THE ORIGINAL 
 
 REGAN PRINTING HO 
 
 IN THEIR NEW LOCATION, 
 
 37 TO 91 THIRD HVENU 
 
 WE NOW HAVE THE BEST 
 
 NIGHT AND DAT PRESS-ROOM 
 
 K N D 
 
 EDITION AND PAMPHLET BINDERY 
 
 TO BE FOUND IN THE WEST. 
 
 For jeatauf Artistic worK we Cannot fie Beat. 
 
 Publishers and the trade will consult their best in- 
 k terests by sending us their work, for to keep in the 
 ^ van they must burn the “midnight oil,” and we never 
 ^toeep. Our organization is perfection, our machinery 
 A the latest, and we are the first in the field with 
 Beverything that is new, and is the 
 
 ONLY PRINTING HOUSE IN THE WORLD USING 
 WEB PRESSES FOR GENERAL WORK. 
 
 SEND FOR ESTIMATES. 
 
 $'( to 91 ^renuo, (®fykago. 
 
m LIBRARY 
 
 8FTBE- 
 CXlVERSltt Uf 
 
« 
 
Ale in the Wild 
 
 March Morning. 
 
 By the Author of u Fairy Gold etc ,, etc. 
 
 Chicago: 
 
 Universal Publishing Co, 
 1888. 
 
WILSON 
 
 f|3 : 
 
 VU3l<x 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 “You have been such a time away, Tredennick!” 
 
 The lady spoke with a little aggrieved smile, and in tones 
 of reproach, as of those of a person so accustomed to regard 
 and consideration that the mere involuntary absence of her 
 votaries is resented as an approach to neglect, placing as she 
 did so her tiny feet, in their dainty black silk-stockings and 
 kid shoes, all rosetted and gold-buckled, nearer, on her velvet- 
 covered fender-stool, to the warmth of the crimson-glowing 
 fire. 
 
 “ Hand me my large fan, please—that black-bugled affair. 
 Thank you;” and* she adjusted the black glittering fan to 
 shade her pale smooth cheek from the ardent glare* and 
 arranged her fine cambric lace-edged handkerchief over her 
 little, plump, white jewelled hand to protect its fairness also. 
 
 Some vain exacting young beauty she doubtless appears, 
 this fair dame. Hasty judgments are always unwise—nearly 
 always incorrect. * 
 
 Madam Vivian had been a beauty without doubt, and pos¬ 
 sessed a beauty of her own yet—had been just as vain*and 
 exacting as most young, courted, flattered beauties are—no 
 more, no less—and was as gracefully imperious, as self-suffi¬ 
 cient, self-willed, and self-possessed, as handsome, haughty, 
 well-bred, well-born, and wealthy elderly ladies generally are. 
 
 Despite her dark brilliant eyes, her smooth fair cheek, her 
 scarcely lined brow, her well-cut lips and white even teeth— 
 all her own beauty, her own natural gift without a touch of 
 art to aid it—Madam Vivian of Roseworthy was fifty-six 
 years of age, and wore on her hair, which was beautiful, lus¬ 
 trous, wavy, and silver-gray, a fragile kind of diadem of 
 black lace, all besprinkled with glittering tremulous stars and 
 
 701496 
 
6 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MAECH MORNING. 
 
 crescents of jet, to denote her state of widowed mourning, 
 although it dated back some seven years before. 
 
 The person addressed as Tredennick, therefore, was not 
 that subservient, humble-minded, and somewhat timid indi¬ 
 vidual who had the unparalleled good fortune to be the hus¬ 
 band of a flattered, imperious beauty; nor was he her son, 
 although his years numbered some twenty-four less than hers. 
 
 “My dear aunt,” he said, quietly, “the East Indiaman 
 Chittoor is rather different in character from your little Blue - 
 bell , in the days when you went yachting, to go here and there 
 by the favour of wind and tide.” 
 
 “ Dear me, Tredennick, I should think I know that! ” said 
 Madam Vivian, rather petulantly. “But you have been 
 away a very long time, I repeat—it seems to me that each of 
 your voyages is longer than the last. Of course I know there 
 are no attractions in England to make you hasten home.” 
 
 The black glittering fan in Madam Vivian’s hand, and the 
 black begemmed lace on her silvery hair, stirred and fluttered 
 .with an air of misery and reproach. 
 
 The keen, expressive blue-gray eyes of Stephen Tredennick, 
 Captain of the East Indiaman Cliittoor , sparkled with a pass¬ 
 ing gleam of amusement; and then he replied, as quietly as 
 before— 
 
 “No attractions outside the home my dear aunt is kind 
 enough to welcome a poor sailor to.” 
 
 The compliment and tribute, warmly as they were expressed, 
 nevertheless failed in quite pacifying Madam Vivian. She 
 fluttered her fan more impatiently for a few moments, glanc¬ 
 ing athwart it with her dark eyes flashing in a manner which 
 showed what deadly service the dainty weapon might have 
 done in the days of her early ball-room campaigns. 
 
 “ It is your own fault entirely, Stephen,” she said, sharply 
 ancl suddenly; “you might have other attractions, and other 
 homes to welcome you, if you cared.” 
 
 “Yes, but I do not care, aunt,” he replied more quietly, a 
 certain stern look coming into his kind blue eyes; “we have 
 said all we can say on that subject, and you know my mind.” 
 
 “Yes; you will never marry unless you meet a girl whom 
 you can love,” said Madam Vivian, in rather a shrill tone, as 
 of one labouring under much suppressed annoyance. “You 
 only say that for want of a better answer to make me, Stephen. 
 It cannot be possible that an educated man of thirty-two has 
 no other ideas on the subject of an eligible wife than the 
 mere Jack-Tar notion of ‘a girl to love! ’ ” 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 7 
 
 “ I regret to say—such is the density of my ignorance and 
 the narrow-mindedness of my obstinate determination,” re¬ 
 turned Captain Tredennick, smiling still, but looking a little 
 irritated—“the mere Jack-Tar notion is the very one for me.” 
 
 “ Well,” said Madam, changing her tactics, and beginning 
 to reason anew, with all the pertinacity of a self-willed woman, 
 “why can not you find the girl to love? What is to hinder 
 you? ” 
 
 “Where am I to find her? I don’t admire the black-eyed 
 Susans or lovely Nans of seaport towns; and I assure you, 
 dear aunt, my acquaintance with London belles is excessively 
 limited.” 
 
 “ Excessively limited—I should think so!” retorted Madam, 
 petulantly, as she saw in her nephew’s face the glimmer of 
 amusement at her anxiety. “No wonder it should be limited, 
 when you spend your time in the smoky, groggy society of a 
 set of sailors, and go poking about their 4 snug cribs,’ 
 as they call their little out-of-the-way villas and cottages that 
 are kept like ship-cabins, and with not even a female house¬ 
 keeper sometimes!” 
 
 “ Oh, I beg your pardon, aunt,” said he, laughing; 44 Mar- 
 tyn has a remarkably pretty housekeeper, whom he adores, 
 and a houseful of pretty maidservants.” 
 
 44 Captain Martyn had sense enough to marry, and marry 
 well too,” said Madam, shortly. 
 
 44 And Stephen Tredennick has not sense enough to marry 
 and, if he ever does, is likely to marry ill,” retorted the Cap¬ 
 tain of the Chittoor , rising and walking away to the window. 
 
 44 1 do not at all doubt it,” said Madam, sharply. 
 
 44 That nor’-wester is blowing pretty stiff,” Captain Tre¬ 
 dennick remarked presently, glad to change the subject of 
 conversation, as he drew back the thick green damask cur¬ 
 tains, and looked out into the misty stormy night. 44 Dirty 
 weather in the Channel to-night, I fear,” he went on, talking 
 to himself, for Madam Vivian sat with her head turned 
 away, her little slippered foot pettishly beating the footstool; 
 44 there will be a gale before midnight. I think I will go out 
 and have a look—smoke my pipe on the cliffs—that is, if it 
 woji’t be put out,” and he laughed as he turned to leave the 
 room. 
 
 44 At this hour, Stephen!—in the darkness and storm!” 
 Madam Vivian exclaimed, her affection and anxiety quite 
 overcoming her ill-humour. 44 My dear boy, you must not 
 think of it! Are there not your own room and the study— 
 
8 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 both with good fires, and warm and cosy? Stephen dear, 
 pray do not!” 
 
 “Very well then, aunt, to please you,” he said, going 
 towards the door nevertheless; “but I shall just have a look 
 at the night.” 
 
 “Not on the cliffs—pray, Stephen, not on the cliffs!” 
 Madam Vivian reiterated. “Stephen, do you hear me?” 
 
 “I hear you, dear aunt,” he replied, with a kind of grave 
 patience; “ are you afraid that a capful of wind would take 
 me off my legs and blow me over Tregarthen Head ?” 
 
 “A capful of wind do you call it?” cried Madam, indig¬ 
 nantly, pointing her white hand to the wildly-swaying boughs 
 of the great elms outside, as their dark forms were visible 
 against the lighter background of stormy, cloudy sky, 
 through which the faint moonlight struggled dimly. “ I have 
 been out in a gale of wind before now, and I know one as 
 well as you do, Captain Tredennick! Come and sit down to 
 chess this instant, under peril of my displeasure—Llanyon 
 will send us up some tea presently—and forget your quarter¬ 
 deck and dirty weather and night watches for once.” 
 
 “ My dear aunt, I am no more able to refuse compli¬ 
 ance with any request of yours than my late uncle was,” said 
 her nephew; and there was a glimmer of ridicule in the sail¬ 
 or’s keen pleasant eyes as he turned obediently, moved the 
 little inlaid table in front of Madam’s easy chair, and placed 
 thereon the splendidly-carved ivory chessmen which he him¬ 
 self had brought home from Canton as a gift. Common 
 report would have it, indeed, that the late John Vivian, 
 Squire of Roseworthy, parish of St. Awen, Cornwall, had 
 carried the trait of conjugal amiability, to which his nephew 
 alluded, so very far that it had carried him at length into the 
 regions of conjugal slavery—but then common report is 
 always slanderous. 
 
 Chess was Madam Vivian’s favorite game; she delighted 
 as much as she excelled in its intriguing, its deep-laid policy, 
 its ambuscades, and well-won victories; and it was her boast 
 to say that she never met her match on the held of the 
 chequered board, except in a Tredennick of Tregarthen. 
 
 She certainly did meet her match, and her victor very often, 
 in a Tredennick of Tregarthen; but then she could grace¬ 
 fully yield the palm to those of her own kindred, for she had 
 been a Tredennick of Tregarthen before she came to rule 
 over Squire Vivian’s handsome house and well filled purse in 
 Roseworthy. 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 9 
 
 “I had intended to go up to Tregarthen this evening,” 
 Stephen Tredennick remarked absently, toying with a cap¬ 
 tured pawn, and oblivious of an awful menace to his bishop 
 from Madam’s last move. “ It is too late now; I must go up 
 to-morrow. The Truscotts are keeping the old house 
 together, I suppose, aunt?” 
 
 “ Yes, keeping it together,” Madam replied with a slight 
 shrug; “ it is a perfect ruin, you know. Stephen, do you 
 intend that pawn to remain?” 
 
 “ I am sorry for it,” said Captain Tredennick, moving the 
 pawn carelessly; “I should not like the old home to fall to 
 ruins, even if I never lived in it.” 
 
 “ It would take full three thousand pounds to rebuild and 
 renovate,” observed Madam, with another'shrug; “if you are 
 never going to live there, it does not matter, I suppose. If I 
 had three thousand to spare, I would do it for the sake of the 
 name of the Tredennicks of Tregarthen, but I have not. So 
 I suppose it must go, as they will go; you are the last of the 
 Tredennicks, and I dare say another half century will blot 
 even the memory of tl\em off the face of the earth.” 
 
 “ I dare say,” replied Stephen Tredennick, gravely. 
 
 “There goes your bishop! ” cried Madam, sharply, swoop¬ 
 ing down on the neglected piece. “What are you thinking 
 of? You are playing very badly to-night! ” 
 
 “I shall not spend three thousand certainly,” Stephen 
 Tredennick said, taking the loss of the bishop very philo¬ 
 sophically, “ but I certainly must spend a few pounds in 
 making it weathertight. I shall go up there to-morrow.” 
 
 “It is sad to see it in the state it is in,” returned Madam, 
 speaking in meaning accents still. “I should like before I 
 die to see the Tredennicks of Tregarthen there once more; 
 but I never shall, I suppose.” 
 
 The unpleasant subject was cropping up again. Captain 
 Tredennick made another reckless move, and turned his head 
 towards the window. 
 
 “ Ah, the gale is upon us sooner than I thought,” he said, 
 the sough of the trees and the mournful sighing of the night 
 wind rising, as he spoke, into a sudden shrieking blast, that 
 roared above the thundering din of the crashing billows out by 
 the headland crags, and swept over the mansion fiercely, beat¬ 
 ing at its closed doors and windows, screaming round the 
 grouped chimneys, the angles and gables, and burying itself 
 with long, tremulous wails in the surging hurricane of sound 
 of the wild, leafless woodlands behind. 
 
10 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 “ Check to your queen! ” said Madam. 
 
 Captain Tredennick made a few feeble efforts to save the 
 game, but a move or two more placed it entirely in Madam’s 
 hands. 
 
 “ I do not call that a game, now—it was merely surren¬ 
 dered,” said she pushing her chair away in pique. “ If you 
 did not want to play, why did you not say so? Ring for tea, 
 please, Stephen.” 
 
 “ I really do not feel my head quite clear to-night, aunt,” 
 he explained, apologetically; “ my mind kept wandering all 
 the time. Hark! It is a bad night for the Channel, and no 
 mistake!” 
 
 Llanyon, Madam Vivian’s staid, grave butler, entered at 
 this juncture with Madam’s favourite china—pale buff and 
 gold—and Madam’s silver service, with the fragrant green 
 tea, the sparkling sugar, the tiny silver-stoppered bottle of 
 lemon essence, with which she always flavoured her cup, and 
 the little richly-chased ewer of scalded cream. Llanyon had, 
 beside the silver biscuit-basket, another coloured dish. 
 
 “ Cook sent up some c heavy-cake,’ Madam,” he said, a 
 little apologetically. “ She says it is very nice, if you and 
 the'Captain would like to try it. Miss Winnie is very fond 
 of it—only she has not come to-night.” 
 
 u Oh, I see!” said Madam, laughing carelessly—“ it was 
 made for Miss Winnie then, and cook kindly condescends to 
 give us a morsel. I am sure we are flattered! No, of‘course 
 the child has not come to-night—how could you expect it, 
 Llanyon? Come, Stephen. I always like my green tea after 
 chess; indeed, during a prolonged and well-played game I 
 like it to sip at intervals whilst I am playing; but we are hardly 
 in need of it to-night.” 
 
 Madam Vivian was one of those people who do not easily 
 forgive. 
 
 “ Who is c Miss Winnie? ’ ” Captain Tredennick asked. “ I 
 never heard of that young lady before.” 
 
 “ Oh, a little girl who conies to read or play to me in the 
 evening,” said Madam, intent on the exact flavouring of her 
 tea. “ Won’t you try the lemon essence, Tredennick? It’s 
 a vast improvement. She’s a nice little creature, poor child.” 
 
 Tredennick’s eyes appeared to question, whilst he spoke 
 no word—he was, in truth, at that moment calculating the 
 time of the tide, 'and the probable position of some home¬ 
 ward-bound vessels of which he knew. 
 
 “ Not a very comfortable home, poor child,” said Madam, 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 11 
 
 in reply to his look; “ a step mother, and a parcel of disa¬ 
 greeable children, you know, and poor Winnie made a kind 
 of drudge for them. I would have taken her altogether as a 
 little companion, but her step-mother had the impertinence to 
 tell me—to tell me,” repeated Madam, setting hack her well¬ 
 shaped head, with its trembling diadem of lace, and her full 
 white throat—“ that Winnie could not be spared from home! 
 Her father came to apologise, and wished me to take Winnie, 
 but I, of course, refused.” 
 
 Stephen Tredennick did not quite see the force or justice 
 of the “ of course,” but he merely asked— 
 
 “ What is he?” 
 
 “A Coastguard officer. He has been in the Royal Navy, 
 and held the rank of lieutenant,” replied Madam Vivian. 
 “You ideally should taste this ‘heavy-cake,’ Tredennick; cook 
 always makes it deliciously. Of course, only that she is a 
 gentleman’s daughter, I would not make a companion of poor 
 little Winnie, though she is such a clever little being—plays 
 quite prettily, and sings a little, and reads beautifully—quite 
 a natural gift, poor child!” 
 
 Again Tredennick did not see, under all the circumstances, 
 the force and justice of the “of course,” but said nothing; 
 the allusion to the Coastguard service having sent his mind 
 off, through the wild darkness of the bleak March night on 
 the English coast, the driving rain and howling blast, to 
 smugglers’ adventures, skirmishes, captures, and escapes, in 
 the sultry gloom of tropical nights beneath the silver glory 
 of the Southern Cross, and to the pirate’s darker craft, like 
 a fell bird of prey darting amidst the 
 
 Summer isles of Eden lying in dark purple spheres of sea. 
 
 An impatient clink of the china and silver resulting in a tiny 
 chime brought him back with a start to the reality of Madam 
 Vivian’s richly furnished drawing-room, all green, in different 
 shades and depths of hue, as regarded its upholstery and 
 drapery of velvet and satin damask, all aglow with the light 
 of wax-candles and blazing firelight, all glittering with black 
 walnut-woods and heavy dull-gold frames (Madam Vivian 
 liked green in her rooms—it suited her complexion, and it 
 did not tire her eyes, she said; she liked wax-candles and 
 large fires; and she chose black walnut in preference to gayer 
 and less chaste carvings)—to the contemplation of Madam’s 
 pale handsome face with a faint hue, the last flush of the 
 once exquisite roses of her cheeks, relieving it from actual 
 
12 ALL IN THE WILD MAECH MOKNING. 
 
 pallor or sallowness—to the contemplation of her silvery 
 waves of shining hair, her rich lustreless trailing black silk, 
 the dainty tea-table, and Madam’s jewelled fingers, with 
 sparks of rainbow fire on them as they moved hither and 
 thither amongst the tea-equipage; and then the wild storm 
 and rain, drenching the windows outside, claimed him again. 
 
 “ Hark! ” said Madam suddenly, dropping the sugar-tongs 
 with a deafening clash—“ it never can be! Did you not hear 
 a knock and ring, Tredennick? ” 
 
 “Certainly I did,” he replied, in some surprise. 
 
 “ It can never be that child! ” said Madam irritably. “It* 
 could not be possible! How slow Llanyon is! ” 
 
 To alleviate her impatience, Tredennick had risen and laid 
 his hand on the lock, when he heard the hall-door unbarred, 
 and then shut hastily against the storm, as some one rushed 
 in with an ejaculation. 
 
 “ It’s Miss Winnie, Madam,” said the old butler, as Tre¬ 
 dennick opened the drawing-room door; and at the same 
 moment a small muffled-up figure, apparently dripping with 
 wet, appeared in the brightly lit portal. 
 
 “Winifred!” cried Madam Vivian, sharply—Madam’s voice 
 was very clear, and rather high-pitched, and could be very 
 shrill and sharp when she chose. 
 
 “Yes, Madam,” came in rather muffled-up tones from the 
 dripping figure. 
 
 “ What on earth induced you to come out on such a night?” 
 Madam demanded, 'her fair smooth forehead lined with dis¬ 
 pleasure. “ In torrents of rain, darkness and storm, and at 
 this hour, too! Did you imagine I wanted to be read to at 
 nine o’clock in the evening?” 
 
 “ It was much earlier when I left home, Madam,” the little 
 wet bundled-up figure said humbly. “ It was only half-past 
 seven when I left home, and the storm overtook me—and I 
 had to go errands besides.” 
 
 Madam compressed her well-cut pink lips, and poured out 
 another cup of tea for herself. 
 
 “Well, Winifred ”—sugaring, creaming, and flavouring the 
 beverage very delicately, but without raising her eyes from her 
 employment—“as you have been ridiculous enough to quit 
 your own home, and come through darkness and storm until 
 you are covered with mud and wet from head to foot, for the 
 very laudable purpose of reading to me at an hour when 
 I shall be going to bed—as you would scarcely be presentable 
 for the next two hours—you had better go down to cook and 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 13 
 
 get your clothes dried, and have some hot tea or something. 
 Such an idea! I am sure, Tredennick, you must think me a 
 considerate woman to expect a young girl to come more than 
 two miles along the cliffs, on such a night as this, to read to 
 me! Positively! ” Madam was very angry, and spilled some 
 of her delicate tea over her cambric handkerchief. “ Shut the 
 door, please, Winifred, and go down to cook, as I told you.” 
 
 The little dark wet figure listened quietly to the last word 
 of the reproof, and then softly shut the door and stole away. 
 
 “Did you ever know anything so preposterous?” said 
 Madam, angrily, to Tredennick. “The idea of the girl’s, 
 attempting such a thing, and that abominable step-mother of 
 hers and her stupid father to allow her! That is the worst 
 of Winnie: she is so excessively stupid—silly, you know—a 
 childish stupidity without an idea of discretion or judgment. 
 
 I am really exceedingly provoked with Winnie. She will 
 run over here in all weathers—glad to get away from her 
 wretched home, I suppose; but then I shall have the blame 
 if anything happens to her. Just imagine, if that child were 
 blown over the cliffs, or Tregarthen Head—she lives half a 
 mile beyond Tregarthen — what a state I should be in! 
 Accused of her untimely end, I dare say, by all her friends 
 and relations! ” 
 
 “ She does not seem to have many, poor little lassie!” 
 commented Captain Tredennick, commiseratingly. 
 
 “No, indeed,” said Madam Vivian, self-complacently, 
 ignoring any second meaning in his words; “ she is always 
 running after me—seems almost to cling to me, poor child!” 
 
 Madam was fond of her faithful little protegee y pitied her 
 poverty and friendlessness, recognised the “poor child’s” 
 natural gifts and social attractions, yet she sat there com¬ 
 posedly drinking her high-flavoured costly beverage, and lan¬ 
 guidly tasting the morsels of rich cake on her plate, luxuri¬ 
 ating in the cosy warmth and elegance she loved, while the 
 “ poor child ” had been peremptorily banished, cold, wet, and 
 weary as she was, and bidden to seek what rest and restora¬ 
 tion she could find from the hands of servants. Madam was 
 utterly unconscious of any unkindness. Passing through the 
 homage of her flattered girlhood to the more slavish homage 
 of her indulged imperious wifehood, she had never felt what 
 it was to love another better than herself—never felt one 
 touch of that 
 
 Love born of sorrow* 
 
 Which like sorrow is true—* 
 
14 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 which makes the true heart beat so tenderly for another’s 
 heart grief. She had never known one throb of self-sacri¬ 
 ficing passionate affection beneath her childless breast. 
 
 Stephen Tredennick did not remember or know of this, 
 and make her the allowance which must be made for those 
 placidly self-satisfied, prosperous-lived, cold, untried natures. 
 He was surprised and displeased; and the remembrance of 
 the desolate, humble little figure drove all other considera¬ 
 tions out of his head. 
 
 He was very silent for a long time, until Madam, impa¬ 
 tiently abandoning all further attempts at conversation, 
 pushed her cup aside, and betook herself to the perusal of 
 one of “ Mudie’s last.” 
 
 “ You are tired, I dare say, Tredennick,” she said curtly; 
 “ pray do not stand on any ceremony. I shall read for an 
 hour or so.” 
 
 “Very well, aunt,” he replied, and, bidding her good-night, 
 quitted the room. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A quarter of an hour afterwards Captain Stephen Treden¬ 
 nick, instead of being ensconced in the well-lighted, well- 
 warmed bachelor rooms which were given up for the nonce 
 to him and tobacco-smoke, was prowling about, in a state of 
 dire uncertainty, though gloomy, draughty passages and 
 rooms in the lower regions of Rose worthy House, and in 
 close proximity to the cellars and pantries. 
 
 “ I really must satisfy myself,” he muttered self-apologeti- 
 cally—“ I really must know if my aunt intends sending that 
 poor little girl home along the cliffs through such a gale and 
 rain as this. The poor child is safe for coughs and colds long 
 enough, I dare say. I really should not wonder if she were 
 made to return as she came. I wonder at aunt Vivian! I 
 really never would-” 
 
 Here Captain Tredennicl^s kind-heartedness and progress¬ 
 ive search brought him up t6 a closed door, beneath which 
 shone a light, and through which came the sound of women’s 
 voices. 
 
 “I beg your pardon—would you be kind enough to tell 
 me,” he began, with a true gentlemanly courtesy to servants, 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 15 
 
 and especially women-servants, as he gently knocked, and, 
 being bidden to enter, pushed the door ajar. 
 
 The room, a small, cosy, humbly-furnished parlour, with a 
 bright fire, a singing tea kettle, and a most fragrant perfume 
 of tea, toast, and cake, was evidently that comfortable sanc¬ 
 tum of the female chiefs of the kingdom below stairs, “the 
 housekeeper’s room; ” nor had Captain Tredennick any diffi¬ 
 culty in recognising those personages in the prim, genteel, 
 silk attired lady’s maid and the rosy, rotund, white-aproned 
 cook. 
 
 “Would you tell me if the little girl—that poor little body 
 who came here a while ago through the storm-” 
 
 He stopped; for the cook had risen at the sound of his 
 voice, and curtsied, toasting fork in hand, smiling in the 
 direction of the little arm-chair opposite the lady’s maid. 
 
 “ Oh, there she is! ” said Captain Tredennick, much relieved, 
 when, at the first glance in the direction the cook had indi¬ 
 cated, he perceived a small figure, huddled in a bright flaring- 
 coloured shawl and a rather bundled-up-looking costume, 
 resting in the soft little, shabby-pillowed chair by the bright 
 fireside. “ I am glad to see you are being comfortably taken 
 care of,” he added, pleasantly. “ I was afraid that you might 
 have been foolish enough to venture home by the cliffs this 
 wild night—you will not attempt it, I hope?” 
 
 The little figure half rose from her seat, trying to arrange 
 her cumbersome drapery, which evidently belonged to a far 
 larger and taller person, and holding the gay crimson-and- 
 yellow shawl tightly around her. 
 
 “ Oh no, sir, thank you,” she said, and a timid flush rose 
 over her small pale face up to the very roots of her hair. 
 “ Since I have come, Madam Vivian says I am to stop to-night 
 at Roseworthy; and Mrs. Grose, the cook, and Miss Trewhella 
 have been very kind to me.” 
 
 She smiled a little smile of shy girlish fun at her big shawl 
 and trailing skirts. 
 
 “ Not at all, Miss Winnie dear,” interposed Miss Trewhella, 
 with a genteel short cough and deprecatory gesture. “ Your 
 dress was perfectly wet through, you know—perfectly wet, 
 sir,” she added, turning to Captain Tredennick with a 
 politely explanatory air; “ and of course we had to resort to 
 remedies to prevent poor Miss Winnie from catching cold— 
 poor child.” 
 
 “ Indeed, yes,” Mrs. Grose put in, with a broad humorous 
 smile on her round, red, shining face; “ she was as wet as a 
 
16 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 drowned rat, Captain Stephen, sir.” Miss Trewhella coughed 
 again to drown the vulgar simile, but Mrs. Grose went on 
 persistently, the fat pleasant smile beginning to widen into a 
 laugh. “No wonder, such a terrible soaking night as this. 
 She hadn’t a dry thread on her—had you, Miss Winnie, dearie? 
 We had to take every stitch off of her, poor child; and she 
 
 has nothing on now only-” Miss Trewhella coughed as if 
 
 she would break a blood-vessel, and darted a look of dignified 
 horror at the cook—“only some things of mine and Miss 
 Trewhella’s, sir,” continued the cook equably, proceeding to 
 butter the toast; “ and we are a-making of her a bit com¬ 
 fortable.” 
 
 “Indeed, so I see,” said Captain Stephen, looking pleased; 
 “ there is no fear for any one in these comfortable quarters, 
 Mrs. Grose. Don’t let me disturb you, I beg,” he went on, 
 moving nearer to the fire as Miss Trewhella glided away with 
 a profound and graceful curtsey. He meant to shake hands 
 with the little girl, and warn her to avoid travelling by Tre- 
 garthen Head any more on dark stormy evenings like this. 
 “ I'can not tell how you could manage to keep your feet along 
 that cliff road over the Head in such a gale,” he was saying, 
 when his notice became attracted to the young girl’s hair. 
 
 That it was thick, and dark, and hanging in dishevelled 
 masses over her shoulders he had seen at first, but not until 
 the blazing firelight and his immediate proximity revealed it 
 to him did he perceive its lustrous, wavy abundance, the 
 burnished golden light on the wealth of ripples and tresses, 
 naturally curling from the effects of the late wetting and 
 sudden hot drying, and its great length. As she sat, it fell 
 below her waist, and lay in silken masses in her lap. 
 
 With honest, simple, admiring surprise, with not a spice of 
 sailor gallantry in his kind gray eyes, he laid his hand lightly 
 on the little bowed head by his side. 
 
 “ My dear child, what beautiful hair you have! ” he said. 
 
 She looked up in quick astonishment, her quiet, rather plain 
 face lighting up strangely w r ith pleasure, and a pair of very 
 dark deep-set eyes seeking his most earnestly. 
 
 Stephen Tredennick had read—as who has not?—the beau¬ 
 tiful and touching story of “ The Child of the Marshalsea;” 
 and in this moment there flashed across his memory the scene 
 where the wretched woman, who yields to “ Little Dorrit’s” 
 tender pleadings for a few words as they encounter each other 
 in the dreary London streets, starts back from the first look 
 into the pitying eyes with the wild cry, “ You are a woman!” 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 17 
 
 for, at the first glance of the dark, expressive, wistful, inquir¬ 
 ing eyes upturned to his face, he had almost started back and 
 uttered a like exclamation. 
 
 He had taken her to be a girl about fourteen. Very young 
 as she undoubtedly was, and small and slight her form, there 
 was a strong, brave, passionate, womanly soul looking through 
 those eyes—there were womanly sorrow and womanly endur¬ 
 ance in the lines around her gentle, firm mouth. They sofk 
 ened, and the face grew very young and girlish in the quick 
 flush _of happiness and innocent vanity which-his words had 
 called forth, but she drew her hair away from his touch, and 
 a certain air of womanly dignity replaced the girlish blush. 
 
 “My hair was quite wet, sir, and had to be all dried,” she 
 said, pushing it back almost out of sight. 
 
 “ And it’s none so dry yet that you should put it away like 
 that, Miss Winnie,” interposed Mrs. Grose, rather mischiev¬ 
 ously. “ Captain Tredennick never saw finer hair than that 
 in his life. Now did you, sir? ” 
 
 “ No, I do not think I ever did,” he replied, smiling cour¬ 
 teously—“ that is, what I was allowed to see of it.” 
 
 He paused a moment, waiting to catch the girl’s eye, but 
 she kept her face turned away, and he thought he saw her 
 low white brow knit in an uneasy frown. 
 
 “Good-night, Miss—Miss——” he said confusedly, believ¬ 
 ing that he had forgotten a name which, in fact, he had never 
 heard. 
 
 “My name is Winifred Caerlyon, sir,” she vouchsafed 
 quietly, barely glancing at him, and then looking away again. 
 
 “ The Captain is waiting to bid you good-night, Miss Win¬ 
 nie, my dear,” remonstrated Mrs. Grose in a very urgent 
 undertone. 
 
 She rose instantly, obedient. It troubled Stephen Treden¬ 
 nick, though he could not have told why, to see that quick 
 humble obedience, to hear her hasty “I beg your pardon, 
 sir,” and see the timid flush in her cheeks as she placed her 
 small, hard, labour-marked hand in his. 
 
 Not as Stephen Tredennick, the sailor who wanted to be 
 kind to another sailor’s daughter, did she regard him, but as 
 the great gentleman, Tredennick of Tregarthen—the favourite 
 nephew and heir of her grand patroness. 
 
 A thought like this crossed his mind, as his fingers warmly 
 pressed those poor slim girlish ones, roughened from stitch¬ 
 ing, and marked with the inevitable scars and scratches of 
 constant household work. 
 
 % 
 
18 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 “Poor child! Poor little girl!” he ejaculated mentally. 
 “ Good-night,” said he, kindly. “ I hope you will be none 
 the worse for your wetting; it was much too severe a night 
 for a young lady to venture out.” 
 
 Something in the flickering light of a sarcastic smile on 
 her lips, and an involuntary turn of her head towards Mrs. 
 Grose, where that worthy woman was pouring out tea, as she 
 said, “I am used to being out on business in all weathers, sir 
 —I do not mind it,’’ were a revelation to him of much of poor 
 Winnie Caerlyon’s daily life. 
 
 “No, indeed, my dear,” muttered Mrs. Grose with a sigh. 
 “ Now your tea is ready, Miss Winnie, and I hope you’ll take 
 it hearty. Miss Winnie is having her tea in our little par¬ 
 lour, you know, sir, because it is more comfortable for her,” 
 she said, apologetically, to Captain Tredennick. “ Having 
 her dress dried, and no clothes on, you may say—oh, dear 
 me! dear me! Miss Trewhella, you’ve stood on my corn 
 dreadful! And, besides, it was after Madam’s tea time when 
 she came—and Miss Winnie doesn’t mind having it down 
 here with her poor old nursey—do you, dear? I nursed her 
 when she wasn’t a month old, Captain Tredennick, sir—when 
 her own dear mamma was living.” 
 
 “And of course you are very fond of her?” He uttered 
 the words as he stood, holding her hand still in his, looking 
 down from his five feet eleven of masculine height and 
 strength on the slender little womanly figure, looking so 
 oddly old-fashioned and young and helpless in the ridiculously 
 long trailing dress and shawl—on the anxious white brow, 
 the sad little mouth, the downcast eyelids, and the rich beauty 
 of her luxuriant hair, at variance in its wealth of loveliness 
 with that quiet grave face, boasting of no fairness save its 
 intelligence, gentleness, and womanly purity. “ Poor little 
 girl! ” he said, pityingly to himself—“poor dear little girl! ” 
 
 As if answering his thoughts, Mrs. Grose, the worthy, 
 rotund cook, responded affectionately to his question— 
 
 “Indeed, Captain Stephen, sir, there’s not many who could 
 help being fond of my poor little Miss Winnie.” 
 
 And on the spot a queer idea flitted through Captain Tre- 
 dennick’s mind—that if this poor little girl belonged to him 
 in any way, how fond of her he should be—it would be such 
 a pleasure to take care of a meek, gentle little creature like 
 her! 
 
 A full hour and a half afterwards—that is, at twenty min¬ 
 utes to twelve—Captain Stephen Tredennick, who had quitted 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 19 
 
 Madam Vivian’s society at half-past nine o’clock, fatigued 
 and unsocial in humour, was sitting before the study-fire, 
 smoking, with as little notion of, or desire for, retiring to rest 
 as he had had at dinner-time. Madam Vivian did not know 
 it, fortunately. 
 
 Busily and dreamily as the minutes slipped by and length¬ 
 ened into half-hours, Captain Tredennick’s mind went over a 
 variety of subjects, whilst the odorous clouds of tobacco- 
 smoke wove wreaths of misty fancies around him, and the 
 soft rustle of a falling cinder from the red fire alone broke 
 the hushed silence. 
 
 From the Chittoor , her cargo and insurance money, his 
 thoughts wandered to his friend Captain Martyn of the Inches, 
 the required repairs of the old house of Tregarthen, the gale, 
 the Channel soundings, the sunken rocks off Tregarthen 
 Head, and poor little Winnie Caerlyon. 
 
 “Poor little lass! I have no doubt that she has rough 
 water to make her way through,” he muttered commisera- 
 tingly—“a careless father, an unkind step-mother, and a shoal 
 of young step-brothers and step-sisters; and she made a 
 patient little drudge for all! A nice, gentle girl—pretty, 
 rather, I think—beautiful hair, like a mermaid’s—poor child! 
 —one of those meek patient little women that seem jnade for 
 strong hearty fellows to pet and take care of.” And here 
 Captain Tredennick’s mind travelled over his list of acquaint¬ 
 ances to try to recall the memory of some strong hearty fellow 
 whom he could conscientiously recommend to himself as the 
 life-long lover and protector of a “ meek, patient little woman.” 
 
 “An honest warm-hearted sailor now,” he said musingly; 
 “ they make good husbands, generally speaking, only their 
 wives have little of their company. Let jne see. Martyn 
 now, only he’s married two years ago—nice little woman too 
 —somewhat like Winnie Caerlyon, I think—a girl couldn’t 
 find a better man or braver officer than Martyn. Let me see.” 
 
 Some sudden thought seemed to strike the Captain of the 
 East Indiaman Chittoor . With a very sober face he laid his 
 pipe aside, rose, and surveyed himself in the nearest mirror 
 for a lengthened space of time, until a grim smile replaced 
 the earnest gaze. He shook his head at his own reflection, 
 turned away, and left the room. 
 
 “ Stephen Tredennick, my lad,” said he, smiling in the 
 same cynical amused fashion as he went, “ you’ve been dream¬ 
 ing—dreaming in your chair, my lad. You had better wake 
 up now, and turn into your berth properly.” 
 
20 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The cold, leaden-hued dawn of the wild March morning 
 was just breaking over the stormy sea, where the dark, low¬ 
 ering horizon blended in mist wdth the level waste, the dismal 
 gray of the tossing angry waters; the gloom of dreary same¬ 
 ness relieved only by the deadly whiteness of the fierce 
 breakers frothing and surging around the buried forms of the 
 dark rock-Titans, whose cruel ministers they were, wreathing 
 their stony brows, their murderous, iron-nailed arms, with the 
 trophies of their pitiless warfare—trailing lengths of gleam¬ 
 ing sea-weeds, shell encrusted, torn from ocean homes afar, 
 leaves and grasses of other lands helplessly drifted out to sea, 
 wreaths of crushed blossoms which had bloomed scores of 
 miles away from that barren headland and its wild shore. 
 Alas! there had been more precious gifts given by the fierce 
 white-crested waves to the cruel jaws and pitiless rending of 
 those black, jagged, shining rocks lying in the lap of their 
 ocean mistress. Many a fair human growth, a brave young 
 forest tree, a tender vine, a frail sweet rose, had been the 
 doomed blossoms of the fatal wreaths for the adorning of the 
 Black Reef of Tregarthen Head. 
 
 “ There is not a worse spot, with the wind inshore, between 
 this and the Goodwins,” and Captain Tredennick, shutting 
 up his glass as he spoke,-after a brief survey of the coastline, 
 buttoned his thick pea-jacket closer and turned towards 
 Tregarthen Head.* 
 
 He had been up and out with the first rays of light, quit¬ 
 ting.the house by a singly-barred entrance, which fastened 
 with a spring lock and could be opened only from the inside. 
 
 “ Still, it should have been made safe with the drop bolt,” 
 said the Captain as he passed through; “ lubberly work that, 
 to leave a door unfastened all night in such a gale! ” 
 
 For no one of course was awake or stirring at this hour 
 save himself. The shuttered windows, the drawn blinds, and 
 smokeless chimneys proclaimed the fact from the outside, if 
 there had been any doubts in his mind. 
 
 The gale had not exhausted itself yet, and raged on almost 
 as wildly as on the previous night, whilst the angry-looking 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 21 
 
 coppery-huecl masses of cloud out on the murky western hor¬ 
 izon, streaming up athwart the wild gray sky in wisp-like 
 storm-driven wreaths, gave dreary assurance of its continuance; 
 and bitterly cold and raw struck the damp March morning 
 air even to the sailor’s hardy lungs and weather-beaten face, 
 as he quitted the shelter of the wooded grounds of Rose¬ 
 worthy for the bleak exposed cliff-road. 
 
 He had taken but a few paces in this direction when he 
 came to a dead stop, gazing ahead; and even for a moment 
 his hand mechanically fumbled with his glass—as if his keen 
 eyesight could have deceived him! For it needed no tele¬ 
 scope to discern plainly and recognise the slight dark figure 
 standing in a sheltered turn of the road. 
 
 / “Neptune!” exclaimed Captain Tredennick in his amaze¬ 
 
 ment, with a soft whistle—“here is the little mermaid! ” 
 
 The little dark figure turned hastily at the sound of ad¬ 
 vancing footsteps, and the shy quick flush mounted to her 
 face as Captain Tredennick came up smiling. 
 
 a ’Pon my word, you are early abroad, Miss Winnie 
 Caerlyon!” he laughed. “Are you come out to taste the 
 salt spray? It blows right in one’s face up from the rocks.” 
 
 “No, sir,” she said, turning her small pale face, looking 
 quite wan and child-like in the cold gray morning light, 
 towards the storm-beaten headland; “I am going home—I 
 must be home by seven o’clock.” 
 
 “Going home!” he repeated, remonstratingly. “Surely 
 you will wait to breakfast with us—or have you breakfasted 
 already? ” 
 
 “Oh, no!” said she hurriedly, and blushing again at the 
 avowal. “I don’t mind in the least—I always go home early 
 when I stay at Roseworthy for the night, unless Madam has 
 asked me to stay; father and mamma and all of them expect 
 me.” She drew the faded woollen shawl over her thin cloth 
 jacket, and shivered violently as the keen sea breeze blew 
 her wrapper about. “ The morning is very cold, is it not, 
 sir?” she said, trying to keep her teeth from chattering,, while 
 her very lips grew pinched and blue. “ I ran off without 
 letting Mrs. Grose know—she would have insisted on keep¬ 
 ing me until she had some breakfast ready.” 
 
 “ My dear child,” said Captain Tr^ennick, feeling quite 
 fatherly in his earnestness, “you should not have come out 
 this bleak morning fasting—after the wetting and fatigue of 
 last night, too. Pray come back to the house, and we will 
 hurry the servants up to get you a cup of coffee at least.” 
 
22 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 “ Oh, dear, no, sir—thank you,” returned Winnie, with 
 gravely-astonished rehuke at his dreaming of such a proposal 
 to her; “I shall he home soon. I shall run very fast down 
 the slope beyond the Head. Good-morning, Captain Tre- 
 dennick.” 
 
 She stretched out her little hand in its poor little knitted 
 woollen-glove; and Captain Tredennick, feeling himself a 
 grandfather at least, took it and drew it safely within his arm. 
 
 “ If you are going to run, I shall run too,” said he, smiling 
 protectingly, “ until I see you run safe in at your father’s 
 door.” 
 
 But Winnie coloured deeply, looked frightened, apologised, 
 and refused. 
 
 “ Well, you will allow me to walk beside you as far as 
 Tregartlien Head, if you will not accept my arm, Miss 
 Caerlyon? ” requested Captain Tredennick, feeling rather 
 mortified, and feeling less like Winnie’s grandfather than the 
 sailor in the presence of another sailor’s daughter, which he 
 had considered himself the evening before—and a sailor’s 
 daughter who had repulsed his proffered kindness very 
 decidedly. 
 
 “ A strange, distant, shy little thing,” he said, mentally. 
 And then he looked again at the small, earnest features, the 
 anxious, lined brow, the gentle, pleading look in the dark, 
 deep-set eyes, the little, frail womanly figure looking so 
 lonely and forlorn on that desolate road, the thin fluttering 
 garments sprinkled by the salt spray and mist from the thun¬ 
 dering billows crashing against the face of the cliffs, and the 
 tender, passionate pity that is ever in the warm, strong heart 
 of a true man for feminine defencelessness and bodily weak¬ 
 ness rose within him throbbing to his very lips. 
 
 “ Oh, no, sir,” she said, hurriedly, in answer to his half- 
 provoked query; “ you are exceedingly kind—but I could not 
 think of troubling you; and—besides-” 
 
 “Besides what?” asked he, laughing. “I am not such a 
 gay young spark that you should object to my escort, Miss 
 Winnie; and I am delighted to have some company along 
 this bare bit of road. I took it into my head, as soon as I 
 woke this morning, tg go and look over that old place of 
 mine at Tregarthen; so off I started. I hope I shall find the 
 old couple awake and stirring.” 
 
 “The Truscotts?” questioned Winnie. “ Oh, yes, you 
 will, Captain Tredennick, for there is Tolgootli-mine bell 
 ringing for six o’clock, and they are always up at six,I know.” 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MAKCH MOKNING, 
 
 23 
 
 “ You know them, then—a worthy old pair they are!” said 
 Captain Tredennick, turning abruptly off the main road. 
 “ Come down Mennacarthen Lane, then, Miss Caerlyon; it 
 will not take you a quarter of a mile out of your road, and 
 we will stop at Tregarthen a . few minutes. I am getting 
 hungry, if you are not, and mean to ask old Mother Truscott 
 for a cup of tea.” 
 
 But Winnie hesitated, coloured, and looked distressed 
 again. 
 
 “ Come along,” said he, gaily, offering his pilot-cloth-cov¬ 
 ered arm for her acceptance a second time. Plainly Captain 
 Tredennick’s “jolly-sailor” existence on board the Chittoor 
 —educated gentleman though he was—had rendered him 
 pleasantly forgetful or regardless of nice conventionalities. 
 “ Unless you are in a terrible hurry to get home, or are afraid 
 that I am going to eat you,” he added, banteringly. 
 
 His words seemed to strike some unpleasant chord in the 
 girl’s mind; she did not accept his arm, but she quitted the 
 high-road and turned down the lane to Tregarthen beside him. 
 
 “ I am never afraid except when I think I am doing wrong,” 
 she returned, firmly and quietly; “and I only want to be 
 home in time to get breakfast ready, sir.” 
 
 “That is very good of you to be so helpful to your 
 mother,” remarked Captain Tredennick approvingly, falling 
 into the fatherly style again as he and Winnie walked slowly 
 along the rough muddy lane. But no ray of glad filial 
 pleasure and gratitude sparkled in the girl’s grave face. 
 
 “It is my duty, of course, to do all that I can to help them 
 when help is required,” she said seriously. “ And there is a 
 great deal to be done in a house like ours.” 
 
 “Ah, plenty of little brothers and sisters?” queried Cap¬ 
 tain Tredennick, smiling. 
 
 “Yes, sir,” replied Winnie, gravely; “there are six of 
 them and the new baby-” 
 
 “ The new baby? ” echoed Captain Tredennick. “ And the 
 new baby is the most troublesome of the lot, I’ll engage.” 
 
 “ Oh, no, sir,” said Winnie, looking up into his face, rather 
 puzzled to discover if he were in jest or earnest; “ she is a 
 dear, gentle, patient little creature. I am afraid she is not 
 healthy—she is so quiet.” 
 
 “ Dear me,” broke out Captain Tredennick, laughing, “ I 
 never knew before now that that was a fatal symptom in a 
 child! ” “ I hope it isn’t so with you, you dear, patient, 
 
 gentle little creature! ” he added mentally, the wish recurring 
 
24 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MOBNING. 
 
 strongly to liim that he could call to mind that paragon of an 
 honest, brave, strong, tender-hearted fellow to take charge of 
 the future comfort and hapj)iness of the patient kind-hearted 
 little woman who spoke so lovingly of that ailing baby—her 
 step-mother’s seventh infant. 
 
 “And now, sir, I will say good-morning again,” said Win¬ 
 nie, as they paused at the entrance-gate to the area of lawn 
 and shrubbery around Tregarthen House, neglected and over¬ 
 grown now, bearing traces of absence and decay, as did all 
 things else—the barred-up broken windows, the grass-grown 
 door-step, the weedy paths, the rank, tangled evergreens, the 
 lichen-covered gate-pillars, and green, shiny, massive iron bars. 
 
 “ You won’t come in, then, for a minute or two, and have 
 a cup of hot tea, or warm yourself at the fire? ” he said, dis¬ 
 appointedly; and then some dim remembrance of the com 
 ventionalities glided hazily across his mind, and he acquiesced 
 unwillingly in her decision. “Well, good-bye, then,” lie 
 added, pressing the little woollen gloved-hand, “ since you 
 want to get rid of me.” 
 
 He looked so pleasant, so kind, so handsome, smiling sun¬ 
 nily down on her from the light of his true, clear blue eyes 
 —he, Tredennick of Tregarthen, Captain of the East India 
 merchantman Chittoor , nephew of the wealthy aristocratic 
 lady who bore her foreign-sounding title of “ Madam,” as all 
 the wives of the heirs of Roseworthy had done for genera¬ 
 tions, so grandly that “ Madam Vivian,” or “ Madam of 
 Roseworthy,” became a standard in the minds of the humble 
 ones of the earth, miners and their wives, her village proteges 
 and favourite poor women, by which to measure the com¬ 
 parative merits and greatness of other aristocrats—he, a 
 learned gentleman, a brave sailor, grand and great in his 
 years, his strength, his handsome face, his moneyed independ¬ 
 ence-—he so kind and courteous to her—to her, poor, plain¬ 
 looking, ill-clad Winnie Caerlyon, whom her shrewish step¬ 
 mother called “ a great, awkward, gad-about of a maid,” 
 when she had the misfortune to require new boots—worn 
 out, perhaps, all the sooner by her long walks to Rose worthy, 
 which, in its luxury, elegance, and quiet, was poor Winnie’s 
 Paradise Regained on earth. 
 
 “ I do not indeed, Captain Tredennick,” was poor Winnie’s 
 childish reply; and the great tears started to her sad, earnest 
 gray eyes. “ Please don’t think me rude.” 
 
 She was so awkward, so unpolished, so ignorant, she 
 thought. Her step-mother often said so, broadly and directly; 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 25 
 
 Madam Vivian often hinted it in ladylike language of rebuke 
 or advice. 
 
 Winnie had very good and sufficient reasons for speaking 
 and acting as she did, apart from all ideas of mere etiquette; 
 and it was that knowledge, and the shy, proud fear of its 
 being discovered, that made her brows knit so nervously, and 
 her pale face flush beneath the sailor’s glance. 
 
 “ My dear child,” said he, very gently, “ I think nothing 
 but that you are a good, sensible, thoughtful girl.” 
 
 The words were but kindly paternal in tone and purport, 
 and, as he uttered them, he laid one hand reassuringly on her 
 shoulder, whilst the other clasped her little, miserably cold, 
 woollen-gloved fingers in farewell; but Winnie shrank beneath 
 that gentle touch and the smile of those clear blue eyes, and 
 the nervous twitching of her brow and lips grew more dis¬ 
 tressful. 
 
 There was no magical wishing-stone by these moss-grown 
 gate pillars, no wisliing-well bubbled forth its fateful waters 
 beneath the clustering masses of evergreens, trailing ivy, 
 gleaming laurel, and dark prickly carnelian-jewelled holly 
 which grew dank and close in the neglected shrubbery, and, 
 climbing the boundary wall, spread their dark heavy foliage 
 down to shelter the pair who stood beneath; but Stephen 
 Tredennick wished, as he stood there, as he had never wished 
 before. Something—he knew not what—had touched his 
 heart because of this poor little maiden’s girlish loneliness 
 and poverty. Truth to tell, he had hitherto known very 
 little, and cared to know less, of small girls or big girls, old 
 maids or young ones. This new sensation was therefore as 
 strange and unaccountable as his wishing that Winnie Caer- 
 lyon lived in a comfortable handsome house, that she had no 
 work to do, that she were indulged and petted, and made 
 pretty presents to, like other happy girls; that she were 
 Madam Vivian’s daughter and his little cousin, or sister, or 
 relative in some way; that she had not to trudge off to Tol- 
 gooth Bay this bitterly cold wild .March morning, and that 
 she had a warmer and better jacket on. She looked so 
 thinly clad, and so cold, poor little creature! One of those 
 rich, handsome, satin-lined fur things, now, that young ladies 
 wore in the Park or in Regent Street, would be just the very 
 thing for her. Oh, how he wished there were a fur-shop 
 within walking distance, that he might go in and buy one for 
 her! 
 
 Stephen Tredennick’s one great luxury and extravagance 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 26 
 
 was to make the most acceptable and delightful presents to 
 people that it was possible for them to receive—from marvel¬ 
 lous, wildly-longed-for buckhorn-handled, six-bladed pocket- 
 knives to youngsters at school, to robes of cobweb muslin 
 spangled with beetles’ wings from Oriental climes for their 
 sisters. He would get one for her as soon as ever he went 
 back to London—the very softest and richest and warmest 
 of the satin-lined fur-jackets which the young lady in the 
 fur shop could show him! And send it to her? No; he 
 must get Madam to give it for him, and say something kind 
 to pass it off; it was not quite correct—those droll lands¬ 
 men’s notions!—to give presents of rich clothes to strange 
 young ladies. 
 
 Young lady? Why, was he not almost old enough to be 
 the poor child’s father? Well, no, not quite. She was 
 about sixteen perhaps, and he was nearly thirty-three—more 
 than double her age, but not quite old enough to be her 
 father. Well, Madam could give the jacket, with his kind 
 regards, to Miss Winnie Caerlyon, and say that he hoped she 
 would wear it for his sake—would that do? 
 
 No; say—say, Wear it if she pleased for a keepsake. Six¬ 
 teen and thirty-three—quite a child to him! Surely an 
 honest plain sailor might make a little girl a nice useful 
 present? Ah, sixteen and thirty-three; well—well! 
 
 Perhaps he might say something about it now, and prepare 
 the way; it might please her—young girls were fond of pretty 
 clothes, poor little things—it was nearly all the pleasure they 
 had in life, except when they had a sweetheart. She would 
 be pleased perhaps if he told her, and it would brighten up 
 the wan, downcast, thin little face. 
 
 “ You caught no cold from your wetting last night, I 
 hope?” he began. “This is a very sharp morning, too. You 
 would want a tremendous lot of wraps if you took many 
 such morning walks as this.” 
 
 Here—to use his own mental declaration—as he strove to 
 steer for the right port, the wind was taken clean out of his 
 sails by Winnie’s quiet rejoinder. 
 
 “ I have plenty of wraps, thank you, sir, and the mornings 
 are seldom as cold as this.” 
 
 But the wild March morning, in remorse, perhaps, for its 
 severity to the poor little maid, was kindly propitious to 
 Captain Tredennick’s generous wishes; and, sending a sudden 
 whirling blast, it blew a long, long tress of curling brown 
 hair from beneath the silk net into which its luxuriance was 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 27 
 
 thrust, and wafted it right across to Captain Tredennick’s 
 shoulder, twisting it around one of his anchor buttons in a 
 highly ingenious manner. 
 
 “You might give me that long soft pretty curl as a keep¬ 
 sake, Miss Caerlyon,” said he, laughing, as he carefully 
 unwound the errant tress; “it wanted to come to me evi¬ 
 dently. Let me have it, and I’ll send you home something 
 instead of it, will you?” 
 
 “ Send me home something first, sir,” responded Winnie, 
 shyly, Jmt laughing also, as she tried to fasten the hair behind 
 her little white ear. 
 
 “Is that a bargain?” said he, eagerly. “I will keep you 
 to it, Miss Winnie. No, you can’t fasten it; your little fin¬ 
 gers are too cold. Let me;” and the Captain of the Chittoor , 
 with a smile playing over his lips and in his sunny blue eyes, 
 commenced adjusting Winnie’s tumbled brown curls. “ Mind, 
 as soon as ever I send my keepsake, you must send yours,” 
 he went on, looking earnestly down into the pure girlish 
 little face upturned to his own, as she murmured bashful 
 thanks, and deeper unuttered thanks for his kind words, his 
 kind voice, his kind manners—oh, this kind, great, tall, 
 strong, brave, handsome Captain of the East Indiaman Chit¬ 
 toor !—shone from the dark depths of her lustrous gray eyes. 
 
 “ You haven’t promised yet, Miss Winifred,” he said with 
 brotherly pleasantry, keeping hold of her—she being but 
 sixteen to his great seniority of thirty-three—“ perhaps I had 
 better make sure of my keepsake now! What is the 
 matter?” 
 
 The sudden ejaculation was not unreasonable, for Winnie 
 in an instant had sprung from his side and the caressing 
 touch of his hand, her face flaming crimson and then fading 
 deadly white, and the dark-gray eyes, which had glowed with 
 such girlish enthusiasm of gratitude upon him, dilating for a 
 moment with a sort of terror, and then blazing with a proud 
 defiant anger that startled her companion as a new revelation 
 of her character. 
 
 “ Good-morning to you, Miss Winnie! You can take early 
 strolls fast enough, I see! ” 
 
 The strange voice had the peculiar disagreeable quality of 
 being a naturally vulgar one, with a strong provincial accent, 
 and likewise, being such, was tarnished over, so to speak, 
 with a far more vulgar assumption of genteel tone and pro¬ 
 nunciation, which assorted as well with it as the genteel 
 affectation did with the provincial form of dialect, and as 
 
28 all in the wild maech moening. 
 
 well, or as ill, as it did with the face and figure which had 
 suddenly confronted Winnie. 
 
 It seemed to Captain Tredennick, in his angry, startled 
 surprise, as if the intruder must have sprung out of the earth 
 —this spare, sinewy, undersized man, with a shrewd, fox-like, 
 ifarrow face, and a gleam of a cold unpleasant smile in the 
 cunning twinkling red-brown eyes, and curving around the 
 thin pointed lips, as he darted a quick glance from Winnie 
 to Captain Tredennick. 
 
 “ Good-morning, Mr. Pascoe,” the girl said, coldly find dis¬ 
 tantly; “ I am not taking an early stroll, though, as I dare 
 say you know very well, but am returning home from Madam 
 Vivian’s.” 
 
 The man she addressed merely lifted his eyebrows in a 
 most disagreeably impertinent smile of disbelief, and shook 
 his head slightly. 
 
 “ Going home from Madam Vivian’s by Mennacarthen 
 Lane and into Tregarthen House?” said he, showing the edge 
 of his teeth, and the smile changing into a frown. 
 
 “ I was not going into Tregarthen House, Mr. Pascoe!” 
 retorted Winnie, the colour rushing back to her pallid cheeks, 
 and her eyes flashing. 
 
 “Weren’t you? H’m! It looked very like it, Miss Win¬ 
 nie,” he replied, with an insolent assumption of easy 
 familiarity. 
 
 “Who is this person?” demanded Captain Tredennick, 
 hotly. 
 
 “ Mr. Thomas Pascoe—the purser of the Tolgooth Mines, 
 and a relation of my step-mother’s, sir,” replied Winnie, 
 aflame of angry defiance in Tier cheeks and eyes, as she partly 
 turned her back on that individual. 
 
 He perceived the action of girlish disdain, and the crafty 
 underbred face grew full of the petty malice of a mean, 
 little-minded man’s revenge for a woman’s slight. 
 
 “No need for ye to be so angry, miss,” said he, with a 
 sneering laugh; “I never tell on ye to your father or mother! 
 That is all the thanks I get—and stand your friend in many 
 a way besides! ” 
 
 “I don’t want your friendship!” cried Winnie furiously, 
 in a sudden childish rage that shook Captain Tredennick’s 
 belief in the patience of his gentle little maid very consid¬ 
 erably. “ I don’t—I don’t like you—and you know it, Mr. 
 Pascoe! You are always tormenting me; and I had rather 
 never see one sight of you or hear your voice—now! ” 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 29 
 
 She burst into a passionate fit of crying, and Captain Tre- 
 dennick stood in confounded silence for a moment. 
 
 “ Ye’re kickin’ up a pretty rigs about it, sure enough,” 
 said Mr. Pascoe, with an evil look, and thrusting his hands 
 deep into his coat pockets ; “ ye might speak civilly, like a 
 well-behaved maid, I think. Are ’e goin’ to stand here any 
 longer, or are ’e going to come home to your father’s house?” 
 
 “I am not going with you,” replied Winnie, choking down 
 her sobs; “ and I will go home when I like, and stay out as 
 long as I like, independently of you, sir! You have no 
 authority over me! ” 
 
 “ Sir,” said Captain Tredennick, raising his hat an inch or 
 two, and dealing Mr. Pascoe a look of terrible quarter-deck 
 politeness, “ I will see Miss Caerlyon home, if you please. 
 I overtook her on the road and-” 
 
 “Ye will, will’e? ” rejoined Mr. Thomas Pascoe, turning 
 bully on the spot, and his genteel accent falling away from 
 his Cornish dialect like thin stucco on a plaster facade. 
 “ Then I thenk ’e had better not let the Leftenant nor hes 
 wife see their daughter walkin’ home across the fields at the 
 break of day with a strange spark of a fellow! She’d pay 
 dear for her sweethearting ef they did, I can tell ’e! ” 
 
 Winnie never uttered word or cry in answer to the coarse 
 taunt, but she shrank as if a mortal blow had struck her. 
 Tightening her little faded shawl convulsively around her, 
 she extended her hand to Captain Tredennick, without dar¬ 
 ing to lift her eyes. 
 
 “ Good-bye, sir—oh, good-bye! Thank you for coming so 
 far. Please don’t mind him,” she muttered, her very brows 
 burning in an agony of shame. 
 
 “My dear Miss Caerlyon, stop a minute, please,” he said, 
 haughtily. “ You are labouring under a mistake, Mr. Pascoe. 
 You cannot be very long in the mine-office in Tolgooth, sir, 
 or you would have known me,” he added, suppressing an 
 explosion of quarter-deck wrath for the* sake of the young 
 girl by his side. “ My name is Stephen Tredennick, of Tre- 
 garthen, sir ; and, as I said just now, when you interrupted 
 me, I overtook Miss Caerlyon on the road as she was return¬ 
 ing from my aunt, Madam Vivian’s house, where I met her 
 yesterday evening.” 
 
 “ Oh, indeed—Captain Tredennick of Tregarthen! Indeed, 
 sir, I did not know, I am sure,” said Mr. Pascoe, resuming 
 his refined accent with an effort, and smiling and rubbing 
 the palms of his hands with an air of sudden fawning polite- 
 
30 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 ness. ' “ I know ye by report, very well indeed, sir—have 
 heard tell of ye very often, Captain Tredennick. Long 
 returned from your last voyage, sir? ” 
 
 “ No, sir—not long,” vouchsafed Stephen Tredennick, 
 shortly; “but I think in any case you need not have been 
 afraid that this young lady was in improper company.” 
 
 “ Well, no, indeed, sir,” said Mr. Pascoe, smiling again; 
 “but I did not know—could not bring to my mind at all, sir 
 —but that ’e were a stranger; and a young maid like Miss 
 Winnie Caerlyon can not be too particular, sir, ye know.” 
 
 He had edged himself up to Captain Tredennick’s side, 
 and was beginning to chat fluently, with an evident intention 
 of constituting himself a third in the party. If he calcu¬ 
 lated on the sailor’s easy good-fellowship and pleasant conde¬ 
 scension, he was fated to be instantly undeceived. 
 
 “ Sir,” said the Captain of the Chittoor , halting abruptly, 
 and surveying Mr. Pascoe with all the hauteur of the proud 
 Tredennicks of Tregarthen, and a fresh accession of the 
 haughty quarter-deck politeness to a presuming inferior, “ I 
 will take care of the young lady for the rest of the way, and 
 will wish you a very good-morning.” 
 
 Mr. Pascoe muttered a response rather confusedly and sul¬ 
 lenly, and stood watching the pair as they went down Tre¬ 
 garthen Hill. 
 
 “Ye saucy young madam! I’ll make e’ hear of et agen! ” 
 he exclaimed vindictively—and resolutions of this kind Mr. 
 Pascoe was not wont to forget, as that personage’s numerous 
 enemies were well aware. 
 
 Down Tregarthen Hill, up by the Head, where the road 
 skirted the ocean cliffs, past Tolgooth Mine, and down by the 
 little land-locked bay, where the Coastguard station, with its 
 small, white, clean, bare-looking habitations, and the larger, 
 whiter, cleaner, habitation of the officer in command, with the 
 flagstaff *and fluttering Union Jack before the door, were all 
 perched high up on the sloping brow of a low cliff overlook¬ 
 ing the deep water and blue-pebbled shore of the little beach 
 below. Winnie’s escort never quitted her until the coloured 
 bunting fluttered above their heads, and from the white two- 
 storeyed house at hand, with dormer windows in its seaward 
 gable, came the echoes of the voices of crying children. 
 
 “ Good-bye, sir; thank you very much.” Her timid hand 
 just touched his, and the downcast, pained girlish face, that 
 had not been raised since the encounter at Tregarthen gates, 
 was upturned for a few moments, gazing anxiously into his 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 31 
 
 own. “ I would ask you in,” she faltered, “ but I fear you 
 would not be comfortable. I hear the children crying, 
 and-” 
 
 “ Oh, no, thank you,” said he hastily—“ I shall have much 
 pleasure in calling on your father some afternoon. Good¬ 
 bye—good-bye, Winnie.” 
 
 Her thought he might take the liberty of addressing her 
 thus; they were not strangers now, he and this anxious, 
 timid, gentle, passionate little woman. Surely he might 
 speak to her as to a dear little girl-friend! Who could mis¬ 
 understand him, except one like that underbred fellow, who 
 said—said they were “ sweethearting!” Captain Treden- 
 nick went over the absurd phrase several times, and laughed 
 each time, as he walked home—laughed as if the absurd 
 idea were not utterly displeasing. 
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 “ Good-morning, Tredennick. I hope you have not waited 
 <or breakfast until now?” 
 
 The French pendule —an animated group of gilded nymphs 
 and centaurs, in wild conflict apparently for possession of the 
 dial-plate—had just struck nine “tings” on its musical little 
 bell, as Madam entered the prettily-furnished breakfast-room, 
 all polished maple-wood and soft dove-coloured hangings and 
 carpets, relieved with touches of crimson here and there. 
 Madam Vivian had no notion of breakfasting in an apart¬ 
 ment, the shades of the upholstery of which might destroy 
 the effect of her favourite morning-robe of silk-embroidered 
 purple cachemire and morning-cap of white and violet crape. 
 
 “Waited, dear aunt? Of course I have.” 
 
 “Without a cup of coffee, or chocolate, or anything after 
 your long walk! ” exclaimed Madam, sitting down before her 
 silver breakfast equipage. “ For I understand from Trew- 
 hella, my maid, that you have actually been out of the house 
 since daybreak.” 
 
 “Yes, I have,” said Captain Tredennick—mentally adding, 
 “I wonder how Trewhella knew! ” 
 
 “Where did you walk?” inquired Madam. “Give me 
 some of that Strasburg^xxte, please, Stephen. Did you go to 
 Tregarthen?” 
 
