden must have felt, a keen instinctive 
 dread of being accepted rather than sought, of 
 owing the offered marriage to the generosity or 
 compassion of an unwilling bridegroom ; and this 
 feeling was deepened by her own warm, pure, trust- 
 
238 IVY. 
 
 ful affection for Ethert. If only it were his wish, 
 or even his will, for his ownsake and not hers, she 
 would have been more than content ; confident of 
 her actual and little doubtful of her ultimate place 
 in his heart. She would not have enquired too 
 closely into his motives, so only she were wooed, 
 even at second-hand, and not forced upon him. 
 The extreme youth, the absolute inexperience and 
 ignorance of life which alone had rendered 
 possible her mother's mingled deception and 
 coercion, precluded her from reading Ethert's 
 feeling through his words, transparent as, to a 
 girl a little older and less absolutely innocent, 
 these must have been. To reach Ivy's under- 
 standing, he must have spoken with a distinct- 
 ness possible to few men in such a position, and 
 doublj^ impossible to him. Mutual misconception 
 was almost inevitable : the nature of that mis- 
 conception which actually occurred was due to 
 Ethert's peculiar character. Most men would 
 have detected Ivy's willingness and mis- 
 construed it : her cousin, appreciating her 
 child-like innocence, her maiden delicacy, in- 
 ferred even before she had spoken a reluctance 
 at least as strong as his own. But in truth. 
 
TENDER OR TRUE? 239 
 
 despite her fear that loving her as a cousin he 
 might not like her as a wife — a distinction sug- 
 gested by what she had read or heard rather than 
 native to her consciousness — she never guessed, 
 could not at present have conceived the total 
 difference, the little less than contradiction 
 between a kinsman's affection and a lover's 
 passion. Her own heart gave her no clue to such 
 a distinction. 
 
 Ethert was associated with all the pleasantest 
 experiences, the dearest recollections of her past. 
 He had always brought her comfort in trouble, 
 had turned dulness or depression into brightness 
 and pleasure : from his presence she had ever 
 drawn confidence and courage. And now, to be 
 his companion for life, the inmate of his home, 
 simply promised her a perpetuity of the holiday 
 happiness connected with his visits; and a shelter 
 from that strange unknown terror which without 
 him she dared not face — with him, she could not 
 fear. She loved him better than anyone on 
 earth — had so loved him ever since she could 
 remember. She could imagine no truer paradise 
 than to be shielded and petted as she had always 
 been by him, and she looked no further and no 
 
240 I V Y. 
 
 deeper. If only Ethert wished it— if only he would 
 be what he had always been till the recent cloud 
 whose presence she had felt so keenly, whose nature 
 she could so little comprehend, had darkened 
 and chilled the tenderness which had made the 
 sunshine of her life ! 
 
 "But, Ethert, do you wish itf Ivy faltered 
 timidly and low, raising her eyes for one moment 
 to his and then turning them on the ground, 
 while the faint rose colour flushed her pale soft 
 cheeks. 
 
 He hesitated, scarcely less embarrassed by the 
 strangeness of the situation than she by doubt or 
 shyness. The question brought him face to face 
 with the dilemma he had sought to escape by 
 throwing on her mother the task of explanation 
 and proposal — offered if it did not yet enforce 
 the cruel alternative of brutal truth or courteous 
 falsehood. In Ivy's absence the former had been 
 possible, if not easy ; in the presence of that sweet, 
 loving, clinging nature, with that soft voice in his 
 ears, looking on that fragile form, associated since 
 her babyhood with all that could appeal to the 
 tenderness of home-affection, to manhood's pro- 
 tective instincts, to chivalrous deference for ideal 
 
TENDER OR TRUE? 241 
 
 maidenhood — it was impossible not to lie by 
 tone and manner at least, if not in direct 
 words. 
 
 " Need you ask me, Ivy ? You know that I 
 should not have dared, should not have dreamed 
 of such a thing; I should never have wounded 
 you by the very mention of a step so hasty and 
 so painful and at a time so unseemly — if I had 
 thought it less than necessary. If my aunt has 
 kept her promise, you know all that I could tell 
 you. I cannot help it : forgive me my share in 
 your sacrifice." 
 
 She felt that her question had not been fairly 
 answered, and walked on beside him slowly and 
 in silence ; till even to him the long pause, the 
 indecision it seemed to imply, became almost in- 
 tolerable. In the crises of hfe, men and women 
 alike feel that suspense is the one thing they 
 cannot bear. 
 
 " Do you understand what is asked of you, 
 Ivy ? that .... not only must your answer be 
 given to-da}^, but .... it .... it must take 
 effect at once — while your father lives. After 
 , his death .... we could not .... act for our- 
 selves; your interests would be under the pro- 
 VOL. I. R 
 
242 I V y. 
 
 tection of the Courts, the question of title would 
 be raised ; and that is what we must avoid. Do 
 you understand ? . . . . It is shocking, startling, 
 I know .... you must feel it cruelly. But, 
 Ivy, you know me too well to think I would be a 
 party to such a proposal if I were not convinced 
 that your parents are right — that there is really 
 no other way." 
 
 She found voice at last. 
 
 " No other for me, Ethert ;— but for you ? Do 
 you wish it?" 
 
 " No way for either, Ivy. If^^ou refuse— it is 
 from my hand, in my interest, that the blow 
 would come ; and it would dishonour me to be 
 the means, the cause of harm to you." 
 
 " I cannot understand, Ethert. Cannot you 
 take what is yours ? .... we should not dis- 
 pute it." . 
 
 " No, Ivy. The truth would come out. I 
 wished, I offered to make over my claims to you ; 
 but .... it cannot be. There must be nothing 
 to show the world whether Glynnehurst be yours 
 or mine — unless you prefer to face the terrible 
 revelation that .... I cannot bear to think of. 
 I am sorry, ashamed beyond what words can say ; 
 
TENDER OR TRUE? 243 
 
 but .... that is , . . . the only alternative. 
 It is for you to decide— -it is not for me to urge 
 you to either sacrifice." 
 
 *' Ethert, if you wish it, do not call it by such 
 names ; do not speak as if I were so ungrateful. 
 Of course this — the talking of it now — the 
 
 haste " She broke down for a moment, and 
 
 a few tears fell, a sob was half suppressed. 
 " But if it must be, I ought not to complain of 
 that. I am sure j^ou would not hurt me if you 
 could help it ; and I suppose that is almost as 
 disagreeable to you as . . . .'* 
 
 She paused, faltered, and actually coloured with 
 distress as she realized what she had been about 
 to say. She had never meant to imply the shrinking 
 reluctance that her repeated questions suggested 
 to Ethert's apprehension. She had always so 
 looked up to him, and she had so thoroughly, so 
 simpl}^ accepted her mother's intimation that his 
 offer had laid her under deep obligation, that she 
 felt as if he must be hurt, had at least good 
 reason to be offended, by the involuntary betrayal of 
 her natural aversion to the precipitate action 
 forced on both. He perceived her forbearance, 
 though he could hardly fathom her meaning or 
 
 R 2 
 
244 IVY. 
 
 motive, and was mucli moved and touched by 
 her considerate simplicity. 
 
 "As it is to you" he said, completing her 
 sentence. " I fear, I know it must be unspeak- 
 ably distressing to you ; but if it is to be, Ivy, 
 it must be immediately^" 
 
 " If it is to be !" she repeated, in actual 
 surprise. Then, suddenly remembering that as 
 yet she had not expressed the assent she had in 
 truth taken for granted throughout, she stopped, 
 flushed crimson with painful blushes, and burst 
 into tears — tears that Ethert could not endure 
 to witness. He could not kiss them away, as he 
 might have ventured to do not so very long since; 
 but, for the first time since the lawyer's hint had 
 brought constraint between them, he took her 
 hand in his own, and held it as he had been 
 wont, closely and tenderly, till she recovered 
 her self-command. 
 
 "You have answered that question to your 
 mother?" he said very gently, when her sobs 
 had ceased, though her bosom still heaved pain- 
 fully, and tears overflowed the eyes she could 
 not raise from the ground. " You have told her? 
 But you know, Ivy, I have not seen her to-day ; 
 
TENDER OR TRUE? 245 
 
 and besides, I told her that I must have your 
 answer from yourself." 
 
 His voice had instinctively softened into its 
 caressing tone of old, and Ivy drew close to him 
 and rested her head against his shoulder ; not as 
 a maiden yielding to a lover the consent she will 
 not speak in words, but as the child who had 
 always been wont to lean on his unfailing sym- 
 pathy. But the gesture was none the less con- 
 clusive, though he understood how absolutely 
 unconscious she was of the answer it con- 
 veyed. 
 
 " It is to be, then V he asked, in a tone that 
 had unintentionally become almost cold. "I be- 
 lieve you are right. Ivy ; only let me be sure it is 
 your choice in so far as choice is possible ; that if 
 forced, it is by circumstances, by your own judg- 
 ment, and not . . . ." 
 
 "Forced?" she said, half wonderingly, half 
 doubtfully. "Ethert — Mamma says, and I am 
 sure she tliinks, this is your wish. Of course you 
 would tell her so, I know ; whatever you felt, 
 you would not let her see you did it unwillingly ; 
 and you would still less tell me if I did not ask, 
 entreat you to let me know the truth. I don't 
 
241^ IVY. 
 
 know what it is Mamma fears ; but I think no- 
 thing could be so dreadful as — Ethert, say that 
 j^ou wish it ! . . . that you are not doing it only 
 out of pity for us — for me." 
 
 Ethert had more scruple than gentlemen com- 
 monly have in telling the falsehoods frequently 
 required by courtesy and consideration to women ; 
 but he was aware that lying was an almost in- 
 evitable incident of the situation. The marriage 
 itself was so monstrous, so atrocious a fiction that 
 any minor lie w^as hardly worth the trouble of a 
 thought. One only falsehood he was resolved 
 not to tell ; he would not profess or promise a 
 love he did not feel. But in regard to her present 
 question, he was by no means sure at the moment 
 w^hat the truth was; and quite sure that be the 
 truth what it might it was the last thing to be 
 told. He had realized clearly, since the conver- 
 sation began, w^hat had seemed less certain till 
 now — that, since he could not endure to proclaim 
 his cousin's illegitimacy, this marriage was for 
 him as well as for her the only safe, the onl}' 
 tolerable course. In that sense he wished it; and 
 if that were not the sense of her question, it must 
 suflScc for his reply. 
 
TENDER OR TRUE? 247 
 
 " Yes, Ivy ; under the circumstances, I must 
 wish it. I don't see what other course is open to 
 me. I wish it — if you are willing, or if you 
 choose, to make so great a sacrifice to your 
 mother's feelings, your mother^s interests and 
 your own, where both are so terribly involved. 
 I could not wish — what must be the consequence 
 of your refusal." 
 
