I E) R.ARY 
 OF the: 
 UNIVERSITY 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 M\6&t 
 vl
 
 Digitized by tine Internet Archive 
 
 in 2009 witii funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/trialtriumphnove01mcga
 
 7^ 
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 "THE BLACKSMITH'S DAUGHTER." "THE GOLD- 
 BEATER," &c., &c. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 Hontron: 
 THOS. CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER 
 
 30, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE. 
 1854. 
 
 >
 
 8S5 
 
 TEIAL AND TEIUMPH 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE DOCTOR. 
 
 M. DuRAVEL was a physician of some eminence 
 in Paris. He had been introduced amongst 
 the best houses ; and great attention to his 
 professional duties, a polished manner, tact, 
 and knowledge, had enabled him to form a 
 connexion lucrative and fashionable. After a 
 day's fatiguing labour, M. Duravel had retired 
 to rest, not anticipating any call upon his pro- 
 fessional ability until the next morning, and 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
 /'^
 
 /d TPJAL AND TPJUMPH. 
 
 his mind being free from anxiety, he soon 
 slept soundly. At two in the morning a violent 
 ringing of the night-bell roused his servant, 
 who learned, from the unseasonable messenger 
 who had disturbed most pleasant slumbers, 
 that his master was wanted, in all haste, to 
 attend Madame the Marchioness de Layne, at 
 her country house three leagues from Paris. 
 
 " I had not anticipated this," said M. Dura- 
 vel, when the message was carried to him. 
 "It is earlier by . a fortnight than I had ex- 
 pected. Help me to dress. Has the servant 
 a conveyance ?" 
 
 The answer was in the affirmative, and in a 
 few minutes M. Duravel was prepared for his 
 journey, and took his place beside the servant 
 in the cabriolet sent for him. 
 
 " Is the Marquis at home f asked Duravel, 
 muffling himself closer in the shawl he put 
 round his throat, for the time was autumn, 
 and the morning air keen. 
 
 " He is, sir."
 
 TEIAL AND TEIUMPH. 6 
 
 " This affair is sudden. 
 
 " Very, sir." 
 
 " When did the Marquis come ?" 
 
 " Two hours ago." 
 
 " Ah !" M. Duravel had the confidence of 
 most of his patients. He asked no more 
 questions. He also saw that there were pow- 
 erful reasons for urgency in the manner the 
 servant drove, so dropping into a corner of the 
 vehicle, he gave way to thought. He knew 
 the Marquis De Layne had been absent from 
 Paris for more than a month, and he mentally 
 connected this sudden illness with his return. 
 
 The stoppage of the cabriolet interrupted the 
 doctor's musings, and when he looked out he 
 saw the gateway leading into the court-yard 
 open, and the cabriolet drew up at the steps 
 of the house. M. Duravel instantly descended 
 and entered the hall, which was dimly hghted 
 by an almost expiring lamp. His arrival 
 seemed momentarily expected, for he had 
 hardly entered, when a female met him. 
 2 B
 
 4 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 " Doctor," she exclaimed, " how glad I am 
 that you are come ! The Marchioness is fear- 
 fully ill. Come and see her." 
 
 M. Duravel hurried after her. The house 
 was very still. Their own footsteps alone dis- 
 turbed the marked tranquillity that was over it, 
 yet the words uttered by the woman had hardly 
 been spoken, when a piercing shriek fearfully 
 penetrated this deep silence. 
 
 " M. Duravel," shouted his conductress, 
 rushing forward, " in God's name, come. It 
 is the Marchioness shrieks. My God ! he will 
 murder her." 
 
 The Doctor ran rapidly after his conductress, 
 and entered, after her, a chamber large and 
 spacious, lighted by a single wax taper, placed 
 upon the chimney-piece, and a small night 
 mortar near a bed in a distant corner. The 
 curtains of this bed were drawn open, and tlie 
 Doctor could see, in the feeble light tliat fell 
 upon it, a pale, agonized countenance, whose 
 eyes were turned to a corner of the room, as
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. O 
 
 if attracted thither hy a power they could not 
 resist. The Doctor approached his patient. 
 He Hfted her hand, but she did not for a long 
 time recognise him. A few minutes' examina- 
 tion of her condition informed him that her 
 case was one of great difficulty and peril — one 
 that would tax all his energies, and yet was 
 most hkely to end fatally. Her mind was 
 fearfully agitated, and he believed that a pre- 
 mature illness had been induced by improper 
 treatment, but then he made no inquiries, as 
 his first anxiety was to alleviate as much as pos- 
 sible the present sufferings of the Marchioness. 
 He saw them crowned with success, and had 
 been able to render her position for a time so 
 easy, that she fell into a light slumber. 
 
 " Now, nurse, what shall I call you T 
 
 " Williams, Doctor." 
 
 *' I know. Well Madame Williams, you 
 shall attend here to the Marchioness, and I 
 shall go below for a cup of coffee. It is 
 almost broad day," and giving some directions,
 
 c 
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 Duravel, apparently familiar with the house, 
 left the apartment and went down to a small 
 parlor, where he ordered coffee. He had not 
 yet seen the Marquis, nor made any inqui- 
 ries as to the exclamation used by the nurse 
 when she heard the shriek, for M. Duravel 
 was a prudent man, who hardly ever gave a 
 voice to the suspicions that occurrences in the 
 course of his profession might excite. He 
 could not, however, help jotting down in his 
 memory various little incidents that had 
 attracted his attention during his attendance 
 for more than two years in the family of the 
 Marquis de Layne. During the first confine- 
 ment of the Marchioness, nothing remarkable 
 had occurred. A still-born infant had not 
 been so unusual an event in tlie course of his 
 practice as to kindle violent susj)icions, and 
 he had long previously remarked that the 
 Marchioness had grown nervous and low-spi- 
 rited, though, as he was not consulted as to 
 the cause, he did not obtrude medical or other
 
 TEIAL AND TEIUMPH. 7 
 
 advice. He had seen little of her latterly, and 
 less of the Marquis, who had heen much away 
 from Paris during the preceding summer. M. 
 Duravel thought and took his coffee, and then, 
 in the midst of his mental occupation, he fell 
 asleep. 
 
 A slight noise awoke him after he had slept 
 for some time, and removing the handkerchief 
 he had thrown over his head before he fell 
 asleep, he saw standing opposite to him the 
 Marquis de Layne. 
 
 " I have disturbed you. Doctor," said the 
 Marquis, blandly, and Duravel instantly rose, 
 though as he looked in the face of the speaker, 
 he almost started, it was so pale and agitated 
 in its expression; but he immediately mastered 
 his feelings.
 
 8 TKIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 " I was fatigued Marquis, and after taking 
 some coffee, fell into a doze." 
 
 " I hardly wonder at it for yours, Doctor, 
 is a fatiguing profession, no matter how high 
 you rise in it. Pray be seated. The poor 
 Marchioness is very ill ?" 
 
 " Very, indeed," said M, Duravel, emphati- 
 cally. 
 
 " She will get through it?" 
 
 Duravel, looked hard at his questioner, 
 whose face, though less agitated in its ex- 
 pression, was still fearfully pale. 
 
 " With God's assistance she may, but her 
 case is doubtful. It is perilous." 
 
 " There is danger for both motlier and 
 child?" 
 
 " Extreme danger," said Duravel, slowly. 
 
 " There are cases, I believe," continued the 
 Marquis, " in which practitioners have a sort 
 of choice where two lives are at stake as here, 
 about which should survive ?" 
 
 " Some instances have occurred, where one
 
 TKIAL AND TEIUMPH. 9 
 
 may exist, the other perish ?" Duravel answer- 
 ed, after a short pause. 
 
 " Then Doctor," said the Marquis, firmly, 
 " if there be a choice, let the mother live." 
 
 " I shall preserve both, if God permit me," 
 rephed Duravel, slowly. 
 
 " Both, both," muttered the Marquis, after 
 a pause, " yes, both, certainly," and he rose, 
 " They are in yom' care, Doctor, yours, the 
 highest reputation in Paris." Duravel slightly 
 bent his head. *' You will preserve them. 
 If I am wanted I shall be in the Httle library," 
 and bowing, he withdrew, leaving on Duravel's 
 mind an impression very different from what 
 his words tended to convey. 
 
 The morning was advanced when the Doc- 
 tor again entered the sick chamber of the 
 Marchioness. The nurse w^as still there. 
 She had not moved from her post, and re- 
 turned in answer to his inquiries that the 
 Marchioness had slept quietly for a time, and 
 after again taking some of the draught pre- 
 B 5
 
 10 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 pared for her had fallen once more into a 
 sleep. Duravel looked at his patient. He 
 did not like her appearance, though she seem- 
 ed to sleep free from pain, and he turned to 
 the window, partially drew aside the curtain, 
 and on the leaf of his tablets wrote another 
 prescription, which he desired the nurse- 
 tender to get forsvarded to Paris. He watched 
 the Marchioness anxiously for an hour, when she 
 suddenly woke in great agony. Dm-avel was 
 prompt and skilful. He had prudence and expe- 
 rience. He was also peculiarly interested in 
 this case; and when the servant returned from 
 Paris with his commission, the Marquis de 
 Layne was a father, and both mother and 
 child seemed to be out of danger. Duravel 
 sent word immediately to the Marquis of his 
 success, but the latter did not come to the 
 chamber. He expressed his gratification 
 through his servant, and while tlie man was 
 deliverinj^ his message, the Doctor could not
 
 TEIAL AND TEIUMPH. 11 
 
 avoid remarking the peculiar smile upon the 
 face of the nurse. 
 
 " The Marquis, Madame Williams, is fond 
 of his wife," said the Doctor, pointedly. " He is 
 so glad at her present safety." 
 
 " He hates her," exclaimed the nurse, bit- 
 terly. 
 
 " Madame Wilhams, Madame Williams," 
 began Duravel. 
 
 " Doctor, you are deceived," said the woman 
 firmly. " The Marchioness may get over this 
 — may, for God is powerful, but I dread the 
 issue." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 The woman looked sharply round the room. 
 " He is a demon. You heard the shriek last 
 night. He was cursing her then." 
 
 " My God !" said Duravel, alarmed. " What 
 is the cause ?" 
 
 " Madness or hatred, I don't know which." 
 
 " A scene would kill her now," observed 
 Duravel. "If he be mad he must be tied
 
 12 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 up — if jealous — ah! if jealous — ." The Doc- 
 tor stopped and the woman shook her head. 
 
 " The end is with God. We must watch 
 until the danger is over." 
 
 " Then," said Duravel, *' I shall he unahle 
 to go to Paris this morning. That is some- 
 thing." 
 
 " The Marquis is anxious to see M. Duravel," 
 whispered a servant in a low voice, and the 
 Doctor, directing a meaning glance towards 
 the hed, nodded to the nurse, and followed 
 the man to the library. It was vacant when 
 he entered it, and his first glance was towards 
 the book shelves, which were w^ell filled, and 
 apparently filled more for use than display, as 
 there were very few richly-bound or ornamen- 
 tal works visible ; and a glance over the backs 
 of those nearest, told of taste, judgment, and 
 learning, in their selector. The Doctor turned 
 next to a little table near the fire place, and 
 partially hid in tlie shade of the book-case 
 near it. He started involuntarily, tlien looked
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 13 
 
 at it, and saw a pair of pistols, a soiled glove, 
 a torn Turkish cap, and a lock of dark-brown, 
 long, silken hair, lying upon it, beside an open 
 book, which he was prevented examining by 
 the Marquis suddenly appearing through a 
 door which was a portion of the book- shelves 
 opposite to the table. Duravel advanced to- 
 wards him.
 
 14 TKIAL AND TRIUMPH, 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE MAKQUlSj THE DREAM, AND THE DEATH. 
 
 The Marquis De Layne was perhaps thirty 
 years of age. He was tall and imposing in 
 his personal appearance, his complexion dark, 
 and his manners had always been considered 
 in the salons of Paris as pohshed and en- 
 gaging. He motioned with his hand towards 
 a chair, and the Doctor seated himself, while 
 the other stood with his face to the light, his 
 eyes upon the httle table, and Dui'avel never 
 remembered having seen a complexion of such
 
 TKIAL AND TEIUMPH. 1^ 
 
 peculiar colour as his then was. There was 
 an indefinable, and an almost indescribable 
 paleness of the skin, which was neither like 
 the face of the dead, nor any living counte- 
 nance within his memory. The colour too 
 seemed fixed. It was not transitory, for he 
 remarked during their conversation that it 
 never varied. It was the covering of a purpose, 
 the outside of a fixed resolution, and could 
 not change as long as the mind under it re- 
 mained immovable. 
 
 " The Marchioness," he said, still standing, 
 " is better ?" 
 
 " She is," Duravel briefly answered. 
 
 *' Out of danger ?" 
 
 " I would not say that.". 
 
 " The child also will live ?" 
 
 " God gives and takes away," said Duravel, 
 piously. 
 
 " He punishes too," observed the Marquis, 
 gravely — " pimishes the perjured, the break-
 
 16 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 ers of VOWS, the pretenders to virtue. God is 
 just." 
 
 " He is," said Duravel, slowly. " God is just." 
 
 " Then they cannot live." 
 
 " Marquis" — exclaimed the Doctor. 
 
 " It is true. I do not say, they will die 
 now. You said I was a father ; I am not a 
 father. My wife is an adultress." 
 
 " Marquis," again exclaimed the Doctor, 
 starting to his feet. " This is insanity." 
 
 " It is truth. The proofs lie upon that 
 tahle. That glove, that cap, that hair, hers, 
 and those weapons, his. They are the proofs 
 of great crime." 
 
 ** I do not understand," Duravel obsen^ed. 
 " I do not even wish to penetrate the secrets of 
 families, when discoveries can neither benefit 
 them nor me. I am only a physician, anxious 
 simply to learn the secrets that may impede or 
 improve the bodily health, as far as the mind 
 interferes with it." 
 
 " But," exclaimed the Marquis, *'I call your
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 17 
 
 testimony to the fact that I am not a parent. 
 I acknowledge no ties between myself and 
 the guilty woman under this roof. I tore 
 that glove from her bosom, and I know who 
 was its owner. She is infamous, M. Duravel, 
 positively infamous." 
 
 " She is dangerously ill, Marquis," said the 
 Doctor, " and the slightest annoyance might 
 kill her, so for the present let me insist on 
 peace. There may be misconceptions too, 
 which a little time would perhaps remove, for 
 we are all liable to error, and the Marquis de 
 Layne is not infallible." 
 
 " No, Doctor. He is a fool." 
 
 " He is a man of honor, and will not torment, 
 on her sick couch, a poor woman. I expect 
 that from him," said Duravel, firmly, " and I 
 am sure I shall not be disappointed." 
 
 The Marquis turned silently towards the 
 fire. 
 
 " I need hardly say," continued Duravel, 
 " that bitter words now may be hereafter bit-
 
 18 
 
 TEIAL AND TEIUMPH. 
 
 terly repented, and what is worse, they would 
 be as deadly as poison to one in her state." 
 
 "As poison," the Marquis repeated the 
 word. 
 
 " I said so. The slightest agitation might 
 be fatal." 
 
 "Visit your patient," said the Marquis, 
 shortly. " When she is recovered, we shall 
 again talk of this." 
 
 Duravel bowed and withdrew. He went to 
 the chamber of the Marchioness, and found 
 there Madame Williams waking and attentive, 
 but fatigued. The Marchioness was better, 
 and the little infant was sleeping, nestled in 
 her bosom. The Doctor examined her atten- 
 tively. He believed the crisis was over, and 
 he might hope. He also resolved to remain 
 where he was during the day, not being pressed 
 by any urgent necessity to go to Paris, and 
 had just communicated his intention to the 
 nurse as a wearied horse entered the court- 
 yard, its rider having come with all speed to
 
 TEIAL AND TEIUMPH. 19 
 
 summon him to that city. He could not 
 refuse to go to one of his most distinguished 
 patients, who had been suddenly attacked by 
 paralysis, and this changed all his views. The 
 Marchioness must be consigned to the sole 
 care of the nurse. M. Duravel having no 
 conveyance of his own with him, requested the 
 use of the cabriolet from the Marquis, which 
 the latter instantly granted, and also hoped 
 that he would be able to return to the Mar- 
 chioness that evening, and confiding in this 
 solicitude, the Doctor set out for Paris. 
 
 In the darkened chamber of the Marchioness 
 the nurse was sitting alone, her eyes drowsily 
 fixed upon the night-Hght which still burned 
 on the table at the side of the bed. On the 
 same table were the medicines prescribed by
 
 20 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 M. Duravel, who had desired the nurse to 
 administer every two hours a certain quantity 
 of a draught which was sent for, and had 
 arrived before his departure. The bottle con • 
 taining this mixture, and the glass used by 
 the Marchioness, were placed together on a 
 corner of the table next the head of the bed. 
 The chamber was dark, for the little night- 
 light did not throw its rays much beyond the 
 outlines of the table it rested on ; while the 
 wax candle on the distant chimney-piece, 
 barely penetrated the gloom surrounding it. 
 There was an unpleasant stillness in the large 
 apartment, and the nurse gradually fell into an 
 uncomfortable, dreamy sleep, oppressive and 
 languid, from which she instantly started, as her 
 patient moved or moaned. The infant slept 
 soundly, cradled on its mother's breast, and 
 Madame Williams fancied there were longer 
 pauses between its mother's moans, as if her 
 suflferings had become less violent. 
 
 M. Duravel had now been absent about
 
 TEIAL AND TRIUMPH. 21 
 
 three hours, and Madame Williams adminis- 
 tered the medicine as he had ordered, and 
 drawing her chair closer to the bed, she 
 wrapped herself up in her shawl, and sat think- 
 ing. Fatigue soon again overpowered her, 
 and she slept ; yet in that sleep her charge was 
 the prevailing thought, for uneasy dreams, in 
 which the Marchioness was visible, floated 
 through her mind, and in one of them she 
 believed she saw a hand over the drinking- 
 glass beside the bottle, and so vivid was this 
 impression, that she awoke, but the chamber 
 was death-like in its stillness. She rubbed 
 her hands over her eyes, looked about her, 
 listened to the breathing of the Marchioness, 
 and learned from its regularity that she was 
 sleeping. Still that vision haunted her. She 
 rose, took up the glass, and examined it, 
 rinsing it clean, acting under a suspicion she 
 dared hardly to acknowledge to herself, and 
 then sat down again. This time she slept 
 soundly.
 
 22 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 The short autumnal evening had deepened 
 into night when the nurse wakened up, hear- 
 ing herself faintly called. She started to her 
 feet. 
 
 " Ah ! Madame, I must apologise, but 
 fatigue — " 
 
 '* I know it," said the Marchioness, feebly. 
 " I have been a sad burthen for the last two 
 days." 
 
 " Madame misunderstands," observed the 
 nurse. " I am pleased in attending upon her.'* 
 
 " You are kind," returned the Marchioness, 
 who seemed stronger. " M. Duravel is not yet 
 returned, is he T 
 
 " Not yet." 
 
 " What directions then did he leave T 
 
 " None beyond the taking of the draught." 
 
 " Then I shall take it now, for I feel a little 
 thirsty," and drawing her infant closer to her, 
 the Marchioness, with the nurse's assistance, 
 was raised up and supported in her position 
 by pillows, until the draught was poured out
 
 TKTAL AND TEIUMPH. 23 
 
 for her. The nurse did not then remember her 
 dream. She followed the instructions left by 
 M. Duravel, and handed the glass to the Mar- 
 chioness, who eagerly swallowed it, and as she 
 gave it back empty to the other, a pecuhar 
 odour seemed to rise from it, not certainly 
 perceptible when she had used it before. A 
 vague wavering notion floated in the nurse's 
 head. She could not then reduce it to cer- 
 tainty. The Marchioness fell back on her 
 pillow, and the nurse busied herself in making 
 little arrangements for her comfort, while that 
 thought was still floating through her head. 
 Presently her patient slept. It was a torpid, 
 heaxj sleep, and Madame Williams watched 
 ^earnestly, for that confused idea haunted her. 
 She well remembered rinsing the glass, but 
 why she had done it, she could not then 
 recollect. The Marchioness slept on, and 
 Madame Williams frequently examined her 
 countenance. Once she fancied she detected 
 a change in her colour, but the uncertain
 
 24 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 light rendered accurate examination difficult. 
 During all this time, too, the Marquis had 
 neither come nor sent to inquire after her 
 health. Madame Williams was glad that he 
 had not visited her himself. She had been 
 the witness of one scene, and she did not de- 
 sire a second. 
 
 M. Duravel was not yet returned. He had 
 promised that the Marchioness would receive 
 his earliest possible care, and the nurse was 
 satisfied that nothing but necessity prevented 
 his visit long before this time. She herself 
 was tormented by fears and suspicions for 
 which she could not account. A chamber- 
 maid brought her some coffee, and she ascer- 
 tained then that the Marquis was in his 
 library. He had not asked any of the servants 
 a question in reference to his wife. Two 
 hours might have passed, but the nurse felt 
 no inclination to sleep. She sat watching her 
 charge. Suddenly the Marchioness awoke. 
 A burning thirst was consuming her.
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. J86 
 
 " My God !" she almost shrieked, " I am 
 on fire. Drink, drink ! Give me something 
 to quench this frightful thirst." 
 
 The nurse sprang towards her, seized the 
 glass upon the tahle, but that moment a hand 
 seemed to touch it. Her dream rushed into 
 her mind, and she dropped it on the floor, 
 where it was shivered into fragments. The 
 Marchioness called wildly for water, and the 
 nurse, terrified by her own thoughts, tremb- 
 lingly presented some to her. She drank it, 
 but still that insatiable thirst continued. 
 
 "I shall die! Where is M. Duravel?' 
 moaned the Marchioness. 
 
 The nurse rang the bell violently, and 
 ordered the chambermaid, who attended, to 
 send a groom for M. Duravel, but word was 
 immediately brought to her, that there was 
 not a man-servant about the house, save an 
 old feeble domestic. All this time the Mar- 
 chioness turned and tossed in her bed, groan- 
 ing terribly. 
 
 VOL I. c
 
 26 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 " It is a conspiracy," exclaimed the nurse. 
 
 " What is ?" asked the Marquis, striding 
 into the a^oartment, his frightful paleness 
 almost terrifying her. 
 
 *' The Marchioness is dying, and there is 
 no one to go for M. Duravel." 
 
 " It is no matter now," said the Mar- 
 chioness, feebly. " I have but few moments 
 for speech. I feel it. Marquis de Layne, 
 
 you 
 
 have wronaed me. 
 
 o' 
 
 " Indeed !" 
 
 " You have murdered me," she added, 
 almost fiercely. 
 
 " You are my wife," said the Marquis, as if 
 the mere mention of the connexion . was 
 enough to repel this suspicion. 
 
 " Then you will guard my child, your child?" 
 
 " Ours ?" observed the Marquis, coldly. 
 
 " Before God, ours," the Marchioness vio- 
 lently exclaimed. " Oh ! Alphonse," and her 
 voice sank into a lower tone, " you have
 
 TEIAL AND TEIUMPH. 27 
 
 wronged me by your suspicions, and may God 
 mercifully pardon you for the past." 
 
 " Suspicions — truths," said the Marquis, 
 in a fierce whisper. 
 
 " No, no, not truths," murmured the dying 
 woman. " In my own cabinet — the farthest 
 drawer — my child, my child," and shrieking, 
 she fell back in her bed, as Madame Williams, 
 who in the meantime had sent the old man 
 for M. Duravel, entered the apartment. 
 
 " Leave this room. Marquis de Layne," she 
 said, authoritatively ; and the Marquis with- 
 drew, while she began to busy herself about 
 the Marchioness. But life was fast departing. 
 The violent thirst was gone, and a torpid, be- 
 numbing sleep was creeping over her, as 
 sensation was also growing extinct. Whatever 
 her skill and means left within her power, 
 Madame Williams employed, but they could 
 not stay the hand of death. The Marchioness 
 was becoming momentarily more feeble. 
 
 " God only can save her," murmured the 
 2 c
 
 28 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 nurse, and she prayed for her hfe, but that 
 prayer was not granted. She hfted in her 
 arms the httle child, and as it felt the change 
 of position, it cried. 
 
 " My child 1 " the Marchioness exclaimed. 
 That feeble voice had gone to her heart, and 
 the nurse pressed its lips to hers. " Save my 
 child !" 
 
 " With life I shall not desert it," said the 
 nurse, fervently. 
 
 Tenderly she watched the dying woman, 
 for dying she saw she was, and dying too 
 without aid. She moistened her lips, chafed 
 her limbs, and strove to keep alive those senses 
 that death was attacking, but the heavy sleep 
 could not be arrested, nor heat preserved in a 
 frame which a mortal cold was penetrating. 
 The unfortunate Marchioness did not move. 
 Another hour had passed In a little time 
 M. Duravel would be come, and the nurse 
 dared to hope, for hfe still hngered in the 
 Marchioness. She placed the infant on its
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 29 
 
 mothers breast, and still persevered in her 
 efforts. A dead silence was over the house. 
 The measured tick-tick of the watch on the 
 chimney-piece sounded solemn in the apart- 
 ment, which seemed to be shunned by the 
 household, none of whom came unless called ; 
 and the Marquis sent no more. Suddenly this 
 silence was broken. There were loud shouts 
 running, heavy noises, and, in this confusion, 
 one word was distinguished by the nurse. It 
 was " Fire, fire!" 
 
 She started up, the Marchioness turned her 
 head slightly, sighed, and trembled convulsively. 
 Some words rose to her lips, but they, if spoken, 
 were inaudible in the now violent noise with- 
 out. She pressed her child closely to her 
 heart. The nurse bent close down to her. 
 Mouth almost touched mouth, and her last 
 breath moistened the lips of Madame Williams. 
 The Marchioness de Layne was dead. The 
 nurse stood up. She did not heed the tumult 
 until the Marquis rushed into the room.
 
 30 TEIAL AND TEIUMPH. 
 
 " The house is on fire," he shouted. " Let 
 us raise the Marchioness and carry her out." 
 
 " The Marchioness is dead," said the nurse, 
 without moving. 
 
 " And the child ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, let us save the child," exclaimed 
 the nurse, snatching the infant from the 
 bosom of its dead mother, and she hurried 
 towards the door, but at the end of the lobby a 
 stream of flame guarded the way, and tlie Mar- 
 quis was gone. 
 
 " Here, here, Madame Williams," shouted 
 some one from the other side of the apartment ; 
 and the nurse, with the child in her arms, 
 followed that friendly voice, just as the Mai- 
 quis rushed in. A hand guided her into 
 another room and down a back stair-case. It 
 was one of the female servants. 
 
 " The rest of the house is on fire," she said. 
 
 " And the Marchioness ?" 
 
 " She is dead. The flame will not injure 
 her. Let us preserve the child."
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 31 
 
 Both women hurried from the house, which 
 the flames were rapidly covering, not yielding 
 to the feeble efibrts which a few peasants and 
 farmers, from the neighbourhood, applied to 
 extinguish them. The Marquis looked gloom- 
 ily on. He sought too for Madame Williams, 
 but she could not be found. 
 
 While this fire raged thus fiercely, M. Du- 
 ravel was hastening to the house. He had 
 received the nurse's alarming message, and 
 lost not a moment in returning. Still with 
 all his desire to see the Marchioness he could 
 not leave his other patient as soon as he 
 wished ; and it was night when he first saw 
 the fire gleaming out from amongst the trees 
 in the direction of the Marquis' country- 
 house. The sight startled him. He was 
 alone, and drove rapidly forward. 
 
 The fire was increasing in size as he ap- 
 proached, becoming more visible through the 
 darkness of the night. M. Duravel urged on 
 his horse. A turn in the road hid the fire
 
 33 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 from his sight, but he could see its red mark 
 on the sky above. In a few moments more 
 he was before it. One l)road sheet of flame 
 now covered the entire house. Some articles 
 of furniture were lying in the court-yard, and 
 as M. Duravel, having quitted his vehicle, 
 penetrated the crowd, he found the Marquis 
 standing beside a small oak cabinet, and 
 looking gloomily on the destruction before 
 him. All hopes of saving the house had 
 been abandoned. 
 
 " Where is the Marchioness T asked the 
 Doctor, abruptly. 
 
 " Dead," answered the Marquis, turning 
 his pale face upon the questioner. 
 
 '' Burned to death ?" asked Duravel, hor- 
 rified. 
 
 *' No. This fire met but her dead body." 
 
 " And where are Madame Wilhams and the 
 child ?" 
 
 *' Wh^re ?" repeated M. de Layne, stupified. 
 " I do not know."
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 33 
 
 The Doctor turned from the scene. He 
 passed through the wondering crowd of pea- 
 sants, who had not long learned that this 
 burning pile was the tomb of the dead Mar- 
 chioness. 
 
 " Madame Williams and the child are both 
 safe, Doctor," said a woman in a whisper to 
 him, as he passed on. " Madame Williams 
 relies upon you." 
 
 " I know, I know," answered M. Duravel, 
 hurriedly. " She can find me in Paris." 
 
 The Doctor returned to the Marquis, as the 
 roof fell in. 
 
 " Doctor," said the latter, " you shall drive 
 me to Paris." 
 
 The Doctor bowed, and the Marquis turn- 
 ing carelessly from the scene before him, 
 lifted the little cabinet, placed it in the 
 vehicle, and giving some directions to his 
 servants, stepped in, followed by the Doctor. 
 
 It was a gloomy drive. The Marquis hardly 
 spoke, and the Doctor was occupied in thought. 
 c 6
 
 34 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 There was a curious coincidence between this 
 fire and the death of the Marchioness which 
 looked Hke design. This man's manner too 
 was strange. It was unearthly. Everything 
 for the last four-and-twenty hours about him 
 looked like premeditated crime. M. Duravel 
 shrank from him, as these thoughts passed 
 through his mind. 
 
 The vehicle stopped at the hotel of the 
 Marquis, who, in bidding the Doctor good 
 night, never alluded to the past. 
 
 " He is mad," muttered M. Duravel, as he 
 drove homewards.
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUJVJPH. 35 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 DISCOVERIES AND REMORSE. 
 
 M. DE Layne crept into his hotel. The ser- 
 vants had not heard of the calamity that 
 had occurred at his country-house, and were 
 surprised at his return, as well as terrified at 
 his appearance. That face of marble pale- 
 ness looked as if risen from the tomb, and 
 the manners of their master were so strange 
 and different that they began to surmise some- 
 thing horrible. His voice as he demanded 
 lights was hollow and unearthly, his step
 
 36 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 feeble, and his hands, when he pointed to the 
 casket, and desired it to be carried before him 
 to his own apartment, shook nervously. He 
 gave his orders shortly, and not one of the 
 servants dared to ask him a question. 
 
 In his own chamber M. de Layne was the 
 same. He was alone, had locked the door, 
 and stood at the table, contemplating the oak 
 cabinet. He placed his hands on it. The 
 touch pained him, and he sank exhausted into 
 a chair, the past flashing across his memory, 
 filled with its adventures, its vicissitudes, its 
 successes, its pleasures, reverses, and pains. 
 In a few brief minutes M. de Layne had lived 
 again the last ten years. 
 
 The Marquis de Layne was the inheritor of 
 a good name, and by the death of his uncle 
 became the possessor of a large fortune. It 
 was accompanied by one condition, not to him 
 a very onerous one. When this uncle died 
 he was more than twenty-eight years old, and 
 had outlived the shocks of pleasure, which
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 37 
 
 title, time, and some means, had always ren- 
 dered accessible to him. He was rather 
 pleased than otherwise with the restriction in 
 his uncle's will. That uncle had known in 
 early life M. Paulet, and had loved his sister, 
 but death prevented their nuptials, and he 
 never married, bestowing upon the family of 
 M. Paulet the esteem which had survived the 
 love for his sister; and the condition of his 
 will was, that the young Marquis should 
 marry within two years after his death, Louise, 
 M. Paulet's daughter, if she lived and did not 
 object. This condition was also known to her 
 father. 
 
 The Marquis willingly accepted this con- 
 dition, and it was stated that the circum- 
 stances of M. Paulet rendered its fulfilment 
 imperative. Louise did not oppose it, though 
 events in her private history converted its 
 acceptance into a stern sacrifice to her father's 
 necessities. M. de Layne did not know this 
 until he was married. He found his wife all
 
 88 TRIAL AND TEIUMPH. 
 
 that he could desire, but he learned also that 
 her first affections had been bestowed upon 
 another. He began to suspect. Some cir- 
 cumstances favoured those suspicions, and a 
 passion, more powerful than love, made a 
 home for itself in his heart. Jealousy, un- 
 scrupulous, blind, unreasonable, took violent 
 possession of him. His wife became an ob- 
 ject to be watched and detected, not loved. 
 This passion too, threw upon the surface and 
 into operation all that was evil in his nature, 
 terrifying even himself with the violence, the 
 deception, and the malice within his hearts 
 He watched, and the rashness of her first 
 lover unfortunately placed his wife in an 
 equivocal position. He found a cap and 
 glove, in her room, at Paris. A duel was the 
 result, and he discovered on the bosom of his 
 antagonist, mortally wounded, a small orna- 
 ment composed of his wife's hair. From that 
 moment one single, fixed idea, perpetually 
 occupied and haunted his mind. We may
 
 TKIAL AND TRIUMPH. 39 
 
 imagine how M. de Layne wrought out his 
 fixed idea. 
 
