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 FORGOTTEN LIVES.
 
 FORGOTTEN LIYES 
 
 % iflkl. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 'OLIVE VAECOE," "FAMILY PRIDE," "BENEATH THE WHEELS; 
 "PATIENCE CAERHYDOX," &c. &c. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE STREET. STRAND. 
 1875. 
 
 ZAll rights of Translation and Reproducticn are reserred.1
 
 LONDON: 
 
 SAVILL, EDWAEDS AND CO., PBINTEES, CHANDOS STREET, 
 
 COVEMT GAEDEN.
 
 8^b 
 
 V. 3. 
 
 33^irua;t^i:r 
 
 TO 
 
 THE AUTHOR'S DEAR FRIEXD AND COUSIN, 
 
 MES. YEATMAIsr, 
 
 7? STOEK HOUSE, 
 
 ^ SHERBORNE, DORSET. 
 
 1^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 c>
 
 EOKGOTTEN LIVES. 
 
 CHAPTER 1. 
 
 LONGr, bare, cold schoolroom, with 
 desks closed and forms vacant — for 
 the day's work is done — lighted 
 only by a starved fire shut in by a wire 
 fence, behind which prison it glimmers 
 dimly on the figure of a slight girl, bending 
 forward on her seat in a crushed, listless 
 way, with elbows on her knees, and face 
 resting on her hands. Now and then a 
 shiver shakes her frame, and a sigh escapes 
 her lips, the breath of which, like a faint 
 ghost, is visible an instant in the cold air, 
 and then vanishes. Except for this patient 
 sigh and this dull shiver, the girl is still 
 and silent, lost apparently in painful 
 thought. 
 
 The rain beats fast against the big unfur- 
 
 VOL. 1. 1
 
 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 nished windows, and chill draughts go 
 searchingly up and down the dreary room, 
 lifting and rustling the shahby bits of car- 
 pet by the teachers' chairs, and fluttering 
 the leaves of torn books lying on the desks. 
 Through the curtainless windows the fitful 
 moon looks in from a wild sky, where black 
 clouds rush across her pale disc suddenly, 
 like the onslaught of a shadowy host from 
 the land of darkness. 
 
 There is a hurricane abroad to-night, and 
 as the wind roars in its fur}', the dismal 
 patter of the rain — blown clean away — 
 ceases for an instant, then returns with 
 a fiercer power, flinging its downpour 
 against the glass with a rush and rattle 
 which make the windows quiver as though 
 shaken by a giant's hand. As these harsh 
 gusts come and go, like the rush of an arch- 
 fiend's wings upon the night, the girl nor 
 moves nor stirs. Perhaps the voice within 
 her has an echo of the tempest in its black, 
 despairing sorrow, and the very passion of 
 bitterness, which is her present mood, may 
 find a sympathy in these harsh cries of night 
 and storm. Yet when an ember drops from 
 the dying fire she starts, and looks up with 
 sudden terror, then gazes slowly round the
 
 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 great bare room, and lets her head droop 
 ao^ain with the same shiver and the same 
 sigh. 
 
 In the howling of the wind and the sharp 
 clatter of the rain upon the glass she does 
 not hear the creaking of the door, nor rouse 
 herself till a heavy step is close upon her, 
 and a cracked voice is ringing sharply in 
 her ear — 
 
 "Miss Lethbridge, what are you doing 
 here, dreaming away your time by the fire ? 
 Your idleness is disgraceful 1 Put away all 
 these books instantly !" 
 
 The girl rose and stood back with a timid 
 depressed air, while the owner of the cracked 
 voice came forward and warmed her plump, 
 pudgy hands by the decaying fire. 
 
 " There ought not to be a fire in the 
 schoolroom so late as this," she said ; " it is 
 nearly nine o'clock. I shall fine you, Miss 
 Lethbridge, if this occurs again." 
 
 '' It was so very cold, ma'am," returned 
 the girl in a patient, low voice, '' and I have 
 only thrown on the cinders. I have not 
 put on any fresh coal." 
 
 "Fresh coal, and only yourself in the 
 schoolroom !" exclaimed the plump lady in 
 a tone of amazement ; " I should hope not, 
 
 1—2
 
 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 indeed ! Sach extravagance merely for your 
 own comfort, Miss Lethbridge, would 
 scarcely be approved of by the trustees. 
 Well, why don't you put away the books ? 
 This untidiness is quite against the rules." 
 
 " May I light the gas, if you please, Miss 
 Paring." 
 
 *' No," returned that lady sharply ; " the 
 trustees complained fearfully of the last gas 
 bill." 
 
 As she spoke, a stream of forked light- 
 ning ran along the sky, flashing its vivid 
 glare within the bare room, bringing all its 
 cold ugliness into view, and showing dis- 
 tinctly Miss Paring's scared, unmeaning, 
 plump countenance, and the pale, pinched, 
 sad young face of her companion. Black 
 darkness followed, into which there rolled a 
 peal of crackling thunder, which seemed to 
 make the building quiver. 
 
 " This is awful !" cried Miss Paring ; " I 
 think it is dangerous here in this big room. 
 Light the gas. Miss Lethbridge ; I cannot 
 endure the darkness." 
 
 Barbara did as she was requested, and 
 then, piling up the untidy books, she carried 
 them to the big cupboard, where in com- 
 pany w^ith many more of their ragged
 
 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 brethren, slie laid them on the dusty shelves. 
 Shrinking from the lightning, and covering 
 her eyes at every vivid flash, Miss Paring 
 stood watching her till she came back to the 
 dwindling fire and took her seat again in 
 her old place. 
 
 " Now it is very odd," said Miss Paring, 
 with a little scared laugh, " but lightning 
 really frightens me out of my ^vits. I know 
 I came up here for something, but T can't 
 remember what it was. There ! what a 
 flash!" 
 
 And, cowering to the floor, she hid her 
 eyes again with both hands. 
 
 " Was it to speak to me you came ?" asked 
 Barbara timidly. 
 
 " There, child, I don't know ; it's of no use 
 asking me. Lightning puts everything out 
 of my head except fright. Do you think I 
 am safe here ?" 
 
 " I hope we are both safe, Miss Paring," 
 said Barbara. 
 
 " Bless the child ! no one is safe when it 
 is lightning like this," returned the lady 
 with some irritation. " I really think, 
 though, it is safer in my own room than 
 here ; it is so much smaller and snugger, 
 you know. And my supper is ready, too.
 
 6 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 I shall venture down now. Mind you put 
 the gas out directly I'm gone." 
 
 She turned at the door to say this, then 
 vanished. 
 
 Barbara Lethbridge had had her supper 
 two hours ago — a cup of sky-blue milk-and- 
 water, and a piece of coarse gritty bread, 
 with a little rancid grease scraped over it, 
 called by courtesy and custom butfcer. It 
 was poor stuff, but even this the charity of 
 St. Ceciha gave only to the bigger girls ; 
 the little ones ate their bread in its native 
 dryness. 
 
 Scarcely disturbed by Miss Paring's sud- 
 den entrance and departure, Barbara still sat 
 by the dying embers weeping quietly to her- 
 self. 
 
 " Is this to be my life always ?" she mur- 
 mured. " Is there no hope ? no escape ?" 
 
 Her hands fell wearily on her lap, and she 
 glanced round the bare room with a shudder 
 of hatred and misery. 
 
 " Fool that I am ! what hope can there 
 be for me ?" she said bitterly. " Five years 
 in this prison have unfitted me for all other 
 places. I can only be a teacher in a charity- 
 school now. I know nothing. The most 
 precious years of my youth have been lost
 
 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 and wasted. I have been ill fed, ill clad, 
 and ill taught. Yet they are always preach- 
 ing to me of charity and gratitude. I am 
 sick of lies !" 
 
 She spoke the words aloud passionately, 
 but the sound of her own voice in that bare 
 solitude came back to her in a drear ghostly 
 way, bringing a vague fear and chill, which 
 stilled her indignation, and changed her 
 mood to a softer and deeper sorrow. Tears 
 filled her eyes, and, rising, she quenched 
 hurriedly the one poor light, and found her 
 way to the door by the glimmer of the moon, 
 and the faint flashes of the now distant 
 lightning. Passing through a long corridor 
 paved with stone, and lighted by one feeble 
 burner, she reached another big, bare, nar- 
 row room, whitewashed, having a curtainless 
 window at either end, and twelve beds 
 ranged along the walls, with two sleepers in 
 each — sleepers with pale, pinched, sad faces, 
 like her own, and some with that strange 
 unwholesome look upon them which children 
 have who live in workhouses or in kindred 
 institutions, whose young human souls are 
 brought up, as it were, wholesale, ticketed, 
 and classed, but motherless and fatherless, 
 homeless and loveless.
 
 8 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 With the whirr and roar of the storm 
 around them, and in the flash of that steel- 
 blue, mysterious light, which still gleamed 
 along the sky, and struck the empty windows 
 with its sudden glare, these beds, with their 
 pale sleepers, wore an unreal, ghostly look 
 — a look of drear enchantment, as though 
 some wizard had struck them into a dire 
 and hungry sleep — a sleep from which the 
 ogre Time should wake them, and devour 
 them one by one. 
 
 Passing down between the rows of beds 
 with her dim candle in her hand, Barbara 
 Lethbridge paused midway, and said in a, 
 half- whisper — 
 
 " Eose, are you asleep ?" 
 
 Instantly the bright, flushed face of a 
 child started up from its hard pillow, and a 
 pair of large feverish eyes met hers. 
 
 " No, I can't sleep here," she said. 
 
 " Are you afraid of the lightning ? " 
 asked Barbara soothingly. 
 
 " No, I like to see it. I wish it was 
 fiercer and fiercer. I wish it would burn 
 this cruel place to ashes." 
 
 "Hush!" said Barbara in a soft voice. 
 " It is not a cruel place, my dear ; it is a 
 kind, charitable place, succouring the orphan 
 and the poor."
 
 Forgotten Lives, 9 
 
 She thought it her duty to say this, but, 
 unconsciously perhaps to herself, her tone had 
 a tinge of bitterness in it, and the words 
 sounded like a sarcasm. 
 
 The child laughed to hear them, though 
 it was a laugh so mingled with grief, that 
 tears stood in her over-bright eyes, and her 
 flushed cheeks grew hotter, and her red lips 
 stood apart. 
 
 " Don't tell stories, Barbara," she said, 
 laying her fevered hand on the girl's wan 
 fingers. *' You know very well that the 
 servants here wont eat what they give us 
 children for food. The housemaid told me 
 they would never get a servant to come 
 here if they had the same meals that we have. 
 And if Anne had not given me every day a 
 cup of cofiee, and a bit of bread-and-butter 
 from her own breakfast, 1 must have 
 starved." 
 
 " Hush !" whispered Barbara excitedly ; 
 " you ought not to tell me this. It is 
 against the rules. What should I do if the 
 other girls heard you ?" 
 
 The child gazed up at her with a frightened 
 glance, and then turned a look of aversion 
 on her sleeping companion. 
 
 " She has not heard me ; she is asleep ; 
 she has slept through all the storm. I wish
 
 10 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 they would not put me with a girl I can't 
 bear. So one must not speak the truth at 
 St. Cecilia's, Barbara ?" 
 
 Barbara answered her with a wan smile. 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes, dear, speak the truth 
 always." 
 
 " Then the truth is that St. Cecilia's is 
 a humbug, and we are clothed like monkeys, 
 fed like dogs, and not taught more than " 
 
 But at this moment a pair of sly eyes 
 blinked at Barbara's pale face, and though 
 they closed again instantly, their glance had 
 been much too cunning to give any appear- 
 ance of reality to the slumber which had 
 now fallen on their lids. 
 
 Barbara put her finger on her lips, and 
 Eose Carteret held in her words and her 
 breath, but her glance fell with a deeper 
 repugnance on the drab-coloured visage, the 
 snub nose, and coarse mouth of the pet 
 orphan of the establishment, who slumbered 
 so innocently by her side. 
 
 " Let me sleep with you," whispered Eose 
 excitedly, as she flung her arms around 
 Barbara's neck ; " I feel as if Emily Min- 
 shell were a boa -constrictor — I do really ! 
 I shall go mad if I stay here !" 
 
 The fever spot on her cheeks and the
 
 Forgotten Lives, 11 
 
 light in lier large eyes pleaded for her more 
 strongly than her words, and Barbara 
 thought it wise to yield, and soothe the excite- 
 ment of this forlorn little waif, who had but 
 newly strayed to the maternal arms of St. 
 Cecilia. So she carried the child to the top 
 of the room where her own bed was placed 
 and laid her in it, and bade her go to sleep. 
 Barbara was supposed to keep order in this 
 room, and it was her duty to see that none 
 of the rules of the establishment were in- 
 fringed. This evening she had broken two 
 of them herself. She had talked after the 
 pupils were gone to rest, and she had per- 
 mitted an exchange of bedfellows. We 
 shall see to what these dire sins led. 
 
 In five minutes more the thin, dim, 
 sputtering candle was extinguished, and all 
 was darkness in the dormitory at St. 
 Cecilia's, where twenty-five human beings 
 got what breath they could out of the close, 
 stifling atmosphere.
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 HE morning ablutions at St. Cecilia s 
 were performed on a very unique 
 plan. The orphans, being fully 
 dressed, descended the draughty stone stair- 
 case to a cold room below, also flagged, 
 where six tanks sunk in the floor, with six 
 inches of water in each, did duty for baths 
 for the whole establishment — four girls 
 being told off to each tank once a week, 
 and no fresh water allowed for second or even 
 third batches. For the morning ablutions, 
 however, long rows of white basins on stone 
 benches by the walls represented the toilet 
 services. But passing by both tanks and 
 basins, the young ladies entered an outer room, 
 still stonier and more dismal, where they 
 proceeded with great diligence to black their 
 shoes and polish them. This first practical 
 lesson of the day being concluded, they re- 
 turned to the lavatory, and washed the 
 blacking from their hands, the majority of
 
 Forgotten Lives, 13 
 
 them also conscientiously bestowing a little 
 water on their faces. 
 
 Barbara was used to all this, but dainty 
 little Eose Carteret regarded this morning 
 ceremony with a mingling of bewildered 
 amazement and disgust. She understood 
 now what had at first puzzled her — why 
 the girls dressed first and washed afterwards. 
 The shoe-blacking lesson would otherwise 
 have involved a loss of time in cleaning 
 the hands twice. 
 
 Pale, thin, scrofulous, weak-spined — what 
 a sad assembly of girls were those standing 
 around St. Cecilia's charitable table, giving 
 thanks for their morning meal ! 
 
 It was not a very appetizing meal, but it 
 was extremely simple. Long rows of small 
 mugs filled with thin lukewarm milk-and- 
 water, and one thick hunch of bread laid by 
 the side of each on the bare board without 
 plates — this was breakfast at St. Cecilia's. 
 
 Eose Carteret put the mug to her lips, 
 and set it down again : the bread she did 
 not touch. Her companions on either side 
 made no remark on her abstinence; she 
 was a new-comer ; they were used to these 
 little disgusts in new-comers. All the 
 other girls ate their portions in their usual
 
 14 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 silent, depressed way, then they filed out 
 of the door and through the long stone 
 passage into the schoolroom. But little 
 Eose had slipped out of the procession 
 somehow ; a kind hand had seized hers, and 
 she found herself in the laundry, where a 
 cheerful breakfast of hot coffee, bread, real 
 butter, and rashers was laid out on a small 
 round table by the brisk fire. 
 
 " Drink some hot coffee, do, miss, and eat 
 a little bit of something, or you'll be 
 downright starved," said the goodnatured 
 voice of Anne, the housemaid. " We ser- 
 vants ain't allowed, you know, to give the 
 orphans any of our victuals ; but bless you, 
 miss, if we didn't help the new-comers some- 
 times, it's my belief there would be a good 
 many coffins go out of St. Cecilia's." 
 
 Eose Carteret was excited, nervous, 
 feverish ; it was something new to her in 
 her young life to have a meal given to her 
 by the charity of a servant, and she could 
 not help the trembling of her hands, the 
 hot flush on her cheeks, and the tears of 
 pain springing to her eyes. 
 
 " I wish I could give poor Barbara some 
 of this nice coffee," she said, trying in her 
 nervousness to speak cheerfully.
 
 Forgotten Lives. 15 
 
 " Well, you see, miss, we can't give to all, 
 and Miss Lethbridge is pretty well used to 
 the ways of St. Cecilia by this time ; you'll 
 get used to them too, miss, by-and-by." 
 
 " I think not," answered Rose ; '' I think 
 I am going away. It is a secret, don't tell 
 any one of it, but I have written to mamma 
 to come for me." 
 
 " Dear me ! that's a pity, isn't it ?" cried 
 the servant. " For you are one of the young 
 ladies as has had a hundred pounds paid for 
 her to come into the hinstitution — hain't 
 you? 
 
 " Yes," said Eose, '' but mamma wont 
 mind that. She would rather lose the 
 money than see me grow like poor Barbara. 
 I sent her Barbara's photograph." 
 
 " Did you really, now, miss ?" exclaimed 
 Anne in great admiration. " Well, that was 
 better than a big book full of writing ; it 
 said more than print can, didn't it ? Now 
 I suppose you'll hardly believe it, but Miss 
 Lethbridge was as pretty as you, or perhaps 
 prettier when she first came here." 
 
 "She has beautiful eyes still," said Eose; 
 " and I like her very much, though I have 
 only known her such a little while. I should 
 have died, I think, but for her."
 
 16 Foryotten Lives. 
 
 In saying this the child's tears burst forth 
 with a sudden, sharp, agonizing strength, 
 but she suppressed them almost instantly, 
 and in her recovered calmness there was a 
 kind of dignity and pride which sat well on 
 the patrician beauty of her face. 
 
 " Try to eat something," said Anne 
 kindly ; " it will do you good." 
 
 " I am so cold," answered Eose, with blue 
 trembling lips. " I am not used to this 
 dress. It seems so uncomfortable to have 
 bare arms and bare neck all the day long. I 
 am always shivering.'' 
 
 " No wonder," returned Anne ; " and this 
 weather too. I should like to dress them 
 old trustees that fashion, and see how they'd 
 like it. There, I'm glad you've drunk the 
 coffee." 
 
 " I'm going to try to eat this nice break- 
 fast, because I want to look better when 
 mamma comes. I don't want to frighten 
 her," said Eose. 
 
 Turning the mangle slowly the while, 
 Anne looked reflectively at the little speaker 
 as if to note what change the diet and the 
 costume, bestowed by the charitable hands 
 of St. Cecilia, had made in her aspect since 
 her arrival a few days ago. She was altered
 
 Forgotten Lives. 17 
 
 greatly. The round, firm, fresli cheeks had 
 relaxed and fallen, the large eyes had gro^yn 
 larger and brighter, the preth^ light, glossy 
 hair which had rested in waves and curls upon 
 her neck was gone, all cropped ofi* closely to 
 her head, while the hideous, uncomfortable, 
 unserviceable dress completed a metamor- 
 phosis which might bewilder even maternal 
 eyes. 
 
 " I am afraid, miss, your mamma will be 
 a little shocked when she comes," said Anne. 
 " I hope she'll bring clothes with her for 
 you, because you know you can't take away 
 the orphan things ; they belongs to St. 
 Cecilia." 
 
 " Mamma knows. I have told her," re- 
 plied Eose, looking at her orphan habili- 
 ments with a little wistful smile. She was 
 thinking of the next poor girl who would 
 wear them, and wondering how heavy the 
 next heart would be that beat against this 
 asylum uniform. At this minute Barbara's 
 grey, pale face looked in upon them. 
 
 '* I am sent for you, Bose," she said; 
 " you must come to the schoolroom." 
 
 "What are the lessons to-day?" asked 
 Eose eagerly. " Are we going to be taught 
 something this morning ?" 
 
 VOL. I. 2
 
 18 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 Barbara's usual wan smile flitted across 
 her tliin face. 
 
 " One day is like another here, Eose. We 
 are taught nothing but a little reading, 
 writing, and arithmetic. St. Cecilia's boj^s 
 learn Latin and French, but there is no 
 such good fortune for us girls. As you saw 
 us yesterday, and the day before, so will 
 you see us to-morrow and all days. The 
 girls who can read and write teach the little 
 ones, and we all do needlework, and there's 
 an end. I believe there's a piano some- 
 where for the first class, but I have never 
 touched it, or been taught a note. What 
 is one piano or one governess among so 
 many ? The boys have masters for many 
 things, and they have a much bigger 
 playground, and better clothes, but I be- 
 lieve the trustees think we girls don't want 
 such comforts, and they certainly think we 
 need no teaching." 
 
 Again the same great weary sigh, the 
 same grey shade of despair on the pallid 
 face. 
 
 " Why do you stay here ?" said Eose in 
 an indignant whisper. " I would leave 
 directly if I were you." 
 
 "I cannot," returned Barbara, and her
 
 Forgotten Lives. 19 
 
 great grej eyes seemed to look far away 
 into the gloom. " My mother is very, very 
 poor. I have never even told her how 
 unhappy and ill-taught I am here. I never 
 make a complaint, or say anything about 
 St. Cecilia's, when I go home.'' 
 
 As she spoke in her patient, spiritless, 
 meek tones, Eose dwelt for a moment on 
 the self-abnegation and generous patience 
 which had suffered silently for so long, and 
 spared all pain to her mother. 
 
 " You are very good," she said involun- 
 tarily. "I am not so good as you. I 
 wrote and told mamma " 
 
 " Hush !" interposed Barbara. " Here is 
 Emily Minshell ! I hope she did not over- 
 hear all our talk last night." 
 
 There w^ere no lessons this morning ; it 
 was one of the " shoemaker's days," which 
 means that that individual came to measure 
 for new shoes, and examine the old ones, 
 to see w^hat amount of patching they would 
 bear. And w^hile this interesting occupa- 
 tion continued the girls sat on forms, in 
 weary rows, waiting each for her turn to 
 exhibit her well-worn St. Cecilia's shoes, or 
 to have her measure taken for another pair 
 made in the same loutish, awkward, sham-; 
 
 2—2
 
 20 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 bling pattern. The shoemaker called twice 
 a week to perform this ceremony ; the hair- 
 dresser likewise made his appearance twice 
 a week to crop heads ; thus four days were 
 got rid of weekly without taxing the mental 
 faculties of either governess or pupils. 
 Nevertheless, these days were weary days, 
 as the stooping shoulders, the pale faces, the 
 drooping eyes of the tired girls too plainly 
 attested. 
 
 It w^as a bright morning after the storm, 
 the sunbeams glanced through the windows 
 joyously, the motes danced in the air, the 
 shadows lay crisp and sharp upon the glis- 
 tening grass, the little birds sang in the 
 early-budding trees, the laurels w^ere covered 
 with gems — great rain-jewels which caught 
 the light, and changed each ray into a mimic 
 rainbow. But this glory was all witliout 
 in the beautiful garden, where the children 
 were never to go — the garden kept so 
 bright and neat to catch the public charitable 
 eye, but not meant for the straying of 
 orphan feet, or the delight and freshening of 
 orphan hearts. St. Cecilia's children had a 
 small cramped playground at the back, into 
 which they were huddled, like penned sheep, 
 twice a day, to find what health and recrea-
 
 Torgotten Lives. 21 
 
 tion they might in the dark shadows of the 
 four high walls, and the little gleam of sun 
 which pierced downwards rarely into this 
 deep tank. Sometimes a face peeped over 
 the wall, a face with a grin on it, swinging 
 high up by some gymnastic and mysterious 
 means. This face belonged to one of St. 
 Cecilia's boys in the brighter, bigger play- 
 ground belonging to that more fortunate 
 sex which even in an orphaned state has its 
 privileges. 
 
 Sach aerial unconventional visits, such 
 gymnastic glimpses of the Latin-taught 
 boys, were not without a charm for the small 
 members of the depressed sex. Eagerly they 
 watched the heads rise above that blank wall 
 of division between the playgrounds — a wall 
 which in its speechless way said and meant 
 so much. And often a sudden smile would 
 break out on little pinched white faces, a 
 sudden flash would light up lieavy eyes as 
 they waited for the floating of the face again 
 — always with patronizing grin — above the 
 barrier wall, thus testifying, by this little 
 bleak gleam of pleasure, to the great human 
 instincts still beating in these young hungry 
 hearts. 
 
 The girls had no gymnasium, but they
 
 22 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 had this faint ghostly joy of catching a 
 flying glimpse of what the boys could do 
 with theirs. They saw how high they could 
 swing in mid-air, how as from an invisible 
 sea their faces could float above the cliff" of 
 bricks — always with those broad grins on 
 them — and then dive down and vanish. 
 They heard, too, how the dangling ropes 
 and swings induced laughter and merry 
 shouts, and the faint echo of these flitted 
 across many a small white face, bringing 
 a momentary smile. 
 
 They had no balls, no tops, no hoops, no 
 anything, only the bare yard, with its four 
 walls, its tiny bit of sunshine once a day at 
 noon, its narrow strip of sky, and its floor 
 of yellow gravel. Yet they were not pri- 
 soners ; they were only helpless girls — 
 orphans — kept by England's charity. 
 
 The sunbeams shone in aslant upon thelong 
 line of weary figures drooping on the benches, 
 upon the thin hands restless in their forced 
 idleness, and upon the dazed eyes, watching 
 in melancholy stupor the nimble fingers and 
 bent back of the shoemaker, whose hair 
 seemed bristling with the Babbage of figures 
 on his brain. Brightly the rays fell too upon 
 the paling fire, by which Miss Paring sat
 
 Forgotten Lives. 23 
 
 amid the whirling motes of dust, which rose 
 from her regal square of Kidderminster. 
 The sunshine faded her and coarsened her, 
 and with the dust it seemed to put that 
 garment of blight upon her which belonged 
 of right to St. Cecilia's orphans. 
 
 Barbara stood by the window, fixing coarse 
 needlework for her pupils, but her eyes 
 wandered from her task to glance on the 
 bright garden and the fresh grass, from 
 whence the wreathed vapours of the morn- 
 ing had rolled away to cluster on the trees 
 like fairy clouds, hiding strange visions of 
 green palaces and leafy haunts, whence 
 dreams were beckoning to her in mystic 
 beauty. 
 
 Suddenly upon the flat monotonous silence, 
 the dusty stillness, there broke the sound 
 of wheels, and all the drooping, stooping 
 figures started, and a flashing look passed 
 from Barbara's eyes, which Eose Carteret's 
 fevered face caught with eager, asking gaze. 
 Then the child started up with a stifled cry, 
 and ran into her arms, trembling there 
 like a fluttering bird. 
 
 " What is the meaning of this ?" cried 
 Miss Paring sharply. *' Go back to your 
 seat instantly !"
 
 24 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 " A lady wishes to see you, ma'am," says 
 the voice of Anne at the door. 
 
 And Miss Paring, rising majestically, 
 marched away. 
 
 The hum of many voices followed her 
 departure, rolling out plaintive words in a 
 stream of sound like the rush of pent-up 
 waters, a relief to lips, and eyes, and hearts, 
 which was like the breaking of chains, or 
 the outgoing of a thousand prisoned 
 creatures from a fortress. In this din, 
 Barbara, stooping over Eose, whispered 
 comfort. 
 
 " Don't be frightened. They cannot hurt 
 you now your mamma is come ; they cannot 
 prevent her from taking you away." 
 
 " No, no, it's not that. I am afraid to see 
 mamma. All my hair is gone ! I am so 
 hideous she wont know me. I had curls 
 — pretty curls down to my waist. Oh, 
 Barbara ! what right had they to make me 
 so ugly ? If mamma does not like me any 
 more, if she pushes me away from her, I 
 shall die !" 
 
 Just as she finished with a great heart- 
 sob, there came a voice, a coarse voice, rising 
 above the waves of sound, crying out in in- 
 describable longings of gluttony —
 
 Forgotten Lives. 25 
 
 " ! if I only had something nice to eat! 
 I'd give my head for a few goodies." 
 
 The speaker was Emily Minshell, and her 
 flat face, her snub nose, her light prominent 
 eyes, all looked so hungry, so full of an ex- 
 asperated, unsatisfied greediness, that a little 
 child sitting by her, upon whom she glared, 
 suddenly whimpered in a fright, while the 
 other girls laughed with that short, faint 
 laugh which belongs to hospitals and 
 famished places where heart, brain, and 
 stomach are alike hungry. 
 
 " If you are ill and have medicine they give 
 you something nice to take after it some- 
 times,'' observed a sickly girl with a husky 
 voice and spots upon her face, who had 
 stolen to the fire, and knelt by it, shivering, 
 holding out her thin, bare arms to the 
 warmth. 
 
 " Do they ? " said Miss Minshell, with a 
 great snifi*. "Then I'U be ill to-day. I 
 don't mind the medicine a bit, so I get 
 something nice to eat after it. Good gra- 
 cious ! I'm famished. I'm ogreish for a taste 
 of something good." 
 
 " Miss Carteret, you are wanted." 
 
 And Barbara leads little Eose to the 
 door, and whispers " Courage," then comes
 
 26 ForgoiteM Lives. 
 
 back to her seat^ with her grey face 
 ashen pale, and her patient heart beating 
 wildly. 
 
