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 THE 
 
 VALLEY OF A HUNDRED FIRES. 
 
 BT 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF 
 "MARGAEET AND HER BRIDESMAIDS, 
 "MR. AND MRS. ASHETON," 
 &c., &c. 
 
 ""NVho are the Blest? 
 They -who have kept their sympathies awake, 
 And scattered joy for more than custom's sake — 
 Steadfast and tender in the hour of need ; 
 Gentle in thought, benevolent in deed ; 
 Whose looks have power to make dissensions cease — 
 Whose smiles are pleasant, and whose words are peace : 
 They who have lived as harmless as the dove, 
 Teachers of Truth, and Ministers of Love : 
 Love for all moral power— all mental grace- 
 Love for the humblest of the human race — 
 Love for that tranquil joy that virtue brings— 
 Love for the Giver of all goodly things ; 
 True followers of that soul-exalting plan 
 Which Christ laid down to bless and govern man : 
 They who can calmly linger at the last, 
 Sur^-ey the future, and recall the past ; 
 And with that hope which triumphs over pain. 
 Feel well assured they have not lived in vain ; 
 Then wait in peace their hour of final rest : — 
 They are the only Blest." 
 
 T. C. Pkixci 
 
 m THREE VOLULIES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 I860. 
 
 The right of Translation is reserved.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 printed by r. bokn, gloucester street, 
 regent's park.
 
 55 
 
 9Si 3 
 v.l 
 
 JII IN MEMORIAM 
 
 PATRI 
 
 IX AMORE 
 
 DO DICO — DEDICO.
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/valleyofhundredf01stre
 
 THE 
 
 VALLEY OF A HUNDRED FIRES. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " 'Tis never woman's part, 
 Out of her fond misgivings, to perplex 
 The fortunes of the man to whom she cleaves ; 
 ' Tis her's to weave all that she has of fair 
 And bright in the dark meshes of their web, 
 Inseparate from their windings." — Talfourd. 
 
 On the 23rd of April, fifty-four years 
 ago, the heavy old Bristol coach was pre- 
 paring its freight of passengers and lug- 
 gage, previous to starting on its weekly 
 journey into Wales. 
 
 The hour was early, six o'clock, and 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 the morning was rather more than damp. 
 For the drizzling rain fell ; though so 
 hypocritically, that those exposed to it 
 scarce thought a shelter necessary, until 
 the wind, driving with easterly sharpness 
 up the street, chilled and damped them 
 into the fact that it was a most dis- 
 agreeable morning. 
 
 Besides the usual number of ostlers, 
 porters, helpers, and coachman, there 
 seemed but one passenger to brave the 
 ungenial aspect of the morning, and his 
 countenance bore ample evidence that he 
 felt it. 
 
 His appearance had nothing very strik- 
 ing about it: of moderate height, he yet 
 was not slight enough to give elasticity 
 to his movements ; and it was with slow, 
 quiet method that he helped to arrange 
 his luggage, showing gleams through his 
 spectacles as he did so of large, gentle- 
 looking dark eyes. Clothed in black, his
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 3 
 
 dress ending in gaiters buttoned to the 
 knee — lie appeared what he really was, a 
 young clergyman. And though in addi- 
 tion to his fine eyes he discovered, as he 
 spoke his thanks, teeth beautiful in regu- 
 larity and purity of colour, there was 
 nothing remarkable in his countenance, but 
 an expression of grave sense, and honest 
 purpose. 
 
 The drizzle now changed to a patter 
 upon the rude and deserted pavement ; 
 and if he had looked grave before, the 
 young clergyman now became undeniably 
 vexed. He looked up to the sky and 
 shook his head — he looked down the 
 street and appeared more concerned than 
 ever, as he saw two figures emerge out 
 of the misty darkness. 
 
 " Dear John, here we are ! — in time, I 
 hope,'' said the first one, in a voice so 
 sweet, so mellow, so fresh, that ostlers, 
 porters, boots, and coachman, all turned 
 
 b2
 
 4 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 round to look for the speaker. She was 
 worthy of her voice. Bright and smiling 
 was her face, as she turned towards 
 them with simple graciousness, that gave 
 a gentle dignity to the happiness ex- 
 pressed on it. Even the rain seemed 
 ashamed, as her beaming eyes looked up 
 to the heavy swollen clouds, sinking 
 again into a drizzle, which again faded 
 away into mere dampness, as her voice 
 rose like soft melody in the wet 
 street. 
 
 " Baby is both good and merry, though 
 we have awakened her so early — and we 
 have had a most excellent breakfast — and 
 here we are, quite ready, dear John.'' 
 
 " My love, the rain — such a bad morn- 
 ing," began the grave young clergyman. 
 
 " Not at all, John, it is going to be 
 fine, the wind is in the east. This is 
 but ' the pride of the morning,' and we 
 shall have a finer day in consequence."
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 5 
 
 John^s brow cleared. 
 
 " But you will go inside, Emily, until 
 it is better." 
 
 " Oh no, John, I am to sit by you, 
 outside — you promised. See, I have my 
 glazed wrapper — I shall take no harm." 
 
 Her look was more irresistible than her 
 words ; for John said no more, while 
 ostlers and porters vied with each other 
 in running for the steps to help her up ; 
 and the solemn old coachman departed 
 from his usual rule of considering the 
 passengers as so many bales of goods, to 
 be stowed away only by the porters, and 
 actually handed her up himself. They 
 all felt, if " John" had refused her re- 
 quest, they must have mutinied on the 
 spot and hissed him down. 
 
 Not that she required much assistance ; 
 for she mounted the ladder with such 
 agility that the spectators were quite ag- 
 grieved, they saw so little of a beautiful
 
 6 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 foot and ancle. And while her husband 
 followed with careful slowness, she was 
 kissing her hand to baby, who was being 
 packed inside, and looked rather astonished 
 at the elevated situation of her pretty 
 mamma. 
 
 " Good-bye, baby darling, mamma will 
 be close to you, dear, and nurse will take 
 care of her. Thank you, Mr. Coachman, 
 nothing can be more comfortable than my 
 seat. Thank you all, very much. See, 
 John, how nicely and kindly that good 
 man holds baby, while nurse is settling her 
 packages. She looks quite pleased with 
 her new nurse. Thank you very much for 
 holding her." 
 
 '' 'Deed, my lady, I am thinking she's 
 never a child of yours, if she could seem 
 ill-pleased." 
 
 John looked up — his white teeth gleamed 
 — while Emily blushed and smiled at the 
 rough compliment.
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 7 
 
 But now all was ready ; though loth to 
 lose sight of the bright vision on the 
 coach, the head-ostler felt it his duty to say, 
 "All right!" The horses heard the sound, 
 and simultaneously pulled — the coachman 
 flourished his whip — the ponderous coach 
 creaked and shook — Emily smiled and waved 
 her little hand — John gravely took off his 
 hat, and they slowly wheeled out of sight. 
 
 All the ostlers, boots, and porters stared 
 open-mouthed after it. 
 
 " My heyes ! Bill," says Jem, the first 
 to recover, " what a purty creatur that 
 wor!" 
 
 ** Ye moy say thot," answered Bill ; " she 
 wor barley- sugar all over." 
 
 "What a mort o' luck that there young 
 mon has, always a carrying o' that there 
 sunbeam with him," said Jack. "I never 
 seed any one mount ou're coach so loightly, 
 or show such a fut and hankel. And her 
 face — whoy it broightened moy boottens ! "
 
 8 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 " Ay ! joost as it 'uU broighten that 
 there young mon's loife a! his days, if the 
 Lord 'ull please to spare her to him." 
 
 *^ May the Lord please to let us see her 
 agin. It maks a soight o' difference, Jem, 
 when one thinks t'ould coach carries sich 
 loike coompany." 
 
 " Ay, ay, a'm main glad I polished 
 her oop, and stook a bit oak leaf on the 
 horse's heeds." 
 
 " They ought to go prood the day, how- 
 sumdever — and they picks up Captain Hill 
 at the bar." 
 
 "He's looky— hell be all the length o' 
 the journey wi' yon." 
 
 " A'wud maist roon it to get soight on 
 her." 
 
 Meantime " dear John " had persisted in 
 holding an umbrella over the pretty wife, 
 while she protested it did not rain. 
 
 No more it did. It had shrunk into 
 nothing, utterly ashamed as it were, the
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 9 
 
 clouds sailed slowly away, a flickering sun- 
 beam appeared. This was so welcomed by 
 that happy voice, that another, and again 
 another, peeped out to be greeted in the 
 same manner ; until, at last, the glorious 
 sun himself appeared, and the day broke 
 beautifully over the earth. 
 
 " How lovely everything looks, dear John, 
 with the sun lighting up the dewdrops." 
 
 " Dewdrops ! dear love ; any other person 
 but you would call them rain." 
 
 " Perhaps it is rain, John, and that makes 
 this sweet, fresh smell of wholesome earth 
 so redolent in the air. I like morning 
 shadows better than evening ones — don't 
 you, John ? " 
 
 Here a fellow-traveller, whom they had 
 picked up at the toll-bar, answered for John; 
 and, being an intelligent fellow, and much 
 smitten with the beauty and happiness of 
 his fair fellow-traveller, entered warmly into 
 all sorts of agreeable descriptions.
 
 10 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 Thus they approached the Old Passage 
 much sooner than they expected, Emily 
 beaming with delight at the first view of 
 the Welsh mountains. 
 
 " Those far blue hills, that I have so often 
 wished to visit, John. Think of our hap- 
 piness — we are now to live upon them ! " 
 
 " My Emily, they look beautiful ; but I 
 misdoubt me — I ought to have come alone 
 first. I should have left you with your 
 mother, until I had seen if our new home 
 was likely to suit you." 
 
 " Not at all, John— oh ! not at all ! Don't 
 you think, sir," continued she, turning to 
 their fellow-traveller, " that a woman is quite 
 the best judge of what a place looks like, 
 when you intend turning it into a home. 
 Besides, John, you would have been very 
 unhappy without me — and perhaps thought 
 our new abode dreadful." 
 
 " I daresay I should, dear," answered 
 John, while their fellow-traveller warmly
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 11 
 
 coincided with her, winding up with say- 
 ing :— 
 
 " The choosing of a home is peculiarly a 
 woman's province. She can see at a glance 
 whether she can convert it into that Paradise 
 which all newly-married people have the 
 chance of keeping for themselves, as long 
 as they forbid discord to enter. 
 
 ** That is a new idea, sir,'' said John, 
 gravely. 
 
 *^ A charming idea ! " exclaimed his wife. 
 " Ah, John, if God wills, our home shall be a 
 Paradise ! " 
 
 "With you, love, it must be," looked 
 John, through his eyes, spite of spectacles; 
 for John was not demonstrative, especially 
 on the top of a coach — besides, they were 
 about to cross the ferry. John and 
 Emily walked up and down the little 
 pier waiting for the boat, and exchang- 
 ing a few words with baby, whose little 
 round face was still too wonder-stricken to 
 respond thereto.
 
 12 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 " You see, Emily," said her husband, " we 
 must look at our position in a sensible and 
 calm manner. I have accepted this living — 
 so handsomely presented me by Lord Bernard 
 without solicitation — in rather a hurry, I 
 think." 
 
 "How, John? I do not understand 
 
 you." 
 
 " Why, love, drawn away by your enthu- 
 siasm for mountains, and by my own love for 
 the peculiar duties of this place, I have 
 brought you and baby to these wild Welsh 
 hills, without knowing what sort of roof you 
 will have to cover you, or with whom you 
 will have to associate." 
 
 "Is that all, John, which disturbs you? 
 Now, that is the very thing so charming to 
 me. Besides, we were told the parsonage is 
 a very good house ; and the living being 300/. 
 a-year, we shall not spend half that, and can 
 save the remainder to make it into our para- 
 dise."
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 13 
 
 ** I have heard," answered John, "that 
 the house is a very good one — nay, very large 
 and commodious — but it is in a very bad situ- 
 ation. The smoke of the furnaces and iron- 
 works completely surround it, so that we 
 cannot hope to have anything like a garden, 
 that is, one which will be of any use to 
 us.'' 
 
 " There is nothing like trying, John ; 
 something must grow in such a lovely 
 country." 
 
 " But, Emily, unfortunately I hear that 
 close to it there is one of those new inven- 
 tions, a gasometer ; and when the wind blows 
 that way the effluvium is extremely disagree- 
 able." 
 
 " Oh, I daresay it will not often blow 
 our way, dear John ; and then think how 
 convenient — perhaps the parsonage may be 
 lighted with gas, which will save candles." 
 
 "You always look at the bright side of 
 everything, my Emily."
 
 14 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 "Ah, who could help it, John, talking of 
 candles?" said Emily, smiling. " But I should 
 like to know one thing — is not the Neath 
 Valley lovely ? " 
 
 "It is," said their neighbour on the 
 coach, who, without disturbing the conjugal 
 talk, had lingered near enough to see 
 the bright face, and catch a stray word 
 now and then. " But here is the packet ; 
 while we cross I will give you some descrip- 
 tion of it." 
 
 When the bustle was over, and all were 
 seated quietly, baby happy at last on 
 mamma's knee, and the boat gliding over 
 the smooth water, very seldom so placid 
 and gently flowing as then, their fellow-tra- 
 veller began : — 
 
 " I need not tell you that where the foot 
 of man treads, so do the wild beauties of 
 nature disappear. I do not say all beauty ; 
 for much as I admire nature in her free- 
 dom, the various conveniences, comforts, and
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 15 
 
 luxuries, with other species of delights that 
 men gather round them, enhance nature to 
 me, and make her in my eyes still more 
 to be admired. But as regards the Neath 
 Valley, I can but be sorry that man has 
 interfered : on the face of God's earth I 
 suppose no place was ever more beau- 
 tiful.'' 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Emily, with quick plea- 
 sure. 
 
 " Does not the river Hepsti run through 
 it," said her husband, " on which there are 
 some beautiful waterfalls ? " 
 
 " There are," answered the traveller ; ^^and 
 I suppose you also know that this country, 
 so lovely on its surface, is one vast coal 
 basin within its bosom. Therefore, my dear 
 madam, you must expect to see the fairest 
 and most romantic spots occupied by fur- 
 naces, kilns, fires, houses. The smoke, per- 
 vading and spoiling everything, turns the 
 bright green of nature into dirty soot."
 
 16 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 " But the mountains — the blue Welsh 
 hills ! " remonstrated Emily. 
 
 "Truly, those do raise their noble heads 
 too high for man to disfigure them. They 
 remain intact, as when the word of God 
 commanded them into being. But, conse- 
 quent upon the richness of its bosom, you 
 must be prepared to find, that even the 
 proprietor of one acre will never suffer that 
 one acre to remain in its original loveli- 
 ness. Everywhere do they search and dig 
 for the black diamonds beneath — and every- 
 where will this lovely valley, in the course 
 of years, be disfigured and smoke-dried. '^ 
 
 '' I shall not, however, care so much for 
 that," said Emily, "while these lovely hills, 
 on which I have longed to live, are spared. 
 Besides, if it had not been for all these 
 furnaces, kilns, and iron-works, we should 
 not have had my wish accomplished — we 
 should not have come to live here.'^ 
 
 "True," said her husband; "an English 
 
 V
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 17 
 
 clergyman was required for the mixed and 
 various people who congregate round the 
 works of man. People of almost every na- 
 tion — to say nothing of religion — are to be 
 found among the Welsh hills ; and from 
 what I can hear, none are more cared for 
 than those on Lord Bernard's property." 
 
 "Let me introduce myself to you, sir, as 
 a neighbour ; for I suppose you are the new 
 clergyman now expected. I am Captain 
 Hill : I live in the neighbouring valley, and 
 am delighted to be the first to welcome you 
 to our country." 
 
 Emily held out her hand in cordial plea- 
 sure, while John raised his hat with his ac- 
 customed gravity. Nevertheless, pleasure 
 beamed from his countenance as he surveyed 
 the fine, soldier-like looking old man, who 
 was so chatty, and full of bonhomie. 
 
 Captain Hill, on his part, was delighted 
 to find his surmises correct, and that he was 
 not likely to lose sight of the beaming face 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 beside him, at the end of their journey by the 
 coach ; but, on the contrary, might hope to 
 become yet more intimate with the sweet 
 spirit that animated such a countenance. 
 
 But the passage being accomplished, they 
 once more took their places on the coach, 
 and proceeded on their journey. 
 
 Now, baby — who had hitherto proved her- 
 self a pattern-baby, worthy of her mother — 
 from some, no doubt, solid reasons only 
 known to herself, began loudly to express 
 her disapprobation of further travelling. 
 
 "Dear love, how that child cries!" said 
 John, as baby's screams rose now and then 
 above the rattle of the coach. 
 
 " Yes, dear John ; but how fortunate it is 
 no one is inside the coach save nurse." 
 
 John cogitated on this atom of comfort, 
 and the feelings that prompted it, until they 
 arrived at Chepstow, where baby, having 
 food for her mind, through the medium of
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 19 
 
 her eyes, gazed at the houses and people 
 instead of screaming. 
 
 But, leaving Chepstow, they had again 
 audible demonstration that her equanimity 
 of temper was not restored. As John walked 
 up a steep hill, Emily begged him to enquire 
 into the welfare of the little refractory one 
 — by this request removing a doubt from 
 John's mind as to whether Emily cared more 
 for baby's distress of mind, or the comfort- 
 able state of the oral organs of the pas- 
 sengers. Baby was happily unconscious of 
 everything, looking the picture of sleeping 
 comfort ; so once more they gave themselves 
 up to the pleasures of their journey. 
 
 The more nearly they approached the 
 Welsh hills, the more delighted Emily be- 
 came, fascinating her fellow-travellers with 
 the charm of her unsophisticated delight. 
 The day had continued most lovely ; they 
 had picked up many more passengers, who 
 
 c2
 
 20 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 seemed all equally disposed to be chatty 
 and sociable. But who could resist that 
 sweet liyeliness ? Even the coachman, most 
 imperturbable of human beings to all save 
 his horses, was in danger of upsetting the 
 coach, he was so often turning round to 
 look at his pretty passenger. And, as the 
 time approached for their parting, he be- 
 came gloomy and morose at the mere 
 prospect of it ; while she called upon 
 John and Captain Hill to corroborate her 
 evidence as to the delightful journey they 
 had had — ^' So well managed, the coach so 
 well driven, the coachman so kind to his 
 horses, such a lovely day, and baby so good 
 — that one fit of naughtiness had been the 
 first and last I " 
 
 But all things, pleasant or unpleasant, 
 must end. The evening came on rather 
 suddenly, with a lowering aspect, as much 
 as to say, *^ Come, I have not rained all 
 day on purpose to please you ; but if
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 21 
 
 you don't hasten, and get into your houses, 
 I will wait no longer." 
 
 Now come the great fires. Anon they 
 are among them ; baby winks and blinks 
 her eyes at them, too astonished to cry. 
 The well-trained horses swerve neither to 
 the right nor left, though they seem going 
 down into a pit, with a hundred forked 
 tongues of flame — blazing with apparent 
 eagerness to swallow up coach, passengers, 
 and horses. 
 
 It is of no use denying it — Emily is 
 nervous. She grasps John's hand. It is 
 on her lips to beg the coachman will stop 
 and put them down anywhere. But there 
 is a great roaring in the air ; the coach 
 turns a corner suddenly, and before them 
 are huge caverns of fire, with enormous 
 black domes rising up in the air, with 
 forked flames tearing themselves high above 
 all. 
 
 The oflf-leader starts and plunges a little ;
 
 22 TEE VALLEY OF 
 
 the coachman flicks his whip over him to 
 recall him to his senses ; Emily gives a 
 little shriek ; the coach staggers over a tram- 
 road — down they go deeper and deeper ; 
 the roar subsides, the fires grow dim, the 
 coachman relieves his feelings with a deep 
 sigh, the reins relax, the horses bound 
 steadily on, and Emily ceases to pinch 
 John's arm. 
 
 " Dear John, what a shocking place ! — we 
 will never go that way again." 
 
 " Oh ! never fear, marm/' answered the 
 coachman ; " we goes this here road twice 
 a-week, for'ards and back'ards, and never no 
 accidents happens. We have a few more 
 on 'em yet to go through — and yonder, 
 marm, is yourn works, furthest off to the 
 west." 
 
 To ordinary passengers the coachman was 
 in the habit of indulging in some grim joke 
 — such as privately aggravating his horses, 
 cutting sharp round corners, and making
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 23 
 
 up a face of awful import as they pass 
 through these Pandemonium scenes. But 
 to the gentle Emily he relapsed into a 
 tender-hearted mortal. Emily gave a sigh 
 as she heard him, and John listened for 
 the soft sweet voice uttering words of 
 thanks or pleasure — but none came. He 
 was still cogitating over this in his mind, 
 all his old fears reviving, all his doubts re- 
 turning, wishing this, wishing that, wishing 
 anything rather than having brought this 
 bright nature down to such unknown, un- 
 expected scenes, when they came to more 
 fires. Safely they passed through them, al- 
 most before they thought they were in them. 
 Emily had not time to pinch John much ; 
 she even said, ^' Dear John, this is a wonder- 
 ful sight !" So he comforted himself a little, 
 until they came to others. Emily only 
 grasped his hand, and, when they were 
 through, said, "Dear John, what charm- 
 ing horses, and how well coachman drives
 
 24 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 them. Do you know, I think these fires 
 are very beautiful. Even the horses seem 
 to admire them." So John dismissed all 
 his fears, and nothing happened until the 
 coach, being hailed, stopped. 
 
 ^^ Be one Muster Leslie here?" 
 
 " Yes, oh yes — here we are !" said Emily ; 
 " is this our home — are we to stop ? " 
 
 " You be to stop, ma'am, and I ha' got 
 a little chay, to take you and the things to 
 the parsonage." 
 
 "Is it far from here ? " said Mr. Leslie. 
 
 " Oh, no," said Captain Hill, who was 
 assisting Emily — '^ not ten minutes' drive, 
 but it is all through the furnaces and over 
 tram-roads. Shall I come with you ? '' 
 
 " Oh ! no, thank you," said Emily ; " I 
 begin to like the fires, and I suppose the 
 horse is steady that has to take us." 
 
 " He were born here," said their new 
 driver, shortly ; " and he don't know his 
 road wi'out a blaze."
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 25 
 
 *' Then I think you are quite safe," said 
 Captain Hill, laughing. 
 
 '• So we are," said Emily, smiling — 
 " now, nurse, give me baby ; are all our 
 packages in, John ? Thank you — thank 
 you all," and, as the coachman drove reluc- 
 tantly on, they still heard the sweet voice 
 repeating — *^such a charming journey!— such 
 an excellent coachman — quite sorry to part ! " 
 and even the drive of five miles on to the 
 end of their journey did not suffice to 
 give them time to talk about the beauty 
 and sweetness of their pretty fellow-tra- 
 veller.
 
 26 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " Sweet peace be theirs — the moonlight of the breast, 
 And occupation, and alternate rest, 
 And, dear to care and thought, the usual walk ; 
 Theirs be no flower that withers on the stalk. 
 But roses cropp'd that shall not bloom in vain. 
 And Hope's bless'd sun, that sets to rise again. 
 Be chaste their nuptial bed, their home be sweet, 
 Their floor resound the tread of little feet. 
 Bless'd beyond fear and fate, if bless'd by thee. 
 And heirs, O Love, of thine eternity." 
 
 Ebenezer Elliott. 
 
 The vicarage was an exceedingly good 
 house — that is, to look at. You certainly 
 went through a vortex of furnaces to get at 
 it — over various and complicated tram-roads 
 — down and up little steep pitches — round 
 narrow corners. But you had the light of
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 27 
 
 a hundred fires to enable you to see your 
 danger ; and without any accident, with no 
 other adventure than baby's eyes getting 
 larger and rounder as she watched the 
 fires, they arrived at the door of a 
 large and substantial mansion. The en- 
 trance-hall was lighted by a fire that did 
 not look pale even after the furnaces ; and 
 leaving the drawing and dining-rooms to 
 the right and left unvisited, they were 
 ushered into a room which gave to their 
 delighted eyes the comfortable appearance 
 of a little " snuggery." 
 
 The table was prepared for tea, the 
 kettle singing on the hob, the curtains all 
 drawn — while sparkling, blazing, and crack- 
 ling, as if to welcome them to the best of 
 its abilities, the fire threw a bright ruby 
 tint over the whole room. 
 
 Even John echoed Emily's remark. 
 
 " How charming — how delightful ! The 
 kettle is absolutely boiling to the minute.
 
 28 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 Here, John, hold baby while I make tea ; 
 and pray warm her feet at this lovely 
 fire.'' 
 
 John took baby ; and though most anx- 
 ious to obey the order, he had not the 
 most remote idea as to where he should 
 find the little feet, amid the bundle of 
 clothes in which she was wrapped. 
 
 Baby began to screw up her little face, 
 preparatory to ^^ giving tongue " at her 
 father's awkward attempts to make her 
 comfortable, when Emily, having made tea, 
 taken off her bonnet and cloak, smoothed 
 her hair, looking more bright and ani- 
 mated than ever, caught her up in her 
 arms, and, giving her sweet motherly kisses, 
 changed the anticipated roar into a coo of 
 delight. So that they sat down, one more 
 happy than another, to tea. 
 
 Truly it was a very pretty sight to see 
 the family party thus enjoying themselves 
 after their long and weary (no, not weary
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 29 
 
 — Emily would not have allowed such a 
 word), but slow journey by the ponderous 
 Bristol coach. 
 
 The little small library, all glowing with 
 a ruddy light from the fire — the singing 
 home-like kettle — the smoking, hot, delicious 
 tea, John making his peace with baby 
 by tempting offers of sugar and sopped 
 toast — she with rosy toes spread out to 
 enjoy the genial warmth — and then that 
 young mother ! 
 
 But she must be described, now that the 
 heavy wrapper is gone and the little close 
 bonnet removed. Why, what would the 
 ostlers, boots, and porters say now ? No- 
 thing — for they could not do so. She is of 
 another mould than earth — she comes from a 
 higher sphere than theirs; they would look 
 and worship at a distance. 
 
 Tall and beautifully made, her small head 
 was placed upon a neck that upheld it with a 
 stately grace. The flowing curls of brown
 
 30 THE VALLEr OF 
 
 hair, rippled over with a golden tint borrowed 
 from the sun, shaded each peach-coloured 
 cheek : and, being somewhat in disorder, they 
 fell round her fair throat with the pretty 
 wildness that only hair can assume. 
 
 The clearest, sweetest, bluest eyes ever 
 seen in mortal face looked straight into 
 your heart ; while the delicate, well-shaped 
 nose and rosy lips completed a picture of as 
 fair a young mother of nineteen as imagina- 
 tion could draw from her vast stores of 
 thought and wonder. 
 
 And what did John think as he looked at 
 her, the glowing, smiling mistress of his 
 home fireside — he, the only spectator of this 
 picture ? 
 
 John doted upon it ; he had admiration 
 of, and love for her, in his heart, sufficient for 
 a room-full of admiring spectators, and him- 
 self to boot. So that when nurse came and 
 took away sleepy baby, he folded his arms 
 round his Emily, and murmured words of
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 31 
 
 happiness, content, and thanksgiving, mixed 
 with prayers and petitions that in their new 
 home, amid their new duties, they might 
 deserve the happy peace that flooded their 
 hearts this night with its overflow of emotion. 
 While Emily, half smiles, half tears, blush- 
 ing through both at his praises, poured upon 
 John all her feelings on the subject : how he 
 was so good, so clever, so sensible, with such 
 a kind, loving heart, so that her fate could not 
 be otherwise than that of the happiest of 
 mortals ; and she should hope and pray that 
 she might be worthy of such affection, and 
 show her perception of it by making it the 
 business of her life to be his helpmeet in- 
 deed, while the " beneficent Giver of all 
 good" would hear her prayers and receive 
 her thanksgivings. 
 
 Moreover, she further said, she blest the 
 opportunity now given them of doing good ; 
 that their lot had been cast in a place where 
 her husband's calm sense, clear judgment,
 
 32 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 simple, holy character, would work their 
 way into the hearts of the dense and mixed 
 population surrounding them. His earnest, 
 truthful manner, his quiet, simple ways, 
 would give additional effect to the holy pre- 
 cepts ever on his lips, added to the constant 
 performance of those virtues which he prac- 
 tised more than preached. 
 
 Thus blessed and blessing, thus praised and 
 praising, each seemed to bring before the 
 other the duties which belonged to the 
 sphere of life in which they were placed, 
 rather than their private affairs and wishes. 
 Each forgot to mention any little thought 
 or will of their own, while thinking of 
 their more public duties and obligations. 
 And if, John and Emily, you seem 
 too simple-minded, too short-sighted, for 
 your own worldly welfare, and therefore 
 cannot expect, if you pay so little attention 
 to your own interests, that you should pros- 
 per in this world of strife for the uppermost
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 33 
 
 places — contention for the highest seats — 
 struggles for the merest penny — this world 
 of speech, but few deeds — this world that 
 can give you everything but your place in 
 heaven — this world that feeds its slaves 
 with promises, and leaves them weeping in 
 disappointment; and yet, nevertheless, is a 
 good world for the hard-working, right 
 thinking — a blessed world for those who 
 look upon it as their battle-field in the 
 Christian war-fight — if, John and 
 Emily, thus you mean to act, let us 
 trace you through life, follow your paths 
 through weal and woe, accompany you in 
 every stage of life. Let us see if you suf- 
 fered from thinking of others rather than 
 yourselves, let us trace you through any 
 difficulties or troubles your simplicity and 
 single-heartedness may have plunged you 
 into in dealing with this wise world. Let 
 us watch if experience, so bitter sometimes, 
 may not, by the rudeness of its shocks, have 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 opened your eyes, hardened your hearts, 
 checked your enthusiasm, and made you 
 worldly-wise at last. Let us see how it 
 fared with you, your children, your for- 
 tunes, your health, your strength, your 
 good report, your hopes of heaven, as 
 you journey on your way there. 
 
 And this night we will leave you in 
 the full enjoyment of your unsophisticated 
 happiness : John blest in the possession of 
 his ^^ Sunbeam" — Emily thinking that no 
 one but herself had '^ a John" — both glory- 
 ing in the best, sweetest, most intelligent 
 of babies, a large and commodious house, 
 a magnificent income of 400/. per annum, 
 the prospect of ample work among the 
 vast populace at their door, of infinite 
 labour, and no particular reward for it — 
 Oh ! ,John and Emily, who would not envy 
 you?
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 35 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ** The treasures of the deep are not so precious 
 As are the concealed comforts of a man 
 Locked up in woman's love. I scent the air 
 Of blessings when I come but near the house." 
 
 MlDDLETON. 
 
 Early in the morning, being very active 
 in his habits, John arose, and proceeded 
 by himself to make an examination of his 
 new abode. He looked into the drawing- 
 room and shook his head — he looked into 
 the dining-room and sighed audibly. He ex- 
 amined kitchens and closets, peeped into 
 the cellars and dark holes, and, in fact, 
 left not a single cranny unexplored. 
 
 D 2
 
 36 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 That his morning's work had left no 
 agreeable impression might be seen in his 
 face as he met Emily coming down stairs 
 to breakfast, baby crowing in her arms, 
 and both looking as blooming and bright 
 as flowers after rain. 
 
 Emily. — " Dear John, what a charming 
 staircase this is, it is so wide and the 
 steps are so low, baby will soon learn to 
 crawl up and down them." 
 
 John, with his face full of cares and bo- 
 thers. — ^^Yes, I must say it is a very hand- 
 some staircase, as you say, Emily ; but I 
 am sorry to tell you the rest of the house 
 is in the most deplorable state " 
 
 Emily. — *^ Come and have some break- 
 fast first, John, before you tell me any- 
 thing, because you have been downstairs 
 such a long time and must require it. 
 Baby and I were naughty, lazy people 
 this morning, were we not, baby ? " 
 
 Baby being in that happy mood she was
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 37 
 
 ready to agree to anything, they all sat 
 down amicably to breakfast. 
 
 John — (between sips of tea, tastings of 
 toast, and attentions to baby) — " Dear Emily, 
 I learn that this house was built in six 
 weeks, to receive the family of one of the 
 rich ironmasters owning property here. I 
 believe it is ^n accredited fact that, from 
 the hour the first stone was laid to the 
 minute the family entered into it — all com- 
 plete, painted, papered, and furnished — but 
 six weeks elapsed." 
 
 John paused, both in breakfast and speech, 
 that he might be ready to receive Emily's 
 burst of dismay. 
 
 Emily. — ^' Dear John, how clever of them 
 to do it so quickly." 
 
 The burst of dismay clearly fell upon John 
 himself. He looked at his wife in amaze- 
 ment for a minute, and then, with the slight- 
 est possible show of impatience, thus reproved 
 her —
 
 38 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 John. — ^^ Is it possible, Emily, that you 
 do not understand that it necessarily follows 
 this house, represented to us as such an ex- 
 cellent one, is in reality badly built, hastily 
 finished, and so rapidly put together that it 
 only served the owner and builder for the 
 four years he required it, and is now falling 
 to pieces almost as speedily as it was raised ! " 
 
 Poor John ! he had rummaged and inves- 
 tigated his new home to so much purpose 
 that his usually calm temperament was 
 slightly ruffled — and then that Emily should 
 reply so lightly ! 
 