 Some of the servants from the country had 
 reached Paris shortly after their master, and 
 then his household there learned what had 
 occurred. It was curious that shortly before 
 M. Duravel's departure, the Marquis had sent 
 on various errands from his countij house all 
 his male domestics, except one very old man, 
 and that when the fire broke out, there was 
 no person present to assist in extinguishing it 
 — for the few timid females were too much 
 alarmed to be useful. This intelligence ac- 
 counted for the haggard appearance of the 
 Marquis, and excited sympathy for what it was 
 supposed he must have suffered, and afforded 
 also ample food for conversation and inquiry ; 
 but to all efforts to engage him to speak of 
 the event, he offered only a sad and gloomy 
 silence. 
 
 At last he was alone in his hotel. His 
 valet had left him for the night, and his house-
 
 40 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 hold, having completely wearied their curiosity, 
 slept. M. de Layne rose from his chair. He 
 turned to the oak cabinet, regarded it long and 
 anxiously, and at last slowly opened it. The 
 interior was fitted with curiously- arranged 
 drawers, and these the Marquis rapidly opened, 
 and found them to contain little articles of 
 taste or dress, jewels, curiosities, some old 
 papers — hut nothing on the subjects he desired. 
 
 " Was she even false in the clasp of death T 
 he muttered to himself, as he hastily and im- 
 patiently pulled out drawer after drawer. 
 " She should have spoken the truth then. 
 Ah !" His eye had glanced on a little silver 
 knob, visible only when he pulled out the 
 drawer, and grasping it in his fingers, he 
 snatched it fiercely towards him, and threw it 
 upon the table. Portraits, hair, and letters 
 fell in a heap from the protection thus rudely 
 violated. 
 
 The Marquis lifted the two miniatures. 
 One of them was his late wife, and he even
 
 TEIAL AND TRIUMPH. 41 
 
 then shuddered as he regarded the Httle ivory 
 tahlet, rich with all the beauties that once 
 charmed him. The mouth was slightly opened, 
 and the red lips painfully contrasted in his 
 mind with the pale features he had seen some 
 hours before. The other portrait was that of 
 a dead face too. He had seen it writhe in 
 agony. He had seen a cold sweat moisten 
 that brow, which looked so white, and pure, 
 and lofty, upon the unstained ivory. He had 
 seen those cheeks, glowing with the represen- 
 tation of health, wan with the agony and 
 suffering of a violent death. He looked at it 
 gloomily, then flung it in fury into the fire, 
 and watched for a few minutes this new enemy 
 attacking the likeness of the man he hated. 
 A sealed packet and two letters were amongst 
 the contents of the drawer. Both the letters 
 were in an unknown hand. He did not then 
 open them, but lifted the packet, thrusting 
 from him the hair which clung to it. This 
 packet was superscribed — " Correspondence,"
 
 42 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 and the Marquis tore it open. The first words 
 he read, attracted his attention. He drew his 
 chair near the fire, and read on. This letter 
 was addressed to M. Vernon. 
 
 " Do not write to me again as you have 
 done in your last letter. You know I never 
 would have sacrificed you to caprice or change ; 
 but ni} father's necessities, yesterday only dis- 
 closed to me, make my decision imperative. 
 I cannot oppose his will when I find that my 
 refusal will subject him, not to loss, beggary, 
 perhaps want alone, but even to dishonour. 
 The character of a parent is the fortune of 
 his children, and should be guarded by them 
 as sacred. I will not disguise from you our 
 difficulties, and my heart must yield to my 
 reason. My father appeals to me. He does 
 not ask or threaten. He rather says, ' Louise, 
 consult your own happiness. Robert is wor- 
 thy of you. Do not think of me.' How can 
 I meet this? Still kind, my father would 
 sacrifice himself for me. But that is not all.
 
 TEIAL AND TRIUMPH. 43 
 
 This marriage will compromise a sin — a crime 
 which youth and inexperience seduced its 
 perpetrator into. It will conceal a dishonour 
 you must otherwise share with me. Think, 
 Robert. Be courageous, be just, be merciful." 
 
 The next letter M. de Layne took from the 
 parcel was an answer to this. 
 
 " Louise, I will not say, my Louise, for that 
 is now past. You are guided by reason — I, 
 by passion. You can look calmly upon the 
 destruction of our hopes. The very idea fills 
 me with despair. This Marquis cannot love 
 yoa as I do, and yet to him I must yield you. 
 He does not know you. He obeys a dead will, 
 I, a living impulse. I hardly know how I 
 write, or what I write. I feel that my long- 
 treasured anticipations are dissipated for ever. 
 I had arrived in that position which we both 
 so long wished, and then comes this blow. 
 Why should M. Paulet's necessities ? — Forgive 
 me, Louise. He is your father, and, as God 
 judges, I speak from passion, not thought. I
 
 44 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 ask, as my last favour, that you will not in-evo- 
 cably promise to accept this Marquis until you 
 hear from me to-morrow. I shall not after that 
 time throw any obstacle in your way, if un- 
 successful. I shall yield to the feelings of 
 honour and compassion that influence, for 
 before God I do not accuse you of acting 
 unworthily. Give me then until to-morrow." 
 
 M. de Layne lifted up the next letter. The 
 two first had disclosed a history really unknown 
 to him, for Louise's predilections had been 
 carefully concealed by M. Paulet, and never 
 adverted to by herself. This letter was also 
 from Vernon. It began thus — 
 
 " I am resigned to this great calamity, which 
 my misfortunes, Louise, now render inev- 
 itable. I had one hope. It has deceived me. 
 When this letter reaches your hand I shall 
 have left Paris for Marseilles on my journey to 
 Africa. I could not wait here to witness the 
 commencement of a happiness to be enjoyed 
 by another, and which should have been mine.
 
 TEIAL AND TRIUMPH. 45 
 
 I might say, that I had cause for resentment, 
 but I would not wound you by statements that 
 might obstruct that tranquilhty you so much 
 need, and because I love you I yield to a neces- 
 sity you call inevitable. I will not embitter 
 last moments by calling up the memories 
 hurried in the past. They are sacred with me. 
 They are the souvenirs I shall carry with me 
 into a distant land from which I may never 
 return. Connected wdth you I can think of 
 them without pain. Driven from France 1 
 shall feel that in yielding to your persuasions I 
 have shown the greatness of my love by sacri- 
 ficing it to secure your tranquillity, I do not 
 say happiness. Farewell, Louise. If you be 
 sincere, God will bless you, if not, my best 
 avenger will be your own heart." 
 
 These three letters were the contents of this 
 packet. M. de Layne laid down the last one, 
 and relapsed into thought. He had known 
 M. Vernon long before he had married, and 
 had always esteemed him. When that chapter
 
 46 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 occurred in his history which made them 
 enemies, he had never fairly examined the 
 circumstances that drove him to a desperate 
 judgment. He could not be angry, because 
 his late wife had loved M. Vernon, before he 
 had ever seen her. All that he had a right 
 to expect from her, was the honourable con- 
 duct of a wife, and had she violated this ? 
 Undefined, shapeless, yet momentarily be- 
 coming more distinct, these questions were 
 forcing themselves ujDon the attention of M. 
 de Layne. The consciousness of a terrible 
 act lay heavy upon him, yet he w^as deter- 
 mined to close his eyes against evidence that 
 would convict him of guilt. The letters were 
 evidently the closing chapters of a long cor- 
 respondence which must have preceded his 
 marriage. They fully disclosed the position 
 of the parties, and told him that the accep- 
 tance of his hand was a necessity. This idea 
 roused his old hatred. 
 
 " I shall finish these agreeable memoirs,"
 
 TKTAL AND TKIUMPH. 47 
 
 he muttered. " They may correct a rising 
 folly," and he lifted the other two letters. 
 One was the attested declaration on his death 
 bed of M. Robert Yernon, witnessed by two 
 clergymen; the other the confession when 
 dying also, of Sussette, the waiting maid of 
 the late Marchioness. M. de Layne read 
 them wdth avidity, and as he did, the large 
 drops of sweat sprang out upon his face, his 
 hands trembled, and his wdiole frame yielded 
 to a terrible agitation. He read and read 
 again. The lines seemed written in fire. 
 They were burning into his brain. Every 
 word in them was true. He knew it — he felt 
 it. His mind was comparing events, and he 
 could not resist the conclusions it drew. The 
 past was before him. Bared, open, true, it 
 stood terrible and avenging in his sight. He 
 crushed the letters in his hands, opened 
 them again, for they burned into his bones, 
 and a startled conscience, wakened too late.
 
 48 TPJAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 thundered in his dizzy ear, words of fearful 
 import. 
 
 " Guilty, guilty," he half shrieked. " My 
 wife, my child," and then, as if exhausted 
 nature could no longer endure the torture of 
 the feelings that scourged him, he fell moan- 
 ing upon the floor. 
 
 For hours M. de Layne lay upon the carpet 
 in a half- stupor. The servants in the morn- 
 ing found him as he had fallen. The letters, 
 the portraits, the hair, lay ahout him. These 
 were gathered hy his own valet and placed in 
 the little cabinet , and the Marquis carried to 
 his bed. M. Duravel was sent for. He 
 found the Marquis in high fever, and it re- 
 quired all his skill to meet the attacks of his 
 disorder and defeat them. Ten weeks passed 
 before he was able to leave his bed-room, and 
 during all that period M. Duravel had con- 
 stantly attended him, yet in all the ravings of 
 his disease, whilst he disclosed the scenes of 
 his life anterior to his marriage, spoke of
 
 TEIAL AND tSiIUMPH. 49 
 
 Louise and her father, not one word was 
 uttered that could even allude to his wife's 
 death, or the destruction of his country house. 
 Madness had made no revelations, and M. 
 Duravel's suspicions had melted away. He 
 determined on surprising his rapidly-improv- 
 ing patient. 
 
 VOL I. D
 
 50 TPvIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 Madame Williams had reached Paris in 
 safety with the child. She regarded it as a 
 brand rescued from the burning, not spiri- 
 tually, but physically, for she was filled with 
 dark suspicions about the Marquis, and 
 believed that he had contemplated the deaths 
 of both the mother and her child. She had 
 lived with the Marchioness before her marriage, 
 and lived with her more as a sister, than in 
 the capacity of a servant ; only leaving her to
 
 TEIAL AND TRIUMPH. 61 
 
 unite her fate to a courier attached to the 
 EngUsh Embassy, from whom she took her 
 Enghsh name. When M. de Layne exhibited 
 towards his wife the first indications of his 
 resentment, it was to Madame Wilhams that 
 she confided her griefs and fears, and during 
 the illness of her former confinement, she 
 had this faithful servant near her. We have 
 met her at the death-bed of her first mistress, 
 and witnessed her care and anxiety for her 
 recovery : her terror at her death, increased as 
 it was by the suspicions that filled her mind. 
 M. Duravel had determined to surprise the 
 Marquis. In his attendance upon him, the 
 thought of his child frequently entered his 
 mind, and he had determined when he found 
 him convalescent to put his little scheme in 
 execution. None in the household then had 
 a suspicion that the child had escaped, and 
 the Doctor imagined that Madame Williams 
 had not called, because she feared that if 
 known to the Marquis, she would be unable 
 2 D
 
 52 TRIAL AND TEIUMPH. 
 
 to protect the child. M. Duravel's opinions 
 on this subject had changed. He was enabled 
 to learn the nurse's address from one of the 
 servants, and he determined to drive the 
 Marquis to the place and see the child. 
 
 M. de Layne had never expressed a thought 
 upon this subject, though he seemed to medi- 
 tate much, and a peculiar change was remark- 
 able in his entire demeanor. The Doctor, on 
 the morning he intended to put his little plan 
 into execution, called upon him rather early, 
 yet he found a carriage in the court, and the 
 Marquis prepared to go out. 
 
 " I am glad to see you. Doctor^" said the 
 Marquis, " for you will allow me to go out. 
 Indeed I was about to venture without your 
 permission." 
 
 " And I came expressly to invite you to 
 a drive, in which I had promised myself to 
 accompany you." 
 
 The Marquis paused for a moment ; "I 
 was anxious to execute a little commission."
 
 TEIAL AND TEIUMPH. 6^ 
 
 '^ Let it be on our return," said M. Du- 
 ravelj " Perhaps this drive might interest 
 us both." 
 
 " 1 shall attend you, Doctor," answered 
 the Marquis. 
 
 M. Duravel gave no intimation of the object 
 or direction of his journey. The coachman 
 had received his instructions, and though the 
 Marquis marked with his eye their progress 
 through the streets, he asked no questions. 
 The conversation was mostly carried on by 
 the Doctor, who indulged in politics, anec- 
 dotes, theatres, and literature, until the car- 
 riage tm-ned into an outskirt of the city, 
 which the Marquis did not know. 
 
 " I am quite at sea here, Doctor," he said, 
 looking out. " This locality is to me a com- 
 plete teira incognita" 
 
 "It is too the completion of our present 
 journey," answered M. Duravel. " I have an 
 inquiry to make at this house," he continued.
 
 64 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 " and shall trespass upon your kindness for a 
 few minutes while I do so. 
 
 The Marquis bowed and leaned back in 
 the carriage, seeming to fall into profound 
 thought, while M. Duravel got out. The 
 house opposite to him was enclosed by small 
 wooden railings. A printed bill on the win- 
 dows of the first floor announced apartments 
 vacant, but it was the number he sought. He 
 opened the little outside wicket and entered 
 the hall, where a woman, attracted by the 
 vehicle at the door, stood ready to receive 
 him. The Doctor inquired for Madame Wil- 
 liams. She was gone ; had lived there, but 
 was gone. Where, the woman did not know. 
 
 " And her husband ?" 
 
 " Ah !" The woman shiugged her shoulders. 
 " He had lost his situation, and was obliged 
 to fly from Paris." 
 
 '' Madame WiUiams had a child," said the 
 Doctor, nervously.
 
 TETAL AND TEIUMPH. 55 
 
 " Poor woman," responded the other. '^ It 
 died after her husband's disgrace." 
 
 " My God !" exclaimed the Doctor. " How 
 unfortunate ! I had anticipated a joyful sur- 
 prise, and here is a frightful calamity. How 
 old was the child," he at length asked, " when 
 it died?" 
 
 " About a month old." 
 
 ^' How long is Madame Williams gone away?" 
 
 " More than two months past." 
 
 The Doctor turned away from the door. 
 This information seemed to him decisive. He 
 thanked the woman, and slowly entered the 
 carriage. The Marquis raised his head. He 
 looked as if he had slept during the Doctor's 
 absence. 
 
 " You seem disturbed. Doctor ?" he said. 
 
 " Yes. I have heard very disagreeable news. 
 I had anticipated something pleasant, and I 
 meet only a calamity. I am greatly annoyed 
 at this, as it may seriously affect others."
 
 56 TEIAL AND TEIUMPH. 
 
 " Indeed !" and the Marquis again relapsed 
 into thought. 
 
 The Doctor regarded him from his half- 
 averted eyes. " There is something at motion 
 in that head !" he said to himself. " Good 
 Heavens ! if he should be investigating this 
 same subject, a sudden shock would be terri- 
 ble." This supposition alarmed M. Duravel. 
 He saw at once its danger, and he did not like 
 the deportment of his patient, who still lay 
 back in the carriage, not moved by the con- 
 templation of the various objects outside, nor 
 anxious for conversation. A sudden thought 
 passed through the Doctor's mind. He had 
 latterly believed that the Marquis regretted 
 his wife, and he wished to learn if he knew 
 anything relative to his child. 
 
 " I had founded some hopes upon tliis little 
 excursion," he said, at last, " and yet, in this 
 world, to hope is so frequently delusive, that 
 we soon learn to recover from disappoint- 
 ments."
 
 TBIAL AND TRIUMPH. 67 
 
 " From some, only," observed the Marquis, 
 opening his half-closed eyes. 
 
 " We should learn to say, from all," conti- 
 nued M. Duravel, " for it is impossible to dis- 
 criminate, and that to which we attached the 
 highest importance, might be the most de- 
 lusive." 
 
 " Then its effect would be the more destruc- 
 tive." 
 
 " Which proves that the wisdom is the 
 greatest which reckons all such anticipations 
 as vanities." 
 
 " Still, in this world we will hope," said the 
 Marquis, with a gloomy smile. 
 
 " And, consequently, should look at disap- 
 pointment as a probable result, and be pre- 
 pared to bear it." 
 
 " Yes, but if always disappointed?" 
 
 " None are." 
 
 " Many, Doctor, many," said the Marquis, 
 with a sigh. 
 
 " M. de Layne is not of this number," 
 D 5
 
 58 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 quietly observed M. Duravel, glad of the 
 opportunity thus presented, to draw a picture. 
 " He has youth, wealth, and rank on his side 
 — three great assistants in procuring worldly 
 happiness ; and even if unfortunate in the 
 past, he may calmly, with these accessories, 
 regard the future. With restored health, his 
 spirits will rise above disappointments, which 
 might crush others less fortunate. He has 
 past regrets, losses, and sufferings to atone 
 for—" 
 
 " And crimes," muttered M. de Layne, in a 
 low whisper which the Doctor did not hear. 
 
 " A world before him, that will reverence 
 his station and yield to his wealth, while his 
 own mind, free from care, may preserve its cong 
 tentment, and his actions may gratify himself 
 and benefit others. I can envy M. de Layne." 
 
 " Rather the picture you have sketched. 
 Doctor," said the Marquis. " M. de Layne 
 did not sit for the original." 
 
 " He may be its exact counterpart. I know
 
 TKIAL AND TRIUMPH. 59 
 
 how* they suffer who have family ties rudely 
 torn, and can sympathise with the man who has 
 lost wife and child, but calamity is the human 
 lot, — to rise above it, a human necessity." 
 
 The Marquis did not seem to hear this, for 
 he had sunk again back in the carriage, his 
 eyes half closed, and his breathing heavy. 
 
 "I have wearied you," said M. Duravel, 
 nervously. 
 
 " No, no. You have alarmed me only." 
 
 " How ?" asked M. Duravel. 
 
 " Ah ! my dear Doctor, here we are at 
 home. You shall come to see me to-morrow. 
 Adieu, now," and the carriage drove into the 
 court-yard. The Marquis got out hastily, 
 leaving M. Duravel alone, who, uncertain as to 
 the result of his observations, drove away to 
 visit some of his other patients. 
 
 M. de Layne sought his own apartments. 
 He had in the meantime ordered his own 
 carriage to be brought round to the entrance, 
 and whilst this command was being executed,
 
 60 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 he took out of his secretary, a card with an 
 address on it. The name was, Lucille 
 Wilhams, No. 17, Rue de St. Cecile. Wlien 
 the carriage was announced, the Marquis put 
 this address in his pocket, and descended. 
 He gave the requisite instructions to his 
 coachman, and then sank back in his seat, 
 not regarding the direction the vehicle took- 
 At length it stopped. The Marquis started 
 up from his reverie, drew down the window, 
 and looked out. He had been there that day 
 before. He knew the wooden railing and the 
 notice of apartments to let. A suspicion en- 
 tered his mind. Had M. Duravel come to 
 this locality on the same mission ? He had 
 expressed himself disappointed. The Mar- 
 quis began to see the tendency of the Doctor's 
 remarks. To his inquiries the same answers 
 were given. Madame Williams was gone — 
 the child was dead. The Marquis fell back 
 in his carriage. The Doctor cUd not know 
 how fondly he had contemplated this hope.
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 61 
 
 How in his moments of more than human 
 despair he had built for himself a temple for 
 atonement in which he might offer prayers of 
 repentance for the past. All this was over- 
 thrown. His mind wandered, recurred to the 
 events of the last few weeks. There was a 
 blank, an agony, a crime. When he reached 
 his hotel, he was seriously ill. M. Duravel 
 was sent for. He believed this relapse worse 
 than the first illness, and feared that he would 
 not be able to preserve both life and reason. 
 
 The winter had yielded to the spring, and 
 spring had deepened into summer, before his 
 medical attendant could venture to hope for 
 the permanent recovery of his patient. He ^ 
 had marked with great care the progress of 
 his illness, and saw that the mind was the 
 centre of his disease. With the summer the 
 physical system of M. de Layne was com- 
 pletely restored, but there were an indescri- 
 bable languor, a perpetual melancholy about 
 him, which M. Duravel could not comprehend.
 
 62 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 His hair had grown white as snow, and those 
 symptoms, which his physician, unable to un- 
 derstand, was inchned to designate as aberra- 
 tions of the mental powers, were simply the 
 signs of repentance and remorse. In June 
 the Marquis announced his intention to travel, 
 and M. Duravel, hoping something from 
 change of scene, did not combat the idea.
 
 TRIAL AND TEIUMPH. 63 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 NEW CHAEACTEES. 
 
 The Marquis had left Paris to travel. He 
 had been unheard-of for more than ^Ye years, 
 and according to the disposition he had made 
 of his property before he quitted France, his 
 cousin, whom he had nominated as his agent 
 during his absence, was to consider all his own 
 if he did not return within ten years ; and if 
 unheard of within five from the day of his de- 
 parture, for the succeeding five he was to ap- 
 propriate to his own use, subject to certain
 
 64 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 restrictions, the profits arising from his estates 
 and money in the funds. This settlement 
 was however conditional so far, that if ever 
 M. de Layne returned, all was to he restored 
 to him, and he had amply provided against 
 waste or alienation, charging his estates also in 
 the hands of his cousin with several payments, 
 all for religious or charitable purchases. 
 During the first five years letters came at 
 stated intervals. The last was dated from 
 England, and then all communication ceased, 
 while M. le Neve, his cousin, formally took pos- 
 session of his property for the first pm-pose 
 un der the settlement. Five years more passed 
 away, and the Marquis was unheard-of Then 
 M. le Neve entered as proprietor, subject to the 
 payments alluded to, all which also had been 
 so notified, that his cousin could not have 
 cheated any of the parties to whom the Mar- 
 quis had conveyed the annuities. 
 
 M. Duravel sometimes thought of the Mar- 
 quis de Layne. His mind was in doubt upon
 
 TRIAL AND TEIUMPH. 65 
 
 many subjects connected ^ith his career, but 
 even he, as the confirmed absence of the Mar- 
 quis and the gradual assumption of his position 
 by his cousin made mention of his name or 
 history every day more unusual, also began to 
 forget him ; and when the ten years had elapsed, 
 M. Duravel had but an indistinct recollec- 
 tion of his former patient or even of the peculiar 
 occurrences connected with him. He had in- 
 quired into the history of Madame Williams, 
 ai|i learned that her husband had fled from 
 France, the police having been on his track 
 for some weeks previous. These details ex- 
 hausted the Doctor's information. Of Madame 
 Williams or the child, he could learn nothing. 
 All the actors in that scene had suddenly dis- 
 appeared from Paris, and M. Duravel, getting 
 old himself, and also attending the family of 
 M. le Neve, had ceased all further inquiries. 
 
 Ten years, then, have passed, since M. de 
 Layne left France — ten years fruitful in 
 changes there. A new dynasty had assumed
 
 66 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 the throne held by the Bourbons ; new topics, 
 new pursuits, new interests had sprung up to 
 stimulate men's minds, or change them from 
 the old. paths and principles, so that M. de 
 Layne could hardly be expected to live in the 
 memory of any amidst the thunders of a revo- 
 lution, the fall of a dynasty, and the overthrow 
 of all those traditions that existed during his 
 residence in France. He was forgotten by all 
 but M. le Neve, and M. le Neve did not wish 
 to remember him : not that he had in any- 
 thing violated the terms on which he held his 
 property, but simply because — swayed by the 
 common instincts of humanity — having once 
 tasted the pleasures of possession, he was dis- 
 inclined to renounce them. 
 
 Our scene now changes to England : and 
 nearly eleven years have elapsed since M. Du- 
 ravel was so hastily summoned out of his bed 
 to attend the Marchioness de Layne. It was 
 then in autumn — the season is now in the 
 midst of a cold, harsh winter. A dreary road
 
 TEIAL AND TEIUMPH. 67 
 
 wound slowly through a low, marshy country, 
 from the assize town of a western county, 
 towards Pulsford, a small village about ten 
 miles distant from it. Some days of hard 
 frost, which had followed a smart fall of snow, 
 had now in turn been suceeded by a heavy, 
 thick rain, which had converted the road into 
 bog, and rendered travelling by it both tedious 
 and laborious. The rain was cold and pene- 
 trating, giving' to the night air that chill feel- 
 ing which neither exercise nor muffling can 
 effectually counteract. There was also an 
 almost impenetrable darkness over the scene, 
 for not a star was visible overhead, and a long 
 line of dwarf firs flanked the road on one side, 
 walling out the chance lights that might still 
 burn in Pulsford. On the other, the country 
 was flat bog and marsh, not very cheering in 
 the sunshine, and gloomy enough at night. 
 
 Along this road, at the same time, three 
 persons, one of them leaving Pulsford behind, 
 the others approaching it, were now travelling.
 
 68 TRLVL AND TBIUMPH. 
 
 The person leaving Pulsford was riding towards 
 a house on the left — the main avenue to which 
 opened upon this country road. He rode 
 slowly, and hardly lifted his head, when he 
 heard the dull splash and roll of a horse and 
 wheels advancing quickly towards him. He 
 did not even heed the rain, for he rode on as 
 if he felt no inconvenience from it, or his 
 mind was too busily occupied to notice mere 
 personal discomfort. The approaching vehicle 
 came nearer, and at last he bent forward his 
 head to penetrate the darkness before him, 
 and could discern, with difficulty, the outlines 
 of some object almost beside him, just as a 
 rough voice shouted out — 
 
 " Have a care, my master, and keep your 
 side. The road's not too broad." 
 
 The horseman drew to one side, and a one 
 horse vehicle approached him. 
 
 '' There now. All's right," continued the 
 speaker. " Kather an ugly night for a spill 
 too," and he was along side of the horseman.
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 69 
 
 " The night is not pleasant," said the other, 
 slowly. 
 
 " No, by Jingo, it an't, so good bye. I'm 
 soaked through." 
 
 " Good night," answered the horseman, 
 passing on. 
 
 The vehicle proceeded. It was a small 
 spring cart drawn by a pony. The man sat 
 on a cross-board in front of it, and at the 
 " good night," he half turned round to look 
 after the horseman. 
 
 ** Deuce take it," he muttered, " but that 
 voice is not strange to me. Hey, Luce. Ar't 
 sleeping, lass ?" 
 
 A small head rose out of the straw, that 
 lay in the bottom of the cart. You could 
 not see it in the dark night, nor did the man 
 turn to look at it. The rest of the girl's 
 body was covered with the straw, in which she 
 had nestled, to save her from the cold and 
 rain, that had still penetrated through all her 
 clothes, and numbed her limbs. She shook
 
 70 TKIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 the hair from about her face, and turned her 
 eyes, so dark and piercing, that they almost 
 sparkled in the gloom, upon the man, but his 
 head was averted, and his mind intent upon 
 other subjects, so without answering his ques- 
 tion she again buried herself in the straw. 
 
 The cart proceeded on slowly through the 
 plashing, miry road, while its driver sometimes 
 whistled a snatch of a tune, or hummed the 
 refrain of an old song, but oftener he w^as 
 silent, peering with a sharp look-out through 
 the darkness before him. As the road wound 
 towards the village, an occasional light glanced 
 through the openings in the firs, and at one 
 large gap in them, many denoting the situation 
 of Pulsford, became visible. 
 
 " Ah I" muttered the man, " it is earlier than 
 I thought, or the good folk down there are 
 later a-foot to-night than usual. Go it, old 
 hoss ; we'll soon turn now." 
 
 The pony answered the whip by slightly 
 mending its pace, and in a few minutes more
 
 TBIAL AND TEIUMPH. ' 71 
 
 another break in the trees seemed Uke the 
 head of a road, for the man turned at once 
 into it, uttering a pecuHar whistle as he did it, 
 and the pony stepped out with more vigour. 
 The Ughts from the village gleamed brightly 
 on the left, and away in the distance was 
 visible a solitary flame like a candle, shining 
 through a window. Again the man whistled, 
 whipping up the pony as he did so, then be- 
 came silent, while momentarily the light grew 
 more distinct, as the road turned towards it, 
 and in a few minutes more the cart was drawn 
 up before a low, shed-like building, with some 
 sort of an indistinct sign over the door, and a 
 large tallow candle burning on a shelf in the 
 window. The door was instantly opened, and 
 the fire Hght from within, shone upon the 
 figure of a coarse-looking woman, who called 
 out, 
 
 " Is that Rob's cart ?" 
 
 " And Rob's self. Mistress Madge," answered 
 the man, leaping down. " Wet and cold, old
 
 72 TRIAL AND TP.IUMPH. 
 
 Oman is the same Rob, too. Here, Luce. 
 Get thee up, lass. Ar't sleeping now ? And 
 Madge, my queen, call Tom. This here bit 
 of horse-flesh is soaked all of a heap. Give 
 me the tool box, Luce, and jump. Quick, 
 you imp — " 
 
 Almost before the words were spoken, a 
 child about eleven years old, sprang lightly 
 out of the vehicle, and then groping through 
 the straw, drew out a small box, which she 
 handed to the man. She was now standing 
 in the door-way. The full hght upon her 
 face, which was turned towards the fire, her 
 hair hanging in long, damp masses of jet 
 black, over her shoulders, a little bruised straw 
 bonnet clinging to the back of her head, and 
 her dress torn and stained, hardly reaching 
 below her knees, while the dirt oozed out 
 through her broken shoes ; yet in the midst of 
 all this wretchedness of attire, and suffering 
 from rain and cold, there was something per- 
 ceptible about the child's manner and bearing,
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 73 
 
 which attracted attention. Her features were 
 fine and symmetrical, and there was a touch 
 of mournful melancholy in her large, black 
 eyes, that would instantly excite sympathy for 
 what seemed her forlorn condition. 
 
 " Here, Luce," said the woman, in her coarse 
 tones, though there was a kindliness struggling 
 through them ; " Get to the fire, till I shut 
 the door. You'll do better there, than standing 
 shivering here. Go on, you little imp." 
 
 The child followed this not too courteous 
 bidding, half smiling, as if she understood its 
 nature thoroughly, while the man who had 
 come with her, placed himself at the other side 
 and instantly swallowed a glass of brandy, 
 handed to him by the female. 
 
 " I wouldn't want you, Madge, on a night 
 like this, for a mother's blessing. You warm 
 a fellow like an oven. You're the only rock 
 in distress I know of, that one can trust to 
 when stranded. Let's have another tip of 
 
 VOL I. E
 
 74 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 that tottle. Deuce take it, the wet's mto my 
 marrow." 
 
 " Warm it out, then," said the woman, hand- 
 ing him more hrandy. " What made you 
 bring this black baggage with you ?" 
 
 " Oh I I am blown on there all out, so I cut 
 at once, and 1 couldn't leave Luce behind just 
 now." 
 
 "It is cold," observed the woman, and not- 
 withstanding her words, she took the child's 
 hand in her own. " I'll have some beef and 
 a bowl of tea for it bye and bye. Here, take 
 a nip out of this, urchin." 
 
 The child held back. " Oh, Luce wouldn't 
 touch that," said the man, "for a sovereign. 
 She don't take anything in that line." 
 
 " And she's right, though it's a pity of tliem 
 as must ; so here's master." 
 
 "Hist!" The man bent forward to listen. 
 
 " I hear it. There again !" And as the 
 woman spoke, a long, peculiar whistle was 
 heard by both. The child raised its head,
 
 TEIAL AND TEIUMPH. 75 
 
 then sorted out the wet folds of its frock, and 
 seemed to pay no more attention to the sound, 
 while the man went to the window, and lifted 
 away the candle, then turned again to the fire. 
 
 Very shortly afterwards, the noise of wheels 
 approaching was audible, but no one about the 
 fire moved, until a voice was heard crying out, 
 " House, ho ! there." The woman went lazily 
 towards the door and opened it, just as a gig 
 drew up before it, carrying two men. One 
 threw the reins to the other and jumped out. 
 
 " Well, old dame," he was beginning, but 
 the woman put her finger to her lip and 
 pointed inside, a signal which the men seemed 
 to understand, for one only entered the house, 
 and the other drove the gig round to its rear. 
 