32 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 “No, I did not,” replied Stephen Tredennick, without 
 adding that he had never thought of it until he had returned 
 to the door of Roseworthy Hall. “ By the way, aunt, I saw 
 your little friend going home this morning.” 
 
 “Indeed, Stephen,” said Madam, and a rather amused, 
 malicious smile curved her lips. “ Where did you meet her? ” 
 
 “ Oh, on the road by the Head,” answered her nephew, 
 silently resuming his roll and Strasburg pate . 
 
 “And you escorted her safely home, I hope, with your 
 usual thoughtful consideration? ” 
 
 Stephen Tredennick could not quite understand the refined 
 banter in Madam’s eyes and voice; he moved slightly on his 
 chair and dipped his bread as he replied— 
 
 “Yes—of course. That is a wild, lonely road fora girl 
 like her to travel; of course I went along with her until I 
 saw her safe.” 
 
 “ She has travelled it a good many times these last three 
 jrears,” said Madam, carelessly, but with her keen, smiling 
 eyes fixed on her nephew’s face. “ But how did you manage 
 to scrape acquaintance with my little protegee, Tredennick? 
 Yon only saw her standing in the doorway for a minute last 
 evening?” 
 
 “ Oh, yes, I did,” explained Captain Tredennick, laughing 
 in spite of himself. “ I went down to the ‘ lower regions ’ 
 to inquire of the servants if the poor little girl had gone 
 nome again through the rain and the wind, and then—last 
 night, I mean—I saw her in the housekeeper’s room. She 
 appears a nice, modest, sensible little creature.” 
 
 “Yes, indeed,” said Mad:;m agreeing very candidly and 
 earnestly, her smiling gaze becoming more penetrating—“ a 
 nice little creature. Poor Winnie! she will make Mr. Pas- 
 coe an excellent little wife.” 
 
 “Pascoe! That ill-tempered, vulgar-” began Stephen 
 
 Tredennick, in some excitement, which cooled rather sud¬ 
 denly when Madam again queried— 
 
 “ I was not aware that you knew Mr. Pascoe, Stephen?” 
 
 “ Oh, ay—I do, though, aunt,” he said, somewhat briefly; 
 “and I do not like him. He is a disagreeable, presuming 
 sort of fellow, I think.” 
 
 “ He is a very worthy, honest person,” rejoined Madam, 
 reprovingly, “ and much attached to Winnie. I shall be 
 quite glad to see her settled so comfortably, poor child. 
 Pascoe has a fair salary for a mine-purser, and a neat little 
 house, though it is on the works.” 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 33 
 
 His wife! ' That underbred, insolent, fox-faced man’s 
 wife! To live in the bare, square-built, two-storey house, 
 with its few small windows and smartly painted hall-door, 
 and its beautiful, soul-inspiring surroundings of dull-hued 
 piles of rubbish and broken ore-stone, hideous wooden tarred 
 sheds, slime-pits, and creaking, groaning, shrieking, crashing 
 machinery! Pascoe, the purser’s wife—there to spend her 
 existence—that pale, pure-faced, sorrowful little maiden, with 
 her passionate gray eyes, and her wealth of beautiful silken 
 tresses—the wedded wife of Thomas Pascoe—his, to have 
 and to hold, for ever! 
 
 Stephen Tredennick glanced at his aunt’s face to discover 
 if she was in earnest, and then a sudden impulse of some¬ 
 thing like passionate anger filled his heart. Winnie Caer- 
 lyon Pascoe’s wife—never! 
 
 He was very near saying so aloud, but restrained himself 
 to say instead, very quietly— 
 
 “And what does Miss Winnie herself think of the pros¬ 
 pect? ” 
 
 “Think? Oh, I don’t believe she admires him much—he 
 is not an ideal lover, I grant—but what matters that? ” said 
 Madam, lightly and scofiingly. “ Winnie has no right to 
 indulge in any of that girlish, romantic folly; she knows that 
 what she requires in marriage is an honest kind husband, who 
 will give her a home of her own, with food to eat and 
 clothes to wear—and very thankful she ought to be to get 
 one.” 
 
 The tone, words, and manner all jarred on Stephen Tre¬ 
 dennick—jarred very considerably, although it was in only 
 a poor little stranger-maiden’s interest. 
 
 “ Well, aunt,” he returned, coldly and sarcastically, in man¬ 
 ner very like Madam’s own, “ if marriage—which poets, and 
 novelists, and artists, and those kind of fools rave about as 
 ‘wedded bliss,’ as ‘ crowning the love and honour of a life,’ 
 and so forth—be after all a mere dry, worldly matter of 
 exchange and barter, still one ought to make the best ex¬ 
 change, and barter as equally as possible. Looking at the 
 matter from a commercial point of view, a pretty young girl, 
 with a fair share of brains and social attractions, and of 
 decent family, might barter herself for something better 
 than mere clothes and food given to her by a very ill- 
 favoured lubber of a fellow whom she detests.” 
 
 A ringing, sarcastic laugh came from Madam Yivian as he 
 concluded. 
 
 3 
 
34 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 u Bravissimo, Stephen! I begin to have some hope of 
 you! You are growing romantic! ” Then, quite suddenly, 
 looking into the coffee urn as she spoke, Madam asked her 
 third searching question, “ How do you know that she de¬ 
 tests him, Stephen?” 
 
 “Because—have you not just said that she does not admire 
 him? I am sure no girl could! ” 
 
 This was an evasion with a vengeance; and Captain Tre- 
 dennick felt ashamed of it, and coughed two or three times, 
 and resolved to tell Madam the whole story of the morning. 
 It was odd the disinclination that came over him to deliver 
 that short recital in the cold, clear morning sunlight, with 
 Madam Vivian’s keen eyes watching his face—about his in* 
 vitation, and Winnie’s refusal to go into Tregarthen House— 
 about the tangled tress of hair, his request for a keepsake, 
 Pascoe’s coarse taunt, and all—ending with poor Winnie’s 
 one passionate allusion, as they went down the hill together, 
 to the scene of which his delicate sympathy for her mortifi¬ 
 cation would not suffer him to make any mention. “You 
 must wonder at me and my friends, sir,” she had said bitterly; 
 “ it is my misfortune that that man can claim my relatives 
 as his, though he is neither relative nor friend of mine. I hate 
 him, Captain Tredennick! They want me to like him, and 
 that makes me hate him the more! ” Her words were rather 
 unintelligible at the moment, but they were clear enough 
 now. Madam herself changed the subject, however. 
 
 “Do you really consider the girl pretty?” she asked, with 
 a smile of compassion for his utter ignorance of the requisites 
 of beauty. “Poor little Winnie! Why, the child has not 
 a single good feature in her face; certainly her eyes are nice 
 and bright, but so are most young persons’.” 
 
 “Nice and bright!” those pleading, sad, true, deep dark 
 eyes, with a world of feeling in their light and shadow! He 
 did not understand them thus perhaps, but he felt, as a noble 
 intelligent nature would, the power and worth and truth of 
 the soul which shone through them, and had noted in them— 
 which Madam Vivian doubtless never had—the fire of pas¬ 
 sion and glow of beauty created by that soul’s strongest 
 emotions. 
 
 “ She has beautiful hair though,” Madam added presently. 
 
 Stephen Tredennick, by a method best known to himself, 
 by this time had arrived at the conclusion that he had better 
 leave the beauty of Winnie’s beautiful hair alone. 
 
 “Has she? ” said he, coolly buttering some toast. 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 35 
 
 A flash of mingled amusement, vexation, and contempt 
 crossed Madam Vivian’s handsome, haughty face. Through 
 the medium of Miss Trewhella’s glib tongue, she knew that 
 on the .evening before he had both openly and warmly ex¬ 
 pressed his. admiration of Winnie Caerlyon’s one gift of 
 undeniable loveliness; and now he pretended not to have 
 noticed it! 
 
 “ Men are all the same, full of sly double-dealing and petty 
 falseness, where women are concerned,” thought the fair 
 habituee of ball-rooms during five-and-twenty years* with a 
 curl of her lip. Then, with something like a pang of alarm 
 or annoyance, she told herself, “ He says nothing, because he 
 admires it so much—admires her too! ” Immediately she 
 recollected herself, smoothed her brow, and laughed at her 
 own folly. “ I am too absurd,” she said, mentally. “ I think 
 I have been dreaming.” 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 “Winnie, are the children on the rocks?” cried a sharp 
 feminine voice. 
 
 “They are^ mamma.” 
 
 “ Can you see them all there? ” questioned the first speaker, 
 doubtingly. 
 
 “ I can, mamma.” 
 
 “Where’s baby?” was the ready interrogatory. 
 
 “ She is here, mamma, creeping about.” 
 
 “Take her up then. I won’t have her second frock dirtied 
 to-day. Take her up, and walk about with her. Letting the 
 child make herself in a mess like that, just for laziness to 
 take her up in your arms! ” 
 
 “ She was crying so, mamma, when I carried her about, and 
 she is quite quiet now.” 
 
 “I don’t care whether she is quiet or not. You take the 
 child up, and walk about with her and amuse her.” 
 
 All this was screamed—in that soothingly-delightful, shrill, 
 rasping voice which so many British matrons affect when in 
 the shelter of their household—from an upper window in the 
 Coastguard officer’s house, for the benefit of Winnie Caer- 
 lyon, as she leant over the little whitewashed wall that en¬ 
 closed the gravelled space in front, and for the benefit of any 
 chance loiterer who might be at hand. 
 
36 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MABCH MOBNING. 
 
 There was none apparently—nothing to listen to Mrs. 
 Gaerlyon’s high-pitched, tuneless voice, as she screamed 
 forth her mandates, but the white sea-gulls, to whom perhaps 
 she unconsciously imparted lessons in vocal music, as they 
 ceaselessly swooped, and dived, and soared, and shrieked 
 around the craggy cliffs. 
 
 Winnie, aroused from her lounge by the low white breast¬ 
 work that hemmed in the little yard or terrace before the 
 house, where she had been mechanically watching the sea¬ 
 birds’ flight, the tossing of the green, froth-crested waves in 
 the cold March sunlight, and the flitting lights and cloud 
 shadows out on the great rippling expanse of ocean before 
 her—Winnie’s only relaxation, amusement, or pleasure in 
 this world, but one—that one her tri-weekly visit to Rose¬ 
 worthy—took up the baby obediently, who resisted, as she 
 did so, with loud peevish cries; but perseverance in kisses 
 and caresses, and showing the gulls, and the “ pretty, pretty 
 sea,” and the “beautiful little ships,” stilled baby’s lamenta¬ 
 tions at length, and she sat up in her sister’s arms, in her 
 little blue hood and cloak, like “ a beautiful little dearie,” as 
 Winnie said. 
 
 This child—the youngest and frailest and sickliest of the 
 seven—it had almost entirely fallen to Winnie’s lot to nurse 
 and care for by day and night, from her stepmother’s pro¬ 
 longed indisposition at her birth and other causes. Winnie 
 had “got the way” of managing, feeding, and soothing the 
 little one better than any one else; hence washing, dressing, 
 nursing, and putting to sleep were all left entirely to the 
 patient loving hands that never shook or slapped the wailing, 
 fretful little creature—as its mother did in a fit of temper 
 sometimes—that were always ready by day or night to “ take 
 baby.” 
 
 The young girl’s rest, leisure, amusements, were all cur¬ 
 tailed or cut off on account of “ baby ”—poor little fifteen- 
 months-old Louie—who turned her piteous little face and out¬ 
 stretched arms away from every one to “ Eenie.” Sister 
 “ Eenie ” sacrificed herself ceaselessly and patiently, because 
 of the love, the strong, tender, incipient mother-love, that 
 rose above all self-consideration in her true womanly nature, 
 for the helpless babe dependent on t er. 
 
 “Winifred! Winifred, I say!” 
 
 She hastened back from her wearisome parade, with the 
 baby in her arms, to the upper window and its screamed 
 mandates a second time. 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 37 
 
 “Take the baby down on the rocks with the rest. You 
 shouldn’t leave those children down there so long by them¬ 
 selves! And mind you don’t let them wet their feet!” 
 
 “ Yes, mamma.” 
 
 “ Has Sarah Matilda got her brown jacket on?” 
 
 “Yes, mamma.” 
 
 “Well, mind you don’t let Tom go near the water—his 
 throat’s as sore as possible. And, Winifred—Winifred, I 
 say!—wait until I have done speaking, will you! I never 
 saw such a heedless maid!” 
 
 “ I wasn’t going, mamma.” 
 
 “Mind you don’t let Caroline touch that nasty sea-weed, 
 or those shell-fish sne’s always eating—tell her she shall 
 have Gregory’s powder if she does, and I’ll engage she.’ll 
 let ’em be fast enough!” 
 
 “ Yes, mamma.” 
 
 Winifred hurried away as she spoke, and, though she 
 heard a renewed scream of “Winifred—Winifred, Isay!” 
 when she was half-way down the cliff-path, she only descended 
 the faster, until she reached the pebbly shore, panting, 
 flushed, and nervous. 
 
 “ 1 could not go back then,” she said in excuse to herself 
 for her slight disobedience, if such it were. “ It was better 
 to come down and leave baby safely here. I couldn’t turn 
 just then—mamma knows that; but I can’t go up now. Oh, 
 I can’t—I can’t! He heard her—I am sure he did! I saw 
 his hat just as she was shouting about Tom! Oh, I wish she 
 hadn’t! What matter though—what matter? How stupid 
 I am! He has only come to see father. He said he would 
 yesterday morning—and I have my old frock on—it’s not 
 very bad though—and this shabby old shawl! But what am 
 I talking of? He’s not come to see me—he won’t see me— 
 he shan’t see me—there!” and Winnie laid her face down 
 on the baby’s blue hood, in a momentary quiver of disappoint¬ 
 ment, with a long sigh, and “ Oh, dear, dear! ” wrung from 
 the keenness of some hidden pang of hope, or grief, or 
 longing. 
 
 The next moment the ejaculation was repeated aloud, 
 prompted by startled surprise, fear and pleasure combined. 
 The “hat” she had seen on the terrace above, and fled from, 
 was within a yard of her, having followed in her footsteps 
 down the cliff path. 
 
 “ I never knew a mermaid could run down steep rocky 
 paths—carrying a baby too—so fast before.” 
 
38 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MAECH MOENING. 
 
 “ Oh, Captain Tredennick, you frightened me so! ” she 
 said, her heart beating tumultuously, although the slight 
 shock of his unexpected presence had lasted but a moment. 
 “ My father is up on the cliffs near the look-out, I think,” she 
 continued, confusedly; “ perhaps you thought he was down 
 here? ” 
 
 “ Oh, no, I did not,” answered Stephen Tredennick, smil¬ 
 ing; “ I came down after you. I don’t know your father, 
 but I know you; you must introduce me when we go up, if 
 you please.” 
 
 He seated himself on a stone beside her, half amused at 
 and half admiring the shy flush on Winnie’s demure little 
 face, the evident fluttered girlish embarrassment—poor Win¬ 
 nie was expecting the interruption of Sarah Matilda and 
 Caroline, with their pinafores full of wet sea-weed and live 
 crabs, every moment—struggling with a certain gentle, old- 
 fashioned, sweet little womanliness that seemed habitual to 
 her, as she carefully spread her old shawl and placed thereon 
 the baby that was so alarmingly quiet, gravely stooping to 
 give her a soothing pat, or supply her with playthings in the 
 shape of coloured pebbles and shells, while she conversed 
 with Captain Tredennick, delighting him with her girlish 
 simplicity of intelligence, without a fear or an arrierepensee 
 that might have disturbed the communications of a worldly- 
 wise woman. 
 
 Gravely and unaffectedly, in her ignorance of the sneered- 
 at existence of blue-stockingism, she gave him certain learned 
 statements and statistics—quite correctly too—concerning 
 some of the things which surrounded her daily life—the 
 depth of water in the offing, the height of the cliffs and their 
 gigantic formation, the force and prevalence of the winds, 
 and the whereabouts of sunken reefs and rocks and danger¬ 
 ous bars. 
 
 “ I hear my father and the men talking, you know,” she 
 explained; “ and then I remember things very well.” 
 
 Earnestly, in her glowing enthusiasm and pleasure at hav¬ 
 ing found one whose thoughts were responsive to her own, 
 and in her innocence of false sentimentality, the little girl in 
 the shabby blue gingham dress talked to Captain Tredennick, 
 with her dark-gray eyes sparkling, the colour deepening on 
 her thin, pale cheek, and her nervous slender fingers clasping 
 and unclasping in eager impulsiveness. 
 
 She spoke as she felt, and Stephen Tredennick listened 
 with pleased surprise and deepening interest—more for the 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 39 
 
 speaker than her words—whilst Winnie Caerlyon talked to 
 him of the beauty of the sea, of the glories of silvery moon- 
 risings across the dark rippling ocean-breast, of the more 
 solemn glories of the sleeping dawn, lying in the rosy flush 
 of the brightening east; of summer days, when the waters lay 
 spread out to the purple horizon in a burnished, blinding, 
 dazzling mirror of pellucid blue, darkened here and there in¬ 
 to great shadowed patches of olive-green from some fish-shoal 
 gliding beneath the unruffled surface; of dark winter days, 
 when the sea was a dreary leaden-hued expanse, all flecked 
 with foam-crests and streamers of froth, as the wild waves 
 rushed on like shrieking steeds to battle, and crashed with all 
 their artillery of force, and sound against the jagged black 
 rocks of Tregarthen Reef, and the great dark precipitous face 
 of Tregarthen Head, scarcely a mile beyond them, and rear¬ 
 ing itself in profile against the blue sky. 
 
 Nothing had escaped the artistic perception of those glow¬ 
 ing, passionate dark-gray eyes beneath the faded black-straw 
 hat, with such a pitiful scrap of velvet trimming around its 
 rusty crown. Amber sunshine gleaming through the trans¬ 
 lucent green of the great upraised billows, changeful opal 
 lights on the shimmering waves, glittering phosphorescent 
 trails and sparkles in dark sultry summer midnights, white 
 and crimson and purple lengths of trailing seaweeds, and 
 snowy shells tangled in emerald tresses of ocean-grass—she 
 knew them all. 
 
 “You ought to have been a mermaid, Miss Caerlyon,” 
 Stephen Tredennick said, with a smile in his eyes; “you 
 would have loved your ocean home so dearly. Perhaps you 
 are a mermaid—I am half doubtful about it. Perhaps you 
 will begin a siren-song presently, and I shall be obliged to 
 follow, under the spell of your voice, until I sink down in the 
 deep green water out there, and never be seen any more of 
 men! ” 
 
 But all at once, as he spoke, the earnest little enthusiast 
 with the artist eyes and the poetic words changed into a shy 
 timid little girl in a shabby frock. Wjmnie remembered the 
 thinness and brownness of her impulsive nervous hands, and 
 folded them closely to try to hide them from Captain Tre- 
 dennick’s keen blue-gray smiling eyes. 
 
 “ There would be no fear of that,” she said, rather coldly 
 and constrainedly—“ you would not come, sir.” 
 
 “ But I should though! ” he persisted, the smile deepening, 
 and a curious sensation coming over him of his heart quick- 
 
40 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MAECH MORNING. 
 
 erring its beatings, as he noticed that the flush on Winnie’s 
 pure little face grew swiftly crimson beneath his gaze.' 
 
 The March afternoon was in all its brightness when they 
 met—the March sunlight was shining clear and strong from 
 the west when they rose to part. Not much more than an 
 hour had they sat there together; yet it is probable that, if 
 Stephen Tredennick had been offered the value of one of the 
 rich Oriental cargoes of his own Chittoor to tell what it was 
 that he had talked about to Winnie Caerlyon, whilst they sat 
 side by side in the sheltering shadow of the great cliffs be¬ 
 hind them, and at their feet 
 
 the waves upon the shore, 
 
 Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown, 
 
 he would have found the task nearly an impossibility. 
 
 He had spoken about himself a little, about herself a good 
 deal, about nothing in particular most of all. He had found 
 it pleasant to sit there, beside the pretty slim little womanly 
 figure in the shabby dress and with the rusty old hat, with 
 fretted wreaths and broad soft plaits of rich golden-brown 
 hair peeping from beneath it—curiously pleasant indeed, pos¬ 
 sessing for him that depth of interest and power of attraction 
 that quickened so strangely the beating of the strong warm 
 heart in his broad sailor-breast. 
 
 Pleasant it was to sit there, seeing his own handsome sun- 
 browned face reflected in the depths of Winnie Caerlyon’s 
 beautiful passionate clear dark eyes—they deserved all those 
 epithets he decided—continuing to take this peculiar interest 
 in the girlish pale face under the old black hat—pleasant to 
 sit there listening to her voice mingling with the murmuring 
 symphony of the waves. 
 
 The pleasure of it prompted him to sit there and talk to 
 her—pleasure, kindness, liking, pity, admiration, prompted 
 him to sit there, shutting out, morally and physically, all'the 
 world beside from her sight, save the monotonous ripple of 
 the great ocean, and # Stephen Tredennick’s smile, Stephen 
 Tredennick’s handsome face, his five feet eleven of masculine 
 height and strength, the tones of his kindly courteous voice, 
 the touch of his warm strong hand. 
 
 Yes; kindness, pity, admiration. He liked her so much— 
 gentle, loving, sympathetic girl; he pitied her so much—poor 
 little shabby, neglected, lonely, motherless Winnie; admired 
 her so much—clever, intelligent, odd little creature, with the 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 41 
 
 beautiful eyes and hair, and wistful little white face. Poor 
 little Winnie—Pascoe the purser’s wife—in the future! 
 
 And she? 
 
 Her tender, yearning heart, grown womanly almost before 
 its time in the intensity of her fervent imagination, her quick 
 intelligence, her gifted brain, had garnered up a passionate 
 wealth of love which yearningly sought for an outlet in the 
 bare, chill existence of a hard, unlovely, work-a-day, common¬ 
 place life, ignoble in all save self-sacrifice; and now the master- 
 hand—unknown, undreamt of until it came—had come, and 
 the magic of its touch had turned the master-key and unlocked 
 the garnered treasure-^-at once—for ever. 
 
 The passionate, girlish heart, in its wild, strong faith, its 
 quick impulses, its unreasoning instinct, had sprung towards 
 him with the kindling flame of passionate grateful liking in 
 that first hour of their meeting, when he had kindly thought 
 of the forlorn little stranger’s comfort, kindly troubled him¬ 
 self concerning her, smiled on her as she thought none other 
 ever had, tenderly touched her hand, warmly praised her one 
 gift of rare beauty; in shy, warm regard and tremulous admi¬ 
 ration when they next met, and he was kinder, pleasanter, 
 more thoughtful and courteous even than before—when the 
 strange delight of his presence bewilderingly charmed away 
 all the cold and loneliness and dreariness of that cold, dreary 
 walk in the wild March morning—that walk that had seemed 
 in her remembrance since to lie through an enchanted land, 
 until the rude interruption came and she trembled in fear— 
 the new. strange fear—of her uncouth lover’s jealousy. 
 
 The purser had often hinted before, to her burning dis¬ 
 gust and vexation, that the real reason of her exceeding desire 
 to spend so much of her time at Roseworthy was that she 
 might “ set her cap at Madam’s nephew; ” and this before 
 she had much more than heard of the probable return of 
 that stranger relative of her patroness, Tredennick of Tre- 
 garthen. 
 
 The terror of the coarse words, of the coarser insinuations 
 that might follow any avowal of acquaintanceship with 
 Captain Tredennick, had haunted her from the first mo¬ 
 ment—poor, sensitive, unfriended girl!—and mingled dis- 
 tractingly with the timid, reverential regard and admiration 
 that had taken such deep root in her fond, faithful heart— 
 such deep root that, all unknown to herself (for such knowl¬ 
 edge is apt to linger, unless forced on self-recognition) it 
 had sprung up fair and strong, and its tenderness and 
 
42 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING . 
 
 purity and simple sweetness had blossomed into love. In 
 the agony of being humbled and mortified before Stephen 
 Tredennick, poor Winnie became conscious of the birth of 
 her love. 
 
 If she had seen him no more, the one short glimpse into 
 the Eden of youth might have faded from her memory as 
 time passed on; but thus it was appointed. The goblet of 
 life is held to each lip; we must each drink as it passes. 
 Deeply or slightly, all must drink of that bitter cup— 
 
 Filled with waters that upstart 
 When the deep fountains of the heart, 
 
 By strong convulsions rent apart, 
 
 Are running all to waste. 
 
 For “he who has not learned to know”—the depth and 
 the darkness of the cup of life’s sorrow—“ he has not learned 
 to live.” 
 
 Stephen Tredennick did not know—how should he? Had 
 he known—could he have seen the end from the beginning— 
 he, the brave, tender-hearted sailor, the kind, wise, generous 
 man, the honest chivalrous gentleman, would have thought it 
 as right and kind and wise in him to take innocent, lonely, 
 friendless young Winnie Caerlyon in his arms, and lay her 
 under the cold sea-waves in a deep ocean grave, as to follow 
 the pleasant impulse towards her society on this sunlit March 
 afternoon, to seek her presence down on the quiet beach by 
 the murmuring waves, to talk winningly, kindly, tenderly to 
 her in his deep pity and warm liking, to look into the pure 
 depths of her passionate eyes, to softly touch her little thin 
 work-worn hand, and smile at the tremulous flushes on her 
 ingenuous emotional face. He was not selfish—kind, gener¬ 
 ous Stephen Tredennick—whom his sailors loved as a com¬ 
 mander who considered his men’s welfare as ever prior to his 
 own comfort; but this time he had forgotten to consider the 
 probable cost of what was to him a rare gratification, a hith¬ 
 erto unexperienced enjoyment, as he thought afterwards, 
 laughing at himself for the romantic folly of the thought— 
 
 “ Once as I told in glee 
 Tales of the stormy sea,' 
 
 Soft eyes did gaze on me, 
 
 Burning, yet tender.” 
 
 A pleasure, a gratification, perhaps something more it was 
 to him, who would not wittingly have injured one hair of 
 the fair young head. But, ignorantly—perhaps thoughtlessly 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 43 
 
 —his presence had fallen in a shadow of darkness on 
 Winnie Caerlyon’s young womanhood, and his hand had 
 made rough with cruel roughness the lonely path her weary 
 feet should so patiently tread. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 “ If you will stop and take a cup of tea with us, Captain 
 Tredennick, we shall be very happy to have your company, 
 sir.” 
 
 Lieutenant Caerlyon proffered the invitation himself, after 
 sundry appealing glances and vain waiting for the lady of the 
 house to perform the ceremony. 
 
 But Mrs. Elizabeth Anne Caerlyon, with the exquisite 
 good-breeding she displayed whenever she wished to punish 
 her luckless husband—who, unfortunately for himself, hap¬ 
 pened to be a gentleman by birth and profession—sat at the 
 fire, dividing her attention between some woollen socks 
 which she had drying on the fender and a baby’s flannel pet¬ 
 ticoat which she was making, ignoring guest and husband 
 alike after the first brief introduction, and feigning not to 
 hear or notice her husband’s words, although her high-col¬ 
 oured, sharp-featured, shrewishly-handsome face took a 
 deeper tinge from vexation. 
 
 Winnie listened whilst her father spoke, and thought with 
 mingled dismay and despair of that evening meal of which 
 Captain Tredennick was invited to partake—of the seven 
 children clamorous for bread-and-butter—of Tommy’s invet¬ 
 erate habit of choking himself with his tea, and having to 
 be led from the table in a paroxysm of gasps, and cries, and 
 coughs, and tears—of Caroline’s tendency to cram her mouth 
 to a painful state of distension with buttered barley-scone— 
 of the coarse table-cloth, the cheap, ill-flavoured tea, and her 
 step-mother’s uttei neglect of all the etiquette of a hostess— 
 and—worst, most dreadful of all—of Mr. Thomas Pascoe’s 
 probable “ drop in ” visit, and his and her step-mother’s— 
 whose cousin he was—holding forth for an unlimited period 
 of time, in their sharp, unrefined, high-pitched voices and 
 strong provincial accent—quite undeterred by the presence 
 of a stranger—on the domestic affairs of all their numerous 
 relations. 
 
44 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 “ Mamma is sure to begin about her aunt Mary’s extrava¬ 
 gance, and her cousin Bella’s ‘ young man,’ ” Winnie said to 
 herself, her cheeks burning at the prospect before her; 
 “ and the best milk-jug is broken, and we have no lump 
 sugar in the house.” 
 
 But Winnie’s misery for the time being was terminated by 
 Captain Tredennick’s polite refusal of the invitation. 
 
 “ You know, Miss Caerlyon,” said he, with a smile, “ my 
 aunt dines late and I dare not absent myself.” 
 
 “ Oh, I know,” responded Winnie, colouring and smiling. 
 “ Besides, Captain Tredennick, we could not expect you to 
 care for tea just at your dinner-hour.” 
 
 Mrs. Caerlyon turned sharply around, disclosing the flannel 
 petticoat and stockings to full view—the angry pink flush on 
 her cheeks rising to her temples, and her light, hard-looking 
 brown eyes sparkling with displeasure. 
 
 “ I think, Winiford,” she said—she called her Winiford 
 very often when she was vexed—“ you might allow Cappun 
 Tredennick to choose whether he would stay for tea with us 
 or not. We shall be very pleased to have his company if he 
 cares to stay; and, if not, why, we must do without him.” 
 
 And Mrs. Caerlyon, as she spoke, flung the flannel on one 
 side, and, rolling the pairs of stockings into woollen balls, 
 flung them with a loud “thud” one after the other into a 
 basket, by way of emphasising her final clause. 
 
 “Not this evening, thank you, Mrs. Caerlyon,” said Cap¬ 
 tain Tredennick, pleasantly; “ I may come in some other 
 afternoon, when I have given Madam notice that she is not 
 to expect me home at six.” 
 
 Lieutenant Caerlyon responded— 
 
 “Very well, Captain Tredennick—we shall all be most 
 happy to see you, I am sure.” 
 
 Mrs. Caerlyon said nothing, but pelted the stocking-balls 
 harder, if possible, arching her light eye-brows, and pursing 
 her mouth with an air of what she considered to be cold 
 hauteur . 
 
 “You had better see after the kettle, Winiford, and cut 
 the bread-and-butter for the children; the maid can’t be back 
 from Thomas’s yet this half hour,” she said at length, in an 
 elaborate manner, ignoring Captain Tredennick’s presence, 
 and giving him at the same time a broad hint to hasten his 
 departure. 
 
 “ Good-evening, Mrs, Caerlyon,” he said with a slight bow. 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 45 
 
 “ Oh,” she cried, turning round from the cupboard—“ oh, 
 good evening, Cappun Tredennick.” 
 
 She was ignorant enough, in spite of her cold hauteur , to 
 expect that her strange male visitor would offer her, his lady 
 hostess, his hand to be shaken in farewell, after the custom 
 of Mr. Thomas Pascoe, Mr. John Williams, Mr. Edward 
 Johns, and the other gentlemen of her previous acquaintance. 
 The slight bow and cold smile—very slight, very cold, it 
 must be confessed—although no breaches of etiquette, were 
 to Mrs. Caerlyon nothing less than a flagrant insult. 
 
 “ And John Caerlyon to stand by and see his wife slighted 
 in her own house in that manner! Wait until she talked to 
 him! Bringing liis grand, stuck-up visitors in there and in¬ 
 viting them to tea; and Miss Winnie, with her airs and her 
 impudence, making little of her father’s house and her 
 father’s table before her fine Madam Vivian’s nephew! It 
 was nothing from morning till night, with that gad-about of 
 a maid, but ‘Madam Vivian,’ and Madam Vivian’s style and 
 splendour. Never mind, but she would put an end to that 
 some day! Making the girl as empty-headed and idle and 
 stuck-up as she could be! ” 
 
 The narrow-minded woman’s petty jealousy against her 
 step-daughter’s strivings and longings after some of the 
 beauty and grace of existence had not half exhausted itself, 
 as she stood there angrily muttering her ire against “ stuck- 
 up ” people into the sugar-jar and tea-caddy in the cupboard, 
 whilst Captain Tredennick and her husband stood talking on 
 the doc.step outside, when she heard a familiar voice greet¬ 
 ing them, a stamp and rush of boots on the door-mat, and 
 “Ha! evening, ’Lezabeth,” announced Mr. Thomas Pascoe’s 
 unceremonious entrance. 
 
 “ Evening, Thomas,” said Mrs. Caerlyon, beginning to lay 
 the table with a noisy clink and clatter, intended as a final 
 hint to Captain Tredennick—“standing about there,” as she 
 phrased it, in her displeasure—as well as a token of hospi¬ 
 tality wherewith to cheer Mr. Thomas Pascoe’s hungry inner 
 man. 
 
 He was apt to be hungry after his one o’clock dinner of 
 “ pasty ” or pork-pie, and relished with an exceeding appetite 
 “ cousin ’Lezabeth’s ” hot-buttered barley-scones, with occa¬ 
 sional treats of “ heavy-cake,” or sweet saffron-cake, at sir 
 ’clock, when the work-bell had rung and the mine-work or* 
 the upper earth at least was over for the night. 
 
 Be it. understood, however, amongst the honorable ones oft 
 
46 ALL IN THE WILD MAECH MORNING. 
 
 the earth, that Mr. Pascoe had no intention of meanly living 
 upon his cousin’s substance as he would have expressed it— 
 of thus devouring “ cousin ’Lezabeth’s ” barley-scones and 
 “heavy-cake,” and libations of the peculiar fluid which she 
 designated “ tea,” without intending to make her some return. 
 Away with such a base idea! Mr. Pascoe would have indig¬ 
 nantly scouted it. His “ cousin ’Lezabeth ” understood him, 
 and he understood her, and they had settled it quite pleas¬ 
 antly and conveniently between them. 
 
 In returning thanks for past favours he had informed 
 “ cousin ’Lezabeth ” of his generous resolve for the future— 
 possibly, continuing the tradesman-simile, “ hoping to merit a 
 continuance of the same ”—of taking off her hands, out of the 
 overcrowded home, and away from the charges on the over¬ 
 crowded income, too burdened—two mouths to be fed, two 
 bodies to be clothed and housed at his expense and not hers, 
 from the moment he took possession of them. Surely no 
 wonder that “ cousin ’Lezabeth,” with this hope and incentive 
 to generosity before her, buttered for Mr. Thomas Pascoe the 
 best and hottest barley-scone on the dish, did not more than 
 half fill his cup with water when she poured out tea, and cut 
 such thick rich wedges of “ heavy cake ” for his refreshment. 
 
 Generously and goodmaturedly he had promised “ cousin 
 ’Lezabeth ” that he meant to take her step-daughter, Wini¬ 
 fred, and her own daughter, Sarah Matilda, eldest of the 
 seven, into dependence on him. He had rather a hard battle 
 to contest about Sarah Matilda, though; as to Winifred, there 
 was of course no difficulty beyond saying, “Yes, you may 
 have her.” But Mrs. Caerlyon persistently tried to substi¬ 
 tute Louisa Harriet, the puny, sickly, peevish babe, for Sarah 
 Matilda, rising eight, “ and as smart a child as need be.” 
 
 But Mr. Pascoe had no notion of being foolishly generous 
 in the midst of his liberality of spirit. The sickly infant 
 could be of neither use nor profit to him—Sarah Matilda 
 might be both. 
 
 He meant to take the two sisters, and provide them with 
 food and clothes and shelter, as has been said; but he meant 
 that they should earn that support in a measure, by making 
 his — Thomas Pascoe’s—food, clothes, and shelter more 
 agreeable and pleasantly comfortable to him. 
 
 He would make a wife and servant of the elder sister, as 
 was meet and right and convenient, seeing that she had come 
 to woman’s years, and was a neat sewer, a tasty cook, and a 
 tidy housekeeper—“when she is kept to it,” Mrs. Caerlyon 
 
47 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 added parenthetically—and of the younger a handy little 
 waitress, errand-runner, and co-servant, as was meet and con¬ 
 venient also; thus establishing Mr. Thomas Pascoe’s pros¬ 
 pective comfort, in the matter of shirt buttons, darned socks, 
 cosy dinners and suppers, and general bodily comfort, very 
 satisfactorily. 
 
 Matters being thus" arranged so neatly and conclusively, it 
 followed naturally enough that the generous originator of the 
 scheme should regard his future property with the eye of a 
 possessor. 
 
 Naturally enough; but Mr. Pascoe was amazed—bewil¬ 
 dered, so to speak, at the strangeness of the idea—to dis¬ 
 cover, upon his looking with that eye of future possession on 
 one division of his property—the part that was to represent 
 the wife and chief servant—that it exhibited palpable evi¬ 
 dence of a mutinous spirit, growing at length into open re¬ 
 bellion, grievously intermingled with fiery scorn and disre¬ 
 gard of his worshipful and estimable person. 
 
 It acquired a higher value in his eyes, there is no denying, 
 by this spice of difficulty in attainment—a value that grew 
 higher as he began to deem it dimly possible that the prop¬ 
 erty might never be his to have and hold, and that the per¬ 
 sonal comforts his selfish, mean nature prized so highly might 
 vanish also. Another loss he had also begun to recognize of 
 late—the loss of the woman—the future wife—a loss which 
 he felt would cut deeper than all else—a loss the bare thought 
 of which filled his greedy animal nature with a subtle tiger¬ 
 ish jealousy. He had picked her out, chosen her, set his 
 mind on having her, though she was “ no great things of a 
 beauty to look at”—not near as good-looking as Susanna 
 Edwards, whom he might have had for asking. Dare any one 
 think of taking her instead of him? Dare she think of giv¬ 
 ing herself, or wish to give herself, away to any one else but 
 him? 
 
 He had hinted at this uneasiness of mind of his to “ cousin 
 ’Lezabeth ”—that is to say, he grumbled when Winnie ran 
 off gladly to Roseworthy of an evening, avoiding him and 
 his detested airs of proprietorship whenever she could, say¬ 
 ing that “ the young piece didn’t seem to have any great 
 notion of settling down,” and that “ it was sure to make the 
 maid full of flighty, grand extravagant notions, to be keeping 
 company with fine gentry like that.” 
 
 An$ “ cousin ’Lezabeth” quite agreed with him, and was 
 fuller of ill-will than ever against u Winiford’s ” grand 
 
48 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 notions and fine-lady airs and ways; but, as both her step¬ 
 mother and expectant husband knew that restriction in this 
 respect would meet with passionate resistance from Winnie 
 herself, and that Lieutenant Caerlyon would not have Madam 
 Vivian affronted if he could help it, they were fain to be con¬ 
 tent with all the passive opposition and hindering unpleasant¬ 
 ness they could muster, to weary and crush her into tamely 
 doing as they wished. 
 
 “ And what does that grand fellow, Tredennick of Tre- 
 garthen, want over here?” asked Mr. Pascoe, very crustily, 
 as he listened to the sound of the conversation carried on 
 outside, and missed Winnie’s presence from the room. 
 
 “ Came over to see the Lieutenant, I believe,” said Mrs. 
 Caerlyon, with a slighting toss of her head. 
 
 “ Hum,” returned Mr. Pascoe, slowly, lowering his brows 
 over his crafty eyes; “ take care, ’Lezabeth; I have, my eye 
 on him, I tell ye.” 
 
 “For what?” inquired Mrs. Caerlyon, curiously. 
 
 “ Oh, never mind,” Mr. Pascoe replied, ashamed to confess 
 such an unbecoming weakness as possible jealousy of Wini¬ 
 fred’s affections; “ there’s things I’ve noticed, ’Lezabeth. I 
 hope you’re not going to let Winifred go over to Rose¬ 
 worthy this evening?” 
 
 “ ’Deed, I don’t know, I am sure, Thomas,” said Mrs. 
 Caerlyon, with another toss and in shriller accents; “ it’s not 
 much matter what I like or don’t like in this house. Between 
 Miss Winnie’s fine airs and nonsense, and her father’s letting 
 her do as she please, she might spend morning, noon, and 
 night with Madam, playing her piano, and reading novels, 
 and learning to make grand curtseys, and sit on sofas properly, 
 for anything I could do or say! I wish she was in tighter 
 hands than mine, I can tell you.” 
 
 “Hum!” said Mr. Pascoe, more slowly than before—“I 
 wonder at the Leftenant to let her. I’ll spaik to hem, ’Leza¬ 
 beth; I’ll spaik and tell him that he must keep hes daughter 
 to home if he wants to get her married. It’s not every man,” 
 continued Mr. Pascoe, with an air of serious questioning of 
 that over-generous spirit of his, “that would care to marry 
 a maid that was running here and there into the houses of 
 fine proud gentry, and picking up with those raking, roving 
 sea-captains of fellows. Et doesn’t look well for a young 
 maid. ’Lezabeth, I have my reasons, and so I tell ye.” 
 
 “Ah! ” cried Mrs. Caerlyon, opening her hard, bright eyes 
 in her eager, coarse, scandal-loving interest; “ she met him 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 49 
 
 on the cliff-road, and he came part of the way with her, she 
 told us.” 
 
 “Ay,” said Mr. Pascoe, tightening his lipless mouth into a 
 thin line, and coughing, as he partly turned away his head, 
 implying that that was all she knew of it, “I saw ’em 
 together—quite thick Miss Winnie and the Captain seemed 
 to be.” 
 
 “Well, I declare!” exclaimed Mrs. Caerlyon, with a 
 vexed, malicious laugh. “Upon my word! Miss Winnie, to 
 be sure! ” 
 
 Winnie’s future generous lord and master screwed his 
 mouth in a contemptuous smile, elevating his eyebrows and 
 shaking his head, to show how little Miss Winnie’s ill- 
 behaviour affected his peace of ifiind, however he might 
 regret her being so blind to her own interests as to run the 
 dangerous risk of preventing him, Thomas Pascoe, from 
 marrying her at all. 
 
 “ Elizabeth, my dear, can you spare Winnie this evening?” 
 Lieutenant Caerlyon put his head into the sitting-room as he 
 asked the question reluctantly, ready to retreat at once when 
 the usual hail-shower of snappish remarks, complaints, innu¬ 
 endoes, and grumbling should rain down on his devoted 
 head. 
 
 “To go to Roseworthy?” demanded his high-tempered 
 spouse, putting down a tea-spoon with awful deliberation, and 
 surveying him with a stormy glance. “To go traipsing 
 ,off along with Cappun Tredennick, I suppose? And you see 
 cousin Thomas coming in here to spend the evening, and you 
 know the maid’s out, and-” 
 
 ‘‘'Oh, hush, will you, my dear!” implored her husband. 
 “ Captain Tredennick is here yet, and-” 
 
 “ I don’t care if he is or not!” retorted Mrs. Caerlyon, 
 more loudly. “What is he doing here? Who asked him? 
 What business has a young maid to be gadding for ever out 
 of her own house, off with people that are too stuck-up to 
 notice her relations? A pretty thing——” 
 
 Here Lieutenant Caerlyon, in despair, closed the sitting- 
 room door with a crash, and shut himself in, with the object 
 of stilling his spouse’s noisy burst of oratory. 
 
 “ That is a nice wife for a quiet sort of poor fellow to live 
 with!” muttered Captain Tredennick to himself, as Mrs. Caer- 
 lyon’s shrewish tones reached his ears. “ What possessed the 
 man to marry that vulgar, bad-tempered virago like a Wap- 
 ping landlady!” 
 
 4 
 
50 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 Feeling that, from some cause or other, his presence was 
 peculiarly unwelcome to the lady of the house, Captain Tre- 
 dennick became anxious to rid her of it and relieve himself. 
 
 “ I must bid my poor little friend good-bye; I suppose she 
 w r ill not be allowed to come back with me,” he said, doubt¬ 
 fully, peering down the flagged passage that led to the 
 kitchen. “ I am afraid my asking leave for her has only 
 made trouble.” 
 
 A few steps down the flagged passage revealed a small 
 tidy kitchen to the Captain’s eyes—revealed a pile of bread 
 being cut and buttered on the white table, and a busy little 
 figure, covered up in a cooking-apron, going to and fro between 
 it and the fire. 
 
 “ Good evening, Winnie dear,” said he; “I must go now. 
 I wanted^Mrs. Caerlyon to allow you to come back to Rose¬ 
 worthy this evening with me, but I think she was not willing.” 
 
 “ Oh, no,” explained Winnie, breathlessly, “ I couldn’t go 
 this evening—there are a great many things to be done.” 
 
 “ And Mr. Pascoe has come to tea,” supplemented Captain 
 Tredennick with an inquisitive smile, watching her closely. 
 
 Her passionate gray eyes blazed with a sudden light of 
 reproachful anger, as she gave him one quick look, and then 
 dropped them again. 
 
 “He waits for no welcome from me, sir,” said she, coldly, 
 laying down the bread-knife, and extending the busy little 
 hand. “ Good-bye, Captain Tredennick.” 
 
 He took both the poor little toil-worn hands in one of his,, 
 and held them tightly ill a warm, strong grasp. 
 
 “ Good-bye, Winnie dear,” he said, gently. 
 
 He pitied her so much—this pale, gentle, intelligent, re¬ 
 fined girl, amongst such uncongenial companions (they w s ould 
 be her companions, and others like them, all her life through 
 probably!) his heart swelled with mingled anger, compassion, 
 and admiration for the small, fair face, with the firelight 
 gleaming in ruddy gold on the silken sheen of her hair, and 
 revealing the delicate violet shadows beneath her deep, earnest 
 eyes, which should shine for the benefit of Mr. Thomas Pas¬ 
 coe and the mine-workers of Tolgooth, until her attractions 
 all faded and grew gray and wrinkled with the world’s 
 troubles and the wear of years. The Captain of the Chittoor 
 felt quite an unaccountable spasm of vexation and regret at 
 the thought. 
 
 “ You’ll accept that keepsake that I am going to send you — 
 will you?” he asked, rather * abruptly, and still frowning a 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 51 
 
 little from that unpleasant spasm. “ That stuffed flying-fish 
 , or string of coral, or whatever it is? You’ll accept it, and 
 value it for my sake—will you, Winnie? And it will keep 
 you from forgetting me when I am far away.” 
 
 Captain Tredennick would likewise have found it to be 
 unaccountable why he hated to think that in the future Mr. 
 Thomas Pascoe would be near and remembered, and he far 
 away and forgotten. But there was a hidden spasm at poor 
 Winnie’s passionate innocent heart also. 
 
 “Yes,” she said, looking up impulsively; “but I don’t need 
 a keepsake—I shall never forget! ” 
 
 With the words of semi-betrayal, but more from the 
 startled flush that rose with them, flashing into the frightened 
 glance of her eyes, and flooding all her pale face with crim¬ 
 son to the roots of her wavy hair, the light of a sudden reve¬ 
 lation seemed to force itself on Stephen Tredennick’s mind. 
 A flush of surprise deepened through his own sun-browned 
 colour, and his calm, strong heart for a few moments fluttered 
 in strange excitement. If they were selfish, thoughtless 
 words, it is possible that generous, thoughtful Stephen Tre¬ 
 dennick was scarcely aware of their tenor or purport as he 
 replied confusedly to the girl’s exclamation, smiling oddly 
 and holding her hands tightly still. 
 
 “Whether you forget me or not, Winnie,” he said, that 
 strange fluttering at his heart making his voice quite hoarse 
 and unsteady, “I trust that—that—I shall never hear of your 
 giving your thoughts—or—yourself to any one but one who 
 is well worthy of the gift—I trust I shall never hear it when 
 I am away.” 
 
 He paused a moment, still looking at the agitated face 
 burning with swift-coming blushes, and, as he paused, there 
 seemed to sweep over him the thrill of a strange pleasure, a 
 strong, wild wish, a passionate longing, and the remainder of 
 Captain Tredennick’s judicious common sense and calm self- 
 possession seemed to vanish before it. 
 
 “I must go,” he uttered suddenly, in a kind of startled fear 
 of the fascination that had fallen on him—the fascination, the 
 delight, the bewildering sweetness of the pleasure which the 
 grave gentleman, the steady, weather-beaten sailor of thirty- 
 two years of age, found in standing in a small red-tiled 
 kitchen, with rows of polished tin dish-covers shining on the 
 wall at his right hand, a little black cooking-stove with a 
 -bright fire, a singing kettle, and a baking griddle-cake, whose 
 delicate, scorching flour odour was agreeably distinguishable, 
 
52 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MOENING. 
 
 in front of him, and Winnie Caerlyon by his side. “ Good¬ 
 bye, dear—good-bye, my pet!” he said, hurriedly. 
 
 He turned to go as he uttered the words, but the delight' 
 and fascination were too strong for Stephen Tredennick—the 
 fascination of the presence of a little girl in a shabby blue 
 dress. Suddenly releasing her hands, he caught the slight 
 figure in his strong arms, and kissed her twice passionately; 
 then he hurried out of the house and away from Tolgooth, 
 and was half way back to Roseworthy before the fast-throb¬ 
 bing heart in his broad.breast grew calm again. 
 
 And the little girl in the shabby dress stood a long time 
 motionless on the spot where he had quitted her, wondering 
 dreamily how it was that the world, that used to be so sad, 
 had changed into such an Eden of joy and hope and love. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 “Well, Miss Winnie, you have concluded to put in an 
 appearance at last; I am sure I had grown perfectly satisfied 
 in my mind that, for some important reasons of your own, 
 your absence was to be perpetual.” 
 
 Madam Vivian was smiling, but she was not pleased; nor 
 did she look so, though she sat in her favourite seat and atti¬ 
 tude, her dainty feet gleaming on the velvet footstool, her 
 black, glittering fan in her hand fluttering softly, and her 
 handsome head resting against the dark-green velvet cushions 
 of her chair. 
 
 “ I couldn’t come before, indeed,” pleaded the little pro- 
 teg ee^ humbly and earnestly; “you know, dear Madam, I 
 wrote and sent you word that mamma was not willing, and 
 that baby was very ill; and Tommy had such a bad sore 
 throat-” 
 
 “ Oh, dear me, yes—I know—dreadful! ” said Madam, irri¬ 
 tably, evidently applying the adjective in impatient disgust, 
 rather than in pity for the sufferings of the baby and 
 Tommy. “You told me so before. What a nuisance to 
 have such a pack of children in a small house, and always 
 one or two of them ill! ” 
 
 The tears rose to Winnie’s eyes, but not tears of self- 
 pity. She had an unhappy home she knew, but she thought 
 that if that hateful Thomas Pascoe were only out of her 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 53 
 
 sight for ever, and mamma did not scold her so often, and 
 poor little Louie would grow strong and well, and .she had 
 money enough to buy a few nice warm clothes, she would be 
 quite happy—for the small salary which Madam insisted on 
 paying for her services went into Mrs. Caerlyon’s pocket, 
 untouched, to the extent of a single shilling, by the poor 
 little recipient. They wanted it so badly—Sarah Matilda, 
 Caroline, Tommy, Harry and the rest—how could she attempt 
 to buy line things for herself when they wanted necessaries? 
 
 Mrs. Caerlyon, however, with characteristic plain-dealing, 
 placed the matter before Winnie’s conscience in the terse 
 pithy sentence—“ Every penny of it don’t more than pay for 
 your keep, Winiford.” So, in order not to rob the family 
 of the portion for her “ keep,” Winifred handed her salary 
 to her step-mother monthly, as she received it, only pleading 
 to have at least one neat dress, in order not to displease 
 Madam. Poor Winnie mended, and turned, and washed, 
 and darned the thinnest, shabbiest clothes of any of the 
 family for her own apparel when out of the precincts of 
 Roseworthv. Still—save and take care of it as Winnie 
 would—that one best dress of dark merino was getting 
 faded, and looked thin and poor, and annoyed Madam’s eyes. 
 
 “ I cannot think, Winifred,” she said, sharply, after a 
 lengthened survey of the meek-looking figure, pale face, and 
 downcast head, crowned with its feminine glory of shining 
 hair—and it seemed to-night richer, more abundant and 
 becomingly arranged than Madam had ever seen it—“ why 
 Mrs. Caerlyon does not allow you to spend the pocket money 
 I give you on yourself. You have had nothing but that 
 merino since last autumn twelvemonth; and your jacket is 
 quite worn out!” 
 
 “ It is, Madam,” assented Winnie, colouring painfully; 
 “but I am going to get a new one.” 
 
 “ Of what kind?” asked Madam, with the never-lacking 
 interest to a feminine mind which such a subject possessed. 
 “ Get a nice respectable one, Winnie, child; it quite annoys 
 me to see you looking so poorly clad. There! there! don’t 
 look so distressed—it is not your fault, I know.” 
 
 “ No, Madam, but—but I know I look shabby,” she said, 
 with quivering lips, the painful blushes burning in her thin 
 cheeks. 
 
 He had noticed her being shabby and thinly clad; she had 
 seen his eyes resting on the frayed cloth edges, the thread¬ 
 bare cuffs and collar of her one well-worn cloth jacket, that 
 
54 ALL IN THE WILD MAECH MOENING. 
 
 bitterly cold wild March morning. She had noted the quick 
 compassionate glance at each involuntary shiver and tighten¬ 
 ing of her faded wrapping shawl—he, her idol, her demi-god, 
 her great, tall, strong, powerful, gracious, beautiful, demi-god 
 without a name; for how could she dare to say that she loved, 
 admired, reverenced, worshipped Stephen Tredennick? 
 
 Impossible! Winnie’s heart nearly stood still at the bare 
 mental juxtaposition of her love—shabby, ill-clad Winnie 
 Caerlyon, to whom Madam Vivian paid twenty pounds a 
 year for reading to her and waiting on her, to the occasional 
 exclusion and no small jealousy of her regular attendant, 
 Miss Trewhella—her love for Tredennick of Tregarthen, the 
 relative, the favourite nephew of Madam of Roseworthy. 
 
 She trembled all over at her own outrageous audacity as 
 she sat on the little couch opposite Madam’s chair, with the 
 satin cushion and embroidery silks at which she was working 
 lying in her lap. 
 
 Captain Stephen thought her shabby and ill-clad too. He 
 had only seen her in that old worn-out jacket, and her second- 
 best dress, a faded blue gingham; he would not know any¬ 
 thing about the nice new jacket which she was resolved to 
 persuade her step-mother to buy. He would never see it, for 
 he had gone away—gone for twelve months, perhaps; it 
 would be shabby when he came back—and she would have 
 liked him to see her look nice for once—he, her hero, her 
 grand, rich, clever, high-born hero; no, her idol—that was 
 the term—it was not love so much as worship of his goodness, 
 and graciousness, and tenderness. He who had called her 
 his dear Winnie, his pet, and taken her in his arms and kissed 
 her—she would have liked so to let him remember her nice 
 and neat and prettily dressed! 
 
 “Well, my dear,” said Madam, coldly, “what are you so 
 absorbed about as to utterly neglect my addressing you?” 
 
 Winnie started in terrified confusion. She was only 
 secretly idolising and worshipping the being whom her pat¬ 
 roness loved best on earth—only hoping to idolise and wor¬ 
 ship him in secret to the last hour of her life; but oh, how 
 dreadful if Madam knew! It were better for her to die on 
 the spot! 
 
 “I beg your pardon, Madam; I forgot—I was thinking. I 
 don’t know what sort of jacket I shall have yet.” 
 
 Madam raised her eyebrows in surprise at her little com¬ 
 panion’s perturbation. 
 
 “That vulgar step-mother has quite destroyed the girl’s 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING* 
 
 55 
 
 self-possession,” she said to herself. “ Don’t allow Mrs. 
 Caerlyon to choose for you, Winifred, please,” she uttered 
 aloud, with a curling lip; “ you had better have a neat black- 
 cloth jacket, and a set of gray squirrel furs. That reminds 
 me,” she added suddenly—“ my new furs may be home 
 to-night.” 
 
 “Your new furs!” echoed Winnie, with bright eyes. “ Oh, 
 are you going to have new furs, Madam? What sort?” 
 
 “ Silver fox,” said Madam, smiling. “ I am tired of 
 ermine and Astrakhan. Stephen is to send them to me as a 
 present; he knows some place in London where he will get 
 the very best, he says, from Russian merchants.” 
 
 “Oh, how kind—how—how beautiful!” stammered Win-, 
 nie, flushing and sparkling in an extraordinary manner. 
 
 “ Indeed, I don’t think it is kind at all,” retorted Madam. 
 “ Stephen knows that he has behaved unkindly and dis¬ 
 pleased me, and wants to make up with a present.” 
 
 “How—how has Captain Tredennick displeased you, 
 Madam?” inquired Winnie, the blood rushing back to her 
 heart, and leaving her very lips pale. 
 
 Madam’s eyebrows were elevated again, in surprise at 
 modest, timid Winnie’s downright close questioning. 
 
 “ By paying me a ten days’ visit, after three years’ absence, 
 and making a business excuse to go off again! ” vouchsafed 
 Madam, witlj a frown. “ But for his writing and making me 
 such a faithful promise to come back in twelve months, and 
 stay at least a quarter of a year with me, I think I should 
 have declined to receive Captain Stephen on his return; still, 
 I must confess that I knew he had heavy business matters to 
 transact at Lloyds’ and with several foreign merchants.” 
 
 “ Oh, yes, of course,” said Winnie, white and red by turns 
 with the anguish of hearing a fault ascribed to her idol. “I 
 am sure Captain Tredennick would not go unless he could 
 help it, when he knew that it would grieve you, Madam.” 
 
 “Why, what do you know of Captain Tredennick, Win¬ 
 nie?” asked her .patroness, half tauntingly and half sharply. 
 
 “Only what I saw of him, Madam,” answered Winnie, 
 looking down, and making wrong stitches in her embroidery. 
 “You know he came over to see father two days before he 
 went.” 
 
 “Oh, yes, I know,” said Madam, affably—“he told me; 
 also that Mr. Pascoe had come to spend the evening, and that 
 you treated him very cruelly. For shame, Winnie! ” 
 
 “ Why, I didn’t see him or speak to him at all while Cap- 
 
56 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 tain Tredennick was there! ” exclaimed Winnie, hastily. “ It 
 was after he was gone that he—they went on so; and I went 
 out of the house. The mean wretch! I wish he was at 
 Jericho! ” broke out Winnie, with confused, passionate tears 
 and gestures. 
 
 “My dear, pray control yourself,” said Madam, coolly. 
 “Why did they go on so, as you express it? ” 
 
 “Because—because—I don’t know; because that nasty, 
 hateful, prying creature,” answered Winnie, shaking all over, 
 and crying, “went on saying things; and mamma took his 
 part, and father scolded me, and-” 
 
 “Oblige me, Winifred, by being a little more lucid in 
 your language; and pray stop that unladylike crying and 
 shaking,” said Madam, in a very cold, hard tone, knitting 
 her line pencilled brows together. “What did Mr. Pascoe 
 say to make your father scold you, and make you run out of 
 the house?” 
 
 “ He called me names, Madam,” replied Winnie, drying 
 her tears, and composing herself with a strong, angry effort 
 —“ said I was a gad-about and a flirt; and father scolded 
 me, though I did not deserve it.” Her pale, quiet face 
 was flushed, and almost sullen, from a sense of injury. “ As 
 if anything that mean false story-teller could say would 
 make me think more of him, or be afraid of him!” she 
 added, scornfully. 
 
 “And whom did Mr. Pascoe accuse you of flirting with?” 
 asked Madam, smiling, but looking rather perturbed also. 
 
 Winnie hesitated, dropped her work on the floor, and 
 Madam caught a glimpse of a.frightened spasm passing over 
 her face as the girl said, reluctantly, the angry cloud darken¬ 
 ing her patient brow— 
 
 “ A person whom he had no business to dare to name—of 
 whom he knew nothing. To dare to speak so!” she mut¬ 
 tered. 
 
 “Ah,” said Madam, looking both vexed and pleased, “I 
 have no doubt he was wrong, Winnie. I am sure you are too 
 cautious in your conduct for any one to be able to bring a 
 true charge of forwardness or flirtation against you. You 
 know girls cannot be too circumspect in their behaviour, my 
 dear, nor too careful to avoid the empty attentions of men 
 who give them a passing notice, and then forget them, only 
 to remember them with a jest amongst their companions. 
 Never err but on the right side, my dear,” concluded the 
 lady, who flirted gracefully now as she had done all through 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 57 
 
 her wifehood, when she had plenty "of constant admirers—as 
 she had done in the days of young belleship, when she reck¬ 
 oned her lovers in number like her gloves, and thought as 
 little of them after their first charm had departed. 
 
 Winnie did not reply to the improving exhortation, although 
 she had listened to it most attentively and believingly. She 
 thought of those farewell words in the firelight of the little 
 red-tiled kitchen; she thought of Stephen Tredennick’s part¬ 
 ing kiss; and the sound of Madam’s words seemed to beat on 
 her heart with a cold, strange pain. It was not the first pain 
 that her love had cost her, poor Winnie Caerlyon! It was 
 not to be the last. 
 
 “ I am sure that it was untrue and unfair of Mr. Pascoe to 
 speak so, Winnie dear,” Madam continued, more naturally 
 and kindly; “ because I know that anything of that sort is 
 quite foreign to your nature. I should be greatly disappointed 
 indeed if I found that it was not.” 
 
 Miss Trewhella’s discreet, gentle tap interrupted the smooth 
 little homily meant for the reproof, guidance, direction, and 
 warning of Madam’s protegee. 
 
 “ A large box sefit up from Trewillian station, Madam— 
 from London.” 
 
 “ Oh, my furs!said Madam, looking quite eager and 
 expectant, despite her slighting remark. “ Bring it in, Tre- 
 whella, please.” 
 
 The great case was dragged in, and the cords and packing- 
 papers were cut and. pulled off by the united efforts of Win¬ 
 nie and Miss Trewhella—the latter genteel person moaning 
 when the cords hurt her fingers, and the pincers caught her 
 nails instead of the nails in the lid, and the former working 
 away flushed, excited, and smiling at the thought of seeing 
 Madam’s new splendours and admiring them—oh! so much 
 —for the sake of the kind, thoughtful, generous donor. 
 
 “There now—at last! Oh, my goodness! Dear Madam, 
 it’s magnificent—it’s splendid! Oh, Miss Trewhella, did you 
 ever see anything so beautiful? Look at the collarette and 
 the muff, and the depth of that splendid silvery thing round 
 the velvet! ” 
 
 “ It’s very handsome, indeed, Miss Winnie—quite fit for a 
 queen to wear,” said Miss Trewhella, with a genteel air of 
 complete satisfaction in having at last seen what she consid¬ 
 ered a perfect article; “light furs become Madam so much 
 too.” 
 
 “Oh, it’s superb, exquisite!” murmured Winnie, feasting 
 
58 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MAECH MOENING. 
 
 her eyes on the richness and beauty and softness of the splen¬ 
 did velvet and furs', without one touch of envy or covetous¬ 
 ness towards the owner, who already possessed several costly 
 sets of furs and fur mantles and jackets, the least valuable of 
 which were never given or promised to her, Winnie Caer- 
 
 lyon. 
 
 Madam said to herself that it was of no use to give a poor 
 girl a single rich costly article which would match none of 
 the rest of her attire, and most likely would be appropriated 
 by Mrs. Caerlyon; besides, Trewhella would be jealous, and 
 think herself wronged, and all that nonsense. For all 
 Madam’s rich silks and laid-aside millinery became the por¬ 
 tion of that watchful damsel, who indeed determined at this 
 moment to hint as broadly as she could, on the next favour¬ 
 able opportunity, on the extreme propriety of Madam’s 
 making over to her the Astrakhan jacket and muff which she 
 never wore. 
 
 “ Really it is lovely—quite a handsome present of Ste¬ 
 phen’s,” said Madam, looking much gratified. “ That Lyons 
 velvet is superb, Trewhella; and what a depth of that beauti¬ 
 ful silvery fur! It must have cost a great deal.” 
 
 Miss Trewhella, diving deeper into the box, looked up at 
 this juncture with an air of mingled reproach and comforted 
 assurance. 
 
 “ Another sealskin, Madam!” she said, lifting a pile of 
 quilted satin and golden-black fur. “ That makes two seal¬ 
 skins, an Astrakhan, a Polish ermine, a velvet and sable, a 
 velvet and chinchilla, the Canada, other furs, and-” 
 
 “What are you talking about?” interrupted her mistress, 
 shortly, understanding the drift of the conversation perfectly. 
 “ That is not mine, Trewhella; it is some mistake, of course. 
 I didn’t want a sealskin, and told Captain Tredennick not to 
 get one, as I preferred the silver-fox for a change. How 
 stupid of the people! But what a beauty it is! It cost 
 twenty guineas at least! ” 
 
 If there was a feminine passion in Madam Vivian’s calmly 
 decorous, self-contained, equable nature, it was a love of 
 elegant, costly dress; and, despite the treasures of her winter 
 wardrobe which her maid had reckoned up, she gazed at the 
 splendid sealskin with longing eyes, and buried her little 
 white fingers in its gold-shaded velvety depths with a covet¬ 
 ous appreciation of its richness. 
 
 “ Oh, I dare say, Madam,” Miss Trewhella said, eyeing the 
 jacket in her turn with greedy longing, “ that Captain Tre- 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 59 
 
 dennick thought you’d like a new sealskin too; Iliough your 
 other one is as good as new nearly. The Captain is so gen¬ 
 erous, and makes such beautiful presents,” she went on; “ you 
 remember, Madam, that time you expected a black Maltese 
 lace shawl, he sent all those splendid lace flounces with it and 
 your white lace fan.” 
 
 “ Yes,” agreed Madam, taking up the sealskin admiringly, 
 and willing to be persuaded that it was an unexpected addi¬ 
 tion to her generous nephew’s costly present. “ I really did 
 not want this—foolish boy!” 
 
 “ And is that for you also, Madam?” inquired Winnie, 
 amazed. 
 
 “ Yes, I suppose so,” said Madam, carelessly, as if a twenty- 
 guinea sealskin more or less, were no great matter. “ Help 
 me on with this velvet, Trewhella; Stephen is bent on mak¬ 
 ing the amende honorable with all his might. Ah, what is 
 that?” 
 
 A note fell from the folds of the velvet as Trewhella 
 shook it out, and Winnie caught it up and presented it to 
 Madam. 
 
 “ What has Stephen to say, I wonder?” Madam murmured, 
 with a little satisfied smile, tearing the envelope open. 
 
