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 lAlNSTONE’S HOUSEKEEPER 
 
VNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME. 
 
 By CHARLES LEVER. 
 
 Two Shillings, 
 
 Jack Hinton. 
 
 Harry Lorrequer. 
 
 The O’Donoghue. 
 
 The Fortunes of Glencore. 
 One of Them. 
 
 Sir Jasper Carew. 
 
 A Day’s Ride. 
 
 Maurice Tiernay, 
 Barrington. 
 
 Luttrell of Arran, 
 
 A Rent in a Cloud. 
 
 Sir Brook Fossbrooke. 
 Bramleighs of Bishop's 
 Tony Butler. [Folly. 
 
 That Boy of Norcott’s. 
 Lord Kilgobrin. 
 
 Cornelius O’Dowd. 
 
 Nuts and Nutcrackers. 
 
 Two Shillings and Sixpence, 
 
 Charles O’Malley. 
 The Daltons. 
 
 Knight of Gwynne. 
 Dodd Family Abroad. 
 
 Tom Burke of “Ours." 
 Davenport Dunn. 
 Roland Cashel. 
 
 Martins of Cro* Martin. 
 
 London: WARD, LOCK, & CO., Salisbury Square, E.C. 
 
MAOSTONE’S 
 
 I 0 E S E I E E P E K . 
 
 BY 
 
 ELIZA METEYARD. 
 
 (•‘srLvr;iii’KX"i 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 * doctor's LITI LK DAUGHTER,” “ RADY HKUBERT’s GENTIJIWOM A !f 
 ET<\, ETC* 
 
 NEW EDITION. 
 
 ^oitbon : 
 
 Ahl), LOCK AND CO., WARWICK EOUSE, 
 
 SALIbBUBY SQUAKE, E.C. 
 
 {All rights reserced.) 
 

 * 
 
 
rx'^ 
 
 /fi ^ 
 
 MAINSTOIE'S SOUSEKEEPEE. 
 
 CHAPTER I, 
 
 THE PEACOCKS IN THE SEN. 
 
 ere™ull-le^ed^\'^as the sun f" the fields around ; the hed^-es 
 
 lies fromMainstone vicarao-e was hrni* roadside inn about two 
 'Die one stepped across the°thrp^nH house-place when 
 
 ' Mainstone^^ ShHurnS round ^ *he way 
 
 uply appareled. beheld a young woman very 
 
 a country sort o’ place^but^if vou ®®® ^his 
 
 le. Ta/e the turW to the left T’ "hout a 
 
 for it’s a high up, nrcish sort of 
 
 ^Barbie will tell you better ” ^ ’ though a bit lonely. But 
 
 s a?., ™f rs'i"’ »™„, 
 
 led her daughter. crooked staircase and 
 
 st theVambe^buTX^hiieahtrwari^^ make the beds and 
 cching a young farmer and hi<?" Uh on a back casement, 
 
 a,.grve i glaliceTn the " neighbouring 
 
 rning glory flooded on the old oakeif fl hurried down. The 
 sweeter shadow than this of Barbie Bell°"^^ darkened by 5; 
 
 .twS.'' “I ae o.tsMo 1, 
 
 there the way to Mainstone. I tell 
 
 • though maybe, vouno- woman ^t’sH,p^°“ her the 
 
 lea, I no, g„i„g tl.irc," *„ the tefi »"<l” 
 
 50245 
 
MAINSTONe’S HOtSEKEEPEft. 
 
 “Well that’s a new thing! Mr. Eadnor don’t have visitors often 
 —It might be a deal better if he had. But, maybe, you re going to 
 see old^ Betty Jack; she’s relations, I’ve heard, of some sort or 
 
 anotlm^ . j know nothing of those you speak of. My business is with 
 
 Mother,” interposed Barbie, who knew full well that some more 
 direct question would soon follow, “ we’re keeping the lady ; 
 
 if you please, miss, if you’ll go on a step or two, 1 11 get my bonnet 
 
 half^ curtseying to the stranger as she spoke. Barbie ran in- 
 doors, and soon returned. Nothing of all this was lost upon the 
 youn.r woman, but, taking Barbie’s first word at its full worth, she 
 Lid a civil good day, and passed on beneath the orchard hedgeio 
 which flecked the sunlight with its shadow. . 
 
 Mrs. Bell watched her and Barbie out of sight, and then went 
 
 ®^°7^L“„’irUaLs her for a lady, that’s pretty sure, and she ain’t one 
 over-rLdy. with her manners, all folks know. _ But la !^ her dress am t 
 much ways like a lady’s, unless it be a primish sort o one as tO®® 
 Meetimr.^ Plain bonnet, plain gown, plain silk cape, wi hardly a mdS 
 o’ trimming on it-well, s‘he’s i^l the world just like those Methodeq 
 Imen in Welton, as thinks dress a sin o’ Satan. But her voice waj 
 like a lady’s, and her words just as nice as the L 
 
 Barbie was right in making her rnanners, though it don t do to bq 
 over-humble to folks one knows nothing of. , ,, , i„„, 
 
 Mrs Bell said this to herself as she went about the house-ph 
 dustiim the old-fashioned furniture, for she was a dainty housewife 
 PreseiTtly, raising her eyes to the clock and seeing that no • 
 advancing she set a table and some chairs, as though she expecte 
 customers. Yet she was still pursuing her old tram of thought, fo 
 when she had put on a clean apron, fetched her knitting, and sa 
 
 iHisTisrit i^she’s going up to the vicara-e 
 But ril ask the doctor when lie comes. Young Mr. Greene 11 be su 
 
 *'^ThrLung"w 5 inan pursued her way for some minutes, as thoug 
 unconscious Ihat her steps were f ollowed, and, J^e j 
 
 was n artlv open, for it led into the held where the ploughs were 
 work tha^ iJavbic had been watching, she stopped, and, turning roum 
 
 I'liisls^'kind of you,” she said. In the same vome whic 
 
 Mrc Bell had remembered when her disparagement o } 
 
 womaS wa^ had reached its climax, ‘‘ though Mamstone vicara^ 
 
 seems easy enough to find.” ^ i rv-P Unr 
 
 ‘‘ But it’ll be easier if I go on with you to the bottom of the lane 
 
 replied Barbie quickly ; “ leastways, if you like, miss. ^ 
 
 “ Oh! I have no objection, for I am quite a^strangei. 
 pleasai't country. Is Mainstone as pleasant ? 
 
mAinstone’s housekeepeb. 5 
 
 A deal nicer, miss. There ain’t such a garden as Mr. Radnor’s 
 for many a mile, and the woods and fields which lie away to Mainstone 
 chui’ch make^^the walk right pleasant the summer long.” 
 
 “Indeed ! ” ^Then, as if wishing not to pursue the^^subject further, 
 she ayed Barbie the name of the large field which lay before them 
 and of the whitewashed farmhouse on the upland beyond. 
 
 ^ “It’s called the Abbey-lea; and that’s Moore’s farm, for folks of 
 tue name of Moore have lived there many a year. Now, two younf 
 men and their old grandmother keep it. A miserly body she is ; and 
 that young man in the velveteen coat, as stands watching the pl'oun-h, 
 IS Silas Moore, the youngest of the masters.” ° 
 
 Barbie s voice faltered as she spoke. Moving abruptly away, she 
 be^an to gather some of the scented violets which filled the shady 
 hollows of the bank. ■' 
 
 Without heeding her— for she seemed to have matter enoimh of 
 her own for anxious thought— the young woman, whether lady or 
 servant, leant for some minutes against the gate, and only continued 
 her walk when she saw the men unyoking their horses from the ploun-h 
 for such time as they sat to eat their dinner in the hedgerow, and tlnit 
 the master of tiie field came quickly towards the gate along the hollow 
 of a furrow. The scene was very fair, and might well be turned from 
 with reluctant feet. For there was beauty in the fresh turned fur- 
 rows, as they glistened in the sun, beauty in the distant uplands, new 
 leaved and green, beauty in the whole landscape, because He who 
 gives us all things was there in the glory of His vernal season. 
 
 bhe had gone some little distance, when her attention was attr.acted 
 , by voices in the rear Looking round she saw that the farmer had 
 come foi th from the field and met Barbie, and that for some cause or 
 another there was angry speech between them. She passed on, not 
 liking to seem curious ; but, as their voices rose, the words were 
 audible in the extreme stillness of the breezeless noon. 
 
 No, I wont be in the house-place, Silas, when you come” said 
 Barbie, determmately ; “ I won’t, and there’s an end of it, and so good 
 moinmg. I have to show the lady there as far as Mainstone LanI ” 
 
 He seemed to detain her forcibly, for he said betwixt his teeth : 
 
 • 1 .,^ know what it is, and who it is, that has thus set strife between 
 us. Barbie, thy love was the only comfort I had, for there is none 
 m the house up yonder. I am but my brother’s servant, and the old 
 woman s rule is harder and crueller than ever.” 
 
 Thou hast got Mary ■ 
 
 j Smith to walk with ; if not her, plenty of Welton girls. And thou \ 
 .canst ease thy mind of what thou say’st is thy trouble about me by * 
 
 4uhe°‘lfuTL ” ^ pleasesj 
 
 As top; pii, 
 
 all nevcrjmke less a man of me to do a kindness to Iny decent lass 
 
4 
 
 MAINSTONE’s HOtJSEKEEEER. 
 
 or woman. But I guess what the truth be,” he said, raising his voice 
 still higher, “and that thy path through Halllford Wood last week 
 was not for naught. But, if thou thinkest to go home there as an 
 honest man’s wife, the woe of thy mistake ’ll be thine, not mine ; for 
 he'll not go to the ‘ Brown Hen ’ to choose a wife, nor would madam 
 his mother, nor the high-bred misses, his sisters, receive thee as such 
 — on that thou may be well content.” 
 
 “ What I do is no business of thine, Silas, so let me go.” 
 
 “ It is,” he said, with a vehemence which showed the mortal pain 
 he was enduring ; “ I love thee, and I have asked thee to be my wife, 
 and it is much to me to see thee going wrong.” 
 
 Barbie must have broken from the young man’s restraining grasp, 
 for no further words were audible, and a few minutes after she could 
 be heard coming slowly onwards. When the young woman turned to 
 speak to her. Barbie’ eyes were red with weeping, and the flowers she 
 had gathered had been plucked to pieces, for she was even then 
 scattering the fragments before her with nervous fingers. 
 
 “ With whom is it that you are thus at strife ? ” asked the stranger, 
 with the voice and manner of one accustomed to command. “ It is a 
 pity for a young girl like you to be partner in a quarrel, particularly 
 when those you oppose seem to be in the right ; and to speak as a 
 good and truthful man should, at least as far as I can judge from the 
 little which has unavoidably met my ear.” 
 
 “ Oh ! it’s nothing,” said Barbie with petulance, though not im- 
 pudence ; “ Silas Moore and I often fall out. He’s as jealous as can 
 be. If he’d* his own way, the ‘ Brown Hen ’ wouldn’t have a cus- 
 tomer.” 
 
 “ Do you give him no cause for jealousy ? ” said the questioner 
 again ; “ the love of a good man should never be trifled with.” 
 
 “ It’s just his own way,” answered the girl evasively, “ and that’s 
 all. He’s a sore sort of life of it, I daresay, with his old grandmother 
 and his brother Bobert, who’s every bit as miserly. But that’s nothing 
 to me. His tempers must go elsewhere.” 
 
 “ Yet, you love Silas,” said the young woman, in a voice which 
 added as plainly as could be, “ this is my opinion, and it is true.” 
 
 Barbie made no reply. She was abashed by the penetration of the 
 stranger, and yet attracted by a singularity of manner so new to her 
 experience. So, as she could not answer, and was probably made 
 nervous by the keen gaze which read her looks, she solved the difficulty 
 by beginning to cry. 
 
 “ Come ! tears are useless, and duty much better,” said the stranger 
 in the same firm yet womanly voice ; “ and as I am coming to be one 
 amongst you, I shall be interested in the life which lies around. So, j 
 tell me — who is the other of whom the young man spoke ? ” 
 
 Barbie’s tears gave place to an intense blush ; and thinking, per- 
 haps, that she had no right to answer such a question, she muttered 
 something about “Silas and his nonsense,” and went onwards, as 
 though to lead the way. 
 
 Since the stranger had left the little railway station at Horton 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 5 
 
 Wood— a long straggling village in the heart of that great moorland 
 ridge of coal pits, iron mines, and blast furnaces, which runs at inter- 
 vals through two of the finest of our north-western counties the 
 
 country had become more and more beautiful ; till now, in its intense 
 rusticity and dreamy stillness, no one w'ould have thought that a 
 teeming population lay so near as four or five miles. But here the 
 upland pastures to the right grew into a rocky hill, seen far and wide ; 
 the fields undulated, clear pools lay in their hollows, and old woods 
 and little brooks lent their own beauty to the half -pastoral, half- 
 sylvan scene. 
 
 Mainstone lay to the left, and the lane leading thereto was in si^ht. 
 Barbie had hitherto kept ahead, but now, as she reached the lane,'she 
 turned round, pointed to it, and stayed. Just then a turnpike-gate 
 at a little distance in the main-road was opened, and a horseman came 
 quickly through. When he saw the girl and recognised her, he bent 
 eagerly forward, and, -when opposite to where she stood, he reined in 
 his Jiorse. 
 
 “ W ell. Barbie,” he said, as he cast his searching glance round, and 
 saw the stranger at the distance of a few yards, how’s Mrs. Bell— 
 and where are you going ? ” The girl made no direct answer to this 
 last brief question, but said that she had come to show the turning to 
 Mainstone vicarage to a stranger, who was going there. ° 
 
 In an instant the rider had stooped lower, and said something in a 
 whisper. Then changing his too familiar manner to one of deference, 
 he sat again upright in his saddle, and slightly raised his hat. He’ 
 was a handsome man, of perhaps thirty years of age ; his manner and 
 dress were gentlemanly in the extreme ; his horse such a one as only 
 a man of wealth could own ; yet so many hidden mysteries of sin lent 
 their expression to his face, as to make it in some degree repulsive to 
 those who had penetration enough to read his character ari<dit. 
 
 ^ As he settled his hat again upon his head, he pointed in the 
 direction of the vicarage, and seemed about to speak, but perceiviim* 
 the searching gaze which was fixed upon him, he checked the impulses 
 bowed once more, shook the reins, and went onwards. In an instant 
 he had stayed again, leant back in the saddle, called out to Barbie 
 that he should be at the “ Brown Hen ” in half-an-hour, as he had to 
 tell her mother about her old uncle, Davie Ford, and then he spurred 
 his horse into a gallop. 
 
 “ IVho is that gentleman ? ” asked the young woman, as soon as he 
 was out of sight. 
 
 “It’s Mr. Greene, the doctor,” said Barbie, a little hesitatiimly. 
 
 “ Indeed ! And how far olF is the vicarage now ? ” ^ 
 
 “ It may be half a mile, but the road’s quite straight, and it's the 
 first house you’ll come to, so you can’t miss.” 
 
 “ But if you will come with me as far, or nearly so, I shall be glad,” 
 said the stranger, \yith a quickness which was singular, seeing that slie 
 had hitherto exhibited no desire for the girl’s company; “my basket, 
 t lough a light one, rather wearies me, and, with you as a guide, I 
 shall not mistake the place.” 
 
6 
 
 mainstone’s housekeepee. 
 
 The basket was the lightest thing in the world, and might have 
 been carried by a child ; but the girl being blind to the real purpose 
 of the request, took it and went onwards with some show of dogged- 
 ness ; for^ to say the trutli, she would rather have been on her way 
 back to the “ Brown Hen,” and so at home when the doctor’s horse 
 should pause beside the door. 
 
 However, Barbie was good-natured, though silly, because she was 
 ignorant and vain. Soon forgetting her disappointment, she slackened 
 her steps, and began to talk to the stranger, who paid enforced heed, 
 as might be clearly seen. 
 
 More and more beautiful the country grew. The road was wide, 
 its banks turfed and decked witli flowers ; and presently a railway- 
 arch, built of the red sandstone of the district, spanned it, and lessened, 
 by the thoughts it suggested of rapid transit and distant populousness, 
 the otherwise intense solitude and stillness of the scene. Then came 
 fields again, and then, as the upland grew, the parsonage came in 
 sight. It was built of red sandstone, like most of the older houses of 
 the district ; its gabled chimneys were wreathed in a profusion of 
 long-grown ivy ; and though it was of no great height, and thus the 
 rooms could not be very lofty, the large space of ground it covered, 
 the solidity of the walls, the breadth and depth of the stone-wrought 
 mullioned casements, and the immense mass of impervious evergreens 
 which grew around, gave an air of comfort, and of well-to-do lettered 
 retirement ; as well as suggested perhaps, to some who might pass 
 along, that the days spent tlierein were lengthened out by simplicity, 
 happiness, and peace. The upland on which the house stood trended 
 away in the distance to fields of breezy height, across which you could 
 trace the footpaths and the rustic stiles ; and in front, the acclivity 
 very slowly fell towards a rivulet, that even at that distance could be 
 heard trickling amidst mossy stones — and thus forming a garden of 
 great extent. A natural terrace, of considerable length and width, 
 wound round the hill at a distance nearer the house than the brook, 
 and on this fell the glory of the noon-day sun, except where it was 
 shadowed by the leafy-green of some overarching tree. A wooden 
 seat, russet, and weather-stained, stood in one or two places ; wide 
 sweeps of close-shaved turf crept to the terrace and hemmed it in, 
 except where little beds of flowers enamelled its sunny places with 
 tints of gold, white, amaranth, and green. The highway went up- 
 wards with the hill, and thus the house faced you, as you passed on ; 
 and this side the brook and undulating field, broken by clumps of 
 old trees, came from the distance towards the road, from which it 
 was divided by a low stone wall, formed of rough blocks of sand- 
 stone. 
 
 As soon as Barbie reached this, she set down the basket, and leant 
 thereon. After a pretty close survey, she looked round for the 
 stranger, whom she saw standing some little distance onwards beside 
 the wall, her face turned towards the parsonage, so that the girl could 
 not see it, and her hands pressed one upon another on the rude stone- 
 work. One of these she had ungloved, perhaps unconsciously, for 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 7 
 
 Barbie saw that ifc was very small and white ; and by the ringless 
 finger, for it was the left hand, that she was unmarried. Her curiosity 
 increased ; she watched the stranger still more closely : thus she 
 thought she saw a tear trickle down across the little hand, and thence 
 into a rift of the unmortared stone. 
 
 “ It’s just well 1 made my manners, and took her for what she is — 
 a real lady,” said Barbie to herself ; “ for if she’s goins: to live here, 
 she may marry the parson, and so be missis in earnest. That's just 
 to say — if — ’’ and certain village scandals here recurred to Barbie's 
 mind, and she stayed her speculations. 
 
 “ I say, miss,” she said presently, as she went nearer, and stood by 
 the stranger, “ Mainstone parsonage is a nicish sort o’ place, ain't it ? ” 
 
 41 Very ! ” 
 
 “ Ay ! and you’ll like the inside just as well. Do you see that open 
 window, with the coloured panes ? ” 
 
 The stranger bent her head in assent. 
 
 “Well, that’s one of the windows in the parson’s study. And it’s 
 such a big room — with hundreds and hundreds of books in it — ay, 
 more than I should know liow to count ; for I once peeped in when 
 I went up to the house with a message for mother.” 
 
 “ Indeed ! And is there no other^parlour ? ” 
 
 “Yes, two or three. One's called tlie oak parlour, because it’s got 
 a lot of old carved wood about the walls. Mother knows the house 
 well, for she’d a sister lived (here, years ago, in the old vicar’s time; 
 and a rare nice parlour it vv»)uld be if old Missis Jack kept it properly ; 
 but this she don’t, for Mr. Radnor never goes into any rooms but his 
 study and bed-room, and so she don’t care. As you’ll see, miss, she’s 
 an untidy body.” 
 
 The stranger gave countenance to neither scandal nor loquacity, for 
 she niade no reply whatever ; and was about resuming her walk up 
 the hill, at the top of which was the white gate that led, by a carriage- 
 road, to a gabled porch at this end of the building, when the girl,"^!!! 
 her countrified, yet not unrespectful, manner, said quickly : — 
 
 “ Look there, miss— look there ! Do you see those green and 
 purple colours — all mixed together and shining in the sun— there at 
 the far end of the terrace ? ” 
 
 The stranger shaded her eyes with her hands, looked as directed, 
 and presently detected what Barbie pointed out. 
 
 ‘It’s the parson’s two peacocks — Peery” (Barbie meant Peri), 
 “and Pearl — and pretty favourites they are. Just wait a minute, 
 and you’ll be sure to see the parson himself. As everyone the 
 country round knows, if he’s in the garden the peacocks be with him. 
 All the summer long they follow him up and down that old terj’ace, 
 and every morning he feeds them from his study window. Old Missis 
 Jack lets him do that — and that’s a wonder I ” 
 
 Not a word did the stranger say. She was listening intently to the 
 girl, and yet watching a gentleman who came slowly along the terrace, 
 his head bent in meditation, his hands clasped behind beneath the tails 
 Qf his rusty black coat, his whole bearing like a man who walked in a 
 
S MAINSTOKP/S HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 dream. He was in age nearer fifty than forty, for his head, as you 
 could see in the strong sunlight, was a little bald, and his hair tuniinor 
 grey. His favourites kept close beside him, one a little in advance^ 
 the other behind, sometimes stopping an instant to peck the glistenin<i 
 gravel, or snap at some little fly as it flitted past, but soon resuming 
 their stately step, as though to spread out their gorgeous pluma«'(^ 
 and let it radiate in the noon-day sun, was an honour to him who fed 
 them with so gentle and tender a hand. 
 
 “ Those pretty creatures,” said Barbie, “ never go out of the garden • 
 but the parson, when he goes a little way beyond, ain’t alone for all 
 that, for there’s an old guinea-fowl as loves him just as well as the 
 peacocks. She follows the master about the fields, and as sure as he 
 crosses the upland towards Mainstone Church, she’ll follow him as far 
 as a certain stile, and then won’t go a bit further, but flies back a^-ain. 
 On Sunday mornings, old Lisha, the parson’s man, has to shut her up* 
 or she’d be amongst the country folks on their way to church. With 
 all their care she gets out sometimes, and more than once Silas Moore 
 has seen her.” 
 
 i^ot a word did the stranger say. She was watching Mr. Badnor, 
 who had come to the end of the terrace, and now retraced his steps 
 slower and slower than before. Presently he was lost to view in the 
 shadow of a great cedar tree ; and probably he sat down on a seat i 
 there, for he came no more. ! 
 
 “ He did once take to poultry, and had a fine fowl-house built , 
 but old Missis Jack soon put an end to his going there, because, as 
 folks say, he might sometimes have seen more tlian she liked on his i 
 way to It. So 1 ’spose there ain’t a chicken kept there, except for i 
 the spit or the pot. Well, it’s a pity, for the doctors say that, but 
 for the dumb ere turs he takes to so kindly, the parson would have ! 
 moped himself out of his wits many a day ago.” 
 
 Speaking thus, the young girl took up the little basket, and followed ! 
 the footsteps of the stranger, who, as soon as Mr. Badnor returned no 
 more, had resumed her walk. 
 
 When they were within a few yards of the white gate, a little 
 country, shandry-dan sort of chaise drove up from an opposite 
 direction, and stayed, or rather strove to do so, for the pony in the 
 shafts, by name Pickle, seeing much on the opposite bank he longed 
 to nibble, and not heeding in the least the young lady who drove him, 
 wanted to draw the chaise thither, instead of staying and waitiiif^ 
 patiently at the parson’s gate. So just as Barbie and the stranoer 
 came up, the young lady was pulling one way, and Pickle the other, 
 and in this contest the pony had the best of it, as he always had. 
 Barbie, dropping a curtsey, for she knew the young lady, hastened to 
 assist, and thus make two to one against Pickle ; when, as she did so, 
 a little tiny brown dog, in form and size like a small barrel-shaped 
 pot of old-fashioned Delft ware, jumped from a cloak on which he 
 had been lying curled up asleep, and, winding about the stran over’s 
 feet, barked with the intensest joy. ° 
 
 “Down, Tippo, down!” said the lady; “don’t be naughty too, 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 9 
 
 Pickle’s quite enough.” But Tippo would go on with his little bark, 
 ind whines, and show of joy. 
 
 “ Tippo’s rule is to bark at all strangers,” said, the young lady, 
 'ipologetically, as it were ; “ and when he shows joy it is for some one 
 /ery genuine.” And as she spoke she pressed up the rim of her wide 
 jtraw^at and looked with great curiosity at the stranger. She was 
 jtruck by her refined and thoughtful face, as well as earnest manner, 
 ind she felt sure that though her garb was plain, affectedly so, it was 
 ivident to see she belonged to a superior grade in life. 
 
 “ I accept it as a good omen,” was the answer ; apart from that, I 
 im very fond of dumb creatures, though I cannot in that respect 
 jxceed you, as I perceive.” 
 
 A blush repaid the compliment. “ In that case — but may I ask, 
 ire you going up to the parsonage ? ” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ Perhaps then you will permit Barbie to carry this basket ; ” and 
 IS she spoke the young lady loosened her hold of^ the obstreperous 
 Pickle, who now wanted to go forward instead of aside, and took from 
 the back seat of the little chaise a small fowl basket, in which were 
 two young Cochin chicks of great beauty. 
 
 “ These are for Mr. Radnor,” she said, “ though he mustn’t be told 
 that a lady made the present, or he would be nervous for a month.” 
 She smiled here with innocent archness ; “ the truth is, that neither 
 Judith, that is my sister, nor I, know Mr. Radnor to speak to, though 
 Dn summer afternoons we occasionally attend the service at his church. 
 But the clerk — old Johnny Wigpit— is a relative of our maid’s, and 
 be told us awhile ago that the parson had taken the loss of his fowls 
 greatly to heart, though he had not counage enough to expostulate 
 with Mrs. Jack on the enormity of roasting fowls worth three guineas 
 a couple. So, if you can see Elisha, the old gardener, will you con- 
 sign these to his care, or else they may see the inside of Mrs. Jack’s 
 pot as soon as plump enough.” This appeal was very genuine, though 
 graced with another smile. 
 
 ‘‘I myself will see to their care and safety,” said the stranger; 
 ‘‘ for I remain here as housekeeper.” 
 
 “ Indeed ! ” was the reply, in a tone of such marked surprise as to 
 express far more than words could do. “ I am sincerely glad, and so 
 will Judith be ; for no house, if all reports be true, so sadly wants a 
 mistress. I heartily wish you success, and if at any time you walk 
 our way, and do not object to call at Holly Cottage, about a mile and 
 a half in the valley below Mainstone church, I shall be glad to hear 
 of the welfare of the chicks. Say nothing to Mr. Radnor as to the 
 gift — it is really nothing after all, as our broods have been so pros- 
 perous this spring ; and it is our duty, as you know, when we can 
 give pleasure, at a little cost, to make the attempt thereto.” 
 
 She bowed as she spoke, took the reins from Barbie, and jumped 
 lightly into the low chaise ; for she was very thin and frail, though so 
 full of joy and animation. She loosened the reins, and Pickle had set 
 forward when her eye caught a nosegay of early greenhouse flowers, 
 
10 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 in a little carriage-basket hooked to the splash-board. Talking thence, 
 "ivlth the hand which held the whip, some of the clioicest flowers, she 
 leant back and held them to the stranger. They were taken, and 
 with them for an instant the tender hand~ and then they parted, with- 
 out a further word, for Pickle was as bent on getting forward as s 
 hare pursued by hounds. 
 
 The stranger watched the little carriage till it had passed the dis- 
 tant railway arch, and then she entered through the gate which Barbie 
 opened. 
 
 ^‘‘Her name,” said the latter, in answer to a brief question, “ is Mis.^ 
 Lizzie Whitelock : she and her sister. Miss Judith, are independent 
 ladies, and live where she told you, at Brooklow, a village below 
 Mainstone ; they have a greenhouse, and lots of fowls, that are as 
 tame as can be.” 
 
 No more was said, for they had wound their way along the grassy 
 road, which was more lengthened and winding than at first appeared, 
 and reached the porch. This was clad in a thick growth of very 
 ancient ivy ; its stone seats lay warm in the noonday sun, and on one 
 was perched Fleckie, the parson’s favourite guinea-fowl. Like 
 sprightly Tippo, it welcomed the lady in its pretty way, by gently 
 raising its wings, and rubbing its bill on her caressing hand. But if 
 dumb humanity thus welcomed her, no one of higher intelligence 
 seemed inclined to do so ; for knock as they might, with the old 
 ponderous griffin-headed knocker, no one condescended to open the 
 door, which was locked or bolted within. 
 
 Barbie sniffed her nose, and arrived thereby at a certain conclusion. 
 
 “ Depend upon it, ma’am,” she said, for her respect had greatly 
 increased since she had ascertained that the stranger must be neces- 
 sarily a lady, inasmuch as she was about to be Mainstone’s house- 
 keeper — for the parsonage was commonly known as ‘‘ Mainstone ” — 
 ‘‘that old Betty Jack is at dinner, for I smell baking and roasting; 
 and when she’s busy in this way, she’ll disturb herself for nobody. It 
 ain’t long ago since my Lord Duke himself from the Hall called on 
 Mr. Badnor, and Betty wouldn’t open the door. So please, ma’am, 
 shall I run round to the kitchen ? ” 
 
 “ I will go, too, if you will kindly bring the baskets.” 
 
 They proceeded to the rear of the house, and, entering a large 
 yard, surrounded by a barn, stables, and other outbuildings, and cooled 
 by a fine spring of the clearest water, which poured down from the 
 upland above into a great stofie trough, they found the kitchen door. 
 The nearer and nearer they approached this, the more rife and savoury 
 the culinary odours became, till at length they revealed themselves, in 
 exquisite combination, as those of chicken, puff* and ham, not to 
 mention a light artillery of others of less tangible effect. As a whole,, 
 they were delicious and artistic in the extreme. | 
 
 The stranger’s forewarning tap on the open door eliciting no reply ^ 
 though the slow movements of a spoon in a dripping-pan could be 
 distinctly heard, she stepped across the threshold, and saw before hei^ 
 a large flagged kitchen, and Mrs. Jack seated on a low stool besidoj 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 1 . 
 
 -.efire. She was a tall, heavy, masculine woman, of between fifty 
 id sixty, with a grim, cadaverous face, not reddened in the least by 
 .^e glowing fire before which she bent, or gladdened at so immediate a 
 ospect of dining off puff and chicken. On the contrary, from the 
 ;pression of her face, she might have been stitching a shroud, rather 
 an basting a fowl. A small round table was drawn close beside 
 ■r ; on this w'as spread an ill-washed table-cloth, of such fine damask 
 should have secured its rest, except on festive occasions, in the 
 len chest, instead of being ordinarily used in the kitchen. Silver 
 oons and forks kept the damask table-cloth company; and some 
 jBshly-drawn ale showed its creamy top above the rim of a silver mug, 
 ,iich, as the Rev. Julius Radnor might simply imagine, did such a 
 jivial subject cross his brain at any time, never saw the outside of 
 e plate chest, except when his old college friend, Mr. Simeon, 
 essed the solitude of Mainstone parsonage with his kindly presence. 
 [ Baseness has its antithesis as well as nobleness. Thus, those most 
 reful of their own comfort are too often profoundly oblivious of 
 ,;at of others ; and the rule stood good here. For whilst Mrs. Jack 
 as thus anticipatory of a choice repast, old Elisha, the gardener, had 
 ready dined off cold scraps, as might be seen by certain dishes which 
 jDod on a coarse cloth at the end of the dresser. As the man was 
 rved, so was the master ; for cooking but once a day, except on 
 , re occasions, and this at the early hour when she herself dined, the 
 jirlour dinner was simply warmed in the oven, at such hour as suited 
 ;r own convenience, and one which varied from day to day between 
 ree and seven o’clock. In this way the poor, solitary gentleman 
 red, though sometimes wondering, when he did wonder about any- 
 Jng that concerned himself, why his appetite was so small and his 
 ,od so tasteless. For though a hypochondriac, he was the least 
 Ifisli of men. 
 
 On the occasion of this sunny morning, Mrs. Jack, proceeding 
 jcording to her ordinary method, had roasted two fowls. One of 
 lOse — a very wee one, and doubtless in life of consumptive tendency, 
 ^r its breastbone was as sharp as a razor — now rested on a platter, 
 readiness for the warming process a few hours later. The other 
 wl, short, plump, and fine — in fact, a bird that might have won a 
 ,edal at a poultry-show — lay breastways to the fire, in order to receive 
 'e last perfecting touches of the browning process. In a hastener 
 ,iar, a large piece of boiled ham, melted butter, potatoes, and early 
 ;ocoIi stood ready dished, and a table not far ofi was flanked by a 
 le of pies, puddings, and tartlets, lately drawn from an oven in the 
 jick kitchen. The plump fowl, and the flakiest tartlet, to say nothing 
 ' a certain jug of rich cream, were Mrs. Jack’s own. 
 
 ^At the sound of footsteps the woman looked up, and saw the 
 ranger and Barbie. 
 
 ,“Well! what’s it you want?” she said, insolently, though not 
 ithoiit signs of nervous trepidation. Then, without waiting^ for an 
 iswer, she added, ‘Mf you want Mr. Radnor, I can just tell you ha 
 ,]3ver sees women. When they wants anything they just tells me, 
 
12 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 tnd, as everybody about here knows this, you might just ha’ wait^ 
 till three o’clock, when I’d got my gown on, and not come on a bod 
 when she is about to get a snack of dinner.” 
 
 “ I am sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Jack,” was the quiet reply ; “bi 
 the front door was fastened, and no one answered my repeate 
 knocks. As to seeing Mr. Kadnor, I can wait his convenience, as 
 have come here to remain — as housekeeper ^ 
 
 The woman’s face turned livid with surprise, terror, and passion. 
 “ Housekeeper ! — then there’ll be two of us, and we’ll soon 
 who’s missis. Oh ! oh ! that Oxford chap, Simeon, sent you, I s’pos^ 
 I’ve known, many a day, that he was no friend of mine, for stoiij 
 walls have ears, though folks don’t think so.” I 
 
 “ I am not here to answer questions or give information, Mrs. Jacl| 
 but to perform my duty,” was the unmoved answer; “you wi: 
 therefore please to speak, as well as behave, with due civility. M 
 name is Eliot — Miss Eliot — and by that you will please to call me.” 
 
 “ Miss ! pretty miss ; I s’pose your day ’ll be short here, I can te| 
 you ; for master, though simple, ain’t quite so simple as to have folk 
 in his house that ain’t wanted. What’s more, he can't get rid of me-| 
 you’ll find it when you try.” | 
 
 The woman’s demeanour was insolent in the extreme ; and th 
 threat conveyed in her latter words meant this— I am the keeper d 
 a secret, and as such my presence is necessary. But Miss Eliot rej 
 mained perfectly unmoved, indeed the moral bravery of her quiej 
 looks and manner was something fine in its way. When the womaj 
 had done speaking, and not till then, Miss Eliot crossed the kitchei 
 towards a door which she seemed to know led into the hall. At thS 
 moment Betty Jack, approaching from the fire, appeared about t 
 intercept her progress. But if such was her design, it died withou 
 fulfilment; for, quailing beneath the austere glance that was cas 
 upon her, she moved aside, as Miss Eliot, opening the door, sai^ 
 quietly — 
 
 “ You will find me in the oak parlour, Mrs. Jack, where I wi) 
 thank you to bring me some dinner.” She did not wait for a repl}i 
 but, passing through, let Barbie follow and close the door. i 
 
 By a gesture the girl indicated where the oak parlour lay. Whei 
 they had entered it. Barbie, in a whisper, began to mutter certain ver^ 
 natural comments upon Betty Jack’s demeanour, but the familiarit* 
 as well as loquacity was instantly repressed. ! 
 
 “ These are matters I have no wish to talk about, my good girl 
 IN'ow, thanking you for your real kindness, you must let me rewar( 
 you, and then go, for I have already detained you too long.” 
 
 Miss Eliot as she spoke took her purse from an inner pocket ; bu 
 Barbie, with a manner which was quite opposite to country greed 
 stayed her hand. ' 
 
 ^ “ If you please, miss, I’d rather have nothing. Mother woiild U 
 right angry if I took money for doing a filing that ain’t nothin at alii 
 Besides this, we’re folks pretty well to do.” 
 
 “ I’ve no wish to hurt your feelings, Barbie.” 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 13 
 
 ] “But I’d like to come again, miss, if I miglit, just to see how you 
 '?c on with this old Missis Jack.” 
 
 “ Very well. I think. Barbie, I have come prepared for both peace 
 id war, as well as to face many disagreeables ; but such must not 
 j; considered when we have duties to perform, or to make good re- 
 iace evil.” 
 
 “ It was possible that Barbie did not understand Miss Eliot’s words, 
 .r her answer was : — 
 
 ' “ Eh ! miss, but you don’t know how dreadful the old missis can 
 (!, or how the parson’s under her thumb. So, if you ’ll let me see 
 (pw you be a getting on, miss, and if I can do you a hand’s turn. I’ll 
 ! a bit glad, an’ that’s the truth ; for, if I may be bold enough to 
 y as much, I like you, that I do.” These words were spoken with 
 / much homely genuine feeling as to make their worth appreciated 
 r the thoughtful eyes which gazed — the tender ears that listened. 
 
 “ Thank you. Barbie ; well, perhaps you are right. I may want 
 me service done ; so, if you’ll promise me one thing you may come 
 iain.” 
 
 IBarbie did not answer — only let fall her hands, and drooped her 
 ad. 
 
 “ Be faithful to Silas Moore. None but a man meaning well and 
 nestly towards you could speak as he did. Love such as this is 
 t to be slighted ; if his home is a miserable one, so much the more 
 iason have you to be truthful to him.” 
 
 Barbie, still silent, moved towards the door, opened it, and went 
 t into the hall. She was weeping, you could see. Slowly slie un- 
 bked the door, and going forth into the sunny porch stood there, as 
 ough irresolute. Miss Eliot followed her, and laid her hand gently 
 f the girl’s shoulder. 
 
 5 “ We women cannot afford false steps in matters of this kind, 
 irbie ; for where we set our feet there we have to stand. And as 
 at dissolute-looking, though handsome gentleman we met on horse- 
 ck does not mean well by you, I fear, there seems to me no right 
 fr choice, between what can bring only ruin and shame, and what 
 1 st have a blessing attached, even though it keep you in the humble 
 )3 to which you have been accustomed.” 
 
 I Not a word did the girl speak, but went onwards slowly for some 
 I rds down the road. Then she stayed, and turning round her sweet 
 d tear- wet face, said softly : — 
 
 “ I’ll try, miss. Mr. Greene ain’t a regular lover like, but I’ll break 
 Jh him, and make it up with Silas, if I can, though he ain’t half as 
 ;e spoken as Mr. Greene. But I’ll do what you wish, miss, if only 
 : come again ; for I’ve right a liking for you ; and pity too, for 
 •fty’s a terrible one, as you’ll pretty soon find.” She dropped a low 
 rtsey as she spoke these last words, then, turning away, was in 
 jOther instant lost to sight. 
 
 jlMiss Eliot caressed Eleckie, who still basked herself in the sun, 
 
 1 then setting open the hall-door to let in the balmy air, came back 
 <wly towards the parlour. She was thoughtful sad, for the 
 
14 
 
 MAl^TS!^0^'E's nOUSEKEEPl’Il. 
 
 difficulties of the task she had undertaken were, as she perceived] 
 even more formidable than what she had anticipated, or been led td 
 believe. | 
 
 Upon looking round it, she liked the oak parlour extremely. iJ 
 was a charming, though a quaint room. Upon one side were twd 
 large casemeiited windows, from which could be seen the garden, thd 
 terrace, the brook, and the view beyond ; and at the end opposite tha 
 fire-place was a large bay-window, surrounded by wide seats. Id 
 front of this lay a little grass plot, half hidden in trees, of which somd 
 were so trimmed as to admit of picturesque glimpses of the greats 
 moorland ridge, that by day was covered in so many parts by densd 
 clouds of smoke, and at night was lighted by the lurid flames of 
 countless fires. Miss Eliot saw at a glance that this would be a| 
 favourite window. Here she should sit to read and sew ; for whilsd 
 in perfect solitude, there would yet be the signs that human life wasj 
 near, and labour at its sovereign duty of subjugation and preparative! 
 progress. ; 
 
 d-he room was filled with nice old-fashioned furniture, quite ini 
 keeping with the quaint carved wainscot and ancient casements ; foil 
 Julius lladnor, on coming to the parsonage ten years before, had pur-; 
 chased the household effects therein from the executors of his pre-i 
 decessor, who had held the living for considerably more than half su 
 century. But though there was much about the house, here as else-i 
 where, that would have enchanted a decorator of good taste, or al 
 furniture-dealer, or, aided by renovation and the addition of what 
 was new, would be charming in the extreme, still, ten years’ time, and! 
 continuous neglect, had cast over the whole an air of ruinous squalor! 
 it is impossible to exagg^erate. Here, in the oak parlour, the gratej 
 was rusty, the carpet white from age and dust, the curtains weather- 
 stained and moth-eaten, the chairs and tables oblivious of brush and 
 duster, for weeks, perhaps months. One of the doors of a finely-| 
 carved press, as dark as ebony, stood open and hanging on a broken 
 hinge; book-shelves, which occupied recesses on each side the bay, 
 window, had their natural contents thrust back, and preserve jars andi 
 bottles placed forward in disorderly array ; whilst a large settee or 
 sofa, once gay in costly stuff or silk, was as torn and soiled as though 
 used as a form in a parish school. Almost every chair was litteredi 
 with sometliing, and the large oval dining-table in the centre was 
 heaped with a miscellany of articles. Coats, probably to brush,,' 
 trousers, shirts, stockings, towels, and other household linen to mend, I 
 other linen washed but not ironed, hanks of yarn, dried herbs, inter-l 
 spersed with various articles of Mrs. Jack’s personal attire. 
 
 Leaving these matters untouched. Miss Eliot, after making her' 
 survey, selected a little table from a distant corner, blew off the dust, ; 
 carried it to the bay window, placed it in the spot where she meant to 
 sit, and then left the room to select her up stairs chamber. Before ' 
 proceeding thither, she ascertained that a pleasant little room, thati 
 might be used for business or housekeeping purposes, lay on tliCji 
 Other side of the porch ; that next to the oak parlour was Mr. lladnor’&l 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 15 
 
 vidy and beyond that another parlour, looking out from two sides 
 } tlie lovely garden, but dismantled and so little used as to nave its 
 
 utters up even on this sunny day. i ^ 
 
 1 The wide old staircase opened on to a gallery surrounded by bed- 
 vambers. With the perfect freedom of one who felt she was and 
 leant to be mistress, Miss Eliot went within them, and, prooabh 
 om some description which had been given to her, she seemea to 
 low their use and respective occupants. There were spare rooms, 
 wildernesses of neglect, but cheerful in the beauty of the noonday 
 in. There were others, towards the rear of the house, locked, and 
 ierefore inaccessible. There was Mr. Radnor s, a little less neg- 
 ated than the rest. When she had chosen her own, a sunny room in 
 o-able of the house, with a smaller one attached, the window o± 
 hich looked away to the upland leading to the church, she returned 
 ;> Mr. Radnor’s chamber to look around it. Though swept and 
 Listed, according to Jack-method, it sadly needed the hand of a 
 distress. In spite of the blessed sun, which sheds such gladness on 
 ,ie desolate places of the earth, something told you, as you entered 
 ,, here mother, wife, sister, friend, never came ; here was no minis- 
 'ation which, however small, lent a charm, or soothed a pain ; here 
 'Oman, in none of those services to man which are his prerogative 
 nd her duty, blessed and hallowed with hushed feet and tender 
 ■ands. Desolate— all desolate! Such need of pity— such need of 
 ' snder care 1 
 
 i In a conspicuous place near the window hung the picture of a girl, 
 
 , mere school-uirl, of from ten to twelve years old. Her hair, pro- 
 fuse and beautiful, hung simply and unrestricted about her shoulders ; 
 i.ud her face was guileless, though earnest in its expression. She was 
 me, you would think, who would grow up to be a thoughtful, truth- 
 ful, and, if educated, an intellectual woman, with much simplicity of 
 jhiacter, much firmness, much power of penetrating the causes of 
 -luman motive and action. It was a face in which, at maturity, there 
 night be little of that sort of beauty which doll-makers, mantua- 
 makers, or wig-makers prize, or which sentimental painters depict m 
 dckly pictures, but much expression of that fond, old-fashioned ten- 
 llerness which heals such wounds, which dries such tears, which winds 
 ‘Itself so thoroughly about the hearts of men, and which sheds and 
 [ends its light wherever the blessing of its presence falls. It is love- 
 iliness of soul, warmness of heart, strength and depth of mind— and 
 thus, springing out of (][ualities of this sort, has a lastingness and 
 freshness of its own. , , , 
 
 For some time Miss Eliot stood at the foot of the bed, regarding 
 (the picture— and obseiwing that it hung where the early morning sun 
 Jmust fall fullest on it, and where, when Mr. Radnor woke, it was the 
 first thing he must observe. Then she went quietly round the bed to a 
 Jittle book-stand at the head, on which some few volumes lay. As 
 was natural, they were mostly books of devotion ; and she was turning 
 Diaway, after a brief but reverend inspection, when her eyes fell upon, a 
 ^ilittlc book) much thumbed) and time-worn* It was a volume, of the 
 
16 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 Letters ^ Little -vvorks, and contained a portion of tl)^ 
 
 where 'they markS^the^Xef’f^'*'^”^”'*'-'')'^ by age, stood out f ron 
 
 rr4 '» 
 
 locked the door °Then'’thrmv'. chosen as her own, she 
 
 of the operwrdX,T:^;:r„r^^^^^ 
 
 Sliifipg 
 
 trespassing upon the kitchen. ^ without 
 
 parlour she found no signs of dinner Mrs * 
 
 Lliot, therefore, proceeded to the kitchen whpi-p Mve t i^\ 
 
 need.” ^ ^ procure the little I 
 
 yourself — I’ve something else to do ' ” 
 
 ?^srk::ff=" 
 
 was pomr conswuj oj ite.knesi, m<l ih.t tte fcur waT”«ato”Ln 
 
MAlNSfONE^S HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 it 
 
 I'P.O tate lieP presence inspired. However, without reply or show of 
 ’'esentment, she crossed the kitchen to some doors in the distance, ajid 
 ioon found one that led to the larder. As she opened it, Betty 
 ^oawled out : — 
 
 “ Don’t you touch that there cold chicken. I’ve just put it by for 
 ny supper. I’ve rather a poor stomach. The Lord help me ! ” 
 
 The cold chicken was, however, precisely what Miss Eliot did bring; 
 ‘^.OY she brought it forth, with bread, cheese, and pastry ; and, finding 
 ,L tray, cloth, and other necessary articles, she set them thereon. 
 Then, as if Mrs. Jack was the most civil and obliging person in the 
 world, she quietly asked her for a glass of beer. 
 
 “ As you found the pantry, you may just find the cellar. Though, 
 
 0 save your legs maybe, the key o’ th’ best beer ain’t in the cask, or 
 ,)retty work that old fellow, Lisha, would make of it. It’s in my 
 pocket, where, if you like to try, you may get it — if you can — 
 ih! eh!” 
 
 More menace in this — ^yet it was unheeded. 
 
 ■ Without a word. Miss Eliot took a glass, and filled it at the flowing 
 pring in the yard. During this brief absence Betty had the audacity 
 .0 remove the chicken from the tray, and replace it in the larder ; 
 mt, fetching it quietly thence again, without a single comment or 
 
 1 how of trepidation. Miss Eliot bore the tray to the door which led 
 nto the hall. The woman then thought to intimidate her by rising 
 ,nd coming thereto ; but the lady’s firm, yet simple, “ I’ll thank you 
 o let me pass, Mrs. Jack,” produced the desired eflect ; for, as though 
 jnable to control the irresistible influence of a superior will, she 
 Qoved at once aside. But her irritation being increased by this 
 ‘bedience to her own fear, she followed the new mistress a few 
 teps into the hall, and flung the key of the beer cask after her. 
 
 ' “ There ! I suppose you must have it ! A fine madam, that comes 
 ecommended by that Oxford chap, Simeon — won’t be long afore she 
 as wine, that’s pretty sure — ah ! maybe, the key of the wine-cellar 
 :self — for that was taken from me the last time that fellow was here, 
 hit master and I’ll come to a reckoning, and that pretty soon.” 
 
 Miss Eliot did not reply, or even look round, though she returned, 
 dien the woman had slammed to the door, and picked up the key. 
 ’hen enshrining herself within the peacefulness of the old wainscot 
 arlour, she laid forth her dither on the little table she had brought 
 dthin the recess of the beautiful old window. But though the meal 
 MS here, she could not eat. Much fear and many doubts filled her 
 lind ; and she sat for a long time, with her face turned towards that 
 pland ridge, above which the clouds of smoke hung in elegant con- 
 olution, though her gaze was fixed on vacancy. For, from what she 
 ad already observed in this strange household, she felt convinced 
 lat the surmise of certain of Mr. Badnor’s friends was correct, as to 
 lis woman possessing some secret source of influence over her master. 
 Hiat was it ? — and from whence did it arise ? Mr. Radnor was a 
 ;arned, reserved, and, as far as the world knew, a man of spotless 
 liarcter. During the long period of his college life, he had been re- 
 2 
 
18 
 
 mainstoise’s housekeeper. 
 
 markable for his ascetic view of human duty. With him the morality 
 of the inner life and the outer life had been the same. He had shown 
 at all times a preference for men’s society, and he had held for several 
 years a self-imposed office of trust with a faith and noble earnestness 
 which could not have been excelled. Strengthening this worthy evi- 
 dence was the fact that the woman who, for now a considerable period, 
 had misruled his house, insulted his friends, wasted his substance, was 
 a mere servant, whom scarcely any other person but Mr. Radnor 
 would have retained in his service for a week. She had no charms, 
 personal or mental ; she was so ignorant and ill-bred that she was not 
 fitted to reign in a decently-conducted kitchen, much less rule, however 
 indirectly, in the parlour. Yet she did, to a certain extent ; though 
 her power, from its excessive abuse, had gradually undermined itself, 
 till, latterly, one or two of Mr. Radnor’s few friends had resolved that 
 such things should no longer be. But they had to act warily and 
 covertly ; for revelation and entreaty had been alike powerless in lead- 
 ing to her dismissal, though Mr. Radnor had at last admitted that 
 her conduct was improper, and had tacitly consented not to oppose 
 any scheme that might rid him of her in a quiet manner. But to any 
 form of dismissal that should be peremptory, or seem to emanate 
 directly from himself, he would not listen. So that the real fact was 
 that, though he wished this household incubus to go, he either lacked 
 courage, or was withheld by some secret fear, from effecting this pur- 
 pose himself. In this state of affairs his friends had resolved upon a 
 certain mode of action, and hence the appearance of the new house- 
 keeper. . For they saw that, unless they acted under the only method 
 Mr. Radnor’s strange idiosyncrasy left open to them, mental imbe- 
 cility would, before very long, take the place of the increasing hypo- 
 cliondriacism which had now for a lengthened period afflicted him, 
 Naturally a shy and reserved man, solitude and circumstances— -whose 
 history none knew — had given to these characteristics a diseased 
 action. 
 
 Pondering over this mystery — for one there surely was— and won- 
 dering if, through observation, she should be able to elicit sufficient to 
 modify the evils connected with it. Miss Eliot was surprised by the 
 jingle of the plates upon the table, and next by something heavy and 
 soft being laid within her hand. Looking down, she found an old 
 pointer dog standing beside her. He had leapt in through one of the 
 open casements, and now stood wagging his tail and looking up wist- 
 fully into her face. Plis name, ‘‘Wolf,” was engraven on his collar, 
 so she could call him by it, pat him, and give him a bone. His joy in 
 return was excessive ; he whined, rubbed his nose up and down her 
 gown, and coaxed her with his paw ; and, when he had munched each 
 bone she gave him, he sought again to lay his old shaggy nose in her 
 hand. Thus the meditative meal progressed; and, when over, Wolf 
 took up his last bone, and departed as he came. Curious to see 
 whither he went. Miss Eliot rose and looked through the casement. 
 He had not gone far, but was now perched on a garden-seat beside 
 his master, who had removed thither, and sat quietly reading, with 
 
mainstoke’s housekeepek. 
 
 19 
 
 Perl and Pearl strutting about at no great distance. The dog held 
 the bone in his mouth, as though reluctant to pick it ; and with his 
 almost human gaze fixed sometimes on Mr. Radnor, sometimes on the 
 distant casement, he seemed to say, “Ah, master, you do not know 
 what a dear little hand has given this to me, nor what a good angel 
 has entered within your doors ! ” 
 
 Miss EUot rang the bell for Betty to remove the tray, but it re- 
 mained unanswered. Tired of waiting, she took the tray herself to 
 the kitchen, where the woman was now bustling about. 
 
 “ There, don’t you think I’m going to be your servant ! ” she said, 
 as her mistress turned away. “ So you’ll just wait on yourself, and 
 clear your own things, and that I tell you ! ” 
 
 Miss Eliot made no answer, but closed the door. 
 
 As she wanted to find the old man-servant, and see the garden, 
 which she felt she might do without trespassing on Mr. Radnor’s 
 privacy, the housekeeper passed through the glazed door that opened 
 at the bottom of the hall, beside the shut-up parlour. There, wind- 
 ing her way amidst the flower-bordered paths, she soon came upon 
 Elisha, who was trimming a low fence which divided the kitchen from 
 the flower-garden. 
 
 He did not appear at all surprised to see her ; but, touching his 
 hat, and looking gladly into her face, respectfully awaited her com- 
 mands. She at once told him her name, and that she was the new 
 housekeeper. 
 
 , “ I’m heartily glad of it, ma’am ; for I in some sort expected you, 
 though I didn’t know when. And now, if I may be so bold as to ask 
 a question, have you had any dinner, or can I do any service for 
 you ? ” 
 
 The old man asked these questions with an anxious show of kind- 
 ness, as though he felt that the new housekeeper would need what 
 little care and protection it was in his power to offer. 
 
 “ Thank you, Elisha. I have been here full two hours, and have 
 dined, though I have had to be my own servant.” 
 
 “Ah, that’s just the way s/ie’ll be going on, depend upon it, miss ! 
 But are you fond of your tea ? ” 
 
 “Very, Elisha,” replied Miss Eliot, with a smile; “it is my 
 favourite meal.” 
 
 “Well, ma’am, don’t you take on at all about it. I’ll see to it; I’ve 
 a chamber of my own over the harness-room, or the Lord help me ; 
 so I’ll boil the kettle and see to tea, or maybe you won’t get any.” 
 
 “ Thank you, but perhaps the better way will be for me to see how 
 Mrs. Jack proceeds, before I, or others for me, take measures into 
 our own hands. When she understands distinctly that I am here 
 ^ really as mistress, and that nothing but Mr. Radnor’s own commands 
 will cause me to depart, she may judge it to be prudent to attend to 
 my wants, and wait upon me with respect. This I hope she will do ; ” 
 then, changing the subject, she asked after Mr. Radnor’s health. 
 
 Elisha shook his head gravely, both probably at Miss Eliot’s hope 
 that there would be any amendment in Betty Jack’s behaviour, as 
 2—2 
 
20 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 well as in relation to Ills master’s health, who he said had now been 
 some weeks very low indeed. 
 
 “ And his eyesight ! is that better ? ” 
 
 “ W ell ! I can’t say it is, ma’am. He gets on pretty well when 
 he’s reading quiet-like to himself, and with the prayers at church, 
 which he’s gone over and over again; but he makes "sad work of it 
 when he comes to read writing, ’specially when it's his own little hand 
 — for you see, miss, he writes so small. Thus, for a good many Sun- 
 days now, he’s boggled at his sermon, a deal more than folks like to 
 hear. It’s a pity, for they will talk, and say ill-natured sort of 
 things.” 
 
 ‘‘ I am sorry to hear this,” was the quiet reply ; though with a look 
 which plainly said, this and many other matters shall if possible be 
 mended. Miss JEliot then bid Elisha take an early opportunity of 
 letting Mr. Kadnor know she had arrived ; and when, in addition, 
 she had asked him to see to the chicks Miss Whitelock had left, and to 
 her own luggage when brought up from the railway station, she went 
 onwards in her quiet walk about the garden. 
 
 Resting his shears on the fence, old Elisha stood and watched her 
 narrowly, whilst she remained in sight. 
 
 “ A very nice little cre’tur — very ! not more than two-and-twenty, 
 if she’s that. She’d do for master’s daughter if he had one, but ain’t, 
 in my ’pinion, the sort o’ one as should have been sent to battle it out 
 with that old witch in the kitchen. A tall big woman that could have 
 fought Betty in her own way, and made the home clean and decent, 
 would have been the sort o’ one — not a little delicate frail cre’tur, 
 with hands as nice as a lily, and a voice so soft and pleasant. But 
 Mr. Simeon has maybe his reasons for sending her, for she’s a deal 
 that’s spirity in her eye, and firm in her voice ; but for all that, 
 Betty ’ll soon starve and kill her outright, if I don’t see to her.” And 
 with this opinion, and meditating divers schemes of rescue, defence, 
 and assistance, the old gardener proceeded with his work, till the re- 
 collection of the chicks, and the arrival of the luggage, led him away 
 to new duties. 
 
 The housekeeper remained in the garden for some time ; for Elisha 
 and his master were choice florists, and every bed and border was not 
 only gay with the rarest flowers of spring, but as orderly and trim as 
 the house was wretched and disorderly. Not a weed or a neglected 
 place was to be seen ; and the walks being laid out with great art, 
 the finest points of scenery came in view ; or else a bed of the richest 
 blooms contrasted with another of different hue, and this, with a third 
 or fourth ; the whole lying masses of splendid colour in the waning 
 glory of the day. Here was a seat beneath some fine old tree — here 
 another in a hermit-like recess — hei|e a narrow path wound down by 
 lichen-covered banks to the brook, which, flowing swiftly from the 
 upland beyond, dashed over every natural impediment, rested presently 
 here and there, in quiet, clear, and not very deep pools, and then 
 went thence, trickling over shallow beds, with a low gurgling sound, 
 most delicious to the ear. This brook was the loveliest feature of tho 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 21 
 
 ^ar^en, next to tlie orchard, which stretched upwards towards the 
 fields, and the courtyard, at the rear of the house. 
 
 When she returned thither. Miss Eliot found that her luggage had 
 arrived. When she unpacked a portion, she came down into the oak 
 parlour with some work and books. From noises which were occur- 
 ring in the adjacent room, she conjectured that Betty was laying the 
 clotii for Mr. Radnor’s dinner ; but there was as^ yet no signs of tea 
 on her own little table, though the sun was beginning to set. Pre- 
 sently, however, some one tapped on one of the casements. Rising 
 to see who it was, she found Elisha standing there with a little tray in 
 his hands, on which, of a very homely character, was the needful 
 apparatus for tea-drinking, in addition to a new-baked loaf, butter, 
 and cake of some sort. 
 
 “ Here’s tea, miss,” spoke the old man, in a low and suppressed 
 voice; ‘‘and you’ll please ’scuse this little black tea-pot, and the 
 cracked cup, but the tea’s the very best. She wouldn’t let me have 
 the proper things, so I’ve been obliged to bring you mine, and got the 
 butter from Moore farm, for she’s locked the dairy.” 
 
 Miss Eliot hesitated, for she did not like to act clandestinely ; as, 
 by doing so, she might give expression to a fear of Mrs. Jack. But 
 when she learnt from Elisha that she would probably get tea in no 
 other way, unless, to use his own expression, “a regular rumpus was 
 made,” she no longer hesitated, more particularly when she saw that 
 her refusal would hurt the old man’s feelings. She therefore took 
 the tray, and Elisha went, when he had again promised to bear her 
 message to his master during the evening. 
 
 The day was now fast closing in. Mr. Radnor had left his seat, 
 and might be seen coming slowly towards the house, with his hands 
 clasped behind him, his head bent, and with both peacocks a little in 
 advance of his footsteps, on their way to roost, trailing their splendid 
 feathers in the glory of the sinking sun. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 I THE HOUSEHOLD MYSTERY. 
 
 The twilight deepened ; the tea-things still stood upon the little • 
 table ; the mighty fires along the moorland ridge were all alight, like 
 the beacon-fires of which the oldest poet sang. 
 
 Deeper and deeper fell the gloom within the bay, when Elisha 
 after knocking, came in, and with him Wolf, who, leaping up upon 
 the cushioned seat, laid himself down beside his new mistress, with 
 ' his head in the folds of her gown. The old man had brought in a 
 ‘ candle, in a rusty chamber candlestick, which, setting down, he drew 
 
22 
 
 MAINSTONE’s HOUSEKEErER. 
 
 the blinds, removed the tea-things, and then went out, without a word. 
 Miss Eliot opened one of the books she had brought down with her, 
 but her thoughts were too occupied to read. She therefore sought 
 her work-basket, and taking out some linen cloth therefrom, she cut 
 off a short slip, which, doubling, she began to sew, with a neat dex- 
 terity, that showed, that though she could read the German books 
 beside her, and had traced, with a recognising eye, the beautiful 
 Latinity of Cicero, she could yet practise a woman’s useful duties. 
 In about an hour Elisha returned, with some keys in his hand, which 
 he laid respectfully before his mistress. 
 
 “ If you please, missis, I am sorry about the candle, but Betty’s off 
 somewhere, and has locked up all the cupboards, and set away all the 
 candlesticks ; but as we may get things better presently, you’ll please 
 excuse it.” 
 
 “ Certainly, Elisha. I have come quite prepared to meet the good 
 and evil of the place, hoping that good will just now prevail.” 
 
 “ I think it will, ma’am ; I’ve spoken to master, and he seems very 
 pleased that you’re come.” 
 
 “ Indeed ! ” and Miss Eliot, resting her work in her hand, looked up 
 eagerly, whilst a slight flush suffused her face. 
 
 “ He feels quite sure, he says, that Mr. Simeon has sent him a right 
 sort of person, and that I was to give his compliments, and say that 
 he will see you as soon as he can ; but that at present his spirits are 
 low, and he doesn’t feel fit to face anybody that’s quite new to him. 
 But in the meanwhile you are to be missis, and he hopes Betty will 
 behave nicely to you, as he thinks she will.” Here the old man stayed 
 for a minute, and ejaculated, “ Poor master ! ” 
 
 “ I hope she will, Elisha,” replied Miss Eliot, without noticing what 
 the two last words implied. 
 
 “ And here are the keys of the wine-cellar, and of a closet in his 
 ^tudy where you will find ink and pens and paper when you need ’em ; 
 and master wishes you to send out the orders to the butcher, miller, 
 grocer, and other tradesfolks, and to see that he has his dinner earlier, 
 much earlier, for Betty keeps it back so very late.” 
 
 “ My compliments to Mr. Badnor, and say that all this shall be 
 attended to.” 
 
 “ And if I may be bold enough to add a word of my own,” said 
 Elisha, lowering his voice— “ that old missis wants looking after in 
 the way of the linen and plate, for ” 
 
 Miss" Eliot wished to iuige and learn from her own observation, 
 rather than receive comnianications which might bear the interpre- 
 tation of tale-bearing ; she therefore interrupted the confidence, by 
 saying, as before, that these matters should have her care. 
 
 Elisha lilced his mistress none the less for her reserve. So he pre- 
 sently went on to say that his master had asked him to enquire il his 
 housekeeper was fond of reading. 
 
 As she listened, her face so flushed, her voice so trembled, that the 
 ©Id man could not but observe it, as she answered, “ Very.” 
 
 “ Then you’re welcome, miss, to go into master’s study when he’s 
 
mainstone’s hoesekeepee. 
 
 23 
 
 away, and take what books you please, though they must be kept 
 clean, as he’s mighty partik’lar. Them, and Peery, and Pearl, and 
 Fleckie, and old Wolf, are all one in his heart; and as he’s going out 
 to-morrow after breakfast, and won’t be back, maybe, till afternoon, 
 you may perhaps like to pick out one or two. Leastway, miss, 
 you’re welcome, for, as master says, the place is but lonesome, and 
 maybe you’ve been used to a different sort of life. 
 
 Though all this was so kind. Miss Eliot was not communicative. 
 She simply bid Elisha thank his master, and say that Mr. Radnor had 
 but to forward his wishes, through him — Elisha — and they should be 
 obeyed ; that he was in no way to inconvenience himself in the 
 matter of an interview with his “ new servant,” — such were her words 
 — till he felt quite equal to the task ; for all that was necessary was 
 to intimate to Betty that she must be obedient, and behave with due 
 respect. 
 
 “ Master may say it, but she won’t,” said Elisha, doggedly. “ From 
 master’s manner, she’s said nothing yet about your coming, though 
 that’s a pretty sure sign that a storm’s brewing, and it’ll be a rough 
 one when it comes.” 
 
 “Never mind, Elisha! The storms of life are many, and none are 
 so purposeless as those which come of ignorance and evil natures. 
 One, and many more than one, will be worth withstanding, if I can 
 hallow these hearths with peace.” 
 
 “God bless you, ma’am, God bless you, ma’am,” said the old man, 
 earnestly ; “may the dear Lord give you heart and strength to bear.” 
 ^ “• He will, for right and duty run along the line of liis everlasting 
 
 law.” 
 
 “ God bless you, ma’am,” he said again, as he slowly went ; “ there 
 is a mystery in this house, and her guess of it is the chain with 
 * which she binds dear master.” 
 
 “Never mind, Elisha, I may loosen it. This is a part of my duty 
 here. Thought is a key which unlocks heavier mysteries than this 
 can be.” 
 
 He went without another word, though bending his head and 
 hands in a sort of rude benediction as he left the room. He came 
 but once again — then only to bring a decanter of wine and one of 
 the quarterlies. These he placed upon the little table, merely saying, 
 as he did so, “ that Miss Eliot must not be guided in her time oi* re- 
 tiring to rest by household ways, as Betty went to bed at all hours ; 
 and as this was one of Mr. Radnor’s ‘ writing nights,’ he would be 
 ,'sure to be late.” 
 
 i' Miss Eliot went on quietly sewing till she had nicely double- 
 , stitched the little bit of linen, and made a neat button -hole, thus 
 'showing it was the wristband of a shirt ; then she laid her work by, and, 
 Raking the candle, left the room. She had heard Betty’s footstep on 
 the floor above, and her object was to intimate that she would like 
 ]her bed prepared : but .she had not far to go, for, as she stepped into 
 the hall, the woman was coming down stairs with some blankets and a 
 I pillow on her arm. 
 
24 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 ‘‘ I will thank you, Mrs. Jack,” she said, in a low voice, for she 
 could hear Mr. Radnor reading aloud in his study, “ to prepare my 
 bedroom, as I wish to retire early.” 
 
 “ There you needn’t trouble yourself. I’se knows my duty in this 
 house as well as anybody. So you’ll find all nice for you when you 
 goes up.” 
 
 Glad to find Mrs. Jack in what seemed so pacific a mood. Miss ; 
 Eliot returned to the parlour. The light she carried was so dim as 
 not to hide the silvery beauty of the moon, as it poured down through i 
 the upper panes of the old bay-window. So, setting the candle in i 
 the rear of the room, she came back to her seat, drew up the blinds, i 
 and looked out upon the splendour of the night. All which lay before 
 her was bathed in its silver sheen, and beyond, where dense clouds 
 hung heavily, burnt the watch-fires of the giant Labour. For her 
 these signs of manual power held attraction such as she had never 
 known before, much as she had seen, much as she had read, much as 
 she knew. She could not define it, except as a consciousness that 
 Labour there was preparing some few of the mighty instruments 
 towards Truth and Unders'tanding. The iron for the engine, the 
 ship, the railway, the coal for their motive power, and with them a 
 myriad other things by which Civilization shall plant her blessed feet. 
 So, coming thence with her gaze into the sheeny light again,^ the 
 green foliage, the dewy meadows, the silent roadway about the silent 
 house, all seemed to bring her peace, and fill a void which now for 
 long had lived with her by night and day. ^ | 
 
 She rose, locked up the wine in the buffet, of which she found the 
 key on the bunch sent in, and took her peaceful way. The hour was 
 late, as she saw by her watch and the ticking clock in the hall. Mr. 
 Radnor yet read — the sheeny moonlight fell upon the stairs — tne 
 house was very still. 
 
 As she went from stair to stair, a quickly-passing shadow from the 
 corridor above glanced by. For the moment it a little startled her — 
 but thinking that it might be Betty moving lightly from room to 
 room, or old Wolf taking up his place of repose, the feeling quickly 
 went ; and, once up stairs, she paused for some minutes by one of 
 the old windows, from whence the scene was very lovely. Then she 
 passed into her room — but of this the first glance made her stand 
 aghast with wonder ; for since she had quitted it that afternoon, it 
 had been stripped of everything which had made it comfortable. 
 The faded moreen curtains had been taken down from the bed, the 
 posts and tester now standing high and bare ; the feather bed and 
 mattress had been supplanted by a thin flock bed, on which was laid 
 a bolster of like material, and a couple of dirty blankets. The easy 
 chair, the looking-glass, the toilet-cloth, were gone. The dusty 
 carpet had been replaced by the moth-eaten remnant of a red cloak, 
 and the chamber-ware had been taken away, and a cracked earthen- 
 ware pan, such as is used in kitchens, was placed instead. Even the 
 very window-blinds had been ruthlessly torn down. 
 
 Angry indigqRtion was the first feeling — next utter amazement 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 25 
 
 that the woman’s audacity dare proceed so far. The power of any- 
 one must be great indeed who should thus violate the commonest 
 rites of hospitality and the observances of good behaviour ; and Miss 
 Eliot, prepared as she had been to meet much which would be dis- 
 agreeable in the prosecution and accomplishment of her good work, 
 had expected nothing so grossly offensive. However, she felt fully 
 assured that Mr. Radnor was entirely ignorant of the whole matter ; 
 Sand as appeal to him at that hour, and in the present state of affairs, 
 would be both useless and premature, she resolved to make the best 
 ■of circumstances, at least for that night. Thinking, however — and 
 this justly — that those who had done so much might attempt more, 
 : 3 he proceeded to lock the door ; but the key was gone. The staples 
 of an old-fashioned bolt were there, and, looking about for something 
 to put therein, she found the bolt itself hidden in the grate ; so that, 
 with the door securer than if it had been locked, she felt she was 
 safe, at least for that night, from further annoyance. She replaced 
 -the absent blankets by some of her own warm petticoats, and then 
 looked about for two woollen shawls and a cloak which bad come 
 with her luggage. Not seeing them, she presently recollected that 
 -Elisha had carried them into the oak parlour, where they were now ; 
 md as it would be impossible to go to rest without warmer covering 
 than any that was in the room, she found she must go down stairs and 
 fetch them. 
 
 ’ Miss Eliot had now been in her room some time. Leaving the 
 3andle burning, unbolting the door, closing it after her, she went down 
 -softly in the moonlight, and towards the oak parlour. As she passed 
 Mr. Radnor’s study door, she fancied she still heard him reading, but 
 .as she passed to return with the cloaks and shawls on her arm, she 
 found instead that it was persons talking rather loudly, their voices 
 waxing louder and louder as the conversation went on. Not wishing 
 ijO be an eavesdropper, she was again in the hall, and preparing to go 
 jp stairs, when the study door was opened, and some one coming 
 koartly forth, and holding the door-handle in her hand, stood talking 
 Inn a loud and angry voice. As a matter of course, it was Mrs. Jack; 
 And as her mistress could neither advance nor retreat unperceived, 
 pshe was necessarily a listener. 
 
 / “Now, asking you for the last time,” said Betty, as she put her 
 head again within the door ; “ you won’t get rid of this fine madam, 
 
 . hat’s come where nobody wants her ? ” 
 
 “ I really cannot, my excellent Betty,” was the meek reply ; “ she 
 
 ! ;omes well recommended, as a simple and honest woman. Not very 
 mung either, if I recollect. And her duties will be of so different a 
 ■cind to any you can perform for me, that you cannot well disagree. 
 I’ifou will keep to your kitchen, she to her parlour ; she will come in 
 I ind read to me, occasionally write letters, see to the female parishoners 
 :'vhen they’re sick, and to other necessary matters that have been for 
 A long time neglected on account of my health. These are your 
 I everal services, and if you behave with kindness and respect, my ex- 
 pjcllent Betty, the harmony of the house can in no way be disturbed. * 
 
26 
 
 mainstoke’s housekeeper. 
 
 “ I tell you it shall ! ” said the woman, stalking again into the room,! 
 and leaving the door so widely ajar that each of her offensive wordsi 
 was distinctly audible ; “and that whilst she and me lives under the' 
 same roof, hor life shall be no holiday.” 
 
 “You’re angry and speak intemperately, my good Betty,” said' 
 the poor gentleman ; “ and as the hour is late, and 1 have writing yet 
 to do, please go — we’ll talk some other time.’* 
 
 “ I won’t have it no other time. I’ll have it settle i now — whether 
 she or me’s to go.” 
 
 “ Really, Betty, if you put the matter so — you had better go ! ” 
 “Very well,” she said, emphatically, and in that low and hissing 
 voice betwixt the teeth, which is so expressive ; “ very — very well, I 
 master. You’ve made your choice, and so the Street End House 
 matter shall be something more than country talk afore long. I 
 won’t lose a good master and a good place without being quits in it, 
 that you may be sure. Very well, the choice is your own.” 
 
 She came out, and slammed to the door as she spoke, with insolent i 
 audacity; but not withdrawing more than a few paces, she stood 
 there in its shadow listening. It seemed to happen fully as she ex - 1 
 pected ; for presently a somewhat feeble step could be heard shuffling 
 towards the door, and a trembling hand opening it, said: — 
 
 “ Betty ! — my good Betty — let me speak to you ! ” 
 
 Betty crept away still a little further, and did not reply till Mr. 
 Radnor had repeated his call. Then she chose to answer, by roughly 
 saying, “ What do you want ? ” 
 
 “ To speak to you a few more words, my good Betty,” said her ' 
 master. 
 
 And in his great anxiety to induce her to return, he came forth ! 
 into the hall. Not till he had said this over and over again did she | 
 sullenly follow him back into the room. It was evident that he 
 sought to temporize with this abominable woman — hence the secret 
 of her power. 
 
 “You misunderstand me, Betty, and are over-hasty; for you 
 surely, in what you threaten, cannot mean to injure the innocent. 
 As to your place, you can keep it for a time. This person may not 
 suit me after all, and — ” 
 
 “ Shan’t suit you, if I’m to stay,” she interrupted, insolently. “ As 
 to reading to you, and whatnot of that sort, there’s many a edicated 
 chap in Welton as’d Walk over twice or thrice a week, and cheap 
 enough, if you need help o’ that sort. But it’s all your own fault 
 that you hadn’t this comfort long ago. For didn’t I, the time Lisha 
 went to see his old brother, the butler at Longford Hall, bring — ” 
 
 “ Enough of that ! ” in his turn interrupted Mr. Radnor, in a voice 
 which, for its loud and deep intensity, was a marvellous contrast to 
 its foregone tone of wavering imbecility ; “ woman, enough of that ! 
 If I have to bear some of the sorrows of this life, God, at least, sees 
 my life is pure — my hearth an unpolluted one ! ” 
 
 Julius! Julius I ears are listening that drink in every word, as 
 parched and drooping flowers the evening’s dew. The heart on 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 27 
 
 ^hich you bavo to lean was strong before — now no rock is sti’ong'^'r 
 ; r it knows you never lied ! The'battle is half fought for you, thus 
 fasting on your noble truth ! 
 
 “Ha! ha!” laughed the woman, bitterly, “Saying one thing and 
 toing another— as Street End House might tell — be different things, 
 ifs to them I brought here to be useful to you, you was altogether 
 rong in what you thought — for — ” 
 
 “ Woman ! ” repeated the same austere voice, “ cease, I say, or I'll 
 ill Elisha ! ” 
 
 There was a silence of some moments, during which Mrs. Jack 
 as probably prolific in divers hypocritical tears. These dry, her 
 liisolence returned. 
 
 f “ I’ve never forgotten thai'^ she said, “ for a reason you may one 
 [ay know ; and for the rest of your wishes in it, you may just as well 
 )Q told I laugh nigh all of ’em to scorn. And now about this fine 
 liss, as you and that Mister Simeon think to put over my head: — you 
 xn’t, and you won’t, and you must pretty soon make your choice. 
 ;,11 give you a little time — and be mistress all the while — mark that! 
 .'hen, if she don’t. I’ll go, as maybe you wish — and then — you know 
 
 rest ! ” 
 
 ^ She did not wait for a reply of any sort ; but, coming forth, closed 
 le door with a loud bang, stalked across the hall into the kitchen, 
 ^nd the minute after the sound of a glass against a bottle could be 
 ^eard. 
 
 ^ Miss Eliot had in the first instance but narrowly escaped the 
 ijroman’s observation ; and when the latter was called back into the 
 tudy by Mr. Eadnor, her intense interest in what was said, and her 
 jjope that she might gather some information therefrom, which might 
 ^e useful to her in her good work, induced her to remain. Now, 
 9 owever, she . went quickly up stairs to her room, partly to guard 
 1 gainst surprise, partly because the deep, low sigh which followed 
 he woman’s exit, gave her, as it met her ear, pain of the saddest 
 pind. 
 
 Once only through the night w’as she disturbed. Then some one 
 . ame to her door, and tried to open it ; but a low growl, as much as 
 he restraining bolt, prevented entrance. Retreating steps soon 
 followed. Then rising, she softly undid the door, to find old Wolf 
 ^tretched before it. Patting him, for which grace he licked her hand 
 tenderly, and again laid down his head in a way that said, “ You are 
 [|he good angel of the house, and as such I will resolutely guard you,” 
 Lhe secured her door, and stole to bed. There came no further dis- 
 ! urbance, and to a long and restless night the dawn followed. 
 
 She rose with it, took her bath, dressed, and resolved to go down 
 [mto the garden and wander through it without restraint. Not a 
 || ;ound as yet had broken the stillness of the house ; but, when she 
 Ripened her door, she found old Wolf was gone, and saw that a door 
 I m the opposite side of the gallery stood ajar. As she had perceived 
 pn the previous evening that this opened into an unoccupied bed- 
 she walked thither, for the purpose of finding a looking-glass, 
 
28 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 in which to see, perhaps, if her abundant braids of hair were gatherec 
 fully beneath the little head-dress. 
 
 ihere was no one v,dthin the room, and the c^lass stood beneath oni 
 of the charming old casements which looked so far away, over th< 
 gardeii, the meadows, the railway, the distant hill. This last was yei 
 half hidden in the grey dawn, only its upmost crags were gilded bi 
 broad patches of the early sun ; whilst all its base, and much of the 
 meadows stretching towards the parsonage, was covered by mist, thai 
 floated, cloud-like, along the ground. As she looked, she saw a 
 figure coming swiftly through the mist, and, as it emerged by degrees 
 into a clearer point of view, she saw it was a short woman, wrapped 
 in a grey cloak. Her feet must have been wetted by the grass, 
 which, in places, stood ready for the scythe ; but, regardless oF this, 
 she came swiftly towards the parsonage, and at length was only 
 hidden from view by the foliage of some intervening trees. Wonder- 
 ing for the instant what this woman’s purpose could be, and then 
 concluding that she was bound on some errand to a distant farm or 
 house, the nearest path to which lay that way. Miss Eliot turned to 
 go. As she did so, her eye fell upon some small light object on the 
 floor, which, picking up and laying on the table, she saw was a prim- 
 rose-coloured glove. It had been worn, was soiled and torn, as 
 though from rough pulling off and on. It was assuredly neither a 
 lady’s glove nor one belonging to Mrs. Jack — whose, then, could it 
 be ? Here was unexpected addition to the mystery of the house ! 
 
 Once in the garden, she took her way to the brook, on whose* 
 crystal waters the sun now divinely fell. As she descended the path 
 thereto, old Wolf came bounding towards her, stopped an instant for 
 a pat on his dear old head, then bounded forward again with a suddem 
 whine of joy. Almost the same instant. Miss Eliot became conscious* 
 that some one had crossed the brook, and was now advancing towards- 
 her. Afraid that^ it might be Mr. Radnor, whose time of rising shet 
 was not yet acquainted with, and, were it him, of appearing to intrudei 
 upon his privacy, she stepped upon the flower-border, and so within 
 the shelter of a spreading shrub. Nearer and nearer the steps came,i 
 and then passed by--not Mr. Radnor, but the short woman in the 
 grey cloak ! Miss Eliot, from a glimpse of her face, saw that she 
 was somewhat elderly, and probably above the rank of a servant,; 
 though her dress was much like that of one. Wolf seemed to know ; 
 her well, for he walked beside her, upturning now and then a side- 
 long glance into her face. 
 
 ^ Miss Eliot kept still, till she thought the person would be out of i 
 sight. ^ But, just as she was moving away, she could hear the woman 
 returning. Presently she passed again, forded the brook, and took 
 her way back along the dewy fields. Here was an addition to the 
 mystery, and such seemed quickly to increase. 
 
 When she gained the lovely terrace, which hitherto she had only 
 seen from a distance. Miss Eliot judged from the unopened casement 
 that Mr. Radnor was not yet up ; indeed no one seemed astir but 
 Elisha, who was opening the shutters and otherwise busy. She 
 
mainstone'^s housekeeper. 
 
 29 
 
 ilerefore enjoyed lier walk, pausing often in the splendour of the 
 iirise— for the shadows of the early day were chill — to greatly 
 it)nder what the trouble could be that lay thus upon^ the solitary 
 bster of the house. The more she thought, the more intricate the 
 t^stery grew ; till only one thing in connection with it was faith to 
 if, and that was, that Mr. Radnor’s life was still what it had been so 
 hny years, the pure and good one of a worthy man. As she stood 
 Jas in a spot away from the house, the old dog brought something 
 his mouth and laid it at her feet. Stooping and taking it, she 
 w, to her great surprise, that it was a child’s sock, newly-knitted, of 
 >e finest wool. Seeing this taken, the dog went off as though for 
 'ore ; Miss Eliot therefore followed him, and in a small thatched 
 • mmer-house, lying off the terrace in a solitary nook, she found him 
 u’ing at a paper parcel on the floor, in which were pinafores, socks, 
 d other small articles of wearing apparel, beautifully fine, and 
 -bricated with much evidence of loving care. To one pair of socks 
 );is pinned a little strip of paper, on which was written, in a delicate 
 ^nd, “ For our darling child.” And this was the only evidence that 
 fme mother’s love had wrought these things, perhaps in secret. As 
 instantly occurred to Miss Eliot, the parcel had been brought by 
 ie woman in the grey cloak ; and in the first instance it seemed to 
 -ve been hidden behind a strip of wood, beneath the seat, but, 
 tracted probably by the smell of a small paper of sponge cakes that 
 id been packed within, old Wolf had rooted the parcel out, and 
 faring it open with hk claws, had made his breakfast of the delica- 
 ^BS, and then brought the tell-tale sock to his new mistress. Sundry 
 3agments and the enveloping paper were evidence enough against 
 ie^old fellow, but otherwise he had done no harm beyond mere dis- 
 »acement. With the utmost promptitude. Miss Eliot resolved to 
 impair the damage, for she had a sort of consciousness that the secret 
 hs Mr. Radnor’s, and no one’s else ; she therefore placed the j)arcel 
 -meath the shawl she had thrown around her, and, returning to the 
 *)use and to her room, tied and sealed it afresh in a similar shee^ of 
 >iper, and, going again into the garden, hid it, as before, in the 
 mmer-house. 
 
 ^ This done, she took her way to the poultry-yard, to see if the 
 f licks brought yesterday were safe and well, and there she found old 
 flisha busy feeding his charge, inclusive of Peri, Pearl, and Fleckie. 
 I^e bid his mistress “good morning” with great respect, told her ne 
 i id set breakfast in the oak-parlour, and hoped that Betty had made 
 i^ir bed comfortable. Miss Eliot, with a smile, tokt him how com- 
 
 ( .•rtable. 
 
 Qt is impossible to describe the old man’s utter amazement ; all he 
 !>d for some minutes was to stand rubbing his head, as he ejacu- 
 ! ted I — 
 
 [. “ Well, there now ! — well, there now ! ” 
 
 “ It really is a fact, Elisha, as you yourself may witness, if you wHi 
 jb up stairs.” 
 
 p “ I don’t doubt you, missis, for my ’pinion of her’s been bad enough 
 
30 
 
 MAINSTONe’s HOUSEltEEPEE. 
 
 this ijiany a day. I’m only thinking, if she dare do so much, what il 
 not she 11 do next. But I must tell master.” 
 
 ^ Not a word, Elisha,” interrupted the housekeeper ; “ mere con 
 plaint to Mr. lladnor will for the present do no good. Whereas, if 
 proceed cpiietly, and act rather than talk, matters will so fashic 
 themselves, if I mistake not, as in the end to effect what is needfu 
 ilieretore, not a word of complaint to Mr. Radnor, unless absolute 
 required. As to the bed-room, I will send to Welton and purchas 
 enough to make the room comfortable. Bo you know anyone wl 
 can go ? ” ' 
 
 “I would, miss; but I have to drive master to the station, an 
 ietcn him again in the afternoon. Besides this, he does not like in 
 leaving the house too long together at a time, and he repeated th 
 last ^rnght when he gave me the keys. Then my usual helpmat 
 Ban el, is at this time busy with his own bit of croft, and so wouldn 
 like to be losing a^ morning : but JSilas Moore would do you any servic 
 you needed. Hes going to Welton some time to-day with a load ( 
 corn, and if you write ’em down on a bit of paper he’d brino* bac 
 anything as handsomely and as honestly as any man.” 
 
 “ Thank you. Moore Farm is not far off? ” 
 
 ‘No, ma am ; only a bit down the hill, and then a gate to the ri«'l 
 leads straight to it. I’ll see if I can’t go there presently.” ^ 
 
 “ I will spare you that, Elisha, for after breakfast I and Wolf wi 
 try to find our way. Now, go into the house, and see how M 
 Radnor is, and at what hour he would like his breakfast. If he 
 not well, let me send it up to him, for, poor gentleman, he may ik 
 have rested much, as he went to bed late, and with no peaceful min(]| 
 for that woman, from what I overheard, was with him in his studi 
 and deeply roused his anger.” 
 
 ‘‘ Bid she, miss ? That’s just what I expected she would do. Bd 
 I doubt me if, for all that, she’s got things to her mind, for she’s ini 
 rare bad way this morning. However, she’s going off somewhere, t! 
 Welton, I s’pose, for she’s bid me put the farm-horse into the liglj 
 cart. But that’s mostly how it is ; master rarely goes out on a bif (J 
 bis’ness, but she goes too.” 
 
 “ Indeed ! ^ Boes Mr. Radnor know of this ? ” 
 
 Xes, I think so ; leastways I’ve told him, though he never sail 
 anything in return. But for all her prying, if prying it be, she’s neve 
 made much out, as I think.” 
 
 “ Let us hope not, for such a woman is no fit depositary for eithe 
 a sorrow or a joy. But now oblige me, and go up to Mr. Radnor.” 
 
 When Elisha was gone. Miss Eliot stooped down for an instant t 
 caress the chicks, which, to her surprise, were so tame as to fly on t 
 her shoulder, and run up her wide sleeves ; nor would they leave he 
 till she reached the house. How tenderly they had been reared th: 
 was a sure sign, and it made her resolve to see Holly Cottage an 
 their young mistress before long. ° 
 
 Elisha had lighted a fire in the oak-parlour, so that when Mid 
 Eliot went in, the kettle sang on one hob, and a saucepan wherein t 
 
MAiNSTONE^S iiOtSEKEEEEE. 
 
 31 
 
 )il eggs simmered on tlie other ; the small table was spread with the 
 )or crockery of the overnight, and with a clean coarse towel in lieu 
 • a better tablecloth. But the viands were of the best ; freshwater- 
 messes from the brook, early radishes, eggs, and cream. 
 
 AVhen the old man came down, it was to say that his master was 
 r from well, though up, and seated in his arm-chair, beside the open 
 ■mdow, with his book. He seemed pleased at the suggestion of 
 . iving his breakfast in the peace and stillness of his chamber, though 
 3 merely nodded assent. 
 
 Cutting some bread, and leaving Elisha to toast it, Miss Eliot went 
 3 to her room. Taking a bunch of Bramah keys from an inner 
 bcket, she selected one of sundry substantial boxes, and, opening it, 
 was seen to contain various articles of china, and other like things. 
 ,3lecting from amongst these a cup and saucer, she meditated for a 
 .oment, and then replaced it. Taking another in its stead, of capa- 
 ous dimensions, she carefully relocked the box, then from another 
 le took a small damask cloth, and with these things she hurried 
 .own again and made the tea. Then she consulted Elisha as to what 
 instituted his master’s favourite breakfast. 
 
 “ Why, ye see, ma’am, he’s mighty fond of a bit of ham, but she’ll 
 .ever scarce let him taste it. There’s a bam under cut now, but I’ll 
 "e bound to say it’s locked up in the pantry, and the key’s safe in 
 , er pocket.” 
 
 ^ “ We’ll see, Elisha. If I do not exercise my right as mistress here, 
 i far as can peacefully be done, we shall never have matters mucli 
 , etter than they are. Will you therefore go round to the yard, so as 
 Ijo be within call, and I will go in and speak to her.” 
 
 “ You had better not, miss, for she’s like a raging bear this morning, 
 nd she may harm you, that she may.” 
 
 ^ “ I do not fear her, Elisha.” Saying this. Miss Eliot left the room, 
 ollowed by the old man ; then, crossing the hall, she tapped at the 
 ;itchen-door, and entered. Betty was seated, codling herself by the 
 .re as usual, with all the necessaries of an excellent breakfast before 
 er, and with tea poured out into two breakfast cups ; one of these she 
 Qstantly tried to conceal, by pushing it between the loaf and slop- 
 >asin ; but the mistress’s eye was far too quick, though she said 
 [nothing. Advancing to the table, she civilly requested Mrs. Jack to 
 prepare some ham for breakfast ; but that personage, not condescend- 
 ng to answer, only took up her tea-cup and turned her face to the 
 ire. Miss Eliot again spoke to the woman, but again she made no 
 ‘finswer. The mistress then crossed the kitchen, but the pantry door 
 I vas locked, whereupon, as her mind was already made up as to how 
 I he should act, she called Elisha in, and bid him lift down one of 
 jj;ome half dozen hams which hung, with other stores, from the centre 
 fOeam of the kitchen. This he did, cut a slice therefrom, and fetched 
 I lis mistress the gridiron to broil it. But when she approached the 
 ; ire the woman, with menace, interposed, and said she should not 
 I Join e. 
 
 ! certainly shall, Mrs. Jack,” said Miss Eliot, with unmoved 
 
32 
 
 MAINSTONe’s HOtSEitEEPER. 
 
 courage. “ both hy Mr. Eadnor’s and his friends’ authority 
 the mistress of this house, and I intend to act as such. Let me !Tiv( 
 you to undestand, too, that as lo>ig as you remain here you will "fine 
 it to your advantage to restrain your temper, even if you cannot acl 
 with civility. If, by reason of your long tyranny, and his own broker 
 health, Mr. Eadnor has become afraid of you, I am not ; and, more- 
 over, I am acquainted with several circumstances that, should yoi 
 urge me too far, I will at once take the necessary steps to place in { 
 qmarter where inquiry most unpleasant to yourself must necessarilj 
 
 ^ What do you know ? ” was the insolent and ready question. 
 
 But the housekeeper, firm to her resolve to have no war of words, 
 answered not, but quietly proceeded with the little duty which hac 
 led her to the fire. She had concluded it, and was about to leave the 
 kitchen, when Betty, starting from her seat, hurried to the outei 
 door, and in a moment was to be heard wrangling with some one whe 
 stood there. 
 
 “ No, I won’t give it to you,” said the new comer ; “ the post- 
 master s orders were strict that this letter, containing they key of the 
 post-ba^, was only to be given to Miss Eliot, the new housekeeper, oi 
 to Mr. Eadnor himself, and I take care I obey, for there’s been fuss 
 enough about the letters which have been lost, though I know well 
 enough that more than one of ’em was put safe into yo^ur hands.” 
 
 ^ “It’s Gibbs, the postman, miss,” whispered Elisha, who stood hold- 
 ing the little dish of ham to the fire to keep it warm ; “ and he seems 
 to want you.” 
 
 ^ Miss Eliot therefore hastened to the door, and there stood a decent- 
 looking young man, with some letters in one hand, a new and bulky- 
 iooking post-bag in the other, and others older and more worn swuii<^ 
 about his neck. Miss Eliot told him her name, and he at once gave 
 her the bag and its key in an envelope, sealed with the post-seal of 
 the nearest country town. 
 
 ^ ^ f ^ take back a receipt of the safe delivery of this envelope, 
 ma’am,” he said ; “ for letters of value have been lost, and this is to 
 prevent a like occurrence again.” 
 
 And pray, who ordered it ? asked Mrs. Jack ^ *^I’ve lived here 
 these eight years, and there never was a bag afore.” 
 
 “ It is not my business to answer such a^’question,” said the post- 
 man, shortly ; and, obeying Miss Eliot’s desire— that he should go 
 round to the porch and await her signature — he hurried away. 
 Elisha had already gone forward with the bag and the dish, and liis 
 itnstress now followed. But just as she reached the middle of the 
 Kitchen, the woman clutched her by the arm and held her. 
 
 “ You don’t think, do you, that I won’t have a reckoning for this ? ” 
 she asked, with hoarse rage. “ Poisoning master’s ears with lies of 
 my being a thief.” 
 
 “Let me go, Mrs. Jack,” was the unmoved answer, tlioun-h the 
 voice faltered, and the kindly heart beat quicker and louder lhan it 
 should do. 
 
MAIKSTONe's nOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 33 
 
 . *‘Av. now you may,” she said, with a bitter laugh. And as she 
 
 ' spoke siie raised her hand as though to strike the lady’s face ; but 
 Miss Eliot, perceiving the intent, and moving her head aside, the 
 blow fell down upon her left arm with such effect as for a moment to 
 , make it feel as though broken in twain. Sick and faint, she staggered 
 , to the door, with much effort opened it, then closed it behind her, 
 and, reaching the staircase, sank down upon the lower step. In a 
 few minutes tears had come to her relief. Then resolving, with that 
 force of will she possessed in a large degree, to bear this, and much 
 more than this, if likely to effect the reasonable and kindly purpose 
 she had in view, she rose, suppressed all show of tears and pain, and, 
 hastening to the parlour, signed the paper with her uninjured hand, 
 sent Elisha out with it, as well as with a shilling for the postman, and 
 ■then sat down to prepare Mr. Kadnor’s breakfast. But she could not 
 use her stricken hand, try as she would ; and when the old man came 
 ;back and busied himself about the little table in spreading the cloth 
 upon a tray, and so on, he at once noticed his mistress’s pallid face, 
 and her black and swollen fingers. 
 
 , “ Dear Lord ! ” he said, with infinite pain and consternation, “ that 
 
 woman, then, has struck you, ma’am ? ” 
 
 “ Hush, Elisha, not a word about it to anyone. Yes, she has, but 
 It is a mere bruise, and all sign of it will be gone in a few hours.” 
 
 “ It won’t miss — it’s a dreadful blow, and its mark ’ll last your 
 life, I’m pretty sure. Master must know this. Come now what will, 
 Betty must be sent off; and more’s the pity this hadn’t been done 
 many a day ago.” 
 
 She had an austere and determined way with her when she willed, 
 ind Elisha was now made aware of it to the full. In a few brief words 
 j^he utterly forbade all notice or mention of the matter; and she made 
 be old man make a promise to that effect, which he did, though very 
 'eluctantly. She then, intent upon the duty which was before her, 
 )oured out Mr. Eadnor s tea, set it with dainty art upon the tray, 
 yith eggs, ham, watercresses, radishes, toast, and bread and butter, 
 ,ind then, unlocking the letter-bag, sought out his letters. There 
 vere but two and a newspaper, whilst there were a full dozen letters 
 ^or herself; of these the numlDer vastly surprised Elisha, though he 
 aade no outspoken comment thereon. But he had a word to sliy as 
 le took up the tray. 
 
 “ ’Scuse me, miss, but your ways and master’s will fit to a hair, 
 le never drinks sugar in his tea, and you ain’t put any in— he likes 
 Is letters laid on tlie right hand side of his breakfast-cup, and you’ve \ 
 •ut ’em there — and he has always his bread and butter cut very thin, ' 
 nd his egg prepared— mid you’ve done it all. You might have 
 .mown master half your life, miss, and not done more.” 
 
 A slight shade of colour suffused her face, still pallid from the 
 low ; but she made no reply. Affecting to be anxious about her 
 ptters, she took up one, broke the seal, read it whilst she sipped her 
 ; 2a ; and so the old man, with a glance of reverence cast upon her, 
 ‘^ent his quiet way, 
 
 3 
 
S4 
 
 mainstoke's housekeeper. 
 
 Slie read no longer, then ; but listened, as he passed from stair to 
 stair, with greater eagerness as t]je distance grew — but no sound fell 
 upon her ear, so her anxiety was stilled. 
 
 She was reading the last of her letters, when Elisha came down 
 again with his master’s cup for a fresh supply of tea. She poured it 
 out without a word, though she noticed that the old man was intently 
 regarding her ; then, as he took the cup, she simply said, “ She hoped 
 that Mr. Kadnor seemed the better for his breakfast.” 
 
 “ A deal, miss, though he ain’t said so ; but I see he noticed every- 
 thing on the tray pretty sharply. All he said, miss, was, as I took up 
 the cup, ‘ I see, Elisha, there are better days in store for all of us.’ 
 I replied, ‘I think there be. Sir; partik’lar when that old Missis 
 Witch in the kitchen chooses to pack and go. And if you know'd| 
 all her doings, that’d be pretty soon.’ ” 
 
 The old man, as he spoke, pointed to his mistress’s contused hand,, 
 and added, with much genuine indignation : — 
 
 “I couldn’t help saying ihat^ and I only wish I might have spokei 
 plainer. However, master’s only answer was a sigh.” 
 
 “ And such, Elisha, only shows us that mere complaint to Mr. 
 Eadnor would do no good. His health is broken, and, for some 
 reason or another, he will not dismiss this woman, as any other master; 
 would, at once, and with no hope that she should return. I should 
 be careless of anything she might threaten ; and my own idea is, that 
 his own fear of the injury she might cause him or others is wholly 
 without foundation. It is a mere phantom of the brain of a nervous 
 man ; stUl, as he believes in its reality, complaint would only lead to 
 his having a fresh altercation with this woman, in which her insolence 
 would but increase his fear and her own power. Therefore, I forbid 
 a single word about this slight matter. It has even its advantages, as 
 it places her completely in my power, should her behaviour yet neces- 
 sitate the interference of a magistrate. But I think this great evil 
 will work its own cure ; and that, finding she cannot live here in 
 comfort, or with profit to herself, she will just now go.” 
 
 “Not, ma’am, till she has done every bit of mischief that she can, 
 you may be sure. I’ve borne her ways too long not to know whati 
 Betty Jack really is. As to what master’s secret be, I don’t pretend 
 to guess. He never told me aught about it. All I know is, that I 
 drive him to the railway -station every three or four naonths, and thatj 
 he goes a short journey, but where, he doesn’t say. There has been 
 a good deal of parish gossip about master and a lady as came with 
 her little boy to live at Street End House, some three years ago ; but 
 my belief is that Betty set the scandal afloat herself, and added to it 
 by all sorts of hints and by-talk. Other folks have seen, they say, a 
 young woman about the house, at strange sort of times, but I never 
 did ; and my ’pinion is, that dear master is as innocent of evil in it all 
 as a babe unborn.” 
 
 “ 1 think so too, Elisha ; and this gives me the fullest confidence in 
 the duty which lies before me. Now, when you go up again, inquire 
 from Mr, Eadnor at what hour he would like to dine, as I must begin 
 
MAINSTONe’s nOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 35 
 
 to "et regularity In our little liouseliold ; and also learn, in case of my 
 finding matters which need repair or alteration, if I have his authority 
 for the same being done.” 
 
 AVhen Elisha was gone. Miss Eliot herself went up stairs, and 
 fetched some tincture she had in a small medicine chest ; and bathing 
 her arm with this, the swelling and blackness soon decreased — this to 
 an extent that surprised the old man when he returned. He bore his 
 master’s thanks for the charming breakfast which had been sent 
 up stairs, as well as his (Mr. Radnor’s) authority to do in all respects 
 as Miss Eliot considered necessary — with this consideration borne in 
 mind, however, that his money affairs were not in a very prosperous 
 state, owing, as he feared, to his servant’s bad management ; but, as 
 far as was prudent, his housekeeper might act — though of this and 
 other things he would speak, as soon as he felt able to seek an 
 interview. 
 
 “Mr. Radnor’s authority is all I require,” was Miss Eliot’s only 
 answer. 
 
 Elisha then added that he had to drive his master to the rail way - 
 station in about an hour’s time, and fetch him thence at three o’clock, 
 and that four, or a little before, would be early enough for dinner. 
 He likewise said that the house was to be left in peace for that day, 
 as Betty was herself putting the horse into the cart and otherwise 
 preparing to be off to Welton, according to her own account. 
 
 “ But her going, ma’am,” added Elisha, “ needn’t put you out 
 about master’s dinner; for if so be you know anything about 
 cooking, why 
 
 “ I’m a very fair cook, Elisha.” 
 
 “ Why, dear me, ma’am, you ’pears to me to know most things. 
 Well, 1 shouldn’t have thought that a lady like you, with such little 
 fair hands would ha’ know’d much about saucepans and gridirons ; 
 but leastways if you do. I’ll do the hard part, and fry or roast, and 
 all that, if you’ll be good enough to keep house till 1 can get back 
 from the station, for 1 won’t be long a-driving master there ; for ye 
 see, miss, it ain’t at all cur’us that I’m a bit up to cooking, seeing that 
 that old witch keeps me on cold meat six days out of every week ; so 
 that if it wasn’t for a bit o’ frying and something o’ that sort at 
 nights, I couldn't ha’ stood her doings out. So that is how it be, 
 miss.” 
 
 “I am glad I have so able an ally,” said the housekeeper, with a 
 quiet smile ; “ for I fear we shall be put to some straits before we 
 have yet done with Mrs. Jack. Now, be good enough to clear 
 away, whilst I write out the orders for what I want from Welton.” 
 
 She took her writing materials, and, sitting down in the bay, re- 
 mained there quietly, till long after she had heard Mrs. Jack drive 
 out of the yard. But now that Elisha came in to say that he and 
 his master were going, and that he would be back in half an hour, she 
 rose, and, putting back the shrubs a little with her hand through the 
 open window, tried to get some glimpse of him whose “servant” she 
 called herself. It was but a dim view, much blocked by intervening 
 3—2 
 
36 
 
 MAINSTONe’s HOUSEKEErER. 
 
 leaves ; but she saw enough to show her that his sight was very dim, 
 his step feeble, his face prematurely aged, and his whole person 
 betokenino^ the existence of some sorrow that had lasted long, and 
 lived witlAiim even now. AVithout speaking, he permitted Elisha to 
 assist him into the gig, and, once there, he bent his head downwards 
 in its accustomed meditative mood. 
 
 AVhen the white gate had swung to, and the sound of the gig had 
 died in the distance, she too sat down in the shadows which were about 
 her, and was quiet for a time. 
 
 Lured at length by the broadening sun, she went out into the 
 garden, taking with her some crumbs she had preserved, to strew upon 
 the study window for Pearl and Peri. But their tender master had 
 been there before her, and scattered corn in its accustomed place, 
 though, whether or not they were disconsolate at his absence, they 
 had not flown up to peck it, but stood stilly side by side, their 
 feathers but little unfolded, though the sun fell warm and glad. She^ 
 stooped to caress them ; then moving onward slowly, to her delight 
 they followed her step by step, till she reached the splendid terrace ; 
 from thence they would riot go, though they kept measure with her 
 steps as she went up and down, or stayed as she stayed, to pluck some 
 violet from beneath its leaves, some narcissus from its stem, some 
 lily with its pensive head. But she was very glad she had won such 
 way already in the favour of the creatures which he loved. 
 
 As she walked up and down, the recollection of the parcel occurred 
 to her ; so, going quickly to the little summer-house, she found, as 
 she suspected, that it was gone. None but Mr. Badnor could have 
 taken it, as he alone, as far as she knew, had been into the garden 
 since the early morning ; thus, without intending it, she had caught 
 as it were one clue to the household mystery ; and that, for the sake 
 of some lonely and hapless child, he, to whom she had conae and 
 called herself “ servant,” bore ignominy and household uncharitable- 
 ness of many kinds. 
 
 Coming slowly towards the house, she stopped for a moment by one 
 of the study casements, to add the bud of a monthly rose to the little 
 nosegay she had been gathering, when, casting accidentally, as it were, 
 her gaze within the fine book-lined room, she saw, to her infinite 
 astonishment, a short, stout, velveteen-coated man, standing by a 
 larore desk-like writing table, searching amidst the letters and papery 
 which covered it ; she could not see his face, as it was^ turnec 
 away, but she saw his hands distinctly, and was struck by their grim) 
 hue, this not so much the effect of dirt, as one arising from peculiai 
 labour ; she had noticed the same thing the previous day, in passing 
 through the coal and mining district of Horton W ood, and had rightly 
 refer^d the cause to the work carried on in the adjacent pits anc 
 blast furnaces. Acting upon her momentary surprise, rather thai 
 silently returning to the house, and so confronting him, as sh( 
 presently felt she should have done, she tapped upon the panes, anc 
 asked the man what he did there. She was heard, and the pap^i 
 were laid down, but, otherwise too cautious to let his face be seen, th< 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 37 
 
 man slowly turned towards the door, and thus, as a matter of course, 
 passed out into the hall. 
 
 When Miss Eliot reached the garden-door by which she had left 
 the house, she found it had meanwhile been bolted from within. 
 From thence, by going round to the yard, the kitchen was accessible, 
 and through this the hall, and there she saw at once that the porch - 
 door was ajar. Going thither, and so up the grassy road to the white *' 
 gate, she could see the man climbing the hill, with such rapid strides 
 as, in a minute more, to take him out of sight ; and thus to learn who 
 he was, or what had been his purpose, was impossible. 
 
 Eeturning slowly to the house, and thence to the kitchen, she saw, 
 by shoe-marks on the floor, that he had entered by that way. He 
 had also made himself quite at home, for he had been down into the 
 cellar and drawn some strong ale, though how, she did not know, as 
 she had supposed she held the key. He had also sat for some minutes 
 by the fire, and lighted his pipe, as the half-consumed strip of paper 
 with which he had done this lay within the fender. Taking this up 
 with some curiosity, she saw that it was part of a leaf from one of 
 those small clasped account-books in ordinary use. It was covered 
 with figures, in relation to what seemed a colliery account, and across 
 them was endorsed, in another, and much more educated hand, “ John 
 Thornhill, Mainstone Hall.” 
 
 She put this scrap of paper carefully in her pocket-book. It 
 might serve as another clue towards clearing up the mystery of the 
 house. 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 PHEMA AT MOORE FARM. 
 
 On looking through the house the previous day. Miss Eliot had just 
 glanced into Mr. Radnor’s study ; but now, being assured by his 
 absence of some hours that she should not intrude upon his privacy, 
 she entered it to look round with the eye of a scholar — the purpose of 
 a mistress. 
 
 It was a glorious room ! — one fitted for the shrine of imperishable 
 thoughts — one fitted, by its bowery stillness, for contemplation of the 
 highest kind — for work of the noblest manner! Not that the place, 
 or the hour, or the instrument matters much, so the intellect be 
 noble of its kind — the culture the best of its age. Still, beauty, and 
 fitness, and order, lend an assisting grace to the thought which 
 labours to enrich humanity with the wisdom of progressive truth ! 
 
 The three casomcnted windows were embowered by creeping shrubs 
 without — within fair colours fell from the tinted panes above, and 
 
38 
 
 mainstone's iiouseeeepeh. 
 
 beyond lay the grand landscape, of wood, and hill, and stream. With 
 the exception of between the windows, above the fire-place, and 
 within one or two quaint recesses, the walls, from floor to ceiling, were 
 covered by glass-fronted bookcases, so that not a particle of dust 
 could fall on Mr. Radnor’s beloved books. These were numerous, 
 choice, and in scholarly condition. Open one, or twenty, or a hundred 
 — each would be found to have been used by reverencing hands. 
 Classical books were in majority — often various editions of one work. 
 There were delicious little Elzevir duodecimos, clad in vellum or 
 quaintly-gilded calf ; other editions of the old Italian and German 
 presses — most of those rare, and often good ones— which issued so 
 prolifically from the English press during the seventeenth and 
 eighteenth centuries. But with these, as with the rest of his books, 
 Mr. Radnor rarely came further than the last year of the last century. 
 Unregarded by him, the great German and English scholars of the 
 present age might annotate and correct. He read his Herodotus in a 
 copy a century old— the pages of the Cicero he used were yellow with 
 the rust of time. As with these, so with the rest of his classic authors. 
 His English books were numerous. In divinity, in logic, in metaphvsics, 
 in history, the range was large— the quality m many cases excellent. 
 He had the folios of the fathers of English history. The literature 
 of the Civil Wars was well represented. That of the Puritans had a 
 shelf to itself. Poetry was in scanty measure — romance less so. But 
 there were outweighing riches in original copies of the works of 
 Jewell, Hooker, Chillingworth, and men of that stamp ; and of the 
 eighteenth century there was no lack of the great harvest of slowly- 
 progressive truth. But much of it stood unregarded on the shelves. 
 Hutton was there, with uncut leaves. The original edition of the 
 ‘‘Wealth of Nations” looked as thougli never moved since placed 
 there. The works of certain immortal Frenchmen stood flecked by 
 the gentle dust of ten oblivious years. There was evidence of limit 
 to truth, as there was limit to time. And so in the dreamy stillness 
 of the past, it was plain that the good man’s mind rested gently, like 
 that of a sleeping child. Beyond a shelf or two of quarterlies and 
 magazines, there was scarcely a book of modern days. If there were, 
 it was a volume of sermons, or a work on natural history or botany, 
 or a manual of parish law. 
 
 There was one good painting above the fire-place, some smaller 
 ones around it, some few equally good in one or more of the recesses. 
 In these, likewise, were globes, philosophical instruments, and a few 
 antiquities. In one little glazed recess beside the fire-place — care- • 
 fully locked — might be seen some well-thumbed school-books, the 
 Eton grammar and Delectus, with dictionaries and exercise books of 
 other kinds. There were also little story-books and epitomes of 
 history, and small volumes of that silvery verse which is so like the 
 music of angels to children’s ears. On the top of sundry of these 
 books lay a pair of well-worn child’s gloves, in another place a few 
 small toys, and in a mysterious blue paper, carefully folded, lay what 
 looked very like a doll. These were matters of interest to the new 
 
Mainstone's HOTJSEKEEPES. 
 
 S9 
 
 housekeeper — ^perhaps from some associations connected with her own 
 young days — for she returned to look at them more than once in 
 making her survey of the room. 
 
 So far as books and papers were concerned, all were in scholarly 
 order, but beyond these Mrs. Jack’s method of household ministra- 
 tion was as clear as the sun at noon. Unswept carpet, rusty grate, 
 cobwebbed bookcases, undusted shelves and tables, all bore flagrant 
 witness to what her worthy and uncomplaining master suffered at her 
 hands ; though, according to her own showing at sundry times, her 
 labours in Mr. Hadnor’s study were herculean in amount and kind. 
 Miss Eliot observed all this, and was perplexed what to do, as she 
 knew of no one who could render her any assistance. At length, 
 resolving to wait and consult Elisha, she sat down at the desk before 
 which the man had stood, to see if she could discover what could 
 have been the object of his curiosity. But beyond^ manuscript 
 sermons, parochial accounts, and a few unimportant business letters, 
 she could see nothing. One letter of old date was alone signed 
 “ John Thornhill.” It was dated from London, and referred to a 
 trivial matter connected with certain repairs to the church. 
 
 Whilst pondering over the motives of this strange incident, she 
 heard Elisha drive into the yard, and a minute or two after some one 
 tapped at the study door. To her answer it slowly opened, and 
 Barbie came in, and with sundry curtseys advanced to where Miss 
 Eliot sat. She had hidden her pretty ringlets, and now, in a close- 
 fitting cap and gown and snowy apron, stood the daintiest of little 
 servants. 
 
 ‘‘ I’ve taken the liberty to come, miss, and see how you’re getting 
 on — for mother and me’ve thought a deal about you ; and as she 
 could spare me, I thought, maybe, if I come I might be useful. So 
 ’Lislia calling at ours has drove me up, but not afore he told us how 
 Betty stripped your bed last night.” 
 
 “ i’m sorry Elisha is a gossip,” replied Miss Eliot, gravely; “and 
 I must caution him in this respect. Though as to your coming, 
 Barbie, it — ” 
 
 She was going to add that it was really very kind of her, and most 
 opportune. But conscience is a very tender thing, particularly when 
 sins are small and innocence untouched ; so Barbie, misinterpreting 
 the cause of gravity, judging it to be directed against herself, and 
 fearing dismissal from the presence of this dear lady, as such in her 
 heart she very justly considered her to be, tremulously interrupted 
 her by drawing near, and saying in a low voice : — 
 
 “ If you please, ma’am, I have made it up with Silas, or I shouldn’t 
 have come.” 
 
 “ I am glad of it, Barbie,” was the quiet reply ; “ and though I do 
 not yet know sufficient of this young man to speak recommendingly, 
 I fancy he is honest and true, from the little I heard yesterday. So 
 have no further quarrels with him, and most certainly no furthur 
 Words with that man I saw on horseback.” 
 
 “I must tell Mr. Greene, ma’am, that I and Silas are friends,” 
 
40 
 
 MAINSTONe’s llOUSEKEErElt. 
 
 ^‘Wliy ?” 
 
 “Pie’s mother’s doctor, ma’am, and always speaks nicely to me 
 and if so be I was rude — which he’d think I’d be if I didn’t answei 
 him — he’d tell her pretty soon. What’s more, she don’t half like 
 Silas. She’d rather I’d have Robert, for he gives it out that he’s tc 
 have the farm and the money, though some folks say that the 
 old missis, the grandmother, has put down Silas for a full half o] 
 both.” 
 
 “ This has nothing to do wdth the matter,” was the reply. “ Whai 
 I mean is this. You must have no further words with this mar 
 — or rather gentleman — if you really love Silas. For tell me truly— 
 did Mr. Greene ever talk of marriage to you.” 
 
 “ No, ma’am. He’s only said he likes to talk and walk with me c 
 bit sometimes — and — ” 
 
 “And Silas Moore always speaks of marriage.” 
 
 “ Oh dear, jes ! He was talking just so last night, and thal 
 if he’d money enough to take it, he’d get some one to speak tc 
 Mr. Radnor about a little farm as belongs to the church, and which 
 folks say will be let at Michaelmas. The man that’s in it has beer 
 there nigh three years, and ain’t paid a bit o’ rent, and wouldn’t now, 
 or go either, but that old Johnny Wigpit, the clerk, has been seeing 
 about it, and laying the matter afore his master. For the man is 
 some one old Betty recommended, or leastways come from bj the 
 forges, where there’s folks she knows.” 
 
 “ Indeed ! ” asked Miss Eliot ; for the moment forgetting Barbie 
 and her affairs, in the intense interest these incidental words 
 afforded, “then this woman has friends in the mining country ? ” 
 
 “She’s very secret, ma’am, and I never heard it directly, nor was it 
 ever talked of in mother’s house, but I was one market day, just three 
 years ago, in a shop in Welton, where some colliers stood telling Joel 
 Breere — that’s a gentleman as lives in Lolesly, the village nigh our 
 house, that Ben Briscoe had had a fresh slice of luck, and got a friend 
 of his, that wasn’t long out o’ th’ Union-house, a glebe farm belonging 
 to Mainstone rectory. At this Joel swore — he’s a hard-living, hard- 
 swearing man, ma’am — and said, he supposed that it was that old 
 Jezebel Betty that had done it.” 
 
 “ Who is this Briscoe ? ” 
 
 “ The country folks don’t like mining folks, and so don’t know 
 much about ’em ; but I’m pretty sure he’s colliery agent to Squire 
 Thornhill at the hall ; and why Mr. Breere don’t like him is because, 
 ye see, Ben wur mighty busy in a great trial, that come about when 
 I wur a little child, atween the squire and Joel. Mother often tells 
 how they spent thousands in fighting it, for it wur about some pit 
 rights, worth a deal. Squire Thornhill got the day, through Ben’s 
 false swearing, as it’s saicl, for he’s a bit of relation to the squire, and 
 so ever since the master has hated the squire with a deadly hate ; and 
 no wonder if the right be his. There ain’t no love lost on the othei 
 side, for the squire’s a proud rich man, and looks on the master 
 as less than himself, in many a way ; and so meet where they 
 
4i 
 
 ^ill, they turn aside, as the biggest and bitterest enemies i th 
 
 ^ “ Such hates are bad things, Barbie, for evil and tribulation are the 
 3nlv fruit they can produce. Now, with respect to this farni, I will 
 io young Moore a service, if I can ; that is to say, if, loving Jiim, you 
 
 svill be ffood and true.” . , . , . , , ^ 
 
 , UT rio T lovp. him.” said the Girl, sinking on her knees beside 
 
 you can 
 are not 
 weeping, 
 be so.” 
 
 Barbie kissed the tender hands which were held towards her; and 
 when she had risen, and there was sunshine once more in her face, 
 she said, how glad she should be to be useful, for she had come 
 
 ^^‘‘^Tra\^k^you,^ Barbie ; when I stepped into the ‘ Brown Hen,’ 
 yesterday I did not think I should find so useful and kindly a Inend. 
 Well it is now ten ”-~Miss Eliot looked at her watch— “and it will 
 be three before Mr. Radnor returns ; in this case, do you think tbtre 
 will be time to nicely cook the dinner, nicely clean this room, 
 
 plenty, ma’am,” interrupted Barbie, with an alacrity which 
 showed how delighted she was to oblige. “ If ’Lisha ’ll help me to 
 take up the carpet and then beat it, and afterwards clean the windows, 
 III do the rest; for you see there ain’t a better housewite than 
 mother the country wide, and rarely partic’lar she’s been wi’ me. 
 
 “ i’m sure I’ve a nice little maid ; but I’ll ring the bell, and consult 
 Elisha as to the possibility of accomplishing all that is necessary by 
 the time of Mr. Radnor’s return; as, in his nervous state, it might 
 not do for him to find his favourite room in a state of disorder. 
 
 Elisha came, and thought that, were due alacrity used, every neces- 
 sary point mi^ht be effected. His mistress then consulted him as to 
 his master’s dinner ; “ for, as this is the first day of my housekeeping, 
 Elisha, I must show that intended reformations have already com- 
 menced.” . ^ , • 'jur n 
 
 “ God bless you, ma’am, not a whit before the time. Well, now, 
 master for one thing would like some trout, so, as soon as I’ve beat, 
 ■the carpet. I’ll go down to the weir, and get a dish; for that old 
 ' witch would never cook ’em, bring ’em m when I iniglit. I lien 
 master’s partie'lar fond of roast mutton, though Letty never treats 
 him to it, and so as the butcher ’ll be round just now, I d say mutton, 
 and if there could be a pudding, the dinner would bo complete. My 
 ’pinion is, and I don’t joke a bit, miss, that if master had a pudding 
 every day, it’d go nigli to cure him, for it would look as ii he d some 
 cue in this ■world to think of him.” .. - 
 
42 
 
 MAINStONE S HOUSEKEErim, 
 
 He shall have a pudding, and I will make it,” was the quie 
 replj, marked by the singular look expressive of pleasure, and pre 
 gone knowledge, which had already struck the old servant 
 
 So they all set busily to work, like swift-winged bees in the sunn 
 glory of the noon ; and whilst the housekeeper removed the papers wit 
 delicate hand from the writing-table to the oak parlour, and Jiarbii 
 cut-Ijing books to the same place, old Elisha unnailed the carpet, anr 
 Idled away heavier things. At length, he brought into the oai 
 pariour an oblong box painted green. 
 
 _ “ This is master’s fiddle, miss,” he said, “ but it is many a lorn- dm 
 since he played on it. However, if he does ever begin again, thou^rh '] 
 don t think it s hkely, I shall say his heart is comforted, because il 
 knows a better day will come.” 
 
 ‘‘Perhaps this may be, Elisha,” was another of those quiet repliei 
 little, and yet seemed to mean so much 
 When her own task was accomplished, in the most scholarly manner 
 and directions given to Barbie, Miss Eliot dressed to go to Moon 
 farm, as Silas was likely to stai*fc about eleven, the wao-o-on anc 
 waggoner going on before ; for market day was not till thrmorrow, 
 and the corn was thus carried to the market cross by a certain hour oi 
 the previous evening. The corn-sales took place only once a month 
 and the young farmer, when he had a sale to make, ijenerally remained 
 in the little town till the following afternoon ; though he re toned the 
 same evening, had his sale been previously made. 
 
 Going ba(^ to^ Mr. Kadnor’s study to give some final order, Misa 
 Ehot found Barbie mounted on the library steps, engao-ed in carefully 
 dusting the large picture above the fire-place. It Vas probable she 
 had asked Elisha about it, for the old man, staying* in his task of 
 lifting away the carpet, was telling her the little he loiew. 
 
 -ITT likeness,” lie said, “as far as I be acquainted, of Dr. 
 
 Waldo, master of one of the largest Oxford Colleges. Mr. Radnor 
 never told me as it might be, though I heard him once say as much to 
 a country gentleman, who calling had asked whose picture it was • 
 and the Doctor’s now dead I know, for master, telling me that his old 
 friend Dr. Waldo had died, sent me about three years ao-o to Welton 
 to order him a new suit of black, and to buy him a c?ape hatband! 
 which he has worn ever since. I fancy he was fond of the old 
 Doctor, who died very aged, but for what reason I can’t take on me 
 to say, for I don’t know partic’lars. It may be he was once his 
 chaplain, or secretary, or something of that sort.” 
 
 Miss Eliot heard this, but made no comments ; when she had 
 spoken to Barbie she came back into the hall. Just at this moment a 
 cart drove up the house-road, and in another second some one could 
 be heard in the kitchen. Placing his burden in the garden, Elisha 
 came back into the hall. 
 
 “ It is Bull, the butcher, ma’am,” he said. “ And if you’ll be -rood 
 enough to speak to him you can say you’re housekeeper, and tbit he 
 hasn t to take Betty’s orders any more. You mustn’t mind him beitiir 
 impudent, for he’s one of the old missus’s friends. She turned ofi 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 43 
 
 lill the butcher about two years ago, much to master s trouble, for 
 ,e always served him honestly and well.” 
 
 Thus informed, Miss Eliot went into the kitchen, where stood the 
 utcher, a coarse, rulFianly -looking fellow. He was calling out 
 Betty! Betty 1 ” 
 
 “For the future, Mr. Bull,” said the new mistress, “you are to 
 
 eceive your orders from me, and not from Mrs. Jack.” 
 
 ’ “Indeed,” replied the fellow, with a stare; “I heard something of 
 tiis as I came along, but it’s nothing to me. Whilst Mrs. Jack’s 
 ere, I shall look on her as missus and what she likes to order I’ll 
 ring.” 
 
 “You can do so, but at the peril of non-payment.” 
 
 “I shall see to that; for enough’s owed me now, and I ain’t 
 oing to give up the custom till every sixpence’s settled. I don’t 
 ee much chance of that, for the old parson don't pay nobody now-a- 
 
 .ays.” 
 
 “ What is the amount ? ” 
 
 “I don’t see no good o’ telling you. You can’t pay the bill, I dare- 
 ay, no more than Betty Jack.” 
 
 “ I am not here to answer insolent questions. As Mr. Radnor’s 
 epresentative, I ask what is the amount of the claim, which, if up6n 
 Qquiry I find it to be correct, shall be settled on ” 
 
 “ Ah ! ah ! so Betty has talked a long while. AVell, if you must 
 mow, it’s somewhere about <£24 10s.” 
 
 = “ That is a large sum,” said Miss Eliot, quietly ; “ but bring the 
 )ill of items to-morrow, and if found correct the money shall be paid 
 >n Monday. One of my duties here is the settlement of Mr. Radnor’s 
 lomestic afliiirs.” 
 
 The man had begun already to suspect, both from Miss Eliot’s 
 ppearance and manner, that the ground he had taken was untenable ; 
 iiid now assured that his claim would be settled so soon, his words 
 pnd demeanour were as abjeetly complaisant as they had been before 
 insolent. But beyond reiterating her desire that the bill be brought 
 j)n the morrow, and making a ready-money purchase for that day’s 
 •mnsumption, she held no further parley with the man, who soon 
 Irove off, well assured that he had made a great mistake, as also 
 i hat Betty Jaek’s reign was near its elose, and that a very different 
 ;.tate of affairs had already had commencement in Mr. Radnor’s house- 
 I lold. 
 
 When Miss Eliot reaehed the white gate, with old Wolf at hen 
 dde, and pretty Fleckie following her footsteps at a distance, she 
 mticed, as she looked up the hill, an old woman seated on a road- 
 side stone, at no great distance, busily knitting. Her face v/as 
 „:urned towards the parsonage-gate, so that, though much shadowed 
 jy the over-arching hedgerow, she could see all that went or came. 
 , ^liss Eliot had noticed this same old woman when previously there, 
 ^out thinking then, as at present, that it was some old country wile 
 ; resting herself on the way while on some little journey, she scarcely 
 jaoticed the matter, but went downv/ards towards the farm. But, 
 
44 ' MAIKSTONES HOIISEKEEPM. 
 
 as she did so, the old woman rose, and, still knitting, folkwc 
 slowly after. 
 
 The lane leading to the farm had been originally a strip of iiplan 
 moor, for, winding irregularly towards tlie white-washed house, 
 occasionally spread itself out to a considerable width. Such space 
 were covered by the greenest turf, varied by little sedgy spots, an 
 clumps of luxuriant gorse and fern. The side nearest the rising u| 
 land was broken in one or two places by protuberant masses of re 
 sandstone. Through a fissure in the mass nearest the house pourc 
 out a bounteous spring, and one evidently used for household pm 
 poses, as a milking-pail and wooden bowl stood on a rocky ledge do? 
 by ; and there was the print of small and naked feet on the splash 
 soil around. The house was so plainly visible from this spring, thr 
 a door of entrance at the side could be seen, as well as the farm-yar 
 around ; and, by the side of an adjacent gable, a flight of granar 
 stairs rose high and bare, and, singular as the red stone of which the 
 were formed, reddened in the flooding sun. Opening an intervenin 
 gate, and crossing by a paved causeway to the farmhouse door. Mi; 
 Eliot saw before her a young girl, clad in what appeared to be anothe 
 person’s gown, as it was much too short for her, and overwrapping i 
 the upper part. A coarse apron was tied about her ; her head an 
 feet were both bare ; and thus she stood listlessly against the door 
 stall, with a vacant expression of face that belonged either to idioc 
 or apathy. When Miss Eliot spoke to her she neither answered nr 
 looked up but still stood with her eyes fixed upon the ground, thougl 
 by an occasional gesture indicating watchfulness of something passin 
 within the house, it was probable that she had a purpose in waiting 
 Her slight small form was that of a girl between twelve and fourtee 
 years of age, but her face might have belonged to one much older 
 and her hands and arms — oh ! those pitiable hands ! — were reddene 
 and distorted by a century of labour, so old and worn the 
 looked. 
 
 Eliciting no reply. Miss Eliot looked around, and seeing a man i 
 the distance standing beside a ready-loaded waggon of corn, sh 
 beckoned him towards her. When he came she asked if Silas Moor 
 was in, and then in a lower voice if the girl was an idiot, or deaf am 
 dumb. 
 
 ‘‘ Why, no, missis ; Phema ain’t a nat’ral as I know on,” replie< 
 the man, in a voice which he tenderly toned down, so that the gii 
 could have little chance of hearing him ; “ she was bright enoug 
 when a little thing, and the old master — that’s dead now — brought he 
 here ; but I think the old missis’ dealings with her have slowly mad 
 her what she is, for she don’t care for nowt, only Silas. As mastc 
 Robert’s never taken to her, and has helped the old missus in makin; 
 her the drudge she is, Silas is the only one kind to her; she know 
 that, and my ’pinion is, it be the only thing she does. She’d rui 
 away if she’d any sense, that she would, but she ain’t.” 
 
 “ Poor child ! ” said Miss Eliot, tenderly ; and as she spoke she lai( 
 her hand ujpon the girl’s arm, but it elicited no response, neithc 
 
mainstone's housekeeper. 
 
 45 
 
 smile, nor word, nor glance. Finding this, and learning that the 
 foung master was within, the housekeeper entered, crossed a large 
 Drewhouse, and so into the farm-house kitchen, wherein she could 
 hear 'voices ; but a sight upon the threshold arrested her intention, 
 [t was that of a man, of thirty, dressed in a smock frock, who,^ seated 
 ht a dresser, had some food and drink before him, but who, instead 
 of eating, was intently listening to the conversation carried on, on the 
 jther side a high wooden screen placed about the fire-place. His 
 attention was so earnest, that till she moved again he neither saw nor 
 heard the lady ; so that she had full time to be struck with his sinister 
 and crafty face, and the acuteness with which he listened, as with his 
 eyes bent down upon his food, his right elbow rested on the table, 
 and his hand was gathered to his ear. As she moved forward, their 
 eyes met : conscious of this observation, he instantly changed his 
 attitude, and affected to be busy with his food ; but the nervous tre- 
 pidation with which he moved his hand across his head, then raised 
 his beer-horn, and next the waggoner’s hat which lay upon the table 
 near, proved how annoying this observation had been. 
 
 Without noticing him, though she read a whole history in his face. 
 Miss Eliot passed round the screen, and, addressing a middle-aged 
 man, who sat writing at a small table, asked if she could speak to 
 Silas Moore. In a high-backed chair more within the chimney-corner, 
 yet near the table, sat an old wom*an, lithe and active, though appa- 
 rently somewhat deaf and short-sighted ; she had been employed in 
 'Cutting thick slices of bread, and spreading within them strips of bacon- 
 fat, so as to form coarse sandwiches, and these she was now folding 
 within a piece of blue sugar-paper. There was a hook pot over the 
 ' fire, and by the wet floor around, and the mop standing by, it was 
 probable that Phema had been employed there but a few minutes 
 before. 
 
 Civilly rising, the man replied that his brother was changing his 
 coat, but would be down stairs in a minute ; he then asked her to be 
 , seated. 
 
 “ You’re the person, I suppose,” he added, in his slow and some- 
 what sullen mode of speech, “ that’s new come to the parsonage, that 
 ’ ’Lisha told us of last night.” 
 
 “ Yes, I am the new housekeeper.” 
 
 ; Miss Eliot had now seated herself, and, as she said this, Poberi 
 Moore glanced at her furtively, and, as the result seemed, with dis- 
 may, for he said gruffly : — 
 
 Betty’s tolled us all along that she was mistress for life at the 
 ^ parsonage ; buc if thee art come, I don’t see it’s likely.” 
 
 “I am not answerable for what Mrs. Jack may have said,” replied 
 "Miss Eliot, quietly ; “ I am, by the authority of Mr. Kadnor, mistress 
 at the parsonage, and likely to remain so.” 
 
 ^ The expression of chagrin in Robert Moore’s face was intense. 
 ■ For a moment he was silent, and then he said, as though to himself, 
 !' “It’s a pity folks tell lies — if they didn’t, other folks would do 
 differently.” 
 
46 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 ‘‘ Wlifit s that — wliat’s that?” screamed the old woman; ‘‘it 
 about old Betty, ain’t it, eh ? I telled thee many a-day she wasn’t 
 good un, and thee’ll find it out just now. What did she come ham 
 ing about here for— why wur she i’ th’ lane last night ? Why," 
 ^now, to borrow money, or talk o’ money, which thee’st been goos 
 enough to lend her, Eobert, thinking to get a good bit ao-ain for i 
 though thou hast stood hard and fast that thou hasn’t.” 
 
 1 Eobert Moore was a man of slow thoughts and cold feelings ; bn 
 the old woman’s garrulity incensed him greatly, it was plain "^o see 
 ' for shaking her somewhat rudely by the shoulder, as a sign to be stil 
 he diverted her attention, by asking her where Phema was, and wh 
 the house-place^ was left wet and littered. Then turning to Mu 
 Eliot, and glancing furtively at her face, to see what impression th 
 old woman’s words had made upon her, he said, in a low voice, “ Yo 
 mustn’t heed her — like many old folks, she talks nonsense.” Mis 
 Eliot did not think so, at least in this case, but she made no reply. 
 
 However, the check so far operated as to move the old woman' 
 thoughts in a fresh direction ; for, calling “ Jonathan, Jonathan ! 
 she turned her face eagerly towards the end of the screen. Quicke 
 almost than she could bid, there stood the man who had sat at th 
 dresser, his hat now in his hand, his watchfulness none the les.‘ 
 though the manner assumed was tliat of a dogged impenetrablenes.^ 
 which neither observed nor understood. 
 
 “ If thee hast filled thy belly, and it takes a sight to do it,” sh 
 said coarsely, “ be thee off and call thee Phema by the way. An 
 mind thou’rt home to-night in good time, and no drink at Welton- 
 at least o’ my paying for — for if I’ve a score at the ‘ Crown,’ be it n 
 more than a groat. I’ll turn thee off.” 
 
 “ Very well, missus,” was the brief and dogged reply, and witl 
 this the man tramped his way from the kitchen. 
 
 Presently Phema came in and quietly resumed her work about th 
 fire-place. For an instant the old woman neither saw nor heard hei 
 but when she did she took up a hooked stick that stood by in thi 
 chimney-corner and held it in a threatening manner. But as i 
 accustomed to both menaces and blows, the girl went passively 03 
 . with her work, whicjh was that of brightening up what in the north 
 west counties is called the “pit grate.” it is simply a polishe< 
 grating covering the pit, into which the ashes fell. 
 
 . “ Where have yo been ? ” asked the old woman, in her shrill tones 
 
 j “ idling, as you always be, and it’s only a pity the old master didn’ 
 leave yo where he took yo from, that’s all I know.” At this instan 
 a tiny kitten which had followed the girl in, clambering up her raggec 
 sleeve, and then across her neck, leapt playfully down within reach o 
 the stick. Dropping the rag she held, the girl took the prett 
 creature tenderly up, and setting it down on the other side, beyoiu 
 the reach of harm, went on with her task. The act — full of gentle 
 ness as it was — evidently irritated the old woman, for she instantly 
 called out : — 
 
 “ Why do yo do that, idling yore time.** 
 
mainsto^e's housekeeper. 
 
 47 
 
 The girl, hitherto so dumb, now spoke ; though in speech that was 
 ilf inarticulate. . _ 
 
 “ Yo may hurt me, though yo shan’t Titt.” And, saying this, she 
 iised her face, in which for the first time was any expression other 
 lan that of sullen passiveness ; and it was one that told well in her 
 i ivour. 
 
 Perceiving the stranger’s gaze upon her, the old woman replaced 
 3 r stick in the corner and contented herself with shaking her head, 
 ust then some one came down the staircase which opened out into 
 le kitchen, and the young farmer she had seen yesterday stood 
 ?fore Miss Eliot. He was a stalwart, handsome young man, quite 
 I the prime of life, and full ten years younger than his brother, 
 hey were so little like one another as to bear scarcely a resemblance, 
 scept it was something of alfmity in the tones of the voice and the 
 lovements of the hands. Miss Eliot addressed him, told him her 
 ame, said she had come to ask him to make some purchases for her 
 i the little market town whither he was goings and of which she 
 ould speak on her way back to the parsonage. She then bid Robert 
 [oore and his grandmother a civil good morning, and went slowly 
 )rth the way she came. As she did so she heard Robert, in his lag- 
 ing kind of speech, bid his brother spend no money, and bank what 
 e received for the corn ; and the old grandmother add, as she gave 
 le parcel of coarse viands : — 
 
 k “ This wi’ a sup o’ drink ’ll serve thee well, lad, till thou’rt home 
 iffain. And if thee stop the night, don’t thee spend money on a bed, 
 id; Peggy Waters ’ll give thee one, and if it be none o’ th’ best, 
 laou needn’t mind, it’ll save money, and be all the same, when thou st 
 otten up next morning. And if thee’st pinch d nowadays, it 11 be 
 : etter for thee in time to come, as yo’ll see, my dear.” These latter 
 ^ords were spoken so clearly and distinctly as not to be mistaken by 
 Hiss Eliot. Reaching the house-door she stayed for Silas, who soon 
 ollowed. The corn-loaded waggon was already passing out of sight 
 t the far end of the lane, and the young farmer’s horse stood ready 
 addled at the door. When he came out and took the bridle from 
 die man who held it, and so prepared to walk beside the lady whilst 
 llhe gave him her commands, Phema came too, and touched him on 
 3 be shoulder. 
 
 “ Yo’ll be home i’ th’ morning, won’t yo ? ” she said. 
 
 “ Yes, Phema, and don’t take on about grandmother’s crossness, or 
 ibind what Robert says — you know it’s his way. And here, take the 
 dread and bacon, it’ll be a stay to thee, in case they go pinching with- 
 ‘?'Ut dinner, which perhaps they will. Maybe Pll bring thee a pie or 
 mn from Welton ; and when better days come, arid I get master of 
 - farm of my own, it shall be well for thee, lass, as you’ll hnd.” 
 
 Though these words were spoken so gently and kindly, and she 
 v^as well accustomed to the speaker, Phema gave no sign that she 
 inderstood theiii ; but leaning against the sunny wall, stood there as 
 lassively as she had done previously, the blue paper full of bread and 
 )acon resting untouched in her hand, just as Silas had given it to her. 
 
48 
 
 mainstone's housekeeper. 
 
 ^NTeither did she answer, saving by a look expressive of childish 
 wonder, not unmixed with fear, when Miss Eliot, bidding her good- 
 bye, as she would to a little child, slipped a shilling in^lier empty 
 hand. ^ Even when they were half across the farmyard causeway, and 
 Miss Eliot looked wonderingly back, there she still stood as inertly as 
 before ; though a minute after, when some one seemed coming from 
 within the house, she glided swiftly and noiselessly away, ?n the 
 direction of the granary stairs. 
 
 “ That poor child,” said Miss Eliot, thoughtfully, to the young, 
 farmer, “ seems a strange mixture of witlessness and sharpness, as 
 though her senses were naturally good, but that harshness, solitude, 
 and want of education, were bringing them to a state borderino- on 
 idiocy. I speak thus to you, for I see you are her friend, and the 
 only one I expect she has in the household.” 
 
 The young man stopped short, and looked earnestly and sadly into 
 the speaker’s face. “ I think, ma’am, from what Barbie has said, 
 that I may speak safely to you. ^ Yes ! next to Barbie herself, Phema 
 is a sore trouble to me. I’ve tried and tried a long time to make her 
 place better in the house, but I can’t ; neither Eobert nor the old 
 woman ’ll spend any money on her for schooling ; all they think of is 
 to get as much drudgery out of her as they can, child though she be. 
 And lately, since her good looks have begun to grow, a new sort of 
 trouble has come up in my heart about her, though I think it’s been 
 unnoticed by anyone but me.” 
 
 “ Indeed ! but has she no friends, no one to own her ? ” 
 
 “ Not that I know of, ma’am. All about her is a secret, that I have 
 never been able to make clear ; for I was not here at the time she 
 came, and when I did come to help Eobert, the old man, our grand- 
 father, died soon after. He was kind to her, and knew her history, 
 
 I think, leastways he brought her from the Union-house, and there he | 
 must have learnt something abouther. Sometimes I think that Eobert j 
 and the old woman know a good deal about her; though, if they do, 
 they keep it close enough. I have my own opinion too, but it 
 touches too much on old family troubles for me to care to name it.” 
 Silas then moved on, and kept silence for some minutes. 
 
 “ If I had money enough to take a small farm on my own account,” 
 he added presently, “and Barbie and I could keep friends long enough 
 to get married, why. I’d have Phema home, and care for naught they 
 said; though just at present I’m bound hand and foot. But I thank 
 you, ma’am, for the good you’ve already done Barbie ; she told me of 
 you last night, and of your coming to the parsonage, and right glad I 
 am, for a mistress of a right kind has been, long and sorely needed 
 there.” 
 
 “ Indeed ! then I hope I shall effect some good. As to Barbie, she 
 is very pretty, and I think loves you very dearly. She only wants, I 
 fear, some steadiness of purpose ; for the rest she has — as it seems to 
 me from the little opportunity I have yet had of judging — a warm 
 and innocent heart ; and moreover, she is, for her class, one of the I 
 handiest and neatest little housewives I ever saw.” 
 
49 
 
 mainsto'ne’s housekeeper. 
 
 [■ It was fine to see tlie young man’s face at this eviJently sincere 
 ^ raise of her he loved. In a moment it was suffused from brow to 
 Ilin — the eyes expressed both sudden joy and pride, and his voice 
 ii altered from profound emotion as he spoke. 
 
 “ God bless and thank you, ma’am, for any word of good about my 
 Klarbie, for I love her as well as any man can love ; she’s only a bit 
 -30 fond of praise, but that’s nat’ral perhaps to one so young and 
 re tty. Her mother spoils her, you see, and likes her to be flattered, 
 hnd much thought of, for there’s money in the rear, and a few acres 
 ■ cside. But that’s nothing to me, if there wasn’t a sixpence I should 
 1 3 ve her just the same. It does this harm though— it makes Mrs 
 i lell look to places and people she shouldn t, and leads her to half 
 ncoura^e the going up and down of that profligate fellow Gieene, 
 houo'h she must know well enough that he wouldn t take Barbie 
 uomeas his wife— or treat her as an honest man should.” It was 
 I vident that Silas Moore was a jealous lover, for he ground his teeth 
 ' nd clenched his right hand as he spoke. 
 
 L, “ Well ! ” said Miss Eliot, “ I hope you and Barbie will settle 
 matters satisfactorily before long ; for I cannot but think so sweet 
 ind tender a human flower will be best in the keeping of a husband 
 ;uch as I fully think you will make. In the meanwhile, I will do 
 [ vhat good I can, and I shall be truly glad if any counsel or exainple 
 : )f mine be beneficial.” She then went on to tell Silas Moore how 
 i ipportunely Barbie had come up to the parsonage that morning, and 
 ' low busy she was at that minute in Mr. Radnor’s study, 
 h “ Let her be as useful as she can, ma’am ; for Mr. Radnor is 
 i worthy of his neighbour’s care, though Betty Jack has done much to 
 iiamaf^e their good opinion. But things 11 mend now, maam; foi, 
 
 ! is ’Lisha said last night, and I beg pardon for repeating it, the look 
 of your face had warmed his heart, and made him as sure that things 
 ' in awhile would look up, as that the sun would rise to-morrow, 
 i Miss Eliot blushed deeply, and there was an agitation in her voice 
 f-and manner that did not escape her listener. To turn the subject ofl, 
 Uhe referred to such things as she wanted at Welton, and then gave 
 the list she had written out. 
 
 ^ They had walked onward during the latter part of their conver- 
 f sation, the young farmer leading his horse, and keeping a step rc- 
 : spectfully in the rear, and were now far up the lane. But when he 
 'had taken the list, and glanced down it, he stopped abruptly. He 
 ' seemed wishful to speak, but yet hesitated. 
 
 ' “ What is it ? ” asked Miss Eliot, stopping too ; “ will the things 
 
 be difficult to procure, or ” 
 
 “ Excuse me, ma’am, but the truth is best told you. I m right 
 , happv to oblige you, and was I more a master than I am I wouldn’t 
 say a word about it, but I don’t think they 11 let me have the things 
 : without the money, when they hear they’re for Mainstone Parsonage; 
 for, through Betty’s doings I suppose, iVIr. Radnor’s credit has gone 
 sadly down in Welton.” 
 
 ’ am sorry to hoar this— it only proves tliat there has beep 
 ' 4 ' 
 
50 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 lengthened ill-management of his aflairs ; for Mr. Eadnor is, I am 
 given to understand, a man of simple and inexpensive tastes. As to 
 ■svhat is required for me, there need be no difficulty — let inquiry be 
 made at the bank, in the name of Simeon, and a satisfactory answer 
 will be given. As soon as I have approved of what you bring, the 
 tradesmen can draw for their respective amounts, as I need what 
 money I have for household use.” Thus saying, she passed on. A 
 few steps further brought in sight the little old woman who had 
 followed Miss Eliot into the iane ; she now rose from off the stone, 
 where she had seated herself, and stood respectf ully waiting the lady’s 
 approach. 
 
 “ Who is this person ? ” asked Miss Eliot, of the young farmer. 
 
 “ Her name’s Peggy Giles. She keeps a small huckster’s shop, 
 about a quarter of a mile up the hill, and her son works in Squire 
 Thornhill’s quarry. Mr. Eadnor — or rather Mrs. Jack — owes her a 
 good bit of money, and I suppose it’s about that she needs speech 
 with you ; if so, and you have no further commands, I will ride on.” 
 
 She had none ; so, wishing Miss Eliot a respectful “ good day,” 
 the young man went onwards. At this, the old woman made herself 
 and her business known, and disclosed a sad tale of oppression. 
 
 ‘‘ The sum is a large one,” said Miss Eliot, thoughtfully, when the 
 old woman had paused ; “ and I can scarcely credit that it could be 
 run up at such a small shop as you describe yours to be. But you 
 should have seen Mr. Eadnor, and spoken to him, or his friend Mr. 
 Simeon, when he was here.” 
 
 ‘‘ I did try times enough and often, ma’am,” said the woman, “ but 
 Betty always managed to prevent me. Even when she wasn’t at 
 home, and ’Lisha neither, and I’d go up to the house to try to see 
 the master, she always found out that I had been there. It has 
 always puzzled me much how she came to know, and I only make it 
 out by thinking that she left some spy or other on the watch. Indeed, 
 there are folks who have seen a flashy miss about the place, and a 
 stranger man as well.” 
 
 “ Indeed ! ” replied Miss Eliot— the recollection of the stranger of 
 that morning recurring to her mind. “As you sat so long by the 
 road-side hoping to see me, did you see a man pass by, a short thick- 
 set man, dressed in a velveteen coat ? ” 
 
 “ Ay ! I did ; and he’d a horse in the furze, a bit up the hill, and 
 pretty hard he rode off when he mounted. No ! I didn’t know him, 
 though I guessed he was from the mining country, by the colour of 
 his hands. But I’ll ask my boy, he may know, he sees the pit folks 
 a good deal at times, when the Squire’s at home.” 
 
 “ Do so, but say nothing to Mrs. Jack.” 
 
 “ Not I, ma’am,” interrupted the old woman, in an angry voice ; “ I 
 told her only the day afore you come, that things wouldn’t be a-going 
 on as they was, come what might. For my lad and me had to go in 
 trust at Wei ton, for tea and coffee, and sugar and candles, and that 
 the man there was getting so that he wouldn't wait much longer for 
 his bill. At this she flounced out o’ th’ shop, threatening that wo 
 
maizvStone's housekeeper. 
 
 51 
 
 f?lioul(l be turned out of the cottage and garden wlien next quarter- 
 day came. For you see, they belong to the church, and Mr. Radnor’s 
 our landlord.” 
 
 “Be under no alarm of the kind; whilst lam here, no injustice 
 shall be done. In the meanwhile, supply, nothing further to Mrs. 
 Jack. Your bill I will take and look over, and walk up and speak to 
 you about it some time next week. If it is correct, it shall be paid 
 without delay.” 
 
 The poor old creature’s eyes filled with tears, and she was much 
 moved by her great gladness. “ God bless you, ma’am ! ” she said 
 heartily ; “ you’ve lifted a load that’s sorely weighed me down. I did 
 notj know where the money for them at Welton was to come from, 
 for I’ve nothing but my son’s wages, and the bit I make by my shop 
 and garden, to depend on. God bless you, ma’am — your coming’s a 
 bright thing for Mainstone Parsonage.” 
 
 When she had made some further inquiries of the old woman. Miss 
 Eliot hastened homewards. Barbie had by this time progressed 
 greatly with her labours ; and Elisha had not only efiected liis share, 
 but procured the promised trout, for they lay sparkling in a dish on 
 the kitchen dresser. 
 
 Indeed it was now time to prepare dinner. So, when she had taken 
 off her walking- dress. Miss Eliot proceeded to make Mr. Radnor’s 
 pudding; but a difficulty now arose, for Mrs. Jack had locked up 
 both the dairy, and, amongst other places, the closet which held the 
 jam. However, after due consultation with Elisha, he clTected an 
 entry into the first, and the latter was broken open, and disclosed a 
 rare array of delicate preserves. These Miss Eliot carried to the 
 buffet in the oak parlour, and then she hastened with what seemed 
 her pleasant task. 
 
 When Elisha had cleaned the plate and efiected, at his mistress’s 
 suggestion, other very necessary reforms in connection with his 
 master’s table, he made the gig ready and dressed himself to go and 
 fetch Mr. Radnor. Barbie had laid down the carpet and dusted tlie 
 furniture, and was now helping the progress of dinner, so that when 
 Elisha stepped in to speak to his mistress before he went, the mutton 
 was roasting, and the puddings prepared. 
 
 “ I do not know whether I have done right, Elisha,” smiled Miss 
 Eliot, as she smoothed down her little apron with floury fingers, “ but 
 I have, with Barbie’s help — for my arm is but painful — made a 
 custard as well as jam pudding. i)o you think these will suit Mr. 
 Radnor’s taste ? ” 
 
 Elisha looked into his mistress’s face respectfully, but at the same 
 time with sly curiosity. “You’ve so hit master’s likings, as to seem 
 as if you’d known him all your life. For ” 
 
 “ You will please to make no such remark to ]\Ir. Radnor,” inter- 
 rupted Miss Eliot, with that expressive firmness which was so 
 characteristic. 
 
 “ I humbly beg your pardon, ma’am. I only meant to say that one 
 who had lived with muster all his life eepldift have hit his taste more 
 4 -^ 
 
52 
 
 mainstone's housekeepeb. 
 
 ’sactly. I oiJy think, if it was his very wedding-day, he’d chose 
 them puddings for his dinner.” 
 
 He said no more upon the subject, but with a respectful bow made 
 his way to the door ; there, however, he stayed again, and spoke as 
 one privileged by long services. 
 
 “ ’Sense me, ma’am, and don’t be offended, but please, in recollect- 
 ing master, don’t forget yourself. Though he ain’t the pleasure of j 
 knowing you, Mr. Radnor has that kind heart as to be sore troubled j 
 if he knew one in his house was forgotten. Indeed, he told me you i 
 was to be taken care of ” 
 
 “ I will see to that,” again interrupted Miss Eliot, this time with a 
 smile. “ When you return, you and Barbie shall have your dinner. 
 Before long, these things shall be better ordered.” 
 
 When the gig had been driven from the court-yard once more, 
 and neat-handed little Barbie could proceed alone. Miss Eliot repaired 
 to the study and placed the books and papers aright ; arrayed minor 
 things, and, fetching flowers from the garden, dressed up an old china 
 vase with their blooms. When all was accomplished — when the 
 papers lay upon the writing-desk in scholarly array — when the most 
 loved books were placed reverently at the right hand — when the study 
 gown fell invitingly across the back of the well-worn chair — when the 
 study slippers were set — then the mistress looked around the place 
 with searching eyes, and seemed well satisfied. The change was 
 indeed extraordinary. That morning, when the master left it, there 
 was, in spite of all the wealth of learning gathered round its walls — 
 in spite of the heavenly sun which fell so golden on the floor — in 
 spite of the living landscape seen beyond, set in an azure setting, and 
 painted by a higher Master than mortal man — there was an air of 
 visible desolation, the desolatest dearth earth has — that of the absence 
 of woman’s thought and care ! Now their visible signs were present, 
 and even the simple master of the room would surely detect the 
 change, and be influenced by it ! 
 
 When the dinner-table was set in the corner of the room — when 
 dinner itself was ready — he returned. Elisha waited upon him, but 
 he made no comment of any kind. Then the evening waned, and his 
 tea was carried in ; still he was taciturn. Later still, when the sun 
 had set, when the dew fell heavy upon the cowslip-garnished fields, 
 Elisha came softly into the oak parlour, and so up to the oriel, where 
 his mistress, with Wolf beside her, was quietly seated. 
 
 “ Ma’am, ma’am,” he said, in soft and breathless parenthesis. 
 
 “ Yes, Elisha.” 
 
 “ I have just now been into the study for the bills you asked for, 
 j^nd ” 
 
 “ What, Elisha ? ” 
 
 Master was unlocking the case and getting out his violin. De- 
 pend upon it, he’s going to play.” 
 
 “I am glad of it, Elisha” — and Miss Eliot smiled at the old 
 man’s enthusiastic quaintness ; “ it shows that he is more cheerful— 
 that the effort made to add to his comfort is successful.” 
 
MAIXSTONi:'s HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 “ Yes, indeed, he’s noticed everything. He ain’t said a deal, but I 
 know his way so well. At dinner-time I had asked for the bills and 
 accounts you want, and^ here they are. Here is also a bit of paper 
 with writing on it, I believe.” 
 
 There were but shadows in the room, shadows of the switt- 
 descendinir night. But, by holding the paper close against the oriel 
 panes, when Elisha was gone, there fell light enough upon it, from 
 the reflection of the huge fires upon the moorland ridge, for the 
 housekeeper to read as follows : — 
 
 “Beino* here— and suitable— you must be my right hand in most 
 thinn-s. Therefore, next week, as early as possible, let Elisha drive 
 you'to Horton Wood, and there speak to Bichard Wenlock with re- 
 spect to a new plough we need, for at present I have not nerve. I 
 
 am grateful to you for the reforms effected. Pray proce^. 
 
 ^ 44 j. Radnor. 
 
 She read, and the light on the moorland grew brighter as she did 
 
 Then the violin began to play. Its notes were soft— harmonious ; 
 but, as they grew onward and onward, they sounded as the wait or 
 hope’ess love ! 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 SUNDAY AT MAINSTONE. 
 
 The kitchen door was left unbolted for her entrance, but Mrs. 
 Jack did not return home till very late that night, nor till long after 
 the peaceful household had been in bed. ^ She remained below a 
 considerable time, as though supping, and inspecting such signs as 
 mio-ht exist of what had taken place during the day. ihen she 
 came up stairs with the tramp of a trooper, as careless whose rest she 
 disturbed, but otherwise the night passed quietly. Miss Eliot had 
 taken the precaution of having Elisha sleep in one of the 
 bedchambers — and Barbie had likewise a little bed made up m Mis* 
 Eliot’s own room ; for this good girl, intent upon being useful to the 
 new housekeeper, had been home for leave to stay till Sunday morn- 
 ing, which her mother had granted willingly. 
 