 "You think it right, then, Ethert? But if it 
 is right, do not speak of the sacrifice I make. I 
 — I am almost a child, and an ignorant, dull, 
 rather foolish child ; I have nothing to give you ; 
 I hardly understand whether I have even the 
 least thing of all, money ; I am neither clever nor 
 companionable, nor even prett}^ And you 
 — you have been my only friend except my 
 parents and Charlie ; and you were always 
 kind, have always done so much to make 
 the time pleasant, to make me happy while 
 you were here. If I dared hope that I could 
 make you happy, Ethert, I don't think I 
 ought to let you speak of a sacrifice on my 
 part." 
 
 He was deeply touched, fully understanding 
 alike the considerate feeling, the kindly recollec- 
 
248 I V Y. 
 
 tions, and the conscientious love of truth which 
 had prompted her disclaimer. 
 
 " A sacrifice, Ivy," he said gently, " because if 
 there had been no such necessity, if things had 
 stood as we thought they stood a short time ago, 
 none of us would have dreamed of this. You 
 are forced to wish it as I — \\^sh it," he concluded, 
 giving a new turn to the sentence as he felt, just 
 in time, how brutal would sound in his own ears 
 the words he had well-nigh uttered. He had 
 meant, did mean, that she should understand the 
 truth. He had insisted that she should know 
 that, to hira as to herself, the marriage was a 
 painful necessity : and he supposed that, in lan- 
 guage more or less explicit, this had been con- 
 veyed to her. But he could not repeat it. Face 
 to face with her, he simply could not say : " You 
 are forced as I am forced." It was his fatal mis- 
 take, the mistake to which I\'y was sacrificed. 
 She was throughout the victim not more of her 
 mother's deception than of Ethert's misplaced 
 delicacj^ Could he have been frank at the cost 
 of courtesy and even of kindness, she would at 
 least have escaped the misconception under which, 
 intending simply to follow Ethert's guidance, she 
 
TENDER OR TRUE? 249 
 
 seemed to liim to accept the sacrifice exacted 
 from him on her behalf and yielded for her sake 
 — a sacrifice he could make, but could not forgive. 
 Now, having made up her mind that, if he so 
 willed, her mother's purpose was to be carried 
 out with full acquiescence on her side — and 
 gathered from his words that at any rate, if not 
 exactly his wish, it was distinctly and decidedly 
 his will — she was very slow to catch any hint 
 that contradicted the view thus impressed on 
 her. 
 
 There was a long pause. Ivy could not feel 
 satisfied, but knew not how to repeat her ques- 
 tions. It was probably in an unconscious eff'ort to 
 obtain something like an answer, to her heart if not 
 her ear, that she put out timidly the hand he had 
 dropped. He took and pressed it, and in that 
 pressure she understood what he certainly had not 
 meant to imply. 
 
 " One thing more," he added, hesitating and 
 almost faltering, so great was the effect of Ivy's 
 actual presence — so impossible seemed it, while 
 his eyes rested on that countenance of which 
 feminine gentleness and submission were scarcely 
 less characteristic than child-like grace and 
 
250 IVY. 
 
 purity, to name what in her absence it had seemed 
 natural and necessary to stipulate — " One thing 
 more your mother promised to tell you. I should 
 be very sorry if it hurt you, sorry you should 
 fancy either that I distrust you or mean 
 to try you more hardly than need be ; 
 but " 
 
 " Yes," she interrupted, willing to spare him 
 what he seemed scarcely able to speak. " Could 
 you doubt me, Ethert ; doubt that I should keep 
 faithfully the promises I must make V 
 
 *' That one at least," he answered, glad to 
 lighten the subject with a half jest, "ladies 
 construe generally in a non-natural sense. But, 
 Ivy, that is not all. In making that promise 
 merely as others make it, you would expect, and 
 rightly expect, to be consulted, to be heard ; 
 expect that I should give you my reasons and 
 listen to yours, even if I set them aside. That 
 is just what I cannot do. I fear that even you 
 will find silent unreasoned obedience hard to 
 render. ' You treat me like a child' is, I believe, 
 the usual excuse of conjugal rebels ; and like a 
 a child in many ways I shall have to treat 
 you." 
 
TENDER OR TRUE *? 251 
 
 "1 have always been — I am still ' almost — a 
 cliiid with yon, Ethert ; and if you will not treat 
 me more hardly than a child " 
 
 No revolt, no indignant outburst would have 
 been half so disconcerting as her simple unaffected 
 submission. 
 
 " You misunderstand me, Ivy. It is that we 
 begin with a secret between us, without the con- 
 fidence that if it were possible would be your 
 right ; and that I must stipulate for that which 
 under happier circumstances you would be the last 
 to withhold — which should have been rendered 
 easy by mutual trust and mutual choice. But on 
 the other hand that is all I ask. I can give so 
 little, it is so hard on you in every way, that, if 
 only you are amenable to guidance and refrain 
 from quarrelling, 1 have no right to expect more. 
 You need not fear that I shall ever forget how 
 little I can claim, how much is due to one who is 
 forced into marriage— not I hope by threats or 
 scolding, but forced nevertheless." 
 
 *' I don't understand trifling with a promise ; 
 especially " — she coloured and faltered a little — 
 " with such promises. I am sorry you seem to 
 think I might — and for the very reasons which 
 
252 IVY. 
 
 should make me more careful. But I can only 
 saj^ I will do my best, and if I fail, Ethert, I do 
 not think you will be too hard on me ; only, 
 don't repeat that I am forced, and do say that 
 you are not." 
 
 Here, for the first and last time, the question 
 was fairly put ; here came the opportunity, per- 
 haps even the obligation to speak the truth, at 
 any rate a direct alternative between truth and 
 falsehood. But it seemed too late for frankness, 
 especially after he had imwittingly elicited from 
 Ivy a consent the comparative willingness of 
 which, though of course affected only in delicacy 
 towards himself, surely called for at least equal 
 consideration on his part. Moreover to avow the 
 truth w^ould sting, almost drive her to revolt ; 
 and thus and at this stage to throw upon her the 
 responsibility of a rupture would be a mean, 
 unmanly, and ungenerous evasion. And so Ethert 
 threw^ away the last chance of sparing her and 
 himself pain far keener and more lasting than the 
 harshest utterance of the plain truth could have 
 inflicted. 
 
 " If I could have borne to palter with 3^ou, 
 Ivy, I would not have done what seems so 
 
TENDER OR TRUE? 253 
 
 strangely discourteous ; I would not have left my 
 aunt to say what you must naturally have thought 
 should have come from me. I am forced — to 
 believe that this is best, wisest for both of us. 
 In truth, Ivy, the thought that has troubled me 
 most has not been that I have no choice, but 
 that you have none. At any rate let me hope, 
 let me be sure that it is your decision — that you 
 have not been pressed, teased, scolded into if? 
 If you repent, if you shrink from it even now, 
 it is not too late. I know that your mother was 
 terrified, excited, and she might force or frighten 
 you more than she would mean. I can believe 
 that my uncle might be stern and hard where 
 he is so bent on his purpose, where he thinks, as 
 we do, the necessity is so strong and so clear 
 — and you are shy and timid. Have you been 
 frightened — forgive me if I say, bullied — into 
 this ? If you have — it is too hard on you : — tell 
 me — say you would rather not, and you shall 
 have nothing to fear that I can spare you, not 
 even a word of reproach from any one- — I will 
 take it all on myself. I have not promised : I 
 am not bound to any one but you, as yet. It was 
 lest you should be hurried into unwilling sub- 
 
254 IVY. 
 
 mission that I insisted upon hearing 3^our deter- 
 mination from yourself, and said I would not 
 answer finally till I had seen you alone. If this 
 be not your own choice, knowing all you can 
 know — Ivy, would you wish me to tell your 
 parents that, even if you would agree — / will 
 not?" 
 
 He thought that he had told the truth, had 
 given her freedom of choice as nearly as 
 the circumstances allowed, as courtesy and kind- 
 ness would permit. In words perhaps he had 
 done so. But once more his fatal consideration, 
 partly for her sex, partly for her own sensitive 
 feelings, her maiden dignity, came into play. His 
 aversion to suggest to a woman, above all to a 
 young girl, and one he had been accustomed to 
 treat so tenderly, the idea most offensive to 
 womanly pride — the thought that feminine 
 willingness avowed or betrayed had been met by 
 rejection or reluctance — gave an unintentional 
 unstudied softness, tenderness to his voice, 
 manner, and even words that wholly deceived 
 her ; deceived her the more easily that they 
 seemed a natural renewal of the kindness that 
 had so long since won her heart. Consoled and 
 
TENDER OR TRUE? 255 
 
 re-assured by his first sentences, Ivy was touched 
 b}^ what seemed to her the considerate delicacy of 
 the final offer. Far too generous and trustful to 
 imagine a concealed slight, far too loyal and 
 simple untruly to affect such a fancy, the proposal 
 that might have broken her mother's meshes was 
 actually that which knotted them fast and finally 
 around her. 
 
 " It is very kind of you, dear Ethert : it is as 
 you have always been to me. No ; I gave 
 Mamma my word willingly — if only I were sure 
 of you. And now " — and here her hand volun- 
 tarily rested on his arm, though she did not 
 look up into his face, but bent her head and 
 kept her eyes fixed on the ground, while a 
 slight colour returned to her pale cheek 
 as she murmured — " now I am not less — no 
 — I am much more willing than when I came 
 to you here, I know you will be good to me, as 
 you always were — it was foolish of me to doubt." 
 
 Ethert could not answer, could not have borne 
 to repudiate that sweet and simple trust. Perhaps 
 for the moment he had forgotten its new 
 meaning; forgotten that even in the old sense he 
 could never affect to be good to her again. 
 
256 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 "TO LOVE, HONOUR, AND CHERISH." 
 
 " T SEE no help for it," said Lestrange. " It 
 -i- must be reviewed at once, and you 
 don't know anyone who could do it better than 
 yourself." 
 
 " Or worse," I replied. " I cannot sneer in 
 print ; and though the book might deserve it, the 
 author has earned exemption from contempt. 
 Critics consider themselves licensed to retail abuse 
 and ridicule on all able men w^ho take unpopular 
 views ; but this is not a man whom I could stoop 
 to insult. He is out of his depth this time, but — 
 so am I." 
 
 ** It seems to me shallow — all froth and foam,*' 
 returned Lestrange; "but I admit that a 
 lournalist's or even a theologian's right to be 
 ' drunk on th6 premises ' don't apply to his, in- 
 
" TO LOVE, HONOUR AND CHERISH." 257 
 
 toxicating or bewildering as they seem. Can't 
 you answer him ? You know as mach as most 
 amateurs ; — enough perhaps to gauge your own 
 ignorance :■" 
 
 " Exactly. Breve might tr}^ if you choose to 
 chance the consequences." 
 
 '*No doubt; but Breve always proves too 
 much ; demonstrates too clearly that Philhellen is 
 a dunce, and Darwin an addle-pated ignoramus. 
 Before he found out who Procyon was, he exposed 
 scathingly Procyon's boyish inexperience of life, 
 and proved especially that the ' poor young 
 fellow ' had never seen the inside of a newspaper 
 
 office. But what is 's thesis : ' what does it 
 
 prove?'" 
 