 “ 6 My dear Aunt ’—h’m— 4 1 have at last ’—li’m—h’m— 
 ‘ hope you will like it—very best Siberian fur ’—ah-” 
 
 A very long pause, in which Madam stared at the paper, 
 Winnie looked earnestly at the rich gifts, thinking of the 
 giver, and longing to hear every word he had written, and 
 Miss Trewhella decided within herself that she would have 
 that Astrakhan jacket and muff that very day—Madam 
 might give her the other sealskin too without being over- 
 generous. 
 
 The letter dropped from Madam’s hand, and her steadfast 
 gaze passed from it to Winifred’s unconscious face—a little 
 saddened. The girl could not help it while thinking what a 
 beautiful lot of things—new jacket, and dress, and boots, and 
 bonnet for herself, a little swansdown-trimmed robe for 
 Louie, a new umbrella for father—she knew he would like a 
 nice silk one so much—and a nice neat silk-velvet mantelet, 
 the very thing she was longing for, for mamma—twenty 
 guineas would buy, which amount had all gone for that jacket 
 that Madam did not want! 
 
 The magnetic attraction of Madam’s eyes made Winnie 
 look up hastily; and the face she saw—so set and cold, with 
 a hostile glimmering smile, like stormy sunlight, on the 
 
60 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 proud mouth and haughty, curving nostrils—almost made her 
 gasp with apprehensive timidity. 
 
 “ I did not know that Captain Tredennick promised you a 
 keepsake, my dear? ” 
 
 “No, he did not—that is, I thought he was only joking,” 
 stammered Winnie, her heart beating madly. “ Why, 
 madam? ” 
 
 “ Oh, no ‘ Why ’ at all, my dear,” said Madam, flinging the 
 note on the table, the haughty nostrils dilating ominously, 
 and the pale, handsome face growing stony in its unapproach¬ 
 able hauteur and cold indifference; “only I thought you 
 would have mentioned it when you knew that it was coming 
 to you. Captain Tredennick is so generous, really I think 
 he would give away all that he possessed if he were asked for 
 it. Don’t crush my sleeve, Trewhella. Do you remember 
 the time when all those Llanyon girls got Captain Tredennick 
 to send them keepsakes, Trewhella? I thought I should 
 have expired with laughter to see them all turning out in 
 coral necklaces and Indian silk sashes every Sunday—the 
 Captain sent them all one apiece.” 
 
 “ Oh, yes, Madam,” said Trewhella, tittering doubtfully, 
 not quite certain from what quarter had come her mistress’s 
 concealed vexation, and looking askance at Winnie, who felt 
 her very limbs trembling beneath her. 
 
 “ Whatever any one asks him to give is given at once,” 
 Madam continued, laughing. “The Llanyons were all wild 
 for Delhi embroidered sashes and coral necklaces, and he 
 sent them; and so I suppose you gave a hint of your wishes, 
 Miss Winnie?” 
 
 “What, Madam? I didn’t say anything,” said Winnie, 
 the tears rising to her eyes. “ Captain Tredennick said, the 
 evening he was at our house, that he would send me a flying- 
 fish, or a string of coral, or something; and I said that I did 
 not w^ant anything. I did not ask him for anything, 
 Madam.” 
 
 Her throat swelled painfully with passionate excitement 
 and reproach, and she turned away to hide the fast-falling 
 tears. 
 
 “Dear me,” said Madam, coolly sarcastic; “don’t make 
 such an hysterical piece of work of it, Winnie! I have no 
 doubt you are very pleased and grateful for such a handsome, 
 expensive present, but there is no need to cry about it.” 
 
 “What present, Madam? I know of none—I see none— 
 expected none!” cried Winnie, goaded into sharpness at last. 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 61 
 
 “ Don’t you see your fur-jacket?” asked Madam, with the 
 same careless, sarcastic smile. “Wipe away your tears, 
 child, and put it on, and let us see how you look in it.” 
 
 “Mine!” Winnie almost screamed. “ That fur—that seal¬ 
 skin—mine! It isn’t, Madam—he never meant that! Did 
 he—did he say it was for me? ” 
 
 A swift, penetrating glance was all that Madam vouchsafed 
 her excited young protegee, .as the former moved over to the 
 full-length mirror to study the effect of her new furs. 
 
 “Now, I am sure, Miss Winnie,” said Miss Trewhella, bit¬ 
 ing her lips and affecting to smile like her mistress, when the 
 worthy young woman’s very heart-strings were wrung with 
 jealousy—“ now I am sure you’ve got a present! A real seal¬ 
 skin, no less! My, won’t you be splendid!” 
 
 “ Do come here, Trewhella, and see why the collarette 
 won’t lie smoothly!” called her mistress, impatiently, from 
 the mirror. 
 
 Miss Trewhella obeyed, feeling ready to cry, hoping that 
 Madam’s jacket would not fit her, and wishing “ that Winnie 
 Caerlyon ” to be banished in disgrace from Rose worthy then 
 and there. 
 
 And Winnie stood dizzily by the table, looking at the 
 darkly golden heap beside her, afraid to touch it, afraid to 
 believe her own ears, or to ask a question. 
 
 “Well,” said Madam, “what is the matter now?” Her 
 own black Lyons velvet and silver fur fitted perfectly", and 
 looked superb, and the consciousness of looking like a duchess 
 —and a very handsome one—filled Madam with gracious¬ 
 ness for the time. “Why don’t you put it on, child? Let 
 me see it. There! Well, really! Turn around. You must 
 have a nice dress to go with it, Winnie. Really Captain 
 Tredennick determined you should not be cold any more this 
 spring! ” 
 
 “He knew I was cold that morning,” thought poor Winnie; 
 “it is a charity gift to keep me warm! He need not—need 
 not have insulted me. If he had sent me a book or a foreign 
 shell, or any little trifle of remembrance, as 1 thought he 
 would. But twenty guineas for a jacket for me!” 
 
 The frightful price of one article of her attire, the thought 
 of what they would all say at home, the intuitive conscious¬ 
 ness that Madam was displeased, the mortification of being 
 made the recipient of what seemed to be Captain Treden- 
 nick’s compassionate bounty, the secret rankling pain of such 
 being bestowed by him on her, and the excitement of the 
 
62 
 
 ALL IN THE. WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 splendid jacket—all together quite overthrew and shattered 
 Winnie’s shaken composure. 
 
 “ I don’t want it—I don’t want it! ” she sobbed, unhooking 
 and flinging it off, and, burying her face in her outstretched 
 arms on the table, while Madam paused in surprise and 
 vexation, until vexation got the mastery, and she quitted the 
 room, bidding Miss Trewhella carry the fur-box after her— 
 which command that damsel obeyed, with various sniffs and 
 indignant glances at sobbing Winnie. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 “ Miss Winnie’s fur jacket seems to have turned her brain,” 
 Madam remarked, as her maid laid the new furs away in her 
 cedar-closet. 
 
 “ Seems to, Madam,” responded the abigail, with a verjuice 
 accent; “ it was well for Miss Winnie she came over that wet 
 night, else she might never have met the Captain. Twenty 
 guineas for a jacket for her—well to be sure! He must 
 think a great deal of her. Rich gentlemen take those fancies 
 sometimes.” 
 
 “ What fancies? ” asked Madam, sternly. 
 
 “ Fancies of making splendid presents to young ladies they 
 know aren’t well off, Madam,” said Miss Trewhella, very 
 mildly, but tossing her head and making a contemptuous face 
 in the depths of the cedar-closet. 
 
 As true as that there never was a man who was a hero to 
 his valet-de-chambre , so true is it that the haughtiest belle, the 
 most brilliant leader of fashionable society, never was, never 
 is, never will be, a heroine, wonderful, adorable, unattainable, 
 perfect, to the adroit personage who knows that she has a 
 fashion of wearing her boots on one side, that she is con¬ 
 stantly afflicted with chapped lips, that there are some cun¬ 
 ning pads about that charming figure, or that the tooth next 
 her left eye-tooth can be removed at wflll. 
 
 Madam of Roseworthy formed no exception to the rule. 
 The only person on earth who slighted Madam’s words and 
 despised her pride, secretly, who sought opportunities to pay 
 off affronts or grievances, and who actually, by dint of quer¬ 
 ulous, spiteful, declarations of her constant and unrequited 
 devotion to her mistress, by despairing threats and manifes- 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 63 
 
 tations of heart-brokenness and wounded feelings under any 
 provocation, had maintained an ascendancy greater than any 
 one else over Madam Vivian, was her waiting-woman—Eliza¬ 
 beth Trewhella. 
 
 “A splendid present, certainly,” she said, coldly, feeling 
 annoyed that she had allowed Trewhella to perceive her dis¬ 
 pleasure at her nephew’s rich gift; “ but I think, if Captain 
 Tredennick had asked me, I could have told him of some¬ 
 thing which Miss Winnie would have liked much better. If 
 he had sent her a nice gold watch and a black silk dress, 
 they would have been much more useful to her than one 
 expensive article like that. Hand me the Times , Trewhella, 
 and spread the sofa-blanket over my feet; I shall not go 
 down again, I think—I do not feel quite well.” 
 
 “Not a bit of it!” thought Miss Trewhella, vindicating 
 herself, as she glided softly about, with a meek, sorrowful 
 expression, attending to her mistress’s wants. “You are in 
 such a rage at the Captain’s giving her that fur jacket that 
 you don’t want to see her again. The young minx! How 
 ever did she get him to promise it to her? I’ll make Madam 
 tell me sometime when she is in humour. I am with his 
 aunt, slaving and waiting on her these ten years, and I never 
 got but a few half-sovereigns from him at Christmas—and 
 that vulgar old cook and the butler the same. Miss Winnie 
 Caerlyon, a young chit he never saw before, gets a twenty- 
 guinea jacket from him! Upon my word, he didn’t admire 
 her fine long hair for nothing! A keepsake—no less! I 
 thought Pascoe, the purser at Tolgooth, was the one to give 
 her keepsakes, and not Madam’s nephew—Captain Stephen 
 Tredennick of Tregarthen. And isn’t Madam vexed! She 
 knows there’s more in it than she knows about; and that sly 
 young one to pretend she was taken all of a surprise! And 
 isn’t he sly too! Sober Captain Tredennick, that you wouldn’t 
 think knew whether a body had a head on ’em or not! 
 Madam’s up to him more than other folks. That’s what put 
 her out so the morning I told her he’d been admiring Miss 
 Winnie’s hair. 4 And how came Captain Tredennick into the 
 housekeeper’s room? ’ says she, as sharp as vinegar! ” 
 
 Aloud the obsequious attendant inquired, meekly and re¬ 
 spectfully— 
 
 44 Shall I send Miss Winnie up to read to you, Madam?” 
 
 44 No, thank you,” replied her mistress, very quietly. 
 
 44 She’s studying that • one page a long time,” said Miss 
 Trewhella to herself, with an inward sneer. 44 1 wouldn’t 
 
64 ALL in the wild maech morning. 
 
 stand in Miss Winnie’s shoes for something. She’ll catch it 
 heavy enough, some time or other, about the Captain’s grand 
 keepsake. I wonder what will Pascoe say?” 
 
 “Madam isn’t coming downstairs again, Miss Winnie,” 
 Miss Trewhella announced, entering the drawing-room with 
 a cat-like step, to find Winnie sitting in the window-seat, her 
 face pressed against the panes. 
 
 “Is she not? Is she not well? Am I to go up and read 
 to lie:;, Miss Trewhella?” she asked, starting up and displaying 
 a pale tear-swollen face to the lady’s-maid’s keen eyes. 
 
 “She is quite well; but you’re not to go up to read 
 to her. She wishes to be alone,” said Miss Trewhella, sail¬ 
 ing about the room in a free-and-easy manner, darting sharp 
 looks at Winnie, and envious ones at the fur jacket and sail¬ 
 ing out again, humming a song, and leaving the door open. 
 
 “She is angry with me! Oh, what shall I do?” cried poor 
 Winnie in despair. “Oh, why did he do such a cruel thing? 
 I may as well go home again—I would ask her to forgive me, 
 but I have done no wrong.” 
 
 Hastily putting on her old worn jacket and little straw hat, 
 she pulled down her veil to hide her face, and stole upstairs 
 to the door with the green flossy mat and heavy velvet hang¬ 
 ings shrouding the entrance to Madam’s dressing-room. 
 
 She knocked twice without evoking any response, and then 
 softly turned the handle. 
 
 “Who is there?’’ Madam called sharply. “Trewhella, 
 why do you disturb me?” 
 
 “ It is I, Madam—Winnie,” came the faint little voice. 
 
 “ Then why do you disturb me? ” Madam demanded, more 
 sharply and angrily. “ If I required your presence, I should 
 have sent for you.” 
 
 “I only came to ask if I am to go home, Madam, as Tre¬ 
 whella said you were not coming down any more.” 
 
 “ Yes—you may,” responded her patroness, shortly. “ Shut 
 the door, please, and draw the curtain.” 
 
 “ Good evening, Madam.” 
 
 “Good evening.” 
 
 For one minute Winnie stood outside the velvet-lmng por¬ 
 tal, battling with her grief and mortification, and then the 
 measure of injustice that had been so unfairly dealt her 
 touched the spring of her yet unbroken, strong spirit. 
 
 “ Madam Vivian has no right to treat me so,” she said, and 
 her tears dried as if by fire, and she walked steadily down¬ 
 stairs, and was passing out through the hall, when the sight 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 65 
 
 of Mrs. Grose standing in the drawing-room, holding up the 
 sealskin jacket, and giving vent to whispered ejaculations of 
 rapture arrested her steps. 
 
 “Miss Winnie dear, come here!” she cried, clasping her 
 hands. “ This is what the Captain sent you home. Oh, my 
 dear Miss Winnie, pet, ain’t it most beautiful! Miss Tre- 
 whella told me. And it cost twenty guineas, and is fit for 
 Madam herself!” 
 
 “ But is quite unfit for me,” observed Winnie, quietly and 
 bitterly; “ it was a foolish present for Captain Tredennick to 
 send, and Madam thinks so too, and Miss Trewhella.” 
 
 “ Miss Trewhella!” echoed Mrs. Grose, getting as red as 
 one of her own joints of beef. “ And what has Miss Tre¬ 
 whella to say as to what’s proper or not proper for you, Miss 
 Caerlyon, to wear, I’d like to know? And, if Captain Ste¬ 
 phen hev sent you a splendid jacket, what hev Miss Tre¬ 
 whella to say to it? And, if Captain Stephen hev took a 
 fancy to you, Miss Winnie, aren’t you a lady, same as any lady 
 he might take a fancy to? And where could he find-” 
 
 “ Oh, Mrs. Grose—dear darling nurse—hold your tongue! ” 
 Winnie cried in dismay, stifling the worthy woman’s indig¬ 
 nant outpouring. “Oh, don’t—don’t! I wish he had not! 
 It was kind of him, but I shall never wear it or touch it! 
 Good evening, Mrs. Grose—I am going home.” 
 
 “ Without a bit or sup,” Mrs. Grose cried, “ and I baked 
 lemon cheese-cakes for supper! Wait a minute then—to 
 please me, Miss Winnie!” she begged, as Winnie shook her 
 head and pushed away the detaining arms. 
 
 Breathlessly the kind-hearted rotund creature hurried down 
 to the larder, pantingly she came up again, rushed about for 
 a minute to find a wrapping-paper, and overtook Winnie as 
 she went sadly and slowly across the grounds. 
 
 “You—you—shall have—some o’ my cheese-cakes, Miss 
 Win—nie, dear! I made ’em most—a purpose for—you! 
 Lor, I’m out o’—breath—clean! There, my lovey, don’t fret. 
 She’ll—be a—grand la—lady yet! ” 
 
 The fragrant-smelling, flaky little parcel of dainties could 
 not carry much consolation with it, though her old nurse’s 
 tender kindness touched Winnie’s sore heart. She wished 
 the children were there, and opened the paper to see how 
 best she could divide her present. 
 
 “Four: cut them in halves, and they’ll all have a bit and a 
 piece over—Tommy shall have it, as he is ill;” and then, in 
 
 5 
 
66 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 the midst of the generous little sisterly calculation, a message 
 of consolation came to poor Winnie herself. 
 
 The wrapping-paper was none other than the letter which 
 Captain Tredennick had sent with his present, which Madam 
 had flung aside in her displeasure, and Mrs. Grose had picked 
 up in her haste. 
 
 “And-I also send a sealskin jacket, which I hope, dear 
 aunt, you will give from me to your little friend, Miss Winnie 
 Caerlyon, I told her that I should send her a keepsake when 
 I went away; and I think this .is the best and most suitable 
 one I could give her. I hope she will not be offended at my 
 doing so. Please say something nice and gracious, like your- 
 . self, when giving it, as I have only offered it in a very rough 
 sailor-fashion; and say I hope she will wear it as a sailor’s 
 keepsake—in kindly remembrance of the giver.” 
 
 Courteously, kindly, gently, cordially, he had proffered his 
 gift, and she had scorned it, flung it aside, hated it, as an in¬ 
 sult and a wrong! 
 
 But Madam had given no gracious message, no kindly 
 word—neglected his earnest request—passed by the courtesy 
 and gentleness that he strove to put into her words. 
 
 “Madam Vivian has no right to treat me so!” she said 
 again; and her girlish face grew hard and lined with passion¬ 
 ate womanly feeling. “Madam Vivian has wronged me!” 
 
 And, in that half hour, while she sat there by the lonely 
 roadside, in the chill gloomy evening, gazing at Stephen 
 Tredennick’s words—which came like balm to the crushed 
 sad spirit, the pained lonely heart—and thinking of Madam 
 Vivian’s insulting coldness and injustice, the gentle timidity 
 of Winnie’s girlish love passed away for ever—changed into 
 a proud woman’s deep silent passion, which she might die for 
 but never deny. 
 
 She folded the crumpled letter neatly, kissed it, and hid it 
 in her dress. 
 
 “ In kindly remembrance of the giver,” she said—“ Stephen 
 Tredennick, while I have a heart to beat with love for him ! 99 
 
ALL IN TELE WILD MAECH MOBNING. 67 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 All through the long hot summer day—the blazing sunlight 
 reflected from the great blue molten mirror of the ocean, 
 from the granite face of the sheer precipitous cliffs, and with 
 dazzling glare from the snowy whitewashed walls of the 
 Coastguard station, the flashingly-bright windows of which 
 concentrated the rays to a focus like so many burning glasses 
 —had the hot busy hours passed in the work that seemed 
 never to end, the tasks that were only accomplished in series 
 to make room for more. 
 
 Winnie had washed, starched, and ironed all those neat 
 muslin blinds, and put them up smooth and spotless again; 
 she had finished the little frock begun two days ago for Louie, 
 and hummed a line or two of Tennyson’s “ Cradie Song”— 
 
 Sweet and low, sweet and low, 
 
 Wind of the Western Sea! 
 
 —as she tried the garment on, and found that it fitted the 
 baby owner so nicely; she had baked the bread and “ pasties,” 
 and peeled the turnips and potatoes for dinner; she had had 
 some trifling occupation afterwards in the shape of sprinkling 
 and folding three dozen “ pieces ” of clothes and despatching , 
 them to be mangled; she had darned two table-cloths and 
 three pairs of boys’ socks; she had laid the table for tea, and 
 polished the spoons and teapot with whitening and chamois 
 leather; and, on Tommy distinguishing himself by upsetting 
 the tea-kettle on the stove, she had to undertake a hasty re¬ 
 filling, reboiling, replenishing of the fire, and wiping up of 
 water and ashes. 
 
 True, Winnie had done this all unaided, patiently, uncom¬ 
 plainingly; and “pity ’twas ’twas true” that it was counted 
 but as a thankless matter-of-course, deserving of no com¬ 
 mendation or alleviation* 
 
 She thought so herself, but she had become so used to it. 
 There are many—scores, hundreds, thousands—such patient 
 body-and-soul wearers toiling for others, not themselves, their 
 toil evoking in return neither surprise nor gratitude. 
 
 There was nothing wonderful, therefore, in this long sum¬ 
 mer day’s toil, which had left Winnie’s face so pallid and 
 
68 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 weary, her small thin hands and arms so soiled and discol¬ 
 oured, which had roughened all that twisted-up mass of 
 brown hair, and had made the old blue gingham gown, now 
 in the last stage of shabbiness, so stained and frayed—only 
 it was a pity. 
 
 Nature had meant that intellectual brow, that expressive 
 changeful face, those deep, passionate eyes, that slender, 
 nervous, supple form, as a casket to enshrine rare endow¬ 
 ments, if it lacked outwardly her choicest workmanship. 
 
 It was a pity, but the girl did not know it, or was only 
 vaguely conscious of the dull pain of remembrance of 
 months and years of toil like this. It had always been so— 
 it would always be so in the weary years to come, she sup¬ 
 posed, until she lay in that mossy grave in Trewillian church¬ 
 yard, and beneath the name of “ Vfinifred, the beloved wife 
 of John. Caerlyon,” was written that of her only child. 
 
 Pale-faced, hard-worked little girls, in lonely hours, have a 
 morbid fancy for this prospect of mossy graves under weep¬ 
 ing willows. But just now Winnie Caerlyon was conscious 
 only of her soiled hands, her shabby old gown, and her 
 unkempt hair, and of a longing for her toilet to be finished, 
 that she might sit down to rest. 
 
 “ Winnie, is the kettle boiled? ” 
 
 “No, mamma—it’s singing.” 
 
 “ Singing! What’s it only singing for, at six o’clock in 
 the evening—eh?” 
 
 “ It was just boiling, mamma, half-an-hour ago, and Tommy 
 spilled it.” 
 
 “Spilled it! That’s pretty work! What did ye let the 
 boy go meddling with the kettle for? And—my patience, 
 Winiford!”—at this point Mrs. Caerlyon had entered the 
 kitchen—“ is that the set-out you are in at this hour? A 
 perfect muck! Why, I never saw such a maid as you are 
 for a sloven! I suppose, since you are not off to Roseworthy 
 every evening, you don’t think it worth while to make your¬ 
 self decent in your father’s house.” 
 
 “ I am going to tidy myself in a minute, mamma—I have 
 only just cleaned the spoons and tea-pot.” 
 
 “Spoons and teapot at this hour o’the evening! What 
 next, pray? Do you never have a proper time for your 
 work, that you should keep yourself in a mess like a mine- 
 girl till people are expecting to sit down decently to meals? ” 
 
 Silence on unhappy, lazy, slovenly Winnie’s part. She 
 drooped her head for a minute under the accustomed hail- 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 69 
 
 storm of “ nagging,” and turned asideTrom her step-mother’s 
 hard brown eyes, as she stood in the middle of the floor, her 
 brows magisterially bent on the shabby slender little figure. 
 She turned aside, and her gaze, mechanically seeking the hot 
 calm evening sunlight, the liquid turquoise of the sleeping 
 ocean, and the dark cool shadow of the cliffs falling athwart 
 the little bay, now rippling smooth and deep at high-water 
 mark, became in an instant arrested. 
 
 Forgetful alike of her deshabille and her step-mother’s 
 presence, she stood as if rooted to the spot, with parted lips 
 and fast-beating heart, staring at two figures standing a few 
 yards beyond, at the head of the pathway that led down the 
 cliffs. 
 
 “Trewhella!” she gasped. “ Then Madam’s home again! 
 Is she coming hither? And who is that beautiful young 
 lady?” 
 
 At Jhe instant Trewhella turned, and at a glance her sharp 
 eyes detected the face at the open window. 
 
 “Good evening, Miss Winnie! Beautiful day, is it not?” 
 she said, loudly and familiarly, advancing a step or two in glori¬ 
 fied consciousness that the level rays of the brilliant sunshine 
 were displaying the flounces of her light blue silk dress, and 
 the deep embroidery of her white petticoat, to the utmost 
 advantage. “I dare say you are astonished to see me?” 
 
 “I—I am,” stammered poor Winnie, fully aware that the 
 level rays of sunlight were displaying her disarranged hair, 
 soiled collar, and tucked-up sleeves to the utmost advantage 
 in another way. Ashamed to stay, but too proud to rush 
 away and hide, she remained, in spite of her step-mother’s 
 half-audible commands before Miss Trewhella and the beau¬ 
 tiful young lady—a tall, finely-developed girl, young, hand¬ 
 some, haughty, self-willed-looking, with an easy carriage of 
 her proud head and aristocratic figure, and with a nameless 
 grace and elegance in the simplicity of her girlish costume, 
 expensively-chaste as were its rich material and exquisite 
 Parisian fit and shape. 
 
 A lady undoubtedly, from the calm insouciance of her 
 unruffled self-possession, from the inquiring gaze of her deep- 
 set brilliant eyes beneath their haughty brows, from the light 
 poise of the tall, full figure—as far removed from Miss 
 Trewhella’s self-assurance and familiarity as was the undis- 
 coverable stamp of perfection on that wonderful, simple cos¬ 
 tume of dove-coloured, satin like material, with its fringes of 
 deeper shade, its hanging folds and sleeves with silken linings, 
 
70 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 the accurately-matched, treble-buttoned gloves, and the hat 
 a mass of snowy ostrich feather and pale golden gossamer, 
 from the showy smartness of the lady’s-maid’s rustling silk 
 and stiff white skirts. 
 
 She had quietly surveyed Winnie for a few moments, as if 
 studying the effect of her figure in the framework of the 
 window, and rather disapproving of it by the fine knitting of 
 the lines on her low wide forehead, when the name pro¬ 
 nounced in Miss Trewhella’s shrill voice fell on her ear. She 
 made a slight movement of surprise, and then a wide open¬ 
 ing of the proud bright eyes, and a faint curve on the short 
 full lower Up, were perceptible. 
 
 “I am surprised,” Winnie said, confusedly, colouring; “I 
 did not know that Madam was home again. I hope she is 
 quite well, Miss Trewhella?” 
 
 “ Is that Miss Winnie Caerlyon?” the young lady demanded, 
 in a clear imperious voice; and Miss Trewhella, with a confi¬ 
 dential little aside smile, said, “Yes, Miss Mildred—that’s 
 her, poor thing!” 
 
 “Madam’s home again, sure enough,” she replied, in a 
 louder tone, to Winnie, who was watching the proud hand¬ 
 some girl with a kind of fascination; “ and Miss Mildred 
 Tredennick’s come to stay with her.” 
 
 “I am Miss Tredennick, Trewhella. I have corrected you 
 before for naming me in that school-room fashion,” inter¬ 
 rupted the young lady, haughtily; and, vouchsafing Winnie 
 only another coldly-surprised glance, she turned lightly on 
 her heel, and walked off towards the cliff-path again, evi¬ 
 dently to permit the lady’s-maid and the lady’s-maid’s friend 
 —the shabby hard-worked-looking girl—to have a chat 
 together. 
 
 That haughty parting glance which she intuitively under¬ 
 stood, stung Winnie into remembrance of herself. 
 
 “I am glad to hear that Madam is well,” she said, as 
 coldly and distantly as Miss Tredennick could have spoken. 
 “ Good evening—the young lady is waiting for you.” 
 
 “Well, but—Miss Winnie—Miss Winnie!”—Mi$s Tre¬ 
 whella ran over to the window, and actually thrust her smart 
 summer bonnet, with its pink roses and white lace, into the 
 kitchen—“aren’t you coming over to Roseworthy again, eh? 
 You’ll be coming over to-morrow or next day, won’t you?” 
 
 She knew well that Winnie Caerlyon was not coming to 
 Roseworthy to-morrow, or next day, or any day afterwards, 
 but she could not resist the feminine hankering to flaunt over 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 71 
 
 a fallen rival, made doubly triumphant—such was the noble 
 calibre of Miss Trewhella’s mind—by the consciousness of 
 her new blue flounced silk and Winnie Caerlyon’s forlorn 
 shabbiness. 
 
 “Not unless Madam sends for me,” said Winnie, not paus¬ 
 ing to look round as she hastily quitted the kitchen, and ran 
 upstairs to the little room with the dormer window, shared 
 with two of her young step-sisters, where she pulled off her 
 working dress, whilst tears of mortification and pain rolled 
 down her flushed cheeks. 
 
 She was not a philosopher, poor Winnie!—only a woman—- 
 and a young, sensitive woman, of girlish years. 
 
 “ That was his cousin, that beautiful young lady, who 
 looked at my dirty dress and untidy hair,” she said, with a 
 suppressed, bitter cry. “ I couldn’t help it—I was doing so 
 much work to-day. But oh, how she despised me as a poor, 
 common, servant-like girl! She will never think of me as 
 anything else.” 
 
 She bathed her pallid, weary face in water; she braided up 
 the dark, silken masses of her hair above the marble-white 
 brow and violet-shadowed eyes; she hastily arrayed herself, 
 in spite of aching arms and nervous hands, in her neat, 
 freshly-ironed print dress, with its clean lace frill and tiny 
 blue-ribbon bow; but the tears came again and again into the 
 sad dark eyes as she took a hasty last glance at the little 
 looking-glass. 
 
 “No,” she said, drearily and quietly, “I am nothing but a 
 poor, plain, hard-working girl, who does the work of a 
 servant. I should never forget that. Mildred Tredennick 
 never will. He never would if he saw me as she did this 
 evening!” 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 “What a sulky sort o’ way that there maid do go on with 
 to be sure!” Mr. Pascoe remarked, with a dissatisfied scowl 
 in the direction of the wearer of the print dress, who was 
 sitting, outside the window, in the soft summer twilight, with 
 little, peevish, whimpering, clinging Louie in her arms as 
 usual. 
 
 “Ah!” responded Mrs. Caerlyon, with a toss of her head, 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 72 
 
 “ it’s because she’s not off to her grand company every even¬ 
 ing as she used to do.” 
 
 “ Ay,” Mr. Pascoe said, with a deeper scowl; “ ’twas high 
 time to stop that there running hafter grand ladies and 
 grand gentlemen—high time, ’Lezabeth!” 
 
 “ Well,” explained Mrs. Caerlyon, shortly, as there seemed 
 to be a certain amount of blame charged to her in her worthy 
 cousin’s accents, “’twas Madam stopped it herself—all you’d 
 have said for a twelvemonth wouldn’t have made her leave 
 else.” 
 
 “And you’d ’ave hallowed her to stay, would ’e?” Mr. Pas¬ 
 coe demanded, in a higher key, transposing aspirates abund¬ 
 antly in his vehemence. “You’d ’ave hallowed that maid to 
 go on making of herself a country talk, with her visits to 
 Roseworthy and her coming home at daybreak with strange 
 sea-captains, and getting grand presents from ’em, would ’e— 
 would ’e? Then I tell ’e, ’Lezabeth, you might pretty soon 
 ’ave keeped ’eer maid shut up at home, for she couldn’t show 
 her face abroad!” 
 
 “What d’ye mean by that, cousin Thomas?” asked Mrs. 
 Caerlyon, angrily. “ The maid haven’t lost her good name—■ 
 have she—-that ye should speak like that?” 
 
 “ She’s not thought none the better of, I can’ tell ’e,” Mr. 
 Pascoe retorted with a nod of assurance, his foxy face hard¬ 
 ening into a spiteful smile. “ Miss Winifred is none the 
 better for her grand friends and her grand presents—I beared 
 many a one making remark ’bout it.” 
 
 “They were talking greatly of that fine fur-jacket the 
 .Captain gave her, I know,” said the step-mother, her better 
 feelings of justice and common-sense contending with her 
 jealousy of “Lady Winiford ”—as she had taken to calling 
 her when in special moods of ill-temper—and her provincial 
 keen-edged delight in scandal of whatever nature. “ I heard 
 aunt Mary and cousin Anna Maria Carthew going on about 
 it in a great way, saying that he must mean something by it 
 —that he wouldn’t go give a twenty-guinea jacket to a girl 
 unless he meant to go farther; but ’tisn't likely, I think, 
 though Winifred’s genteel-looking sort of girl when she’s 
 dressed out.” 
 
 If Mrs. Caerlyon meant this as a politic speech, implying 
 that Mr. Pascoe had better make sure of Winifred whilst he 
 could—his tardy proceedings in this matter being a vexation 
 of spirit to her, now especially since Winifred’s salary was 
 lost—she signally failed. Mr. Thomas Pascoe, having a 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 73 
 
 secret consciousness that, as a rival to Captain Tredennick, 
 he would not figure very nobly, and possessing likewise a 
 great amount of Uriah Heep’s peculiar description of “ ’umble- 
 ness,” was stung into a dangerous state of defiance of “cousin 
 ’Lezabeth ” and everybody else. 
 
 “ No, ’tesn’t likely—’tesn’t very likely,” he said, sneering 
 in an ugly fashion that distorted his thin lips and long sharp 
 nostrils—“ ’tesn’t very likely that Tredennick o’ Tregarthen’s 
 coming to ask ’e for your daughter; and ye’ll wait a pretty 
 good time, ’Lezabeth, before lianybody will, ’tis my opinion, 
 and so I tell ’e. Tredennick o’ Tregarthen dedn’t come after 
 her for no good, as I heard it remarked, weth his fine talk 
 and his twenty-pound jacket to a poor maid. And ef ye 
 choose to let her go to ruin ye may, and-” 
 
 “Hold your tongue!” said “cousin ’Lezabeth.” in a pas¬ 
 sion. “ Tredennick o’ Tregarthen’s never going to darken 
 these doors again; and the maid stays at home and does her 
 work, and what more would ye have? If you’d married the 
 girl six months ago, you’d have no need to be watching and 
 prying after her now; and if you don’t mean to marry her, 
 you’d better hold your tongue, I tell ye! What’s a maid but 
 her good name? You’d best not let John Caerlyon hear ye 
 taking away his daughter’s character!” 
 
 She filing her sewing-thimble, reel, and scissors violently 
 into her basket after the energetic manner which the good 
 lady affected when she laboured from an access of spleen, 
 and dashed out of the room with somewhat unnecessary 
 speed and noise. 
 
 “ What are ye keeping the child out there for, with the dew 
 falling on her?” she demanded, harshly, from the porch- 
 door. 
 
 Winifred Caerlyon, roused from her long deep reverie, 
 withdrew her yearning eyes from the far twilight horizon of 
 the ocean, lost in the depths of silvery shrouding haze; she 
 had been singing the “ Cradle Song” again to soothe Louie— 
 
 “ Over the roiling water go, 
 
 Come from the drooping moon and blow— 
 
 Blow hfm again, again to me, 
 
 While my pretty one sleeps— 
 
 While my loved one sleeps! ” 
 
 —and the dark deep eyes were distended and glowing with 
 the passion of wild fancies and hopes and longings, gazing 
 out over the wide heaving expanse of ocean veiled in twilight 
 shadows. 
 
74 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MQRNING. 
 
 “ She is covered with my shawl, toamma—I will bring her 
 in now.” 
 
 The voice was very gentle and faint with weariness, the 
 quiet face very white and patient, the drooping eyelids lan¬ 
 guid with “the weight of unshed tears.” 
 
 Elizabeth Caerlyon, shrewish and unloving, had yet a 
 heart which could be touched, and Thomas Pascoe’s late in¬ 
 sinuations had at last provoked her into taking her step¬ 
 daughter^ part. 
 
 “ I’ve heard of a dog in a manger,” she muttered, partly 
 audible for Mr. Pascoe’s benefit—“there are people who’ll 
 neither take a thing themselves, nor let a thing be for other 
 people! You’ve got a pretty white face,” she added, sharply 
 but not unkindly, as Winifred passed her in—“ what’s the 
 matter? ” 
 
 “ Nothing, mamma—I am tired,” said Winnie. “ May I 
 go to bed? ” 
 
 “ Pascoe’s here,” hinted her step-mother, shortly. 
 
 There was a kind of anguish in the girl’s haggard look as 
 she repeated pleadingly— 
 
 “ I am so tired, I can not speak to any one. May I go to 
 bed?” 
 
 “ Yes, of course!” said Mrs. Caerlyon, snappishly. “What 
 did ye go working yourself like that for? Work’d keep, I 
 think.” 
 
 Nevertheless she unlocked a certain neat, yellow-painted 
 cupboard in the kitchen, took out a bottle with a dark fra¬ 
 grant spirit, carefully mixed a portion with hot water and 
 sugar in a tumbler, and took it'upstairs to the little room 
 where the pale evening light fell through the dormer window 
 on the patchwork coverlet of the narrow bed and the white 
 face of the dark-haired girl lying on the one small hard 
 pillow. 
 
 “You drink this now, Winnie,” she said, shortly. “You’re 
 like one had got a chill. It’ll send ye sound asleep.” 
 
 “ Oh, thank you, thank you, mamma,” returned Winnie, 
 struggling up in surprise. “I am only tired, though.” 
 
 The trembling voice broke down in a sob, which evidently 
 had not been the first since she had lain down beneath the 
 patchwork coverlet. 
 
 “ What on earth are ye crying for?” asked Mrs. Caerlyon, 
 impatiently. “ Because you’re not off at Roseworthy, I sup¬ 
 pose?” 
 
 “Oh no, no, no!” Winifred burst out in stormy weeping. 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 75 
 
 “ You know I’ll never go there again—never, unless she came 
 and asked me kindly, and apologised to you and father. 
 Madam did not treat me as she ought. I was sorry a good 
 deal after she went off so suddenly to Kent without telling 
 me—only that one short note with my salary due! It was so 
 unkind!” 
 
 “ You needn’t waken up all the children,” interposed Mrs. 
 Caerlyon, warningly. “ Then, if you’re not crying about her, 
 what are ye crying for?” 
 
 “ I didn’t feel very well—I don’t know,” Winnie faltered, 
 crying more quietly, though her suppressed sobs shook the- 
 narrow bed. 
 
 “ Because Pascoe’s here?” persisted Mrs. Caerlyon. “You’re 
 a pretty maid to cry because a man comes courting ye,” she 
 went on, more jocularly. “I am thinking Susanna Edwards 
 would give him a different welcome.” 
 
 “Then let her!” Winnie cried, wildly. “Oh; mamma, 
 don’t you know that I cannot bear him like—like that? I 
 had rather die any day. I shall die if you don’t send him 
 away, and let me alone! He does not care one pin for me; 
 he wants me only to make a servant of me—and I’d rather 
 stay here and work for you and the children. Oh, mother, 
 do send him away!” she wailed, clasping her hands tightly 
 on her step-mother’s arm. 
 
 The overthrow of her pet project vexed Mrs. Caerlyon 
 very considerably—it had vexed her many a time these four 
 months past, since Winifred had been summarily dismissed 
 from Madam’s service, although, to do her justice, Madam 
 had written rather apologetically respecting her sudden 
 decision to visit her relations in Kent, sending Captain Tre- 
 dennick’s fatal present to its owner along with that short, 
 satin-paper, crested, perfumed note; but it had been a dis¬ 
 missal, and a pointedly abrupt one, after all, and hapless 
 Winnie had met the brunt of a storm of anger, surprise, 
 cross-questioning, taunts, and suspicion worse than aught else 
 —suspicion, even from her father, although John Caerlyon 
 had been born and bred a gentleman, and might have shrunk 
 from branding his daughter’s stainless brow with the impu¬ 
 tation of levity of conduct (he would not admit that there 
 was more of irritable fatherly anxiety than anything else in 
 the harsh words that insulted the poor child’s maidenly 
 pride)—suspicion gathered from the gabble of serpent- 
 tongued gossipers, and from the cowardly innuendoes of the 
 base-spirited fellow who sought to humble and crush the 
 
76 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 spirit of the woman whom he had chosen for his future wife. 
 But all their persecution, threats, insulting advice, and 
 prying surveillance never for one moment made that lonely, 
 friendless, sad-hearted girl untrue to herself—untrue to her 
 heart’s passionate devotion. She never once took refuge in 
 t/~e usual feminine cowardice of the asseveration, “ What do 
 I care for him? He is nothing to me!” The steadfast truth 
 of her noble womanly nature never once leaned toward the 
 denial of the accusation which rankled in the very depths of 
 her innocent virgin soul. Her lips grew white and dry with 
 agony, but they never uttered the lie, “ I do not love him,” 
 when they flung the name of her “fine gentleman-lover,” 
 Tredennick of Tregarthen, at her, to try to overwhelm her 
 with helpless confusion and shame. 
 
 From the tried shield of Winnie’s brave spirit the darts 
 fell powerless that would have stung a fierce, impatient spirit 
 into desperation, or moulded a feebler, more selfish one to 
 tearful, complaining obedience, when she was openly warned 
 that she had better give no further occasion of offence to her 
 family; that, her conduct having been faulty—or at least 
 such that gossip could find fault with it, the tw 7 o not being by 
 any means a matter one and indivisible—she would do well 
 to endeavour speedily to set it as w r ell as herself right in the 
 estimation of the Susanna Edwardses and “ cousin Anna 
 Marias ” of the neighbourhood, and that it behooved her par¬ 
 ticularly to take care that her relatives sustained no loss in 
 either pecuniary matters or credit on her account. A worthy 
 young man, in his great magnanimity, was willing to marry 
 her, and make her a respectable matron, with a decent home 
 of her own—a house with a spare bed-room, and a best par¬ 
 lour wdth haircloth sofa!—that is, provided she showed her¬ 
 self sensible of his goodness, gratefully obedient and humble- 
 minded enough to meet his gracious advances half way. In 
 this manner she might to some extent atone for her former 
 love of extravagant fine ladies, and for “running after” 
 fine gentlemen, w 7 ho gave her tv r enty-guinea presents. 
 
 “’Twas scandalous!” Mr. Pascoe delicately affirmed; but 
 neither his magnanimity nor his indignation cow r ed or influ¬ 
 enced Winifred. Beyond briefly informing him that she 
 would much prefer being flung over Tregarthen Head, or 
 down one of Tolgooth’s mine-shafts, to spending her life 
 with him, even if he were the Duke of Cornwall himself, she 
 made no response to his advances. 
 
 So her step-mother had angrily seen day by day that her 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 77 
 
 scheme for lifting a double burden off the household expenses 
 and the entire future provision of Sarah Matilda was falling 
 to the ground. It had fallen altogether now—there was no 
 use in contending with an obstinate girl any longer, Mrs. 
 Caerlyon said in vexed decision; she was “ worth her keep” 
 too, decidedly, and there were more to be blamed in the 
 matter than Winifred. 
 
 “ I don’t wonder at the maid one bit,” she said, late that 
 same evening, giving Mr. Pascoe a final “ piece of her mind.” 
 “ I never saw a young man keeping company with a girl in 
 such a fashion. ’Tisn’t any wonder she can’t abear the sight 
 of ye! Ye never asked her to go out for a bit of 
 day’s pleasuring, and spent your money free as another 
 young man would, or offered her as much as a yard of ribbon 
 for a present! Girls can’t bear a man that’s mean when he’s 
 courting—and that’s just the truth of it, Thomas!” 
 
 Mr. Pascoe was eating his supper, and particularly enjoy¬ 
 ing cold mutton “ pasty,” bread-and-cheese, and hot gin-and- 
 water; he restrained his anger until he had emptied the 
 tumbler, and finished the last of the u pasty” crust, and then 
 he arose and wiped his fingers with a darkly determined air. 
 
 “I’m mean, am I, ’Lezabeth?” he said, threateningly. 
 “Do ’e tell me that Pm mean? I’m mean, am I—because I 
 don’t go to fling my wages away, buying finery and stuff o’ 
 nonsense to please a girl that don’t know when she’s well 
 off? I might have the more to spend on your child for all 
 my meanness, ’Lezabeth—it might be better for your Sarah 
 Matilda if I was mean, though I wasn’t mean enough to re¬ 
 fuse to give her the best my wages could afford, and do for 
 her as ef she was my own—an ’e go telling of a man that 
 he’s mean! ” 
 
 “ I said girls don’t like a man to be mean about money 
 when he’s paying ’em attentions, Thomas,” corrected Mrs. 
 Caerlyon, more conciliatingly. 
 
 “Well, then, I tell ’e,” said Mr. Pascoe—that worthy 
 young man’s spirit being roused to a pitch of desperation 
 between the insult to his unparalleled generosity, as he con¬ 
 sidered it, and the threatened attack on the “ wages ” he 
 loved to hoard up so economically in the county bank—“ I 
 tell ’e that some one else can buy ribbons and silks for ’eer 
 daughter, for I won’t—nor have nothen more to say to her 
 neither—an’ so I tell ’e! An’ I told ’e afore that I’d have 
 nothen to say to a maid that I have no great opinion of! 
 
78 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 Winiford can get ribbons and silks where she got other things, 
 and I’ll not have no more to say to her! ” 
 
 This awful threat, Mr. Pascoe doubted not, would have the 
 satisfactory effect of making his cousin apologise, assure him 
 of her continued determination to coerce Winifred into 
 proper behaviour, admire him for his prudence and his 
 deposit in the county bank, and humbly coax him into more 
 generous promises of patronage on behalf of Sarah Matilda. 
 
 But Mrs. Caerlyon’s spirit was thoroughly roused too; she 
 began to consider that it was better, after all, to have Wini¬ 
 fred’s efficient services for herself; and at the bottom of her 
 heart was a little lurking pity for her patient step-daughter’s 
 trouble, and a faint lurking hope that something might come 
 of it, better even than Thomas Pascoe’s generosity. 
 
 “ She’ll not have any more to say to ye—so ye needn’t 
 take much credit to yourself in that way, Thomas,” said 
 “ cousin ’Lezabeth,” scathingly; “ and, since that’s the way 
 ye speak of her, I’d be sorry she did. I’ve no doubt the 
 maid will find as good a friend, and better a sweetheart than 
 you, whoever he’ll be.” 
 
 “Ah—Tredennick o’ Tregarthen,” sneered Mr. Pascoe, 
 driving his hands nearly through his coat-pockets in his jeal¬ 
 ous rage. 
 
 “Well,” said “cousin ’Lezabeth,” keeping the “whip- 
 hand” with calm superiority still, “what of it, Thomas? 
 Tredennick o’ Tregarthen might look lower than John Caer¬ 
 lyon’s daughter. A leftenant in the Royal Navy is as good 
 as the captain of a merchantman, any day, Thomas Pascoe; 
 and I am not very sure, Thomas Pascoe, that any of Lef ten¬ 
 ant Caerlyon’s daughters need go a-begging for husbands— 
 nor I am not very sure, Thomas Pascoe,” continued his 
 offended relative with frightful iteration, as her temper rose 
 higher, “that Winifred Caerlyon could not marry as good as 
 a mine-purser any day—and so I tell ye! ” 
 
 Mr. Thomas Pascoe thought of his house with the spare 
 bed-room and best parlour with haircloth sofa, of his deposit 
 account at the bank and his generous intentions regarding 
 Sarah Matilda, and could scarcely believe his senses. But 
 “ cousin ’Lezabeth ” thoroughly looked as if she meant what 
 she said; and when she went into Winifred’s room before 
 retiring to rest, and saw the weary look on the thin, white, 
 sleeping face, and the dark wet eyelashes—even in her 
 dreams the girl was oppressed with sadness—she would have 
 spoken the “ piece of her mind ” over again if need be. 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING* 7Q 
 
 • ^ 
 
 “The maid looks,” said she with some troubled anxiety— 
 “the maid looks as if her heart were breaking! ” 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 “Aunt Vivian, I always considered you to be a person 
 possessed of excellent taste.” 
 
 “ Indeed, Mildred love—have you had any reason to change 
 your opinion?” 
 
 Miss Tredennick rose slowly, and with deliberate grace, 
 from the velvet sofa on which she had been reclining, walked 
 # over to the mirror and arranged a crushed braid of her dark 
 rich chestnut hair with greater effect before she replied. 
 
 “ Rather. I understood that that little companion of yours 
 was quite a pretty, interesting young creature.” 
 
 * “Did I say so, Mildred?” Madam Vivian asked, turning 
 round from the dressing-table where Miss Trewhella was 
 meekly and silently arranging her mistress’s beautiful silvery 
 hair and lace head-dress. 
 
 “You implied so,” responded Miss Tredennick, carelessly 
 —Madam never awed her, or made her nervous; “ I under¬ 
 stood that she was a clever, lady-like, intelligent, pretty girl. 
 She did not seem to me to be anything but a common, poor 
 country girl, like a servant.” 
 
 “ She was looking terribly poor and shabby to-day, 
 Madam,” interposed Miss Trewhella, with a simper; “ Miss 
 Mild-Miss Tredennick was quite surprised.” 
 
 “I never said that she was pretty—never thought so,” 
 Madam said, coldly; “but she was my companion, who sat at 
 my table, Mildred; therefore it was impossible that she could 
 be a servant.” 
 
 “ Oh, then it was you who gave me the impression of her 
 being clever, and attractive, and showy, and all the rest of 
 it,” said Mildred Tredennick, turning to Trewhella, and re¬ 
 peating, to the lady’s-maid’s consternation, with placid uncon¬ 
 cern, what she hoped “the young lady ” had listened to as a 
 confidential communication. “ I imagined her,” added Madam 
 Vivian’s niece, “to be quite a peculiar, bewitching-looking 
 girl—a clever, actress-like, intriguing young woman.” 
 
 “ Oh, Miss Mildr—Miss Tredennick! I beg your pardon— 
 I never—” began Miss Trewhella, breathlessly. 
 
80 ALL in the wild march morning. 
 
 “ Trewhella!” cried her mistress, with a haughty turn of 
 her head. 
 
 “ A clever, actress-like, intriguing young woman,” repeated 
 Miss Tredennick, “ who inveigled my cousin, Captain Tre- 
 dennick, into admiring her excessively.” 
 
 “ What have you been saying to Miss Tredennick?” de¬ 
 manded Madam, with an imperious flash of her cold, brilliant 
 eyes on the unlucky abigail, who betook herself to her usual 
 protection of tears and sniffs in an affecting manner. 
 
 “I never said anything to—to—Miss Mildred, Ma—Ma— 
 dam—never; only that the Captain admired Miss Winnie’s 
 hair—he said it was so lo—long—I’m sure ’twasn’t anything 
 so—so—particular to look at. I dare say he was making fun 
 when he praised it.” 
 
 “You have no right to suppose anything of the kind,” said 
 her mistress, sharply; “ Winnie Caerlyon has the most beauti¬ 
 ful hair I ever saw.” 
 
 a And did cousin Stephen admire her?” persisted Mildred, 
 with a proud, lazy smile, looking from her aunt to the injured , 
 Miss Trewhella, to whom the capricious young lady had 
 taken a haughty dislike. 
 
 “Indeed he did,” said Madam, with an admirable air of 
 frankness and candour. “He told me that he thought her 
 such a nice, modest, sensible little creature and pretty too, 
 he said. I laughed so at him! But sailors are very gallant, 
 and have an enthusiastic admiration for the smallest particle 
 of female beauty, you know, Mildred.” 
 
 “I always thought cousin Stephen particularly gallant,” 
 rejoined Mildred betaking herself to the sofa again; “a 
 good-natured old fellow he always was, and bought a pony 
 for me when I was a little girl, but he never seemed to notice 
 pretty girls or ugly girls, except to tell me once that I should 
 have made a much better boy than I did a girl.” 
 
 “Stephen has not seen you since you were in the school¬ 
 room,” said Madam, with a peculiar smile. “ I have no doubt 
 but that you will find him less insensible now in the matter 
 of handsome faces and plain ones.” 
 
 Mildred listened in silence, her brows elevated, and her 
 haughty chiselled lips turning in a sarcastic smile. 
 
 “Oh, is that it?” she returned, with a provoking air of 
 nonchalance . “Well, I also am less insensible in the matter 
 of handsome faces and plain ones, chere tante , and have my 
 own ideal views on the subject.” 
 
 “Indeed!” exclaimed Madam, quickly, glancing with a eer- 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MAECH MORNING. 
 
 81 
 
 tain involuntary apprehension at handsome, self-willed Mil¬ 
 dred Tredennick, who, by her imperious temper and inflexible 
 will, and in later years by those brilliant unabashed eyes of 
 hers and her proud beauty, had ruled, monarch of all she sur¬ 
 veyed, from her earliest infant days, when vexed nurses pro¬ 
 nounced her “ a child that no one could manage,” to the hour 
 when her last governess said in despair that “ Miss Treden¬ 
 nick would do just as she pleased” about music or drawing 
 lessons. 
 
 Miss Tredennick did as she pleased about most things; and 
 there were some unpleasant foreshadowings in the hearts of 
 her prudent relatives that Miss Tredennick would continue to 
 do as she pleased in a manner that might prove very unsatis¬ 
 factory to them. In fact, this visit to the seclusion of Rose¬ 
 worthy and consignment to the guardianship of her careful, 
 clever, aristocratic aunt—not quite palatable to the independ¬ 
 ent young lady—was a preventive measure agreed upon in 
 a secret council of the prudent relatives aforesaid—Miss Tre- 
 dennick’s peevish, fussy, pompous father, and her handsome, 
 vain, easy-going mother, and a stiff, sensible, worldly cousin, 
 and graceful, gracious aunt Vivian, with a will nearly as 
 strong as her own, and a diplomatic ability that would have 
 done credit to an ambassador. There was nothing to be ap¬ 
 prehended—oh, nothing, of course! Only Mildred was so 
 odd, and had such strong opinions and pronounced feelings 
 for a girl of eighteen! 
 
 “ Ridiculous, you know! ” said the easy-going mother. 
 
 “ Shocking—provoking! I’ve a good mind to—to—just 
 to-” broke out the peevish father. 
 
 “ Bad style for a young lady,” observed Madam Vivian 
 placidly, with a quiet smile. 
 
 It was nothing serious of course! The idea was absurd! 
 But those boy-and-girl attachments sometimes hung on, and 
 occasioned awkwardness and unpleasantness. There was some 
 boy-and-girl nonsense between Mildred and young Gardiner; 
 there was no denying it—the sensible cousin had noticed it, 
 the easy-going mother had noticed it, Madam Vivian had 
 noticed it. 
 
 “ There must be no attempt at anger or expostulation, 
 Madam,” counselled the peevish father, who was for trying 
 the time-honoured expedient with wilful damsels of “ locking 
 her up in her own room.” 
 
 “ You want her to run off with Albert Gardiner the next 
 dark night,” warned Madam, coolly. 
 
82 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 “ He—he wouldn’t dare!” spluttered the peevish father. 
 
 “ Perhaps not,” said Madam, smiling, “ hut Mildred 
 would. She’d make him run away with her if she chose.” 
 
 So Madam counselled, and they waited, until bright-eyed 
 fair-haired Bertie Gardiner went away with his regiment—the 
 most winsome youngster that ever carried a flag. And then 
 Madam took self-willed Mildred away, with the understand¬ 
 ing from the secret council that she was to be introduced to 
 society, made accomplished and elegant, taught the value of 
 her own beauty and fortune, and kept under Madam’s super¬ 
 vision until she had safely disposed of her in marriage. 
 
 Astute, politic Madam Vivian had her own views in the 
 arrangement, which the shorter-sighted members of the 
 council did not perceive. 
 
 “ So that’s it, is it?” repeated Miss Trewhella to herself, 
 copying Miss Tredennick’s clear imperious accents—as she 
 fondly hoped, very accurately—as she folded up sundry arti¬ 
 cles of Miss Tredennick’s wardrobe, and put that negligent 
 young lady’s apartment “ to rights ” for the fourth time that 
 day. “ I wondered what Madam was going to trouble her¬ 
 self with a young lady for—one as proud and obstinate as 
 herself too—and why she wouldn’t have Winnie Caerlyon 
 any more. 6 Miss Tredennick will be sufficient company for 
 me,’ says she. I wish her joy of her management of Miss 
 Tredennick; she’s met her match now, sure enough. I won¬ 
 der what’ll he think?” pursued Miss Trewhella, disentangling 
 the hooks of a velvet bodice from a heap of lace collars, and 
 picking a gray Parisian kid glove out of the meshes of a 
 Cluny lace-covered parasol. “ Admire her, I suppose. She 
 is grand and stylish-looking, I’ll allow; and my! doesn’t she 
 know it! Why shouldn’t she be grand and stylish-looking?” 
 continued the waiting-woman, plaintively, holding up a lace- 
 trimmed cambric wrapper. “ The money she spends! Fifty 
 pounds this last fortnight on that box of things from Paris, 
 and sovereigns here and there!” 
 
 Miss Trewhella turned over the contents of glove-boxes 
 and dressing cases, strewing the toilet-table with a medley of. 
 ribbons, jewels, perfumes, fans, gloves, and loose silver, 
 thrown there by Mildred Tredennick’s careless, royally lav¬ 
 ish, indifferent hands; tried on some gold bracelets and pearl 
 hair-pins, and sighed as she looked in the glass and thought 
 of the unkindness of Fortune in not giving her eight hun¬ 
 dred a year in her own right, and thus enabling her to look 
 as grand and distinguished a lady as Mildred Tredennick. 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MAECH MOENING. 
 
 83 
 
 “She’s not stingy either, I’ll allow,” she admitted; “that 
 blue silk of mine wasn’t a bad present. He might do a great 
 deal worse—she’ll make a grand, fashionable, stylish wife for 
 Trcdennick of Tregarthen.” 
 
 She paused a minute to admire a beautiful pale-yellow 
 linen summer costume, with malachite and gold buttons, and 
 tittered a little to herself. 
 
 “Poor Winnie Caerlyon!” she said, with an intense 
 amount of smiling pity. “ She has a great chance against 
 Mildred Tredennick to be sure!” 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 The first snow of the new year had fallen, and lay as a 
 pure, soft shroud over the bare fields and uplands, feathering 
 with flaky whiteness all the black, leafless branches of the 
 wintry woods. Softly and lightly it had fallen on the dark, 
 iron-bound roads, frozen through long days and weeks of 
 bitter cold and dull leaden skies; but enough lay even on that 
 bleak high road by Tregarthen Head to mark where foot¬ 
 steps had newly passed before Winnie Caerlyon, and to leave 
 the traces behind of her own quick, light footfalls. 
 
 The red gold of the western sunlight shone in level rays 
 across the snowy landscape, the calm wintry afternoon was 
 waning fast, and the quick, light footfalls of the little figure 
 hurrying homewards were weary enough, returning from an 
 errand of some miles’ distance. It made the way longer to 
 go up the long lane of Mennacarthen and take in the angle 
 of the Tolgooth mine-road, and the snow lay deep between 
 the high hedges of the narrow by-road; yet the hurrying 
 little figure chose that way, and the quick steps grew slower 
 and slower, until they paused altogether; and in the waning 
 sunlight, amidst the drifted snow, Winnie Caerlyon crept 
 beneath the dark shadow of the great overgrown masses of 
 holly and laurel that clustered behind the moss-covered 
 pillars of the Tregarthen gates. 
 
 She had a fancy for taking this long, lonely, roundabout 
 Mennacarthen Lane in her way, whenever it was possible; 
 she had a fancy for standing for a few minutes in the gloomy 
 shadow of the great, shining, evergreen branches; she had a 
 fancy for looking at that shut-up, siient, zumous old mansion 
 across the neglected lawn. 
 
84 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MAEGH MOENING. 
 
 It was to "gratify these foolish little fancies that she had 
 hurried through the chill red sunlight and the crisp, drifted 
 snow; and, in the pleasure of the gratification, she felt neither 
 the cold of the snow nor the frosty afternoon air as she stood 
 looking, with a curious interest in her eyes, at that silent house 
 and ground—one unspotted sheet of dazzling snow, save where 
 the shadowed marking of a double line of footsteps dotted 
 the winding avenue. 
 
 Everything about the dreary old place possessed an inter¬ 
 est for this foolish, lonely little maid, peering wistfully in. 
 It was toe of Winnie Caerlyon’s greatest enjoyments, this si¬ 
 lent flitting up Mennacartlien Lane, and looking in at the 
 Tregarthen gates. The number of the shuttered windows 
 had an interest for her; the old time-defaced statues and si¬ 
 lent, weed-grown pond and fountain were pleasant to her 
 eyes; the coral-jewelled holly-trees were more beautiful than 
 the rest of their species; nay, the snow looked whiter and 
 lovelier, gleaming in the red sunlight across the lawn and av¬ 
 enue, than elsewhere. She always went home happier after 
 having had her look at Tregarthen; it was like hearing of 
 him whose face was ever before her, like being in his pres¬ 
 ence for a few moments, the poor little maid’s fond soul whis¬ 
 pered to itself—her lips would not dare to put her thought 
 into words—like hearing that he was living, and well, and 
 happy far away over the sea—she heard no word of news in 
 any other way—hearing of him, the hero of the idyl of her 
 life. 
 
 Was it the prescience of a coming crisis of fate that kept 
 Winnie Caerlyon lingering there, her little hands grasping 
 the cold, frost-rimed iron bars, gazing with a/dreamy smile 
 at the old home of the Tredennicks, and pondering curiously 
 whose could be the footsteps that had disturbed the thin 
 white crust of frozen snow, while the last faint rosy smile of 
 the winter sun drew farther away, and, leaving her in the 
 cold gray evening light, shot his parting rays of level crimson 
 radiance upon the boles of the old chestnut trees and gnarled 
 oaks, and athwart the windings of the snow-clad avenue? 
 
 Brightly, radiantly, indeed, they shone,- for to Winnie Ca¬ 
 erlyon’s dazzled gaze they seemed to illumine suddenly a 
 mass of rich colour and glistening sheen like the hues of an 
 exotic blossom or the plumage of a gorgeous bird, glowing 
 on the amber and crimson hues, the festooned velvet robes 
 of a woman’s rich and beautiful apparel—gleaming on 'dainty 
 lacquered boots, slim, close-fitting furred jacket, coquettish 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MuttNING. 85 
 
 velvet hat with its tuft of crimson and amber feathers stir¬ 
 ring in the keen frosty breeze. 
 
 Fondly the pale red sun lingered and shimmered here and 
 there about the tall swaying graceful form ere he sank to rest 
 in his western ocean-bed, as if he sought to exhibit to the 
 companion who walked beside her each hidden beauty that 
 his admiring eyes had not yet discovered—the glow and flash 
 of proud bright eyes, the peachy flush painting the pure, 
 smooth cheek, the dainty ear, the firm, rounded chin, the 
 golden-bronze of her masses of shining hair, the gleaming 
 pearly teeth, the ripe, curving lips. Winifred Caerlyon did 
 not miss one detail of that proud rare beauty in the very 
 flush of its spring-time of youth, wealth, and high spirits, 
 with the added charms of all that wealth, indulgence, and an 
 imperial self-will could bestow to make it almost perfect. 
 
 The beautiful young lady of her reverential admiration— 
 looking more beautiful than ever now—looking so evidently 
 to him who walked beside her, with his admiring gaze fixed 
 on the proud, lovely face, his smile serenely bright as he re¬ 
 sponded to hers, all his regard devoted to notice her slightest 
 gesture, to catch the least word that fell from those rosy, 
 scornful-curving lips, to re-echo the merry laughter of that 
 clear, ringing voice. Oh, how beautiful—how lovable-—how 
 worthy of all honour, all regard, all dearest, highest affection 
 must she be—young, lovely, beloved, gifted, well-born, 
 wealthy, enviable Mildred Tredennick! 
 
 For one moment the passionate fire of a jealous despair 
 leaped into the patient white face and the gray eyes of the 
 girl standing without in the cold shadow and drifted snow 
 booking in upon those two figures in the sunshine—stalwart, 
 handsome, gallant, smiling Stephen Tredennick, and the fair 
 imperial woman who was the object of his devoted lover-like 
 attention—and then a darker shadow than that of the cluster¬ 
 ing laurels fell on her stricken brow, a numb cold weight 
 seemed to fall on her trembling limbs, her hands relaxed 
 their rigid hold of the cold iron bars, and through the cold 
 frosty evening shades Winnie Caerlyon stole swiftly away. 
 
 With a dull heavy throbbing at her heart, a dull intangible 
 pain quivering through her very soul, with compressed lips 
 and hands clasped tightly over her breast, as one who tries to 
 stifle the anguish of a mortal inward wound, she sped swiftly 
 on in bewildered haste, scarce knowing whither that familiar 
 road by Tregarthen Head was leading her, seeing nothing but 
 those two figures i u the sunlight^ hearing nothing but the 
 
86 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 echo of Mildred Tredennick’s clear imperious tones. In her 
 dizzy confusion of thought and vision, she almost imagined 
 that she encountered them again face to face at the cross-road 
 leading to Tolgootli mines, and shrank breathlessly aside from 
 the pair that stood in converse together. 
 
 ’ “ My word, Miss Caerlyon, you’re enough to give one a 
 start, positively!” and in alarm, partly real and partly simu¬ 
 lated, Miss Trewhella caught up her silk flounces in her 
 lemon-coloured kid-gloved hands, and whirled around with a 
 sharp little scream, as Winnie passed close beside her. “ Now 
 didn’t she give you a start, Mr. Pascoe, too? I am sure I 
 never saw or heard her coming!” 
 
 Acquainted as Winnie had hitherto been with the fashion¬ 
 able waiting-woman’s resources in the way of effective toi¬ 
 lettes, her information had evidently fallen far short of Miss 
 Trewhella’s ability in this direction; and she gazed con¬ 
 fusedly at the splendid apparition, in order to make sure that 
 her unsteady sight and fast-throbbing brain had not misled 
 her as to the identity of the person attired in rich black silks 
 and velvets, a gold chain, and the long-coveted silky jet-black 
 Astrakhan furs. 
 
 Miss Trewhella’s hair was crimped and curled, Miss Tre¬ 
 whella’s complexion had the most extraordinary, charming 
 blending of roses and lilies in lieu of its usual sallowness, and 
 one lemon-gloved hand held a fragile lace mouchoir , most 
 delicately perfumed with essence of wood-violet. 
 
 Winnie glanced from her to Mr. Pascoe, whose gracious 
 countenance wore an awkward, detected expression. 
 
 “Evening, Winiford,” said he, sulkily kicking the snow 
 about with his boot. 
 
 “I did not rise out of the earth, or drop down from the 
 sky,” observed Winnie, coldly, in reply to Miss Trewhella’s 
 exclamation. “ I saw you both standing here as I came over 
 from the cliff road^” 
 
 “ Ah, yes,” said Miss Trewhella, recovering herself with a 
 genteel cough and smile, “we were talking, Miss Caerlyon 
 —Mr. Pascoe and I.” 
 
 The gentleman, hearing himself alluded to, looked up, 
 more sulkily, if possible. 
 