 The morrow passed quietly as well. Mrs. Jack kept up stairs in 
 the rano-e of rooms she called her own, making, however, an occasional 
 descent°by the back staircase into the kitchen and adjacent places, to 
 see, probably^ what was going forward. However, beyond a display 
 
54 
 
 MAINSTONe’s ItOrSEKEUEElt. 
 
 of passive rudeness, slie kept her peace; and Mr. Eadnor had ao-air 
 :a punctual and well-cooked dinner, and all the domestic reforms ^nd 
 preparations for the morrow proceeded like clockwork. Early in the 
 afternoon Silas Moore came back from 'Welton, with all his orders 
 well executed, with report that the tradesmen v/ere well satisfied, and 
 that the inquiries made at the bank had been of a most satisfactory 
 kind. In tact, as he said, there was quite a commotion in the little 
 town with respect to Mainstone’s housekeeper, for thither the news 
 had preceded him. Everybody was full of inquiries and conjectures. 
 It was the great fact of the day. Some said that the new house-; 
 keeper was a lady in disguise ; others that she had seen Mr. Eadnor 
 somewhere, fallen in love with him, and gone to Mainstone in the 
 hope of marrying him. Such was the innocent gossip of the little 
 country town on market-day. One point of truth formed a party 
 however, of all these floating rumours — every one wished for the 
 downfal of Mrs. Jack — wondered why the parson had kept her so| 
 long ; and everyone considered that the advent of the new house-! 
 keeper had not taken place till there was crying need. As Silas; 
 Moore repeated these rumours Miss Eliot only smiled : she was not: 
 one weak enough to explain where there existed no necessity. The 
 young farmer’s little business ended, she made Barbie spread tea and 
 other refreshments for him in the unused parlour; and there the 
 lovers sat and talked, and so from thence they went to wander in the 
 garden till at last, when Silas fetched his horse from the stable, and; 
 gave Barbie a parting kiss at the white gate, his heart knew scarce a 
 trouble, axid for a time his burning jealousy was stilled. 
 
 The Sabbath morning broke divinely. Bright sun, clear sky, 
 decked by lightest cloudlets, unbroken stillness, blessing with its 
 hallowed peace ! 
 
 Eising early, and dressing in somewhat rich, but simple and be- 
 coming costume, Miss Eliot sent up Mr. Eadnor’s breakfast, and took 
 her own. When Elisha brought in his master’s cup for a second 
 supply of tea, she inquired at what hour Mr. Eadnor dined on 
 Sundays. 
 
 “ He don’t often £>et any. lie isn’t home from the church till five, 
 and then Betty won’t be often in the way. What he has I usually 
 set out as well as I can.” 
 
 “Has he no luncheon— nothing through all these long hours ?” 
 
 “ N o, ma’am ! It is too far to come here between tlm services — so 
 he usually sits in the vestry till it is time for afternoon duty. Mr. 
 Simeon, when here, said that master ought to have luncheon, and the 
 doctor has said the same— but I could never get any put ready.” 
 
 “ Well, Mr. Eadnor shall have some to-day, which you shall carry. 
 For myself, I shall not be at home— as I think, after afternoon service, 
 of calling upon Miss Whitelock. Barbie has been kind enough to 
 say that she will come for an hour or two, and see that all is ready by 
 the time Mr. Eadnor returns, as the dinner is so far prepared as to 
 give but little trouble.” 
 
 “ It is very good of you, missis, thinking in this way of poor master, 
 
mainstone’s hoesekeepee. 
 
 6 ^ 
 
 But lie needs it. This morning he seems very low, for when I first 
 went into his room his head rested on his prayer-book, and when he 
 lifted up his face it was so mightily moved that I could but notice. 
 
 I asked if he was ill, but he said no, only that his soul had been 
 greatly touched by something. He did not say more, and I did not 
 like to ask.” 
 
 “ Indeed ! ” Coldly Miss Eliot said this— but, as she handed the 
 old servant the cup, her eyes met his quaintly penetrating gaze, and 
 she blushed scarlet. 
 
 “ I guess what moved him, miss,” spoke Elisha, affecting not ^ to 
 notice his kind mistress’s nervousness. It was about his linen being 
 laid out so beautifully, for his hand rested on the snowy handkerchief 
 you had placed beside his book.” 
 
 Again she blushed — this time she bent her head. 
 
 “Sir. Simeon, when he engaged me,” she said, presently, “was 
 good enough to explain some of Mr. Radnor’s peculiarities— and so 
 far speak of his past history, as to give me knowledge as to what he 
 had been in some measure accustomed to, and what were his tastes. 
 I am therefore glad that I have so far succeeded as to bring back any 
 recollection of a happier past, if even for the time it moved him. 
 But I trust, Elisha, you will make no remarks to Mr. Radnor thereon. 
 Indeed, you will do no good — rather, much harm.” 
 
 “ I certainly won’t missis. Mr. Radnor isn’t the one to listen, even 
 if I did. Though I do hope it won’t be long before he sees and 
 thanks you for your kindness.” 
 
 “ There is no cause for hurry — jMr. Radnor’s own time will suit 
 me. I have been already richly paid for the little services I render.” 
 This was the quiet answer, and Elisha went. 
 
 After breakfast — when Barbie was gone, Mi\ Radnor’s luncheon 
 set ready for Elisha to take, Reri, Pearl, and Fleckie, and the other 
 pets fed — Miss Eliot dressed and set forth, after having carefully 
 locked up her own bedroom and the oak parlour, as Elisha advised. 
 He was going to drive' his master to church — the house would be, 
 therefore, at the mercy of Mrs. Jack. 
 
 Passing through the court-yard, across an orchard path, across the 
 rustic bridge, Miss Eliot made lier wfiy, by peaceful fields and shaded 
 stiles, to the brow of the upland. Here she rested for a time, for it 
 was yet early — the landscape all around lying tranquil in the sunny 
 flower-decked beauty of the vernal morning. 
 
 From its summit, the upland on its other side gently descended 
 into an old wooded park left rough and uncultivated, but full of fine 
 old trees and bosky coverts. From out this wooded portion the path 
 wound by a large sedgy pool, on the other side of which stood a 
 country-house of simple architecture and no great nge. Many of its 
 windows were shuttered, and smoke curled upwards but from one of 
 its chimneys — yet the trees and turf about it, the gay clad flower- 
 beds, the shining sun, and the beauty of the clear and ripple-covered 
 pool, gave the place a cheerful aspect. Sitting down upon a long- 
 felled trccj half buried in a wealth of springing fcriq Miss Eliot looked 
 
56 
 
 MAIKStONE S HOtJSEKEEEER. 
 
 about the place with some curiosity, as she knew, from what Barbie 
 and Elisha had casually said, that this was Mainstone Park and Hall. 
 She also recollected, as her eyes "lanced across the sheeny water at 
 the solitary house, that this was the place endorsed on the scrap of 
 paper she had picked up from the kitchen-hearth, and she regretted 
 she had not made some inquiries of Elisha before setting out. How- 
 ever, what little there was possible to learn was presently hers, for an 
 old man, passing slowly on his way to church, stayed to touch his hat 
 and wish the lady “good morning” — so, being in his turn addressed, 
 he leant upon his stick and talked awhile. 
 
 He said it was true enough that the place was Mainstone Hall — 
 that the Squire’s name was "Thornhill — that he was the lord of that 
 and several adjoining manors — that the living of Mainstone was in his 
 gift — and that he owned much property in the mining country near. 
 
 “ Indeed ! and what age man is Mr. Thornhill — a young man ? ” 
 
 “ Dear no, missis ; he’s within a few years as old as I, and I’m 
 just upon seventy. He’s about sixty-two, I should say — though he 
 wouldn’t like folks to guess it, or think him nigh as much. But you 
 see he’s a rich man, and can do what a poor man can’t ; ” and the old 
 man, with much show of dry country humour, laid his finger on his 
 bald pate, and then moved it significantly towards his toothless 
 mouth. 
 
 ^ “ Then he’s a gentleman,” smiled Miss Eliot, “ who thinks much of 
 his personal appearance.” 
 
 “ Ay, that he does. As Pomp, the old val-let, as lives down here, 
 says, his master takes as long to dress as a fine lady. Yet he ain’t a 
 nesh man na-ther, but’s out pretty near the whole day — riding, hunt- i 
 ing, shooting, or something of that sort. That’s to say when he’s ! 
 down here — for he lives in London mostly.” | 
 
 “ Then I suppose he’s an elderly bachelor, making the most of the 
 pleasures of this life.” 
 
 “ You may say so, missis, and hollow enough his pleasures be, if all 
 that’s said be true. But he’s been married, and has got a son — as 
 nice a youth as can be. A good day it’ll be for many a one when 
 he’s master here.” 
 
 This was Miss Eliot’s first intimation that Mr. Thornhill had been 
 married or had a son, and the facts seemed to furnish her with a new 
 train of ideas — and she asked in a breath a string of questions. 
 
 “ Mr. Ellis Thornhill — for that’s his name — may be about nineteen 
 or a little more ; for he was about three years old when the dear 
 young lady his mother died, and that is fifteen years ago. Her father 
 was a poor clergyman, at a place about forty miles from here ; and 
 he and the Squire made up the match between ’em, though the last was 
 past forty at that time, and the young lady. Miss Ellis, not eighteen. 
 But he had what is called fallen in love with her, though there couldn’t 
 have been much of it in his heart, seeing the sort o’ way he acted ; 
 whilst her father was mighty taken that his daughter should make a 
 match with one of the S([uire’s wealth and old name. Well ! they 
 was married, and the father put into a rich living, where he soon 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 57 
 
 died ; for lie could but see how his daughter was treated and neg- 
 lected. Ay, I may say insulted, for she was very gentle and beautiful ; 
 and had soon three little babies of her own, though two on ’em died.” 
 ■ ‘‘Indeed!” 
 
 “ Ay ! for he soon did, what he had done afore, and has done 
 always since, even the very last time o’ coming — that was, bringing 
 ' his London missis under her very nose, and into the house. ^ Poor 
 lady she took it much to heart, and so moped herself into an illness 
 that took her off. Master Ellis was thus left, for the two other little 
 babies had gone before her.” 
 
 “ Poor lady ! hers is a sad story.” 
 
 “It is. There ain’t a sadder grave than Mrs. Thornhill’s in the 
 ^ quiet church-yard, down there amongst the trees ; you’ll see it, if you 
 are on the way to church.” 
 
 “ I am ; and her grave shall not miss the pitying glances of a 
 stranger. But her little son — how and where was he brought up, and 
 where is he, now he is so near a manly age ? ” 
 
 “ Master Ellis was mostly kept down here at the hall whilst he was 
 a little boy, under the care of the val-let’s wife, who’d been his 
 nurse. When he was old enough, the curate of the parish adjoining 
 this used to go up to the hall most days to give him lessons ; but 
 .soon after Mr. Radnor came to the rectory the matter was just the 
 other way, and Master Ellis went up daily to the parson’s house to 
 take his learning.” 
 
 ' “ Then Mr. Radnor knows him ? ” 
 
 ^ “Ay! and loves him like his own self. Well, after a bit, Mr. 
 Radnor took on him to say something to the squire on the sort of 
 home young master had — for the parson, although always a down- 
 hearted man, leastways as long as he has lived hereabouts, for I well 
 recollect folks speaking of it the very day he came, wasn’t as moped 
 I as he is now. On that the squire took offence, and sent the boy off 
 to some great school or another, though, of course, letting him come 
 home at holiday time. After a good bit, when he was fifteen, I 
 should say, or perhaps rather more, he left school for good, and, 
 coming home, went up to Mainstone for his lessons, as before. What 
 ^ other time ha had, and he wasn’t an idle or racketing youth, he spent 
 up and down the country — first visiting at one house and then another 
 — for he got invited all about, so much did people like him. Then 
 ‘ all of a sudden there was a quarrel between him and the squire, and 
 ^he was sent off* to college; then, after a bit there was a bigger quarrel 
 r. still, in which folks say Mr. Radnor took young master’s part, least- 
 “ ways the parson went a deal to and fro to the hall, where he hadn’t 
 ^ been used to go, for he’d always set his face against the squire’s way 
 o’ living, and never liked old Pomp, the val-let. Tlie end o’ this 
 quarrel was, and folks to this day know little enough about it, young 
 master was sent off with a college tutor to fiirren parts ; and there he 
 be now, as far as I can tell, though a neffy of mine says he saw him 
 I hereabouts since then in a mys-ter-ous sort o’way, but the truth of it 
 U can’t tell.” 
 
S8 mainsto:se’s koiisekeeper. 
 
 “Yet tlic squire must miss his son, for he must surely have som< 
 affection for him ? ” 
 
 W ell, I can't be saying, by his way o’ living, he don’t ’pear t( 
 care for much beside himself. His grooms and servants all say hi; 
 life ain’t very creditable when away ; and when he’s here, which he b( 
 every time shooting comes round, half them mornings he ain’t of 
 hunting or shooting, old Pomp’s a figging him out, and then hi: 
 carriage or riding-horse takes him up to Weldore Forge, to setth 
 mining accounts with his agent, Ben Briscoe, or call on some squiri 
 or tenant as lives somewhat in the same fashion as himself ; for non< 
 o’ the parsons’ or the steadier squires’ wives or daughters ask him t< 
 their homes, or ever go nigh the hall, and ain’t done since Mrs. Thorn 
 hill died.” 
 
 “ A man must have a selfish heart to live such a life. But tin 
 Briscoe ? What sort of a man is he ? ” 
 
 “He is a short thick-set man, as far as I know. But I’v( 
 come across him but once or twice in my life, and that’s year; 
 ago.” 
 
 “ He’s some relation to Mr. Thornhill ?” 
 
 “A cousin, I think, and next heir to some o’ the property, i 
 Master Ellis died. But nobody looks for that day, for he’s hated u] 
 and down the coal country as no other man would like to be. Tlire' 
 times the squire’s colliers have risen up against him ; and once tliey’( 
 to get soldiers from a town a good bit from here, to stop the rio 
 there was in Wei ton. Another time they broke down the furnac 
 part of Weldore Forge, and let out fires that hadn’t been done fo 
 many a day. For, you see, he ain’t content with being agent to th 
 squire, but must meddle with many a thing he shouldn’t, if there b 
 hope o’ wringing out a sixpence from the collier folks. Yet if al 
 that’s said be true, his gains don’t thrive with him ; though of late, 
 b’lieve, he’s been building himself a house, and showing himself 
 moneyed man in many a t’other thing.” 
 
 The noise of wheels drawn slowly over what seemed coarse grave 
 broke the thread of the conversation at this point, and, looking acros 
 the sheeny pool in the direction whence it came, Miss Eliot saw an old 
 fashioned chaise, drawn by a white horse, proceeding along a carriage 
 way to the hall-door, where it stayed. Too dull of sight and hearin; 
 to detect the cause for himself, yet aware that his listener’s attentio. 
 had taken some new direction, he asked the cause, and when told h 
 instantly rose and prepared to go. 
 
 “ It is the old chaise which takes Pomp, and sometimes his wife 
 to church — so I must be a-going, though they mayn’t start just yet 
 and if you be on your way to church yourself, missis, and want to se 
 the sort of man and woman as rules the squire’s house, you’ll nc 
 miss a sight of ’em in the great pew near the pulpit.” 
 
 With this the old man wished the lady good morning, and resume 
 his walk ; but she, fleeter of loot, soon overtook and passed him, an 
 soon again gaining the dewy shadows of the woodland, went wiiidin 
 by its fern*clad paths till a little bridge across a hedgerow rivulet lo' 
 
MAlNStONE's HOUSEfcEEPEft. 
 
 59 
 
 y a wicket once more into the sunny fields. These, by a gentle 
 lope, went downvrards to a stile. This crossed, there was a country 
 oad, and opposite was Mainstone’s solitary little church and church- 
 : ard. A thickly-wooded hedge separated the road from the burial- 
 round, and a little lane or road, some fifty yards in length, one side 
 f which was bounded by a field, led by a gate at its furthest end into 
 lie burial-ground. This sloped downwards, and what with the 
 iiadow of many trees, and the encompassing silence of solitary fields, 
 reen with springing mangle-wurzel and young corn, a place more 
 eipiestered and yet beautiful cannot be conceived. Nor was it so 
 111! of shadows as to be sunless. In many many places the glory of 
 he vernal morning lay wide and far; warmed countless daisies into 
 link-eyed prime — crept up the ivy which wound about the church — 
 ly on the few old tinted window-panes, and rested refulgent on the 
 ittle vane. In places where the hedges were not over high, where 
 he white-clad hawthorn drooped towards the Avaving grass of hidden 
 raves, you could see the fields crept sloAvly doAvn, a far range of 
 lie level along which for miles one of England’s great canals Avinds 
 ts solitary av.^. Beyond this the country rises again into loAV-lying 
 dlls — these backed in the distance by bolder mountains. 
 
 The church Avas very small, very old, and patched up, as might be 
 een, from year to year, to keep it Aveather-tight. A vast mass of 
 linging ivy made its old age comely ; a fcAv old, and a feAver modern, 
 'nonuniental slabs, let into the outer Avails, shoAvmd that in both the 
 :)ast and present, human affections hoA^ered about this solitary place ; 
 md a fcAv old tinted panes yet lingering in the patched-up lancet - 
 haped AvindoAvs, proved that here, as elscAvhere, had been days of 
 )rime. But the most remarkable feature of this sequestered grave- 
 ’ard Avas an ancient building standing someAvhere in its midst. At 
 irst it might be taken for a schoolhouse, but a nearer vieAv shoAved it 
 ,0 be used'^in some Avay for the dead. Its ponderous iron-guarded door 
 et in a Ioav Saxon arch, seemed by the fungus and Aveeds about it to 
 )e rarely opened ; and when you had gone round its grey-lichened 
 buttresses to the further end, and climbed up and looked through the 
 ^ arge and Avire-guarded AvindoAv, there could be dimly distinguished 
 -vithin — for but fcAv Avere the rays of sunlight that ever fell there — 
 'he dank flagged floor, and a long array of mouldering tombs and 
 effj cries. Some of these Avere of costly marble, others of stone 
 ettered with eternal brass, others guarded by rails of bronze, others 
 ’)nce coloured and gilded. But the colours Avere nearly gone, the 
 void vanishing^— nothing there Avas permanent, but shadoAvs and the 
 vatherino- dust. Better far to lie doAvn in the sunny nooks of the 
 sequestered graveyard, to yield back to the elements their generous 
 vifts, amidst the rustling fern, beneath the waving boughs, sung toby 
 :he lark at dawn, the nightingale at eve, covered by the smoothest 
 'iurf, and decked with daisies, and cheered, if Ave had ears to 
 hear, by the ploughman’s Avhistle, the soft Ioav beauty of the sum- 
 mer’s winds, the grandeur of the Avinter’s storm of hail or snoAV 
 ^rt decks no grave so beautifully as nature ; nor, as yet, has 
 
60 MAlNStONE^S HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 knowledge made us fully comprehend how near the simple is to t 
 divine. 
 
 This picturesque old place was nothing more than a family vault 
 a great ducal house, who in former days had buried here their dea 
 But it added greatly to the hoar beauty of the sequestered pla( 
 AVhen she had looked around it, Miss Eliot passed into the church 
 cleanly whitewashed place, without decoration of any kind, and fill 
 up with about a score of cumbrous wooden pews. The rectory pe 
 indicated by an old half-legible brass plate upon the door, was, s 
 was glad to find, in a quiet place, from whence it was probably lit 
 seen from either the reading-desk or pulpit, whilst, on the oth 
 hand, any one so desiring could catch occasional glimpses of t 
 preacher. She had felt a little anxious as to the place this pew mig 
 occupy ; now, set at rest on this point, she returned out- doors to t 
 sunshine, for the bell was only now beginning to ring the hour 
 service. In passing she could but notice the pew the old man h 
 spoken of ; it was large, conspicuously lined with scarlet cloth, ai 
 on its door was painted, “ John Thornhill, Esq., Mainstone Ha 
 1700 .” 
 
 The churchyard at the rear of the altar window was still mo 
 sequestered — more lovely, and broken by wavy undulations of sc 
 Portions of it were as wild as a forest path ; and passing as you c 
 here and there into the covert of clumps of brushwood and ancie 
 thorn- trees, crushing primroses wherever you might tread, or wettii 
 your feet in some tiny spring welling up from amidst tufts of sedg 
 and golden king- cups, it might be constantly forgotten that the hor 
 of the dead was so near. 
 
 In crossing the ridge of one of these bosky undulations, at no gre 
 distance from the church, the housekeeper came suddenly upon a Ic 
 flat gravestone, upon which, at full length, lay a man clad in t 
 ordinary Sunday dress of a rustic. His elbow rested on the grav 
 stone, his cheek on his hand, and his hat was pulled over his brow, 
 a shield from the sun — but enough of his features could be seen 
 show her that it was Jonathan, the waggoner at Moore Fan 
 Instead of giving the vacant stare usual with his class, he was lost 
 the profoundest thought ; and whether or not as an aid to him in ai 
 calculation or peculiar cogitation, there lay a little line of scraps < 
 straw on the stone beneath his face, ranged in sequence, and bitten c 
 a straw he held in his vacant hand. His abstraction was so entire ar 
 singular that he did not perceive Miss Eliot till she had almost pass( 
 him, and till she had fully observed his extraordinary expression < 
 face. Then their eyes met ; then his gaze fell beneath her keen 
 one, but affecting instantly to be sleepy or sleeping, he pulled his h 
 still further over his brow, and leaning nearer to the stone kept h 
 recumbent state. Miss Eliot did not again pass near him, but tl 
 expression of his face was not to be readily forgotten. 
 
 As the bell ceased Miss Eliot retured to the church, through 
 portion of whose windows the broadening sun shed down its guide 
 glory. Mr. Kadnor was not yet is the reading-desk, though she hs 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 61 
 
 >ard the gig arrive, but most of the pews were scantily occupied, 
 id some s'core rustics, principally old men and children, were 
 ithered along the aisle or sat in the little gallery. In one pew was 
 las Moore, handsome in person and decent in apparel; and as she 
 ’ turned his respectful recognition she heartily wished that Barbie 
 ere already his wife, for her glimpse into the sordid desolation of 
 s home had touched her deeply. As she passed into the rectory 
 BW, observed by all — fu* one kept whispering to the other that this 
 as Mainstone’s housekeeper — she was led for a moment to notice a 
 Oman who sat near the pew-door. She belonged to the rustic class, 
 at her old-fashioned garb, her large prayer-book, folded in a check 
 ocket-handkerchief, the great bunch of cottage -garden flowers which 
 isted on her lap, the expression of peace and content in her honest 
 mburnt face, were quaint and peculiar in their way. She returned the 
 idy’s kindly glance with a look in which humility and independence 
 ere blended, and then resumed her observance of the congregation. 
 
 The scarlet pew was yet unoccupied, when a general hush gave 
 otice that Mr. Radnor was ready to begin the morning service. A 
 linute after the clerk announced the hymn with a strong nasal 
 wrang, and then commenced singing in the same undesirable tone. ^ A 
 vveetly feminine voice aided, and one by one the congregation joined 
 1, to the great confusion of time and tune. Whilst this singing 
 roceeded. Miss Eliot had time to quietly observe Mr. Radnor as 
 e stood at his reading-desk. As she had noticed previously his 
 ight was impaired, and the defect seemed now increased^ by the 
 trong light which fell down upon him from the unshaded window at 
 lis side. 
 
 He was a well-built man, of medium height, but spare almost to 
 ttenuaty. Studious asceticism and care combined had probably 
 nduced this state, for nature had certainly intended him to be flar 
 )ther than morose or melancholy. On the contrary, his short crisp 
 ntenseiy black hair now tinged with grey — his mouth, expressive ot 
 bat amount of the sensuous which lends power to spirit — his 
 laturally ruddy complexion, which study and ill health had not 
 wholly dimmed — the soft and benign expression of his eyes — all 
 jespoke a man whom circumstance and not nature had made what he 
 vas. He might have been a daring seaman, a brave soldier, a 
 passionate and'generous lover ; and it was not improbable that, despite 
 he pale disguise of time, some of this quality and power existed still. 
 
 He read the lessons euphoniously and extremely well. Miss Eliot 
 lad noticed Sheridan’s rare book, “ The Art of Reading,” upon his 
 desk the previous day, as well as other signs that Mr. Radnor made a 
 rood delivery an object of care and study. From his familiarity with 
 his portion of his duty, any result of his defect of vision did not 
 intrude itself upon the ear ; so that, with the exception of the singing, 
 and old Johnny Wigpit’s ‘‘Amens, ” the service went on from point 
 rto point as harmoniously as the wind whispered in the leaves outside 
 the church. 
 
 The lessons were well advanced, when the occupants of the scarlet 
 
62 
 
 MAINSTONjE's housekeeper. 
 
 pew came lip the aisle. A gre.at and very irreverent stir tliev mad 
 
 followed tlm C;: 
 
 auj tootsteps of tlie squires superannuated valet, came onward <il 
 beaten liound follows a harsh master. Never once did she raise* 
 joy ess cadaverous face — fully unconscious did she seem that she w 
 im enricd bonnet and a jealously-regarded gown. Dead as 
 semned to these things, she crept or rather slunlc into the pew am 
 into a corner, till roused from thence by a mandate ovLhe’ard 
 
 ^ been sixty years old, at leas 
 
 certain baggy wrinkles which no art could conceal mi<dit be takei 
 cudence against juvenility— otherwise appeai-ances stood for tliii 
 He was quite en beau, m a costume a little antiquated— namely 
 snufl-coloured swallow-tailed coat, a green yvaistcoat, duck trow^ 
 iopih shirt frill. His hair was of the finest brown 
 
 Idf debt ’* characteristics of sis 
 
 his debt to art was large, though unacknowlcd<Ted. His wh 
 appearance bore much resemblance to that of a Frenchman of 
 old 7egtme; and the perpetual smirk he had upon his face, and 
 perpetual bow with which he greeted everybody, did not in the Ic 
 conceal his real character. Nature had not made him bla 
 courteous, or kmd-tempered-but hard, cruel, selfish and vain, 
 could lawn like a spaniel when necessary, and he could oppress w 
 the constancy of the mean tyrant he was, when oppSy a 
 inclination existed. He was liked by nobody, sought by nobo< 
 feared by nobody ; he was too mean and too small in place to 
 reared, yet he had walked up the aisle of Mainstone church, and n 
 sat m its scarlet-clad pew, yvith the pompous air of a petit semic. 
 Much he strutted, loudly he coughed, pompously he opened t 
 •squires great clasped prayer-book, and none joined in the respem 
 in so high a key. Yet feiv noticed him, all despised him, and^not 
 soul feared him except his miserable wife. If all reports wi 
 true, she led the life of an organ-grinder’s dancing dog, and cowt 
 abject and oppressed, she passed her miserable days. 
 
 ihe lessons over, Mr. Radnor retired to the vestry, and fro 
 
 Snefedre loT passed. Miss Eli 
 
 iancied he looked towards the rectory pew, as thouo-h by a o-lance 
 
 gat er some idea of his new housekeeper’s appearance; butirorn t 
 retmed situation of the place where she sat, and his own imperfe 
 sight, he con d have seen but little. Himself in the pulpit ai 
 amidst the silent shadows which fell reverently down from the o 
 timbered roof, he looked more as he had done in his serener ai 
 younger da3^ More and more too, as he became absorbed in b 
 earnest task, the native genius and goodness of the man we 
 betrayed. Sincerely religious, in the best sense, simple in manne 
 fervid m delivery, poetical in taste, his sermon on the worth of a rof 
 conscience, and the value of reparation for evil done, was excellent 
 Its way, and only marrred here and there by a hesitation, a stutterin 
 a stoppage, when his sight failed him, or his minute handwritii^ 
 bpcaine illegible, 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 63 
 
 Amongst those who listened comprehendingly to his discourse were 
 ivo, who took its words into their inmost souls. The one as a hope, 
 le other as a grief. The one as a sign and a testimony, that he who 
 loke so earnestly had by the tenor of his life obeyed the law that 
 lies within, and that his sorrows arose from no moral breach thereof. 
 Tie other as an admonition and a reproof for evil done — and so 
 le contrite tears fell down, the contrite sighs arose, the contrite 
 jbs broke forth, yet not without relief to the heavy-laden soul. 
 
 “ Hush, Margery ! what’s all this about ? Cease, I say, or it shall 
 e the worse for you when you get home ! ” 
 
 These were words uttered more than once by a harsh and querulous ) 
 oice, and overheard in several adjacent pews. But the sobs only 
 aftened theitiselves into broken sighs, and it might be that the 
 2ars still fleetly fell, though no one saw the pale and stricken 
 ountenance. 
 
 The sermon at last ended. Its soft low words died out amidst the 
 adences of the wind whispering amidst the vernal leaves, the 
 nheard rustle of many an insect’s silken wing, the chirp from many 
 crowded nest, and the silvery trickle from many a dropping spring, 
 n this way earth’s spiritual and material harmonies accord more than 
 ur common knowledge leads us to understand. 
 
 Quietly waiting till the little congregation had gone forth, till Mr. 
 ladnor had repaired to the font to christen some country child, Miss 
 fliot went forth too. Most of the people were already winding their 
 ^ay by stile and lane towards their rustic homes, whilst the old- 
 ashioned vehicle from Mainstone Hall was just about to leave the 
 hurch-porch. She had, therefore, a more distinct view of the valet 
 nd his wife’s countenance. Miss Eliot did not like either — the man’s 
 ar less than the woman’s — though he bowed obsequiously to her. In 
 he woman’s face was such an expression of a broken spirit and a 
 troken heart, that pity softened the repulsion felt. 
 
 Passing incidentally by the vestry-door. Miss Eliot saw Elisha 
 etting forth his master’s luncheon. She did not however, stay to 
 peak, but keeping more in the shadows of the churchyard, she took 
 ler way by its gate into an adjacent lane which descended slowly 
 hrough some woodland towards the canal. The lane crossed a brook 
 vhich ran picturesquely through the woodland, and then went 
 ipwards towards the canal bridge. From this could be seen the 
 anal itself ; on one side of the bridge winding through sloping fields, 
 
 I p’een with waving corn ; on the other side raised on a huge embank- 
 ‘Ucnt above the level of a vast morass, of which a small portion here 
 jid there had been reclaimed. Yet solitary and wide extending as 
 , his was, it was not without a solemn and peculiar beauty. Dreary 
 ^aid unseen by few — except by bargemen as they travelled by — still 
 ipon these flats rested, as everywhere upon God’s earth, the sign and 
 ‘ jlory of His work. The flags in their green wilderness bent multi- 
 j udinously in obedience to the wind — a million water-lilies floated 
 jVhcre no hand might ever gather them — yet where the incense of 
 heir perfume wandered far away — the rush and wild mint made the 
 
64 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 hillocks of the level green, and not the shadow of a desolatior 
 lingered even in the reediest swamp. 
 
 Greatly struck by this singular tract of country, and resolving tc 
 see more of it in the future, Miss Eliot crossed the stile on that side 
 the bridge nearest the fields, and which led towards a lock and its 
 ydjoining cottage. The latter had waving trees and a garden about it 
 and the distance being small she soon reached it. The garden wicket 
 fame close upon the towing-path, and as she paused for an instant to 
 look round upon the pretty scene and then return, some voice like 
 that of a child said softly : — 
 
 “ Shall I show you my little blackbirds ? ” 
 
 Looking round she saw close beside her, though within the garden, 
 one who, though he had the stature and appearance of a youth, had 
 more than the simplicity of a child. He was idiotic, it was evident! 
 for coming close to the wicket he repeated his question. 
 
 “Cornelius,” said some one from within the cottage, “do you 
 not know this is Sunday, and that you ought not tcT trouble the 
 lady ! ” 
 
 A little abashed, the idiot hung his head, and the next moment a 
 young girl came forth and towards the gate. It Avas the same whom 
 Miss Eliot had noticed at church that morning, as seated near the 
 old clerk, and who sang so sweetly. In her turn recognizing the 
 lady, as the one Avho had sat in the rectory-pew, she made a Ioav 
 obeisance. 
 
 “ You Avill not, if you please, mind — ” she began, apologetically. 
 
 “She will let me show the blackbirds, Dorcas,” interrupted the 
 idiot ; “ the lady has a kind face, and Avill let me.” 
 
 He did not wait for assent or reproof, but going aAvay softly, went 
 pound to the rear of the cottage. 
 
 “He is not quite himself,” resumed the young girl in a Ioav voice ; 
 “though sinless and harmless. If he troubles you, you Avill please 
 forgive him. He is the only child of John Wigpit, Mr. Eadnor’s 
 clerk.” 
 
 And you ? ” 
 
 “ I am old John’s niece, and Cornelius’ cousin.” 
 
 “ I am really glad I have walked this Avay then,” replied Miss Eliot, 
 “for I hear much that is kind of your uncle. As to this poor lad, 
 has he always been as he is now ? ” 
 
 Instead of replying the girl laid her finger upon her lips. Thus 
 cautioned. Miss Eliot looked aside, and there stood the clerk’s son, 
 with a cage of osiers in his hand, Avithin Avhich were some calloAv 
 blackbirds Avrapped in avooI purloined from the sheep’s back. Her 
 ready observation of what he pointed out, and her genuine admiration 
 of what she saAV was the idiot’s real knoAvledge of the bird’s habits 
 so Avon his heart, that he laid his hand in hers Avith the simplicity of a 
 child, and said softly, — 
 
 “I kncAv you would like to see them.” 
 
 “AVhy?” 
 
 “ Xou have a nice kind face.” 
 
MAlNStOKE S HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 “1 am glad you like it ! But do you ti 'nk it was quite right to 
 take these little birds away from their mother ? ” 
 
 “ They hadn’t one. A hawk had killed her. They’d have died 
 hadn’t I waded across a swamp to get them from the tree where the 
 nest was.” ^ , 
 
 Thus much he said coherently, though in a strong provincial 
 dialect, and then muttering to himself, he set the cage on the low 
 sweetbriar fence, and stole away on tiptoe. 
 
 Opening the gate, Dorcas came through and by a gesture led the 
 lady to the granite-edged wall of the lock, where ^ on^ one side the 
 sullen depth of dammed-up water lay dark and passive in its pent-up 
 streno-th ; and on the other, to which tiny streams broke through the 
 ponderous iron doors, it flowed away in a clear and tranquil stream, 
 made green by a fringe of sedges. 
 
 “ The loc I was mending,” said the girl, recurring to the lady’s 
 question, and pointing down the depth of stonework at their feet, 
 “when the poor lad fell over the wall at this very place and injured 
 his skull. He was about nine years old then and very bright, and 
 only a few minutes before the accident happened he was seated on 
 some stone the masons were using, and learning his lessons, for he 
 went to and fro to a village school at Lolesly. For a long time he 
 lay very bad, and when at last he began to mend, it was found that 
 his wits were less sharp than before the accident. From this time 
 they grew worse, till he became what you see him. His mother, 
 taking this to heart, pined away and died of grief some four years 
 ago ; and then I came from home — a little way from here — to mind 
 him and keep uncle’s house.” 
 
 “ It is a sad story,” said Miss Eliot ; “ but he seems harmless and 
 happy.” 
 
 “ Yes, he is very cheerful. His only fault is that of wandering 
 away so much from home. We have done all we can to cure him, 
 but we cannot, for if we close him up and are too strict with him 
 he mopes and so refuses food. In crossing the bridge you perhaps 
 saw the great marsh, above which the canal runs — well, there, summer 
 and winter, for days together he passes his time. He knows every 
 part of it — can reach places no one else can, and when cattle stray 
 thither, the farmers come here and set Corny on their track, and he 
 is sure to find them. Sometimes when he is long away, we grow very 
 anxious, but we speak to the bargemen as they go by, and sooner or 
 later they bring him back, though often half famished, and with his 
 shoes worn off his feet.” 
 
 “ Those must be weary hours when you watch and he does not 
 come.” 
 
 “ They are, ma’am — ^’specially in winter time — and it happens that 
 for a night or two running we do not go to bed. Then uncle’s 
 downhearted indeed, for the lock business is but little now-a-days — 
 so that if it wasn’t for what he gets by being clerk, and what I earn 
 by doing plain sewing for some of the gentry round, we might 
 Starve.” 
 
 5 
 
66 
 
 MAtNSTOKE^S HOUSEKEt:t»Ell. 
 
 JVrr. Radnor knows these things, I hope.” 
 
 “ He is a kind gentleman, and would be more so but for Mr§. 
 Jack. But she can’t bear uncle, nor he her.” 
 
 The conversation was interrupted here by the re-appearance of the 
 idiot with a tame hedgehog and another cage full of birds. Kindly 
 humouring his fancy. Miss Eliot affected interest in what she saw, 
 and then, when she had promised to give the young girl some needle- 
 work, she returned to the church by a field-path Dorcas pointed out. 
 
 Selecting a quiet nook in the churchyard, the housekeeper sat and 
 rested till the afternoon service began. It was but thinly attended,! 
 and, consisting simply of the lessons, was soon over. As the littlei 
 congregation began to leave — amongst whom was the homely creaturej 
 with the big posy and the wrapped-up prayer-book — the door of the 
 rectory -pew was opened, and two ladies entered. The younger, taking 
 her hand, warmly saluted Miss Eliot with innocent simplicity, and 
 then introduced the elder lady as her sister. They were Judith and 
 Lizzie Whitelock. 
 
 “ Lizzie has been talking of nothing else but you since the day you 
 met at Mr. Radnor’s gate,” said Judith, with friendly kindness; 
 
 and as the afternoon was so delightful we walked over to Mainstone 
 to attend service and ask you to return with us to our cottage and 
 take tea.” 
 
 “And I, in turn, must have had what Quakers call ‘a drawing’ 
 towards your sister,” replied Miss Eliot; “for I recollected her 
 kindness with much pleasure, and meant to find your village this 
 afternoon and report the progress of the chicks. An hour hence I 
 should therefore probably have been at your door ; but as it is, the 
 pleasure is even greater.” 
 
 As they quitted the pew and walked up the now empty aisle to- 
 gether, Miss Eliot observed the elder sister. She was a tall, robust, 
 somewhat masculine woman, verging upon fifty, and the expression 
 of her countenance was firm almost to austerity. If this last gave 
 rise to fear or repulsion in strangers, the feeling was speedily changed, 
 for they soon saw how her eye could glow with tenderness, and soon 
 heard her voice soften itself to almost maternal tones. She was 
 abrupt but sincere, and her somewhat frigid manner was scarcely 
 surface-deep. She was slow to resolve, prompt to act, and her pene- 
 tration rarely erred. She was a woman who, had she lived in the old 
 Puritan days, would have suffered unflinchingly for what she con- 
 sidered to be the truth, or who would have taken man’s service in a 
 cause, and then peacefully returned to her spindle or her babe. Miss 
 Eliot read her character aright, felt reliance at once in her fidelity 
 and truth, and perceived that here was the kind of friend she needed 
 whilst seeking to lessen the sorrows which shadowed Mr. Radnor’s 
 home. 
 
 AVhen the ladies reached the porch Miss Eliot found that she had 
 left her parasol in the pew, and, accompanied by Lizzie, she returned 
 to fetch it. Whilst the latter went within, she happened to look in 
 the direction of the vestry-door, and there, to her amazement, stood 
 
MATNST0^"^:'S HOUSEKEEPEfi. 
 
 67 
 
 Mr. Kadnor, with the glasses which always hung about his neck by 
 a ribbon, raised to his eyes. She knew these glasses magnified largely 
 — for Elisha had told her so — and that his master was comparatively 
 blind without them ; and she also instinctively felt that he was watch- 
 ing her, and endeavouring to gather from observation some judgment 
 as to the appearance of his new housekeeper. But no sooner did he 
 see her look that way, than he dropped his glasses, and, retreating 
 within the vestry, closed the door. On her own part -Miss Eliot 
 might not like this quiet kind of observation, for, averting her looks 
 the moment she perceived it, she stooped down as though to adjust 
 her sandal, and her nervousness and change of countenance were not 
 wholly gone when she and her gentle companion regained the door. 
 
 Crossing the canal, the way towards Brooklow was delightful 
 indeed. The village lay on an upland of considerable elevation, from 
 whence the narrow valley between it and Mainstone church and hall 
 was plainly distinguishable. The road wound upwards between 
 hedges white with hawthorn bloom ; and just where the steepness 
 began, and where a country road branched off from the main high- 
 way, they overtook the w’oman Miss Eliot had observed by the 
 rectory-pew. She was just turning off into the little by-road, but, 
 hearing the ladies’ steps, she turned and curtseyed to Judith. 
 
 “Well, Molly,” said the latter, in her kind familiar way. “I am 
 glad to see you. How are you, and how are things going with you ? ” 
 
 “ As well as may be, miss, thank you,” she said concisely, and yet 
 cheerfully. 
 
 “ I hope so, Molly, for you make the best of most things. I only 
 wish you had never left the old squire, your master — and he might 
 have been alive at this hour.” 
 
 “Ay, miss, we’re vain creatures i’ this world, and do a many things 
 our hearts sorely ache for. But Tm glad to see you well, ladies, and 
 so good day.” 
 
 She again made her quaint obeisance, and moved as though to go. 
 
 “ Good-bye, Molly,” said Judith again. “If you need me you’ll 
 know where to find me ; and recollect at Holly Cottage a welcome is 
 always yours.” 
 
 “ Thank you ! God’s love go wdth you, ladies ! ” 
 
 Saying this with cheerful humility, she turned into the by-road and 
 was lost to sight. 
 
 “ It is a curious thing,” said Miss Eliot, when they had moved on a 
 few paces, “ though my time here has been so short, how strong and 
 inexplicable some of my yearnings towards others are. First came 
 Barbie Bell, as pretty a rustic floAver as nature ever fashioned ; next, 
 this guardian of chicks and greenhouse flowers ” — here she placed her 
 hand in that of Lizzie tenderly — “ and last comes this woman, with 
 her quaint old-world manner. But where is her posy ? ” 
 
 “She has probably left it on her child’s grave,” replied Judith, in a 
 low voice ; “ and if you have taken a liking for Molly, she has pro- 
 bably taken the same for you — for she is a singular woman. Lizzie 
 and I know her well, for she lived servant fifteen years with an old 
 5—2 
 
68 
 
 MAINSTONES HOtJSEKEEPER. 
 
 friend of ours at Brooklow manor-house. She is now a woman past 
 thirty. About four years ago, to the surprise of everybody — for she 
 had kept her courtship very secret — and no one ever thought that 
 she would either leave her place or take a husband — she married a 
 small farmer living in a secluded part about fifteen miles from here. 
 He proved a worthless drunken fellow, spent her savings in the pot- 
 house, treated her ill, and died in less than a twelvemonth, leaving 
 her with one child a few weeks old. That died also in a little while, 
 and she was left a solitary struggler — with debts to pay — and the 
 short lease of the little holding on her hands. But no one has ever i 
 heard Molly complain, and of her husband she never speaks. If | 
 people refer to him she instantly says, ‘ There, speak naught of him 
 — he wur a bad one — and all I know is, that he’s quiet in his grave.’ 
 She never will be called by her married name — she never put on 
 mourning for him, and the day he died she pulled off her wedding | 
 ring, and no one has seen it since.” 
 
 “ Of her child I suppose she bears a more tender recollection ? ” 
 
 “ I should say so, though she never speaks of it ; but she is one of 
 those women who feel much and say but little. Her child is buried : 
 at Mainstone, and this is why, I suppose, she comes once a month so 
 long a walk as thirty miles there and back. Her nosegay is the last 
 sign of an old-fashioned country custom, once common to rich and 
 poor, to carry flowers to church in summer time as a preventive against 
 sickness ; and Molly being excessively quaint and bygone in all her ' 
 habits, never omits the nosegay.” 
 
 “Indeed! But she could again take service rather than lead a | 
 solitary struggling life.” 
 
 “ Many tell her so, and would gladly receive her ; but Molly has 
 her plans, and is not to be moved therefrom. It is only a pity she 
 ever left her old master. He was much attached to her — and justly 
 so, for she was a most devoted, faithful creature, and he had left her 
 a little legacy in his will. But he had relations coming up and down, 
 and I fancy they made her life uncomfortable — as well as persuaded 
 him after she left to cancel his kindly intention. On his death-bed 
 he regretted having made this alteration, and the gift was renewed ; 
 but in such way that Molly has never been the better for it — and 
 possibly never will.” 
 
 Here the conversation was dropped, for they had climbed the 
 winding ascent into the village, and were now beneath a rocky bank 
 of red sandstone, topped by a profusion of old and over-shadowing 
 trees. As this bank gradually decreased down to the level of the 
 road, an opening through the trees here and there showed glimpses 
 of an old monastic-looking building secluded amidst a wide-extending 
 lawn, which Judith said was the parsonage. Next came the church 
 and churchyard, and then cottages and old-timbered farmhouses 
 standing endwise toward the street. As they passed the wide churcli- 
 yard-gate, it opened and a gentleman came through. He bowed, cast 
 a searching gaze upon the stranger, and went quickly on before. He 
 was a tall, sallow, meditative-looking man, but the sisters made no 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper 
 
 69 
 
 remark as to who he was ; and thus they reached their cottage. It 
 was a simple unpretending place, with much of it lying towards the 
 garden in the rear, and with a long line of shrubbery wall on one 
 side, and stabling, a barn, and courtyard on the other. A small fore- 
 court, divided from the street by a low wall and gate, lay in front of 
 Ihe cottage, and in this was a well, a lichen-covered horseblock, and 
 a profusion of low and bushy holly-trees, from which the place took 
 its name. 
 
 As soon as their maid had opened the half -glazed door, and they 
 had led her in, the sisters welcomed Miss Eliot to their home in the 
 most tender manner. Little as they knew of her, or yet had seen of 
 her, their hearts yearned to her ; and apart from what was rumoured 
 and had met their ear, they had their own conviction strengthened 
 that in social position she was other than she seemed ; that she had 
 become what she was for the purpose of effecting a great good if 
 possible, and that she was a woman of a noble and loving nature, and 
 enriched by an education far superior to their own. They led her 
 from room to room, showed her many heirlooms and treasures in 
 antique furniture and other things, and then, when tea had been 
 partaken of in the little shadowed dining-parlour next the village 
 street, they went forth to see the garden. If less beautifully situated 
 than that of Mainstone — if less wide extending — if kept with some- 
 what less precision — it had beauties of its own. Bordered on one 
 side by an orchard, on the other by a paddock, and over the thick 
 hawthorn hedge at the end looking away across fields towards the 
 upland woods about Mainstone — it was a charming bowery spot, with 
 so many flowers of every scent and hue in its wide beds and borders 
 as to be a perfect wilderness of sweets, even before the full riches of 
 summer came. Wide-spreading trees lent shade to rough-hewn 
 seats, a quaint bosky grass-plot nestled by the gable of the house 
 nearest the paddock, and in the sunniest quarter of the garden was 
 Lizzie’s greenhouse. If these simple, generous, tender women showed 
 pride at all, it was here, as they went up and down amidst their 
 beautifully-garmented children. Of each plant and bud they had 
 some history to tell, and the relation between Lizzie Whitelock and 
 her flowers seemed to be one of intense sympathy. She lifted every 
 bud and bloom so tenderly, caressing rather than touching each leaf 
 against which her fingers fell, that the plants seemed to know her, 
 and to thrive the more, the oftener the sunlight of her presence 
 came. 
 
 By-and-by they returned to the house, and so to the parlour, which 
 looked by windows into the paddock and garden. It was quite a 
 poet’s room — green walled, green casemated, with books in half 
 circular recesses, and hung with many excellent pictures, two of 
 which were of Lely’s painting, and a third a fine portrait of Cromwell’s 
 ambassador to Sweden, from whom the sisters were descended. 
 
 Some visitors arriving, and Lizzie going forth to walk and chat 
 with them in the garden. Miss Eliot and Judith were left alone. 
 Hitherto little had been said about Mr. Kadnor, for the former had 
 
70 
 
 mainstone's housekeeper. 
 
 observed that Judith Whitelock had repressed the subject whenever 
 referred to. But now that they were face to face, and without 
 listeners, Miss Eliot asked Judith distinctly if she would render her 
 assistance in solving the mystery which encompassed Mr. Kadnor’s 
 daily life, and kept him as a bond-servant to a woman so low and 
 brutal as Betty Jack. 
 
 For a moment or more Judith sat and made no reply; then I 
 quietly and slowly rising, she opened the parlour-door and ’looked i 
 without; passing from thence into the garden, she scrutinized 
 the window looking thither, as also that in the gable-lookino* j 
 paddock-ward. Thus sure that no incidental listener was near, she I 
 came back and carefully closed the door. Then kneelino* d’own 
 gently and aifectionately at Miss Eliot’s knee, she took her hands in ' 
 hers. I 
 
 “ I do know,’’ she said, in the lowest possible voice, “ what is the i 
 real secret of this matter, though I am unaware of the exact point at i 
 issue between Mr. Kadnor and that abominable woman. But in tell- j 
 ing you even this much I am telling you a profound secret. Even i 
 darling Lizzie, who has my fullest confidence in all other things, has ; 
 not the faintest idea that I have any knowledge of this matter^ and I 
 do not wish she should. More than this I cannot say, even as clue j 
 or sign, for I am bound by the most solemn promise of inviolable i 
 secresy; and when I tell you that the happiness and welfare of 
 several— and even the life of one — depend upon profound and unsus- i 
 pected silence — at least for a time — ^you will respect what I have | 
 bound myself to keep. You must, therefore, if possible, make this 
 matter clear for yourself, though 1 would advise great caution, for 
 fear you do great harm. If, however, I find you once upon the 
 right track, I may be so far relieved of my responsibility as to con- 
 firm what you learn.” 
 
 “But tell me one thing,” was the earnest question. “Is Mr. 
 Radnor innocent ? ” 
 
 “Innocent,” replied Judith, with austerity ; “ there is no sin that I 
 know of, only some of the folly which belongs to early youth. In 
 this Mr. Radnor can have no share.” 
 
 “I am truly glad — as glad as though the matter concerned myself. 
 But Betty Jack says the contrary. Indeed, she told Mr. Simeon 
 that her master’s conduct had been disgraceful ; though knowin^^* 
 Mr. Radnor so long and so well, he greatly doubted the truth of her 
 assertion. Yet such seems her own belief, from what I overheard the 
 night I came.” 
 
 “ What was that ? Pray tell me ! ” 
 
 Miss Eliot did so, omitting not a single word. As her narration 
 went on it was singular to mark the listener’s face, and how its 
 expression slowly changed from that of sorrowful doubt to a certainty 
 expressive of pleasure. 
 
 “ If such were this woman’s words,” replied Judith, “ an old sur- 
 mise of mine is strikingly correct. Betty believes one thing, and the 
 real truth is another. If so, Mr. Radnor’s fears are wholly without 
 
MAINSTONJS'S HOUSEKEEPEE. 
 
 71 
 
 foundation. If, therefore, you can ascertain what is the amount of 
 this woman’s knowledije, it may aiford either Mr. Radnor or yourself 
 the power of instant dismissal, and enable you to show an utter dis- 
 reirard of all her threats.” 
 
 “ Indeed ! I wish I could accomplish as much. I only question 
 ny ability, for I rarely speak to tlie woman, and intend nothing which 
 ;vears the air of a confidence. With Mr. Radnor, as I have already 
 told you, I have as yet had no personal interview.” 
 
 “About that be in no hurry; he is eccentric, and must be 
 lumoured, or nothing will be effected. With respect to this woman 
 Jack, vigilance and patience may accomplish much — and much more 
 ][uickly than you suspect. My own strong conviction is that this 
 ivoman in the first instance was led by others to become Mr. Radnor’s 
 servant, simply to serve the office of a spy ; and I am the more 
 nclined to believe this, from its having been told me in confidence 
 :hat before that she lived in AVelton, and bor^ but an indifferent 
 character. But once settled in so comfortable a home, and with so 
 insuspecting and noble a nature to deal with as Mr. Radnor's reaiy 
 ieems to be, she began to consider her own interests more than all 
 dse beside. For a time it was possible for her to conceal her bad 
 nanagement and dishonesty ; but when at last debts began to 
 iccumulate, inquiries to be made, and Mr. Radnor’s friends to give 
 j.xpression to their wishes — that his home were better managed, and a 
 nore fitting person placed at its head, she put in force the power she 
 lad obtained, and resorted to malignant threats as a means of retain- 
 ng the position she so unworthily filled Some circumstances con- 
 lected with a lady who with her child rented Street End House for a 
 ittle time, did give some colouring to her suspicions, though a man of 
 stronger nerves tlian Mr. Radnor would have simply laughed at them ; 
 ind more so at the fact that a mere servant should dare to make them 
 in instrument of base control. As it is, his own broken health and 
 lis nervous trepidation with relation to circumstances he has had coll- 
 ided to his honour have led to this unworthy subjugation, and given 
 ise to fears which, in my opinion, are wholly groundless. If, there- 
 bre, you can learn what it is this woman knows, you will see at once 
 he extent of your own power as to her dismissal, and to what length 
 lisregard of her threats may be carried.” 
 
 “ Thank you. Even this is much to learn. But as to your secret, 
 know so much of it already as to be quite aware that a young child 
 lears relation to it.” 
 
 Miss Eliot then in a low voice told Judith about the woman’s visit 
 n the grey dawn, and of the parcel she had found in the little 
 ummer-house. As the narration went on, it was plain to see that 
 Tudith’s consternation grew ; and when it was ended, she asked Miss 
 iliot abruptly if she should know the woman again. 
 
 “I think I should, were her dress not much altered.” 
 
 “ Then if you meet her never appear to recognise her. This is all 
 can say. I ask you to respect this secret intrusted to me, as 1 do 
 ours — for, dearest lady, I am not slow in seeing that you bear one in 
 
72 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 your breast, and that you are other than you seem. Far higher in 
 station, if I may hazard a homely guess.” 
 
 But there came no response to this — neither negative, reproof nor 
 affirmative — only that the one who had been listening bent down her 
 face and hid it on Judith’s breast — and Judith, in her turn, folded the 
 stranger tenderly in her arms. Henceforth they were attached and 
 faithful friends. 
 
 When the visitors were gone, and Lizzie had come back and talked 
 awhile. Miss Eliot prepared to return to Mainstone, as it was past 
 eight o’clock, and the moon had risen. Judith would accompany her 
 part of the way, and this time they diverged into a grassy lane, which 
 led by a shorter route across the canal, up to the little church. At 
 the stile opposite Judith prepared to return. 
 
 “ Keep this pathway,” she said, as she pointed to one which ran 
 beneath the hedge, separating the fields from the highway ; “ for: 
 though it makes the walk a little longer, it is safer by night. A stile 
 and some stone *steps will bring you out into the road at no great 
 distance from the parsonage gate. Very soon — perhaps next week — 
 Lizzie and I will drive over and have a glimpse of you in the oak 
 parlour. Meanwhile strive to ascertain what this woman knows, andi 
 be cautious and secret ; for you do not know what human hopes and| 
 fears are involved in all these things.” i 
 
 She said this in a whisper, kissed her friend tenderly, and then: 
 waved her adieu. 
 
 Following the grassy, shadowed path Judith had pointed out,l 
 lighted by the moon, and sung to by a choir of nightingales up 
 in the woods about the hall. Miss Eliot pursued her thoughtful 
 way. When she had gone about two-thirds of the distance — for the 
 path from end to end was a sort of half circle, and trended round 
 from the lane passing by the church to the coach-road skirting the 
 parsonage — she reached a lofty bank lying high above the road. The 
 hedge here was thick and impervious, so that little could be seen ol 
 the road below, though those passing along, if they spoke loudly, 
 might be distinctly heard. At this point, therefore, when two horse- 
 men riding rapidly from opposite directions met, stayed, and spoke 
 together, much which they said reached Miss Eliot’s ear, and she 
 immediately recollected one of the voices, though, standing where 
 she did, she could not discover to whom it belonged. It wa? 
 evidently a master and servant conferring together ; and the latter, 
 from what he said, bore messages and letters for delivery. 
 
 “ Well,” said the voice which Miss Eliot so distinctly recognized, 
 “ how’s Mr. Grayson going on ? ” 
 
 “Very quietly. Sir; there’s been a deal for him to do, and he’s 
 been a deal from home. And old Widow Kettle comes regularly to 
 and fro, so the place is pretty straight and quiet, and Grayson in a 
 better temper than he was. It’s only a pity he doesn’t take a house 
 and a wife for himself, if he’s thus precise about a bachelor gentle- 
 man’s home. That Mr. Sawkins you had. Sir, was twice as jolly.” 
 
 “ Ay 1 Sawkins was a fast dog, but not half the surgeon Grayson 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 73 
 
 IS. So we must keep things as straight and as much out of sight as 
 possible.” 
 
 “ Certainly, Sir. In that case, what must I do — if 
 
 “ Oh ! that girl Sarah. Has she been ? ” 
 
 “No, Sir; but the old woman came up on Friday, and a pretty 
 humour she was in. She wanted to talk things over with you, she 
 said ; for the girl might as well come up here for good as not, and 
 make hers«lf useful. For she herself mightn’t stay where she was, 
 the place was filled with her enemies ; so that when she had had her 
 quits of them all, she’d leave the old fellow to his fate ; and what 
 that was anyone might see, for he was a fool, and the fine Miss that 
 had come and stuck herself in the house without asking was as artful 
 a baggage as ever broke bread.” 
 
 The man or gentleman laughed with a haughty derisive laugh. 
 
 “ Ha ! ha! is Mrs. Jack beginning to talk in this way ? Well, it’s 
 time the parson’s house was free of such an incubus, for he is a 
 worthy, though a strange reserved man. I only hope this prediction 
 will come true ; the new housekeeper is a piquant little body, only 
 with eyes too keen for a sinner like myself. But her foot and hand 
 are as small as a fairy’s, and there was a ringlet dropping from 
 beneath her bonnet that I would have given worlds to kiss.” 
 
 “Well, Sir, if you’ve seen this lady you can judge, for she’s the 
 whole country talk. And it’s said she’s very rich, for she’s going 
 to pay all Mr. Radnor’s debts, and many a one’s on tiptoe about it. 
 But what am I to do. Sir, if Sarah comes ? There was trouble 
 enough with her last time.” 
 
 “ Say at once that she cannot be there. That I do not really need 
 her — and that our acquaintance must end. It cannot matter to me 
 where she is or what she does — her immoralities are none of my 
 creating, and cannot be charged on me. She is an acquaintance, and 
 has been well rewarded for her acquaintanceship — and there the 
 matter ends. And, William ? ” 
 
 “Yes, Sir.” 
 
 The master here said something in words too low to be dis- 
 tinguished ; but presently added, in a louder voice, and with some- 
 what of an air of triumph : — 
 
 “ You see I shall manage to cage the bird at last.” 
 
 “Yes, Sir, but it’s took a time. She’s played fast and loose a 
 deal.” 
 
 “ Like many others. But mind, I shall manage this matter I hope 
 soon, though I cannot yet name the precise day ; and if I recollect 
 professional engagements rightly, Grayson will be out most evenings 
 tor a month to come. If not, keep her in my room out of his and 
 old Kettle’s sight, and don’t let her go till I come. I may be late— 
 perhaps very late — for I never know what may occur ; but detain her^ 
 and never mind a few tears.” 
 
 “Very well. Sir.” 
 
 “ And mind, William, if you come up to the house in the interval 
 drop nothing that may reach the ladies’ ears,” 
 
74 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 “ Certainly not, Sir.” 
 
 tlJn ‘‘i*, v!"'® FJ’T '•‘fWen awav and? 
 
 o o -- " -awi^cun Mitj iiau aireaav *! 
 
 annoyed to find herself an object of his prodiaate rdmintion Mi'« 
 
 gathered generally from his Im-I 
 
 versation Perplexed her butno point" more thm.Xt to\v aids itch:" 
 Could pretty rustic Barbie be the bird he hoped to ca-re ? Could her 
 innocent trustfulness thus have a chance of betrayal ?_or rather 
 could she be so silly and vain as to walk deliberately into a snare 
 after all the caution which had been afforded ?— and could slie thus’ 
 tainper with the devoted love of Silas Moore ? Asking herself these i 
 quc^stions her pain grew— for she had seen that Barbie was like a silly 
 moth fluttering round a candle, and God help her and others if she 
 
 ;nt^“!i t^’ese thoughts, as she approached the stile which led down I 
 into the road, she was surprised by old Wolf boundimr forward to ' 
 meet her, and presently she discerned Elisha sitting on "the topmost i 
 rail, as though in a dejected mood. The moment he saw her he 
 
 then groaned. ^ ' 
 
 career' nauSt now.” ^ ^ ^on’t ! 
 
 fe^"^ sp'oke this as though suddenly grown valiant after great 
 
 And 
 
 “ Dear me, Elisha, what is the matter ? Is Mr. Radnor ill ? ” 
 the housekeeper’s heart stood still. 
 
 Though he-s now a little 
 
 “ Tell me Elisha, tell me at once.” 
 
 wht^n^he'hlr^" " resolve that showed 
 
 stiiybFtnmn^^^.wT* ^“‘l.t.’-erefore helped his mistress over the 
 stile, he told her that he and his master had been detained on their 
 way home through being called to a house where a parishioner W 
 sick, so that It was between si.x and seven before they reached the 
 
 ‘ ‘I'^y found every door locked and 
 
 barred every lower window shuttered, and ever/ upper win^w 
 haped. Whilst they stood knocking and trying to get in^ Sam Giles, 
 old I eggy s son, came to say that Barbie had been up and left a 
 message at theirs, to the intent that she had been over to attend to 
 Mr. Kaclnors dinner, as she had promised; but beino* unable to 
 obtain admittance, after long waiting and much knoekino-, she was 
 obliged to return home, as her mother needed her. Presently with 
 young Tiles help and the aid of a ladder, they managed to open the 
 
 KaS/r"' a::']’- “‘"‘I’ cendiii^, undid the hall door for Mr. 
 
 Kadnoi . At tins point Elisha stayed and groaued anew. 
 
 Uo on, Elisha ; I am prepared to hear anything of this woman, 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 75 
 
 I quite prepared to meet it. Go on — whatever such a woman can 
 is not worth a sigh, much more a groan.” 
 
 ‘ But, oh, dear ! it does make one’s heart sad to see such evil 
 ngs. Well, of course, the first thing master did was to go straight 
 hTs study, and, when we got the shutters open — bless me ! you 
 uld have seen it ! The windows were all smeared over with some- 
 ng, the carpet was unnailed and kicked up, and what seemed cinder 
 t littered over it from end to end. There was master’s books 
 I’d put so neatly all heaps or thrown about — there was the papers 
 i laid all so nicely littered together like a wisp o’ straw — all 
 tables were a-dust — and last don’t come least, missis, for in 
 m jars you’d filled with flowers she’d stuck nettles and other 
 eds.‘” 
 
 ‘This is certainly abominable, Elisha ! — and on Sunday, too! It 
 ’eally past endurance ! But what did Mr. Radnor say ? ” 
 
 ‘He turned very pale, and stood for some minutes like one 
 pitied. Then he sunk on a chair, and cried like a little child, 
 lid all I could to comfort him, but it was of no use — he was 
 weak, and ill, and shocked. ‘ All was so beautiful and nice, 
 sha — all was so like old days — all this sign of better life for us, 
 sha, had so lifted up my heart anew ! And now — and now ! ’ 
 en he cried again, and I v/as more distressed. Presently, seeing 
 .1 drooping, and, as I thouglit, faint, I went out to fetch him a little 
 ter, and when I came back he was on his knees, and I heard him 
 ly ‘that his woes might not be made too heavy for him ; for that 
 bore them for others’ sake.’ ” 
 
 ‘ And, pray, where was this woman ? Did Mr. Radnor offer no 
 aonstrance ? ” 
 
 ‘Yes, missis; he was more roused than I have ever seen him. 
 ben he got a little better, and we heard that she had come in, and 
 s in the kitchen, he went to her and asked her quietly, why she 
 laved so badl}^^ She was very bold and impudent, and replied 
 ectly that he k^.ew why she did it for, and that if he’d dismiss 
 it tine miss — meaning you, ma’am — she’d make his study as nice 
 lin as hands could make it.” 
 
 ■‘ To this what did he say, Elisha ? ” 
 
 That he should not — “ that you seemed a proper mistress for his 
 ase, and that he hoped you would stay. Whereupon she threatened 
 n terribly, said a littered study shouldn’t be the worse thing he 
 )uld suffer, and that before long, and then she ordered him from 
 kitchen.” 
 
 “ And he went ? ” 
 
 “Yes ; quietly, like a gentleman as he is. But he stayed on the 
 •eshold, and said more firmly than I ever heard him speak to Betty, 
 it he was growing quite regardless of her threats — and he trusted 
 J would speedily amend her behaviour, or he should take short 
 :ans for her dismissal. At this she only laughed loudly as master 
 'sed the door — though I think, for all that, she’s more frightened 
 m she’s been yet.” 
 
76 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 “ Indeed ! And Mr. Eadnor has neither dined nor taken tea ? ’’ 
 
 “ He s had nothing, ma’am, since I laid out his luncheon in i 
 vestry/* 
 
 yoH ^hall take him up his tea, as soon as we can propj 
 
 They had reached the house now, and, going within, Elisha to 
 the key from his mistress, and unlocked the oak-parlour But, 
 spite of all precaution, Betty had been within, and though there \ 
 little to damage, she had done what harm she could, and lier esplonr 
 was annoying. She had been to the buffet and left it open, af 
 taking from thence wine and sundry jars of preserve , and she h 
 turned over every book and paper, but she had found nothino- 
 gratify her curiosity, aa Miss Eliot had removed everything likely 
 do so before she left home. ” ^ 
 
 Elisha lighted a candle and assisted his mistress to look round. 
 
 ‘‘ I always thought she had keys to every room, and now I’m sr 
 of it,” he said. 
 
 Without replying, Miss Eliot took ofi her bonnet, and then biddi 
 Elisha bring the candle, she went straight to the kitchen, where s 
 Mrs. Jack leisurely supping. She had lighted a fire for some purp( 
 of her own, and it blazed cheerily up the wide chimney. 
 
 There was so much quietude and firmness in his mistress’s manr 
 and step, that the old servant followed her wonderingly, and 
 wonder grew as he saw her thus stand face to face and look down, 
 it were, with haughty supremacy and command upon one twice 1: 
 strength and stature. Looking fixedly at Mrs. Jack till she h 
 quailed beneath her glance and moved uneasily in her chair, t 
 housekeeper said emphatically, and yet in a low voice : — 
 
 “ It is a pity you have acted as you have done, Mrs. Jack, and th 
 on a day like this.” 
 
 “ I shan’t ask you what I do — and what you make I’ll mar ! ” 
 
 “ This will be scarcely possible so long as I am here and mistres 
 Now, as I see that your supper is concluded, or nearly so, will yi 
 leave the kitchen and go to bed ? This you had better do quieti 
 civilly, and at once, or to-morrow shall open upon a different state « 
 things. Not only are your threats perfectly uncared for and whol 
 useless, but the debts you have contracted in Mr. Radnor’s name, f 
 Tnisappropriation of money intrusted to you, and your own sava: 
 assault upon myself, give me full power to apply to the first polio 
 man and the nearest magistrate ; and this power I will most sure 
 exercise if you do not peaceably withdraw when I request it, or 
 you repeat the occurrence of to-day during so long as you choose 
 remain here undesired by Mr. Radnor or his friends.” 
 
 “ Master has never told me to go.” 
 
 “He may not in precise words, still he desires you should. But 
 wish no fufyher words to-night. You will please leave the kitchei 
 for I am mistress and require its use.” 
 
 “ A mistress of this sort, I suppose,” said the woman, with an in 
 suiting leer, as, leaning across the table, she seized for a moment or 
 
MAINSTOHE’s HOUSEKEEPEit. 
 
 77 
 
 tlie tiny natural curls, which were gathered so profusely together 
 hind ; “ he’s an old fool, and ’ll be easily caught by an edicated 
 ss like you, for he’s been in love already, I believe ! ” 
 
 But no reply being deigned — only that cold austere gaze fixed un- 
 ichingly upon her — she rose, took up her glass of beer and the 
 adle, and went slowly from the kitchen, the door of which she 
 )sed loudly behind her. In a moment afterwards, however, she 
 ened it again, and, putting her head round, said, in a hoarse voice, 
 i’ll be quits with you^ be sure of that ! ” She then went, and no 
 )re was heard of her for the night. 
 
 When the kettle boiled and Elisha had brought in the tray. Miss 
 iot prepared Mr. Kadnor’s tea, and sent it up stairs with some 
 :idwiches. 
 
 “ Tell him,” she said to Elisha, as he hastened to go, “ not to be at 
 distressed about the state of his study — it shall soon be put in 
 der — and that I trust a more peaceful time is near at hand.” 
 
 Before long Elisha returned. 
 
 “If you please, ma’am, master cannot quite understand your 
 essage. Will you be good enough, therefore, to put it in writing ? ” 
 “ Did you deliver it correctly ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, ma’am, but this is his message in return.” 
 
 With evident reluctance Miss Eliot took pen and paper, and wrote 
 a larger and much more flowing hand than she usually did, the 
 me words verbatim, and gave them to Elisha without a word of 
 mment. He did not come back for some time, and when he did, 
 did not refer to the paper till his mistress spoke to him and he 
 IS about to leave the room. 
 
 “ Elisha ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, ma’am.” 
 
 “ Could Mr. Radnor read the paper ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, ma’am.” 
 
 “ Did he say anything ? ” 
 
 “Well, missis,” with a smile, “he did ask me, though maybe I 
 ouldn’t tell you — if the hand was like what you usually wrote? 
 :), Sir, I said, it’s larger and more running like. Missis usually 
 ites smaller and closer, and she seemed as she wrote this to put her 
 n out of her old way.” 
 
 “ Elisha ! How could you possibly say so ? ” 
 
 “Well, missis, I spoke what is true. This was all master said, for, 
 ‘soon as I had answered him, he lifted the paper towards his face, 
 tiled with such a smile as I had never seen before, wished me 
 ood night,’ and instantly closed his door.” 
 
 When he had said thus much, Elisha did as his master had done, 
 
 * he knew the rebuke which awaited him. 
 
78 
 
 MAISSTONe’s HOIiSjEKEEPEB 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 SOME days’ incidents, 
 
 TiIere is in moral justice, and in acts of kindness spruno' tlu 
 from, an eternal principle, which, as the effect of a cause, has°eno 
 invariability to constitute it a law. Do an act of justice, be it smal 
 large, and some resultant Justice is the fruit: do good for its i 
 pke, and good in some of its contingents is sure to follow. La Pli 
 m one of his finest passages, states definitely this invariability 
 nature ; so may the moralist, though he deals with the more intric 
 laws or human action. 
 
 Miss Eliot’s kindness to the woman she had met with in the I 
 leadinir to Moore Farm had so won the aged creature’s heart, t 
 when her son returned with the full account of Mrs. Jack’s v 
 ceedin^s in locking up the house against its master, and in litter 
 Ills study, she resolved to do what she could in the way of mak 
 amendment. Very early, therefore, on the following mornino-, 
 and her son went up to the parsonage, and, arousing Elisha, aslis 
 him with his master s room; so that when Miss Eliot came down 
 tound the damage of the previous evening fully repaired, with 
 exception of books and papers being placed in order, and fr 
 flowers in their various receptacles. A brief half hour sufficed 
 this, as well as to place the dainty breakfast- table, and lay a belo^ 
 book,. ^7ith the morning’s letters, at the right hand— for there was 
 bundays post to Mainstone. When summoned from the terra 
 whither he had descended from his chamber, Mr. Radnor seemed si 
 prised, and much more so when he beheld his beloved study, so cc 
 so trim, so daintily set forth, and without a single trace of the hor 
 disorder of the foregone night. But he made no remark thereon beyc 
 sending in ms thanks and compliments to his housekeeper ; and as t 
 was cold and brief with old Elisha, the message was delivered and 
 more. All morning Mr. Radnor kept quiet in bis study— at noon 
 went forth into his garden and was busy with his flowers— at an ea 
 hour he dined — and so the day passed on ; but the housekeeper s 
 nothing, saving at a distance, of her eccentric master. Yet as t 
 evening grew, and he paced his terrace slowly up and down, Wi 
 , spreading their iris beauty round his movino- stC' 
 Miss Eliot, as she watched him from one of her parlour-casemen 
 thought his countenance less sad, his step more buoyant, and ] 
 meditations settled much more on things surrounding him than hei 
 tofore. She even thought his glances veered often towards t 
 bowery windows of the oak-parlour ; but this, perhaps, was fancy 
 
 She had, however, little time to be watchful, for the day broug 
 
MAINSTONE’s HOUSEEEEPEIt. 
 
 79 
 
 many care?. There was the butcher, miller, malster, and others, to 
 see and settle their accounts ; there were these accounts themselves 
 to disentangle and set in order, and there were household matters to 
 superintend. Barbie did not make her appearance, but unexpected 
 aid came in her place. After breakfast old Peggy Giles returned 
 and offered her services, and as she had shown herself extremely 
 efficient, the housekeeper gratefully accepted them, on condition of 
 payment on her part. 
 
 “ Well, I don’t want naught of return,” said the old woman gently ; 
 “ you ’ll have saved me and my lad a roof to bide under, by settling 
 the master’s bill, for them Welton folks wouldn’t have had a deal 
 more patience with us. Then, you see, if we’d gone to a lawyer — - 
 which we must — we might ha’ hurt, and maybe offended, a good 
 rrentleman like Mr. Badnor. Now there ’ll be no sorrow of it, and 
 no more to do with Betty — and that’s reward enough. I can come a 
 bit till you can get a decent body, though I’m thinking no one ’ll stay 
 till Betty’s fairly turned her back on Mainstone.” 
 
 “ I scarcely think so. I shall make no trial Mrs. Giles.” 
 
 “ You’re wise, miss. As to me, I have a widowed sister — a poor 
 lame cre’tur, who can’t do much, to be sure, but who’ll be glad to 
 come and bide a bit with us, and mind the shop while I come up and 
 down. So don’t be troubled, ma’am; Betty, I’m thinking, ’ll say 
 naught to me.” 
 
 “ I hope she will not ; and if she should, leave the kitchen, for 
 we’ll have peace if we can. I’m only sorry Barbie docs not come, I 
 would have found plenty for her to do, and would have well rewarded 
 her.” 
 
 “ Ay, miss, and it would ha’ been better for the girl herself, who’s 
 mighty pretty, and a honest girl, as far as I know. But her mother, 
 though a good-hearted honest woman, puts silly notions into the 
 lass’s head, because o’ th’ bit o’ money, and, maybe because Barbie 
 and Silas are friends again, has set her off to her aunt’s at Tylecotc, 
 to be out of the way.” 
 
 “ Really ! ” 
 
 Then, as a thought occurred to her. Miss Eliot asked abruptly 
 some questions about Mr. Greene, the surgeon. 
 
 “ Why, ay, miss, he’s a profligate chap, sure enough, and has been 
 hanging on Barbie’s feet this many a day. Mrs. Bell’s as silly as a 
 new yeaned lamb, or she wouldn’t think that he meant what was 
 honest by her child. But her love and ’pinion o’ Barbie’s beauty 
 blinds her eyes. It’s only a pity that the lass weren’t married right 
 off to Silas, for he loves her tenderly, and has the best heart of ’em 
 all at Moore Farm.” 
 
 “ I certainly think so, for I do not like either the old grandmother 
 or Robert Moore. And as to that Jonathan the ploughman, 1 cannot 
 jtell you how strange his looks make me feel.” 
 
 “ Ay, the hang-dog fellow ! His still tongue and crafty eye ain’t 
 I for naught, as time will prove. But neighbour mustn’t speak of 
 ; neighbour, and so I’ll say no more.” 
 
80 
 
 mainstone’s housekhepeh. 
 
 “ One further question only. Has Mr. Greene two residences ? ^ 
 “Yes! His regular home’s at Plymley, in the old manor-hous 
 there, wi his mother and sisters ; but he’s another place of busines 
 at a village called Halliford, about three miles from Tylecote. Ther 
 his assistant, Mr. Grayson, lives — and a nice, sober, clever gentlemal 
 he is, and one quite opposite to Mr. Greene in all his ways. Mor| 
 than once he’s threatened to leave Greene, for he don’t like the wajj 
 o’ the house, or the company that comes.” i 
 
 “ Indeed ! Well, as I have taken a liking to Barbie, and she t 
 me. I’ll call and inquire after her on my way to Welton to-morrow. 
 So here the conversation dropped. 
 
 Awed, perhaps, by the unexpected show of courage on the part o 
 Mr. Radnor, or husbanding her wrath in order that its next explosio: 
 might tell to more effect, Mrs. Jack remained tolerably quiescenf 
 She vacated the kitchen each morning as Peggy made her appearanc^ 
 and returned to it only in her absence ; yet still her presence weighed 
 like an incubus upon the spirits of the household. Though com 
 paratively silent, there was the fullest insolence of usurped authority 
 and each hour the housekeeper was made to feel the misery of th^ 
 woman’s presence. She cut off the best slices of the best joints, too! 
 the finest fowl from roost or larder, and cooked it in an up stair, i 
 room, where she extemporised a sort of kitchen — she skimmed the 
 thickest cream off the milk pans, and spent half the day in elaborating; 
 delicate eatables for her own consumption. And when Miss Elio 
 ordered that the dairy should be kept locked, and had the househoh 
 stores placed under her own immediate care, Betty resorted to sucl 
 other.means of wordless annoyance as lay within her power. Th( 
 fruit in the garden disappeared, and daily Mr. Radnor complained ti 
 Elisha that some one of his favourite flowers was missing. If eo*f>’: 
 were wanted, none were to be found in the fowl-house, and of tw( 
 horses which were kept — one for farming purposes, and the other foi 
 Mr. Radnor’s use — one or other, generally the best, was usurped bj 
 this woman, for some journey to Welton, or other places. 
 
 On the evening of the day already named the housekeeper wen! 
 out for a stroll in the garden, and when within sight of the courtyarc 
 she noticed that a small four-wheeled carriage had been drawn from 
 the coach-house, and, now airing in the evening sun, had been brushed, 
 cleaned, and newly touched up with paint, as though for the journe) 
 of the morrow. At no great distance old Elisha sat on a broad stone, 
 smoking a short pipe and darning his livery coat. She called him, 
 for she had to speak with him on some matter relating to Mr. Radnor 
 —-so, laying down his needle, he came, a little shame-faced as his 
 mistress thought, towards her. When he had answered her simple 
 question, he pointed abruptly to the chaise, and spoke of it as thomgh 
 to divert her attention from the object on which he had been found 
 employed. 
 
 “It was a nice little vehicle,” he said, “when master hrst had it. 
 But Betty’s harried it to pieces in her wild drives up and down the 
 country. However, when she’s gone it shall go off' to the coach- 
 
mainstone’s housei^eeeer. 81 
 
 malccr s ; and as to tlie horse, in order to keep it safe for to-morrow, 
 I’ve locked the stable and took away the harness.” 
 
 “ And why not send your coat for repair to the tailor ? You work 
 hard enough, Elisha, without adding tasks that are not your own.” 
 
 “The truth is, missis,” said the old man, reddening and lowering 
 his voice, “I shouldn’t like old Tom Dooty to see it, and that’s just 
 the truth.” 
 
 “ How long is it since you had a new one ? ” 
 
 Miss Eliot purposely asked this question, for she had already 
 noticed the old man’s extreme shabbiness. She suspected, and 
 rightly, that he was very poor, and at the same time too delicate- 
 minded and too attached to his master to name the cause. 
 
 “Well, it wur five years last Christmas, I think. I ought to have 
 a new coat every year, but I haven’t ; and when I went to speak 
 about one to old Amos, master’s tailor in Welton, he wouldn’t give 
 him another shilling’s credit. So I’ve been forced to make shift with 
 what I had.” 
 
 “ Excuse one further question. I am charged by others to settle 
 Mr. Radnor’s affairs, and therefore I must know what his liabilities 
 are. Are your wages in arrear ? ” 
 
 “ The old man went red again, cast a diffident glance upon the 
 ground, and answered reluctantly : — 
 
 “Well, missis, I don’t much like telling you, and shouldn’t o’ my- 
 self, though I’m sorely poor. But I ain’t had a sixpence for these four 
 year, and it ’mounts to a good bit now.” 
 
 “ Put the sum on paper, and I’ll see what can be done, on condition 
 that nothing is said just at present to Mr. Radnor. Meanwhile, if a 
 couple of sovereigns be useful to you, you shall have them to-night.” 
 
 The old man’s face was instantly as radiant as that of a bridegroom. 
 
 “ Well, now I can go and pay a long put-off visit, and I thank you 
 heartily, missis. Me and old Hannah know’d one another in our 
 young time — and now she’s a lone widow, I never like to go that way 
 empty-handed.” 
 
 The housekeeper smiled. 
 
 , “ Then you were never married, Elisha ? ” 
 
 “Never, missis, me and master be just alike in that. Hannah got 
 married, and I never thought of another, and shan’t to the end o’ 
 my days. Now, with your leave, missis. I’ll be getting on wi’ my 
 ; coat, or I shall be behindhand in the morning.” 
 
 This was but a pious subterfuge, as Miss Eliot saw, for the old 
 man, moving away, brushed his hand across his face. Some tears had 
 sprung unbidden ; the light of a long-buried hope flashed across his 
 soul ; the fervidness which belongs to youth for the instant had come 
 again. 
 
 Soon after post-time on the following morning, Elisha and his 
 mistress prepared to start to Welton. Mr. Radnor was aware that 
 his housekeeper was going thither on business connected with the 
 j settlement of his affairs, as Mr. Simeon had already intimated to him 
 by letter, of having authorized her to draw upon him through the 
 6 
 
8!2 
 
 MATNSTONE^S IIOUSEKEEPEH. 
 
 Welton hank for such sums as might be requisite. In relafion t 
 these he and Mr. lladnor were to confer on sonic future date, hi.^ 
 Mr. Simeon’s great object being to give as much peace as possible t' 
 his old friend’s mind, and to allow the housekeeper, who had beei 
 recommended and thus sent to him, to place matters in order, an( 
 have the means of fulfilling the duties entrusted to her worthy am 
 efficient direction. All these things Mr. lladnor had accepted wit] 
 the simple faith so characteristic of him ; for though aware that h 
 was in some degree embarrassed, a matter of wonder to him, con 
 edering his frugal and generally inexpensive habits, and the larg 
 sums he had confided to Mrs. Jack from time to time, he was wholi 
 unconscious to what an alarming extent the reality extended. It hat 
 puzzled him on several occasions why so many of the Welton trades 
 people attended to neither his notes nor his orders as they once hat 
 done ; but soon such matters passed away from his preoccupies 
 mind, and he wore his shabby coat and old shoes contentedly, anj 
 si'dicd at nothing, except it might be for the few scholarly books h 
 needed and could not obtain. When, therefore, ere she started, th 
 liou'^ekeeper sent in Elisha to his master for such bills and memorandj 
 as might guide her in the business on hand, she could but cjuietli 
 smile when the old servant brought back some half dozen small bill 
 and data relating to somewhere about eleven pounds. She made 
 however, no remark thereon. 
 
 “ Has Mr. Radnor sent any message, Elisha ? ” 
 
 “No, ma'am — only that we’re to call in Horton Wood about th 
 plough as we pass through ; and in Welton we’re to ask Beckbury a 
 the post-office why he never sent the books master ordc-ed, an: 
 why Amos the tailor, and Ford the shoemaker, never replied to h: 
 notes.” 
 
 Even Elisha smiled as he delivered these wondering? of the simpl 
 man. 
 
 “ All shall be attended to. Return and ask Mr. Radnor just t 
 pencil down the books he needs, and they shall be obtained. An 
 say that, Mrs. Giles being left in charge of the house, his dinner wi 
 be duly attended to, and that the old man Daniel is within call i 
 needed.” 
 
 Elisha went and brought back the list of books. 
 
 “ Master’s much obliged to you, ma’am, and ” 
 
 And what, Elisha ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ I perhaps oughtn’t to say, missis, but he asked at what time yo 
 would be back, and hoped it would be soon, though I wasn’t to sa 
 so, lest 1 hurried you.” 
 
 “ It is kind of Mr. Radnor,” replied jMiss Eliot, a little falteringly 
 and this was all. 
 
 They set off, and in a short time reached the “ Brown Hen,” wher 
 Elisha, alighting, went within to inquire after Barbie. Mrs. Bel 
 who excused herself from coming forth by the remark that she wa 
 “ all of a heap tunning her beer,” said evasively that her girl “ ha 
 gone to an aunt’s who was mighty fond on her, and mightn’t be bad 
 
MAINSTONE’s HOUSEKEErER. S3 
 
 a bit,” and being likewise “ short in her way,” Elisha soon retreated 
 and drove on. 
 
 The road beyond the “ Biwn Hen ” was wide, firm, and deeply- 
 hedged, and soon brought in view magnificent^ undulating fields, 
 whe"i*ein the furrows of monkish cultivators lay visible beneath such 
 as were close cropped for pasture. The road was, in fiict, the old 
 Chester road made by the Romans, and well kept^ up by the ecclesi-^ 
 astics of the middle ages — for here in close vicinity lay the ruins of 
 the once great Abbey of St. John’s. The overseeing eye of these 
 ecclesiastical masters was distinctly visible on either hand. Deep and 
 clear pools lay embedded in the hollows of the land, the oaks for bole 
 and breadth were worthy of their English soil, and old granges and 
 half-timbered farmhouses came singly, and then, clustering, formed a 
 village. This was Losely. One striking feature of these old granges, 
 with their deep eaves, their bowery gardens, and their kine-dotted 
 pastures, was their wonderful brimming pools. Such are mostly to 
 be found in the neighbourhood of monastic granges, but rarely in 
 such abundance for "size, depth, and pellucidity of water as here. 
 They were the fish preserves of an abbey which for many days in 
 every year fed five hundred at its tresslcd tables, and are still well 
 stored with fish. 
 
 Where the village began, and where some pleasant fields had for a 
 short distance intervened, one of the largest and most striking of 
 these granges came in view. It was in some degree hidden by a 
 wealth of luxuriant trees, partly belonging to field, orchard, and 
 garden, but yet enough was seen to show its spaciousness and great 
 age. Its most characteristic feature was a pool of vast size, which in 
 one place bounded the road, and was divided from it by a high 
 grassy mound. This was exquisitely shaven and kept— a few old 
 trees shadowed both road and pool, and in two places stone steps led 
 up the wall of turf, so that were a weary traveller willing he could 
 climb them, and rest on the turfy margin of the deep water. There 
 were other pools about the place, ibr you could see them glinting 
 through the massive foliage, but this nearest the road was the most 
 characteristic. 
 
 Just Avhere the pool trended to the highway, and formed one side 
 of a drive or road leading from the house, the separating gate was 
 opened by a mounted groom clad in a simple livery of grey, and a 
 gentleman accompanied by a young girl rode forth. He had the 
 . appearance of a gentleman-farmer — and his heavy, purple, pimpled 
 face bespoke deep potations, an easily-roused irascibility of temper, 
 and an unfaltering obstinacy. He was moreover a large and heavy 
 man, one who probably loved goose and sirloin as well as he did 
 port and mighty ale — for his waistcoat, like those of the farmers of 
 the old school, was of immense capacity and well filled. His dress, 
 too, was pattern of theirs — bud Avaistcoat, bottle-green coat, tights 
 and top-boots, watch-seals pendent to a black ribbon, shirt-frill of 
 ' finest cambric, and an ample handkerchief of snowiest linen, tied 
 ^ loosely and narrowly about his capacious throat.. His horse was good, 
 fi— 2 
 

 MAiNStONE^S HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 thougli unkempt, as if lately taken up from grass, and was tkus a con- 
 trast to the high dressing and evident care bestowed upon tlie siuath 
 black, thin-fetlocked horse ridden by the young girl. 
 
 All else about her gave evidence of the tenderest love and the 
 bestowal of unbegrudged wealth. Her saddle, whip, habit, hat, were 
 the best of their kind ; and though simple and girl-like — for her age 
 was not more than sixteen — her manner and appearance, as she rode 
 on before the little chaise, were singularly refined and attractive. 
 Amidst a crowd of lady equestrians that small slight girlish figure on 
 the beautiful horse would have stood out singly ; and here, as the 
 two went winding on under the cool shadows of the great pool, the 
 effect was inexpressibly charming. 
 
 Though she rode extremely well, a bearing-rein attached to her 
 horse was held by the gentleman ; and when a farmer’s waggon laden 
 with coal, or a carrier’s cart, came onward to meet them, it was 
 curious to see how vigilant he grew, and how the rein was tightened 
 to guard against all danger. At such time he never failed to say, in 
 a deep guttural voice, and with a strong provincial accent, “ My Flo ! 
 take care ! ” nor to stretch out his hand when each vehicle was past, 
 and gather the young rider’s small one in its loving grasp. If an 
 answer came it was “ yes ” or “ no, papa ” — and so they rode pleasantly 
 onward in the beauty of the broadening sun. 
 
 At a point where the roadway widened the chaise passed the riders, 
 and Miss Eliot had a momentary glimpse of the young girl’s face. It 
 was innocent and girl-like, extremely pretty, and expressive of the 
 gentlest and sweetest nature. AVhen momentarily at rest, some 
 shadow of the soul seemed in a degree to darken its joyousness, 
 otherwise its expression was sweet, trusting, and hopeful. 
 
 AVhen the chaise had gone a little distance, and looking back Miss 
 Eliot saw that the riders had turned up a grassy village lane, she 
 asked Elisha who they were, as she had observed that he touched his 
 hat on passing. 
 
 “ It’s Mr. Breere, J oel Breere, and the little lady is his daughter — 
 his only child.” 
 
 “ The same gentleman that they tell me is on ill terms with the 
 Squire ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ Yes ! that he be, and a deadly hate it is, though it has been told 
 me, secret like, and I wouldn’t name it except to one like you, ma’am, 
 that won’t, maybe, speak on it again, that the young people like one 
 another as much as the old ones hate. But it’s a sorrowful love I’m 
 thinking, for he that’s ridden on would rather see that young girl in 
 her winding-sheet than she should touch a finger of the Squire’s son.” 
 
 “ Indeed ! ” said Miss Eliot, whose curiosity was excited. 
 
 “ But it ain’t likely to be, for you see Master Ellis be away in 
 furren parts, and mayn’t be back yet a bit ; unless it might be that 
 the old Squire went off suddenly, or something o’ that sort happened. 
 Though it’s been told me quietly by one as knows him well, that the 
 young Squire wur seen hereabouts no great while ago. How true 
 this be I cannot say”« 
 
85 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 “ Does Mr. Kadnor know these thinirs ? ” 
 
 » I can’t say, missis. When Master^Ellis came up and down to the 
 parsonage, old Betty wur always with her ear at the study-door till I 
 told master of it, and then he wur careful ever after. So don’t 
 . think that she knows much, though my ’pinion is he fancies she knows 
 a deal, and this be why he’s so mightily in terror of her. For the 
 rest I ve never troubled my head about master’s secrets ; he’s always 
 been a kind gentleman to me, and my right don’t lie to do him 
 wrong. ’ 
 
 The old man spoke this with a quiet trustfulness which did him 
 great credit. 
 
 Ihe conversation dropped here, for they were in the midst of a 
 village street of old and scattered houses, where the modern beer- 
 shop the ancient inn, the huckster’s shop, and the post-office, came 
 m between the farm, or a cluster of timbered cottages. About the 
 gatliered to witness a sale of horses; and 
 whilst Elisha drove slowly through. Miss Eliot was attracted by some 
 pretty plants in the window of a small thatched cotta<re, near the 
 door of which stood a saddled horse held by a boy. Two or three 
 women were gossiping near; and whilst Miss Eliot looked, a gentle- 
 man came from the house and prepared to mount. At this instant a 
 neatly-dressed woman approached and spoke to him. She was 
 followed by an elderly servant woman, who, in a mob cap and blue- 
 check pwn, carried a basket and a jug. Miss Eliot could not dis- 
 tinguish what was said, nor indeed did the conversation last above a 
 minute, for the grave and kindly-looking gentleman, shaking the new- 
 comer by the hand, sprang on his horse. 
 
 “Be quite sure that Kitty will be well and strong in a few 
 se'^nd Cr ” kitchen medicine as you’re good enough to 
 
 To answer these words with a kindly farewell, the simply-dressed 
 httle woman turned her face, and then Miss Eliot recognised at a 
 brought the parcel so mysteriously to the 
 gaiden-bower. bhe was very differently dressed now than then ; 
 
 If’ countenance was not to be mistaken. 
 
 Miss Ehots heart throbbed as her quick eye made the recognition— 
 and a word of inquiry would have set some doubts to rest, and 
 maybe aided her m the duty she had undertaken— but true to the 
 solemn promise she had made Judith Whiteloek, she kept her peace, 
 let the incident was not without its good; it showed her in what 
 lireetion her silent observation should e.\tend. 
 
 Some miles of quiet fields stretched out in vernal beauty, and then 
 lame a long straggling village, made up of colliers’ and agricultural 
 abourers cottages. 1 ast this the great moorland ridge, already seen 
 ,-o the left, came nearer and nearer, till presently its mighty fires its 
 ense wreaths of smoke, its blackened heaps of coal and iron stone 
 ts grating vdiir of cranks and wheels, its ro.ar of furnace and steam’ 
 mgine all formed together a kind of earthly pandemonium. Lono- 
 anes, running up through scorched and blackened fields, led to the 
 
86 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 lidgej and in tliesG, as the village of Horton ^Vood came near, were 
 a few thinly-scattered cottages and sheds. The village, which lay 
 somewhat more away from the ridge, was large, old,°and coverinir 
 a vast space of ground; and in places where the smoke swept 
 down less continuously, old-timbered cottages and farmhouses stood 
 amidst the greenness of croft and garden. It was not the fresh 
 vernal greenness of Losely or Mainstone, yet it was pleasant to the 
 eye in a place where, look where you would, were sio-ns of smoke 
 and coal-dust. ° i 
 
 At no great distance from the railway-station, where Miss Eliot 
 had alighted on the day of her arrival, Elisha drew up before the 
 gate of a very large yard heaped with piles of timber, old iron, 
 wheels, and complicated machinery of every kind. Covered as well 
 as open workshops were at the far end— a few old trees cast pleasant 
 shadows down, and a low wall ran round it. This wall, on the one 
 side separated the yard from a long narrow strip of bowery garden, 
 in which stood a tall narrow house, with its gable-end to th^ street* 
 and its front towards the workshops. This garden was entered 
 through a wicket within the yard, and near the great gate ; and then 
 a long path, bordered by evergreens and currant-bushes and a few 
 old-fashioned flowers, led to the front door. 
 
 “If you please, ma’am,” said Elisha, touching his hat, “this is 
 Wenlock’s, the engine-wright ; and if you’ll be good enough to go 
 through the wicket and up the garden-path to the house, riF bait the 
 horse a bit here with the corn I’ve brought.” 
 
 Saying this, Elisha led the chaise through the gate, and Miss Eliot 
 alighted. 
 
 “ But, really, Elisha,” she said with a smile, as she stepped into the 
 pleasant garden, “ I scarcely know what to say now I am here, fur I 
 have always left ” 
 
 She had forgotten herself, for she suddenly stopped short and 
 added : — 
 
 “ What was It Mr. Badnor said ? ” 
 
 “ Why, missis, you can’t go wrong if you’ll say that master wants a 
 new plough, of iron, and the best fashion. All the rest Mr. Wenlock 
 will know, for he’s a wonderful head — there ain’t such a one, in my 
 pinion, for many a mile. And you can please add, ma’am, that if 
 Mr. Wenlock can spare time to come to Mainstone, I’ll go over the 
 land with him, for ten to one master’s low fit ’ll last awhile yet.” 
 
 Thus charged, the housekeeper went up the path to the house. A 
 sort of porch and covered way led down from the front door, and 
 opening from this was a brewhouse, the door of which was in juxta- 
 position with the former door. In this outbuilding knelt a young 
 servant-girl, cleaning milk-pails, and of her Miss Eliot made her 
 inquiry. The servant said she would ask “her missis” — so, comin^^ 
 out and entering the house, she went into a narrow kitchen to the 
 right. From thence she presently returned, and saying her mistress 
 would soon come, she led the way across the small plot of 
 passage up two steps into a large parlour of the most homely 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 87 
 
 Sind. Its ceiling' was low — it’s floor was bricked — its plaster walls, 
 originally stainell green, were discoloured with damp and time 
 —Its miserable little grate was rusty, and its small square of the 
 commonest carpet tantalized the eye by the little space it covered. 
 The latticed casements were small compared to the size of the room ; 
 the one looked drearily towards the shops— the other, in the right- 
 hand wall beside the fire-place, looked cheerfully up the long garden, 
 and yet was screened from all intrusive gaze by the evergreens and 
 old rose-bushes which grew around. The furniture consisted of a 
 few old-fashioned tables'^ a few rush-seated chairs ; along the wall, at 
 the end opposite the fire-place, was placed an old tattered sofa, 
 and one old square, wood-framed mirror, with its quicksilver 
 the worse for time, stood on an iron rest, and leant forward from 
 the wall. 
 
 Such was the outer aspect of a room in which all the tables, a few 
 of the chairs, and the whole sofa was heaped up with books; not in 
 orderly array, but in disarray of the most extraordir.ary kind — and 
 not few in number, but piled up by dozens. They were dusty 
 outwardly to view, and it was clear no ollicious housemaid evei* 
 troubled their repose; yet when you opened them you saw the hand 
 that used them did it tenderly. Their quality, too, was as extra- 
 ordinary as both their number and disorder. The finest and most 
 recondite works on mathematics were here, hlechanics and its 
 kindred subjects were fully illustrated. Anatomy, physiology, 
 geology, chemistry, and agriculture, could show books high in quality 
 and great in cost. Then there were books of essays, histories, and 
 works on political economy. There was nothing that might be called 
 light literature, and metaphysical books were few in number, but it 
 was evident that Mr. Wenlock read French well. The works of 
 Bichat, Cabanis, and other illustrious French physiologists, were there 
 . ill the original, as well as those of La Place, Quetelet, and others 
 of the mathematicians and statists. He read Latin probably through 
 translations, though such were the best of their kind, and Italian was 
 known but smatteringly. One table only, this near the pleasant 
 j window, was covered with papers, account-books, and writing- 
 materials, a flat penny ink-botile, a few stumpy (piill pens, some 
 ’ pencils, and a stick of sealing-wax. On this table stood one or two 
 elementary German books, thus showing that this self-taught mind 
 was travelling towards one of the noblest sources of enlarged, liberal, 
 and pregnant truth. 
 
 Whilst the housekeeper thus looked round, and wondered as she 
 looked at this oasis of silent culture amidst a dreary wilderness of 
 , common life, an old woman hobbled sideways up the steps. She 
 leant on a stick, for every joint was distorted by rheumatic gout. 
 I Kindly addressing her. Miss Eliot asked if Mr. Wenlock was at 
 home. 
 
 , “ I don’t know naught of his doings. He may or may not be at 
 
 home to dinner, which is nigh ready. But the girl shall call George ; ” 
 whereupon the old woman hobbled sideways back to the door 
 
S8 mainstonjq’s housekeeper. 
 
 — screamed out to the servant, who at once departed with a 
 message. 
 
 “Your son, I see ” began the housekeeper. 
 
 “ He ain’t— Richard’s my nedew,” interrupted the old woman, with 
 a querulous scream. 
 
 “ Your nephew, Mr. Wenlock, is, I see, quite a scholar. His 
 choice of books is excellent.” 
 
 “ They may be, but they’re a deal o’ waste and lumber here. The 
 room would look nicely without ’em ; ” here she glanced admiringly at 
 the mildewed walls and sighed ; “ and I’m always a-saying so, but it’s 
 no use ; old folks and old lumber be little cared for.” 
 
 “I suppose,” continued Miss Eliot, who was amused, rather than 
 otherwise,^ at this singular estimate of literary wares, “ that Mr. 
 Wenlock is very studious.” 
 
 “Ay ! God help me, he burns a deal o’ candle in winter time, and 
 a sight o’ coal too ; for here he sits many a long hour after decent 
 folks should be in bed. To what end I dunna see, for he don’t get 
 naught the richer— only poorer. For he spends a sight o’ pounds, 
 though he don’t tell naught about ’em.” 
 
 “ But it’s an innocent way of spending money, Mrs. Wenlock.” 
 
 “ Ay, it may be innocent, but it’s foolish. The money would be a 
 deal better in the Welton bank. And the Lord knows, if anything 
 was to happen to Richard, what I could do wi’ the lumber, except 
 old Davy J ones down town — a man as keeps a general shop — would| 
 take ’em to wrap up in. Ho ; in my young time folks didna wastej 
 money i’ this way ; but when they wanted to get rid on an hour, they! 
 went off to the public and spent a shilling, and done with it. Ay !| 
 these days and me don’t do at all together.” , 
 
 It clearly appeared they did not. But here the old woman ceased | 
 her lament; for, seeing a clay pipe placed carelessly within the brass- i 
 topped fender, she hobbled forward sideways to settle it ; then an old; 
 pair of slipshoes underwent an inspection, and finally she set to, to 
 adjust certain works of art above the gawky mantelshelf— to wit, ; 
 certain coloured prints, each of which represented an apostolic! 
 scene, at the original cost price of twopence, frame and all. 
 
 At this crisis a burly smith, sweltering from the forge, and holding 
 one corner of his leathern apron in his hand, came up the steps and 
 stood by the door, waiting respectfully to be addressed. 
 
 The old woman turned quickly round and besan : — 
 
 “Well, George ” 
 
 ^ But the smith, eyeing her somewhat askance — for probably she 
 pinched his dinner and supper — waited for the housekeeper to speak, 
 as Elisha was in full recount of his new mistress’s merits wh^ the 
 message reached the smithy. 
 
 “ Can you tell me when Mr. Wenlock will be in ? ” 
 
 “Hot before night, ma’am ; and he may be obliged to go to and fro 
 for several days, as some gearing at Weldore Furnace broke early 
 this morning, and he had to start off at a minute’s wariung with 
 three of our men.” 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 89 
 
 “Who fetched him ?” screamed the old woman, inquisitively. 
 
 “ Ben Briscoe, missis.” -r-rr ^ ^ u 
 
 “ Av * a si^ht he owes Dick already. Well, the counts shall 
 
 0 before the'^squire this next time he’s down that they shall. 
 
 “AsMr. Wemock is thus engaged,” said the housekeeper. 111 
 thank you to say that a new plough is wanted at Maiustone^; and 
 that if ^he will come over Elisha will speak to him, if Mr. Radnor 
 
 The smith said he would deliver the message. Then touching his 
 forelock with his swart hand, he disappeared. 
 
 Miss Eliot was taking her leave, when the old woman, sidling 
 up to her, said, “ Come, thou must have a glass o cowslip wine. 
 
 Jliss Eliot excused herself. _ .. wi • 
 
 “Nav nav thou<T'b I know nothing about them sort o things, 
 pointinVto the hoofs, “I ain’t a churl. So if thee’ll come with me 
 Ld break bread. I’ll be pleased, for I think thee art a brave little 
 woman to face that Betty Jack, and must have^a good heart to strive 
 for the mending of matters that ain;t thy own.” i 
 
 “\Ve must all do our duty, Mrs. Wenlock— for that alone 
 can reconcile us to the sorrows which lie mor^ or less upon us all. 
 
 “ Ay * so many say, without doing.” Thus speaking, the old 
 woman led the way, crab-like, to the kitchen which was small, 
 exquisitely clean, and with windows on each side the hreplace looking 
 down a further strip of garden. Here, diving into a cellar or closet 
 hard by, she brought forth a bottle of delicious wine, a glassful of 
 
 which, with cake, she presented to the lady. it -n i a 
 
 “ My Richard,” she added, as she gave the glass, will be Pleased 
 to hear that thou hast been here, for he’s a mighty opinion of Mr. 
 Radnor ; and when he heard that a housekeeper was at Mainstone, he 
 was as glad as any man could be.” 
 
 Miss Eliot now took leave, but the old woman would accompany 
 her to the garden gate, and present her on the way with a handful of 
 her choicest flowers— for the lady’s manner had won her heart com- 
 
 DW^Wing again somewhat from the mining district, the way lay 
 throu^h^a succession of pleasant country roads, till, at a little past 
 noon,°they entered Welton. It was a small, straggling town of narrow 
 streets, mean houses, with long suburbs stretching away till they 
 reached the busy country of pits and furnaces. In the centre or 
 the town the houses formed a sort of small square, wherein the 
 weekly market was held; and near this was a vast churchyard, 
 standino* high above the streets like a citadel. The burial of count- 
 ; less generations of dead had done much towards forming it thus into 
 ! a hill ; and as this drained down into the streets— as the streets and 
 :| houses had few or no drains at all — as there were iron woiks in 
 abundance all about, the smoke from whose chimneys, as well as that 
 ' from the great mining region near, poured down into the devoted 
 little town — its atmosphere was singularly uninviting. A stranger 
 
90 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 entenng these little streets, surcharged with smoke, vile smells, and 
 dull iiom want of sunlight, or passers to and fro, except on market 
 day, might have wondered at those who had heart to dwell therein. 
 But the moment he went within these shops and dwellings — saw how 
 much true labour was carried on, and what honest men and f^ood 
 
 women played out the worthy play of their homely, cheerful lives 
 
 how hospitable, and frank, and neighbourly they were — he forgot 
 surrounding disagreeables, and only afterwards remembered and 
 regretted that they should exist. 
 
 After transacting some business at the little dull bank, Miss Eliot 
 went round to the various tradespeople, and found, as she fully ex- 
 pected that the debts of the Bev. Julius Badnor were of long standing 
 and considerable amount. His wants, too, had been recent, and ofi 
 an extraordinary character, considering his profession. Corduroy 
 trousers, velveteen coats, plush waistcoats, thick nailed boots, wide- 
 awake hats, were scarcely habiliments for a clergyman; while the 
 amount of linen and calico set down to his charge would have made 
 shirts for a dozen men. How the good, suffering man had worn out sc 
 many was a mystery, seeing that his drawers held so bare an array as 
 to necessitate Iiis housekeeper’s immediate attention to the fact. The 
 tradesmen were, however, one and all unanimous in declaring that 
 the orders always came as though from Mr. Badnor bimself, and in 
 what passed as his handwriting. But, on the whole, they behaved 
 very handsomely. They would only receive their accounts so far as 
 the respective items might be assigned to Mr. Badnor’s use— the 
 rest of each sum they agreed to wait for till Mrs. Jack’s dismissal i 
 should warrant a more searching inquiry than was then jDossible. i 
 There were accounts at several tailors’ shops— and, when she went to 
 that of Amos, Miss Eliot found what Elisha had told her strictly 
 correct. The bill there was large, though the old tailor had not 
 worked for Mr. Badnor for several years. In this direction, Mrs. 
 Jack had not tampered with forged orders, but simply kept back the 
 sums entrusted to her for payment; the matter was, therefore, 
 speedily settled — and the old tailor, greatly rejoiced in heart, set to 
 that very hour to manufacture the Bev. Julius a new suit, with a self- 
 given promise that it should be of the best cloth, and sent to Main- 
 stone by Saturday evening. Elisha’s livery he was to make the 
 following week. 
 
 Thus passed some hours — nevertheless, the work seemed to grow 
 upon her hands. Bills — many, though of trifling amount — sprung up 
 in every direction. At length, fairly worn out, Miss Eliot went back 
 to a tradesman who had behaved with great kindness and civility, and 
 asked him to employ some trustworthy person to go round the town 
 and inquire at each shop if debts were owing, and what was their 
 amount. The man promised to send his own son, and write Miss 
 Eliot the particulars in a few days. Then, leaving her visit to the 
 post-office till the last, she now returned to the inn, where Elisha had 
 put up the chaise and ordered dinner. The landlady herself ushered 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 91 
 
 lier into a pleasant little sitting-room, where, lying down upon a 
 soiicli beneath a window she rested for a time, the window looked 
 out upon the little market-place, and opposite to it diverged a narrow 
 'street, from whence presently came a tawdrily dressed girl, who, 
 ‘grossing to the pavement in front of the inn door, walked up and 
 down. ‘^Whether she waited for or watched anyone it was difficult to 
 say, but there she kept staring in at the window, or else at those who 
 passed out or in. She wore no bonnet, so that the clusters of her 
 rich chestnut-coloured hair were fully seen ; but her forehead was 
 very low, and her dull, though large, grey eyes had a marked and 
 sir.i^ular expression. Their stony coldness, their look of deceit and 
 sensual cunning, were too marked to be easily forgotten. Yet, in 
 conneclion with her peculiar contour of face, and her lithe, slim, and 
 most elegant figure, they were full of character, and aided greatly the 
 piquancy and effect of the whole. She was precisely one of those 
 women who lure men to their destruction — who profess devoted love, 
 but who, when indifference on their own part comes, or misfortune to 
 those who have lavished good name and money in their behalf — 
 hasten to show the utter" heartlessncss and coldness of their base 
 natures. It is useless to say that such women were ever innocent 
 and good. A vicious organization makes them what they are ; and 
 education, if they have it, does little but strengthen the dangerous 
 arts by which they wile. 
 
 Annoyed by the girl’s intrusive curiosity — for each time she passed 
 she glanced more or less boldly into the room-— Miss Eliot drew down 
 the blind; and when a female servant came in to lay the cloth, she 
 asked if she knew who the girl was. The servant, to ascertain, went 
 to one of the windows, and there saw that she had crossed the little 
 market-place, and was now returning into the narrow street from 
 whence she had come. 
 
 “ Why, ma’am, her name is Sarah, as far as I know, and she don’t 
 bear a very good character. Sometimes she’s up and down the town, 
 at others slie’ll be away for weeks together. She has been to 
 boarding-school, I believe, and a deal’s been spent upon her to no 
 use ; for she ran off with some young gentleman, and when his friends 
 got him away just as he was going to be married to her, she went 
 up to London for awhile, and then came back here.” 
 
 “ Has she a mother ? ” questioned the lady ; for the girl’s name 
 brought to her recollection what Mr. Greene had said to his 
 groom. 
 
 ‘ “ I believe she has, ma’am. And this is all I know, for she isn’t 
 
 one folks care to ask much after.” So saying, the well-conditioned 
 ^maid-servant gave an indignant sort of toss to her head, and pro- 
 ' ceeded with her duties. 
 
 When his mistress had dined, and he had his in the kitchen, Elisha 
 5 brought the chaise to the door, and they proceeded to the post-office. 
 Mt was at a small bookseller’s shop, in another of the narrow, ill- 
 -conditioned streets leading from the market-place, and here Miss 
 Eliot alighted just as it was rapidly becoming dusk, found the 
 
92 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 master, a most respectable old man, quietly reading behind the 
 counter, whilst two middle-aged daughters variously attended It 
 customers and the duties of the post-office. Asking after Mri 
 Eadnor’s account. Miss Eliot found it ready for her. 
 
 “ It was rumoured about the town that Mr. Eadnor’s nffiiirs were 
 to be settled soon, so my daughter got the bill ready. It has bccii 
 standing long, and we are but poor people.” 
 
 “ I am sorry for this,” replied Miss Eliot. “ But the amount is, 1 
 see, more than seven pounds, and Mr. Eadnor’s statement in this lis^ 
 refers but to three.” And she showed the old bookseller a little 
 paper as she spoke. 
 
 “So far as I am concerned,” said the old man, “the bill is rightj 
 If you look you will see how much is set down for note paper and 
 small account books. This lately, too.” 
 
 Miss Eliot did so, and then asked to be shown the kind of books 
 and paper which had been supplied. This was done. 
 
 “Books of this sort,” she said, as she pointed to half-a-dozen 
 account-books which a daughter had brought, “ could not be of the 
 least service to Mr. Eadnor; and as to paper and manuscript books,' 
 he has, as I saw the other day, a large store in his study-closet, which! 
 Mr. Simeon’s Oxford bookseller sent not long ago. These thino-si 
 Mrs. Jack may have had for her own use.” ° ! 
 
 “That’s most likely, as she always ordered and took them away; 
 with her,” said the old man, as though struck by a sudden thought ; 
 “ for I now recollect that she is a great letter- writer. Jane ! ” here 
 he called to the daughter, who, shut up in a kind of glazed closet at 
 the end of the shop, performed her duties of post-mistress ; “ brinf** 
 the Weldore and Losely bags, if not locked up.” ^ 
 
 When brought, the old man looked through the letters in both 
 bags, and from either selected a letter. The one in a rough 
 unlettered hand was addressed to “ Mrs. E. Jack, Post-office, Losdy 
 — to be^ left till called for ; ” the other in a still worse handwriting — 
 and which Miss Eliot, from having seen Mrs. Jack’s account-books, 
 knew was hers— was directed to “ Mr. B. Briscoe, Agent, Weldore 
 
 Forge, S .” It was also enclosed in an envelope which had been 
 
 taken from her room. So that what the housekeeper had already 
 suspected, as to a correspondence between the Squire’s agent and Mr. 
 Eadnor’s servant, was thus unexpectedly confirmed, though she did 
 not say so to the bookseller. 
 
 “ These letters,” he said, “ till within the past week, used to go and 
 come by the Mainstone postman ; but now their course is altered, and 
 this, I suppose, is owing to the matter of Mr. Eadnor having a post- 
 bag. But I should know these handwritings anywhere, for many score 
 letters such as these have passed through "here.” 
 
 “ As this is so, the knowledge may yet prove useful. One question 
 only — how long have such letters gone to and fro ? ” 
 
 The old man thought awhile, and after consulting with his eldest 
 daughter said it might be eight years or thereabouts — indeed fis lonn- 
 as Mrs. Jack had lived with Mr. Eadnor; and even before ^hat, aS 
 
MAINSTONE’o noUSEKEEPEH. 93 
 
 tiie woman used to live in the town, and the letters from Weidore 
 were then directed to some street in ¥/ elton. 
 
 ‘‘ Indeed ! and has this woman a daughter ? ” 
 
 ‘‘I don’t know, not even if she has been married. But some sav 
 that a wild sort of girl, called Sarah Shaw, is hers. This much t 
 know is true : that Mrs. Jack is not the sort of woman who should 
 have either been recommended to, or allowed to enter, Mr. Kadnor's 
 house. For he is so simple, so good, and so unsuspecting, that 
 the wicked and artful would be as likely, indeed more so, to gain 
 control over him and his affairs, than the good and kind. There are 
 those who think that this woman, seeing the extraordinary power she 
 has obtained, must have been placed in the way of Mr. Radnor’s 
 service for some ulterior purpose — as no man in his senses, had he 
 really known this woman’s repute, would have admitted her across 
 his threshold.” 
 
 “I think precisely the same,” replied Miss Eliot, quietly; “and in 
 case this is so, is the purpose or person suspected ? ” 
 
 “ Not that I know of, ma’am. One thing only I am quite sure of, 
 that the receiving and retaining such a woman in his service has done 
 Mr. Radnor great harm. There are those who impute both points to 
 the worst motives — and when to both is added the scandal that was 
 afloat about Street End House, many believe the whole, and leave 
 the poor gentleman to his solitude.” 
 
 “ Well, the error of this may be just now seen.” 
 
 I Then changing the subject, paying the account, forbidding that 
 any further credit be given to jNlrs. Jack, Miss Eliot spoke of the 
 , order for books sent by Mr. Radnor, and placed their list in the old 
 man’s hands. This was the first time he had heard of it, or seen it, 
 and was much annoyed in consequence ; but grateful for the house- 
 keeper’s kindness, he set to at once to endeavour to obtain the books 
 , at some other booksellers’ shops in the town. This he fortunately 
 could, and in some half hour came back with them beneath his 
 arm. 
 
 Whilst she thus waited, talking to the daughters, and selecting 
 some few books from their scanty stock. Miss Eliot observed the girl 
 , again watching her through one of the shop windows. She wisely, 
 however, took no notice thereof, either by look or word ; and now 
 when she prepared to go, and the old bookseller packed the books in 
 the chaise, and his daughters wrapped the lady’s warm shawl about 
 her, the girl was gone. So, with the blessing of many grateful hearts, 
 i the housekeeper left the town. 
 
 . It was a strange, wild drive — for the night was dark and chilly. 
 
 _ For nearness sake, Elisha took his way by a road raised above the 
 swamp or moors already spoken of. It was solitary in the extreme ; 
 nothing but a lock-house where the canal swept by, or a game- 
 keeper’s cottage on the rising ground, breaking the still levels of 
 5 reeds, coarse turfj and weed-clad pools. It took sagacity both in 
 cman and horse to keep the road, from which a few erring feet on 
 .cither hand was certain death* {Sometimes, where it emerged from 
 
94 
 
 MAtNSTO^E^S ilOrSEKEEPER. 
 
 gathering ram-cloucls, the moon lit their way; at others, where tlie 
 mining district was transiently neared, the sweltering fires cast their 
 lurid glare aslant across the waste ; but where trees approached andi 
 fringed the road, there was total darkness, and Elisha had to alight 
 and lead the horse. 
 
 In passing one such group of scanty-leaved and wind-swept trees, 
 they became aware that some one, who sang the fragment of a hymn 
 or song in a low, humming, monotonous voice, was approaching from 
 the wood ; and soon, in a place more open than elsewhere, and where 
 the transient light was greater, a figure climbed the bank, and still 
 humming, waited till the chaise passed by. 
 
 “ Don’t be frightened, ma’am,” said Elisha, stepping a pace back, 
 for he was leading the horse ; ‘‘ it’s only Johnny WigpiVs poor witlcssi 
 lad, out on the moor, as he always is.” 
 
 Then, when they came opposite to where he stood, Elisha staved' 
 the chaise, and asked him why he did not go home, where his father 
 and Dorc s were sure to be expecting him. 
 
 For a minute he kept on singing, and peeling a withie he held in 
 his hand ; then ceasing, he said quietly, “ They are silly, for I am 
 now Itobinson Crusoe, and have got an island of my own. I tell 
 them so, but they don’t believe me ! ” 
 
 “Ay, lad,” replied Elisha, with a sagacious shake of his head ; “if 
 you would only forget them stories you were a-reading of before you 
 had your fall it might be well for you ; but I doubt you never will. 
 Now, go home, lad ; for the moors won’t find thee a su2:>per to-night, 
 nor a breakfast in the morn.” 
 
 “ They will ; there’s eggs in the birds’ nests, and fish in the pools, 
 and sorrel in the long grass, and wild strawberries on the banks here, 
 when the sun comes and makes them red. But you’re Elisha from 
 Mainstone, ain’t you ? — and that the new lady ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, God be blessed — it’s dear master’s housekeeper ! ” 
 
 As the old servant spoke thus, the poor lad came towards the chaise,: 
 and, peering up into Miss Eliot’s face, said gently, “ I am coming up 
 one day to Mainstone, to see you.” 
 
 “ Are you ? — when ? ” 
 
 “ When she's gone.” And he laid as much emphasis on the pro- 
 noun as one sane could have done. 
 
 “ He means old Betty, ma’am,” exifiained Elisha ; “ for Cornio 
 used to come up to master a deal at one time. But she threw water 
 over him, and behaved very badly, and ” 
 
 “ She struck me ! ” intermpted the lad, with a show of fierce anger ; 
 “and wrung Goldie’s neck.” 
 
 “ He means, ma’am,” said Elisha, who was again interpreter, “ that 
 Betty killed a little goldfinch he had reared and brought master, and 
 of which master was very fond. So this and other things, which pre- 
 vents the lad’s coming, gives old Johnny many an hour of low heart ; 
 for he fancied — the Lord' knows whether it be true or not — that he 
 was better in his mind when he came to and fro to Mainstone as he 
 listed.’* . 
 
mainstone’s hoijseiceeeer. 
 
 “Indeed! Well, Cornelius, as soon as we get quiet at Malnstone 
 rou sliall come and see Mr. Radnor's favourites as often as jou like, 
 and bring him another goldfinch, if you will.” 
 
 “ I will bring you one.” Then, as if wild with joy, like a lad just 
 Dut of school, he weaved his hand above his head, and bounded down 
 '. the green acclivity into the wildness of the dark wood. 
 
 “ Poor creature I ” said the housekeeper, pityingly, as, the shadows 
 Df the woodland past, and the road across these dreary swamps near 
 its close, Elisha took his seat and drove on. 
 
 “lias no means of cure been tried, for he seems more child than 
 idiot ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, missis ; Mr. Grayson, a doctor, as lives hereabouts — and a 
 mighty nice gentleman he is — says there's a something could be done 
 that would cure him, or leastways nigh it, if all went well ; but if so 
 }be it did not it would kill him, so old Johnny won’t hear a word about 
 It. Yet the lad might just as well be dead, passing his life as he 
 does wandering up and down the moors, and cariiig for nothing else 
 but the wild cre’turcs as have their dw’elling there. For ye see, 
 missis, old Johnny’s father, and grandfather, and great-grandfather 
 I afore him, were clerks at Mainstone, and the lad was brought up 
 with a nice edication to be the same. But he fell dowm into the 
 lock and became what he is. This is why I half think Johnny takes 
 the matter so to heart — for he was proud o’ the lad’s brightness ; and 
 loving master as he does, he looked to no less than his being master’s 
 I servant, as he himself had been. It’s a sore trouble altogether — for 
 the lad’s mother broke her heart in con-se-quence ; and now the 
 traffic on the canal be so Kttlc, old John has enough to make him 
 droop in the way folks can plainly see.” 
 
 ! “ And Cornelius — what is this that runs in his head about Robinson 
 
 Crusoe ? ” 
 
 “ Why, you see, ma’am, everything that he was reading of at tlie 
 dime of his fall, out of story-books and what not, stick m his head, as if 
 they was hammered there. He can do the sum he was reckoning the 
 very day before his fall, or leastways could do ; for some say his 
 witlessness has grown of late. As to the island he talks of, nobody 
 knows nothing of it, though it’s fancied it’s a dryish sort of place 
 amongst the reeds, where he keeps birds and things of that sort. 
 The boatmen and gamekeepers ha’ watched him, but none know if he 
 talks idly or with a meaning.” 
 
 Miss Eliot made no answer, and Elisha lapsed into respectful 
 ‘silence. It was now raining, and as they climbed the acclivity, and 
 wound their way past Mainstone church, the drops pattered from the 
 thick-leaved trees, and made a weeping sound. There slept the dead 
 their sleep, and the solitude of solitary days was deepened by the 
 solemn shadows of the night. 
 
 A half-hour’s further drive brought them home, "where all seemed 
 i. peaceful too. Old Daniel opened the hall-door, and reported peace 
 k within; so the fears which had made the housekeeper nervous 
 through the day were for once groundless. AVhilst Elisha went round 
 
96 
 
 MAINSTONe's IIOUSEEEErElt. 
 
 with the carriage to the courtyard, and Daniel hurried to the kitchei 
 to summon Peggy, Miss Eliot stepped back on to the terrace. Sh 
 had seen a light in Mr. Padnor’s study, as the carriage approachej 
 the house, and she wished, if she could, to catch a glimpse of him a 
 his studious occupations — not for espionage sake, but to gather fron 
 her own observations how the day had passed in relation to his peac( 
 of mind. As she expected, he was seated at his desk, but, instead 0 
 being^ engaged with the books which lay before him, he sat sidewayj 
 on his chair, his face turned towards the study-door, and in tin 
 attitude of intently listening. Old W olf, who seemed to have beei 
 lying on a chair beside him, had leaped down and now sat whinini 
 by the door. Something his master said to him, and something tin 
 master said unto himself ; but the listener would hear no more^^for 
 covering her face with her hands, she went back to the house anc 
 into the oak parlour. 
 
 There Peggy awaited her ; the tea things were set — a fire burni 
 cheerfully, for the night was somewhat chill, and the whole room bore 
 the loving look of home. 
 
 “Mr. Kadnor has had his tea, I suppose?” said Miss Eliot, aj 
 Peggy assisted her with her shawl. 
 
 “No, Miss, I sent Dan’ el in a time or two, but he said he wouldn’1 
 have it till you was back, and he ordered that everything should be 
 made comfortable for you.” j 
 
 “It is very kind of ‘him ; and the day, from what Daniel says, had 
 been a peaceful one ? ” 1 
 
 “Yes; but she was closeted with him for nigh two hours; and, 
 from what Dan’el says — for he was trimming the beds hard by the 
 study windows — she cried a deal, and threatened a deal, and entreated 
 a deal, and to no use, as Dan’el says ; for, at last, she said as impu- 
 dently as she could, that she would go when it suited her, but 
 not till then. Then she came sharply out o’ th’ study, put the 
 farm -horse into the light cart, and drove away — and she ain’t homo 
 yet.” 
 
 “ And you, Peggy — did she keep peace with you ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, ’xcept saying that me and others like me should be soon 
 budged off to where we came from. She did, to be sure, skim off all 
 the cream from yesterday’s milk, took away half a score nice new- 
 laid eggs I’d gathered from the nests, and boiled all the best sparrow- 
 grass for her dinner — but you told me to say nothing, and so I didn’t.'* 
 
 “ You did quite right. Now let me have tea.” 
 
 When Elisha carried his master’s into the study, and with it trie 
 books brought from Welton, Mr. Kadnor was greatly pleased. He 
 did what was quite unusual with him — he asked many questions, and 
 bid Elisha return by-and-by for a note he would write. So just aji 
 she was retiring to rest, this strip of' paper reached Miss Elkrt's 
 hand : — 
 
 “I am truly obliged by what you have done, for I fear that the 
 pecuniary claims in Welton were more and heavier than I suspected. 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 97 
 
 At home I have had my own perplexities, and God knows what their 
 I ending may be. However, I will not despair. In a few days I hope 
 to have nerve enough to see you, and then I can say much I cannot 
 ; write. 
 
 “ Yours gratefully, 
 
 ' “ J. R." 
 
 There was peace that night for the persecuted household, for the I 
 Woman did not come home, i 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 1 
 
 MESSES. GREENE AND GRAYSON. 
 
 But for the human raven which croaked, and gorged, and spied, 
 and was everywhere — where no one wanted it — the days now fallen 
 on Mainstone would have been continuously serene. A fortnio-ht 
 only had sufficed to^ change the whole aspect of the place. With 
 such renovation as time permitted, and circumstances rendered it as 
 yet prudent to undertake — with some aids from Welton upholsterers 
 . and others — with a good deal of cleaning, rubbing, and setting in 
 order, in which Begg was for some days assisted by neighbour 
 friends— with rich contributions from garden and greenhouse, from 
 ^ boxes up stairs, and from parcels constantly arriving at Horton Wood 
 Kailway- station, the rooms soon wore the blessed signs of home. In 
 a week’s time the Rev. Julius Radnor dined daily in°the parlour next 
 . ms own — and four days later the housekeeper awaited an afternoon 
 visit from Judith and Lizzie Whitelock, amidst the bowery lightsorae- 
 ness of snowy muslin, open windows, a wilderness of flowers^ and the 
 , soft, rich beauty of the early summer’s sun, in the room which formed 
 the other gable of the house. 
 
 y As the ladies drove over in their little pony-carriage, they brought 
 many tokens of their tender remembrance. Greenhouse plants and 
 flowers, a dish of early strawberries, two more little chicks of another 
 breed, and a tiny canary, looking like a fat lump of gold. This last 
 /was Lizzie’s present, and a choice one it was ; for Dick was a great !> 
 ^songster, and as tame as a Christmas robin. The ladies admired ' 
 everything, thought the^ change wonderful ; for though this was the 
 first time of setting their feet within the walls of Mainstone parson- 
 age, most amazing stories were afloat about the country as to its 
 original disorder. As Mr. Radnor dined somewhat late this day, for 
 he had gone across the fields to the church, the ladies, not fearing to 
 . intrude upon his privacy, went presently to see the garden. They 
 j,{)aced up and down the splendid terrace, followed gently by Tearl 
 
98 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 and Peri, with their everj rainbow feather outstretched to the full. 
 They sat on Mr. Pad nor’s favourite seat, they went down to the 
 brook and listened to the gliding music which the water made, and 
 they visited summer-house, green-house, orchard, and poultry-yard. 
 Whilst Lizzie conversed with Elisha on divers matters respectino* the 
 chicks, the friends crossed the hand-bridge to the fields beyond and 
 sat down. 
 
 “I pointed out the place to you where the parcel was hidden,” said 
 Miss Eliot, quietly, when she had assured herself that she and Judith 
 were alone; “and on my way to WeltOn I saw the person who 
 brought it. As you cautioned me, I made no inquiry as to name ; 
 but as far as concerns my own observation, a revelation cannot be far 
 ofi'.” 
 
 “ Humph ! Considering the sort of man Mr. Kadnor is, and the 
 worthless spy that is constantly around him, the whole thing was most 
 imprudent. But caution has been given, and it will never be repeated. 
 The only wonder is, that the secret has as yet been safely kept* 
 which I believe it to be.” ^ ’ 
 
 “ The better hope then for our speedy riddance of Mrs. Jack. 
 But tell me one thing only, and that as briefly as you please. Am 1 
 on the right track ? ” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ Losely will be my direction ? ” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “ I see it all, or nearly so. What I do not, I shall make clear by 
 quiet observation — not for curiosity’s sake, as I wish you to under- 
 stand, Judith, but for that of duty. Provided we can secure that 
 woman’s dismissal by the autumn, Mr. Simeon proposes to induce Mr. 
 Radnor to leave home for a time, in order that the house be put in 
 proper repair. In that case, as I must remain at hand, I can take 
 lodgings in Losely, and so observe for myself.” 
 
 Bo so ; but be cautious even here, for you scarcely dream 
 what tender love and what solemn human interests rest beneath this 
 veil. More I may not say. Mr. Radnor, I suppose, you have not 
 yet spoken to ? ” 
 
 “No; we talk only by slips of paper. But we shall make 
 acquaintance I daresay one of these days, more by accident than 
 design. Once or twice we have nearly met ; but, as he still seems to 
 avoid me, I respect his eccentricity. Happy is it for me that I have 
 been so well recommended, for Mr. Radnor addresses me rather as an 
 old friend than as a new servant.” 
 
 ^ “Servant!” smiled Judith. And as she said this she kissed the 
 httle hand she held. It was very soft and small, and the smile spoke 
 more than words. ^ 
 
 “The people last Sunday,” continued Judith, “noticed Mr. 
 Radnor s altered looks. His sermon, too, as far as half of it went, 
 was delivered fluently— beyond this was the old hesitation and 
 painful deciphering.” 
 
 ’ybe frgth is, I intended to have copied out the whole of his half* 
 
MAINSTOISE’S HOUSEKEEPEE. 
 
 99 
 
 illegible manuscript, but I could only find a part. This week I shall 
 be more bold, and instead of seeking for a portion, send in Elisha to 
 ask for the entire sermon. As his sight is bad, and an inconvenience 
 to others, there can be no harm in rendering needful assistance.” 
 
 “ Did he notice your work of last week ? ” 
 
 “Not that I am aware of — but much is said to Elisha that does not 
 meet my ear.” 
 
 “ I daresay, for Elisha is an old and faithful servant. But you 
 jvere not at church in the afternoon, where Lizzie and I walked over 
 in the hope of seeing you.” 
 
 “No— I was there in the morning; but I did not think it prudent 
 to leave the house for more than half the day, particularly as Peggy 
 wanted to be home through the afternoon with her son. For one 
 aever knows what this Mrs. Jack may do. I am always dreadino- 
 some catastrophe ; and though, comparatively speaking, we have been 
 it peace for these last ten days, the life we lead in relation to her is 
 Host lamentable. Mr. lladnor cannot or will not dismiss her, and 
 lence the insolent licence she assumes.” 
 
 “If she can injure you secretly, she will be sure of that; but any 
 
 )pen violence that would immediately involve herself, do not fear 
 
 Lor she is a coward, as all tyrants are.” 
 
 “ I think with you. If I can but wait patiently till I find out the 
 ixtent of her knowledge, or what are the threats she holds over 
 Mr. Radnor, I shall know how to act, for he himself can then be 
 ippealed to. Till then the prospect is somewhat dreary, of beino* 
 dosed up with such a woman for, perhaps, months to come. Every 
 lay, I might say every hour, brings its annoyances and perplexities ; 
 ind Peggy, as well as^ the two old men, are constantly appealing to 
 ne. She skims the milk, she purloins the eggs ; if she can o-et Into 
 he larder, she carries off the best joint. Yesterday, she let down the 
 ines on which the clothes were drying ; and she uses the horses just 
 jis if they were her own. In fact, it would weary me to tell, and you 
 0 listen to, all this woman does. But what annoys me most is her 
 :ibsenting herself for a day or two together, and then rousincr the 
 louse at midnight to let her in.” ^ 
 
 / ‘‘ Such conduct is certainly abominable, but I do not think your 
 ;)atience will be much longer tried. People of this kind feel, as 
 t were, compelled to act for evil, as much as others do for 
 ;;ood, and by something of this kind she will overthrow her own 
 f chemes.” 
 
 “ I hope so.” 
 
 They sat and talked till Elisha came to say that tea was readv. 
 After it, the two ladies sent their little carriage home in the care of 
 •Id Daniel, and walked by way of the fields. Miss Eliot accompanied 
 hem as far as the hall-pool, and then retraced her steps. As she 
 , anie out from the shadows of the wood into the stillness of the 
 jeented fields, she saw Silas Moore approaching by a by-path. He 
 fas marvellously altered since she had last seen him ; and now h:i 
 ;iothes were dusty and his face heated, as though returuin'f frou 
 
 7-a ^ 
 
100 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 some long and weary walk. As she had been wishing to see him, in 
 order to ask about Barbie, she awaited his approach and then spoke. 
 It seemed necessary to do so, in order to arrest his steps, for he was 
 passing the lady without looking up or seeing it was her. But 
 when he did so, he stopped abruptly but respectfully, though his 
 thoughts were otherwise painfully absorbed, as could be plainly 
 seen. 
 
 “ I am glad to meet you, Mr. Moore, for I want to learn what 
 Barbie is doing, and why she is away.” 
 
 “ I can’t say, ma’am, I can’t say,” he replied, in a dry, choked 
 voice ; “ four times I’ve walked to Tylecote, there and back, since 
 last Sunday week, and can learn nothing more than that she’s set 
 against me, as she has been before by lying tales. What they are, 
 and by whom told, I can’t say, except that they’re about my doings 
 when I go to Wei ton. But of the innocence of these Barbie herself 
 might witness, so help me God ! ” 
 
 Silas was deeply moved, partly by indignant wrath, partly by pro- 
 found grief. 
 
 “ It is really a serious pity,” was the reply, “ that Barbie can be so 
 weak as to believe evil of one she loves so well as she does you ; and 
 it is more lamentable still that there can exist those evil enough to 
 set strife between you. What can be the motive ? ” 
 
 “ The mother and her friends want her to marry a richer man 
 than I am or am likely to be,” was the dogged answer. 
 
 “Whom? They are surely not ignorant or weak enough to 
 believe that that surgeon— his name is Greene, I think— would marry 
 Barbie ? Not but what I think her, as far as yet, innocent enough 
 to be the wife of any honest man ! But this difference of opinion is 
 not likely to be forgotten by one like him.” 
 
 “ I wish it were ! — God help me ! — I wish it were ! ” He said in 
 great agony, and turning ashy-pale, “ I begin to think that’s been but 
 a blind'all along. In the hopes of gaining their own ends the more 
 readily, they have let this handsome profligate flatter, and flutter 
 about her, and seen no evil in it. I wish it were no worse. I 
 do ! ” 
 
 “ Do tell me, Silas Moore ? I am sincerely interested in what con- 
 cerns Barbie.” 
 
 He drew nearer ; and said in a voice, sunk to an almost inaudible 
 whisper, “ It is Robert who seeks to circumvent me. At least, I 
 think so, from what I overheard. I did not know it— did not suspect 
 it till then.” He ground his teeth as he spoke, and made an impatient 
 movement, as though to go on. 
 
 “Be quite sure that your suspicions are correct,” spoke Miss Eliot, 
 gravely, “ before you suspect him of what is so base ; if knowing, as 
 he must do, your affection for and long attachment to Barbie. But 
 tell me particulars— you and the girl were friends enough when you 
 had tea together in the parsonage parlour.” 
 
 Somewhat incoherently, fragment by fragment, he told Miss Eliot 
 what had happened through the past ten days. From this it appeared 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 101 
 
 tliat Kobert, bavlug asked for a settlement of the Wei ton corn 
 accounts, had kept him at home on the Sunday morning. In the 
 afternoon, Silas had gone to the little inn to see Barbie, and there 
 had been slightingly treated by her mother — who said that she was 
 sorry they were friends again, after what she had heard of his 
 “goings on at Welton;” and as she had made up her mind for 
 Barbie to marry some one better than a “ farmer’s servant ” — indeed, * 
 had settled for her to do so, she bid him come there no more. Thus 
 accused, and thus bidden, Silas asked who it was had so poisoned 
 their ears ? When no answer came, then he had demanded to see 
 Barbie. This, at first, was refused ; but, when he insisted, she was 
 suffered to come down stairs. Her mother’s influence, however, had 
 so prevailed, her natural jealousy of temper had been so roused by 
 the statements made as to his conduct in his visits to the little town, 
 that, after a few tears and angry words, she, too, bid him go. In his 
 hasty passion he had done so ; but, repenting of this, he had returned 
 to the inn in the evening, and found that she was gone — as he after- 
 wards learnt — to Tylecote. 
 
 “ Before that she had come up to the parsonage, as she had pro- 
 mised me ; but not being able to gain admittance, Mrs. Jack having 
 locked all the doors, she returned home.” 
 
 “That I did not know till afterwards,” replied Silas, “or I might 
 have met her. As it is, I have now been four times to Tylecote 
 without seeing her. I will go once more, and watch till I (io — be 
 where and how it may.” 
 
 “I am really very angry with Barbie for so much weakness 
 and want of faith. But when was this suspicion raised about your 
 brother ? ” 
 
 ^ “ Last night — not till last night ! ” And Silas Moore compressed 
 his lips. 
 
 “ Tell me.” 
 
 “ I had kept out in the fields till late,” he said, “ when, coming 
 along the fence of what we call ‘Broad Oak Piece,’ I heard two 
 voices on the other side. I should not have listened, for I knew that 
 they were the voices of Robert and Jonathan, but that the words I 
 accidentally caught roused my curiosity. So, presently, it was pretty 
 plain to me that Robert had agreed to marry the girl at once, pro- 
 vided Mrs. Bell would give up certain small fields that join our own 
 at Losely.” 
 
 “ Indeed ! And does it not occur to you that from this man 
 Jonathan come these Welton tales ?” 
 
 Silas started as though stung by a viper. “ Ay ! that’s it — the 
 thought crossed my mind. It can be no one else. Bven without 
 that, the man is becoming a perfect lord in the house, and more 
 master than Robert himself. Me he does not dare domineer over ; 
 nor can I guess how it has come about with respect to Robert — but 
 so it is.” 
 
 “ Community of evil, Mr. Silas, is mostly the key to a mystery of 
 this sort. I do not say it is go here, though such is the natural pre- 
 
102 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 sump^on. But be not over-hasty in these suspicions, for Robert is 
 your brother, and too often we misjudge in proportion as we mis- 
 understand. 
 
 “I did not here!” he said, fiercely; “I heard the words one by 
 one, and they sunk into my heart as never human words did afore, 
 Ilns morning I had well nigh stood face to face with Robert ; this 
 night 1 will; and he shall know that, come what may, Barbie shall 
 im\er be wife of his. ^ He Avas moving away as he spoke, for every- 
 thing even the habitual respect of his manner — Avas for<>’otten in 
 this moment of sullen and vindictiv^e an<mr. ^ 
 
 Miss Eliot saAv the movement, and arrested it, partly by layino- her 
 hand gently on his arm, partly by that extraordinary austerity of 
 command she could assume at Aviil. Be not rash, Silas ; as I say 
 again, the man is your brother, and, with anger such as this, govern- 
 ment of self is gone. 'No I Go home ; say nothing, but be watchful, 
 lor you may gather much from guiet observation ; and Avhen you can, 
 and as soon as you can, try again to see the girl; or rather, shall I 
 drive over to the place, and talk with her? ” 
 
 “ rd rather not,” he answered, doggedly ; “PH have no pleadings 
 for me, thank you. If she gives me up, she does, and there’s an eml 
 of it. I have got a place to lay my head, hard as things be ; for only 
 last Aveek I d a situation offered me for some months, as farm manager. 
 Or, what’s more likely — I shall go to perdition as fast as can be ; ^for 
 Barbie gone, all that the world held for me is gone — for the Lord 
 knows, there ain’t another lass in it I care for.” His bitter ao-ony 
 would have stricken him doAvn, but for the relief of tears — for here 
 they came, and he wept convulsively, like a little child. 
 
 Miss Eliot let the paroxysm have its sway, and when it Avas hushed, 
 she said firmly, “How, go home, Mr. Moore, and do nothino-, or say 
 nothing, but (juietly observe this Jonathan — for he is, I fear, a deeper 
 enemy than your brother. To-morrow, at latest, seek the girl again, 
 and one of our horses shall be at your disposal. When you have 
 seen her, let me be the first to learn the result, for I confess I am 
 uneasy about her.” 
 
 “ Ell ! Do you knoAV anything ? ” Avas the eager, jealous question. 
 
 She did ; but she Avould not tell him, though "she again proposed to 
 be mediator. But this Silas someAvhat peremptorily refused: and 
 then, Avith a sullen, but respectful manner, he bid the housekeeper 
 “ good night,” and went his way into the deepening shadoAvs which 
 now lay atliAvart the fields. 
 
 SoiTOAving, as many and many a one through all the gcinerations of . 
 humanity has sorrowed, that the happiness of the good'^and innocent 
 should be so often marred through the Avllful and malignant acts of 
 the wicked. Miss Eliot reached home. AVhen she had fetched the 
 little bird “ Goldie,” Avhose cage Lizzie had hung up in the great 
 rose-bush outside the parlour windoAvs, and Avhom someone had sup- 
 plied Avith cake and sugar in her absence, she came into the room 
 Avliere she had entertained her guests. A first glance given, she 
 hastily rang the bell, and old Peggy came. 
 
MAINSTONE’s HOtSEEEEPEIt. lOS 
 
 “Look round the room, Mrs. Giles, and see the effects of my hour’s 
 absence.” 
 
 The good soul put on her spectacles, and leisurely surveyed the 
 things, till she reached the airy muslin round the windows ; then, 
 unable to restrain her gathering indignation, she muttered, and 
 presently outspoke her wrath. 
 
 “To think of it! To think that some one’s been sitting right 
 wilfully into the muslin curtains — they so crisp and nice when the 
 ladies took tea, and now they’re like a crumped-up handkercher. 
 And the carpet littered, and the books meddled wi’, and the flowers 
 all pulled about and broken that you’d set out so nicely 
 
 “ And look at these, Peggy ! ” And Miss Eliot took from her 
 pretty work-basket some strips of fine cambric she had been 
 hemming, and some bands of fine linen she had been stitching, and 
 showed them all crumpled together — in parts torn, and in others cut 
 with the scissors. “ Keally, these annoyances are almost more than I 
 can bear — patient as I wish to be. But did you hear no one ? Who- 
 ever did it must have come down the front staircase.” 
 
 “I’m sure so, but it wasn’t Betty. She’s had some one above all 
 day, so ’Lisha says, for he saw a face against one of the back windows. 
 I was coming in to tell you this just as the ladies came ! This is 
 why, I suppose, she cooked such a grand dinner to-day ; and why — 
 but I don’t like telling you — it will so vex you.” 
 
 “ Pray, do. I am really prepared for anything which this woman 
 chooses to do.” 
 
 “Well, she carried off the dish of strawberries the ladies brought, 
 and which you bid ’Lisha take in for Mr. Badnor’s dessert, "lie 
 had set down the tray in the hall for an instant, and when he came 
 back the dish was gone.” 
 
 The housekeeper made no reply, though her face expressed both 
 surprise and vexation. 
 
 “ Don’t take on, miss. A little ironing ’ll make the curtains right 
 again. I’ll be here a bit earlier in the morning, and do them, and set 
 things straight. It’s no use being vexed. If Mr. Badnor chooses to 
 keep that woman here, like Job, we must expect troubles, 
 they’ll surely come.” 
 
 “ But I am doubtful, Peggy, whether it is quite right to suffer all 
 this. It is one thing to bear with her hourly insolence, and thefts of 
 all kinds — but it is quite another for me, as Mr. Badnor’s house- 
 keeper, to suffer her to have whom she pleases here ; particularly too, 
 when, aij I have reason to suspect, they’re of doubtful character. 
 He is a clergyman, and a man of lionour, and it is the strictest part 
 of my di ity to keep his name respectable, and the privacy of his house 
 sacred.” 
 
 “ I think so, missis ; but, of course, you know best. It’s only a 
 mighty pity that Mr. Badnor don't tell Betty at once to go — and 
 there’d be an end of it.” 
 
 “ So it would, but he does not so choose. This, however, only makes 
 it the more incumbent on me to assert my right as mistress of his home.” 
 
104 
 
 MAINSTONe’s IIOtSEKEEPER. 
 
 Ko more was said ; but, when Pegixy was gone for the night, Miss 
 Eliot held a long conference with Elisha — ^the result of which was 
 that the old man rose very early in the morning, and cleared out a 
 lower and upper room, which opened from the court-yard, at no 
 great distance from the kitchen. These occupied a gable of the large 
 quaint old house, and were yet perfectly distinct from it, haying been j 
 used as a laundry before the advent of Mrs. Jack, and the room 
 above being reached by a short staircase leading from that below. 
 When cleared and swept, Elisha set up a bedstead in the upper room, 
 and in the lower placed some other furniture. After breakfast, he 
 went forth for a little time ; and when he came back, it was with a ; 
 steady- looking athletic policeman, whose beat just then was round and ] 
 about Mainstone and the adjacent parishes. This personage Elisha 
 brought into the oak parlour, where his mistress sat, and informed her 
 that his name was Mullins. 
 
 “I do not wish you to act in your legal capacity, policeman,” 
 she said; “but simply to aid us in quietly removing this woman 
 from certain rooms in the house, to others prepared for her — my 
 reason being that she has persons up and down, of whom I do not 
 approve.” 
 
 “ You’re correct, ma’am. She has a Welton girl come to and fro, 
 whose character is, I understand, none of the best. The girl came 
 here in the dead of the night before last, and in company with a 
 man, who stayed but an hour or two. Through the day I learnt that 
 they’d come as far as Losely in a gig, and walked here.” 
 
 “ Indeed ! what sort of a man was he ? ” 
 
 “Short — stout — and wore a velveteen coat. He was probably 
 from the mining country.” 
 
 “ You do not know his name ? ” 
 
 “ Xo, ma’am. But I can inquire.’ 
 
 “Do so. It may be of considerable moment ; and if you seek in 
 the direction of a place which is, I am told, called Weldore Forge, 
 you will probably learn.” 
 
 “I will do so, ma’am.” 
 
 After some further conversation, the policeman, followed by Elisha, 
 Miss Eliot, and old Daniel, who was at the parsonage at work, as he 
 mostly was, proceeded together to the back staircase, which opened 
 from a passage near the kitchen. The door of this they expected 
 to find fastened, but to their good fortune it was not so, and they 
 proceeded at once up stairs, as gently as might be. Their coming was 
 overheard, but not till they had nearly reached the landing, and then 
 Betty presented herself. She was dressed in her best black-silk 
 gown, over it was a scarlet shawl, and she seemed otherwise pre- 
 paring to go out. 
 
 “ What is it you want here ? ” she asked, hoarsely and loudly. 
 
 “We’ll tell you, mistress, in a minute.” 
 
 And the policeman, pushing his way onward, passed through an 
 open door, from which streamed the rich, warm light of the early 
 pummer’s morning. It opened into a room covered by a handsome 
 
Mainstone's housekeeper. 
 
 105 
 
 carpet — long ago pui’loined from one of the sitting-rooms — its mantel- 
 shelf was heaped up with many articles of rare china— on its walls 
 hung sevMal small paintings of value, and the mass of furniture 
 crowded in showed what a wreck other portions of the house had 
 been made. Opening from it was another good-sized room, furnished 
 as a bed-room— the same as Miss Eliot had seen through another 
 door leading from the corridor, on the day of her first co'inino-— and 
 near this was a linen-room or closet. This Mrs. Jack had extempo- 
 rized into a kitchen. ^ 
 
 She had been attiring herself in the sitting-room, for a laro-e 
 dressing-glass had been brought from the bed-room, and now stood 
 upon a table beneath the lattice-casement. Near this, already dressed 
 in airy muslin, gaudy scarf and bonnet, sat a young woman, the one 
 Miss Ehot had observed in Welton, as already suspected. She had 
 the same insolent stare as then, and, without rising, watched boldly 
 what was taking place. ^ 
 
 “Some rooms, which were formerly used as a laundry, have been 
 prepared for you, Mrs. Jack, and thither I wish you to remove at 
 
 invading my sitting-room by means 
 of the front stairs— the complaints which Mr. Eadnor frequently 
 makes to Elisha, that his rest is unaccountably disturbed— your plan 
 of coming home at all hours of the night— and ymur reception of 
 persons here without my consent, and of whom I know nothiiio- ” 
 
 ''You know nothing?” she interrupted, insolently: “of “course 
 not. But they’re as good as you.” 
 
 “ Come, mistress,” spoke the policeman, firmly ; “don’t insult the 
 lady. You know that girl there,” pointing to Sarah, “ doesn’t bear 
 a very good name m Welton. So send her ofl’ and remove your thin-s 
 —It Will be best for you to do both peaceably.” ^ ° 
 
 “I won’t,” she said, hoarsely and fiercely ; “ Mr. Eadnor has never 
 yet dismissed me, and I am his servant and housekeeper still These 
 ire my rooms, and I’ll keep them, and do as I like in them.” ' 
 
 “ And I am equally resolved, Mrs. Jack, that you shall leave them 
 Do not press me too hard-Ainos, the tailor, in Welton, as well as 
 Beckbury, the postmaster, are ready to give evidence against you at 
 my moment ; indeed, are anxious to do so. But for hlr. Eadnor’s 
 IS well as your own sake, I W hitherto repressed this earnest wish 
 —still, do not tempt me too far.” wisn 
 
 “You’re excessively kind,” said the incubus, with mock gravity as 
 
 ,he dropped a low curtsey ; “you’re very kind. So you would prose- 
 f you d^’’^^ daren’t, 
 
 “Your threats against Mr. Eadnor are as disregarded as I know 
 hem to be powerless. Ihis I am not come here to discuss with you 
 ut simply to desire you to remove now, and at once, to the rooms 
 repared for you. As mistress of Mr. Eadnor’s household I “m 
 ■esponsible for its respectability.” ’ ^ 
 
 You’re so very respectable yourself are 
 ou . Well, we shall see. But where’s your authority ? ” ’ 
 
106 
 
 ^AlNSTONE^S HOUSEKEEPliit. 
 
 “ You shall soon see it. Daniel! fetch a strip of paper, and pens, 
 and ink from my writing-table.*’ 
 
 The old man obeyed, and the policeman and Elisha could but 
 admire the lady’s quiet and resolved demeanour, and the courage with 
 'which she kept her ground. 
 
 As she stood thus awaiting the old man’s return. Miss Eliot’s eyes 
 fell upon the young girl. There she sat, as when they had first 
 entered ; but her insolence of look was now more subdued — and when 
 the lady advanced towards her, which she did, she dropped her eyes 
 and turned her face away. As she did so, and her mass of rich hair 
 glistened in the sun — as the outline of her elegant figure was seen in 
 all its exceeding beauty — as the averting of lier eyes hid their cold, 
 cruel, and sensual expression, the housekeeper’s heart was touched 
 with unutterable pity. So youn^, so graceful, with a manner almost 
 distingue — what defects of organization must be hers — what a need of 
 education there must be — what principles must have been instilled— 
 if sinning and full of sin she really were ! All the tender pity of her 
 noble heart was deeply touched ; for she remembered what advan- 
 tages had been hers, and what, under similar circumstances, she 
 might herself have been — so in her lowest tones she said quietly : — 
 
 “ My girl, as you have come uninvited, I trust you will not repeat 
 your visit here. This is the staid and quiet home of an English 
 clergyman ; and as such, those who come and go must be staid in 
 manner and correct in morals.” 
 
 “ I did not want to come ! ” was the abrupt answer. In these 
 words, as in all else she said, there was an irritation of manner that 
 was most singular. 
 
 “ Then do not repeat it, and it will obviate any painful necessity 
 on my part. For, were Mr. Radnor’s honour not the first considera- 
 tion — which it is — I object to have the privacy of my rooms invaded, 
 and what they contain wantonly injured.” 
 
 The girl laughed. “You were annoyed, were you? Well, I am 
 spiteful enough to say I’m glad of it.” 
 
 “Indeed ! I am sorry for your possession of such a feeling. For 
 I never injured you^ and never saw you, till you stared so rudely into 
 the parlour windows of the inn at Welton.” 
 
 The girl laughed again — her old irritable laugh. “But I have seen 
 you and known you a long time, though not in the body as you are 
 now. Don’t you think |I cannot penetrate your thin disguise, though 
 nobody hereabouts may do so. Yes, I do, and I hate you. For 
 didn’t he thrust me away with scorn when I was not what 1 am now ? 
 And doesn’t he honour you ? Wouldn’t he die to serve you — 
 wouldn’t your lightest wish be law ? Wouldn’t he — if he more than 
 guessed that you were here — and he does already guess that it is you 
 — for none but you would do what you do for him — fall worshipping at 
 your feet, as few men worship Avomen ? Oh, God ! to be Avorthy, and 
 the object of such love ! ” Carried away by her vehemence, and a host 
 of hidden feelings, the girl, so lately laughing, hid her face and Avept, 
 whilst her quiet listener stood gazing and astonished. 
 
Mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 10 ? 
 
 “ Tliere, go/* slie added, presently, as she raised her face ; she 
 doesn’t guess it, and I don’t want her ; ” she evidently alluded to 
 .Mrs. Jack — “go ! I shall not be likely to come again.” 
 
 ' Whether true or not — whether the mere guess-work of an irascible 
 and jealous nature — Miss Eliot condescended to make no reply; but 
 ■ moving away with that haughty austerity of manner she could assume 
 at will, she hid whatever feelings were hers by inquiries relating to a 
 hot dispute, now carried on near the mantel-shelf, between Mrs. Jack, 
 Elisha, and the policeman. It related to divers jars, plates, and other 
 old porcelain rarities, and to some small pictures of worth. 
 
 “Why, ma’am,” answered Elisha, indignantly, “ she says these old 
 chany pots are hers. But they stood in master’s study many a day ; 
 and when he missed them she said she’d broken them ; but here they 
 are, and I don’t see they can be hers.” 
 
 “ Certainly not. Whatever Mrs. Jack removes must be in my 
 presence. But wait an instant ! ” Daniel stood with the pen, ink, 
 and paper sent for — so Miss Eliot wrote thus, and dispatched it by 
 the same hand : — 
 
 “ The housekeeper wishes to learn if she has Mr. Badnor’s 
 ; authority to act as her judgment thinks fit in a matter involving 
 the respectability of his household, and the honour of his name.” 
 