 Emily, with her best smile. — ^' Let us 
 finish breakfast first, John, and then we will 
 go over the house together. One thing is, 
 however, quite certain — if the rest of the 
 house is uncomfortable, this room is not. 
 When all your books are put up, imagine 
 how nice it will look; and see, how fortu- 
 nate, the rain is pouring down — therefore 
 we have nothing to do but employ ourselves
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 39 
 
 in the housp. You shall unpack your books, 
 and I will make myself a pretty drawing- 
 room, to be ready when visitors come." 
 
 John, not quite recovered. — " Drawing- 
 room ! My dear love, you cannot have a 
 drawing-room in this house. I never saw 
 so wretched a room as what is called the 
 drawing-room here, unless it is the dining- 
 room." 
 
 Emily. — '^ I like very much making bad 
 things better; so now, John, if you have 
 finished, we will go and see these terrible 
 rooms." 
 
 Truly, they looked most forlorn. The 
 drawing-room was long, with three dull win- 
 dows on one side, and a fourth at the end 
 that had better have been dull, rather than 
 disclose the ugly cinder-heap filled up so 
 high as to obscure sun and heaven. The 
 paper in various places hung in long tatters 
 from the wall, proving indisputably how 
 damp was the mortar beneath ; and yet in
 
 40 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 those places where it remained intact, it was 
 even more unsightly, from the green and 
 yellow mould that pervaded the once bright 
 colours. In fact, the whole room had the 
 appearance of suffering from a long and se- 
 vere bilious attack. Not one window shut 
 as had originally been designed by the car- 
 penter, which made the wind sigh in melan- 
 choly little howls through the seams and 
 warpings of the unseasoned wood. The door 
 was guiltless of shutting without a bang that 
 caused a shudder through the whole house, 
 and made baby, a sage but astonished wit- 
 ness of the draught-blown tatters on the 
 wall, scream with fright. 
 
 The chimney-piece and wall had evidently 
 quarrelled, exhibiting such determination to 
 cease partnership, that the former stood some 
 inches out on one side, giving the spectator 
 the irresistible notion that it was patting up 
 its shoulders in a pet. 
 
 Dirty, dingy furniture, that had once
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 41 
 
 been showy, made this uninviting room look 
 worse than if it had been empty. 
 
 John,—'' There ! '^ 
 
 A little mischief — rather more triumph 
 — still greater vexation — was in that one 
 word, uttered so significantly by John. 
 But, as if Emily was to be put down 
 by a word ! 
 
 Emily. — " TVhat a large room this is, 
 John ; think of my possessing so fine a 
 drawing-room as — this will be." 
 
 Twas lucky she made that pause and 
 reservation. 
 
 John. — ^' Do you see this bank, Emily?'' 
 
 Emily. — '' Yes, dear, it Ipoks as if it 
 had been made, but no one could have 
 done such an absurd thing, blocking up 
 that window." 
 
 John^ triumphantly. — " But it was made, 
 it is made, it is making even now. Though 
 there is a species of dirty green grass on 
 it, Emily, it is wholly composed of cin-
 
 42 THE YALLEY OF 
 
 ders or ashes from the furnaces; and, more- 
 over, it goes all round our garden and 
 field." 
 
 Emily. — ^^ It appears to be flat on the 
 top, John." 
 
 John. — ^' Yes, it is flat, and from end 
 to end all round, it is nearly a mile." 
 
 Emily. — "And covered with this grass? 
 Then, John, it will do for a nice dry- 
 walk." 
 
 John paused and looked at her. The 
 idea pleased him ; in fact, it was a hobby 
 of his to walk to and fro on a level 
 path when he was mentally composing his 
 sermons. He brightened up, he looked at 
 the great ugly embankment with interest. 
 What holy, good, and pious thoughts might 
 not that terrace of cinders bring to his 
 mind! What food for his sermons — the 
 glorious sky above — the ashes beneath. 
 Emily knew in that pause of John's, in 
 that one look of satisfaction, all that was
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 43 
 
 passing in his mind — knew full well that, 
 for the future, every morning, before break- 
 fast, John would take so many turns on 
 that elevated station ; where, on one side, 
 he would look down upon his people, and 
 on the other upon his home, and mingle 
 prayers for both as he paced to and 
 fro. 
 
 So, pleased and buoyant, she met the 
 shock of the first appearance of the dining- 
 room with great composure. 
 
 It was as large as the drawing-room ; 
 also with four windows, three of which 
 were blocked up by dull, black, unwhole- 
 some-lookinsc trees. It had stiff chairs in 
 it, a stiff, frightful sofa, each covered with 
 black horse-hair, so old and shiny, ice would 
 have appeared more safe to sit upon. The 
 paper was so far superior to the drawing- 
 room that it had a decided attack of 
 yellow jaundice, fast turning in corners 
 and patches to the black state.
 
 44 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 Emily, quickly. — ^^ Well, now we will go 
 upstairs, and then, John, I must leave you 
 to ord-er dinner." 
 
 John, — ** I knew, Emily, you would be 
 shocked. Accustomed to have everything 
 so beautiful and neat ." 
 
 Emily. — " Which I mean to have here 
 also, dear John. So I wont look at any 
 more dismals now. Pray go and unpack 
 your books, and if you please, John, may 
 baby have her cradle in your snuggery, 
 for she will be going to sleep soon, and 
 that will be the only haven into which 
 we can put her? For nurse and I shall 
 be making a dust and a riot all over 
 the house, to unpack and settle things.^' 
 
 John agreed willingly, and then they 
 separated until dinner, at two o'clock; 
 John beginning his unpacking with a heart 
 as heavy as some of his books. 
 
 The rain poured unceasingly — John ar- 
 ranged his books unweariedly — baby slept
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 45 
 
 uninterruptedly, for the better part of three 
 hours. 
 
 A peep into some of his favourite authors, 
 the satisfaction of doing a good morning's 
 work, and that innate feeling of rectitude 
 and honest purpose which prompted John 
 to do his duty, in whatever state he was 
 placed, all combined to restore him to his 
 usual state of calm happiness. 
 
 Hearing a little noise in the region of 
 baby's cradle, he looked up from his books 
 and saw her sitting upright in the cot, her 
 little cheeks glowing with the bloom of 
 sleep ; while, with great sagacity and in- 
 telligence, she watched his proceedings — 
 her blue eyes following the books out of 
 their bed in the box up to their throne 
 on the shelf 
 
 "Good baby," thought the father, "how 
 sensible she looks ! Ah ! now, if she had 
 only been a boy, what delight I should 
 have had in teaching him Latin and Greek ;
 
 46 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 but I do not like to tell Emily so, lest it 
 should hurt her dear heart. But, good as 
 you are, baby, I wish you were a boy." 
 
 So saying, he approached her, with some 
 vague notion that it was his duty to take 
 her out of her bed. 
 
 But baby was more knowing than papa. 
 She had not been placed topsy-turvy several 
 times, and her head and limbs otherwise 
 endangered by papa^s awkward attempts at 
 acting nurse (John was certainly the most 
 inapt of parents), without becoming very 
 averse to such breaches of decorum. 
 
 Accordingly, no sooner did papa attempt 
 to take baby, bed, and blankets out to- 
 gether in a heap than she began to whim- 
 per. Hastily letting her drop again, he 
 wisely rang the bell, and while waiting the 
 answer to* its summons, he coaxed her with 
 the best sugared words he could think of. 
 And she (worthy daughter of her mother) 
 smiled as well as she could back again, poor
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 47 
 
 little innocent ; for papa, all unwotting, had 
 placed her so that one leg was doubled 
 under her, and one arm inextricably en- 
 tangled in the bed-clothes. 
 
 " Good little baby, your nurse is coming, 
 my child, and then you shall have bread 
 and milk. I have rung the bell, and per- 
 haps dear mamma may come, and will say 
 good baby may have sugar with her milk ! 
 Your father loves you, my child, though 
 you are not a boy, but a nice little girl, 
 with your dear mamma's eyes ! " 
 
 How much baby was enlightened and 
 amused by her father's discourse, this chro- 
 nicle hath no means of detailing truthfully. 
 But, to judge by her delight at seeing her 
 nurse's face, I doubt it was greatly thrown 
 away. And John seemed of the same mind, 
 for an attentive listener might have heard 
 him say to himself, with his quick, somewhat 
 rueful shake of the head, " Had she been 
 a boy, I think I could have talked better."
 
 48 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 Dinner-time came at two o'clock, and 
 with it Emily, all smiles and happiness. 
 There was a dish of beefsteaks — John's 
 peculiar fancy in the epicurean way ; and 
 while he partook thereof, he thought within 
 himself, ** I wonder if any one besides 
 Emily, on this day of business and dis- 
 appointments, would have thought of my 
 favourite dish ? " 
 
 He had not time to answer his own 
 question, ere Emily said : — 
 
 ** Do you know, John, I like the house 
 being in this messy state, for it is so nice 
 putting it to rights. And imagine how kind 
 — Lord Bernard has sent down half-a-dozen 
 of his workpeople, with orders that they 
 are to do whatever I like. And I have 
 set them all to work. Did you not hear 
 a great deal of hammering and noise ? I 
 was so afraid it would tease you." 
 
 No. John had heard nothing. 
 
 Emily. — *^ Ah ! John, how glad I am,
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 49 
 
 for that shows that though the house may- 
 have been finished in a hurry, yet the 
 walls are thick, and were built before ; 
 indeed, one of the workpeople told me it 
 was once an old manor-house. So that it 
 is only the inside that is ruined, from the 
 paper being put on damp mortar, and the 
 paint on unseasoned wood." 
 
 John. — ^^ It may be as you say, Emily.^' 
 Emily. — " Oh, I am sure of it ; and when 
 I have put it to rights, it will be a charming 
 house. Lord Bernard has ordered new papers 
 to be brought for my choice, and I am to 
 have fresh paint and varnish whenever I like. 
 Is he not kind and thoughtful ? — and oh, 
 John, see ! — Lady Bernard sent me these 
 beautiful flowers, with radishes and salad for 
 you, and such grapes ! They shall be for us 
 all, for baby shall taste them." 
 
 John. — " They seem very amiable people, 
 Emily." 
 
 Emily. — " Oh, charming ! We shall get 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 quite spoilt. Now, John, I must tell you 
 some more good news. All the furniture my 
 mother gave us, and which arrived ten days 
 ago, has travelled without any injury to speak 
 of, and it looks so fresh and pretty — but you 
 must promise me one thing.'' 
 
 John, looking a little dismayed, fearing a 
 misfortune. — " I promise, Emily." 
 
 Emily. — ^^ Do not go into either dining 
 or drawing-room until I give you leave. I 
 wish to surprise you." 
 
 John gave the promise most willingly. In 
 fact, he had been so chilled and depressed by 
 the sight of them, he was quite ready to 
 vow he would never enter either of them 
 again. 
 
 Emily. — ^^How nice your books look ! But, 
 oh ! how stupid of me to forget that they 
 would require dusting before they were put 
 up. Look at the dust, John ! " 
 
 John. — "My darling, it is my fault, not 
 yours : I should have thought of it myself — 
 you have had quite enough to do."
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 51 
 
 Emily. — ^* Luckily it still rains, so that we 
 cannot go out, and it will give us plenty of 
 time." 
 
 John. — "Yes; therefore, if you will pur- 
 sue what you have been about, I will devote 
 the rest of the evening to repairing my 
 mistake." 
 
 Emily. — " See, John, what a face baby 
 makes at her grape — she does not like it. 
 Ah, baby, what bad taste ! But come — you 
 shall be wrapped in a shawl, and tied in 
 your chair ; you shall sit in the room with 
 mamma, and learn how to put it tidy." 
 
 So they departed, leaving John to dust; 
 and while he did so, he said to himself — 
 
 " She even knows what baby would like 
 best.'' 
 
 £ 2
 
 52 THE TALLET OF 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 "There'll be a coat o'er the chair, 
 
 There will be slippers for somebody; 
 There'll be a wife's tender care — 
 
 Love's fond embracement for somebody. 
 
 "There'll be the little one's charms — 
 Soon 'twill be wakened for somebody: 
 When I have both in my arms. 
 
 Oh ! but how blest will be somebody ! " 
 
 Charles Swain. 
 
 The next day was fine ; so John, immedi- 
 ately after breakfast, marched off on a tour 
 of visits among his parishioners, fortified by 
 Emily's best wishes. 
 
 Then Emily and her maids almost turned 
 the house inside out. It was a mercy baby 
 was not swept away as an atom of dust.
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 53 
 
 Heartily tired, but bright and cheerful as 
 ever, in the evening Emily dressed herself 
 in a little, simple, white cotton gown, and 
 smoothing her curls until they looked all 
 gold, she went, with wearied and slow steps, 
 downstairs into the snuggery to prepare tea 
 for John, and to sit and have a good chat 
 over all his adventures. 
 
 She was just in time (this, however, often 
 happened with Emily), for John came in — 
 all in a glow with exercise and kindly feel- 
 ing, which extended into his heart of hearts 
 as he peeped into the snuggery, and saw the 
 fair angel that brightened his hearth looking 
 so delicate and pretty in her white dress, the 
 languor of fatigue adding to the interest of 
 her appearance. 
 
 John blessed her in his heart as he went 
 upstairs to make himself fit to be seen by so 
 fair a vision. 
 
 Emily, — " Now, dearest John, I hope 
 you have enjoyed your tea, as I have.
 
 54 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 So I will recline in the old arm-chair ; 
 for I mean to do nothing, all this even- 
 ing, but listen to your adventures." 
 
 John had truly enjoyed his tea, and, 
 nothing loth to obey Emily's wishes, thus 
 commenced : — 
 
 Joh'nJs adventures^ with Emily's comments 
 thereon, 
 
 "In the first place, I went, of course, to 
 the Castle, that I might in person thank 
 Lord Bernard for the presentation to this 
 living." 
 
 " Quite right, John." 
 
 "It is situated on a high eminence, about 
 a mile from here, overlooking a vast 
 amount of works, foundries, hills, and 
 country. The view from it is of course 
 much more curious than beautiful, for Lord 
 Bernard is able almost, as it were, to look 
 down into the yawning, fiery mouths of his 
 furnaces. At night I can imagine nothing 
 more wonderful."
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 55 
 
 " I dare saj it is, John — you know I 
 told you we should be much struck with 
 this country." 
 
 John shook his head. He was doubtful 
 whether all things wonderful were at the 
 same time pleasant. 
 
 " The Castle itself stands in so prominent a 
 position that it must appear to even the 
 smallest boy picking up cinders about 
 the works to be watching him indi- 
 vidually. It is built in a noble and 
 bold style ; the stone roughly hewn, but of 
 a close fine grain, and peculiarly tinted. 
 Though not old, it is already moss- 
 grown, which adds to the air of solidity 
 and strength ; and it is sufiiciently elevated 
 above the reach of the smoke to retain its 
 own gray colour. I went beneath an 
 archway, large enough for a carriage to 
 drive under, where was the door-bell, 
 which I rang. This was speedily an- 
 swered by a respectable-looking elderly
 
 5Q THE VALLEY OF 
 
 servant, dressed in black, with very white 
 hair (John was always very precise), and 
 two other servants also appeared, dressed 
 in livery, I presume, as I saw much of 
 their legs cased in white stockings. So I 
 gave my card, on receiving which, and 
 reading the name, the elderly servant 
 bowed very politely ; and waving away the 
 others, I conclude, as they left imme- 
 diately, he ushered me himself into a very 
 handsome library. There, seated at a 
 writing-table, was Lord Bernard, who came 
 forward " 
 
 " What is he like, John — is he hand- 
 some ? " 
 
 " Why, I should say he was handsome, 
 and young. About thirty, I should think; 
 but I forgot, in the pleasure of convers- 
 ing with him, to observe him much, 
 because, you know, Emily, when I am 
 interested " 
 
 '' Yes, I know, John."
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 57 
 
 '* Well, he started so immediately into 
 the subject of the parish and his people, 
 that I thought of nothing else. His 
 plans for their welfare and improvement, 
 his ideas of schools for children and 
 adults, his wishes and their non-fulfilment, 
 his hopes and their disappointments, the 
 various histories of my predecessors — ah, 
 Emily, do you know I discovered not one 
 of them stayed here three years — they 
 could not bear the smoke." 
 
 Emily. — " Then they were stupid people, 
 John — there must be smoke everywhere ; 
 therefore, 'tis as well to learn to bear 
 it." 
 
 John, as usual, slowly shook his head, 
 expressive of his doubtful mind, and then 
 continued — 
 
 " Neither did any of them get on well 
 with the people." 
 
 Emily. — ^^ Then they must have been 
 still more stupid, John. Just fancy you
 
 58 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 not getting on well with them, or their 
 being able to prevent themselves liking 
 and loving you ; but please go on.'^ 
 
 " I sat with Lord Bernard more than 
 an hour, and then he took me into the 
 drawing-room to be introduced to his 
 wife. She also is a young person ^' 
 
 " Why, of course, dear John ; and is she 
 pretty ? " 
 
 "She appeared to me very pretty indeed, 
 and was very kind, asking so many questions 
 about you, Emily " 
 
 " And how was she dressed, John ? " 
 
 " Why, I liked her dress very much ; it 
 seemed to me of a handsome stuff, and 
 there were things about it that made it 
 look very neat, and it was of a handsome 
 colour — I should say " 
 
 " And was she kind to you, John ? " in- 
 terrupted Emily, remembering suddenly that 
 John's ideas of dress were peculiar and 
 incomprehensible to all but himself.
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 59 
 
 "Very much so indeed. But still they 
 both seemed to have a doubtful kind of a 
 way with them. I don't think my prede- 
 cessor could have acted very fairly by 
 them." 
 
 Emily, — " Oh, nonsense, John ; perhaps 
 he was old — delicate — or something of that 
 sort, and so could not do as much as was 
 required of him.'' 
 
 "Perhaps so, love. But they gave me, 
 at all events, but a sombre view of things 
 in general, and the people in particular; 
 even to saying so much as that he could 
 not hope I should be long on terms with 
 all my parishioners." 
 
 Emily, — " John ! he did not know you ! " 
 {soiio voce.) 
 
 " In fact, my dear Emily, I saw that 
 they were doubtful about my liking the 
 place and remaining here, when I fully saw 
 all the difficulties of my position, and the 
 various annoyances I should daily meet
 
 60 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 with. And speaking under this idea, Lord 
 Bernard openly said he was sorry to hear 
 I had brought my wife. I should have 
 done better to have come here for three 
 months by myself " 
 
 ^'Without me, John — how unhappy and 
 uncomfortable you would have been ! " 
 
 " True, most true, my Emily ; but still 
 I somewhat agree with him, and I think 
 this may prove no place for one so deli- 
 cately nurtured and cared for, so accus- 
 tomed to all refinements, and " 
 
 Emily. — ^*Pooh, pooh, it is a very nice 
 place, and there are sure to be nice people 
 in it, and I care for none of those things 
 you talk about — only for you, John/' 
 
 " God love and bless my darling ! I know 
 your unselfish nature full well. So I will 
 only say, all their remarks proceeded from 
 evident kindness to us; and I was to give 
 Lady Bernard's best regards to you, and 
 she would not call upon you this week,
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 61 
 
 thinking she might be in your way. But 
 early in next week, when you would be 
 somewhat settled, she would come. Then I 
 took the opportunity, Emily, of thanking 
 her for all the presents she sent us yes- 
 terday " 
 
 " Good John ! '' 
 
 "And told her how much they were ap- 
 preciated " 
 
 "By all but baby." 
 
 "And then I went with Lord Bernard 
 down to the works, and he introduced me 
 to his head-man, or superintendent of the 
 works, Mr. Kobarts, who again introduced 
 me to so many clerks and superintendents 
 that I was much bewildered, and can hardly 
 recall them." 
 
 Emily, — " Never mind, John — what is Mr. 
 Robarts like ? " 
 
 " He is a very nice person indeed, with 
 a frank, jovial manner, and bright, intelligent 
 eyes that see everything in a minute.
 
 62 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 He speaks a little too fast — I could not 
 quite follow him, but it is impossible not 
 to be pleased with him. I went with him 
 to his house to partake of his early 
 dinner, and he introduced me to his wife. 
 Do you know, Emily, she is almost as 
 pretty as you and your sister." 
 
 Emily. — ^^ I am so glad ! " 
 
 "They appear to have four or five 
 little girls, very pretty to look at, but I 
 suppose not quite old enough to be well- 
 mannered; and, Emily, dear " 
 
 Emily.— ''Xq^, John?" 
 
 " I hope you will not suffer your daugh- 
 ter to have stiff curls, and wear little 
 petticoats very short — up to here, many of 
 them " 
 
 Emily. — " Dear, blind John, those must 
 have been frills." 
 
 *^ Perhaps so, Emily ; but whatever they 
 were, I did not admire them. Also — also 
 _I hope "
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 63 
 
 Emily. — "What, dear John?" seeing he 
 paused and sighed. 
 
 *^A curious idea entered my head, Emily. 
 Mrs. Robarts has so many daughters, and 
 not one son ; for I asked " 
 
 Emily.— "'Wd\, John?" 
 
 "Well, Emily, I don't quite like that." 
 
 Emily. — "How can she help it?" 
 
 " I know, love, I know ; but so many 
 daughters and no son, it would make me 
 very uncomfortable, Emily." 
 
 Emily. — " Now, that is very unlike you — 
 you know you would be very comfortable 
 with them, and love them very much. But 
 pray proceed." 
 
 "I went afterwards to the doctor's house, 
 who is obliged to keep four assistants. There 
 are often sad and infectious fevers among 
 the people, and still more often dangerous 
 and shocking accidents. He seems a very 
 nice person indeed, combining, I should 
 say, strong practical sense with great kind-
 
 64 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 ness of heart ; and as for his wife, Mrs. 
 Dawson, my dear Emily, you will soon love 
 her. There is something so natural, so 
 kind, so maternal about her, that I felt 
 quite at home immediately ; and she asked 
 after you with such tenderness of feeling, 
 I was quite struck. And do you know, 
 Emily, she has a son ! '' 
 
 "Really, John, I am glad to hear it,'' 
 and she nodded her little dear head in a 
 sort of half saucy way, as much as to 
 say, " You see sons are born here as well 
 as daughters." 
 
 " Lord Bernard gives Dr. Dawson a thou- 
 sand a-year, with a house — and very hard 
 he has to work for it, Emily." 
 
 " I have no doubt of it, John." 
 
 Oh ! John and Emily, does it not strike 
 you what injustice it was giving a doctor 
 a thousand a-year to heal people's bodies, 
 and you thought yourselves so well repaid 
 in receiving three hundred per annum for
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 65 
 
 curing tbeir souls? I am afraid few will 
 have a good opinion of John and Emily 
 after this. But pray, dear readers, be 
 patient. No doubt, in the course of this 
 history we shall come to something like 
 wordly wisdom in their doings. At least, 
 we will hope so. 
 
 *^ I paid one more visit, Emily, to a 
 single lady of the name of Charles. I 
 don't quite know what her age may be, 
 but she talked a great deal. I told her 
 I was then going among the cottages, and 
 she — she — that is — I am afraid I must say 
 I was not much taken with her." 
 
 Emily. — '^ Oh ! you will, John, by-and- 
 by ; first sight is sometimes deceiving." 
 
 *^ I don't quite think so, in this case. 
 She was not good-natured in her remarks. 
 She said I might go once to these cottages, 
 but she would be bound — that was her 
 phrase, Emily ; and besides she has a loud 
 voice — " 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 66 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 "Poor John — was she nice looking?" 
 
 " She is large and fat, and has a voice 
 like a man*s. But now, my wife, I mean 
 to tell you no more. I must have you 
 go to bed, because — because you appear 
 fatigued; and I must be careful of a life 
 so precious to me — the world and its con- 
 tents could not repay me for one single 
 day's loss of it." 
 
 Having made so free with Mr. Leslie's 
 private communications to his wife, it is 
 but fair that we should take a peep into 
 other people's confidences. So we will go 
 into Lady Bernard's boudoir, and, es- 
 tablishing ourselves as flies on the wall, 
 hear what she is saying to her hus- 
 band. 
 
 This boudoir was upstairs, situated in 
 the very centre of the Castle, being, in 
 fact, of the dimensions of the square 
 turret that formed a sort of keep. A 
 large oriel window filled up one side of
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 67 
 
 the room. From this window you looked 
 down upon a garden, ruled under the 
 especial sway of the Lady Bernard. 
 Therefore it indulged in various feminine 
 vagaries. No two beds matched, and the 
 fountain was not in the centre, while, so 
 far from all the four rockeries being at 
 the opposite corners (as if so placed that 
 they might, during leisure moments, 
 indulge in a game of puss-in-the 
 corner), they were up and down any- 
 where. From out of one bubbled a spark- 
 ling fountain, that reposed itself for a 
 quiet moment in a large, mis-shapen 
 moss-grown stone basin, on the rim of 
 which, look at whatever hour of the day 
 you chose, a bird or birds might be 
 seen sitting. The boundary of this garden 
 was formed by a thick wood of oak and 
 larch, from whence came sounds of melody, 
 enlivening it with gay carols of black- 
 birds and thrushes ; startling it with the
 
 68 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 wild call and noisy flutter of the phea- 
 sant (then a rare and petted bird, too 
 valuable to be shot or eaten), while, as 
 evening fell, the ring-dove would coo in 
 soft melancholy strains. Higher and higher 
 rose the wood of oak and larch, so that 
 the next thing you saw above it was the 
 blue Welsh hills, and beyond and above 
 them the ever-changing heavens. 
 
 The boudoir was furnished with oak — so 
 old, it was quite dark; and to enliven it 
 the curtains were of crimson cloth, with a 
 broad border of oak-leaves and acorns, em- 
 broidered in silk of dead gold colour. A 
 few airy, delightful, and easy chairs (for 
 such luxuries were rare in those days), some 
 straight-backed old-fashioned ones, a small 
 sofa, a piano and writing-table, composed 
 the furniture, excepting a low bookcase 
 running half round the room. But there 
 was a great quantity of ladies' objects of 
 veneration — old china, ornamental bronzes,
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 69 
 
 sculpture, pictures, some very valuable, 
 others only regarded as such from feelings 
 of sympathy or remembrance. These were 
 scattered about the room, without much 
 attention to order ; and mixed with them 
 might be seen a vase of fresh flowers, a 
 pot of violets, another of mignonette, 
 while a gorgeous cactus blazed in the 
 window. But amid everything were seen 
 bales of flannel, Welsh petticoats, and 
 checked stuff, with yarn and hose, and 
 various other articles of dress, that re- 
 quired much more than a pot of mignonette 
 to overcome the prevailing odour. 
 
 *^ My dear wife, may I come in ? *' 
 said a voice at the door ; and Lord Ber- 
 nard entered without further ceremony, 
 and was preparing to seat himself in a 
 chair that looked peculiarly his own, 
 when he paused. A dilating of the nos- 
 trils gave notice to Lady Bernard what 
 would be his remark.
 
 70 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 " Surely I smell a strange, oily, not 
 to say woolly scentification." 
 
 His wife laughed and said — 
 
 " You are quite right — I have poisoned 
 the room by having all this Welsh stuff 
 in it, which it seems cannot be made 
 good without bearing an odour very 
 much the reverse. I will ring to have 
 it removed, and will open the win- 
 dows." 
 
 " I despise nothing Welsh, but I feel 
 happy that you don't oblige me to clothe 
 myself in such odoriferous stuff." 
 
 ^' Don't despise it. There is nothing like 
 Welsh stuff for wearing — and the more it 
 is washed the better it is. Besides, it is 
 home-spun." 
 
 " Then, I say, let it always be washing. 
 But now it is gone, listen, my lady — I 
 like him." 
 
 Lady Bernard, — '^ So do I, Henry. 
 At first I was rather disappointed in his
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 71 
 
 personal appearance. There is nothing in 
 it to strike you, or to give effect to any- 
 thing he might say; but when he begins 
 to talk, and when in his excitement he 
 removed his spectacles, what wonderful in- 
 telligence his eyes expressed ! " 
 
 Lord B. — " For the first ten minutes after 
 I saw him I was disappointed also. There 
 was something so extremely simple and un- 
 pretending in his manner, I immediately set 
 him down for a bit of a goose. I did not 
 even give him credit for being something of 
 a pedantic one either.'' 
 
 Lady B. — '^ I rather like one being disap- 
 pointed at first. For do you remember 
 how fascinated we were by Mr. Willis? 
 His manners were so polished, he was so 
 full of suavity and gentleness, we thought 
 we had obtained the true Christian apostle 
 we required for our difficult people." 
 
 Lord B. — " And what an ill-natured fellow 
 he turned out to be ! In remembrance of
 
 72 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 my mistake about him, I will not be too 
 sanguine regarding Mr. Leslie. But I own 
 I am greatly disappointed that he is so 
 young. He is not more than four-and- 
 twenty." 
 
 Lady B. — ^' No more ! But do not grieve 
 about that, for he looks thirty at the very 
 least. He gives me the idea of being the 
 child of very old parents, and, having no 
 brothers or sisters, he has been brought up 
 in an old-fashioned, grave way, unknowing 
 what it is to be a child." 
 
 (Lady Bernard, your discrimination is 
 wonderful) . 
 
 Lord B. — '^ I agree with you in thinking 
 he looks older than he is, so I will dis- 
 turb myself no more about that matter, 
 until he does some foolish thing more be- 
 fitting twenty-four than thirty. But bis 
 wife, my dear Kate, how are we to get 
 over this difficulty? For it is as neces- 
 sary she should be sensible, well-educated,
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 73 
 
 and fitted for her duties here as he should 
 be. And — she is only nineteen ; besides, I 
 hear, strikingly pretty." 
 
 Lady B. — " I do not see why she need 
 be ugly to be a clergyman's wife, Henry." 
 
 Lord B. — " Neither do I mean to carry 
 my ideas of her qualifications for her duties 
 to such an extent. But after seeing Mr. 
 Leslie, I think he appears to me exactly 
 the sort of simple man who would be 
 taken in by a pretty, showy, lively, empty- 
 headed girl." 
 
 Lady B. — ^^ Now, do you know I differ 
 from you. I think under all that simpli- 
 city and gravity there runs a quiet vein 
 of humour, and a thorough knowledge of 
 people, in Mr. Leshe. To my fancy, his 
 wife will be a brisk, handsome, active coun- 
 try girl, used to rough it, capable of making 
 pies and puddings, and turning her hand to 
 anything, and looking as old as he does." 
 
 (Lady Bernard, this time your discrimi-
 
 74 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 nation is at fault. Fancy, dear readers, 
 our Emily brisk and countrified !) 
 
 LordB. — "Humph! our opinions certainly 
 differ, and we shall not see which is the 
 truest until Sunday. Therefore, if you 
 won't think me profane, Kate, I shall go 
 rather early, and see how she walks into 
 church. If she comes fluttering and fussing 
 up the aisle I shall consider I am vic- 
 torious. If she stalks up with a heavy foot, 
 a business-like look, that seems of itself to 
 say, ' I am the clergyman's better half,' 
 then I yield the palm to you. Meanwhile, 
 I return to my first song, and will sing it 
 again. I * like him, and I hope, ardently, 
 truly, that our people will also.'" 
 
 Lady B. — " I hope poor Mrs. Leslie will 
 not be in either of the extremes you men- 
 tion ; for it will be a great drawback to me 
 if she is a vulgar, fussy woman. Mrs. Willis 
 was an amiable, lady-like person, and I miss 
 her much. Mrs. Robarts is of no use to me ;
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 75 
 
 her girls occupy her sole thoughts — and 
 wherefore they are to be made so accom- 
 plished is a mystery to me. They will be 
 pretty, elegant girls if she will permit them 
 to grow up as nature intended, and educate 
 them sufficiently for the clerks and people 
 among whom they were brought up.'' 
 
 Lord B, — " My dear Kate ! where is your 
 discrimination ? No daughter of Mrs. Eobarts' 
 is ever to marry a clerk ! She is always 
 telling me of the pains and trouble she is 
 taking with them, and always adds, ' I shall 
 make them fit to adorn any society, how- 
 ever high.' " 
 
 Lady B. — " You are getting satirical, 
 Henry. However, she is a weak woman, 
 and of no assistance to me. Miss Charles 
 always makes me ^eat dirt,' as the Turks 
 say, whenever I go near her. Dear Goody 
 Dawson is too good and kind : I never have 
 the heart to tax her with anything, know- 
 ing she does a great deal more than she ought
 
 76 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 of her own accord ; while the Miss Hills 
 have so many claims in their own valley, I 
 think it unfair to trouble them. So, if Mrs. 
 Leslie does not prove an assistant to me, 
 cheerful and willing, I shall consider my case 
 hard.^' 
 
 Lord B. — ^^ And I am even more anxious 
 that she should prove so ; for I know a good 
 woman, not a hundred miles off, who does 
 much more than she ought, and whose tender 
 heart is far too severely tried, whenever we 
 visit our wild Welsh home." 
 