 This will never happen to her, this great 
 joy. No mother, no friend will ever come 
 for her, and carry her away from this sad 
 place to happier scenes. The sunshine 
 pouring through the window turns cold to 
 her, the mists hang about the trees like 
 funereal garlands, and the dreams that had 
 beckoned from their shadows have all 
 vanished, leaving her only the stern reali- 
 ties of her sad life — ignorance, and pain, 
 and hardship, and silent suffering. Looking 
 back on the long vista of years, which 
 should have been the seed-time of her life, 
 she sees them wasted in neglect, sacrificed 
 to a sham — health, and youth, and golden 
 time laid as offerings on old-fashioned altars 
 of prejudice, custom, and absurdity. 
 
 But as the dark sea of bitterness sweeps 
 over her, Barbara feels the joy of one ray of 
 comfort. She has been true to her resolve 
 to spare her mother the sorrow of this time 
 wasted, the anguish of this hunger of body 
 and soul for so many years unsatisfied. 
 Like a picture set in a brave light, she sees 
 the small, dim, dull room in which her
 
 Forgotten Lives, 27 
 
 mother lives solitary, and then her eyes fill 
 with tears, and she wonders at herself that 
 she is not more thankful for the few bless- 
 ings St. Cecilia gives — this briglit garden, 
 on which at least her eyes can feast, though 
 her feet may not stray in it, this safety, and 
 respectability, and antiquated decorum, which 
 are the mantle and the diadem of St. Cecilia : 
 things worth preserving, things to be thank- 
 ful for, although they cover " a multitude of 
 sms.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 AM Mrs. Carteret/' said a pretty 
 voice with a foreign accent. " I am 
 come a long journey to see my 
 daughter, about whom I am anxious." 
 
 Miss Paring glanced with some surprise 
 at her visitor, and saw a lady still young, 
 graceful, and even striking in her appear- 
 ance, not so much from her beauty as from 
 the expression of her face, and a certain air 
 of calm power, which seemed breathed about 
 her in some wonderful, inexplicable way. 
 
 " Eose is quite well," returned Miss 
 Paring in rather a subdued voice. 
 
 *' I am glad to hear it. But she is un- 
 happy, and I am come to remove her," said 
 the lady. 
 
 " That will be a pity, wont it ?" resumed 
 Miss Paring, fighting against the sub- 
 duing influence of Mrs. Carteret's manners. 
 " You'll lose the money you have paid for 
 her if you do that."
 
 Forgotten Lives. 29 
 
 The lady thrust her words aside quite 
 calmly without an answer. 
 
 " Will you oblige me by letting me see 
 my little girl at once ?" 
 
 Upon this Miss Paring, to keep up her 
 dignity, rang the bell, and desired, in a 
 pompous voice, that Miss Carteret should 
 be fetched from the schoolroom. 
 
 In the interval, as the two ladies sat 
 silent, the governess felt uneasily tlic power 
 of the calm, steady look fixed upon her, and 
 an odd thought darted into her mind as, 
 lifting the lids of her small blue eyes, she 
 ventured one furtive glance tow^ards the 
 stranger. 
 
 " She'd manage a lunatic asylum splen- 
 didly. She seems made to keep mad folks 
 in order." 
 
 " Is this Eose ?" cried Mrs. Carteret, star- 
 ing aghast in unrecognition and dismay at 
 the grotesquely- dressed little creature, with 
 cropped head and *'clouten shoon," who, 
 trembling, flushed, and frightened, stood 
 abashed at the doorway, with shaking lips, 
 wordless. " Eose !" she cried again, and 
 burning with shame, quivering with pain 
 and grief, the child sprang to her arms, and 
 burst into passionate tears.
 
 30 Forgotten Lives, 
 
 " I was sure you would not know me, 
 mamma ! they have made me so ugly. 
 Don't be angry 1 I can't stay here, I can't 
 indeed !" 
 
 " And you shall not," returned her mother 
 quietly. " We will go at once." 
 
 Again Miss Paring felt that the lady's 
 calmness held a world of power, of decision, 
 of strength, and shrinking against the wall 
 quite diminished, she strove to expostulate 
 in an uneasy manner. 
 
 " You see it is unusual to remove a child 
 in this way from St. Cecilia's. I hope 
 you'll speak to the trustees ; they meet here 
 to-day at one o'clock." 
 
 " Certainly," said Mrs. Carteret. "I will 
 not throw on you the duty of informing 
 these gentlemen of my resolve. Meanwhile, 
 I should like Eose to dress in her own 
 clothes, if you please." 
 
 " Then I suppose you have brought them 
 with you," observed Miss Paring, ''for 
 those she came in are sent back to her 
 aunt's. The girls at St. Cecilia's are 
 not allowed to keep their own clothes 
 
 here." 
 
 " So Rose informed me. I have every- 
 thing she needs in this traveUing-bag. I
 
 Forgotten Lives. 31 
 
 should like to accompany her to her room, 
 if you please." 
 
 "Her room indeed !" thought Miss Paring. 
 " Do people think we give separate rooms 
 to the orphans, and keep lady's-maids to 
 wait on them ?" 
 
 But that curious air of calmness and of 
 power in the lady so subdued Miss Paring, 
 that her irritation was checked even as it 
 rose, and it was with quite a gracious smile 
 that she led the way up the great cold stone 
 stairs, and into the long bare room in which 
 that batch of orphans slept to whom Pose 
 belonged. 
 
 " Whose bed is this unmade ?" cried Miss 
 Paring sharply. 
 
 " I am afraid it is mine," said Eose 
 timidly. " I thought Miss Minshell had 
 made it." 
 
 " Do you make your own beds?" asked 
 Mrs. Carteret. 
 
 "Oh, yes I" interposed Miss Paring. "The 
 orphans all make their own beds and sweep 
 their rooms." 
 
 " And black their own shoes," said Eose. 
 
 Mrs. Carteret turned a surprised look on 
 Miss Paring. 
 
 "Is that the fact?" she said.
 
 32 Forgotten Lives, 
 
 *' You see St. Cecilia's is a cliarity/' re- 
 turned Miss Paring. " The girls can't 
 expect to be waited on here." 
 
 " Or taught, or properly fed either," ob- 
 served Mrs. Carteret. " Eose, what do 
 you learn here?" 
 
 " Nothing, mamma. We hem towels, 
 and mend old things, and do a few sums on 
 our slates, that's all. Except the catechism 
 — we do plenty of catechism." 
 
 Mrs. Carteret's indignation held her a 
 moment silent, then she turned to Miss 
 Paring. 
 
 " And you have the daughters of gentle- 
 men here," she said — " the orphans of 
 clergymen and of officers who have died for 
 England ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, certainly, plenty of them." 
 
 And Miss Paring laughed a little, as if 
 orphanage under St. Cecilia's care was some- 
 thing of a jest. 
 
 " And do you think this is the sort of 
 teaching they should hav.e ?" 
 
 Miss Paring shrugged her shoulders in 
 answer. 
 
 " I can't help it," she said ; " I do my 
 best. I am the only governess, and what 
 can one do with so many girls ?"
 
 Forgotten Lives. 33 
 
 *' Little indeed, I should think," said the 
 lady, more and more astonished. ** But the 
 public subscribes liberally to this institu- 
 tion. Why does it not provide sufficient 
 teachers ?" 
 
 " Ah, you must ask the trustees that ; 
 everything is in their hands. The com- 
 mittee seem to think there isn't much edu- 
 cation needed for girls. The boys are much 
 better taught." 
 
 " And don't the girls learn even music 
 or French ? Surely those are not thought 
 too much for them ?" 
 
 " Oh, mamma !" cried Eose, "there's only 
 one piano ; and as for French, there's no 
 one to teach it. Even a French girl who is 
 here has forgotten it. I should forget mine 
 too if I stayed long at St. Cecilia's." 
 
 " The first class learns a little French and 
 music," said Miss Paring, shrugging her 
 shoulders again, " but of course I haven't 
 time to give lessons to the younger classes. 
 They are looked after by the bigger girls." 
 
 " Who are untaught themselves !" said 
 Mrs. Carteret. " What a frightful system 
 of wrong, what a cruel robbery of their time 
 is practised on these poor helpless girls !" 
 
 Miss Paring was silent. She got her 
 
 VOL. I. ;3
 
 34 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 salary from St. Cecilia, and her rooms were 
 comfortable, her meals were good ; why 
 should she lose them for the sake of girls 
 for whom no one cared ? If a sham fed 
 her, clothed her, and nourished her, she 
 would be a fool to tear it down and expose 
 it to the world — a world, too, which con- 
 sidered the education of girls too small a 
 matter to trouble itself about. 
 
 Kose was dressed now in her own clothes, 
 and except for her cropped head, and that 
 look of wanness in the face which want of 
 proper food gives to children, she seemed 
 her own self again. 
 
 St. Cecilia's stiff habiliments lay upon the 
 floor, and Mrs. Carteret took them up one by 
 one, and examined them with a mingling of 
 curiosity and amazement. 
 
 Since the foundations of St. Cecilia's were 
 laid, never had committee-man or trustee 
 taken the duty upon himself of examining 
 these antiquated garments, with the view of 
 learning whether or not they suited the 
 requirements of their unfortunate wearers. 
 Perhaps it would be scarcely decorous to 
 have these female habiliments laid upon the 
 committee-room table, and held up one by 
 one by the male secretary for the inspection
 
 Forgotten TAves. 35 
 
 of masculine eyes. Perhaps if they were so 
 inspected the masculine eyes aforesaid would 
 be quite incapable of judging of their fitness 
 or unfitness, their comfort or discomfort. 
 Trousers and coats they understand; the 
 misery of an ill-fitting shirt-collar they are 
 also acquainted with, but smocks and petti- 
 coats are mysteries not within their compre- 
 hension. Can they tell whether such and such 
 a garment befits the female form, and keeps 
 a little chilly body warm and comfortable ? 
 
 Not a bit of it — they know nothing of the 
 matter. And being decorous old gentlemen 
 they ask no questions — they accept things 
 as they are. Thus the girls have to suffer 
 for the ignorance and modesty of governors, 
 committees, and boards. 
 
 Whereupon this common-sense question 
 presents itself to the mind, Why do these 
 pottering old gentlemen take upon them- 
 selves duties which they know not how to 
 fulfil ? Why are all the committees or 
 trustees of /i?;;^65/^ orphan asylums invariably 
 men — all men. Why is there never a woman 
 among them who understands the needs of 
 these shivering hordes of ill-clad, ill-fed, ill- 
 taught girls ? The answer can only be found 
 in the arrogance of the masculine Teutonic
 
 36 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 mind. In this country of the Angles, man 
 considers he can do everything by himself; 
 he needs no assistance from the helpmeet 
 God has given him. There's a good deal of 
 Bottom the Weaver in many an Englishman; 
 he can play Lion and Sucking Dove, Wall 
 and Moonshine. From the loftiest affairs of 
 State down to midwifery and babies' ail- 
 ments he understands them all, and takes the 
 management of all upon himself. Therefore 
 shall woman be hissed down, if she presumes 
 to interfere even with affairs which concern 
 vitally her own health, her own happiness, 
 her own education, her own money, or her 
 own children. Bottom the Weaver will 
 admit of no argument and no rivalship. 
 He has played Lion so long, and roared like 
 any sucking-dove ; he also has played Lan- 
 tern so Jong that he can see no other light, 
 hear no other voice but his own. There is 
 only one part he willingly assigns to woman 
 through life, and that is to play Wall to his 
 Moonshine. And he gives her plenty of 
 this in flattery and compliments, and other 
 shams, which, if she accepts smilingly, she 
 is a good woman; but if she takes these 
 grimly, and grasps at realities, she shall 
 be bespattered with abuse and held up to
 
 Forgotten Lives. 37 
 
 ridicule. Moonshine is the only thing that 
 is good for her — ^Moonshine is all she shall 
 get. 
 
 There is no flattery, however, in these un- 
 compromising garments made by St. Cecilia. 
 There is no moonshine in them whatever; 
 they are a reality — a very ugly reality. Ugly 
 realities are not denied to the female sex ; it 
 is the pleasant ones — money, property, pro- 
 fessions, education, independence — which are 
 not good for them. So, arguing from this 
 premise, the costume at St. Cecilia's ought 
 to be of infinite benefit to the pinched, de- 
 pressed crowd of mentally and physically 
 famished girls beneath its charitable roof. 
 
 It may not be decorous to give a list of 
 these garments in the plain old English of 
 the period in which they were first made, 
 3'et surely the modest public will endure it, 
 since, in deference to masculine power, it 
 suffers that a board of gentlemen should 
 inquire into the ailments, the cleanliness, the 
 conduct, and the dress of a crowd of young 
 girls. 
 
 It may be said here that committees do 
 none of these things. They simply pass 
 accounts ; they are too high-minded, too 
 modest, to trench on such subjects; they
 
 38 Forgotten Lives, 
 
 leave all these to tlie governess and the 
 housekeeper, who have no power, and who 
 are even strictly forbidden to infringe a rule 
 or change a custom. If this is true, if the 
 gentlemen forming committees" and boards 
 do indeed delegate to irresponsible agents 
 the duties they ought to fulfil themselves, 
 the blame of the evils they ignore is doubly 
 theirs. They have dared to take upon them- 
 selves a charge which their instincts as men 
 tell them it would be shocking to fulfil, and 
 which conscience must tell them it is shock- 
 ing to neglect. 
 
 These are the articles Mrs. Carteret ex- 
 amined with discriminating eyes, brimful of 
 disgust and anger : — A smock of coarse can- 
 vas, made with old-fashioned flaps at back 
 and chest, thereby leaving both bare. A 
 petticoat of coarse flannel, with strings to 
 tie round waist. A pair of long, hard, stiff 
 stays of dark jean, laced up the back, and 
 cased everywhere with whalebone except in 
 front, where a wide piece of thick wood — a 
 perfectly un pliable instrument of torture — 
 did duty for the old-fashioned steel called a 
 busk. A petticoat of moreen — a harsh mate- 
 rial having neither warmth nor softness — • 
 ill-made and scanty. A frock of stuff, coarse
 
 Forgotten Lives. 39 
 
 and hard, with skirt reaching nearly to the 
 ankle, and bodice cut low, exposing the 
 whole of the chest and shoulders : and short 
 sleeves, leaving the arras bare nearly to the 
 armpits. 
 
 No mere words can depict the indescrib- 
 able cut of these garments, or the odd, un- 
 couth, uncomfortable look they gave to their 
 wearer. The stays especially might be ap- 
 propriately named after a favourite instru-' 
 ment of torture in the ]\Iiddle Ages, " little- 
 ease ;" for there w^as not a moment in the 
 day when they did not gall, and compress, 
 and tighten, and torment the poor little 
 frame laced up within them. Crooked 
 spines, diseased lungs, weak hearts, inactive 
 livers, all grew out of these stays. But 
 then our great-grandmothers wore them, 
 therefore, in St. Cecilia's eyes, they are 
 venerable ; and instead of preserving them 
 in a glass case, which would hurt nobody, 
 she puts them on the bodies of these help- 
 less girls. 
 
 I wish the committee would lace up the 
 boys in them for one day, only one single 
 day. "We should hear of it all over London 
 then, and I don't think they would be used 
 twice.
 
 40 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 A pair of clumsy shoes and coarse stock- 
 ings complete the orphan habiliments at St. 
 Cecilia's. I put the word " complete " in 
 italics, because feminine eyes will perceive 
 there is one article most essential to comfort 
 lacking in this costume. 
 
 Now whether this article be termed, Bri- 
 tish fashion, bags, or American fashion, 
 pants, or in plain English, drawers and 
 trousers, they are none the less indispensable 
 to the lower limbs of every human animal. 
 To go without them is to have rheumatism, 
 lumbago, sciatica, and " all the ills that 
 flesh is heir to." And yet Poor-Law Boards 
 and Gruardians deprive all poor worhen enter- 
 ing the union-houses of this essential gar- 
 ment. They don't allow pauper women to 
 wear them, and many poor creatures leave 
 the unions cripples for life. 
 
 " This is scant clothing," said Mrs. Car- 
 teret, irreverently turning over the Cecilian 
 garments with a look of disgust. " Did 
 you walk about, Eose, in this bitter 
 weather, and up and down these stone 
 stairs, with only these wretched petticoats 
 on ? 
 
 " They are all that are allowed at St. 
 Cecilia's," observed Miss Paring. "Your
 
 Forgotten Lives. 41 
 
 daughter wished to wear her own linen, but 
 I was obliged to refuse her that privilege; the 
 rules don't permit it. You see if we let one 
 do it, all the girls would want to wear their 
 own underlinen." 
 
 Mrs. Carteret stared hard at the speaker. 
 
 " I should think they would," she said 
 slowly. *' And why should they not?" 
 
 " The comraittee of gentlemen wont allow 
 it. The girls must wear the asylum uni- 
 form, and drawers have never formed any 
 part of the costume." 
 
 " Is there no one to tell these men of the 
 discomfort, the danger to health, the posi- 
 tive suffering inflicted on these poor girls 
 through the unfitness of their garments to 
 keep them warm?" said Mrs. Carteret ear- 
 nestly. 
 
 " Well, I don't know," returned Miss 
 Paring ; " it is rather an odd thing to talk 
 about to the gentlemen ; I should not like 
 to do it. And besides, they would not 
 change anything ; the cost would be enor- 
 mous, and all the old uniforms would be 
 wasted." 
 
 "They ought to be burned," said Mrs. 
 Carteret. *' I would not even give them to 
 the workhouses to inflict pain on other chil-
 
 42 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 dren even poorer and more helpless than the 
 orphans here." 
 
 The governess grew red and then pale 
 with anger. This was the first time in all 
 her experience that any poor widow had ven- 
 tured to hint, that St. Cecilia's was not an 
 earthly paradise. 
 
 " I am sure, as you are so discontented," 
 she said, with a little toss of her chin, "we may 
 congratulate ourselves that you are going to 
 remove your daughter. Other people, how- 
 ever, are thankful to have their children 
 here; they know how to appreciate this excel- 
 lent charity." 
 
 '' Charity ! " repeated Mrs. Carteret. " I 
 do not helieve there is a single child here 
 whose election, through votes bought and 
 paid for, has not given to the institution the 
 full value of its food, its clothing, and its 
 education. In ^my case, one hundred 
 pounds have purchased for my daughter the 
 unhappy right to lose her health, her happi- 
 ness, and her youth in this sad place." 
 
 " Well, it is your own fault if you lose 
 your money," said Miss Paring ; " and it is 
 of no use abusing St. Cecilia's to me. I have 
 no power here at all. I suppose, if you have 
 quite made up your mind about the matter,
 
 'Forgotten Lives. 43 
 
 it is useless to show you any more of the 
 place ? " 
 
 " Oh, mamma !" cried Eose in a trembling 
 voice, " you have quite determined to take 
 me away, haven't you ? " 
 
 One pressure of the hand reassured the 
 child, and she looked up at Miss Paring with 
 steadfast, happy eyes. 
 
 "You see mamma cares more for me than 
 for the money," she said with triumph. 
 " I should soon die here. This is the first 
 time for days that I have not been shivering 
 with cold." 
 
 And Rose contemplated with pleasure her 
 warm dress, her well-clothed arms and neck, 
 and then glanced with a shudder of disgust 
 at her orphan habiliments now lying on the 
 floor. 
 
 " Do the girls walk out with low-necked 
 frocks and bare arms?" asked Mrs. Carteret, 
 with a touch of curiosity in her voice. 
 
 " They wear hideous little tippets, 
 mamma," broke in Eose, '' and queer sleeves 
 tied up with tapes to the short sleeves. 
 Such odd, uncomfortable things I And the 
 tippets are always blowing back, so they 
 don't cover our necks much, and we get blue 
 with cold whenever we go out."
 
 44 Forgotten Lives, 
 
 " Who among ns knows," said Mrs. Car- 
 teret, rising, ^' wbat cruel and unnecessary 
 misery stupidity inflicts upon tlie helpless 
 in the name of charity? Miss Paring, 
 yours must be a very painful life — you have 
 to witness daily so much suffering." 
 
 The lady in question looked comfortable 
 in spite of it, and only simpered in answ^er. 
 A smilcj she knew, was safer than words. 
 It was a relief to her when the committee 
 arrived in two broughams, with their secre- 
 tary and clerk behind them in a hansom 
 cab. And seeing this procession from the 
 window she hurried away to meet them in 
 the hall with due deference and respect. 
 
 Amazement, not unmingled with uneasi- 
 ness, sat on the elderly countenances of the 
 committee, as they listened to Miss Paring's 
 statement. 
 
 What did it mean? Was this wadow 
 going to make a fuss — a public fuss ? Was 
 she going to cast stones at the institution, 
 and disparage the merits of St. Cecilia? 
 What was her reason for taking her child 
 away ? 
 
 Miss Paring most judiciously knew of 
 none, and then with a little bow and a 
 deferential smile she opened the door of the
 
 Forgotten Lives. 45 
 
 haDdsome board-room, and the old gentle- 
 men filed in, and tlie secretary and clerk, 
 with books beneath their arms, followed 
 humbly. 
 
 There was an odd feeling, an uncomfort- 
 able feeling among them all, as the}^ took 
 their seats round the shining mahogany 
 table. Mr. Mordue's bloodshot, wicked old 
 eyes rolled about seeking for a victim, and 
 Mr. Crank's bard eyes glared at Mr. Scrattle, 
 the secretary, till that individual felt as if 
 he were a shrimp just going to have his head 
 pulled off. As if to save himself from exe- 
 cution he opened his books, and dipped his 
 pen meekly in the ink. 
 
 " Stop ! " said Mr. Crank, the chairman. 
 " We'll finish this business first, and go into 
 the accounts afterwards, Mr. Scrattle." 
 
 "Certainly, sir," returned Mr. Scrattle, 
 withdrawing his pen with such hurried de- 
 ference that a great blot of ink fell upon the 
 ledger. 
 
 Mr. Mordue's bloodshot eyes fastened on 
 him instantly. Thiey had found their 
 victim. 
 
 " What do you mean, sir, by such slovenly 
 carelessness ?" he thundered out. 
 
 With his ears very red, Mr. Scrattle bent
 
 46 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 forward, licked up the ink, and swallowed it. 
 Having imposed this penance on him, Mr. 
 Mordue seemed relieved, his pink eyes 
 twinkled, and his wrinkled eyelids relaxed a 
 little of their grim tension. 
 
 " Now about the child," said Mr. Partlet, 
 the kind-hearted member of the committee; 
 ** who is she?" 
 
 " Why, she is the niece of Miss Carteret, 
 the old maid who furnished a stall at the 
 last bazaar with contributions from her 
 friends, and took a hundred pounds at it, 
 which she paid over to us to take the child ; 
 that's who it is," observed Mr. Pardew, the 
 religious member, a man with filmy eyes, 
 thick lips, and parboiled countenance. 
 
 " Ah ! " returned Mr. Crank, " I remem- 
 ber all about it now. Whether the child 
 remains or not, there can be no question about 
 the money; that belongs to the institution, 
 gentlemen." 
 
 " Certainly. Without doubt," echoed the 
 committee. 
 
 " And if this — this lady has anything to 
 say against St. Cecilia's, we shall know how 
 to defend the institution — a noble charitable 
 institution, gentlemen — against the — the at- 
 tacks of — of slander and malice."
 
 Forgotten Lives. 47 
 
 Mr. CraDk was a little hard to move this 
 morning; his organs of speech wanted 
 oiling ; words did not come to him in fluent 
 ease as he spoke. 
 
 " Hear, hear, hear ! " said all the com- 
 mittee. 
 
 Mr. Scrattle ventured to smile, but Mr. 
 Mordue's eyes fixed him instantly, and sub- 
 dued him into abject seriousness. The 
 sickly clerk kept an unmoved countenance. 
 He was too poor to presume on showing 
 sympathy. He was there as a copying- 
 machine, not as a human* being; therefore 
 any show of human nature would be an im- 
 pertinence. 
 
 " Desire Miss Paring to admit Mrs. Car- 
 teret," said Mr. Crank, looking vaguely at 
 Mr. Scrattle, with a little furtive uneasiness 
 still blinking in his worldly old eyes. 
 
 The secretary obeyed, and meanwhile the 
 committee settled themselves in their chairs, 
 and blew their noses, and wondered dimly 
 each to himself whether the public, in the 
 shape of this weak widow woman, was at 
 last about to insert a wedge into the fabric 
 of St. Cecilia, and shake it about their ears. 
 But they hid this uneasiness each from the 
 other; they would not even whisper of it
 
 48 Forgotten L 
 
 ives. 
 
 together. They liked to go on in their old 
 grooves, and keep things quiet and com- 
 fortable — for themselves. It would be a 
 horrible upsetting of ancient customs even 
 to speak of the steam-hammer of change 
 touching them, much less crushing them 
 into a heap, and through the hand of a 
 woman, too ! 
 
 Mrs. Carteret entered, leading Rose by 
 the hand, and unconscious of their thoughts 
 she advanced to the table and took the seat 
 Mr. Partlet placed for her. Her rare beauty 
 and that curious air of calmness and of 
 power which had subdued Miss Paring, had 
 a still greater influence here, as for a moment 
 she sat silent, gracious, and lovely as some 
 soft flower, which yet holds within its petals 
 a potent essence — a spell to subdue and 
 soothe. Mr. Crank modulates his harsh 
 voice, and bends forward politely, as he 
 
 " May I ask, madam, your reasons for re- 
 moving your daughter so abruptly from St. 
 Cecilia's ?" 
 
 " Have you any complaint to make against 
 the institution ?" puts in Mr. Mordue as 
 severely as he can possibly venture to speak. 
 
 " She cannot do this ancient and honour-
 
 Forgotten Lives, 49 
 
 able charity any injury by lier complaints," 
 observes Mr. Scrattle, speaking like a yearly 
 report ; " it is too deeply founded in the pub- 
 lic esteem." 
 
 " Perhaps you'll keep your remarks, sir, 
 till they are required of you," returns Mr. 
 Mordue, fiercely glad that he can vent his 
 rage on some one. 
 
 "Quite so, sir," replies the discomfited 
 Mr. Scrattle, dipping his pen once more 
 wildly in the ink. 
 
 Mrs. Carteret listened to this little inter- 
 lude with desponding thoughts assailing her 
 own mind. Since entering the board-room 
 her resolves had chancred. It was one thino: 
 to speak frankly to a woman of the discom- 
 forts and needs of sickly girls ; it was quite 
 another to discuss such subjects with a 
 group of men, all strangers to her, all hard 
 and prejudiced, and all interested in disbe- 
 lieving her. She felt that she stood alone 
 here, the only woman present, without sym- 
 pathy, without support, without a chance 
 even of being understood. How, then, 
 could she touch on delicate themes regard- 
 ing girlhood and womanhood with these 
 hard men, whose ignorance of woman, 
 whose beliefs, and, above all, whoj>e self- 
 
 YOL. 1. 4
 
 50 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 interest would make them as adamant to 
 her appeal? It is too much to expect of 
 these old bloated giants of custom, that they 
 will themselves acknowledge they deserve to 
 be knocked down. 
 
 " I cannot fight ogres alone," said Mrs. 
 Carteret to herself. *' I cannot shake down 
 this mountain of evil with my unassisted 
 hand. Above all, I cannot trample on the 
 instincts of my sex. These men must go 
 on in their old grooves ; this crowd of 
 wretched girls must continue to suffer : 
 there is no help for it as things are." 
 
 Thus Mrs. Carteret's resolves fell down, 
 thus her courage melted away. And she 
 acted as nearly all women would act in her 
 place. A thousand shrinking instincts 
 stand about a woman guarding her soul. 
 How can she throw these down, even in a 
 rit^hteous cause ? Is it fair to her to de- 
 mand the destruction of some innate and 
 cherished modesty before a disease of hers 
 can be cured or a wrong redressed ? And 
 this because man has thrust himself into 
 every womanly occupation in which money 
 can be got, from midwifery down to hair- 
 (Iressing. Therefore between her and jus- 
 tice and right there always stands this male
 
 Forgotten Lives. 51 
 
 barrier, interested in keeping her helpless, 
 ignorant, and poor, frightened and weak. 
 
 Such a barrier was this committee of 
 men before whom Mrs. Carteret now stood, 
 feeling she could neither speak out, nor be 
 quite silent. If one woman — only one — 
 had sat in that committee, what a difference 
 it would have made to the lives of four hun- 
 dred girls ! 
 
 " I knew nothing of St. Cecilia's when I 
 too hastily consented to mj^ daughter being 
 sent here by a relative," says Mrs. Carteret 
 in a voice slightly unstead3^ " I imagined 
 it was a sort of female college where girls 
 were really educated and properly fed " 
 
 " And so they are, ma'am," interposed 
 Mr. Pardew ; '' good sound religious instruc- 
 tion, and good plain food. Eh, gentlemen?" 
 
 " Decidedly," returned the couimittee. 
 
 " A college, eh ?" sneers Mr. Crank. 
 
 Mr. Scrattle titters in the most scornful 
 manner, and, meeting w4th no discourage- 
 ment, beams with delight that he has at last 
 pleased his patrons. 
 
 " I do not consider that to know the Eng- 
 lish Church catechism, to mark a sampler, 
 and to hem a duster is education," replies 
 Mrs. Carteret. ''' In Switzerland, in Ger-, 
 
 4—2 
 
 ^^\'^1\{%\V< OF
 
 52 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 many, in France, for five francs a month, I 
 can give my child a useful and true educa- 
 tion, imparted by competent certificated 
 teachers. God forbid I should lay the sin 
 upon my conscience of leaving her here, 
 while I have the power of giving her better 
 instruction !" 
 