 " A rough night for the road, friend," said 
 the man called Rob. '' Here's a seat for you, 
 and there's some brandy. Luce, come round 
 to me. The old un '11 get you something 
 to eat presently," and mechanically the child 
 moved as bidden, yet there was a glance of her 
 2 E
 
 76 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 dark eyes directed towards this new comer, 
 and a perceptible gleam of recognition for a 
 second lighted up her features. 
 
 " Now, mother," cried Rob, as the woman 
 closed the door, " get Luce her supper and 
 trundle her into bed. I must be away by 
 cock-crow, and want a litlle sleep myself. 
 Here, girl, take some beef." 
 
 The woman had pulled forward a small table, 
 and placed on it brown bread and cold meat, 
 and while the little girl was slowly eating some 
 of these, she was preparing a bowl of tea for 
 her. In the meantime the two men at the 
 fire carried on a loud conversation on things 
 in general, and a private one by certain signs 
 and nods which both seemed thoroughly to 
 understand. The little girl eat sparingly, and 
 after she had done, she looked towards the two 
 men, but neither attended to her, while the 
 woman, finding she would take nothing more, 
 began to remove the things.
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 77 
 
 " 111 go to bed, father, now, and then I can 
 have my things dried." 
 
 " Yes, yes. All right, lass. Mother there 
 will put you away for this night," and without 
 any further recognition he continued his con- 
 versation with the other man; while the woman 
 showed the child into a room at the end of a 
 passage remote from the kitchen, saw her to 
 bed, and then closed the door on her. The 
 child was cold and weary. She wrapped her- 
 self closely up in the bed-clothes, striving to 
 gather more warmth by compressing herself 
 into the smallest possible compass, and to 
 hush into sleep the thoughts that were agita- 
 ting her mind. Sleep did not come, and the 
 cold rather increased than diminished. The 
 room was dark, but that produced no fears, 
 for she had been accustomed to darkness and 
 loneliness since she remembered anything. 
 Solitude produced thoughts, and this child, so 
 young and peculiarly reared, preferred indulge 
 ing in these thoughts, frequently, to any other
 
 ■^8 TRIAL AND TPJUMPH. 
 
 occupation. She was neither nervous nor 
 timid, and might have conquered both cold 
 and soHtude, and slept, when the roll of wheels 
 completely roused her, and this time she fan- 
 cied they were leaving the place, but she 
 caught words too. 
 
 " Tell Driver, Tom, that we shall have our 
 fingers in the plate-basket by sharp two. Off, 
 now, old feller." 
 
 She turned in her bed. A light flashed 
 across her window, and then she heard the 
 noise of the vehicle smartly driven away. 
 
 Child as she was, she knew every nook and 
 corner of the house where she was then lying, 
 for she crept out of bed, noiselessly put on her 
 damp clothes, opened her door, and crossing 
 a passage, mounted a staircase communicating 
 with a room immediately over the kitchen. 
 This she entered. The room was more a loft 
 than anything else, for the floor was roughly 
 laid together, the planks so badly joined, that 
 the light from below streamed through them
 
 TEIAL AND TEIUMPH. 79 
 
 freely; and as the child stole quietly on, she 
 could notice the faces of the men at the fire, 
 and hear them speak. The men moved at 
 the fire, the door was opened^ and her own 
 father entered. In the noise consequent, she 
 glided to what she thought was the hest 
 position, and kneeling down, stooped forward 
 so as to be able accurately to hear and see. 
 Four men were then sitting at the fire, and 
 the woman at a table near them was getting 
 up a bowl of punch. 
 
 " I can land the plate in ten minutes," 
 were the first w^ords she heard. " It's only to 
 open the back door, and then I know every 
 inch of the way." 
 
 *' But, Bat, suppose an accident ? Who's 
 on the premises ?" It was her father spoke. 
 
 " Quite out of all chance. The old chap 
 sleeps away at t'other end of the house, and 
 the men under him, so they couldn't hear a 
 cannon fired out of that quarter." The speaker
 
 80 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 turned his face round, and the Httle girl saw 
 a countenance that she knew. 
 
 " It's arum old quiz too, that Squire Maple- 
 ton," said another of the men. " Not by no 
 means a bad un at sessions. He wouldn't 
 send the Bang here to the mill for a pheasant, 
 though his keeper saw him knock it down. I 
 likes that style of gent." 
 
 A head turned slowly from the fire-place. 
 It was covered with huge tufts of uncombed 
 black hair, the face almost invisible from the 
 masses of beard and whisker that environed it, 
 and a dirty red neck-tie occassionally peeping 
 out, as the twisting of this man's head lifted the 
 hair that hid it. His coat, a drab one, was 
 buttoned up to his throat, while his begrimed 
 face, and the savage ferocity displayed in his 
 looks and manners, almost terrified the little girl. 
 
 " Sure I didn't thank him for that. He 
 caged me once before, and if I come across 
 him, — well, no matter, only if I do ! Here, 
 Madge, let's have the liquor."
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 81 
 
 *' Not too much of that, boys," said Rob. 
 
 " No, no," added the other. '' Just glasses 
 round, old gal, and here's a toast. May the 
 loss of old Mapleton's plate not mjure his 
 appetite." 
 
 " Drunk with all the honors," said Rob. 
 " Now for the minor plans. In two hours — " 
 but the little girl listened no more. Noise- 
 lessly she withdrew, descended into her own 
 room, fastened all her clothes tightly on, and 
 then opened her window, crept through it, and 
 dropped down on the little flat before the door, 
 pausing for a moment to listen. She heard 
 nothing to alarm her, for now she stole round 
 to the back of the house, struck into a little 
 lane at its rear, and began to run quickly 
 down it. 
 
 E 5
 
 82 TEIAL AND TEIUMPH. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE MESSENGEK. 
 
 The Mapletons, of Pulsford Grange, were an 
 old Catholic family, who had maintained in- 
 violate their creed, and in the fiercest perse- 
 cution had, by their character, so attached 
 friends to their interests, as to preseiTC, in a 
 great degree, most of their property. They 
 had shunned rebellion, and a race of country 
 squires were more devoted to the enjoyments, 
 pastimes, and pursuits of their position, than 
 to the dangerous politics which for centuries
 
 TRIAL AND TEIUMPH. 83 
 
 had convulsed their native England. Living 
 in a retired district, at peace and in friendship 
 with their neighbours, confiscations had lightly 
 touched their paternal acres, and some of their 
 name engaging in commerce, had materially 
 improved and increased them. 
 
 Mr. Blondel Mapleton was now the head of 
 their house. He was a hale, hearty country 
 gentleman, whose family had grown round him 
 in peace and comfort, getting well settled in life, 
 his daughters married, and his sons, gaining 
 character and wealth in professions oi business. 
 He was now fully the three score and ten. His 
 wife was some years younger, popular amongst 
 the poor, and respected by the neighbouring 
 gentry. Mr. Mapleton had preserved in ad- 
 vanced years all the good sense that distin- 
 guished his youth. He was charitable, kind 
 in his intercourse with the world, pious with- 
 out aflfectation, and cheerful, without folly. 
 He had one hobby, and that was, regard for 
 the old house that had faithfully sheltered so
 
 84 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 many of his race and name. A fine old pile, 
 too, was Pulsford Grange. Large, irregular, 
 abounding in the architectural conceits of his 
 ancestors, full of grand rooms and small snug 
 retreats, fit to lodge a monarch, and yet in all 
 its grandeur, preserving the simplicity of a 
 home : it was Mr. Mapleton's chief care to 
 maintain, in the best order, this great heirloom 
 of his race. 
 
 On this night, Mr. Mapleton, his wife, and 
 a French ecclesiastic, M. Lemayne, were sitting 
 together in an apartment of the Grange most 
 commonly used by the family when alone. 
 It was an old-fashioned room, panelled in oak, 
 full of comfortable fittings, furnished, more 
 with a regard to what was becoming and agree- 
 able, than ornamental or fashionable ; and 
 yet everything was so much in taste and con- 
 formity with one's ideas of ease, that all 
 seemed elegant and finished. The hour was 
 about eleven, supper was over, and Mr. Maple - 
 ton was taking his usual glass of hot wine 
 before retiring for the night ; his wife, with a
 
 TKIAL AND TKIUMPH. 85 
 
 little table before her, supporting her work- 
 basket, sewing and mending, now and then 
 joining in the conversation. carried on between 
 the two gentlemen, and a little girl, about ten 
 years old, lying on a cushion at her feet, a favour- 
 ite grand-child, composed the then family circle. 
 M. Lemayne was rather a young man, perhaps 
 not forty, but his hairwas white as snow, his face 
 calm in its expression, though very pale, and 
 there was an air of melancholy resignation about 
 him, which would predispose one to sympa- 
 thize with his feelings, and to regret that he 
 had been exposed to suffering, for it was im- 
 possible to look at his face, and believe that 
 he had come through the world up till this 
 time, without suffering much and acutely. 
 His conversation was, however, cheerful, and 
 though a Frenchman, he spoke English well, 
 almost without an accent, while his manners 
 were polished and most agreeable. He was a 
 fair type of the accomplished French priest. 
 
 The curtains were drawn close, and the fire 
 burned brightly in this old wainscotted room.
 
 86 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 Mr. Mapleton sipped his wine slowly. He 
 seemed to appreciate his condition and men- 
 tally contrast it with the lot of those outside, 
 not so fortunate in resources and position as 
 himself; and a remark of Mrs. Mapleton, who 
 with the Catholic instinct, thought, in the 
 midst of her own comforts, of the unfortunate 
 condition of the poor, directed her conversa- 
 tion into that channel. 
 
 " I believe," said M. Lemayne, in reply to a 
 question, " that happiness is of the mind and 
 heart. The world, it is true, will more or less 
 operate upon it, but the poor, in the midst of 
 the worst poverty, may, after a fashion, be 
 happy." 
 
 *' That is all, my good father," observed Mr. 
 Mapleton; ''it is only after a fashion, as I 
 hold that the less you struggle with this world, 
 the more chance you have of passing happily 
 through it." 
 
 " Yet, that is but the instinct of a class, 
 who, from position, are enabled to carry into 
 practice a theoiy which, with others, is but a
 
 TRIAL AND TEIUMPH. 87 
 
 delusion. All cannot be rich, and riches are 
 the corner-stone of this position. It is the 
 Hfe of the men -^ho are not compelled to 
 struggle with the world, and it is a life too, 
 often disturbed by accidents which its affluence 
 has prevented its foreseeing, and which, when 
 they come, it is unable to combat. You may 
 be wealthy and happy. Life is an uncertainty, 
 no matter how considered, and the two great 
 essentials in its course are so often forgotten, 
 that w^e only in our greatest depressions turn 
 to them for consolation. Our happiness, in 
 many ways, is material, but in all it should 
 look upwards for support." 
 
 " Yes," said the old lady. " In life there is 
 misery, in religion immortality." 
 
 " Religion and charity," continued M. 
 Lemayne, " I should perhaps rather say religion 
 alone, for the two are only the divisions of one 
 great head, are our duty here. Religion 
 belongs to God, charity to man, and both 
 make the saint."
 
 88 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 " I only thought of material happiness: the 
 comforts I have enjoyed here," said Mr. Maple- 
 ton, " and I at once subscribe to the doctrines 
 you have announced, my good father. The 
 peaceful conscience is alone happy." 
 
 "The peaceful conscience, only, only," mur- 
 mured the priest. 
 
 Mrs. Mapleton looked hard at him. A 
 shadow had passed over his countenance which 
 had previously been sparkling and animated, 
 purified and impressed by his subject. It now 
 became dark and immovable. His hands 
 were clasped firmly together, his lips became 
 contracted, but it was only for a moment, and 
 his face brightened up, as he said, — 
 
 " There is hope for the greatest sinners." 
 
 " Eepentance is of God," said Mrs. Maple- 
 ton, solemnly ; and just at that moment the 
 outer bell was pulled, and the noise echoed 
 and reverberated through the old house, re- 
 peating itself in corridor and passage. It was 
 pulled again vehemently, energetically. There
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 89 
 
 was a more than voice in that peal, for it 
 spoke a necessity, an urgency, a danger. Mr. 
 Mapleton rose up. 
 
 " Who can this be at this hour ?" 
 " No ill tidings, I trust in God," said his 
 wife ; but the door had been hastily attended, 
 and almost immediately a servant came into 
 the room, and stated that a little girl outside 
 wanted Mr. Mapleton. The discipline of the 
 house was excellent, and the servants, if in- 
 clined — but the contagion of kindness aflfects 
 human nature as strongly often as vice does, 
 — and they were rarely so, dared not turn from 
 the door the poorest object that sought their 
 master. 
 
 " Bring her in," said the master, turning to 
 the door, and the man introduced a little girl, 
 draggled with mud, and wet with rain. The 
 old lady laid aside her glasses, the grand- child 
 had sprung up from her cushion, and threw 
 back with her little hands the long, fair tresses
 
 90 TKIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 of soft hair that had fallen over her eyes, 
 which she turned on the stranger. 
 
 *' Why, Grandma, it is Lucille, and all wet 
 too." 
 
 " Lucille," said M. Lemayne, aloud. " I 
 have heard that name before," and his cheek 
 flushed and then became pale. 
 
 " Lucille," said the child, gravely and 
 modestly, not seeming abashed, although 
 trembling with cold and wet, " is my name, 
 and you are Squire Mapleton." 
 
 " Come here, child," broke in Mrs. Maple- 
 ton. " Come up to the fire and stand near it, 
 while you speak your errand ; and do you, 
 Blondel, make a little hot wine for it." 
 
 M. Lemayne did not speak. His eyes were 
 rivetted on this new face, which was calm and 
 untroubled in the midst of these attentions. 
 The large, dark eyes moving from one person 
 to the other, and filling with pleasure when 
 they rested for a moment upon the face of the 
 child that had so readily recognized her.
 
 TKIAL AND TEIUMPH. 91 
 
 " Here, now, my dear, taste that, and then 
 tell us your story," added Mrs. Mapleton, 
 giving the hot wine to the girl; hut she did 
 not taste it then. 
 
 " I should rather speak first." 
 
 " Well, child," said Mapleton, curiously. 
 
 " They will be here very shortly, and will 
 strive to get in by the pantry window, to steal 
 the silver." 
 
 This announcement was so abrupt, that 
 Mapleton started, his wife almost screamed, 
 while the eyes of the priest were bent with 
 strong interest upon the grave features of the 
 poor girl. 
 
 " Eobbers ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " And how, child," asked the Squire, " do 
 you know this ?" 
 
 " I heard it all talked about an hour gone 
 now, and they said that they would be here at 
 one, so I came to tell you." 
 
 " Who were these people ?"
 
 92 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 " Sir," — the little girl looked in his face as 
 if greatly surprised at this unexpected ques- 
 tion — " I would not tell you," she at last said, 
 after a short pause. 
 
 " You are right, too, my dear," exclaimed 
 Mrs. Mapleton. " You have acted courage- 
 ously in giving us notice. It is too much 
 to think you should tell names that may 
 belong to some of your own friends. Now, 
 drink your wine. We shall be prepared to 
 meet these persons when they come." 
 
 " We have men and arms enough about the 
 house for that purpose." 
 
 " Thou shalt not kill," said the priest, slowly 
 and solemnly, his face becoming deadly white, 
 and his frame trembling. 
 
 " 'Sdeath, father, we must defend our pro- 
 perty," exclaimed old Mapleton, half angrily. 
 
 " And when that can be done without taking 
 Hfe, it is murder to shed blood," rejoined the 
 other. 
 
 " True, true, father, you are right in that,"
 
 TRIAL AND TEIUMPH. 93 
 
 and the old man's first feelings yielded at once 
 to the priest's views. " I have been more hasty 
 than christian." 
 
 " Yet you are easily turned from error," said 
 the priest, a pale smile slightly moving his 
 features. " We shall house this little messen- 
 ger for the night, and perhaps in the morning 
 devise some plan for her future advantage, 
 
 " I must go, sir, to my — ." She stopped 
 short. " I could not stay this night, sir, for I 
 have much yet to do." 
 
 " But you are wet and cold," said Mrs. Ma- 
 pleton. ^' Stay where you are, and to-morrow 
 go to your friends," while her husband left the 
 room. 
 
 " No, ma'am, please you, I shall come back 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " Why do you come now ?" asked M. Le- 
 mayne abruptly, as if he had been studying 
 her character, and suddenly asked the question 
 to solve a difficulty. 
 
 She turned round to him, — " The Squire
 
 94 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 gave me sixpence last harvest, when he met 
 me on the road, and Miss there saw me often 
 before." 
 
 " Oh, yes, indeed, I know Lucille quite 
 well," exclaimed the grand-child, and this 
 allusion brought the two young girls into con- 
 trast. M. Lemayne could not but study it 
 minutely. The one was fair, the other dark ; 
 one handsomely dressed, the other in rags; 
 one warm, comfortable, reclining on a down 
 cushion beneath the old fretted roof of her 
 ancestors' mansion, the other, cold, miserable, 
 standing like an intruder upon wealth, an 
 out-cast, doing the bidding of a bright spirit 
 to thwart the evil designs of the cut-throats 
 of society ; the one, saved from the contact of 
 crime, the other, exposed to its infamy, its 
 vicissitudes, its pollution, and its punishments. 
 M. Lemayne thought rapidly upon these posi- 
 tions. The two children stood face to face, 
 and even the grandmother saw at a glance the 
 contrast. 
 
 I
 
 TRIAL AND TKIUMPH. 95 
 
 '' My dear Florence," said Mrs. Mapleton, 
 resting her hand upon her grand- daughter's 
 head, " you see the effects . of affection and 
 charity. Your Lucille has perhaps saved us 
 from a great calamity, and you, child," she 
 contined, turning to the other, " will cultivate 
 I trust, the virtue which now impels you to 
 good ?'' 
 
 But Lucille was silent. With all her com- 
 prehension she did not understand this, and 
 as the hour was rapidly passing away, she was 
 anxious to go. She had a design still in her 
 head, which she was desirous of putting in 
 execution, and turning to Mrs. Mapleton, she 
 expressed her wish to return. 
 
 " Do you not fear to be out at night T asked 
 M. Lemayne. 
 
 She opened her large, black eyes to their 
 full extent." No, Sir. Nobody would harm 
 me." This was the conviction of innocence 
 and want. 
 
 Well, she was gone at last. The expected
 
 96 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 attempt to rob his house had now lost the 
 power to alarm Mr. Mapleton, or any of those 
 who depended upon him. His servants and 
 some of the farm labourers who resided near, 
 had been hastily summoned for the protection 
 of the house, and in a few minutes, Mr. 
 Mapleton had made such arrangements, as 
 would enable him, he believed, to defeat the 
 designs of the burglars and secure their 
 persons. He had the instincts of property, 
 the desire to apprehend and punish those who 
 would dare to intrude upon its precincts, and 
 now every precaution taken, and the fear of 
 defeat or alarm suppressed, he came down to 
 the sitting-room. M. Lemayne was standing 
 beside the fire ; Mrs. Mapleton instantly rose 
 on his entrance. 
 
 " I shall secure the rascals," exclaimed 
 Mapleton, triumphantly. " They will come 
 in by the window in the rear of the left wing, 
 and I have stationed my strongest force there.
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 97 
 
 I shall have them in the county jail before 
 morning." 
 
 " They will be well armed," said Lema^ne. 
 
 " So are my forces. Catch me, indeed, try- 
 ing to hold a nest of vermin like this with my 
 bare fingers." 
 
 " There may be a struggle, blood, death !" 
 exclaimed the priest, raising his voice. 
 
 '' A little risk, certainly. Not much, how- 
 ever, for these fellows mostly give in without 
 fight." 
 
 " A chance, that, all a chance. They may 
 be desperate. God only knows what the result 
 of such an encounter may be. No, no, Mr. 
 Mapleton, let us protect this house, but run 
 no risk of shedding blood," and M. Lemayne's 
 manner became every moment more excited. 
 
 " You wouldnot letthis troop of ruffians loose 
 upon the country, surely, my good father, you 
 would not do that ?" asked Mapleton, curiously. 
 
 " Anything, anything before I would take 
 life, or risk its loss, and remember too, my 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 98 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 dear friend, that the Uttle girl who warned you 
 of this danger, may have relations, must have 
 some in this band. What a return for her 
 generous conduct to wound or capture them!" 
 
 '^ Pooh, pooh I" 
 
 The priest laid his hand on Mapleton's arm. 
 " Once, years, years ago," he said, slowly, " I 
 saw the victim of a man's rashness on the bed 
 of death. That scene of terror, of remorse, 
 of suffering, is ever before my eyes, and I would 
 let ten thousand guilty ones escape, before I 
 would shed a drop of blood. 
 
 " That is evading the duty we owe society," 
 said Mapleton. 
 
 '' I know that, and confess my own weakness ; 
 but now, my dear friend, yield this to me. 
 These men shall not enter your house. Let 
 them go in peace away, if they come." 
 
 " I suppose I must, but, father, it is very 
 hard. I would rather trounce the scoundrels 
 well than let them off."
 
 TKIAL AND TEIUMPH. 99 
 
 " Crime," muttered the priest, " ever 
 punishes, and ever dings to its perpetrators. 
 I shall go and look at your preparations," he 
 added, aloud ; and Mr. Mapleton led the way 
 out of the room. 
 
 2 F
 
 100 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE BURGLARS. 
 
 It had rained the night through, a heav}% 
 sleety rain, which drove honesty to shelter, 
 and left the road only open to that crime 
 which loves night and darkness to cover and 
 protect its actions. The little Lucille, cold 
 and w^et, her poor rags clinging to her shrunken 
 frame, yet supported by a noble and generous 
 purpose, had dared this night to w^arn tlie 
 intended victims of Pulsford Grange of tlie 
 robbery, and now she splashed and walked,
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 101 
 
 ran and crept, over the heavy, dirty way back 
 — back to the lone house, in order to tell the 
 people there what she had done. Her first 
 intentions, when she overheard the plot, to 
 inform Mr. Mapleton of his danger, had been 
 executed, but now other thoughts were busy 
 in her brain. Child though she was, a bitter 
 experience had taught her much. For nine 
 years the companion of the man whom she 
 called her father, living alone with him, with- 
 out the protection of a mother, whose existence 
 crossed her memory like the shadow of a 
 dream, receiving no instruction, shunning, by 
 a sort of natural instinct, vice and crime — for 
 often their allurements and temptations came 
 across her — mixing in a society whose conta- 
 gion hardened and diseased all within its 
 touch, this child had escaped, so far. Her 
 father would not use her for the purposes 
 which his own course of life had often sug- 
 gested ; but she knew that he followed no
 
 103 
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 honest calling, and that he existed at war with 
 law, and justice, and honesty. 
 
 On she went over the ploughed road, on 
 this wet night, full of hope and courage, and 
 expecting to reach the house where her father 
 was before he would leave for Mr. Mapleton's. 
 She had warned the innocent. She now hur- 
 ried to advise the guilty of their danger, if 
 they persisted. A bye-path, through the fields, 
 was a nearer route to this house, and Lucille, 
 who seemed thoroughly to understand the way, 
 struck at once into it, just as, about half a 
 mile further down the road, a light spring- cart, 
 with five men in it, came slowly up from the 
 village, towards the Grange. It was carefully 
 driven, though the state of the weather almost 
 precluded the possibility of an interruption, 
 and even then the railways were emptying the 
 roads of the usual passengers. Two of the 
 men sat on the seat in front, another behind, 
 and two more lay in the bottom of the cart,
 
 TEIAL AND TKIUMPH. 103 
 
 able to screen themselves from any chance 
 interruption or examination. 
 
 " Just freshen him a bit^ Rob," said one of 
 these two. '' He don't want much, cause he's 
 as lively as a kitten, and full of oats. No 
 work, neither, these ten days past. Give him 
 a bit of the vipcord. That's it. He goes 
 jolly now," and the pace was considerably ac- 
 celerated. 
 
 " I always wonders, Jem," observed Rob, 
 " how the Bang, here, never got married, con- 
 sidering all his chances. He aint asleep." 
 
 " I rather think not," growled a voice from 
 the bottom of the cart. " I wasn't in France, 
 Rob, or it's likely I might have got a bit of a 
 woman, as well as other folk ; an' them uns 
 are all likely bits too." 
 
 '• An English lass for me." 
 
 " Right, Bat. Stick to the ould country." 
 
 '' An' a precious dale it '11 do for him," said 
 another.
 
 104 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 " It 11 hang or transport him," growled the 
 Bang. 
 
 ^' Be quiet down there," said the man next 
 to Kob on the seat, and who was called the 
 Driver. " Business is business, an' I see the 
 Squire's nest right down afore us." 
 
 " Pull up then, Rob, an' we'll get out here, 
 for wheels are rather noisy too near a gem- 
 man's 'ouse." 
 
 '' I thinks that advice good," whispered the 
 Bang, rising slowly from the straw. " Where's 
 the tools ?" 
 
 " Bat has 'em," answered the Driver. 
 
 " All's right then, lads, so now, who stays 
 by the cart ?" 
 
 That office was assigned to the Driver, and 
 the others got out on the road. They crept 
 noiselessly and slowly along, speaking in low 
 whispers, until tliey came to the boundary of 
 the Squire's domain, a deep, sunken fence, 
 lined on the side next the house by a low 
 thick hedge. But all the requisite precautions
 
 TEIAL AND TRIUMPH. 105 
 
 had been taken, for two of them knelt down 
 and drew from under the long grass that hung 
 over the ditch, a small ladder, laid it against 
 the hedge, the Bang instantly crossed over, 
 followed by the others. They were now in 
 the domain. A small path, skirted by thick 
 ever- greens, would conduct them to the side 
 of the house where they were to commence 
 their operations ; and Bat led the way. The 
 house seemed buried in sleep and silence. 
 Cautiously — for hardly the foot-fall of one of 
 these men, experienced in such scenes, was 
 audible — they crept onwards, until the path 
 opened into another ; then a small wicket 
 unlocked, conducted them into a yard, and 
 they were immediately under a grated window. 
 They paused here and listened, but still that 
 deep heavy silence prevailed. One of them 
 tiled the window-bars with his hand. They 
 were loose enough to be easily displaced, and 
 he was just in the act of wrenching one of 
 them away, when the window suddenly opened, 
 F 5
 
 106 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 and a strong light flashed on the faces of the 
 astonished burglars. 
 
 " We have the ruffians at last," shouted old 
 Mapleton. " Four of them." 
 
 The burglars terrified, drew rapidly into the 
 shade. 
 
 " Go," exclaimed another voice, " go! You 
 have escaped now. Do not tempt Providence 
 again." 
 
 Rob stood, for that voice was surely known 
 to him. The others were running down the 
 path ; and he turned and ran too. 
 
 " See liow they run," said old Mapleton. 
 " I could cover them all this moment." 
 
 His hand was seized by Lemayne. "In 
 mercy to me, my dear friend, do not try. 
 They are gone, and neither life nor property 
 injured. Be content." 
 
 " Well, I suppose I must ; but 1 never, my 
 good father, saw one of your countrymen with 
 these notions before, and I hardly know how 
 you learned them. "
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 107 
 
 " That," murmured the priest, in a tone not 
 heard by Mapleton, " is between me and my 
 God." 
 
 But the burglars had fled. Down the path, 
 crushing the shrubs, cursing and terrified, 
 they fled from the house. They did not wait 
 for their ladder, but jumped or scrambled over 
 the ditch as best they could, nor paused for a 
 second until they had reached their cart. 
 Another scramble and they were all in it, while 
 the astonished Driver could make nothing of 
 the occurrence. Eob seized the reins; the 
 horse as if participating in their anxiety, 
 galloped away ; and at random, in the dark 
 night, over the rough road, in fear and trem- 
 bhng, they fled. For more than two miles in a 
 silence unbroken by a word, at this headlong 
 speed, they drove to the house they had 
 quitted but shortly before, their hopes excited 
 by the prospect of a successful robbery. Now 
 they retraced their steps in fear and prostra- 
 tion. The house was guarded, forewarned.
 
 108 TKIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 That conviction seized on them all. They 
 suspected each other. 
 
 Rob was the first to completely recover from 
 the panic. He drew in his horse, until the 
 pace became a walk. 
 
 " D — ," growled the Bang from the bottom 
 of the cart. " What's wrong now ?" 
 
 " Nothing," said Rob. " When there's no 
 one after us, I don't see why I should kill the 
 horse." 
 
 " Yes," added the Driver, " give un a breath- 
 ing, or he'll be done up ;" and the Driver spoke 
 with feeling, as lie had appropriated the animal 
 to himself, and was virtually its master, until 
 claimed by the police. 
 
 Bat spoke next. He had some compunc- 
 tious twinges in reference to his own con- 
 nexion with this night's work. For a long 
 time a dependant, kindly treated, and eating 
 the bread of these Mapletons, he felt that he 
 was returning evil for good ; and though Bat 
 was a fair specimen of Christian Paganism,
 
 TKTAL AND TRIUMPH. 109 
 
 there was a moral instinct within him, that 
 pointed to the Mapletons as being about the 
 last people he should rob, " I don't think," 
 he said, " there's any one arter us." 
 
 Rob stopped the cart. They all listened ; 
 but no sounds of pursuit came to their ears, 
 The rain too had cleared off, and the night 
 was one of those cold, still, solemn nights, 
 when not a breath moves, or a leaf rustles, its 
 darkness giving shelter to crime, its silence 
 sometimes aiding in its detection. 
 
 " We shall go on to the old house," said 
 Rob. 
 
 " And don't be extravagant with the vip," 
 said the Driver, striving to laugh ; but it was 
 a hollow, dismal laugh, for each man in the 
 cart accused his neighbour of informing the 
 Mapletons, and the great bond, even in crime, 
 was for the time broken. They had no faith 
 in each other. 
 
 The cart went on, but at a sober pace. 
 The horse was breathed after his long run,
 
 110 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 and in a moody, distrustful silence, hardly 
 broken by a word, did these men approach 
 their haunt. From the broad road, and then 
 down the sunken lane, away from the village 
 lying to the left ; and the solitary light gleams 
 in the dark distance. The horse gets the 
 whip again, the men think some revelation is at 
 hand which will uncover the traitor to their 
 craft, when a little black object moves between 
 them and the light. What is it ? Another 
 blow of the wdiip, and the cart is beside 
 Lucille. With all her knowledge of the road 
 she had erred, and was only then in sight of 
 the lone house. The horse starts. 
 
 " Ho, ho, horse," exclaims Rob. *' What 
 the devil's this ? " 
 
 The cart stopped, and so did tliis black object, 
 while all the heads bent forward to examine it. 
 
 '' If it don't be a gal, I'm blowed," said the 
 Driver. 
 
 Lucille had stopped by the horse's side.
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. Ill 
 
 Her dark features hidden by a shapeless bonnet 
 were not discernible in the darkness. 
 
 *' What are you ? " growled the Bang. 
 
 " Only Lucille." 
 
 " Ha I " exclaimed Rob. A light was break- 
 ing on him. " Lift her up, will you, Bang," 
 he added, and in the rough grasp of this ruffian 
 she was borne into the cart, which in a few 
 minutes more had reached the house. The 
 woman opened the door slowly and cautiously, 
 and silently the men went in . She saw they 
 were disappointed and asked no questions. 
 They ranged themselves round the fire, and 
 drew Lucille before them. 
 
 " Where have you been, you black imp ?" 
 asked Rob, sternly, while the others regarded 
 her ferociously. 
 
 " I was at the Squire's," answered the child, 
 her manner collected and resolute. 
 
 " And you warned him about us ?" 
 
 " Yes."
 
 112 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 " How did you know it, you d — d lump of 
 darkness ?" 
 
 I — " The Driver's hand caught the de- 
 scending blow aimed at the girl by the Bang. 
 
 " Let me go. She'd a hung every Jack of 
 us, if they could have nabbed us. Ill split 
 her, I will." 
 
 " I came back to tell you what I had done, 
 but missed mj way, and you were gone before 
 I could get here," said Lucille, resolutely ; and 
 even in that gang of ruffians, there were ex- 
 cited feelings of pity and admiration for the 
 truthful earnestness and resolute courage of 
 this child. 
 
 " You did, did you ? But never mind, 
 though we've missed the swag this time, we'll 
 nail it again, and it's likely you'll live long 
 enough to repent poking your black snub into 
 what don't concern you. Madge, some liquor ; 
 and trundle this sneak out of this." 
 
 The woman pushed her rudely out of the 
 way, while the Bang looked fiercely after her.
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 113 
 
 ** It can't end this a- way, Master Rob. We 
 must have discipHne, and keep peaching away. 
 That gallows imp must be broken in." 
 