 Lady B. — ^' Ah, Henry, we suffer together. 
 You are as anxious as myself. If it should 
 please God that we prove fortunate in our 
 choice of Mr. Leslie, it will be a great bless- 
 ing ; and, having been hitherto so unhappy 
 in our selection, I trust it is in no murmuring 
 spirit that we are thus fearful of his success, 
 and rather wearied with our many failures." 
 ■ Lord B. — *' Do not, however, think, Kate, 
 that the failure rests wholly with ourselves —
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 77 
 
 some part must be imputed to the people 
 themselves. They are such a mixed multi- 
 tude — of so many creeds, opinions, customs, 
 and manners — I really think an archangel 
 from heaven would be dubious about under- 
 taking the charge of them.'* 
 
 Lady B, — " Nay, that is a very dispiriting 
 view of the case. I shall hope, instead, that 
 Mr. Leslie may prove that mild, sagacious 
 character who, by * being all things to all 
 men,' may gain some among our people. Our 
 prayers shall not be wanting for his success : 
 meanwhile, love, worry yourself no more. 1 
 hear the merry footsteps of our boys, just 
 come in from their walk. Here they are ! " 
 
 Lord B. — '' Hah, my boys ! and where 
 have you been ? " 
 
 " Papa," said the eldest, named Frank, and 
 about six years old, ^^we have been up the 
 hill, and found these cowslips." 
 
 "And," said the little one, Walter — four 
 years old — " we are going to make tissity- 
 tossities."
 
 78 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 ^* And pray, what may be the meaning of 
 tissity-tossities ? " asked their father. 
 
 ^* Balls, papa," said Frank, rather in con- 
 temptuous tones, as if he pitied his father's 
 ignorance. ^^ Even Walter can help to make 
 a cow slip -ball." 
 
 **Then Walter is more clever than I am. 
 I suppose they were not invented when I was 
 young." 
 
 '^ Poor papa ! — and we met a gentleman 
 who helped us to gather them," said Frank. 
 
 " And, papa, he had windows on his eyes," 
 said Walter — "little round windows." 
 
 "Ha, ha! — so, Walter, you do not know 
 what spectacles are ? Did the gentleman 
 speak to you ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! he asked if I had begun Latin, 
 and he told us a story of Androcles and the 
 Lion." 
 
 " Come — you remember the name very 
 well, and it is a hard one." 
 
 " Because, papa, the gentleman said it was
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 79 
 
 a true story, and it was of no use my hearing 
 it unless I remembered it. So he did not tell 
 me the story until I could say the came 
 perfectly." 
 
 " That was very kind of him. Did he 
 tell you his name ? " 
 
 " No, papa ; but after he was gone nurse 
 said he was called Mr. Leslie, and was our 
 new clergyman." 
 
 "How did she find that out?" 
 
 *^ Because, papa, he spoke to nurse first, 
 and asked leave to tell us this story; and 
 afterwards, he said to her, • The view from 
 the hills is very beautiful, Mrs. Nurse, and 
 leads us to think of the God who made it ;' 
 and nurse curtsied, and said, ^ Yes, sir ;' and 
 when he was gone, she then said he must be 
 the clergyman, because he talked of God." 
 
 *^ I think nurse was right ; and did you 
 like him?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, papa — he was so merry when 
 he gathered the cowslips ! — and he took off
 
 80 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 his little windows to show Walter, who was 
 astonished at them. And nurse likes him 
 too : she said she was sure he was a good 
 man." 
 
 *' There, Kate — I hope you hear this with 
 satisfaction. Mr. Leslie has already, in his 
 quiet way, won three hearts." 
 
 " May he be as successful in all others ; 
 but it proves, Henry, that his disposition is 
 what I hoped. Merry with the boys, so nice 
 and condescending to nurse, my text will be 
 verified — ^ He will become all things to all 
 men, so that, by any means, he may win 
 some.' " 
 
 " Take it then, Kate, for your watch-word : 
 on Sunday, when I have seen Mrs. Leslie, I 
 will tell you mine. So now, little boys, 
 teach papa how to make a tossity-tassity." 
 
 '* Papa ! a tissity-tossity, if you please."
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 81 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " I see a beauteous vale 
 Embosomed in the mountains, whose proud height 
 Seems like a pinnacle for Time to sit 
 And watch his generations. In that vale, 
 Seeming the very resting-place of grace, 
 The homes of men are scattered." 
 
 CoNSTANTiA Louisa Riddell. 
 
 Now we must take our station on the wall of 
 the domestic parlour of the Eobarts's. But 
 they had other rooms. Oh, of course ! Who 
 could imagine that Mrs. Eobarts had not a 
 very fine drawing-room, and excellent dining- 
 room, both twenty-eight feet long, by twenty 
 wide ? Only this parlour was the domestic 
 one : in the day time, sacred to the many 
 
 VOL. I. (J
 
 82 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 accomplishments necessary for the education 
 of the Miss Kobarts' ; in the evening, when 
 tea was over, the young ladies safe in bed, 
 the governess upstairs writing to her friends, 
 sacred to Mr. and Mrs. Robarts alone — except 
 just this evening, when there are certain flies 
 on the wall. 
 
 Mr. Eobarts is reading the newspaper — not 
 a fine, large, well-printed, well-pressed paper, 
 such as we have now-a-days, but a small one, 
 of a yellow hue, smelling un pleasingly of 
 printer's ink, and very badly printed withal. 
 Mrs. Eobarts had four little straw hats before 
 her, with a great deal of ribbon. 
 
 " Heavens ! how iron is rising ! *' said Mr. 
 Eobarts. ^^ Jane, we shall be as rich as 
 Croesus ! " 
 
 '' I am very glad of it, Jaspar, for indeed 
 we require it. This ribbon is three shillings 
 a-yard.'' 
 
 " Why do you buy it, then ? " asked he. 
 
 Mrs. R, — " Because I must have the chil-
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 83 
 
 dren look nice on Sunday, for the new clergy- 
 man and his wife will be sure to notice them ; 
 at least, she will — she is of very good family." 
 
 Mr, B. — " I like Mr. Leslie, Jane, very 
 much." 
 
 Mrs. R. — ^* Did you, Jaspar ? I cannot 
 say I did. He took very little notice of our 
 girls, beyond asking Ellen if she could read 
 the Bible ; and, you know, Jane and Maria 
 play so prettily on the piano." 
 
 Mr. E. — ^^ He told me, Jane, that he 
 thought you a very pretty woman, so he 
 might be looking too much at you to see your 
 daughters. I guess, from his admiring you 
 so much, his own wife is but ordinary- 
 looking." 
 
 Mrs. B. (mollified). — ^^ Perhaps she is, 
 dear, and perhaps she has no children, which 
 might make him a little chary of looking at 
 our pretty girls." 
 
 Mr. B. — ^^I daresay by-and-by I shall 
 be able to spare him a few, eh, Jane?" 
 
 g2
 
 84 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 Mrs. R. — " Spare one ! Never, Jaspar ! 
 My precious girls ! — every hair of their 
 heads is valuable to me.'' 
 
 Mr. R, — *' My dear, you know you are 
 very ridiculous about those children ; for, 
 besides wearing yourself to death for their 
 sakes, I have no pleasure in their society : 
 Ellen must not go out when the sun 
 shines, because she freckles so — Jane must 
 not ride with me, for fear it should make 
 her crooked — and little Maria is all day long 
 at her piano. The baby is the only child 
 I am allowed to consider my own — and I 
 shall lose her, I suppose, when she begins 
 to learn her letters." 
 
 Mrs. R. — '^ Do not be cross, Jaspar ; I 
 must do my duty as a mother. Our 
 children are very much gifted by nature, 
 for you rarely see such pretty ones as 
 our two eldest girls. I wonder you do 
 not look a little forward, and see why I 
 take such pains with their education and 
 accomplishments."
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 85 
 
 Mr. i?.— "Not I, faith, Jane. I look 
 no further forward than that they should 
 have the same fate as their mother; and 
 they may think themselves lucky if they 
 all get husbands among the clerks of the 
 ironworks." 
 
 3Irs, B. — " Hush, Jaspar, you are the 
 superintendent — in fact, head man, next to 
 my lord himself. We are second only in 
 rank and station to the Castle; and there- 
 fore, if I look forward a dozen years or 
 so, 1 don't see why we shouldn*t be on 
 a par, or why my sweet girls should not 
 mate accordingly." 
 
 Mr. it. — " Oh, that is it — pretty castle- 
 building indeed ! However, build away, only 
 don't kill yourself and overwork the girls in 
 so doing, for I feel pretty sure you won't 
 succeed." 
 
 Mrs. B. — "Don't be unkind, Jaspar; you 
 will put me in low spirits." 
 
 Mr. i?.— " Which is the last thino^ I
 
 86 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 should wish to do. I hope Mrs. Leslie 
 will prove a nice stirring body, who will 
 cheer you up a bit, Jane.'' 
 
 Mrs. E. — "I am sure I am sadly in 
 want of a kind female friend, who will 
 sympathize with me, and enter into all 
 my feelings as a mother. My lady is 
 very kind, but of course I could not 
 expect her to be what I want. Mrs. 
 Dawson is very good, but so wrapt up 
 in making caudle and flannel petticoats 
 for the poor, that one might as well make 
 a friend of a basin of gruel. And that 
 boy Jeffreys is very forward, calling the 
 girls by their Christian names, . and even 
 kissing little Maria." 
 
 Mr. B. (slyly)—" There is Miss Charles, 
 my dear." 
 
 Mrs. E. — " Odious creature, I have often 
 said, and now I will promise myself never 
 to enter her doors again : she has actu- 
 ally put it about that Mam'selle is a
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 87 
 
 papist; and she took hold of my new 
 poplin dress last Sunday, and asked if it 
 was my old green silk dyed — and she 
 did so just as the Bernards were going 
 by." 
 
 Mr. R. — " She has a long tongue, cer- 
 tainly, I wonder it has got her into 
 no mischief. I saw ]\Ir. Leslie was rather 
 more surprised than pleased at her when I 
 introduced him.'^ 
 
 Mrs. R. — *^ That shows he is a man of 
 sense, and at all events that his wife will 
 not be like her. I shall not be able to 
 see her until Sunday, as I hear Lady 
 Bernard is not going to call at the par- 
 sonage until next week ; so I shall do 
 the same. I shall know in a minute if 
 she will suit me, by the style of her 
 dress." 
 
 Mr. R. — ^' Then women are sharper than 
 men. I never noticed how Mr. Leslie 
 was dressed — I only looked at his nice
 
 88 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 honest countenance. So I shall say good 
 night. I presume you will be in bed 
 before the morning, if you would not 
 rather sit up all night than let your 
 daughters go simply dressed to church." 
 
 Mrs. Robarts was irritated at this last 
 remark, and his shutting the door with a 
 bang that shook her weak nerves. So she 
 determined to finish trimming the hats, 
 tired as she was. Therefore the flies on 
 the wall left her, before they had time to 
 discover if all this sitting up, fatigue, and 
 trimming answered her expectations ; and 
 went to pay two, luckily but short, visits, 
 as follows : — 
 
 " Dolly,'' said Dr. Dawson, as he was 
 putting on his night-cap, ^* would it not 
 be kind of you to go to-morrow and see 
 if you can help Mrs. Leslie. That nice- 
 spoken, worthy young man, her husband, 
 as good as told me she was only nine- 
 teen."
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 89 
 
 " I wrote to her to-day, doctor, to offer 
 my services; and I am to go to her to- 
 morrow to assist. She wrote me such a 
 pretty answer — and here it is." 
 
 ^^ A very pretty letter, indeed," answered 
 the doctor, after perusing it ; " and no 
 nonsense in it. But she must be a sen- 
 sible young woman, to have discerned that 
 my Dolly was a treasure, without having 
 seen her." 
 
 " Have done with your nonsense, doctor. 
 You see she puts the pleasure of seeing 
 me more to the fact that she would like 
 to be at home among us all as soon as 
 possible." 
 
 << Very right ; besides she can be no fool 
 for all she is so young — for that nice young 
 man, who has quite taken my heart with 
 his free, kind manner, is far too knowing 
 to have married such, Dolly." 
 
 " They are much too young, to my 
 thinking, for this place, doctor, so we must
 
 90 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 help them all we can. Meantime, we shall 
 be able to judge better when we have 
 heard his first sermon." 
 
 The last speech was lost on the doctor — 
 he was already snoring. 
 
 " Dear me, what a man the doctor is 
 for sleeping; and yet if I tell him there's 
 a woman taken ill ." 
 
 ^^Hilloo, Dolly, who's ill? — give me my 
 clothes." 
 
 "No, no, doctor, sleep comfortably. I 
 was only talking to myself, just saying — 
 bless me, he is snoring again ! " 
 
 The last visit was to Miss Charles ; and 
 then, dear reader, we will go to bed also 
 — for I feel sure you are as tired as I am 
 of clinging to the walls and listening to so 
 many conversations. 
 
 Miss Charles sat in a large arm-chair, 
 robed in a huge dressing-gown. If she did 
 not look handsome in Mr. Leslie's eyes 
 when adorned for the day, it is hardly
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 91 
 
 necessary to say that now she was still 
 less so. 
 
 By her side was a table — on that table 
 smoked a capacious cup, steaming and sa- 
 voury. Before Miss Charles stood a comely 
 wench, robust and strong, with bright 
 black eyes and round rosy cheeks. A 
 waiter being in her hand, she had evi- 
 dently just brought up Miss Charles' *^ night- 
 cap.'^ 
 
 *^ Ay, Betty, but I doubt ye hae made 
 this owre strong.^' Miss Charles came from 
 canny Newcastle, where the language in 
 common use is a species of Scotch and 
 English, mixed with its own peculiar burr. 
 Now, the burr is a weakness possessed by 
 the Newcastle people, that utterly inca- 
 pacitates them from pronouncing the "R" 
 among the letters of the alphabet. Either 
 they make it sound like a cluster of many 
 *^ E's," or they decline pronouncing it alto- 
 gether, substituting a ^^Win its place.
 
 92 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 Miss Charles luckily had not the burr 
 to graft on her Scotch and English mix- 
 ture; but she had some peculiarities in her 
 parts of speech, belonging solely to herself, 
 which rendered it a matter of thankfulness, 
 to those who wished to understand her, 
 that she had escaped the burr altogether. 
 
 " Owre strong ! " says Betty, who had 
 the burr in perfection. ^^ Never, noo.'' 
 
 " Dinna fash, woman. Til tak' it this night 
 to drink our new minister's health, Betty." 
 
 *^ Ou, ay ye mun do it, forbye he is to 
 tak us oop to hiven in his skeerts." 
 
 " Did ye see him, Betty ? " 
 
 **Ay, missus, I letted him in." 
 
 "Did he speak till ye, Betty?" 
 
 " Ou, ay, most ceevil and neighboorly. 
 He'll be a guid young mon, Fm thinking, 
 missus." 
 
 " He's owre young, Betty." 
 
 " But we must sit under wha we can get,
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 93 
 
 ^' He has gotten a wife, Betty/' 
 
 ** Ay, so they say ; and the carpenter 
 up till the house, amending the windy 
 shuts, tells me she's that bonny " 
 
 ^' Ye hussie, dar ye gang speak to a 
 carpenter? Oh ye idle taupee, I'll hae 
 ye pit in the kitty if I hear tell o' ony 
 sich doings. Gang yer ways to bed. I 
 wad hae gi'en ye a sip of thon to drink 
 the new minister's health, but ye dinna 
 deserve it, ye hussie ; and nae less, I 
 dinna think he or his wife are ony great 
 shakes — I'm thinking I'll hae nae respect to 
 the wan or the tother." 
 
 Betty looked as sorrowful as she could 
 under this rebuke, and the knowledge that 
 within the same pan that had brewed the 
 savoury decoction was a little sup left 
 that would not go into Miss Charles's cup, 
 and which, no doubt, was just simmering 
 on the fire at that identical moment. 
 
 So she tucked Miss Charles into bed,
 
 94 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 with a meek '' Guid night, missus, and 
 sweet dreams till ye ; " and then, taking up 
 the candle, departed. And presuming she 
 went straight to bed, as she was bid, so 
 will we, dear reader.
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 95 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 " He was a shepherd, and no mercenary ; 
 And though he holy was and virtuous, 
 He was to sinful men full piteous. 
 His words were strong, but not with anger fraught — 
 A love benignant he discreetly taught ; 
 To draw mankind to heaven by gentleness 
 And good example was his business." 
 
 Chaucer. 
 
 John pursued his visits, Emily her unpack- 
 ing and setting in order, and Mrs. Dawson 
 came to help her. 
 
 If Emily was disposed to like Mrs. Daw- 
 son from John's account, think what Mrs. 
 Dawson thought of Emily. Words will not 
 express it ; but from that time began a
 
 96 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 friendship which lasted — (nay, I must not 
 tell, for, by so doing, I may let out part 
 of the history that must be told in its 
 proper place — or I may alarm my readers 
 by hinting at the number of years they 
 will have to travel with me through this 
 domestic narrative, so I will say — nothing.) 
 Jeffreys, Mrs. Dawson's son, also came to 
 help at the unpacking, and fell violently in 
 love with baby. He was eight years old, 
 and was already the victim of a misplaced 
 attachment to one of the Miss Robarts, 
 having been forbidden the house because 
 he was discovered saluting her baby's cheek. 
 Therefore, it was with feelings of the most 
 ardent delight that he discovered he was 
 not indifferent to the new object of his 
 attachment. She stared at him resolutely 
 for five minutes at a time, making his 
 great cheeks blush again, until the dull 
 red went up into the roots of his hair. 
 Also she took pleasant liberties with him
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 97 
 
 — pulling his hair, and putting her fingers 
 into his great blue eyes. 
 
 Jeffreys was not a handsome boy ; on 
 the contrary, he was very ugly, and no 
 wonder little Adeline was amazed at his 
 eyes, and irresistibly inclined to investi- 
 gate their nature — for they were nearly as 
 large as saucers, and of a light, unmean- 
 ing blue. Mr. Leslie tried to look at 
 him with pleasure, because he was a boy, 
 and also because he was such a good-natured 
 one. But he mentally thought — "If 
 Emily ever gives me a boy, I trust it will 
 not be like Jeffreys." N.B.— To be the 
 father of a boy was John's ardent but 
 secret hope. 
 
 And now Sunday morning came. 
 That day to be of great events. 
 Little did Emily think, as she tripped 
 downstairs in her spotless dress of 
 white India muslin, trimmed with lace 
 round the throat and sleeves — little did 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 she think how many eyes were to be 
 fixed upon her, as she went into the 
 house of God, fall only of her own 
 innocent and pious thoughts. Eyes of 
 observation, critical eyes, curious eyes, 
 unkind, severe eyes — perhaps eyes that 
 became envious as they looked. But at 
 present no wonder she came downstairs 
 with such a bright face ; John was to 
 see the rooms — that unhappy drawing- 
 room and morose dining-room, the exist- 
 ence of which he had tried to forget. 
 
 If ever a husband was astonished and 
 amazed, that husband was John. For a 
 moment or two he felt inclined to assert 
 positively that those were not the dining- 
 room and drawing-room. However, a 
 decided and strong smell of paint, a few 
 local and unmistakable points established 
 the fact ; and then John admired and 
 wondered, to the heart's content of his 
 wife. But we must describe them.
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES, 99 
 
 The paper covering the drawing-room 
 walls had been changed from its bilious 
 nondescript pattern into one with a 
 white ground, upon which was represented 
 a trellis work, up and down, under and 
 over which climbed roses of various hues, 
 so fresh and natural-looking that but for 
 the paint John could have vowed he 
 smelt them. The end window, with its 
 bold view of the cinder heap, was 
 covered with a transparent blind, through 
 which shone, bright and cheerful, a glow- 
 ing landscape, with a sparkling waterfall. 
 (Fifty years ago, my dear reader, such 
 ornaments were considered quite the thing, 
 even if there were nothing to hide 
 behind). The dilapidated window-frames 
 had, by dint of putty, paint, and mend- 
 ing, become wind-proof and steady, besides 
 clean and fresh-looking, in their white 
 paint, marked out with lines of green. 
 All the furniture had been scrubbed, re- 
 
 h2
 
 100 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 arranged, and brightened ; while what was 
 too shabby was taken away, and new 
 substituted, that they had brought with 
 them. A carpet of a dark myrtle green 
 ground, with leaves of a lighter green 
 scattered over it, gave a fresh spring- 
 like appearance to the room ; while the 
 chintz that covered the chairs and sofas, 
 and adorned the windows in the shape of 
 curtains, was of a gay appearance, some- 
 thing matching the paper. Various little 
 feminine nick-nacks were scattered about, 
 with a little rare old china that had 
 belonged to John's mother. 
 
 No wonder John doubted if this was the 
 same room — and how Emily did enjoy his 
 doubts ! 
 
 The dining-room gave equal astonishment 
 and delight. The walls were covered with' 
 a handsome red flock paper, upon which 
 hung, with the utmost cordiality, side by 
 side, his father and mother, and Emily's
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 101 
 
 father and mother — that is, their pictures 
 large as life. Besides a valuable Vandyck, 
 and a picture of St. Cecilia, piously 
 looking up to heaven, and playing on a 
 fiddle at the same time. 
 
 Opposite her was a dark picture, por- 
 traying a boy holding a candle, the red glare 
 of which lighted up his face on the broad 
 grin. Besides these pictures, there were one 
 or two good prints — and the whole added 
 greatly to the handsome appearance of the 
 room. Curtains, of a dark maroon colour, 
 cast a ruddy shadow on everything, making 
 them look warm and comfortable ; while a 
 bright blazing fire, and the nice breakfast, 
 completed the picture. The room being 
 fitted up with oak, no paint had been used ; 
 so it was ready to occupy this very day. In 
 addition to the proper dining-room furniture, 
 it had a sofa and two arm-chairs, into one of 
 which John now dropped, quite exhausted 
 with admiration — while Emily took the other,
 
 102 THE YALLEY OF 
 
 beaming with delight. Then, being a little 
 recovered as she gave John his breakfast, 
 she also related the full and particular history 
 of how this transformation was accomplished. 
 
 But time flies. It is nearly church time ; 
 and she now adds to her toilette a little white 
 tippet and a little chip-hat, with fresh white 
 strings and bows. 
 
 John and Emily had a faculty of always 
 being ready before the time rather than after 
 it, if there was anything to be done. In fact, 
 if John was fidgety about anything, it was 
 punctuality ; and he was not to be blamed for 
 it, especially now — for he naturally wished to 
 place Emily in her pew, and to find out from 
 the clerk if there were any peculiar modes 
 of doing the service — anything added or 
 omitted in his new church. 
 
 Not that those were High-Church days. 
 Many a thing was cut out then — many li- 
 berties taken to curtail the prayer-book, and 
 but few to strain its every word, as is now
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 103 
 
 the fashion. But this is not a book meant to 
 contain religious discussions : I merely wish 
 my readers to prepare for the fact that, early 
 as Lord Bernard was in attending church, for 
 the profane purpose of watching how Mrs. 
 Leslie walked up the aisle, he was too late ; 
 she had been full five minutes seated in her 
 pew ere he arrived. And from the Castle 
 pew there was nought to be seen in that be- 
 longing to the parsonage but one corner, in 
 which Mrs. Leslie was not. 
 
 So there was nothing to prevent him paying 
 undivided attention to the service ; and in 
 listening to the earnest, well modulated tones 
 of Mr. Leslie's voice, he felt no inclination to 
 think of any other matter. 
 
 It was a persuasive, melodious voice — every 
 sentence spoken as if felt ; and among that 
 numerous congregation it seemed to many 
 that this time, led by such earnestness, they 
 had "prayed with their hearts," and "not 
 with their lips only."
 
 104 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 And when — the church service concluded 
 — Mr. Leslie appeared for the first time in 
 the pulpit before his parishioners, no one, as 
 they looked, considered him a plain, simple 
 young man. His spectacles no longer ob- 
 scured his fine eyes — his countenance was 
 bright with warm, earnest feelings — and more 
 mellow and persuasive did his words appear 
 as he turned a loving gaze on his new parish- 
 ioners, and spoke thus : — 
 
 **In the 12th chapter of the 2nd epistle of 
 St. Paul to the Corinthians, at the 15th verse, 
 you will find these words — 
 
 " ' I will very gladly spend, and be spent, 
 for you.' 
 
 *^ Beloved brethren, these words are spoken 
 by me in the same spirit, with the same mean- 
 ing, as St. Paul said them : not lightly, not 
 after the manner of a text which has to be 
 expounded to you, but as an offer from me to 
 you, and which I shall trust to you to accept 
 in the fulness with which it is proffered for
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 105 
 
 jour so doing. To-day sees the commence- 
 ment of a connexion between us that may be 
 severed shortly, and may last for years. Yet, 
 to me, however short or long it may be, the 
 feeling that I was your pastor, the knowledge 
 that you were my people, will remain with me 
 to the latest breath of my life ; while you 
 will, I trust, so far help me with your prayers 
 to the throne of the Almighty God, that so 
 long as I dwell among you, the words of my 
 text may be my ruling guide, may be the 
 principle that shall govern all the actions of 
 my life. 
 
 *^ It is no light thing that we have either 
 of us taken in hand this day. At my 
 ordination, I vowed a vow that I would 
 give faithful diligence always to administer 
 the Doctrine, and Sacraments, and Disci- 
 pline of our Church, as the Lord hath com- 
 manded me, and as that Church and realm 
 of England hath received the same — so 
 that I may teach the people committed to
 
 106 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 my charge, with diligence to keep and ob- 
 serve them. On the great day of judg- 
 ment it will be asked of me, *Have you 
 kept your vow ? ' Then must I give an 
 account of my stewardship — then shall I 
 have to acknowledge before the face of the 
 Almighty that these words, ^ I will very 
 gladly spend and be spent for you,' were 
 not lightly spoken, but came from my 
 heart — have been acted upon, used and not 
 abused. That they indeed proved to be 
 my ruling desire. That I went about among 
 you, wishing, seeking, asking for your love 
 and confidence — that amid this numerous and 
 vast congregation I was willing to be looked 
 upon as the friend of all. That you might 
 consider me as one whom you could trust 
 as a brother, one who wishes and means to 
 be part of yourselves, if you will. One who 
 will mourn with those that mourn, and 
 rejoice with those in happiness. An ad- 
 viser, a consoler, an assistant, a friend, a
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 107 
 
 pastor. Not only here in this house of 
 God, where my first duty commences, but 
 in your homes, your cottages, in the fields, 
 on the hill, by the way-side. At all hours, 
 at all times, I feel, I wish, I desire ^ to 
 spend and be spent for you.' And thus 
 would I wish to be able to speak at the 
 foot of our Saviour's cross. 
 
 " This is the task that I vow to myself 
 to do this day. 
 
 '^ And you, beloved brethren (I use this 
 term not from custom, but truly from a 
 desire to love and be loved by you), you 
 also have your duty to perform, in this 
 solemn compact between us. You have been 
 charged by God, in the words of St. Paul, • 
 to obey those who have the Christian rule 
 over you, and to submit yourselves to 
 them. For they have to watch for your 
 souls, as those who must give an account 
 of the same. On the great day of judg- 
 ment you also will appear, and it will be
 
 108 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 asked of you if you have obeyed the 
 words of your catechism, which from your 
 earliest infancy taught you to submit to 
 your spiritual pastors. If you have obeyed 
 his precepts, met him in this house of 
 prayer, listened to and heeded the com- 
 mands of God which had been read and 
 explained to you from this place, made 
 him your friend, besought his spiritual 
 help, and finally assisting him with your 
 earnest prayers that he might indeed fulfil 
 the promise he makes this day, ^ to spend 
 and be spent for you,' so cement the bond 
 of love that commences this day that it 
 never may be broken, but even at that 
 awful hour and time may still exist strong 
 and loving between us. 
 
 " Thus we are bound together — in this 
 compact we enter to-day, by every tie of 
 interest, responsibility, and love. Yes, love; 
 for as we mutually assist each other, as 
 I spend and am spent, and as you receive.
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 109 
 
 hearken, and do, so will our affection draw 
 us closer and closer together, until we meet 
 at the feet of Jesus. 
 
 " Therefore, from this day, let me con- 
 sider that an intimate connection, a friendly 
 feeling, subsists between me and all — yes, 
 all — from the highest to the lowest, from 
 the oldest to the youngest, that are classed 
 among my parishioners. 
 
 " There is nothing on earth so sweet 
 as affection, sympathy, and Christian love. 
 There is no virtue more strongly inculcated 
 in the Holy Bible. Nothing is more last- 
 ing, for it is everlasting, and the blessings 
 of Paradise are founded upon it. It buds 
 upon earth, but it blooms in heaven ; and 
 the more strongly we strengthen the plant 
 here, dihgently watering and cherishing it, 
 so many mure flowers will it bring forth 
 in the celestial gardens of Eternity ! 
 
 " So, brethren, the ties between us are 
 thus :^
 
 110 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 ^^ Without your help, your prayers, your 
 sympathy, my labour would be in vain. 
 What would be my hope Hhat I could 
 spend, and be spent for you ' ? I should 
 have none. Yain and futile would be my 
 efforts — useless and dead my acts. 
 
 " And you without me ? As a ship 
 without its rudder, as the blind leading 
 the blind, as the man whose hope is not 
 in his God, as *the fool that saith in his 
 heart, there is no God.' Such would ye be. 
 
 ^* Then let us pray heartily, earnestly 
 together, that we may never forget this 
 compact entered upon to-day — that I may 
 not ' be wearied ' or faint-hearted in doing 
 my duty ; and that you may say, ^ How 
 beautiful are the feet of him that bringeth 
 good tidings I ' " 
 
 Here Mr, Leslie's voice changed from 
 its earnest, simple-speaking tone to one of 
 solemn melody ; and as he said the words, 
 distinct and clear, ^^ Now to God the
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. Ill 
 
 Father, God the Son, and God the Holy 
 Ghost," the whole congregation, moved and 
 awe-stricken, sunk upon their knees, and, as 
 he finished, with one voice said, '* Amen ! " 
 
 Lord Bernard rose from his prayer of 
 thanksgiving with those serene feelings of 
 pious joy that none but the good ex- 
 perience, and he looked into his wife's 
 face to see the reflection of his emotions. 
 Her eyes glistened with the unshed tears 
 of gratified happiness, and, in the inter- 
 change of looks, they read better than 
 words could express their mutual pleasure. 
 
 As they were mutely conversing, he did 
 not note a young and graceful girl coming 
 down the aisle, simply robed in white. 
 Just as he had half opened the pew- 
 door, she appeared before him ; and as he 
 shut it again, to enable her to pass, she 
 bent her head in acknowledgment of his 
 courtesy. Save his own wife, it was rare 
 to see in that large but roughly-built
 
 112 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 church, any other among the congregation 
 than those for whom it was so plainly 
 constructed — being originally built more to 
 hold the many than please the few. There- 
 fore, for the moment, Lord Bernard was 
 surprised at the fair young vision ; still 
 more so at the quiet dignity of her man- 
 ner, the simple grace that so much en- 
 hanced her beauty, as she passed on her 
 way before him. 
 
 "My dear Kate, did you see that fair 
 girl ? " exclaimed Lord Bernard, as they 
 left the church-door. ''Can she be Mrs. 
 Leslie ? '' 
 
 ''I do not know, indeed, Henry ; but 
 the sermon ! Was ever one heard more 
 appropriate, or more touching? Do you 
 think, love, we may call at the parsonage, 
 and thank Mr. Leslie? I shall be quite un- 
 comfortable until I have told him in some 
 way, either at once openly, or to his wife 
 quietly, the gratification he has given me."
 
 A HCNDRED FIRES. 113 
 
 ''We will go, Kate; for I also, by that 
 means, shall have my doubts set at rest, 
 as to whether the young angel robed in 
 white is really the wife of that plain, 
 grave young man.'' 
 
 '' Do not call him plain, Henry, after 
 such a sermon. As long as he speaks so 
 much to the heart as he did to-day, I 
 shall think of him, as he enjoined us to 
 do, in his last sentence, ' How beautiful 
 are the feet of him that bringeth good 
 tidings!'" 
 
 ^' True, Kate. Therefore, little boys, go 
 home with Turner; mamma and I mean to 
 walk a little further, and call at the par- 
 sonage." 
 
 On their way thither they stopped and 
 spoke to various persons; and it gave them 
 great pleasure to find, from Mr. Eobarts 
 down to the little lame cinder-boy, who 
 had come to church for the first time 
 since he had met his sad accident — all 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 THE YALLEY OF 
 
 were unanimous in their praise of the new 
 clergyman. 
 
 "If he knocked at everybody's heart as 
 he did at mine," said good Dr. Dawson, 
 " we shall have a change for the better 
 amongst us." 
 
 "You are right, doctor," said my lord; 
 "he has given us all something to do. Though 
 his manner is simple, and his words also, 
 there was a truth and force in both, that, as 
 you say, spoke to us individually — even you, 
 my little man. How is the wound getting 
 on?" 
 