 “I was speakin’ a few words to Miss Trewhella,” explained 
 he, shortly and roughly, as if to deprive the conversation of 
 any complimentary significance with which the lady strove 
 to invest it; “ she were a-tellin’ me the news.” 
 
 “Ah, yes,” the lady responded, smiling sweetly; “I was 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 87 
 
 just saying to Mr. Pascoe that it is such a pleasant thing—so 
 suitable—quite charming'indeed—and one gets sadly lonely 
 at Roseworthy; but now we have a pleasant prospect. Visi¬ 
 tors, and so forth, you know, Miss Caerlyon, make a great 
 change.” 
 
 “ Oh, certainly,” said Winifred, nodding a slight adieu, and 
 endeavouring to hurry on, but the lady of the silk flounces 
 continued, in a brisker tone of animation— 
 
 “And indeed, Miss Caerlyon, you’re missed—you were 
 always so quick with your hands, and so ready. As I often 
 say to Mrs. Grose, ‘Dear me, if Miss Winnie was here, we 
 should give her plenty to do.’ A wedding makes such work 
 and bother and fuss! ” and she tittered affectedly behind the 
 lace handkerchief, glancing over it at Mr. Thomas Pascoe, as 
 she had seen Madam Vivian do with her fan; but she made 
 no further impression on that polite young man than to make 
 him turn still more of his shoulder towards her, and kick the 
 snow until it flecked her dainty skirts and wetted her boots. 
 
 “A wedding!” cried Winnie; and it seemed to her as if 
 the chill, dark wintry afternoon closed around her in a sud¬ 
 den pall of night—as if the ocean surges roared and thun¬ 
 dered in her ears. 
 
 “ Yes,” said Miss Trewhella, with an air of excessive as¬ 
 tonishment, belied by the saucy smile of her hard black eyes; 
 and Mr. Pascoe lifted his foxy face from the contemplation 
 of his thick mine-boots, and grinned in a malevolent manner, 
 looking at Winifred with an elaborate pretence of indifference 
 from beneath half-closed eyelids. “You’ve not heard, Miss 
 Winnie? ” continued the lady’s maid. “ Really, I’m sur¬ 
 prised! And stories like that do go so fast! ” 
 
 “ ’Twas all over Tolgooth to-day, when he brought her 
 through the works,” Mr. Pascoe put in, with the same disa¬ 
 greeable smile, eyeing a stone on the roadway as if he meant 
 to ascertain its chemical proportions by sight. “ A fine girl 
 she is, too—shows the man has good taste.” 
 
 “Yes, indeed, Mr. Pascoe,” Miss Trewhella responded, 
 having much recourse to fluttering of the lace handkerchief, 
 and tittering behind it; “ and you show your taste, too. Ha! 
 ha! Really she’s a fine, tall, stylish young lady, as you say, 
 Mr. Pascoe, that will do a man credit. Ha! ha! Really 
 you’re too bad, Mr. Pascoe. But it’s a fact that gentlemen 
 do seem to run after tall, fashionable-looking women;” and 
 Miss Trewhella smiled slightly, drew hfcrself up to her full. 
 
88 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 tall height, rustled her fashionable silks and furs, and cast 
 her eyes modestly down. 
 
 Darker, darker grew the chill wintry pall of a strange 
 misty night, louder beat the surging tide of heart and brain, 
 as Winnie Caerlyon stood still and calm, unmoved in torture, 
 defeating all the malicious pleasure of her unworthy foes. 
 
 “ You are alluding to Miss Tredennick, I suppose?” she 
 said, her voice only a little harder and sharj)er than usual. 
 “ She is very handsome.” 
 
 “Yes,” observed Mr. Pascoe in reply, although she had 
 neither addressed nor looked at him, smacking his lips as he 
 spoke, and putting his hands in his pockets; “ she’s some- 
 then worth lookin’ at—a fine young woman!” 
 
 “ And the Captain thinks exactly as you do, Mr. Pascoe,” 
 Miss Trewhella cried, giggling excessively. “ It’s queer you 
 didn’t hear of it, Miss Caerlyon; it’s quite a charming 
 match.” 
 
 And Winifred Caerlyon replied, very calmly still, with 
 even the quiver of a smile on the composed pale endurance 
 of her face, “Yes, it is a very suitable match; Miss Treden¬ 
 nick is very handsome,” bade them both good evening, and 
 walked swiftly away. 
 
 Puzzled wrinkles came on Mr. Pascoe’s narrow forehead. 
 
 “ I shouldn’t have thought that Miss Winnie would have 
 liked to hear tell of your news, Miss Trewhella; but she 
 doesn’t seem to mind. She was always a queer, silent maid, 
 without much to say for herself.” 
 
 “Yes,” said the waiting-woman, with disappointed enmity, 
 “ she pretends very well; but I’ve no doubt it’s a pretty hard 
 blow to her.” 
 
 Hard enough to strike her to the earth—hard enough to 
 strike her down there by the cold gray sea, where the drifted 
 snow lay deep and white, veiling the black, cruel rocks in 
 cold wraith-like softness; and gladly, with the gladness of 
 morbid misery, would she have felt it enfold her prostrate 
 form, her outstretched hands and rigid face with the chill, 
 suffocating softness of a shroud. It seemed as if it would 
 enwrap and soothe her into the cold, calm peace of Death’s 
 sound sleep; for she said, “ It is better for me to die than to 
 live.” 
 
 And yet, if the stricken girl—the bright, sweet, tremulous 
 dawning of whose young-womanhood had darkened in a mo¬ 
 ment into impenetrable night—the few pale, pure flowers of 
 whose tender, sacredly loved andguardedRopes were crushed 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 89 
 
 into remorseless, disfigured ruin—had been asked what it was 
 that she had lost and was mourning for with tearless eyes and 
 bleeding heart, she could not, if she would, have made reply 
 intelligent to other than Him who reads the heart, and to 
 whom the anguished ejaculation, the wild, incoherent petition, 
 the fragmentary prayer broken by convulsive trembling lips, 
 are the clear translation of the hidden language of the soul, 
 which no man born of men can read, and say with certainty, 
 “ This is the interpretation thereof.” 
 
 Was it a presumptuous, ambitious, unmaidenly love, and 
 its speedy, well-merited punishment? Was it the wild, ro¬ 
 mantic folly of a passionate, half educated girl, who flung 
 away all the treasure of her young heart in exchange for a 
 stranger’s transient liking, transient admiration, and transient 
 caresses? Ah, poor little friendless, unloved girl, your pity¬ 
 ing, guardian angel gave it a nobler name! 
 
 It had been the idyl—tender, imaginative—of a common¬ 
 place, work-a-day-world existence—the poem—the passionate, 
 harmonious embodiment of the song, the melody of which 
 stirred the enthusiastic girlish soul all through its slumbering 
 life, it had been a beautiful erring worship, a fond false 
 faith, a devoted mistaken creed. She had treasured it as a 
 jewel of great price and beauty, to be looked at, cherished, 
 delighted in, in those rare sweet hours of freedom when the 
 shrewish step-mother, the seven noisy children, the small, 
 over-crowded home, the hard work, the hard words, her 
 father’s frowns, Thomas Pascoe’s detested presence, had all 
 as it were passed away, and left her alone and peacefully 
 happy by her young mother’s grave in Trewillian churchyard, 
 or singing the plaintive lullaby for little Louie, when; from 
 the little dormer-window looking seawards, there floated 
 down on the wide expanse of rippling waters lost in the 
 silver mists of the far horizon, the yearning breath of the 
 tender words— 
 
 “ Sweet and low, sweet and low, 
 
 Wind of the Western Sea.” 
 
 It had been something to think of in her meek maiden 
 prayers, with an added voiceless petition—something to pon¬ 
 der in timid wonderment and sad tender yearning, when she 
 knelt beside her mother’s grave in Trewillian churchyard, 
 washed the simple slab, cut the waving grass, softly, care¬ 
 fully, with loving painstaking, as though she were fashioning 
 a garment for the quiet sleeper’s wear, and kissed—“ Wini¬ 
 fred, the beloved wife of John Caerlyon.” 
 
90 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 She wondered so if “ mother” knew—knew him—him whom 
 her child loved. She had whispered it so often down amongst 
 the daisy roots and clustering mosses, she wondered did 
 “ mother” know—know that upon the lonely altar a fire was 
 kindled, upon the snowy tablet a name was graven deep and 
 dark, upon “ the virgin page,* pure and unwritten,” was in¬ 
 scribed an undying story, in the empty heart-temple was 
 niched an idol—a brave, beautiful, kind, beloved, worshipped 
 idol, glorified by her fond womanly love, reverenced by her 
 childish timid devotion. And now—now it was all over— 
 the idyl profaned, the harmony turned to harshest discord, 
 the worship annihilated—the god of her idolatry had fallen 
 and crushed her! 
 
 Alas ! she had never even the right to worship, to treasure 
 sacredly, to believe in, to devote herself to that idol—simply 
 no right. She was but intruding her ignorant thoughts, her 
 ridiculous devotion, her absurd affection, where her j>resump- 
 tuous feet had led her to stray—where she, and her love and 
 faith and constancy, were alike unexpected, unwelcome, con¬ 
 temptible. The idyl, the poem, the Paradise of lofty, tender 
 thoughts^ and prayers had been all a dream—a long, bright 
 morning dream—a dream the product of which was delirious 
 agony of pain, desolation, and burning, mortified shame—the 
 anguished shame which those equally proud and pure-minded 
 alone can know. 
 
 She was awake now, to dream her sweet dream no more. 
 Awake!—not even the soft snow’s deadly shrouding could 
 lull the pain to sleep. Awake! for the waves of the cold 
 'gray sea rang a ceaseless dirge, and she must arise and 
 gather- up the crushed, ruined remnants of the shattered 
 treasure of her young life, wipe away her tears, and bury it 
 deep for ever out of the sight of those who would mock her 
 woe. 
 
 u \ suppose I cannot die,” she said, wildly, looking up to 
 heaven in her tearless misery; “I shall live on and on as I 
 have done for years and years. But oh,” the girl cried, 
 assailed with the devilish whispering temptation that ever 
 lurks in the dark, mantling folds of despair, “ I am not yet 
 twenty-one, and life is such a dreadful thing!” 
 
 Beckoning arms from the tossing waves seemed to be out¬ 
 stretched to her, the deep gurgling waters amidst the rocks 
 rolled in a soothing murmur, the ripples rushed towards her 
 and slipped softly back into their ocean bed as if wooing her 
 young feet, so bruised and weary from the pathway of life, 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING, 91 
 
 to follow them. She knew nothing of heathen doctrines of 
 the right to die and the sinlessness of the suicide’s act; she 
 was only a poor, simple-minded, half heart-broken little girl; 
 and a wilder prayer of supplication followed the ejaculatory 
 one of despair. In the helpless simplicity of her Chris¬ 
 tianity, she turned to Heaven for relief. 
 
 “ Heaven help me—pity me!” sobbed Winnie, upstretching 
 her thin white arms, as if seeking the clasp of a friendly 
 hand; and, gazing upward, she saw that the evening star had 
 arisen, and was looking down upon her from the dark evening 
 sky. Down into the gulf of her despair, like a pitying eter¬ 
 nal eye, shone the slender silver ray. And the star-angel, 
 God’s messenger to his sorrowing child, lighting her gently 
 on her homeward path, seemed to soothe her at once with 
 assurance of succour and relief. 
 
 CHAPTER XHI. 
 
 “ I can not quite understand, Mildred, about Miss Winnie 
 Caerlyon—has aunt Vivian quarrelled with her?” 
 
 “ Quarrelled! Aunt Vivian quarrelled with Miss Winnie 
 Caerlyon! Profane mortal! ” Mildred responded, her haughty 
 smile resolving into a sunshine of mischievous fun. “Aunt 
 Vivian quarrel with her poor little hired companion, amanu¬ 
 ensis, or whatever other office she was honoured by being 
 appointed to! Does Her Gracious Majesty box the ears of 
 the royal pages when they fail in their duty? ” 
 
 “Well, then, what is the cause of aunt’s totally ignoring 
 the poor little thing’s existence? ” asked Captain Tredennick, 
 rather irritably. “ I fancied that Madam regarded her more- 
 in the light of an adopted child than anything else, and now 
 I discover that she never sees her, never mentions her name, 
 and prevents it from being mentioned, as I fancied last night 
 from her manner. Has Winnie Caerlyon done anything to 
 offend her? ” 
 
 “You had better ask her, cousin,” Mildred replied, her 
 face sparkling all over with satirical mirth. “ Ask her where 
 is Winnie Caerlyon—why was she banished from Roseworthy 
 —and beg that she may be instantly recalled—do, Stephen— 
 to oblige me!” 
 
 “Why are you laughing, Mildred?” he said, smiling in 
 
92 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 spite of himself. “ Is there any reason why I should not ask 
 aunt Vivian about her little friend? 55 
 
 “I think you had better apply to aunt Vivian herself if 
 you want any information on the subject, cousin Stephen, 5 ' 
 Mildred returned, more quietly and coldly; “ she might not 
 think the affair one in which I could possibly, or with pro¬ 
 priety, be interested, or with which I ought to be acquainted,” 
 and the sarcastic lips took an additional sharp curve as she 
 spoke. 
 
 “‘With propriety,’ Mildred—about—about little Winnie 
 Caerlyon! ” Stephen Tredennick’s very lips had grown pale, 
 and he gasped out the words breathlessly in convulsive alarm. 
 
 “About little Winnie Caerlyon,” Mildred repeated, her 
 handsome face growing hard, and her bright eyes peering in 
 their haughty gaze into her cousin’s troubled changing face. 
 “ I am sorry to see that the news affects you so much, Cap¬ 
 tain Tredennick.” 
 
 “Affects me!” Stephen Tredennick cried, his alarm and 
 bewilderment growing stronger. “ Why, Mildred, what is 
 there to be sorry for? What is it about poor little Winnie 
 Caerlyon?” 
 
 The cold haughty face grew colder, and Mildred Treden¬ 
 nick’s eyes flashed in a sudden blaze of indignation. 
 
 “ Captain Tredennick, I hate hypocrisy as I hate craftiness,” 
 she said; “it does not become one of our name to stoop so 
 low as to touch either! ” And, having given utterance to her 
 sentiments, her imperial highness gathered her satin-lined 
 morning-robes around her as if they had been in truth the 
 regal purples, and swept out of Stephen Tredennick’s offend¬ 
 ing presence, leaving him hurt, amazed, angry, and confused 
 beyond measure. 
 
 Half an hour later her mood changed. 
 
 “I don’t believe poor dear old Stephen is to blame one bit, 
 in spite of all they may say,” she muttered to herself, twitch¬ 
 ing her dress away from Miss Trewhella’s solicitous touching 
 and arranging, and marching off imperiously, fastening her 
 silken sash and adjusting her lace collar as she went, in a 
 highly independent manner. She fearlessly invaded her 
 cousin’s privacy in his study, where he sat before the fire in 
 the dark dull afternoon, in a deep reverie of thought and 
 tobacco smoke hazily intermingled. 
 
 “ Cousin Stephen,” she said abruptly, “ I beg your pardon 
 .—I spoke rudely a while ago, but you annoyed me.” 
 
 “I was not aware of having done so,” rejoined Stephen 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 93 
 
 Tredennick, quietly and gravely. There was no one on earth 
 who could manage Mildred Tredennick so easily, and exert 
 such an influence over her, as her cousin Stephen; at least 
 his aunt and hers—Madam Vivian—had constantly assured 
 him of the fact. “ But you annoyed and troubled me. 
 Unkind insinuations and malicious hints ought to be as far 
 beneath a Tredennick as hypocrisy and craftiness, Millie.” 
 
 “ And I have not stooped to either, Stephen,” said Mildred, 
 hotly; “but I thought that you were descending to an elab¬ 
 orate pretence of ignorance of something of which you were 
 perfectly aware—at least, so they said.” 
 
 “ Who said? ” Stephen Tredennick demanded, laying down 
 his pipe. 
 
 “ Everybody—the world of Roseworthy and the parish of 
 St. Awen.” 
 
 “ What did they say, Mildred,” the Captain of the Chit- 
 toor asked, sternly, confronting his handsome, haughty 
 cousin, haughtier than herself, looking down from his stal¬ 
 wart height on even her Juno-like stature; and imperious, 
 self-possessed Mildred quailed ever so little, and faltered, 
 with a girlish rising colour. 
 
 “They said that you admired Winnie Caerlyon, noticed 
 her, walked out with her, paid her visits, liked and admired 
 her, and paid her attention—you know, Stephen ”—imperious 
 Mildred faltered here—“ and then-” 
 
 “Then what?” He struck his clenched hand with an 
 involuntary force against the arm of his chair, and a storm 
 overtaking the Chittoor on the wide ocean never brought so 
 dark a cloud as then swept over his brow. 
 
 “ They said that Winnie Caerlyon, poor little thing-” 
 
 Mildred’s very temples had coloured now—her keen womanly 
 pride and delicacy shrank from what must have seemed cast¬ 
 ing ridicule on another woman’s hopeless affection. That 
 poor little miserable, pale-faced, shabby creature—why 
 should she render her absurd and unworthy of respect in 
 Stephen Tredennick’s eyes? 
 
 She glanced at the mirrored reflection of her own splendid 
 form, in the glory of her blooming womanhood—at the 
 silken sheen of her sweeping robes of royal blue—Mildred 
 would have liked to wear purple velvet and ermine every day 
 had it not been inconvenient—the massive gold comb and 
 pins fastening the braids of her shining bronze-hued hair, her 
 aristocratic jewelled hands, the satin fairness of which one 
 hour’s hard work had never sullied—at all the queenly ele- 
 
94 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 gance and grace which were so natural to her in the pride of 
 her beauty, and she hesitated, with the unwillingness of a 
 noble nature, to crush the weak, to mock the helpless, to 
 slight a sister-woman because she was inferior in birth and 
 station. 
 
 But Stephen Tredennick’s face admitted of little hesita¬ 
 tion, of no denial; beneath the magnetism of his clear, stern 
 gaze, capricious Mildred had no power but obediently to 
 reply: 
 
 “ They said, Stephen—gossipping women—tattlers—those 
 kind of people, you know,” she went on, reluctantly,—“ that 
 Winnie-” 
 
 “What about Winnie?” Stephen Tredennick reiterated. 
 
 The childish name brought back in a flood of recollection 
 the announcement of the little dark dripping figure in the 
 lighted entry—the pale-faced child with the beautiful tresses 
 of hair and the passionate womanly eyes—the shivering little 
 woman whom he had escorted home through the wild March 
 morning—the gentle girl by whose side he had sat on that 
 sunny afternoon, listening to her sweet voice, as it mingled 
 with the plashing of the waves—the patient, dear little creat¬ 
 ure, busy in the tidy kitchen, with her white apron and her 
 big knife, cutting bread-and-butter. 
 
 Stephen Tredennick had often laughed since, calling to 
 mind what a large knife and great pile of bread were there, 
 and how slight and small was the deft little housewife—poor 
 dear little Winnie, who had blushed beneath his gaze as he 
 had never seen a woman blush before or since, whom he had 
 taken into his heart, although he did not know it, whose pure 
 lips he had kissed, and had felt ever since as if he dared 
 never sully his own by a coarse word or a lighter caress, for 
 their dear maidenly sake. 
 
 Winnie! Poor dear little pale-faced, quaint, simple- 
 hearted Winnie—fiery, proud, passionate little woman— 
 patient, dutiful, loving little maiden—what had the serpent 
 tongues of gossips and scandal-mongers to lay to her charge 
 —that innocent child with the wistful face and dark pathetic 
 eyes, like a sea-spirit exiled from the beauty of her ocean 
 home to earth’s dreary drudgery? What had they to say to 
 her? What did they dare to say? And Stephen Treden¬ 
 nick’s stout heart grew still in the breathless waiting for his 
 cousin’s reply. 
 
 “ What do they say about Winnie?” he repeated, hoarsely. 
 
 And Mildred Tredennick looked straight into his eyes— 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MAECH MOBNING. 
 
 95 
 
 angrily almost—for in her loyal womanliness she dreaded 
 to see a sneer or self-satisfied smile there—and answered, 
 bringing out the sharp bare truth of the assertion with a 
 stern reproachful directness— 
 
 “ That Winnie Caerlyon loves you.” 
 
 There was dead silence for a minute or two in the warm 
 fire-lit room, for the gray shades of evening were falling 
 fast over the snow-covered landscape. The smile that Mil¬ 
 dred feared she did not see, although Stephen Tredennick’s 
 face was lit up with a sudden flush and glow not due to the 
 flickering radiance of the ruddy fire. • 
 
 He took up his pipe with a steady hand, and sat down 
 quietly again in the easy-chair; but Mildred did not hear the 
 low heavy sigh of relief breathed by lips that quivered with 
 sudden surprised emotion—nor did she perceive how his 
 steady fingers had closed like a'vise on the carvings of his 
 meerschaum bowl and stem. 
 
 “ Who said so, Mildred?” 
 
 He spoke so quietly, without an ejaculation of wonderment 
 or disbelief, that Mildred’s curiosity aroused afresh her usual 
 sarcastic, mirthful temper. 
 
 “Everybody, I tell you, Stephen,” she answered with a sol¬ 
 emn shake of her head, closely watching her cousin’s some¬ 
 what inscrutable expression, and endeavoring to decipher it. 
 “It is true, then, I suppose?” she went on, determined to 
 tease him into admission or denial of the charge made against 
 him. “Alas! false man, you have been regarding Tolgoq^li 
 Bay as 6 All in the Downs’ where 
 
 the fleet was moored, 
 
 The streamers waving in the wind, 
 
 and poor little c Black-eyed Susan ’ coming aboard singing— 
 
 i O, where shall I my true love find?’ 
 
 I am afraid it is all- perfectly true, Captain Tredennick; and 
 I never thought it would be my fate to see my hitherto 
 highly-esteemed relative, who gravely reproved my delin¬ 
 quencies when I was young, and gravely admonished me as 
 to the way in which I should go when I grew old, branded as 
 a gay sea-rover by the highly respectable and scandal-loving 
 inhabitants of the parish of St. Awen!” 
 
 “ You need not talk such utter nonsense if you must jest,” 
 said Stephen Tredennick, shortly. 
 
 There was not another man on earth who would have dared 
 
96 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 to address that silken-robed, beautiful young woman in such 
 a manner; but Stephen Tredennick always spoke as he felt to 
 his cousin Mildred, and Mildred liked him as she liked none 
 other on v earth—save one. That one she loved—and Mil¬ 
 dred Tredennick’s love was a feeling very different from 
 liking. 
 
 “ It is not utter nonsense by any means, but particularly 
 good sense, as you may find out,” Mildred returned, jestingly 
 still, but with a certain weight of meaning in her tones. 
 
 “ And I thought you cared more for me,” Captain Treden¬ 
 nick remarked, quietly and reproachfully, “than to allow 
 vulgar gossip, in your hearing, to tamper with my name— 
 not to mention the poor innocent little girl’s—in that absurd 
 and improbable manner.” 
 
 “You tampered with it yourself before I ever heard the 
 girl’s name mentioned, or entered the cloistered seclusion 
 of Roseworthy,” retorted Mildred, sharply. One could 
 wager with far greater certainty on the event of a bright, 
 mild, sunshiny spring morning than on Miss Tredennick’s 
 mood for half an hour together. 
 
 The meerschaum was roughly pushed aside now. 
 
 “ I,” he said, the veins in his temples standing out darkly 
 in relief — •“ I, Mildred ! How, pray ? ” 
 
 “Through that fur jacket, I believe,” Mildred responded, 
 briefly. 
 
 Her cousin looked both excited and seriously disturbed and 
 angry. She was a little afraid of provoking him much fur¬ 
 ther; but the temptation to tease was irresistible with the ty¬ 
 rannical young lady—besides, after all, what could this poor 
 little Winnie Caerlyon be to him? 
 
 “That fur jacket, concerning which I have heard such sen¬ 
 sational accounts—why did you give it to her, Stephen? ” 
 
 “ The—fur—jacket,” Stephen Tredennick repeated, in the 
 slow utterance of mingled astonishment and indignation— * 
 “ why did I give it to her? Because I chose to do so, and 
 had the money in my pocket, I suppose.” 
 
 “Very likely,” Mildred replied. She was enjoying her¬ 
 self excessively—reciting in full to the very person most 
 concerned the real cause which her aunt would have abso¬ 
 lutely ignored and denied—of Madam’s decision to rid 
 herself of her poor little companion. Madam Vivian would 
 not on any account have allowed Stephen Tredennick to 
 discover that she had had the slighest apprehension with re¬ 
 gard to poor Winnie Caerlyon’s dangerous attractiveness. 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MAECH MOBNING. 
 
 97 
 
 Mildred had, of course, discovered this, along with others of 
 her astute aunt’s secret purposes and desires, as a bold, true, 
 single-hearted nature will often discover the craftiest policy 
 of a world-hampered brain at a single effort—she had a score 
 on her own account likewise to pay off, and dutifully de¬ 
 lighted in the thought of Madam’s discomfiture. “Very 
 likely,” she repeated, laughing, “ but I have heard of fatal 
 gifts before now, Captain Tredennick. Dejanira’s poisoned 
 garment may have been pretty enough—doubtless as pretty 
 as that beautiful sealskin jacket I have heard so much of— 
 but you know what Dejanira’s gift did for poor Hercules.” 
 
 Between the terrible allusion to “ poisoned garments,” the 
 sarcastic blame implied in his cousin’s manner, and the attack 
 upon his mythological memory, Stephen Tredennick felt 
 quite overwhelmed. 
 
 “ Why, Mildred, what harm was it? Did I—was it wrong?” 
 he stammered. “ I thought I might give a young lady—-a 
 girl of her age—a present—a little gift for a keepsake. It is 
 not unusual, I think? Was it wrong? What harm was it, 
 Millie? I did not think there could be any harm indeed!” 
 
 In his earnestness he stood clasping his cousin’s fair jew¬ 
 elled hands, while Mildred’s handsome face ‘grew radiant 
 with girlish fun, both on account of “ poor old Stephen’s un¬ 
 easiness,” and at the sudden belief that there was a deeper 
 feeling than mere annoyance prompting his earnestness and 
 excitement which her clover teasing had brought to light. 
 
 The red glow of the firelight revealed them standing so 
 together—Mildred’s bright, upturned face gleaming with 
 smiles, Stephen’s full of earnest questioning—revealed them 
 so plainly that a watcher outside in the chill wintry gloaming 
 of the dark, frozen shrubbery could notice even the pattern 
 of the fragile white lace collar and sleeves whioh adorned 
 Mildred Tredennick’s rich dark silk dress, the brilliant clus¬ 
 ter of golden toys swaying at her watchchain, the restless 
 flash of the starry rings on her long, thin white fingers. 
 
 The firelit room, with those soft, ample curtains of maroon 
 damask lying on the warm dark carpet—the subdued glitter 
 of dark polished woods, and lines and spots of bright gilding 
 glimmering from floor to ceiling—that dark cased wall, with 
 its close-packed rows of books—the light, warmth, comfort, 
 happiness, and the beauty of beautiful Mildred Tredennick— 
 these were the accessories of the picture whose central figure 
 she had alone come to look upon—that little dark-robed 
 watcher in the cold and snow outside—to look her last upon. 
 
 7 
 
98 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 She crept nearer and nearer for that long last farewell 
 look—so near that had Captain Tredennick not been looking 
 into his cousin’s eyes, he must have met the gaze of those 
 deep, dark, yearning ones outside in the evening gloom. 
 
 “Heaven bless her—Stephen Tredennick’s wife!” whis¬ 
 pered the pale, quivering lips; and then the dark evergreens 
 and'frozen shrubs rustled softly, parted and closed, and the 
 lone little watcher was gone. 
 
 . * * * * * * * 
 
 “I am very sorry, Stephen; I should not have annoyed you 
 by repeating this spiteful gossip,” Mildred said, penitently, 
 at the close of their prolonged tete-a-tete in the study—Mil¬ 
 dred and Stephen were rather fond of tete-a-tete interviews 
 and tete-a-tete rambles, Madam Vivian noticed, with much 
 stately satisfaction—“ and I promise you that, as far as I am 
 concerned, there shall be no further ground for people’s 
 unkind remarks about your poor little Winnie Caerlyon.” 
 
 “My poor little Winnie Caerlyon?” Stephen Tredennick 
 said, raising his brows in a frown, whilst in the eyes beneath 
 a curious smile was shining. 
 
 “ Well, my poor little Winnie Caerlyon, then,” returned 
 Mildred, coldly. “ She shall be my friend, and I shall request 
 Madam Vivian, our worthy and grievously-mistaken relative, to 
 permit Miss Caerlyon’s visits here as my friend. But I 
 believe I must make you my ambassador in the first instance, 
 Captain Tredennick; it would be less formal and more 
 friendly; besides, to tell the truth, I am half afraid of en¬ 
 countering that terrible step-mother, and should not w T ish to 
 do so unless you object to the office. In case it should be 
 too disagreeable and troublesome an undertaking for you, I 
 will defer my invitation until I can pay a visit in person.” 
 
 Her sparkling eyes shot glances of barbed satire and malice 
 at her cousin, who, after a struggle to look coolly indifferent or 
 indignant, failed utterly, and got up a violent fit of coughing 
 instead, which perhaps accounted for the flushed confusion of 
 his face. 
 
 “Nonsense, Mildred—I will go,” he said, quickly; “not 
 this evening though—it is too late now, I think.” 
 
 “ Rather,” returned Mildred, laconically—“ unless you 
 want me to make my appearance in half an hour at the 
 dinner-table alone, and, when my cousin is inquired for, tell 
 Madam that he is gone after my Winnie Caerlyon!” 
 
 “Mildred, how can you be so ridiculous?” her cousin 
 cried, laughing excessively, in a rather uncalled-for manner 
 
 j 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 99 
 
 indeed. But, as he turned to leave the room to dress for 
 dinner, he put his arms round Mildred in a brotherly caress. 
 “ Millie,” he said, earnestly, “ you are a good girl—a good 
 girl with a true kind heart, my dear. Whoever thinks you 
 have not, misjudges you sorely; and I only hope,” he went 
 on, more earnestly and tenderly, “ that no one will ever pos¬ 
 sess the love of that true heart who shall not be in all 
 respects worthy of it.” 
 
 “ He is worthy,” Mildred cried, passionately, her eyes and 
 cheeks aflame in an instant in proud assurance—“ you know 
 he is, Stephen! ” 
 
 “ Bertie Gardiner? ” her cousin half queried; with a rather 
 pitying smile, haughty Mildred fancied. “He is a brave, 
 handsome, high-spirited lad, I know; but, oh, Millie, my dear, 
 he is very young, he is very far away, and constancy is not 
 one of the virtues of youth under temptation.” 
 
 The imperious forbidding gesture of her quick upraised 
 hand stopped him suddenly. 
 
 “ Temptation,” she said, the proud tears flooding her bril¬ 
 liant eyes—“temptation to be false to me, Stephen? Why 
 do you speak so,” she demanded in haughty rebuke, “ when 
 you know that we love each other—that we mean to live for 
 each other—that no one could tempt us to forsake each other,” 
 poor Mildred cried, in her proud devotion to her young lover 
 —“when you know that nothing could separate us—Bertie and 
 me—nothing but death! ” 
 
 “Nothing but death,” her cousin repeated, mechanically, 
 and he softly stroked the fair white hand lying in his own, 
 with a certain sense of sadness thrilling him from the proud 
 defiance of the declaration of her fond, impetuous, wayward 
 love—“nothing but death—I believe it, Millie! ” 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 “ I must not be too late,” he said to himself, as he hastened 
 his steps down the winding descent of the road at the farther 
 side of Tregarthen Head—“I wish I could have gone to 
 deliver Mildred’s message yesterday evening—I must not be 
 too late now.” 
 
 He quickened his steps again—the Coastguard station on 
 the rising cliff beyond was very near now—he would not 
 lose a minute more than he could help. 
 
100 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MAEOH MOENING. 
 
 “ Heaven bless Mildred! What a kind, generous nature 
 she has!” he went on thinking, pleasantly. “ What a brave, 
 true, high-spirited, beautiful wife she will be in the years to 
 come—a proud, noble-minded, generous, loving mother, whom 
 her children will naturally turn to in reverence and admira¬ 
 tion! How kindly she spoke of poor little Winnie Caerlyon! 
 She will be a real friend to her, 1 am sure, quick-tempered 
 and haughty as she is—as haughty as my old grandfather, 
 ‘Proud Tredennick,’ as people used to call him. She is 
 warm-hearted and true to the core—somewhat similar in 
 character, yet full of dissimilarity, to my poor little Winnie 
 herself.” 
 
 It had a pleasant sound, this-last phrase, to Stephen Tre- 
 dennick’s ear, and he repeated it again ere he angrily rumin¬ 
 ated on another topic. 
 
 “How dare they gossip about her! How dare they couple 
 my name with hers—poor innocent child! Because I ven¬ 
 tured to bestow on her a few friendly words and a friendly 
 gift! If I heard them, they should stow their words faster 
 down their throats than they could utter them! ” he said, 
 wrathfully. “ And aunt Vivian is most blamable of all! 
 She gave the gossiping rumours stability by her unkindly 
 treatment. As if the child had done any wrong—thought 
 any wrong! All are unjust, unkind, tyrannical towards her 
 —my poor little Winnie! ” 
 
 He had almost reached the Coastguard station now, and his 
 feelings had quite reached an altitude of indignation and 
 chivalric resolve which would have dismayed Madam Viv¬ 
 ian’s very soul within her, as the result of her own injudi¬ 
 ciousness, could she but have known it; but—happily for her 
 peace of mind—she knew nothing further than the fact that 
 her much-indulged, imperious niece had made the abrupt and 
 capricious request that she might be allowed to invite Miss 
 Caerlyon to spend the evening at Roseworthy, to which re¬ 
 quest Madam, in much surprise and outward-seeming gra¬ 
 ciousness, gave her assent. 
 
 Outside the whitewashed porch Captain Tredennick paused 
 for a moment, in the hope that the busy little housekeeper 
 herself might dart out on an errand, and save him from ab¬ 
 ruptly confronting the high-tempered step-mother. 
 
 “ She is cutting the bread-and-butter for the children’s sup¬ 
 per with her big apron and her big knife, I dare say,” he 
 muttered, laughingly; “ or minding the baby that she regrets 
 is so quiet.” 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 101 
 
 He listened to the voices that he could faintly hear through 
 the closed doors and windows—listened for that clear gentle 
 one he remembered so well; but it was not to be heard. 
 
 “ I wish Mildred had come with me,” he said, uneasily; 
 “ Mildred could go in and bring Winnie back with her better 
 than I can.” 
 
 He listened again, uneasily and longingly, before he 
 knocked, and paused even when he was told to enter, listen¬ 
 ing in vain. 
 
 “How do you do, Mrs. Caerlyon?” he said, entering 
 through the narrow passage to the meagrely furnished, tidy 
 little sitting-room, with a most fictitious assumption of easy 
 cheerfulness. “I am the bearer of a note from my cousin, 
 Mildred Tredennick, to your daughter, Miss Caerlyon. Is 
 she at home? ” 
 
 “ Good evening, Cappun Tredennick,” Mrs. Caerlyon said, 
 rising hastily, but confronting him with hostile stiffness and 
 straightness, keeping the stocking she was darning pulled 
 over her left hand, and the worsted needle in her right. “ Do 
 ye want to see Winiford?” she demanded. 
 
 “Yes, if you please,” he answered, trying to smile concili- 
 atingly, and finding the effort to be a total failure in front of 
 Mrs. Caerlyon’s petrifying stare. “ Madam Vivian and my 
 cousin Mildred want her to spend the evening with us, and I 
 am deputed to bring her back with me. If you will be kind 
 enough to tell her and allow her to come,” he concluded, 
 sharply, Mrs. Caerlyon’s cold stare and gloomy face irritating 
 him beyond measure in the anticipation of a curt refusal. 
 
 While he spoke, he glanced about anxiously for a sign of 
 the little shabby black-straw hat, the thin gray plaid shawl, 
 or haply that fatal sealskin jacket. Anxiously he longed for 
 the sound of the light footfall, the soft patient voice. More 
 anxiously than he could have believed possible—with a strange 
 keen longing—he looked for the pale little face, the dark sad 
 gray eyes, and the crowning tresses of silken brown hair. He 
 had even begun to think how he would tease her for not hav¬ 
 ing kept her promise, and would claim the keepsake he had 
 requested during that cold walk in the wild March morning 
 on their way from Roseworthy—if she would come with him 
 —if she would but come ! 
 
 “You can’t see her,” Mrs. Caerlyon said, shortly—“she’s 
 not here.” 
 
 “Not here !” repeated Stephen Tredennick, feeling as if a 
 cold wave of disappointment had chilled him to the heart. 
 
102 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 “No,” returned Mrs. Caerlyon, with a spiteful air of 
 triumph in her gloomy face—“ you’ll never see her again, 
 Cappun Tredennick. She’s gone!” 
 
 “ Gone! ” 
 
 “ Yes, sir,” said Mrs. Caerlyon, shortly, taking up her darn¬ 
 ing again—“ Winifred Caerlyon is gone to America! ” 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Six months quickly sped away, and it was summer in the 
 town of Winston, State of Massachusetts, United States of 
 America—summer in Miss Sarah Whitney’s front parlour, 
 in Miss Sarah Whitney’s own purchased dwelling-house, No. 
 30, East Street. Miss Whitney had just “ washed up ” the 
 breakfast-things, locked up the buffet, and now stood sur¬ 
 veying with some disfavour a large bouquet of white roses, 
 wild sweet geranium, and drooping maple leaves which her 
 niece—Miss Winifred Caerlyon—was tastefully arranging in 
 a green china vase. 
 
 “ You’ll mess the room and break my green jar that I’ve 
 had these thirty years!” cried Miss Whitney, with a frown. 
 “ Where did you get those flowers?” 
 
 “ Out of the English cemetery, aunt Sarah,” replied the 
 gentle voice of the young relative—“there’s such a quan¬ 
 tity of honey-scented geranium growing there, and a great 
 bush of white roses in the corner by the old wall.” 
 
 “ Hum—queer notion to go gatherin’ flowers out of a 
 churchyard to bring into a body’s sitting-room!” returned 
 Miss Whitney, in a dissatisfied tone, sitting down to her 
 mending basket. “Is that an English notion, Winifred? If 
 it is,” she added, putting on her spectacles, “ you’d ha’ 
 better left it behind you.” 
 
 “No, I never saw any one do it,” Winifred replied, gently 
 as ever. The low, sweet, patient voice sounded lower, softer, 
 perhaps sadder than of yore—“ like the twittering of a lonely 
 bird,” Miss Whitney averred shortly. “But the white roses 
 looked so fresh and beautiful, aunt Sarah, that I thought it 
 would be no harm to pluck a few—I love white flowers so 
 much.” 
 
 “What took you into that old cemetery at all?” queried 
 Miss Whitney. “You’re for ever going in there. Is it be- 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 103 
 
 cause there happened to be English bones laid there fifty 
 years ago that you have such a fancy for sitting among 
 graves and head-stones?” 
 
 “Perhaps that is one reason, aunt Sarah,” answered Win¬ 
 ifred, truthfully; “but the chief reason is that there is one 
 corner in it so like Trewillian churchyard at home, with the 
 ivy creeping over the stones, and tufts of pink daisies, and 
 one tall elm tree, that I could almost declare it was my 
 mother’s grave that lay in the sunny angle; and I feel as if 
 I were actually back in Cornwall again when I sit there and 
 hear the sea down at Saunders’s Point.” 
 
 Miss Whitney felt a little softened at the allusion to the 
 fair young niece she was fond of eight-and-twenty years be¬ 
 fore; but she would not show it “ for the world.” 
 
 “ You’re homesick for Tolgooth Bay, and your step¬ 
 mother, and her pack of children, I suppose, miss,” she 
 remarked, snipping away at the patching of a kitchen towel 
 —Miss Whitney never let “ rubbishing fancy-work ” enter 
 her house—“ one would think that a decent quiet home 
 would content you after that!” 
 
 “ Oh, aunt Sarah,” cried Winifred, lifting a pained white 
 face, “ you know that I am contented and very grateful 
 for it !” 
 
 “Then you oughtn’t to mope!” retorted Miss Whitney, 
 sharply. “ I suppose the house is too quiet for you, or you 
 want girls to chatter with. You may go into other houses, 
 then, for you won’t have any chattering in here, Winifred 
 Caerlyon! I’ll have no fussing and dressing and talking 
 about beaux and parties and fal-lals under my roof!” 
 
 Six months before Winifred w^ould have shrunk, pained, 
 mortified, and displeased, at her old maiden grand-aunt’s 
 peevish accusations. She had learned better now. The 
 patient meek girl had grown wiser through the teaching of 
 her hidden sorrow. 
 
 “ Give me those stockings to darn, auntie,” she said, with 
 a slight smile; “they are a great deal more in my way than 
 finery and parties.” 
 
 “ Oh, girls’ll be girls to the end of time,” rejoined Miss 
 Whitney; “ and of course you’ve your notions about fine 
 clothes and sweethearts and getting married, like all the 
 rest.” 
 
 Winifred laughed. 
 
 “Well, if 1 have, what is the use of my troubling my 
 head about them, aunt Sarah?” she asked gaily. “ You 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MAECH MOENING. 
 
 104 
 
 know you wouldn’t permit it, if I wanted ever so much to 
 have fine clothes and sweethearts, and get married.” 
 
 “ Oh,” Miss Whitney returned, grimly, “ old as I am, I 
 am neither so old nor so silly as to think that I could prevent 
 you if you took the notion, any more than I could stop the 
 grass from growing.” 
 
 “Well, hut I shall never take the notion; so you will 
 be spared all trouble about me in that respect, at least, aunt 
 Sarah.” 
 
 “ Why, pray?” demanded aunt Sarah, looking over her 
 spectacles. “ You’ll get married when your time comes, 
 though I dare say you’ve an idea in your head now that you 
 won’t have any one but some fine, tall, handsome fellow with 
 curly hair and a straight nose—girls are always going on with 
 that rubbish!” 
 
 Winifred smiled slightly, but made no reply; and Miss 
 Whitney impatiently regarded the quiet attitude and the busy 
 fingers for a few moments in silence. 
 
 Crotchety and eccentric as she was, there was one thing 
 which provoked her into incessant suspicion and impatient 
 curiosity—her young grand-niece’s ungirlish quietness, do¬ 
 cility, and reserved old-fashioned womanliness; though, had 
 she been otherwise, Miss Whitney would have been merciless 
 in rebuke and chiding. 
 
 “That’s what he is, I suppose, Winifred?” she resumed, 
 with a sour smile on her wrinkled face. 
 
 “Who?” she asked, with a start. 
 
 “That fine gentleman you left at home in Cornwall. You 
 needn’t deny it. I know well enough: That’s what you’re 
 always thinking about, and going into the churchyard for, and 
 crying over graves. Your step-mother hinted enough to me.” 
 
 “ Aunt Sarah, you are wrong, and you are wronging me,” 
 said Winifred, quietly, but trembling. “ There is nothing in 
 Cornwall which I have any right to love outside of my father’s 
 house, except my mother’s grave. There is no one that cares 
 for me, unless my father and the children do; and my step¬ 
 mother knows that,” added Winifred, with a touch of bitter¬ 
 ness. “No one ever wanted or asked to marry me, except 
 that man I told you of the first night that you came, aunt 
 Sarah—you remember?” 
 
 “Ay, I remember well enough, I guess,” responded Miss 
 Whitney, snipping away fast and angrily—“ I remember see¬ 
 ing you come in with your white face and swollen eyes and 
 hoarse voice, more like a poor creature out of an infirmary, 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 105 
 
 or a nurse that had been tending patients for a year running, 
 than a girl of twenty—my niece Winifred’s child—-and so I 
 told your step-mother! ” 
 
 “ It was from no fault of my step-mother’s, you know, as 
 I told you, aunt Sarah,” explained Winnie, sorrowfully plead¬ 
 ing—“ I had been very grieved and fretting—and—and 
 nervous. It was so foolish of me, but I soon got over it, 
 aunt,” she added, with a faint little quiver of a smile. 
 “ Things were worrying me, and I was not very strong, and 
 —and—oh, aunt Sarah dear,” she cried, passionately, “ you 
 cannot tell what a relief it was to me when you said that 
 night that you were come to take me away! I had been 
 feeling that I must go away somewhere or I should die, and 
 I was praying to God to help me as I walked home; and 
 when I came in, and saw my strange aunt sitting by the lire, 
 and heard her say that she wished me to go away with her 
 at once, as she was returning to America, I felt as if she was 
 an angel sent from heaven to me!” 
 
 The tears were falling on her work, and with a very dis¬ 
 satisfied grumble Miss Whitney went on with her patching. 
 
 “ And then you brought me thousands of miles to live with 
 you, aunt Sarah,” presently resumed Winnie, more lightly; 
 u and I was so glad to come, though I had to leave father and 
 the poor children. I shall never leave you, auntie, unless you 
 bid me—never marry anybody, or let anybody marry me-— 
 never!” 
 
 Strangely enough, Miss Whitney looked anything but 
 pleased at this soothing assurance. 
 
 “ I don’t see why you shouldn’t,” she muttered under her 
 breath. 
 
 She glanced at the wavy brown hair glistening in the sun¬ 
 light, the pure pale face, the slender graceful form in its 
 simple robing of soft transparent black, with a spray of white 
 blossoms fastened at the waist. 
 
 “I don’t see why you should be different from others,” the 
 old lady remarked aloud, with an air and a tone of gruff in¬ 
 difference, belied by the keen satisfaction and secret pride 
 which glimmered in that keen, long look through the spec¬ 
 tacles. “ You’re not made a drudge and a slave of here, as 
 your father’s wife made o’ you.” 
 
 “ Ah, dear aunt Sarah,” Winnie pleaded again, “ it could 
 not be helped! I don’t know what mamma will do now— 
 and there’s poor little Louie! ” 
 
 “ She’ll do without you when she can’t have you, I sup- 
 
106 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MAKCH MOENING. 
 
 pose,” returned Miss Whitney, crustily. “ I don’t see what 
 business she had to make my sister’s daughter’s child her 
 ‘help!’” 
 
 “ This stocking is darned now, aunt Sarah,” said Winnie, 
 striving for the soft answer that turneth away wrath; “ shall 
 I go and make the pot-pie?” 
 
 “No, you sha’n’t,” answered Miss Whitney; “ Hannah’ll 
 do it a sight better than you, I guess. Go over to Miss 
 Green, and ask her if she can come over here this afternoon 
 —I want to speak to her.” 
 
 “Miss Green, the music-teacher, aunt?” said Winnie, a 
 little puzzled. 
 
 “Yes,” replied Miss Whitney, with grim humour looking 
 at her shrivelled knotty hands; “ don’t you know that I’m 
 going to learn to play polkas?” 
 
 Miss Whitney seemed determined, on that brilliant, balmy 
 summer day, to keep her pale young grand-niece abroad in 
 the pleasant tree-shaded streets and flower-scented lanes, for 
 late in the afternoon she was despatched again on an errand 
 to a distant part of the quiet, straggling town. 
 
 “ And you needn’t run back like a hare, panting for 
 breath!” cautioned the grim, kindly old woman, who, in 
 downright truth, dearly loved and tried to indulge, in an old- 
 fashioned, grave, undemonstrative fashion, the girl-niece she 
 had taken from her dreary English home, as she never yet 
 had loved or indulged any one or anything in her life before; 
 only she did not choose that Winifred should perceive this. 
 If was very injurious to children, according to the strict, grim 
 Puritanism of Miss Whitney’s doctrine, that they should 
 know themselves to be objects of tender, watchful love, 
 heeding their every wish and fancy. “ And that black hat 
 of yours is too heavy for this hot weather,” Miss Whitney 
 remarked in disapproval, as if she merely disliked the idea 
 of a sunstroke for her niece, and did not think that a new 
 hat would be a source of some pleasure to a young girl. 
 “You’d better go into Fletcher’s when you’re out, and get a 
 white one—plain, Winifred, with a bit of black-lace or some¬ 
 thing simple. There’s three dollars for you—will that be 
 enough?” 
 
 “ Oh, aunt, thank you—it will be plenty!” said Winnie, 
 gratefully. “ I’ll get a nice one—one that you will be sure 
 to like.” 
 
 And when Winnie was safely gone, and the gate closed 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MABCH MOENING. 107 
 
 behind her, two tears dimmed the glasses of Miss Sarah 
 Whitney’s formidable spectacles. 
 
 "It’s not many a niece, or daughter either,” she muttered, 
 “ that would think first of all of getting what I’d ‘ be sure to 
 like.’ She’s been Elizabeth Anne Caerlyon’s daughter long 
 enough,” continued the old lady, beginning to count over a 
 roll of bank bills from a plethoric pocket-book, “ and a hard- 
 worked neglected poor slave of a child too! But she’s mine 
 now,” said Miss Whitney, laying down a comfortable-look¬ 
 ing pile of ten-dollar bills, “ and I guess she shall have just 
 as good a time as other folks’ daughters have in a free 
 country!” 
 
 * * # * * -x- * 
 
 It was after sunset when Winifred returned, and, entering 
 the parlour slowly with a paper parcel in her hand, found 
 Miss Green vis-a-vis with her aunt at the tea-table, spread 
 with the best damask cloth and napkins, the red and white 
 china, fresh corn bread, flaky biscuits, and raspberry jam in 
 one of Miss Whitney’s old treasured Dresden dishes. 
 
 “Well, Miss Caerlyon, here I am again, you see; your 
 aunt has been kind enough to insist oi\ my staying,” said 
 Miss Green, a clever, lively, agreeable “ school-madam ” of 
 some five-and-thirty years of age. 
 
 “ I am going to learn my polkas, you see, Winifred,” put 
 in aunt Sarah, looking very humorous and cheery from some 
 cause or other. 
 
 Miss Green was smiling, and looking very humorous too; 
 and, following the glances of their eyes, Winifred stared 
 hard at the new occupant of the recess beyond the old-fash¬ 
 ioned fireplace. 
 
 “Where—where did that dear little piano come from?” 
 she cried, dropping the paper bag and rushing over to open 
 the dark shining lid. “Whose is it? Oh, aunt! ” 
 
 “Mine, of course,” said Miss Whitney, gruffly; “didn’t I 
 tell you that I was going to learn polkas and operas, and 
 everything that can be learned? ” 
 
 “ Oh, aunt,” entreated Winnie, speaking in all good faith 
 in her eager longing, “won’t you let me learn them too? ” 
 
 For the first time for a considerable number of years Miss 
 Sarah Whitney burst into a fit of laughter that shook her 
 from head to foot. 
 
 “I-—I will—oh, never fear, I will, Winifred!” she said, 
 losing her breath and coughing violently. “ But you and 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MAECH MOBNING. 
 
 108 
 
 Miss Green’ll have—hard work— to keep ahead of me, I 
 guess—I’ll learn the polkas and operas so fast!” 
 
 She poured out the tea, and heaped the preserved fruit and 
 golden cream on her niece’s plate. 
 
 “ Come to your tea, child, and presently we’ll look at your 
 hat; afterwards we’ll see how you’ll get on with the music.” 
 
 “ Oh, aunt, is it for me to play on?” asked Winifred, 
 falteringly. 
 
 “ I guess it is,” said Miss Whitney, shortly—“ unless you 
 leave it to me to play all those fine things I’m so clever at.” 
 
 “ Did you buy it this evening, aunt Sarah?” she questioned, 
 unbelievingly. 
 
 “ Indeed I didn’t—Miss Green did, though. Sit down, 
 Winifred, the tea’s getting cold.” 
 
 “ I never saw thanks more gracefully given,” said Miss 
 Green afterwards to her friends and acquaintances. “ Miss 
 Caerlyon got up, went over to the old lady, sitting as stiff as 
 a post, and looking as hard and grim as a stone image. ‘ Aunt, 
 you are so kind, so thoughtful—you have given me such 
 pleasure, dear aunt, and I will try to repay it,’ she said, and 
 put her pretty pale little face down on the old lady’s breast, 
 with her two arms- around her neck. How she ventured to 
 do it, I don’t know. I didn’t think a girl living would ven¬ 
 ture to kiss Miss Sarah Whitney like that. It’s just because 
 the loving little soul is fond of her stern old aunt; and I will 
 say that she’s the sweetest little thing I ever met, whether 
 she’s English or not.” 
 
 “ It’s a pretty hat, my dear,” said Miss Green presently, 
 surveying Winnie’s new acquisition with a critical eye; “but 
 what did you get that plain black silk scarf on it for? That’s 
 mourning—half-mourning, you know—that snow-white, crape¬ 
 like material, and that folded, soft black lustring with 
 fringed ends-—quite mourning, my dear—Miss Simmons 
 wore just that in half-black for her brother.” 
 
 “If aunt doesn’t object, I should prefer it to any colours, 
 or bows, or flowers,” said Winnie, timidly, her colour coming 
 and going. 
 
 “ I think it looks very neat and nice,” declared Miss Whit¬ 
 ney; “but what do you want to wear mourning for, child?” 
 
 Winnie paused, the flush deepening on her cheeks, and 
 then she spoke the truth in her own simple way. 
 
 “ There will be a funeral to-morrow morning in the Eng¬ 
 lish cemetery—an English stranger’s funeral; and I should 
 like to go, if you will not forbid me. I feel as if I must go, 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 109 
 
 aunt dear,” said Winnie, sinking beside her aunt’s chair, and 
 laying her face on one of the grim, hard, carved arms, “ and 
 must wear a little token of mourning for the poor young 
 English stranger that they are going to bury in that sunny 
 corner, like h e place where my mother is buried in Trewillian 
 churchyard.” 
 
 “Land sakes, I never heard such a queer girl as you are!” 
 ejaculated Miss Whitney. “ Who on earth is it? And what 
 do you want to go to the funeral for?” 
 
 “ Oh, it’s the poor young fellow that was hurt in the rail¬ 
 way accident a month ago, I guess,” said Miss Green, wiping 
 her eyes. “It was very sad, Miss Whitney; he was a young 
 English officer from Canada, down on leave to New York, 
 and the poor fellow was so badly hurt that time when the 
 cars ran off the rails—a month ago, you remember—that he 
 had to be just carried into Farmer Healy’s, at Place Yale, 
 and has been lying there ever since. I heard that he was 
 dead yesterday morning. It’s very sad, poor young fellow!” 
 
 “ He was a stranger in a strange land, dear aunt Sarah,” 
 Winifred pleaded—“ no mother or sister to nurse him, or 
 weep for him now that he is dead; and I thought that per¬ 
 haps some one that loved him in England would be glad if I 
 followed him to the grave, and planted a few flowers there.” 
 
 She was weeping now from the depths of her tender emo¬ 
 tion, and, although she did not know it, there were no dry 
 eyes with those who had heard her speak. 
 
 “Won’t you play something, Miss Caerlyon, my dear?” 
 said the school-mistress, gently, some time afterwards. 
 
 And Winifred, feeling as if it were a consecration of her 
 aunt’s kind gift, played softly and solemnly, while her tears 
 fell for the young soldier’s memory, “The Dead March 
 in Saul.” 
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 It was the last ball of the season—this grand exclusive recep¬ 
 tion at Lady Hollingsley’s—and all Belgravia and Tyburnia, 
 from the Dan to the Beersheeba of the fashionable world, was 
 astir with eagerness to obtain cards of invitation; for the last 
 ball of the season at Hollingsley House was not as other 
 balls—rather was it viewed as the reserved piece of music to 
 adorn the wind-uo of a soiree musicale , the grand chorus of a 
 
110 ALL IN THE WILD MAECH MOENING. 
 
 festival, the final dazzling burst of splendour of a pyrotech¬ 
 nic exhibition, the triumphal march, with bands playing, 
 colours flying, arms burnished, uniforms gleaming and glow¬ 
 ing, of a conquering army quitting a well-won field. 
 
 For the pleasure of an evening in Lady Hollingsley’s airy, 
 elegant, brilliantly-lighted rooms, amidst the wearers of 
 coronets, the great, the gifted, the nobles by rank and by 
 nature—for Lady Hollingsley gave as much honour to one as 
 to the other—for the chances of boudoir tete-a-tetes , of semi¬ 
 royal quadrilles, of a supper over which laudatory newspaper 
 paragraphs exhausted their stock of French encomiums—for 
 honours and glories and delights like these, and more, chape¬ 
 rons and debutantes , wives and mothers, young men and 
 maidens, old men and staid maidens, intrigued and hoped, 
 and were disappointed or rejoiced, according as Louisa, Lady 
 Hollingsley, selected to pass over or delighted to honour. 
 
 It was the last ball of the season, but it had not quite ar¬ 
 rived yet. It was fixed for the twenty-eighth of July, and 
 guests were not expected to arrive before ten p. m. It was 
 now a little more than ten a. m., and the guests expectant had 
 scarcely emerged from their bed chambers, if, indeed, the 
 weary debutantes and wearier chaperons before alluded to 
 had risen from their pillows at all. 
 
 “ I am sure, my love,” said one weary chaperon, loosely 
 robed in mauve silk-embroidered cachemire, .seated in an 
 easy chair, and languidly sipping chocolate, “ I never expect¬ 
 ed for a moment to see you until luncheon-time, after that 
 wearisome musical affair of last night.” 
 
 “Why did you go then?” coolly demanded the ungrateful 
 debutante. “ I am sure it afforded no particular delight to 
 me to hear those wretched fugues, and syncopated passages, 
 and solos, and shrieking violins, and moaning violoncellos for 
 three hours.” 
 
 “ Nor to me, Miss Tredennick! ” retorted the chaperon, 
 sharply. “ I went simply for the reason that brought me up 
 from my quiet country home to undergo the fatigue and tur¬ 
 moil of a London season.” 
 
 Mildred Tredennick was silent. She was weary of the 
 subject at issue between her clever, indomitable, self-willed, 
 handsome aunt and herself—as weary as she was of the 
 London season. 
 
 “ Three more years nearly before I shall be twenty-one,” 
 she thought, wearily; “I am only eighteen and seven months. 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. HI 
 
 What is the use of having money and being handsome? I 
 might as well be a slave to aunt Vivian.” 
 
 The thought was perhaps a little unjust to “ aunt Vivian,” 
 for it was certain that, if Mildred Tredennick was a slave to 
 that lady’s worldly projects and purposes, she was an ex¬ 
 tremely rebellious and troublesome one. 
 
 “ I declare,” Madam often exclaimed, from the very depths 
 of her vexed soul, to her nephew, Stephen Tredennick, “if 
 Mildred Tredennick marries a coronet, I shall deserve it 
 much more than she!” 
 
 And Stephen Tredennick as often advised, “ Then don’t 
 trouble yourself to marry her to a coronet,” but little hoping 
 that it would be of the slightest avail to restrain Madam 
 Vivian from the course of worldly policy, contriving, schem¬ 
 ing, and match-making which she was so desperately pursu¬ 
 ing for her troublesome ward. 
 
 Madam had almost totally despaired of the match she had 
 first so fondly planned. Even if she could coax and flatter 
 Mildred into wedding the cousin whom she loved as a broth¬ 
 er, she could not persuade Stephen Tredennick to marry the 
 beautiful, haughty, high-spirited girl on whom his quiet, ten¬ 
 der affections could never rest in perfect peace as his wife 
 and comforter—the dear, gentle, soft-handed, sweet-voiced, 
 loving woman he sometimes dreamily pictured as his wife, 
 if such he might ever possess—some one to sit by his side at 
 the fire while he smoked or read the paper, some one to write 
 him long loving letters when he was away, some one to long 
 and pray for each safe return, to make the dreary old house 
 at Tregarthen a happy, sunny home, alive with children’s 
 voices, playing in the light of a gentle mother’s smile. 
 
 Imperial, self-willed Mildred Tredennick was to him as a 
 beautiful sister, of whom he was proud, and for whom he 
 was very anxious. Those restless, reckless, brilliant ones are 
 so often a source of pain and anxiety to the quiet hearts that 
 love them ! Besides, Stephen Tredennick knew that passion¬ 
 ate, strong-willed, fiery Mildred’s girlish heart was given 
 away, never, by a nature like hers, to be quite recalled again. 
 
 “ I wish aunt Vivian knew all that Millie has told me,” he 
 said, regretfully; “ she might spare herself the trouble of 
 trying to make her marry a coronet—for she is one to give 
 her hand with her heart, in spite of a world arrayed against 
 her. Poor Millie! ” 
 
 “Poor Millie” did hot look, on this morning of Lady 
 Hollingsley’s ball, as if she quite deserved the cousinly pity. 
 
112 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 She was decidedly in one of her most arrogant and sarcastic 
 moods; and both the chaperon and the chaperon’s maid— 
 much-enduring Miss Trewhella—had to suffer in consequence. 
 
 “What an intolerable nuisance it is! ” she said, crossly, as 
 Miss Trewhella and Mildred’s own maid divested her of her 
 morning-robe, and fitted on a silken corsage, which had just 
 been altered beneath Madam Vivian’s inspection. “ When 
 are you going to leave town, aunt? ” 
 
 “ Perhaps you would like to leave this morning, Miss Tre- 
 dennick? ” Madam retorted, with the cold gleam of a stormy 
 smile, evidencing plainly that she was losing temper. “ It 
 doesn’t matter about Lady Hollingsley’s ball.” 
 
 “ Oh, but it does though,” objected Mildred, with a slight 
 laugh, “ for I have extorted a solemn promise from Stephen 
 to be there, and to dance at least three times with me; he 
 cares as much for the affair as I do, but we mean to try to 
 enjoy ourselves.” 
 
 There was little hope in this for Madam’s first project, 
 which she was almost content to abandon, considering the 
 unattainable grapes to be sour in comparison with the luscious¬ 
 ly rich ones bending at hand. Mildred might never be her 
 favourite nephew’s wife, but it would be something after all 
 to be aunt by marriage to a most complaisant peer of the 
 realm, who declared to intimate friends that he admired the 
 aunt almost as much as the niece. 
 
 “ I hope you will enjoy yourself, my dear,” said Madam, 
 suavely; “ a debutante of eighteen, one of the belles of the 
 season, at a ball at Hollingsley House, wearing one of Worth’s 
 dresses, ought to enjoy herself—not to allude to such things,” 
 Madam added, more suavely, brightly smiling—“ such addi¬ 
 tions to the pleasures of a splendid festive gathering as de¬ 
 voted partners who wear coronets.” 
 
 Mildred frowned at herself in the mirror—she was fond of 
 standing before mirrors, this girl who was wealthy, hand¬ 
 some, and not nineteen. 
 
 “ I wonder how many devoted partners wearing coronets I 
 should have if I had had small-pox,” she rejoined, slight- 
 ingly. . 
 
 “ If it had disfigured you, not one,” Madam affirmed, cool¬ 
 ly; “ titled and untitled would leave you to vegetate as a wall¬ 
 flower then, Mildred. Prize your beauty while it lasts, my 
 dear.” 
 
 Mildred was in one of her worst moods; her nerves and 
 temper were somewhat upset and unstrung by three months 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 113 
 
 of the fashionable slavery which * her nature, yet fresh and 
 pure and healthy, revolted from so constantly; and Madam 
 Vivian’s smooth worldliness jarred on angry Mildred very 
 roughly. 
 
 “ Why should I prize it, Madam?” she asked, sharply. “I 
 don’t want to be ugly, but I don’t see any reason to set such 
 a wonderful value on my beauty. It will last long enough, 
 I dare say, and I don’t see that it has done anything particu¬ 
 lar for me, or need do anything. I don’t intend to sell it 
 for money—I have enough of my own to satisfy me. I want 
 my liberty,” the young debutante cried, arrogantly—“ my 
 liberty to go where I please, ancT when I please, and be 
 independent of every one, if I please! I should like to go 
 up the Mediterranean, or the Nile, instead of baking in this 
 hot, detestable, dusty town; I’d like to go wandering about 
 over the world, to go to India with a regiment,” continued 
 Mildred, waxing reckless before her aunt’s haughty eyes and 
 cold smile—“ go up to the hills, preside over Indian race¬ 
 courses, ride out to a boar or a tiger hunt, and live in a 
 bungalow!” 
 
 Madame Vivian with the utmost pleasure could have boxed 
 her niece’s ears with her own white hands, but she con¬ 
 strained herself with an effort, and, clever woman as she 
 was, recovered her smiles and easy, graceful manner in a few 
 moments. 
 
 “ I am not quite sure about the boar and tiger hunting, 
 Millie, dear,” she said, with a light laugh; “ but I think 
 you may be able to realize your Nile and Mediterranean 
 longings before another year.” 
 
 “Yes,” Mildred muttered, angrily, to herself, “in that 
 odious Lord Mountrevor’s yacht! That would just suit him 
 and Madam both! They would drive me mad in six weeks 
 —the clever intriguing of the one, and the inane platitudes 
 of the other—a painted, padded fop!” 
 
 She was alone for a few minutes, while Madam superin¬ 
 tended some millinery preparations in an adjoining apart¬ 
 ment, and, wearily surveying the dingy houses, the rows of 
 first-floor windows, the trim, flower-covered balconies, the 
 white pavements, the dull, dusty decorousness of the dull, 
 fashionable street, Mildred let her thoughts fly off as birds 
 from a cage to the vista which her own wild, reckless words 
 had conjured up—poor, beautiful, untamed, prisoned falcon 
 as she was! 
 
 “ Oh, how I should delight in it,” she said, with a pasv* 
 
 8 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 114 
 
 sionate gasp—“ to be free, to be away from London, and fash¬ 
 ionable people, and dusty streets, and crowded ball-rooms, 
 and idiotic partners who wear coronets! ” 
 
 The speech seemed rather an inconsistent one for a young 
 lady who habitually wore Paris-made robes, and was par¬ 
 ticular about the shade of her parasol and gloves being in 
 perfect unison. But Mildred Tredennick, loving beauty and 
 beautiful things just for their own sake, and possessing an 
 innate exquisite taste for colours and effects which could 
 endure no outrage of its perception, always chose just as that 
 perfect taste guided her, were the cost little or much. It 
 generally was much; but then, as she said in her own girlish 
 phraseology, she had “money enough;” and, moreover, 
 Mildred Tredennick was charmingly inconsistent at all times. 
 
