L I E. R.ARY 
 
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 UN 1VER.SITY 
 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 ?71Sm 
 V. I
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2009 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
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 MAKY LYNDSAY. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 BY 
 
 THE LADY EMILY PONSONBY, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "THE DISCIPLINE OF LIFE," 
 "KATHERINE AND HER SISTERS," 
 
 &c., &c. 
 
 " How much we love God, how submissive we are to God's will, we camiot 
 otherwise than by wiUingly undergotag or patiently bearing afflictions, well 
 express ; without it no sore trial of virtue can be ; without it no excellent 
 example of goodness had ever been." — Barrow. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1863. 
 
 The right of Translation is reserveil.
 
 
 MARY LYNDSAY 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Her form -was fresher than the morning rose, 
 When the dew wets its leaves." 
 
 Thomson's Seasons. 
 
 About twenty miles from London, on the 
 Smrey side, stood the cmious old villa-like 
 residence called Cleeve. It was a gloomy, 
 and in some senses an ugly place, yet it was* 
 not without a picturesque air which gave it 
 attraction. The house was approached by an 
 avenue of yews, very short, and very broad, 
 whose branches had spread and interlaced till 
 they formed a barrier on each side, and in a 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 degree overhead also. The grounds were 
 large and well laid out, but no taste or care 
 was exercised upon them. There were formal 
 gravel walks, and large patches of ill-kept 
 lawn, dotted with shrubs ; but neither flowers 
 nor flower-beds were to be seen ; while the 
 thick banks of trees which skirted the plea- 
 sure grounds, shut out alike the glow of the 
 sun, and the glimpses of distant landscape, 
 which might have animated the scene. 
 
 The house was of brick ; the windows 
 narrow and few ; the height disproportioned 
 to the width, which gave it a gaunt and 
 spectral air ; yet it had its good points also. 
 The white stone copings were well placed 
 and well cut, the pilasters and mouldings 
 of the front door were singularly beau- 
 tiful, and the white parapet which sur- 
 rounded the low roof and tall chimneys, 
 gave a light and graceful finish to the 
 building.
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 3 
 
 Such was Cleeve. Travellers, as they 
 passed, gave it the comphment of atten- 
 tion. Some called it dismal, some — these 
 were chiefly young ladies — called it inter- 
 esting. Many called it quaint, a vague 
 term, which expresses a certain kind of 
 charm. All wondered what kind of being 
 made that house his dwelling-place. 
 
 That being — the present owner of the 
 abode — was called Hubert Merivale. 
 
 In a long, low room on the second 
 floor, one Sunday evening in July, the 
 members of the Merivale family were 
 assembled. The day was close, yet the 
 three small windows, recessed within and 
 without, were shut. The northern aspect 
 of the room had protected it from the 
 glare of the sun, but it had the cheer- 
 less closeness which northern rooms, unless 
 where the air plays freely, possess. The 
 appearance was as gloomy as the air. 
 
 B 2
 
 4 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 The furniture was good, but heavy and 
 dull. Three handsome cabinets of ebony 
 and silver stood against the wall. The 
 chairs were carved, but ponderous. The 
 curtains and the coverings of the sofa 
 were of a dark stuff, — red, with broad 
 lines of black. No ornaments decorated 
 the table ; no flowers gave sweetness to 
 the air. Close as the room was, there 
 was a chill in its atmosphere. 
 
 The members of the family were three 
 in number. On a couch placed between 
 a window and the fireplace, lay an old 
 woman, wrapped in shawls and woollen 
 coverings. Her hair was silver white, 
 her features pale and sharp, and marked 
 with excessive suffering ; but there was 
 a kind of beauty about her. The coun- 
 tenance, though sad, bore traces of 
 heavenly resignation ; the restless eyes, 
 indeed, looked as if panting to be free
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 from the burden of the flesh ; but the 
 small closed lips spoke of a patience that 
 would endure to the end. 
 
 Near her, on the further side of an invalid's 
 table, sat her daughter, a woman neither 
 young nor old. She was six and thirty, a 
 time of life when the mind and habits make 
 either youth or age. It is difficult to describe 
 her. She had what in most persons would 
 have been called beauty. A figure tall and 
 well formed, features small and finely cut, 
 hair glossy and black ; but all these beauties 
 failed to give beauty to her. There was an 
 utter want of life ; her figure had no ease, 
 her complexion no glow, her features no play ; 
 a cheerless gravity, the evident expression of 
 the heart, sat on her brow and weighed 
 it down. 
 
 On the opposite side of the fire-place, in an 
 arm-chair, sat the third occupant of the 
 room, Hubert Merivale. He was three or
 
 6 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 four years younger than his sister, and was 
 both Hke and unHke her. He had the same 
 good figure, regular features, and glossy black 
 hair, but the expression of his countenance 
 was different to hers. Though grave, her 
 expression was quiet, and almost holy ; but 
 there was no hohness on his brow, or quiet- 
 ness in his stagnant face. A gnawing heart 
 and restless affections were visible in every 
 line and muscle, and it was apparent that the 
 iron will that held them down, found its 
 strength alone in bitterness and contempt. 
 
 It was a Sunday evening. There had been 
 long silence in the room, each inmate ab- 
 sorbed in their own reflections. At length a 
 clock struck six. At the signal the invalid 
 opened her eyes, and turned them on her 
 daughter with a movement that spoke more of 
 obedience than of impatience. 
 
 Even before the look was directed to her. 
 Miss Merivale had laid her hand upon a
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 7 
 
 book ; and, glancing, towards her brother, 
 observed, "We shall read, Hubert, — it is 
 the hoar." 
 
 He inclined his head in acquiescence, but 
 there was a scorn in his face. His mother's 
 eyes were upon him, and her lips moved in a 
 faint endeavour to speak, but no sound came 
 and the effort was unperceived by him. 
 
 Miss Merivale began to read. Her voice was 
 not without a low and sad sweetness in its tone. 
 At first it soothed and lulled, but after a short 
 continuance its effect was to depress, or to 
 irritate. She read a sermon. The text, "Man 
 is bom to trouble." There was beauty in 
 the language and holiness in the thoughts, 
 but the writer had looked on life through the 
 medium of a sad heart, and even its consola- 
 tion, except to those who had cast off all hope 
 and desire for earthly happiness, was melan- 
 choly. 
 
 Mrs. Merivale calmly listened to the words.
 
 8 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 In her, who had passed through great tribu- 
 lation and lay on the borders of rest, the 
 longings of earth were dead. But far different 
 was their effect on her son. He listened as 
 one unwilling, yet compelled to listen; and 
 while he heard, mingled emotions of scorn, 
 disbelief, and a painful confession of their 
 truth, swept over his countenance. Por a time 
 he sat in silence ; then contracted brows and 
 restless movements showed an irritation hardly 
 to be controlled ; finally, he rose and walked 
 up and down the room. 
 
 He walked for a time softly, as if un- 
 wilHng to disturb, and then paused at a 
 window and looked out. Notwithstanding 
 his movements, his sister read on uninterrup- 
 tedly; but his mother's attention wandered 
 from the book to him. Her eyes watched 
 him, and the movement of her lips might be 
 either a prayer or an unsuccessful effort to 
 speak.
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 9 
 
 While she gazed, his countenance suddenly 
 changed. It was more than a change, it was 
 a transformation. A glow passed over the 
 pale features, relaxing and softening the rigid 
 muscles, and a smile tender and sweet woke 
 them into beauty. 
 
 The momentary glow passed rapidly, as it 
 came, but when he turned about and spoke 
 his voice was still soft. "I see Mary Lyndsay 
 coming here, Catherine." 
 
 The intensity of his mother's gaze deepened, 
 and again her lips moved as if in inward 
 prayer. Meanwhile he sat down, and com- 
 posed his features into their usual gravity. 
 
 There came a low tap at the door, and he 
 rose and opened it. A young girl stood with- 
 out, and in obedience to a sign from her, he 
 left the door ajar and went to her. 
 
 "May I go in and see Mrs. Merivale?" 
 she asked, in a luirried, breathless voice, as 
 if the duty she was performing Avas no
 
 10 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 pleasure, but a pain. "Your sister looked 
 so grave at church I felt I must come and 
 ask after her. I am afraid she is worse." 
 
 " My mother is much the same/' he re- 
 plied sadly, "she never v^^ill be better, and 
 when she is worse it will be — to die." 
 
 Mary Lyndsay stepped back with a startled 
 look. The plain words shocked, the fact thus 
 stated dismayed her. 
 
 " This is no house for you," he observed, 
 perceiving and understanding her movement, 
 and in his tone there was a kind of pity 
 towards her, and of bitterness towards his 
 home. 
 
 The unmeant reproof touched a conscience 
 quick in its warnings. She blushed; but 
 without excusing herself, repeated her re- 
 quest to be allowed to go in. 
 
 " Come then," he said, and he preceded 
 her into the room. He went forward 
 quickly, placed a chair by his mother's side,
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 11 
 
 and stooping over her said with tenderness, 
 "Miss Lyndsay is come to see yon, mother. 
 It will do yon good." 
 
 As Mary set her foot in the room she 
 paused. It was an involuntary movement. 
 The cheerless aspect chilled her senses. Far 
 different was the effect of her presence. It 
 was like a beam of sunshine, so sweet, so 
 fresh, so spring-like was her air. 
 
 The pause was not unperceived by Mr. 
 Merivale, and having placed her seat, he 
 withdrew and sat down. 
 
 Mary shook hands with Miss Merivale, 
 and then passed on to the dying woman. 
 She had meant, had hoped to say kind 
 words, but appalled by the sight of that 
 great suffering, words failed her, and when 
 she took the thin fingers stretched out to 
 her, a faint and tremulous smile was all 
 she could force in return. 
 
 No attempt at conversation was made by
 
 12 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 the others ; they all sat for some seconds, or 
 it might be minutes, in silence. Miss Meri- 
 vale then spoke. 
 
 " We were reading, Miss Lyndsay. It is 
 our usual hour." 
 
 Mr. Merivale frowned, but she did not 
 heed him. 
 
 " Pray don't let me interrupt you," Mary 
 cried hastily, thankful to be relieved from 
 the necessity of speech. "I shall be very 
 glad to hsten, if I may stay." 
 
 " Will you read, Miss Lyndsay ? Reading 
 is the greatest comfort my mother has, and 
 your voice will be soothing to her." 
 
 There was nothing of a Sister of Charity 
 about Mary Lyndsay. Startled at the un- 
 expected request, she was about to excuse 
 herself, when she met the eager, restless 
 eyes of the invaUd turned upon her with a 
 beseeching gaze. Her heart was too kind 
 to Avithstand so piteous a look, and though
 
 MARY LINDSAY. 18 
 
 trembling and reluctant, she faltered an 
 acquiescence. 
 
 Miss Merivale rose and placed a Bible 
 in her hands, and was about to direct her 
 to some particular passage, when a stern' 
 voice behind broke in upon them. 
 
 " Let her choose, Catherine.'' 
 
 The order was so peremptorily given 
 that she could do nothing but obey, and 
 she sat down. Mary's fingers fluttered over 
 the leaves, and her cheeks became crimson. 
 She was little versed in the Sacred Writings, 
 and even had she been so, was too nervous 
 at this moment to consider what might be 
 a proper choice. She turned hastily to the 
 Psalm whose simple imagery and thankful 
 tone makes it a favourite with the young. 
 
 " ' The Lord is my Shepherd ; I shall not 
 want. He maketh me to lie down in green 
 pastures ; He leadeth me beside the still 
 waters.' "
 
 14 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 The young cheerful voice gave a joyous 
 tone to the Psalm. It was a note of 
 music which had not been heard in that 
 room for years. The eyes of the sufferer 
 rested on the young girl's face with an ex- 
 pression of peace and thankfulness, as if in 
 her voice she heard an echo of the voices 
 she was hastening to hear. 
 
 "Another, Miss Lyndsay !" The words 
 were abruptly said, but the accents were 
 not so much peremptory as beseeching. 
 
 Mary looked up ; dark, troubled eyes 
 were bent down upon her ; she turned to 
 the invalid and met her unearthly looks; 
 nervously she again opened the Bible, and 
 almost at random read some other well- 
 known words. 
 
 " ' Bless the Lord, my soul ! all 
 that is within me, bless His holy 
 Name ! ' " 
 
 When a few short verses had been read,
 
 MARY LTx\DSAY. 15 
 
 the excitement which had hitherto prompted 
 her gave way ; and suddenly feehng all 
 the strangeness of her position, embarrass- 
 ment overpowered her, and, coming to a 
 pause, she closed the book as if she could 
 read no more. 
 
 No one spoke ; all seemed unwilling to 
 break the echoes of the music she had 
 made. 
 
 At last Mary rose to go, and as she 
 stooped over the couch of the invalid, 
 she softly said, "I am so sorry for your 
 pain/' 
 
 There was no reply in words, but a 
 strange sweet smile lighted up the faded 
 face, and the thin fingers grasped her hand. 
 Mary held them for a moment, then, bend- 
 ing lower with tearful eyes, pressed her 
 lips on the bm^ning brow. 
 
 The kindness was unexpected, and body 
 and spirit felt it. " God bless you ! "
 
 16 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 burst from the lips that rarely spoke, as 
 if that soft, cool touch had brought reviving 
 with it. 
 
 Mary paused to brush her tears away, 
 then held out her hand to Miss Meri- 
 vale. 
 
 "We thank you for coming," said the 
 latter, in her voice of soft gravity, " and 
 believe me. Miss Lyndsay, the sight of 
 sorrow and sickness will not be unpro- 
 fitable for you, for sorrow comes too soon 
 to a]l." 
 
 Mr. Merivale walked impatiently to the 
 door, and Mary, with a heightened colour, 
 followed. The admonition had been un- 
 seasonable, chilling the softened heart. 
 
 At the door she again held out her 
 hand to Mr. Merivale. He did not refuse 
 it, but said, " I shall come down with 
 you ; " and together they descended the 
 stairs. The house was very dreary. The
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 17 
 
 walls of the stairs and passages were 
 of oak, gloomy and bare. The doors 
 were all closed ; neither air nor sunshine 
 brought freshness or light. 
 
 Mary felt a sensation of joy when she 
 stood outside. She then, for the second 
 time, held out her hand, but perceived 
 that Mr, Merivale was going on with her. 
 The gloom of the house had hitherto kept 
 her silent. She now felt she ought to 
 speak . 
 
 "Does not your mother like flowers?'* 
 she asked. 
 
 " We have no flowers here," he rephed, 
 a strange sadness in his voice. 
 
 "But they would soon grow," she said, 
 cheerfully. 
 
 "Would they?" he said, and his eye 
 rested on her ; a very different thought in 
 his mind. 
 
 " There can be no reason against it. 
 
 VOL. T. c
 
 18 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 On the other side you have the sun. It 
 would make such a difference," she con- 
 tinued, growing eager ; '^ I wonder you do 
 not have flowers/' 
 
 " Our ways are not your ways," he 
 replied, after a short pause. " Would to 
 Heaven they were ! " 
 
 She hardly knew how to answer this 
 speech, and walked on in silence. Silence 
 suited best the sombre path they trod. 
 Above were glimpses of blue sky smihng 
 on all who would receive its smile, but 
 on each side were those dull, dark barriers 
 which made even the July evening chill. 
 Unconsciously Mary's step grew faster and 
 faster till she reached and passed the 
 gate. 
 
 Not a movement was unperceived by 
 him, and when she stopped and said 
 " Good-bye," he said, " You have done a 
 painful duty; you have my thanks and
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 19 
 
 my mother's blessing for it. Would 
 they were welcome to you ! " 
 
 Again Mary's quick conscience was 
 touched. It /lad been a painful duty, 
 long delayed, and, though done of free 
 will, reluctantly done. She looked up 
 penitently and with tearful eyes, and as 
 she put her hand in his, softly said, "It 
 makes me sad to come, but I ought not 
 to mind. It does me good, and if I may 
 I wiU soon come again." 
 
 Something indescribable came over his 
 face, and the hand he held was raised to 
 his lips. The action concealed the 
 countenance, and, though certainly startled, 
 Mary thought it only one among his 
 many strange ways. It made her cheek 
 crimson, but she smiled as she said 
 " Good night,'' and hurried away.
 
 20 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 " I feel the gales that from yoa blo'^, 
 A momentary bliss bestow, 
 
 As waving fortli their gladsome wing, 
 My weary soul they seem to sootlie." 
 
 Gray. 
 
 That Mr. Merivale loved Mary Lyndsay 
 has, of course, been surmised, but it would 
 be false to suppose that his gloom pro- 
 ceeded from a hopeless passion. 
 
 A constitutional melancholy of nature 
 was inherent in the Merivale familv, 
 though in form and in degree it varied 
 in every separate member. In the grand-
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 21 
 
 father of Hubert, it had been simply an 
 eccentricity. He, inheriting from his father 
 the house and grounds of Cleeve in their 
 first rude outline, had pleased himself in 
 making it different to the abodes of his 
 neighbours ; and as they one and all 
 appeared to delight in brightness, and to 
 admire the fine expanse of Surrey land- 
 scape, he, either in opposition to the 
 common taste, or in conformity to his 
 own, set to work to plant out the land- 
 scape, and to make the best in all other 
 ways of the opportunities for gloom 
 which his demesne afforded. In the father 
 of Hubert, the melancholy had less of 
 eccentricity and more of matter of fact. 
 He was grave and sober by nature, and 
 he systematized his gravity and sobriety 
 into a regular form. If the word revel 
 is not inappropriate to the word gloom, 
 it might be said that he revelled in
 
 22 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 gloomy thoughts and gloomy sights. It 
 was a real satisfaction to him to watch 
 a funeral, and to say, "There I go, and 
 there goes all humanity/' With this turn 
 of mind, his father's eccentric plans for 
 Cleeve suited well. He carried them on, 
 excluding every flower, planting out still 
 more densely the landscape and shutting out 
 the sun. Miss Merivale again was like her 
 father, though in a softened form. Her 
 melancholy was almost holy. She was 
 glad to do good; but it was in one 
 view only, to make the soul fitter for 
 death; and this constant thought, not of 
 Heaven, but of death, had laid a para- 
 lyzing hand upon her mind and body. 
 
 Hubert Merivale was formed in a difibr- 
 ent mould. The melancholy inherited from 
 one parent had to strive with an ardent 
 thirst for happiness inherited from his 
 mother; and in his youth the latter in-
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 23 
 
 fluence had been paramount. At twenty 
 he was a youth of much promise. His 
 character was peculiar, and in its pecu- 
 liarities caused some anxious thoughts, 
 but it was full of amiable and lovable 
 qualities, which seemed to need only care 
 and culture to bring them to perfection. 
 At thirty, he was the withered being we 
 have seen in the last chapter. 
 
 The melancholy of his home was the 
 first influence which acted perniciously on 
 his nature. Some natures make sunshine 
 wherever they are placed, but his was 
 not buoyant enough for this. He loved 
 sunshine, but could not make it ; gloom was 
 akin to some portions of his soul, and 
 he bowed beneath its influence. He loved 
 the old mansion of Cleeve, but he wished 
 to beautify it. At eight years old he 
 had begged with tears to be allowed a 
 flower-garden, but his tears and his
 
 24 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 mother's efiPorts failed alike to obtain the 
 permission. He was told that father and 
 grandfather had chosen to have Cleeve 
 as it was, and it was not for a child to 
 alter it. At thirty, Hubert cherished the 
 gloom like his forefathers; nay, to gloom 
 he added discomfort. 
 
 The gloom of his home in opening 
 manhood drove him from it. He loved 
 his mother with a love approaching to 
 worship ; but though this love brought 
 constant returns to her side, the depres- 
 sion of the atmosphere that surrounded 
 her as constantly drove him away. She, 
 like him, could not make sunshine. 
 Gentle and placid, she could but assimi- 
 late herself to those mth whom she lived, 
 and who domineered over her. Long 
 years of bodily suffering had quenched 
 the spring of hfe, and the resignation 
 which had grown up in the stead of
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 25 
 
 earthly desires, and which enabled her to 
 perform the duties allotted to her with 
 contentment, was too high and too holy 
 for her son's imitation. He loved her, 
 but did not love her thoughts. His visits 
 became few and far between. 
 
 Driven into the world alone, his pecu- 
 liar disposition exposed him to pecuhar 
 dangers. Those who depend only on 
 what is without them for cheering and 
 amusement, are usually the prey of every 
 excitement, however frivolous it be. But 
 Hubert's nature had too much force to 
 be roused by frivolity. He required stronger 
 food. Shy and sensitive also, he re- 
 quired courting before his gifts and 
 talents could come forth; he required to 
 be made much of — to be at ease. All 
 his tendencies drove him in one direc- 
 tion — to seek, namely, the distractions he 
 needed in societv beneath him ; in a
 
 26 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 society whose freedom from artificial re- 
 straints gave scope for greater originality 
 of thought, and which welcomed him 
 with that warm and natural welcoming 
 which is given to those whose coming is 
 a favour. In this society he formed an 
 attachment, passionate and ungoverned. 
 It continued for three years ; it was 
 cherished as his own life. It ended in 
 falsehood and disgust, and a sting of poison 
 was planted in Hubert's soul. 
 
 The history of this attachment and its 
 end was a mystery ; in some hours of 
 anguish breathed perhaps in his mother's 
 ears, but breathed to her alone. At 
 four and twenty, Hubert Merivale had lost 
 youth, faith, trust, goodness, hope. On 
 the melancholy Merivale nature the blow 
 fell, and there was no effort from within 
 to resist its effects. 
 
 Not many months after this event, his
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 27 
 
 father fell into bad health, and after 
 lingering for a year, died. Hubert was 
 much at home during that long illness. 
 The gloom that hung about the house 
 had a sort of charm for him. His mother 
 attempted to seize the moment to win 
 him to religious hope and comfort. She 
 thought the reflections that had repelled 
 him in his younger days, might cheer 
 and comfort now. But in vain. He 
 listened to her voice, appreciated her cares, 
 but to the hopes she held out was deaf 
 as the deaf adder. There was no faith left 
 in his heart ; no love, except in one 
 small spot where she was worshipped 
 still. 
 
 His character hardened into iron. But 
 a hard heart does not remain empty. 
 Where one passion has been driven out 
 with violence, another is most likely to 
 enter in. It was a singular passion which
 
 28 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 filled up the void in Hubert's heart, yet, 
 perhaps, not a rare one. The elder 
 brother in Crabbe's " Tales of the Hall," 
 solaced his disappointed affections with 
 the love of money, and so did Hubert 
 Merivale. 
 
 His father v^as a banker — so had been 
 his grandfather and great-grandfather. 
 It was an old-established bank, not in- 
 dififerent to the increase of worldly good, 
 but steady and methodical in its ways ; 
 running no risks, making no uncertain 
 speculations, maintaining a sure and steady 
 reputation in the world. His father's 
 death left Hubert the head of the house. 
 Hitherto, though educated with a view to 
 his future duties, he had thought but 
 little of them. Money had been no ob- 
 ject and no interest. But, at this time, 
 money, with its strange attractions coming 
 daily before him, found his heart empty
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 29 
 
 and seized upon it. At first, after the 
 idleness of misery, the mere occupation 
 was a charm; then the charm of occupa- 
 tion turned to the passion of money- 
 making. He left Cleeve to his mother an d 
 sister ; established himself in the old family 
 mansion in London, and yielded heart and 
 soul to the snare set for him. The 
 house lost its old methodical character, 
 but gained in reputation, for it was felt 
 that a keen intellect was now governing its 
 transactions. He grew very rich, and as 
 he grew rich he began to hoard. These 
 were the steps by which the most sordid 
 of all passions entered his heart — that strong 
 heart into which all that entered became a 
 passion. 
 
 His mother saw the growing evil, and 
 exerted all her powers to save him. In 
 the way of direct exhortation she could do 
 little, for he was not one for argu-
 
 30 ' MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 ments ; but she poured upon him such a 
 flood of tender love and care as would have 
 melted a harder heart than his. So long as 
 love remained alive, she did not despair ; 
 and she felt that he returned love to her 
 love. 
 
 Her efforts v^^ere not unsuccessful. There 
 w as no great improvement ; but he went no 
 further in his evil course. The pursuit 
 of money remained his object ; for this 
 he toiled, for this he spared ; but the 
 flame of charity was not extinct in him. His 
 mother might justly mourn over him, his 
 sister justly condemn, his fellows shrink 
 from him as a moody and miserable being, 
 but he remained still a man — a man with 
 a living heart, beating beneath the cheer- 
 less face he showed the world. 
 
 Such was his history till he reached 
 the age of thirty. There came then a 
 slight change. On his birthday of thirty
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 31 
 
 he chanced to be at Cleeve, visiting his 
 mother. His sister, who counted birthdays 
 in a melancholy and not a rejoicing sense, 
 met him in the morning with some reflec- 
 tions on the lapse of time ; reminded him 
 that he was thirty, that youth was swiftly 
 passing, that a cheerless middle age was 
 before him; and m-ged him, with words 
 not without sense and goodness, yet 
 unseasonable, to aw^ake before it was too 
 late, and think of his immortal soul. 
 
 Hubert heard her with a pale cheek 
 and tightly pressed lips. That cheerless 
 middle age looked dreary enough to his 
 eyes, and her words found a responding 
 voice within ; but when she had done he 
 gloomily told her henceforward to count 
 his birthdays no more. 
 
 With his mother it was a day of un- 
 common pain. Her disease was in the 
 spine, and she was subject to paroxysms
 
 32 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 of acute a2;ony. But, towards evening, 
 the pain abated, and she was carried 
 down to the drawing-room. Hubert came 
 to her there, and sat down by her 
 couch. The sight of her pain, and of 
 her patience, and perhaps, also, some 
 acknowledgment of the truth of his 
 sister's words, some sudden recollection 
 that he was thirty, and that youth was 
 passing, had softened his mood on that 
 day, and he sat by his mother, holding 
 her hand as any affectionate son might 
 have done. 
 
 " You are thirty to-day, dearest Hubert," 
 his mother said, gently. 
 
 "Yes, mother," and he involuntarily 
 sighed. Not that he cared for the lapse 
 of time; but that some recollection of 
 what youth had been, some cbead of the 
 future had been awakened, and, for the 
 time being, he was human again.
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 33 
 
 " Oh ! my dearest boy, would that hap- 
 pier returns might be yours," burst from 
 his mother's feeble lips. She had for- 
 gotten the lapse of time; she called him 
 boy again, and the very form of speech 
 bore him away in spirit to an almost for- 
 gotten period. 
 
 His lip quivered, and he stooped over 
 her and kissed her. 
 
 It was a Sunday evening, and, as he 
 kissed his mother, the clock struck six. 
 Miss Merivale rose from her seat, took 
 a book in her hand, and observing, 
 " We will read, mother," immediately be- 
 gan. 
 
 The moment had been expected and 
 prepared for, and she read out her appro- 
 priate text with hope in her heart, and 
 prayer also, that it might be profitable to 
 her brother's soul, — 
 
 "Lord, teach us to number our days, 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 that we may apply our hearts unto 
 wisdom." 
 
 And there followed on these words 
 a sad and somewhat stern discourse. 
 
 The softness faded from Hubert's 
 countenance. The thought of youth, which 
 for a moment had reanimated him, faded 
 also. Life, cold, and grey, and blank, and 
 joyless, spread out before him. Still 
 holding his mother's hand, he endured to 
 the end ; he could not pain her by a show 
 of his indifference; but when the soft, 
 monotonous voice ceased, he rose and 
 left the room. 
 
 His mother's eye followed him with 
 anxiety, his sister's with hope. She thought 
 to her it had been given to touch his 
 heart at last. 
 
 Hubert entered the gloomy avenue, and 
 paced up and down. He was agitated, as 
 for. six or seven cold years he had ceased
 
 MARY LYNDSAT. 35 
 
 to be ; as he had thought he never could 
 be again. Whence came his agitation he 
 could not tell. 
 
 " How or why we know not, nor can trace 
 Home to its cloud the lightning of the mind." 
 
 But it was 'SO. His heart was stirred, and 
 would not be lulled to rest. 
 
 At the end of the avenue was a lodge. It 
 was now empty. To declare a lodge un- 
 necessary had been one of Hubert's singular 
 madnesses of economy. The door of the 
 sitting-room was open, and unrepelled by 
 the discomfort of its appearance, he after a 
 time went in and sat down. He leaned his 
 arms on a table and remained buried in re- 
 flection. These reflections were bitter enough. 
 The softer memories of youth had been 
 banished by his sister's discourse, but out of 
 the stirred heart other memories had risen up 
 fresh and strong. How he had loved, how 
 he had trusted, how he had been deceived. 
 