 " The fire is pretty well out of it now, my 
 lord," said the lame boy ; " and the doctor 
 gave me leave to come to church to-day, as a 
 treat — and please, my lord, I'll never forget 
 it." 
 
 " Good boy," said Lady Bernard ; " but 
 now, don't do too much. Tell your mother 
 not to let you go to work until you have had 
 plenty of strong broth from the Castle."
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 115 
 
 *' The doctor will trim mother sore if she 
 sends me off too soon," answered the boy, 
 smiling. 
 
 " Tut, tut," said the doctor — *' I spoil ye, 
 and that's a fact." 
 
 Lord and Lady Bernard were ushered into 
 the renovated drawing-room, where Emily 
 was found on her knees before a great arm- 
 chair, within which was baby enthroned in 
 state. The white chip hat was on the floor, 
 the little white tippet by it, and the pretty 
 mamma was busily employed making love to 
 baby, after her long absence at church ; who 
 gravely, but serenely, cooed back her plea- 
 sure, stroking the peach-like cheek of her 
 mother with her own rosy, fat hand. 
 
 That bloom deepened in colour as Emily 
 rose — hastily, it is true, but gracefully. It 
 was not from confusion that the blush arose, 
 but apparently from pleasure ; for the blue 
 eyes sparkled, and both hands were held out, 
 as she said, with irresistible gladness — 
 
 I 2
 
 116 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 '^ Ah ! how kind, how good ! I have so 
 much for which to thank you — I wished so 
 much to see you, that I might tell you so," 
 and she frankly placed a hand in each one 
 of theirs. 
 
 " Then you are Mrs. Leslie ? " burst invo- 
 luntarily from Lord Bernard's lips. 
 
 ^* Oh, yes,'' she answered, smiling ; " and 
 this is Miss Leslie.'' 
 
 His gaze was so full of admiration, that, a 
 little confused, Emily made use of baby to 
 divert his thoughts from anything so insignifi- 
 cant as herself. 
 
 Lady Bernard understood her innocent little 
 stratagem, and, accordingly, admired Miss 
 Leslie very much. " But," she continued, 
 ** we have intruded upon you, principally, my 
 dear Mrs. Leslie, to express our delight at 
 Mr. Leslie's sermon." 
 
 A brilliant flush tinged Emily's fair face, 
 brow, and neck; but she said only — 
 
 '^ I am so glad ! "
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 117 
 
 " I assure you," said Lord Bernard, ^^ I 
 never heard a sermon more suited to the 
 place and people ; and if he stirred the heart 
 within me to do my duty, I feel sure such an 
 appeal was not lost on the rest of the congre- 
 gation." 
 
 Emily listened with speaking eyes and 
 glowing cheeks ; but it was not the way of 
 the Leslies to arrogate anything to them- 
 selves, so she modestly bent her head by way 
 of thanks, and said — 
 
 " I hear Mr. Leslie's step in the hall — 
 allow me to call him." 
 
 The Bernards were so fascinated by their 
 new clergyman and his wife, that nobody 
 knows when they would have thought of tak- 
 ing leave. But Anne — part housemaid, part 
 butler — put her head in at the door, in the 
 usual sort of bashful way female servants per- 
 form such duties, and said — 
 
 '^ Dinner is served, mem." 
 
 Now, Anne was a peculiar woman in her
 
 118 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 way. An order given was as good as done 
 on her part ; therefore, ^* missus " having or- 
 dered dinner at two o'clock of the day, dinner 
 was to be at two of the clock; and all the 
 lords and ladies in the land, kings and queens 
 into the bargain, would not have driven Anne 
 from her purpose — always excepting "missus" 
 changing her own mind, and giving Anne a 
 fresh order. 
 
 Now, Emily was for once a little vexed : 
 she was so charmed with her guests, and had 
 not half expressed to them her thanks and 
 gratitude — and now they would leave rather 
 than interfere with the dinner-hour. 
 
 " How could you, Anne, announce dinner 
 when we had visitors ? " 
 
 "If you please, 'm," said Anne, "you 
 ordered dinner to be at two o'clock." 
 
 " But you should think another time, and 
 remember that it is rude to do such a thing. 
 It is as if one wished to turn our visitors
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 119 
 
 " Then you won't have meals, 'm, when 
 folks is calling ? " 
 
 ^' Come, come, Anne — settle that another 
 time. I am very hungry : we will take our 
 chance of the next visitors," said Mr. Leslie. 
 
 " Dear Henry, do you think she is vain, 
 silly, and flaunting ? " were the first words 
 of Lady Bernard as they quitted the par- 
 sonage. 
 
 " And you, Kate — do you think her a 
 bustling homely housewife ? " retorted Lord 
 Bernard. 
 
 ^' Come, we are matched, Henry, in our 
 prognostications regarding Mrs. Leslie ; we 
 owe each other nothing. But, apart from the 
 gratification I feel at her proving so very 
 difierent to what we feared, did you ever see 
 a fairer, more graceful creature ? " 
 
 ** Never ! — though I say so to the wife of 
 my bosom. But what pleases me most is 
 that with all her beauty and high breeding 
 (for you can see, Kate, at a glance, that she
 
 120 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 has been brought up in the first society) she 
 is so natural and simple ; and that proceeds 
 from no want of sense ; for, on the contrary, 
 her countenance beams with intelligence, and 
 her remarks are replete with discrimination, 
 as if she had really read and thought. She 
 will be no fine lady, too delicate in mind and 
 person to assist her husband. On my life ! 
 high as my opinion of Mr. Leslie was before, 
 I think twice as well of him now I have seen 
 his wife." 
 
 "Her manners are most graceful — so re- 
 fined ; and what lovely hands she has ! " 
 
 " Ha ! My dear wife, what two fine spe- 
 cimens we are of the weakness of the human 
 mind. We ought to be thinking of Mr. 
 Leslie and his sermon, so apostolic and faith- 
 ful ; and, instead, we are lost in admira- 
 tion of the beauty and grace of his wife. On 
 one subject, however, I have made up my 
 mind : I shall take you from home shortly, 
 for change of air and scene, and we will leave
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 121 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Leslie to themselves for a few 
 months. Thus they will be left to make their 
 own way, fight their own battles, without our 
 assistance ; and if they succeed in establish- 
 ing themselves in the hearts of our people, 
 their throne therein will be all the more se- 
 cure that they have done it themselves, without 
 help from us.'' 
 
 " A wise plan, Henry. As for me, I shall 
 leave home for the first time with a dawn of 
 hope in my heart that we shall not return to 
 find matters worse than when we left. But, 
 before we go, Henry, we must ask the Leslies 
 to dinner, and introduce them, through the 
 medium of one or two entertainments, to 
 their neighbours. We may as well leave our 
 people in the possession of the fact that we 
 are disposed to love and respect our clergy- 
 man and his wife to the utmost extent — and 
 we can do it, in this way, before we leave." 
 
 *' I respond to your idea, Kate, and 
 think the softening powers of a quiet,
 
 122 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 consistent Christian — such as I am sure 
 Mr. Leslie is — with the more bewitching, 
 and so no less potent, influence that Mrs. 
 Leslie may exercise over them, will be very 
 good for the uncouth ways and some- 
 what rough manners of many of our good 
 neighbours. Fix Thursday next for the 
 first dinner-party, that Mrs. Kobarts may 
 have time to concoct a new dress for 
 the occasion. 
 
 " Ah ! Henry, you are satirical." 
 ^^Nay, good wife, rather amiable in 
 forethought. Mrs. Robarts has hitherto 
 reigned supreme in beauty ; now she must 
 adorn her best, otherwise our modest 
 rector's wife will outshine her in white 
 muslin.'^
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 123 
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 " Every man in this age lias not a soul 
 Of crystal for all men to read their actions through ; 
 Men's hearts and faces are so far asunder, 
 That they hold no intelligence." 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Leslie had many visitors; 
 and together they returned the courtesy, 
 becoming acquainted with numbers of their 
 parishioners, both rich and poor. 
 
 Mrs. Eobarts had naturally a kind heart, 
 and could bear without envy or anger the 
 knowledge that a younger, fairer rival was 
 about to shine in what had hitherto been 
 her own hemisphere. Perhaps if Mrs. Leslie 
 had had four pretty, little, healthy, rosy
 
 124 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 daughters, she would not have been so 
 complaisant. On the contrary, she would 
 have considered it only a duty to dislike 
 or ignore her as soon as possible. But the 
 baby Adeline would enter into no com- 
 petition with the Miss Robarts' — her round 
 rosy face and chubby baby beauty being 
 in marked contrast to their little fragile 
 frames and delicate features. Therefore 
 Mrs. Robarts felt nothing need prevent 
 Mrs. Leslie becoming that bosom friend, 
 that charming companion, she had so long 
 been requiring ; while Emily, on her part, 
 met her advances a great deal more than 
 half way ; admired the devotion and inces- 
 sant care that Mrs. Robarts bestowed upon 
 her delicate girls, all the more because she 
 did not think she could do the same. 
 Pitied her to her heart's content for the 
 many drawbacks and troubles with which 
 Mrs. Robarts said her daily path was 
 beset; entered with all her enthusiastic
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 125 
 
 nature into Mrs. Robarts's, hopes, wishes, and 
 plans for the future, just as if the well- 
 doing of the Miss Robarts was of so much 
 more import than all the little Adelines 
 that ever were born. 
 
 Not that Emily was at all deficient in 
 maternal affection, or thought slightly of 
 Adeline's charms ; but she was so little in 
 the habit of bringing forward her own be- 
 longings or wishes, unless forced to do it, 
 that she had room in her heart for any 
 amount of sympathy claimed from her. 
 
 And Mrs. Robarts, on the first sounding 
 of the deep well of love dwelling in that 
 unselfish nature, set to work to turn as 
 much of it as she could to her own ac- 
 count. 
 
 She was old enough to remember the 
 strict, severe, almost cruel manner in 
 which children were taught in the days 
 of good Queen Charlotte to reverence 
 their parents. She had heard her mother
 
 126 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 describe the many hours she had been 
 doomed to stand, exhausted and faint, in 
 the presence of her mother ; for children 
 in their day were not allowed to sit 
 without a permission from their parents, 
 and that was rarely given ; she had seen 
 and experienced some of the evils that 
 arise from the estrangement between 
 parent and child — which estrangement 
 must take place where the parent is the 
 severe judge, the exacting taskmaster, the 
 relentless punisher, instead of the fond 
 mother, the kind adviser, the dearest, 
 truest friend. And in endeavouring to 
 avoid the one evil, Mrs. Robarts, like 
 many people before her, had fallen into 
 the contrary extreme, setting up as idols 
 to be worshipped the little weak mortals 
 whose wayward steps she was to guide 
 aright, and not lead further astray by 
 ill-judged spoiling and indulgence. 
 
 But at all events, by the time the
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 127 
 
 Thursday arrived which was to see the 
 first entertainment given by Lord and 
 Lady Bernard in honour of the Leslies, 
 Mrs. Robarts and our Emily were fast 
 friends, and on most excellent terms : 
 which indeed was much the case with 
 all whom they were likely to meet at 
 dinner. According to their usual custom, 
 John and Emily set out on their walk up to 
 the Castle in such good time that half 
 way up they met the carriage coming 
 down for them. The coachman very 
 civilly expressed his regret that he had 
 not been in time to prevent Mrs. Leslie 
 walking (though it was clearly no fault 
 of his, but Mr. Leslie's aptitude to take 
 time by the forelock), and offered to take 
 them up there and then ; but Emily 
 hazarded the remark that perhaps he was 
 going for others as well as herself — which, 
 proving to be the case, they entreated 
 him to go on.
 
 128 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 He was a coachman after Emily's own 
 heart, for he said, as he left them — 
 
 *^ I can now bring up good Mrs. 
 Dawson, ma'am, as well as Mrs. Robarts 
 and Miss Charles." 
 
 " John ! what a nice coachman." 
 
 a Very, dear ; but good masters make 
 good servants," answered John. 
 
 What with taking their time (for 
 Emily's sake), and admiring the strange 
 views of the fiery works, and the blue 
 hills, and the Castle itself, the Leslies, 
 through no particular effort on their 
 parts, did not arrive much sooner than 
 the carriage — so that all the ladies met 
 together in the great hall. Emily had 
 removed her bonnet, smoothed her hair, 
 changed her shoes, put on the long lace 
 gloves then in use, and declared herself 
 quite ready to enter the drawing-room, 
 ere Mrs. Kobarts had half done arranging 
 her dress and her lace tippet. Mrs.
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 129 
 
 Dawson pinned and unpinned Miss Charles's 
 turban, the tassel of which, meant to 
 hang elegantly on one side, had, through 
 some derangement in the carriage, taken 
 an uncomfortable position over her nose. 
 Miss Charles inveighed bitterly against 
 Betty, whose fault she declared it must 
 be that this most elegant of turbans had 
 become thus damaged ; while good Mrs. 
 Dawson excused Betty, on the score of 
 her many avocations as cook, housemaid, 
 ladies'-maid, butler, and boots, while she 
 pinned up the offending tassel. Mean- 
 while Emily helped Mrs. Eobarts, and at 
 last, beneath the patient eyes of Mr. Les- 
 lie, the upper and under-butler and three 
 footmen, the two anxious ladies considered 
 themselves ready. 
 
 John drew his Emily's fair arm within 
 his, mentally congratulating himself that 
 the bloom on her cheeks rivalled the bright 
 colour of Mrs. Robarts's dress, while the 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 simplicity and elegance of her appearance 
 put to shame all the studied graces of the 
 other ladies. 
 
 " My Emily has no need of dress or 
 ornament, I thank Heaven," said he to 
 himself, as he saw her welcomed so cor- 
 dially by Lord and Lady Bernard, and 
 watched her graceful obeisance, and her 
 smiling pleasure as she sat down by Lady 
 Bernard; the simplicity of her white-sprig- 
 ged muslin adding to, rather than taking 
 away from, her appearance. And she was 
 deep in the history of a poor family over 
 the hills, long before Mrs. Robarts's stiff 
 brocade had settled itself into a chair, or 
 rather at the edge. For Mrs. Robarts, 
 though unquestionably the possessor of the 
 handsomest dress in the room, had not yet 
 learnt that a true lady was known more 
 by her quiet, gentle manners than her 
 dress. 
 
 Lord Bernard took a seat by her, but
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 131 
 
 she was not in a fit state to attend to' 
 him. She was still in a flurry, looked 
 heated and fussy, while the rich silk rustled 
 at every movement, making it impossible 
 to keep up a connected conversation. 
 
 Miss Charles was on the other side, but 
 as he had a devout horror of her peculiar 
 method of speaking, he was not sorry that 
 dinner was opportunely announced; and, as 
 was his custom always, he gave the place 
 of honour to the clergyman's wife, taking 
 in Mrs. Leslie to dinner. 
 
 There were at dinner a certain number 
 of clerks, under-clerks, and deputy-clerks, 
 all of whom had been in the habit of star- 
 ing at Mrs. Robarts when they met toge- 
 ther at these periodical dinners. But now 
 Mrs. Robarts goodnaturedly waived her 
 claim to being the prettiest woman in 
 the room, and they transferred this mute 
 homage to Mrs. Leslie. 
 
 But it was thrown away upon her utterly. 
 
 K 2
 
 132 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 She was chatting to Lord Bernard, so ear- 
 nestly and delightedly, that the knife and 
 fork she used were more alive to the admi- 
 ration she was exciting than herself, for 
 they now and then reflected back the beam- 
 ing eyes. It was not often people conversed 
 in such familiar style to Lord Bernard, but 
 he thought it the sweetest way in the world; 
 she was discovering to him such boundless 
 kindness of heart, such depths of charity 
 and love, such pure, simplicity and unselfish- 
 ness, all so unconsciously, exactly as if he 
 thought just as she thought, that he said 
 to himself, " Is this an angel stolen in on 
 our company unawares, to teach us and 
 tell us what we shall meet in Heaven ? '' 
 
 After dinner Lady Bernard devoted her- 
 self to general conversation among her lady 
 i^uests when they retired to the drawing- 
 room. Thus it happened that Miss Charles 
 pounced upon Emily, as a vulture may be 
 supposed to hold grim converse with a 
 snow-white dove.
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 133 
 
 "Aw me, my honey, what a sweet lamb 
 ye are, nae wonder my lord's that doighted 
 after ye. But deed 'o goodness, where and 
 iver did Mistress Robarts light o' that dress? 
 It's smuggled goods, or my name's no 
 Elizabeth Charles." 
 
 " I think," interrupted Emily, " it be- 
 longed to her mother ." 
 
 " And whar, may a body ax, has she been 
 a keeping on't a' these years ? Na, na, 
 tak my word she's just paid on to the half- 
 guinea a-yard; and sum o' these days Eo- 
 barts will rise up a ruined man, wi' her 
 golden gowns, and French misses, and sich 
 like awfu' ways. Betty Oliver, that's my 
 maid, as opened the door till ye, the day 
 ye called, my pratty lamb — Betty Oliver's 
 just ameezed at their gangings on. And 
 sich a cook as Betty is ! I made her 
 mysel, from a lass, and it's her say, and 
 it's my say, never no face ever cam intil 
 owre house that we liked better. And
 
 134 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 such a preacher ! Dearies me, says I to 
 Betty, we mauna miss a word thon fine 
 preacher says. I aye taks all opportunities 
 of giving a bit of preaching to Betty 
 mysel, thinking it nae mair nor my duty, 
 heed o' a family as I be ; and if ever a 
 woman will mak' a discernment as to where 
 thon silk cam' fro', it 'ull be Betty, no 
 less. Aye me, what a wonderment she'll 
 be in when I tell her o' the colour, and 
 the richness, and the rustle ! It's past me, 
 hoo my lord does na see the hail thing; 
 and if Betty or mysel could but get his 
 ear, my certie but we wad tell him hoo 
 
 Mr. Eobarts ." 
 
 "Oh!" said Emily, joyfully, interrupting 
 her and seizing hold of the only clue she 
 had been able to disentangle from these 
 heterogeneous sentences, " Lord Bernard 
 does know. He was only telling me at 
 dinner what a valuable person Mr. Eo- 
 barts was, and how ill he should be able 
 to do without him."
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 135 
 
 " Aw,'* said Miss Charles, rather abashed 
 — " Ayes me, weel, he could say nae less 
 to such as you, honey. Says I to Betty, 
 ^ Ye show yer company by yer manners, 
 Betty ; and never let me hear you let on 
 of ony scandal nor such like, for Til no 
 listen to one word. And sae that^s the 
 doctor's new assistant. Ayes me, now he 
 has four on 'em, and a thousand a-year ; 
 and here's the grandest preacher as ever I 
 heerd, or Betty either, has but three hun- 
 dred a-year, and nae curate. Aw but its 
 a crying sin, and it will work its way 
 out, like thorns i' the flesh, and I'll be 
 pleased to see it." 
 
 "Ah!" said Emily, taking advantage oif 
 a pause in Miss Charles's speech, a pause 
 rendered necessary from sheer want of 
 breath, " what a charming person is the 
 doctor ! But can you tell me, Miss Charles, 
 anything about the pictures in this room? 
 Some appear to be family portraits, while
 
 136 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 others are evidently ancient and of value, 
 I should say/' 
 
 It was so seldom that Miss Charles was 
 appealed to upon any matter — those who 
 knew her well avoiding her, and those who 
 did not having little inclination to do so — 
 that she felt at once flattered and pleased. 
 Being a shrewd woman, she saw at once that 
 Mrs. Leslie neither despised nor laughed at 
 her, and would be grateful for the information 
 she could give. Tis true, Miss Charles had 
 an unlovely mind, warped by temper and 
 malevolence into something sufficiently evil 
 to be avoided by every one ; yet she was not 
 insensible to the idea that it must be pleasant 
 to be something to some one besides a Betty. 
 Therefore, she exerted herself to the utmost 
 to entertain Mrs. Leslie ; and if, in the vari- 
 ous historiettes attached to each picture, the 
 bias of her mind led her, now and then, 
 to throw a bespattering of muddy innuendo 
 upon what she related, the simple-minded
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 137 
 
 Mrs. Leslie bore her safely through the dan- 
 ger, landing her invariably upon a more cha- 
 ritable and amiable shore. 
 
 In those days — upwards of fifty years ago 
 — people educated themselves a great deal 
 more than they do at present. There was so 
 much less to occupy the mind, the time, or 
 the brains, that dull, inert people remained 
 dull and inert. They were never startled out 
 of the monotony of their lives to rush for a 
 train ; they never suddenly set out on a jour- 
 ney from London to Edinburgh upon a day's 
 notice. They plodded through the *' Specta- 
 tor," ^' Sir Charles Grandison/' and the 
 *^ Pilgrim's Progress" duly once a-year — 
 never dreaming of the amount of literature 
 that was to be daily offered up at the feet ot 
 their grandchildren. But those who, shadow- 
 ing forth the leaps that the world was about 
 to make, had no notion of being left behind 
 because of being born a few years too soon, 
 were carried on by the exercise of their com-
 
 138 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 mon sense, and made up in shrewdness what 
 they wanted in education. 
 
 This was the case with Miss Charles. Her 
 great error was that she chose a muddy path 
 to walk in, very few caring to follow her; 
 and the loneliness of her condition made her 
 find the more amusement the more difficult 
 her way. It remains to be seen how Mr. 
 Leslie fulfilled the promise made in his first 
 sermon to this parishioner in particular. It 
 would appear from her remarks to her confi- 
 dante Betty, as she disrobed for the night 
 after the dinner-party, that Miss Charles was 
 not ill-pleased with it altogether. 
 
 Yet no sore had she smitten, no wound had 
 she opened, no character had she smudged : 
 Betty had to listen to a quiet detail of the 
 dishes, an especial description of Mrs. Eobarts' 
 dress ; and so few disparaging remarks, that 
 the maid, accustomed to highly-seasoned dis- 
 courses, was somewhat disappointed. She 
 had her confidante also, and a dinner at the
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 139 
 
 Castle was prolific of much gossip, that, ema- 
 nating from Miss Charles as primary source, 
 ramified off into many streams. 
 
 But Miss Charles slept pleasantly, and rose 
 cheerily. With regard to the rest of the 
 party. Lord and Lady Bernard were pleased 
 to observe that their new clergyman was ris- 
 ing in the estimation of his parishioners as 
 much as they could desire ; while it entered 
 into the heart of no one to cavil at, or do 
 otherwise than admire, his blooming and unso- 
 phisticated wife. 
 
 ** We may now leave home with comfort, 
 my dear lord,'' said Lady Bernard to her 
 husband. 
 
 *^We will begin our arrangements to- 
 morrow," responded he. "But, pardon me, 
 wife — I am faithless to you ; I have lost my 
 heart to the fair Emily." 
 
 '* I can willingly pardon you. I am as 
 deeply smitten by her husband." 
 
 Having thus nothing to forgive each other, 
 they calmly fell asleep.
 
 140 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 " Down the hill- side tripping brightly, 
 O'er the pebbles tinkling lightly, 
 Mid the meadows rippling, merrily the mountain-current 
 
 By the broken rocks careering, 
 Through the desert persevering, 
 Flowing onward ever, ever singing as it flows. 
 
 " But oh ! the darksome caves, 
 That swallow up the waves ! 
 Oh ! the shadow -haunted forest, the sandy shallows wide ; 
 Oh ! the hollow-reeded fen, 
 Like the stagnant minds of men, 
 A desert for the silver foot of mountain-cradled tide." 
 
 Ernest Jones. 
 
 The Bernards are gone, and the Leslies 
 are left to encounter a probation more 
 difficult than any. For human nature is
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 141 
 
 SO strange ! If it runs blindfold for a 
 time in one path, 'tis very apt to retrace 
 its steps, and pursue the contrary course 
 with equal heedlessness. 
 
 Thus the Leslies, having become so in- 
 stantaneously popular, it was but probable 
 there would be a reaction, and those who 
 praised them most would be more vehe- 
 ment in censure. But it did not appear 
 that they would be affected by either 
 extreme ; they had their duties to per- 
 form, and, whether welcomed coldly or 
 warmly, Mr. Leslie pursued his way un- 
 daunted, while Mrs. Leslie saw and heard 
 nothing but what her own sweet spirit 
 suggested. 
 
 About three miles over the wild, heathy, 
 and fern-clad hills was a little hamlet. 
 
 Snugly reposing within the shadow of 
 the far-famed Dinas Eock, it yet had 
 spread out before it the whole beauty of 
 the Neath Valley, stretching far away.
 
 142 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 even to the sheeny light of the Bristol 
 Channel. 
 
 Here and there the voluminous thick 
 smoke of iron- works cast a sable cloud 
 over scenes that nature had visibly in- 
 tended should be masterpieces of beauty, 
 causing the thoughtful gazer to think of 
 those besetting sins which blacken the 
 fair souls sent pure from the hands of 
 their Maker. 
 
 The bare hills, scarred with crags, as if 
 some mighty convulsion of Nature had 
 heaped up the stones of the plain into 
 chaotic masses ; the verdure of the val- 
 leys, the mass of woods, and the running 
 stream, were not out of unison with each 
 other. On the contrary, they enhanced 
 their separate beauty. But the touch of 
 man blurred it all, blasting the trees, 
 destroying the pasturage, and bringing out, 
 bare and naked, the stony hills. 
 
 Within hearing distance of the white-
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. ] 43 
 
 washed cottages of the hamlet ran the 
 noisy, restless river Hepste, whose course 
 from its very birth was so impeded by 
 various obstacles, that a less impetuous 
 stream would have turned and sought a 
 more peaceful way. Unlike most rivers 
 — Great Father Thames, for instance — 
 rising silent, insignificant, and small, mean- 
 dering at first through marshy meadows, 
 and seeking companions in sluggish drains 
 and low reedy pools, the Hepste started 
 out at once into life — a busy, bustling, 
 opiniated rill. 
 
 Just as some human soul rises out of 
 birth, poverty, and isolation, working out, 
 with indomitable perseverance, a name, a 
 home, a household ; while a less ardent 
 spirit seeks to linger in its primeval 
 obscurity, and becomes merged at last in 
 the great Elver of Life, lost and for- 
 gotten. 
 
 Not so the Hepste. It sprang into the
 
 144 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 world with a determined spirit ; it leapt 
 and danced at its very birth over stones 
 and rocks, so large and numerous that 
 imagination alone could at times trace a 
 feathery dash of spray on the mossy 
 stone bed ; nevertheless, it grew into a 
 considerable body of water whenever a 
 smooth path was vouchsafed it. But even 
 then it permitted itself no rest, but the 
 rather hurried on with quicker speed, as 
 if conscious these moments of rest were 
 dangerous to one who had an extraordi- 
 nary path to work out, and many difficul- 
 ties to overcome. 
 
 At last, upon a sudden, swollen now to 
 a considerable size by many admiring fol- 
 lowers, it came upon a high elevated point, 
 bristling with lichen-covered rocks and moss- 
 grown stones, stretching far and wide like 
 a stubborn fortification. Here, there, every- 
 where, the little brook ran peering in and 
 out, tumbling in its heedless passage down
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 145 
 
 many a steep rock, until it paused breath- 
 less in a large round pool. Foolish brook, 
 there is no escape, down you must go still 
 further ; yes, collect all your strength and 
 energy, there is nothing before you but a 
 mass of falling crags, and the fates alone 
 know if you will ever reach the bottom 
 in safety. Twas a gallant little brook — 
 it waited but a few moments to collect 
 itself into a respectable body of water, 
 when out it dashed again, splashing, rush- 
 ing, leaping, springing, boiling, and bub- 
 bling, until, fairly driven into a foaming state 
 of vigorous determination, it arrived at the 
 bottom, and ran rejoicing along at its own 
 exploits. 
 
 Gurgle not so loudly, merry brook — see 
 what is now before you. High rose in 
 front a beetling crag. '^ Is it twenty 
 feet? — thirty feet? Ha, I can leap that," 
 sung the brook. ^^Not so, you vain little 
 river, it is three hundred feet high, and 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 what can you do now, you little proud 
 thing?" 
 
 It sobbed, and boiled, and bubbled a 
 moment — it was of no avail. 
 
 " Return, retrace my path ! '* gurgled the 
 little proud thing ; " never ! is not water 
 the first power on earth? Will not one 
 drop destroy a life? — a few gallons move 
 a mountain ? I will not go back. If I 
 cannot climb up into that sky I will go 
 under the mountain. I will force my way 
 through, let iron or stone stand in the 
 path." 
 
 So she set herself resolutely to work — 
 she pushed her way into a thousand dark 
 holes and gullies — she shuddered as she 
 felt the cold clasp of vapour that knew 
 no sun — had never even heard of it. She 
 grew silent and quiet as she felt the deep 
 unknown darkness of a place that had 
 never seen the light, fall upon her fresh 
 little spirit.
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 147 
 
 Suddenly she found herself expanding 
 within a large cool place, in which she 
 knew a thousand beautiful things might 
 have been reflected on her pellucid bosom, 
 but that it was dark. A pitchy coal 
 blackness, that made itself felt, and which 
 rendered her more sad and silent than 
 ever. She thought, ^* This is about to be 
 my grave ; heedless and silly, I have wan- 
 dered into this vast unknown depth, which 
 I can never fill up, and thus I shall be 
 lost for ever in the bowels of the earth. 
 And I so happy, so merry, loving the cheer- 
 ful sun, and rejoicing in the gay sights of 
 the fields, the blue skies, the fair flowers, 
 the blossoming trees — alas ! alas ! I shall 
 pour myself away into the vast abysses of 
 earth, and never more be seen or heard of 
 in the happy lovely world.'' 
 
 Thus she sighed and bemoaned, low and 
 soft ; but suddenly she felt a little ripple 
 on her bosom, and immediately her ardent 
 
 l2
 
 148 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 spirit rose again within her, and she said, 
 *^ Where my sister, the wind, comes in, so 
 can I go out." So with thought and dis- 
 cretion she went warily about, conscious in 
 all that darkness that she was still proceed- 
 ing onwards ; until at last a little ray like 
 a star flickered on her course. Encouraged 
 by this, on she dashed. Brighter grew the 
 beam, louder she sang — until at last, with 
 noisy acclamations, she bounded out of the 
 dark mountain into the full-glowing sun- 
 shine ! How she danced, sang, and rejoiced ! 
 How she bubbled, and hummed, and sparkled! 
 How she dashed at everything — the largest 
 stones, the most precipitate path. ** I have 
 made my way through the mountain," sang 
 she — " nothing shall stop me now ! " 
 
 So away she went, larger, bolder, more 
 vehement than ever ; down a dozen feet and 
 more, and yet nothing it seemed to her. Now 
 she parted in two — each stream endeavouring 
 to vie with the other in its gay leaps and
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 149 
 
 noisy clamour ; but they met at the bottom, 
 and went lovingly on, until — heavens ! a 
 precipitous jump of twenty feet and more ! 
 — nothing to break it — no friendly jutting 
 crag, no moss-grown bank, no bending gnarled 
 old trunk. Nay, this is too much — she will 
 be dashed to pieces ere she reach the bottom 
 — she will be lost in vapour as she leaps. 
 But it must be done ; for can she, who has 
 made her way through the iron bosom of the 
 mountain, stay or stop for anything ? — no, 
 not for worlds ! One pause — one full breath 
 — she leaps high — she is over ! and, safe at 
 the bottom, runs murmuring on in a bed of 
 quiet pools, shady trees, and deep, wood- 
 clothed ravines. 
 
 But what a feat ! Between the steep 
 rock and the leaping water you can walk, 
 and yet emerge unsprinkled ; for, such is 
 the impetus of the energetic little Hepste, she 
 leaps clear of the rock by a dozen yards. 
 Not half a mile from this wonderful fall lay
 
 150 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 the little hamlet first mentioned ; and, as if 
 all its heedlessness was expended in this last 
 leap, the Hepste floats quietly by, and swells 
 into a calm, smiling river, keeping on its flow- 
 ing course to the Bristol Channel. 
 
 Conspicuous among the houses in the ham- 
 let was one, quaint in its gable roof, bright 
 with its rows of casemented windows, gay 
 with its beds, terraces, rockeries, and rustic 
 baskets of flowers. This was Captain Hill's 
 house ; and his two daughters, Margaret and 
 Frances, lived in the essence of flowers. 
 
 Miss Hill's fancy dwelt among wild flowers. 
 Here was a rockery, with lichens rare, pretty, 
 or gay ; there was another, the curious old 
 limestones peeping out amid feathery ferns, 
 among which all the known species in Britain 
 could be found in high perfection — gathered 
 from all parts with care and trouble. On a 
 grassy bank lay wonderful specimens of the 
 orchis tribe — the bee, the spider, and the fly, 
 protected from the deceived vision of hungry 
 birds by little wire cages.
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 151 
 
 Here and there towered monstrous speci- 
 mens of thistles, and in a secluded but sunny- 
 nook dwelt that rarest and ugliest of plants, 
 the ^^ ladies' slipper/' 
 
 Serapias, campanulas, hyacinths, lilies of 
 the valley, star-like primulas in damp moss, 
 modest violets, blue and white periwinkles, 
 ragged robins, herb willows, and various other 
 beauties belonging to the wild tribes of Eng- 
 lish Flora, made a fair and sweet show against 
 Miss Fanny's roses, carnations, stocks, and 
 gillyflowers. 
 