 " How ?" asked the other, who still had some 
 human feelings. 
 
 " You sees as how she has spoiled as purty 
 a set as we could well get at," answered the 
 Bang, " and instead of doing us a bit of sar- 
 vice now and then, she's just taken the bread 
 out of our mouth. So I'll get her nabbed 
 to-morrow, and if a month in the jug don't 
 make her all right, she's not human, that's all. 
 A turn at the mill, an' the nice society there, 
 should make her perfect." 
 
 " It did for me," said the Driver. 
 
 *' Oh !" said the Bang, " it improves 'em 
 wonderful." 
 
 The woman dragged Lucille across the pas- 
 sage into the room, where she had first sent 
 her, as the last words of the conversation be- 
 tween the men came to her ears. She was
 
 114 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 not thoroughly depraved, though herding with 
 these people, and her eye rested on the still 
 open window. 
 
 *^ That's the way you got out last T 
 
 " Yes," answered Lucille. 
 
 " Then cut for it again, and go to the 
 Grange. Do you hear me ?" 
 
 *' What would father say ?" 
 
 " Save yourself, child, or they'll murder you." 
 
 A new light broke on Lucille. She crept 
 through the window, and entered again upon 
 the road to the Grange. Tired and wet, she 
 acknowledged the necessity of instant flight, 
 and, child that she was, she was not insensible 
 to the probable consequences of this act, She 
 must separate from these men, or become one 
 in their league of crime. 
 
 The party in the kitchen broke up. Drink 
 had mollified them, stupified, and brutalized 
 them. They were sleeping about the floor, 
 when Bob, more sober that the others, rose to 
 go to bed. He looked for Lucille. She was
 
 TKIAL AND TRIUMPH. 115 
 
 not there He saw the window open, and the 
 truth came over his mind ; so he closed it 
 gently, and began to undress. He was glad 
 she was gone.
 
 116 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 THE GRANGE. 
 
 Crime and punishment ! They are the 
 dark episodes in the history of many lives. 
 Labour and want ! These words fill up the 
 existence of the poor, while ignorance fathers 
 their vices, and gluts the community with the 
 transgressors of law, order, and civilization. 
 The world has not changed, but with an in- 
 crease in population, it has become loaded 
 with the vices, which are encouraged by the 
 position of one class that buys guilt either to
 
 TEIAL AND TEIUMPH. 117 
 
 minister to its passions, its avarice, or necessi- 
 ties. Wealth has corrupted the wealthy ; and 
 that corruption has sweltered in a foetid and 
 noxious stream, until swollen over, it defies 
 either morality, or power, or legislation to 
 check its flow. The influence of example 
 fails, for hypocrisy so often mingles with the 
 demure exhibition of virtue that meet us 
 in every place, as to impress us with the pain- 
 ful conviction of hollow pretence, instead of 
 unsullied good. We find the rich living for 
 themselves, the poor regarding them as ene- 
 mies. These are the impressions which the 
 state of the two classes must originate. That 
 antagonism will grow too. You cannot lecture 
 it down, or bath and wash-house it away. 
 You cannot build Athenaeums on its destruc- 
 tion. You may seduce the aspiring working 
 man into sympathy and association with you ; 
 but that great mass that lives by itself, and 
 for itself, that does not feel in common with 
 these people, that has its own instincts and
 
 118 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 predispositions, hives in the streets of towns, 
 and kennels in the hovels of villages, apart 
 from religion and instruction, — this wild, un- 
 leavened, passionate material, must be wrought 
 into a shape, fashioned into a humanity dif^ 
 ferent from its present being, before the 
 stream of corruption is stopped. It laughs 
 now at legislation ; sooth it in time, or it will 
 pull down the powers that legislate. 
 
 Yet all is not evil. There is an unnoticed 
 philanthropy working through this hot, seething 
 mass of vice. It is not that silk-and-satin, 
 that white-neck-tied and superfine-black-cloth 
 covered humanity which struts upon platforms, 
 or whines through the daily press ; it is the 
 individual exertions of some pious labourers, 
 whom the poor know, but whose actions, un- 
 noted by fame, never hardly travel beyond the 
 scene of their performance. There are such 
 men and women too in this world. They ac- 
 knowledge their mission and strive to carry 
 out its objects, but they are few, and not able
 
 TEIAL AND TKIUMPH. 119 
 
 to stay the evil whose growing and terrible 
 existence they always perceive. They see 
 poverty, ignorance, and depression on one side; 
 wealth, refinement, and oppression on the 
 other. In the teeming catalogue of crime both 
 these classes are represented. In the one it 
 indicates the existence of a cause ; in the other 
 it indicates rottenness, vice, and immorality 
 under the shallow veil of an assumed respec- 
 tability, a pretentious virtue, and an hypocri- 
 tical exterior. Both point to each other's 
 crimes, and the breach between them becomes 
 wider. 
 
 Rich ones of the earth, what are ye ? You 
 struggle and you toil to lay up treasure and 
 build for yourselves fortunes. Your God is 
 gold, and your hearts are hardened. You stand 
 beside the shrine that chains to itself your 
 deepest worship; you are decked out and 
 gaudy with the meretricious graces your idol 
 throws round you. You revel in luxury. You 
 have no cares for the future. You are the
 
 ]20 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 plunderers that revel and grow sleek, and fat, 
 and haj^py upon the toil, the bone, and sub- 
 stance of the poor. You claim for yourselves 
 all power, dignity, and respect, but bide your 
 time ! Mind ye, for you know not the day 
 nor the hour when that despised race you 
 look down upon may rise in its strength, and, 
 mad under the pressure of its ignorance and 
 wants, tear down your god, and scatter its 
 worshippers, may wreck your palaces and deso- 
 late your halls, may in a day overturn all the 
 traces of that civilization, now your boast, 
 perhaps then your punishment. Take care ! 
 You lie down with the lion roaring at yom- 
 feet. Take care ! The society over w^hich you 
 think you preside, is rotten, reeking, convulsed. 
 Labour opposed to wealth, muscle to power, want 
 to law. Take care ! If you have sympathies for 
 the poor, expend them at home, for the vol- 
 cano at your feet will burst if you pour not 
 upon it the refreshing streams of an active 
 benevolence, and quench not its turbid fires
 
 TKIAL AND TRIUMPH. 121 
 
 in the cliristian acknowledgment of that race 
 ever near you, who are too powerful to want, 
 too active to be coerced much longer, too 
 ignorant to acknowledge your empire, when 
 they see only its vices and pretensions, and 
 experience not its charities. The school- 
 master only reveals to the untaught, the 
 depth of their own degradation. The philan- 
 thropist must heal the wound this know- 
 ledge inflicts. 
 
 Well. The Summer has set in. It is 
 warm and glowing. The hot air is perfumed 
 with the sweet odours of many flowers that 
 grow in garden and field, peep out in edge and 
 nook, all round the old Grange. Lucille is 
 there. The Mapletons received her wdth open 
 arms, for they acknowledge the service she 
 had done them, and under the old lady's care 
 and management she might be most useful to 
 them, and a companion for their little Florence. 
 They had found round her neck, tied by a pe- 
 culiar chain, and so tight, that it would not go 
 
 VOL I. a
 
 122 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 over the head, a small heart, the letters I. H. S 
 raised with a needle upon the cloth of which 
 it was made, and M. Lemayne gave unto 
 Rome what seemed originally destined to re- 
 ceive the faith she cultivated. He fancied 
 this was an offering of a mother's piety, and so 
 it was untouched. Lucille was now cleanly 
 and neatly dressed. Her long black hair was 
 combed and sorted, and Mrs. Maple ton said 
 she was beautiful. There was some peculiar 
 fascination about her that attracted the priest, 
 for often would he stand and gaze at her, 
 examining her features in a stealthy way, as 
 if he were comparing them with some face 
 well known to him in times past, and then he 
 would turn away, and talk to himself, his 
 manner catching an agitation and excitement 
 from his thoughts. Lucille was insensible of 
 these stolen looks. She had become in a 
 manner naturalized in the old Grange, doing 
 strictly what she was desired, picking up bits 
 of information here and there, but as yet re-
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 123 
 
 ceiving no regular instruction. She was in 
 the garden or fields with Florence through 
 the long summer days, gathering flowers, and 
 tying them into bunches with a natural taste 
 for colour and beauty, which made her bou- 
 quets a study. 
 
 The old people hardly minded these chil- 
 dren, while the priest was much with them. 
 He attended their rambles ; talked with them 
 in a manner that won their attention without 
 fatiguing it. Still he was ever nearer Lucille 
 than Florence. In their walks he imparted a 
 good deal of general knowledge to them in a 
 pleasant way, talking of flowers and birds, and 
 ever impressing on them with an earnest voice 
 the grand doctrines of religion, its charity, its 
 humbleness, and its hopes. 
 
 In the middle of June, after Lucille's com- 
 ing, they were all sitting one morning in the 
 usual old room. The window was open, and 
 the roses, trained near it, hung in clusters over 
 the top, the sun slowly kissing the dew from 
 2 G
 
 124 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 their soft leaves. Mrs. Mapleton, with a small 
 basket before her, full of bright keys, was 
 making up her house-keeping account, the 
 old man reading the paper of the previous 
 day, and momentarily expecting that morn- 
 ing's post, Florence was netting, and Lucille 
 trying to tie back some of the rose branches 
 that were falling from the place, while M. Le- 
 mayne was reading, now and then taking a 
 hurried glance at Lucille. The soft air swept 
 slowly through the old room, and without, far 
 away amongst the old trees that grew scattered 
 in knots through the domain, the cattle broused 
 and ruminated, and the young wheat was 
 gathering its yellow hue, while in the gentle 
 breeze the roses shook their fragrance through 
 the room, and both the children seemed to 
 glow and bloom under the influence of the 
 scene. 
 
 " Lucille," exclaimed old Mapleton, and the 
 little girl ran to him. " Oh ! I don't want 
 you, I am only looking at your name in t}^e.
 
 TRIAL AND TEIUMPH. 125 
 
 Here's a French lady called Lucille who is 
 astonishing our good people at the Opera." 
 
 '^ A singer?" asked the priest. 
 
 " No. She's teaching them how to dance, 
 and the London folks are paying heavily for 
 the instruction." 
 
 " How I should like to dance," said Lucille, 
 and then she stopped and hlushed. It was 
 the first wish she had ever openly expressed 
 to them, and the arrival of the post then 
 drew attention from her. There were letters 
 and newspapers. Mapleton seized the latter, 
 and pitched the former in a heap to his wife, 
 while M. Lemayne, slowly took his own letters. 
 One of them caught his eye at once, and an 
 eagerness unusual took the place of his calm, 
 collected manner. He hroke it open, read, 
 grew nervous, then stopped. 
 
 " My dear friends, I. must leave you for a 
 time." 
 
 " Why, what's wrong ?" asked Mapleton. 
 
 '* Nothing is wrong, hut a pressing business
 
 126 TRIAL AND TKIUMPH. 
 
 calls me. I may not be long absent, and I 
 may be away for years." 
 
 The old man hung his head. He liked the 
 priest, who had been his associate for years, 
 and he also dreaded a departure. He had 
 seen many go — his sons and daughters — and 
 now, when age was gathering over him, he felt 
 misgivings at any break-up in his social circle. 
 The priest was son and father to him, and his 
 language, uncertain and vague, made him feel 
 that there was danger of his never returning. 
 
 '^ Somehow," he said, " I have misgivings. 
 I may never see you again, and you can give 
 no idea of when you may return." 
 
 " Tut ! tut ! old friend. I shall be back 
 before you harvest that young wheat down 
 there, and what is more," he had opened 
 another letter, while Mr. Mapleton was speak- 
 ing, " see, I am your cure now, and I shall be- 
 gin our little chapel immediately. Here is 
 the appointment."
 
 TEIAL AND TRIUMPH. 127 
 
 " Then you can be with us always/' said 
 Mrs. Mapleton.^ 
 
 " Yes, and I have a design too. I shall 
 have two pupils here, who are ready for a 
 master. Two or three hours each day may be 
 profitably spent in their instruction." 
 
 " By you ?" asked Mrs. Mapleton. 
 
 " Certainly. I can see no more profitable 
 investment of my time. At present I per- 
 form my ministerial duties on the Sunday in 
 an old barn, which I expect to tumble down 
 in the first storm. Now I shall begin my 
 chapel when I come back, and I shall have a 
 good school in connexion with it, where all 
 who come shall receive some knowledge as 
 their recompense. These are my plans con- 
 nected with my appointment to this station, 
 and I think I may hope soon to see them in 
 progress. With reference to my domestic 
 class, for such I may call your grandchild and 
 Lucille, I think I might promise myself plea-
 
 128 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 sure and advantage from striving to fit each 
 for the station in hfe she seems destined to 
 fill." 
 
 " We shall manage that when you come 
 back," said Mapleton relieved, " but you see 
 I had doubts which your acceptance of this 
 appointment tends to dispel. You know you 
 left me before, and staid away more than two 
 years." 
 
 " I remember it," answered the other with, 
 a sigh. " And I have said now that I might 
 be away for years, but that, on reflection, I feel 
 is an exaggeration. I am tied to you and shall 
 come back." 
 
 " And w^hen do you go ?" asked Mrs. INlaple- 
 ton. 
 
 " In two hours, at the farthest." He turned 
 to Lucille, who was now aided by Florence in 
 lifting the roses. " You will be a good child 
 until I come back." 
 
 The little girl gently dropped the branch 
 she held in her hand and looked over at M.
 
 TEIAL AND TRIUMPH. 129 
 
 Lemayne. Her face was glowing with the 
 fresh morning air and the gentle exercise, 
 quite a picture of a beauty in feature and 
 complexion, though not English. " I shall 
 do all I am bid by Mrs. Mapleton or the 
 Squire, sir," — she always called the old man, 
 the Squire, — " but you won't be long gone, sir, 
 I hope," 
 
 " Not long, my child," returned the priest, 
 '' and in following the course you state, you 
 will do no wrong." 
 
 '' Should any one claim her, father," said 
 old Mapleton, " and you away, how are we to 
 act ?" 
 
 ^' I had not thought of that," returned M. 
 Lemayne, " and indeed we have all been 
 curiously remiss. Come hither, Lucille." 
 
 The child obeyed, and stood opposite to 
 him, as the subject now about to be entered 
 on occurred to Mr. Mapleton and his wife, 
 the same thought possessed them. They had 
 been indeed remiss. Who was Lucille ? 
 G 5
 
 130 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 From the time she had become a permanent 
 resident in their house, until that moment, 
 they had never asked the question. She had 
 come to them, and in their gratitude they 
 housed, fed, and clothed her, but never made 
 inquiries, and now that they might lose her, 
 the question as to right occurred to them. 
 She must have had some protector, some re- 
 lative who brought her up. How did she 
 come to their neighbourhood ? She did not 
 belong to any one about them. Lucille was 
 standing before the priest. 
 
 '' Lucille," he said, '' you have been here 
 some months, and yet we do not know whether 
 you have father or mother living." 
 
 " That's it," muttered Mapleton, folding up 
 his paper. 
 
 " Yes," said his wife, looking at the child. 
 
 " We have been wrong here," continued the 
 priest. 
 
 " You would send me back to father," sighed 
 Lucille.
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 131 
 
 "No, indeed, but we should know your 
 history. Have you a father Hving ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, my father is Kob," 
 
 " Kob what ?" asked Mapleton. 
 
 " There's nothing more, sir." 
 
 M. Lemayne questioned on, and Lucille's 
 known history was a narrative in a few words. 
 She did not remember her mother, but she 
 told how she crossed the sea in a great vessel 
 that smoked and hissed all the time she was 
 in her, that the man who w^as with her was 
 Rob, and she called him father. The ship 
 came to this country, for she was never on the 
 sea since, nor ever wished to be again, she 
 was so sick. And then she was long in a 
 great, great town, and strange men came to 
 her father, and then he was suddenly taken 
 away, and she heard talk of a prison, but she 
 did not see him for more than a year, though 
 she lived very well with a woman during that 
 time, but that woman was not her mother. 
 Her father came again and brought her away
 
 132 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 with him down into the country, and kept her 
 in the town next to the Grange, until. he was 
 ohhged to quit that suddenly, for he came to 
 the village and hired as a labourer with one 
 of the Squire's farmers, and she and he both 
 lived at the house near the meadows with 
 Madge. This was the last year, when she 
 gathered flowers for IMiss Florence and became 
 very intimate with her. She was badly clad, 
 it was true, but Miss Florence didn't mind 
 that; and here Miss Florence went over to 
 her and said, " why should she ?" at which 
 Mrs. Mapleton remarked that the poor were 
 our brothers and sisters, and all God's chil- 
 dren, and we should love them. Then came 
 the Squire's sixpence, and Lucille said she 
 always hid from the Squire, when on his 
 grounds, for Rob said, the rich hated the 
 poor and would hunt them away, but one day 
 the Squire saw her, and she could not hide, 
 yet, instead of chasing her away, he patted
 
 TRIAL AND TEIUMPH. 133 
 
 her head and gave her sixpence, and told her 
 no one would touch her if she only gathered 
 flowers ; hut that she should not steal, and 
 she never did. 
 
 " I remember it all," said old Mapleton, 
 "and you have been a good girl since, and 
 shall never want a protector as long as I 
 live." 
 
 Lucille then told, how Rob went back to 
 the country town, until some days before the 
 attempt at the Grange, when he suddenly 
 took her away in his cart to a village on the 
 upper side of it, and returned on that night 
 only to Madge's cottage. 
 
 " I know this house," said Mapleton. " It 
 is on the next estate, and I remember some 
 story about it, but I never interfered, as it did 
 not come in my way." 
 
 This then was Lucille's story, perhaps the 
 tale of many children, who brought up in vice, 
 yield but to its influence. She had not done
 
 134 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 that. There was a native truth about her 
 which plainly demanded credit and was be- 
 lieved. There were no land-marks in her tale 
 which could guide to discovery, and M. Le- 
 na ay ne, when her story was finished, remained 
 silent. Whatever thoughts were busy in his 
 brain, he did not make any outward revela- 
 tion of them, yet it was evident he was think- 
 ing over this narrative. He was the first to 
 break the silence after Lucille's story. 
 
 '•' I shall make some arrangements before I 
 leave, and you, old friend, will drive me over 
 to the railway station." 
 
 " Certainly, certainly," exclaimed Mapleton, 
 rising. He had long laid aside his news- 
 paper, and his wife had not opened her letters, 
 for both were grieved at the departure of the 
 priest, who then quitted the room. The old 
 man went out and walked over to tlie stables 
 himself, just to be busy and keep away dull 
 thoughts. When he had ordered out the
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 135 
 
 horses, he returned to the house. He went 
 noiselessly into the apartment, and saw M. 
 Lemayne standing, his wife and the two 
 children kneeling beside him, and heard the 
 warm prayer of an honest man ascending to 
 heaven on their behalf. The old man knelt 
 down also, and the priest turned to him. His 
 eyes were moist with tears, and laying his 
 hand upon the old man's head, he blessed 
 him. 
 
 " God will bless you too. To the troubled 
 and agonized spirit, loaded with sin, yet dar- 
 ing to repent, and still humbly trusting to 
 the Eternal, have you given an asylum. To 
 the poor and the outcast you have been a 
 father, and your reward is before you." 
 
 The priest turned away. They had risen 
 from their knees. 
 
 " Now," said the old man, gaily, " here are 
 the horses. You are ready ?" 
 
 '' Completely," answered M. Lemayne, in
 
 136 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 the same spirit, and giving some parting 
 directions to the children, he shook the old 
 lady's hand and left them. The rattle of the 
 wheels, the tread of the horses on the graveled 
 drive, die away, and the priest is gone.
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 137 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE WOLF AND THE LAMB. 
 
 M. Lemayne had been for more than six years 
 the domestic chaplain at Pulsford Grange. 
 The Mapletons had always kept one, and when 
 the former holder of this position in their 
 family had left them, to take charge of a station 
 in a town in the north, M. Lemayne, highly 
 recommended by the bishop of the district, 
 came to the Grange. He then spoke English 
 but imperfectly, yet a veiy short residence in 
 the family endeared him to all its members,
 
 138 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 and with a strong will, great application, and 
 considerable versatility of talent, he soon mas- 
 tered the English language, so much so, that 
 at this time his foreign accent was hardly dis- 
 cernible. To the Mapletons he had been in- 
 valuable. He filled up the void in their circle, 
 was cheerful and gentlemanly, yet sometimes 
 reserved, and the old man had lived with him 
 now five years, during that time learning 
 nothing of his private history — simply know- 
 ing his name, and inquiring no more. He 
 trusted him in many affairs, and had never 
 been deceived in any. Some letters came to 
 him. They were few, and at long intervals, 
 seemed on mere matters of unimportant busi- 
 ness, though Mrs. Mapleton sometimes be- 
 lieved that their contents always disappointed 
 him. His history and his previous life were 
 mysteries to them, and they never strove to 
 penetrate them. 
 
 More than six wxeks had passed since M. 
 Lemayne's departure, when old Mapleton
 
 TKIAL AND TRIUMPH. 139 
 
 received a letter from him. He was on his 
 way to them, would be with them that night, 
 and this intelligence gratified them all, but 
 none more than Lucille. She was growing 
 neater and more fascinating every day, becom- 
 ing useful and important too ; and then she 
 was so tractable and docile, that Mrs. Mapleton 
 began to love her as one of her own children. 
 The time when her natural character would 
 speak for itself — when she was too young to 
 conceal its manifestations by art — was then ; 
 and the old lady every day made comparisons 
 between her and Florence, certainly not favour- 
 able to the latter. She was glad that M. Le- 
 mayne was coming. He came that night. 
 Mapleton thought he looked anxious and thin- 
 ner, but perhaps it was only the jealous suspicion 
 of a warm friendship, for he spoke well of his 
 health and prospects, and told them that he 
 would not leave them again, and life at the 
 Grange fell into its old course, varied by M. 
 Lemayne's labours alone. He began to build
 
 140 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 his chapel and school-house, while for three 
 hours each day he superintended the education 
 of the two girls. These were the only varie- 
 ties at the Grange. 
 
 There were little retired valleys, recesses 
 where wild flowers grew and flourished, and 
 honeysuckles twined themselves round scented 
 sweetbriars, in the lands immediately round 
 Pulsford. They were privileged places, un- 
 disturbed by cultivation, sometimes visited by 
 straying cattle, or boys nutting or looking for 
 birds' nests, but mostly free from interruption, 
 and aflbrding a quiet retreat to think or read 
 in. The summer bloomed and blossomed in 
 them amidst the wild, blushing flowers and 
 singing birds, green and fragrant. In one 
 more picturesque than the rest, had the first
 
 TETAL AND TRIUMPH. 141 
 
 intimacy between Florence and Lucille com- 
 menced, and now more than four years since 
 that period, in the month of June, did both 
 stand nearly in the same spot where they had 
 first seen each other. They were children 
 then. They are almost women now. Their 
 characters had developed themselves along 
 with their growth, and those characters were 
 always to the priest a study, which he believed 
 he had finished in one, but still was uncertain 
 of in the other. On a mound of green turf, 
 soft with moss, lay two bonnets and a small 
 sketch-book — Lucille could draw with taste and 
 truth — and near this stood Florence, seeming 
 to read, but her eyes were on her companion, 
 who was binding up in a bunch, and arrang- 
 ing in perfect harmony of colour and appear- 
 ance, the various flowers she had been gather- 
 ing in the dell below them. The sounds of 
 running water came trinkling on the ear like 
 music fading away, so gentle and sweet did 
 they fall, while a setting sun just tinged the
 
 142 TRIAL AND TEIUMPH. 
 
 thick screen of sweet-briar behind Florence. 
 *' Lucille," she said, and the other ap- 
 proached her, bringing both into contrast, 
 then' faces gently bathed in the lingering light 
 of the retiring sun. Their eyes met. Flo- 
 rence cast one sharp, quick look, upon Lucille, 
 then lowered her eyes to her book for a second, 
 lifting them again and fixing them steadily 
 upon the latter's face. These two girls were 
 a picture. They stood face to face, rich in 
 youth and beauty. Florence was fair. Thick 
 curls of light, brown hair fell over her shoul- 
 ders, throwing a shade of even purer white 
 upon her throat and neck, while her com- 
 plexion was just faintly varied by a . light 
 roseate bloom, that flushed or paled with ex- 
 citement, giving relief to a colour that might 
 otherwise have been too inanimate. She had 
 those deep, clear blue eyes that seem like the 
 lamps of the mind and heart within them, 
 gazing out as if they told at once the feelings, 
 and spoke afiections, hopes, or fears, more
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 143 
 
 eloquently than words. There she stood. A 
 small foot rested on the mossy turf, a small 
 hand was on the book, her head was thrown 
 slightly back, and a glance of pride was in 
 her eyes as she looked on Lucille, who met 
 her gaze with a calm, collected mien. Lucille 
 was slightly the taller of the two. She w^as 
 very neatly, but plainly dressed, for Mrs. 
 Mapleton with a proper appreciation of the 
 relative positions of her grandchild and her 
 protegee, had made such a distinction as im- 
 pressed the latter with the belief that not- 
 withstanding her affection, she regarded her 
 as only a dependent. Lucille did not feel 
 this, for never had a word, save those of kind- 
 ness and affection, passed between her and 
 the old lady or the Squire — as Lucille still 
 called him. She knew her claims on the 
 family, and laboured to pay in kind, the affec- 
 tion lavished so freely upon her. 
 
 She now confronted Florence, and you 
 could hardly imagine a more decided contrast.
 
 14.4 TEIAL AND TEIUMPH. 
 
 Both girls were beautiful, and yet Lucille was 
 lovelier than the other. She looked more 
 womanly too. There- was more of thought 
 and expression in her face, lighted up by her 
 dark, large eyes, that sparkled, or were calm 
 and immovable, as now. Perhaps you would 
 say that there was more passion in them, for, 
 unlike those of Florence, they seemed more 
 to be mind or will itself, than to represent the 
 workings of either. Lucille's eyes spoke. 
 Florence's reflected. You could tell at once 
 from the look of the one, what sha felt ; from 
 that of the other you would only learn what 
 she wished you to know. Her complexion was 
 not so fair as that of Florence — it was not 
 English — but there was a richness, a fullness 
 of colour in it — not red, or glowing, but a 
 subdued, mellowed tint — giving it warmth and 
 freshness. Her hair was black, and she wore 
 it smooth over her temples, circling the out- 
 lines of her countenance, as if it were framed 
 in jet. There, then, they stood, face to face.
 
 TKIAL AND TEIUMPH. 145 
 
 " You spoke to me, Florence ?" said Lucille. 
 
 *' Florence, Florence !" muttered the other. 
 " Ah ! yes, I was thinking how nicely you tie 
 up flowers. Indeed, Lucille, you are a great 
 artist in that branch, and I am sure would 
 succeed on the quays in Paris." 
 
 " Florence — " 
 
 '' Florence again ! I would be, hencefor- 
 ward. Miss Mapleton, with you, Lucille," said 
 the other, coldly and proudly. ^' You are not 
 my grandma. I do not believe I have the 
 houQur of being related to you, even." 
 
 " No," answered Lucille, calmly and slowly, 
 " I do not believe that there is any connexion 
 between us, unless what the Squire's charity 
 has produced." 
 
 " Then I was speaking of flowers, Lucille ; 
 but, by the way, Lucille, I never can remember 
 your other name;" and Florence looked 
 down at her book for a moment, then 
 raised her eyes, and their expression was 
 disagreeable, while a faint attempt at a smile 
 
 VOL I. H
 
 146 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 gave a hardness to her finely-formed mouth, 
 that left other features still beautiful, but harsh 
 and cold. 
 
 Lucille did not answer for a time. She had 
 been latterly accustomed to the waywardness 
 and haughtiness of her companion, when they 
 were thus alone, had suffered from displays 
 that exhibited bad temper and ill will, but she 
 had never been so directly attacked as now. 
 She knew Florence thoroughly, while M. Le- 
 mayne only doubted about her. She saw her 
 humours in their full vent, and felt the fineness 
 of her hypocrisy, when in the presence of other 
 people she would wind her arm round Lucille, 
 and look upon her as a sister. In all this, too, 
 Lucille was quiescent. She made no reve- 
 lations by word or deed, silently enduring the 
 other's petulance and pride. She now met 
 Florence's look. 
 
 " I do not understand this question, or why 
 it should be now asked," she said. 
 
 " One likes to know with whom one asso-
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 147 
 
 ciates," remarked Florence, sneeringly. *' Every- 
 body calls you Lucille, and nothing else. 
 Now, too, that I am Miss Mapleton, you should 
 be Miss something, also. You shouldn't have 
 secrets, either. Grandpa don't like secrets." 
 
 *' And you are inquiring to inform him ?" 
 asked Lucille. 
 
 " No, I'm not ; but to please myself. I 
 don't know what brought you here, anyway ; 
 and I wonder at the taste that keeps you. 
 Why don't you go to some place and w^ork for a 
 living r 
 
 Lucille was crimson, but the colour instantly 
 disappeared, and she said, slowly and sorrow- 
 fully, " I did not think you wanted me gone." 
 
 *' Yes, but I do, though. I am tired of you, 
 and I want something new about me now. I 
 shall soon go home to papa, and I don't want 
 to know you then at all. You are getting on 
 too well here, and I suppose won't go, till 
 you're put out ?" 
 
 " Yet you are not mistress at the Grange." 
 2 H
 
 148 TRIAL AND TEIUMPH. 
 
 Florence advanced a step forwards, and 
 throwing back her clustering curls, she laid 
 one hand rudely on the other's shoulder, and 
 passionately exclaimed, — 
 
 " Do you dare to say that to me, you — 
 you — " there was a gasp, a pause — " you strol- 
 ling beggar !" 
 
 Lucille quickly removed her hand. Her 
 eyes flashed fire ; and young, dependent, as 
 she was, she felt this blow. She was years 
 older that moment. This rude touch excited 
 all the dormant power within her. Too proud 
 to weep, or shew how much she felt, she re- 
 treated before her companion, her face flushed, 
 and her form trembling. In the brief mo- 
 ments after this attack she had formed her 
 resolution, and she turned away, lifted her 
 bonnet and sketch-book. She was forgetting 
 her flowers. 
 
 " Do not leave the flowers behind you," said 
 Florence, tauntingly. " Such a nice bunch 
 as it is, and for grandma, I am sure."
 
 TBTAL AND TKIUMPH. 149 
 
 " If they were jewels," returned Lucillej 
 " they would be but a poor offermg from me 
 to her." 
 
 " How grand and grateful we are," exclaimed 
 Florence. "Put the beggar — " 
 
 " Miss Mapleton," said Lucille, suddenly 
 turning round and confronting her; " I have 
 borne enough this evening from you, but I shall 
 endure no more. I may be a beggar or an 
 outcast ; but I am not a thing to be scoffed 
 at by you. Keep your temper in better order, 
 or vent its violence on some other object. I 
 shall defend myself against its attacks, so do 
 not provoke me. The gratitude I owe your 
 family shall not prevent me from punishing 
 rudeness, even in you." 
 
 " This to me !" exclaimed Florence, again 
 in a passion : and it was wonderful how fierce 
 and fiery her blue eyes could appear. " I 
 shall—" 
 
 " Well ?" 
 
 " You are beneath my notice."
 
 150 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 Lucille turned from her. She put on her 
 bonnet, and lifted her flowers, banishing too, 
 from her face, all traces of excitement, then 
 quietly, without again noticing her companion, 
 walked away towards the Grange. It was a sad 
 walk for her — the termination of many plea- 
 sant days — for even then she saw she should 
 have to go out into the world. There was no 
 longer a home there for her. All this was 
 dissipating the dreams and hopes of former 
 days, but it had made this young girl of seven- 
 teen a woman, filled her with a desire for 
 exertion to enable her to live by her own head 
 and hands. She acknowledged the necessity 
 of labour, and was bracing her mind for the 
 task. Perhaps she had some instinctive know- 
 ledge that this event would sooner or later 
 take place, for she had been a sedulous and 
 careful pupil under the tutelage of M. Lemayne ; 
 and he, uncertain of her destiny, had taxed 
 himself in opening up to her those stores of 
 knowledge which she was so anxious to exa-
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 151 
 
 mine. The entrance to the house checked 
 her thoughts. She paused to look at it ; and 
 tears — the first she had shed for many a day 
 — filled her eyes. 
 