 D 2
 
 36 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 His meditations were interrupted by a loud 
 boyish laugh. Some laughs are pleasant to 
 hear, and some laughs are irritating even to 
 patient tempers ; this was of the latter class. 
 It was not perfectly genuine, and had a touch 
 of self-complacency in it. It roused Hubert 
 from his meditations, but did not rouse him 
 pleasantly. He started up in wrath, and was 
 about to emerge from his retreat and warn 
 off the intruder, when another sound chained 
 him to the spot. It was the voice of a young 
 girl, gentle and sweet. 
 
 "Don't, Frank. Pray, don't laugh so loud, 
 I am sure it must belong to somebody 
 who is unhappy; no happy person could 
 live in such a place. 
 
 "I think it belongs to Mr. Nobody. I wish 
 I could get a sight of him. Now do look, 
 Mary, not even a bird stirring: even the 
 birds are scared away." 
 
 The loud voice was at the gate, and the soft
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 37 
 
 voice now drew nearer and joined him there. 
 "It looks quite deserted, but perhaps it is 
 only that somebody is unhappy or ill. Dear 
 Frank, do let us go on; we ought not to 
 be so curious," and she glanced round anx- 
 iously as if afraid of being overheard. 
 
 " Oh ! yes we ought. Why, Mary, what 
 a fo ol you are ! What possible harm can we 
 do? I like to look. I believe you expect 
 a hobgoblin to burst out upon us, or perhaps, 
 more interesting to girls, a lover mad with 
 
 love." 
 
 As the last words were pronounced, Mr. 
 
 Merivale issued from the lodge and stood 
 
 before them. Pale and melancholy, he might 
 
 have personated either character. He paused, 
 
 glancing at the speakers. One was a slender 
 
 looking girl about fifteen, fair and healthful, 
 
 and with a sweet smiling countenance. Her 
 
 companion was a year or two older. 
 
 The boy drew back, startled and cowardly.
 
 38 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 The girl stood firm, and with a blush made 
 their apologies. "I beg your pardon. I am 
 afraid we have been very impertinent, but 
 indeed we did not know there was any one 
 near/' 
 
 " There is no offence, you are very welcome," 
 Mr. Merivale said in a voice so gentle and soft 
 that his mother would hardly have known it. 
 
 There was a pause. He then came to 
 the gate and undid it. " I do not invite you 
 to come in," he said with emphasis on the 
 word, "for I heard the opinion you expressed, 
 but the gate is open and I am going home, 
 and if it will give you pleasure to inspect my 
 gloomy premises you and your companion 
 are welcome." 
 
 He fixed his eyes upon her for a moment, 
 then inclined his head and hastened away. 
 
 The brother and sister stood outside the 
 gate. " Oh, Frank !" Mary exclaimed in 
 consternation.
 
 MART LYNDSAY. 39 
 
 " No harm done," he replied, advancing 
 boldly, ''he don't seem a bit angry, and why 
 should he? I said no harm. Shall we 
 go in?" 
 
 " I suppose we must. He was very kind, 
 and it would look uncivil; but I would 
 rather not, and we will not stay," and with 
 an inward shudder she set her foot within 
 the gates. 
 
 Ashamed of his late careless words, Erank 
 submitted to her will in going quickly and 
 rapidly through the pleasure-gromids. The 
 sight of the gloomy alleys and dull patches 
 of grass increased Mary's dislike, and she 
 drew a breath as the survey finished. "I 
 am so glad to be out again," she said cheer- 
 fully, as her eyes surveyed the broad bright 
 landscape. 
 
 "And I am sorry," said the boy, "and 
 the next time we go in, you shan't get 
 me out so fast, I can tell you."
 
 40 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 " The next time," with a look of dis- 
 may ; " why, Frank, we need not go in 
 again." 
 
 " Need not ! no, of course, but I mean 
 to go, and to take you with me. Why, 
 Mary, what a fool you are, you look as 
 glum as that poor, thin hermit him- 
 self." 
 
 " He did look so melancholy," she 
 said, and her countenance was glum and 
 
 overshadowed. " I wonder no, I 
 
 don't — at least, I won't — I won't think 
 about him any more." 
 
 "Why, Mary," and her brother stared 
 at her, " you are a fool. I always 
 thought you were a sensible girl, and one 
 day when Tom Stanley said all sisters 
 were fools, I said mine was not. There's 
 for you ! but I shan't say so 
 again." 
 
 "I do so hate to think there is un-
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 41 
 
 happiness in the world," and she sighed 
 a real heavy sigh ; but the next moment 
 roused herself, and calling, " Come this 
 way, Frank, let us go home through 
 these fields, " she climbed over a 
 hedge, led the way, and Frank fol- 
 lowed. 
 
 The Lyndsays were new-comers to 
 the neighbourhood. Captain Lyndsay 
 was poor and proud, and unwilling that 
 his poverty should be seen, lived a re- 
 tired life. On hearing, however, what 
 had occurred, he passed his decree that, if 
 there were ladies in the family, they 
 must be visited. Perhaps, while his son 
 described how the poor hermit looked at 
 Mary, an idea — the first seed of an idea, 
 — ^was planted in his mind." 
 
 The call was made, and so began a 
 kind of acquaintance between the families 
 — an acquaintance thankfully received on
 
 42 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 the part of the Merivales, but on the part 
 of the Lynclsays reluctantly offered. Mrs. 
 Lyndsay was indolent, and rarely did 
 anything she could avoid. Mary's re- 
 luctance had a deeper foundation. The 
 gloom repelled her; the sight of the 
 sorrow and suffering made her unhappy. 
 She went only when conscience and pity 
 spoke too loudly to be withstood, and 
 then paid such hurried visits as the one 
 described in the first chapter. 
 
 During the three years that elapsed 
 between the two interviews that have 
 been recorded, Mary occasionally met 
 Mr. Merivale. It was in some of her 
 Sunday evening rambles with her brother 
 that these meetings occurred; and when 
 they occurred, kindness, not good-will, 
 prompted her to stop and speak to him. 
 Sometimes she inquired after his mother, 
 and then her voice was soft, and her
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 48 
 
 countenance pitiful. Sometimes she merely 
 said, " What a lovely day ! " and then 
 the sunshine of the sunny evening seemed 
 reflected in her eyes. Mr. Merivale re- 
 plied to her inquiries, or assented to her 
 exclamations, but never attempted con- 
 versation, never sought to detain, or 
 offered to accompany them. Yet while 
 his eyes rested on her, the gloom dis- 
 persed from his countenance, and when 
 she went on her way, his gaze followed 
 her light figure as long as a glimpse 
 could be seen. 
 
 About a year after his first meeting 
 with Mary, Hubert paid a visit to Captain 
 Lyndsay. It was his first visit, and 
 Captain Lyndsay was flattered and sur- 
 prised. Still more was he surprised 
 when Mr. Merivale, opening his business, 
 asked if a clerkship in his bank would 
 be acceptable for his son. Captain Lynd-
 
 44 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 say was poor, his son nineteen, extrava- 
 gant, and unprovided for. The boon 
 was as welcome as it was unexpected. 
 
 His expressions of gratitude were cut 
 short by a simple assurance on Mr. 
 Merivale's part, "I am happy to serve 
 you ; " but having so said, he proceeded 
 to dwell on the advantages of the offer, 
 and to enumerate the duties and acquire- 
 ments the situation required. There was, 
 as he spoke, an eagerness in his coun- 
 tenance and a wary worldliness in his 
 tone which astonished Captain Lyndsay. 
 He found it hard to reconcile these 
 qualities with the melancholy of his ap- 
 pearance. He looked at him with curiosity, 
 and was observing with admiration the 
 intellectual development of his forehead, 
 and with interest and sympathy the ex- 
 pression of shrewdness in his eyes, when 
 suddenly the whole countenance changed.
 
 MARY LTNDSAY. 45 
 
 melted, softened — the eager words for a 
 moment ceased to flow, and when the 
 thread of discourse was resumed, the 
 worldly shrewdness of tone was gone. 
 The speech was finished in a calm, 
 grave manner, altogether different from its 
 beginning. 
 
 In the instant of the pause a news- 
 paper had fallen to the ground, and be- 
 neath the paper lay a small water-coloured 
 sketch of Mary Lyndsay. Captain Lynd- 
 say was an observant man. He saw the 
 change and its cause. When the visit 
 was over, a smile passed over his face, 
 and a vague thought took a lodgment in 
 his mind. He had an iron will, and no 
 thought lodged in his mind with im- 
 punity.
 
 46 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " Beautiful as sweet. 
 And young as beautiful, and soft as young. 
 And gay as soft, and innocent as gay, 
 And happy (if auglit happy here) as good." 
 
 Young's Night Thoughts. 
 
 " That pretty Mary Lyndsay ! sucti a gay, 
 fresh, simple being ! I never see her with- 
 out feehng happier and better ; and her 
 laugh must be like that of Eve in Paradise. I 
 don't care about beauty in itself; an 
 ugly person often pleases me as 
 much as a pretty one ; but I ovrn it 
 is a pleasure to me to look in Mary
 
 MAUY LINDSAY. 47 
 
 Lyndsay's face ; Avliat a transparent com- 
 plexion she has ! You see heart and mind 
 both shining through it; and her colour 
 shames every rose I ever saw; and then 
 those soft, dark, clear grey eyes, I know 
 nothing like them but the stars in the sky." 
 
 A young man who was writing at a 
 table at some distance, here looked up 
 with a smile, and exclaimed: — 
 
 " My dear Mrs. CUfton, who is this 
 goddess ?" 
 
 Mrs. Clifton laughed. 
 
 " I forgot you were there, Captain 
 Sinclair, or I should perhaps have re- 
 strained my feelings ; but since you have 
 heard my lavish praises, I will not retract 
 them ; on the contrary, I will fortify 
 them by an unbiassed opinion. Am I not 
 right. Miss Merivale ? Does not Mary 
 Lyndsay justify all I have said about 
 her ?"
 
 48 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 " Mary Lyndsay is certainly very pretty," 
 was the slow but not reluctant answer. 
 " She has also a good heart and a sweet 
 disposition. When time and sorrow have 
 touched and softened her, she may, per- 
 haps she will, I fervently trust, merit 
 all that her too partial friends can say 
 or think." 
 
 " Time and sorrow for Mary ! Oh ! 
 Miss Merivale, spare her! I give up the 
 selfish, the wilful, and worldly to your 
 severe discipline, but Mary is as innocent 
 as a bird, and I don't think the refiner's 
 fire could bring her out purer than 
 she is." 
 
 " We all need the discipline of sorrow," 
 replied Miss Merivale, gravely; "and 
 happy it is for us that we are not 
 spared the affliction that is for our good." 
 
 The two speakers were strong contrasts to 
 each other, not less in appearance and
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 49 
 
 manner than in mind. With Miss Merivale 
 acquaintance has already been made. Mrs. 
 CHfton was a widow lady of fifty, or 
 something less. Her appearance is ,best 
 expressed by the word comely, for with- 
 out any of the higher qualities of beauty, 
 she was fair, fresh, and intelligent ; 
 dressed without affectation of youth, yet 
 with the tastefulness that gives some of 
 youth's freshness to maturer years. Her 
 countenance spoke of good humour, kind- 
 ness, liveliness, and love of ease and 
 pleasure. Life's joys and sorrows had 
 evidently passed over her with a light 
 tread. There was no mark of any foot- 
 step that had left a deep impression 
 behind. 
 
 Miss Merivale was paying an early visit. 
 She had called to thank Mrs. Chfton for 
 some kind attention to her invalid mother. 
 She was the same on a visit as she was 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 MARY LYNDSAT. 
 
 at home — sad, grave, and austere. Yet 
 even on a visit she did not excite anger. 
 Her sadness depressed, but did not irri- 
 tate; it was the nature of the vroman 
 so to think and speak; and her opinions 
 were not adopted in affected seriousness 
 or intolerance. 
 
 "I repeat Miss Merivale," continued 
 Mrs. CKfton, eagerly, in reply to her 
 speech, "you shall have the wicked all 
 to yourself; but Mary needs no disci- 
 pline. She is what is it Young 
 
 says when he describes his Narcissa in 
 those melancholy ' Thoughts ' of his ?" and 
 she quoted the lines which head this 
 chapter. 
 
 " Mary is innocent, I do believe," her 
 companion replied ; " what we call inno- 
 cent, but what is that innocence when 
 brought in contact with the temptations 
 of the world ? It is more frail than the
 
 MARY LYNDSAr. 51 
 
 whiteness of snow. Mary wants strength 
 of principle, and, above all, wants serious- 
 ness. Grave thoughts have no place in 
 her mind — nay, are distasteful to 
 her.'' 
 
 " Why should they ? My dear Miss 
 Merivale, at Mary's age, what has she to do 
 with gravity ?" 
 
 "Because grave thoughts are the only 
 enduring ones," she replied, not without a 
 sad sweetness in her tone. " How will 
 Mary's gaiety bear the hours of sickness, 
 and of what avail will it be on the bed 
 of death?" 
 
 " I think a thankful heart a good 
 preparation even for the valley of death. 
 You seem to forget. Miss Merivale, that 
 man is called on to praise as well as 
 to pray." 
 
 Miss Merivale was silent for a moment ; 
 she then replied, " I may, perhaps, feel
 
 52 MARY LINDSAY. 
 
 these things too strongly ; but I confess 
 that when I look about me and see the 
 guilt and suffering of every class, I am 
 sometimes tempted to wonder whether 
 our very smiles should not be reckoned 
 among our sins." 
 
 The bright eyes of Mrs. Clifton danced 
 with desire to console her by the reflec- 
 tion that her sins on that score were 
 limited in number ; but she refrained, and, 
 after a few more words, Miss Merivale 
 rose and wished her good-bye. In tak- 
 ing leave, she repeated her thanks in 
 her mother's name, and, though her 
 manner was unmoved, it was evident the 
 kindness offered by Mrs. Clifton had been 
 felt. 
 
 As she quitted the room Mrs. CHfton 
 sighed with the bright, happy sigh of a 
 joyous heart. The young man left his 
 unfinished letter and came toward sher.
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 53 
 
 " Who is that lady ? "he inquired. 
 
 " Her name is Merivale. She Hves at 
 a gloomy old house a mile from here." 
 
 " She keeps all her merriment then 
 for her name. Excuse the wretched 
 pun. I only made it because it seemed 
 to be expected of me; for, in fact, the 
 thoughts she excited in my mind were 
 not mirthful ones." 
 
 " I should think not, indeed ; and her 
 mother, and her brother, and her home, 
 are all the same. What old ballad or 
 fairy tale is there with a " doleful lady " 
 in it ? I always think of her as the 
 doleful lady." 
 
 The young man smiled, but not with 
 a heartfelt smile. He was thoughtful. 
 
 " And yet, Mrs. Clifton," he said, after 
 a moment, "there is a great deal of 
 truth in what that lady said." 
 
 "Do you think so? I do not. I
 
 54 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 think her view of Hfe as false, happily, 
 as it is painful. What did she say that 
 took your fancy?" 
 
 " Do you know how certain sentences some- 
 times take hold of one's mind and make a 
 habitation there ? When she said ' Because 
 grave thoughts are the only enduring ones/ 
 I felt as if the words would haunt me all 
 my life. 
 
 "So as they do not make you as 
 doleful as Miss Merivale, I don't care 
 how much they haunt you," said Mrs. 
 Clifton, lightly, not much disposed for 
 serious discussions. 
 
 The look of thought and interest 
 passed from her companion's face, and he 
 continued in a tone more like her own, 
 " And so this Mary Lyndsay, or Miss Lynd- 
 say, as 1 suppose I ought to say, is of a 
 very contrary disposition to Miss Merivale." 
 
 " Contrary ! Oh ! yes. They are the
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 55 
 
 antipodes. Summer and winter, smi and 
 frost, all that kind of difference. You 
 must see Mary — you will see her, for I 
 haK expect her this morning. I know she 
 will please you." 
 
 " To prevent disappointment," he said, 
 smiling, " I may as well tell you before- 
 hand that I do not think she will. I 
 am not fond of gay young ladies ; nor 
 over-merry ones ; nor does a pretty face 
 infallibly please me." 
 
 " Trust me, Mary will please you. I 
 have been famous all my life for my skill 
 in matching people. Do not suppose I 
 mean matrimonially. You need not gather 
 yourself up as if you thought I had de- 
 signs upon you. I only mean that I 
 can always guess who will like who^ 
 
 "I did not gather myself up," he said, 
 laughing. "I am very willing to be dis- 
 posed of matrimonially to a woman that
 
 56 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 pleases me. No matchmaker in Christen- 
 dom could force upon me a woman with- 
 out my will/' 
 
 Mrs. Clifton walked to the window and 
 looked out ; seeing nothing, she came back 
 and resumed the conversation. 
 
 " And what kind of a woman would 
 your will receive? I can guess. Some 
 ideal, unearthly paragon, who never has 
 been seen, and never will." 
 
 " No, far from it. I am no lover of 
 paragons, either of beauty or otherwise. 
 Quiet, sensible, and good-tempered, and a 
 countenance that books call sweet. There 
 is my paragon. I want no more." 
 
 " Do you wish to marry ?" Mrs. Clifton 
 asked, more seriously. 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Chfton, what has my 
 poverty to do with matrimony?" ■ 
 
 "There is Mary," cried Mrs. Clifton, as 
 she again walked to the window. " Come,
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 57 
 
 Captain Sinclair, and tell me if I am 
 not right." 
 
 Alan Sinclair obeyed ; watching his 
 eager hostess with a smile, as she re- 
 peatedly called for his opinion, before 
 anything but the fluttering of a pink 
 muslin dress could be seen. At length he 
 said, playfully, " Since my opinion seems 
 to be a serious matter, I refuse to give 
 it till I have had a better opportunity 
 of judging. Do not ask me till the visit 
 is over. Who is her conductor?" 
 
 " Her brother, Frank Lyndsay." 
 
 " And is he, too, a paragon ?" 
 
 " No, by no means — a mere boyish rattle 
 — very boyish, and thinking himself the 
 contrary. There is no harm in him." 
 
 " Oh ! my blessed Mary !" she said, 
 extending her arms to her as she entered, 
 with eager cordiality ; " I was beginning 
 to fear you would fail me."
 
 58 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 "Frank was lazy this morning," Mary 
 said, smiling ; " it is his fault that I am 
 late." 
 
 "Now, Mary/' cried her brother, "that 
 is what I call a shame. I give up very 
 important business to attend to you; and 
 this is the way you thank me." 
 
 " But I hope, Mr. Lyndsay, you con- 
 sider my service of some importance. 
 You do not speak in a very flattering way." 
 
 Frank blushed, with the fear that he 
 had been wanting in manners to a lady, 
 and blushed more when Mrs. Clifton, 
 without waiting for his apology, called 
 Alan Sinclair from the recess in the 
 window, where he still stood, and intro- 
 duced him to the brother and sister. 
 
 Frank's manners were very perfect in 
 his own estimation, and in that of the 
 young ladies and gentlemen with whom 
 he associated ; but there was something
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 59 
 
 in Alan Sinclair's appearance which made 
 liim afraid ; the manners of the man who 
 had no thought of his manners, con- 
 trasted with the self- delighted manners of 
 the youth. 
 
 As they all sat down, his rattling 
 tongue became for a time abashed, and 
 Mary, no great talker, and somewhat 
 afraid, like her brother, of the fine young 
 man, was obliged to take the burden on 
 herself. In Mrs. Chfton's presence that 
 burden was usually slight ; but she was 
 too much bent this morning on drawing 
 Mary out, and the efibrt was apparent. 
 
 An easier tone was shortly given by 
 a sudden request from Mary to Mrs. 
 Clifton for some work, observing that she 
 hated to be idle. 
 
 " You exemplary character," said Mrs. 
 Clifton, laughing, as she pushed some 
 knitting towards her. " I had no idea I
 
 60 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 was cherishing so severe a monitress. I 
 love at times a pleasant idleness, and I 
 hoped you did the same." 
 
 " There is no hope from Mary," Frank 
 now burst forth, in a very ill-used tona ; 
 "she is exactly hke that tiresome busy bee 
 children are bothered about. Always find- 
 ing something that must be done." 
 
 "You seem to object, Mr. Lyndsay; 
 now I, on the contrary, though it re- 
 proves me, confess it to be an estimable 
 frame of mind." 
 
 " Estimable, yes. But one does not 
 care about that. When one wants to be 
 idle, it is not pleasant to see a person 
 determined to be busy." 
 
 Mary looked at her brother and smiled, 
 but made no defence. 
 
 " I differ entirely with you," observed 
 Alan Sinclair, "I am all on the industri- 
 ous side. The look of an idle person
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 61 
 
 worries me to death; and for myself, I 
 often wish my fingers had been taught 
 some useful or ornamental accomplishment. 
 Perhaps T shall learn. Those big needles 
 and blue worsted look very attractive." 
 
 " An idle man on a rainy day is cer- 
 tainly an awful being," said Mrs. Clifton ; 
 " so far I give into your opinion, but I 
 have a most determined objection to the 
 prevalence of accomplishments among man- 
 kind. In proportion to the increase of 
 their manual labour, their mental agree- 
 ableness diminishes. Observe a man draw- 
 ing, he is up in the sky, no word to 
 be got from him. I know a young gen- 
 tleman who sews — I assure you he sews, as if 
 he was sewing his soul. With a woman 
 it is otherwise. Idle as I am, I have no 
 objection to an employed woman. Her 
 fingers follow her intellect, not her intellect 
 her fingers."
 
 62 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 "Now, Mrs. Clifton/' said Alan, "I 
 am going to say an uncivil thing — you 
 have just explained a very great and 
 striking difference between men and women. 
 Men are always in earnest, and give their 
 hearts to what they do — women are dissi- 
 pated beings, and work with half, or less 
 than half their souls." 
 
 " Men do everything better than women," 
 said Frank; "they even work better, I 
 have heard it said a hundred times." 
 
 "Mr. Lyndsay is in a very gallant 
 humour this morning," said Mrs. Clifton, 
 laughing. 
 
 Prank blushed again. He had said 
 what he said, to give a "set down " to 
 Mary, and was alarmed about his manners 
 again. With an awkward attempt at a 
 compliment, he was beginning to say 
 something about always excepting Mrs 
 CHfton, but she cut him short by
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 63 
 
 rising, and observing that luncheon was 
 ready. 
 
 As they sat down, Mrs. Clifton pointed 
 to some grapes in the middle of the table, 
 and said — 
 
 "Miss Merivale called to thank me 
 this morning, Mary. She says the grapes 
 and flowers gave real pleasure to her 
 mother." 
 
 "I thought they would. How strange 
 it is they do not have them for her ! " 
 
 " I told her it was your thought, and 
 she seemed pleased." 
 
 " Thank you," Mary said, with earnest- 
 ness. *' I do think of that poor old Mrs. 
 Merivale more than I like, and I am glad 
 she should know it." 
 
 " More than you like, my dear child ! 
 Do you make yourself unhappy about 
 her ?" 
 
 " It makes me unhappy to think there
 
 64 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 can be such pain in the world. She 
 does seem to suffer so much. If you 
 saw her, you would feel the same, Mrs. 
 Clifton." 
 
 "No, my love, I should not. My 
 principle and my advice is, do all the 
 good you can, relieve all the suffering 
 you can, but do not let your own peace 
 of mind be troubled by sorrows you can- 
 not relieve. Life is not long enough 
 for that. Am I not right. Captain Sinclair ?" 
 
 " You are philosophical," he said, doubt- 
 ingly, " and perhaps more right than at 
 first sight seems apparent." 
 
 Afraid of a philosophical discussion, 
 Prank here interposed to give a turn to 
 the conversation. 
 
 " Miss Merivale ought not to pay morn- 
 ing visits. She is such a damper to the 
 spirit?, they suffer from it all the rest of 
 the day."
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 65 
 
 " Is she always as melancholy as she 
 was to day?" Alan said to Mary. 
 
 " She is always grave," Mary replied. 
 
 "And not only grave herself," added 
 Frank, " but her object is to make the 
 whole world as morose, miserable, and 
 melancholy as she and her household are. 
 I consider her a missionary sent on earth 
 to preach bad tidings." 
 
 Mrs. Clifton laughed heartily, and elated 
 by her laugh, Frank proceeded to relate 
 some laughable yet melancholy anecdotes 
 of the gloom of the Merivales. He did 
 it with liveliness, and Mrs. CHfton laughed 
 again, and Alan also ; but Mary looked 
 grave and annoyed. 
 
 Alan Sinclair paused in his laughing, 
 and said, observing her countenance — 
 
 " I am sure, Miss Lyndsay, we ought 
 not to laugh. Perhaps Miss Merivalc is a 
 friend of yours." 
 
 vol- I. F
 
 66 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 " Oh ! no," Mary cried, hastily ; '' no 
 friend, but I can't laugh at her. She is 
 kind in her way, and she only means 
 to do right." 
 
 "Are you defending Miss Merivale, 
 Mary ?" exclaimed Mrs. Clifton ; " I thought 
 she was your bugbear, your defe noire! 
 When did you begin to like her?" 
 
 "Mary don't like her," said Fi-ank, 
 preventing her reply, " a bit better than 
 we do, but this is one of her solemn 
 ideas. I am very glad you see her in 
 her grave mood ; I daresay you had no 
 idea she could be as wise as Solomon 
 and as grave as an oavL This is the 
 face she puts on if I do but dare to 
 comment on Mr. or Miss Merivale," and 
 he drew his countenance into a ludicrous 
 imitation of Mary's gravity. 
 
 " I cannot laugh at the Merivales," 
 Mary rephed, blushing a little, but not
 
 MARY LINDSAY. 67 
 
 abashed ; " and I don't like Frank to 
 laugh, Mr. Merivale has been very kind 
 to him, and altogether they are not people 
 to laugh at." 
 
 "Is Mr. Merivale like his sister?" Alan 
 inquired. 
 
 " Yes," replied Frank, and " No," Mary, 
 in the same instant. 
 
 " Two decided answers ; on which side 
 does the truth lie ?" 
 
 " I understand Mr. Lyndsay's ' yes ' better 
 than Mary's 'no,'" observed Mrs. Clifton. 
 "What great difference do you see, Mary?" 
 
 " I never think them alike. Mr. J\Ieri- 
 vale is not so good and kind as his 
 sister, but there is something in him 1 
 like better. I sometimes think there must 
 be reasons why he is so grave, for I 
 have seen him look different. I had 
 much rather never see him, Init when 1 
 do sec him, I am sorry for him." 
 
 F 2
 
 68 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 "What a change a few words can 
 make!" Alan Sinclair said, smiling. "In 
 my vision of Mr. Merivale, I had hitherto 
 seen only a man Miss Merivale, but now 
 in my mind's eye I see a lieros de roman, 
 a mystery, a Lord Byron character." 
 
 "You see too much now," Mary replied, 
 smiling also. " Mr. Merivale is veiy cold 
 and dry, and not at all a hero." 
 
 " I feel a strange interest m these 
 Merivales, Mrs. CKfton," continued Alan, 
 "can you account for it?" 
 
 " Perfectly. I saw how it was with 
 you as soon as ever Miss Merivale left 
 the room." 
 
 " I mean it seriously," he said ; " I 
 feel so extreme a desire to see Mr. 
 Merivale, that I am capable of anything 
 to accomplish it. Have I any chance if 
 1 devote the afternoon to my object." 
 
 " Oh ! no," was Mary's reply ; " Mr.
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 69 
 
 Merivale is a banker, and lives in Lon- 
 don." 
 
 " A banker in London ! you astonish 
 me, Miss Lyndsay ! Mr. Merivale has 
 now assumed a third form in my eyes. 
 He has a long nose, and the eyes of a Jew." 
 
 " You will be grievously disappointed 
 when you do see him," Prank said. " Mr. 
 Merivale is nothing but a dry stick, 
 begging Mary's pardon for saying so." 
 
 " If you really and truly are serious 
 in your interest in the Merivales," said 
 Mrs. Clifton, "you had better deepen it 
 by going to see Cleeve. Cleeve is worth 
 seeing from its oddness. Unless Mr. 
 Lyndsay has vei'ij important business, I 
 daresay he will take you there, and I 
 will drive Mary home." 
 
 " I should like it very much." 
 
 "And I should be delighted," cried 
 Frank, looking proud and pleased.
 
 69 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " A clear stream flowing with a muddy one, 
 Till, in its onward current, it absorbs 
 With swifter movement and in purer light 
 The vexed eddies of its wayward brother." 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 Mrs. Clifton Avent up to get ready. 
 Alan said lie would finish his letter, and 
 Mary resumed her knitting. Prank turned 
 over some books, then leant out of 
 window. 
 
 Alan Sinclair from his letter- writing 
 watched Mary, and shortly, laying down 
 his pen, came towards her.
 
 MART LYNDSAY. 71 
 
 ''1 am so convinced/' he said, smiling, 
 " of the truth of our theory — yours and 
 mine, in opposition to your brother and 
 Mrs. Chfton — about industiy, that I really 
 will learn to employ my fingers. I have 
 been watching that magical stitch of yours, 
 and I think I could do it. Will you let 
 me trv?" 
 