 “ And how I should like to go to India, and ride at day¬ 
 break—a long stretching gallop by the sea-shore, as Bertie 
 told me he used to have!” And then the caged falcon 
 drooped her proud head, and a dreary look clouded her bright 
 eyes. “ Bertie, my darling,” Mildred whispered with a ten¬ 
 der glow and soft flickering smile on her face that peer 
 or coronet never could, never would bring there, “ why don’t 
 you write to me? Bertie, my own dear love, three long 
 months, and not a line! Oh, Bertie, what would I not give 
 to be free to ramble about the world with you! How happy 
 we should be!” 
 
 “ You are an exceedingly extravagant girl, my dear,” said 
 Madam, re-entering the room; “but I must say that that 
 dress, with those graduated shades of blue satin and poult-de- 
 soie , and that exquisite white Brussels lace, is simply per¬ 
 fection.” 
 
 But exquisite dresses were no novelty to Miss Tredennick; 
 and, besides, she felt weary and low-spirited to-day. She 
 positively refused to “ try on ” the dress, saying that one an¬ 
 noyance of the kind was sufficient. 
 
 “Don’t you feel well, Mildred?” Madam asked at length, 
 with the air of one who was enduring martyrdom. 
 
 “No, I don’t,” replied Mildred, shortly. 
 
 “You had better lie down, and let Morton or Trewhella 
 bathe your head with eau-de-cologne, and take a little red 
 lavender,” advised Madam, in the same tone. 
 
 “ Nonsense, Madam,” cried Miss Tredennick, almost rudely; 
 “ I never surrender myself helplessly into the hands of serv¬ 
 ants when I feel out of sorts, to be fussed about and nursed 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 115 
 
 like a sick lap-dog.” And the curtained doorway fluttered 
 
 and the door banged as Miss Tredennick swept out. 
 
 ******* 
 
 “ And you have no conception, Stephen,” Madam said, late 
 that evening to her nephew, who had come to dine with them, 
 and later still to escort them to Hollingsley House—“ you 
 have no conception how Mildred has tried me to-day! First 
 about her dress, which she would not try on, though it re¬ 
 quires some alteration, and then about Lord Mountrevor, who 
 called at three o’clock and she would not see him! I can not 
 tell what is the matter with the girl,” concluded Madam, 
 almost in despair. “I will not undertake her chaperonage 
 during another season if she does not alter. I must say that 
 she is not much comfort or society to me either.” 
 
 At the moment Madam would not for her fortune three 
 times over have welcomed her unmanageable ward as her quiet, 
 affectionate, kind-hearted nephew’s wife, and at the same mo¬ 
 ment, oddly enough, with her final words, her thoughts went 
 with sudden quick regret to one who had been the most 
 thoughtful, patient, gentle, obedient, and agreeable of young 
 companions. 
 
 “Poor little Winnie!” she said to herself, with a sigh. “If 
 Mildred were ten times as handsome and clever, she would 
 never be one-half as amiable and lovable as that poor foolish 
 little creature!” 
 
 “ Blessings brighten as they take their flight.” Winnie, 
 departed to an unattainable distance, gone from all chance of 
 exerting the wiles and charms which Madam’s jealous suspi¬ 
 cion dreaded, had become quite a treasure to be mourned 
 over and a standard whereby to measure. 
 
 “If the silly petulant little thing had not rushed off to 
 America in that absurd and ungrateful fashion, without even 
 coming to bid me good-bye, I should have taken her back 
 again, perhaps,” Madam mused. 
 
 “ Cousin Stephen,” said Mildred, wearily, as she entered a 
 few minutes afterwards, and they stood in one of the deep 
 windows together, “you have no idea what a heavy, weary, 
 dull, miserable day this has been. And, do you know, Ste¬ 
 phen, strangely enough, I have been thinking of Winnie 
 Caerlyon all the afternoon. I know she was a nice gentle 
 little creature from what Madam says, and I am sure she was 
 sensible and pleasant to talk with from what you say; and I 
 have been wishing all the day that I had her to chat with me, 
 and bathe my head, or help me to cry, or scold, or something 
 
116 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MABCH MORNING. 
 
 —I wouldn’t let Morton hear me. Aunt Vivian has been 
 in terrible dudgeon with me; and, as for that disagreeable, 
 sly, crafty woman, her maid, I should like to see her come 
 nursing me and bathing my head, as Madam proposed! I 
 believe she poisoned Madam’s mind against Winnie Caerlyon, 
 and I told her so!” 
 
 “ What did Madam say?” asked Stephen Tredennick, try¬ 
 ing to restrain a smile. 
 
 “Oh, she inquired, in her grandiloquent way,” replied Mil¬ 
 dred, sarcastically, “what interest I could possibly take in a 
 person of whom I knew nothing whatever. And I told her 
 that cousin Stephen liked her, and that that was quite suffi¬ 
 cient reason for me to take an interest in her.” 
 
 “ What did she say to that ? ” Captain Tredennick ques¬ 
 tioned again. 
 
 “Nothing,” replied Mildred, with a careless shrug; “she 
 knew that I should keep on saying more and more astound¬ 
 ing things, so she was silent. Poor little Winnie ! I think 
 she was cruelly used, Stephen ; and I meant to let every one 
 know that such was my thought, only that she went away, 
 unfortunately, in that sudden manner.” 
 
 “Perhaps it was better for her, poor child,” suggested 
 Stephen Tredennick, rather gloomily; “ she seemed to have 
 a good many foes and very few friends.” 
 
 And for a few minutes the last speaker’s thoughts went 
 after the exiled little maiden with regret, and vain longing 
 for her presence. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 At half-past nine o’clock Stephen Tredennick returned 
 from his hotel, and was ushered by smirking, curtseying 
 Miss Trewhella at once into Madam’s dressing-room, where 
 he found his relative robed in black moire antique , point lace, 
 crimson velvety roses, and point lappets on her silvery, 
 abundant hair, and diamonds scintillating on her white 
 plump hands, her round wrists, her neck, and from her 
 dainty aristocratic ears, as if they were dewdrops fallen 
 from the drooping roses in her hair. She was very magnifi¬ 
 cent, but she was in consternation—almost in tears. 
 
 “ She won’t go, Stephen!” Madam cried, breathless with 
 alarm and excitement and excessive vexation. “ There was 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MABCH MOENING. 
 
 117 
 
 never any one more tried than I have been this day! I posi¬ 
 tively declare that Miss Tredennick shall return to her father 
 and mother to-morrow, and let them send her to a strict 
 school or convent, or wherever they like best—I wash my 
 hands of her!” 
 
 “ Why does she refuse?” Stephen Tredennick asked, in 
 surprise and trouble. 
 
 “How can I tell?” Madam exclaimed, sharply, almost 
 beside herself from vexation. “ Because of one of her 
 never-ending, abominably obstinate whims, I suppose!” 
 
 “ Let me see her, aunt,” Captain Tredennick said, depre- 
 catingly—“ perhaps Millie is not well.” 
 
 “Perfectly well,” asserted Madam, with a stamp of her 
 foot; whereat Miss Trewhella chuckled internally. 
 
 That worthy young woman was resolved to endure no rival 
 in her mistress’s consideration, and strove, in her meek, 
 enduring hypocrisy of affectionate devotion and her power 
 of sly dealing, to aid in widening the breach between her 
 mistress and her haughty niece by every means in her power, 
 were it only by the finest point of a knife-like wedge. Miss 
 Tredennick, who had been an object of fear to her from the 
 first, and of jealous envy, had become latterly simply an 
 object of spiteful hatred, since Miss Tredennick’s own maid 
 was now the recipient of Miss Tredennick’s lavish presents. 
 
 “ Perfectly well,” Madam repeated ; “ but, if you think 
 you can talk that self-willed, unmanageable girl into reason, 
 you are mistaken. You are at liberty to try.” 
 
 She dropped indignantly down on a seat, almost regardless 
 of her superb moire antique and point lace. 
 
 “Trewhella, tell Morton that Captain Tredennick wishes 
 to speak to her mistress.” 
 
 “ Thank you,” said Stephen Tredennick, coldly, passing 
 out before the obsequious handmaiden, “don’t trouble your¬ 
 self. My •cousin will see me, I have no doubt.” 
 
 “Oh, sir,” objected Miss Trewhella, stopping the way with 
 an alarmed curtsey and shake of the head, “you—you can’t, 
 sir—really, sir! Miss Tredennick’s tout ong dizabilly , sir.” 
 
 Captain Tredennick put his strong hand on the woman’s 
 arm, quietly put her aside, and knocked at Mildred’s dressing- 
 room door. The young maid, a neat, pretty girl, with a 
 frightened face and flurried manner, opened it instantly. 
 
 “ She’s there, sir,” she whispered, in reply to his query, 
 and, motioning him toward one side of the dimly-lighted room, 
 she gladly escaped for a while from its precincts. 
 
118 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MAECH MOENING. 
 
 “ Millie, my dear girl, are you not well? What is the 
 matter?” The Captain groped his way to the shaded lamp, 
 turned on a bright blaze of gas, lit the extinguished wax- 
 candles at the mirror, and then he saw Mildred lying on the 
 sofa, her face turned away and buried in the cushions— 
 more as if she had flung herself there in pain or misery 
 than for repose, with the voluminous folds of her dinner- 
 dress lying on the carpet, her rich hair all disordered, and 
 one hand convulsively clasped. 
 
 The room was filled with light and the beauty of rich, 
 brilliant robes. Stephen Tredennick scarcely knew where to 
 stand or sit or kneel for webs of costly lace-like frost-work, 
 for trailing satin or tulle, for tiny white-satin shoes, for jewel- 
 cases and bouquet-holders, and essence-bottles, and glove- 
 boxes, and gorgeous Cashmere wrappers. Miss Tredennick 
 let none of her eight hundred a year lie idly by. 
 
 “Millie dear, what is the matter? Won’t you tell me?” 
 he asked, coaxingly. “We are always allies, Millie—my 
 dear cousin, what ails you?” 
 
 “ Nothing, Stephen,” said Mildred, sitting up; and then 
 she burst into tears. “Nothing ails me. I am perfectly well, 
 as Madam has just told me, in a rage; but I feel as if I would 
 rather be put into a prison cell than go to this hateful ball! 
 I suppose I am over-tired, or something. There is no use in 
 Madam’s forcing me to go. I can’t dance, or speak, or do 
 anything but sit down and cry; my heart seems like lead, 
 Stephen—something must be going to happen to me.” 
 
 Stephen Tredennick’s kind broad brow darkened. 
 
 “Nothing is going to happen to you, my dear,” he said, 
 kindly; “ it is just what you say yourself. You are over-tired, 
 Millie dear; and I must say that it is a shame to force any 
 young girl in this mill-round of staying up at night when she 
 ought to be asleep, and sleeping when she ought to be up, as 
 fresh as the flowers. Dress yourself, dear, for this last time, 
 and I promise that you shall have no more ball-going this 
 year. Hurry, Millie, dear; your aunt’s quite ready.” 
 
 “Oh, of course!” cried Mildred, bitterly. “If I were 
 ready to drop down dead, and Madam had said that I should 
 go somewhere, she would just go on with her toilette as 
 calmly and carefully as usual, and come in ten minutes too 
 soon, with the last button of her glove fastened, to know if 
 I was ready.” 
 
 “ If you feel ill, my dear cousin, you shall not go,” said 
 Stephen Tredennick, decidedly. 
 
119 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 “ I am not in the least ill, I tell you, Stephen,” Mildred re¬ 
 iterated, ringing her bell violently. “ There, go away, and 
 tell Madam not to suffer any more anguish of mind on ac¬ 
 count of my obstinacy. I shall go, and she may thank herself 
 for whatever happens.” 
 
 Her heavy eyes and pallid cheeks lit up with burning, 
 angry determination, and Stephen Tredennick went away 
 unwillingly. 
 
 “ I am sure Mildred is not well, aunt,” he said, as they sat 
 awaiting her coming in the drawing-room—“ she seems so 
 feverish and nervous.” 
 
 “Very!” returned Madam, sarcastically, adjusting the 
 wide black velvet and splendid flashing diamond solitaire 
 that adorned her smooth white bare neck above the point 
 lace of her corsage. Widow of fifty-seven as she was, she 
 showed as handsome a pair of shoulders, albeit a little less 
 of them, as she did at twenty-seven. “Very, Stephen! 
 That is, you mean to say, calling things by their right names, 
 that she exhibits a great deal of spoiled-child impertinence 
 and ill temper.” 
 
 “ I think both her temper and manner decidedly deteriorated 
 since she came to town,” said her nephew, decidedly. “ Mil¬ 
 dred was never ill-tempered or disagreeable before; and she 
 certainly seems thoroughly unhappy and dispirited this even- 
 ing.” 
 
 “ Unhappy and dispirited! ” echoed Madam, scoffingly—“I 
 dare say. It injures Miss Tredennick’s health very consider¬ 
 ably not to have her own will and way in everything. She 
 informed me this morning that she wanted her liberty to go 
 where she liked, and when she liked; and she has been sulk¬ 
 ing the livelong day because she hasn’t this privilege, I sup¬ 
 pose. Really Marion Tredennick is not to be congratulated 
 on her method of training her eldest daughter. 
 
 “ She looks ill, at all events, and has been crying bitterly,” 
 said poor Stephen, feeling himself to be, in a measure, be¬ 
 tween two fires—for Madam appeared to grow more irate. 
 
 “ I have the prospect of a charming evening before me,” 
 she observed, stamping her tiny foot—“ to play chaperon to 
 an unwilling young lady, who has been sulking, and com¬ 
 plaining of low spirits, and crying—to chaperon her in the 
 rooms of Hollingsley House, before the best people in town! ” 
 
 Perplexed and distressed, Stephen Tredennick began to 
 wish earnestly, for his own sake as well as for that of others, 
 that the last ball of the season was well over, when, to his 
 
120 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 intense relief, he heard the rustling of silken robes descend¬ 
 ing the staircase, and presently Mildred entered. She was 
 dressed in her splendid robes of shimmering blue satin, of 
 varied shades of brightness, and clouded over with a delicate, 
 frost-like, misty veiling of snowy lace, with clustering white 
 roses in her rich chestnut hair, and white roses in her jew¬ 
 elled bouquetiere. The delicate hues and fresh pure bright¬ 
 ness of her costume, like the cerulean tints and fleecy cloud- 
 shadows of a morning sky, marvellously became the proud 
 brilliant beauty, those flushed cheeks and bright dark eyes, 
 those curving red lips and flashing white teeth, the wealth of 
 ruddy golden-brown hair, the lissom, stately, beautifully 
 moulded figure. 
 
 ******* 
 
 “ So much for Miss Tredennick’s low spirits and ill-health, 
 Stephen, my dear! 55 said Madam, too satisfied and triumphant 
 to retain much ill-humour. 
 
 They were sitting together, or rather Stephen Tredennick 
 was graciously permitted to form one of his aunt’s little court 
 of admirers and supporters—half-a-dozen or so—who con¬ 
 stantly loitered near vivacious, witty, clever, handsome Madam 
 Vivian wherever she appeared during the season; and Madam, 
 with a sarcastic smile, indicated Mildred’s blue dress and 
 white roses whirling around in a valse a trois temps with Lord 
 Mountrevor, with a movement of her plumed white fan, 
 encrusted with tiny spiculse and stars of jet and silver, to 
 represent “ mourning.” 
 
 “ I am very glad to see it,” Stephen Tredennick returned, 
 earnestly, but with a lurking dissatisfaction still. 
 
 He had seen Mildred looking brighter, happier, hand¬ 
 somer, many a time than she looked that evening—a belle 
 and beauty in her glistening azure satin and lace and white 
 roses. He hated to see that hard arrogant smile on her fresh 
 lips, that supercilious droop of those haughty white eyelids 
 which was becoming so habitual. She looked fevered and 
 restless, for all her beauty and gaiety. Pie hated to think of 
 gay, high-spirited, proud, warm-hearted, beautiful young 
 Mildred’s being transformed into one of those cold, hand¬ 
 some, heartless, fashionable women whom Madam Vivian 
 appeared to consider the perfection of high-bred woman¬ 
 hood. He hated to see Plenry, Lord Mountrevor, with his 
 arm around that girlish supple waist—a man he knew to be 
 an effeminate dandy ap$ a roue of tiie gracefully-immoral, 
 elegantly-knavish type* with not braipg enough to be a very 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 121 
 
 great or clever knave, but with inclination enough to be 
 addicted to a great deal of knavery and immorality of a rose¬ 
 water-perfumed, rose-colour-veiled quality, and with intel¬ 
 ligence and ability enough to enable him to keep the out¬ 
 side of his own particular sepulchre fairly whited. There 
 was not any great or particular wickedness in the polished 
 nobleman, nor any particular good worth mentioning, save 
 his intense and faithful admiration of Mildred Tredennick. 
 But Stephen Tredennick hated to think of his beautiful 
 young cousin’s bartering herself for a share of that man’s 
 name, and being crowned with the glory of a coronet from 
 his hand. 
 
 Perhaps she knew what was passing in the Captain’s 
 thoughts, from that calm, grave expressive face of his, and 
 the anxious looks that followed her from his kind dark eyes. 
 Certain it is that of the three dances she had promised him, 
 Stephen got but one, and then Mildred went down to supper 
 on Lord Mountrevor’s arm. Afterwards her cousin caught 
 but an occasional glimpse of the brilliant, excited face and 
 tall lissom figure—in pauses of the dance, in momentary 
 smiling encounters in the large, well-filled saloons, through 
 the flower-laden branches of exotics and the misty perfumed 
 air, amid the gleam and glow, and flash and glitter, with the 
 soft, sweet, measured, ringing music throbbing in unison 
 with every pulse of gladness in one’s being, until the gray 
 summer dawn crept through the curtained windows, and the 
 rolling away of carriages with their occupants left the great 
 saloons more sparsely filled, and bare spaces of floor here 
 and there and deserted niches in corridors and boudoir showed 
 the flotsam and jetsam of the ebbing tide—fallen faded 
 flowers, scraps of ribbon and lace, long remnants of tulle, a 
 dropped cobweb of a gauzy handkerchief, spangles and 
 trinkets. The tide ebbed away faster with the first tremu¬ 
 lous golden rays of the new day, and presently the last ball 
 of the season was over. 
 
 “ Thank goodness, it is over!” said Stephen Tredennick, 
 with relief, as he followed his aunt and cousin, carefully 
 escorted by Lord Mountrevor, to the waiting carriage, and 
 saw the peer, as he pressed Mildred’s hand, petition quite 
 fascinatingly for a gift which she seemed scarcely willing to 
 give, though it was but one drooping white rose from her 
 fading bouquet. But he obtained it, nevertheless; and, as 
 Mildred watched him bowing and smiling, with the soft 
 white rose drooping in his hand as they drove away, her 
 
122 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 cousin saw a quick, passionate revulsion of look and manner 
 come over the girl as she took the rest of the flowers from 
 the gold bouquetiere , and flung them far beyond on the street 
 pavement from the carriage window. 
 
 Madam Vivian had fallen asleep, muffled up in a crimson 
 downy-wadded sortie du bal , and there was none but Stephen 
 Tredennick to see. 
 
 “ Why did you do that, Mildred?” he asked, gravely, 
 almost sternly. 
 
 The brilliance and glow and pride were fast fading from 
 the girl’s weary pale face. Her bright eyes filled with sud¬ 
 den tears at her cousin’s question. 
 
 “ I was sorry I gave him one,” she said, with a contempt¬ 
 uous backward glance and gesture toward Hollingsley House. 
 “ They were Bertie’s favourites. He gave me a cluster of 
 them one evening, just before he went away. He liked white 
 roses better than any other flowers—Bertie did.” 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 The dew-drops were beading the long waving grass, and 
 glittering tremblingly on the rustling ivy leaves, which shook 
 off the translucent gems, in a passing breath of the sweet 
 summer morning breeze, down upon the fresh, rosy-tinted 
 faces of the little daisies beneath, scarce unclosed as yet to 
 the warm smile of the sunlight. The blossoms of the dewy 
 white roses stirred softly, too, and the perfumed liquid of 
 their snowy chalices dropped on the thirsty leaves of the 
 purple-flowered wild geranium, that clustered in shrub-like 
 scented masses of downy leaves and lilac-starred petals. 
 
 But the birds were silent in the shadow of the elm-trees; 
 chirp and song and fluttering gladness alike were hushed. 
 The feathered occupants waited, watching in fear and sur¬ 
 prise, to see the final issue of the strange invasion of that 
 sunny, peaceful corner by the elm trees, where the white 
 roses and purple geraniums had bloomed in wild luxuriance 
 for so many years, where the dark clustering ivy twined and 
 crept over the mossy wall, and the pink-tipped daisies starred 
 the sod—the sunny, peaceful corner in the old English ceme¬ 
 tery of the town of Winston, State of Massachusetts, United 
 States of America. 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 123 
 
 Unwonted and strange the invasion appeared; for the peace 
 and quiet of that little old out-of-the-way cemetery and its 
 weed-grown, flower-grown graves was seldom disturbed by 
 the arrival of another occupant for one of the many narrow 
 homes in that silent land. More seldom still was one brought 
 to the sunny corner beneath the elm trees—the stranger’s 
 corner—where the bones of a score of shipwrecked emigrants 
 from English homes far over the sea had been lying more 
 than forty years. 
 
 Yet was one coming now; for the new home—oh, so nar¬ 
 row, so dark, so cheerless—was prepared, and the pink-tinged 
 daisies and tender dewy grasses, cut and shorn away, drooped 
 and died, heralding the arrival of the new tenant to his home. 
 Presently a group of dark-clothed men had gathered, and one, 
 robed in white, with open book, solemnly gave possession to 
 the new occupant of his six feet of earth in the God’s-acre of 
 that sunny old cemetery. Then the small group of men laid 
 the stranger down in that strange home in a foreign land, 
 with a few sighs and grave sad looks, but no tears, no sobs, 
 no pallid bereaved faces; there were only a few grave, sober 
 men—no women, save one, and she was weeping. The hour 
 was early, the cemetery was distant from the town; no wo¬ 
 men were there, save this one, who was young and pale and 
 fair, and wore fresh mourning tokens, and quietly wept be¬ 
 hind her thick black veil. 
 
 She had a cluster of beautiful dewy white roses, buds, and 
 half-blown blossoms in her hand; and, as the men prepared 
 to lower the oak coffin, with its burnished plate flashing in 
 the rays of the morning sun, down, down from the flowers 
 and sunshine, the stirring blossoms, the glittering dew-drops, 
 the breath of the sweet summer morning’s life, into the 
 dank, deep, silent place appointed, she pushed gently forward. 
 
 “ If you please, sir, will you let me—if you please, sir?” 
 she begged timidly of the quiet, gentlemanly young man 
 before her. 
 
 “ Certainly—I beg your pardon,” he said, stepping back 
 with alacrity, and glancing with quiet interest at the slender, 
 girlish figure in the dark dress, and with the cluster of white 
 fragrant flowers. 
 
 The oak coffin was at her feet as she moved into the 
 vacated place, and, kneeling beside it, she laid the dewy 
 branches of roses round the name-plate. She kept back one 
 half-blown flower, and it was wet with the fast-falling tears 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 124 
 
 that were dropping on the coffin ere she could hide it beneath 
 her veil. 
 
 Then the adjusted ropes were lowered, and the coffin and 
 its white roses soon were lying down there where light and 
 life and love could come no more until the Resurrection 
 morning. 
 
 “A friend of yours, I suppose?” the gentleman asked, 
 with much courteous sympathy. 
 
 “ I never saw him—never knew anything about him until 
 he was dead,” answered Winifred Caerlyon; “but, oh, I am 
 sure some one knows him and loves him far away in England, 
 and I came for their sakes! ” 
 
 Some one knew him and loved him of a surety—that hand¬ 
 some fair-haired lad, who lay beneath that coffin-lid in his 
 lonely grave, with Winifred Caerlyon’s white roses encircling 
 his name— 
 
 ALBERT GARDINER. 
 
 Aged 22. 
 
 Ensign in Her Britannic Majesty’s 8—th Regiment oe Foot. 
 
 Died July 29, 18—. 
 
 Just in the dawning that had closed the last ball of the 
 season ! 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 As one that had passed away from their world for ever, 
 yet keeping their memories of her fresh and living by mes¬ 
 sages of love, by words and deeds of thoughtful affection, 
 with her gentle presence, her patient endurance, her cheerful 
 laboriousness, so constantly and unavoidably missed, “ sister 
 Winnie,” far away in North America, became to the 
 younger members of the Caerlyon family a dreamy, mythical 
 personage, to be invested with all manner of attributes and 
 perfections, very lovable and desirable, and much to be 
 respected, but mythical. Although she did send home those 
 bank-bills to “ mother ” that put her in such a good temper 
 for the whole day, and the picture-papers to Sarah Matilda 
 and Tommy, still she was mythical. “Sister Winnie,” who 
 used to bake the bread, and wash their faces, and curl Sarah 
 Matilda’s hair, to be away there in that pink-bordered country 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 125 
 
 just where the edge of the atlas-map came, with the cold, 
 blue-coloured Atlantic by its side—impossible! 
 
 It was understood on all hands that there never was any¬ 
 body—never could be anybody—half so clever so accom¬ 
 plished, as that long-lost mythical “sister Winnie;” and, 
 strangely enough, Winnie’s once harsh step-mother and task- 
 mistress never discouraged this ideal by word or deed. 
 
 On the contrary, Sarah Matilda, now a smart, self willed, 
 high-tempered, pretty girl, blooming into “ the maiden-blos¬ 
 soms of her teens,” grew disheartened sometimes with herself 
 and her endeavours, in comparison with all the related achieve¬ 
 ments and perfections she was so often reproachfully remind¬ 
 ed of as belonging solely to that banished elder sister. Did 
 she forget a message, there was a running comment on the 
 worthlessness of “ heedless maids” accompanying the lamen¬ 
 tation of regret for the “ nice, quiet, careful ways ” of the 
 sister who never forgot—“no, not if she was sent for five-and- 
 twenty things together! ” (Mrs. Elizabeth Anne Caerlyon’s 
 “ nagging ” powers had not diminished in the least.) Did 
 incipient womanly vanity prompt Sarah Matilda to passion¬ 
 ately desire fashionable hats and white feathers therein, and 
 urge her mother to the extravagant purchase, she received 
 scolding homilies without number relative to “ your poor sis¬ 
 ter Winnie, who never asked an inch of cloth she could do 
 without.” 
 
 Madam of Roseworthy, when she mentally compared her 
 self-willed, proud, handsome niece disadvantageously with 
 her poor little summarily-dismissed companion, was not alone 
 in*the remorseful rendering of justice to patient Winnie 
 Caerlyon. 
 
 She had had time to recall the sterling memories of her 
 gentleness, kindness, and long-suffering—she had had time 
 to remember the sweet low voice that was heard no more, 
 the sweet pale face that she could never see—she had had 
 time to think of these things in seven years—of late years 
 even more than at first. 
 
 And so came to pass the truth—strange and strangely flat¬ 
 tering, as the meed awarded to her for the first time in her 
 life, as the long-due reward freely and fully offered—that 
 Winnie Caerlyon was sorely missed, was deeply regretted, 
 though seven years of absence had made her memory like a 
 dream of the dead and gone. 
 
 “ What ages ago it seems since poor little Winnie Caer¬ 
 lyon used to run over every second evening to read to me 
 
126 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 and play for me—poor little thing!” Madam Vivian re- v 
 marked, late one cold dark evening in February. 
 
 She was sipping the favourite green tea from her favourite 
 cup of pale buff and gold evening china, and with jewelled 
 fingers, dimpled more deeply but less whitely fair than of 
 yore, daintily crumbling—after her usual fashion—the mor¬ 
 sels of cake; she sighed as she spoke, glancing across the 
 table at her vis-a-vis. 
 
 “Trewhella reads to you, does she not,” Madam?” in¬ 
 quired the vis-a-vis carelessly. 
 
 “ Trewhella! ” said Madam, with a shrug. “Yes—some¬ 
 times. She has no notion of modulation or expression, poor 
 woman! A dernier ressort when my eyes ache, I assure you, 
 my dear. It is not much more pleasure to me to listen to her 
 reading than it is to her to read. A woman of her class, at 
 forty-five years of age, has long out-grown the time when 
 love-stories and romances are interesting; still she fancies it 
 keeps up her dignity.” 
 
 “ Her dignity! ” echoed the vis-a-vis , with a kind of leis¬ 
 urely scorn. “ What have people of her class to do with 
 dignity, I wonder? You pay her wages to make herself use¬ 
 ful and agreeable to you, just as you used to pay Winnie Ca- 
 erlyon to make herself useful and agreeable; and when she 
 ceased to do so you dismissed her, I believe.” 
 
 “I never dismissed her,” said Madam, with peevish protest 
 —“ that is, not finally, you know. I meant to take her back 
 —I have said so dozens of times.” 
 
 “Oh, yes—I know,” returned Madam’s vis-a-vis , the leis¬ 
 urely scorn glimmering in a cold smile; “and, whilst you 
 were deliberating about the possibility of forgiving her 
 heinous offences, she fled out of the country. The little fool, 
 she should have waited until you thought proper to remember 
 her existence! ” 
 
 “ She should! ” cried Madam, sharply, and it seemed de¬ 
 fiantly, in the face of that haughty mocking^smile. “She 
 should have been more grateful and docile—I had been a 
 good friend to Winnie for three years before, from the time 
 her father came to Tolgooth. She should not have treated 
 me so unkindly.” 
 
 There was a flush on Madam’s face and there were tears in 
 her eyes, the brightness of which was a good deal dimmed; 
 her brow grew lined, and the wrinkles in her fine skin deep¬ 
 ened; and, as she sank back ra*ther heavily in her cushioned 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MAECH MORNING. 127 
 
 chair, it could be seen that handsome Madam Vivian was 
 growing an old woman very fast. 
 
 “ I never intended to forget or forsake her—I meant quite 
 to adopt her in time,” she resumed, complainingly. a I always 
 treated her like a lady, and required my servants to do so 
 too. Winnie treated me very ill, I think.” 
 
 “ Possibly,” observed the other, in the same cool measured 
 way; “ there is no such thing as gratitude to be found, you 
 know. I don’t see why you should trouble yourself to re¬ 
 member a young person who was so forgetful of your extra¬ 
 ordinary benefits. She was designing, and forgetful of her 
 humble station, too, you recollect.” 
 
 “ I don’t recollect anything of the kind! ” Madam retorted, 
 the cold measured voice, the barbed, mocking, polite assur¬ 
 ances seeming to goad her. “ I am well aware that there is 
 no such thing as gratitude to be found—your ladyship has no 
 need to remind me of it; but I don’t believe poor little Win¬ 
 nie was anything worse than a foolish, simple-hearted child; 
 and, if I had advised her in kindness and confidence, I be¬ 
 lieve there would have been an end of it. She was always a 
 truthful, honourable little girl.” 
 
 Madam had wiped away three or four angry tears while 
 she spoke—seven years before her nerves would not have 
 been so easily shaken. But neither tears nor anger seemed 
 to ruffle the composed face and smile and voice of the “ lady¬ 
 ship ” she addressed. 
 
 “ But there was another person in the case, I understood,” 
 she persisted, smilingly, lying back in her chair to face 
 Madam more directly, and fanning herself slowly; “and 
 there might not have been an end of it in the way you 
 would have wished, Madam. It was much the better plan to 
 dismiss her—send her packing, as housekeepers say. She is 
 safely gone now—never to return.” 
 
 Madam’s eyes shot a quick flash of indignation, and her 
 lips parted ; but a second glance at the calm, haughty face, 
 the mocking smile playing about the downcast eye-lids and 
 sharply-cut lips, the indolent repose of the figure and the 
 play of the fan, stopped the indignant reproof trembling on 
 her lips. She turned her head away, and gazed unsteadily at 
 the fire for a few moments ; then she half turned round and 
 addressed her companion with an attempt at composure and 
 indifference that was rather a failure. 
 
 “Did you tell me that you had heard from Lord Henry 
 this morning? ” 
 
128 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 “Yes,” the lady replied, arching her eyebrows slightly, in 
 a tone the perfection of indifference; “and, as you have 
 reminded me of domestic relations, I had better look after 
 Lord Henry’s heir—though Jeanneton decidedly ignores any 
 claims or directions of mine with reference to her spoiled 
 pet.” 
 
 There was a subdued gliding rustle as the heavy silken 
 folds of a train of lustrous dark blue swept softly over the 
 carpet, and the tall, imperially-moulded figure of the wearer 
 passed out through the doorway, and Madam was left alone. 
 
 “Yes, gone—gone, never to return!” she muttered, half 
 aloud, shaking her head; and the brilliant firelight shone on 
 a very lined and sad old face. 
 
 Despite the silvery curls, the careful head-dress, the silks 
 and laces and diamond rings—yes, even the dainty kid, 
 rosetted, gold-buckled shoes as of yore—Madam Vivian 
 looked an old, .weary, sorrowful, lonely woman, as she sat 
 there in the luxurious green drawing-room, in the restless 
 glow and blaze of the firelight, and the steady, clear lumin¬ 
 ousness of her favourite wax-lights, listening to the steady 
 roll and crash of the waves out by the Black Reef of Tre- 
 garthen Head, as she had done these many, many years alone. 
 
 “It is a lonely life,” she went on, the weak tears rising that 
 she scarcely cared to wipe away; “neither son, nor daughter, 
 and scarcely a friend—alone in my old age! And I preferred 
 her to Winnie—my poor little Winnie, she would have been 
 as a child to me—I preferred her to Winnie! ” 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 “ I don’t see that it’s any use speaking to a maid like you 
 at all! Why, ’e never thinks of a thing while a person’s 
 crossing the floor after telling of you ! ’Tis quite a shame 
 for a great girl of your age to be going about her work like 
 a gaby that never saw a bit of bread properly made ! To 
 leave the sponge a-working in that sort of w^ay ! ” 
 
 And Mrs. Caerlyon, rolling up her sleeves in vengeful 
 haste, commenced making up the neglected dough as fast as 
 possible, flouring herself considerably in the process, whilst 
 the neglectful Sarah Matilda went sulkily about some other 
 work. 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 129 
 
 “ Now,” her mother began afresh, punctuating her words 
 by vigorous kneadings, “ this is no less than four batches of 
 bread you’ve been and spoilt, since I was fool enough to let 
 ’e meddle with it. Four! I never knew your sister Winnie 
 to spoil—no, not as much as a pasty—never, in her life! She 
 had her wits about her when she went to work! I don’t 
 know what ’e mean to make of yourself if ’e grow up like 
 that! ” 
 
 “Ma!” interrupted Louie, looking up from a praiseworthy 
 attempt at darning her stockings. 
 
 “Well, child?” 
 
 “ When shall we hear from sister Winnie again, ma? It’s 
 a long time, ma, isn’t it?” 
 
 “ Long enough,” returned Mrs. Caerlyon, shortly, but de¬ 
 termined to finish Sarah Matilda’s “ nagging” in spite of the 
 interruption. “But sister Winnie will write regularly, never 
 fear; she was never one to forget her business. Every bit 
 of it’ll be heavy—every bit! Serve ’e right, Sarah, if you 
 had to eat it all yourself—kept on it for a month!” 
 
 “ Ma!”—the interruption came from another youngster, 
 who was amusing himself with putting bits of coal, and occa¬ 
 sionally the tips of his fingers, between the bars of the 
 kitchen grate—“ Ma—I say ma—didn’t sister Winnie promise 
 me something in her next letter? Didn’t she, ma?” 
 
 “Yes—she did. What are ’e at, driving your fingers into 
 the fire for, Johnnie, like that? I never saw the like. Take 
 your hands out of the coals this minute, and go wash them 
 —you dirty, dirty boy!” 
 
 “Now,” said Johnnie, with a grimace of triumph at his 
 younger sister, and quite unmoved at the maternal objurga¬ 
 tion—“now, Miss—sister Winnie did! Now! Ma says it 
 too.” 
 
 “Don’t care,” returned Louie, stoutly, darning away; but 
 Johnnie’s triumph, or the longing desire for “ something ” 
 in a letter for herself, or the fact of having run the needle 
 into her finger, broke down her resolution. “Ma,” she 
 began afresh in the whimpering tone she had never quite got 
 rid of from babyhood—“ ma, won’t sister Winnie send me 
 something, too? I wish' sister Winnie would come back.” 
 
 “Shell never come back any more,” said Johnnie, with a 
 nod of assurance. “ Ma—she won’t, will she, ma? Sister 
 Winnie won’t come back ever again, ma, will she?” 
 
 “ I don’t know—I am sure 1 wish she would,” replied 
 Mrs. Caerlyon, tartly, for Sarah Matilda’s benefit again; “ I 
 
 9 
 
330 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 should have a person with a head on their shoulders, and a 
 pair of willing hands to help me, if she did. ' Bless me! 
 what on earth are ’e all trooping in for like that?” This 
 was addressed to a pell-mell crowd rushing down the tiled' 
 passage from the hall-door. “Just see where ’e are all 
 going—and the tiles just ruddled—and the-” 
 
 “ Ma,” burst from the foremost of the throng, who nearly 
 tumbled into the dough-pan in his headlong career—“ ma, 
 there’s a lady coming in!” 
 
 “ A lady in black, ma,” panted another sister—“ coming in 
 here. She’s—she’s there!” The words were uttered in a 
 whisper of alarm, for right behind them, in the little tiled 
 entry, stood the figure of a lady veiled and dressed in fresh 
 mourning. 
 
 Mrs. Caerlyon rubbed the flour off her hands, dropped her 
 white apron, and, nerving herself for the emergency by the 
 recollection that, “ whoever she was, she had no business to 
 walk in like that, when a person was busy,” came forward. 
 
 “’Tisn’t Miss Trewhella—I’d like to see the saucy old 
 thing put her foot in my house!” Mrs. Caerlyon thought in 
 dire surprise and alarm almost, as, after a moment’s hesita¬ 
 tion, the lady in black rushed forward, meeting her before 
 she reached the kitchen door, and, flinging back her veil, 
 stretched forth both her arms. 
 
 “Mamma, I’ve come back,” she cried—“I’ve come back, 
 dear mamma, to you and poor dear father, and the children, 
 and-” 
 
 “Winnie! Winnie!” Mrs. Caerlyon screamed, after a stare 
 of blank surprise. “Winnie, darling, I’m glad to see ’e! 
 Glad—gl—ad, Winnie!” and forthwith Mrs. Caerlyon 
 clutched her step-daughter in her arms, kissing her loudly, 
 and crying vociferously, as is the manner of high-tempered, 
 sharp-featured women when excited. 
 
 “ Sister Winnie”—the myth—who lived in the little pink 
 coloured country in North America—“ sister Winnie,” this 
 lady in black! Was the world coming to an end? 
 
 The children almost thought so, and, after huddling 
 together for a moment, the younger ones joined in their 
 mother’s hysterical crying, until Winnie—fair, graceful sister 
 Winnie, with the lovely golden-brown hair all in a mass of 
 little glittering curls over her forehead, beneath her black 
 crape bonnet—turned to them also with open arms, kissing 
 them and crying over them in turn. 
 
 One of the Coastguard happened to pass at the moment, 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING, 
 
 131 
 
 and with grave alarm he told his officer, five minutes after¬ 
 wards, that there was a strange lady all in black gone into 
 his—the officer’s—house, and “ he hoped as she had brought 
 no bad news to the missus, for he thought as he had heard 
 the children all a-crying.” 
 
 Poor Lieutenant Caerlyon ran in panting, uncovering his 
 gray head respectfully as he entered the strange lady’s pres¬ 
 ence, and remembered nothing more, when she turned round, 
 than a confused scene and much talking and laughing and 
 crying, and questioning and answering, for the next hour, 
 until poor Sarah Matilda, eager to redeem her character 
 before the eyes of the perfect sister, got tea ready, and some 
 small loaves nicely baked, and eggs boiled, and a bit of ham 
 fried, and the lump sugar and sweet-cake put on the table— 
 all which constituted the fatted calf that the poor Caerlyons 
 had to offer to the returned wanderer—and they were all 
 seated at the tea-table, Winnie next her father, and the tears 
 and excitement blinding and confusing her so that she did 
 not know whether she was eating or not. 
 
 Poor Lieutenant Caerlyon had been crying plentifully him¬ 
 self, but now he rubbed his eyes determinedly dry, and gazed 
 at his long-absent daughter proudly. 
 
 “Elizabeth, hasn’t she grown a—a nice little woman?” he 
 asked, longing to say more, but withheld as he had ever been, 
 from giving his child her meed of praise. 
 
 “ She has grown downright elegant and pretty,” said Mrs. 
 Caerlyon, with one of her short laughs; “I’d never have 
 known her, I think, only she came into the kitchen. She’s 
 nicer-looking to my mind than Lady Mountrevor—grand as 
 she is.” 
 
 Winnie blushed deeply—one of her own old vivid rose-red 
 blushes. 
 
 “ Oh, mamma! ” 
 
 “ Elizabeth, my dear,” said Lieutenant Caerlyon, laughing, 
 “ that’s too far. Lady Mountrevor, Elizabeth! ” But in his 
 secret heart he had never felt so great a glow of gratitude to 
 his wife as he felt at that instant. 
 
 “Is Lady Mountrevor here now?” Winnie asked, looking 
 up with a quick, keen interest darkening her brilliant gray 
 eyes. 
 
 “Yes, she is,” answered Mrs. Caerlyon, slightingly, and 
 she further proceeded to state, in the decisive off-hand way 
 that people assume when they wish to convince others of 
 their democratic indifference to wealth and rank, and beauty 
 
132 all in the wild march morning. 
 
 and fasnion, that for her part she saw nothing particular in 
 this grand Lady Mountrevor that people made such a “ to-do” 
 about, as if she were a queen^— a tall, stout, showy woman, 
 dressed like a doll in a window, with her white muslin 
 dresses and lilac ribbons, walking along the dusty roads in 
 summer, with a French nurse for her child—her “bone” she 
 believed they called her. “And why she isn’t at home with 
 her husband, instead of wandering about the country, no one 
 can make out,” concluded Mrs. Caerlyon, with a sapient nod. 
 “Not'much love lost between them, sure enough.” 
 
 “Ah, I hope such is not the case,” said Winnie, earnestly; 
 and, in order to change the subject—she knew to what 
 lengths “ making out ” cases was carried by the maids and 
 matrons of Tolgooth and its vicinity in the old days—she 
 asked, “ Do you ever see Madam Vivian, mamma?” 
 
 “ Yes, at church, sometimes,” replied Mrs. Caerlyon, with 
 a fresh accession of the slighting tone; “and she’s getting a 
 real old woman, too, for all her grand bonnets and ribbons, 
 and furs and things. I saw her last Sunday, and she asked 
 when we had heard last from you. She’s as proud and stiff as 
 ever, poor old lady—shut up there in Rose worthy for half 
 the year, without a soul to talk to but that tawny-faced old 
 maid, Trewhella.” 
 
 “ Oh, Trewhella’s not married yet, then?” remarked Win¬ 
 nie, laughing. 
 
 “Indeed she’s not, nor never will be,” returned the step¬ 
 mother, “ for all her dressed-up impudence. Coming here 
 in her blue silks and gold chains, and running there, about 
 the mines, after my cousin Thomas, no less! I wondered a 
 good many times why she seemed to have a spite against ’e, 
 Winnie, long ago; and that was one reason I’ll lay any 
 w r ager.” 
 
 “She needed not,” said Winnie, in a lower tone, a slight 
 troubled flush rising over her face. Thronging memories 
 quickened the beating of her heart, and her lips trembled a 
 little as she said, with an assumed air of gaiety, “ It was Su¬ 
 sanna Edwards who should have been the object of her jeal¬ 
 ousy, if any one was. She was Mr. Pascoe’s sweetheart ten 
 years ago, and is his wife now. I think the real cause of her 
 dislike was jealousy of her mistress’s favour. She needed 
 not to have troubled herself about that either—poor Tre¬ 
 whella! ” 
 
 “ No, indeed,” put in Mrs. Caerlyon, with a sniff; “ we don’t 
 want Madam Vivian’s, or Madam Anybody’s favor, thank 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 133 
 
 goodness ! We can pay our way honest, and look to nobody 
 for help or credit! ” 
 
 “No one—no, indeed,” assented Lieutenant Caerlyon, 
 doubtfully, looking from his wife’s to his daughter’s face, and 
 shifting restlessly in his seat; “ we—we’ve helped each other 
 along, thank Heaven!” 
 
 “Yes,” said Mrs. Caerlyon, intercepting the glance, and 
 no squeamish delicacy restraining her from interpreting it 
 fully—Mrs. Caerlyon “ always spoke her mind out ” on all 
 subjects—“if ’e all, as ’e grow up, and be able to fill useful 
 situations ”—with an obliquity of tone directing the general 
 address into a particular one for Sarah Matilda’s ear—“ are 
 as good at remembering your father and mother as your 
 sister Winnie here, ’e’ll all do well, and prosper, and live 
 long in the land,” Mrs. Caerlyon concluded, with a sudden 
 grasp at a quotation of the fifth commandment. 
 
 The quick shy colour burned in Winnie’s pure delicate 
 face at this praise of her step-mother’s—it was so grateful, 
 so strange, to her ears, poor girl! And the flush grew deeper 
 under the embarrassing weight of the communication she had 
 to make. 
 
 “I have done only what it was my duty to do,” she said, 
 looking down nervously and fingering her teaspoon; “ I don’t 
 deserve any thanks for that* mamma.* Whatever I sent you 
 I could well spare—poor dear aunt Sarah was so good to me.” 
 
 The grim eccentric old woman’s generous kindness and 
 indulgence had indeed won for her, for the first time in her 
 life, the grateful love and trust of a fresh fond young heart; 
 and surely, in all her years of shrewd astuteness, she had 
 never bargained so wisely and well as when she thus pur¬ 
 chased that fond filial care for the evening of her life, and 
 the loving remembrance of her after death, which stirred the 
 true heart beneath the fresh mourning dress of Winnie 
 Caerlyon. 
 
 “I did all I could, of course, as was my duty,” resumed 
 Winnie, speaking rather tremblingly, for fear she might seem 
 proud or arrogant—poor frail pale-faced little woman!—“but 
 I shall be able to do much more for the future, dear father—- 
 a great deal more, mamma.” Winnie was shedding tears of 
 genuine pleasure and satisfaction. “ Aunt Saral# left—left 
 me all—all her money! ” sobbed Winnie, quite breaking 
 down. “Hannah, her servant, had the house and furniture, 
 and a hundred dollars a year for her life; and I’ve—I’ve a 
 thou—thousand dollars a year! That’s about two hundred 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 134 
 
 pounds, you know, dear,” she said, appealing to Sarah Matilda, 
 who had grown pale with surprise and delight. 
 
 Vistas of hats with white feathers, and kid gloves, and 
 long gossamer veils, like Lady Mountrevor’s, began to be 
 conjured up in Sarah Matilda’s girlish, vain young head, 
 whilst her sister spoke. 
 
 “My goodness gracious!” ejaculated Mrs. Caerlyon, her 
 face quite in a blaze of flushed colour and excitement and 
 gratification, her housewifely soul moved at the possibilities 
 of a new carpet, and parlour chairs in blue damask, like her 
 cousin Bella’s, to be obtained from her step-daughter’s lavish 
 generosity. “ Oh, my goodness, Winnie child, that will be 
 splendid! Two hundred a year! Not but what we wanted 
 it badly,” she added, beginning to cry over past privations 
 and coming luxuries, and laying claim to Winnie’s legacy 
 with an egotism of which she was hardly conscious. 
 
 But poor Lieutenant Caerlyon for once put aside his help¬ 
 mate and her seven children, and all the carking cares that 
 had dragged him down to the level of sordid poverty, and, 
 recalling himself as he was when he married Winifred’s 
 young mother, proud, high-spirited, gallant, and generous, 
 spoke as a father and a gentleman to his neglected daughter. 
 
 “ I am glad to hear it, my dear,” he said, putting a tremb¬ 
 ling hand on her shoulder—“very glad that your aunt Sarah 
 made you such a suitable return for your years of care and 
 attendance on her. You deserve it well, Winnie, and— 
 and”-—he faltered, becoming very conscious of the keen 
 hard brown eyes watching him—“ I’ve no doubt but that, as 
 you so kindly remembered your poor little brothers and sis¬ 
 ters when you bad not much to spare from your own wants, 
 you will remember them still—I am sure of that, Winnie— 
 you never were unkind or neglectful to them. But your 
 money’s your own, my dear, and you must not spend it all 
 on others; you must take care of it. You’ll have a house of 
 your own, and children of your own, some day, please 
 Heaven, and you’ll want all you have then.” 
 
 “No, father, I sha’n’t,” opposed Winnie, crying and 
 laughing together. And one of the “ little brothers ” anx¬ 
 iously inquired of Johnnie if “ sister Winnie ” had a lot of 
 little children away over in North America. “ When you 
 don’t want me any longer, I can take my money and myself 
 away, but, until then—why, father dear, I’d never spend the 
 half of it!” Winnie said, quite decisively. “How could I? 
 Unless I were to dress myself like Lady Mountrevor, and 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MAECH MORNING. 
 
 135 
 
 sail about the dusty roads in white muslin and lilac ribbons! 
 I will take another cup of tea, mamma, please. What 
 lovely long fair hair Louie has! My darling child! She 
 always had beautiful silky hair!” And for the rest of the 
 tea-time Winnie chatted incessantly, in dread of her father’s 
 talking so about “ her money” again!—as if it were likely 
 that she would put all that money away in the bank for her 
 own benefit, and see those poor darlings want for anything! 
 
 But after tea, when the railway carrier brought over Win¬ 
 nie’s heavy luggage in a van, and one of her trunks was 
 opened in the parlour, the previous brightness of this won¬ 
 derful evening redoubled to-amazing intensity for tlie^ young 
 Caerlyons. Wonderful “ sister Winnie ”—that is to say, this 
 elegant young lady in black, with her American-fashioned 
 hair and dress, who they were told was the realization of the 
 mythical sister—she had forgotten nobody, and “ everybody” 
 had more beautiful things than 66 everybody else ” for presents. 
 
 At the very top of the trunk was a silk umbrella—such a 
 superb rain-shade was never seen—in double brown silk, and 
 with ivory handle and silver name-plate. 
 
 “I know, father, you always had a fancy for smart umbrel¬ 
 las,” said Winnie; “ and I brought you that from New York.” 
 
 Then there was a black velvet jacket—“ the height of the 
 Paris fashion,” very rich, but simply trimmed. 
 
 “ Mamma, I know that’s a fancy of yours,” she remarked, 
 smiling; “I wasn’t very sure of anything else, but I knew r 
 you used to like black velvets so much. 
 
 “ My dear, you are very kind,” said Elizabeth Caerlyon, 
 touched and surprised out of all volubility, more at the faith¬ 
 ful memory that had remembered her likings and fancies all 
 these years than anything else. 
 
 “I did not know what to bring Sarah Matilda,” began 
 Winnie again, and then pausing for a few moments, while that 
 young lady’s heart grew colder and heavier, “ but I imagined, 
 if you would not think her too young to wear it, mamma— 
 several very young girls in Winston got them this fall—that 
 a nice cinnamon-coloured silk, with a new kind of fluted 
 trimming in two shades, would become her very well.” 
 
 “ A silk dress—for me!” faintly ejaculated Sarah Matilda. 
 
 “ Yes^ dear—there it is,” said Winnie; and, peering rever¬ 
 ently between the folds of silk-paper, and occasionally feel¬ 
 ing, with quivering fingers, the smoothness, and richness of 
 the rustling fabric, Sarah Matilda passed the rest of the 
 evening in a glorified dream. 
 
136 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MABCH MOKNING. 
 
 Other treasures—unrolled from silk-paper, cotton wad- 
 ding, and pasteboard boxes—emerged from out that wonder¬ 
 ful trunk, the capacity of which seemed to be enormous. 
 That evening blotted out half the annals of a lifetime with 
 the children, in its succession of wonders and delights; they 
 all stared themselves blind and talked themselves hoarse, and 
 having—after protracted delays to an abnormally late hour— 
 gone to bed at length, everybody stayed awake until morning, 
 and so spent next day both actually and figuratively in 
 dreamland. 
 
 The house was full of delightful things—there had not 
 been such a dinner since Christmas Day as was cooking in 
 the kitchen—roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and a splendid 
 rice and custard pudding full of raisins! Well might John¬ 
 nie warn Tommy on no account to be seduced into antepran¬ 
 dial repasts on hunks of cold pasty or bread and cheese, but 
 “ leave plenty of room” for the beef and pudding! And 
 there were curious delicate odours floating about—odours of 
 cedar-trunks, of perfume-sachets, of dried and ripe American 
 apples, and millinery goods! 
 
 As for the new carpet and chairs, Winnie had arranged for 
 them, as well as a new drawing-room, or rather new house, to 
 go with them—a nice rented house of their own, where the 
 Caerlyons would not be “ cabined, cribbed, confined,” a 
 family of eleven persons in a six-roomed house—the one 
 perched above Tolgooth Bay, provided by Government for 
 their accommodation. 
 
 Every room was strewn with new, curious, pretty, and 
 eatable things—pictures, books, old china, dresses, jars 
 of jelly, bottles of syrup, toys, packing cases; and everybody 
 was examining everything, praising, wondering, discussing, 
 questioning to their heart’s content; while Winnie—her neat 
 black dress covered up with a large white apron and bib, 
 such as she used to wear long ago—was running about, 
 arranging, unpacking, tidying, cooking, talking and laughing, 
 all the seven children following her from room to room, up 
 and down stairs, to look at her and listen to her with breath¬ 
 less interest. 
 
 “ I never saw any one wear their age better than ’e do, 
 Winnie,” her step-mother remarked, with, her usual blunt 
 straightforwardness; “ really, to look at ’e, one would never 
 take ’e for more than one-and-twenty.” 
 
 Winnie was sitting on the edge of a trunk which Sarah 
 Matilda was unpacking, and Mrs. Caerlyon, seated at a little 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING, 
 
 137 
 
 distance, was attentively studying Winnie’s small delicate 
 face, flushed so brightly, her smiling eyes and lips, and her 
 beautiful carefully-arranged hair. 
 
 “ Instead of going on for eight-and-twenty, mamma,” sup¬ 
 plemented Winnie; and for a moment the brightness faded 
 from her face. 
 
 “Well, what if you are?” Mrs. Caerlyon began, when 
 Sarah Matilda, delightedly investigating every corner and 
 parcel in the large travelling trunk, held up a large square 
 cedar box. 
 
 “ What’s in this, sister?” 
 
 “That? Oh, nothing! At least”-Winnie stooped 
 
 down as if to examine the box, but Sarah Matilda noticed 
 how very red “ sister Winnie ” had grown—“ it’s nothing but 
 a—a jacket.” 
 
 “A jacket! Oh, do let’s see!” Sarah Matilda said, pulling 
 eagerly at the twine. “Yours, sister? Where did you buy 
 it? What kind is it?” 
 
 “It’s only a very old one, dear,” answered Winnie; and 
 Sarah Matilda noticed how the red flush had totally disap¬ 
 peared. “ Some other time we’ll look at it—it’s not worth 
 opening now; I’ve had it for years.” 
 
 “ What did ’e do with the splendid sealskin jacket, Win¬ 
 nie,” asked her step-mother—“ the one Captain Tredennick 
 gave ’e before ’e went away?” 
 
 Winnie hesitated a moment, and the colour dyed all her 
 face in a burning blush that she strove to hide. 
 
 “Why—that is it!” she said, with a short, nervous laugh, 
 pointing to the cedar box. “ It is as good as ever, and it has 
 kept me warm for seven long winters. It was a beautiful 
 one; certainly.” 
 
 “ ’E took good care of it, at all events,” observed Mrs. 
 Caerlyon, with a dry insinuating smile, looking at the soft, 
 uncrushed fur and satin linings. And then she sat a long 
 time in silence, covertly studying her step-daughter’s win¬ 
 some gentle face and light figure, and troubling her poor, 
 manoeuvring brains with numberless hastily sketched out 
 plans. 
 
 ' “ It won’t do to say a word—she was always such a queer 
 maid,” she said to herself. But “ one word ” Mrs. Caerlyon 
 felt that she must say, prompted as she was by the sight of 
 Stephen Tredennick’s long-ago gift, and those hastily-sketched 
 
 mental plans. “It might be—who could tell? — stranger 
 
138 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 things had happened,” she thought, showing by words aloud 
 whither the secret current of her meditations had gone. 
 
 “Did ’e know, Winnie, that the East Indiaman Ohittoor. 
 is expected home the third week in March? ” 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 “ I think I never remember so bleak and wild a spring,” 
 Madam Vivian observed, with a shiver; “each day seems 
 drearier and colder and stormier than the one preceding. I have 
 never been able to walk in the grounds these three weeks; 
 and how you can go in and out in all weathers as you do 
 passes my comprehension.” 
 
 “It has been remarked before now, I think,” said the lady 
 addressed, “ that 6 where there’s a will there’s generally a 
 way’; it is tolerably true, I fancy—that is, as true as most of 
 those absurd things which people repeat with such an air of 
 wisdom.” She was embroidering a dainty piece of work of 
 rich-hued velvet with some glittering gold fringe, and paused 
 to admire the effect. 
 
 “ It is not all true and applicable to me,” returned Madam, 
 peevishly; “ I have the will, but I certainly have not the 
 way—unless I wish to catch my death of cold with salt spray 
 and north-west wind.” She sank back in her chair, drawing 
 a crimson Indian shawl around her with another shiver. 
 “You wrap up in those extraordinary mackintosh things, and 
 felt hats and boot-tops—such an eccentric costume for a young 
 lady!—and so, I dare say, hail, rain, and snow are alike to 
 you; but my different species of outdoor attire prevents me 
 from attempting such feats of exercise.” 
 
 “Yes, your style of costume prevents you,” the younger 
 lady assented, with a grave, scrutinizing glance at the snowy 
 hair, the slightly-bowed figure, the soft languid hands buried 
 in the warm crimson folds of the shawl. “ When the 
 weather gets fine, you must come up to Tregarthen and see 
 my improvements.” 
 
 Madam Vivian shivered again—affectedly this time. 
 
 “ Thank you, my dear—I can hardly fancy that wretched 
 old ruin an inviting place to explore in such weather as this. 
 Listen!” She pointed one finger at the curtained window, 
 and shrugged her shoulders, as old people do to convince 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 139 
 
 young people of their ignorance and simplicity on most dis¬ 
 cussed subjects. 
 
 “ Yes, it rains a little,” the younger lady said, imperturba¬ 
 bly; “ but it will not rain for three weeks, I trust. Tregar- 
 then will be ready for its master then.” 
 
 “ Really,” exclaimed Madam, beginning to turn the dia¬ 
 mond rings on her dimpled fingers, and smiling a little 
 dubiously; “I fancied that the house was a hopeless ruin, 
 and that it would require at least half a year’s rebuilding 
 and renovating.” 
 
 “ Perhaps in your opinion it would, Madam,” her compan¬ 
 ion rejoined, coolly and indifferently as before. “I think it 
 is safely habitable now, at least.” 
 
 “ Oh, I dare say you have worked wonders, my dear,” said 
 Madam, graciously, and smiling still; “but it is of no use 
 hoping to make that most restless person, Captain Tredennick, 
 settle down in the home of his fathers, as he should have 
 done long ago—ah, twenty years ago,” went on Madam Viv¬ 
 ian, more peevishly than she had yet spoken—“ twenty years 
 ago, instead of going into the Navy—the Merchant Navy, 
 too—the first of his name who ever did so! He should have 
 looked after his property, married some suitable girl with 
 money and of good birth, and had a name and a place in the 
 county, instead of being more like a waif or a stray than 
 anything else.” 
 
 The old discord, freshly touched, jarred yet as it had 
 jarred these many years. 
 
 “ Perhaps that most restless person, Captain Tredennick, 
 enjoys life,” the lady suggested, coldly. “ Be he a waif or 
 stray, or whatever else the puissant potentates of the Cornish 
 aristocracy choose to call him, he is to be envied in that 
 case.” 
 
 “ I don’t believe he enjoys it one bit more than men who 
 marry and settle down properly,” retorted Madam Vivian, 
 sharply. “ People are never one whit happier, for being 
 allowed to follow their own unconventional ideas and whim¬ 
 sical fancies unopposed and untrammeled. I thought Stephen 
 looked exceedingly old and weatherbeaten, quite a staid, 
 solid, elderly man, with frizzled hair, when he was here last 
 —old enough for fifty instead of forty.” 
 
 “And I,” said the younger lady, a pleasant affectionate 
 smile lighting up her cold, proud, unfathomable eyes, 
 “ thought he looked just as kind and pleasant and generous 
 as ever.” 
 
140 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 “ I do not gainsay my nephew’s excellent qualities of head 
 and heart in the least, I assure you,” explained Madam, 
 stiffly; “I regretted his prematurely-aged appearance, and 
 his lack of all near home ties. It grieves me to think that I 
 shall never see Stephen Tredennjck’s children.” 
 
 “How can you tell, Madam,” questioned her companion, 
 with a quizzical smile. “ Stephen Tredennick may be bring¬ 
 ing a wife home in the Chittoor at this moment.” 
 
 “Some one to make him miserable, then, if he is,” said 
 Madam, sardonically. “ Men of his age are always taken in 
 by the first designing girls that get a chance of bewitching 
 them. I have often, told him that I expected to see some 
 pallid, lazy young Anglo-Indian or brown-skinned Hindoo 
 brought home to me as Mrs. Stephen Tredennick.” 
 
 “C’est possible!” assented the younger lady, laughing. 
 “ Stej)hen Tredennick always had peculiar tastes about fem¬ 
 inine charms; still, it would supply the dismal vacancy in 
 Tregarthen House, Madam, if the yellow young Anglo-In¬ 
 dian, or the swarthy Hindoo maid were installed there as 
 mistress.” 
 
 Madam Vivian’s chiseled lips tightened after the old 
 haughty fashion. 
 
 “ I should not consider the vacancy of the mistress of Tre- 
 garthen’s place filled if Stephen Tredennick were unhappy 
 enough to be deluded into a low marriage,” she said, icily; 
 “ and, so far from having a niece to acknowledge, I should 
 from that time cease to have a nephew! ” 
 
 The proud old lady stifled the pang in her heart which her 
 own words had occasioned, and sat composedly turning her 
 rings, and warming her daintily-slippered feet, as if she did 
 not know that the loss of him who had been for more than 
 thirty years as a son to her would send her gray hairs with 
 sorrow to the grave. 
 
 “ Poor Stephen,” commiserated the younger lady, mock¬ 
 ingly, “ he had better not meddle with matrimony then, as 
 he is sure to do something as odd and unconventional as most 
 of his simple, chivalrous, kindly deeds—poor old fellow! ” 
 
 “ I am sure my nephew will never marry any one whom I 
 should be ashamed to own,” said Madam, hotly. 
 
 “And I am equally sure of the same thing,” returned the 
 other lady, composedly. 
 
 Madam was silent. She was getting the worst of the dis¬ 
 cussion—she always did with this opponent—and sat for a 
 long time buried in her downy chair and her crimson shawl, 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING 
 
 141 
 
 gazing dreamily and sadly at the bright fire. Playing with 
 diamond rings, and toasting gold-buckled shoes, however 
 easy and interesting an employment, is apt to pall and be¬ 
 come wearisome. Many other employments, occupations, 
 and interests had palled and become wearisome to Madam 
 Vivian of late years. Handsome, proud, and stately as she 
 was, she was an old woman, and growing a feeble and help¬ 
 less one. A lifetime spent in the society of downy chairs, 
 Indian shawls, and diamond rings, oddly enough, is not 
 always conducive to lengthened years of strength and activity. 
 Madam’s time had begun to hang heavily on her hands, and 
 the shadow of the vampire-wings of ennui to darken the at¬ 
 mosphere of the green drawing-room, in spite of tinted wax- 
 lights and the blazing warmth of radiant fires. 
 
 .Was it a premonition, in this silent evening hour, which 
 brought her lonely life, advancing age, lack of relatives and 
 devoted friends, sadly to her mind, making her delicate hands 
 tremble nervously, and reminding her of ebbing strength and 
 vigour—making her feel, as she had often felt of late, but 
 more keenly to-night than ever, that she was but an old, wid¬ 
 owed, childless woman, and that she would gladly barter all 
 the triumphs of her youthful belle-ship, her middle-aged fas¬ 
 cination and cleverness, her position, her pride, hgr name, to 
 possess one real heart-satisfying affection—all her own—to 
 cherish and take pride in as other women did—a child, a 
 grandchild even? Poor Madam Vivian! 
 
 Drearier and drearier grew the old lady’s sad thoughts, 
 whilst that cold, stately, handsome companion of hers sat aloof, 
 guiding the gleaming gold fringe over her white fingers— 
 not from heartlessness, in spite of those marble-like, unmoved 
 features, cold clear eyes, and firmly-moulded lips, but from 
 the hopeless indifference to any attempt at being understood 
 in ideas, tastes, or feelings—the hopeless indifference to ipost 
 persons and things—the hopeless indifference to the fatigu¬ 
 ing and unsatisfactory effort to be loving and beloved, which 
 possessed the handsome peeress, Lady Mountrevor, at six-and- 
 twenty years of age. 
 
 And so the evening passed on, as many an evening had 
 passed between those two, in lonely luxury, irksome compan¬ 
 ionship, unsocial relationship; and Madam Vivian, stretching 
 out her hand to touch the bell-spring beyond her chair, felt 
 with a weary sigh that she would gladly have welcomed any 
 one or any event that might break the monotonous flow of 
 the current of existence. 
 
142 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING: 
 
 But the bell brought only old Llanyon the butler, his snowy 
 hair whiter than his mistress’s; and the only event likely to 
 occur until bed-time for Madam Vivian was the arrival on a 
 silver tray of a certain cordial drink which the butler was 
 summoned to prepare. 
 