 Florence lingered behind. The sun had 
 set, and she turned to look over the little 
 valley. It was green and dewy — fresh, like 
 youth, though loaded with years. Old, gnarled 
 trees, clambered by ivy, had grown grim and 
 lord-like through it, and the hawthorn, covered 
 with white blossoms, filled the air with its 
 fragrant perfume, while flowering honeysuckles 
 and scented briar added their tribute to the 
 charms of the scene ; and a clear blue sky, 
 the evening just melting into twilight, added 
 to the repose and quiet that guarded all. 
 Florence hardly thought of what had occurred. 
 She found Lucille, up till that moment, a 
 patient butt, and she once feared she had gone 
 too far, that was all; and now, tired, she lifted 
 her bonnet and turned to go home, when a
 
 152 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 step made her pause, and M. Lemayne was at 
 her side. 
 
 " You are alone, Florence. Where is 
 Lucille r 
 
 " She had some flowers for grandma, and 
 took them away lest they might lose by being 
 too long pulled, so I waited to look at this spot 
 after sunset. Is n't it beautiful, father?" 
 
 " Very," answered the priest, muttering at 
 the same time. " This too is a beautiful 
 flower, that may lose its freshness," then add- 
 ing aloud, " we should be at home." 
 
 " Let us go, then," said Florence, gaily, 
 and they went away together. " You know, I 
 suppose, grandpa told you," she continued, 
 " that I am to go to London, next month." 
 
 " I have heard that, Florence. Do you 
 wish for this change ?" 
 
 ^' For a little time, I should like it. I never 
 saw London, and every one says it is so gi'and 
 and gay that it will appear quite strange to
 
 TEIAL AND TEIUMPH. 153 
 
 me, when compared with the dear old Grange 
 here." 
 
 " You would wish to come hack then ?" 
 
 " Oh I couldn't forget grandma and pa, 
 and poor Lucille." 
 
 "You like LuciUe then?" asked M. Le- 
 mayne, carelessly. 
 
 " What a question, father, to ask me ! 
 Certainly I do." 
 
 They were at the house. A shade of deep 
 sorrow darkened the priest's features. He 
 did not reply, hut both entered the house 
 together in silence. 
 
 " Where have you been ?" exclaimed old 
 Mapleton, opening up a backgammon box. 
 *' Come here, father, I w^ant revenge." 
 
 The priest seated himself at once. 
 
 " Tell Lucille to get us some coffee," con- 
 tinued Mapleton. 
 
 " Lucille has headache, and went to bed,"' 
 said Mrs. Mapleton. 
 
 "Well, Florence, you can do it — Capital, 
 H 5
 
 154 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 cinque, ace, have you, I see ; makes a point 
 too, capital throw." 
 
 " I shall ring for it,". said Florence, sharply. 
 
 " Deuces — You don't enter — -Do, child — " 
 The Squire had not heeded this answer, or its 
 tone, but the old lady did. She glanced over 
 at Florence, who was pulling at her gloves, 
 and the servant entered. 
 
 "Bring coffee," said Florence, authori- 
 tatively. 
 
 " If you please," added her grandmother. 
 The three words were a bitter lesson, and 
 Florence felt it. She rose and went over to 
 the window, while M. Lemayne seemed ab- 
 sorbed in his game. The coffee was brought, 
 but the two players were deep in study, and 
 took it as served to them, without remark. 
 Florence had hfted a book, while her grand- 
 mother drew her work-table over to her, and, 
 except the absence of Lucille, that evening 
 passed as others did at the Grange. The 
 night came on, the playing ceased, and Flo-
 
 TEIAL AND TRIUMPH. 165 
 
 rence rose to go to her room. As usual, for 
 many years, she kissed her grand-parents, and 
 received the priest's blessing. The three 
 elder people then sat chatting together, plea- 
 santly, for half an hour, all local talk, about 
 scholars, and labourers, and the poor; then 
 M. Lemayne said " God bless them," shook 
 hands with them, and they separated for the 
 night.
 
 156 TRIAL AND TEIUMPH. 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 THE CONSULTATION. 
 
 A small taper was burning misty and gloomy 
 in the priest's apartment. The hour was past 
 midnight, and a deep silence, only broken by 
 the low tick of a watch, and occasionally by a 
 half-moan, or rather sob, pervaded the cham- 
 ber. In the farther end of it M. Lemayne 
 was visible. He was kneeling before a chair, 
 his head buried between his hands, and in 
 earnest prayer. Some words were occasionally 
 audible, but they were only the scattered frag-
 
 TEIAL AND TRIUMPH. 157 
 
 ments of an appeal for mercy. Long and 
 earnestly did this man pray. His heart and 
 soul were on his lips in entreaty with his 
 Creator. At last he rose up. A deadly pale- 
 ness covered his features, hathed then in a 
 profuse perspiration, and he hegan to walk 
 across the apartment with slow steps. He 
 held in his hand a small ivory crucifix, and 
 still murmured prayers. His lips were giving 
 utterance to the heart- appeals of a troubled 
 soul. He knelt again. This time he held in 
 his hand a lock of long, silken, rich brown 
 hair, and, clasping it to his breast, he prayed 
 again. Had this man consecrated to God 
 earthly affection ? There was a long and 
 painful struggle evidently within him, but it 
 passed away, and when he rose again he 
 seemed resigned. At this moment there was 
 a gentle tap at his door. He crossed over, 
 opened it, and admitted Lucille. 
 
 " I thought you had headache and were in
 
 158 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 bed ?" said M. Lemayne, surprised on seeing 
 her. 
 
 " I had headache, father, but could not 
 sleep ; and as I wished to see you alone, I 
 thought I would try whether or not you were 
 up," answered the young girl. 
 
 " And what, child, have you to say that de- 
 mands this secrecy ?" queried the priest. 
 
 " Simply that I must leave this. I am 
 almost seventeen, and would earn my bread." 
 
 " Do you know what you contemplate ?" 
 asked the priest. " Sit down, and we shall 
 talk over this." Lucille obeyed, and M. Le- 
 mayne brought the taper nearer them. " You 
 say you would leave this house," he continued, 
 but you have given me no reason for this de- 
 cision. Are you moved by pique, or an honest 
 desire to work for yourself?*' 
 
 " Neither pique nor pride influences me, 
 father, nor did the wish to work for myself 
 ever assume a form until this evening.*"
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 169 
 
 " Then Mrs. Mapleton, or the Squire, has 
 been unjust to you ?" 
 
 " No, by no means. They have always been 
 more to me than parents. I owe them grati- 
 tude and thanks. I have strong reasons for 
 this decision ; and although I will state them 
 at once, if you desire it, still the recital would 
 give me a pain I would wish to avoid." 
 
 ^' I already know them," said the priest ^ 
 *' and I expected this result ; but, my child, 
 before you take this step, which deprives you 
 of a home, I would counsel reflection. None 
 here can chain you to this place ; but what 
 do you throw away ? Have you thought of 
 that ?' 
 
 "As it is, father, I have weighed, as my 
 judgment would permit me, the present I 
 now enjoy, with the future before me. I 
 know well what I lose — I certainly do. not 
 know what I may gain by the change ; but 1 
 shall not fail at mv share of honest labour. I
 
 160 TrJ\L AND TIUUMPH. 
 
 would rather beg, in reality, than remain de- 
 pendent here." 
 
 ," You would leave, then, at any risk ?" 
 asked M. Lemayne. 
 
 " I would, father," said Lucille, shortly. 
 
 " My child," observed the priest, speaking 
 gravely and slowly, '^ we all, in our relations in 
 this life, have our sorrows and afflictions. 
 Yours came early in life, you have had years 
 of repose, and now you would challenge the 
 world again — that world from which you are 
 here so secluded. Reflect again." 
 
 '^ I am resolved, and I shall state that reso- 
 lution to Mrs. Mapleton and the Squire in the 
 morning." 
 
 *' If they press you for reasons ?"' suggested 
 M. Lemayne. 
 
 " I would not wound their affections by 
 giving them ; but I will insist on my right to 
 
 go." 
 
 " And excite their indignation at your want 
 of feeling and gratitude ?"
 
 TRIAL AND TEIUMi. . 161 
 
 ** I will risk all," said Lucille, firmly. 
 
 " Then do not move in this matter until 
 you hear me speak of it." 
 
 "To-morrow?" 
 
 " I did not say to-morrow, but to-morrow 
 will do as well as any other day. Go now to 
 your room. It is late — good night." 
 
 The priest gently closed the door after her. 
 He took a short turn through the room — 
 " She is firm and strong- witted," he said to 
 himself, '^ and may -v^restle successfully with 
 the world, yet it is a terrible ordeal to which 
 to commit one so young and beautiful. If 
 she fail and fall — ." This thought troubled 
 him. 
 
 In the morning the old Grange was bathed 
 in sunlight. They were all early people about 
 it, and the Squire had been among his work- 
 men, before he thought of going to breakfast. 
 Florence was in the garden, and Lucille, who 
 had a certain amount of household duty to 
 perform, was busily employed in it. You would
 
 162 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 have thought that nothing but health, and 
 peace, and comfort, could be here. The 
 priest had been down to his school, and he 
 came round by the garden to get into the 
 house, entering it as Florence left to go to 
 tlie breakfast-room. She found Lucille alone 
 in it. 
 
 " Well, my dear, how's your headache T 
 she said. 
 
 " Better, Miss Mapleton." 
 
 *' That's right. I see our little talk last 
 night has improved you, Lucille. You are 
 polite and have not forgotten my wishes." 
 Lucille said nothing. " Don't be sulky, my 
 dear. I deserve thanks, not frowns. , There 
 now, you need'nt speak." 
 
 " I did not intend it." 
 
 " Well, don't be cross any-how. Here's 
 grandpa. You can laugh now, for I do not 
 wish him to see our little tifts. They are 
 amusements, and should not become family 
 grievances."
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 163 
 
 She turned round. M. Lemayne was stand- 
 ing behind her. 
 
 '* Good morning, father," she said, boldly. 
 
 " Good morning, Florence," returned the 
 priest, but there was a coldness in his manner, 
 which told Florence he had overheard all. 
 
 The breakfast went on as usual. Mr. 
 Mapleton was always great at breakfast, and 
 monopolized nearly the whole of the con- 
 versation. He asked innumerable questions 
 and mostly answered them himself, and they 
 were farming questions, invariably, at this 
 season. He was calculating wheat, and oats, 
 and green crops, and talking about the yield 
 of the three-acre field this year, as compared 
 with its produce in the last one ; and thus he 
 rattled on. The breakfast was over and the 
 young people went out. 
 
 " I have a word to say before we separate," 
 began M. Lemayne, and the Squire, just rising, 
 resumed his seat, while the old lady bent for- 
 ward, all attention. " It is of Lucille," he
 
 164 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 continued. " She is anxious to go into the 
 world and work for herself." 
 
 " Isn't she well enough where she is ?" 
 asked Mapleton. 
 
 " She is," answered the priest, " but you 
 know she could not be here always. Sooner 
 or later she must contend with the world for 
 existence, and perhaps she may succeed as 
 well by beginning her trials early as by delay- 
 ing them." 
 
 "Yet she always had a home here," said 
 Mrs. Mapleton. 
 
 " True. But we are old, she young ; and 
 although none of us know the hour, the pro- 
 bability is, that she may outlive us, and when 
 we do not make her independent, we should 
 not prevent her working for herself." 
 
 Old Mapleton mused a good deal. He did 
 not know how much he loved this unknown 
 child, until he saw the probability of her 
 leaving him. He was silent, and his wife had 
 become thoughtful. At last, she said —
 
 » TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 165 
 
 " There is a reason for this." 
 
 " There is. It might not convince you, 
 but it has impressed itself strongly upon her." 
 
 " We cannot keep her," said Mapleton. 
 " We have no rights over her. It is always 
 the fate of age to lose its hold on youth, and 
 she believes there is a world outside of this 
 which she must see." 
 
 " No," replied the priest, " that exercises no 
 power over her. She feels her dependence 
 and would work for herself." 
 
 " Florence goes next," said the old man, 
 " and we shall be alone again. I would rather 
 she would give over any such notions. Let 
 her stay, father, let her stay." 
 
 '' No, Blondel," remarked his wife. " We 
 shall not keep her against her will, nor entreat 
 her presence. Let her go out and work for 
 herself. She shall have our assistance to start 
 her in life, with an asylum here should she 
 fail." 
 
 *' That," said the priest, " is my view too."
 
 166 TRIAL AND TEIUMPH. 
 
 " I," continued Mrs. Mapleton, "can intro- 
 duce her to a dear friend in London, who 
 will see what she is fit for and obtain her em- 
 ployment." 
 
 '' Well, Avell," said Blondel, rising, "let her 
 go. Next month will do. She'll be soon 
 enough then." 
 
 " Let her go at once," repeated Mrs. Maple- 
 ton. 
 
 It was arranged then, that Lucille should go 
 and try life for herself; life with all its bitters, 
 expectations, and anxieties; life Avhen she w^as 
 still a child ; that hard, unsocial life too — a life 
 amongst strangers ; a life for bread, with priva- 
 tions, labour, difficulties; and, to a young girl, 
 with dangers — shoals upon which she might be 
 eternally wrecked, body and soul. The priest 
 laid all before her, but Lucille exhibited a 
 determined purpose, a pride, which was not to 
 be shaken. She did not speak of Florence. 
 She said not a hard word, but wei)t bitterly 
 over her purpose. It was the necessity of her
 
 TKIAL AND TRIUMPH. 167 
 
 condition. She believed she would be com- 
 pelled to labour soon or late, and an early ap- 
 prenticeship would mature her for the struggle. 
 She had views too, which exhibited both apt- 
 ness and energy, so that, after all, the priest, 
 with his misgivings and doubts, had hopes for 
 her success.
 
 108 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE SETTING-OUT. 
 
 To labour ! This is fate, accident, what you 
 will ; it is the grand lot of the vast majority. 
 To sweat and toil, that from the strain of 
 mind and sinew we may hve, becomes the 
 daily necessity from which the few only are 
 exempt. Those do not understand tlie privi- 
 leges of their order. Above the grasp of 
 poverty, they cannot comprehend the struggles 
 of the poor. They cannot sympathise with 
 wants and necessities which are the inheri-
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 169 
 
 tance of the classes below them. Faint and 
 indistinct notions of privations they never 
 experienced sometimes flit across their minds, 
 but that is all. They are tickled with the 
 sounds of a misery which exists far away from 
 their own gilded homes, and they do not 
 notice the suflerings beside their doors. 
 They can meet in their gorgeous saloons 
 and resolve to pity the degraded in other lands ; 
 and while rustling in the silks and embroidery, 
 the artistic ofi"erings of the skill acquired and 
 sold by the poor at home, they abate not one 
 jot of their pleasures or wealth to relieve that 
 miserable want which glows and festers under 
 the sunshine that warms them, and deepens 
 into crime which may in time annihilate them. 
 Their ostentatious charity searches the world 
 outside for objects on which to display its 
 regards, and blinks tearless over suflerings it 
 excites and retains. 
 
 The misery we do not contemplate seems 
 charmed to engage our interference : that beside 
 
 VOL I. I
 
 170 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 US only raises our class prejudices. While the 
 progress of the hour is the absorption of wealth 
 into still fewer hands by. one class, the road to 
 poverty is daily entered by thousands who 
 never contemplated its terrors, and the gulph 
 between the very poor and the very rich sensibly 
 widens, just as sympathy too dries up and the 
 hearts cased in gold harden. We are born to 
 labour, and we do not quarrel with our condi- 
 tion, but we do assail that rank which regards 
 humble toil as a degradation, and almost calls 
 it a crime, treading proudly over the art and 
 talent that serves its wants and relieves its 
 necessities. This poor toil labours for life and 
 its humblest support, and still is scoffed, and 
 jeered, and hunted by a humanity, not better 
 than itself, only better fed and clothed. You 
 cannot remove the poor or live without their 
 assistance, — then raise, instruct, and enlighten 
 them ! They have bone and muscle wdiich 
 they sell for food, or diligent toil which har- 
 rasses the weak, though it still must be pur-
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 171 
 
 sued, — then sympathize with them. Do not let 
 hypocrisy completely blind you. Do not close 
 your ears to the calls that must daily reach 
 them. Relieve the white sufferers at home 
 before you exhibit your prejudices in favor of 
 the black ones abroad. If you cannot be 
 charitable in reality, at least aim at consist- 
 ency. 
 
 Lucille had prepared for her departure. 
 The Mapletons treated her with every kind- 
 ness ; but it w^as evident she suffered in their 
 estimation from their not knowing the motives 
 which induced her to leave them. The old 
 lady gave her a letter to a Mrs. Lumsden, in 
 London, who could pronounce upon her capa- 
 city, and find her employment. The Squire 
 put a purse into her hand. He thought there 
 was something under this hasty resolution, 
 and his own generous nature induced him to 
 believe that Lucille only acted from honest 
 motives. The carriage was at the door to 
 drive her over to the railway station, to which 
 2 i
 
 172 TKIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 M. Lemayne was to accompany her ; but Flo- 
 rence had not come yet to bid her good-bye. 
 
 " Where is Florence ?" asked Mrs. Mapleton. 
 
 " Yes, where is she ?" echoed her husband. 
 
 ^^We shall be late, I fear;" said M. Le- 
 mayne. 
 
 The old lady looked puzzled. She could 
 not understand her absence at this hour. She 
 looked at M. Lemayne. His face was sad, 
 and a sudden light was breaking upon her. 
 The carriage could delay no longer, and with 
 tears and sobs Lucille tore herself away from 
 these best guardians of her youth, and hid 
 herself in the carriage. 
 
 It went off. One look at this home of love 
 and happiness she was quitthig — a long look 
 over its grey walls and green fields — its trees, 
 its pleasant walks, and dear retreats. She 
 took all these in with almost a glance — for 
 memory aided sight; and eyes dim with tears, 
 could hardly note objects as they passed. 
 They were now on the public road, when the
 
 TKIAL AND TEIUMPH. 173 
 
 carriage stopped. M. Lemayne looked out, 
 and saw Florence. 
 
 " You have Lucille with you, father," she 
 said, slowly coming over to the carriage. 
 
 " Oh ! I am here, Florence," cried Lucille, 
 forgetting, in this moment of parting, all the 
 bitterness of past suffering. 
 
 " Indeed !" said the other, coldly. " But I 
 must bid you good-bye, for grandma will be 
 uneasy at my long absence. Yoa, father, will 
 be home for dinner, and I shall see Lucille 
 next month, in London ; so good-bye." 
 
 Lucille did not speak. She grew crimson, 
 then pale, but made no remark ; nor did the 
 priest. The carriage went on. With a com- 
 mendable tact, M. Lemayne drew the conver- 
 sation between them to the future. He gave 
 Lucille much valuable advice ; exhibiting an 
 intimate knowledge with that world which he 
 seemed to have renounced. He sketched 
 society boldly and truthfully, with the tact of 
 a judge, and without displaying the feelings of
 
 174 TKIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 a misanthrope. Long, calmly, and clispassion. 
 ately did lie speak to her of the future. He 
 promised, in himself, a friend; and when 
 Lucille, overcome with emotions — mastered 
 until that moment — at last yielded to their 
 influence, they had arrived at the station. 
 There was hardly time to get out the haggage 
 and take her seat. The priest pressed her 
 hand affectionately, and they parted. 
 
 For the first time in her life Lucille was in a 
 railway carriage. She had not time nor incli- 
 nation to look at the scene outside. She felt 
 the pressure of the priest's hand, saw a crowd 
 about the train, running and struggling — 
 heard voices, then a hell, felt the first tug of 
 the engine — and the whole mass was in mo- 
 tion ; slowly at first — for there seemed no end 
 to the lines of carriaG:*es throuoh which the 
 train then moved^by and by more rapidly ; 
 the engine snorts and blows, the speed in- 
 creases, and they are in the open country. 
 All this is new and startling at first, but the
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 17^ 
 
 excitement over, she timidly raises her eyes to 
 see where she is. In the corner opposite to 
 her is an elderly lady ; heside her one younger 
 by many years ; and next to herself a middle- 
 aged man. These make all her companions 
 in the carriage, and they do not seem to heed 
 her. She falls back in her seat and thinks of 
 the past, which is still first with her. 
 
 The train hurries on. Over w^ater, under 
 roads, in the open country, through towns, 
 passengers coming and going, still swift and 
 steady goes the train. It stops for refresh- 
 ment, but Lucille needs nothing. Her heart 
 is full, and appetite has deserted her, while 
 her companions sleep or read. There is no 
 conversation among them. With the waning 
 light they enter London, and the middle-aged 
 man asks about her luggage. She gets it and 
 orders a cab to go to Mrs. Lumsden's, but the 
 hour is late, too late to go there she fears, and 
 she asks the gentleman about an hotel. He 
 recommends one, and tells her the cab-fare, so
 
 176 TKIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 she orders the driver to take her there. The 
 blaze in the streets burns upon her eyes, the 
 crowd agitates her, everything is now so new 
 and strange to her, for previous recollections 
 of the huge city are vague and indistinct, and 
 confused, she can hardly recognise her position, 
 when the cab stops. 
 
 At last she is in the hotel. She had 
 ordered tea. It was the first night she had 
 been alone for years, but now she was alone 
 in a strange place, amongst hired faces, who 
 have no sympathy with her position, and do 
 not wish to know it. There is neither friendly 
 voice nor eye amongst them. So she takes her 
 tea in silence, thinks again and again, ever 
 conjuring up the past, so delightful to remem- 
 ber, so mournful then to contrast wdth the 
 present ; but she took this step of her own 
 will, and she must abide the consequences. 
 The night passes away in these reflections, 
 and she resolves to go to bed. This was Lu- 
 cille's first night in London. 
 
 4
 
 TEIAL AND TRIUMPH, 177 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE PATRONESS AND THE PARENT. 
 
 The next morning she rose early. It was a 
 hot, warm morning, and even then, life was 
 streaming strong and thick through the streets. 
 She looked out on the scene with wonder, and 
 how strange it did seem with the morning 
 previous at the Grange. That throng of 
 human beings, pushing, scrambhng, fretting 
 away their brief hours of existence in the 
 struggle for support, were the picture of life, 
 of that very life upon which she was about to 
 1 5
 
 178 TEIAL AND TEIUMPH. 
 
 enter. Efer breakfast over, she got the letter 
 for Mrs. Lumsden, and ordering a cab, pro- 
 ceeded to her residence. It was a long way 
 off, and she went very slowly through the 
 .crowded streets. At last she stopped at a 
 large house in a fashionable street, sent in 
 the letter, and was almost immediately after- 
 wards shown into the house. 
 
 She followed the servant up a grand stair- 
 case, through two drawing rooms magnifi- 
 cently furnished, and then the servant 
 stopped at a closed door. He opened it 
 slowly and Lucille entered the apartment. It 
 was a small room, and an old lady was packed 
 into a corner of it beside a blazing fire, and 
 oddly stowed away with some of the ugliest 
 Chinese monsters one could conceive. The 
 furniture was thrown about, not placed, as if 
 the chairs and tables had come in by accident 
 at the window. The antique ruled the orna- 
 mental department of the place, odd cabinets 
 and upright chairs, old tables, chmisy and 
 
 d
 
 TEIAL AND TEIUMPH. 179 
 
 baronial, an odd grate, and a queer old carpet 
 on the floor, which by the way was littered 
 with papers, printed and written on, envelopes 
 and notes, leaves of books and whole pamph- 
 lets. The old lady was packed away into a 
 corner beside the fire. She was sitting on a 
 very low chair with a small table before her, 
 on which were coffee and a writing desk. 
 She was reading letters, writing and breakfast- 
 ing all at the same time. She was so strange 
 looking too, so different from Mrs. Mapleton. 
 She seemed very small, and slightly stooped, 
 then she wore a silk dress, every figure on it 
 a foot long, and a huge cap with immense lace 
 borders, all bound round her head by a broad 
 red silk ribbon. She had small grey eyes that 
 looked at you and into you, and though her 
 face was old-fashioned and wrinkled, it was 
 not wanting in expression and sweetness. A 
 small rough dog lay at her feet, and a cat was 
 perched upon the broad top of her low chair. 
 Her glasses were in her hand, and she put
 
 180 TPwlAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 them on every way, whichever side came first 
 to her. She spoke distinctly, always saying, 
 " my dear," no matter whether she abused or 
 praised you. Lucille stood before her, half 
 amused and half afraid, nor was her position 
 much improved by the first words addressed 
 to her. Mrs. Lumsden had a peculiar habit 
 of going right to the subject before her, just 
 expressing herself as she felt. 
 
 '' You think me odd, my dear ?" she said, 
 when she had looked for a second, with her 
 small, grey eyes, at Lucille. " Just answer 
 me truly." 
 
 " You difi'er," answered Lucille, " from Mrs. 
 Mapleton." 
 
 " I know I do, my dear ; at least I think so 
 — for it is nearly twenty years since I saw 
 Nelly. But that's not a plain answer. Amn't 
 
 I odd r 
 
 '* To me, madam, you are." 
 *' Right, my dear. Sit down now. Have 
 you breakfasted ?"
 
 TKIAL AND TKIUMPH. 181 
 
 " I have." 
 
 " Very well. There, don't tramp on Vesta. 
 You are called Lucille. Give me that letter. 
 Lucille — Let me see. You came to Pulsford 
 some years ago ; and were — were — . Nelly 
 wrote to me the whole story about you — the 
 family plate, and all." 
 
 " Madam — " began Lucille. 
 
 " Be quiet, my dear. I rather like you, just 
 for that one thing; and you are so terribly 
 handsome, too ; so don't spoil my likings by 
 being rash. I don't care about your family — 
 my own goes down to the Conquest, and a sad 
 mess they have made of it. It's worn out — 
 completely gone — as I am the last of it;" and 
 the old woman sighed. 
 
 With all her appearance, human feeling was 
 strong in her. 
 
 " Your old families," she went on, " are too 
 exclusive ; and they die out from want of 
 strong, healthy blood mixing with them. But
 
 182 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 to return to you, my dear. Did Nelly send 
 you out to work for yourself ?" 
 
 " Far from it, madam. She was too kind 
 to me. I have elected for myself." 
 
 ^' And why ?" 
 
 " I would be disposed," said Lucille, defer- 
 entially, " to keep the reason to myself." 
 
 " It's no affair of mine, my dear, certainly. 
 But to return. You're only Lucille; and one 
 can do nothing without another name. You 
 remember your father ?" 
 
 "I do, madam." This home-work was 
 bringing the tears to Lucille's eyes. 
 
 " Don't cry, my dear ;" said the old woman. 
 " It's better for me to ask these odd questions 
 than others, who might be more inclined to 
 ridicule than f)ity you. What was his name ?" 
 
 " I never heard him called any other than 
 Rob." 
 
 " Very well. That's Robert, at tlie least ; 
 so we'll add an s to it. Now, Miss Lucille
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 183 
 
 Roberts, what do you want, or what can you 
 do r 
 
 Lucille certainly stared at the readiness of 
 the old lady in thus providing her with a name, 
 and she stated her capabilities very briefly. 
 
 " You must be a famous housekeeper too, I'm 
 sure ;" continued the other. *' Nelly was first- 
 rate at those things ; and, after all, puddings 
 and jams, roasting and boiling, are no bad ac- 
 quirements for a young girl. I never learned 
 those things, and I'm not the better on that 
 account. Plainly, my dear, you could be a 
 nursery-governess. I don't see anything else 
 for you." 
 
 *' I would accept of any honest employment 
 that I could discharge," said Lucille, firmly. 
 
 " I don't doubt that, my dear; and as some 
 friends of mine in the country, known when I 
 was young — just half a century ago — recom- 
 mend their pets to me — people always think 
 that I have a cargo on hand ; and when they
 
 184 TRIAL AND TEIUMPH. 
 
 want, write to me. It saves advertisements. 
 You speak French ?" 
 
 " Father Lemayne taught us French." 
 
 ^' I know. That's the Jesuit old Mapleton 
 keeps down there at the Grange, to help him 
 to pray. I am a Protestant, my dear, and 
 think with the people at Exeter Hall, tliat all 
 priests are Jesuits — though we know they arn't, 
 not a bit of it. We keep it up, though. It's 
 a good healthy spirit, and supports the church. 
 So, now, I have all your accomplishments. 
 What are they worth ?" 
 
 " The means of existence," briefly answered 
 Lucille. 
 
 *' A good answer, my dear. Lift that bundle 
 of letters there," pointing to a bundle lying on 
 one of the curious, old-fashioned tables. 
 '' Give me the first one. That's it. Sir John 
 Tiverton's. I don't now where he got the 
 name. He's a city man, my dear, and believes 
 stock includes all the virtues, and scrip is
 
 TKTAL AND TEIUMPH. 18^ 
 
 charity. He came from some place, how or 
 when I don't know. You would suit him." 
 
 '' Then I shall go to him." 
 
 " No, my dear, you shan't ;" and she poked 
 through her glasses, wrong side up, at the next 
 letter. ^' Lady Mellerton wants a young 
 woman to look after her three daughters. The 
 youngest is eight, the eldest thirteen. Her 
 Ladyship's husband is a Member of Parliament 
 — what they call a rising man, makes speeches 
 and that sort of thing, and is very little at 
 home, an example his wife religiously fellows, 
 so she wants somebody to be both mother and 
 instructress to her deserted babes. What do 
 you think of that, my dear ? " 
 
 " I should prefer the mother of auy children 
 under my care to be much with them." 
 
 " Very right, my dear, very right. Well, 
 here is the Honourable Mrs. Lamp ton, quite 
 an old family, and very religious. She has 
 two little girls, and is a pattern woman her- 
 self. You don't know what that means ?"
 
 186 TEIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 " Not exactly," said Lucille. 
 
 " Nor do I, myself. Yet I believe it ir^ 
 something in the order way ; which may be 
 very pleasant, or very disagreeable. This 
 situation might, however, suit you. So if you 
 think of it, we shall see about it at once." 
 
 " I shall be guided, madam, completely by 
 you." 
 
 " Very well. Give me that inkstand, Miss 
 Roberts. Don't tramp upon Vesta. I'll write 
 a note for you, and you can take it to Mrs. 
 Lampton. She's sure to be at home ; one 
 advantage at least in a pattern woman." 
 
 Lucille did as desired. She carefully 
 avoided touching the rough little dog, and sat 
 down whilst the old lady wrote, which she did 
 with great speed and precision, her glasses on 
 the wrong way all the time, and her face quite 
 comical-looking. She finished the letter, and 
 gave it to Lucille. 
 
 " You have no character, my dear, only 
 what my friend Nelly gives you, and you needr
 
 TEIAL AND TRIUMPH. 187 
 
 not be telling everybody anything of your 
 history before you went to the Grange. Mrs. 
 Lampton will engage you, and there your con- 
 duct must be guided by circumstances, for I 
 have no idea of a model woman more than of 
 a model prison, or lodging-house, and I never 
 saw either, and I'm sure I'm not a model my- 
 self, so can give you no advice. I like your 
 appearance, and when you have been there 
 some time, come and see me, but not until 
 you have tried the place, or shouldn't get it. 
 Good bye now," 
 
 Lucille rose. Her interview with Mrs. 
 Lumsden was over, for the old woman had 
 given her glasses another whirl, and was break- 
 ing the envelope of a letter, so she slowly 
 turned towards the door and found a servant 
 at it, who conducted her to her cab. She 
 gave Mrs. Lampton's address to the driver, 
 and entered the vehicle. It was now past 
 eleven o'clock, and the sun was streaming 
 down hot and sultry upon the London pave-
 
 188 TKIAL AND TEIUMPH. 
 
 ment, thronged with pedestrians from all 
 nations. Every step forward was full of 
 novelty to Lucille, but she did not much 
 notice the seething turmoil that sweltered and 
 foamed round her. She had little heed of 
 streets, or shops, or people, for memory was 
 away in the green country, beside the flower- 
 clad dells at the Grange, and busy with the 
 people there. Shortly the noise lessened and 
 the cab was turning into a proud looking 
 square. It stopped. There was a row of 
 stone steps, so white, that the reflected sun- 
 light pained the eyes, a huge brass rapper 
 burnished like gold, and resembling the nose 
 to a great face, of which a plate underneath 
 might form the brazen mouth, the outside 
 features of a door painted a bright green, and 
 these were the first points that struck upon 
 Lucille, as she stood before the door of the 
 Honourable Mrs. Lampton. Hot as the sun 
 was, it all looked cold and selfish, impressing 
 its appearance gloomily upon Lucille. She
 
 TEIAL AND TEIUMPH. 189 
 
 went up the steps, rapped, and the door was 
 opened by a very pompous-looking gentleman, 
 who hardly did more than notice her. He 
 took her letter, and then turned from her to 
 the fire-place, in the hall, resuming the news- 
 paper he had laid down to admit her. 
 
 " I wish that letter forwarded immediately," 
 said Lucille, rather peremptorily. 
 
 " Oh, ah, yes." But the man did not move. 
 