 Mary looked up with an amused smile. 
 
 "It is only common knitting," she 
 said. 
 
 '•' Common or uncommon, T should like 
 to learn it. Now," he continued, drawing a 
 chair and placing it in front of her, 
 " will you be so kind as to do the 
 stitch slowly two or three times, and then 
 I will try." 
 
 She obeyed, and then placed the needles 
 in his hand. Frank came from the 
 window to look on in contemptuous 
 curiositv.
 
 72 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 After some minutes of intense applica- 
 tion, two stitches were accomplished. He 
 then looked up and inquired, " Shall 
 I make a good knitter, do you 
 think ? " 
 
 Mary laughed — too much surprised to 
 answer him. 
 
 " You will not give an opinion, I see. 
 That is being very discreet. My begin- 
 ning may be good; I confess I think it 
 is ; but who can tell what the end will 
 be ? What will this make when it is 
 finished?" 
 
 " I suppose an old woman's shawl." 
 
 " Then I shall knit an old soldier's 
 comforter. Can you direct me to a knit- 
 ting shop, Miss Lyndsay?" 
 
 *' If you don't take care," was Frank's 
 reply, " Mary is such a fool, that she will 
 think you are serious." 
 
 '' She wiU think right. I am quite
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 73 
 
 serious. You know I have passed the age 
 when I am afraid of being taken for a 
 girl. Why should not a man use his 
 fingers? I see no reason against it. Do 
 you, Miss Lyndsay ?" 
 
 "No, I suppose not," she said, hesitat- 
 ingly ; " but it is new for a man to ^vork, is it 
 notr 
 
 " Far from it, I assure you. I have 
 long been able to sew on a button, and 
 a friend of mine can make button-holes, 
 which I am told few young ladies can 
 do. So I repeat, Miss Lyndsay, can you 
 direct me to a knitting-shop ?" 
 
 "I am a shop," said Mrs. Clifton, 
 laughing, as she re-entered the room. I 
 have all means and appliances for indus- 
 try in that great box. Now, let us be 
 going." 
 
 " When I see you again," Alan said, as 
 he shook hands with Mary, " I hope you
 
 74 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 will see how profitable your instructions 
 have been. I mean to do great 
 things." 
 
 When, in the evening, Mrs. Clifton and 
 Alan Sinclair were alone, Mrs. Clifton 
 made an eager inquiry concerning his 
 opinion of Mary's beauty. 
 
 " As to beauty," he repHed, " I don't 
 think her beautiful." 
 
 " I hoped you did," she said, with dis- 
 appointment. " I thought you seemed to 
 admire her as I do." 
 
 " I cannot think her beautiful, because 
 she has not beauty. Take away eyes, 
 coloiKing, and countenance, and very little 
 will remain." 
 
 " Take away a man's body, and 
 very little will remain," said Mrs. Clifton, 
 laughing. 
 
 " But as far as countenance goes I hope 
 my admiration will satisfy you. Do human
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 75 
 
 beings ever remind you of things? Some 
 people are like niglit ; I suppose it is dis- 
 respectful to night to call it a thing, but 
 you will know what I mean ; they are rather 
 awful beings ; some are like moonhght, 
 there is a charm in them, but a melancholy 
 one ; some " 
 
 '* And Mary is like sunrise, T suppose," 
 Mrs. Clifton interrupted, not very patient 
 with theories ; " yes, I see the like- 
 ness." 
 
 " Xo, I did not mean sunrise." 
 
 " Noon, then, or sunset, or summer, or 
 spring, or sunshine, or what is it? — what 
 time of day is Mary like ? " 
 
 " You are so impatient. I was going to 
 say that Miss Lyndsay reminds me of twi- 
 light. The morning not the evening twi- 
 light; morning conquering night. There is 
 a dash of darkness about her, but such a 
 light within that it conquers it. It is tliis
 
 76 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 look that makes her face to me the most 
 interesting I ever saw." 
 
 " Now yon please me," said his hostess. 
 " Not that I agree with yonr poetical fancies. 
 There is no darkness, not one cloud, in 
 Mary; that is why I adore her; but pro- 
 vided you sanction the fancy I have formed, 
 I don't care on what grounds you form 
 it." 
 
 *'You ought to know better than I do. 
 I may be wrong, but if I am wrong, then 
 I do not admire her so much. Evening 
 twilight faces and characters are very com- 
 mon ; joyous dispositions saddened and 
 subdued in the trials of life; but morning 
 twilight, light and good alioays conquering 
 darkness and evil, are not common. In fact, 
 I never saw the struggle and the victory so 
 clearly defined in any face as I do on Miss 
 Lyndsay's." 
 
 Mrs. Clifton made a movement of
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 77 
 
 hands and eyes, such as matter-of-fact 
 people make at fancies they cannot under- 
 stand. 
 
 "How did your acquaintance with Miss 
 Lyndsay begin ? '' Alan inquired, a short 
 time afterwards. 
 
 " I took this house, you know, at 
 Easter. The Sunday after I came I saw 
 her at church, fell in love with her face, 
 and, as my custom is on such occasions, 
 made inquiries as to her connections and 
 habits. I was told that she lived immured 
 with a foolish mother and stern father, 
 and that my attempts to draw her away 
 from them would be unavailing. I am 
 not troubled, however, with fear or shyness. 
 I called on Mrs. Lyndsay, said I should be 
 a neighbour for six months, spoke of my 
 lonely life, and my fancy for her daughter, 
 and made a request that she might oc- 
 casionally visit me. Poor Mrs. Lyndsay,
 
 78 MARY LINDSAY. 
 
 who is a nonentity, was evidently at a loss 
 how to answer me, thought it a pity to 
 refuse, and did not dare to say yes. I 
 always feel for trembling wives, so I instantly 
 relieved her by begging to see Captain Lynd- 
 say, and make my request in person. I 
 suppose she saw that I would have my way, 
 for she consented, and led the way to the 
 lion's den. I never yet was refused by any 
 man, and, as you may guess, I was victorious 
 here. Captain Lyndsay has a stern look, but 
 he is a gentleman, and though he frowned on 
 my entry, I charmed him into mildness. He 
 explained to me his reasons for keeping Mary 
 aloof from general society ; reasons founded 
 chiefly on pecuniary motives, but agreed that 
 there are exceptions to every rule, and as I 
 promised not to have balls and dinner-parties, 
 and turn her head with gaieties she could 
 never share again, he consented to allow me 
 to make a darlins: of her as I wished. There
 
 MARY LYNDSAT. 79 
 
 is my history — and now, what do you think 
 of Cleeve ? " 
 
 "I did not dislike it." 
 
 " I did not think you would. If the 
 truth were known, I suspect you think 
 Miss JMerivale a beauty." 
 
 "Do you ever have presentiments, Mrs 
 Clifton ?" 
 
 " No, never. I have no imagination 
 and no superstition ; but if I had, what 
 then?" 
 
 " If I believed in presentiments, I 
 should say that these ]\Ierivales were in 
 some way destined to cross my path in 
 life." 
 
 " Then I advise you to keep out of 
 their way, for a black, spectral shadow they 
 will cast across any path." 
 
 "So I feel, that is, so I should feel 
 if I were superstitious, which I am 
 not."
 
 80 MART LYNDSAT. 
 
 "Don't be superstitious. It may be 
 poetical, but it is very heathenish. Now 
 tell me, shall you be at Hounslow all 
 the summer?" 
 
 " I suppose so ; we have heard nothing 
 yet to the contrary." 
 
 " Then when will you come to me 
 again? Can you come on Monday?" 
 
 " I will wilhngly if I can ; and I sup- 
 pose I can." 
 
 " 1 will try and have amusement for 
 you, or pleasure of some kind." 
 
 To this promise, Alan Sinclair made 
 no objection, and Mrs. Clifton considered 
 herself at liberty to provide entertainment 
 at her pleasure.
 
 81 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 '*Kot learned, save in gracious, household ways." 
 
 TENNyso>:. 
 
 ''I SAY Mary," said Frank Lyndsay, as 
 he sat at breakfast the following morn- 
 ing, with his mother and sister, " that 
 was rather a nice chap we saw yester- 
 day." 
 
 '' Oh ! Frank, le was not a chap, 
 surely." 
 
 " Why, you fool, what do you thnik 
 a chap is ? A chap is a person, and I sup- 
 pose he was a person." 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 "I thoiiglit a chap was something to 
 laugh at, and though he was very 
 amusing, I saw nothing to laugh at in 
 him." 
 
 " Oh ! you admired him, did you ?" 
 cried the teasing brother. " I suppose you 
 lost your heart to him." 
 
 Mary laughed. 
 
 " She never could have done that in 
 one day," observed her mother, with 
 warmth. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, mother, girls do. I know 
 a girl who lost her heart to a person 
 after a very few hours' acquaintance," and 
 he drew himself up with a sHghtly impor- 
 tant air. 
 
 "Prank means himself, mother," said 
 Mary, laughing. " He knows some very 
 extraordinary young ladies, who have 
 three or four hearts each, I am sure." 
 
 " You are extremely impertinent, Mary,
 
 MARY liYNDSAY. 83 
 
 cried her brother, looking red and indig- 
 nant ; " and I am sure I don't know 
 what you mean. The young ladies I 
 know are worth three hundred demure 
 fools like you." 
 
 "What did you say you had for 
 luncheon, Mary ?" asked Mrs. Lyndsay, 
 suddenly ; " a roast chicken, and what ?" 
 
 "Cutlets, mother," answered Frank, "and 
 uncommonly good ones." 
 
 " A roast chicken and cutlets. That 
 sounds very nice, and I daresay cold meat 
 besides." 
 
 " Oh ! yes, every cold meat under the 
 sun, and tart, and jelly, and grapes — a re- 
 gular good luncheon. Mrs. Clifton must be 
 as rich as Croesus." 
 
 " I should not mind being rich like Mrs. 
 Chfton," observed Mary. 
 
 ''Mind! Law, bless you, Mary," ex- 
 claimed her brother, "what a fool 
 
 G 2
 
 84 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 you are ! Who ever did mind being 
 rich !" 
 
 ''No/' said his mother, "I know I should 
 like a roast chicken and jelly for luncheon 
 very much/' 
 
 " In some ways/' Mary said, " it seems 
 to me to be happier to be poor. Now^ 
 mother, if you were rich, I could not 
 help you a bit, and then what should I 
 do?" 
 
 " Why, what other girls do," said Prank, 
 '' attend to your dress, and play on the 
 pianoforte, and go to balls. I don't believe 
 there is another girl in Christendom who 
 would live poked up here as you do, and 
 never wish for a change. I sometimes 
 think you were born a fool." 
 
 The conversation Avas disturbed by the 
 entrance of Captain Lyndsay. Some persons 
 carry with them a sensation of discomfort; 
 from no ostensible cause a chill goes
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 85 
 
 before and follows after them. It was so 
 with Captain Lynsday. He came in tall, 
 grave, and cold. He was a fine-looking 
 man, and had a refined air ; but the refine- 
 ment was oppressive. The small dining- 
 room of a small house, which had been 
 cheerful and sunny till he appeared, 
 seemed to become narrow and confined. 
 Frank sat up in his chair, silent and 
 sulky. Mrs. Lyndsay felt a thousand 
 grievances unfelt before, and, in the three 
 minutes that foUoAved his entrance, ob- 
 serv'cd that the tea was weak, the toast 
 was tough, the milk was thin, and the bread 
 was stale. 
 
 With civility, yet still with a " snub," 
 Captain Lyndsay requested her to leave 
 him to find out the ine\itable ills of his lot ; 
 and thus, imable to complain any more, 
 she became silent. 
 
 Mary alone seemed unaffected by his pre-
 
 86 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 sence. Some happy natures will not, or 
 cannot, see the faults of those they love. 
 Mary, happy in her home, did not feel that 
 her father was selfish, her mother silly, and 
 her brother ill-bred. Her own sweet, for- 
 bearing nature was reflected in each one, 
 and gave them a charm they did not 
 possess. Her father was especially dear to 
 her, and it never occurred to her that he 
 could be in fault. She knew, indeed, that 
 conversation flagged in his presence ; but 
 this was but natural, she thought, when 
 he was so superior to them all. She, like 
 the rest of the family, stood in awe of him ; 
 but her fear was from the intense desire 
 to please, not from any dread of his dis- 
 pleasure. He swayed her, as his iion will 
 
 swayed all who approached him ; but her 
 
 * 
 
 submission was the ready yielding of a 
 duteous daughter to a loving father. 
 
 In many respects people make their
 
 3IARY LYNDSAY. 87 
 
 own world. A happy nature makes happiness 
 where a less gifted one would find misery. 
 Mary's home w^as not strictly a happy one. 
 Poverty and ill-assorted companions are the 
 elements of much discomfort. If she moved 
 happily through them, and brought them into 
 harmony, it was from the magic of her own 
 good nature. 
 
 Captain Lyndsay was an officer retired on 
 half-pay. A severe wound had disabled 
 him in early years, and precluded him from 
 active service, and he married, and remained 
 at home. In youth he had seen much, and 
 profited by what he had seen, and the 
 cultivation of his mind and the 
 acquisition of knowledge, was the occupa- 
 tion and interest of his sedentary and 
 lonely life. He had married for the sake 
 of a lovely face, and had repented for 
 the rest of his life. Without money, in- 
 tellect, or education, his wife luid no
 
 88 MARY LYNDSAT. 
 
 claims to his respect, and a naturally sel- 
 fish nature was made worse by marriage. 
 Extreme poverty, where there is a certain 
 appearance to be kept up, is the touchstone 
 of the character. A noble, generous dis- 
 position braces itself to bear, endures pri- 
 vations without repining, and accepts favours 
 without shame. A proud but ignoble nature 
 repines in secret, but prefers rather to endure 
 than to be humbled by the reception of 
 kindness, however willingly offered. Captain 
 Lynd say's character was of the latter sort. 
 His poverty fretted his temper and hardened 
 his heart, but, like the Spartan boy, he bore it 
 outwardly with a calm brow. Many a plea- 
 sure he refused to his family because he 
 would not be under an obligation he could 
 not return, and he removed his residence 
 from place to place lest too great intimacy 
 with his neighbours should give an insight 
 into his affairs.
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 89" 
 
 His worst qualities have been brought 
 forward, but it is not to be supposed he was 
 without good ones. A more suitable com- 
 panion in life might have made him another 
 man. Unable to live for his wife, he 
 lived for himself, and advancing years did 
 not tend to counteract this propensity. Mrs. 
 Lyndsay was a well-meaning, affectionate wo- 
 man, without deep feeling, without strong 
 principles, and without good sense. To her 
 it was chiefly due that Captain Lyndsay 
 looked on poverty as a moral ill. The petty 
 cares and economies of a household are pe- 
 cuharly distasteful to men's minds. Mrs. 
 Lyndsay could not discover this, and while her 
 want of management added to poverty, her 
 want of sense presented it continually to her 
 husband's mind as a grievous curse and 
 fretting sore. He retreated from her more 
 and more, leaving her to struggle alone, and 
 she, in awe of him, and often in want of the
 
 90 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 means of life, was a repining and unhappy 
 woman. 
 
 Two children came to add to, or to lighten 
 the cares of, this uncomfortable household. The 
 son was like his mother; quicker in intellect, but 
 deficient as she was in stamina of character. 
 His handsome face and figure, of which he 
 and she were ahke proud, did not tend to 
 elevate him. Good education and good prin- 
 ciples might have given him the strength he 
 wanted, but principles were not much ac- 
 counted of in Captain Lyndsay's household. 
 All went as their natures led them. With 
 Captain Lyndsay, Frank was no favourite; 
 with his mother a great one. In his father's 
 presence Frank was sulky; over his mother 
 he domineered. 
 
 Two years after Frank's birth, a daughter 
 was born, and something of charm came 
 to the house with the first smiles of the 
 smiling infant. Mary inherited the character-
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 91 
 
 istics of both parents, — lier mother's softness 
 and her father's strength, — and bound the two 
 together with some qualities pecuharly her 
 own, a truthful natm-e and the sunshine of 
 the happy heart. This sunshine consisted 
 less in the high spirits common to most 
 young people, than in a more inward and 
 uncommon gladness; a kind of tempered 
 brightness which shone on all things and 
 brought all things to its own likeness. 
 
 Her father loved Mary more than all else 
 in the world except himself. He loved her 
 for herself in her own natural charm; and 
 he loved her for Jdmself, and fixed his hopes 
 upon her. He swayed her with his iron will, 
 and intended so to do, but he deceived 
 himself and her by supposing his will must 
 always be far her good. Her mother hung 
 upon her. Since she had grown up, the 
 cares of poverty had lessened in the house. 
 
 Mary shared them, allowed them, dwelt
 
 92 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 upon them, almost tm-necl them into pleasures. 
 When a little girl, she had one day obseiTed 
 her mother's worn and anxious face, and 
 inquiring into the cause, heard in reply that 
 it was poverty. A further inquiry brought 
 out the vexation of the moment. There was 
 some needle-work to be done, and the over- 
 worked housemaid had refused to do it. 
 
 " Oh ! mamma, could I not help you ?" — 
 asked the child, eagerly. 
 
 Mrs. Lyndsay opened her eyes. To do 
 the coarse house-work herself, or employ her 
 child upon it, had never occurred to her. It 
 was like a sudden light bursting in. She 
 acquiesced, and the small child sat down, to 
 hem a large sheet. 
 
 Proud to be of use, and happy to please, 
 the little girl worked with all her heart, and 
 when she at length carried the fruits of her 
 labours to her mother, she observed, " Oh ! 
 mamma, how nice it is to be poor!"
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 93 
 
 From that day's date a change took place 
 in the house ; order and peace began to ap- 
 pear. It was a new idea to Mrs. Lyndsay 
 that it was no degradation to be poor ; it 
 was still more new that it was possible to 
 lessen her household labours by sharing 
 them. Too indolent and helpless to profit 
 herself by her new discovery, she yet Avatched 
 with complacency the pretty and handy efforts 
 of her young daughter, and by her admiring 
 gratitude encouraged her to persevere. 
 
 Thus Mary grew up, as Paley says of the 
 bee, " so busy and so pleased." Everything 
 came lightly and naturally to her hand. No- 
 thing vexed, nothing oppressed. She pleased 
 her father by cultivating her mind — she 
 helped and pleased her mother by her or- 
 derly management of the house. She 
 pleased others, and was happy herself. Many 
 pitied her lot ; but none who met the sweet 
 smile of her face pitied her.
 
 y4 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 Mary, however, was no perfect character. 
 She had been gifted with a good nature, and 
 she followed the natural light which led her. 
 Of a more religious view of life and duty she 
 had not much thought, and, to say the truth, 
 did not much like to have it forced upon her. 
 She did not like grave thoughts, did not wish 
 to hear of sorrow and death, wished to think 
 well of all men, and if she felt harshly to any 
 it was towards grave people. So, at least, had 
 been the case; but she was now eighteen, 
 and something more of though tfulness began 
 to put forth its shoots.
 
 95 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 " L'liomme propose, mais Dieu dispose." 
 
 Mrs. Clipton was a matclimaker. The 
 excitement attending the occupation pleased 
 her ; and it so happened, partly as it seemed 
 from mere luck, and partly that her quick 
 intuition into character had made her a 
 prophet, that success had generally crowned 
 her plans. Such being the case, she consi- 
 dered it almost as one of the appointed duties 
 of her life. 
 
 It is difficult exactly to clcfiiie the bounds
 
 96 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 at which matchmaking begins. Not to have 
 wishes is clearly impossible ; not to give as- 
 sistance where a little assistance might cause 
 a happy denouement, is abnost as impossible ; 
 yet, considering the changes and chances of 
 mortal life, the perverseness of hmnan beings, 
 the waywardness of circumstances, the un- 
 foreseen events that thwart the best-formed 
 hopes, the sad endings that sometimes attend 
 marriages formed under the brightest aus- 
 pices, the very least assistance becomes a 
 matter of serious responsibility. 
 
 To plan unions may be to plan trials ; no 
 thinking mind can therefore Hghtly assume 
 the office ; but Mrs. Clifton's was a bright 
 and active, not a thinking mind, and whenever 
 the temptation arose she yielded to it. 
 
 Temptation in this case arose on the very 
 day on which Alan Sinclair met Mary Lynd- 
 say. The idea was suggested by its own 
 fitness. There is an old nurse's saying, that
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 97 
 
 those who are destined to be united are alike, 
 not mentally, but personally ; alike not per- 
 haps in feature, but in some undefinable simi- 
 larity of countenance or manner. An old 
 nurse, without her usual large imagination, 
 might have discovered a likeness between 
 Alan and Mary. They both possessed that 
 charm of countenance which no word but 
 "sweet" describes; — open, ingenuous, and 
 loveable, the inner disposition shining on 
 the face. His countenance was the more melan- 
 choly ; hers the more serene and sunny ; but 
 with this difference the same words described 
 them both. 
 
 But although this outward fitness was 
 such, that had they been pointed out as 
 betrothed lovers, the perfection o the 
 union would have been owned by all ; 
 there were other circumstances which 
 made Mrs. Clifton's scheme a short- 
 sighted one. Mary was penniless ! Alan 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 Sinclair was, comparatively speaking, poor. 
 Tn her short interview with Captain 
 Lyndsay, he had made her fully aware 
 that he was no admirer of poverty. 
 These facts were plain, and it required 
 but little good sense to reason from them. 
 There are minds, however, to whom plain 
 facts do not present the appearance they 
 do to the chief part of the world. Their' 
 wishes possibly excite the brain, and 
 prevent the clear exercise of reason, or 
 else a sunny temperament loill see only 
 what it wishes to see. To reason with 
 such persons is utterly vain. It is perhaps 
 no fault of theirs, but they do not see 
 what is as clear as day. Mrs. Clifton 
 was an extremely sensible woman in most 
 respects, and yet her brain was liable to 
 the distortion just described. If the plain 
 fact, the danger of an attachment in this 
 case, had been presented to hei', her
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 99 
 
 answers would have been so many that 
 it must have been overpowered. Mary's 
 home was unsuited to her — an amiable 
 husband must be a benefit — Alan was 
 somewhat listless, and a cheerful wife was 
 necessary to him. — Mary was used to 
 poverty, Alan's prospects must improve. — 
 Even allowing that poverty was an ill, 
 yet what was poverty compared to happi- 
 ness ? So she would have answered, had 
 she been called upon to reason. As it 
 was, she pursued her way without much 
 reflection, and without forming any clear 
 conception of what poverty really was. 
 
 Disappointment awaited Mrs. Chfton's 
 first efibrts to bring Alan and Mary 
 together. 
 
 " There," she said, on the Tuesday 
 morning following, as with some vexation 
 she tossed a note to him, " I tried to 
 procure you a pleasanter companion than
 
 100 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 a middle-aged woman, and it is not my 
 fault that I have failed." 
 
 Alan Sinclair took Mary's note and 
 read it. 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Clifton, — 
 
 " It is very kind of you to ask 
 me again. You may be sure I would 
 Gome if I could, but I have so many 
 things to do to-day, that I ought not. 
 Thank you very much, and I am very 
 sorry. Yours very affectionately, 
 
 "Mary Lyndsay." 
 
 "That poor girl works like a slave at 
 home," Mrs. Clifton observed, in the same 
 vexed tone. 
 
 " She does not look like a slave," said » 
 Alan, smiling; and it is quite new, is 
 it not, for you to call her *that poor 
 girl ? 
 
 "Veiy true. That is a just reprimand.
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 101 
 
 It was my vexation that spoke. She is 
 no slave, and if she works, it is with all 
 her heart." ^ 
 
 "And then she is all the happier. 
 But now tell me, Mrs. Clifton, if at least 
 there is no indiscretion in my question, 
 what do you mean by work? What 
 kind of work can a pretty young lady like 
 Miss Lyndsay do?" 
 
 " I am afraid. Men are so odd. If 
 one comes to details, one is sure to destroy 
 some charm." 
 
 ^' If there is any charm to be destroyed, 
 surely the sooner it is done the better. 
 But, indeed, Mrs. Clifton, however odd 
 men may be, — and it is not for me to 
 say they are not odd, if you say they 
 are, — I do not think, in practice, any 
 sensible man objects to a useful woman." 
 
 "Well, I will try the experiment. 
 What shall you say when I tell you
 
 102 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 that Mary not only makes her father's 
 shirts and her mother's gowns, but can 
 bake loaves and make a pudding, — can, 
 and does. In fact, that, at the early age 
 of seventeen or eighteen, she is a notable 
 housewife." 
 
 "I shall say that I admire her ex- 
 tremely." 
 
 "Then I am glad I told you. Come,'' 
 she continued, laughing, " give me the 
 pleasure of hearing you say that 
 you are disappointed she cannot 
 come." 
 
 "If I do say it, you will set me down 
 as being in love. If men are odd, I 
 know what women are." 
 
 "I will not, indeed. But no matter. 
 You have said enough. You have owned 
 it." 
 
 " I do confess," he said, smiling, " that 
 I had some wish to make further obser-
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 103 
 
 vations on her face. To see whether 
 your theory was right or mine." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I understand," she cried, 
 and turned away her eyes, sparkhng with 
 dehght in the hopes his words ex- 
 cited. 
 
 Late in the afternoon she invited Alan 
 Sinclair to walk with her to Cleeve. It 
 was her intention to return Miss 
 Merivale's visit. 
 
 As they approached, the gates of Cleeve, 
 Mary Lyndsay issued from them. She 
 paused a moment, on perceiving who were 
 approaching, before she w^ent forward to 
 meet them. 
 
 "You treacherous truant," Mrs. Clifton 
 exclaimed, catching hold of her, and al- 
 though, in the high road, unable to re- 
 frain from kissing her rose-coloured cheeks, 
 "is this the way you serve me? 
 Can you expect me to pardon this ?"
 
 104 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 "I have indeed been busy all day," 
 Mary said, eagerly, "you must know 
 I would come if I could." 
 
 "Are you going home, Mary? We 
 will walk with you. That is, if Captain 
 Sinclair is not tired." 
 
 He had paused a little aloof, but came 
 and shook hands with Mary, acquiescing 
 willingly in the proposed extension of 
 their walk. 
 
 "Now, tell me, Mary," Mrs. Clifton 
 said, drawing Mary's arm caressingly 
 within her own, " what have you been 
 doing all day ?" 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Clifton, a great many 
 things. It would not interest you to 
 hear." 
 
 " This visit to Cleeve ! was that a part 
 of the proposed business ?" 
 
 " Yes," Mary replied, reluctantly. " I 
 have been trying to do it for many days,
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 105 
 
 and last night I felt I dared not put it 
 off any more." 
 
 "Is it that Mr. Merivale, of the many 
 characters, that keeps you in such order?" 
 Alan asked, laughing at the tone in which 
 he spoke. 
 
 " Oh ! no," she said, quickly, " I meant 
 only my own conscience. I know I 
 ought to go and see that poor old 
 woman, but I don't like it ; and I put 
 it off till the thought of her haunts me 
 even in my sleep. I know I am very 
 wrong." 
 
 " How was she to-day ?" Mrs. Clifton 
 inquired. 
 
 "Very ill — worse than ever. I guessed 
 she was worse by Mr. Merivale's look 
 when I met him on Sunday, and that 
 made me feel I must go. Miss Merivale 
 says" — Mary paused with a look of 
 awe.
 
 106 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 "What, my dear child, what does she 
 say?" 
 
 " That she will soon die. 
 
 "Well, and that will be a happy release 
 out of all her pains. Don't fret yourself. 
 You have done all you can. Now put 
 her out of your head for the pre- 
 sent." 
 
 "Yes," Mary said, thankfully, with a 
 sigh of relief. 
 
 " How pretty your garden looks !" she 
 exclaimed, as a few minutes afterwards 
 they came in front of the cottage, a 
 long, low, trellised house, covered with 
 creepers, with a small garden in front. 
 " And what roses ! you must give me 
 some." 
 
 Mary laughed, and shook her head. 
 
 "My dear child, if I had a million 
 flowers of my own, it would not prevent 
 my coveting those of my neighbours;
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 107 
 
 but, as it happens, my roses are all gone. 
 I must have a bunch, that red bunch, I 
 pray." 
 
 Mary gathered and brought the bunch 
 she spoke of. 
 
 " And now one for Captain Sinclair, 
 Mary." 
 
 " Should you hke some flowers ?" Mary 
 asked, turning to him with a smile. 
 
 " I should indeed," he said, and leaned 
 his arms upon the gate, watching her, 
 while she stooped to gather them. 
 
 At this moment Captain Lyndsay heard 
 voices in his garden, and came to his 
 window to look out. As Mary gave the 
 flowers into the stranger's hand, the 
 sunset was falhng brightly upon her, and 
 a father's eyes and a father's heart 
 possibly exaggerated the charm of her 
 appearance and countenance, and the look 
 of admiration with which the young inaii
 
 108 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 received her gift. He knit his brows, and 
 retreated from the window. 
 