 " I don't know — the argument is transcendental 
 to the utmost limits of meaning — unless it be 
 that creation is a sort of a kind of vision of the 
 Universal Mind ; and, if That were to wake, 1 
 suppose we should all ' go out,' like Carroll's 
 Alice in the Bed King's Dream.'" 
 
 " Turning the tables on those who say that the 
 Creator is a dream of His creatures ? But the 
 idea is not new ; and if it were true, no one could 
 believe it. Can't the man see that — except by the 
 
 VOL. I. S 
 
25S IVY. 
 
 Universal Mind — it is necessarily unthinkable? 
 It has one recommendation though; it would 
 account for the suspension of development with 
 the appearance of Man." 
 *' How so f 
 
 " Because humanity must have been the night- 
 mare of the Demiurge ; and when civilization was 
 evolved, the hideous spectacle must have made 
 Him awaken with a "cosmic" scream. Not that 
 the step from brute to Aryan is so very wide. 
 After all, men are curs and women cats." 
 
 '• Take the book in hand yourself and develop 
 that thesis," I said, laughing. " That number of 
 the Courier would sell." 
 
 "No; I never tell cynical truths and I never 
 write heresy, except over my own signature. 
 Within this office the Thirty-nine Articles are the 
 basis of all truth and the measure of all novelties : 
 and I only indulge my cynicism by proving now 
 and then that some novel and undeniable truth is 
 an old and damnable heresy. Moreover, however 
 tempting the subject, I cannot write three lines 
 till Glynne returns. My right arm, as you see, is 
 useless ; and Thomas cannot be trusted with 
 words of more than two syllables. Try Glynne, 
 
"TO LOVE, HONOUR AND CHERISH." 259 
 
 by the way, when he comes back : mysticism has 
 always charms for him." 
 
 " Talk of- the first Whig," said I, " and -" 
 
 as, to our chiefs great surprise, his assistant 
 entered the room. 
 
 " Well," said Lestrange, cordially holding out 
 his left hand, " I could not be more glad to see 
 you : but I as much expected to see the Arch- 
 Radical in person.'* 
 
 " I had promised my— I had intended," replied 
 Glynne, with unaccountable but unmistakable 
 embarrassment, " to stay over to-night at any 
 rate ; but — I have business of — my uncle's to 
 do in London, and I am sorry to say I must 
 go back on Friday; so I thought it best to 
 return to my post at once. Of course, till 
 Friday afternoon, I am entirely at your dis- 
 posal." 
 
 Finding that Glynne had not read the book 
 in question, and would not have time to do it 
 justice, I accepted the task imposed on me and 
 left the room. 
 
 " Here is a private letter for you, Glynne," said 
 Lestrange. "When you have read it, there are a 
 whole pile on business." 
 
 S 2 
 
260 IVY. 
 
 Tlie communication thus handed to Ethert 
 came from Meta. 
 
 " Your mother," she wrote, " does not feel equal 
 to writing herself; and, Ethert, I am glad she 
 lets me do it. She has talked of coming to town 
 
 to see Dr. , but less decidedly than she is 
 
 used to speak of anything. Do press her to do 
 so, and soon ; and unless you can take care of her 
 entirely, get her to bring me. I don't want 
 to frighten you, but she seems very ill, and I am 
 sure she ought not to be alone." 
 
 His mother's character, the least caressing and 
 the coldest in external demeanour that he had 
 ever found in woman, had tended from the first to 
 suppress, if not to repel, her son's affection, to 
 produce not merely reserve in the expression, but 
 I certain coldness in the inward temper of an 
 attachment that was really deep and strong. No 
 doubt, reaction from that domestic repression had 
 done much to render Glynnehurst so especiall}^ 
 attractive ; to make Ethert' s tone and manner yet 
 softer and more affectionate towards those with 
 whom, as with Ivy and Meta, his heart was at 
 ease, his indulgence and utterance of feeling un- 
 constrained. But his filial regard was eai-nest 
 
*' TO LOVE, HONOUR AND CHERISH." 261 
 
 and profound, and he was much disturbed, if 
 not altogether surprised, by Meta's warning. 
 Lestrange, more observant than people com- 
 monly supposed, noted with what difficulty his 
 secretary turned to the work before him. 
 
 " Your mind," he said, " runs on something 
 else — I fancy on the letter you have received. If 
 so, answer that first : get it off your mind to 
 begin with, as far as you can." 
 
 Lestrange was generally charged with hardness 
 of feeling and coldness of heart— partly but not 
 wholly, I think, because his cynical sincerity re- 
 fused to affect sympathy with sorrows more 
 decorous than deep. When this charge was once 
 preferred in his presence, Glynne answered 
 warmly : 
 
 "Lestrange is too busy to observe, and has 
 suffered too much to care for, trifles ; but I never 
 received so many kindnesses, great and small, 
 from any other living man or woman." 
 
 Certainly the Editor of the Courier could 
 hardly be called selfish in the usual acceptation 
 of the word. His indifference to others never 
 seemed to spring from exaggerated regard for 
 himself. In delicate health, frequently unable to 
 
262 ivy. 
 
 sleep, and, as I chanced to know, passionate!}' 
 fond of flowers, grass, birds, all the attractions of 
 the country, it must have been a sacrifice of 
 everything that made his solitary life endurable 
 to live, as he had chosen to do, in two or three 
 small rooms within the building that contained 
 the offices of the Courier. But he had determined 
 that this would enable him to do his work more 
 satisfactorily ; that, living at any distance, he 
 could hardly give a close, constant supervision to 
 the difficult task of creating what was in fact a 
 new journal ; and seeing this, he had made the 
 sacrifice without hesitation and without a word of 
 complaint. He was distinctly less exacting to- 
 wards others than towards himself It was, I 
 think, the consciousness of this enforced upon us 
 all that enabled him to maintain a discipline, to 
 insist on or obtain without insistance a devoted 
 attention to their several duties from all the 
 members of his staff, to which I beKeve the success 
 of the Courier was mainly due. 
 
 At our meeting on the next Friday I observed 
 that Glynne was certainly pale, and either over- 
 worked or mentally harassed ; the former pro- 
 bably, I supposed, since I knew how close, how 
 
" TO LOVE, HONOUR AND CHERISH." 263 
 
 protracted, had been Lestrange's own labours, 
 how absolutely he was dependent on the eyes, the 
 hands, and in great measure on the practical 
 thought and memory of his subordinate. Before 
 the council was half over, he turned to his 
 secretary : 
 
 *' You had better go now, Glynne ; there is 
 nothing more that you need do. Catch your 
 train at your leisure. Now then," when Glynne 
 had left us, " what do you think. Leaf, of the 
 news from the Levant ? how, I mean, will it 
 affect our prospects ? The crimson toga will be 
 hoisted very soon, and perhaps suddenly." 
 
 Leaf answered with more bitterness than he 
 was wont to show : 
 
 " It will give the measure of Blight's impartial 
 humanity and Philhellen's moral indignation. 
 It ought to teach every man who has eyes to 
 read and sense to understand that the one only 
 loved the Russians as the hereditary enemies of 
 England, and the other only hated the Turk as 
 the protege of Endymion. But those men have 
 the public ear, and have deafened it to everything 
 so trivial and so troublesome as a fact. Their 
 clients have outdone tenfold all the crimes, real 
 
2 I) I: I Y Y. 
 
 and fictitious, cliarged on ours; but they, wlw) 
 bellowed execrations when rebels were massacred 
 by the soldiers of a Power standing with its back 
 to the wall, will not speak a word to condemn or 
 lift a finger to restrain the rebels who in profound 
 peace are butchering loyal subjects." 
 
 "Well, we always knew," repHed Lestrange, 
 " that hatred of his country was Blight's ruling 
 passion, and personal enmity the key to Phil- 
 hellen's policy. The latter is almost frantic in 
 his rage against his rival, maddened by his own 
 failure and Endymion's success. Nothing that 
 can happen now will enlighten those who have 
 not seen long ago that van it}" and vindictiveness 
 give the clue to every strange winding of that 
 man's tortuous career. Expulsion from Oxford 
 was the final cause of Disestablishment; defeat in 
 South Lancashire, not Fenian outrages, originated 
 the Landlords' Robbery Act. It was Lord Derby's 
 preference of Vivian Grey that made him a 
 Radical, and supersession by Palmerston all but 
 turned him back into a Tory. But I asked not 
 what you thought of the Eastern conflagration, 
 but what shadows it will cast here in the 
 West." 
 
" TO LOVE, HONOUR AND CHERISH." 265 
 
 " Shadows enough, truly ; it will enlighten 
 nobody ! A populace that cheered Castro because 
 they knew him to be the butcher Orton, and 
 hooted those who denied his claim to be Roger 
 Tichborne, that made an M.P. of Kenealy and 
 will make one of Bradlaugh, may well believe in 
 Blight's patriotism and Philhellen's Christian 
 charity. Common sense has a poor chance 
 against the thunder of B.'s invective and the fire- 
 works of P.'s eloquence. There are fools — enough 
 to turn the scale in fifty English boroughs — who 
 really believe that Toryism had something to do 
 "with the depression of trade, and that a Radical 
 Ministry will give us a warm summer and a 
 splendid harvest. That, you will find, is the 
 creed of more electors than turned the balance 
 in 74." 
 
 Before leaving London, Ethert had very un- 
 willingly arranged for the leave of absence which 
 he knew that he might require. He had not chosen 
 to announce his marriage even to Lestrange. 
 Indeed, he had not communicated it to his mother 
 or to Meta till the very morning of the appointed 
 day ; persistently arguing with himself that some- 
 thing might yet break off an arrangement so 
 
2i^Q I V Y. 
 
 repugnant to both the parties principally con- 
 cerned. In his heart he knew that, while left to 
 the influence of her parents, nothing could give 
 Ivy courage to recall her pledge of compliance. 
 He knew almost equally well that, her word once 
 passed to himself, nothing — short of that dis- 
 covery which he dreaded no less than the marriage 
 whereby he had consented to avert it, or a distinct 
 avowal of his own dislike — would induce her to 
 forfeit her promise. It might be that he would 
 not endure to realize in imagination a future so 
 abhorrent ; it might be that he could not believe 
 in the certainty of an event that seemed more 
 hateful as it drew nearer : it might be that the 
 extreme haste, and the hurry of the measures he 
 was forced to take, had left him neither time nor 
 composure to think quietl}^ of his position. But, 
 from whatever cause, he found that he did not and 
 could not accept the prospect as a sure or even a 
 probable reality. He had an inward assurance, a 
 presentiment that it would not be — something 
 would, must occur to prevent or postpone it. 
 Therefore he had simply told Lcstrange that he 
 feared lest family business might prevent his return 
 to work for three weeks at least. 
 