 " Now," said Lucille, advancing a step. 
 She had heard of the insolence of this class 
 and was determined to resent it in her own 
 case, wondering too, for it contrasted wofully 
 with the alacrity of the old servants at the 
 Grange. The man at last moved and she was 
 alone in this hall, but there w^as nothing re- 
 markable in it, save its great cleanliness. 
 Neither dust nor cobwebs were visible in it. 
 There were straight- backed chairs, hard and 
 polished, and one great cushioned one for the 
 porter, who seemed — judging from the signs 
 near — to pass his mornings in reading news-
 
 190 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 papers and gazing out upon the stunted vege- 
 tation that pined, red and misshapen, in the 
 iron-railed area before the door. After a 
 lengthened absence he returned, followed by a 
 footman, who stated that Mrs. Lampton would 
 see Lucille. She passed after him, up a grand 
 staircase, richly carpeted, and along a passage, 
 until he stopped at a door, which he opened, 
 and stood aside until Lucille entered. She 
 was now in a large room, certainly very differ- 
 ent from Mrs. Lumsden's studio. A Turkey 
 carpet, soft and rich, chairs covered in morocco ; 
 sofas, lounges, silk hangings, gold and China 
 ornaments — all new and stately-looking, yet 
 withal, so placed as to seem stiff and unsocial, 
 were ranged through this apartment. It was 
 all grandeur, show, and state ; but there was 
 nothing refreshing or cheering about it. Near 
 the fire-place sat a middle-aged woman. She 
 was not old — she certainly was not young. 
 She was dressed with taste — neither over nor 
 under done. A sharp, shrewish face, light
 
 TRIAL AND TEIUMPH. 191 
 
 hair, and cold, protruding eyes, that appeared 
 to worry one, while they restlessly glanced 
 round — now at the furniture, then at the floor, 
 and at last they fixed upon Lucille. She 
 bowed low. Her courtesy was returned by a 
 stately nod. This was Mrs. Lampton. Lucille 
 stood before her, and she looked her up and 
 down — her dress, her figure, her features, un- 
 til the latter grew hot and crimson under the 
 attack. 
 
 " You may sit down," she at last said. 
 Lucille was seated, and she went on, — " Mrs. 
 Lumsden says that you would answer me ; 
 but a great part of her note requires explana- 
 tion. You have never been in London before ?" 
 
 " Not for several years," Lucille answered. 
 
 " Where was your last situation ?" 
 
 " I never filled one yet." 
 
 " Then you have no experience with chil- 
 dren?" 
 
 " None, Madam." 
 
 " Ah ! I wonder what Mrs. Lumsden
 
 192 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 means," she said in a sort of bye-jjlay, yet 
 there was something in Lucille's appearance 
 that attracted, not interested her. She was 
 young, very good-looking, and had a distin- 
 guished, aristocratic bearing, that Mrs. Lamp- 
 ton admired, just as she would a piece of new, 
 stately furniture. " Then you are positively 
 ignorant of the duties the situation you seek 
 would require." 
 
 " I have simply an idea of them," repUed 
 Lucille, her courage growing faint under this 
 examination. 
 
 " You were brought up in the country too. 
 Where is Pulsford Grange ? But never mind. 
 It's an out of the way place. I have some 
 idea about it. Do you know, I think you 
 would hardly suit me." 
 
 Lucille rose at once, and was buttoning her 
 glove. 
 
 " I have a great respect for Mrs. Lumsden, 
 and any protegee of hers" —
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 193 
 
 " I do not stand in that relation to Mrs. 
 Lumsden," said Lucille, coldly and stiffly. 
 
 *' Pray," continued Mrs. Lampton, without 
 noticing her position, or seeming to have 
 heard her remarks, " what terms would you 
 require, should I ohlige Mrs. Lumsden hy 
 giving you a trial ?" 
 
 '' I have not thought of terms," replied 
 Lucille, lelieved hy this question. " I would 
 not he very exacting, especially on a first en- 
 gagement." 
 
 *' Then you may come to me this evening. 
 I shall point out your duties to you, and ex- 
 pect the best exertions on your part to perform 
 them." 
 
 This ended the interview. Mrs. Lampton 
 spoke no more of terms, hut rang her hell, 
 and Lucille bowed again and withdrew. The 
 footman was at the door to show her out, the 
 porter stood aside to let her pass through the 
 hall, and, quickly descending the white steps, 
 she sprang into the cab. There was relief in 
 
 VOL I. K
 
 194 TPJxVL AND TPJUMPPI. 
 
 the very change. The nasty, uncomfortable 
 vehicle, its rough driver, its broken-down horse, 
 its very poverty and negligence, made a change 
 that was a relief to Lucille. There was some- 
 thing so cold and ungrateful in the splendour 
 she had just quitted, that she could only think 
 of it but with regret and fear. Still this was 
 now all to be endured. She had made her 
 election, and must persist. She had too, 
 within her, an indomitable pride, which she 
 did not comprehend. It was not the vulgar 
 pride of position or appearance, not that pride 
 that thought itself superior to the baser clay 
 within the circle of its touch, but an honest 
 sentiment that believed in an independence 
 gained by labour and energ}% and dared to 
 struggle with the world to achieve it. 
 
 The cab pulled up at her hotel. She knew 
 nothing about fares, or engagements by the 
 set-down or the hour, so the driver put in an 
 exorbitant claim, so much that Lucille knew 
 he was striving to cheat her. She was stand-
 
 TEIAL A^D TEIUMPH. 195 
 
 ing on the footpath, and the man held the 
 side of the door he had opened for her. 
 
 " I doesn't take nothing less, Miss — not a 
 screw." 
 
 ^* I shall ask in the hotel as to the fare," 
 said Lucille. 
 
 " An' what does them uns know about it?" 
 exclaimed the man, indignantly. " They 
 takes it of me to give it to themselves. Them 
 uns don't like poor honest folks like us to 
 live." 
 
 " Then — " Lucille stopped. She had 
 turned round, and her eyes encountered those 
 of a man standing just behind her, dressed 
 like a tradesman out of work. He did not 
 make any sign as if he knew her, but seemed 
 only listening to the dispute. It was enough, 
 however, for Lucille. She saw he recognised 
 her, after so many years of absence — saw it 
 in his face and manner ; yet there was not one 
 feeling in her heart to tempt her to address 
 him. She had no natural regard for this man, 
 2 K
 
 196 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 who still stood where he was, listening to the 
 cabman, who went volubly on, muttering and 
 complaining, until one of the servants of the 
 hotel came down, and Lucille, without a word, 
 paid his demand. 
 
 " You wouldn't want me again, Miss ?" he 
 asked. 
 
 '' Yes, come about five this evening." 
 
 The man touched his hat and jumped upon 
 his box, leaving Lucille face to face with the 
 other, who had never moved from the moment 
 their eyes met. The servant stepped aside to 
 let her pass, but she stood, still looking at this 
 seeming tradesman. There was a gleam in 
 his eye. It was not the flash of affection. It 
 was liker hatred than love. They had not yet 
 spoken, and Lucille, hardly knowing how to 
 act, began to ascend the steps. This man 
 followed her. 
 
 " What do you want ?" asked the servant. 
 
 " He has business with me," said Lucille, 
 faintly.
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 197 
 
 They had reached the room. She was con- 
 fused and weak, while her visitor threw him- 
 self into a chair. 
 
 " Eather a cool reception," he said, " Luce, 
 after such a separation. Come to my arms, 
 but no, you might drab your finery. Just 
 order some brandy for me." Lucille was 
 silent. " Well, this, to be sure, is very like a 
 daughter's love. Isn't it now ?" 
 
 '' I am not your child." She almost gasped 
 out the words. 
 
 "Aren't you now?" The man seemed to 
 enjoy the thing. 
 
 " No. I don't feel it, and if you were my 
 father you would not have brought me up in 
 the midst of vice, as you have. I might have 
 been a thief, anything covered with crime, as 
 far as you were concerned, had I remained 
 with you ; and if my father, you have given me 
 nothing to thank you for." 
 
 " How she gets on !" exclaimed Rob. ''But, 
 Luce, I'll cut this matter short, for I won't
 
 198 TEIAL AND TEIUMPH. 
 
 have any old canters behind my back a-niining 
 my good name. You can settle your affairs 
 here, and just tramp out with me." 
 
 *' No," said Lucille, decidedly. " I will not 
 house again with ruffian or thief. Unless I 
 had been seen by accident you would not have 
 sought me, and I will not become polluted by 
 that vice and infamy which, until this, I have 
 escaped." 
 
 " Won't you, now ?" The man looked up 
 in her face. It was sparkling with agitation 
 and excitement, yet there was resolution in it 
 too. " 1 think," he said, " the law will support 
 a tender father who wants to recover his child.'' 
 
 A sudden thought seized Lucille. • She 
 was on the brink of ruin. She felt it. Body 
 and soul were at stake ; for, once in this man's 
 hands, she believed herself doomed for ever. 
 "I, " she said, with energy, " will appeal to 
 justice. I will say, that the man who planned 
 the robbery which I frustrated, claims me to
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 199 
 
 ruin me, that he only seeks me for his own 
 vile purposes." 
 
 " Will you T asked Eob, hurriedly inter- 
 rupting her, and springing from his seat. 
 
 " Then by " but she did not flinch. She 
 
 gazed proudly and haughtily in his face. 
 " Bah !" at last he exclaimed. " We are both 
 fools. Sit down, I won't interfere with you 
 again; but somehow, Luce, I feel riled at this 
 display you make. I thought to have found 
 you glad to see me, and here you fly at me 
 with all your nails set when I only mention 
 my rights over you." 
 
 She saw she had conquered for the time, 
 and she sat down, as far from him as she could, 
 for she did not like the companionship, and 
 unnatural as all this might seem, she had no 
 feeling towards this man, who called himself 
 her fatjier. There was no emotion at her 
 heart but one of fear. This man was crossing 
 her path to turn her from that good instinctly 
 grasped at by her, towards the iniquity she
 
 ^00 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 liad SO long and successfully struggled against. 
 Rob felt all this. He saw her aversion. 
 
 "You make no inquiries from me, Luce," he 
 said, " about myself." 
 
 " None," she briefly answered. 
 
 " Well, that's odd, anyhow. You don't seem 
 ever to have thought of father or mother." 
 
 " Vvho was my mother?" 
 
 " Oh ! that's my secret, though you're not a 
 bit like her, and won't make out your family 
 by the strength of a resemblance." 
 
 " And you are my father T 
 
 " I am, and I don't seem to have a daughter 
 very proud of the connexion. But no matter; 
 what are you at now? You look like one of 
 the best of them." 
 
 " I will not tell you," she said firmly. " I 
 have escaped, be you my father or not. You 
 are the only parent I ever knew, and now 
 show ^our tenderness towards me by leaving 
 me to myself. If I earn money, I shall share 
 it with you. If you be sick I shall come to
 
 TKIAL AND TPvIUMPH. 201 
 
 you. I only ask freedom and exemption 
 from that society which would drag me down 
 to itself or suffocate me." Write, when you 
 want, for me to Mrs. Mapleton's. She will 
 always know my address." 
 
 " And you won't tell it me, yourself?" 
 
 " No," she said firmly and emphatically. 
 
 " Well, well. It's a hard world, it is. 
 Could you give me a few shiners — sovereigns. 
 Luce ?" 
 
 She put five in his hand, and he rose to 
 leave her. They did not touch hands or ex- 
 hibit any affection towards each other. Lu- 
 cille was glad to see him turning towards the 
 door, and he had his own designs in his mind. 
 They parted coldly. She saw him to the top 
 of the stairs, and when he came in view of 
 the servants below, she simply bowed to him, 
 and they separated. In her own room again, 
 in her loneliness, did the long-suppressed agony 
 break forth. How deeply did the torture force 
 itself into her heart — that blasting, desolat- 
 K 5
 
 ^0^ TRIAL AND TPtlUMPH. 
 
 ing conviction, struggle as she would, this 
 man at any time could claim and brand her 
 with infamy. She could not rise above that 
 world-wide feeling that classed their offspring 
 with the criminals to whom it belonged. Not 
 sinning herself, she would, when discovered, be 
 pointed out as if she carried on her forehead 
 the vices of her descent. By chance or 
 design this man, whom she called father, might 
 discover her retreat and crush her, use her, 
 destroy her. This picture had no bright 
 side.
 
 TBIAL AND TEIUMPH. 203 
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 THE GOVEENESS ON DUTY. 
 
 EoB passed the servants quietly. He walked 
 down the steps, and along the open street. 
 Wliat brought him to this neighbourhood this 
 morning he could not tell ; but it was evident 
 to himself that his star was in the ascendant. 
 He chucked joyfully the gold pieces in his 
 hand ; and as he went on, he thought of one 
 question asked by Lucille. Was he her father ? 
 There was a great doubt on his mind whether 
 he was or not. He had a wife once, but she
 
 204 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 was long dead ; and there was something 
 floating through his mind wdiich he could 
 never get right at — but he knew it was about 
 a child. His marriage had produced a daugh- 
 ter — was Lucille that daughter ? He dis- 
 missed these troublesome reflections, and bent 
 his attention to another matter. Lucille 
 looked respectable. She was alone, stopping 
 at an expensive hotel, well dressed, and lady- 
 like. Her beauty never came under his con- 
 sideration. From the first moment that he 
 saw her standing at the hotel door, some faint 
 notion that she might be useful to him entered 
 his head ; and when he heard her order the 
 cab for five o'clock that evening, he just took 
 the number in his mind, determined to be 
 prepared at all points. 
 
 There was a long line of vehicles in the 
 middle of the next street : men sleeping, read- 
 ing, talking, smoking, lounging on the driving 
 seats, squabbling and jeering, calling people 
 who seemed likely to want them, looking im-
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 205 
 
 pertinent, and overreaching themselves, — and 
 this was a cab-stand. Rob leisurely walked 
 down it, and the first vehicle on the stand was 
 the number he wanted. The driver was 
 absent. 
 
 '' Hilloa." 
 
 " Here, sir. Want a cab, sir?" 
 
 " Don't I look like it ?" and Rob laughed. 
 
 " I rather think not ; but what do you want 
 with me ?" 
 
 ^' I'd take a pot at your expense, if you isn't 
 too partiklar," said Rob. " I admires smart- 
 ness ; and you took yon green un in first-rate." 
 
 " I thinks ye're a driving at some'ut, that 
 mightn't improve yer dayhghts, my chap." 
 
 " No," said Rob, '' I isn't. I once had a 
 vehicle myself and was rather attached to 
 country-fare. Will you stand that pot ?" 
 
 " You're a working for it, isn't you?" 
 
 " Well. I is'nt partiklar, so, come along 
 old un, and I'll tip you the lush on my own 
 score,*' and Rob tossed up a sovereign in the
 
 906 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 air and caught it between liis palms, as it^ de- 
 scended. " Heads I wins, tails you loses. 
 Come in, old un." 
 
 The invitation was accepted by the cabman, 
 and they went into the public house at the 
 stand, where Kob ordered and paid for what 
 was drunk. The very changing of that 
 sovereign, the powder the man drew from its 
 use, instigated him in his designs. Where 
 that came from there was more, at least so he 
 reasoned, and determined to keep Lucille 
 within his grasp. He saw she dreaded his 
 connexion with her, and on this fear he w^ould 
 live. They sat and drank, and smoked, and 
 talked, the cabman not seeming to wish to 
 part with the good company that paid for 
 whatever he would drink. At last it came 
 near five, and he jumped up. 
 
 " I'm a-going again to lift that young 
 female." 
 
 " And I," said Rob, " will take a seat with
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 207 
 
 you. " We'll have another drink as we comes 
 back." 
 
 Lucille had packed up everything. She 
 had settled her bill, and low-spirited and dis- 
 tressed she was waiting for the cab. At last 
 it came, and she was on the way to Mrs. 
 Lampton's, not noticing her father, who had 
 got upon the box just as she entered the cab. 
 He went with her to the square, and as the 
 horse pulled up, marked the name on the door, 
 and then quietly withdrew. Some announce- 
 ment of Lucille's coming had been made, for 
 a female servant received her at the bottom of 
 the stairs and proposed to show her her room, 
 an offer gladly accepted. 
 
 Well, here she is alone. The servant had 
 left her, and she begins to look about the 
 apartment she is to call her own. It is far 
 away in a remote part of the house. There 
 is one window in it, that looks over an im- 
 mense range of red- tiled roofs, and that is 
 the only prospect. There is neither tree nor
 
 208 TIllAL AND TEIUMPH. 
 
 shrub visible from it. In the interior of the 
 room there is a small bed. It is neither 
 luxmious nor ornamental, and is not much 
 assisted towards respectability by four well- 
 worn chairs, a dressing table, evidently just 
 rescued from some lumber room, and a ward- 
 robe that shakes and nods when touched, as 
 if it would fall. The Grange rises up before 
 Lucille again, but she strives to keep herself 
 firm by thinking that she is settled any how. 
 
 She began to unpack and arrange her 
 things, and the labour for the time averted 
 thought. She was just in the middle of this 
 occupation, as the door of her room was un- 
 ceremoniously opened, and two little girls 
 rushed into it. They stared at her for some 
 moments, and the taller of the two spoke. 
 
 " So you're Roberts, are you ?'' 
 
 " I am Miss Roberts," said Lucille, half 
 blushing at her assumption of the name. 
 
 '* What a lot of things you have too !"
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. S09 
 
 Lucille looked at them. " I presume you 
 are Mrs. Lampton's children," she said. 
 
 " That's Mama," cried the other. " She'll be 
 up here to see if you have every thing in its 
 place, for ma says there should be a place for 
 everything and everything in its place." 
 
 " And won't she take on at this lot here," 
 said the first child. 
 
 " Pray," asked Lucille, sitting down in the 
 midst of her labours, and looking at the chil- 
 dren, '' which of you is the elder?" 
 
 "Oh, I am. I'm Miss Lampton." There 
 was a touch of Florence in that, " and I'm 
 always to be called Miss Lampton." 
 
 " What is your sister's name ?" 
 
 " Jane," answered the elder hope. " She's 
 always Miss Jane." 
 
 Both children were fair and lively. They 
 were plainly dressed, and seemed only to re- 
 quire cultivation, at least Lucille thought so, 
 and she hoped as they became better ac- 
 quainted, they would be more easily managed.
 
 21 U TEIAL AND TEIUMPH. 
 
 She thought too, with them to herself, and 
 some room to pass the day in, away from the 
 intercourse in the house, she might get on 
 well enough. So she was fortifying her mind 
 for her new avocations. 
 
 " I wasn't here before, since Pensford left," 
 exclaimed Miss Lampton, looking out before 
 the red prospect before her. 
 
 " And who was Pensford ?" asked Lucille. 
 
 " Our last governess," cried Jane, " and 
 wasn't she a fright ! She never had anything 
 right. Ma said there was no standing it. 
 There was no use in order at all with Pens- 
 ford," and Lucille began to think that the 
 taste for order might be carried to excess, and 
 a model woman, after all, be more disagTeeable 
 than otherwise. But all this was cut short 
 by Mrs. Lampton's own appearance. The 
 children had heard her step, for they now 
 stood up like a troop of soldiers on parade, 
 casting side-glances at each other, to see if 
 they were all right for inspection. Mrs.
 
 TKIAL AND TEIUMPH. 211 
 
 Lampton herself was hardly distinguishable 
 by Lucille. She had on a thick pair of brown 
 Berlin gloves, and an immense wrapper over 
 her dress, and she looked dusty and uncom- 
 fortable. She had hardly noticed Lucille, but 
 hastily glanced over the room. It wasn't very 
 orderly then, for she had not had time yet to 
 put away her things, and they were lying on 
 the bed and chairs — an open trunk in the cen- 
 tre of the floor — and shoes, stockings, dresses, 
 and several other things here and there about 
 it. There was a frown upon Mrs. Lamp ton's 
 face. She cast her eyes up, down, everywhere 
 — through the window, over the red tiles, upon 
 the old wardrobe, the bed, the. chairs, until at 
 last they settled upon Lucille's face. 
 
 '^ We are very orderly in this house, Miss 
 Roberts," she at last said, " and there is an 
 old maxim I always like to see respected, — " 
 
 " A place for everything, and everything in 
 its place," put in Miss Lampton, uneasily
 
 212 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 shifting herself from her inspection position, 
 until she came romid full face to mama. 
 
 " Very right, Clara. That's it. I know,'' 
 she went on, " that in old country houses, 
 witli their ideas from the last century, this is 
 likely to he overlooked ; but we all must prac- 
 tice it here." 
 
 " I shall soon put everything past, madam," 
 said Lucille. 
 
 " Certainly you will, and we shall talk of 
 something else. These are the children whom 
 I am going to entrust to your care. You will 
 find them docile and attentive, and not illi- 
 terate as it is. What is your age, Clara ? Do 
 not hold your hands that way." Miss Lamp- 
 ton, on this remand, came up all attention, her 
 arms stiff to her sides, like ramrods. " How 
 old are you ?" 
 
 " Twelve years old, the fourteenth of April 
 past." 
 
 " And what is your age, Jane ?"
 
 TKIAL AND TEIUMPH. 213 
 
 " I am sixteen months younger than sister 
 Clara ; and was horn in July." 
 
 " I like this particularity, Miss Eoherts. 
 Next to general ideas of order, rememhrance 
 of particular events is most important, and I 
 have striven to impress upon the minds of 
 these children that doctrine. You will fmd 
 that we arrange for everything here. Indeed 
 it is no pleasing task, but it must he done, so 
 you will make such a division of your time, as 
 may best suit us, and then adhere to it. You 
 will commence your duties to-morrow morning." 
 
 " Yes, Madam." 
 
 " We breakfast punctually at nine, and as 
 the children sleep in the room below you, you 
 will see them dressed, and then breakfast 
 with them in the school-room." 
 
 There was nothing in this announcement 
 repugnant to Lucille s notions of her duty, and 
 she assented to it at once. 
 
 " You teach then till twelve," Mrs. Lamp ton 
 went on, " and walk until two, if the weather
 
 214 TRIAL AND TEIUMPH. 
 
 permit. There is a key for the square gardens, 
 and you exercise there, then you will read or 
 work with them until four, when you dine. 
 I do not interfere with your time after seven, 
 when you will get tea, and spend the rest of 
 the evening till ten — that is your hour for re- 
 tiring, in preparing for the next day." 
 
 It was all very methodical and w^ell laid off, 
 but there was nothing allowed for Lucille her- 
 self. Her minutes were to be eternally passed 
 beside these two little girls from the moment 
 she rose until she lay down. She was neither 
 nurse nor governess separately. She was 
 both in one. Yet during all this time Mrs. 
 Lampton never said one word as to her quali- 
 fications, having accepted Mrs. Lumsden's note 
 in lieu of all inquiries on these most essential 
 points. 
 
 " I sliall send you up written instructions," 
 continued Mrs. Lampton, " and you will re- 
 member that they must be strictly adhered to. 
 Now put all this litter into order, and Clai*a
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 215 
 
 will conduct you to the school-room, where 
 you can have tea at seven." 
 
 "I shall want to write to Mrs, Mapleton," 
 said Lucille. 
 
 " Present her my host respects. I once 
 met Mrs. Mapleton, and thought her a very 
 nice person. She is also a very great friend 
 of Mrs. Lumsden's. I would hardly have en- 
 gaged you without any recommendation or 
 experience, hut for my regard for dear Mrs. 
 Lumsden," and Mrs. Lampton retired. 
 
 Lucille saw there was something under this, 
 hut unahle to comprehend it, she turned her 
 attention to the little girls, neither of whom 
 had changed their rather painful attitudes 
 during the stay of their mother, hut when 
 her steps were no longer audible. Miss Clara 
 made a rush at the trunk, and Jane at the 
 things on the bed, and both began to toss and 
 tumble them about, certainly by no means in 
 a very orderly manner. Lucille took them out 
 of their hands at once.
 
 216 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 " I do not allow any one to interfere with 
 what helongs to me," she said, very authori-- 
 tatively. 
 
 *' Now, don't you ?" asked Miss Clara. 
 ^' Wouldn't it he nice indeed if one cared 
 ahout what you said. I'll scratch you, I will." 
 
 " You're only the Governess," added her 
 sister. 
 
 "Attend to me," said Lucille, firmly. ''I 
 shall tell Mrs. Lampton, if you dare to dis- 
 ohey me." 
 
 "Well, here's a grig, sure enough," ex- 
 claimed the eldest girl. " You're doing what 
 Pensford did, and think to make us mind you, 
 hut we won't." 
 
 " No, we won't," echoed Jane. 
 
 " We shall see," said Lucille, for she was 
 roused, and young as she was, she felt that if 
 she would succeed, she must he determined, 
 and she caught the eldest girl boldly by the 
 arm, and drew her from the trunk. " Do not 
 touch anything there.''
 
 TRIAL AND TBIUMPH. 217 
 
 The little girl looked up in her face. She 
 saw its resolution, and she dropped what she 
 held in her hand. " Never mind, Roberts." 
 
 "Miss Roberts,'* said Lucille. 
 
 " I won't miss you. I won't, now." 
 
 Lucille released her, and began to pack her 
 clothes in the wardrobe, while her two pupils 
 looked on. They were perfectly silent, and 
 when all was done, a servant came to say that 
 tea was ready in the school-room, so Lucille, 
 glad of the change, followed her, and the girls, 
 sulky and cross, came after. 
 
 The school-room was small, and cold-looking 
 and confined. It was a naked room with one 
 long table in it, and some chairs. There was 
 a large map of Europe over the chimney-piece, 
 some worn school books lying about, a very 
 indifferent-looking piano in one corner, and 
 there was torn music on the top of it, which 
 even in this model- house did not look too 
 clean. The tea-service too was old and odd, 
 no two articles of the same pattern, and many 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 TRIAL AND TEIUMPH. 
 
 of them not improved by use. The servant 
 poured out the tea, and Lucille took some of 
 it without running much risk of affecting her 
 nerves by its strength, while the little girls 
 drank, and eat, and squabbled, not certainly 
 like model-children, but Lucille did not then 
 mind them. Her thoughts were again at the 
 Grange. She was making awkward and un- 
 pleasant contrasts. It could not, however, be 
 now mended, so she plucked up spirits, and 
 the tea-service removed, she began to her 
 letters. One of them was to Mrs Mapleton. 
 The other for M. Lemayne, She stated all 
 that had occurred, except the appearance of 
 her father. They were finished, sealed, and 
 sent down to be posted. There w^as nothing 
 more then for her to do. A servant came to put 
 the girls to bed, and Lucille, exhausted, soon 
 went to her own ; and this was the history of 
 her first night within Mrs. Lampton's house.
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH, SI 9 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 LIFE AND TRIAL. 
 
 It was morning. The sunshine swept through 
 the square, tinging with a bright purple the 
 still dewy, half-faded leaves of the stunted 
 trees and shrubs that flickered in sickly exis- 
 tence within its iron-girt area. It was sum- 
 mer, but no summer for them. There they 
 grew amidst brick and stone, dwarfed and 
 dwindling, thirsting for the open field or 
 mountain side, the free air and the deep soil. 
 The grass was red and parched. It could not 
 2 L
 
 220 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 be cut or mowed into greenness, but grew 
 and faded, and faded and grew. It was like 
 the swollen or crushed hearts that pined within 
 this giant city, whose freshness was gone, 
 while they pined in hope of a coming verdure, 
 or struggled on dismally in their destiny. 
 The square was dead and silent too. Life had 
 not waked in it yet. There was a hum out- 
 side of it, but it came softened by the distance. 
 That was the roar and surge of active, strugg- 
 ling life, this the type of a cloyed and surfeited 
 existence. 
 
 Away in her remote attic, distant and lonely 
 as it was, Lucille had slept soundly and well. 
 Youth and fatigue had mastered feeling, and 
 she was deep in sleep, wandering through the 
 time-worn dells, rich with their lusty young 
 flowers, hand and hand with Florence, the 
 morning air floating through their loosened 
 hair smiling and radiant with happiness, when 
 she was called to the dull reality of herposition. 
 It flashed upon her in a moment. Active and
 
 TRIAL AND TPJUMPH. 221 
 
 resolute, she was up and dressing, and de- 
 scended at once to the childrens' room. They 
 were sulky and cross. Miss Lampton was 
 maHcious; but Lucille took all calmly and 
 quietly. She was mastering them, and there 
 was some satisfaction in that. They came 
 down to the school-room, and the breakfast 
 was almost a repetition of the tea of the even- 
 ing before. It was over, and then she began 
 to inquire into their studies. They w^ere cer- 
 tainly models of profound ignorance. ' 
 
 While this scene goes on above, Mrs. Lamp- 
 ton is sitting in her comfortable breakfast- 
 parlour, yet she seems uneasy and distressed. 
 There is always something wrong. She rings 
 and rings again. It is now this, now that. 
 The servant looks worried and distressed. She 
 is continually on the wing ; but Mrs. Lampton 
 finds new faults. At last she sinks down in 
 her easy chair, as if she gave tlie matter up 
 in utter hopelessness ; yet there was a good 
 deal round her to give contentment even to an
 
 S23 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 uneasy spirit. Her breakfast-table was as 
 perfect as China, and plate, and all the neces- 
 saries that minister to appetite, could make it. 
 The apartment, too, was furnished, if not with 
 great taste, at least with all the luxuries which 
 wealth could afford or supply. But Mrs. 
 Lampton did not seem happy. Presently the 
 door opens, and a rather youngish man enters 
 the room. He has on a flowing silk dressing- 
 gown and varnished leather slippers. The 
 gown is tied round his waist by a thick silk 
 cord, with heavy tassels to it. His hair is 
 curled and perfumed, and his whiskers soft 
 and shining. There is an air of supreme sa- 
 tisfaction visible in all his movements. He 
 seems to like himself, and thinks that every 
 body else should like him too. There is a 
 good deal in his face to admire. He has a 
 certain regularity of feature, a clear hazel eye, 
 and an open, smiling expression, that would 
 make you look at him, and, for the moment, 
 like his face ; but then there is a something
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. S23 
 
 in that perpetual smile that just curls his lips, 
 and is not the reflection of the sunshine at 
 the heart, which impels you to feel that he is 
 but a common-place character after all — that 
 he makes himself up for exhibition — and is a 
 fragment of that human false-jewellery that 
 always shines in the light, and glitters and 
 sparkles like the true stone, but is dead, and 
 pale, and rayless in the dark and dismal of 
 life. There is a worse impression also that 
 grows on you, when you look into his face. 
 It seems sensual — and perhaps would strike 
 you as careless of another's agony or suffering ; 
 did it contemplate pleasure from the enjoyment 
 of the present ? This is Mr. George Frederick 
 Lampton, commonly called Frederick, as more 
 genteel. 
 
 "You are an hour late, Frederick," said 
 Mrs. Lampton ; " I said ten, last night. It is 
 now eleven." 
 
 " That just makes the hour, my love," an- 
 swered Mr. Lampton. " I don't think I should
 
 S34 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 have been so past time, but really, I fancied, 
 Liz, that I saw a grey hair in my whisker ; so 
 I had to look, and, faith, there was one sure 
 enough." 
 
 " How can I, Frederick, observe or enforce 
 punctuahty, when the head of the house is so 
 careless about it?" asked Mrs. Lampton. "I 
 worry and fret myself, but nothing goes right." 
 
 " You are too exact, my love," replied her 
 husband, " and want everybody to go like 
 yourself, and everybody won't do it. The 
 w^orld is fast enough, Liz, just now, and can't 
 be bound to time." 
 
 " In my own house, Mr. Lampton, I shall 
 insist on regularity and order. I don't want 
 anything out of the way, but I do like punctu- 
 ality and arrangement." 
 
 " I know it, my dear," and Mr. Lampton 
 yawned. " Just give me some coffee. Yet, 
 Liz, those things may be pushed too far, in 
 trifles you know, love, in little things, that 
 don't signify. I fancy, there's another grey
 
 TRIAL AND TEIUMPH. S25 
 
 hair on this side," and he hfted his dehcate 
 jewelled hand, and pulled out his left whisker 
 as if to see through it. " Do you see it, Liz ?" 
 
 " Nonsense !" 
 
 " Just so, my love. You have no sympathy 
 for me. You are always after those small 
 things, and don't observe the sufferings at 
 your feet," and Mr. Lampton yawaied again, 
 sipped his coffee, and then began to play wdth 
 the tassels to his dressing-gown. " You run 
 your hobbies, Liz, to death, and can't see 
 beyond them." 
 
 '' I have certain fixed ideas, Mr. Lampton, 
 which I wish to act upon, and really one 
 would imagine from you, that because I wish 
 to give an example in this house, that I am a 
 sort of female monster." 
 
 ** I didn't say so, Liz. But I would remark 
 that this sort of thing may be carried too far. 
 We might sacrifice the substance for the 
 shadow. This coffee's not good. Just give 
 me some tea, Liz." 
 