 "^\lio was that, Mary?" inquired her 
 father, opening the window, and calling 
 to her, when Mrs. CHfton had departed. 
 
 " Mrs. CHfton and a friend of hers, 
 father," she replied, hastening to him. 
 
 " And a friend of yours, I think. I 
 saw you give him flowers," and her father 
 looked searchingly at her. " Who is her 
 friend ?" 
 
 " She calls him Captain Sinclair. I 
 have only seen him once before. Do 
 come out, father, it is so fine to-night?" 
 
 "No thank you, my love. I have a 
 twinge of rheumatism." 
 
 " I went to Cleeve," Mary continued 
 the shadow falling over her face. " Mrs- 
 Merivale is very ill to-day." 
 
 "That was a good girl, Mary; I will 
 come and have a turn with you." And
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 109 
 
 he joined her in the garden, and as he 
 slowly walked up and down, lightly lean- 
 ing on her shoulder for support, he 
 poured out for her amusement some of 
 the stores of knowledge gathered during 
 the studies of the day. A chance pas- 
 senger saw the sight, the stately father 
 looking fondly down into his daughter's face, 
 and murmured : — 
 
 " Some feelings are to mortals given. 
 With less of earth in them than Heaven." 
 
 But how little could the passenger have 
 imagined the sordid and earthly feelings 
 at that moment debasing the father's 
 love ! 
 
 For his twinge of rheumatism, Captain 
 Lyndsay, the following morning, called in 
 the aid of the apothecary, and this indi- 
 vidual, being conversant in all the affairs 
 of the neighbourhood, was able to give 
 him the information he desired regarding
 
 110 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 the friend of Mrs. Clifton. He rumi- 
 nated upon it during the day, and only 
 came to a final decision in the evening. 
 
 After dinner this note arrived for 
 Mary. 
 
 "My adored Mary, — 
 
 "I have been alone all this rainy 
 day, and I ask it of your charity to 
 come to me to-morrow. I hold household 
 affairs in high estimation, but every dog 
 should have his day, and let to-mon'ow 
 be my day. 
 
 " Yours affectionately, 
 
 "M. C." 
 
 Mary put the note into her father's 
 hand, and looked at him for consent. 
 
 He gathered up all the floating thoughts 
 of the day into one moment's intense 
 reflection, then made his decision. 
 
 ''I have no objection, Mary, go if it 
 pleases you."
 
 MARY LYNDSAT. Ill 
 
 If it be asked on what grounds his 
 decision was formed, they were singular 
 ones. He had a conviction that in allow- 
 ing her to go without restraint, that 
 thing which he dreaded would arise. 
 Mary would form an attachment. He felt 
 the conviction with a strength approaching 
 to certainty. But the reflections of the 
 day had suggested to him this worldly 
 wisdom. It was barely possible that one 
 like Mary would love one like Mr. Meri- 
 vale, while yet in the freshness of her 
 youth and gladness. But a disappointed 
 heart is more easily led to receive the 
 devoted though unwelcome love of another. 
 " Let Mary, then," was his argument, 
 "take the common chances of life in this 
 matter. Perhaps a certain amount of un- 
 happiness may be necessary to bring forth 
 a great good." 
 
 So stated, the heartless coldness of the
 
 112 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 argument is very apparent. But, strange 
 to say, it assumed no such appearance in 
 Captain Lyndsay's eyes. He supposed 
 himself, on the contrary, to be acting 
 and planning for her welfare, and if his 
 waking dreams were visited that night 
 with any defined feeling, it was with a 
 certain complacency in his paternal foresight 
 and wisdom.
 
 113 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 '•' There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
 That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 
 His listless length at noontide would he stretch. 
 And pour upon the brook that babbles by." 
 
 Gray. 
 
 " I THOUGHT you saicl you were alone !" 
 Mary exclaimed, in some surprise, as she 
 sat working with Mrs. Clifton ; that lady 
 having, in her conversation, alluded to Alan 
 Sinclair as being in the house. 
 
 " And you suspect that I have inveigled 
 you here under a false pretence of charity," 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 said Mrs. Clifton, laughing. " Is it no 
 so ? But no, Mary, I would not do that. 
 I was alone yesterday, and had many fears 
 I should be alone to-day. Captain 
 Sinclair went early, and was afraid he 
 should not have leave to come back. He 
 did come, however ; at ten last night ; 
 rode over in the dark. Was not that a 
 pretty compliment to pay to a middle-aged 
 woman ?" 
 
 "I suppose he feels as I do?" Mary 
 began, eagerly — then stopped, laughed, 
 blushed, and said, "There are some 
 things one ought not to say to a person; 
 but I know you know what 1 meant, dear 
 Mrs. Clifton." 
 
 " My dear child, if you mean that you are 
 very fond of me, and think me pleasant 
 company, I am very much obliged to you. 
 1 hope you did not mean that you like me 
 better than young people. I hope you did
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 115 
 
 not mean, for instance, that you are sorry 
 Captain Sinclair came back," 
 
 " Oh ! no, indeed," Mary said with honest 
 warmth, "he amused me extremely the other 
 day." 
 
 " That is right. He is a great favourite 
 of mine, and I like to have my favourites 
 appreciated. He is good, and to a certain 
 extent clever, and, though perhaps a little 
 whimsical, I like him the better for it. I 
 like odd people, don't you, Mary ?" 
 " No, not much," she replied. 
 " Don't you ? I must have that out with 
 you some day. But now here comes Cap- 
 tain Sinclair." 
 
 " Has he gone on with his knitting?" Mary 
 asked, laughing. 
 
 " We will hear what he says. Captain 
 Sinclair, Miss Lyndsay wishes to know if, after 
 all your professions of industr}^ you have 
 
 accomplished anything worth showing her?" 
 
 I 2
 
 116 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 There was a touch of sarcasm in Mrs. 
 Chfton's voice, and Alan shghtly coloured 
 as he replied, 
 
 " Not yet, but I mean to do it. The 
 stitch puzzled me when I came to try it 
 alone, but I said I would learn it, and I shall 
 and will." 
 
 " I allowed Captain Sinclair to explain 
 himself, Mary, because I wished to hear what 
 he would say. But now listen to my story. 
 He made a tremendous fuss about the 
 needles, and the wool, and the shade of the 
 wool. He turned my drawer upside-down 
 and inside-out before he could be satisfied. 
 He made a great fuss about my beginning 
 his work and " starting him.'' I was very 
 amiable. I was really glad to see him so 
 interested about anything. I did all he re- 
 quired. Well. He then knitted half a row, 
 laid aside his work, and from that hour has 
 never thought of it again. And when you
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 117 
 
 know Captain Sinclair better, Mary, you will 
 know that this is a picture of his life. Per- 
 petual whims, violent and unaccountable 
 fancies coming and passing away, and leaving 
 no trace behind." 
 
 '' What makes you say that, Mrs. Clifton?" 
 he asked, colouring deeply, and with some 
 sharpness. " Fickle and inconstant ! you 
 make me out a pretty character indeed." 
 
 " I only say what everybody who observes 
 you must say. Constant enough in great 
 matters, but much given to have whims, and 
 to let whims drop. Witness ; to my certain 
 knowledge, projects to learn drawing, geology, 
 and German were formed this spring ; rose up 
 and fell down ; flat, never to rise again." 
 
 " If things bore me, I give them up," he 
 said in a vexed tone ; " but we need not 
 entertain Miss Lyndsay with an anatomical 
 examination of my character. Notwithstand- 
 ing what Mrs. Clifton says. Miss Lyndsay, I
 
 ILS MARY LINDSAY. 
 
 liave made up my mind to learn how to knit, 
 and I am coming to you this moment for 
 another lesson." 
 
 He fetched the large knitting-pins, and 
 drawing a chair opposite Mary's chair, placed 
 himself upon it. But his arrangements were 
 scarcely completed before the door was 
 thrown open, and " Dr. and Mrs. Rowley " 
 were announced. 
 
 He drew back his chair, tossed his needles 
 away, and very indignantly asked Mrs. Clifton 
 " Who are these?" 
 
 " Country neighbours," she replied, smiling. 
 " Never mind them. Please yourself." 
 
 With this permission, Alan Sinclair 
 returned to Mary; though with a discreet 
 alteration in the position of his seat, and 
 no further allusion to the knitting lesson. 
 
 Some French writer has divided the 
 world into two classes, those who think, 
 and those who amuse. Not a very fair
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 119 
 
 division. It may better be divided into 
 two other classes, those who speak, and 
 those who like to hear others speak. 
 There are a few, somewhat rare in the 
 busy world, who are more pleased to 
 scrutinize the characters, and draw forth 
 the opinions of others, than to delivei 
 themselves of their own thoughts. They 
 are valuable people, and though, when 
 possessed of no other gifts apt to be 
 overlooked, have, if gifted with powers 
 of their own, a peculiar charm. Alan 
 Sinclair belonged to the class. An insa- 
 tiable curiosity regarding the inner life of 
 man possessed his mind, rising on some 
 occasions into an interest that was even 
 intense. 
 
 It was not often, however, that such 
 occasions occurred. His curiosity was of a 
 fastidious kind, and not easily excited. 
 But Mary was beginning to excite it
 
 120 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 now. There was a something in the ex- 
 pression of her face, so different, so 
 opposed to the frank simpHcity of her 
 manner, that he was seized with a longing to 
 penetrate the region of her thoughts and 
 opinions. 
 
 To this, therefore, he devoted himself 
 while Mrs. Clifton entertained her guests. 
 
 Wliile engaged in talking to her, his 
 attention was, however, caught by an 
 authoritative announcement on the part 
 of Dr. Rowley, that serious troubles were 
 
 anticipated in India, and that the 
 
 regiment of cavalry had received orders 
 to sail. 
 
 "That is mine," he observed to Mary, 
 in a low voice. 
 
 "And is it true?" she asked, with pity 
 in her tone. 
 
 " It may be true some day perhaps, 
 but it certainly is not true to-day. Let
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 121 
 
 the gentleman enjoy himself, however. He 
 seems so happy with his piece of news, 
 far be it from me to deprive him of it !" 
 
 "And have you the prospect of going 
 to India before you ?" 
 
 " If my regiment goes, I suppose ; you 
 seem to pity me?" 
 
 " Yes, I do," she repHed, heartily. " I 
 daresay it is stupid, but I never can 
 fancy happiness out of England, and India 
 is so far away. I pity your family 
 too. " 
 
 '' I have no family," he said, sadly. 
 
 " Oh ! I beg your pardon," Mary ex- 
 claimed, with a blush, shocked at herself, 
 and still more shocked at what he 
 said. 
 
 "Why beg my pardon so earnestly? 
 How could you guess? Most people have 
 fathers, or mothers, or brothers, or 
 sisters, and I had once, but I have none now."
 
 122 MARY LYNBSAY. 
 
 Mary was of tliat age and temper when 
 melancholy things shock to a degree that 
 makes it quite impossible to express the 
 sympathy they excite. She felt an un- 
 speakable pity for the state of things his 
 words described, but she did not know 
 how to say so, and with cast- down eyes 
 kept silence. 
 
 He saw exactly what she felt, and 
 changed the subject. 
 
 "What is Dr. Rowley saying now?" 
 he observed, with a smile. " It must be 
 something very awful, by the delight I 
 catch in his tone." 
 
 " You are quite right, Mrs. Clifton," 
 were Dr. Rowley's words. " Sons are 
 nothing but a worry, and it is a happy 
 exemption to be free from them. They 
 are a worry if they turn out ill, and if 
 they turn out well, a still greater worry 
 and care. I have a poor friend, for
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 123 
 
 instance, whose son is in this regiment; 
 my news will be a thunderbolt to him. 
 All his heart is in this son, and what 
 nan he expect? If his son escapes the 
 perils of the war, if he ever returns, 
 what will he bring back but a body 
 sinking from the effects of climate ; disease 
 and death at work upon it ?" 
 
 " That is not true, is it ?" Mary asked 
 with some indignation. 
 
 "Not the least, I should hope, with 
 proper care. But I really must interfere 
 to prevent this poor friend from being 
 crushed by the thunderbolt ;" and rising, 
 and joining Mrs. Clifton and her party, he 
 modestly stated his belief that Dr. Rowley 
 was misinformed, giving his name and 
 position for his authority. 
 
 But Dr. Rowley was too much attached 
 to the news he had picked up to part from it 
 easily. With stately dignity he assured
 
 124 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 Alan he was in the right, as he would 
 shortly find, adding, " And if yon have any 
 reason, from health or other circumstances, 
 to wish for an exchange, I advise you to 
 set about it without delay." 
 
 "I have no reason at present, thank 
 
 you." 
 
 " I thought it possible you had," was 
 the reply ; and it was given with a drily 
 sarcastic tone, which suggested the proba- 
 bility that, even through a thick skull and 
 a full wig, he had been making observations 
 behind him. 
 
 Alan slightly coloured, and, returning to 
 Mary, said, " He had done what he could, and 
 if the friend died it was no fault of his. Is 
 Dr. Rowley a friend or acquaintance of 
 yours?" he asked. 
 
 "No. My father does not wish to 
 make many acquaintances in this neigh- 
 bourhood,"
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 125 
 
 '' Except as to hearing news, T should say 
 you had no great loss there — but, in general, 
 are you not sorry ? Do you not wish to see 
 more of society?" 
 
 " I like Mrs. Clifton," she replied, warmly. 
 " I was very happy before she came, but now 
 I sometimes wonder what I shall do when she 
 is gone." 
 
 " That is the fatal teaching of experience, 
 a very painful teaching to my mind. I some- 
 times think that, rather than be under the 
 pain of perpetually losing what one has grown 
 to like, it would be better to live like a good 
 dull hermit, caring for nobody." 
 
 "And thoroughly selfish," Mary said, 
 laughing. 
 
 " No, no. My hermit should be a very 
 charitable hermit, only he should be saved 
 from the pains and temptations of attach- 
 ments. I sometimes wonder," he continued, 
 with the musing seriousness which occasion-
 
 126 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 ally overspread his countenance, betraying the 
 tendency of his mind and character, "whe- 
 ther a life of such a kind would not really be 
 the best, guarding us from caring too much 
 for any earthly thing." 
 
 " But, surely " Mary began, with won- 
 dering eagerness ; there she paused, however, 
 and laughed, adding, " But I need not argue, 
 I am sure you do not really mean what you 
 say." 
 
 " I do though — at least, I often do. Con- 
 sidering that preachers tell us we ought only 
 to like in moderation, which is pretty nearly 
 impossible, and that if one does like a thing 
 one is almost sm^e to lose it, I often think it 
 would be wisest to keep out of the way of 
 attachments altogether." 
 
 " I would not have such thoughts for all 
 the world," was Mary's eager reply. 
 
 "But if they will intrude, what can one 
 do?"
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 127 
 
 " Fight against them. I will while I have 
 power to fight at all." 
 
 *'Do," he replied, smiling at the warmth 
 and eagerness she unconsciously displayed. 
 " In your hands I believe it will be as good a 
 fight as ever was fought. But how far we 
 have wandered from Dr. Rowley ! He is 
 glancing at the clock, and sees he has been 
 here three quarters of an hour, and begins to 
 be conscious that there may be too much even 
 of his precious self. Yes. Now an apology, 
 and now he is off." 
 
 Mrs. Clifton was always charming to her 
 acquaintance. It was a pleasure to her to be 
 so ; but this morning she was unusually 
 charming, and with her eager sympathy in 
 his communications, detained her visitor l)e- 
 yond the common bounds of a morning 
 visit. 
 
 With a like interest to that in which an 
 author follows the heroes and heroines of his
 
 128 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 tale, she watched the development of her ma- 
 trimonial plot. She saw plainly that on 
 Alan's side the feelings that might end in the 
 result she desired were excited, and though 
 she owned she saw no like symptoms in 
 Mary, yet it needed little imagination to pre- 
 dict that they would shortly arise. Mary 
 had seen too little of good society to be 
 otherwise than struck with the mere outward 
 charm of manner the mingling in good 
 society gives ; but Alan's manners had some- 
 thing beyond this, for they were the expres- 
 sion of his character, and his character, though 
 far from faultless, was one to win on a 
 young girl's mind, especially on a mind 
 formed like Mary's. 
 
 Some people are born good. Not that they 
 have any exemption from the general weak- 
 ness, infirmities, and corruptions of human 
 nature, but that their natural taste so impels 
 them to delight in what is good, that they
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 129 
 
 are unassailable to the common temptations 
 of man: 
 
 Alan Sinclair was thus born good ; amiable 
 in disposition, and something more than 
 amiable in the tone of his thoughts and 
 frame of his mind. Circumstances had fos- 
 tered the natural bent. A singular blight 
 which sometimes falls on families had left him 
 at fifteen without a home and without family 
 ties, and under the influence of the sadness 
 occasioned by his losses, the thoughtfulness of 
 his mmd had taken a higher flight. 
 
 The same circumstances, however, which in 
 some respects were favourable to his cha- 
 racter, in others were prejudicial to it. He 
 was a dreamer. Mrs. Clifton, with her quick 
 sight, perceived the fault of his disposition. 
 His thoughts were good, so were his desires, 
 so were his impulses ; but there he rested. 
 He had no one watching his career, therefore 
 no adventitious excitement, and he had nut 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 in himself sufficient energy to bring the good 
 that was in him to bear fruit. He dragged 
 along the path of existence — good, but listless ; 
 serious in his thoughts, but idle in his life ; 
 not doing what he ought not to do, but 
 leaving undone much of what he ought to 
 have done. 
 
 So had passed year after year, for he was 
 seven or eight and twenty. The good nature 
 remained unspoiled ; a little running to waste 
 from want of culture, but still ready to shoot 
 forth whenever anything kindled it into 
 action.
 
 131 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 " Tis time this heart should be unmoved, 
 
 Since others it has ceased to move ; 
 
 Yet though I cannot be beloved. 
 
 Still let me love." 
 
 Byron. 
 
 One morning, three or four weeks after 
 the date of the last chapter, as Mary was 
 sitting at work with her mother, a note was 
 dut into her hands. It was towards the end 
 of July ; the weather was very hot, and Mary 
 was busily employed in making a light muslin 
 gown for her mother.
 
 132 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 "You can't go to Mrs. Clifton to-day, 
 my dear Mary/' cried her mother with a 
 grumble in her voice. "I really shall die if I 
 wear this stuffy gown any longer. That is," 
 she added good-naturedly, " unless you wish 
 to go very much." 
 
 " Oh, mother !" Mary exclaimed, opening 
 wide her eyes, and her cheeks becoming 
 crimson. 
 
 "What's the matter ? Good gracious ! Mary, 
 what's the matter?" called her mother, ner- 
 vously. 
 
 " Oh, mother !" repeated Mary again, 
 gazing at Mrs. Lyndsay with a look of fear 
 and dismay. 
 
 " My dear Mary !" she said with very 
 natural fretfulness, " why can't you speak ? 
 You terrify one with those strange looks." 
 
 "Oh! dear mother, I beg your pardon, 
 but what shall I do? I never can do it. 
 This is a note from Mr. Merivale. Oh !
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 1 33 
 
 mother, what shall I do?" She put the note 
 into her mother's hand. It was this : — 
 
 " My dear Miss Lyndsay, 
 
 "My mother is dying, and has ex- 
 pressed a strong wish to take leave of you. 
 It is a sad scene for you to come to, but your 
 kind heart will not refuse. Her hours are 
 numbered, there must be no delay. I grieve 
 to ask it of you, but ask it still. 
 " Yours, 
 " Hubert Merivale." 
 
 Mrs. Lyndsay had expected a different 
 request. She knew her husband's thoughts, 
 and so far shared them, that poverty's trials 
 had made her think to be rich must be to be 
 happy. Still, her softer nature gave her 
 some shrinkings, and it was with relief she 
 found the note a matter of death, and not 
 of life.
 
 134 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 " Must I go, mother?" Mary asked, ear- 
 nestly . 
 
 " Well, Mary, I am sure I don't know. I 
 should not like it myself, that I confess ; but 
 I think your father would wish you to go. 
 ShaUIaskhim?" 
 
 " Oh ! no, mother. I know all the while 
 I must. I should never be happy again all my 
 life long if I did not. Her poor face would 
 haunt me. Of course I must go. But oh ! 
 mother, how dreadful! Oh, mother!" she added, 
 seizing hold of her mother's arm, " do you, 
 think I must see her die ?" 
 
 " That of course I don't know, Mary. Per- 
 haps not; we will hope not, at any rate, for 
 it would be very disagreeable. Shall I come 
 with you?" she inquired, raising herself reluc- 
 tantly in her arm-chair. 
 
 " No, thank you, mother. I must be quick, 
 quick, or perhaps she will be dead, and then I 
 shall never be happy again. Oh mother ! to
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 135 
 
 think there are such things in the world. 
 But I must go." And in less than two 
 minutes she was flying along under the 
 scorching sun to Cleeve. 
 
 She flew along that she might not think ; 
 her terror increasing every moment, her 
 heart throbbing so wildly that in calmer 
 moments that in itself would have frightened 
 her. 
 
 She flew along till she entered the 
 gates of Cleeve, but the first breath of 
 the cool damp air in the avenue, grate- 
 ful after the scorch of the road, seemed 
 to lay its calming hand upon her, and 
 slackening her steps, and drawing her 
 breath more quickly, she proceeded onward 
 to the house. Her terrors suddenly left 
 her; she seemed to have entered into a 
 new atmosphere, and with that entrance 
 to have found the power to endure. 
 
 And such, in some degree, is the in-
 
 136 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 fluence of sorrow itself. Dread it, shudder 
 at its approach as we may, yet once 
 within its influence, there is something in 
 the calmness of all around that speaks 
 to the heart of man. Bringing him out 
 of the glare and noise of the world, it 
 wakes in him a higher nature, and 
 teaches him that there are more things 
 in Heaven and earth than he had 
 dreamed of. 
 
 Mr. Merivale was waiting for Mary at the 
 door. It was not the cold Mr. Merivale of 
 her fancy — every feature spoke of life, the 
 life of bitter anguish, and the grasp 
 that wrung her hand made her trembling 
 spirit shrink back appalled. He attempted 
 to speak, but a convulsive movement of 
 his lips showed the effort, and its failm'e. 
 
 "I am very sorry for you !" she said, 
 looking tearfully and kindly at him. " I 
 know how unhappy you must be."
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 137 
 
 He seemed ashamed of his weakness, 
 made a violent effort, and then spoke 
 calmly - 
 
 "It is the only being in the world 
 who ever has loved, or ever can love 
 me ; she is passing away, and I am 
 desolate/' 
 
 "Oh! Mr. Merivale," Mary said, gently, 
 
 c 
 
 /why do you say that?" 
 
 " It is the truth. But why do I linger 
 here? Time presses — let me take you to 
 her/' 
 
 She followed him through the dreary 
 hall and up the stairs. On the first 
 landing he paused, and said, compassion- 
 ately — 
 
 " It is a sad scene for you." 
 
 " It is sad," Mary replied, in a tremu- 
 lous voice. " But if she wishes it, I am 
 glad to come." 
 
 " I knew you would," and something
 
 138 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 almost like a soft smile stole over his 
 features. 
 
 Mary was not heeding him now. Her 
 thoughts were all in that chamber of 
 death, which for the first time she was 
 to enter. She quailed at the fears of fancy 
 that assailed her. 
 
 Mr. Merivale led her into the room 
 formerly described. It opened into Mrs. 
 Merivale's bed-room; here all was as it 
 had been ; close and cheerless, but stag- 
 nantly still. Miss Merivale was sitting 
 on a chair near the half- opened door, 
 reading. Her countenance was not graver 
 than usual, there were no terrors on her 
 brow. 
 
 She was perhaps wise to fortify her- 
 self against the trials that were coming 
 by this moment of calm meditation, yet 
 most would have said what Mary silently said, 
 "Reading! with death so near." And
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 139 
 
 yet, though Mary shrank from her composure, 
 it re-assured and strengthened her. 
 
 "I have brought Miss Lyndsay, Cathe- 
 rine/' Mr. Merivale said, and Miss 
 Merivale laid aside her book and came 
 forward to Mary, 
 
 *' It is kind of you to come, Miss 
 Lyndsay," she said, gently. "I know it 
 must be painful to you, but believe me, 
 such scenes are healthful. They teach us 
 what life is, and how vain its dreams 
 must be." 
 
 " Why are you here, Catherine ?" Mr. 
 Merivale impatiently interrupted her. " Is 
 my mother, .... does she rest?" 
 
 " She begged me to leave her alone," was 
 Catherine's reply. " She knows that in the 
 dark valley other help than ours is required." 
 
 "Tell her Miss Lyndsay is here," he 
 said, in the same impatient tone ; " or 
 stay, I will do it."
 
 140 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 He entered softly, but there was a 
 look on his face as if it was an effort and 
 an agony to see her. 
 
 He returned, unable to speak; but 
 with his hand he motioned to Mary to 
 enter. 
 
 Alone. Was she to enter alone ? She 
 paused, trembling; but if either of her 
 companions understood her feelings, they 
 did not assist her. 
 
 " She expects you, Miss Lyndsay," 
 Miss Merivale said, and Mary entered 
 alone. 
 
 Her first footsteps were fearful and 
 slow, but at the sight of the dying 
 woman her terrors passed away. Was 
 this death? Every look of pain and 
 sorrow had left the marble features. A 
 window was open, and the light fell, 
 and a soft wind played upon the bed. 
 All was white, and fresh, and bright. Never
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 141 
 
 had she seen the living Mrs. Merivale so 
 little an object of dread. 
 
 She approached, and the smile that met 
 her was angelic. 
 
 Touched, she knew not how or why, 
 tears fell fast from her eyes, and she 
 stooped over the dying woman, as once 
 before she had done, and pressed her 
 lips with a kiss of affection on her brow. 
 
 " You have been like a daughter to 
 me, Miss Lyndsay," Mrs. Merivale said, 
 in faint, sweet tones, stretching out her 
 hand to clasp Mary's hand. " God bless 
 you for it now, and for ever and ever ! 
 Amen." 
 
 The fervency of the voice awakened 
 Mary's quick conscience. She thought of 
 how little she had done, how much she had 
 nedected to do. Her omissions seemed 
 now terrible in her eyes. 
 
 " I have done nothing," she said.
 
 142 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 weeping. " I wisli I had. I wish I de- 
 served your blessing." 
 
 "Will you do something for me yet?" 
 the whispering voice asked with eager- 
 ness. 
 
 " I will indeed. Tell me what I can 
 do?" 
 
 There was a pause, then, as if gather- 
 ing up all her strength, the dying woman 
 said, 
 
 "You have been kind to me. Miss 
 Lyndsay, will you, for my sake, be kind 
 to my son ? Few love him, few care for 
 him, and he, in bitterness, loves neither 
 God nor man. But your smile cheers 
 him and saves him ; will you be kind 
 when I am gone? Will you liave pity 
 on him, as you have had pity on me?" 
 
 She locked wistfully up into Mary's 
 face. 
 
 "I will indeed. I cannot do much,
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 143 
 
 but I will do all I can," and as Mary 
 spoke, she thought of the many times 
 she had escaped from his presence, the 
 many times she had said she hoped never 
 to see him more. She would be kind, 
 the future should not be like the past. 
 " God bless you, and have mercy on himr 
 As she spoke, Mrs. Merivale's grasp *of 
 Mary's hand relaxed, and she closed her 
 eyes. For a moment Mary thought death 
 was at hand, and with difficulty restrained 
 a cry ; but the calm, sweet expression 
 returned to the face, and the breathing 
 sounded as soft as an infant's. She paused, 
 in expectation that something more would 
 be said, but after some minutes of silent 
 waiting, she saw that her task was done, 
 and reverently and gently pressing her 
 lips on the cold cheek, she stole away. 
 
 Mr. Merivale was awaiting her, gazing 
 vacantly from the window.
 
 144 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 Miss Merivale had resumed her seat, 
 but not her book. 
 
 Mary went up to her, trembling and 
 agitated, and held out her hand. 
 
 "I grieve for you so much. Miss 
 Merivale," she said, in a broken voice. 
 "Her loss will be hard to bear." 
 
 •*' Not so. Miss Lyndsay," she replied in 
 her usual soft tones. "Much rather I 
 rejoice to see her spirit released from 
 the bonds of this weary flesh. God is 
 merciful in taking her to Himself." 
 
 It was truth, and Mary felt it, yet 
 she shrank back. 
 
 There was no echo in Mr. Merivale's 
 face to his sister's words. The tearless 
 eyes and compressed lips spoke of agony 
 beyond the power of tears or words. 
 Mary had more of sympathy with that 
 look. She turned to him, and, partly 
 prompted by the moment's compassion.
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 145 
 
 partly by her promise so lately given, 
 held out her hand, and, with a pitying 
 look in her SAveet countenance, raised her 
 eyes to his. 
 