 Madam Vivian scarcely ever* paid much heed to her serv¬ 
 ants’ countenances when addressing them; now she scarcely 
 looked up from her languid toying with her rings, or she 
 might have noticed that the old man’s usually stolid face 
 was excited and bright, and that he rubbed his hands quickly 
 and mechanically together whilst he waited. 
 
 “You will be sure to remember the pine-apple essence, 
 Llanyon,” Madam reminded him as he was quitting the room. 
 
 “Yes, Madam, I will be sure—certainly,” he said, hur¬ 
 riedly. 
 
 “And bring it soon, Llanyon,” his mistress ordered. 
 
 “ Certainly, Madam—as soon as possible;” he rubbed his 
 hands faster, and a smile seemed struggling hard with the 
 decorous gravity of his face. 
 
 “ Llanyon looks as if he had heard some good news,” said 
 Lady Mountrevor. - 
 
 She was quick to notice, if Madame Vivian was not—quick 
 to notice the joy or sorrow of any one, rich or poor, to 
 notice, to feel, to sympathize—this proud, cold, unruffled, 
 stately peeress. 
 
 In half-an-hour Madam had calculated on being brought 
 the luscious port wine cordial which her accommodating 
 physician had ordered her—to strengthen her and induce 
 sound sleep, he implied in his prescription; he did not say, 
 to banish for a while by its cheerful stimulation the dark 
 presence of ennui , or to drug the unused muscles and nerv¬ 
 ous membranes, corroding, beneath the rust of half-a-cen- 
 tury of slothful ease, into drowsy quiescence—for he was a 
 polite, white-handed, courteous physician—yet he meant it 
 all the same. But in twenty minutes came a gentle tap at 
 the door, and Madam heard the clink of the glass and 
 silver. 
 
 “ Come in,” she said, and never turned her head, whilst 
 Llanyon laid the salver, claret-jug, and tumbler at her elbow. 
 
 How lightly he moved about, Madam thought, as she 
 glanced towards Lady Mountrevor, and saw that her work 
 had dropped from her hand, and that she was gazing with 
 puzzled interest at some one. Who—who was it? 
 
 “ Who is it?” Madam cried aloud in surprise and pertur* 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 143 
 
 batien, as, in swiftly turning, she caught a glimpse of a 
 , young lady, dressed in mourning, standing partly behind her 
 chair—a fair, graceful, slender girl, with rich nut-brown 
 hair fashionably arranged in clustering masses of silky curl¬ 
 ing ends above her brow, and wearing a massive dull-gold 
 watch-chain as the only ornament on her black dress. 
 
 Her whole fair face was lit up with colour and excitement, 
 her gray eyes were dark and dewy with tears. 
 
 “ Madam—dear Madam, I brought in your tray; I asked 
 Llanyon to allow me—dear Madam!” The girl had clasped 
 her little hands together in unconscious entreaty, and half 
 knelt before the old lady’s chair. 
 
 Her reception was characteristic of Madam Vivian. 
 
 “ Who is it? Who is it?” she asked sharply and impetu¬ 
 ously, although she had recognized the long-absent face in 
 a moment. “Who are you to come startling me? Is this 
 Winnie Caerlyon come home again—Winnie?” 
 
 “Yes, dear Madam.” 
 
 “ Indeed! I should scarcely know you. I fancied you 
 were quite settled in America. How are you, my dear?” 
 and she touched the girl’s cheek with her lips. “I am glad 
 to see you again, although I think you could scarcely expect 
 me to say so after the way in which you took your departure 
 from me without word or message”—at this juncture Lady 
 Mountrevor resumed her work, while a keenly sarcastic smile 
 flickered over her lips—“ but I’m glad to see you looking so 
 well—quite improved, indeed! When did you return?” 
 
 “ Yesterday evening, Madam,” said Winnie timidly, feel¬ 
 ing all the old, half-loving, half-fearing awe of her stately 
 patroness; her smiles and tears almost quenched in the cool 
 dry atmosphere of her reception, while all the time, in 
 reality, Madam was in a fever of pleasure and amazement 
 and longing hopes that she might now and henceforth have 
 Winnie’s company as of old. She would—she must! She 
 would make arrangements with that dreadful step-mother 
 —pay her well—do anything—but she would have Winnie 
 for her own pet and protegee and companion from this 
 evening forward. 
 
 She determined on it instantly, and fain would she have 
 imperiously carried her desire into execution instantly also; 
 and her disappointment came with a blow that shattered a 
 whole fabric of pleasant hopes when she learned that 
 Winnie Caerlyon was beyond the need of any money 
 
144 ALL in the wild march morning. 
 
 bribe that she could offer her to become her patient little 
 reader and companion as of old. 
 
 “ Two hundred a year! Why, you are quite a little heiress, 
 Winnie!” remarked the old lady, with a slightly-patronising 
 smile. “ And what are you going to 46 do with it?” 
 
 Winnie never dreamt of resenting the inquiry, although 
 the other listener at the work-table curled her haughty lip 
 as she went on assiduously with her gold-fringing. 
 
 “ Oh, there will be plenty of use found for it, Madam, or 
 three times as much, in such a house as ours!” she remarked, 
 cheerfully. 
 
 “ And are you going to give it all to your step-mother and 
 her seven children?” Madam demanded, sharply. 
 
 “ I am going to share it all, of course, Madam, to the last 
 sixpence, with them,” replied Winnie, so quietly, and with 
 such simple earnestness and dignity, that Madam Vivian felt 
 deeply rebuked. 
 
 “ Oh, certainly—they are your father’s children,” Madam 
 said, hastily; “ you were always extremely fond of them, 
 Winnie, I believe. Ah, there is half-past nine chiming.” 
 
 “And it is quite time for me to return home,” remarked 
 Winnie, rising from the low ottoman at Madam’s side. 
 
 She understood the arching of Madam’s eye-brows, and the 
 change of tone that always meant dismissal from her pres¬ 
 ence in the old days. She accepted it quietly and meekly, ‘ 
 <is merely a return to the old days. Her money made no 
 difference to a great lady like Madam Vivian—her handsome, 
 high-bred, wealthy patroness, whom she had been accustomed 
 to describe with such loving pride to her American friends 
 in Winston as the very personification of the blue-blooded 
 English aristocracy whom they had never seen. 
 
 The young girl’s money, however, had made a difference. 
 Winnie Caerlyon, come back as poor as she went, hoping and 
 willing to be taken up again by Madam Vivian, petted, 
 blamed, indulged, tyrannised over, treated as a friend and as 
 an intruder, as an equal and a servant, whichever way the 
 haughty old lady’s capricious moods inclined her, would have 
 been, at least on this evening, as demonstratively welcomed 
 as if she were a ^returned prodigal. If she had only cried 
 and begged Madam to forgive her for going away without 
 her knowledge or permission, she would have put her arms 
 around her and kissed her; but this cheerful, gentle, dignified 
 young lady, with her moneyed independence, and a certain 
 pleasant independence of word and manner, who needed 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MAKCH MOENING. 
 
 145 
 
 nothing from her, and had but come to visit her from an old 
 kindly remembrance—all this displeased and disappointed 
 the poor old lady in her peevish loneliness, and she could not 
 help showing it. Therefore she dismissed the girlish pres¬ 
 ence that was better than sunlight on the dreary waste of her 
 friendless life, "and would not even say to her, “ Come soon 
 again to me; I have missed you sorely.” 
 
 “ Good night! Good night, my dear! ” she said, extending 
 her Little, plump, satin-fair hand, with the icy brilliance of 
 its splendid rose-diamonds restlessly scintillating, the object 
 of Winnie’s most fervent admiration and admiring memory 
 through nearly eleven years. 
 
 There was a rustle of sweeping silken robes as she bade 
 Winnie the coldly-polite farewell that she might have be¬ 
 stowed as well after an absence of seven days as seven years, 
 and from the depths of the chair by the distant table, where 
 she had been partially hidden, Lady Mountrevor’s tall im¬ 
 perial figure moved forward, and stood at the opposite side 
 of Madam Vivian’s chair. 
 
 Winnie had not ventured on more than a swift passing 
 glance when she entered the room; now her eyes fell, and 
 the shy colour rose in her cheeks beneath the steady light of 
 the proud cold gaze bent on her slender, short girlish figure. 
 
 Madam glanced up in some surprise. 
 
 “ Ah—you have not met my little friend, Miss Winnie 
 Caerlyon, before, I think, Lady Mountrevor?” 
 
 “No,” said Lady Mountrevor; and Winnie, looking up 
 hastily, encountered the haughty penetrating eyes that had 
 indeed once before overwhelmed her in girlish shame and 
 mortification. 
 
 The stately, handsome peeress, Lady Mountrevor, and the 
 beautiful young lady, Mildred Tredennick, were one ! 
 
 “ No,” Lady Mountrevor repeated gravely, but with a 
 peculiar marked courtesy which rather contrasted with 
 Madam’s bearing toward her former protegee^ “I have never 
 had the pleasure of meeting Miss Caerlyon—I have heard of 
 her very often.” 
 
 “ I saw you, though, several times, Lady Mountrevor,” 
 said Winnie, smiling, “ before I went to America—when you 
 were staying here eight years ago.” 
 
 “ Oh! that was before my niece became Lady Mountrevor, 
 Winnie,” explained Madam. 
 
 “Yes—that was before I became Lady Mountrevor,” said 
 Madam’s niece, with a strange smile. “ My cousin Stephen 
 
 . 10 
 
146 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 Tredennick was here then also—yon knew Stephen Treden¬ 
 nick, Miss Caerlyon? ” 
 
 “A little—I met -him two or three times,” answered 
 Winnie. 
 
 She turned away her head with a pretence at pushing a 
 chair farther off, but Lady Mountrevor detected the quick 
 troubled change that came over the fair placid face. 
 
 “ She remembers him still,” she said within herself; “ she 
 can be faithful to a memory. These frail, weak, gentle-look¬ 
 ing beings have wonderful powers of endurance,” she mused, 
 with the sting of bitter memories rising up within her. 
 
 “ Good-night, Miss Caerlyon,” she said, in her accustomed 
 grave, cold voice, with, however, a slight smile of cordiality 
 in the proud steady eyes that scanned the girl’s pure, earnest 
 face so closely. “ I trust we shall see you soon again—shall 
 we not, aunt? ” 
 
 Madam had no resource but to yield as graciously as she 
 might. 
 
 “ I hope so,” said she, unbending a little. “ Will you come 
 and dine with Lady Mountrevor and myself on Monday, 
 Winifred? ” 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 “ It’s an awful evening, Winnie; but of course one 
 wouldn’t like to refuse an invitation like this. There’ll be 
 lots of grand people there, I suppose, and it’s very polite of 
 Madam to ask ’e so soon to dinner after ’e came home.” 
 
 Poor Mrs. Caerlyon, like other virulent democrats, was 
 easily soothed into complaisant admiration of the aristocrats 
 by a little flattering attention. 
 
 “ It is,” assented Winnie quietly ; but at the same time an 
 intuitive knowledge possessed her that the note—written 
 with scented violet ink on coroneted paper—dashed off in 
 Lady Mountrevor’s careless flowing penmanship, had also its 
 sole origin in Lady Mountrevor’s courteous consideration. 
 
 The request that she would put off her visit on Monday, 
 and come on Wednesday instead, when they were to have a 
 few friends whom she might like to meet, purported to be 
 from Madam Vivian certainly; but Winnie, with all her loyal 
 love to her stately old friend, could not quite reconcile it to 
 herself as having been, at all events, from her dictation. 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 147 
 
 “ Though why should Lady Mountrevor take any particu¬ 
 lar notice of me?” she pondered. “ She is a grand, beautiful, 
 high-bred lady; but I should never have expected her to 
 think twice of me.” 
 
 And Winnie shook her head in unconscious earnestness at 
 its reflection in the glass, wherein she saw it crowned with 
 great braids and masses of tiny curls of lustrous golden 
 brown, with a spray of half-blown white roses and buds 
 fastened at the side—for Winnie was dressing for the dinner¬ 
 party at Roseworthy, and all Winnie’s toilette was under¬ 
 going inspection by at least half-a-dozen of Winnie’s brothers 
 and sisters, who, their eyes full of wonder and delight, were 
 gathered into the little crowded bed-room, bestowing them¬ 
 selves on beds and chairs, and the floor—anywhere, so that 
 they could get a good look at “sister Winnie.” 
 
 “ Winnie has black veils—black-lace veils all over her 
 beautiful silk gown!” Johnnie whispered in an awe-stricken 
 voice to Tommy. 
 
 “That’s not veils—that’s gennydean and net—ain’t it, 
 Sarah?” asked Louie, with much contempt for masculine 
 ignorance. “You don’t know, Johnny. You didn’t see 
 sister’s necklace either, nor her bracelets, nor her slippers* all 
 made of satin—real satin!” 
 
 Both Johnnie and Tommy joined in a sarcastic “guffaw” 
 at this last announcement. 
 
 “ They’ll stick in the mud, then!” cried Tommy. “ Satin’ll 
 not keep out much water—and the road’s running like a mill- 
 stream! ” 
 
 Sarah Matilda, from her post at the dressing-table as a. lov¬ 
 ing but most inefficient tire-woman, looked round with a 
 grand and lofty rebuke. 
 
 “ A lady always goes to a party in a covered carriage,” she 
 said to the abashed boys. “ Sister is going in Madam Viv¬ 
 ian’s carriage;” and beneath the weight of the grandeur of 
 this announcement the boys sank into silence, watching their 
 sister’s adorning with mingled amazement and fascination. 
 
 It was the first time that they had ever seen anything like 
 it in their lives—the spectacle of a lady robed in silk and 
 gauzy black, with a white, bare neck adorned by a necklet of 
 flashing jet, bare arms gleaming pearly-white against the soft 
 blackness of her flowing robes—adorned with bracelets, roses 
 in her hair, and her feet shod with black satin. It was an 
 event as unprecedented as undreamed of in the monotonous 
 y^ars of that poverty-hedged, meagre household. Their sis- 
 
148 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 ter’s simple attire was regal magnificence in the children’s 
 eyes; and “ sister Winnie” herself, in virtue of her assump¬ 
 tion of it, had become once more the mythical, far-off lady in 
 North America, who sent bank-drafts and beautiful presents 
 —she could not be one of them, dressed in silk and lace, and 
 wearing jewels and white roses, with an intangible perfume 
 of heliotrope softly emanating from the gauzy glistening folds 
 of her lovely black dress! 
 
 Somewhat of this was in the wistful little faces that hur¬ 
 ried down the stairs after Winnie to see her get into the 
 carriage—a real carriage, with two splendid horses, and the 
 coachman in livery waiting at the porch! They crowded round 
 timidly and respectfully, with eager eyes and parted lips, 
 watching Winnie putting on a large warm shawl. Her foot 
 was on the step to go in, when she turned back—how often 
 the children recalled it—how well they remembered it for 
 years afterwards!—and kissed them fondly all round. 
 
 “ My darlings, go in out of the cold,” she said, with tears 
 in her loving eyes because of those longing, wistful, timidly- 
 admiring ones watching her—“go in, and we will have a 
 beautiful party of our own, when we go into our new house 
 —please goodness!” 
 
 When the carriage-door was shut, and “ sister Winnie’s ” 
 bright, gentle face, looking so lovely with its bright colour 
 and sparkling eyes, was lost to view, the children ran back 
 to the fireside, singing and dancing with glee. “ Sister 
 Winnie’’was really at home—at home forever and always! 
 “ Sister Winnie ” was at home—and all the pleasant future 
 and its promised ddliglits, which they should share with her, 
 appeared close at hand! 
 
 ******* 
 
 “ It’s a terrible night, Miss Winnie,” old Llanyon said, as 
 he received her, with a certain kindly gratification beaming 
 in his withered old face—“a terrible night, indeed! ” He 
 lowered his voice a little—“ Madam’s fretting a good deal, 
 Miss Winnie. You know the Captain is coming home in 
 about ten days or so, Madam Vivian believes, and she is think¬ 
 ing of this storm, Miss Winnie. Madam often feels like that 
 when Captain Stephen is—ahem! Madam’s maid is waiting 
 for you, Miss Winnie.” 
 
 With a total change of manner the old man ceased his 
 communication, and, with a stiffly decorous bow and wave of 
 his hand, consigned Winnie to Madam’s maid, standing a lit¬ 
 tle way off, in her silk flounces and gold chain and guipure 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING 
 
 149 
 
 lace cap—black-eyed Miss Trewhella, with her crafty eyes 
 grown craftier and harder, her smooth deferential manner 
 more like a badly-put-on mask than ever, her sallow skin 
 ever so much sallower. 
 
 “ How are you, Trewhella? ” said Winnie, even pleased to 
 meet her old enemy, and kindly shaking hands. 
 
 “ Pretty well, Miss Caerlyon—oh, thank you, Miss Caer- 
 ly 0 n —hem! Hope you’re quite well, Miss Caerlyon. You 
 look strong—so glad to see you look strong; better colour 
 than you used to have, Miss Caerlyon; healthier—reader, 
 you know—hem! ” 
 
 “ Poor Trewhella! ” said Winnie to herself, with a keen 
 sense of amusement that would have provoked that injured 
 lady even more deeply could she have known it—“ she is try¬ 
 ing to insinuate that I have rouged very highly, as she used 
 to tell me long ago that she did not admire the queer yellow¬ 
 ish shade that was in my hair.” 
 
 Indeed Miss Trewhella, with knitted brows and formally- 
 smiling mouth, glancing at the burnished braids and silky 
 curls, looked as if she would much like to insinuate that 
 Miss Caerlyon had bought a great quantity of false tresses, 
 and that they shone too much and were too abundant; for 
 Miss Winnie was altogether displeasing to Madam Vivian’s 
 genteel waiting-woman. 
 
 “ The idea,” she said, with much inward envious disturb¬ 
 ance, “ of her having upper skirts of net edged with blonde, 
 like her ladyship’s—over eight-and-sixpence-a-yard black gros 
 grain!” 
 
 She was absorbed in this cause of provocation, and Winnie 
 in trying to adjust her white crape tucker without any assist¬ 
 ance from the lady in quasi attendance, when a loud impa¬ 
 tient rattle of the door-handle startled both, and, before 
 Winnie could utter a word of permission to enter, the bolt 
 was shot back, and the door itself flung against the wall, and 
 a young gentleman of some four or five years of age made 
 an abrupt and unceremonious entrance, rushing towards 
 Winnie with a violent clutch at her fragile flounces of net 
 and gossamer, and imperiously demanding— 
 
 “Who are you?” 
 
 “Who is this little boy?” asked Winnie, striving to rescue 
 her attire. 
 
 Miss Trewhella drew her chin back, and her head up, and 
 dropped her eyelids, with a withering air of reproof. 
 
 “ That is Lord Eustace Mountrevor, Miss Caerlyon,” she 
 
150 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 said, with a pitying smile and a cough—“ a lovely boy! 
 Were you looking for me, Lord Eustace, darling?” she in¬ 
 quired, with melting pathos and sweetness, bending down as 
 if she were going to worship the small idol in the crimson 
 velvet" tunic. 
 
 *No, I wasn’t!” retorted his lordship, aiming a kick at 
 his devotee. “Who are you? Who are you, I say?” he 
 repeated, with an impatient dance on Winnie’s silk train, 
 and another clutch at her gauzy skirts. 
 
 “My dear child,” said Winnie, laying violent hold of 
 “ his'lordship,” in her turn, unclasping his hands, and keep¬ 
 ing him firmly at arm’s length in spite of his struggles, 
 while Miss Trewhella’s eyes dilated and she fairly snorted 
 with surprise and indignation, “ stand quietly and speak like 
 a young gentleman if you want me to answer you.” 
 
 “No, I sha’n’t! No, I sha’n’t! Let me go, you!” howled 
 “his lordship,” kicking vigorously all round. “Jeanneton 
 —Jeanneton, I say! Je vous demande , Jeanneton!” 
 
 “ Miss Caerlyon,” said Miss Trewhella, quite in a spasm of 
 offended dignity, “ don’t hold Lord Eustace in that manner, 
 if you please. Come to me, Lord Eustace, my sweet love!” 
 
 But Lord Eustace, knowing perfectly well, with a child’s 
 unfailing acute perception, that beneath all Miss Trewhella’s 
 sugared tenderness of words she entertained as much real 
 love for him as for a monkey, viper, or toad, or any other 
 noxious and troublesome little creature, repelled her caresses 
 with even more threatening demonstrations. 
 
 “Are you Lady Mountrevor’s little son?” asked Winnie, 
 gently, looking earnestly and wistfully at the child. His 
 existence, seen in the light of that far-off past, seemed so 
 strange—that far-off time over the remembrance of which 
 the years had drawn a gentle veiling to soothe the unforgot¬ 
 ten sorrow, when she had shrunk before his beautiful young 
 mother, in the proud loveliness of her early girlhood, as her 
 joyous, successful rival. 
 
 Why had she not been such indeed? Winnie never could 
 tell. She had not married the cousin who loved and admired 
 her so, whose plighted wife she had been. Why? The 
 story of Mildred Tredennick’s grand alliance, the coronet she 
 had won for her haughty brow, the title of “ my lady,” and 
 the possession of the Mountrevor rent-roll, formed answer 
 sufficient to Winifred’s simple, romantic nature; and her 
 fond, constant heart had repressed even its own silent relief 
 and gratification at the unexpected news which reached her 
 
ALL IN THE WILL MARCH MORNING. 
 
 15 ! 
 
 across the Atlantic, for did it not tell of pain and disappoint¬ 
 ment to him who, as she believed, had loved proud Mildred 
 Tredennick? And, besides, that fondly-^cherished growth of 
 her own wild folly had been too severely crushed ever to 
 bloom again. What was it to Winnie Caerlyon whether 
 Tredennick of Tregarthen lived wedded or unwedded? 
 
 ' “I am!” cried the young gentleman, with the air of a 
 small emperor. “ My father is Henry, Lord Mountrevor, and 
 my mother’s Mildred, Lady Mountrevor, and I am Eustace, 
 Lord Mountrevor; and I am-” 
 
 “ Decidedly an egotistical and vulgar little boy!” spoke his 
 mother’s 'clear, haughty tones behind him from the open 
 doorway. “Miss Caerlyon, I beg to apologise for my rude 
 child. What brings you here, sir, and where is your nurse?” 
 
 She spoke in displeasure, without one indulgent, motherly 
 smile or caress, and, with a feeling of surprise and dismay, 
 Winnie watched her firm white hand grasp the child’s shoul¬ 
 der tightly, push him before her out of the room, and shut 
 the door. 
 
 “Between Lord Mountrevor and his French nurse the boy 
 has completely become that domestic nuisance, a spoiled 
 pet!” she said, with a careless laugh. 
 
 “ Ah, poor dear little fellow, he was only asking me who I 
 was!” extenuated Winnie, whose tender maternal heart this 
 little episode had troubled; causing her at the same time 
 a quick, intangible sensation of wonder and pity for the 
 young mother whose child was evidently so small a source 
 of either pride or pleasure. 
 
 “I think he was giving you a good deal of gratuitous 
 information beside,” replied Lady Mountrevor, in the same 
 tone. “ I cannot imagine who teaches the child to speak in 
 that detestably parvenu style,” and the light of displeasure in 
 her ladyship’s flashing eyes shone right on Miss Trewhella’s 
 moonshiny, deferential simper, and extinguished it on the 
 spot. “Will you come into my sitting-room until it is time 
 for the guests to arrive? ” Lady Mountrevor said, courteously. 
 “I fear they will be a very limited number on such a terrible 
 • night as this. This way, Miss Caerlyon. The room is 
 warmer and more comfortable than the drawing-room just 
 now, I think,” and she pushed aside one of the heavy velvet 
 portieres that hung before the doors of* all the principal 
 rooms in Roseworthy, and disclosed her suite of apartments 
 —four in all—communicating with each other—beautiful 
 nests of rooms, all blue-velvet pile and amber-silk hangings, 
 
152 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 redolent of exotic perfumes from rare foreign plants in fall 
 marble jardinieres and flowers in a Dresden lily vase, and 
 aglow with the warm light of ruddy fires on the marble 
 hearths. 
 
 Miss Trewhella paused to watch, scarcely crediting her 
 powers of vision, until she saw Winnie’s black dress glide in, 
 followed by the haughty peeress in her long robe of glisten¬ 
 ing snow-white silks, without a touch of colour to relieve 
 their frosty, wraith-like purity, save the massive bands of 
 dead gold and emeralds clasped on her waxen arms, and the 
 great locket hanging from the black velvet ribbon around her 
 throat—the splendid locket with its magnificent emeralds, 
 which her ladyship wore so constantly. And then the velvet 
 curtain closed, and hid the tete-a-tete interview between Win¬ 
 nie and Lady Mountrevor from Miss Trewhella’s jealous gaze. 
 
 “What’s up now?” she muttered, perturbedly. “Her 
 high and mighty ladyship a-taking of her up so! I thought 
 she wouldn’t notice her no more than if it was Jeanneton.” 
 
 To Miss Trewhella the good fortune that fell to others 
 was looked upon as a positive loss to herself; all that was 
 not for her was against her in her estimation; and it was 
 with a martyred sense of unredressed wrongs that the in¬ 
 jured lady betook herself to her mistress’s toilette. 
 
 “ Reely, Madam, you’ll be delighted when you see Miss 
 Winnie,” she commenced, with so many smiles and such 
 excessive amiability that her mistress at once, with inward 
 impatience, perceived her abigail to be in one of her worst 
 moods—“ she’s dressed up so stylish, reely, and in such 
 spirits! No wonder!” 
 
 “Why?” Madam asked. 
 
 “Oh, Madam.no wonder! Why, everything! Your invit¬ 
 ing of her here so beautiful and kind, and sending your 
 carriage and horses for her. Michael’s wet through and 
 through going up that terrible hill at Tolgooth in the torrents 
 of rain, and the carriage’s one patch of yellow mud. You 
 never saw the like, Madam!” 
 
 “ Do hurry with that plait! ” interrupted her mistress, 
 shortly. 
 
 “ And her ladyship making so much of her, too ! ” pursued 
 Miss TrewL.ella, satisfied with the irritating effect of her first 
 piece of iniormation, and quitting it for another, productive 
 of possibly greater annoyance. “ Reely, I was surprised— 
 quite as if Miss Winnie was her sister—a great lady like 
 Lady Moun: revor! Such condescension, you know, Madam!” 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 153 
 
 “ Her ladyship has a great many fancies,” said Madam, 
 
 . coldly. “ She has no reason to feel any peculiarly deep 
 
 f interest in Miss Caerlyon that I am aware of.” 
 
 “ Ah, well, of course it’s a very nice thing for poor Miss 
 Winnie to have Lady Mountrevor notice her like that! ” the 
 amiable waiting-woman continued, smiling meditatively over 
 her mistress’s violet dinner-dress. “Lady Mountrevor has 
 just the same ways as her cousin, Captain Tredennick, hasn’t 
 she, Madam? Takes up fancies, and likings and disliking** 
 for people, just like Captain Stephen used”—she was putting 
 the last touches to Madam’s velvet drapery, and reserved her 
 trump card to the last. “It’s a terrible stormy night,” she 
 murmured plaintively, as if partly to herself. “ I do hope 
 it’ll all pass away, and the fine weather come before Captain 
 Stephen comes into the Channel. Madam, is it a week or ten 
 days now until we may expect him? Miss Winnie was 
 reckoning the time, but I forget what she said.” 
 
 “Miss Winnie!” Madam ejaculated, involuntarily, with an 
 angry start and contraction of her eyebrows. “ Miss Winnie 
 knows nothing about the probable time of Captain Treden- 
 nick’s return, further than she might learn from common 
 report,” she continued, more quietly and carelessly. You 
 must have been mistaken, Trewhella.” 
 
 “Oh, I dare say — perhaps I was, Madam,” Miss Trewhella 
 returned, sneering as broadly as she dared. 
 
 “ Yes; and you think I was mistaken, too, don’t you? Oh, 
 yes; and you’re not vexed at all? Oh, dear, no!” Miss Tre¬ 
 whella muttered to herself malevolently, as she stood to 
 watch her stately mistress descending the wide marble stair¬ 
 case with slow, deliberate steps, looking so like a noble old 
 white-haired queen in her purple velvet train, and with a jet 
 tiara on her silvery rippled tresses. “ You’re too proud, and 
 grand, and haughty to see what’s under your eyes; but it’s 
 not for want of me showing of it to you,” she went on, eyeing 
 Lady Mountrevor’s drawn portiere venomously, and debating 
 whether she dared venture inside it with her ear to the key¬ 
 hole for a few minutes. “You’re so grand, and every one 
 belonging to you so high and mighty, you think she’d never 
 .dare! And she wouldn’t, either—oh, no, not at all! And 
 you wouldn’t have had for your niece, seven years ago, the 
 Coastguardman’s daughter, Mrs. Stephen Tredennick, only 
 for me a-putting of you up to things, and a-telling of you 
 what he meant—a great soft dolt, with his paying visits and 
 caking walks, and twenty pound presents—oh dear, no! And 
 
154 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 she haven’t been to America for nothing, with her painted 
 cheeks and heaps of curls, like one of the girls in the stairy- 
 scope pictures, running over here fetching and carrying for 
 Madam as soon as ever she heard tell of the Captain coming 
 home—such meanness!” the gentle soliloquist said, with a 
 writhe of her upper lip that completely uncovered one sharp 
 yellow eye-tooth to the roots. “ And my lady, with her 
 notions, a-taking of her up, and making much of her, just for 
 J^er contrary ways! I’d let her know what Miss Winnie was 
 planning, so meek and mild, if I dared to speak to her at all 
 —only one might as well go catch a nettle or a hot flat-iron 
 as meddle with my Lady Mountrevor when she didn’t like.” 
 
 But, notwithstanding this alarming comparison of Lady 
 Mountrevor’s powers of punishing unrelished interference, as 
 the minutes slipped by and that blue velvet curtain remained 
 provokingly immovable, Miss Trewhella found it impossible 
 to resist one fleeting gratification of her angry curiosity, and 
 noiselessly she slipped inside the folds. 
 
 Unhappily the reward for her painful pursuit of knowl¬ 
 edge, demanding the doubling of her angular frame nearly in 
 two, keeping the keyhole uncovered and her ear disagreeably 
 squeezed against the orifice, was scanty and unsatisfactory, 
 resulting, in point of fact, simply in “ white roses a cluster 
 of waxen-white blossoms and drooping buds. Costly, fra¬ 
 grant, carefully-nurtured green-house treasures they were, 
 nestled amidst dark green leaves and mossy stems, in the 
 slender primrose-hued lily vase. 
 
 As Lady Mountrevor and Winnie rose to leave the room 
 the former noticed her comuanion’s silent gaze of admiration 
 at the flowers. 
 
 “ Do you like flowers, Miss Caerlyon?” she asked. 
 
 “Very much,” said Winnie, her eyes fixed on the roses as 
 she turned reluctantly away—“ and those are so beautiful.” 
 
 Lady Mountrevor drew away from the table where the 
 vase stood, with a slightly embarrassed air. 
 
 “ Come downstairs with me, and you shall choose from 
 the greenhouse,” she said, hurriedly; “ you will pardon my 
 not offering you those. I—I never wear them—they are so 
 fragile, and fade so soon, you know.” 
 
 “ Oh, Lady Mountrevor, how could you think that I wished 
 for the flowers from your vase!” exclaimed Winnie, in sur¬ 
 prise. “ They are indeed too fragile and beautiful to be 
 crushed and withered in one’s dress or hair.” 
 
 “And yet you wear them!” her ladyship said, with a 
 
7 , / : : 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 155 
 
 slight smile, glancing at the spray on Winnie’s brown tresses. 
 “ Oh, those are French cambric and silk things,” returned 
 Winnie, slightingly; “ but these are lovely soft pure white 
 
 real ones. Besides-” She paused with a timid flush and 
 
 glance at Lady Mountrevor’s cold calm face. 
 
 “ Besides what?” There was no trace of mockery in her 
 unsmiling eyes—no sarcasm in the compressed lines around 
 her chiseled lips. 
 
 “ Besides*,” said Winnie, a little unsteadily, “ I have asso-, 
 ciations—memories—about white roses that make them seem 
 almost sacred flowers to me. I never could make an adorn¬ 
 ment of those lovely living buds and half-unclosed petals.” 
 
 She paused half fearfully again. Madam Vivian would 
 have received this confession with such a delicate keen-edged 
 ridicule—how was it that haughty Mildred, Lady Mountrevor, 
 was so much quicker to comprehend, so much more quietly 
 sympathizing, even in her proud reserve? 
 
 “Have you?” she said, and the darkness of a shadow 
 seemed to overspread her white polished brow and dark bril¬ 
 liant eyes. She turned partly aside, and Winnie saw her 
 long fair jeweled fingers close and tighten convulsively for 
 an instant around the emerald locket resting on her neck. 
 “ So have I.” 
 
 The words seemed to escape from her lips without her 
 knowledge and Winnie half doubted if they were meant for 
 her ear. 
 
 “Ah,” remarked Winnie, with a sigh, as they left the 
 room together, “ my association with them is connected with 
 a grave—a lonely grave, far away.” 
 
 And, as she sadly spoke, the white roses seemed to magic¬ 
 ally waft the memory of that far-off lonely grave on their 
 sweet dying breath, the rush and sway of the wintry storm 
 sweeping around the old Cornish mansion seemed to re-echo 
 softly in the murmuring of thick-clothed elm-boughs in the 
 scented summer morning breeze, and the still warm radiance 
 of the wide lamplit hall and marble staircase changed to the 
 glowing sunlight in that sheltered nook where the daisies 
 bloomed and the dewy roses twined their wreathing stems, 
 and where the morning rays, golden and bright—-ah, so 
 bright, so glad, so sparkling!—fell on the long polished oak 
 coffin and its dazzling plate enriched with white blossoms as 
 it was lowered swiftly and surely into the darksome grave. 
 
 “ With a grave—a grave far away!” Lady Mildred paused 
 suddenly, and even amidst her confused surprise Winnie 
 
156 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 noticed how the pale lips parted widely and a wild eager 
 look blazed in the proud dark eyes. “ So is mine!” she 
 whispered, hoarsely, the wild eagerness of her gaze fading 
 into one of far-away dreary blankness. 
 
 Another moment, however, and, ere Winnie could ques¬ 
 tion or scarcely comprehend, her companion had passed the 
 threshold of the drawing-room, and entered the presence of 
 smiling well-dressed dinner guests and Madam Vivian, and 
 Mildred, Lady Mountrevor, was the courteous, unruffled, 
 stately peeress once more. 
 
 The soul of the amiable Miss Trewhella might have been 
 illumined by the gladness of content could she but have 
 known how effectually her malicious hints had aided in spoil¬ 
 ing poor Winnie Caerlyon’s enjoyment of her first dinner 
 party at Roseworthy House. All unconscious as she was of 
 any cause for such an effect, she could not but perceive that 
 Madam Vivian’s chill courtesy and smilingly polite indiffer¬ 
 ence to her presence was not the reception she would have 
 been favoured with had she been welcome. Any doubts she 
 might have had as to the author of the invitation were at an 
 end before the evening was half over. 
 
 “ I did wrong to accept it—I did wrong to come at all,” 
 Winnie thought, with keen pain and mortification. “ Why 
 did Lady Mountrevor ask me? Madam did not wish it, I 
 see quite plainly. I wish the evening were over—I wish I 
 were home again!” she said, earnestly, with the tears rush¬ 
 ing to her eyes, as she withdrew to a distance from the 
 guests, who seemed quite occupied in each other and their 
 hostesses. 
 
 There were but three ladies who had ventured out, through 
 darkness and tempest, to accept the invitation of Madam of 
 Roseworthy, and, whilst the two gentlemen finished the ’4V 
 port in the dining-room, the doctor’s wife and the minister’s 
 wife and daughter were in a delighted state of admiration 
 over “ dear Lady Mountrevor’s” embroidery, and “ dear Lady 
 Mountrevor’s” portfolio of foreign sketches, in the drawing¬ 
 room. 
 
 “Miss Caerlyon !” Madam called, sharply. 
 
 “Well, Madam?” said Winnie, rather startled, and drawing 
 back from the window, where she had been drearily looking 
 out through the parted curtains at the stormy sky, with the 
 black clouds scudding wildly athwart its gloomy arch, and 
 listening to the furious roar of the breakers, borne on each 
 hissing gust of wind, out there by Tregarthen Head, the 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 157 
 
 ghastly gleam of the white fury of which was dimly visible 
 through the murky night. 
 
 “ Is the feminine element in our company too preponderat¬ 
 ing to be pleasing to you?” Madam demanded with a cold 
 smile. “ Perhaps you will kindly enliven us with a little 
 music?” 
 
 The request was made in the tone of a command, and 
 Winnie felt it to be so. 
 
 “ With pleasure,” she said, formally and gravely, though 
 she coloured deeply $s she moved at once to the piano; “I 
 was only looking out at the storm, and thinking of it.” 
 
 But this slight apologetic remark touched right on the 
 point of the nervous anxiety which had been secretly filling 
 Madam Vivian’s heart with restless irritable pain. 
 
 44 Ah,” she rejoined, shortly, and almost brusquely, 44 you 
 ought to feel very thankful that no one dear to you, or 
 belonging to you, is tossing on the stormy water to-night.” 
 
 Winnie made no reply; and, sitting down to the instru¬ 
 ment, her fingers first softly touched a prelude, and then 
 glided into a rippling fantasia, an old cherished favourite, 
 learned years before on the piano that was her old aunt’s gift 
 —it made her think of sitting by the shore in Tolgooth Bay, 
 and hearing the waves around Tregartlien Reef, she said, to 
 Miss Sarah Whitney’s disgust at the girl’s faithful love for 
 her comfortless English home. 
 
 It was called 44 Sea Songs,” and the opening ripple and rush¬ 
 ing rhythmical beat of a summer’s sea-waves changed into 
 the passionate sobbing and wailing of a gathering tempest. 
 There was the siren’s treacherous song in each deceitful pause 
 and lull, and then the swift-rushing storm broke. The siren’s 
 plaintive song arose again—it might have been the dirge of 
 drowned mariners, so softly and sweetly mingled the plaintive 
 tender melody with the ripple of the waves as they subsided 
 to summer calm once more. 
 
 44 Thank you, Miss Caerlyon; you play with great expres¬ 
 sion,” Lady Mountrevor said. 
 
 u Yes, indeed!” 44 Charming!” 44 So sweet!” broke from 
 the lips of Lady Mountrevor’s admirers. 
 
 44 Yes, very sweet, but very sad,” Madam observed, irrita¬ 
 bly. “It is not a particularly cheering night outside. Can 
 you not give us something gayer, my dear? That is as mel¬ 
 ancholy as the 4 Dead March.’ ” 
 
 44 Yes, indeed—very melancholy—so sweet, but melan¬ 
 choly,” the lady guests re-echoed again. 
 
158 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 “The c Dead March in Saul 5 is a grand piece of music, 
 Madam,” the Doctor observed, sententiously—he had just 
 entered with the minister, and heard Madam’s concluding 
 words—“a grand piece! And then the associations—our 
 brave soldiers, the muffled drums, the riderless horse—so 
 touching—ahem!—a grand piece of music—never could hear 
 it unaffected, Madam.” 
 
 “Perhaps you would like to hear it now, Doctor?” Madam 
 said, with a rather vexed smile. “ I am sure Miss Caerlyon 
 will oblige you, it would just complete the effect of that 
 howling wind and roaring sea outside.” 
 
 “ I should, very much,” returnd the Doctor, pleasingly ob¬ 
 tuse to Madam’s clouded brow and his wife’s warning glance 
 and subdued cough—“ it is very long since I heard it—if 
 Miss Caerlyon will be kind enough.” 
 
 “ My dear, Madam does not like it; Madam would like 
 something gayer this wild stormy night, really,” his wife 
 said aloud, with a strong emphasis and a smiling frown, 
 which betokened an impending certainty of matrimonial 
 rebuke at a more convenient season. 
 
 “ Oh dear me, not at all,” Madam interposed, sharply, dis¬ 
 pleased at the subservience to her sentimental fancies, as it 
 seemed. “ If Doctor Lake has the slightest wish for that 
 particular piece of music, I can have no possible objection, 
 of course.” 
 
 “ I can not remember it without the music—it is so long 
 since I played it,” said Winnie, looking distressed. 
 
 “ You will find it amongst the old music on the lowest tier 
 of the study shelves,” said Madam, determinedly. . “ Take 
 Llanyon with you, Winnie, as the book is very large and 
 dusty.” 
 
 Doctor Lake apologised, feeling uncomfortably that he 
 was trespassing on the courtesy of his hostess. Mrs. Lake 
 apologised deeply and profusely, getting red in the face, and 
 darting wrathful glances at her spouse; but Madam was 
 smilingly obstinate in desiring the wished-for music to be 
 brought. 
 
 Large and dusty it undeniably was; but Winnie requested 
 no help to discover it, or carry it for her; and, as she stooped 
 over it to examine the titles on the time-yellowed pages by 
 the light of the one candle she carried, her ear caught the 
 soft rustle of a dress, and she saw, standing in the dim light 
 of the expiring coals in the grate, a tall figure in snowy 
 white. 
 
159 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 She dropped the book with an irrepressible cry of alarm, 
 and then saw that the candle-light shone on the silvery sheen 
 of Lady Mountrevor’s silken robe, and glowed in the liquid- 
 green hue of her splendid emerald ornaments. 
 
 “Did I startle you?” she said, with a slight smile. “ Have 
 you found the piece of music, dear?” 
 
 “Yes,” answered Winnie, with a sigh, and a quick shiver; 
 “ I wish Doctor Lake had not asked for it, though—I do not 
 want to play it to-night.” 
 
 “ Why? ” Lady Mildred asked, gently, taking both Winnie’s 
 hands in hers, and looking into the dark-gray troubled eyes. 
 
 She looked so like and so unlike Winnie’s last memory of 
 her, standing on that very spot on that wintry evening long 
 ago—with her bright, persuasive smile, her outstretched 
 hands, her tall, supple form in its imperial perfection of 
 beauty; but the gaiety was gone from the brilliant eyes, the 
 girlish bloom and dimpled softness from the statuesque 
 features—those long, slender fingers ’wore the badge of her 
 changed estate, and Lady Mountrevor, though more coldly 
 beautiful, had lost the chief charm of Mildred Tredennick. 
 
 She stood there—the proud, beautiful young lady—her 
 bearing kinder, more winningly gracious than Winnie could 
 have imagined possible, as exhibited towards herself; but 
 where was the other—he who had stood there, pleading, in 
 love with that false, fair woman? Where was Stephen Tre¬ 
 dennick? On the waste of the wild ocean, this dark, dread¬ 
 ful night, whilst Mildred Tredennick stood there smiling 
 calmly, wearing the wedding-ring of a peer of the realm ! 
 
 “Because,” said Winnie, the quick tears glistening on her 
 dark lashes, and her emotional face paling from the fast 
 throbbing of her heart, as she looked steadfastly into Lady 
 Mountrevor’s inscrutable eyes—“ because it is a death dirge, 
 and out there, amongst the wild waves, there are drowning 
 sailors’ cries as they go to their untimely doom—shrieking 
 for the help that will never come, whilst I play a funeral 
 march to please drawing-room guests! ” 
 
 If she had expected to'see the proud face blanch and droop 
 abashed before her passionate reproach, she was mistaken. 
 Lady Mountrevor’s features softened in a sad, thoughtful 
 look, and she sighed deeply as she looked out into the murky 
 darkness of the driving storm. 
 
 “ It is dreadful to think of,” she responded, returning 
 Winnie’s steadfast gaze; “but, as Madam said, there is no 
 
]60 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 one you love in danger of the darkness and the stormy 
 water.” 
 
 “ Yes, Lady Mountrevor,” Winnie Caerlyon corrected, with 
 her usual quiet, rigid truthfulness, “ there is one who is very 
 dear to me out in this night’s darkness on the stormy ocean.” 
 
 “ Indeed,” said Lady Mountrevor gently; “ then our grief 
 and anxiety are the same.” 
 
 “ Madam—Lady Mountrevor—I do not understand,” Win¬ 
 nie stammered, struggling with the crimson flush of shy 
 alarm that suffused all her face and neck. 
 
 “ I mean,” explained Lady Mountrevor, looking at the girl 
 with a half-sad, half-satirical smile, “ that you have equal 
 cause with me in mourning for your absent friend. I grieve 
 for my dear cousin’s possible danger amidst the tempest of 
 wind and waves, brave sailor as he is—for you know,” she 
 added, gravely, the piercing light of her keen brilliant eyes 
 penetrating into the depths of the girl’s true soul, “ Stej)hen 
 Tredennick is at sea to night.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 Towards morning the storm raged more wildly still. Not 
 for years, even on that rock-bound rugged coast, had there 
 been experienced so fierce and terrible a tempest, in wiiiich 
 were commingled pitchy darkness, blinding torrents of rain, 
 and a sweeping, howling gale that unroofed houses by the 
 score, blew down farm-buildings, uptore the old forest trees, 
 and lashed clear gurgling streamlets and peaceful-flowing 
 rivers into deep headlong floods, their swift currents all 
 stained with the ruin that they had wrought, and changed 
 the dark hissing waves around the Black Reef of Tregarthen 
 into an awful boiling cauldron, whitening miles of heaving 
 mountainous waves with ghastly winding-sheets of froth, and 
 flinging wild showers of spray with each shriek of the con¬ 
 tending elements sheer up the shelving and jagged face of 
 the dark precipice for hundreds of feet. 
 
 The clock had struck the first hour of the new day, and 
 sleeplessly Winnie Caerlyon tossed and turned, and finally 
 sat up partially dressed, tightening her warm shawl around 
 her, keeping a dreary vigil between her bedside and the win¬ 
 dow. It seemed to have an awful fascination for her, that 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 161 
 
 impenetrable darkness, lit up on the horizon with the weird 
 phosphorescent light of the crested billows, and filled with 
 the shrieking and sobbing of the dreadful voices of the 
 tempest. 
 
 “ I wish I could have gone home,” she muttpred, fever¬ 
 ishly; “ some one would have been sure to be awake 
 and stirring—father, or Sarah, or the boys; and the men 
 would have been out on the cliffs perhaps. I could have sat 
 up with some one to talk to at the fireside! I cannot rest 
 here—I am afraid of the storm. I never was afraid of a 
 storm before,” she added shivering closer to the black win¬ 
 dow-panes, and straining her aching eyes, “but I am afraid 
 of this. It is so awful—it sounds so full of destruction and 
 death. And oh, the lives—the lost lives! O Heaven have 
 mercy on those struggling with the merciless sea to-night!” 
 she cried, sobbing in kneeling prayer. “Would that I could 
 do something to succor and save! It is so dreadful to sit 
 here safe and sheltered, and to know that the yawning gulfs 
 of the great waves are swallowing brave men down, strug¬ 
 gling and crying, and thinking of their mothers and wives 
 and little children! Oh, poor men—poor women! And I 
 can do nothing!” 
 
 “They are all sleeping,” she broke out presently; the 
 womanly heart adding with passionate bitterness—“sleeping 
 whilst he is perhaps in peril. They do not distress them¬ 
 selves to wake although he may be in his death agony—they, 
 his nearest and dearest on earth! ” 
 
 But the one whom Winifred’s jealous l’ove wronged in 
 thought most deeply knew as little unbroken rest as she. 
 
 For another hour the storm shrieked and thundered, until 
 the old mansion, with its massive century-and-a-half founda¬ 
 tions, trembled like a living thing in fear. Winifred, in icy 
 cold and darkness—for the last ember of the fire had faded 
 —lay shivering, huddled in her shawl, watching the black 
 casement still, and longing for the dawn. Presently a light 
 hurried tap came to her door, and a voice called— 
 
 “Winnie—Winnie Caerlyon! ” 
 
 “Yes, yes! Who is it? ” she cried, starting up. 
 
 “ It is I—Lady Mountrevor,” and the door opened, and a 
 tall dark form came swiftly in. “Are you afraid—are you 
 afraid of the storm, Winnie?” she said, trembling with agi¬ 
 tation. “I am—I can not rest! I thought perhaps that you 
 were frightened too. Did I wake you? It is an awful night. 
 Are you in bed, Winnie? ” 
 
 11 
 
162 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 “ Yes, lying on the bed; I am half-dressed. What is it, 
 Lady Mountrevor?” Winnie asked, frightened and bewil¬ 
 dered, more by her visitant’s strange manner than anything 
 else. 
 
 “ Are you not cold? Is your fire out? How dreadful! ” 
 the latter exclaimed, in the same hurried, trembling way. 44 I 
 should go mad if I did not keep lights and fires blazing on 
 such a night as this! I suppose I have a bad conscience, 
 Winnie. Won’t you come down to my rooms? They are 
 more comfortable. Oh, do ! ” she called, impatiently. “ And 
 your window blinds undrawn ! Look at the darkness ! Oh, 
 do come down and keep me company, child! ” She caught 
 Winnie’s arm and almost dragged her off the bed. 
 
 “ Has anything frightened you—has anything happened?” 
 gasped Winnie, struggling to her feet, and groping for her 
 shoes. 44 I am afraid of the storm; the thundering of the 
 waves, and the dreadful screaming noise of the wind coming 
 in over the Head, kept me from closing my eyes.” 
 
 “ Dreadful! ” responded Lady Mountrevor, wildly. 44 It 
 sounds exactly like death-cries! I fell asleep—I wish I had 
 not. I dreamed—oh, I dreamed so awfully ! ” She was 
 hurrying Winnie along the corridor as she spoke, and Win¬ 
 nie felt her shudder like one in an ague. 44 What did you 
 play that 4 Dead March ’ for? That idiot, to make such a 
 musical selection! It has been ringing and beating in my 
 ears ever since—ever since, Winnie. I have been dreaming 
 of coffins, and of every one I ever knew and cared for being 
 laid in them—every one. I knew' all the dead faces. Of 
 all nights in the year to play the 4 Dead March! ’ Heavens! 
 I shall never want to hear it again! It seems beating all 
 around me—the air is full of it!” 
 
 44 Dear Lady Mountrevor,” said Winnie, terrified, 44 it is 
 but your imagination.” 
 
 44 My imagination!” she echoed. 44 1 wish that my imagi¬ 
 nation were not quite so vivid. And it is so long ago—seven 
 years now,” she muttered. 44 Why need it all come back to 
 me to-night? That 4 Dead March ’—that was it; they did not 
 play it then. No, no—it was a lonely funeral—a lonely 
 grave in a far-off land! Why did I think of it?” 
 
 The flood of cheerful radiance, the soft glare of the rose- 4 
 hued wax candles from her warm, pleasant rooms, streamed 
 out on the dark lobby, and shone on her face, wdiich was 
 white and stony, with distended glassy eyes, like those of a 
 sleep-walker. 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 163 
 
 “I am so sorry that I played it. I wish Doctor Lake had 
 not been stupid enough to ask for it. But for Madam bid¬ 
 ding' me, I should have refused,” Winnie said, earnestly, 
 trying to soothe Lady Mildred’s strange distraction. “ Shall 
 I read to you, Lady Mouritrevor? Perhaps if we read some 
 Psalms they might make us feel calmer. It is this terrible 
 storm which has shaken your nerves.” 
 
 “ Psalms!” Lady Mounti;evor repeated, with scornful im¬ 
 patience—“I could not listen to Psalms, child! Psalms, with 
 that ringing through my brain, and voices that are silent in 
 the grave for years calling my name, and dead faces looking 
 at me!” 
 
 She flung herself down before the bright fire, shrinking 
 against a pillowed couch, and stretching out her arms to the 
 blazing warmth, like one who was almost chilled to death. 
 
 “ Let me get you something— a glass of wine, or some cor¬ 
 dial or other—do, Lady Mountrevor—you look so cold and 
 ill!” urged Winnie, earnestly. 
 
 “Just as you like, since you are kind enough to propose 
 it,” she returned, listlessly. “ I did not wish to wake my 
 maid—servants are not always acceptable attendants, and the 
 girl is better asleep. There is wine in that little buffet at 
 the window, Miss Caerlyon—pray take a little yourself; and 
 there is some sal-volatile on the table in my dressing-room.” 
 
 Passing through the bedchamber to the dressing-room be¬ 
 yond, Winnie sought for the bottle of which Lady Mountre¬ 
 vor had spoken, and, seeing a small phial of essence of cloves 
 lying beside it in the little medicine casket, she secured it 
 also, and turned to leave the room, when a strong light, shin¬ 
 ing beneath a door leading to an adjoining apartment, and 
 the sound of voices arrested her steps—a woman’s voice, sub¬ 
 dued, but full of distress, mingling soothings and supplica¬ 
 tions, and a child’s fretful, half-articulated complaints. 
 
 Impulsively she went forward and opened the door. A 
 dark skinned, foreign-looking woman was kneeling on the 
 floor beside a child’s cot, and holding up before her a large 
 black-and-white crucifix, to which she was fervently praying, 
 mingling her tearful petitions with caressing words to the 
 child, who, partly awake, was staring at the white figure on 
 the ebony cross, with his little hands folded in imitation of 
 his nurse, peevishly questioning her and crying also. 
 
 “'Mon Dim!” she ejaculated, as Winnie came in, drop¬ 
 ping the crucifix, and rising to her feet. “Mademoiselle!” 
 
 “ I came in to know if anything is the matter. This 
 
164 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MAKCH MORNING. 
 
 dreadful storm has awoke you also, I perceive,” said Winnie, 
 kindly—“ I am sitting up with Lady Mountrevor.” 
 
 “Ah, Ciel, riest-ce pas terrible, marri selle?” the woman 
 cried, clasping her hands. “ I have been praying que le bon 
 Lieu eut pitie. Le petit ange,he was what you call full of 
 the terreur; and we were praying a notreSeigneur that the 
 tempest might soon finish.” 
 
 “ Pray on, then,” said Winnie, gently. “ Heaven always 
 hears believing prayer. But the child—he would be better 
 asleep, I think; or shall I take him to his mother for a little 
 while?” 
 
 “ Le petit ange” looked decidedly unprepared for rest or 
 repose, as he kicked and wriggled himself from beneath the 
 bed-clothes, looking as if he had made up his mind to endure 
 this sort of thing no longer. 
 
 “ Does miladi have the wish for the child, mam’selle?” the 
 nurse inquired, in doubtful astonishment, trying to restrain 
 her “bebe her “petit ange ,” from flinging himself head fore¬ 
 most on to the floor. 
 
 “Oh, I think she would; he would cheer herup,” said sim¬ 
 ple Winnie, who thought that the presence of a little child 
 must be a panacea for every distress of a mother’s breast. 
 
 “Had mam’selle not better make the inquiry of miladi 
 persisted the nurse. “ Miladi does not of usual permit lecher 
 petit to remain in her boudoir.” 
 
 “Very well,” said Winnie, leaving “the little angel” 
 stamping and howling at not being permitted to follow her. 
 
 “ The child!” cried Lady Mountrevor, raising her head in 
 displeased surprise. “ Why on earth should I trouble myself 
 with a cross, screaming child, Miss Caerlyon? I presume 
 that his nurse and my own maid are sufficient attendants for 
 the young gentleman without me.” 
 
 “Oh, I asked only because I thought he might cheer you 
 and distract nervous brooding feelings,” said Winnie, feeling 
 again that stunned sensation of pity and surprise at the lack 
 of maternal tenderness that seemed so unnatural to her. . 
 
 “ You have unfortunately mistaken me for a very domestic 
 character, I fear, Miss Caerlyon,” her ladyship observed, 
 coldly. “ I suppose you are astonished because I do not 
 delight in devoting myself to the amateur nursing of Lord 
 Mountrevor’s heir? Are you not?” she persisted, as Winnie, 
 shocked and distressed, remained silent. 
 
 “ I thought that a mother always liked to have her child 
 with her,” she said, at length. 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 165 
 
 “Well, then, in that case I am different from all other 
 mothers,” Lady Mountrevor retorted, recklessly. “ I never 
 wished to have a child — I never wished to see him when he 
 was born — I never cared for him—he never cared for me— 
 never will — why should the child? He’ll hate me when he 
 grows up, and wish me dead for the sake of my jointure 
 income.” 
 
 “ Lady Mountrevor, you cannot mean what you say ! ” 
 
 “ I do mean it! ” she cried, passionately. “Let me speak, 
 or I shall go mad to night! Let me speak: I can trust you— 
 I am sure I can. Stephen said that you were to be trusted — 
 poor, dear Stephen! I must get relief from all these madden¬ 
 ing thoughts. I think I am delirious. Give me that draught, 
 Winnie; there are such memories surging through my brain— 
 such fancies —such wild fancies! Winnie Caerlyon, may 1 trust 
 you? ” she asked catching eagerly at her hand. “ Can I trust 
 you to hear and see and be silent — for Stephen Tredennick’s 
 sake, if not for mine — to be silent hereafter and always— 
 never to say that you once saw her ladyship, Mildred Mount¬ 
 revor, transformed into a mad woman?” she said, with a 
 harsh, bitter laugh. 
 
 “ If I were base enough not to be silent for your own sake 
 now and for ever, Lady Mountrevor,” answered Winnie, 
 quietly, “ there would be little use in requesting my discre¬ 
 tion for Captain Tredennick’s sake. I have unfortunately 
 been the cause of arousing painful reminiscences and uncom¬ 
 fortable feelings more than once during the past evening,” 
 she pursued, gently and soothingly, to the woman whom, as 
 she believed, Stephen Tredennick had loved best on earth— 
 “ let me try to banish them.” 
 
 “Banish them? How you talk! Ah, Winnie, you can 
 not banish them!” Lady Mildred moaned drearily. “You 
 could not, unless you could give me the past over again— 
 unless you could raise the dead and give them to me once 
 more!” 
 
 “ The dead! ” repeated Winnie, sadly. 
 
 “ The dead,” Lady Mountrevor returned—and Winnie saw 
 the proud head bowed in weeping—perhaps she was the only 
 one who had so seen it since Mildred’s childhood—“ the dead 
 looking at me from the white faces of those roses over there, 
 tke dead presence surrounding me in their perfume, and the 
 burial of the dead whom I loved and lost sounding in my 
 ears in the muffled tramp of that ‘ Dead March’ ! ” 
 
 “It is so strange! ” Winnie Caerlyon whispered, and a cold, 
 
166 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MAEOH MORNING. 
 
 magnetic thrill of some impending terror or surprise chilled 
 her blood, while her voice was almost drowned in the noises 
 of the storm. 
 
 “No, it is not strange,” Lady Mildred said—“it is not 
 strange at all. Death is abroad to-night, Winnie, and the 
 spirits of our dead may be nearer to us than we imagine. 
 You spoke of it, too.” 
 
 “ Of what ? ” asked Winnie, trembling a little, as she drew 
 near to Lady Mildred’s side. 
 
 “ Of some one you had lost—of a lonely grave in a foreign 
 land. The white roses reminded you as well as me.” 
 
 “ Ah, yes,” said Winnie, willing to change the dreary cur¬ 
 rent of the unhappy young lady’s thoughts by some slight 
 variation in the conversation; “but then it was not one 
 whom I had known and loved, or who cared for me. It was 
 a stranger’s grave, dear Lady Mildred—a young English 
 stranger, who was buried in an old cemetery in Winston, 
 where I lived. I could not help going to his funeral, for I 
 was an English stranger too. I felt as if I had lost a friend, 
 though I had never seen him, poor young fellow; and I put 
 on mourning, and went and laid a few sprays of white roses 
 on his coffin. I can never look at them now—never smell 
 their perfume—without thinking of the poor young soldier’s 
 funeral on that lovely summer morning, and seeing the white 
 flowers around the name-plate as they laid him down in his 
 lonely grave. Poor young Albert Gardiner ! ” 
 
 “ What! ” The word broke in a shrill, hoarse cry from 
 Lady Mountrevor’s white, parched lips. 
 
 “ Albert Gardiner—a young ensign in the British Army,” 
 Winnie faltered, shrinking backward in involuntary terror; 
 “did you know him, Lady Mountrevor?” 
 
 “ Know him—know him !” She followed Winnie, clutch¬ 
 ing at her dress in frantic eagerness. “Tell me—tell me! 
 Did you never see him—never once before lie died? ” she 
 cried, piteously. “ Oh, Albert darling! Oh, Bertie, my dar¬ 
 ling boy! Albert dearest! A lonely grave in a foreign land! 
 This was what was coming; this was what I dreamed of him 
 —dreamed of him lying in his coffin! ” 
 
 “Who was he?” Winnie said, overwhelmed with bewild¬ 
 ered fear. “ Lady Mountrevor, who was Albert Gardiner? ” 
 
 The question seemed to recall her to herself. She 
 loosed her hold of Winnie Caerlyon, turned away with a 
 groan, and, sinking in a chair, buried her face in her hands. 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 167 
 
 “Who was lie indeed! ” she moaned. “ Who was Albert 
 Gardiner that Lord Mountrevor’s wife should mourn him?” 
 
 “Some one you loved?” whispered Winnie Caerlyon, 
 marvelling if indeed it could be so. 
 
 “Some one!” Lady Mountrevor cried, rising from her 
 chair and pacing the room like a caged cretaure. “ The only 
 living creature I ever loved—ever could love—ever will 
 love!” the unhappy woman said, raging in fierce rebellion 
 over the bereavement. “They took him from me; they per¬ 
 secuted us until they got us asunder—until they drove him 
 out of the country, and hurried me away into seclusion—we 
 who loved each other so—who would have been so faithful 
 to each other, and so happy if they had let us—they—the 
 worldly, smiling, selfish schemers—my father and mother 
 and Madam Vivian! We loved each other from the time 
 that we were a little boy and girl, Winnie Caerlyon,” she 
 went on, passionate sobs shaking her utterance; “ we meant 
 to love each other always—to marry as soon as I was of age; 
 and Bertie used to talk to me of our home in some far-off 
 Indian bungalow, or some, fort in a distant land—we two 
 together; and we should have been so happy! They did 
 their best to make me forget him—Madam Vivian most of 
 all. She is a hard worldly woman, Winnie Caerlyon, and 
 you know it as well as I, though you have borne with her so 
 well and patiently. They did their best, but it was useless 
 —useless; if they had been endeavouring ever since, they 
 could not have succeeded—never—never, but for Death 
 helping them! I never could be false to him, he never could 
 have been false to me in life, but Death stepped in to part 
 Bertie Gardiner and me for ever, much to my dear relatives’ 
 relief ! Much to their relief,” she repeated, after a pause, 
 with a slow concentrated bitterness—“ though Madam Vivian 
 announced ‘ the sad news,’ as she called it, in so smoothly 
 condoling a voice and manner—much as she announced the 
 death of my god mother, who bequeathed me her fortune. 
 She entreated of me not to say too much, I remember, and 
 proposed next day that we should drive to the Longchamps 
 race-course for a change of scene to cheer and amuse me.” 
 
 “ Oh, dear Lady Mildred, she did not mean to slight your 
 grief. Madam did not understand feelings like yours. Mad¬ 
 am never loved and lost as you did,” said Winnie, quite for¬ 
 getting, in the simplicity of her grief, that it was a peeress of 
 the realm she was embracing and crying over so heartily. 
 
 “ You would excuse her without ceasing, Winnie Caerlyon. 
 
168 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 Why, I know not—unless it is because of your long-suffering 
 amiability,” Lady Mildred remarked, harshly scornful. “Ir¬ 
 respective of other wrongs, Madam Vivian has done me one 
 that I can neither forgive nor forget.” 
 
 “What was it? ” Winnie asked, timidly. ' 
 
 The stormy shrieking of the wind had paused for a time, 
 spent and breathless from its rage, but the thundering roar 
 and beat of the wild surges sounded fearfully loud and near 
 in the ominous lull; and in the lull came a faint, distant 
 booming sound. 
 
 “ The wrong of compelling me to sacrifice and trample 
 upon my feelings in spite of every instinct of my nature, 
 which shrank from the trial,” said Lady Mountrevor, with 
 gloomy hopelessness—“ the wrong of compelling me by fear 
 of her displeasure, the force of her authority, the dread of her 
 ridicule on a night—a summer night-—seA en years ago, Win¬ 
 nie Caerlyon—to go to a ball with her with a presentiment 
 of coming sorrow like a leaden weight on my girlish heart, 
 with a fevered brain, a weary, spiritless frame, my eyes 
 burning from weeping—the wrong of compelling me to 
 dress, and adorn, bedeck, bejewel myself, banish all traces 
 of the load of apprehension and pain t^at was resting on 
 me, simulate gaiety and high spirits, and go and mingle 
 amongst heartless people of whom I hated one half and 
 despised nearly all the rest—to dance, and smile, and 
 flirt, and attract—to exhibit myself, in a word, for the 
 securing more surely the rich prize my would-be proprie¬ 
 tor offered in exchange for me—all to gratify her love 
 of pomp and wealth and vanity—she, the vain, selfish woman, 
 who never experienced one throb of real love! She made 
 me go to the last ball of the season; she chaperoned me, 
 and paraded me, and showed me off—as surely as ever a 
 slave merchant did his Circassians and Georgians before the 
 eyes of rich pashas! I danced with Lord Henry Mountrevor 
 by Madam Vivian’s express desire; I promenaded the con¬ 
 servatory with him; I sat with him behind bowers of orange- 
 trees in blossom; with smiles I listened to his protestations 
 of admiration; I gave him every artful encouragement that 
 a ball-room coquette uses to capture a golden prize in matri¬ 
 mony—and I gave him a flower from my bouquet at parting, 
 I remember—a rose—a white rose—and he kissed it, and 
 placed it in his coat, to exhibit its withered remains to me 
 for a week after! Winnie, do you know what day it was— 
 the day that I danced out the close of the last ball of the 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 169 
 
 season with Lord Mountrevor? It was the twenty ninth of 
 July, eighteen hundred and- 
 
 “ The day—the day that-” broke from Winnie’s lips in¬ 
 
 voluntarily, in the shock of the moment. 
 
 “ The day—the morning—the hour when Albert Gardiner 
 lay dying amongst strangers in a strange land,” Lady*Mil¬ 
 dred said, slowly; “ and when I discovered the truth after¬ 
 wards, bitterly as I hated myself, there w T ere two others whom 
 I hated still worse—Madam Vivian and Lord Henry Mount¬ 
 revor. I hated every one in the world but my cousin Stephen 
 —my poor, dear, old, kind-hearted Stephen—who came with 
 the tears running down his cheeks, calling me his ‘ poor be¬ 
 reaved, desolate little Millie’! Ilis sympathy saved me from 
 going mad or acting foolishly.” 
 