 " You are quite in the right, ma'am," 
 said Mr. Partlet. " I should do the same 
 myself" 
 
 " Nor is this my only reason," continued 
 Mrs. Carteret, laying Barbara's photograph 
 on the table. " In this portrait of a girl 
 who has been five years under St. Cecilia's 
 care you may recognise, gentlemen, the 
 cause of my hurried journey, my dismay, 
 and my resolve to save my own child from 
 ever wearing such an aspect as that." 
 
 The picture speaks in a dumb, painful 
 way to the heart, but the committee ignore 
 its language : they glance at it cursorily and 
 fling it down with contempt. 
 
 " Very extraordinary," observes Mr. Mor- 
 due fiercely. " Pray how did you get this 
 portrait ?" 
 
 *' My daughter sent it to me." 
 
 " Barbara gave it to me," interposes Eose, 
 flushing deeply.
 
 Forgotten Lives, 53 
 
 "Miss Lethbridge, my dear?" asks Mr. 
 Mordue sweetly, with his flabby hand on the 
 child's head. " And did she give it to you 
 to send to your mamma ?" 
 
 *' I don't know — I think so," stammered 
 Eose, a little frightened. 
 
 "Mr. Scrattle, will you have the goodness 
 to make a note of that ?" and Mr. Mordue 
 shuts his lips, and looks up piously as 
 though he had just bestowed a blessing. 
 
 Mr. Scrattle makes the required note, and 
 puts his pen behind his ear again in a busi- 
 ness-like way. 
 
 " Then I am to understand," said Mr. 
 Crank, the chairman, ignoring Barbara's por- 
 trait altogether, " that family reasons, com- 
 bined with the fact of your being able to give 
 your daughter educational advantages in 
 Switzerland, are the causes of your removing 
 her from this institution ?" 
 
 A gulp rose in Mrs. Carteret's throat as 
 she bowed her head in assent. She felt she 
 was not acting bravely, she knew she was 
 smoothing over again the thin ice which 
 covered all the ugliness at St. Cecilia's. She 
 saw, too, this unspoken assent of hers to the 
 colouring they had given to her action freed 
 them from reproach, and restored them to
 
 •54 Fovgoiten Lives. 
 
 their old security. Yet she could do no 
 other. Looking them in the face with her 
 dark grey eyes, she measured them all, and 
 felt that unless she trampled down every 
 instinct of womanhood, and stood before 
 them coarse and hard as they, she could not 
 in outspoken words lay before them all the 
 wrongs, all the sufferings of this pale horde 
 of girls over whom they reigned, ignorant 
 and heedless of their miseries. 
 
 " Mr. Scrattle, you observed, I presume, 
 Mrs. Carteret's words ?" 
 
 Mrs. Carteret had said nothing, but: the 
 obedient secretary entered the chairman's 
 own words in the minute-book among the 
 " Causes of Eemoval of Orphans from the 
 Sacred Institution of St. Cecilia." 
 
 Then he read out the paragraph in a pom- 
 pous tone, and the sickly clerk, with light 
 blue eyes fixed vaguely on him, copied it 
 slowly, repeating it all the while. 
 
 With a flush upon her face Mrs. Carteret 
 rises as this lie is written down, and asks in 
 a low voice if the money Miss Carteret has 
 paid to the institution cannot be refunded to 
 her. 
 
 " Certainly not !" exclaimed Mr. Crank 
 with indignation.
 
 Forgotten Lives. 55 
 
 Then she thinks within herself, there may 
 be some widows poor and miserable enough 
 to be glad even of this refuge for their chil- 
 dren, and in a still lower voice she asks if 
 some other orphan may not be allowed to 
 benefit by the sum which secured for Eose 
 the place she is now relinquishing. 
 
 " The money is forfeited, ma'am, to the 
 institution — forfeited by your own deed," 
 says Mr. Crank severely. 
 
 The committee were all in their old grooves 
 DOW, settled down comfortably again, with 
 no thought of earthquakes about them, or 
 cracks in the smooth ice, through which 
 they might fall suddenly. So they were 
 unanimously of the chairman's opinion ; 
 there was no doubt about the matter ; they 
 could even afford to smile at the lady's sim- 
 plicity in asking the question. 
 
 She uttered no expostulation. She would 
 have been sorrier to hear that her hand had 
 placed some other poor orphan at St. Cecilia's 
 than she was to hear the money was lost. 
 
 She bowed to them all without a smile 
 upon her face, and although thej^ had ap- 
 parently triumphed, there was not a potter- 
 ing old gentleman among them, who did not 
 draw a lighter breath when her white hand
 
 56 Forgotten Lives, 
 
 closed the door and her soft presence vanished 
 from their sight. 
 
 They had listened to the words she had 
 spoken with their ears, but maybe they 
 heard in their hearts the words she had re- 
 pressed. 
 
 As Mrs. Carteret and Eose went down 
 the stone corridor, they passed the open door 
 of the dining-hall. The girls were at din- 
 ner. The long rows of pale sickly faces 
 wore a wan and weary look pitiful to see. 
 
 It was evident few had healthy appetites, 
 few cared to touch the portion of boiled meat 
 and bread laid before them. There were no 
 vegetables, not even a potato — vegetables 
 were never allowed at St. Cecilia's. A change 
 of diet was as inadmissible as tablecloths, 
 or any other comfort or refinement. 
 
 Seeing Eose and her mother stand a mo- 
 ment at the door, Barbara left her place, and 
 came to them. Then Mrs. Carteret took 
 her hand and looked in her face pityingly. 
 
 " I wish I could repay you for your kind- 
 ness to Eose," she said. " Is there anything 
 I can do?" 
 
 *' I fear not," said Barbara, with her 
 patient smile, " unless you can give me the 
 hope of meeting you again one day."
 
 Tor gotten Lives, 57 
 
 ''That would be a pleasant hope/' re- 
 turned Mrs. Carteret ; " but I am going so 
 far away, while you, I suppose, are obliged 
 to remain here." 
 
 " No ; I leave this place in a few days. I 
 have been in it nearly five years." 
 
 She finished her words with a weary sigh, 
 but in another instant she turned cheerfully 
 towards the crowd of girls who pressed 
 round Eose with envious wistful looks, say- 
 ing good-bye in depressed voices, and giving 
 her kisses from little pinched blue lips. 
 
 Eose responds to these farewells but care- 
 lessly, for she is too happy at her own re- 
 lease to be very sorrowful for those left in 
 prison. 
 
 " I mean to forget this horrid place now," 
 she whispers to Barbara, " and everything 
 and everybody in it but you. I shall write 
 to you directly we get home." 
 
 Nevertheless as she drives away for ever 
 
 from St. Cecilia's, Barbara, watching from 
 
 the window to catch the last glimpse of her 
 
 sunny face, says to herself quietly, " I do 
 
 not think I shall ever see her again." 
 * « * * 
 
 Now it happened, unluckily for Miss Min- 
 shell, that the gentlemen of the committee
 
 58 'Forgotten Lives. 
 
 were decidedly ruffled, and their " milk of 
 human kindness" was slightly soured, by 
 their interview with Mrs. Carteret, hence 
 when Miss Paring led the young lady to 
 the board-room and announced her as the 
 only invalid in the establishment that day, 
 there was a lack of interest in her languid 
 state, and no one looked on her with a 
 kindly eye but Mr. Partlet. 
 
 The table of the board-room was garnished 
 with wine and fruit, cake and sandwiches, 
 and as Emily Minshell's eyes fell ogreishly 
 on these dainties, unutterable thoughts 
 swelled her bosom. She passed over the 
 horrible phial and glass in Mr. Partlet's 
 hand to taste in imagination the reward of 
 her deceit. 
 
 " Now then, my dear, drink this," said 
 Mr. Partlet with beaming kindness, handing 
 her the dreadful goblet as if it were nectar, 
 " and I'll give you something nice to take 
 after it." 
 
 The promise was consoling, and grasping 
 the glass with a shudder, Miss Minshell 
 looked round upon her audience with a dis- 
 mal smile. Mr. Scrattle began to be inte- 
 rested, and the clerk positively gasped when 
 the young lady desperately swallowed the
 
 Forgotten Lives. 59 
 
 mixture, and held out her hand blindly for 
 something good. Mr. Partlet instantly sepa- 
 rated a bunch of grapes, but the fierce Mr. 
 Mordue cried out " Ko" in a stentorian 
 voice, and Mr. Crank with a sneer asked if 
 he meant to kill the girl. 
 
 " Here, my dear," he said, " this is the 
 right sort of thing to give you. This will 
 do no harm." 
 
 And producing a paper-bag from his 
 pocket, the hard-hearted Mr. Crank took 
 thence a small drj^ biscuit, which he placed 
 in Miss Minsheli's expectant palm. The 
 disappointment was bitter, and her poor 
 greedy, hungry ej^es filled up with exas]3e- 
 rated tears. She shook silently with rage, 
 and yet swallowed the dry morsel with a 
 little slavish smile and curtsey. 
 
 Then the committee dismissed her care- 
 lessly. What was it to them ? They had 
 cake and wine every day. And turning 
 round at the door to perform that last 
 modest genuflexion which old English 
 manners demanded, she saw the fierce Mr. 
 Mordue -help himself to grapes, and the 
 hard Mr. Crank insert a huge piece of cake 
 between his capacious jaws. This filled up 
 the measure of her grief, and a burst of
 
 60 "For gotten Lives, 
 
 indignant misery, a howl of anguish, was 
 heard as the door closed. 
 
 " A little overcome," said Mr. Partlet. 
 But the other gentlemen were di inking 
 wine, and made no remark. 
 
 " Well ?'* cried the girls, crowding round 
 Emily as she burst into the playground. 
 " What was it ? What did you get ?" 
 
 " A beastly bit of dry biscuit ! " she 
 shrieked out, choking with tears. 
 
 " What a shame !" exclaimed the in- 
 dignant crowd. " The greedy old things l'* 
 
 " The old molly-caudles!" shrieked Emily 
 again, flinging all her rage into her voice. 
 " The old gluttons ! And they had cake, 
 and wine, and grapes, and splendid sand- 
 wiches on the table." 
 
 " The greedy old things !" repeated the 
 girls with immense disgust. " How mean 
 of them !" 
 
 " And I took the horrid medicine," con- 
 tinued the wretched Miss Minshell. " And 
 I feel so ill !" 
 
 Shedding dismal tears of repentance, she 
 leaned her head against the brick wall for 
 comfort. 
 
 " The old hypocrites ! " she said. " I 
 should like them to have our dinners for a
 
 Forgotten Lives, 61 
 
 month. I should like to see their girls 
 dressed up the objects we are. Oh, oh ! I 
 wish I was dead !" 
 
 And finding no consolation in the brick 
 wall, she subsided downwards to the gravel, 
 and sat there with her head upon her knees, 
 full of sulky longings for revenge, and ugly 
 dreams of fulfilling them. 
 
 Let no one be astonished that the com- 
 mittee physicked the sick girls. They were 
 just as competent to judge of their ailments, 
 and prescribe for them, as they were to judge 
 of their dress. At all events, they did so 
 prescribe, and the fact is not set down in 
 malice.
 
 CHAPTEE lY. 
 
 ISS LETHBEIDGE, you are wanted 
 in the board- room." 
 
 A faint flush tinges Barbara's 
 face, but she lays down her work quietly, 
 and the momentary flutter of hope which 
 had warmed her cheek dies out of her heart 
 with a patient sigh. 
 
 " It is not to help me," she says with a 
 flickering smile at her own fancies ; " it is 
 only to go through the routine of a regula- 
 tion farewell, and receive a few empty good 
 wishes, given like a theatrical blessing, and 
 worth no more." 
 
 But it is no blessing which sits on the 
 lips of these four judges in Israel, and 
 Barbara starts back in amaze at the thunder 
 of Mr. Crank's voice as he bids her draw 
 near the table. Seated by his side with a 
 swollen blubbering face, and regaling herself 
 with wine and tears, is Miss Min shell. She 
 has taken her revenge — a safe one for her-
 
 Forgotten Lives, 63 
 
 self, for it has fallen upon Barbara — and 
 the reward of the informer is sweet to 
 her lips. 
 
 " Is this your portrait ?" asks Mr. Mor- 
 due. 
 
 " Yes," Barbara answers with quiet wonder 
 in her eyes. 
 
 " And you sent it to a lady with the 
 treacherous purpose of prejudicing her 
 agrainst this — this excellent institution ?" 
 broke in Mr. Pardew with stuttering indig- 
 nation. 
 
 " Xo, sir, indeed I did not !" said Barbara. 
 
 " I say you did !" cried Mr. Pardew, 
 growing purple, his righteous wrath and his 
 words so fighting in his throat that both 
 together nearly choked him. " I say you 
 conspired, with that foolish girl just gone, 
 to work on the fears of her mother by a 
 sight of this plain, hollow-cheeked face of 
 yours. And you have tried to cast a slur 
 on — on the asylum that succoured you. 
 You have endeavoured to dam — damas^e it 
 in the public estimation." 
 
 In a helpless state of stuttering Mr. Par- 
 dew now leaned back in his chair, unable to 
 express his rage except by swallowing sherry 
 in indignant gulps. Thus Mr. Crank took
 
 64 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 up the word, addressing the perplexed and 
 frightened Barbara with an attempt at 
 smoothness in his harsh voice, making it 
 sound like a grating hinge badly oiled. 
 
 '' You have shown yourself treacherous 
 and ungrateful," he said, "and unworthy of 
 the blessings of this institution ; therefore, 
 by the unanimous vote of the committee, 
 you are expelled." 
 
 '' Not unanimous/' observed Mr. Partlet. 
 
 " A minority of one counts for nothing. 
 You are commanded, Miss Lethbridge, to 
 quit St. Cecilia's at once without the delay 
 of an hour." 
 
 " Stay !" said Mr. Partlet. '' You must 
 let her hear the evidence, and give her a 
 chance of defending herself. We agreed on 
 that, gentlemen, you will remember." 
 
 " Eise up and speak, my dear, if your 
 feelings will permit you," said Mr. Crank 
 sweetly to Miss Minshell. 
 
 Thus adjured, that young lady tottered 
 to her feet in an hysterical condition, and 
 poured forth her story in hurried words ; 
 and now Barbara heard her conversation 
 with Eose repeated in a distorted and en- 
 venomed shape. 
 
 So this was the form Miss MinshelFs
 
 Forgotten Lives, 65 
 
 revenge liad taken ! Burning to do some 
 spiteful act to relieve lier thirst for vengeance, 
 she had turned informer, and found her re- 
 ward in something sweeter than dry biscuit. 
 Barbara listened with a wonder that took 
 away her breath, for hers was a nature that 
 in its depths of clearness could never mirror 
 or comprehend a meanness. And then re- 
 covering her self-possession she told the un- 
 varnished truth with patient dignity ; but 
 she was the accused, and the accused always 
 stands in an ignoble light ; it is the accuser 
 who has the advantage of the world's sun- 
 shine. 
 
 " I gave my photograph as a simple pre- 
 sent," said Barbara, '' and I never thought 
 of its being used as a means to induce Mrs. 
 Carteret to remove her daughter from the 
 asylum. I did not know my picture was so 
 frightful," added the girl simply. 
 
 Mr. Crank smiled, and, catching Emily's 
 sharp eyes, helped her to some more cake. 
 
 " Your defence is worthless," said the 
 fierce Mr. Mordue, " and the sooner you 
 relieve us of your presence the better." 
 
 " And considering the circumstances under 
 which you leave," interposed Mr. Crank 
 with his hand paternally resting on Miss 
 
 VOL. I. 5
 
 66 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 Minshell's bare shoulder, " the committee 
 have resolved not to present you with the 
 Bible usually given to pupils on their de- 
 parture." 
 
 Tear-blinded, Barbara turned away, hear- 
 ing their angry words with a giddy sense 
 of misery and pain new to her, even amid 
 all the blank, dull, dead pain of her forlorn 
 life. Mechanically she bent her head, and 
 murmured a few inarticulate words of fare- 
 well. She did not try again to clear herself 
 of the charges brought against her, but 
 went away proudly with patience and 
 dignity on her sad face. All the men's 
 eyes were fixed on her when she reached the 
 door, and each one felt his heart beat the 
 quicker as her great grey eyes rested on 
 them a moment steadily. 
 
 " An unfathomable girl," said Mr. Crank 
 as she disappeared — " a girl capable of taking 
 a sharp vengeance on anj'- one she hates. I 
 never saw such a daring look.'* 
 
 Barbara did not hear his words, and as 
 she closed the door, shutting out their hard 
 faces from her sight, she felt the whole 
 world a wilderness, and herself a leaf flung 
 down to wither and die. 
 
 On the big stone staircase, as she went
 
 Forgotten Lives. 67 
 
 up forlorDlv, she met Miss Paring, who 
 caught her by the hand and cried out with 
 tears that it was a shame 1 
 
 " That little Minshell is a perfect ferret," 
 she said, lowering her voice. " She would 
 pick one's eyes out in the dark if she 
 could." 
 
 Barbara was too heavy-hearted to answer 
 her, and seeing this, Miss Paring walked on 
 by her side, pitiful, but yet fearful that her 
 pity should be seen by others. She had to 
 go with the stream, or be tossed out upon 
 the bank, and she was too poor to risk that. 
 
 " Come into my room," she whispered, 
 " and dress yourself there. In the dormi- 
 tory you'd have a crowd of girls around you, 
 all mad with curiosity." 
 
 Barbara was glad of this escape, and 
 thanked her softly with a broken voice. 
 
 " I am sorry Eose Carteret has brought 
 this trouble on you," said Miss Paring, 
 searching in her pocket for the key of her 
 room. " She is a selfish little creature, and 
 quite spoiled. Her heart is too light to 
 have much feeling in it. She never gave a 
 thought to you — she only considered her- 
 self." 
 
 " Eose has done me no wrong," answered 
 
 5— :i
 
 68 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 Barbara ; " it is Miss MiashelFs distortion 
 of facts that lias done the harm." 
 
 " Ah, here's the key !" and with it Miss 
 Paring drew forth a letter, at sight of which 
 her face flushed and paledj and she regarded 
 Barbara with a troubled look. 
 
 " Oh, how sorry I am !" she cried. " I 
 had forgotten it altogether. This came for 
 you last night, and I went up into the 
 schoolroom on purpose to give it to you, 
 and then the lightning frightened me, and 
 thrust it entirely out of my head." 
 
 With a pale, fixed look Barbara took the 
 letter, but scarcely had slie read a line when 
 a passionate cry of anguish burst from her 
 lips. Frightened at the sound. Miss Paring 
 drew the desolate girl within her room and 
 closed the door. 
 
 " What is it ?" she said in a hushed 
 voice. 
 
 " My mother is ill — very ill. She prays 
 me to come to her instantly. Oh these 
 long hours ! — these dreadful hours that have 
 gone by ! Miss Paring, it was cruel, it was 
 terrible, to hold back my letter !" 
 
 The girl gazed at her wildly, all the 
 colour gone out of her pale, sunken cheeks, 
 and her eyes brilliant with a strange fire.
 
 Forgotten Lives. 69 
 
 Then she began tearing off her dress with 
 mad haste, her fevered fingers trembling, 
 for not even in a case of life and death must 
 an orphan walk away clothed in the St. 
 Cecilian vestments. With many contrite 
 words Miss Paring aided her to put on her 
 own poor garments, which had been sent 
 the night before in a little bundle. 
 
 " Have you money for a cab?" she said 
 hurriedly. 
 
 Barbara shook her head ; she had lost the 
 power to speak. Then Miss Paring caught 
 up the envelope of the letter, and found 
 some stamps within it. 
 
 " There are ten shillings' worth. I'll 
 change them for you." 
 
 In another moment Barbara was down- 
 stairs waiting in the bleak stone passage for 
 the cab, which seemed an hour coming. 
 At the dim end, by the dining-hall, she saw 
 girls crowding, peeping, whispering ; they 
 seemed a dream to her, so did Miss 
 Paring and Mr. Partlet, who stood near 
 her talking in a low voice. Then came 
 the sound of wheels, and Anne at the 
 door beckoning. And this was a dream 
 too. 
 
 *' Do forgive me," says Miss Paring. " I
 
 70 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 shall never forgive myself. I trust you will 
 find your mother better." 
 
 Then Mr. Partlet hurried towards her. 
 
 " I am sorry you have heard ill news, 
 but you must hope for the best." 
 
 All pretence of treating her like a culprit 
 was gone, all the hypocrisy and cant of her 
 ingratitude and treachery were swept away. 
 One touch of true human sympathy had 
 cleared their hearts. Barbara felt this, but 
 she could not answer a word ; she only turned 
 her white face upon them with a desolate 
 look, and then went swiftly to the door. 
 
 *' Here's my address," says Mr. Partlet, 
 " and if I can do anything for you I will." 
 
 Until he spoke, Barbara did not know he 
 was by her side helping her into the cab 
 kindly. He took her pale, cold hand for a 
 moment, and when he dropped it she was 
 driving away, an orphan and alone in the 
 wide world.
 
 CHAPTEE Y. 
 
 pOTT is a long way from that great 
 
 I ^ ^^^y ^^ turmoil and of many 
 wheels, where St. Cecilia rears 
 her turrets, to this stately mansion in the 
 West, lying amid solemn masses of verdure 
 and tall hills, and long lights and filmy 
 shadows, which the morning sun flings 
 upon the slopes and hollows of its grand old 
 park. 
 
 At a window in this mansion, looking out 
 upon the landscape with a lixed, hard, stony 
 look, there stands a man of some forty years, 
 handsome, careless, graceful, and yet not at 
 ease. For the very rigidity of his attitude 
 shows that it is by a strong effort of his 
 will he holds himself thus erect, and if he 
 gave way, even for a moment, he might fling 
 himself upon the ground, and grovel in the 
 agony of some great grief. 
 
 The door opens softly, and a pale, gaunt 
 woman, grey as faded ashes, looks in
 
 72 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 Tipon him, and beckons silently with hand 
 and eyes. 
 
 "Is she worse?" he says in a husky 
 voice, and a sudden flush quivers like a 
 light over his face, leaving him ghastly as 
 it fades. 
 
 " Not worse, I think," the woman answers, 
 " but restless. She wishes to see you, sir ; 
 she has sent me for you." 
 
 He hears this, and yet he lingers, he 
 walks unwillingly across the stately room, 
 and at the door hesitates again. 
 
 "I'll follow you, Deborah. Tell your 
 lad}^ 111 come to her in a moment." 
 
 "Sir, my lady wishes to see you at 
 once. I am not going back to her room at 
 present." 
 
 So there was no reprieve, and brushing by 
 the woman with a scowl upon his brow, he 
 mounts the spacious stairs with feigned 
 alacrity, and then, being out of sight, trails 
 slowly like a wounded snake, and pauses at 
 a chamber door — pauses till he scorns him- 
 self, then opens it abruptly, and stands 
 within the shadow of a silken-curtained bed, 
 upon whose lace-fringed pillow lies a white 
 and shadowy face, and a mass of golden- 
 bright hair.
 
 Forgotten Lives. 73 
 
 " You look better to-day," he says, trying 
 to make his voice firm and cheerful. 
 
 She did not answer him in words, but 
 her eyes rested on his with a steady mourn- 
 ful calm which had nothing in it of life, or 
 of hope. 
 
 " Come nearer/' she said, in a moment ; 
 *' my voice is weak. I have something to 
 say, and there is not much time." 
 
 He came and sat in a great tapestried 
 chair, placed by the bed, his arm resting on 
 the elbow, his fingers drumming carelessly 
 upon the quilt. And it happened as she 
 tossed in fever that her restless hand touched 
 his for a moment, and then drew back, and 
 lay pale as snow on her heaving chest. He 
 followed it with his eyes, a half smile — a 
 painful smile — on his lips, but he did not 
 clasp this frightened, retreating hand, or 
 change, except for that flitting smile, the 
 rigid, hard expression of his face. 
 
 " You know what is killing me," she said, 
 in a faint but clear voice ; " you know it !" 
 
 " Why do you distress yourself ? "Why 
 bring up this old theme now?" 
 
 " Because I want to know the truth — now 
 ' — before I die." 
 
 "I told you the truth long ago, but
 
 74 Forgotten Lives, 
 
 woman- like you would neither listen nor 
 believe." 
 
 The lines of his face grew harder and colder 
 as he turned away from her sad fixed gaze. 
 
 " You told me falsehoods," she said, with 
 mournful firmness ; " you never told me 
 truth." 
 
 '' What a woman is resolved not to believe, 
 that she never will," he answered coldly. 
 " You have embittered my life and your own 
 by your obstinate disbelief. You might 
 credit me, I think, now." 
 
 " How can I ?" she said, with a bitter 
 sigh. " How can I ?" 
 
 " What motive can I have to-day for 
 speaking untruly ?" he continued. " You say 
 you are dying ; well, then, you see nothing 
 could be altered between us now." 
 
 A pink flush rose up into her white face, 
 and swept even across her brow, and for a 
 moment the trembling of her lips would not 
 let her speak. 
 
 " You do not understand me," she said 
 then, very low. 
 
 He turned and looked at Jier in surprise, 
 and the contraction of his brow showed that 
 a spasm of pain was passing over his own 
 heart likewise.
 
 Forgotten Lives. 75 
 
 " Have I misunderstood you all these 
 years ?" he asked, in a bitter tone. " Are you 
 denying now at this last moment all the 
 coldness, all the bitterness, all the estrange- 
 ment you planted between us with your own 
 hand ?" 
 
 His words were cruel^ and the fever spot 
 on her worn cheeks grew brighter and 
 brighter. 
 
 " It is too late to be angry," she mur- 
 mured — " angry because I have obeyed my 
 conscience." 
 
 " No, you have obeyed your priest and 
 your suspicions. Let us cease this, Theresa ; 
 you have not strength to discuss sore sub- 
 jects now. And I have not strength for 
 them, if you have," he added with sudden 
 vehemence. 
 
 At this her eyes filled, and her hand fell 
 on his again, and she did not draw it back. 
 As for him, he neither shook the timid touch 
 from him, nor held it closer. 
 
 " I will not pain you," she said ; '' I will 
 not utter a word of reproach ; but if you 
 could understand what a consolation it would 
 be to hear the truth from your lips, surely 
 you would not withhold it." 
 
 "You women are strange creatures," he
 
 76 Forgotten Lives. "■'^' " 
 
 returned, and there was a ring of cynicism 
 and of hardness in his voice ; " so it would 
 comfort you to be told that you are a lost 
 woman, and that I am an unmitigated 
 scoundrel." 
 
 She had not clasped his hand ; she had 
 only let hers lie supinely in that contact, 
 half accidental, half voluntary, but now she 
 flung her arm back in trembling haste, and 
 the scarlet glow of a consuming fire glowed 
 upon her cheeks. 
 
 " I saw you did not understand me," she 
 murmured in faint tones. " Can you not see 
 what is killing me? If you are innocent, 
 then I am guilty. If through, these long 
 years of suffering I have mistaken my posi- 
 tion, then I have sinned against you cruelly ; 
 then indeed death only can expiate my error. 
 I am dying because I am beginning to be- 
 lieve you. I am perishing of remorse. Oh, 
 why have you not understood without all 
 these words, which kill me ?" 
 
 There was such agony in her voice, such 
 scarlet shame and pain upon her face, such 
 burning anguish in her eyes, that a heart of 
 stone might have taken pity on her. But 
 the man to whom she spoke had a heart of 
 pride, which is harder than stone, and though
 
 Forgotten Lives, 77 
 
 mercy, and compassion, and truth struggled 
 piteously for entrance to his soul, pride, the 
 older tenant, thrust them back — pride, whose 
 voice he knew, whose behests he had followed 
 all his life — pride held him now in her fierce 
 grip, and stifled cruelly the pleadings of 
 justice and pity. 
 
 Why should he humiliate himself? Why 
 should he rip up his past life with all its 
 griefs and agonies to satisfy her weak 
 scruples ? And every word he uttered would 
 go back to her priest. No ! he would not 
 do it. She should have believed him years 
 ago. She had made his life a curse by her 
 folly. She had erred — she deserved to die — • 
 let her die ! 
 
 As the cruel thoughts ran through his 
 brain he could not look upon her patient 
 face ; he shaded his eyes with his hand, as 
 if the sun hurt him, then he said coldly, 
 quietly, with no more passion in his voice 
 than in dead loves, dead hates, dead jea- 
 lousies — 
 
 *' So you see your sin now that it is too 
 late? I am sorry for you, but I cannot 
 remedy the past. Tou have shaped your 
 life and your death yourself. I cannot exo- 
 nerate you. I cannot say what you would
 
 78 Forgotten Lives, 
 
 wish me to say. I can but repeat the 
 former things which you have heard so 
 often." 
 
 Her large glassy eyes looked upon him 
 hungrily, her colour came and went, but as 
 he finished it settled into a grey deathly hue, 
 and all hope died out of her face. 
 
 " Then if all you have told me be true, I 
 have been hard and cruel indeed. I have 
 thrown away love and happiness ; I have 
 wronged you ever since that dreadful day ; 
 I have made your life bitter. It is good 
 that I should die." 
 