 He held it for a moment, and gazed 
 at her ; a faint glow swept over his 
 cheek. Then, sighing, he averted his 
 head, released her, and said, abruptly, 
 "We need detain Miss Lyndsay no 
 longer, Catherine. If there should be the 
 slighest change, call me, I shall be 
 there r and he pointed from the window 
 to the avenue. 
 
 " There will be none till evening," was 
 Miss Merivale's reply, after gazing, for a 
 moment, into the adjoining room, and 
 with a few words of thanks to Mary, 
 more earnest than usual, her companions 
 were dismissed. 
 
 Her dreaded task was over, and with 
 less, far less of terror than she had antici- 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 MARY LY^'DSAY. 
 
 pated. Sad and subdued, yet with the 
 soothing sense of having done what she 
 could, Mary accompanied Mr. Merivale. 
 They walked in silence. Mary knew not 
 what to say, or how to speak a word of 
 comfort, but she forced her footsteps to 
 move slowly, that she might not seem to 
 hasten from him. 
 
 When they reached the lodge-gate, 
 Mary paused, and held out her hand. 
 c' I must wish you good-bye row, Mr. 
 Merivale. I wish I could say that I 
 hoped you would soon be happier; but I 
 feel how useless it would be." 
 
 " Useless, indeed," he said, sadly, holding 
 her hand and gazing at her. 
 
 Mary longed to withdraw it; but her 
 kind thoughts towards him made her un- 
 willing even to seem to be annoyed. She 
 remained passive. It was not many 
 moments, but it seemed a long 
 time
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 147 
 
 " Mary !" he said, at last, suddenly 
 and abruptly, " do you know how I love 
 you? 
 
 She drew back with a start, not of 
 bashfulness, but of fear and dis- 
 may. 
 
 " Have I terrified you ?" he said, 
 sadly, " forgive me !" 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Merivale," she said, trem- 
 bling from head to foot, " I don't mean 
 to be unkind. You must forgive me that 
 I was startled." 
 
 " No wonder. It is not for such as 
 me to speak of love. Yet, hear me, 
 Mary. I love you more than aught in 
 heaven or on earth ; even more than her 
 who gave me life, and whose life is 
 there ebbing away. I love you and have 
 long loved you. It has been hidden 
 here " — laying his hand on liis breast — 
 "but I have told it now."
 
 148 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 " I am sorry, very sorry," she said, 
 raising her eyes softly and tearfully, " I 
 wish I could say more; but I cannot." 
 
 "It is a strange time to speak of 
 love," he said. " I had not meant to 
 do it; yet, after all, when could I need 
 a voice of kindness more than now? 
 Hear me, Mary, and let me speak." 
 
 She stood still. Not for worlds would 
 she have denied him any request but one, 
 on that day. 
 
 *' Do not think I spoke because I had 
 a hope. Light and darkness have more 
 to unite them, than you and I. But 
 you do not know me, Mary. I am not, 
 I was not always at least what I seem. 
 I once w^as young — and even you, Mary, 
 might not have recoiled from me. I once 
 was young as others are, and full of hopes 
 of life and dreams of this world's joy. 
 But I loved, and a woman, broke mv heart.
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 149 
 
 I loved " — lie paused, and his countenance, 
 that lifeless face, kindled into a strange 
 beauty as the fervour of his first affection 
 seemed to return and enUven it — " How 
 shall I tell you how I loved ? I gave her 
 all ; I had not one thought, one talent, one 
 possession that was not laid at her feet, I 
 loved, worshipped, adored, God saw my 
 idolatry, and scathed it. After three years 
 I woke, and found that I had wasted my 
 heart on a deceiver. She had never loved 
 — she deceived and stung me. Then, in 
 my despair, I vowed I would never love 
 woman more; but I broke that vow when 
 I saw you, Mary." 
 
 His voice had risen to fierceness. The 
 contrast made the last words more in- 
 expressibly soft and touching. They wrung 
 Mary's heart ; but, before she could col- 
 lect her thoughts to address him, he went 
 on in a calmer tone : —
 
 150 MARY LINDSAY. 
 
 "I have told you this that you might 
 know me better. How should you, how 
 could you love what I am ! But what I was ; 
 ah ! Mary, once I should not have been un- 
 worthy even of you ; and now, oh 1 say but 
 this, that you scorn me not — say that if this 
 frozen nature melted away, and the old days 
 when I could love returned again, you would, 
 or might listen to me — say but one word, if 
 not of hope, yet not of despair, and you shall 
 yet see what your eyes shall not believe — from 
 my mother's ashes shall rise up a son on 
 whom her blessings and your love might 
 not unworthily rest. Stay one moment," 
 he added, ''before you speak. Mary, I know 
 you well. On your blessed nature, that 
 grace of God has fallen that you love to 
 comfort, to soothe, to bless. You do not 
 know yourself as I know you. It is woman's 
 happiest office to minister to man ; the more 
 needing her help the happier for her. Mary
 
 MARY LINDSAY. 151 
 
 dearest, beloved, deny not to yourself and 
 me what may make both blest, may save a 
 man from misery, and a soul from everlasting 
 despair. Now, Mary, speak," and he grasped 
 her hand and gazed into her face, less with 
 passion than with the wistfulness of that 
 despairing soul of which he spoke. 
 
 He did know her well. A few years later, 
 and his words might not have been in vain — 
 nay, even now trembling as she was, so in- 
 tense w^as her desii^e to give happiness, so 
 intense her dread to give pain, even now it 
 was possible she might have been won, had 
 not the first links of another affection already, 
 though unconsciously, wound themselves round 
 her heart. She knew not what it was that 
 withheld the one word, " not of despair," which 
 he had implored her to speak, but withheld it 
 was, and with the grasp of iron. 
 
 Her eyes were streaming with tears, and 
 her voice was broken as she attempted to
 
 152 MARY LINDSAY. 
 
 answer him, but the purport of her words 
 never faltered. It would be vain to strive to 
 convey them ; so disjointed the sentences, so 
 incoherent the language, so pitiful to him, 
 so reproaching to herself, and yet so firm 
 and resolved in shutting out hope for ever. 
 Though the words were gentle and her 
 countenance soft, there was no wavering. 
 How it was done she wondered afterwards, 
 but it was done. There could be no mistake. 
 She could never love him. 
 
 " I am answered," he said, his eyes losing 
 their brightness, and his countenance its life. 
 " It has been but one moment's dream, and it 
 has vanished for ever. If my dull, cold lips 
 could say it, they would say, God bless you, 
 Mary • but they have no life nor power to 
 bless. Farewell!" He still held her hand, 
 as if loth to sever the link of human sympathy 
 that for this half hour had bound him to 
 his kind, but Mary could bear it no more.
 
 MARY LINDSAY. 153 
 
 She gently loosened herself from his grasp 
 and said, " I will say it to you. God bless 
 you, Mr. Merivale, and give you the comfort 
 I would give if I could, but cannot. Forgive 
 me !" 
 
 So saying she hurried away, swift as an 
 arrow, down the scorching road to her 
 home. 
 
 She was not out of sight when a message 
 was brought to him that his mother had 
 called for him. 
 
 " Almighty God ! " he said — he who never 
 prayed — as he turned his footsteps to the 
 house, " Give me courage to hide from my 
 mother my despair."
 
 154 
 
 CHAPTER IX> 
 
 " Once betrayed from childly faith, 
 Man is conscious man for ever." 
 
 R. M. MiLNES. 
 
 " Oh ! mother, mother ! " exclaimed Mary 
 rushing wildly into the little drawing-room 
 and putting her arms round her mother's 
 neck. 
 
 Mrs. Lyndsay was still reposing in the 
 arm-chair, though to satisfy her conscience 
 a small muslin frill with a needle and thread 
 in it was on the little table beside her. She
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 155 
 
 roused herself compassionately on Mary's 
 entrance. 
 
 "Oh! my dear Mary," she criei, "is she 
 dead ? " 
 
 " She — oh ! mother, I had forgotten her,'' 
 and, withdrawing her arms, Mary sat down 
 and burst into tears. 
 
 " Good gracious, Mary, you frighten me 
 to death with your ways to-day. What is 
 the matter now ? " 
 
 "He asked me, mother, to be his wife. 
 Mr. Merivale did 1 Mr. Merivale, mo- 
 ther ! " 
 
 " What a very odd time to make a pro- 
 posal !" observed Mrs. Lyndsay, her thoughts 
 for the moment entirely occupied with that 
 idea. " I never heard of such a thing." 
 
 " Oh ! mother, he is so miserable ! " and 
 Mary wept bitterly. 
 
 " Miserable about what ? " she asked 
 eagerly. " What did you say ? "
 
 156 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 Mary ceased to weep, and looked at her 
 mother in astonishment. " Oh ! mother, 
 what could I say ? I do not love Mr. Meri- 
 vale. I never could — never, never. I was 
 obliged to tell him so." 
 
 "Mercy upon us, Mary; then what's to 
 be done ? Your father will never forgive 
 you! 
 
 " My father— does he know ? " 
 
 " He guessed it all along, Mary ; and he 
 does build upon it — oh ! so much — good 
 gracious me ! I don't know what ever he will 
 say." 
 
 "My father would never wish me to be 
 unhappy," Mary said, confidingly. " And oh ! 
 mother, to be that gloomy Mr. Merivale's 
 wdfe ! I must have died. Not," she added, 
 her quick conscience reproaching her, " that 
 I feel like that now. He was so different 
 to-day. But still, — but still, — to be his wife ! 
 Oh, how dreadful ! "
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 157 
 
 "Just tell me all about it," said her mo- 
 ther, her desire to hear overcoming her dread 
 of her husband's displeasure. 
 
 Very simply Mary narrated the facts of 
 what had passed; but when she attempted 
 to speak of what he had said, her agitation 
 returned, and her tears fell in torrents ; the 
 thought of his miserable countenance broke 
 her heart. 
 
 " Oh ! mother," she said, *' how hard it is 
 that people cannot like those who love them ! 
 I would give the world to like him, but I 
 cannot. Even now, though I pity him so 
 much, I cannot feel it possible that I could. 
 Is it often so, mother ? " 
 
 " Pretty often," was Mrs. Lyndsay's 
 reply. " They say nobody marries the 
 person they like best, but I know some 
 do, because I did. But it does not 
 matter, Mary, it all comes to the same 
 thing in the end. I should have been
 
 158 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 quite as happy, sometimes I think happier, 
 if I had married a much older man than 
 your father, who liked me very much; 
 but he was very ugly, and I did not 
 think the same then." 
 
 " Mother, will you tell my father ?" 
 
 " Not for twenty pounds, Mary. I 
 should not dare do it. You must tell 
 him yourself, or else we had better not 
 say anything about it. He quite counts 
 upon it, and once when I said I thought 
 Mr. Merivale was a little too grave for you, 
 he told me — in short, he did not seem to 
 think me very wise." 
 
 "I am not a bit afraid, mother. I 
 will go and tell him directly. I think I 
 ought, don't you?" 
 
 " Of course it will be best, if you 
 don't mind. Come back and tell me 
 what he says," and Mrs. Lyndsay reclined 
 in her chair again, to consider the event 
 that had occurred.
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 159 
 
 Mary had no fears of her father's dis- 
 pleasure; she trusted his love too much 
 for that ; but she had a natural shyness 
 in approaching this subject, and her 
 heart beat as she knocked at the door. 
 
 Captain Lyndsay was sitting at the 
 window reading, not luxuriously, like his 
 wife, but upright, with an old book on 
 a desk before him. He was a great 
 student of history, delighting in military 
 details, for old association's sake, and in 
 political intrigues from natural turn of 
 mind. He studied intently; reading not 
 the light epitomes of the day, but the 
 long histories of old times. When engaged 
 in study, he did not approve of being 
 disturbed, and his "come in!" was sharp. 
 
 He always dreaded a household griev- 
 ance ; but Mary never had grievances, 
 and his brow cleared when he saw his 
 daughter's face.
 
 IGO MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 "I am come to tell you something, 
 father," she said, approaching him at 
 once, and laying her arm confidingly 
 aromid his shoulder. "My mother fears 
 you will be displeased, but when you 
 have heard all, I don't think you will." 
 
 Captain Lyndsay looked in her face, 
 saw her red eyes and heightened colour, 
 and expected one of two things. He was 
 prepared for either. 
 
 " Speak it out at once, Mary," he 
 said, quickly, but not unkindly; "never 
 be afraid." 
 
 "I am not, for I know you only wish 
 me to be happy." 
 
 " Certainly not. Speak out my love." 
 
 " Mr. Merivale asked me this morning 
 a strange thing," she said, tremulously. 
 " He asked me if ever I could love 
 him, but I could not, and I told him 
 so."
 
 MARY LINDSAY. 161 
 
 " You were hasty, Mary." 
 
 " Dear father, it ahiiost broke my heart 
 to say no, when I saw how unhappy 
 he was; but I could not do it. I 
 should die if I did. It was better, — at 
 least I thought it was, — to say it at 
 once. It is no use to think. I never 
 can love him." 
 
 There was a pause. No answer from 
 Captain Lyndsay. 
 
 " Are you sorry, father ? " Mary asked, 
 timidly. 
 
 " I certainly am, Mary. I have for some 
 time observed that Mr. Merivale was be- 
 coming attached to you, and it gave me great 
 pleasure. I liked to think, my dear child, 
 that you could be settled near us in our de- 
 clining years, and that you, having comforts 
 yourself, would be able to provide comfoils 
 for your mother and me at a time of life 
 
 VOL. L M
 
 162 MAE.Y LYNDSAY. 
 
 when we may need them. I was glad, also, 
 to think of the help yoa would be in guiding 
 Frank, and getting him on in the world, ' 
 and making a home for him in case any- 
 thing should happen to your mother or me. 
 Naturally, therefore, I am disappointed and 
 sorry." 
 
 Her father's words were like so many stabs 
 to Mary's sensitive mind. She was so mise- 
 rable she could not speak. For a moment 
 she felt even guilty ; but when, putting his 
 arm kindly round her, he asked her if she did 
 not allow she had been hasty, her heart spoke 
 again at once ; resolute and decided. 
 
 "I am sorry, dear father, more sorry than 
 
 I can say, to have given this grief to you 
 
 and him, but I do not love him, and it would 
 
 be a dreadful thing to marry and not to 
 
 love. I wish I did, I wish I did — but I 
 connot." 
 
 "Don't distress yourself, my love," he said.
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 163 
 
 perceiving it was useless to press the point 
 any further; "it is done, and it cannot be 
 helped. I may regret what has happened, I 
 do regret it very much, but I am sure you 
 would have pleased me if you could, and 
 so let us say no more about it. Wash your 
 face, my child, and cheer yourself, and think 
 of it no more." 
 
 At once relieved and grieved, Mary left her 
 father. The relief was felt insensibly, in the 
 soothing sense of his love and kindness, but 
 the grief was sharp. To have pained him, 
 to have lost an opportunity of pleasing him ; 
 it was an additional misery to the miserable 
 day. 
 
 Late in the evening a note was brought to 
 her from Miss Merivale : — 
 
 "Dear Miss Lyndsay, 
 
 " It has pleased God to release my mo- 
 ther from her long sufferings. She died at 
 
 M 2
 
 164 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 six. May you and I, and all, have grace to 
 
 follow her ! 
 
 " Your obliged and sincere, 
 
 " Catherine Merivale. 
 "If in your prayers you think of the 
 
 desolate, pray for my brother to-night. 
 
 " Cleeve, 9 o'clock." 
 
 It was not a note to soothe Mary's un- 
 strung nerves. Her night was a night of 
 horror. Mrs. Merivale's deathbed, Mr. Me- 
 rivale's agony, and her father's disappoint- 
 ment, blended together and magnified by the 
 powers of dreaming fancy, almost drove her 
 to madness. It was the entrance into a life 
 of thought and feeling, and a painful one. 
 Never again, after such a night, could she be 
 the Hght-hearted being she had been be- 
 fore. 
 
 She rose up, however, herself; saddened 
 and subdued, but still herself. An hour or
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 165 
 
 two of sleep refreshed and strengthened her, 
 and after having felt for a day that life was a 
 burden too heavy to bear, she woke to her 
 usual thankful happiness that she was 
 alive. 
 
 In the course of the day Captain Lynd- 
 say despatched the following note to Mr. 
 Merivale : — 
 
 "Dear Sir, 
 
 "Even in this hour of affliction I 
 cannot refrain from expressing to you my 
 sense of the high honour you have done 
 my child. I regret her hasty decision on 
 my own account, on yours, and, above all, 
 on hers ; but I am not surprised at it. 
 She is at this time too young to under- 
 stand the strength of your attachment, 
 and too innocent and timid to be other- 
 wise than startled at it. But it will not 
 be so always. She has powers and feel.
 
 166 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 ings of which she is herself uncon- 
 scious. 
 
 " It is not, however, for me to speak 
 of a future which is in your hands, and 
 not mine. 
 
 " I cannot conclude without expressing 
 my deep sympathy with your present 
 loss. Time, and time alone, can heal 
 it. 
 
 " I remain, dear Sir, 
 
 " Your obliged and faithful 
 
 "S. Lyndsat." 
 
 To this note no answer was returned. 
 Captain Lyndsay expected one for some 
 days ; but, when it came not, was more 
 satisfied that his own passed unnoticed. 
 He flattered himself that his vague words 
 had taken root.
 
 167 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " Were all the year one constant sunshine, we 
 Should have no flowers — • 
 All would be drought and leanness ; not a tree 
 Would make us bowers." 
 
 H. Vaughan. 
 
 " On what sum do you suppose a man 
 can support a family?" This question 
 was suddenly asked by Alan Sinclair, after 
 sitting one morning for half-an-hour m 
 Mrs. Clifton's drawing-room, with a book 
 in his hand. 
 
 " I was wondering what occupied your
 
 16S MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 thoughts," she said, laughmg ; " you have 
 been so very attentive to your book. To 
 the best of my behef, it is turned upside 
 down." 
 
 He threw the book away without 
 satisfying her on this point, and rose up 
 to have his question answered. 
 
 " Your question is too vague," she 
 said. " I should say three or four 
 thousand — that is for comfort; Dr. Row- 
 ley would say eleven or twelve hundred. 
 Poor Mr. Willmott the curate would say one, 
 two, or three. It is not a question that 
 can be answered by generalities." 
 
 " I mean myself," he said, colouring as 
 he spoke. '' On how much can a man in 
 my position live ; by live I must be 
 understood to mean to live pro- 
 perly." 
 
 " Are you thinking of marriage ?" she 
 asked, with pleasure dancing in her eyes.
 
 MARY LINDSAY. 169 
 
 " That depends on what you say." 
 
 " But you are thinking of wishing to 
 marry, whatever I may say." 
 
 " Yes. I found out yesterday that I did. 
 That brought me over here this morning. 
 If you tell me it is impossible, then the 
 less I come here the better." 
 
 "I am so glad," she said, heartily, 
 " Of course it is my darling Mary." 
 
 " Yes," he replied, smiling, " I don't 
 think there can be much doubt about 
 that. But do not let us talk of the thing, 
 Mrs. Chfton. I wish to have a definite 
 answer, and be put out of my anxiety." 
 
 " Tell me what you have, and then I 
 will tell you if I think it will do; that 
 is, we will consider it together." 
 
 " Counting my pay and altogether, I 
 make up about six hundred a year." 
 
 " And what prospects ?" 
 
 " None beyond the very poor one of
 
 170 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 rising in the army, which I suppose will 
 come in due time." 
 
 Mrs. Clifton's countenance fell. She 
 knew he was poor, but she had not an- 
 ticipated poverty like this. 
 
 " But Lord Sinclair !" she said, her 
 eyes brightening again ; " surely he would 
 do something?" 
 
 "My uncle gave me my commission, 
 and he has promised to purchase for me 
 when my next step comes. This is being 
 very generous, and I neither expect nor 
 wish for anything more. He is not very 
 rich, and he has three children of his 
 own. You think it will not do ?" he 
 inquired, fixing his eyes upon her, and 
 his countenance clouding in its turn. 
 "Well then, I must put an end at 
 once to dreams that are folly, and visits 
 that are worse." 
 
 "Do not be so hasty. It will be a
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 171 
 
 smaller line of life than I am well ac- 
 quainted with, but as the greatest part of 
 the world live on under five hundred, of 
 course there is no impossibility in it^ 
 I will get my house books and my house- 
 keeper, and do it thoroughly. We will 
 consider item by item." 
 
 She rang the bell. 
 
 " The house books," he said, smiling, 
 " but not the housekeeper. If once I 
 and the books are seen together, I am a 
 doomed man. As an old servant used 
 to say, ' I can see that two and two 
 make four.' " 
 
 " Always wise and prudent. Why are 
 not you Mr. Clifton of fifty, and let 
 me be Miss Sinclair of eight- and- twenty ? 
 Now come here," she cried, as the books 
 were brought, and the servant left the 
 room ; " we must enter into the science 
 like learning a language. I will subtract
 
 172 MARY LYNDSAT. 
 
 luxuries and superfluities, and see what 
 remains." 
 
 The examination was more serious and 
 difficult than Mrs. Clifton anticipated, but 
 she was a woman of energy, and her 
 eyes had the faculty not only of seeing 
 what they wished, but also of making 
 things appear as she wished. At the 
 end of two hours, she drew out a state- 
 ment of a small establishment, arranged 
 with every comfort, and some luxuries, 
 for £550 a year, leaving, as she said, a 
 large margin for sundries. 
 
 Alan contemplated it thoughtfully. 
 
 "Do you really and seriously think it 
 will do?" 
 
 " I do indeed, and even better than I 
 have said, for you must remember that 
 Mary has lived on less than this all 
 her life long, and knows therefore how 
 to make small means go far. What is
 
 MATIY LYNDSAY. 173 
 
 poverty in my eyes will be riches to 
 her." 
 
 " Yes, of course, I thought of that. I 
 should never dare enter upon such a life 
 with a fine lady. But then, I must not 
 have this pressed too far. I am not 
 proud, but every man should, I think, 
 remain in the position in which he is 
 born, and I should be miserable if my 
 wife had not the common comforts be- 
 longing to the sphere of society in which 
 she must move. I don't want an}i:hing 
 beyond. I am no lover of show, but L 
 do hke things to be done decently and 
 in order." 
 
 "Depend upon it, if you married 
 Mary on two hundred a year, your 
 house would be decent and in order. 
 I was a little startled at first, because 
 I always supposed you to have a 
 thousand a year, which is a good
 
 174 MART LYNDSAY. 
 
 round sum, but I now begin to see 
 with other eyes, and I think you 
 will have a very nice little menage on 
 £600." 
 
 "And Captain Lyndsay, will he be 
 satisfied ?" 
 
 " Of course he will. He is a vain 
 and ambitious man, I should fancy, and 
 besides the relief of marrying his daughter, 
 and washing his hands of her, he will 
 not be insensible to the alliance with the 
 aristocracy. But will you forgive me if 
 I ask you one question ? Are not your 
 considerations somewhat late in the day ? 
 Supposing I had put my veto on your 
 prospects, what should you have said ?" 
 
 "You know what I should. I consider 
 you as Mary's guardian, Miss Lyndsay 's, I 
 mean, and if you had said I must give 
 it up, I should have paid you my farewell 
 visit to-day."
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 175 
 
 "And calmly submitted to my de- 
 cision?" 
 
 " Submitted, whether calmly or not, I 
 cannot tell." 
 
 "And Mary^? — was she to have no con- 
 sideration ?" 
 
 " I fear as yet, Mrs. Clifton, there is 
 no need to think of her. If I had 
 thought there was, perhaps I should not 
 have cared to consider so closely. I 
 had only to think of myself. As soon as 
 ever I found that I could not live with- 
 out her, which was only yesterday, and 
 quite a chance discovery then, I asked 
 myself the very serious question whether 
 I had any right to marry ; and not 
 being able to solve it, I came over for 
 you to solve it for me." 
 
 " If you do not think me impertinent 
 and over-curious," Mrs. Clifton said, 
 eagerly, " I wish you would tell me what
 
 176 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 brought you to so sudden and strange a 
 discovery. You know it is the property 
 of lone women of my age to be curious 
 and interested in such matters. It revives 
 youth." 
 
 " It was only," he said, colouring, 
 " that a friend of mine announced his 
 marriage to me. He was in an excited 
 frame of mind, and somehow or other 
 the things he said agitated me. I could 
 not quiet myself again. Then I found it 
 out." 
 
 " And do you mean to say you never 
 saw that I wished you to marry Mary. I 
 thought I made it too plain." 
 
 " Yes. I am not blind. I saw it very 
 well, but that had no effect on me. As 
 I told you the first day, no matchmaker 
 in Christendom could ever influence me 
 in such a matter. I thought I was keep- 
 ing watch, and not allowing myself to go
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 177 
 
 beyond interest, and I confess I was taken 
 by surprise at last. And now thank you 
 for listening to me, and thank you for 
 helping me in future ; for though I should 
 prefer to help myself, in this case I cannot 
 do it. You must make opportunities for 
 me to see Miss Lyndsay." 
 
 " You could not give me a more desir- 
 able office, nor could you put yourself into 
 the hands of a more discreet person. You 
 shall see her this afternoon, and have her 
 all to yourself, and yet there shall be nothing 
 to startle her. Trust me." Her bright 
 eyes danced with the delight of scheming 
 and its successes. She was a happy 
 woman. 
 
 In the afternoon she drove in her 
 barouche to call for Mary. It was the 
 very day after Mrs. Merivale's death. At 
 her summons, Mary came to the caniagc 
 door without her bonnet ; but at a glance 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 17y MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 both Mrs Clifton and Alan saw that she 
 was changed. Her step was not the elastic 
 step belonging to her usual demeanour, and 
 her countenance was serious. 
 
 No notice, however, was taken. Mrs. 
 Clifton made her request that Mary would 
 take a long drive. " I have a call to 
 make," she said, ''about five miles off, and 
 the lady I am going to see has a lovely 
 garden. It will please you, Mary, and 
 indeed I will take no denial. You must 
 
 come." 
 
 "You must. Do!" Alan said. 
 
 Mary's countenance cleared and bright- 
 ened. The very sight of Mrs. CUfton's 
 smooth, untroubled face was a restora- 
 tive. 
 
 " If my father has no objection, I shall 
 like it of all things," she cried eagerly. 
 " I will not keep you a moment ;" and 
 this time she flew back like lightning to the 
 house.
 
 MARY LINDSAY. 179 
 
 Captain Lyndsay came to the window 
 and looked out. His brow contracted into 
 displeasure, but no opposition was made 
 to Mary's request. " What must be must," he 
 thought, " and the sooner over the better." 
 As Alan jumped out to put Mary into 
 the carriage, and carefully guarded her 
 muslin gown from the touch of the wheels, 
 he thought it w^ould be over very soon. 
 
 The cloud had passed from Mary's face, 
 and brightness and animation had returned 
 to her eyes, till they passed the gates of 
 Cleeve. The change in her countenance at 
 that sight w^as like night after morning, in 
 climes where the change is sudden. All she 
 had gone through came with more than the 
 vividness of reality before her. 
 
 " My dear Mary," Mrs. Clifton said, 
 kindly putting her hand on her arm, " what 
 is the matter with you? " 
 
 " Did you not know ?" Mary replied, 
 
 N '2
 
 ISO MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 tremulously. " Mrs. Mehvale is dead!' She 
 spoke the word with the awful emphasis she 
 always laid upon it. 
 
 *' Dead ! No, indeed, I had not heard 
 it. Well, dear Mary, I am sure it is a 
 happy thing for her ; a very happy release 
 from a world where she had no pleasure. 
 You must not make yourself unhappy about 
 that. When did it happen ? " 
 
 " She died last night. I went to see her 
 in the day. She sent for me." Then, as 
 again remembrances flashed vividly before 
 her, she added, shuddering, " Oh ! it was 
 dreadful." 
 
 " Was her death dreadful ? " inquired 
 Mrs. Clifton. "Really, Mary, your friends 
 should have more consideration. You should 
 not be allowed to see such things." 
 
 "Oh 1 no, not her death. She sent for 
 me, and I was glad to go if she wished 
 it ; but all so unhappy. It was dreadful,"
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 181 
 
 she said again, her eyes filling with tears. 
 " Sometimes I think I shall never forget 
 it. 
 
 " Now, Mary, I lay my embargo on the 
 words Cleeve and Merivale for this day. 
 Remember my good advice. Do all the 
 good you can in the world, but never fret 
 yourself about things you cannot cure. Let 
 this fresh air and bright sun blow all dreary 
 thoughts away. Come, Captain Sinclair, 
 entertain us." 
 