 Thus, it happened at no season of the year 
 did this garden present a dull appearance ; 
 and yet its gaiety was not its chief attraction. 
 Far and near came the curious botanist, to 
 see the living specimens of some rare plant, 
 in search of which he had spent years. If it 
 was not in flower, he could see it faithfully 
 portrayed, unmistakable in its character and 
 appearance, by the skilful paint-brush of Miss 
 Hill, who never saw a wild-flower that she
 
 152 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 did not thus perpetuate it ; while Miss Fanny, 
 not to be outdone by her sister, would hang 
 the walls of their house with gorgeous pictures 
 of her favourite flowers, or transfer them, in 
 almost natural beauty and ease, to some fabric 
 by the skill of her needle. 
 
 Thus, in this house, so gay and at- 
 tractive outside, dwelt spirits congenial, 
 and none ever entered it without feeling 
 the better for so doing. 
 
 The fine old soldier sanctified a certain 
 space around him by a spirit so good 
 and gracious, nothing evil could enter the 
 boundary. 
 
 The intelligent, excellent, charming Miss 
 Hill difi'used such an air of refined talent 
 and energy around her, that nought either 
 silly or ignorant could exist near her; 
 while the lively, loving Miss Fanny 
 brightened everything with her sunny 
 spirits and warm heart. 
 
 Thus none can wonder if between the
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 153 
 
 Leslies and Hills there sprung up a friend- 
 ship that is now drawing to a close on 
 earth, only to bloom more freely in the 
 Heaven promised to such beings. The 
 Miss Hills had been perfectly ready to 
 proffer all the affection they had to be- 
 stow upon a neighbour such as their father 
 described Mrs. Leslie to be. Nor were 
 they less alive to the benefit a single- 
 minded and earnest pastor would prove 
 to the district in which they dwelt. 
 Driven from one sect to another — from 
 extempore preachers to ranting Methodists 
 — from Beulah Tabernacles to Sion Con- 
 venticles, the Welsh clergymen of the 
 Church of England, being but little higher 
 in their grade than their unlicensed 
 rivals, it was not without reason that the 
 more respectable portion of society saw 
 little religion of any kind among the 
 great body of the people. Yet were they 
 fully capable of respecting a well-educated
 
 154 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 man from one of the English Universities. 
 The very name of either of them bore a 
 certain prestige with it that carried them 
 through a great deal that was personally 
 disagreeable to their parishioners. Such 
 had been the fate of Mr. Willis. Because 
 he came among them with his academic 
 honours, carried even into the pulpit, 
 they bore with his supineness, his selfish- 
 ness, his dandyism, and deserted their 
 favourite chapels of worship to hear the 
 doctrine preached by lips that had been 
 commended at Oxford, or to gaze on the 
 red scarf, fringed with ermine, that 
 marked his title to learning. None are 
 such true judges of the inherent character 
 of lady or gentleman as the lower orders ; 
 and even after Mr. Willis's character had 
 been mooted and decided upon, the 
 gentle fine-ladyism of his wife bore him 
 on for some while on the full tide of 
 popularity. In those days, even among
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 155 
 
 this lawless set, there was a great charm, 
 a silent delight, in the refinements of the 
 upper classes ; and it is for this reason 
 that we have dwelt, somewhat too for- 
 cibly, on the personal attractions of Mrs. 
 Leslie, and the confiding, brotherly manner 
 of her husband. These paved the way to 
 a certain amount of liking at first sight. 
 That the grave, quiet young man in 
 spectacles was able to claim even higher 
 honours for learmng than the elegant Mr. 
 Willis pleased them. He was modest as 
 well as clever, demanding their respect as 
 much as their admiration ; while his bloom- 
 ing wife was as refined in all her ways 
 and thoughts as the Lady Bernard her- 
 self — yet entered into the griefs and 
 troubles of her poorest neighbour with a 
 warmth that made all hearts open to greet 
 her. The population was very different 
 from even a town, much less a country 
 parish. Every nation under heaven ap-
 
 156 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 peared to contribute a share. And the 
 very work in which they were engaged — 
 bending the hardest ores of the earth to 
 a pliancy and submission more befitting 
 the reed that yields to a sigh of wind — 
 gave them an independence of action, a 
 rude grandeur of thought, and a self- 
 confidence that nothing could lower. Six 
 months passed away. Many a rough, un- 
 couth miner became softened as he thought 
 he had a kind friend at the parsonage. 
 Many an unwomanly woman knew she 
 could gain both help and advice from 
 the gentle, pitying lady that dwelt there.
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 15 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " A life has just begun ! 
 A life has just begun I 
 Another soul has won 
 The glorious spark of being ! 
 Pilgrim of life, all hail I 
 He who at first called forth 
 From nothingness the earth, 
 Who piled the mighty hills and dug the sea, 
 Who gave the stars to gem 
 Night like a diadem, 
 Thou httle child, made thee ! 
 Young creature of the earth. 
 Fair as its flowers, though brought in sorrow forth, 
 HaU, aUhaU!"— Anon. 
 
 John, accustomed to leave all domestic 
 matters to his Emily, and, apparently, 
 solely occupied by the duties of his parish, 
 the perusal of some well-beloved books, and
 
 158 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 a slight attention to the liabilities of a 
 father, was yet alive to a certain impend- 
 ing domestic event — ^that, while it gave a 
 languor to the steps of his wife, brought 
 a very lively glow to his own heart. John 
 had a weakness. He longed for a son. 
 The very delight he himself took in his 
 favourite books made him think with 
 ecstasy of teaching a son the languages 
 necessary to enjoy the same pleasure. Many 
 a time, in sheer delight at their majesty, 
 had he rolled out, in sonorous voice, the 
 words of Homer, the grandiloquent sen- 
 tences of the heroes of Euripides, and 
 looked at Adeline to mark the effect. 
 
 Poor baby Adeline ! She winked and" 
 blinked, or roundly opened her blue eyes 
 in astonishment at papa, but clearly her 
 highest happiness lay in a pocket-hander- 
 chief rolled up and knotted into a peculiar 
 fashion to represent a flying baby, which 
 might have passed current in those dark
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 159 
 
 ages for a doll, but now, in these times, 
 would be scorned by an intelligent young 
 lady of sixteen months' experience of the 
 world. 
 
 A sort of presentiment possessed the 
 good John, that because he had set his 
 heart upon this little one thing, he was 
 not to think he obtained other than his 
 righteous deserts if the Almighty vouch- 
 safed him only daughters. Two daughters ! 
 Soon he might have two daughters. What 
 could he do with them ? — what would be 
 their fate? They could not hope to be as 
 pretty as their mother — here the sight of 
 Adeline's cradle met his eye, and the re- 
 membrance of her baby prettinesses rebuked 
 him. Anon came the thought — wherefore 
 was the cradle there ? A shock smote 
 him. His Emily had not met him, as 
 was her wont, on his return from his 
 parochial wanderings. He would ring. No, 
 he would go and seek her. At the very
 
 160 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 threshold of the study-door he was met 
 by Wilson, the Koman-nosed damsel once 
 mentioned before. 
 
 " Missus's love, and begged master would 
 not be uneasy, but take his tea and pre- 
 pare his sermon for next Sunday. She was 
 keeping up pretty well, and Mrs. Dawson 
 and the doctor were with her." 
 
 *^ But — but," murmured Mr. Leslie, " can 
 I not see her for a few moments ? " 
 
 " Better not, sir. Missus will only be 
 fashed. Take your tea, like a good sir, 
 and keep up your spirits. And please to 
 have an eye on missy — poor little dear! I 
 took the liberty of putting her here, sir, 
 to be out of the way." 
 
 There are times when women will have 
 all their own way, and take every advan- 
 tage. Mr. Leslie turned back into his 
 study with meek submission. He obe- 
 diently took the tea placed before him, 
 and he equally obeyed the order about
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 161 
 
 preparing his sermon. That is, he opened 
 his blotting-book, placed the paper, ex- 
 amined his pen, even dipped it into the 
 ink. But there his submission ended. His 
 eyes wandered from the fire to the sofa 
 where, lately, Emily had been wont to re- 
 cline every evening — and then they rested 
 on Adeline's cradle. 
 
 *^ Poor little Adeline ! you are about to 
 be deposed. Perhaps your dear mamma 
 may be so kind as to give me a son, and 
 you a brother. Yet still, little Adeline, 
 I think you will agree with me, there is 
 a questionable pleasure in this business. 
 ^ Am I not better to thee than ten sons ? ' 
 doth a shadowy form on the sofa say to 
 me ; and truly, I say back in return — * Ay ! 
 better than life itself.' Beneficent Father 
 of all, spare me the life with which Thou 
 has blest mine so exceedingly. Spare my 
 Emily, and pardon my wild wishes ! " 
 Taking in his trembling hand a little 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 miniature, painted but lately, of his wife, 
 Mr. Leslie, unable to fix his attention upon 
 anything else, thus mused over it ; and, as 
 his thoughts grew, he seized the paper in- 
 tended for a very different subject, and 
 wrote as follows : — 
 
 " Painter ! I tax your genius, art, and grace, 
 To limn that open, smiling, lovely face, 
 In which a soft expression strives with sense, 
 And buoyant spirit with benevolence. 
 In hanging clusters paint her rich brown hair. 
 The skin's transparent pureness, clear and fair ; 
 The full-turned beauty of that blushing cheek — 
 A mouth that seems in sweetest smiles to speak — 
 A nose weU formed — a quick and laughing glance 
 Of eye, to animate the countenance. 
 Enough ! Here is that look which pleaseth me 
 More than all sights of earth, or air, or sea. 
 And let no fold, no ornament bedeck 
 The stately shapeliness of that smooth neck. 
 The robe your choice — its texture and its hue — 
 But modest it must needs be, or not true. 
 For dress I care not — splendid let it be. 
 Or simple — but paint Nature's charms for me : 
 Those delicate and just proportions trace. 
 Which give to every motion nameless grace ; 
 Then throw o'er all — if skill can go so far — 
 The joyous character, the charming air — " 
 
 What further Mr. Leslie was going to write 
 no one knows to this day ; for the door sud-
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 163 
 
 denly burst open, and Wilson, her nasal feature 
 more strongly developed than usual, through 
 much apparent friction, rushed in, exclaiming, 
 " A boy, sir ! a beautiful boy ! — and missus 
 so well ! " 
 
 " Thank God ! Oh ! I thank Thee, my 
 God ! " For a few seconds, Mr. Leslie's heart 
 was absorbed in thanksgiving, during which 
 Wilson wiped her eyes, blew her nose, settled 
 her cap, and untied and tied her apron-strings. 
 Master was always generous to the bearer of 
 good tidings. Becoming alive to these ma- 
 noeuvres, Mr. Leslie rose, and with nervous 
 hand extracted his purse, which in those days 
 was nothing but a little bag made of soft 
 mouse-coloured leather, run through with a 
 silken cord. The tears gathering to his eyes 
 obscured John's vision, and the tremulous 
 fingers drew the cord into a knot ; but, at 
 last, half-a-guinea was extracted, and placed 
 in the Roman-nosed damsel's ready hand. 
 
 '* When can I see — when may I come to 
 
 M 2
 
 164 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 my dear wife ? " pleaded Mr. Leslie, in tones 
 that fully acknowledged Wilson's entire su- 
 premacy. 
 
 Condescendingly gracious, she replied — 
 
 '* As soon as hever it is possible, sir — rely 
 upon me." 
 
 During the next half-hour John paced his 
 little apartment, by turns elated and grateful. 
 
 ^^Dear little Adeline — softly sleeping, so 
 unconscious — do you know you have a brother, 
 a very beautiful brother, who, some of these 
 days, will read with me Cicero's De Senectute, 
 the (Edipus Tyrannus of Sophocles, the Con- 
 tention of Ajax and Ulysses in the 13th book 
 of Ovid's Metamorphoses ; to say nothing of 
 Plato's Phcedo, Virgil, and Cicero's Tusculan 
 Questions ? Oh, God ! I return Thee humble 
 and hearty thanks for the safe deliverance of 
 my wife. Bless my son ! Grant him to be 
 Thy child, as well as the child of earthly 
 parents ! May he walk in thy ways, through 
 Jesus Christ our Lord." Here John broke
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 165 
 
 out into Latin, or Greek, or Hebrew, neither 
 of which being known to the writer of this 
 history, the readers will be spared the endea- 
 vour to construe it. Probably it was nothing 
 more than a rhapsody as above. 
 
 Meantime, the half hour passed : his ex- 
 pected summons came. Making incredible 
 exertions to walk as softly as possible, yet his 
 shoes creaking loudly the more he exerted 
 himself, John mounted the staircase, all un- 
 conscious that the well-known sound of his 
 approach was music to his Emily's ears. So 
 bright was her face with happiness, that really 
 it was not unreasonable the suspicion that it 
 was all a mistake — no boy was born. 
 
 " Dear John, I told you it would be a boy 
 — and he is such a fine fellow ! Here he is ! '' 
 
 *^ Hush, darling — hush, my beloved ! Of 
 course you are always right. Thanks, my 
 Emily ; and thanks to our Almighty Father 
 for this wonderful blessing ! " 
 
 As John stooped, just to touch his wife's
 
 166 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 cheek with a husband's softest, holiest kiss, 
 she withdrew the bed-clothes, and discovered 
 a little rosy, cosy morsel of humanity snugly 
 laid by her side, his little face shining all the 
 more ruddy contrasted with his mother's, now 
 paling again after her flush of pleasure. 
 
 " It appears to me," said John, with a 
 slight shade of anxiety, " very like what 
 Adeline was." 
 
 Perhaps John anticipated an incipient ap- 
 proach to hirsute honours in his son. 
 
 *^ Oh, John," said Emily, with just a 
 fraction of reproach, " and he has very dark 
 eyes, that will be like yours." 
 
 " Has he, love ? Good, dear boy." 
 
 *^Now, sir, don't you be a-staying here, 
 and a-tiring of missus. Go to bed, like a 
 good sir." 
 
 And obediently submissive as before, John 
 just bent to kiss his Emily once more. At 
 the moment he did so, a carriage swept 
 through the lodge up to the Castle, which
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 167 
 
 contained Lord and Lady Bernard, and 
 their children, who were returning home, 
 after theu* long absence abroad.
 
 168 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " Be kind to each other, 
 
 The night's coming on, 
 When friend and when brother 
 
 Perchance may be gone ! 
 Then 'midst our dejection 
 
 How sweet to have earned 
 The blest recollection 
 
 Of kindness returned ! " 
 
 Charles Swaln. 
 
 Mr. Robarts presented himself the first 
 thing in the morning to pay his respects to 
 my lord. 
 
 My Lord. — " Ah I Robarts, I am heartily 
 glad to see you again. All going on 
 well?" 
 
 Mr, Boharts, — " As well as it is possible
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 169 
 
 to expect, my lord ; but pray allow me 
 first to express my congratulations on the 
 safe return of yourself and my lady. I 
 may truly say, 'tis not the same place 
 when you are away." 
 
 My Lord. — '^ I should hope not, my good 
 fellow, or what would be the use of 
 my presence to keep you all in order ? " 
 
 Mr. Roharts. — *^Tis a pleasant mode of 
 being ordered ; but I trust you have all 
 had your healths — the young gentle- 
 men " 
 
 My Lord. — "Never better, Kobarts. We 
 have enjoyed ourselves thoroughly, and 
 have returned with renewed vigour and 
 hope to do our duty. Mr. Leslie, how 
 goes he on? Does he still answer the 
 expectations we formed on his first ap- 
 pearance ? '' 
 
 Mr. Roharts. — " To the full, and more, 
 my lord. Time indeed appears to bring 
 forth fresh claims to our esteem and af-
 
 170 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 fection. Your lordship would be delighted 
 to attend the parish meetings now. You 
 remember what they were — noisy clamours, 
 wrangling and contentions. But the man- 
 ner in which Mr. Leslie conquered them 
 was the great thing — from nothing but 
 sheer patience. They thought to tire him 
 out. Not he. When tired themselves, and 
 suggesting an adjournment, *We have done 
 no business,' says he, ' yet. If you have 
 any more grievances to settle amongst 
 yourselves, gentlemen,' he continued, with 
 a quiet smile, *pray, go on. I am not 
 required at home until ten o'clock.' He 
 shamed them, my lord ; the most tur- 
 bulent spirits are now mild as milk. And 
 he has such a fund of straightforward, 
 quiet good sense, they see they cannot 
 turn him or deceive him. They must 
 like him, even against their wishes. And, 
 what has great weight, he has no reli- 
 gious animosity; he is as urbane and for-
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 171 
 
 bearing with that fretful preacher, Howel, 
 and that canting methodist, Evans, as he 
 would be with you, my lord." 
 
 My Lord, — "" I rejoice to hear this. I 
 had but one fear — that being so young, 
 he might be easily fooled." 
 
 Mr. Boharis — "Ah, my lord, if he is, 
 'tis only in a thorough forgetfulness of 
 himself. There is that well in the parson- 
 age garden, which Mr. Willis had walled 
 up, to prevent the women coming for 
 water — it being an annoyance to him, when 
 he had friends, seeing the troops of dirty 
 women hanging about it. No sooner did 
 Mrs. Leslie hear that the water was so 
 much prized and regretted by them, than 
 she told him, and he came to me to 
 know your wishes. Upon hearing how 
 grieved you had been at its enclosure, 
 and the efforts you had made to carry 
 pipes over the Cinder Tip, in two hours 
 the wall was down, and a pathway opened.
 
 172 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 A gate has been put up. At her request 
 I procured Mrs. Leslie two or three good 
 troughs, which, always filling, keeps no 
 woman idling about. By-the-by, did you 
 miss the big bell this morning, ray lord? 
 I forbid it being rung, as last night she 
 had a son." 
 
 My Lord. — " You don't say so ? I must 
 tell my lady. But I thought you also, 
 my dear Robarts, were looking out for a 
 similar event. I know Lady Bernard was 
 very assiduous looking for a christening 
 cap of the newest fashion, and I under- 
 stood it was for a Robarts." 
 
 Mr. Roharts. — ^' I am much obliged to 
 her ladyship. It certainly must be as you 
 say, for I had another daughter last Tues- 
 day.'^ 
 
 My Lord. — " I hope Mrs. Eobarts is 
 doing well ; but why don't you remonstrate 
 upon her presenting you with nothing but 
 daughters ? "
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 173 
 
 Mr. Eobarts. — '^ It is the same to me, 
 mj lord ; of whatever sex they might be, I 
 should love them all equally And if I 
 appear not to be so hearty in welcoming 
 them as I ought to be, it is because with 
 every fresh arrival my poor wife's cares and 
 anxieties increase ; she is not strong.'* 
 
 My Lord. — " Bid her take example from 
 Mrs. Leslie. Her face is sufficiently beam- 
 ing to drive all care away." 
 
 Mr. Roharts. — " They are great friends al- 
 ready, my lord — it is impossible to be other- 
 wise with one so sociable as pretty Mrs. 
 Leslie. I hope to live to see my poor 
 Jane take a few lessons from her book of 
 life." 
 
 Lady Bernard made it her first business 
 to go personally and inquire after the two 
 ladies. 
 
 Mrs. Robarts, whose fifth girl was now 
 five days old, felt capable of receiving com- 
 pany, though low and weak. Accordingly,
 
 174 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 Lady Bernard was requested to walk up- 
 stairs, where she found the sick lady flushed 
 and nervous. Fearful that her four elder 
 daughters were not being properly looked 
 after, she had them with her in her sick 
 chamber; and though they were tolerably 
 quiet, it is hard to say who was suffering 
 most from this arrangement, their mother 
 or themselves. Blessed are those who 
 show themselves only to do good and kind 
 acts ! 
 
 " Let me have the charge of your girls 
 until you are stronger," said Lady Bernard; 
 and, without reference to the trouble — so 
 lately returned home — or the charge, she 
 gave the necessary orders, and was well 
 rewarded by the pleasure and relief in- 
 stantaneously given to the gratified mother. 
 While these preparations were making, Lady 
 Bernard walked across the Cinder Tip, and 
 proceeded to make inquiries at the par- 
 sonage. John met her at the door, but as
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 175 
 
 for suffering her to depart without a look 
 at his son — the son — it could not be done. 
 Upstairs he bore Lady Bernard, exercising 
 vast ingenuity to avoid the creaking of his 
 shoes, without the least effect. 
 
 The son really justified every encomium; 
 he was lying back in his nurse's arms, 
 showing such fine, wide-open eyes, such 
 powers of stretching and yawning, there 
 could not be a doubt about it — he was 
 a first-rate child. 
 
 The rustle of Lady Bernard's dress, the 
 intended whispers of John (he was not 
 clever at whispering), were heard in the 
 next room. 
 
 ' " I wish to call him ^milius,'' had been 
 John's whisper. 
 
 ^*]Sro, he is to be called John," was heard 
 from the next room ; ^' dear Lady Bernard, 
 do come and see me." 
 
 And so fair she looked, so happy ! Though 
 Lady Bernard only stayed a minute, she
 
 176 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 talked of nothing else, the whole evening, 
 but the lovely little mother lying back on 
 her pillow, her sunny curls bursting forth 
 from the little frilled cap, and her hands 
 (certainly Emily had the loveliest hands) 
 clasped like little pearl-shells on the cover- 
 lid, as if there was no unoccupied moment in 
 which she was not sending thanks to Heaven. 
 
 During some of Lady Bernard's visits to 
 Mrs. Leslie, in her seclusion, the following 
 conversation took place : — 
 
 Lady B. — "Is it not a little singular 
 that I should have known your sister for 
 two years. We have met often in London, 
 and she always excited my admiration, not 
 only by her beauty, but her great fascina- 
 tion of manner. And yet you are wonder- 
 fully unlike." 
 
 Mrs. Leslie. — " My sister is like one 
 of those portraits enameled on china. I 
 never saw such purity of complexion united 
 to hair so dark, and eyes so blue."
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 177 
 
 Lady B. — ^'1 do not mean that in point 
 of personal appearance you are unlike— for 
 your voices, your animation, and little deli- 
 cate hands and feet, appear family gifts. 
 The difference I perceive is in your life, 
 your likings. How fortunate Mr. Leslie 
 was in selecting you." 
 
 Mrs. Leslie, — ^' Yes, because of his profes- 
 sion, our mutual duties. My sister is so 
 clever, so talented, I may say — excelling in 
 music, painting, and many other accomplish- 
 ments — that one cannot wonder at her delight 
 in the society of those who have the same 
 tastes. She has so charming a memory, she 
 is so animated, that it would be a thousand 
 pities had she to live, like me, in the 
 country." 
 
 Lady B. — ^^Ah, yes! how she pitied you. 
 I could not imagine what caused both Lord 
 Bernard and myself to feel so attracted by 
 her voice, until she crossed over to my sofa, 
 and began asking me about you. Then I 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 recognized the truth, how wonderfully family- 
 likenesses may be traced without the slightest 
 resemblance of feature. As you say, 'tis very 
 rarely one sees such exquisite prettiness as 
 hers — and how Sir Edward dotes on her." 
 
 Mrs. Leslie. — *^ Yes, we all spoil her ; we 
 cannot help it. She has the prettiest way- 
 wardnesses — one must obey them. All her 
 life long no one thwarted her. Did she 
 say she would some day come and see 
 me?'' 
 
 Lady B. — *^ She means to think about it, 
 I know ; for she asked me various questions 
 concerning the road, and all she would have 
 to encounter — though she shuddered very 
 much, even when I assured her I had under- 
 taken the same journey twice in a year. 
 You have made her some rash promise, have 
 you not, about Adeline ? " 
 
 Mrs. Leslie. — " Oh, do not blame me ; but 
 if ever I have a second daughter, she made 
 John and me promise to let her adopt Adeline.
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 179 
 
 She has set her heart upon educating a girl ; 
 and Sir Edward besought us to consent, it 
 would be the cause of such a vast fund of 
 happiness to my sister. Indeed, I never did, 
 or ever could, refuse her anything for which 
 she asked me." 
 
 Lady B. — " Well, I hope you will stave 
 off the parting as long as you can ; for I fear 
 you will suffer much when called upon to 
 fulfil your promise. Meantime, I must not 
 forget to tell you that I am the bearer of a 
 package for you. Lady Armitage does not 
 seem to have any very exalted opinion of 
 your taste in dress. She says, ' Emily is 
 ignorant whether her dress is of satin or sack- 
 cloth ; but she is competent to select flannel 
 petticoats for old women, and will give two 
 where one would do — going without gloves 
 for those fair white arms in consequence. The 
 old women might go without their flannel 
 sooner than I without my gloves.' " 
 
 Mrs. Leslie. — " How my sister belies her- 
 
 N 2
 
 180 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 self — she is so bountifully generous to those 
 she loves/' 
 
 Lady B. — ^^Yes, to you. I think, how- 
 ever, it is fortunate I went with her to select 
 her presents, otherwise our valley would have 
 been turned upside down with the sight of 
 your finery in church : and think what a 
 scandal it would have made, so many allure- 
 ments of sight coming from the parsonage." 
 
 Mrs, Leslie. — " But I always pin and 
 unpin the things my sister sends me, until 
 I transform them into the sober shape suitable 
 to a clergyman's wife." 
 
 Lady B. — ^^ As you are so well to-day, let 
 us unpack the box. I shall wish to know 
 that you are pleased with my share in the 
 selection." 
 
 As dress in those days was supposed to be 
 very different to what it is now, it may not 
 be amiss to describe the contents of the box, 
 taken from the true chronicle that gives all 
 the facts of this family history. To the vota-
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 181 
 
 ries of fashion of the present day it ought 
 to point out a lesson — namely, that with all 
 the care, all the trouble, all the expense, the 
 fashion of dress is apparently placed on a 
 pivot, which takes sudden turns, and revolves 
 with capricious uncertainty, but still perpetu- 
 ally rotates back to the same point from 
 which it started. 
 
 The most expensive article in the box was 
 a silk dress, the colour rather like the gray 
 bloom on the shady side of a pearl. This was 
 laced and ornamented with cords and tassels, 
 and things called tags in those days ; while a 
 mantle to match, of the same silk, was looped 
 up at the shoulders with cords and buttons, 
 and ornamental tassels were hung in every 
 direction. To wear with this dress was a hat 
 of shining black chip, lined within by puffings 
 of pink Persian, and plaits of pink ribbon in 
 rows all round. On one side was placed, with 
 a truly jaunty air, a beautiful red moss rose. 
 Here it may be as well to mention that, the
 
 1 82 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 first time Emily wore this dress and hat, she 
 looked both lovely and gay, which caused 
 John, after a certain jocose gravity that he 
 possessed, to go up to her, and, lowly bowing, 
 say, '^ Madam, will you kindly tell me where 
 I may find my simple wife." 
 
 People were easily pleased in those 
 days. 
 
 But to go on. There was (then a 
 rare and scarcely known thing) a mufi* 
 made of moleskin — at least six pairs of 
 gloves, all long ones — some of lace, some 
 of wash leather, and one pair of white 
 kid. Now these gloves were guiltless of 
 being marked inside of some peculiar size, 
 or of being possessed of buttons. They 
 were long useful gloves, covering the arm 
 from the wrist up above the elbow, 
 meeting the short sleeves then generally 
 worn. There were one or two pieces of 
 fine Valenciennes lace. There were two 
 or three lawn handkerchiefs to pin over
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 183 
 
 the shoulders or over the head, to be 
 tied under the chin. There was a beau- 
 tiful frock of spotted Indian muslin for 
 the old baby, and a robe trimmed with 
 very rich lace for the new. There were 
 some books for John ; a pencil-case, 
 thought very extraordinary, that was just 
 shadowing forth what pencil-cases would 
 arrive at in time (say the present). 
 Some Indian silk pocket-handkerchiefs com- 
 pleted the whole. 
 
 Now Emily liked a little finery in her 
 heart : so she was charmed with this 
 box. And every lady who came to see 
 her was not only shown the contents, 
 but allowed to take the patterns. 
 
 Consequently, ere she was well enough 
 to shine forth in her new hat herself, even 
 Mr. Leslie could not but remark to his 
 wife a bursting out of finery in his church 
 that was rather surprising — especially in the 
 matter of black hats and pink ornaments.
 
 184 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 *^ Oh," said Emily, highly charmed, 
 " that is all owing to my dear sister. 
 How pleased she would be to hear that 
 her beautiful presents have been so admired 
 and copied. (Now, between you and me, 
 my dear reader. Lady Armitage was more 
 likely to have fainted with indignation.)
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 185 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 '^ The lover may 
 Distrust that look which steals his heart away ; 
 The babe may cease to think that it may play 
 With heaven's rainbow ; alchemists may doubt 
 The shining gold their crucible gives out ; 
 But faith, fanatic faith, once wedded fast 
 To some dear falsehood, hugs it to the last." 
 
 Moore. 
 
 Before the winter quite set in, Emily's 
 mother came to live with them. Partly 
 because she could not exist happily far 
 from Emily (at which, of course, we, 
 reader and narrator, are not surprised), 
 partly because her annual wealth being 
 rather more than theirs, joined to it would 
 make out a very pretty little income for
 
 186 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 them all, leading, in the vista of expecta- 
 tion, to the probabilities of keeping a 
 pony, a pony-chaise (all carriages being 
 designated thus), and a worthy boy to take 
 the care of both. Oh ! degenerate days of 
 arm-chairs and lolling sofas ! Would that 
 some of the young ladies of the present 
 day could have seen Mrs. Seine's back! 
 Flat is much too flat a word to express 
 the swimming step, the regal carriage, the 
 stately throat, the falling shoulders of Mrs. 
 Eeine, Emily's mother. 
 
 Not the most seducing arm-chair that 
 ever was invented caused her to unbend, 
 and yet with what grace she performed 
 every act. 
 
 But certainly she had had her advan- 
 tages — she had been brought up in a sort 
 of court. 
 
 Her father had been Governor of Mas- 
 sachusetts, and his lady wife held recep- 
 tions somewhat akin to Eoyal drawing-
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 187 
 
 rooms, whereat her fine daughters, all 
 strikingly well-lcoking, bore a very con- 
 spicuous part. But as we have only to 
 do with one, Mrs. Reine, we will follow 
 her fortunes. 
 
 She married, as did her sisters, early in 
 life, all Englishmen. Though they might 
 have chosen men of much higher rank, 
 among the statesmen round their father's 
 court, the old country had more charms 
 than the new one, and they each married 
 to get back to it. They were women of 
 decided character as well as beauty ; 
 and Mrs. Reine in particular, having 
 plighted her troth to a young clergyman 
 travelling for the sake of health, left the 
 loves and affections of a twenty years' 
 life with alacrity, to bestow all upon a 
 youth she had known but six weeks. 
 
 However, that sympathy which brings 
 souls together, let seas intervene, proved a 
 true one in her case. She never repented,
 
 188 THE YALLEY OF 
 
 or had reason to do so, the choice she 
 made. And while her husband lived, the 
 natural energy of her character had suf- 
 ficient scope for exercise in devoting her- 
 self to his wishes. 
 
 But his death, the marriage of both her 
 daughters, left her solitary — for a time 
 stunned. She had never yet experienced 
 what it was to be alone, without a spe- 
 cified duty. She felt intuitively that she 
 should die of doing nothing. About this 
 time various religious persuasions were rising 
 in different parts of the kingdom, and, being 
 a good and pious woman, she decreed 
 within herself to devote her time, like 
 Dorcas of old, to good works. She was 
 rather smitten with the community of the 
 Quakers. They were quiet, passionless, cha- 
 ritable. They were neat, orderly, taciturn. 
 All these things she loved and admired. So 
 she joined them, and became a Quakeress. 
 But human nature is, of all other things,
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 189 
 
 the most given to capricious freaks. It is 
 often found that what one most admires 
 is what one least can do. 
 
 Mrs. Eeine was an energetic, stirring 
 character. The " spirit moved " her to be 
 up and doing, far more spiritedly than 
 was deemed correct by the Quakers ; so 
 she soon tired of them, and, returning to 
 her *^ first love," the Church of England, 
 redoubled her ardour in its cause, as some 
 atonement for her apostasy. 
 
 Woe to the advocates of dissent ! Mrs. 
 Reine entered into a crusade against them, 
 that promised her an ample field for any 
 superabundant activity. 
 
 Much as she loved her daughter, she 
 thought, with kindling enthusiasm, of the 
 battle-field her son-in-lavv's parish would 
 prove to her. So she came armed at all 
 points ; though, to outward appearance, a 
 delicate-featured, fair, and gentle specimen 
 of an upright old lady of sixty years
 
 190 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 of age, whose symmetry of figure and 
 elastic movements beguiled many walking 
 behind her to wish to behold the face ap- 
 pertaining thereto. 
 
 When people adopt a hobby, that hobby 
 obscures the common sense that might 
 otherwise have fair play. Also, a hobby 
 often becomes obnoxious to those with 
 whom you live. Furthermore, a hobby is 
 sure to be provoking even to its worship- 
 per^ intruding at inconvenient times. Yet, 
 let us do justice to hobbies. They take 
 people out of themselves. They make you 
 say to yourself, ^^ If I have a hobby, and 
 wish to ride my hobby, so must I let 
 others ride theirs. We must all have 
 room." 
 