 L 5
 
 ^26 TKIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 " There is the usual quantity, and made in 
 the usual way," said Mrs. Lampton, tasting 
 her own coffee. " I must look into this." 
 
 " Never mind, though. I'll just try the tea ;" 
 but Mrs. Lampton had rung the bell, and the 
 servant came up, while her husband threw 
 himself back in his chair, opposite to a low 
 pier glass, and began to study his appearance. 
 There was a long talk with the servant, during 
 which Mrs. Lampton grew warm, and made 
 lamentations upon her situation, its wants and 
 necessities, her husband all this time con- 
 templating his reflected self. As the servant 
 opened the door to leave the room, Lucille 
 and the two children passed by. He caught 
 a glimpse of her face, and started, but Mrs. 
 Lampton had pulled out her watch. 
 
 " A quarter past twelve — I said twelve." 
 
 " What is it all about ?" asked Frederick, 
 rising and going to the window. " A deuced 
 pretty girl," he muttered to himself, and then 
 took a long look at his full length in the glass.
 
 TKIAL AND TEIUMPH. 227 
 
 '* That girl will be another annoyance, I 
 see. 
 
 " Who ? Who is she ?" Frederick was now 
 at the window, and looking after Lucille 
 going into the square -gardens. 
 
 " Sit down, Mr. Lampton," said his wife. 
 " It is past twelve, and we are still at breakfast. 
 That girl is my new governess." 
 
 " Indeed !" Mr. Lampton was buried in pro- 
 found thought. 
 
 " You remember Mrs. Lumsden ?" asked his 
 wife. 
 
 " Perfectly. The old harridan. I shall 
 never forget her." She had said that Mr. 
 Lampton w^as a sort of man-milliner, and he 
 could not forgive her. '' The old fright ! 
 What about her ?" 
 
 '' When that girl, Pensford, left—" 
 
 A dark, disagreeable shade passed over Mr. 
 Lampton's smiling face, and he shrugged his 
 shoulders. 
 
 '' I applied to her to recommend me some-
 
 228 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 body for the children. It gave an opportunity 
 for caUing and talking to her." 
 
 *' You surely don't go to that old woman's 
 den?" 
 
 " Yes, but I do, though. Mrs. Lumsden is 
 immensely rich, and hasn't a relation in the 
 world. She likes that sort of deference to her 
 opinion, and I think is fond of Clara." 
 
 " Hum !" Mr. Lampton yawned and 
 shrugged, while he caught a distant glimpse 
 of Lucille in the garden. 
 
 " She sent me this girl, and I have engaged 
 her to look after the children. I must have 
 somebody; and she is rather respectable- look- 
 ing." 
 
 " You were right, Liz, perfectly right. 
 Though that old frump don't deserve it, I 
 shall be kind to this girl just on her account. 
 You should call and say what you have done. 
 What do they call her ?" 
 
 " So I intend. Roberts," answered Mrs. 
 Lampton.
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 229 
 
 '^ Then the sooner the better. I would say 
 this very day. I am going out of town, but 
 shall be here for dinner, at seven. Don't for- 
 get Mrs. Lumsden now." With another look 
 at himself, and a glance out on the square, 
 Mr. Lampton rose to go and finish his dressing, 
 and his wife was left to another wrangle in her 
 pursuit of domestic order. 
 
 Lucille had made many discoveries during 
 the morning. She was now sitting in a rustic 
 chair, full of thought, while the two girls were 
 romping amongst other children in the square. 
 There was something in her position that de- 
 pressed her. She felt as if unable to perform 
 the duties of the position she had voluntarily 
 accepted, and was terrified by its responsibility. 
 That hardened feeling, common to the drudges 
 in labour, who are satisfied when their task is 
 performed, careless of the result, and who 
 toil and v/ork — not regarding the tendency of 
 their exertions in the formation of the minds 
 or habits of those entrusted to their care —
 
 230 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 had not yet steeled Lucille's heart against bit- 
 ter reflections. She beheved she had a duty 
 as well as a mission. She might save or kill ; 
 and a feared incapacity, young as she was, 
 startled her feelings. The scene round her 
 too was so new, that it confused her. In the 
 square there were fanciful- dressed children 
 and pert nurses. She was the object of atten- 
 tions she could not understand, and she saw 
 herself pointed at by the little Lamptons, 
 who were frequently the centre of enquiring 
 groups, and stared at by small parties passing, 
 as if all would chronicle her new face. In the 
 midst of these reflections, a Tcry showily- 
 dressed gentleman passed her, and went 
 towards the children. He took Clara and 
 Jane by the hand, and came smiling up to her. 
 She was at first attracted by his look, but that 
 feeling instantly vanished — for he seemed only 
 to be the object of his own consideration. 
 They were up at her side, and she rose. 
 
 '' Sit down, Miss Roberts. Sit down, I
 
 TKIAL AND TRIUMPH. 231 
 
 entreat you," he said, quite kindly. *' I did 
 not know, until this morning, that you had 
 become a resident under my roof, or I should 
 have waited on you. I hope you passed the 
 night comfortably. These girls will wony 
 you for a little ; but then we shall all get on 
 smoothly enough," and he seated himself by 
 her side — so near that she moved away — while 
 he strove to look tenderly upon her, and 
 dropped his white, delicate hand, close to her 
 own. She made a general remark, conscious 
 though she had never heard or seen Mr. 
 Frederick Lamp ton before, that this was that 
 gentleman. 
 
 " We must contrive," he continued, '' to 
 make your abode amongst us pleasant. There 
 girls, you can go and play. I suppose you 
 have lived long in London?" and he looked at 
 her, earnest and smiling. 
 
 '' I might almost say," replied Lucille, '' that 
 I have never been in London before." 
 
 Mr. Lampton brightened up. He looked
 
 232 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 at her more earnest than ever. '' I could have 
 stated that much myself. Those clear, bright 
 complexions, and that healthy vigorous glow, 
 are not London-nurtured. You come from 
 the country, not from any of those nasty, 
 dirty towns, that are always hiding themselves 
 in their own smoke." 
 
 " I have lived with Mrs. Mapleton,at Pulsford 
 Grange, for the last five years," she replied, 
 fearing, at the same time, some general ques- 
 tions, that she could not answer, and blushing 
 as she spoke, " so that I have been almost 
 completely in the country during that time." 
 
 " So much the better," said Mr. Lamp ton, 
 more smiling than ever. " I did not care much 
 to have town-bred young ladies about my chil- 
 dren, for they teach them many things they were 
 better never to have learned. How young you 
 are to have ventured out upon the world your- 
 self; not more than sixteen I would think?" 
 
 " I am more than tliat," answered Lucille. 
 " I am now in my nineteenth year; and as I
 
 TKTAL AND TEIUMPH. 233 
 
 must support myself, I believed the earlier I 
 began, the sooner I should get trained to the 
 labour." 
 
 " A very proper notion, indeed, Miss 
 Koberts. It was but this morning, as I said 
 before, that I knew you were v^^ith us, for 
 Mrs. Lampton manages everything of that 
 kind. She did not state your Christian name." 
 
 '' Lucille, Sir." 
 
 '' A very beautiful name, but not more so 
 than its object requires. I suppose Mrs. 
 Lampton stated to you what you would princi- 
 pally have to do." 
 
 " She gave me some general rules." 
 
 " Well, they won't tax you much. Now, 
 good-bye for the present. Here are the 
 children, but don't you be distressing yourself 
 and destroying all that enchanting bloom by 
 over- exertion. I shall look in on you occa- 
 sionally, and see how you are getting on ;" and 
 he extended his hand to her, holding hers for 
 nearly a minute, in his own, and looking at
 
 S34 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 her as if he were about to say more. He, 
 however, turned away from her with a shght 
 sigh, and walked slowly down the walk. She 
 was in truth glad to get away from him, for 
 with all his seeming kindness, he did not 
 make an honest impression upon her. 
 
 It was now within a few minutes to the 
 hour for returning to the school-room, and 
 Lucille called Clara. 
 
 " I shan't go yet," said that young lady. 
 " Ma's out, and I won't go in till I like." 
 
 " Jane will come then." 
 
 " No, she shan't." 
 
 " Very well, I shall go alone, and tell your 
 mama when she comes home that you refused 
 to obey me." 
 
 " Will you, though ?" Clara asked, looking 
 at her menacingly. " You may if you like, 
 but I know what ma did with Pensford, when 
 papa sat talking with her all day in the square 
 here." 
 
 Lucille did not understand this. She was
 
 TBIAL AND TRIUMPH. 235 
 
 too young and fresh in the world, even to be 
 as skilled in its ways as the little girl who thus 
 addressed her, still she had a certain stubborn- 
 ness, an enduring tenacity of purpose, within 
 her that was not easily conquered. 
 
 " You can come or not as you like," she 
 said, " but as I am obeying the instructions I 
 have received from your mama, I expect you 
 also to obey me," and she walked to the gate. 
 The two little girls returned to their amuse- 
 ments, apparently careless of what she did or 
 said, and she went into the house alone. It 
 was nearly five o'clock when they came in, 
 and Clara had got her face scratched in some 
 wrangle with the other children outside. 
 
 " You didn't see ma, yet," she said, boldly, 
 and went up to Lucille. " She's in now, and 
 you can tell her, that we wouldn't come in for 
 you. I don't care, for I shan't be ordered by 
 you. I'll just learn or play as I like." 
 
 " We shall see," replied Lucille, quietly. 
 
 This little scene then passed over, and the
 
 236 TKIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 dinner was brought in. The girls squabbled 
 and talked as in the morning, but their for- 
 wardness drew no remark from Lucille, and 
 before the meal was finished, Mrs. Lampton 
 entered. She was flushed and vexed-looking, 
 not speaking for some minutes. At last she 
 said — 
 
 '' Miss Roberts, I mentioned twelve as the 
 hour you were to go out for exercise in the 
 morning." 
 
 " I was as near it as I could be. Madam. 
 It was with difficulty I could get out then, 
 and these young ladies refused to return home 
 with me at two." 
 
 " Miss Roberts was talking with - pa all 
 morning in the square," exclaimed Clara, " and 
 not minding us." 
 
 Mrs. Lampton's face coloured up like fire at 
 this news. She regarded Lucille sternly, but 
 there was a quiet dignity in Lucille's manner 
 and expression that rather cooled her, and she
 
 TKIAL AND TEIUMPH. 237 
 
 looked out for something else to fasten on, 
 but just then could find nothing. 
 
 " We must have no more of these com- 
 plaints," she at last said, " and do you, Clara, 
 attend to Miss Roberts, or I shall be angry — 
 I assure you, I shall." 
 
 She left the school-room, and Lucille took 
 up a book. She was allowed the next two 
 hours to herself, and she determined to em- 
 ploy them for herself.
 
 238 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 MORE TRIALS. 
 
 One day at Mrs. Lampton's seemed to be the 
 picture of another. There was the same wran- 
 ghng with the children, the same routine of 
 work and amusement, and not varied inLucille's 
 case with pleasure or comfort. She had re- 
 ceived letters from the Grange, one kindly 
 and affectionate from Mrs. Mapleton, and one 
 calm, sensible, and judicious from M. Le- 
 mayne. Everything was there as she had left 
 it. The Squire still active and hearty, but
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 239 
 
 there was nothing calculated to enlighten her 
 anxieties about Florence, who was well and 
 would soon come up to town. That was all 
 about her. She did not write herself, and 
 sent no remembrance by either of the other 
 two. This pained Lucille, but she had made 
 up her mind to bear with her position. Mr. 
 Lampton came near her seldom. He was, 
 however, invariably kind and attentive to her. 
 and his wife seldom interfered with her. 
 Lucille had the rational principles of order 
 and regularity within, so she kept everything 
 about her in a way that Mrs. Lampton could 
 not disparage, nor imitate with all her fuss 
 and agitation. The children too were getting 
 on, not that they liked Lucille, but they could 
 not find fault with her. Once Mr. Lampton 
 in the school-room spoke to her in a way 
 she did not understand, and which she 
 thought strange ; but it was only once, and 
 he did not repeat it. He, however, made no 
 favourable impression upon her, and seemed
 
 240 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 only inclined to treat her with that considera- 
 tion and kindness which her position merited 
 and required. 
 
 At last the autumn came, and Mrs. Lamp- 
 ton announced her determination of going to 
 the country for some weeks. They had a 
 place about sixty miles from London, to which 
 they always went at this season, and Lucille 
 was gratified by the announcement. She 
 looked on the country as her home. All her 
 early tastes and sympathies were associated 
 with the pleasures and pursuits of life in the 
 woods and fields. She would be once more 
 at the Grange, in thought, and she would find 
 some of the reality with her, if not in the 
 society or mode of life which the Lamptons 
 would cultivate, at least in the scenery and 
 enjoyments which nature would contribute. 
 She also understood that Beechcroft — Mr. 
 Lampton's place in the country — was pretty, 
 so she felt rejoiced at this anticipated change. 
 During all her residence in this family, Lucille
 
 TEIAL AND TBIUMPH. 241 
 
 had never asked one day or hour for herself 
 beyond the first arrangement, and acting on 
 the wish strictly to perform her duties, she had 
 not even requested permission to call on Mrs. 
 Lumsden. She had written to her, and spoke 
 her thanks for her kindness, and received a 
 short note in return. Now, however, that she 
 was to leave for the country, and he perhaps 
 a long time away, she thought it only right to 
 call and see the old lady. She mentioned 
 this to Mrs. Lamp ton. 
 
 '* Certainly,you must call on Mrs. Lumsden," 
 said that lady. " To-morrow will suit you ? 
 The next day we go to Beechcroft." 
 
 Well, that was arranged. The next day 
 came, and Lucille resolved to walk over to 
 Mrs. Lumsden's. She had a servant with her 
 to shew the way, and she faced the streets — 
 thick and swarming with London life. She 
 had seen little of them, as her knowledge was 
 solely confined to a visit in a cab, every Sunday, 
 to her place of worship. Now she ventured 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 24:2 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 through them on foot. She was stared at, 
 followed — more than once almost spoken to. 
 Through the crowded thoroughfares, through 
 rethed places — for Mrs. Lumsden's was a long 
 way off — her road lay ; hut there was a con- 
 tinued succession of varieties that made her 
 progress rather cheering than otherwise. She 
 passed workmen, grim with their toil, young 
 girls, hot and feverish-looking — while their 
 lives were wasting away in the confinement of 
 close rooms — and they now raced homewards 
 for their meals. She saw the glare and show 
 of wealth and state, the burly power of com- 
 merce, the types of distant families and climes, 
 the struggle and bustle of competing life, and 
 all this show was new to her. Another turn, 
 and she was in the quaint old street where 
 Mrs. Lumsden lived, when a hasty step came 
 alongside of her. 
 
 " Why, Luce, this is a surprise." 
 She turned round and saw her father. She 
 started, paled — the servant was some little dis-
 
 TEIAL AND TEIUMPH. 243 
 
 tance behind her — and then she faced the 
 danger, 
 
 A change had come over his appearance. 
 He did not represent the tradesman-out-of- 
 place-class now, for he was showily, if not 
 neatly dressed. His clothes were new and 
 shining, and he was all varnished and vamped 
 up, wearing too the air of a man with whom 
 the world had a pleasant fellowship. He had 
 rings and chains about his person, fresh and 
 polished with all the glitter of gold, if not its 
 reality. There was something seemingly out 
 of place though, in all this finery, as if he had 
 not been accustomed to it for long years, and 
 was on a sort of pilgrimage looking after re- 
 spectability — limping onwards in tight boots. 
 They were now in the old street, moving 
 between two grim lines of hard, dark brick ; 
 and so quiet and retired was the place, that 
 you would think a mighty hand had raised 
 them in the desert, and filled them, a long 
 time ago, with a race which was quite extinct. 
 2 M
 
 244 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 They were black, and formal, and solemn ; 
 but Lucille did not mind this. She had not 
 yet spoken. 
 
 " I think, girl," said Rob, again, " that you 
 might answer your own father. But it may 
 be, you don't know him." 
 
 " I will not escape on that plea. I know 
 you well enough. But I thought there was a 
 bargain between us ?" 
 
 " And so there is." 
 
 '^ You have broken it then ;" and she turned 
 on him almost fiercely. 
 
 '« Why, a man. Luce, you see, when he meets 
 his own flesh and blood a-walking down the 
 street, has a natural inclination to look after 
 it, just to know how it gets on." 
 
 " And that is all ?" Lucille asked. 
 
 " Not just exactly all. There were some 
 other notions in my head, but you aren't going 
 to stop in this street, are you T 
 
 " I am," said Lucille, shortly.
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 246 
 
 "Well, I want a talk with you, and you can 
 say where we'll have it." 
 
 " Here;" she answered," here, in this open 
 street. It is gloomy enough for any purpose, 
 and will suit this admirably. It will not 
 shame father nor daughter, for you see the sun 
 hardly enters it." 
 
 " How you get on ! Look at this fellow of 
 yourn. He is staring us out of countenance, 
 and getting quite black with curiosity." 
 
 " And what of that ? He'll make his re- 
 port in the servants' rooms, and there will be 
 stories and suspicions, and it is probable I 
 shall get turned out when they know who I 
 am, but I won't fall, I won't !" 
 
 " Who wishes it ?" 
 
 " You," she said, in a low hissing whisper. 
 " I am working for life, I am striving to be 
 honest, but you come across me, and will 
 sooner or later throw the brand of your own 
 infamy on me, and then — but I shall not out- 
 live that hour."
 
 246 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 " Bah ! I don't understand you. I think 
 just this moment I'm rather respectable, and 
 I intends being so in future. I have got a 
 capital situation, confidential adviser to thirty 
 thousand a year, a young thirty thousand, and 
 good-looking, keeps great life in town here, 
 and has all sorts of places in the country, so 
 I intends taking you home — " 
 
 '' Me ?" Lucille was startled. She had a 
 vague perception of the meaning of this 
 speech, and it stung her. These few weeks 
 in London had been a whole life to her in the 
 knowledge of life, and had taught her distant 
 notions ox how wealth produced profligacy, 
 and the latter sacrificed hearts and souls to 
 its foulness. " Were not our paths to be dif- 
 ferent?" she asked. " I to follow mine, you, 
 yours." 
 
 "But I don't want you a- slaving all your 
 youth away, and an honest parent, when he 
 can make his own comfortable, should do it." 
 
 " You intend this for me, tlien ?"
 
 TEIAL AND TEIUMPH. 247 
 
 " To be sure I do. I wants you home when 
 I can keep you respectable and snug, for after 
 all, home's cheerless enough without some one 
 we hke's in it. That's it all now. Will you 
 come, not just now. but in a day or so. Will 
 you come ?" 
 
 " No," said Lucille, calmly. " Cast up the 
 past in your life and mine, and tell me why I 
 should. If you had a father's regard for me, 
 you would desire to see me struggling on 
 honestly in this world, rather than sinking 
 down in its crimes and pollutions — you would 
 turn yourself from me, publicly disowning, 
 while you privately encouraged me. You do 
 not do this." 
 
 " Well, not as I knows on. I'm not the 
 man to do that.'' He spoke without tho- 
 roughly understanding her. 
 
 " And you would confer on me the heirship 
 of your own acts. If you be my father, leave 
 me to work out my own journey onwards. Do 
 not shadow m.e with the memoiy springing
 
 S48 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 from yourself. Have some mercy." She 
 stopped and looked him in the face. The 
 servant was at the end of the street, and the 
 old, tall houses had no ears beyond their own 
 doors. " I said, if you were sick, I would 
 nurse you ; if poor, work for you. I have still 
 money, ask and you shall get it." 
 
 '' Bah !" The man did not understand her 
 motions. He had sold her even then, and he 
 was determined to keep to his bargain. He 
 saw more gold in her flashing eyes, more 
 power in her rounded form, more enjoyment 
 in a beauty springing into womanhood, rich 
 with the tracery of girlish loveliness, and yet 
 almost imbued with the charms of more ma- 
 ture years. " I amn't a fool, all out. Luce. 
 So as you're mine, I'll have you, that's all." 
 
 " Then we both fall together." 
 
 ''No, but we don't though. I'll let you 
 know, how I can bring home my own without 
 botherinof a beak about it. So let's have no
 
 TEIAL AND TRIUMPH. 249 
 
 more of tliis. I'm frozen as it is in this in- 
 fernal old street, I'll call for you to-morrow." 
 
 '' Where ?" 
 
 ^* Oh ! some place in London. Be agree- 
 able and come at once, and there won't be no 
 exposure, and after all it's better. I'll be 
 there towards evening for you, and can bring 
 a pair if I likes, but I won't though. We'll 
 just get along quietly, and may be go down to 
 the country next week. It'll be all uncommon 
 pleasant, and youll soon brighten up when 
 you see how jolly we'll be." 
 
 She turned from hirn without a word, and 
 was almost up the steps at Mrs Lumsden's, 
 when he sprang to her side — " Don't be striv- 
 ing to run away, for I'll have a watch on, and 
 you can't get off without me knowing on it,'* 
 he said ; but she did not reply. The huge 
 hall door opened, and they were separated. 
 It was the first relief she felt, but still she 
 was stupified and blind. A dark mist was 
 floating before her eyes, coiling up, and up, 
 M 5
 
 250 TRIAL AND TEIUMPH. 
 
 and up. She felt a hand pressing her down 
 into those depths from which she struggled 
 to escape, and she almost groped along after 
 the servant who preceded her to Mrs. Lums- 
 den's apartment. There seemed a pit-fall in 
 the way, towards which she was hurrying, and 
 she only woke from her dreadful day-dreaming, 
 when she heard the old woman's cheerful voice 
 exclaiming — 
 
 " Is it you, my dear?" 
 
 Lucille roused herself, and approached her 
 almost affectionately, warmly receiving her 
 offered hand. 
 
 " Why, you are all flustered, my dear," con- 
 tinued the old lady, " and look red and scared. 
 What's the matter ;" and she gazed hard into 
 Lucille's eyes, holding her glasses in her hands 
 all the time. Pride in Lucille was stuhborn 
 and haughty, but it gave w^ay at last. She 
 could not restrain herself, and low sobs pre- 
 vented speech. ^' There's something wrong. 
 Have those peoj)le — ?"
 
 TEIAL AND TRIUMPH. 251 
 
 "No, Madam, not they. I am claimed by 
 another." 
 
 " Well, well," — the old lady interrupted her. 
 " Sit down and compose yourself, that's if you 
 can get a chair. There now. Tell me what 
 is wrong." 
 
 " Madam," said Lucille, after a pause, "you 
 know my history." 
 
 " I do, my dear, and more of it than you sur- 
 mise, fori hada letter from Nelly about you," — 
 she always called Mrs. Mapleton, Nelly- — " and a 
 brave little heroine you are, and very consi- 
 derate about others' feelings ; I never was that, 
 my dear, it represents you." 
 
 " But you know. Madam, I had a father 
 with whom I lived before I went to the Grange." 
 
 " Yes, my dear, a sort of nomade, one of 
 that rather increasing class whose hand is 
 against everybody, and that respectable indi- 
 vidual is always striving to throttle or transport 
 all like your father." 
 
 " As Mrs. Lampton said," continued Lucille,
 
 252 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 that we were to go to Beechcroft early to- 
 morrow and remain away some time, I asked 
 permission to come and pay my respects to 
 you. In walking over here I was joined by 
 my father, and he claims me. He insists on 
 my living with him." 
 
 " That would never do, my dear," said the 
 old lady. " We shan't have the brand rescued 
 again sent to the fire. Does he know where 
 you are T 
 
 " He must." 
 
 " Then you go to the country in the morn- 
 ing, and will be out of his reach for at least a 
 time ; and when you come back, should he 
 annoy you, I think I can prevent him perse- 
 vering in it." 
 
 " I want an honest hfe, madam, and I want 
 protection to persevere in that ; but I feel that 
 once with him, I am lost." 
 
 " But you shan't, though, my dear. It's 
 wonderful what an old woman like me can do, 
 when I'm once in earnest at anything. So
 
 TBIAL AND TEIUMPH. 26^ 
 
 now keep your mind easy on this head, for I 
 can and will protect you, my dear." 
 
 " And God will reward you, madam, for it," 
 said Lucille, fervently. " I know, were my 
 connexion with this father discovered, I should 
 sink or die." 
 
 " Yes, my dear, that's all true enough, 
 Society has its own way in those things, and 
 for fear one of a family's not enough to be 
 ruined, it does all it can to block up the pro- 
 gress to honesty of all the rest. It's very wicked, 
 that, my dear ; but then it's quite true. 
 There's Mrs. Lampton, a very good person in 
 her way — it's a little peculiar, but that's all 
 her own fancy — would bundle you out at once 
 if she heard you were of the house of this 
 Ishmsel ;" and the old woman gave a turn in 
 her easy chair, which almost dislodged her 
 great cat from the top of it. 
 
 " And you, madam," Lucille timidly asked, 
 " you know all ?" 
 
 " But I'm too old, my dear, for prejudices ;
 
 254 TPJAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 unless one learns them young, and then they 
 stick to you through life, and mar and wither 
 its happiness into the bargain — not now and 
 then, but ever, always. I know that, my dear, 
 I know it. There are ten thousand prejudices, 
 and I can't say how many milhons of lives 
 they've ended." She spoke sincerely, and 
 almost solemnly ; and her grey eyes glittered 
 so that they gave a glow almost to the old, 
 wrinkled features about them. " But all this 
 is dull, my dear, and I haven't yet thanked 
 you for your visit." 
 
 '' Oh ! madam, I should have come before." 
 " No, you acted with some sense, for do you 
 know I'm worried to death with visits, and yet 
 it's very odd. I never go out myself, never 
 ask one of them to eat or drink with me, and 
 am savage enough at times to them ; and still 
 they come, and come, and stock up this old 
 lumber-room with worse lumber than's in it — 
 ruffling their silks and their satins, and their 
 fine cloth about Vesta and Fanny here, and
 
 TEIAL AND TRIUMPH. 255 
 
 sending me presents and polite notes, and 
 asking me to name their children, and advise 
 them, and all that. Isn't it. curious, my dear ?" 
 The old woman looked spiteful enough as she 
 spoke. 
 
 " They find you perhaps kind to them, as 
 you are to me." 
 
 " Not a hit of it, my dear. I'm never kind, 
 but rather otherwise with them, for there's 
 not one of them that I like, except Hugh 
 Mortimer, and he seldom comes, but when he 
 does, he's always frank, and if he wants any- 
 thing he asks for it. He's not very good 
 looking, but he's affable and don't understand 
 these people, and when I say that they're not 
 a bit better than other people, Hugh defends 
 them, and never gives up his opinion to me, 
 but just says I'm wrong when he thinks as a 
 Christian should do." 
 
 '* And as I think honest people would," said 
 Lucille. 
 
 The old woman half-shut her eyes, and
 
 256 TKIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 then peered curiously at Lucille from the 
 corners of them. She held her spectacles in 
 one hand, and reclined back in her chair, 
 until she formed the centre of a group, with 
 the China monsters, and the great cat sitting 
 above, purred and fretted with her soft paws, 
 stretching her whiskered face along them, and 
 rubbing and polishing it off. Some curious 
 notions w^ere galloping through that old head, 
 for the brows contracted, and the parchment 
 face seemed to twist and wriggle, like a clo\vn 
 making faces at the gallery in Astley's, until 
 Lucille began to imagine that they were all 
 alike, monsters and all. She opened her eyes 
 at last — ''Would you, my dear ?" 
 
 " I should hope so, Madam." 
 
 '' Then tell me, my dear, which did you 
 think the most weird and grotesque looking of 
 us three — I mean, my dear, my Chinese 
 friends and myself ?" and she relapsed into the 
 former position, looking askance at Lucille. 
 
 The question w^as so odd, that it took
 
 TEIAL AND TEIUMPH. 287 
 
 Lucille certainly by surprise, and as tlie old 
 woman lay there, she would have found some 
 difficulty in directly giving an answer, but with 
 a judgment and truth that showed she spoke 
 honestly, she said — " Between the work of 
 God and fancy of man, be the first ever so 
 plain, I would not make a comparison, nor, 
 madam, should you ask me." 
 
 " And would you, Miss Eoberts," exclaimed 
 the old lady, stiffly and sternly, " venture to 
 lecture me ? If I said, you were forward and 
 impertinent, what reply would you make ?" 
 
 " That I acted from my best judgment, and 
 did not merit your censure," said Lucille, 
 calmly and half-rising. 
 
 "If I also said, that Nelly, Mrs. Mapleton I 
 mean, had taught you wrong and that she was 
 half an old fool, what would you say T and 
 now the old wrinkled face grew black and the 
 grey eyes glared as if they had shone out of a 
 whole sea of malice and hatred. 
 
 " I should say, madam," Lucille was on her
 
 358 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 feet now, but the old head did not move. 
 There it was before her, impassable and threa- 
 tening. Her own honest nature was in arms, 
 and she didn't care what Mrs. Lumsden 
 thought. She was red and irritated too, her 
 face glowing, and with half excited tones, 
 she replied — " I would say, madam, you calum- 
 niate the absent ; and if I could save Mrs, 
 Mapleton a moment's suffering by a year's 
 agony, I would gladly endure it. I must wish 
 you good morning, madam," and Lucille 
 drew herself up proudly and stiffly. 
 
 " No, but you mustn't though, my dear," 
 exclaimed the old woman, and it was wonder- 
 ful how on the instant that human mask, so 
 worn and parchment-like, glowed and fresh- 
 ened up, until it looked Hke a flushed rose in 
 the early sun ; and her grey eyes, dimmed with 
 a little dew, grew clear and bright. Lucille 
 stopped short. *' You mustn't tliough. Sit 
 down again. So, Nelly's not an old frump — " 
 
 " Mrs. Lumsden — "
 
 TKTAL AND TKIUMPH. 259 
 
 " The gold's here," muttered the old woman 
 to herself, and the light and radiance still 
 shone on her face. " It must he saved and 
 treasured up. Never mind me, my dear,'' she 
 went on. " This is only my way, and I'll send 
 it all to Nelly, with directions to tell you I 
 did. I said you wouldn't go, so you won't yet. 
 Just put off that great, grand look of yours 
 and tell me, didn't you think me very odd, 
 there now ?" 
 
 "I did, Madame, and very unjust and un- 
 kind," said Lucille, not knowing what to make 
 of the old woman. 
 
 " And I thought you, my dear, very honest 
 and wise, and courageous, so that winds up 
 this trial scene, and we shall talk of something 
 else ;" and she rattled away about a hundred 
 things with all the freshness and vigour of 
 youth, and an experience that every day seemed 
 to strengthen. She had a decidedly had tongue, 
 but she never, so to say, spoke ill of people in 
 an untrue sense. She did not hesitate to tear
 
 260 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 open their pretensions, though she was tender 
 of their weaknesses. 
 
 Lucille at last got up to go, and the old 
 woman held her hand for a moment between 
 her dry palms. It was a moment of mourn- 
 ful thought, when old memory races away into 
 the gloomy past, and stings itself upon the 
 pointed thorns of the sad experiences or trials 
 it chronicles. There was a softness about her 
 too in that minute of backward contemiDlation, 
 and she looked full into Lucille's handsome, 
 sparkling face, saying half aloud — " It might 
 have been, might, of my own kindred too — . 
 The old woman's fate would have been less 
 lonely, and loving hands would perhaps have 
 clustered round her. But it's all over now — . 
 There, my dear, I think I'm dreaming. Just 
 let me know how you get on at Beechcroft, 
 and don't be afraid of that bad father. He 
 shan't get you, my dear. Mind me, he shan't.*' 
 
 Lucille walked rapidly home. She had 
 been out longer then she intended, and she
 
 TEIAL AND TKIUMPH. 261 
 
 dreaded reproof. On every side she looked 
 out for her father, but Rob was invisible, 
 though other eyes, led by him, watched her 
 up to Mrs. Lampton's door, and took good 
 notice of the great brass knocker on it.
 
 262 TRIAL AND TIUUMPH. 
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 AN HEIR AND A VICTIM. 
 
 A young lord had fallen into the accumulations 
 of a long minority. His father had died be- 
 fore he was horn, his mother a few years 
 afterwards, and his guardian was a sordid, 
 penurious man, who funded and funded the 
 proceeds of a flourishing estate, until he 
 had doubled, in seventeen years, its income. 
 The young lord had been at Eton and at col- 
 lege. He had done in both places what every 
 well-constituted member of an aristocracy
 
 TRIAL AND TPJX3MPH. 263 
 
 should do — upheld the privileges of his order 
 by entering most fully into its pursuits, its 
 prejudices, whims, and vices. He would have 
 been more extravagant there than he was, had 
 not the far-seeing eye of the hard guardian 
 penetrated even there, and scared cunning 
 Jew and trafficking Gentile — surrounding the 
 incipient peer so thoroughly by his astute 
 contrivances, that he could neither beg nor 
 borrow. 
 