 He was silent a moment, then he said 
 more softly — 
 
 " Bitter indeed." 
 
 Once more her thin hand, transparent as 
 a lily's leaf, touched his, and the feeble fin- 
 gers clasped him gently. There was no 
 answering clasp on his part, but he did not 
 draw his hand away, and there was a certain 
 quivering within his stern dark eyes, a mo- 
 mentary shrinking, which showed how 
 greatly this unwonted touch of hers moved 
 his inward soul. 
 
 " You know I loved you once," she said. 
 
 " You showed it strangely," he answered. 
 And shrugging his shoulders slightly, his
 
 Forgotten Lives, 79 
 
 eyes turned on her with a bitter laugh in 
 them. 
 
 Her lips quivered, her faced flushed again. 
 " Yet it is true," she said. " When you 
 brouo-ht me hither to our home, the wife of 
 a month, I ran up the stairs to this room 
 with a heart so light and happy, so full of 
 love for you, so full of joy, that I thought 
 the world a paradise. Yet in a little while 
 there was nothing left to me but ashes." 
 
 "And by whose fault, Theresa? You 
 permitted yourself to be the dupe of my 
 bitterest enemy. He spread a net for you, 
 and you fell into it. But of what use is this 
 distressing retrospect ? AYe have inhabited 
 the same house, we have kept up appearances 
 before the world ; let us do so to the last. 
 Do not let any weakness, any want of courage 
 now be the means of flinging our names to 
 the hell-hounds of slander." 
 
 He spoke strongly ; when pride moved 
 him he always spoke strongly, but the hard 
 words made his wife's heart quiver. She 
 was to die in silence, as she had lived, that 
 w^as all he cared for. Let this secret crime, 
 if there was a crime, perish with her, and he 
 would not grieve for her death. These were 
 his commands. She was to die decently;
 
 80 Forgotten Lives, 
 
 there was to be no scene, no agitation, no 
 confession; his heart was shut up still, so 
 was hers ; all was to be covered up in her 
 grave, and a marble lie was to deceive the 
 world still by recording his love and his 
 sorrow. 
 
 It was an exceeding bitter cup, yet she 
 tried to drink it uncomplainingly ; but 
 nature was too strong, the fibres of life about 
 her heart still bled. 
 
 " I have had courage," she said — '' super- 
 human courage. You can witness for me 
 that neither to my mother while she lived, 
 nor to sister or brother, have T ever breathed 
 a word of this sad mystery. Pray for me 
 that in dying I may be equally silent. I 
 shrink, 1 am afraid ; life — life is dear." 
 
 Her voice broke, and from her closed eyes 
 there welled forth a few tears, which love 
 and life gave silently to death. Was he 
 hard still, or was it his hidden anguish 
 which forced him to dissemble, lest nature, 
 too, in him should show the trembling of the 
 flesh? 
 
 " I do not fear for your courage," he re- 
 plied — " you have been brave always. Yes, 
 I can witness to the resolution and firmness 
 with which you have wrecked my life and
 
 Forgotten Lives. 81 
 
 your own. Have you said all you wish 
 to say ? If not, I am still at your com- 
 mands." 
 
 She passed her fragile hand across her 
 eyes, and wiped the tears away. 
 
 " My will," she said, tremulously. " I 
 wished to tell you what I had done if you 
 would let me." 
 
 " Do what you like," he answered. " I 
 shall never touch your dowry ; it will go 
 back to your own fauiily." 
 
 *'No," she said; " all that I could dispose 
 of I have given to lier — you know whom I 
 mean." 
 
 For a moment he looked in her face with 
 a pretence of not understanding her words, 
 but he could not keep this pretence long, 
 and a dark expression of anger and hatred 
 swept over his features. 
 
 *' It is a madness, a folly past speech, to 
 make such a will," he said passionately. 
 " Do you know it must be proved, which 
 means, in reality, made public, and every 
 idiot with a shilling in his pocket can 
 read it." 
 
 She wrung her hands together, and looked 
 at him imploringly. 
 
 '' Tor justice sake," she murmured i " I 
 VOL, J. 6
 
 82 'Forgotten Lives. 
 
 must do justice. How can I die bappy with 
 this horror on my heart ?" 
 
 " Such a will would drive me from the 
 kingdom," he continued, not heeding her, 
 and growing harder and colder as he went 
 on. " Is not a marriage such as ours has 
 been injury enough? Why seek to exile 
 me ? That ruthless villain has striven for 
 years to drive me from the country, and 
 yoa, it seems, are resolved to aid him." 
 
 "No, no," she said faintly. 
 
 "I tell you yes, but he shall not succeed. 
 Your will is worthless. A wife cannot 
 make a will without her husband's concur- 
 rence and consent. I shall destroy it, as I 
 would a blank piece of paper ; I warn you 
 candidly." 
 
 There was a moment's silence, a silence 
 into which the sound of his breath came 
 heavily, and hers quick, faint, and laboured. 
 
 " I thought, under my settlement, I had 
 power to make a will," she said meekly. 
 
 " You are wrong. You have no such 
 power. Who was your lawyer?" he said 
 abruptly, fiercely. 
 
 " I had none. I thought you would not 
 like me to speak to — to any one about this, 
 so I drew up a will myself — just a few
 
 Forgotten Lives, 83 
 
 simple words — and Deborah and another 
 servant witnessed it." 
 
 He smiled contemptuously as he listened, 
 and the rigid contraction of his brow re- 
 laxed. 
 
 "You might have spared yourself the 
 trouble. The will of a married woman 
 made without her husband's consent is a 
 nullity. I advise you to destroy such a 
 useless document." 
 
 " And if I am not married, will my will 
 stand?" she said with sudden vehemence. 
 " Can I do what is just then ?" 
 
 The unexpected question, or the strange 
 strength of her voice, startled bim, and he 
 grew pale to the lips. 
 
 "Will you touch on that madness now 
 after declaring you believed me ?" he asked 
 soothingly. " And as for your will, let me 
 know what your wishes are, and they shall 
 be fulfilled as far as it is possible to fulfil 
 them. I have said I will not touch your 
 money ; let your brother have it. I consent 
 to your so devising your property, and a 
 will made with my consent will be legal. 
 I will arrange this for you at once." 
 
 He was strangely anxious to oblige her 
 in this matter. Hard in other things, in 
 
 6—2
 
 84 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 this he seemed desirous to make amends. 
 But he was deahng with one whose con- 
 science was alarmed, and whose soul, stand- 
 ing on the border-land, saw the things of 
 this world more clearly than he could be- 
 hold them. 
 
 " I entreat you to consent to the will I 
 have made," she said with forced calmness ; 
 " I can make no other. My brother has no 
 need of the poor fortune I could give him. 
 I thank you, but I cannot do as you 
 sugs^est." 
 
 His eyes grew dark and burning, but the 
 anger which raged within him found no 
 vent in words ; he knew them useless. This 
 was not the first time that the quiet firm- 
 ness, the meek resolution, which seemed a 
 reed or a broken flower, and was, in truth, 
 a wall, had been opposed to his wilL It 
 had known how to stand against his love ; 
 it was not likely to fall before his hate. 
 
 " I shall have the settlement looked at," 
 he said coldly. " If it gives you no power 
 of appointment, then you cannot devise 
 your property without my consent, and I 
 will never aid you to fling your name and 
 mine to all the four winds that blow ! No ! 
 we have kept our misery secret in life — it
 
 For got ten Lives, 85 
 
 shall not be ripped up after death, either on 
 your grave or on mine." 
 
 She was silent ; she seemed faint, and 
 stretched out her hand for water, which 
 stood OD a table by the bed. He aided her 
 gently, politely, but without tenderness, 
 without even kindness. Then he waited for 
 her to speak, and, seeing her still silent, he 
 said gravely — 
 
 " Theresa, this is serious ; you must yield 
 til is point." 
 
 "No, I cannot. If I possess the legal 
 power to do justice I shall use it. Perhaps 
 she is poor and wretched, suffering for our 
 sin. Will you ask me to die thinking so, 
 and knowing I had not tried, to succour 
 her ?" 
 
 He looked at her in a moody way, with, 
 his hand upon his forehead, and teeth set 
 firmly together. 
 
 " I would ask 3^ou," he said, *' before 
 sacrificing my honour to a chimera and a 
 myth, to pause and bethink yourself whether 
 you have not injured me enough already. 
 Perhaps the way in which yoa have per- 
 formed a wife's duties comforts you now. I 
 cannot tell, but I should think you would 
 not die the happier for leaving a fresh
 
 :86 Forgotten Lives, 
 
 harvest of bitterness and shame to be reaped 
 when you are gone." 
 
 " No," she said mournfully ; " there has 
 been pain enough between you and me. I 
 would not leave you any legacy of new 
 sorrow. But surely the injunctions of ray 
 will could be carried out secretly ?" 
 
 " You are mad to think so," he answered ; 
 and walking away from the bedside he went 
 to the hearth, where he stood and leaned 
 his arm upon the mantelpiece, and looked 
 down into the fire with a strange and 
 stormy look. 
 
 Was it the accent of his last words, or 
 the words themselves, that brought such a 
 burning colour to her face ? 
 
 " Then she exists !" she cried eagerly. 
 " The whole story is true — she exists !" 
 
 He looked up with impatient moodiness. 
 
 " What a folly is this !" he said sternly, 
 " A few moments ago you affirmed that you 
 believed at last my repeated assurances to 
 the contrary ; now, merely because I say 
 your will is a madness, you fling yourself 
 back upon the obstinate misery that has 
 racked your life and mine. You imagine, 
 I suppose, that in objecting to your insane 
 wish respecting your property I am contra-
 
 Forgotten Lives. 87 
 
 dieting myself, and acknowledging the exist- 
 ence of this — this creature /" 
 
 " Yes," she said excitedly. 
 
 " Then undeceive yourself ; she is dead, 
 and therefore your will is a madness. Do 
 you understand me perfectly now ? Is it a 
 madness or not to make the world gape, and 
 stare, and wonder over our history ? Is it a 
 madness or not to set lawyers searching 
 for wretches who are in their graves, and 
 children who do not exist ? Once more, I 
 repeat, your will is a nullity ; it was made 
 without my consent and concurrence. 1 
 withhold both. I do this for your own sake. 
 Little as you have considered your duties 
 as a wife, I do not forget that I am bound 
 to protect your name and fame. I will spare 
 you, though you will not spare yourself 
 
 He spoke with vehemence, and she uttered 
 not a word in answer, but neither did she 
 remove her fixed, sorrowful gaze from his 
 hard, proud face ; hers was covered with a 
 deep flush, which, when it faded, left her 
 snow-white, even to the lips. Looking up 
 hurriedly, with his teeth upon his nether 
 lip, he saw her sad gaze and her deathly 
 paleness, and he stepped hastily to the 
 bedside.
 
 88 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 " I have no wish to distress 3^ou — npon 
 my word I have not. You may consult any 
 lawyer you like — I don't care who it is. 
 Ask him the simple question whether a 
 married woman has power to make a will — 
 that's all. But you are tired ; we'll talk no 
 more. Shall I ring for Deborah ?" 
 
 " No, no ! One word more. If — if I 
 have done wrong, do you forgive me ?" 
 
 She had caught his hand, and strained 
 him towards her with a passionate but feeble 
 strength. He leant over her pillow, but he 
 did not touch her cheek, though his face 
 bent near to hers. 
 
 " We forgive all things in death," he said 
 sadly. '' We have finished with the past 
 then." 
 
 " I have been the victim of a cruel decep- 
 tion," she returned, very low. " You know 
 how firmly I believed the message so mys- 
 teriously sent — how surely I was convinced 
 of its truth. Do not judge me hardly. You 
 see that even now I float between belief 
 and disbelief. The last kills me — kills 
 me with remorse ; the first shames 
 me." 
 
 He was moved at last ; his lips shook 
 with a scarce perceptible trembling; his
 
 Forgotten Lives. 89 
 
 hand returned involuntarily the feverish 
 pressure of hers. 
 
 " And my enemy has done this ! I 
 can forgive you, but not him," he said. 
 *' Theresa, I repeat solemnly, it was a lie ! 
 We had high words, that poor creature and 
 I, and we parted. She died before I had 
 even said to you, ' I love you.' " 
 
 These three last w^ords brought a burn- 
 ing colour to his wife's face — a vivid blush 
 covering cheeks and neck, and her eyelids 
 quivered and her lip shook. 
 
 " Then may Heaven forgive me my hard- 
 ness of belief," she said, " for, acting on the 
 doubt, I have been a cruel wife to you ; and 
 yet, Ernest, I loved you all the time." 
 
 She did not say this passionately, but in 
 bitterness, with tears upon her burning 
 cheeks, and eyes turned away from him. 
 He set his teeth upon his lip again, perhaps 
 to hide its shaking, and said with a Hitting 
 smile — 
 
 " It is odd to talk of love now^ ; we had 
 better leave it, I think." 
 
 " But you forgive me ?"' she said, sighing. 
 " Let us say farewell in kindness. Ernest, 
 if you have spoken truly, you will kiss me 
 before you go ?"
 
 90 Forgotten Lives, 
 
 It seemed a strange time to utter a jest — 
 a bitter, terrible, cruel time; but Ernest 
 Bosperis v/as an angry man, and he let go 
 his wife's hand with a short laugh and a 
 light word. 
 
 " * There is a time for all things,^ said the 
 preacher, and our kissing time is past. 
 Kisses should come with life and love ; they 
 are a poor gift at death's door. Do you 
 know, if you kept in this mood, I could for- 
 give you if you lived more readily than I 
 can now, when you persist in dying ? I am 
 a hard, heartless man, you think. Well, 
 perhaps I am — perhaps not. Can I fetch 
 anything in the town for you ? I am going 
 thither. Will you have the lawyer out, 
 and see if you can invent any persecution 
 for me out of that wifely affection you are 
 offering now so late ?" 
 
 Stone walls cannot check love, or iron 
 gates bar out confidence, but a bitter jest 
 will stop both in mid career, and fling them 
 back like weeds upon the heart. 
 
 "I want nothing, thank you," fehe an- 
 swered, white and cold as snow. " I will 
 not trouble you again. Grood-bye." 
 
 He lingered yet a moment, hesitated, 
 caught his lip between his teeth as if to
 
 Forgotten Lives, 91 
 
 stop a passionate word, then with a last 
 look, a look of strange anguish, upon the 
 lovely lily face so white and pure, he stole 
 away with his hand upon his brow. Her 
 eyes were closed ; she did not see him go, 
 but she heard the shutting of the door, and 
 starting up, she looked wildly at the vacant 
 place where he had stood. Then she fell 
 back upon the pillow with a faint cry. 
 
 " He is hard and callous ; he cannot for- 
 give me. Too late ! too late ! Oh, these 
 long, lost years !" 
 
 Murmuring this, and other words inar- 
 ticulate, with faint moan and a quick shiver 
 of the flesh, she began to weep softly, and 
 from weeping went to prayer, and so 
 slept. 
 
 An hour passed, and then waking, she 
 saw that odd, silent woman Deborah sitting 
 by the hearth nodding at the fire. She 
 looked to her like a dream, or a piece of a 
 dream, of which the other shadows were 
 the flaming log, crackling as it sparkled, the 
 birds flitting by the window with wonderful 
 music singing of spring, the waving of the 
 trees seen through the glass, set as in a 
 picture, and the browsing of the deer be- 
 neath their boughs, amid silent shadows and
 
 92 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 long readies of sunny grass glistening with 
 dew. All this made np a vision to her dim 
 sense, which pleased without a thought ; 
 and into the vision there stole a gentle rust- 
 ling of the curtain, but she saw neither 
 hand nor fignre ; and half-waking, half- 
 dreaming, and weak with her long sickness, 
 she slept again. She dream. ed of the gardens 
 of paradise, and the scent of lilies white as 
 snow in a little angel's hand. Waking 
 again, she thought she had slept but for an 
 instant, and she wondered to see Deborah 
 gone. Another moment and her eyes 
 smiled, for here were lilies on her bed — 
 lilies of the valley — a bunch of fragrant 
 snow shut up in green leaves. A faint, 
 flitting colour came to her cheek as she 
 took them in her hand, dimly, shyly doubt- 
 ing if Ernest had brought them while she 
 slept. She put them to her lips, then in 
 among the leaves she saw a letter — a tiny 
 letter, written in a hand that struck terror 
 to her eyes. The blood rushed to her face, 
 and back to her heart ; she was almost too 
 weak to bear this sharp agony, and with a 
 glance of fear all round the vacant room, 
 she tore the letter open and read this : —
 
 Forgotten Lives, 93 
 
 " A voice has reached me in my living 
 tomb, saying that you are ill. Yon must 
 not die ; for my sake you must not let your- 
 self perish with mistaken sorrow or remorse. 
 In what have you sinned, poor broken lily? 
 The wrong-doing is his, not yours. Believe 
 nothing that he says : he was a liar from the 
 beginning. It is I who tell you truth. If 
 you die I shall have killed you, and this double 
 guilt will weigh heavily on my soul. Spare 
 me if you can! I have suffered so much 
 anguish, and do suffer still. As for you, 
 why should you let your heart break when 
 you have done no wrong ? I tel] you again 
 you are not his wife; you have not erred; take 
 courage and live. 1 have remembered the 
 name I had forgotten so long. It is Leth- 
 bridge, but the street is gone from my poor 
 memory. I send you lilies, and I have laid 
 a child's kiss upon every one — kisses from 
 your child and mine. Last night I dreamed 
 of Eden, and our children were there, and 
 they kissed and made friends, and you and 
 I were walking hand-in-hand when I awoke. 
 There is a little song of joy in my heart, 
 so soft, so sweet, so rare, that I long to 
 sjend it to you in the lily bells ; but they
 
 94 Forgotten Lives, 
 
 will not carry it safely, so I have given 
 it to a bird, and he will bring it to your 
 window. 
 
 " Remember the little children in your 
 prayers, and remember me. I have given 
 you all my love now they are dead. And 
 the name is Lethbridge ; put that name 
 upon your heart, for it comes to you out of 
 a grave. I rise from my tomb to send it to 
 you. 
 
 " There are a hundred bells upon the 
 lilies, and in each bell a kiss ; you may 
 gather them all with your lips; they are 
 pure — the little angels send them. Fare- 
 well ! Love me a little. I am so sorrow- 
 ful, and I have grown old ; my hair is 
 white as snow.'' 
 
 Lady Theresa turned the paper over and 
 over, seeking for another word, but this was 
 all ; then she hid the letter hastily, with 
 eyes distended by fear, her lips shaking, her 
 face blanched. 
 
 " Again — again — this writing coming to 
 me again ! And now, when I had believed 
 him — when I thought I had wronged him 
 through these bitter years — coming to me
 
 Forgotten Lives. 95 
 
 now, perhaps, to save mj life ! Oh ! it is 
 dreadful ! dreadful ! dreadful ! to think that 
 1 have lived to wish it true !" 
 
 " Are you worse, my lady ?" says the 
 sudden voice of Deborah. 
 
 " Yes — no — yes. I want you to send a 
 telegram to my brother Oliver. I must see 
 him at once." 
 
 With a frightened look Deborah went to 
 the bell and rang it : her grey face was like 
 a shadow, solemn and still. 
 
 " Lethbridge ! Lethbridge !" murmured 
 the lady. " My brother shall seek out the 
 truth of this. I will know it. I will live 
 to do it." Then aloud, and in a quiet voice 
 — " Deborah, how did these lilies come 
 here ?" 
 
 Deborah stalked to the bedside, and 
 looked down upon the flowers, with her 
 grey, ghostly face growing sullen and 
 stern. 
 
 *' You ought to know better than I, my 
 lady, from whence they come. Soaiething 
 bad will grow out of this one day; master 
 wont have patience for ever." 
 
 Lady Theresa leant back on her pillow 
 faint and white.
 
 96 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 " I don't understand you," slie said. 
 " There is nothing to annoy Mr. Bosperis 
 in a few flowers.'* 
 
 Deborah took up a large fan from the 
 small inlaid table near, and began to fan her 
 mistress slowly, saying in a grim tone, which 
 set the lady's words aside — 
 
 " I heard a light step, and ran out to see 
 who it was, but she was gone like a shadow, 
 and the servants all deny having been up 
 the staircase. I believe the Evil One helps 
 that man to send his gifts and messages to 
 this house." 
 
 " Who came ? — who was it ?" asked Lady 
 Theresa breathlessly. 
 
 " Somebody that knows how to take a 
 bribe, I expect," said Deborah drily. Then 
 still fanning the lady slowly, she con- 
 tinued in the same tone — " Sir Cuthbert 
 Tregethas they say has grown tired of 
 burying himself alive, and he is gone to 
 France." 
 
 " Grone to France I" 
 
 " Yes, my lady ; he went away this 
 morning. His place will be more like a 
 tomb than ever." 
 
 " Is he changed lately, Deborah? Has
 
 Forgotten Lives. 97 
 
 he aged mucli?'* asked the lady tremu- 
 lously. 
 
 " He looks an old man ; his hair is white, 
 and he is madder than ever. Folks say 
 he'll never hve to come back ; and a good 
 thing too, my lady. He has sown black 
 seeds of hate and dissension where such 
 weeds should never grow. I hope, my lady, 
 that's the last mad gift you'll ever receive 
 from Caerlerrick." 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 ASHING along the street at a break- 
 neck pace comes a phaeton, and at 
 a sharp corner, where a brewer's 
 dray takes up the best part of the road, it 
 rushes into collision with a four-wheeled 
 cab, and a pale, frightened girl within, 
 giving herself no time to reflect, opens the 
 door and springs out upon the pavement. 
 She remembers nothing more till, awaking 
 to consciousness, her dark eyes encounter in 
 wonder the gaze of a stranger looking into 
 her face anxiously. 
 
 " Where am I ? what has happened?" 
 she says hurriedly. 
 
 But even as she asks she remembers the 
 accident, and glancing round she perceives 
 she is in a strange room, and two or three 
 people are gathered about her, 
 
 " You are better ?" observes a manly 
 voice kindly. 
 
 It was a rich, pleasant voice, and involun-
 
 Forgotfe7i Lives. 99 
 
 tarily the girl looked up again at the 
 speaker. Then she saw a bright, handsome 
 face, flashing on the sight as sunlight does, 
 warmly, pleasantly, and without any of that 
 hard indifference which sits mostly on the 
 brow of a stranger. As her shy glance met 
 his, she felt the blood rush to her cheeks, 
 and she strove to rise, but fell back into her 
 chair again. 
 
 " You had better keep quite quiet for a few 
 moments longer," said the gentleman. '' The 
 shock of your fall has shaken you a great 
 deal ; but the surgeon for whom I sent imme- 
 diately assures me that, beyond this, you are 
 not hurt. I am very thankful for it, and I 
 hope you are not frightened. I am grieved 
 I should have been the cause of this accident." 
 
 She looks up at him a little bewildered, 
 upon which he says smilingly — 
 
 " I have had an escape also. My phaeton 
 was nearly overturned, but luckily I pulled 
 up the horses and saved it. I am going on 
 to the railway station. Can I do anything 
 for you before 1 start ? I have already sent 
 for another cab for you." 
 
 As his words flow over the girl's fainting 
 ears, she starts to her feet with a sudden 
 wild look. 
 
 7—2
 
 100 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 " My mother is dying," she says, growing 
 white again as snow. " Let me go to her at 
 once. Is the cab here?" 
 
 In her eager weakness she would have 
 fallen with her first step, but the stranger's 
 arm sustained her, and, unknowing what 
 she did, her trembling hands clung to his 
 strong hand, which held her up. 
 
 " I am very, very grieved for you ;" and 
 a shade of genuine sorrow flitted over his 
 handsome face. " It is a strange coinci- 
 dence that I too am going to the deathbed, 
 I fear, of a dear relative, and this un- 
 avoidable delay is as painful to me as to 
 
 you-" 
 
 " And I don't think, sir, you'll catch the 
 
 train unless you start directly," puts in a 
 
 sudden voice with emphasis. 
 
 The gentleman looks at his watch. 
 
 " The time is short, certainly," he says, 
 " but still long enough. I must see this 
 young lady on lier journey before I go. 
 Are you better ? Are you strong enough 
 to walk now ?" 
 
 '' Yes, yes, I am quite well," she answers. 
 
 In passing through the little room, and 
 the shop next it, she is still upheld by her 
 new friend's arm, and in his care of her
 
 Forgotten Lives. 101 
 
 there is a gentleness, a courtesy, a deference 
 so new to the poor forlorn girl, that it seems 
 to her a wonder, and he himself stands in 
 her imagination in all the setting of a prince. 
 No marvel is it, considering her sad life, 
 that her heart trembles beneath the new 
 magic of his voice, and her face grows 
 almost beautiful, like a flower newly opening 
 its petals to the sun. 
 
 No man, handsome and young, ever makes 
 an impression on a fresh, untried heart 
 without some mysterious sympathy whisper- 
 ing]: to him the fact in that flattering:, flutter- 
 ing voice which is half vanity, half a return 
 of love. 
 
 The stranger looks down upon the trem- 
 bling girl's face with a new expression in his 
 hazel eyes. 
 
 " It is singular," he says, "that an accident 
 has caused our meeting. I hope we don't 
 part here for ever." 
 
 A burning blush is his only answer, and 
 the hand resting trustingly on his arm is 
 drawn timidly away. 
 
 " At all events," he continues, and his 
 voice takes an inflection of deep respect and 
 sympathy, " I earnestly hope that, going 
 as we are on the same sad errand, our
 
 102 Forgotten Lives, 
 
 journeys may yet prove happier than we 
 think." 
 
 Tears stand in the eyes of his companion 
 now, and she thanks him, not in profuse 
 words, hut simply and in a broken voice. 
 The subtle flattery of sympathy and respect 
 has brought back all her trust, and she 
 walks on by his side as if he were a friend. 
 
 Near the shop door the cabman is stand- 
 ing in the street by his shattered vehicle, and 
 as she passes him she pauses a moment, 
 hesitates, and then draws forth her slender 
 purse. 
 
 " Must I not pay you the fare ?" she 
 says. 
 
 " No, no, miss, the gentleman has arranged 
 all that. I'm all right, miss," 
 
 " Having caused the damage, of course I 
 pay the costs," observed the stranger, smiling. 
 "I only hope you will forgive me for having 
 occasioned you this annoyance and delay." 
 
 She cannot answer him a word. Anxiety, 
 fear, and a new strange pain are beating at 
 her heart wildly, stifling speech. In another 
 instant she is seated in the cab, but he holds 
 her hand a moment still. 
 
 '' I am happy to have been of some slight 
 service to you," he says. " We are both
 
 Forgotten Lives. 103 
 
 on a sorrowful errand. I shall think of you 
 on ray journey, and hope the best, as I 
 shall, too, for myself Aly name is Oliver 
 Hope de Beau voir. Will you remember it 
 sometimes?" 
 
 " Yes," she says faintly ; and, uncon- 
 sciously, her great grey eyes rest wistfully 
 on his handsome face. 
 
 " And wont you tell me your name ?" he 
 says pleadingly in a hurried whisper. 
 
 " My name is Barbara Lethbridge.'* 
 
 For the first time in her life she blushes 
 at the sound of her own name, and there is 
 a tremulousness in her voice which adds to 
 its sweetness. 
 
 " Thanks," he says. " I shall not forget 
 it. I hope and believe fate means us to 
 meet again." 
 
 They were the unthinking words of a 
 light heart, scarcely fair words for a man to 
 say to a girl whom he guessed to be beneath 
 him in station, but Oliver Hope de Beauvoir 
 was accustomed to say and do as he liked, 
 and he was not used to weigh his words 
 before he spoke them. Moreover, they were 
 strangely true. Some inexplicable attraction 
 — a superstition, as it were, of the heart — 
 drew them forth from his lips.
 
 104 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 Confused and trembling, Barbara dis- 
 engaged her hand, and looked at him with 
 innocent, wistful eyes, full of nothing but 
 grief. 
 
 "You forgive me, T hope, for my awkward 
 driving ?" he says earnestly. 
 
 " I have nothing to forgive," answered 
 Barbara. " And I thank you very much for 
 your kindness to me." 
 
 "Don't speak of it as a kindness,'' he 
 returned. "I was bound to stay and see 
 if you were hurt, and aid you as far as it 
 Avas in my power to do so. Surely you 
 don't think me capable of driving on like a 
 heathen, do you?" 
 
 A smile flashed into his clear hazel eyes, 
 lighting them as with a sunbeam, and catch- 
 ing the reflection of their brightness, Barbara 
 smiled too, but sadly. 
 
 Then he raised his hat, and drew back as 
 the driver shut the door, and asked where 
 he was to go. As Barbara named the 
 shabby, dull street in which her mother 
 lived, she never guessed how much it told 
 of her own poor position in the kingdom of 
 Mammon. Yet this shining denizen of the 
 world, with the seal of rank and fashion set 
 visiblv on his aristocratic brow, listened
 
 Forgotten Lives. 105 
 
 eagerly to this poor address, and bent for- 
 ward more eagerly still to catch a last 
 glimse of the young slight figure, and the 
 great wistful eyes fixed on him in such won- 
 derful candid trust. Then the dismal horse 
 went off in a lame trot, and Oliver, lifting 
 his hat again for a last adieu, parted from 
 the orirlish face without a smile breakinor on 
 the lips of either. 
 