 Mr. Leslie was aware that his mother-in- 
 law had a hobby, upon which she rode 
 upon every occasion. He may, therefore, 
 be pardoned if he did not welcome her to 
 his peaceful abode within the circle of the
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 191 
 
 Cinder Tip with as much genuine warmth 
 as his Emily. Also, he knew his Emily had 
 a weakness. She could not say, '^ No " to 
 any one, much less her mother. It might 
 so chance that Emily, docile and obedient 
 to her mother — even as her own little Ade- 
 line to her — would sometimes have to choose 
 between her husband's wishes and her mo- 
 therms orders. 
 
 "After alV thought John to himself, 
 " Paradise need not be described as a 
 place of superhuman beauty. It is the 
 companions that embellish and bedeck Para- 
 dise, not the place. I must make a note 
 of that." 
 
 John wrote a journal. We extract a 
 remark : — 
 
 " My Emily's mother arrived to-day. She 
 is a good woman, with the remains of great 
 beauty, but could never have possessed my 
 Emily's countenance." (John was very fond 
 of pretty people, which is often the case with
 
 192 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 plain, grave men). '^ She is a clever wo- 
 man, and has published one or two works, 
 the latter of which has gone through a 
 second edition, and will probably be adopted 
 by the Christian Knowledge Society. I think 
 it well written. I also have a design that 
 way. Vouchsafe, Lord, to assist me with 
 the guidance of Thy Holy Spirit in this 
 purpose. Grant that what I may do may 
 be done to Thy glory, and not with the 
 vain wish of seeking the applause of men. 
 If I have a talent, Lord, let me seek 
 the interest for Thy glory. This I ask for 
 Jesus Christ, His sake. Amen. 
 
 " I have an ambition within me which, 
 I trust, may lead to a laudable end ; and, 
 for this purpose, an analysis of Hooker's 
 * Ecclesiastical Polity ' may not be amiss 
 upon which to devote myself, having thought 
 it now for some time, one of the best books 
 I ever read." 
 
 No doubt, though he did not say it, John
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 193 
 
 wished his intended work might reach a 
 second edition, even as his mother-in-law's 
 book (and I — I devoutly accord with him in 
 that wish, and write it down, too). Lady 
 Bernard began to perceive a cloud impend- 
 ing over the peaceful parsonage. 
 
 Lord Bernard pooh-poohed her down. 
 
 '^ I care not what disagreeables may hap- 
 pen — Mrs. Leslie will certainly smooth them 
 all away." 
 
 " But she defers so much to her mo- 
 ther, ray dear lord — she is as obedient as if 
 unmarried." 
 
 " I trow, my good wife, marriage does 
 not prevent an affectionate daughter loving 
 her mother as much after as she did be- 
 fore that marriage." 
 
 ** Good husband, bear my words in 
 mind ; a little cloud — large as a man's 
 hand — rises on the Cinder Tip." 
 
 " So like women — they are not to be 
 convinced, and will have the last word," 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 THE YALLEY OF 
 
 quoth my lord ; and, slamming the door, off 
 he went, thus proving his words a libel on 
 the spot. 
 
 Mrs. Eeine saw signs of grace in Miss 
 Charles that no one else did. Or rather, 
 because she was repellent to most people 
 — her personal appearance influencing the 
 weak-minded — her unrefined character the 
 more sensible — so did Mrs. Eeine think it 
 necessary to take her part. In fact, so 
 large and charitable was that good lady's 
 heart — that the poorer, the plainer, the 
 more disagreeable a person was, the more 
 she favoured them. 
 
 Miss Charles was a delighted and san- 
 guine proselyte. Tea at the parsonage, 
 whenever the Spirit moved her to long for 
 a little holy converse, was so agreeable, 
 that her heart was almost daily stirred 
 within her. She had taken, from the very 
 first moment of seeing her, a strange liking 
 for Mrs. Leslie. Her nature, naturally
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 195 
 
 hard and unwomanly, yet felt an adora- 
 tion for what it most wanted, and it suf- 
 ficed her only to look at Emily and watch 
 her. Her feminine ways, her tender grace, 
 her delicate playfulness, and the many do- 
 mestic beauties which adorned her character, 
 filled Miss Charles with new and refreshing 
 excitement ; and it is probable that, at the 
 bottom of her heart, there lingered a stronger 
 wish to assimilate herself, if possible, a little 
 more to womanhood than ever possessed her 
 before. Thus, what delighted Mrs. Eeine, 
 as the work of her untiring zeal, in reality 
 was caused all unconsciously by her daugh- 
 ter. But these constant visits of Miss 
 Charles were not the less disagreeable to 
 Mr. Leslie. 
 
 He began by thinking it not altogether 
 a sign of grace that Miss Charles should 
 always drop in at tea-time, and always 
 bring her maid Betty (who he feared was 
 a gossip) with her, on the plea that she 
 
 2
 
 196 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 must be guarded safely home at night, 
 Mrs. Reine scorned the idea. And if 
 Betty was a gossip, it behoved Mrs Reine 
 to take her in hand too. She was glad 
 Leslie had given her the hint. 
 
 In those days it was the fashion to call 
 everyone by their surname. Even young 
 ladies called their bosom friends " Smith, 
 Jones, Jenkins, Thomson," putting the pro- 
 noun "my" before it, to soften and render 
 that tender which was erst most ugly. 
 
 '^ Then, is Betty also to drink tea with 
 us ? " remarked Mr. Leslie. 
 
 " No — why — no, my dear Leslie," an- 
 swered Mrs. Reine, who, guiltless of a 
 lively idea herself, did not know a covert 
 sarcasm when she encountered one. 
 
 " Ah ! that's well — otherwise, my dear 
 wife, I should be glad to have my tea in 
 the study." 
 
 *^ Now, my dear Leslie, you are the last 
 person who would care, I should have
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 197 
 
 thought, to take a dish of tea with one 
 in a lower station of life than yourself." 
 
 In those days people called cups 
 "dishes," when applied to tea. 
 
 " I should not object, madam, once or 
 even twice in a period of time; but to have 
 Betty every other evening to tea, would, I 
 consider, be disagreeable to me, and very 
 much more so to her." 
 
 " Of course, of course, my dear Leslie- 
 Emily, send Adeline to me, I must cut off 
 her curls." 
 
 '* Oh, mamma ! they are so very pretty, 
 only just beginning to curl out of her 
 eyes. I was admiring them to John only 
 this morning." 
 
 " Then, my dear, that is an additional 
 reason why they should be at once cut off. 
 If her mother cannot refrain from encou- 
 raging vanity in her daughter, think what 
 mischief may be engendered by the folly of 
 less indifferent persons." •
 
 198 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 By this time Mrs. Reiiie had the little 
 creature on her knee. As she looked for 
 her scissors, a certain strong hand lifted 
 the child safe from danger. 
 
 Adeline, being of a confiding nature, bore 
 all these changes with surprising fortitude, 
 rather charmed than otherwise at the un- 
 wonted dignity of being in papa's arms. 
 
 '^ Madam, I am vain of my little daugh- 
 ter's curls, and I like to be vain of them. 
 I will not have them touched." 
 
 Emily looked up gratefully at John. 
 
 ''Oh, very well; of course her father's 
 wishes must be considered. Poor little Ade- 
 line ! But, Leslie, I have forgotten to men- 
 tion a circumstance to you. I met to-day, 
 in my rounds among the people, a very in- 
 telligent person, named Powell " (John 
 winced). " By-the-by, Emily, ring the bell, 
 he is coming here this evening, and will, 
 I daresay, require something more sub- 
 stantial than a dish of tea."
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 191) 
 
 John rose up suddenly, and then sat 
 down again. 
 
 " Did you also, my dear madam, hear 
 that he is a dissenting preacher ? *' 
 
 ^' Of course, my dear Leslie, and it is 
 for that reason I invited him here this eve- 
 ning. I have very fervent hopes that I 
 may convert him." 
 
 " I fear not — the man is essentially of a 
 low, unseemly nature. He is not well con- 
 sidered even among his own people. He is 
 of habits, of practices, that unfit him for the 
 society of ladies." 
 
 " But you put out your hand to him, 
 Leslie." 
 
 ^* True ; so I do to the dying soul, even 
 if he be lying in a ditch — but I say at 
 once, now and for all, Emily retires to her 
 own room when this man comes. I remain 
 with you, if you desire it." 
 
 '^ You amaze me, Leslie — I may say, you 
 shock me; you appear to practise so little 
 what you preach."
 
 200 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 John walked out of the room ; he was 
 irascible, we fear, a little. But if he was 
 unreasonably so, he was properly punished ; 
 he met in the hall Miss Charles, escorted by 
 Mr. Powell and another person, who was as 
 little gifted in his personal appearance as 
 his companion, and who was unknown to 
 Mr. Leslie. 
 
 Recovering himself, if he was irritated, 
 Mr. Leslie politely bowed, and requesting 
 Miss Charles to go into the drawing-room, 
 he took the two men with him into his 
 study. He ordered a simple refection of 
 bread, cheese, and ale, discoursing amiably 
 upon all sorts of matters. 
 
 Then with a degree of wickedness of 
 which no one could have believed until that 
 moment Mr. Leslie was capable, he ordered 
 in the spirit-case, hot water, sugar, and 
 lemons ; and when his two visitors were in 
 a genial glow, and the little study redolent 
 of brandy, he suddenly asked if they did
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 201 
 
 not come to see his respected mother-in- 
 law? 
 
 " Of course they did, and were to have 
 had the honour of a dish of tea ; but, indeed, 
 for their parts, Mr. Leslie understood their 
 likings best. Good ale, sound cheese, and a 
 dash of brandy-and-water were by much the 
 finer cheer. Tea was never much to their 
 taste." 
 
 *' Well,'* quoth that wicked John to him- 
 self, as he went to bring her, '^ I have lost 
 my own tea, but I think I have done a good 
 business to-night." 
 
 Mrs. Heine was essentially refined in every 
 sense, though when she was riding her hobby 
 the senses somehow slumbered. 
 
 The first shock of the brandy-and-water 
 was great ; but not so great as the inward 
 view she had of the natures of these men. 
 Emboldened by their cheer, they argued and 
 talked, and preached and roared, until, 
 stunned and frightened, she deserted the
 
 202 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 field, and was an object of unquestionable 
 gratification to John the next morning — 
 pale and subdued under the authoritative 
 power of a headache.
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 203 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " An honest man is still an unmoved rock, 
 Washed whiter, but not shaken with the shock ; 
 Whose heart conceives no sinister device — 
 Fearless he plays with flames, and treads on ice." 
 
 Davexpoet. 
 
 Yet, good general as he proved himself, Mr. 
 Leslie was nearly defeated another way. 
 
 Of course these people boasted of their 
 reception and their success, neither report 
 losing by repetition — for Rumour was quite 
 as dishonest then as now. So Mr. Leslie 
 lost ground in the eyes of many of his parish- 
 ioners. His kindly word and friendly shake 
 of the hand were not worth so much, if he 
 admitted to his board and intimacy such cha-
 
 204 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 racters. Lady Bernard flew to Miss Hill for 
 advice upon the breath of these rumours 
 reaching the Castle, and she met both the 
 Miss Hills coming to her on the same errand. 
 Even their distant hamlet was murmuring a 
 sullen discontent. 
 
 To noble natures like theirs, it was a stab 
 to each heart, any failure in the conduct of 
 the man on whom they built such hopes. Yet, 
 though they talked, consulted, reasoned, it 
 appeared, the more they did so, the more 
 were they convinced it was the only things 
 they could do. 
 
 Mr. Leslie went about as usual, as if he 
 had nothing on his conscience. So far from 
 his sermons savouring of anything philan- 
 thropic, innovating, or revolutionary, they 
 had a bias entirely the other way — (good 
 reader, he was preaching to Mrs. Reine). 
 Emily bore her usual face of calm serenity ; 
 her mother was quiet, and mildly complacent. 
 The mere remembrance of that evening
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 205 
 
 brought back the smell of brandy to her 
 sensitive nostrils, and prognosticated a head- 
 ache. 
 
 Lord Bernard, though he heard the same 
 rumours, would suffer nothing to be said at 
 the parsonage. " Let Mr. Leslie fight it out 
 alone : if he failed, Mrs. Leslie would soon 
 smile down the reports." 
 
 Thanks to Miss Charles and Betty, and a 
 few more such characters, they kept gathering 
 and gathering. 
 
 Anon the mothers arose, like the mothers 
 in Israel. Sixty-three girls had had their 
 hair cut round, short, and alike, by Mrs. 
 Reine's own hand ; sixty-three girls were dis- 
 fip^ured, and made to look so alike, their own 
 mothers scarcely knew them ; and of course, 
 though the parson's mother had done it, the 
 parson was really the person that ordered it. 
 
 Unconscious of the tumult within the 
 houses, which began to show itself outwardly 
 as he was seen approaching on his daily
 
 206 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 visits, Mr. Leslie passed on, unheeding the 
 angry cries sent after him. His mind was 
 full of a secret plan, upon which he reasoned 
 as to the propriety of consulting Lord Bernard. 
 Abruptly startled from his reverie, Mr. Leslie 
 looked up, and saw before him a phalanx of 
 dirty, angry women, and a group of shame- 
 faced girls, cropped as closely and badly as if 
 their heads were stubble-fields. 
 
 " Dear me ! " exclaimed Mr. Leslie, his 
 vocabulary of expletives being but small — ** I 
 hope no accident — poor girls ! — sad thing ! — 
 not burnt, I trust ? " 
 
 Either Mr. Leslie was an unabashed hypo- 
 crite, or entirely innocent. The crowd wa- 
 vered. 
 
 Receiving no answer, and thinking his 
 spectacles deceived him, Mr. Leslie delibe- 
 rately tucked his invariable companion, an 
 umbrella (then generally made of scarlet 
 silk), under his arm — took them off — care- 
 fully wiped them — and put them on again.
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 207 
 
 *^ Ha, ha! You knows, my blackbird!" 
 began a stout, sarcastic female The crowd 
 wanted but the initiatory word. Forthwith 
 began a clamour and a clang of invectives, 
 sufficient to startle the stoutest police of the 
 present day. No such worthy body being 
 then known — nothing but constables selected 
 from the oldest and most crippled among the 
 population — Mr. Leslie had to face the war- 
 fare alone, which he did most resolutely. 
 Dirty fingers were snapped close to his nose, 
 the evilest words screamed in his ear ; yet 
 he stood patient and calm — no outward fear 
 on his face — no inward thought in his heart 
 but that of pity. 
 
 A few men loitered on the outskirts, not 
 ill-pleased at this demonstration on the part 
 of their better halves. 
 
 So like men. Let one of the same drabbled 
 set of ladies " open tongue '^ on her still more 
 begrimed spouse, and a good thrashing is most
 
 208 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 probably her portion ; but they do not dislike 
 to see them attack another. 
 
 The uproar ceasing from a real want of 
 breath, Mr. Leslie, laying his hand upon the 
 shoulder of the nearest girl to him, said — 
 
 "My good child, of what do you com- 
 plain — tell me your grief?" 
 
 His well-known voice appeared to have 
 a soothing and harmonious effect upon the 
 viragos who surrounded him. 
 
 "It warn't like him to do it," said one. 
 
 " No, he be mazed-like," said another. 
 
 " Thee mund send thee mother away," 
 said a third. 
 
 " And why should I send my mother 
 away ? " asked Mr. Leslie, peremptorily 
 turning round on the last speaker. 
 
 The woman looked confused, but by de- 
 grees began to let him into the secret of 
 their attack. 
 
 " I consider your conduct unseemly. Even 
 if I had ordered the giids' hair to be cut
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 209 
 
 off, could you not have trusted me that it 
 was for some good purpose ? But I had 
 nothing to do with it. I am sorry for it 
 in one way, namely, that it has been badly 
 done. I like my little girls to look nice, 
 clean, and tidy. I dare say, had I thought 
 about it, I might have considered it best 
 that their hair should be shortened, but I 
 should have called upon their mother and 
 
 asked the permission to have it done " 
 
 ** And so a wud, I do know," exclaimed 
 a voice. 
 
 ''Now, as Mrs. Eeine has done it with- 
 out the permission," continued Mr. Leslie, 
 " I recommend you all to go to the pump, 
 at the parsonage, and wash your heads 
 well. Mrs. Leslie will be sure to see you, 
 and come out to ask the reason ; her 
 mother will follow. Then if you cannot 
 prove to her that she is a bad hair-cutter, 
 you are more silly girls than I take you 
 for. Now, suffer me to pass — ye know 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 not what evil ye are committing, keeping 
 me from the beds of the sick and dying." 
 
 A lane was opened immediately for him — 
 a murmur of self-reproach hummed through 
 the multitude. 
 
 That evening, Mr. Leslie, finding his 
 drawing-room full with the members of the 
 Dorcas Society, being presided over by Mrs. 
 Reine, took his hat and walked up to the 
 Castle. 
 
 Here was propounded the great scheme. 
 
 " I think you are looking out for a 
 tutor for your sons, my lord ? " 
 
 " 'Tis true, my friend, and I have 
 lamented to my wife that your onerous 
 duties prevented your undertaking the 
 office." 
 
 "I should like to do so. Teaching, or 
 rather the love of it, is inherent in my 
 nature. Yet I would not indulge it, at 
 the cost of higher duties. You are aware, 
 my lord, that my parochial labours are of
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 211 
 
 little use to the working part of my pa- 
 rishioners until the evening, owing to their 
 peculiar duties in the mines. Thus, I have 
 many unoccupied hours in the day that I 
 have hitherto devoted to my own private 
 delight in reading and writing; and I am 
 about publishing a book, with the hope of 
 realizing a sum of money to enable me to 
 keep a curate." 
 
 ** Keep a curate, Mr. Leslie ? — you amaze 
 me!'' 
 
 "Yes, my lord, I must keep a curate, 
 even if my book does not sell. The few 
 hours that the miners can attend to me 
 are so very short, that 'tis impossible to 
 do my duty by one half of them. I must 
 either go about with a burthened conscience, 
 or I must keep a curate to help me. Two 
 of us could do it well. Now, if my book 
 does not sell, yet, undertaking the educa- 
 tion of your boys during those hours that 
 my services are useless to the miners, I 
 
 p2
 
 212 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 shall realize, I trust, a sufficient sum for 
 my curate." 
 
 ^^My dear sir, my dear Mr. Leslie, it 
 ought not to fall upon you — you have 
 little enough." 
 
 " Nay, we are rich now ; and, indeed, 
 I should not have thought it necessary 
 to take pupils — my mother-in-law being a 
 generous woman, but — but we must part. 
 Her presence under our roof is neither good 
 for Emily nor myself. Had it been other- 
 wise, I need not have troubled you about 
 my wishes at all ; but, to-night, my Emily 
 must tell her mother we keep house no 
 longer together. There can only be one 
 master there, and that is myself" 
 
 Lord Bernard looked at Mr. Leslie in 
 astonishment. He had not given him credit 
 for such determination. As if in answer to 
 the look, Mr. Leslie detailed his adventure 
 with the women, winding up by saying — 
 
 " As long as my mother-in-law (she is a
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 213 
 
 good woman) remains under my roof, I 
 am answerable for her deeds. And as we 
 differ in many points, I intend to be an- 
 swerable no longer." 
 
 Mr. Leslie had apparently nothing more 
 to say. 
 
 Lord Bernard, after assuring him that 
 he desired no better tutor for his boys, 
 hummed, and hawed, and hesitated. He 
 wished to tell Mr. Leslie that he felt 
 himself bound to pay the curate's salary, 
 even though Mr. Leslie gained the sum 
 sufficient by his tutorship. But an awe 
 of what the simple-minded, conscientious 
 man would think, a certain dread of hurt- 
 ing his upright heart, and wounding that 
 integrity so essentially a part of himself, 
 prevented him uttering more than a few 
 confused words. And before he could make 
 anything clear, Mr. Leslie had bid him 
 good night, and was gone. 
 
 " I must double the terms for the boys
 
 214 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 — I must speak to the curate myself — or, 
 better still, I will go and consult my 
 wife." 
 
 Never was a wiser decision. 
 
 ^' Of course, my dear lord, the whole 
 matter is most feasible. Offer Mrs. Reine 
 your vacant house, the White Lodge, 
 rent free, on condition she boards and 
 takes care of the curate. She will thus 
 have an area of her own, in which to 
 bestir herself, without dragging others into 
 the vortex. We must select a peculiar 
 curate, the care of whom will doubtless 
 occupy much of her time. She will thus 
 have a vocation — the curate will require 
 but a small salary from Mr. Leslie — say 
 50/. a-year, boarded and lodged, as he will 
 be, for nothing at Mrs. Eeine's. The hill 
 is very steep up to her house, and my 
 dear Mrs. Leslie will not often be able to 
 get there, I feel sure." 
 
 " My dear wife, are you going to cease
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 215 
 
 chattering? When a woman gets a good 
 idea into her head, she won't even give 
 one time to thank her for it, she is so 
 full of it." 
 
 " Well, now, thank me." 
 
 It was thus that Lord and Lady Ber- 
 nard quarrelled. 
 
 Blessed is the praise pronounced by the 
 lips most honoured. Blessed are the looks 
 sent back in return. Lord Bernard went 
 himself to Mrs, Beine, and offered her the 
 White House. As he walked down to the 
 parsonage he essayed to himself various 
 modes in which the offer should be made, 
 so as to ensure the acceptance of it, for 
 in his heart he feared Mrs. Keine was an 
 obstinate woman. He had half-wished his 
 wife to manage the delicate matter. 
 
 " No," said she ; " Mrs. Beine would not 
 even hear what I was saying. She is 
 so practical, that unless I came in your 
 name, with a donation of coal in my
 
 216 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 hand (I mean on paper, don't laugh, 
 Henry), she would not heed me. Though 
 she is such a thorough gentlewoman, she 
 only sees wisdom in men." 
 
 Now, conjecturing, as he had been, as 
 to the manner in which she would accept 
 his plan, he was utterly confounded by 
 what did happen. It was on this wise. 
 
 He propounded the whole matter. She 
 said nothing, though generally a very 
 voluble woman. He complimented her — 
 suddenly she rose, opened the sitting- 
 room door abruptly, and called, ^' Emily, 
 Emily!" 
 
 " Now," said Lord Bernard, mentally, 
 ^^ what have I done ? Offended her, I 
 suppose. Oh, women ! what enigmas you 
 are ! " 
 
 Lord Bernard's principal failing was a 
 general desire to put the blame of every- 
 thing upon women; and often in conse- 
 quence, as his wife proved to him, he was
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 217 
 
 well punished for it, by being signally in 
 the wrong. My readers shall judge how 
 he fared this time. 
 
 " My dear Emily," said her mother, 
 solemnly, as she entered, " our prayers are 
 answered — kiss me, child." 
 
 " Mamma, you mean about the school. 
 Lord Bernard consents.'^ 
 
 " Not at all, child — as yet Lord Ber- 
 nard knows nothing about the school. 
 But he has opened a way for me to begin, 
 without injustice to you, Emily, or Leslie." 
 
 " Dear mamma, how can you be unjust 
 to us, following out the dictates of your 
 own generous heart? By fulfilling your 
 wishes, do you not lay up for us and our 
 children a greater inheritance in the world 
 to come." 
 
 Now, though this was a speech after 
 Mrs. Heine's own heart, still she was of 
 too practical a nature to be as enthusi- 
 astic as Emily.
 
 218 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 " My dear child, hold your tongue. Po- 
 verty is disagreeable — above all things, a 
 clergyman ought not to be stinted in his 
 means, and if I continued to live with 
 you of course what is mine is yours. But 
 as I can now have a house for nothing 
 1 shall remove to it — you will be at no 
 further expense for me ; and as I shall not 
 use the whole of my income, of course I 
 shall be able to carry out my views." 
 
 Lord Bernard had listened in silence, 
 thinking Mrs. Leslie as enigmatical as her 
 mother. But when he began to perceive 
 that it was a question between them as to 
 which should be most disinterested, to himself 
 he acknowledged his injustice. And very 
 highly both ladies rose in his esteem when 
 at last he gathered the facts. 
 
 It was Mrs. Heine's ambition to build a 
 school — lofty, airy — in every way a model 
 school. As long as she lived at the par- 
 sonage she did not feel justified in lessen-
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 219 
 
 ing her income to do this good. She had 
 proffered it to her children — it was theirs. 
 But now, since all parties would be bene- 
 fited by the new arrangement, nothing could 
 be more felicitous. 
 
 Mr. Leslie could have his curate at a 
 cost that was a great deal more than coun- 
 terbalanced by his stipend as tutor. He 
 and Emily had sufficient wealth of their 
 own to live with luxuries (as they thought 
 then, poor benighted things), even if they 
 had not their mother's added. 
 
 Lord and Lady Bernard were delighted 
 to have Mr. Leslie as tutor for their 
 boys. 
 
 And as for Mrs. Keine, she was in the 
 White House within the week. She and 
 her maid, Milner, took the opportunity of 
 making the experiment of how little was 
 necessary for them to live upon, before the 
 curate came. Every penny was to be saved 
 for ''The School."
 
 220 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 " In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill — 
 For even though vanquished he could argue still ; 
 While words of learned length and thundering sound 
 Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 
 And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, 
 That one small head could carry all he knew." 
 
 Goldsmith. 
 
 And a noble school it was. Lord Bernard 
 gave the ground, of course. Mrs. Reine, 
 with the consent of her children, sunk 
 1500/. in building and endowing it, with 
 permanent salaries for the master and mis- 
 tress. As it rose, stone upon stone, it be- 
 came the pride of the valley, and of those 
 for whose welfare it was reared. It had
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 221 
 
 a higher destiny yet. It spurred on many a 
 wealthy but careless ironmaster to *' go and 
 do likewise." No one looked upon it with- 
 out feeling an impulse within him for good, 
 compelling him to acknowledge that as he 
 drew such vast wealth from the bountiful 
 bosom of the earth, there was no surer 
 payment of gratitude than benefiting her 
 sons. Mrs. Reine's school became the mo- 
 del of many others — the focus from whence 
 others radiated. It was not reared in hu- 
 man pride, but in a noble generosity that 
 neither heard nor understood the flatteries of 
 less high-minded natures. The Valley of 
 a Hundred Fires wanted such an edifice. 
 Mrs. Eeine thought herself privileged that 
 she was permitted to erect it — nothing 
 more. Thus, if she had for a short time 
 caused any uncomfortableness between Mr. 
 Leslie and his parishioners, it was now 
 amply atoned for. The good madam, as 
 she was called from her stately ways — her
 
 222 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 high-heeled shoes, vast dimity petticoats, and 
 muslin turban — dispensing physic, flannel, 
 and advice in equal proportions, might have 
 a few crotchets, but she was a grand lady 
 for all that. 
 
 It is not to be supposed that Lord Ber- 
 nard had no schools before. On the con- 
 trary, he had been at great expense for the 
 good of his people. But Mrs. Reine, far- 
 seeing, and a good deal enlightened by her 
 friendship with Mrs. Hannah More, was the 
 first to build one of those large, airy struc- 
 tures, of which so many models may be 
 seen now in every county ; and to inau- 
 gurate a Sunday School as well. 
 
 In this she was universally assisted by 
 all the ladies in the neighbourhood. 
 
 No happier work could be given the Miss 
 Hills — no more delighted labourer over the 
 ittle ABC class than good Mrs. Daw- 
 son. And if Mrs. Robarts's interest in the 
 school confined itself to a donation of books,
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 223 
 
 had she not reason to excuse herself? Was 
 she not now the mother of a very fine son 
 and heir, whose well-being could only be 
 preserved by the incessant watchfulness and 
 care of his doting mother? 
 
 Thus it will be seen that all matters 
 were prospering in the Valley of a Hun- 
 dred Fires. Especially at the parsonage. 
 Adeline was growing prettier every day, 
 and young Jeffreys was becoming seriously 
 enamoured, spending all his pocket-money 
 on sugar plums for her. Little John (Emily 
 thought she had had all her own way, but 
 big John was very sly — he had baptized 
 his own son "John j^mylius," and she did 
 not discover it until too late. However, 
 she indemnified herself — inconvenient as it 
 was — baby went by the name of " Little 
 John,^' and no surreptitious " -^mylius" 
 was allowed) — well, little John (a most 
 lovely boy by the way) could now walk 
 and talk. Therefore, neither my readers
 
 224 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 nor big John had any right to be sur- 
 prised that one evening Wilson (now by 
 the children only known as Wilsy) opened 
 the study door, her Roman nose shining 
 and red, ^^ Missus is all safe, sir." 
 
 "Thank God!" exclaimed John. He was 
 getting accustomed to these little events. 
 No knot this time prevented the extraction 
 of the expected half-sovereign. (Ah, good 
 John ! if you could only take a peep into 
 futurity, you might see that which would 
 suggest the propriety of reducing that fee 
 of thanksgiving into five shillings, or in- 
 deed omitting it altogether). 
 
 " It is " began John, dubiously. 
 
 ^' Yes, sir, it^s a girl," answered Wilsy ; 
 " thank ye, sir." 
 
 Now, John was not satiated in his love 
 for boys. He was rather disappointed ; 
 then — angry with himself. 
 
 "I thank God," said he, meekly. "You 
 will let me know when I may visit my 
 dear wife."
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 225 
 
 ^* Yes, sir, thank ye, sir," and vanished. 
 
 John took quite as much pains to pre- 
 vent Emily hearing his creaking shoes as 
 if she had given him another son. And 
 he kissed her as fondly and gratefully. 
 
 Also, he bestowed a fatherly salute upon 
 a lanky, yellow baby that Wilsy produced 
 for that purpose. 
 
 '' She is the tallest, or rather the long- 
 est, baby I ever seed," said the old nurse, 
 feeling it necessary to say something in 
 praise of the baby. 
 
 Mr. Leslie, as he looked at it, felt glad 
 it had something about it to be admired; 
 and then, bidding them prepare to have it 
 baptized at six in the evening, he departed 
 down-stairs. 
 
 Now, Emily, smitten with all things Welsh, 
 was determined to have a Welsh name for 
 her new daughter. She gave herself a vast 
 deal of unnecessary trouble in selecting the 
 prettiest, changing and changing again and 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 again ; as if, this being her last daughter, 
 she had no further chance of distinguishing 
 them with the cognomens of the Cwmri. 
 John was standing in his surplice in the 
 nursery, waiting, book open, holy -water 
 ready, for her decision. 
 
 In those days people read the prayers 
 in their prayer-books much more often 
 than the rubrics, so that Mr. Leslie was 
 not aware of the flagrant act he was com- 
 mitting, in always baptizing his children in 
 their own nursery, within twelve hours of 
 their birth. He made them the children 
 of God as soon as ever he could, carrying 
 them to church to be christened afterwards, 
 according to the time of year. 
 
 At last came Emily's decision ; and to 
 prevent John making any mistake, she had 
 with her weak fingers written down the 
 name — "Nest.'' John shook his head, spelt 
 it over, pronounced it, and for a moment 
 there appeared a probability he would
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 227 
 
 refuse altogether to give even so plain and 
 uninteresting a baby such an extraordinary 
 name. However, the thought that Emily 
 must not be contradicted just came in 
 time. Yet was John again very sly ; and 
 though he rather slurred it over, both the 
 nurses heard another name as well. ^' Nest 
 Cecilia" was now the style and title by 
 which the lanky baby was to be distin- 
 guished from her fellow-mortals. 
 
 Mr. Leslie had happened just to think 
 of the picture of St. Cecilia down in the 
 dining-room, playing on a fiddle; and Mrs. 
 Eeine's turban in the doorway of Emily's 
 room put him in mind of the same head- 
 dress that adorned the saint. To such 
 flights and follies does imagination lead even 
 the gravest of us, at the gravest moment. 
 
 ** Perhaps little Cecilia" — Mr. Leslie de- 
 signated her so on the spot — '^ may prove 
 a musician." 
 
 It may be as well here to remark that 
 
 q2
 
 .228 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 poor Mr. Leslie's hopes that way were signal 
 failures. 
 
 But no mention has been made of a 
 very much more important character in this 
 book — namely, the curate. 
 
 Now, the coming of this curate had caused 
 many heart-burnings among many people. 
 Not because he was a curate, or unex- 
 pected, but partly because of his antece- 
 dents, and partly for the reason he gave 
 for wishing to obtain a curacy in Wales. 
 Both, allowed even by Mr. Leslie not to be 
 exactly the sort of thing he could wish — 
 while Mrs. Reine openly declared she would 
 have nothing to do with him, high as were 
 his testimonials and character. For his 
 antecedents — he had spent the greater por- 
 tion of his life at sea, as chaplain on board 
 men-of-war — of course he would be a roys- 
 tering, blustering, boisterous fellow, given to 
 snuff, grog, and loud talking. 
 
 As for his reason for coming, it bore no
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 229 
 
 trace of a godly character in Mrs. Reine^s 
 eyes — he wished to learn the Welsh lan- 
 guage. He had a passion — it was for 
 learning languages ; and that he might in- 
 dulge his bent, he had engaged himself as 
 chaplain on board of different vessels, for 
 the express purpose of learning every 
 known tongue. 
 