 He woke up from an intent contempla- 
 tion of Mary's countenance, and did her 
 bidding to the best of his powers. And 
 the rapid movement, the sunny beauty of 
 the country, and the kindness and entertain- 
 ingncss of her companions did their work. 
 Again Mary rolled away from her mind the 
 heavy weight of the Merivale sorrows. 
 
 The lady to whom the visit was to be 
 paid was an invalid. She was an early
 
 182 MARY LYNDSAT. 
 
 friend of Mrs. Clifton's, with whom, en 
 finding herself in the neighbourhood, she 
 was glad to renew her acquaintance. On 
 arriving, they were shown into a pretty 
 drawing-room, opening into a garden cul- 
 tivated with much care and taste ; but the 
 lady had not left her room. On hearing 
 of Mrs. Clifton's arrival, she expressed a 
 wish to see her upstairs, and Mrs. Clifton 
 departed, desiring Alan to show Mary the 
 garden. 
 
 In the garden they wandered together 
 till all had been seen that could be seen, 
 and from the garden they proceeded to 
 explore a copse wood, and from the wood 
 some meadows, till they found their way home 
 again. It was an unfonual, country-like 
 walk. And as they walked they talked. 
 The easy manners of Mrs. Clifton, and 
 the ease of intercourse in her house, had 
 destroyed all barriers between them, and
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 183 
 
 their conversation was the free, disjointed 
 talk in which the young deHght when they 
 find a companion congenial to their 
 mind. 
 
 On re-entering the garden a servant 
 who had been searching for them, ap- 
 proached to say that ]\Iiss Forester wished 
 to see them, and, if it would not tire 
 them to wait so long, would be down 
 in the drawing-room in a quarter of an 
 hour. 
 
 " I shall not be tired, shall you Miss 
 Lyndsay?" Alan inquired. 
 
 " Not the least," she heartily replied. 
 "This garden is so lovely." 
 
 " Another invalid! " Alan observed, smiling, 
 as the servant disappeared. " Are you not 
 afraid ?" 
 
 The brightness and freshness which 
 the last hour's enjoyment had restored 
 to Mary's countenance, was overcast
 
 1S4 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 at the question. Again arose before her eyes 
 the scenes of yesterday. 
 
 " I know you and Mrs. Clifton think me 
 very fooHsh," she said sadly, " but I cannot 
 help it. I cannot bear to see suffering. It 
 makes me miserable." 
 
 " And why should Mrs. Clifton and I be 
 so strange as to think your pity foolishness ? 
 The world is selfish enough ; what a world 
 it would be if no one felt for the sufferings 
 of others." 
 
 " Mrs. Chfton is not selfish," Mary said, 
 
 "and yet Perhaps after all it is 
 
 more selfish to be as afraid of suffering as 
 
 am. 
 
 " Mrs. Clifton is no longer young," said 
 her companion, philosophically. " None can 
 reach her age without learning, some learn 
 much earlier, what a sad changeable world 
 this is. And when they once know it, it 
 no longer terrifies and perplexes them to
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 185 
 
 hear of troubles. You would fain believe 
 there is nothing but happiness in the 
 world, and therefore sorrows frighten you." 
 
 " Why the world is to be so sad, I 
 cannot understand," Mary said, with a sigh. 
 
 "That is a very grave question, an d 
 it requires a preacher, and a good one, 
 to answer you. I don't mean to say that 
 I have not some ideas myself as to the 
 uses of adversity. This is one. What do 
 you think of it ? Look on troubles for the 
 mind as you do on medicines for the body — 
 do you not see some uses then? I am 
 afraid those who think best of human nature 
 must own that there are some diseases in the 
 mind ; and how are they to be cured without 
 medicines ?" 
 
 "I think happiness is a better one," 
 Mary said, eagerly. " I am sure, judging 
 by myself, I am better when I am 
 happy."
 
 186 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 "Judging by yourself is no rule," Alan 
 cried, with a tone in his voice that no one 
 could mistake. " You are the most unselfish 
 person that ever breathed, and I cannot see 
 what sorrow could ever do for you." 
 
 Mary's heart beat suddenly and strangely, 
 and a blush dyed her cheeks. It was the 
 definite moment when she began to know 
 what he meant and felt for her. 
 
 " Do not think me better than I am," 
 was her low and grave reply. 
 
 " No indeed I do not. I only think what 
 I see. You must not judge by yourself ; but 
 look at selfish, self-indulgent, money-getting 
 people, and then ask yourself what they would 
 be if no trials ever came to soften them, and 
 teach them to feel." 
 
 " Perhaps," she reluctantly allowed. 
 
 He looked at her, reflected for a moment, 
 and then asked, " Perhaps you think me over- 
 given to sad and grave reflections. Should
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 187 
 
 you care to hear, or would it give you too 
 much pain, the griefs that have made me 
 
 " It will give me pain, but I should like 
 to know," she replied, without raising her 
 eyes 
 
 He knew he gave her pain, but if she 
 was to be what he hoped she would be, 
 the partaker of all his griefs and joys, 
 it must be given. 
 
 Briefly, but with a touching brevity, he 
 told her of the deaths which, in three short 
 years, had made him alone in the world. A 
 twin brother first, then a young sister, the 
 pride of the house, a father next, and lastly 
 his mother, of a broken heart. He spoke 
 calmly, for they were long-past sorrows, but 
 his words bore the traces of a grief which 
 would live and die with him. 
 
 Pitiful as Mary was, she was not one of 
 those whose sensibilities know no restraint or
 
 1S8 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 control. She would not usually have wept at 
 a sad tale, powerless to restrain herself for 
 his sake or her own ; but on this day her 
 unstrung nerves knew no master ; they had 
 been shaken from their balance, and she could 
 not compose them again. 
 
 Though deeply touched by her sympathy, 
 Alan was indignant with the self-indulgence 
 which had led to its exhibition. " I am a 
 brute, T believe," he said with tenderness. 
 " Thank you, but forgive me. " I am afraid," 
 he added cheerfully, " that you will now 
 shrink from me as you do from that sad Mr. 
 Merivale." 
 
 Mary smiled, looked up quickly, and drove 
 back her tears. 
 
 " I hope not, for I am not at all of the 
 Merivale kind. We must all allow there are 
 sad things in the world, but there are bright 
 things enough as well. This day for instance. 
 What a day ! Heathenish people jeer at the
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 189 
 
 English climate. 1 never saw anywhere a day 
 like this/' 
 
 He had touched on one of Mary's heartfelt 
 prejudices, the infinite superiority of England 
 to every realm upon earth ; in her cordial 
 sympathy with his sentiment, he won her 
 from her depression, and they talked 
 dogmatically of England's charms till they were 
 summoned to the house. 
 
 Mrs. Clifton appeared at the door to 
 beckon them into the drawing-room, and 
 then presented them to her friend. 
 
 The invalid lady was not one to act 
 as a damper to joy, but rather as a 
 cordial to all sad thoughts and fears. 
 Her room was sunny and fresh, her dress 
 was ordered with care, her smile was 
 bright. If sickness had taken up its 
 abode in her house, it had somehow been 
 made welcome. 
 
 In the course of conversation, AUm
 
 190 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 spoke of a young plantation which had 
 attracted his attention, and the lady then 
 revealed that it was eleven years since 
 she had seen any part of her grounds 
 except those beneath the windows. 
 
 At this discovery, Mary fixed upon her 
 a gaze of intense compassion. 
 
 " You pity me," said the lady, reading 
 the expression of her speaking face ; " but 
 I do not need pity. The loss of health 
 is indeed a great loss, but if we are so 
 cheered and supported that we do not 
 feel the loss, it becomes a little one. 
 My spirits never fail me, and there is 
 not a day on which I do not own with 
 thankfulness that my pleasures are greater 
 than my pains." 
 
 " Has your drive done you good, dear 
 Mary?" Mrs. Clifton said, affectionately, 
 as they approached her cottage home. 
 
 *' Great good," she cried, with grateful
 
 MAKY LYNDSAY. 191 
 
 warmth. " I don't think I can ever feel 
 again as I did this morning." 
 
 " Don't ! A dark and troubled spirit 
 is a bad spirit. I never let it come 
 near me. And it is more than unwise. 
 I am no preacher, Mary, but I can 
 tell you also that it is not a Christian 
 spirit." 
 
 When Alan had assisted, or endeavoured 
 to assist, Mary in her quick exit from 
 the carriage, he said in a low voice to 
 Mrs Clifton— 
 
 "Is it too late for you to call ? 
 Meaning what I mean, I think I ought 
 to call, and this seems a good oppor- 
 tunity." 
 
 "It is never too late for anything I 
 choose to do," she said, smiling, and 
 immediately called after Mary, " Mary, pre- 
 pare your mother. I am coming to pay 
 her a visit if she has no objection."
 
 192 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 Notwithstanding Mary's troubles, her 
 mother's muslin gown had been finished, 
 and conscious that she was well and be- 
 comingly dressed, Mrs. Lyndsay expressed 
 much gratification at the visit. 
 
 Alan looked about him with eyes of 
 serious scrutiny, as on an abode which 
 might be a picture of his future home. 
 He was not disconcerted by his ^observa- 
 tions. He allowed the doors, windows, 
 rooms, and passages to be small, but the 
 spirit of cheerfulness and order had pre- 
 sided over every arrangement, and a more 
 luxurious taste than his might have looked 
 around with pleasure. Everything that 
 could be white and clean was white and 
 clean, and everything that required colour 
 was fresh and bright. The sweet scent 
 of flowers proceeded from all parts of the 
 room, and gave beauty, where poverty 
 might not otherwise have allowed beauty 
 to enter.
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 193 
 
 " Is that your drawing ?" he inquired 
 of Mary, pointing to a Httle water- 
 coloured sketch which hung against the 
 wall. 
 
 " No, I am sorry to say I cannot 
 draw ;" then blushing, she added ; " I 
 cannot draw, or play, or sing, or do any- 
 thing that most people can/' 
 
 "What matter?" he said, smiling. 
 " You are very comforting to say what 
 matter ! Frank says it is a very great 
 loss, and I think Frank is right." 
 
 " Perhaps he is, if people have tune and 
 taste. Of course, the more we do to 
 please ourselves and others the better. But 
 if people have other accomplishments, as you 
 have, then no matter." 
 
 " My accompHshments !" said Mary, laugh- 
 ing ; " I am afraid they are few iji 
 number." 
 
 " I think otherwise." He glanced round 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 194 MART LYNDSAY. 
 
 the room and into the garden, and added, 
 " You make me quite in love with a small 
 house. T did not know it could be so 
 pretty/' 
 
 Before the visitors departed, Alan deter- 
 mined to speak to Mrs. Lyndsay, and, not 
 knowing what else to say, he said how 
 pretty her garden was. 
 
 Mrs. Lyndsay, with, as she imagined, 
 great policy, replied that she had nothing 
 to do with it, and added a few words of 
 praise on Mary's handiness and industry. 
 They were well received, and Mrs. Lyndsay 
 felt she had done a deed. Since Mr. 
 Merivale's business had come to an end, 
 it was as well to be thinking of somebody 
 else. Not that she could ever spare Mary, 
 but as Captain Lyndsay seemed to wish her 
 to marry, it was as well to have something 
 in view. 
 
 ''That is a handsome young man, Mary,
 
 MARY LINDSAY. 195 
 
 very," she observed, when they were 
 gone. 
 
 " Yes, mother," Mary replied, with a faint 
 conscious blush. 
 
 " His features are not, perhaps, as good 
 as Mr. Merivale's," — for Mrs. Lyndsay was 
 critical in her taste ; " but he is handsome, 
 very. Not that I have any reason to 
 compare them together," she added, with 
 discretion. 
 
 " Oh, mother ! " Mary cried, " must I 
 think of Mr. Merivale any more? I have 
 been so miserable, and now I would 
 forget if I could, and if it is not 
 wrong." 
 
 " I am sure, Mary, / should forget if I 
 could. I never see the use of fretting over 
 what can't be helped ; " but " after a 
 pause "I don't know what your father 
 would say." 
 
 " It seems unkind," Mary said, thought-
 
 196 MARY LINDSAY. 
 
 fully ; and she stood at the window, a grave 
 shadow stealing over her face. All looked 
 bright without, in the evening sunset ; and 
 in her own heart, which had been so sad, 
 there was a rising sun brighter still. She 
 thought of him at Cleeve, sitting, perhaps, 
 in the presence of death, all dreary and 
 dark, with none to comfort him, none but 
 his comfortless sister ; and, as she thought, 
 tears of pity fell down her cheeks. Yet, 
 in the very midst of her compassion, some 
 light passing idea wafted her thoughts away 
 to the garden of the invalid ; and while the 
 tears were yet upon her cheeks she was 
 lost in a reverie as sweet as it was vague 
 and formless; and Mr. Merivale was for- 
 gotten.
 
 197 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 I tried to solve the problem — Life." 
 
 A. A. Peoctor. 
 
 Mari's nerves were tranquillized, and she 
 in a few days was her usual self. Perhaps a 
 self happier than before, for a golden future 
 began to cast its rays about her, and invest 
 her life with youth's ideal glory. 
 
 No sunshine or happiness in her own 
 inner life could, however, close her eyes to 
 the claims of duty, and though she had 
 received no message from Cleeve, she felt
 
 198 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 she ought to go there. On the day after 
 the funeral, which took place four days 
 after Mrs. Merivale's death — her son being 
 unable further to endure the thoughts 
 and sight of the desolation of the house — 
 the strong pressure of her conscience per- 
 mitted her no longer to delay a visit. 
 
 " I am going to Cleeve, mother, to see Miss 
 Merivale," she said in the course of the morn- 
 ing. '* I think I ought, don't you ?" 
 
 " I had not thought about it, Mary, but 
 now you ask I think it is a right thing to do. 
 But, gracious me, what shall you do if you 
 meet that poor man ?" 
 
 " I must bear it, mother," she said, 
 nervously folding her hands. 
 
 "So you must, that's true. Yes, it 
 certainly is a right thing to do," and Mrs. 
 Lyndsay composed herself to think it over, 
 while Mary went her way. 
 
 Such as have been early accustomed to
 
 MARY LINDSAY. 199 
 
 sorrow, those who are experienced in scenes 
 of pain and sickness, can hardly imagine the 
 agony of Mary's mind in her approach to 
 Cleeve. Yet never did her thoughts admit 
 the possibihty of turning back. It was right 
 to go, and therefore it must be done, and she 
 must meet courageously whatever she had to 
 see or hear. So with swift steps she passed 
 up the avenue t o the house door. 
 
 The one servant in deep mourning opened 
 it, and left Mary standing trembling in 
 the hall, while he went to find out 
 Miss Meriv ale's pleasure. When he came 
 back, he signed to her to follow him. 
 
 It was an additional shock to Mary that 
 she was taken into the identical long north 
 room, so associated with Mrs. Merivale's 
 illness and death. Miss Merivale had made 
 no change. Except her own dress, there was 
 nothing to speak of the death that had been 
 there.
 
 200 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 Mary's lips were quivering with agitation, 
 but Miss Merivale was calm. She thanked 
 Mary in her soft voice, a shade softer and 
 kinder than usual, and made her sit down, 
 and then a pause ensued. She waited as if 
 for Mary to speak, and Mary trembled and 
 was silent. 
 
 At length she looked about her with tears 
 in her eyes, and spoke her thoughts. " Oh, 
 Miss Merivale, how sad and dreary it seems ! 
 How can you bear to sit here ?" 
 
 " Would change of place bring my mother 
 back?" she said gravely, "She is gone, 
 and I must walk the rest of my way 
 alone. It is best to meet the truth at 
 once." 
 
 " But you must miss her so here.'' 
 
 For a moment Miss Merivale's lips quivered 
 with an unaccustomed agitation. She was 
 not a stock or a stone, and the loss of the 
 cares that had occupied her life had left
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 201 
 
 her desolate. She was hardening herself 
 according to her principles, but the work 
 was not yet done. She recovered herself 
 in a moment, however, and said, " I do 
 miss her, Mary, but from the sufferings God 
 appoints it is a weakness to shrink. It 
 has pleased Him of His goodness to release 
 her from the sorrows of this mortal flesh ; 
 I must live out my time and trust to 
 follow her, submitting as she did to His 
 will." 
 
 " Is it wrong to shrink from sadness, 
 and wish for comfort ?" Mary asked 
 earnestly. 
 
 " Not wrong, perhaps, but weak. We 
 know that our sorrows are those things 
 which will bring health to our souls. Let us 
 receive them, then, with thankfulness, and en- 
 dure them to the end." 
 
 " But happiness is also good !" said her 
 young visitor, wistfully.
 
 202 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 " Is it, Mary ? Does it teach you that 
 this world is vanity? Does it make you 
 long for Heaven? Does it force you to 
 remember God ? Ask yourself. Does hap- 
 piness make you tremble for your soul?" 
 
 '' I fear not," Mary said, her colour rising, 
 and looking down. 
 
 " If it could, Mary, then happiness would 
 be good. We shall be happy in Heaven. 
 Till then we are all wanderers, going astray 
 in our own delusions ; let us be thankful 
 for the pangs by which God brings us to 
 Himself." 
 
 There was a pause. Mary could say no 
 more. The dark shadow, the dread of ex- 
 istence, was falling over her heart again. 
 She could not gainsay Miss Meriv ale's words, 
 and yet, and yet ; was life on such terms to 
 be endured ? 
 
 Miss Meriv ale rose and searched for 
 something, then returned and put a small
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 203 
 
 Bible into Mary's hands. " This belonged 
 to my mother," she said, " Hubert desired 
 me to give it to you, in token of our grati- 
 tude for your kindness to her. Prize it, 
 Mary ; and may it support you in your trials 
 as it supported her !" 
 
 Mary wept bitterly ; not only at the gift, 
 but at his thought of her when she had given 
 him nothing but grief. 
 
 With more of human sympathy than was 
 common to her. Miss Merivale fetched a 
 glass of water and quietly signed to Mary to 
 drink it. Meanwhile, she got a sheet of 
 paper, and taking the Bible from Mary's 
 hands wrapped it up, and returned it 
 
 With an effort Mary recovered her- 
 self. 
 
 '* I hoped to have comforted you, Miss 
 Merivale. 1 am afraid I do but make 
 you more unhappy. I will go now, and 
 come back another time."
 
 204 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 She rose from her seat, and held out 
 her hand, and then only found courage 
 to say — 
 
 " How is your brother ?" 
 
 "He is gone back to his idol, Mary — 
 goldy 
 
 She spoke with bitterness, yet it was 
 a bitterness that was regretful more than 
 harsh. 
 
 Mary tried to say something, but 
 could not. Miss Merivale looked at the 
 workings of her countenance, and said at 
 last — 
 
 " He told me nothing, but I know 
 what has passed. Oh ! Mary, you might 
 have saved a soul from utter death, and 
 you would not.'* 
 
 " I did not love him ; I could not," 
 she said, tremulously. 
 
 " Love ! Mary. What is human love 
 compared to the worth of an immortal 
 souir
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 205 
 
 Mary gazed at her with fear and awe. 
 So quick was her conscience, that any 
 question presented thus vanquished her. For 
 a moment it did seem that the worth of 
 the two ought not to be compared. But 
 the clearness of her mind could only 
 temporarily be darkened. After an inter. 
 val, during which Miss Merivale watched 
 her intently, she looked up, and calmed 
 by the effort which had recalled her 
 scattered thoughts, said — 
 
 "I must have sworn to love him, and 
 it would not have been true. Can it 
 ever be good to swear a false thing ?" 
 
 " Perhaps not, Mary ; you may be right* 
 I must be patient. God may save him 
 yet." 
 
 "When you write to him or sec him," 
 Mary said, earnestly, *' will you tell him 
 how much I thank him for what he has 
 given me?"
 
 206 MARY LYNDSAT. 
 
 "I will, Mary." 
 
 And so the visit came to an end. 
 
 Mary returned home with a heavy, but 
 yet, on the whole, a relieved heart. 
 Miss Merivale had been kind, and he had 
 thought of her kindly, and she had been 
 able to send a message to him — all 
 these things gave her hope and comfort. 
 She might yet be able to fulfil her promise 
 to his mother.
 
 207 
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 
 " Happiest of all is that her gentle spirit 
 Submits itself to yours to be directed," 
 
 Merchant of Veittce. 
 
 " I SAY, Mary, how do you do to- 
 day ? " 
 
 Mary was working at the open win- 
 dow of the drawing-room ; looking up 
 she saw her brother Frank outside. It 
 was early in the morning, and the pleasure 
 was an unexpected one. 
 
 " Frank !" she exclaimed, in joy and
 
 208 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 surprise, " what good thing brings you 
 here ?" 
 
 " That poor old soul," he replied, nod- 
 ding towards Cleeve, "sent me down with 
 some papers for his sister to sign — 
 money matters 1 guess — and he told me 
 I might have the rest of the day to my- 
 self. So here I am." 
 
 " Have you been to Cleeve, then ?" 
 
 "Yes, and gave the papers into Miss 
 Merivale's own fair hand. What shall we 
 do to-day?" 
 
 " In a quarter of an hour I shall be 
 ready for anything. I must finish this 
 cap for my mother, and then it is a free 
 day." 
 
 " I thought I should find you stitch- 
 ing. What do you say to a visit to 
 Mrs. Clifton ? I should not mind lunching 
 with her, for I'm terribly hungry." 
 
 " Oh, yes, certainly ; I will be
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 209 
 
 ready in less than a quarter of an 
 hour." 
 
 " Then I will go and pay my respects 
 to my parents," and he walked off 
 whistling. 
 
 He passed his father's window, and 
 was called to account for himself and his 
 visit. 
 
 When satisfied on the point, Captain 
 Lyndsay inquired how he left Mr. Meri- 
 vale. 
 
 *' Quite well, sir." 
 
 *' Does he appear to feel his mother's 
 death ?" 
 
 " He is a little more glum than usual, 
 of course, sir, but nothing very parti- 
 cular." 
 
 " Is he civil to you ?" 
 
 " Quite as civil as he is to the rest — 
 perhaps rather more. He was very civil 
 in giving me a hohday to-day." 
 
 VOL. I, p
 
 210 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 Captain Lyndsay was satisfied, and re- 
 treated from the window. Frank passed 
 on in search of his mother. 
 
 ** I say, Mary," he began, as shortly 
 afterwards they set forth on their visit to 
 Mrs. Clifton, " this is a strange tale my 
 mother has been telling me. So that 
 poor old soul popped the question to 
 you. What fun it must have been !" 
 
 " Oh ! Prank !" said his sister, sorrowfully. 
 
 " Poor old soul ! who ever would have 
 thought the romantic passion could enter 
 his heart? I would have given a whole 
 year's income to hear him." 
 
 " Dear Prank," she said, imploringly, 
 " pray don't ridicule him. I never liked 
 it ; and now, when he is unhappy, I 
 cannot bear it." 
 
 '' Oh ! I dare say he is comforted now. 
 Men don't mope over such a thing for 
 ever and ever."
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 211 
 
 " I hope he is/' Mary said, ear- 
 nestly. 
 
 " I say, Mary, 1 suppose you know 
 that I think you a regular born idiot 
 for refusing that young man?" 
 
 Receiving no answer, he went on. ''I 
 can tell you good offers are not so 
 plentiful. You may live twenty years before 
 you have such another." 
 
 " Nothing is good that does not make 
 people happy. It was not good to 
 me. 
 
 " I can tell you he has fifteen thousand 
 a year, if he has a penny. That is not a 
 thing to be scorned." 
 
 " I never cared about riches, Frank ; 
 I have been happy poor ; and I 
 think I would even rather be poor than 
 rich." 
 
 " Rather be poor than rich ! Why, you 
 don't consider all the good you might do witli
 
 212 MARY LYISDSAY. 
 
 your money ! What do you say to drop- 
 ping a hundred pounds in an envelope 
 to me some morning ? Would not that be 
 a pleasure?" 
 
 "Yes, I should like that," she said, 
 laughing, " and if ever I have hundreds 
 I will do it. But don't let us talk 
 about this any more. Tell me about 
 some of your friends. I would much 
 rather hear about them. How is Miss 
 Davies ?" 
 
 " She's going to be married ; didn't I 
 tell you?" and he drew himself up with a 
 stately air. 
 
 " Oh, Frank !" and she looked earnestly 
 in his face. 
 
 "Well, Mary, what's such a glum face 
 for? Do you suppose I care what she 
 does ? Oh, dear, no ! We are very good 
 friends, and I shall give her a present 
 on the happy occasion. If she did not
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 213 
 
 care about me, I am sure I had no 
 reason to care about her. I am not 
 much in want of people to care about 
 me." He walked on with a few lofty 
 steps, and then changed the subject. 
 
 Mrs. Clifton was alone, and was de- 
 lighted to see Mary ; and not having 
 survived a taste for being liked and ad- 
 mired, was flattered to know that Frank 
 had chosen to spend his holiday in visit- 
 ing her. 
 
 They were sitting together, Frank and 
 Mrs. Clifton conversing on some news of 
 the day which he was in the proud position 
 of having brought from London, when the 
 servant threw open the door, announcing 
 " Captain Sinclair," and Alan hastily entered. 
 
 He looked flushed and heated, either with 
 his rapid ride or some other excitement, and 
 stopped short at the unexpected sight of 
 Mary and Frank.
 
 214 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 He recovered himself in a moment, how- 
 ever, and sat down. 
 
 Mary had, as usual, provided herself with 
 Mrs. Clifton's knitting, and now began to 
 knit, not with her fingers only, but her 
 eyes. He had glanced at her with a glance 
 that made her heart throb and tremble. 
 Something was coming which must disturb 
 the happy, unruffled present, and whose 
 coming was, therefore, whatever it might prove 
 to be, pain. 
 
 Mrs. Clifton observed Alan's flushed coun- 
 tenance, and, anxious to discover what was 
 the matter, plainly asked the question — 
 "You look as if something had happened. 
 Captain Sinclair. Am I indiscreet, if I say, 
 what is it ? " 
 
 " We heard some news this morning," 
 he replied, quietly. " We are to sail for 
 India in six weeks. I came over to tell 
 you."
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 215 
 
 Mrs. Clitton and Frank exclaimed. Mary 
 worked more steadfastly. 
 
 " Did you expect this ? " Mrs. Clifton 
 asked. 
 
 " No. It has been long talked of, but 
 I thought the trouble would blow over, 
 and we should not be wanted. I made a 
 mistake, it seems. The authorities think badly 
 of the last news." 
 
 " I wish I was going," said Frank. 
 
 " I wish you were with all my heart ; 
 that is, if your going would do instead of 
 mine." 
 
 "Why do you hate going ? I think it 
 would be great fun." 
 
 " Because I like England better,'' Alan 
 said quickly. " As one grows old," he 
 added, smiling, " one finds England is the 
 only place to live in; is it not, Mrs. 
 Clifton?" 
 
 " By no means appeal to me," she
 
 216 M^RY LYNDSAY. 
 
 replied, laughing, " I am going to Italy this 
 winter, and I mean to enjoy myself beyond 
 expression/' 
 
 "Appeal to Mary," remarked Frank. 
 "She will agree with you thoroughly. She 
 always says nothing shall take her out of 
 England ; but she don't mean what she says, 
 ril be bound." 
 
 A pause followed this speech. Alan 
 glanced at Mary. Her colour deepened, but 
 she worked on, and never raised her eyes. 
 
 "Nobody knows anything about any- 
 thing till they have tried it," remarked 
 Mrs. Chfton, in a light tone. " Though 
 not, strickly speaking, grammatically worded, 
 that is a moral aphorism which it would 
 be well if we remembered, all of us. But 
 now to business. Captain Sinclair, forgive 
 me the question ; how long do you in- 
 tend to stay with me? Do you mean to 
 sleep here?"
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 217 
 
 "Yes, if I may." 
 
 " Then I have some arrangements to 
 make. AVill you be so good as to come 
 with me into the next room for a few minutes ?" 
 
 Alan rose quickly, and with relief, and 
 followed her. 
 
 " How silent you are to day, Mary ! 
 Are you thinking of poor old soul?" 
 Frank inquired, w^hen they were left to 
 themselves. 
 
 " I was listening," she replied, looking up 
 and smiling. 
 
 " To be sure, how rich Mrs. Clifton must 
 be," he said, glancing round the room 
 overspread Avith the countless ornaments 
 and luxuries of a modern drawing-room. 
 " I wish she was a young woman, and that I 
 could marry her." 
 
 ''How you think about riches, Frank !" 
 Mary said with some disdain. " What 
 does it matter about being rich ?"
 
 218 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 " It's all very fine talking, Mary, but 
 if you happened to want riches you would 
 care about them just as much as I do. 
 You are so ignorant of the world that 
 you cannot appreciate them now ; but see 
 if the day don't come when you will long to 
 be rich." 
 
 " Mr. Lyndsay, are you tired ?" inquired 
 Mrs. Clifton, appearing at the door with her 
 bonnet on. 
 