 And they had thought her ugly at the 
 asylum ! Yet she could make a stranger 
 feel it would be pleasant to see her face 
 again, and sweet to read remembrance of 
 him in her eyes. 
 
 He drove on through the crowded streets 
 in the shadow of that vague myste- 
 rious dream which is the dawn of love, 
 but at the station a vexatious shame 
 overwhelmed him, awakening him with a 
 start. 
 
 " It will be maddening if I have lost the 
 train for the sake of a strange face." 
 
 " Am I in time ?" he cried out as he 
 sprang from the carriage, throwing tlie reins 
 to his servant. 
 
 " Just one minute, sir," returned a porter, 
 ■seizino^ his valise. 
 
 He caught the train by a second, and as
 
 106 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 he fell back in a corner of the carriage, he 
 said to himself reproachfully — 
 
 " I should never have forgiven myself 
 had I been too late. Poor Theresa ! I 
 wonder how my journey will end — and that 
 poor girl's — will she or I find death to greet 
 us ? I am glad I know her address. I'll 
 write it down." 
 
 Out came his tablets, jewelled and costly, 
 and a gold pencil-case, singularly quaint in 
 its form and workmanship ; for the Honour- 
 able Oliver Hope de Beauvoir was something 
 of a fop, and rejoiced in the possession of 
 bijouterie above the common order. And 
 now upon the ivory leaf of the tablet 
 set in a golden frame, there figure Bar- 
 bara's initials, and the poor place of her 
 abode. 
 
 " Barbara ! Barbara !" he whispered. " I 
 think I like the name. Strange — foreign — 
 yes, it is a good name for her ! She is strange, 
 not pretty, but odd, and she has the most 
 haunting eyes that ever looked a man in the 
 face. Stay ! where have I seen eyes like 
 hers ? Of whom is it she reminds me so 
 curiously ? Ah ! I don't know ; it's gone 
 like a shadow just as I thought I had caught 
 it. Poor Theresa ! I ought to be thinking
 
 Forgotten Lives, 107 
 
 of her. I'll smoke a cigar ; that will fling 
 this nonsense off mj brain. After all, it 
 will never do to remember this girl. She 
 looked quite poor and dowdy, and innocent 
 as a flower. No ; I wont see her again. 
 I'll efface the address, and forget it. Perhaps 
 my poor sister is dying. Well, I'U do it for 
 her sake." 
 
 Fourteen hours of travelling through the 
 day into the night, past the bleak winds and 
 fogs of the east, and through the gradual 
 softening of the air down to the balmy west, 
 where morning meets him clad in spring 
 sunshine, and walking daintily over a land 
 flower-strewn, with the song of birds above 
 his head, and the perfume of laurel, and 
 myrtle, and heath floating on the sweet mist 
 like unseen spirits, scattering incense in his 
 path. 
 
 There is no one at the station to meet 
 him — no carriage, no servant, no horse. 
 
 " It is just like that morose fellow Bospe- 
 ris to treat me in this way," he says, as, 
 chilly with long travelling, he alights and 
 scans the little platform from end to end. 
 Then he takes his valise in his hand and 
 walks away through the dewy leaves ; but as 
 the dawn brightens around him he shivers,
 
 108 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 and the cold foreboding of his heart makes 
 his step heavy as lead. 
 
 " Surely she is better. Had anything 
 happened they would have sent to the sta- 
 tion and met me with the news. Evil tidings 
 always fly to meet one." 
 
 Thus he comforts himself, lagging on 
 slowly till the wide park of Bosanken breaks 
 upon his sight, and he looks up that glorious 
 avenue of chestnuts just bursting into leaf; 
 then a sort of fever seizes him, and he hurries 
 on in mad haste. 
 
 It is that gaunt, grey woman Deborah, 
 who steals down like a ghost and lets him in 
 silently, before the sudden clang of the bell 
 has ceased to echo through the sleeping 
 house. 
 
 *' Is she better ?" he gasps forth, as he 
 stands in the hall with the spectral morning 
 light shining chill upon his paling face. 
 
 Deborah shakes her head, and without 
 speech she lays her gaunt hand upon him, 
 and conducts him up the great staircase to 
 his sister's room, where the first words that 
 strike his ear, uttered in wild delirium are — 
 
 ** Lethbridge ! the name is Lethbridge ! 
 Let me go forth and seek her through the 
 wide world. '*
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 HE storm which broke over the tur- 
 rets of St. Cecilia in the evening, 
 and beat its cold rain and flashed 
 its vivid gleams of lightning against the 
 windows of the dismal schoolroom, illu- 
 mining the pale face of Barbara, had in the 
 noon of that day followed a big ship as she 
 steamed up the Mersey. Standing on the 
 deck, heedless of spray and wind and bhnd- 
 ing rain, was a j^oung, slight man, notice- 
 able for a certain steadfast and earnest look, 
 noticeable also for an air of quiet strength 
 which sat well upon him, as if he were sure 
 of himself, and had that " sound mind in a 
 sound body" which makes a man a citadel, 
 a stronghold, whereunto a friend may resort 
 in safety. He had also that rare simplicity 
 of manner which belongs only to intense 
 sincerity — in a word, to truth. Hence his 
 courtesy bore a charm which the gloss of 
 mere refinement and fortune can never give.
 
 110 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 Whether or not it was this clearness of soul, 
 this honesty of mind, which was the cause 
 in him of keener sensibilities, he was, at all 
 events, possessed of the finest chords of 
 sympathy ever strung upon a human heart. 
 They vibrated at a thought, a touch, a 
 shadow, making his insight into character 
 almost miraculous in one so young. Hence 
 his love or his friendship was never ill-be- 
 stowed; they fell to the worthy; and he 
 made no rash mistakes in life as some do, 
 when they throw pearls before swine and 
 look for an impossible reward. His love and 
 his friendship lasted : once given they never 
 came back to him fruitless to embitter a 
 hollow or a broken heart. No, they were 
 full of kindliness and good works ; they 
 kept his soul like a watered garden in which 
 the shadows tempered the sunshine and the 
 flowers caressed his hand, and God's sky 
 was above his head, blue with eternal 
 hope. 
 
 To the multitude he was shy and some- 
 what reserved, never boisterous or noisy ; 
 or what superficial men call " a good fel- 
 low," and yet when a man had him for a 
 friend he wrote his name upon his very heart 
 and found him truer than a brother. The
 
 Forgotten Lives. Ill 
 
 secret of his shyness was that he thought 
 humbly of himself, as all high natures do, 
 and as genius does, which, having a spark 
 of light from heaven, beholds with keen 
 humiliation and sorrow the darkness, the 
 ignorance, and the weakness of its fleshy 
 dwelliug. 
 
 The man whom I have thus faintly 
 sketched in these poor words was Walter 
 Lethbridge, the nephew of Barbara's 
 mother. She and her sister had married 
 two brothers, but Walter's mother had died 
 early, and his father married again and emi- 
 grated, leaving the boy to the charge of his 
 aunt. A little money came from the far-off 
 land annually, but other children took the 
 father's heart away, and Walter was almost 
 as lonely as Barbara. At the age of twenty 
 he left England on a visit to his family, and 
 in the far western city where they had 
 settled he found an opening for the courage 
 and the enterprise of his nature. His life 
 was hard, his road rough, but worth, sense, 
 and honesty make a way where mere ability 
 and cunning would fail. And now after 
 four years of work and exile he had suc- 
 ceeded in laying the foundations of future 
 success, and he was returning to England in
 
 112 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 the liope of inducing his aunt and Barbara 
 to follow him to his new home. 
 
 He landed at sunset and hurried away by 
 the first train, travelling with the storm. 
 
 That night he sat by a deathbed and 
 heard a strange story told by fainting lips. 
 
 " I never hoped this mercy w^ould be 
 shown me to see your face again, Walter," 
 said Mrs. Lethbridge. " But, thank Grod, I 
 have seen you, and given you this history 
 myself I could not die and leave it untold. 
 You understand now why I left my old 
 home, and why slander has followed me even 
 to this obscure street." 
 
 " I understand at last how good you are/' 
 answered Walter simply. 
 
 " But don't let this alter your heart," she 
 continued, clasping his hand. '' Promise 
 me you will be a brother to her still." 
 
 " I will — I promise it solemnly." 
 
 " And your affection — ^your regard — will 
 not change for what I have told you?" 
 
 " No, never." 
 
 " That is enough ; I believe you, Walter. 
 You will find the letters I have spoken of in 
 a secret compartment of the Venetian cabi- 
 net on my table. But there is nothing in
 
 Forgotten Lives, 113 
 
 them to aid you — nothiDg: I have read 
 them a hundred times." 
 
 She sighed heavily, and met her nephew's 
 earnest eyes with a sad and weary look. 
 
 " Youth is not always a happy time," she 
 continued; "it suffers so impatientl}^; and 
 jealousy is a madness in some spirits. Do 
 not tell Barbara this story — it would break 
 her heart. And how could she accept aid 
 from you if she knew the truth ? Wait till 
 she is older, then tell her and comfort 
 her." 
 
 " I will do all you wish — rely on it I will," 
 said Walter in a firm voice. 
 
 " I trust in you implicitly ; I give her 
 future into your hands," said Mrs. Lethbridge 
 softly. " How thankful I am that you are 
 here ! If you had not come I must have 
 told poor Barbara ; now I can spare her, and 
 leave all to your judgment. When I am 
 gone, open the cabinet and see the letters 
 are there safe. You will find them " 
 
 But she stopped in weakness, and her 
 nephew, leaning over her pillow, entreated 
 her to spare herself. 
 
 " I will fulfil all your wishes," he said in 
 an earnest voice ; " be assured of that." 
 
 But the moment Mrs. Lethbridge had 
 VOL. J. 8
 
 114 J^or gotten Lives. 
 
 gathered a little strength she spoke again 
 excitedly. 
 
 " Impress on Barbara my last injunction, 
 that she is never to part with that little 
 cabinet while she lives. Perhaps it will 
 help her one day to forgive her unhappy 
 mother. Ah, Walter ! I begin to fear I 
 shall never see her again." 
 
 " Yes, yes — she will be here soon ; they 
 cannot refuse at the asylum to let her come." 
 
 Alas ! poor Barbara, as we have seen, was 
 sitting by the pale glimmer of the fire in 
 the bleak schoolroom, ignorant of the sorrow 
 at home, unconscious of the anxious hearts 
 looking eagerly for her coming. Yet as 
 "Walter listened feverishly for the sound of 
 wheels, expecting her minute by minute, he 
 was far from dreaming that she would in- 
 deed arrive too late ; there was so much life 
 still in the eyes, the voice, the looks of the 
 pallid face he watched. 
 
 " I have a presentiment that I shall see 
 her no more," said Mrs. Lethbridge, fixing 
 her gaze sorrowfully on her nephew, " but I 
 know that I can trust to you ; you will be 
 her friend in all things." 
 
 "With my whole heart I will," he an- 
 swered in a deep, earnest tone.
 
 Forgotten Lives. 115 
 
 But she seemed to wish still for some other 
 assurance, for her sad gaze lingered on his 
 face anxiously. 
 
 "And what 1 have confessed to you re- 
 specting her will not change you — will not 
 make you think less kindly of her ?" 
 
 " Set your heart at ease," he said laying 
 his hand upon her hand. " I only see in it 
 a reason to befriend her the more." 
 
 " Mind, I have told the truth," she re- 
 turned, clasping his hand feverishly ; "she 
 is wonderfully good except for that one fault, 
 and that is a madness in her — the fault that 
 — that her mother had." 
 
 He might have questioned further what 
 this flaw was in a high soul, but the change 
 in the invalid's pallid face withheld him. 
 
 " I will send another messenger to Bar- 
 bara," he said eagerly, "or I will go for her my- 
 self. Aunt; can you spare me ? Shall I go ?" 
 
 The dying woman looked at him with 
 pleading eyes. 
 
 " Do not leave me," she whispered. 
 " Heaven forgive me ! you are dearer to 
 me than Barbara ! I could not hide it from 
 her now if she came — dearer — dearer — a 
 thousand times dearer — j^ou are my own 
 flesh ! No alien blood, but the son of my
 
 116 'Forgotten Lives, 
 
 own sister ! I have been a good mother to 
 him. I have loved him with all my heart. 
 Walter, are you here? Never mind poor 
 Barbara now ; it is you I want, not her. 
 Hold my hand ; do not leave me. No sin, 
 no sorrow around your birth, Walter, but 
 only love and joy and a mother's pride. 
 Hush ! is that Barbara's step ? She must 
 not hear me. I am half afraid, at times, of 
 those strange eyes. Hark ! whisper it. I 
 have loved you best ; she must never know 
 it, but I loved you best always." 
 
 Should he send for her again, and force 
 her to sit by this bedside and hear such sor- 
 rowful avowals as these ? Was it not a 
 mercy she was spared the pain of listening 
 to these wandering, incoherent utterances, 
 each one of which would be a stab to her 
 jealous heart ? 
 
 As he pondered, undecided how to act, 
 half longing for her presence, half thankful 
 that she was absent, a hand, invisible to 
 him, touched the dying woman's sense and 
 took consciousness away. Then he hesitated 
 no longer ; he would spare Barbara the siglit 
 of life's last struggle ; he would save her 
 young heart the terror of beholding the 
 " valley of the shadow of death."
 
 CHAPTEK VIII. 
 
 HE windows of the house were 
 darkened, and a desolate cry broke 
 from Barbara's lips, as with one 
 shuddering glance she saw the truth, and 
 fell back on her seat shivering and silent, 
 her sight dimmed, her heart fainting within 
 her. But the door was opened quickly, and 
 strong kind arms were thrown around her, 
 and she was carried within and laid upon a 
 couch before her returning sense could tell 
 whose firm hands held her. 
 
 " Walter, is it you ?" she said with white 
 lips, as her trembling eyelids unclosed, and 
 her gaze rested on his face half in doubt. 
 " It is I, Barbara. I arrived yesterday." 
 The old familiar sound of his voice seemed 
 to wake the girl from her momentary stupor, 
 and her pent-up agony rushed forth in a 
 bitter cry, then bursting into tears slie thrust 
 aside his supporting arm, and stood up 
 alone.
 
 118 Forgotten Lives, 
 
 " You landed yesterday !" she cried. 
 " But not in time, or you would have sent 
 for me again ? Oh, Walter ! they never put 
 the letter into my hands till an hour ago." 
 
 " Do not grieve for that," he answered ; 
 "you have been spared much pain. She 
 would not have recognised you, Barbara, 
 had you come. She lay unconscious many 
 hours." 
 
 Barbara looked at him with eyes full of 
 anguish ; there was not a breath of comfort 
 to her in his words. She had not sought to 
 be saved from pain ; she had only hungered 
 for a last look of her mother's face alive, not 
 dead. Walter divined her feeling, and an- 
 swered it. 
 
 "Her illness was very unexpected and 
 sudden, Barbara, and until the last she did 
 not think of danger. She imagined there 
 was plenty of time ; she would not have 
 sent for you but for my earnest entreaties." 
 
 With her eyes fixed on him coldly Bar- 
 bara listened, answering not a word. 
 
 " And I despatched the messenger the 
 same hour that I arrived," continued Walter. 
 " I landed at sunset, and hurried on hither 
 instantly." 
 
 " Then you were in time ; you saw her ;
 
 Forgotten Lives, 119 
 
 you spoke to lier," cried Barbara with 
 sudden passion in her voice. " And you 
 are only her nephew. I am her child, yet 
 you gathered her last words — her last looks ! 
 Go away ! Go away ! I shall hate you 
 always !" 
 
 And unjust in her bitterness, and weep- 
 ing convulsively, she turned away from him, 
 hiding her face in her hands. 
 
 " Yes, I saw her," he said very gently, 
 " and heard her last wishes. And I am 
 thankful I came in time — thankful I am 
 here to help you, Barbara." 
 
 " Help me !" she repeated desolately. " It 
 would be very bitter to me to take help 
 from you, Walter Lethbridge. You always 
 came between me and my mother. You 
 have stood now between me and her 
 deathbed. I shall not easily forgive 
 you. 
 
 She looked at him in cold rep^-oach with- 
 out a tear; her grief seemed fast getting 
 hard and stony ; her face was white and 
 her lips set firmly together. Her cousin's 
 earnest eyes gave her one deep and search- 
 ing look. This jealousy was an old sore 
 between them ; it did not touch his eyes as 
 a new fact to-day, it only smote him with a
 
 120 Forgotten Lives, 
 
 new sorrow : he had discovered it was not 
 unfounded. 
 
 " There is no cause for anger, Barbara," 
 he said. " Her last words, her last thoughts, 
 were all yours. She was a good woman. I 
 shall honour her memory always-; she had 
 greater charity, greater faith, than I had 
 even dimly guessed at. I had not dreamed 
 of the courage, the self-denial, the love 
 hidden in her brave heart." 
 
 " But I knew, I knew 1" cried Barbara. 
 " mother, mother !" 
 
 The right chord was touched, and with 
 this the little crust of hardness on her heart 
 fell down, the sting of her unspoken resent- 
 ment was drawn forth and cast away. 
 
 '* Yes, you knew her best of all," said 
 Walter. " She loved us very much, Barbara 
 • — you and me.'* 
 
 Barbara was a little jealous for herself 
 still. 
 
 " But I am her child — her own child/' 
 she cried. " And you are only her nephew. 
 Walter ! it seems so hard that you were 
 here, and not I." 
 
 " If I could have guessed the danger was 
 so near and so great, you should have been 
 here, Barbara/' said the young man sooth*
 
 Forgotten Lives, 121 
 
 ingly. " I would have fetclied you myself; 
 but when unconsciousness came, the scene 
 was so distressing that I — I spared you. I 
 had not the courage to bring you here 
 then, Barbara; I was glad you were 
 away." 
 
 He took her hands down gently from her 
 face, and her drooping head fell on his arm 
 against his breast and lay still there a 
 moment, as though she found comfort in 
 that shelter. A look of deep tenderness 
 and compassion gathered in the earnest eyes 
 of Walter Lethbridge, as he gazed down 
 upon this bent head and the slight girlish 
 figure, whose trembling he felt against his 
 heart. 
 
 "I cannot tell her," he said to himself; 
 "and I am glad she did not come in time 
 to hear that sad history from my poor aunt's 
 lips. She is happier being ignorant of the 
 truth ; I will let her remain so. Why should 
 I grieve her more? Is she not desolate 
 enough already ? No, no, this is not a 
 time to cut her adrift from all ties and all 
 relationship, and make her feel utterly alone 
 in the world." 
 
 "I will go and see her," said Barbara 
 suddenly. " I feel strong enough now. No,
 
 122 Forgotten Lives, 
 
 do not come with me ; I would rather be 
 alone.'*' 
 
 She put his proffered hand aside and left 
 the room with a hurried step. 
 
 ■ " Poor Barbara ! she is jealous even now," 
 said Walter Lethbridge ; " what would she 
 feel if she knew how much nearer than 
 herself I was to the dear heart that is still ? 
 Mine can never be the voice to tell her — it 
 would be too cruel." 
 
 As he mused with a troubled look on his 
 brown face, his eye fell on a small cabinet 
 which stood on a side table. It was a di- 
 minutive toy of rare workmanship, closing 
 with two doors of inlaid woods in mosaic 
 representing the story of Ariadne. These 
 shut in a succession of six tiny drawers of 
 ebony and cedar, with handles of onyx, 
 each drawer being exquisitely painted with 
 wreaths of flowers upheld by Cupids. 
 
 " This must be the cabinet of which she 
 spoke," said the young man thoughtfully. 
 And taking it in his two brown hands he 
 examined it with searching eyes. Then one 
 by one he took out the drawers and laid 
 them on the table. There was nothing in 
 them of much value ; a few ancient silver 
 coins, a few modern cameos, a rare intaglio
 
 'Forgotten Lives, 123 
 
 or two, all of which AYalter passed by, but 
 stayed his hand when he came to a dried 
 and withered rose, wrapped tenderly in 
 paper, with a date attached — not the year, 
 but simply the day, thus : " 6th June." 
 This he scanned carefully, as though he 
 saw some mystery in the faded flower. Then 
 he laid it back in its place reverently, wdth 
 a slight gesture of sorrowful bewilderment. 
 
 " Easy to read," he said, '' and yet not 
 easy. One part of the story common as sin 
 and sorrow, and the other a mystery and a 
 secret still." 
 
 In the next drawer he found an oval 
 ivory box, with Sterne's Maria painted on 
 the cover, a wild look on her sad face, her 
 little dog by her side, held by a blue ribbon 
 — a simple picture, but wrought with such 
 skill and pathos that Walter gazed on it 
 lingeringly, and even conjured up a likeness 
 to Barbara in the deep sorrowful eyes, and 
 the lost look on the wistful face. 
 
 The box held the saddest records he had 
 discovered yet. First, a small bunch of 
 withered flowers, tied with a white ribbon, 
 on w^hich was written, "Gathered on my 
 mother's grave the day before I went away." 
 Next a lock of dark hair: not a lover's, for
 
 124 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 there were threads of silver in it ; and lastly, 
 a small gold locket, empty, but with signs 
 that the miniature it once contained had 
 been torn out, perhaps in anger, perhaps in 
 bitterness, and flung away. The other leaf 
 of the locket which had once held hair was 
 empty also, but a portion of the gold cipher 
 was here still. It was a B intertwined with 
 another letter of which so little remained 
 that its shape was undiscernible. It had 
 evidently been wrenched away with some 
 force. 
 
 " These were her initials, doubtless," said 
 Walter. " Perhaps her name, too, was 
 Barbara. But it was not of this my aunt 
 spoke ; it was of something more certain — 
 some letters." 
 
 He paused bewildered; for from within 
 the cabinet there seemed to shine an eye of 
 fire, darting on him an angry ray. He 
 stretched his hand towards it, and it 
 vanished, to appear again when his arm 
 drooped. He had but intercepted the light, 
 which gleamed from a little steel point be- 
 hind one of the small grooves on which the 
 drawers ran. Taking the cabinet to the 
 window and gazing down into it, he made 
 this discovery quickly, and tried to touch
 
 Forgotten Lives. 125 
 
 the nail or spring with his fingers ; but it 
 seemed to evade his grasp, his hand so 
 completely blocking the light that the tiny 
 gleam vanished each time he would have 
 seized it. Then he took his pencil-case and 
 succeeded in reaching it thus ; and as he 
 touched it the back of the cabinet flew out 
 towards him, disclosing a hidden compart- 
 ment in which lay a ring and a small packet 
 of letters. 
 
 These were the things of which Mrs. 
 Leth bridge had spoken to him, and he grew 
 pale as his eyes fell on them in startled 
 sorrow and eagerness. 
 
 The ring was one of those anciently 
 called gimmel rings. These divide into 
 many, so fitted together as to make one; 
 and in the old times they were used at be- 
 trothals, when the ring was shared by the 
 witnesses and the lovers, each person keep- 
 ing his part till the wedding, when all were 
 re-united, and the ring, now made perfect, 
 was placed on the finger of the bride. 
 
 The gimmel ring which Walter Leth- 
 bridge now held in his hand was of 
 diamonds ; it had originally represented a 
 rose with a leaf on either side, but the 
 flower and one leaf only were here. The
 
 126 • Forgotten Lives. 
 
 third part of the ring with the other leaf 
 was missing. 
 
 " So there was no wedding 1" mused 
 "Walter. " The ring was never reunited 
 with a priest's blessing. And perhaps the 
 false lover still keeps the diamond leaf, al- 
 though he forgets the hand that gave it. 
 Ah ! what is this ?" 
 
 It was a word engraven on the broadest 
 gold circlet, the one which held the rose — a 
 word which Walter took some little time to 
 decipher, so strange and outlandish did it 
 seem to him. The word was Caerlerrick. 
 He could make nothing of it. It might 
 mean nothing, only, as he pondered over it, 
 he fancied that it had a Welsh sound, and 
 he promised himself he would get a Welsh 
 directory, and search for the word as a 
 family name. Then he took up the letters, 
 but hesitated, and laid them down again. 
 
 " I have scarcely the right to touch 
 these," he said, " without Barbara's per- 
 mission. If I defer till some happier time 
 to tell her this sad story, I must defer also 
 to look at these letters till she and I can 
 read them together. Well, they and I can 
 wait. I simply obey my poor aunt's wish 
 by verifying the fact that they are here.
 
 Forgotten Lives. 127 
 
 The delay matters little. She said there 
 was no name mentioned in them, no infor- 
 mation which could lead to a discovery of 
 the truth — they are mere foolish love letters, 
 nothing more. I have seen they are here 
 safe, now I will shut them and their mystery 
 up again in darkness till the right time 
 comes to bring them forth to the light." 
 
 He reclosed the secret spring, and replaced 
 the drawers in the cabinet ; then he went 
 up softly to the darkened chamber where 
 Barbara wept, and drew her away with a 
 kind, firm hand from the solemn spectacle 
 of death.
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 OME ten days after this Walter sat 
 by a table busy with accounts, but 
 his eyes wandered often from these 
 to the slight figure of Barbara drooping 
 over her work in silence. There was some- 
 thing new and strange to him in Barbara's 
 face now ; the child whom he had left at 
 twelve only came back to him like a flitting 
 shadow in this girl of sixteen. And though 
 she was not beautiful, scarcely even pretty 
 in her present pallor, and with that sad seal 
 of patient dejection which St. Cecilia had 
 set upon her face, yet there was a singular 
 attraction, a magnetism in the very air 
 around her, which drew Walter's heart to- 
 wards her as with hooks of steel. He did 
 not combat this new feeling. There seemed 
 to him to be a thousand reasons why he 
 should love her, and none why he should 
 not. He had known her nearly all his life ; 
 his boyish letters at school had been ad-
 
 Forgotten Lives. 129 
 
 dressed to her, all liis thoughts in the far 
 West had wandered home to her, and he 
 felt now that deep down in his heart he had 
 always intended, when the time came for 
 him to marry, to choose no other wife but 
 Barbara. 
 
 " If you have courage to listen, Barbara," 
 he said, " I want to talk to you a little/' 
 
 Barbara let her work drop on her lap and 
 turned her face towards him with a sudden 
 blush. 
 
 " I thought you were too busy to talk, 
 else I was just going to ask you a question," 
 she said. 
 
 "A question on business?" returned 
 Walter, smiling. " Well, I think I have 
 settled everything now, Barbara, and I am 
 ready primed with answers on every point." 
 
 " It is not business," said Barbara, with 
 a flush of roses on her cheeks ; " it is a 
 foolish question — it is about a name. Is 
 De Beau voir a grand name — a noble 
 name : 
 
 " Very likely it is, Barbara. I think 
 there is an Earl de Beauvoir ; but I am an 
 ignorant fellow on those points. Shall I 
 hand you the Peerage? there is an old one, 
 I fancy, in the bookcase." 
 
 VOL. I. 9
 
 130 Forgotten Lives, 
 
 He turned towards it carelessly, thinking 
 little of lier question, not seeing that her 
 lips and hands were trembling. 
 
 " No ! no !" she cried ; " don't give me the 
 book. It is a mere folly ; the name was 
 haunting rne, that was all." 
 
 " Words and names do haunt one some- 
 times," said Walter, gravely. 
 
 He was thinking of Caerlerrick, and this 
 mention of " Debrett" made him resolve to 
 search through it for that odd word. 
 
 There was a strange silence between them 
 for a moment — a silence quivering with the 
 secret in the heart of each, then he turned 
 back to the subject on which he had first 
 spoken. 
 
 " Well, Barbara, shall we have our talk ?'* 
 
 He was eager, she listless, and there was 
 not a single spark of interest in the great 
 weary eyes she turned upon him. 
 
 " I don't care much to hear about busi- 
 ness, Walter; I leave it all to you." 
 
 "It is not all business, Barbara." 
 
 And it was his face now that was flushed, 
 and his eyes which grew troubled. 
 
 ' • Isn't it ?" said Barbara, drearily. 
 
 She seemed scarcely to heed her own 
 words, or to know what she was saying; her
 
 Forgotten Lives. 131 
 
 thoughts were not here in this little dusky 
 parlour, and tears were dropping down 
 upon her work now. Walter saw this with 
 one hasty glance, and then spoke eagerly, 
 quickly. 
 
 " I hope what I am going to say will not 
 disturb you, Barbara, but the fact is we two 
 cannot go on living together like this. The 
 world will talk if we do." 
 
 Barbara looked up at him with a mo- 
 mentary amazement in her eyes, nothing 
 more. 
 
 '' Talk of us ! of you and me I" she said. 
 " Why, we have been together all our lives 
 till four years ago ; what can the world have 
 to say at your coming home again?" 
 
 '' I left you a child, I find you a woman," 
 said Walter, hesitating a little. '' And now 
 — now that your mother " 
 
 The quick trembling of Barbara's lip 
 stopped him. 
 
 " I had not thought of this before," she 
 said, simply ; '' having been always accus- 
 tomed to see you here, it seemed right you 
 should be here still. I had forgotten that 
 being alone now and both orphaned, the 
 world will not let us comfort each other." 
 
 If she stopped with tears it was for pure 
 
 9—2
 
 132 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 sorrow, and not with any touch of confusion, 
 any shadow of consciousness which could 
 give Walter courage to speak. 
 
 " What shall we do ?" she asked, looking 
 in his face with unembarrassed candour. 
 