 The old man came back as quickly as he had gone, with this, 
 written in an unusually firm, large, and intelligible hand : — 
 
 ; 
 
 “ Whatever Mr. Radnor’s housekeeper considers right to do, will 
 undoubtedly be so. She has his fall authority for acting in what- 
 ever way she considers necessary.” 
 
 Miss Eliot read this, and then held the paper for Mrs. Jack’s 
 inspection, if she would. But the woman — who had turned deadly 
 pale—pushed it away with tremulous fingers. She was fully con- 
 • scious now that her power was gone, her reign over, her threats com- 
 paratively uncared for — though she afiected to still retain some secret 
 of weighty import. 
 
 “ Of course ; I knew how it would be — this has been all managed 
 beforehand, for he is such an old fool that a child might lead him. 
 iBut he shall yet rue the day that he turned an old and faithful 
 ‘Servant from his doors.” 
 
 “Mrs. Jack,” said Miss Eliot, “I await your decision. My time 
 -this morning is valuable. For your own sake I trust you will now 
 hasten and go in peace.” 
 
 “ Yes, I’ll go ; and in peace, too, as you call it — I’d go to day for 
 "good, but I haven’t yet got a home. The rooms below will do just 
 ^ as well as rooms above ; for I shall be here no longer — than to do 
 hvhat I’ve got to do. As to removing, that is soon done. As every- 
 , thing is claimed— well, let it be so. I’ll take nothing but the rags 
 I thmk few’ll dispute the ownership, for I go away a beggar ; 
 
108 MAINSTO^JE’s IIOrSEKEEPER. 
 
 thougli, when I came, I left as good a home in Welton as a body 
 need.” 
 
 Saying this, and calling the girl to her aid, she passed quickly to 
 and fro ; and thrusting divers articles of wearing apparel into two i 
 old boxes, locked them, and bid Daniel carry them to the place the ! 
 missis had ordered.” Then with a great show of virtuous indignation 
 she swept from the room, without deigning to turn even a parting I 
 glance on those who stood there. Once below, she surveyed the | 
 place allotted to her ; which, to say the truth, was much too good, and 
 much too nicely arranged — hurried as it had been done — for one so 
 utterly worthless ; and then locking the door, and taking the key, she 
 went her way across the fields towards Mainstone church. As those 
 left behind, especially Elisha, shrewdly suspected, the assumed 
 indignation only covered real chagrin, and the best of Mrs. Jack’s 
 worldly goods had been already removed. The surmise was correct. 
 Piecemeal, through the fortnight the housekeeper had been there, 
 goods of various kinds had been clandestinely removed ; for Mrs. 
 Jack foresaw the probability of a hasty dismissal from the up stairs 
 chambers, seeing that the conduct she determined to pursue could 
 but be followed by one indignant result. Her chagrin now was, that 
 this change of place had occurred some hours too soon for her pur- 
 pose. That very night the porcelain and pictures were to have been 
 removed; but, though thus saved for their rightful owner and 
 original place, the loss otherwise was great ; and it was not till long 
 after, when Mr. Radnor and his housekeeper conferred thereon, that 
 it was known to its full extent. 
 
 In the course of a few hours, the rooms were dismantled of all but 
 their largest articles of furniture, cleaned and locked up ; and, to 
 make all sure, Daniel and Elisha secured the casements from within, 
 and nailed up the door at the f()ot of the back stairs. The upper 
 rooms were thus safe from clandestine ingress, and so remained till 
 the autumn brought its changes. 
 
 As the hours wore on, the spirit of a blessed peace seemed to have 
 fallen on the old sunny parsonage. Peggy hummed at her work, as 
 she cooked and scrubbed, and went to and fro ; the old men-servants, 
 as they mowed the lawn, and trimmed the flower borders, chatted 
 merrily ; a poor old tabby cat — a favourite of its master, but which, 
 through the days of Mrs. Jack’s plenitude of rule, was rarely known 
 to face the kitchen, now came stealing in there with a tribe of well- 
 grown kittens in her train. Even poor timid Fleckie peeped and 
 stepped into the hall ; and the very peacocks, always self-satisfied, 
 and full of their own pompous glory, seemed on this day to have no 
 feather unlooked at by the sun. The housekeeper enjoyed this 
 blessed sense of rest and peace as much as any one. When her 
 morning duties were over she went down to a favourite place by the 
 brook-side, and read till dinner. Then the afternoon found her in 
 her pleasant parlour — from which most dutiful old Peggy had removed 
 all possible traces of the invasion of the over-night ; and when, as 
 the evening waned towards sun-set, and Elisha took in tea, his 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 109 
 
 mistress sat at needle-work in the rose-clad window which looked 
 away to the grand old woods that lay above the ruins of the great 
 abbey of St John’s. 
 
 When she had greatly sweetened Mr. Kadnor’s tea — a thing he 
 dearly loved — and Elisha was about to bear the cup away, she bid 
 him give her compliments to his master, and say that she would, with 
 his permission, copy out his sermon fully for the ensuing Sunday. 
 She had taken the liberty to do so portionally the previous week, and 
 she was glad it had facilitated delivery. 
 
 When Elisha entered the study, whither his master had returned 
 from the dining-room, he found him seated in his easy-chair, in a 
 deeply-abstracted mood. Taking no notice of this, as was his 
 custom, the old servant placed the tray on a little table beside him ; 
 and when this had aroused his attention, he delivered the message 
 with which he was charged. 
 
 “It is very good of her,” said Mr. Radnor, starting, as though 
 from a dream, but seeming in no way surprised — “ Please say the 
 sermon is not quite finished, but I will set to at once, and do so ; and 
 if you will come in at eight o’clock, or a little after, it shall be ready. 
 Add, that if the housekeeper can finish the copy to-night I shall be 
 glad ; and, if I am gone up stairs, which most likely I shall be by that 
 time, her leaving it here, upon the reading-desk, will be a further 
 favour.” 
 
 “Very well. Sir.” Then Elisha, who had, whilst he waited at 
 dinner, told his master of the morning’s removal, stopped when he 
 got near the door, and added diffidently, “ If you please. Sir, doesn’t 
 this evening seem a very pleasant one ? Isn’t the house as hushed as 
 a tired child ? ” 
 
 “Yes, Elisha; this is a hallowed day to us all.” 
 
 “ God bless you, Sir, it is ! If you could only see the kitchen — 
 what an altered place it is ! Old Peggy — she is a clean cre’tur — has 
 been having a grand clean-up, and the coppers and tins shine like 
 gold and silver, and the floor like glass. Then, Sir, if you could see 
 her in her parlour, amidst the crisp clear curtains and flowers, and 
 other niceties, you would think it a picture too.” 
 
 “ You like your mistress ? ” 
 
 “One can’t be off liking her. So generous, and kind, and 
 thoughtful. I really have a home now. Yet she’s mighty partik’lar 
 — will have things done properly, and to the time ; and she can be as 
 .grave and concise as a judge.” 
 
 ) “ Indeed ! ” 
 
 “ Yes, that she can. Sir. Then, as for business, I never saw her 
 like. Besides settling the last of the Welton business this morning, 
 she’s sold the grass off the two meadows below the brook for a good 
 price, to Jones, of Mainstone Low ; and Johnny Wigpit is to bring 
 L up his books as soon as you give leave.” 
 
 ^ “ This is all good news, Elisha, seeing what an unbusiness -like man 
 
 I am. But is the lady a reader ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, Sir, ?he reads a deal— and much of it ain’t English ; but 
 
MAINSTONE’s nOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 what it be, I can’t say. Then, as to letters — the number of ’em 
 puzzles me. She had nigh a score this morning, and I saw her lock 
 up sonie dozen answers in the post-bag.” 
 
 “It is very kind of a lady, so busy, to come and shed sun-dght on 
 a sad and lonely house, and lonelier man. Such charity must be done 
 for its own sake. But I suppose she is one Avho has seen much of the 
 world through a long life.” The casuistry of this question did not 
 escape even old Elisha, and he smiled to himself to see how eagerly 
 the answer was waited for. ° ^ 
 
 “ Dear no, Sir. Missis is young enough to be your daughter. 
 Leastways, she’s younger than she seems— for she wears a cap, or^vhat 
 Peggy calls an ornament of black lace ; and this, hanging low behind, 
 hides her brown hair. But this very afternoon I saw it^shine, as she 
 sat in the window-seat sewing.” 
 
 “ Sewing ? Does she sew ? ” 
 
 “A little, and Dorpas Wigpit took some of the work home 
 yesterday to^ help her. Peggy says she is making shirts — beautiful 
 line linen shirts, and that the strips old Betty tore were the cambric 
 frills.” 
 
 Mr. Eadnor making no rejoinder of any sort, old Elisha felt 
 he had said enough — so he went on, and left his master to his 
 dreams. They were resumed — for they were full of comfort to his 
 soul ! 
 
 That night, at the time named, Elisha brought in the crabbed and 
 half -illegible manuscript. His mistress had already adjourned to the 
 oak parlour. Here he found her in the great bay, her favourite place 
 for writing, and here he lit her lamp and left her to her duties. For 
 some subsequent hours she wrote, set right, amended, made clear 
 travestied sentences ; for, to say the truth, the Eev. Julius Radnor, 
 like too many others of his calling, wrote Greek and Latin with pro- 
 found scholarship, but his mother-tongue very indifferently. Sesqui- 
 pedalian words stood in place of honest Saxon monosyllables ; and too 
 often inflated and dreary ethics mystified the simple things of ever- 
 lasting truth. ^ So she wrote and wrote on through the still hours, 
 pausing sometimes to look at those mighty fires glaring skyward on the 
 dark horison ; and in silence and in grandeur aiding the preparative 
 work of a civilization truer, mightier, more honest, and outspoken 
 than our own. Because the childhood of generations, as of man, 
 cannot be correlative with the knowledge of eternal law. 
 
 It was 12 o’clock when her task was finished ; and not doubting for 
 a moment but Mr. Eadnor had retired, she left her lamp and went i 
 with the copied sermon to his study. Pausing for an instdnt, as she 
 opened the door she saw that all artificial light was gone — so step- 
 ping fearlessly to where she knew the writing-table stood, she laid i 
 the paper down. In the moment of doing so, she was conscious that : 
 Mr. Eadnor was seated in his chair ; for as the paper left her grasp, I 
 a hand was laid upon her own, and a voice said gently, entreatingly, | 
 appealingly: — 
 
 “ Charlotte — Charlotte — is it really you ? ” 
 
Ill 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 Was he awake — or sleeping, dreamt a fevered dream ? But as no 
 nswer came, as the hearer withdrawing her hand stepped quickly 
 nd lightly from the room, the voice might not have spoken lor any 
 3sult there was. But when the door was closed it said, as thouglx 
 oothingly to its own ear : — 
 
 “Yes — it was her little, soft, and tender hand — I have guided it 
 )0 often not to know. My darling child ! — my rare scholar ! — your 
 Id master, whom you used to call your Cicero, cannot forget his 
 ttle Tullia. My darling, for your sake I have been lonely — lor this 
 lany years ! ’* 
 
 Mr. Radnor had long gone up stairs, and still his housekeeper sat 
 all of thought amidst the cushions of the old bay-window. At 
 ist, aroused by some distant sound, she rose and prepared to go; 
 at as she did so, she became conscious that the sound had become 
 earer and more distinct, and was like the footsteps of some one moving 
 a the gravelled road outside the porch. Willing to ascertain who 
 Ihd what it was, she opened the casement gently, and, moving aside 
 Dme sprays of intervening foliage, saw indistinctly the outline of a 
 ian’s figure. He was nervously pacing to and fro, and looking up 
 nxiously at such casements as faced that way — seemed wavering 
 etween the wish of arousing those within the house, and the pro- 
 riety of waiting till a more fitting hour. 
 
 Startled — but judging who it was. Miss Eliot asked if it were 
 ' ilas Moore ? The answer was an affirmative — so, hastening to the 
 orch-door, she unbolted it and went without. As her lamp had 
 ong ago died down, it would have been useless to have brought it 
 ’ith her; but the very earliest signs of dawn now breaking in grey 
 fts along the dark mass of horizon to the east, she was just 
 aabled to distinguish his features. He came forward with a hurried 
 •:ep. 
 
 “ What is the matter, Mr. Moore ? ** she asked, anxiously, for she 
 aticipated ill news about Barbie. 
 
 ‘Nothing particular — nothing but what might have been ex- 
 ected,’* he said, in a low, muffled voice; “I am only going right 
 way, may be for ever, and as I thought to be miles off before your 
 ?g’lar time of rising, I took the liberty of coming to see if I could 
 ain sight of Elisha, and so send a message by him.^’ 
 
 “ To me ? What about ? What is the matter ? Is it concerning 
 arbie ? ” 
 
 “Don’t name her name, ma’am,” he said, with passionate vehe- 
 lence ; “ half my purpose in coming here is to warn you against 
 er. She is worthless — a lady, like you, can have nothing to say to 
 ich a lass — to such a hussy I should say, whose name, before a 
 1 lonth’s gone by, will be the talk in every ale-house the country 
 ound. I have done with her, God help me! — and the love witlx 
 Much I’ve loved her! — and His vengeance lie on those who have led 
 'er to be so false to an honest man ! ” 
 
 He spoke with such haste and mad vehemence, that there was no 
 iterposing a word between ; and when from sheer exhaustion he 
 
112 
 
 mainstone’s housekeepee. 
 
 could say no more, he kept moving to and fro with restless steps, 
 though quietude of voice and body^both at once would be death to hi 
 “I really do not understand you, Silas Moore,” replied the houi- 
 keeper, gravely ; “ men are at all times too ready in their belief of 
 woman’s worthlessness. As to Barbie Bell, she is, I fear, silly, alm( 
 to childishness, where her vanity is concerned; but otberwj 
 she is, I think, a good and modest girl, and truly fond of you.” 
 
 “ Fond ! ” and he laughed with wild bitterness ; “ if so, what is t 
 fondness worth, when she gives evening meetings, and, enterino*! 
 villain’s house, remains there through the night? I saw th"e 
 things with my own eyes, and no one can make me disbeliei 
 them ! ” ' 
 
 “ I will not attempt ; still, let me explain, for the girl is, I thin 
 the heedless victim of a plot so far as it has gone, but still spotle: 
 if means be taken to ” 
 
 “ Take what means you will, ma’am, but I have done with her f 
 ever. She is nothing more to me * 
 
 “Be it so, still let me explain. For this purpose, follow me in; 
 the kitchen ; there is a fire, as there always is through the nightJ 
 for here our voices may disturb Mr. Radnor.” I 
 
 She did not observe to him how stricken and ill he looked — ho| 
 the^ night dews hung in tiny beads about his hair. She only conj 
 plained of the chilliness in standing there in the dank raw mist of tl! 
 early dawn, and then led the way to the kitchen hearth, where orj 
 upheaval of the dead-looking fire made it burst at once into vivii 
 fiame and light. Here she made Silas sit down in what had be^ 
 Mrs. Jack’s easy chair; and when she had fetched him a glass ^ 
 wine from the buffet in the oak parlour, she stood by, and bid hi^ 
 tell her all. 
 
 It was soon done, for he was not diffuse, though passionate. Earl 
 in the day he had walked once more to Tylecote, to see the girl — bu 
 as before, had been refused aecess to the house. Lingering about, h 
 learnt, as the afternoon wore on, that she had set ofi' to Hallifor 
 through the woods. Thither he had followed her, and about eigl 
 o’clock in the evening he came sufficiently near to watch her whus 
 talking to a man wearing the dress of a country groom. They re 
 mained long together, and finally she followed him to a house in th 
 village hard by, though with great seeming reluctance, as Silas Moor 
 admitted. He remained watching through half the night, but Barbi 
 came thence no more. How fully assured of her utter worthlessnes 
 — for what modest girl would go to “ Doctor Greene’s ” house at S' 
 late an hour, and that to stay ? — he, as twelve o’clock struck, turne( 
 his face towards Mainstone, in bitter sorrow and anger, and with thi 
 resolve never to see the girl again. 
 
 “ Now, ma’am,” he said, austerely, “ forget her as utterly as 1 meai 
 
 to do. ^e her again ! I never shall, for ” 
 
 “ Before you utterly condemn Barbie, or think the worst of he: 
 conduct, let me acquaint you with a circumstance, which, perhaps 
 had I done rightly, you ought to have known before. But I fcarec 
 
mainstoxe’s housekeepek. 
 
 id or good is naught to me. 
 lie in my bosom as a wife. 
 
 r shall never see it again for wmen I have told Ttobert face to 
 
 •‘Mr. Moore” interrupted the houscKeeper, in that austeie tone of 
 mimaiid she could assume at will, “do not seek your brother with 
 ich feelings as are yours at present. Remember the old Scripture 
 ory of Cain and Abel, and refrain. Leave here, for a time— it may 
 •e best to do so ; go to the place where your services are asked. 
 
 'eep quiet till I write to you , t n •» 
 
 “Not of that girl— I want to hear naught. I tell ye so. 
 
 “Very well Mr. Moore; that matter is settled. lor the rest, 
 romise me not to go near your brother ; for, fimm what aiipcars 
 .) me there already e.xists enough ill-will in that liouseliold to 
 )reed hate, without adding fresh fuel to the smouldering fire.’ 
 
 ' “I must!” he said, gloomily; “I want He did not say 
 
 diat, but hesitated. . 
 
 r “If money, Silas Moore, let that be no necessity. A few poumis 
 ‘re at vour service; take them, and go; and, if my judgment is 
 orrecCyou will live to thank me. Go at once, and quietly ; leave 
 ne your address, and when I can I will send you word of something 
 
 hold in view for you.” i. 
 
 i It was only when she had reiterated her request many times that 
 ihe yo\in<r man assented. Not resting satisfied with this, she bound 
 , im by a^olemn promise ; and when this was given, and he rose to 
 ^ 0 she went and fetched her purse. He would not take more than 
 )wo pounds, and with this he departed. The housekeeper watched 
 Urn across the yard and bridge, and up into the misty fields beyond, 
 I'or the dawn was growing now. Just as he was passing out of Jiight, 
 
 ! nd she returning to the house, he called, and in a voice moie checixul 
 ^ nd expressive of assent than heretofore,-^ — 
 
 c “I will heed to the tittle, what you say, and God’s love go with 
 'ou, lady ! ” 
 
 i Waitino- till old Daniel oime, which he did shortly— for there was 
 ^iiuch outdoor work in progress— she sent him to call Elisha, and then 
 i.repare the gi^*. When this was ready, and she had told the old 
 ervant that she must go hastily to Ilalliford on a little errand con- 
 fcrninfT Barbie, they set ofi; the ever-willing old man driving her, whilst 
 3aniel° left in charge of the house, had due directions that Re^gy, 
 ^vhen she came, was to attend to Mr. Radnor s comfort, and inloim 
 lim that his housekeeper had been called away by a mission of duty, 
 
 • )ut would be back ere the day had closed. 
 
114 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 Passing through a break in the great moorland ridge of pits and 
 furnaces, they made gradual ascent towards the hilly country which 
 marks the Silurian district of this part of England. ^ To the west a 
 long sterile mountain range flanked the horizon ; whilst to the south, 
 led'away a more broken, cultivated, but not less hilly country. Even 
 some of these hills were sterile enough, having almost Alpine alti- 
 tude, whilst covered with hoary rocks and druidical remains. Others 
 were clad to their summits with stunted, wind-swept trees ; and many 
 more broke the surface of the ground— gave it shelter, and exceeding 
 beauty, and receding from each other, left space for quiet valleys, 
 rustic villages, green fields, and solitary farms. 
 
 A two hours’ rapid drive had brought them to a post-road, skirting 
 the foot of two hills famous in Romano-British story. Some way 
 above this, a lane, leading downwards into a valley to the left, came 
 in sight — and here Elisha stayed an instant. 
 
 “ That’s Halliford, ma’am,” he said, pointing to a pretty village, 
 lying peaceful amidst brooks and trees, lighted by the early sun ; 
 ‘‘ and now we must go slowly, for the way be steep till we reach the 
 bridge across the brook.” 
 
 So they descended the lane, cut downwards through the rock of the 
 valley’s side, and, following its windings, reached an old stone bridge 
 thrown across a wide and rapid mountain-brook ; and from thence 
 they began to ascend the gentle acclivity which led into the village. 
 But on the way Elisha stopped more than once, to let his mistress 
 admire the beautiful scene — to point out this and that spot of 
 interest, for he had been born somewhere here, and knew the country 
 •^vell — as also answer her inquiries relating to the great hill which lay 
 at the rear of the village, stretched away to other valleys, and they 
 again to the hills of Radnorshire. 
 
 It’s steep enough, you see ; and if you cross it, there is but one 
 way down into the village. Horse and man can only foot it, and that 
 not always, especially if it be frost and winter weather. ^ Look, missis, 
 there’s some one coming down it now, if my eyes don’t deceive me. 
 That dark line, worn by winter rains, and running up the green turf, 
 is the path ; and if you look towards the top, you’ll see better with 
 your young eyes than I can.” 
 
 She looked, and could distinguish a man leading a horse carefully 
 down the steep descent. She could not well make out either dress or 
 features, for the path lay in the morning shadows ; but she fancied it 
 was a gentleman. 
 
 “ Where does that path lead from, Elisha ? ” 
 
 “ Well, missis, from a gooil many places. You can come that way 
 from Mainstone and parts beyond, if you like. It would ha’ been 
 two miles nearer for us than by the road we’ve come ; but then only 
 man and horse can travel iu” 
 
 “ How long does the descent take ? ” 
 
 “ Pretty nigh half-an-hour, 1 should reckon.” 
 
 ‘‘Well, go on, it is but a little distance into the village. Set me 
 down at the entrance, and Wiit.” 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 115 
 
 “Very well, missis; but the mill’s hard bj, and, with your leave, 
 I’ll step in the while, and see old John Grinder, the master. For two- 
 score years he’s been a friend of mine.” 
 
 Lest it should lead Elisha to suspect the motives of her visit to 
 Halliford, Miss Eliot did not inquire of him the way to the surgeon’s 
 house, but staying a farm-labourer, who was driving some cows towards 
 the brook, asked what was needful. 
 
 “There it be,” he said, pointing to a stone-built, one-storied 
 cottage, standing on an acclivity by which went the road to the 
 ancient church. “ You must knock loud, and if no one come, you 
 must go round the corner to the surgery door. Ay ! you must knock 
 loud there too, for it’s too early tor old Kettle yet; and maybe, 
 if Mr. Grayson be at home — he’s a sort o’ chap to be buried in his 
 books, and won’t hear, unless you knock like thunder. He’s going 
 to Lunnun this autumn, to be made a reg’lar doctor on — so the 
 old missis says — and that’s just why he sticks at his books like a 
 bur.” 
 
 Ascending by a narrow path to this little road above the village; 
 Miss Eliot opened the wicket of the palings running in front of the 
 cottage, and knocked long and loud ; but though the little diamond- 
 paned casements on either side shook, and the luxuriant monthly 
 rose-tree responded by the nodding of its thousand blooms, no one 
 answered. She then went round the corner of the house, and so to 
 another door. Her first gentle knock was unheard ; then, attracted 
 by what seemed the sudden flaring up of a spent candle, she looked 
 through a small adjacent window, and saw within a rough sort of 
 surgery. It opened direct from a rude farm-house kitchen, yet lying 
 in the dull grey shadows of the morning, and its tables littered with 
 the cider mugs and platters of the last night’s meal. 
 
 The surgery had a counter and shelves filled with medicine bottles ; 
 there were books on another shelf, and on pegs in a corner hung 
 coats, hats, and whips. It was a thorough bachelor’s room — with a 
 pipe here, a glass there, amidst books and newspapers, gloves, and 
 other things. 
 
 The dying and unheeded candle stood upon a small table drawn 
 near a pleasant window, looking gardenward ; and by this sat the 
 gentleman Miss Eliot had seen on horseback in Losely. He was 
 absorbed in some book before him, and it was quite evident that the 
 last shadows of night had passed into the first light of morning 
 without his heeding it ; but he was aroused the moment she tapped 
 upon the other window, and, rising hastily, came and opened it. 
 
 “ Did you want me ? ” he asked, with courtesy, as his abstracted 
 look passed into one of evident curiosity. 
 
 “Yes — you’re Mr. Grayson, I think! I want to learn if a girl 
 named Barbie Bell is in the house ? ” 
 
 “Not that I am aware of,” he said, flushing red ; “I am not always 
 acquainted with those it contains ; but on this occasion I think I am 
 alone. Mr. Greene is not here ; it is too early yet for the old woman 
 who washes and cooks ; and William, the groom, I could not find, 
 8—2 
 
116 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 when I came home from a long and tedious surgical case, at two thia 
 morning.” 
 
 “ Perhaps you will look. I have certain information that the gin 
 is here ! — she was watched into the house between eight and nine 
 o’clock last evening, and at twelve o’clock she had not come forth. I 
 am the housekeeper at Mainstone Rectory, and I wish to save her, if 
 it be not too late.” 
 
 The surgeon’s face flushed still more deeply than before. With a 
 great show of respect he admitted the lady into the surgery, and then 
 bidding her follow, led her across the dreary-looking kitchen, from 
 thence'^into a little passage leading from the front door, and so into a 
 well-furnished parlour, where supper on the previous night had been 
 laid for two, but which remained untasted. 
 
 “ Mr. Greene is at least expected,” he said, as he pointed to the 
 table; “and this with company.” He then bid her wait, and 
 ascending a staircase from the little passage, searched what were 
 probably"^ bed-chambers lying over the lower rooms, but equally in 
 vain. 
 
 “ No one seems to have been up stairs through the night,” he said. 
 “ But there is still a further place where I can look. It is accessible 
 from a distant part of the garden, and another door from the granary 
 leads into it — but of this latter I have not the key.” 
 
 Speaking thus, and retracing his steps rapidly through the kitchen, 
 Mr. Grayson led Miss Eliot into a kind of paved court-way behind 
 the house, from thence into a wide-extending garden ; at the flir end 
 of which was a solitary-looking orchard, lying sombre in the morning 
 shadows of the great hill. Here stood a barn and some detached out- 
 houses. Passing round a gable, much hidden in orchard foliage, he 
 pushed aside the dank, rank, grass, ascended a few stone steps, 
 and, leaning sideways, looked through a casement that was near. 
 Presently he descended to where Miss Eliot stood. 
 
 “ There is so little light yet within the room, that I can scarcely 
 distinguish one object from another. But I think I see some one 
 crouched asleep, by a heap of empty sacks. If you’ll wait an instant 
 I’ll return to the house, and see if I can find the key. If what I see 
 is correct, there has been a long and desperate effort made to get 
 throu<>-h the window, as pieces of brick-work and mortar lie scattered 
 abouAhe sill. But the iron bars set in the frame-work are far too 
 strong for a woman’s hand to move.” 
 
 “ But she could have called,” said Miss Eliot. 
 
 “ With little chance of being heard by night. Most sounds ascend 
 the hill and are lost, and the lane which Vies at the end of the orchard 
 leads only to a ford and outlying fields, and at night is rarely 
 traversed.” 
 
 When Mr. Grayson had hurried away. Miss Eliot went up the 
 moss-covered steps, but she found the distance from the topmost one 
 to the window too far for her to reach. Standing, therefore, listening 
 and anxiously waiting, she heard someone ride into the yard behind 
 the house, and, shortly afterwards, the unlocking of a door. Quick 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 117 
 
 steps then came up a flight of wooden stairs, crossed! some long 
 adjacent chamber, then another door was unlocked, and those who 
 came were so close at hand, that Miss Eliot could hear them speak, 
 though not distinguish their words. Refraining from knocking, she 
 anxiously awaited Mr. Grayson’s return, for every minute seemed an 
 hour, till she could rescue the weak and silly girl from the contami- 
 nating influence of her worthless tempter. But he had aroused her 
 before the key had ceme; and now weeping and entreating. Barbie 
 could be distinctly heard, moving back step by step, and standing at 
 bay beside the door. 
 
 “ Oh, let me go. Sir ! For what will aunt say — what will mother 
 say ? I did not mean this — I’m sure I didn’t ! William had no right 
 to tell stories to 
 
 “ He only told a story, darling Barbie, for my sake — for me to make 
 sure of all this beauty and ” 
 
 “ Let me alone. Sir — let me go ! ” 
 
 “Not after stopping here all night — it will be of little use to go — 
 for ” 
 
 “It will! — it will! — it shall! — I was silly to talk to you at 
 all — to listen to you — but Jonathan said Silas , wasn’t true, and 
 always after Welton girls, and I was jealous like — but I love Silas, 
 and—” 
 
 He stayed her words — not liking, perhaps, to hear them — then 
 came fresh struggles, and tears, and entreaties to be set free ; but 
 these were only answered by such olden wiles and words as have 
 wrought In this world more human woe than all other words and arts 
 beside. To strengthen these he urged that, having been away from 
 home throughout the night, her ruin, as far as the world’s opinion, 
 was already accomplished. 
 
 “But William said you could not leave the house, and so would 
 speak to me in the garden-walk — then he led me up here, and, pushing 
 me in, locked the door, and ” 
 
 “Never mind. Barbie.” 
 
 But she did mind, and entreated, and prayed, and wept again; 
 though even from what could be fitfully overheard, it might be 
 judged how the stronger and wickeder would have his way. So there 
 was no hope for Barbie, had not the good angel of her life stood so 
 near. 
 
 With lips compressed and bloodless, with that look of austerity 
 and command so eminently hers, when its use was needed. Miss Eliot 
 stood there as Mr. Grayson brought the key. She took it without a 
 word, tried to turn it in the lock, but it needed a stronger hand, so he 
 came up the steps. 
 
 “ Make haste ! — let me go in — every moment is of consequence ! ” 
 
 So when the door was pushed open, she boldly entered, and stood 
 face to face with this dissolute man, whilst the girl, still resisting, 
 tried faintly to get free. It was the bird in the fowler’s net, with no 
 hope for her — but that this good angel of her life already touched her 
 hand. 
 
118 
 
 MAlNSfONE^S HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 “ Mr. Greene, it is a pity that one bearing the name of gentleman 
 should be so base ! Barbie ! I am shocked at you ! ’* 
 
 “ Oh, save me — save me — let me go ! ’* 
 
 He in his mortification and surprise loosening his grasp — she in her 
 mad vehemence struggling to get free, accomplished her purpose ; 
 and clinging to her true, good friend, strove for an instant with a wild 
 paroxpm of mingled terror, grief, joy, and shame, and then would 
 have fallen down insensible, but that the younger surgeon raised her 
 up, bore her from the chamber into the garden, and so across it to 
 the house and to the surgery. 
 
 Following her thither — for Mr. Greene had quitted the chamber 
 — almost before the girl could be borne away. Miss Eliot found 
 Barbie lying stretched on an old settee beside the surgery window, 
 slowly recovering; whilst Mr. Grayson, standing near, was gathering 
 together the books and papers which strewed the table. ^ 
 
 “ She is better,” he said, gently ; “ though, for recovery, she must 
 have some days perfect rest and quiet — and I advise that you take 
 her from here at once.” 
 
 “I will, and she shall go with me direct to the parsonage; for I 
 fear the influence over her at home is a very bad one. I lilvewise 
 think that it is very scandalous of Mr. Greene, knowing that she is 
 respectable — the only child of a widowed mother, and engaged as the 
 wife of a worthy man, to thus entrap her for the mere purpose of her 
 ruin. I am more indignant than I can well express ! ” 
 
 ‘‘And very justly. I have seen much that has been far from 
 reputable since I have been here, and this case is the worst. I have 
 already told Mr. Greene that I should at once leave him were 
 such circumstances to again occur, and now I shall do so without 
 delay.” 
 
 “As far as principle goes, f your resolution is both wise and good. 
 But, if over haste should injure your prospects, why 
 
 “ That is no matter, madam,” he sternly interrupted ; “ Mr. Greene 
 and I have more than once seriously differed, and this discreditable 
 matter brings things to a climax. Some few patients are distinctly 
 mine ; to be near them I shall try and find a home in Losely till the 
 autumn. Then I go to London for a time, and when I return it will 
 be to permanently settle in some central village of this district 
 — Broofiiow, 1 think, for a house that would suit me would be then 
 vacant.” 
 
 “ Indeed, I am really glad of this. You know the Whitelocks, I 
 suppose — they are excellent friends of mine.” 
 
 “ I know the elder sister.” 
 
 “ Then leaving the subject abruptly, as Miss Eliot thought, the 
 surgeon busied himself afresh with the young girl’s recovery; and 
 when it was so far advanced that she could recognize the lady he 
 went in search of Elisha and the chaise. 
 
 When it came. Barbie was wrapped up in a warm shawl, and placed 
 in a recumbent position beside the old servant, whilst Miss Eliot sat 
 behmd4 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 119 
 
 *^For tlie giiTs sake,” she said, in a low voice, as she shook the 
 surgeon by the hand, “you will, if ^possible, conceal what has 
 occurred ; for she is saved, and may yet be a good man’s wife, 
 though, till I see something like true repentance for such worthless 
 folly, I shall hold out no hope of reconciliation. And ifj when you 
 are near Mainstone, you will call and see how we progress, I shall 
 be glad.” 
 
 “ I will. I may have business of another kind to consult you upon 
 at some future date.” 
 
 Saying this he made his grave adieu, and the chaise went on its 
 way. 
 
 They drove to Mainstone as rapidly as possible, and reached there 
 before the day was much advanced towards noon. During the drive 
 Barbie continued very ill, often insensible, and more than once they 
 stayed by some running spring to bathe her lips and forehead. Once 
 at the parsonage, old Elisha bore her up stairs in his arms, and Miss 
 Eliot saw her to bed in a room contiguous to her own, gave her the 
 medicine Mr. Grayson had prepared, and did not leave her till great 
 prostration had lapsed into profound sleep. 
 
 So Barbie slept till evening. Then, when Miss Eliot stole into the 
 room, she was better — perfectly conscious, and full of penitence and 
 tears. 
 
 “We must not talk of these things. Barbie,” said the lady, gravely, 
 “till you are well again. Then, if you show real penitence for your 
 folly and sin, I may forgive you. But you must make expiation, as 
 all who wilfully sin should ; and till you show me by good behaviour, 
 by remaining contentedly here, that you do regret the past, 1 utterly 
 forbid all mention of Silas Moore ; for," present, you are unworthy 
 of so good a man.” ^ 
 
 
120 
 
 MA1^'ST0^'E'S HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 FACE TO FACE. 
 
 lyAithiE's abrcnce from tlie lioracstead wlierc her aunt dAvelt created 
 little surprise, and led to no immediate inquiries, for it was known 
 that she was a spoilt child, indulged and thwarted bv turns, and it 
 was conjectured that at the prompting of some sudden whim, or 
 urged by Silas Moore, whom she might have met, she had returned 
 home to her mother. It was, therefore, not till Elisha had fetched 
 Mrs. Bell up to the parsonage that same evening, and she had been 
 for some minutes with Miss Eliot, that she learnt how her child had 
 been saved, and was, at that moment, safe under the lady s care. 
 
 “I’m sure I don’t know what could ha’ led Barbie to be so foolish 
 as to enter that man’s doors” — half cried, half spoke the weak but 
 kindly-hearted woman — “for she know’d the sort o’ name he holds 
 the country wide, and when I let her laugh and joke wi' him a bit in 
 our houseplace, I meant it to go no further. As to Robert Moore, it 
 wur his own will and deed he came after her, though I ain’t far wrong 
 in thinking it’s been the bit o’ land more than the lass that were the 
 temptation. Jonathan wur agin the master’s coming, though ” 
 
 “ I really cannot think,” interrupted Miss Eliot, “ what this man— 
 this mere common waggoner — can have to do with the alhiirs of the 
 Moore family. He seems to exercise unlimited power ; and with one 
 result at least, if there is none worse— that of setting strife between 
 them.” 
 
 “Well! their affairs be none o’ mine,” was the evasive reply; 
 “ though Robert be, to my thinking, better for Barbie than t'other. 
 He’s a'^good bit older, to be sure, but then he’ll have all the money, 
 and that’s summat now o’ days — and it would ha’ been better for 
 Barbie to be missis at the Farm than in a poor man’s cottage. I 
 don’t like Silas ; I never did — a proud spirit such as his, and an empty 
 purse don’t do together. And what Joi’.alliau and t’others tell 
 me on about him and Welton girls don’t please me. that t'a don't.” 
 
 “Certainly not, were it true, but it is not. i\!y ovni opinion of 
 Silas Moore is an excellent one. I think Him an 1.‘ ndsf, worthy, and 
 upright man, and deeply and sincerely attached to b. i< . As to his 
 poverty, I think you make a mistake ; the old graiah.a' 'rer dis- 
 tinctly in my hearing, that by-and-by he would be due 1 l; 
 saving ways.” 
 
 “ Ay ! she may say so, but the truth goes the foil, r a'.'.*/. She’j 
 made a will, and left Robert every acre and penny! and tliis be from 
 ■them that know. But whether or not. Barbie shan't wi’ my consent 
 . put on a marriage ring of Silas IMoore’s giving.” 
 
 “ She will not have Die opportunity, I fear,” said Miss Eliot, aus- 
 
MAiNSTONE S HOUSEICEEPEU. 
 
 m 
 
 terely. “ Silas has gone some distance from here ; and after what has 
 occurred, I certainly think Barbie unworthy of him — at least, till she 
 has shown, by real sorrow and penitence, her regret for the past.” 
 
 “She shall ha’ no need to regret him,” spoke the mother with 
 ignorant asperity — “ I got a pound i’ my pocket for her, and there’s 
 the houseplace lor her as there’s always been.” 
 
 “ From which, if you really love your child, you will let me keep 
 her for a time, till this cloud has passed over — for guard its secret as 
 we will, others may not be so careful. Indeed, to speak candidly, you 
 have unsettled her enough by what has already occurred, and if she 
 return the evil can only be increased. She docs not like Bobert 
 JMoore ; he is cold, calculating, and old enough to be her father ; and 
 to attempt to force her into marriage with such a man is not only a 
 crime, but one, I ani earnestly sure, you would live to regret. Let 
 Barbie remain here ; she has done very wrong, and her subjection to 
 one who knows her error, and the ruin .spared, will serve her through 
 many a year of after-life. And none more readily than I will acknow- 
 ledge amendment when it is deserved.” 
 
 “Well, I’ll see what Barbie says;” and with this the good woman 
 followed the lady to the girl’s room. There she left them together ; 
 and when, some hours after, the former returned, it was in quite 
 another spirit. Touched by what Barbie had imparted, more so by 
 her pale and stricken looks and real indisposition, and thoroughly 
 conscious now of the ruin from which she had been rescued, her 
 asperity had vanished, and her gratitude was very sincere. 
 
 “ To think of the villain and his plot! Well, he shall never darken 
 my door again ! As to Barbie, she may keep here a bit, ma’am if you 
 so please, for she wishes it, as she’s mighty fond of you ! Though I 
 shall miss her sadly. But if she gets better, I don’t care ; and so I 
 thank you, and only wish it was by a better way than words.” 
 
 “ Let her follow her own virtuous inclination, and keep her from 
 those whose pleasure would be to corrupt her, and you reward me 
 sufficiently.” 
 
 So the matter was thus settled, and Barbie’s mother went ; and in a 
 few days. Barbie herself, sincerely sorry and subdued, was sufficiently 
 recovered to go, like a good spirit, about the house — and proved, as 
 heretofore, the most dutiful as she was the freshest and fairest, of 
 little handmaids. But though she never recurred to the subject, or 
 uttered one word of reproof. Miss Eliot made her feel, by distant 
 manner and concise command, that her error was not yet redeemed, 
 and that probation was necessary. Of Silas Moore no word was ever 
 spoken. 
 
 Thus the sun of a still more blessed peace shone within the old 
 chambers of Mainstone parsonage. 
 
 It would have been perfect, had not Mrs. Jack still come to and fro. 
 As yet there seemed no chance of her dismissal; and raids upon the 
 hen-roost, pantry, dairy, as well as garden, and kitchen squabbles 
 between her and Peggy, and Elisha, were still continuous. 
 
 Kichard Wenlock had called at the parsonage one noon when both 
 Elisha and his mistress were out, so that nothing, as yet, had been 
 
122 
 
 MAINSTONE’s HOtSEffiEEPER. 
 
 done about the new plough, though Mr. Radnor had made inquiries 
 more than once concerning the same. 
 
 He therefore came again; and one morning as Miss Eliot sat 
 writing in the oak parlour, Elisha announced, and ushered in a very 
 tall, stout, heculean-framed man — this was the engineer and agricul- 
 tural mechanist from Horton Wood. His manner was simple, 
 easy, and perfectly unaffected; and his speech concise, almost to a 
 fault. 
 
 When they had conversed some minutes, Miss Eliot apologized as 
 it were, for what might seem an interference in a matter beyond her 
 province of duty. 
 
 “ But Mr. Radnor delegates all business matters to me, at least 
 
 for the present; and I have, therefore, no resource but to act to* the 
 best of my judgment.” 
 
 “Were there more of this action in the world, provided woman’s 
 judgment were cultivated, there would be much gain.” He said 
 this in his dry somewhat grim way — but he spoke well, though with a 
 rough provincial accent. He was a man incapable of gloss, or a 
 single affectation, as might be felt and known. You looked into his 
 grave and thoughtful face, and saw there the expression of truth 
 — rigid, earnest truth — and that that which the lips spoke, that the 
 soul believed. 
 
 “ I am glad that your opinions are so liberal towards woman. It 
 shows that the noble books I saw in your parlour have been pro- 
 ductive of worthy fruit. Now, as to the plough ; all I can say, Mr. 
 Wenlock, is, let it be of the latest and most improved kind. There 
 is but small chance of error in running cmrrently on in directions such 
 as these.” 
 
 “ The principal is strictly correct, at least, here.” 
 
 “ I am sure of it. Thus, having spoken of the plough, it appears 
 to me that much might be done for the land it will have to till. From 
 some account books which Mr. Radnor had sent in to me to look over, 
 I see that the average production has gradually failed for many suc- 
 cessive years ; and, as his income suffers thereby, something should be 
 done. As far as I can judge the land itself seems excellent.” 
 
 “ It is some of the finest in the county, and was included anciently 
 in the inlying pastures of the Abbey of St. John’s. Drainage, manur- 
 ing, and a judicious routine of crops, would, in the course of two or 
 three years, quadruple the produce.” 
 
 “ It shall be done, then. For the truth is, Mr. Wenlock, my busi- 
 ness here is to do as much as possible towards the improvement of 
 Mr. Radnor’s ch’cumstances. I act simply as the agent of his friends, 
 who could only meet his singular idiosyncrasy by the employment of 
 indirect means. They mourned over his circumstances, his absolute 
 ruin, as I may truly say; but as he had again and again refused all direct 
 methods of amelioration — as so much domestic detail was involved, 
 and as a woman was alone likely to dive into all the mysteries of his 
 servant’s flagrant mismanagement— they were kind enough to appoint 
 me to the duty involved. I may, therefore, as you see, act as respects 
 the land, os well as regards the household.*’ 
 
mainstone’s hotjsekeeeeh. 
 
 123 
 
 Slie waited for him to reply; but as he did not, and knowing not 
 yet what a silent man he was, she raised her face to look, for it had 
 en bent down in its earnestness, and then she saw that his gaze was 
 :cd intently on her. There was, however, no perplexity, as obser- 
 tion of another met and changed it — but if motives were innocent, 
 e logic was not at fault. Thou^t was as clearly making its own 
 duction as to what was truth, as though the fact were written and 
 aced before the one observed. 
 
 “ If I knew how to make a commencement — if I could find any- 
 •e with knowledge enough to take the whole matter in hand — the 
 st would be comparatively easy.” 
 
 “ It would, if Mr. Eadnor had not to be referred to.” 
 
 “ Certainly not. His friends are the ultimatum, not himself.” 
 
 “And they are liberal, and funds sufficient? ” 
 
 “ On both points I can give a strong affirmative.” 
 
 “ Then much may be done. Only were Mr. Eadnor to be a referee 
 1 any given point, and at such time as it were necessary to consult 
 m, one of his fits of hypochondriacism afflicted him, one might wait a 
 relvemonth for an answer. Of .course, this would not do.” 
 
 “ He would have nothing to do with the matter. From what he 
 rites to me, and from what Elisha tells me, he is perfectly satisfied 
 ith my domestic rule, and would be simply ^xilhng, I daresay, to leave 
 I other matters in my hands.” 
 
 “In this case, and with sufficient funds, there is everything to hope, 
 here lives in Welton a man named Dawson, who is a first-rate geo- 
 gist and agricultural chemist, and one whom the farmers about here 
 •eatly consult. I will speak to him if you like, and come with him 
 •me morning and look over the land. When he had given his opinion, 
 would be easy to hire a good practical working bailiff, and begin 
 iprovements at once. Or the whole land might be let under an im- 
 .’ovement lease, if Mr. Eadnor’s consent could be obtained.” 
 
 - “No; I would rather proceed slowly, and hold matters in my own 
 mds, under the care of an able servant. Besides, the amount of 
 Tes is but small, though augmented by gifts from several holders of 
 le living ; and it would please me to think that, if improvement were 
 ► arise, I had some share in it. So if you will go over the land with 
 le person you name, any remuneration you wish shall be yours.” 
 “For myself I speak disinterestedly — for I am not a practical 
 ^riculturist, though I know a good deal of the theory. As to an 
 pinion, every honest man ought to give it freely. If you like, 
 will walk over the land with you now — it will not take long.” 
 
 ; She said she should ; so, rising to go up stairs to put on her bonnet, 
 le gave him a book to look at meanwhile — opening it as she did so, 
 'id laying her finger on a certain page. The book had then been 
 ^ily recently published, and was one of those which are a mark and 
 ' figure in their age — a sign upon the mountain-peaks of Time — of, 
 diich men in after-days descry the mighty influence. 
 
 ' When she returned, which was presently, he laid down the book* 
 “Do you like the passage pointed out, Mr. Wenlock?” 
 
124 
 
 MAINSTOXE’s HOUSEREEtEB. 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ I fancied you would, from wliat I saw of your own books. li 
 opinions are quite to my taste — enlarged, liberal, bold.” 
 
 “ So they are to mine.” 
 
 This was all that was said. As they crossed the courtyard to th 
 bridge, Elisha was called to attend upon his mistress, and togetho 
 they proceeded to the sunny fields. Here, for full an hour, the 
 traversed fallow, pasture, arable; and the Horton Wood mechanis 
 plodding on ahead, examined soil, scanned hedgerows, pulled weed; 
 traced watercourses, measured levels, and stood often for whol 
 minutes in deep meditation. Then, quite curtly, he said, this mus 
 be done, the other must be done, this and the other plan followed — an 
 all this with a brief simplicity which was remarkable. Alike conversan 
 as it seemed, with botany, geology, chemistry, meteorology, with scien 
 tific agriculture as a whole, he placed this and that necessity togethc 
 with logical precision, and stated possible results with as much clearnes 
 as though he read them from a book. Yet words were few, thougl 
 paramount. He crossed the breadth of fields without breaking silence 
 and he left to Elisha the task of assisting his mistress over the stiles am 
 rough places. He was by no means what is called “ a lady’s man ; ” f o 
 two-thirds of the way he walked across those sunny fields, he forgot 
 probably, that a woman was present. Yet in his manner there wa 
 nothing brutish or clownish; when courtesy was required, there i 
 was, simple and unaffected. And in his manner towards the house 
 keeper, particularly as their acquaintance grew, there was the defer 
 ence of a servant to a much-honoured mistress. 
 
 “ I will see Dawson,” he said, as they returned to the courtyard 
 and he mounted his horse, “ and come over with him soon.” 
 
 “Do so, and remember me to the old lady, Mrs. Wenlock.” 
 
 “ I did not like to speak of it he said, a little hesitatingly 
 
 “ but she begged to be respectfully men'ioned to you.” 
 
 “ Thank you. She was very kind and hospitable.” 
 
 “ She is not often so,” he added grimly, as a half-satiric smile flittc( 
 across his strong and manly countenance ; but she was greatly takei 
 with your suavity. So that any time you will rest by our fire, or breal 
 our bread on your way to Welton, she will be glad.” He did not sa} 
 he should be glad — though, perhaps, he meant so. 
 
 “I will not forget to call, Ivir. Wenlock, when opportunity permits.’ 
 As she said so he lifted his hat, and was about to move away, but she 
 held out her hand. 
 
 He took it as a servant would take that of a highly-honoured mis- 
 tress — covered it with his hand rather than shook it — and as the 
 great half -swart fingers encompassed it, as a rough sea-shell its 
 pearl, she felt that every fibre trembled. Then, as it left his, he rode 
 away. 
 
 “ He’s a mighty clever man — isn’t he, missis ? ” said Elisha, as he 
 watched the rider towards the white gate. 
 
 “Very, Elisha,” was the concise answer; and his mistress went 
 indoors 
 
 
 
?.iainstone's housekeeper. 
 
 125 
 
 [n spite of Ills liypocliondrlacism, which, to say the truth, was lessen- 
 ^ day by day, as clouds in the presence of a genial sun, Mr. Radnor 
 1 become latterly very fond of a quiet gossip with Elisha on 
 nestic topics. It generally took place while the old servant waited 
 dinner ; and in this way it led to a new bond of service, asked and 
 derly performed, between the quaint gentleman and his house- 
 
 • • • 
 
 aiisha relating such events of the morning as discretion rendered fit 
 Uiis master’s ear, talked cf the land and what Richard W enlock had 
 
 There, Elisha, there,” interrupted Mr. Radnor, somewhat 
 .'uptly; “I don’t wan^ to hear more of the subject, for it is one 
 m quite willing to defer to the control of others. But — but — at 
 • at hour does your mistress dine ? ” 
 
 If you please. Sir— if you please. Sir—” and Elisha’s embarrassment 
 s so great, that he stopped short and said no more. 
 
 ‘ What, Elisha ? ” and Mr. Radnor looked round impatiently. 
 
 .‘‘Why, Sir, maybe I ought not to tell you what’s the real truth. 
 [it missis. Sir— that’s to say generally, don’t dine till you have had 
 ^iirs. Old Peo-gy warms it up a bit, and that just does — for she’s 
 •i contentedesriittle cre’tur about eating and drinking as ever was. 
 hem days that she’s going out, or the ladies from Brooklow arc 
 ining over to see her, she has dinner earlier — but it ain’t often. As 
 ' thelvitchen— things are mended a deal there — and me, and Peggy, 
 ■d Barbie, have as comfortable a home as servants ever had — missis 
 ver forgets us'' 
 
 The old servant spoke the last pronoun with great emphasis— as, 
 •ectly or tacitly, he was always impressing upon his master’s mind, 
 e obvious contrast between the present and former domestic 
 le. 
 
 “ Barbie ? ” said Mr. Radnor, enquiringly. 
 
 “Yes, Sir, Mrs. Bell’s daughter. She that lives at the ‘ Brown lien’ 
 ^ the Losely Road. Missis never said a word about it ; but from 
 hat I hear, and there’s a deal o’ talk the country wide, the poor lass got 
 to some trouble with that Greene, the doctor — and so^ she brought 
 'r here, and very tidy and useful the girl is. As to missis she follows 
 r about just as the peacocks or Fleckie do you. Sir ! ” 
 
 ‘ “ Ah ! i should think as much 1 ” 
 
 Mlaving made this rejoinder, Mr. Radnor W££ for some time silent, 
 t length he said : — 
 
 “ At tea-time, Elisha, I will have a note prepared for your mistress, 
 hien what I shall request in it is put in force, mind you always carry 
 '■ the best fruit for her table. It can’t be long now, I suppose, till 
 e early nectarines on the south wall are fit ? ” 
 
 I “ In about ten days. Sir.” 
 
 “ Then let them be for the housekeeper.” 
 
 When Elisha that evening carried in his master’s tea, he returned 
 ^ith this note to his mistress : — 
 
 “Mr. Radnor has heard incidentally of the present arrangement of 
 
126 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. ’ 
 
 dinner, as regards himself and his housekeeper. It would save trouhh 
 as well as be more agreeable to him, if henceforth tlie housekeepe 
 would dine at Mr. Radnor’s hour ; have the table laid in her owi 
 room, carve, and send in his dinner, as she is good enough to do tej 
 Mr. Radnor is already gratefully obliged to his housekeeper’s skilful 
 ness of rule, and this alteration will add further to existing obli^a 
 tions.” ° 
 
 ^ Miss Eliot read, smiled, said nothing. That day, Mr. Radnor hn< 
 his dinner carved and sent in — even to the early strawberries of hi 
 dessert — a tender hand laid them on the plate. 
 
 A week or two had gone by, when one afternoon, just as the oL 
 ser^^i^Tt bad placed the rich-hued nectarines on his mistress’s tabic 
 there cair j a loud ring at the porch door. Answering it, Elisha, afte 
 some minutes absence, brought in a card, on which was engraved th 
 “Rev. John Walcot, Brooklow Rectory,” and immediately after ther 
 entered the same tall and dark-hued man Miss Eliot had met on th 
 day of her first visit to the Whitelocks’ home. 
 
 Regarding her probably as a mere servant, he glanced round with 
 curiosity which left nothing in the room unscanned, and, walkin; 
 towards one of the distant windows, turned and faced her whilst h 
 spoke : — 
 
 “ Mr. Radnor’s housekeeper, I think.” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 She had risen as he came in ; but now seeing the way he meant t 
 treat her, she reseated herself when she had rung for Elisha, an« 
 resumed her task of preparing Mr. Radnor’s dessert. 
 
 “I have seen your master, and he refers me to you, as to som 
 papers relating to a highway which divides our respectiv 
 parishes; but I can speak'to old Wigpit. Have you been her 
 long ? ” 
 
 She did not answer this last impertinent question; but said 
 quietly : — 
 
 “If Mr. Walcot will give me the name of what he requires, I wil 
 look for them, as Mr. 'Radnor sent me in a mass of papers the othe 
 day.” 
 
 “ ISTo ; I will speak to Wigpit. Have you been here long ? ” 
 
 “ Not very.” 
 
 “ Where did you come from ? ” 
 
 “ Mr. Radnor’s friends are aware. Beyond that I think I am no 
 called upon to answer questions.” 
 
 “ Certainly not. If there is necessity for the concealment of s( 
 simple a thing, I am the last to enquire.” 
 
 Without taking notice of this answer. Miss Eliot put the faircs 
 nectarines on the plate ; and, this ready, the old servant carried i' 
 away. During these processes the stranger still kept standing, ant 
 watching the housekeeper. 
 
 “My friend Radnor has, I see, a very thoughtful housekeeper 
 May I ask you your name ? Is it Mrs. or Miss ? ” 
 
 “ I am called Miss Eliot.” 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 127 
 
 “Well, Miss Eliot, some enquiries have been addressed to me con- 
 cerning your position here. This is why I ask what may otherwise 
 seem impertinent.” 
 
 “ I can refer you to Mr. Simeon at Oxford. This is all I am called 
 upon to say.” 
 
 The stranger made no direct answer, but, drawing a chair to the 
 table, sat down. He was bent upon scrutiny, she saw, and she was 
 resolved to baffle him. 
 
 “ Mr. Walcot, if a resident in this neighbourhood, should be aware 
 that Mr. Radnor’s late servant is a woman of sufficiently malicious 
 character to set evil reports afloat of those who, she may fancy, have 
 injured her, or who stand in her way. For the rest, 1 do not con- 
 sider that I am called upon to answer why I am here, and who I am, 
 or that Mr. Radnor should be explicit as to why he chooses to employ 
 one servant instead of another.” 
 
 “ Servant ? ” he questioned, with a smile. 
 
 “Mr. Walcot at least treats me as one, and addresses me as 
 one.” 
 
 “ I forgot for the instant what I had heard and now see. Servants 
 do not usually pay their master’s debts, copy his sermons, or read his 
 books ; neither have they the breeding and education of gentlemen 
 and gentlewomen.” 
 
 She flushed a little, but, without answering, stripped a cherry from 
 its stalk. 
 
 “If I have been in error, you must pardon me. As to the 
 papers I first spoke of, I will take them. Can they be readily 
 ■found?” ^ ^ 
 
 “If you will summon the servant, ho shall fetch the packet from 
 the oak parlour.” 
 
 He obeyed her at once, though his manner in first entering the 
 iroom had been one so expressive of insolent contempt. When 
 Elisha brought the papers, his mistress quietly looked them over, as 
 though no watchful stranger were present. During this process, he 
 ihad risen, paced the room up and down, examined the watch she had 
 laid on the mantel-shelf, the needlework in its tiny basket, the miscel- 
 laneous books scattered here and there. 
 
 “Do you read German?” he asked, as, stopping in his restles* 
 walk, he came near, 
 r “ Yes.” 
 
 “ Speak it ? ” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 He seemed about to ask further questions, but she rose, placed 
 dhe papers he needed on the table before him, and rung the bell. 
 
 “ I will not ask you to remain further, as I have business to 
 I occupy me ; and what more you wish to learn can be answered by 
 Mr. Radnor’s clerk.” 
 
 He was about to speak as he held out his hand; but, affecting not 
 :o see it, she moved to the low window, passed out into the garden 
 md there remained a time, ’ 
 
128 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 When slie came back Mr. Walcot was gone. 
 
 To the long continuous spring and summer weather there suc- 
 ceeded a week of cold and rain. The grass in the fields and orchard, 
 the flowers and shrubs in the garden, drooped saturated towards the 
 earth ; thick rain-clouds hid all presence of the sun — and gloom, and 
 damp, and torpor seemed present within as without the house. To 
 dissipate these, fires were lighted, &nd none burnt more brightly than 
 that in Mr. Radnor’s study; but, in spite of this, his old hypo- 
 chondriacism had returned, and Elisha’s reports from day to day gave 
 sadness to his thoughtful housekeeper. 
 
 One morning, when this downright rain had lasted full a week, the 
 sun cleared its way through the heavy vapoury clouds, and, shining 
 with short- lived brightness, dried up the fields and garden paths, and 
 invited all within the house abroad. Early in the day Miss Eliot 
 walked over to a farm where she had business to transact ; and Mr. 
 Radnor, after visiting his favourite flower-beds, paced up and down 
 his sunny terrace with Peri and Pearl as his loving escort. Then 
 came the dinner-hour, and after it Elisha rode off to Welton, 
 where he had divers household missions to fulfil ; and Barbie, whose 
 mother had been far from well, went home to spend some hours. 
 Miss Eliot was thus alone in the house with old Peggy and Mr. 
 
 Radnor. , , • 
 
 As the afternoon wore on, and the housekeeper la}^ resting on the 
 sofa, old Peggy came to say that she needed to go home for awhile, 
 as a well-to°"do relative had come from a distance, and wanted to 
 
 see her. • i i 
 
 “ Go, Peggy,” said Miss Eliot, “ and don’t hurij back, or, indeed, 
 come down the hill again to-day. Barbie will return early, I 
 
 daresay.” , 
 
 “ But what will you do at tea-time, or if master rings his bell ? ” 
 
 “ Mr. Radnor rarely does so at this time of day, so we 11 take 
 the chances, Peggy. If he should, I can try and find Daniel ; and as 
 for tea, we can have it an hour later.” ^ 
 
 So the good soul went, and the house was profoundly still. Pre- 
 suming that Mr. Radnor was in his study, Miss Eliot, as she passed 
 on he^way up stairs on some et-rand, locked the porch-door, the door 
 intervening between the hall aaid the kitchen, and put the bolt on 
 that which led out beside the green-house into , the garden— as, lu 
 case Mr. Radnor needed to pass, be could put back the bolt then as 
 at other times. These precautions were neither unwise nor unneces- 
 sary ; for though Betty Jack had been absent from Mainstone 
 now 'for some days, it v/as never known at what hour she might 
 return, or upon what point her next raid might be directed. Little 
 in the abstract she feared this woman. Miss Eliot felt always some 
 Heaviness of heart concerning her. 
 
 As the afternoon wore on, a fresh storm gathered, and m a little 
 while burst forth. For an hour it rained inctessantly— and when this 
 grew less, premature night had set in. Here and there a patch o 
 wanin^ light flecked the horizon, or a flash of exhausted liglitnin^J 
 
MAINSTONE’S housekeeper. 129 
 
 «£„S z 
 
 ring shJk th.°p"'rct.d“or S?" w“„dtrin? X"?«J|d‘'’b^ 
 
 as Barbie would not return in such a storm Micjc Pii' ^ -p ^ 
 
 saturated ^ forwards with 
 
 “No, Sir— it is your housekeeper.” 
 
 dripping hat, went*Jlow1y^up°stahr but, hanging up his 
 
 “He must have a fire,” she said to herself “nnr? p* 
 comes to this at last. I must face him, ^Lhe^VKl’ oJ 
 
 lighted fCpew^oVsomrJera^ from°a^Lket hald by'^^i 
 his chair beside it, and his study-gown and Snerf^ by placed 
 
 itudy-door. ^ P ^ ® them to the 
 
 in t rf '*“<'• “■* '»«■>» i »t to he said 
 
 ...» tenths ”“’ “■ “6“ “• "hadow/nrSl 
 
 “ Is it the housekeeper ^ ** 
 
 “Yes, Sir.” ^ 
 
 ' “ And your name is Eliot ? ” 
 
 “I am called so.” 
 
 9 
 
130 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 ‘‘If I preferred to call you by a Christian name, would you object ? 
 It would be easier to me — it might make my nervousness on our first 
 acquaintance less, because I have been accustomed to call those 
 around me by familiar names ; and should like to so call you, because 
 of being so indebted to your incomparable service.” ^ 
 
 “Cei^ainly, if you please; what name would you like to call 
 me ? ” 
 
 “Charlotte, if you will permit me. It was the name of a very 
 dear pupil, who has -long forgotten, I fear, her Roger Ascham.” 
 
 “Indeed, Sir! Well! as a name makes little difference, you can 
 call me Charlotte.” 
 
 “ Thank you— thank you, very heartily The privilege lessens at 
 once my despotic nervousness.” 
 
 “ I am glad of it. Sir. Anything which lessens that is a gain. 
 Now, will you take your tea? I am going. When you need me, 
 you have but to ring.” 
 
 “ Going ! What for ? Where ? ” 
 
 “ To my own tea-table in the oak-parlour.” 
 
 “Cannot you bring your cups and saucers here, and sit with 
 me?” 
 
 “ If you please.” 
 
 “Of course I please; there can be no harm in it. I am old 
 enough to be your father.” Then, after a pause, “I have always 
 intended this, as soon as the ice of our first acquaintance was broken; 
 and now it is, we will begin our domestic life at once. Now, 
 will you come away from the back of my chair, round to the fire ? ” 
 He repeated this a time or two — at length a little impatiently, 
 though without turning round to look — for she stayed to draw the 
 black lace of her head-dress more fully over her abundant hair. At 
 last she came round the table, and stood sideways to him in the glow 
 of the fire. For the first moment he affected not to look at her, 
 though it was plain to see he did so furtively and indirectly. Then 
 he looked up more fully, scanned her, and seemed satisfied. A deep 
 peace hushed at once the nervous, anxious perturbation marked in his 
 countenance. 
 
 “ Charlotte, will you fetch in your cups, and light the lamp ? ” 
 
 She obeyed without speaking ; and, fetching the tea-things and her 
 own lamp, lighted it. 
 
 When this was done, and she had drawn a chair to the table and 
 sat down, Mr. Radnor unfolded a large newspaper, and held ii 
 towards her. 
 
 “ Will you hold up this sheet, and see if there is an advertisement 
 at the top of the page ? ” and he named some trivial circumstance tc 
 which it referred. 
 
 She obeyed, and read it to him. 
 
 His o-aze was fixed upon her wrist and arm all the time ; but if he 
 sought for any sign by which he might make his recognition sure, i 
 was° in vain ; for his sight was dim, and a neat muslin sleeve wa. 
 buttoned tight around, 
 
mainstone’s housekeepeb. 
 
 131 
 
 That will do — now let us proceed with tea.” 
 
 He scarcely spoke another word during the light refection, thoiio-h 
 " accepting what she offered him with brief thanks. ^ 
 
 When tea was over, she set the things aside, and made as thouo'h 
 , to go. 
 
 “ Can’t you stay, Charlotte ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly, if you please.” 
 
 “ Do, and read to me. Here is a quarterly, with a good theolorrical 
 article.” ° 
 
 He opened the book at a certain page, and handed it to her. So 
 she reseated herself, and read, very quietly and unfalteringly, con- 
 sidering that his gaze never left her countenance. At last she 
 stumbled, as it were, and broke the English sentence. 
 
 “ Why have you done that ? You have skipped a sentence out of 
 ’ Calvin’s ‘ Institutio Keligionis Christianas.’ ” 
 
 “ I am not erudite, Mr. Radnor.” 
 
 “ Never mind. Read what you have before you, and I will foro-ive 
 false quantities.” 
 
 ^ She read a little falteringly, and so onward to the Eno'lish. 
 
 “Stay a moment. You want practice; but you"^ read almost 
 p as well as my little Tullia would surely do. Go on, I am listenino-.” 
 
 1 
 
 L CHAPTER Vin. 
 
 THE GRANARY STAIRS. 
 
 C 
 
 As respected his housekeeper, Mr. Radnor’s hypochondriacism 
 lessened gradually from that evening of their first interview. Pie was 
 shy, quiet, a little reserved, and this was all. Henceforth, at his own 
 request, they dined, took tea, and occasionally spent the evening 
 together ; but he purposely as it seemed, avoided all topics of a con- 
 fidential nature — rarely spoke of Mr. Simeon, scarcely above once or 
 so of Mrs. Jack ; and yet it was pretty evident that he watched with 
 anxious, if covert solicitude, every act and look of the stranger who 
 [ ruled his home. That he suspected her to be other than she pro- 
 fessed, he gave sufficient evidence by the limitless confidence he 
 ^ reposed in her, and by the footing of equality on which they met ; 
 
 but that he knew her to be the niece of his old friend, Dr. Waldo, 
 
 1 1 he gave no sign. He treated her as a somewhat reserved lather 
 9—2 
 
132 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 miglit an elder daughter — watched for her, asked for her, deputed her 
 to do this and that, yet otherwise said little, but, like a man who had 
 suddenly realized some passionately-longed for and yet impossible 
 dream, enjoyed in silence whilst he might, lest by inquiry, or any 
 demonstration, his blessed vision, his good fairy, might vanish from 
 his hearth. 
 
 Fine weather succeeded the week of storms. Mr. Radnor kept 
 much out of doors, traversed his favourite terrace up and down, 
 caressed his pets, and even ventured by degrees as far as the poultry 
 yard — having first ascertained, by quiet inquiry from Elisha, whether 
 Mrs. Jack were at home or not. But happily she kept much away — 
 or at least ostensibly so ; for though not seen in the body by any of 
 the household, her recent visitations were none the less a palpable 
 fact. A missing slice of four or five pounds’ weight out of a flitch 
 of bacon, some score eggs, or the absence of that morning’s newly- 
 churned butter, were the signs that the brownie had paid a flitting 
 visit. It was rumoured that she had taken a cottage in what was 
 called Thornhill Chase — a solitary woodland spot, not far from the 
 hall ; but if she had, she kept possession of her rooms at the 
 parsonage. When people least suspected, she was in them; fre- 
 quently all through the night a candle burnt ; then for several days 
 all would be still and dark ; and then the next thing would be — when 
 nobody in the least expected — she could be heard moving to and fro, 
 and this not always as though she were alone. On one or more occa- 
 sions, she came as if to renew her permanent residence — entered the 
 kitchen, gave orders which nobody attended to, attempted to hector 
 with her old degree of vigour, went hither and thither with an utterly 
 absurd show of authority ; but her day of power was gone — the hand 
 of rule was too firm for her to move ; and thus, with all her insolent 
 and ignorant sphit of bravado, with all her threats of divulging some 
 fatal secrets belonging to the poor gentleman she had so long victim- 
 ized, she could not face the quiet contempt with which she was 
 treated, or the scorn in which she was held. She therefore fell 
 back upon the practice of the brownie arts aforesaid — the robbing 
 of henroosts, the despoiling of dairy and larder, the stripping of 
 orchard and garden. 
 
 On more than one occasion — till she found the utter inutility of so 
 doing — Miss Eliot made complaint to Mr. Radnor ; but the conversa- 
 tion generally began and ended thus : — 
 
 “Mr. Radnor, I am sorry to have again to make complaint of 
 Mrs. Jack ! but her conduct this morning was very bad.” i 
 
 Mr. Radnor, quickly: — “I regret this — I did hope that good 
 Betty would have seen that obedience is the better part.” 
 
 “ Obedience, Mr. Radnor ! ” is the somewhat indignant reply — 
 “it is absurd to expect obedience or truth from such a woman. 
 But I do not refer to a matter of this sort at present; but to 
 her wholesale purloinings from the larder — a leg of lamb, some 
 patties 
 
 Mr. Radnor, again quickly : — “ I am sorry to hear this — but per« 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 133 
 
 liaps tlie pool* woman wanted a little change of diet. Kow, will you 
 just put another lump of sugar in this tea? ” 
 
 The tea is sugared, but the attack is renewed. 
 
 “ Mr. Kadnor, sentimentalism must be put aside — we must speak of 
 this woman— she must be fully and finally dismissed.” 
 
 “No, no— for God’s sake,' Charlotte, do not speak of her to-night 
 — do not shadow this sunny hour — recollect what for years my life 
 has been.” 
 
 “ Because I do recollect this— because I forget nothing, Mr. Kadnor 
 — we must speak of this woman. She must be dismissed, or I must 
 go.” ^ 
 
 “ No, I cannot spare you. Miss Eliot. Charlotte, where should I 
 look for a housekeeper ? But let us dismiss this subject to-night. It 
 is^ a very painful one— its sorrow is that of others rather than 
 mine.” 
 
 “If so, then you at least, Mr. Kadnor, should be spared from 
 suffering. Many wounds in this life must be cured— even though 
 it be painful so to do. We must cauterize often before we can 
 heal.” 
 
 “ I know it — I know it ; but I cannot dismiss fear or make revela- 
 tions just at present. Spare me to-night — let us speak of somethin«* 
 else, I beseech you ! ” ° 
 
 She smiles at his weakness— at his utter want of faith in himself 
 and others ; but she obeys him, seeing the earnestness of his entreaty 
 — and so the subject is for the present dropped. 
 
 But though thus temporarily foileC on a very important point in 
 relation to household comfort and well-being, and seeing clearly that 
 nothing could reasonably be expected from Mr, Kadnor’s wavering 
 imbecility— courageous on paper or in certain moods, but hopelessly 
 weak, as far as experience had yet gone, when brought to face any 
 appeal relating to the household incubus — Miss Eliot proceeded 
 firmly, and in perfect self-reliance, in respect to all other matters. 
 In the interval which had now elapsed since Kichard Wenlock’s first 
 visit to Mainstone parsonage, the housekeeper had seen him again 
 and again. Dawson from Welton had been over the land— liad 
 given his advice, and written out a plan of consecutive operation ; 
 and, through his recommendation, a bailiff had been hired, who 
 now, for the past fortnight, had been a lodger at the Giles’s cottage 
 up the hill. Thus everything went onwards progressively and 
 well. 
 
 On several occasions^ Elisha had driven her to Welton ; and, on 
 this early autumn morning, she had gone again, on business of various 
 kinds. Mr. Kadnor, waited upon by Barbie, to whose presence he 
 was now in some degree accustomed, dined at an early hour ; and, 
 "whilst his little rose-bud of a waiting-maid cleared away, he inquired 
 at what hour her mistress would be back. 
 
 “ By your usual tea hour. Sir, I think.” 
 
 “ Very good — excellent. Tell Peggy to make a cake.” 
 
 “ Please, Sir, she has. Miss Eliot ordered that eyery thing should 
 
134 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 be ready by seven o’clock, as she is going to spend the evening in the 
 green parlour and read to you.” 
 
 A little flush suffused Mr. Eadnor’s scholar-like face ; he bent his 
 head meditatively, and said, as though to himself, “ Charlotte won’t 
 have dined— what can be done ? ” 
 
 Barbie was half-way across the room ; but, stopping short with a 
 tray in her hand,^ she said, half-archly 
 
 Miss Eliot will not need more than tea, Sir; for she’s to stop, on 
 her way^ back at Horton Wood, and take an early cup with old Mrs. 
 
 4i Eichard Wenlock’s mother ? ” 
 
 . ‘‘ ^o. Sir his aunt. A durous old body to most folks, but miohty 
 kind to Miss Eliot.” ^ o J 
 
 “And Eichard Wenlock’s often here — Isn’t he ? ” 
 
 “^Yes, Sir; but it’s mostly to speak to Jordan, the new bailifl*. He 
 don t often see Miss Eliot; and when he does, he scarcely says six 
 words, folks in these parts say, he’s a quick brain, but a slow 
 tongue. But he’s mighty clever — it was said in our house the t’other 
 day that the farming engines he’s making for Squire Breere are 
 wonderful things, and may put back in his pocket more pounds than 
 the Squire up at Mainstone has robbed him of.” 
 
 Indeed! And this was Mr. Eadnor’s only reply, as his head 
 sank, and he lapsed into silence. 
 
 By-and-bye he rose, and went forth into the garden ; and there, 
 after ^me meditative pacing up and down, he looked round for his 
 pets. Peri and Pearl, and even Eleckie. But latterly they had all 
 three in association taken to preen themselves on one or other of the 
 oak-parlour windows, which looked garden-ward — a thing never 
 known in Jack-days; and there they were now perched, in full enjoy- 
 ment of the rich, warm glory of the afternoon. Pie therefore fetched 
 some barley, and coming to where they were, scattered it on the 
 window-ledges, and caressed them as he paced a few short steps to 
 and fro. As he did this, his gaze fell within the room, and, attracted 
 by its altered state as far as he could see, he pushed one of the case- 
 ments a little wider open, and looked within. Hewly carpeted — the 
 carved paneling varnished — the buflet doors on their hinges — many 
 articles of modern furniture set about— plenty of books, paper, work 
 and gathered flowers filling the various tables — the place looked as 
 though changed by the hand of a necromancer. A small table, placed 
 near one of the casements, and therefore more palpable to his imper- 
 fect sight, arrested his attention ; for on it lay more than one heap of 
 various-sized books. Beaching within, he examined them severally by 
 the aid of his glass. They consisted principally of translations of 
 philosophic Grerman books, and English books of physiology and 
 scientific medicine, together with a few of pure science. In some 
 four or five of these was written — “Eichard AYenlock, Engineer, 
 Horton Wood ; ” in others was no name at all. As he replaced the 
 last with nervous fingers, he overthrew a small adjacent pile of folded 
 linen, which, being scattered about in separate parts, showed a tiny 
 
135 
 
 mainstone’s housekeepee. 
 
 line of black on each. A near view proved them to be newly-made 
 oocket-handkerchiefs for himself, of the finest cambric ; for his name 
 fn full “Julius Radnor” — was written on each, with number and 
 
 : He setrit^ht the little heap, drew the casement doss again, and, 
 forn-etting all about his pets, went slowly to the house, and up stairs 
 to his chamber. At seven o’clock, when his housekeeper returned, 
 and descended to the pretty green parlour, where tea was laid ready, 
 Mr. Radnor was nowhere to be seen — -he was neither in the garden 
 nor in his study ; and Barbie and Daniel, when questioned, had not 
 seen “the master” go out; so Elisha was summoned from the 
 
 harness-room. ^ 
 
 “ May be, missis,” said the old man, meditatively, something s so 
 happened as to give him a desperate low fit. If to be so, he s gone 
 up to his room, and there he’ll keep till morning, ten to one. it s 
 iust his old way— only I can’t see what he has now-a-days to tret 
 him, unless it be that that old witch, Betty, has been threatening him 
 with the bishop, and I don’t know what.” ^ 
 
 “Well, go up stairs, Elisha, and ascertain. If Mr. Badnor is there, 
 present my compliments, and say that I am quite prepared to read to 
 him this evening, and that tea awaits.” 
 
 After some minutes’ absence, Elisha returned. ^ 
 
 “ Yes, missis, he is in one of his very desperate fits o’ lowness, and 
 I can’t find out the reason why ; for Barbie says that he was as 
 cheerful as could be when he came into dinner. He won’t let me 
 into the room, nor come down, nor have tea. All I have to do is to 
 bid Barbie and Peggy wait nicely upon you, and carry up his jug of 
 toast and water at nine o’clock. This is all he will say, missis 
 all ! ” 
 
 “ He hasn’t seen Mrs. Jack during our absence ? ” 
 
 “ Not that I can hear. Daniel tells me that it’s all true about her 
 taking that old tumble-down cottage in the Chase — for there she is, 
 and the girl, Sarah, with her ; and, more than that, she s pretty thick 
 up at the hall with old Pomp, the val-let. Margery won’t like this ; 
 for she can’t abide Betty, as she, and a good many more, know that 
 when two such as them put their heads together, no good can 
 
 come on’t.” . . ^ ^ 
 
 Miss Eliot looked up somewhat surprised, for Elisha hitherto had 
 been singularly reticent of all matters connected with IMainstone Hall. 
 Taking no notice, however, she spoke again of Mr. Radnor’s sudden 
 and unaccountable fit of despondency. 
 
 . “ It may be, missis,” replied Elisha, “ that he’s called upon to go 
 
 one of his myster’ous little journeys again. Or p’raps he’s worritmg 
 about a letter he seems to have been expecting for several days. He 
 seemed vexed when he did not find it this morning, and he asked me 
 , if you had one from Oxford.” 
 
 “ Indeed ! I suppose Mr. Radnor expects an answer to one he 
 wrote some days since. W ell, it may be here to-morrow. 
 
 This was all that was said ; though, like her master, the house- 
 
136 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 keeper sank into a lengthened reverie as the evening waned 
 away. 
 
 If Mr. Kadnor’s unexpected fit of gloom grew out of so trivial a 
 thing as the delay of a letter for a few hours, there was one in the 
 household whose heart must have been sad indeed, for a similar dis- 
 appointment had now been extended through a period of several 
 weeks. This was Barbie. She did not expect that Silas Moore 
 would write to her individually, for she knew that his anger was very 
 deep, if not irreconcilable ! but she did anticipate, or at least hope, 
 that some letter from him would reach Miss Eliot, and from her she 
 might gather, however indirectly, such few words as would serve to 
 lessen the intense anxiety she began to feel regarding him. But no 
 letter — as far as she knew — came, and Miss Eliot never mentioned 
 the young man’s name. Indeed, as before said, her manner was cold 
 and reserved towards Barbie ; but the probation was accepted with a 
 patience and sweet gentleness which proved the real worthiness of the 
 girl’s natural character, and touched the heart of her tender mistress 
 more often than would have been suspected. 
 
 Partly by coaxing, partly by little deft arts of management, in 
 which Barbie excelled, old Elisha, who looked upon her as a favourite 
 child, had been persuaded to let her carry in the post-bag each 
 morning to her mistress. Thus, lingering about the table till it was 
 opened, and the letters dispersed, she could generally, by a glance, 
 ascertain if any handwriting like that of Silas Moore was amongst 
 the rest. But morning after morning went by, and nothing lil^e° it 
 was to be seen. 
 
 On that in question, the letter expected by Mr. Radnor arrived, 
 and one in the same handwriting, and sealed in the same way, was 
 amongst those adressed to Miss Eliot. Once or twice each week she 
 received one precisely similar ; but instead of reading it as it fell to 
 hand, as she usually did, she sought for it, and read it eagerly. 
 Whilst absorbed in its contents. Barbie looked for Mr. Radnor’s 
 letters and newspapers, and, gathering them together, gave them to 
 Elisha, who was attending to his master in the study. But she as 
 quickly returned, for she knew that one of the letters on the table 
 was from Silas Moore ; and, busying herself in little feigned ministra- 
 tions about the room, watched her mistress with anxious eagerness. 
 At length, when the housekeeper had read her letters, and returned 
 to the first with a look in which pride and sorrow were mingled, she 
 incidentally looked up, and there Barbie, pale as death, stood just 
 before her. 
 
 “ What is the matter. Barbie ? — what has happened ? ” 
 
 She did not answer till the question was repeated. 
 
 “ Please to forgive me, ma’am, but if you’ve heard from Silas, will 
 you tell me ? ” 
 
 “You recognised his handwriting, did you? Yes, he has written 
 in answer to a letter of mine, but he does not mention you in any 
 way.” 
 
 “ Does not talk of coming ? ” 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 137 
 
 “ Certainly not. He has had too much sorrow here, I think, to 
 wish to return.” 
 
 “Will you please let me write, ma’am? I can do so clearly 
 now, since you have improved me, and tell him how sorry I am, and 
 Low ” 
 
 “I think to do so would be premature, Barbie, if not wholly 
 useless. Besides, how can you tell a man you love him, after acting 
 as you did ? ” ° 
 
 “I was very silly— very wrong,” she said, as she bent her suffused 
 face towards the shelter of her hands. 
 
 _ “ Guilty ! is the true word. Giving that profligate doctor meetintrs 
 in the woods— going to his house— and this whilst you aft'ected to 
 love Silas Moore.” 
 
 She did not answer for some moments, and then she said gentiy, 
 “ I did not mean to sin, and I am very sorry ; only please let me 
 hope that I may be friends again with Silas, and I will do all you 
 wish, I will — I will indeed ! ” ^ 
 
 To me you are very good. Barbie. Mr. Badnor likes your quiet 
 and respectful manner, and Elisha and Peggy are quite fond of 
 you.” ^ 
 
 She was touched by these words, and, drawing a little nearer to her 
 mistress, held out her hands appealingly. 
 
 “ Do pity me, ma’am, do ! If ever you loved, do ! Do write to 
 Silas, and say I am very sorry, and very sore at heart ! ” 
 
 “I will not promise anything, Barbie~and let us cease to talk 
 about the matter ; go like a good spirit, as heretofore, about the 
 house, and be sure that I shall stand you friend.” 
 
 1 he sound of Miss Eliot’s voice was even more hopeful than her 
 words; so the girl, drawing the housekeeper’s hand to her breast, 
 kissed It fervently, and went weeping like a half-repentant, half- 
 happy child from the room. 
 
 Whatever were the contents of his Oxford letter, Mr. Badnor 
 'egained his spirits in some degree; and when his housekeeper sought 
 iim in his study, as was now her custom each mornino-, he received 
 ler courteously, but still much more formally than he had hitherto 
 lone. Not noticing this, she treated him in her quiet accustomed 
 nanner, and then left him to his morning occupations. At dinner 
 bey met again, and still he was formal and reserved; but her 
 taughter-hke attentions, and her sweetness of humour, soon turned 
 iway the little frostiness of his wayward mood. Child-like, simple, 
 ind tender, he could not resist the exquisite, and yet, as matters 
 toocl, inexplicable attraction her manner had for him • and so 
 vhether she was his little Tullia or not, and he her Roarer Ascham’ 
 le yelded himself to the happiness around him, and (Ssmissed all 
 loubts and surmises, at least for the hour. 
 
 ^ After dessert Mr. Badnor asked his housekeeper to adjourn with 
 mi to the garden ; and here, after showing her and talkino* much 
 bout his flowers, he led her to his favourite seat, and, biddmo* her 
 2 tch a book, read to him She did so, till afternoon had wained into 
 
138 
 
 MAINSTONE^S HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 early autumn evening, and twiliglit fell. At length, as she closed the 
 book, more because the print had become indistinguishable beneath 
 such a leafy roof as was arched above them, than that either she or 
 her listener was tired, old Elisha came down the terrace where they 
 sat. 
 
 “ Please, missis,” he said, in his odd but respectful manner, and 
 looking with great contentment upon the pleasant companionship oi 
 his old master and his new mistress, “ tea’s been ready a good while 
 — and Dorcas Wigpit be in th’ little room, and would like to speak 
 to you about the needlework.” 
 
 “We’re coming, Elisha; neither Mr. Kadnor nor I was aware 
 how late it is.” 
 
 “And whilst you be at tea, missis,” he added, “I’ll just step to 
 Moore Farm with th’ money for the beans which came yesterday ; I 
 couldn’t go in the morning as you wished me, for Jordan, ye see, 
 wanted both me and Dan’ el to help to get ready for to-morrow’s 
 ploughing. But I mun go to-night, or else the old missis’ll be 
 worriting, and sending up Jonathan for the money, as soon as ever 
 he’s home.” 
 
 “ Go at once, Elisha, neither I nor Mr. Eadnor want you. And 
 when at Moore Farm, just ascertain how that poor child Phema is 
 getting on.” 
 
 “ Badly enough, I fear, missis ; Peggy tells me that they’ve been 
 durer than ever wi’ her since Silas left. They pinch themselves, and 
 they pinch t’ others ; and the worst on’t falls on that hapless child. So 
 what wi’ this, and what wi’ hard work, enough on’t for two as big 
 lasses as ever turned a churn, or milked a cow, they’re bringing her 
 to be a thing like this.” And the old man kicked a stone whicla lay 
 on the gravel walk. 
 
 “ I am truly sorry,” said the housekeeper, pityingly ; “ and I would 
 interfere, if I knew how, but they know I am a friend to Silas and 
 Barbie, and they would not even listen to me, I daresay. So we must 
 wait till Silas gets a home, and then the honest fellow will befriend 
 her, I am sure.” 
 
 “ Ay ! But it may be a long while till then — and there be sorrows 
 in this world that need quick remedies, if they’re to be remedies at 
 all.” And muttering this philosophic scrap to himself, Elisha de- 
 parted on his errand. 
 
 Eeturning to the house, and so to the green parlour, Mr. Eadnor 
 ensconced himself in his favourite chair, beside the open window. 
 Barbie brought in the urn. Miss Eliot made tea, and then went forth 
 to speak to Dorcas. 
 
 As the good gentleman sat, enjoying the peace of this still and 
 happy hour, the mingled moonlight and twilight illumining the room 
 with a softening glow which broke the shadows into masses, his eyes 
 rested on the window-seat. A few things stood upon it, and on one 
 of these the moonlight scintillated with such power as to attract 
 even his dull and usually incurious gaze. He stretched forth his 
 hand to touch it, but not being enabled to ascertain exactly what it 
 
mainstone's housekeepeb. 
 
 1^9 
 
 ■was, he lifted, and brought it near. Then he saw that it was a small 
 Russia leather reticule, of which the lid stood open. In this was 
 fixed scissors, pen-knife, and the usual appendages of an article of 
 the kind — all costly, and such as could be only possessed by a person 
 of ample means. But amongst them was a little bone paper-knife, 
 not at all costly, but much worn and inked. It quite contrasted with 
 •the beauty and polish of the other things, and yet it was more care- 
 fully stored than they, being placed in their midst in the securest of 
 the leather holdfasts. As his eye fell on this, a fact, which had been 
 forgotten for years, flashed in an instant across his mind, that he once, 
 as a reward for some excellent lessons, had bought, and given to his 
 little Tullia, a tiny paper-knife, much like this, and on which he had 
 had engraved J. R. to C. W. It was a present which had greatly 
 delighted her, and one which she so much prized as to bring it often 
 with her, when she stole in to take her lessons in a quiet nook of her 
 uncle’s grand collegiate library. For the good doctor, though a very 
 learned man himself — much skilled in the Fathers, and the divers 
 profundities of theology — had so poor an idea of feminine capacity, 
 as to consider it could take no higher flight than cradle-rocking, tea- 
 ‘tnaking, or small talk. Thus, but for the tender and noble teachings 
 'of his meditative chaplain and librarian, Julius Radnor, his little 
 Charlotte — his only brother’s only orphan child — might have grown 
 as the flowers of the fields, with no higher qualities than what Heaven 
 had at first beneficently given. But there stepped in this Roger 
 Ascharn, and the little Jane, as earth is nourished by the sun, learnt 
 'ill that he could teach, and craved for more. There are souls who. 
 Venturing out upon the boundless ocean of truth, never slack sail or 
 bar, or grow weary with their hopeful voyage. 
 
 , Mr. Radnor would have examined the little knife more closely, but 
 ust as he was about to move it he heard his housekeeper’s quick, 
 ^’eturning step ; so, like a child afraid of being found peeping into a 
 boveted jam-pot, he replaced the reticule on the window-seat, and 
 ’•esumed his wonted attitude of meditative ease. All through the 
 progress of the pleasant meal he retained this, and, sipping his tea, 
 ’;at like a man whose waking dreams were too full oif bliss to be dis- 
 Wbed. His housekeeper could but observe his happy countenance 
 —the peace and hope which had so suddenly settled and rested there ; 
 ind so she sat quietly watching him, long after tea was done, and, 
 •111 sleeping peacefully, the moonlight flooded in, and wrapped him in 
 Js shining beauty. 
 
 fj He must have slept some time, for when he suddenly awoke the 
 , oom was almost dark, and he was alone. He rose, called “ Charlotte,” 
 hut no one answered ; he rung the bell, but no one came ; then he 
 ^^ent out into the hall, and listened. Soon he detected the sound of 
 oices in the oak-parlour, for some one was talking much, quietly and 
 onsecutively, and to this replies were brief and seldom. He drew 
 ^earer and nearer, guessed whose voices these were, laid his hand on 
 ihe lock, opened the door, and partially entered. He did all this 
 ^ithout premeditation, and as though by an impulse he could nob 
 
140 
 
 MAINSTONe’S HOt’SEKEEPEK, 
 
 govern. Had lie lieen asked why he did so, he could not have told ; 
 certainly not from rudeness or curiosity — for no man ever sinned less 
 
 in these respects than Julius Radnor. -utm Vn'a 
 
 Had his housekeeper, or her visitor, either seen or heard ^3 
 trepidation would have been excessive, as rightly it should ; for the 
 intrusion was uncalled for, and the conversation relating simply to the 
 businesss of the farm ; but just as he was retreating, Elisha hurried 
 into the hall, and after searching the study, and other rooms, came 
 towards him, exclaiming as he did so,-— 
 
 “ Mr. Radnor, Sir ! please speak. Sir . * j ii/r t> ^ 
 
 «rm here, Elisha. What is the matter?” And Mr. Radnor 
 
 Oh ^ God Sir ! Something terrible at the Moore Farm the old 
 missis has just tumbled off the top of the 
 
 dead, or nio-h on’t. But where’s missis. Sir ?— she 11 know what s bes. 
 to be done ” With Elisha, as with his master, the housekeeper held 
 
 the first place. ^ ^ 
 
 “ She is there, Elisha — go in.” • a 
 
 And Mr. Radnor, permitting his servant to pass into the room, 
 followed more leisurely. A lamp was burning on the centre table . 
 at this sat the housekeeper looking over some papers. At a distance 
 stood Richard Wenlock, his hat in his hand, and his whole manner as 
 absorbed and as grave as it always was. Aided by his glass, Mr. 
 Radnor took in the whole scene at a glance ; this done, he drew iis 
 breath a little more freely. He felt ashamed of his weakness, his 
 suspicions, and his foolish fears, as well he might. , , . , . 
 
 iLt now Elisha stood before his alarmed mistress, who, hearing his 
 exclamation in the hall, rose hurriedly and met him near the door. 
 The old man’s tongue seemed frozen to his mouth ; for a moment 
 or two he could not speak, and his face was blanched to the hue of 
 
 Tell me, Elisha, what is the matter ? What has happened at the 
 
 ^‘‘Oh^Lord! missis! something terrible enough !-the old woman 
 fell off the granary steps, and is dead by this time. 
 
 “ AVhen, and how did she fall, Elisha? ’ 
 
 “ Why, she was as well as you, missis, half an hour a^o. When i 
 went down with the money for the horse-beans I found her a-sittin 
 by the kitchen fire, jawing that poor child Phema. lo ine, howevei, 
 s^e was uncommon civil— she giv’ me a drop o cider and a pipe, and 
 weMt talin- together nigh an hour. She’d a deal to say about the 
 farm tnd Siks, and said that though the lad wur aw.y she liked him 
 well for he had always been a kind and good lad to her, and it 
 SToulk’t be none the worse, let ’em say what they would agin him. 
 By-and-by, when I got up to come away, sh^e told me that master 
 WM oflfto Welton on a bit o’ bis’ness, and Jonathan had had the d. y 
 To go and see a brother o’ his’n as had just come 
 T think I’d asked her like, the house seemed so mighty still. .When 
 ig^t ou\ pS came wi’ me just to the spring to fill a pail with| 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 141 
 
 water, and I’d just lifted it and wur a-settling it on her head when 
 we heard such a shriek — such a piercing shriek — as was never heard 
 afore. Then there was a dreadful groaning— so liftino- the pail off 
 the giils^head, we set on towards the house as soon as we could. She 
 ^ said nothing — Phema never does, you know, missis — but we made to 
 3 the granary steps, where the shrieking came from, and there at the 
 J side we found the old missis doubled up, bleeding from a great wound 
 in her head, and very bad. I lifted her up and carried her into the 
 house-place and put her on the settle. There we tied up her head as 
 well as might be, and then I came off home to get a horse and ride 
 tor a doctor, if so be you think it proper.” 
 
 “Proper, certainly. But you shouldn’t have lost so much time— 
 was there no horse at the Farm ? ” 
 
 “Not one, missis, I looked i’ th’ fold and stable, but there wur 
 ne er a one. Then I got it out bit by bit from Phema, that Jonathan, 
 afore he started the morn, had bid Joe, the t’other man, take all the 
 horses a far field when the day’s work wur over, and the master him- 
 home Welton, so I could do naught but come 
 
 another minute. Saddle one of the horses and 
 ride tor Mr. Grayson, and I will send Barbie up the hill for Peo-o-v ” 
 
 “I am now going home,” said Eichard Wenlock ; “and as I Hde 
 ^rough Losely I can ask Mr. Grayson to set off at once, for he left 
 
 ^ Sf Poor"°“® opposite 
 
 “Indeed, that is fortunate, for he can be at the Moore Farm so 
 
 ^ iTwi- “0 objection, Mr. Wenlock, we will 
 let Blisha ride for the surgeon, whilst you accompany me to the Farm 
 i he matter seems to me a very strange one ; and, to say nothintr of 
 our human aid, such as it will be, it may be well if some friend of sllas 
 Moore can be there, to pass his own judgment on what has iust 
 occurred. 
 
 “I will come,” said the reserved man ; and he moved some steps 
 towards the door, there to meet Mr. Radnor, face to face, and so 
 doing, to stand reverently aside to let the good man pass. 
 
 ‘^ Charlotte,” said the kindly gentleman, in his old accustomed 
 anxious manner, when roused by any unwonted circumstance, “ is not 
 [the hour too late is the scene quite fitted for you— are you not best 
 gat home ? Let me go with Mr. Wenlock. The Moores have been 
 
 f “ S" has anyone who can render aid,” she replied, quietly ; though, ' 
 in spite of the grave occapon, she could but smile to see Mr. Kadnor 
 : so near at haiuh and offering to do what was so repugnant to every 
 I feding and habit— charitable, tender, and truly Christian as he wa& 
 
 I Please, therefore, remain at home. I will not be long ; and if the 
 I poor old woman is still alive, and seeks religious consolation, you shall 
 
142 
 
 maijj^stone’s housekeeper. 
 
 lie listened and obeyed like a docile child. The sound of her voice 
 lulled for a moment the doubts and jealous fears which lurked in his 
 breast ; for he could not see her, so earnest, tender, and watchful, 
 without a consciousness that his suspicions were very unworthy of 
 himself. ' Were she the stranger he was led to believe — educated, his 
 equal, and acting solely from motives of pure benevolence — the only 
 answers Mr. Simeon would give to all his questions — why should her 
 unaffected kindness to others as well as to himself move him to 
 uneasiness and jealousy? Or were the whispers in his own breast 
 true, and she was really his little Tullia, his old pupil — what was his 
 right over her, that he should question her motives, who had always 
 acted with disinterested good faith and benevolence ? 
 
 He moved away to his study-door, and there he stood. He 
 watched her dispatch of Barbie — he heard old Elisha ride from the 
 yard — he saw Bichard Wenlock linger in the porch, and then she 
 passed him on her hurried way up stairs to fetch her bonnet. 
 He did not call her till she was half-way up, and then he did. 
 
 ‘‘ Charlotte, let me speak to you before you go.” 
 
 He then stole into his study, sat down, and awaited her return. It 
 was almost immediate. 
 
 “You won’t be long, Charlotte ? ” 
 
 “ Not longer than I can possibly help, Mr. Badnor.” 
 
 “ Very good. The house is lonely without you.” 
 
 In her anxiety she was moving away, when he added : — 
 
 “Bichard Wenlock — won’t return here?” 
 
 “ Certainly not, if you do not wish it. He was here simply on a 
 matter of business connected with the farm.” 
 
 “ I do not wish it. Now go, and make haste.” 
 
 And Mr. Badnor, who rarely dealt in negatives, spoke this one 
 with great emphasis, and his housekeeper withdrew. For some time 
 he sat in deep abstraction ; then he rose, and went half way across 
 the room through the flood of moonlight glory which poured down— - 
 came back again, returned again and again, nearer to the door each 
 time till he opened it, and there he stood irresolute for the space of 
 several minutes communing with himself. 
 
 “ I should like to see that little paper-knife,” he said ; “ an instant’s 
 look would tell me if my conjectures are correct or not. But then it 
 would be small, and mean, and pitiful in me, searching amidst a 
 woman’s things, which are left to the honour and sacredness of the 
 place she calls her home. I must be patient and let the truth reveal 
 itself, or ask her openly ; but I must do nothing unworthy of myself, 
 even for the sake of that, which knowing would give me more real 
 joy than any other thing in the whole world beside.”. 
 
 His noble conscientiousness thus gaining the victory, as it always 
 did with him, over temporary desire or fleeting curiosity, he retraced 
 his steps, resumed his seat ; and when his thoughts reverted, as 
 presently they did, to what had just occurred at the Moore Farm, he 
 felt humbled that his own selfish hopes and fears should have had 
 even a moment’s consideration at such a time. In the wisest and best 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 143 
 
 £ spirit of that sacred vocation to which he had dedicated his life, he 
 i bowed his head upon his hands and prayed that all his human hopes 
 £ might pass away, that it might not be her ; and even though it were, 
 ■ rather might he be called upon to resign her to another, than do a 
 base thing or harbour a selfish thought ! 
 
 ^ Had he seen his housekeeper’s quick and energetic step as she 
 •. descended the hill and entered the picturesque and grassy lane which 
 s led to the Moore Farm, he would have dismissed his jealous fears, 
 t Once only did she look round to see if Richard Wenlock followed, 
 if: and there he stood by the spring, just where the pail had been set 
 
 - down, attentively regarding the still and solitary Farm, and particu- 
 i larly the outstanding gable, up the wall of which ran the granary 
 
 * stairs. In a few seconds he came onwards, and his strides were so 
 }■ giant-like, that he and the housekeeper reached the house at one and 
 
 - the same time. 
 
 The large, barn-like wash-house was in utter darkness, but within 
 in the kitchen was a faint glimmering light. Entering, they saw it 
 was shed by the smouldering ashes of a peat fire in the grate ; but it 
 
 * was sufficient to show them the girl seated on the ground beside the 
 ' settle, and that near her, and half recumbent in her arms, lay the old 
 
 woman on the cushion of her own easy chair. 
 
 Miss Eliot hurried forward, knelt down, and one glance was suffi- 
 i cient to let her see how things were. 
 
 ‘‘ Mrs. Moore is dead, Phema,” she said, as she laid her hand gently 
 on the girl’s shoulder. 
 
 “ She ain’t spoke a good bit ; ” and Phema, as she said this, bent 
 nearer to the chill face which lay beneath her own. 
 
 “ Did she speak ? — what did she say ? — how did you get her down 
 I from the settle, where Elisha had laid her ? ” 
 
 i “ Granny would come down — she’d lay easier, she said, than on the 
 settle.” 
 
 ' “ Poor soul ! Did she say nothing as to how the accident hap- 
 
 pened, and how she chanced to fall, where, as Elisha said, she’d so 
 i often been before ? ” 
 
 < Phema looked up quickly — quickly for her who was ordinarily so 
 dull and apathetic — and seemed about to say something in reply. 
 
 ! Then, as if recollecting herselfi she bent her head again, and said, 
 doggedly, though with evident trepidation, — 
 t “No, she said naught — she was going after eggs, that was it.” 
 f “ Did she leave no message — speak no kind words — not one about 
 
 1 Robert or Silas ? ” 
 
 The girl pressed her hand against her forehead, as though trying 
 i to recollect something. When it came, it was, “ She said a deal — 
 
 ; I don’t recollect what — ’xcept she was sorry she’d been what she 
 ^ should’nt a’ been to me, and she bid me be good to the master.” 
 
 > Then, as if wishing to say no more, the girl tried to rise, and, 
 i assisted by Richard Wenlock, lifted and laid her lifeless burden on 
 ^ the settle. 
 
 i The housekeeper aided ; and when no more could be done till the 
 
144 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 surofeon came, Richard asked for a candle— for the scrap Elisha had, 
 in his hurry, lighted, had long since died down in the candlestick! 
 Pheraa fetched one, and when lighted, Mr. Wenlock took it from her 
 hand, and went slowly with it up and clown the kitchen and adjacent 
 
 brewhouse — sometimes stooping — once or twice kneeling down as he 
 
 did so to measure some places on the floor with his pocket-rule. 
 These dimensions he entered in a pocket-book, and then, without a 
 word, he left the house. 
 
 His movements passed almost unheeded in the general bustle* 
 for first old Peggy came, next the surgeon and Elisha, and a few’ 
 minutes after some one else rode up to the house, and, dismounting, 
 hurried in. * 
 
 “ What is the matter — what is all this for ? cried Robert Moore, 
 as he crossed the brewhouse. But when he entered the kitchen, and 
 saw the people crowded round the settle, he stopped suddenly and 
 asked, what had happened. His voice and manner bespoke unaffected 
 surprise and horror. 
 
 “ There has been a dreadful accident, Mr. Moore,” said the surgeon. 
 “Your old mother fell down the granary-stairs some hours ao*o, 
 and is quite dead. The wounds were sufficient to cause spe^y 
 death.” 
 
 Robert Moore received the intelligence as some men would a death- 
 blow. He turned pale, trembled violently, and would have sunk to 
 the floor, but that those present led him to a chair and supported 
 him. Even then he kept swaying himself to and fro, and exclaiming, 
 as he did so — “ The poor old woman — the poor old mother ! — so soon, 
 so very soon ! ” He spoke like one stricken by the agony of a great 
 remorse. 
 
 Meanwhile they carried the corpse up stairs ; and when some of 
 them returned, he inquired, suddenly, if Jonathan had yet been home. 
 He was answered in the negative. 
 
 “When he does, and the other man likewise,” said Mr. Grayson, 
 “ it may be well to institute some inquiries.” 
 
 “ What for — what’s the matter ? ” 
 
 ^ “ The cause of the old woman’s death is at least open to sus- 
 picion.” 
 
 “ Suspicion ! What do you mean ? You don’t mean to say that 
 Pve been the cause ? ” 
 
 “But others may,” added another speaker, in a stern, measured 
 voice; “there’s your man Jonathan. Where is he— what has 
 he been doing ? He has already been very busy in your household, 
 Mr. Moore.” ^ ^ 
 
 Robert started up with such fury — as a man blind with drink might 
 do— and, staggering into the middle of the kitchen, looked round and 
 asked, “ Who said that ? ” 
 
 “I did,’’ replied^ Richard Wenlock, stepping a foot or so forward, 
 and speaking in his accustomed measured way — “ I think, with Mr. 
 Grayson, that your grandmother’s death is a suspicious one.” Robert 
 looked at the speaker, and his dismay seemed to grow ; for here was 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 145 
 
 a man who, by all accounts, could find every effect its cause, and who 
 : could reason from one fact to another till a necessary result, which 
 ^ always proved the truth, was gained, Robert s voice fell from its 
 
 ■ tone of loud anger to one expressive of fear. 
 
 ^ “ You’re wrong, Mr. Wenlock — you’re wrong. Jonathan’s been 
 
 " away to see a brother, and I can tell you or any man tliat he’s an 
 honest fellow — master had never a better or honester servant than I 
 •' have in him.” Robert repeated this asseveration again and again, 
 as though anxious that it should miss the ears of no one present. ^ 
 
 “ I’m'^glad of it, Mr. Moore,” was Richard’s quiet answer. “ 1’ cur 
 ' testimony is something, though your opinion and that of others 
 
 • unfortunately differ. But what I have to say I can say elsewhere, if 
 need be.” With this Richard Wenlock withdrew from the house, 
 without another word. 
 
 ’ Mr. Grayson followed his example when he had spoken a few 
 
 • words to Robert Moore, and Miss Eliot soon prepared to go. 
 
 ‘•Peggy can remain in the house, Mr. Moore,” she said; “you 
 cannot'^well be left with the dead alone. Besides, she’s an old 
 
 • neighbour and friend.” 
 
 “ I would rather she went,” he said, suddenly. “I’ve Phema, and 
 that’s enough. Besides, I’m a poor man, and must do as poor men 
 do.” 
 
 “ Very well, Mr. Moore ; as you refuse the sympathy and aid which 
 
 • are so disinterestedly offered, I cannot help it. One thing, however, 
 
 ^ I must do— write to your brother Silas. He at least must know of 
 - this tragical occurrence.” 
 
 “ You can do as you please,” he replied, sullenly. “ Silas can come 
 ' when it’s time to bury her : till then I wish my houseplace to myself.” 
 
 He said no more than this, and, sinking back with folded arms in his 
 ^ chair, watched Phema rouse the fire, and only curtly nodded when 
 
 • the housekeeper bade him “ good night.” 
 
 Followed by Elisha, the housekeeper went homeward. In ascending 
 the hill they met Richard Wenlock, who had been up to the parsonage 
 courtyard to fetch his horse. He stayed for a few moments to speak 
 on the business which had brought him to Mainstone that evening; and 
 something was naturally added in relation to the tragical occurrence at 
 the Moore Farm. As they thus stood speaking, some one approached, 
 ' stayed, and spoke. Looking round at the same instant, the house- 
 keeper and Richard Wenlock saw that it was the man Jonathan. 
 I He was, or at least affected to be, a little the worse for drink, for he 
 
 ■ spoke in a loud hilarious voice. 
 
 “ Beg pardon. Sir — beg pardon, missis ; but what’s the clock ? — for 
 I fear f be late.” 
 
 “ It is after ten, perhaps nearer eleven ” — and Miss Eliot withdrew 
 ^ a step from the man as she spoke. 
 
 “ I feared it wur ; but the maister won’t say naught. I don’t often 
 ; get a free day — that I don’t.” 
 
 “ You’ve been far, have you? ” asked Richard. 
 
 “Ay, Sir! I didn’t set off home, ye see, till late. For brother 
 
146 mainstone’s housekeepek. 
 
 Tom, that’s just from the Koossian war, had a sight to tell, and 
 
 BO 
 
 Richard Wenlock had dropped his whip, and stooped to pick it up ; 
 now, as he rose, he said, interruptingly, — 
 
 “ The road you’ve been is lime-strewn, is it ? ” 
 
 “ I know naught o’ the road,” spoke the waggoner harshly, and in 
 a measured tone, which showed that his senses were, at that moment, 
 as acute as any man’s. “I know naught o’ the road!” and he 
 sullenly moved on. 
 
 ‘‘It has been very near the Moore Farm, I fear too,” said 
 Richard. 
 
 There came no reply, but a quicker step, and in a moment more 
 the waggoner had swung back the gate, and was hidden in the 
 lane. 
 
 “ Do you really suspect this man, Mr. Wenlock ? ” asked the house- 
 keeper. 
 
 “ I do, and so does the surgeon. If my sense of sight and hearing 
 was not mistaken, he was in the granary not a quarter of an hour 
 since ; and, in a different dress, made his way across some fencing at 
 the back of the rick-yard into the adjoining fields.” 
 
 “ Is it possible ? — will it not be well to state this ? ” 
 
 “Certainly; but it will have no result. The presence of mind 
 which can serve so readily, merely to fix the precise moment of 
 return to the Moore Farm, can show detention or occupation at a 
 distance at any given hour, in which I should state I had seen him. 
 Besides this, Robert Moore will be his defender.” 
 
 “He has been that already; but why is he — what can be the 
 cause ? ” 
 
 “ I am not high-priest enough to tell you. Time may explain it, 
 as it does many other mysteries — to that I fear. Miss Eliot, whatever 
 may be the current opinion, we must leave it.” 
 
 He touched his hat as he spoke in his simple yet courteous manner, 
 mounted his horse, and was gone. 
 
 At the gate they were met by Barbie. She was much distressed 
 when she heard that the old mistress of the Farm was dead — not for 
 herself, for she had never seen her but a few times in her life ; but 
 because of what Silas would feel when he should hear it. Yet, whilst 
 really pained for his sake, little inconsistent foolish creature as she 
 had been, there lurked the hope that this cause, sad as it was, 
 would bring Silas home, and perhaps effect a reconciliation. For 
 this she prayed with all her heart, weak and foolish as she had 
 been. 
 
 Mr. Radnor had been listening anxiously for his housekeeper’s 
 return, and when he heard her footstep he rose and met her by the 
 study-door. 
 
 “I am glad you are home, Charlotte. It seems long since you 
 went.” 
 
 “ Does it, Sir ? — and I am glad to return. The scene I have just 
 left is a very sad one. The old mistress of the Farm is dead — was 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 147 
 
 dead when I got there ; and, therefore, your presence would have 
 been as unavailing as your spiritual consolation.” 
 
 He was struck as well as touched, for he well remembered the old 
 mistress in her houseplace ; and, after asking some few questions, he 
 sank into temporary silence. She sat still too, for the scene she had 
 witnessed had depressed her. 
 
 ‘‘My notions, Charlotte,” he said presently, “are different to what 
 they used to be. I begin to think that these solitary outlying places 
 are not, after all, the best nurseries of either kindly deeds o^ kindly 
 thoughts, and this is a startling instance. Solitude does not seem 
 to be well either for body or soul.” 
 
 His housekeeper did not reply, though he listened with a watchful 
 ear. 
 
 Finding this, he rose, fetched a book, opened it, came gently back 
 again, and, kneeling by his desk, leant to pray. He did not tell her 
 to kneel, but she did. 
 
 He prayed for peace, and charity, and good-will towards men, in 
 an earnest manner and subdued voice. To this he added, after a 
 pause, and, as though forgetting that any one was by, his daily-said, 
 Ills half-audible prayers for his wondrous scholar, his little Tullia, his’ 
 darling child, whom he had not seen for so long, and who, to all out- 
 ward seeming, had forgotten her Eoger Ascham. 
 
 He said nothing to her when he rose, nor she to him. Thouo-h, in 
 all the innocence of her childish days, she, who was in reality his 
 scholar, could have climbed his knee and kissed bis face. But it 
 would be well yet to serve aud reign—unacknowledged for a time 
 though much suspected, as she knew, of identity. She therefore said 
 nothing; but, bidding her master a kindly “good night,” retired to 
 the oak-parlour. ' ° 
 
 He shortly went to bed, and she long after. The moon was 
 hidden— the night was dark— the fires upon the moorland rido-e ofared 
 out in all their luridness. ° ^ 
 
 Their attraction was once themselves — their intensity, their 
 mystery, their suggestiveness. It was so no longer. 
 
 JO-? 
 
148 
 
 mai^sstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 CAIN AND ABEL. 
 
 An inquiry was instituted : twelve men, wise in hay and corn, were 
 summoned; and the result of their temporary deliberations was 
 “ accidental death.” The “old missis” had, whilst turning the key 
 in the rusty lock, overbalanced hersell; fallen, and died. This omnion 
 was strengthened — indeed, arrived at — through the facts that Jona- 
 than proved by two witnesses, that, on the said evening, at the said 
 hour, he had been drinking in a certain public-house ; _ and it was 
 patent also to many that Robert Moore had been occupied by busi- 
 ness in Weiton at the same time. Suspicions, therefore, without 
 proof were useless 5 and though retained by many, and gieatly 
 streno-thened before many days were gone by, the twelve wise men 
 of plout^h and harrow, field and pasture, dismissed them as worth- 
 less. There was nothing, therefore, to do, but in peace to bury the 
 
 ^^Miss Eliot wrote to Silas, and judiciously advised him to keep aloof 
 from Mainstone till the day of the funeral. He obeyed to the letter ; 
 and it was not till within half-an-hour or so of the departure of the 
 corpse from the old farm-house that he crossed the threshold. It 
 had been a cold, wet morning, and it was a duller afternoon. The 
 trees soughed about the gables, and dropped ^ their first few autumn 
 leaves — the heavy rain beat at intervals against the window-panes 
 — there were shadows without the house, and darker shadows 
 
 But few, comparatively, had been invited to the funeral ; but these, 
 when assembled, looked numerous. They were dispersed about the 
 roomy old kitchen— the men drinking and smoking— the women 
 talking in a group aside — and the coffin rested on tressels in the 
 midst. It was yet open ; and the undertaker’s men waited for Silas 
 to look his last, and then to screw it down. It was wonderful that 
 Robert had borne thus much tenderness to others in his memory, 
 seeing how hard and callous he habitually was; but, in all^ which 
 related to his brother, some new feeling seemed to have arisen : it 
 was fear perhaps— it was scarcely love. 
 
 Silas entered — saw nothing but the coffin — approached and stood 
 beside it motionless. The men, officious in their office, and anxious 
 to get perhaps the matter over, so as to complete their duty, that the 
 funeral might proceed on its way, lifted the lid and uncoveied the 
 face. Hitherto he had controlled himself — hitherto he had been 
 stern and grave— but one sight of the pale and stricken features, and 
 his fortitude was gone. He crouched down, as weakly as a helpless 
 child— hid his face, and wept unrestrainedly— not that he had ever 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 149 
 
 loved the dead — indeed, as lie came onwards, he had felt sure he 
 could not shed a single tear ; but now he was brought face to face 
 with death so sudden and suspicious — ^now, as in accumulated memory 
 a thousand kindly acts were all before him — as he listened in imagi- 
 nation to her voice — remembered that her last words to him were 
 those of promise, and, for her, tender — when he recollected that the 
 fountains of her life had been akin to his own— all fortitude and 
 resolve vanished, as snow in the sun. It is a solemn thing at all times 
 to stand in the presence of the dead : it was a solemn thing, here, 
 where nature, and pregnant doubt, and manly pity weighed down and 
 subjugated at one and same time. 
 
 Robert hitherto had kept aloof, as many observed, moody and 
 silent, in a distant corner of the room ; but he now came slowly 
 forward, and laid his hand on Silas’s shoulder. 
 
 “ Don’t take on so, lad,” he said — “ the poor old mother ! I am 
 sorry as thee can be — but don’t take on, lad, it’ll make my heart 
 sorer.” He spoke kindly. His voice expressed sorrow — and some- 
 thing more. 
 
 Silas lifted up his face, and looked steadily into that of his 
 brother. Robert did not seem to like the gaze, and moved as though 
 to go. He did so, and Silas, rising, and restraining his grief, said 
 coldly, “We won’t, Robert, talk at present — the dead is yet 
 before us.” 
 
 When he had smoothed the old mother’s face, and covered it up 
 tenderly, Silas withdrew to the settle, and, sitting down at the end 
 nearest the fire, awaited till all should be ready. ^ He did not see 
 Phema ; but he noticed, as many that day noticed, that Jona- 
 than, dressed in black, was the busiest amongst the mourners. 
 He moved about the houseplace like a master — more than its master 
 did. 
 
 There were two mourning-coaches and a hearse. The brothers 
 occupied separate coaches, as though they tacitly felt that it was best 
 to keep aloof as long as possible. Then the funeral set forth, the 
 fitful rain and mingled whirl of autumn leaves sweeping round the 
 solemn cavalcade as it journeyed on its way. 
 
 Mr. Radnor awaited the funeral ; the grave was ready, and after 
 the church-service, which he read with great feeling, they bore the 
 old mistress of the Moore Farm to a quiet nook, where many of her 
 kindred lay. Their path was through the soddened grass, across the 
 close-cropped heathery sward ; now they waded through a little sea 
 of withered leaves, which had been swept into the hollows by many a 
 wintry blast. The dead was soon covered for ever from mortal 
 sight. Robert turned quickly away, but Silas stood there long after 
 the mourners had left. 
 
 Miss Eliot had attended the funeral, though keeping aloof till it 
 was over. Now, when the churchyard was again solitary, Mr. Radnor 
 gone, and old Daniel waited for her with the chaise to drive her 
 home, she addressed Silas as he came slowly towards the church. He 
 was going to the lock-house, he said, “ to rest a bit ; ” after that he 
 
150 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 and J olinny Wigpit were going to the Farm, when the will would be 
 read. 
 
 “ Shall you stay at the Farm ? ” 
 
 “ Not I, ma’am,” he replied bitterly. 
 
 “Well, Mr. Moore,” she said, “whatever may be the contents of 
 the will — and, to tell you the truth, I am not sanguine that it will 
 contain much in your favour— keep free of bitter feud with Eobert. 
 If he does you wrong, time will set you right ; and if he has sinned, 
 the bitterness and fruit will be his own. When the reading is over 
 come up to the Eectory, as I have heard further of the business I 
 wrote about.” 
 
 “ I hardly think I can come, ma’am.” 
 
 “ Why not ? Barbie shall be no hindrance ; she knows nothing of 
 the possibility of your visit. To prevent her meeting you against 
 your wish, I have had a fire to-day in my dressing-room, and she is 
 sitting there at needlework. You must therefore come, for what I 
 have to say is both important and pleasant.” 
 
 The young man smiled, as men smile who see joy on one hand and 
 no hope of realization on the other. 
 
 “It would be happiness,” he said; “it is good of a lady like 
 you to plan all this, but a man that loved as I loved cannot easily 
 forget.” 
 
 “ I do not wish you, Mr. Moore, if against your inclination. Only 
 let nie say this much — that Barbie is and has been a very good girl, 
 and is very contrite. The little education which the shortness of the 
 time has enabled me to give her has profited much, and absence from 
 her mother still more. If all our frailties were thus to be indefi- 
 nitely remembered, Mr. Moore, it would be hard indeed.” 
 
 He was softening, she could see, though jealous remembrance still 
 consumed his heart. 
 
 “ Well, I’ll come and speak to you, ma’am, and let you know how 
 things be. But don’t let the girl force herself upon me ; if I forgive, 
 it will be a long day from here.” 
 
 He said no more, but, touching his hat respectfully, v/ent his way 
 into the vestry in search of the old clerk. By the time the latter had 
 shut up the church Miss Eliot was gone, and they then took their 
 way together to the lock -house on the solitary canal. Here Dorcas 
 made tea — here the half witless lad brought forth his cages, and 
 otherwise exhibited his congregation of pets — and a fine athletic 
 young fellow named Jasper Martin, whose barge was waiting to pass 
 the lock, took tea also, and showed by countless signs how good and 
 good and dear Dorcas was in his eyes. 
 
 As soon as his business was over, and the boat and boatmen had 
 passed on their way towards the solitudes of the wild moors, old 
 Johnny resumed his black coat, and he and Silas set forth to the 
 Farm. It was quite dusk now, though the moon gave promise of 
 rising, and the night, if dank, to be fine. 
 
 If he could have had his own will, Eobert Moore would have dis- 
 missed his little throng of mourners, as soon as the funeral was over, 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 151 
 
 with thanks — that cost nothing. But it was against the custom ot 
 his country to thus play the churl with funeral-meats. He, there- 
 fore, more to prevent the hue and cry which he knew would follow 
 any breach thereof, than from kindliness or a sense of hospitality, 
 had had a niggard amount of viands prepared — and these were set 
 forth for the little company upon its return. There was cold meat 
 and beer and spirits for the men, tea and cakes for the women ; and 
 Robert, as he looked furtively and sighed at such deplorable extra- 
 vagance, comforted himself by thinking how pinched his cupboard, 
 how cold his hearth should be, for many a week to come, to make the 
 balance even. 
 
 The meal was just over, and the men had lighted their pipes, when 
 the door opened and Silas and the old clerk entered. More than once 
 Robert had given it somewhat loudly as his opinion, that Silas was 
 not coming, and that they might as well read the will and get it over ; 
 but some present thinking it well to wait awhile, he appeared to 
 acquiesce. All this time not a sound was lost to his ear, ei.>her within 
 or without the house ; and when the hand of Silas fell upon the latch 
 he shifted his chair and glanced round uneasily. 
 
 Silas took his seat at the table and looked about him. 
 
 “ Well, Silas,” said Robert, as their eyes met, “ I’m glad to see 
 thee. Thou should ha’ come earlier, and lighted thy pipe with the 
 rest.” 
 
 “ I had no heart, Robert. I am now only here for the business you 
 spoke of — as we set forth to church. 1 now wait, and shall be glad 
 tor it to be over.” 
 
 When he had said this he looked about the room, and, missing 
 Phema, asked suddenly and abruptly where she was. 
 
 “ Why — why — ” hesitated Robert, and, to save himself, he turned 
 his saturnine face towards the waggoner. 
 
 “ The giiTs up stairs,” said Jonathan ; “ she’d got no black frock 
 to be in, and maister thought she hadn’t manners for company. 
 More than this, since the missis wur gone, she’s forrad-cr than ever 
 wi’ th’ farm lads.” 
 
 “ It’s a lie ! ” spoke Silas, fiercely ; “ Phema, if left to herself, is 
 as spotless and innocent as child can be. If she is corrupted, which 
 I don’t believe, it is the work of others— not herself. But,” and his 
 voice was louder and his anger deeper than ever, “ who are you that 
 take upon yourself to talk thus in my father’s house, where you are 
 only a servant, and should keep a servant’s place ? In my time you 
 were never suffered to eat at the same table with those that hire and 
 l^ay you ; and if I were the man there, Robert Moore, I would take 
 thee to the door and thrust thee Ibrth, cold, slimy reptile as thou 
 art ! ” 
 
 The waggoner gave no other answer than what was expressed by a ^ 
 quiet smile — thrust his finger as a stopper into his pipe — and, 
 stretching forth his hand, took the sphit bottle and helped him- 
 self. 
 
 Not staying to see this, Silas rose, gathered together the remnants 
 
152 
 
 mainstoke’s housekeeper. 
 
 of bun and cake, poured out what tea was left in the tea-pot, and 
 with these took his way up the staircase. He sought for the half 
 child, half girl in the garret where she had been used to sleep, but 
 she was not there. Then he descended to what had been his grand- 
 mother’s room, next to that of Eobert and his own, and there, upon 
 turning the key and entering, he found her. She sat crouched on the 
 floor at the foot of the bed, in the same old squalid, tattered dress 
 she always wore, and, apparently asleep, did not hear him enter. He 
 could see her distinctly by the light of the candle he had brought, and 
 he was struck by the aspect of her face — so thin, and pale, and wan 
 — so expressive of pain and anxiety. She must have passed through 
 a world of both since he had last seen her; for it was these, and not 
 age, that had given her thus so suddenly the aspect of a woman. He 
 touched her gathered hands, and they seemed afire ; then her face, 
 and it was hot also. 
 
 “Phema!” 
 
 She started to her feet, knew him, clutched him convulsively by the 
 arm, and clung to it as a drowning wretch at sea to the only plank 
 which swims the waste of waters. 
 
 “ Take me away, Silas — do ! I can’t stay here ! ” 
 
 “I’m come to ask Eobert to let thee go with me, Now take 
 this.” 
 
 He offered the food he had brought ; but she took it only to set it 
 down — roughly and carelessly. 
 
 “ Please, I want to go ; I care for naught else.” 
 
 “ Has Eobert been unkind ? ” 
 
 “No; he’s been softer like since her died. I’ll tell thee about it 
 another time — I want to go ! ” 
 
 She shuddered, and clung to Silas still more determinately. 
 
 “ Thou mun please come down,” cried a voice at the foot of the 
 stairs * “some on us want to be a-going, and the maister ’ud like the 
 will read first.” 
 
 “ They are calling me, Phema,” said Silas, as with difficulty he 
 unloosened the tenacious grasp ; “ eat and drink what I have brought, 
 and I will come again presently.” 
 
 When she saw that he would go, she sank down into her old atti- 
 tude; and, taking no heed of the food which stood near, hid her face 
 in the coverlet of the bed. 
 
 When he got down stairs there was a bustle, for the people were 
 ranging themselves about the table to hear the will read. They made 
 way for him, and he took his place. In this instant, brief as it was, 
 Silas Moore learnt long after that Jonathan stole up the stairs and 
 locked the door upon the girl ; on returning to the kitchen he 
 kept in the rear, though able to see and hear all that was going 
 on. 
 
 The will was a brief document, and took but a short time to read. 
 It gave absolutely and unconditionally to Eobert Moore all the real, 
 funded, and personal property of the deceased. The name of Silas 
 Moore was not even mentioned therein ; its date was quite recent, 
 
MAINSTO^^E’{^ StOtSEREEPER. 153 
 
 and the attesting witnesses consisted of Barbie’s mother, Jonathan 
 the waggoner, and a publican of Losely not present. 
 
 There was silence for more minutes than was pleasant to a feeling 
 and anxious ear. At length Robert — thinking possibly that it was 
 his duty to say something— raised his eyes furtively, and encountering 
 his brother’s calm, and steady gaze, dropped them, as though abashed. 
 He could have borne anger, and met it with anger in return — indeed 
 he was fully prepared for it — but this quiet and acute method of 
 judgment was something appalling. He tried to speak — for some 
 minutes in vain — his words clove to his mouth, and, gasping and 
 stuttering, he could not make himself understood. Every stranger 
 present felt ashamed of him. He was master of everything, possessed 
 everything, yet was too cowardly to face his fortune. 
 
 “ Silas ! ” he at length stuttered, “ I am right sorry about this. I 
 should like the old woman to have left thee something, if only for 
 looks’ sake.” 
 
 “ As you feel so generously inclined, there is no one to stay thy 
 hand.” 
 
 Robert winced under this irony, it might be seen, but made no 
 reply. 
 
 “ Mrs. Bell,” continued Silas, “just tell me your share in this 
 matter. When did you sign this will, and what did grandmother 
 say to you ? ” 
 
 “Why, it wur a bit ago— just before the time my Barbie went to 
 stay at the parsonage. I wur sent to come to the Farm, and when I 
 got there the old missis wur a-bed. But I wur asked to go up stairs 
 and sign a paper, which I did. She said naught to me what it were 
 about; but all she talked of wur her rheumatiks and the Farm. 
 I’d always heard from the maister, as well as Jonathan, that he 
 wur to have everything — and so, you see, I asked no questions.” 
 
 “You wished it, Mrs. Bell,” said Silas, gravely, “and therefore 
 saw no injustice. Well, let that pass. Now, tell me, did our 
 old grandmother say to you that she had left Robert every- 
 thing ? ” 
 
 ^ “She said naught about it. I should be telling a lie if I said she 
 did. She didn’t mention thee — it may be because she well knew I 
 warn’t fair to thee on account of Barbie.” 
 
 Robert did not like this testimony, it could be seen ; and he began 
 talking to those about him that the will was plain enough — and just 
 enough ; that he was sorry the property was not left differently — but 
 the fault was none of his. 
 
 “ Robert,” said Silas, in a quiet, yet resolute voice, “ say no more ; 
 make ^ no more professions ; for you are only adding hypocrisy to 
 injustice. One thing distinctly understand : I believe now — as I shall 
 believe fifty years hence, if I live so long — that the will is a gross 
 forgery. Our old grandfather, though he left his wife free to dis- 
 pose of the property as she thought fit at her death, yet told her it 
 was his^ strong desire that it be fairly divided between us, and that 
 flomething be set aside for Phema.” 
 
154 
 
 mainstone’s housekeepes. 
 
 “He might do so,” answered Robert, sullenly, finding he must 
 say something — “that these wishes were set at naught — I didna’ 
 know.” 
 
 “ I tell thee I think difTerently, Robert,” spoke Silas, determinately ; 
 “ and my belief is, that the money will not thrive with thee. I want 
 none of it I ask for none of it. I have health and strength and 
 youth, and can work as other poor men do. But one thing I 
 must have — let Phema go with me — she isn’t happy or safe here.”^ 
 
 From some cause Robert’s anger was roused now. 
 
 “ She shan’t go ! — she’s happy and safe enough here — where should 
 she be safer ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, where ? ” questioned Silas. 
 
 He was proceeding to say something further, but he was stayed by 
 Robert s vehemence, which arose partly from anger, and was used 
 partly to stay further discussion of this subject. “I say I’ll have no 
 more o this thou hast no right to talk o’ this family matter afore 
 strangers. It’s no sorrow or joy o’ thine.” 
 
 “ It is. If thy feelings — which should be the warmest and strongest 
 — ^were only half what mine are for Phema, her place would have iTeen 
 very different in the house to what it is. But thou hast set nature 
 at naught, Robert, and the woe be thine I ” 
 
 ^ “ So let it be,” said Robert, fiercely. “If I choose to edicate the 
 girl, and make a lady on her, I will. If I don’t, the matter is still 
 mine. But I don’t see what good there’ll be in raising her above her 
 place — which is to churn, and bake, and keep the house tidy.” 
 
 “ Robert, she cannot and shall not remain here. Unbrotherly as 
 thou art, I am still brother enough to thee to say so.” 
 
 “Indeed, why not? Where’s the harm? Where’s the dano-er to 
 come from ? ” ^ 
 
 “ Frona here, replied Silas, with a manly dignity that was a fine 
 thing in its way “ from here,” he said, pointing to the waggoner — 
 “ where thou hast chosen to place thy confidence, and find—what 
 time will prove — thy master in thy servant.” 
 
 The home-thrust took. Pale, a,bject, trembling, Robert stood 
 motionless and silent. Then, seeing that all eyes were turned 
 towards him, he gave sudden vent to his ungovernable rage, and bid 
 his brother begone. “ The house was his,” he said, “ and he would 
 at least let others see that he could be master — in some thin^^'s, if not 
 in all ! ” ° 
 
 Without a word, Silas went. At the door he turned, and gave 
 Robert a parting look. The brothers’ eyes met, and the pity wliich 
 spoke through those of Silas touched the conscience of the other 
 more poignantly than a thousand words. He went, and from thence 
 for many a day, solitude settled slowly on the desolate threshold. 
 
mAii^stone^s housekeeper. 
 
 155 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 FORGIVENESS OF SINS. 
 
 .At tlie end of tlie lane nearest the highway, Silas met Joe— 
 onathan’s fellow-servant. 
 
 “Well, maister,” said the honest fellow, when Silas had briefly told 
 im how things had gone, “ I’m right sorry on it, but it be no more 
 lan I looked for. This rooting thee up out o’ th’ old place mayn’t 
 e the worse for thee in th’ end. As for we — but, p’raps you 
 now ? ” 
 
 “ Xo — what ? ” 
 
 “Maister couldn’t, it ’pears, do it himself, so Jonathan was his 
 andy man as he mostly be. Why, we’ve all got warning — the men 
 ad lads be to finish off on Saturday ; me they gin’ a longer time, for 
 e see I’m hired from Whis-sun-tide to Whis-sun-tide ; but I said I’d 
 xther go with th’ t’others, and so I shall.” 
 
 “ Indeed ! I am sorry for it, for at this time of year it may be dif- 
 cult to get a place.” 
 
 “Not a bit of it. Sir — me and the men and the lads have all got 
 ^ork. We went together last night to Squire Breere, and he took us 
 n at once, at a rise of wages too.” 
 
 “ This IS good news, Joe. Is he extending his farm ? ” 
 
 “He’s just taken three hundred acres off Squire Baldwin’s hands, 
 t’s the best land in the county ; but the Squire likes ease now-a- 
 ays, and don’t care to farm as much as he did. He hopes to get 
 liss Flo, it be said, and that may be is the reason he lets the t’other 
 quire have th’ land, though for many a year he’s held it like the apple 
 f his eye.” 
 
 “ Miss Flo ! ” questioned Silas, as he lifted his face, and shook off* the 
 pathy with which he had hitherto spoken — “ why, she’s but a child, 
 nd Theobald Baldwin forty-five or fifty at least. He would be tender 
 nd true and generous enough, I don’t doubt, for he’s a fine good- 
 . learted fellow in his way, but much too coarse and rude for a delicate 
 ittle high-bred thing like Miss Flo. It is a pity Joel did not give 
 ler the education of a milkmaid, if he meant her to be Theobald 
 Baldwin’s wife.” 
 
 “You’re just right. Sir, But Joel Breere don’t seem to be the sort 
 f,’ man he wur in former days ; that trial about the Thornhill collieries 
 .[uite upset him, and now he seems to ha’ got but one thought in his 
 I lead, and one f eelin’ in his heart — that is, to get richer and greater 
 han Squire Thornhill. His hate spurs him as a gall does a horse : 
 nd my sister Martha, who’s lived there a good bit, says the Pool is as 
 ! aiserable a place as house can be. The Squire’s sisters be as high 
 nd full of pride as they ever was ; and in the quiet chamber where 
 he missis ha’ lain so long, many a tear is shed about Miss Flo.” 
 
156 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 “Poor child ! ” said Silas. Then suppressing what further he could 
 have possibly said on this subject, he bid his old servant farewell, anc 
 success in his new service. He was opening the gate to go onwardsi 
 when J oe, by a kind word or two, pleased his kindly ear. 
 
 “ If you please, Sir, recollect that if so be yo’ take a farm. I’m youi 
 man. I’ve only taken this new sarvice on th’ understanding like that 
 I can quit it for yo’ at any time.” 
 
 “ Thank ye, Joe ; when I can farm for myself, your liking for youi 
 old master shall be remembered.” 
 
 ^ When Silas reached the rectory, he rang gently ; Elisha admitted 
 him, and for an hour or more he remained with Miss Eliot in the oak- 
 parlour. When at last he moved to go, and his hand was on the door, 
 the housekeeper said in a low voice : — 
 
 ‘‘ Except indirectly, we have said nothing of Barbie. Is her pro- 
 bation to last a little longer ? ” 
 
 “I think so,” he said, softly; “my heart has been so sore-stricken 
 to-day, that I couldn’t say what I would, and so I’ll leave it till 
 another time. No comfort would be to me like hers, but it must noi 
 be now.” He was struggling with his pride, and it conquered for the 
 present. 
 
 “ Well, write to the girl, when you feel able.” 
 
 “I will,” he said gently. ^ With this concise rejoinder he stepped 
 into the hall, and, passing swiftly forth, went his way. 
 
 All that afternoon — all that early evening. Barbie sat listening td 
 what took place downstairs. Now she stepped out into the galleiy tc 
 catch a sound more distinctly — now hurried to the casement to look 
 down into the courtyard. She was fully conscious as to Miss Eliot’^ 
 intention in strictly bidding her keep up stairs ; and there was a tim^ 
 when she would have rebelled, but suffering had subdued her wilful- 
 ness, and she knew full well that, however distasteful, obedience to hei 
 mistress’s wishes would be for the best. 
 
 At last she heard Silas come ; unable to work longer, or even restj 
 she went and stood in the gallery, watchful of every sound, and 
 expecting to be called or rung for. But an hour went by withoul 
 either taking place. Then swiftly and almost noiselessly some onei 
 left the house. W as it Silas ? — could he possibly leave withouij 
 seeing her ? — how hard he was — how cruel he was ! oh God ! perhaps 
 she was forgotten altogether! Next moment she tried to think thail 
 it was not he who had passed out, but some one else. Unable to 
 control her fear, her slow agony, she crept down the wide staircase 
 step by step. Miss Eliot was in the study, talking to Mr. RadnoJ 
 she could hear — the door of the oak-parlour stood open — she stepped 
 on, and, lifting the latch, entered the kitchen. Elisha sat com- 
 fortably by the fire; but his pipe rested on the hob — one of hig 
 master’s old newspapers lay idly on his knee. He neither smoked noi| 
 read, but gazed thoughtfully at the red blaze. 
 
 “Elisha,” she said, stealing towards him, and speaking in her under* 
 breath, “is Silas gone ? ” 
 
 “A good bit ago.” ; 
 
mainstone’8 housekeeper. 
 
 157 
 
 “Yes \ I bolted the door after him, and went in, and stirred up the 
 udy tire, as missis is gone to sit with master. 
 
 ' “ Gone, and never sent for me, or thought of me . ^ ^ 
 
 , “Well Barbie, I think that for once thou must be forgiving. The 
 ,oor lad has enough to think of-for they’re 
 
 le Farm, and cut him off without a sixpence. I don t behe\e it I 
 ,on’t. Simon, the old grandfayther, told me often that both money 
 ad land was to be divided betwixt the lads. 
 
 “Too true; he told it to me hisself Poor lad! its a hard stroke o 
 
 ortin’ ; he must needs want comfort.” u • i,,,. 
 
 Av indeed I He did need comfort— and who could give it but 
 er^ Nobody, nobody, she knew — nobody in all the world. And i 
 L did not give it, would he not think her forgetful ? Would he not 
 •0 away, and never come back, and forget her entirely, and see, an 
 ove some other Barbie. Wasn’t it because he was m trouble, and not 
 rom hardness of heart that she wasn’t called down ? Was it not 
 .ecause he could not speak his love and forgiveness with a ready 
 on<rue that he reserved the expression of both till another time . 
 ’oor little wilful Barbie, like many another woman, she forgot anti 
 ’or.rave, and made excuses for him she loved, even thougti he had 
 lasled her by ; and the bitterness— the unutterable bitterness— had 
 
 entered into the depth of her soul! 
 
 Her love, her pity, her despair, could be controlled no longer, blio 
 must see him and learn if it was his will to for^get her; or otherwise, 
 beino- forgiven she miglit weep contriteness, and soothe him with her 
 balury kisses ! What was Miss Eliot, dear lady as she was . What 
 was her new home, the refinements and comforts of which were teach- 
 dno- her so much ? What, in fact, was all the world to her m com- 
 pa'rison with him? She was wrought up to that desperate point, 
 which all of us, men and women, have known once, jierliaps, in our 
 'lives, when, come what may, we must know whether it is good or evil, 
 hope or despair, which lies before us! And God help us when it is 
 the latter, and we have to bear its silent agony for evermore ! 
 
 She stopped neither to think, nor listen, nor weigh rmht and 
 wrong! Stepping lightly into the hall, lest Miss Eliot should hear 
 ,her for the study-door was ajar, she snatched a little shawl from the 
 cloak-stand, pinned it hood-wise round her pretty face opened the 
 door which led into the garden as gently as she could, closed it alter 
 l/her— and then, with the light foot of youth and an.yous haste, sped 
 •across the courtyard and little bridge, and so into the upland fields. 
 It had ceased to rain- the moon shone clear and bright— but the 
 i aftergrowth upon the fields hung saturated, and the paths in places 
 
 ■were half aflood. , _ . . , . i , 
 
 Unconscious of this, till her soppy shoes and dripping dress told 
 their own tale, she hurried on, through park, and copse, and held, 
 
 : till, reaching Mainstone churchyard, she brushed through the sodden 
 grass and fallen leaves, and, staying on a heathery knoll, looked wist- 
 
158 
 
 MAINSTONE’S HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 fully and anxiously before her. But the newly-sodded grave was. 
 solitary ; no heavier feet passed by than those of the hare, as it sped 
 to the adjoining fields for food. 
 
 Here it was she had hoped to find Silas — not so much by reason of 
 grief, as from tenderness. He was going away, it might be, for many 
 a year, and he would give one last glance to the solitary grave. She 
 knew full well that the man’s heart was very tender, and she acted 
 in accordance with her knowledge. 
 
 Disappointed, chilled, perplexed, agonized, she crept back step by 
 step, and, stealing into the church-porch, sat down to rest, and think 
 what should she do — whither should she go. He might remain for 
 the night at a little public-house that lay on the road to Welton ; he 
 might go on to the town itself— should she follow him thither ? In 
 addition to this perplexity, her superstitious fears began to influence 
 her. On any other occasion but this, nothing would have induced 
 her to enter this old churchyard by night ; and now the excitement 
 of her first impulse was over, she began slowly to recollect what 
 hitherto she had forgotten. 
 
 Seated thus, her head bent down upon her upraised hands, she was 
 suddenly startled by hearing the churchyard gate open, and swing 
 back towards its latch. Then some footing came swiftly along the 
 wide gravelled walk— and when she lifted her face, half fearfully, to 
 look, a man passed by at so short a distance from the porch as to 
 leave no doubt that it was Silas. He was dressed in his ordinary 
 rough outer coat, and a leather bag or bundle was swung on a stick 
 at his shoulder. She let him pass ; she let him go before her for 
 some moments, and then she slowly followed. By keepino* in the 
 shadows of cloud and tree, she approached him unobserve^d, as he 
 stood at the head of the grave bareheaded, and at the full of his 
 manly height. Whatever were his feelings of regret and sorrow — 
 whether his farewell was for a short or lengthened time— not a word 
 escaped his lips. He had put on his hat, and was moving away, when ; 
 the hand which had dropped was taken gently — very gently, and fear- 
 fully withal. Surprised, perhaps a little startled, Silas looked down, 
 and there stood Barbie, not daring to meet his gaze, but stealino* 
 nearer and nearer, till her face was hidden in his sleeve. She| 
 should have seen the look of intense joy which flitted across his 
 face — to know how truly she was forgiven, how deeply she was 
 loved; but it was his will to speak gravely, and aflect a sove- 
 reignty which was untrue— for she it was who was sovereign and | 
 ruler over him. ^ I 
 
 “ Well, Barbie, so you’ve followed me ? ” • 
 
 “ Please, Silas, don’t begin in anger ; my heart is nigh broken. I 
 must die if you don’t forgive me— I must— I must, indeed ! I waited , 
 anxiously up stairs, hoping to be called ; and when I wasn’t, and I ! 
 went down, and heard from Elisha what has happened to-night at 
 the Farm, I felt I must see you, and comfort you if I could — Silas, 
 Silas ! ” She leaned a little closer, but he affected not to heed tho 
 demonstration. ; 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 159 
 
 “ Yes, Barbie, I’m poor and bare indeed • I need comfort, and once 
 tbou couldst have given it to me.” 
 
 “I can now, Silas. I crave to do so! ” 
 
 “ It depends on thyself whether thou canst. Come, if I am to 
 forgive, thou must tell me everything : bad and good — I must hear it 
 all.” 
 
 “ Hear what, Silas ? ” 
 
 “ Thou need’st scarcely ask me. How many times it was you met 
 
 that man — what he said — what 
 
 “ I will hide nothing, Silas. I meant to tell thee every word,” wept 
 and interrupted Barbie, holding her face still lower. 
 
 “ It must be every word I ” he said sternly. “ Stand here and look 
 me in the face : if you lie, I can tell it — you can’t and shan’t deceive 
 me.” He lifted her, by a sweep of his ^ strong arm, on to the top 
 of the newly- sodded grave. Thus standing somewhat on a level, he 
 was face to face with hers ; and that she might not droop her, he 
 1 grasped the shawl beneath her chin. 
 
 “ This is a solemn sort of place. Barbie, so speak the truth. Let 
 me know if we are to come together or to part.” 
 
 His look was so austere that she quailed beneath it. He looked as 
 though he was going to rend her instead of forgive her. JSTor was her 
 terror less when he said — 
 
 ■ “ Go on — let the bitterness and ashes come at once ! ” 
 
 Faltering, and like one whose wits were scared, she began to speak 
 of her first acquaintance with Mr. Greene, and how often it was 
 he had stopped his horse at the door of the “ Brown Hen ; ” but he 
 stayed her by saying peremptcftly, — 
 
 ^ “ Don’t keep me like a fish on a hook. Begin from the day you 
 
 went to Tylecote. How many times did you meet him in the woods 
 — what did he say ? ” 
 
 ' “ I saw him but once, Silas ; then I wasn’t with him many minutes. 
 
 f^Most he said was, that I was very pretty.” 
 
 “ The villain 1 ” But Silas only said this because he thought Barbie 
 • more lovely than she ever was ; and it was death to him that any 
 other man should think or say so. 
 f “ How many times did he kiss you ? ” 
 
 I* “ Only twice, Silas — as he came and went. I wouldn’t let him 
 more.” 
 
 p ‘‘ Nonsense ! I see by your eyes that you’re not telling me true — 
 P you mean two hundred.” 
 
 “No, no, Silas— indeed, indeed, he kissed me but twice, and only 
 I put his arm round my waist for a little while.” 
 
 “ For ten minutes ? ” 
 
 “Not one. I thought of thee and couldn’t bear it. For though 
 I was angered at what I’d heard about thee at Welton on that 
 , Saturday, I loved thee very much — I did indeed ! ” 
 
 '■ “ Yet, doing so, you made another meeting — went to the man^s 
 
 house — stayed ” 
 
 ‘ “Don’t say more,” she interrupted, “because you’re wrong. Ifi 
 
160 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 -wasn’t riglit — know it wasn’t, to say I’d meet him again ; but I 
 meant no harm. When I went to the place that afternoon, he wasn’t 
 there ; but his groom was, and he bid me come as far as the garden 
 to speak to the master ; and when I went, which I wasn’t at first at 
 all willing, he forced me up into that chamber sort of place, and 
 locked me in.” 
 
 She saw he was relenting— that he believed what she said ; still 
 some point yet rankled in his jealous heart. ^ 
 
 “ But those kisses,” he muttered to himself— “ those kisses ! ” 
 
 “Yet, Silas! Silas! they were not such as I give thee.” Then 
 hastily, from shame— partly from grief— more wholly from great love 
 —she raised herself upon her tiptoes, and putting her arms about his 
 neck, cleaved to him as the ivy to the oak— the tendril to the rustic 
 bower. As her passionate kisses met his face — as her soft young 
 cheek nestled to his hirsute strength— he could be hard and stern no 
 more. One glance at her drooping head— one pressure from those 
 fervid lips — one coy endearment from those tender arms — and the 
 electrical shock which thrilled through his being was as the renewing 
 of life itself. He was as great as a king— as rich as a nfiser— asl 
 poetical as any poet ; for the divinest portion of the poet’s art is 
 unwritten — is common to humanity — embraces all the world! 
 
 “Eobert, Robert!” he said, as he raised her in his arms, “you 
 may take all the money, and everything beside ; I don’t envy thee— 
 I’m richer than thee— I have Barbie— she is all my world ! ” 
 
 He spoke truth, for she was all his world. ^ Still more a beggar 
 than he was, he might have been turned adrift, and he would not 
 have cared. With her, poverty wouW be comparatively unfelt— for < 
 her he could strive for better days. 
 
 As he pressed her to his breast, the last lingering glimpses of the 
 past returned. 
 
 “ You have told me all. Barbie — all.” 
 
 “Yes, indeed, indeed; I have never sinned, Silas, except in bein^ 
 Vain and silly. Silas, rest peaceful in the belief that I am spotless 
 and truthful to you.” 
 
 His answer was only still more passionate kisses, till presently In 
 
 said : — i n 
 
 “If I leave thee for a bit — for a few weeks at most— you! 
 keep at the parsonage, won’t you ? — speak to nobody — look a 
 
 nobody ” ^ 
 
 “You may lock me in a box, Silas, and take the key — only yoi 
 
 must come soon.” i r 
 
 “No fear of that. Barbie; you shall be a little wite betor 
 long. I’ll write and tell you soon— more I mustn’t say at present. 
 
 All his sorrow was gone now. He bore her upwards to the churcl^ 
 path, and then he became aware how wet and cold she was. Leavin^i 
 his bundle in the porch, he lifted her again in his arms, and began t( 
 bear her swiftly towards the highway. ^ 
 
 “ Where are we going, Silas ? Let me walk — I in heavy. ^ ^ 
 
 “Not a bit of it! "Youre as light as thistle-down. The field 
 
 •i 
 
[ MAiNSTONE^S HOUSEKEEPER. 161 
 
 are all aflood. Thy little feet and garments be drenched enojgh 
 already.” ° 
 
 : He bore her as purely and tenderly as a father would his babe, 
 with no reward but a kiss or two as the pretty face nestled by his 
 |own. In a dry place here and there, he made pretext to let her walk 
 a little way. But mere pretext it was, and he was soon bearing her 
 onwards as swiftly as before. Again and again he set her down^ but 
 it was only to look more fully into the little hooded face— most simple, 
 ,aiost lovely, most touching — now bent in lingering penitence, now 
 jraised in sunny smiles — a rosebud wet with dew — a lily gladdened by 
 die sun As he looked, he could do no more than raise and press 
 her to his passionate heart. 
 
 At length they reached the parsonage, and on the threshold Miss 
 Eliot had first crossed he set her down. 
 
 “Be faithful. Barbie.” 
 
 The reply was given, not spoken — and then he went his way. 
 rieeding neither faith nor hope to battle with the world, 
 i She stole in, neither speaking nor looking at Elisha, who still sat 
 Dy the fire. In the dressing-room she found Miss Eliot, whose first 
 Tlance at Barbie’s hooded face told her all. 
 
 “ I ve seen Silas, ma am — he has forgiven all — I am so happy that 
 —that ” 
 
 I She could say no more, but kneeling hastily, wept her last tears of 
 jorrow upon the tender hands which had helped and saved her in 
 extremity. 
 
 I 
 
 ( 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE WILD MOORS. 
 
 It was settled that Mr. Radnor should leave home about the 
 niddle of September, and remain away two months at least. As the 
 .nonth had now begun, preparations were made, not only for his 
 ^.ipproaching absence, but for many matters connected therewith, 
 ^Ine great difficulty had, on this occasion, been easily got over. Mr. 
 TV^alcot promised that either himself or one of his curates would do 
 luty at^ Mainstone church ; for since his first interview with Mr. 
 ladnors housekeeper, his visit to the Rectory had been several times 
 repeated. On these occasions he had not seen Miss Eliot, thouo-h he 
 ^av. entered one or more of the parlours with accustomed abrupt- 
 ess, an traversed the garden from end to end. ^ 
 
 1 
 
1 
 
 MAIJJSTONe’s HOtS£KEi)I*i!K. \ 
 
 Mr. Radnor’s consent to leave home at all had not been obtained 
 ■without considerable difficulty. When it was, his strong desire was 
 to go to Oxford ; and it was not till Mr. Simeon had urged many 
 reasons for deferring this visit to another season, that the wish was 
 set aside. At last, after much correspondence on the subject, it was 
 arranged that he should go to the north of Devon, where an old 
 college friend named Mainwaring, who had long expected a visit, held j 
 a living. Like Mr. Radnor, he was a bachelor ; but an elderly | 
 relative took excellent charge of his household, so that there was : 
 every reason to believe that the somewhat invalided and solitary I 
 gentleman would meet with sympathy and tender care. Yet, in spite ' 
 of this genial prospect of comfort and change of scene, and that the i 
 day fixed for his departure was near at hand, his reluctance to go at 
 all was very evident. ^ As^ to the reason of this he was not explicit. 
 He had submitted his wishes to those of others, beeause it was a 
 characteristic of his somewhat weak and kindly nature to do so, and 
 more particularly because he could refuse nothing to Mr. Simeon 
 or his housekeeper; but the silent pain was none the less for 
 that. One evening, whilst Miss Eliot read to him, the truth came 
 out. 
 
 “ Charlotte, lay down the paper— let us talk instead, How loner is 
 it now till I go ? ” 
 
 “ This is Friday evening, Mr. Radnor, and you go next Thursday.” 
 
 “ Indeed ! I’m sorry for it ; the time is very short.” 
 
 “But you will be the sooner back, Mr. Radnor— -to find every- 
 thing altered for the better, I hope.” 
 
 “ It may be, but it won’t be so if you are not here.” 
 
 “ Me, Mr. Radnor ? Don’t for a moment fancy that I shall not 
 be here. I am as much a fixture — at least for the present— as 
 one of your chairs or tables. In fact, I am beginning to feel quite 
 at home.” 
 
 “Are you?” he said, looking brightly up. “You cannot think 
 what joy you give me in saying so. But— but— the truth is, 
 Charlotte, I do not^ like going without you. Couldn’t you come ? 
 My friend Mainwaring would find room, I daresay.” 
 
 She smiled at his simplicity and enthusiasm. 
 
 “Gentlemen do not usually travel with their housekeepers, Mr. 
 Radnor.^ Besides, how would all the business which has to be done 
 go on without me ? Think of that ! ” 
 
 “ It would go on very well,” he said ; “ at least, we might find some 
 one capable of superintending. And Mr. Mainwaring would soon 
 perceive that mine was no ordinary housekeeper, that though — ” 
 
 She saw that it was necessary to repress what was coming. 
 
 “ No, Mr. Radnor— you must not indulge in dreams that I am other 
 than I seem. I have let you call me Charlotte because you said that, 
 for association sake, it would please you to do so ; the rest is my 
 affair. If time should prove that I am other than I seem, so be it ; 
 the results achieved by then may be a worthy plea for want of 
 candour. Till then we must leave this question ; you have your 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 163 
 
 secret, I have mine ; let us severally keep them yet for a time. I 
 I am a friend of Mr. Simeon, and under obligation to him ; and I came 
 here, in the first instance, to serve him by serving his friend ; now 
 my duties interest me for their own sakes ; and I shall feel I have 
 achieved much if, in the end, I leave Mr. Radnor happier and better 
 in health, and his home, both in its comfort and conduct, more worthy 
 of himself and his sacred calling.” 
 
 He caught at the word “leave,” and repeated it with a cry of 
 despair. 
 
 “Don’t leave me, Charlotte — don’t; whether you are really my 
 little Tullia, or a semblance in another form — do not leave me. I 
 am utterly alone and solitary but for you. Oh! God pardon 
 me ! — but I cannot, cannot lead so sad and desolate a life again ! ” 
 
 There were times when Julius Radnor was as mentally weak and 
 simple as a child. He was so now ; and, covering his face with his 
 hands, he wept unrestrainedly. In her mental strength she was a 
 i giant in comparison. She suffered these throes, half grief, half joy, to 
 exhaust themselves, and wondered, as she did so, at the marvellous 
 patience, fidelity, and truth which enriched the nature of this strange, 
 but guileless, man. As he raised his face, she, half unconsciously to 
 herself, put forth her hand, and pressed it on his head. It was 
 an accustomed petting sort of action she had used towards those 
 she loved or regarded from the time she was a little child; and 
 J ulius recognised it in a moment. He would have been a stock or a 
 stone had he not done so. Many and many a time, as she had stood 
 by her beloved master’s side, he gravely reproving or praising, had 
 she laid her tiny hand playfully on his bended head ; and now, as 
 with Silas Moore, the touch passed like an electric shock through his 
 whole^ being — there could be disguise, at least from him, no longer. 
 He seized the little hand, covered it with living kisses ; he wanted 
 not to go to Oxford now, to ask questions, to see Mr. Simeon — it was 
 his little Tullia, his darling child, his rare scholar, whom he had loved 
 so long and so hopelessly — from whose presence, seven years before, 
 he had fled as a matter of honour and duty ! She might affect to 
 read Latin with false quantities, to wear a cap to hide her hair, to 
 never speak of former things or former days — but to him she was 
 revealed. 
 
 “ Charlotte, Charlotte ! ” he said, “ do with me as you will — put me 
 under what discipline or probation you please — only don’t leave 
 me ! ” 
 
 He had not let go the little hand — indeed he had taken the other, 
 
 ' and he still covered them with his kisses. 
 