 " Tired," he said, indignantly, " oh, 
 no ! 
 
 " Then will you give me the favour of 
 your company for a short walk along 
 the high road. I have some business, and 
 Captain Sinclair declines to come. We 
 shall not be gone for more than a quarter of 
 an hour or so. Mary, dear, you will excuse 
 me, will you not ?" 
 
 Mary looked up with a blush and a 
 murmuring answer, then returned to
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 219 
 
 her work, and worked more steadfastly than 
 before. 
 
 The door closed, and she worked on as 
 if unable to pause or think. After two 
 minutes' solitude the door opened and closed 
 again, and Alan re-entered. 
 
 He was too sensitive himself not to feel 
 and understand the awkwardness and em- 
 barrassment of her position, and, without a 
 moment's hesitation, he drew his chair to 
 her side and sat down. 
 
 But such scenes, unless where there is 
 necessity for description, are better imagined 
 than described. In some respects, the course 
 of love had never run smoother, for there 
 was little of uncertainty on either side as 
 to the feelings of the other. Nevertheless, 
 there were circumstances of impending mo- 
 ment, which gave to the scene its agitating 
 interest. 
 
 Alan saw that Mary had been startled
 
 220 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 by tlie news of the morning, the former 
 announcement of Dr. Rowley having, in 
 truth, passed from her mind as the gossip 
 of an hour. He was in haste, therefore, to 
 exonerate himself from blame in having sought 
 to win her, with such prospects before him. 
 
 He had not needed to question her re- 
 garding her feelings on the subject of going 
 or not going to India; he had read on her 
 countenance, from the first instant, the in- 
 flexible resolution she had formed, a 
 resolution springing not from want of love 
 and trust in and to him, but in dutiful 
 affection to her parents, to whom she w^as 
 all in all. 
 
 But in other ways also the question was not 
 needed. He had a friend who was not 
 wilhng only, but anxious to exchange. That 
 very morning, at the first Avhisper of the 
 news, he had hastened from London to make 
 his request and ask for a decision. "But
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 221 
 
 I could not give it, Mary," Alan concluded. 
 *' It rests with you. If you will be my 
 wife, I will not go ; if you are denied me, 
 better for me to go where duty, and per- 
 haps glory, may wait me, than to waste 
 my hfe in fruitless repinings at home !" 
 
 When Mrs. Clifton and Frank returned, 
 the latter was extremely surprised at seeing 
 Mrs. Clifton, after looking at Alan for a 
 moment, shake his hand with an intermina- 
 ble shake, and then kiss Mary with an 
 interminable kiss. 
 
 That sort of thing looked like a mar- 
 riage ; but he could hardly believe in a 
 marriage here. 
 
 Nothing was said, and Mrs. Clifton talked 
 quick and fast of the visit they had paid ; 
 and Alan, in high spirits, joined in whatever 
 she said. The idea began to fade away. 
 
 Mary was longing to get home, but she 
 remembered that Frank had wished to
 
 222 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 remain for luncheon, and she would not 
 deprive him of it. He had a school-boy's 
 taste for good things. 
 
 It came at last, and was scarcely over 
 before she rose and asked him if he was 
 ready to go. Mrs. Chfton made no opposi- 
 tion, but led Mary into the drawing-room, 
 to fetch her bonnet; and there, after em- 
 bracing her again, told her how happy she 
 had made her. "And let me have the 
 pleasure, my dearest child, of hearing you 
 say you are happy.'' 
 
 " I am ; too happy," Mary said ; " too 
 happy to know how much." 
 
 " And what have you settled to do ? " 
 
 " Captain Sinclair will come this evening 
 to speak to my father." 
 
 " Then I won't detain you, my dear child. 
 Go." Mrs. Clifton was for that day on the 
 pinnacle of human felicity. 
 
 *' I say, Mary," inquired Frank, as they
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 223 
 
 walked along, " what has been going on 
 there ? I never felt more uncomfortable hi 
 my life. I suppose all that embracing meant 
 something?" 
 
 " Guess, Frank," she said, blushing. 
 
 " Good gracious, Mary, you don't mean it. 
 How long has this been going on ? Why was 
 I never told ? Oh ! that was the reason of 
 poor old soul being rejected, I suppose ?" 
 
 The first shadow fell on Mary's face. Her 
 happiness would cause sorrow. It gave her 
 a pang, and she walked on without speaking. 
 
 "Don't look solemn, Mary, 1 beg. Tell 
 me all about it." 
 
 She had little to tell, and that little was 
 so incoherently put together, that Frank was 
 much dissatisfied, and abused her and his 
 mother for their closeness, till they had nearly 
 reached home. He then suddenly said, " 1 
 can tell you one thing, Mary, I don't think 
 you will scorn me for wishing for riches
 
 224 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 any more. If I have been rightly informed, 
 Captain Sinclair is as poor as a rat." 
 
 " So he told me, but if he does not 
 mind, Frank, I am sure I don't." 
 
 " That's very well now, but you will think 
 differently in a few months' time, and I 
 wonder what my father will say. I don't 
 think he will much approve." 
 
 '■' Don't you think he will like this ?" Mary 
 asked, and the second shadow stole over her 
 brow. 
 
 " I think he will be very much disap- 
 pointed, and so I am sure am I. I always 
 thought you were not going to be so pretty 
 for nothing, but that you would bring a little 
 pleasure and comfort into our dreary home. 
 I am very much disappointed indeed." 
 
 " You make me unhappy, Frank. I never 
 knew you thought about me in that way." 
 She spoke quite sadly. Her own happiness 
 was now a secondary thing in her eyes.
 
 MARY LINDSAY. 225 
 
 ''Don't thiuk of me, Mary," he said, 
 good-naturedly. " I certainly always did hope 
 you would be able to do something for us, 
 but so as my father don't object, I am 
 quite content. I like Captain Sinclair, 
 and though he is poor, he is quite first-rate. 
 His uncle's a lord." 
 
 " Is he ?" Mary said, surprised. 
 
 '' Yes, did you not know that ? Lord 
 Sinclair, of Loch- Art. Whenever I meet a 
 person I make it a point to find out all 
 about them, and so I inquired into his 
 affairs after I met him that day. So you see, 
 Mary, you may do well after all." 
 
 On entering her home, Mary kissed her 
 
 mother, and, after murmuring a few 
 
 perplexed words, and begging her to 
 
 ask Lrank " all about it," went direct 
 
 to her father. 
 
 Captain Lyndsay had been for some days 
 
 in expectation of this announcement; as 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 22C) MARY LINDSAY. 
 
 soon, therefore, as he looked in Mary's face, 
 he knew what was to come. He laid down 
 his book, but made no inquiry. 
 
 She approached him and put her ann 
 round his neck ; paused a moment to get her 
 breath, then timidly said, " Father, Captain 
 Sinclair is coming to see you this evening." 
 
 "Is he, Mary?— what for?" 
 
 " He wishes, father — " she paused and 
 blushed, but he would not help her; "he 
 wishes to be your son." 
 
 Captain Lyndsay looked in her face. 
 
 " And you wish it too, Mary ?" 
 
 She silently kissed him. 
 
 "Well, Mary," he said, kindly, "I 
 confess I have been expecting something 
 of this kind of late. Of course I shall 
 be glad to consent to his and your 
 wishes if I can. We will talk it over 
 when he comes." 
 
 His voice was kind, but not hope- 
 ful.
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 227 
 
 " He is poor," Mary said, tremblingly, 
 " but so am I, and I do not wish to be 
 rich." 
 
 "To be poor, my dear child, is a 
 vague term. When I know what Captain 
 Sinclair has, I shall know whether or 
 not I can consent. You must trust to 
 me. AVhatever I do will be with a view 
 to your welfare and happiness." 
 
 He put his arm round her waist and 
 kissed her. 
 
 " I know," she said, gratefully ; " and, 
 dear father, for your sake I wish he was 
 rich." 
 
 " So do I, Mary," he replied, smiling, 
 " for mine and yours ; but wishes are not 
 of much use. If they were, I should not 
 be what I now am. Perhaps you think 
 me mercenary," he added, gravely, after 
 a moment's thought ; " but, my dear child, 
 a young thing like you knows nothing
 
 2.28 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 of the cares of poverty. If you had felt 
 what I have felt, if you had passed the 
 sleepless nights and anxious days that a 
 father passes, who is what is Hghtly 
 called * poor,' sometimes uncertain whether 
 he can provide for his family the com- 
 mon necessaries of hfe, then you would 
 know what poverty is, and would believe 
 that I am not mercenary when I say 
 I will shield you from it if I can." 
 
 Mary looked into his grave face ; 
 observed the lines of care and anxiety 
 on his brow; and for the first time felt 
 that there was more in poverty than 
 she had dreamt of in her philosophy. 
 
 "I do trust you, dear father," she 
 said, quickly ; "I know you will let me 
 be happy if you can, and if not — " she 
 paused ; then in place of the gaunt 
 spectre of disappointment that for a 
 moment hid her happiness from her eyes.
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 229 
 
 a smiling angel arose, and as its sun- 
 shine fell upon her, she added, "we must 
 wait and hope/' 
 
 " You shall go now," he said, wincing 
 a little at this conclusion. "I will con- 
 sider this matter. Send Captain Sinclair 
 to me when he comes." • 
 
 Nothing could be more urbane, more 
 courteously kind, than Captain Lyndsay 
 was to his guest when he arrived. But 
 Alan felt at the first instant that the 
 case was hopeless. Nay, though he was 
 addressing a man poorer than himself, he 
 felt ashamed of the sum he proposed as 
 sufficient for Mary's maintenance. He 
 saw also how mistaken Mrs. Clifton had 
 been in supposing his connections wouhl 
 be a bait. There was that in Captain 
 Lyndsay's conversation which plainly said 
 that the substantial, not tlic imaginative, 
 gifts of the world were those he prized.
 
 230 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 He entered upon the subject of poverty 
 as he had done with Mary, but more 
 at large. He dweh upon trifling minutiae 
 of household arrangements with the under- 
 standing of one who had weighed and 
 considered all things, forcing upon Alan's 
 conviction how little he, in his single 
 Hfe, had comprehended the state on which 
 he proposed to enter. He dwelt upon 
 all the disappointments and sufferings 
 through which he had passed, and which 
 had made him aged before his time, and 
 finally, he spoke of Mary; — of what she 
 was ; of the blessing she had been ; and 
 of his hope that her, at least, he should 
 guard from the cares and troubles that had 
 made life joyless to him. He spoke well — 
 with grave and even solemn words, and 
 they were not in vain. Before he con- 
 cluded, Alan had almost ceased to wish ; 
 (not as concerned himself, but Mary).
 
 MARY LINDSAY. 231 
 
 He had ceased to wish to lead her, in 
 her fresh bloom, into the wearying cares 
 of which her father spoke. 
 
 Captain Lyndsay's words were sin- 
 cere, and his arguments from his 
 heart ; one mistake only he made. He 
 spoke as if his first object was Mary's 
 happiness ; it was not so. He cared for 
 that, very truly; but his first object was 
 himself. 
 
 . There was a pause when he ceased speak- 
 ing. Alan then inquired if what he said 
 was final, or whether he would allow a 
 hope. " He dared not," he said, " hold 
 out much prospect of improvement, but 
 in the changes and chances of life, some 
 there wiglit, some there mmt be. Would 
 he consider it?" 
 
 " My dear Captain Sinclair," Captain 
 Lyndsay replied, gravely, " forgive me il 
 I speak my mind plainly. I have, j)ci-
 
 232 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 soiially, no possible objection to you; if 
 therefore, a favourable change took place 
 in your circumstances, I should willingly 
 commit ray daughter into your hands. 
 But as the future is not at our disposal, 
 it is unwise to speculate upon its ac- 
 cidents. I am no friend to hopeless en- 
 gagements. At Mary's time of life, I 
 should consider that I failed in my duty 
 if I allowed of one. At seventeen the 
 heart is too weak to be subjected to the 
 sickness of hope deferred. A wise man 
 leaves the future alone." 
 
 Alan remained silent. He was partly 
 reproaching himself for the blindness and 
 selfishness of his conduct, partly revolving 
 vague possibilities that he might conscien- 
 tiously hold forth in the future. While 
 he pondered. Captain Lyndsay arose: 
 
 "As there is nothing further to be said 
 between you and me, I will call Mary,
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 233 
 
 and relieve her from her natural anxiety," and 
 he slowly crossed the room towards the door. 
 
 Seeing the micertainty of his steps, 
 Alan sprang forward and held out his 
 arm. The movement touched Captain 
 Lyndsay wath a momentary pang, and it 
 was only by gravely declining his help, 
 that he surmounted the pain. 
 
 Mary was waiting the end of the con- 
 ference with a beating heart. Its pro- 
 tracted length was waking hope within 
 her, but her father's grave face and 
 affectionate manner put it to flight. 
 He called her, and gently said, " My 
 dearest child, I fear it cannot be." 
 As they walked along the little pas- 
 sage, and re-entered the room, he leant 
 softly and fondly on her for support ; 
 and Mary drove back her sj)ringing 
 sadness, determining to bear all bravely 
 for his sake.
 
 •234 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 Captain Lindsay then repeated to 
 both together what he had said 
 separately to each. His words were, as 
 before, grave, kind, and sincere, full of 
 regret, but firm in the consciousness of 
 doing his duty. 
 
 Some heads have not the power of 
 seeing plain sense when it is put before 
 them. Some cannot help seeing it, how- 
 ever much it may oppose their wishes. 
 Both Mary and Alan, but especially 
 Mary, belonged to this latter class. Fully 
 conscious of her youth and inexperience, 
 and gratefully trusting to her father's 
 affection, she had nothing to yield to 
 his words but submission. She might 
 think differently, but he must know the 
 best, and she acquiesced sadly but 
 silently in what he said. 
 
 Captain Lindsay felt as all must feel 
 the blessing of having to do with a sane
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 235 
 
 and convincible mind ; but its effect was 
 not favourable to Mary's wishes. Her 
 submission restored him to self-compla- 
 cency. Had she wept and pleaded, he 
 would have been resolved, but pained. 
 As her silence owned him to be in the 
 right, he was the more convinced that 
 he teas right. 
 
 When his statement had come to an 
 end, he again lifted himself from the 
 chair on which he had been heavily 
 leaning, and said with a half smile, 
 " Though I am old, I have been young, 
 and I can imagine you will like to be 
 alone before your separation. I have full 
 trust in Mary," he added, looking at 
 her. '' I know she will say no words, 
 and enter into no promises, that would 
 not have my sanction if I were present." 
 
 So saying, he shook hands with Ahui, 
 and left them to themselves.
 
 236 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 Captain Lyndsay's studies of human 
 nature had not been fruitless ; he saw at 
 once how to deal with his daughter and 
 her lover, and bound and swayed them 
 to his will by the fulness of his trust. 
 Some natm'es cannot be trusted; he would 
 have known also how to deal with 
 those. 
 
 " I thought, Mary, this day's happiness 
 could not last," Alan said, as he de- 
 parted. " How selfish I have been !" 
 
 "Selfish! How?" 
 
 " I have tried to win you, doubting 
 all the while, in my owq heart, if I had 
 the right. I have, for my own selfish 
 gratification, brought a cloud over your 
 happiness." 
 
 " No, greater happiness," she cried, with 
 tears shining in her eyes. 
 
 "Thanks, dearest, but if so, a happiness 
 that must be resigned ; and what is that ?"
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 237 
 
 " Why should it be resigned ? Is there not 
 hope?" 
 
 The words were scarcely said, before, 
 with a blush, she added — 
 
 "That was not for me to say." 
 
 "And why not for you ? " Alan 
 said, looking fondly into her speaking 
 face. 
 
 " I know," she replied, gravely, " how 
 different a thing waiting would be to 
 you, from what it will be to me. I 
 shall be happy at home; but you want a 
 home, and you will see others who would 
 make it for you; to wait many years 
 would be a weary thing for you. I feel 
 how right my father is." 
 
 "You say truly in some things, Mary. 
 I do pine for a home, and having had 
 the hope before me, I hardly know how 
 I shall put it aside again. So fully also 
 do I feel the truth of your father's
 
 238 MARY LYNDSAT. 
 
 words, regarding a hopeless engagement 
 for one so young as you, that perhaps, 
 if I could, I should do as you say, and 
 try to make a home with another. But 
 some things cannot be. I never loved 
 before, Mary, and never shall again. A 
 man knows when a thing has taken root 
 in his heart, never to be uprooted. 
 Such root my love for you has taken. 
 My first, and as to my cost, I shall 
 know, my last love, Mary." 
 
 " I feel the same," she said, in 
 a low voice, " but must not )&ay 
 it. 
 
 Captain Lyndsay was patient, and did 
 not disturb the parting hour of the 
 lovers, though he thought it needlessly 
 prolonged. It was no doubt a sad 
 hour, yet it was the hour of her life 
 to which Mary ever looked back as the 
 happiest. It was in this hour that she
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 239 
 
 entered fully into the heart and mind of 
 her lover, and felt her own dissolve and 
 melt away in union with his. " There is 
 a charm " Mrs. Opie says, " in all things 
 that Jit. How much more then w^hen 
 mind fits mind." The fitness here was 
 too perfect for earth. It was such fitness 
 as the first man must have felt when a 
 woman w^as specially created as a help- 
 mate for Jdm. 
 
 Captain Lyndsay, in his indulgence, 
 had been short-sighted. That hour made 
 it an almost impossible thing to 
 forget. 
 
 It was a bitter evening for Mrs. Clifton, 
 when Alan returned with the tidings of 
 his ill-success. He dined with her, and 
 then went to London, to give his answer 
 to his friend. 
 
 She did not endeavour to alter his 
 decision on that subject. She was not
 
 240 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 quite sure how or in what line it was 
 done, but she knew fortunes were made 
 in India, and she drove away her de- 
 pression by a vision of Alan returning 
 in a few years laden with riches. 
 
 "And what are a few years at youi-s 
 and Mary's asje ?" she said. " Say six 
 years. Mary will be three- an d-twenty, and 
 you will still be in the very prime of 
 life. I am not sure that it is not 
 better as it is. Seventeen is much too 
 young to marry. I did not marry till 
 two-and-twenty, and many people said I 
 was too childish even then." 
 
 Alan smiled, and accepted her conso- 
 lation. He only suggested that it would 
 be as well not to let Mary build on 
 the hope of imaginary riches. 
 
 "Now I hate you," she said, in her 
 eager way; "what business have you to be 
 so discreet? So as Marv remains faithful,
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 241 
 
 it matters not what hopes cheer her 
 mind?" 
 
 "Any true ones you please/' he rephed, 
 " but not the hope of my retmiiing a 
 iSabob. She is ah'eady more hopeful 
 than there is any ground to be, I am afraid. 
 I think a true friend's office would be 
 to weaken, not to strengthen, her confi- 
 dence." 
 
 " I have no patience with you. The 
 next thing you will say is, that you hope 
 to hear that Mary is shortly to be mar- 
 ried to some rich Jew, Avho will support 
 her in comfort." 
 
 " No, Mrs. Clifton, not that," he said, 
 gravely. " If I did not feel a vain, per- 
 haps, yet certain hope that Mary would 
 be at some time my wife, I don't think 
 I could support existence. You have to 
 do, I can tell you, not with children whu 
 have little at stake, but witli those wlio 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 have ventured all, — and you must deal 
 with them accordingly/' 
 
 There was a look in his counte- 
 nance that told Mrs. Chfton a case 
 of real feeling was before her; and she 
 took the lesson home to guide her in 
 her dealings with Mary. 
 
 When they met, and the subject was 
 talked over, she was guarded. She cheered 
 her with hopeful words, but the words 
 were studiously vague ; and even in cheer- 
 ing, she spoke of other hopes in life, and 
 endeavoured to dissipate, rather than 
 to concentrate her mind on one fu- 
 ture. 
 
 Alan had scarcely departed before Mary 
 was called on by Eraiik to prepare him a 
 repast previous to his retm^n to London. 
 Captain Lyndsay liked a late dinner. It 
 ^vas one of his few luxmies, and nothing 
 was ever allowed to interfere with his
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 243 
 
 comfort. German young ladies are said to 
 console their mental sorrows by assuaging 
 hunger and thirst. To assuage that of 
 others, is perhaps more efficacious. Mary 
 washed her face, and conquered the tears 
 of . a not unpleasing sadness, and came 
 cheerfully down to attend to her brother. 
 When his repast was prepared, she brought 
 her w^ork and kept him company while he 
 partook of it. He w^as very good-natured 
 to her, and took this opportunity to tell 
 her confidentially that what she was 
 suffering, he had already endured two or 
 three times. He therefore could feel for 
 her; but he could also give her this 
 comfort, that a very few days made all 
 things straight. 
 
 She smiled, as she shook her head, — 
 but tears flowed against her will. 
 
 " That's because you have no knowledge 
 of the world, Mary. You think people
 
 244 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 mope over these things all then' days, 
 but that's quite goue by. And I say, 
 Mary," he added, not unkindly, but 
 expressing what it would scarcely have 
 been in human nature to resist, "who 
 was right about riches ? I think you 
 will own riches are some good now." 
 
 " Yes," she said honestly, and with a 
 sigh. 
 
 " Ah 1" Frank observed triumphantly, 
 but restrained any further expression of 
 his feelings.
 
 245 
 
 CHAPTER Xlir. 
 
 So hard believed was sorrow in lier youth, 
 That she thinks truth was dreams, and dreams was truth." 
 
 Daniel. 
 
 A YEAR passed away slowly, yet swiftly ; 
 marked by few events worth recording. 
 At the end of September Mrs. Clifton gave 
 up her house and went abroad for an un- 
 defined time. 
 
 '* When T come back, my blessed Mary, 
 I shall seek you out," she said, as she em- 
 braced her; "but I cannot even for yon
 
 246 MARY LYNDSAT. 
 
 undertake to be a correspoiident. Letters 
 are so many iron chains about my soul, 
 and it is never easy while it has one pin- 
 ning it down. And though, now and then, 
 I shall wish to hear how you are, I cannot 
 beg you to be a good correspondent either, 
 for I have a conscience ; and if people write 
 to me, try as I may, I cannot be easy if 
 I do not reply to them. Let us, there- 
 fore, swear an eternal friendship ; mine is 
 sworn already; but let us be free. And 
 when I do come back, Mary, how shall I 
 find you? Perhaps, a fine London lady, 
 taking your place amongst the handsomest. 
 Who knows ? Stranger things have been. 
 God bless you, my angel, and make you 
 as happy as your good heart deserves 
 to be." 
 
 Mrs. Chfton w^as gone, and all the amuse- 
 ment and excitement of her six months' 
 fancy, her gay conversation, and the romance
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 247 
 
 begun under her auspices, was gone by like 
 a dream. Mary returned to the humdrum, 
 as Frank called it, of her home life. There 
 are few who would not have experienced 
 a sense of flatness in existence, and few 
 who, for a time at least, would not have 
 yielded to its influence, especially if un- 
 guided by the principle which says, in 
 dreariness and disappointment, " Why 
 restless and cast down, O my soul ? 
 Hope thou in God." But Mary did not 
 sink. She w^as at that time of life when 
 hope is strongest. A child lives in the 
 present, and the thought of a year, to a 
 child, is farther off than eternity. But 
 early youth lives wholly in the future, and 
 scarcely thinks of the present that fleets so 
 rapidly by. Its food is hope ; hope such as 
 Collins paints it, when — 
 
 " Hope enchanted smiled, 
 And waved her golden hair."
 
 248 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 Such hope was Mary's — a vague, inspiring 
 brightness, that made her love to sit and 
 dream, while her fingers flew over her 
 work. 
 
 Besides this, Mary was busy. She had 
 time to dream, but she had no time to 
 pine. The fear that she had disappointed 
 her father made her yet more eager to save 
 him expense, to procure him comforts, to 
 make his home cheerful; she had also a 
 natural desire to make him see that poverty 
 was not so miserable a thing. She entered 
 more and move into the science of house- 
 keeping, gave the powers of her practical 
 mind to the consideration of due and un- 
 due economy ; worked unceasingly with her 
 fingers to make her own and her mother's 
 dress pleasant in his eyes, and never failed 
 to cultivate her mind by the sound reading 
 he recommended, that she might be a fit 
 companion for him. Life passes rapidly
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 249 
 
 under such circumstances. The well-filled 
 day brings the peaceful night, and the 
 peaceful night keeps the spirits calm and 
 even. " Happy the man who has found 
 his work ; he needs no other blessedness.'' 
 
 It was several months before she saw 
 Mr. Merivale again. If he came to 
 Cleeve, it was not with the regular 
 visits of old times. He came, perhaps, 
 for an hour, unexpectedly; passed the 
 hour with his sister, and returned to 
 London. Mary longed to meet with him, 
 if once only; to be kind for his 
 mother's sake ; to show, him she 
 would yet be his friend ; but she 
 never heard of his visits till he was 
 gone. 
 
 At length, Frank sent her Avoi'd 
 that he was to be down at Cleeve 
 the following Sunday. She determined 
 to see him.
 
 250 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 It was at the latter end of No- 
 vember ; a fine mild day. 
 
 Miss Merivale now went to an even- 
 ing service at some distance, and Mary 
 knew she should find her at home 
 at four o'clock. With the quick steps 
 of agitation, she entered the gates of 
 Cleeve, and had only just entered 
 when she perceived issuing from one 
 of the dreary walks the object of her 
 search. 
 
 Pausing not a moment, she hastened 
 to him, and held out her hand ; but 
 partly her rapid movements, and partly the 
 sight of his gloomy face and mourning 
 dress, in that very spot where she had 
 parted from him, so overcame her that she 
 could not speak. She was too young to 
 have acquired much self-command when 
 her feelings were excited, and her agitation 
 was visible.
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 251 
 
 That very agitation, however, touched 
 and softened him. He saw she feh, for 
 him. Had she wished to show kindness, 
 she did it thus more perfectly than by 
 any resolves she could have made. He 
 held the hand she had given him, and 
 while he held it, the dark shadow fell 
 from his face. 
 
 Mary meant to be kind. She knew 
 she ought not to be more than kind. 
 The fear of being more, gave her the 
 power she had for a moment lost. She 
 withdrew her hand from his grasp, and 
 gently asked, " Shall I find your sister at 
 home ?" 
 
 " Does Catherine expect you ?" he in- 
 quired, in a tone which seemed to say, 
 " /, then, had no place in your 
 thoughts." 
 
 "No, but 1 came to see her; and," 
 she added, as their steps moved together
 
 252 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 along the avenue, " I hoped to see you 
 also, Mr. Merivale. Frank told me you 
 
 were here. It is so long since " she 
 
 stopped, afraid of what she was saying. 
 
 "It is long," he replied. " This 
 place has no attraction to me now." 
 
 " It must be sad to come," Mary said* 
 kindly ; " but it is very lonely for your 
 sister without you." 
 
 " I am nothing to her," he replied. 
 " She has no care for me." 
 
 " She does, Mr. Merivale — indeed she 
 does." 
 
 " She cares for me as I am a soul" 
 he said, with bitterness ; " but she 
 has no care for me as I am a 
 man." 
 
 Mary could say no more, and they 
 walked in silence to the end. He went 
 up the steps and opened the house door 
 for her. He then said, with a quivering
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 253 
 
 movement romid his lips, "you will find 
 her in the room you know well. I cannot 
 bear to go there now. Farewell." 
 
 He held out his hand. 
 
 " I felt as you do about the room, when 
 first I went," Mary paused to say, "but 
 Miss Merivale is better than we are. She 
 has thoughts about it, we do not know 
 how to have." 
 
 The softness of her voice, the kind 
 manner in which she paused to answer 
 him, above all, the pronoun loe, as if in 
 spite of all, he was not so cast out, 
 but that she could sympathize with him, 
 touched him as he never in her presence 
 had been touched before. He grasped her 
 hand, murmured " God bless you," and was 
 gone. 
 
 Mary went sadly onward to her visit, but 
 afterwards she remembered she had done 
 what she could, and was comforted.
 
 254 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 After this she met him occasionally. He 
 seemed neither to seek nor to shun her. 
 Probably Captain Lyndsay's words had 
 excited future hopes, but there was nothing 
 in his ways or manner which gave ground 
 to suppose they had. 
 
 A year, or rather more, passed thus away. 
 One morning Mrs. Lyndsay was reading 
 the newspapers, while Mary sat at work. 
 Captain Lyndsay took a Times a few days 
 old, and when she could get nothing else 
 Mrs. Lyndsay contented herself with that. 
 But her treat was the Morning Fost, or 
 better still, some gossiping country paper. 
 Frank often paid his mother the pretty 
 attention of procuring her, sometimes 
 borrowed, and sometimes begged, from 
 his many acquaintances, one of these. 
 
 She had got a Scotch paper this morning, 
 and it was a perfect feast ; so many anecdotes, 
 so many riddles, so many extracts from
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 255 
 
 books of travels, so many odd pieces of 
 intelligence old and new. 
 