 Upon the whole, this was not a deadly 
 sin. No doubt but Mrs Reine would work 
 him up ere long to do his duties from a 
 higher motive. So he came. 
 
 Never was expectation so entirely de- 
 ceived, and mentally knocked down. 
 
 Personally he was a small, neat little 
 man, scrupulously clean and trim. His 
 deeply-bronzed face shone out the more 
 conspicuous, because of his hair, which re- 
 sembled the finest white wool. His manner 
 was a mixture of simplicity, courtesy, and 
 playfulness. He bowed over Mrs. Reine*s 
 hand every morning, with the profound re-
 
 230 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 spect of a knight to his lady ; yet in a 
 quiet but somewhat comical humour, he ob- 
 jected to the dietary system lately adopted 
 by herself and maiden. 
 
 '^ He did not think it necessary/' he 
 remarked, " to experimentalize upon how 
 little would sustain life. He had the fancy 
 rather to try whether he could not, in his 
 short life-time, thoroughly enjoy all that 
 the good God permitted us to use on this 
 prolific earth." 
 
 He was so learned, there was nothing he 
 did not know — from every star, which he 
 mentioned familiarly as if they were bosom 
 friends, down to the proper mashing of tur- 
 nips — ** which," he said, " was a vegetable 
 wholesome, inexpensive, and delicious ; but 
 it was all the better for being well-drained, 
 and having a little cream mixed with it," 
 which Milner considered an unnecessary 
 dainty. 
 
 "Ah! perhaps it is; then for the future,
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 231 
 
 good Milner, we will expunge turnips from 
 the class vegetable. Turnips do not grow 
 here, they are unknown — unless, indeed, 
 there should chance to be a little cream to 
 spare." 
 
 The number of languages he knew would 
 have required the calculating boy to sum 
 up. And the facility with which he ac- 
 quired Welsh amazed his parishioners, who 
 looked upon him with awe and wonder. 
 
 By degrees he grew into the hearts of 
 every one. The very sound of his strong 
 guttural voice called forth a shout of de- 
 light. Mrs. Reine herself acknowledged, 
 ^^ Though I fear he is not wholly evan- 
 gelical and orthodox, but rather theoretic 
 and pedantic, yet — I do — love the little 
 dear man." 
 
 And he gave her active mind plenty to 
 do. For when once absorbed in some of 
 his beloved sciences, the house might have 
 tumbled about his ears, and he would have
 
 232 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 been oblivious of the fact, until he was 
 sprawling amid the debris. 
 
 In these absent moods there was no 
 eccentricity he did not commit — that is, 
 against himself. Having forgotten dinner 
 and tea, she looked in just in time to 
 prevent his munching a great piece out of 
 his soap. Yet, at other times, there was 
 no deceiving him. 
 
 Calling upon Miss Charles, to her in- 
 dignant surprise he took no second sip of 
 the wine she proffered him, or another 
 morsel of her celebrated ginger-bread, and 
 being urged so to do more than once — 
 
 ^^ Madam," he replied, '^ I object to a 
 mixture in liquids, especially when vinegar 
 predominates ; and the ginger-bread, doubt- 
 less, is most excellent — but my mother 
 spoilt me, and always put sugar in hers, and 
 not sand.'' 
 
 And there was no quarrelling with him. 
 Miss Charles had a mind to be indignant ; but
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 233 
 
 he looked so calm, pleasant, and smiling — 
 he examined with such interest a dusty 
 specimen of the nest of the solitary 
 wasp — and he talked so learnedly, evi- 
 dently giving her credit for understand- 
 ing all he said, that her anger turned 
 into complacency. And she charged 
 Betty, on his departure, to remember and 
 bring up the best wine and some good 
 short cake every time the new curate 
 came to call. Betty promised, but having 
 had her love for gossip strongly fostered 
 by her mistress, confided to a neighbour 
 maiden-of-all-work, her peculiar friend, 
 the order, and both together agreed that 
 ^*ould boddy," as they irreverently called 
 Miss Charles, " was certaingly a meaning 
 summat by such an extraordinary order." 
 With children he was an especial 
 favourite; and finding that, partly owing 
 to Mrs. "Robarts's son and heir attracting 
 all attention, and partly to her not
 
 234 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 being so pretty as the other two chil- 
 dren, the new baby at the parsonage 
 was not thought much about, he prof- 
 fered to stand godfather, and chose Mrs. 
 Dawson as his co-partner in the charge, 
 Lady Armitage being the third. 
 
 He promised the unconscious, long, yellow 
 baby a marvellous imparting of learning 
 when a fitting time should come. And he 
 began his duties as godfather by pre- 
 senting her with a ^^ Thesaurus of the 
 English Language," that she might from 
 her earliest infancy be well grounded in 
 that rich, harmonious, comprehensive, and 
 truly philosophic language — her own. 
 
 Mrs. Eeine was scandalized that he had 
 not made his first gift a Bible. 
 
 " A Bible, good madam ! that is the 
 duty of her godmammas. My present will 
 teach her how to value her Bible. But, 
 madam, can you tell me the earliest time 
 known to you of the capability of the
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 235 
 
 infant tongue pronouncing sensible sounds 
 correlative with the intellect?'' 
 
 '^ I presume you mean, Mr. Sabine, 
 when will your god-daughter be able to 
 talk — and talking, understand what she 
 says." 
 
 ^' True, good madam, that plainly ex- 
 presses my meaning. In the decimal 
 lunar, think you ? " 
 
 " Decimal nonsense. Little John does 
 not talk plainly yet, and he is only two 
 years old ; and Adeline, more than three, 
 does not know her letters." 
 
 *^ But my infantile charge shows great 
 signs of intelligence. She gazed upon her 
 Thesaurus with very large, wide, open, in- 
 telligent eyes. She appreciated her pre- 
 sent." 
 
 '* The dinner has been announced, my 
 dear sir — let us go ! " 
 
 " Willingly, madam. I have been con- 
 scious some time of a vacuum. God be
 
 236 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 thanked for what we are going — chops ! I 
 like chops, especially with mashed potatoes, 
 but I object to cliops adpainistered daily. 
 Nevertheless, let us be thankful. I have 
 before now been glad to chew a small 
 portion of the dried skin of an animal 
 that by mechanical means is brought to 
 a state called leather, and then made into 
 shoes.''
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 237 
 
 CHAPTEE XIV. 
 
 " Was it not lovely to behold 
 A cherub come down from the sky, 
 A beauteous thing of heavenly mould, 
 With ringlets of the wavy gold 
 Dancing and floating curiously ? 
 To see it come down on the earth, 
 This beauteous thing of heavenly birth ! 
 Leaving the fields of balm and bliss, 
 To dwell in such a world as this ? " 
 
 Coleridge. 
 
 That last remark of Mr. Sabine's led to 
 the discovery that in his search after 
 knowledge he had gone through many 
 hardships. Amongst others, he had ac- 
 companied a whale-ship to Baffin's Bay, 
 for the express purpose of being intro-
 
 238 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 duced to the Esquimaux, and learning 
 their language. During one of his ex- 
 cursions from the ship on mainland they 
 had become short of provisions, and he 
 had dined and supped for a couple of 
 days upon a pair of his old shoes. He 
 did not expatiate much upon the beauty 
 and literature of the Esquimaux tongue : 
 on the contrary, he was very adroit in 
 turning away the subject whenever brought 
 forward. 
 
 About this time Mr. Robarts, with the 
 consent of Lord Bernard, became a part- 
 ner in a large iron-work about to be es- 
 tablished in a neighbouring valley. There 
 was every prospect, if it succeeded, of his 
 becoming a very wealthy man ; and so far 
 from objecting to his agent becoming as 
 rich as himself. Lord Bernard rejoiced that 
 one who had served him so faithfully 
 should reap a good reward. 
 
 He had the prospect of having a very
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 239 
 
 large family. His wife had all the elements 
 of a fine lady about her, and certainly had 
 never been fit to rough it in the world. 
 
 Mr. Kobarts, having done his duty as 
 servant to his lord, and come out scath- 
 less, was now to undergo the greater 
 trial of independence and wealth. 
 
 This new state of things had no imme- 
 diate efiPect upon him, but it made an in- 
 stantaneous change in Mrs. Kobarts. 
 
 Her house was newly furnished and 
 enlarged. She had an English governess 
 as well as a foreign one. She threw off 
 the friendship of every second-rate person 
 in the neighbourhood, and reduced them 
 to the safer ground of mere acquaint- 
 anceship. She imitated Lady Bernard in 
 her ways, her orders, and the height of 
 her footmen, then as much a mark of 
 ton as now. 
 
 She talked fine, even to that simplest, 
 sweetest Emily, who never would or could
 
 240 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 perceive the least change in '^ dear Mrs. 
 Kobarts " — though Miss Charles's indigna- 
 tion sounded louder than the Forges, and 
 the Miss Hills were openly piqued, Mrs. 
 Eeine disdainfully wroth, and good Mrs. 
 Dawson timidly shocked and ashamed. The 
 change even reached Wilsy's nursery, who, 
 long having reigned in proud triumph as 
 the nurse of the healthiest, most beautiful 
 children ever seen, had now to bear the 
 sight of the five little pale but pretty 
 Miss Robartses going about in a grand 
 carriage, with a powdered footman to open 
 the carriage door for them ; and nurse, 
 their nurse, not a bit better born or bred 
 than herself, driving in the carriage too, 
 dressed in a black silk dress, which, though 
 dyed, as Wilsy well knew, yet looked as 
 good as new. There was no friendship 
 now between them, "nor never would be 
 no more," as Wilsy emphatically remarked 
 to that patient, unchangeable Anne, who
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 241 
 
 said " Dinner is served, 'ra," every day in 
 the same voice and manner as when she, by 
 so doing, dismissed Lord and Lady Ber- 
 nard. 
 
 *^ Hi, set her up indeed ! '^ remarked 
 Betty, who had taken advantage of her 
 missus being out to pop over to the 
 parsonage, where she was decidedly a 
 favourite. " Manners for me, if ye please, 
 afore yer silks and satins. Thems as 
 misbehaved brats as iver I set eyes on, 
 and no fit to be beside my young lord 
 here. Ay, Master John, but yer a born 
 beauty, ye darlin', and Miss is the pictir 
 of her pretty mither. No but what yer 
 a fine babby. 'Deed, Mrs. Nurse, she 
 grows fine, and has the wonderfullest 
 eyes I ever saw. She beats the grand 
 soon and heir out and out, though she 
 be the younger, sax weeks or so." 
 
 The above speech may account for 
 Betty's popularity at the parsonage. 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 Now, time speeds on, and will wait for 
 none of us. The excitement of the new 
 school had become absorbed in the grow- 
 ing benefit it was bestowing on the 
 rising generation. 
 
 The love and respect of the people for 
 their rector and his curate were now a 
 part of their being. It appeared as if 
 they had no more lived without them 
 than one of their own limbs, and could 
 as little exist in comfort as if from them 
 they were indebted for the breath they 
 drew. So much had these two men 
 identified themselves with those among 
 whom they lived. 
 
 Meantime, events occurred of various 
 sorts. The Bernards again left home. 
 The little Leslies had the measles, and 
 were taken to the sea-side for change of 
 air. Sir Edward and Lady Armitage 
 wrote about coming down. Miss Charles 
 had been at death's door, but was nursed
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 243 
 
 to life by Mrs. Reine. Mr. Sabine, ex- 
 perimentalizing on poisons, had taken a 
 small portion of one, but had forgotten to 
 swallow the antidote, which, though placed 
 by him, in his absence of mind, he re- 
 garded as some mess put there by Mrs. 
 Reine, and nothing but the extraordinary 
 nerve and vigilance of that good lady 
 saved his life. Aware of what he was 
 doing (indeed he would have been more 
 than mortal could he have executed the 
 smallest manoeuvre without her cogniz- 
 ance), she had been on the watch, 
 and spying his indignant thrust on 
 the fire of this important antidote, 
 she had rushed in with a tumbler 
 full of diluted mustard, which she had 
 manufactured ready to her hand in case 
 of such an emergency ; and by the joint 
 efforts of herself and Milner, it was down 
 his throat ere he was aware of their in- 
 tention. However painful the effects, he 
 
 b2
 
 244 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 acknowledged his debt by expressing his 
 gratitude in no less than nine languages, 
 which edified Milner, and amply repaid her, 
 though her mistress had not time to listen 
 even to grateful jargons. 
 
 Also, during this period, Mrs. Robarts 
 had what Betty called another " soon and 
 hair ; " while Emily . It must be told. 
 
 Wilsy again appeared. Again John had 
 to give half-a-sovereign. 
 
 This time he asked no questions. It 
 was enough '' that missus was safe." 
 
 In fact, John's tender conscience had 
 often smote him for his ungrateful conduct 
 on the birth of Nest, or Xessie, as she 
 was now called ; and, in consequence, he 
 had endeavoured to be an extremely at- 
 tentive father to her. And secretly he 
 really did favour her a good deal. She 
 was a great, big girl, more like a boy. 
 She loved to be tossed about and romped 
 with, and was a fearless, confiding little
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 245 
 
 maiden. Moreover, he was pleased with 
 her nom de caresse, Nessie — it was pretty, 
 soft, and not so very extraordinary. 
 
 But, behold! there now lay by Emily's 
 pillow the fairest little morsel of a baby 
 ever seen, whose caressing fingers already 
 closed round her mothers', whose little 
 dewy mouth was like the tiniest rose-bud, 
 and her blue eyes had the soft hue of 
 Heaven in them. 
 
 Lady Bernard and Miss Hill claimed 
 her for their own at once. Mrs Robarts's 
 second son, though he had the grandest 
 of christenings, could not be named with 
 this little atom of loveliness. Emily's 
 Welsh names were all s;outed — Mr. Leslie 
 was strictly watched, so that no surrepti- 
 tious title might be given instead of that 
 they had chosen. Whether he approved or 
 not, Pearl was to be the name, and Pearl 
 she was baptized. 
 
 " Well," remarked John to Emily, on her
 
 246 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 first appearance downstairs, " I thank you 
 very much, my dear wife, for my three 
 daughters. I have a good daughter, a 
 tall daughter, and a pretty daughter. I feel 
 quite contented, and think myself very 
 rich indeed ; and you may depend upon 
 it, I am not so exorbitant as to wish for 
 more." 
 
 '* Three daughters, dear John, are not too 
 many for us. Mrs. Robarts has five." 
 
 " God forbid that I should prevent her 
 having five more ; but three is an excellent 
 number for us, Emily. I think three a for- 
 tunate number." 
 
 Thereupon John began a dissertation 
 upon the virtues attending the number 
 three, deducing his arguments from so 
 many learned and excellent authorities, 
 that it was fortunate Mr. Sabine came in, 
 and plunged at once into so erudite a 
 question, otherwise Emily would probably 
 have ended the evening by a headache.
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 247 
 
 stunned with the learning John brought 
 forth for this purpose. 
 
 It was agreed that, instead of Sir Ed- 
 ward and Lady Arraitage coming down to 
 Wales, Emily, Mr. Leslie, and Adeline 
 should all take a holiday for the first time 
 since their arrival, and visit them. 
 
 Adeline was now five years old ; she had 
 two sisters. Lady Armitage was beginning 
 to send a hurricane of letters regarding 
 that promise made her so long ago, and 
 never fulfilled ; and threatened to come by 
 force and carry her ofi". Mrs. Reine de- 
 creed that Emily must have change; her 
 light footstep was become slow ; her beam- 
 ing countenance retained the sweetness with- 
 out the beam ; her elastic spirit was a 
 little subdued. 
 
 ^^Ah! go, go, my friend," said Mr. Sa- 
 bine ; '^ I will put away my books, and think 
 of nothing but duty, if you will but bring 
 back our Sunbeam more bright than ever."
 
 248 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 It was an important affair leaving home 
 for the first time since their arrival in Wales, 
 now four years ago. But they went with 
 the good wishes of every one that they 
 might enjoy their holiday to the utmost. 
 That Emily should leave as few cares behind 
 her as possible, Mrs. Dawson undertook the 
 care of Nessie and Pearl, while John accom- 
 panied his parents and Adeline — Wilsy in 
 charge of all. Grandmamma was apt to 
 administer vast doses of physic to the little 
 ones, so they were sent to the doctor's, as the 
 safest place against such danger. Not the 
 only case where the lion's den saves you from 
 the lion. 
 
 They left but one sorrowing heart behind 
 them — that of Jeffreys, who, after bewailing 
 the departure of Adeline with the wild sor- 
 row of a first deadly disappointment in love, 
 at the end of a week placed his lacerated 
 heart in the keeping of the romping Nest, 
 thus giving another instance to the world of
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 249 
 
 that curious anomaly in love — namely, that 
 so sure as a heart is disappointed, it is caught 
 in the rebound by the most opposite thing to 
 the first idol. 
 
 Adeline was a staid and discreet little 
 maiden, with the bluest of eyes, the rosiest 
 of cheeks, and hair that always looked as 
 if Wilsy had just brushed it. 
 
 Nest was lanky still, though at the chub- 
 biest age ; yellow still, with great staring 
 black eyes, and a quantity of black locks 
 that curled all the wrong way. Imperious 
 and passionate, she was just of the proper 
 temperament to wear an ardent lover into 
 fiddlestrings. But it appeared such a dis- 
 position suited Jeffreys. He had no idea 
 *^ that absence made the heart grow fonder.'' 
 On the contrary, his love required to be 
 fed with daily doses of quarrels and makings 
 up, exactions and tormentings ; and when 
 he was completely miserable, then was he 
 in the greatest state of agonized delight.
 
 250 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 As Emily appeared from the inside of 
 the celebrated Bristol coach (she was no 
 longer sufficiently agile to climb outside), at 
 the very place from whence we first com- 
 menced her acquaintance on that drizzly damp 
 morning, what a commotion occurred. 
 
 '^ Dash moy bootons, Jem — d'ye see ? " 
 
 "Moy heyes, hers it." 
 
 "Thon wull be the baby as wor." 
 
 " Ond her's the same young ooman as 
 norse." 
 
 " It hain't no manner of use a stopping 
 ov' me ; I mun spak to her ; I'll make 
 bould to wish her 'ealth and yappiness." 
 
 "Ay, do thou, Jem." 
 
 Thus encouraged, Jem advanced. 
 
 "Wishes you well, mum — and the yong 
 family, mum. It wor oi as 'elped your 
 lardyship up to the coach foure year ago, 
 mum. I axes yer parding for being so 
 free." 
 
 " Not at all. I thank you very much,
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 251 
 
 indeed, for your kind interest. It was a 
 happy day that took us into Wales." 
 
 " A moighty foine day for Wailes, mum 
 — axes yer parding." And Jem received 
 various winks from his friends in appro- 
 bation of this appropriate sentiment ; while 
 Emily blushed and smiled at the same time, 
 seeing it all. 
 
 ** John," she half whispered, " these good 
 people remember us when we were here 
 before. Is it not nice of them ? " 
 
 John took off his hat and bowed. Then 
 extracting a shilling (a large sum in those 
 days) out of the leather purse, he said : — 
 
 ^' Oblige me by drinking her health. You 
 cannot do it too often to please me." 
 
 '* We bean't have no manner o' doubt 
 o' that ere, sir, and we wull be sartin 
 sure to do it." 
 
 So, with kindly good-byes, Emily was 
 wheeled out of the sight of her rough ad- 
 mirers, who testified their delight at seeing
 
 252 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 her once more in various modes peculiar 
 to themselves. One tossed up his hat, 
 another shouted, a third made a sort of 
 wheel of himself; while the fourth, gazing 
 solemnly at the shilling, observed : — 
 
 **Lads, we mun do his bidding.'' 
 
 Whereupon they simultaneously disap- 
 peared within the bar, nothing loth. 
 
 It may appear strange that Mr. and 
 Mrs. Leslie should give up their child. 
 But they knew the hands into which they 
 were about to deliver her. They had but 
 one fear, and that was — the many advan- 
 tages she gained in her new home might 
 lessen the love for her old one. 
 
 In Mr. Leslie's diary there occurs this 
 passage : — 
 
 *' To-day we parted from our first-born, 
 our little Adeline, not without a pang; 
 and yet why should I murmur, my 
 God ? My child has four parents, not two. 
 Her advantages will be many more than
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 253 
 
 I could ever hope to give her. My house 
 is filling with children — for each new bless- 
 ing do I thank God ; and more than all, 
 that, though mj book has not brought 
 me in as much as I expected, and that 
 my means are somewhat straitened, 
 yet we have wanted for nothing, and I 
 am not in debt." 
 
 The little Adeline, her mother's own 
 daughter, made no moan at parting ; she 
 appeared to adopt Lady Armitage as her 
 mother, running, at the first call, to obey 
 the voice so like that familiar one. And 
 when informed that she was to remain 
 behind, and not return, her sole remon- 
 strance was — 
 
 '' If I am very good, I may see Nessie 
 and Pearl?" 
 
 This reminded Mr. Leslie of the promise 
 made by the Armitages, that once a year 
 their girl was to come to see them ; and
 
 254 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 he reiterated to them that there must 
 be no infringement of it. 
 
 Adeline tried to smile, young as she 
 was, even at the parting with little John, 
 which caused Mr. Leslie to record another 
 observation in his journal. 
 
 "Little Adeline has a disposition very 
 like her mother, wholly unselfish. When 
 she parted from her brother, I was struck 
 with the evident fortitude shown by one 
 so very young. And yet, of my three 
 daughters she will have probably less scope 
 for such a virtue. Nest Cecilia, my se- 
 cond daughter, appears to me deficient in 
 this virtue, and yet will need it more. 
 Of the baby I can at present foretell 
 nothing. The Almighty knows what is 
 fittest for all. May he keep them in the 
 hollow of His hand, for Jesus Christ's 
 sake. Amen." 
 
 By the time the reader ends this his- 
 tory, if he does not tire before, he will
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 255 
 
 discover that, wise as Mr. Leslie thought 
 himself in the judgment of his daughter's 
 character, there was One wiser and 
 mightier still. 
 
 About this time began one of those 
 rumours of an ill-feeling between the iron- 
 masters and their workpeople. That there 
 was cause for discontent few of them could 
 deny ; and Lord Bernard, early setting 
 the example of some little attention to 
 their demands, warded off the evil at first 
 from his own estate. In this he was 
 ably assisted by both the clergymen, but 
 not Mr. Eobarts. 
 
 The latter was an instance of wealth 
 not proving the surest mode of making a 
 gentleman. He would rather have acted 
 the bully, and browbeat the people into 
 obedience, than have adopted the high-bred 
 forbearance of Lord Bernard. 
 
 It is probable that the storm-cloud of 
 discontent would have passed over the
 
 256 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 Valley of the Hundred Fires, and left 
 little trace behind ; but there was another 
 evil at work, and that insidiously. 
 
 Powell, the Dissenter, had long begun 
 to discover that Mr. Leslie and he could 
 no more be called rivals. By the voice 
 of the multitude it was clearly seen who 
 was called for in the hour of danger — 
 whose prayers were required when the 
 grim form of death was descried in the 
 distance — whose advice was followed — whose 
 counsel most prized! It was certainly not 
 Mr. Powell's. 
 
 When dissensions arise, and " wars, with 
 rumours of war," then are the discon- 
 tented pleased — the evil-minded happy. 
 Mr. Powell, that he might be in nothing 
 behindhand with these riotous times, be- 
 gan to preach loudly against the Church. 
 On her holy and uplifted head did he 
 hurl forth anathemas loud and strong — 
 which, if they failed to reach so high,
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 257 
 
 leaving Her pure and unscathed, fell with 
 rebounding effect on the gaping crowds 
 below. So true is it that Folly can draw 
 the multitude even with a silken thread. 
 Stupid people like being roused, no matter 
 by what. Foolish people live in a whirl; 
 and whatever good may be done to death 
 in their whirling, it hindereth them not — 
 whirl they must. There are large com- 
 panies of both stupid and foolish people 
 to be met with anywhere ; and when they 
 join the riotous, it may be that calm Ee- 
 ligion and lovely Peace are driven from 
 their exalted pedestals. 
 
 It was long ere the evil gained ground 
 in the Valley of the Hundred Fires. 
 
 At the Castle they mourned over the 
 recklessness of the ironmasters. At the 
 parsonage they prayed for the misguided 
 rioters. Within the circle of the Cinder 
 Tip rose aspirations to Heaven for peace 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 and good feelings, that were outraged 
 and scorned without it. 
 
 The last drop was added to the brimming 
 cup. The military were sent down by Go- 
 vernment, in consequence of a demand from 
 the most timid of the ironmasters. Among 
 these was Mr. Kobarts, urged on by his 
 fearful, half-frantic wife. As he still had 
 the management of Lord Bernard's property, 
 the motives from which he acted appeared 
 to emanate from his employer. And the 
 evil spread even to the very edge of the 
 Cinder Tip, 
 
 And now began the influence of Mr. 
 Howel, and such as himself. These were 
 not times to be contented with the mild and 
 holy expositions of Mr. Leslie, or the 
 learned, somewhat curious, but unrefutable 
 tenets of Mr. Sabine. The people gloated 
 over strong, coarse anathemas. They lusted 
 after violent and seditious harangues; they 
 craved excitement, no matter of what kind.
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 259 
 
 It requires an eye-witness to write a 
 history of startling events. Retold after 
 time has thrown a veil over the little 
 incidents that, gathered up, beget the great 
 mass of horror, many links are wanting, 
 and the character of truth is too marred 
 to give interest to the tale. Many out- 
 breaks have occurred since. Let those 
 who remember them recall the facts. 
 Human frailty follows generally a beaten 
 track, and there is nothing more sure than 
 that there are faults on both sides when 
 dissensions such as these arise. 
 
 Not being born at the time of this 
 particular riot, 'tis as well to confine the 
 history of it only to those incidents re- 
 corded in the papers from which this bio- 
 graphy is drawn. Mrs. Robarts fled, taking 
 with her seven daughters and two sons, and 
 all the train of governesses and servants 
 that belonged to them. For few as have 
 been the words, and short the space taken 
 
 s2
 
 260 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 to describe the beginning of the disaffec- 
 tion up to its actual outbreak, three 
 years had elapsed. Three years since Mr. 
 and Mrs. Leslie had taken their first ho- 
 liday, and given up their eldest daughter 
 into the hands of her aunt. 
 
 During these three years the population 
 had not decreased. Imitating the brief lan- 
 guage of Scripture, we must tell that Mrs. 
 Leslie had Gwladys and Gwendoline — and 
 Mrs. Robarts, Elizabeth and Anna : the 
 latter lady moved to give her daughter 
 these respectable and well-known names at 
 the instigation of Mrs. Reine. That good 
 lady, scandalized at her daughter's choice 
 of such heathenish titles, insinuated to Mrs. 
 Robarts that peculiar blessings of both 
 health and strength were accorded to 
 those children whose parents sanctified 
 them with Scriptural names. Mrs. Robarts, 
 weak and credulous, snatched at any whim 
 that might benefit her darlings ; and in-
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 261 
 
 deed they were a sickly, peevish race of 
 children, justifying any theory their mother 
 might adopt that would tend to fit them 
 for a struggle with the world. 
 
 Now, however, she carried them all off 
 from still greater danger, and would fain 
 have carried off her husband also. That, 
 however, was wholly impossible. Old Cap- 
 tain Hill buckled on his long disused sword, 
 and, sending his daughters up to the 
 parsonage, prepared to defend his house as 
 best he could. It lay sadly exposed, even 
 in the very pathway of some of the disaf- 
 fected ironworks. 
 
 Miss Charles was not without an indi- 
 vidual virtue, evily as she has been de- 
 lineated in this history. She was no cow- 
 ard; so determined, lone women as they 
 were, that she and Betty would stand their 
 ground, and remain in charge of their 
 household goods. It doth not become an 
 historian to point out that there lacked a
 
 262 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 certain value in the eyes of an indif- 
 ferent spectator to Miss Charles's goods 
 and chattels, and still less attractive was 
 she personally to the most interested gaze ; 
 consequently it might not unreasonably be 
 inferred that Miss Charles's greatest safety 
 against an incursion of rioters was the 
 absence of anything worth taking. Betty, 
 to be sure, was young and rosy when 
 she took the trouble to wash her face ; 
 but as that was but seldom, owing to her 
 mistress thinking soap an unnecessary luxury, 
 and also from the well-known fact that Betty 
 had a tongue and nails, it was not less pro- 
 bable she was her own safeguard, even as her 
 mistress. 
 
 Mrs. Dawson, of course, remained at her 
 post, the doctor's best assistant. 
 
 Mrs. Keine, also, was not to be frightened 
 away by a bugbear. She looked at her 
 school, and considered she had but to stand 
 in the doorway to be respected and unmo-
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 263 
 
 lested. Alas, for that renegade from the 
 peaceable community of the Quakers — she was 
 always at war with the peccadilloes of human 
 nature, and yet could not realize the crimes 
 of that nature gone mad. She looked with 
 horror and disgust upon a dissenter, a ser- 
 vant-girl with a flower in her bonnet, a re- 
 creant from the Sunday school ; but she 
 thought with mild leniency of thousands of 
 men refusing to work for their own chosen 
 masters, and rising up in defiance against 
 any rule at all. In fact, she had exhausted 
 all her expletives on the smaller sins. Hav- 
 ing none left for the greater, she put them 
 aside, as matters rather guessed at than 
 known — rather meant to talk about than be 
 real. 
 
 Mr. Sabine regarded all that had taken 
 place, or was about to take place, as one of 
 those phases of life which he would be glad 
 to see, and test by his own eyes and sense. 
 The probability that he might lose something
 
 264 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 during the outbreak — perhaps his life — was 
 not unregarded by him ; but, in his various 
 wanderings over the world, he had been al- 
 ways prepared for such chances. He had 
 been shipwrecked twice ; he had lost his 
 worldly possessions thrice ; he had suffered 
 hunger, thirst, pain — yet he had gained a 
 vast quantity of knowledge and experience; 
 and if he had paid dearly in some respects, 
 he by no means regretted it. And it was 
 thus he thought of the probable struggle now 
 impending. 
 
 Lord and Lady Bernard were not at home : 
 they had been called suddenly from thence 
 by the illness and subsequent death of her 
 mother. 
 
 But the boys were at the Castle ; and — to 
 their honour be it spoken — if Mrs. Eeine, 
 Mr. and Mrs. Dawson, Mr. and Mrs. Leslie, 
 or the Hills, had any fear or care, it was 
 for the safety of these boys more than their 
 own.
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 265 
 
 Mr. Leslie was a magistrate. He was 
 called upon by the colonel of the regiment 
 to accompany him in that secular capacity. 
 For many days Emily had expected this sum- 
 mons ; yet, when the peal of the bell sounded, 
 rung in that sharp, impulsive manner that as 
 much betokened an imminent danger as the 
 military character of him who rang it, she 
 sank back in her chair, white and motionless. 
 John glanced round the room. It was about 
 eight o'clock in the evening. That peal fore- 
 shadowed much to him, and, in drinking in 
 one last look of a home-circle so beloved, 
 so endeared, he felt the probability that he 
 might never see it again. 
 
 Miss Hill was teaching her little god- 
 daughter Pearl to draw, whose eager excite- 
 ment coloured her cheek like a peach. Miss 
 Frances Hill was reciting a marvellous tale 
 to John and Nest, the former alive with in- 
 telligence and delight, the latter endeavouring 
 to understand it all, by opening mouth and
 
 266 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 eyes, as well as ears, to lose nothing of the 
 sense of the story ; while, at her mother's 
 feet, sat a round, roly-poly, good-humoured 
 thing of three years of age, suffering the 
 year-old child on mamma's knee to take great 
 liberties with her straight, smooth, brown 
 hair. This latter evidently possessed a sage 
 and reasoning mind, gravely investigating the 
 quality of the hair between her fingers, and 
 not at all discomposed or turned from her 
 purpose by the little good-humoured efforts 
 to entice her to forego it made by the owner 
 of the hair. Their father's large dark eyes 
 were possessed by four of the children — John 
 and Pearl alone inheriting their mother's fair 
 complexion, and the latter her blue eyes. 
 
 Mr. Leslie gazed from one group to the 
 other. They were pictures he delighted to 
 behold ; and when, at last, his eyes fell upon 
 her — the beloved, the sunbeam — ^for a mo- 
 ment he bewailed over that sudden, rousing 
 peal. It was but for a moment. As if he
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 267 
 
 would not be unmanned, he resolutely turned 
 from Emily's white face, and went half-way 
 towards the door to meet the messenger. 
 
 It would appear that the Leslies were not 
 given to much outward demonstration. As 
 John turned from her, Emily rose, and, placing 
 the younger child by its sister, drew calmly 
 to his side. 
 
 The martial tread, the rattling of the 
 sword in its scabbard, the clanging spurs, 
 and the commanding, ringing voice roused 
 all from their absorbing occupations, turning 
 the eyes of even the fascinated Nest in their 
 round wonder towards the door. 
 