 “Mr. Radnor,” she said, as she moved them gently away, as from 
 the retention of a little child, “ this must not be. I must leave you 
 if this occur again— or if we meet other than on our old footino-, at 
 least for the present.” ° 
 
 ' She said no more, but, quitting the room, did not return a^ain that 
 ni ' ■ ° 
 
 len they met on the following morning, which they did 
 
 11—2 
 
 soon 
 
164 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 after breakfast — for Mr. Kadnor had of late reserved his letters for 
 his housekeeper to read to him — no one would have suspected the 
 scene of the preceding evening. Mr. Radnor was grave and gentle 
 — his housekeeper self-possessed and cheerful. She had read the last 
 business letter, and was discoursing thereon, as they passed slowly up 
 and down the sunny terrace, when, at one and the same time, they 
 were startled by seeing a face peering at them from behind the 
 bushes of a side path. In another instant Miss Eliot called, and the 
 clerk’s poor witless lad, with a wicker cage in his hand, approached 
 them. 
 
 ‘‘ Well, Cornelius ! ” she said, “have you come to see me at last ? 
 I have been expecting you for some time. Dorcas said you were 
 coming.” 
 
 “I was afraid of Betty,” he answered; “but to-day I ain’t — I’ve 
 come without fear of anybody.” 
 
 “ That is quite right — Mrs. Jack is not often here now. But what 
 pet is that ? ” 
 
 “ It’s a young blackbird, for the empty cage which hangs against 
 the courtyard wall. May I go and place it there — will you 
 come ? ” And the lad stooping, looked with wistful eagerness into 
 her face. 
 
 “ Go with him, Charlotte,” said Mr. Radnor, in a low voice ; “ apart 
 from his infirmity, he is always an object of interest to me, for the 
 sake of his worthy father. Go, there is a wistfulness in his looks I 
 never noticed before.” 
 
 Miss Eliot obeyed at once. On her way towards the house, she 
 learnt from several indirect questions, that the lad had not been home 
 for some days, and that the bird was one from some others he had 
 caged on the moors. When it had been shifted to its more roomy 
 abode, and the cage hung up triumphantly on its sunny nail, Cornelius 
 said, in an almost inaudible whisper : — 
 
 “ I want something to eat — will you give it me ? ” 
 
 “To be sure. We will go together to the larder and see what 
 there is.” 
 
 She led the way there accordingly, and pointed out the various 
 dishes on the shelves. After bashfully hanging back some minutes, 
 as the simplest child might do, he inspected these one by one, and 
 asked for a little of each of those which were filled with the daintiest 
 things. 
 
 “ Are they for yourself, Cornelius ? ” 
 
 The lad hung his head, but made no answer. Willing to humour 
 his innocent whim, though wondering somewhat at it — for the house- 
 keeper had already heard from Dorcas that he had none of the 
 ordinary vices of idiocy — she went and fetched a small basket, and 
 sending Elisha for some vine-leaves, packed a little store of such 
 dainties as had been asked for — a puff, some cake and jelly, and such 
 like things. But no sooner had she given the basket into his hand, 
 ‘than, regardless of the empty cage, and without a single word beyond 
 some muttered thanks, he set ofi' at full speed across the courtyard, 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 165 
 
 orcled tlie brook at a spot below tlie hand -bridge, and so away to a 
 higher and more rugged part of the upland than that which lay 
 direct towards Mainstone church. The housekeeper had followed 
 him into the courtyard, and now stood watching him, for his manner 
 from the first had struck her as unusual. 
 
 “ Where can he be going — and what can he want those things for ? ” 
 she asked, as turning round she saw Elisha standing at no great 
 distance. 
 
 “I can’t Sc^, missis— the lad’s a puzzler always — may be he’s 
 keeping a holid.ay with some o’ th’ bargemen, or his tame things be 
 ailing. One thing is pretty sure — that now he’s been once, he’ll'come 
 again, and that pretty often.” 
 
 At this moment Hill, the butcher, rode into the yard, and, after dis- 
 mounting and delivering his basket to Peggy, he touched his hat and 
 came towards the housekeeper. 
 
 “Excuse me, ma’am, interrupting you. But something else has 
 happened at the Moore Farm, which may perhaps interest you.” 
 
 “What, Hill?” J j 
 
 “Why, ma’am, that poor child Phema, has gone off, no one knows 
 where. Robert Moore and Jonathan say that they have searched 
 everywhere ; and now they lay the blame on Silas, and say that he 
 has enticed her away.” 
 
 “ This cannot be,’’ replied Miss Eliot ; “ for Silas is at least forty 
 miles distant, and will yet remain for a short time. I had a letter 
 from him yesterday; in it he said nothing of the girl, which he 
 would certainly have done had he removed her.” 
 
 “Well, ma am, this is what they say. They seem very uneasy 
 about the matter — the master especially.” 
 
 “Indeed !— when did she go, and what is their account of it ? ” 
 
 ^ “ They don’t say the day precisely ; but it is at least three or four 
 since she went. The master, it appears, went to Welton on business, 
 leaving her alone in the house, and no one by but Jonathan at work 
 in the barn — and when he came back at eleven at night she was 
 gone. The fellow says she got her supper, took the kitten, went 
 out, and he saw nothing more of her.” 
 
 ^ “ //e says,” said Miss Eliot, indignantly ; “ it is marvellous that one 
 in Robert Moore s position should defer to every opinion, and listen 
 to every statement, of that man. There is really cause for great 
 uneasiness ; for Silas more than hinted to me that the girl was not 
 safe from the base acts of someone. Names he did not mention, but 
 1 presume it was this Jonathan.” 
 
 “Your notion is pretty ri^ht, ma’am. An old woman, who went 
 up and down to clean and wait at the time of the funeral, saw enouo-h 
 ot this fellow’s intentions, as well as the poor child's sufferings and 
 dread of him, to make her heart sore. Indeed, she related it to my 
 wife with tears in her eyes.” 
 
 “And yet,” continued Miss Eliot, more and more indio-nantly 
 “ Robert Moore is, if I mistake not, some relation to the girl f ” * 
 
 Hill came a step nearer to the housekeeper, and lowered his voice 
 
166 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 — “ Her father, ma’am, if what has been told me is true. Her mother 
 was Robert’s cousin, and as handsome a lass as ever sipped cup or 
 broke bread. She came down from London, where her father was a 
 saddler, to spend a summer at the Farm. Robert was much with her, 
 though he did not let it appear outwardly, as we may say, that he was 
 courting her. She went home in the autumn — and late in the year it 
 wasn’t possible to hide longer that the mean-soul’d villain had ruined 
 her months before, and that she was about to be a mother. Her 
 father turned her out of doors — and then, as a matter of course, she 
 came down into the country. But Robert was rascal enough to deny 
 his promise ; spoke slightingly of her, and swore the child was not 
 his. After a shocking scene at the Farm, where he got his old grand- 
 mother to refuse the girl a shelter, she made her way to W elton ; and 
 there, in less than a week, she died in childbed in a mean lodging. 
 As the child was unclaimed, it was sent to the poor-house, and there 
 it remained some time, till the old grandfather, who had more kind 
 feeling than the rest, and from whom a deal had been hidden — though 
 he was pretty sure the child was Robert’s — went and fetched it home. 
 Whilst he lived, it was fairly treated ; but after he was gone, both 
 Robert and the old missis fairly wreaked their spite upon it. They 
 sent off the women-servants, and turned her into the drudge you’ve 
 seen. But for Silas, she must have died many a day ago — and that 
 she ain’t run off long and long before this, is the wonder of 
 many.” 
 
 “ Well, if I can discover her, she shall, most surely, not return. 
 Silas, poor fellow, has yet no home for her, but I will find one.” 
 
 “ God bless you, ma’am,” said the man, heartily ; “it won’t be the 
 least of the good things you’ve done, ma’am, since you’ve been here. 
 It won’t indeed ! ” 
 
 As Mr. Radnor had gone across the fields to the church— and they 
 dined late that day — Miss Eliot set off at once to the Farm to speak 
 to Robert Moore. It was at the hush of the afternoon, when 
 country house-places are at their stillest — and this was at its stillest, 
 too. Dirty, deserted, neglected — the dinner things about — the fire 
 waning to its last ashes, nothing could look more miserable than the 
 great old kitchen. Robert had been apparently doing servants’ work, 
 for two large cans, filled with newly-frothed milk, stood by the dairy 
 door, whilk he himself crouched towards the embers in moody 
 silence. Miss Eliot entered, and addressed him without ceremony. 
 
 “If you knew that the girl was gone away, why did you come 
 here ? ” he said in a voice which betrayed great irritation. “ I didn’t 
 seek you, though you was likely to know her whereabouts, seeing 
 you’re hand-and-glove with Silas. I’m just thinking that if you 
 attended to the old parson’s affairs as you should, you’d find enough 
 to do without troubling yourselt about those of other folks.” 
 
 The housekeeper had too much good sense and command of 
 temper to heed either the offensive tone or words. 
 
 “ Mr. Moore, distinctly understand that I do not know where the 
 poor child is, nor did I learn her absence till half-an-hour ago, when 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 167 
 
 it was mentioned to me by Hill tlie butcher. Slie is not with Silas, I 
 am sure, for his residence is at a distance from here ; and even if she 
 knew where to go, she could not, without friends or money. Why I 
 came here, is to save you from much which may be unpleasant. Her 
 absence will be talked of far and wide, and may lead to inquiry into 
 circumstances which are certainly suspicious.” 
 
 “ Suspicious ! A¥hat do you mean ? I know of nothing sus- 
 picious ! ” he said, as he turned quickly round, like a cur about to 
 bite. “ If she’s chosen to be ungrateful for the bread she has eaten, 
 it ain’t fault of mine. Here she had a home ” 
 
 “ She ought to have had,” interrupted Miss Eliot, with that grave 
 austerity before which those higher and wiser than Robert Moure 
 had quailed, “ if it be true that you are father to the unhappy girl 
 — a relationship which I see no reason to doubt. But I emphatically 
 deny, even speaking from my own observation, that she had what I 
 call a home here. She had not ; and when to your own and others’ 
 harshness have been lately added the base attentions and propositions 
 of this man ” 
 
 He caught at the last word, as the suspicious and guilty always 
 catch at words which wound and torture, as a barbed arrow, the flesh. 
 “ What man? Oh ! Oh! Jonathan again, is it ? Because I trust a 
 good servant, I am to be a reproach to every one, am 1 ? Well, I’ll 
 be a reproach a bit longer ; and as to that wench, when I get her 
 back again, she shall pay a pretty price, that she shall, for her lies.” 
 He ground his teeth as he spoke, and bent again towards the 
 fire. 
 
 “ Mr. Moore, the girl has not spoken untruly. Indeed, as regards 
 herself she has not spoken at all. It is what others have observed of 
 this man’s gross misconduct — and this it is, there can be no doubt, 
 which has driven her from your roof. Under it, let me distinctly tell 
 you, she shall not return. If you, as the father of this neglected, 
 yet, let me hope, still innocent child, connive at or palliate her 
 pollution by this man who seems to be your master, others will not. 
 Make no hindrance to her being found, nor attempt to bring her back 
 or retain her here. If you forget all human duty, others do not ; and 
 fortunate will it be for you if she is found and inquiry is stayed — 
 for there are other causes of suspicion which are not yet lulled to 
 sleep. As to this man Jonathan — in whom you so disastrously 
 confide — let his infamy on one point warn you on that of others.” 
 
 He did not speak, only held up his hands, as it were piteously, 
 and turned to look v/ith a blanched and stricken face. He now knew 
 what he had not known before, bad and cruel as he was, but he sat 
 bound and tongue-tied on his own hearth, and dared to take no 
 account thereof. He groaned in the spirit, as well he might; this 
 was the first reaping of the harvest he had sown.” 
 
 Haughty and unmoved. Miss Eliot left the house. Upon returning 
 home she wrote a hasty line by that night’s post to Silas — sent Elisha 
 down with a message to the inspector of police at Horton Wood--** 
 and got Daniel to go home and dispatch his boys to search the woods. 
 
168 
 
 M A instone’s housekeeper. 
 
 But several days passed without result. A reply from Silas made it 
 quite evident that he had seen or heard nothing of the girl, and 
 he expressed uneasiness even greater than that felt by Miss Eliot 
 herself. ^ i 
 
 Hers was in some sense dissipated by the amount of duty which | 
 lay upon her hands. Mr. Radnor was to leave home on the morrow | 
 — some of the furniture had already been moved to the barn, where 
 the whole was to be housed during the extensive alterations and ! 
 repairs, and the masons and bricklayers had begun their labours. ^ As | 
 Barbie, however, waited upon her mistress that night in the dressing- | 
 room attached to Miss Eliot’s chamber, the subject of Phema’s | 
 absence was brought up. ^ i 
 
 “ She hasn’t been a bit heard of, ma’am ; and when the inspector i 
 rode up here this evening — which he did whilst you were at tea — he i 
 told Elisha that if some tidings of her weren’t got before many hours 
 were over, Jonathan and the master would be taken up. It is a sad 
 business, and one that will greatly trouble Silas ; though Peggy’s sister I 
 says that there was a grazier in the shop to-day who gave it as his 
 opinion that she would be found on the moors after all. Once before 
 she got away and went there, though that is now a long while I 
 ago.” 
 
 “ The moors,” repeated Miss Eliot, thoughtfully, as though the 
 words suggested some perfectly new idea. ‘^This may be it. Barbie, 
 after all.” 
 
 Presently she asked if Cornelius had been up to the parsonage ; 
 since she last saw him. 
 
 “Yes, ma’am, nigh every day. He did not ask for you; and as 
 you were so busy with Mr. Radnor, Peggy gave him what he wanted. 
 As soon as he had got it he was off again. Yesterday she was not in 
 the way, and he asked me for two eggs, which I went and fetched 
 from the fowl-house.” 
 
 “ What can he want with these things. Does he take them 
 home ? ” 
 
 “ Oh no, ma’am, he hasn’t been home for nigh ten days, and they’re 
 much troubled about it ; for though several men have been in search 
 of him, he can be found nowhere, as he has taken shelter in some 
 place so buried in the reeds as to be known to nobody but him- 
 self.” 
 
 “ Well, I will see and question him to-morrow.” 
 
 It rose a bright day for Mr. Radnor’s journey. At an early hour 
 he breakfasted with his housekeeper, and was more than usually 
 taciturn. For already had he confided to her care his beloved books 
 — already had he been from room to room with her and the able 
 architect from the country town, under whose direction the altera- 
 tions and repairs were to be made. Already had he notified what was 
 to be done in greenhouse and garden during his absence ; and now, as 
 it were, the dead weight of leave-taking rested unconditionally upon 
 his spirit. More than once he had to be roused from his hypo- 
 chondriac state ^ and now when Elisha had assisted him on with his 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 169 
 
 coat, and brought his hat and gloves, he looked round for his house- 
 keeper. A few minutes before she had been speaking to him now 
 
 fhe was gone. 
 
 “ Where is your mistress, Elisha ? ** 
 
 “ She’ll be here in a minute, Sir ; she’s helping Peggy to cut your 
 sandwiches~she wasn’t doing ’em half thin and nic"e enouo-h*' for 
 missis’s liking.” ° 
 
 “ God bless her !— go in and tell her to come as quickly as she 
 can.” 
 
 He walked up and down uneasily, with his hands behind him till 
 she came in ; then he went and closed the door — and, brinoino* a 
 small box off his reading-desk, placed it in her hands. ° ° 
 
 “ You must keep this, Charlotte, safely and secretly, and not let it 
 go from your possession. As perhaps you will suppose, it contains 
 documents relating to the secret I have to keep. In case I should 
 die where I am going, you and Simeon will know what to do, as he 
 has my instructions. You I intrust, because I know you to be my 
 little Charlotte, though my eyes are dim, though time has wrouoht 
 
 changes— that are great to me — and though you will affect disguise 
 
 though there could be none since the night your little hand wasTplaced 
 in kindness on your old master’s head.” 
 
 “ Mr. Radnor, the chaise is waiting, and Elisha and Daniel ready- 
 let us say good-bye.” ^ 
 
 “ Charlotte, don’t be cruel. You don’t mean it, for it isn’t in your 
 heart, I know, to say one ungentle word to him who made you a 
 noble scholar. Be here when I come back, promise me— promise 
 me ! ” 
 
 “ I will, Julius.” 
 
 ‘‘ Then throw off this absurd disguise— do, Charlotte, be my little 
 Tullia, and I shall know what to say and do ; for it warms my froze#*- 
 soul into life again to think that the little one has come to save 
 her dear old master; and with but one intent, perhaps— whc 
 knows ? ” ^ ir 
 
 Who knew, indeed ? She knew full well, as well as he did, and 
 what all this must come to. Yet it was necessary to repress the 
 avowal a little longer. ^ 
 
 “Mr. Radnor, let us talk no more in this strain— I forbid it tlp' 
 other night, and my wishes should be attended to. Let me fulfil my 
 duty to the end of my intention ; and then, if I am other than I 
 seem, you shall be the first to learn it.” 
 
 ^ There was that in her manner that few could encroach upon 
 
 ieast of all he who loved her with the most solemn and reverent love 
 which ever dignified the heart of man. He, therefhre, did no more 
 than take her hand, press it fervently, and follow her from the 
 room. 
 
 Could she have looked into her old tutor’s heart, she would have 
 seen a wish there which must have expression, and was yet repressed 
 oy shame. So, when the last parting words were said, and the chaise 
 passed on, he stopped it again. 
 
170 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 “ Charlotte-~Miss Eliot ! ” Thus called, she hurried forward. 
 
 You will write to me every day.” 
 
 “ If I possibly can, Mr. Radnor.” 
 
 “And— -and his face was hidden by the hood of the chaise; 
 
 “you won t go too often to Horton Wood, or lend German books 
 and let Miss Tern — say you’re occupied if Mr. Walcot calls.” ’ 
 
 No answer came to these requests. The chaise rolled on, and the 
 mistress returned to the house amused and smiling. Fortunately, 
 Elisha did not hear these words ; he was busy speaking to Daniel^ 
 who sat behind, or he might have wondered. 
 
 She had just secured the box intrusted to her care, when Barbie 
 hurried into the room to say Cornelius had come again, and was now 
 in the kitchen, asking Peggy for “ nice things.” 
 
 “ He can’t have eaten what he had before, ma’am,” she said ; “ for 
 it is awful to see how starved and shrunk he is.” 
 
 ^ Thus summoned, the housekeeper preceded her little maid to the 
 kitchen, where the lad stood leaning by the dresser, patiently await- 
 ing, as it would seem, Peggy’s attention to his wants. 
 
 “ More niceties to-day" Cornelius ? ” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “For whom do you want them — for yourself? ” 
 
 ^ The witless lad was seemingly too innocent to lie, so he huno* down 
 his head abashed, and did not answer. ° 
 
 “Tell me,” said the housekeeper, kindly, “if you know anything 
 of Phema? Peggy says you must have often seen her when you 
 were in the fields about Moore Farm.” 
 
 Again he did not answer. 
 
 “ You must tell us, Cornie, or perhaps that man in the blue coat 
 from Horton Wood may ask you more roughly than I.” 
 
 He did not say a word, though his face, as he looked up, expressed 
 both surprise and terror. Then gliding suddenly and gently away as 
 far as the door, he bounded across it, and so was off as fleetly as he 
 could by the way he had always come. 
 
 “ It is quite certain that Cornelius knows where the girl is,” said 
 Miss Eliot, “ and he must be followed till she is found. Barbie, you 
 shall come with me, and we will hasten to the lock and hear what 
 Johnny Wigpit and Dorcas advise.” 
 
 The housekeeper and her little maid were soon in the sunny fields 
 together, for the promise of the early morn bore rich fulfilment. The 
 grass was crisp and full of grasshoppers, the hedgerows decked with 
 flowers, the summer green of tree and hedge slowly mellowing 
 towards autumnal gold. Upon the breezy height the housekeeper 
 sat down to rest for a few minutes. The dense smoke curled 
 slowly skyward from the mining ridge, and on the other hand, 
 the noble woods about the abbey of St. John stretched out a leafy 
 sea. 
 
 “Some day,” said Charlotte to her little maid, “I must see 
 these old ruins; Miss Lizzie Whitelock tells me they are very 
 beautiful.” 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 171 
 
 Yes ; people come far to see them. You must please let me go 
 with you, ma’am, I know every corner.” 
 
 ^ You will be otherwise employed, Barbie, I fancy, before I have 
 time to go.” 
 
 ‘‘ Indeed, ma’am ? ” she questioned, as she turned her happy face 
 quickly towards her mistress. “ Has Silas told you when he is coming 
 ,to fetch me? The little slips of writing he puts into the letters 
 he sends you say nothing about this, though they are very 
 kind.” 
 
 “I must not tell tales. Barbie, at present. Be quite content, 
 you will be Silas’s little wife before many weeks are gone by.” 
 
 The girl made no answer, only drooped her head a little, then 
 raised it and looked afar. The lark at that moment carolling in the 
 fleecy heights of the serene sky had not a more gladsome spirit than 
 this rustic little maid. 
 
 As they passed beside the Pool they came suddenly upon Squire 
 Thornhill’s valet, who, superintending some labourers as they cleared 
 out the environing clumps of brushwood, was dressed, as usual, quite 
 en heau. Miss Eliot was passing on without making any recognition, 
 when he stepped into the path before her, hat in hand. ° * 
 
 “ Beg pardon for interrupting you for a single instant— but I hope 
 I have the honour of seeing you well, ma’am. 
 
 “ Quite well, I thank you, Mr. Pomp,” and Miss Eliot tried 
 to pass on. But the valet still stood deferentially, like a petiU 
 maitre, 
 
 ^ “ And Mr. Kadnor— he is well, I hope, ma’am ? I hear much of 
 his improvement in health and spirits of late. He has left home, too 
 I hear ; is it for long ? ” 
 
 “ Till the end of Il^ovember.” 
 
 “I ask, because we’re expecting the Squire home; and as he 
 usually calls at the parsonage, it is as well to know when he may do so 
 with success. The Squire comes very late into the country this year, 
 for he has been ill— very ill, I am sorry to say. But old servants’ 
 such as I, are always glad to see^ a good master like the Squire. 
 And he is very good, or life in this solitary country would be very 
 dreary to me, and my excellent and tender Margery.” 
 
 “Indeed,” was the sole reply. And with a haughty bend, which 
 wholly negatived further conversation, the housekeeper stepped aside, 
 and passed on, leaving the superannuated valet much surprised 
 that his politeness and choice attire had made no greater impres- 
 sion. ^ 
 
 It was near noon when they reached the lock-house ; old Johnny 
 was seated in his little sunny ofiice making entries in his ledgers, and 
 Dorcas was as usual at needlework. She rose from the bench on 
 which she sat by the ofiice-door, met the lady, and led her in. Here 
 they conferred together ; and the old clerk and his niece were both 
 :)f the opinion that the boy’s unusual absence was in some way con- 
 nected with Phema’s disappearance. 
 
 “Many and many a time,” said Johnny, “ the lad has been a sore 
 
172 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 sorrow to us ; but never so great as now. We can’t make out why 
 he’s gone, or where he is. It’s ^ill the harder to us that he comes 
 
 home by stealth for this or that — food for his birds, or other things 
 
 and yet doesn't come anigh us, lest we keep him here; thorigirour 
 hearts are harrowing, and our ears are listening. Early this morning 
 Dorcas caught a glimpse of him in the garden gathering flowers, and 
 two days ago he crept into the office here and took off a warm coat 
 Jasper had left hanging on a nail; not — not that he stole it — dear 
 Lord, no — my lad is too good, and too innocent for sin like that ; but 
 because if he needs a thing he takes it, forgetful of mine and thine ; 
 yet I never knew him to take a garment before — there must be some 
 new cause for a want of this sort.’^ 
 
 “ Precisely so ; and this corroborates what we seek to learn. To 
 
 Johnny’s face brightened. 
 
 “This is just it. His senses stopped growth the day he was hurt, 
 and he is now almost as he was then. Dear Lord, though not so 
 sharp to see, or keen to learn. Then, as you may say,"^his mind 
 growed hour by hour, now it never does. Then I used to say to my 
 missis — Mary, God has given to us a great gift in our bright lad, and 
 his talents shall not want husbanding ; we’ll pinch and we'll save, and 
 we’ll give him the best of learning ; and who knows but what he may 
 rise to the pulpit, instead of sitting below as a clerk. Such was the 
 ladder we trod up of, in our dreams ; and now, dear Lord ! if he 
 could sit thus humbly, and in good time say ‘ amen,’ as his father 
 before him, I should bless Heaven for its tender pity.” 
 
 He spoke with such deep feeling, that the housekeeper perforce 
 turned her face away. 
 
 “ You’ve had advice as to his state, I think ? ” 
 
 “ Yes ! Mr. Grayson is mighty interested in my boy. He says that 
 a deal might be done, if the case would be taken as one with the 
 chances more for death than life. But this mustn’t be. Better leave 
 all chance of cure, than that Dorcas and I should lose our hapless boy.” 
 
 “ But life on the condition of idiocy is a poor boon,” spoke the ; 
 thoughtful woman. I 
 
 The old clerk shook his head in mournful negative. So she 
 changed the subject, though her thoughts ran none the less into the 
 current of that higher knowledge which, resolving and acting against 
 ignorance, is the salvation of the world. 
 
 The clerk now went through the account of such search as had 
 been made for Cornelius, without effect. 
 
 “ The moors are said to extend a considerable distance on either 
 side the canal — have they been well explored ? ” 
 
 “As far as I know,” replied Johnny; “but I can’t say that I’m 
 much acquainted with the wilder parts. If, however, youll step this 
 way, ma’am. I’ll ask Sampson the drover. He’s resting here a bit on 
 his way to Horton Wood, where a cattle train from the north comes 
 in late to-night,” 
 
maikstone’s S, PUSEILEEEEE, 
 
 173 
 
 Miss Eliot assenting, the lockman led the way to a lengthened shed, 
 )r outbuilding, running parallel with the towing-path at the end of 
 he picturesque little garden. It was a sort of waiting-room for the 
 nen whilst the barges were passing the lock; and here, stretched 
 isleep on a bench, with his dog beneath it, lay a giant-limbed north 
 jountryman — an Anak, bronzed by sun, and roughened by winter 
 itorms. He was, however, when awakened, civil in speech and 
 )bliging in manner, and listened and suggested with the greatest 
 •eadiness, for the reason that his dog Colie took mightily to the lady, 
 vhined about her, licked her hands, laid its shaggy head reverently 
 )n her knee — and that it did this, profoundly sagacious as it was in 
 ts estimate of human character, was as a sign of God’s nobility in 
 the herdsman’s eyes. 
 
 “Yes, he had heard of this matter, before ; he believed that the 
 noors had been pretty well looked over ; he did not know of any 
 naccessible spot, except it was a morass called ‘ Drakes’ Fen,’ about 
 four miles from there.” 
 
 / “On which side the canal ? ” 
 
 “ To the right, as you went thence, towards the bridge at the end of 
 Vlainstone Lane. It was a very deep morass, two miles long, and 
 Clearly as wide. It had become more and more impassable of late 
 ^ears, except by boat. Indeed, Sampson did not know of any drover 
 3r keeper that had been across it for the last five years, though 
 ihere was a good bit of ground in the midst, that was as dry and firm 
 is any other land. On it used to be a herdsman’s hut, now, in all 
 ikelihood, a ruin.” 
 
 “ If the boy, when at the Kectory, made for the woods about St. 
 John’s, would he strike the fen ? ” 
 
 “ That’s just it,” said Johnny ; “ we never thought of this before. 
 But we’ll ask Jasper — he’ll be coming here I think to-day.” Here- 
 ipon the old locksman consulted a sort of way-bill ; but this not 
 ^ nforming him duly, as it seemed, he called Dorcas, who came readily, 
 ivith her needlework in her hand. 
 
 “ What’s Jasper’s hour ? ” 
 
 She turned up her blushing face, and said that his boat would be 
 , .here at noon. 
 
 j “ And he’ll help us ; for there’s no readier and kinder young fellow 
 hereabouts, I know.” So saying, old Johnny, shading his eyes with 
 his hand, went out to look down the mile or two of stream which 
 glinted in the sun. 
 
 Thus left for a moment with Sampson, Miss Eliot offered him any 
 geward he would like to name, if he would assist in the search for the 
 nissing girl This he readily undertook to do; but grinned sardoni- 
 cally when reward was spoken of — spoke of a man called Wat, the 
 gCeedman, who lived on the way to the fen, and whose local knowledge 
 would much avail; and then, without more to do, he yawned, and 
 g stretching himself forth on his previous bed, went off to sleep with- 
 out apology or further recognition. 
 
 Miss Eliot sat down on the granite edging of the lock, wh ist 
 
174 
 
 MAINSTOiNE'^S HOUSEKEEPEIt. 
 
 Dorcas and Barbie, no great way off, gossiped and watched too. At 
 noon precisely, a darkened speck on the distant thread of waters 
 grew larger and larger, and some half hour after Jasper’s barge, as 
 well as another in its wake, reached the lock. One of these had to 
 wait some hours for loading — the other must go forward ; and as this 
 was Jasper’s boat, and lightly freighted, it proved of advantage. 
 The young man readily assented to aid in the best way he could. 
 The horses of the other boat were yoked to his own, one of its 
 men went with them, and Sampson was aroused. When all was 
 ready to go swiftly forward, they learnt that Miss Eliot would go 
 too. 
 
 “It is a wild sort of place, ma’am,” said Jasper respectfully, 
 “ hardly fit for a lady like you to go near. If we find Phema you 
 shall soon hear it.” 
 
 “ Thank you. I must go. I meant to do so from the first. If wel 
 find the girl alive, we know not what her condition may be, and iti 
 may be well that I am by.” 
 
 As Jasper would not hear of Miss Eliot walking so far, a seat 
 was made on the deck for her and Barbie, and the boat went swiftly 
 on. I 
 
 The scenery on either hand soon became inexpressibly wild and 
 solitary. Not very dreary then^ for it was the brightest of September 
 days : many tinted hues broke the monotony of the level wastes ; and 
 the sough of the wind amidst the reeds relieved the ear from the 
 deadening effect of intense stillness. But it could be pictured other- 
 wise : in winter storms and cold, on dreary days of rain, in blinding 
 clouds of snow ; a place where no aid could come, be danger or 
 suffering what it might — a place where ghastly deeds could be 
 effected, and no witness tell the tale. 
 
 Wilder and wilder, drearier and drearier, became the great morass. 
 Widely it stretched on either hand, distant hills sometimes breaking 
 its outline — a wavy sea of green filling up the lengthened interval. 
 Occasionally a sweep of thyme-clad purple moor rose high above this 
 wavy sea ; occasionally, where uplands bore down upon the waste, i 
 cattle browsed, or clumps of birch or alders looked feathery against 
 the sky ; occasionally these uplands bore noble woods, in whose 
 shadows rested a keeper’s cottage, or a solitary farm ; otherwise it 
 was all bleak and dreary fen. As the canal, for the most part, was 
 raised on a high embankment through the great morass, this desola- 
 tion was the more distinct from thence, especially at those points 
 where the canal widened itself into bays and minor branches, that went 
 onwards to some road or village on the heights beyond. Of vast depth 
 and muddied waters, shadowed by a few mournful wind-swept trees, 
 growing thin and sickly on the steep descents, or in the sour and 
 marish soil below — fringed here and there by oozy sedge, that only 
 made their depth more dread and drear — they were places as suggest- 
 ive of dismal things as a Spitzbergen bay, or an ice-bound gulf at 
 the southern pole. 
 
 About midway the boat was stopped, and Jasper, descending to a 
 
MAINSTONE^S HOUSEKEEPER, 
 
 175 
 
 solitary cottage at the foot of the embankment, soon returned with 
 V Wat, the reedman, a man sickly-looking from the miasma amidst 
 which he lived. He was followed up the bank by a group of listless 
 ■ children, who stood staring vacantly at the boat till it was a speck in 
 I the distance. 
 
 At length it reached its destined place ; and the men landing, all 
 save one, assisted Miss Eliot on shore, and thence down the descent 
 to the fen. Once here they went on for some way by a raised path 
 ^ through the reeds, till reaching a flat-bottomed boat, they stepped 
 upon its planks, and made slow way by oar and pole ; sometimes it 
 wp easy to make a lane between the reeds, at other times the men 
 with arm and oar could hardly hold them bac.k ; sometimes the boat 
 ; grounded in shallows, at others floated easily in a clearer space of 
 ^ deep water ; here and there the reeds sprung up so high as to shut 
 out all surrounding things, except stray glimpses of the sky, and in 
 these reedy walls peeped out often the deserted nests of water-fowl. 
 At other times the otter dashed wildly by, scared by this intrusion on 
 its solitary haunts; or the water-rat swam swiftly into some safer 
 ' fastness of the oozy waste. 
 
 '■ At last, after more than an hour’s slow and tortuous windinn- 
 , through the reeds, the boat shot suddenly into clear and open wate^ 
 in which at no great distance lay a moorland tract or island, raised 
 somewhat above the level of the stream. It was very verdant ; its 
 knolls and hummocks were gay with purple heather, and easy to be 
 distinguished was the hut of mud and thatch spoken of by the 
 drover; much of its roof was open to the weather, but its walls 
 i were yet proof against the winter’s storms. 
 
 ' Just as the boat had touched the turfy bank, they were startled by 
 a cry, twice or thrice repeated. It was a human cry, but what it 
 meant no^ one could understand ; the only surety was, that it was 
 uttered, within the crumbling tenement. 
 
 It is the voice of that poor child ! ” spoke Miss Eliot, whose ear 
 : was finer than those accompanying her. My God ! what can it 
 ^ mean ? ” In her terror, her voice was almost lost, and her face, as 
 
 • she turned it to Jasper, was ashy pale. 
 
 * r “ suggested Jasper, “she is perhaps ill; let me ffo 
 
 forward — let me see ! ” 
 
 . “ Yes ! she was ill ; when Silas last saw her, he said her hand 
 
 ^ seemed to burn him by its touch.” 
 
 f boatman did not stay to answer, but, leaping on shore, went 
 
 swittly forward. Ihe hut was at the distance of at least five hundred 
 - yards, yet he seemed to reach and enter it by a bound. He came 
 back m a moment or two, subdued and slow of foot, and met the 
 housekeeper. 
 
 6 -u* tremulous voice; “and very bad, I 
 
 I should say. For though she was calling out not a minute ago, she is 
 J now stretched out perfectly helpless— her eyes wild and fit to start 
 ' irom her head, and her bones almost through her skin.” 
 
 ^ Charlotte waved the men off a little, hurried into the hut, and to 
 
176 
 
 MAlNSTONE^S HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 the corner where the girl lay; kneeling and raising her in her arms, 
 she parted the dry and matted hair from off her forehead, and spoke 
 tenderly. But there came no recognition, only the wild and vacant 
 stare of intense delirium. As her exhaustion lessened, she freed her- 
 self from the tender hands which held her, and, sitting upright on 
 the few dry reeds that formed her bed, stared about with lurid 
 eyeballs ; then pushing off some imaginary foe, she called out 
 loudly : — 
 
 ‘‘ Go — go ! I won’t come nigh thee, Jonathan ! I hate thee, 
 I tell thee so!” She repeated this several times, each time more 
 vehemently ; and more and more madly did she repulse her imagi- 
 nary foe. 
 
 Then, as her force lessened, she cowered down as a stricken slave 
 before its master, and said piteously; — 
 
 “ Save — save me, Silas ! nobody pities me but tbee ! ” 
 
 “ I will — I will !” said Miss Eliot, as she pressed the burning face 
 against her own ; “ if you survive this extremity, of which I see small 
 chance, you shall know neither insult nor want again.” 
 
 As she sunk still more a dead weight in the arms upholding her, 
 the delirious creature whispered in a voice imitative of someone i 
 else : — 
 
 “ Tell Robert — tell him, he’s thy father, that it was him that did it 
 — ^he put his hand out through the granary-door, and shoved me 
 down.” This was uttered in so low a voice that the last words were 
 scarcely audible to the one who held her, much less to the men who 
 had crowded in. 
 
 Consulting with them. Miss Eliot arrived at the conclusion that it 
 would be best to convey the poor child at once to the lock-house. 
 Jasper and the others, therefore, hastily bound together some of the 
 scattered wood which lay around, and placing reeds upon this, and the 
 missing coat, which was here, they laid the poor stricken creature on 
 the rude sort of bed thus formed, and prepared to go. Whilst this 
 was being effected. Miss Eliot glanced rapidly round the place. 
 Cornelius had seemingly been at some pains to shut out wind or rain, 
 by rearing such broken wood as lay about against the open places in 
 the crumbling walls, and fixing reeds across the fractures in the 
 thatch ; but even with this it was a miserable ruin, destined to be 
 level with the earth at no distant date. On rusty nails and jutting 
 beams hung some of Cornelius’s bird-cages ; and on a board, near 
 where Phema had lain, stood all the viands he had begged from the 
 Rectory, mildewed and wasting away, untasted by himself, or by her 
 for whom they had been brought so far. The youth himself 
 was not to be seen — he was away, probably, on some errand or 
 another. 
 
 They were moving forwards with their helpless burden, amidst her 
 reiterated cries to be saved from Jonathan, when the mew of a cat 
 was distinctly heard. Looking back into the hut, one of the men 
 saw one crawl forth from a nook in the wall, and make to the corner 
 where the girl had lain. If he alone had been concerned, it wouM 
 
mainstone’s housekeepee. 
 
 177 
 
 have been left to its fate ; but Miss Eliot recognised it to be the 
 same Phema had so tenderly saved from the threatening stick of 
 the old mistress at the Moore Farm. The girl had probably brought 
 it with her in her flight from that ill-omened place ; and the house- 
 keeper therefore had it secured and brought away. It should have a 
 place in the Kectory kitchen, and be preserved for its mistress if she 
 lived, and for her memory’s sake if she died. 
 
 Leaving the island, beating their way through the reeds, gaining 
 the wide towing-path by the canal, they bore their burden swiftly 
 on. One of the men led back the borrowed horses, and on the 
 swiftest of these Jasper took the nearest road to Welton, to summon 
 thence the most skilful medical aid. 
 
 “ These gentlemen must not hesitate to come at once,” said the 
 housekeeper, “ for I will see that they are paid. It is a life and 
 death case, and they cannot come a moment too soon if the girl is to 
 be saved.” 
 
 Every now and then, whilst the men rested or changed bearers. 
 Miss Eliot moistened poor Phema’s parched lips with water from the 
 canal, and Barbie smoothed the covering about her. Occasionally it 
 took two men to hold her down on the frail support, and through 
 these throes of wild delirium her cry was incessant to be saved from 
 Jonathan. 
 
 At last they reached the lock-house, and passed in. 
 
 “ You and Dorcas must not mind a little inconvenience or trouble 
 if we are to save this poor child’s life.” 
 
 “ It won’t be either, ma’am. To say nothing of your own or Mr. 
 Radnor’s claim, that which my lad has taken to shall be acceptable 
 to me.” 
 
 In this way unexpected and unknown to us, we often receive the 
 most blessed angels of our lives. 
 
178 
 
 MAIKSTONE’s HOUSEKEEPE&. 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 MISS tern’s lodgings. 
 
 For many hours Phema’s delirium lasted ; and even when this 
 abated, and the disease took a turn, her condition was still deplorable, 
 and one of great danger. Very skilful men watched about her bed ; 
 a nurse was sent for from the infirmary of the county town— all was 
 done that could be for her preservation. ^ When she could depute 
 her trust to more experienced hands. Miss Eliot returned to the 
 parsonage. There was much there to superintend, and the workmen 
 waited to make progress. So when the plate had been sent off to the 
 Welton bank, the last of Mr. Radnor’s books packed and stored in a 
 spare dry room of the outbuildings, and her own things, such as she 
 mio-ht require, sent on before her, Miss Eliot, accompanied by Barbie, 
 prepared to go to Losely. She had not yet seen Miss Tern ; her 
 simple arrangements had been made by note and message ; but, ir(m 
 what she had heard, Miss Eliot was well satisfied that she should be 
 most comfortable in her temporary home. 
 
 Repairing to the little carriage, which, with Daniel to drive her^ 
 awaited her in the courtyard, she found J ordan, the bailiff, who stayed 
 
 to take her last commands. . , , i i 
 
 “ I shall be to and fro here nearly every day,” said the housekeeper, 
 “ or at least when the weather permits ; yet I trust much to your 
 watchful eye. Elisha, I am happy to say, will be back by the end 
 of the week; for Mr. Radnor, in his letter of this morning, tells me 
 that he can do without him very well. The aid of Mr. Mainwaring s 
 servant will be all-sufficient ; and he is anxious that Elisha should be 
 back again, if only on account of the garden.” ^ 
 
 Jordan was glad of this ; he was very busy with respect to the farm 
 just then— he could not have his eyes everywhere, and Elishas 
 presence would relieve him of considerable anxiety. 
 
 “ And what of Mrs. Jack, Jordan ? Did she send the key of the 
 
 rooms, as reiiuested ? ” , •n. • i + 
 
 “ Oh no, ma’am ! She was away somewhere when Daniel went ; 
 and when she came she was very saucy, and said at first that we 
 shouldn’t have the key at all ; but presently she altered her tone, and 
 said she’d tring it herself at three o’clock this afternoon. But it is 
 now four,” he said, consulting his watch ; ** and she isn t here. 
 
 But even as he spoke Mrs. Jack crossed the little bridge into the 
 courtyard, and, coming towards the housekeeper with her old impudent 
 swagger, held out the key. ^ 
 
 “You want this, do you ? ” ^ \ xr ‘i. 
 
 The bailiff hastened to answer for his mistress. “Yes, it was 
 
mainstone’s eotjsekeepee. 
 
 179 
 
 xfranted ; tlie rcyoms were about to be altered, and if she had any 
 goods there she must remove them at once.” 
 
 “ But suppose I don’t, what then ? ” 
 
 “ You can please yourself,” replied the man, with great firmness ; 
 “ the workmen have their tools, and a door is soon forced.” 
 
 “That’s it; is it — is it? Well, what do you say, my fine madam, 
 with your lot of money and riches of every sort, hide ’em though you 
 may.” 
 
 Jordan again interposed : — 
 
 “ Miss Eliot shall not be insulted, recollect that, Mrs. Jack. She 
 is here amidst servants devoted to her, as a good mistress deserves. 
 Leave the key and go.” 
 
 The woman neither moved nor spoke ; but stood concentrating her 
 ferocious gaze upon the housekeeper’s face. 
 
 “Mrs. Jack,” spoke Miss Eliot at length, “attend to what is said, 
 and go in peace. You have no claims here. In order that you should 
 suffer no loss through my having taken quietly and unexpectedly my 
 place as Mr. Radnor’s housekeeper, I gave you not a month since ten 
 pounds, for which you signed a receipt in the presence of Elisha and 
 Daniel. Please therefore go, and without hope of further return, for 
 neither Mr. Radnor nor myself desire it. You have been treated 
 with the greatest forbearance, which it will be well not to press too 
 heavily.” 
 
 “ Ten pounds,” she repeated, sarcastically ; “ if you’d given me 
 five hundred it would be all the same ! I have never been properly 
 dismissed. I’m Mr. Radnor’s servant yet, and the nicer and finer you 
 make the house all the better for me. I’ll come home when it’s 
 ready, and be as much a missis as thou hast been. The old fool 
 you’ve come to marry, I suppose, won’t dismiss me, be sure of 
 that.” 
 
 She flung the key down as she spoke and went her way, leaving the 
 housekeeper and Jordan more amused than otherwise at her pitiful 
 vehemence. Her manner implied that she had been drinking, though 
 her general condition gave evident proof that her present larder was 
 iiot so bountifully supplied with choice dainties, as that of the Rectory 
 through her days of rule. 
 
 Some half-hour after, the little carriage stayed by the horse-block 
 of the “Brown Hen,” and here Barbie and her mistress alighted. 
 The young girl had not seen her mother for some weeks ; there was 
 a^ coolness between them, and Miss Eliot hoped by this visit to dis- 
 sipate such little shadow as lay between mother and child. This was 
 easily effected. Weak though good-natured, somewhat avaricious 
 where it concerned the ^ interest of this her only child, at heart 
 ' tenderly loving her, and, in all probability, very much ashamed of the 
 ready credence she had given to tales against Silas Moore, and of the 
 part she had taken in relation to a will of which such strange rumours 
 were afloat about the country, she received Barbie with great kindness, 
 and Miss Eliot with great respect. 
 
 “Well,” she said, as she adjusted her spectacles^ and looked at her 
 12—2 
 
180 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 pretty daughter with fond maternal pride, “I think I never sea 
 Barbie look as she looks to day ; quite genteel like and soft-man- 
 nered. It is quite the talk, ma’am, that you’re making a lady on 
 her.” 
 
 ‘‘ I’ve no wish to raise Barbie out of the station she has to fill ; yet 
 I think she will be none the worse for the little I have been able to 
 show and teach her. But she will leave me soon, Mrs. Bell, and go 
 home to Silas Moore as his wife.” 
 
 ‘‘ Well, the sooner the better ; she loves him, and I’ll have naught 
 more to do with it. I’m sorry I wur set against him, for the neighbours 
 speak well in his favour. But let ’em get quietly married, and I’ll be 
 the first to go and see ’em.” 
 
 “Mother!” and the young girl, in her joy and love, fled like a 
 lapwing to her mother’s breast, and there hid her face. Not willing to 
 trespass on this tender scene. Miss Eliot opened an adjacent door, 
 which led into a little parlour lying garden- ward, and closed it after 
 her. 
 
 Together they conferred about Silas — the more openly that none 
 were by. 
 
 “ I don’t know,” said the happy girl, “ what sort of home Silas has 
 got to take me to, but, from what Jordan dropped, I fancy Miss Eliot 
 has let him have the farm that belongs to the Bectory. If this is it, 
 it is a nice place though a good bit away.” 
 
 “Well, never mind^ child. It will only take a while longer going! 
 and coming.” ! 
 
 “And, mother,” said Barbie, still continuing her confidence, “ onlyj 
 think, that Dorcas is making me a lot of nice under-clothes. Missi 
 Eliot has not said a word about them to me yet, though Dorcas let itj 
 drop the day Phema was found. Besides this, as we came along just] 
 now, the dear lady said that she was going to Welton soon to buy mej 
 a wedding-dress.” 
 
 “ Well, Barbie, it was a blessed day thou first saw her.” 
 
 “ It was, for more things than a wedding gown.” 
 
 And the pretty creature dropped her voice and bent her 
 head. 
 
 “ And now, mother, you won’t mind, will you, letting me have the 
 beads and things you locked away when we differed about Silas, and 
 you were angry.” 
 
 The mother only smiled, and, diving her hand into her capa- 
 cious pocket, brought thence a bunch of keys, and gave it to her 
 girl. 
 
 “ But ain’t we forgetting the lady. Barbie ? We can talk a bit again 
 just now. The kettle boils, won’t she have a cup o’ tea ? If thou set 
 it out nicely like in the parlour, and get the silver spoons and the best 
 chana.” 
 
 This was such a happy thought — that of asking her dear mistress to 
 break bread under their roof, that Barbie hurried to the parlour. 
 There she found Miss Eliot looking round at some framed prints 
 adorning the walls, which years before Barbie herself was born had 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 181 
 
 ! been bought at a sale at an adjacent manor-house. Miss Eliot 
 I expressed her admiration of these — of the pyracantha round the 
 ^ window, now blushing with its earliest red — and the old bowery garden 
 stretching rearwards to the fields. 
 
 “I only fear, Barbie, that Miss Tern may expect me to 
 ' tea.” 
 
 “ Perhaps so, ma’am, but one cup more or less can’t signify. If you 
 didn’t mind the pleasant walk, Daniel could go on with the carriage, 
 and tell Miss Tern not to wait. Mother and I should feel so honoured 
 by your breaking bread ; and I will set the old china I have told you 
 of, and wait upon you dutifully.” 
 
 As she was thus entreated so winningly. Miss Eliot acquiesced; 
 and, sitting down by the pleasant window, suffered her little maid to 
 minister to her with affectionate zeal. The best china, the hoarded 
 silver spoons, and divers dainties of fruit and cake, made the little tea- 
 table most charming. Then Mrs. Bell, coming in with the tea-pot, 
 stood by to chat as to what she would give towards making the young 
 couple’s home comfortable ; and whilst this discussion as to furniture 
 and household linen was going on. Barbie stole up stairs to inspect 
 certain treasures of rustic finery, to peep once more into the little 
 mirror which had so often reflected her girlish beauty, and to lean 
 awhile on that window-ledge from whence she had so often watched 
 Silas Moore at plough, or otherwise busy in the fields. 
 
 Setting forth presently, the mother came onwards a few paces with 
 her daughter. 
 
 ‘‘ Then if Barbie and Silas get married without previously 
 telling you the precise day, Mrs. Bell, you will not take it as an 
 unkindness ? ” 
 
 “La! no — it’ll just be different, ma’am; I should be nervous like, 
 if I knowed it. But let me hear the day after, and I’ll borrow a gig, 
 and go and see ’em at once — be where they may.” 
 
 “Very well. This will suit Mr. Moore precisely. He wants 
 I his little Barbie to fly as quietly home to him as a bird to its 
 ' bower.” 
 
 ^ Miss Eliot and her happy little maid went on to Losely by the fields, 
 i It was a charming walk, though by the time they emerged again upon 
 the highway the shadows of the evening were far descended. Within 
 them lay the woodland about the Pool and the road between that and 
 Miss Tern’s cottage ; but the latter stood pleasantly flecked by some 
 ^ burnished touches of the waning sun. Opening a wicket, crossing a little 
 - paved fore-court, into which the gables of the old wide-spread cottage 
 ; dipped, Miss Eliot presently entered, for the door stood invitingly open. 
 k Thence, proceeding along a wide passage, which at its extremity opened 
 i gardenward in a most delightful manner, she came to a parlour door 
 ^ that, standing ajar, enabled her to hear some persons conversing within. 
 
 As no one answered her knock, she pushed it open still further, and 
 I went in. As she did so, two middle-aged women rose simultaneously; 
 « and one, advancing towards her, greeted her in a kindly, but still 
 M somewhat rugged manner. 
 
182 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 “I am Hannah Tem, ’ she said; “and you, I suppose, are the 
 parson s housekeeper ? ” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “Well, I’m glad to see you. How, I wouldn’t say that to 
 every woman. You are but the second woman lodger I ever 
 
 llRCl* 
 
 “ Indeed ! ” smiled Miss Eliot ; “I hope you are not a hater of your 
 own sex, Miss Tern.” 
 
 “ Well, not exactly that. But I hate their vanities and fribbles, and 
 love of silly talk, and their insincerities to one another. But I heard 
 a good account of you, or I might have shut my door as I have ao-ainst 
 many another woman.” ° 
 
 “Really; to whom, if I may ask, am I indebted for so favourable a 
 recommendation ? ” 
 
 “ Mr. Grayson thinks very highly of you; and then there’s someone 
 else.” 
 
 “ Who may it be ? ” 
 
 “ W ell, it s Richard W enlock ; his opinion is expressed more by 
 manner than words. I don’t suppose he ever spoke half-a-dozen 
 about you — but then I know his way. His grand manner of silence 
 as I call it— a certain puff of his pipe— a peculiar motion of his lips a 
 change in that deep fixed gaze of his— have all told me that what 
 he thinks of you is high indeed. All this I have noticed whilst Mr. 
 Grayson has been telling us something about you : maybe as to what 
 you did for Barbie Bell, or some of your victories over that dark bad 
 woman Betty J ack — or of your kindness to Mr. Radnor himself.” 
 
 It was well that the shadows of the early autumn evening had 
 deepened into twilight, or Miss Tern’s quick sight might have drawn 
 her own conclusions as to reciprocation of high opinion. But inno- 
 cently she went onwards when Miss Eliot asked if Richard Wenlock 
 was a friend of hers. 
 
 “Yes, he’s the one I trust most and like most, because I have 
 reason to know that he is a perfectly true man. If he says he’ll do a 
 thing, he does it ; and I can rely upon his word, as I rest in the faith 
 that the sun will rise to-morrow. I’ve known him since he was a 
 boy ; and my weeks would be dreary enough, if he didn’t stop for one 
 or two evenings and smoke a pipe and chat. But just let me ask one 
 thing — are you liberal in politics ? ” 
 
 Miss Eliot smiled. 
 
 “ Yes — as any sensible person would be.” 
 
 “ And you’re liberal in religious views ? ” 
 
 “ Precisely so. The freedom I claim for myself I should necessarily 
 afford to others — under every circumstance.” 
 
 “ And you hold no silly opinion about the vanity of riches, or that 
 thrift is sin ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly not. As capital is the result of past labour, it is a 
 grand agent of future well being and future progress— both to the 
 individual and the community. And as to thrift we cannot inculcate 
 its practice too widely or too earnestly. For they who garner nothin^, 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 183 
 
 neither help themselves, nor contribute indirectly to the well-beino* of 
 others.” ° 
 
 “My dear,” said Miss Tern, energetically, “I see we shall do 
 together. These are just my opinions — and there is nothing like a 
 similarity of this sort to make people go on harmoniously. So if you 
 won’t mind a plain old country-woman’s way, who is, however, not 
 ignorant though she is rustic, we shall have many a pleasant chat 
 together, whilst Eichard Wenlock smokes his pipe. That is to say, if 
 you’re not too grand a lady to step occasionally into my homely parlour, 
 and take what you find there, though less than to what you have been 
 accustomed.” 
 
 “ Miss Tern, I have come fully prepared to appreciate my home 
 and its mistress. Whatever my social position really is, I value 
 sincerity of words, and simplicity of life too highly not to enjoy both 
 to the full, as long as I may. We will have some charming evenings, 
 be sure of that — and we will discuss all the ‘strong minded’ topics v'ou 
 desire.” ^ ^ 
 
 “ Ay I find Mr. Grayson has been giving you some idea of my 
 old-fashioned way. Well, let me show you your rooms. Men’s idea 
 of women is at best but a poor one — of old maids especially. Aunt 
 Susan,” she added, addressing the friend who had resumed her seat 
 and her knitting, “ don’t run away whilst I am gone— I won’t be five 
 minutes.” 
 
 More than once Miss Eliot had glanced towards the stranger, for in 
 entering the room both her person and face had brought back an old 
 memory. Now— as Miss Tern stepped to fetch something off a 
 distant table — Miss Eliot had a clearer view, and she saw with 
 certainty that this was the person connected in some way with Mr. 
 Radnor’s mystery. She was simply dressed, in almost a Quakeress’s 
 garb ; and her face— which she kept bent downward, more probably 
 because the light fell dimly on her work, than from thought of con- 
 cealment — was gentle and motherly in the extreme. ° 
 
 Leading the way to a parlour opposite to that room from which 
 they issued. Miss Tern took some pride in showing her new friend 
 how pleasant and cheerful it was. But it wanted no'recomrnendation 
 of this extraneous kind. Roomy and well-furnished with the quaintest 
 and stoutest of old tables and chairs, with a cheerful look-out over 
 the autumn-tinted garden to the fields beyond— all it held delicately 
 bright and clear — a sparkling fire sending forth its glow into the 
 shadows athwart the room — its aspect suggested nothing but com- 
 fortable, home-staying thoughts. ° 
 
 “ I see you mean to tempt me to a long stay. Miss Tern,” said 
 Mainstone’s housekeeper, turning to her new friend. 
 
 “Really, now do you like it? Well, I am glad of it. You see 
 I have lent you a few of my knick-knacks to make it more a lady’« 
 room” (and she pointed to certain old paintings, old china and other 
 things), “and on those shelves are some of Mr. Grayson’s medical 
 works ; he said he daresay you would not mind their remaining- 
 there.” 0 
 
184 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 “ Certainly not. I may even look into them. But when does he 
 return ? ” 
 
 “Not in time to hurry you. I had a letter from him a day 
 or two ago, and he talked of going to Paris after he has 
 passed at Surgeons’ Hall; so it may be spring before he is back 
 again.” 
 
 “ In the meanwhile, how will the practice fare ? ” 
 
 “ Oh ! very well. The people will have Greene, or some of the 
 Welton men, and return to him when he is back again. He bears 
 a high moral character, is remarkably clever, and the people about 
 here are sensible enough to know these things. He lost nothin 
 in their estimation by the course he took in that matter of Barbie 
 Bell.” 
 
 “ At least he rose a hundred-fold in mine ; for to avoid licentiousness 
 of life ourselves, and countenance it in that of others, is but poor 
 morality. Were men to act more generally in this way, sexual vice 
 would become as much a stigma as drunkenness has become. But they 
 smile, pass these things lightly by, indeed rather glory in the pride and 
 strength that have succeeded in entrapping a miserable girl. And 
 women’s countenance of these sort of men adds immensely to the 
 evil.” 
 
 “Just so. Greene has been greater with the Squire’s two sisters 
 over the way than ever, since this affair ; but then you know they are 
 ignorant, coarse-minded women. Aunt Susan, the good creature you 
 saw knitting by the window in the other room, tells me that they are 
 trying, by forcing his company on Flo, to get up a match between 
 them ; but the Squire will hear nothing of it, at least at present — 
 though, if' he fail in getting her to accept Theobald Baldwin, of the 
 Hoo Hall, he may turn his face that way ; for Greene is wealthy and 
 well connected. Indeed, there’s no knowing at any time what Joel 
 Breere may do ; for he’s a strange man — half mad, I think, on some 
 points. Yet these sisters of his would have been the first to turn aside 
 had poor Barbie really sinned.” 
 
 “ It was no fault of Greene’s she did not,” replied Miss Eliot, indig- 
 nantly ; for he set to to debauch her with the full knowledge that 
 she was the promised wife of a good and honest man. Necessarily, 
 she on her part was weak and silly — a pretty bird, too proud of its 
 own plumage ; but she has been really so ashamed and sorry, as to 
 be loved even for a penitence so sweet and human. In a few days 
 hence she will be the wife of Silas Moore ; for the little shadow of 
 her life is gone, and left no stain.” 
 
 “ Generous ! ” said Miss Tern, as though communing with herself. 
 “ Generous ! I shall wonder at quiet smiles, or gravest silence, no 
 more, finding what they mean.” 
 
 The only answer was a question. 
 
 “ Who is Aunt Susan, may I ask ? My neighbours are quite new 
 to me.” 
 
 “ I thought you would know. Her name is Susan Elwood, and she 
 is sister to Mrs. Breere. We call her Aunt Susan, because it is n 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 185 
 
 household word. Mrs. Breere is always confined to her room, through 
 an accident which occurred some few years ago. She fell in the 
 o-arden, dislocated her thigh, and it being improperly set, local para- 
 lysis followed, and she entirely lost the use of her limbs. Thus she 
 knows no greater change than that of being lifted from her bed to a 
 couch in anadjacet room ; or perhaps, in summer, she is carried down 
 occasionally to the lawn. Aunt Susan is, therefore, nurse and house- 
 keeper— indeed, the household stay in eyerything ; for though the 
 Squire’s two sisters live there, they do nothing but dress ^ and drive 
 out in a pony-chaise they keep for themselves ; make visits abroad, 
 and much mischief at home.” 
 
 “ Aunt Susan may well look as careworn as she does.” 
 
 ‘‘She may, indeed,” said Miss Tern, with a genuine sympathy 
 which irradiated her rugged face. “ Yet she bears all with a brave 
 and patient heart. I often wonder at her, for she has a good home 
 to go to with her brother, Thomas Elwood ; but nothing can induce 
 her to leave her sister and Flo, as none so well as she knows how 
 desolate they would be without her. But Flo is the pride of Susan’s 
 life— indeed dearer than life itself. She makes daily sacrifices for 
 her sake, which show how utterly all considerations of self are 
 absorbed by her love for the girl. Still Flo deserves it, for she is 
 gentle and good, though with a spirit in some things that rules the 
 house when it is shown.” 
 
 “ Elisha once pointed her out to me, as he drove through this 
 village, on our way to AVelton. She was riding with her father, and 
 I thought her not only extremely pretty, but the possessor of a 
 piquant sort of grace, as rare as it is peculiar. Her manner is very 
 refined, and very distinct from that of the country ladies I have 
 hitherto seen.” 
 
 “That is just what the aunts at home feel — I mean Sophia and 
 Harriet, the Sc^uire’s sisters. They complain of her grand lady’s airs 
 over them ; though I fancy it is nothing more than their mean feel- 
 ings of pique and jealousy. Yet I must confess I have seen my little 
 lady haughty enough when they have been talking up the Squire at 
 the Hoo, or their favourite Mr. Greene. But 1 am gossiping— who 
 profess not to be a gossip. Let me show you your other room. I 
 shall have Aunt Susan wondering at my absence.” 
 
 Thus saying, and quite unconscious, as it seemed, that there existed 
 any mystery under the current of her neighbour’s daily life — though 
 whether this unconsciousness was assumed or not. Miss Eliot, quick 
 to perceive as she was, could not tell— Miss Tern led the way up 
 stairs to a large and pleasant room overlooking the highway, and the 
 fine old manor-house beyond, with its brimming pool. Here the 
 latter left her new friend ; and Miss Eliot, after speaking to Barbie, 
 who flitted about, unpacking baskets and bags, and otherwise 
 hastening to make her mistress feel at home, sat down by one of the 
 casements, and was soon lost in thought. It was such a pleasant 
 place for meditation : all without was so still and shadowy ; the few 
 hist rays of light fell on the pool, and glimmered like a mirror through 
 
186 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 the trees; and the odour from Miss Tern’s broad bed of lavender, 
 her wide-spread clematis, and her luxuriant mignionette, rose up, and 
 wandered beneficently through the room. 
 
 She had sat some minutes, and Barbie was about to go down stairs 
 for a candle, when the^ sound of music — that of a piano, and a very 
 sweet voice accompanying it — broke the intense stillness. It was no 
 flourishing or foreign music, but a simple ballad of the day, though 
 so particularly well sung as to betray a high and expensive cultivation 
 of the voice. Barbie stole to the casement to listen, and stood 
 beside her mistress. Miss Eliot was surprised, for the singing was 
 not such as country schools or country masters ordinarily teach° she 
 therefore questioned her little maid. 
 
 “ It is Miss Flo, ma’am, singing to the Squire. She sings to him 
 most nights after tea, whilst he smokes his pipe.” 
 
 “Where did she learn, for she sings particularly well ? ” 
 
 “ Mostly in London, I suppose, ma’am. She often goes there with 
 the Squire ; and then, I believe, she has always lessons of some kind 
 or another, as the Squire never thinks the money too much that is 
 spent about her. For two or three years she went to a grand college 
 there is for ladies in Edinburgh.” ^ 
 
 Flo was still singing, and the lady and her maid listening to the 
 sweet plaintive ballad, when someone came riding from the direction 
 of Horton Wood. The rider, who seemed to be a large heavy man, 
 paused before the gate which led down to the Pool, and, opening it, 
 rode through. He could be heard to ring the house-bell ; the music 
 suddenly ceased, and he seemed welcomed in by some loud and manlv 
 voice. 
 
 “ That is the Squire from the Hoo,” said Barbie — who, like most 
 country girls, knew everybody, and guessed their business — “ he has 
 most likely, gone to supper. He often does ; and if so be he is, 
 you’ll soon hear Miss Susan sent for. The misses at home never do 
 a thing, but give orders, and themselves airs.” 
 
 “ You mustn’t. Barbie, fall back into your old habit of scandal- 
 izing,” said her mistress, gently. 
 
 “No more I will, ma’am, but I can’t help it here. If you’d seen as 
 much as mother and I have seen of those women, you’d speak too. 
 They’re as proud as Lucifer, and as hard and cruel as a wild animal. 
 If it wasn’t for their missis. Miss Susan, and the dear young lady, the 
 servants wouldn’t stay a week — that they wouldn’t.” The youno* 
 girl said no more, but departed down stairs to fetch a candl^ 
 and her mistress was glad that she went, for she wished to be still. 
 
 Barbie’s prophecy was correct ; for a woman-servant soon stepped 
 across the road, and knocked at the front door, which, by this time, 
 was closed. It was answered by Miss Tern herself. 
 
 “ If you please, ma’am, missis is to return home directly, for Squire 
 Baldwin’s come.” 
 
 “Cannot you manage without her for one night,” replied Miss 
 Tern ; and, as it seemed to her involuntary listener, a little ina- 
 patiently, 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 187 
 
 “ We could, ma’am, but Miss Harriet has been into the kitchen to 
 say that she must come home. That the partridges which are down 
 at the fire ain’t enough for supper, and that there must be a bottom 
 dish, which she must be at home to see to.” 
 
 So Miss Tern retreated indoors, and presently returned with Aunt 
 Susan. For a minute they stood talking together at the fore-court 
 gate, and then they parted in a way that bespoke most friendly 
 regard. ^ 
 
 When Miss Eliot had removed her walking-dress, she resumed her 
 seat by the window ; for the moon was rising, and the scent of flowers 
 still wafted in. There was so much to think of, and the place seemed 
 so appropriate, that she would have sat for a long time, and been 
 probably unconscious how it flew, had not someone at last come 
 tapping at the door. Presently it was opened, and Miss Tern put in 
 her head. 
 
 “My dear,” she said, in her half- affection ate, half-ruirged way, 
 “ I have come to ask you to break your first bread in the house witl’ 
 me, if you’ll excuse humble viands and homely manners.” 
 
 “ To be sure ! Why should I not ? What singular opinions must 
 be abroad about me, for it to be thought that I am other than what 
 I seem ! ^ I affect to be no more than an ordinary woman, whose 
 duty it is to rule the household of a child-like, worthy man. So, 
 Miss Tern, you must not believe current romance ; but take me 
 for what I am—a believer in intellect and moral worth wherever 
 found.” 
 
 Miss Tern made no other reply than what might be implied by an 
 expressive sniff ; she then led the way down the staircase, but stopped 
 abruptly in the middle. ^ ^ 
 
 “ I have a friend to supper— you won’t mind that.” She did not 
 stay for an answer of any kind, but trotted on, and led the way 
 towards her snuj^ parlour. At the door she stopped again. 
 
 ^ “It is only Richard Wenlock,” she whispered. “ lllid not expect 
 him, for this is not his usual night ; but, as he was here, L settled 
 him down to his pipe, and asked him to supper. You don’t mind 
 tobacco smoke — do you ? ” 
 
 “I can’t say I like it much. I have not been used to it— at least 
 for some time.” 
 
 “That’s unfortunate,” whispered the rujged woman, as thouo-h 
 somewhat vexed ; “ but never mind— you will hear Eiehard talk, and 
 forget it, and, m the course of a few times, cease to think it disaoree- 
 abk.” Thus answering for her guest, she opened the door^ and 
 .ushered her into the pleasant room, where the little fire burnt cheer- 
 fully, the snug supper table was laid, and where Eiehard Wenlock 
 sat, absorbed, as it seemed, in one of the profbundest of his habitual 
 dreams— for his pipe was smoked out, and rested on the fender. He 
 heard, however, the opening door, and rose as the housekeeper 
 entered. But he did not proffer his hand — he never did that till she 
 had offered hers. When she had done this, he took it in his usual 
 simple, unaffected way, without show of servility or approach to 
 
188 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 familiarity. He was conscious that she was his superior — far his 
 superior in a worldly sense ; and yet, resting on the faith of his simple 
 moral life, and his unceasing endeavour after the knowlege which 
 leads to truth, he met her unabashed, and in the power of that 
 equality which is nature’s and not man’s. 
 
 They talked, supped, and, after supper, talked again. The supper 
 was simple — ^jugged hare, and bread and cheese ; but neatly served 
 by one of Miss Tern’s small maid-servants — for it was her habit to 
 take poor girls from amongst the peasantry, and, training them up to 
 thrift and diligence, and in dainty household ways, procure them 
 better situations, when ability for such was theirs. 
 
 In due time, and quite unconscious to himself, Richard Wenlock 
 came forth in all his strength of intellect. Had he been asked to 
 talk, or thought that he was led to talk for hearing’s sake, he would 
 have been as dumb as a stone ; but thus amongst friends — one of 
 whom, at least, could respond to his arguments, or share in his specu- 
 lations — all the wonderful strength and originality of his intellect 
 were proved. What his self-culture had been, his knowlege showed. 
 Profoundly versed in the higher mathematics and mechanics, a good 
 chemist and geologist, knowing much of physiology and anatomy, a 
 fair statist, and well-read in history, no subject arose on which he 
 could not impart knowledge and predicate truth. His previsional 
 speculations were marked by boldness and originality; and Avhen, 
 at length, he came to speak of the higher forms of German 
 intellect, and its probable influence on the intellect of this country, 
 he, and one of his listeners, entered upon an accustomed topic. 
 
 “ Do you make progress ? ” she asked, as he lamented his inability 
 to master some book of which he had spoken. 
 
 “ A slow one ; the pronunciation puzzles me. I see no means of 
 help either. ^There is no master nearer than the county town, and I 
 have not time to go to and fro there.” 
 
 “ A few lessons in pronunciation shall not be a further need, 
 Mr. Wenlock, if you will accept them from me so long as I am 
 here.” 
 
 “ Thank you.” 
 
 “ Then we will begin at once, for it is yet early. Please ring the 
 bell, and Barbie shall fetch some books.’ 
 
 Barbie answered, and obeyed. Some half-dozen pages were slowly 
 read, the mistress correcting ; and this was the first German lesson. 
 There were others, as we shall see. 
 
MAIIS'STOXE's housekeepeb. 
 
 189 
 
 CHAPTER Xlir. 
 
 THE ROAD HOME. 
 
 Brighter still than even on the previous evening, looked Miss 
 Eliots parlour, as she stepped in to breakfast on the followino* 
 morning. There were sun, and flowers, and open casements, and the 
 hue old rearward garden, lying hazy in the shadows of the autumn 
 morn. 
 
 Amongst the letters on the breakfast-table was the unfailing one 
 from Mr. Radnor— never missed a post— and two others, respec- 
 tively from the postmaster of Welton and Mr. Walcot. The first 
 wished to see her that day, and at as early an hour as she could con- 
 veniently drive over; the other requested her to call at Brooklow 
 Rectory as soon as possible. Mr. Walcot was confined to his house 
 by indisposition, or he would not trouble her. In this case, if she 
 would oblige him, he should be glad, as the business was one of im- 
 portance. 
 
 Thinking whilst over her hurried breakfast. Miss Eliot rano* 
 presently for Barbie, and told her of her necessitated visit to 
 Welton. 
 
 “ It is rather unfortunate,” she added, “ as I wanted to go to the 
 Rectory Phema ; and I fear, too, they may need me at the 
 
 “ Shall I walk over to the lock, ma’am ? ” 
 
 “ No, Miss Tern shall find us a messenger. As Daniel will not be 
 here in time, you must drive me. Barbie ; and then, whilst we are in 
 the town, we will go— which we should have had to do a day or two 
 later— and buy the wedding-gown.” 
 
 Barbie blushed, and hung her head. 
 
 “ Has Silas written, ma’am ? ” 
 
 “No, but we may expect his letter in a few days. He has already 
 said something about the'first week in October, and that will soon be 
 
 ^ a messenger was found in one of Miss Tern’s little handmaids : 
 
 having been brought up from the inn, where 
 both had been left the previous night, they were soon on their way to 
 the little country town. ^ 
 
 Though it was neither market nor fair day, the approaches to the 
 town, and the town itself, were unusually astir with louno-ers and 
 passers ^ to and fro. These belonged unmistakably to the collier 
 population ; for they were pale and grimy-looking men, with worn and 
 anxious faces Here and there was to be seen a policeman; and, as 
 the carriage passed the turnpike-gate leading into the town, a body 
 
Ido mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 of them, mounted on horseback, hurried through. Miss Eliot made 
 inquiry. 
 
 “ The Thornhill colliers have struck, ma’am,” replied a haggard- 
 looking woman, of whom the question had been asked. “ They’d 
 borne a deal, hoping that the Squire would be down here three weeks 
 ago, and that they could speak to him ; but, you see, he don’t come, 
 for it’s said he’s ill. And so they’ll bear no more ; for that fellow, 
 Briscoe, lowered the wages yesterday, and threatens to lower ’em 
 again ; and there’s talk of starting a new butty-shop, where every 
 sort o’ thing’s to be sold, and where the folks’ll be forced to go, or 
 get no work.” 
 
 “ That will be against the law.” 
 
 “ Law ! ” interrupted the woman, vehemently, “ what does the 
 fellow care for law ? You don’t know Ben Briscoe, ma’am, or you 
 wouldn’t talk thisn’s. All he thinks on is to turn the Squire round 
 his finger, and fill his own pocket.” 
 
 “ He may do so, but to strike work is no sort of remedy at all. 
 They should try to get more liberal masters by seeking it else- 
 where.” 
 
 “ That’s not so easy done,” replied the woman, despondingly, 
 “unless they tramped into Wales, or into Darbysheer; and then, 
 maybe, they’d find more hands than work. Besides thisn’s, many 
 on ’em have bits o’ cottages on th’ waste, and kinsfolk round ’em they 
 wouldn’t like to be parting with. And then there’s many more — ay, 
 the greater lot on ’em wouldn’t like to be parting wi’ the old maister ; 
 they and theirs ha’ worked for him and his this mony a year, and 
 a slice from t’other loaf wouldna’ be half so sweet. No ! what would 
 set peace among ’em all would be to have the young Squire here ; 
 he’d soon set things right, for he ain’t a bit like the maister.” 
 
 “ Indeed ! Do you know young Mr. Thornhill ? I should have 
 thought that he was too much a boy when last here for him to be 
 greatly interested in business matters.” 
 
 “ Well he wur youngish, but that didna prevent his riding down 
 on his pony often and often, and speaking kindly to the pit folk, and 
 taking an interest in what they said and did. When they spoke out 
 on their troubles, he’d say it should be different when he wur maister ; 
 and this, ye see, give ’em heart to bear a deal. They wur mighty 
 sorry when the Squire sent him away ; and some on ’em be going to 
 speak to the maister about his coming home agin, for where’s a young 
 man’s place but among the folks that gather his riches for him. Ay 
 there’d be peace if he wur among ’em, for Briscoe dared na do as h« 
 does wur th’ young maister i’ th’ way. Now he’ll go on till he raises 
 a storm that won’t be hushed, till he’s frightened into doing what 
 sensible men, like Kichard Wenlock, would always have him do — pay 
 fair wages, and be straightfor’ards in his dealings. One day even this 
 mayn’t do, and the vengeance of downtrod men’ll fall on the earner 
 of it ! ” 
 
 The woman spoke this with a bitterness which only proved tbo 
 depth of the suffering which had begot it. 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 191 
 
 “ These are not wise purposes or wise things to think,” said Miss 
 Eliot, gently ; “ if you are in trouble, let me be the giver of a few 
 days’ food ; and if you have husband or brothers, counsel them, as 
 they must counsel others in turn, that the way to heal a wound is not 
 by making it larger. Let them speak to Mr. Thornhill — let them 
 ask him to permit his son’s return, and let them wait in patient hope; 
 for acts of injustice and aggression always work their own cure. But 
 to strike work is but a shallow remedy, at best.” 
 
 She gave the woman some little aid, and Barbie drove on. 
 
 “ Who’s that lady ? ” asked the woman, when she had stepped back 
 to the turnpike. 
 
 “The carriage belongs to Mainstone Kectory,” said the gate- 
 keeper; “and I suppose she’s the housekeeper that lives up there. 
 There’s a deal said about her, whether true or not I can’t say.” 
 
 “ Good or bad ? ” 
 
 “Well, good for the most part; though they say she wants to 
 marry that melancholy old parson. He’s run off to get quit on 
 her, but it’s no use. She’s making his house nice against he comes 
 back, and then I suppose she’ll have her own way, like most women.” 
 
 “ Don’t believe it,” was the answer ; “ a heart like that need not 
 go a-begging; it gathers love to it as surely as the apple gathers 
 ripeness from the sun.” 
 
 Once in Welton, Miss Eliot drove direct to the post-office. 
 Here Barbie remained outside with the carriage whilst she herself 
 went in. 
 
 “ I’m glad you’re come, ma’am, thus early,” said old Beckbury, the 
 postmaster, “for the letter whose direction I want you to see must be 
 sent on before noon. It came too late for last night’s post, and so I 
 thought you might thus see it. This is why I took the liberty of 
 sending for you.” 
 
 As he spoke he called to one of his daughters, who came forward 
 With a dirty-looking letter, directed in an illiterate hand to the 
 Bishop of the diocese, and to his episcopal residence in an adioinino* 
 county. 
 
 “ This is only one of many such letters,” said the old man, in a low, 
 and grave voice. “ At first no heed was taken of them, but latterly 
 inquiries connected with them have been made. Only last week 
 a strange gentleman came into the shop and asked if I could learn 
 who it was that posted them. He at the same time questioned me in 
 several particulars as to the general character borne by Mr. Badnor, 
 and what was his supposed relation to yourself. My answers seemed 
 to satisfy him — at least, I judged so by his manner ; and before he 
 went away, he still more earnestly requested me to make discovery, 
 if I could, of the one or more who have written the letters ; for the 
 handwriting, he gave me to understand, both within and without, is 
 aot always the same. But it is difficult to detect the writer; for 
 sometimes the letters are posted in one village, and sometimes in 
 mother, and always as it seems by night. But this is the more usual 
 baud ; and, if I mistake not, we have seen it before.” 
 
192 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 “It is Mrs. Jack’s handwriting,” said Miss Eliot, without a 
 moment’s hesitation ; “ and the envelope, as in the former case, is 
 one purloined from me.” 
 
 “ This is what struck me more than once,^ and I mentioned it to 
 Mr. Walcot.” 
 
 “ Mr. Walcot ! What can he have to do in the matter ? ^ 
 
 “ I don’t know ; unless it be that, as his brother is the Bishop’s 
 private chaplain, some Inquiries have been addressed through him. 
 It is now some time since he was here.” 
 
 “ Was it in the middle of the summer ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, ma’am.” 
 
 “ And he has not been since ? ” 
 
 “No.” 
 
 “ Indeed ! well, now, he has sent to me to make a call on him. I 
 do not think I shall. His impertinent curiosity has already given me 
 offence, and I otherwise do not like him.”^ 
 
 “ Few do, ma’am, for he is bigoted, vain, and overbearing. Still I 
 would go ; and what is more, ma’am, I would see the Bishop : report 
 bespeaks him as a truly courteous and Christian gentleman ; and 
 should these letters refer defamatorily to you or Mr. Kadnor, he will 
 he frank enough to tell you.” 
 
 “ Thank you — the idea is an excellent one, and I will put it in 
 force — more particularly as I want to learn, for Mr. Radnor’s sake, 
 what is, and what is not, the sum of Mrs. Jack’s knowledge.” 
 
 “ You possibly may. It is, however, a pity that Mr. Radnor does 
 not peremptorily and finally dismiss her. Such a woman is not fit to 
 be under his roof. Yet she has thoughts of returning to Mainstone ; 
 for not later ago than last week she boasted in a shop not far from 
 here, that, as soon as the Rectory was ready, she should resume her 
 old duties ; and you will then find who is mistress there.” 
 
 “We shall see,” smiled the housekeeper. 
 
 With this the subject dropped ; and, after making some purchases, 
 she proceeded on her way. 
 
 The wedding-dress, of sober coloured silk, was soon bought ; and 
 Barbie, the proudest and happiest of possessors, went on alone to the 
 customary inn, there to order dinner, and await her mistress. Thus, 
 unobserved. Miss Eliot proceeded to the ^ Bank, and then to divers 
 shops, in which she made purchase of knives and forks, saucepans, 
 tea-things, plates and dishes, and various such other matters as were 
 suited to the furnishing of a homely household. These, in each case, 
 were to have speedy dispatch to Mr. Silas Moore, Fernbarrow Farm, 
 Walter’s Dale. Not a word did Barbie hear of these things ; though 
 she wondered, when her tender mistress came in to dinner, what 
 business it was that had thus fatigued her. 
 
 It was growing dusk before they left the little town, and but lor 
 a straggler here and there, the roads were as solitary as they usually 
 were at nightfall. In passing, however. Miss Eliot questioned the 
 
 gatekeeper. Ai. 
 
 “ Ab far as I know, all is still, ma’am,” replied the man. At nooR 
 
mainstone’s H0USEKEE1»ER. 
 
 193 
 
 about two hundred of the Thornhill colliers passed throu^^h on their 
 f way to the hall, to see if the Squire is home, and if h^ is, to get 
 speech with him. If you meet them returning, they won’t harm one 
 though they’ve vowed vengeance against Briscoe and all 
 ( that belong to him. Indeed, they’d rather be kind than otherwise if 
 they know d you belonged to Mainstone Rectory, for the melancholy 
 old parson has done many a good turn for them and theirs; and 
 things would ha been different if the Squire had only hearkened to 
 him at the time he went to and fro among the collier-folks. But you 
 see the Squire quarreUed with him—as he did with many more about 
 this country at the time o’ th’ trial between him and Breere of 
 Bosely ; since which he ain’t been nigh or among ’em ; and the more’s 
 the pity, for their hearts, if rough, be kindly.” 
 
 man touched his liat, and Barbie urged the horse onward. As 
 s e did so her mistress, attracted by a measured, heavy footstep some- 
 where m the rear — for in the intense stillness of approaching* night 
 the lightest sound was audible — looked round, and there, in the dis- 
 tance, looming against the reddened sky, was the tall and heavy figure 
 , o a He looked gigantic in the chiaro-oscuro of the dyino* 
 
 j day ; but he was too far off to be otherwise distinguishable. Indeecf 
 ' fancied that he stopped ; for his footfall stayed, and his 
 
 , whole figure faded in the distance. 
 
 Nothing but the cry of a night-bird, the ripple of a brook, or the 
 rustle of a hare through some distant clump of underwood or some 
 , turmp-crop near at hand, broke the intense stillness of the peaceful 
 , roads. Night rapidly fell, and for a little time the darkness 
 was intense; but a young moon wore its feeble way throuf^h a 
 } Wackened rack of clouds, and its fitful light fell presently upon the 
 
 A farm-house and its cheerful lights and homestead ricks were 
 I passed; and the road, environed by woodland, lay in profound 
 1 shadow, when the horse suddenly started, then reared up as thouo-h 
 as quickly pushing back the vehicle a pace or two, 
 stopped dead still. This momentary action saved probably human 
 liir same instant some heavy masses, as though of stone 
 
 ■ ^ the reins, struck the horse’s head 
 
 violently, and fell with considerable force into the ditch beyond 
 Plunging rearing, and wounded, as it seemed, the horse dLhed 
 
 .onward, bore the carriage over some impediment lying in the road. 
 
 wy, and then sunk down upon its fore legs, as 
 .though stunned or dead. Terrified beyond description. Barbie had 
 
 ■ but her mistresC silent in terror, 
 
 clutched, and stepped down into the 
 tbe back of the horse, she found, to 
 
 ther incre^ed terror, that it was wet with blood. 
 
 0 favourite horse stunned, dyint^— 
 
 l "“ly ^"s^er was a still more 
 
 p teous scream, which served to drown rapidly approachinnf footstens • 
 
 , these stumbled, recovered themselves, and came near ^ ’ 
 
 13 
 
194 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 “ My God ! you are not hurt, are you ! What is the matter — what 
 is it that has terrified you ? ” 
 
 But Miss Eliot's words clove to her mouth, and in her terror she 
 was deaf to whose voice it was. 
 
 “ Wait a minute, I can get a light ! ” So saying, there was a rustle 
 in one or more deep pockets ; another instant a piece of touchpaper 
 flashed into flame, and this applied to a gorse bush beside the road, 
 lighted it as though by a dozen jets of gas. This brilliancy showed the 
 welcome face of 'Hichard Wenlock. lie did not evince any surprise 
 that it proved to be Barbie and the housekeeper, but commise- 
 rated and sought to learn the nature of the outrage. Miss Eliot told 
 him hastily, and then directed his attention to the horse. 
 
 “ The poor animal is one of Mr. Radnor’s favourites ; and as I have 
 pledged myself to give him no grief whilst he is absent, let us see 
 what can be done.’' 
 
 Richard moved away, stooped down, looked, and said in a voice 
 which in the instant had changed to a still deeper gravity, that the 
 horse, ’from terror, a severe blow, and loss of blood combined, had 
 sunk down stupified ; but were the bleeding stopped, it might pro- 
 bably recover. He then with gloves and pocket-handkerchiefs made 
 a sort of pad, tied it tightly over the gash ; and this done, he hurried 
 back to the scene of the outrage. Lighting up a fresh gorse bush, 
 he soon saw that part of a felled tree had been thrown down from 
 the bank above, and stretched across the road ; and that the missile, 
 a large fragment of sandstone, and as much as a person of ordinary 
 strength could lift, had been hurled from the same height. He then 
 climbed up the steep bank into the woodland, and made search as far 
 as his temporary light would permit, but without seeing or hearing 
 anything which could afford a clue to the perpetrator of so deliberate 
 an outrage. In descending, however, the slippery bank, a fragment 
 of something fluttering on a thorn-bush attracted his quick eye; 
 grasping it, he found it to be a strip of knotted fringe, from a woollen 
 shawl; about the spot where it hung, were numerous small-sized 
 footprints ; thus leading still further to the conclusion that the act 
 was that of a woman. When he had cleared the road, Richard 
 retraced his steps. 
 
 ‘‘ I am at a loss who it can be,” said Miss Eliot, when she had 
 examined the woollen fragment by the fitful light ; “ for I certainly 
 never saw Mrs. Jack wear any shawl to which this could belong ; and 
 setting her asiae, I know no other living person who would do me an 
 injury.” 
 
 “Well, we will not discuss the question here,” said Richard; 
 “ both you, ma’am, and Barbie look ill and terrified, and as it is not 
 more than a mile to Horton Wood, you’d better walk on and rest at 
 my house. The horse is recovering now — and I will lead it and 
 slowly follow.” 
 
 Richard had already unharnessed the poor animal ; and now when 
 Barbie had secured the parcels, and he had drawn the carriage into 
 the safety of the hedgerow, they went slowly onwards. They had 
 
mainstone's housekeeper. 
 
 195 
 
 not however proceeded far, before the heavy tramp of numerous feet 
 could be heard approaching. 
 
 “ It is the colliers returning from Mainstone,” he said ; “ and I fear 
 a little the worse for drink. This is the way the ignorant increase 
 sorrow, by temporarily drowning it. But let me go first — it is need- 
 ful.” It did seem so ; for these two hundred men came onwards, not 
 as they had set forth in the morning, in silent gloom — but shouting, 
 laughing, and talking. There might be some few silent, but it was 
 not many. As they came near, their faces were not to be dis- 
 tinguished ; but the short pipes of some few glowed out intensely 
 ' from the surrounding gloom. 
 
 “ Who are you ? ” shouted the foremost. 
 
 “I’m Richard Wenlock. Some of you be good enough to lend a 
 helping^ band— this lady from Mainstone Rectory has narrowly escaped 
 with life; for, not half a mile away there beneath Stowly Copse, some 
 miscreant threw a heavy piece of sandstone down into the carriage as 
 it passed. ^ The lady and Barbie Bell are alarmed, but not liurt. 
 The horse is however wounded, and the carriage somewhat injured 
 in the shafts and splashboard ; and if one or two of you will be good 
 enough to bring it up to my yard, and lead the horse forward to the 
 farrier’s, I shall be heartily glad.” 
 
 “Ay, maister, ay ! ” was the^ kind and ready answer. They had 
 already halted; and now their boisterousness quelled, a murmur 
 of sympathy ran through their ranks; a lantern, which one of 
 them bore, was lighted, and thus were seen their dusky faces, 
 crowded like bees about the lady. Rude and coarse and boisterous 
 as they were— ground down by poverty and hard labour— conscious 
 
 . that their social rights were encroached upon by a sordid tyrant full 
 
 of gloom and distrust, thirsting for revenge — injured by a few men 
 and inclined to suspect all — no sooner were their sympathies appealed 
 ^ to, no sooner were they spoken to as men, not as dogs — no sooner 
 were they face to face with a man who they knew was their friend, as 
 well as incorruptibly honest— than all that was worthiest and divinest 
 j in their homely souls shone forth. Many spoke kindly words, some 
 hastened to bring the carriage, others to lead the horse — with^ those 
 who remained Richard took counsel. 
 
 “ Can any of you tell to whose shawl this fragment belongs ? ” he 
 j asked, as he showed the strip of fringe. It passed from hand, and 
 , for some minutes there was silence. 
 
 “I think I’ve seen something o’ this kind hanging in Carter’s shop,” 
 
 . spoke one of the grimiest of the men. “My missus would know 
 J —she’s sharp at these things, that she is. If you’d trust me wi’ it 
 ^ Maister Wenlock, I’ll ax her.” ’ 
 
 ^ “ May I trust you ? If we can trace the person, the fragment will 
 
 be important as evidence.” 
 
 j -^y? yon may, maister. You know I’d do you a good turn any 
 J, day. I’ve an idea o’ the body loike, though I won’t spake on’t till I’ve 
 ^ axed the missus.” 
 
 > Permitted to take the fragment, the poor fellow put it 
 13—2 
 
 care-i 
 
196 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 fully into a small canvas bag, and stowed this away in one of his 
 pockets. 
 
 ‘‘ Tm sorry, my men,” said Richard, as the larger number were 
 about to move onwards on their way to Wei ton, “ that some of you 
 seem to have had too much to drink. It is, as I always tell you, your 
 worst enemy — a harder master than such as Briscoe.” 
 
 The larger number of them hung down their heads like abashed 
 children. 
 
 “ Well, maister, it wur the old Losely Squire as giv’ us a drop. He 
 met us in Mainstone Lane, thirsty like ye see, and he had us come on 
 and have a quart apiece at the ‘ Brown Hen ; ’ and the missus, as had 
 lust bin drawing her batch o’ bread, give us a bit and a scrap o’ 
 cheese, and depend on’t, maister, her cupboard was welly empty when 
 she’d done.” 
 
 “ That was kind ; but strikes and beer-shops don’t do together. 
 Now tell me what you haven’t — what did you learn at the hall ? ” 
 
 “ We only saw that old Pomp, maister. He said the Squire wur 
 a-coming, this evening he believed. He said we must make our 
 complaints to him, for the Squire’s mining consarns was none o’ 
 his’en. So, after waiting a good bit about, we came down to Horton 
 Wood station ; but. Lord bless you, maister, no train held the Squire ; 
 and seeing how his coming’s been put off, why, it may be that he 
 don’t intend to come at all.” 
 
 Take my earnest advice, and have patience. It is rumoured in 
 Welton to-day, and on good authority, that he has had a paralytic 
 stroke — a slight one — but still sufficient to contort his features, and 
 supply a warning, if a man of John Thornhill’s nature can take 
 one. Be, therefore, patient ; he may at last have to send for young 
 Ellis, and then, you know, your remedy is near; for none that I 
 know, young as he is, is a greater hater of oppression towards those 
 who do his service.” 
 
 “ Ay, ay ! the young maister’ll befriend us,” was the murmur 
 which ran through the crowd. “ He wur welly good^ to us when he 
 wur a little lad ; and he won’t fall short as a maister, if he listens to 
 thee, Dick Wenlock.” 
 
 “ As this is your opinion, hearken to me. If Briscoe should agree 
 to go back to the old pay, take it rather than stand out. You have 
 wives and children, recollect ; for a day may end your sorrow and the 
 agent’s little power.” 
 
 They listened in silence, murmured something like an assent, and 
 then sobered, and as it were saddened, said their rough ‘‘ good nighy* 
 and tramped on their way. A few would follow Richard as a safe- 
 guard weariness was nothing to them, in comparison with their deep 
 
 faith in, and honest regard for, this man of iron will and lofty 
 principle. 
 
 Scarce uttering a word, more subdued than was habitual to her, 
 Miss Eliot and Barbie went onwards, till they reached Horton Wood 
 and the engineer’s house. Here she was unwilling to enter or stay ; 
 but Richard said, if she would rest there awhile, he would send one 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 197 
 
 of his men to borrow a gipr, and then drive her home to Losely. He 
 then led the way along the garden-walk to the door-porch. The 
 maid-servent, red-faced from the fire, made her appearance, 
 
 “ Where’s your missis, Joan ? ” 
 
 “ Please, Sir, she’s gone down in her chair to meeting — and she’s 
 to go to Mrs. Willey’s to supper after.” 
 
 “ Is my fire lighted ? ” 
 
 The answer was in the affirmative. ^ 
 
 “ Very well ! Take Barbie into the kitchen.” Then, lowering his 
 vice, he added, “ Have you either tea or coffee out ? ” 
 
 Joan, who had no habit of speaking sotto voce^ replied bluntly, — 
 
 “ No ! on course not. She locks and snaps up everything, as you 
 well know.” 
 
 “ Make the kettle boil quickly then, and I’ll come out and speak to 
 you.” 
 
 “ As the girl turned to go, he led the way up the two steps into the 
 green parlour, and closed the door. It looked less forlorn than by 
 day, for the fire-light, glowing brightly on the walls, hid faded colour, 
 and stains of damp — and books, as heretofore, were in abundance. 
 The blind of the window next the sheds and smithy was drawn, but 
 not that of the window on the far side of the fire-place ; and thus 
 the fine old bay tree, and laurustinus, which formed a sort of screen 
 outside, received the glowing tint, and gave back their kindly 
 shadows. 
 
 The table which had stood beneath the latter window during sum- 
 mer, was now drawn before the fire, and this was covered with maps, 
 and plans, and engineers’ designs, and students’ books. But he 
 cleared a place, lighted a candle which stood ready, moved away his 
 pipe and slippers from the fender, stirred the fire into a still ruddier 
 glow, and then asked the housekeeper what refreshment she would 
 take. It might be some time before his man was back, he said, and 
 she had better have something. 
 
 She had already taken her seat in his capacious easy chair, wherein 
 so many pipes were smoked, and so many opinions and ideas cogitated 
 to the full, and she had untied her bonnet. But this was all — she 
 would take nothing, or do nothing further. 
 
 “You must excuse my taciturnity,” she said, as she rested her 
 elbow upon the table, and her face upon her hand ; but this occur- 
 rence has overcome me very much. I am not usually a coward — and 
 no one can have less terror of death than I ; but the mere thought 
 that the blow might have ended my services to Mr. Radnor, and feft 
 him and his affairs in a condition still more hopeless and pitiable than 
 before, has given me a shock not easily passed over.” 
 
 “ Shall I call Barbie, or send for my aunt ? ” 
 
 “ Oblige me by doin^ neither. A few minutes entire rest and quiet 
 will recover me more than anything.” 
 
 Richard, therefore, said nothing further ; but, leaving the house- 
 keeper to the quietude of his room, went forth to the kitchen. Here 
 the kettle boiled, and here he learnt from Barbie that tea was her 
 
198 
 
 mainstone’s Housekeeper. 
 
 mistress’s favourite beverage. He, therefore, at once dispatchtv 
 Joan to a neighbouring shop to fetch some of the best. This pro- 
 cured, he made it, poured out a cup, and carried it into the green 
 parlour — for this man, usually so abstracted and undemonstrative, 
 was, at heart, as simple and as tender as a child ; and here in the 
 presence of mental and moral qualities, such as had hitherto been a 
 mere dream and speculation to him, these characteristics of his 
 hidden spirit were as no man or v/oman had hitherto known them. 
 
 As he closed the door, and came near the table, he perceived the 
 housekeeper’s bonnet had fallen to the floor, and her head, without 
 the support of either hand, rested on the table ; but it was not till 
 he came nearer still, and set down the cup, that he saw that she was 
 insensible. ^ He made no fuss or stir, but raised her head, and let it 
 pillow^ on his arm ; and as he did so, her profuse hair fell from its 
 fastenings and swept down. Never had he seen such till now — never 
 had he suspected that beneath the small black head-dress had been 
 fastened up such tresses of softness and lovely hue. He might have 
 gathered them up, and pressed them to his lips — he might have bent 
 his cheek near hers — he might have covered and crushed the little 
 hands within his own, for anything she would have known. He had 
 the momentary wish to do so ; for honouring and regarding her as he 
 did, he would have been less than a man if he had not ; but his faith 
 was too sterling to basely use an incidental opportunity. He simply 
 drew his hand across her cheek, and pillowed her head a little more 
 tenderly on his arm. 
 
 Not a word escaped his stern and compressed lips. Keticent at al) 
 times, he would be doubly so in a case like this — where he wished nc 
 suspicion to exist of his attachment, and when in the very act of 
 daring to love he beheld its utter hopelessness. Yet, there was no 
 servility in this depression of himself, this exaltation of her ; for how- 
 ever great might be the difierence in their social rank, he yet felt that 
 in intellect they were equal ; and thus, so far as higher conditions 
 were concerned, he met her in the proud faith of his manhood and 
 his mental power. Yet his eyes betrayed the mortal struggle which 
 passed within : here was the light by which his soul could walk in 
 faith ; and yet, seeing it, it must be extinguished — at least for him ] 
 
 She was recovering ; so he withdrew his arm, and called her maid 
 Then passing forth into the moonlit garden, he paced up and down, 
 till the arrival of the borrowed gig. At the same time. Barbie came 
 forth to speak to him. 
 
 “ If you please. Sir, Miss Eliot is better now, and would like to get . 
 home. She was very overcome, but a fit of crying has relieved her ; 
 and now, after a little tea, she feels able to go forward.” 
 
 So coming in— cold and unmoved as it seemed — Richard Wenlock 
 assisted Barbie to help her mistress to the gig. Once in it, the drive 
 was soon accomplished — and Miss Tern, anxious, wondering, and full 
 of kindness, was glad to welcome her lodger. Richard gave her 
 a hurried account of the night’s occurrence, and then prepared 
 to go. 
 
MAINStONE^S HOUSEitEEPEIl. 
 
 199 
 
 ^ Won’t you come in ?— though I shall be necessarily absent, one 
 the girls can prepare supper.” 
 
 “No, thank you ; I am busy to-night.” ^ ^ •• i •, i 
 
 AVhen he got home, he found his old aunt sitting by the kitchen 
 fire, whilst Joan tied on her nightcap. 
 
 “Richard, my dear,” she said, in her quaint and querulous way, 
 
 ■ “ the parlour fire must ha’ some coals on it, if it be to be kept 
 in. But I hope you’re coming to bed like other decent folks, 
 for candles ha’ risen a halfpenny, and the coals be low i’ th’ 
 
 “ No, I must sit up some hours yet ; I’m busy, and cannot talk 
 more to you to-night, but will to-morrow.” As he spoke thus, he 
 came forward, and pressed his lips upon her forehead, as nightly he 
 had done for years — for, under all her niggardliness, her heart beat 
 warm and tenderly for him. Then he hurried to his room, and closed 
 
 “I canna think what’s come to him,” she muttered; “them 
 books ’ll craze him. It’s bad enough to ha’ to find candles, but it’ll be 
 harder still to pay for his keep in the county ’sylum. For this is just 
 what it mun all come to.” In this way the old dame went grumbling 
 
 to bed. ,, 
 
 Richard replenished his fire, and paced his room to and tro, till ail 
 was still. Then he went and sat down where she had sat, and 
 presently his glance fell upon the table. A drawing of some 
 machinery, which had cost him hours of thought and labour, had, he 
 saw, been wetted by her tears. To him the little blistered spots weie 
 precious signs. No hand but his must touch the paper, no eye 
 behold it — henceforth it was sacred to him. 
 
 He spent half the night in copying it, and the original was put care- 
 fully by — its secret was buried in his own sou-^ * 
 
 I 
 
I 
 
 200 MAINSTONfi'S HOtJSEKDEPfift. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 MR. WALCOT. 
 
 For some days after the night of return from Welton, the house- 
 keeper was confined to the house by slight indisposition. Meanwhile, 
 Miss Tern proved herself to be a kindly, grave, and homely friend, 
 who could talk well on many points, and whose practical wisdom 
 would have set up half-a-dozen senators. Then came Elisha, as 
 pleased as a child to be back again, fancying that everything had gone 
 wrong without him, and that no one could render such service to his 
 mistress as he did. 
 
 “Missis,” he said, “master was right envious of me when I set my 
 face towards home. For though Mr. and Miss Mainwaring are as 
 kind to him as can be, he pines to get back again, ‘ Elisha,’ \yere his 
 last words to me, ‘ tell your mistress that I count every hour till I am 
 home again; and that I hope she won’t make my probation a very 
 long one.’ So you see, ma’am, we must all do our best to get for’ards, 
 — I and Dan’el wi’ th’ garden, and the folks with the house, or you 
 see master ’ll be fretting not a bit.J But the change of air is certainly 
 doing him good ; and if we can keep him patient, and make him bide 
 a bit^ it’ll be all the better.” 
 
 “ I think so too, Elisha. If only for this reason, I must endeavour 
 to fortify Mr. Radnor’s patience ; though, irrespective of the benefit 
 he may derive, there is much work to do, which cannot well be 
 hurried.” ^ ^ 
 
 A horse having been hired, to replace the services of Mr. Radnor’s 
 favourite, which was slowly recovering, Elisha came one morning to 
 drive his mistress to Brooklow. Barbie was left at home, for the 
 wedding-gown was in process of manufacture, at the hands of a 
 dress-maker, duly ensconced in the sunniest nook of Miss Tern’s 
 ample kitchen. Various fittings did this marvellous dress require, 
 and still more numerous were its inspections, not only by Barbie, but 
 by Miss Tern’s little handmaids ; for the wedding was to take place 
 in the ensuing week, though the day was not yet definitely fixed. 
 Yes ! Barbie was going home to Silas Moore for ever ! 
 
 “ If I am not home till to-morrow night,” said Miss Eliot, as Miss 
 Tern and Barbie attended her to the gate, “ do not be alarmed. I 
 have arranged to dine with the Whitelocks, and I may remain for the 
 night, and transact some business on my way home to-morrow. I 
 h^e Elisha to drive and take care of me, and occurrences, such as 
 the one of last week, are happily not common.” 
 
 It was a bright autumnal morning, and they quickly^ reached the 
 Rectory, where all was progressing favourably. The bricklayers and 
 masons were at work, the carpenters were busy with a new green^ 
 
mainstone’s houseeeei*eb. 
 
 201 
 
 house, and old Daniel and some labourers were pruning, and digging, 
 and planting in the garden. Peri and Pearl, missing their tender 
 master as it seemed, moped upon the mossy horse-block at the gable 
 by the porch; but, recognising their mistress, they neglected the 
 handful of corn she shed for them, and following her along the terrace, 
 spread forth their feathered beauty in the stateliest pomp and pride. 
 Fleckie was less accessible — the masons had disturbed her favourite 
 roosting places, and perched in one of the orchard-trees, she would 
 not be approached. 
 
 After looking round at the various works in progress, speaking to 
 the builder’s foreman, and having old Wolf unloosened from his 
 kennel for a holiday. Miss Eliot proceeded on her way to the lock. 
 About half a mile from the Rectory, and as they were approaching a 
 cluster of roadside cottages, of which Peggy Giles’s shop formed one, 
 a horse was heard coming quickly at the rear, and Elisha, turning 
 round to look, saw at a glance that it was Jonathan, and this he com- 
 municated to his mistress. 
 
 “ If he should speak, reply to him briefly, Elisha,” was the imme- 
 diate answer. 
 
 Miss Eliot conjectured rightly ; for the fellow, slackening speed as 
 soon as he saw to whom the carriage belonged, walked his horse beside 
 it and spoke loudly. 
 
 “ Robert Moore,” he said, insolently, and addressing Miss Eliot, as 
 it seemed, “is obliged to you for what you’ve done for that girl, 
 Phema ; but as soon as she’s well enough you’d better send her back 
 to the Farm, where she’s wanted, or else he means to fetch her ; for 
 he’s fed, and clothed, and kep her since she was a little ’un, and he’s 
 thinking that no one else has a right to her sarvices.” 
 
 Miss Eliot made no reply ; so the fellow smoothing down the bran- 
 new velveteen coat he wore, repeated what he had said still more 
 loudly and insolently. 
 
 “ Come, come, my man,” said Elisha, stopping the carriage ; “ you’d 
 better ride on. When missis has business at Moore Farm, she’ll 
 speak to the master, and not to the servant.” 
 
 The only answer was a derisive laugh — though his change or 
 countenance betrayed, as Miss Eliot thought, both disappointment 
 and fear; and then, clapping spm-s to his horse, he rode swiftly 
 onwards. ^ 
 
 “ What is said seems pretty true, missis,” said Elisha ; “ that the 
 servant at Moore Farm has taken the master’s place. If this is the 
 beginning, what can the end be ? ” 
 
 “Not very good, I fear, Elisha— as the plan has been, so will be 
 the building.” 
 
 They stopped at Peggy Giles’s, and Miss Eliot alighted. The old 
 woman sat knitting a stocking for her son in her peaceful chimney- 
 nook, ready to rise at any moment to serve at the little counter, which 
 ran parallel with the door. She was so unfeignedly glad to see her 
 mistress and Elisha, as to wipe the tears of joy from her eyes. These 
 gathered anew, as Miss Eliot, opening a parcel she brought in 
 
202 MAIKSTONe’s HOtSEKEEPEE. 
 
 with her, gave her a gown, bought purposely for the present in 
 W elton. 
 
 “ I’m sure I didn’t need it or wish for it, missis,” said Peggy ; 
 “you’ve always paid me nicely for everything I’ve done. As my boy 
 and I often and often talk o’ nights by the fire, the paying of us Mr. 
 Radnor’s bill was a good we can never be thankful enough for. For 
 ye see, if we couldn’t ha’ paid them Welton grocers, and they got 
 mighty threatening, I might ha’ been sold up, or seen the inside of a 
 gaol. Now you see we’re straight before the world ; and having ready 
 money, can get better and cheaper things from the county town. 
 This in turn brings bus’ness, for the tea being so good, the missises 
 of some o* the farms round ha’ sent ; and only last night Margery 
 Pomp’s girl came down for half a pound.” 
 
 “ Paying you for what you had supplied was nothing more than a 
 common act of justice, so say nothing further; now talk of other 
 things — can you tell me if Mr. Thornhill is yet home ? ” 
 
 “ He wasn’t last night, though they say he’s on the road. He’d 
 got half-way when he wur stopped by being worser. For he’s 
 had a paralytic stroke, though he wouldn’t like the world to know 
 it.” 
 
 “ So I hear.” 
 
 “ And who do you think that old Pomp is going to have into the 
 house to nurse him. When I heard it I was more amazed than I 
 can tell. Margery Pomp is dreadfully cut up about it. She andi 
 her husband could have helped him well enough, ill though hel 
 be.” 
 
 “Not Mrs. Jack, surely ? ” 
 
 “ Not her exactly, but nigh it. Why, that girl we found In the| 
 up stairs rooms, and who’d been up and down to the house — thouglii 
 many a long day before — as Mr. Radnor will, I think, one day tell 
 you.” 
 
 “ Perhaps so. Though Mr. Radnor, I am morally certain, cannot! 
 tell me anything of himself that will not be full of goodness andi 
 high principle.” I 
 
 “ Of that I’m sure, missis — but virtue’s none the less for being tried.j 
 Well, Margery’s taking the matter mightily to heart; for though 
 her young days weren’t all that they ought to have been, still she’s 
 redeemed ’em if ever woman did. For she’s been a good wife to the 
 dressed out old parrot she wur fool enough to marry, and a marvel oi 
 love to Master Ellis ; ay, but for her shutting out much o’ th’ evil the 
 old man crowded round him, the boy might ha’ been, at this day, as 
 sinful as himself.” 
 
 Miss Eliot, having no desire to continue this subject, did not 
 mention the occurrence that had taken place on her way from 
 Welton, nor what were her own surmises respecting it, but changed 
 the topic by asking if she had heard how Phema was on the previous 
 day. 
 
 “ My lad called in last night on his way home from the quarry, and 
 old John said she wur a bit better, though still mighty ill; and he 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 203 
 
 uid how they were wishing to see you, for that fellow Jonathan had 
 sen down there demanding the girl. What he said had worrited 
 : m sadly.” 
 
 “ I feared this,” replied Miss Eliot, gravely ; and then she related 
 lie incident which had just occurred. 
 
 :«■ “Ay, I thought I knew the ring of the horse’s hoof ; for now-a- 
 ' xy he rides the best Galloway — has th’ old woman’s seat by the fire 
 ;-and puts himself afore the maister in many a bit o’ bis’nis. Well, 
 
 this is the beginning o’ th’ end, the Lord help Kobert Moore.” 
 ifter a moment’s pause, she added: — “It’s right a pity about that 
 'Dor young thing. She ought to be got away somewhere out 
 : th’ knowledge of them and their evil plans ; for sure as the 
 orld, if she goes back to the Farm, she’ll perish body and 
 : )ul.” 
 
 “I have already thought of having her removed secretly and 
 leedily to some place far away from here. I know of a home where 
 le would have the kindest care — so that if you hear that she is gone, 
 ’lake no remarks ; from time to time you shall learn how she is pro- 
 ’rressing.” 
 
 “ God love you, ma’am ; others beside Barbie Bell will have to 
 less the day you came nigh Mainstone.” 
 
 If The housekeeper rose to go, and as she passed from the shop to 
 le carriage, Peggy asked her about the probability of her finding 
 iTvants against the time when the house should be finished, and Mr. 
 f,adnor returned. 
 
 “ For ye see, ma’am,” she added, “ except to do a hand’s turn, for 
 »ve and duty, at such busy times as may happen even in a quiet 
 Dme like the parsonage, I shall ha’ no days to spare. Sister-in-law 
 juld bide no longer, and my lad likes to see me in the chimney- 
 brner, for it b’aint home, he says, without me.” 
 
 “ No, Peggy, except on holiday occasions, we must not ask you. 
 rhank you, it will not be needful. To-day I am going to speak to 
 irliss Whitelock, as to a person I have seen ; and for the rest, one of 
 [iss Tern’s little handmaids is to be a helpmate.” 
 ii “ And thou wilt be to them the mistress thou wast to me — tender, 
 [ood, and true,” thought the worthy soul, as, having watched the 
 irriage out of sight, she returned indoors to her cheerful chimney 
 fook. 
 
 The lanes which led down to the lock -house were clothed with the 
 liveliest of autumnal tints. A harvest of scarlet berries decked the 
 .pg-rose and the hawthorn boughs, and the wayside springs tinkled 
 veetly through grass and leaves slightly crisped by frost. The birds 
 cere full of twitterings and songs ; "for them the approach of winter 
 trad no terrors, for their little hedgerow garners were full even to 
 ?‘/erflowing, and the sunshine of the hour was a summer whilst it 
 i; sted. 
 
 1 The Welton doctor’s horse was tethered to the garden palings; so, 
 Waiting till the gentleman came down. Miss Eliot spoke to him. The 
 tirl, he said, was still very ill — a mere wasted shadow — more feeble 
 
204 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 than a new-bom child, and unable to speak articulately, or above a 
 whisper. She had been worse again since the waggoner’s visit, for 
 his loud voice and coarse words had been distinctly heard in the sick- 
 chamber. Her ensuing terror was excessive. Bathed with the chill) 
 drops of mortal agony, she had entreated them, by such weak signs 
 and inarticulate words as she could summon, to spare and save her; 
 %nd the tenderest words which could be spoken in reply did little tc 
 )oothe or give her peace. 
 
 “ A Second visit from this man, if followed by the same results 
 will certainly cause her death,” spoke the doctor, sternly ; “evp as i 
 is, the greatest fear I have, is that consumption may succeed this utte; 
 prostration of both mind and body. I know of but one thing that cai 
 save her from this probably impending fate, and that is, speed; 
 and entire removal from this neighbourhood and its associations.” 
 
 “ I concur in your opinion so thoroughly as to have already settle* 
 the matter in my own mind. In a week I can make every arrange 
 ment for her journey to, and kind reception in, a comfortable home ii 
 the south of England. How long do you think it will be befor 
 her removal is practicable ? ” 
 
 “ A fortnight at least. Even then her journey must be broken int 
 three or four stages.” 
 
 “ This can be easily effected.” 
 
 After some little further conversation the surgeon took his leave 
 kindly promising to aid the girl’s recovery by his utmost skill. 
 
 Keturning to the house, through the pretty garden— for th 
 surgeon and the housekeeper had held their brief conversation besid 
 the silver water which stretched so far away — the latter was arreste 
 by an unexpected sight. In a sunny spot, and with his back to a 
 old tree, sat Cornelius, with a tattered book beside him, and a littj 
 cat tucked up on his knee. Miss Eliot remembered the cat at i 
 glance ; it was the one which had been brought from the dreary spej 
 in the solitary fen, and which Phema had taken in her flight from tH 
 Farm. The youth was neither turning over the leaves of the bool 
 nor caressing the little favourite, but looking away in absent vacancy 
 yet this with an expression of mingled contentment and intelligencj 
 such as hitherto she had not observed in him. Without disturbin 
 his day-dreams, whatever they were — she passed into the cheerfil 
 kitchen, and remarked upon the same to old Johnny, who sj 
 smoking his pipe, whilst his niece laid the cloth for their earl 
 
 dinner. j i i « •' 
 
 “ Yes, ma’am, everybody is struck by my boy’s altered looks, sai 
 the old man, with a ready joy most pleasant to behold ; “ and what 
 more, he has never been once away from home since the night tl 
 girl was brought here. He sits quiet with his tattered book and tl 
 cat almost all day, and never troubles us, except in asking evei 
 now and then how Phema is, and if he mayn’t go up stairs to s( 
 her.” 
 
 “ Keally ! and has he ever told you how he took her where v 
 found her ? It has always been a mystery to me.” 
 
mainstone’s hotisekbeper. 
 
 205 
 
 “ She was cowering beneath some bushes in Malnstone Wood when 
 e first saw her. She was ill even then I should fancy ; for she fol- 
 )wed him, he says, with slow foot, and entreating to be saved from 
 onathan. Children-like, they rambled together a long way. At 
 ist he led her down into the low moors, and got her across to the 
 ' rm land amidst the quag, by means of a few old planks which 
 ad been used and then forgotten by men who’d gone thither 
 ) cut reeds. Here she was took mighty bad. The rest we 
 now.” 
 
 In reply, Miss Eliot told the old man what had been the result of 
 er conversation with the surgeon, and Bow — as affording the only 
 bance of saving her life — Phema would be removed as soon as 
 ossible. 
 
 “Well, it’ll be for the best. I’ve no doubt,” spoke the old clerk, 
 though I shall be sorry for her going. For to say nothing about 
 >orcas taking kindly to her, it ’pears pretty clear to me — though I 
 m’t say why — that by reason of her being here our boy is kept from 
 graying. That this is a comfort to us I need hardly tell, with winter 
 Dming on, and sad old memories burning in our hearts, as to how 
 e’ve passed long nights watching and listening for his coming. 
 Tone but the dear Lord knows how sad and weary them nights ha* 
 een ! ” 
 
 ; He paused a little, for deep emotion moved him, and then he added, 
 iill more sorrowfully : — 
 
 f “ It may be all for the best. Perhaps it may ; yet I’d break him 
 ^ his wandering if I could.” 
 
 si He had been standing all this time of his speaking with his hand 
 a the chair he had offered to the housekeeper, but which she had 
 ot taken. Now she did, and laying her hand upon the little table 
 lefore her, sat for a few minutes lost in thought, as though sketching 
 jat some mental plan. Then she said, as she raised up her face 
 iiddenly and with an eager look, — 
 
 “ Provided a home could be found for Cornelius elsewhere, would 
 DU part with him for a time ? ” 
 
 > The old man’s face flushed red and white. He could do much for 
 ,iie advantage of his child — yet it was like asking a miser for his 
 oard. He paused — he hesitated — at last he spoke : — 
 j* “ Ay, I’d do much for the lad ; for the wandering life he’s took 
 ) makes him more like a wild cre’tur than a human one. Yet, more 
 lild than man as he is, he’s dear to us.” 
 
 i' “ Yet, for the sake of duty or principle, we’ve often to part with 
 ^ur best treasures.” 
 
 [j| “ I see it, lady — yes, I see it ! The sending the lad away is a 
 ^lought which has often crossed me— but I did not know whither ; 
 p id maybe, if I had, the means wouldn’t ha’ been mine — for the lock 
 Easiness isn’t now a-days what it used to be.” 
 
 r “ Yet, if you can make up your mind to part with Cornelius for a 
 r me, want of means shall not be a hindrance. Mr. Radnor is, I 
 isure you, greatly attached to his old clerk, and will gladly lend 
 
206 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 assistance. The matter, therefore, rests with yourself.” The house- 
 keeper paused for a moment to look round and see if they were alone, 
 and finding they were, she added — What I have to say further must 
 be kept strictly secret.” 
 
 “ You needn’t fear me, ma’am.” 
 
 “ Well ! where I propose to send Phema is to a farm on the coast 
 of Sussex. It is a pleasant place enough, lying in the summer 
 amidst corn-fields and near the sea, and is rented by an old nurse of 
 mine and her husband. They have but one child — a grown-up son — 
 who is the master of an old endowed and very excellent parochial 
 school in the village close by ; and whilst he might foster and teach 
 any dawning intelligence in the youth, his parents would make 
 a home for "him and Phema, and be very kind to both, I am well 
 sure.” 
 
 The old clerk tried to ansswer, but could not ; and he would have 
 been still more moved had he been cognizant of all which was passing 
 in the breast of the housekeeper. 
 
 “ I wish to hurry you into no decision. Take till the next week to 
 think it over, and then let me know. One thing only I reOuire, and 
 that is, secrecy as to the place, tor the girl’s sake, k'or my change- 
 less opinion is, that much has happened at Moore Farm which those 
 concerned wished to keep hidden ; and, fearing what she may know, 
 they will strive by every possible means to get her back aagain.” be 
 saying. Miss Eliot rose and went up stairs to see Phema. 
 
 Extreme illness had so changed the poor farm-house drudge, as tc 
 make the contrast between her past and present state an almost 
 marvellous one. Wasted, attenuated, and helpless, she had suddenl)j 
 gained the stature of a woman ; her pallid and shrunken countenance 
 gave a look of preternatural size and brightness to eyes which hac 
 never been dull or unlovely, and coarseness was there no longer. I 
 was a face more for death than life — for the innocence of childhood 
 than the woe of the world — it was a face which, if life were spared! 
 pity and tender dealing might clothe with ineffable grace, or whicl| 
 renewed cruelty and guilty knowledge might contort into that of s 
 fiend. 
 
 Fixing her eyes on Miss Eliot as she approached the bed, Phem: 
 never changed her gaze, though it did not appear to be one whicJ 
 ■ recognized. Taking, as well as her feebleness permitted, the genth 
 hand which was placed upon her cheek, she cohered to it as thougl 
 entreatingly, and strove to speak — though her voice, scarce raisei 
 above a whisper, was inaudible to the housekeeper. 
 
 ) “ What does she mean, nurse ? ” 
 
 “ She is asking you to save her from the man who was here the da; 
 before yesterday. She overheard his voice, and has been great! 
 worse since.” 
 
 The prostrate girl cowered still more to the tender hand, thoug' 
 moving her face restlessly, and continuing her inaudible entreaties. 
 
 “ Must I speak somewhat loud, nurse ? ” 
 
 ‘‘Yes, ma’am.” 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 207 
 
 Miss Eliot bent her face till it almost touched the pillow, and put 
 ler untaken hand caressingly about the poor prostrate head. As falls 
 he swallow’s wing above her callow brood, so fell this arm around 
 he deathlike face. 
 
 “Be very happy, Phema; you have nobody to fear — you shall 
 not go back to Moore Farm, but to a place a long, long way from 
 lere, where people who know me well shall be very kind to you.” 
 
 Several times was this repeated : then comprehension came — a 
 
 - mile flitted across the wasted lips — and the look of mingled 
 :ntreaty and terror waned from the fixed and passionate gaze. 
 Gradually the eyelids drooped — gradually the pallid face rested in 
 he tender hand — presently there was perfect rest and peace, and she 
 lept as deeply as a wearied babe. 
 
 Little by little was the tender hand withdrawn — gently sunk poor 
 vearied nature to its pillow — blessed were the pitying tears which 
 ell unseen — and hallowing were the gentle lips which gave their 
 benediction. 
 
 “ It is the first time she has slept for many hours,” whispered the 
 lurse, as the housekeeper stole away. 
 
 When Miss Eliot returned to the kitchen the old clerk was not 
 here ; but, as she was about to enter the carriage which waited in 
 he lane hard by, he followed and drew her aside. 
 
 “ Pve made up my mind, ma’am, to the lad’s going — though it will 
 )e like Saul parting with Jonathan.” 
 
 “ I’m glad you are so sensible. But you can go with your Jona- 
 han to the place, as well as visit him whilst there. Nothing can be 
 lone till Mr. Radnor’s return — though, meanwhile, I will make the 
 aecessary arrangements.” 
 
 - It was considerably past one o’clock when Miss Eliot reached 
 Irooklow, and the re-appointment, made at the express desire of Mr. 
 iValcot, served for two o’clock. There was time, therefore, for little 
 nore than to drive to Holly Cottage, and walk from thence to the 
 'narsonage. 
 
 Judith and Lizzie Whitelock, surrounded by their household pets, 
 iwaited her coming by their little forecourt gate, and welcomed her 
 nost affectionately. 
 
 ' “ You must not stay more than an hour with our saturnine parson,” 
 laid Judith, when they had talked together a few minutes ; “for I’ve 
 iprdered dinner at three o’clock, to the intent that we may have time 
 hr a walk afterwards. Indeed, I cannot think why he wanted to 
 trouble you at all ; he keeps a luxurious carriage and pair, and Losely 
 ■ s but an hour’s drive from here.” 
 
 [I “ I cannot tell you, Judith, unless it be relative to a series of 
 i inonymous letters which, as I have been learning from the postmaster 
 it Welton, have passed through his office on their way to the Bishop 
 )f the diocese. The larger portion of these have been directed in 
 Mrs. Jack’s unmistakable and illiterate handwriting, and enclosed in 
 mvelopes purloined from me. If I can therefore learn whether they 
 relate to Mr. Radnor, and if so, what are the charges specified 
 
208 
 
 mainstonb’s housekeepbe. 
 
 therein, it will enable me, at least, to bring matters to a point with 
 respect to that abominable woman, and those who belong to her ; for 
 it is reported that she intends to re-establish her flagrant rule, or 
 rather make the attempt, in what I hope will be Mr. Radnor’s 
 renovated and peaceful home. In the first letter, which requested 
 the visit I am about to pay, Mr. Walcot pleaded indisposition as an 
 excuse for troubling me — in the last, want of time ; though I suspect 
 I am far the busier person.” 
 
 “ That you certainly are, for our parson cannot be said to be a 
 shepherd amidst his flock. He takes no interest in the condition of 
 the parish, except to call the surveyor to account as to the roads ; or 
 in his parishoners, except as they fail in humble obeisance when they 
 pass him by. He preaches sermons they cannot understand ; and if 
 they call upon him for aid, he succours them by a dinner from his 
 kitchen. As to indisposition, he preached as usual last Sunday, and 
 had a party of bachelor rectors and curates at his house last night. 
 (Don’t you notice, Charlotte Eliot, that the parsons of this neigh- 
 bourhood are all bachelors ?) And as to leisure, he must have plenty 
 of it, for the clerk tells our maid that his master is writing a learned 
 poem on King David or King Solomon, I can’t say which. Of his 
 previous poem, ‘ The Conflict of Armageddon,’ I only know we had, 
 for politeness sake, to buy a five-shilling copy, which to our rustic 
 wits is as incomprehensible as Greek or Hebrew.” 
 
 “ Indeed ! That of a poet is a new light in which to see Mr. 
 Walcot. His labours in this case may account somewhat for his 
 humour and appearance, though it is a pity that he and thousands 
 like him cannot preach simple doctrine to simple hearers, and 
 address them in such common language as all could understand. 
 But ” 
 
 “The church clock is striking two,” interrupted Lizzie, with a 
 smile, “ and our parson is a man of rigid punctuality.” 
 
 Leaving her friends, therefore. Miss EHot retraced her way some 
 few yards along the village street to the churchyard, crossed an angle 
 of it to a white wicket, set in a low and ancient wall, crowned at the 
 top by a profusion of shrubs and climbing plants. After passing this 
 gate, and the bowery shadows which encompassed it around, there 
 opened a wide-spread lawn, undecked by a single flower-bed, but 
 swept here and there by a few trees, hoary with years and of vast 
 size. Though the sward betrayed exquisite and unceasing care, the 
 shadows spread over it, its unkempt foliage, the solemn silence which 
 nothing broke, and the mingled odour of fern and brushwood, made 
 the place wear much more the appearance of a forest glade than the 
 lawn of a country parsonage. In the direction opposite to the wicket 
 stood what seemed to be the remains of some monastic edifice of the 
 fourteenth or fifteenth century, as it was heavily built of ^ stone, 
 deeply buttressed, and pierced with magnificent old pointed windows, 
 large enough to light an aisle, or the largest chamber of a palace. 
 Some few of these had been blocked up, others there were in all their 
 original glory of tinted panes ; one larger and grander than the rest 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 209 
 
 was answered by» another on the opposite side of the building ; so 
 that the effect, as seen through the lower panes of uncoloured glass, 
 .vvas fine in the extreme. 
 
 Within the buttresses near this latter window was a quaint stone 
 porch of more recent date than the original building, but still very 
 jold, and at the door of this Miss Eliot knocked. It was opened by a 
 .grave middle-aged servant, dressed in plain clothes, who admitted her 
 immediately into a vast room or hall, lighted by the two windows 
 , which had already attracted her admiring gaze. It had once formed, 
 ^probably, part of a chapel ; but the walls, which had brought it into 
 , secular use, were hung with old carvings and pictures, and the floor 
 of highly-polished oak not only contrasted with the spotless rugs 
 which were set about, but reflected back the glow of the hall fire, and 
 the glory of the tints which the autumn sun shed down. 
 
 From this hall opened several doors ; and through one of these, 
 ^when he had announced her arrival, the servant ushered the house- 
 keeper into a study of exquisite fitness for its service. If so it 
 ^was that immortal products of the brain could only have birth in 
 palaces of a size and splendour worthy their own intrinsicness, here 
 the Bacons, the Herschels, the Richard Owens, the Tennysons, and 
 Bichats of a newer age would have a place befitting; but as ex- 
 perience teaches the reverse of this — as such are not ordinarily the 
 places in which the divinest things of man’s divinest gift — his in tel - 
 jlect — are laid upon the altars of truth, so this room, like many others 
 [as luxurious, saw the production of nothing higher than often-recorded 
 jcommonplaces and learned mediocrity; though, at that moment, 
 jthe Bev. John Walcot was composing the fifth book of a sacred 
 poem. 
 
 He sat at his table — grave, stern, and, as it seemed, lost in thought ; 
 but rising as his visitor entered, he hurried forward, smiled blandly, 
 and offered his hand. If it was taken, this was all ; but, affecting 
 pot to notice his visitor’s reserved manner, he placed her a seat, and 
 Resumed his own. Then he commenced a sort of airy discourse as to 
 the state of the weather, the character of the scenery around, and 
 smaller topics of a like kind. Whether this was to gain time his 
 , visitor could not judge; but, after quietly listening for some minutes, 
 ^she hinted that her stay must be short, and requested that she might 
 gleam at once what was the nature of the business of which he had 
 wished to speak to her. 
 
 “ It refers to several matters,” he answered, hesitatingly. 
 
 “ Really ! and I have but one point in view in obeying your sum- 
 mons. If you can give me any information as to the contents of the 
 anonymous letters which have been sent through the Welton post- 
 jDffice to the Bishop of the diocese, I shall be sincerely glad, as I can 
 a^hen set at rest a great uncertainty with respect to Mr. Radnor’s 
 affairs.” 
 
 . “ On that head I can tell you nothing more than I could have told 
 ;:/ou when I first saw you in the middle of the summer, except that 
 phe letters flow in more copiously than hitherto, and that the abuse 
 U 
 
210 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 and the assertions contained within them are of a still more ilajj^rant 
 kind. But I am the last man to take interest in petty scandals re- 
 lating to a brother clergyman. Mr. Radnor has, there can be no 
 doubt, given rise to them by some misconduct on his own part — this 
 I have heard from various sources of quite an ex parte kind — but the 
 business is none of mine. If the Bishop wishes to proceed further 
 in the matter, he must confer personally with Mr. Radnor. The 
 point I had in view is ascertained, and on this I wished to speak.” 
 
 But Miss Eliot was not thinking of the man before her — only of 
 him whom she knew to be so worthy. 
 
 “I certainly think, Mr. Walcot, that you assert things which have 
 no proof. As far as my knowledge extends, Mr. Radnor’s life has 
 been one of blameless purity. He has his peculiarities — and who 
 has not ? He is trusting and childlike to an almost inconceivable 
 degree ; and this it is that has made him so easy a prey to the designs 
 of others ; but of actual sin, either in deed or thought, no man has, 
 
 I believe, committed less. I speak from an experience, the history , 
 of which I am certainly not called upon to reveal to a stranger like 
 yourself.” 
 
 “ It is unnecessary, for I already know it,” he said in an undertone. 
 
 “ And this is why I wished to speak to you. For as you were not 
 here at the time, you are possibly unaware of the scandal attached to 
 Mr. Radnor’s visits to Street End House. That he went there, and 
 often furtively, I was myself once or twice a witness. An unknown 
 Mrs. Smith occupied the house for some months, and as suddenly 
 disappeared as she had appeared. Mr. Grayson was in attendance, 
 and it is an undoubted fact that a child was born. If this was not 
 Mr. Radnor’s offspring, whose could it be ? If this prevalent opinion 
 is untrue, there is at least a mystery, which is as potent for harm as 
 truth itself could be.” 
 
 “ It may be. But my belief is, that whatever Mr. Radnor has 
 voluntarily suffered is to serve a good purpose. And now, may 
 I ask what it is you know of me, and how it relates to this 
 affair ? ” 
 
 Mr. Walcot made no reply ; but, opening a letter, placed it in her 
 hand. Then he watched her whilst she read, as a fowler watches the 
 bird he would like to snare. With the utmost self-composure she 
 read it to the end ; and, giving it back, said quietly, and yet with a 
 sarcasm that went home : — 
 
 “ Having ascertained this much — which, whether so or not, Mr. 
 Walcot beTieves to be true — what end does he propose to himself to 
 serve ? ” 
 
 “ Only this,” he replied, with a severity which savoured of a priest 
 at confessional, and the irritation of a man who was open to the 
 influence of the keenest passions, “ that it does not seem well for a 
 lady of birth, fortune, and education to be placed in the circumstances 
 in which you have placed yourself. I am speaking advisedly, and in 
 the spirit of a real friend. You are wholly unaware of the scandal 
 annexed to your remaining as Mr. Radnor’s housekeeper. If he does 
 
mainstone’s housekeepeb. 
 
 211 
 
 not know for certainty, he, at least, guesses- who you are ; and when 
 at length he absolutely ascertains the fact, he will ask, and you 
 will probably become the wife of a man old enouofh to be vour 
 father.” 
 
 “Such being Mr. Walcot’s opinion, what does he propose as a 
 remedy ? ” 
 
 “Why, it would be best that you provide him with a suitable 
 servant, and then leave. And if you desire to still continue such 
 Quixotic labours, it would be easy, I do not doubt, to find a suitable 
 position.” 
 
 “ This implies, I suppose, that Mr. Walcot has already discovered 
 one — has one in reserve, possibly.” 
 
 ^ He affected not to understand this bitter irony ; he had views of 
 his own to serve, and these were more to him than a Avoman’s bitter- 
 ness, which he simply despised — as indeed he despised all woman’s 
 characteristics, except those of beauty and submissiveness. The first 
 of these, as a voluptuary by nature, though not by habit, he wor- 
 shipped — the last, as betokening inferiority, won the regard of his 
 selfish and domineering character. In fact, his life of ascetic pride, 
 his luxury, and yet rigid repression of Avhat was kind or emotional’ 
 gave, both to his appearance and general bearing, many of the 
 characteristics of the Jesuit and monk. With men of his OAvn pro- 
 - fession, scholarship,^ opinions, and celibate life, he unbent ; with 
 other men and Avith Avomen, never. He preached his haughty 
 dogmas, and if those Avho listened Avere the better, Avell and good— if 
 not, it was immaterial. From him they Avould hear nothing different 
 ^ — enforcement, and not explanatory condescension, Avas his o-uide 
 i and rule. ^ 
 
 “Yes,” he said, “you judge correctly. If you take my advice, 
 and change your path, there Avill be one here. My housekeeper 
 ^ leaves me at the end of the year, and you can take her place — though 
 making it simply provisional, and such as befits your degree. You 
 ! should have an additional servant ; so that to rule, and not^act, Avould 
 be your heaviest duty. Here, in this rigid household, could come no 
 ■s scandal; and, Avhilst it Avould please me to have a gentlewoman to 
 ' rule, you could effect labours Avhich I, neither from principle nor 
 feeling, can undertake. You could go into the houses of the poor 
 'and teach and talk, advise and reprehend. I am rich, and Avould 
 build a school-house, and your Quixotism Avould run in Aviser channels 
 than it does at present. At least, such is my opinion.” 
 c “This is all the advice and suggestions you have to offer, Mr. 
 Walcot?” 
 
 f “ Well, not exactly. But I may have proceeded far enough. A 
 ^greater degree of boldness may not be relished.” ° 
 
 i “Mr. Walcot summoned me, and politeness requires that I should 
 : hear him to an end.” 
 
 ■■ “ W ell, really, there is another point I should particularly like ta 
 
 refer to, however briefly, because you are at present surrounded bv 
 ?.those who are not likely to mention such a matter.” The parson 
 14—2 
 
212 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 waited here, as though for a negative or affirmative, but neither being 
 
 given, he went on. ^ ^ i • ‘x • 
 
 “ It refers to your present position at Losely. Speaking quite irre- 
 spectively of the anonymous letters, or what they may convey, there 
 
 is there can be no doubt — a scandal annexed to your residence with 
 
 Mr. Radnor, which is not desirable, either for your sake or his own. 
 But the case is even worse at Losely. There, if I am given to 
 understand correctly, a mere coarse mechanic, comes up and down, 
 who, io-norant as he is presumptuous, boasts of lengthened conversa- 
 tions with you, and of your assistance in his acquisition of the 
 German language. It may be all well meant, and all very moral, on 
 your part at least ; but, my dear Madam, people will talk, and the 
 whole thing is decidedly low and out of place for a lady of your 
 
 ^ “ But to be your housekeeper, to fill the office of first menial in 
 your unscandalized household, to teach in your school, or guide your 
 parishioners, would not be low or out of place ? 
 
 She rose, again repeated this question, but received no answer. 
 The irony was too forcible to be mistaken. 
 
 “ Know, then, that I woul^ not make the exchange upon any con- 
 dition. As you very truly guess, my labours are not mercenary ones ; 
 I will allow you even to adopt your own theory as to my position, and 
 my relation to Mr. Radnor. If he has been tutor and I pupil, I may 
 surely serve him with more propriety than I could you, who are and 
 will always be a stranger to me. Arrogate it as you please, your 
 household is not more honourable or moral than his--your life and 
 acts not more spotless or free from blame ; and think as you may, 
 speak as you may, and listen as much as you may to petty scandals 
 unworthv of a minister of Him who was all charity and singleness of 
 heart, Mr. Radnor is not only in my solemn belief innocent ot all 
 wronff, but the reason of much which he has suffered for others sake 
 will iust now see the light, and rebound as much to his honour, as to 
 the disgrace of those who have sought to injure his good name. As 
 to the Contents of the anonymous letters, I will myself, accompanied 
 bv a friend, see the Bishop. As to the meanness of a gentleman ot 
 your position and professsion writing letters of inquiry as to who I am 
 — the act is only tvpical of the actor.” i i v 
 
 “ It was not mean,” he interrupted, fiercely, as he laid his hand 
 upon her arm, in order to detain her; ‘‘my brother, the Bishops 
 cLplain, as well as the Archdeacon of the diocese, requested me, as 
 livino* in the neighbourhood and knowing Mr. Radnor, to inake 
 certain necessary inquiries. Had I not done so, and reFe^ented to 
 both that you were a lady whose Ijfe was beyond suspicion | 
 
 Radnor, though maligned, was probably innocent, and that the letters 
 >vere detestable fabrications, some very stringent F?f 
 undoubtedly have been put in force long before this. To me you 
 
 *^''‘‘If*thc intention was good, the method was full of meanness. As 
 to Mr. Wenlock, to whom you were pleased to refer, I value his 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 213 
 
 friendsliip too highly to restrict it in the least. He or others, like 
 him, shall ever be heartily welcome to any knowledge which it is in 
 my power to offer ; and as to despising him because he works with 
 his hands as well as with his brains, the loss is yours, not his. ^ It is 
 the loss of thousands like you, who, standing aloof in obsolete ignor- 
 ance and pride, will not behold the social characteristics of their age. 
 As to your aid in any shape or way, I do not need it; if I want 
 school or schoolhouse, I can have it, and till then I am quite content 
 to modify the evil which is around me in my own simple fashion.” 
 
 She broke from his restraining grasp and gained the door ; but he 
 prevented her from immediately opening it. 
 
 “You must not leave me in 'anger. Miss Eliot, you really mustn’t. 
 I have served both you and Mr. Kadnor in an essential degree, as in 
 your interview with the Bishop you will probably hear. If we differ 
 in opinion, that is pardonable ; you have your views — I have mine — 
 and on principle I cannot think otherwise than I do. Let us be 
 friends, for I particularly wish it.” 
 
 “ It cannot be, Mr. Walcot.” 
 
 “ It shall be ; even against your own inclination it shall be.” 
 
 “If Mr. Walcot aims at the impossible, so be it — I have nothing 
 further to say.” 
 
 She bowed as she spoke, for he held the door open to give her 
 egress, and, hurrying after, accompanied her to the porch. But 
 though he spoke again, there came no response ; and she was across 
 . the lawn and within the churchyard ere his grave and stately steps 
 had left the shadows which slanted on the sward. 
 
 The housekeeper lingered in the churchyard till her tremor had 
 died away ; so that it was past three o’clock by the time she reached 
 ; Holly Cottage. Here she made no immediate revelation as to Mr. 
 jl Walcot’s extraordinary behaviour; though in the evening, when she 
 ^ and Judith were alone, she repeated the whole scene. 
 
 J “I am not so surprised as you are,” replied Judith, in her calm 
 ; way ; “ for I know more of the man. The fact is, that some Mormon 
 f preachers, from the colliery districts, have latterly been doing a great 
 deal of mischief in the parish. There have been various seceders to 
 ^ their worship — more are expected; and Mr. Walcot, as a matter of 
 course, would like to uproot the heresy. But he wants others to 
 j repair the results of his own neglect. On his own part, he will not 
 : condescend to preach more plainly, to visit his parishioners, or person- 
 ' ally aid in the removal of their ignorance — he would like you to do 
 3 thfe. He has discovered that you are a lady, as he admits, of ‘ birth 
 J? and fortune ; ’ or otherwise, be sure of that, you would not have been 
 . admitted to the privilege of even an interview. His curiosity is 
 ; piqued, and he would like you to minister to the reformation re- 
 ; quired ; not only to save himself from familiar intercourse with those 
 u he despises, but because he thinks you have full capacity to render 
 ■ efficient aid. Any other views I do not think he has ; he is too 
 ; seliish and vain to love — too proud to share his luxurious indepen- 
 _ dence with another.” 
 
214 
 
 MAINSTONE’s HOtlSEKEEPEB. 
 
 This was Judith Whitelock’s opinion ; but as Miss Eliot did not 
 wholly share it, she let the subject drop. 
 
 Later in the evening, Miss Eliot made inquiry as to the woman she 
 had so particularly noticed on the first Sunday of her visit to Main- 
 stone Church. 
 
 “ Oh, you mean Molly ! ” 
 
 “Yes! her appearance, and what you told me of her, linger in 
 my memory. 1 want to find a superior servant by the time Mr. t 
 Radnor returns, and if she will accept my service I will gladly have 
 her.” 
 
 “ Fortunately for your desire, the time is just the one in which to 
 ask her, as I heard the other day that she was in great trouble ; and 
 whether yet free of it, I do not know. Her worthless husband, just 
 before his death, had borrowed money of a brother of his, and, un- 
 known to her, had given a bill of sale upon his stock and household 
 goods. This is the trouble poor Molly has had to fight, and as I and 
 Lizzie would be really very glad to hear how she is getting on, we 
 will drive over and ask your question as well as our own. If we went 
 to-morrow, could you accompany us ? ” 
 
 “1 regret not. Elisha and I have a little journey to make, which 
 cannot be postponed.” 
 
 “ Well I we will go before the week is at an end, and let you know 
 the result. If anything prevent our going, we will send the man.” 
 
 Thus the matter was settled about Molly. ^ 
 
 In the morning early, Elisha and his mistress left Brqoklow, on 
 their way to the more hilly districts of the county ; and it was ten 
 o’clock at night before the jaded horse stayed before the little fore- 
 court-gate of Miss Tern’s cottage. 
 
 Miss Eliot was gladly welcomed ; but not a word did pretty B ai oie 
 hear as to where her mistress had spent the day. 
 
Mainstone's housekeeper. 
 
 215 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 GOING AND COMING HOME. 
 
 The wedding-day was fixed at last — tlie simple preparations 
 made ; and even whilst the morning mists hung white above the 
 fields, the little company set forth — Barbie, her mistress, and old 
 Elisha driving. 
 
 An hour’s journey brought them to a little hamlet and its church. 
 Here Silas Moore and a friend awaited, and when breakfast had been 
 ordered at a decent inn hard by, the lady and the little bride, and 
 Silas and his friend, went by a quiet field-path to the church — old 
 Elisha following by-and-by, to warm his heart, as he said, by seeing 
 the happiness of the young. 
 
 As the clergyman, an elderly man, of whom good things were 
 heard, had not yet come. Miss Eliot looked round at some carving 
 and inscriptions which adorned the church, and Silas drew his little 
 bride away. At the rear of the belfry were some old steps of stone 
 leading thereto ; and as the October sun, now shining out, fell warm 
 mnd pleasantly upon them and the ivy-dropping wall, tliey sat down 
 side by side. Wordless for a time, for they were conscious, that of 
 all the days in either of their mortal lives, this was the one which 
 stood apart as the happiest they might know. 
 
 She laid her head caressingly beside his shoulder, looked up into 
 bis face, took his hand tenderly. 
 
 “ I hope, Silas, you have forgiven me all my little sins and frailties 
 — that out from your remembrance you have blotted them for ever- 
 more.” 
 
 “ Ay, little one, ay ! In the rose I put into my breast to-day I see 
 neither speck nor thorn. I never shall through all the summers and 
 winters which may come, if my little rose will be but true to the one 
 who has gathered her and called her his.” 
 
 “ I always will, Silas.” So the little head leant more tenderly, and 
 the eyes looked up more lovingly ; there was perfect faith between 
 them ; they were married by fidelity before their marriage vows were 
 said. 
 
 Presently, a brisk young clerk came round the corner to say the 
 parson waited ; so they hurried into the church, and the ceremony 
 was performed, and Barbie was the wife of Silas Moore. After all 
 present had been into the vestry to sign the register, the clergyman 
 I and Miss Eliot followed slowly in the rear towards the village. 
 
 ! “ I am always glad,” he said, courteously, “ to see those of superior 
 
 I rank taking interest in these rustic ceremonies. For it is one which, 
 
 I in this and countless other forms, is so much needed in further- 
 
216 
 
 MAINSTONE^S HOtJSEEEEPfiR. 
 
 ance of more sympathy between class and class than at present 
 exists/* 
 
 “Yes; I think with you, that till this sympathy has extended 
 its limits, the practical remedy of many social evils will not be found. 
 But I have a great interest in this young girl, and am sincerely 
 glad that so much innocent beauty has at length a lawful pro- 
 tector.” 
 
 So this way chatting they reached the village. Hereupon the good 
 gentleman insisted that Miss Eliot should return with him to the 
 rectory, and sit for a while with his daughter. To this she presently 
 consented, when she had stepped to the inn, and seen that a good 
 breakfast was provided — for she felt that her presence would be a 
 restraint. At the rectory she found breakfast specially prepared 
 for herself — for the clergyman and his daughter had taken theirs; 
 so, thus hospitably entertained, she passed a pleasant hour till noon. 
 
 Then, after a kindly leave-taking, with promises on either side of 
 meeting again as soon as Mainstone Rectory was ready, and Mr. 
 Radnor returned. Miss Eliot walked back to the inn. Silas’s friend 
 was already gone, the carriage waited, and the young man’s horse 
 stood ready to bear him home, where, making preparation of a good 
 fire and boiling tea-kettle, he was to expect his little wife, as day 
 began to fade. 
 
 “If we’re a bit behind time, master,” said old Elisha quaintly, 
 “you mustn’t take on. For its a crinkle crankle sort o’ road to 
 Molly’s — as I used to find when, years ago, I went that way on 
 bis’ness as I thought would ha’ took me to where you’ve been to-day ; 
 but it didn’t — for Hannah got married elsewhere.” 
 
 The young man smiled, mounted his horse, bared his head with 
 respect to the tender mistress, cast his last passionate look of love 
 upon his pretty bride, and rode swiftly towards the hills. 
 
 At about a mile from the village, three roads branched off from 
 the one they had followed, and Elisha was brought to a stand- 
 still. This might be it, or that might be it — he didn’t know which 
 precisely. 
 
 “Well, we’d better inquire, Elisha,” said Miss Eliot; “for it will 
 not do to get lost in these country lanes.” 
 
 As she ceased to speak, they could hear the ring of a blacksmith’s 
 anvil in the distance ; so, driving down a lane towards it, they soon 
 came in sight of a country smithy — its cottage and garden. In front 
 of the smithy door stood a small cart, filled up with household goods 
 — a wooden cradle being set upon the top of a miscellaneous array 
 of odds and ends. 
 
 The smith, glancing aside, and seeing the carriage stop, left off 
 hammering, and coming to the half-door, leant upon it. 
 
 “ This be the road,” he said, “ to Molly’s farm. Go right on for 
 about a mile, master, then take the turning to the left, and that’ll 
 lead you right into the lane that goes up to the farm. There’ll be no 
 mistaking it, for it’s a poor, solitary sort o’ place ; and, as there wur 
 a sale there yesterday, you’ll be meeting carts maybe going to and 
 
MAINSTONE^S HOtJSEEEEPEB, 217 
 
 fro. Poor cre’tur, they sold her up, and ain’t left her stick nor 
 stone.” 
 
 “ Sold her up ! Is it possible ? ” said Miss Eliot. 
 
 “ Ay, ma’am — right cruelly too. The auctioneer didn’t begin till 
 late in the day, and then he hurried the things all up in heaps, and 
 sold them just anyhow. Why, all that cart full of goods didn’t make 
 above two lots, and was had for a few shillings. The missis as 
 bought ’em is now sitting with mine in the house-place, and she’s 
 been telling how badly Molly cried when her babe’s cradle was put 
 up with a lot o’ things. Nobody had ever seen her shed a tear 
 afore ; but that mastered her — her grief would ha’ turned a heart o’ 
 stone. God’s love ! I wish I had been there — the lot shouldn’t ha’ 
 gone from her had its worth been a dozen ploughshares.” 
 
 “ Could it be bought now ? ” 
 
 “ Ay ! I daresay it could. The missis as bought the lot did it for 
 something in the brewing way, as was put into it ; she canna want a 
 cradle — she’s nigh sixty, if she be a day.” 
 
 “ Can I speak to her ? ” 
 
 “ Ay, that you can.” And the smith was about to shout vocife- 
 rously, when Miss Eliot, staying him, stepped from the carriage and 
 went indoors. 
 
 She was gone some time, and when she returned she was followed 
 by two elderly women, both of whom, as could be seen by their 
 reddened eyes, had been weeping. The elder one, coming to the cart, 
 began to unpack its topmost things ; and, assisted by the smith, the 
 cradle soon stood beneath the smithy window. 
 
 “ My man shall put by work early in the afternoon, and take it down 
 to Losely,” said the smith, as the housekeeper ended a few minutes’ 
 talk with him ; “ and don’t be feared of it not going in time. I’m 
 too glad to be a helping thee in such a bit o’ kindness, to forget the 
 little thou hast asked and paid for.” 
 
 “ And mind,” spoke Miss Eliot, as she took her seat, “ to let your 
 man tell Miss Tern to place it in my servant’s chamber.” 
 
 “ Be sartin. Not a word shall be forgotten.” 
 
 The little carriage proceeded on its way, and by-and-by reached 
 the lane down which lay Molly’s house. The district just here was 
 very uninviting. Nothing but flat turnip-fields and dank pastures 
 lying on either hand ; with perhaps here and there a solitary boy 
 scaring the birds off* the new-sown corn, or a ploughman turning up 
 the soddened earth. But the lane itself was by no means solitary ; 
 for occasionally a farmer passed by leading a farm-horse, or a man 
 driving some milch cows ; or else came a waggon laden with un- 
 thrashed corn. Then by-and-by came nothing more — the crows 
 settled down upon the fields, and all was still. 
 
 I Reaching at last a poor-looking broken-down house, standing 
 I solitary in an empty rick-yard, Elisha unbarred the gate and drove 
 I through. Not a living thing was to be seen ; the empty barn and 
 ; stable-doors stood open ; the last goods were borne away ; nothing 
 ‘ but the signs of wreck and cruel haste remained. A little smoke. 
 
218 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 however, curled up from one of the chimneys ; so, leaving Elisha 
 outside, Barbie and her mistress unlatched the house-door and 
 entered. Closing it gently after them, they saw that they stood in 
 the large and desolate kitchen ; and that, quite unconscious of their 
 presence, Molly sat on an old stool before a fire of crackling sticks. 
 She leant towards her lap, and when Miss Eliot, leaving Barbie in 
 the rear, approached, she saw that she was reading from her Bible. 
 Much comfort did it seem to yield her sore and broken spirit. Man 
 had robbed her of all her worldly goods; but here, in her simple 
 faith, her simple piety, was a fountain of comfort they could not 
 touch — a harvest not to be despoiled I 
 
 When she was conscious of the lady’s presence she rose and 
 closed her book, made her obeisance humbly, and waited to be 
 addressed. 
 
 ‘‘ I have been deeply sorry to hear of your trouble, Molly, and am 
 even more so to behold it.” 
 
 “Yes, ma’am, they’ve took everything — they can have no more.” 
 
 “ But the darkest part of night, Molly, is that nearest dawn. You 
 mu^it forget these troubles, ani come home with me, for I have come 
 to fetch you. You got my message ? ” 
 
 “Yes, ma’am, thanking you humbly for it. But I ain’t had time 
 to think it o’er like. I’ve been mighty harried, though the Lord ha’ 
 given me strength to bear all these sorrows unrepiningly but one, 
 and for that I’ve shed a few tears — for we are human, all on us.” 
 
 This was all she said respecting the griefs which had wrung her 
 soul ; then, making the lady take her seat, she stood reverently by. 
 Barbie, in the brief interval, had withdrawn — thinking perhaps that 
 Molly would speak more unreservedly were no one but Miss Eliot 
 present — a quiet concession to the feelings of others, which did not 
 escape the observation of her tender mistress. 
 
 “Ye see, ma’am,” said Molly, in reply to the housekeeper, “ it ain’t 
 every place I’d like to take. I’m desolate in the world ; but that 
 makes me neither weak nor wailing. I can stand alone — the Lord be | 
 thanked ! — and wur a missis or maister to look on me in no t’other j 
 way than to do this or see to that, you see I’d feel it hardly, after i 
 being servant to a maister like what the old Squire wur, and missis in i 
 the poor home I’ve struv’ for hardly.” 
 
 “Molly! understand in the highest spirit you can, what I mean i 
 when I ask you thus to come home to Mainstone. It is as a humble , 
 friend and upper servant — one trusted and fully appreciated. Mr. i 
 Kadnor you know something of — me you will learn to know in time, 
 and from what I have heard from Miss Whitelock, I am sure that 
 you are fully capable of all the simple duties that would be required 
 of you.” 
 
 “ Well, missis, I can brew and I can bake, and wash and churn and 
 cook, with anyone the country side ; for ye see the old Squire wur 
 very particular about his cooking and brewing. Not that I mean to 
 say that I’m above teaching — dear me, no — my knowing is but a bit 
 after all \ but what 1 mean is^ that 1 shouldn't like to be worrited by 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 219 
 
 iving a missis always after me. I should like to deal with those 
 ho would have faith in me : and such would find me humble and 
 Dedient, and ready to larn what they could teach.” 
 
 “ I am sure of it, Molly. When I say come home to Malnstone 
 -that expresses what I mean precisely, and in the fewest possible 
 ,ords.” 
 
 “ Well, I think that I could come home to Mr. Eadnor’s house, 
 1th a faith that I should bide there, and not be turning my face 
 way from it on a short morrow. No ! I should like to look about 
 le place, and think it wur my refuge till the good night came, either 
 0 master or servant. 
 
 “ Let it be so, Molly, and the option will be your own ; for Mr. 
 ■Radnor will be the best of masters. Still, make trial of us, and of 
 our home, before you settle down. Come' for three^ months, say ; 
 ad by that time you will be able to judge if we suit one another 
 ell enough to dwell together through many pleasant days. I have 
 ill faith that we shall ; for I was ‘ drawn ’ towards you, as Quakers 
 xy, that day I first saw you and your nosegay in the aisle of Main- 
 :one Church.” 
 
 Molly looked up, as though about to speak, but repressed her 
 rords. 
 
 “ Make trial of us, then, and come home. You will have a servant 
 nder you, and other help, if you need it; and if, for the present, I 
 ly sixteen pounds a-year wages, will it ” 
 
 ^ “ Sixteen pound a-year, m'issis ! ” interrupted Molly — her wonder 
 •t this juncture being greater than her reverence. “I had but six 
 ^ith the Squire, and ” 
 
 ^ Smiling at an exquisite simplicity which betrayed more than eulogy 
 %e worth of a very uncommon character, Miss Eliot repeated her 
 rords, and asked when she could come. 
 
 ^ “ You didna’ need me now, ma’am ? ” 
 
 ^ “No, not exactly ; for the pretty creature you saw at the door was 
 'larried this morning, and I am going home with her to her husband’s 
 ouse. By eight this evening, or a little after, I shall be on my way 
 r^ack to Losely, where I am staying for a few weeks ; and if you will 
 /ccompany me, you can. You will be very useful to me, and any- 
 hing will be better tlian the desolation here.” Miss Eliot looked 
 ■ound as she spoke, and her eyes filled with tears at the sight of the 
 tripped and littered room. A basket and a small square oaken box 
 were all the worldly goods poor Molly owned. 
 
 P “ Yes, I’m left bare enough, and I mun ha’ sought a bed some- 
 prhere or t’other to-night. But I shall be glad o’ a bit o’ time to 
 hink it o’er, for I don’t like rashness in anything. So if I come at 
 11, ma’am — humbly axing your pardon if I don’t — you shall see me 
 !^nd my box at the top of the lane by eight to-night.” 
 n “Very well, Molly. I will hope to see you, though I quite think 
 f/ith you that these important steps in our lives require considera- 
 tion.” So saying. Miss Eliot passed from the house into the rick- 
 /ard, where the carriage waited. There Molly seemed greatly struck 
 
220 
 
 MATNSTOKfe's HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 by Barbie’s beauty and quiet happiness. She could have told her an 
 ominous tale of married life, and how that many a woman stepped 
 upon her inarriage morn, into shadows that were eternal ; but she 
 had too reticent a spirit to bespeak her own experience. All she did 
 was to hurry into her own garden, bring from thence a young rose- 
 bush, and, following the carriage to the gate, place it at Barbie’s 
 feet. 
 