 That look made his heart tremble, filled 
 it up with fears, weighed it down with the 
 certainty he was unloved, and forced him to 
 ask himself if it was not selfish to shake 
 her innocent trust in him, and trouble her 
 child's soul with the shadow of a man's 
 passion. 
 
 "It is time enough yet," he said to him- 
 self; "let me prove my love to her first ; 
 let me show her it can stand the test of un- 
 certainty and. absence. I have patience — 
 I can wait." 
 
 So he answered her question by another. 
 
 " What would you like to do, Barbara ?" 
 
 " I should like to go to a good school — a 
 foreign scliool," said the girl, starting into 
 sudden animation, " where I could learn to 
 be as accomplished and clever as a great lady 
 ^ — a lady who would be fit " 
 
 She stopped, but her face was full of life, 
 her cheeks crimson, her eyes brilliant with 
 a wondrous fire. Walter's gaze remained 
 steadfast, fixed on her as on a statue just
 
 Forgotten Lives. 133 
 
 risiDg before him with breath on its lips, and 
 its marble veins running with red blood. 
 
 " Ton are just come from school," was all 
 he could say slowly. 
 
 " ]S"ot a school 1 a lie ! a sham ! a cheat !" 
 said Barbara, her words pouring from her 
 lips like a stream of fire. " I am depressed, 
 degraded, dejected. I am not myself through 
 ignorance, through servitude, through op- 
 pression, through pain. I yearn to be set 
 free from all this. I walk in chains now. 
 There is a great inert power in me which I 
 cannot use for want of education, so it 
 weighs upon my heart and fills me up with 
 anguish. My thoughts are like huge 
 mountains piled up in chaos with a flash of 
 lightning on them here and there, showing 
 me their drear confusion. Then I plunge 
 down into deeper darkness and pain, and I 
 am lost in the height, and depth, and 
 strength of this bleak ignorance. Walter, 
 1 have bound my spirit to this yoke for 
 years, but now, if I am not set free — now, if 
 my weary and famished soul cannot have food 
 and drink, then let me die. For I desire 
 death rather than this daily battle with my 
 spirit, this daily strangling and suffocating 
 of the powers God has given me."
 
 134 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 She was transformed ; her hands out- 
 stretched, her cheeks glowing, her eyes kind- 
 ling as with a flame. The intense life in 
 her expression, her attitude, her very voice, 
 all showed how mighty was the spirit in 
 her small, slight frame, how great the fire 
 which she hid beneath the quiet, weary 
 patience of her demeanour. It is not often 
 that a girl speaks out of her heart and her 
 soul to a man, but when she does, all things 
 go down before her like a flood. It was so 
 now, and in an instant Walter Lethbridge 
 w^as as eager to carry out her schemes as if 
 he had been building them up himself for a 
 year. Her strength of character, her mental 
 force, bore him onwards into the stream of 
 her own enthusiasm, and he felt something 
 of the ardour of the artist, who sees in the 
 unformed marble the polished shape which 
 is to emerge in beauty. 
 
 Now Barbara had seemed to him like 
 marble or like stone till she uttered forth 
 the yearnings of her mind, and this first 
 breathing of the statue charmed him. Well, 
 she should have the mental culture for which 
 she was so fitted, her genius should be 
 shaped and chiselled, and in three years' 
 time he would come back to Europe again to
 
 ForgoUen Lives. 135 
 
 claim the living heart, the loving soul, which 
 he should have helped to make. He, be- 
 cause he meant that his workful hands, his 
 strong industry, his plodding brain, battling 
 day and night with toil, should give her 
 this mental luxury and training for which 
 she craved. 
 
 This was his dream, and no whisper 
 touched his heart that he might make the 
 marble beautiful and give it life only for a 
 rival. 
 
 " Of her own unaided thought she has 
 devised the best plan for both of us," he 
 said to himself, with the soft flattery of hope. 
 " It will be fairer for her, juster, wiser in 
 every way. And I shall be working for her 
 — that will be my great joy. To ask her to 
 be my wife now, in her childish inexpe- 
 rience, and with this thirst of the heart 
 unsatisfied, would be more like cruelty than 
 love." 
 
 There was a wistful misgiving, too, in his 
 mind that Barbara would say him nay, 
 havins: her thoui^hts now too full of this 
 strange ambition. 
 
 She had spoken listlessly of business ; but 
 it was no listless, lifeless figure that stood 
 by Walter's chair, listening eagerly as he
 
 ] 36 Forgotten Lives, 
 
 went into the details of Mrs. Lethbridge's 
 small savings and pinched economy, show- 
 ing how the first was invested, and how the 
 last had enabled her to pay the premium on 
 a life policy, which gave Barbara now the 
 sum of five hundred pounds. 
 
 " You perceive that she could not do this 
 for you and pay schooling too," said Walter, 
 *'and doubtless this is why she permitted 
 you to remain at St. Cecilia's." 
 
 Barbara's hand resting on his shoulder 
 quivered with excitement, her cheeks glowed, 
 her eyes were full of fire. 
 
 " But there is yet time to redeem that 
 fearful waste of years," she cried, " so I for- 
 give this cruel mistake, else I never, never 
 could." 
 
 Walter turned in surprise ; he had thought 
 to awaken her generous sympathy and grati- 
 tude ; he had not expected to hear such words 
 as these. 
 
 "I am not all good," she said, and he 
 felt the fever of her hand in his veins. " I 
 am full of envy and jealousy. I could die 
 for sorrow when I think how plain I am, and 
 how ignorant, how contemptible I must 
 appear in — in some eyes."
 
 Forgotten Lives. 137 
 
 " My dear Barbara, not in mine/' returned 
 Walter, hastily. 
 
 " You are used to me ; you are like a 
 brother ; you don't see me as strange eyes 
 do. I tell you again, I should hate the 
 whole world in my misery if I did not feel 
 within me the power to redeem this loss of 
 my most precious years. This insurance 
 money will pay for me abroad. I shall spend 
 it all ; it will only be just enough." 
 
 " You shall not do that, Barbara," said 
 Walter, gently. " I cannot permit it. I 
 am your trustee \ the sum must be in- 
 vested, and you must spend only the in- 
 terest." 
 
 " Interest !" exclaimed Barbara in pas- 
 sionate impatience. " Why, all I have will 
 only bring me forty pounds a year, and that 
 will not pay for what I intend to do ! Don't 
 thwart me, Walter ! I cannot — will not 
 bear it." 
 
 " I wiU help you, Barbara, not thwart 
 you. This money left in my hands shall 
 bring you all you require, I promise you. Is 
 not that enough ?" 
 
 Here was the opportunity which Walter 
 desired; he would save ber now all sense of
 
 188 'Forgotten Lives. 
 
 obligation ; she would fancy the money he 
 sent her was her own. 
 
 " It is enough," said Barbara, after a 
 moment's thought. " I know your promises, 
 Walter, are always true, and safe as gold. 
 Only I am afraid I shall want so much 
 money." 
 
 " Never fear ; cleverly managed this sum 
 will do a great deal. You will see I shall 
 be a good steward." 
 
 *' And when shall I go ? I should like 
 to start to-morrow. Oh ! I shall feel like a 
 bird beating against prison bars till I 
 go." 
 
 " And we have been together such a little 
 while," said Walter, reproachfully. 
 
 But his accent of sadness scarcely struck 
 her ear ; she was radiant, and her eyes were 
 shining with joyful hope. 
 
 " Yet you said just now we ought not to 
 stay together," she answered. And for the 
 first time since her return home she laughed. 
 " Look here — what would the world say to 
 this?" 
 
 And suddenly Walter felt the pressure of 
 her flushed cheek against his lips. 
 
 " Fancy having to force a kiss from one's
 
 Forgotten Lives. 139 
 
 brother like that/' she said, laughing again. 
 " You are greatly changed, "Walter, since 
 you went to America. In the old times 
 you would have kissed me directly we 
 met." 
 
 Walter leaned his face down upon his two 
 hands and trembled from head to foot. She 
 thought nothing of her cold caress, but the 
 touch of her careless cheek rushed to his 
 heart and shook it like a reed.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 OR a fortniglit that frail life at Bo- 
 sank en over which Oliver de Beau- 
 voir watched, hung upon a thread. 
 Then there stole upon the unconscious suf- 
 ferer the breath of a healing wind, and as 
 the days softened and the sun brightened so 
 did she, till strength and sense returned 
 slowly, and Hope came back with silent 
 footfall to the anxious hearts of the watchers. 
 The first hopeful sleep, the first hopeful 
 change, came to her one night when her 
 brother, wearied out, had gone to his room 
 for an hour's rest, and that grey, silent 
 woman Deborah sat alone by the fire, look- 
 ing at the faded embers with fixed eyes full 
 of gloomy thought. 
 
 " Deborah," said her lady's voice softly, 
 making the woman start as though an arrow 
 had touched her with its sharp steel point. 
 Then a frail, shadowy hand came without 
 the curtains beckoning to her, and her grey
 
 Forgotten Lives. 141 
 
 face, her odd grim figure, moved silently 
 across the room at the summons, like a 
 phantom obeying the call of some spirit it 
 hated. 
 
 " Deborah, I have had dreams," said the 
 lady. 
 
 " Dreams ! Ah, yes, in plenty ! And 
 bad ones too. Life is only a bad dream.'' 
 
 " No, no, not all evil ; there's sunshine at 
 the window, Deborah." 
 
 " It is moonlight," said the grim woman, 
 mocking at the golden gleams of morning, 
 which just touched the tree-tops with a 
 trembling glitter. "And after moonlight 
 darkness, and after darkness, who shall 
 say what? Fire, perhaps — eternal fire, 
 made, it seems to fit some souls — it's in 
 them." 
 
 Her dry lips whispered this maliciously, 
 and she laughed — a short hard laugh — with 
 both her hands resting on the small table by 
 the bed, and her unmoved eyes fixed upon 
 her lady's face. Evidently she thought her 
 still delirious, and this gave her liberty to 
 speak out her odd musings — gave her, too, 
 the strangest air conceivable, as though her 
 features were unlocked from an iron mask, 
 or her rigid figure had just stepped forth
 
 142 'Forgotten Lives, 
 
 from a stone cell, and she were revelling in 
 some unwonted freedom. 
 
 " What are you muttering there, Debo- 
 rah ?" asked the sick lady. " Are you 
 mad ? I say it is sunshine, and it's coming 
 near me. Don't you see morning in the 
 sky?" 
 
 •' Ah ! ah ! And a rainbow — that's hope ; 
 and a wedding-ring — that's sorrow, you 
 know. And a bunch of lilies from a dead 
 hand with children's kisses in them. And 
 gay bells ringing for a bridal, and doleful 
 bells tolling for the dead. Yes, you see it 
 all in the sky now you are lying there so 
 still. But there's no morning will ever 
 break over it ; the day went down in dark- 
 ness when he married you." 
 
 She muttered her incoherent talk between 
 closed teeth, and her stony eyes looked out 
 of her grey face like the staring eyes of a 
 dead woman. In the faint light of dawn 
 stealing in upon them imperceptibly, bring- 
 ing out the shadows, quenching the fire and 
 the lamp, showing the darkness, it was like 
 a fantastic picture to see this mumbling 
 figure standing by the bed, gazing down 
 rigidly into the lily face, which gazed up 
 again at her in terror.
 
 Forgotten Lives. 143 
 
 "Ah! do I frighten you?" she went on 
 whispering. '' Well, fear is good for mad- 
 ness ; it stills the troubled brain. But the 
 heart — the troubled heart — there's no peace 
 for that. Fear only makes it beat the 
 wilder." 
 
 " Don't mutter to yourself, Deborah," said 
 Lady Theresa faintly ; *' you make me shud- 
 der. See, I am trembling !" 
 
 She held out her fragile hand, which 
 shook like a pale and dying leaf when it 
 flutters in the wind. 
 
 " Poor lady 1" said Deborah in a softer 
 voice, " lie still and rest. I will not hurt 
 you. There's a deeper rest coming to you 
 soon. That thought puts a drop of pity in 
 my heart which sweetens the gall. Ah! it 
 is all wrong ! You stole a heart away that 
 was another's ; you stand in a place not 
 your own \ you blighted a fair tree. And 
 now, pretty flower, you must die for it. 
 That's sad ; but death will be sweeter to 
 you than life, and you wont coDie back to 
 haunt the wicked as some do." 
 
 Softly as she muttered her odd words, 
 Lady Theresa's ear caught faintly the sound 
 of some, and her pale face flushed like a pink 
 shell.
 
 144 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 " No, no, I am not dying ! I am better, 
 I tell you. You are very wicked to wish me 
 dead." 
 
 " I, my lady !" cried Deborah aloud. 
 " You wander in your mind, my lady, still." 
 
 " No," said Lady Theresa, and she raised 
 her weak head slightly from the pillow ; '* it 
 is you who wander, Deborah. My dreams 
 are gone ; I am clearer in sense than you. 
 I think you are very odd to-day." 
 
 As she spoke she laid her small w^hite 
 hand on Deborah's arm, and the touch was 
 like a magic wand, startling the rigid woman 
 out of her strange mood, locking her up 
 again in her iron mask, enclosing her again 
 in her stone cell. And simply because there 
 w^as the touch of health in that soft palm, 
 no lingering shadow even of the hot, dry 
 grasp of fever, or the clutch of delirium. 
 The touch of the human hand speaks a lan- 
 guage too subtle for the tongue ; it travels 
 like the electric flash of the telegraph, reach- 
 ing the heart while letters and talk are still 
 bungling on the threshold. 
 
 In the twinkling of an eye the truth came 
 upon that grim woman's sense, and thus the 
 old look fell down upon her face again like 
 a stony veil.
 
 Forgotten Lives, 145 
 
 " You are better, my lady — you are better, 
 indeed," she said in that old quiet tone of 
 hers. "I ask your pardon, that, thinking 
 3^ou still a little wild, I have been croon- 
 ing old songs to you. They soothed you 
 awhile ago, when the fever was strong." 
 
 In her feebleness Lady Theresa could 
 not contradict these words ; she could 
 scarcely even comprehend their import, or 
 care whether they were true or not. 
 
 "Unclose the curtains, Deborah," she 
 murmured, " and let me see the sun rise. 
 All the time I have been ill I have had 
 the gloomiest fancies. I have thought it 
 was night, constant night ; and the morn- 
 ing was always coming, coming, slowly 
 coming. Is the sun red, Deborah? For 
 in my dreams the morning broke with 
 clouds of blood, but when the sky cleared 
 I was happy." 
 
 "Her brain is dim still," said the grey 
 Deborah to herself. " There is not a sun- 
 rise in the world will ever bring happiness 
 back to her." 
 
 With this thought she unclosed the cur- 
 tains, and a rosy light flushed the window, 
 and broke upon the room like the flash of 
 a crimson banner. 
 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 146 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 " There's blood enough in the sk}^ to- 
 day, if you choose to CciU it so/' said De- 
 borah ; " the trees are red with it, and the 
 grass is like a battle-field." 
 
 She turned and saw the crimson shadow 
 of the clouds on the white bed, and one 
 purple streak across the lady's hand. Her 
 face was white as snow. 
 
 " It is like the sky I saw in my dreams," 
 she whispered, with a shuddering motion of 
 her reddened hand. " Where is Oliver ? 
 Has not my brother been with me this long, 
 long time ?" 
 
 " He is gone to rest a little ; he has been 
 here, my lady, these fourteen days." 
 
 '"And why has she left me too, De- 
 borah ?" 
 
 " Who, my lady? There has been no one 
 here but me." 
 
 " Who ?" returned Lady Theresa impa- 
 tiently. " Have you not seen her every day 
 with him ? The child-girl — Us child, whose 
 kisses were in the lily bells." 
 
 " Ah ! she is wandering again," said the 
 grim Deborah. *' All this wickedness works 
 like madness in her brain. Drink this, my 
 lady, and try to sleep. There has been no 
 one here upon whom your thoughts rest ; it
 
 Forgotten Lives. 1-47 
 
 is only a fever dream, which hangs still 
 about your mind in your weakness/' 
 
 "A fever-dream, a phantom of the brain!" 
 repeated the lady. " Well, it may be ; but 
 I tell you, Deborah, I saw her as plainly as 
 I see now the red shadow of that angry sky. 
 My brother brought her with him ; she was 
 always by his side. I will not say in reality, 
 since you declare it was not so, but she was 
 here in thought. I felt her presence, De- 
 borah, like a charm, bringing me back my 
 old joy and innocence. I am not afraid 
 now to find her — she will not hate me." 
 
 " Now, my lady, this is stark, staring, 
 moonlight madness. I cannot have you 
 talk like this. What if Mr. Bosperis should 
 hear you ? Isn't he fierce and angry enough ? 
 isn't he hard to deal with as it is ?" 
 
 The pale face on which she looked down 
 so stonily flushed with a new fever, and the 
 large glassy eyes grew wild and bright. 
 
 " Hush ! do not speak of him," she said 
 painfully. " I had forgotten my misery in 
 this long illness. Why do you bring it 
 back ? She took all the burden from me — 
 the spirit I saw — and she made us love each 
 other as in the old time." 
 
 " Now you are mad indeed, my lady, if 
 
 10—2
 
 148 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 you think that either flesh or spirit will 
 bring his hard heart back to you. Are 
 you the only flower he has plucked and 
 flung away ?" 
 
 The grim woman laughed, and her cold, 
 grey face had a ghastly look with this un- 
 natural laugh upon it. 
 
 Lady Theresa s frail hand clutched her 
 suddenly by the wrist, and then by a pas- 
 sionate movement she thrust her arm aside. 
 " You shall not come so near me ! I hate 
 you sometimes. I believe you are a spy — 
 his spy. Do I want Mr. Bosperis's heart in 
 my hand now ? What should I do with the 
 gift ? It would be a curse, a torture. No, 
 no, I am thankful all his love is gone — 
 thankful he hates me — that spares us much 
 sorrow. And as for you, how dare you 
 insult me as I lie here so sick and weak? 
 I am no flower flung away. I have friends 
 to help me if I declare my wrongs." 
 
 She covered her flushed face with both 
 trembling hands, and wept for a moment 
 silently. Grey and rigid as a stone statue, 
 Deborah stood by the bed motionless, 
 making no sign of sorrow or of remorse. 
 It was the lady who, after a time, spoke 
 regretfully.
 
 Tor gotten Lives. 149 
 
 "There, there, Deborah, I am feeble, I 
 get angry too quickly. You have been kind 
 and faithful to me, I know. I do not really 
 think you a spy. You are not vexed, I 
 hope ?" 
 
 " Why should I be vexed, my lady, when 
 you are too ill to know what you say ? Just 
 now you spoke of having seen a spirit by 
 your brother's side ; that shows how your 
 poor head wanders." 
 
 ** But it is true,'' persisted the lady. " I 
 did see her, Deborah ; she was here con- 
 stantly. I cannot tell you how it was, but 
 she came with Oliver, and I saw her." 
 
 " And had she her father's face or her 
 mother's ?" said Deborah, with a malicious 
 look on her stony face. " I promise you, 
 my lady, I'll let it be that you saw her if 
 you will but tell me that." 
 
 Lady Theresa flushed a painful crimson 
 flush. 
 
 " You are mockins: me," she answered. 
 " You think my brain still wanders, or you 
 would not dare to ask me such a question. 
 But I am not angry ; I'll let it pass. I 
 cannot explain the sort of presence I felt ; 
 it is a mystery. We touch the confines 
 of great mj^steries at times in illness.
 
 150 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 Oliver will surely bring her to this house, 
 and then " 
 
 "And then misery and shame," inter- 
 posed Deborah, with her grey face like a 
 deathly mask. " When your brain grows 
 clear, my lady, you will not wish for this 
 dead child to live again, and trouble this 
 house with strife, and death, and bitterness. 
 I tell you she is dead and buried ; let her 
 rest. It is nothing strange you dreamed 
 of blood, fancying her here. Think what 
 she would do if she came." 
 
 " Not evil," exclaimed the lady eagerly. 
 " I will not listen to your words ; they make 
 me shudder. Above all earthly things my 
 heart desires most to do her justice, and I 
 will. If in my fevered dream the sky was 
 red, the day that followed was bright and 
 clear. And she brought it to me ; all the 
 sunshine that I had came through her." 
 
 Deborah held her stony lips rigidly closed ; 
 she would not let another word be drawn 
 forth from her grimness to swell this argu- 
 ment. She walked to the window, through 
 which the sun still glared angrily, and drew 
 the blind aside. All the woods of Caerlerrick 
 on the eastern hill were in a glow like 
 lire, and the many windows of the old
 
 Forgotten Lives, 151 
 
 maasion were swept across as by a flame 
 of blood. 
 
 "And she dreams of expiation!" mur- 
 mured this grey shadow of a woman, wring- 
 ing her hands together. ''Death must drop 
 upon Caerlerrick first ; and if with her 
 mysteries, and her magic, and her visions 
 like a witch, she and that young man draw 
 the child down here, then we shall have 
 blood indeed." 
 
 " The trees are all in leaf since I looked 
 upon them last,'' said the invalid faintly. 
 " Draw the blind up high, Deborah, that I 
 may see them. Ah, how beautiful they 
 are ! It is glorious to live and be glad of 
 one's life. How red Caerlerrick looks !" 
 she added, startled. " Is it not on fire, 
 Deborah ?" 
 
 " There is not a single wreath of smoke 
 from a chimney there/' answered the grey 
 woman. " The sky has put the bloody 
 hand Sir Cuthbert bears across the windows, 
 that is all." 
 
 "And he is away still?" asked the lady, 
 hesitating. 
 
 " Yes ; in France, they say. And we 
 have reason to be thankful for it, you 
 and I, my lady. There are no more gifts
 
 152 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 from Caerlerrick now to stir up bitter blood 
 between you and Mr. Bosperis/' 
 
 Again Lady Theresa's fragile band came 
 without the curtains, beckoning to her grim 
 attendant. 
 
 " Deborah," she said almost in a whisper, 
 " has he not been sorry for me ? Has he 
 never come to watch me, or to nurse me, or 
 to look upon me once?" 
 
 Any other but a heart of stone would 
 have had compassion on the prayer in her 
 sad voice, but Deborah only shook her head 
 solemnly, and her cold gre}'" face grew 
 colder. 
 
 " No, he never came. He has not once 
 passed the threshold of your door. Perhaps 
 it was the doctor's orders, or Mr. De Beau- 
 voir's fault. I cannot say, my lady ; he did 
 not tell me his reasons ; he is like a closed 
 tomb to me." 
 
 " Ah, he thinks you would tell me again ! 
 Not once — not to stand by my pillow once ! 
 Why, a horse, a hound gets more of his 
 thoughts than T. He visits them if they 
 are sick." 
 
 She whispered her bitter thoughts very 
 low, hiding her face with her small hand, and 
 closing her eyes as if to shut out sorrow.
 
 Forc/otten Lives. 153 
 
 "Oh, Deborah, I yearn to hear a loving 
 word. I yearn to see a kind look. If my 
 brother is awake bid him come to me." 
 
 The woman went out at the door to do 
 her bidding as grey and silent as a shadow, 
 and with no more pity in her than a shadow 
 has. She had scarcely gone a step or two 
 ere a man started out of the gloom of a 
 pillared alcove, w^here statues stood with 
 lamps paling in the morning sun, throwing 
 haggard lights and shadows on his worn 
 face. He seized her fiercely by the arm 
 and shook it roughly. 
 
 " Hag ! how dare you lie to my wife ?" 
 he hissed in a hard whisper. 
 
 Patient and sullen as a stone, she stood 
 silent till he released her, then she turned 
 her grey face upon him with that odd, rare 
 smile of hers. 
 
 " I have told no falsehood to vour wife, 
 Mr. Bosperis." 
 
 " I tell you, woman, I heard you utter the 
 lie. Don't deny it." 
 
 " I never told your wife a lie from the day 
 I first served her till now," she said, with 
 her fixed eyes looking him stonily in the 
 face. 
 
 Seemingly she had but denied his charge,
 
 154 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 jet her words made him death-white, and 
 he clenched his teeth hard upon an oath, 
 which hissed upon her ears with the wrath 
 of a trodden snake. 
 
 '' You lied a moment since to Lady 
 Theresa — you lied like a hag and a witch. 
 You said I had never asked for her — never 
 cared to see her." 
 
 " Those were not my words," said the 
 grim woman, stretching out her firm hand 
 and drawing him within the shadows of the 
 pillars and the dying lamps. " Keep a 
 civil tongue to me, Mr. Bosperis, or I'll not 
 keep a silent one for you. I told Lady 
 Theresa you had not crossed her door : 
 that was true. Should I confess you had 
 lain like a dog every night at the threshold ? 
 Would it work for good or for evil to let 
 her hear that ? She is shaken like a reed 
 with the weight of her trouble. Will you 
 lay yours upon her soul likewise ? What 
 right have you to yield to the passion of 
 your heart ? — -what right to come to her 
 presence with words of love ? Let her be ! 
 Leave her what peace you can ! Have you 
 not yet learned to know that a broken heart 
 blights the brain ?" 
 
 She glided away from him, the cold grey
 
 Forgotten Lives. 155 
 
 woman, as calm and passionless as the 
 marble figures which looked down upon his 
 agony with their unmoved smile, as if they 
 mocked him, as the lamps they held lighted 
 up the workings of his face. As for De- 
 borah, she went on to Oliver de Beauvoir's 
 door and knocked at it with a soft hand. 
 
 " If you are rested, my lady wishes to see 
 you, sir." 
 
 " Has she slept ? Is she better ?" cried 
 
 an eager voice. 
 
 And then the door was opened^, and the 
 tall figure, the handsome beaming face, of 
 Oliver de Beauvoir shone out upon her, 
 making the morning sun seem brighter and 
 all the air fresher with thoughts of youth 
 and happiness. To him Deborah was the 
 silent civil servant, never saying a word too 
 many, never being other to him than the 
 paid automaton, who, like a machine, did 
 her work well without intruding thoughts 
 and feelings of her own, not needed by her 
 masters. 
 
 '' She is better, sir ; she will live ; the 
 danger, I am sure, is over. There is nothing 
 01 the delirium of fever left about her ex- 
 cept an odd fancy." 
 
 " Yes,'' said Mr. De Beauvoir ab-
 
 156 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 sently. "Not a painful fancy, I hope, 
 Deborah ?" 
 
 The grim woman looked steadfastly in his 
 face. 
 
 " No, sir, only odd — very odd. My lady 
 fancies, sir, that you brought with you the 
 spirit of a girl, or her thought — a myste- 
 rious presence, in fact. She wont explain 
 it very clearly, but it is in her mind in some 
 shape or other." 
 
 With her eyes still upon him, she saw 
 him change, and a flush spread upon his 
 face, and a smile play upon his lips. 
 
 "It is odd indeed, Deborah, but there's 
 something in it for all that. Tell her I 
 will come directly." 
 
 The grey phantom walked slowly back to 
 her lady's room with a lowering shadow on 
 her hard face, and as she passed a window 
 looking east, she stood still a minute and 
 gazed out upon the reddened towers of 
 Caerlerrick,
 
 CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 ND so this is Caerlerrick I" said 
 Walter Lethbridge. 
 
 He uttered the exclamation in 
 his own thoughts, gazing the while at the 
 sombre and stately buildi^ng with a feeling 
 of weird curiosity and expectation. He had 
 heard in the village near by that Sir Cuthbert 
 Tregethas was abroad, but Caerlerrick was a 
 show place, and could be seen by strangers 
 who applied for admission. But he had 
 not been led hither by the common curiosity 
 of a stranger; and when he sounded a 
 clamorous summons on the bell it was with 
 a feeling akin to the spirit of those mythical 
 heroes of old who rang at enchanted castles 
 to beard a wizard, or to do battle with an 
 ogre. 
 
 A mere word, a fancy slight as a flitting 
 dream, had brought him a weary journey, 
 and set him down here, face to face with 
 the darkened windows and the closed doors-
 
 158 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 of old Caerlerrick. A profound gloom, a 
 dreary feeling of solitude, a dim sense of 
 death and inexplicable sorrow, hung about 
 this ancient mansion like the brooding of a 
 desolate spirit's wings come from the great 
 wilderness, where the scapegoat dies and 
 the gorged vulture stands alone. 
 
 The vast frontage, all carved and mul- 
 lioned, stood north, hung with the mourn- 
 ing veil of a perpetual shadow, which 
 darkened the cold windows and stretched 
 far over the shivering trees and the trem- 
 bling grass. Beneath the filmy darkness of 
 this veil the drooping flowers bent and died, 
 and the white statues on the terrace gleamed 
 ghostly, like spectres at a funeral draped in 
 shadowy black. Beyond this wide border 
 of darkness, which girt the house about like 
 a cold grey belt, there quivered the red 
 gleam of an angry sunset, shining on the 
 widespread park in crimson patches like 
 the glow of fire or the stain of blood. There 
 was no life dotted about the green and red- 
 dened glade — no deer, no cattle, not even a 
 solitary sheep, but only wild flights of 
 frightened birds, and dank grass waving, 
 and here and there a lone tree fallen in its 
 decay, with broken branches rotting among
 
 Forgotten Lives. 159 
 
 tall weeds, and dead leaves swirlino: to and 
 fro in the evening wind with melancholy 
 rustle soft and low. 
 