 “ Oh, Lady Mildred, dear! ” Winnie sobbed, in her gener¬ 
 ous sympathy feeling as if every grief of her own innocent, 
 loving life were as nothing compared to the stormy vindictive 
 misery of this proud, noble, misguided nature. “ButHeaven 
 helped you to forgive yourself and every one else for that 
 unintentional wrong—if wrong it could be called, when no 
 one meant cruelly to you, although it was so cruel; and to¬ 
 wards Lord Mountrevor, of course, as you married him after¬ 
 wards, you must have felt differently.” 
 
 “Miss Caerlyon,” said Lady Mildred, briefly, “as you say, 
 I became the wife of Lord Mountrevor afterwards, and the 
 mother of his heir. Now, if you please, we will change the 
 subject. This storm has affected me strangely, terrified me 
 out of my self-possession and reticence; but I repose perfect 
 confidence in your womanly honour and delicacy of feeling.” 
 
 “ Of course you may,” responded Winnie, sorrowfully, 
 fearing that she had offended her. 
 
 “ I know I may,” said Lady Mountrevor, quietly; and then, 
 as Winnie moved from her side to the window to recommence 
 her anxious watching and listening, she put her arm around 
 her, drew her towards her, and kissed her with a gentle cor¬ 
 diality that made Winnie’s heart beat fast with pleasure. 
 
 “ I think one could make a friend of a woman like you,” 
 the wealthy peeress said, with thoughtful sadness; “be that 
 as it may, you can never be but an object of interest and 
 liking to me, Winnie; at all events—whatever I am to you— 
 after what you told me this night.” Hex;voice sank low and 
 trembled audibly as she struggled passionately for control of 
 her feelings. “ I can never forget it, Winnie— I never shall; 
 and I may be able yet,” she whispered, laying her cheek to 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MAECH MOENING. ' 
 
 170 
 
 Winnie’s, and wetting it with her tears, “to give you some 
 days of happiness—some years of happiness, I hope—for the 
 hours of regret and the tears you ‘gave to—his—Albert 
 Gardiner’s memory.” - 
 
 She buried her face in her handkerchief for several min¬ 
 utes', and in the pause there again came across the monoto¬ 
 nous roaring of the waters the short, sharply-defined booming 
 sound. A terrible thought arose in Winnie’s heart. She 
 would fain have rushed to open doors or windows and 
 braved the storm, to look or listen for the news that she 
 dreaded; but she was unwilling to disturb Lady Mountrevor 
 at the moment. 
 
 “ Dear Winnie,” Lady Mildred said, looking up with a 
 calmer face, and a little of Mildred Tredennick’s old caress¬ 
 ing smile gleaming from her tear-wet eyes, “ I have talked 
 too much of myself, my life, my past. It is all over, all its 
 brightness is gone, all its hopes were buried long ago. Now 
 for a change, dear Winnie Caerlyon, I shall talk of the future 
 —your future, my future, as far as I can hope for one—the 
 future when Stephen Tredennick comes home, and—Hark! 
 what is that?” 
 
 Again across the thundering of the surges came the sharp 
 booming sound. 
 
 “ I have heard it twice before,” Winnie cried, clasping her 
 hands. “ Oh, Lady Mildred, it is a wreck! I was afraid of 
 this all night. 
 
 “ A wreck,” Lady Mountrevor echoed, awe-struck—“ a 
 wreck near us here? Oh, what can we do? What can we 
 do to help them?” 
 
 “Nothing,” said Winnie, white with despair. “No vessel 
 can hold oat for an hour if she once gets near Tregarthen 
 Bay. I often heard father say that no boat can get alongside. 
 Sailors have no chance of life unless they are washed ashore 
 on spars. We can do nothing but stand to see them die. 
 There is the gun again! Oh, poor souls! ” 
 
 “Let us wake up the servants—let us go out and see—offer 
 rewards — do something! ” Lady Mountrevor broke out, 
 energetically. 
 
 The sudden excitement of her quick sympathies was as a 
 counter-irritant, relieving and strengthening her unstrung 
 fevered nerves. ; 
 
 “They are awake, I think,” Winnie said, listening—“I 
 hear footsteps on the stairs.” 
 
 The footsteps came nearer, and a tremulous knock sounded 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 171 
 
 at the outer door of Lady Mildred’s rooms. Presently old 
 Llanyon’s white head appeared against the dark background 
 of velvet drapery. 
 
 “ My la'dy, my lady,” he cried, agitatedly, “ I thought it 
 right to come and tell you, my lady, that there’s a large ship 
 —a merchantman, they think—ashore on the Black Reef of 
 Tregarthen! ” 
 
 CHAPTER XXIY. 
 
 The first struggling light of the gray dawn was dimly reveal¬ 
 ing through the cold mists of the wild March morning the 
 dreary expanse of the froth-whitened tossing water, the jagged 
 glittering points of the Black Reef peering above the raging 
 waves; but most noticeably of all, to the eyes of the score or 
 two of watchers on the cliffs, did the faint gray haze cling 
 around that dark mass with the torn remnants of sails and 
 cordage beating idly and wildly about, and the splintered 
 spars and masts lying helplessly with their heads submerged 
 under the cruel w T aves that leaped and dashed over them in 
 fierce mockery. 
 
 Whence she had come, or whither she was bound, no one 
 knew; but there, on the Black Reef, beneath the frowning 
 precipice of Tregarthen Head, on the wild Cornish coast, had 
 the good ship found her doom. 
 
 “ A hemmegrant ship her be, sir; an’ ’bout fifteen hundred 
 tons, I shud saay,” one of the Coastguard men remarked to 
 his officer. 
 
 “ She’s nothen o’ the sort, John Richards,” the boatswain 
 retorted— u not by her build, as I can make out. ’Tes hard 
 to say,” he added to Lieutenant Caerlyon; “ she be goin’ to 
 pieces hevery mennit.” 
 
 “ Has none of the cargo come ashore? ” the officer asked. 
 
 “Not much, sir, except bar’ls, and chests of tay, and pieces 
 of staves.” 
 
 “An’ not a soul left aboard o’ her,” John Richards put in. 
 
 “ Ye’r a-talkin’ of what ’e don’t know nothen of,” the boat¬ 
 swain said again, more sharply; “ ef ’e’ve got heyes, man, 
 and a glass, what kind o’ use do ’e put ’em to? I see three 
 men, not ten mennits ago, come in through the passage 
 atween them flat rocks forrard theer, houldin’ on to a spar, 
 poor fellows! They must be a’most dead.” 
 
172 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 “ Where have they got to, then?” Lieutenant Caerlyon 
 asked. “ It will be low tide in three hours ; but there’s not 
 a shelf of rock above water now; and even at low water the 
 rocks will be all covered in this storm, and no one can get to 
 them. I am afraid, poor fellows, it’s a black look-out from 
 every point for them.” 
 
 “ Here be wimmin cornin’! What do they want a-comin’ 
 in such a place?” the Coastguard boatswain, a bachelor of 
 some forty-eight years’ standing, remarked, crossly—the 
 gefitler sex, in Mr. Ned Boscawen’s opinion, having no 
 earthly right to appear in any place where their presence was 
 not directly required. “Cornin’ up here, weth the wind 
 biowin’ their gowns an’ shawls like balloons—it’ll take ’em off 
 their feet afore they knows wheer they are! ” 
 
 Determined to give the adventurous females a smart rebuff 
 if they ventured u to come clackin’ weth their questions,” as 
 he phrased it, to him, Mr. Boscawen deigned to bestow no 
 further notice on the two darkly-robed advancing figures. 
 Lieutenant Caerlyon, steadying his glass against a field-hedge 
 skirting the last cultivated stretch of land on the Head, heard 
 nothing, saw nothing but the echoing roar t)f the thunder of 
 the waves and the hissing sheets of flying spray, with that black 
 dismantled heap lying so forlornly on her side, and the sharp 
 black rocks beginning to show all around her in the ebbing 
 tide. 
 
 “ It’ll carry out everything afloat belonging to her, too,” 
 he said, half aloud; “we can’t even tell what cargo she had.” 
 
 Suddenly he perceived Mr. Boscawen staring amazedly at 
 something and touching his cap. 
 
 Wheeling round to discover the cause of the phenomenon 
 of Mr. Boscawen’s politeness, Lieutenant Caerlyon nearly 
 dropped his glass at seeing his daughter Winnie’s pale face 
 at his elbow, and, leaning on her arm, Lady Mountrevor, 
 wrapped in a mackintosh cloak. 
 
 “Your ladyship is very brave to come out here on such a 
 morning, and at such an hour,” he remarked, involuntarily, 
 through sheer amazement, after replying to her brief but 
 courteous greeting. 
 
 “Your daughter was not afraid to come—begged to be 
 allowed to come—why should I fear, Lieutenant Caerlyon?” 
 her ladyship said, quietly. 
 
 “ Oh—but—Winnie,” he said, coughing a little deprecate 
 ingly and smiling—“ Winnie’s more used to early hours and 
 rough weather than you are, Lady Mountrevor. Winnie’s 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING, 173 
 
 been out on the cliffs with me years ago, when she was a 
 little girl—at three o’clock in the morning sometimes.” 
 
 “ Can no one tell anything about the unfortunate vessel, 
 Mr. Caerlyon?” Lady Mountrevor asked, rather impatiently. 
 “ I came out to see if I could be of any use. Where are the 
 poor people? ” 
 
 “ A few men were seen getting in by spars and such 
 things some time since, my lady,” he replied, “ but we can 
 discover nothing of them—nor can we reach them, I fear, 
 even at low water.” 
 
 “ They must be under the Head, father! ” Winnie cried, 
 her white face reddening with excitement. 
 
 “ Yes, but where, my dear? Half drowned sailors could 
 hardly cling to the face of the cliff,” her father returned. 
 “ As soon as the tide turns, if our boat can be launched, we’ll 
 try and get out a bit to see where they are.” 
 
 “ Couldn’t, sir—couldn’t be done these twenty-four hours,” 
 Ned Boscawen interposed, gruffly, shutting up his glass with 
 a snap. 
 
 “ I doubt if it could,” said the Lieutenant, sadly, shaking 
 his head; “I fear, madam, the poor fellows have no chance.” 
 
 “ Must they be left to die, then? ” Lady Mountrevor asked, 
 shuddering. “ Mr. Caerlyon, I wish to offer rewards, to en¬ 
 courage the men to try to save them. I will give fifty pounds 
 to the first boat’s crew of your men that goes out to try to 
 rescue them—a hundred pounds if they are successful!” 
 
 “ Lady Mountrevor,” he said gravely, “ you are very kind, 
 but a thousand pounds would not tempt a man to fling away 
 his life—as it would be flung away in any attempt to man a 
 boat through such a sea as that for the next t>venty-four hours; 
 and long before that time those poor fellows must be washed 
 away, or have died from cold and exposure, if they are not 
 dead already.” 
 
 “ Father, they might hold on to those flat rocks—they are 
 at high-water mark, you know,” Winnie urged, “ and they are 
 a little sheltered from the beat of the waves, too.” 
 
 “ They may hold on, Winnie,” her father replied, shaking 
 his head; “but they can’t climb up. We can’t get a rope 
 down, we can’t reach them by a boat, and they must perish, 
 child, as soon as the tide rises again.” 
 
 “Would no one volunteer to go over the face of the cliff 
 with a rope, Mr. Caerlyon?” inquired Lady Mountrevor, 
 eagerly. “ If you can discover that there are any survivors 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 174 
 
 beneath, I will give a hundred pounds to the man that goes 
 down to them.” 
 
 Lieutenant Caerlyon bowed. 
 
 “I will tell them what you say, Lady Mountrevor, but I 
 am afraid the attempt will be useless, even if you can get 
 them to make it. Tregarthen Head projects considerably, 
 and below there is no foothold for anything but a gull, except 
 at very low tide".” 
 
 A quarter of an hour afterwards he came back. 
 
 “Madam,” he said, “there is not a man amongst them 
 Would attempt it until the sea- goes down; and it can not be 
 ascertained that there are any survivors.” 
 
 “ But there may be survivors for all that, Winnie,” Lady 
 Mountrevor persisted, as they turned away together. “ I 
 shall not give up hoping—I shall make preparations to receive 
 them, poor creatures! Oh, if we could save the lives of even 
 one or two out of all belonging to that great vessel! ” 
 
 Perhaps this was the first thoroughly unselfish work that 
 Mildred, Lady Mountrevor, had found to do in her life, or 
 rather that she had tried to do, and all that was best and 
 noblest in her nature expanded beneath its influence. Hope¬ 
 ful light shone pleasantly in her eyes, hopeful colour glowed 
 pleasantly in her cheeks, as she eagerly planned for the re¬ 
 covery, the consoling, comforting, and healing of a few poor 
 wretched half-dead sailors. In her enthusiasm, in the pleasant 
 warmth of benevolence, melting away the ice at her heart, 
 she could have washed and clothed and fed with her own 
 hands the wretchedest, most tattered, torn, wounded human 
 creature which could be rescued from the waves, and rejoiced 
 over him as if he had been a dear friend. 
 
 “Where are you going, Lady Mountrevor?” Winnie asked, 
 pausing. “Will you let me stay with my father? I would 
 rather stay here to see if anything can be done,” she pleaded. 
 “ Please allow me. I cannot stay indoors. I cannot eat or 
 drink. Let me stay here for a few hours, at least.” 
 
 “You shall stay all day if you wish, and I will stay also,” 
 Lady Mountrevor rejoined, quickly, “ but I must go and give 
 some orders first at Tregarthen House.” 
 
 “ Orders at Tregarthen?” Winnie repeated, half mechan¬ 
 ically. 
 
 Lady Mountrevor and Winnie were walking side by side 
 up Mennacarthen Lane—just as Winnie had walked here 
 eight years ago, in the bleak dawning of a wild March 
 morning, by Stephen Tredennick’s side—just as she was 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 175 
 
 walking with his proud, beautiful cousin now, she who had 
 been haughty Mildred Tredennick then; and he—where was 
 he now? 
 
 “ I am going to have Tregarthen House prepared to receive 
 those poor people, if they can be rescued,” saidLady Mount- 
 revor, hurrying faster. “ Come, Winnie; we will order 
 Mary Truscott and her old aunt to have blazing fires and 
 plenty of hot water and aired beds and blankets. I know 
 Stephen would wish it to be so.” 
 
 “But—but he is not come home! ” Winnie observed, star¬ 
 ing a little wildly, as they entered the house. 
 
 “ Stephen Tredennick come home! Certainly not! What 
 are you thinking of? ” asked Lady Mildred, in surprise. 
 “ You are not well, Winnie, after your sleepless, agitated 
 night—poor child, your face is quite drawn and ghastly. 
 Try not to think of the wreck for a few minutes, clear, and 
 sit down by the fire and rest, and look at all the improve¬ 
 ments I have be<?n making.” 
 
 “ Yes, beautiful! You have made it look as if it had been 
 always lived in and taken care of—everything so fresh and 
 neat,” Winnie said, languidly. 
 
 She sat down, weary and shivering, in a large chair, in the 
 oak paneled dining-room, its woodwork, all newly polished, 
 reflecting like mirrors in a thousand flashes of yellow light 
 the leaping flame of the newly-kindled wood-fire, the rich 
 ruddy glow of the velvety crimson and purple of the carpets 
 and curtains; the tall yellow wax candles in the bronze 
 candelabra, the white statuettes on brackets on either pier 
 between the three windows, the books in their ivory tray- 
 nay, even the three tall slender jardinieres of purple majolica- 
 ware, with their blooming clusters of white and purple hya¬ 
 cinths, each making the air heavy with fragrance—a beauti¬ 
 ful, welcoming home like room, looking, as Winnie had said, 
 as if it had been always lived in and taken care of, with not an 
 item in its home luxuries overlooked by the sympathetic 
 taste, the thoughtful mind, that had designed and perfected 
 its furniture and accessories. 
 
 “Well, Winnie, what do you think of it?” asked Lady 
 Mildred, coming back to the dining-room. “You must come 
 all through the house with me and look at it, and then Mary 
 Truscott will give us some breakfast. She makes coffee and 
 griddle-cakes to perfection, as I have often proved on cold 
 days when I was here looking after the workmen,” she 
 said to blushing, curtseying Mary, who considered haughty 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MAECH MOKNING. 
 
 176 
 
 Lady Mountrevor “the sweetest creecher of a lady—grand 
 as she is—that yon could find in England.” 
 
 Like one in a dream Winnie followed Lady Mildred from 
 room to room, as she drew back curtains, pulled up blinds, 
 and exhibited the chintz and damask hangings, cheval glasses, 
 French bedsteads, bath rooms, carpeted corridors and stair¬ 
 cases of polished oak, the massive hall lamps, the statues, 
 pictures, flowers, everything fresh, and furnished, and cleaned, 
 and polished, painted, papered, varnished, stained, gilded, to 
 the acme of the complete luxurious neatness of a w^ell- 
 appointed English old country house—nothing glaringly new 
 or bright, everything warm, cosy, comfortable, inviting, need¬ 
 ing only the additional brightness of living presences by 
 the bright hearths and the glad blazing fires. 
 
 “ This is just as Stephen would like to see it, I think. He 
 will be so pleased with the old house,” said Lady Mildred, 
 cheerfully. “ Only some outbuildings need repair now, and 
 a new conservatory has to be finished; otherwise it is quite 
 ready for its master, Winnie.” 
 
 The girl did not offer a word; she was looking from the 
 bay-window of the drawing-room across at the Head, and the 
 stretch of boisterous foam-flecked water, dimly seen beyond 
 the clouds of mist above the crashing breakers, and she 
 shuddered violently. 
 
 “When may I go back to the wreck, Lady Mountrevor?” 
 
 “ As soon as you have taken some breakfast—not before,” 
 replied Lady Mildred, decisively. “ How you shiver, you poor 
 little thing!” In the strength of her own splendid^Aysq^e, 
 imperially moulded, morally and physically, as she was, the 
 young peeress looked down pityingly on the slender, frail, 
 girlish form of the woman who was her junior in years as if 
 she had been a weakly child. “You are not equal to much 
 exertion, Winnie, I see that; your sleepless night has made 
 you quite ill. I am stronger, I suppose,” she added, her 
 face clouding wearily as the memory of what that sleepless 
 night had brought to her knowledge arose freshly on her mind. 
 
 But she did not remember that to strong, fiery, passionate 
 natures like hers, that rebel wildly against the grief which is 
 yet crushing their very soul, it is possible to fling aside for a 
 time the very memory of the weary burden that the meek 
 ones gird around them to bear patiently, gently, uncomplain¬ 
 ingly to the grave. 
 
 Besides, it was no new grief that she had learned; and 
 gentle Winnie Caerlyon’s touch had been only soothing to 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 177 
 
 the old, hidden wound throbbing so feverishly beneath Lady 
 Mountrevor’s cold, statuesque beauty. 
 
 “ You have not seen half my improvements; you can have 
 no idea of the state that this old house was in when I took it 
 in hand,” she went on, kindly intent on rousing Winnie from 
 what she considered to be merely nervous depression, as she 
 poured out a fragrant cup of hot coffee and buttered the 
 crisp, hot griddle-cakes, at the other side of the little oval 
 table which she had wheeled up to Winnie’s chair. “ Don’t 
 you think this oblong table perfection for a tete-a-tete break¬ 
 fast?” her ladyship pursued, smiling, as she ladled the thick, 
 golden, scalded cream into Winnie’s cup. “ I do; I chose it 
 in Plymouth purposely for cousin Stephen.” 
 
 “ And yourself, I suppose? ” Winnie said, smiling faintly. 
 
 “ Myself! ” Lady Mildred exclaimed, raising her brows. 
 “ I could scarcely expect to enjoy tete-a-tete breakfasts with 
 Captain Tredennick for the term of my natural life, Miss 
 Caerlyon. You forget that that is the privileged enjoyment 
 of Lord Henry Mountrevor.” 
 
 “I beg your pardon,” said Winnie, colouring in some dis¬ 
 tress, both at the mistake and the hostile flush and tone of 
 voice of Lord Mountrevor’s young wife. 
 
 “ I bought it for the same people that I bought those two 
 velvet chairs for,” Lady Mildred went on, forcing her cheer¬ 
 ful mood back again. “ This is a tete-a-tete service—this 
 Sevres; I got it in my pet bric-a-brac shop in Paris. I got 
 it for Stephen and his chatelaine —and 1 mean to tell him so.” 
 
 ^ His—his-” stammered Winnie, bewildered for a 
 
 moment. “ Oh, I know! I did not-” 
 
 “ His chatelaine —wife—lady—Tregarthen’s mistress— 
 whoever she may be,” said Lady Mildred, laughing. “ Don’t 
 you think she ought to find a happy home here, Winnie? 
 Don’t you think life could flow on very peacefully here, with 
 a woman whom Stephen Tredennick loved, and who loved 
 him?” 
 
 “ It could not flow on otherwise,” Winnie replied, her 
 voice shaking a little. 
 
 A long pause ensued. Secretly Lady Mildred waited for 
 Winnie to speak; secretly Winnie longed to speak, but 
 dared not. 
 
 “You must have had a great deal of trouble to have every¬ 
 thing restored and the house so perfectly appointed,” the lat¬ 
 ter remarked, taking refuge at length in commonplaces. u I 
 
 12 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 178 
 
 almost feared that Tregarthen House would have fallen into 
 ruins before this, when I was in America.” 
 
 “You remembered Tregarthen House then?” questioned 
 Lady Mildred, with a rather curious inflexion in her voice. 
 u It was a pleasure—the greatest pleasure I have known for 
 years, Winnie—to be able to make my dear cousin Stephen 
 some return for his years of kindness—brotherly, patient 
 kindness to me.” 
 
 “ Kindness? ” Winnie broke out, looking up with a fevered 
 flash of light and colour coming to her eyes and cheeks. “ I 
 thought I had been told years ago that-” 
 
 “ That what ? ” 
 
 “ That Stephen Tredennick-I beg your pardon again; 
 
 it does not matter, and is no concern of mine.” She inter¬ 
 rupted herself brusquely, and, locking her nervous, twitching 
 hands with convulsive tightness in her lap, she turned away 
 her face, watching Tregarthen Head and its encircling awful 
 mists of ocean spray. 
 
 “I think, Winnie,” said Lady Mildred, with quiet reproach, 
 “ you need not fear to tell me any thought of yours, no mat¬ 
 ter how strange or incorrect/’ she added, meaningly. 
 
 “It does not matter—indeed it does not matter—it is of no 
 consequence whatever,” Winnie persisted, rising unconsciously 
 in her agitation and walking away from the table. 
 
 A half-melancholy smile followed her from Mildred Mount- 
 revor’s keen watchful eyes. 
 
 “You poor little simple-hearted thing!” she said, inwardly. 
 “As if you could conceal it—and as if I did not know it long 
 ago ! As if I would not do more for Stephen’s sake—dear 
 brother Stephen, the only brother I ever had in loving reality 
 —as if I would not have aided his happiness by every means 
 in my power long ago, when I thought my own happiness as 
 near and as sure as his! ” 
 
 Sadly, and half enviously, she gazed at the slender black- 
 robed figure standing in the cold gray light of the window— 
 the girl on whom she had bestowed her half-scornful com* 
 passion in the years gone by, when her own youth and love 
 and happiness were at their zenith of bloom and brightness 
 —this poor, pale-faced, gentle little woman. 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 179 
 
 CHAPTER XXV, 
 
 “ It is a most extraordinary thing for you to attempt, my 
 dear,” Madam had said, with a rather cold smile, when Lady 
 Mountrevor and Winnie, wrapped in hoods and thick shawls, 
 had entered her breakfast-room to explain their absence, and 
 inform her of their intentions for the rest of the day. “ You 
 are very courageous, I suppose, and it is really very good of 
 you, Lady Mountrevor, to take such an interest in those poor 
 unhappy creatures. Can I do anything, can I send anything 
 up to Tregarthen, Mildred? I will with pleasure.” 
 
 “ Thank you, Madam, no,” her niece replied, coldly. 
 “ Tregarthen House is well supplied.” 
 
 u And do you really think that any of them have escaped? 
 Hardly, I should imagine, poor creatures;” and Madam’s lit¬ 
 tle dimpled hand fluttered coquettishly amongst the hanging 
 white laces of her purple satin under-sleeves, as with a 
 smile, she offered a dainty breakfast-cup of her favourite 
 green tea to her visitors. 
 
 “We breakfasted an hour since, thank you, again,” said 
 Lady Mildred, more frigidly, and drawing Winnie away. 
 “We but came to explain our absence, and apologize for it, 
 Madam. I am old enough to consider an effort to save a 
 poor, half-dead sailor’s life of more importance than a comfort¬ 
 able breakfast at the usual nine o’clock hour—and I believe 
 Miss Winnie Caerlyon shares my peculiarity. We shall not 
 be home to dinner. Good morning, Madam! ” 
 
 “ Good morning, Lady Mountrevor! ” returned Madam, of¬ 
 fended, and taking up the newspaper. 
 
 “ Good morning, Madam! ” said Winnie. 
 
 Madam rustled the paper very loudly, held the sheet before 
 her face, and made no reply. 
 
 “ Do I really think that any of them have escaped! ” Lady 
 Mountrevor repeated indignantly, as she and Winnie made 
 their way along the wild, bleak cliff road. “ I prefer to make 
 sure of the fact with my own eyes and ears, at all events, in¬ 
 stead of sitting sipping tea and enjoying raised pies and but¬ 
 tered toast and reading the paper, whilst my fellow-creatures 
 are perishing in a watery grave within & mile of my doors. 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 180 
 
 You do not cull that selfishness—horrible, cold-blooded self¬ 
 ishness?” she said, sharply, to Winnie. 
 
 “ Madam would not be selfish if those she loved were in 
 trouble or danger, I am sure,” answered Winnie. “ She does 
 not feel her sympathy excited, as yours is, about poor stran¬ 
 gers whom she never saw or heard of. If you or—or her 
 nephew, Captain Tredennick, were in trouble or danger, she 
 would act very differently. It is a lack of sympathy.” 
 
 “I should say so, decidedly! ” Lad) 7 ' Mildred exclaimed, 
 indignantly. “I wonder if any one has been saved. I won¬ 
 der if they know anything about the vessel yet. What are 
 they all doing down there on the shore, Winnie? Will you 
 ask some one you know—a Coastguard or some one else-—to 
 tell us?” she said impatiently. “ Are they letting people die 
 whilst they save casks and barrels ?” 
 
 But John Richards, of whom Winnie made inquiries, 
 informed Lady Mountrevor, with a desponding shake of his 
 head, that there was no one saved. 
 
 “ Leastways, my lady, theer be no one but fower drownded 
 dead corpses—all white and gashly to look at, my lady—’e 
 daren’t go an ear of ’em.” 
 
 “ But the men that were seen coming in? ” Lady Mildred 
 asked, eagerly. 
 
 “Bless ’e, my lady—I means,” John Richards replied, 
 with a more desponding shake of the head, “ they couldn’t 
 a-come a-nigh the foot o’ the Head; they be dead corpses 
 long ago, my lady.” 
 
 But John Richards seemed fated to make incorrect .state¬ 
 ments this morning, and burly Ned Boscawen to hear and 
 reprimand him. 
 
 “Who tould of ’e that they was dead?” he demanded of 
 his subordinate, with much acrimony. “ Beg ’er pardon, my 
 lady, they was seen alive by young Will Treglyn haafe an 
 hour ago, one on ’em waivin’ a white clath or flag—for help, 
 I s’pose, poor fellows! The young Will Treglyn he see ’em 
 when he climbed out as far as he could on that spur of rock 
 below theer.” 
 
 “And are you doing nothing to help them?” Lady Mil¬ 
 dred asked, with flashing eyes. “ Those people below there 
 are risking their lives after the rubbish from the wreck, 
 while the crew perish within sight of aid! ” 
 
 “ We are a savin’ of the cargo as comes in,” Ned Boscawen 
 retorted, doggedly; “but that doesn’t say as how men can 
 swem haafe a mile through breakers. We can’t do nothen 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 181 
 
 tell the tide is full agen, and then maybe the cutter can get 
 out a bit.” 
 
 “ The tide will not be out yet for an hour nearly, and you 
 must wait until it is full again! ” Winnie said, laying her thin 
 little hand, like a flake of snow, entreatingly, on the boat¬ 
 swain’s rough blue sleeve. “ Oh, Ned, can nothing be done 
 before that? ” 
 
 “ ’Tesn’t no manner o’ use in ’e bein’ asken of that of me?” 
 responded Ned, testily. “ Can e’ fly over the cliff like a 
 gull? Can e’ swem like a fish? Then, ef e’ can’t,’e can’t 
 do nothen, I tell ’e, Miss Winnie, tell full tide.” 
 
 “Does no one know anything about the vessel—even her 
 name, cargo—anything? ” Lady Mildred inquired again. 
 
 “ She’s bleevedto be a merchantman—her cargo’s tea and 
 such like, as far as we can tell—we’ve seen no name, ’cept 
 her cargo’s London bound,” Ned replied, briefly, edging 
 away from her ladyship’s inquiries. 
 
 Disconsolately irresolute, they stood where the gruff 
 boatswain had left them, in the scant shelter of a high bank 
 —Winnie looking sadly at the raging waves, high and fierce 
 as ever, Lady Mildred, in angry despairing impatience, 
 watching the eager groups on the shore below, between 
 which and the Head intervened the furious seething water 
 and the rocks of the Black Reef, when they both noticed 
 the scattered groups of men, women, and boys running 
 together, beckoning and gesticulating in excitement over 
 something which had just been snatched from the return¬ 
 ing sweep of the waves—something which had floated in 
 from the wreck, now lying half bottom upwards, her broken 
 masts smashing away in splinters; and emerging from the 
 excited crowd around the salvage came John Richards, the 
 blundering, simple-minded Coastguard, running from the 
 strip of beach up the cliff path. 
 
 Winnie, seeing him coming, rushed forward to meet him. 
 Her heart seemed to pause beneath the weight of the pre¬ 
 sentiment that was the herald of that swift comer’s awful 
 news. 
 
 “What is it, John Richards? What have they found?” 
 
 John Richards, charging past her in blind confusion and 
 dismay, pulled up short, with a white face and gasping utter¬ 
 ance. 
 
 “ Lor’ bless ’e! Aw, my dear—aw, Miss Winnie—how are 
 e’ to tell of et to um—the poor lady, her ladyship theer, an’ 
 Ah’ ould Madam Vivian? Aw, ’tes saad! Miss Winnie, my 
 
382 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 dear, ’tes the Cappun’s ship—her name’s on the starn they’ve 
 pulled in! Aw, Miss Winnie, ’tes the Cappun of the Chittoor 
 as haave been lost in this wisht night! ” and John Richards, 
 gulping down sobs, was obliged to pause for breath. 
 
 For one minute the wdiite angry ocean, the bleak bare land, 
 seemed to whirl and fade away before Winifred Caerlyon’s 
 eyes, and the icy breath of the sea-mists to enter within her 
 and freeze every warm pulse of life into stillness; but the 
 calm presence of mind, the ability to rule and guide the 
 breaking heart and burning brain, which is the merciful gift 
 of those frail, gentle womanly natures which always cover 
 so strong and yet so meek a soul, did not desert her now. 
 There was something to be done yet; by-and by would be 
 time enough for agony and despair. 
 
 “Lady Mountrevor, dear Lady Mountrevor”—she put her 
 slender arms around the tall Juno-like form—“they have 
 learned the name of the ship.” 
 
 “ What is it? ” Lady Mildred asked, in momentary amaze¬ 
 ment. “Winnie, why do you look so? Oh, Winnie, Win¬ 
 nie,” she cried, with an imploring shriek of terror and dis¬ 
 may, “ do I know the name? Winnie, answer me! Oh, 
 Stephen, Stephen! Is it cousin Stephen’s? Winnie, I don’t 
 believe it. They are mistaken. It could not be—it could 
 not be! ” she went on, wildly. “What are they talking of? 
 The merchantman, Chittoor? Nonsense, nonsense, I tell 
 you! ” 
 
 Fiercely and angrily, in her grief and bewilderment, she 
 caught Winnie’s arm, and at reckless speed hurried her 
 down the steep path to the strip of beach and the excited 
 crowd below. Respectfully, and with muttered exclamations 
 of sympathy, the people fell back as she approached, and 
 two Cornish miners held up to the cold morning light a 
 dripping piece of wood, the stern and name-board of a ship, 
 with lengths of splintered timbers attached. 
 
 “What is the name? Can you read it, Winnie? It is 
 all scratched and battered—no one can make it out!” Lady 
 Mildred cried, in desperation, against the evidence of her 
 senses. 
 
 By Winnie Caerlyon, looking with tearless eyes on those 
 large white and gilded letters on a dark painted background, 
 they could be deciphered as easily as the letters of a child’s 
 alphabet, as easily as a message in a well-known writing, as 
 surely, as accurately as the dread words of a death-warrant. 
 She did not doubt or disbelieve; it was death—Stephen Tre- 
 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 183 
 
 dennick’s death that she was looking on—that stormy sea his 
 grave, that black dismantled hulk lying on Tregarthen Reef 
 his only coffin, if indeed his dead body was not the sport of 
 those fierce leaping seething billows. 
 
 Perhaps he had been drowned early in the night, and those 
 fierce waves had been beating on that dear, noble, kindly 
 face, so fixed and white, and on the broad, strong breast 
 whose kindly heart was stilled for ever, all through the 
 dreadful hours of darkness? Perhaps that was why she had 
 felt that unearthly terror of the cruel storm? Perhaps that 
 was why her blood had run cold at each crash of the break¬ 
 ers, each shriek of the tempest? Because they had been 
 murdering Stephen Tredennick! 
 
 Death had been abroad in the wild night—death within 
 and without! Death-dirges were ringing through the* air— 
 death-cries coming on each sweeping blast of the storm ! 
 Had not some one else died? Albert Gardiner was dead, 
 and Stephen Tredennick was dead—how many had died? 
 Was everybody dying? How many more were to die? 
 
 In a kind of delirious trance she had sunk on her knees on 
 the wet sand, staring vacantly at the name lettered so clearly 
 that it seemed to burn through her sight and write its fatal 
 message on her brain, thinking of the cruel, tossing waves-— 
 tossing, tossing, all through the long, dark, pitiless hours— 
 tossing Something which had become their prey—while she 
 —oh, merciful Heaven ! — sat sheltered from the storm, 
 warmly wrapped, on a couch by a bright fire! The horror of 
 the thought seemed to benumb her faculties, as she uttered 
 slowly, as if her lips refused to pronounce the words— 
 
 “ Chittoor —the Chittoor —Lady Mildred! ” 
 
 “The Chittoor! Is it the Chittoor that is lying over there? 
 Winnie, is it?” Lady Mildred cried. “But they escaped— 
 some escaped—Stephen may have escaped! Some were 
 saved—Stephen may be amongst them! Perhaps he may— 
 don’t you think Stephen escaped, Winnie? ” she reiterated, 
 piteously. 
 
 “I don’t know,” Winnie replied, in a stunned, dreary way; 
 “we must ask the survivors—we must reach them first.” 
 
 “Yes—yes, at once!” Lady Mildred cried, eagerly. “I will 
 give a hundred guineas to the first man who will reach them 
 by the cliffs! ” 
 
 There was eager disputing, clamoring, persuading, dissuad¬ 
 ing—women crying, men vociferating—amongst the group 
 for several minutes, and at the height of the discussion Win- 
 
184 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 nie Caerlyon put her hand on John Richards’s arm again and 
 drew him aside. 
 
 It required repeated directions to reach willing John’s dull 
 understanding, but he finally set off at a steady trot, shaking 
 his head dismally and muttering hopelessly to himself the 
 while. 
 
 “ Ropes—strong new ropes—there are none long or strong 
 enough here. I sent him to tell my father what we are go¬ 
 ing to do,” Winnie said, in reply to Lady Mildred’s question¬ 
 ing; “ there are two or three new coils always in the boat¬ 
 house.” 
 
 “ But those cowardly creatures,” Lady Mildred exclaimed, 
 passionately, dashing away the blinding tears from her eyes 
 —“we cannot make them go down the cliffs—no reward will 
 make them attempt it! A brave sailor would go in a moment! 
 Oh, what shall we do—what shall we do? The tide is on the 
 turn and no chance of rescue! Winnie, Winnie, tell me 
 what are we to do? Winnie, it is Stephen Tredennick who 
 is perhaps down there amongst those few half-drowned, half- 
 starved men! Oh, dear Stephen, what shall I do? ” she 
 wrung her hands and sobbed aloud. 
 
 “We shall get news very soon, please Heaven—very soon 
 we shall know the truth, Lady Mildred.” 
 
 “ How—how? They are afraid to venture, the miserable 
 wretches! ” Lady Mildred cried, with a wail of despair. 
 
 “ They are only poor miners and a few fisher-lads, besides 
 the Coastguard men; and Tregarthen Head is a tremendous 
 height above the Reef,” Winnie Caerlyon explained. “ But 
 don’t fear, Lady Mildred; I know one who will go, if no one 
 else will.” 
 
 “ Who?” she asked, looking round eagerly. But Winnie 
 Caerlyon turned away without a reply. Presently she per¬ 
 ceived the distant forms of men hurrying from the Coast¬ 
 guard station with the coils of rope. 
 
 “ Now, Lady Mildred,” she called, “here are the ropes. 
 Offer your reward, and let us see who will volunteer. Will 
 any of you risk your life to save the lives of the poor fellows 
 on the Black Reef?” Winnie asked, walking in amongst the 
 crowd. “ Will any one of you men volunteer to go over the' 
 cliff with a rope? ” 
 
 A kind of shuddering silence ran through the group, each 
 man looking into his neighbour’s face. 
 
 “ A hundred guineas to him who does it, my men! ” Lady 
 Mildred said, passionately, trying to compel herself to coax 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 185 
 
 and entreat, when she would fain have ordered instant obedi¬ 
 ence. “ Is there not one that will try? You know whose 
 ship is the one lost and broken over there on the rocks—you 
 know who I would fain dare hope is amongst the few who 
 have escaped—you knew him as well as I,” she said; and, in 
 spite of pride and fierce impatience, she burst into tears be¬ 
 fore them. “ If you will not try to save Captain Stephen 
 Tredennick—Tredennick of Tregarthen—for his own sake, 
 for your memory of him, my entreaty is, I fear, useless. Five 
 hundred pounds to him who saves him! ” 
 
 “I’ll do it, my lady!” The brave words came from the 
 youngest man in the crowd—a mere lad in years—curly- 
 haired Will Treglyn, a poor crippled miner’s only son. 
 
 “ Oh, not you, Will, not you, and your poor father with no 
 one else! ” the women cried. 
 
 “ I’ll do my best, I tell ’e! ” cried sturdy Will. “ I’ll have 
 a try for et, anyhows.” 
 
 “ Oh, Will, your poor mother—’twell be her death!” the 
 women chorused again 
 
 “ Is his mother here?” demanded Lady Mildred, turning 
 on the frightened group so that they quailed into muttering 
 silence. “ Then hold your tongues, and let the brave fellow 
 alone!” 
 
 Winnie Caerlyon grasped his hand and pressed it tightly, 
 
 “ God bless you, Willie Treglyn!” she said fervently. 
 “Your mother may well be proud of you.” 
 
 “It’s madness—madness, I tell e’ sir,” Ned Boscawen 
 grumbled to his officer. “ Will Treglyn may go swinging 
 over th’ 'Head for a few feet, but ef the rope don’t cut and 
 srnesh hem, below theer, he’ll liaave to be hauled up as wise 
 as he went down.” 
 
 The rope was around young Will’s waist, and Lady Mil¬ 
 dred, standing by his side, was uttering promises and encour¬ 
 agement, whilst Winnie gave him some brandy from the 
 large flask which they had brought with them, secured it 
 safely at his waistbelt, adjusted the ropes with her little fin¬ 
 gers so that they should not gall him, and was shaking his 
 hand and bidding him “Godspeed,” when, warned by an 
 alarmed officious neighbour of her boy’s intention, Molly 
 Treglyn, bareheaded and in her scanty cotton gown, came 
 running up the road to the Head, and in a minute had him in 
 her arms, shrieking, sobbing, and protesting that not for 
 twice five hundred—ten times five hundred pounds would 
 she stand to look at her child’s murder—tearing at the ropes, 
 
186 ALL IN THE WILD MAECH MOBNING. 
 
 kissing him, scolding him violently, crying over him, and 
 giving him smart blows and shakes alternately. 
 
 “ Mother, do ’e be quiet! ” brave young Will said, trying 
 to wrest himself away from her hold. “ I be goin’ only to 
 see ef et can be done. They’ll haul me up as soon as ever I 
 give the segnal to ’em. Do ’e be quiet, mother—and thenk,” 
 he whispered—“ her ladyship’s goin’ to gev e’ a hunnerd 
 pound, mother; ef I only try to go down a bit! ’Tesn’t 
 nothen, I tell e’—I’ve gone nigh as bad places for gull’s 
 eggs,” said Will, drawing on his imagination. “ ’Twon’t take 
 me very long neither. A hunnerd pound, mother! ’ Twell 
 set ’e and fayther up for the rest of ’eer lives! ” 
 
 “ An wheer’ll ’e be when we’ve the hunnerd pound? Aw, 
 Willie, my laad! ” cried his mother, pitifully. 
 
 A band of men formed; the great rope wound in and out 
 around their arms as they stood one behind the other. Out 
 crept young Will Treglyn to the crumbling edge of the 
 precipice. Holding their breaths, the men watched him drop 
 himself over the edge, while his mother, sitting on the 
 ground with staring eyeballs, moaned with every breath from 
 the anguish of her suspense. Waist, shoulders, head, slowly 
 slipped down out of sight, and the Coryish miners com¬ 
 menced cautiously to “pay out” the rope. 
 
 Slowly, carefully, with jerks from below, the rope went 
 down, down; then came a jerk, a sudden strain; then more 
 rope was paid out, followed by a terrible strain, a violent 
 jerk that threw one of the rope-holders on his face, then 
 came continued jerks, and a terrible strain again, and then a 
 .long pause. 
 
 “ Sometlien haave happened to un,” the men muttered; 
 “ there hain’t a hunnerd foot of rope paid out yet.” 
 
 There was a long pause, with only straining and jerking at 
 the rope, and then, after another long pause, without waiting 
 for the signal, the men commenced to pull up. Slowly up 
 came the rope and its burden again, and, with a cheer, and 
 with renewed outcries and tears from his mother at the 
 sight of her “ laad ” dripping with sea-water, his hands and 
 face covered with blood, and one arm hanging useless, broken, 
 at his side, they hauled Will Treglyn on to the sod. 
 
 “’Twas they breakers,” said poor Will, in his Cornish dia¬ 
 lect. “ They gev’ un a blaw here, and a blaw tlieer, an’ a 
 flung me here, an’ twisted they rope around they rocks; an’ 
 a tried to clear et, an’ a cuddent—a cuddent ef a was to try 
 haafe a day. An’ then a got a top ev a grut rock, an’ a tried 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 187 
 
 BE . . 
 
 ST. 
 
 to hould on, an’ a was pitched clane agen the cliff, an’ a arm 
 v smeshed; an’ then a cuddent do nothen moore. I be sorry, 
 > my lady,” said poor young Will, earnestly, with his left hand 
 wiping away the blood trickling from his brows. “Ef 
 ma arm wasn’t broken, I’d go down again en a mennit—that 
 a would! They poor fellows is alive—they see me, an’ one 
 on ’em gev un a shout; an’ a wish a could go down to ’em 
 agen!” 
 
 “No, no, my poor fellow; you have done what you could,” 
 said Lady Mildred. “ Go up to Tregarthen House, Mrs. 
 Treglyn, for whatever you may require. Tell the house¬ 
 keeper you were sent by me, and get the doctor for your 
 brave son at once. And now what is to be done?” she 
 asked of those around, looking at each pallid, frightened face 
 in gloomy despair. 
 
 “Lady Mildred, Lady Mildred”—the little figure by her 
 side moved closer, and the upturned earnest eyes glittered 
 like jewels beneath the blue-veined temples—“don’tfear yet 
 —there’s one will go yet! Don’t fear—there’s one that will 
 go surely yet! ” 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 “ This storm affects my nerves dreadfully,” Madam said, 
 peevishly. “ I cannot think what is the matter with me. Are 
 you sure the portiere is drawn, Trewhella? The room feels, 
 full of draughts. Stir up the fire, please, and draw that ban¬ 
 ner-screen out farther.” 
 
 “ Will you have your woolwork, Madam?” Miss Trewhella 
 asked in a most sympathetic voice. “ It do try the nerves, 
 Madam, awful ! I reely feel myself as if my head was quite 
 light, and my heart flutterin’ like a bird, reely, Madam. I’m 
 sure it’s no wonder you should be nervous. It is well for her 
 ladyship to be as strong and as brisk as she is—reely amazing, 
 isn’t it, Madam, to see her? ” 
 
 “ Her ladyship is under the impression that she has a 
 remarkably excitable, impressionable, nervous system,” said 
 Madam, rather spitefully. “ To see her this morning one 
 would imagine that she was used to living on the cliffs and 
 being out in all weathers, like little Winnie Caerlyon.” 
 
188 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 Miss Trewhella tittered, and then finished off with a little 
 cough. 
 
 “ It’s just a fancy of her ladyship’s, as you say, Madam, 
 running about as if she was born and bred like poor little Miss 
 Winnie. Up at Tregarthen, before daylight this mornin’, 
 I saw them goin’off, and Miss Winnie with a black poplin 
 skirt of her ladyship’s on her—must have been a mile too 
 long—he—he—he! Reely—I beg your pardon, Madam—I 
 thought I should have burst out laughing when I saw it on 
 her. It’s very nice and kind of her ladyship; I dare say 
 she’ll keep Miss Winnie at Tregarthen, sewing and doing up 
 things now until the Captain comes home. Miss Winnie is 
 so clever at making things up nice, and her ladyship do seem 
 to have took such a wonderful fancy to her.” 
 
 There was a sly sneer in Miss Trewliella’s furtive glance 
 at her mistress, as the old lady pettishly took off her glasses, 
 declaring that they made her eyes ache, and pushed the 
 basket of wools away. 
 
 “ I wonder if Miss Winnie intends being kinder to her 
 old friend, Mr. Pascoe, now, than she used before she went 
 away,” Madam said, apparently studying the braiding of her 
 dress. “ It is time for Miss Winnie to think of getting set¬ 
 tled. She is eight-and-twenty, I believe.” 
 
 “Eight-and-twenty, Madam! ” returned Miss Trewhella, in 
 a very high-pitched tone. “Nigher four-and-thirty! Mr. 
 Pascoe, her own step-mother’s cousin, told me nine years ago 
 that he believed his cousin Winnie, as he calls her, was near 
 three-and-twenty.” 
 
 “ Oh, nonsense,” said Madam, with a satirical smile. The 
 worthy Miss Trewhella’s strenuous efforts at the arithmetic 
 of addition as applied to other women’s ages, and the aritlu 
 metic of subtraction as applied to her own, were well known 
 to her. 
 
 “Well, whatever age she is, Madam—whether she’s what 
 I say, or seven or eight-and-twenty as you say,” Miss Tre¬ 
 whella continued, shaking her head very much and tightening 
 her lips in a surprising manner—“ she’ve no notion of Mr. 
 Pascoe, Madam. Oh, de-ar, no! They get very high notions 
 in America, Madam. One’s as good as another, over there, I 
 hear. There’s no one too good, or too fine, or too grand, for 
 a young lady to think of setting her cap at over there! Mr. 
 Pascoe, the purser—her own step-mother’s cousin—ain’t half 
 good enough for Miss Winnie, since she’s been and got the 
 high, presuming Yankee notions! She wasn’t across the door- 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MAECH MORNING. 
 
 189 
 
 step last night when I noticed it, Madam—reely. Now isn’t 
 that surprising? Quite the air of being somebody, you know, 
 Madam, and so dressed up ! Surprising, Madam! She had 
 nothing less than splendid gros grain on her dress, Madam ; 
 and her crape was nine shillings a yard if it was a penny ! 
 Reely you’d think, to see her with Lady Mountrevor, that 
 she was an old acquaintance of her ladyship’s, and a titled 
 lady, too—reely surprising! And she all night in her lady¬ 
 ship’s room, too! They’re the greatest friends.” 
 
 “ Trewhella, please don’t talk so much—you make my head 
 ache,” her mistress said, irritably. 
 
 “ Oh, I beg pardon, Madam—I was only trying to amuse 
 you, seeing as you weren’t able to work,” Miss Trewhella 
 explained, in her most 'touchingly humble and reproachful 
 voice. “ Of course it’s nothing to me what Miss Caerlyon 
 aspires to or doesn’t aspire tfo. I shouldn’t ’ave presumed to 
 mention Miss Caerlyon’s sayings, or doings, or goings on in 
 any manner, only I thought it would be amusing to you, 
 Madam, this terrible dreary day, and your nerves so bad.” 
 
 The worthy creature’s voice subsided into an injured 
 whine, and with a melancholy sigh she glided out of her 
 mistress’s presence. 
 
 The white jewelled hands trembled amongst the Berlin 
 wools, and tangled them together; and the stormy flush 
 which those who offended her knew so well coloured all 
 Madam Vivian’s pale, ivory-like complexion. 
 
 “ Are they all in league against me?” she whispered, pas¬ 
 sionately clenching her fingers—“ my nephew Stephen, that 
 haughty, obstinate woman, Mildred Mountrevor, and Winnie 
 Caerlyon? Am I to be as nothing, if a man’s folly, a reck¬ 
 less, self-willed woman’s whim, and a presuming young per¬ 
 son’s intentions are set on achieving a thing? How dare 
 she! How dare^ Mildred Mountrevor make light of my 
 wishes and my authority in my own house! How dare Win¬ 
 nie Caerlyon dream of it! There is yet time,” said Madam, 
 growing feverish with anger, and beginning to pace the 
 room; u I shall put an end to this matter, oneway or another. 
 Winifred Caerlyon shall know what she is daring if she ven¬ 
 tures to interfere with my plans for the future of Stephen 
 Tredennick.” 
 
190 ALL IN THE WILD MABCH MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 “ Winnie, you shall not attempt it! Winnie, my dear, you 
 are mad to think of it! Winnie, my child, would you have 
 your father stand by to see you murdered? My poor little 
 girl, the first blow of those waves would knock your life out 
 in an instant!” 
 
 But all she said was—“ Let me go. I am not afraid—not 
 afraid, if I must die, so long as I can save all those below! 
 Father, father, their lives are in our hands! Don’t forbid 
 me. Lady Mildred, speak to him !” 
 
 “ Lor’ bless ’e, Miss Winnie, don’t ’e think of doin’ such 
 like,” a stout fisherman interposed. “I’ll try! Let me try, 
 Lieutenant.” 
 
 “No!” Winnie said, putting him back. “You can hold 
 the rope. You are a heavy man—there might be more dan¬ 
 ger for you; and you have a wife and children depending 
 on you also. I will go. Father, you will not say ‘ No.’ It 
 is my duty. Father, you will not refuse to let me risk my 
 life for the lives of others, will you? You would risk your 
 own freely.” 
 
 “Winnie, my child,” he cried, with tears, “ don’t talk so! 
 I can’t say ‘No’—I can’t say ‘Yes’—I can’t stand by to 
 see you killed! My girl, you’d never accomplish such a terri¬ 
 ble feat—you needn’t think of it.” 
 
 “Let me try.” She kissed his face, and murmured a few 
 words in his ear. “ All I have is for you and mamma and 
 the children, father; you will find papers in my desk; ” and 
 the grave, reserved, unemotional father shook with sobs, and 
 turned away to hide from the sight of his gentle daughter’s 
 going to her doom. 
 
 “Winnie dear—Winnie love!” Lady Mildred cried, chok¬ 
 ing with agitation. “ Winnie, if anything happens to you, 
 I shall feel myself a murderess for the rest of my life! My 
 brave girl, Heaven keep you! I’ll pray for you here on my 
 knees, Winnie, until I see your face again. Kiss me, dear.” 
 
 Never again in Tolgooth, or Tregarthen, or in the whole 
 country-side, did any one fear or regard Mildred, Lady 
 Mountrevor, as a cold-hearted, haughty, unapproachable 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 191 
 
 woman, after that dreadful day on Tregarthen Head. “ She 
 was like one of ourselves,” they said, referring to her 
 womanly excitement, fear, grief, and affection. Those whom 
 she had fiercely scolded forgave her when she entreated 
 them as those on whose aid she depended—those whom she 
 imperiously ordered about obeyed her, and would have done 
 so without even the promises she lavished of reward. The 
 women pitied her, and shed tears for her distracted grief and 
 excitement at her beloved cousin’s possibly untimely end; 
 they liked her and admired her for her passionate, remorse¬ 
 ful tenderness to poor little Winnie Caerlyon. 
 
 “ Poor little Miss Winnie ”—the poor Lieutenant’s daugh¬ 
 ter—who, they said, was going to her doom—to meet the 
 risk of almost certain death! For Winnie Caerlyon, with 
 her slender black-robed figure, her little white hands, her 
 uncovered head, with its wealth of beautiful brown hair, her 
 meek white face, was taking the place which brave young 
 Will Treglyn had been forced to abandon—was fastening 
 the rope around her poor little fragile girlish waist, and going 
 over Tregarthen Head, down amongst the blinding sheets of 
 spray and the thundering breakers of the Black Reef—down 
 the face of a deep precipitous overhanging cliff, to attempt 
 the rescue of the survivors of the Chittoor. 
 
 Those who stood beside her to see her make the terrible 
 essay said afterwards that they could not have told how it 
 was they permitted her to go. Blank amazement had stupified 
 unbelief, enthusiastic admiration of her courage had semi- 
 paralysed their faculties, until she stood ready for the descent, 
 looking up to Heaven in prayer on the very verge of Tregar¬ 
 then Head. 
 
 Her father flung himself on his face with a groan of horror, 
 and a deadly shiver went through the frames of the rough 
 men standing by. Lady Mildred crept forward, her limbs 
 seeming to totter beneath her. 
 
 “This once before you go—brave soul, dear girl!” she 
 said, weeping. “Listen. Winnie—I must tell you—I should 
 like you to know—now,” she gasped, looking wildly at Win¬ 
 nie, as at one who stood half within the dread portals of 
 eternity. “You asked me something this morning about 
 Stephen? Winnie—Winnie—do you not know? He loved 
 you, dear, long ago! I believe, if he is yet alive, that he 
 loves you still! He always loved you, Winnie! ” 
 
 The answering smile on the face of the girl to whom she 
 spoke was as the pathetic smile of the calm, passionless dead. 
 
192 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 And then Winnie Caen n, hidden from mortal sight, went 
 down alone to wrestle with an awful fate. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 With the thundering voices of the waters in her ears, wail¬ 
 ing despair, shrieking vengeance, roaring threats of destruc¬ 
 tion, all around her the mingling of the clouds of sky and sea 
 —cold, leaden-hued, misty clouds above, cold, white spray- 
 clouds below; with clenched hands, contracted limbs, distend¬ 
 ed, watching eyes; feeling the awful swaying hither and 
 thither of the rope, and the occasional striking of projections 
 of rock—as one in a stupor dimly feels the roughest arousing 
 movements—Winnie Caerlyon went down, down, swiftly 
 down, until the terrible jagged, black rocks beneath showed 
 like demon forms crouching darkly under the concealment of 
 white surf, preparing—oh, so easily and speedily!—to rend 
 and tear asunder the body of their frail young victim—to 
 beat out and deface in hideous disfigurement every trace of 
 womanly fairness in that slender form swaying hither and 
 thither amidst wind and spray, like a frail reed; down, down, 
 swinging in mid-air here where the shelving cliff overhangs, 
 gliding swiftly with outstretched, numbed, bleeding hands 
 by a smooth perpendicular face there, guiding the rope 
 with a dull concentration of all her faculties on each 
 jutting spur and crag, lest they strike her into in¬ 
 sensibility or kill her in a moment; down, down, 
 and the blinding sheets of spray drench her through 
 and through ; down further, and the great waves fling their 
 crests over her head; down still, nearer those cruel black 
 rocks—they are waiting for her—she cannot avoid them!— 
 down, till the swaying rope brings her to the great serrated 
 edges, the horrible chevaux de frise of splintered granite. 
 The waves stun her—blind her—beat her; the waves would 
 fain tear her away, to torture and suffocate amidst the rend¬ 
 ing iron arms, the black whirlpools of the Black Reef; but 
 one fierce rock Titan holds her fast, and, with the white, bare 
 arms, all bruised and torn, clinging to his rough breast, Win¬ 
 nie sits secure in the cradling hollow of a great black boulder, 
 while the hissing waves can only writhe around her feet and 
 bespatter her dripping hair, washed and beaten half out of 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 193 
 
 its tight coils, whilst she cries aloud in thankfulness to 
 Heaven. 
 
 Her senses have returned now—clearly, vividly. She can 
 remember, and think, and plan, and decide. Her excited 
 brain, her bounding pulses, her rejoicing soul, would carry 
 her through worse dangers than the past ones ten times over. 
 She can recall the position of the rocks, and the scraps of 
 sandy, weed-grown banks left bare by the tide, as she remem¬ 
 bered them eight years ago. She can slip down this great 
 rock, wade over that bank, mount that jagged shelving piece 
 there, which leads to the hollowed recesses in that projecting 
 gable of rock above high-water mark. She must climb up 
 there by the fringing growth of sea-weed—up there, where 
 the survivors of the Chittoor lie. 
 
 Is there no sight, no sound, to tell if they are there—if 
 anything is to reward her search? She cannot shout or signal 
 them; she can do nothing but patiently grope, and feel, and 
 stumble, and climb inch by inch over her painful way, hold¬ 
 ing by rocks, clinging to sea-weed, reaching over deep pools, 
 stooping and holding her breath under each torrent of foam¬ 
 ing water from each crash of the breakers. A little way fur¬ 
 ther she proceeds, the thick white froth covering her black 
 drenched clothes, her long, dripping, clinging tresses like 
 snow, and then the little figure—looking scarcely human, save 
 for the great dark, longing, passionate eyes looking out of the 
 .white face, and the bl^ck shining hair streaming from the 
 waves—clings to the oily, swaying sea-weeds, and tries to 
 clamber up. 
 
 But her swollen, bleeding hands will not hold the slippery 
 fringes tightly—they break away again and again from her 
 hands; the cold is benumbing her, the waves are deafening 
 and blinding her; and at length, with a piercing scream of 
 agonised impatience, pain, and despair, she falls prostrate on 
 the rocks below, gazing up at the hidden recesses beyond her 
 sight and reach. She gazes up, pondering in her dizzy bewild¬ 
 erment, cold, and weakness, whether she must die there, after 
 all—gazes up, and sees, looking down upon her, over the 
 ledges of rock and sea-weed, Stephen Tredennick’s face. 
 
 He sees her, disbelieving what he sees ; he stares, pushing 
 back his wet hair from his haggard face with a tremor of fear 
 that the delirium of cold, hunger, and exhaustion is stealing 
 over his senses. He sees her rise to her feet, and point to 
 the rope around her waist, and the gentle, womanly lips seem 
 to utter words, though he can hear no voice. And then other 
 
 13 
 
194 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 faces look down upon her, and tlie dark, cavernous rocks of 
 Tregarthen Head re-echo with wild shouts—hoarse, gasping 
 hurrahs, and frantic screams of gladness, relief, hope, and 
 welcome. 
 
 They fling themselves down, scramble down, tumble down 
 in any manner—eight gaunt, wounded, pallid, half-naked 
 men, with their captain, Stephen Tredennick—and they 
 almost overwhelm, in their wild gratitude, delight, and admi¬ 
 ration, the poor, little, trembling, womanly form that the sea 
 has well-nigh overwhelmed already. 
 
 “A woman! A woman! Come with a rope! Oh, may 
 the Lord bless her brave heart! A little lass come with the 
 rope to save us, captain! How did ye get to us? Give us a 
 touch o’ your hand! Cut and bleeding! Cut sore and deep, 
 your bonny little hands! Lord bless you! Who are you? 
 Are you a spirit or a woman? ” 
 
 Death staring them in the face had not wrung a tear from 
 their eyes, or broken the brave spirits in those sinewy, 
 weather-beaten frames; but before the sight of a woman’s 
 heroic daring and devotedness, risking her weak life for 
 theirs, they sobbed and groaned, kissing her bleeding hands, 
 wringing the weight of moisture from her dripping clothes, 
 blessing her, and begging for her name, for their wives’ and 
 mothers’ prayers to the end of their lives. 
 
 And Stephen Tredennick re-echoed their passionate de¬ 
 mand. 
 
 “Who are you? Who are you?” 
 
 She unfastened the flat tin case of brandy strapped to .her 
 side before she answered him,* and held it to a suffering-look¬ 
 ing man’s lips who was crouching, bent double with pain. 
 
 “The Captain first, thank you—Lord love you! ” poor Jack 
 said, faintly putting the flask aside for which his sunken eyes 
 glistened. 
 
 “No, no, Symons my poor fellow!” And Stephen 
 Tredennick’s hand along with Winnie’s guided the reviving- 
 draught to the man’s pinched blue lips. In a moment the 
 magnetism of touch realized the truth of what the Captain 
 had persuaded himself was the wild delusion of his perturbed 
 imagination. “Is it—is it Winnie Caerlyon? ” he asked, his 
 worn, weather-beaten face lighting up with a flash of incred¬ 
 ulous delight and anxiety. “Am I wrong? You were Win¬ 
 nie Caerlyon when I knew you years ago? ” 
 
 “I am Winifred Caerlyon, sir,” she said, turning away a 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 195 
 
 little from the ardent hope and pleasure in the kind dark 
 eyes, so sunken and encircled with lines. 
 
 It was the same words, the same meek tones and gesture, 
 the same gentle little white wistful face, that had appealed, 
 to the brave sailor’s tender heart the first time he ever saw 
 and spoke to her, patiently sheltering herself, after her pa¬ 
 troness’s abrupt dismissal from her presence, in the old serv¬ 
 ants’room; it was something like the same dress too, this 
 long clinging gown of black, her beautiful long hair stream¬ 
 ing below her waist, half wet, half blown into wild curls. 
 Yes; she was unchanged after all these years, little Winnie 
 —his dear little Winnie Caerlyon—whom he had loved and 
 pitied from the first moment, as a strong, kind, gentle-hearted 
 man loves a fair, winning, delicate little child, until the deep, 
 peculiar, passionate womanly nature touched the manly heart, 
 awaking interest, admiration, and chivalrous pity. 
 
 In the long, long years that had ensued, in lonely night 
 watches and solitary musings on bygone things, Stephen 
 Tredennick had told himself with a sigh that he had had 
 one chance of his old romantic fancy’s being realized, one 
 chance of that dear woman-love and woman-presence in the 
 old home at Tregarthen which he had looked forward to, 
 sometimes with aching, longing, and desire—one chance of 
 the sweet home joys which a sailor loves so dearly and quits 
 so often—and that he had lost this one chance— thrown it 
 away—let it slip through his careless fingers, and it would 
 never more be his. 
 
 Those long-ago hopes and wishes, so long buried that they 
 had become but a pleasantly sad memory, were aroused 
 afresh in the hearing of that voice, at the sight of the dear 
 little womanly face he had never once hoped to see again. 
 
 “ I might have known it,” he said, looking earnestly at her. 
 “ I did know it; ’but I could not believe it.” 
 
 And now, guided by Winnie to the safe place for ascent, 
 the rescued men—each one revived by a draught of the 
 powerful stimulant from the case-bottle—directed, encour¬ 
 aged, and prepared for the long perilous upward, journey, 
 were brought up one by one—some quite safely, others meet¬ 
 ing with accidents of a slight nature on the way; and the 
 shouts of rejoicing that greeted each arrival could be heard 
 above the roar of the waters baffled of their prey. 
 
 The last of-the eight sailors had gone up out of their sight, 
 and Stephen Tredennick and Winnie Caerlyon were left 
 alone—alone—shut out from all the world—beyond the reach, 
 
396 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MAKCH MORNING. 
 
 for the time, of all earthly presences or influences—that slen¬ 
 der rope, which would come down with its weighted slip¬ 
 knots presently, swaying in the wind, their sole mode of 
 communication with the land where their fellow-creatures 
 lived—alone on the Black Reef of Tregarthen, with hundreds 
 of feet of frowning crags above them, and behind them the 
 rising tide of the wild sea, and the black, battered hulk of 
 the ill-fated Chittoor, 
 
 “ Winnie, I thought you were in America,” he said, gazing 
 at her, almost doubting the possibility of her identity. “How 
 did you come here to save our lives? ” 
 
 “ I have been at home for a week, sir,” she answered, sim¬ 
 ply; “and I came down because poor Will Treglyn, who at¬ 
 tempted to descend first, was badly hurt. There was no one 
 else. I was not afraid—not much—and my weight was light 
 on the rope.” 
 
 “No one else but you!” he echoed, with kindling eyes. 
 “No one else with your pure heart and brave spirit, I am 
 sure; but they might have found some one else whose weight 
 might have been heavier on the rope, but whose bodily frame 
 would have been better able to endure exposure and hard¬ 
 ship than this poor little one,” he said, with a melancholy 
 smile, trying to shelter the drenched shivering form. “You 
 knew what ship’s crew it was that were wrecked? ” 
 
 “ Yes, the stern, with the name painted on it, was washed 
 in this morning.” 
 
 “Yes, yes,” he said, his brow darkening sadly; “ my gallant 
 old Chittoor . I’ll never tread a plank of her again—my 
 poor old beauty! ” the sailor groaned, his voice shaking, and 
 the tears blinding his eyes as he turned to gaze at the shape¬ 
 less heap of tempest-riven planks, beating to atoms on the 
 sharp rocks. “ I never thought to part company from her 
 like that! I feel as if I had done wrong, to.be standing here 
 "safe and sound, and my brave ship, that has carried me 
 through wind and weather these ten years and more, gone to 
 her doom! But no mortal power could have saved her. I 
 never left her until she was parting amidships at five o’clock 
 this mortiing—the second mate and myself and poor Symons. 
 He was hurt—one of his ribs crushed, I think—and we had 
 to hold him on the couple of planks and hencoops we had 
 lashed together.” 
 