 “ Set that, my dear, in thy own flower-plot — it may bloom through 
 many a summer in the days to come.” 
 
 She said no more, but turned away. As the carriage passed up the 
 lane, they could hear her close her solitary door upon the self-com- 
 munion she had promised. 
 
 The drive was long, but the day had grown into one of warmth and 
 beauty ; and even when the sun began to wane, it rested upon the 
 peaceful hills towards which they had journeyed with an unusual 
 splendour, that turned their rocky peaks into molten gold. Then 
 shadows fell — then came the great hush of the dying day. Then 
 patches and bars of radiant light were spread athwart the gloom ; and 
 as these faded, the glow upon the hill-tops seemed softer and 
 lovelier still. 
 
 At the foot of the hilly road they were about to climb, and when 
 their little journey was nearly at an end, Elisha pointed to a small 
 hamlet in the distance, and hinted that his old friend Hannah lived 
 there. 
 
 “ Well, take an hour, and go and see her. Barbie and I will alight, 
 and carry a few of our parcels — the rest you can bring with the 
 carriage. The evening is very lovely, and this path along the smooth 
 turf quite tempting to tread. The walk will, indeed, be better than 
 the drive. It will spare the horse, and take us quickly and quietly 
 across the hill to the farm.” 
 
 So the housekeeper and Barbie alighted and went their way slowly 
 to the hill-top, and rested in the last warm beauty of the sun ; and 
 then going over it, there lay the peaceful farm near at hand — the 
 heathery hill-tops sheltering it from wintry winds — its brook-girt 
 fields and pastures, brown with autumnal tints, half hidden by the 
 gathering shadows. But the sun still scintillated on some of the 
 window-panes, the smoke from the chimney went quickly upwards 
 towards the darkening sky, and now and then some ruddy signs of the 
 glowing fire within the farm-house kitchen gleamed out upon the 
 gathering shadows round the door. Beside the wicket of the fence, 
 which divided garden and orchard from the sward of the hill-side, stood 
 a man, who had been there for the larger portion of the long after- j 
 noon — going, however, occasionally within to see the clock, to stir the 
 fire, or to sit for a few minutes in the low-cushioned chair, which only 
 the day before had been brought home new for his pretty wife. Now, 
 at length, his patience was rewarded — his little Barbie, lingering bash- 
 fully behind her mistress, came down the turfy sunlit path to him and 
 to her home for ever. He waited by the gate to open it; he 
 welcomed Miss Eliot with respectful words, and then went before, as 
 
221 
 
 mainstone’s housekeepee. 
 
 hospitable master of a bouse ushering his guests. But Miss Eliot 
 aited some minutes in the rear, as though looking at as much ot the 
 f3ene around as was visible in the fading light. T^he young husband 
 rent onwards to the house, where, turning and seeing that his little 
 ^rife was alone and near, he lifted her into his arms, and bore her 
 'cross the threshold with such caresses and words of joy as befitted 
 iiis golden moment of his mortal life. 
 
 I When Miss Eliot went in, into the pleasant kitchen where burnt 
 he ruddy fire, and where were set the new and dainty tea-things, 
 he younof husband had removed his wife s shawl and bonnet, and 
 tood with her caressingly beside him. But Barbie hurried for- 
 
 “ What am I to do for you, ma’am, to make amends ?— Silas has 
 1 old me everything ; how you were here a large part of a day, put- 
 ino* thin^^s in their places ; and how, besides your goodness in getting 
 IS "the lease of the farm from Mr. Kadnor, we owe to you almost 
 i^jverything which is here.” , , . 
 
 “You will reward me best, Barbie, by being a good, loving, and 
 ndustrious wife. Now, as I play the part of lairy, let me show you 
 ny handiwork ^ Mr. Moore can meanwhile make tea, for I shall 
 .rouble you for a cup when I have done.” 
 
 So the dear and thoughtful lady led the way across the passage to 
 ;he parlour, where the two old-fashioned ivied casements gave light 
 mough to show carpet and sofa and chairs and tables, each simple 
 ind durable in its way ; then there was dairy, and pantry, and store- 
 room to see, and the two neat bedchambers up stairs. 
 
 “ There are many things wanting yet. Barbie ; but your mother 
 bas promised to help, and I daresay will.” 
 
 By the time they had come back to the kitchen, and seen clock, 
 dresser, tables, crockeryware, and other things, tea was quite ready, 
 and by the bright light of the wood-fire. Barbie performed the duties 
 of hostess to her mistress ; whilst Silas cai-ved pigeon-pie and ham, 
 and other rustic dainties, which a good neighbour at a farm hard by 
 had prepared and sent in. As neither mistress, nor bride, nor husband 
 had dined that day, this meal was quite a festival. 
 
 Miss Eliot had just withdrawn from the table to sit by the fire, 
 when Elisha and the carriage came. He would take no tea — he had 
 just shared that meal with his old friend — but he would take a glass 
 of ale, with which to drink the bride’s health. 
 
 “And how is Hannah, Elisha? ” smiled his mistress. 
 
 “ Well, missis, wonderfully pe-ert, thank you. She grows younger- 
 like every time I see her ; and as the only daughter she has at home 
 is to be married next harvest, why, you see the old missis ’ll be all 
 alone. He— m, Mrs. Moore, here’s health and sarvice to you.” 
 
 All present smiled. It was quite clear that whatever might be the 
 intent that way of the Rev. Julius Radnor, the thoughts of his 
 excellent and faithful servant veered as strongly towards matrimony 
 as a ship’s sail to the wind. 
 
 When the horse had eaten its feed of corn, and was reharnessed. 
 
222 
 
 mainstoj^e’s housekeeper. 
 
 Miss Eliot prepared to go. Eetiring to the little parlour to put on 
 her bonnet, the young wife renewed her grateful thanks, and wept in 
 her artless fashion, like a child parting with a tender mother. 
 
 “I wish I may live to serve you, ma’am — and Silas says the 
 same.” 
 
 “ Who knows, Barbie ? — ^you may yet very richly reward me by 
 some good act or another. Who knows ? — we are all of us bound 
 together by duties and sympathies, which, the more we cherish, the 
 wiser and more human we become. Come, dry your tears, Silas must 
 not see them.” 
 
 Though the wind blew somewhat cold, the night was lovely ; the 
 stars were rising, and a mellow twilight lay soft upon the landscape, 
 and glowed more warmly on the heath-clad hills. After more grate- 
 ful words from Barbie, and some few from her husband, which were 
 scarcely audible from deep emotion, Miss Eliot waved her hand, and 
 Elisha drove away. But just where the farm would be lost to sight 
 by the winding of the road through the gorge of the hill, and where 
 the old man had to drive slowly, she turned to look. 
 
 ^ Silas was standing on the ruddy-lighted threshold, and calling to 
 his wife, she went running up the garden-path, and there, as he lifted 
 her up and bore her again across it, Miss Eliot heard him say, 
 “ Come in love ! ' the wind blows keen.” 
 
 So they closed the door, for that one night at least, upon the world 
 and all the solemn cares and sorrows which it holds. 
 
 ^ The moon rose gloriously ; and when once they had descended the 
 hill, they drove quickly on. At the appointed spot Miss Eliot, to her 
 real joy, found Molly and her box. 
 
 “Well, Molly,” were the kind words, “I’m glad that you have 
 thought well of coming home to Mainstone.” 
 
 “ Yes, ma’am, a yearning has come over me, and I can but obey. 
 It is a home raised up for me in my desolation, and the Lord seems 
 to point the way.” So she took her place, and Elisha drove on. 
 Very taciturn was Molly — solemn feelings were hers — in turning 
 away from the home of her bitter marriage, and the sorrows which 
 had made her childless. Yet she gave no sign thereof. 
 
 When they reached Losely and Miss Tern’s cottage, Miss Eliot 
 herself led Molly to her chamber. The blacksmith had been true to 
 his word — there stood the cradle beside the bed. 
 
 Molly’s eye saw and recognized it at a glance ; a few words ex- 
 plained all — her taciturnity and stoicism gave way, as new fallen snow 
 melts before a ray of sun. 
 
 “ What am I to do, missis ? ” She faltered, as the tears 
 
 rained down. 
 
 “Nothing, Molly; only let it be as a covenant of faith between 
 us.’^ 
 
maiiystond's housskeefer. 
 
 223 
 
 ! CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 ' FLO AND HER FATHER^ 
 
 It was evening ; tea was over, and thougli candles were not yet 
 igljted in Mrs. Breere’s room, the glowing fire made it bright and 
 jheerful. The poor lady had been far from well all day, so that the 
 ine needlework by which she amused so many weary hours, lay idly 
 )n the little table by her side ; but dearer to her than all else in this 
 ,ife, her darling Flo sat on a low seat beside her, with her head 
 mshioned on her mother’s arm. Aunt Susan sat knitting by the 
 ‘ ire ; and, as no one spoke, the stillness of the room as well as house, 
 vas so intense, as to make even distant outdoor sounds distinctly 
 ludible. 
 
 An involuntary nervous start from the poor lady, and the heavy 
 ;wing of the large white gate leading in from the highway, broke pre- 
 sently the dreamy stillness of the room. 
 
 “ There’s your papa, Flo,” said the poor lady, as though suddenly 
 relieved from some cause for anxiety ; “ I am glad he is home — now 
 ho nights grow dark again, my old fears return.” She sighed as she 
 :poke, and pressed her child a little closer to her. 
 
 I There seemed cause for anxiety even now, for Aunt Susan ceased 
 :o knit, and listened attentively ; then Flo raised her face, and, 
 istening too, glanced towards her aunt. They could hear the loud 
 lash of another gate into the stable-yard, followed by a loud and 
 ,ingry call for a man to take the horse. Then oath upon oath 
 succeeded ; and these were not wholly hushed when the loud-voiced 
 ingry man strode into the hall, and called a woman-servant. There 
 ;,ieemed to be one already in the old-fashioned dining room, for she 
 ■;ame forth immediately, and they could hear her say that the fire was 
 jood, and the candles lighted. 
 
 , “Well! go and get the keys of the cellar, I want some wine. 
 
 , Mind, I shall fetch it myself ; and tell Miss Flo she must come down 
 iiid play to me just now.” 
 
 . “ The worse for drink, and still wanting more,” said the wife, with a 
 ,;remulousness which showed how deep her sorrows were; what will 
 36 the end of this — what will become of us, my dear child — my poor 
 ,3usan?” 
 
 Flora had been listening to the occurrences below ; but now turning 
 jier face quite round upon her mother she said, with great deter- 
 nination, — 
 
 “ Something must be done for you, mamma, at least. It is hard for 
 1 ne and aunt to bear, but it is killing you.” 
 j The servant now came in for the keys. 
 
 I “ Master’s in a terrible bad way,” she said, in a whisper, and in 
 
224 
 
 mainstone’s housbkeepee. 
 
 answer to their hurried questions ; “indeed, I’ve never seen the like 
 before. Yes! he’s been drinking at the ‘Crown’ at Welton, from 
 what he says, and with the Squire, for they came riding home as far 
 as the lane which turns up to the Hoo Hall ; but the drink has made 
 him, not as it mostly does, noisy and merry, but fierce and jeering. 
 The Lord save us ! I never saw master in such a way before, except 
 at the time of the trial, or that day when he bid Master Ellis not to 
 enter his doors again.” 
 
 “AVhat can be the matter — what can he have heard?” said the 
 women, anxiously, to one another, and as they looked into each other’s 
 faces, pale with a terror their thoughts begot. 
 
 “ Don’t you think, Susan,” said Mrs. Breere, in her low sweet voice, 
 “ that if you take down the keys yourself to Joel, he will let you get 
 the wine as usual. You can then bring him some sherry, or lighter 
 wine, and this will stay the mischief, if not wholly avert it.” 
 
 “Oh, dear no, missis! he was particular to say that he’d have 
 nothing of the kind. He swore, and said he would be master in his 
 own house; that old Susan — them was his very words ma’am — 
 shouldn’t put him off* with dish-washings, as she had done once or 
 twice before. No ! he’d trouble enough — the Lord knew — and he 
 needed strong drink to drown it; and he’d have it, let the puling 
 women up stairs say what they would.” " 
 
 A loud and vociferous call from the foot of the wide old staircase 
 warned the pale and anxious listeners that there was no time for further 
 parley. The keys were, 'therefore, given to the servant, and she went. 
 Still the listeners kept where she had lefib them, scarcely speaking, and 
 giving anxious heed to what took place below. They heard the Squire 
 descend the cellar stairs, stumble up again with his bottles, then dash to 
 the dining-room door with the utmost force. Presently he rang for 
 glasses, and for his pipe, and then all was still. 
 
 It occasionally happened that when under the influence of the insane 
 passion for drink which had latterly imbittered the peace of his home, 
 and the daily life of those connected with him, the Squire fell into a 
 soddened sleep, and thus forgot — ^for that night at least — his previous 
 demand for his little daughter and her pretty songs. Thinking, perhaps, 
 that such might be the case on the present occasion, comparitive 
 tranquillity was just now restored, candles were brought up, Mrs. 
 Breere resumed her fine work. Aunt Susan her knitting, Flo some 
 task of pasting little coloured pictures on leaves of calico, as she 
 sat at a small table drawn near her mother’s couch ; so that a stranger, 
 not knowing how the hearts of the women were stirred within them, 
 how acutely and dreadingly their ears were listening to any sound 
 which broke the stillness of the house, might have thought the scene 
 most charming for its peace and quaint old-fashioned luxury. Alas! 
 there was a sorrow near — one of whose presence they sat in breathless 
 dread — one of which, whenever present, no peace can come — the curse 
 and woe of drink ! 
 
 But the pretty creature, bending at her innocent task-work, 
 listening, glancing at her tender-»loving mother, was not to escape 
 
!tfAiJfSfONE*S H6uSEREEPEft. 
 
 225 
 
 ttiis night. In about an hour from the time the keys had been sen 
 down, the dining-room door was flung open, and the Squire’s voice was 
 heard calling from the foot of the stairs, — 
 
 “ Flo, are you coming to-night ? ” 
 
 These words were not spoken incoherently, as they too often were 
 but rather with a compressed fierceness new to their ears. ’ 
 
 “ Go, my dear— go, Flo ! ” whispered the mother. “ it is no use 
 Susan’s going down to-night— I know by the sound of his voice. But 
 you can always soothe papa, my darling; for, whatever else his faults 
 he loves you dearer than his life. Go ! make haste— he may say nothin<^ 
 about Theobald Baldwin to-night.” ° 
 
 Still, even with this entreaty,l3acked by that of good Aunt Susan the 
 }mung girl lingered as though she had some greater cause for dread 
 than they surmised till the cry, more angrily repeated, warned her to 
 delay no longer. 
 
 “Flo, are you coming? Do not let me have to fetch you, or you 
 and those up stairs may repent it. Come down, I say, I have to talk 
 to you. 
 
 ^ She was weeping now, for her tears wetted her mother’s face, as slie 
 stooped to kiss it. Then she hurried down, and so into the old dininn-- 
 room. ® 
 
 f Her father was seated in his arm-chair as she entered— his Ico-s 
 j Stretched out before him— his chin resting on his breast— whilst lus 
 jCyes hxed themselves upon her with a concentrated gaze that was 
 absolutely appalling, so much did it betray the insanity of drink and 
 . ite brutalizing passions. He neither spoke nor moved ; and she, knowino- 
 ^^ese moods too well, passed to the instrument and be^an to pla’^. 
 
 ^ Charmingly she played, with a native grace which great ^culture had 
 enriched; and now— even now— though her heart throbbed and her 
 ear listened, it was not long before she was lost in the intricacy of the 
 sweet sounds which rose from beneath the pressure of her little fino-ers 
 like perfume from a crushed-up flower. On and on she played’ 
 without book or guide— sometimes singing, sometimes not; and 
 always, as it seemed— vary the notes as she might— wanderi no* away 
 into what were lullabies, or little airs which might soothe or please the 
 ,ear of infancy. By-and-by, when her father as yet had neither spoken 
 nor stirred, she looked round to see if he were asleep ; but no! there he 
 fhe^’ r f^^ fumed towards her, and his gaze as intently fixed as 
 
 I loudly and roughly, “cease that whining stuff: one 
 
 I would think, now-a-days, that we’d a house full of babies ; frock- 
 ! making and shoe-knitting up stairs, and lullabies in the parlour. Let 
 me have a hunting-song, a drinking song — something to cheer me up* 
 
 1*1 T,"" Cupped as a fox without his brush. The son^ 
 
 I done, I ye got. Miss, to talk to you.” ° 
 
 ' She did not answer him now, even by a single word, but obeyed him 
 
 y singing an old-fashioned hunting-song, which was jocund without 
 Lbeing coarse. o ^ uc 
 
 “ Ha, haj ” he laughed, “ a little practice of this sort is good for 
 
MAtNStONE*S HOUSElCEEPEl!. 
 
 2i!8 
 
 tliee, for thou’lt have enough of it just now. Old Baldwin is set ori 
 getting thee to the Uoo, and thou It have songs enough to sing then. 
 Come, Miss, come — sit down in the chair here ; I must settle this 
 matter at once.” 
 
 She obeyed him mechanically, still without speaking a single word. 
 Sitting down opposite to him in a low chair, her eye never quailed 
 before his madman s gaze ; but looking at him as a fond mother at 
 her froward child — with pity, with a little contempt — with more of 
 love than either — she kept her serene mood. 
 
 Pie filled his glass this time with brandy, and when it was drunk he 
 said : — 
 
 “ Well, Fve just to tell thee that me and old Baldwin have settled it. 
 Thou shalt marry him early in the new year, for we’ll shilly-shally no 
 further in the matter.” 
 
 “ Papa, you may have made this arrangement, but it is perfectly 
 absurd. Mr. Baldwin is a very kind, hospitable man, a good neighbour, 
 a very old friend of ours, but he is far too old for me to think of him 
 as a husband. Indeed, I do not want one ; I only want to live at 
 home in peace with you and mamma and Susan, at least for a time. 
 Papa, do not let us talk more about this matter to-night; it is 
 a very odious one, and very absurd in us to think of it at all. Let me 
 sing you one of your favourite songs and then go — mamma has been 
 poorly all day.” ' 
 
 “ Poorly ! she’s always so,” he said, gloomily ; “ she makes the 
 most of her mishap, cuddled and cottled up stairs by old Susan.” 
 
 In her indignation, Flora forgot that she was reasoning with one who 
 had no reason. 
 
 “ Papa, how wholly cruel to talk in this way ! None so well as yotli 
 know the history of poor mamma’s sad fall, and how wholly paralyzed 
 her lower limbs have become. This construction was untliought of 
 till those women, your sisters, came into this house to imbitter our 
 lives by every means in their power. Papa, let them go back to their 
 proper home, and dismiss this silly project of a marriage, and we shall 
 be happy once more. Papa,” she added, as she rose and put h jr arms 
 gently about his neck, “ let Jane come in and put away these wicked 
 bottles, and John assist you up to bed. You will be better to- 
 morrow.” 
 
 But to tell an intoxicated person that he is so, is to throw oil on 
 flames ; for, if guided by his opinion of himself, a drunkard is always 
 the most temperate man alive. 
 
 ‘‘ What! ” he fiercely brawled, “do you think I’m drunk or a child 
 that Pm thus catechised and ordered to bed. I tell you I’m sober ! 
 enough — only too sober. Come ! sit down ; these pretences shall not j 
 lure me away from what I’ve got to say.” He pushed her rudely ! 
 back into her chair as he spoke — he who was so tender to her when 
 this insanity was not upon him ; and holding her tightly by the arm, 
 glared at her with his dull, blood-shot eyes, like a bull at bay. She 
 was a little terrified, perhaps, for she tried to rise and go. 
 
 “You shall not go; you shall not put me off as you always 
 
MAINSTONE’s IlOtlSEEEEPES. 
 
 ^27 
 
 liearlcen op not, as you please, you shall marry Theobald Baldwin— 
 , how and when I will;’ He sunk back in his chair as he spoke, cruelly 
 watcliing her lest she should escape. 
 
 ^ “ Papa, I can only answer as before — I cannot'^ 
 
 j “ Why not? We’ll settle this point nov/.” 
 
 j “Papa’’— she faltered a little— “let us end this absurd sort oi 
 jconversation. You hurt my arm. I v/ish to go ? ” 
 
 “ You wish, but you shan’t. Come, I’ll repeat my question to thee 
 ■ — Why cannot you ? ” 
 
 But she was as dumb as a stone— not faltering now, but proud 
 and hopeful, as she gazed at the cruel glare so lirmly set upon her 
 
 “Soh!— soh !— shall I answer? ” he said, mockingly, and with the 
 .weary reiteration of the drunkard. “Thy heart’s hankering after 
 that lad Ellis ? Those up stairs are conniving at thy wishes, be they ? 
 -You all of you would like to have him here as he used to be? Maybe 
 /thy ears have caught up what’s flying about the country— that now 
 that old knave, John Thornhill, has come to Mainstone ill, he’ll be 
 sent for. But whether he comes or not, this you shall know, that Pll 
 .see thee stark and stiff before thee shalt be wife of his. You shall 
 j^not wait for his coming. Baldwin shall make thee his wife in the 
 first days of the new year. I heard of this prospect of the lad’s comin«- 
 jto-day, at Welton — and Pve settled accordingly.” ^ 
 
 Still she made no answer ; and though ‘her face flushed up exs 
 she listened to his latter words, it kept its look of mino-led faith and 
 hope. ° 
 
 ‘As to those up stairs, I tell thee what, Flo — Pll turn them out of 
 t, doors the very hour I find they thwart me. You think I’m drunk 
 s to-night— I’m not— I’m goaded to make these threats— and, d— me 
 ^I’ll keep ’em.” 
 
 “Papa,” said the proud little lady, “you forget that one of 
 jthose you threaten to turn from your doors, is your wife, and mi/ 
 
 I, mother.” 
 
 t “I forget nothing, but I’ll do it, nevertheless. As to thee, if you go 
 .against me — if you hold communion with that lad Ellis— as there be 
 many not slow to tell me that you do, in spite of everything — I’ll c;o 
 Jo that proud old sinner, John Thornhill, be he up, or be he in bed, 
 md speak to him. Ay ! I that have sworn to let this tongue of mine 
 .’Ot out rather than utter word to him again. I’ll say to'^him, ‘ This 
 kad o’ thine, and my little girl — precious as she is to me — dearer than 
 |iiny drop o blood that flows in these rugged old veins, are keeping up 
 (icquaintanceship — stealing a match on it — maybe, got married against 
 ny will, as you must know ; for I’d rather see her stark and stifij than 
 Liiine and mine, John Thornhill, should come together. How, 
 paving told you this, you can do as you please ! ’ I can see the old 
 j’ogue’s face flush up and shouldn’t I know that that crooked old 
 nper Pomp, even whilst he was listening, would be planning some 
 wil against the lad, and be ready to make bitterer the man’s ano-er 
 
 • Lgainst his son .” ° 
 
 1 15—2 
 
228 MAINSTONli’S HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 ^ “ But Margery has always been a true friend to Ellis,” interposed a 
 little voice. 
 
 “ Who’s she, and what is she, eh ? — a mere slave to a petty tyrant 
 — fine in his master’s left-olFs of all sorts. Who cares for her ? Does 
 Ben Briscoe ? ” 
 
 “ Papa, that man has deeply wronged you. But for him, these many 
 sorrows would have had no beginning. Let us cease to speak of him ; 
 it irritates without use.” 
 
 “It does, and what of that?” spoke Joel, starting to his feet, and 
 livid with a passion which fell little short of madness. “Yes, I 
 know that land and pits were taken from me through the false swearing 
 of that knave, that were as much mine as the whole earth belongs to 
 God. Yet I’ll serve that knave and his interests, if thou hold’st com- 
 munion with that lad. He’s next heir to old Thornhill’s property, if 
 the lad Ellis die without children ; and as it is, the old sinner can 
 will two-thirds of his pit property away, if he choose. I tell thee, all 
 this J ohn Thornhill can do ; and I’ll go to him, and say do it, if thou 
 runnest athwart me ! ” 
 
 The little lady kept her serene mood, though a little flushed, as 
 could be seen, and sat pressing her gathered hands upon her breast, 
 as though beneath them rested some hidden dove of peace ! 
 
 He was irritated by her silence ; he moved as though to strike her; 
 but his profound love restrained his will. Yet he said, jeeringly, 
 “You won’t speak, eh ? — take care ! ” 
 
 “Papa,” she answered, quietly, “you are at least a good man, and 
 often pray to God ; think then, how incompatible such bitterness of 
 spirit is with the peace and good-will you pray for. Let this fever of 
 the soul pass by; let us leave the wicked to themselves; let me keep 
 in my beloved home, where I never knew a sorrow till Aunt Sophia 
 and Aunt Harriet came. Let me cleave to you and mamma, at least 
 for a timey 
 
 It might be undesigned ; but there was an emphasis on the latter 
 words which did not escape the madman’s ear. 
 
 “At least for a time. Miss,” he replied, mockingly. “Yes ! I suppose 
 till there’s an end of me in some way or anothei^ and there’s one difli- 
 culty the less. Then, I suppose, you think that that silly old parson, 
 helped possibly by the fine madam who now rules his house, and 
 without whose advice folks say he does nothing — not even write a 
 sermon — will smooth things for you with that old sinner Thornhill ; 
 but — 
 
 “ Miss Eliot is a dear lady, I’m given to understand,” interrupted 
 Flo, still pressing the hidden dove to her breast. 
 
 “I know nothing of her, and want to know nothing of her; I 
 only know that she’s taken the place of as worthless a human devil 
 as ever ate an honest man’s bread ; and who for years has been the 
 tool, and something worse, of that rascal Briscoe. But this is nothing 
 to me or thee. I’ll place thee safely with the new year into an honest 
 man’s home ; and there will end ‘ will not,’ and ‘cannot,’ and tJjings ot 
 that sort.” 
 
maijjstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 229 
 
 She saw that it was useless to contend further with him ; and 
 ' as he had released his grasp, she drew herself gently away’ with 
 that manner of quiet pride which made her step almost stately. 
 It irritated him anew, and he strove to grasp her arm a<^ain, but 
 uselessly. ^ 
 
 “You cannot— you cannot, eh?” he questioned, with taunting- 
 - reiteration, as he followed her to the door. ^ 
 
 She only shook her head, so slightly that it seemed rather an 
 involuntary expression of what she felt within, than intended as a 
 sign to another. But it did not escape that fevered gaze. He 
 
 ■ bounded after her, as, opening the door, she pressed through the 
 crowd of servants who, anxious listeners, had gathered round It, and 
 so up the wide staircase into her mother’s room, and to her mother’s 
 
 ; couch. Almost as soon Joel was in the room, in spite of the en- 
 deavours of his servants to restrain him, and of Aunt Susan’s entreaties. 
 V He was mad with the wine he had drunk— mad with much he had 
 heard that day, and which he had not yet mentioned— and mad because, 
 whatever was the source of his child’s quiet and immovable firmness’ 
 he saw that it was known to, and possibly approved of, by his wife 
 and Susan. 
 
 ^ ^ “ Missis,” he said jeeringly, as, drawing his tall burly figure to its 
 . fullest height, he stood still in the middle of the room, and fixed his 
 ' hard, concentrated gaze on the helpless gentle lady — “ as you know 
 
 ■ Flo’s secrets, you can perhaps help me to find out why it is she sets 
 ^ herself so boldly against my wishes ? Come, I’ve been pretty patient 
 * as yet : I mayn’t be so much longer.” 
 
 ^ “ J oel, dear, let J ohn assist you to your room — you are not in a fit 
 
 'State to talk to-night. This is an angry subject— let us defer it till 
 another time.” 
 
 i I won’t! If you mean to say that I’m mad or drunk, 
 
 Im neither — my wits were never clearer or my mind more made up 
 ^ than it is now ; and this you shall all of you find to your cost. I tell 
 you what and if you think its a threat that’s to be forgotten as soon 
 as made, you’ll find yourself wofully mistaken— that if that o-irl don’t 
 consent to become Baldwin’s wife early in the new-year. I’ll turn thee 
 all from the doors ; and thy old brother Tom may take thee in or not 
 as he pleases. He keeps up Street End House, I’m told, and so you 
 ^may all of you go there or not as you will. I’ll have no more to do 
 with thee — let the law do what it may.” 
 
 “Joel, these are unworthy threats to a helpless wife whom you 
 : once tenderly loved. As to our child— as precious a one as God ever 
 
 I f gjive to parents— you are the last person who ought to force her will. 
 
 She wishes to keep quiet at home — to ride out and walk with you 
 
 play to you of an evening, and sit with me ; and surely these innocent 
 and natural desires in one so young may be permitted without pain 
 or oflence.” ^ 
 
 “ Yes! I see it clear — that you may bide your time and marry her 
 ito that lad Ellis at last; but you shan’t have your will. There’s a 
 mortal liate between me and that lad’s father, that nothing in this life 
 
230 
 
 IrfAINSTONE’s HOUSEKEEPEK. 
 
 shall make less, missis, but death itself. The lad’s well enoun«h, I 
 know handsome, kind, manly — once as dear to my heart as he’s sSll to 
 thine, I daresay though 1 ve bidden thee harbour no liking that way ; 
 
 but that sinner, his father, has wronged me, deeply wronged me got 
 
 Imid that is as much mine as this flesh on my bones ; and I’ll see this 
 little one of ours as cold as a churchyard stone before she shall be 
 v/Ife of that lad. I’m desperate— I’m resolute. I’ve heard in Welton 
 to-day, that if the old fellow don’t mend, the lad must come home * 
 and so I’ll get her married off, and thee and old Susan, plot as thee will’ 
 shall find it’s all for nought.” ’ 
 
 ^ ^ He had spoken these latter words less vehemently than hitherto. 
 They were therefore wisely still, thinking that his passion was abatino* 
 and ho would presently go. But it was a mere lull in the tempest of 
 his wrath. Staggering— speaking thicker and faster than he had 
 hitherto done— shaking his half-palsied hand, as though to o-ive 
 vent to the impotence of his rage — he stuttered out a series^ of 
 questions, waiting answers to none ; but reiterating them half- 
 incoherently, as their import flitted to and fro across hi? brain. 
 
 “ Thee ’st had letters from that lad, eh? He has been here, has he? 
 — sure to have been, for he was seen not long ago about the country ! 
 Old Kadnor goes up and down to thy brother Tom’s, does he ? AVhat’s 
 it for, why is it ? I tell thee I’ll have no secrets here ! ” Then, as his 
 weary reiteration ended, he suddenly exclaimed, as though his passion 
 was brought to a climax, “ I’ll know, missi®, or I’ll tear the heart o’ 
 thee.” He bent suddenly forward, as though about to seize his 
 helpless wife, but Flora interposed. 
 
 “Papa!^ any cruelty to me you please, not the lightest finger on 
 mamma; ” she caught his strong, rough hands and held them, weakly 
 enough to be sure, and not without a struggle, till Aunt Susan’s cries 
 brought up the men. They hurried into" the room, and were just 
 seizing their infuriated master, when he fell a little forward, and tlien 
 senseless on the floor, with his head close beside the place where Flo 
 had knelt. 
 
 In another moment it was raised in her arms. She and her 
 helpless mother alike caressed it in their pity and their love. He 
 might be besotted, oblivious of self-respect— even mad; but they 
 knew how good he had been— hov/ proverbially just and kind, till the 
 dishonesty of others had wrought this morbid change. Come what 
 might, they must always love him : the one was his child-— the other 
 v/as his wife J 
 
MAinstone’s H0USIJKEE?JSR. 
 
 m 
 
 CHAPTER XYIL 
 
 STREETENDHOUSE. 
 
 At no late date after Barbie’s weddinsr, a comely middle-aged 
 woman arrived one evening at the Horton Wood station, and repaired 
 thence to Miss Terns cottage. The following morning, at a very 
 early hour, a fly conveyed her and Miss Eliot to Johnny Wigpit’s ; 
 and not long after, the same vehicle, bearing the stranger and Phema, 
 was on its way to a remote railway station, from whence they were to 
 travel to London. Miss Eliot returned to Losely to breakfast ; and 
 thus secretly and speedily the poor girl was placed beyond the reach 
 of Jonathan or Robert Moore. Whatever was her destination, it 
 was safe in the knowledge of the few who were her friends. 
 
 In the succeeding week Miss Eliot herself was absent for some 
 days. She did not confide to anyone the business of her journey, 
 with the exception of what related to the anonymous letters received 
 oy the Bishop of the diocese. Ot these she briefly spoke, on the 
 evening of her return, to Miss Tern and Richard Wenlock, who 
 happened to be present. They then learnt that she, in company with 
 Mr. Simeon, had had an interview with the excellent Bishop, and 
 seen the series of illiterate letters addressed to him. As far as ’these 
 were evidence, Mrs. Jack did not seem to even guess what was pro- 
 bably the simple truth ; but catching up the floating scandal of the 
 '^ountry, had, in the first instance, spoken of it in some an^^'i’y mood 
 to her master, not distinctly as to what was affirmed, but irs a taunt 
 and inuendo. Finding that this produced unexpected consternation, 
 she who wished to rule and pillage her master to the fullest extent, 
 and who found her power waning, leapt at this sudden and unex- 
 pected accession to her hostile strength, and made use of it whenever 
 she had some point to gain. This process she continued till so 
 (Uiddenly and unexpectedly supplanted in her iniquitous rule. She 
 I dieii bethought her to use this supposed power in the direction most 
 I ikely to ruin the worthy man to whom she had been so worthless and 
 50 thriftless a servant. 
 
 I “ I cannot tell you,” added Miss Eliot, quietly, “what a satisfac- 
 aon the perusal of these letters has been to me ; beca,use, through 
 vhat I ^thus learnt, I shall be enabled to give entire peace to Mr. 
 ixadnor’s mind the very hour of his return home. I might impart 
 -hese particulars by letter ; but I refrain, because I wish to make the 
 ime of his return to a peaceful and renovated home the same which 
 ,rees him from a bondage — not less woeful or heavy because, in point 
 )! fact, imaginary — such as few gentle and absent men have had to 
 )ear. Tffius freed from the imaginary terror which made him a 
 )erfect child — a weak instrument in the hands of a designing woman 
 
232 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 — he ^vIll do what he ought to have done long ago, tell her personally 
 that he dismisses her from his service and his house, and peremptorily 
 forbids all return.” 
 
 “ She is surely not weak enough, or mad enough, to contemplate 
 any such thing ? ” asked Miss Tern. 
 
 “She certainly does ; and judging from what has passed, I have 
 not the remotest doubt but that she will put her purpose in force, so 
 as, at least, to cause us some annoyance. However, I hope, after Mr. 
 Radnor has personally dismissed her, this weird woman will let us rest 
 in peace. For this dismissal from her master she professes to wait; 
 and to consider herself his servant, and the mistress of his house, till 
 such, and in such form, is given.” 
 
 “ She will never be at peace, or let others be so,” said Miss Tern. 
 “ She is lingering about Mainstone Hall, I am given to understand 
 — for what purpose no one knows. But as the Squire’s agent is about 
 to open a new butty-shop up at Weldore Forge, some think she will 
 gj there and keep it, as soon as she sees that no other resource is 
 open to her to enrich herself or ruin others. But Mr. Radnor will 
 owe you a great debt, dear lady.” ^ 
 
 “ Not such a one as I owe him, good Hannah ; for he taught me 
 when I was ignorant, and such debts are the most unpayable of all. 
 Still, if I only achieve the simple purpose which brought me as a 
 stranger to his house — which was, to set it in order and give peace to 
 its master’s mind — I shall have fulfilled my intention, such as it was. 
 If I achieve more, happy will be my fortune. But I had never any 
 doubts of Mr. Radnor’s purity of life. I therefore became mistress 
 of his house, with a faith such as no other woman could perhaps have 
 had.” 
 
 “Still,” replied Hannah, “that scandal about Street End House 
 was never made clear. The facts are plainly these: — A stranger 
 lady, and a little boy about six years old, once called upon Mr. 
 Radnor during Mrs. Jai;k’s absence at Welton, and stayed some hours 
 with him. A day or two after, she hired Street End House, and 
 tenanted it more than a year in the name of Smith. Here Mr. 
 Radnor visited her frequently, and for a long time without notice 
 being taken of it, as the house is solitary and surrounded by woods, 
 and lies in the road of his occasional walks. But all at once a child 
 was born in the house — the servant had been dismissed without cause 
 some days before ; and it is a known fact that my lodger, Mr. Gray- 
 son, was at its birth. I once asked him the direct question as to 
 whose child it was, but he made me no answer — a tacit hint, I sup- 
 pose, that I was to question no further. Just as this scandal began 
 to get afloat, and when perhaps the baby was a month old, two strange 
 gentlemen arrived in the village here, and put up at the ‘ Crown.* 
 They rambled a good deal about, fishing and seeing the country, and 
 making inquiry in such places as perhaps they thought likely, if a 
 lady, still young, and accompanied by a little boy, was known to rent 
 a house anywhere in that direction. At length, it seems, they heard 
 of Street Eud House; but when they went thither, they found it 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 233 
 
 shut up, and no one within it or near it to give them any information 
 as to where the occupants had gone. They proceeded, I believe, to 
 the owner, Thomas Elwood’s house, and made inquiries there ; but I 
 suppose he gave them no information that availed, for they returned 
 to Losely no more ; and since then the house has been untenanted, 
 except when old Thomas Elwood rides over for a few days’ fishing or 
 shooting, or comes with a friend who has the same liking as himself 
 for exploring the old Roman roads and encampments which are still to 
 be traced around.” 
 
 “Indeed! and the names of the gentlemen who were at the 
 ‘ Crown ’ here, or the purpose of their business, were then never 
 known ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, the name of the chief person seems to have been Marlowe ; 
 and his object in looking about the country was to find his wife, who 
 had left him, taking with her an only child, whose repossession he 
 wished to secure. The people at the ‘ Crown ’ describe him as quite a 
 gentleman, apparently very rich, but dissipated and quarrelsome. 
 The person who was with him was either an attorney or attorney’s 
 agent.” 
 
 “Well, there is some little mystery here,” replied Miss Eliot, in her 
 quiet manner; “but none, I think, which need involve my dear 
 j master in supposititious sin.” 
 
 “ I think not, too,” said Hannah ; “ and that the truth lies much 
 
 nearer here than Mainstone. Yet there is one thing that ” She 
 
 »did not finish her sentence, but, sighing deeply, busied herself in the 
 {Occupations of the little supper-table. 
 
 ; As Miss Eliot had no desire to pursue the subject in this direct 
 fashion, she spoke of other things, though it was not long before its 
 jedge was again touched. 
 
 ' “No, I don’t think you’ll be able to see the Squire for some days,” 
 said Hannah, in reply to a question of Richard Wenlock’s, as he rose 
 eto take his leave ; “ he drank himself into a fit about a week ago, and 
 Jthere’s been terrible work with him ever since. He has got it into 
 his head that, because old John Thornhill has been seized with para- 
 dysis, Ellis must necessarily be sent for home. He is therefore madly 
 ,bent, it seems, on having Flora married to old Baldwin without 
 jifurther loss of time. He says that if she isn’t married by the second 
 fweek of the new year, he’ll turn Flo and her mother and Susan out 
 of doors ; and I’ve little doubt but what he’ll keep his threat — for 
 .everyone thinks that he has gone perfectly insane upon this one 
 .subject. Since his fit, a week ago, poor Mrs. Breere has been very 
 -ill — in fact, the house is a most wretched one — even though Sophia 
 ).and Harriet are at this time away at their own farm.” 
 i “ I do not wonder at it,” said Miss Eliot; “and I certainly think 
 Lthat the prudence of many concerned in this matter is greatly to be 
 ^questioned. The happiness and good name of an innocent girl are 
 li surely of more worth than wealth or the displeasure of lookers-on. 
 In fact, either weighed against truth is contemptible ; for nothing is 
 }'3o deeply injurious to woman as a mystery connected with her name 
 
234 
 
 MAINSTONE S HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 or circumstances. As soon as Mr. Radnor returns, I mean to speak 
 to him upon this subject; and as he knows, I think, some little 
 of the family, his interference may perhaps be of value at this 
 moment.” 
 
 ‘‘ At least there is an openinfr to your own acquaintanceship witli 
 Flora and her mother. Aunt Susan has been much taken with your 
 kindly looks, though she has seen you only once or twice ; and 
 whether or not as a means of fresh access to Mr. Radnor, I scarcely 
 know, but when the pretty little lady stepped into the garden one 
 morning during your absence, she said she hoped that, as soon as her 
 mother was better and you had returned, you and I would go over to 
 the Pool, and spend a quiet evening. I said I would ask you : and 
 so there is, as it were, a promise half given.” 
 
 No more was said, for Richard Weidock was going, and the ladies 
 went with him as far as the little forecourt gate, as they often did on 
 these lovely autumn nights ; for he never stayed late. Already had 
 that deep serene gaze of his spoken to her who had learned so well to 
 read it. ‘‘ I agree with you that truth can be tampered with at no 
 time with impunity ; and now,” he added, in a low voice, “ what you 
 have said in respect to afhiirs yonder is quite correct; but if the 
 future can be served by reticence, its use is at least discreet.” 
 Saying this, he moved quietly onwards in his ordinary respectful, un- 
 demonstrative manner — neither voice nor countenance giving sign of 
 what was passing in his strong man’s soul. Steadily he plodded on in 
 the half light, half shadow of the autumnal night, towards his swart 
 smithies and workshops, his green parlour, his solitary fire, his 
 beloved books — richer than kings in the possession of the romance 
 which now fructified and blest his hitherto dull, prosaic life. 
 
 Fully bent on having a glimpse of Street End House, if nothing 
 more. Miss Eliot set forth early on the following afternoon, making no 
 one her confidant as to whither she was going; but leaving those at 
 home to suppose — if they thought about the matter — that she had I 
 gone as usual on business to the^Rectory. She took her way through 
 the meadows below Mainstone, keeping their sweet paths, crossing 
 their low stiles, fording the shallows of the brook, as it lay in the way 
 she had to go. The fields ascending led to a moorland tract, and this I 
 again to those old woods which made so beautiful a feature in the 
 landscape seen from Mr. Radnor’s terrace. Skirting these for a time^ 
 she entered by a narrow wain road, and kept it till it led into another 
 crossing it longitudinally, and extending on either hand as far as 
 could be seen. It was so wide as to have more the appearance of a 
 glade than a highway ; but the sun thus having ingress lighted it with 
 its full refulgence, and gave to view what otherwise would have been 
 partially hidden in the shadows of the vast old hollies and great 
 beech trees which in places swept over it. This, which at first looked 
 like a broad, low path raised above the more common road, was no 
 other than a pretty well preserved portion of the old Roman road 
 that antiquaries came so often and so far to see, and which gave the 
 name of Street End to the district ; as here, from being already 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 235 
 
 destroyed, or from brandling' out in some fresh direction, it bad 
 ended when taken into use by the Saxons, who gave frequently the 
 name of Street to the matchless roads with which their more civi- 
 lised predecessors had intersected the country. Unused for centuries, 
 lexcept in places as a footpath— preserved because connected by 
 the prodigal foliage of the surrounding trees, or bv the fern and 
 >hrubs which had growth in its sides or fissures— here" was to be seen 
 IS fine a specimen of the old Koman agger as any the kingdom could 
 show. 
 
 Crossing the highway, and ascending to its sliirht elevation of a few 
 ;?eet above the ordinary forest road, Miss Eliot pursued this old 
 Roman way for at least half a mile, till it sloped down, almost im- 
 oerceptibly, to a sunk fence, and there abruptly terminated. A few 
 deps along the ordinary road, which here again widened, and was 
 Dicturesquely broken by single trees and massive clumps of fern and 
 brushwood, brought her in sight of what was clearly Street End 
 House— a plain, two-storied, red brick dwelling, built irreo-ularly, and 
 ,i century or two old. A good deal of shrubbery, scarcely to be dis- 
 -inguished from the surrounding woodland, sheltered, and in part 
 concealed it— though, towards the roadway, and at one side of the 
 I louse, a lawn, prettily scattered with flower-beds, w'as open to view. 
 
 , 3iit though thus buried amidst woods, and in winter-time possibly 
 iesolate enough to those who see no light in the face of nature except 
 vhen the sun shines, it was a pleasant, even a cheery, place on this 
 lUtumnal afternoon. The house-door, and some of the windows, 
 jdood open, as though for air and sun — a man, dressed in a country- 
 ; ervant’s suit of grey, was sweeping the walk and oiling the dead 
 eaves into one common heap ; and a dozen or two of pots^ filled with 
 ,iardy plants just coming into bloom, stood grouped together. These 
 eemed to be for disposal in the various flower-beds — fc)r several were 
 [dready so enriched — and probably by the person who now stood 
 leaking and trimming a little flower-plot with all the skill and care of 
 I . practised gardener. He was a short, robust, elderly man, with a 
 |.:mdly, tliouo-htful, somewhat saddened face ; and, absorbed in his 
 -ccupation, did not seem to notice the passer-by. On the road-side 
 I \\ aid,^beside the gate leading to the house, stood a large-sized do*’''- 
 ^art ; its shafts were empty, but the horse grazed a little way alonr»* 
 j he road ; so that it secerned probable that those who were settling 
 .uch a bright holiday face on this little solitary demesne amidst the 
 yoods, had come far, and \yould return at nightfall. 
 
 . Stimulated as was her curiosity by these preparative signs, which 
 he could but in some way connect with Mr. Radnor s little mystery, 
 Hiss Eliot did not like to linger about the place, or gaze too keenly 
 4 I its direction. She therefore turned her steps towards the opposite 
 ide of the wide road, and then, for the first time, perceived that that 
 ^ad Its occupant too; for, on the stump of a felled tree, half-buried 
 I fern, sat a man making a sketch of the old Roman way from one 
 |.f its best points of elfect. Determined, as soon as she beheld him, 
 p ask a question, she approached— but unseen and unheard, as it 
 
23G 
 
 MAINSTONE’s HOUSEKEErER. 
 
 seemed — for lie did not answer when she spoke, but kept on doggedly 
 with the work before him. 
 
 “I do not ask for mere curiosity-sake — but is this Street End 
 House?” 
 
 “ Yes,” was at last the rugged answer. 
 
 “ And that is the old Eoman road ? ” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “I really thank you, Sir. I have walked some way this afternoon 
 to see the agger ; and though pretty certain, from some slight know- 
 ledge of similar things, that my judgment was correct, I should not 
 like it to have been touched by the least uncertainty. I therefore 
 thank you. Sir — good day.” ^ , 
 
 “Stay,” called the rugged voice— “you are really interested in 
 these things ? It is not pretence or make-believe ? ” 
 
 Certainly not. I have seen most of the Eoman remains in 
 Britain, which time and vandalism have left to us ; and much of my 
 life has been spent with those well-informed^ on the subject. ^ I 
 asked a simple question, and you must not mistake it for an im- 
 pertinence.” , , , . ^ 
 
 “I will not”— and the plain rugged face, as though throwing oil a 
 mask, brightened at once into intelligence and smiles ; “ though I am 
 bored into uncouthness by silly people. Not later ^ than this very 
 afternoon, one of your country parsons — a sallow- visaged, arrogant 
 fellow — strolled up and put a score of questions to me ; and when I 
 had answered them, he began disputing the answers point by point 
 This was worth nothing — that was unknown — he had his doubb 
 about this — and I was too confident of the other. He wound up b) 
 saying that the mass of Eoman remains in Britain are rubbish alto- 
 gether, and not to be compared to the classic remains of anciem 
 Eome. Such is a specimen of my more lettered questioners. The 
 chawbacon’s ‘I sav, maister, what be that ? ’ is more tolerable.” 
 
 “ You’re right. ’ But I think I know your assailant of this after- 
 noon. His nfanners and opinions are apiece with the man — anything 
 near is valueless, everything remote is gold without dross. The 
 intellio-ible he scorns— the unintelligible he mouths over as though he 
 had a'gift of insight beyond other men. ^ He will send, I am given te 
 understand, ample means for the conversion of the blacks of Caffraria 
 or elsewhere, yet utterly ignores the ignorance, moral depravity, anc 
 heathenism existing not a stone’s throw from his door. In his parisl 
 the Mormon preacher lectures to confiding babes. In his^ pulpit h( 
 deals in the filmy cobwebs of the schoolmen, and the unintelhgibb 
 metaphysics of the last age. At home he recognizes no ‘religion ii 
 common life,’ but wiles away his time in writing epics on apocrypha 
 battles, and the lives of the patriarchs. He relieves destitution b^ 
 messes from his kitchen, and he would treat his parishioners to irnagei 
 and genuflexions if he dared. Of what men s hearts hunger foi— 
 their ears listen for — words of consolation, faith in good, hope o 
 eternal life— he says nothing ; he is as dumb as an unspoken oracle 
 From him the harvest begets no song— the spring no thankfulness- 
 
MAINST02sE’s HOtSHKfiE^ER. 
 
 237 
 
 the winter points no moral of patient faith. Such is the m^an ; you 
 must therefore cease to wonder that he was ‘ not at home in your 
 Roman way.” 
 
 “ Ha ! ha ! I see we think alike ; let me therefore show it to 
 you.” 
 
 He threw down his paper and pencils as he spoke, and went onwards 
 to the Roman agger ; and there going before — sometimes lifting 
 aside the sweeping branches of beech or birch tree — crushing back the 
 more rugged hollies — clearing away the fern, or some clump of turf, 
 or overlaying stone — sometimes descending to the level of the ordi- 
 nary road, and again retracing his steps — he most courteously showed 
 his companion its method of construction — layer after layer and its 
 excellent state of preservation in places. 
 
 After going some little distance in this manner, he led the way 
 ‘ back past Street End House— made no observation thereon— turned 
 down a bridle road beneath the trees, and, keeping along the sunken 
 fence at that side of the house and grounds opposite to the one by 
 which Miss Eliot had approached them, and bringing her to a space 
 where the trees were cleared away, she perceived that the woods in 
 this direction were backed by a considerable upland. A fissure or 
 narrow opening in this gave a glimpse across lower ground to the 
 thymy hills beyond— the same wherein pretty Barbie was resting in 
 her bridal home, and whereon at visible points the courteous antiquary 
 had much to direct attention to, as well as tell of Roman encamp- 
 ments, Roman battles, and of the legionaries who had fought 
 them. 
 
 ' As they thus stood talking, and were about to move away, for 
 shadows were already falling on the woods. Miss Eliot s attention was 
 ■ again attracted to the house, the windows of which thus to the rear 
 were many and pleasant, overlooking a wide sweep of forest* like 
 lawn and mingled garden to the opening in the upland and hills 
 ' beyond. Anything "more romantic, secluded, or bowery cannot well 
 be conceived. Here poets might dream, lovers might love, painters 
 find rich effect for the study of their art, undisturbed by all outer 
 , signs of the world or the curious eyes of men. It was quaint, old, 
 ^ secluded, peaceful, simple — a quiet nest amidst the boughs of a leafy 
 wood. 
 
 Thus looking at the pleasant scene, from the only spot from which 
 there seemed to be a glimpse, partial as it really was, into this little 
 Eden — and this was from a bare and gravelly knoll, crowned by a few 
 ' wind-swept fir-trees — Miss Eliot saw "distinctly a woman approach the 
 window, whom, brief as was her glimpse, she knew to be Aunt Susan. 
 She seemed putting up a crisp clean blind against the window, as she 
 I had already done across others near at hand, but as the muslin was 
 ^ lifted quickly and stretched out on either side, the sight thus caught 
 was necessarily transient, though sufficient for identification. Some- 
 what surprised, though making no remark thereon. Miss Eliot pre- 
 ^ pared to follow her courteous friend, when her attention was attracted 
 " by the marks of a horse’s hoofs in the soft soil at the foot of the 
 
^38 
 
 mainstone's housekeeper. 
 
 knoll. Tliey seemed recent, as well as tke ashes from a pipe, on the 
 top of the knoll itself. She pointed out both to the kindly gentle- 
 man, observing, as she did so, that the spot seemed to attract visitors. 
 He looked surprised, and even vexed, she thought. 
 
 “ I scarcely know how this is,” he said ; “few come to Street End 
 House, and fev/er still, that I am aware of, know much about this 
 quiet hillock, from whence we can get a glance of the earth-works I 
 pointed out, or nearer home a bird’s-eye view into this pretty garden. 
 The woods, too, are strictly preserved ; for though Street End House 
 and the land around it for about a mile either way belong to my old 
 friend Thomas Elwood, and are an old inheritance of his, still he and 
 his Grace of JSTortherland so perfectly agree as to the preservation of 
 this Roman way, as to join in the expense of so doing. The property 
 otherwise belongs to his Grace, who would fain buy up these few 
 acres, but old Thomas is as independent in the matter of his worldly 
 goods as in his religion. The land was owned by those of his name 
 long before his Grace’s ancestors became great landowners in these 
 parts ; and though the ducal possessions have crept onwards acre by 
 acre, till they have taken in most men’s heritages, and now encompass 
 this little nook belonging to my friend, he will not part with it — 
 scarcely let it, except to a choice tenant. Thus it is that simple men 
 of simple means like Thomas Elwood do more towards the preserva- 
 tion of the memorable places in their country’s history than savants or 
 archaeological societies.” 
 
 “ I have already thought so. Yet I am given to understand, though 
 as yet I have not seen it, that the Duke has excellent care taken of 
 the noble remnants of the abbey of St. John’s.” 
 
 “ Yes, to his honour be it said. Though having little taste for 
 middle-age archaeology, it is less an object of interest to me than 
 older remains. But you will find the abbey well worth seeing ; it 
 does not lie more than a mile from here, through the woods, and the 
 walk this way is most pleasant.” 
 
 “ Thank you; I am going there soon. But as the abbey attracts, 
 I hear, many visitors, and the Roman way a lesser number, the horse- 
 men here may have been one of these.” 
 
 “ I don’t think so ; the keepers wouldn’t let him pass riding, 
 unless he pleaded business. No ; it was, most probably, a coarse 
 looking fellow, dressed in a velveteen coat, who rode jDast at noon, 
 staring at me, and stopping dead-short before the house, to stare in 
 there also. I presumed he was some country wheelwright, looking 
 out for timber, and so took but little noticCo Now, which is your 
 way, for I must return ? ” 
 
 “ And I hurry on, for I have to walk as far as Losely.” 
 
 “Indeed! Well, keep down the narrow road you sec yonder. A 
 gate at its end will lead you from the woods into a country lane. A 
 stile in this will give you a direct path to the foot of Mainstone 
 Lane. I am somewhat a stranger here, but I think this is correct. 
 Now, good day ; I have been cheered and obliged by your intelli- 
 gence.” 
 
MAINSTONE’s HOUSEkEEPER. 239 
 
 “ And I by your courtesy. Should you ever pass by Mainstone 
 Rectory, let me return it.” 
 
 “ Mainstone Rectory ? ” he said, with jxrcat surprise. “ Indeed ! 
 Well ! I may be coming there one day. Whom shall I ask for ? ” 
 
 “ The housekeeper.” 
 
 “ You housekeeper ? ” 
 
 , “Yes, only housekeeper ; ” and she went on her way. 
 
 The shadows lay now so thick upon the woods as to make her glad 
 when she reached the gate leading into the more open lane. As she 
 passed through it, she perceived again the recent marks of a horse’s 
 hoofs on the soft ground ; and a little way beyond lay an object of 
 some kind, dropped evidently by the rider. She picked it up, and 
 found it to be an old lawn pocket-handkerchief, once fine and white, 
 but now yellow with ill-washing, and begrimed with coal-dust and 
 oil-stains, as though used by one whose duties lay amidst the coarse 
 machinery of furnace and pit. The sordid rag was fluttering from 
 her hand, when its size brought to mind those used by Mr. Radnor ; 
 and a nearer look showed his name marked in one corner. It was, 
 therefore, probably a pocket-handkerchief purloined by Mrs. Jack, 
 and dropped by the agent, Briscoe, as he had passed through the gate 
 that day — as, from the antiquary’s description, Miss Eliot had little 
 doubt that he it was who had held espionage round Street End House 
 not many hours before. 
 
 Her adventures were not to end here. Just as she had reached the 
 stile, and was crossing it into the now dusky fields, steady, rapid 
 Ifootsteps were to be heard coming along the road. They halted 
 at the stile, then crossed, swiftly approached, and a voice hurriedly 
 addressed her : — 
 
 “ Stop ! I have to speak to you ; we can talk as we go on.” IMiss 
 Eliot heard before she saw the saturnine parson of Brooklow. She 
 made way for him on the path, l^ut quickened, rather than slackened, 
 her steps. 
 
 “ Why are you in such a hurry ? I called upon you at Losely the 
 other day, but you were out. Where were you ? ” 
 
 “Miss Tern told me of your visit,” was the quiet sententious 
 answer. 
 
 “ But where where you ? You were absent more than a week.” 
 
 “I think I have already told Mr. Walcot that I am not accountable 
 to him for my time or actions.” 
 
 “ Certainly not ; I only take an interest in you, as I should in any 
 other clever woman, who was wasting her time in foolish duties, and 
 .amongst those unworthy of her. When does Mr. Radnor return? 
 If you must know what led me to Losely, it was to ascertain that 
 point.” 
 
 “ As soon as the Rectory is ready, and that will be shortly — it is 
 far advancing towards completion.” 
 
 ■ “ Indeed ! I fear that you are spending money very foolishly upon 
 
 the old place. It is the talk of the country — ^Mr. Radnor’s house- 
 keeper is the romance of the hour.” 
 
^40 
 
 mainstone’s HOijsEitt:t:t*EK. 
 
 She suppressed her indignation, and hurried on the swifter. 
 
 “ Do not walk so fast — you are fatiguing yourself without a cause. 
 The thing is, will Mr. Radnor appreciate what you are doing? Will 
 he not be blind to it, as he is to most other things? Is it of 
 utility to build a man a palace, when a cottage measures his 
 
 deserts?” t ^ i 
 
 As he said this, she stopped so abruptly as to arrest his steps also. 
 Then she looked, for the first time that night, so hardly into his stern 
 and sallow countenance, as to make his gaze droop before her own. 
 It was a look prouder than his, when at the haughtiest, and its con- 
 tempt was immeasurable. 
 
 “Mr. Walcot, your licence of speech, and impertinent inquiry^ into 
 my affairs, are not consistent with your profession or position. Know 
 this for once, that no service I can render to Mr. Radnor can repay 
 the debt of gratitude I owe him ; and could I or others make the 
 Rectory rival Losely Hall in comfort and luxury, would it exceed 
 the value of my appreciation of the man’s spotless life, and his single- 
 hearted tenderness for all which breathes and lives? Now, will 
 you let me pass on, or let me stay behind? — our roads must lie 
 
 differently.” . 
 
 “ Certainly not ; there is no necessity — God willing, they shall run 
 side by side. As to Mr. Radnor, I recollect that he was your tutor, 
 or something of that sort ; but the gratitude is already overdone, 
 and will be more so if you marry the man. But tell me defmitely 
 when he is coming home, as I do not think that I can spare either of 
 my curates beyond a Sunday more — or two at most.” 
 
 She could but smile at the doggedness with which he kept aloof 
 from offence, and pursued his own purpose. ^ ^ 
 
 “ I cannot for certainty tell when Mr. Radnor will return — it will 
 be as soon as possible. After service last Sunday your curate, Mr. 
 Colchester, told me that Mr. Radnor need not be hurried home, as he 
 had your permission to extend his services so long as they were 
 needful. But you shall not be inconvenienced ; Mr. Radnor has a 
 friend coming this way, who can officiate at least for two Sundays.” 
 
 “ Mr. Simeon, I suppose ? I hear he went with you to the Bishop, 
 and that that affair of the anonymous letters has ended satisfactorily, 
 at least so far as your testimony went. But I am glad Mr. Simeon is 
 comino*. He will better understand than you the value of my pro- 
 posal to build a schoolroom, and establish a school for my own and 
 Mr. Radnor’s parish conjointly. AVe will provide an excellent master 
 and mistress, and you can control its affairs on behalf of Mr. Radnor, 
 even if you will not for me.” 
 
 She kept discreet silence, and still swifter steps. 
 
 “ Why are you obstinate, Miss Eliot — why do you not answer me i 
 There are women who would be flattered by the expression of my 
 lightest wish, much more by positive entreaty.” ^ ^ . 
 
 I am not of that number, Mr. Walcot— I wish to be left in quiet 
 pursuit of my own duties, and unfettered by others’ claims. The 
 truth is, Mr. Walcot, I do not like you. I read your heart better 
 
MAtjfStONEg tlOtJgEEEEPER. 241 
 
 than you read ifc yourself. Your school, therefore, must be served by 
 otliers, instead of me.” 
 
 His stern and sallow countenance was instantly all aglow, with 
 that lialf-imbrowned, half-sanguineous hue one sees in Titian’s 
 3olourino:. 
 
 c5 
 
 “ Do you mean to say I am a sensualist, that I want to marry you ? 
 [ would be in bonds to no woman, know that ! As to you, I only 
 :ake an interest in you, because I know you are well-born, highly 
 educated, are generous enough to do what few women, situated as you 
 ire, would — leave station, ease, luxury, in order to mend the some- 
 what discreditable affairs of a weak, abstracted, lettered man ; and 
 his from a quixotic notion of duty — if nothing more. I pity you. 
 [ think you act weakly. I would like you to walk side by side with 
 ne, whom no man’s calumny can taint — in a haughty, unbending 
 jourse of celibate duty. For I recognize pride in you, and so far we 
 ire akin. But you are going weakly astray — astray in a direction 
 vhere you will have the profound humiliation of meeting with no 
 ’esponse. I would save you if I could.” 
 
 She made no answer ; went on quietly to the stile which led down 
 nto Mainstone Lane, and let him assist her over, as though suddenly 
 ost to the unconsciousness of his presence. He was casuist enough 
 io guess what words had touched her soul. 
 
 “You may open the whole stores of German erudition, and yet 
 lot turn the worthless dross into gold. No ! — no response — be 
 ■ure.” 
 
 She must have been listening ; the words must have found some 
 icho in her own breast, for still she did not answer him. It might be 
 rom haughty contempt — it might be from sudden feeling ; for un- 
 )idden tears had sprung to her eyes, though he guessed their presence 
 •ather than saw them. 
 
 “ Be warned in time,” he added ; “ for a humiliation such as this 
 would slay a heart like yours ! Now, let us be friends — good- 
 bye.” 
 
 So saying, he pressed her hands within his own, more as in a vice 
 han in a human grasp, and strode rapidly away. And he would have 
 )orne her with him if he could — set her down in his parsonage, made 
 her the ruler of his household, the dictatress of his proposed school, 
 'et her high above uncharitable suspicion — led his own ordinary 
 ecluded, self-indulgent life — permitted her to lead her own innocent 
 •ne, whilst she undertook task-work essentially his, though judged 
 too meanly of to be accepted either by his pride or indolence ; and 
 his because his opinion of his own immaculateness was so supreme, 
 ^nd his contempt and suspicion of other men so profound. The 
 ■ ousekeeper at Mainstone was too good for the services of others, 
 (nd just worthy enough for his. 
 
 ^ As the Rectory advanced towards completion, Molly removed 
 dilther, and some rooms were got ready for Mr. Simeon. It had 
 ^een arranged that he should come at this date to assist Miss Eliot in 
 Loking through Mr Radnor’s books, before they were again set up, 
 16 
 
m^ijsstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 in order to supply losses, make necessary additions, and to generally 
 inspect the whole result of renovation. Old rickety furniture was 
 discarded ; new came in its place : here a room had been enlarged, 
 there a new one added ; and Mr. Radnor’s study, moved to that gable 
 of the Rectory which looked out upon the distant woods about St. 
 John’s, had been made to open into a small conservatory, to be filled 
 with the choicest flowers. 
 
 As soon as practicable, Mr. Simeon came. He was a thin, wiry, 
 active man, with the stoop of a student and the olive complexion of a 
 Spaniard. Yet he was habitually cheerful. Buoyant in body as well 
 as in mind, he was one of those men who can effect an enormous 
 amount of physical as well as mental work, without evincing a single 
 symptom of fatigue. So as soon as he reached Mainstone his hands 
 ' were full. Now about the land with Jordan, whom he pronounced to 
 be an invaluable servant — now in the garden with Biisha and his 
 assistants — next in the kitchen and store rooms with Molly, making a 
 note of this want or the other, and yet always busy in the study or 
 elsewhere with Miss Eliot. Incessant occupation was, as it were, 
 life to him ; and yet he was an older man than Mv, Radnor. 
 
 In four or five days’ time so much had been effected, as to give Mr. 
 Simeon and Miss Eliot, who drove daily from Losely to the Rectory, 
 comparative leisure ; they therefore took in hand sundry little walks 
 which they had held in contemplation. The first of these was to the 
 Abbey of St. John’s. They set forth on a somewhat unpropitious 
 afternoon— a bleak wind blowing, fine rain drizzling down at intervals, 
 thick, fog-like clouds shifting here and there, and hanging vapoury 
 masses across the distant landscape. It was a November day, come 
 like an unbidden guest amidst the sunshine and russet tints of 
 October. But Mr. Simeon was too accustomed a pedestrian, and too 
 much a lover of nature, to care for weather ; and Miss Eliot was not 
 willing, seeing that his time was circumscribed, to put the purpose off 
 a sinMe day.° They were very old friends ; their confidence in each 
 othe^was that of parent and child ; and she well knew that such was 
 his taste for and his knowledge of middle-age ecclesiastical architec- 
 ture, that to defer this opportunity of seeing the old place with him. 
 for a guide, might be a subject of future regret. 
 
 It was misty^ till they reached the sward and crags of Losely Hill ; 
 then the wind rose and the atmosphere became clearer. The church- 
 yard comes close to the hill, half of it untouched moorland ; the othet 
 half crowded with rustic graves round a very ancient church. 
 Crossing this by a path they gained the highway, and thence, at a 
 little distance, a series of fine meadows, dotted with grand old treea 
 and yet, showing by the upheaved sod the ploughland of monkish 
 days. These meadows passed, they pursued the old Chester road fol 
 a little way ; and then, turning through an ordinary gate, saw a roac 
 windino* up through a park-like meadow to the fine old rums in th* 
 distance. Towards these they went, the broken masses shaping 
 themselves into clear outlines the nearer they approached. Here wa 
 a window of vast size and beauty, the stone spandrels yet exhibitinj 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 243 
 
 exquisite tracery, the ivy sweeping down in delicate festoons, and 
 swaying to and fro as eddies of the wind veered round. Here was the 
 grand doorway, upon whose threshold many a lordly abbot had 
 welcomed princes and nobles to his roof; the doors were gone, but 
 the staples of the hospitable hinges were still seen. Close beside 
 were the remnants of the fine tower, from which porter or sacristan 
 had reported approaching guests ; or some superior of the house cast 
 searching ken around the vast and sacred precincts ; and from this 
 . stretched away on either side masses of crumbling walls and trending 
 buttresses. 
 
 The remnants of the wall which once bound in the special area of 
 the abbey and its various enclosures of graveyard, orchard, garden, 
 pleasance, and homesteads, were to be seen in the misty distance ; but 
 more immediately about the less-protected portions of the ruins a 
 fosse-like ditch had been dug, and the side of it, nearest the pre- 
 : cincts, fenced up by a low wall of red sandstone. 
 
 Access to this enclosure was made by an ordinary park -gate, 
 f guarded by an adjacent lodge or cottage ; but Miss Eliot and^ her 
 friend went through unmolested, and wandered whither interest led 
 them. They passed into the roofless choir, which had once resounded 
 with the praises of the ever-living God ; and were not unconscious 
 . that the signs of His Majesty, His supremacy. His power, were still 
 present in the surging of the wind, the rustle of the pendulous ivy, 
 
 . and in the decay and perishment around, which recreate even whilst 
 ^ they destroy. They passed up the once grand steps, now sunk low 
 ; and carpeted with moss and minute fungi, to the altar, and knew that 
 the true sacrifices of the spirit need neither this nor any other altar, 
 f. and for their worth are independent of place and time. They stood 
 upon the low, sunk gravestone of some once lordly priest, and learnt 
 a anew, in the obliterated name and utter oblivion of all concerning it, 
 ^ that man must be content to do the service of his generation, and for 
 the rest accept that silence which in its all-embracing potentiality is a 
 e sublimity of nature. They saw ruin, but beneath beheld re-vigora- 
 tion ; and so passed on, admiring, though not without a touch of pity- 
 ^ ing sadness. 
 
 As they passed out through a broken archway, to the soft sward 
 ' beside the low protecting wall, and in a direction lateral to that on 
 fl which they had approached the ruins from the highway, they saw a 
 w man seated motionless on the wall. He was dressed in a servant’s 
 country suit of grey, and, taking little or no notice of the strangers as 
 ! they passed, sat quiescently, as though watching or waiting for some 
 I' expected comer. Mr. Simeon and Miss Eliot wandered through the 
 exquisite gardens which lay at the rear of the ruins. They visited 
 the monks’ bath still descended to by steps, and covered with a 
 . pointed roof— they lingered by the margins of the old pools, dark as 
 1 the clouds swept by, and broken by light and ripples as the sinking 
 sun shone fitfully forth, or the wind blew in sudden gusts — they wen^ 
 I' and returned along the causeway which led to the mill and grano-e — 
 I', they came back to the ruins and saw the early crops for spring, 
 
244 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 nestliii" beneath the warmth of broken wall,^ and monthly roses still . 
 bloomintr in niche and nook, as though ^ it were summer they 
 wandered again through ruined aisle and cloister; yet whenever they 
 turned that way, there the man still sat, patient and immovable, it 
 had already occurred to Miss Eliot that this was the servant she had 
 seen sweeping the walks in the garden of Street End House, and a 
 nearer view confirmed her suspicion. ^ . 
 
 The dull, gusty, drizzling afternoon had been so m keeping with 
 what they felt and saw amidst this ruined grandeur of a bygone age, 
 as to suit better than the most garish day ; and now as the atternoon 
 be^ran to rapidly close, they went quickly onwards towards the noble 
 wc^ds which lay beyond the distant wall, and to which there was 
 access by a postern door. As they crossed the Pf 
 towards this, the shrill whistle from the adjacent railway half-startled 
 them, as a train dashed past Mainstone Lane Bridge, and stopped at 
 the station beyond Losely. Involuntarily turning as this noise arrested 
 them, they just dimly saw that the man had risen, and was now stand- 
 ino" on the edge of the wall, at some distance from where he had sat. 
 
 They gained the woods, and the difficulty was then a choice of path. 
 Several wain-roads diverged from this point, and selecting the wrong 
 one, as alas, in graver things we too often do, it was not till they 
 reached a keeper’s cottage and made inquiry that they discovered 
 their mistake. They had to retrace their steps, so that the woods 
 were almost dark before they got right, and went rapidly onwards. 
 Still it was pleasant walking— the sward and fallen leaves, untouched 
 by the drizzle of the day, felt dry and crisp beneath their feet— the 
 wind soughed roughly, yet not unpleasantly, through the wide boughs 
 above thlir heads ; and there was the gurgle of little springs, and the 
 russet smell of wood and fading leaves. _ 
 
 The road widened, the last reddened light of the windy eye stole 
 down through the opening in the boughs above, and Miss Eliot saw 
 that the old Koman way was close beside them. Little as it could be 
 seen in that fitful light, made more fitful by the hoar shadows which 
 swept above it, still they slackened their steps, ascended the accli- 
 vity and trod with interest the adamantine floor which centuries 
 before the men of battles had made. _ Lingering thus, they were 
 about descending its slope, which terminated with the dark fence o 
 Street End House, when the sound of rapidly advancing footsteps fell 
 on their ear. They were firm, eager steps, weighted with strength, 
 yet rising with the spring and elasticity of 
 pausing, then went on, reached the low wall, were in the 
 of a wide-spreading beech-tree, when there passed close at hand, but 
 as though unseeing them, a tall, welbknit man, clad in some roug 
 coat, which gave size to his figure. They could not see his face, but 
 his bearing was that of a gentleman. Close at his rear came the 
 grey-liveried servant carrying a bag, and some coat or 8“™“* 
 his arm. The gentleman stayed at the gate leading 
 spoke to the servant, and then went swiftly in, leaving 1 1 
 follow and take a path to the rear of the house. 
 
/ 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 245 
 
 Miss Eliot and Mr. Simeon were so near, tliat unseen, they saw all. 
 Lights in the up stairs windows — light through the slightly- opened 
 house-door. This opened wider, as some one evidently standing at 
 its rear heard the click of the gate-latch, and thus was seen the 
 lighted hall, as hurrying down it towards the threshold came a pretty 
 girlish figure, leading a child by the hand — a very little child — fat, 
 timid-stepped, curly-haired. There he was — white-frock, red-shoes, 
 and all. 
 
 As some freshening breeze sweeps round a sail and bears it on, 
 the young man, slightly stooping, swept both child and mother into 
 his passionate embrace, showered down his kissses, his idolizing words, 
 and bore them in. 
 
 “ My Flo — my little Johnny — my darling wife ! ” 
 
 The door closed — the light went — the Eden was within. An 
 innocent one, though shadowed by many cares. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 JOHN THORNHILL, ESQUIRE. 
 
 In the housekeeper’s room at Mainstone Hall there was firelight ; 
 and the setting sun, as it fell low behind the woods, cast reddened 
 tints within — yet, except about the fireplace and the deep window- 
 ledges, the shadows were greater than the light. These threw into 
 indistinctness all the far parts of the room — the wainscot, the few old 
 pictures, the housekeeper’s presses ; but the valet, as he sat sleeping 
 by the fire, the dog and cats upon the hearth-rug, the decanter of wine 
 and glasses upon the table, were all very visible. 
 
 More so still was the girl Sarah, as she sat at the furthest window. 
 Her elbow rested on its ledge, and her face looked out towards the 
 garden, which, except for the lessening glimmer that lay athwart the 
 pool, was enshrouded in shadow. A few months’ time had, in some 
 degree, altered her. She had become thinner, sharper-featured, less 
 happy-looking — yet her old defiant manner was none the less ; and if, 
 
 ! for a moment, she turned her face, and cast her glance around the 
 " room, or on the old valet, its expression of impatient scorn could not 
 [ be exceeded. Still, she was very beautiful. The very simplicity of 
 the attire she had assumed, became her. The little jaunty cap, the 
 black silk apron, the close-fitting, dark-hued gown, added piquancy to 
 her form and countenance. Some light needlework lay idle in her lap, 
 
 I and, except for a few stitches, had done so all the afternoon. 
 
 * ^ The window at which she set was much shrouded by evergreens on 
 its outer side ; but, after some footing had been heard along the 
 
246 
 
 MAINSTOKE^S HOUSEKEEPER, 
 
 gravelled terrace near, their branches were put cautiously aside, anc. 
 a man, peering momentarily within, tapped lightly with his forefinger 
 upon the window-pane, as a sign to Sarah. She obeyed at once — thoug> 
 with unconcealed reluctance ; and, making no secret of her going 
 forth, went quickly to the outskirts of an avenue which lay a stone’s 
 throw from the house. There he impatiently ar^iited her, as his 
 greeting showed. 
 
 “ You’re slow enough,” he said ; “ one would think by your snail’s - 
 pace that there was no care ahead. Come, you were to bring me 
 something — where is it?” 
 
 “ I have nothing,” she replied, with an indifference so stony, as to be 
 the offspring of intense dislike rather than callousness. 
 
 “ Nothing ! nothing ! ” he repeated with a vehement expression of 
 terror — nothing ! Why, I told her I must have fifty pounds at least 
 to-night. The rest I might stave off* till the Canal Company or the 
 North Union Railway sends up payment.” 
 
 “I did not see her yesterday at all. The night before she said 
 that she’d been down to the Farm, but there was no borrowing ; the 
 master is a cipher now-a-days, and cannot lend even if he would. 
 The fellow Jonathan even began to talk of what is already owing, 
 and said they must see about it — it was no matter to them that the 
 interest had been paid up of late ; there was sad talk about the 
 Mainstone collieries, for what with the Squire’s extravagancies, and 
 
 and .” Even she paused, who rather exulted than otherwise 
 
 in the pain of the man beside her. 
 
 “And the bad management of Ben Briscoe, the agent — there was 
 ruin ahead. Well, it may be so — more likely than not! But why is 
 she staying about here ? ” he said, changing the subject, and, walking 
 on, led the girl slowly forward. “If she does no good in things I 
 need, she might as well be at the Forge — the new butty-shop I’ve set 
 up only waits her coming to be opened.” 
 
 “ I don’t know her plans, and don’t want. I only think that she’s 
 got something in her head as to the parsonage and Mr. Radnor’s return 
 — yes, his return ! ” 
 
 The man laughed satirically, and was thus unconscious of the marked 
 change in the girl’s voice as she spoke these latter words. “ Pretty 
 mess she’s made of everything there already ; and if she goes to face 
 a second turning-out, with that fine madam and the old parson looking 
 on, she’ll deserve what she gets. Yes ! I put her there to use her 
 eyes and ears — and what has she been but a bat after all ? Spending 
 her time in thriftless gluttony — in wasting instead of hoarding — in 
 schemes of making you his scholar and companion. I wish I had 
 never parted with you, Sarah, in that early day.” 
 
 “Why did you?” she asked, with a sharpness which betrayed both 
 irritation and carking grief — “ why did you ? ” 
 
 “I took her,” he said, half- apologetically, “from Welton— where 
 you were born — and brought her up to a decently-furnished house 
 that had been my old mother’s at Weldore. But her thriftless 
 idleness soon made a pretty place of it ; and when the old parson’s 
 
mainstone's housekeeper. 
 
 247 
 
 legation stood ready, and I wanted an eye and an ear there for pur- 
 oses of my own, I persuaded her to go — for her temper was such that 
 r fled a cat and dog life ; so that I resolved never to make her what 
 called an ‘honest woman.’ I was right in getting rid of her. 
 
 ‘ *ou I should have kept with me, as I did near four years ; but she 
 dd she was lonely, and so you went.” 
 
 “Knowing what she was, you^ that were my father, should have 
 .ept me in your home, and let me have worked at the pit’s mouth, if 
 I there was no better way for bread. To my last day. I’ll never forgive 
 you this — never!” 
 
 “ About that, lass, thou can’st please thyself. Both father and 
 ; child have played the game of life badly, and there’s little help for it 
 now. But thy going to the old parson’s had no need to lead thee to 
 sin. Let thy mother say what she will, and go ahead on a wrong 
 track as she has done, he’s none the less a good man for being frigid 
 and simple. Ko! I can never see, because he ceased to teach thee, 
 ordered thee from his rooms and from his house, why it was you flung 
 yourself away. Going off as you did, with a wild and worthless lad 
 you hadn’t known above a week or two, and from that time leading a 
 life here and there of sin. I’ve had trouble in my time, things are 
 doing badly with the colliery, and I’m likely to have more; but if 
 ! I’d had thee to lean on — an honest lass — I'd ha’ done a bit to have 
 settled right, even for thee.” He spoke this in a subdued voice, and 
 with at least a show of feeling. 
 
 ’ “ I don’t believe it,” she replied with her old passionate irritation ; 
 
 ij “you’re incapable of telling, or of judging, the feelings which sent me 
 r wrong, which made me reckless of everything, or of the remorse 
 ' which at times maddens me. Like me, your daughter, you’re inca- 
 pable of good.” 
 
 “Ha! ha!” he laughed; “a sermon from Sarah; well, that’s 
 something new. But don’t let us quarrel, as we always do; telj 
 . me how are things going on up stairs?” 
 
 She shook her head curtly. 
 
 “ He must be altered, indeed, then. He was at one time a hawk 
 i whom no dove passed by. It is a pity — it spoils some of my plans ; 
 • if he’d taken a fancy to thee, it would have been a home, and, maybe, 
 ,, something more. But has he asked after me — has he wondered why 
 I was not up yesterday ? ” 
 
 ji “ Yes, he has been excessively irritable ; he says that as soon as he 
 y is better he shall make searching inquiry into the whole business 
 s of the colliery, place it in other hands, and I don’t know what. Pomp 
 ^ says he made the best of your not coming, but it was a pity you 
 didn’t.” 
 
 “ How could I? I had to bring him up fifty pounds, and I’ve not 
 : yet five towards it. The outgoings are enormous, and there has been 
 , loss by this last strike. Besides 
 
 y “Besides,” she interrupted, making a catchword of his own, as 
 P though to add to his irritation was more a pleasure than otherwise, 
 ; “ two of the pitmen have been up again asking when they can see the 
 
248 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 Squire. Pomp tried to put them ofi; but they were determined, and I 
 threatened to go up stairs uninvited, if he didn’t deliver their messa^je, I 
 As Margery would have gone, if he had not, he went, and the Squire I 
 has settled to see them next week. Greene is against it, because he I 
 fears a second fit ; but the old man will not be put ofi' from hearing ) 
 what they have to say ; and his wardrobe, which was left behind in 
 the hurry of his sickness, has been sent for.” 
 
 The agent ground his teeth. “ It is that Surly Bill and Mitchener — 
 
 I know them; it’s they that have been against truck and lower wages, 
 and dared me, over and over again, to face the master in their presence. 
 Yes, I know ’em and a lot of others that are to and fro with that fellow 
 Wenlock, to state their ‘grievances,’ as they call ’em. But d— me, I 
 don’t care for ’em ; they shall see that I am as much master now as 
 I’ve always been.” 
 
 He had stayed in his onward walk, and now stood thrusting his 
 grimy hands into the pockets of his velveteen coat with a savage 
 sort of ferocity, As indifferent to his words as to him personally, 
 though, as they stood together, the light, imperfect as it was, 
 showed a strong resemblance between them, the girl had returned 
 a few steps on her way again towards the house, when he called her 
 back. 
 
 “ Margery well behaved ? — eh ? ” 
 
 “ Pomp present.” 
 
 “ Oh ! oh ! I understand. And has treated you to no talk about 
 her ‘beloved young master’ or her ‘ dear mistress’ ? ” 
 
 “ Not a word. I’m not saint enough.” 
 
 “ True. I forgot. And how is Pomp ? — how does he take the old 
 man’s illness ?” 
 
 “Not well — he seems uneasy. It may be on account of coats and 
 waistcoats, or his perquisites, as he calls them, which have not yet come 
 to hand. With the arrival of hat-box and portmanteau his spirits will 
 return. Margery says so.” 
 
 “ The jackanapes ! — I should like to see him fastened up in 
 a band-box for ever. Self-sufficient fool as he is, he has a certain 
 sort of power with the old man, though I don’t think it is so much as 
 formerly.” 
 
 “ Pomp foolish ? ” and the girl for the first time laughed, and beat 
 her pretty foot upon the ground. “ You’re mistaken, Briscoe. He is 
 self-sufficient, arrogant, tyrannous, but not a fool. He professes to be 
 your friend — he would be your enemy to-morrow if it served his 
 purpose. He’s constant to nothing but one thing.” 
 
 “ What’s that ? ” 
 
 “ A love of saving money. He hints to me that he has a nest-egg 
 not far off, which he means to enjoy some day — he does not say when, 
 but I can guess. Of course he tells me this in confidence — the secret’s 
 unknown to Margery.” 
 
 From some reason which did not appear, the information thus care- 
 lessly imparted by the girl seemed to exgite the agent’s keenest 
 curiosity and interest* 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 249 
 
 I “A time ago, when I had to send old Thornhill three hundred 
 (pounds by a certain day, I asked him to lend me five pounds, and he 
 I said he hadn’t it to spare. What little they had — meaning himself 
 i and Margery — was known to her, and he should not dare to touch it. 
 I Of course I did not ask her — the ‘ dear young master’s friend ’ — 
 
 * though I’ve learnt since, that there are a few pounds in the county 
 i bank.” 
 
 i “ A few — a mere blind to Margery — he has told me this in confi- 
 idence. He has hinted, too, that his hoard is ready at a minute’s 
 
 i warning, if — she did not close her sentence, but added, with 
 
 unmitigated scorn of voice and manner, “ the doting simpleton, as if I 
 t would share — whom everybody is pleased to call false and heartless — 
 i the companionship of such a man in any way.” She beat again her 
 '• slender foot upon the ground, and poured out these last words, as she 
 f had done all the rest, with a reckless volubility as characteristic of her 
 : impulsive nature as of utter contempt of the persons and things of 
 which she spoke. To one unversed in the profounder idiosyncrasies 
 ; of human nature, this woman would have appeared a monstrous com- 
 f bination of faithlessness, heartlessness, and weak impulsiveness ; but 
 ^ even here was hidden a spark of the divine — carefully hidden, tenderly 
 I cherished — the only light upon her ocean of present time — where all 
 else was wreck and desolation ! 
 
 She had paused some moments, and now she added, “ I must go, or 
 Mrs. Precise will be waiting tea, and Pomp in one of his atrocious 
 moods. If I go up stairs what shall I say ? ” 
 
 The man had been absorbed for some time in a cogitation of his 
 ! own, from which her question aroused him. 
 
 “ Yes, go ! I must be on to the cottage, to see what she has been 
 doing. Tell the old man that we’ve been desperate busy at the pits 
 and furnace ; but that I’ll be up to-morrow night at latest.^ 
 i He moved sullenly and thoughtfully away as he spoke — without a 
 'I single word of farewell. She did the same ; and in their profound 
 \ indiff'erence of each other, they were strangers rather than kindred. 
 Entering the house by a door, opening into the servants’ hall, the girl 
 encountered Margery, as she bore a tray from the large kitchen near 
 , at hand into the housekeeper’s room. Already had Margery been 
 i within it — roused up the fire, brought the kettle, spread with much 
 ft neatness the sundry delicacies of a country meal of that sort ; and 
 now, with the tea prepared, she sat down. Pomp, with his leg on a 
 ?! rest, for he was inclined to be gouty, leant back in his chair, and eyed 
 j his shadowy wife with harsh malignity. Her ordinary easy-chair had 
 been given up to the girl’s use ever since she came ; but now, to 
 ;■} show off his power, or gratify a passing whim, he bid his wife rise. 
 
 “ Give her that cushion ; she don’t sit soft enough.” Sarah said 
 i she did, but Pomp must carry on his whim. 
 
 f “ You don’t, my dear — this faded old flower of mine would set you 
 Aon a deal board if she could. Hallo! it ain’t nice enough yet. 
 I Margery, do you hear me ? Get her another cushion. Don’t dawdle, 
 [j pr it shall be the worse for you ! ” 
 
250 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 The much-enduring woman had already given up the cushion off 
 her own chair, with meek unrepiningness. Now, as mechanically 
 obedient as before, she fetched a cushion from a distant sola, and 
 with her own hand arranged it on the girl’s chair. ^ ^ -d 
 
 This done, there was a few minutes’ peace, during which romp 
 put the top crusts of the hot cake on to his wife’s plate, and heaped 
 the soft buttered interior on to that of the girl, with sickening epi- 
 thets of “my love” and “my dear.” His conduct was enough to 
 arouse indignation in any honest breast, yet it excited in that oi 
 
 the girl. There she sat, laughing and jesting with the parasite 
 opposite to her, as though the wife were a stock or stone. ^ But 
 Margery made no show of resentment, but bore it, as sinners in old 
 days bore heavy human penance, as atonement for evil done. Verily, 
 if she had sinned, the cross she bore was heavy— the gall and worm- 
 wood rarely from her lips. Yet, if this was her outer life, she had an 
 inner one of faith, of hope, of love as well, made all the more 
 intense by secrecy, by suffering, by utter abnegation of • 
 
 . . . .11 .11 -TnacsVi r»onao nr ntrp 
 
 Rioting in his ill-will. Pomp soon found cause of offence. 
 
 •n’t you give Sarah more cream ? If I didn t look 
 
 after 
 
 “you’re saving for 
 But get it, 
 
 “Why don „ j — - 
 you, you’d treat a visitor like an African nigger 
 More cream was given. 
 
 “ Why ain’t apricot jam got ? ” 
 
 “ There is but little left,” was the meek reply. 
 
 “Which I suppose,” he added, with a sneer, ^ 
 the dear young master — as most other things are saved. 
 
 I say.” 
 
 “ It’s on the top shelf of the press. , , , , , i 
 
 “No matter. If it was at the top of the church steeple, she 
 should have it. Come, I’ll have the girl treated handsomely, or you 
 shall suffer ” He rapped the woman across the hands with the handle 
 of a knife as he spoke; and she, obedient and uncomplaining, rose at 
 once. They saw her fetch in a set of heavy steps, climb up, not 
 without danger, to the top of a very high press— brin^ down the jam 
 
 drag the steps away again — all this without an offer of assistance, : 
 
 or word of comment. 
 
 Just as the jam was set upon the table, a bell rung. 
 
 “There, Sarah, there’s a job for you,” said Pomp; “if master^ 
 asks after me, you can say I’m at tea.” i 
 
 She rose reluctantly — as might be seen — and, without a_ word,' 
 crossed the room to an old-fashioned mirror. There adjusting her 
 cap and collar with coquettish grace, she hurried presently away,, 
 ascendino- a wide well-lighted staircase— entered the sick man s room.j 
 It was more like a study or parlour than an ordinary bed-chamber ; 
 and by the fire, in an easy chair sat the sick man. Several dogs were! 
 croucLdon the hearth-rug at his feet, and newspapers and writinp 
 materials were on a table beside him, but unemployed with these Ik 
 leant drowsily in his chair, unconscious, as it seemed, of the girls 
 entrance till she spoke. Then he raised his head, and looked at her 
 with a haughty and severe countenance. It could be at no time a 
 
mainstone’s hoxjsekeepee. 
 
 251 
 
 pleasant face, handsome as in youth and prime it must have been ; 
 but now, sickness and diseased thoughts and loneliness, gave to it an 
 expression of severity and pride that would have awed any ordinary 
 woman, but not so this girl. 
 
 “ I rang for Pomp,” was his haughty and laconic answer. 
 
 “ He is at tea. Sir.” 
 
 “ I will wait till he can come.” 
 
 At such reply any servant would have withdrawn, but Sarah drew 
 nearer to the table. 
 
 “Would you not take something, Sir? Mrs. Pomp is anxious to 
 learn.” 
 
 “ I will communicate my wishes to my valet.” 
 
 Then, as if to close all pretext for further conversation, he took 
 up a newspaper, and held it as though to read ; still unbaffled, and 
 affectedly serene, she stayed to stir the fire, to put on fresh coals, to 
 light the candles, which stood placed ready on a side table — effecting 
 each of these little offices with an exquisite grace, that was none the 
 less so for being a wily act. At last, when all pretext for remaining 
 ceased, she withdrew to the door, but there a question momentarily 
 stayed her. 
 
 “ Has anything been heard of Briscoe ? ” 
 
 “ He has sent a message. Sir, to say that he will be with you as 
 soon as possible. Some time to-morrow, I think.” 
 
 ■ “ I suppose so. But these things shall be looked to. You can go.” 
 
 When she had regained the housekeeper’s room, she found that 
 during her brief absence the carrier who plied between the railway 
 station and adjacent villages had arrived, bringing with him sundry 
 iportmanteaus and travelling-cases. He had been paid; and now, 
 drinking a mug of ale, sat talking with Margery ; whilst Pomp, fully 
 9 intent on the newly-arrived wardrobe, had dragged the packages into 
 fan adjacent room, the door of which was left ajar, and now, un- 
 Idocking and unfastening straps, hurried to satisfy his longing thirst 
 iifor spoil. His constantly reiterated complaint was “that his per- 
 , quisites growcd less and less ; ” and now, like a man who hurries to 
 face the worst of fortune, he dived into the packages with ludicrous 
 haste. From the place where Sarah sat finishing her tea, she could 
 rsee the old valet at his work of inspection ; and at another time his 
 peaking bird-like curiosity would have been a source of great amuse- 
 ment, but that her attention was now riveted by the topic of conver- 
 sation between Margery and the old carrier. It related to the 
 ' Kectory, its master, and the housekeeper. 
 
 “Mr. Radnor is a deal better, and coming home in wonderful 
 : spirits, so I hear,” said the kindly old man, with whom the gentle- 
 hearted parson was a great favourite ; “ and so he ought, for it isn’t 
 I every man who turns away from a house of ruin, to find it right and 
 bright when he comes back again.” 
 
 ' “It isn’t indeed,” replied Margery, with a sigh ; “but Mr. Radnor 
 
 f ds a good man, and deserves it all, Yes ! the change is great, I 
 ihear,” 
 
252 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 “ It is indeed. It is wonderful what a lot of boxes and goods IVe 
 carted up there. Jordan the bailiff was kind enough to take me all 
 over the house and grounds the other day. New floors, new ceilings, 
 rooms added. Mr. Kadnor’s study used to be a nicish sort of place, 
 for I’ve been in it ; but you should see it now. It’s been moved 
 more to the left, and opens into the garden through a beautiful green- 
 house, where he can walk up and down in wet weather, and friends 
 come and go without entering the house.” 
 
 The girl sat listening all the time — more and more earnestly. 
 
 “ I, for one, shall be glad enough when he is back again,” said 
 Margery ; “ for his preaching is a comfort to me, which I sadly miss. 
 
 I don’t like Mr. Walcot or his curates ; their sermons are barren 
 things to poor scholars like me, and to sorrow-laden hearts like mine. 
 So I haven’t cared much to go to church of late ; and, indeed. I’ve 
 had no time since master’s been home and ill ; but the first Sunday 
 the dear gentleman preaches, I shall be in my old place. I suppose 
 you don’t know when that will be ? ” 
 
 “ Sunday week I should think ; that’s the middle of November, 
 you see, and he’s anxious to get home. Everything’s nigh finished in 
 the house, and the servants up there. Nothing but the missis to be 
 there now. Eh ! dear, and she’s a nice one ! ” 
 
 “ So I hear from all but a few,” said Margery, with evident mean- 
 ing, though her looks and manner implied no special intent ; “ and 
 those are too worthless to have their words cared for. I can’t say 
 myself that I know much of her, for I’ve only seen her at church a 
 time or two, but I liked what I saw. A real lady in look and manner, 
 and a generous and true one. I’m told.” 
 
 “Ay, indeed! ’Lisha and Jordan, and Molly, all say that there 
 never was her like. A real lady ! — for you see me and the Horton 
 Wood station-master got enough from a servant as came in care of a 
 lot of nicely-packed goods from Oxford— to inake it pretty clear— 
 thou«’li I fancy he’d been guarded like to say little — that she was the 
 niec^ of a learned Master of some Oxford college or another, who 
 died a bit ago, and left her all his fortune. She lived with the old 
 man up till the day of his death; and he kept her bare like, for he| 
 was miserly — but she’s amends enough now, in money and farms and | 
 places o’ that kind. The man did say where, but I’ve a bad head for 
 names ; one farm, however, was in Sussex, by the sea.” 
 
 “ Dear me ! ” spoke Margery, with some surprise ; “ but then it is 
 only the noble and generous who could have come to set right such a 
 home of squalor as it was.” 
 
 “ They do say why she did this was because Mr. Had nor was once| 
 her tutor like. Now they add that she’ll marry him. ^ He’s a bit old, | 
 to be sure ; but then, as Jordan always says, the missis is generous 
 enough for anything.” 
 
 “If I may speak by what I know of Mr. Kadnor’s goodness to 
 others,” said Margery, with tear-dimmed eyes, “ he is deserving of 
 such a wife. The worthy to the worthy, I say? and God s love be 
 
AiAINStONE’s HOUSEEEEl»i}R. 
 
 ^53 
 
 She rose, wiping her gentle tears, for the old man moved to go. 
 
 I The girl had been listening all the time — had risen — had beaten 
 her airy foot upon the ground — and now, with compressed lips, hectic 
 ' cheek, hands locked into each other, a gaze that was as fixed as 
 ' though her eyes were stone, showed what she felt and suffered. 
 
 As indiscreet in her show of angry passion as in all else, she now 
 pushed her chair back, swung herself across the room, and, dashing 
 the door to behind her, was gone. 
 
 The carrier looked after her. 
 
 “ That’s that woman. Jack’s girl, ain’t it ? — why’s she here ? ” 
 
 , “ I’m not master,” sighed Margery. 
 
 ! “ God pity thee, missis ! ” said the old man ; “ thou hast sorrow 
 enough. But look up — there is a Father above us all.” 
 
 “ I do, indeed, for forgiveness as well as pity.” 
 
 When he was gone, Margery began to clear the table, but her 
 husband in a wrathful voice soon interrupted her. 
 
 “ Come here ! Why ain’t you been attending to me instead of to 
 .that old fellow ? I tell you what, you hag, you grow worse and 
 '.worse. Look here — only seven coats, thirteen waistcoats, ten pairs of 
 trowsers, a dozen and a-half of shirts, three wigs — I say — as I’ve 
 
 been saying a good while — that that d d old sinner up stairs ain’t 
 
 worth waiting on. lUo perquisites now-a-days. What’s more, as 
 |,Mr. Greene says, he’s coming to dotage and dressing-gowns, pretty 
 .Jfast.” 
 
 g “ Hush, Pomp ! for the sake of common decency, hush ! ” 
 
 , “ You dare to say that to me, you ” 
 
 He followed up his opprobrious epithet with a blow from a slipper 
 ^he was holding in his hand. But the word, not the blow, was, without 
 doubt, the iron which entered her soul. She moved away, trembling 
 j.from head to foot, as one so stricken, times and oft before. 
 
 The wretched old tyrant’s further proceedings were stayed by the 
 violent ringing of his master’s bell. Throwing down an armful of 
 '^waistcoats with a curse, he hurried to answer it. But in the brief 
 j interval of time which it took to ascend to his master’s room, a 
 ^ change, like one arising from a necromancer’s art, passed over him. 
 ^Now as fawning as a dog, as supple as a snake, as gallant as a French 
 dancing-master of the old school, he glided into the room, and thence 
 noiselessly to his master’s chair. 
 
 I “Beg many pardons, Sir; I was employed with the carrier — 
 
 I Margery did not tell me.” 
 
 i ^ “I wish you’d be honest enough to bear your own sins,” was the 
 irritable answer ; “ I want to go to bed.” 
 
 I “ Do you. Sir ? I’m afraid you feel worse. Ay, dear me — this is 
 ; a real grief to your attached servant.” 
 
 And with this Pomp heaved so heavy a aSgh, as to sound like the 
 ^ exhaustion of a blacksmith’s pair of bellows. He then, in a state of 
 potent grief, as was evinced by snuffles, sighs, and lugubrious wails, 
 ^jwheeled a small iron bedstead from a distant part of the room nearer 
 jthe fire, and assisted his master thereinto. During this process, not a 
 
254 MAINSTONE’s HOtJSEKEEPEa. t 
 
 word passed between master and servant ; but as the old man lay 
 down he said: — 
 
 “ Tomp, I do not know what to think of Briscoe.” 
 
 The valet, too, as a matter of course, did not know what to think. 
 He never set sail in this region with remark or aiiswer to question, 
 till he saw which way the wind veered. 
 
 I know there are those,” continued Mr. Thornhill, “ who would 
 have guarded me long ago against his plausibility ; but I turned a 
 deaf ear to what they said. Now, however, I begin to think that 
 their insinuations were not without foundation. This evasion of all 
 inquiry iiito the state of the colliery, and, indeed, of the property in 
 general, is, to say the least, singular ; whilst the difficulty he makes 
 in attending to my slightest pecuniary call is certainly a fact for grave 
 suspicion.” 
 
 Pomp’s answer was in unison — “ It certainly is. Sir.” 
 
 Yet, till recently, and till he began to know definitively what the 
 Squire as yet only slightly suspected, he had aided, even if indirectly, 
 this rascal to extend" his power, because hoping thereby to secure 
 advantage to himself. 
 
 ‘‘Well,” said the old man, determinately, “there shall soon be 
 an end to doubt. Let Greene demur as he will, I will see the 
 deputation of colliers in the coming week — that is to say, if 
 
 The sentence was broken here, and a looking-glass called for. 
 
 Pomp brought a hand -mirror of strong magnifying power to the 
 bed, and held it before his master’s face. The paralytic stroke from 
 which the old man had recently suffered, had more or less smitten his 
 right side, face, arm, and leg, but no part so conspicuously as his 
 face. It had passed upwards through the right jaw with wither- 
 ing power, contorting the nerves and flesh into deformity ; and 
 though in the time which had now elapsed since the stroke fell, and 
 through the remedies applied, the effects were less conspicuous than 
 at first, still enough contortion of the right jaw remained to be a 
 source of grave annoyance to him who had hitherto made selfish 
 worship of his personal appearance, and striven to erase the effects 
 of old age by all the aids of art. Partly from this reason, therefore, 
 and partly through the persuasion of Briscoe, in the two interviews he 
 had with him since his return home, Mr. Thornhill had as yet refused 
 to see a deputation of his colliers, or indeed anyone except his 
 surgeon ; but now, incensed and anxious, his purpose changed. 
 
 “ I think. Pomp, the twist on this side the mouth is less ? ” 
 
 “Wonderfully less,” replied Pomp, drawing back with a stoop to 
 contemplate the reflection of his master’s mouth in the mirror, as a 
 painter at his easel an efiect in his picture— “ wonderfully less! 
 
 nearly gone ! ” i i 
 
 “ No, Pomp — no, not gone, but modified ; and I think if the men 
 are kept to the left of me, and not brought too near, the defect may 
 
 pass unobserved.” ^ ^ i t 
 
 “ Quite so. Sir ; and if. Sir, I just aid the pallor of the cheek 
 slightly— just slightly, why ” and Pomp rubbed his hands and 
 
MAtNSTONE^S HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 255 
 
 cTiuckled, as though it were best not to even whisper the lighter 
 mysteries of his valet’s art. 
 
 ‘‘ As you please, Pomp,” smiled the Squire ; “ though if I could 
 sit the saddle. I’d soon have healthy looks again ; but with wig, teeth, 
 and a loose coat, why ” 
 
 “ Wig, Sir ! ” returned Pomp, confidentially, “now, do you really 
 think. Sir, that anyone in the lot we possess is quite the thing ? 
 
 * Suppose, now, we were to send up to Truefitt for ” 
 
 “ Truefitt ! ” interrupted the Squire, a little angrily — “ why, two of 
 the wigs are perfectly new — one has never been worn.” 
 
 ‘ Pomp drew in the feeler put forth for prey. 
 
 “ Beg pardon. Sir — beg pardon. I have not yet unpacked, and so 
 am ignorant. Of course. Sir, the wig you mention will do beauti- 
 fully ; the coat I’ll see to ; but you’re exhausted. Sir — lie down ! ” 
 
 He was indeed exhausted — looking more like one ready for the 
 grave than for tricking forth in absurdities alike irreverent to his sex 
 and age, as to the solemn spot on which he stood on the shore of the 
 Eternal Ocean. But solemn things had never taught this heartless, 
 selfish man ! 
 
 Pomp covered him up, gave him his medicine, and by-and-by 
 ‘ brought him wine and arrowroot, which he could not touch, but 
 only asked to be left undisturbed, so that he might try and sleep. 
 
 Intent upon his own business, the valet retired to take fresh inspec- 
 tion of the new-come wardrobe till supper-time. After this, which 
 : he took in sulky silence, he smoked his customary pipe and went to 
 bed, leaving to Margery the drudgery of clearing away and seeing to 
 ^ the safety of the house. But she, poor soul ! was well content. It 
 was her only time for peace, for self-communion, for prayer ! When 
 all was done, she renewed her fire, swept her hearth — sat down — still- 
 ‘ ness and solitude were to her the sanctities which made her otherwise 
 ^ most weary life endurable. 
 
 Of the girl they saw nothing further that night, and neither sought 
 nor made inquiry after her. They were now both so accustomed to 
 ' her irascible temper and wayward proceedings, as to be surprised by 
 neither ; and presuming that she was shut up in the room which had 
 ^ been assigned to her, and wherein she passed a good deal of her 
 . time, or that she was gone out upon some errand of her own, her 
 absence excited no surprise. 
 
 At a late hour Margery went up to bed. As was her habit, the last 
 thing she stepped lightly into her master’s room to see if he needed 
 anything ; for though Pomp usually waited upon him, and his manner 
 to her, generally speaking, was reserved and distant, still hers was the 
 watchful ear and eye which ministered indirectly to his many needs. 
 She found him turning wearily in his bed, weak, feverish, and very 
 ; ill. 
 
 “I am glad you are come, Margery,” he said, with an unusual 
 degree of kindness in his voice and words. “ I’ve been listening for 
 ' your coming up stairs for a long time. The hours are very weary 
 
 * “When we are ill.** 
 
256 Mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 “They are indeed, Sir. Can I get you anything — shall I call 
 Pomp, Sir ? ” 
 
 “ No, no ! Margery. Sit down. Stir the fire. I am drowsy, 
 though I cannot sleep : with someone near me, I may perhaps do 
 so.” 
 
 She obeyed him. She shaded, with a little screen, the bright light 
 of the newly-stirred fire from his face : still he turned and turned, 
 and moaned heavily. 
 
 “ Sitting up so far into the night, Margery, do not you find the 
 hours weary ? ” spoke Mr. Thornhill presently, 
 
 “ I should indeed,” she said^ with changed utterance, “ for, as you 
 know, I have sinned — though long repented of— though long suffered 
 for — but that, seeking pity and forgiveness from above, I forget all 
 else. I read and pray, and gather thence a comfort which the world 
 cannot take away. These hours are never weary — they are almost 
 the only happy ones I have.” 
 
 Mr. Thornhill made no immediate reply ; only turned again heavily 
 and wearily on his bed. At last he spoke again. 
 
 “ Bead to me a little, Margery ; though I fear that, unlike you, I 
 am no contrite sinner. But read a little — a chapter or a psalm — it 
 will lull, if it does no more.” 
 
 In her simple faith — in her earnest belief that that which afforded 
 her divine consolation would do the same to the still hard, selfish, and 
 impenitent man, she stepped gently from the room. She had left a 
 light burning on a table in the gallery, and, taking this, she was about 
 to go downstairs to fetch her Bible, when some other intent crossed 
 her brain. She immediately retraced her steps along the gallery to a 
 distant chamber-door, took from her pocket a bright key, enclosed in 
 a little bag or case, and with this entered the room, with a footfall so 
 light and reverent, as to be as one approaching the dead, or the cradle 
 of a sleeping child. 
 
 The room was a large bed-chamber — the bed curtainless, the bed- 
 ding enclosed in careful wrappers. All else was almost as though it 
 had^ been used yesterday, with the addition of many things brought 
 hither from drawing-room and summer parlour. A harp, a music- 
 stool, a frame of needlework, a favourite chair, a footstool, a work- 
 table, rare china, pictures and easel, and countless other things and 
 niceties for a lady’s use. The articles which more especially belonged 
 to the room seemed as though only left yesterday. The toilet was 
 almost as daintily arranged : on the floor stood slippers and shoes ; on 
 the chairs were cast riding-hat, whip, dressing-gown,^ gloves. No 
 dust had accumulated — no moth rioted. It was plain to see that 
 Margery attended to this room with patient care, with loving faith. 
 
 As so she did ; for it was to her in her deep penitence a sanctuary, j 
 a holy of holies. Here she felt that she came into the presence of 
 her dead mistress— the mistress against whom she had sinned — the 
 mistress whose confidence and warm affection she had so heartlessly 
 betrayed. And she came as a conscious sinner treads sacred ground. 
 
 Born and bred in Mrs. Thornhill’s native village— a pupil in her 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 257 
 
 ; scbool — Margery had accompanied the gentle lady on her marriage a5 
 ■j maid to Mainstone. For a long time she was faithful and innocent ; 
 ,, but at last the insidious arts of her master prevailed. For months 
 ; before Mrs. Thornhill’s death she was his mistress ; and leaving the 
 i bedside of the sick lady, or the cradle of his son, met the husband 
 \ and father in the shadows of the surrounding woods. To her mistress 
 
 * she was Judas betraying with a kiss. But retribution soon came. 
 In a month after Mrs. Thornhiirs death she was as much an object 
 
 ■ of indifference as before of desire. She was dismissed with a small 
 gratuity ; but her recal was soon necessitated. The little son whom 
 
 i she had nursed, whom she loved with passionate tenderness — separa- 
 ' tion from whom had been as death itself — pined after her — refused all 
 j tenderness of others ; so a compromise was made. She was recalled ; 
 j and to give her a place in the household — to smooth appearances — to 
 -■ hide the past — Pomp, at a hint, and with a douceur from, his master, 
 repeated an offer he had previously made. Much as she disliked the 
 I man — well as she knew he was a tyrant, and suspected him to be a 
 
 * knave — she accepted him, rather than be separated from the child. 
 ■From this hour of her marriage her life had been one long redemp- 
 tion. Deeply, growingly conscious of her errors, willing to atone, 
 
 \ faithful to her brutal husband, inexpressibly loving and watchful over 
 the child entrusted to her care, dutiful and trusty to him who was 
 
 * now in all honour her master, her life from day to day was a noble 
 ^ expiation of the past. Merciless to herself in her ruthless self-sub- 
 ^ jection, seeking neither pity nor pardon from her own self-love — 
 ^ willing to make her expiation life-long, if need there were — she 
 
 ' accepted the bitterness of her lot unrepiningly, and bowed in sub- 
 ^ mission to the base tyranny to which she was a slave. 
 
 ^ Her services in Mr. Thornhill’s household had been those of great 
 y utility. She knew the secrets of the past — she could govern indi- 
 ^rectly present things. Intelligent and painstaking, she was as good a 
 housekeeper as a wife. Indeed, she had effected a solemn service 
 
 ■ that no other woman could. She had kept pure the daily life of his 
 ^ child. By her, more than by all other things, Ellis Thornhill was 
 ' made the man he was. When his father’s house was filled with 
 
 ‘ worthless women, the sultanas of an hour, she it was that kept him 
 ■from their society — even their sight. She it was, knowing what 
 impurity was, who guarded all the avenues of his boyish senses. She 
 ^ it was who first roused in him an antagonism to his father’s sensual 
 ^ life. Verily, if Margery had sinned against the mother, full and holy 
 ^ had been her redemption in the divine love she had showed towards 
 ' the child. 
 
 None but a gifted mind could estimate this love, or the unexpected 
 channels of her deep penitence. Everything which might be useful 
 r to Ellis was preserved — everything which had belonged to his mother 
 f was sacred. She it was who had removed Mrs. Thornhill’s little 
 personal property to the room just mentioned — the room in which the 
 vipoor lady died. This room no worthless foot had ever entered. The 
 ] queens of the hour had roamed the house — here they had found no 
 ^ 17 
 
258 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 entrance ; Marirerj had guarded its precincts with something ap- 
 proaching ferocity. She dusted it — she took care of it; in more 
 solemn moments, when crushed by insult and cruelty, she came here 
 and humbly asked to let the cup be taken from her lips. For tlie 
 rest, it never should be opened till her dear young master brought 
 home a wife as tender and as spotless as the one who had been its 
 occupant so long before. Then its door should stand wide, and life 
 give place to death. 
 
 Taking some little book of devotion off a table near the bed, 
 Margery relocked her sanctuary, and returned to her master’s room. 
 Here she sat down, holding the book by the candle, he watching her 
 acutely as she did so. Just as she was opening it, Mr. Thornhill 
 seemed to recognize it, and, putting fortli his hand, took it. As 
 he turned its leaves, some withered flowers fell out — blossoms 
 gathered many springs before. He replaced them with a reverent 
 and tender hand, and his changed utterance gave some sign that his 
 feelings were a little stirred. 
 
 “ Poor Lucy — -poor Lucy ! ” he said, as he gave back the book ; 
 “ she was a good and gentle lady, and I should have been happier 
 now, perhaps, had I acted more in honour towards her. At times 
 the thought smites me like a sharpened sword. Ay, well, we’ve all, 
 I suppose, some ghost of the past to tread upon our heels ! Read a 
 little, Margery — read in a low voice — it will soothe and lull me. It 
 is very good of you to have been thus so careful of what belonged 
 to your mistress.” 
 
 As he bid her, she read — but more moved than he was, her 
 tears fell down as she read on. At last he slept. She then re- 
 newed the fire, stole softly forth, replaced the book, and went to 
 bed. 
 
 The last up, she was the first to rise. Poor drudge as she was, she 
 had all the household work to do, as well as her tyrant’s breakfast to 
 prepare by an early hour. Yet she did not repine. She went about 
 with a quick foot, lighting the kitchen fire, unbarring the shutters, 
 and going from time to time into a little china closet, the window of 
 which looked towards the woods. By-and-by she went to see how 
 Mr. Thornhill was, and found him quietly sleeping. She made his 
 fire, returned back to the kitchen, and so to the closet again. 
 
 Her patience was presently rewarded. Just as the sun stole forth 
 and lay obliquely on the woods, the servant in the grey suit stood by 
 the window. She opened it gently. 
 
 “Master looks better this morning, and is still asleep,” she said. 
 
 Then in turn she asked questions. 
 
 “ Yes ; the dear little lady is happy enough, you may be sure ; but 
 she must go to-morrow.” 
 
 “ Poor darling ! I suppose so ; and the dear young master, how is 
 he ?” 
 
 There was but a hurried and whispered answer, for Pomp could be 
 heard coming down the back stairs ; in a minute more he called 
 out*— 
 
MAIN stone's housekeeper. 
 
 259 
 
 “ INTargcry, wliere are you? Come, be quick! — broil the ham — 
 boil the eirns, and ” 
 
 She had to obey — but as she went forth through the door, the sun 
 streiimed down upon her : her hopes were in the future — her heart 
 was glad ! 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 STROKE THE SECOND. 
 
 At the rear of his largest smithy, Richard W enlock had a little den 
 or counting-house, wherein he kept his ledgers, paid wages, and 
 transacted all the ordinary business of his trade. Here he was sitting 
 on a cold Xovember morning, the pages of figures before him but 
 dimly visible in as much of the foggy yellowish light as could struggle 
 through the grimy little window, when a door at his back suddenly 
 opening, the intense glare of the adjacent smithy fire illumined the 
 room. 
 
 “ If you please. Sir,” said a bare-armed smith, coming forward, “ the 
 men that are going up to Mainstone, to speak to Squire Thornhill, be 
 here, and would like to see you.” 
 
 How many ? ” 
 
 “ There’s twenty. Sir.” 
 
 “ Let four come in, Sam — the room will hold no more ” 
 
 Four poor fellows plodded in, their faces reddened by the chill mist 
 which hung over everything outdoors. They were depressed and 
 haggard-looking— not even the prospect of seeing the master for 
 whom they wrought had given cheeriness to their looks. He that 
 was to be spokesman wore a coat — a poor tattered garment— the rest 
 the short smock-frock habitual to the collier. A little of every-day 
 grime had been washed from their hands and faces ; their rough hair 
 liad been a little smoothed — this was all of holiday appearance they 
 had. Wenlock rose, stood by the little fire-place, his kindly, stead- 
 fast gaze being a welcome in itself ; and he stood there in his great 
 stature, his manly presence, his visible-shining intellect, a king who 
 touched their souls. They feared, yet loved, the man ; he was no 
 master of theirs, but they had had much evidence that he was 
 wise, and wisdom is the elec trie -chain which binds man to brother 
 man. 
 
 “ Well, friends,” he said, with his loud, cheery voice, “ I’m glad to 
 17-^2 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 2t)0 
 
 see you ; though, if you even succeed in seeing Mr. Thornhill, I fear 
 any great result. Were he the sort of man to listen to your plea with 
 patient care, it would stand to reason that the grievance you complain 
 of would scarcely exist. Still some good may arise— I sincerely hope 
 it will. If no other advantage be gained, it may be one that you 
 confront Briscoe face to face with Mr. Thornhill.” ^ ^ 
 
 “ That’s what we think, Sir,” said the spokesman ; “ for it am t by 
 Ben’s own deed we see the maister at all— he’d put it off, as he s done 
 times and oft afore, but it’s the maister’s own will this time. Mr 
 Greene, the doctor, brought his message to us, named the day, and 
 said he warn’t to be put off by anyone. From what we hear, Mr. 
 Thornhill begins to think things be going wrong. Up to a bit ago, 
 Ben kept his payments to the Squire pretty well, let what else fall 
 behind; but this be’ ant so now. We hear he s bin harrying about 
 the country to make up three hunder’ pounds the maister s wanting, 
 but he caA Then yo see, Sir, the canal folks ha’ stopped bringing 
 up lime ; so if there ain’t a change pretty soon, the furnace blast 
 must go, and that ain’t bin out now for two-and-twenty year. 
 What’s worse. Sir, he’s back with many on us — and that, yo know. 
 
 Sir, bespeaks bare backs and hungry bellies.” 
 
 “I really cannot think, much as I know of these mattere, said 
 Richard, earnestly, “ how such a state of things has been brought 
 about Mr. Thornhill’s own expenses have, through a series of years, 
 been large, I am aware, and a good deal of money has been otherwise 
 wrongly spent ; but still, the pits are amongst the best in the neigh- 
 bourhood, and the Mainstone estate large and productive. 
 
 “ It may be a puzzler to thee. Sir, who be an honest mon ; but 
 folks, o’ late, ha’ bin a puttin’ one bit o’ knowledge to another, and so, 
 yo see, ha’ got it pretty clear o’ their heads. Why, Ben borrowed a 
 deal— and at a sight more interest than the Squire ever know d of — 
 to fi<^ht that there trial with Joel Breere. Then, yo see, he spec lated 
 in railways, thinkin’, I s’pose, to make a fortin, and got oomd on 
 when the smash o’ some on ’em came. Then there s bin that fine 
 house o’ hisn’s, and the new butty-shop, ^d many other evil ways o 
 spendin’ money as don’t belong to him. But one thing s clearer than 
 all th’ rest. He now don’t seem to care how soon rum come, so ta 
 be wide enough to take in all o’ them as’ll have to sufler. There wur 
 a time when, grind as he might, he seem d to like keepin things 
 pretty straight,^ but now ta’be difi’rent. It be said— I dont know 
 how true ta’be— that he’s found out a somethin , or maybe he s aiming 
 at the young maister’s rights — the Lord knows . * i r 
 
 “hZi” fpoke Richard, quickly, “what is it he’s suspected of 
 
 ^”“Tcanna say. Sir ; he rides about a deal, and in old Betty Jack’s 
 time it wur to Mainstone Rectory, but no’ o late he s been seen 
 about the old Abbey and Street End House. One o my Lord Duke s 
 pit folks— as has a brother a keeper— tell’d us he goes into th woods 
 L though to look for timber ; but the squire s old park— as you well 
 know. Sir— ha’ trees as fine as any about St. John s. 
 
mainstone’s houseeeepee. 
 
 261 
 
 “ Certainly,” spoke Wenlock, lightly, and with an evident view of 
 changing the topic ; “ but to speculate upon this man’s motives is 
 loss of time. From certain points where business may lead him, his 
 way through the woods is the nearest to the hall.” 
 
 “ I don’t know. Sir — I don’t know much about them parts. Least- 
 ways, he’s sure enough to go there, besides the Squire, with the old 
 missis hard by, and that girl of his at the hall.” 
 
 “ What girl ? ” asked Wenlock, with ^eat surprise. 
 
 “ Didn’t you know, Sir, that lass of his by old Missis Jack. She 
 wur a deal up at the Rectory at one time, for the old woman minded 
 her to be a lady and the parson’s wife ; but it didn’t do — the parson 
 wur proof agin her wiles. Briscoe sent her away to a good sort o’ 
 place, but she went off and did badly. After that she wur about 
 Welton, and then at Halliford with Doctor Greene. Now, she’s at 
 the hall as servant to the Squire, the old val-let said ; but she’d be 
 more a hindrance than a help to Margery, I’d say, wi’ her fine dress 
 and pert manners. She wur as saucy to us the day we went as 
 though we was dirt beneath her shoes.” 
 
 Wenlock was greatly moved by this latter information; for he 
 was a man of high principle and pure morals— even to asceticism. 
 
 “ Is it possible,” he said, sternly, “ that they are dealing in this way 
 with the stricken man — desecrating his house and his last days with 
 an associate of this sort ? It is absolutely sickening, if only in regard 
 to his name and the honour of his son. Pomp has always been vile, 
 but from Margery I expected better things.” 
 
 “ Poor thing, she’s nought i’ th’ house, as you mun know. Sir ; and 
 Pomp, it’s said, treats her dreadful. But now we're talking o’ this 
 
 f al, Morgan’s a word to say to yo. Sir.” The spokesman lifted up 
 is finger, and one of the smock-frocked colliers came forwards. He 
 touched his forelock respectfully, said something about “ axing 
 pardon,” and, lifting up his frock, produced a canvas bag, and from it 
 ' the piece of shawl fringe which Wenlock had given to him on that 
 , night of return from Welton. 
 
 “ Speaking o’ this lass. Sir,” he said, “ what ha’ corn’d to hearing at 
 Carter’s shop, and this not longer ago than a day or so loike, fixes 
 , that there bis’niss o’ the stone-throwing on her or the old missis as 
 wur ousted out o’ Mainstone Rectory. The shawl wur one sold at 
 ^ Carter’s shop to Betty Jack, but the missis’s sister as sold it to the 
 ^ old woman wur away in a distant sheer seeing some folk o’ her’n, and 
 wurn’t back till a bit ago. But directly soever they ax’d her, she 
 V know’d the fringe, and recollected selling the shawl, and that it wur 
 the only one on its sort Carter’s folks ever had. They know’d it the 
 ^ better fur it’s being ow’d fur a mighty long toime, and wur paid fur 
 at last by Briscoe ; more nor thisn’s, my missis ax’d some Welton 
 ^ folks, and they’d seen this Sally Jack in’t mony toimes.” 
 
 ' As was evident by his compressed lips and stern countenance, 
 ^Wenlock was much moved by what he thus heard; but he said 
 j simply, and as though to himself rather than to others, “ And this 
 girl they have got at Mainstone ? ” 
 
262 
 
 mainstone’s housekeepee. 
 
 “ Ay, Sir, and tlie sooner she wur got shut on the better for all con- 
 sarned,” interrupted the spokesman ; “ for though yo see. Sir, seeing 
 all the trouble yo took at the toime, it might be hard to fix this 
 matter on her more than on a t’other body, still she nor those belong- 
 to her be good ’uns, and good they ain’t likely to do to them they 
 coome anoigh.” 
 
 ^ “Perhaps 'Wenlock thought so, for his looks expressed anxiety, and 
 his manner was abstracted. Rousing himself, however, by an 
 apparent effort, when his ear rather than his comprehension told him 
 that the men stood silent, he said, sedately : — 
 
 “ Well, now as to the immediate purpose in hand ; speak as quietly 
 and as concisely as you can when you see Mr. Thornhill. Remember 
 that he is still ill — that he is an old man — that he is a master whom 
 you, and your fathers before you, long served, and still serve ; and 
 recollect that he is father to the young master you so much love, and 
 who will be to you, one day — and, perhaps, not a very distant one — 
 in the fullest sense, a worthy employer of your labour. Let these 
 remembrances lead you to bear patiently with the old man’s haughti- 
 ness or impatience. But beyond this, do not go. Recollect, you are 
 men speaking to a man, and there must be nothing abject in your 
 words and manner. He gives you work, you your service in return ; 
 the matter is simply one of exchange of benefit and commodity. If 
 Briscoe is present, care nothing for his frowns or threats. Tell the 
 Squire frankly and fearlessly what are the grievances you suffer under 
 — wages lower than in the surrounding pits, irregular pay, and the 
 tyranny of being forced into the public-house and butty-shop, and 
 the misery and poverty this tyranny involves. Be careful when you 
 speak of Mr. Ellis Thornhill. Tell the Squire simply that the men, 
 one and all — furnace-men as well as pit-men — desire a new agent, 
 and would be content under the rule of Mr. Ellis Thornhill, were he 
 recalled home, and placed at your head. But say no more than this. 
 As you well know, the Squire is at enmity with his son — for the son 
 strove to check the father’s vices, and the father is unforgiving. He 
 might, were the breach widened between them, put in force a threat 
 he has made to cut off the entail of his estate from his son and his 
 son’s heirs — and this in favour of Briscoe. There is, therefore, need, 
 as you see, for caution ; for the good and innocent might unjustly 
 suffer.” 
 
 The men, one and all, said they knew this. Then, thanking 
 Richard Wenlock for his kindness, they went their way, promising to 
 leave word, on their return, as to the result of their interview with 
 Mr. Thornhill. 
 
 For some time after they had left him, Wenlock stood in medita- 
 tion by his little office fire, his face half buried in his hand, his elbow 
 resting on the tiny mantel-shelf. When this was at an end, he closed 
 his ledgers, went out amongst his men, and thence into the house. 
 He found his old aunt knitting by the pleasant kitchen window, and 
 Joan cooking the dinner, which was always partaken of at twelve 
 o'clock. 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 2G3 
 
 1 want a clean shirt,” he said, tersely — for his thoughts were far 
 away. 
 
 “Bless the lad!” exclaimed the old woman, as, utterly astonished, 
 she cast down her kntting on the window-sill, “ thou hast had one 
 this week, what more would’st thou have ? In niy young time 
 ■working folks didn’t need even that.” But he had moved away, and, 
 not answering her, she guessed his abstracted mood. She rose at 
 once, fumbled for her keys, and began to follow him. 
 
 “Dick, ’ she said again — this time more tenderly — “why be’st thou 
 going at this hour? 'There be a sparerib at the fire, and apple 
 dumpling and greens i’ th' pot. It sorely frets me, lad, when thou 
 miss’st a comfort or a meah*' 
 
 He turned his face round as she said this, and gave her a look that 
 was worth worlds to her fond motherly heart. “ISxver mind fbi 
 once, I shall eat a better dinner with thee another day. Xow I can’t 
 stay-some business of moment requires my care.” 
 
 Without another word, she followed him up stairs— laid out his best 
 suit, his best neck-tie, and then went down to air his snowy shirt. 
 As she toiled her way, crab-like, back again, she muttered to herself, 
 “Getting above me — eh! I see, knowing grander folks than I ever 
 knew. Ay, Dick— thou mustn’t forget the old heart that lovest thee 
 so well.” 
 
 When she had laid the shirt on the bed, she drew near him and said 
 softly : — 
 
 “ Thy head’s getting high, as it well deserves, Dick ; for all, far 
 and wide, say much o’ thy wise strong head and honest hand ; and 
 that both together will make a man o’ thee yet. But thou mustn’t 
 forget her who has loved thee so long and so well, though she be 
 nought more than a crippled old woman. Lay my head low, Dick, 
 before thy days o’ pride, if it brings with it a bit o’ shame that I am 
 what I am. I can bear to be thought lowly. I can give place to 
 others in thy heart — but not, my lad, to be utterly forgotten.” 
 
 Old, and comparatively obtuse as she was, she, as%vell as others 
 who saw this man from day to day, could not be blind to the change 
 that was being wrought in him. Profoundly silent, as he always was, 
 less cheerful than formerly, they could yet detect that in manner, and 
 voice, and language, and look, some influence w'as at w’ork that was 
 fitting hjni for a social condition higher than their own — as his 
 mind before this had been raised from out the depths of the ignorance 
 Avhich surrounded it, by a self-culture and industry which never 
 flagged. 
 
 ‘" Forget thee, never ! ” he said, with moved voice, and in her own 
 quaint way of speech, “I should be less tlian a man if I did that. 
 Ihoufed’st me and sheltered me, when nought else would have done 
 so ; and thou may rest content that my debt to thee will be none the 
 less remembered, because it is no more in my power, than in that of 
 any other mortal man, to wipe ofi’ debts like these.” 
 
 ^ As he spoke he laid his hand reverently on her head, and pressed 
 his lips there ; and she, knowing him for no other than a little child, 
 
1 
 
 264 mainstone's HoobEKEEPEa. : 
 
 kissed him tenderly and went her way. In her heart she waf> con- 
 tent; he would rise, and she would look on — be patient in her 
 humility, and love him as she had always loved. 
 
 When he was dressed he mounted his horse, which had mpnwbv!e 
 been brought ready saddled to the door and rode off, the thick mist- 
 still making the day one of damp and gloom. 
 
 Pursuing their way to Mainstone, the colliers reached the hall a 
 little before noon. Mr. Thornhill had had but an indifferent night, 
 and was not yet down stairs, but Briscoe was come and waited in the 
 library. Margery therefore invited the poor fellows into the servants , 
 hall, where, much against Pomp’s inclination, she had lighted a fire. 
 This now glowed brightly on the wainscot walls, gave as it were & 
 sort of welcome to them, and otherwise by its cheeriness, lifted oft j 
 somewhat the depression which weighed them down. For they were 
 all more or less depressed. Few or none of theni had broken their j 
 fast that day— most of them had left hungry^ children and squalid 
 homes — they had come far through a chill mist, which wetted like i 
 rain, and their errand, though necessitated,^ was distasteful.^ They 
 were uncertain what view Mr. Thornhill might take of their com- ' 
 plaints — they were quite sure that Briscoe would vehemently and 
 coarsely oppose all their demands, even if he did not tell them they 
 lied ; and if his power were no less than it had hitherto been, there was ^ 
 little chance that they would be even heard to the end. Still they ' 
 felt their cause was a just one — that, deputed by hundreds, they must : 
 not shrink from their task because it was unpleasant ; and though they | 
 would have rather had to meet their master on a subject less dis- 
 tasteful than one involving complaints of many kinds, still they took 
 courao'e from what Wenlock had said— that they were men meeting 
 aman^ and that the relation between themselves and Mr. Thornhill ! 
 was not that of submission and patronage, but one of reciprocal benefit. ^ 
 
 Margery’s charity towards them gave this courage life. She spread | 
 a cloth upon the long oaken table, set beef boiled and roast thereon, 
 with mustard and a due supplement of bread, and allotted to each 
 man a pint of mulled beer. She did all this at much peril to herself; 
 for Pomp waged war against what he called Margery’s “silly 
 tenderness.” This tenderness was his by rights ; he had bought it 
 when he married her, and her duty was to serve, wait, and be his 
 
 His ministrations were, however, on this occasion so all-absorbing 
 and important, as to keep him employed up stairs the whole morning, i 
 It mas not till his master had come feebly down stairs to the library, 
 leaning* on his arm, and had been duly seated in his arm-chair, his 
 back to the light, and in the shadow of a crimson curtain, that he 
 had a moment’s leisure to hurry off and make his observations. But 
 Maro-ery had by this time cleared away all signs of the poor feast ; 
 and now, as he stealthily opened the door of the servants’ -hall, peeped 
 round it and then crept in, somewhat after the fashion of a cat almut 
 to seize a mouse, the poor fellows sat patiently waiting for their 
 summons to the presence of their master. 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 265 
 
 “Well, well,” he said, sniffing his nose, and spying about in every 
 ilirection, for he had his spectacles on; “you none of you look as if 
 you had much cause to make complaints to Mr. Thornhill. Fat and 
 healthy, I declare ; collier- work must be the best trade going. But 
 C suppose Mrs. Pomp has been treating you, the witch — she’s always 
 being foolish in some way or another.” 
 
 “WeVe had a little summut,” was the concise answer of the 
 spokesman. 
 
 “ Summut ! — I suppose so,” he repeated, mockingly. 
 
 Saying this, he took no further notice of the men ; but resuming 
 hiis stealthy tread, left the room and repaired to the kitchen, which 
 was hard by. Here Margery, enshrouded in her cook’s apron, was 
 busy in the preparation of divers dainty dishes ; as, were the Squire 
 well enough, he and Briscoe would dine together that day, a usual 
 custom when the agent transacted business at the hall. His saluta- 
 tion was a vicious gripe of the arm, as she stood at the dresser rolling 
 paste. 
 
 “ You’ve been giving those fellows beef and beer, have you ? ” he 
 said ; “ I told you not — you’re always disobeying me.” 
 
 “They were wet, and cold, and hungry,” she replied, as, with 
 flushed face, she endured the pain he was inflicting. 
 
 “ And so are hundreds of others in the world, without having a 
 tender Margery by to aid them. I tell you what, you faded loveli- 
 ness, I married you to wait on me, and no one else, particularly as 
 my dear Margery so loves her husband! Oh, oh! What’s these 
 things for ? ” 
 
 “ For dinner — Briscoe dines here.” 
 
 “ Not with the old man — he’ll not be well enough ; he’s in a strange 
 way this morning — not like himself. I shouldn’t wonder if this folly 
 of seeing these men doesn’t do for him altogether ; and as for the 
 plague of dressing the old sinner, if he goes on this way, and no 
 perquisites coming in — nothing but a few old coats and a wig or two 
 — why, why, I must be compelled to leave him and my sweet Margery 
 altogether — the last dear creature would be so sorry, wouldn’t she ? 
 — grieve so much — be such a weeping widow ? ” 
 
 He said this with the bitterest irony of voice and manner ; but 
 Margery replied not — only bowed her head, as one who stood victim 
 before a sacrificial altar might do. 
 
 Finding that she pursued her usual meek discreetness — a discreet- 
 ness founded on a penitence so lovely and so pure, as to have won the 
 love and pity of any man less fool and knave than this was — he began 
 ijpeeping, in his jackdaw fashion, into the basins and platters which 
 „3tood upon the dresser. 
 
 jl “ What’s this for ? ” he asked, as he laid his finger on a basin in 
 which stood a quantity of eggs beaten to a froth. 
 
 “ For an omelet.” 
 
 ; “Omelet! you faded flower — who’s to eat it? The old sinner’ll 
 .not touch it ; and as for Briscoe, you may set cold beef before him 
 > If you like — his day of luck’s over : no more dinners with the Squire 
 
MAINSTONE^S IIOtSEKEEPER. 
 
 266 
 
 for him. You should have seen the old man’s look when he entered 
 the library. He scarcely spoke; and when he got into his chair, lie 
 asked at once to see the accounts and papers.” 
 
 If, then, this man isn’t what he used to be with master— if the 
 Lord in his mercy has opened his eyes at last, why do you harbour 
 the daughter here ? Mr. Thornhill told me never to let her enter 
 his room again ” 
 
 “He has his whims, you jade, as I have mine,” he fiercely inter- 
 rupted ; “and she shall stay here as long as I please — ’specially as you 
 are so very fond of her. Master said nothing about her leaving the 
 house ; he fancies that she’s a nice help to you — oh ! oh ! — he doesn t 
 think how jealous Margery is ! ” ^ 
 
 “I’m not jealous. Pomp,” she said, firmly; “but I think about a 
 decent house* and the dear young master. If Mr. Thornhill should 
 be taken worse, Mr. Ellis would be sent for, and would come whether 
 his father liked it or not ; and what would he say to these proceed- 
 ings ? Sarah’s no friend of yours — no more than she’s of mine — as, 
 ptu-haps to your cost, you’ll find. Briscoe never comes here but she’s 
 with him, and ” 
 
 “ What of that ? She loves him as much as you love me— oh ! oh ! 
 — and that’s immensely — isn’t it, my tender Margery ? ” 
 
 She made no reply, but resumed the duties he had interrupted. 
 For a moment or two he stood eyeing her in his queer, jackdaw fashion, 
 
 and then he said : — ^ i i -i 
 
 “Well, in a few days she’s going, when some bird has built a little 
 nest for her. She don’t want to stay— not she ; but there’s no home 
 for her with the old woman at the cottage ; and till she’s got one, she 
 shan’t be driven from here — look as you like, or say what you will, or 
 carry what tale you please to Mr. Thornhill or his son.^ You jade, i 
 
 you let me tell you, if you don’t behave well to her. I’ll treat youj 
 
 worse than I’ve ever done. Now! as master won’t eat the omelet, | 
 and Briscoe shan’t, fry it for me, and quickly, too. Put it, with thc! 
 cold tongue, bread, and a pint bottle of sherry, on a tray, and bnng it! 
 into the room : I’m fatigued after dressing the old sinner, and intend i 
 to lunch there with my friend. Miss Briscoe.” He laid much emphasis 
 on these latter words, laughed in his low, gibing, conceited way, and| 
 
 left the kitchen. ^ i 
 
 Margery obeyed quickly and conscientiously, bhe carried tlie| 
 luncheon in her own dainty fashion into the housekeepers room, 
 where sat her husband by the fire, nursing^ a favourite spaniel, whilst 
 opposite to him, in her (Margery’s) chair, lolled the girl, m her 
 ordinary indolent fashion. They were talking together m a low 
 voice ; but upon what topic Margery did not hear. She spread the 
 luncheon — of which her liusband did not even ask her to partake 
 and hurried back to the kitchen where many duties called her.^ Hero 
 she was for a long time occupied— the clock ticking on in dull 
 monotony — its hands passing from one hour to another. ^ ^^^^e or 
 twice in this interval Margery stepped into the servants hall, to 
 assure the poor fellows who patiently awaited there, that JMi. llioin" 
 
MAINSTOKE^S IIOUSEKEEt’ER. 
 
 267 
 
 bill could not now be very long before be rang to see them— jiti 
 ntimation they received with patient faith. Once, in passing to a 
 distant store-room, she could just faintly hear Mr. Thornhill’? 'voice 
 , 'aised in angry rebuke, and then, at last, the library bell 'w&s rung. 
 .Itmust have remained unanswered; for, after a congiderable pause, 
 jt was rung again, and then a third time, violently. Startled, and 
 vondering why her husband, whose duty it was, had not attended to it, 
 ^Vlargery hurried to the adjacent room ! No ! he had not heard it — he 
 jlid not even hear his wife open the door quickly, or pause upon its 
 hreshold; but flushed with the wine he had drunk, and lost in some 
 , opic of conversation, was deaf to his master’s summons. They had 
 unched — for the girl had resumed her seat by the fire ; but Pomp 
 till sat at the table. 
 
 “Well ! after all, I dont believe a bit about it,” she laughed in her 
 jjonchalant way, and as though talking for talking sake, rather than 
 rom any interest she felt in "the man or what he said. Indeed, her 
 itter contempt for him was obvious; even whilst, in her worthless 
 ,ove of admiration, she encouraged the mockery of his addresses, and 
 veil whilst she talked so flippantly and so glibly, a deep reader of the 
 Luman heart would have detected her real thoughts were far otherwise 
 mployed, and that all human hope was to her alike a sunken and a 
 iroken wreck. 
 
 \ “Ah! you want to get my little secret from me— do you, deary ? ” 
 roaked l^mp, half wishing, as it seemed, to tell something that lay 
 n the tip of his tongue, and was yet retained by his cunning and 
 ^autiousness. ^ 
 
 ^ “Not I— it is nothing at all : you brag, that’s all, and I can believe 
 1^; or not.” 
 
 “ But it shall be much to you, deary,” croaked Pomp again, this time 
 yhisperingly ; “it’s no boast. Sec, this is the little key which unlocks 
 ^lie golden joy.” 
 
 , So saying, he drew a small dumpy key from beneath his waistcoat, 
 yhere it hung attached to a piece of ribbon. 
 
 ; “ Pooh !— the key of your master’e best wig-box. Pomp — fie I ” 
 
 “ But a wig-box may 
 
 “ Pornp,” interrupted Margery, who, in the brief moment she had 
 :ood with the open door in her hand, had listened wonderingly to this 
 ^^ap of conversation, “do you not hear the library bell?— iflias been 
 mg repeatedly.” 
 
 p He started to his feet, looked anxiously at his wife, replaced the key, 
 Ud hurried from the room. Margery, expressing by utter silence lier 
 ^,.sapproval of what she had beheld, began clearing the littered table, 
 without once offering to aid her, the girl withdrew to her customary 
 mdow, and there, beating her fingers airily on the window-sill, seemed 
 ike careless whether she provoked the patient creature's good or evil 
 
 -Some toast-and-water had been rung for; and when Pomp had 
 ^Tied this in, and his master seemed somewhat recovered from the 
 ^cp fit of anger to which it was plain to see he had been moved, the 
 
268 
 
 MAINSTONe’s HOtSEKEEPElt. 
 
 men were sent for and ushered in. They came one by one, and when 
 they had made their humble obeisance, they ranged themselves m 
 
 double file. - , j 
 
 It was .now past two o’clock, and the gloom of the JNovember day 
 had deepened into something like premature night. In spite of the 
 size of the room, the height of the windows, the light of the large n^, 
 the shadows which lay athwart most things, gave singular effect to the 
 whole scene. Partly in the shadows sat the old man — not old now, 
 so far as a distant prospect of him went, but rejuvenized by his valet’s 
 art to an age nearer forty than seventy ; and still more in the gloom 
 sat Briscoe^^his features occasionally strongly lighted up as the names 
 on the hearth renewed their brilliancy. A part of his ordinary 
 had been discarded, for he wore a rusty black coat in place of his 
 velveteen one — but otherwise he looked the same vulgar, besotted, 
 coarse fellow. His squat features, begrimed, bloated, and expressive 
 more of cunning than intelligence, had lost their ordinary good-me- 
 fellow air. His lips were compressed, his ruddy colour paled by the 
 intense passion which had moved him ; and he now sat, his arms on 
 the table, with his gaze turned towards the door and those that 
 entered. His intent might be that of intimidation, for the mingled 
 passions of hate and fear which glared in his eyes, we^ those more of 
 a brute than a man ; but if so, the purpose was lost. The men did not 
 look at him— did not seem even to see him at first, though they must 
 have been aware that he was there ; they had but one object in view 
 — to see and hear the master whom they served. ^ 
 
 “ Well, my men,” said Mr. Thornhill, in quite a cheery voice, loi 
 one who had been so ill, “ I am glad to see you. I would have done 
 this before, but that I have been very ill; I am better now, and wist 
 to listen to the complaints you have to make to me. Speak fearlessly 
 and take your time.” 
 
 “ God bless yo, maister — God love yo, Sir ! was the earnes 
 
 The spokesman then stepped forward, and, careless of Briscoe 
 who tried to frown him down, entered at once into the subject oi 
 the wrono's under which Mr. Thornhill’s pitmen, forgenien, anc 
 furnacemeli suffered. For one who was wholly uneducated, be spoki 
 forcibly and succinctly. Sometimes questioned by Mr. Ihornhiil, ^ 
 others appealing to his fellow-men around him, he made evident u 
 the astonished gentleman the abominable system of mismanagemeri 
 under which his people and estate alike suffered. As wrong atta 
 wron«* was declared — as one source after another of misery wa( 
 reveled — as each revelation became darker than the one precedin 
 it, it is impossible to describe the agent’s demeanour. At first h 
 simply threatened and denied; when this proved useless, his ra.^ 
 became unbounded. He started to his feet, shook his clenched hanc j 
 and vowed the bitterest vengeance. 
 
 “Sit down!” said Mr. Thornhill, haughtily, at last, “or leave th 
 room. The men tell a very straightforward tale, and I only fear thj 
 it is too true, and that you have miserably betrayed the trust 1 na^ 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 2C9 
 
 reposed in you. Sit down, Sir! I will Lave neither bad lan^ua^e nor 
 [^brutal conduct in my presence ! ” 
 
 The ruffian was cowed, and presently sat down. 
 
 “Now, my men,” said Mr. Thornhill, “having made your com- 
 ^plaints, what remains ? Your grievances shall have a remedy be 
 pjsure.” 
 
 J “God bless yo, maister !— thank yo, maisterl— we knowed that il 
 we came face to face with yo, we should have justice.” Then diffi- 
 dently, “ There’s one thing more we’d like to say.” 
 
 ^ “ Speak out ! — what is it ? ” 
 
 “ Well, maister, we’d like to have the young Squire a bit about us 
 He wur a loikely young gentleman, and. Lord love yo. Sir, got into 
 Dur very hearts when he corn’d amongst us, as he wur used to do a 
 deal on his little powny. He’d coome into our poor places, talk to 
 j^t^he missis and the children ; and when our hearts wur sore down 
 with such troubles as afflict poor folks, he’d take this way or the 
 j:,^ther to lift ’em up. He be a mon. Sir, now, and we be thinkino* 
 )hat wur he by, things’d go straighter loike. We don’t need that he 
 ;hould do aught demeaning a gentleman; but he’d look a bit about 
 Aim, and it be better maybe for thee and for ourselves.” 
 
 Hitherto they had won the ear of their haughty master ; he had 
 istened with patience, and let pass with silent contempt, the flimsy 
 denials and the base allegations of Briscoe ; but this kindly desire, so 
 imply expressed as it was, acted as a perfect check upon his further 
 :ondescension. He was greatly moved, as they could see; he tried 
 .0 conceal his agitation, but in vain ; and when at last he had passed 
 , us tremulous hand across his face, he turned the latter towards 
 f^^hem, and said in a voice of deep anger, — 
 
 “I was not aware that Mr. Ellis Thornhill had anything to do with 
 he business that brought you here. In my lifetime at least he’ll not 
 •e at Mainstone ; we’re at variance ; for fathers do not like to stand 
 s children for reproof before their sons.” 
 
 “ God love yo, maister,” they said hurriedly, one and all ; “ we did’na 
 : lean to give thee oflTence— we love th’ lad, and we thought we could 
 a be wrong in speaking of him to his fayther.” 
 
 Mr. Thornhill had slowly risen whilst they spoke these words, and 
 “ ow he leant trembling with his hands upon the table. 
 
 “I tell you — I tell you,” he said, stutteringly, “that my son shall — 
 laii ”■ 
 
 ^ It was not given to him to say what was harsh or cruel of his son ; 
 )r he staggered, swayed forward, and fell senseless with his lace upon 
 ^ le table. It was his second paralytic stroke, 
 i Briscoe — who sat opposite — the colliers’ spokesman 
 
 , urried forward, and raised the old man in his arms ; whilst others, 
 oemng the door, called loudly for aid. Their call brought Pomp and 
 )SLargery. ^ 
 
 i ^own, I say ! ” said Briscoe, hurrying round the table 
 
 il' down ; if you hadn’t come here, you lying knaves, this 
 
 ouldn t have happened. It shall be the worse for you all, you’ll see.” 
 
270 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 But the collier stood unmoved, till Pomp relieved him of his 
 burden. 
 
 And what a ghastly burden it was, as it lay in the valet’s arms, 
 contorted and death-like ! As though it had been scathed by 
 lightning, his already stricken side was now rendered perfectly 
 useless ; and the throes of the old man as he gasped for breath, 
 were awful to behold. In the effort made to render him assistance, 
 by untying his cravat and loosening his coat, his wig fell off, and 
 exposed his bald head and few grey hairs. When it was found 
 further necessary to relieve him of his false teeth, the whole sham 
 of affected youth, as well as the mysteries of his toilet, were 
 exposed to view, and he lay before the eyes of all — a stricken, aged 
 man. 
 
 ‘‘ W e must get him up stairs,” said Pomp, “ and lose no time in 
 sending for the doctor. Greene said he must be bled if a second 
 stroke took him. Some of you run into the yard, and tell Jones 
 to saddle the mare, and ride on and meet the doctor. It’s nigh 
 his hour for coming. Others of you help me to carry the master up 
 stairs.” 
 
 A suflicient number of the men obeyed ; but Briscoe was not of the 
 number. He began gathering together with the air of a master, the 
 accounts and papers scattered about the table ; and as soon as Mr. 
 Thornhill had been carried up stairs, he advanced to the men who 
 lingered by the door. 
 
 “ Come,” he said, as he raised his arm, with an air of coarse 
 authority — “ get out with you ! This is no kennel for dogs like you. 
 I’m master now, and you shall find this the worst day’s work you ever 
 wrought.” 
 
 “ Sliall we ? ” they muttered, as they stood immovable. 
 
 “Ay ! move on ! ” 
 
 But as they gave no sign of doing so, the agent raised his hand,, 
 and aimed a blow at the spokesman’s face. It told with cruel effect ; 
 for the blood spurted forth from his nose and mouth on to the 
 smock-frocks and faces of those around him. Like a bull-dog 
 roused from its lair, more than one of the exasperated men moved 
 forward to grasp the ruffian by his throat — but the stricken man 
 restrained them. 
 
 “Don’t thee touch him! this be the maister’s house and the| 
 maister’s ill, Let us go — we’ll ha’ our day yet.” 
 
 Sullenly they complied, for their hearts burnt within them to take 
 vengeance, for this and many a foregone wrong; but they had 
 / ]n*oinised W enlock to curb their angry feelings, and be obedient to 
 their leader. So they went forth to the court-yard behind the house,, 
 and waited for their fellows. These soon came, and not long after,! 
 they heard the doctor ride up to the hall-door. Thither they hurried 
 We’re moighty sorry about this mishap of the Squire’s,” they said 
 feelingly, “ vary sorry ; but he put hisself out about the young 
 maister!^ If we wait a bit, will yo tell us, Sir, how it be loikely to 
 go wi’ him ? ” 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 271 
 
 The doctor nodded assent and hurried in. But they waited a lono- 
 tijie in the cold and drizzle of the November day — indeed, till nii^lit 
 had quite set in during' which long interval old Jones, a labourer who 
 worked about the stables and in the grounds, had been posted off to 
 
 '' o m" um’ Mr. Greene cai4 down. 
 
 ^ Mr. 1 hornhill is very bad indeed,” he said ; “ but better than he 
 ■was previousdy to being bled. He may recover both his senses and 
 a degree, but the use of one side is gone 
 helplS mmi.”'"'''’' nothing but a perfectly 
 
 .r,rK°^ pifyhim! God love him!” they said tenderly, as thoimh 
 speaking of one indissolubly connected with themselves. ^ ° 
 
 ip, he IS to be pitied ; but I warned him against to-day and its 
 possible excitement in vain. However, this event may prove of 
 value to yourselves— we shall see.” ^ '■ 
 
 “ We hope so,” they murmured. 
 
 night to the surgeon, who return,.. 
 -0 the sick man ,s chamber, and plodded on their dreary way home- 
 
 iame’arnoon^^*^**^^*^*' anxious than when they had trodden the 
 
 colliers had thus departed, Briscoe remained at the hall 
 Whilst Margery was safely occupied up stairs in the chamber of her 
 master, he, for some reason or another, went prying about the house 
 vith impertinent curiosity ; but as soon as she returned to the kitchen 
 
 ■or a permanence he ordered dinner— had it brought to him in the 
 
 ibrary ; and whilst partaking of it, and a choice bottle of wine 
 I vhich he himself had gone and fetched from the cellar, he held a 
 eiigthened conference with his daughter. What was its subject no 
 me knew--as they sat alone ; but it ended in anger, as their con- 
 erences always did. With coarse oaths and clamour he left the 
 oiise, went forth to the stable — saddled his horse, and rode away. 
 
 Iniv! gO”C long before Pomp was newly summoned up 
 
 !,tairs. He found the surgeon seated by Mr. Thornhill's bed, lookin'^ 
 is ^ renewed expression of anxiety marked in 
 
 Pot i* as old Jones is not yet back, I fear 
 
 :iat It wi 1 be morning before the other surgeons come— for there is 
 .mch sickness just now in and about Welton. In this case-and 
 fs there seems a change for the worse in Mr. 'Thornhill- 1 must 
 ^ve^some medicine from my surgery at Halliford. Can you ride 
 
 “^Pomp’s countenance fell-he did not like riding; the night was one 
 (?T'i'i^ *'****' — could not well say nay. 
 
 ^^l .-go down and see. Sir, who’s about,” 'he said, evasively. 
 
 Betcer go yourself Pomp,” said the surgeon; “my assistant may 
 "obody, perhaps, but William, the groom ; but if I 
 '(elm ” ' du-ections you can bring me two bottles^off the surgery 
 
 j Very well, Sir,” he replied doggedly, and he left the room. 
 
S72 
 
 maikstone’s housekeepee. 
 
 A thought had occurred to him, and he hastened to put it ii 
 
 Askring himself that Margery was safe in the kitehen, he crep 
 his way to the library, where he knew Sarah to be. He found it bi: 
 of shadows, for the candles were sinking in the sockets of the candle 
 sticks, and the fire burnt low; but totally heedless of either, an. 
 unconscious, as it seemed, of the valet’s entrance, the J, 
 
 footstool by the hearth— her elbows on her knees, and her head buued 
 
 Deary,” said Pomp, whisperingly — for such was his epithet, 
 whether Margery was by or not ; “ did you not say something to me 
 
 the other day about wanting to go to Halhford . 
 
 These words must have been in some sense an echo of her 
 
 thoiK^ht; for she started to her feet, turned her tear-wet pallid face 
 towards the old man, and answered eagerly, almost wildly, 
 
 o Yes ves !— I want to go— must go — before next week . It Mr. 
 
 Greene wants medicine I’ll ride for it-no one knows the surger^ 
 
 Yes^he needs physic, and me to go for it ; but I can’t— I should 
 have the rheumatics for months if I did. You can ride the old 
 chaise-horse— you know the way, and can take no harm. 
 
 “ Not I ; nothing could suit me better than to go. Fetch the 
 directions; say nothing to Greene that I’m going, or am even here. 
 
 ^ “ No,*he tWnks you went when the Squire spoke to him about you, 
 
 ’‘"»Wy?o,”“sLTrd?r3dly and authoritatively, as though a 
 world’s business was now upon her hands; “fetch the paper, and I 
 
 ^^She^steyed for nothing; ^^th to a cloak-room m the 
 
 hall pinned a carriage-rug around her, shrouded herself m one of the 
 Sre’s warm overcoats, went to the stable, threw a s^de-sadd^ or 
 the horse, and, bringing it to the door, was ready when Pomp re, 
 turned Scarcely staying to speak a word, she rode rapidly away 
 reo-ardless alike of wind and rain, leaving Pomp amazed at her coo 
 determination, as well as full of wonder at the mysterjr of hei pur 
 pose and her bearing, the latter so unlike her ordinary indolent am 
 
 After wanin'" Margery to keep silence, the valet crept to bed ; am 
 whtn at Si^ht, fhe^came up from her vigils > her master 
 chamber to aw^e him, and say that someone had just ridden mt 
 the courtyard, he dressed, and went down. There he found the gir 
 sa^ but drenched to the skin. Scarcely speaking a word sh 
 deliWred the medicine into his hand; and then, reticent and am . 
 fiercely, she snatched the light from his hand, and went her way 1 
 
 **®FSrweek or ten days from this date, things went on much th 
 same Various surgeons came to and fro, and a. physician was su 
 Zned from the county town. Through their skill, and the unremh 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 
 'i^hig attention of Mr. Greene, whose conduct was above all praise, 
 / the Squire’s life was placed out of immediate danger, though he still 
 ^^^•emained ill, and subject to occasional fits of unconsciousness 
 Margery was, as usual, a most efficient nurse ; and such few words as 
 i^the old man spoke were chiefly in request that she would sit beside, 
 '^br read to him. Taking advantage of this show of preference, both 
 .,^she, as well as Mr. Greene, asked for permission to send for his son ; 
 ^ but this request was so angrily and peremptorily negatived, as to con- 
 vince them that they would do more harm than good if they pressed 
 ' the question further. Its wonted desolation, therefore, cleaved to the 
 house — the dreary days went by in dull monotony. 
 
 As nothing was said by Mr. Thornhill to his attendants with 
 respect to the agent — and as, when he made his appearance beside 
 r his bed, the old man gave no evidence of bearing in recollection either 
 his just suspicions, or the fierce altercation which had passed between 
 *i them — Briscoe assumed even more than his old power and show of 
 authority. Scarcely a day passed but he came to Mainstone, ordered 
 dinner or luncheon, as the case might be ; and, consulting no one, sold 
 : the farming produce, or the timber on the estate, without reference 
 ^ to anyone or anything but his own exigencies. 
 