 An avenue of huge beech trees stretched 
 along the park from the gates to the great 
 terrace on the north front, and their shadows 
 lay now upon the grass in a long black line, 
 swaying mournful 1}^ in the evening breeze, 
 touching the fancy with funereal thoughts 
 of processions from the land of death, long 
 ranks of ghostly warriors, bringing woe and 
 sorrow to old Caerlerrick. 
 
 Beneath the arched trees the green and 
 shadowed gloom was so deep and dense, 
 that no sunshine touched a guest from the 
 gates of Caerlerrick up to the Grothic porch, 
 where the giant shadow of the cold mansion 
 crossed with its deeper darkness the quiver- 
 ing shade of the sombre avenue. 
 
 Standing in the porch, Walter looked 
 back upon the long line of deepening green 
 with a gaze of wistful admiration, sorrowing 
 for the days to come, when the decay so 
 visible in many a noble tree should reach 
 the heart, and lay their stately crowns low 
 even as the dust. Here and there in the 
 long winding line where a great gap was 
 made by a fallen tree the sunset glow darted
 
 160 Forgotten Lives, 
 
 in with a red glare like a tongue of flame, 
 lighting up the silvery trunks and hoar 
 branches with a quivering fire. The up- 
 rooted trees which made these gaps still lay 
 where they had fallen, with weeds and grass 
 grown rank about them ; and the rustle of 
 the wind in their withered branches sounded 
 like the footsteps of the dead, who had wan- 
 dered beneath their shade in olden times — 
 times of love and sorrow, youth and beauty 
 — times of age and weariness— times hal- 
 lowed by human grief and human hopes as 
 now. 
 
 Down in a deep dell, where faint gleams 
 of light glimmered dimly on a pool bordered 
 by tall rushes and waving weeds, the sunset 
 glare in Walter's eyes, as he turned from 
 the west to look upon its darkness, conjured 
 up in his fancy a strange vision. He saw 
 a spirit, glad in long grey garments, holding 
 her white arms above her bowed head, 
 bewailing the sorrows of her house. One 
 ghostly ray of light reflected from the water 
 touched her face, showing it white and lovely 
 as the face of a beautiful woman dead but a 
 day. She seemed standing by a lake of blood, 
 for the glare in his eyes crimsoned the water, 
 and turned the rushes red and the tangled
 
 Forgotten Lices. 161 
 
 reeds which gathered about her feet. He 
 was thinkiDg of Barbara — she was always 
 in his heart — and this gave to her tall figure 
 Barbara's mien, and even a touch of Bar- 
 bara's wistful look on her grey- white face. 
 
 Yexed at the vision and at the reddened 
 light, w^hich blood-streaked the grass and 
 crimsoned the pool, Walter passed his hand 
 across his eyes hurriedly, and when he looked 
 again the water was dull and dead, the rank 
 grass, yellow with age, waved darkling, and 
 the high reeds bent their heads in whispers, 
 but the illusion had vanished which had 
 deceived him wdth the face of Barbara, and 
 there was no figure, no life by the solitary 
 pool except a moping bird, which spread its 
 black wings and swept sullenly away even 
 as he gazed. 
 
 " All my thoughts are of death and 
 gloom," he said. And, turning abruptly 
 towards the porch, he found himself eye to 
 eye with death in life, with age trembling 
 on the grave's brink, with woe, and care, 
 and patience printed in deep lines on a 
 wrinkled mask, once a woman's face. 
 
 She was the oldest livinor creature he had 
 ever seen. She had a century's marks upon 
 her. Time had clawed her with cruel talons, 
 
 VOL. I. 11
 
 162 For gotten Lives. 
 
 he had bent her double, and twisted her 
 frame, and puckered up her visage with a 
 thousand searas ; he had plucked her teeth 
 from her ; covered her head with snow, and 
 dried her hands like a brown mummy's in 
 the house of dust and silence. But he had 
 left her her coal-black eyes — hiding by her 
 beaked nose like an eagle's — as bright and 
 fierce, as steady and piercing. They looked 
 upon him like two fires, and, starting back, 
 Walter stood a moment silent and amazed. 
 
 " Sir Cuthbert is away," said the woman 
 in a sweet voice — a voice so sweet, and low, 
 and clear, that it seemed the strangest thing 
 on earth to hear such gentle tones issuing 
 from that wrinkled mask. 
 
 *' I have no business with Sir Cuthbert," 
 answered Walter; "I come only as a 
 stranger to claim a stranger's privilege to 
 view one of the oldest mansions in England.'* 
 
 " You are welcome," she said ; and the 
 great oak door, nail-studded, went back 
 slowly on its huge hinges, and he stepped 
 within with a shiver on all his flesh. 
 
 " This is the hall," continued the woman 
 in her slow, sweet tones. " Ah ! ^^ou are 
 thinking how well its dark walls agree with 
 the worst murder ever done."
 
 Forgotten Lives, 163 
 
 It was the oddest interpretation to his 
 thought ever spoken, and Walter turned 
 and looked in her face with a quick startled 
 glance. Her eyes were fixed beyond him 
 upon a portrait on the wall, and her brown 
 mummy hands, locked together, rested on 
 the thick black staff she carried. She seemed 
 a witch, but too careless of him to use her 
 art upon him. 
 
 " How could you guess my thoughts were 
 of murder and the cruelties of olden times ?" 
 he said in a jesting voice. 
 
 She lifted one wrinkled hand and pointed 
 to the portrait on the wall. 
 
 "No stranger ever passes the threshold cf 
 Caerlerrick who does not feel the shadow of 
 that man's foul deeds upon him," she 
 answered. " It fades away in a day or two, 
 they say, this horror of blood, this dread of 
 crime, which clings about a new comer, and 
 he feels it then no more than we do who live 
 here. No such thought touches us, you 
 know." 
 
 Her coal-black eyes were fixed upon him 
 m a strange way, half in fear, half in menace, 
 as if some jealousy were working in her 
 heart, guarding the Tregethas' honour. 
 
 " Naturally," he answered, " you are used 
 
 11—2
 
 164 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 to this old place. Custom destroys the 
 influences, the eflect, such ancient places 
 have upon a stranger/' 
 
 "Then you felt it?" she said anxiously. 
 
 With her eyes upon him, piercing soul 
 and spirit, the jesting mood with which he 
 would have answered her died away. 
 
 *' I confess," he said unwillingly, *' that a 
 shudder touched me as I entered, and I had 
 scarcely stood a moment here when a fright- 
 ful, a horrible thought assailed me." 
 
 *' You need not tell it," she interposed in 
 her sweet, low tones. " I have heard it so 
 often from others. Come away from where 
 you stand. You have your back to the por- 
 trait of black Sir Malins. Turn and face 
 him ; he can never hurt those who look him 
 in the face." 
 
 Walter turned and met painted eyes like 
 the living eyes of the witch before him. 
 Coal-black and piercing, they looked out of 
 the canvas with a wicked sneer, to which 
 the high eagle nose and the curled lip added 
 an expression of cruelty — triumphant 
 cruelty, terrible for its lurking power and 
 strength. 
 
 The face of the portrait was pale ; a clear 
 ivory tint, creamy, yet not fair, the lips and
 
 Forgotten Lives. 165 
 
 chin beardless, the hair was black as jet and 
 long, the armour black also, wrought with 
 gold. One hand was raised with the palm 
 outwards, as if to show a scar strangely 
 marked; the other rested on his sword. It 
 would seem as if with that touch upon his 
 sword-hilt the cruel smile had risen to his 
 lips, and some fiend had fixed it there for 
 ever. 
 
 Walter gazed at the painted face, and 
 then glanced on the wrinkled mask beside 
 him with a half shudder; it was so horrible to 
 see this weird likeness between the dead and 
 the living, this inexplicable look of power 
 in the eye which followed him from the 
 lifeless canvas, and looked out steadily on 
 him from the living mask. Nor was it this 
 only from which his heart shrank as from 
 some cold appalling touch. In that clear 
 pale ivory face, in those deep dark eyes so 
 full of latent fire, he sought the shadow of 
 other eyes, the spirit of another face, dear to 
 him as this one was dreadful and repugnant. 
 Either he brought his thought of Barbara 
 to colour his every vision, or there was in 
 deed and truth a look upon this dead man's 
 face like hers. 
 
 '' Well, do you see a likeness ?" said the
 
 ]66 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 aged liag beside him in that unnatural, sweet 
 voice of hers. 
 
 " A likeness !" he cried, starting back at 
 the abrupt question. " No, it was a mere 
 fancy! It is gone now. The mouth is unlike, 
 but in the complexion and the eyes " 
 
 " Complexion !" she shrieked out with a 
 laugh. " No, no, I'm far enough from that 
 creamy face — far as old age can put me ; 
 and even when I was young I never had 
 that white look." 
 
 Then Walter saw she was speaking of 
 herself, and he echoed back that wild tooth- 
 less laugh of hers with a sense of relief upon 
 him which he would not analyse. 
 
 " True, it is not in the complexion but in 
 the eyes one sees a sort of likeness to your- 
 self," he said. " How do you account for it ?" 
 
 Clasping her mummy hands upon her 
 staff, she laughed again till her old withered 
 frame shook like a dead reed in the wind. 
 
 " Some give one reason, some another," 
 she answered, her sweet voice breaking 
 through her laughter like plaintive music. 
 " My people have served the Tregethas 
 family for many a generation back. Sir 
 Malins was a handsome youth, as you see, 
 and Eose Behenna was a handsome girl.
 
 Forgotten Lives. 167 
 
 She drowned herself in the pool out yonder 
 in the dell, but they don't Cdll the place by 
 her name for it." 
 
 "And this Eose with the odd name?" 
 said Walter, interrupting her. 
 
 " Was the first and last woman in my 
 havage"^ that had need to drown herself for 
 want of a wedding-ring. There, that's the 
 story ; that's why people say his eyes and 
 mine are alike, but /say it is because he 
 watched over a mad wife for many years." 
 
 " That's a strange reason to give and a 
 sorrowful one," said Walter. " I confess I 
 cannot see why such a task should cause a 
 likeness." 
 
 " Perhaps not," she answered drily; " but 
 I can. Eyes need be strong and sharp and 
 full of life and fire for such a task as his. 
 Ah ! it gives a rare look, that sort of power." 
 
 She shook her withered hand at the por- 
 trait familiarly, as if she felt some mys- 
 terious link of kindred between him and 
 herself, stronger than that which bound him 
 to his more legitimate descendants. 
 
 " And who was this black Sir Malins ?'* 
 asked Walter. 
 
 * A Cornish, word signifying lineage.
 
 168 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 " He was a cavalier in the days when 
 Cromwell stabled his horses in many a 
 Cornish church. He was wild and wicked 
 enough to leave a curse in the very blood 
 of the Tregethas. But the worst deed he 
 ever did was when he treacherously slew 
 here in his hall, seated at his table, his guest, 
 Stephen Bosperis. You'll see the woods of 
 Bosanken if you look out of that window ; 
 it's a near neighbour to Caerlerrick, but 
 there has been no love between the two 
 houses since that day of murder. Sir 
 Malins and Stephen Bosperis had quarrelled 
 about the girl Eose Behenna. Stephen 
 would have married her but for him'' and 
 again she flung her hand with the old ges- 
 ture towards the portrait ; " and the young 
 men had not spoken for a year when the 
 news came that Cromwell's soldiers were on 
 Cornish ground. Then Stephen Bosperis 
 sent word that being both on the king's 
 side, it was a shame their private differences 
 should hurt the royal cause, and he would 
 forgive and forget if the other would. Upon 
 this a banquet was held at Caerlerrick, a 
 grand feast of reconciliation, but while 
 Stephen was pledging his host, Sir Malins 
 treacherously stabbed him in the back, and
 
 Forgotten Lives. 169 
 
 he fell dead with the wine cup in his hand 
 and the traitor's name upon his lips. 
 
 " The murder had long been planned, and 
 Sir Malins had relays of horses ready on the 
 road, all the way to Oxford, where the king 
 was camped. He rode night and day for 
 his life, the Bosperises on his track, but their 
 steeds were not waiting for them as his 
 were, and his tale of their pretended treason 
 reached the royal ear first. He flung him- 
 self on his knees before the king, and he 
 poured twenty thousand pounds in gold and 
 silver plate into the empty treasury. This 
 bought his pardon, and the Bosperises, in 
 their fury, joined the rebel troops. 
 
 " Through this window, looking west, on 
 the day of that treacherous banquet, Stephen 
 Bosperis's corpse was hurried by the Tre- 
 gethas retainers, and flung into a deep pool 
 lying in a little dell in the park. But his 
 kinsmen searching for it found the body, 
 and laid it in holy ground. 
 
 "Sir Malins married soon after he joined 
 the king, and Eose Behenna died. The 
 story goes that it was Stephen whom she 
 really loved, and not her cruel master.'' 
 
 The aged lady — for no one could give her 
 any other name but that of lady — told this
 
 170 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 legend with that sweet chanting cadence in the 
 voice which the Cornish have, and her musi- 
 cal tones lingered on Walter's ear, keeping 
 him silent a moment after they had ceased. 
 
 "And the pool is haunted, doubtless?" he 
 said with a half smile. 
 
 " They say so," she answered. " Eose 
 Behenna stands at sunset upon the brink, 
 and, wringing her hands, she leans over to 
 search for the corpse of Stephen. Some 
 declare they have seen her, but these eyes of 
 mine have watched the pool for many a year 
 without meeting that sight." 
 
 For a moment Walter had it in his mind 
 to speak of the illusion made by the sunset 
 glare, but he refrained. 
 
 " And what name do they give the pool," 
 he asked, " since it is not called, as it should 
 be, after poor Eose Behenna ?" 
 
 " In old times it was called Poldhew — 
 the Black Pool : but since Stephen Bosperis's 
 corpse lay in it two days and nights, folks 
 have named it Dead-Man's Weir. It was 
 always a lone place ; trees wont thrive on 
 its borders, and there's never the shadow of 
 a bird Hits across it except a raven. Do you 
 wish to see the rest of the house ?" she 
 added abruptly.
 
 Forgotten Lives, 171 
 
 " If you will permit me," said Walter. 
 
 " There will be scarcely time before dark/' 
 she said thoughtfully, " but we can hurry 
 through the other rooms. The hall stops 
 strangers always the longest ; Stephen Bos- 
 peris never lets them pass on till they've 
 heard the story of his cruel murder. He 
 and Sir Malins, they say, fight for the soul 
 of a stranger ; this is why such thoughts of 
 horror seize on the heart of a new guest at 
 Caerlerrick. Will you try it ? Are you 
 afraid to enter ?" 
 
 And, standing in the great doorway lead- 
 ing from the hall, she barred Walter's pro- 
 gress with her gaunt figure, and her 
 withered hand raised high in the air. 
 
 "A sight-seer is not a visitor," he said, 
 treating her superstition gravely. " You 
 may safely let me pass on." 
 
 "Every comer is reckoned a guest at 
 Caerlerrick," she answered, with her eyes 
 full on him ; " and there's treachery from a 
 guest and to a guest. Either is like the sin 
 of Judas, unforgiven both in earth and 
 heaven. He is unpardoned still. I know 
 it." And she pointed one long forefinger 
 at Sir Malins' face. " Yet he sufi^ered — suf- 
 fered horribly— so did Judas. And he walks
 
 172 'Forgotten Lives. 
 
 — his spirit does — and will get no rest till 
 the time, the terrible time, of expiation 
 comes." 
 
 " And when will that time be ?" said 
 Walter, humouring her fancies. 
 
 " "When another Eose comes fco Caerler- 
 rick to bring us death and woe. Heaven 
 keep the time and the name away from us 
 in my days ! I have seen sorrow enough.'* 
 
 She passed through the doorway abruptly, 
 beckoning Walter to follow. 
 
 " How did Sir Malins die ?" he asked as 
 he walked on by her side. 
 
 " Wait — wait a little, and I'll tell you. 
 This is the great library, hung with all the 
 modern portraits of the family — those that 
 have lived in my time." 
 
 She looked around wistfully, and her eyes 
 softened, and her mummy hands shook again 
 visibly. 
 
 " That is the present baronet," she said, 
 as Walter stopped before a portrait. " I 
 nursed him when a boy.'^ 
 
 " He looks quite an old man," observed 
 Walter, scanning the picture with a very 
 earnest look. 
 
 " Old !" she cried with a shriek of laughter. 
 " Why, I played with his grandfather. He
 
 Forgotten Lives. 173 
 
 is not old ; lie is a young man ; lie brings a 
 bride home next month." 
 
 " Indeed ! And was it to marry that he 
 went abroad?" 
 
 " Ay ; and I bade him go. Talk of age, 
 I own I'm getting old — too old to have all 
 the charge and care of things at Caerlerrick. 
 I told him so. I bade him get a wife — 
 one like me, who could help him." 
 
 " Like you ?" exclaimed AValter, and he 
 could not keep back the smile that played 
 on his lips. 
 
 " Ah, laugh if you will," she said, her 
 sweet voice dropping plaintively without a 
 touch of anger in it. " It will be well for 
 Sir Cuthbert if he gets a wife as faithful as 
 I have been to him — a3 faithful and as 
 brave." 
 
 " I have no doubt you have been a most 
 faithful and true servant to this house," said 
 Walter, abashed at his short laughter. 
 
 " The Behennas"^ die always through or 
 for the Tregethas," she answered, " and I 
 never wished for any other fate. Come 
 away ; it is too dark now to see the painted 
 roof I can only show you to-night how 
 
 * Behenna — age-burdened.
 
 174 Forgotten Lives, 
 
 Sir Malins died. You must come asfain to 
 see the rest." 
 
 " I can never come again to Caerlerrick," 
 returned Walter, " Whose picture is this ?" 
 he added eagerly; " this strange portrait 
 with a black veil painted over the face ?" 
 
 "Is that here?" she exclaimed, coming 
 forward hastily. "I thought it was removed ; 
 it ouofht to be before the bride comes home. 
 It is the picture of a Tregethas who dis- 
 honoured her name. She is dead now." 
 
 " And who was she ?" persisted Walter. 
 
 " Can you see her name or her face behind 
 that black veil?" asked his strange guide. 
 
 " No," he answered. 
 
 " Then neither can I. Will you please to 
 follow me, sir ? I am going to close the door." 
 
 He had no alternative but to obey, though 
 as his steps lingered he glanced again at the 
 portrait, wondering if this daughter of Caer- 
 lerrick, whose name and face were veiled, 
 had any part in the history he was striving 
 to trace. Had her dead hand worn a gimmel 
 ring? Had her fingers carved the word 
 "Caerlerrick"* — the word which had brought 
 him to this old mansion ? 
 
 * Caerlerrick — Eock of the lunatic.
 
 Forgotten Lives. 175 
 
 As he thought this, the door closed on 
 her veiled face, and he took with him only 
 a dim image of a slight figure clothed in a 
 blue robe, and round white arms and clasped 
 hands raised pleadingly. 
 
 Through halls and chambers, ghostly in 
 the gathering gloom, he went silently, till 
 in one long upper gallery, with Gothic win- 
 dows facing east, the woman stopped and 
 laid her hand upon an ancient ponderous 
 oaken chest, and slowly raised the lid. 
 
 "Look down!" she said, pointing within 
 the chest with that brown dried hand of 
 hers. 
 
 Walter looked and recoiled in horror. A 
 cavity deep and black as night, like a yawn- 
 ing shaft, or the terrible entrance to an 
 oubliette, met his sight, and made his whole 
 frame shudder. 
 
 While he gazed the woman took down 
 from its bracket in the wall an antique lan- 
 tern, with long chain attached, and lighting 
 the candle it held, she swung it within the 
 pit. As it descended slowly, and she stood 
 pointing downwards with her bony finger, 
 she seemed to Walter a human raven in her 
 age, and ugliness, and preternatural delight. 
 
 " It is an awful place to die in," she said.
 
 170 Forgotten Lives, 
 
 breaking the silence with her toothless laugh, 
 while her black eyes gleamed fiery on the 
 pit's brink. '* You must go down and see 
 it. The steps are there at the side, cut in 
 the solid wall." 
 
 " Go down ?" exclaimed Walter recoiling. 
 
 " Why not ?" she asked coolly. " Better 
 men than you, maybe, have been glad to 
 shelter themselves in that hiding-place. Ah, 
 I see you are no Cornishman, or you would 
 not fear a little darkness.'' 
 
 Here she swayed the chain to and fro in 
 the pit with a motion like a serpent's, 
 making it seem a long, thin snake, with 
 head of fire. 
 
 " What is the depth of this," she said, 
 " compared to the shafts down which our 
 Cornishmen go day and night? 1 am a 
 miner's daughter. I am not afraid." 
 
 And in another instant her wrinkled, 
 mummy face, and her fierce eyes, were look- 
 ing up at him from the midst of the dark- 
 ness. Ashamed of his passing weakness, he 
 followed quickly, with a sort of fever in his 
 haste.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 HE lantern swinging from the bracket 
 above lighted the dismal way, show^- 
 ing its narrow darkness, its winding 
 stairs in the thick wall, its dust and mildew. 
 Just beneath, with the light now flashing 
 on her, now leaving her in deep shadow, 
 "Walter saw his guide — a veritable witch, a 
 human vulture, with her long dry hands, 
 her skeleton face and eyes ablaze wdth silent 
 wicked pleasure. 
 
 Suddenly she stopped in her descent, and 
 flung one skiuDy arm upwards to stay his 
 steps, and as he obeyed this gesture she 
 vanished. He stood still, amazed, bev/ildered, 
 giddy, with the horrible thought upon him 
 that he was trapped, and she meant him to 
 die here of famine and of madness. But as 
 the anguish of this horror brought a cold 
 sweat upon his brow, he saw her hand 
 gleaming in the darkness — a faint flicker of 
 light on it — beckoning to him, and her 
 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 178 Forr/often Lives. 
 
 sweet voice came up from the depths Hke 
 
 music from a grave. 
 
 " Come quickly," she said, '' the time is 
 short. The light is nearly gone." 
 
 When he reached her side he found him- 
 self in an arched doorway — it was this had 
 hidden her a moment — and stooping down 
 she whispered — 
 
 " This is the place !" and flung the door 
 wide oj)en. 
 
 A grey light stole upon them both, and 
 through a narrow loophole he saw the 
 evening star — saw, too^ a low small room, 
 an antique table, a carved chair, a human 
 skull, and on the floor a heap of bones and 
 dust. 
 
 Her dreadful hand was on his shoulder 
 now, and the sweet siren voice was in his 
 ear. 
 
 " This is how he died — there he lies upon 
 the floor ! It was I who found him ! — ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! — I, Primrose Behenna !" 
 
 " Found him ? whom ? Avhat ?" exclaimed 
 Walter, staring at her with dazed eyes. 
 
 "Sir Malins! That's Sir Malins," she 
 answered, pointing to the heap upon the 
 floor. " He died here of famine, shut up 
 like a rat in the midst of his enemies. He
 
 Forgotten Lives. 179 
 
 could not communicate with tlie household 
 without betraying himself; Caerlerrick was 
 full of Eoundheads, and the only two who 
 knew of this secret room, and could have 
 helped him, were dead/' 
 
 " But surely he must have known that 
 fact when he fled to this concealment/* 
 observed Walter doubtfully. 
 
 ''No, for one of them was his foster- 
 brother, slain defending Caerlerrick, and 
 the other was Eose Behenna, and no one 
 had ventured to write and tell him of her 
 death. There is a tradition here that during 
 the stay of Cromwell's men a bell in her 
 chamber was rung often. It communicated 
 with this secret room. It was Sir Malins 
 ringing for the dead. Perhaps she came to 
 him. Who shall say? I would had I 
 been Eose Behenna — ha! ha ! ha ! I would 
 have come to him/' 
 
 Her laugh sounded ghastly in this sad 
 place, and the creak of the chain without, 
 as the lantern swung to and fro, struck the 
 ear with a harsh cry, rising and falling in 
 dismal monotony, continuous as tlie voice of 
 some everlasting despair. 
 
 " The rebel soldiers," she continued, with 
 that dreadful laugh still upon her lips,. 
 
 12— a
 
 180 For (/of ten Lives. 
 
 " swore the bell was rung by magic — by 
 some devil's trick to frighten them away, and 
 they tore it down. So Sir Malins' inarticu- 
 late cry to Eose for food and succour was 
 silenced." 
 
 " The story has doubtless a foundation of 
 truth/' remarked Walter, "but I cannot 
 believe a man could enter this house and 
 come down this secret staircase unseen." 
 
 '' There is another entrance from the 
 park," she returned carelessly. " It is 
 never used now. I think the subterranean 
 way is blocked up. There's the door 
 to it, not even bolted you see. As for Sir 
 Malins, if he rode hither in the night, he 
 could easily enough enter that way and hide 
 here unseen. He came, trusting in the 
 girl he had betrayed to save his life ; that 
 trust killed him. It was just enough ; her 
 trust in him had killed her. I am all for 
 justice." 
 
 She bent over the skull of the unfortunate 
 Cavalier with a smile on her lips, and a 
 gleam of malice and contempt in her great 
 black eyes. 
 
 " It was a terrible retribution," said 
 Walter, " if the legend be true, but I still 
 think such a man as Sir Malins would have
 
 For (/of ten Lives. 181 
 
 been missed and searched for far and 
 near." 
 
 '' And so lie was," she laughed oufc, '' both 
 by Eoundheads and Eoyalists ; they each 
 had a gallows ready for him; but their 
 search was vain. He was last seen Hvins: 
 wounded from the battle-field, and after 
 this no tidings of him ever reached human 
 ears again. He had fled to France — to 
 Flanders — he had died on the road and was 
 buried by strangers unrecognised, his name 
 unknown; these were the stories rife at Caer- 
 lerrick till I found him. I was always 
 searching for him in my young days. I had 
 no rest till I looked upon his dead face." 
 
 Her shining eyes, full of some wistful 
 dreaminess, wandered round the darkening 
 room, and rested again upon the white skull 
 with the old malignant smile. 
 
 " This ghastly legend sickens me," said 
 Walter. '•' Let us go. But why are these 
 poor bones left unburied?" 
 
 " Is not this vault good enough for them?" 
 she asked, putting her long lean fingers 
 through the eye-sockets of the skull. " Ah ! 
 what a grinning mouth ! no lips to kiss with 
 now. And yet in life the man was worse 
 than he is in death ; he is not so loathsome
 
 182 For (/often Lives. 
 
 now to the thought as vvlien the flesh was 
 on him. See ! he was sitting there when I 
 found him, his head resting on his arms, his 
 sword girt to his side, his pistols in his belt. 
 He looked alive. He was not a heap of 
 dust as he is now ; he crumbled as my gaze 
 touched him. It was the ghastliest sight 
 mj eyes had ever seen. I think the shadow 
 of it is always in them. It was horrible. 
 Yes, that low iron door leads to another 
 staircase, and to the sabterranean way, 
 opening in the park. You don't care to see 
 it? No, nor I. Let us go. Swing the 
 lantern upwards. A slip of the foot on these 
 stairs might kill you. And how can I tell 
 whether you might not haunt me, as Sir 
 Malins did ? Step carefully. Now seize 
 the rim of the chest, and swing yourself up- 
 wards. There ! you are safe. I am glad 
 of it.'' 
 
 Walter was glad of it also. He did not 
 interrupt her garrulous talk ; the darkness, 
 the stillness, the sepulchral gloom of the 
 dismal way, and, above all, a strange chill, 
 a foreboding of some unknown horror, had 
 touched his spirit as with a cold hand. An 
 unutterable terror, a darkness, such as fell 
 upon the patriarch when he dreamed of the
 
 For(/o{ ten L Ices, \^'d 
 
 long bondage and anguisli of his children, 
 had seemed to pass over him as he stood by 
 the side of this human raven in that hideous 
 chamber. And now, as she leaned over the 
 shaft winding up the lantern by its long 
 chain, he regarded her with a shudder creep- 
 ing over all his frame. And yet he watched 
 her, seeing her long hands gleam in and out 
 of the deep shadow, sometimes lost, some- 
 times shining out in a red light, with the 
 glare of the lantern on them like flashes of 
 flame from the pit of blackness. As the 
 ponderous lid of the chest fell down, shutting 
 up again the dark and silent way, Walter 
 felt it as the closing of a sepulchre, and he 
 hurried away through a long succession of an- 
 cient rooms to another gallery picture-lined. 
 
 '' Xot that way !" cried the sweet voice 
 of Primrose Behenna with sudden eas^erness. 
 " Come back ! Those are private rooms, 
 not shown to strangers.'' 
 
 Walter returned on his steps, but through 
 a door half-closed he had caught a ghmpse 
 of a table decorated with flowers, and 
 spread with dishes, and shining glass, and 
 plate. 
 
 "Are there visitors at Caerlerrick?" he 
 asked in a surprised tone.
 
 184 Fon/otien Lives. 
 
 ^' The only visitor here is yourself," 
 answered Mistress Behenna shortly. 
 
 '' Then you expect Sir Cuthbert and his 
 bride, perhaps, to-night ?" returned Walter 
 curiously. 
 
 " To-night and all nights," said the 
 woman. 
 
 But now, glancing down the gallery, she 
 caught sight of the open door, and looked 
 up at him with fierce eyes. 
 
 " We are always ready for their arrival ; 
 we lay a table for them every evening. Sir 
 Cuthbert is not a man to tell us when he is 
 coming," she added abruptly. 
 