" TO LOVE, HONOUR AND CHERISH." 267 
 
 "Yery well/' his chief had answered. "lean 
 give you a month from to-day, but not a day 
 longer, if I am to depend on your return, and not 
 to fill your place. Leaf has long since arranged 
 to take a holiday next month, and while he is 
 absent yon will be IndispensaDle. If your return 
 be uncertain, tell me at once and give me time to 
 find a substitute." 
 
 "I engage positively," had been his assistant's 
 reply, " to return on this day month at latest ; 
 it is quite possible that I may find a long leave of 
 absence unnecessar3^" 
 
 By absenting himself entirely during the brief 
 interval that necessarily separated the betrothal 
 from the marriage day, Ethert had probably done 
 well, and — assuming that the marriage was to be 
 — even kindly by Ivy, as he had certainly spared 
 himself much trouble and many trying scenes. 
 Too short for the natural growth of a new 
 relation, the time would have been too long for 
 the persistent avoidance at once of self-betrayal 
 and self-committal ; too long, probably, for the 
 effectual concealment of his chafing under the 
 yoke. There was not leisure to dispel Ivy's 
 painful consciousness of enforced and unseemly 
 
268 IVY. 
 
 haste : there would have been more than enough 
 to let her find out that she had lost a friend 
 without gaining a lover. The wedding was fixed 
 by special license for the first possible evening, 
 and Ethert had so timed his return that there was 
 no opportunity for a private interview with his 
 bride. The cousins met in presence of Ivy's 
 parents and of the family solicitor, and the 
 party had not been assembled half-an-bour ere 
 they were summoned to take their places in the 
 room adjoining that of Sir Charles, now absolutely 
 confined to the couch he never expected again to 
 leave. Here, that he might witness it through 
 the open door, the ceremony was to be per- 
 formed. 
 
 The agitation and excitement of the paralytic 
 were obvious and somewhat alarming to his 
 nephew ; though due probably rather to the weak- 
 ness of his mind and his loss of self-command than 
 to any deep affection for the daughter whose 
 fate was at stake, or any excessive sensibility 
 to that which might be said of himself, if after 
 his death the truth should be revealed. Ethert 
 was startled — not altogether unpleasantly — by 
 the reflection that her father's state, though not 
 
" TO LOVE, HONOUR AND CHERISH." 269 
 
 affording an excuse for the postponement of the 
 marriage — a proposal which would probably 
 have given a mortal blow to one so eagerly 
 bent on its completion — might yet prove an 
 obstacle to Ivy's departure from home. At any 
 rate it might hinder or abbreviate that bridal 
 holiday for which she had scarcely been able 
 to prepare, and which he had refused to con- 
 template till, just before the summons cut 
 short their hurried discussions, her mother had 
 referred to it. 
 
 Much disturbed by various conflicting feelings, 
 that uppermost in his mind was certainly 
 discontent, if not resentment. His sense of 
 wrong — his consciousness of being forced into a 
 sacrifice he could hardly refuse when demanded, 
 but which no one had a right to demand 
 from him — had been quickened by the extreme 
 difficulty he had found in informing his mother 
 of that which was about to take place. He 
 had been able to state nothing beyond the bare 
 fact ; since genuine explanation was of course 
 impossible, and any pretence thereof would only 
 have rendered more evident to Mrs. Glynne's 
 keen intelligence the existence of some painful 
 
270 IVY. 
 
 secret. Angry with himself for a curtness which 
 seemed not less insulting because it was 
 inevitable, still more angry with those who 
 had forced him to abandon the hope he had 
 cherished against hope till the moment that 
 finally extinguished it, it was in no bridal mood 
 that he obeyed the summons and took his place 
 in front of the low table which was to serve as an 
 altar for the occasion. 
 
 But an unintentional momentary glance at the 
 drooping figure beside him shocked and surprised 
 him for a while out of the resentment that had 
 grown to include if not to centre upon his 
 bride. 
 
 Ivy had had leisure during his absence to 
 ponder all that had passed, to remember that 
 he had spoken no word of love, and few even 
 of tenderness, in the critical interview ; while he 
 had parted from her on his return to London 
 with a haste excused only by the urgency of the 
 legal steps to be taken at so short a notice. 
 Yet she could not ascribe to haste that parting 
 without the kiss, without even the caressing 
 words and looks, which — till his unexplained 
 estrangement — had always expressed his regret 
 
" TO LOVE, HONOUR AND CHERISH." 271 
 
 at leaving, and comforted her ; and whose omission 
 on each subsequent occasion had pained and 
 perplexed her with wondering enquiries what 
 could have caused that seemingly capricious 
 change. Now, she could not hut connect his 
 altered manner with the mystery of which her 
 marriage was the consequence and consumma- 
 tion ; feeling more and more fearful that Ethert's 
 " wish " for that marriage had implied no 
 willingness. It might well have been that 
 he had no time to write during his brief 
 and busy absence. He could have nothing to 
 say ; and yet — he might, he surel}' would have 
 written if ... . 
 
 The very kindness and consideration to which 
 her cousin had accustomed her had made her 
 doubly sensitive to everything that could look 
 like slight or neglect from her betrothed ; it was 
 not like Ethert to be forgetful or careless of her 
 feelings. She had been too shy, too timid to 
 offer on his return the greeting she was nervously 
 eager to receive and return. The presence of a 
 stranger might account for the formality of his 
 bearing ; but it so chilled her that she could 
 hardly speak the few sentences required from her 
 
272 IVY. 
 
 in the brief business conversation that followed. 
 When her hand rested on his arm she felt 
 instinctively the absence of tenderness and 
 sympathy in his breast ; when her look furtively, 
 tremulously sought his, and sought in vain, her 
 dismay, her terror at the thought that she was 
 about to give herself to a husband not merely 
 reluctant but resentful — so resentful that all the 
 tried affection of a lifetime was forgotten in aversion 
 to her new claim on him — w^ere such that her limbs 
 almost failed to support her. 
 
 Thus, when at length, as they stood before 
 the priest who was to bless a union that no 
 priestly blessing could hallow, Ethert caught 
 a glimpse of her white face and trembHng 
 form, the sight of her distress recalled suddenly 
 and irresistibly the habitual feelings so lately 
 interrupted, the instincts of compassion and 
 tenderness associated all his life long with one so 
 loving and so dependent. It was by an in- 
 voluntary, almost unconscious impulse that his 
 hand found hers, and closed with the quiet, firm, 
 lingering clasp she remembered so well over the 
 cold moist palm and slender icy fingers. Their 
 touch startled him, as his clasp comforted and 
 
" TO LOVE, HONOUR AND CHERISH. 273 
 
 encouraged her. It awakened all his natural 
 S3^mpathy and affection for the sister-like cousin 
 forgotten in the unwelcome bride. He could not 
 speak, of course; but it needed no whispered 
 syllable of tenderness, hardly needed even the 
 softened look she felt though she could not see 
 it, to convey to Ivy's heart the comfort that 
 for one instant it was his only thought to 
 afford. 
 
 Happily, he had released her hand before the 
 clergyman's voice reminded him once more of 
 the hated change; and she did not feel the 
 shudder which it needed all his presence of mind 
 and force of will so to repress that it should not 
 •be actually visible. But she knew that the chill 
 had come between them again. Thereafter to 
 both tbe service, brief as it was, seemed terribly 
 long ; certain phrases almost appalled the bride- 
 groom as these, and these alone, reached his 
 inner consciousness through the strange dulness 
 that had numbed the outer sense. 
 
 In the few words that each was required to 
 speak. Ivy's voice was hardly lower or more 
 tremulous than his. They had risen, she had 
 half-consciously placed her hand on Ethert's arm, 
 
 VOL. I. T 
 
274 IVY. 
 
 and he was about to lead her from the room ; 
 when, turning accidentally towards the open door 
 near which his uncle lay, he was startled, appalled 
 by the change that had come over the invalid's 
 countenance. 
 
 A moment, and he had so recovered his pre- 
 sence of mind as to lead Ivy from the chamber 
 without a word, and to place her still unalarmed 
 in her mother's care, before, with a hasty "Pardon 
 me, Ivy," he returned to the sufferer's bedside. 
 
 Lady Glynne had been too much absorbed in 
 the ceremony, too exclusively interested in the 
 feelings of the daughter for whom she would fain 
 believe that it involved only a temporary trial 
 and sacri6ce, to observe any other performer or 
 spectator of the scene. But the doctor in attend- 
 ance, who had of course been present on this 
 occasion among the very few witnesses, had been 
 even more observant and prompter than Ethert, 
 and the latter found him beside the patient. 
 When at last it was possible to leave the sick- 
 room even for a moment, drawing Ethert beyond 
 the hearing of one whom nevertheless he believed 
 insensible to all that passed around, the practi- 
 tioner spoke : 
 
" TO LOVE, HONOUR AND CHERISH." 275 
 
 "Another seizure: probably the last. How 
 long he may linger I cannot yet tell ; but there 
 can, I feel sure, be no recovery, hardly a return 
 of consciousness, certainly not of speech. Mr. 
 Glynne, you must judge what, under the circum- 
 stances, is to be done." 
 
 "If you are right," Ethert replied, with much 
 hesitation, " I can do nothing. But I presume no 
 case could arise in which mj presence could be 
 necessary or even of comfort to him ?" 
 
 " Impossible, I should say ; but we shall know 
 absolutely in a few hours." 
 
 " Then," said Ethert after a pause, " his wife 
 and daughter cannot well leave him ; you had 
 better prepare them, doctor. To Lady Glynne 
 it may be a shock, but can hardly be a surprise ; 
 and even — even my cousin must have expected it 
 to occur before very long." 
 
 There was something in Ethert's tone, even 
 more than in his words, that caused the other to 
 turn upon him a doubtful and curious glance. 
 He knew less of his present companion than of 
 any other member of the family, but even Ethert 
 he knew well. With Sir Charles and Lady Glynne 
 he had been in constant social and professional 
 
 T 2 
 
276 IVY. 
 
 intercourse for the last eighteen years. He had 
 watched Ivy from the very moment of her birth ; 
 and. aware that her brother had inherited more of 
 physical energy than of sound health or vitality, 
 had always looked forward witli a faint conjectural 
 interest to the possibility of some such contingency 
 as the present. 
 
 Of late, Sir Charles' intense eagerness about 
 the marriage, perhaps some words half-consciously 
 let fall, had suggested to one whose long experi- 
 ence had been turned to account b}^ a mind 
 naturally quick and observant, that this was 
 neither an ordinary love-match nor an ordinary 
 family arrangement. 
 
 The doctor, now caught a glimpse, though of 
 course a faint and uncertain glimpse, of the truth. 
 Had the marriage been made under some unknown 
 compulsion ; had it, instead of binding together 
 two hearts really or in their own real belief 
 attached, simply deepened and embittered the 
 estrangement of those who had been forced to- 
 gether against their will? If so, the task of 
 breaking to Ivy and her mother the news of Sir 
 Charles' critical state should not be thrown upon 
 the unwilling bridegroom of an hour. But they 
 
" TO LOVE, HONOUR AND CHERISH." 277 
 
 v\^ere spared occasion either for doubt or 
 decision. 
 