 A bright, healthy, handsome young face 
 appeared beneath the formidable helmet, all 
 his white teeth glistening as he laughingly 
 said — 
 
 '^Work at last, Mr. Leslie. We are to 
 march to-night, and the colonel has sent me 
 for you." 
 
 His very manner was contagious. The
 
 268 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 children gazed in prodigious admiration; Miss 
 Frances Hill thought him quite a darling ; 
 Miss Hill was delighted to see him so brave ; 
 Mr. Leslie felt inspirited by his cheerfulness ; 
 and Emily — Emily went for John's great-coat 
 and hat. To do her justice, she was not in 
 the least capable of uttering a word; but 
 because she was so nervous and upset, was 
 that any reason why John should go without 
 his great-coat, which he would entirely have 
 forgotten himself? 
 
 " I will send, love, or write," whispered 
 John, as she assisted him to put it on. 
 
 Emily's only answer was to snatch Pearl's 
 pencil, and put it into his pocket, with some 
 slips of paper — and no further leave-taking 
 passed between them. In those days the 
 little endearments of affection were not given 
 or taken in public ; and though Emily bent 
 her head to catch the last creak of John's 
 well-known shoes, and John lovingly looked 
 back on the little twinkle of light, if haply
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 269 
 
 he might catch her shadow in the window 
 — no one knew they did so ; perhaps not 
 either the one of the other. But, at the 
 footstool of the Almighty constant prayers 
 •were borne upwards by never-wearying wings 
 all that night — those prayers that grow in 
 intensity and faith the more they are uttered. 
 In this occupation we must leave Emily, con- 
 scious that her wisdom and love were best 
 shown thus. Our business lies with Mr. 
 Leslie. He was not altogether comfortable 
 at discovering that he was expected to ride 
 on horseback with the troop sent for him. 
 John was not a good horseman — in fact, it 
 may as well be allowed, he was a very bad 
 one. Nevertheless, he felt it incumbent on 
 him to show no fear, and he mounted the 
 great dragoon-horse sent for him without 
 hesitation. 
 
 " I have brought you our drum-major's 
 horse, Mr. Leslie, with his bearing reins; 
 so that if you like a couple of troopers to
 
 270 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 lead you, as they do him, you will have 
 nothing to do but stick on." 
 
 Mr. Leslie acknowledged the forethought 
 of the young officer in suitable terms of gra- 
 titude, accepting the proposal at once. 
 
 "To tell you the truth, sir," continued 
 the young dragoon, " our colonel heard you 
 were an indifferent — that is to say, a bad — 
 I mean, that you were not accustomed to 
 ride; and as we shall have to go a devil 
 of a pace, he considered it best " 
 
 " Make no apologies, young sir. I feel 
 myself pretty secure in my saddle, and would 
 rather use the time in going forward at a 
 decent pace, than wasting any, and having 
 to make it up." 
 
 " Very good, sir —- 1 am quite of your 
 opinion. Fall in, men! Forwards— Trot ! " 
 
 As the fine clear voice filled the air with 
 its buoyant cheeriness, Mr. Leslie felt a 
 martial spirit rising so suddenly within 
 him, he began to doubt whether he had
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 271 
 
 not mistaken his vocation in life. Suffice 
 it to say that, under the effect of it, a 
 certain exhilaration did away with any 
 uneasiness regarding his unusual position ; 
 and having no trouble about guiding his 
 steed, he had nothing to do but stick on, 
 and go best pace. 
 
 Consequently, he gained a good name 
 at once, and was handsomely spoken of 
 ever after at mess "as a pattern of a 
 parson." It is doubtful whether he or 
 Emily fully appreciated the value of such 
 praise ; but at all events it was more 
 comprehensible to them than the probable 
 encomium now in vogue. A modern 
 young dragoon would most likely have 
 called Mr. Leslie " a brick," that ex- 
 pressive but most paradoxical epithet so 
 delighted in at the present day. But we 
 dawdle on light matters when fearful and 
 startling events are imminent. 
 
 On one of those bare ridgy hills, rising,
 
 272 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 in the misty night, with a gloomy gran- 
 deur that wanted no other aid to awe 
 the mind, lay, just moved with the hum 
 of sullen murmurs, twenty thousand irri- 
 tated pitmen. 
 
 As the little handful of dragoons gal- 
 loped up with the precision and unity of 
 a machine, the fitful moon glided from 
 behind a black cloud, and lighted up a 
 sea of troubled and vindictive faces. 
 
 By the soldiers, and those accustomed 
 to the wild passions that take up their 
 dwelling within the heart of man, and 
 render his condition worse than the basest 
 born slave of humanity, an apprehension 
 of the power of this multitude to do 
 evil might be felt. But, strange to say, 
 no such thought entered Mr. Leslie's 
 heart. For seven years he had looked 
 down from his pulpit upon such faces. 
 They were familiar to him. They were 
 his sheep, his fold. He gazed at them
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 273 
 
 now, as the loving pastor might do upon 
 some erring, straying children, whom he 
 meant to recall back by soft words and 
 gentle persuasions. Yet he did not with- 
 hold his admiration from the gallantry 
 and mettle so conspicuous in the little 
 troop of dragoons, who bore themselves 
 as fearlessly as if they had to do with no 
 enemy more serious than the countless sheep 
 among the hills. Twenty thousand daring 
 and desperate men against fifty gay and 
 mettlesome troopers. The odds, even in 
 Mr. Leslie's mind, began to grow stu- 
 pendous, and he manoeuvred to place his 
 steed nearer to the handsome boy com- 
 mander who so excited his admiration. 
 
 " Your colonel, where is he, my 
 friend ? " he asked. 
 
 ** Faith, I know not. I believe there is 
 another body of men, even more numerous 
 than these, whom he has gone to 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 meet. I was told to bring you here, 
 and I have done so. My men, fall in, 
 and make ready for duty ! "
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 275 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ** We must not give implicit credence 
 To every warning voice that makes itself 
 Be listen'd to in the heart." 
 
 Coleridge. 
 
 Four days had passed and gone since 
 that ringing peal had summoned John 
 from Emily's side, and he was still 
 absent. Pale was her face, sad the light 
 of her eyes, slow her light footstep ; yet 
 had he sent her messages and notes on 
 every possible occasion. But the rumour 
 of dark deeds had penetrated even into 
 the enclosure of the Cinder Tip. 
 
 Emily's first thought, after John's de- 
 
 T 2
 
 276 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 parture, was the safety of the two Ber- 
 nard boys ; and she had gone up herself 
 that same night to bring them down to 
 the parsonage, not so much for safety, as 
 that she might share whatever fate was 
 to befall them. At first the brave boys 
 demurred, thinking their father could 
 have no more fitter protectors for his 
 house and property than his two sons, 
 boys though they were. But the head 
 servants, with the keepers and the groom, 
 having declared they were better able to 
 protect and guard the place without the 
 additional care of the two young gentle- 
 men, and Mrs. Leslie representing they 
 had no male defenders at the parsonage, 
 they consented to her request. Emily 
 had also wished her mother and Mr. 
 Sabine to join them. But Mrs. Reine, 
 strong in the power of her school, had no 
 fear; and Mr. Sabine for worlds would not 
 shut himself up for safety — he was cu-
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 277 
 
 riously anxious to be in the midst of every- 
 thing. 
 
 The first report that reached the par- 
 sonage was that Mr. Leslie had read the 
 Riot Act, only done when matters were sup- 
 posed to be in extremities. 
 
 The second report was the utter inef- 
 ficiency of so small a body of troops to 
 keep order should the evil spirit break 
 out into deeds. 
 
 Anon came the news that a body seven 
 thousand strong were marching up to the 
 Castle, with the intention of taking the 
 young gentlemen as hostages, with the 
 view to extort the fulfilment of their 
 wildest wishes from Lord Bernard. 
 
 Seeing the uselessness of contending with 
 so great a crowd, they had been per- 
 mitted to search the Castle from cellar to 
 roof The spirit of mischief broke out, 
 and might have increased to ruder acts, 
 but that the sight of Lady Bernard's
 
 278 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 boudoir, with its bales of flannel, its piles 
 of books, its evident devotion to the wel- 
 fare of the poor and sick, touched these 
 wild hearts. They hurriedly departed, leav- 
 ing traces in every room but this of their 
 unwelcome presence. A long time did it 
 take to purify the Castle from this rude 
 visit. Either regret that they had gained 
 nothing, but rather shown some pusillani- 
 mity, as they thought, coming upon the 
 White House in their descent down, they 
 surrounded it, clamorously shouting for 
 food and drink. 
 
 Mrs. Reine showed herself with unflinch- 
 ing courage, Milner behind her mincing and 
 bridling. Alas, for the gratitude of men ! 
 They remembered none of Mrs. Reine's 
 good deeds. They locked her and Mil- 
 ner up in one room, and tied Mr. Sabine 
 in a chair in another — all because they 
 were disappointed to find in that frugal 
 household no more food than sufficed for the 
 hunger of two of them.
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 279 
 
 '^Now, if you sets a hollering and a 
 making of a nise afore we gets well 
 away, well be oop and scragg thee, 
 friend," was their pleasing remark to Mr. 
 Sabine. 
 
 " Verhum sat,'' quoth he in answer, re- 
 signed, but still curious. 
 
 " Mr. Sabine ! Mr. Sabine ! " cried Mrs. 
 Eeine, through the keyhole; ^^ come quickly 
 and let us out ! '' 
 
 " Verhum sai," quoth he again, still re- 
 flecting on the incidents of the last half- 
 hour, and drawing his conclusions there- 
 from. 
 
 *^0h! Mr. Sabine, Mr. Sabine, wiU 
 you let us be murdered ? " shrieked 
 Milner. 
 
 " Verhum sal" again murmured that in- 
 corrigible man. 
 
 By degrees, however, he came to a know- 
 ledge of their situation. 
 
 *^ Willingly, my dear madam — most wil-
 
 280 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 lingly, good Milner, but an accident — an 
 impediment " 
 
 *^ Surely, surely, you are not wound- 
 ed '^ 
 
 "The 'eavens be good to us, ^ave they 
 shot you, sir ? " 
 
 " No, no, not quite so bad as that ; I 
 think I have no wound — indeed, there 
 was no shooting — but — but — I am tied 
 into my chair." 
 
 ** Then pray be good enough to untie 
 yourself as fast as you can, and let us 
 out." 
 
 "My dear madam, it appears to me 
 impossible." 
 
 " Impossible, and you a man of science 
 — experience — always endeavouring to do 
 impossible things !" 
 
 "True, madam, true, very true — that is 
 quite correct ; what is impossible I always 
 try to render possible." 
 
 Strengthened and encouraged by this
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 281 
 
 notion, Mr. Sabine did exert himself. 
 Nevertheless all his efforts would have 
 proved useless, but for Milner's suggestion, 
 that if he could not rid himself of the 
 chair, he must just bring it along with 
 him. 
 
 '^ Ah! excellent ! — Columbus and his egg — 
 Mahomet and the Mountain — the Mouse and 
 the Lion — the rub of Aladdin's lamp — no- 
 thing more simple, and yet marvellous 
 that I did not think of it ! " 
 
 Meantime the body of pitmen paused 
 before the Cinder Tip. It might be that 
 the thought rose within them to climb its 
 steep side, and descend into the sacred 
 precincts of the parsonage. But there 
 were two little figures even now on the 
 top, who, so far from being scared at the 
 wild and disorderly multitude, clasped hands 
 together, and resolutely ran down the slope 
 right into the middle of them. Two little 
 hatless creatures, five and six years of age.
 
 282 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 with black curls, tossed wildly by the 
 sporting freaks of the wind. 
 
 " If you please," said the boy, raising 
 his frank eyes up to their grim faces, 
 ** have you seen our papa ? " 
 
 '* And who moight he be?" began one. 
 
 " Whoy, donot thou see ? — this is the 
 parson's likely boy, the oney one he ha," 
 interrupted another. 
 
 " Yes, I am the parson's son, and Nessie 
 is his daughter. We have been watching 
 for you ever so long, because mamma is 
 unhappy about papa, and we thought you 
 could tell us." 
 
 ^' He wor pure well, not long agone, 
 young gentleman. We respect your papa, 
 and wonot hurt him." 
 
 ^' Thank you. Then may we tell mamma 
 you will keep him safe from cruel men ? " 
 
 " Dost thee call we cruel, little man ? " 
 
 ^^ Yes, if you hurt papa ! " 
 
 "Then shake hands— we wunna do it."
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 283 
 
 John and Nest gravely shook hands with 
 as many as chose to put out theirs, say- 
 ing to each, with innocent simplicity, as 
 if to seal the compact, ^' Thank you!" 
 Then, in high glee, they sped up the 
 Cinder Tip — making, the one a curtsey, 
 and the other a bow, to their wild friends, 
 ere they raced down the other side. 
 
 " It wor main onpossible to refuse that 
 little chap. It^s not passen wonder his 
 fayther^s dotin' on him — he's pure hand- 
 sum.'^ 
 
 " It's amazin' the luik in his e*en. Td 
 be freeghted wor he moy bairn — the Al- 
 moighty hae marked him for His ain, I am 
 thinking." 
 
 ** Thou'st a fule — whar be we to getten 
 vittels, think thee? I am amaist ready to 
 claw the grass." 
 
 "There's nae use in ganging hame. The 
 gude wives are purposed to gie us nought 
 until we git our'e roights, as mony are o' the
 
 284 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 flinching road. But we mun ha'e someat. 
 Lets gang to Eobarts's — there'll be grand 
 pickings there, I am thinking." 
 
 And so did they. 
 
 No boudoir of Mrs. Eobarts's stayed their 
 unruly hands by the sight of its sacred 
 contents. No remembrance of Mr. Robarts 
 broke in to spare his home and valuables. 
 Found almost tenantless — the few servants 
 within it flying on their approach — they 
 left it so completely gutted and destroyed, 
 that it was unlikely even the fondest re- 
 membrance and love of it, as a once happy 
 home, would feel justified in sanctioning its 
 restoration. 
 
 When Mischief once lets loose her vo- 
 taries, not even her own bewailments can 
 stay the mad and useless ravages they 
 commit. 
 
 In such hours. Art is dethroned and 
 irremediably violated ; Science is delivered 
 up into brutal hands ; while Genius and
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 285 
 
 Kefinement fly mournfully away, aghast at 
 the monstrous degradations Fate suffers such 
 powers to undergo. 
 
 Meantime young John and Nest had 
 flown wildly into the parsonage, shouting 
 — " Papa is safe ! — papa is safe ! " 
 
 Mrs. Leslie, anticipating much more than 
 the reality, interpreted the cry into the 
 fact that he had arrived, and rushed out 
 to meet him. 
 
 The consequent explanation did not place 
 John and Nest on a high pinnacle of 
 favour. Their exploit appeared to gain no 
 applause but in their own eyes ; and though 
 Emily was too just to visit on their poor 
 little heads the bitterness of her disap- 
 pointment, she clearly considered the whole 
 tale as unworthy of notice — the hopes it 
 gave valueless as wind. 
 
 But mamma's evident disappointment 
 faded before Wilsy's high wrath. It was 
 out of the power of anyone dwelling in
 
 286 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 the same house with young John to be 
 displeased with him ; but Nest, Nessie — al- 
 ways wilfully rompish, and determinately 
 boyish — was in deepest disgrace for running 
 out without bonnet or tippet. Master John 
 might shake hands with pitmen — it showed 
 his sweet disposition ; but Miss Nest should 
 remember she was a little lady, and act as 
 such. So she spent the rest of the evening 
 in a corner, and Pearl shared it with her, 
 from a vague feeling common among the 
 Leslies, that some little injustice attends all 
 mundane punishments.
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 287 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 " Poor ! did you call me? 
 My wants are but few, 
 And generous nature 
 Gives more than my due ; 
 The air and the sunshine, 
 Fresh water and health, 
 And heart to enjoy them — 
 All these are my wealth. 
 And, crown of all riches, 
 Far better than pelf, 
 I've a true heart who loves me, 
 For sake of myself ! 
 With these, and my patience, 
 And strength to endure. 
 My health, and my honour. 
 How can I be poor ? " 
 
 Charles Mackay. 
 
 There occurs this passage in Mr. Leslie's 
 journal : —
 
 288 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 " Many and merciful are the ways of 
 God, and in nothing are they more benign 
 than the paths by which He leads us to 
 acknowledge and implore His protecting 
 care. Full to repletion did He fill us 
 with gratitude for our escape from the 
 ^ sudden insurrection of wicked men/ 
 And if, in mine heart, I lifted up my 
 head in secret pride that my ministry 
 had not been unprofitable — if I listened 
 with complacency to the praises and 
 thanks of men, Thou, God! gently 
 laidst me down on the bare stones of 
 weakness and insufficiency. I know not 
 when I enjoyed life as then. The suc- 
 cessful issue of our eflforts to frustrate the 
 evil intents of my poor, misguided people 
 — the happiness and delight of my dear 
 and excellent wife — the many good and true 
 friends we have made — the health and 
 intelligence of our children — all made me 
 turu to ^ Our Father,' and feel, as Job
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 289 
 
 did, mighty in the love of the Lord. Yet 
 to keep me in the true path of humility 
 and dependence I begin to feel a little 
 straitened for money. Also there are 
 many sick among us, which, indeed, we 
 could not but look for, rebellious and 
 hardened against the laws of the Lord 
 and man as were the multitude. Distress, 
 too, of poverty and privation was added 
 to them, so that, not even with the gene- 
 rosity of my kind mother-in-law, do I 
 find myself wholly free from debt. More- 
 over, the wants of the people are increas- 
 ing, the sickness gains ground, and their 
 long suspension from work has left them 
 no means to combat the evil with nourish- 
 ing diet and warm clothing. We may not 
 murmur, they have brought it on them- 
 selves ; let me record the mercies, not the 
 evils, we receive at the hands of God. 
 I have now six daughters, besides my son 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 John — may God bless them, and their 
 mother, whose valuable life was so nearly 
 lost to me at the time of the riots. I 
 endeavour to look more tenderly upon the 
 little weakling twin, whose frail life bears 
 testimony to my Emily's fears, and whose 
 little sister left her, wearied with an hour's 
 breath of the world. And yet my good 
 mother-in-law considered the one who died 
 would live, and that the living one was 
 dying. When I was called in haste to 
 baptize these little unexpected ones, Kose, 
 the first-born, appeared to me lively and 
 thriving; while Lily, the younger by half- 
 an-hour, drew breath so faintly, I scarce 
 thought she would live to be signed with 
 the holy sign of the Cross. Rose died 
 within half-an-hour, and the little Lily is 
 now eight months old, weak in all things 
 but her loving ways. It may be this 
 little one's life, saved as by a miracle, is 
 meant for some good purpose. Into the
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 291 
 
 holy keeping of thy Saviour I place thee, 
 my child. Amen.'^ 
 
 This part of Mr. Leslie's diary, detail- 
 ing a little of the family history, is 
 given in full. They had indeed enjoyed 
 themselves greatly, after the cessation of 
 the riots, and Emily's convalescence. The 
 Castle had been full of guests ; gaiety 
 and good humour had been brought 
 forward to charm away discontent and 
 ill-will. The Leslies had been made 
 much of by all the great people; Lord 
 Bernard, in no manner behindhand, ac- 
 knowledging his vast debt to Mr. Leslie. 
 His people had returned to their duty, 
 and disaffection had silently crept away. 
 John and Emily were contemplating another 
 holiday to go and see their darling Adeline ; 
 for her aunt, alarmed at the riots, had 
 never yet fulfilled her promise of bring- 
 ing the child to see her parents. 
 
 It was in the first pang of disap- 
 
 U2
 
 292 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 pointment that Mr. Leslie made the 
 remarks in his journal just quoted. They 
 were indeed too straitened in purse to 
 think of the proposed expedition. 
 
 Mrs. Eeine had been to see Lady 
 Armitage twice since Adeline had be- 
 come her care, and Emily had tried to 
 persuade herself that her grandmamma's 
 report was as satisfactory as if she had 
 herself seen her. But Mrs. Eeine had never 
 quite recovered the shock of the riots, and 
 showed no inclination to move from her 
 house now; and though Emily could not 
 doubt the love of her sister for her adopted 
 child, yet she began to pine for one look 
 of her. She feared lest the little affectionate 
 heart should lose the remembrance of those 
 dearest to her. 
 
 Mr. Sabine had also not recovered his 
 incarceration. He made such fruitless en- 
 deavours to discover a remedy for any fu- 
 ture unfortunate tied by both arms to the
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 293 
 
 back of a chair, that he became more ab- 
 sent than ever, requiring all Mrs. Eeine's 
 watchfulness. Only this very day did she 
 not overtalie him (herself, Emily, and Mr. 
 Leslie, in the Castle chariot — or charret, 
 as it was then called — going up to dinner 
 there, it being very wet,) walking away, 
 utterly forgetful that he was also to be 
 called for ? And as if that was not sufficient 
 to portray the erratic state of his mind, 
 he held his walking-stick steadily over his 
 head, carefully carrying his umbrella under 
 his arm. 
 
 " My good sir,'^ remonstrated Mrs. Eeine, 
 afterwards, *^ did you not observe the 
 rain running off like a gutter from the 
 brim of your hat ? " 
 
 " I was conscious of a dampness, my 
 dear madam ; but experience has lately 
 taught me there are situations from which 
 nothing can free us, no matter how dis- 
 agreeable, perplexing, or undignified. Hm 
 — hun — hein — hm ! "
 
 294 THE YALLEY OF 
 
 These few hieroglyphics are intended to 
 represent the end of his remark, for he al- 
 ways conchided every sentence with some 
 few words in an unknown tongue. It was 
 suggested that it was in this manner he 
 kept up the remembrance of the various 
 languages he had learnt. And so strong 
 was the habit, that guttural murmurs, strange 
 and out of season, might be heard falling 
 from his lips, even in the pulpit. But he 
 was a good man — so good that his very 
 weaknesses were loved by those who knew 
 him, as essential parts of himself. 
 
 There was one person who had never re- 
 turned to the Valley of a Hundred Fires since 
 she had fled from it. This was Mrs. Robarts. 
 And indeed she was justified in not return- 
 ing. She had no house to inhabit. 
 
 Rather apprehensive lest she should be- 
 come permanently determined never to 
 return, Mr. Robarts began to build a new 
 home, on so magnificent a scale, it bid fair
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 295 
 
 to rival Bernard Castle ; and it was to be 
 so replete with beauty and luxury, that Mrs. 
 Eobarts must be more than mortal woman 
 could she let her fears triumph over her 
 grandeur. 
 
 But we authors, who are in every one's 
 secrets, know very well that Mrs. Eobarts 
 would have returned without the attraction 
 of a new and magnificent home. Despising 
 her in her heart — compassionating her, even 
 — Mrs. Robarts felt a certain attraction to- 
 wards Mrs. Leslie, that became an inexpli- 
 cable yearning. 
 
 It might be the sort of rivalship regard- 
 ing their yearly babies. But Mrs. Robarts 
 was still much a-head in numbers; and her 
 little, graceful, delicate girls — beautifully 
 dressed and highly accomplished — were not, 
 even by Mrs. Leslie herself, lowered down 
 to a standard of comparison with her sun- 
 burnt, freckled little maidens, in washed-out 
 frocks and battered bonnets. Even Pearl,
 
 296 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 with her cheeks of peach colour, and dancing 
 blue eyes — her little light footsteps and 
 graceful gambols — Pearl, the admiration of 
 everybody, the secret delight of her father, 
 the unconscious pet of her mother, the open 
 and acknowledged darling of both her god- 
 mothers — even she looked too rudely healthy 
 by the side of the little fair Eobartses. No, 
 it was no rivalship — it was no delight in the 
 superiority of her family over Emily's. 
 
 It was simply her own character. 
 
 To Mrs. Eobarts such a character was as 
 enigmatical as it was alluring. She was 
 fascinated by it. 
 
 In the first place, Emily was so unselfish. 
 She recorded, with genuine pleasure, every 
 little thing she might chance to hear in 
 favour of any of the Eobartses. Now, Mrs. 
 Eobarts was very difierent. She might not 
 care particularly to know that Emily was 
 considered prettier than herself; because, 
 naturally, she was not vain of her beauty.
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 297 
 
 But touch her with regard to her children, 
 and she was instantly alive with quivering 
 pricks of umbrage. She could no more 
 listen to, or, harder still, repeat, anything in 
 favour of the Leslie children, than sit down 
 and converse with Mr. Sabine in every lan- 
 guage that he knew. 
 
 Sickness had visited both families; and 
 Mrs. Eobarts gazed upon Emily with vague 
 wonder. She went about her parish duties, 
 organized her household, received visitors, 
 just as if she had no children at all — cer- 
 tainly none that were sick. 
 
 And yet she could not call her heartless. 
 Her colour came and went quickly — evidently 
 with apprehension — when Dr. Dawson pre- 
 scribed stronger measures, or looked a little 
 grave ; but all that he ordered was done 
 without fuss — without any more excitement 
 than an every-day circumstance. 
 
 Mrs. Eobarts' favourite amusement was to 
 come and spend a morning at the parsonage.
 
 298 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 If she was sufficiently early, she found four 
 little girls, seated on stools, learning their 
 lessons — from which it was obvious, often as 
 she tried, they were not to be diverted. Soon 
 Emily appeared, having settled her house- 
 hold matters, and, drawing a large basket of 
 work towards her, proceeded to hear the 
 aforesaid lessons; and though she chattered 
 incessantly to Mrs. Eobarts, the latter lady 
 observed not a task was passed over, not a 
 word allowed to be missed ; and the gentle 
 tones of praise were not so soft as those of 
 censure — yet both had equal power. And 
 all the while, a pile of mended socks and 
 little garments increased more and more. 
 
 By the time that Mrs. Robarts was weary 
 of sitting, young John came in. Now, there 
 was a certain beauty about John, that even 
 Mrs. Eobarts could mention in admiration. 
 But, first let it be understood, her two little 
 sons were yet in petticoats : there could be 
 no rivalship.
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 299 
 
 Young John had more than beauty. His 
 whole countenance beamed with intellect. 
 Soft large eyes, of the colour of rich brown 
 velvet, looked inquiringly into everything you 
 said or did. Your motive must be clear, 
 your thought pure, or your tongue would 
 falter and your eyes droop at the clear 
 gaze of those questioning eyes. 
 
 At four years of age young John had asked 
 questions the elder John was puzzled to 
 answer. At seven years he had brought 
 his Latin book to his father, demurring as to 
 the propriety of a certain mode of translating 
 a passage out of Ovid's Metamorphoses, and 
 requesting to read the first lines of the 
 Odyssey in Greek. 
 
 For the future of young John, Mr. Sabine 
 predicted extraordinary things. Phrenology 
 was just beginning to throw a beam of light 
 over the physical world. And he felt John's 
 bumps. The question was not what was 
 wanting, but what he would do with the im-
 
 300 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 mensity he possessed. Causality, order, ima- 
 ginativeness, ideality, wit, struggled for the 
 greatest space. The elder John raised castles 
 in the air, on the topmost of which he saw 
 young John, seated on a woolsack, his 
 beautiful child face smothered in a Lord 
 Chancellor's wig. 
 
 But at present he is no further advanced 
 towards this desirable situation than to do 
 his arithmetic with his mother. Afterwards 
 to watch his sisters writing, taking care that 
 the awkward Nest inked no one but herself 
 
 Oh ! rare boy ! good, wise, and lovely. 
 The Almighty permits us now and then to 
 see on this earth a living type of the earliest 
 Adam, to show from what we are fallen. 
 
 Mrs. Kobarts did not dare to be envious 
 of this boy. She feared to draw upon her- 
 self a curse. 
 
 After lessons were over, the little ones 
 sped out of the room in the highest glee. 
 Had they not a Cinder Tip? And where
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 301 
 
 could more happiness be found than racing 
 up and down it? 
 
 Mrs. Robarts was aware that Emily was 
 a great reader, spite of all her avocations. 
 Also she was a politician, a very fierce, 
 one-sided politician. We are forced to ac- 
 knowledge it. Emily was so rank a Tory, 
 she would not believe a single good thing 
 of a Whig. Mrs. Robarts had often listened 
 to her, holding forth in highest animation, 
 and divulging at the same time an amount 
 of knowledge concerning the now existing 
 strategy of the political world that amazed 
 and puzzled her. 
 
 Mrs. Robarts did not care to see things 
 much beyond her nose, but she respected 
 those who took the trouble of investigating 
 matters that concerned the nation, and not 
 the nursery. Patriotic principles generally 
 demand admiration. To be true, they must 
 be so honest, and free from selfishness. 
 
 We hope we have shown sufficient cause
 
 302 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 to explain the paradox, that Mrs. Eobarts 
 despised Emily, yet looked up to her ; cared 
 not for her advice, yet was always desirous 
 of her good opinion. It is presumed there 
 was a mixture of the simplicity of the dove 
 and the wisdom of the serpent in Emily's 
 character. 
 
 Perhaps the great charm to Mrs. Eobarts 
 was her faith. Emily hoped the best always, 
 and, in constant anticipation of good rather 
 than evil, she was over and past her diffi- 
 culties almost before she felt them. She is 
 now in a great one. 
 
 John wants a new great-coat; the chil- 
 dren all require new winter frocks; the roof 
 has been blown off the mud cottage be- 
 longing to some disreputable people called 
 Meredith ; they wished to go and see their 
 darling Adeline, and John has got nine 
 pounds, some odd shillings, to effect it all. 
 
 The wish was dismissed at once by both 
 parents. Emily had not been fully let into
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 303 
 
 the secret of the excessive dilapidation of 
 John's coat. Those four nights with the 
 pitmen had taken a year's wear out of it. 
 So she was only cognisant of two imperative 
 necessities — the children's frocks and the 
 Merediths' cottage. 
 
 John was busy in his study. A soup- 
 kitchen was being established by Lord Ber- 
 nard, he undertaking all preliminary ex- 
 penses, with a permanent subscription, and 
 the rest was to be made up among the 
 wealthy inhabitants of the Valley of a Hun- 
 dred Fires. Now John could not call him- 
 self wealthy, nevertheless out of what God 
 had given him some was to be returned to 
 the poor. John sent the idea of a new great- 
 coat to the winds, and put down the sum 
 meant for it to the soup-kitchen. 
 
 At this moment Emily entered. 
 
 " Oh, John ! something must immediately 
 be done — the Merediths have got the fever, 
 and their roof is still half oflf."
 
 304 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 " My dear love, I really am too poor. 
 Cannot your mother assist you ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, she won't : the Merediths are 
 dissenters." 
 
 " Then there is the more need that I, 
 a clergyman of the Church of England, 
 should mark my abhorrence of such cha- 
 racters." 
 
 John liked to have a grave joke. 
 
 "Now, John, pray don't say what you 
 do not think. Can it make any differ- 
 ence of what religion people are, when 
 they are sick and in want ? " 
 
 " It appears to do so with your good 
 mother." 
 
 " But mamma is not you, you know, 
 John." 
 
 '* Granted; well, suppose you ask Lord 
 Bernard." 
 
 "Worse and worse, John; don't you 
 know these are the people who have en- 
 croached on his manor, and built that
 
 A HDNDRED FIRES. 305 
 
 dreadful cottage now tumbling down ; and 
 that they steal the wood and kill the 
 game? Oh, he would never help them, 
 but probably be vexed with us if we 
 do." 
 
 " Then, my dear wife, we had better 
 let them alone altogether.'^ 
 
 " That is so unlike you, John." 
 
 And something like a vexed tear dimmed 
 Emily's eye. 
 
 "Come, love, in this instance I must 
 consult Lord Bernard. If he consents, 
 you can take the three pounds you wished 
 me to put aside for our little daughters' 
 winter coats. I can spare nothing else." 
 
 " That will do very well. I only hope 
 Lord Bernard won't refuse. Make the 
 case very pitiable, mind, John." 
 
 And so Emily left, in renovated spirits, 
 and as she shut the door her husband 
 laid down his pen and thought. If his 
 better judgment warred against his wife's 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 THE VALLEY OF 
 
 over-zeal, at all events it did not lessen 
 his love for her. A few murmured words 
 sounded very like benisons on her. 
 
 But Emily had a harder task to fight 
 with Wilsy. That good woman's Eoman 
 nose waxed hotter and more shiny, as 
 Emily, not daring to look at her, stam- 
 mered over her lame excuses about the 
 much-required winter coats. 
 
 "It can't be, mum," she said, stoutly. 
 "I am ashamed to go out with Miss 
 Nest. She is heedless and mischievous, 
 but she's past bearing in the way she 
 grows : she is out of her things 'most afore 
 they're made." 
 
 "She can have an old dress of mine 
 cut up for her, Wilson." 
 
 And Emily glided out abashed. 
 
 " My goodness ! but the missus 'ud give 
 away herself if she could. And them 
 Eobartses coming out on Michaelmas day 
 with purple cloth pelisses, binded and
 
 A HUNDRED FIRES. 307 
 
 braided, and beaver hats with long white 
 feathers. Ough ! it's past my 'standing." 
 It was well Mrs. Leslie had fled. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 B. BORIT, PRINTER, GLOUCESTER STREET, REGENT'S PARK.