 “And where are all the rest?” Winnie asked, fearfully. 
 
 “I cannot tell,” Stephen Tredennick said, gloomily. “One 
 boat’s crew pushed off as soon as she struck—at three o’clock 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MAECH MOKNING. 
 
 197 
 
 —and were swamped in a few minutes; they went down 
 
 before my eyes—ten or eleven men. The next boat was 
 
 stove in as they tried to launch her. Then another boat’s 
 crew started—fifteen, I think—and we lost sight of them in 
 the darkness in an instant; they were lost too, I dare say. 
 
 And then, when the ship was going to pieces, the rest 
 
 jumped over with spars, oars, or anything they could lay 
 hold of. Six of them got in here before the mate, Symons, 
 and.myself—the rest all perished. Fifty of my men and my 
 ship gone — the Chittoor and nearly all my poor fellows! We 
 were short of hands, too, or there would have been twelve 
 more gone; and I — I was spared!” he groaned, bitterly. 
 
 “ Captain Tredennick,” Winnie said, gravely, “are you dis¬ 
 pleased with Heaven for sparing your life?” 
 
 “No,” he returned, moodily, leaning on the wet rock be¬ 
 side her, “I am not ungrateful to Heaven or to you; but, if 
 I could have saved my men and my ship, I would have been 
 willing never to see the sun shine as it is shining over us 
 now!” 
 
 “ I think,” objected Winnie, striving to speak calmly with 
 the greatest difficulty, “ that you ought to remember — before' 
 you speak so — what the loss of your life would be to others 
 — what it would be to see you washed in like—like—one of 
 the poor fellows’ corpses this morning. What would it be to 
 your aunt — the poor old lady — Madam Vivian — to Lady 
 Mountrevor, who loves you as if you were her own brother?” 
 
 “ True enough, Winnie,” he returned, but without raising 
 his head; “ but, my dear, you don’t know how badly a sailor 
 feels such a thing as that which has happened to me.” 
 
 “ I think I can imagine it, Captain Tredennick,” she said, 
 gently, and spoke never a word more in her mute sympathy, 
 standing patiently beside him, whilst the cold March wind 
 chilled her through every vein and nerve, and the cold salt 
 moisture dripped icily from her wet hair and dress over her 
 shuddering limbs. 
 
 “ Here is the rope at last! ” he exclaimed rousing himself 
 from his painful thoughts. “ My poor child, you must be 
 frozen! ” 
 
 He took the great double noose to slip it over her shoul¬ 
 ders; but the poor little benumbed hands held his in 
 resistance. 
 
 “ Captain Tredennick, you must go first—you must! ” she 
 said, passionately. “ They are waiting, longing every mo¬ 
 ment to see your face. Poor Lady Mildred is waiting, pray- 
 
198 all in the wild march morning. 
 
 ing, hoping, and dreading; you. must go first—oh, you must 
 —oh, please leave me behind until the next time!” poor 
 Winnie entreated, with convulsive sobs, feeling her strength 
 going, her limbs failing, an icy chill helplessness creeping 
 over her very soul, it seemed to her, and dreading lest 
 Stephen Tredennick’s determination should prevail, and that 
 after all he might be left to death and danger. 
 
 “And leave you!” he cried, his face flushing. “How 
 many more lives are to be lost, and I saved? Your life, too, 
 —wet, chilled, benumbed, fainting almost as you are! Win¬ 
 nie, what do you think of my manhood that you could pro¬ 
 pose such a brutally selfish course to me? ” 
 
 “ Oh, I cannot—I cannot—I will not leave you here! ” she 
 said, her broken voice rising to a faint scream of despairing 
 entreaty, as he adjusted the ropes around her, and lifted her 
 in his arms to the flat rock, over which the rising tide was 
 beginning to ripple, from which the ascent was to be made. 
 “Do not make me go first! I would rather die! And I can’t 
 hold the rope, my arms are so stiff,” she added, unaware, in 
 her grief and anxiety, of the admission she had made of her 
 total unfitness to be left by herself. 
 
 “ No, you cannot,” he affirmed, in perplexity; “ you would 
 be dashed against the cliff, and your limbs broken, cramped 
 as you are. What am I to do? ” 
 
 One moment’s consideration and then he stepped on to the 
 rock beside her, and, unloosing the rope from her waist, and 
 with sailor dexterity forming with it a second slip-knot, he 
 replaced the first one round Winnie, and the second beneath 
 his own shoulders; and then he took the poor little fragile, 
 shivering form in his strong arms. 
 
 “We will go up together, Winnie. 
 
 “ Oh, we can’t! ” she cried, in terror. “ The rope will 
 break, and you will be killed!” 
 
 “And you will not, I suppose?” he rejoined, smiling pity¬ 
 ingly and tenderly. “ We must risk it, Winnie, dear. I do 
 not believe we could reach the top alone in safety. I saw 
 how it was when Symons went up—he got some terrible 
 blows, poor fellow! I believe the risk for your life is less by 
 my going with you; and, if we are to die, little girl,” said he, 
 huskily, straining her close to his breast, “ we will die to¬ 
 gether.” 
 
 In the face of this ending of her young life and her faith¬ 
 ful love together, poor little Winnie Caerlyon turned with a 
 smile to Stephen Tredennick for the first time—a happy 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 199 
 
 smile, suffusing her pallid face, and brightening her sunken, 
 haggard eyes. _ 
 
 “ And, if we are to live—if we are to live—if God will be 
 so good,” he resumed, looking up to Heaven reverently, “we 
 will live together. Winnie, my darling, shall we? Our 
 lives belong to each other from this day, I think—do they 
 not, my little girl? Look up at me, my brave little darling 
 —who risked death for me so willingly, and say that, if we 
 live, you will be mine on earth, and, if we die, you will be 
 mine in Heaven! ” 
 
 Her sight was fading, her senses were failing, her voice 
 had sunk to the whisper of weakness. 
 
 “ I am dying,” she thought; “ I may promise for the world 
 beyond the grave;” and, with her face resting beneath his, 
 the sweet dark eyes gazing upon him, the touch of her cold 
 lips to his cheek, Winnie Caerlyon said, “I will.” And then 
 the fond light of the loving eyes went out in darkness, and 
 the last flicker of life in the white face faded away. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 There was an agitated group around Miss Trewhella, 
 stretched in a graceful position of helpless abandonment on 
 the sofa in the housekeeper’s room, her arms flung out at 
 either side, her eyes closed. 
 
 The housemaid was vigorously rubbing the right hand, the 
 kitchenmaid the left; whilst Mrs. Grose held a huge square 
 bottle of salts to her nose, and made speedy preparations for 
 drenching the fainting lady with a large jugful of icy-cold 
 water, when she slowly raised her eyelids, and faintly 
 gasped— 
 
 “A—a—gl-gl-ass—wi-wine, ple-ase! ” 
 
 Old Llanyon, the butler, who brought the wine, regarding 
 Miss Tfewhella’s emotion with the eye of disfavor which he 
 turned upon almost every deed and act of that estimable per¬ 
 son’s, stood watching her sipping the wune and groaning and 
 sipping again, closing her eyes, rousing herself up to groan 
 again, and then evincing returning symptoms of a relapse 
 into insensibility, until he could endure it no longer. 
 
 “ What’s the matter weth the wommun? ” he demanded, 
 irately. “Be shegoin’ to faint, or be she goin’ to recover, or 
 what be she agoin’ to do? ” 
 
200 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 “ Oh, whisht ’e, Mr. Llanyon,” the housemaid cried, 
 reproachfully. “ We were a-sittin’here, Mrs. Grose an’ me, 
 making up th’ accounts of the things for the dinner-party, 
 when Miss Trewhella she comes in wild-like, weth her hands 
 up; and she fell down here in a heap ’longside Mrs. Grose; 
 and Mrs. Grose she let the ink-bottle fall, and-” 
 
 “ What’s the matter weth her, I want to know? ” Llanyon 
 demanded, more angrily. “ Who’s dead, or who’s buried, or 
 whet’s the takin’ weth her that she’s sprankin’ and groanin’ 
 there as ef she were out of the ’sylum? ” 
 
 The sufferer’s insensibility suddenly terminated at these 
 insulting words. 
 
 “ Thank ’evin!” Miss Trewhella cried, sitting bolt upright 
 so suddenly that her attendants retreated in dismay, and 
 even hardy old Llanyon drew back a step. “ Thank ’evin, I 
 say, that I’ve not got the hearts of some people, that would 
 eat, and drink, and go in and out, and make insulting remarks 
 upon defenceless creatures lying in dead faints,” said Miss 
 Trewhella, standing up very stiff and straight, and “fixing” 
 old Llanyon with her fiery hard black eyes, “ when every one 
 belonging to the family as they belongs to was lying dead 
 and drowned, shipwrecked and murdered! ” Miss Trewhella 
 went on, gurgling and gasping, and leaning her head back 
 against the sharp edge of a shelf in an affecting manner. 
 “Thank ’evin that my feelings, when I hear tell of corpses 
 stretched out dead and drowned of the family that I serves, 
 and serves faithful, these seventeen years and a quarter— 
 that my feelings is, Mr. Llanyon, that my heart stops heatin’, 
 and my blood runs cold in my veins, and I haven’t the power 
 to help myself from looking like one out of the ’sylum, or 
 out of the madhouse, Mr. Llanyon!” 
 
 “ For Heaven’s sake, whet are ’e a-talkin’ of, ’Lizabeth 
 Trewhella? ” old Llanyon asked, fearfully. “ Who is dead 
 belonging to the family?” 
 
 “ It’s time for you to ask,” Miss Trewhella retorted^ venge- 
 fully; “perhaps, Mr. Llanyon, you mightn’t have been so 
 ready with your insults, an’ your abuse, an’ your calling of 
 names to a respectable girl, when her mind’s loaded with 
 distress, and her head ready to split to think of what’s before 
 her! ” 
 
 “ Oh, ’Lizabeth,” Mrs. Grose implored, “ do ’e tell us— 
 there’s a good girl—like a dear! What have happened, 
 ’Lizabeth? Who’s dead?” 
 
 “ Mrs. Grose, you’ve a heart to feel for me, if you don’t 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 201 
 
 feel for me on all occasions as I could wish,” responded Miss 
 Trewhella. “ I’ve dreadful and awful news for you, Mrs. 
 Grose—there’s dreadful news for the family, Mrs. Grose— 
 and my heart’s nigh breaking! I was always one to feel 
 things worse than any one else! Oh, Mrs. Grose—Maria 
 Jane, my dear,” broke out Miss Trewhella, abandoning the 
 sharp edge of the shelf for the sympathising housemaid’s 
 shoulder, and becoming alarmingly hysterical, “how can I 
 tell ’e! Don’t ’e ask me—I can’t speak of it! The Captain 
 —the poor Captain—he’s dead—killed—drowned—a dead 
 corpse down there on—the—the seashore! Maria Jane, hold 
 me up—I’m go-ing! ” 
 
 “ Es et Cappun Tredennick: as is dead?” old Llanyon 
 almost shouted, in grief and horror. “ ’Lizabeth Trewhella, 
 ’e er not goin’ to tell me of et. The Cappun—my gallant 
 gentleman! Cappun Stephen, that I remember as a hand¬ 
 some young fellow—my brave, fine, noble gentleman! Es et 
 drowned dead ’er manes?” he demanded, his dialect becom¬ 
 ing broader each instant, in his terrible agitation. “Was it 
 our Cappun’s ship that was lost? ” 
 
 At^the moment a bell rang sharply. 
 
 “ Oh; good lor,” he groaned, sitting down, in helpless dis¬ 
 may, “ whet are us to do? IIow are us to tell poor Madam?” 
 
 “I’m to tell her, Mister Llanyon, if you please,” Miss 
 Trewhella said, witheringly; “ I’m to be the one—and the 
 only one fit and proper to tell my lady, after seventeen 
 years and a quarter. I’m aware of the proper and only 
 method of breaking afflicting intelligence, Mister Llanyon,” 
 she went on, with contemptuous self-possession. “ It isn’t 
 likely that persons as have no proper feeling, nor knowledge 
 of the weakness of a delicate person’s nerves, could attempt 
 to meddle with such a situation. Perhaps you would be 
 kind enough to give me another spoonful—the least spoonful 
 —of wine, Mrs. Grose. I don’t know as I shall be able to 
 get through it without fainting again.” 
 
 “Oh, Providence, look down on us! ” old Llanyon groaned, 
 quite unconvinced by Miss Trewhella’s self-possesScd assur¬ 
 ances. “These es a dark day. It’ll be the death of the 
 poor mistress, the death of the master, you may lay—an’ 
 theer’s an end to the ould house an’ the Tredennicks o’ 
 Tregarthen! ” 
 
 ****** * 
 
 The blinds were half drawn, and the warm rich glow of the 
 fire-light illuminated the large room, with its soft green dra* 
 
202 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 peries, its black polished woods, and dead gold frames and 
 mouldings, more brightly and pleasantly than the dull, cold 
 gray light and occasional gleams of glaring sunlight of the 
 cold wild March day outside. Madam Vivian lay on her little 
 velvet chaise longue , drawn between the fire and the window. 
 She had been dozing, for her crimson Indian shawl, with its 
 gold bordering, lay across her feet and her cashmere morn¬ 
 ing-robe, and a copy of Elia's Essays , bound in cream col¬ 
 oured calf and gold, lay half-open beside her, dropped from 
 her languid hand. 
 
 “Oh, Trewhella!” she said, looking surprised—“I rang 
 for Llanyon! Why do you attend the drawing-room bell? 
 I want some iced lemonade. I hope the refrigerator is in 
 proper order—the last was not very successful. I am very 
 thirsty, and a little feverish, I think, and have taken a fancy 
 to have some. There are lemons, of course, in the store¬ 
 room? ” 
 
 Even Elizabeth Trewhella’s selfish importance and vulgar 
 eagerness for the excitement of telling her dreadful news 
 gave way to silent fear and pity for her mistress’s terrible 
 unconsciousness and her interest about the trifles of her daily 
 life, whilst the sword of a Damocles trembled as it were to 
 the fall that would pierce her to the heart. 
 
 “ Oh, yes,- Madam, there are lemons! But you’ll excuse 
 me, Madam, if I can’t think of anything but the dreadful 
 grief that’s come on us all! ” she burst out, rather bungling 
 her “proper and only method.” “ I’ve been in a dead faint 
 since I heard it, with the cook and housemaid supporting of 
 me, and I wouldn’t let one come near you but myself, Madam, 
 though I was hardly able to walk upstairs, for fear they 
 would frighten you to death! ” 
 
 “What is it? What has happened? ” Madam cried, strug¬ 
 gling to her feet. “ What ails you, Trewhella? You are 
 frightening me to death! Oh, it is Lady Mildred! Some¬ 
 thing has happened to her on the cliffs! ” 
 
 “ Oh, it isn’t L.ady Mildred, Madam, but it’s on the cliffs the 
 dreadful accident has happened,” Trewhella gasped, making 
 a terrifying display of wringing her hands, swaying from 
 side to side, and rolling her head about distractedly. “It isn’t 
 that it’s an accident exactly, but—but—it happened last night 
 in the wreck, Madam. Little we thought, and we all in our 
 beds! ” 
 
 “ Of what? What happened at the wreck? ” Madam Vivian 
 asked, slowly, her face fading into an ashen-gray deadly hue. 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 203 
 
 “ Oh, Madam, dear, don’t take on so dreadful!” Miss 
 Trewhella cried, frantically snatching at an essence-bottle 
 and a fan. “ Sit down in your chair and let mb give you a 
 drop of sherry—just a spoonful, Madam; you’re like death, 
 and I know, to my sorrow, what it is to have weak nerves.” 
 
 “ Trewhella! ” the old lady called,.striking her hand fiercely 
 on the table beside her, “ speak out this instant—without a 
 word of. prevarication! What happened at the wreck? 
 What is it that is so dreadful as to frighten me to death? 
 Whose ship was it? ” 
 
 She whispered the last words hoarsely in her anguish, and 
 Trewhella, over-awed and unnerved, burst into noisy sobs 
 and tears. 
 
 “I can’t tell you, Madam! It’s-—it’s too—too dreadful! I 
 said it would break your heart—and Llanyon abusing and 
 scolding of me for—for fainting, as if I could help it when 
 —when I heard of the poor—dear—Captain—dead and 
 drowned—oh, oh, oh! ” 
 
 The next instant Miss Trewhella’s shrieks, in good earnest, 
 were resounding through the house. Madam Vivian’s limbs 
 had given way beneath her, and, whilst her maid was scream¬ 
 ing, she had fallen heavily to the floor. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 Madam Vivian’s maid summoned assistance, and was re¬ 
 lieved to find that her mistress was not dead. The shock 
 was only temporary in its effect on her system, yet sound and 
 strong from her magnificent constitution; and, after a little 
 while, she sat up, pallid, haggard, trembling, an agony of 
 bereaved pain thrilling her through and through, and making 
 her white lips parched, and her tearless eyes burn like fire. 
 But she was strong to suffer, determined, proud, and self- 
 willed yet. 
 
 “Bring me a warm mantle and bonnet,” she said to her 
 maid; and, a momentary hesitation on her part evoking a 
 haughtily-impatient glance and an imperious “ Do you tear? ” 
 Miss Trewhella was obliged, in amazement and alarm, speedily 
 to obey the command. 
 
 “ Give me your arm, Llanyon,” she said to her old faithful 
 man-servant. “ Your nerves render you unfit for anything,” 
 
204 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MABCH MORNING. 
 
 she remarked, coldly scornful as she turned away from her 
 maid’s proffered assistance. “ I don’t want to hear people 
 shrieking and screaming in my ears. My sorrow is my own, 
 and no one else can share it,” the proud old woman said, re¬ 
 pulsing the idea of others’ endeavouring to pity or understand 
 her heart-griefs. 
 
 Poor old Llanyon was afraid to betray his own bitter re¬ 
 gret, and kept wiping away the tears that trickled down his 
 withered cheeks silently and cautiously with his right hand, 
 while he respectfully held the left hand and arm to assist Lis 
 mistress as they hurried on through the cold March wind and 
 bleak flitting sunshine towards Tregarthen Head and the 
 ominous crowd gathered on its summit. 
 
 “ What are they all doing up there? What are they all 
 about?” she demanded, impatient and wrathful in her sup¬ 
 pressed pain. 
 
 “They—they—I suppose they’re looking at—oh, Madam, 
 Madam! ” The old man broke down with a choking sob. 
 
 “Hush, hush! ” his mistress said, clutching him fiercely by 
 the arm. “ Command yourself, I tell you ! Do you wish me 
 to break down now? Do you think that I am not making 
 mysplf keep up until-” 
 
 Words failed her, but her indomitable will pushed forward 
 her trembling limbs, all unused to any exercise; and, fight¬ 
 ing with her throbbing heart, her distressed lungs, her aching 
 muscles, she walked swiftly up the hill against the wind, 
 without a pause for breath, until she reached the outskirts of 
 the thick crowd. 
 
 No one had noticed her coming—it hardly noticed her 
 now, that absorbed, talking, gesticulating, exclaiming, staring, 
 pushing, struggling crowd of men, women, boys, and girls, all 
 looking seaward. 
 
 “They’re cornin’! They’re cornin’! ” 
 
 The words passed from mouth to mouth, at first in a con¬ 
 fused hum of eager voices, gradually rising in a tide of 
 excitement, until a great wave of roaring cheers, shouts, and 
 outcries swelled above the crashing of the rough waves 
 below; and, in spite of themselves, Madam Vivian and her 
 old servant found themselves borne in and hurried forward, 
 jostled and pushed by people who seemed half mad with 
 anxiety and eagerness, towards the summit of the Head. 
 
 “ What are they about? How dare they push me in this 
 manner? What is all the cheering for? Ask them, Llanyon. 
 Do you hear? What are you staring at, like the rest? ” 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 205 
 
 “What es et all about? What are ye cheering for?” 
 Llanyon asked a man rushing past. “ Do ye see wheer ye’re 
 going? Look at JVIadam Vivian, man! ” 
 
 “ I beg eer pardon, my lady,” the man said, touching his 
 cap, but pushing on, with a broad grin on his flushed face, 
 all the time—“they’re cheering for the sailors—rshe have 
 saaved ’em! Miss Winnie Caerlyon—that little white-faced 
 maid as you wuddent think could clem a wall—she’s been 
 and gone down that cliff—raight over the Head, my lady! ” 
 He restrained himself with evident difficulty until he got a 
 yard past Madam Vivian, and then his throat opened in an¬ 
 other cheer, joining the chorus of cheers that fairly deafened 
 the ear. 
 
 “The sailors! The sailors! The sailors and Winnie 
 Caerlyon! ” Madam cried aloud, in the rage of her grief and 
 uncertainty. “Why did I come here? Llanyon, take me 
 out of this yelling crowd, and bring me some respectable 
 person—Lieutenant Caerlyon- -any one that I can ask a 
 question of. Why did I come? Listen to their cheers! 
 How dare they? How dare they, if—if—the Captain is not 
 safe! Llanyon, do you hear me? This yelling and shouting 
 will drive me mad! ” 
 
 But poor old Llanyon’s efforts to release himself and his 
 mistress from the pressure of the crowd were somewhat un¬ 
 availing, and at length, worn out with struggling, emotion, 
 and excitement, Madam was obliged to pause, leaning against 
 one of the rough upright granite boulders that strewed the 
 Head. 
 
 “Here she is! Here she is! Bray-vo! ” roared the crowd. 
 “ Did ’e ever hear tell o’ the like? The little maid—the 
 Leftenant’s daughter! ” 
 
 A crimson spot was on Madam’s white cheeks, an angry 
 glitter in her tearless eyes, though her breath came in sobs. 
 
 “ Did I come here to listen to Winnie Caerlyon’s wonder¬ 
 ful achievements?” she said aloud, in scorn. “Will you 
 answer me, please,” she asked of a miner near her—“ if any¬ 
 body is of importance beside Miss Winnie Caerlyon—bave 
 the crew of the Chittoor been saved? ” 
 
 “ ’Es, Madam,” he answered—“ some ov ’em—she saaved 
 ’em—the young maid—the Leftenant’s daughter—have ’e 
 heard tell, Madam?” 
 
 “Will you answer me properly?” Madam Vivian said, 
 almost frenzied. “What is Winnie Caerlyon to me? How 
 
206 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 dare you! Where is the Captain of the Chittoor while you 
 are yelling over the sailors and Winnie Caerlyon? ” 
 
 Abashed 'and frightened by her anger^ the poor “ kibble 
 lander ” from Tolgooth mines could only point his finger 
 towards the sea. 
 
 “Theer, Madam—him and Winnie Caerlyon!” 
 
 “ Him and Winnie Caerlyon! ” Madam shrieked, feeling 
 that a few minutes more of this agonised suspense and con¬ 
 fusion would of a surety drive her senses astray, when the 
 crowd caught the words, and re-echoed them in stormy shouts 
 of rejoicing. 
 
 “Him and Winnie Caerlyon! Captain Tredennick an’ the 
 Leftenant’s daughter! Lor’ bless ’em! Here they are!” 
 
 In his exultation, relief, and delight old Llanyon found 
 himself, regardless of every rule of propriety and etiquette, 
 dragging his mistress forward, and ere Madam could pause 
 to question or rebuke again, she was standing beside the 
 holders of the rope, who, with sweating brows and muscles 
 strained like cordage, were gradually drawing it up. Presently 
 before her eyes—between her and the stretch of tossing gray 
 sea, the wild white manes of the rushing swirling waves, and 
 the lowering sullen mists—as if they had arisen from the 
 ocean depths, she saw two figures. 
 
 She saw them, and, amidst her unspeakable joy and glad¬ 
 ness, a sharp spasm contracted her heart. Stephen Treden¬ 
 nick, her beloved nephew, whose face she thought she never 
 more would see, standing, tail, erect, and strong, on the earth, 
 amongst living men, was before her; but close beneath his 
 was a white soft womanly face, and tightly clasped to his 
 breast a slender, yielding, helpless woman’s form. 
 
 “Stephen—Stephen, my boy!” Madam broke forth in a 
 tremulous cry with outstretched arms, her affection putting 
 aside .all else. 
 
 But he never saw or heard her; he responded to his cousin 
 Mildred’s glad fond welcome hastily and tenderly, but he 
 never looked a few feet beyond, where stood his aunt, Madam 
 Vivian. 
 
 “ Oh, Mildred, I am afraid she is hurt! ” he said, unclasp¬ 
 ing the silent, nerveless figure, and kneeling beside it on the 
 sod. “ She is quite insensible! Oh, Mildred, it has cost her 
 her life! ” 
 
 His face and voice were full of anguish; he heeded noth¬ 
 ing else but the object of his grief. 
 
 ’ . “ And it is for this,” Madam Vivian exclaimed, in bitter- 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING, 207 
 
 ness of spirit, “that Stephen Tredennick has returned to his 
 home! ” 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. . 
 
 The fatal storm of that wild March morning had long 
 passed away, the bright sunshine fretted with molten silver 
 all the great blue shield of ocean, the warm southerly breeze 
 blew soft over Tregarthen Head, stirring the summer grass 
 growing green and deep in sheltered hollows, and the sum¬ 
 mer dews fell softly on the daisied sod of the shipwrecked 
 sailors’ graves in Trewillian churchyard. 
 
 The weight of regret and sorrow that their death had laid 
 so heavily on the kind heart of their Captain had been light¬ 
 ened, it is true, for the second crew of fifteen which had 
 quitted the sinking ship, after unspeakable, hardship and 
 danger, had battled triumphantly with wind and sea through 
 the terrible hours of darkness, and at day-break found them¬ 
 selves eight miles off, driving in on a smooth lee-shore. The 
 boat was stove in as they went aground, but the men all 
 escaped with life, and, making their way to Tregarthen, the 
 whole number of the saved—three-and-twenty—were lodged, 
 fed, and cared for—some in Tregarthen House itself, some in 
 the village—until they were able to travel to London and 
 receive their wages from the merchants with whom Captain 
 Tredennick was in partnership. 
 
 The ship and cargo were fully insured, and the owners had 
 sustained no loss; but with the wreck of his beloved C/rittoor 
 had ended Stephen Tredennick's seafaring life. 
 
 “I knew every plank in her deck, every scratch and mark; 
 it seems to me as if I knew every rope and seam iu her can¬ 
 vas, "and I don’t feel as if I should care to begin learning 
 such things all over again,” he said, despondently, to Lady 
 Mountrevor; “besides—besides, Millie, you know, I could, 
 not go away anywhere now, not if my daily bread depended 
 on it! ” 
 
 “No, no, of course not,” she replied. 
 
 They were speaking in undertones, and the faces of both 
 were downcast and weary. 
 
 “ Mildred, isn’t she any better ? ” 
 
 He had asked the question so often during these weeks 
 
208 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 of sorrowful anxiety, and she had had so little variation for 
 reply, that her lips had grown tired, and her heart despairing, 
 in the accustomed sorrowful answer, “ She is no better, 
 Stephen.” 
 
 Lady Mildred’s brilliant eyes darkened with tears now, as 
 she slightly changed the formula of her response. 
 
 “ Stephen dear, I am afraid that she will never be any better. 
 There is no use in denying it. The doctors think so, too.” 
 
 “ She ” over whom the dreary fiat was uttered was lying in 
 the adjoining chamber, a large ai;*y pleasant room on the first 
 floor in Tregarthen House, surrounded by all that love and 
 care could desire or wealth purchase. The downy satin cov¬ 
 erlet and snowy linen on the beautiful little silk-draped French 
 bed, the noiseless carpets, the bouquets of flowers, the little 
 fountain of fresh delicious perfume, with its tiny jet of cool 
 spray and its twinkle of silvery drops, the superb crimson 
 strawberries and hot-house peaches, with their crystal dishes 
 resting on ice; the ebony reading-stand, with its open maga¬ 
 zines and sheets of engravings—all that love and wealth 
 could give her was hers ere she could ask or want; but all 
 gifts and endeavours and achievements stopped short here in 
 this luxurious shaded room, with its dainty satin-covered 
 couch, fit for a French marquise . 
 
 The spacious, elegant chamber, with its tinted draperies 
 and rose-strewn carpet, its flowers, and fruit, and pictures, 
 and ornaments, w^as after all but an invalid’s narrow world— 
 a luxurious, carefully-guarded, silent, shadowy prison, from 
 which fond, sad hearts and tender hands could not set her 
 free, into which they could not bring one wild fresh breath, of 
 health and strength; they could not set her on her feet 
 amongst the early summer flowers and the waving summer 
 trees, out on the grassy lawns and pleasant shady paths, to 
 rejoice as they did in the breeze and the sunshine of May, 
 and the song of the lark, whose trills of ecstasy for light and 
 life and love floated into the quiet chamber on the breath of 
 summer air that stirred the white transparent curtains about 
 her bed—the downy bed and pillows, cambric-trimmed, lace- 
 edged, smooth, snowy-white, and scented, on which lay help¬ 
 lessly an aching head and powerless, crippled limbs. 
 
 “ Oh, my poor little Winnie,” groaned Stephen Tredennick, 
 “ is this all the return she is to receive at my hands 1 —stricken 
 down in her youth, with nothing but the prospect of years of 
 suffering—a long, lingering death before her?” 
 
 “But, Stephen,” his cousin said, gently—she had become 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 209 
 
 very gentle and womanly and kind of late, this imperious, 
 restless, unhappy wife of Lord Mountrevor—“ there were 
 days only a month ago when we thought that she would not 
 even have those years of life, the suffering of which I fer¬ 
 vently trust time may alleviate in some degree, and love and 
 care can brighten a little also. Even now Doctor Lake is of 
 opinion that she will not suffer acute pain, 'except at inter¬ 
 vals, although he will not say anything about her recovery of 
 the use of her limbs. The strain on her nervous system has 
 affected her spine, he says, as well as the rheumatic fever—” 
 
 “ Oh, don’t, Mildred—I can’t bear to hear it! ” 
 
 He writhed with the agony of sensitive pain for the suffer¬ 
 ings of others—beloved, weak, helpless creatures—which 
 affects some of the bravest masculine natures so strangely, in 
 contradistinction to a woman’s self-possessed endurance under 
 the like trial. 
 
 “But I must speak to you Stephen,” Lady Mildred recom¬ 
 menced unwillingly, after an interval of silence. “ You 
 know Lord Mountrevor has written again; and although I 
 gave him ample explanations, he says he cannot quite under¬ 
 stand my prolonged absence.” Her lip curled, and a cold, 
 haughty smile hardened her face. “ He wishes to see the 
 child, too, I believe; indeed that is, 1 dare say, the principal 
 reason of his requesting my return.” 
 
 “ No, no, Millie,” Stephen Tredennick said, earnestly— 
 “ don’t say that, my dear. I believe in my heart that your 
 husband longs to see your face again for your own dear sake. 
 He is not a stock or a stone, Mildred; and he was passionate- 
 ly in love with you when he married you. Give him his due 
 —be just to him, Mildred, at least, and acknowledge he did 
 care for you very deeply, though you did not care for him.” 
 
 “ Well? ” she questioned, with a flicker of a cold smile. 
 
 “ Well,” her cousin returned, gravely, “is there nothing in 
 that to make you feel kindly toward the man who felt love 
 for you, and must have felt keen pain at your coldness?” 
 
 “No, Stephen,” Lady Mountrevor answered, frigidly, 
 “ there is not.” 
 
 “ He is the father of your first-born and only child, Mildred,” 
 honest Stephen urged, his kind heart aching at the necessity 
 -for his pleading; “ the child whom you love as well as he 
 ought to form one bond at least between you.” 
 
 “I do not love the child,” she returned, her handsome face 
 growing rigid in proud, cold obstinacy. 
 
 “ Then, Mildred, my dear cousin,” Stephen Tredennick 
 
 14 
 
210 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 said, “ you show me plainly whose is the fault, whose is the 
 sin in this most miserable separation of a man from the wife 
 and child that he loves—of a woman from the husband that 
 she vowed to cling to as long as they both should live—of the 
 poor little innocent child that would love both his parents if 
 he were allowe.d, and who is wors'e than orphaned—with an 
 unloving mother and a father hundreds of miles away! ” 
 
 The simple, earnest, severely-kind words, spoken from 
 the depths of a heart that she knew to be true and generous, 
 and full of brotherly love for her, touched Mildred Mountre- 
 vor to the depths of her wayward soul. 
 
 “ Cousin Stephen,’ 5 she said, her hardness breaking down, 
 “ I do not want to be cold and unkind and unnatural; but—, 
 oh, you do not know all! ” 
 
 “ I know whither your wifely duty should lead you, my 
 poor dear cousin,” he said tenderly. “ You cannot shirk it 
 without wrong to yourself and the man you have married. I 
 know where your parental duty should lead you—towards 
 your poor little neglected boy. Duty, Mildred, duty in the 
 sight of man and Heaven—let happiness and pleasure go 
 where they will! ” 
 
 “Stephen, I’ll do my best—do my duty—I will! ” Lady 
 Mildred said suddenly and passionately. “ You shall never 
 have to reproach me so again! ” 
 
 “ Reproach you, my dear Mildred—my dear sister,” he 
 returned, hastily—“you who have been an angel of goodness 
 and kindness and generosity to me! My dear, I only think 
 that, if poor Henry Mountrevor received but one-half of the 
 thoughtful affection and attention you lavish on me, I should 
 have the happiness of seeing you, my dear, a beloved wife in 
 a peaceful, happy home.” 
 
 “ Never! ” she exclaimed, shortly and quitted the room as 
 she spoke. Half an hour after she entered the room again. 
 
 “There,” she said, abruptly,—“I have written now. I am 
 going to obey you—to do my duty—to be a pattern wife, a 
 model peeress amongst all the model peeresses of England!” 
 
 Stephen Tredennick could hardly restrain a smile. 
 
 “You are the same abrupt, impulsive, self-willed Millie as 
 ever! ” he said, pleasantly. “I am glad of it; but Mildred, 
 what shall I do—what will she do without you? ” 
 
 “I don’t know,” replied Mildred, gloomily. “I must leave 
 her to the tender mercies of Miss Trewhella, \ suppose, with 
 Madam visiting her once a week, and telling her how grate- 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MAECH MOENING. 211 
 
 ful she ought to be for all the gifts and blessings her kind 
 friends have showered upon her.” 
 
 Stephen Tredennick’s brow grew dark. 
 
 “ Winnie knows us better than to mind that,” he muttered. 
 
 “ And you must never come up here then, you know,” Lady 
 Mildred pursued, getting into one of her irritable and mali¬ 
 cious moods—“ at least, unless when you escort Madam up 
 from Roseworthy. She is in a terrible state of mind about 
 the frightful violation of the proprieties.which you constant¬ 
 ly perpetrate by your visits here. Even the presence of her 
 ladyship, Mildred Mountrevor, your worshipful cousin, a 
 peeress, and matron to boot, is scarcely sufficient excuse for 
 your outraging the convenances by visiting that poor little dy¬ 
 ing girl in there!” 
 
 Her ladyship, Mildred Mountrevor, had talked herself 
 into a reckless passion by this time, and, taking all that she 
 said for terrible earnest,- as simple-minded men will do 
 at the outpourings of a woman’s angry tongue, poor Stephen 
 Tredennick sat pale and stunned beneath this new and calam¬ 
 itous aspect of affairs. 
 
 “Oh, Mildred,” he said, imploringly, “ what am I to do? 
 If I had the right—” 
 
 He had spoken without heeding his words, but the quick 
 start and involuntary glance of his cousin’s eyes revealed a 
 meaning and a way scarcely suggested as yet by his own 
 thoughts. 
 
 “ Mildred, I will have it,” he said, suddenly, his whole face 
 brightening and flushing in the glow of his resolution. 
 
 “What, Stephen?” she asked, softly. 
 
 “ The right, the best right in the world to take care of her, 
 to stay with her and cheer her, and nurse her, my poor little 
 girl! ” he said, falteringly, though his eyes shone with hope¬ 
 ful light. “ I have a right—-the best right in the world; and 
 I will make it mine before all the world, that^would shut me 
 out of her presence, and keep me away from her, my poor 
 little suffering Winnie! ” 
 
 “Oh, Stephen, my dear Stephen,” Lady Mildred cried, 
 compassion and admiration struggling for the mastery with 
 her, “ it is like you! But the sacrifice—oh, Stephen, the ter¬ 
 rible sacrifice of your life! ” 
 
 “ Mildred,” he said, in grave reproof, “ what did Winnie 
 Caerlyon think of her sacrifice? Would you have her 
 braver, truer, more generous than I, even—even,” he repeated 
 tenderly, “ if I did not love her, if she were not—Heaven 
 
212 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 bless her and pity her!—the most faithful love ever a man 
 had, my poor little Winnie? ” 
 
 Mildred, Lady Mountrevor, being a person fiercely opposed 
 to “ gushing,” did not shed tears or make any pitying outcry 
 over poor Stephen Tredennick’s mournful love story, in its 
 past, present, and future aspects, but she sat very still for a 
 few minutes, then coughed violently, and said she must have 
 dropped her handkerchief somewhere. 
 
 “Then—Stephen—you are—what are you going to do?” 
 she asked, confusedly, gazing at him in the same half-pleased, 
 half-despairing way. 
 
 “ There are not many preliminaries or ceremonies to ar¬ 
 range for, Mildred,” he answered, sadly smiling—“ only to 
 tell her. You will, dear cousin?” 
 
 “Yes—yes,” Lady Mildred said, hurriedly; “but, oh, 
 Stephen, you forget—Madam Vivian! ” 
 
 Lady Mountrevor confessed afterwards that in all her life¬ 
 long knowledge of - her cousin Stephen she never saw him 
 assume the real, hard, immovably-haughty, iron-willed Tre- 
 dennick look but once, and that was in this moment of his 
 reply to her startled reminder. 
 
 “ I shall be sorry, Mildred,” he said, “ if aunt Vivian 
 attempts any opposition in this matter—very sorry indeed.” 
 That was all. 
 
 “But if aunt Vivian saw that look,” Lady Mildred re' 
 marked to herself, “ I don’t think she would attempt it.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 There was a small group assembled in the pleasant little 
 sitting-room with its open bay-window facing the sea, and 
 the summer breeze was coming softly in, rustling the trailing 
 wreaths of white jessamine dropping from tall vases of white 
 and crimson roses, and floating the clouds of white muslin dra¬ 
 pery and their pink silk linings and ribbons, looking so fresh 
 and festive, as they had been newly hung this morning, 
 when the white vases of crimson roses, the exquisite clusters 
 of pink and white azaleas, the lilies of the valley, and gor¬ 
 geous crimson, mauve, and silver pelargoniums had been 
 added to the adornments of this and the adjoining bed-* 
 chamber, and, resting on brackets, peeping out from between 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 213 
 
 statuettes, reflecting in mirrors, glowing against the white 
 background of satin paper, with its gold and maple mould¬ 
 ings, had transformed the rooms, with their gay wealth of 
 beauty, their drooping silken petals, their velvety green 
 leaves, and their heaven dyed, tints into pleasant summer 
 bowers. 
 
 “It looks fit for a bridal!” Lady Mildred said, with gen¬ 
 uine womanly satisfaction in her work. 
 
 Jeanneton, the French nurse, whom she addressed, clasped 
 her hands in a Frenchwoman’s raptures. 
 
 “ Ciell ” she cried—“ it looks as if miladi were a spirit, 
 who had worked one grand charm over this old chateau— 
 before so triste .” 
 
 “What are all the flowers for? Mamma, what are all the 
 flowers for? ” his small lordship, Eustace Mountrevor, de¬ 
 manded, in intense curiosity. 
 
 He had been allowed for these last few days to stay at 
 Tregarthen with his mother, after certain strict warnings as 
 to his behaviour; and the unaccustomed influence of her con¬ 
 stant presence, as well as that of the mysterious sick lady, 
 who spoke to him so gently, and kissed him so softly, and 
 showed him pretty pictures when he was allowed to go into 
 her room, had altogether had a most tranquillising effect on 
 the young gentleman’s turbulent spirit. 
 
 He had taken to his “ uncle Stephen,” as he called him, 
 with wonderful affection also; but the fear of being deprived 
 of a romp or a walk with him, and being consigned to Jeanne¬ 
 ton and the terrible black-and-white crucifix, of which he was 
 so much afraid, and the orderly, silent household at Rose¬ 
 worthy, where he was so constantly shut up in his mother’s 
 suite of rooms, would have been sufficient in itself to make 
 him more careful in the matter of temper and obedience. 
 
 Poor child, like many another human nature grown hate¬ 
 ful, distorted, dangerous to itself and those who come in 
 contact with it, his needed but the removal of the warping 
 process, the gentle touch of a guiding hand, the sweet air of 
 freedom, a gleam of the sunshine of love, to make it spring 
 up fair and flourishing and sound to the core, ready to blos¬ 
 som hereafter, and bring forth good fruit, instead of apples 
 of' Sodom, grown from the soil of an embittered spirit and 
 an empoisoned heart. 
 
 “Hush!” his mother said. “You muM go away now, 
 Eustace.” 
 
 “Are you going to have a party?” he inquired, wistfully. 
 
214 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MAKCH MOKNING. 
 
 “ Mightn’t I stay for the party, mamma—stay with uncle 
 Stephen? ”* 
 
 “ Uncle Stephen doesn’t want you at the party,” Lady Mil¬ 
 dred said, a suppressed smile breaking over her face; “ he ‘ 
 wouldn’t have you here on any account. Go away—go away ] 
 now^, my dear,” she added, more gently; “there are gentlemen 
 coming upstairs. By-and-by uncle Stephen will let you in, } 
 perhaps.” 
 
 “There’s nobody coming but uncle Stephen, and the doc¬ 
 tor, and a gentleman like a minister,” the precocious youngster 
 persisted. 
 
 “ Oh, yes, there is,” said Lady Mildred, with a slight laugh 
 —■“ there is a new aunt coming.” 
 
 “ A new aunt, mamma! Isn’t my grand-aunt coming? Is 
 it my old aunt—your aunt, ma, aunt Yiv’an? Is it aunt 
 Viv’an, mamma? ” 
 
 “No,” said his mother—“it is aunt Tredennick.” 
 
 It was poor, long-suffering, loving Jeanneton who had to * 
 suffer from the ebullition of his young lordship’s angry grief 
 at being excluded from the party and his “ uncle Stephen’s” ? 
 society, “ who would have let him in if he had seen him—he g 
 knew uncle Stephen would,” he cried, howling as loudly as , 
 he dared, in his disappointment. 
 
 “Hush, hush, mon cheri! ” Jeanneton soothed. “It is not | 
 a party—it is a fete, see you, my little one—a fete—une fete *2 
 de tristesse , vraiment! There are none of the guests, or the ' 
 music, or the beautiful roses.” 
 
 “ There are,” said Lord Eustace, doggedly. “Mamma had 
 on her blue silk, and the beautiful white thing that she wore 
 at a party one time.” 
 
 Half an hour afterwards his lordship Eustace Mountrevor 
 was more thoroughly convinced than ever—if that were pos¬ 
 sible—of the correctness of his own information and the . 
 absurdity of Jeanneton’s misrepresentation, when, on cau- j 
 tiously and cleverly eluding her vigilance, he rushed up- i 
 stairs, and, softly opening the door of that pretty sitting- 
 room on the first floor, with its rose-coloured hangings, crept 
 quietly in. 
 
 His mother, Lady Mildred, was w-earing her beautiful.; 
 party-dress of blue silk, with its cloudy over-drapery of white ■ 
 net and Limerick lace, with a bouquet of flowers in her cor¬ 
 sage and white gloves. “ Uncle Stephen ” was in an elegant 
 morning costume, Doctor Lake wore white gloves, so did 
 a; other bald-headed gentleman with gilded anchor buttons 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MAECH MOENING. 
 
 215 
 
 and gold braid on his coat, and the minister-looking gentle¬ 
 man had on the very same long, white gown he wore in 
 church. Even the sick lady was raised up on her pillows, 
 and, wearing a large, soft jacket of pale rose satin and cash- 
 mere, with a spray of white flowers in a gold clasp, and with 
 her pretty hair, cut so short, in bright little rings and curls, 
 and a few long, silky, brown ringlets straying on her shoul¬ 
 ders, looked almost well, her eyes were so bright and dark, 
 and her white face had such beautiful rosy cheeks, and she 
 was smiling. Indeed, they were all smiling, and the room 
 was all decorated with flowers, and there were heaps of 
 splendid peaches and nectarines on a silver salver, and mac¬ 
 aroons and jelly, and a champagne bottle and glasses. Of 
 course it was a party—they were having a party with the 
 sick lady; but where was the new aunt he had heard was 
 coming? 
 
 “Oh, you terrible child, what brings you here?” his 
 mother said; but she laughed, and, thus encouraged, little 
 Eustace crept farther, getting near kind “ uncle Stephen,” 
 who never found fault with him, or sent him away. “ Come, 
 Eustace,” Lady Mildred interposed—“ come with me, dear; 
 you cannot stay here.” 
 
 “Oh, let me stay, uncle Stephen—let me stay! ” Eustace 
 entreated, getting behind “ uncle Stephen’s ” chair, *and 
 crushing himself close into the muslin curtains of the bed 
 with surprising adroitness. “I stay with you—with you and 
 Miss Tarelyon,” he added, as a happily-persuasive after¬ 
 thought; “ Miss Tarelyon will show me pictures—won’t you, 
 Miss Tarelyon?’” 
 
 “That’s not Miss Caerlyon, you little goose! ” his mother 
 interposed, catching Arm hold of his arm. “ Come, Eustace, 
 like a good boy, and you shall sit at luncheon with me.” 
 
 “ Oh, let me stay! ” Eustace whimpered, piteously, afraid 
 to make any louder demonstration of displeasure because of 
 his mother. “I’ll stay with uncle Stephen and Miss Tare¬ 
 lyon! ” 
 
 “ This is not Miss Caerlyon, my boy,” said “ uncle 
 Stephen,” gently, taking one of the sick lady’s little white 
 thin hands, on which glittered a bright thick gold ring— 
 “she is not Miss'Caerlyon any more—she is your uncle 
 Stephen’s wife. Kiss her, my little fellow; she is your aunt 
 now.” 
 
 “That is your new aunt who I told you was coming, Eu¬ 
 stace,” said his mother, smiling, as she drew the bewildered 
 
216 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 child away—“ that is your aunt-—Winnie Tredennick, my 
 dear.” 
 
 And then they all went away out of the beautiful, luxuri¬ 
 ous, invalid-chamber—the father, the physician, the minister, 
 Lady Mildred and her child, the assistants and witnesses of 
 that strange sad bridal—and left Stephen Tredennick and 
 his wife alone together. 
 
 Alone together they spent their lives—the brave tender¬ 
 hearted sailor and the frail gentle little woman who had 
 loved him so faithfully and well. It was a life so strange, so 
 pathetic in its sadness aud tenderness, in the burden of deep 
 affliction laid on the husband and his beloved suffering wife, 
 and borne so cheerfully, so patiently, by both in their deep 
 mutual love, as to move to pity and admiring friendship all 
 who ever knew the brave Captain of the Chittoor and his 
 heroine-love, who had laid down her youth and life for him. 
 Even Henry, Lord Mountrevor, condoning with some diffi¬ 
 culty the mesalliance of his wife’s cousin, and privately in¬ 
 forming his intimate acquaintances at the club and elsewhere 
 that he should not wonder at anything Tredennick of Tre- 
 garthen did—“ he was always a deuced eccentric fellow”— 
 actually honoured Tregarthen House with a visit of some 
 ten days in the autumn, and, meeting Lieutenant Caerlyon 
 there at dinner, with pretty, vain Sarah, his second daughter, 
 radiant in white tarletane and peach ribbons, changed his 
 mind totally, declared Caerlyon to be a decent fellow, and 
 quite gentlemanly, and Tredennick’s wife’s relations nice 
 people enough; while, as for the frail, little white-faced 
 woman, lying on the sofa upstairs, he said, with a shiver, that 
 she was uncommonly like a little wax fi gure, that would break 
 if one attempted to handle it, but a mild, sweet-faced little 
 creature, and that it was a terrible pity for Tredennick—the 
 poor fellow seemed so fond of his little dying wife. 
 
 His wife, Lady Mildred, and his son were with him, and 
 that ten days’ visit to the home so sanctified by patient-suffer¬ 
 ing #nd enduring devoted love taught the wordly-hardened 
 husband and the cold wife a lesson. He grew more softened 
 and sincere with the dawning-glimmer of a belief in the 
 possibility of wedded love and womanly truth and constancy; 
 and she, graver, gentler and more patient. Her husband’s 
 sincere respect and liking for Stephen, his pity and admira r 
 tion of Winnie Tredennick, gave them a .common ground 
 of friendly feeling and converse; and their child, who, as 
 her cousin had urged, should be a bond of union between the 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 217 
 
 father and mother, had ceased at least to be the unhappy 
 cause of discord. 
 
 Poor little Eustace was rather afraid of both his parents, 
 but, whilst he was rather fond of his capriciously indulgent 
 father, he had a child’s intense reverential admiration of his 
 beautiful mother. He feared her most, but he would have 
 loved her best had he been permitted. 
 
 Madam Vivian, from the hour in which she had learned 
 that her worst apprehensions with regard to her nephew’s 
 intentions towards the woman who had saved his life—the 
 very worst, in Madam’s estimation—were to be speedily 
 realised, and that her former little pet, protegee, -companion, 
 aUd amanuensis, her poor little tyrannised-over favourite, 
 whom she used to scold for wearing shabby dresses, and 
 exhort against any attempts at fashion or extravagance in the 
 same breath almost, was to be exalted to a position which she 
 would have awarded to the fairest, wealthiest, best-born of 
 the land—her nephew’s wife, the mistress of the old home 
 of the Tredennicks of Tregarthen—from that hour Madam 
 Vivian made no sign or overture of forgiveness, reconcilia¬ 
 tion, or friendship. In fact, those of her own household and 
 her more intimate friends were well aware that, if they would 
 avoid the evoking of her haughty displeasure, they must 
 mention not even the names of Caerlyon or Tredennick in 
 her hearing. 
 
 “ They are all one now,” she said once in cold scorn; “and 
 I do not care to hear of the Caerlyons of Tregarthen. It is 
 a new thing on the earth, and suits neither my ideas nor my 
 inclinations.” 
 
 Eventually she quitted Roseworthy for an indefinite time, 
 allowing friends of her own to become its tenants—a pleasant, 
 jovial, retired Army major and his wife and daughters, who, 
 for their part, caring very little about the story of Stephen 
 Tredennick’s mesalliance , and having a good deal of kindly 
 curiosity on the subject, were speedily on terms of intimacy 
 with the master of Tregarthen and its gentle little mistress. 
 
•218 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII., and Last. 
 
 One year—two years—three years had passed away since 
 the morning of Stephen’s and Winifred’s bridal. The Ma¬ 
 jor and his wife and daughters had resigned their tenancy of 
 Roseworthy, having inherited a house and landed property 
 of their own in the Midland Counties, and the old mansion, 
 with its old servants, remained unoccupied during the sum¬ 
 mer months, the domestics not knowing if they must prepare 
 to receive strange tenants again, or their own old rightful 
 mistress, when unexpectedly, to their great joy, they had no- ] 
 tice of her arrival from her Continental home, which notice 
 Madam Vivian followed six hours afterwards in person, ac- : 
 companied still by Miss Trewhella. Indeed that worthy per¬ 
 son’s discontent at foreign ways and foreign languages, and, 
 worst of all, the perfidy of a foreign gentleman with whom 
 she had formed a sentimental friendship, had been a strong 
 motive in causing her mistress’s return. . . ; 
 
 “ Trewhella and I are getting old,” Madam said, malicious- J 
 ly indifferent to the sensitive abigail’s amour propre on the j 
 subject of her years and appearance; “ her hair is gray and _ 
 mine is white; we both prefer English cosy comfort, instead l 
 of cold Frenchified elegance, amidst which to end our days.” ; 
 
 “ Reely, Madam, reely,” Miss Trewhella said, trembling : 
 with indignation, “ I trust—I reely trust, Madam—that ’evin j 
 will see fit not to cut me off in the prime of life! ” 
 
 “I trust so, too,” returned her mistress, with provoking 
 urbanity; “you will doubtless outlive me by a good many^S 
 years—for you are twenty years younger than I am—but you t 
 are growing an old woman for all that, Trewhella.” 
 
 Perhaps she was, and perhaps it was the longing desire for ■ 
 English feather-beds, and English coal-fires, and fragrant . 
 black tea, and spicy gossip with old English acquaintances : 
 that had led her to regard in such bitter disfavour Conti : 
 nental abodes and fare and friends alike. Certain it is that - 
 Miss Trewhella from time to time kept her mistress well 
 posted as to the melancholy state of her mind and nerves and 
 health, proceeding as far as incipient symptoms of consump- ! 
 
ALL IN THE 
 
 MAECH MORNING. 
 
 219 
 
 tion, with a threatening of melancholy madness* and a strong 
 suspicion of disease of the heart—which signs and symptoms 
 all gradually but surely-increased and assumed aggravated 
 forms until the day of her starting on the return journey to 
 England. 
 
 “ She is getting old, and her health is breaking, poor 
 thing,” said Madam to herself, with real compassion; “we 
 both want rest and peace in a quiet old English home.” 
 
 But there was another desire at the bottom of her heart—a 
 desire, a wish, a lonely longing—which Madam Vivian would 
 not even acknowledge to herself as one of the disposing 
 causes of her return from the villa in the Lower Pyrenees to 
 the old Cornish mansion at Roseworthy. She would not even 
 allow it to herself now, on the day of her return, when she 
 sat in the old handsome green drawing-room, looking about 
 on the familiar furniture and drapery and ornaments, so care¬ 
 fully preserved by her faithful old servants, and looking out, 
 with eyes that grew so dim with the ready emotion of age, 
 on the distant Head of Tregarthen and the memories it con¬ 
 jured up. 
 
 Trewhella, hastening in and out of the room on the busi¬ 
 ness of consulting and unpacking and arranging, and in the 
 highest spirits, with marvellously few traces of consumption, 
 melancholia, and heart-dise'ase remaining, overflowed with 
 pieces of information and scraps of news, which she kept im¬ 
 parting to her mistress whether she heeded or not. 
 
 “ And, Madam,” she began, as she busily arranged a book- 
 tray and reading-desk which she had just unwrapped from 
 paper, “ they do say—cook, at least, as knows her so long— 
 that Mrs. Stephen Tredennick has grown nearly well, and she 
 
 -” but instantly she was stopped by the quick turn of her 
 
 mistress’s head and her haughty warning glance. 
 
 “ I declare, Mrs. Grose,” the waiting-woman said, after¬ 
 wards, in confidential discourse, “ Madam haven’t altered her 
 mind a bit! ” 
 
 She had not altered her mind, Madam told herself, with 
 cold sternness; she had not altered her mind respecting the 
 impropriety, the absurdity, the utter madness and sacrifice of 
 the unhappy marriage which poor, foolish, soft-hearted, gen¬ 
 erous Stephen had made, or the selfishness and ambition 
 which had prompted Winnie Caerlyon to accept him. Well, 
 she pitied him—her poor boy Stephen. It was a generous, 
 noble thing of him to do—quixotic, absurd in the extreme, of 
 course, but generous, self-sacrificing, brave. Poor Stephen! 
 
220 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 To condemn himself—for long years, perhaps—to be the 
 owner and guardian of a poor, little crippled creature! Poor 
 Winnie! 
 
 In spite of her worldly heart, many a time during those 
 three years her better nature had uttered, with softened, 
 pitying feeling, “ Poor Stephen! poor Winnie! ” 
 
 She had not altered her mind now, she strenuously de¬ 
 clared; only—well, she must see her poor nephew and be 
 reconciled to him before she died—reconciled to Winnie 
 also; what was done could not be undone—she would be recon¬ 
 ciled to Stephen and to Stephen’s poor, little, afflicted wife. 
 Death-bed reconciliations were but cowardly things, like 
 death-bed charities after a selfish life, Madam Vivian wisely 
 said; she would be reconciled now, ere she lay down to die. 
 
 She would be reconciled. And on this very day of her 
 return, in the soft, warm, shadowy summer afternoon, Madam 
 Vivian, strong of will and purpose yet, for all her seventy 
 years, put on her travelling attire, which she had scarcely 
 laid off, took her slender, silver-headed walking stick in her 
 hand, and then quietly set out to walk to her nephew’s 
 house at Tregarthen. 
 
 Poor Stephen’s sorrowful, desolate home—her poor, gen¬ 
 erous, self-sacrificed boy! What did Trewliella mean by her 
 ridiculous gossiping news about his wife’s being nearly well? 
 Those kind of people were so apt to exaggerate everything. 
 The poor, dying, crippled creature was perhaps able to go 
 about in a Bath-chair, or be carried into an easy-cushioned 
 barouche, or something of that kind. 
 
 “Poor Winnie! She used to be such an active, nimble 
 little creature. Poor Stephen, to what a life he has doomed 
 himself! ” Madam thought again, as she came in sight of 
 the quiet old gray-stone-pointed house lying amongst the 
 trees and evergreen shrubberies of Tregarthen, with the blue 
 smoke rising softly on the quiet evening air, not even a ray 
 of sunlight to brighten up the rows of windows, not a sound 
 to be heard on the smoothly-mown lawn or the neatly-raked 
 carriage drive, not a figure of a human being visible about 
 the orderly precincts of the calm, quiet decorous-looking old 
 mansion. 
 
 “ It must be nothing less than a prison to him after his 
 free, wandering life—my poor Stephen!” Madam almost 
 groaned. “Ilis days have to be spent in an invalid’s room, 
 or in one of those silent dowmstairs rooms, reading the news¬ 
 paper.” 
 
ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 221 
 
 One of the silent downstairs rooms had its long French 
 windows standing open. It did not look particularly gloomy 
 or dreary either, with its vases of flowers, 4ts gay litter of 
 tiny chairs and footstools and tables, its open books, writing- 
 cases, and open piano, with loose sheets of music fluttering 
 here and there in the evening breeze, all which Madam 
 caught sight of as she passed on. 
 
 She had espied the open door of the high walled fruit-gar¬ 
 den lying to the south of the house, and bent her steps 
 thither. 
 
 “ lie is in the garden, perhaps,” she thought, with kindly 
 pity. “ He was always fond of wandering about in a garden, 
 plucking flowers and fruit, poor fellow! ” 
 
 Yes, there was no doubt that he was in the garden, for 
 Madam caught the sound of advancing steps and her 
 nephew’s voice—not a very subdued or sorrowful-toned voice 
 either—indeed, he was laughing gaily with some one. 
 
 “You’re a nice young lady!” she heard Captain Stephen 
 say, hilariously. “ Do you pretend to have a conscience? I 
 should be glad to know. How many more ripe gooseberries 
 -am I to gather for you, scratching my poor hands? They 
 are so exquisitely white it is a pity certainly. No, you 
 sha’n’t! No, you sha’n’t! I have no intention of spoiling 
 you as your mother is doing, mademoiselle.” 
 
 “Visitors!” Madam thought, in vexed disappointment. 
 “What shall I do? It was silly of me to come here unex¬ 
 pectedly; but I never imagined that he would have visitors.” 
 
 • But a retreat being impossible, Madam stood her ground 
 quietly, gazing in surprise and confused uncertainty at the 
 group that emerged from the rose-covered archway of the 
 garden-door, with the long vista beyond of strawberry beds, 
 gooseberry bushes bending beneath their weight of purplish- 
 red, translucent green, and downy amber fruit, wall-fruit 
 ripening in the sheltered summer air, open cucumber frames, 
 trailing vines, and the distant green-house, with its roof 
 festooned by drooping stems clustered with white grapes. 
 
 Was that Stephen—her nephew, Stephen! That great, 
 broad chested, ruddy-cheeked, jolly-looking country gentle¬ 
 man in a straw hat and gray morning-coat, with a dainty 
 little bouquet of moss-rosebuds in the top buttonhole? And 
 carrying a baby? 
 
 Nothing less. A great, fat, handsome, lively baby of some 
 eight or nine months old, who held an enormous amber 
 
222 ALL in the wild maech moening. 
 
 gooseberry squeezed in one little pink, fat, dimpled hand, 
 and with the other retained a firm and unceremonious clutch 
 of Captain Tredennick’s necktie! 
 
 And by his side, leaning on his other arm, walked a lady— 
 a pale, fair delicate looking little woman, dressed in a simple 
 graceful dress of pearly gray, with rich claret velvet ribbons 
 in her hair and around her throat; these with a thick silk 
 sash of the same hue knotted at her waist and hanging its 
 heavy rich fringes down far over her dress, brought out the 
 delicacy of its clear pale hue and the fragile purity of her 
 own complexion in a manner that caught Madam Vivian’s 
 artistic eye and charmed it on the instant. 
 
 That pale little woman walking rather 'feebly by his side, 
 the fat, handsome, troublesome baby, and the jolly-looking 
 country gentleman—who were they? Utter blank amaze¬ 
 ment rooted Madam Vivian to the ground. 
 
 “Aunt Vivian! My dear aunt—my dear aunt! ” Stephen 
 Tredennick cried, rushing forward, holding the baby tightly 
 yet, even while he embraced and kissed the old lady; 
 whereby the young person in, the white embroidered frock 
 was brought into remarkable contiguity to Madam Vivian’s 
 bonnet. 
 
 “ Aunt, dear,” he said in the next breath, holding aunt and 
 baby squeezed in one arm, and allowing Madam not an in¬ 
 stant’s opportunity for the tender, severely-reproachful, gra¬ 
 cious, forgiving little speech she had been preparing all the 
 way from Roseworthy—never even seeming to recollect the 
 necessity for it in his flush of pleasure and gratification—=- 
 “ Aunt, dear—look here! ” and he put his other arm around 
 the little woman in the pearly-gray poplin dress. “ Aunt, 
 look at my Winnie! As well as ever nearly, thank Heaven! 
 She can walk about the grounds as well as I can now! Isn’t 
 it wonderful? ” 
 
 Winnie Tredennick remembered the need for the forgiving 
 speech if her husband did not. The old shy colour flooded 
 her face, and her lips trembled as Madam remembered to 
 have seen years ago when giving her one of her lengthy re¬ 
 bukes. 
 
 “ Dear Madam,” she faltered, timidly putting out her hand, 
 “I am glad—so glad to see you again.” 
 
 “ And I,” said Madam, gracefully meeting the greeting 
 hand more than half way, “ am glad to see that you, my dear, 
 have been so mercifully restored.” 
 
223 
 
 ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MOBNiNG. 
 
 Madam meant that Winnie should have the benefit of that 
 neat little reproachfully-kind speech, and was proceeding to 
 say that “ the pleasure of knowing that you have recovered 
 your health, Mrs. Tredennick, is gratifying enough to cause 
 me to feel less keenly the memory of the past,” when, fortu¬ 
 nately, or unfortunately, the floating white ostrich feather, 
 curling gracefully on the top of Madam Vivian’s black-lace 
 bonnet, caught the quick, bright violet-gray eyes of the young 
 person in the embroidered frock, and in an instant both the 
 satiny dimpled hands, dropping the crushed ripe gooseberry, 
 clutched at the white feather in rampant glee. 
 
 The baby screaming with delight, there was an end put 
 from that time, henceforth, and for ever, to Madam’s studied 
 sentences and the grave, rebuking, reconciliatory speech. 
 
 “Oh dear me — the child!” Madam exclaimed, invol¬ 
 untarily. 
 
 “ My daughter, aunt,” said Stephen Tredennick, putting 
 the fat, handsome, troublesome baby right into the old lady’s 
 arms. “Isn’t she a beauty—a regular young Tredennick? 
 Hasn’t she got the Tredennick eyes, aunt, and the Treden¬ 
 nick nose? She’s an imperious young dame! And my word! 
 hasn’t she got the Tredennick temper? She has got Winnie’s 
 mouth, though,” he added, more softly—“a gentle, persuasive 
 little mouth—and Winnie’s hair! See what thick, curly 
 brown hair she has, and she is not nine months old! ” 
 
 “ Only eight months and three weeks, dear,” put in the 
 mother’s “ gentle, persuasive .little mouth,” with accurate 
 maternal knowledge. “Dear Madam, isn’t she very like 
 Stephen? ” 
 
 “Very,” said Madam, holding the troublesome baby in a 
 closer clasp. 
 
 A kind of thrill ran through her—a momentary feeling of 
 displeasure and resistance at the sound of the wifely familiar 
 words which seemed to draw Stephen and Stephen’s child so 
 tenderly close to her who had been Winnie Caerlyon as to 
 shut out her who was but Madam Vivian, his aunt, into the 
 outer circle of mere relationship. 
 
 It was but momentary. In the tender light of Winnie 
 Tredennick’s wistful loving eyes, in the radiance of Stephen 
 Tredennick’s wedded happiness, in the touch of the baby- 
 arms of the little one on her bosom, who seemed like a son’s 
 child, a grandchild to the lonely old white-haired woman, the 
 last remnant of coldness, jealousy, and unworthy pride faded 
 quietly out of her heart. 
 
C- 
 
 224 ALL-IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING. 
 
 • - 
 
 “We called her after you, Madam,” Winnie added, softly. 
 The old lady looked earnestly and inquisitively at her for a 
 moment, and then she gave her the reconciled kiss she had 
 meant to delay for so much longer. 
 
 “ Did you, my dear? ” she said, putting the bahy into her 
 arms. “ There, Helen Tredennick, you shall make peace be¬ 
 tween your mother and your grand-aunt forever! ” 
 
 THE END. 
 
 t 
 
ORIGINAL 
 
 pri 
 
 ONLY 
 
 PRINTERS IN THE MORLD 
 
 USING WEB PRESSES 
 
 ON GENERAL WORK. 
 
 ^apaeity, Sixty fops of paper 
 euery 24 floors. 
 
 57, 59 St 91 THIRD HiZE. 
 
 CHICAGO.