 Almost before the drawing-room door had 
 closed behind Ethert, Ivy had thrown herself at 
 her mother's feet and, hiding her face in her lap, 
 burst into a passion of sobs. Lady Griynne was 
 not at first surprised or alarmed, though naturally 
 affected ; she hardly knew what to say, with what 
 words to offer comfort or consolation in a distress 
 natural and inevitable, a distress however whose 
 depth and meaning she wholly failed to under- 
 stand. The few words she spoke meant no more 
 than the maternal caresses by which she sought 
 to soothe and quiet her daughter's agitation. 
 But after a while Ivy became instinctively aware 
 how inaptly her mother's sympathy w^as directed, 
 how little she felt the true character or appre- 
 hended the cause of the young bride's misery and 
 dismay. 
 
 "Mamma, Mamma !" she faltered at last through 
 her sobs. " Oh, what have I done ?" 
 
 Still the mother gained no glimpse into the 
 daughter's mind. 
 
 '* It is very hard, darling, I know. You have 
 been so hurried, so taken by surprise ; I don't 
 
278 IVY. 
 
 wonder that it seems strange and terrible. But, 
 dear, you may be sure Ethert will be patient and 
 considerate ; he will not expect that you should 
 be prepared, will not wonder that you shrink 
 from the suddenness, the shock. He knows, he 
 will feel for you ; and, darhng, he will hardly 
 press you to — shall I ask him to leave you with 
 me till to-morrow? You should have time to 
 compose yourself, to recover — and he will be 
 patient with you." 
 
 " Mamma — oh, you misunderstand — all ! — Have 
 you seen nothing all this time? You told me — 
 yes, he said — he wished it ; but — Oh, I am 
 sure now he only meant — he wished to save me. 
 He would never have done it but for that ; he 
 hated it, and now — he could never have treated 
 me so, if he did not hate me for it." 
 
 Lady Glynne, of course, knew far better than 
 did her daughter what solid grounds might well 
 exist for so cruel an apprehension. But on the 
 one hand she persistently told herself that 
 Ethert could not be so unreasonable, so hard as 
 some words of his had suggested ; on the other, 
 she felt sure, for better reasons, that Ivy had no 
 rational, assignable cause for her fears ; that if 
 
"TO LOVE, HONOUR AND CHERISH." 279 
 
 she had caught a glimpse of her bridegroom's 
 mind, it had been by instinct, by sympathy, not 
 through any word or act of his. The decisive 
 interview had left the poor child fairly content and 
 hopeful; since then the cousins had not been 
 alone, save for the few moments of their leave- 
 taking on the same afternoon. The mother had 
 witnessed all that had passed between them since ; 
 and was confident that even in that hviei tete-a-tete 
 Ethert had said nothing, done nothing, that could 
 not for the present be explained away. However 
 truly Iv}^ might have interpreted his mood, she 
 could have no tangible evidence of unkindness or 
 aversion. Herself surprised b}^ his sudden depar- 
 ture, the mother had caught the hurried half- 
 articulate apology that escaped the bride's 
 notice. 
 
 *' Nonsense, child," she answered, her troubled 
 conscience giving to her tone a sharpness of 
 which she was not aware. " Don't be so extra- 
 vagantly foolish; don't make yourself miserable 
 with such an impossible idea, and don't do such 
 WTong to Ethert. What but affection for you 
 brought him year after year to Glynnehurst, 
 made him always so glad to come, so sorry to 
 
280 IVY. 
 
 leave when he thought it would hurt his mother, 
 would look like neglect, if he staj-ed longer? 
 Except her, Ivy, he has loved nothing in this 
 world so well as you. And now, remember, he 
 was as much taken by surprise as you were, was 
 called on to decide quite as suddenly ; and since 
 then he has been hurried as you have not been, has 
 scarcely had time to do all that had to be done. 
 I am sure he has said no unkind, no unloving 
 word to you ; and if he had, surely you can forgive 
 him if his temper were tried at such a time as 
 
 this r 
 
 "Mamma, I wish he had; but he spoke so 
 carefully. No, he has been kind — it is just that — 
 because I am a girl, and because he is sorry for 
 me. But if he did not hate this ; if he did not 
 dislike me because he was forced to — to it, 
 why—?" 
 
 She checked herself, partly from habit, partly 
 from a sudden instinctive consciousness of her 
 novel duty ; a feeling that, as she had never been 
 w^ont to complain of any fancied offence or provo- 
 cation from one so invariably kind to her, so she 
 was now forbidden by wifely loyalty to betray the 
 evidences of coldness she had too distinctly felt. 
 
" TO LOVE, HONOUR AND CHERISH." 281 
 
 But her mother had seen something of Ethert's 
 change of manner, and guessed to what trivial 
 but all the more significant symptoms of estrange- 
 ment Ivy's memory had reverted. 
 
 ''I think I know what you mean, Iv}^ and 
 perhaps I could guess ' why ' ; but I cannot 
 explain. I can only tell you that Ethert has been 
 ill at ease, perhaps constrained with you, not for 
 any fault of yours, and certainly not that he 
 loved you less. Could he have given a stronger 
 proof how much he cared for you 1 Would he have 
 married, even for money, if he had disKked, nay, 
 if he had not dearly liked you ?" 
 
 " No, no I" Ivy exclaimed, the suggestion 
 rousing her indignation, not on her own behalf, 
 but his. ''He wanted nothing of me, but it was 
 to save — me." 
 
 "Did not that show how much he thought of 
 you. Ivy? He would have pitied, have taken 
 trouble for any woman in sorrow or danger ; he 
 would have done much, no doubt, only because 
 he is my nephew and your cousin. But would 
 he have married any other woman to protect her 
 from whatever peril ?" 
 
 *' Then, Mamma, why — you say you can guess 
 
282 IVY. 
 
 — why has he become strange to rae, and why . . . ? 
 Ethert was never hasty, never inconsiderate ; why 
 should he leave me now, the instant after . . . 
 unless . . . unless lie could not bear f 
 
 ''I don't know why, l\j. But did 3^ou not 
 hear his * pardon me'? Something hurried him ; 
 I hope — I am afraid — " 
 
 She paused, as it flashed across her mind what 
 might well have been the cause of Ethert's 
 sudden action. His abruptness had startled her 
 almost as much as her daughter; the more that it 
 contrasted punctilious habits of courtesy, them- 
 selves contrasting the manners with which she 
 was more familiar. The motive whose possibility 
 now occurred to her brought at once relief and 
 dismay. She remembered with some sense of 
 self-reproach that she had never thought, never 
 observed what might be the effect of such a trial 
 in her husband's actual state. But Ivy's future, 
 Ethert's feeling, interested her more intensely and 
 more deeply. His long absence must mean some- 
 thing, and any cause was better than none. The 
 w^orst, most distressing conjecture was more 
 tolerable than the dread that resentment had ren- 
 dered him for the first time indifferent to common 
 
''TO LOVE, HONOUR AND CHERISH." 283 
 
 courtesy ; that he would rather put an open and 
 signal slight upon his bride than affect tenderness 
 or even dissemble aversion. 
 
 With a few hardly intelligible words, rather of 
 excuse than of explanation, she left her daughter ; 
 and fearing almost as much to find that nothing 
 was the matter as to learn the worst, she sought 
 her husband's chamber. On her way thither she 
 necessarily passed through that in which Ethert 
 and the doctor were still in consultation, and 
 looking in the countenance of the latter, she 
 caught at once the meaning of the composed, 
 perhaps studied gravity it had worn as of course 
 on so man}^ similar occasions. 
 
 The combined effect of self-reproach, fatigue, 
 anxiety, varied emotion long protracted, rather 
 than the suddenness or the bitterness of the 
 actual shock, overpowered her completely. She 
 sank into the nearest chair and gave way to 
 almost hysterical weeping. Ethert felt of course 
 as helpless as men usually are in such a case. 
 Mr. Orme, promptly rendering the little help he 
 could, saw at once that Ivy must be summoned, 
 that she alone could soothe or help her mother. 
 He felt at the same time that only one person 
 
284 I V Y. 
 
 could properly undertake the errand ; and he 
 perhaps the last who could so perform it, so 
 announce to the young bride the news of her 
 approaching bereavement, as to soften the force, to 
 lessen the pain of such a blow coming at such a 
 moment. 
 
 " Her daughter should be told," he whispered 
 aside to Ethert. " It would be useless pain for 
 either to see Sir Charles now. Mr. Glynne, will 
 you bring Mrs. Glynne here, and ask her to per- 
 suade her mother to retire ?" 
 
 Ethert hesitated, as in truth he might have 
 done under less abnormal circumstances. It was 
 not that his uncle's approaching death, long ex- 
 pected as it had been, so overwhelmed him, whether 
 on his own account or even on Ivy's, as to shake 
 his composure ; but the ominous coincidence was 
 distressing to himself, and would he felt be 
 doubly distressing to her. To carry such tidings 
 to a bride in the first hour of the happiest mar- 
 riage would be a hard and painful task, even for 
 one who felt the fullest power to soothe and com- 
 fort. But, despite the violence of her agitation, 
 Lady Glynne had not for a moment lost hold of 
 the one paramount anxiety. She w^as still alive 
 
"TO LOVE, HONOUR AND CHERISH." 285 
 
 to all that bore on the possible consequences of 
 the action she had so imperiously enforced. She 
 discerned what was passing, guessed what might 
 be the meaning of Ethert's reluctance ; and, con- 
 scious of the painful situation for which she was 
 responsible, roused herself for Ivy's sake to 
 thought and self-control. 
 
 '' Ethert," she said, endeavouring to rise, 
 " will you give me your arm ? If I may go to 
 him . . . ." 
 
 *' You had better not, Lady Glynne," said Mr. 
 Orme gently. "If there be a change I will send 
 for you at once, but as yet it is hardly likely ; 
 and he is quite unconscious, could not recognise 
 you. At present it is better that both you and 
 Mrs. Glynne should be away." 
 
 " Then, Ethert," said his aunt, " will you 
 take me to my own room ; and " — almost in a 
 whisper — " you will see, you will tell Ivy, or 
 bring her to me f 
 
 He did not answer ; and when he parted from 
 his aunt in her boudoir she paused for a moment, 
 still resting her hand on his arm, and looked up 
 in his face as if she would have repeated her 
 request. But whether it were something she read 
 
286 IVY. 
 
 there, rather perhaps something wanting, or 
 whether simply silenced by that conscience which 
 is said to make cowards of more courageous 
 sinners, her parted lips closed again without a 
 word, though with a deep sigh, as she turned 
 away. 
 