 All that was over now. The guardian had 
 been gathered to his long home since his ward 
 became of age. He had screwed, and pinched, 
 and harassed himself and others to accumu- 
 late a splendid fortune for the young heir, 
 who now, with hot blood and varying fancies, 
 had begun to spend it. He had left to him 
 a great power, which he might wield like a 
 demon, and spoil and slay in the sunlight, 
 with the weapons wrung from this huge 
 armoury of gold, or, by its appliances, kindle 
 love and solace the pining, weary virtue that
 
 264 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 hot- footed and worn limped through the world 
 where his destiny had planted him. To kill 
 or save was within him. He had not been 
 heralded into his splendid appanage by the 
 blessing voices of loving parents. He had 
 entered on possession fresh from his club. 
 The efforts to save and increase had accumu- 
 lated the dross, but the heart of its prospec- 
 tive owner felt none of those loving impulses 
 which cherished guardianship) nurtures into 
 bloom and flower. The dead mother was dead 
 in memory and act, the dead guardian, hard- 
 handed and miserly, lived in the long rent-roll 
 of freshly added properties and the accumu- 
 lations in the funds. The mother and father 
 were drawn in canvass, and hung up in the 
 ancestral gallery in the country, perhaps seen 
 by a new face, when a stranger rambled over 
 the mansion searching for a holiday amongst 
 the full-length representations that chronicle 
 the lives of the founders of great houses ; but 
 the guardian had been appreciated. The first
 
 TKTAL AND TRIUMPH. 265 
 
 master of the day bad given a history to his 
 hard, parched face, yellow as the gold he had 
 amassed. Gratitude for life moved not in the 
 heir, but gratitude for wealth gained w^as ever 
 vivid and shining. The end came. The 
 guardian was dead, and the young baron, 
 Ralph Shapland, was his own master. 
 
 It might have been one, perhaps it was two 
 o'clock of the day on which the Lamptons 
 were to go to Beechcroft; it \\as dinner time 
 anyhow amongst the hard working and humble 
 who had been able to coin their sinews' toil 
 into food — a soft, warm day too, the turning 
 point of the ripening Autumn, just like the 
 warm smiles of a cheerful old age, that has 
 done good and goes to rest in peace, knowing 
 all the while that the end is near ; yet the day 
 was only morning, and early morning, in the 
 high mansions that flanked the young peer's 
 residence. The Venetian blinds were care- 
 fully closed in front of the house — for the hot 
 sun was bathing its front with his dying life- 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 -* 266 TRIAL AND TPJUMPH. 
 
 current, and while the young gambolled in 
 his glory, and the old fondled his grasp, the 
 Shapland mansion had hardly done more than 
 rub its eyes, and stretch and yawn, going 
 about slip-shod, and still almost dozing. 
 
 There were two persons in a room in this 
 house at the hour mentioned. One of them 
 lounged heavily and drowsily upon a sofa 
 drawn near the fire, hot as it was outside. 
 He was young, perhaps four and twenty, but 
 the freshness of youth w^as gone. There were 
 the symptoms of a coming age, not the marks 
 of years, but of that weariness and break-down, 
 which riot in passion or in vice produces, 
 abeady graven upon his face. It was a fair 
 face, soft and feminine, lighted up by those 
 blue eyes that sometimes shine like the decoy- 
 fires of the morass, and allure as they destroy. 
 The hair curled up from a w^hite, lofty brow — 
 thick, golden-coloured, and fell away in short, 
 clustering masses over the sides of the head, 
 almost hiding the delicate, small ears under it.
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 267 
 
 Perhaps there was a hardness about the mouth 
 that detracted from the softness of the other 
 features ; and there were notches in the brow 
 — coming hnes that would furrow its smooth 
 surface — yet these were but signs, so far. The 
 deadened hght in the room did not draw out 
 the expression of the features, for it sat on 
 them almost pall-like, darkening their bright- 
 ness and hardening their effect. In figure 
 this person did not seem tall, but the propor- 
 tions, gathered from the lazy attitude in which 
 he lay, were evidently fine and graceful. This 
 was my Lord Shapland. 
 
 The other in this room was Rob. He was 
 dressed as when Lucille saw him, but was 
 getting more at home in his clothes. He 
 went about the room with a silent, stealthy 
 step, touching up little things here and there, 
 and waiting to be addressed. He appeared to 
 think himself still on sufferance, and in a way 
 wondering how he got there, nor did the 
 young lord mind him. The breakfast was 
 2 N
 
 368 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 before him, and untouched, for he was half- 
 dozing on the sofa, and not caring to eat — yet 
 there was a busy thought twining itself into 
 his half- sleeping mind. 
 
 At last he spoke, as if conscious who was 
 near him, without changing his position, and 
 scarcely even opening his eyes. He looked 
 like dreaming still, and his voice had a narco- 
 tic tone, as if the words were distilled through 
 opium. 
 
 " You are there ;" — there was a low bow 
 from Rob — " and it's almost a mystery to me 
 how you have gotten in. I saw De Lisle last 
 night, and he does not remember your name." 
 
 " It was his father, my lord," answered Rob, 
 *' and it is a good many years since I was with 
 him. He is dead into the bargain. I was 
 with him on the Continent. He was an am- 
 bassador there." 
 
 " I don't mind that, though, as I never 
 cared to know who or what you were ; only I
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 269 
 
 find you just suitable at present, and a very 
 thorough rogue into the bargain." 
 
 " Your lordship is pleasant this morning. 
 Shall I raise the bhnd ?" 
 
 " And let the sun in on us ? No. I rather 
 think not ; for the place is not half dark 
 enough for our pleasant work. Egad, when I 
 just reflect on it," and he raised his head, 
 shaking away the thick curls that had fallen 
 forward upon his face, " I begin to wonder at 
 the companionship I have gotten into. You 
 couldn't add another my friend, to give us an 
 umpire, did we dispute ?" 
 
 " Oh, we won't do that, my lord. We are 
 sure to get along quite pleasantly ; and I think 
 you may find me useful. I know I'll do my 
 best." 
 
 " There's some satisfaction in that, my 
 friend ; but I want more. You know you are 
 here on terms. I must succeed. I don't 
 wish to go near it and then fail, for I want 
 success. I am wearied with the sameness of
 
 270 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 the past, and I want the excitement of a glow- 
 ing chase — a. something to rouse me, with a 
 certainty as to the result. You understand 
 that r 
 
 " Perfectly, my lord." There was a half- 
 smile slowly creeping over Rob's face. He 
 had his own notions and opinions, and they 
 gave breadth to that smile. 
 
 " Yet,'' continued the young lord, " I can 
 hardly know how you can enter on this, either. 
 Human nature must be infernally black in 
 some — in you, my friend, for instance." He 
 had nigh added — in all, for he looked at the 
 world through a darkened, smoked glass, and 
 saw the goodness, and beauty, and harmony 
 in it eclipsed. From the yellow guardianship 
 that hoarded and coined for him until he 
 mounted, with loose rein, the steed that wealth 
 had harnessed for his will, he saw only the 
 bleak and hollow showing of life — its glittering 
 pleasures, where the flowers and the gems but 
 barely covered the sloping gulph below them :
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 271 
 
 its polluted associations — invented to serve the 
 wants that festered and grew strong, mastering 
 with a ruthless hand whatever was holy or 
 divine in the nature they swayed. He had 
 heard of virtue, of a spirit rising above the 
 world's thrall, and living in it, and of it, yet 
 pure and happy ; hut this was a dream to him. 
 As yet he had only realized what was base, or 
 sensual in nature, and was wearied with its 
 crude enjoyments. '' In you," he went on, 
 " for I think there should be some tie in na- 
 ture, and yet you propose this to me, and tell 
 me, too — " 
 
 "No, not that, my lord," said Bob, inter- 
 rupting him, " I only stated that she believed 
 so, that was all." 
 
 " Then," the young lord turned angiily 
 round, " you have no power ?" 
 
 " Why, as your lordship may see, it's all 
 one to her. She thinks it, and isn't by any 
 means pleased at the prospect, not but she 
 might be worse off, for that slaving-away of
 
 272 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 herself after them two little uns ain't at all 
 refreshing. It works out the roses from a gal's 
 cheeks and don't make them brighten up." 
 
 " You only think of her," said the young 
 lord, drawing himself more to the hght. " You 
 may raise the blinds now, for that loving care 
 of her you show, will make me less afraid of 
 the broad day," and Rob raised up the blinds, 
 until the room swam in sunlight, flashing as 
 it did from the gilded cornice to the richly 
 covered floor, and turning into golden thread 
 the young man's thick hair. " Father or not, 
 you love that child ?" 
 
 " Well, I'spose I does, but then I don't think 
 it would be dutiful in her to stand up against 
 my wishes, so I'd bring her to reason, and 
 then--" 
 
 " Ruin, murder her — that's it, old fellow, 
 the plainest name you can call the thing by," 
 and my lord was now on his feet. He had 
 kicked the sofa away from before him, and 
 stood full and erect. " I know it, and I am
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 273 
 
 not just sensible enough to say this moment 
 whether you or 1 am the greater ruffian — Ring 
 for breakfast." 
 
 Rob pulled the bell very gently. He did 
 not half understand this young peer. There 
 were both will and power, where he only 
 wanted passion and obedienee ; but he was too 
 cunning to exhibit his dissatisfaction, so he 
 went silently about his duties, ministered 
 quietly to the young lord's wants, and waited 
 on him during breakfast. That was over, and 
 the young lord lifted a newspaper. 
 
 ^' You won't require me, my lord, for some- 
 time?" said Rob, modestly. 
 
 " No," answered his master, sharply. 
 
 ^' Then, I'll go down there, my lord." There 
 was no answer, and Rob stealthily crept out 
 of the room. 
 
 " I don't understand that un," he muttered 
 
 to himself, as he put on his hat and walked 
 
 through the hall. " Yesterday he was at 
 
 biling point and now he's almost a frozen 
 
 N 5
 
 274 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 He's a making his calculation, how he'll do me, 
 but I won't be done by him, lord and all as he 
 is. I'll spht him, if he thinks he'll go for to 
 take the bit from me, and then turn me off 
 when he has spiled my plant," and Rob struck 
 the crown of his hat with an air of detenni- 
 nation that seemed defiant enough. He went 
 slowly through some of the principal streets, 
 hardly noticing objects in his progress, and 
 then he plunged into a dark lane, again into 
 another, again, and again, until he seemed to 
 feel even the pressure of the places through 
 which he passed. Foul and noisome they 
 were, reeking with the scum of the huge city, 
 dirty children, and slatternly women, unshaven 
 and scowling men— smoking, cursing, quar- 
 relling — the dim lines of squalid houses now 
 and then lighted up by the gaudy public-house, 
 which even here aped plate-glass and bright 
 lamps, and the flourish of shining paint and 
 glistening varnish, while the people streamed
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 275 
 
 in and out, murky and black, through its wide 
 doors. 
 
 But Rob did not mind this, for the scene 
 with all its changes and decorations was com- 
 mon enough to him, so on he went. Yet this 
 mire seemed never to have an end. It was 
 shifting, pathetic, ridiculous, brutal, but not 
 disappearing. At last he stopped. A low, 
 black house, dingy and fading, was before 
 him, and this he entered. In the broad day 
 the gas was burning here, and an old woman, 
 bleared and wrinkled, stood behind it, before 
 the beer- tap. She leered at Rob confusedly 
 over the light. 
 
 " Well— What's wanting ?" 
 
 " Oh, not much, mother Fippin," said Rob. 
 " I was only a-looking for any of my friends, 
 that might happen to be hereabouts. You 
 didn't see the Driver just now ?" 
 
 She grimaced and pointed with her shri- 
 velled finger towards a door at the end of 
 the shop.
 
 276 TBIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 " I know it, mother," continued Rob, and 
 he brushed past her into this room. The gas 
 burned in it too, but it was only a speck, for 
 the place was so heavy with the smoke reeking 
 out of many pipes, that the solitary light 
 looked liker a candle shining through a hole 
 in a blackened wall, than anything else 
 Soon as the eye became accustomed to the 
 atmosphere, you could have seen here four or 
 five heads first, and then the persons would 
 develope themselves, and by and by the room 
 became clearer, and Rob recognised the 
 Driver. That leader of fashion was up at 
 the end of the room, glowing under the gas 
 light, and the steam of hot gin. He had a » 
 long pipe and he was propounding something 
 oracular, when his eye lit on Rob — 
 
 " The Cap'n, is it? Why, Rob, where on 
 arth has you been ?" 
 
 " I'm all on fire," exclaimed Rob. " This 
 here localit} is never touched by the rain, I
 
 TEIAL AND TEIUMPH. 277 
 
 think, for there an't nothing to drink ever in 
 it. You haven't nothing, Driver." 
 
 *' We never has too much, Rob, for old 
 Fippin don't give long score. Come up here, 
 and I believes we'll be able to manage the 
 cobwebs this time. How grand you are too ?"» 
 
 " I have been rather lucky," said Eob, 
 slowly, '^ of late. Anything astir ? I sees 
 nothing there but new hands." 
 
 The Driver touched his nose with a fore- 
 finger. " Not men of business, all in the 
 light line, and of no manner of use for people 
 of talent and energy. Very good at a vipe, 
 but that's low. They doesn't understand the 
 .high departments of business at all. I'm 
 glad you've come up, for you was wanted 
 badly." 
 
 " Here I am then," said Rob. " Now 
 what's the go ?" 
 
 " Gemmen," said the Driver, " you'll not be 
 a- wan ting of me for a minute or so. Old 
 friend, and some news. You all understands
 
 278 TKTAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 me," and the Driver rose from his seat, and 
 led Rob out of the room. There was another 
 small apartment contiguous, and they entered 
 it. " When we gets the liquor," continued 
 the Driver, '' we'll get into particklars. But, 
 Rob, you's very grand." 
 
 " Fairish, Driver. I tells you, I was lucky." 
 
 *' We're now all square," said the Driver, 
 " and I don't minds if I opens my mind to 
 you. We have a set about sixty miles off 
 which should pay. The Bang's down there 
 an knows the premises, and seein that it's a 
 rather lonely place, he thinks somut might be 
 done to our benefit. We doesn't ask much, 
 and thinks as how we might get it." 
 
 '' A general lot, is it ?" 
 
 " I should rather say it was. I doesn't 
 know the fixins accurately, but the Bang has 
 the whole lie right afore him, and has gone 
 over the premises. There isn't nobody in it 
 just now but the old uns that looks arter the 
 things when the family's away."
 
 TEIAL AND TRIUMPH. 279 
 
 *^ You must know," began Eob," that I'm 
 rather partiklarly situated at present. I'm 
 deep in a very pleasant business and wouldn't 
 care for change." 
 
 " Then you don't join ?" 
 
 " I think as that I can say No to that 
 question." 
 
 *' We wants a hand," said the Driver, " and 
 wants it badly. There's no use of goin to 
 business, when it's heavy like this here now 
 with the wrong tools. Now there's Bat, and 
 the Bang, and me and you, a very likely lot 
 to do the thing as professionals should, but in 
 case you stag, we're blowed up." 
 
 " I couldn't do it. The work would take 
 me away from other business that's paying 
 just now." 
 
 " There's a sort of agreement among we 
 four, isn't there, Rob T said the Driver, knock- 
 ing the ashes out of his pipe, and looking very 
 grave, " and it says as how we must stand to
 
 '2S0 TPtlAL AND TEIUMPII. 
 
 each other in this sort of thing, and I think, 
 Rob, you looks hke runnin away from it." 
 
 The hard pressure was on the victim. The 
 crime-screw was twisted about him, and 
 though he did not aim at honesty, he wanted 
 to enjoy life without the punishment wdiich 
 its open violation might produce. He felt his 
 situation, its risks and consequences. He 
 could not brave with impunity, the companion- 
 ship he would now shun. 
 
 " I'm striving to live honestly," he said. 
 
 The Driver laughed, long, loudly, furiously. 
 There was a soul in his boisterous laughter, 
 for it cowed his companion, as if it were tearing 
 him up, and opening the workings of his inner 
 thought for the investigation of his tormentor. 
 " You," screamed the Driver, wiping with the 
 back of his soiled, rough hand, the tears from 
 his eyes," you, Rob, well, now, if that ain't 
 good, waluable information for these here that's 
 a-risin about us. Honest ! That ere word isnt 
 what it used to be at all, for sartain. I knows
 
 TKIAL AND TRIUMPH. 281 
 
 it well. Now, Eob, what are you arter? 
 You're a-doin somut not common." 
 
 " I'm doing nothing that. I cares anybody to 
 know on, for there isn't nothing wrong in it; and 
 I doesn't take it kindly to be stumped up in this 
 manner. I'm uncommon snug just now, and 
 wouldn't like to be turned adrift." 
 
 " I'll just send a word to the Bang, and hear 
 his mind on it." 
 
 " But I don't want that. There's three on 
 you, good ones to go, and I doesn't see any 
 use in me going at all." 
 
 " I does though," and the Driver rose. 
 i( We're sartain sure to have a hand in this 
 matter, and you knows all about it. The 
 fixins is nothing, and from your swell turn up 
 just now, I doesn't know but you may be one 
 of them ere detectives, that's always a-poking 
 about and spoilin business ; so I thinks, Rob, 
 as you an't goin to tell how you're knocking 
 along at present, you must keep your hand in
 
 282 TRIAL AND TEIUMPH. 
 
 by getting a slice here. That ere agreement 
 can't be wiolated. It can't for sartain." 
 
 Kob rose too. He knew the tricks of his 
 late profession. " I goes, Driver," he said, 
 with a hard gulp down. *' That's settled, and 
 111 be here to-night to fix time and all that. 
 It's unlucky, it is, but can't be helped." 
 
 The Driver seemed satisfied, and Rob rose 
 to go. Again his way was through this human 
 puddle, feted and rankling with the prurience 
 of vice, but he did not heed this. He knew 
 he was followed and watched, and bitterly did 
 he regret the indiscretion that induced him to 
 go to the den he had quitted. But on he 
 went. He was again in the Christian streets, 
 where, if the vices were as deep as in the 
 naked thoroughfares he had quitted, they were 
 covered over with broad-. cloth, and silk, and 
 fine linen. At last he was in the square be- 
 fore the green door and the great brass knocker, 
 but the house looked gloomy and sulky. The 
 blinds were drawn, the area double-locked,
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 2SS 
 
 the fat porter gone. The Hfe had vanished, 
 and Lucille was heyond his reach. He looked 
 over the front, from basement to roof — the 
 glistening, shrouded windows, the iron railing, 
 the stone flags, the brass plate, — he turned 
 round, and gazed into the square gardens, but 
 all the same. There was no trace there of 
 what he sought. He went up the steps and 
 knocked. The huge rapper gave a dead, sul- 
 len sound, that reverberated through the house, 
 almost startling Eob, but the echo died away, 
 and there was no sign. He knocked again. 
 This time a door was opened in the area, and 
 he looked down. A woman's voice met his. 
 
 " What's wantin T 
 
 " Where's the master ?" 
 
 " They're all gone away to the country, and 
 won't be back these two months," said the 
 woman, drawing herself in ; and Rob, forced 
 to turn away with this scanty information, 
 slowly descended the steps.
 
 284 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE BROKEN THORN AND THE SECOND TRIAL. 
 
 Lucille was at Beechcroft. It was a new 
 house in an old domain. The trees, centuries 
 old, crabbed and gnarled, moss-covered and 
 ivy-clad, raised their great an tiered heads 
 away far above the shining roof of the new 
 house, which sat perched up trim and neat, 
 at the top of a sloping lawn. It was wide 
 and green, fringed with a winding stream at 
 one side, and by a long, straight avenue of 
 the forest lords at the other, while its lower
 
 TKIAL AND TRIUMPH. 285 
 
 end terminated in an artificial lake, which 
 mirror-like, reflected inversely the woodland 
 scenery opposite to it. The modern mixed 
 curiously with the antique. There were fan- 
 tastic chimneys and pointed gahles upon the 
 new house, mahogany windows filled with 
 plate-glass, which all looked prim and gingerly 
 in the old air of the place, for there were 
 strong traces of the past about it. You could 
 see it in the giant oaks that had witnessed 
 the coming and going of many generations, 
 in that green column with its crumbling 
 stones, mossed over with the slimy verdure of 
 many ages, and now paraded as a relic of the 
 past, in that grey ruin, a frowning archway, 
 carved and traced with the remains of sculp- 
 tured heads, saint and seraph, broken and 
 black now, but rich with grand memories. 
 This was the grand entrance to a baronial 
 hall, which had stood there centuries gone, 
 and had crumbled and crumbled into deadly 
 ruin, no helping hand to bind its breaking
 
 286 TEIAL AND TPJUMPH. 
 
 walls, and so it fell. The stones that had 
 stood battering rain and glaring steel, in the 
 days of conflict, tumbled down before the cold 
 hand of conquering time. They gorged the 
 moat, and filled the plain, when improvement, 
 progressive and unbending, swept away the 
 whole mass, and left alone this dark archway, 
 and there it stood. 
 
 Three days in Beechcroft had made Lucille 
 mistress of its environs. She rambled through 
 them with the returnhig throes of a new life. 
 They were not pleasant as the old Grange, for 
 there was too much gilding and seeking after 
 the frivolous in ornament about the new house, 
 but still she was in the open fields, in the 
 woods, under the old trees, and all these made 
 home for her. She was beginning to like this 
 place, surrounding it with the reflection of 
 those warm affections which were living in her 
 for Pulsford. She had wrought a sort of 
 miracle with Clara and Jane. They were 
 beginning to like her, and becoming tractable
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 287 
 
 themselves. Under this old archway, tlie 
 little girls tracing with their fingers the 
 broken outlines of the faces on its grim stone, 
 Lucille was sitting. She read and talked to 
 them, and they laughed, she, almost girlish 
 again, for a wdiile back she was a woman, and 
 they full of strange conceits and childish fancies 
 telling her how this and that among the broken 
 features was like human faces known to them. 
 The evening was coming on, and Lucille 
 thought of going to the house. Mr. Lanipton 
 had not yet come down to Beechcroft, and his 
 wife was still the model woman, so Lucille 
 held to her hours. 
 
 *' Look, here, Lucille," exclaimed Clara, as 
 she rose. " Well now, if that isn't John Grey's 
 nose." 
 
 " Where ?" asked Jane. 
 
 " Oh, just look. It's turned up all as his, 
 and has a great broad end on it quite the same. 
 Do, look at it, Lucille," 
 
 " John Grey is a good boy, and he cannot
 
 288 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 make or unmake his nose, Clara," said Lucille, 
 and as she turned to the figure, intending to 
 say something else, she almost screamed, then 
 checked herself. A huge head, black, shaggy, 
 the eyes repellant and ferocious, was just 
 visible from behind the archway. The rest 
 of the person was hid in the tangled under- 
 wood behind it ; but that face was known to 
 Lucille. She had seen it before. 
 
 " Come, children, let us get into the house," 
 she said. There was a crashing through the 
 under- wood — the girls almost screamed, for 
 the head, figure and all, were before them. 
 
 " I asks pardon, Miss, but I hopes I doesn't 
 frighten you. I is a poor feller that's out of 
 luck, and just come down to you to get a 
 trifle.'' 
 
 '^ Go to the house," said Lucille — " But 
 5tay — Charity should not know delay,'' and she 
 took a shilling from her pocket and handed it 
 to the man. He received it in his great 
 black palm. "Go round to the house, and
 
 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 289 
 
 and they will give you something to eat." 
 
 *'Yoii he's very kind, Miss, to a poor fellow, 
 an if I wouldn't ax too much, I'd beg a pin, 
 for I has a thorn in this hand, and it's mortal 
 annoyin of one." 
 
 " Show me it," said Lucille, kindly, " and I 
 will take it out for you." The man again ex- 
 tended towards her his hand. It was grimy 
 and dirty, yet Lucille, without hesitation, took 
 it in hers; and while this man's eyes, with a 
 curious expression in them, were bent on her 
 face, she took out the thorn. 
 
 '' Ah, Miss, them little fingers of yourn be 
 all black like with touchin of mine. Had I 
 known you'd ha been so kind like, I'd ha had 
 them clean." 
 
 " I don't think," said Lucille, " I have done 
 myself much harm in helping a fellow being, 
 and charity and kindness should never be too 
 fastidious." 
 
 *' That ain't wrong, anyhow. You've done 
 me a good turn, an I doesn't forget. So I'll 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 ^90 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 just never mind troubling the house, but 
 go down to the village. Thankee, Miss — 
 thankee." 
 
 Lucille looked after tliis man. The face 
 was knov^n to her, but where she had seen it — 
 for the recollection was confused — she could 
 not then call to mind. It troubled her, but 
 she would not let her suspicions be known, 
 so talking with the children, she hurried on 
 to the house, and just in time to escape a 
 coming shower. In the house, Mr. Lampton's 
 arrival, some minutes before, had created con- 
 fusion, and his wife was fussing and running 
 about. She was in confusion, and everybody 
 was in confusion too. She had on her slip, 
 and was here and everywhere, giving all sorts 
 of directions, and never waiting to see any of 
 them fulfilled. 
 
 " How late you are, Miss Roberts," she 
 said, on seeing Lucille, " and in the rain too. 
 Those children must be all wet." 
 
 *' No, indeed, mama," exclaimed Clara,
 
 TKIAL AND TRIUMPH. 291 
 
 '' we were in before it began ;'' and here Mr. 
 Lamp ton came up to them. He was just 
 down from his dressing-room, and had been 
 putting himself in order. He offered his 
 hand to Lucille. 
 
 " Glad to get down here at last, Miss 
 Eoberts. The town is slow now\ You have 
 made the most of your time. The roses are 
 quite blooming again ;" and when he saw his 
 wife fidgetting, he took the little girls in his 
 arms and kissed them. " ^ye'll all be right 
 soon, now. I think w^e should take tea 
 together." 
 
 " Mr. Lampton," said his wife, severely. 
 
 ^' You're right, my love ; I understand," and 
 Lucille, glad to escape, went at once to the 
 rooms allotted to her use, leaving the honour- 
 able Frederick to discuss the question of tea 
 with his wife. It had become a storm outside 
 too. A wdid wind careered through the old 
 trees, and heavy rain-drops buffeted the win- 
 dows, and the night came down, crushing out 
 2
 
 292 TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 at once the lingering traces of the evening. 
 Heavy clouds filled the sky, dark and thick, 
 chasing each other over its expanse, and 
 growing murkier and denser, as the night 
 deepened. The little girls grew tired and 
 fretted, so after tea they went to bed, and 
 Lucille remained up alone. She read for a 
 time, thought over old memories, and then 
 took out for another perusal a letter from M. 
 Lemayne received that morning. The candles 
 had been lighted, and she ^vas up rather later 
 than usual. The door handle was turned 
 very quietly, and as she looked towards it, to 
 see what was wanted, Mr. Lampton crept 
 stealthily in. Before Lucille could speak, he 
 was at her side. 
 
 " I knew you weren't gone to your room yet," 
 he said, " so I came to talk to you about the 
 children. They get on famously with you, 
 and I don't wonder at it, for you have the 
 charm of attaching people to you." He w^as 
 now seated, and his eyes were fixed on her
 
 TKIAL AND TRIUMPH. 293 
 
 face. She felt his look, for she did not like 
 the intrusion, and remained without regarding 
 him. 
 
 '' I am doing all I can, and we begin to 
 agree," she answered. 
 
 " That is everything, my dear Miss Roberts. 
 You can make everyone agree wdth, and like 
 you;" and Mr. Lampton's face looked very 
 smiling. ^' Indeed, you are quite a little 
 tyrant that way, and exact love without 
 deigning to notice it." 
 
 "I do not comprehend you, sir," said 
 Lucille, now meeting his looks, which were 
 growing ardent, and he sidled up nearer her. 
 
 " You mean, you won't. Indeed I feel 
 quite changed since you came here ; I am 
 getting languid and low-spirited, and I think 
 I am growing nervous. I was completely 
 unhappy until I would get down to see you 
 all." 
 
 " It is near the hour that Mrs. Lampton 
 requires me to go to my own room," said
 
 S94: TRIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 Lucille, not minding him. " You know, sir, 
 she is exact." 
 
 " I could not have lived so long with her 
 without feeling that. I see no reason, how- 
 ever, that you should run away from me thus, 
 and when you exercise such influence over 
 one, it's hardly fair." 
 
 ^' That influence, sir, is quite unknown to 
 me, and I assure you, not at all wished for." 
 
 " It is not the less powerful though ; and 
 you should not drive me completely beside 
 myself by such obdurate cruelty." 
 
 " Really, sir—" 
 
 " I know what you would say, but I feel I 
 must disclose my sentiments, notwithstanding 
 the risk of ofl'ending you. I am quite un- 
 happy. I am indeed. Quite miserable, I 
 assure you. And though I strive to keep up 
 against it, I can't control my feelings ;" and 
 Mr. Lampton did strive to look the picture he 
 was attempting to sketch. 
 
 " I must leave you, sir," Lucille said. She
 
 TKTAL AND TRIUMPH. 295 
 
 knew this was wrong, and she was determined 
 to stop it, '' Mrs. Lampton would be very 
 indignant, did she know you were here at 
 this hour. It is wrong, sir, very wrong." 
 
 *• That is the world, the cold, cruel world, 
 that says this," ejaculated the miserable Fre- 
 derick, with a long, very properly-adjusted 
 sigh. " It says we should control our feelings, 
 no matter how they may rack and torture us 
 — that I should suppress my admiration, my 
 regard — my, my love for you. You know it 
 all now. I am a criminal — I feel I am." 
 
 " You are taking a most unfair advantage 
 of my position, sir," Lucille said, angrily. " I 
 will leave you." 
 
 The role of this man was clever and 
 shrewd enough. It was half-simple, half- 
 sorrowful, and he stood up as if he did not 
 comprehend what was said, for he went on in 
 the same tone. '' I knew how it would be. 
 I would irritate you, excite you, and plunge 
 myself deeper down in folly. I feel that I
 
 Q96 TRIAL AND TPJUMPH. 
 
 am a fool now, a stupid vapory fool ; but I 
 couldn't help it. One can't always whip or 
 tie up one's affections, and mine w^ould burst 
 out whether I would or not." 
 
 " Then, sir, I must tell you that this decla- 
 ration insults me. You are married, a father, 
 with wife and children living, and you speak 
 thus to me. It is cruel, unmanly — a hot in- 
 sult, which your selfishness does not com- 
 prehend." She was at the door, but Mr. 
 Lampton sprang to her side. 
 
 " Do not hate me for this. I know it is all 
 wrong, but look how I suffer. I brave every- 
 thing to speak to you as I have done. For- 
 give me — you will, you mast," and he strove 
 to take her hand, but she rushed from him, 
 on in the dark, and dashed into her own room. 
 She was angry, agitated, oppressed. A thou- 
 sand painful feelings struggled within her. 
 The whole scene was so ridiculous too, that it 
 made her ashamed. She felt the blood tin- 
 gling within her, and so intense was her pre-
 
 TEIAL AND TKIUMPH. 297 
 
 occupation that she did not mind the storm 
 without. Ruhhing her hands together, grind- 
 ing them into each other, as if every pulse 
 was numbed, and she would press the blood 
 into circulation, she sat, half-brooding, half- 
 scowling at herself. The happiness of life 
 was going out of her, and that dismal, cold 
 sensation, that crushes young hearts, when 
 the villainy of existence first flashes across 
 them, was struggling within her, against hope, 
 energy, and affection. She looked at the 
 past, and present; she dared not speculate 
 upon the future. For a second, her eye 
 glanced out through the window upon the 
 night-curtain that bounded her vision. Was 
 that a light glimmering below ? She did not 
 mind it, but, heavy-hearted, crept to her bed. 
 Outside the storm rages. It is a hurricane 
 — wild, fitful, violent. It shakes the old trees 
 to their deepest roots, as it sweeps through 
 them. There is not a star in that dark sky 
 above. There is only the clashing of the 
 6
 
 298 TEIAL AND TRIUMPH. 
 
 winds audible, as they pant and howl, or the 
 fierce fall of that heavy rain, which rattles, 
 hail-like, against the window and w^all. It 
 comes with a rush — there is a lull — then the 
 shriek of the wrestling trees, and the ponder- 
 ous blow of the hard wind, and the tumult of 
 that struggle thunders on and on, until the 
 ear becomes accustomed and wearied, and the 
 eyes close in sleep. And Lucille slept. 
 
 END OF VOL. 1. 
 
 T. C. Newby, Printer, 30, Welbeck-street, Cavendish -square.