 The days went by, and yet his daughter still remained. Pomp 
 again and again repeated that she was going as soon as some “ little 
 nest” had been provided for her; and the girl herself said that her 
 stay was now a short one. Still she lingered on from day to day, a 
 “ distasteful guest to all but Pomp ; yet her demeanour had suddenly 
 and greatly altered, to Margery more especially. Less flippant in her 
 , speech and manner, in a mood of mind that was depressed and 
 * absorbed, repulsing the miserable old popinjay, whose licence she had 
 il hitherto to a degree encouraged, her manner to Margery was watchful 
 j and even tender. Shaking off her habitual indolence, she essayed to 
 T help the poor overwrought drudge in kitchen and parlour ; and, had 
 ?i the women been alone, there was charity sufficient in Margery’s soid 
 ^ to have forgiven much and pitied more. As it was, she could not, on 
 principle, encourage the girl to stay ; she had one high purpose in 
 1 view — to purge the house from sin, to sweep the chaff from its 
 ‘'i floors, and prepare it for those who, in innocence and love, had to 
 S enter. 
 
 At length one day, after much talk thereon. Pomp set forth for 
 AVelton. He had business of his master’s to transact there, as well 
 t as, doubtless, some of his own. He was not to be expected home till 
 fithe morrow; and, taking advantage of a fine bright morning, he 
 departed at an early hour, in good spirits, and quite en beau, in his 
 choicest attire — wig, teeth, and rosy tints combined. But before 
 ^1 noon the weather changed. The wind had risen, and blew in mourn - 
 iful gusts about the house; the rain fell drearily, and no one 
 approached the solitary place, but an old woman, who went about the 
 i country selling oatmeal, and with whom Margery dealt. She came 
 pinto the kitchen whilst the girl was preparing dinner for herself 
 ft and Margery ; and when she had in some sort dried her wet gar- 
 ! 18 
 
274 mainstone’s housekeeper. | 
 
 nients, been paid, and drunk her drop of warm beer, she prepared ' 
 to go. 
 
 “ Tell the missis,” she said to Sarah, as she lingered for an Instant 
 on the threshold, “that Mr. Kadnor’s coming home to-night— the 
 Lord love him ! — and mended in health a deal.” 
 
 “ To-night! ” replied Sarah, as though transfixed. “You mistake, 
 don’t you, and mean Thursday ? ” 
 
 “Not I! I’m only jist from the parsonage, where Molly told me 
 A deal o’ nice preparation they’re making ; and the dear lady — the 
 new housekeeper— be jist as busy as onny on ’em. Ay ! it would 
 be well if mony a mon'that had a ruined home had her to mend it. 
 
 “ To-night ! ” the girl repeated, as she stood statue-like^ upon the 
 hearth ; and the old woman hearing nothing but a repetition of her 
 own words, closed the door, and went her way. 
 
 When Margery came down to dinner she found it unprepared, and 
 the girl sunk in moody silence on the settle. She hastened, there- 
 for e,^to get it, as she had to return up stairs ; but when it was ready 
 Sarah scarcely ate any. 
 
 “ Are you ill ? ” asked Margery, kindly ; “ if you are, lie down in 
 my parlour.” 
 
 No ! I’m very well — only I think of going to-night.” 
 
 “ To-night 1 so wet and stormy as it is. Better wait till the 
 morning ; ” but the girl only shook her head. 
 
 “ Well ! if you’ve made up your mind, I won’t say stay. I couldn’t 
 say so sincerely, but you have my good wishes. You shall stay 
 tea, however ; we’ll have it early.” 
 
 So Margery bustled about, cleared away, made up the huge 
 kitchen-fire, set the place in its ordinary exquisite order, dressed 
 herself, and went up stairs to her vigils by the old man’s bed. The 
 rain descended still more heavily ; the wind sweeping through the 
 thick woods, howled around the gables of the house, and it was dark 
 ere the kitchen clock struck four. About this time Margery came 
 hurriedly into the kitchen, where she found Sarah in her accustomed 
 place on the settle, her scanty articles of apparel scattered around her, 
 some few of which she was tying together in a cotton handkerchief. 
 
 “Briscoe hasn’t been here, has he?” she asked; “ or you haven’t 
 been up stairs into Mr. Thornhill’s dressing-room ? ” 
 
 The girl’s reply was immediate and unembarrassed — indeed, her 
 whole manner was so absorbed and depressed, that Margery felt sure 
 that she spoke the truth. 
 
 “Not I! I’ve been once into the library for pen and ink, and 
 twice up to my room, by the front staircase, to fetch my clothes, and 
 I may have to go once again. But why do you ask ? ” 
 
 “Because I feel almost sure that not long ago I heard some one 
 enter by the garden-door, come rapidly up the back-stairs, stay for 
 an instant in the dressing-room, and then return.” 
 
 “ Did you ? ” asked the girl, in a voice which ill-concealed both 
 anger and great terror ; “did you? I — I heard no one.” 
 
 “Well! "it may have been my fancy,” was Margery’s reply ; “the 
 
MAINSTONE S HOUSEKEBPEK. 
 
 275 
 
 wnd howls like a pack of wolves about the house. But we will have 
 tea— Mr. Thornhill has asked for a cup.” 
 
 s'le bustled about, and prepared tea, and added thereto soma 
 little dainties from tlie store-closet. If S.arah was sjointr that nin-ht 
 It was tne last meal they might take together— for "Margery horlelf 
 • had sinned, and pity and charity were hers. She well knew that 
 there .are occ.asioiis when t!ie faintest expression of these, touches 
 jootentlj the hearts of others. 
 
 prep^eVto''^^^^ and 
 
 ‘‘If you’ll ring the bell v/hen you’re ready, Sarah,” she said “I 
 will come down. I should not like to depart without a last word.” 
 
 /he girl looked up at the clock, nodded her head in assent — and 
 this was all. 
 
 When Mr. Thornhill had, with the aid of Margery, sipped his tea 
 j-a spoonful at a time— he seemed more revived than he had been 
 for many hours. 
 
 1 stutteringly, for his speech was greatly 
 
 Sornhill’s^? ” 
 
 As she replied in the affirmative, he bid her fetch it. She .^ladlv 
 went, for she usu.ally read to him the newspaper, or Sporlinir fla^a. 
 ztne, when, m accordance with her simple faith, she felt th.at more 
 solemn things should meet Ins ear. 
 
 .i-epJaced in Mrs. ThornhilPs room. 
 
 T hithei she hastened with her bright key ; but in returning, with an 
 oblivion singular in this instance, she forgot to take it from the lock 
 She remembered her omission as she sat down and began to read, but 
 not hkmg to leave her master abruptly, she went on, and was soon 
 
 witVmi *c.n listened 
 
 with an e.unestncss which she, in her simple fiiith, hoped mio-ht in 
 
 time, bring him to a repentance for the past ^ 
 
 It was now quite dark, the wind howled outside, the r.ain descended 
 
 draught” curtained room the candles flickered in the 
 
 All at once her ear caught a sound, a step in the gallery, a hand on 
 stited to h^feet."'*”® 
 
 “Excuse me. Sir!— excuse me. Sir! ” she said, hurriedly as she 
 snatched up a candle, and left the room. Once in the gaflery, and 
 
 ' surprise and dismay, the giil 
 
 nt cnteiing Mrs. Ihornhill s room. A cloak was on her arm a 
 
 probably, caught sight of the key in 
 \T‘ir ^ ^ sought thus to gratify, unknown to 
 
 .,,‘|,^2ery, her curiosity— for the “ogre’s castle up stairs,” w.as one of 
 
 belonged especially to the 
 Hot of the humours in which he habitually indul<Ted. 
 
 ^ Margery, “ that room is not for you ' ” 
 
 jarah looked round, but did not heed her, ' 
 
 18—2 
 
276 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 “You shall not go in!” repeated Margery, with a ferocity and ] 
 determination singular in one usually so meek and forbearing , 
 
 have kept it a long time safe against evil-doers such as you. Come 
 back i Sy ! none" shall go in "there till Mr. Ellis is master of the 
 house ” There was a sharp struggle between them, for an ms an 
 Margery clutching the ghl back, and the girl in her vicious perversity, 
 
 '“’■.“Iht! ff notilng to see here,- said Margery, luonrnfiilly, as she 
 
 iSTlsr«i“eJi .KeSS i'yoi 
 
 knOTV.” She spoke these last words with infinite pathos, and they 
 
 ^In^afiftanithe girl drew back into the gallery, crouching and 
 humbled before her with whom she had so lately striven. 
 
 nr.™er, she retreated tomrds the staircase, but 
 
 Ss®SfiSS'S==£ 
 
 “rnSiulhTktoSsarahputon her 
 
 some .Ball arSde frera her bu*^^^ 
 
 - H What She’S It wSs a small bottle, labelled with 
 
 Mr. Badnor was coming home ! 
 
MAINSTOND S HOtSEKEEl^Ea. 
 
 277 
 
 I 
 
 f 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE CUP OF COFFEE. 
 
 The master was coming home, and every heart in the old parsonage 
 j at Mainstone was glad. Peri and Pearl were gone to roost, but even 
 \ ihejj would have changed times and seasons for spreading forth their 
 , rainbow hues could they have told that their tender master was so 
 
 Plainly dressed as usual, her hair still gathered beneath the^ little 
 cap she always wore, the housekeeper came slowly down the staircase, 
 
 ' and so into Mr. Radnor’s newly-placed study. She held something in 
 her hand, which, unfolding as she approached the light, she went 
 ^ with it into an adjacent closet or small room, opening from this larger 
 one, which, newly formed out of an old jutting gable, was to serve as a 
 dressing-room throughout the day, and to save the master’s some- 
 what feeble steps. It was fitted up as such ; and a small fire, burn- 
 ing cheerily, revealed the new study-gown of sober grey, already put 
 J to warm across the easy chair, and the nicely lined slippers on the 
 hearth-rug. The housekeeper, now stooping, placed a pair of woollen 
 : socks, which she had thus brought with her, upon the rim of the 
 i fender, and all was ready. Another hand than hers might have done 
 ! all this, but none more tenderly or fittingly — for she had been the 
 J scholar, and he the gentle master. 
 
 1 A greenhouse, opening to the garden, had been formed at one end 
 of the study— so that Mr. Radnor, when he sat to read or write, 
 i might enjoy the sight and fragrance of his favourite flowers, or find a 
 t place for meditative perambulation in inclement weather. The door 
 i into this the housekeeper now set open, that the perfume therefrom, 
 
 ^ mingling with the odour of the richly-bound books, might greet the 
 S scholar with its classic incense; and entering presently, went up and 
 ■ down therein, looking at the lovely plants which Lizzie Whitelock 
 i had contributed— gathering a spray here, a bloom there, or listening 
 f to the wild rain which poured down upon the glassy roof. 
 
 S “ It is a wild night,” she said, quietly, to herself ; “ but then, per- 
 I haps, by its very contrast it is better than a fairer one, for it will 
 iJ intensify Mr. Radnor’s sense of his welcome home.^ Poor Julius! it 
 : is a sad night, but there are sadder things perhaps in store for you ! ” 
 She sighed as she spoke, and, opening the door which went garden- 
 ! ward, loo^ked out upon the storm. The rain, heavy as it was, whirled 
 i and twirled hither and thither in the maddening wind — the sough of 
 the distant woods was distinctly audible — and the brook, as it roared 
 on its way to the pools, beneath the garden-terraces, added to the 
 
278 
 
 MAINSTONE S HOIJSEKEErER. 
 
 hurly-burly of the storm. She closed the door, came back to the | 
 glowing study fire, where preiDarations for tea were daintily set forth, ' 
 and, sitting down, took up a newsj. aper to read. She had not read 
 long, before the door leading from the hall was quietly opened, and 
 Molly came in bearing a Jittle tray, on which was a cup of cofifee. 
 
 “ Beg your pardon, ma’am,” she said, in her quaint by-gone style, 
 as humbly curtseying, she stood before her mistress and held the i 
 tray ; “ but I’ve taken the liberty to bring you in a cup of coffee. It 
 may be some time yet before master’s here ; for the clock’s only no t 
 struck six, and you look tired.” 
 
 “Yes! I am tired, Molly; with all your kindly help, there was 
 much to do to-day. But our long task is now at an end. To-night, 
 
 I hope, we make commencement of our happy household life— master, 
 mistress, and servant.” 
 
 “ I be mighty happy, so please you, missis,” said Molly, with her 
 arms folded, and another of her quaint curtseys. 
 
 Her voice faltered as she spoke— her gaze fell upon her mistress 
 — then a little lower, there it had a vision— the cradle of a dvin«* 
 child ! ° 
 
 “ Is Elisha gone ? ” asked the housekeeper, willing to change the 
 subject. ° 
 
 “ Yes, ma’am, he was right pleased to go ; he said he didn’t care 
 for the storm, it wur to him just one with a summer’s day — so master 
 wur home. He’ll be at the station early, but not before the master 
 he knoAv’d.” 
 
 “ Elisha is right I daresay ; for Mr. Radnor has been intensely 
 impatient to get home. But thank you for the coffee, Molly, it is very 
 nice. Leave the door ajar, please, that my ear may catch the first j 
 
 sound of the carriage-wheels ; it will not do to let Mr. Radnor stand | 
 
 lingering on his own threshold.” 
 
 8he tasted the coffee again, set down the cup on the corner of the 
 tea-table, thrust back the easy-chair, drew up a couch Avhich stood 
 close by, lay down on it in a half-recumbent attitude, resting and 
 reading the newspaper. But presently, a little overcome by weari- 
 ness, the paper dropped from her hand, and she lightly slept. Yet 
 not for long, for something rustled— a thin shadoAv— more felt than 
 seen, passed before her half-closed eyes— a sudden draught chilled 
 her, and thus aroused, she looked round. But seeing nothing, she 
 renewed her reading, and again sipped her coffee. This time it 
 seemed unpleasant to her taste, for she set the cu]) down quickly and 
 renewed her gaze upon the print before her; but soon this gaze 
 faltered and her eyes lightly closed. Once more in this half-conscious 
 state, she repeated her slight draught, then her head dropped loAver 
 and lower, and all consciousness to sight or sound was lost. 
 
 Elisha’s judgment was correct, for his master had been already 
 waiting an hour when he got to the station. Very well did Mr. 
 Radnor look, much better for his stay in pleasant Devonshire 5 but 
 his old nervous manner was not in the least abated, judging by 
 present appearances, for very anxious and impatient he wita. 
 
MAINSTONE’s ttOtiSEKEfit^ER. 
 
 279 
 
 God bless you, Sir ! ” said the old servant ; “ Pm right glad you’re 
 back again, and looking so well.” 
 
 “Thank you, Elisha. But don’t let us stay an instant, Daniel 
 can fetch the luggage to-morrow. How is your mistress ? Well, 
 I hope ? ” 
 
 “A little pale and melan-chol-ly. Sir ; but maybe she’ll be better 
 .now you’re home.” Elisha smiled as he said this; for though this 
 report was somewhat fabulous, he knew it would give his mas to joy. 
 
 ^ Mr. Radnor made no direct reply ; but, steppmg into the chaise, 
 bid his servant drive quickly. This was done as rapidly as the wind 
 and rain would permit, and they did not stay till they reached a 
 turnpike-gate. Here, the man knowing of Mr. Radnor’s return, 
 hurried forth with a sack thrown across his shoulders and a lcw4;ern in 
 his hand. 
 
 “ Hope you’re well. Sir — glad that you’re home.” 
 
 “ Thank you, I am much better.” 
 
 “That’s good news. Sir; a sight o’ people will be glad — they’re 
 asking about your coming everywhere — not half an hour ago, Mr. 
 Wenlock rode through and asked if you had passed.” ° 
 
 “ Thank you, John — the people are all very kind — good night ! ” 
 
 Mr. Radnor drew his head beneath the cover of the chaise, and 
 Elisha drove on. 
 
 Past cottages and farmhouses they went, and onward to the 
 “Brown Hen,” where, by the lighted, and widely-open door, stood 
 Barbie’s mother, watching for the clergyman’s return; but Elisha 
 only waved his whip, and so they passed on into Maidstone Lane, 
 under the red-sandstone arch, and so up the hill, the horse never once 
 flagging, as though it knew that each minute was an hour to its kindly 
 master. 
 
 Aided by his glass, Mr. Radnor watched for the lights in the 
 mysonage-windows, and there they shone, in study and parlour, like 
 kindly welcoming eyes. He saw this, though his sight was dim, and 
 the rain hung like an opaque veil between him and'the object of his 
 gaze. At last they passed the white gate, along the carriage-road, 
 and so to the renovated porch. But not a light was here, not one 
 welcoming face of dog or servant, no door ajar, no gleam from the 
 wide hall and pleasant rooms. Everything seemed as chill and 
 solitary as in the miserable days of Mrs.'jack’s rule. 
 
 What could this mean?— why was all so different to what he had 
 fondly expected ? Had he not dreamed that he should find the door 
 ajar, that light through the chink would shine, that even ere he could 
 . descend, wider and wider would this chink become, small feet step 
 forth into the porch, tender hands be held up and gathered into his, 
 ar4 — and — perhaps— but he would dream no more, even though he 
 was so much older, so like a father to her! Yet if her it was, had 
 tinae so altered her? Did she not in days, not so very long before,, 
 wait beneath the cloister-arches for him — run forward, greet him, 
 raise up her innocent face for the wonted kiss, and then lead him inta 
 the grand old library, to their favourite seat iu one of the many-tinted 
 
280 
 
 MAIKSlONJl’s IIOBSEKEEPlill. 
 
 bays, and so to the beloved tasks — she the little Jane, and he the 
 
 Koger Ascham ! 1 1 j 
 
 Alas ! was his dream false — was he to find this thoroughly, and 
 once for all upon his own threshold, and on the very night he had 
 counted upon as the most blessed of his life ? Was it not Charlotte 
 after all?— was it only some kindly likeness, some one loving to do 
 good, noble fi:om principle, divine through charity— like her, and not 
 vet her f Alas ! it must be so ; he knew by every fibre of her heart, 
 by every pulsation of her being, his little Tullia could only be alt 
 
 tendem^s to him, the dear old master— to him so old as to be like to 
 
 her a father ! i,„u 
 
 With palsied hand, with sinking heart, he rang the bell ; and 
 Elisha, leaving the horse’s head, hastened to his side. ^ 
 
 “ I can’t think what’s the matter. Sir- the folks seein all out o th 
 kitchen, though I can hear voices. Molly herself said, whilst we 
 was at tea, that she was sure that the missis would be m the porch 
 waiting you. I’ll run round. Sir— something must have happened . 
 
 Mr. Kadnor could not say yes or no— he was stricken dumb 
 with terror. In a minute or two, that seemed as an age to his 
 senses, the door was opened by a stranger— a young girl pale with 
 
 ^'‘^'What’s the matter ? ” he asked, as he pushed his way in. ^ 
 
 “ Please, Sir, something dreadful’s happened to missis— they re all 
 in the study there. She’s been poisoned, they think, and her clothes 
 
 Mt^ Eadnor heard no more ; he staggered, rather than wa,lked, into 
 the beautiful room which was to have given such a peaceful welcome 
 to its master. There a most extraordinary sight met his gaze 
 crowded round a couch on the far side of the fireplace were his 
 servants and Kichard Wenlock. The latter was stooping as though 
 administering something from a cup, whilst Molly stood by Lolding 
 some other vessel. Sudden terror and grief were written on every 
 face— their awe was so great as seemingly to have stricken them 
 
 ^"^Mr! Radnor pushed his way to the couch, saying, “Tell me— tell 
 
 me — -what is the matter ? ” i i i 4.4. 
 
 “We hardly know. Sir,” spoke the bailiff, ^vlth choked utteiance. 
 “We were seated about the kitchen-fire, listening for your approach, 
 when loud calls and cries alarmed us. We all relied out, and foun 
 this room in a smother of smoke, and Mr. Wenlock rolling the 
 hearth-rug round Miss Eliot, to put out the fire, for ^ 
 
 ablaze. In a minute or two more she would have been burnt to 
 death. As it is she isn’t much hurt, we think ; but 
 druff must have been put into her coffee, for it tastes badly, and she 
 ' is insensible without respect to the fire. We only suppose that some 
 one got through the greenhouse, and so into the room, the 
 carpet is wet with the drip of their clothes-a womans clothes, 
 
 ^°Mr. Radnor only heard part of this, for his whole consciousness 
 
maii^stone’s housekeeper. 
 
 ^81 
 
 i was absorbed in wbat lay before him. Yes, it was her, now beyond 
 all doubt — his Charlotte Waldo, his cherished pupil — here was her 
 rich hair all unbound — here was the little wrist, the muslin sleeve 
 burnt therefrom, with the mole spot which had so often met his eye 
 ’ when guiding her pen, or helping her to turn the pages of some 
 dictionary or atlas ! He saw no more — ^he heard no more ; but, 
 
 ■ staggering forward, sank unconscious into his bailiff’s arms. It was 
 blessed unconsciousness, for it spared him infinite pain. 
 
 “Carry Mr. Eadnor into the adjoining room — lay him on the 
 ' sofa, and he will probably soon recover,” were Wenlock’s concise 
 words, as, stern and paler than those around him, he stood watching 
 ' the effects of the simple antidote he had administered — for he was an 
 admirable chemist, and not unacquainted with the more ordinary 
 forms of surgical aid. “ This done, one of you take my horse and 
 ride off for Mr. Greene — he’s the nearest doctor, I think.” 
 
 “ It is not unlikely. Sir, that he’ll be found a deal nigher to-night. 
 Eoger Clark’s wife was but poorly in th’ morning, when she sent up 
 her lass for the milk missis is so good to let her have twice a-week, 
 and maybe she’s in her travail by now, and the doctor there. Jordan 
 or Elisha can call and ask.” 
 
 “Let Jordan go, and Elisha attend his master. Now, clear the 
 room — this crowd will never do. Molly, just go and see how Mr. 
 Eadnor is, and then return to me.” 
 
 The servants stole silently away — for in their terror, and distress, 
 and zeal, they had all crowded in. Thus left alone with her whose 
 life he was saving, the stern and silent man neither altered his mood 
 nor his manner. There he stood, bending towards her, as she needed 
 his aid, with the affectionate gentleness of the most tender mother ; 
 but otherwise as immobile as an automaton might have been. Once 
 I or twice, as he raised her head, his hand lingered beneath it — once, or 
 ! more, as her deathlike hand dropped down, he raised it, and gathered 
 ^ it into his ; beyond this, he gave no outward sign that he was other- 
 1 wise than the most indifferent stranger, engaged in the generous duty 
 , of saving a human life. None would have suspected the tempest of 
 i grief which was raging in his soul ! 
 
 At length, the simple antidote which had been administered began 
 , to take effect, and the stomach to relieve itself of the dread narcotic. 
 
 , Then something like a gleam of joy passed across the stern man’s face, 
 t as, turning to the good servant who then re-entered the room, he said, — 
 i “ I think, Molly, there is a chance for Miss Eliot’s life now.” 
 
 L Molly made no direct reply ; but, coming to the head of the couch, 
 !l made her quaint obeisance, and bent her face down reverently near 
 
 8 that of her mistress. She was a woman of few words, and never 
 
 9 liked to confess to the weakness of tears. 
 
 9 “ What made you first think. Sir,” she said, at length, as she came 
 
 y round to the side of her mistress, and raised her in her arms, “ that 
 J| she had had poison — for the cofiee was nice enough, and pure enougli, 
 
 ■ when I brought it in? It was a lucky thought, however, as it only 
 M seems too true.” 
 
282 
 
 MAI^■STO^*E'S HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 I bad ridden up to the bouse, to repeat to you a warning I bad , 
 given to eTordan yesterday, when, just as I bad' got to the porch, a 
 iigure llitted by me, from the direction of the terrace round the 
 house. Judging from circumstances I knew, that its purpose, whence 
 it came, bad "been no good one, I jumped off my horse, and hurried 
 forward. A sudden and intense blaze of light from the study win- 
 dows made me fear still more that my suspicions were correiit. When 
 I got to the greenhouse door I found it ajar ; and as I dashed my way 
 across the mat which lies by the inner door, I trod on something 
 which cracked beneath my feet. The instant glance I took, showed me 
 that it was a small, round, labeled bottle, such as stands on druggists 
 shelves. But there was not time for me to think of this or any 
 other thing. Your mistress lay like one asleep — though the lower , 
 part of her clothes was on fire, and the flames spreading upwards. I j 
 dragged up the hearthrug — I wrapped it round her. Still she neither 
 awoke nor stirred, though in evident pain. I judged at once that 
 this insensibility could not be caused by the smoke ; for, though it 
 filled the room, it was not yet dense enough to induce suffocation, or 
 even unconsciousness. I looked round — I saw the coffee-cup — I 
 tasted what was in it— and I knew in a moment that its contents had 
 been drugo-ed — even without recollecting the bottle I had so hastily 
 crushed beneath my feet. My loud cries brought you all in, and then 
 I asked for mustard and hot water, and such other simple remedies 
 as are always at band. To these Miss Eliot will owe her life.” 
 
 “ But who could ha’ done this — and what for ? ” 
 
 “ I think we shall presently find out ; but now let us see to these 
 burns upon your mistress’s hands, for they must be very painful.” 
 
 Thus evading for the present any direct reply, Kichard Wenlock, 
 aided by Molly, began to dress the burns upon the housekeeper’s 
 hands ; and they were so engaged when the doctor came. He had 
 been found most fortunately at Clark’s cottage : his mission there was 
 lust accomplished ; and he 'had therefore not lost a minute in return- 
 ing with Jordan to Mainstone. He was shocked at what he beheld— 
 pi^nounced at once that Miss Eliot’s comatose state arose from some 
 narcotic ; and, tasting the contents of the coffee-cup, said that thesd' 
 had been drugged with nightshade, in some one of its strongest pre- 
 parations. Molly, at a word, went and fetched the fragments of the | 
 broken bottle and its label from where they still lay. 
 
 The surgeon turned very pale when he beheld the latter. 
 
 “This bottle is from my surgery,” he said, “and it held the 
 strongest preparation of aconite ! Who could have got the bottle, 
 and how could it have come here ? ” 
 
 “I think we shall soon find out,” replied Wenlock, quietly ; “ there 
 has been a o-irl at Mainstone Hall, who seems capable of this or any 
 
 other deed and who, for some reason unknown to me, seems to bear 
 
 an intense hatred to the lady lying here. At least, from evidence 
 which was brought to me the other day, she it was who attempted 
 Miss Eliot’s life on her way home from Wclton, soon after Mr. 
 iiadnor’s departure into Devonshire.” 
 
MAINSTONe's HOUSEKEEPEIt. 283 
 
 l.es, it must be lier,” was the abashed, aud yet indic^'iiant reply; 
 ‘through my folly, she was once an inmate of my houselit Hallifoi-d’, 
 md so knows it well ; but this is now some time ago, and since theii 
 L have not even had speech with her. If she has been over there and 
 ^ gained admittance to the surgery, it must have been without the 
 mowledge of either my groom or the woman who cleans the house, 
 ^ly new assistant does not know her personally, and so in ignorance 
 nay have given her temporary admission— particularly if she went 
 ipon a plea of any kind. Perhaps,” and a sudden thought occurred 
 () the surgeon, “it has been through some connivance of Mt. 
 Ihornhiirs valet — but I will see. As to motive, it is that of 
 calousy.” 
 
 “ Jealousy ? ” asked Wenlock, changing colour. 
 
 “ Yes ; but we will speak of this another time. Meanwhile, we 
 nil get the^ poor lady up stairs. Apart from the burns, which I 
 annot examine here, her state is a precarious one ; thoiiolg if it had 
 lot been for your presence of mind in acting as you have done, she 
 iTould have been dead by now. The poison is so subtle and so 
 trong.” 
 
 Greene, assisting Molly and Julia, the little maid, 
 diss Xiliot was borne up stairs to her own chamber, from whence, in 
 ome half-hour’s time, the surgeon returned to the study with a 
 olerably hopeful report. Miss Eliot seemed slowly recovering' from 
 er lethargic state ; owing to the nature of her dress, which had been 
 ilk, and her recumbent attitude, the burns on her lower extremities 
 -extending from the feet to the knees, were not serious ; and thoufrh 
 he might remain, from the effects of the narcotic, very ill for some 
 ays, her ultimate recovery was not doubtful. 
 
 Wenlock had never ceased walking up and down the room durinnr 
 he surgeon s absence ; but now, as this hopeful report met his ea? 
 e turned his face away, and stopped abruptly by one of the windows, 
 .here, looking out as it seemed upon the wild and wintry niolit he 
 id all signs of what was passing in his own breast. The suro-eon’did 
 ot notice this, for as so6n as he had done speaking, he had sat down 
 ) write some directions for Jordan, who waited to ride to Halliford 
 )r medicine. 
 
 Putting on his rough outer coat, which in the recent confusion he 
 ad pulled oil hurriedly and _ cast upon a chair, Wenlock came 
 )wimds the surgeon — who, staying his pen, looked up. 
 
 “Not going, Mr. Wenlock ? ” he asked ; “ the night is worse and 
 'orse. Ihe servants must make you a bed.” 
 
 T-hank you, I could not stay. I am going directly — for there 
 Jems to me still further duty to perform. But you have not said 
 ow Mr. Radnor IS ?” 
 
 “ Much better. Quite recovered from his swoon. At first he 
 liked a little wildly, and wanted to see his housekeeper, or ‘ Char- 
 )tte, as he calls her ; but when I said that it was quite inadmissible 
 -that, though her burns were slight, and the effects of what had 
 sen administered slowly passing off— yet perfect stillness was abso- 
 
2S4 
 
 MAINSTONE’s HOtSE&fiEPEtt. 
 
 lutely necessary to ensure recovery. This immediately calmed him ; 
 but seeing his exhausted yet restless state, I administered a slight 
 opiate, and he is now in bed. As I left him to come down stairs, I 
 presume that he was already asleep, for when I casually spoke of 
 what you had done, he returned me no answer.” 
 
 “ I do not need thanks, Mr. Greene — Mr. Radnor knows this.” 
 
 Strong of nerve and austere as he was, the reticent man did not 
 say this with a wholly unmoved voice. 
 
 With a brief “ good night,” he moved to the study-door, when the 
 surgeon followed him. 
 
 “ Mr. Wenlock,” he said, “ from this date let us know more of each 
 other. Though I bear, I believe, no saintly name, I am not irreclaim- 
 able — nor am I blind to moral worth in others. Let me serve you at 
 any time if I can, and I shall be well pleased — for I hear that of you 
 on every side, apart from your great knowledge, which makes me 
 desirous to know you well.” ^ ^ | 
 
 This was kind, and it was generously said ; but Richard Wenloch 
 was a man too self-reliant to care for many friends, or to bare his 
 breast to every ready offer of friendship. He simply thanked the 
 surgeon, and was passing out, when, as though led by an irresistible 
 impulse, he said, quickly, — 
 
 “ You can oblige me very much — in one way.” 
 
 “ In what ? — only tell me ? ” i 
 
 “ Take the greatest care of Miss Eliot— for I think her a ver^ 
 noble woman.” 
 
 “ So does everybody. But I certainly will.” 
 
 And as the herculean engineer and mechanist strode down the hal 
 in his ordinary dreamy way, the surgeon, after watching him througl 
 the door into the porch, came thoughtfully back into the room. A 
 new light had broken in upon his understanding, and he saw wha 
 before he had not even guessed. 
 
 It was nearly twelve o’clock, and the night even wilder than at ai; 
 earlier hour ; still Wenlock made his way to Mainstone Hall. H( 
 found Margery up ; and when she had led him into her parlour 
 where she was sitting at her customary nightly self-comraunioij 
 when he knocked, she heard with utter amazement what he had t( 
 
 tell. . , ^ 
 
 “ The girl certainly went to Halliford by Pomp’s connivance, but 
 am equally sure that he was in utter ignorance ^ of her reason ii 
 wishing to go. He was lazy, and wanted to save himself 5 and as sh 
 had for several days previous to this been asking him for a horse t 
 ride or drive thither, he let her go, when, on the night Mr. Thornhil 
 had his second fit, Mr. Greene had to send there for some medicine 
 As to Betty Jack, however bad she is, she is, in my belief, not onl; 
 utterly ignorant of what the girl has done, but of all abetting in th 
 act. In fact, the woman has been away for now more than a week a 
 AVeldore Forge, where Briscoe is about to open a new general, o 
 rather butty-shop ; though his doing this will be so utterly agains 
 the wishes of all master’s pitmen and furnacemen, as to bring abou 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 285 
 
 riot, I feel sure. There, Betty told me, the last time I saw her, she 
 hould go for good, if she did not stop at the Kectory 
 
 “ At the Rectory ? ” interrupted Wenlock, indignantly; “she will 
 lot surely have the audacity to show herself there again ? ” ^ 
 
 “ You do not know Betty, Mr. Wenlock. She has insolence 
 nough for anything. Yes, she is going to make one more trial to 
 egain her old place, from which, she says, Mr. Radnor himself never 
 lismissed her. If she find the fine lady, as she calls Miss Eliot, too 
 auch for her, she has a home ready at master’s largest furnace, 
 vhere, as I say, she will soon be cheating his men, and making them 
 )ay through the nose for everything. But neither she nor Briscoe 
 eems to see that a day of reckoning is at hand ; and that when young 
 naster rules, as he ought to be doing now, things will soon be very 
 iifierent.” 
 
 Wenlock spoke still lower. 
 
 “ There is no change, is there, in Mr. Thornhill in this respect ? ” 
 
 “ Not to outward appearance ; for since this second stroke of para- 
 ysis, his mind is a deal weaker — and Briscoe’s power is, in conse- 
 quence, more instead of less. He is with master every day; and 
 whilst this is the case, there isn’t much hope for dear young master 
 being permitted to come here, or of '' 
 
 Margery did not finish her sentence, but looking keenly into 
 VVenlock’s face, read there an intelligent response. 
 
 “ It is only a thousand pities,” he replied, gravely ; “ for all the 
 ’olliery affairs are hurrying onwards to the wildest ruin. Bills dis- 
 lonoured, money due everywhere, the miners only partially paid, half 
 |ihe furnaces in a ruinous state, and the engine and pit-gear almost 
 jnworkable. Hast week refused to efiect further repairs, much less 
 supply new work, whilst Briscoe remains master. My claims are 
 aiuch too large already.” 
 
 Margery shook her head with a dreary expression of misery, that 
 r touched Wenlock to the very soul. 
 
 “ What will become of Ellis ? ” she wept ; “ what of ? ” 
 
 j Again she let her words die into thinnest air. 
 
 “ Margery,” he replied, in a low grave voice, “ my heart, like yours, 
 ffeaves to Ellis Thornhill. I have known him since he was a child, 
 and many a time when a lad, has he played about my littered old 
 ; book-room, or in my little dingy office behind the smithies. I like 
 him because he is manly, hearty, intelligent, and moral — and as 
 j opposite to his profligate, haughty father, as I am to the stars.” 
 
 “ He is like his mother. Sir,” interrupted Margery, in a voice 
 which — for the lowly penitence it bespoke — might have been that of 
 I'Mary Magdalen. 
 
 I “Well, Margery, as soon as there is a possibility of so doing, I 
 will — as I have promised Ellis, take the whole affairs in hand, and do 
 the best I can with them. He must, however — as I have already 
 warned him — look forward to years of comparatively narrow circum- 
 stances; as the legal claims upon the estate are — if I am rightly 
 informed — immense. Yet this sort of conditionub poverty is, after 
 
286 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 all, an excellent sclioolmaster ; and in this case will, if rightly I 
 accepted, go far to increase all the natural good qualities of this | 
 young man. 13ut now to return to the atrocious crime of to-night I 
 ■ — do you think that Briscoe knows — or has in any way connived at | 
 it ? ” 
 
 “ I ca!i hardly say, Mr. Wenlock — but I think not. He and Sarah 
 liavc nlways appeared to be upon the worst terms — always jarring and 
 (paarrelling if they met. To my knowledge they had not spoken for 
 more than a week. At least, as far as my presence and hearing have 
 been concerned. But then, you see, Sir, Tm a deal up stairs with 
 Mr. Thornhill, and cannot be aware of all that has taken place, ^ as I 
 Briscoe has of late taken to come and go as he thinks fit. During 
 the day he may, or may not, be within the house — one can never tell. 
 As far as I know, he wasn’t here yesterday or to-day, and Mr. Thorn- 
 hill has been very angry in consequence ; because he was to have 
 come up with some money he has promised for the last week. In 
 fact, Mr. Wenlock, things are getting so bad with us, that I am often 
 straitened for needful means to carry on the house. To-day I should 
 have said he was here; for as I was engaged by master’s bed, just as 
 dusk was coming on, I distinctly heard footsteps on the back stairs,! 
 and then in a little room where Pomp keeps master’s wardrobe and 
 dressing- things. I was waiting upon Mr. Thornhill at the moment; 
 but as soon as I could, I hurried out into the gallery to look, but saw 
 no one. I then went down to Sarah in the kitchen ; but I am sure 
 enough by her manner, that the girl had been neither up stairs herself 
 nor had allowed anybody else to go. So I suppose I was mistaken. 
 Indeed she seemed to have trouble enough upon her mind. When I 
 went down at dinner-time not a thing was ready, and I then thought, 
 and think so still, that she had heard of Mr. Iladnor’s return from an 
 old woman who comes round with oatmeal, and from whom I buy 
 every week. At least, her resolution to leave here this evening, as 
 she did, was a sudden thing ; and I can only account for it in this 
 way.” 
 
 Wenlock had listened gravely — now his austerity of voice and 
 manner was great, as he said: — 
 
 Margery^ you were wrong to have this girl here at* all. Whatever 
 were your husband’s vicious propensities, you^ as Mr. Thornhill’s 
 housekeeper — and you, moreover, to whom his son owes so much, as 
 the pure and womanly guardian of his youth and boyhood, should 
 have stood firm against her admittance. You knew her character, 
 and you are much to blame. What would Bllis have said, what those 
 most precious to him, had they come suddenly home— as they will 
 undoubtedly some day — and found such a woman on their hearth ? ” 
 
 She was awed by his manner. She dropped down beside her chair 
 upon her knees — she covered her face with her hands, and wept as 
 only women weep whose contrite hearts seek baptism in the rain of 
 tears. 
 
 know it. Sir — I know it ; but you know not the tyrant who rules 
 over me, nor the scourge by which I am driven. In days long gone 
 
MAINSTOr^E’s HOUSEKEEPEE. 
 
 287 
 
 J was false to tlie best of mistresses, and she died in ignorance that 
 was so. Her husband — Mr. Thornhill, as you perhaps guess. Sir — 
 r^ot rid of me ; but his child pined after me — would have died with- 
 jiut me — and so, to come back to the boy whose nurse I had been, 
 i.nd live in peace with my conscience, and with a good name, I 
 narried Pomp, who long before had offered me his hand. But true 
 cs I have been to him — as good a v/ife as I have been — though he 
 I mew of what I have told you before he married me — for I had made 
 lonfession to him — though how unworthy he has proved of so much 
 jionesty you well know ; and ever since, this truth has been a scourge 
 1:6 has never ceased to use. What I have suffered I have concealer!, 
 r have accepted bitterness as the natural fruit of sin; I have 
 mdeavoured to wipe out my evil deeds by patience and lonn- 
 uffering ; and when he brought this girl home, under pretence that 
 • he would help me and wait on Mr. Thornhill, I accepted the insult, 
 :s I had accepted most other bitter things. I did remonstrate, but 
 was of no avail '; and he threatened me — if I made a stir, or 
 mentioned the fact of her being here to the surgeon — that he would 
 jell Mr. Thornhill that young master had been seen about the 
 ountry ; and that, you know. Sir, though he only spoke from hearsay 
 fossip, tied my tongue. One thing at least rose up in favour of my 
 ) onest wishes : Mr. Thornhill took an instant and great dislike to the 
 irl — and thus the bitterness has been all my own.” 
 r “Well, Margery,” spoke Wenlock, as he rose, “you are now for 
 ver rid of her. As to these morbid feelings about the past, put 
 :iem aside as quickly as you can, for they are neither healthy nor 
 rise. If you once sinned, your beautiful life of duty to the child of 
 le dead has made full and solemn atonement ; for depend upon it, to 
 )row conscious of an evil and sin no more, is declaration of penitence 
 ind absolution in one.” 
 
 ; For some minutes he was silent — then he looked at his watch, 
 r “ I am going,” he continued ; “ and you must give me the key of 
 lie cottage in the Chase, as I suppose Betty left it with you. Before I 
 )de here I sent off Daniel to the police station at Horton Wood for 
 1 inspector to come up to the Rectory without loss of time, and for 
 mounted policeman to meet me beneath Mainstone Oak at one, and 
 is nearly that hour now.” 
 
 “The key you will find. Sir, under the third support of the eaves 
 the right of the door.” 
 
 ' Wenlock had said “good night,” and was passing from the room, 
 ihen she followed him, her manner more subdued, her attitude more 
 K'ooping, than ordinary. 
 
 1* “1 thank you, Sir,” she said, “for what you say to cheer me, and 
 hr all your truthful liking to the dear young master. I shall see 
 :i m come home, I hope ; and then I shall be ready to lay my burdens 
 f this life down — for they have been heavy, and the road a long and 
 ^caryone!” 
 
 i He did not trust himself to speak — he only pressed her hand, and 
 ^osed the door, 
 
288 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 A wet and dreary ride through the woods brought Wenlock to the 
 llhJrrf «h«m 10 o tree, ood «enl their "f ^ 
 
 ™ etaid »wiw, drey heejl the me eouoj ^ £ 
 
 Tipre they found an accessible casement. It stood ajar, ana mi 
 
 r.l\r.X?beeol.estilymoerf 
 
 »otie’3Th^ rtid I 
 
 gr.ndf.ther. ireje “““ J |^,,t?”torthe L.,tl,r«nd from 
 
 th. honied 
 
 •tj,ith.n.h.pone».n.nd^^^^^^ 
 
 plab to'see" bad \ 7 ckl/at thf dfm 
 
 X'SIm'S of th’e ro«l. TOld permit, tonard. the mime, 
 country. 
 
MAINSTOKe’s ilOliSEKEEPiE* 
 
 2Sd 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 A GOLDEN EVE. 
 
 The deepest interest was excited far and wide by this fresh attempt 
 «ipon the life of Mainstone’s housekeeper. Countless were the inquiries 
 as to her recovery — from poor colliers who plodded miles through 
 wind and rain, to my Lord Duke of Xortherland himself, who called 
 in his luxurious carriage. Universal was the sympathy, and loud the 
 execration of so base a deed ; for every one, by this time, knew that 
 the housekeeper was a woman of spotless life, and as generous in 
 serving others, as she was stern in principle, yet tender to human 
 frailty. It was also now well known that she was a highly-educated 
 woman, though as simple and as humble as a child with regard 
 •thereto; whilst the rumour which was abroad — itself evidenced by 
 her emendation of Mr. Radnor’s ruined home and circumstances — 
 that she was the possessor of considerable, if not even large, fortune, 
 
 ^ added to the interest and romance which environed her. 
 
 [ Yet little was publicly known as to the motives which had prompted 
 ) to the treacherous attempts upon her life, more especially as its author 
 Lad utterly disappeared. Had the girl sunk into the earth, or gone 
 down into the depths of the sea, she could not have been more utterly 
 jlost than she was from the time she was seen flitting round the house 
 by Richard Wenlock. Indeed, but for his testimony, her participation 
 in the crime might have been a matter of conjecture rather than 
 certainty, as Miss Eliot herself had only a very confused notion of 
 r the whole occurrence. People generally considered that Mrs. Jack 
 had prompted her, and that mere malignant envy had suggested it ; 
 I but there were a few who knew otherwise. Whether affected or real, 
 
 • the girl’s attachment to Mr. Radnor had not been hidden from every 
 . eye ; to these it was well known how she had waylaid his steps, 
 I haunted his presence, and embittered his life, and how, at last, true 
 1 \o his own moral dignity, and to the innate purity of his character, he 
 ?iiad made a firm stand against her presence in his household. Osten- 
 r sibly, his severe commands had been obeyed, as he saw her not ; yet 
 for weeks together she had still been harboured in his house, fed at 
 jhis expense, and had flitted round him at times and seasons irrelevant 
 Jo his privacy and repose. It was therefore thought well, by those 
 /who knew these things, and how their exposure would wound a nature 
 r;so sensitive, to let the veil rest where it thus naturally fell. 
 
 But whilst pursuing his inquiries, and gaining a full assurance that 
 neither Briscoe nor Mrs. Jack had suggested, or had any cognition 
 whatsoever of what had been thus guiltily effected by the wretched 
 girl of whom they were parents, Wenlock opened other sources of 
 suspicion against the agent. Upon reaching the furnace at Weldore, 
 19 
 
^90 
 
 MAIIS^STONe's liOUSEKEEPEil. 
 
 tlie morning lie and tlie policeman rode thither, Briscoe was found 
 writing in a little office contiguous to some of the working sheds; 
 and though he brought forward one of his men as a witness that he 
 had been there through the previous evening, his weary, haggard 
 looks, his confused replies, and the state of his horse in the adjacent 
 stable, were all evidences that he, and he alone, had been the one so 
 strangely occupied in the cottage near Mainstone Hall. N’othing, of 
 course, could be just then brought home to him ; but enough was 
 learnt to warrant the secret surveillance of the police who, in a few 
 days, were fully aware that he was paying away large sums in gold — 
 much of which was brighter than that in ordinary circulation. As to 
 Pomp, his manner and proceedings were even more strangely sug- 
 gestive than those of Briscoe. When discovered luxuriantly break- 
 fasting at one of the best inns in Welton, his manner was nonchalant 
 enough, till he heard of the girl’s sudden disappearance from the Hall 
 on the previous evening. Then it wholly changed, and, though 
 perfectly indifferent, as it seemed, to the crime she had perpetrated, 
 and vehemently denying all participation therein, his uneasiness was 
 unmistakable. He lost not a moment in returning home, and when, 
 on the following day, he attended at the police-court at Horton Wood, 
 the change in his appearance in so short a time was something 
 remarkable. As nothing could be proved against him, he was soon 
 dismissed ; but, in less than a week’s time, it began to be rumoured up 
 and down the country, that he had fallen into a most melancholy and 
 dejected state— that he had taken to his bed, and that his whole 
 manner was perfectly inexplicable, even to Margery, \vho had been 
 so long accustomed to his tyrannous and cruel whims. She did 
 not believe that he was ill— nor, indeed, did anybody else ; for he 
 was always varying the means by which he displayed his eccentric 
 selfishness. He was, therefore, left much to himself, as his wife had 
 enough to do in waiting upon Mr. Thornhill, whose state remained the 
 
 same. 
 
 Meanwhile the housekeeper at Mainstone slowly progressed towards 
 convalescence. It would have been hers at once, if the love of friends 
 could have bestowed it. Judith and Lizzie Whitelock came nearly 
 every day to see her ; good Hannah Tern was indefatigable in her 
 tender ministrations, and Molly was a miracle of thoughtful devotion. 
 Yet none, in her peculiar way, excelled happy, pretty. Barbie. Still 
 with the glory of her bridal days upon her, though more than twice 
 their moon had waned, she had left everything, the moment she had 
 heard of the occurrence at Mainstone, and hastened to the mistress 
 she loved so well. She never left her night or day ; and now, as 
 Miss Eliot grew better, she flitted around her in her old joyous way 
 — purer, gentler, better than ever heretofore — spoke of her husband 
 with devoted love — and, hiding her blushing face, whispered what, as 
 yet, she could whisper to no other living ear. 
 
 As to Mr. Radnor, his idiosyncrasies were as strange as ever. Once 
 or twice, during her slow return to perfect consciousness, he had 
 accompanied the surgeon to his housekeeper’s room, but as soon as 
 
idAiNSTONE'S HOUSEKEEPEli. 
 
 29 ). 
 
 she could converse and sit up for a few hours at a time, liis old 
 reserve and coyness returned. He wrote her notes instead ot 
 visiting licr ; and, affecting to hold no surer recognition than hithei o, 
 addressed her as “my excellent Charlotte,” and signed himself, 
 as usual, “yours truly,” or “yours, J. E.” Yet, by all accounts, he 
 wandered up and down the house and wintry garden like one in a 
 dream. 
 
 Smiling at his strange waywardness — conscious that, under all this 
 outer show of frigidity and indifference, the mightiest yearnings of a 
 passionate and solitary soul were directed towards herself, and that he 
 reckoned each minute as an hour till she — his Tullia — sat by the 
 magister’s side — she resolved to begin their pleasant days together in 
 a manner unformal, unexpected, and as though there had'lbeen no 
 hindrance to that pleasant eve three weeks before. Concealing, 
 therefore, the rapid increase of her strength, she fixed upon aii 
 approaching day when Mr. Eadnor would dine early, and spend a part 
 of the afternoon at the church, where he and the old clerk had vestry 
 business to attend to. 
 
 For several previous days, and during Mr. Eadnor’s temporary 
 absence, she had, assisted by Barbie or Molly, come down stairs for a 
 brief interval to look around the rooms, and see that nothing was 
 wanting to their master’s comfort. How, on this one — as the afternoon 
 stole onwards, full of pleasantness, and comparitive sunshine for a 
 December day — she felt stronger and better than she had yet done 
 since her illness. So Barbie was summoned up stairs as the afternoon 
 grew apace. 
 
 “Does the study fire burn brightly, and is the hearth nicely 
 swept?” ^ 
 
 “ Yes, ma’am.” 
 
 “ And has Molly made Mr. Eadnor his favourite cake ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, and several others besides. She has a wonderful hand for 
 cakes and pastry ! I have been watching her carefully, dear missis, 
 '30 as to make Silas some when I go home again.” 
 
 The mistress pressed the young wife’s hand tenderly, and looked 
 up into her face. 
 
 “ That is right. Barbie — we women can never show too much 
 •devotion where the love which is given to us is true ! How, I 
 want you to braid my hair. I think I taught you before you 
 'became a little wife. For I am going to leave off my cap this very 
 xfternoon.” 
 
 ^ “I am glad of it, ma’am — it is very disfiguring to you. It has always 
 'uad an odd appearance. Have you worn it long ? ” 
 j “Hot very. Barbie. I put it on the first time the day I made your 
 acquaintance.” 
 
 * “ Eeally ! ^ I always guessed you were a lady.” 
 
 But as Miss Eliot made no sort of reply to this. Barbie commenced, 
 incl proceeded with her task. She had been accustomed to dress 
 ^iss Eliot’s hair, and, with a native taste for such feminine arts, she 
 fiid it exquisitely — love and duty now aiding the graceful dexterity of 
 1.9—2 
 
MAINSTONE’s HOUSEKEEI-iLR. 
 
 292 
 
 her tender hands. As the shining braids fell supple in her fingers, as 
 she wound them round the beautiful head, as she fastened this or 
 that above its sister coil, she could not refrain from an admiring word, 
 thouo-h experience had taught her that she who listened had a 
 hau<rW contempt for flattery. But then Barbie’s love and admiration 
 were eminently sincere; and truth in all its forms, has an emphasis 
 which declares, convinces, and is unmistakable in its si^ns. 
 
 “ What lovely hair ! ” she said softly, as though to herself ; how 
 richly brown it is— how it shines— how soft it is ! ” Then louder— “ I 
 think, ma’am, Mr. Eadnor will like you without a cap— your hair looks 
 so much nicer.” j x v » 
 
 “I think so. Barbie— he has been more accustomed to It. 
 
 Barbie would have liked to ask when, and how, and where, but she 
 
 did not dare to do so. , 
 
 At last the hair-dressing was over, and Miss Eliot surveyed the 
 result in a glass. It did credit to Barbie’s taste and dexterity, con- 
 sidering her rustic breeding. Tin 
 
 “ It is really charming, Barbie ! I scarcely know how I shall spare 
 vou back to Silas. But we must have Julia up stairs, and give her a 
 lesson. Now, go to the wardrobe in the next room, and bring me a 
 grey dress you will find hanging there. It is not silk, and you will 
 know it by its newness, for it has never been worn.” 
 
 Barbie obeyed ; but her looks showed that she did not like the 
 
 it only fine stufiP, ma’am, and so very plain. There are a deal 
 nicer dresses hanging there, and one of them would suit better with 
 
 vour hair than this.” . „ . , i i 
 
 “ It is, nevertheless, to be worn. Barbie ; for it has been provided 
 purposely for this occasion. Its colour is that of the frocks I used to 
 wear when I was a young girl, and Mr. Kadnor taught me for he 
 
 was mv tutor. Barbie.” . , 
 
 “ Was he, ma’am ? ” said Barbie, opening her eyes ; then yim knew 
 Mr. Kadnor before you came here ? I always thought so, by what 
 you did for him, and by your knowledge of his ways. 
 
 ^ « Did you. Barbie ? ’’ smiled the mistress. “ Yes Mr. Kadnor was 
 an old friend of mine, and almost the best I ever had. Now, take 
 these keys, and open the brass-bound box which stands on the table 
 there. As soon as you open it, you will see a little chain and locket, 
 
 ’’^Bar^e againTbeyer; but this time, when she came back, she could 
 
 not restrain the expression of her wonder. ^ 
 
 “Dear me, ma’am, you must be very rich! I never saw so 
 many rings and bracelets, and things of that sort, in all my hie . I 
 thought Miss Flo a wonder with all the nice thin^gs she years ; but 
 you liave many more. Folks say that you are rich, and it must be 
 
 am not poor. Barbie. Now assist me to dress, or we shall hwe 
 Mr. Kadnor across the fields before I am down stairs to welcome him. 
 I am going to put on this chain and locket— they once belonged to 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 293 
 
 my motlier, and became mine when she died. I sometimes wore the 
 locket when I said my lessons to Mr. Kadnor.” 
 
 “ Did you, ma’am ? Yet you must be very, very rich, to have so 
 many costly things.” 
 
 “Well, have it very rich, if you please — so you help me to get 
 ready.” 
 
 The toilet was hastened ; and when Miss Eliot was dressed she 
 went slowly down stairs, leaning on Barbie’s arm, for she was yet very 
 weak. Ere she went into the study, where tea was to be served, she 
 repaired to an ample china closet, and selecting, from amidst some 
 china, some cups and saucers of beautiful form, bid Julia use them 
 for the evening meal. But to Barbie’s uncultivated eye, they did not 
 appear so suitable as many that were there, and she hazarded a 
 remark to that effect. 
 
 “ Still they are very lovely, and costly too, for they are real Wedg- 
 wood ware. Mr. Eadnor’s eye will be sure to recognise them, for 
 they belong to a set in use when he was my uncle’s chaplain ; 
 and, therefore, they shall bring back pleasant memories this after- 
 noon.” 
 
 This matter disposed of, the housekeeper repaired to the study, and 
 sat down by the glowing fire. The day was dying out of doors, 
 shadows were already in the room, Mr. Radnor could not be long. 
 
 More shadows ; the last faint streaks of reddened light upon the 
 western window-panes, when he rang the front bell, and came into 
 the house slowly. Taking off his coat and hat in the hall, more 
 slowly still he came into the room, and towards the bright and 
 pleasant fire, in his ordinary quiet and half-blind way. It was^ there- 
 , fore, not till he was almost close beside it, that he saw that someone 
 was there, and guessed in an instant who it was. 
 
 ‘ “ Charlotte — Miss Eliot — it is you ! ” were the words he tried to 
 speak, but could not. But he needed not to speak them ; for small 
 hands took his within them — the tenderest of human voices supplied 
 ^his want of expressive power. 
 
 “ Mr. Radnor, I felt stronger this afternoon, and so am here to pay 
 you a visit, and make your tea. We were defrauded of our evenino* 
 ithree weeks ago — this shall make amends.” ° 
 
 “ Yes, yes ! But are you better — really stronger ? ” As he spoke, 
 he was regarding her intently, as she could see, so as to have ne 
 longer any doubt of her perfect identity. But, free from the little 
 cap which had so much disguised her, and with the light shining on 
 her glorious hair — in the grey dress, the little locket — he knew'^her 
 ‘for once and for ever. 
 
 J “ My God !” he said, in a low, supplicating voice, “ grant me sanity 
 Jin my deep joy ! It is my Charlotte after all— no substitute— no 
 smock ery ! ” 
 
 “ Yes, your Charlotte, dearest old magister — ^your troublesome little 
 sTullia— your duncified little Jane — no changling — no fairy — but 
 . Charlotte W aldo — a woman grown ! ” 
 
 f “My God!” he said again, as though to himself, “I love her 
 
294 
 
 MAINSTONe’s IIOUSEKEErEB. 
 
 better than my life — she must not quit me any more, or I shall 
 (lie ! ” As he spoke, he drew her towards him — put his arm around 
 her, as a father might his first-born daugliter. 
 
 “You will not go away, Charlotte — will you ? You will stay with 
 me always — we shall be very, very happy.” 
 
 “ Yes ! My good old Koger Ascham will always want a house- 
 keeper, I think. He showed himself a bad manager of domestic 
 things. Charlotte must stay, if only to take care of the magister’s i 
 pots and pans, and rub up her rusty Latinity.” j 
 
 The last word would, at any other moment of Mr. Eadnor’s life, I 
 have been to his ear what the sound of battle is to the panting war- ■ 
 horse ; but it went by unheeded — his ear and heart were set on other 
 things. 
 
 “ Housekeeper ! Charlotte — not always housekeeper ? ” She 
 wilfully misunderstood him, for she said, “ The dear old dominus 
 will always want one, I think ; but sit down — he looks tired already. 
 Tullia will ring for tea — we want a long evening — we have much to 
 talk of.” 
 
 “ We have indeed! ” he said, gloomily, as he sat down in his study 
 chair, and bent towards the fire. 
 
 Seeing his intense sadness, she knelt down beside him, and laid her 
 hand gently on his arm; — “Julius, my mission here is to cheer you 
 — to make your life a joy ; if I fail thus early, the very hour that we 
 meet face to face, as Charlotte and the good old master who taught 
 her so well and so tenderly — I must go — I must, indeed.” But he 
 made no other answer than again to draw her to his side ; and, 
 pressing her head* down on his shoulder, bid her rest it there for a 
 little while — even for the sake of the good master he had been. It 
 was an appeal without negative, and so she did. More than once he 
 passed his hand across her hair — more than once he pressed those 
 hands which had been so tender in so many offices to him — once only 
 he kissed her face, and she did not forbid it — no more than she had 
 done in those old days when a caress was her reward for well-said 
 lessons. Yet, as the minutes passed, he became more and more 
 conscious that she regarded him in no other light than as her dear 
 old tutor — that her love for him was still that of the innocent and 
 confiding child — and that his imagination had built too much upon 
 the foundation of her voluntary servitude. 
 
 Presently, as slic freed herself from his embrace and tried to rise, 
 his remembrance of her illness and yet great weakness flashed sud- 
 denly across his mind. 
 
 “ How selfish 1 am,” he said, “ thinking only of myself and forget- 
 ting you.” He assisted her to a chair, drew a shawl about her, and, 
 ringing the bell, ordered tea. It was soon brought in, and he essayed 
 to pour it out ; but this so awkwardly, that she pressed his hand 
 back with a smile. 
 
 “No — this is Charlotte’s duty; no one can do it so well for the 
 magister — he was always very awkward, and I see he has not im- 
 proved. Now ! does he recognize nothing on the table — nothing 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 295 
 
 from which he and little Tullia shared many a bit and drop in those 
 dear old days of learning ? ” 
 
 “ I do ; but I have no heart just now to make lesser recognitions 
 than the great one of Charlotte herself. She is all the world to me. 
 A good and bounteous fairy, I confess ; but still cruel in keeping me 
 so long in suspense betwixt hope and fear. I suspected from the first 
 it was you. I knew that romances in the shape of human duty are 
 not common things ; and I knew of no one else who would, even for 
 pay — much less for charity — come to this solitary place to set right 
 the confused affairs, and miserable, disordered home, of a melancholy 
 bachelor. But you should have revealed yourself, Charlotte, and 
 spared me countless pain.” 
 
 “ It is your own fault, magister : you knew how suddenly, eight 
 years ago, you left ” 
 
 “ Left ! yes, I did. God knows how reluctantly. It was like 
 tearing my flesh from my bones ; but I did it for the sake of honour 
 and peace. Charlotte, the magister had taught too long and too 
 
 successfully. He was too proud — too fond — too .” He bowed 
 
 his head — the mighty passion of his soul was too great to be out- 
 spoken in coherent words. 
 
 “ In that case, Julius,” she said, gravely, “ as the reason was more 
 than suspected by others, and as I grew to womanhood, was imparted 
 to me, how could I, fittingly, unless under the modest gloss of a dis- 
 guise, force myself into your home, or reveal myself, till I had 
 expressed, through service, my reverence and pity, and proved that 
 duty — not immodest intrusion — was the inducing cause. Then, ao-ain, 
 did you not yourself place difficulties in the way of Mrs. Jack’s 
 dismissal ” 
 
 ‘‘ Circumstances which you, perhaps, know already,” he interrupted, 
 “necessitated me — or at least I thought so — to bear with her 
 abominable conduct, till such time as, upon the advexit. of a better 
 housekeeper, she might see that her power was gone, and so depart in 
 peace. But let us not desecrate this holy hour by even the mention 
 of her name.” 
 
 “ I have no desire, I assure you, Mr. Radnor. We have much to 
 talk of — the past and the present are not barren to either of us, I am 
 sure.” 
 
 “ The future ! What shall we say to that, filia ? ” But Cliarlotte 
 made no answer ; and so bending, in his old dreamy Avay, towards 
 the fire, he sat silent for a time. But her voice cheered him, her 
 hand assisted him with his favourite meal, and he could not long be 
 sad when she who was all his world was by. 
 
 “ Tullia,” he said, presently, as he pressed the hand which held to 
 him his cup, “ after the old Doctor’s death, whither did you go ? ” 
 
 “Magister knows that the strange old man made me 'his sole 
 ^ heiress.” 
 
 “ Simeon told me particulars. But I would rather my little Tullia 
 had been poor, and then the magister’s fate might have been happier 
 ^ than it will be. But where did you go ? ” 
 
296 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 “To Germany. I was there two years. When I returned, I 
 stayed some time at the old farm in Sussex, whither you used to 
 accompany us in vacation time. It was from Oxford that I came to 
 
 Mainstone.” , , , _ . , 
 
 He did not seem to hear her latter words, for he only said, 
 
 Gemany ! I wish, Charlotte, you had never been there— that you 
 
 knew nothing of its language.” ^ i v i. 
 
 She smiled, for she guessed to what his words adverted ; but she 
 
 made no direct reply. 
 
 “ Talking of the Sussex farm, Mr. Radnor,’ she said, after some 
 minutes’ pause, and as their pleasant meal drew near its close, it 
 reminds me that I have something to tell you, and a question to ask. 
 Some time ago I sent that poor child, Phema, from Moore Farm into 
 Sussex ; and she is there at present with my old nurse, Ellen Ash, 
 and her husband. She thrives well, and is already humanized by care 
 and tenderness. What I now want to do is this send thither 
 Cornelius. He would not feel solitary whilst Phema is there, and he 
 would be with Stephen, old Ellen’s son, who is now master of the 
 village-school — an old endowment as you know. The removal would, 
 probably, wean the half-witted youth from his wandering habits, and 
 enable me to realize an idea which has been mine for some time. ^ It 
 relates to his idiocy, of which there seems to be a chance of partial, 
 if not absolute, removal, if an operation were performed by skiltul 
 hands. There is risk even in this case ; but a moderate amount or 
 intelligence seems to me so immensely preferable to a mere animal 
 and breathless existence under the condition of idiocy, as to warrant 
 the temerity of trial, if circumstances favour it.” 
 
 “ He is the old clerk’s only child, Tullia,” said Mr. Radnor, raising 
 his meditative face; “the youth’s death would break the old mans 
 
 “ I know it ; yet there is weakness in the consideration, magister 
 better little good than all evil; and were we always weighing the 
 chances against moral and physical possibilities, where would Miman 
 advance be, and all the mighty and solemn blessings which attend it 
 Had I weighed all the arguments against coming here, instead ot 
 setting forth to mend the household methods and environments of a 
 certain dear old Roger Ascham that I know, would he and his little 
 Jane have sat thus pleasantly on a peaceful hearth, with so many 
 thino's to talk of as to puzzle them where to make beginning.'' 
 Macuster, vou are not a bold man— you are one amongst the 
 uncourageous many who waver before a trial of causes which may 
 
 know ^itf ^Charlotte,’’ he said, submissively, “and that this 
 slavery to moral fear is the woe of the world. In one thing I have, 
 however, been exceeded in faith and strength by few men. In my 
 liking for a certain little damsel-a dear filia, who was such a pride 
 and honour to her master. Ah! I have been brave, I think, ^^re . 
 
 “ Thank you, Mr. Radnor. I accept all this fatherly liking to the 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 297 
 
 full. Now let me tell you my purpose. Elisha was the first to 
 mention this possibility of Cornelius’s cure. When I had thought it 
 over, T wrote to Mr. Grayson, and since that gentleman passed at 
 Surgeon’s Hall, and has been attending lectures in Paris, we have 
 corresponded largely. Durand, the eminent French anatomist, who 
 was the first to test this class of operations for partial idiocy, arising 
 from malformation or incidental pressure of the skull upon the brain, 
 has performed some marvellous cures ; and considers that this case, as 
 represented to him, presents every prospect of relief, if not of entire 
 cure. Mr. Grayson has himself assisted M. Durand in several of his 
 latter operations ; but my proposal is to employ in this case the 
 master-hand — and to this end I will willingly pay all the expenses 
 which may arise. For what is wealth, magister, if it does not serve 
 somewhat towards the amelioration of human ill ? ” 
 
 “ Ay ! what ? ” he added, thoughtfully, “ and the circle of your 
 beneficence, Charlotte, is so large a one. First, the old dreamy hypo- 
 chondriac master, with his disordered affairs ; then those surrounding 
 him ; next, the dumb humanity which he loves. By the way, we 
 must take an early day for our joint affairs ; and you must put down 
 all I owe you, so that by degrees you can repay yourself out of my 
 y^early stipend.” 
 
 “We have no joint accounts, Mr. Radnor — for you owe me nothing. 
 On the contrary, the debts are all on my side.” 
 
 “ Nonsense, Tullia ! We will have no jesting in this matter. I 
 am a man of honour — scrupulous in the matter of debt, as you 
 know.” 
 
 “ Yes ! none better than I know Julius Radnor’s virtues ; but what 
 [ say is nevertheless true. He taught me much of what I know — 
 le helped to make me what I am. When Dr. Waldo would have 
 confined his niece to the nursery, or at a later date consigned her to 
 the tender mercies of a Miss Todd — whose French was bad, whose 
 English was worse — he rescued her, made her a mathematician and 
 i Latin scholar, and otherwise enriched her with the keys of precious 
 earning. When I tell my dear old master that I value real know- 
 edge above most other mortal things — that I should reverence its 
 Dossession as much in a beggar as in a king — he will understand that 
 ;he debt I owe to him is large — can never be paid ! ” 
 
 “ Do you think so, Charlotte — is this really true ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly. I have striven already to give some proof that such is 
 ny recognition of an unpayable debt.” 
 
 “If you regard the obligation in this way, Charlotte, you can cancel 
 
 t, to my infinite happiness, by ” 
 
 He said this eagerly ; but he was not suffered to close his 
 Sentence. 
 
 “You must not talk thus, Julius,” she said, in that authoritative 
 •nanner which had been so potent in ruling Mrs. Jack, “ or I must 
 l^ive up my place at once to another. You the grave master — I the 
 juiet housekeeper ; this is the way we must proceed together. Now ! 
 ^et me finish this business about Cornelius. You must, if you can, 
 
298 
 
 MAINSTONE*S HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 spare old John next week to take his son into Sussex, and there 
 place him beneath the care of Stephen Ash. In the autumn, you and 
 I can journey thither ; and if it be then feasible, M. Durand can 
 come over and perform the operation. Perfect quietude will be 
 necessary to ensure recovery, and this the youth can have in per- 
 fection. If the result be a cure, and Cornelius ever able to read the 
 responses and say ‘ Amen ’ in Mainstone Church, think of the old 
 man’s pride and joy ! ” 
 
 “Yes! yes! /a'i* joy ! ” muttered Mr. Radnor to himself, and as 
 sorrowfully as though he, of all men in the world, had none. At 
 length, after some moments’ dreamy silence, he said quickly, as if his 
 tender conscience all at once remembered that there was such a vice 
 as selfishness, “ Charlotte, AVigpit can go,” and, alter another pause, 
 he added, “ Yes, you and I will go thither in the autumn — it will be 
 a pleasure to me to see the old farm, its pleasant sea-shore, and its 
 sunny corn-fields, once again.” 
 
 Again he dropped into abstraction, and, resting his chin on his up- 
 raised hands, lent back in his chair. 
 
 To wean him from this mood, she, when tea was over, the lamp 
 lit, the room again in studious quietude, fetched some little books 
 from the bookcase, and laid them near at hand. 
 
 “ Magister,” she said, “ the little Jane will come again to school, if 
 so you will. You shall refresh her Latin, make her a better mathe-i 
 matician — instruct her in some abstract things that ” i 
 
 “Not in German, Charlotte,” he interrupted, with more an ex-| 
 pression of satire than could be thought to belong to so guileless and 
 tender a nature as that of the Rev Julius. “I know nothing of it. 
 I am neither master nor scholar therein.” 
 
 She wisely let the jealous parenthesis pass by unnoticed, knowing 
 that her rule would be strengthened rather than weakened by a 
 silence which, when necessary, should bespeak its own meaning. 
 
 “ I do not need it,” was the quiet answer. “ Only to be once more 
 a scholar in old things to my good master. That is to say, if he will 
 let me ? ” _ i 
 
 “Let you? Does a man who has been waiting long — oh! howj 
 long! — to hear once more some hallowed music, stay it as its lirsti 
 notes begin ? Charlotte, if you talk thus, you will slay me.” 
 
 “ I have no intention to be so cruel, I assure you, Mr. Radnor. If 
 you will open the books — I have brought you some volumes ol 
 Tacitus and Cicero— we will begin at once. The lesson must not be 
 a very long one, as I am but weak.” 
 
 He knew this, and he was all tenderness. He opened a volume oi 
 Cicero; he laid it before her; he pointed to the place; and, when 
 resting her face upon one upraised hand, thus down-looking on the 
 page, he took the other in his, just as, in old days, they sat together, 
 tutor and innocent child. So she read to him — he stopping her often, 
 leather to look into her face, and hear her English speech, than to 
 correct what he himself had long before made perfect. 
 
 Thus the time passed by, and the house clocks struck eight. They 
 
MAINSTO^iE S HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 299 
 
 - ^ere reading together, he explaining to her a passage in the second 
 ;*,ifhllippic, when the study-door w'as suddenly opened, and Molly and 
 it Elisha, in great haste and agitation, stood before them. 
 
 “ Beg your pardon, Bev. Sir,” said breathless Molly, dropping her 
 profoundest curtsey — “ beg your pardon, dear missis, but ” 
 
 4 “If you please. Sir,” interrupted Elisha, whose wrath was only 
 .fermented the more by Molly’s respectful slowness, “you mayn’t 
 
 believe it, but that witch is here ! ” • 
 
 ^ “Not — not — not — ’’gasped poor Julius Badnor, as he rose from , 
 his chair. j 
 
 “ Not Mrs. Jack ? ” asked the housekeeper, with a haughty disdain 
 
 - of voice and manner that was quite inspiring to old Elisha. 
 
 “Yes, missis; if ever impudence was like it! We’d just set down 
 
 5 comfortably by the fire — Molly knitting, me with a pipe, and Jordan 
 ^reading the paper to us— when we heard a cart drive into the yard, 
 
 and presently Betty Jack walked right in, and a man after her with a 
 . big box. When we asked her what she needed, she didn’t chose to 
 answer, but, taking olF her bonnet, plumped down in Molly’s chair; 
 r and there she is, missis, at this very minnit, with her feet on the 
 . fender, and with I daresay by this time a good jug of ale, and maybe 
 a bit of cold chicken, for I see her looking hard at the pantry-door, 
 y* So please, ma’am, what are we to do ? ” 
 
 “Dear me !— God bless me ! ” ejaculated poor Mr. Badnor ; “ I do 
 not know. The housekeeper ” 
 
 . “ Beturn with Molly to the kitchen,” replied his mistress, firmly : 
 
 [)iand dealing with her good magister in the matter as though he were 
 1 an infant in her arms. “ Keep peace till I come, which shall be as 
 soon as I have consulted with your master. So go, and close the 
 r door.” ^ 
 
 t “ ’Sense me, dear missis,” said Elisha, as he retreated in obedience 
 to the stately command of his unmoved mistress ; “ you’d better 
 S^make haste, or she’ll be right in here.” 
 
 " “Jordan will have the common sense to see to that — iro ! ” 
 
 And Elisha himself trembled at the stern and stately tone of 
 , voice. 
 
 “Dear me ! — God bless me ! — what must be done ? If — if — If she 
 knows — - — ” whispered Mr. Badnor in broken f)areMthesis, as he 
 leant against his chair, breathless and greatly moved. “I do not 
 f know what to do,” he added, after a moment’s pause ; “you must act 
 n for me, Charlotte.” 
 
 [ “ I certainly cannot, Mr. Badnor, for you yourself must give her a 
 
 i'final dismissal. Her pretence for annoyance is, that she will take no 
 1 other. Indeed, I cannot see of what you have to be afraid ? ” 
 i: And her tone of voice and manner expressed so much latent con- 
 I tempt, that even Mr. Badnor’s sweet and pacific nature flinched 
 , beneath it. 
 
 “Indeed, indeed! I am not pusillanimous, Charlotte, in respect to 
 any matter which solely concerns myself. But here is a secret oi 
 others — a dear and tender secret 
 
300 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 “I guess it perfectly, Mr. Eadnor. Nevertheless, with all respect 
 to you, I think it a very silly one — and the more so, as^ it involved 
 others in so much serious trouble. If that boy and girl chose to 
 get married whilst almost children— if the natural result followed— 
 if 
 
 He interrupted her, gathering her hands tenderly in his. 
 
 “ Charlotte, you do not know Flora, or you would not talk so ! 
 Nor do you guess how dear the boy Ellis is to me — next to you, who 
 stand hio’h in my human lOve above all other mortal things— —I regard 
 him, for'Ee is brave, manly, and generous to a fault. So when they 
 
 cam^to me ggcret,” she interrupted, gently ; _ “ the dear old 
 
 maeister was utterly oblivious of self, as he always is. It \vas kind 
 of him, but yet foolish ; because I think, that when these important 
 steps in human life are taken, truth in relation to them is an unalter- 
 able necessity. Besides this, I consider that there ought to be no 
 tamperino- with these moral obligations of social life, and that all 
 considerations but those of absolute truth, are as contemptible as they 
 are iniurious. If a woman is married let her say so— let her have no 
 prevarications as to name, or place, or date, for otherwise, though she 
 suspects it not, she immolates her own reputation. _ In this case, it 
 the future possession of property has been the motive for conceal- 
 
 money only, Tullia— but two strange fathers, whose 
 
 “Yet even here truth would have been best. Had I been 
 YOU, Julius, your duty should have not succumbed to pity. 1 ruth is 
 wisdom in all things— rigid, plain, outspoken truth. God rules by 
 irreversible truth ; it is His divine law, and will be that ot man, 
 when the knowledge of the latter is higher and more genuine in its 
 conditions than it is at present. So far on this matter. Now, with 
 respect to this worthless woman, she knows absolutely nothing. I he 
 scandals she fabricated, and then sent anonymously to the bishop 
 of the diocese, related to Street End House, and what I suppose was 
 the birth of Flora Thornhill’s child— of the real truth it is my belief 
 
 that she knows nothing.” , o .. 
 
 “ Does she not ? Is this really possible, Charlotte ? asked Mr. 
 
 Eadnor, with undisguised joy. 
 
 “ I think so, and that you may safely act thereon. As respects her 
 confederate, Briscoe, I cannot say so much. I believe that the secret 
 is well known to him; as I came upon evidence of his being m the 
 vicinity of Street End House during a visit Ellis Thornhill made 
 there in October. But there is, I should say, little to fear from him. 
 His own position at the present date is too precarious— his shifts to 
 keep up appearances to the last, too exigent; and, what is st'H more 
 important, Mr. Thornhill’s present condition is too doubtful, for 
 Briscoe to care to interfere in matters which might hasten his own 
 inevitable ruin. Though why he has kept this secret from Mrs. Jack 
 or how possibly it has remained unguessed by her, is to me incomprC' 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 SOI 
 
 Esible— except on the principle that the cunning are always par- 
 
 illy blind.” x i j ^ 
 
 “ Dear me ! dear me ! ” sighed excellent Julius ; “ that i had only 
 lown or even guessed this before, what pain I and others might have 
 
 ';en spared.” . 
 
 “ Do not regret it. If it only brought me to set right my Koger 
 scham’s house — and he may be sure that he would not have seen 
 e little Jane from whom he ran had he been in prosperity— the evil 
 not without its good. Now, let this dismissal be given, for once 
 id all — if Mr. Radnor feels nerve enough.” 
 
 “ I am brave as a lion, Charlotte ! I am never pusillanimous, 
 Lcept in relation to others. I am going now— rest in my chair 
 eanwhile.” 
 
 “ I shall go too, Mr. Radnor, if you will give me the support of 
 mr arm. I want to witness your courage, and to be near you if 
 lat pity of yours comes forth to sin.” 
 
 : “ 1 shall have no pity, Charlotte ! I shall be as ruthless as the 
 mg-oppressed always are when the day of retribution comes. Do 
 :ou believe me ? ” 
 
 ! “Not till I see the victory. I know that he who taught me has an 
 nselfish and a merciful heart. Let us go — every minute that that 
 .^oman stays is desecration to a good man’s home.” 
 
 He put her hand tenderly through his arm, and led her step by 
 ::ep, bearing her up as he would a tottering child — for she was very 
 ^eak, and this inability touched him to the soul. So they went on 
 ftep by step, and reaching the kitchen— entered, for a moment, un- 
 r erceived. 
 
 i In the interval, Mrs. Jack, stimulated by the pacific return of 
 Ilisha and Molly from the parlour, whither she suspected, rather than 
 : new, they had been, carried bravely out her impudent intrusiveness. 
 ])he took off cloak and bonnet, placed the table of ancient chicken 
 ■easts near the fire, spread supper necessaries thereon, descended to 
 rhe cellar and fetched ale — informing Elisha, when she came up again, 
 hat it was “ swipes, only fit for pigs — but that she would soon set the 
 brewino* right.” This done, and utterly regardless of the wondering 
 yes fixed upon her, she made an onslaught on the pantry — now an 
 :,iry, capacious place, newly situated, and dainty with an exquisite 
 ileanliness. Herein, at this special moment, was certainly no 
 chicken ; but there was an equivalent in goose, which had served the 
 ; oarlour dinner that day. This was seized upon, with divers other 
 ) liceties, borne to the table, and the meal commenced, continued, and 
 )‘nterlarded with divers laconic but impudent speeches, addressed 
 I everally to Molly, Elisha, Jordan, and, as it so happened, to Reggy 
 ), Jiles, who had stepped down the hill on some neighbourly visit to the 
 iDarsonage. 
 
 ij It so occurred that whilst this human raven^ thus feasted— greedily 
 lis a Hun amidst Italian vineyards, or a famished Dane amidst the 
 plenitude of Saxon mead-buckets and seething cauldrons— she looked 
 ^oefore her, and saw her long-tried master— not drooping and suppli- 
 
302 
 
 MAINSTONE’s HOtJSElCEEi*ER. 
 
 eating, as in old days, but stern, grave, and with stature all erect. In 
 fact, a perfect lion of a Julius lladnor, compared to the meek lamb 
 who had drooped so long beneath her sacrificial knife. Quailing, as 
 it was plain to see, she dropped her knife and fork, wiped her mouth, 
 hurried from her seat, approached her master, assumed a lugubrious 
 expression of face, and made a lowly curtsey, though siding it off, as 
 it were, so as not to include the least amount of reverence to the 
 housekeeper. 
 
 “ Beg pardon. Sir— just taking a snatch o’ wittles ; for home things 
 be so nice. But pray how do you find yourself ? — not so well, I fear, 
 as when I did for you ; but I’ll soon have things nicely for you. 
 Folks as are all strangers can’t know a master’s ways like an old 
 servant.” 
 
 Mr. Kadnor looked so sternly at her — with such an unmoved 
 countenance — as to awe her, it was plain to see. 
 
 “ I wonder, woman,” he said, in words of iron — in words so loud 
 and clear as to be like the distinct notes of a bell — “that you dare to 
 cross my threshold — much less address me. You were dismissed 
 long ago — ^you are no servant of mine ; but if it be necessary to 
 repeat the dismissal, I say go ! — go at once. Of my bread you shall 
 no further eat, my cup you shall no further taste. In the presence 
 of the cherished mistress of my home — of my most worthy and valued 
 servants, I say go ! — or they shall thrust you out ! ” 
 
 “ Ah ! ah ! ” she said, as, afiecting to whimper, she drew up her 
 shawl to her eyes, “ I thought how it ’ud be. Of course, they’ve 
 pisen’d yer ears against me — of course they have — that Miss especi- 
 ally. But — but, dear master, if all didn’t go quite nicely, I will 
 mend. — I will, indeed ; please take me back again — nobody can do for 
 you like me, for I’m sure I reverence the very ground you walk on — 
 ay ! I can stay to-night, can’t I, and you’ll make up your mind by 
 morn ? ” 
 
 Mr. Radnor did not condescend to address her further. 
 
 “ Elisha,” he called, in a leonine voice, quite amazing to everybody, 
 “give this woman her bonnet — Molly, take out her box — Jordan, 
 thrust her forth, if she won’t otherwise go in peace, and at once. I 
 will have no further parley — I stand here till she is gone.” 
 
 Mrs. Jack was utterly amazed. He to ignominiously dismiss her 
 in the presence of all his servants ! Her lying accents, her crocodile 
 tears, vanished unconditionally — and her wrath burst forth. 
 
 “ I don’t want to be thrust out — I’ll go. Ay ! and if you think 
 that you are safe from the Bishop, I’ll go to the Archbishop, and 
 soon do for you, you old goose ; though more a pigeon now, with that 
 Miss at your side.” 
 
 The servants hurried and hustled her with a hearty good-will. 
 Elisha clapped on her bonnet, as a lazy housemaid an extinguisher on 
 a candle. Molly and Peggy hauled away at the big "box most 
 ardently ; and Jordan stood behind as Cherubim with the flaming 
 sword. Go she must — there was no help for it. 
 
 At this moment, pitying her more perhaps than all the others — for 
 
303 
 
 MAINSTOKe's HOUSEktlEPER. 
 
 the large heart and the large brain are happily often divine synonyms 
 — Charlotte stepped a few steps weakly forward. 
 
 “Mrs. Jack,” she said, “spare yourself ignominy. Coin peace, 
 lou are not wanted here.” 
 
 But there are ears in this world deaf, stone-deaf, to the n-entleness 
 and pity of exalted natures. ° 
 
 . You! As for you, called out the fury, turning and brandish I 
 her hand, “ it s only a pity if my Sarah tried to pisen you — and cause 
 enough she’s had to hate you— she didn’t do it right out. But, how- 
 ever, the old fellow’ll have his day with you. He thinks to marrv 
 you, does he ? He’d better look to Horton Wood if that’s the case • 
 for though Dick Wenlock was only born and bred a blacksmith, he’d 
 like my lady well enough.” 
 
 ihis unpardonable insult and implication roused all Mr. Badnor’s 
 jealous wrath. He followed her to the door, and bid Jordan and 
 Elisha, in still louder tones, thrust the woman forth. 
 
 And if she dare cross this threshold again I’ll prosecute her — that 
 I will ! ” 
 
 He waited till the kitchen was clear, and then retraced his steps 
 with Charlotte to the study. She was very feeble : her eflbrt to 
 accompany Mr. Badnor, the excitement incident to this dismissal of a 
 woman who had so long desecrated his presence and his home and 
 insulted or injured all those who had attempted amelioration, over- 
 came her at last ; she sank in her chair quite passively and childlike 
 
 physically weak enough for tears, but too proud and too full of jov to 
 shed them. She had conquered— she rested from her toils— the 
 , olive branch was set in every chamber— waved henceforth at every 
 door. ^ 
 
 ’ Yet peace seemed absent from the heart of the magister. As soon 
 
 ,as he had placed Charlotte gently in her chair, he leant a^^ainst the 
 mautel-piece in a dreamy, abstracted mood, scarcely rousing himself 
 when Juba, answering her mistress’s summons, brought in a Httle wine 
 ^ toratives. It was only when they were affain alone, and 
 
 'bis iulha had risen and was about to say “good nio-ht,” that he 
 jlooked up, and then fixedly, into her face. ° 
 
 “ Going, Charlotte — why ? It is early yet.” 
 
 L “ It is ; but Mr. Radnor forgets that I am an invalid. We will 
 soon have later hours.” 
 
 “ Yes, I know that I am forgetful and selfish. God knows how 
 much of both to you, precious creature! But stay a moment- I 
 [have a question to ask— speak truthfully to Roger Aschain, .as the 
 ..ittle Jane he taught so well should do. There, lean upon me, let me 
 : support you— you are weak, and I am strong ! ” As he spoke, he put 
 ; iis arm around her, with a wild and passionate tenderness which was 
 
 i undisguised. She tried to free herself from it; not only because it 
 vas unwise to countenance a hope which would probably have no 
 rullhlment— but because she, as mistress of his home, must be true to 
 pim, to herself, to the governance she had assumed, to the power she 
 
304 
 
 MAINSTOKe’S HOtSEEEEPEtt. 
 
 wielded ; but lie would not let her— retaining her, fiercely as It were, 
 for him who was so gentle. 
 
 “ Charlotte, cease to strive with me ! — ^lean against the old master 
 in faith, if for the last time in this life ! Tell me now— close to my 
 ear— if after I left, if, after your uncle’s death, you saw anyone you 
 liked— anyone whom you could have called your husband ?” 
 
 “ There were many, many, magister, who would have liked to call 
 me wife. In some cases, perhaps, disinterestedly ; in many others, 
 with a view to the fortune which is mine.” , , . i i 
 
 (( when you came here — when you first crossed this threshold, 
 
 your liking was free ? ” _ 
 
 She did not answer him by words, but bending towards him, made 
 
 his face her veil. ^ x 
 
 “She came, did she, with some dim, unexpressed feeling, even to 
 herself, that she was solitary— needed ties— needed a life-long 
 friend ? Had the old master spoken then, it would not have been 
 
 in vain ? ” x. u a ' 
 
 She did not answer: she hid her face more— it was bent down 
 
 upon his shoulder— it was wholly veiled ! , , . i 
 
 “It is not so now, Charlotte ! The idol of another human temple 
 is there — is worshipped ! Tell me, tell me truly, tell the old master 
 in a word, the saddest sorrow that earth holds for him ! ” 
 
 She pressed her face down, even more tenderly. Her eyes 
 were hidden from his gaze, but he knew that they were dim with 
 
 tears. 
 
 Perhaps he wept too ! , o,, i ^ x x n 
 
 But she was not weak or sentimental. She knew her duty too well 
 
 to let false pity take the place of truth. i ia 
 
 “Mao'ister, you probe too closely, too keenly. We all oi us lioia 
 somethmo- within our souls which we cherish there, as the priests 
 did the sacred fire, yet of whose presence we hardly make confession 
 to ourselves. So let this sacred place of either be sacred and un- 
 veiled ; for nature asks this reticence and modesty of women, more, 
 perhaps, than of men. Henceforth, this subject must be a forbidden 
 one between us; for, much as the little Jane loves, in the purest 
 sense of friendship, the dear old master, her duty and her truth are 
 of hio'her value. Mr. Badnor, we can lead rare lives together 
 united, though apart. I, your daughter, your pupil, your housekeeper 
 — your right hand in all things. You, my master, friend, and father. 
 I wish for no other, no higher life— at least at present. And even it 
 our ioint existences should run thus together to the end, Julius 
 Eadnor knows full well that duty is divine in principle, divine in 
 action and gives to human souls the fruition of sublime peace. He 
 knows full well that, if realization has joys, so also have abnegation 
 and asceticism; and that the so-called saints who prayed and fasted 
 in Syrian deserts, the men and women who suffered m the cloisters, 
 and, higher and nobler still— because the objects are higher— who, in 
 modern days, sufier, and bear, and toil in unrecognised solitude, rest 
 
MAlilSTONfi’s HOUSEKEEPEit. 
 
 305 
 
 on truths which have a deep foundation in nature. Dear old Julius, 
 this must be the course of things, except — except ” 
 
 She did not say another word, but, struggling from his embrace, 
 went as quickly forth as her feebleness permitted. 
 
 He did not attempt to stay her, for the last words she had some- 
 what unwisely uttered had filled his brain with new thoughts. Yet, 
 in his deep anguish, in this disappointment to passionate love — whose 
 growth had been so long as to be now a second life to him — he stood 
 where she had left him, absorbed and full of grief. 
 
 When he sat down, he was repeating over and over, “ Oh ! had I 
 known as much, I would not have hidden myself, like an abashed and 
 wayward child — I would have claimed her at the beginning, and made 
 her mine. My God! if I could step back upon the"^ past, how 
 willingly I would I But a few steps, and my cup would overflow 
 with all the good I ever craved, with all the human happiness I ever 
 sought and prayed for.” 
 
 And Julius Kadnor, you are not the only one in the solemn part 
 we play out upon this scene ; for human life, when looked at truly, is 
 i very solemn thing— who have wished to recall the irrecoverable 
 iioments of the past. The graver errors which darken the whole 
 •uture of individual existence are not here referred to, but hasty 
 words, hastier misapprehensions, want of patience, want of faith, 
 oblivion that to-day has its morrow, that the causes with which we 
 i 50 w present hours, as the husbandman his field, hold their contino-ent 
 effects in a far-lying future.^ Yet we all make such mistakes we 
 ;hould be prescient and relatively perfect if we did not — our will and 
 internal law would be one ; still such errors cover with shadows the 
 ime which is individually ours. They too often rob us of the wine of 
 ofe, the fulness of existence, the perfecting touches which might have 
 made us grandly human; and we have nothing but hard— often 
 anlovable— duties to rest on. Still, if we take them as a staff in hand 
 -if we perfect them, make them things of conscience, the consolation 
 -ind the reward follow— and richer, perhaps, in their way of fruition 
 
 ! tnd effect than mere individual happiness. Yet we are not ascetics 
 
 ve repine even whilst we reason— and evermore, whilst we are con- 
 aituted as we are, will the cry rise to our lips, the regret touch our 
 muls— the shadows darken us— of what might have been, and is 
 not! 
 
 It snowed through the night; it was a cold and frosty mornino*. 
 Vhen the housekeeper came down stairs, about eleven o’clock— ^n 
 ? arly hour for her who was yet an invalid— and went into the study 
 0 speak to Mr. Radnor, she caught a glimpse of him on the terrace 
 mtside. He was standing without his hat, his head bent down, and 
 aurrounded by his servants. She hurried to the window, and there 
 n a minute, saw what had summoned him suddenly from his books! 
 t%’eri and Pearl lay stiflT and dead at his feet. Mrs. Jack, as her 
 r arting benediction, had wrung their necks, and flung them beneath 
 fgis windows, where the chance was, that he would be the first to see 
 aem. The deed had been done early in the morning ; for her foot-* 
 20 
 
306 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 prints were in the snow, and till then Jordan and Elisha had kepi 
 guard about the house, lest, in her vindictive rage, she should fire a 
 haystack or an outbuilding. But more vigilant than they, and far 
 more cunning, she had waited till their watch was over, and then 
 effected that which she knew would give the poor gentleman a grief 
 through all the sunny days he had to live. For never more would 
 they follow his footsteps, or spread out their plumage in the golden 
 glory of the sun. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE HOO HALL. 
 
 Me. Radnor took the loss of his pets greatly to heart— even 
 though a greater sorrow weighed him down. He would miss the| 
 pretty creatures everywhere, and at various periods through the day. ' 
 Upon the window-ledges, near the greenhouse door, up and down the’ 
 noble terrace, beside his favourite seats, at breakfast time, in the glory 
 of the noon, in the falling shadows of the eve.^ Everywhere he would 
 miss them, though he made but small complaint. But the result was 
 a severe fit of hypochondriacism, which lasted some days, and to treat 
 which the surgeon had to be called in. For in vain had Charlotte 
 sought to cheer him, in vain had Cornelius’s blackbird been hung in 
 Goldie, though its cage was set upon his study- 
 table, and the little fellow chirped there as pleasantly as night be, 
 tliono-h it was winter and not the time of song, failed to 
 cheerful look to Mr. Radnor’s careworn face. ^ Nor was old Woli 
 more successful, though he patted his master with his paws, and laid 
 his great shaggy head on his reverend knee ; nor was Mrs. 1 uss, who, 
 jrrown bold in these days of peace, came purring into the study with 
 two kittens in her train. Whilst poor Fleckie, now solitary at feed- 
 inrr-time, preened herself in the porch unrecognised. But, treatec) 
 medically, Mr. Radnor grew slowly better— the first sign of wind] 
 was his renewed interest in his pets ; for he, as well as all other men 
 who are wise and good, recognised the bounty and the love or the 
 Great Master, in thus surrounding us with living examples of exquisite 
 fidelity, patience, and tender gratitude, in return for little benefits 
 received. . 
 
 la tUe meanwliilc, as usvial, the housekeeper had to act. Quiet 
 
maikstone’s housekeeper* 
 
 S07 
 
 depressive in her manner, yet tenderly anticipative of his ivants, she, 
 as she herself grew better, resumed her ministrations to her old master. 
 She read to him, walked with him, sat with him, headed his table ; 
 beyond this the limit was rigidly though tacitly fixed. She saw this 
 was necessary as well for her own peace as for his. Were these bounds 
 even momentarily passed, a brief but stern hint that if repeated she 
 would leave, eftected all that was desired. But they scarcely ever 
 were, and the days passed serenely by. She was the last woman in 
 the woidd to live a life of false appearances. To affect to be as Mr. 
 Radnor’s daughter, and in reality the mistress he was wooing, she had 
 no such thought — she had no wish, at least at present, to become his 
 wife ; she therefore reverenced him— his household, and herself— by 
 reticence and reserve. The good magister understood and obeyed, 
 but his passionate love only flourished all the more in the silence 
 thus enforced. 
 
 As soon as she could be spared, Silas Moore fetched home his 
 pretty wife. His account of her thrift, her dainty household ways, 
 her industry, her tenderness to him, were all that could be desired ; 
 and It was clear that his love grew by what it fed on. Old Mrs. Bell 
 had paid them several visits, and had come out quite handsomely in 
 gifts and money, so that farm and house were now well plenished. 
 Pier account to Silas and Barbie, of the strange and mysterious pro- 
 ^ceedings going forward at Moore P’arm, where the servant had be- 
 come master, and the master servant, were saddening and perplexing 
 .too;^ but by Miss Eliot’s wise advice, Silas kept aloof, and returned 
 ^ his farm and the innocence of his daily life with his tender little 
 Barbie. 
 
 ’ Whitelocks had been very kind to the housekeeper during her 
 ^mness; and now wishing to repay their visits, she chose a° fine 
 December afternoon for the purpose. The carriage waited at the 
 porch, and now when she was ready, she went in to ask Mr. Radnor 
 to accompany her, as he sometimes did, for the surgeon had recom- 
 mended much air and passive exercise. 
 
 to-day, Charlotte,” as he looked up dreamily from his book; 
 it I go out at all it will be across the fields to the church. There is 
 a paper in the vestry which I need, and if Wigpit be there, I can 
 good speed, for Elisha tells me that he and his poor son ao 
 to-morrow.” 
 
 , Yes, they were coming up here in the evening to pay their 
 ^parting duty. But you had better accompany me, for the walk is 
 - much too far, and you could go on to Brooklow.” 
 
 ^ ^"^o^^^^ooklow, Charlotte? I cannot face strangers, particularly 
 
 I “Mr. Radnor must begin. The surgeon says so. 1^^‘ow, as the 
 |,^ood magister refuses Tullia nothing, because he has perfect faith 
 L mat she asks only what is reasonable, he will get ready.” 
 
 ; There was a negative on his lip, but it faltered there, so he slowly 
 igose, and retreated to his little dressing-room to change his coat. 
 Ln a few moments they were on their way to Mainstone Church 
 20—2 
 
308 
 
 MAINSTONE’s HOtSEKEEPEE. 
 
 As they passed a lane leading np to Mainstone Hall, they met Mr. 
 Greene returning thence on horseback. He was always shy m the 
 presence of Miss Eliot, and avoided her if if he could ; but on this 
 occasion there was no option but to stay and speak, as Mr. Kadnor 
 
 ^^“IsMr. Thornhill worse?” asked Mr. Radnor, when they had 
 
 conversed a few moments. _ , • * t},.i it,,. 
 
 “ He is not better, and his case is one for much anxiety. Rut the 
 matter at present on hand is old Pomp. As perhaps you heard he 
 took to his bed a day or two after that atrocious attempt on Miss 
 Eliot’s life. At first, both Margery and I thought that this was only 
 some fresh whim of his eccentric and selfish folly, and the cure 
 would be to leave him to himself. But his health gradually declined, 
 and he is now extremely ill— so much so, as to make me think that 
 he will never rise again from the bed to which he voluntarily took. 
 His malady is chiefly mental, though he '^dl not disclose its cause. 
 Margery suspects it to be the loss of some hidden hoard he had, of 
 whose accumulation she had had many silent proofs, and which, from 
 his cruel and often repeated hints, was laid by for the day when she 
 should be quiet in Mainstone churchyard, and what he termed bis 
 
 ^“Yes; th^ man always appeared to me the embodiment of a 
 pitiful selfishness,” spoke Mr. Radnor, in his quiet way. 
 
 « Something much worse,” replied the surgeon, emphatically. 
 
 There came no reply to his, for Julius Radnor was the last man to 
 darken that which was already dark, and the housekeeper change 
 the subject, by inquiring if anyone were suspected of the supposed 
 
 Certainly not the girl Sarah,” said_ the surgeon, somewhat 
 hesitatingly, yet speaking with manly strai^htf orwardness, m heha 
 of one probably innocent, at least of this crime ; she is bad enoug , 
 but Margery is unmoved in her conviction that the girl did not touch 
 the money, though she had, without doubt, wormed out of Pomp its 
 
 exltencefas wdl as place of concealment. . But every sjpimon a 
 
 well as proof, points to that unmitigated villain— her father. He was 
 harassed on every side for ready money, and two days after the theft 
 £e mid away lar|e sums in gold, as well ^ exchanged a further sum 
 at the chief bank in the county town 
 
 brought to Mr. Thornhill. Margery suspects that that the hoanl 
 was concealed in a large old-fashioned wig-box i ^ V 
 
 tallies exactly with the fragments found by Rivard Wenlock and ftie 
 policeman on the hearth of the cottage in Thornhill Chase. No 
 later than last night Wenlock and I had a conference on this very 
 sSct. But at present little can be done, unless we haften--what| 
 muit necessarilv occur at no late date-and consideration of Mi 
 
 »p.k. Mr M.,r,f.oll.glT; “H 
 
 is my patron, 'and was once my friend— and his son is very dear to 
 me.” 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 309 
 
 “No, in this world John Thornhill will never be better," said the 
 surgeon, gravely ; “his imbecility increases, and the next stroke of 
 paralysis he has, and which may occur at any moment, will either 
 cause immediate death, or, what is more likely, absolute childishness ; 
 for he IS a man of iron frame, though his nervous svstem has been 
 destroyed by a life of sensualism. And now this subject has been 
 broached,” added the surgeon, lowering his voice, as he leant over 
 Ws horse’s stately crest, “let me advise that the son be not far off. 
 You are in Iiillis Thornhill’s confidence, I know : and were he to come 
 into this district, he could, with ordinary prudence, keep the matter 
 secret. For we know not at what hour he may be wanted. As yet 
 the Squire will not listen to his being sent for, or of any interference 
 in his private affairs — but an hour must come for both. It is well 
 therefore, to be prepared ; for even in this brief period of the valet’s 
 absence from his master’s presence, there is a change and a visible 
 softening, not only towards the son, but towards yourself, Mr 
 Eadnor.” 
 
 “I am truly glad of it,” spoke Mr. Eadnor, flushing a little, as he 
 always did when a word of praise or kindness met his ear; “for 
 the rest, I suppose I speak in entire confidence to you, Mr. 
 Greene.” 
 
 “ Quite so.” 
 
 I “ Then I and this lady are in a day or two going a little journey 
 together, when we will make some arrangements with respect to what 
 you name.” 
 
 c , “ well,” replied the surgeon. With this he raised his hat 
 
 (shook his reins, and galloped on. 
 
 This was the first word the housekeeper had heard as to goino* any 
 iourney with Mr. Eadnor, for he had never yet been explicirwith 
 jber as to Llhs Thornhill’s affairs. And as she judged it best to let 
 )him make his revelations when and how he pleased, she hazarded no 
 i.nquiry or question on this occasion. 
 
 j By the time they reached the church, the winter’s afternoon had so 
 dar waned as for the sun to lie aslant amidst surrounding shadows. 
 Cintering the porch. Miss Eliot found the door ajar, and as she pushed 
 3; t gently open, she could hear the shuffling of feet at the far end of 
 ihe church, and a moment after the vome of the old clerk say 
 Kneel with me, lad, kneel ! ” A brief space of entire silence fol- 
 jjPwed, and then the old man could be heard praying in a subdued 
 ^^oice. The housekeeper held up her finger to Mr. Eadnor, and thus 
 ,(jautioned, they went a little way up the aisle together. 
 
 / Yes, the old man, like Abraham, was offering his son to the Lord • 
 ,iot as a sacrifice upon a sacrificial altar, but in the simple faith that 
 •le could lift or lessen the witless creature’s heavy burden if He 
 would. 
 
 I “—If his senses could be again as others, then, indeed, would I 
 Gjoice ; he should, as his fathers have done before him, humbly 
 Hfumster to Thy praise within this sacred place. But as this may not 
 ,j»e, still spare him to his father’s latter days. Watch over him cure 
 
310 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 his wanderings, make him contented with his home, give him back to 
 me, even though he be no wiser, no better than he is now, and I will 
 ever praise Thy providence, O Lord, for he is my only stay, my only 
 comfort, my only son ! ” 
 
 Thus, simply, the old man prayed for his witless child ; and as they 
 knelt together upon the step of the altar, the tender light of the 
 dying day inwrapping them, the idiot’s face wondering, and yet 
 touched by a certain awe, they were objects of the tenderest interest 
 to those who looked thereon. j 
 
 Retreating in the shadows, and so to the porch, Mr. Radnor and 
 his housekeeper gained the vestry unseen. Here they were soon i 
 joined by the clerk, who, having seen Elisha, thus discovered his 
 master’s presence. 
 
 “ I was with my lad a bit in the church,” he said, when he had 
 made his obeisance to his much-loved master; “for my parting with 
 him, even though I go with him for awhile, is a solemn sort of thing 
 
 to me.” . 
 
 “I daresay, John,” was the reply; “but the separation may be 
 more productive of benefit than you expect. At least, we will hope 
 so. But you go in the morning ?” 
 
 “Yes, Sir, and Cornelius is mighty pleased. He is going to take 
 Phema’s little cat with him, and several birds. There’s been a world 
 I o’ packing going for’ads, and the artless things he says to me is beyond 
 
 belief. But if he’s pleased with ” 
 
 The housekeeper held up a warning finger, but Mr. Radnor saw it, 
 and looked inquiringly at his clerk. 
 
 “ Why, Sir, though the missis bid me not tell you, she’s been good 
 enough to get old Amos, the Welton tailor, to make him a suit— and 
 rarely proud Cornelius be of it.” 
 
 “ Wigpit,” interrupted the housekeeper, in that concise way which 
 permitted no negative, “ I must not have these small matters made so 
 much of. Attend to what Mr. Radnor requires, and then follow me.” 
 She went forth from the vestry as she spoke ; and the old clerk, 
 unlocking a cupboard, searched for what his master needed, whilst 
 the latter stood by in deep meditation. 
 
 “Kind to everybody,’^ he muttered to himself ; “kind to almost all 
 she comes near.” The rest was lost in one of those inaudible sighs, 
 unheard by others’ ears, yet which are mighty to the heart which gives 
 
 them forth. , . 
 
 When Wigpit followed the lady, he found her talking to his boy 
 beside the ^orch. She was answering some question he had asked 
 
 “Yes, the place where you are going to is very nice indeed — a 
 large, old, rambling farm-house, with a great garden and corn-fields 
 nem* at hand ; and not far off, the deep great sea.” 
 
 “ The sea ?— what is that ? ” 
 
 “ A vast body of water, greater than any you have ever seen. 
 Fish swim in it, ships sail on it and it has a wide shore covered with 
 sand and shells.” 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 31i 
 
 “ I shall like it— I shall like it, I am sure ; but something else 
 much better.” 
 
 “ What is that ? ” 
 
 “To see Phema.” 
 
 “Indeed ! Well, I hope you will be kind to her, and attentive to 
 Steplien Ash, who will try to teach you.” 
 
 , “Teach me,” he repeated, with an intuitive touch ot sorrow in his 
 voice; “I don’t think I can learn— I could once, but that is lono- 
 ago.” ® 
 
 “ Who knows the power may come again in a good season ? Next 
 year Mr. Radnor and I will come and see you.” 
 
 “ Will you ? That is nice. I like you, though I like Phema much 
 better. But I may come home again some day, and bring her with 
 aie to see you at the parsonage ? ” 
 
 “Certainly.” 
 
 “ Mrs. Jack won’t be there ? ” 
 
 “ Never again, Cornelius. None of us— not even the pets will ever 
 again know sorrow on her account.” 
 
 “ That is nice — that is nice ! ” he said, gleefully ; “ the duo's would 
 bark, and the birds sing, if they knew it ! ” "" 
 
 Jhen, with that inconstancy of attention which marked his state 
 ae noticed Elisha, and bounded towards him. ’ 
 
 The housekeeper’s little business with the clerk was soon con- 
 duded, and then she and Mr. Radnor proceeded on to Brooklow. As 
 :heir carriage went slowly up the acclivity into the villao-e, it was 
 )vertaken by the far more costly one of Mr. Walcot, who sat therein 
 n his habitual stately fashion. "Austere and deeply meditative, some 
 janto of the sacred poem was, without doubt, being mentally evolved. 
 Towever, he recognised Mr. Radnor, ordered his carriage to stay, 
 )owed stiffly to the housekeeper, and began to converse. Mr. Radnor’ 
 n his habitual, kind, and gentle way, apologized in turn for not 
 laving called upon, or written as yet to Mr. Walcot, thanking' him 
 or the favour conferred in sparing him a curate during his” lono- 
 ibsence, and otherwise conducting the service of the church ; but 
 here had been almost a fatal occurrence at his house, and his’ own 
 lealtli had suffered in consequence. 
 
 “Yes ! I heard of these things, and for this reason Mr. Colchester 
 ontinued^ his duties. Indeed, I will myself preach next Sunday 
 normng, if you will attend and read prayers. But no doubt you find 
 , our home very attractive, Mr. Radnor, and have little time to spare 
 ither for parishioners or friends.” 
 
 “My home is indeed blessed,” replied Mr. Eadnor, in innocent 
 ^.nconsciousness of the sarcasm veiled beneath the parson’s words; 
 Miss W aldo, for such is really my housekeeper’s name, was once 
 ly pupil, and I her tutor; she was the little Jane, and I her Roo-er 
 Lscham. I was her Cicero, and she my darling Tullia; we are 
 Jierefore, as father and daughter.” ’ 
 
 ' “ And will continue in this happy relationship, without doubt ” was 
 oe bitter inuendo, spoken, however, with the utmost gravity, But 
 
312 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 I will come and see your Tusculanum some day, and enjoy a serene 
 hour in beholding this felicitous relationship. I thing of building 
 a school-house for our joint parishes, and wish to consult you 
 thereon.” 
 
 “ Indeed ! ” said Mr. Kadnor, with a quickness, and in a tone of 
 voice which betokened interest and pleasure. “ I am really glad of 
 this. ‘ Better late than never,’ stands good in education as in other 
 things. I long suggested a plan of the kind, and sought your co- 
 operation, as you know, but without avail. I was too poor to stand 
 alone in the matter, and you too fiercely bent against educating the 
 people around us.” 
 
 “ I am so still,” he replied, haughtily. “ The hind to his spade and 
 plough, the woman-drudge to childbearing and the milkpail— what 
 else they want let them receive from teachers like myself. But as 
 the wolf has of late got into the fold— as the Mormons have been 
 busy in the parish — something must be done ; and so I am told, Mr. 
 Kadnor, by persons of your creed, and that of your lettered house- 
 keeper, that a little geography, a little grammar, a little history, and 
 so on, are the panacea needed. But certainly not by my consent will 
 these things be taught. If Hodge and Betty can sign the marriage 
 register, and the former reckon up his ale-house score, the latter her 
 shop bill— these, with the catechism, and some scriptural knowledge, 
 are quite enough. As to the school-house, I will give the land, and 
 build it solely at my own cost — on one condition I ” 
 
 Mr. Kadnor looked up inquiringly. 
 
 “Which is, that your housekeeper take an interest therein — 
 superintend it — be active there ” 
 
 “ You just now hinted,” replied Mr. Kadnor, with more than his 
 usual quickness, “ that she was one who would advocate too great an 
 amount of knowledge.” . « „ , . . t 
 
 “ That is possible— but— but— ” here he painfully hesitated— “ J 
 have little leisure, and, indeed, no taste for dealing with the every- 
 day questions of my flock. But she is a clever woman, and I could 
 depute much to her.” 
 
 The tender jealousy which slumbered in Julius Kadnor s breast was 
 
 roused. . 
 
 “I do not think I could spare my Charlotte, naming her, as 
 though speaking to himself. “She has many duties ^to attend to. 
 Some are mine, others belong to her wealth and station.” 
 
 “ Well ! ” was the irritable and austere reply, “ we won’t discuss 
 the subject further here, Mr. Kadnor. I’ll call upon you. ISTo doubt 
 you wish to monopolise your housekeeper’s services ; but if I build 
 the school-house for the services of our joint parishes, she must 
 attend to it. Samuel, drive on. Good day, Mr. Kadnor.” 
 
 The servant obeyed; but as he did so, the saturnine parson stooped 
 towards the housekeeper, and said in a voice audible only to her 
 
 Julius Kadnor is more foolish than ever, I will save you if I 
 
 can. 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 313 
 
 “ Tullia,” spoke Mr. Radnor, as Elisha drove on, “ do you ■wish to 
 take any part in Mr. Walcot’s proposed school ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly not, magister. I dislike the man.” 
 
 “ Almost everybody does. Besides, the old master could not well 
 spare— at least just yet — a tittle of his Charlotte’s precious services. 
 They are necessary to him — to his very life.” 
 
 “ He need not fear their loss — at least for a long time yet. As 
 long as the dear old master needs her she will stay — unless — 
 unless ” 
 
 Happily, the conjunction was a whispered one — the exception was 
 buried in her own breast. 
 
 “ That will be always — always,” he whispered, as he gathered her 
 hands in his, as a loving father might do. For her austerity had 
 already taught so much. 
 
 Arrived at the Whitelocks’ cottage, Mr. Radnor would fain have 
 not gone in. But when at length persuaded, the sisters’ goodness 
 ; and their winning ways soon removed his morbid dislike to strangers. 
 
 They made tea — they showed him their greenhouse — their pictures — 
 I old china and plate — and what was still more precious in his sight, 
 many old Latin and other books, which had belonged to their 
 i ancestor, Bulstrode Whitelock. Whilst he was so engaged — Judith 
 t attending him — Miss Eliot and the younger sister lingered in the 
 1 greenhouse. When other subjects had been discussed. Miss Eliot 
 made inquiry as to the house Mr. Grayson had talked of renting. 
 
 “ Oh ! it is already taken,” replied Lizzie, with eagerness. His 
 • brother from Birmingham was over here a fortnight ago, makin«* 
 arrangements as to repairs and additions, and the hire of further 
 g| land. It will be a nice, though old-fashioned place when com- 
 ij pleted.” 
 
 “Then Mr. Grayson is expected? When? — he said nothing to 
 \ me in his last letter.” 
 
 ' “ He is coming early in the spring — at least— at least, I think so,” 
 
 1' f<ilter«d the young girl, her face all aglow, and her agitation betraying 
 what she most wished to conceal. Miss Eliot affected not to notice 
 ^ these, though they revealed to her what was hitherto unsuspected. 
 The subject was changed, and they presently returned to the 
 house. 
 
 Meanwhile Mr. Radnor and Judith had evidently been holding 
 some confidential conversation. It was abruptly changed, however, 
 after the ladies entered, and village topics were soon spoken of. 
 
 ^ ‘‘ This matter of a school for Brooklow and Maiustone conjointly is 
 
 quite a new thing with our parson,” said Judith; “hitherto, he has 
 1 opposed every scheme tor educating the village children, whether it 
 were brought forward by the gentry or by the farmers. The conse- 
 quence has been, that those able to pay the fees have sent their 
 |i children to Losely school, which is a branch of that at Horton Wood. 
 
 At both these, I am told, the method of teaching and the quality of 
 I what is taught are both excellent; for Richard Wenlock, the 
 engineer, and some others of his ^tamp, form the school committee 
 
mainstojje's housekeeper. 
 
 31 ^* 
 
 So far, tlierefore, as the better class of children are concerned, Mr. 
 Walcot must look to what he means to teach, if his school is to 
 thrive ; for even the labourers are not such serfs as he pleases to 
 tlilnk they are. But in fact he is an altered man. His housekeeper 
 says nothing pleases him within doors — everything is wrong — everv- 
 tliing imperfect; and now, instead of cheering his solitude with 
 bachelor parties us he used to do, he sits more than ever in his study, 
 or else wanders away into the fields and lanes between Brooklow and 
 Mainstone.” 
 
 “ Indeed,” questioned the magister, inquisitively and quickly for 
 him ; for the goodness of his fine nature was made imperfect and 
 thus human by the flecks and flaAvs of tender jealousy. 
 
 But Charlotte disliked the subject, and wisely changed it. She 
 spoke of Mr. Grayson, and his house, and his project of settling in 
 Brooklow ; and then watched to see what was the effect of the sub- 
 ject upon the elder sister. But Judith’s replies were so matter-of- 
 fact as to fully convince the housekeeper that on this point the sisters 
 hearts were not twain. Indeed, she had strong reason to suspect— 
 from all she knew of Judith— that any project of marriage on the 
 part of the younger sister Avould be— for a time at least— strongly 
 opposed by her. Judith had seen much of unwise marriages, bad 
 husbands ; and she therefore — loving Lizzie as she did — Avould wish 
 to spare her every chance of pain. But the foe had already entered 
 into this little Eden ; there might come collision— there might come 
 tears, but the elder sister’s austerity Avould be subdued, the younger 
 sister’s love prevail— the old eternal laws would right themselves here 
 as everywhere, and change, wisely alter, the level of monotonous and 
 solitary lives. 
 
 Soon after, the visitors took their leave. 
 
 Snow and frost had come, and Christmas was approaching. About 
 two days after this visit to Brooklow, Miss Tern made her appearance 
 at Mains tone one morning quite early. Some farmer had^ driven the 
 merged little woman thither, with much sorrow expressed, in her face, 
 and'^much business on her hands. Yet she was not earlier than the 
 housekeeper, who had already audited Jordan and Molly s several 
 accounts, and noAv sat busy in the bay, old Wolf asleep on the 
 cushions beside her; for her own affairs had grown into^ arrears 
 during the time occupied by her illness, and Mr. Badnor s fit of 
 hypochohdriacism. 
 
 “Better, dear?” questioned Hannah, in her quaint, motherly 
 way, as, drawing off from the lady, she held her hands tenderly in 
 hers, and looked up into her face. 
 
 “Much,” was the reply. “I am housekeeper at Mainstone^once 
 more, and Avith enough duty for a Chancellor of the Exchequer. 
 
 “ The more the better ; busv women are rarely mischievous. But 
 let us sit doAvn— I have much to tell you, and something to ask 
 you, to do. Things are going on very badly at the Pool — very 
 indeed ! ” 
 
 “ In Avhat way ? ” 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 315 
 
 “ Why, old Joel was awfully drunk last week, for four or five 
 consecutive days and nights. The reaction has now taken place, and 
 he is more irritable and dogged than they have ever known him. 
 Foolishly bent on this mad scheme of his, of marrying Flo, he spent 
 half yesterday in writing off orders to London and elsewhere — for 
 wedding cakes, wedding gifts, and I do not know what else. And in 
 the evening there was such a scene between him and his proud little 
 daughter in Mrs. Breere’s room — that both I and Eichard Wenlock, 
 who was supping with me, were called over to interfere. Things 
 cannot go on in this way; something must be done — it must indeed! ” 
 
 “ Certainly : but you know the truth of this matter.” 
 
 “ Yes ; I guessed it long ago, though I mentioned my guess-work 
 to no one. Last night, however, upon our return from the Pool, 
 Richard told me all.” 
 
 “ I think it a very foolish ‘ all.’ Truth would have been much 
 better.” 
 
 “We women think so,” said Hannah, “but Wenlock does not. As 
 Ellis and Flo got married whilst absolutely children — and the parents 
 of both would have done nothing less than beggar them — there was 
 expediency in the silence kept ; and this expediency must serve yet a 
 little longer. If matters depended solely on the Losely Squire, the 
 chance might be taken of his extreme love for his little daughter to 
 forgive her, and forget old and great wrongs. But no such chance 
 may be risked with Mr. Thornhill, who, as yet, has absolutely refused 
 to see his son, or permit any interference in his alLiirs. And his state 
 is not yet one of such unconditioned imbecility, but Avhat, if he made . 
 a, will, or altered the descent of his estate, either would stand good in 
 the eyes of the law. He transacts business almost daily with Briscoe ; 
 md, therefore, as the time is probably very short during which this 
 expediency may be requisite, its continuance is both prudent and 
 aecessary.” 
 
 “ I scarcely think so — if, as I am told, Mr. Thornhill is a ruined 
 nan, and his creditors can step in at any hour. A thing they will be 
 5ure to do, when it is once generally known to what an utter state 
 ef bankruptcy the Squire’s agent has brought the colliery property.” 
 
 “But there is a future — whatever may be the immediate ruin, time 
 md energetic management may cancel it. The estates united, the 
 ■strength of the one will assist the weakness of the other, for Joel 
 Breere is wealthy ; and the larger portion of the Mainstone property 
 s immensely rich in coal and iron — both as yet unwrought.” 
 
 “ What is to be done, then ? ” 
 
 “ We want you to interfere.” 
 
 “ Me ! — In what way ? ” 
 
 “Why, to go at once to Theobald Baldwin, and beseech his aid. 
 ^He can make some pretext of delay as to his share in Joel’s foolish 
 bcheme — and thus defer, without revealing wdiat is the real truth. 
 'Phis latter must, of course, be confided to him.” 
 
 “ Is he a true man ? ” 
 
 “Perfectly just and upright, and what he says you may rely on 
 
316 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 He is a little coarse and epicurean — in fact, a farmer of the old 
 school ; but these characteristics you must forgive.” 
 
 “ May he not take my interference amiss ? ” 
 
 “ On the contrary, he will be rather pleased than otherwise, I think, 
 to be freed from this foolish scheme, which is Joel’s, and not his own 
 — and one begot of the bottle rather than common sense. No ! He 
 likes his ale-barrel — old Jenny, his cook and housekeeper, and her 
 dishes, too well to care for a wife, however fairylike.” 
 
 “ Knowing him thus intimately, would not you, my dear Hannah, 
 or Mr. Wenlock, be a more fitting person to make this revelation 
 than myself. I shall be wholly unknown to this gentleman.” 
 
 “Not so — good fame is a sure traveller. The truth is, Charlotte, I 
 will confide so much to you — in years long gone, old Theobald and 
 I were friends. This is saying enough for explanation ; for nothing 
 in the whole world is more foolish than an old woman’s recurrence to 
 the romances of her youth. As to Richard, he cannot well interfere 
 —the whole of the affairs will just now, most likely, pass into his 
 hands, and he wishes to hold aloof from any previous inter- 
 meddling. You see, therefore, you can essentially serve us, if you 
 will.” 
 
 “ With pleasure ! When ? ” 
 
 “At once, if you please. If you will come in your little carriage, 
 I will ride with you as far as my cottage. From thence the Hoo Hall 
 is but a short drive, and you will find Theobald in his best mood — 
 namely, after dinner.” 
 
 Miss Eliot smiled — put by some of her papers, and rose to go. 
 
 “ How is Mr. Wenlock,” she asked, as she rung the bell to order 
 the carriage, and some refreshment for Miss Tern; “ he has not been 
 here since my recovery.” 
 
 “I do not think he liked Mr. Radnor’s cold, brief manner in the 
 interview or two he had with him. So this, I suppose, in addition to 
 the reason of his being very busy, may account for his absence — 
 though you know his silent way. But you must come down, anc 
 spend an evening with us.” 
 
 “ Thank you,"l will — but it must be when the nights have become 
 a little warmer, for I took cold in returning from Brooklow. Mean- 
 while, I will write to Mr. Wenlock— a letter of thanks is, at least, hb 
 due, to whom I owe my life. I am only sorry that my good old 
 master has been so rugged — it is not often he is so.” 
 
 So saying, Miss ElioT hastened up stairs to dress. When she came 
 down stairs, she had occasion to go into the drawing-room, and there, 
 as customary, old Elisha had been in, and adorned it with the 
 choicest of his greenhouse flowers ; for he loved his mistress, so as to 
 think no labour or pains ill-spared which might tend to give her the 
 slightest pleasure. She took, therefore, as she went forth again, a 
 lovely fragrant spray from one of the vases, and then repaired to 
 Mr. Radnor’s study. He was writing — so that she stood beside him 
 a moment unobserved — but presently he looked up, 
 
 “ Going out, Charlotte ? ” 
 
Maidstone’s housekeeper* 
 
 S17 
 
 Miss Tern has called, and asked me to pay a 
 
 I ' Yes, magister. 
 visit.” 
 
 “ Not to Horton Wood, surely ! ” 
 
 No ! Mr. Radnor ! Though, if I wished to go there, I see no 
 ; reason why I should restrict my liberty to act as I think fit Mv 
 business is to the Hoo Hall.” ’ ^ 
 
 : and Mr. Radnor looked up as though a load were taken 
 
 off his mind. ^ I— I— only mentioned the matter because of the 
 distance. As it is, you will be back soon ; I cannot spare you for 
 very long. ^ 
 
 “I shall be home to dinner,” she said, with a smile, as she laid the 
 flower beside his hand, “if that is soon enough. The master must 
 strict, or the pupil may become rebellious.” 
 
 “Will she?” he asked, sadly, 
 
 “Certainly, if he has jealous thoughts and want of faith, where so 
 
 1 “kf 
 
 “ Well, I won’t?’ 
 
 * k® hand, bent in benediction 
 
 looked up cheerfully, she went. 
 
 : The carnage was descending the hill, when another approachimr 
 
 ^ suddenly stopping, might be heard.^ Elisha° 
 
 hi mistress!*** *^***”*’ touching his hat, addressed 
 
 “Beg pardon, madam, but the parson of Brooklow’s carriao-e has 
 
 f be ; for ten ?o one! 
 
 if he sees master, he 11 leave him in a desperate fit of lowness.” 
 
 rriu J we must hope for the best.” 
 
 9 Losely. Here Miss Tern 
 
 -Righted, and Elisha drove on— the Pool-house^ looking finely with 
 lits brimming waters, and its ancient windows gay with th"e pyraLntha 
 • and ivy wreathed around them. There was smoke Ifom every 
 chimney— light and warmth on every hearth, brimmino- cellars and 
 wortV***^*^^*^*’ sorrow robbed these blesSngs of their 
 
 i nlafe^Tiri“lTf from Losely led to the Hoo Hall, a very ancient 
 
 \a®^e.xpanse of richly-timbered 
 These, sinking valley-wise m their midst, afforded space 
 
 IbnLe the edge stood the^old 
 
 &T;;fl"®r;“1 ®‘‘^®® «« the ground, wWlst 
 
 ^ ?\®k gardenward. The barns and rick- 
 
 ^. .d.were at the rear, and open to the fields. Alightino' in their 
 f icimty, and piloting her way amidst scattered straw to a flight of 
 mossy steps leading down to a house-door. Miss Eliot knocked. A 
 '•lo!i ®fk’ servant, appeared, and cheerfully and promptly 
 
 ■ o a ^ passage, thence across a vast^itchen, 
 
 ‘ ^ 1 corner, and only separated from it by a half- 
 
 curtafn^®®!’ H®"!?®® Stretched a green 
 
 [ curtain. And herein, by a bright fire, filling to the full a capacious 
 
318 
 
 MAlNSTONE^S HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 arm-chair, dressed in frilled shirt, a huff waistcoat, a cut-away gl^eete 
 coat, corduroys, and top-boots, with a long pipe in his hand, and a 
 glass of toddy on the table, with his face red and his eyes somnolent, 
 was Theobald Baldwin, the very type and impersonation of a farmer 
 of those days — when taxes were heavy, public sinecures many, and 
 wheat at the pretty figure of 153s. per quarter. The servant 
 mumbled out the lady’s name ; and the Squire, somewhat ashamed to 
 be thus caught napping, rose hastily, but with a great show of old- 
 fashioned courtesy. 
 
 ‘‘ The housekeeper from Mainstone Bectory ! ” he repeated ; “ well, 
 I’m right glad to see thee. I ha’ long wanted to do so, for thou’st a 
 brave little woman to ha’ faced that old termagant, Betty Jack, and 
 got rid of her as peacefully as thou did’st. But what’ll thou take ? ” 
 for the servant lingered by the door. 
 
 “Nothing, Mr. Baldwin, thank you. My business here is only to 
 speak to you for a few minutes.” 
 
 “ Well, Jenny, close the door, and run off to your pots and pans a 
 l)it — but get wine and cake ready — a guest like this mustn’t quit the 
 roof of old Baldwin without breaking bread. Now, lady, now ! ” 
 
 “ Are we quite alone, Mr. Baldwin ? ” asked Miss Eliot, in a low 
 voice ; for what I have to say requires the utmost privacy — it 
 relates to Joel Breere’s daughter.” 
 
 “Well, ay! I think we’re pretty secret — we be’ant troubled in 
 this place with eyes and ears at key-holes, as thy old parson was. But 
 if we must be particular secret, thou shalt come along with me to 
 my old mother’s tea-room — there thou can say what thou wilt, for 
 nobody can hear it.” 
 
 As he spoke, he selected a key from amidst many others hanging 
 on a nail in a corner beside the fireplace, and taking a stick on which 
 to lean, for his one foot was gouty, he whistled a dog or two,^ and led 
 the way from the room, across the ancient kitchen — so ancient and 
 remarkable a specimen of the domestic architecture of the Middle 
 Ages, that antiquaries often knocked at the door of the Hoo Hall, 
 aiM asked to see it. From this he entered a small vaulted hall, and 
 from hence went up a staircase winding round a donjon-like tower, in 
 which the wide window- seats were filled with rare old porcelain. 
 When he reached the top, he unlocked a door and ushered his visitor 
 into a withdrawing room of old days — carpetless, wainscoted., but 
 filled to repletion with curious old furniture, and further specimens 
 of old china, less in size, but rarer still in its quality.^ Though a 
 winter’s day, the room was comparatively warm and airy, and the 
 countless scents of long gone-by summers, pent up in bowl and jar, 
 gave forth and mingled their quintessences as a welcome to those who 
 entered. 
 
 “ Now,” said the Squire, as he placed a chair by one of the windows 
 for his guest, “ what is the secret ? ” 
 
 “First, I must ask you to keep it,’’ was the grave reply; “next,, 
 that you will befriend those to whom it belongs.” 
 
 He was grave, too, as he answered, “ I am a mau of the old school 
 
MAINSTONE^S HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 319 
 
 —plain, rough, perhaps a little coarse— but I think I can, as most 
 other Englishmen, keep good faith. In the next place, I look in 
 your face, and feel sure that you do not ask more than I can 
 grant.” 
 
 “ I do not. The matter then is, this foolish proposition of Joel 
 Breere’s can go no further ; for Flora is already married, and the 
 mother of a little son.” 
 
 “ The squire’s eyes no longer drooped somnolently, but opened to 
 the full. “ Married ! married ! Well, I nigh as guessed as much a 
 time or more. No need to ask to whom — that lad Ellis, was too much 
 loved by all on ’em at the Pool once upon a time, for anyone to 
 wonder where pretty missy would set her heart.” 
 
 “And this bein^^ the secret, I am here to ask you not to break 
 with her father on its account, but rather by some excuse to aid her 
 friends in delaying what he must just now necessarily learn. I for 
 one do not counsel this delay, but others do, whose judo-ment is of 
 value.” ° 
 
 He seemed to scarcely listen to what was thus said. 
 
 “ Married ! ” he repeated to himself ; “ the sly chit, the saucy puss ; 
 she might well be so firm and so proud. Well ! God love her ; she’s 
 a pretty flower, fitter for a lad like Ellis than an old man like me. I 
 never cared much to marry her, but old Joel said she must come here, 
 and so I couldn’t well say nay ; but I should ha’ been as much 
 .troubled to amuse and tend her as a lad an unfledged linnet .... 
 ^Married ! the sly tit !— she never kissed me once, that she didn’t.* 
 Well! I honour her all the more— God love her!” This said, he 
 enjoyed a long and quiet laugh— quite cheery and glad, as it 
 ,seemed, to escape from what had already perplexed him. Then he 
 added, presently : — 
 
 I “ But I don’t see how I’m to tackle old Joel.” 
 i “ Cannot you make some excuse that would serve as a delay ? ” 
 
 ^ He did not all at once ^ but when he had gone slowly up and 
 down the room a few times, his portly figure fairly representing John 
 I£Bu 11 in the ebony-framed mirrors as it passed them by, he stopped 
 j short, and exclaimed, merrily : — 
 
 “ I have it ! Please excuse me a minute — only a minute ! ” As 
 j^he spoke, he opened the door by which he had entered ^ and, goin^^^ 
 ^Jorth on to the landing, called out — “ Jenny ! Jenny I ’ o 
 
 ^ An answer came presently. 
 
 I, ^ “I don’t want the wine and cake yet, but only to know what time 
 Li th’ new year my fit o’ gout comes mostly on ?” 
 
 Please, Sir, was the prompt answer, “ always two days after 
 ij^ou’ve finished the last o’ th’ mince-pies.” 
 
 “ Very good, very good, very good.” And, merrily repeating these 
 words, the Squire returned and closed the door. “I have it!” he 
 said— “ I’ll have a desperate fit o’ th’ gout, and that lad Greene shall 
 ,Qelp me. I’ll begin this very night. Jenny shall roll a bandacve 
 round one o’^my legs ; and I’ll send a messenger down to old Joel^ 
 jto say a fit o’ gout’s coming on, and he mustn’t expect me to-night ; 
 
320 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 for you see I was going down to the Pool to smoke a pipe and hear a 
 song.” Then, with great gravity, he sat down, and said gently, and 
 with the manner of the kindest father: — 
 
 “ Flo is a dear little lady — a real gentlewoman, as my old mother 
 would ha’ said, and fit to be missis up there at Mainstone Hall. 
 Looking at the matter every way, and the trouble begot on every 
 side, I don’t think that a better thing could ha’ happened than the 
 marriage as it is.” 
 
 “Nor I, so far as I am acquainted with its circumstances, and 
 those interested. But we must look for no romance in the matter, 
 nor for reconciliation between the two old men. These things are 
 in story-books, not in the world of good and evil which is around 
 us.” 
 
 “You’re right — you talk sensibly ; and I hope this mayn’t be the 
 last chat we’ll have together. No ! you might just as well expect oil 
 and water to mingle, as for the nature o’ those two men to come 
 together in any act of real friendship or forgiveness. For to speak 
 my ’pinion right clearly, old Joel was terribl^y wronged in a trial of 
 which you may have heard.” 
 
 “ Yes, I hear this on every side.” 
 
 “ It’s true, too. But the fault wasn’t so much old John Thornhill’s, 
 as that reg’lar scamp’s Ben Briscoe, his agent. Not that the fellow is 
 all black — the dervil ain’t that — but the good that’s in him ain’t been 
 shown to those whose bread he’s eaten. But old Thornhill, ye see, 
 was wrapped up too much in his missises, and his fig^ings out, and his 
 bettings at Tattersall’s, and his journeys to this fashionable place and 
 the t’other — to care for much ; so the colliery- works went on, and his 
 cheques were honoured. Talking o’ Briscoe, it’s a puzzle to me why 
 he, with his eyes and ears all abroad, hasn’t guessed this business, 
 and blabbed it to old Thornhill ; it would ha’ been to his interest 
 to do so.” 
 
 “From what I learn, and the conclusions I draw therefrom, I 
 should say that the marriage was hidden even from him till after the 
 birth of the child, Then when that event robbed him, if the child i 
 lived, of all likelihood of inheritance, he thought it better to carry 
 out such schemes as would most -surely impoverish the estate, and; 
 those to whom it would come, than nullify his own gains by indis- 
 creet revelation.” 
 
 Theobald Baldwin raised his face, and looked keenly at his 
 visitor. I 
 
 “ Pardon me saying so, but thou art the clearest-headed woman I 
 ever come anigh — no wonder that thou tackled old Betty as thouj 
 didst, and ha’ brought peace and decency to the parson’s home. I| 
 tell thee, this last’s a real personal comfort to me ; for, now it’s out; 
 about Flora’s marriage, it’s pretty clear that the tales that were abroad 
 of Street End House ain’t to be laid at Julius Kadnor’s door. ^ For, 
 though I don’t pretend to be myself better than other men, I like to 
 think that those that profess to teach me ain’t wolves in sheeps’ 
 clothing. So now I shall go back to his preaching; for, though 
 
MAINSTONE S HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 321 
 
 Mainstone ain’t my parish, I’d sat under him a good bit, and onlv left 
 hxm when I thought him other than he seemed. I’ll go the very" next 
 fouiiday, lop jus words will do ihg good — body and soul.’* 
 
 _ “ Thank you,” replied the housekeeper, earnestly. Your oninion 
 
 somewhat eccentric, is a 
 
 1 m^t worthy man — indeed, I know no one more worthy.” 
 
 I to (squire again looked keenly at her, and sighed. 
 
 - “ Yes, yes, I think you’re pretty right; and God love you— who- 
 
 mever you may be— for having done what you have done for his fallen 
 fortunes and discredited name. As for pretty Flo and the lad Ellis 
 there 11 be troubles for ’em, I don’t doubt. But if they’ll look ’em 
 face, and not be running off to furren parts, a spending 
 jn In ° they have, whilst t’others fight their battles, they’U 
 
 do well yet. The collier folks, to a man, are mighty fond o’ the 
 
 among ’em, especially 
 
 if hell take Dick Wenlock as his right hand. With him for a^ent 
 and engine-wright, and with old Joel’s money to back ’em, the Main- 
 ■stone collieries won t ha’ their like hereabouts ” 
 
 T t prepared to go. As she traversed the 
 
 she could but stay here and there to admire 
 the ^cient china, set forth in such profuse array. 
 
 ,*c Squire, well pleased to hear the praise. 
 
 hobby— and^ then 
 
 »thou wouldst ha won her heart. Poor soul! she’s been dead nio-h 
 twenty years, and yet it seems but yesterday she went. She mi-^lit 
 :Come again to-morrow and she wouldn’t find bowl or cup amTss 
 and never would whilst I am living to remember what she was.” * 
 
 '■ Sweet scents in bowl and jar— fragrances of long-gone summers 
 
 rose-leaves, and lavender, and marjoram— your quintessential essences 
 .sweet and lasting though they be, have no eternity like the garnered-’ 
 •up riches of the human heart! feamereu- 
 
 On the landing Charlotte stood and held out her hand 
 ‘ « A ““5* yc"’ Squire Baldwin— if I may ” 
 
 Ay, <to— I was going to ask it of thee, as a great honour and 
 ■avour. Come again, and look at the old china move leisurely • and 
 thmgs get right with pretty Flo, I’ll invite thJe’all— 
 and sauce™ very richest of its cups 
 
 j. The housekeeper smiled her thanks. 
 
 l espttLjoerBreieT’’’"'^^ thoroughly reckon on your aid with 
 “/■y> ay; as soon as thou art gone, Jenny shall look im hpi. 
 
 : S^eTasfht’lt1e?’ 
 
 I' “ I’m sorry for this, but ” 
 
 *°°i!. necessities o’ this life are many. I’ll serve 
 
 [' lo, and J cnny shall keep the secret.” 
 
 Squire led his guest from the house to the carriao'e 
 nd there bid her a very cordial farewell earnaoe, 
 
 21 
 
MAINSTONE S HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 On her way back through Losely, Miss Eliot called on Hannah 
 . ern, related the admirable success of her mission, and then went 
 homeward. 
 
 To the housekeeper’s surprise, she found, when she reached the 
 parsonage, that Mr. Radnor had gone out, leaving word that he should 
 not be home to dinner. 
 
 “Mr. Walcot was with master a long time,” said Molly, when 
 questioned ; “ and when he had been gone about half-an-hour, Mr. 
 Radnor rung his bell. When I answered it, and went into his study, 
 he was dressed ready to go out, but seemed mighty down in spirits. 
 He said that you would find a note upon his writing-table ; that you 
 were not to wait dinner; and that it might be late before he was 
 home. This was all he said.” 
 
 Miss Eliot repaired to the study, and found the note. It was thus 
 brief and strange : — 
 
 “My Dear Charlotte, 
 
 “ Business — which for the sake of the future, I must clearly 
 understand— calls me from home. It may be nearly midnight before 
 I return; but do not sit up or be alarmed. Yours, 
 
 “ J. R.” 
 
 She did sit up, and it was fully midnight before he came. But 
 though he looked worn and ill, as if, during the hours he had been 
 absent, he had passed through some mental conflict which had cost 
 him much, there was in his gaze a serene peace, such as hitherto she 
 had rarely witnessed. 
 
 Yet he was profoundly silent as to the cause of this serenity, or 
 the business which had led him away from the privacy of his quiet 
 hearth. 
 
MAINSTONE'S HOUSEKEEPEE. 
 
 S2S 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 THE CONFERENCE IN THE GREEN PARLOUR. 
 
 It was a cold and wintry night, though free from rain or snow. 
 The north wind blew roughly across the great moorland ridge, bend- 
 ing in some deirree the mighty columnar flames which belched forth 
 from the vents^ of the larger furnaces, and sweeping windward the 
 mingled smoke and flame from the countless heaps of smouldering 
 iron-stone. Then came stretches of intense darkness, broken only by 
 the lights about some pit shaft, or from an adjacent engine-house, or 
 from the doors or windows of a cluster of miners’ cottages. All else 
 of the vast, far-stretching ridge was intensely black and void — the 
 luridness gaining in effect by the great contrast. 
 
 Thus, in part, the way was light enough ; but where the moorland 
 was unbroken, and still covered''by its primitive turf, where no road or 
 tramway crossed it, and where dwellings lay far apart, it was some- 
 what difficult to traverse on such a night, even by those possessing 
 local knowledge. A rider, therefore, passing from the far-swept 
 light into one of these broad stretches of dreary blackness, dis- 
 mounted, gave the reins to his horse, and slowly followed. The 
 docile animal went sagaciously forward, rounded a craggy ridge, and 
 his master saw before him a cluster of four or five cottages, from 
 the partly-opened door of one of which streamed a welcome light. 
 In a minute or two more the horse patiently waited, and the master 
 entered. 
 
 “ All well here ? ” he asked, in a loud and cheery voice ; for those 
 within — a man and boy eating their supper at a rude table drawn 
 before the fire, and a woman stitching some coarse smock or jacket — 
 neither saw nor heard him till he spoke. 
 
 “ Well, thank yo, Mr. Wenlock,” and both man and woman rose. 
 
 “I shall be glad,” said the cheery voice again, “if you’ll spare 
 your lad and a lantern as far as the top of the lane ; for the night is 
 excessively dark, and the ground so rugged, that the mare may break 
 her knees. That is to say, if thy lad isn’t too tired ? ” 
 
 “ Not a bit of it. Sir— at least to go with thee,” spoke the woinan, 
 as she hurried to light and thrust a fragment of miners’ candle into 
 an old horn lantern. “ Bill was off* work at six, and he’s been to 
 sichule since. Mighty things he’s doing on his slate. Sir — thanks to 
 thee — and his reading to fayther and me is better still.” 
 
 “ Ay ! well, mistress, we are none of us the worse for learning.” 
 
 Then, turning to the collier, who still stood, he made some inquiry 
 as to how things were going on with respect to work. 
 
 “Pretty well. Sir, thank yo,” was the answer,— •“ wages is higher in 
 21—2 
 
324 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 parts, I hear; but we mun be content, I s’pose— we ain’t as bad off 
 Ih them about the Mainstone pits ; and if the maister don’t renew 
 the leases— which it ’pears he ain’t— why, things may mend just 
 
 *^^«kot renew the leases?” asked Wenlock, with surprise— “is this 
 true— is this from Mr. Breere himself? ” mi o • 
 
 “ Yes, Sir — one of our viewers told us so to-day. The Squire was 
 about the pits, with the Lunnon gentlemen as has the leases ; but he 
 wouldn’t renew ’em, he said, though they tried hard and fast to 
 persuade him. He said his daughter wur going to be married, and 
 he didna’ know what turn things might take, so he’d ha the colliery 
 in his own keeping after Michaelmas next.” 
 
 “In this case,” replied Wenlock, quickly, and with a manner which 
 plainly told that the news had both surprised and pleased him, “ many 
 thino^s may indeed change for the better. And there is need of it 
 here"^” he added, as he swept his hand round expressively, but kindly; 
 for the miserable dwelling consisted solely of this single room~a 
 portion of it crowded with low-poled bedsteads, one or more of which 
 at this hour was filled with sleeping children. 
 
 “ Yes Sir, it’s a sorry place,” said the woman, “ to sarve for all, 
 and the little ’uns many. Maybe, if the Squire takes the pits in his 
 own keepin’, thou’lt move him towards better places for his folks, as 
 
 thou did’st my Lord Duke.” ^ ^ Tir -o 
 
 “ I am not counsellor to everybody, mistress ; but if Mr. Breere 
 
 consults me, I’ll say a good word, be sure.” 
 
 Speakino' thus, Richard Wenlock added a few more kindly words, 
 and went fis way— the lad going on before, with the lantern spreading 
 its welcome glare upon the ground. In a quarter of an hour they had 
 reached one of those cindery lanes which led down into the village of 
 Horton Wood. The time had passed quickly by— for the lad had 
 been asked many kindly questions about his school and his work ; and 
 now, dismissing him with a gratuity, the inquirer mounted his horse, 
 
 and rode quickly home. . . n i • a • 
 
 One of his men waited to take it. After speaking of various 
 matters of business which had occurred during his master s few hours 
 absence, the man said in an under tone,— . 
 
 “ I wur to say naught of it indoors ; but about six this evening the 
 Mainstone parson called, and needed to speak with thee partielar. 
 He seem’d sorry thou wer’t out. Sir, but he’d call again. 
 
 “ Mr. Radnor ?— really ! Did he say when ? ” 
 
 “ No, Sir. Maybe soon— he seemed down m heart, and very pale. 
 
 But he’s a nicely spoken gentleman.” 
 
 “If I’m at home when he calls, show him quietly and quickly 
 in,” was the brief reply; and with this, Richard went on into the 
 
 ^^He found his old aunt and Joan, as usual, in the bright kitchen— 
 the one dozing in her chair, the other knitting ; a litde round table 
 neatly spread with their habitual frugal supper of coffee and bread 
 and butter. 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 325 
 
 “ Thou shouldst have been in bed,” old mother, he said, tenderly, 
 as he pressed his lips down upon her white hair and wrinkled fore- 
 head. 
 
 “ Ay, lad ! I’ve been but poorly, and Joan wanted me to go up 
 stairs ; but I couldna’ ha’ slept with the wind howling as it does, and 
 thee out on the ridge.” She then, after a pause, during which Joan 
 placed the coffee on the table, asked sundry questions ; but the * 
 answers were so brief that she soon desisted. She only knew too well 
 that this reticent humour was not to be gainsayed. 
 
 So the frugal meal proceeded in silence ; but it was pleasant, mean- 
 while, to watch the old mistress. If she defrauded herself and Joan 
 of sugar — if she spread the butter very thinly on the bread — pro- 
 portionate was the amount of both she placed to Kichard’s share. 
 She was miserly for his sake — in many things she was miserly to him ; 
 but, hidden under all this, the wealth of her human love for the stern 
 and reticent man was great indeed. 
 
 As the meal came to a close, she did not forget her habitual wordy 
 onslaught on fire and candle. 
 
 “Thou look’st tired, lad. I hope thou doesn’t mean to sit up 
 wasting fuel, and candles rose again — but come to bed, as t’other folks 
 do! ” 
 
 “ I cannot,” he said, concisely ; for long experience had taught him 
 that to reason was to capitulate. 
 
 “Well — well, lad!” she said, as she rose and made her way crab- 
 like to a cupboard, therein to safely guard her treasures of sugar and 
 so on, “ ha’ thy own way ; thou hast broad wings, and it’s a pity if the 
 eagle mayn’t soar above the sparrows which chirp upon the eaves. 
 Thy fire’s brignt, the candle ready (as they’re dearer, Joan’s set but 
 one), and thy letters and thy monthly parcel o’ books be on the 
 table.” 
 
 So saying, when Joan was ready to accompany her, she went her 
 way, laying, as she passed by, her withered hand upon his head, as her 
 benediction. 
 
 ^ When she was gone, Richard rose too, took off his boots, changed 
 his coat, washed his hands. Once he had been careless of these 
 things ; but a change had come over him ; and he had begun latterly 
 to perceive that self-reverence to one’s intellectual work adds, if 
 indirectly, to its quality, and abates nothing of its truth. When 
 once the abstraction, the inspiration, the “ divine fire,” is present, be 
 the intellectual labour what it may, then is the true moment for an 
 oblivion of outward things ; but, prior to this, the environment, the 
 preparative process, the essential order and fitness, are of material 
 account. Haydn sat down to compose his divine symphonies in lace 
 ruffles and court suit. Titian stood before the masterpieces on his 
 easel in velvet cap and flowing robes ; and both these men approached 
 more nearly that truth of nature — the relation of effects — than ordi- 
 nary thinkers would suppose. 
 
 Once in the old green parlour, though its walls were time-stained, 
 and everything about it, except its wealth of books, was sordid, worn- 
 
326 
 
 mainstone’s housekeepee. 
 
 out, dusty, and askew, the man looked as though he had entered into 
 a world more akin to him and his thoughts. The fire was bright, the 
 place peaceful — nothing louder or more inconsonant to be heard than | 
 the moaning of the wintry wind outside. Here was no vulgarity — ^ 
 little that was beneath his level of intelligence, and much which was 
 equal ; for, stretch his hand out where he would, was the product of 
 some immortal mind. He sat down, he stirred his fire, he lighted his ] 
 candle ; and, great as was his native humility of spirit, he would • 
 have felt himself kingly in the divine presence of this sacred rest and 
 peace, but that he soon dropped into one of his habitual reveries, and 
 was lost to what surrounded him. 
 
 And are not there moments when we all feel kingly in entering into 
 the silent precincts of our beloved work ? Whatever are our annoy- 
 ances outside— the worldliness, the meanness, the treachery, the greed 
 which so moves our contempt — here, in ou^ better moments, they do 
 not come. We utterly shut them out, as though such things never 
 were ; and we summmon to our presence the created host whom we 
 clothe in virtues as we will. Poor as we actually are, we are rich here 
 — prosaic as is our daily life, imagination clothes everything with its 
 ineffable grace. We wander amidst the intricacies of abstract 
 thought, and see lights upon the far horizon which dazzle our eyes. 
 We ascend the mountain peaks of Time, and there behold visions 
 which strengthen our hopes in the immortal destiny of man ; and we 
 retrace our steps, free from superstition, and as strong as giants in 
 our faith. Yes ! these are our sacred precincts — these shrines of our 
 working hours — here kings cannot compete with us ; for they have 
 nothing around them so kingly ! 
 
 Wenlock was presently aroused from his abstraction by a low and 
 feeble knock upon the outer door. He was hastening to open it, 
 when his man did so, and ushered in Mr. Radnor, who came forward 
 with a curt obeisance of recognition. Richard made way for him, 
 placed a chair, and awaited what he had to say. 
 
 “ Sit clown, Mr. Wenlock,” he said, nervously — “ I have a few 
 words to say to you, of quite a private nature. It may be some 
 minutes before I can gather their argument together. Be patient 
 with me — it is of moment to both of us you should.” He sat down, 
 he warmed his chill hands in the red blaze, he bent low and dropped 
 into a momentary reverie ; he rose again, and paced, as it were, 
 unconsciously, the room up and down, his hands gathered behind him 
 — his old dreamy method fully on him. 
 
 Wenlock knew Mr. Radnor’s eccentricity of character too well to 
 vonder at him, or interrupt him as he paced to and fro ; but rising in I 
 his great respect, stood silent, looking down into the fire — himself I 
 almost as abstracted, as his new come visitor. 
 
 Presently, however, Mr. Radnor came towards the hearth, and 
 laying his hand on the swart one of the engineer, said quietly : — 
 
 “Mr. Wenlock, you know my housekeeper? ” 
 
 “ Yes,” was the sententious answer. 
 
 “ You know her well, I think ? ” 
 
MAINbTONE’s HOUSEKEEl-iJE. 
 
 S27 
 
 “ As far as business has necessitated, we have become acquainted ; 
 and we have met, too, occasionallj, under the roof of a common 
 friend.” 
 
 Wenlock spoke these words slowly and gravely — a mere looker-on 
 would have gathered nothing from his serene brow, his compressed 
 lips ; but a physiologist, with his finger on the strong man’s wrist, 
 would have told you that every nerve vibrated with intense emotion. 
 
 “ Being thus acquainted,” said Mr. Radnor at length, with hesita- 
 tion, and with his gaze averted from him whom he addressed, “ I — I 
 — I — have come to ask you — to beseech you — to let even this amount 
 of intercourse — of acquaintanceship, cease for a time— /or a time^ I 
 repeat — only for a time ! ” 
 
 There came no answer ; and, still more abashed and f alteringly, the 
 speaker went on : — 
 
 “ Because — because — I love this lady — my housekeeper, Charlotte 
 Waldo. I have known her long — I was her tutor; I was chaplain 
 to her uncle, and librarian to the college of which he was master. 
 Sir. I taught her, and whilst teaching I learnt to love.” 
 
 When he had spoken thus, Mr. Radnor stood downcast and abashed, 
 like one who had made confession of sin. 
 
 “ I cannot see,” was the wise and quiet answer, “ how the little I 
 have known of Miss Eliot, or the little I am likely to know, can inter- 
 fere with any friendship of your own ; or why you have need to ask 
 restraint from me, who, comparatively speaking, am a stranger to the 
 private affairs of both Miss Eliot and yourself.” 
 
 “I have reasons for what I ask,” was the abrupt and nervous 
 answer ; “ I ask her to love me, and there comes no response. I 
 entreat her to be my wife, but I am told in tender words — God knows 
 how tender is all she says ! — that so long as I need she will be 
 my housekeeper, and always my dearest friend. But this is no 
 answer ; and all I ask of you is for time, so that my entreaties, my 
 faith, my daily show of tenderness, may possibly at last avail. I only 
 ask brief space for this restraint— a year or two, not more ; then I 
 will give my hope up, as a life-long miser his precious hoard, though 
 what will become of me in that dark day I know not. Richard 
 Wenlock, you are a truly honest man, I know — help me in this matter, 
 I beseech you.” 
 
 “ Mr. Radnor, you really surprise me,” was the apparently unmoved 
 answer ; “ who or what can have led you to think that I and Miss 
 Eliot have any mutual attachment ? We have conversed together, 
 
 I read together — on a few occasions she was generous enough to give 
 ; me a lesson in German. This is all — the lady or myself never indi- 
 rectly or directly passed the bounds of ordinary acquaintanceship. 
 You have laid down a premise which is utterly visionary.” 
 
 “ I do not, I think,” spoke Mr. Radnor, slowly and sadly, as he 
 again rose and began pacing to and fro. “ One evening, the very 
 ' evening she blessed me in my study with her presence after her 
 ! illness, I questioned her, and she confessed that when she came to 
 I Mainstone her affections were wholly free ; that had I spoken then^ 
 
S28 
 
 MAINSTONe’s HOtJSEKEEPJ^.R. 
 
 (ay ! had I,” was the bitter self-reproach) — “ it might not have been i 
 in vain. But that now . . . She obstinately refused to say more — i 
 very obstinately, for one so docile and obedient as Charlotte.” 
 
 The strong and silent man had flushed from brow to chin ; his iron i 
 nerves, like the strings of some fine instrument, would not be silent i 
 in the presence of the deep joy which filled his spirit with its glory. 
 Even Mr. Radnor saw this, and his ear could but detect the change in i 
 an utterance usually so calm and measured. His opinion was ' 
 strengthened, though he did not own it. 
 
 “ I still think you in error, Mr. Radnor,” spoke Wenlock, presently. 
 “You forget that I am not what society, at least, calls a ‘gentleman.* i 
 I am the architect of my own fortunes — I have been my own school- i 
 master — I mend engine-gear to-day, I make a thrashing-machine i 
 to-morrow. I have swart hands, often a discoloured face ; whilst i 
 your housekeeper, a lady, by your own showing, highly educated, and i 
 to all appearance wealthy, would scarcely, even for a moment 
 
 Julius Radnor’s answer was ready, because the expression of this | 
 doubt was expected. Rapidly, energetically, almost fiercely — for him i 
 who was by nature so gentle and self -restrained — he approached the j 
 engineer, and, grasping both his hands, said, in a voice hoarse and, i 
 from deep emotion, sunk almost to a whisper : — l 
 
 “ Wenlock, you know nothing of this woman ! My God ! He only i 
 knows her unutterable generosity — her love of truth and honour 
 wherever they are to be found. Such is her nature, that she will turn I 
 aside to seek these, no matter where. It was her character when a 
 child — all generosity, all truth, all self-denying tenderness. Did I not I 
 leave all these, because their exquisiteness was too much for me to | 
 behold daily and to live ? Still, did she not find me and my broken < 
 fortunes ? — and has she not renewed my life — a literal resurrection i 
 from the dead — and brought peace and purification to my discredited 
 hearth ? Has she not done all this, and will she not stay ? She says 
 she will — and be dutiful to me, and receive my dying breath — and 
 then turn to you and express the love she bears ! Oh yes ! oh yes ! 
 oh yes ! — 1 know all this — I know what the end will be ; yet I 
 ask you to spare me — to give me a chance, so that a little time 
 and the utmost tenderness may strive for their effects. I entreat 
 you, Richard Wenlock, for this grace — for Charlotte is worthy 
 of all patience, all tenderness — all that manly devotion can show 
 her ! ” 
 
 This was panegyric, hyperbole — possibly nonsense ; yet a lover 
 spoke — a lover listened ! 
 