 Much as he shrank from the task, painful 
 and awkward as his next meeting with his bride 
 must under any circumstances have been, Ethert 
 felt that to avoid that scene, to leave to any other 
 the duty of breaking the shock, would be not merely 
 discourteous but unmanl}' ; would be an unkindness, 
 a slight as unworthy of himself as undeserved by 
 her. Very reluctantly, knowing not how to speak, 
 how to convey the painful tidings, or how to 
 deal with the outbreak of grief and horror that 
 must follow, he nevertheless dared not risk the 
 possibility that by delay or hesitation he might 
 allow another, perhaps a servant, to carry the 
 news that should certainly come from his own 
 lips. That he had been thus anticipated was his 
 first thought when, entering the room where he 
 had left her, he saw Ivy's slight figure thrown 
 on a couch, her face buried in the cushions, her 
 form unmistakably shaken by violent though in- 
 
''TO LOVE, HONOUR AND CHERISH." 287 
 
 audible sobs. She knew his step, however, at 
 once ; and as he approacbed her rose with a 
 desperate effort at composure. 
 
 Deeply touched by a distress greater than he 
 had expected, and reproaching himself for having, 
 as he supposed, allowed the tidings to reach her 
 in his absence, Ethert forgot all but the desire to 
 make amends for the neglect ; to afford comfort, 
 not only to natural sorrow, but to the equall}^ 
 natural and yet more painful horror which the 
 close coincidence of such a calamity with such a 
 marriage could not have failed to inspire. And 
 as Ivy sat still, too timid or too deeply pained to 
 volunteer any gesture of greeting, and simply 
 unable to speak, he placed himself beside her, 
 passing one hand round her waist and taking 
 hers in the other. His embrace, the first for 
 so long a time, caused a sudden and utter revul- 
 sion of feehng, seeming to revert as naturally to 
 the intimate affection and tenderness of old as if 
 the recent estrangement had been a mistake or a 
 dream. Almost fancying it such — reproaching 
 herself with unjust, unkind suspicion, yet scarcely 
 able to feel a pang on that account amid the joy 
 and comfort of Ethert's renewed kindness, mindful 
 
288 IVY. 
 
 of nothing save the absolute unspeakable happi- 
 ness of restored confidence and love — she threw 
 the disengaged arm aroimd his neck ; and hiding 
 her face on his shoulder, gave way to tears 
 once more, but to tears of relief and de- 
 light. 
 
 The meaning of those tears, of that caress, 
 was of course lost upon Ethert. He understood 
 only that, if the news had as h.e supposed reached 
 her, the neglect which had allowed it to come 
 through another had been unfelt or forgiven ; 
 understood only the still unshaken, uninterrupted 
 trust and tenderness that now as ever clung to 
 him in trouble, that found shelter in his presence 
 and consolation in his sympathy; the simple 
 faith which felt it easy to pardon, to forget his 
 coldness — possible to believe anything except that 
 he could be wilfully indifferent or unkind. Not 
 lor a moment did he suppose that on that account 
 their enforced union was the less repugnant to 
 her. He ascribed her altered mood of the moment 
 to that which would really have been her feel- 
 ing, her impulse, if she had known, as he fancied 
 she did know, the tidings as yet undeHvered ; 
 he understood that in the sudden shock of grief 
 
''TO LOVE, HONOUR AND CHERISH." 289 
 
 and dismay, the overwhelming distress of the 
 moment, she had forgotten the alienation, repul- 
 sion inspired by their new relation in the life-long 
 habits of the old, had forgotten the husband of 
 an hour in the fraternal confidant and friend of 
 seventeen years. 
 
 Presently, of course, the strangeness of Ethert's 
 silence, a consciousness that his manner was 
 rather compassionate than caressing, pitying 
 more than loving, awakened a sense of doubt 
 and surprise in Ivy^s mind ; and when she so 
 far regained composure as to look up in his face, 
 the mingled expression of timid affection and 
 half-pained, half-trustful enquiry in her eyes 
 assured Ethert that he had mistaken the nature 
 of her feelings, the cause of her emotion. 
 
 " You have not heard V he said ; and her 
 start of surprise and alarm at once answered his 
 question. " Poor child ! it is very painful, cruelly 
 distressing for you at such a moment. But, 
 after all, it was because he expected it that he 
 was so bent — no, he is living, Ivy ; but it is an- 
 other stroke, and the doctor fears " 
 
 Her tears, which had scarcely ceased to fall, 
 were checked at once ; her whitening face and 
 
 VOL. I. U 
 
290 I V Y. 
 
 lips, the shii(Mer that came over her whole form, 
 tiie limbs that trembled even when that shudder 
 was passed, told Ethert that the impression — of 
 horror rather than of pain or grief — was even 
 deeper than he had feared. He did not attempt 
 for some minutes to speak another word of con- 
 solation, hoping that this especiall}^ painful and 
 even alarming mood would pass; that the horror- 
 stricken silence would be broken by a renewed 
 outburst of the more natural and less distressing 
 agitation he had so lately witnessed. But at 
 last he felt it best to disturb that fixed, frozen 
 stillness by diverting, in whatever direction, 
 through whatever emotion, the current of her 
 thought. 
 
 " It must have bet^n, Ivy — would have been, in 
 an}' case. I don't think that to-day's scene has 
 hastened it; certainly any endeavour to put it 
 off on his account would have been infinitely 
 worse for him. You will have the comfort to 
 remember that the last thing he knew was that 
 on which his heart had been set, the one thing 
 he cared to see accomplished while he lived. 
 And will it not help to comfort you for your own 
 sacrifice, that you have given him the best, the 
 
"TO LOVE, HONOUR AND CHERISH." 291 
 
 only comfort in your power ; that as you were 
 so good, so dutiful a child throughout, so at the 
 last you had given the hardest, truest proof of 
 filial love and obedience f 
 
 She could not answer, hardly tried to speak ; 
 but tbe expression of her face, and especially her 
 eyes, had changed completely. The fixed, almost 
 glazed stare of horror had left them, the look into 
 his was one of doubt, of enquiry, as if some part 
 of his meaning perplexed her, suggested a ques- 
 tion to which she would fain have found an answer 
 there. 
 
 " Ivy, I hope you will not fancy — will not 
 connect this with .... with ourselves ; will not 
 think there was anything strange, alarming, in 
 the happening of two such incongruous things — 
 at once. It was because he knew his own time 
 was short that — the other was hurried on. I 
 daresay it may have agitated him, but — Ivy, if 
 you had refused, if you had even put it off .... I 
 may tell you now, my aunt said it would kill 
 him." 
 
 " Ethert ! and you did not tell me ; and I 
 might *' 
 
 " I could not tell you, Ivy ; and it would not 
 
 u 2 
 
21)2 lYY. 
 
 have been ri|>;ht. You ought not to have been 
 coerced by any such fear." 
 
 " Oh, Ethert ! but if I had And was that 
 
 your reason ? You knew that; and you could not, 
 you would not dare .... Then I understand 
 why ; however mucb you hated it . . . ." 
 
 "No, indeed, Ivy. I thought of 3'ou, of my 
 aunt; but I am afraid I never took that into 
 account. No, my cousin ! don't seek for reasons 
 now ; at least for mine. Be content that " — it 
 seemed that the words would hardly come — "for 
 no other Avoman would I have done — what I did 
 from affection for you.^' 
 
 Once more she looked up eagerly, doubtfully, 
 mournfully into his eyes. Their expression did 
 not give a tenderer meaning, a warmer assurance 
 to words that were too carefully chosen to be 
 wholl}^ satisfactory. If Ivy were partly comforted 
 she was also perplexed, certainly not satisfied. 
 Happil}' her sensitive conscience diverted her 
 thought, at least her attention, from questions on 
 which Ethert, even if he could have made up his 
 mind to lie, would have found it hard to deceive her. 
 
 "I forgot .... Oh, I am grieved, ashamed, 
 Ethert ! Let me go to bim." 
 
*'T0 LOVE, HONOUR AND CHERISH." 293 
 
 " No, Ivy. Mr. Orme begged that neither you 
 nor your mother would go at present. He is 
 quite unconscious, knows nobody, can neither 
 hear nor speak ; and it would be useless 
 pain." 
 
 "Is not Mamma there, then? Ethert, let me 
 go to her. I ought ; she will want me." 
 
 " You will find her in her boudoir," Ethert 
 said. Then recollecting himself, as Ivy rose 
 without again looking at him, and moved towards 
 the door; " I will take you to her. You will be 
 summoned if there is a change. If not — I may 
 not see you again, for I hope you will neither of 
 you sit up — in that case, good night." 
 
294 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 CHAFING. 
 
 AFTER an other momentar}^ interview with the 
 doctor, heated, weary, perplexed, and excited, 
 Ethert not unnaturally felt the craving for the 
 fresh air of the evening, the coolness of a late 
 twilight passing into night, that after prolonged 
 trial of nerve and spirit is common to most of us. 
 He had scarcely reached the Eastern terrace, 
 whereon he had found his aunt and Ivy on his 
 arrival with Charlie, when he encountered Mr. 
 Brand, who by the same kind of instinct had sought 
 the same refreshment. 
 
 " Mr. Glynn e," said the latter, with a pointed 
 precision which grated somewhat on Ethert's ear, 
 reminding him of another change of address too 
 probably near at hand — " I suppose you under- 
 stand pretty correctly what must be the legal 
 
CHAFING. 295 
 
 consequences of a marriage so arranged and so 
 hurried f 
 
 *' You mean that there are no settlements ? 
 neither being in a position to make them without 
 betraying the truth or recording a falsehood, 
 even had you had time to prepare them." 
 
 " Yes, but that is not all. We have escaped 
 the necessity of publishing the state of the title. 
 But in dealing with the property we have, in the 
 interests of all, present and future — your children's 
 as well as your own and Mrs. Glynne's — to bear 
 in mind the real ownership ; and I am afraid that 
 in some form or other the truth must be re- 
 corded. Otherwise there is no existing proof of 
 your right. Only one person besides myself is in 
 a position to swear to the survival of the first 
 Lady Gl3mne ; and thirty or forty years hence, 
 that fact forgotten or unknown, every subsisting 
 document would go to establish Mrs. Glynne's 
 sole title." 
 
 " The object of— our object to-day," said Ethert, 
 " was simply to secure that title, to reinstate my 
 cousin in the position she would have enjoyed but 
 for that — accident. Of course you will draw the 
 settlements as for Sir Charles's heiress." 
 
296 IVY. 
 
 " You cannot mean that literally, Mr. Glynne. 
 That would throw away the opportunity of setting 
 right Sir Herbert's settlement and doing justice 
 to future baronets." 
 
 Ethert's face set sternly. " The world supposes 
 that I marry the heiress of Gl3'nnehurst. I know 
 that, if I do not, it is through a legal flaw — of 
 which I decline to take advantage. The estate 
 must be hers for her life, and afterwards go to her 
 heirs, or those who ought to be such. Of those I 
 suppose I stand first ; and the title, I believe, dies 
 with me ?" 
 