 " Good gracious me, Mary," she cried, 
 suddenly, putting down the paper, "what 
 a shocking thing ! " 
 
 " What, mother ? " and Mary looked 
 up. 
 
 "It is about Lord Sinclair, that uncle 
 you know ; so you will like to hear. Two 
 sons — his only two sons — drowned at 
 once ! " 
 
 " Oh ! mother," Mary cried in tones of 
 horror. " Two sons ! " 
 
 " Yes, here is all about it. Wait a minute 
 while I read. They went out on a lake in 
 a boat — and a sudden wind got up — and 
 they were both drowned ; and one was 
 found, and one was not. And there was a 
 boatman with them, and he swniii well and 
 was saved. Well, that is a shocking thing, 
 indeed."
 
 256 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 " I hardly think it can be true/' Mary- 
 said, with a sigh of hope, as if her doubts 
 made the facts doubtful. 
 
 Mrs. Lyndsay, who regarded her pieces 
 of news as her own property, was a little 
 indignant at the doubt. 
 
 To ensure belief she read aloud the 
 whole paragraph. It was too true. It 
 spoke not only of the facts above men- 
 tioned, but described also the interment 
 of one son, the father's agony, and gave 
 many other particulars regarding the place 
 and family. 
 
 "Such things,'' Mary said, crossing her 
 
 arms and pressing her hands against 
 her heart, " almost make me wish this 
 world was not a world. How can 
 people live who have such sorrow ? But it 
 is not common." 
 
 " No, that's true, and very comforting," 
 observed Mrs. Lyndsay, and she returned
 
 MART LTNDSAY. 257 
 
 to the newspaper, to harrow her feelings 
 afresh by re-readmg the paragraph. Like 
 most vacant minds, she deUghted in horrors. 
 
 " Good gracious me, Mary !" she cried 
 again, after having perused it attentively, 
 '' how stupid I was not to think before ! Listen 
 to this, * The present heir to the estate 
 is in India ;' of course he is. How 
 came I not to think ? Why, you know 
 who that must be !" 
 
 A torrent of blood flew to Mary's face, 
 but the expression of her countenance 
 was one of pain and agony. " Oh ! mother," 
 she cried, " how dreadful ! " 
 
 " Yes, Mary, very awful indeed, but 
 you know we should look for the good 
 in the evil, and of com'se it is a great 
 good to think that Captain Sinclair may 
 be rich one of these days. It makes 
 all the difference, and, Mary, dear, perhaps 
 you will be happy after all." 
 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 258 MARY LYNUSAY. 
 
 " Oh ! mother, could there be happi- 
 ness bought at such a price I" 
 
 " Of course we would not have wished 
 it, Mary ; of course not ; but when things 
 happen we must take them and be 
 grateful. Dear me, how very curious I 
 should have happened to see this ; and how 
 very curious if you should ever be Lady 
 Sinclair !" 
 
 " Dear mother, I cannot bear it," Mary 
 cried. "Pray don't say such shocking 
 things." 
 
 "Well, perhaps it is better not. It 
 came into my head, and so I said it ; 
 but we must not make too sure of any- 
 thing. It is a very shocking event, 
 certainly. I am glad to see there is no 
 mother. If there had been a mother, it 
 would have been more dreadful. Fathers 
 get over such things. Fathers do not 
 care much for their sons."
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 259 
 
 " Don't they ?" Mary asked, with sur- 
 prise. 
 
 " Not much, Mary. So I have observed. 
 I should say that upon the whole men 
 don't care much about anything but 
 themselves ; but then you know that is 
 right, for if there were no men in the 
 world, what a world it would be ! Good 
 gracious me, Mary ! it terrifies one to 
 think of it." She looked really startled 
 at the vision she had conjured up. 
 
 "Men feel as much, I think," Msury 
 said thoughtfully, " though they don't hke 
 to show it, and I think I like that 
 best." 
 
 "Well, perhaps. At any rate I am glad 
 there are men to protect us in the 
 world ; ])ut I am glad too tliat those 
 poor young men have no mother to 
 grieve after them. Certainly the fatlici- 
 will get over it soonest. I wonder if
 
 260 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 your father knows. It will be something 
 to tell him." 
 
 " Something to tell him ;" some piece 
 of news overlooked by him ; that was 
 Mrs. Lyndsay's triumph of triumphs. It 
 did not often occur. When it did, it 
 made one of the white days of her life. 
 She had the triumph on this occasion. 
 The piece of news was news to Captain 
 Lyndsay. It is true that he snubbed her 
 when she made her communication ; 
 treated it as of no importance, and sharply 
 desired her not to fill Mary's mind with 
 trash ; but she had discerning eyes in 
 this case, and was perfectly aware that he 
 did receive the news into his heart of hearts, 
 and give it a lodgment there. This 
 consciousness elated her, and she received 
 the snub as if it was the sweetest 
 praise.
 
 261 
 
 CHAPTER XIV, 
 
 " Oh ! mortal folk, but we be very blind, 
 What we least fear full oft it is most nigh." 
 
 Sir T. More. 
 
 " Why, Mary, so that young lover of 
 yours is likely to be a Lord. My eye ! 
 who knows but some day you will be a 
 Lady ?" This was Frank's greeting to 
 his sister when first he saw her after 
 the late event. 
 
 The tone of her mother and brother 
 on this occasion first brought to Mary's
 
 262 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 consciousness the fact that there was 
 something in their minds which jarred 
 with hers. She could not even now, 
 even in her most secret heart, allow that 
 they were vulgar, but the impatience, 
 perfectly foreign to her manner, with 
 which she bore such allusions, marked 
 their offensiveness to her taste and feeling. 
 Seeing the effect of his speeches, Frank, 
 according to the usual habit of brothers 
 of his age, teased her by their repetition, 
 until his wit was worn pretty well 
 threadbare. 
 
 But though, considered in that point 
 of view, the event which had taken 
 place exercised no influence on her mind, it 
 was far otherwise with regard to the hopes 
 it excited. Shocks are fortunately transitory 
 in their duration. The mind, startled and 
 troubled by a sudden announcement, has 
 the power very quickly to throw the
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 263 
 
 oppression aside. Fortunately, for what 
 would human life be if shocks were 
 enduring? With Mary, it was as with 
 the rest of the world. What in the first 
 instance seemed to her too shocking to 
 dwell upon, became shortly a dream-like 
 fact, and when she had looked the sad 
 event in the face, she saw the differ- 
 ence it would make. Poverty with a 
 hope is a far different thing to a hope- 
 less poverty. She saw it ; read that 
 it was so considered in her father's 
 silent face, and received the truth into 
 her thankful imagination. With a bound 
 she passed from that vague hope which 
 only gilds a far future into the definite 
 hope which has features, form, and being. 
 
 But it was not many weeks that 
 she was allowed to remain in this Ely- 
 sium. 
 
 The troubles so loncj smouldering and
 
 264 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 threatening in India began in the autumn 
 of the year to assume a serious character. 
 Slow to fear, and confident in the hap- 
 piness of Hfe, Mary read at first with a doubt- 
 ing mind. She could not believe in 
 miseries to come. But when fear enters 
 a naturally hopeful heart, it enters like a 
 giant, and terrors as great as its hopes 
 come like a strong man and take pos- 
 session. A few days Mary bore her 
 terrors alone, then unable to understand, 
 or battle with them, went boldly to her 
 father for comfort. 
 
 No explanation regarding her interest 
 took place ; but as if that interest was 
 tacitly allowed and approved, her father 
 entered upon the subject, and gave her 
 the information she desired. His manner 
 was kind, and his confident tone raised 
 her from terror to happiness again. He 
 persisted in the belief that the storm
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 265 
 
 would yet blow over, or if not, treated 
 the idea of resistance to British troops 
 with a British soldier's contempt. 
 
 He made her happy by his hopeful- 
 ness — happy also by his sympathy. A 
 new bond of union was cemented between 
 them. He invited her confidence and 
 inquiries, and while she hung upon his 
 words for the support of her life, he, 
 with a father's and a soldier's interest, 
 watched for her. 
 
 The next mail brought bad tidings, and 
 the next, and the next. The events of 
 the winter that followed are too well 
 known to need mention here. 
 
 Mary's personal interest in these events 
 was not left doubtful. Once, in describing 
 the order of march, Alan was spoken of 
 by name, with these epithets, " that spi- 
 rited and deserving young officer." These 
 few words gave a reality to her imaginings
 
 266 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 which hitherto she had been spared, and 
 dropped a new ingredient into the proud 
 love which followed him. 
 
 There were battles one after the other 
 in succession ; so quick that relief and 
 anxiety alternated too rapidly to allow 
 relief to be other than the breathing 
 space of a moment. What then was felt 
 by a few, has since been felt in most 
 homes and hearts in England, and there 
 needs no words to picture what such 
 days and hours bring forth. 
 
 Mary bore up bravely at first. It 
 requires time for terror and anxiety to do 
 their work — time for the horrors of war 
 fully to be understood by those far 
 away. After the first bloody battles 
 through which her lover passed safely, 
 there came a pause; but in that 
 pause Mary's heart began to die within 
 her. She had realized all, had read of
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 267 
 
 slaughter till her blood ran cold, had 
 followed him with an intensity and agony 
 of interest that showed her very life 
 bound up w^ith him, and the springs of her 
 sanguine nature began to run dry. 
 
 Then came another victory. Though 
 twenty miles from London, Mary heard 
 the guns proclaim it in the still evening, 
 and the first gun was as the death stab 
 to her heart. They were firing — not 
 only over the glory of the living, but 
 the dead, and the thought of w^ho the 
 dead might be, took sole possession of her 
 mind. 
 
 There was delay in the pubhshing of 
 the lists. Dming those days of expecta- 
 tion and agony, Mary went about her 
 work as usual — asked no questions, 
 gave no expression to the dread that w^as 
 consuming her. The only outward token 
 of what she felt within was in one
 
 268 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 flushed spot like the hectic of consump- 
 tion on each cheek. It never moved. 
 She went to rest with it at night, and 
 rose with it in the morning. Went to 
 rest? Yes. The tired body would repose, 
 but the mind rested not. A bloody 
 battle, a vague imaginary thing, but awful 
 in its vague imaginings, was the one 
 thought which swallowed up the whole 
 of earth. That was real — all else was a 
 dream. 
 
 The lists came at last. Captain Lynd- 
 say was alone, and his heart was touched 
 enough to make him quail as he glanced 
 over them. Slowly, as if his slow move- 
 ments could avert the evil, he unfolded 
 the paper and looked. Then he laid it 
 down, and put his hands over his eyes. 
 He was a selfish man ; but he had a 
 human heart, and that heart bled for 
 Mary.
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 269 
 
 To Alan's name was simply appended 
 the word " killed." Captain Lyndsay after- 
 wards heard further particulars. His body 
 had not been found, but as his horse 
 was seen dead on the brink of the river 
 near which the battle was fought, it was 
 supposed that he had fallen into the 
 same waters, which were choked with the 
 enemy's dead. The terms in which his 
 daring courage was spoken of, the regret 
 expressed for his loss, awakened in Cap- 
 tain Lyndsay's heart a touch of sorrow 
 not for Mary only, but for himself. The 
 love of self had extinguished many 
 generous emotions in his breast, but 
 had not extinguished his honour for a 
 brave man. 
 
 Mary was in the drawing-room working 
 with her mother. She worked now with 
 a madness of industry, as if her 
 fingers' movements stilled her thoughts.
 
 270 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 It was long since she had ceased to 
 make inquiries — all was ieft to her father. 
 Her life hung upon him. 
 
 He slowly opened the door, and stood 
 there. His countenance said all that was 
 needed to be said. Mrs. Lyndsay screamed. 
 Mary started up, then fell on the ground 
 without a sound. 
 
 She had fainted. So God tempers the 
 wind to the shorn lamb, and deadens, 
 in hearts that cannot bear it, the first 
 sharp stab of more than mortal agony. 
 
 Captain Lyndsay raised his daughter in 
 his arms, and carried her without any 
 assistance to bed. In the excitement of 
 the moment, his limb became strong, and 
 it was not till the deed was done that 
 he remembered his feebleness. He hung 
 over her, touched and sorrowful, and 
 gently kissed her brow. " But it will 
 soon be over," he sighed to himself,
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 271 
 
 as he turned away, and left her to the 
 care of her mother. 
 
 When that care had revived Mary 
 from her swoon, it was evident that she 
 retm'ned only to a half consciousness. She 
 spoke of the work she had to do, 
 not of the shock that had overpowered her. 
 Her eyes moved restlessly around, as if 
 watching for something, and yet she asked 
 no question. Mrs. Lyndsay told her she 
 was not well, and as she soothingly 
 kissed her, desired her to lie still. Mary 
 acquiesced with an apathy which showed 
 her not to be herself. She remained quiet 
 till the evening, but the flush returned 
 to her cheek and deepened in brilliancy. 
 Towards evening, signs of light-headedness 
 appeared, and, beginning to be alarmed, 
 Captain Lyndsay sent for the apothecary. 
 He at once declared that brain -fever was 
 impending. " There has been some un-
 
 272 ' MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 natural tension of the nervous system/' 
 he remarked, and he looked with a search- 
 ing and curious gaze into the face of 
 Captain Lyndsay. 
 
 Before morning the impending evil was 
 a certain one, and for seven nights and 
 days Mary hovered between life and 
 death.
 
 273 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 " God sends us monitors and ministers — 
 Old age that steals the fulness from the veins, 
 And griefs that take the glory from the eyes, 
 And pains that bring us timely news of death, 
 And tears that teach us to be glad of him." 
 
 Tanhauser. 
 
 When Mary returned to life and conva- 
 lescence, her first feelings were those of 
 thankfulness. She had been down to the 
 gates of death, to the borders of the 
 unseen world, and the return to life was 
 a blessing. Her nature was earthly, her 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 MART LYNDSAY. 
 
 very virtues, her strong affections, her 
 clinging to what she saw, her practical 
 mind, all were earthly. Earth was her 
 native country, and she returned from 
 death as a sorrowful exile returns, 
 thankful to breathe its air once 
 more. 
 
 Yet her approach to that unseen world 
 had not been ineffectual in raising her 
 affections above. As she lay in the weak- 
 ness and repose of reviving health, she 
 meditated as she never had meditated 
 before, and thoughts of heaven began to 
 assume a reality in her mind. He was 
 gone from earth on whom her heart's 
 young affections had been fixed — gone 
 from earth she could not doubt to the 
 land of the blessed. She endeavoured to 
 follow him, gathered up many a chance 
 word that had fallen from him, 
 shrined them in her mind as the words
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 275 
 
 of an angel, and endeavoured to enter 
 into a like spirit to that which had ani- 
 mated him. 
 
 Convalescence is not a perfect state of 
 mind. It is more or less an illusion. 
 Life does not wear its dull colours ; all 
 is dim and misty, and the most practised 
 mind becomes imaginative. This state of 
 illusive weakness helped Mary. Her mind 
 dwelt less on the sorrowful earth from 
 which the glory had departed than on 
 the dim visions she built of a heavenly 
 future. Undisturbed, therefore, by pas- 
 sionate sorrow, her body recovered its 
 health, and her mind, during the same 
 ptocess, was elevated and prepared for 
 what else of joy and sorrow might be in 
 store for her. 
 
 Her first act, on her recovery, was to 
 beg her mother to allow her to receive 
 the Communion. It was not the habit of
 
 276 MARY LYNDSAT. 
 
 the house to think seriously, nor to 
 think of this duty at all, and Mary, 
 like the rest, had hitherto stood apart, 
 nut in carelessness, but awe. The cir- 
 cumstances of the parish, an old and 
 half-childish rector, and an overworked 
 curate with a large family, were not 
 favourable to the religious improvement 
 of those who are called " decent people." 
 There being nothing flagrantly pressing 
 in their case, their improvement was 
 usually postponed to one of those con- 
 venient seasons which an overworked man 
 rarely finds. The curate called when 
 Mary was ill, and promised to call again 
 on her recovery, which he did ; but 
 though his visit may have strengthened 
 her good resolves, it was her own con- 
 scientious nature which drew from her 
 the request, and made her determined to 
 stand apart no more. Her mother, a
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 277 
 
 thoughtless, not ill-meaning woman, list- 
 ened to what she said, and accompanied 
 her. It was the first beginning, on 
 Mary's part, of a definite religious life, 
 and its feeling, though faint and eva- 
 nescent, was sincere, and therefore fruit- 
 ful. 
 
 Thus Mary began again to live, and 
 entered again on her usual course of life 
 and duty. 
 
 But health is not like convalescence. 
 The practice of life is not like the 
 dreamings of weakness. When Mary 
 really awoke to life and duty, her eyes 
 were opened. The excitement was at an 
 end; meditations on death, and recovery, 
 penitence, good resolves, and faint yet 
 sweet thoughts of reunion in a distant 
 world, all these thoughts belonged to her 
 dreaming life; from her practical life 
 they flitted away. She was herself again ;
 
 278 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 her days unchanged, her duties unchanged ; 
 but the brightness of life was gone, and 
 to endeavour now to draw joy and hope 
 from the old routine, was like the en- 
 deavour to draw music from an instrument 
 that had lost its sound. 
 
 Her strength failed ; her spirits flagged ; 
 the colour which had begun to return to 
 her cheek, faded again, and joylessly and 
 wearily she dragged along the appointed 
 duties of the day. It was a case for 
 change of scene, for society, for any- 
 thing which could divert a mind from 
 melancholy ; but Captain Lyndsay was 
 poor, Mary's illness had made him poorer 
 still, and such a luxury as change of 
 scene was not within the limits of his 
 ever-failing purse. 
 
 He saw, however, that Mary's nerves 
 were weakened, and that something must 
 be done to restore them. After much
 
 MART LYNDSAT. 279 
 
 reflection lie wrote to Mr. Merivale, and 
 requested him to allow Frank a week's 
 holiday. This was about a month after 
 Mary's recovery. He trusted to Frank's 
 boyish ways and teasing habits, to give 
 the stimulus necessary for j^outh and 
 health to re-assert its claims. The request 
 was an unselfish one on his part, for 
 his son's society was anything but a 
 pleasure to him. It is possible, however, 
 that the gratification of making a request 
 to Mr. Merivale detracted from the un- 
 selfishness of the action. 
 
 His letter simply stated that Mary was 
 suffering from weakness, and from de- 
 pression consequent on that weakness. No 
 allusion to the cause of her illness was 
 made. The petition then followed in a 
 few earnest words. 
 
 To his letter, as before, no answer was 
 retm-ned, but the request was instantly
 
 280 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 granted. By return of post, Frank 
 wrote : — 
 
 " My Dear Mother, 
 
 "Mr. Merivale says my father 
 wishes me to have a week's hoHday. I 
 am sure I am very much obhged to him, for 
 writing is precious hard work in this hot 
 weather. I am to leave London on 
 Saturday. Some of the fellows here are 
 jealous of my favour with Mr. M. ; but 
 I know the reason, and they don't. He 
 has never asked after Marv, but he 
 looked more like a death's head than ever 
 while she was ill. 
 
 " Yours affectionately, 
 
 "Frank Lyndsay." 
 
 Frank's visit was not attended with 
 the success that Captain Lyndsay had 
 anticipated. Mary devoted herself as usual
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 281 
 
 to his wants and wishes ; endeavoured, 
 by thought and care, to supply the place 
 X)f money in procuring variety for his 
 appetite ; attended to all the minute wants 
 of his wardrobe, a button here, and a 
 rent there, &c. &c. ; listened to his tales 
 of self, his conquests and disappointments. 
 She thought she was as she had always 
 been; but June is more like December 
 than Mary was to her old self. No 
 cheerful smile responded to him ; no argu- 
 ments amused or ruffled him. She was 
 gentle, patient, and affectionate, but spirit- 
 less. Her voice had lost its clearness — 
 her step its elasticity. 
 
 At first Frank, singularly fond of idle- 
 ness, was glad to be at home and to 
 bask unemployed in the sunshine, but 
 before the week was out this pleasure 
 was exhausted, and weary of the dul- 
 ness of home, he was ready to go back
 
 282 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 even to his work. He had been very 
 sorry for Mary, and for a day or two 
 had forborne to complain of her depres- 
 sion ; but before the week's end he was 
 much more sorry for himself; and he 
 gave her his mind on the subject. 
 
 " I say, Mary," he said, the day before 
 the week was over, " I shall never come 
 home for a holiday again." 
 
 He was lying on the grass. Mary was 
 working for him, in a little arbour. 
 
 " Why, Frank !" she asked in some 
 surprise, expecting some new revelation 
 regarding his future destiny. 
 
 "Why? Why, I don't think there is 
 much reason to ask why ! I am bored 
 out of my life, that's why," and he 
 stretched his arms and yawned wea- 
 rily. 
 
 Mary's quick conscience was struck, her 
 colour rose in her pale cheeks. " Oh !
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 283 
 
 Frank, is it because I am grown so dull 
 that you say so?" 
 
 "Well, Mary, I don't know that I 
 should have said that exactly, but since 
 you ask me I must own that is the 
 reason. We both know very well that 
 this home of ours is no great shakes in 
 the way of liveliness ; but I never minded 
 so long as I had you to talk to. I am 
 very fond of you, Mary. I always was. 
 I think you a great fool, but I would 
 as soon talk to you as almost any woman, 
 — that is, formerly I would; now I must 
 say it is quite different, and I am 
 thoroughly disappointed." His tone was 
 really pathetic. He did feel ill-used, and 
 he made it plain he did. 
 
 Mary was touched by his kind words, and 
 grieved for his disappointment. " Dear 
 Frank," she said, her eyes filling with tears, 
 "I am so sorry for you. I have been
 
 284 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 very unhappy, and I am afraid I forgot to 
 think how dull I must be. I am very sorry." 
 
 " Oh ! don't be sorry," he said, kindly, 
 " it does not matter now, and if you cry, I 
 shall wish I had not said anything about 
 it; at the same time I am glad I have, 
 for I must tell you, Mary, moping is a 
 horrid bad habit. What is the good of 
 moping? It can't bring back things, 
 and I am sure it is very disagreeable for 
 other people to see; it only makes them 
 wretched as well as yourself. I never 
 thought you would turn into a moper. 
 You used to be so unselfish; you never 
 seemed to think about yourself at all." 
 
 " There have been dreadful things, 
 Prank," she replied, mth quivering hps, 
 "things I never could have believed could 
 happen to me. But T see now that you 
 are right. I have thought only of myself. 
 I am glad you told me."
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 285 
 
 " Of course you could not help it, Mary ; 
 it was very natural you should be un- 
 happy. I was very sorry for you, and I 
 am glad of having this opportunity of 
 saying so ; but still there is a time for 
 everything, and I think it is time now for 
 you to begin to get over it. My father 
 is quite worried about it, I can tell you 
 that. He got me this holiday, my 
 mother says, for your sake. He thought 
 I should be able to cheer you ; but if a 
 person won't be cheered there's no help 
 for it." 
 
 " I am glad you told me. I will try and 
 be cheered. I am sure I ought, when 
 you and my father think about me so 
 much." 
 
 " That's a good girl ; that's like your- 
 self. Once in company 1 heard a person 
 say that every human being was selfish, 
 and I said, ' All but one.' It made u
 
 286 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 great stir, and they laughed a good deal, 
 and tried to make me tell who, and at last 
 I said 'my sister,' and then they laughed 
 more; but I did not care, because I 
 thought it, and I got a very kind word 
 from a lady in consequence ; not any 
 particular lady, but a very nice and 
 pretty one, who said she liked me for 
 what I said. And I know, Mary, you 
 will be what I said to your life's end." 
 
 Tears of grateful affection were in 
 Mary's eyes at her brother's words. 
 The deed was done. Captain Lyndsay's 
 purpose was answered. More than any 
 grave arguments, more than any serious 
 persuasions, Frank's mingled kindness and 
 complaining accomplished. 
 
 Very penitently Mary owned that she 
 had been absorbed in herself, and with 
 the truth and resolution of her nature, 
 she determined it should be so no more.
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 287 
 
 She looked about her, and saw that now, 
 as before, she had the power and the call 
 to make others happy. Her own brightness 
 might be faded, but others were hanging 
 upon her for their daily joy ; and she ac- 
 cepted the knowledge with thankfulness. 
 She rose out of the darkness and shadow 
 of death in which she had been lying, 
 owned that there was yet a blessing to be 
 won in life, and with the conviction some- 
 thing like its old sweet smile lighted her 
 countenance. 
 
 Once roused, Mary did not go to sleep. 
 That very evening saw her, for the first 
 time, attending to her neglected flowers. 
 Of late, the brilliant glow of the summer 
 bloom had been painful to her; but with 
 her new desires better thoughts returned. 
 In former days she had often said that there 
 might be sadness in life, but there was 
 no need to make it sadder by gloom. Why
 
 288 MARY LYNDSAT. 
 
 refuse the bright though simple things that 
 cheer and beautify it? In her sadness she 
 had felt the temptation to forget her words ; 
 but, once roused to remember them, she 
 owned their truth and resolved to neglect 
 them no more. 
 
 She was standing in the garden, tying 
 up some disordered carnations, when Mr. 
 Merivale suddenly appeared at the gate. 
 She was alone, and, as she did not per- 
 ceive him, he paused to look at her. The 
 evening sun was falling on her, and casting 
 a warm glow on her cheek, but the glow 
 could not conceal the change in her appear- 
 ance. He knew not of the mental sorrow, 
 but he saw the w^asting effects of ilhiess 
 in her transparent skin and fragile figure. 
 He felt, for the first time, in its full force, 
 what it would have been if Mary had 
 died ; and, opening the gate, he came 
 towards her with an agitated step.
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 289 
 
 She looked up from her occupation, and, 
 as it does in illness, the quick blood flew 
 to her cheek, and vanished again. But 
 she was still and untroubled when he 
 reached her. She had gone through too 
 much to be affected, as she once had been, 
 by his presence. 
 
 " Forgive me, Miss Lyndsay," he said, 
 hurriedly. " I have waited to see you at 
 Cleeve in vain." 
 
 Another stab to Mary's conscience. Ab- 
 sorbed in one thought, she had forgotten 
 everything besides. " I have not been there 
 of late," she said, gently. " For a time 
 I could not, but I ought before now. Will 
 you tell your sister I will come." 
 
 He made no answer, but stood gazing 
 at her. At last, almost passionately, he 
 said, " Thank God that I have seen you 
 once more ! Oh ! Mary, what would this 
 world have been without you?" 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 He held out his hand to her. She gave 
 hers for an instant, then withdrew it gravely 
 and tremblingly, and moved a step back- 
 wards. Touched she was by his unchanged 
 devotion ; touched, but not attracted. 
 Almost more absolutely than at first she 
 shrank from it. Human beings are strangely 
 fastidious in allowing affection from their 
 fellow-creatures. Though George Herbert 
 says 
 
 " Love is a present for a mighty king," 
 
 there is something in human nature which 
 does not find the present acceptable. 
 
 Mr. Merivale read this in Mary's eyes, and 
 if a spark of hope had been rising, it was 
 extinguished. 
 
 " Forgive me that I have given you pain," 
 he said, in a low voice ; and without another 
 look, he left her alone. 
 
 And then again she wept tears of pity. It 
 was always thus. She could not love him.
 
 MARY LYNDSAY. 291 
 
 but her compassion for liim was like an 
 angel's. She shrank from his presence, but he 
 never left her without a weight on her 
 heart. 
 
 Captain Lyndsay from his study saw the 
 short meeting, the abrupt departure, and his 
 daughter's tears, and was content. It might 
 have been thought, that in the real affection 
 he had shown, and the deep pity he had felt 
 for Mary, his schemes would have taken flight, 
 but it was not so. Other influences — the 
 great influence of poverty had been at work 
 — and if there had once been compunction, 
 this had put it to flight. A long illness 
 in a house whose means are barely sufficient 
 for every day's wants, is one of the severest 
 trials of poverty. To be poor is nothing, 
 even to a proud man, so long as there is 
 enough; enough for that humble scale of 
 living which has been laid out ; but to be 
 poor in illness is a trial indeed.
 
 292 MARY LYNDSAY. 
 
 While Mary was in danger, Captain 
 Lyndsay had forgotten his poverty, had 
 invited and commanded the constant attend- 
 ance of the apothecary. When she ralKed, 
 shame had prevented him from owning that 
 the small luxuries ordered were more than 
 he could afford. Some weeks of illness, 
 and some weeks without Mary's hand and 
 mind to overrule the affairs of the house, 
 had brought poverty before him in its most 
 painful forms more vividly than ever, and 
 the conviction was planted in his heart that 
 for Mary and for himself the happiness of 
 life was to be rich. The more resolutelv, 
 therefore, was his strong will set upon her 
 union with Mr. Merivale. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 C)