 Mr. Radnor sank into his chair, and leant his face upon his upraised 
 hands in his old dreamy way. 
 
 “ With all respect to you,” said Richard, quietly and presently, 
 “there is some great mistake in this — I cannot imagine how or why 
 it has arisen. For it does not appear to me reasonable that, because 
 a lady of Miss Eliot’s fortune and position has (chosen to become 
 housekeeper to one whom she had long known, and to whom she was 
 in a large measure indebted, she should necessarily turn aside to 
 
JifAINSTONE’s HOUSEKEEPER. S29 
 
 Hsplay an equal, or even greater show of romance to a comparative 
 itranger, and one who the world would say was an inferior ! ” 
 
 For a little while Mr. Eadnor sat lost in thought; then he said 
 uddenly and quickly, as though in the words thus spoken he saw 
 eason to hope. 
 
 “Yes! yes! — you’re perhaps right, Eichard. Charlotte is a 
 ady born. Her father. Colonel Waldo, perished in the Afghanistan 
 var; and she was brought, whilst quite a child, to Oxford, to her 
 incle’s care — to that wholly very soon, for her mother, who had 
 uffered much from privation and exposure to climate, died shortly 
 ifter. Her uncle grew to love the little Charlotte as much as his cold 
 nd pompous nature would permit. But he was parsimonious, as 
 veil as miserably narrow and flippant, in all his notions relative to 
 ■emale education. If left to him, the little Charlotte would have had 
 carcely the education of a cook or a milliner. But I saw the child’s 
 iapacity, and understood her hunger after knowledge ; I therefore 
 jave her lessons at first secretly — when known, under protest — but 
 till continuously. At length, I had only taught too well for my own 
 >eace. So I left — but the old appetite for truth remained ; and 
 7hen at last the old man died, and left Charlotte his large fortune, 
 nd to the guardianship of his executor, Mr. Simeon, she could 
 Qdulge her taste to the full.” 
 
 These latter sentences Mr. Eadnor spoke as though to himself ; 
 hen presently he added, in a broken and saddened voice : — 
 
 “But my attempt to draw hope from these advantages of place and 
 artune is a chimera. She values neither, except as it tends to utility, 
 ^nd you, on your side, undervalue your position. You are a thrifty 
 nd industrious man — you have saved money, it is said — from your old 
 elation you will have more. Your business grows ; and when you 
 ecome agent and manager of the Mainstone collieries, which you 
 ventually will, your power and advantages will be largely increased. 
 >ut these will be no lure to Charlotte. It is your strength of mind, 
 our penetrating intellect— your power of body and soul she will 
 )ve. I had a presentiment of this from the moment I understood she 
 ame to and fro here. Your views, too, Wenlock, much as they differ 
 rom nay own— would coalesce with hers. She and I differ now ; I 
 nd this every day— she is too daring, too far-seeing, too speculative ; 
 he has notions of human liberty with which I do not concur. I 
 ave stood still — and she, like Atalanta, has run on ; and I must be 
 ontent, I fear, to give up the race to her swift foot, the reason to her 
 lear head, the foresight to her keen eye. Thus much I say to you, 
 ’’•bichard Wenlock, because I know you are no ordinary man, and will 
 ot take advantage of my weakness and my revelation. I have reason 
 ) think well of you, seeing what has been your truth and prudence 
 i relation to my dear boy, Ellis Thornhill, and his affairs. With 
 largery to ward off* the moral corruption which surrounded his 
 ^ifancy — with me to teach him some little — with you to tell him 
 iustere truths of thrift, duty, self-denial — we have made him what he 
 ,'i— a fine and manly gentleman. Eichard Wenlock, owing you thus 
 
530 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 something — ^for Ellis Thornhill has no mean place in my heart — 1 
 have been thus explicit. Grant me my desire ; for I love my house- 
 keeper with unutterable love — with a love which in this world — alas, 
 for me! — will have no decay. Keep away from the parsonage — 
 answer no letters, or, if so, only briefly — ask or take no German 
 lessons— let your acquaintanceship to appearance die. I ask this only 
 for a little time, a very little time — did I mean continuance, I would 
 not ask it.” 
 
 Had any other man in all the world made these strange requests, 
 Eichard Wenlock would — and very rightly — have either passed them 
 by in silence, or laughed them to scorn. But he knew too well the 
 man before him — his eccentricity, his hypochondriac temperament, 
 his feebleness of character — to do other than consent, as he would to 
 the request of a child. Another man might make use of an assump- 
 tion of weakness of this sort to further his own purpose ; but J ulius 
 Eadnor was too guileless for fraud — too honourable for baseness. 
 Besides this, Wenlock saw, with an eagle’s glance the real truth. His 
 profound logical capacity was not at fault in this most momentous 
 question of his life. He perceived that it was simply a question of 
 time. Mr. Eadnor had not been wise — he had revealed more than 
 Wenlock had suspected. 
 
 Ees training his fierce — his unutterable joy — a joy which was, in 
 itself, a whirlwind, sweeping everything before it — Wenlock said, with 
 as much calmness as he could assume, though laying unmistakable 
 emphasis on the latter words : — 
 
 “ I accede to your request, Mr. Eadnor — for a timer 
 This was all the reticent man said. Making neither confession 
 of love, nor abnegating his manly right of circumspection and 
 silence. ^ I 
 
 After a moment’s silence, Mr. Eadnor rose to go ; and then it was 
 that Wenlock found that he had left home on foot. 
 
 “ You must not think of walking to Mainstone, particularly at sc 
 late an hour. I will drive you — the gig shall be ready in fiv( 
 minutes.” As he spoke, they passed from the house to the yard 
 Here the man soon put the vehicle ready — and in a few minutei 
 Mr. Eadnor and Wenlock were on their way to Mainstone. 
 
 “ I will not go further than the gate,” said Mr. Eadnor, as the'j 
 approached the parsonage. And when he was set down, he added 
 “You will keep your promise, Mr. Wenlock.” i 
 
 “ Certainly ! For a time.” j 
 
 And this promise it was which made Mr. Eadnor’s countenance 
 serene, as he entered the study where his housekeeper awaited him] 
 
MAlKStONJE'^ HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 S31 
 
 I 
 
 ^ ' CHAPTEll XXIV. 
 
 i 
 
 an antiquarian’s home, 
 
 t Mr. Radnor had written some letters, and awaited their answers. 
 ^V'hen these came, which they did, together one morning, he gathered 
 ^lem up when he had read them, and went into the oak parlour. His 
 • ousekeeper had breakfasted, but her letters, with the exception of 
 ae, lay unopened on the table, and her face was turned away 
 ■)wards the old oriel window. She therefore did not hear or see her 
 ^[d master enter; but when he laid his hand tenderly on her shoulder, 
 le looked round, and he saw that her face was very pale, her eyes 
 ■'im with tears. 
 
 “ My Charlotte I-— my little Jane !— what is the matter ? ” And his 
 ■ anscience smote him as he asked the question. 
 
 ^ ‘‘Nothing, Mr. Radnor!”— she answered, with flushed face and 
 foken voice— “ Nothing ! ” And she folded, and put the open letter 
 j i its envelope, and mingled it with the rest. 
 
 “Any ill news from Oxford, or from jour solicitors, or the Sussex 
 nrm ? ” 
 
 “No!” 
 
 She spoke so gravely, and so concisely, that he could question her 
 more ; so he laid his hand upon her head — his morning’s bene- 
 >Hction — drew a chair to the cheerful hearth, and began spcTakino* of 
 le business which had brought him thither. 
 
 ^ “If pleasant to you, my Charlotte, Ave will go our little journey 
 pgether to-morrow. The distance is twenty miles, or a little more — 
 'isily effected by railway — and we shall dine with my good old 
 dends, Thomas and Deborah Elwood ; and then go a mile further, to 
 le house of another friend of mine, Mr. Goldrust, the antiquary. 
 1 a cottage adjacent we shall find Ada Marlowe, and, Avith her, little 
 ohnny Thornhill— Ellis and Flora’s darling boy. Charlotte, you 
 ;^ice knew Ada well ! ” 
 
 ) “ I, Mr. Radnor ? ” she said interestedly, and for the time quite 
 ►rgetful of Avhatever sorroAv it was Avhich had smitten her heart so 
 )rely that morning — “Yes! I did! — if Ada Fosbroke’s married 
 Pame is Marlowe ? ” 
 
 p “ This is exactly it ! Ada’s father was an old college friend of 
 3ur uncle’s, and rector of a village adjacent to Oxford, at the time 
 I DU Avere a child. You and Ada met mutually at each other’s homes, 
 j tten at such lessons as those of music and dancing ; and once Ada 
 I ent with you and Ellen Ash to Dr. Waldo’s estate in Sussex. Ada 
 I older than you, and when she was about ten years old, her father 
 j oved to a richer living in the north of England. Thither I went, 
 
 I hen I left my little Jane so suddenly, and did duty for some months* 
 
332 mainstone’s h/ousekeepee, 
 
 whilst Mr. Fosbroke accompanied /his wife to the south of France, 
 Their daughters were left at hon^e ; and so, going to the Rectory 
 occasionally, I renewed my acquaintanceship with Ada and her sisters 
 But when I left, when I became inducted into this living, at the 
 instance of my college, to the ^/uthorities of which Mr. Thornhil 
 had applied for an incumbent, I lost sight of Mr. Fosbroke and hij 
 family for some years. Then, quite unexpectedly, one day, Elislu 
 ushered in, during Mrs. Jack’s absence, a lady, accompanied by a little 
 boy. This was Ada, who, in the interval, had married a gentlemar 
 of good family, considerable wealth, but, as experience soon showed 
 of a wholly unbearable temper and vicious inclinations. For some 
 time the young wife bore her terrible lot unrepiningly, and hid hei 
 sufferings from her family ; but when at last her husband’s ill-usage 
 could be no longer borne, when it became confessedly brutal in the 
 extreme, in order to make her fly and leave her child behinei, she, 
 with true natural instinct, fled, taking her little Andrew with her 
 Her family were, by this time, acquainted with her misfortunes ; but a; 
 their interference had proved ineffectual, so they did not dare to giv^ 
 her shelter— lest, in so doing, the husband would do what h( 
 threatened, claim his son. From place to place she hurried, follower 
 by this man — safe to day, unsafe to-morrow. At last she rememberer 
 me and my quiet retirement. She came, and I would from thai 
 moment have given her shelter, had I not feared the malevolence o 
 the woman who had got a footing in my home. I, therefore, pro 
 cured her a temporary lodging in Brooklow, and soon after hirer 
 Street End House for her, where for some months she was safe ant 
 happy, enjoying much the beautiful wooded country around. Just ai 
 this time Ellis Thornhill made me acquainted with his marriage. H« 
 and Flora Breere — silly children as they were — could not bear th€ 
 separation their parent’s law-suit and quarrel had involved ; they had 
 therefore, met in London, and, at large cost, for they were both sc 
 much under age, got married. None knew this, not even Flora’J 
 aunt or mother, till it could no longer be concealed. It was then 
 broken out to me, and to the two at home who could be trusted, and 
 eventually to Richard Wenlock. He advised temporary concealmeni 
 — I, immediate avowal. But his views so coincided with many hopei 
 and fears, the terror of the poor stricken mother was so great, th^ 
 risk of disinheritance on both sides was so extreme, as to lead me ai 
 length to reluctantly yield consent. It had then to be taken into cqn^ 
 sideration how best to conceal the approaching birth of Flora’s child 
 Ada Marlowe soon occurred to me — Street End House was near, it! 
 privacy great. Ada had been herself a mother, her sympathy foi 
 one so young as Flora might be reckoned on. I, therefore, revealec 
 the circumstances to her, and asked her aid. It was promised a 
 once, with the utmost kindness and sympathy. ^ At the same time 
 Thomas and Deborah Elwood were made acquainted with the facts 
 Mr. Grayson was spoken to, and the servant at Street End House 
 dismissed. Secrecy was thus ensured ; still Ada could not act alone 
 as we did not dare to reveal the matter to any such ordinary woman 
 
333 
 
 / 
 
 main/stone’s housekeeper. 
 
 s would have given her fiervices for hire. After some perplexity on 
 ihis point, It occurred to Mrs. Marlowe to speak to Judith Whitelock 
 hose acquaintance she; had made during her temporary stay in 
 wooklow. Adas judgi^ient of this stern, though good and faithful 
 uy, was not at fault — assistance and advice were rendered with the 
 ibmost willingness and sewecy ; and thus, under pretext of a brief 
 iisit to her uncle Elwood, Flora went to stay at Street End House 
 ad there gave birth to her little son. But she was barely conva- 
 fecent enough for removal ere she had to return home, there to be 
 prsed by her mother and Susan Elwood ; for not only did her father 
 Bake urgent inquiry after her — as he is never happy unless she is 
 lar at hand— but Ada herself had to make instant^^d secret pre- 
 irations to leave the house. For those of her family who were 
 atchtul for her, had ascertained that her worthless husband was again 
 ill her track, and fio further off than Losely. In her distress «he 
 new not what to do, or whither to go; but, at last, by my advice, she 
 
 iora s child, to whom she had promised to be the tenderest mother. 
 
 th^thr^Iwnnrf few days’ time, and whilst remaining 
 
 th the Elwoods, she heard of a small lurnished cottage which was to 
 
 TM ^ vicinity to that of 
 
 itof Thomas Elwoods great antiquarian friend and co-labourer 
 ir. Goldru^, she took it, and went thither in the fresh name of 
 oilhams. There she has remained ever since, watching the children, 
 forming with the Goldrusts a most pleasant and permanent friend- 
 «p._ bhe generously gives music lessons to Bella Goldrust, the anti- 
 tarians niece, Mays a rubber with his merry-hearted old-fashioned 
 antiquary himself joins with great good will. It 
 l friends I shall introduce you, Charlotte.” 
 
 k* Ind^^ ” ^ think I have already an acquaintance.” 
 
 Sis housekeeper told him where she and the antiquary had met 
 ill the pleasant conversation they had had together about the old 
 l&maii road. 
 
 ‘All this, Charlotte, will add to the pleasure of the meeting And 
 Ada IS no loiter under restraint as to her name and position— for 
 ; husband died quite suddenly three months ago, leavino- her 
 hS% t a marriage settlement, unfettered mistress 
 
 of the future of her child-you can talk unre- 
 
 fnihtf ^ charming woman— 
 
 ughtful and well-informed; and should Ellis Thorlhill arrive 
 
 ‘ pleasure of the day will be 
 
 I You expect him then.” 
 
 1“ answer to one 
 
 speaks of his arrival in London to-day, and of his 
 rney hither to-morrow. _ Mr. Morrison, his tutor, g^ to Cam- 
 t ge, and takes up his quiet residence there till he sees how present 
 umstances terminate; for part of my business with Cm 
 
334 
 
 MAINSTONE’s HOUSEKl lEPER. 
 
 Elwood is relating to Street End House — i t being thought advisable 
 to prepare a home for Flora and her mother, in case Joel Breere is 
 madman enough to put his threats in force as soon as he finds that 
 his preposterous suggestion — preposterous ui ider any circumstances— 
 of Flora’s marrying a man like Theobald Baildwin cannot have efiect. 
 And as it is well — so Kichard — hem, hem”--y-here excellent Julius 
 Eadnor so stumbled and hesitated, as for his housekeeper to look 
 keenly up into his face — “as it is thought well that Ellis should be 
 near at hand, considering his father’s prostrate condition* and the 
 general state of affairs, he will join his little wife* at Street End House, 
 and abide there as secretly as he can, in case Mrs. Breere and her 
 child are necessitated to find a new home.” 
 
 “ This proposition is a good one,” spoke Charlotte, thoughtfully, 
 “ and worthy of the clear brain from which it emanates. But is there 
 no possibility of bringing Mr. Thornhill to a blotter state of feeling 
 with respect to his son, or showing him the abs olute necessity of a 
 judicious and timely interference in his affairs ? ” 
 
 “ I can scarcely say. Only recently his feelingt? were unchanged ; 
 and, at present, Margery is so occupied with her sick husband that 
 little can be reckoned on, though of her good offices we are all 
 certain ; and, what is more, that Pomp’s removal from his master’s 
 presence is absolute gain. He had great influence over Mr. Thorn- 
 hill, and that of a very baneful nature.” 
 
 “ I disliked the man. Though I never spoke more than a dozen 
 words to him, or saw him above two or three times, I had an in- 
 stinctive feeling that he was knave, pander, and vain and silly, fribble, 
 all in one. But tell me, magister, if all these precautions were taken 
 to secure the secret of Flora’s marriage and the birth of her child, 
 why it came to be so well known to the discreditable woman who 
 ruled your household that some child had been born in Street End 
 House ? That she affiliated it upon you is no matter for surprise, as 
 it answered her purpose so to do.” 
 
 “My steps were dogged, fillia,” he said, hesitatingly. 
 
 “ By whom ? ” 
 
 He paused some moments, and then, still more heshliatingly, he said, 
 as he looked trustingly up into the serene face of his housekeeper, 
 “ By one whom I do not like to name to you, my beloved Charlotte.” 
 
 “ The girl Sarah ? ” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ I can fancy this. She made an extraordinary r(5velation to me 
 on the day she and her mother were dismissed from the up stairs 
 chambers, to the intent that she madly loved you, and, in conse- 
 quence, looked upon me as her rival. It was a strange avowal, and I 
 naturally treated it with the silent contempt such a statement, coming 
 from such a quarter, deserved. Even regarding it from a purely 
 virtuous point of view, I call to mind those cold, stony, deceitful, 
 lustful eyes, and think such a woman incapable of what I call love— 
 with its fidelity that can know no change — with its disinterestedness, 
 acknowledging so little of self.” 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 335 
 
 “ Yet, abating from her random language, I think she spoke 
 sincerely. As far as her low nature is capable of attachment, I think 
 she is to me, though the confession does me no honour. Had it been 
 possible for me to have responded to it — could I have forgotten my 
 beloved pupil, her innocence, her high aims, her winning manners — 
 what is more, could I have been oblivious of self-respect, and given 
 to my conscience an everlasting remorse — this girl would have re- 
 garded me even then only for a time, and forsaken me for some one 
 else when novelty had waned. Still, with all this — still, worthless as 
 she is in a moral point of view — a mere heartless voluptuary, living 
 only for sense and things of sense — I can yet fancy this girlish liking 
 for me surviving to the end, the one redeeming trait, almost the only 
 one, in a life of worthlessness and sin. I think, reasoning from other 
 premises than the one that nature is not wholly corrupt, that this will 
 prove so here.” 
 
 The housekeeper shook her head. “The sentiment may be 
 reverted to, because all else are dead — or rather because it is the 
 strongest memory of uncorrupt days. It will be a peg on which to 
 hang the last morbid throes of an utterly selfish nature. As a woman, 
 I have no belief in such women; like heartless sensual men, they 
 have neither a past nor a future — they have highly adaptive faculties 
 — nothing more ; and when one form of sensualism decays, another 
 takes its place. They either become drunkards, or the malignant 
 satirists of those unfortunate enough to be their friends ; the last are 
 the most corrupt — they envy, they malign, even whilst they proffer 
 their Judas smiles, or Judas hands.” 
 
 Mr. Radnor listened — looked up more than once into his house- 
 keeper’s earnest face ; and, after a considerable pause, he said in his 
 old accustomed dreamy way, — 
 
 “ You are right, Charlotte, in saying that these sort of women have 
 adaptive faculties. This girl had. When her mother brought her 
 first before my sight, incidentally as it were, a more innocent, uncon- 
 scious, simple child, as least as far as appearances went, cannot well be 
 conceived ; she shrank, as it were, from the most commonplace 
 notice ; still I often found her lingering about — by degrees she stole 
 as it were into my study, to bring me, say a childish handful of 
 flowers — food for my poor Peri and Pearl — some bill or letter — a 
 glass of water — or a biscuit for luncheon ; then she began lingeringly 
 to look at my books — and so from step to step, till I, unconscious of 
 danger, proposed to teach her. She was my housekeeper’s child, I 
 thought, and I should be only fulfilling a duty in so doing. Her 
 wonderful adaptive faculties here had play, so far as they went, but 
 they had neither depth nor intrinsicness ; even by unconscious assimi- 
 lation her manners softened and improved — her reading became 
 fluent — her handwriting elegant — but beyond these, and some small 
 smattering in general knowledge, she could not go. Facts, if even 
 she remembered them, she could make of no practical account; 
 arithmetic, beyond the easiest rules, she could not learn ; grammar 
 and geography, teach as I would, were but as a confused mesh of 
 
336 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 ideas in her mind. I soon found that I had no more to teach, unless 
 I could turn ballet or music -master. I had arrived at this point, and 
 was considering how best I could hint that I could teach no more, 
 and that I wished to revert again to my accustomed privacy, when the 
 revelation that I was dealing with the passions of a woman in the 
 form of a child, broke suddenly upon me. Tacitly, by manner first, 
 then by words, then by most passionate demonstrations ; I was awe- 
 struck— I was scared, as it were, by the horrors of an unexpected 
 tempest. It was loathsome to me to find that my unconscious tender- 
 ness to a child had been accepted as an adoration to a woman ; it was 
 terrible to me to find so much unconsciousness — so much art — so 
 much intuitive impulsive passion, in one whom I had thought guileless 
 in a remarkable degree. Then the adaptive faculties I saw had not 
 been used with a view to any useful end, but simply as a means of 
 gaining my attention, and remaining in my presence, as a hold over 
 me for future purposes. In my sight was a girl of fourteen ; appeal- 
 ing to my senses was the conscious knowledge of a woman of forty. 
 I could not bear this — it revolted all which was best in my nature. I 
 reasoned with her, I forbid her my presence, but for a time unsuccess- 
 fully ; like the Syrian saints, or the Hindoo devotee, my temptations 
 were many. But not to dwell further on this odious subject, my 
 austerity, and what was more to the purpose, my threats, prevailed. 
 Dismissed from my presence, with all the scorn I could give ex- 
 pression to, the girl for a time haunted my footsteps in the garden— 
 m the fields — through the woods ; she seemed always with me. And 
 thus it was, I suppose, that my visits to Street End House were 
 observed, and enough gathered from eavesdropping, to acquaint her 
 somewhat with what was passing in the house. She might havei 
 arrived at the truth had she remained, but seeing at length that I was, 
 wholly proof against her wishes, she suddenly absented herself, and 
 returned no more, at least, to my visible cognizance; though as 
 time wore on, I had proof suflS.cient that she was again an inmate ofi 
 my house. But so long as she kept from openly annoying me, I was 
 content.” 
 
 “ I hope, Mr. Kadnor, that we have seen the last of her, as well as 
 of her mother. But great art must have been used by the latter in 
 concealing this girl’s companionship with you ; for Elisha seems to 
 have known little or nothing about it.” 
 
 “ No ! the woman, her mother, for purposes of her own, had taken 
 to treat Elisha as an outdoor servant — never entering the house, he 
 knew little of what occurred within ; and my commands that he 
 should return to his old duty of attending upon me, were amongst the 
 means I found successful for securing my presence from undesirable 
 intrusion.” 
 
 From this point the question reverted to other topics ; and when 
 these had been discussed, Mr. Radnor returned to his study. 
 
 They started early on the following morning— the weather being 
 cold, but frosty and clear. From the station, beyond the Abbey of 
 St. John’s, they went twenty miles by railway to a somewhat hilly 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 337 
 
 • country watered by a noble river. At the station here a roomy 
 I chaise, driven by the old servant in grey, awaited them ; and the 
 . distance not being great, they were soon traversing a wide gravel road, 
 leading through a strip of rough park land to a simple old-fashioned 
 
 4 country house. Here they were welcomed by old Thomas Elwood 
 ^and his deaf sister Tabitha — both habited somewhat in the dress of 
 .Friends, though not belonging to that communion. They were Inde- 
 pendents, of that old-fashioned school who, in things outward, 
 retained some of the customs of the past and some of its best 
 mental characteristics, enlarged by the greater liberality of modern 
 opinion.. 
 
 ^ ^ Till the time of dinner there was much to see of interest to tlie 
 ^visitors. Old Thomas showed, with great unction, his collection of 
 tSaxon antiquities ; for, unlike his friend and brother antiquary, Mr. 
 Goldrust, whose tastes were all Koman, his predilections were purely 
 'Saxon. He had much to show of value — coins, rusted swords and 
 
 ■ spears, the umboes of shields, remnants of leather-work, fibuJse of 
 Jmre gold-work, copper vessels, mead-buckets and Saxon glass. 
 "Kicher even than his antiquities was his fine library of Nonconformist 
 literature. Here were the rare tracts, the sermons, the devotional 
 pieces of men who did so much towards the liberation of human 
 opinion; and yet, when their own day of power came, were them- 
 
 ■ selves persecutors. ^ Here were letters of Milton, of Cromwell, of 
 
 ■Cartwright, of Eliot, Vane, and Marten, and books which \iad 
 t belonged to Milton’s pupil and friend, old Thomas Elwood’s ancestor. 
 5Here were other relics of these illustrious men; but most did Julius 
 iRadnor’s fingers tremble, when old Thomas weighed them down witli 
 ^some ponderous folio, the issue of the presses of the Low Countries 
 ^luring the persecutions under the reigns of Elizabeth and James. 
 tMany of these books were precious alike to churchmen and dis- 
 J'senters they had been penned in dungeons, where, or at the stake 
 hheir writers had perished. ’ 
 
 5 Deborah Elwood, having no taste for either literature or antiquities, 
 bad yet one pursuit not without its value. She was a great collector 
 Lf fossils, principally from the Silurian formation around her home ; 
 hnd the results of her solitary rambles during the summer months 
 Piad been valuable to more than one of our most eminent geolo^'ists. 
 Though old Thomas took no personal interest in this pursuit, h^ had 
 Vet turned lapidary and furbisher on its account, and to his hand was 
 I due the nice arrangement of the contents of the large glass-fronted 
 ^oress^ which filled up one side of their warm and comfortable 
 ’jrawing-room. Tabitha helped to show her treasures, holding them 
 9 n her hands, and lifting up her wasted, cadaverous, abstracted face, in 
 
 hat watchful manner so peculiar to the very deaf. Next she ex- 
 hibited her exquisite needlework, the result of those silent hours she 
 ind old Thomas passed together — he on one side of the hearth with 
 f eme Nonconformist folio, she opposite to him, happy with her 
 dexterous needle. 
 
 ( An hour after a nicely-served dinner, which showed Deborah in 
 22 
 
338 
 
 mainstone’s housekeepee. 
 
 the new light of as admirable a housekeeper as her sister Susan | 
 at the Pool, Mr. Kadnor and his housekeeper, accompanied by old ! 
 Thomas, prepared to go onward— Tabith a never leaving home during 
 the winter months. Avoiding the ordinary modes of egress from his 
 house, old Thomas opened a large closet in his dining-room, pulled 
 some shelves, which were fastened to a concealed door, opened it, and 
 throuo-h this, by a series of narrow passages, they reached a distant 
 door, "which, opening out at the rear of a large woodstack, was 
 unseen. Yet, otherwise it was wholly unnoticeable. The rear of the 
 house being of ancient date, was built of laths and mortar, aitd- to a 
 certain disposal of the wood-work the door adjusted itselL It was 
 thus secret from all but the inmates of the house. This passage was, 
 as old Thomas told them, the product of former days of persecution, 
 and had been, doubtless, often useful. ^ Indeed, such places of secret 
 eo'ress and ingress were quite common in all the more ancient country 
 houses: and1;his one, though rarely used except in relation to Mr. 
 Pv^adnor’s or Ellis Thornhill’s visits, had probably been of service m 
 keepino- safe the secret of Flora’s marriage and the existence of her 
 child "’if Briscoe or Mrs. Jack had even watched Mr. Radnor to the 
 house they had discovered no egress thence, till he retraced his 
 way homeward; and thus the clue to further knowledge had been 
 
 The woodstack opened upon a solitary path, hidden by a^ garden 
 wall* this again into a wood of considerable extent. Crossing this 
 obliciuely, a narrow by-road led them thence into an ordinary high- 
 way and this at no great distance into a small village of scattered 
 houses. Though the gloom of the wintry afternoon was near at 
 hand and the moon had not yet risen to light up the frosty atmos- 
 phere enoufrh could be seen of cottage, farm-house, church and 
 garden wallsT to show that there was something peculiar about the 
 place. Here, jutting from a wall, was a deeply sculptured block ot 
 stone— there in parts about the church, cropped out the flanges of 
 Roman tiles— a steep lane or two leading down to the noble river 
 sweeping onward near at hand, was marked off by pediment and 
 broken column. They were in fact treading Watling Street, and to 
 the right and left — feet beneath the soil — lay the foundations of a 
 
 once populous Roman city. , , , , , mi a 
 
 Pausinfj- at no great distance from the church, old Thomas opened 
 a wicket"’in a low stone wall, and went thence by a flagged path 
 towards a wide-spread cottage, looking somewhat like a parsonage, 
 thou^rh it was not. A good-sized lawn, broken by flower-beds, lay 
 between it and the street; and here, had there been light enough, 
 curious old specimens of Roman pottery would have been seen, im- 
 perfect and mutilated for the larger part; but in summer their 
 deficiencies and fractures were hidden by luxuriant masses ot 
 o-eranium, mignonette, and heliotrope, about which, throughout the 
 live-long day hummed a crowd of hungry bees. Ere a servant 
 admitted them, they could hear the sound of a voice and a piano, and 
 when they were ushered into a pleasant sitting-room, they saw a 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 339 
 
 lady seated at a piano, a girl standing beside her taking a singing 
 lesson, whilst on the hearth-rug lay a young boy asleep. Lamp 
 or candle there was not, but light enough was shed by the glowing 
 fire. 
 
 When the ladies met — Ada, a woman of about thirty, dressed in 
 slight mourning — there was the kindest greeting, for they knew each 
 , other instantly. The little company presently gathered round the 
 fire, and there was pleasant talk about former days. Charlotte 
 admired Ada’s boy ; and this brought up the subject of his mother’s 
 marriage, and the many miseries she had endured, till death had 
 broken the bond of so much wretchedness. 
 
 “Yet I should not perhaps complain,” said Ada, “seeing that through 
 all my wanderings and enforced solitude I had my little Andrew with 
 me. Yet he might have been snatched from me at one time, had not 
 I remembered and sought our old friend Mr. Radnor. His kindness 
 to me then is irrepayable — unless I could have done what you have, 
 Charlotte, and brought peace and renovation to his hearth. It was 
 some time before I understood the wretchedness and contamination 
 by which he was surrounded. But just then I -could not stir to do 
 good — I was in bond to my own sorrows; and now, when I might 
 step in, a good fairy has forestalled me. But perhaps Mr. Radnor 
 would have permitted no one else to do what his housekeeper has 
 done ? ” 
 
 “No!” he answered, gravely and quietly, — “none but my little 
 Jane could have righted her old master. 1 should, with my eccen- 
 5 trie oddness, have rebelled against any less tender or judicious rule.” 
 
 “ In this case, Mr. Radnor, Charlotte must not leave you. A lady 
 with so good a fortune has many temptations to lure her away ; but 
 this is a nice country, and if marriage is to be ultimately thought of, 
 someone worthy enough can be found, I daresay.” 
 
 3 “ I do not want her to leave me,” said Mr. Radnor, sadly. “ It is 
 
 ^her own fault if she does.” 
 
 1 “ No ! no,” replied Charlotte, quickly. “ I have no thought, at 
 
 ^ least at present, of leaving the magister. I have already settled down 
 to a long life of housekeeper’s duty ; and when Mr. Radnor gets tired 
 <of me, and bids me go, I will, and not till then.” 
 
 Charlotte changed the subject by asking after Flora’s child, 
 f “ Yes,” spoke Ada, “ we should have had little Johnny here ; but 
 t^the truth is, Mr. Goldrust sent for him after his afternoon’s sleep, as 
 he often does. So I bid Johnny’s nurse put on white frock and red 
 ^shoes and carry him ; though as to the condition of the former I will 
 not answer, if Mr. Goldrust chances to carry him into his workshop — 
 
 ■ a thing he often does, though under special protest not to do so this 
 ‘ afternoon. But the good antiquary is so specially oblivious of ordi- 
 nary things, as to probably forget it the moment he closes his work- 
 ’ shop door.” 
 
 “It is strange, with his tastes, that he loves children,” said 
 ^ Charlotte ; “ the past and present have little in harmony with each 
 f other.” 
 
840 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 “ Well, ordinarily speaking, cMldren are not popular with Mr. 
 Goldrust. It is not upon record that he ever took to before-- 
 thono^h in simplicity and truthfulness he is almost a child himself. 
 But he has taken to Johnny immensely, and Johnny to him ; and only 
 the other day the child, tiny as he is, stole out of the garden and 
 tried to make his way to the Goldrusts' h^se. He is a favourite 
 with Miss Goldrust as well, and my friend Bella here lovOa him as 
 
 much almost as I do.” . ^ 
 
 Charlotte had already noticed Bella’s pretty, girlish, graceful figure ; 
 and now that Ada’s words referred to her, she regarded her more 
 earnestly still. Her face was very lovely, rich m its expression of a 
 woman’s gentlest nature, and Charlotte’s heart warmed towards her 
 
 even whilst she looked. a j « • j 
 
 “ As there is nothing to restrict your movements now, Ada, said 
 Charlotte, “ you must come and pay us a visit at Mamstone; and it 
 this young lady will accompany you, I shall be glad. To ask Johnny 
 is of course out of the question— but I suppose you can delegate 
 your trust to others whilst you come ? ’] 
 
 “Oh' yes; Mr. Goldrust and his sister will be only too glad to 
 have Johnny to themselves. But we must refer the matter to his 
 papa, whom we expect to-night.” 
 
 ^ “ So Mr. Kadnor told me, yesterday. We both propose that Ellis 
 shall return with us to Mainstone. With ordinary precaution-for 
 our servants are all most trustworthy--he might remain with us quite 
 unsuspected for a few days; indeed, till Street End House is brushed 
 up and put ready— a matter of possible necessity, seeing how things 
 
 “*^“Ems will be pleased to do so, I am sure; for he thinks greatly of 
 Mr. Kadnor — quite as much as he does of Richard Wenlock an 
 that is highly indeed, for never did man prove a truer and wiser 
 
 j ^”™harlotte made no reply; and as it was now time that they should 
 I be with the Goldrusts, Ada and Bella threw on their shawls, and the 
 
 i “thrK* “risen, ligb.i.g the 1„„ -ieh i J 
 ! shrubs, and masses of broken pottery, p'ghting still 
 
 gently, wherever it could penetrate the shadows, the green old i-liurch- 
 yard, with its grey and quiet parsonage in the rear and, ascending, 
 walls, and porch,' and belfry, and gables, brought out into g'^eat^r 
 contrast the rudely-wrought relics of Pagan days and Pagan handi- 
 Smen and soldiers. ° Out in the village street, wide and widi 
 diverging roads, one or more being narrow lanes, descending to the 
 great^ford, these relics of a long-gone age 
 
 In the wall of this pigsty was set a Koman millstone , this plot 
 flourishin*^ winter cabbages was fenced off by the stray relics of the 
 Smr^f a temple; the gables of that cottage were rough with 
 the outstanding flanges of Roman tiles. P 
 
 fully officious— a Roman city had served “ toif ^ 
 
 need of many generations of the boorish cultivators of the soil. 
 
MAINSTONJj’s EOtiSEKEEPER* 
 
 341 
 
 The road again narrowed into the ordinary width of Watling Street 
 — dwellings ceased, and tall, bare hedges divided on one side the 
 fields of an adjacent farm — on the other, riverward, the shrubberies 
 of a country-house. As they drew near this, old Thomas led Miss 
 Eliot to a gate opening to the fields, and bid her look at something 
 in the distance. She did — and there, looming against the clear, cold 
 sky, was a vast fragmentary, shadowy object. It looked like part of 
 a great wall, the wreck of a citadel or a public granary. There it 
 was — old and mysterious — nobody knowing precisely what it had 
 formed ; nothing, in short, concerning it, except that it was Eoman, 
 and all that stood above-ground — there were relics enough beneath 
 of a once very populous city, which Dane and Saxon had destroyed. 
 
 Crossing the road, and turning through a white gate, the little com- 
 pany soon stood upon an extensive lawn lying in front of Mr. Gold- 
 rust’s house, and descending by a steep acclivity of garden and 
 shrubbery to the river. Mr. Radnor himself must show Charlotte 
 this scene ; for what was architecture, even when its relics belonged 
 to something finer than Roman architecture ever was in Britain, to 
 this sublime work of the Divine Architect himself? A river, wide 
 as the Thames at London Bridge, sweeping onward far below, ordi- 
 narily in great volume, but resting here and there beyond the reach 
 rof its mid-stream, in vast and silent pools; these in summer made 
 more solemn by the thick shadows of old and overarching trees — but 
 'which now, standing bare against the wintry sky, cast down the 
 f tracery of their knotty branches like the cordage of a ship. Here 
 f again were shallows fordable in summer-time — and there a rapid 
 formed by blocks of lichen-covered stones, their waters turned to 
 imolten silver as they scintillated in the heavenly light. Small aits or 
 [islands, some high and bare, some crowned by wood, added still 
 I greater beauty to the majestic river, as it twined its snaky way 
 through a far-reaching valley of undulating field and wood ; and thus, 
 
 . whether near or far, where it seemed to flow out from the shadows of 
 pdark hills, or lose itself in the dreamy distance of frosted fields — the 
 scene was very beautiful. And this was still left to man, though the 
 L legions of the Caesars had passed away — though feudal ownership had 
 -loosened its iron grasp, though all of to-day was in its turn to give 
 -place to the great oblivions of to-morrow. The serried hosts of 
 g humanity pass by in their generations, yet these gifts of the Eternal 
 are for all, as they are for one. 
 
 ft Returning from the little winding path from which they had viewed 
 phis scene, they traversed the moonlit lawn, to see the fragments 
 73f columns, friezes, and entablatures which enriched it, and then 
 entered the house ; which thus towards the garden had the appear- 
 Innce of sundry summer-houses joined together. But the little octa- 
 jigonal hall, airy and lightsome to a fault, at least in wintry days, was 
 primful of mortaria, vases, and lamps, on shelves, beneath heavy-laden 
 p cables and in presses. Then opening hence was a lightsome parlour, 
 
 |i n which tea was set, and where beside the fire, in a capacious chair, 
 jlept a rubicund old lady. This was Miss Goldrust. 
 
342 
 
 MAINSTONE’s HOUSEKEEt»l:». 
 
 “ We won’t wake aunt,” said Bella, holding up her finger; “ or the 
 night’s rubber will not go off satisfactorily. Let us seek for uncle, 
 for he’s in his workshop after all.” 
 
 She led the way as she spoke, through a side-door to some pas- 
 sages, at the end of which was a flight of stone steps. At the top of 
 these opened a door into a smoke-discoloured, littered roopi, wherein 
 Mr. Goldrust was caught in the act of filing a Roman coin he had 
 bought that day of a chawbacon. In utter oblivion of the spotless 
 frock and ruddy shoes, little Johnny sat perched before him on the 
 dirty working-bench, well amused with the handful of denarii he was 
 rattling, to his own great satisfaction, in a small copper vessel of some 
 sort; and to this, as though unconscious of the din, Mr. Goldrust 
 hummed the burden of one of Macaulay’s exquisite songs of ancient 
 Rome. It was an harmonious, though a contrasting picture — the 
 grave, dreamy man, in cap and blouse, bending over his work, and 
 the merry little child, as busy in his way, as though the din was 
 music, and all the world was listening. According to custom, Mr# 
 Goldrust heard no one enter. 
 
 “ Uncle ! ” spoke Bella, reproachfully. 
 
 “What’s the matter?” was the slow answer from the yet un- 
 awakened antiquary. 
 
 “ Uncle, do you not remember that we have company this evening, 
 and that you promised not to come into the workshop or bring J ohnny 
 near ? See how dreadfully his frock is dirtied already ! ” 
 
 And Bella, pressing forward, took up Johnny, who, thus stayed 
 suddenly in the din he was creating, began to cry. 
 
 “ Dear me ! ” said Mr. Goldrust, now quite himself, as he looked 
 round and beheld his amused visitors, “I really forgot you were 
 coming — ^but I am heartily glad to see you. Excuse my blouse and 
 cap, and Johnny’s frock, I hope no harm is come to it.” 
 
 “ Only this and this,” said Ada, as she took Johnny and kissed 
 away his tears. 
 
 Mr. Goldrust, looking penitently, beheld grimy streaks innume- 
 rable; whilst in the interstices of the pretty foliage wrought by 
 Deborah’s or Mrs. Breere’s patient needle lay, thickly strewn, the 
 filings of metal wrought in the mints of Roman Britain. 
 
 But Johnny’s frock was soon forgotten in the kindly greetings on 
 every side. So spared the lecture he deserved, Mr. Goldrust departed 
 to wash his hands, and put on a presentable coat, whilst his friends 
 returned to the sitting-room. Miss Goldrust was by this time awake, 
 and a very cheery old lady she proved, though a great enemy to 
 antiquarian pursuits. Bella made tea, and Johnny was kissed by 
 everybody; and, armed presently with a lump of plum-cake, he 
 crawled round to every chair, and left testimony of his presence in 
 crumbs and stray currants. The cake done, he sat down on the floor 
 and kicked off his red shoes. Carrying these in triumph to Mr 
 Goldrust, he was not content till he had been lifted up on to the 
 antiquary’s knee, and the red shoes were buttoned on again. 
 
 Tea over, the rubber began, as soon as Charlotte and Mr. Gold* 
 
Mainstone's housekeepee. 
 
 343 
 
 rust had talked over their pleasant meeting near Street End House. 
 As the former did not like cards, she and Ada sat beside the fire and 
 talked ; whilst Mr. Kadnor, finding some rare volumes on the book- 
 shelves, was well amused. About eight o’clock carriage -wheels were 
 heard approaching the house. Old Thomas, detecting the sound, 
 threw down his cards and said, “ There is Ellis.” And scarcely hed 
 he spoken when the room door opened, and in the young man came. 
 He was warmly welcomed, especially by old Thomas and Mr. Radnor. 
 Both called him their “ dear boy,” with husky voices that told their 
 own tale. But warm as was Ellis^ Thornhill’s greeting of his old 
 tutor, his eye and ear were all for his child. He seized J ohnny with 
 avaricious love, kissed him, tossed him to and fro, tenderly repeating 
 as he did so, “ How’s mamma ? ” “ How’s darling Flo ? ” “I wish 
 
 we had her here.” As many listening did. 
 
 Cards were no further thought of. They gathered round the fire 
 and talked the young man’s prospects over, as only very earnest 
 friends would do. The solitary hall, his sick father, the patience and 
 goodness of Margery, the lessening days of her worthless husband, 
 the trials of poor Flo, and the obstinacy of the Squire, were all 
 subjects which had earnest words. 
 
 Listening or conversing, the housekeeper was quick to see how 
 much that was valuable in thought and purpose Ellis Thornhill had 
 acquired from him who had been so long his friend. The manly, 
 straightforward courage with Avhich he meant to face the difficulties 
 lying immediately at hand belonged more to Richard Wenlock than 
 himself. 
 
 “ Till Street End House is ready — till fires have been lighted, and 
 the place warmed and aired — do you not think you might come to us, 
 my dear boy?” said Mr. Radnor, as the evening waned. “Our 
 servants are trustworthy, and Charlotte would be your truest friend.” 
 
 The proposal was gladly accepted— as, with only ordinary precaution, 
 Ellis Thornhill’s residence at Mainstone could be kept as secret at one 
 place as another, at least for a few days. So, at nine o’clock, when 
 the Elwoods’ chaise came to convey Mr. Radnor and his housekeeper 
 to the railway station, he took his place beside them. To go to 
 Mainstone was like going home to the house of the tenderest father. 
 
344 
 
 MAlNSl:oKE'S HOUSElCEEPEB. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 STORMS. 
 
 Squire Baldwin’s unexpected fit of the gout had outlived the 
 Christmas festivities and the last mince-pie, and was still reported as 
 not “ a bit better.” At first Joel Breere had accepted this visitation of 
 his old friend’s enemy in perfect good faith, and had ridden over to see 
 him and drink the bottle of wine he was not supposed able to drink 
 himself; but now, as the days went by without appearance or report 
 of amendment, his suspicions were aroused ; and, sinking into sulky 
 indifference, he ceased to send messenger or ride to the hall, as was 
 his habit — indeed, he ceased to go out at all. He kept up an in- 
 cessant watch about the house and premises, was here and there when 
 no one expected him, kept Flora almost constantly in his presenc^, 
 and, to fortify his mind against the suspicions which haunted it, he 
 had hourly recourse to the bottle — thus increasing the irritation of 
 his temper to an extent hardly bearable to those around him. 
 
 “If those women up stairs,” he said to himself, “are plotting 
 ao-ainst me — if they think to have that lad Ellis up and down, they 
 shan’t, and won’t.” And they, in their turn, said to one another. If 
 Joel goes on much longer in the way he is, he will go mad, or we 
 shall do so, for our lives are utterly wretched.” But I lora had to 
 bear a heavier burden than them all. More with him more^ exposed 
 to his ascerbity— constantly annoyed by his suspicions, questions, and 
 more suspicious vigilance — conscious that her husband was^ at hand, 
 and utterly unable°to even speak with him, though he waited hours 
 for her in such close neighbourhood as Miss Tern’s cottage, she was 
 inexpressibly wretched. Her step grew lagging, her face was pale, 
 
 her spirits vanished. i r , 
 
 “Ay, I suppose thou’st fretting after that lad, was her lather s 
 remark ; “ but thou may’st go on, and fret thyself into thy grave, if 
 thou likest, for him thou shalt never have, nor shall he come anigh 
 this place whilst I have life to watch the doors. His father deeply 
 wrono-ed me— he ha’ got land and pits that be as much mine as 
 the ffesh on my bones— and it’s what I’ll never forgive, come what 
 
 ^ At leno-th, after some days of fine weather, there was a change, and 
 for hours the snow fell incessantly. It wrap joed everything in its 
 white folds, it hung heavily in thick clouds, it filled the air, and, 
 fallin" ceaselessly against the window-panes, brought Xovexnber daik-i 
 ness to the January noon. There was gloom everywhere, and most 
 of it where people had troubled minds and anxious hearts. 
 
 And they had these in that fine old opulent house of Losely, wherei 
 
MAlJJStONE^S HOtSEitEEPEE. 
 
 S45 
 
 3 very health was warm, and every cupboard full. The servants stole 
 about noiselessly, and with anxious, listening ear, for they loved their 
 youno* mistress too well not to dread, on her account as well as their 
 own,l;heir master’s drunken fits; and up stairs the poor, nervous, 
 gickly lady, and her watchful sister, heard even the creaking of a 
 mstant do'Tf with a pained attention that occasionally became agony 
 when the cause of any unusual noise was not instantly resolvable. 
 
 After drinking through two of these gloomy days, the afternoon of 
 the third beheld'^the same gloom and the same debauchery. Making 
 Flora sit with him, he yet rarely spoke, and for hours all that was to 
 ’be heard was the crackling of the fire, the dropping of the cinders 
 on the hearth, the tinkle of the glass against the bottle, or the leaves 
 of the book she wearily turned, or the needle she monotonously plied. 
 Dinner he had had none — he refused to eat any— and thus the after- 
 noon waned, the snow falling, the gloom gathering, the mysterious 
 stillness of all things within and without the house being so dreary, 
 as for dreariness to amount into solemnity. ^ 
 
 At length, after sitting for full an hour, more like a log of wood 
 fthan a breathing, sentient creature, with his blood-shot gaze fixed on 
 the distant window, he suddenly started to his feet and clenched his 
 
 hands. , -r , i? 
 
 ‘‘ D this weather ! ” he said, fiercely— “ I can bear no more of 
 
 it. One might as well be watching a million wenches plucking geese 
 - at Michaelmas time, as such a snow. It sears one’s brain— it does— 
 
 : fall— fall— fall— d it. I must be up and doing, or I shall go 
 
 mad. Yes ! I’ll go to him ! — I’ll know the truth, and then ” 
 
 uGro!— where, papa?”— his little daughter tremulously asked, 
 1 for her fears suggested that, in his madman’s fury, it might be to 
 
 •i Mainstone Hall. t , ^ i? 
 
 ’ “ Why ! to the Hoo Hall, to be sure ! I’ll see to the bottom of 
 
 \ that old rogue’s pretences ; for I believe he’s no more a fit o’ the gout 
 than Dash his pointer. No!— it’s some trick at which you women 
 are helping. And d— — me, if it is. I’ll turn that old Susan and the 
 missis out°of doors— that I will ; and as for you, miss. I’ll lock you 
 ' up till I can marry you to the first honest fellow that 11 be troubled 
 with such a chit.” 
 
 “ Papa,” she answered, with her old serenity — the serenity ot one 
 ^ who knew that things would come ^ right just now — “ all these 
 suspicions exist only in your own brain. As we have already told 
 ’ you, none of us have seen Mr. Baldwin since he was last here.” 
 
 ^ “ You mayn’t, but you have your go-betweens — that fellow Wen- 
 
 lock amongst others. But I’ll worm the truth out before I come 
 ^ home again. As to you, if you think to use the time meanwhile 
 ' against me, you shan’t, for I’ve noticed your pretexts to get across to 
 that old woman Tern. No ! I’ll make sure of you whilst I’m gone. 
 ^ You shall go into the gun-room, and wait there till I am back again 
 ' — be it to-night, or to-morrow night.” 
 
 “ This is contemptible, and absurd of you, papa. The gun-room 
 * is no place for me. I am no child, and I will not be treated with 
 
346 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 indignity But her old accustomed show of pride had no effect 
 upon the irritated drunken man. He made no verbal answer, but 
 room '’y began leading her roughly across the 
 
 “ • I say f she said, as she turned up her whitened face to 
 
 his, do not do this — do not let there be a breach between us: if 
 
 housetop ever^ ’^^^^^^ me, I will, upon your return, quit your 
 
 He only laughed— that irritating, contemptuous laugh so charac- 
 teristic of the idiocy of drink — and, still clutching her, threw open 
 
 . The servants, anxious and 
 
 watchtul through these sad and gloomy days, gathered together from 
 various parts of the house as the sound of their master’s loud and 
 angry voice met their ear; but none saw fit to interfere. Hot so 
 much because they dreaded the drunken man’s ferocity, as that their 
 little mistress held up a warning finger. 
 
 “ possibly help it,” she whispered, as she passed them 
 
 mamma know of this. Make some excuse, or she’ll 
 be terrified to death.” But he overheard these words, and with 
 mocking perversity he bawled out : — 
 
 ^ missis that I’ve taken care of her dauo'hter 
 
 till i come back again. And when I do, if I’ve found thing's as I 
 suspect them to be, I’ll turn her and old Susan out of doors, be it 
 night or day.” 
 
 He did not stay to see how indignantly his servants looked; but, 
 pushing his little daughter forward to the gun-room, unlocked the 
 door with the key he had brought with him, and, thrusting her 
 roughly in, re-locked the door upon her. It was nothing more than a 
 large cloiset set round with gun-rests, and with cupboards for holdino* 
 gunpowder, and other sporting materials ; its only window was 
 high up towards^ the ceiling, and it was destitute of warmth and 
 comfort of any kind ; but, resolved to accept the probation quietly, 
 she^ wrapped herself up in one of her father’s coats which hun«* 
 against the door, drew forth a low box, and, sitting down, patiently 
 awaited the result. He should never treat her so again, was her quiet 
 resolution. ^ 
 
 P^sently she heard him call for his horse, and when it was ready, 
 and he had been into the cloak-room and put on a warm outer coat, 
 she heard him ride away— not so much by the half audible sound of 
 the horse s hoofs upon the snow, as by the violent swing of the gate 
 as he passed into the highway. 
 
 Once there, he rode madly onward, utterly regardless of the still i 
 mlling snow, or the white waste which lay deep upon the road. 
 Through this he floundered, slowly where the waste deepened into 
 drifts ; but still so strange was it to see a gentleman out on such an 
 evening— a gentleman like Joel Breere, who had servants to do his 
 bidding — that where a cottager or farmer stood by his door, or was 
 out upon some^ unavoidable errand, he wondered to see the Losely 
 Squire force his way through such a storm. As he turned from the 
 
MAINSTONE’s HOtSEKEEPER. 
 
 347 
 
 (^li-road into the lane — in summer-time so pleasant and shadowy 
 hich led up to the Hoo Hall, he met a labourer Avho had been 
 plodding his wav to some distant sheep-fold. 
 
 * “Excuse me," Squire,” said the man, respectfully, as he edged side- 
 ^2^s into a drift to make way for the floundering horse, “ but thou’lt 
 the lane uncommon difficult to pass. I’d turn back, Sir there s 
 ^lore snow coming, and the night’s mighty wild.” 
 
 ' “ Mind thy own business ! ” was Joel’s grufi* answer ; “when I ask 
 ly advice I’ll take it, and not till then.” 
 
 . So saying, he spurred his horse onwards through the whitened 
 — plunging often to the saddle-bows into the vast drifts which 
 Jere and there choked up the lane. Still he made his way, though 
 Jowly, for the moon had risen and was a guide; and just as some 
 \urch clock was striking eight he came in sight of the ancient farm- 
 ouse. It looked pleasantly enough as it stood out in the clear grey 
 tmosphere — the festive smoke curling upwards from its twisted 
 himneys. There were shadows about the barn and folds, but 
 limmering amidst these was a light, and, as he approached it, he 
 ould distfnguish a man with a lantern. The Squire dismounted and 
 ailed to him. 
 
 - “ Kobin, is that you ? ” 
 
 “Ay, Sir.” ^ 1 
 
 L The man came forward with his lantern, and its light disclosed a 
 ough farm-servant, with a manner strikingly deferential.^ l-he truth 
 yas, that Joel Breere knew some knavish trick which this fellow had 
 ^ )erpetrated in respect to a basket of game he had been intrusted by 
 !iis master to bring to the Pool. Joel had forgiven him, though with 
 he threat that if ever he did the like again his master should be m- 
 brmed of it. So, from this date, knowing the rod held over him, 
 ’lobin was especially civil to the Losely Squire. 
 
 V “ Master’s gout no better ? — eh ? ” 
 
 “ They dunna say so indoors,” was the covert answer. 
 
 ’ “ Don’t say ! — no, it’s nothing particular after all ! ” 
 
 : “I shouldn’t say it wur, Sir ; there be a bandage round his leg, but 
 juaister had a jolly lot o’ goose for his dinner^ yesterday, and not a 
 lottle o’ doctor’s stuff ha’ come anigh the place.” 
 
 “ Of course not — I know its shamming. Come can thou tell me 
 vhat it’s for, and who’s at the bottom on’t. 
 i, “ I dunna think I ’xactly knows. Sir.” 
 
 “ Come, make a guess — and here’s a shilling for thee — who’s been 
 hnigh here? That fellow Wenlock, eh?— or the old Mainstone 
 
 lOarson?” « , i » 
 
 ' “ Not ’xactly them. Sir, but that grand miss from the parsonage ba 
 3een here a time or two, and maister and she allays go to the old 
 missis’s parlour up stairs to talk their bis’niss over. On course you 
 mow who I mean, Sir — that miss as has been setting the old parson 
 r,:o rights, and be going to marry him one o* these next days, if all 
 ^ihat’s said be true, for he’s desperate fond on her.” 
 
 . Another time the Squire would have relished this piece of news, 
 
548 
 
 mainsi:oke’s hoxjsekeepee. 
 
 for he was as fond of gossip as any ale-wife — but he was too wroti 
 and his brain too muddled to care for it now. 
 
 “Let him marry or not, it’s nought to me,” he said, angrily 
 
 “ Yes ! I knew there was some d d plotting in this thing — but I’l] 
 
 see to the bottom on’t. Here, have a care of my horse till I come 
 back again.” 
 
 He threw a shilling into the man’s hand as he spoke, gave up 
 the bridle he was holding, and stalked heavily towards the hous^ 
 The man, seeing his intention, became alarmed, and hurried after 
 him. 
 
 ^ “ I dunna know. Sir,” he said, “ that thou canst see the maister to- 
 night, he ain’t ’specting company. I’m sure.” 
 
 But Joel, taking no notice of what he said, stalked forward through 
 the^ snow ; not to the old porch, but to a wicket in a low garden- w^ll. 
 This with difficulty he opened, and, wading his way through the 
 snow, made to a distant window, cheerful with the mingled fight of 
 fire and candle. Here, through the leaded casement he beheld his 
 old friend Theobald Baldwin, in the full height of a winter night’s 
 enjoyment. His^ leg-rest kicked aside, pipe and newspaper in his 
 hand, and, as tacit testimony that his old enemy had either not been 
 present or had lately retreated, a glass of whiskey-punch steamed by 
 his elbow. 
 
 Maddened at this sight, and fully conscious that for some purpose 
 or another the Squire’s illness had been all a sham, Joel retraced his 
 steps, and, refraining from entering by the garden front, went quickly 
 to the low porch, and there knocked loudly. It was some time before 
 his summons was answered, and then by Jenny. But Joel did not 
 condescend to address her : stalking past her, he made his way to the 
 Squire’s room, where — leg on rest, punch gone, bandage on — sat the 
 Squire. 
 
 “Well, old friend,” said the latter, holding out his friendly hand, 
 “ I’m glad to see thee — thou’st been a long time coming or sending, 
 nigh three weeks or more ; I began to think thou had’st forgotten that 
 there was such an old fellow in the world as me.” 
 
 “ Thou’st still the gout, hast thou ? ” asked Joel, savagely. 
 
 “ Well, I be but poorly — leastways, Jenny tells me so,” spoke the 
 Squire, with a twinkle in his eye. 
 
 “Poorly? — why, I tell thee, Theobald Baldwin, thou art the 
 greatest sham that ever lived. Ten minutes ago I was at that 
 window, and thou wert well enough, and a merrier man than I. 
 What art thou doing this for ? — what’s the sham for ? — is it that thou 
 mayn’t marry my Flo ? ” 
 
 The good, honest old man saw that the truth was out, and that he 
 must face it. But he resolved to do this good-temperedly, seeing the 
 state Joel was in, and that for Flora’s sake he would procrastinate, 
 even if he could do no more. 
 
 “ I do not know if I am a greater sham than other men. As to 
 marrying, I’m in no particular hurry just at present. Flora and I 
 can wait, summer or autumn will do.” 
 
mainstose’s housekeeper. 
 
 349 
 
 . « It is a lie, thou’rt plotting with my people, helping them towards 
 er havino- that lad Ellis ; but she shan’t ! I’ll see her safe with six 
 jet of e^th above her in Mainstone graveyard afore she shall come 
 
 “You talk nonsense, Joel; come and sit down, and let Jenny get 
 bee a fresh Brosely. I’ve nothing to say against having thy pretty 
 cower— only I want time. Maybe after all she won’t have me— she 
 :ever said she would— and if it’s the Lord’s will that she’s to have 
 he lad, she will, in spite of thee or me. Come, sit down, a fresh 
 •arrel has been broached since thou wast here last. 
 
 “ No ! I’ll never taste bit or drop again with thee ; and as to thy 
 breach o’ promise, the law shall see.” 
 
 “Law! thou talkest like a madman, Joel; thou hast had enough 
 •f it, one would think, for one man’s Hfe. Come, I’ve been ill, and 
 ill I ask is a little time. Thy Flo is a pretty flower, that I will, with 
 
 lod’s help, deal justly by.” ^ i 
 
 Joel laughed— his old irritating laugh. “ Justly ?— thou shalt 
 lever have her now, to deal justly or unjustly by. But the land 111 
 lot give up— I’ve got a lease on it— I’ve spent money on it, and 1 11 
 la’ my profit, come what may.” 
 
 “ That you shall have, Joel Breere, and without quarrelling, ihou 
 art as ^^ood a farmer as I, and an old friend — though strong-headed, 
 ay, and often wrong-headed, too — and thou shalt ha^ justice from nie. 
 Come, sit down, and take the pipe that Jenny’s holding.” 
 
 He took it, but only to snap it in twain, and to dash the frag- 
 ments in the hearth. He then, muttering something about plots, and 
 those who aided them, strode from the room, more hke a madman 
 than a reasoning being. In the extreme stillness of the night they 
 could hear him call for his horse, and ride his way into the silent 
 
 ■ For a few moments the Squire paused thoughtfully— then he said 
 to his confidant Jenny, who stood not far off with her knitting .— 
 
 : “ I canna think how Joel’s come by what he knows. He’s picked 
 
 up that some one’s been here, by his manner.” 
 
 “It mun be Robin, Sir,” replied Jenny ; “ the fellow wur a talking 
 I to someone a bit ago— when I went to fetch the cat her lick o 
 I milk out o’ the dairy. He’s a long tongue, Sir— you be knowing 
 
 ! Jenny; and what’s more, I don’t like his ways; the corn, 
 
 [ and many t’other things that’s missing, don’t go without han^. 
 
 I Well ! say nought— I’ll pay him ofif on Saturday night, and another 
 ‘ man shall wear his shoes.” 
 
 Thus meting out his justice, Theobald Baldwin resumed his pipe 
 and newspaper. He was not a man of anger, and this little ruffle to 
 j his serenity passed by like a leaf upon a stream. v r 
 
 Joel made his way homewards as quickly as he could, though that 
 was slow enough, for the snow had not ceased^ falling. At a public- 
 ' house he had to pass after emerging again into the high road, he 
 ' stopped his horse for a few minutes, and called for spirits and water ; 
 
350 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 tills drunk, he spurred his horse on with restless haste. When he 
 reached his house he dashed wildly in, without staying even to 
 shake the snow off his garments. In the hall he was by Auni 
 
 Susan. 
 
 ‘‘Joel! why did you lock up the child?” (Flora was always a 
 child in old Aunt Susan’s heart.) “ She will be half dead with cold 
 
 — and Mary” (meaning Mrs. Breere) “is crying bitterly. It waj 
 cruel of you — most cruel ! It was some time before we found oul 
 where she was ; and then, but for Flora’s own entreaties, we should 
 have had the door burst open.” 
 
 ^ “ You would, would you ? ” he said, grinding his teeth. “ Well. 
 I’m coming to attend to all of you presently. And,” calling to a 
 servant, “ bring in glasses and hot water.” ° 
 
 He entered the parlour as he spoke, and, throwing off his hat, 
 took a bottle of spirits from an old buffet. Of this, when the 
 servant had brought in what he had asked for, he drank tumbler after 
 tumbler, standing up, and rubbing his hands meanwhile. 
 
 A.t length he seized a candle, and took his way furiously up staira 
 —his very sisters, who had done so much towards imbittering hia 
 life and home, trembling as they listened to his steps. Entering hia 
 wife’s chamber with the same mad energy, he approached her couch 
 with menacing gestures. 
 
 ^ “ Come,” he said,^ “ come, thee and old Susan ha’ done thy last 
 piece o’ work. I said, if I found thee plotting against me. I’d turn 
 thee out o’ doors ; and so, by God, I will — winter’s nijjht thou<yh it 
 be I ” ^ o 
 
 “Joel,” said the gentle lady, for nothing could rouse her meek 
 nature against the husband she yet so fondly loved, “ I or mine have 
 
 had no plots against thee. You ” 
 
 “ I tell you you have ! ” he bawled, “ I tell you you have ! I’m 
 just from that old rascal at the Hoo, and he’s gone from all his 
 promises. And that fine miss — pretty miss, I s’pose — that’s up at: 
 Mainstone, coddling old Kadnor, ha’ been thy go-between.” 
 
 “I’ve never even seen the lady, Joel. But you’re not yourself 
 —let Flo come to us, and then go to bed — we can talk better to- 
 morrow.” 
 
 “ I won’t — we can’t ! I ha’ said the thing, and I’ll do it ! Tom,” 
 he called, with increased fury, as he dashed back to the landing,: 
 “ come up wi’ you, and bring JSTed the carter.” ° ’ 
 
 The men came up readily, for they had been listening with beating 
 hearts at the stairs’ foot. 
 
 “Come,” said Joel, as they entered, “give a hand, and take the! 
 missis down, and out o’ the house — when she’s there, she m’appen’ll' 
 tell thee where she’ll like to journey to.” ' 
 
 But the men stood gazing in utter astonishment, and made no sign 
 to move. ° 
 
 “Joel,” said the poor lady, quietly, yet firmly, “if you do so mad a 
 thing as to thrust your twenty years’ wife out of her home on such a 
 night as this, you will live to be sorry, I’m sure,” 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 351 
 
 j “ Sorry — I shan’t ! I’m past sorrow of any sort. Tom, move 
 .,vay — it’s getting late. ” 
 
 j “Wecanna,” they said in a breath, “the missis has been varry 
 3od to us; we canna, Sir, and she a poor stricken lady.” The 
 irter^ who had lived with Joel more than twenty years, did more 
 jian hesitate — he cried like a child. 
 
 , “D ye ! ” said Joel, with uncontrolled fury, “then move aside 
 
 id let me do it. A short warning shall be yours.” 
 j “ AVe canna help it. Sir,” they said again in a breath, “ the 
 ■lissis ha’ always been mighty good to us, and we canna do her 
 irong.” 
 
 As though suddenly endowed with the strength of Hercules, he 
 rove the men from the room, and bid them go. Then seizing the 
 > luch with its frail burden, he bore it down the wide staircase, and so 
 ito the hall, where he set it down ; then flinging open a door which 
 d out on to the lawn, he lifted it up again, and took it forth. To 
 is undying shame, unless there is palliative in the fact that he was 
 ^ad from drink, he set his burden down, though it was snowing — 
 lough the snow lay deep, and the wind was piercing cold. Never, 
 scept in the mildest summer weather, had the poor lady left her 
 )om for many years ; and here she was unsheltered and uncovered 
 a a January night ! The man was mad indeed ! 
 
 . She was groaning — for even slight movement gave her dislocated 
 , mb great pain ; b^ut deaf to this, as it seemed, he laid his hand 
 I )ughly on her shoulder. 
 
 “Now, missis,” he said, “I ha’ done what I said I would, if thou 
 ,,'ent’st against me in the matter of Flo ; for it shall be the death o’ 
 ne or all of us, if she has that lad. And now, thou and old Susan 
 in go where thou pleasest ; the girl I’ll keep to myself.” 
 g The wife made no reply, only groaned more audibly — and feebly 
 ; rawing his cruel hand down towards her lips, pressed it to them. It 
 ^ as an inexpressibly tender act — and he only too well remembered 
 
 ' But at that moment, in his mad oblivious cruelty, he left it 
 nrecognised ; ' and drawing his hand roughly away, staggered back 
 ) the house. 
 
 - Again he went wildly up stairs to seek Aunt Susan, but she was 
 ,'one. In the interval she had gathered up a blanket and shawls, 
 “escended by the back stairs, and, calling the men to her aid, hurried 
 the spot where Joel had set down his stricken wife. 
 
 ^ “ Mary,” she asked, as she threw a shawl around her sister, and the 
 ijien, with the tenderness of women, placed the blanket about their 
 i/.ricken mistress, “what had we better do ? It would be madness in 
 s to attempt to return to the house, for Joel is locking the doors. 
 ,’he men had better carry you over to Hannah Tern’s — she will give 
 3 all a shelter till to-morrow, when we can send for Mr. Badnor, or 
 -'homas and Deborah.” 
 
 . “ Yes, we will go — Hannah is a kind friend — but not till we have 
 'ien about our darling child. Joel, if in his senses, would die for 
 
 I 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 er ; but, my God ! to-nigbt he is mad with drink — mad! or he would 
 not have shamed himself as he has done ! ” 
 
 “No— no— missis ! ” reasoned the men, “maister won’t harm the 
 young lady, he be too fond on her. Let us be lifting thee to the old 
 missis’s over the way — thee’st dying wi’ cold.” 
 
 The poor lady spoke so low that they could not hear her answer. 
 So Susan, making impatient signal of assent, they lifted the couch up 
 very gently, and bore it onwards. Joel had set it down on a spot 
 comparatively clear ; but the men, as they crossed the lawn and went 
 round the pool by the carriage-road, waded knee-deep throua-h the 
 snow. ° 
 
 Bolting the door after him as he returned to the house, Joel re- 
 paired again to the parlour, poured out another tumblerful of spirits, 
 and drank it off^ this time without water. He then rummaged in his 
 pocket for the gun-room key, and, seizing a candle, went forth into 
 the hall. Here he unlocked the little room and peered in. His 
 daughter was at his hand, even as he looked, pale, terror-stricken, but 
 calm ; for she had overheard much which had passed, and guessed his 
 shameful act. 
 
 “Papa,” she asked, quietly — for experience had taught her the 
 power which calmness, even if assumed, has over the drunken — “ what 
 have you done ? ” 
 
 “ Why ! what I said a long time Pd do if my plans were interfered 
 with ! I’ve turned thy mother and old Susan out o’ doors, and they 
 shall never enter again. I’ll ha’ no plotting about that lad Ellis! 
 He shan’t ha’ thee, nor a sixpence o’ my money ! So we shall be at 
 peace now— and Sophy and Harriet can see to the house, and 
 leave thee still the lady I love to see thee. Come ! we shall have 
 peaceful days now; and on the strength of these, thou shalt come in 
 and sing thy old father a song whilst he smokes a pipe.” 
 
 “ Song ! ” she said, in a voice that, drunk as he was, never again 
 left his ear. Then, just as he had grasped her arm, and was opening i 
 wide the door to make her pass, she freed herself from the restrain^ 
 and, bounding past him, was across the hall, and so into the kitchen, 
 before he could move round to follow. He made the attempt, but in 
 vain ; for as he reached the kitchen door he reeled and fell, and lay 
 there till his groans brought his sisters from their distant parlour, 
 where they plotted mischief, but kept carefully aloof from any of the 
 woe it brought. 
 
 The kitchen was empty; but as Flora passed from it into a 
 cloistered passage which led to the dairy and elsewhere, she was met 
 by two women-servants. Both were crying bitterly. 
 
 “Master, miss, ha’ turned missis and missis Susan out o’ doors. 
 He carried the couch out himself, and set it down in the snow ; but 
 Tom and the t’others are taking her very gently across to Miss 
 Tern’s. The nioving sorely hurt her, for a minute ago she was 
 groaning terribly ! ” Flora made no answer, but, only still more 
 wild with terror, bounded forward. Iji tender pity they tried to hold 
 her baek, 
 
maiNsToKe’s housekeeper. 
 
 Show is rery deep, miss. Let us carry you, or fetch your 
 Snow-boots and a shawl.” 
 
 t “ JSTo, no ! Let me go— mamma ! I must be with her ! ” she shook 
 S off their tender, restraining grasp ; and, utterly unconscious of all 
 impediments, was ^ in Miss Tern’s cottage almost as soon as the 
 ^ men had reached it, and had set down their burden in the warm 
 parlour. 
 
 J Hannah and Susan were lifting aside the blankets as Flora entered. 
 4 She hurried forward, and was overjoyed to see that her mother, 
 i though greatly stricken by pain, was conscious. She knelt down — she 
 put her arms about her — her presence, she knew, would help to lessen 
 physical and mental pain better than all else besides. 
 
 ^ “Darling mother, don’t be grieved. We’ll go to Street End House 
 » and make a home there.” 
 
 i “Yes,” was faintly whispered, “I can be happy there with you and 
 ' Susan. But your father ! — how sorry he will be when he is once more 
 4 in his senses, and can think this matter over ! Poor Joel — his remorse 
 H will be so terrible ! ” 
 
 Poor lady ! No greater bitterness than this crossed her lips, ot 
 ‘I touched her gentle heart, 
 
 p 
 
 i 
 
 'i 
 
 :C 
 
 ij 
 
 [' The early morning brought two visitants to Malnstone — Margery 
 : and Miss Tern. The latter, burning with indignation, came first, 
 just as Charlotte, Ellis, and Mr. Radnor had sat down to breakfast. 
 
 “ I am glad you are here,” she said, in her abrupt way, to Ellis, 
 i after she had volubly recounted the events of the previous night, 
 “for I think it is high time to put an end to this foolish secrecy about 
 ^ your marriage. Things couldn’t be worse than they are were even 
 *Joel acquainted with it! ” 
 
 ^ “ None can regret it inore than I— -none could have suffered more 
 
 *on its account,” was Ellis’s reply ; “ and had there been no other will 
 ^ than my own to consult, secrecy in relation to our marriage would 
 ^ not have existed a single instant. But, beside Joel, there has been 
 
 I my own father to 
 
 1 23 
 
 CHAPTER XXVL 
 
 THE CROSS EAID DOWN. 
 
S54 
 
 MAINSTONE’S MoiiSEKEEI^Elt. 
 
 “ What of’ him ? A spendthrift man of fashion — an old man aping 
 youth— a man living by the labour of a large population, yet ruth- 
 lessly consigning their interests to the hands of a worthless and ex- 
 tortionate knave. Forgive me, Mr. Ellis, that I speak warmly and 
 plainly ; but I am an old friend of Richard Wenlock’s, and know, 
 through him, how ruthlessly the Mainstone colliers have been hunted 
 and ground down by Briscoe ! ” 
 
 “ Yet if the truth be really sought back,” spoke Charlotte, in that 
 firm, quiet way of hers, which was always so effective, “it is the 
 interest of these people which has been the first point of considera- 
 tion throughout. On this rests all which has followed. The Main- 
 stone estates are not entailed, and Mr. Thornhill, if he so willed it, 
 could bequeath them to whom he pleased. In default of his son 
 Briscoe would be his probable heir, not only because the latter has 
 obtained and exercised for a length of time a most pernicious 
 influence over Mr. Thornhill, but because he was, prior to the birth 
 of little Johnny, the heir next in succession to Ellis. So, you see, if 
 prudence has dictated secrecy so far, its continuance for a short time 
 further is, I think, to be seriously advised, at least till Mr. Thornhill’s 
 precarious state is brought to a definite issue.” 
 
 Further words were stayed by the entrance of Elisha. 
 
 “ If you please, missis,” he said, “ Margery’s come up from the hall 
 to ask master to go and see old Pomp some time towards evening. 
 He ain’t asked partik’lar to that effect; but he sinks so fast, and 
 groans so desperately, that Margery thinks that if master were by — 
 as though by mere Idndness — just to see how he is, he’d lighten his 
 heart a bit, and so die easier. Poor thing ! she looks like death her- 
 self, from grief and watching.” 
 
 “ Did you tell her Mr. Ellis was here ? ” 
 
 But even whilst Charlotte asked the question the young man had 
 risen and gone forth ; and the next moment Margery could be heard 
 weeping in the adjoining room, partly from great grief, partly from 
 surprise and joy. 
 
 “ If anything in this wide world could comfort the poor soul,” said 
 Elisha, in an under tone, “ it is the young master. She loves him 
 better, I’m thinking, than many mothers love their sons.” 
 
 Elisha lingered, and, warned to secrecy, was consulted as to ready 
 means of preparing Street End House for the reception of Mrs. 
 Breere, who, though very ill that morning, wished to be removed 
 thither as soon as might be. Presently Ellis returned, followed by 
 Margery. Very lowly was she in manner and spirit, and more' 
 stricken and woe-begone in looks than was even expected. To her 
 request that he would see Pomp, Mr. Radnor at once assented, and 
 named an early evening hour for that purpose. He then led her to a 
 seat, and comforted her with kindly words. 
 
 “ It’s true, Sir ; as far as daily happiness goes, I shall be better off 
 when Pomp is gone — there is no doubt of that, for mine have been 
 weary days and many at his hands. But for the past week his manner 
 has been so softened towards me — it has so expressed sorrow and 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 S55 
 
 . ‘egret, though he hasn’t said a single word whereby I might learn either, 
 hat I cannot feel bitterness of heart against him, or "seem as though 
 .. could recal one of his many misdeeds against me. I can only 
 l^rieve that we should part, after being so long together, and so used 
 0 qne another’s ways^ — and just, perhaps, as some softening in his 
 pwn nature might make us understand each other better than we have 
 iver done.” 
 
 ^ Thus saying, she bent her bead, and wept afresh, 
 r “Well, Margery,” was Mr. Kadnor’s answer, “ the forgiveness of 
 injuries is a right principle for us all, and your avowal of it is 
 ,)articularly worthy. For base must be the nature — though, I 
 im sorry to say, I have known many instances of it — where, in the 
 presence of death and the grave, bitterness of heart and cruelty 
 .)f action can survive. But now tell me about Mr. Thornhill — how 
 ^she?” 
 
 “ Much the same. Sir, as I have just been telling Mr. Ellis, so far as 
 wealth goes, but his mind gets certainly weaker and weaker. He is 
 ;till peremptory and stern enough in some matters, but in small things 
 [ find a great change. He often forgets the time of day, though his 
 vatch is beside him ; he’ll ask me the oddest questions, and is con- 
 stantly forgetting who the old man is who helps to move him out and 
 n to bed, though Jones has been one of his labourers these thirty 
 years. As to Briscoe, when he does come, his power is about the 
 5^;ame as it’s always been — perhaps even more. But his visits to the 
 „iall get fewer and fewer ; and as, since Pomp’s been ill, he seems to 
 >hun me, I rarely see him. The truth is, the Squire wants money — 
 ind so he keeps away, though his being near at hand is pretty well 
 mderstood by us all. Only last week he sent men, and had two of 
 he best trees in the park felled ; and in answer to a request I sent 
 n to him by Jones, for money for the house, he had the insolence to 
 I ay I must sell the plate if I needed it. It is only well Mr. Ellis has 
 tjiome, for his insolence and daring grow greater every day — reckon- 
 I ng, I suppose, that his time is short, and that any sudden change in 
 ^naster’s state may end his power in a single hour.” 
 
 „ ^ “ Mr. Greene told Miss Eliot and myself that Mr. Thornhill’s con- 
 litiqn is most precarious. We all of us, therefore, thought it 
 i advisable to send for his son — and being here, he will not quit us 
 : iny more, Margery. The Squire, I suppose, does not ask after 
 him ? ” 
 
 I “Well, no. Sir, I cannot say he does, though there is a hankering 
 'in his manner after something that I cannot well make out. But I 
 fancy he will like to see you, Mr. Radnor ; so if, when you come up 
 j^o Pomp, Sir, and I mention to master you are there, you will not, if 
 he express a wish, mind stepping into his room.” 
 
 “ Certainly not, Margery. I harbour enmity against no man — 
 !^:specially against those who are, or were once, my friends. Indeed, 
 L hope that we shall have explanation and reconciliation on every side 
 
 L jre long ; and that even Mr. Breere may ” 
 
 I “Yes, he’s wrong enough, Sir,” interrupted Margery. “I heard 
 23—2 
 
356 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 something of his last night’s doings as I came along, and Mr, Ellis 
 tells me more. I only wish I could ask the dear young lady to her 
 natural home — none can desire it more than I ; but perhaps, /f 
 Pomp is taken from me, she will come up and down, if even 
 secretly. There is a room which has been kept for her for many a 
 
 Ellis said she should — said how proud he should be to bring Flo 
 and little Johnny beneath his father’s roof ; and added that he would 
 come up that very evening to the hall with Mr. Radnor — “ for it will 
 comfort me,” he added, “ to hear my father’s voice, if only through 
 the partly-opened door.” So Margery rose to go, having many 
 arduous duties to perform in her sad and desolate home. 
 
 Charlotte lost no time in returning to Losely with Miss Tern, 
 whilst Mr. Radnor was to follow at the ordinary hous he went abroad. 
 She found Mrs. Breere better than she expected ; and though person- 
 ally a stranger to her and Flora, they knew so much of each other as 
 to be at once friends. Flora heard with intense joy that Ellis was at 
 the parsonage, and naturally wished to see him before the day went 
 by. But when these confidential friends came to confer together, it 
 was considered well to let a few days pass over, and Street End 
 House be got ready, before they met or made home together. 
 
 Mr. Greene had been sent for. and he came whilst Charlotte was 
 there. He found Mrs. Breere ill, but not more so than was to be ex- 
 pected from her habitual weak condition, and from the eftects of the 
 terror and removal of the previous night. He deprecated any further 
 change of place — advised her remaining at Miss Tern’s ; but when 
 all the matter was placed before him, when he understood how great 
 was the terror of her husband’s further violence, and how her vicinity 
 to her old home not only involved constant anxiety, but might lead 
 him to some fresh outburst whilst under the influence of drink, he 
 consented to her removal to Street End House — but not till the 
 expiration of some days, and then by the most easy method possible. 
 He had scarcely gone before Deborah and Thomas came. Like 
 everyone else, far and wide, they were infinitely shocked to hear of 
 Joel’s conduct, and stringently requested that neither of the sisters 
 nor Flora should return to the Pool. Why not go home with them ? 
 — where they would be safe and cared for. But there was the little 
 wife’s petition to be thought of ; and where the little wife was, there 
 the mother and old Susan must be. Nothing but death could sepa- 
 rate the three, except for an occasion of a few hours. Losing J oel, 
 whom she still loved so tenderly, what could the mother do without 
 her child ? So Thomas and Deborah consented at length, somewhat 
 reluctantly, to this arrangement, but on the sole condition that they 
 came frequently up and down to Street End House. This matter 
 settled, old Thomas set oflf to his house on the Roman way, whilst 
 Deborah remained to help Susan in nursing and cherishing the sick 
 lady. 
 
 When Mr. Radnor came, which he did towards noon, bringing with 
 him a long letter from Ellis to his wife, Charlotte prepared to go. 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 357 
 
 Hannah saw her to the carriage, which had brought Mr. Radnor, 
 ind which was to return again for him, she hazarded a timid 
 ipestion. 
 
 “Do you ever see Mr. Wenlock now ? ” 
 i Yes, he was here yesterday, and will be up again, I daresay, this 
 ivening, as I and Susan must have some talk with him about what 
 las happened.” 
 
 ^ “ And he is well ? ” 
 
 * “Yes, quite well. I never saw him look happier; that anxious 
 expression of his face seems leaving him for ever. But he is very 
 'ibsorbed and silent — more so, I think, than ever. I spoke two or 
 three times of you, but he made me no answer.” 
 
 How often we may exquisitely wound the soul of others, and yet 
 be utterly unconscious that we do so. So was Hannah Tern. 
 
 - Saying “ good day ” with her usual gracious cordiality, Charlotte 
 •ieparted. But could the whitened hedgerows and whiter fields have 
 told a tale, they would have said that a gaze which went by them saw 
 them not, and that eyes which looked were often and often hidden by 
 q[uiet falling tears. But by the time she had reached home, her grief 
 was mastered ; no one would have thought she had been weeping, or 
 that her interest in others had had one selfish interruption. She 
 went, and finding Ellis in the garden, brought him in, and talked long, 
 •confidentially, admiringly, of his little wife ; then of Mr. Radnor. 
 iThen she went into the housekeeper’s room, and talked with Molly as 
 Tto this and that matter for Street End House. Elisha had already 
 f departed thither to light fires in all the rooms — old Thomas having 
 lisent the key by Ellis for that purpose the previous evening, and 
 vthither likewise Molly proposed to go as soon as dinner was served. 
 To this her mistress readily assented; for experience had already 
 taught her the faith, and worth, and loving-kindness of the hand 
 thus trusted. 
 
 Upon Mr. Radnor’s return from Losely they dined, and after early 
 stea, he and Ellis set off for Mainstone Hall. It was a dark, but not a 
 ^ snowy night, and thus so far favourable to their quiet progress. The 
 ssnow lay deep, and was so utterly untrodden around the hall, as to 
 Wggest the utmost desolation ; and but for flickering firelight through 
 Tar-apart windows up stairs, it might have been the home of the dead, 
 pfor any signs of life there were. Margery awaited their coming, for 
 h she instantly answered their tap at a garden-door near her own room, 
 wherein she respectfully led them. 
 
 ' “ Pomp, Sir,” she said, addressing Mr. Radnor, and weeping un- 
 
 'disguised tears, “ is so much worse to-night that I leave him with 
 ^difficulty ; as now it’s come to the last, he won’t let anyone do a thing 
 itor him but me. During the afternoon 1 told him that you had 
 beard he was very ill, and were likely to come and see him. He 
 jseemed pleased, I think, though he did not say so ; but, beginning to 
 ^roan afresh, he muttered — ‘ Give me strength — give me strength ! * 
 iwhich means, I suppose. Sir, that he wishes for strength to tell you 
 -the trouble which has brought him to his grave.” 
 
358 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 “Rather let us hope, Margery, that it is to ask pardon of God 
 and you.” 
 
 “ Of God, Sir !~that he need to do, indeed. Of me, oh no ! I 
 am not worthy enough, for one made in God’s image, even though it 
 be Pomp, to ask pardon of me^ who am so much a sinner. No I'^Pve 
 had my cross, worn it deservingly, and do not repine.” Savins* thus, 
 she stood a moment, as though in meditation, and then took up the 
 candle to go. ^ ^ 
 
 She had already, in her motherly, deferential, and tender way, raised 
 her young master s hand to her fond lips, and now she spoke to him. 
 
 “ The door from master’s room into the gallery is ajar. Sir, and you 
 will, if you look, see him bending by the fire. This afternoon, the 
 first time for many days, he would rise, though his difficulty in doing 
 so is very great. Whether he expects Briscoe or not, I cannot sa^ 
 but he would rise.” 
 
 She went before them up the wide oaken staircase of the solitary 
 house, Mr. Radnor and Ellis following her — the latter with the 
 lightest possible steps. At his father’s well-known door he breath- 
 lessly stayed, whilst the others went up another staircase to a more 
 remote part of the house, where lay Pomp’s room. 
 
 “ When I first spoke of your coming,” she said, in a whisper, as 
 they approached the door, “ he wanted me to dress him up in his wig 
 and other things ; but when I said how foolish such vanities were to 
 one in his state, he took the advice more quietly than I expected. 
 So you’ll see him altered. Sir — a broken, withered, sick, and aged man.” 
 
 He was, indeed, altered— a mere ghastly effigy of his former self! 
 At first he glared wildly on the new comer ; then, as he recognised 
 him, hearing his voice, he raised himself on his pillow, and rested on 
 his elbow. “ Give me, give me strength ! ” he reiterated, in his old, 
 pining, weary way. 
 
 Mr. Radnor, in his habitual tender manner, took the initiative 
 
 spoke to him, prayed with him, soothed him, led his mind to higher 
 and holier things than those which belonged to the fleeting present, 
 that present so narrow in its span for him. This done, he said quietly, 
 and as though unpremeditatedly — “ Cannot I lift off this burden on 
 your mind. Pomp ?— whatever may be its import, with me it shall be 
 sacred.” 
 
 The sick man made no immediate reply, but glanced, tremblingly, 
 towards Margery 
 
 “ Go forth,” said Mr. Radnor, in a whisper to her, “ but keep near 
 the door.” 
 
 Pomp seemed mentally relieved by her absence, though for some 
 moments he kept silent ; and when he did speak, it was only to say— 
 “ If I had it — if I had it ! ” in his old weary method of reiteration, 
 though it was plain to ear and eye that every breath which came was 
 more spent and ebbing than the one gone before. 
 
 “ Had what. Pomp ? li money — we all suspect that you have been 
 robbed of a large sum ” 
 
 There was something awful in the change which immediately came 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 359 
 
 over the sick man. Summoning what remaining strength he had, he 
 raised himself higher, beat his hands to and fro upon the bed, and 
 seemed as though he could rend himself in twain. 
 
 “ It was nigh a thousand pounds — all in gold. She wormed the 
 secret from me, and then — and then — ” in his impotent rage he 
 could stutter out no more. 
 
 “The girl did not steal it,” said Mr. Radnor, firmly and quietly, 
 “ though you were base enough to insult and torture your wife by 
 bringing her here. But there is every reason to think that Briscoe 
 took it — the man for whose sake, and for such petty expectancies as 
 might come through him, you for years, systematically, set Mr. 
 Thornhill against his son. It is a strange sort of reward to take 
 what he had in part helped you to gain ; Mt mostly, and righteously 
 too, base deeds have but base endings.” 
 
 As the wretched old man heard these words, he sank back on the 
 pillow, an awful picture of baffled rage, shame, and despair. 
 
 “And this is why he has never been up stairs to see me,” he 
 repeated, as though communing with himself. 
 
 “Cease to speak or think of this subject,” said Mr. Radnor, 
 gravely, and sternly for him ; “if you get better, Ellis Thornhill will 
 be glad of any information you can give ; but ” 
 
 “ I shall never get better,” he interrupted, with a querulous 
 bitterness, not untouched by some sort of despair, which was keener 
 and deeper than baffled avarice itself; “but if I’d it, why she — 
 she ” 
 
 “ Ii you allude to your wife,” said Mr. Radnor, touching at length, 
 with much acuteness, the real secret which was rending the sinking 
 man’s soul, “ there is no need of a moment’s anxiety on her account, 
 for Ellis Thornhill will never see her want.” 
 
 “He may not — he may not; but if I had the money to give 
 her, she — she would forgive me ! ” He spoke the last words in 
 a whisper, and with a difficulty which betrayed the inward agony it 
 gave him to make such an avowal. “ I have treated her like a" dog, I 
 have, I have — and if I had been so treated, money, and only money, 
 could lessen my bitter hate. It may be the same with her.” 
 
 “ It isn’t — you never so wrongly judged. Whatever may have been 
 Margery’s earlier sins, their stain has been long wiped out by a life of 
 faithful and humble duty. None ought to know this better than you ; 
 whilst since you have been ill, her watchful goodness ” 
 
 “Yes, yes! she has been very good; but then it is her way, and 
 so ” 
 
 V “It is not only her way, but a matter of high principle with 
 [ Margery. Only speak one word— only say, at this close of years of 
 I cruelty on your part, of suffering on hers, ‘Margery, forgive me,’ 
 
 ! and it will be given, even were it possible for your injustice to have 
 been worse and bitterer than it has been. Die in peace with her; 
 i in humility ask her pardon, and those words will be worth all the gold 
 you could give her, even were its multiples ten times greater tbaa 
 ! what you have lost.” 
 
360 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 The sinking man listened patiently, and, hiding his countenance, 
 kept stiil. 
 
 Mr. Radnor stepped to the door, and led in Margery, who stood 
 outside. 
 
 ‘‘ Margery, your husband wants forgiveness ; this is what has been 
 vexing his spirit. He has thought that if he had money to give you, 
 that might buy 
 
 “ No, no ! I don’t want money,” she interrupted, bursting into 
 passionate tears — “ nothing, nothing more, than that at this end of 
 so many cruel ones, he will say a few kind words. If he will, it shall 
 wipe out every sore one gone before.” 
 
 Even as she spoke, she went stealing and creeping to the bed, like 
 a beaten dog, or a harshly treated child, who has long craved notice 
 and pity. Then, when she saw how he bent towards her, weak, 
 stricken, and abashed, she knelt and folded him in her arms. 
 
 There he rested, sinking weaker and weaker, whispering some few 
 words, which were responded to again and again. These Mr. Radnor 
 did not stay to listen to ; but going quietly from the room, left them 
 to the sacredness of their last communion on earth — he to his 
 absolving through her tender forgiveness and tears, she to the 
 laying down of the burden of her heavy cross for ever and ever- 
 more ! 
 
 Making his way down the staircase, and so along the wide and 
 pictured gallery, Mr. Radnor was passing by the door, where Ellis 
 still kept watch, when a voice called : — 
 
 “ Is that you, Margery ? ” 
 
 There came no answer — then it was repeated ; when no response 
 came to this, the one within said again, — 
 
 “ If it is anyone who has been up to Pomp, pray come in.” 
 
 There was no alternative left to Mr. Radnor but to go in — which 
 he did, and towards the fire, where Mr. Thornhill sat, vastly changed, 
 but still bearing in looks and manner his habitually proud and 
 aristocratic air. He betrayed at once his sinking intellect, by speak- 
 ing as though he and his old friend had only parted the previous day. 
 He merely said, as any pettish child might do, — 
 
 “ Well ! you’ve been a long time coming to see me.” 
 
 Mr. Radnor wisely took the hint these words afibrded, and proffer- 
 ing his hand, in his gentle and expressive way, said, — 
 
 “ But I am here now, and will often come if you like.” 
 
 “ Yes ! I shall expect you to come every day — the house is very 
 dull now Pomp is ill, and Margery so much away. You must read 
 and talk to me ; for when I read to myself, I forget it all again. 
 Though I see the papers, I — I 
 
 He stopped abruptly, and looked dreamily into the fire ; his t 
 thoughts had wandered like those of a child. ! 
 
 Wishing to change the subject, Mr. Radnor asked if he was 
 better. 
 
 “ Yes ! ” he rej)lied, irritably, “ I’m getting stronger and better 
 every day, I hope soon to be in the saddle, and then I shall ride I 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 361 
 
 I over to Weldore, for I fear that things are going on badly there. 
 ' My attorney’s letters are very annoying on this subject — and Briscoe 
 I will neither face me, nor bring me any money.” 
 
 I “ I fear, indeed, that things are in a sadder state there than you 
 I suspect — a large population mercilessly ground down by a worthless 
 i knave.” 
 
 This was strong language for meek and gentle Julius Kadnor ; 
 but there were times when he could speak strongly, and to the 
 ! point. 
 
 “Ha! ha!” was Mr. Thornhill’s reply, as though hearing news 
 fvhich surprised him. Then he added, after a moment’s pause, “ But 
 wre’ll not talk against Briscoe. He’s got negligent of late, but he has 
 been a good and faithful fellow in his time.” 
 
 I Faithful ! — only too faithful, as a wily source of supplies spent 
 m unhallowed and selfish tastes ! So thought Julius Kadnor, but he 
 nade no comment. He introduced a worthier topic. 
 
 “I have heard from Ellis lately,” he said, “and he is anxious to 
 3ome home and see you.” 
 
 “Ellis, Ellis — there, we won’t talk of him,” was the somewhat 
 ingry reply, as the haughty old man looked up suspiciously at his 
 /isitor. “ I daresay he would like to come home, but he won’t — 
 particularly as 1 shall be well again just now. If I had him here, he 
 vould be running after old Breere’s pretty piece of foolishness — for I 
 lear she’s pretty, though I never saw her, and never hope to do so. 
 
 ; iJllis shall be kept out of harm’s way ; for that old knave, Joel, shall 
 I lot speculate in getting again, through my boy, what the law justly 
 I jave me. Briscoe hinted something strongly to me the other night 
 
 j bout — about ” here he put his hand wearily across his forehead 
 
 I — “ but I forget what it was, as I do most things now.” 
 
 I Thus saying, he drooped again, and gazed in vacancy at the glow- 
 : ag fire. 
 
 I At this moment there came a gentle knock at the door ; and the 
 I Id woman, Jones’s wife, who helped Margery, came in. 
 i “ Beg pardon. Sir,” she said, in a whisper to Mr. Radnor, “ but 
 j *omp is gone. Sir. When I went up to Margery, and lifted him from 
 j er arms, he was quite dead. He had never moved a bit since his 
 ead had lain upon her shoulder.” 
 
 j “Is Pomp dead?” asked the old man, for he had caught the 
 bisper. “ Well ! he shaved very badly of late — his hand shook so ; 
 can soon supply his place ! ” 
 
 This was all John Thornhill said at losing for ever his old valet, 
 'orty years’ service — in many respects faithful service, abject sub- 
 lission, base and worthless adulation, a pandering to vicious tastes, 
 j 1 absolute wealth of invention, to make age stimulate youth — were 
 I 1 as nothing — had passed into oblivion, as though they had never 
 j 3en. Thus compacts of selfishness end ! 
 j Presently Mr. Kadnor rose to go. 
 
 j “ You’ll come again ? ” entreated the old man, as any child might 
 
362 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 “ Yes ! as you permit me, every day.” 
 
 “ Dear me ! I quite forget her name ; but — but — ^you’ll bring your 
 housekeeper ? ” 
 
 Mr. Kadnor recoiled from the question as though it had been a 
 material thing, and wounded him, as a knife might do. 
 
 “No ! — no ! — ” he stuttered ; “ Charlotte — Miss Eliot — Miss Waldo, 
 is always very busy.” 
 
 Mr. Thornhill did not seem to understand what was said, for he 
 added, — 
 
 “I hear of her from Margery, and from Walcot, who has been 
 here a time or two. You’ll let her come, won’t you — I’m very 
 lonely ? ” 
 
 Almost as soon as he had uttered his negative, Julius Radnor was 
 ashamed of it. Might not his Charlotte do good here as she did 
 everywhere ? — was it not true that the old man’s selfishness made him 
 very desolate ? — and what harm could she take, who was as one whom 
 no sin could touch ? So he quietly said she should come. 
 
 Whether it was that some sense of his desolation and growing 
 mental incapacity stole over him, or that the permission, for a 
 moment withheld, was now given, it is impossible to say ; but, 
 bending down towards the fire, the old man began to weep like 
 child. So, as he had no power to soothe him in this mood, Margery 
 had to be called ; and Mr. Radnor retired, after he had again kindly 
 whispered that he would be there again on the morrow. 
 
 Pe waited below a little while for Margery ; and when she came, 
 he offered words of consolation to her on the scene she had just 
 passed through. But they were scarcely needful, for her peace had 
 come. Her years of woe had ended at last — her cross was laid down 
 — strife had settled into hallowed silence. He who had so long and 
 deeply wronged her, had died, pitifully asking her forgiveness. It 
 was divinely, charitably, mercifully accorded. From this hour 
 Margery was reticent on all subjects concerning Pomp ; when 
 she did speak, it was in a spirit of the fullest charity — in her heart 
 one touch of humility had wiped out all sense of wrong. Before her 
 eyes, death drew a veil which shut out all which was unworthy of 
 memory. 
 
 On a snowy, wild, dusky, afternoon. Pomp was carried to his grave, 
 in the most sequestered part of the old churchyard — Margery and 
 the old man, who served about the house, following him. The earth 
 covered his coffin — the snow, the dead leaves, the leafless brambles ot‘| 
 summer, concealed the grave itself — henceforth he was remembered 
 by no man. 
 
 In a few days Street End House was aired and made ready, thanks 
 to the steady diligence of Elisha, Molly, and the Elwoods’ old servant, 
 and some visits made by Charlotte. Thither, therefore, one crisp, 
 frosty night, Ellis went ; and on the following afternoon pretty little 
 Flo was driven up to the parsonage in Charlotte’s carriage. 
 
 After tea — after the young mother’s heart had been warmed, by a , 
 whole hour’s talk, about little Johnny and his kind friend Ada — shoi 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 36e3 
 
 I iiid Miss Eliot set forth to the house in the woods. It was a beauti- 
 t.ul moonlight night, the crisp hoar-frost whitened the leaves of the 
 lollies and evergreens, and spangled the feathery greenness of the 
 ?:apering firs. The bare branches intertwined and made a canopy, 
 though their leaves were' gone — the ground in its hardness rang 
 oeneath the horse’s hoofs — and the little springs gurgled with a 
 lull sound, for its sweetness was chained in at last by frost. Thus 
 ?vere the woods — thus was the old Roman way ; and at length came 
 :he house, cheerful and human, with its glow of fire and candle, 
 lap and down in the old windows, a glow which stole away to the 
 r'ar trees, and warmed in semblance many a barren spray and mossy 
 )Oll. 
 
 f Alighting at the gate, crossing the crisp lawn, a confidential woman- 
 h.ervant of the Elwoods who had come to stay, admitted the ladies into 
 p;he house. Flo had expected that her husband would be by the door 
 uio welcome her, but as they went through the hall towards the snug 
 I ind pretty book-lined room, looking toward the grand wood- 
 bmvironed lawn at the rear of the house, she explained that he 
 [ vas engaged with a gentleman. Still, as it could be no one whom 
 1 hey might not see, they entered without ceremony. There burnt 
 H glowing fire, there stood the lamp on the book-covered table, 
 I'vhilst beside it, lost in earnest confidential conversation, sat Ellis 
 i;ind Richard Wenlock. But in a moment Ellis had risen, and the 
 70ung wife was folded in his tender arms. Irresolute, not know- 
 mg what to do, Charlotte stood, and then made a step forward to 
 •^peak to Richard. But merely glancing sadly, thoughtfully, yet 
 Lidndly upon her, he bowed respectfully, and then, with a curt “good 
 light ” to all generally, opened a shuttered window leading on to the 
 i awn, and in a moment had closed it and was gone. Astonished, 
 iibashed, unutterably wounded, Charlotte did not stay to question 
 /dther Ellis or Flo ; but leaving them to the sacredness of the hour, 
 ^n which, meeting, they were to separate no more, come what might, 
 he withdrew ; and, leaving a message with the servant, retraced her 
 teps to the carriage. 
 
 Her self-communion was bitter and humiliating, but she was too 
 iroud to weep. Sympathy of tastes and opinions had made her 
 :owly ; her lowliness had been misinterpreted — no mistake of the 
 and should occur again I 
 
364 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIL 
 
 THE SUSSEX CORN-FIELD. 
 
 Autumn had come again, with luscious fruits and rustling corn. 
 
 Charlotte and Mr. Radnor had travelled together^ from their far 
 county in the north-west, to this quiet place by the shining sea ; and 
 now for some days they had occupied rooms in a pleasant, old farm- 
 house already spoken of, and surrounded by a large, quaint, bowery 
 garden, a thickly -leafed orchard and sunny fields ; whilst so close by, 
 as to be audible to the ear, rolled the waves upon a sandy, solitary 
 beach. There was a village a mile away, but nothing hereabouts but 
 russet nature and the great sea. 
 
 For some months now Charlotte had been less distant with her old 
 master, and his hopes and his health had grown together. Yet fearful 
 of trespassing too hastily upon the bounds she had so rigidly set — 
 somewhat restrained by her pallid looks, her depressed spirits points 
 to be observed by all since the previous winter, he still forbore to speak 
 what lay ever ready to his lips, though few that knew much of him 
 could mistake his meaning. Ever watchful of her, ever thoughtful 
 for her, his life seemed bound up in hers. They went together over 
 the books of old days-— they walked together— they were almost 
 always together from the morning till the evening. Since they had 
 been heret this was more the case than heretofore ; for they rambled 
 miles away along the solitary beach, or wandered through the woods 
 and fields— for each spot they sought brought back some old 
 memory of days when she was his little Jane, and he her Roger 
 
 Ascham. . , , , 
 
 The farm belonged to Charlotte, as well as did a considerable 
 extent of country lying around ; and old Simon Ash was the steward, 
 accounting for the rents and other dues, to certain trustees living in 
 Oxford and London respectively, whom Dr. Waldo had appointed. 
 Simon had occupied the farm referred to many years, and his wife 
 now getting old, managed the house, assisted by an old maiden cousin, 
 named Bec^y. There was a maid besides, as well as Stephen— Simon i 
 and Ellen’s only child— a dreamy, book-loving man of thirty, and ’ 
 master of the village school. Whilst last come, though not least 
 regarded, were Phema and Cornelius. , 
 
 The former was so wonderfully altered, that at first Miss Eliot did | 
 not recognize her. A tall, slim, pensive-faced girl stood by the house- ! 
 door, when she alighted from the vehicle which had brought her and 
 Mr. Radnor from the railway station ; and she looked at her, and 
 thought she had large eyes and bright hair — but Miss Eliot did not | 
 seem to know her, till Mrs. Ash said, “ This is Phema, ma’am.” Her I 
 
maikstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 365 
 
 fearful illness had changed as it were the girl’s whole being — and 
 I notherly care, home affections, good food, good dress, good teaching 
 ' n the village school, where the girls were taught partly by a certi- 
 ; acated mistress, and partly by Stephen, who superintended the higher 
 lessons, had all contributed to make recognition almost impossible. 
 
 I There was, however, much yet to be taught and much to learn ; some 
 ' hoarseness as well as timidity of manner, much inarticulateness of 
 1 speech, much dulness of ready apprehension, to get over and modify ; 
 
 ! yret, nevertheless, Phema was already a being to love and be loved — 
 i and it was plain to see, no insignificant or unthought of personage in 
 the quiet household. She had become old Ellen’s favourite and 
 ' darling. Simon, too, must have his share of her company, whilst he 
 smoked his pipe in the chimney corner or worked in the garden ; and 
 Stephen, though reticent and dreamy, had his glance at her, and his 
 (juiet word for her, as might be seen. Cousin Becky was the only 
 one who was a little hasty and uncongenial — she looked upon Phema 
 •as an interloper, as one on whom Stephen lavished too many of his 
 quiet looks ; but underneath this frosty manner old Becky hid a 
 loving nature — and so it thawed more often as time wore on. With 
 some persons we must live half a life before we can enter their 
 -hearts. 
 
 • For Cornelius less had yet been done. His wanderings were at 
 >an end, and his looks were improved ; but greater intelligence had 
 mot come. He went to and fro to school ; but all the pains Stephen 
 Uook bore little fruit — though at home he was a favourite for his 
 ■^docility and patience, and much more a favourite in stable and cow- 
 ished, in field and garden. He knew every animal individually, and 
 ^lavished on each a world of tender care ; but even this pursuit had 
 (^one now still greater. It was to wander on the sea-shore — the sea 
 i which had filled him with such incomprehensible wonder and delight 
 ^from the first moment he had beheld it ; and if Phema would or 
 icould take holiday and accompany him, his joy was boundless. Thus, 
 away as they were at school, or otherwise occupied. Miss Eliot saw 
 ^but little of them ; but the harvest was at hand, and then the village 
 (^school was to take its holiday, and these scholars amongst the 
 rrest. 
 
 5 Great were the preparations for old Simon’s harvesting — for he 
 ^grew much corn, and employed many reapers. The ale had been 
 prewed many weeks previously, and now came the making of harvest 
 -cakes ; but none of these preparations, or the great quantities of food 
 ^cooked each day when the harvest really commenced, disturbed Miss 
 j'Eliot or Mr. Badnor’s privacy, or intrenched upon their comfort in 
 the least. Mrs. Ash or Becky never forgot, whatever were their other 
 labours, their much-loved and honoured guests ; and the charming 
 “parlour these guests occupied, looking away across the still garden 
 }and its adjacent russet corn-field to the sea, was too far apart from 
 ! the busy portions of the house to be otherwise than silent and 
 I undisturbed. 
 
 r Often, long, and anxiously, when they first came, did the old 
 
S66 
 
 mainstone's HOUSEKI^EEER. 
 
 master and liIs pupil discuss a certain topic — many were the letters 
 Charlotte wrote — more than once was a neighbourino* surgeon con- 
 sulted ; and now, on the eve of the second day of harvest, a grave 
 middle-aged woman, in nun-like attire, arrived at the Farm. On the 
 following morning two gentlemen also came ; the one sallow, o-rave, 
 and moustached— the other younger, and with a fresh, Saxon face. 
 It was M. Durand, the celebrated French surgeon, and Mr. Grayson. 
 
 Ihe secret of the forthcoming operation had been confided to none 
 of the household but to Mrs. Ash and her husband. Yet, the arrival 
 of these strangers excited no curiosity — as they were supposed to be 
 those having business with Miss Eliot, and that was sufficient. It was 
 early when the gentlemen came ; and now, when breakfast was over, 
 Charlotte and^ the great surgeon went out into the garden too-ether, 
 and to a certain plot of grass lying next a low hedge which separated 
 garden fiom field. Ihis field had been first cut, and now its sheaves 
 stood russet in the sun — a few flaunting poppies here and there, con- 
 trasting with the golden ears which hung drooping from an adjacent 
 sheaf. As the Frenchman stayed to view this English scene of 
 undulating stubble, russet sheaves, green hedgerows, and the shinino* 
 sea, whose waves swept with such silvery monotony upon the solitary 
 sands, the whole a picture painted by a higher Artist than mortal 
 man, Charlotte s quick eye detected something huddled up by one of 
 the sheaves. At first she took it for a reaper’s waistcoat or bundle 
 —for there were several colours intermixed ; but when she looked 
 more narrowly, though but for an instant, she saw it was a woman 
 lying apparently asleep, her head, which rested on a bundle, being 
 enveloped in a gaudy parti-coloured handkerchief. It was some 
 gleaner, or tramp, or reaper’s wife, resting in the still shadows of the 
 russet corn. 
 
 They walked on to the plot of grass, shaded by one old apple-tree, 
 and here Charlotte found Cornelius, as Mrs. Ash had told her she 
 was likely^ to do. Two or three dogs were with him, as well as 
 Phema’s little cat, which he had brought with him from that far 
 north-western county ; but these were sleeping round, whilst some 
 gay-pictured school-book occupied his attention. He was turning 
 over the leaves with his old, vacant, saddened expression of face. 
 
 He was sitting on the grass; but when he saw Miss Eliot he 
 hastened to rise. 
 
 “No! sit still, Cornelius — but why are you not with the reapers ?” 
 
 “ They’re very noisy,” was his reply ; “ and I’m waiting for Phema j 
 to go on to the beach — mother said we might.” For Cornelius had ^ 
 taken to call Mrs. Ash “mother.” 
 
 “You can spare a few minutes, then, and come into the house 
 with me. But what book is this ? Is it pretty ? Do you under- 
 stand it ? ” , I 
 
 He looked up at her with a puzzled expression of face, hesitated, ' 
 raised up his hand to his head as though in pain, and then, for the 
 first time, perceiving the stranger watching him acutely, he shrank i 
 aside, as though in fear. i 
 
MAINSTONE S HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 367 
 
 i “ Don’t be afraid, Cornelius ; it is only a very clever French 
 I entleman, who would make you better if he could. Now rise — let 
 |.iim lay his hand on you head.” 
 
 i The boy obeyed ; but, when he had done so, he stood trembling 
 I ke a wind-blown leaf. Miss Eliot sought to draw his attention away 
 Lrp^ the surgeon’s brief manipulations, by caressing the little cat 
 i fhich lay in his arms. Then they made him read from the little 
 , ook ; and, finally, when Miss Eliot and the stranger had spoken 
 together some minutes in French, they went slowly to the house, 
 accompanied by Cornelius. 
 
 . It was such a divine morning, that all tilings within as well as 
 ! dthout doors were bathed in sunshine. The parlour windows, of 
 rhich there were three, all stood open ; and by the one with the 
 r ullest sight of the sea, sat Mr. Radnor, his books and papers on a 
 table near, though lying idle; for his thoughts were too busy, his 
 teelings too anxious, for study. He knew Charlotte was anxious, and 
 ^e was anxious too ; he knew the venture of this matter — full of 
 jope, yet not without fear ; he knew her noble purpose, yet he knew 
 7OW the noblest purpose is often frustrated ; and, as she trembled 
 i’etween this balance of hopes and fears, he, in his deep love, trembled 
 {or her who was all his world. 
 
 There were a few minutes to wait before all was in readiness for 
 j be operation ; so, to abstract the boy’s attention, they permitted him 
 Ip fetch in some of his household pets, an employment which readily 
 , amoved all suspicion as to what was in progress. But at length, 
 r^hilst he was exhibiting the tameness of two magpies old Simon had 
 ^iven him, the nun-like woman, who was an hospital nurse, came in 
 p say all was ready. The operation was to take place in an up stairs 
 oom, and none were to be present but the nurse and the two surgeons. 
 ,^ut though excluded from the room, Charlotte felt she must be 
 ^ear. On her rested the weight of responsibility, and, though firm 
 p her purpose, her woman’s heart trembled at the pain another must 
 ndure. 
 
 , By stratagem they lured the boy up stairs, and Charlotte quickly 
 ^3llowed. Past the door led a long wide passage, with a window at 
 he further end looking towards the shore — a sunny thatch-covered 
 dndow, green with vine leaves, and with a chair beside it. In this 
 ; he sat down, her elbow on the window-sill — her face resting on her 
 ■and — her gaze far abroad — yet blind to all the landscape, deaf to 
 very sound, but what came from the chamber near at hand. Some- 
 Limes she rose, or went to the door — listened there — then presently 
 he came again to the window, and stood there — the pain and siis- 
 rcnse being almost more than she could bear. 
 
 , At the first moment or two, Cornelius, terrified at finding himself 
 ; uddenly shut up with strangers, had uttered exigent cries of fear, 
 Lnd made pitiful appeals to go down stairs. But these, soon hushed 
 p the lethargy arising from chloroform, nothing was now to be heard, 
 kxcept some movement of the nurse or surgeons, or some whisper too 
 I )w to be understood. Charlotte’s terror grew; again and again she 
 
S6B 
 
 MAINSTONE^S HOUSEKEtPEft. 
 
 paced the sunny passage — listened at the door — and again and again 
 returned to the window, and standing there, was blind to all beyond. 
 To her the sun was not, though it shone in the radiance of an autumn 
 day. Her ear was only open for one sound — that which was to tell 
 her that the boy would live, and be lightened of the load which had 
 weighed on him so many years. 
 
 But her gaze, abstracted as it seemed, was suddenly attracted by 
 some gaudy colour crossing her disk of vision. Arousing herself, she 
 looked, and saw on the shore the woman who an hour before had been 
 sleeping or resting beneath the sheaves of corn. At first sauntering 
 idly, then she seemed to wait — then sat down on a heap of dried sea- 
 weed, as though expecting or waiting for someone. That person 
 came soon — a thin, slim, girlish figure. Charlotte knew at once who it 
 was, by gait, manner, and dress — it was Phema. She seemed willing 
 to pass on, but the woman stayed her; they talked together, and 
 then sat down on the dry sand beyond the reach of the tide. ^ And 
 the woman appeared as though she talked earnestly — the girl as 
 though she listened with interest. 
 
 Even as she stood watching these figures, and wondering what 
 topic it was which could thus interest the girl, who was usually shy 
 and reserved with all except to those she was accustomed — a hand 
 was laid on her shoulder. Starting, looking up, she saw the French 
 surgeon beside her, his lips compressed, his face pallid, his features set 
 and rigid from deep emotion. His voice was low and husky, his 
 words brief, yet they sounded to Charlotte’s ear as words had never 
 seemed to sound before, — 
 
 “ Bien ! II est sauve.” 
 
 In this simple way did the great Frenchman intimate the result of 
 his vast manipulative skill and profound study. Then only staying to 
 say another word or two, he returned to the room and closed the 
 door. 
 
 Feeling as though suddenly relieved of some great peril — grateful 
 beyond expression — as truly happy as if this physical blessing had 
 become her own — Charlotte remembered that there was one below 
 who listened and waited too. Hastening down to the still parlour, 
 she found her dear old master walking restlessly to and fro, his 
 hands behind him — his head bent. She led him to his chair, she 
 let him sit down, then she stooped towards him, and said in a 
 whisper: — 
 
 “ Julius, the boy is saved ! ” ^ . . i 
 
 Even when she had said this, she stooped a little lower, wishing to I 
 see the joy in his face. There was its expression, though not un- 
 touched by pain. 
 
 She misinterpreted this; she thought his feelings were sad like 
 hers, because they were overwrought. She bent a little more — she 
 knelt down — she laid her head on his arm, just as she used to do 
 when a child, and some difficult task had been overcome. Her 
 sense of pain, of joy, of fear, were wrought to the full. Her tears, 
 came, she could not restrain them — more and more she bent her head,j 
 
MAINSTOJ^li’S fiOtJSEKEEP^R. 
 
 369 
 
 isbe passionately wept— her comb fell from her abundant and ijlorious 
 f hair, and swept round the dear old master’s arm, like a veil of many 
 (if olds. And he, bending his face, wept too, but not for long, for he 
 Iichanged tears for passionate kisses, which she did not restrain or 
 Negative. Never had he ventured so far— his hopes were wild 
 again. 
 
 “ Charlotte, Charlotte,” he whispered, “ having thus done so good a 
 :deed^ for one who was only a stranger to you the other day, be 
 ^merciful to the old magister. Be my wife, be all my world as you 
 are already. None can ever love you as I, none can know you so 
 well, none can be to little Jane what the dear old master is.” 
 
 I She did not answer; she let her head lie there— she seemed to 
 like to hear his voice, though her heart was full of pain. At last she 
 i said : — 
 
 I “We’ll talk of this matter some other time, and before lono*, be 
 ' sure. It will be best to do so, to have it settled once for all ! ” ° 
 
 She rose, gathered up her hair, and strove for equanimity — but 
 there were minutes before it came. She talked, however, of Cor- 
 nelius, and what the old clerk’s joy would be were he to be taken 
 back to him with even partially renovated mental powers. Then 
 ^Charlotte went out to speak to Mrs. Ash. When their talk about 
 .Cornelius was over, the former thought of Phema, and asked about 
 ilier. 
 
 i “I sent Phema on to the shore myself, for I thought that if she 
 Aept lingering about the house, she might suspect that something was 
 the matter with the boy. As to the woman you speak of, I know 
 nothing of her ; she came begging milk at our door last night, and 
 after that I heard her speaking^ to Phema across the garden hedge. 
 No ! I do not know who she is — some poor wandering creature? I 
 iisuppose.” 
 
 By-and-by both surgeons came down stairs, and luncheon was 
 cserved. The effects of chloroform had passed away, and the boy 
 i now slept under the influence of a gentle narcotic. The operation 
 bad been one of peculiar difficulty and danger — more so than any 
 one M. Durand had hitherto effected. It had been necessary to make 
 to unusually large incision in the skull, in order to remove the 
 ^injured part which rested on the brain— and during the arduous 
 ! moments of this operation, the minutest deviation of an instrument, 
 
 I jv the slightest error of judgment, would have resulted in instant 
 ieath.^ But now all the imminent danger was over. Fever mif^ht 
 fet arise, and the wound would require peculiar care for some days ; 
 out beyond these, no danger impended, and, with skilful nursing, re- 
 lovery would be, most likely, speedy. M. Durand did not think that 
 ;:he boy’s faculties would ever be what probably they would have been 
 biad the accident not occurred ; still there would be such considerable 
 mprovement as would enable him to earn his bread in any ordinary 
 hccupation — whilst, on the other hand, had the operation not been 
 d, entire idiocy — perhaps death — would have occurred at no 
 
 ^ate ciate. 
 
 24 
 
370 
 
 mainstone’s hocsekeepbk. 
 
 As soon as admissible, both Charlotte and Mr. Radnor went up to 
 see the patient. He rested quiescently in a little snowy bed ; his 
 poor bandao'ed head rested in the softest pillow ; his face was very 
 pale but as^ yet untouched by the hectic of fever — whilst, through 
 the open, but shaded windows, the cool sea-breezes stole in. ^ It was 
 very touching to see him lying there, tended by so many ministering 
 
 ^^For three days after the operation, M. Durand remained, at inter- 
 vals, watching his patient-^at other times enjoying the beach and 
 fields with Charlotte and Mr. Radnor. The former speaking 1 rencli 
 fiuentlv, as she had been much in Paris since her uncles death, she 
 and the physician held many lengthened conversations on medicine, 
 on sanitary science, on medical philosophy, as well as on the yastness 
 of the debt which modern society owed to French cheinists and 
 medical savants, Charlotte was a Frenchwoman herself in her greai 
 admiration, and she promised M. Durand to visit Pans, and see its 
 hospitals under his guidance at no late date. .... 
 
 When the crisis was past, when fever had succumbed to judicious 
 treatment, the Frenchman prepared to go. AVhen the last few 
 minutes came he went up stairs, accompanied by Charlotte. It wa 
 early noon, and the light, no longer excluded, flooded the room 
 Propped by pillows— for he was weak from fever and loss ot blood- 
 Cornkius sat up in bed, his countenance more animated than as yet 
 
 had been observed. . . . . i 
 
 This gentleman,” said Charlotte, as the physician took his hand, 
 “ is come to say good-by. Some day o r other he will come to Rut- 
 land, and see you again ; but you must always remember him— tor i 
 your head gets better, you will owe it all to him.” 
 
 “It is better,” was the quick reply; ‘‘I can remember so nmch 
 I was thinking of so many things when you came in. But what die 
 he do to it — and when ; I don’t recollect.” -o . • . i, 
 
 “ It was a painful operation, so we won’t recal it. But is the pain 
 in it less?— the old, dull pain that used so often to make you press 
 
 your hand against your head.” , . . . i -a. » ' 
 
 “ I have none now ! I was wondering what had taken it away. 
 
 “ And your memory ? Tell me what you recollect.” * 
 
 “ Oh ! I can think about Robinson Crusoe, and not stop Where 1 
 used to do. But where’s Phema ? Now I’m better, why doesn t she 
 
 come up stairs ? ” i -i i. 
 
 “ She has often been in to see you, but mostly whilst you were 
 
 asleep. Shall nurse call her ? ” ^ 
 
 He assented, and Phema came up stairs with the little cat in her 
 arms, but looking downcast and depressed. ^ -ni. 
 
 “Cornelius is much better, and wants you to sit with him, irhema. 
 The boy held out his hand, and she took it. 
 
 “ Put the cat on the bed,” he said, “ and fetch the little Robinsor 
 Crusoe I brought with me. Sit down in the sun by the window, anc 
 read to me. I shall see if I recollect— in a few days I shall be wcl 
 enough to come into the garden.’* 
 
MAINSTONe’s SOUSEKEEEEa. S71 
 
 Phema obeyed; and thus, childlike testing his recovered powers, 
 e great surgeon left his patient. 
 
 For a day or two longer Mr. Grayson remained. Charlotte, as yet, 
 d had but little time for confidential converation with him ; but 
 w, whilst Mr. Radnor sat in his chair, thinking or reading, or paced 
 ' and fro the level sands, they went about the adjacent corn-field, 
 licli still was chequered with golden sheaves. 
 
 Mr. Grayson had settled in Brooklow that spring, and through 
 ‘ne means or another his attachment for Lizzie Whitelock had 
 'come known to Judith. But from the first she set her face against 
 r sister’s marrying — Lizzie had a good home, independence, and a 
 mng sister! what more did she want? Women were much better 
 igle — they could do as they liked, go where they liked, say what 
 ^ 2 y liked. JSTo ! it was only a chimera of Lizzie’s brain, and 
 ■3 could not countenance it. Thus Judith reasoned; and Lizzie, 
 ssively obedient, suffered and said no more. 
 
 The surgeon had no news to tell Charlotte on this perplexing sub- 
 it than what she already knew, except as he had heard that Lizzie 
 d dropped into a low desponding way, and had been ill with slight 
 '•er ; Mr. Greene had been called in, but his attendance benefited 
 tie. 
 
 “ And wouldn’t,” said Charlotte, warmly, “ if he were to go up and 
 wn twenty years. I really wonder at Judith. She is a woman 
 
 strong mind, and noble powers, and ought to be above such 
 otchets ; she ought to understand, too, that a way of life suited to 
 rself may not be to another ; she ought to give Lizzie hberty of 
 'oice, for otherwise she makes a slave of her, under pretext of love, 
 ell ! as soon as I get back again I will go and see what fresh per- 
 isions will do.” 
 
 Mr. Grayson pressed her hand gratefully. 
 
 “ My friends are more fortunate. Greene, who has become quite a 
 ’ormed man since that afiair of last year, when you were so ill, is 
 ing to be married ; as the matter has been kept secret, and was 
 ly settled the day before I left home, it may surprise you.” 
 
 ‘Not much! I fancied he admired Kitty Goldrust, when she 
 i Ada Marlowe stayed at Mains tone this summer. Am I right ? ” 
 Quite so. He went and spoke to the antiquary, who can be most 
 'finess-like when he pleases. jMr. Goldrust gave his consent, and 
 )mised a handsome sum down on the wedding-day, to which Miss 
 biiha will add a portion. So Greene is happy; and his proud 
 , ther and sisters approving, all is as it should be.” 
 
 ‘I am glad of it ; Kitty is young and very lovely ; and Mr. Greene 
 1, I hope, make as good a husband as he is a clever surgeon. Often 
 :se men who have led wild days settle down to a middle age of 
 atencss, though, for the very reason that they have tested how 
 ' eriorative and short-lived are all the more selfish pleasures, they 
 ^;ome reinorseless censors on even the lighter follies of those that 
 ^ne after them.” 
 
 ‘ You’re right ; but Greene will not be one I think to bind folly and 
 
372 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 propriety together. He possesses many admirable qualities of hear! 
 and brain ; and should this better life of his keep stedfast, of which ] 
 see no fear, when pretty Kitty and her brood of little children conn 
 round him, I think I shall accede to his proposal of making oui 
 practice one. But these better days of his are not from hiraseli 
 alone; he owes much, as perhaps you know, to Kichard Wenlock, oi 
 whom he has seen a good deal since they met last autumn at the 
 vicarage. Richard is, in my idea, a marvellous man — making no out- 
 ward show of doing so— perhaps himself unconscious of the powei 
 of his words and his principles, yet influencing the ways and thou^htj 
 of others to an inconceivable extent, and with a prescient efiect, 
 which can only arise from deep thought and sure knowledge in ex- 
 quisite combination ; you think so — I’m sure.” 
 
 She did not answer — she turned very pale, and looked away — bui 
 she could not hide her tremor, or the deep emotion which moved hei 
 whole being. Her voice was far from calm when she spoke again 
 and of Mr. Thornhill, who had had his third paralytic stroke a fev 
 days previous to that on which she and Mr. Radnor had lef 
 Mainstone. 
 
 “ I told you the morning I came with M. Durand, if I recollect rightly! 
 that Mr. Thornhill remains in much the same condition. I and Greem 
 were with him the day before I started. He was less ill than immedi 
 ately after the stroke, but more helpless and hopelessly childish thai 
 previous thereto ; though his condition, even then, was, as you know 
 sad enough, warranting, as it did, the revelation of Kllis s presence 
 as well as his interference in affairs. But this state of entire imbecil 
 helplessness will not enable the son to act with legal authority. I 
 will has been found, which makes over a large amount of property U 
 Briscoe ; but with utter insolvency around him, with so many charge 
 to face, with a whole population ready to rise, and exercise lynch la\ 
 upon him, there is little to fear, even if the will were proved genuine.’ 
 
 “No! but these things must involve Ellis in many struggles am 
 privations, unless ” 
 
 “Unless old Joel gives him a helping^ hand, and that at presen 
 does not seem likely. As yet it is quite certain that he know, 
 nothing of the marriage ; it is suspected by many — it is knowi 
 to a few; but the evidence which gossip or absolute testimon; 
 mi^^ht afford he resolutely shuts out. Since Flora refused to g 
 back to him, Joel has forbidden all mention of her name; h 
 refuses to read any letters which come, and he professes absolut: 
 indifference as to whether she lives or dies. She shall never com 
 home to him again, he says— and all this while the man is droopim 
 daily. Shunned and reprobated by everyone, because of his cruel t 
 and utter injustice to his good and gentle wife, he spends his days i; 
 wandering about his fields, and his nights in drinking. Nor do thos 
 women, his sisters, strive to alter this state of things. They rule th 
 house, and they fill their purses— for this sorrow of others is gam t 
 them. It is a sad picture, which should be reversed before I lor 
 becomes again a mother,” 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 373 
 
 ^ “ Most certainly, and that soon, for we never know what the 
 lances of life and death may be. If, when we return to Mainstone, 
 ^hich will be in the course of another three weeks, Ellis will consent, 
 [r. Radnor shall make it his duty to reveal the whole truth to 
 Ir. Breere. My own opinion is, that when the first irritation is over, 
 
 will be more rejoiced than angered. He ought to be, with Flora 
 ■ill so fond of him, and such a lovely grandchild as little Johnny, 
 ^nd if, as I shall advise, Ellis, and those connected with him, will 
 ^ilow Mr. Breere some interest in both the management and pecuniary 
 ‘’fiairs of the collieries, I think that the whole difficulty will be finally 
 ’nd satisfactorily solved. Now tell me how you left Silas Moore’s 
 ^ttle wife.” 
 
 ‘‘ I was at the farm the day before I came away. She was as well 
 h could be, considering circumstances ; and old Mrs. Bell was there, 
 S high expectation of the birth of her first grandchild. It is this 
 Hatter amongst others that necessitates my leaving here to-morrow, 
 or Cornelius can now be safely trusted to the care of the nurse and 
 he neighbouring surgeon. He only requires care, quietude, and 
 ourishing food.” 
 
 “He is to come down stairs to-morrow, for the first time. He 
 ^sked me this to-day, and I promised. So far, I think that his 
 ‘Welligence is improved, and good has been done.” 
 
 ^ “ Without doubt. His capacity may never reach even an ordinary 
 '^.verage ; yet, if it enable him to follow his father’s humble duties, the 
 Id man’s heart will be comforted. If I understand rightly, I think 
 ^'hat the operation and its results are, as yet, to be kept a secret from 
 ffie old clerk?” 
 
 “If you please — Mr. Radnor wishes it, as well ad 1 We should 
 ike him to remain here yet awhile, for the sake of both his health and 
 Schooling. For were old Wigpit to fancy his son so much better, he 
 vould be for having him home directly.” 
 
 * “ Talking of schools, I did not, I think, tell you, that Mr. Walcot 
 )pened his last week. He sent round to the Mainstone parishioners, 
 laying he expected the attendance of their children, and asked me 
 Hhen you and Mr. Radnor were expected home again.” 
 
 ^ But Charlotte made no answer. She did not like the subject, and 
 Always avoided it when she could. More than this, as they now 
 I’etraced their steps along the furrowed stubble, darkening in the 
 ihadows of the evening, they heard voices in the adjacent orchard — 
 ow voices and indistinct words. Involuntarily they stayed to listen 
 —partly to see the sun sinking down in glory beyond the sea.^ 
 f . “ And you’ll never tell ? ” entreatingly wept one whom Miss Eliot 
 Hnew to be Phema. “I never meant that anyone should know — 
 Decause Jonathan threatened that ” 
 
 ■ “There’s nothing to fear from Jonathan,” said another voice, 
 ■.vhich, though weak and hoarse, Miss Eliot fancied she had heard 
 'oefore. , . 
 
 “But— but, there is,” wept the other again, m a tone of low 
 sntreating agony. 
 
374 mainstone’s housekeeper. f 
 
 Again as she heard this latter voice, Miss Eliot was more and morej 
 astonished. 
 
 “Excuse me a moment,” she said to the surgeon, “but this last 
 speaker is Phema, and I must learn what it means.” 
 
 As she spoke she hurried through an adjacent wicket into the 
 orchard ; but in the gathering gloom she could see no one, though she 
 could distinctly hear retreating steps— even above the low, monoto- 
 nous wash of the sea. 
 
 She came back thoughtfully. 
 
 “ I can see no one,” she said, “ and yet I am uneasy. For some 
 days a vagrant woman has been lurking about, whose appearance is at 
 least suspicious. It cannot surely be any emissary from Jonathan or 
 his master.” 
 
 “ I should think not : Phema, girl-like, has been making some silly 
 revelation or another to a maid-servant, perhaps, and is now full of^ 
 fear. She is nervous and timid from past suffering. As to Koberf 
 Moore, when I last saw him, he did not look like one who was plotting 
 mischief at a distance. Present troubles seemed to weigh him downl 
 and to have turned him into a stricken, fearing, hopeless, needy 4 
 looking man.” E 
 
 As Mr. Grayson spoke, they turned into the garden, and MrJ 
 Kadnor meeting them, and walking up and down with them awhile] 
 the subject dropped. ■ 
 
 But not so Charlotte’s fears. The last thing as she went to bed 
 she entered Phema’s room. The girl was asleep, but moving rest! 
 lessly to and fro on her pillow — sometimes muttering in a lowJ 
 inarticulate voice — sometimes stretching out her hands. Her fore-J 
 head was cold and dank, and her whole appearance betrayed somd 
 source of fear and pain. Miss Eliot strove to rouse her. 
 
 “ Don’t take me to Jonathan — don’t tell Jonathan ! ” she muttered, 
 as her sleep was thus broken. But in a moment more she was awak^ 
 and sitting up. 
 
 “ What is this about Jonathan ? ” asked Miss Eliot, gently ; “ who 
 has brought the subject up ? — what is it you have been telling ? — who 
 was that in the orchard with you to-night ? ” 
 
 “I don’t know! — I don’t know! ” said Phema, covering her face 
 with her hands. “ I never saw her but once, and that’s when she 
 came to the Farm.” 
 
 “ You must tell me what she has been questioning you about ? — 
 what secret is it she has wormed out of you ? ” 
 
 “Oh, nothing — nothing, ma’am! She only asked me about 
 Jonathan.” 
 
 “ What ? I insist upon knowing ! ” 
 
 But, insist as she might. Miss Eliot could elicit nothing from the 
 girl. At length, seeing the real terror her questions inspired, and 
 knowing Phema to be yet weak and extremely nervous, she left her,, 
 hoping at some future date to elicit what was thus hidden. 
 
 On the morrow Mr. Grayson went, and a few days after him thq 
 nurse. Cornelius could now walk up and down the garden, for a few 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 37o 
 
 Minutes twice or thrice a day ; the rest of his time he lay on a couch 
 beneath the old apple-tree, whilst Stephen read to him, or Mrs. 
 A.sh brought her knitting and sat beside him. The pains in his head 
 bad ceased, and there was no doubt that his intellect gathered 
 drength from day to day. 
 
 The corn was now all stacked— the harvest-supper over— the 
 reapers were gone — and nothing more was seen of the woman. It 
 ivas surmised that she was a tramp, following one of the reapers ; and 
 50, as far as regarded the household, little or no curiosity was excited, 
 though Miss Eliot remembered the voice too well not to suspect who 
 it really was ; but, with high and tender delicacy, she hid the know- 
 ledge in her own breast. Once or twice she strove to gather from 
 Phema what the secret was she had been led to reveal ; but the girl 
 was impenetrable — not because of conscious artifice, but through 
 excess of fear. If she had revealed anything, only a cunning prac- 
 tised in evil could have wormed it from her. 
 
 The house had now returned to its usual stillness— the weather was 
 delightful, and the days glided by with great serenity. Mr. Radnor 
 was inexpressibly happy, for he and Charlotte were once more alone. 
 He wanted no other company — his little Jane was all his world. 
 Were she not with him, he sauntered up and down the garden, or sat 
 in the shade of the trees, or stood by the honeysuckle fence, gay 
 with poppies flaunting here and there, and looked away across the 
 russet stubble — a dreamer of dreams more enchanting than any which 
 had yet been his. If his tender conscience within told him how 
 much these dreams rested on shallow and unworthy artifice— un- 
 worthy of him with whom conscience had hitherto been a reigning 
 lord — he repressed the good conviction. Give him his idol! he 
 could suffer or wait no more ! , • v j 
 
 The subject had been tacitly refrained from by either since the day 
 of Cornelius’s operation. But now as the time drew near for their 
 return to Mainstone, both knew that it must be spoken of. As far 
 as regarded Mr. Radnor, the repression arose from no will of his ; 
 but there was that in Charlotte’s manner which he always bowed 
 before. At all times she must stoop a little before he could dare. 
 
 On the day before that on which they were to make their journey 
 back to the dear home, so consecrated in the eyes of both of theni, 
 Charlotte, as had been her habit for many previous mornings, took 
 her letters and went up stairs soon after breakfast. All day Mr. 
 Radnor did not see her ; and Becky, when she brought in dinner, 
 beo’ged him to excuse Miss Eliot till tea-time, as she was busy in 
 her own room, but she would not fail to be with him then. 
 
 At tea she came in — pale, quiet, and kindly. Mr. Radnor never 
 r liked these fits of quietude— they always distressed him, and made 
 I him uneasy. So when she came to him with his cup, as was her 
 tender wont — ^for she waited upon him as a mother might her child, 
 
 he detained her hand. q ♦, i_ 
 
 , “Why is the old master’s little Jane so sad and grave? 
 asJied 
 
376 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 “ Magister ought to know that when we have grave duties to effect, 
 sedateness is our natural mood.” 
 
 “ What duties ? ” he asked, quickly, as he imprisoned her hand, 
 and looked keenly up into her face. “There ought to lie none 
 between the old magister and his little Jane that should make eithei 
 sad. What is it, darling ? ” 
 
 She made no answer — only a tear, which lay ready in its fountain, 
 dropped into the hand which imprisoned hers. He kissed it away — 
 conscience smote him — he make no reply. 
 
 She mistook his cause of quietude, and said gently, as she laid her 
 hand upon his shoulder : — 
 
 “ There, there — the dear old Ascham must not be sad — little Jane 
 owes him too many sovereign benefits to repay them by the shadow ol 
 a sorrow. Now let us proceed with tea, and after it we will go 
 out^ into the garden, and say what little has to be said on the old 
 subject.” 
 
 She stepped away, and sat down again, and affected to be busy 
 with the little duties of the tea-table; but Julius, though his sight 
 was so dim, could see how intensely pale she was, and how swolTeii 
 her eyes were with weeping. 
 
 He waited anxiously for her initiatory signal, that they should rise 
 and go forth ; and this she gave, in a quiet, resolute way, that showed 
 how her mind was predetermined to some given point. She led the 
 way to their favourite place beside the low garden hedge, from 
 whence their view was so fine of the undulating stubbly field, coloured 
 by a few straggling poppies and corn-flowers, shadowed there by 
 clouds, for the sky betokened rain, and gilded here by the intense 
 refulgence of the watery, waning sun. The whole a scene, which, 
 simple as it was, was worthy the brush of Gainsborough, or an idyl] 
 from the pen of Wordsworth. 
 
 For some minutes they stood in silence, watching the shadows grow 
 upon the stubble, and blot out the gilding sun ; whilst, beyond it, 
 darker clouds crept down upon the sea, and hid what just before 
 had been intensely bright. But though he looked, it was a com- 
 paratively blank picture to him. To all of us there is a world 
 without and a world within, and the visions of the latter are far 
 more potent. 
 
 “ Charlotte,” he said, tremblingly, at last, as he leant forward on 
 the low fence with gathered hands and bowed head, “ wiii you cease 
 to be Mainstone’s housekeeper, and be — ” 
 
 “ If the dear old master pleases.” 
 
 “ My God ! ” he said, moving quickly, and looking up into her face, 
 “ you really mean this — do you, Charlotte ? ” 
 
 “ Seriously, Julius.” 
 
 “ You will be my wife ? ” 
 
 “If the old magister will be so troubled with his little Jane.” 
 
 “ Troubled ! troubled ! My God ! what felicity for me at last I 
 Why, the world holds no joy for me like this— of making my little 
 J ane my wife ! Say when ? As we go through London, shall we 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 377 
 
 tay and get married at once ? ” All the fire and impetuosity of his 
 outh were re-born — the passions had smouldered, not died, beneath 
 he asceticism of five -and- thirty years. 
 
 “ No, Julius, that is far too soon. Not earlier than next year, most 
 ertainly ; and till then you must keep our engagement profoundly 
 ecret — giving, neither by word nor behaviour, a suspicion of its 
 xistence.” 
 
 “Why? why? — there can surely be no reason for this. It is 
 laking a compact, yet taking away all hope of its fulfilment.” 
 
 “ Julius,” she replied, a little proudly, “ you above all men ought 
 0 know that I am not one to lightly swerve from a prinnciple or a 
 romise. If our engagement should be nullified, the proposition for 
 :s being so shall arise from yourself. But for the present,” she 
 dded, sadly, “ I see no likelihood of a reason for either of us to alter 
 ny resolve we make on this point. As to the rest, you know that I 
 lust consult Mr. Simeon ; and that whilst I remain your housekeeper, 
 ; will be best that none should understand that I am likely to be 
 our wife.” 
 
 She said all this so coldly, that any man less blind, or less idola- 
 pous, would have been scared from such a compact. But he was 
 ot; he stilled the whispers of his conscience, and only dwelt 
 lore passionately upon her promise. 
 
 “The magister agrees to all Charlotte wishes, provided that in 
 while hence she be his. Infinite blessings be on you, dear one, for 
 his goodness to your old master. Say once more you will be my 
 fife.” 
 
 “ I will ; if negative come, it shall be your own.” 
 
 He would have gathered her hands into his, he would have thanked 
 er again and again, but not one ray of sunlight was now left on field 
 r sea. It was all cloud, rack above rack — each darker than the 
 est. 
 
 So they went indoors — for the rain fell, and the darkness grew ! 
 
378 
 
 MAINSTONE'S H0US£K££F£B« 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIIL , i 
 
 THE FATHERS. I 
 
 I 
 
 As customary each week, the county paper had reached the Pool i 
 and his sisters, after reading it, took it into Joel’s room. Since his 
 self-inflicted troubles had bowed him down, he never read it, or, 
 indeed, rarely any paper. As rarely he opened any letters. Latterly 
 he forbid any topics of conversation beyond such as related to the 
 farm — for a yea he would have only a yea, for a nay a nay ; con- 
 centrated, self-absorbed, stern, and depressed, he passed his indooi 
 hours in moody silence, or closeted with the never-failing bottle; 
 There were times when he would keep sober, when he would exert an 
 extraordinary amount of self-restraint, at least for him. 
 
 On this particular evening the paper lay open upon the table jusi 
 as it had been brought in, when, as he carelessly pushed it aside tc 
 make more room for a bottle, tumbler, sugar-basin, and jug, which one 
 of the servants had come lately }n with, his eye alighted upon th( 
 word “ Mainstone.” In an instant the paper was in his hand, and h( 
 read the advertisement to which the word pertained, over and oye] 
 again, several times. He then sat down, turned his chair to the fire 
 and remained long in moody silence. Again he read the advertise^ 
 menf, and this time \yas elicited some of the thoughts which weri 
 burning in his brain. 
 
 “ So it’s come at last is it ? Woods to be felled, building lots to hi 
 sold, a portion of the Hortoi> Wood property to be parted with. S( 
 it’s come, and in my time too. Well ! I’ve lived to see this, and thi 
 is something.” 
 
 He repeated these words, or at least their substance, again an(j 
 again — and they were probably a key to some compact he was making 
 with himself ; for that night alcohol tempted not, and sober, stem 
 and self-absorbed, he went to bed at an early hour. After breakfas 
 next morning he ordered his horse, and without a word to his sister 
 or to any of his servants, he rode away. 
 
 It was a lovely autumn morning — serene, summer-like, full of thos 
 scents and subdued sounds which enrich the yoar as it wanes to it 
 winter solstice. If the wind blew gently, it made music amidst th 
 first few fallen leaves ; when a scent wafted by, it was from honey 
 suckled hedges, or from the ferny undergrowth in the woods beyond 
 and the whole joy of nature in sun, in tree, in field, in all things 
 bespoke the living God ! 
 
 Turning his horse’s head towards Mainstone, Joel Breere rode o 
 at a leisurely pace, his mood — if his looks might be judged--being a 
 stern and self-resolved as it was on the previous night. His usual! 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 379 
 
 idcly face was pale ; his eyes dilated and bloodshot ; his whipcord 
 Bins more swollen and tense ; and his lips were pressed together 
 ith a rigid firmness which took from them their look of humanity, 
 leisurely he rode— whatever was his intent, he was not in a hurry. 
 
 As he passed on, he came to an old dilapidated stable or cow-shed, 
 f the door of which the bill-sticker had made ample use. Amidst 
 chers was pasted the advertisement of the previous night— only in 
 lore eccentric and bolder type. As though the repetition was a 
 leasure to him, he stayed to read it ; and as he did so, a labourer 
 horn he knew passed by, and touched his hat. ^ 
 
 “ So the crash up at Mainstone is come at last, my man.’* 
 
 “ Ay. There’s a sore pinch for money, and so some of the woods 
 
 lUSt go ! — though ” -r V j: 
 
 The man stopped abruptly, and looked up keenly into Joels face; 
 ut Joel saw not— he was deaf and blind to all things but those which 
 Blated to the purpose at his heart. 
 
 “ /’w not sorry ! ” he bawled out, with a terrific oath. “D n 
 
 le. I’m as glad as if all I had lost was come back again. D n 
 
 le, my revenge is come — well ! ” 
 
 He said no more, but rode on a little faster than before. 
 
 The man looked after him, muttered something to himself, which 
 y his countenance seemed of sad and solemn import, and then 
 urned into an adjacent field. 
 
 He judged perhaps that his nerves needed some further stimulus, 
 or as he passed the “ Brown Hen” he reined up his horse, and called 
 or a glass of brandy. A decent-looking woman hurried to the door, 
 nd when she saw who it was, a look of surprise and sadness stole 
 tver her face. 
 
 “Why doesn’t Mrs. Bell come ? ” he asked, impatiently. 
 
 “If vou please. Sir, she’s been away ever since her daughter 
 yas confined three weeks ago. But she’ll be home to-night. Sir for 
 barbie was sent for yesterday— but maybe, you don’t know ” 
 
 “ I’m not in a humour to listen to other people’s affairs. I have 
 tnough to do to think of my own. So fetch the brandy and be quick 
 —I have business on hand.” 
 
 He spoke with such ferocity, that the woman tremblingly obeyed, 
 ind when he had drunk off the spirit, he threw down a shilling and 
 •ode on. She came forth to the old horse-block, and looked after 
 hm as the labourer had done ; and when she went slowly indoors her 
 Byes wepe wet with tears 
 
 He stayed no more ; but riding on steadily, reached the entrance 
 :o Mainstone Park by early noon Here, turning into the drive, he 
 vent onwards under the shadow of the grand old trees, these lying so 
 hr apart as to give a road of noble breadth. As though his purpose 
 were to ipake unobtrusive way, he rode close to the bolls on his own 
 aue ; and when his ear detected the rapid approach of some swift- 
 aiding horseman, he turned his horse into the far shadow of avast old 
 LreG,^and remained there till the groom or servant— for such it 
 jeemed to be— had ridden by. Then he proceeded ; and when he 
 
380 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 came in sight of the house and pool he dismounted, tethered his 
 horse to a tree, and went forwards on foot. 
 
 All about the house was so intensely still, that it might be tenanted 
 by the dead for any sound there was. The sun shone down on to 
 the wide terrace beneath the windows, on to the clear pool, on to and 
 into the old house itself — and yet this warmth and significant joy of 
 nature only seemed to increase the sense of solitary desolation. All 
 the rooms, the windows of which he looked through as he passed, 
 were desolate ; and though, when he reached it, the hall door stood 
 wide open, nothing significant of life was there but the caressing sun. 
 But there had been something living there, and that recently; for at 
 the foot of the wide imbrowned sweep of stairs stood a child’s toy- 
 waggon and horses, filled with miniature sacks of corn, and the ribbon 
 by which it had been drawn about fluttered idly across the balusters. 
 Joel might not have noticed it, but that it stopped his way ; and when 
 he had passed up a stair or two there was another hindrance, in the 
 shape of a great parti-coloured ball. Putting this aside he went on up 
 into the wide gallery. There he seemed to hear whispering voices in 
 a distant room ; but turning aside to a door which had at least in 
 former days been that of Mr. Thornhill’s room, he pushed it open, 
 for it stood slightly ajar. As already said, it was a large room, with, 
 windows looking towards the pool and the grassy undulating slopes 
 beyond ; so that the sun fell lovingly within, and spread itself wide and 
 far. By one of these windows, in a large easy chair, loosely dressed in 
 a grey gown, sat an old man, a little bent, his hands pressed together 
 on his knee, occupied in intently watching a little dumpling of a child, 
 who, astride on a stick, probably taken from the old man, was running 
 up and down. It was a very little child, not more than two years old, 
 so that its steps were comparatively feeble and vacillating ; yet it 
 rode the stick with a great show of spirit, and looking backwards, or 
 up, if its face were foremost, cried, — 
 
 “ See, Gan’pa — see Johnny ! ” 
 
 Baby’s vocabulary seemed yet very limited ; for it did not vary 
 this pretty monotonous cry. 
 
 “ I see — I see ! ” answered the old man, in a weak senile voice, and 
 laughing each time the child came near. 
 
 Joel looked upon this scene with astonishment, for neither the 
 little child nor the old man saw him for the first few minutes. There 
 was no mistaking who the old man was — wreck as he was of his 
 former self, stepped as he was of all those accessories which had 
 simulated youth, there were yet signs of him who in his prime had 
 been so handsome and so noble in his bearing. Sunk into utter and 
 helpless dotage, here was yet John Thornhill. He was the first to' 
 see Joel, but with no recognizing eye ; though Joel well knew who it 
 was that thus sat before him. 
 
 “ Show the gentleman how pretty Johnny rides on Gan’pa’s stick.” 
 
 Thus addressed, the child looked up surprised; then retreating 
 with a look, which plainly said, “Pray, who are you?” reiterated 
 defiantly, “No, I won’t ! ” 
 
MAlNStONij’s HOUS£KEDPElt. 
 
 381 
 
 ' “ Granpa’s darling 'will ! ” , rr,, i • xi, 4.* u 
 
 “ No, no ! ” repeated Johnny, wickedly. Then dropping the stick, 
 e came towards the old man with head erect, with eyes dilated, with 
 ulte a high, defiant bearing for such a little one. 
 
 “ But Johnny’s naughty,” spoke the feeble old man ; mamma 
 Iways tells him to behave prettily to strangers. So go and speak to 
 le kind gentleman, who is so good as to come and see Gan pa and 
 
 ttle Johnny.” . , 
 
 The spirit of obedience shines divinely m us all— m children 
 ' ivinest. No sooner had little toddling Johnny heard the words, 
 lian goino' forward to where Joel stood, he put out his two pretty 
 ands, and reaching up on tiptoes, said, “Da-da,” his only word for 
 hose who were strangers to him. Joel had long had his suspmions— 
 atterly they had strengthened from day to day ; and now, as the child 
 ooked sweetly into his face, with Flora’s eyes, and Flora’s pretty 
 ittle proud defiant way— that way so infinitely loved by him— he 
 matched up the child, pressed him again and again in his arms, 
 howered on him a very rain of kisses — so fond, so prodigal, was his 
 ‘•estrained and hoarded love. 
 
 “My God!” he said, as tears of pity, of remorse, of tenderness, 
 ell, and choked his utterance, “ this must be my Flora’s boy ! ” 
 
 ' “ And Flora’s got another little baby,” simpered the^ other uncon- 
 scious old man. “ But she’s very bad— she’s going to die, they think. 
 
 They’ve sent for her father, but ” 
 
 The old man stopped abruptly here ; some consciousness of who 
 :his father was, probably, crossed his brain— for his countenance, for 
 the moment, assumed its old accustomed looks of hate and pride ; 
 but almost as instantly the consciousness flitted by, and weak, and 
 Jrivelling, once more, he wept because he heard and saw the 
 stranger’s tears. 
 
 As Joel thus stood, little Johnny still pressed in his arms, someone 
 entered the room, came near, and touched him ; he turned, and saw 
 *one whom he guessed to be Miss Eliot, from the description he had 
 
 beard of her. . 
 
 “This is kind of you, Mr. Breere,” she said, in a low voice, 
 “ answering our summons thus quickly.” 
 
 “ I had no summons,” he answered, hoarsely, “ none ! ” 
 
 I “Then all the better,” she replied; “for as things are under this 
 roof, you can have come with no other than a kind intent. She 
 ■moved her hand slightly in the direction of Mr. Thornhill’s chair— 
 ■“whilst what remains to say, I tell you tremblingly. Flora, as you 
 perhaps now definitely know, and may have long suspected, has been 
 )for more than three years Ellis Thornhill’s wife, and the precious 
 burden in your arms is their child. The marriage would not have 
 'been concealed, but for your dread hate of Mr. Thornhill, and his 
 , of you. This internecine hate let it die— be henceforth buried, for 
 (pointing again to Mr. Thornhill)^ “can be no object of hate 
 to one like you, younger, and sane in intellect. Bather let me say 
 an object of great pity I ” 
 
SS2 
 
 MAINSTONJE^S HOUSEKtlEPER. 
 
 ca,nie to hate. I cam© to tell him so, for he deeply wronfl'‘ed 
 
 me,” spoke Joel, in a stern but under tone ; “ but when ”^his 
 
 voice faltered, and he could say no more. 
 
 ^ “But when,” said Charlotte, taking up his words, “you see that he 
 logger a man, but a weak, decrepit, senseless child, you pity ! 
 Well I thank God ! Now, let there be charity on every side. Ellis 
 will make full restitution of the disputed property ; it is his wish— 
 It has always been so; he even hopes that you will become his 
 partner m the rest of the colliery property. As to what remains 
 further. Flora could not have married a worthier or better gentle- 
 man.” ° 
 
 “Well! well!” he interrupted, with something like irritation of 
 manner, “ tell me about her.” 
 
 There was rebuke in Charlotte’s grave answer : “ Yes, I know that 
 in the sight of God the human creature stands first ; but as you made 
 this matter of a few coal-pits the pivot on which so much sorrow and 
 mistake has turned, I spoke of that before venturing to tell you of 
 your child. Flora is very ill— you must have nerve, and hear that 
 she IS not expected to recover. Far advanced in pregnancy, near 
 hear confinement, she stumbled in the park four days ago, across a 
 wind-blown bough, and, whilst coming here to see Mr. Thornhill, 
 premature labour came on — she could not be moved, and last evenincr, 
 after many hours of intense suffering, she was delivered of a littfe 
 daughter. The child is well— the mother very bad; both Mr. 
 Grayson and Mr. Greene are with her, as well as a physician from 
 Welton; another has been summoned from London, and is expected 
 by the next train. The latter has already telegraphed down some 
 fresh method of treatment— and this, for the last half-hour, they 
 have been trying with good effect, though still too slight to give much 
 hope. Though exhausted to the last extremity— almost incapable 
 of speech and motion — she has yet expressed a wish to see you, 
 and our messenger started to the Pool not half an hour ago. 
 
 “ The Pool — the Pool? ” asked old John Thornhill, inquisitively : 
 “because ” ^ ’ 
 
 “ Hush ! ” said Charlotte, just as she might do to any froward 
 child ; for she caught the ferocious look which Joel, at hearing these 
 words, cast on the old man. “ Mr. Breere,” placing her hand gently on 
 his, “ let the past die — he is imbecile, and unconscious of either what 
 he does or says. Put Johnny down, for he amuses Mr. Thornhill, 
 whilst we are otherwise so busy and full of care, and come with 
 me.” 
 
 “To Flora ? — there, go on.” 
 
 And Joel spoke between his teeth, and seemed to bite his words 
 as they passed through. 
 
 “ No, not till the doctors give leave.” 
 
 She lifted little Johnny from his arms as she spoke, and led the way 
 from the room, Joel following with a dumb submission, which was 
 strange to see. 
 
 Down the gallery they went, into a lesser room at its extremity, 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 sss 
 
 ,vliere sat tlie prettiest little nurse that autumn day might show for 
 niles. Her task was double — for in the low cradle by her side 
 dept a babe ; whilst she herself; rocking to and fro, hummed, in a lov/ 
 inderbreath, to another in her arms. It did not wail, it did not cry 
 —it slept as sweetly and serenely as the other in the cradle ; yet 
 :here seemed in her soul some need that she should sing to it tlie 
 l^weetest, lowest lullaby a mother s lips could frame. Slowly, gently, 
 joothingly she rocked — lower and lower she sang, till the sound died 
 )ut in silence — anon and anon, as lightly as the bee skims round 
 :he honey-laden flower, she pressed her lips down on to the little 
 lestling face, and then began her low, sweet song again. 
 
 Press it to your heart,"" Barbie ! — feed it with the honey of your 
 spotless kisses — spare to it somewhat of the prodigal love you have 
 for your own child— repay in this way the mighty debt you owe to 
 lier who asked this of you ! 
 