 The lawyer smiled. " You forget, Mr. Glynne, 
 those whom to-day's arrangement principally con- 
 templated. The settlements you propose would 
 wrong yourself if you survive Mrs. Glynne, your 
 children in the opposite event." 
 
 Ethert's countenance darkened still more angrily; 
 his movement was part involuntary shudder, part 
 gesture of impatience. 
 
 " Never mind those who may never be. The 
 estate is my cousin's : I will have nothing to do 
 with it, except as her heir." 
 
 "Mr. Glynne, in no case should her issue suc- 
 ceed until after your death. Even were she her 
 
CHAFING. 297 
 
 father's heiress, the marriage settlements would 
 give you a life-interest." 
 
 '' I decline it." 
 
 " Then, Mr. Glynne, you must employ another 
 solicitor. As Sir Charles's adviser I could not 
 seem to take so unfair an advantage ; as the 
 family solicitor, I cannot be responsible for an 
 arrangement so clearly injurious to its interests.'* 
 
 " Very well," Ethert replied, after a pause. " I 
 consent to succeed my cousin if . . . But the estate 
 must be hers absolutely for her life, and pass to 
 her heirs. My interest must come in only as her 
 heir, or as a life-interest under the settlement. 
 And the dissolution of our marriage must operate 
 as my death would do, to leave her in sole pos- 
 session. There should be nothing in the settle- 
 ments to suggest the real state of the title, or give 
 a clue to the secret." 
 
 " Yon must remember, Mr. Glynne, that the 
 betrayal of that secret is always possible." 
 
 *' I understand," Ethert answered, after a 
 moment's reflection. " But for the present the same 
 motives that have kept the accomplice silent will 
 continue to operate. While the victim lives, I 
 suppose we must fulfil Sir Charles's contract. 
 
298 IVY. 
 
 whatever it may be ; on her death, he must take 
 a much smaller bribe to hold his tongue. By the 
 way, Mr. Brand, you say you know personally 
 that she is living ? You must take care to be 
 informed and assured of her death." 
 
 "I have seen her," the law^^er answered, 
 "repeatedly. Indeed, I have never made the 
 yearly payment without ascertaining that she is 
 alive. I know of no one else who could recognize 
 her: and that, by the wa}^ might create some 
 difficulty were she to survive me. Happily that 
 does not seem possible; her health is breaking 
 fast. AVhen both the parties are beyond the 
 reach of trouble, then the man must take our 
 terms, not we his. You must not allow yourself 
 to be bullied by threats of publication.''' 
 
 " True," said Ethert ; " the man's position Tsill 
 be very different when he can threaten only an 
 unpleasant disclosure, a scandal, not a criminal 
 prosecution." 
 
 They passed on into conversation still profes- 
 sional, but relating to details with regard to the 
 management of the property, wherewith it is not 
 necessary to trouble the reader. They were 
 interrupted at last by a message from the doctor. 
 
CHAFIXG. 299 
 
 "Mr. Glynne," the latter said as Etliert entered 
 the ante-room, which, as he observed with a pain • 
 ful sense of incongruity, was still left as it had 
 been arranged for the ceremony — " I must tell 
 you that everything confirms my original impres- 
 sion. It is scarcely conceivable that Sir Charles 
 should recover consciousness ; it is possible, and 
 even probable that the end may come at any 
 moment ; but should it not occur within the next 
 few hours it is more likely to be postponed for 
 days. It is for you to judge whether you will 
 summon further aid from London ; but I may 
 say without hesitation that the ablest physician 
 in England could at present tell you no more than 
 I have told, and certainly could do nothing." 
 
 " That last point," said Ethert after a few 
 moments' consideration, " I think Lady Glynne 
 must determine ; it would be only for her comfort 
 of mind, or her daughter's, if anything of the 
 kind were done. I suppose, for the few hours 
 you mention, I ought to remain within call ; but 
 if the uncertainty may be prolonged, pray induce 
 the ladies to retire for the night at their usual 
 hour." 
 
 Remaining within caU, Ethert was summoned 
 
300 IVY. 
 
 once during the night to what the experienced 
 practitioner thought must be the closing scene. 
 It was not so, however. A physical vitality 
 greater than the doctor had anticipated sustained 
 the animal functions of life long after life in any 
 human sense was over. Towards noon the next 
 day, Ethert, who had fallen asleep on the sofa 
 in the library, was aw^akened by Mr. Orme's 
 entrance. 
 
 " Is there a change ?" he said, springing up. 
 
 " No, Mr. Glynne. If I had supposed you 
 were asleep I would not have disturbed you. 
 There may be, I think will be, no change for 
 some days : at the same time, the end might come 
 with very short warning indeed." 
 
 "I can be of no practical use to him, I sup- 
 pose," observed Ethert presently. " And if not . . . 
 but of course I must be guided by the wishes of 
 those who cannot leave a husband or father under 
 such circumstances. Do you know if Lady 
 Glynne has left her room f 
 
 "She is with Sir Charles at present. Mrs. 
 Glynne has been there, but the scene was very dis- 
 tressing, and uselessly distressing, to her. I hope 
 you will persuade her not to return to the room, 
 
CHAFING. 301 
 
 unless for some brief daily visit. In trntli, my 
 patient is living only in so far that he still 
 breathes. Mind, consciousness, even of the lowest 
 animal kind, there is none: and will I think be 
 none to the end." 
 
 " When my aunt is at liberty," replied Ethert, 
 *' will you ask her to give me an interview? I 
 have slept " — he added, observing some surprise 
 in the manner of the other, who knew that Ethert 
 could hardly have seen his bride, save for a few 
 minutes, since their marriage — " longer than I 
 had any idea. I think they brought me some 
 coffee about eight, but I remember nothing 
 since." 
 
 Fearing for the moment again to encounter 
 Iv3^, Ethert, was content to make a partial and 
 hasty toilet in a lavatory nearly adjoining the 
 library. Lady Glynne's coming was delayed 
 longer than he expected, and the delay afforded 
 him leisure to think somewhat more composedly 
 than he had been able to do since his marriage of 
 the position in which that marriage and his im- 
 pending accession to the title and estates had 
 placed him. As is the case with many men of 
 his susceptible and poetic temperament, his 
 
302 I V Y. 
 
 thoughts flowed most freely, his inventive facul- 
 ties were most alert, his imagination most active 
 at night ; but experience had taught him that he 
 could not rely on a conclusion then reached ; 
 that the excitement which quickened the flow of 
 fancy impaired the soundness of judgment. But 
 one thought that had forcibly impressed itself 
 on his imagination over-night remained equally 
 present when he woke, refreshed and clear. Sir 
 Charles's death, if indeed soon followed bv 
 that of his first wife, would reduce within narrow 
 and manageable limits the danger to avert which 
 the cousins had been hurried into so severe a 
 sacrifice. It was in that case only with Sir 
 Charles's successor that the holder of the secret 
 could deal ; and a secret directly aff'ecting only the 
 dead, and indirectly touching the heir of the title 
 only through his wife's parents, would seem to a 
 stranger a less powerful instrument of extortion 
 than Ethert felt it to be. Silence might be 
 cheaply and surely bought. The necessity for the 
 identification of Ivy's interest with his own was 
 involved in the fact of her illegitimacy, in the 
 mere possibility, not the probability, of its dis- 
 closure. But if it were in his power effectually 
 
CHAFING. 303 
 
 to ensure the silence of the living witnesses, and 
 the utter disappearance of the evidence with their 
 death — in that case, was the marriage needed for 
 any other purpose than as a hasis for the 
 marriage-settlement ; and possibl}^ as security 
 against the contingency of his marriage with 
 another ? Was it needful to exact the '' con- 
 sideration" for the bargain which restored Ivy's 
 inheritance; the price of an act of justice? 
 And if needless — would it not be wanton 
 cruelty ? On this point his whole mind was bent, 
 as he paced the library floor while awaiting with 
 contented patience his aunt's arrival. 
 
 But the original objection to a formal and 
 immediate separation seemed still insuperable. 
 It must be known at once to the world. 
 Sir Charles Glynne's social and political 
 position, the importance of Glynn ehurst from 
 every point of view that could attract public 
 interest, were such that the fact of the marriage 
 would be known and remembered by all the world 
 to which he and his bride belonged ; would be 
 canvassed in every club and in half the drawing- 
 rooms of London ; would be mentioned, perhaps 
 with more or less of surprised and curious 
 
304 I V Y. 
 
 comment, in fifty newspapers. An instant or 
 very speedy separation would be equally notorious, 
 and, as he had seen at first, might well appear 
 insulting to his bride's feelings and fatally 
 injurious to her reputation. He was not, or 
 believed he was not, swayed by his own desire of 
 freedom : he had, or thought he had, given up for 
 ever the dream he had till yesterday so fondly 
 cherished ; aud hateful as must be the obligation 
 of living with a wife he would not have chosen, 
 had it affected himself alone, he could hardly have 
 refused to accept it as imperative and inevitable. 
 But, unhappily, when his own and everj^ other 
 person's wishes were left out of the question, 
 the omission hardly simplified the problem. Ivy's 
 interests in the matter were hopelessly conflicting 
 and not a little ambiguous — ambiguous because 
 they depended in no small manner on the preser- 
 vation of the secret. If that could be certainly, 
 assuredly, permanently kept, then, it seemed to 
 him, her happiness would be best consulted by a 
 course which would allow her to look back on 
 her marriage only as a strange nightmare, at 
 whose crisis, as commonl}" happens in dreams 
 intolerably painful or terrible, she had been 
 
. CHAFING. 305 
 
 timeously awakened. Her position, tlius debarred 
 with marriage with another, would be cruel 
 enough ; but surely every woman, and especially 
 one like Ivy, would prefer lifelong maidenhood to 
 an unwilling, unloving marriage ? But while dis- 
 closure was possible, it was possible that she 
 might have real and bitter need of all that the 
 security and dignity of recognised and honoured 
 wedlock could do to protect her fame, fortune, and 
 peace of mind. And again, the impossibility of 
 actually consulting her greatly affected the ques- 
 tion ; what, conceded to her avowed desire, would 
 be the consummation of kindness and considerate 
 loyalty, might if thrust upon her be felt only as 
 the bitterest insult and indignity. 
 
 Instinctively Ethert felt that nothing could be 
 said to, no co-operation expected from, her mother. 
 The terror of public scandal had been so deeply 
 burnt into Lady Glynne's spirit, was now so com- 
 pletely the ruling idea of her mind, that no regard 
 for her daughter's happiness, no appreciation of 
 the misery of an unwilling union, would dispose 
 her to face the comments of the world upon an 
 arrangement that must pique its curiosity to the 
 utmost. All that was at the moment obvious and 
 
 vol; I. X 
 
306 ivr. 
 
 certain was the desirability of postponing any 
 decisive utterance or action, so far and so long as 
 could be done without giving needless pain to Ivy, 
 or exciting suspicion in others. For such post- 
 ponement Sir Charles Glynne's critical condition 
 afforded a plausible — something more than plau- 
 sible—opportunity. It would surely be possible 
 to assume the necessity of Ivy's presence at home 
 in such a manner as not to hurt her; and his own 
 absence would seem, except perhaps to her, a 
 natural consequence. 
 