 You do ! Even as they stand and look on your sweet face, your 
 girlish figure, on the pretty embarrassment of your young mother- 
 ;.aood — you bare your breast, and give to it from the beauteous 
 'fountain of your life, prodigally, lovingly, without stint, as you give 
 to him you bore ! 
 
 So give, sweet, pretty, dimpled, bright-eyed Barbie — there are 
 prodigalities in this world which are divine — debts which no giving 
 can ever pay ! 
 
 When the honey was sipped to the full. Barbie brought the baby 
 to where Charlotte and Mr. Breere stood, and, opening the flannel 
 'which lay about it, displayed its new-born prettiness. It was so 
 like what Joel remembered its mother was on the day she was born, 
 that the sight gave him more agony than joy. Pressing his lips down 
 upon its face, he then said in an undertone, — 
 
 “ Let me go, I can bear no more ! ” 
 
 Without a word, he followed Charlotte down stairs to one of the 
 sunny parlours, and there she left him, thinking it best to do so. In 
 somewhat more than an hour she returned to the room, and found 
 him with his head sunk on his breast, and his arms folded. 
 
 “ The physician from London has arrived,” she said “ and approves 
 Df what has been done for Mrs. Thornhill ; he even thinks that there 
 is still a faint chance of her recovery ; yet it is still so slight a 
 one, that he advises you to see her, least the chance pass away. 
 You. must not talk, or stay more than a minute, if recognition come.” 
 
 Returning up stairs, they stole into the still shadowed room over 
 which Margery had kept such stringent custody for so many years. 
 Her purpose had been holily accomplished ; for the dead had had 
 no living successor, till the little wife had stepped within it, with her 
 tiallowed feet four days before, to give birth to her child. It seemed 
 like a providence that a room thus stood ready in that desolate house, 
 with so little to do to make it fitting. And here it was curtained, 
 carpeted, decked, just as it had been in those long-gone days, when 
 the insulted and neglected wife came within it to her miserable 
 tnarriage-bed, and there to weep. 
 
384 
 
 mainstoke’s housekeeper. 
 
 Thus entering it, Joel saw nothing of what was before him — 
 neither Aunt Susan nor Margery, nor the medical attendants — he was 
 deaf and blind to all things, till they brought him to the bed where 
 she lay. Her husband leant across the pillows from the other side, 
 ready to assist her, ready to caress her, if a movement or a murmur 
 met his eye or ear, though otherwise stricken to semi-unconscious- 
 ness, least her life should evade his tender, solicitous love, and pass 
 away for ever. And there she lay, unconscious of all this love — 
 unless specially roused — and even then only for a moment. There 
 she lay, almost without a sign, her face deathlike in its pallid white- 
 ness, contrasting with the blueness of the shrunken lips. Of this 
 world, and the things of this world, the deathlike face seemed^ to 
 have already taken solemn leave. And there stood the father, him- 
 self slowly dying whilst he looked. 
 
 “ Flora, darling Flo ! ” said Ellis, in a whisper, when Charlotte’s 
 words had roused him, “ here’s your father come to see you ! ” 
 
 Once or twice were these words repeated before the dull, pro- 
 strated brain caught either sound or sense ; but when, at last, she 
 raised her heavy -weighted eyelids, Ellis lifted her a little off the 
 pillow. Even then there was a struggle for consciousness, and some 
 moments passed before the glazed eyes looked recognizingly. At 
 length they did so — at last the tiny hands, which had so often touched 
 the sweet notes of his old hunting *^songs, were pressed forward to him 
 — cold, blue-nailed, white— as though already the little hands of 
 shroud and grave ! 
 
 “ Papa, papa ! ” she spoke, scarce above a whisper ; and as the death- 
 like hands touched his weeping face — “ papa, my little babes ! ” A 
 more solemn, a more simple, a more tender appeal, never met human 
 ear — it was the sublime of tenderness and love. He bent to her — 
 he kissed her — her face nestled to his ; but she gave back no kisses, 
 for she was again unconscious ; and, sinking heavily in her husband’s 
 arms, her face was again laid upon its pillow. 
 
 The father’s woe was too mighty for words. He struggled to 
 articulate, and could not ; stricken, as in his whole life he had never 
 yet been stricken, they led him away from the bed and the room. 
 Into one adjacent they took him— they fetched little Johnny and put 
 him in his arms, thinking to comfort him so ; but he repulsed the 
 child, though not harshly, and begged to be left again to himself. 
 And there he sat, without movement of any kind, as though every 
 feeling or sense was dumb or dead ! 
 
 As noon passed into afternoon, and that in turn waned, someone 
 came to him and touched him, and, at last, roused him from the kind 
 of lethargy into which he had sunk. It was Ellis. 
 
 ‘‘ There is a change for the better, Mr. Breere,” he said ; “ the hope 
 of saving Flora is greater than has been yet. So, will you not come 
 down stairs, and partake of some refreshment which Margery has set 
 ready ? ” 
 
 Joel roused himself to speak — by a great effort, it was plain to see. 
 “No, no!” he answered; “I couldn’t break bread in this house! 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 38.1 
 
 . 5 ut I’m glad mat my girl is better; for she is very dear to me. 
 diough she has gone sadly against my will. But how’s my wife ? — 
 :<ecause I’m going to her ! ” 
 
 : “Far from well. She has drooped much of late; for what we 
 ^:now not — except it be this separation from you, which she has felt 
 ■leenly, though silently ! ” 
 
 r “Ay, ay ! — I did wrong that night I thrust her forth — I’ve rued it 
 ever since — I shall rue it till I die ! The Lord need forgive me for 
 hat, if for no other thing. But get my hat — I must go. My 
 ■ lorse will be found close by, and you can send it down to the 
 :Pool.” 
 
 Ellis said he would. He then, with gentlemanly honour and great 
 good-feeling, pleaded extenuation of his and Flora’s marriage ; and 
 idded, how much that lay in the future would possibly show how small 
 ibeir error was. 
 
 “ Well, lad ! as it was Flora’s own choice, I’ll say no more. As far 
 IS the world’s opinion goes, thou art her better in every way, and as 
 lapright in thyself as thy father has been crooked. Yet, I cannot 
 fjay that the marriage can ever be one alter my own heart ; for thy 
 I'ather wronged me too deeply for me ever to make a clean breast of 
 ^ill the hate which reigns there ! Now, let me have my hat and go.” 
 iVVhen Joel rose, Ellis could see how stricken he was, and how a 
 imdden feebleness had crept over him. 
 
 They went down stairs, and when the hat was got they proceeded 
 :o the hall-door together, and thence some way along the terrace 
 towards the woods, through which Joel wished to reach the quiet old 
 tiouse. Without other words than a caution from Ellis as to what 
 ivas said about Flora’s illness and still alarming state, they parted. 
 ■But, just as the latter was about being lost to view in the shadows 
 riow lying round the house, Joel called out to him : — 
 
 “ If my girl gets better, thou canst come down to the Pool and 
 :ell me so thyself.” With thus much concession — and it was much 
 )[or him who was naturally so dogged and self-willed — Joel went 
 onwards, and was lost to sight. 
 
 [ Since Mr. Thornhill’s condition had warranted the revelation of his 
 son’s residence in the neighbourhood, and his active interference in 
 , affairs — since Briscoe, forbidden the house, had finally ceased to come 
 iup and down — Flora had gone to and fro to the hall to visit the old 
 roian, or to sit with her husband, whilst he laboured from day to 
 ’Jay at the sorrowful task of preparing the private and colliery 
 laccounts for those about to issue a fiat of bankruptcy against the 
 )*3state of John Thornhill. Whilst on her way to make one of these 
 nsits, and to see little Johnny, who had been spending a day or two 
 ),vvith Margery, Flora had met with the fall, the result of which was 
 1 50 disastrous. Necessitated to make some excuse for Flora’s absence, 
 ,.fchey had at first to tell her mother that she remained with Ellis, at 
 ^iiis request ; when this excuse would no longer answer, they had to 
 pay that she had given birth to a little daughter, and was far from 
 .avell, considering the circumstance^:) of her state. Aunt Susan, nor 
 25 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 t'SG 
 
 j5llis, nor others, dare saj how very ill she was— how lyino hopelessly 
 nt the point of death. But though thus charitably hidden from her 
 — her own state being so precarious — the mothers prescient quick- 
 ness read it all — in their sad looks, their slow steps, in the distant 
 whispers not intended for her ear. 
 
 Susan had been much away from the parlour that afternoon— had 
 sent in the poor solitary dreading mother her accustomed cup of tea 
 and biscuit, instead of sharing the cheerful meal with her, as was 
 always her habit ; and now as the sun sunk, lying red upon the woods 
 and filling the room with shadows, she still was alone. Where could 
 Susan be ? What was the matter ? Why did nobody come ? She 
 was powerless to move — the wood fire sank lower and lower, though 
 emitting a sweeter and sweeter incense from its ashes, and the 
 shadows lengthened themselves across the floor. As she thus lay, she 
 thought she heard the glass door from the rearward lawn open, and 
 someone enter. 
 
 “Susan! Susan! Is that you?” she asked again and ao*ain, till 
 the words were a monotony. ° 
 
 “ Ellis ! Is it you ? ” she asked again, as her sickening dread grew 
 more and more. “ Is it you come to say I have no child ! ” 
 
 The steps were heard again — they passed into the shadows around 
 her couch— they were beside her, and yet she could not see; yet, the 
 instant they came so near, intuitively she seemed to know whose they 
 were. 
 
 “My God!”— she said, suddenly — “give me strength!— it is my 
 dear Joel — my Flora’s father! ” 
 
 She was right; the tall shadow leant over her, lessened itself by 
 kneeling, and her head rested on her husband’s arm. 
 
 “Ay! wife, ay! It is Joel, with a remorse in his heart that’s 
 been growing larger and blacker ever since the night ” 
 
 “ Hush ! hush ! Now I rest near thee, all thatls forgotten. What 
 I want is to come home ! ” 
 
 “ Wife, thou mustn’t speak thus tenderly to a ruffian like me, or 
 thou’lt slay me whilst I kneel.” 
 
 “ Shall I ? then I must — for thou wilt never hear from me but 
 tender words. Kill me ! — and yet in dying I should recollect thou 
 wert Flora’s father. But, oh ! I’m forgetting my child !— tell me— 
 tell me of her ! ” 
 
 “Well, she’s been bad enough, but there’s a hope of her now.” 
 
 “ And you know about ” 
 
 “ Ay ! — what thou hast kept secret so long ? I’ve seen the children, 
 and seen Ellis ; and yet — I’ll tell thee what ” 
 
 “ Hush ! no more such words. I want to be at peace, husband, 
 and come home.” She nestled close to him as she spoke, and he 
 could feel that she rested in his arms more heavily. 
 
 “But, but,” she still more faintly whispered, by-and-by, “let a 
 drop of ale suffice, and don’t ” 
 
 “ Missis, I’ve sworn before God never to touch spirits or 
 again. Tve sworn it, and I’ll keep my word ! ” 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 387 
 
 His saying so might make her think that peace was indeed come — 
 that she might indeed go home, never to quit it more. All she said 
 further were a few half-audible words about Flora and little Johnny. 
 Then she nestled closer, lay more heavily — her peace was indeed 
 come — she was indeed gone home to a better one than any that earth 
 , holds ! 
 
 She was so long silent — her lips, as he pressed his against, them, 
 
 . grew so cold — she lay so heavily in his arms, that presciently he knew 
 that she was dead long before anyone came near — yet he did not call, 
 or move away — it was a relief to his own breaking heart, to his own 
 overcharged spirit, to be alone, even in death, with her to whom 
 he had been so cruel, — and who to him had been so tender, and so 
 true ! 
 
 When Aunt Susan came in, bearing a light, she was indeed sur- 
 prised at what she saw — more surprised than that her long-ailing 
 sister was dead. The spark of life had burnt so feebly of late, that 
 , any sudden joy or sorrow, any sudden coming of the peace she 
 craved, was sure to bring the final rest of all ! 
 
 Late that night the servants at the Pool, who had sat up for their 
 master, were surprised by his return on foot, perfectly sober, and 
 more stern and grave even than had been his wont of late. Calling 
 ? his wife’s favourite old servant into the parlour, he bid her close the 
 ? door. Then he asked her for the key of her mistress’s room, which 
 had been kept locked since Mrs. Breere’s absence. He then bid her 
 , collect every item of plate together, put them in the strong chest, 
 lock it, and bring him the key ; and similar commands were issued as 
 } to the custody of the china-closet, store-room, Flora’s room, and 
 other places which contained valuable things. These keys in his 
 possession, he rose slowly, for he seemed very ill, and prepared to go 
 to bed. 
 
 i “ Have breakfast ready early in the morning,” he said, “ and bid 
 John have those women’s carriage ready at the door by the time 
 [ breakfast’s over.” 
 
 “ Are they going, master ? ” 
 
 “ Ay, Martha, but say nought to-night.” 
 
 “ And mistress. Sir ? — and our dear young lady ? ” 
 
 He tried to answer, but his stoicism vanished whilst he strove, 
 and clutching in his mortal agony the faithful creature’s hands, 
 brought them to his face, and hid within them his wild paroxysm of 
 grief and tears. 
 
 Even whilst weeping, he told her all his woe, his hope, his broken 
 heart, his remorse for that winter’s night — that winter s night, which 
 , had seared itself so deep within his brain. 
 
 i Weeping too, for she dearly loved her mistress, and dearer still 
 the darling of the house, she strove to give comfort — and striving, 
 5 did so, for pity which is sincere is a blessed medicament, a holy 
 balm. 
 
 Stern and self-sustained once more, he went to bed, and in the 
 morning was down stairs before his sisters. His servants could see 
 25—2 
 
S88 
 
 mainstone’s housp:keeper. 
 
 Ih^w very ill lie was — what an effort both speech and movement cost 
 him. 
 
 Angry at being disturbed so early, his sisters stalked' into the room 
 side by side, like two beadles or two funeral mutes. They were the 
 more angry that the servants had not already answered their many 
 questions. 
 
 ‘‘ Why is breakfast so early, Joel ? ” 
 
 “ Because thee hast business before thee, and that’s to ride home.” 
 
 “Oh! indeed — then we suppose there’s been makings up, and all 
 that, and that thy useless wife is coming to cumber the house once 
 more.” 
 
 “ Ay ! she is coming home,” he said, with Spartan fortitude. 
 “ God help me, and on men’s shoulders.” 
 
 They were a little struck it could be seen, both by his words, his 
 manner, and his looks. But their awe did not last long, and of j>ity 
 they had none. 
 
 “Well, as Mary’s dead, and your daughter, as we suppose you 
 know now, married, it’s nonsense about our going — to leave thee 
 alone with a pack of cheating servants.” 
 
 “A pack of cheating servants!” he said, catching at their words, 
 and the whirlwind of his wrath breaking forth. “ Ain’t they better 
 than two ruthless wolves ? If thee’d been human, if thee’d had a 
 thought beyond thine own selfish greed, thee’d have broken out Flo’s 
 marriage, in some sort o’ way smoothed over what was bitter to me, 
 and led her back to her old father’s arms. Eh ! I love her lightest 
 hair better than thy whole bodies. And if thee either think to plot 
 more, or imbitter more, thee art mistaken. If God in his mercy 
 spare my darling, she and the little ones shall come home to her old 
 father’s heart and fireside, and never know a tear his hand can wipe 
 away. Eh ! but this I munna know — my remorse has already shaped 
 my shroud ! ” 
 
 He said no more; but, sitting down, hid his face from their view. 
 Whilst they, (iold and insolent, slowly took their breakfast, as though 
 no sorrow brooded in that shadowed, solemn house. When their meal 
 was over, they showed their reluctance to go, both by words and 
 slow preparation ; but he roused himself anew. With less vehe- 
 mence, but unmoved determination, he followed them up and down 
 till they got their things together, and were ready to depart. Then 
 he would have said “ good-bye,” but they passed him with insolent 
 menace, and, ascending their carriage, drove away. He never saw 
 them more. 
 
 lie waited up till the corpse came home, in the solemn shadows of 
 the autumn night; and when he had received it, with bowed head 
 and stricken spirit, he went to bed, from which he never rose again. 
 Sorrow and drink had been for months his slow destroyers. 
 
 He lived long enough to hear that Flora was past all danger 
 though still very ill, and to see Ellis several times. 
 
 “ My lad,” he said, on one of these occasions, “ the Welton lawyer 
 ac was here yesterday, has tied up everything to my girl, as in dutjjT 
 
MAINSTONE's HOUSEKEEl’ER. 
 
 389 
 
 honnd ; but there’s still a p^ood bit of doatinir money — that Flo can 
 si^n over to thee for the coming pinch. Never mind the pinch, keep 
 a brave Enorlish heart — and forget being a fine gentleman — wliilst 
 thee keepest a poor man. Come and live here simply and plainly 
 — stick to the collieries and iron works, and fortune'll come to 
 thee. Let fools run away to foreign parts ; but keep at home 
 and do thy duty, and there’s enough for thee or any man to do 
 properly. If tiliou dost want partner or helper, take thee Richard 
 Wenlock — for the man has a great brain, and a strong, true 
 heart.” 
 
 “He has, indeed,” was the answer. “I should not be wiiat I am, 
 or what 1 may be, but for him.” 
 
 “Ay, lad, he and I have differed a bit at times, and yet T say 
 to thee, hold fast his hand — he's a true man, and God’s gentle- 
 man.” 
 
 Mr. Radnor came to and fro to the sick room, as also, amongst 
 others, Squire Baldwin. 
 
 “ Don’t thee be uneasy,” said the latter to his sinking friend, 
 “ about thy pretty little one. I couldn’t be a husband to her, but 1 
 can be a fayther, and the collieries shan’t come to a stand-still for 
 want of a few score pounds. 1 ain't got kith or kin, and so the child 
 of the very oldest friend Theobald Baldwin has shall be as his own. 
 1 always intended this, old friend, indeed I did. As to that lady up at 
 Mainstone — and a dear, gentle lady, too — that they whisper is going 
 to be married to the old parson, why, in my own mind. I’ve made her 
 settle a point that's been many a day a sore trouble to me. It’s about 
 the old cha’ny. Often and often I’ve said to myself, when smoking 
 my pipe by the quiet fire, ‘ Theobald Baldwin, when thou art gone, 
 who’ll care for the old pots and cups thy mother prized so — who’ll be 
 reverent to her precious dragons and Indian bowls — who'll care for 
 the treasured scents of many and many a bygone summer?’ But 
 when I saw her delicate fingers go so tenderly over what my dear 
 dead old mother loved, my heart yearned towards the stranger, and I 
 said, ‘ If all be well, thou shalt be possessor of what a woman as 
 good as thee once greatly prized.’ So this cha’ny trouble settled 
 in mv own mind, 1 shall have ne’er another old friend, if thou 
 mendest, and can come away to the old hall, and smoke a pipe with 
 me.” 
 
 But Joel got no better, and sunk from day to day. 
 
 Little Johnny was brought on several occasions to see him, and 
 behaved quietly and prettily. One afternoon, about a week after his 
 wife’s funeral, Joel was thought to be better, and the little one was 
 left with him alone. For a while the child sat still on the bed where 
 they had placed him ; and then, nestling to the faltering arms put 
 round him, he bent his pretty face and slept a time. Then waking, 
 the tender arms were still around him, but the eyes which, a little 
 while before had looked so kindly, were closed — the lips which bad 
 murmured some loving word or so, were still. 
 
 “ Da ! da ! ” spoke the little one, after looking and wondering 
 
390 
 
 mainstone's housekeeper. 
 
 awhile, kissing the chill lips, and pressing his tiny fingers on the closed 
 eyelids — but neither answer nor movement came. 
 
 Again the child nestled and slept, and when they came they found 
 it so. But the one slept the sleep which has no awakening — the 
 other that of many uprisings and lying-down ere the great sleep ! 
 comes. ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 WELDORE FURNACE. 
 
 Never before for forty years — through summer or winter, through 
 autumn or spring — had the country missed what it did on this chill 
 and rainy October night. The rocky crags of far-off lying hills, 
 desolate sweeps of moorland, boggy wastes, russet woods, solitary 
 granges, grey old churches, and their still greyer, weather-beaten 
 belfries, stood cold and dark beneath the starless sky; for Weldore 
 Furnace, which had been so long a cheery beacon, had been suffered 
 to “ blow out ” some hours before. There were other, and very 
 many, furnaces along the great mining ridge of country fully alight! 
 but none of these were on so large a scale as that of Weldore, or placed 
 so conspicuously on a lofty moorland-peak. It was, therefore, as if 
 the lights of some high Pharos had suddenly died out and left around 
 a dark waste or limitless sea. 
 
 Immediately round the furnace it was not so dark as thus further 
 off. A few of the gas jets were alight in the offices and sheds, two 
 or three pit engines were at work, the heaps of iron-ore slowly 
 mouldered, and one of some two or three shops, which were in an 
 adjacent lane leading from the furnace to the high-road, was yet 
 open, and its lights flared far up and down the cindery path opposite. 
 
 This shop was newly-built, and so large and bare within, as to have 
 lore the appearance of a newly-whitewashed barn or school-room. 
 Miners’ flannel shirts and blankets, and a few cheap, gaudy shawls, 
 hanging on lines from wall to wall, took off somewhat this barren, 
 poverty-stricken look, though it was otherwise conspicuous enough. 
 The shelves, counter, and desk were roughly hewn, and for the most 
 part yet unpainted ; and the array of canisters, Jars, bottles, and boxes, 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 391 
 
 sizes large and small, were scanty enough for the great spaces they 
 6ad to fill. The dishes scattered on the dirty counter were equally a 
 promise without substance ; for the rank fresh butter had dwindled 
 to a pound or two, the red-herrings were few in number, the butter- 
 lirkins and canisters sounded hollow when a knife or hand touched 
 them, and the flour-sacks stood more or less empty. Either pur- 
 posely, or necessitously things looked at their last gasp. 
 
 Behind the counter, and assisted by a small boy, waited Mrs. Jack, 
 dirty, weary, and dejected -looking. It was very evident that things 
 were not so prosperous with her as in the palmy days of iniquitous 
 dominion, when she was ruler and mistress at Mainstone ; yet when 
 occasion served, her old insolence and swagger betrayed themselves. 
 Credit she would not give ; there was a notice to that efiect stuck in 
 both the windows, and pasted on the door outside ; but when it was 
 asked purposely or ignorantly, her ire burst forth. 
 
 “ Trust ! I ha’ none to give thee,” she said, insolently, to the fore- 
 most of three or four women who yet lingered in the shop waiting to 
 be served ; “ If thou wans’t butter, thou must pay.” 
 
 “ Money ! I ha’ none, or I wouldn’t come here ; but the maister 
 owes my Siah enough to buy half the butter in Wei ton market.” 
 
 “ I ha’ nothing to do with Briscoe’s business — if he owes folks, 
 folks owe him,” was the ready answer ; “ so if thou hast no money, 
 thou had’st better take thy custom elsewhere.” 
 
 There was menace in the woman’s eye and uplifted hand, as she 
 Turned quickly round to look at those behind her ; but whatever was 
 her intent, it was stayed by a man, who all this time had been 
 ‘lounging near the door, ostensibly smoking the pipe and tobacco he 
 had come in to purchase, though probably with some more covert 
 purpose. He had the manner, and wot? the dress, of a pitman, but 
 |there was keenness in his face, and much which looked like sup- 
 pressed humour lurking round his mouth. 
 
 I “ Missis,” he said, in a low voice, as he stepped forward and laid his 
 Jhand on her shoulder, “ leave this sort o’ reckoning to t’other folks. 
 If thou need’st a sixpence tak’ it, and let thy lads ha’ butter, but ha’ 
 no strife wi’ her.” 
 
 The woman obeyed, took the butter and sullenly withdrew — so did 
 .the others one by one, when they had made their scanty purchases. 
 Then, and not till then, the man shuffled off with a curt “ good night ” 
 to Mrs. Jack. It was unanswered, perhaps unheard, for her manner 
 was intensely anxious and absorbed. She waited for a time, as though 
 ‘expecting other customers to drop in ; and when they did not, and a 
 little cuckoo clock in an adjacent room struck eleven, she bid the boy 
 put up the shutters. When this was effected, she called him to the 
 counter at which she stood. 
 
 “ As I may be nigh an hour yet, thee’d better run round to the 
 maister, and tell him I’ll be up as soon as may be. And here, take 
 ‘this letter, it came from Welton this afternoon.” 
 
 1 “ VV hen I’ve seen him I may go home, mayn’t I?” asked the 
 
 5 lad 
 
S92 
 
 MAINSTONE's HOUSEKEEPElt. 
 
 •‘Ay, and here’s what I ha to pay thee; and don’t op-«i. no 
 more, recollect that.” 
 
 As she spoke she gave the boy some trifling sum of money ; 
 hurrying after him to the door, she locked and bolted it carefully, and ! 
 with a trepidation which bespoke some intense fear. 
 
 “ That letter,” she said to herself, “ is from the lawyer folks thjii 
 fellow Jonathan has set upon us — though what right he has to inter- 
 fere in Robert Moore’s consarns I can’t see. But neither he nor the ! 
 t'other devils shall get ought on him. I’ll take care ; though he may 
 as well just get over bis spice of ill-humour at the letter before I go 
 up as not.” 
 
 Presently she lighted a candle, and went with it over the house, 
 which consisted of five or six large rooms. All were empty, with 
 the exception of one — half parlour, half kitchen — at the rear of 
 the shop, and this held little more than a large old sofa, used 
 evidently as a bed, a table, a couple of chairs, and some culinary 
 utensils. Here she gathered together a few things, tied them in 
 a bundle, put on her cloak and bonnet, and then returned to the 
 shop. She had more to do here ; for she emptied the tea, coffee, and 
 sugar canisters, into separate bags, made parcels of divers other 
 stores, and when all these were ready, and gathered together, she 
 blew out the gas, and made towards the shop-door. Here she listened 
 painfully for some minutes, as she had done previously several times ; 
 for she fancied she heard the sound of footsteps, as well as that of 
 suppressed voices ; but all being now, as she thought, still, she 
 opened the door, to find herself, to her amazement, in the presence of 
 a considerable mob of mingled men and women, without power to 
 advance or to retreat, except as they willed. They received her with 
 mingled groans and hisses, hustled her into their midst, and then, 
 advancing slowly forwards, bore her on with them towards Briscoe’s 
 house. 
 
 Upon leaving the shop, the boy, instead of proceeding as he had 
 oeen told, had turned aside at the top of the lane towards the pit 
 >iiouths and their accompanying mounds of rubbish, coal, and 
 smouldering fire-heaps. Hidden amidst these, and by the clouds of 
 .‘moke beaten down by the wind and rain of this chill night, he came 
 presently to a clearer space, where some dozen men sat grouped 
 round a blazing coal fire alight on the ground. They were all pit 
 and furnace men, with the exception of two, who were probribly 
 itinerant musicians from the neighbouring town — for a drum, fife, and 
 IPonaoAn nines stood beside them. The boy had been apparentiv 
 expected, tor his appearance was hailed with a murmur of general 
 satisfaction. 
 
 “ Well, Tummy,” was their salute, jn a dialect which to be under- 
 stood must be, as it were, translated rather than written — “ how’s the 
 missis ? — ready I ” 
 
 He said she was not, and then went on to say how he had left Mrs. 
 Jack employed, and of his mission to Briscoe’s house with the 
 and letter. They listened attentively, ascertained how long 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 393 
 
 l^Irs. Jack would probably be; looked at the superscription of 
 the letter; and when it was re-delivered to the boy, he was bidden 
 
 When IVe bin up, I may come back to see tbe fun ? asked the 
 
 lad. 
 
 “ Fun ; there’s na fun,” said he, who seemed to be spokesman ; 
 “nothing but justice to a knave as has brought ruin to the oud 
 maisters— ruin that ’ud be right out but for the good-will of t’others. 
 Na! he sneaked into the place, but ha’ shan’t sneak out quite as 
 quietly. Now! go thy way, and dunna thee say nought — till be 
 th’ best for thee— if thee val-la-est whole bones instead o’ broken 
 uns.” 
 
 The boy went his way, leaving the men seated about the fire 
 with a quik and patient gravity quite strange to see. Occasionally 
 they spoke to each other, and then again for a time relapsed into 
 silence; but there was that in the faces of several of them, which 
 bespoke determination as well as grim ferocity. Eventually two of 
 the men rose, and departed on some seeming purpose, after a brief 
 conference with the rest. Those remaining, talked quietly amongst 
 themselves. After settling over again the question of some road they 
 were to traverse that night, and which was to be the wildest and most 
 solitary of the moorland" ridge, they recurred to the one great theme to 
 them— of their work and their masters. Briscoe had been peremp- 
 torily dismissed the week before ; he had taken no heed, and had, there- 
 fore, received that very day a still more peremptory command to quit 
 his house and holdings within four and twenty hours, he bank- 
 ruptcy, through the intervention and assistance of friends, was 
 merely nominal— one by which no one would eventually lose, though 
 its declaration facilitated the settlement of affairs, the adjustment of 
 claims, and the incoming of new masters. These were the topics 
 which to them had vital interest. 
 
 “Better nor all this t’ th’ young maister is this o’ Pick AVenlock’s 
 managing, and being roight hand in everything ; ay ! and partner too, 
 some%e say,” spoke one of the men; “for him and his oud aunt 
 ha’ both a bit o’ money, and her ’bin putting some on it down. But 
 I tell thee what — we munna let this drumming bis'niss go too far. I’d 
 keep hands off th’ fellow and the oud witch, though I’d mak’ the road 
 a long one, that they mayn’t coome pretty easy back again, at least 
 the next soide o’ day-loight.” 
 
 “ Hands off ! Ay, if ta’ old missis and him go peacefully ! but I 
 wonna be reckoning if he gives us some on them looks and words 
 we’ve had in our toime ! But there’ll be no fear o’ Dick Wenlock : 
 he went away toired enuf at six o’clock — for he’d bin all day^ about 
 the furnace wi’ th’ builder folks ; and, what’s more, th oud missis be 
 loy’ in sick, and ha’ bin thisn’s a good bit now ! ” 
 
 “ Ay ! she ha’ bin a moiserly one ! and ha’ wagged a loud tung 
 ag’inst the maister’s loiking for books. But she’s m eighty fond on 
 ’em, and eoome down wi’ th’ money roight handsomely when she saw 
 t’ would do th’ lad good.” 
 
394 
 
 MAINSTONE’s i USEKEEPER. 
 
 “ Well, to be sure ! the young maister ha’ friends enuf. There’s 
 bm a good bit of oud Joel’s money ; and th’ young maister and the 
 little uns, and the young missis— now she’s a bit strono-er— be comino- 
 they say, to live at the Pool ; and our oud maister, John ThornhilT 
 and Margery, wi’ ’em. The oud maister wouldna’ loike that I 
 reckon, if he kmow’d it; but he’s a bigger babby than th’ miss’is’s 
 little un, and dunna know one place from t’other.” 
 
 ‘‘Duiyia he? Well, it’s judgment, I supposen for his days o’ sin 
 and proide I iiut what be they go’in to do wi’ th’ oud hall ? ” 
 
 “Let it— folks say. Dick just to’d ’em that ev’ry fish i’ th’ net 
 wur something in a tolme like thisn’s. So it’s to be let next vear. 
 And, I say,^ did ye hear how farrantly t’ou’d Squire at the Hoo came 
 down wi’ his money t’other day, and how he’s taken shares i’ th’ new 
 Company ? ” 
 
 ■^y ? I heerd on that, as well as that th’ lady up at Mainstone wur 
 as spe’rity and open-handed as onny on ’em as has bin helpina- 
 t young maister. She wur up here wi’ him t’other day, and about tl? 
 furnace and th’ pit-mouths, wi’ an eye and an ear for all that wur 
 go in on. I heerd her say, that when things wur smooth ao-ain, 
 there shu d be good schools for ’ar little uns, and a noi^ht-schoof for 
 bigger and proizes for th’ lads, just as they have in'^Staffordsheer. 
 
 Lh ! she s a noice lady ; but I dunna know what wur th’ matter for 
 
 when Dick Wenlock coome i’ th’ rolling house where she and th* 
 young maister wur a stand’in talking, I see him go off again roio-ht 
 quickly, without seemin’ to see her, or she him— though f see’d him 
 glance at her as keenly as a hawk. J.hey us’d to be moio'hty friends 
 when she wur first at Mainstone ! ” ° 
 
 “Well! maybe; as it’s said she’s going’ to marry the oud parson 
 Dick moight think it more mannerly to do that’n. But the parson’s 
 too oud to be marry’n a lass like that ; his sermons and his garden 
 and Molly his new maid— that’s as good as gow’d to him, they say- 
 ought to be enuf for him now-a-days. But he’s bin in love wi’ her 
 this mony a year ! ” 
 
 “ Why ! has he ? ” But the conversation was stayed here by 
 
 the return of one of the absent men. After a few whispered words 
 had passed round, they all quickly rose and went away together, over 
 the pit-mounds and round the great Furnace— now for th'e first’ time, 
 for the space of forty years, resting like some mighty giant from its 
 Cyclopean labours. 
 
 As they went onwards, other men, as well as women, who, as it 
 seemed, had been waiting purposely for this object, joined them, till, by 
 the time they reached the closed shop, their numbers were consider- 
 able. Here they stood with patient watchfulness, carefully abstainino- 
 from speech or movement, lest their presence should be suspected. ^ 
 Though extensively wrought for both coal and ironstone, whilst 
 yet invaluable riches only awaited the hand of labour, vast tracts of 
 the great mining ridge in this direction still remained in a state of 
 nature. Pleasant oases were these amidst the busy places of the 
 “ black country ; ” and the more removed from the ceaseless clouvia 
 
MAINSTONE*S HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 S95 
 
 *■’ envelopIn<x smoke, the ijreener was their moorland turf, and 
 ^*ever the bald rock wiiich broke here and there through the 
 
 irfaces. m 
 
 In one of such green places, lying about half-a-mile from the 
 hirnace, and shut out from its roar and smoke by the inter- 
 bning ridge, the agent had built himself a house. A path across 
 le moorland from the lane led to it ; and, standing by itself, 
 hiTOunded by a considerable garden and a few outbuildings, it had 
 pleasant enough look when viewed from a distance ^ but a near 
 ^oproach dissipated this illusion. Then it was seen to be still un- 
 nished, though evidently built some years; and erected upon a 
 bggy soil, full of springs, and wholly undrained, the foundations, as 
 ' etf as other portions of the house, were already hastening to ruin 
 '*om damp, neglect, and want of finish. Here the once elaborate 
 :ucco had dropped off — there a gable-wall had cracked, and fallen 
 way whole inches — in some places the roof was untiled— and more 
 lari half of the windows were boarded up or shuttered. The columnar 
 orch-way was filled up by bundles of pea-sticks, and entrance given 
 t a more modest side- door ; whilst the garden, ambitiously planted 
 dth costly shrubs, had become, for the most part, a tangled wilder- 
 0gg — except in such open spots as were used for a kitchen-garden, 
 [\\d where yet a few withered pea and bean-stalks rustled in the 
 
 ' When the boy who had come from the shop knocked, this side- 
 * oor in the gable was opened by Briscoe, who, when he had taken the 
 dtter and ifstened to the message, gruffly bid him go, and retreated 
 >ack ap-ain. His way lay through a small passage into a kitchen 
 nlivened by a cheerful fire, but otherwise destitute of appliances or 
 •:omfort. Like the house outside, its appearance bespoke more ambi- 
 ious days. Its walls had been originally painted of a rich flesh 
 ‘;olour; a few feet from the ceiling ran a wide shelf all round, on 
 vhich had stood the choice pieces of a costly dinner-service. Here 
 vas the mark where a clock had stood, there a lofty press, there 
 igain a dining-table— but all these things were gone— and walls, 
 loor, and stove — this latter elaborate enough to cook the specialities 
 )f aLord Mayor’s feast— all betokened lo^ig neglect and hastening 
 
 *uin. . 1 /? 
 
 W hen Briscoe had read the letter, he tossed it into the fire, and 
 resumed the short pipe he was smoking when the boy knocked at the 
 Joor. Seated on a low chair before the fire, he bent towards it to 
 3atch the warmth more readily, but every now and then he turned to 
 isten eagerly to the sounds about the house — the chill autumnal 
 wind, th^pattering rain-drops, or the creaking of some door in the 
 more ruined portions of the house. Callous and indifi'erent as he 
 ordinarily was, some fear to-night disturbed this almost brutal ec^ua- 
 nimity. W^hen bis pipe was out, and he had glanced at his watch, he 
 rose and lighted a stable lantern, and began turning over some 
 harness which lay spread forth on the only table in the room ; and 
 . whilst supplying the deficiencies of strap and buckle with pieces of 
 
306 
 
 MAINSTONE'S HOUSEKEErER. 
 
 twine from his pocket, he heaped his bitter maledictions on Mr^ 
 Jack. 
 
 “The ha^! If I hadn t wa^fed her, she’d have been here mucli 
 too soon. But it was always her way — slow for good, swift for evil 
 She knows I cannot get away from this cursed place without money 
 and that is why I had the shop kept open another day. The devi 
 take her — she was to have been here before twelve, and it’s now ni<rl 
 one, and if I’m not far off by the time dawn breaks, I shall have 
 those curs upon me They know their master’s orders, and they’l 
 be down upon me like a pack of winter-hunofered wolves. Curst 
 them all ! 1 must get the pony into the old cart and be off— mone^i 
 
 or no money.” 
 
 As he muttered this, and much more. to himself, he took up the 
 harness and lantern, and prepared to go forth to the stable ; but as 
 he approached the outer door, he became conscious of the shufflinoj 
 of many feet, and the sound of suppressed breathing. His hearij 
 died within him, and terror made him cowardly. He dropped whatj 
 his hands held, and attempted to get back to the kitchen and close 
 the intervening door, but at the same moment the outer door was 
 burst open, and he was at the mercy of his pursuers. For a fewi 
 moments he fought hard to shut them out of the kitchen, but use- 
 lessly ; and when he found this to be so, he retreated to the table, 
 and sought to secure a carpet-bag, which, with a basket, his hat, 
 outer coat, and a few other things, "stood thereon. 
 
 “ Coome, maister,” cried the foremost of the pursuers, “ put that 
 bag down— thou’lt tak’ nothin’ wi’ thee. If thee tak’st whole bo ons, 
 considerin’ what thou’st bin to folks, thou may’st reckon tlivself 
 lo’ky.” 
 
 “It’s mine,” said Briscoe, clutching at it still more desperately; 
 “ it’s mine — thee, nor the devils thy masters, have a right to a thing 
 here. They’ve stripped the place already — what’s here is mine.” ^ 
 
 “Beit? Well, we’ll see. Tummy, hand thy knoife here. The 
 maister wur always a desperate ’un for truth.” This ironical jestj 
 elicited a loud laugh from the dozen or more of men who had crowdedi 
 into the kitchen. Most of these had their faces blackened, and were 
 otherwise disfigured, especially three or four who acted as ring- 
 leaders. 
 
 ^ Desperately as he fought for it, the men secured the bag, and 
 ripping it open for a little space, it was seen to be full of papers,! 
 account-books, and documents. 
 
 “Halloo! here’s what belongs to the maisters, indeed, if all be I 
 true,” spoke one or two in a breath. “ Here, Billy tak’ care on’t, 
 and let Dick and the young Squire hav’t up t’em in th’ morn.” 
 
 Maddened at what was thus said, and by the disappearance of the 
 bag over the heads of the men to some safe custody in the rear,' 
 Briscoe threw himself upon the foremost like a wild beast. 
 
 “ Coome, coome,” they said, “we mean to be peaceful, if thou’lt 
 letten us ; if not, woe be to thee ! Thou’lt take nayther scrip nor 
 bcrap from here — thou’st had enuf in th’ toime ; and if thy ill gains 
 
mainstone's housekeeper. 
 
 397 
 
 r flown away it no fault o’ ourns, nor a bit less poverty and sorrow 
 them thou'st bin a lying knave to. So coome on — thy oud inis&is 
 'IkI a bit o’ moosic’s waiting thee outside.” 
 
 j But as he still fought on, and hurled his threats and curses at them 
 laselessly, those who acted as ringleaders made no more to do but 
 digged and pinioned him. They seemed resolved to avoid a breach 
 peace if possible ; for they knew too well the temper of the mob 
 itside to trust to it, if provoked beyond a certain limit, by the 
 iffianly threats and invectives of a man whom they had the bitterest 
 '!>ason to hate. 
 
 > They had come prepared, as it seemed, to silence him by these 
 *rcible measures, for when this was accomplished, they secured what 
 .se was his, carefully fastened up the house behind them, and, 
 ‘larching with him in their midst, went forth to the open space beyond 
 le garden pales, where the large majority of the mob had patiently 
 'aited. Here, as soon as Briscoe was seen, mingled yells and hisses 
 iluted him ; and the signal given, the drum, fife, and randcan pipes, 
 ^xiick up in quick time the “Rogue’s March.” 
 
 “Place him at th’ yed, wi’ th’ oud missis, and then forrards, 
 lere be no’a toime to lose,” spoke a voice which more than once 
 fready had given the word of command. But those who sought 
 ) obey were for the instant baffled, for their prisoner refused to 
 love. 
 
 “ Thou’d’st better not go agin ’em,” said the voice once more in a 
 ' hisper, “ there’s moniiy on ’em there thou’st mortally injured, 
 cant wages, lung o’ payin’ — babbies uuberri’d — more on hunger’d— 
 
 ' ly tummy shops, and t’other things ; and what’s more nor their 
 earts, thy years o’ baseness agin th’ t’oud S(j[uire and his son. 
 'hem dunna forget th’ last, so coome on, or I wunna answer for ’em 
 Itrippin’ thee flesh from bo’one.” 
 
 Thus warned, and knowing well the lawlessness in certain moods of 
 ’^lose whose hatred he was thus the just and immeasurable object, 
 'Iriscoe doggedly moved forward to the place assigned, which was at 
 lie rear of the discordant musicians, and beside Mrs. Jack. But it 
 'ras so dark, that, even by the light of several lanterns carried by the 
 mb, he could see little more than the outline of her figure, and that 
 f the bundles with which she was burdened. But if thus dim to 
 hsion, she was audible enough to hear. Sniffing, groaning, ejacula- 
 jing, she could be heard, in the brief pauses of the rapping of the 
 rum, and even sometimes beyond it. 
 
 ) it Forrards ! ” cried the voice of command, as soon as this rough 
 tharshalling of the mob was concluded. 
 
 “ Halloo 1 wait a minute,” said another, “ t’oud missis here be 
 G roanin’ wi’ her bundles — what’s to be done wi’ ’em ? ” 
 
 “ What’s in ’em ? ” 
 
 “ Oh ! ” answered two or three in a breath, “ its the rob’ins o’ the 
 “ummy-shop ; she cou’d no more coome away wi’out the scrap! n’s o’ 
 %’ tea-canisters — for some on us made a hole in the shutters and saw 
 her — than she cou’d let the oud hlainstone parson’s chicken^ ‘^nd 
 
398 
 
 mainstone's housekeeper. 
 
 brandy-bottle alone! Tli’ witch— she’d feather her nest happ( 
 Avhat moight ! ” ' I 
 
 ‘'Eh! then straighten the balance. She and the rogue here hJ 
 had mony o’ sixpence on our money. Tak’ ta’ boo’ndles, and whd 
 t’hoine agan’ missis can hav’ what’s in ’em. Now forrards ! ” 
 
 Thus deprived of her bundles, Mrs. Jack was made to walk ( 
 more briskly, though her groans and whimperings were still audib 
 above the beating of the drum. 
 
 “Forrards, quickly!” cried the voice again; “up th’ hill, an 
 roight across Quagly Bog, no pickin’ o’ path— on ! ” ’ 
 
 Thus invited, the mass moved quickly forwards, across oozy spo 
 —up the slippery turf— up the steep grey crags, till they stood c 
 the high ridge of the mining country, where all beyond on eithi 
 side was flame and smoke, except for such desolate spots as here ait 
 there intervened. Here, on this altitude, wild and solitary to d 
 inconceivable degree, and leading to a a still wilder country beyon 
 the cold, autumnal wind blew keenly, and the rain unceasino-] 
 drizzled down ; yet, on the mass went, stragglers— mostly women- 
 dropping oflT now and then, as though they had not nerve to face th 
 wind and rain, so cold was the one,'^so drip, drip was the other. Yc 
 some remained — pitiless — unforgiving women — women who remem 
 bered hungry and dying children, the extortions of the tommy-shoi 
 the woe and ruin of the beer- shop. In the hearts of these, charit 
 and pity for this man and woman had long since died. 
 
 It was very dark, and the light shed by the few lanterns the me 
 carried, indicated rather than showed the way; yet on they wen 
 reckless of obstacles ; the greater these impediments were, the moi 
 recklessly they faced them. If Briscoe or his companion hesitate 
 or stumbled, or lagged even for an instant, on they were urge^ 
 the fife and drum never ceasing all this time their monotonoi 
 discord. ' 
 
 The summit of the ridge crossed, there was a rocky descent, sti 
 steeper than the ascent they had climbed. At the foot of this layi 
 morass, somewhat similar to that once frequented by Cornelius, thouu 
 less impassable and far extending. Into this the mob unhesitl 
 tingly plunged, and, guided by one who undoubtedly knew its intr 
 cacies well, floundered on and on, through mud, and ooze, and rushe 
 and alder-brakes— never pausing, never resting — letting the musi 
 play on, and utterly remorseless in their mood. They were we 
 and stifl, and sore, and wearied, yet it was cruel comfort to the 
 - hearts to know that those they led were still more weary and dii 
 tressed. 
 
 Beyond this quag lay a still wilder region of rock and hill, graze 
 by a few sheep, and marked in places by a few old pits, wrought c 
 tried for coal long ago. Thither they made their slow ascenf- tL 
 mining ridge now more than eight miles away, and dawn beginning t 
 show itself in the far horizon. Here they halted, and some threeV 
 four of the men consulted apart. The result was a renewal of the 
 way, up still higher amongst the rocks, till these terminated in a wid 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 S99 
 
 ^fcarren plateau — without limit, as it seemed, in the chill, grey, hazy 
 lawn. Here a halt was called — they meant to go no further, and the 
 approach of persons on horseback could be faintly heard, though they 
 ^luust yet be at a considerable distance. 
 
 Hushing the fife and drum — which once or twice before, from very 
 iveariness, had temporarily ceased — the ringleaders of the worn and 
 /bedraggled mob brought from their midst those more weary and 
 bedraggled than themselves. Wet to the waist, covered with mud, 
 j^kvithout sufficient spirit left even to groan, Mrs. Jack looked a 
 bitiable object so far as could be seen in that dull, grey dawn ; whilst 
 yBriscoe, hand and arm bound as he was, was in a still worse plight, as 
 le had had no power to help himself whilst urged so ruthlessly 
 through the morass. 
 
 j All but one lantern had now died out, and this was brought to bear 
 ipon these two miserable objects. Mrs. Jack began in her most 
 ijeductive whimper to sue for pity; but Briscoe stood sullen and 
 mmoved, not speaking when even the gag was removed, though 
 , pasting his bloodshot eyes round and round like a mastiff about to 
 tjpring. 
 
 ] “Now, maister,” said the man who had so often spoken before, as 
 by the light of the lantern he prepared to unbind Briscoe’s hands, 
 we ha’ coome a good bit out on our way to set thee on thy ro’ade 
 put o’ these parts, and, beyond a bit o’ wetting, ha’ done thee and th’ 
 )ud missis no harm : but if ever thou co’onie’st anoigh the place 
 where’s thou’st wrought so much mischief and ill for t’others, thou 
 uihalt rue th’ day, ay, and the hour too — for a bigger knave nor thou 
 , lever lived. Now go, and dunna let one o’ th’ Mainstone folks iver 
 i;ee thy face or that o’ th’ oud missis agen.” 
 
 , They loosened his hands, as this was said by one and echoed by the 
 Q-’est ; and he should have gone his way peacefully, seeing* how 
 iitherto these men had restrained all the fierce and burning venoreance 
 ^vhich for months and even years had smouldered in the breasts of so 
 ^nany of them. But he was not so wise. Mustering all his strength, 
 ind a very strong and powerful man he was, he sprang upon those 
 i learest to him with the ferocity of a wild beast, and caring not what 
 ijie did, dealt out his blows, his bites, his rabid words, with the fury of 
 i madman. 
 
 j Unhappily he did this! In a moment he was beaten off, and 
 seizing him, they would have torn him limb from limb, but that the 
 ipproach of horsemen seemed now quite near. Loosening him, there- 
 fore, they stooped and caught up the broken rock around, and hurling 
 -t at him in a volley, fled the next instant themselves amidst the 
 j’ocks and down into the valley whence they had come, so that in that 
 jrey dawn they were soon lost to sight. 
 
 Struck in the forehead by a piece of rock, giddy, confused, blinded 
 vith blood, unconscious that his assailants had' retreated, equallv 
 mconscious that any succour was at hand, Briscoe moved madlj 
 (forward, as he thought after those who seemed to go before him 
 ^hen, gaming an escarpment of rock, he trod over it, and in another 
 
400 
 
 MAl^STO^E’s HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 instant lay a liundred feet below mortally wounded, and bidden in 
 roeky cleft, where, unless his groans might reach some ear, aid would 
 never come. 
 
 In the first moment of confusion Mrs. Jack had made good hei 
 retreat, and, hiding herself in a clump of gorse no great way off 
 waited and listened in breathless fear. She heard the voices of the 
 men, the whizzing of the stones, the retreat of footsteps, the ascer 
 of the horsemen leading their horses up the hill. She knew full welJ 
 by their voices who they were — Richard Wenlock and four of thi*| 
 mounted police from Wei ton — she saw them as daylight broadene*] 
 ride up and down, yet she kept still — the terror of seeing any faci* 
 that knew her being greater than her craving for, and indeed need of 
 human pity. 
 
 ''rhe grey dawn faded before a golden day. The little harebells ol 
 that wild region shook on their slim stalks, the yellow butterfliejj 
 flitted to and fro, the raven swept slowly across on its heavy wing — 
 ihe very silence in its sereneness was in keeping with the golden light. 
 Yet no one came — no footstep of man or beast. s 
 
 Towards noon the woman crept forth, to warm and dry herself in 
 the sun. By degrees, as she felt restored, partly through warmthj 
 partly by the aid of a little bottle she had considerately put into heii 
 pocket, she made her way from this higher region, intending to go slowlv 
 on towards W elton, and seek a refuge there. As she thus rested, and 
 by turns went on. low groans met her ears, lessening in their power 
 each time she listened. Feeling sure that they proceeded from 
 Briscoe, and conjecturing that he must have fallen and been hurt, she 
 sought for him unceasingly, and at last, at much risk to herself, crept 
 down to the place where he lay. She raised his head, she spoke toi 
 him, she caressed his face tenderly, but for many minutes unavail- 
 ingly. At length, when his eyes did open recognizingly, there was 
 that in the ferocity of their cruel gaze that was appalling. In- 
 voluntarily she dropped his head, and the curse which partly met heij 
 ear died out upon his dying lips. 
 
 All sympathy was frozen in her soul — what love in life she had 
 had, had been for him. Now scared by this vindictive look, callous, 
 unpity ing, she searched his pockets, and gathering together wha^ 
 little they held, left him for ever. 
 
 Far off* from the dead, and all through the day, till its wane 
 enabled her to go unseen — she sat brooding in the sun — no pity in hei' 
 soul, no tear in her eye. As other women, she had had her days of 
 innocence — and he it was, that thus lay stark, who had wronged heij 
 After long years, memory made thus its bitter visitation. 
 
 When the shadows came, she bowed her head, and went het 
 miserable way ! 
 
M A instone’s HOUSEKEEPEB. 
 
 4 C 1 
 
 1 
 
 I 
 
 r 
 
 >1 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 r 
 
 'i 
 
 J ONCE MORE THE GREEN PARLOUR. 
 
 The success of his loug-cherlshecl and secret wish had not brought 
 peace to Mr. Radnor. On tlie contrary, more and more as time went 
 on, the conviction grew with him, that his success had come through 
 subterfuge, which, however slight in degree, was unworthy of him, 
 ^and of those high principles by the light of which he had walked 
 through life. He had asked for the suppression of truth ; for the 
 ..repression of free-will, of liberty of action ; through this, others had 
 perhaps lost — he had won ; it had been a battle fought between the 
 ;crippled and the free. From the very moment that Charlotte had 
 consented to be his wife, a troubled and growimrly-troubled conscience 
 had been his. He won, but in the moment of winning poignancy of 
 remorse came. Henceforth he was always questioning himself in this 
 wise — “ Have I not been base as well as weak ? — what was my right 
 ,of controlling the free agency of another, more especially one who 
 gwas comparatively a stranger to me ? What right had I of inter- 
 ^ference — what right to intrude on the sacred privacy of another’s 
 (feelings, or suspect an attachment where none might exist ; or if I 
 •did, at least it should have been on better grounds than I had for 
 [jsuspicion ! ” Again — “ Are not their social positions very different ? 
 g — have I not built too much upon worth, acquired knowledge, and 
 /(genius ? No ! here I am right — Charlotte is just the woman to accept 
 jthese qualities for themselves, for she has an instinctive leaning towards 
 truth in all its forms ? Besides this, what right have I to control her, 
 ijto govern her, to make her unhappy — I who would die to make her 
 happy, if that would do so! Ought she not to be to me rather 
 ^.daughter than wife — to me who am old enough to be her father, and 
 who taught her whilst she was a child ? Am I not rewarding her 
 fjincomparable truth and goodness to me by conduct the most base ? 
 3, Has she not raised me out of my misery, loneliness, and degradation 
 ' — and I repay her by making her affections mine through treachery ? 
 ^Should she ever learn this, will she not flee from me as from her 
 basest and worst enemy, and leave me rightly to my desolation. My 
 ■ God, spare me this, if even I must give her to another ! ” 
 
 Such were some of the thoughts by which Julius Radnor tortured 
 himself from day to day. They became to him a species of morbid 
 I flagellation, by which he vexed his spirit. But there were other, 
 
 ! though briefer, moods, when all this morbidness passed away, and as 
 I much jealousy and covetousness were in his heart as was possible to 
 I one so utterly unselfish, and in all respects so truly good. 
 
 “No! she was his, he would never give her up — for who could be 
 26 
 
402 
 
 mainstone's housekeeper. 
 
 her what he should be, who had known her so long, and loved heiJ 
 so tenderly ? ” 1 
 
 It was in these latter moods that he hinted to others, from time toj 
 time, his engagement to Charlotte — so that it was pretty well known^j 
 far and wide, though never explicitly stated. j 
 
 Yet the morbid and far more truthful mood prevailed with himj 
 more particularly as time wore on. Between themselves the subject 
 was scarcely ever referred to ; and when it was, it was so briefly 
 passed by by Charlotte, as to show its unacceptability as a topic oi 
 conversation. Thus warned, Mr. Radnor kept silence, and increase^ 
 thereby the measure of his morbid broodings. 
 
 The winter passed by, somewhat uneventfully at Main stone, as fai 
 ns regarded the outer life ; though of that within, what solemn doubti 
 and hopes, what self-accusations, were taking place, we have seen 
 Thus is it with all of us. How different may the inner life be to the 
 outer. Whilst the latter is apparently serene — how full the firs 
 may be of solemnly enacted tragedies — what remorses, what doubts 
 what fears, what repinings, may bow and crush the spirit! All of us 
 are conscious of this dual life — one for the world, another for our-! 
 selves. 
 
 About mid-winter Charlotte had to go away on business for som( 
 weeks, during all which time Mr. Radnor suffered from a fit of hypoi 
 chondriacism, which outlasted her return. For she came home il 
 from cold — was confined to her room for more than a week; and wheii 
 this brief indisposition wore away, it seemed to leave behind a weak- 
 ness and depression, against which her powerful will combated in vain 
 It might be physical weakness only ; but Mr. Radnor’s ready cont 
 science laid the burden upon itself, and tortured itself more and 
 more. 
 
 Flora and Ellis, accompanied by Mr. Thornhill and Margery, had 
 by this time, gone to the Pool to reside, much to the comfort of Auii 
 Susan and Miss Tern. In the spring the hall was to be renovate< 
 and let, it being thought more prudent for the young wife anJ 
 husband to forego the expenses of a large establishment, and liv^ 
 simply and economically in a somewhat humbler home. Its situatio: 
 was also more convenient for access to the furnace and collieries, am 
 to daily intercourse with Richard Wenlock, who had now assumed hi 
 office of partner and general manager, and who was the source froii 
 whence sprung all the innovations which were taking place. Florj 
 had slowly recovered, though yet somewhat frail ; master Johnny am 
 his still more childish grandfather took to their new home in a sur 
 prising way — it was only Margery who in secret pined for the oh 
 place, to which she had been so long accustomed. Baby Flo wjl, 
 away with Barbie, and lay in the same cradle as Silas Moore’s first) 
 born. 
 
 There had been changes, too, at Brooklow. Judith Whitelock ha* 
 at length given consent to her sister’s marriage with Mr. Grayson 
 though not till after weeks of obdurate negative. “She did not sc| 
 why Lizzie wanted to marry.” But when she found that she mud 
 
maixstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 403 
 
 • eitlier <rive her consent, or lose her sister, her obduracy gave way, 
 though under stern protest that “ it would have been better other- 
 wise.” Mr. Grayson, therefore, now went up and down to Holly 
 'Cottage; and he and Lizzie were to be married in the summer, some- 
 i where about the same time that Mr. Greene was to take home pretty 
 j Kitty Goldrust, after which the young men were to become partners 
 in a large and growing practice. As to Ada Marlowe, she had gone 
 , with her little son, for a time, into Oxfordshire, where some of 
 her family resided ; but she still kept up an active correspondence 
 with the Goldrusts, Charlotte, and Flora. 
 
 It was a day in March — wet for the most part through the morning 
 — but now sunny as afternoon came on. The wind was high, sweep- 
 ing mournfully through the yet leafless trees, but drying up the field 
 and garden-paths almost as quickly as the breath of summer ; so that 
 Mr. Radnor setting forth after dinner to walk to the church, had a 
 less unpleasant way than might have been anticipated. 
 
 ] He had left Charlotte reading by the fire, in her favourite oak- 
 parlour; and hither, as the day darkened, came good Molly to say, 
 that a girl, bearing a message from Horton Wood, waited in the 
 kitchen. 
 
 “ She’s old Mrs. Wenlock’s maid, ma’am ; and the poor old bed- 
 ^ ridden missis, finding herself weaker than ever to-day would like 
 to speak to thee — for she’s something mighty partik’lar on her 
 mind she would like thee to know.” Here Molly made her habitual 
 and quaint reverence to her whom she was learning to so deeply 
 love. 
 
 “ Indeed ! I am sorry to hear that the poor old lady is no better. 
 Yes ! I will go ! Tell Elisha to put the horse into the chaise at 
 once and drive me there — the girl can be spared a walk, and ride 
 1 behind.” 
 
 For some minutes, when Molly was gone, she bent her head, and 
 sat lost in thought. Then she went up stairs, and dressed, waited 
 lUpon by Julia, but carefully superintended by IMolly, to see that 
 ^the much-loved mistress had wraps enough against the keen wind 
 which blew. 
 
 When ready, they went down the pleasant lane to the high-road, 
 J past the little rustic inn, where Barbie’s mother, seated by the cheer- 
 ‘ ful fire-side at tea, was busy at her needle — past the Pool, wherein 
 love and peace had brought brighter days to the old monastic grange 
 — and so into the smoky, tar-extending many-gabled village of Horton 
 Wood. Here, even before they reached the gate, which led into Mr. 
 IWenlock’s yard, the din from his smithies could be heard— and when 
 J they entered, and so approached the house, the glare from torge- 
 J hearth, and workshop-window, quite illumined the wide surrounding 
 space. More ground had been added, the garden had been encroached 
 upon — there was every sign of prosperity and rapidly-increasing 
 ^ business. 
 
 j The house itself was dark and still, but Miss Eliot was shown at 
 1 once up stairs, where, in a chamber very economically lurnished, tlio 
 26—2 
 
404 
 
 M A instone's housekeeper. 
 
 poor old woman lay a-bod. She had been lon^ ill, and bedridden j 
 teince the autumn. Miss Eliot greeted her very kindly, and the girl, i 
 stirring the fire into a blaze, left them, and closed the door. ! 
 
 Eh ! ” said the old woman, when her visitor had sat down, and i 
 talked awhile, “ I looked out for thee many a day, and yet thee didn’st 
 come. So I took the liberty to send for thee now the house is quiet, 
 and Dick’s away; because ye see my race is nigh run, and I didna’ 
 like to go, leaving thee to think my Dick wur a churl. Nay ! Nay ! 
 It come of others — he didna’ speak as to-fore — and this is what I 
 wished thee to know.” ' 
 
 “ Of others ? — I really don’t understand ! But let us speak of some- 1 
 thing else, the subject is distasteful, and must certainly be one of i 
 perfect indifference to me.” 
 
 ‘‘ Eh ! but it faint to others. My Dick thinks more of thy lightest i 
 word or look nor any t’other thing in this world. So thou mun' 
 know that if he’s been a churl to thee, the old parson asked it of| 
 him.” ^ ^ ^ 
 
 Charlotte was roused now, it was plain to see by her keenly! 
 listening ear, and anxious, half- averted face, but she was too proud ; 
 to question. 1 
 
 “To tell thee this, I sent for thee — for I guessed thee’d never 
 know’t otherwise, and I couldna’ die in peace, and my lad left to be 
 iudged harshly by his best friends. Ay! and his near friends too, i 
 for in days to come thou mun often meet at the schools and places o’ 
 that sort — thou and f others be going to have at Weldore. So thou 
 mun know it wur Mr. Badnor, and not my Dick, that wur in 
 fault.” 
 
 “ I really, Mrs. Wenlock, cannot listen further to this matter,” was^ 
 the gently-spoken, yet somewhat haughty answer. “ Mr. Radnor is 
 much too good a gentleman to be spoken against, however slightly.” 
 
 “ Ay ! I know he’s good ! I know there ain’t a better living or’ 
 kinder spoken gentleman the countrywide — and whafs more, I know 
 that thou’rt going to be his wife — 1 only know it too well ; for my 
 Dick ain’t been the same since it came f our ears a bit ago. But 
 pleasje, listen. I wunna be long i’ th’ telling.” 
 
 Charlotte neither assented nor dissented — but sat perfectly still. 
 
 “It wur a good time ago — a winter’s night, I’m thinking — and me 
 and Joan wur a-bed, when I heard someone come to the house, go 
 into th’ parlour softly, and begin talking to Dick. I know’d he never 
 liad bad company, he wur too steady for that yet I wur curious to 
 hear a strange voice talking at that time o’ night. So I slipped oni 
 my coats, and came on to the stairs to listen. Some o’ th’ talk I 
 heard, much I didn’t, but I mastered it pretty clear when they spoke 
 loud. I know’d th’ parson’s voice presently, and I heard him say,| 
 over and over again, how much he loved thee. Then he in some sort 
 accused my ladV loving thee ; but Dick didna’ answer yea nor nay, 
 but asked the parson what reason he had for thinking so. And the 
 go(;d gentleman, with a pain which made his voice tremble and die 
 away Tike the note of a flying bird, said he’d many a one, for it wur 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 405 
 
 7iust like tliee to love what wur simple and noble. To this my lad made 
 Miswer ot nayther yea nor nay, but I could tell his heart wur glad, 
 )y the sound of his voice, when he next spoke. Then Mr. Radnor 
 ;)!)ralsed my Richard, and said, thou’d in a sort o’ way confessed, that 
 when thou first came i’ this country, thou had’st seen none thy heart 
 jiad loved, ‘but now’ — and here thou’d paused, and he could get 
 •hee to say no more. So then he asked my Dick not to be over- 
 'riendly with thee — not to come much anigh his place — to write to 
 [■hee but little — to be short o’ manner and speech — and for this he 
 •ntreated so pitifully, and so like one who had a broken heart, that 
 ny boy said at last, '‘yes^for a time.''' Here the speaker stayed, 
 )ut Charlotte neither moved nor spoke. 
 
 “ In a bit they went away together,” she presently added — “■ and 
 his is all I knew o’ th’ matter ; for I didna’ dare to tell my lad that 
 f ’d been listening, or knew ought. But 1 soon heard from t'others 
 ihat he rardly, from that time, went anigh Mainstone ; and that when 
 le met thee elsewhere, his speech wur as brief as a clerk’s amen .... 
 rOn course all this time. I’m not a saying that a lady like thee would 
 oe thinking o’ my Richard, or condescend to one of his estate. Nay, 
 lay ! such happiness ain’t for him ; but I will say, that God never 
 :ashioned a better mon — I say it, as have known him from a baby — I 
 itay it, as never knew him to tell a lie, but strive to be upright and 
 cionest to every living thing. About his learning, and his power o’ 
 reading others, I know nought ; but folks tell me they are wonderful. 
 But, eh, dear ! I’m talking foolishly — though the blessed Lord does 
 iinow how good my lad is ! . . . But, eh ! my Dick thinks wonder- 
 ;ully of thee ; he once said he never knew thy like, for none but thee 
 would ha’ gone up to the parson’s desolate home, and turned it from 
 . pigstye to a palace. Not that a word more nor this ever dropped 
 rom him — for he’s a still tongue about everything ; but, eh ! dear, 
 (Ve know what store he set on a book you giv’ him — for Joan and I 
 S/;Ot rated a day we tumbled it a bit i’ th’ parlour. So it’s sorrowful, 
 f'e see, the parson coming here, tying up my lad’s tongue, and making 
 I lim seem to t’others what he ain’t.” 
 
 “I’m much surprised at what you tell me, Mrs. Wenlock,” said 
 lharlotte, in quiet reply, “as well as excessively sorry that Mr. 
 ladnor should have come here to make so foolish a compact, and for 
 which he had neither cause nor ground whatsoever. I had always 
 Respected Mr. Wenlock, fori had found him well-informed and con- 
 icientious, and I was certainly surprised at the rude abruptness oi 
 Tiis conduct towards me — not that it mattered in the least, or can 
 ' ver matter. Having said thus much, I beg neither to say nor hear 
 :urther.” 
 
 7 She spoke so determinately, that any other than the one wno 
 listened would have been awed into silence. But not so the aged 
 vvonian- — her deep and unselfish love was greater than all else 
 ^•eside. 
 
 ) “I beg your humble pardon,” she said, as she wept bitterly, and 
 stretched out eutreatingly her trembling hands, “for asking so much 
 
406 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 o’ til’ like o’ thee ; but, oh, dear ! be kind in thy speech to my Dick 
 when I’m gone. Poor fellow ! he’ll be all alone then, wi’ his great, 
 large, silent heart, needing a friend sorer nor ever. Not that I ha’ 
 been that sort o’ friend to him — no, I wur too old, too ignorant, too \ 
 rudely mannered for that ; but I ha’ loved him in my own way, and 
 saved and pinched to make a mon on him when the day came, lie 
 thou kind o’ speech, dear lady, if nothin’ more, for he ha’ no tongue 
 for folks around him, and he’ll be so mighty desolate when they’ve 
 borne me away from him for ever ! ” 
 
 Charlotte took the trembling hands in hers. The appeal and the 
 deep sincere tears were irresistible, though her sensitive sense of what] 
 was her woman’s due gave caution to her words. 
 
 “ Please, have no doubt or grief in the matter — if occasion require i 
 it, I will always be a friend to Mr. Wenlock, for I sincerely respect 
 him.” 
 
 “ Thank thee, thank thee ! — it be much for one like thee to promise, 
 %vho dunna know how much my lad is above his fellows, nor what he 
 thinks o’ thee. I thank thee — thou’lt come again to see me, won’t 
 thee ? ” 
 
 Certainly, and as soon again as you please.” 
 
 “ This is Monday ; come again the day but one t’morrow, and at 
 this hour — he’ll be out, and Joan won’t be busy. Dunna put it off — 
 I won’t last the week through — and oh! it’ll comfort me to feel 
 thy little soft hands once more, and hear thy lady’s voice speak so 
 tenderly.” 
 
 Charlotte promised, and presently went her way, leaving behind 
 her a greater peace than she had found. | 
 
 During the drive home, his mistress sat so passive, and with her 
 head so buried in her shawls, that good Elisha wondered, though hej 
 knew her errand had been to those sick unto death. 
 
 Upon his return from his chill and windy walk, Mr. Radnor, as wa^ 
 his custom, sought Charlotte in the oak-parlour. Not finding hed 
 either there, or elsewhere, he rung to make inquiries, and wag 
 astonished to learn, from Molly, whither she was gone. 
 
 ‘‘ Ay, Sir, it wur sore against my will missis went so late to’ard 
 evening, and the wind blowing as it does — she weakly, too, and sc 
 drooping i’ th’ spirit. But the old missis be bad, and ha’ something 
 on her mind she needs to speak.” 
 
 ‘‘ What ? ” asked Mr. Radnor, anxiously. 
 
 “I don’t know. Sir; it wur something, Joan said, she could only 
 speak of to th’ missis alone.” 
 
 Mr. Radnor, making no reply, but rising and beginning to walk 
 nervously to and fro, she left him to himself. 
 
 Thus he walked up and down — the red firelight flickering on the 
 study-panes, and contrasting with the damp and gloom outsidei 
 This he did not notice — he was indeed blind to all things, though no^ 
 deaf, for every few moments he stopped to disintegrate, as it were, 
 some sound from that of the high wind which roared about the houstj 
 and through the leafless trees, and lashed the brook into a mimic seal 
 
mainstone's housekeeper. 
 
 407 
 
 !jisteinng in vain, he came back to his <;hair, only to rise again, to 
 ‘ valk upland down, to visit the oak-parlour, and thence going to the 
 lall-door, open it, and listen in the porch, heedless of the wind which 
 ' jhilled him and blew through his hair. Listening here for the third 
 )r fourth time, he heard the approach of carriage-wheels, and knew 
 '^he was coming. The lamp in the hall had been lighted, so he closed 
 Jthe door, but waited beside it, opening it as soon as the carriage had 
 'stayed and Elisha had rung. Another time, had the dear old. master 
 graced her by this courtesy, she would have stayed to thank him, and 
 ’ay her hand on his ; but now stepping aside, as though wondering he 
 '^jhould be there, she passed with a cold and angry gaze, which much as 
 mid, “ I have learnt your deception, and know now how you rewarded 
 .iiy faith and goodness to you.” Thus, on she went into the oak- 
 parlour, and closed the door. Stunned as by a blow, utterly crushed 
 by a woe and fear to which he could give no expression, the loving 
 Ad magister crept rather than walked back to his study, there to begin 
 '(again his wild and restless pacings to and fro. His greatest terror 
 jmis lest she should leave him, prepare that very night, and go on the 
 morrow ; the thought alone almost slayed him. He listened to every 
 sound in the house with the anxiety of a child under punishment. 
 Everv footstep which approached he dreaded, and yet wished to^ be 
 hers ; but she did not come, and not till a late hour did Molly bring 
 in his solitary cup of tea. 
 
 ^ He heaped question upon question — “ Where was Miss Eliot ? — 
 why did she not come? — what was the matter ? ” 
 
 “ Please you. Sir, I don’t know. Something’s vexed her sur- 
 prisingly. I should say she ain’t took scarce a drop of tea, and Julia 
 tells me that she wur just now crying bitterly. I’m right troubled, 
 Sir, that I am ! ” 
 
 Thoroughly conscience-stricken, Mr. Radnor made no reply ; but 
 when he was alone, and his solitary cup of tea done, he sat down to 
 his table to write. He made several attempts, but all power of ex- 
 ^pression seemed dead within him. He then sent Molly in with a brief 
 ? message ; but Miss Eliot declined to see him that night. 
 
 Wh^t could be done? — his very heart died within him; it was 
 impossible to bear the torture of this doubt and despair!^ Come 
 'what might, he would go in and speak to her, confess his error, 
 absolve her from her engagement to him. She was not happy — she 
 loved another ; if he had won her promise, it was surreptitiously ; 
 and if on one or other side there must be sacrifice, let it be on 
 phis. She deserved thus much, and indeed much more, at his hands. 
 
 It was now full ten o’clock or more, and the servants were pre- 
 paring to go to bed, with the exception of Julia, who always awaited 
 her mistress ; he therefore, after much hesitation and lingering, went 
 to the door of the oak -parlour, and, after several vain attempts, opened 
 ‘‘ it and entered. It was all in gloom, for the lamp had died out, and 
 i nothing but the waning fire, and the feeble glare from the distant 
 ^mining ridge through the oriel panes, cast any relief upon the thick 
 Shadows, At first, in this dull light, he could not see her— not by 
 t 
 
403 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 Ihe hearth, as he quietly approached it — not in lier favourite chair, 
 where she usually sat to read~but presently, as he got closer to the 
 oriel, he could see her crouched upon the cushioned seat, her hands 
 upon the window-ledge, her face buried in them. She did not seem 
 to hear him, or to be at all conscious of his presence ; because 
 perhaps she expected no one, and was lost in her own thoughts. His 
 whole being was touched to see that she had thus hidden her face; 
 and if this expressed grief and suffering, what was self-sacrifice, so 
 that he removed or lessened them ? All that was magnanimous and 
 noble in his nature rose at this show of her unspoken pain. He 
 would give her up ! If existence must be robbed of all which made 
 it dear, what mattered it, so that conscience gained once more its old 
 serenity ! A clear and just conscience was, as he had found it, the 
 most priceless of our possessions. 
 
 “ Charlotte,” he said, with a broken voice, “ I have come against 
 your wishes, but you must speak to me and hear me, or I must die. 
 I cannot live under the weight of your displeasure, or the terror oi 
 supposing that for what I have done you will leave me. Little Jane, 
 lift up your face, and speak to the old magister.” 
 
 She lifted it up, as he requested. Even in the sort of semi- 
 twilight which was around her, and with his own dull sight, he could 
 see how pale her face was, and how heavy her eyes were from the 
 tears she had shed. There were coldness and reproach in her looks, 
 but no word escaped her lips. 
 
 “Forgive me, Charlotte, forgive me! — I erred through the very 
 greatness of my love I ” 
 
 “In some things,” she replied, coldly, “I always thought you 
 weak, Mr. Radnor, but not so weak as you’ve shown yourself to be. 
 The very thought of into what depths of humiliation your folly has 
 sunk me, half slays me — much more the fact. To think of your 
 making such a compact with Mr. Wenlock, a man who never 
 addressed words of love to me, or I to him. Magister, if you had 
 wilfully sought out some cunning way to wound me, you could have 
 found none more terrible than this.” 
 
 “ Yet I dealt with no hypothesis, but with truth. You love the 
 man ! ” 
 
 His words were unwise, for they roused in her a stern anger, such 
 as in all his experience and knowledge of her he had neither seen 
 nor known. 
 
 - “What then! — are you governor of my conscience, Mr. Radnor? 
 But I tell you again, you deal with an hypothesis of your own 
 creation — I never told you I loved Mr. Wenlock, or gave you other 
 cause to think I did.” 
 
 “Yet a guess, Tullia, often hits the truth. You confessed to me, 
 at least, that when you first came here you had seen none your heart 
 had cared to choose. Leaving me to infer, that since then you had. 
 
 I knew of your friendly acquaintanceship with Richard Wenlock — 
 and, dull as my perception naturally is, I heard and saw enough to tell 
 me that he was the man. Your woman’s judgment was sound and 
 
MAINSTONE S HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 409 
 
 rue ; but thinking that this preference was as yet undeclared — that 
 lad I acted and spoken earlier, your girlish liking for the old magister 
 aight have ripened into feelings more akin to the great love he had 
 oTong borne you— thinking that 1 would at least try to win you, I 
 Vent to him. I told him of my many years’ love for you — and I 
 *'i)esought him to give my hopes a chance, by refraining from seeing 
 f'ou, or, if he saw you, by showing few outward signs of regard. At 
 •east for a time— and he consented, after much earnest entreaty.” 
 
 - “You told him, I suppose,” she asked, with flushed and haughty 
 inger, “ that I loved him ? ” 
 
 ’ “ Yes ! i think I did — because I believed it to be true, and do so 
 r.till.” 
 
 It was painful to see her modest shame. She hid her burning face 
 n her upraised hands, and, in the pain of her deep humiliation, 
 •ocked herself to and fro. 
 
 “ Charlotte,” spoke the fond and penitent master, “ listen to me, 
 md let us mistake each other no further. For many days I have 
 oeen wishing to speak to you— but, like a man parting with his last 
 lope, I weakly refrained. Yet for the sake of my own peace of 
 conscience I must at no late date have told you; so that had not 
 Richard Wenlock thus prematurely, and contrary to his promise, told 
 ->.' 0 U of my visit 
 
 “Richard Wenlock! ” she interrupted, with passionate haste, ‘-did 
 lot tell me! I have not even seen him. What 1 know, I learnt 
 troin his aunt no later than this afternoon. She listened on the stair- 
 case, and thus became partially acquainted with the object of your 
 -bolish and unwarrantable visit.” 
 
 As she spoke she made an attempt to rise and leave him, but he 
 gently detained her. 
 
 ' “ You must stay and hear me, Charlotte — you must indeed. For I 
 Wish our engagement to end — to be cancelled from this moment, 
 Not through the reason of your having heard of my foolish visit — 
 prompted, ^God knows, by the idolatry of profound love— but that 
 because ever since you, in your kind pity to your old master, and in 
 the belief that the man you really love cared nothing for you, 
 promised to become his wife — he has seen gradually more and more 
 the foolishness of that promise, and his childish folly in asking such a 
 precious boon. Charlotte, you must listen, you must stay a little 
 while till I can explain myself.” 
 
 She made no answer, but suffered herself to be reseated — whilst he 
 sat himself down a little way off on the same old window-seat. 
 
 “ Charlotte, ever since the night you so kindly promised, at my 
 entreaty, to become my wife, I saw gradually more and more, as 
 though the promise itself made the revelation, that you loved me 
 rath(^ as a duty than a faith. You were grateful to the old magister 
 —to the friend of your youth— to him who had so proudly taught 
 you ; but this was all : it was not a lover’s love, or that of a woman 
 about to become a wife. As to what you owed me of friendship and 
 regard, you had already given me profound proofs ; and why should I 
 
410 
 
 mainstone's housekeeper. 
 
 selfishly ask more ? I, a man more than old enough to be your father, 
 and who, as 1 had taught you, stood almost in the light of one to you | 
 
 why should I take you from one who, judging from my own jealous 
 observation, honours you and profoundly loves you? 1 asked myself < 
 those and other questions, and I gradually saw my way to what was 
 justice and truth. I gradually perceived that there was something 
 higher for me than marriage, and that to attain it I must make a 
 sacrifice. I saw that the noble duty was to give you up to him who i 
 is more fitted for you by age and understanding, and whom you j 
 in turn love. Charlotte ! I only slowly saw these things. Your | 
 promise to me was the beginning of self-accusation ancf remorse, i 
 Had my conscience been as truthful in an earlier day, I should have 
 never asked you what I did! ” 
 
 He waited here, as though he expected her to reply ; but she said 
 nothing — not even removed her hands from her face to look at 
 him. 
 
 “ I see now,” he presently continued, “ that certainty of joy is 
 often the beginning of sorrow ! I find now, from what I have suf- 
 fered by anticipation, that it is right for me not to marry you, but to 
 let the conscience of having acted rightly to her I love so well stand 
 higher than love itself. If I forego joys of one kind, I shall have 
 others, though of a sadder and more ascetic character. But God 
 will be with me — for I know I shall have done as becomes his minister 
 and servant ! ” 
 
 ^ His voice died to a whisper here ; and, like her, he hid his face in 
 his upraised hands. 
 
 She came a little nearer, and laid hers tenderly on his shoulder. 
 
 “Julius,” she said, “you are right at last! More and more as I 
 have searched my heart, I have seen how little love there is for me to 
 give you as a wife. But I may be a long time your housekeeper; 
 and if ” 
 
 “No!” he interrupted, half-jealously ; “you must never wholly 
 leave me — always be by to minister to me in some way or another. 
 Molly is incomparable ; but Molly can never be to the old magister 
 what little Jane has been, and is ! ” ° 
 
 “ Julius, you shall ever be my care. Even if ” 
 
 “ You will marry, Charlotte,” he again interrupted; “ you know it 
 as well as I ! ” 
 
 ^ “ How can I say, magister ? ” 
 
 “ Say ! Why, that man at Horton Wood loves you better than his 
 life ! You love him— don’t you ? I have spoken truth to you, in 
 return you must to me.” 
 
 She was silent for some minutes ; and not till he had repeated his 
 question several times did she answer. Then she said, in a low 
 whisper : — 
 
 “ Saving my faith to my good old master, I love Kichard Wenlock 
 better than all else the world holds ! ” 
 
 “ Then you will marry him, Charlotte — for as soon as he mider- 
 stands that — ” 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 411 
 
 - “Maglster!” she entreatingly Interrupted; ‘‘for charity sake. 
 
 nterfere no more ! ” , , r i 
 
 e “ I have no Intention. Only, let the world say what it may, i tuinic 
 Wr choice a most worthy one. Hitherto his position has been 
 nferior to yours ; but another year will see it vastly altered. In 
 bartnership with Ellis Thornhill— assisted by the wealth of other^ 
 Richard Wenlock is destined, I feel sure, to become the most m- 
 luential man of this district— not only as regards his own immediate 
 duties, but as an example to other employers. Throughout the 
 mining ridge exists a vast amount of heathenism, depravity, and 
 ignorance, which he, more than any man I know, is likely to find the 
 Qiost practical methods of lessening, if not of wholly removing. I 
 cannot say I share his views in many things ; but, as God himselt 
 ishows us, the same results may be wrought out by different methods, 
 so manv men approximate towards great results by means the most 
 varied.' Were he a man whose views were more like my own, I 
 mio-ht see your acceptance of him still more cheerfully than I may 
 •dor Were his immediate position higher, it might be more satisfac- 
 tory than it will possibly be to those whose pride is greater than my 
 own. But, as it is, it is my earnest conviction, founded upon ex- 
 perience and long hearsay, that Richard Wenlock is an honest, truth- 
 !ful eminently upright, large-hearted, large-minded man. A man 
 emphatically in the fullest sense. His views may be correct after all ; 
 for it is not for vain and self-sufficient man, himself yet a child,_ to 
 arrogate what is, and what is not, truth ; and preparative ideas, which 
 embrace the future, are, I admit, much more likely to be true, than 
 those which control the present. Be this as it may, you will com- 
 i cide with him— a new field of truth, utility, and service, opens itself 
 with such a husband — you will, I doubt not, be pre-eminently 
 b happy. To him I shall give you willingly ; and may the grace of 
 
 God shine upon you both ! ” ,1 , . i i 
 
 ' For weeks he had been schooling himself to say all this ; the lesson 
 was well learnt— was well repeated ; but the iron did not enter the 
 
 ' less into his soul. - li i- • x 
 
 Charlotte was conscious of this, and she said quietly, Magister, 
 all this may never be, 1 may be ever your housekeeper— your little 
 
 ^ Jane.” , , , . , , , 
 
 If comfort there was in this, he would not accept it ; he would 
 accept the truth in its full bitterneess, once and for all; he had 
 " schooled himself— there should be no compromise. . , , 
 
 ^ “ It will, and I wish it. I cannot say but what I henceforth take 
 
 up my cross, that henceforth life will be a monotony of duty ; but I 
 ^ daresay, like many others who have to accept self-sacrifice and soli- 
 1 tude as their lot, I too shall find comfort, and hail joys at present 
 unsuspected. At least Koger Ascham will have done well by his 
 ^ little Jane, and conscience will be at rest. Now, never let us speak 
 ' arrain upon this subject, except as it becomes father and child ; with 
 • nTe the past perishes, except in my soul. Only when you are quite 
 ‘ happy, when there is a chance of you leaving me. if only nominally, 
 
412 
 
 mainstone's housekeeper. 
 
 come to me and say so. I shall then know that I have stepped out 
 upon a path thnt for this life can have no end.” 
 
 It was not till he had repeated this latter question more than once 
 that she promised, weeping bitterly as she did so. ’ 
 
 ^ Without another word— without other adieu, than that of pressino- 
 his bps upon her bending head, he went his way ; and she could hear 
 him go with slow and painful steps up stairs to his chamber. 
 
 Hours such as this, when we take farewell of mortal hope, are the 
 most solemn of our lives. A tragedy begins, whose only endintr is 
 the end of life itself! o o » j o 
 
 On the morrow they met as usual. There was the same studious 
 morning the same quiet dinner hour — the same quiet evenino* over 
 books and papers. Mr. Radnor, as Molly and Elisha noticed, seemed 
 cheerfuller than he had been for many previous weeks — but their 
 mistress was ill and depressed. Before 'the day was over, a mess^io-e 
 was brought up from Horton Wood, by one of the men, to say the 
 old mistress yet lingered, and that she hoped not to fail in seeimr 
 Miss Eliot on the morrow. ® 
 
 So Charlotte went, Elisha driving her, for it was a wet and dull 
 afternoon. When the carriage stayed at the yard, she was surprised 
 to hear no clank of hammers, though, by the light in the smithies and 
 shops, the men were evidently at work ; and she observed, as she 
 stepped along the garden, that the sick chamber was in darknesss, 
 Joan answered the door, and Charlotte saw at once what had occurred. 
 The girl’s eyes were red and swollen, and through the open door, 
 leading to passage and kitchen, women were to be seen busy with the 
 last garment which we wear. 
 
 “Missis died early this morning, ma’am,” said the girl— “and master 
 said he should send up and let you know, though I suppose he forgot 
 it ; but won’t you walk in, ma’am ? — master is all alone in the parlour 
 and would be glad to see you.” ’ 
 
 “No, thank yoti. Only present Mr. Radnor’s and my respects to 
 Mr. Wenlock, and say we sympathise with him in his loss.” 
 
 Joan waited till the' lady had gone from the porch, and then went 
 in. As Charlotte passed the windows of the green-parlour, which 
 looked towards the great timber-yard and smithies, the strong lio-ht 
 of the newly-roused fire attracted her notice, and looking as she 
 arrested her steps for a moment, she saw without being seen. Mid- 
 way in the room, evidently listening as to who had knocked, his head 
 "a little bent, his face stern and pale, stood Richard Wenlock ; and 
 now conscious that those just come were gone again, he turned' back 
 as towards the fire, with a changed expression of countenance, which 
 betrayed the utmost desolation and despair of soul. Did he know 
 who came— and who was gone? Perhaps he did; for as j^ie moved 
 away, and went up the long strip of garden towards the little wicket 
 by which the carriage stood, this chill expression of woe continued 
 before her sight, and touched her heart. Was she doing well thus to 
 leave the living to their dead, and offer no word of synif^tliy ? What 
 was human pride— what was the chance of being misunderstood— ia 
 
MAINSTOHE S HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 413 
 
 presence of that power which makes all human balances so even ^ 
 \.s she thought and struggled with herself, as she stayed^ and yet 
 tepped on, the nobler part of her woman’s nature asserted its supre- 
 i^acy — and lingering no more, going forward no more, she went back 
 \owards the house as swiftly as she could. The blind was now drawn, 
 ’ind she could not see within the parlour eyen had she stayed, or 
 vished to do so ; but she passed quickly on, and knocked again at the 
 loor. Not yery loudly it might be, for no one came— so she turned 
 ihe handle, opened it, and went in, and thence to the parlour door. 
 Here her knock was answered by a low “ come in.” She opened it, 
 entered, and closed it ; yet no one moyed or came towards her, but 
 IS she reluctantly advanced across the room, Richard Wenlock, who 
 sat by the fire, turned round, and seeing who it was, rose and waited 
 respectfully for her to speak. She did so, but her words were of the 
 briefest, for she merely addressed him by his name. Still he waited 
 for her to say more, probably afraid of trusting himself to speak ; 
 for though his gaze was sad, his manner respectful and subdued, 
 there was that in his countenance which betrayed the joy of his 
 soul. 
 
 I have retraced my steps,” she said, faltering beneath his gaze, 
 and her words almost dying on her tongue, **io off^r you sympathy 
 for your loss. It must be a great one to you, Mr. Wenlock.” 
 
 “ It is, especially at this time, when more than one thing comes to 
 make me desolate. But I thank you for coming, and more particu- 
 larly for the visit you paid my poor old aunt the other day — for it 
 greatly consoled and comforted her.” 
 
 ^ “ I am glad it did so. It was equally advantageous to me, for she 
 made a revelation of a most extraordinary kind. Perhaps you are 
 aware of it ? ” 
 
 He looked surprised, but said, concisely, “No.” 
 
 “She told me of a certain visit which Mr. Radnor paid you one 
 nio-ht some time ago. She had listened on the stairs and discovered 
 its'^import, and I cannot tell you what was my profound humiliation 
 to find myself the cause of so much foolishness on the part of Mr. 
 Radnor. Still, it has been the source of some satisfaction to me, as 
 showing the reason of your discourteous estrangement ; for I^ attri- 
 buted Tt to some error of my own — some way too unrestrained — 
 some word too free — though I could recall neither to mind, for a man 
 so austere as yourself. Not, of course, that the estrangement, 
 intrinsically for itself, mattered much — thought it is unpleasant 
 I to be forsaken by one’s friends, and know no reason why.” She spoke 
 [ these last words a little proudly, though looking away from him as 
 she did. 
 
 But he appeared to be pursuing his own thoughts rather than 
 listening. 
 
 “ I wish such a visit had never been paid,” he said, after a minute’s 
 pause — “ or rather that I had not been so foolish as to listen to its 
 request. Before then the iuture held some hope for me— now it nas 
 
414 
 
 mainstone's housekeeper. 
 
 She knew intuitively to what he alluded, but by an effort she made* 
 no sign that this knowledge was hers. 
 
 “ I am equally sorry,” she replied, “ because most inadmissible 
 subjects were referred to, and my own position made one of pitiable 
 humiliation. But so far as Mr. Radnor’s error can be qualified, let 
 my own and his apologies go; for his regret has lasted long, and! 
 seems to have been most poignant.” 
 
 “ This cannot be,” was the austere answer ; “ he came here to serve , 
 himself, and he has done so, if I rightly understand.” 
 
 “ I cannot answer you, for it is a subject on which I wish to speak 
 no further. Now, let me say ‘good evening,’ Mr. Wenlock, for thej 
 carriage waits. I sincerely hope that time will bring its consolation 
 for your great loss.” She was going — she had moved away a step or 
 two, but he followed her, and entreated her not to go. 
 
 “ Please stay a little longer,” he said ; “ you came to console me 
 for my loss, and have not done so. Here is a chair. Miss Eliot — 
 please sit down. I am a churl not to have offered you one before ; 
 but pray stay awhile — your words can comfort me as nothing else 
 can.” 
 
 She obeyed him — not reluctantly — as he could see, but as sub- 
 missively to his will as a child. He was respectful, and yet self- 
 resolved — willing to concede to her the reverence and respect which 
 were her due, and yet show that he did not forget his own self- 
 reliant dignity. 
 
 She had taken the chair he had set for her near the fire beside the 
 table, opposite his own — and now he sat down too. 
 
 “Miss Eliot,” he said, looking away from her, so as not to dis-ij 
 concert her, “we must talk of this subject a little further. I 
 hear of your engagement to Mr. Radnor from many quarters — is it 
 true ? ” 
 
 “ It was,” she faltered, after a moment’s painful hesitation. 
 
 “ Is not so now ? ” | 
 
 “ No.” 
 
 “ Why not ? — please tell me.” 
 
 She seemed vexed by his pertinacity, kept her silence, and it waa 
 not till he had repeated his question that she spoke. 
 
 “I would rather not say more on this subject, Mr. Wenlock — it isH 
 painful to me — you have no right to question me.” 
 
 “I think I have, if I judge correctly. Why, if you did not wish 
 to marry Mr. Radnor, did you promise to do so ? ” j 
 
 “ He gave me up of his own free will. He had some remorse 
 conscience that I was younger than he, and ” 
 
 “And what?” But question as he might, she would say no 
 more. ^ , 
 
 “ He saw you loved another ? — was that it ? — from whom you had 
 only turned away because you were justly "wounded by his unpardon- 
 able, foolish, and estranged manner! Was this it? If so, he who 
 committed the error asks pardon ; and if you do not despise hands 
 which, in their day, have done rough work at forge and anvil, hef<2j 
 
maikstone's housekeeper. 
 
 415 
 
 they are oficrecl to you, to protect you tlirougli life— their possessor 
 Moving you with unspeakable love.’* 
 
 spoke these words In a low but deeply-moved voice — the hard 
 ' wrought hands lay just before her on the table — but he would betray 
 'no more of his profound and long-cherished love till he had had some 
 %io-n that it was reciprocated. His natural humility of character was 
 •g^eat ; but he was too manly, too self-reliant, to sue in the least 
 'thing like a slave. 
 
 She was worthy of him and his simple nobleness : without disguise 
 
 without coyness — without affectation— now she knew she might, 
 
 now he had declared himself to her, she for no further moment veiled 
 ‘her deep love. Bending down her face to the swart hands, there fell 
 her kisses— there fell her tears— presently they were gathered to her 
 breast. To her they were noble hands, though they had wrought 
 ' Vulcan-like for bread. 
 
 In another moment she was gathered in his arms — for she was his 
 Iworld, even more than he was hers. To one so reserved as he, no 
 ^word of his aspiring love had hitherto been spoken— to one of his 
 busy, self-ennobling life, there had been neither taste nor time for 
 ' ordinary passion. ° The forces thus restrained were now like the 
 ' tempest and the flood. 
 
 Forgetful of all but this new world opened to them, they sat and 
 ‘ talked a considerable time. 
 
 “ Were I now,” he said, by-and-by, as she bent listening to him 
 ^ with a wrapt ear, “ as I was some months ago, I might have had 
 more reluctance in speaking to you than I have shown. But priceless 
 love of another kind has been my friend. Crabbed, eccentric, and 
 wayward as she ordinarily seemed, my poor old aunt cherished for 
 me an affection the most unselfish. When I asked her some weeks 
 ao-o for a loan to aid me towards a partnership with Ellis Thornhill, 
 she for the first time in her life revealed her affairs ; and I found 
 myself, by a will, already made the possessor of a considerable sum of 
 money. To have saved as much out of a narrow income implies 
 such years of self-denial and rigid self-control, as inspires in return 
 - the utmost regret and love. Thus in a few years, my more than life, 
 my position may be worthier of you than it at present is.” 
 
 It is worthy enough already, Richard — and money, were its 
 amount the largest, would make no difference in my estimation or 
 ^ my love. If it add to your sense of independence, this is its best 
 possibility. I have fortune enough for both of us, and it will be 
 ^ wholly yours. Therefore, not for considerations of this kind I accept 
 ‘ you, but for your worthy name, your manly energy, your self-culture, 
 ^ and your brave, high thoughts.” 
 
 He pressed her to his heart again and again. He had guessed that 
 she was a noble woman — now he knew it for a truth. 
 
 * By-and-by they went forth together from the still house, and 
 ^ through the dusky garden. By them the shadows were unseen — 
 " they were a light to each other— for the present, as for time to 
 come. 
 
416 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 When she reached Mainstone, Charlotte went at once into 1 
 study, where Mr. Radnor sat meditatively in his chair. Hearing her 
 step he looked round, and then up into her face, which seeing, as she 
 came and knelt beside him, he knew by the change and its serenity 
 how it was. 
 
 “Has little Jane,” he asked, quietly, “ set matters right, which - 
 the old master set wrong ? ” '' \ 
 
 “Yes, magister, and ” I 
 
 “ And what ? ” i 
 
 “I am very happy,” she faltered; “I have promised to marry i 
 Richard.” i 
 
 “ This is well.” i 
 
 And this was all he said. Though, henceforth, every hope in bis I 
 large solitary heart died — except, as she would be to him his little' 
 Jane — his dear daughter — his fond and listening scholar ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 JONATHAN AND HIS MASTER. 
 
 * 
 
 It was a morning in the darkest part of autumn, when dews are 
 heavy and leaves fall. As yet, so early was the hour, the Moore’s 
 solitary farm stood half-hidden in the grey mists which, rose from the 
 surrounding fields ; but within, the house-place was cheery enough 
 with fire and candle-light, and signs of early breakfast. Partaking 
 of this and sprucely dressed, as though going forth on some journey 
 for the day, sat Jonathan, his self-(5omplacency in no way disturbed, 
 when the staircase door opened, and Robert Moore came slowly 
 towards the fire. He did not speak a word, but, with a timid-stricken 
 look, took his place on the other side the hearth, though away from 
 the table, and without attempting to share the meal. Presently, 
 however, he turned his face towards his servant, and, with a look 
 which partook of both fear and hate, he said slowly : — 
 
 “ So thou’rt going to th’ fair with th’ heifers, art thee ? ” 
 
 “ Ay ! there won’t be another fa’r this side Christinas, and T mun 
 ha’ money. If it don’t come one way it mun another. So Robin 
 went for’ards wi’ th’ beasts an hour ago.” i 
 
 The very audacity of the act, as thus imparted, seemed, for some I 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 417 
 
 ooments, to scare the miserable man. He sat gazing at his com- 
 panion, with a blank astonishment which had something awful in it. 
 Then his rage and hatred mastering his wonder, he rose, and poured 
 'orth his words of frenzied, though powerless, rage, for they moved 
 heir listener no more than though he had been a stone, 
 f “ The heifers ! Why, by th’ spring they’d be worth ten pound 
 piece more than they be now. Yfhat am I, that when I said last 
 iight they shouldna’ go thou never listened ? What am I, that afore 
 larvest had been gathered in a month, thou took on thee to thrash a 
 rtack o’ wheat, and send it off to Welton', without a word o’ leave, or 
 dthout a sixpence coming to me when it wur sold ? Why art thou 
 aaster, and I man ? Why be I the wonder o’ th’ country, and coming 
 o openly to ruin and shame, that the very folks that come up and 
 }lown stare at me for being fool as well as knave ? ” 
 
 “ You know why ! ” taunted the other, with cool audacity ; “ thou 
 nanaged to get what wasn’t thy own, and I was thy helper, and foi 
 lelp such as this wur, even a niggard like thee mun pay.” 
 
 “Pay ! Ain’t I done it already ? Wurn’t our plan this — that thou 
 hould have so much o’ th’ yearly profit o’ th’ farm, and at mv death 
 
 life interest in the land ! — wasn’t this it ? And yet ever since the 
 Jd woman died, thou hast been bringing me to sliame and ruin, by 
 hy extortion, thy extravagance, and thy threats! But all this shall 
 nd, come what may.” 
 
 “I wish it, Robert Moore, as much as thee! Weeks ago I told 
 hee I wished to go, and would, if thou once fcr all made^ it worth 
 iiy while. Thy niggard ways would scare a mouse from thy cup- 
 'oard — and foi‘ living on in th’ hopes o’ what thy will mun giv’ me, it 
 mn’t do. I ain’t a filly to be caught wi’ chaff for corn. I ha’ plans 
 ’ my own — plans I’ve had long afore, and for which 1 need th’ money 
 ’ve wrung out o’ thy niggardness, from time to time, and for which 
 he beasts ha’ gone on to Welton this morn. AVhat I get for ’em I’ll 
 -eep ; and if thou’ll gi’ me an order, on Mears the cattle-dealer, for 
 he three hundred pounds he has o’ thine at interest, Pll trouble thee 
 0 more — except to come once again for th’ bits o’ things about the 
 ouse that be mine.” 
 
 “ Three hundred pounds ? ” asked Robert, incredulous, and yet 
 ghast ; “how did’st thou learn about it, eh ? ” 
 
 ; “By my ears, as I’ve learnt a good many t’other things.” 
 
 “If thou hast, thou shanna ha’ it. I put it by for my girl Phema ; 
 or though I dunna like her, yet, as the old woman wi>hed it, there 
 [hall be a bit for her, come what may. Now go ! by G — d, not 
 nother sixpence shall thy threats wring out o’ me ! ” He looked up 
 xedly at Jonathan, as he spoke thus, and noticed he had changed 
 jlour, till his face was whiter than the whitened walls around. 
 
 Jonathan made no reply. Finishing his breakfast, he prepared to 
 ot forth ; and when his horse was ready by the door, he came back 
 gain, and bringing pen and ink, and paper, he made room on the 
 ible, drew it to his master’s side, and laid them thereon, Thea 
 ;aitiiig a moment he said quietly, “ Mr. Moore, giv’ me this paper.” 
 
418 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 But Robert, neither by look nor word, gave any sign of com- i 
 plying. 
 
 “Youd better giv’ it me,” he said again, “because I’m resolute. 
 Y'ou said I’d threatened, but I never have. I do now, however, 
 and ’ll keep my word. If thee dunna giv’ me th’ bit o’ writing to 
 Mears, I’ll go straight at once to Welton police-station, and tell ’em 
 that Robert Moore of Mainstone did forge his grandmother’s will, and 
 that I put my mark to it. They canna do much to me, thou know’st 
 that well enough. As to th’ money, Mr. Moore, I spoke to thee 
 weeks and weeks ago. I mun ha’ it now, and I’ll bind myself in any 
 way thou likest, ne’er to come anigh thy place again, ’xcept to clear 
 away my belongings. The folks far and wide, as thou know’st, ha’ 
 never been pleasant to thee nor me. They get worser and worser; 
 and even i’ th’ very shops in W elton they turn away from me, as if 
 I wur a rabid dog. I canna bear this more ; for last night, when I 
 went into the ‘ Brown Hen ’ to get a pint, never a fellow answered a 
 word I said to ’em — but began talking among themselves about thy 
 lending money to that villain Briscoe, and how thy losing it sarved 
 thee right. From this they went on sayin’ that thy takin’ mortgage i 
 on th’ Mainstone property unbeknown to th’ old Squire wur a shame' 
 on thee ; for thee and thine had had many a bit o’ goodness at his 
 hands. This be the manner and sayings o’ the folks, and I can bide 
 them no longer.” The man said all this so earnestly, that there could 
 be no questioning its truth — but no answer came. 
 
 Again Jonathan waited a few moments, as though expecting an 
 answer — but his master was immovable. 
 
 “Well,” he said, at length, with a resoluteness of words and manner i 
 which appalled him who listened, though he strove successfully toij 
 make concealment, “ as thou won’t, thou won’t. So as thou choosesti 
 to make the bed, Robert Moore, we both mun go to’t. Good day ! 
 Speaking thus, he lingered no further, but, going forth, could be 
 heard leading his horse across the causeway towards the lane. j 
 
 In proportion as she sound of these steps died away, Roberti 
 Moore’s terror grew. He had already had many proofs of this man’s 
 doggedness of purpose; and knew full well, that, for a lengthened 
 period, this consciousness of public odium had been gnawing at the 
 hearts of both. Now, quickly through his brain, as though the 
 sorrows and sufferings of years could with intensity be lived througlij 
 in a single instant, flashed the consciousness of what his fate would! 
 be if an exposure were made. Would not there be the prison, the 
 felon’s dock, the transport ship? Whereas, if this fellow werej 
 silenced once more, even at so great a cost, might it not be true that 
 he would go far away, and never trouble him again? Would it not 
 be better thus to bribe him, by parsimony to replace the money, and 
 thus turn loss into no loss, and ensure safety besides ? Questioning, 
 and thinking thus, prudence mastered avarice. He seized the papeij 
 and began to write. But cunning, even whilst self-saving, he wrote 
 on separate papers an order for one hundred pounds, another for 
 three, and with the former in his hand, the other thrust into his waist-t 
 
mainstone's housekeeper. 
 
 419 
 
 ^coat pocket, he hurried forth. The dawn had broadened now, and, 
 ji as he gained the end of the causeway, he could just see Jonathan 
 i leading his horse through the gate to the highway. He hailed him, 
 J and the other turning slowly back, they met mid -way in the lane, 
 just where the wide strips of gorse-clad turf were picturesquely 
 broken by bouldered masses of red sandstone. 
 
 *' “ I’ve brought thee this order for a hundred,” Robert said doggedly, 
 
 S as he held forth the paper in his hand — “ Mears’ll giv’ thee this 
 ' without questioning — the t’other he mightn’t ; and more I canna 
 
 • spare.” 
 
 ’ “ I'll take no less,” was the answer ; “ for it I promise ne’er to 
 
 ? trouble thee again — ne’er come nigh the place, but to fetch what’s 
 mine. JMy plans be made, so I mun ha’ th’ money.” 
 
 - “ What good would it do thee to say ought ? ” asked the other, 
 willing to parley. 
 
 ‘‘ I canna stop now t@ talk th’ matter wi’ thee,” replied the other, 
 " doggedly, “ we’ve had more nor enough o’ that already. If thou 
 hast brought th’ money, gi’ me’t — if not, let me go on.” As he said 
 'this, Jonathan retreated back a step or two, affecting to disbelieve 
 ; that the other had brought the money, though he guessed full well 
 he had. 
 
 With a curse in his heart, with silence on his tongue, Robert 
 snatched the other strip of paper from his pocket, and held it forth. 
 As he glanced at the hand which took it, his eye fell upon a small 
 
 • silver-nobbed riding- whip the other carried ; and as little sparks 
 beget great fires, so this one glance gave a pretext for his uncon- 
 
 - trollable anger to burst forth. 
 
 “ D me ye,” he said, clutching at the whip, “ what right has a 
 
 ' fellow like thee to this ? G’et me ! It wur used by hands that thine 
 mightn’t touch.” 
 
 ‘‘ On one on ’em the’st put a wedding-ring, eh? And didna’ send 
 its owner back a pity and a shame to her fayther’s door ? Nor 
 ^ didna’ let her die in Welton union house, when she bore thee thy 
 i child ? ” 
 
 - “ Ge’t me I ” 
 
 ^ “When I coome back, maister! I ha’ lost my own, and mun 
 •^borrow it.” As he spoke, Jonathan began to move away, holding the 
 
 • whip aloft, out of the other’s reach. 
 
 But the fellow, in his brutal insolence, had gone too far. Springing 
 
 • upon him like a tiger, Robert sought to regain the whip ; but 
 ^younger, taller, far stronger, cooler than he, Jonathan pushed him 
 ^ back with an iron hand, turned on his heel, smacked the little whip, 
 Went onwards towards his horse, mounted it, and rode away. The 
 ^ heavy white gate swinging to and fro behind him in the mist of the 
 >dank morn. 
 
 ^ Repulsed by such a powerful hand, Robert Moore lost his footing 
 *and fell, his head coming in contact with a bouldered mass of stone ; 
 Wc struck it violently, and for some minutes after he lay prostrate and 
 Jl hall-unconscious as to what had befallen him. When he rose he felt 
 27—2 
 
420 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 like a landsman newly out at sea, tbougli neither ill nor greatly 
 injured. But the indignity thus inflicted was felt beyond all possible 
 expression. As he limped his way back to the house, it was as 
 a cowardly dog worsted in a fight, yet as a human savage burning 
 and thirsting for revenge. That he resolved to have, come what 
 /night. 
 
 Oblivious of all breakfast, he crouched down to the fire, sick, and 
 chill, and outwardly motionless — though the glaring eye, the occa- 
 sionally moving lips, and the quick and intermittent breath, bespoke 
 only too well what was passing within. Now and then he rose, pacing 
 to and fro like a wild beast in a cribbed up den. This fit over, he 
 resumed his sullen meditations by the fire. His first impulse had 
 been to ride one of the farm-horses to Wei ton, and there denounce 
 Jonathan, and reveal his own crime. His next and more permanent 
 resolve was to seek Silas; but recollecting that his brother might he 
 away from home at Welton Fair, he deferred setting off for the 
 distant farm till day should have closed. 
 
 At the hour when the old woman came who cleaned the house and 
 cooked the food, he withdrew up stairs ; and not till she was gone 
 did he come down to retake his place by the fire — and there he sat, 
 motionless, except when he plied it with fuel. 
 
 All morning it rained heavily, nor was it till afternoon had ad- 
 vanced that the rain ceased. Then the sun stole forth, penetrating 
 through the casements of the solitary houseplace, and shedding some | 
 little cheerfulness on the ruin and misery that was there. But ! 
 Bobert Moore saw it not, and even as the clock struck three the 
 sound passed aAvay unheeded by his ear. Had this been less dull, he 
 would have heard, through many bygone minutes, footing about the 
 house, the growls of the yard-dog, and now a low, continuous knock- 
 ing at the "outer door. But the very monotony of repetition at last 
 arrested his attention. He rose quickly, went and opened the door, 
 as speedily banged it to again — for on the step stood a bent and 
 ragged woman, drenched with the recent rain. But she opened it 
 again, and said something in a low voice, which he misunderstood. 
 
 “Go away ! ” he called ; “ I ha’ nothing to gi’ thee.” ^ 
 
 “Mr. Moore, let me come in awhile — I have something particular 
 to say to you.” 
 
 He recognized the voice, and came quickly back again, but there 
 was harshness and an expression of self-reproach in what he said. 
 
 “ Thee, Sarah ! Go thy way, I ha’ done wi’ the likes o' thee, and 
 the country hereabouts mayn’t be safe even yet for thee I What’s 
 more, it holds wickedness enough already ! ” 
 
 “ The days of sin are passed by, and you need not fear me. As to 
 fear for myself, I have none — as to my purpose, it is to do good if 
 one such as I can do it. Let me come in if you are alone, for I have 
 that to tell you that may be of value. Let me in, for this is the third 
 or fourth attempt I’ve made to see you ; and now for an hour I have 
 been wandering about the house to judge if you were in and without 
 company.” 
 
MAINSTONE’s HOUSEKEErER. 
 
 421 
 
 She spoke so earnestly— her manner was so forlorn, so pitiful, so 
 stricken— she was apparently so ill— she was so changed, and so fallen 
 from the pride of her wicked spirit and alluring beauty, that he com- 
 passionately admitted her, and led the way to his solitary hearth. 
 There he pointed to a chair, and sat himself down in his wonted seat, 
 bending to listen, though his own mortal agony of spirit had the 
 •mastery, as miorht be seen. ^ , 
 
 “ Mr. Moore,” she said, in a low and gasping yoice, which only 
 told too well that her race, so swift for evil, was nearly run, ‘‘1 have 
 
 seen Phema.” . w x* -l • 
 
 The name was possibly consonant with his thoughts, tor he raised 
 
 his face and listened eagerly. ^ V j . 
 
 “ I did not seek her — I came unawares upon the place she lived at. 
 For after I left here, penniless and destitute, I fell lower and lower in 
 my fortunes, and had to take as company those to whom I would have 
 scorned to speak in earlier days. With one such companion I passed 
 : from county to county whilst last harvest was being reaped, and m 
 ' Sussex came to the farm where Phema was. I was ill, way-worn, 
 and loitered about resting, whilst my companion did his work amongst 
 other hired reapers. Thus I saw the girl, knew her thoush she was 
 so wonderfully changed, and, making known that I knew this place, 
 . she was soon led to talk to me. But before I go on, before I have 
 • heart to speak of things which have little interest for me, tell me one 
 
 She paused, and as Robert looked up at her, surprised and keenly, 
 she faltered, chanired colour, and hesitated. 
 
 “Tell me, how^is Mr. Ptadiior?” she asked, in an almost breathless 
 . whisper; “ I have been for the last week hiding in Welton, and yet I 
 . had not courage to ask.” 
 
 j Very well, I believe,” was the cold, curt answer. 
 
 , “Not ?” . , 
 
 ' But her lips had not the power to speak the other word, so it died 
 
 ; voiceless. 
 
 In spite of his own absorbing agony of soul, Robert was interested ; 
 so guessing her question, he answered, — ^ 
 
 “ If you mean, is he married — he is not, and is not likely to 
 
 “My God!” she said, with an eagerness of voice which bespoke 
 ffreat surprise, as well as satisfaction ; “ tell me tell me tell me 
 t do ? ” 
 
 “ wur to have had him ; blithe thought himself too old; and 
 
 * she she loved another. Some time next year she’s to be married to 
 
 , Dick Wenlock, and they’re to live up at the hall. Now this be all I 
 : can say o’ th’ matter— for I’ve a mighty j2?rief weighing at my heart, 
 : and canna go from it to speak o’ lesser things.” 
 
 She saw by his manner how true this was; so she kept silent, 
 pondering, as it were, over what he had told her. His moody, and 
 : yet restless eye, falling on her as she thus sat, drenched with rain, 
 bedraggled, wasted, drooping, utterly ruined, utterly undone, a piece 
 
422 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper, 
 
 of human clay, bereft of all the shining beauty with which the Divine 
 had so lavishly enriched it, that even he— so hard, so cold, so wholly ’ 
 selfish, so irnbrutified by ignorance and solitude— was touched to pity. ' 
 His own depth of woe, of fear, of injured pride, of mortal ano-uish, 
 of self-inflicted grief, which could have no assuaging, was such that, ' 
 for the first time through many a long and weary year, he was manly 
 — he was human. ^ 
 
 “ Sarah,” he said, “I ha’ no heart left in me to do it— but thee 
 know st a bit the ways o’ the house, so get thee food and drink, and 
 dry thee.” 
 
 JBiit, like him, she had her mortal woe, her remorse, her repining, 
 though softened, till pain became a joy, by words which he had spoken. 
 So she shook her head, sat still to press this dove of comfort to her 
 heart. 
 
 Presently she aroused herself, and, seeing him absorbed again in 
 the miglity grief which weighed him down, she said, — 
 
 “ I’d better go on with what I was saying, because it may be of 
 
 value to you ; for that fellow Jonathan ” 
 
 He would hear no more; the very name aroused anew the tempest 
 of fury in his brain — he rose, he walked up and down, he wrung his 
 hands, he tore his hair, his mood was wilder than that of the most 
 savage beast. She was awed by it — in all her experience of human 
 life, she had seen nothing like it. When the paroxysm was in a 
 degree abated, he suddenly arrested his impassioned steps and stood 
 before her. 
 
 “ T his very morn the villain robbed me of three hundred pounds, 
 and struck me down ; don’t you think that I need vengeance, eh ? — 
 and’ 1 1 ha’ it too ! ” 
 
 “ Be calmer, Robert, sit down ! I have that to tell you which will 
 bring vengeance enough— only you must be sharp and cunning with 
 the fellow ; for it’s whispered in Welton that he’s about to marry a 
 girl, and sail with her for New Zealand.” 
 
 ^ As she spoke thus, she waited an instant, let him sit down ; then 
 rising and looking round, advanced her face to his ear. But as she 
 was about to speak, both were startled by the heavy clang of the 
 highway gate. ° 
 
 “ What’s that ? ” he asked, his voice almost voiceless in this 
 changing fever of hate, of fear, of sin. 
 
 ^ “ Oh ! nothing — let me go on.” Putting her mouth close aofain to 
 his ear, she whispered, herself with bated breath, so enormous was the 
 sin she told. “It is true ; four or five times the villain tried to ruin 
 thy child ; and, God forgive him, Robert — I say it that am so full of 
 sin myself — he pushed the poor old woman off the granary stairs, 
 and was her murderer. Phema saw him do it ; and, knowing this, 
 he stole into the house and warned her, by horrible threats, to say 
 nothing.” ^ 
 
 For some moments Robert sat still— his face blanched, his fingers 
 pressed against his ears, his eyes closed, as though he would shut out 
 some ghastly sight, some ghastly sound, which scared his brain. 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 423 
 
 rhen lie as suddenly rose ; and, as though drunk with the vengeance 
 low possible, he burst into a weird laugh, more awful to listen to 
 han it had been to see his chill and ghastly terror. 
 
 “Ha! ha! ha! ha!” he laughed. “Now for’ t, thou d d and 
 
 bruel villain ! I mun sink wi’ thee — but thou th’ deeper.” 
 
 As he spoke, he strode across the kitchen to take up his boots ; but, 
 
 •IS he stooped, horses’s hoofs clattered along the causeway ; the rider 
 .stopped, dismounted — in a moment more was in the kitchen. It was 
 
 ^^^Looking at nothing, hurrying towards his brother, putting his hands 
 upon his shoulder tenderly, as though there was neither sorrow nor 
 estranfrement between them — no innocence for one, no heavy guilt 
 'darkening the other— there the poor fellow stood, weeping bitterly, 
 and speechless from his very woe. 
 
 Robert was the first to speak. ^ 
 
 “ I’m glad thou’st come, Silas— thou hast saved me a journey.^ 
 
 “ Robert— Robert ! take my hand in love, dear brother— this is an 
 ;awful hour. Thou must flee; to save thee. I’ve ridden from Wei ton 
 like the winds ; for that devil, Jonathan, bringing an order, as though 
 from thee to Hears, for three hundred pounds, he suspected the 
 fellow— he had him taken to the police-court— and there, when 
 driven to bay by the questions of honest men, he confessed that thou 
 hadst forged our poor old mother’s will, and he had witnessed it. 
 i Robert, if this be true, why did you let covetousness draw thee into 
 crime ? I was thy brother— I loved thee— I was never a grasping 
 man ; and if thou hadst said, ‘ I want all,’ thou should st have 
 
 ^liadit.” , . 
 
 Robert only groaned, and laid his face of shame upon his brother s 
 
 shoulder. 
 
 “ Robert, is this fellow’s confession true ? ” 
 
 ' “ Ay” 
 
 ^ No answer came from Silas for minutes. There he stood, weeping 
 bitterly those tears of mortal agony which men so rarely weep — there 
 he stood, shielding him as though from others there he stood as 
 , brother unto brother, as though his own innocence could wipe away 
 the other’s guilt. 
 
 “ Robert,” he said at last, “ we must make haste ; you must get 
 away — three or four men of the Welton police force are on the road 
 
 by this time, to take you.” i i j 
 
 “ So be it — I move not a step. That fellow got the three hundred 
 pounds from me this morn, and then knocked me down. I must ha 
 ? vengeance — come t’ th’ fire, and hear what it be. 
 
 As he spoke, Robert went forward with even an elastic step, so 
 much did his brother’s presence comfort him in this extremity of 
 . shame and agonjr ; and, pointing to the girl, as well as drawing a 
 chair, bid Silas sit down. . 
 
 ( “ This is Sarah ; she came to me noi^ an hour ago. She can tell 
 
 you what this villain is ; for it be too .true— he struck our poor old 
 mother off the granary stairs.” 
 
424 
 
 mainstone's housekeeper. 
 
 Rooert’s voice faltered as he spoke. Well it mioht— the lesser 
 crime had begot the larger. 
 
 But Silas, as he regarded her, drew away with instinctive aversion. 
 
 “ Robert, you will surely not believe anything this woman says ? ” 
 
 “ Phema knows it — well send for Phema.” 
 
 “Be cautious, Robert; this woman — though I speak it in her 
 presence— tried twice to injure, nay, take the life of, the dear and 
 spotless lady who saved your child— who protects her now— and who 
 has been to me and mine such as— Pleaven bless her !— no tono-ue can 
 truly tell.” ® 
 
 “Silas Moore,” said the girl, bending towards him, “God made 
 none of us quite evil. I have only told Robert what Phema told me, 
 and what she herself can tell you. Yet, nevertheless, my testimony 
 may serve. I never before spoke of it to mortal ear ; but, lingering 
 about this house for the sake of seeing Robert, the night the pc)?)r old 
 woman died, I was witness to Jonathan’s presence Tn the adjacent 
 fields— I saw his tethered horse, and I saw him mount and ride 
 through a lane into the highway. So, you see, I can give a clue, if it 
 be wanted.” 
 
 “ That’s true,” said Silas, thoughtfully and gravely ; “ but thou art 
 thyself in trouble, and would flee, just as we needed thee.” 
 
 Book at me, she replied — “ do I look like one who can go 
 much further ? ^^o, I have been weeks tramping hither to die ; 
 
 so if you will go up to Mainstone’s housekeeper, and ask her, or 
 those who act for her, not to prosecute a stricken creature, I will 
 give my testimony when and how you will. I ask for nothing 
 6^se— I plead no remorse, I ask no forgiveness — for I feel that^ 
 fashioned as I am, 1 should, if I lived my time again, sin as I have 
 already sinned.” 
 
 “Yet you strove to crush her on her way home from Welton ? ” 
 
 “ I^did ! ” she answered, determ inately. 
 
 “You put poison in the coffee ? ” 
 
 “ I did ! ” was still more hardly answered. 
 
 “In God’s name, why did you do one or the other?” 
 
 “For love— if you must know ! ” she said, more fiercely ; “ if I had 
 been loved but a tittle as she is loved, I should have been happy and 
 innocent. Silas Moore — if all that’s said be true — you have known 
 what jealousy is. So pity and forgive another, not so wise or kindly- 
 hearted as thyself ! ” 
 
 He did look — he did pity — he could see that her degradation was 
 great indeed — he could see that that the peace of her long night was 
 near. Yet caution made him hazard a further question. 
 
 “ Tell me what thy real motive is in coming here ? ” 
 
 “ J he simple one to die — in the poor-house, if so be it ! Another 
 thing. I always hated Jonathan— for he drove me often from these 
 fields like a dog — and I thought that what I knew might serve Robert. 
 My motive has been neither penitence nor hate— though now I know, 
 as Robert tells me, that he will never take her as a wife — my comfort, 
 little as it can be, grows, and I am sorry for the evil I would have 
 
mainstone's housekeeper. 
 
 425 
 
 ‘paused. Yes, yes ! yet all mine in fancy. I weep my only tears at 
 :he feet of him who should have loved me ! ” 
 
 She bent her face as she spoke, and veikni it with her soddened 
 varments. 
 
 Silas made no immediate reply, but sat lost in saddened thought. 
 At last he said, “ As Robert means to face this matter, I must bide 
 dll he is gone with the folks who are coming to fetch him. Then, if 
 [ go up to the parsonage, and ask Miss Eliot to show her mercy to 
 uhee, which she will, I am sure — for she be too good to cast a burden 
 on the fallen — ^hou wilt not leave us in the lurch, but stay and give 
 ihy testimony ? ” 
 
 “ I will, Silas, most assuredly. It is little good I can do — but what 
 [ can, I will.” 
 
 No more was said. Lost in their own grief, the brothers sat in 
 silence — Silas tenderly imprisoning in his the hands of him who had 
 been so long estranged from him. 
 
 Thinking that they might have that to say to each other which no 
 other ear should he^ the girl, with great good-feeling, dragged her 
 slow way into the adjoining back-house, and there, crouching down 
 upon a heap of sacks, patiently waited the advent of the coming 
 strangers. 
 
 She had judged rightly — her absence was a relief to the stricken 
 men. She could just hear that they spoke tender words to each 
 other, and that these words died away in whispers — whispers lost in 
 tears ! 
 
 Once she heard Robert go up stairs — possibly to fetch some little 
 hoard, some legal papers, some articles of value. Probably all of 
 these — for she heard him say to Silas when he was down again ; — 
 
 “ Ge this to thy little lad, this t’other to Barbie — let th’ girl ha’ a 
 portion ; the rest be all thine, Silas ! ” 
 
 Then unbroken silence came — the silence of an inward agony, 
 which could have no voico ! 
 
 It was broken, however, in a little while by the arrival of the men 
 from Welton, accompanied by Mears, the cattle-dealer — a kind and 
 honest fellow. Much talk followed. The girl was called forward, 
 and made her statement; and when, at length, the various points of 
 business were concluded, the men refreshed themselves with what the 
 house afforded; and Robert Moore, dressing himself, prepared to go. 
 One of the farm-horses was made ready for him to ride — the shadows 
 of the evening, which had now set in, would veil his ignominy from 
 passing eyes ; but when he came to say farewell to the old place — 
 the place of many happy days — the place of so much sin and suffer- 
 ing, wilfully begot through his own accursed selfishness of heart — 
 Robert Moore nearly swooned ; and it was — propped up by a 
 constable on either side — that he stepped from the threshold of his 
 fathers, and looked his last upon their honest patrimony. On that 
 threshold, though he was innocent, the tender brother battled with 
 his sternest woe ! 
 
 One of the policemen, at the request of Silas, had ridden down to 
 
426 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 the ‘‘Brown Hen,” and summoned Mrs. Bell; and now that she was; 
 come, and had heard all that had occurred, Silas left her in care of the I 
 house, and went on his way to the parsonage— though not forgetting,, 
 ere he went, to draw the good woman aside, and bid her not behave i 
 as a Pharisee to the miserable stranger. A bidding well observed;! 
 for though, gossip as she was, she made her “yea, yea,” her “nayli 
 nay ’’—she warmed her, fed her, changed her garments, and saw her 
 to rest in a comfortable bed. 
 
 There was a guest at the parsonage that evening, but he was one ' 
 to hear with interest the tidings Silas bore, for they verified his old I 
 suspicions. ^ Though at first she had spoken to him alone, the very j 
 nature of his errand caused Charlotte to presently usher Silas into 
 the study, where Mr. Radnor and Richard Wenlock sat, and there a 
 long conversation ensued. When it drew to a close her advice was as 
 usual judicious. 
 
 “ Send for Barbie, Mr. Moore ; it will be pleasant for me to have 
 her so near as the Farm, and Jordan shall go over and watch your 
 interests at your present home, till some one can be found to take 
 house and land off your hands. As to the person you speak of, it 
 will not be judicious, I think, to let her remain longer than to-night 
 where she is. It would not be well for Barbie, it would certainly be 
 distasteful to Mrs. Thornhill, who will, of course, be coming often to 
 see her child. But there is, at a cottage near the church, an old 
 woman— a pensioner of mine— who will gladly, I daresay, take her 
 as a lodger. In the morning, early, Molly shall go and see. As to 
 vindictiveness,^ be sure, Mr. Moore, I cannot entertain such a feeling. 
 
 I pity — I forgive. I will afford evidence of both, if there be need ; 
 for if all the causes of evil could be revealed, a principle such as 
 revenge or retaliation would be impossible ! ” 
 
 Thus she forgave, who had been so sinned against — and Silas 
 Moore’s idea of his little wife’s best friend was thus all true ! Dear 
 woman, when the lover pressed your hand that night, in tenderest 
 farewell, he loved you more and more — for you were as himself in 
 recognizing the highest principles, the loftiest truths ! 
 
 On the morrow Phema was sent for; and for some succeeding 
 days all Wei ton and its wide neighbourhood flocked to hear the 
 ' examination of Jonathan and his master. The latter was fully com- 
 mitted for forgery, the former for murder — the evidence of Phema, 
 Sarah, and Richard Wenlock being irresistible. The career of Jona- 
 than disclosed a character of incredible baseness and subtlety. For 
 years his plans and calculations had all pointed to one object — that of 
 emigrating to New Zealand as a capitalist. These means secured, he 
 had been latterly for weeks the purchaser of goods to take thither — 
 his passage was paid — his banns asked in church for his marriage to 
 the woman who was to accompany him. Had his avarice not over- 
 reached itself, he would have been far beyond the reach of justice 
 before another month had closed. 
 
 He eventually — through a flaw in the evidence — escaped other 
 punishment than transportation for life. His master — happily for 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 427 
 
 :dmself and others— did not live long enough to take his _trlal. 
 Broken down by a previous life of great anxiety, shame, combined 
 :vith the confinement of a gaol, brought life to a speedy close, and he 
 lied, tenderly watched by his brother, ere Christmas came. On one 
 )r two occasions he saw Phema, and she was benefited by his 
 /f)ut as he had never shown either the care or afiection of a lather, 
 'ittle love was to be expected on the other side. 
 
 Indeed, the girl’s health failed again alarmingly when thus brought 
 freshly in contact with those she had such just cause to fear. So 
 iohat, as soon as Jonathan’s trial was over, she was willingly sent back 
 ::o the pleasant old farm by the shining sea. 
 
 When sprinf*" came green again. Barbie rocked her cradle on the 
 ioeaceful hearth of the renovated old Farm, and Silas ploughed his 
 ‘own fields with a subdued spirit— yet a thankful hprt To his ear 
 vhe little birds warbled not their songs in vain. His was a grateful 
 nature. He was blessed with his pretty Barbie, and by a little son, 
 'hot loved the less because it bore the name of a brother who had 
 deeply sinned. 
 
 j 
 
 ) 
 
 [ 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIL 
 
 THE LAST VEIL. AMEn! 
 
 The year brouglit with it changes— marriages in Brooklow and 
 elsewhere ; the partnership of the young surgeons j the issue of a 
 new book by Mr. Goldrust on the “ Roman Way. Mr. Walcot s 
 Xol was not prosperous ; Charlotte and Mr. Radnor had each sent 
 a contribution ;^the school-house had been built 
 
 want of fitting administration, it was a failure, loo haughty him- 
 relf to condes”ceud, too indolent to interfere, too ^ 
 
 opinions, Mr. Walcot left all to his teachers. As these had been 
 selected rather for knowing little than knowing much, according to 
 ?he chle maxim that “learning is a dangerous thing,’ they soon 
 slept over their duties, and, finding themselves irresponsible, cur- 
 tailed even the narrow measure of what they had been hired to 
 in part. So the village Hodges and Bettys, finding their children ose 
 instead of gain, soon withdrew them one by one, till none were left 
 but those wliose fathers worked on the parsonage glebe, or the laud 
 of some churcbwardcii farmer. 
 
428 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 Since that day when his carriage had encountered theirs, Mr. < 
 A'l'alcot had seen little of either Mr. Radnor or Miss Eliot. He had 1 
 called upon the former a few times — he had sent several letters to ! 
 the latter — but as^ these remained unanswered, the acquaintanceship i 
 had, as it were, died away. But now one autumn morning, comim^ 
 up to Mainstone, he made good his entrance by following Elish^ | 
 without announcement, into the oak-parlour. Charlotte sat writing in I 
 the oriel ; so thither he advanced, when he had closed the door behind 
 the old servant. He had come in so quickly and so noiselessly, that ' 
 she neither heard nor saw him till he began to speak, and she looked | 
 up. 
 
 “As you never answered my letters and would not see me,” he said, ' 
 speaking anxiously and hurriedly, “I hive had no other option than 
 to^ force myself into your presence — as I must speak to you.” He ' 
 laid great emphasis on these latter words, drew a chair, sat down, i 
 and waited as though for an answer. But none came — the pen went 
 on ; if silence can give a negative, this did. | 
 
 “As you will take no part in my school, as you will not even share i 
 in an intellectual friendship, I have at last made up my mind to take 
 another step, though against the habits and tastes of many years. 
 Be my wife. It is an offer of which any woman in this county mio-ht 
 be proud. I am a gentleman of birth, a Fellow of my College, rector 
 of Brooklow and Filcot, and possessor of an income of not "less than 
 six thousand a-year. Of course you cannot say nay.” 
 
 But no voice replied — the pen still went on. I 
 
 “May I interpret this silence as a tacit consent? I really like you 
 — love you as much as I could any woman — for only tjou would I 
 give up my precious liberty. But you have learning, fortune, looks 
 — you will honour me ! ” i 
 
 Still the pen kept on. 
 
 “ Pray, speak. My epic is just done — you will share in my 
 literary as well as other honours. My dear Charlotte, you accept . 
 my offer ! ” 
 
 Xow the face was lifted up — now the pen was still — now the voice 
 spoke. 
 
 “ No ! ” 
 
 He was deeply grieved and moved. You could see he loved her so 
 well, in spite of his proiid, selfish, exacii.ig, reserved character. 
 
 “ You cannot mean this ! — reconsider the question — recollect who 
 it is who asks you ! My Charlotte, do.” 
 
 But the pen was writing — the voice was silent. 
 
 “Your engagement with Mr. Radnor is broken off— he, in part, told 
 me so himself. Pray speak — the offer of a hand like mine can come ‘ 
 but once in a woman’s life.” 
 
 She looked up now with a smile on her face, which was half satirical. 
 This smile moved his jealous anger to the utmost. 
 
 “ The rumours which are afloat are surely not true ? It is for 
 some other purpose that Mainstone Hall is making ready. You are 
 surely not going to maiTy that hlack-handed for^eiuan^ You, a lady 
 
mai>’stone’s housekeeper. 
 
 429 
 
 f birth, fortune, education — a lady on whom tlie Ligliest of the 
 fountv have called — a gentlewoman, fitting to be the rector of 
 3rooklow’s wife. ^ ou surely cannot be going so to demean your- 
 
 elf ? ” , . . 
 
 ! The pen was still ; the face looked up and fixedly at Ins ; it was 
 ideasant to see how serene and happy it was — it was sweet to hear the 
 liheerful gentle voice ! 
 
 : “The report is quite correct. Next month I hope to be the 
 ^ery happy wife of him you are pleased to call the hlach -handed 
 forgemanP 
 
 The blow these words imparted was so terrible to his pride, as to 
 rfianche his face to the hue of paper. 
 
 ; “ AVhat infatuation ! What folly ! lie may be clever, just— in 
 fcime he may be even rich — but he never can be more than an iron- 
 naster — certainlv never a gentleman ! ” 
 
 : “One of God’s gentleman, if I mistake not! And in these days 
 ;)f England, iron-lords as well as cotton-lords are somewhat I Yes ! 
 
 with this maker and welder of iron I have consented to pass my 
 .lays. He is rnv proud choice above all other men. Now having said 
 vhat you have to say, will you retire ? Your intrusion is no longer 
 ‘idmissible ! ” . . .„ 
 
 ' As she spoke, Charlotte rose, rang the bell, and waited beside it till 
 Elisha should appear. But this the" Rector did not wait for. Casting 
 ooks upon her in which were expressed pride, disappointment, scorn, 
 md, above all, admiring love, he went his way without farewell of 
 any kind. 
 
 I As this was Mr. Walcot’s first matrimonial speculation, so It was 
 :iis last. By a great effort his pride had stooped — henceforth he 
 vould not have condescended to even the Queen of Sheba herself. 
 k week after this disappointment his school was closed. From this 
 ■late he reverted to his celibate luxuries — wrote poems full of learned 
 words, which no one read — preached sermons whicli few understood 
 —discussed abstract polemics after aldermanic dinners, with the seven 
 or eight clerical celibates of his neighbourhood ; and with them — 
 5 tud}ung genuflections, intoning, black and white surplices— went 
 every }^ar nearer and nearer to Rome. Mormonism, sensuality, 
 drunkenness, ignorance, might have been rife in his parish, yet to him 
 anknown. But his last-appointed curate, Mr. C()lchester,^ worked 
 with a noble conscience. He taught, preached, visited, advised, and 
 (vith effects soon perceivable. He became Julius Radnor’s intimate 
 friend — for their opinions and high principles were one ; he visited 
 'much at Mainstone Hall ; he was," in the best sense, a learned, kindly 
 Christian gentleman, whom rich and poor alike loved. 
 
 In the lane just beyond Mainstone Church stood a small secluded 
 •cottage, to which, at intervals, Charlotte came. Here, since the date 
 af Robert Moore’s arrest, Sarah had lodged, supported by Charlotte’s 
 bounty, and nursed by the poor old widowed mistress of the place. 
 The girl had long been ill, and through the winter had never left her 
 bed ; bat as spring and summer came, she recovered sufficiently to 
 
430 
 
 MA instone’s housekeeper. 
 
 rise each day, and creep forth into the sunshine, if it were fine 
 ^here was no hope of her ultimate recovery; nature was exhaustai 
 • impossible. At first Charlotte had kept aloof— 
 
 indeed throughout the longest part of winter— but as Mr.^Grayson’s 
 as well as Mr. Colchester’s reports were alike favourable as to the 
 ^rl s (juiet demeanour, she at last mastered her repugnance and went 
 Her visits were but coldly received. Of thankfulnesi there wasMe 
 show-of penitence none Sullen indifference to either the past or 
 the present was the chief characteristic; but Charlotte, pitiful, and 
 j,uess_ing at the unspoken presence of a broken heart, stilt made her 
 occasional visits, still bestowed her small bounties as delicately as she 
 could, bo summer had passed, and autumn was now here 
 
 It was a lovely August afternoon, as Charlotte thus came across the 
 pheasant fields with a little basket and a bunch of greenhouse flowers, 
 h or the girl, so dead to most things was passionately fond of the 
 scent and hue of flowers, ’When she reached the cotta<re it was 
 tenantless ; but presently she found the widow at woric in her 
 garden. 
 
 ‘-No, ma’am, Sarah isn’t in. She’s gone a bit up the lane or into 
 the churchyard— It may be into the church ; for the glaziers haye 
 been there at work to-day. Poor thing! she’s been very bad since 
 
 another blood-vessel, 
 
 and Mr. Grayson Kindly came ; but she feels a little better to-day 
 and so went out awhile to enjoy the sun. Shall I fetch her, ma’am 
 — it s time for being home.” 
 
 _ “No, thank you I will go and find her. Just place these flowers 
 in water, and put this basket where she will see it, when she comes in 
 —for Molly filled it with dainties.” 
 
 So Charlotte passed forth again into the fern-clad lane, its banks 
 gay with harebell and foxglove, its hedgerows so garlanded with 
 himeysuckles as to fill the air with the sweet incense of their perfume 
 Ihe springs dropped-dropped beneath the leaves; and sweeter was 
 the murna^ur of the bees as they winged their lagging flight to their 
 cells in the trunk of a tree, or in some cottage hive. But the o-irl 
 was neither up nor down the lane, nor in the little copses winch 
 broke the edges of the fields, so she went onwards into the still 
 churchyard. 
 
 It was very still indeed — so still, as to be monotonous with silence ! 
 It was about six o’clock, the sun was slanting down, the workmen 
 were gone, the labourers were plodding slowly homewards from the 
 fields there were strips of light upon the sward, there were broaden- 
 ing shadows which made the glory more. The daisies looked like 
 little stars upon the graves, the mosses decked forgotten pomp of 
 stone, the undergrowth crept over and kindly hid some hillocks which 
 were best unseen— there was light upon the ivy of the grey church 
 tower, scintillating light, like the sun upon the sea, or a mirror in the 
 8un; higher and higher it climbed— broader and broader— fuller and 
 tuller it grew, till it rested in refulgence on the vane top, makin^y it a 
 shining beacon, seen far and far away ! ° 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 431 
 
 ’ She was not in the churchyard, nor in the church itself, thoivcrh the 
 \ey was in the door, and a hassock stood before the altar. No, she 
 vas not here — the workmen were gone — all was^ intensely still — 
 <jach minute made the evening shadows broader on the floor ! 
 
 ' At last, with a chill kind of fear, Charlotte turned the old triangled 
 landle of the vestry door, a little vaulted shadowed room, dark at 
 loonday — so thickly did the ivy cross its casement panes, and there- 
 fore darker at this hour. In these first shadows she could see nothing, 
 Sut stepping presently within, she looked around. As her eye grew 
 iccustomed to the gloom, she saw what she sought. In a groined 
 '-ecess, fitted with a stone seat, hung Mr. Radnor’s surplices and gown 
 —and here, her face buried in the hanging folds of a white garment, 
 melt the girl. It was her last veil — for she was dead. Her nature 
 tvas better than as the world had known it — she had loved— it had 
 aot been returned; yet the ideal of purer days had survived the 
 wrecks of sin. Her broken heart was still — her reticent sorrow had 
 passed into the shadows of all earthly things ! 
 
 There were tears wept over her as she knelt. The tenderest 
 human hands unveiled her face— the tenderest woman’s heart wiped 
 out her sins, with the tenderest of human pity ! 
 
 Long after this, and at the time of winter, when holly-berries 
 .decked the sconces and the casement-panes, many people came from 
 far and near to hear the new clerk read the responses and say 
 “Amen.” It was Cornelius. Not great in capacity even now, though 
 wondrously changed from former days. Well trained by Stephen 
 Ash, he was this Christmas morn to gladden his proud old father’s 
 heart by doing duty in his stead. So neighbours and friends, the rich 
 and poor — remembering what he had been, and what he now was — 
 came wonderingly to hear, and to approve. 
 
 I Well and gravely did he read the responses to prayers — the sub- 
 limest ever framed by the lips of mortal men — solemnly did he say 
 “Amen!” “Amen!” The service over, kind friends pressed for- 
 ‘ ward to congratulate the proud and fond old father, but the flood of 
 ,joy had overflnwed its bounds. He leant backwards, in the pew in 
 ; which he sat alone — and when they spoke, and he replied not, they 
 hastened within, and found him dead. His last “Amen” was said — 
 his ’• Aawc dimiUls ” was indeed come I 
 
432 
 
 MAINSTONE's HOUSEKEErER. 
 
 CIIAraER XXXIII. 
 
 NEW TASKS FOR ROGER ASCHAM. 
 
 The children have been out for some time in the early snn ; but 
 now the nurses gather them together, for it is the hour at which they 
 mostly bid papa “ good-bye ” ere he goes away for the day. Here 
 is Julius, and Richard, and little Charlotte, and others, who, nearer 
 babyhood, need the nurses’ care. These three eldest run forward — 
 Charlotte with what she calls “ a ’ittle fower,” to be stuck in papa’s 
 waistcoat ; and, gaining the sunny hall, rush wildly into a sunnier 
 parlour, where a lady and gentleman having breakfasted are about 
 to rise from the table. The latter is placing a large packet of 
 0 opened letters in his pocket letter-case, which his wife has read and 
 selected for him from a pile yet lying on the table ; for this affluent 
 ironmaster is one whose business is with many countries of the world, 
 and who has no secrets from the wife he so proudly and so fondly 
 loves. Now there is a tempest for papa, which ruffles him a little, 
 but which he dearly loves — it is an elixir which gives him strength 
 through many a care and struggle with the world. Boys climb his 
 chair, and are rough company — little girl creeps sidling into his tender 
 arms, to nestle there, and place “ the ’itfle fower ” — presently the 
 lesser ones come, and those older are shaken off. There is a toss and 
 ,a kiss all round — then dismissal to the nursery, and papa goes out 
 into the hall, to put on hat and fetch his despatch-case from his study, 
 little boys and girl following his footsteps zealously. Meanwhile 
 mamma has given some instructions to her housekeeper, and putting 
 on garden hat and gloves, prepares to accompany papa down to the 
 little railway-station in the park ; for a line now sweeps direct from 
 Mainstone Hall into the heart of the mining district. Busy men, like 
 Richard Wenlock, are the best economists of time. 
 
 ‘•Have you got your Latin grammar, Julius?” asks mamma. 
 Julius, who is begging papa to buy him some fishing-hooks, says, 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ That is right, you must not vex the dear magister again by for- 
 getting your books. As we cross the fields, you shall decline your 
 noun to me, for he likes the lessons perfect. Now, run round to tho 
 gardener, and see if the flowers I ordered last night are cut.” 
 
433 
 
 MAINSTONES HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 Julius ruup off, little Richard with him ; but tiny Charlotte cleaves 
 
 0 papa, and takes his hand. They leave the house--they are out in 
 he full sunlicrht of this divine May morn— the underwood sending 
 ip its perfunTe as they pass it by— the dewy grass its also, as it is 
 
 iressed beneath their feet. t>-i, 
 
 “ What time does the meeting at Dudley take place, Richard . 
 
 isks the wife. . ^ i ■«. j i 
 
 “ At noon ; and as it is an Ironmasters’ Quarterly Meeting, and 1 
 ,m chairman, Ellis and I must be there early. We shall be occupied 
 ill late, I daresay ; for after the meeting we shall have much busi- 
 less to see to. Government contracts, negotiations with more than 
 me foreign agent, and special matters as to our own schools ol 
 3hemistry, engineering, and metallurglc design. It may be nine 
 
 3’clock before I am home.” , t,i x j a 
 
 “Accompany Ellis, then. I had a note from Flora yesterday, and 
 she asked me and the children and Mr. Radnor to dine with her 
 ,to-dav ; so I shall dress at the parsonage, and go. She seems to miss 
 Mr. Thornhill much, though he has now been dead three months, and 
 dear old Margery’s declining health is a source of anxiety to her. 
 Flora will thus be the better for the face of a friend.” 
 
 “ My Charlotte can give comfort, eh ? Is it not so, wife ? Did 
 she not once step into a certain old green room— now. alas! dese- 
 crated by being a workshop— and give to one who was very desolate, 
 a life-long joy ? Ay ! the ‘ black-handed forgeman,’ as a certain 
 parson called him, does not forget these things, though it is now eight 
 hmg years ago ! ” As he speaks thus, she looks up into his eyes, 
 with a look which is eloquent with a wife’s true love and duty. He 
 understands— he knows she has never regretted the blessed consola- 
 tion which she gave. _ 
 
 ti W^ell, dear wife, I will return with Ellis. I want to see rio, and 
 master Johnny, and to hear how our old friend Miss Tern is getting 
 
 1 on with her task of nursing at the Hoo Hall. The poor old Squire is 
 
 not long, I fear, of this world.” _ 
 
 “ If there be time, I will drive over to-day — if not, to-morrow, and 
 isee how he is. 1 speak a woman’s wish when I say that I hope good 
 Hannah will be the better for his will. A trifling legacy would add 
 1 greatly to her comfort, for she is poor, as well as far too independent, 
 ito accept gifts of anyone. But a legacy would overcome the diffi- 
 ' culty. Richard, did you ever guess that Hannah and old Theobald 
 ii were attached to each other when young ? It is no secret now ; it 
 came out when he sent for her, two months ago, to nurse him as her 
 hand could only nurse.” 
 
 “ Yes, I knew of it years ago ; but it was a confidence, and so 
 respected. I do not know what separated them, though in this case, 
 as in too many others, good missed its counterpart, with life-long loss 
 to both. But I must hasten on — the train waits.” 
 
 They are in sight of the little station, and its pretty rustic house. 
 The train waits — on the platform stands his clerk of works, with 
 papers in his hand. Richard stoops and kisses his wile raises his hat 
 
 28 
 
4^4 
 
 MAINSTONES llOUsj<;KEEPi>.fU 
 
 to her with an obeisance of honour he never forgets — waves tiis hand i 
 to his little ones, who are now loitering behind — and in a moment i 
 more is on the platform, has the papers his clerk has brought ini 
 his hand, enters a carriage with him, and is gone — as the flif^ht of a 
 bird. 
 
 Thoughtfully retracing her steps, Charlotte is soon joined by her 
 children, when striking into a fresh path, they leave the park and 
 gain the fields. Here cowslips deck the grass, the shadowed turfy 
 hedgerows are sweet with the breath of primroses, and sweeter with 
 the perfume of a million hidden violets. Mamma’s dear hands are 
 soon full : there is a special posy for the good magister — even fond 
 old Molly is not forgotten. 
 
 “ Ma,” says little Charlotte, “ Mr. Radnor can smell these pretty | 
 fow’ers — though, to see them, he put his eyes so close.” I 
 
 “ Yes, dear — it is sorrowful ! Mr. Radnor’s sight is very dim.” 
 
 The flowers thus gathered, Julius walks hand-in-hand with mamma, , 
 and declines his noun, passably for him, whom papa will in no wise 
 have a parrot ; but rather a pickle, running about much of the day 
 for sake of health of brain and limb. Richard repeats his column of 
 spelling; and then they are away once more, chasing the yellow 
 butterflies, or watching the squirrels in the hedgerow trees. 
 
 At last they cross the hand-bridge of the pretty brook, and are in 
 the precincts of the parsonage. 
 
 “ Mamma,” says Richard and Julius in a breath, “may we go and 
 see if school’s begun ? If not, will you come with us to the white 
 gate, and watch till Johnny and Ellis come ? Sometimes when we 
 wait, Robert and Silas come too.” 
 
 Mamma consents ; and whilst they run round to the terrace, to 
 look through the window of the room which is their school, she goes 
 slowly towards the carriage-drive, little Charlotte with her. Presently 
 they stay by the spring, to watch a brood of Molly’s chicks — Molly 
 coming forth from her kitchen presently to speak to the dear lady.j 
 There are inquiries about Mr. Radnor, questions as to many things 
 that may tend to his comfort, to all of which Molly gives hopeful 
 and thrift-bespeaking answers. The little ones returning, with word 
 that school is not yet begun, though Cornelius is putting the slates 
 and copy-books ready, whilst Mr. Radnor walks up and down his 
 terrace in the sun, they would go on with mamma ; but Molly must 
 have a kiss all round first, with just a visitation to her store-room to 
 fetch some gingerbread. Promising, if they be good, somie little treat 
 of fruit and cake when school is done. Even now they cannot go 
 away, without Elisha coming forward with a respectful greeting for 
 his “ dear lady,” as he calls her, and her little ones. He is mowing 
 the orchard -grass, and is very busy this fine spring weather; but not 
 so busy but what he has found time to make Richard and Julius a 
 cage for their two tame squirrels, and which is to be theirs “ when 
 master says they’re good enough to have it.” Then there is a word 
 or two about “ old Hannah’s rheumatiz ” — for Elisha, unlike his 
 master, is not a Benedict. But taking compassion on his old lovc’fl 
 
mainstone's housekeeper. 
 
 435 
 
 )neliness, married her some years before and has a pleasant home, in 
 ooms above coach-house and laundry — for old Hannah is a dainty 
 ousewife. His respectful greeting over, he goes his way. 
 
 ; So does Charlotte and her little ones. Along the carriage -drive, 
 irough the white gate, down the hill they go, where, midway, when 
 liiey have passed the lane leading to Silas Moore’s farm, they see two 
 ttle riders coming forwards, a groom behind. Quickly they ride — 
 [i quickly they dismount from their shaggy ponies to greet their little 
 ihool-fellows and friends. Much whispering is there, much running 
 p the hill, whilst Charlotte reads a note from Flora which the groom 
 as given her. 
 
 This read, she retraces her steps, and sees her little ones, with 
 ohnny and Ellis Thornhill, climbing the farm-gate, and swinging to 
 ad fro. 
 
 “ Mamma, mamma ! ” calls Julius, “ here is Robert and Silas coming 
 -please wait.” 
 
 She does, and there comes running from the farm two little 
 astic fellows, healthy, sun-burnt, homely clad, their books in their 
 lands, their slates dangling each from a string across their shoulders, 
 •lehind them, leading his saddled horse, treads their grave and manly 
 ither. 
 
 [ “ Good morning, ma’am,” says Silas, lifting off his hat, and standing 
 y reverently. 
 
 I “Good morning, Mr. Moore — nice weather for your farming. How 
 , Barbie and the little ones ? ” 
 
 “Well, ma’am, thank you ; though, with butter- making and pre- 
 aring for the hay-harvest, it’s a busy time. We hope you will allow 
 le children to come to our last day of hay-making, for we always 
 )ok forward to it with great pride.” 
 
 ' “ Certainly, Silas ; and if Mrs. Thornhill and I can, we will look in 
 ;pon your merry-making as we did last year. Mr. Radnor tells me 
 ’our boys make great progress — Robert especially.” 
 
 : “Yes, Mrs. Wenlock, Robert is a bright lad; and you and 
 Ir. Radnor do me and Barbie great honour in permitting them 
 > join your children’s lessons. Ay, ma’am, if my Robert’s name- 
 ike had beeen taught half as well, he mightn’t have been what 
 e was.” 
 
 “ Perhaps not. But this is too bright a morning, Silas, for sad 
 lemories. Good day, the children are up the hill, and calling me.” 
 
 Silas stands by in reverence till she is gone — casts back one look 
 ■f pride and love upon his children, as they pass through the parson - 
 ge gate with their schoolfellows — then mounts his horse, and rides off 
 b his distant fields. 
 
 Having greeted their master, and seduced old Wolf from his 
 llegiance, the happy little scholars are off* into the schoolroom, by 
 he time Charlotte reaches the terrace, where Mr. Radnor walks 
 Meditatively up and down. His step is feebler, his hair is greyer, 
 hs figure more bent and drooping — but it is to be seen how he 
 ' btens for her coming — and how deep his joy is when she takes his 
 28—2 
 
436 
 
 mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 hand and greets him with daughterly affection. Ay, changes may 
 come, but she is still his best beloved scholar! — his Tullia!— hisi 
 \ittle Jane ! 
 
 On she steps with him in the morning’s flood of glory — tenderly 
 little Charlotte imprisons his drooping hand. On and on, as they i 
 jETo and turn again at the orchard end of the terrace — lo ! two stately! 
 oeacocks — a newer Peri and Pearl — come down from some adjacent, 
 perch, and, spreading out their resplendent feathers, follow theirj 
 tender master’s feet, and let the sun kiss hues more gorgeous than a| 
 monarch’s robe ! 
 
 These peacoks, more transcendent in their beauty than their! 
 namesakes, were Charlotte’s gift, and sought for far and wide. Very’ 
 tame they are — very faithful to the hand which feeds them so 
 tenderly — very proud is their master of his gift ! Yet, they are 
 not quite so dear to him as the Peri and Pearl of former days ; for 
 Julius Radnor, like too many of us, knows that originals can never be 
 replaced ! 
 
 “Are you better to-day, Julius?” asks Charlotte, as they pass 
 on. 
 
 “I am always better when my darling is by. Yes, this sunny 
 weather does me good, and my sight must be better, for I see 
 more of garden and landscape this morning. It is pleasant to 
 look forward to the time when an operation may make it so much 
 better.” 
 
 “ Yes, the London oculist gives the greatest hope ; and when you 
 go Julius, Richard and I will be your nurses. To-day, give the; 
 children short lessons — you must not be fatigued.” 
 
 “It is my delight! Little Jane must not rob the old man of thei 
 greatest pleasure he has.” 
 
 “ Thank you, dear magister — though how little Jane and her dear 
 Richard can repay you, they know not. Julius, whilst you hear the| 
 lessons I shall see to the housekeeping, and write answers to suchj 
 letters as I find you have put ready for me. After school I shall bel 
 ready to read to you, or walk with you, and if you are disengaged! 
 you must dine with me at Flora’s. Your curate, as well as Mr. 
 Colchester, will be there, and we shall have a pleasant evening.” ^ 
 
 “ As you will, Charlotte. Now let us go in, the children will be 
 waiting.” 
 
 As he speaks, Mr. Radnor takes up little Charlotte in his arms and 
 carries her to the school-room, where she may stay during lessons, asj 
 she often does, if she is good. Here he takes his seat — the busy hum| 
 of children’s voices cease — the lessons begin. 
 
 There are flowers upon his desk, whose rich perfume floats likei 
 incense about the room — there is the richer odour of violets, gathered- 
 as he knows, by tiny hands, hands which inherit tenderness from her! 
 who gave them life. 
 
 The lessons begin, and there is an assistant schoolmaster. It ia 
 Cornelius, clerk and bookworm as well. Disappointed in winning 
 Phema’s heartr— who long ago married Stephen Ash, and lives still atj 
 
mainstone’s housekeeper. 
 
 437 
 
 that far-away old farm by the shining sea — he lives with, reads to, 
 and attends upon Mr. Radnor. Plodding, careful, though not a man 
 of bright ideas, he pores over books, studies Latin and mathematics, 
 imitates Mr. Radnor as a child its father, loves his scholars tenderly, 
 teaches them writing and arithmetic, leads them into the fields and 
 woods, and from him they learn tenderness to all things which fiy 
 and move ! ^ 
 
 A little class comes up for Latin, tiny Charlotte sleeps nestling to 
 the master's breast; how kindly he speaks to his scholars, yet how 
 dear to his ear are the voices of two of them above the rest ! 
 
 Now he wants a book — for, little scholars, you are wrong ! Julius, 
 bring it — open it — lift it up — steadily, steadily — the master’s sit^ht is 
 very dim. ° 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Swift & Co., Printers, Newton Street, High Holbom, W.C, 
 li-l-l-66(j— 4-82. 
 

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