 Yet Ethert sorely feared that such a separation, 
 however welcome in itself — much more any attempt 
 to prolong it, however represented — would be felt 
 by one so sensitive as Ivy as an unkindness, a 
 slight, if not an indignity. He understood her well 
 enough to know that, however reluctantly she 
 might have assented to the marriage, her assent 
 must have been sincerely and loyally given ; that 
 she could have entertained no other idea than that 
 of fulfilling her duty, of accepting her position as 
 his wife with absolute truth, in undoubting, 
 unbounded faith. All that might seem to impair 
 its reality, to weaken the obligation in more 
 critical eyes, would only deepen her sense of the 
 
CHAFING. 307 
 
 duty she had undertaken ; render her more watchful, 
 more anxious to fulfil every other spoken and 
 implied promise to the uttermost, if she were con- 
 sciously unable to give the love she had pledged. 
 Her sweet submissive temper made the prospect 
 tenfold more intolerable. If only she would resent 
 what she had good right to quarrel with ! — but to 
 meet the wistful look in those soft tearful eyes, 
 to refuse an answer to her questions, spoken or 
 unspoken, why she should be so hardly treated, 
 what offence she could have given ; to see her turn 
 away almost heartbroken to spare him the sight 
 of the anguish she could no longer restrain— he felt 
 that, if such should be the nature of her appeal to 
 the heart which, however hard to her present 
 claims, could never shake off the hold she had 
 acquired in the past, he could hardly trust his own 
 resolve or consistency. His perplexity as regarded 
 both the immediate and the ultimate future grew 
 deeper moment by moment; and, embarrassing as 
 threatened to be his interview with his aunt, her 
 approach was a welcome interruption to his own 
 thoughts. 
 
 Lady Glynne had evidently been weeping, but 
 not as it would seem with the violent over- 
 
 X 2 
 
uh(lmirig sorrow of a cruel and intolerable 
 bereavement ; rather her tears seemed to have 
 been a relief — an observer less kindly, more 
 critical than Ethert, might have thought them, as 
 feminine tears sometimes are, almost as mere a 
 matter of course as the outward signs of mourn- 
 ing. It was with quite as much composure as 
 he could command that she answered his usual 
 greeting. A few sentences, of course, a few words 
 of enquir}^ and of compassion, had passed between 
 them before; finding that she would not assist 
 him, Ethert entered on a subject that might, had 
 she so chosen, have been less awkward for her 
 than for himself. 
 
 " While . . . while this — suspense lasts. Aunt, I 
 take it for granted that Ivy will not, cannot well 
 leave you, or rather m^^ uncle. It seems certain 
 that he will hardly be able to recognize any of 
 us again : but nevertheless she could not be 
 willing. ... I understand from Mr. Orme that 
 
 you do not wish to send for Sir B. C , or I 
 
 would telegraph at once; or if you prefer it I 
 would see him in London, and if he thinks 
 there can be a doubt would return with 
 him." 
 
"You don't mean that you would leave us, 
 Ethertr 
 
 " Of course, Aunt, if I could be of service, or 
 if my presence could be of the slightest use or 
 comfort to my uncle, I should not dream of leaving 
 him or you. It is true I am much wanted at 
 the office. My absence is so inconvenient to my 
 chief, whose consideration for me binds me to 
 consider him, that no mere formal propriety 
 should keep me long from my post. But, after 
 ail, I expected and told him that it might be im- 
 possible for me to return for some three or four 
 v/eeks. After that I am pledged to resume my 
 duties. On the other hand, I have felt so much 
 at home here, and you have been so kind to me, 
 that under other circumstances I might fancy 
 myself a comfort to you ; and if so" — her gesture 
 left no doubt on this point — " if so, I would not 
 have left you. But, as things are, Ivy's position 
 must be our first consideration ; and to have her 
 to yourself for the present, with no other claim 
 on her attention, would surely be best for both of 
 
 you." 
 
 " I don't think so, Ethert, and I am very 
 sure that Ivy will not feel it so. You cannot 
 
310 IVY. 
 
 think that she would wish you to leave her 
 
 now.'^ 
 
 " I know she would never say so, and perhaps 
 she Plight not be aware of it. But I think, on 
 reflection, you will agree with me that while her 
 father's state continues, while the idea of leaving 
 home would be shocking and cruel — I could not 
 name it, and I am sure you would not — it is best 
 . . . . that my presence should be dispensed with. 
 The change in our relations will come far more 
 naturally and easily if it be as little as possible 
 obtruded on her now ; if it take place much in 
 the same manner as it would have done in 
 ordinary circumstances .... I mean, of course, 
 when you can spare her, and .... when there is 
 no conflict of ties and duties." 
 
 There was a certain undeniable common sense 
 in what Ethert said ; still more force in what he 
 obviously forbore to say. This Lady Glynne 
 could not refuse to recognize ; and yet she felt 
 that neither what was uttered nor what was im- 
 pHed expressed the speaker's real thought. Had 
 he loved his bride, had he believed in her wife- 
 like love, he was the last man to have dwelt on 
 such considerations. He would have forgotten 
 
CHAFING. 311 
 
 utterly the formal in recollection of the natural 
 tie between them. He could not have wished 
 to leave Ivy in the midst of her distress and 
 loneliness, in mourning for a brother, in daily 
 expectation of a father's death ; his last thought 
 would have been that his absence at such a 
 moment could be a relief to her. 
 
 " But, Ethert, all is utterly uncertain. If you 
 went to-morrow morning, you might be recalled 
 before night. Surely — and Ivy will feel your 
 going very keenly, however it might be explained. 
 Wait ; at any rate take no decision to-da}^, and 
 see and soothe her. It hurt her not to see you 
 again last night; and till she knew that you had 
 been up so long and were asleep, I saw she 
 wondered and fretted over your absence this 
 morning." 
 
 " I am very sorry," Ethert answered earnestly, 
 " if I have really grieved or hurt her. But — 
 Aunt, I must leave you to explain, but .... if I 
 blunder or forget she must — I am sure she will 
 — believe that it is blundering, forgetting, 
 and no indifference, no disregard of her. But 
 misconception is so easy, and as things 
 stand must give so much pain, make so much 
 
312 IVY. 
 
 miscliief, that I cannot but wish m^'self else- 
 where." 
 
 Ethert's arguments were such as it was equally 
 impossible to dispute in words and to accept at 
 heai-t. The mother could no more demur to his 
 plausible assumption than avow the secret mis- 
 givings inspired by his evident anxiety to depart. 
 In truth, both knew well that neither was or 
 could be thoroughly sincere. In their reference 
 to Sir Charles's state there was and must be a 
 certain decorous exaggeration, of which Ethert, 
 perhaps unconsciously, was taking advantage. 
 Ivy's father had not so interwoven his own life 
 with that of his children, had not been so much 
 to them, or perhaps even to their mother, that no 
 other and happier thought could really enter their 
 minds, that no other and stronger influence 
 could sway their feelings, while he lingered 
 between life and death. But this truth, known 
 to both, could be avowed by neither; nay, 
 both felt compelled perforce to assume the 
 contrary. 
 
 " At any rate, Ethert, you must not think, you 
 will not speak of going to-day ; and you will see 
 Ivy, you will talk to and comfort her, after I 
 
CHAFING. 313 
 
 have said the little you seem to wish me to say to 
 her?" 
 
 "I will see her, of course," Ethert replied, in a 
 tone however that conveyed more of shrinking 
 from the proposed interview than he at all in- 
 tended. " But don't send her to me — don't let 
 her send for me, directly and formally." 
 
 "Send for you?" Lady Glynne rejoined. 
 "Ethert, is that like Ivy? I have only to tell 
 her where you are, to let her see that she will 
 not be unwelcome, and you know that she wHl 
 come to you at once." 
 
 *' As you please," he answered ; as the servant 
 brought in the breakfast which both he and his 
 hostess had forgotten, but of which Ivy's natural 
 consideration had thought, even while her mind 
 dwelt so painfully on her father's state, so 
 anxiously, wonderingly on Ethert's apparent 
 neglect. " I had rather, if you can help it, she 
 should not come to me here. I shall be in the 
 garden half-an-hour hence : let us meet naturally, 
 and if possible accidentally. You might well 
 urge her not to let the day pass without the 
 relief to health and spirits that fresh air will 
 give." 
 
314 IVY. 
 
 With her hand on the door-handle, Lady 
 Glynne, under a sudden irapluse of maternal 
 misgiving, turned and spoke — quickly, though in 
 a faltering and timid voice : 
 
 " But you will be kind to her, Ethert ? Eemem- 
 ber — it is a hard position ; it would have been 
 too hard, too cruel, but for her simple trust in her 
 cousin's kindness. She had learnt to expect 
 nothing but tenderness and indulgence from 
 you J you will remember that? She is not to 
 blame." 
 
 The interposition, however natural, was most 
 injudicious and untimely. Ethert, though em- 
 barrassed and perhaps vexed with himself, was 
 not conscious of irritation or ill-will, and only 
 wished to show Ivy all the kindness, and even 
 tenderness, that consistency would permit, that 
 might not mislead her or misinterpret his feeling. 
 But his aunt's plea angered him, galled him, none 
 the less that it was so obviously just. It implied 
 a distrust the more exasperating that it was not 
 quite unreasonable ; and it came from one whose 
 right to ask more than she had already exacted 
 he was not disposed to admit. In truth, the 
 more acutely he felt the injustice of resentment 
 
CHAFING. 315 
 
 towards Ivy, the more his suppressed impatience 
 was directed against her who now appealed to him 
 on Ivy's behalf. 
 
 " She is not to blame," he answered curtly, 
 " and it is hard on both. But if you have kept 
 faith with me" — looking keenly and suddenly 
 into a countenance that manifestly changed under 
 his glance — " Ivy will expect no sentiment, no 
 professions from me. Aunt Caroline — you know 
 what passed between ourselves ; you, and only 
 you, know how Ivy w^as brought to consent. If 
 she were half as bitterly conscious as I of 
 coercion, compulsion — if you forced her will as 
 mine was forced— God forgive you, for I never 
 can." 
 
 The lady was this time less at a loss 
 than before, and there was plausibility, if 
 not truth, in the retort which might well 
 have been prompted by genuine womanly re- 
 sentment. 
 
 " Do you not see how unkind is your implied 
 question, what a dilemma you would force on me? 
 Ethert, what would you have me say ? Am I to 
 tell you that your wife would not have married 
 you if she could have refused ; or would you have 
 
316 IVY. 
 
 her mother say that she was more willing than 
 yourself?" 
 
 This was unanswerable; and Lady Glynne 
 quitted the room with the feminine satisfaction of 
 feeling that she had enjoyed the last word, — and 
 left its sting behind. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 London: Printed by A. Schulze, 13, Poland Stieet. 
 
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