 This strange, silent meal, laid, out night 
 after night for the unknown bride and 
 bridegroom, who never came, was like a 
 spectral feast, or a banquet in a spellbound 
 castle spread for the dead, or for guests who 
 were changed to stone. The very air of 
 Caerlerrick had a mysterious enchantment 
 in its breath which held Walter silent as he 
 went down the great staircase with quiet 
 footfall, his step gliding noiseless over the 
 thick carpet. In the hall he stood a moment 
 before the portrait of Sir Malins, while his 
 thoughts, filled with a strange suspicion, 
 rested on the expected bridegroom.
 
 For (J of tea Lives. 1S5 
 
 " Will you tell me what became of Sir 
 Cuthbert's first wife ?" he said suddenly, 
 speaking purposely with abrupt earnest- 
 ness. 
 
 Primrose Behenna turned on him sharply 
 at the question, and struck her staff on the 
 poHshed floor. 
 
 "Who dares ask after her beneath the 
 roof of Caerlerrick ?" she cried. 
 
 " I do," answered Walter. " I ask you 
 where she is." 
 
 " You must ask of the dead, then, not of 
 the hving. Old as I am, the secrets of 
 death are as dark to me as to you/' 
 
 " So she is dead?'' said Walter. 
 
 The raven laughed, with her flashing eyes 
 angry as a living fire. 
 
 " Have I not told you Sir Cuthbert is 
 going to marry again ?" she said, shaking 
 her bony hand at him. " Could he do that 
 if Lady Tregethas were living P" 
 
 " But he was separated from his wife long- 
 before her death/' continued Walter, looking 
 steadily into her fierce black eyes. 
 
 " Are you her friend ? Is it any busi- 
 ness of yours to repeat what no one denies ?" 
 she asked in her sweet, cold voice. " Dis- 
 honour is not a thino^ to talk of; leave the
 
 186 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 shame of tlie Tregethas family alone while 
 you stand beneath this roof." 
 
 But for the thought of Barbara, and that 
 one word, " Caerlerrich," on the gimmel 
 ring, Walter would have felt abashed at this 
 reproof, but now he held his ground bravely. 
 
 " I repeat no secret," he said; "every one 
 knows that Sir Cuthbert and Lady Tregethas 
 were separated ; the cause of the separation 
 alone was a secret." 
 
 " She left her husband — that's no secret. 
 The newsboys told it, and vended it in the 
 streets for a penny. Let us hope the next 
 marriage will be happier. But no, Eose 
 Behenna's ghost is not laid yet.". 
 
 She murmured this as if to herself, with 
 those strange eyes of hers fixed on Sir Malins' 
 face. 
 
 " Were there no children by that unhappy 
 marriage ?" said Walter. His voice faltered 
 with easrerness, and he almost trembled lest 
 she should say yes. 
 
 "No," she answered, in a steady voice, 
 " Sir Cuthbert is childless. We close the 
 doors at eight," she added curtly. " Will 
 you write your name in this book? Sir 
 Cuthbert requires all visitors to record their 
 names here."
 
 Forgotten Lives. 1S7 
 
 Walter did as she requested, and Avatclied 
 her looks earnestly as she read his signature. 
 Hers was not a face to change much, now in 
 its extreme age, but her hands shook, and 
 she clutched her staff with a convulsive grasp, 
 fixing her eyes on him with a gaze eager and 
 fiery as an eagle's. 
 
 " Lethbridge ! I've heard the name before ; 
 it's a west country name, but not Cornish," 
 she said:, with a double sweetness in her voice 
 belying the angry eyes. " Tou are not of 
 this county, sir ?" 
 
 '*I don't pretend to be of any county," 
 returned Walter ; " I arrived lately from 
 America." 
 
 She heaved a sigh, a heavy sigh, and the 
 tight clasp of her thin fingers relaxed their 
 hold upon the carved handle of her staff. 
 
 "So you are an American — a stranger," 
 she answered. " It would make you laugh 
 to know how familiar your name is to me. 
 Sometimes it is in my ears all day. Leth- 
 bridge ! Lethbridge ! yes, that's the name the 
 ghosts at Caerlerrick whisper as I pass." 
 
 There was a tone of mockery in her voice 
 as if she wished her words to be taken for a 
 jest, but Walter felt mth instinctive certainty 
 they would never have been spoken if she
 
 133 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 had not supposed him to be an American. 
 It was impossible not to observe the increase 
 of frankness in her odd manner, and the 
 passing away of that eager glitter of suspicion 
 in her keen eyes. Walter noted all this in 
 silence. 
 
 " I am glad my name is familiar in your 
 ears. I hope this will help you not to for- 
 get it." 
 
 He would have put money in her hand, but 
 she drew back, and the gold fell with a sharp 
 ring upon the floor. At the same instant 
 there came upon the air the silvery chimes 
 of a bell — a bell so clear, so powerful, and yet 
 so sweet, that as its echoes rolled away it 
 sounded like music flying on the wind. 
 
 ''Ahl" cried the witch, starting back, 
 "have you brought a ghost with you to 
 Caerlerrick? That's Sir MaHns' bell— the 
 bell in Rose Behenna's room. I must go at 
 once." 
 
 Like a wicked raven she twisted her head 
 on one side to listen, and an odd gleam of 
 malicious power shot into her black eyes, and 
 lit them up with a cruel laugh. 
 
 " Pray obey the bell," said Walter, giving 
 in to her mad humour ; " ghosts should never 
 be kept waiting. And give my respects ta
 
 Forgotten Lives. 189 
 
 Sir Malins, and tell him that Walter Leth- 
 bridge, the nepiiew of Dr. Lethbridge, who, 
 I believe, was not nnknovv^n to his descendant. 
 Sir Cuthbert, has paid him a visit to-dav." 
 
 Her face changed now ; it grew ghastly 
 whiite, and all the puckers and wrinkles in it 
 looked like the shadows of ravens' claws. 
 
 " Curse you !" she cried, raising her staff 
 as if to strike him : " you are a spy of the 
 Bosperis people — a traitor from the camp of 
 the enem3^ How dared 3'on enter the doors 
 of Caerlerrick ?" 
 
 '' I know nothing of the Bosperis — I never 
 heard theirnarae till you spoke it," returned 
 Walter quietly. '' I bid you farewell, Mis- 
 tress Behenna." 
 
 Her lips worked, lier eyes gleamed on him 
 savagely, but her rage, strong as it was, 
 seemed held down by some deeper feeling, 
 and in a voice sweet and musical as ever she 
 said gently — 
 
 " Excuse me, sir. I am old. In old- 
 fashioned times we had tempers and showed 
 them. The world is changed. The young 
 in this day are fishes, in my day they were 
 hawks — and the old were vultures," she 
 added, shrugging her wizen shoulders. " Take 
 back your money, sir ; I am no servant."
 
 190 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 She saw liim stoop for it with a wicked 
 smile, and as he rose she made him a curtsey 
 a century old, saying in her sweetest voice, 
 '' Your most obedient, humble servant, sir." 
 
 This was their farewell, but as Walter 
 reached the open door the chime of the bell 
 broke again into the still air, and looking 
 back he saw her standing grimly silent, while 
 the music of the bell seemed to float above 
 her snowy hair and her wild dark face.
 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 LOSED shutters, an aspect of dust and 
 dreariness, and a yellow bill with 
 ^ ' Honse to Let' in big letters, this 
 is what met my view, my dear Theresa, when 
 I drove into that dull street, whose name, 
 as you know, I had treasured in my tablets. 
 I went about at once from shop to sho^) like 
 Mother Hubbard, but since I was not so 
 extensive a purchaser as that celebrated old 
 lady, I was not so welcome, and I could ex- 
 tract but little information from the natives. 
 The sum of it all was simply the bare fact 
 that Mrs. Lethbridge was dead and her 
 daughter had gone abroad, while her brother 
 or cousin — information vague on that point 
 — had betaken himself to xlmerica. 
 
 " This is the unsatisfactorj' news I am 
 obliged to send you. 'Abroad' is a wide 
 word, but though I have driven about like 
 Jehu, the son of Nimshi, from one point of
 
 192 Forfjoiten Lives. 
 
 the compass to the other, nothing more 
 explicit has been gained by my quest. 
 
 " Now T am ready to fly to the ends of 
 the earth after this wandering damsel if you 
 wisli it, Theresa, only I would entreat you 
 to pause before you rake up a dead past from 
 which you can only reap a harvest of trouble. 
 I say this in kindness, being perfectly con- 
 vinced myself that things are better as they 
 are — a dead quiet is more agreeable than a 
 hurricane. The atmosphere at Bosanken 
 struck me as being charged with danger — 
 every breath was filled with whispers inimi- 
 cal to your peace. 
 
 " The painful state of your own mind 
 and the unhappy misunderstanding between 
 yourself and Bosperis may of course be suf- 
 ficient to account for the sort of feeling 
 to which I allude — the heavy cloud and mys- 
 tery hovering around us. But I do not 
 think these reasons, sad as they are, can be 
 the only springs from whence arise such a 
 sense of secrecy and hidden grief. I say 
 this frankly, and I say also that if I can do 
 anything to clear a^ay the cloud and help 
 to restore your peace, I shall rejoice indeed. 
 Only I doubt if the odd quest on which you 
 have sent me will aid towards that desiredend
 
 Forgotten Lives. 193 
 
 "I confess, however, I do not hope to 
 shake the fixed and morbid idea which pos- 
 sesses jou — an idea strengthened by the 
 singular fact of my having met a Miss Leth- 
 bridge on my way to you. As for the 
 curious notion you cherished during your 
 illness that I had brought this girl, or the 
 constant sense of her presence, to Bosanken, 
 it can easily be accounted for naturally with- 
 out going into the dim land of ghosts and 
 superstitions for the cause. Fever had made 
 you painfully, nervously sensitive, and the 
 young lady being very much in my thoughts, 
 my brain impressed yours, and hence your 
 idea that she was ever by my side. Xow 
 that she should be the subject of my cogita- 
 tions was certainly no marvel. An accident 
 brings me into contact with a young girl of 
 a singular aspect — a strange kind of beaut v 
 not often seen — a girl looking desperately 
 ill, and gaunt, and weary, and yet with a 
 power in her face — for it is power even more 
 than beauty for which it is remarkable — ■ 
 that I cannot convey to you in words. I 
 ascertain her name is Lethbridi_^e, and havinof 
 rendered her the assistance due to her as the 
 victim of my mad driving, the whole aifair 
 would of course have died out of my memory, 
 
 VOL. I. 13
 
 104 For g oft en Lives. 
 
 only the first words that greet me on enter- 
 ing yonr room are ' Lethbridge ! the name 
 is Lethbridge ! search for her, Oliver — search 
 through the world !' 
 
 " You will acknowledge such a cry was 
 startling, and was quite sufficient to make 
 my thoughts recur constantly to the young 
 lady I had met, with the ceaseless question 
 as to the identity of the Lethbridge in your 
 mind with the Lethbridge in mine. 
 
 " I am convinced that your fanciful belief 
 in her presence arose only from the sym- 
 pathetic current of thought between me and 
 yourself. I entreat you, then, not to permit 
 your mind to be superstitiously affected by 
 so simple a fact. 
 
 " Permit me to shatter your dismal fancies 
 by one other commonplace remark. There 
 is no proof whatever that the Miss Leth- 
 bridge I so strangely encountered is the 
 myth for whom you are so anxious to search. 
 On the contrary, I believe m^/ Lethbridge is 
 to be found, while yours is only a phantom; 
 or worse, she is born of the mysterious an- 
 noyances of an enemy. You see I learned 
 something at Bosanken, though I am no spy. 
 
 "In all earnestness, Theresa, I implore 
 you not to allow j^ourself to be made the
 
 Forgotten Lives. 195 
 
 sport of an anonymous foe. Such a course 
 can only add to your unliappiness, and you 
 cannot expect that Bosperis will endure 
 patiently the thought that you are secretlv 
 listening to the slanders of an enemy.. 
 
 " I believe that if I can find the real, true, 
 living Miss Lethbridge, and present her to 
 yoa in the flesh, most of your gloom will 
 vanish, the mist in your brain will clear 
 away, and you will see the folly of these mad 
 fancies. At all events, you will be con- 
 vinced that this anonymous, mysterious 
 disturber of your peace is unworthy of 
 credence. 
 
 "Upon my word I think Bosperis is 
 anxious to see you happy. I do honestlv, 
 and I wish you would meet his rare words 
 of kindness with less reserve. As for my- 
 self, I am resolved to do all I can to help 
 you, and if I have said this in a half-banter- 
 ing tone, I am not the less in earnest. 
 
 " I am ready to unfurl the banner of the 
 De Beauvoirs, and set forth, like a knight- 
 errant, to perform your behests. I shall be 
 glad of a trip on the Continent. I am sick 
 of town life, and the eternal ride in the Eow, 
 and the simpers of marriageable maidens. 
 
 '' I repeat, however, it is my Lethbridge I 
 
 13—2
 
 196 Forgotten Lives, 
 
 shall look for, not yours. I want to baffle 
 your foe, not help him. The fates forbid 
 that my hand should be the one to rake up 
 ghosts to torment you. As I have said be- 
 fore, let us leave the dead past alone. 
 
 " As for your own secret reason for this 
 odd search, I have ceased, as you know, to 
 urge you to divulge it. I await your own 
 time for a solution of the mystery. Your 
 promise to explain all, when I find your 
 myth, will be fulfilled, doubtless, when my 
 strange quest is successful with regard to the 
 real Miss Lethbrid^^e. 
 
 " Now write and say what I shall do. 
 By-the-bye, what a pity it is that during 
 this fortnight's delay our bird is llown ! 
 "With that address in my pocket I thought 
 her safe as in a cage. I am rather glad the 
 cousin is off to America. I don't think we 
 want him. However, I will hunt him up if 
 you like." 
 
 Oliver de Beauvoir folded this letter in 
 complete unconsciousness of the contradic- 
 tions it contained. He did not see how he 
 had declared in one page his conviction that 
 '' things are better as they are," and in the 
 next had expressed an equally firm belief in 
 the wisdom of his search for Barbara.
 
 Forgotten Lives. 107 
 
 " Xow I wonder/' be said to himself, as 
 lie addressed the envelope, " whether Theresa 
 will have sense enough to see that I would 
 rather hunt for rattlesnakes than trouble 
 myself about this cousin." 
 
 His sister's answer was reassurins^. 
 
 "I would avoid all collision with the 
 young man," she wrote. '' I would only 
 seek him when all other means had failed. 
 The fewer you trust and consult with, the 
 less risk is there of sorrow and confusion. 
 Find out by what steamer the girl left Lon- 
 don; you will discover then at what port she 
 landed." 
 
 In two days Oliver had done this, and on 
 the third he stood on the deck of the Havre 
 packet, and steamed fast away on the track 
 of Barbara Lethbrids^e.
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 HEN Eose Carteret left the slielter- 
 ing arms of St. Cecilia, slie took 
 with her the taint of fever engen- 
 dered by the meagre diet, the depression, the 
 helpless, hopeless, dead air of the asylum. 
 So many human hearts beating in quiet de- 
 spondency ; so many young minds quenched 
 and dulled, breathed out an atmosphere so 
 heavy with silent pain, that life was crushed 
 beneath it ; and many a new-comer fell ill 
 with that dull slow fever for which doctors 
 had no name. 
 
 An exciting interview between her mother 
 and the old maiden aunt whose benevolent 
 fussiness had procured for her the blessings of 
 St. Cecilia's charity did not tend to quell the 
 dull pain which Eose Carteret felt in all her 
 veins, 
 
 " Never come to me again for help, you 
 ungrateful little thing !" said bony Miss
 
 Forgotten Lives. 199 
 
 Carteret, as she sat stiffly on her chan% '' I've 
 done with you for ever now." 
 
 " My daughter will never apply to you 
 for aid, madam. Do not fear it/' returned 
 Mrs. Carteret. '' We both return to Brittany 
 to-morrow." 
 
 "Indeed, ma'am!" retorted the mm old 
 woman. " So you prefer to bring your child 
 up among the Bretons — a pack of savages 
 who live upon skilly and flat-pole cabbages 
 — rather than let her have the benefit of a 
 good sound English education, with good 
 sound English food." 
 
 " I don't know what a sound Ens^lish 
 education is," returned Mrs. Carteret. 
 
 " I dare say not," put in the old lady, 
 bringing out her words like little sharp raps 
 with a hammer. " You never had the advan- 
 tages which Eose has now thrown away. 
 You have lived in France all your life." 
 
 " I was going to observe," continued Mrs. 
 Carteret, '"' that whatever this ' sound educa- 
 tion' may be, Eose would not have gained 
 it at the asylum, ^o, nor the ' sound food' 
 either. St. Cecilia's is starvation both for 
 body and mind." 
 
 " I am not going to let a Frenchwoman 
 abuse Encrlish institutions to me," rising
 
 200 For [J off en Lives. 
 
 and standing bolt upright before lier enemy. 
 " St. Cecilia's is patronized by half the no- 
 bility in the kingdom. It is a most excel- 
 lent and blessed charity ; it clothes, and 
 feeds, and educates five hundred orphans, 
 ma'am." 
 
 " Does it?" returned her adversary quietly. 
 " And do the nobility ever go to see how 
 they are clothed, and fed, and educated ?" 
 
 "Any lady can go — nobility or tag-rag," 
 retorted Miss Carteret fiercely, regardless of 
 the vagueness of her reply. " There are 
 visiting days once a month." 
 
 " When only the poor frightened mothers 
 of the children come, the snubbed, depressed 
 Englishwomen, whose terror of male autho- 
 rity is pitiable, and who dare not for their 
 lives make a complaint to the committee." 
 
 This astounding speech made Miss Car- 
 teret draw a long breath of horror. She had 
 lived all her life snubbed, insignificant, half- 
 educated, powerless, and poor. And she 
 thought this was the sort of life that women 
 ought to lead. No independent opinion, no 
 touch of individuality or of courage, had 
 ever sprung up in her soul since she was ten 
 years old. Since then it had never entered 
 into her head to ask why she should be kept
 
 Foi'cjottea Lives. 201 
 
 poor, and mean, and wretched ; why educa- 
 tion, and profession, and career, and money, 
 all the things men live and fight for, should 
 be denied to her simply because she was a 
 woman. 
 
 It is not a pleasant thing to have one's 
 antediluvian modes of thought attacked sud- 
 denly by a new electric gun, or to find one's 
 ancient ark blown up by the latest fashion 
 in torpedoes. Hence Miss Carteret felt a 
 little shattered as she drew herself up on her 
 defence. 
 
 *' I have no doubt the committee do their 
 duty without any teachings or complainings 
 from a poor set of know-nothing women," 
 she said. 
 
 '' Have the duties of the committee ever 
 been inquired into ? Has any one ever 
 troubled himself or herself to investigate 
 the way in which they are fulfilled ? Are 
 these committees responsible to any one but 
 themselves for what they do ? Is there no 
 court of inquiry, no government inspector, 
 no delegate from school boards appointed to 
 search into the manner in which these com- 
 mittees dispose of the Forgotten Lives en- 
 trusted to their care by English charity ?" 
 
 This continued fire of questions blew up
 
 202 Foiyotten Lives. 
 
 Miss Carteret completely, and made her sink 
 into her chair like a helpless exploded Gruy 
 Eawkes. 
 
 " How should I know ?" she ejaculated. 
 *' I never heard of such questions being asked 
 except by a prying foreigner. I was always 
 told it was a good thing to get a child into 
 St. Cecilia's, and I believed it. And I be- 
 lieve it still. And there's an end. You 
 are not going to shake my faith in English 
 institutions by a pack of French nonsense." 
 
 " I will not try," returned Mrs. Carteret. 
 " I simply refuse to make the experiment of 
 an English institution on my own child, and 
 I am wrong to argue the matter. at all with 
 you. I perceive you can give me no infor- 
 mation. I fear, Miss Carteret, you are your- 
 self one of those 'know-nothing' women 
 whom you affect to despise." 
 
 This little touch of personality given in 
 return for the " prying foreigner" and other 
 epithets flung at her was the only sarcasm 
 with which Mrs. Carteret indulged herself 
 Personalities, however, were the sole kind of 
 argument which her antagonist understood, 
 so she joyfully received the thrust, and 
 started up into full life with sparkling 
 eyes. 
 
 " Know-nothing, indeed ! I know as much
 
 Forgotten Lives. 203 
 
 as a woman ought to know. I am none of 
 your Women's Eights creatures, who want 
 to walk about in men's clothes, and be 
 members of parliament and colonels in the 
 army." 
 
 " There are hundreds of women in Eng- 
 land — if not thousands — who wear men's 
 clothes every day of their lives, and work 
 hard in them too, but I don't think they 
 expect to be members of paniament," said 
 Mrs. Carteret, smiling, '*' any more than the 
 women who advocate principles of common 
 honesty and justice, as appHed to themselves, 
 desire to don male attire or to command 
 regiments." 
 
 '' Thousands of women in men's clothes in 
 England !" repeated Miss Carteret. " That's 
 about the biggest French lie I ever heard." 
 
 " Go down to the coal-mine districts and 
 see those women for yourself. Miss Carteret. 
 I am telUng you no French lie, but an Eng- 
 lish truth. And I will tell you one truth 
 more. English prejudice, which protests 
 that an honourable profession is unfeminine, 
 an independent honest life unwomanly for 
 a woman, has never yet protested against 
 coarse drudgery for women, the hard ter- 
 rible labour of brick-fields and of coal- 
 mines. People do not count this unfemi-
 
 204 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 nine, neither do they reckon the unwomanly 
 garments of the female miner an unseemly 
 attire. No, these poor creatures are ill paid, 
 so they may wear trousers, and work as hard 
 as they plea^se in grime and coal-dust." 
 
 " Wear trousers !" shrieked Miss Carteret. 
 " I wont helieve it till I see it !" 
 
 " It is only employment which is loell paid 
 that is reckoned unwomanly," continued 
 Mrs. Carteret hotly ; " it is only work which 
 leads to wealth or honour which men deny 
 to women as unfeminine. Poor, coarse 
 work, ill paid, they may fit themselves for 
 by long and grinding apprenticeship, but 
 they shall not learn the better trades, they 
 shall not be educated or trained for profes- 
 sions and an honourable career ; those things 
 are man's privilege alone. A woman may 
 be a blacksmith,'* a forger of iron, a stone- 
 breaker in the mines, but if she puts forth 
 a daring hand to seize on higher, easier 
 work, she shall be branded as unfeminine, 
 she shall be stopped, shut out, and pelted 
 at every point. Is this your doctrine? 
 Truly it is a generous one. Come, Rose, 
 let us go." 
 
 * Vide the female blacksmiths of Staffordshire, th& 
 forge-women of Wales, the "tip-girls" of the iron mines.
 
 Forgotten Lives, 205 
 
 "Wear trousers !" gasped Miss Carteret 
 again. " Stop a bit ; just explain that, will 
 jou? 
 
 All Mrs. Caiieret's fiery words on the 
 vexed question of the day — woman's privi- 
 lege to choose her own work — passed over 
 her ears unheeded ; she gasped only the one 
 fact, that somewhere, in some savage district 
 of England, women inducted themselves into 
 male garments and walked about shameless. 
 
 "Tbe explanation is easy," returned Mrs. 
 Carteret : " the v\'ork they have to do 
 obliges them to wear men's clothes. They 
 could not sift and break coal and load was:- 
 gons in a woman's dress. Petticoats trail- 
 ing among coal-dust would soon be a mass 
 ofmth." 
 
 " And don't they wear petticoats ?" said 
 Miss Carteret, shutting her ej^es. 
 
 " They wear one, which they tie up round 
 the waist." 
 
 " What r exclaimed the m-im old ladv in 
 horror. " Do you dare tell me this, and 
 before your child too !" 
 
 " There is nothing very dreadful in their 
 placing their single petticoat out of the way 
 of grime. And the rest of their dress, Miss 
 Carteret, I assure you is the most modest 
 and sensible they could wear, considering
 
 206 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 the nature of their work. Men's trousers 
 and wooden shoes are surely more suitable 
 for labourers in coal-fields than kid boots 
 and trailing skirts." 
 
 Miss Carteret shook her head and stared 
 stonily out of the window. All her feminine 
 theories were upset. There was nothing 
 womanly, nothing domestic in the picture 
 presented to her mind of a gang of female 
 labourers, clad in men's clothes, working 
 with hammer and spade, working with 
 blackened hands and begrimed faces, work- 
 ing all the sultry summer day, all the bitter 
 wintry day, among dust-heaps and piled 
 coal, amid all the roughnesses of hard toil, and 
 the roughnesses of hard, coarse language. The 
 real woman, coming to her in this shape, 
 knocked down the ideal — the pretty femi- 
 nine creature, supposed to be so eminently 
 domestic, who does crochet-work, and talks 
 goody — and with her idol thus suddenly 
 demolished, Miss Carteret was slow to 
 gather her wits about her, and turn with a 
 new missile upon her enemy. At last she 
 hurled two words at her, and then folded her 
 arms in defiant unbelief. 
 
 " Wooden shoes !" she cried. '* Ha ! ha ! 
 there are no such things in England."
 
 Forgotten Lives. 207 
 
 " Clogs, then, if you like the word better; 
 that's the name for wooden shoes in Lanca- 
 sJiire," said Mrs. Carteret quietly. " It is 
 strange I find no people so ignorant of Eng- 
 land as the English. One county knows 
 nothing of the dialect, the customs, the occu- 
 pations of another, and the cockney is 
 superlatively ignorant of any portion of his 
 country except his beloved London." 
 
 " Dear me !" jerked forth Miss Carteret 
 viciously. *' Have you any further infor- 
 mation to i^ive me? Enorlishwomen wear 
 men's clothes and wooden shoes 1 and all 
 the orphan asylums are ogreish traps for 
 the grinding up of children's lives ! Dear ! 
 dear ! how ignorant I have been all my life 
 long !" 
 
 '* The educated classes are usually very 
 ignorant and unpractical," retorted Mrs. 
 Carteret, '' therefore jom don't stand alone. 
 They only knovr books and theories, and 
 believe the things they are /o/^/ instead of the 
 things they see. As for the orphan asjdums, 
 ' ogreish traps' are your own words, not 
 mine. But if to grind away children's lives 
 in painfulness and weariness, dejecfcion and 
 disease, be ogreish, then you have chosen 
 the riglit word, and you and I agree."
 
 208 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 " I agree with you in nothing. I don't 
 believe a word you say. You are a foreigner^ 
 and prejudiced against England in every- 
 thing." 
 
 " Foreigners take the trouble to learn 
 facts, which natives ignore/' said Mrs. Car- 
 teret. " Keep your own doctrines of Eng- 
 land's perfection, Miss Carteret, and let me 
 keep mine, that with the best intentions 
 Engfland sometimes makes mistakes. It is 
 a cruel mistake to herd children together, 
 without love, without hope, without joy, till 
 poor food, poor clothes, insufficient ah', and 
 dead monotony make tliem nerveless and 
 blind. See how Eose is altered with this 
 bungling, blundering charity !" 
 
 This reference to herself brought a sudden 
 passion of tears to Eose, and clinging to her 
 mother she cried out that she had suffered 
 — suffered so much, that she could not bear 
 to hear her pain spoken of, and she hated 
 the sight of Aunt Carteret. 
 
 "You are an ungrateful little termagant!" 
 retorted that grim old lady. " I paid ten 
 pounds for you out of my own pocket, be- 
 sides working like a slave to get votes and 
 subscriptions. And now my money and 
 my trouble are both wasted. Your mother
 
 Forgotten Lives, 209 
 
 is a fool for throwing away all your advan- 
 tages, and you are a wicked child for being 
 discontented and obstinate. You would not 
 eat your food at the asylum, that's why you 
 are ill." 
 
 '' I could not eat it," sobbed Eose. '' It 
 was horrid and nasty." 
 
 Miss Carteret gasjDed for breath. 
 
 '' That's French bringing up," she cried 
 in pious horror. '' I should soon teach you 
 to eat what was set before you, and ask no 
 questions, if I had the care of you." 
 
 Eose flashed one look at her full of indig- 
 nant contempt, and then shivered from head 
 to foot. 
 
 " Thank God my child is neither in your 
 hands nor in St. Cecilia's," said Mrs. Car- 
 teret, rising. ''Will you let your servant 
 call a cab for me ?" 
 
 "■ Oh, certainly I But /don't aflbrd cabs. 
 An omnibus does usually for me, and I am 
 neither younger nor stronger, I believe, 
 than people with smaller purses than 
 mine." 
 
 " But Eose is ill, Miss Carteret ; so though 
 I am poorer than you, and younger, I must 
 afford a cab to-day." 
 
 Eose was death- white now and shivering; 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 2J0 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 lier aunt glanced at her, and pulled the bell 
 with an angry jerk. 
 
 " Fetch a cab — a four-wheel — with a 
 steady horse and a sober man, and don't 
 be five minutes doing it, else I shall know 
 you are gadding and staring into shop win- 
 dows." 
 
 The small servant, who had a preter- 
 naturally old look upon her child-face, lis- 
 tened vacantly like a wooden doll, and went 
 off in a stolid way, leaving the frdnt door 
 wide open as she fled. 
 
 " She hasn't understood you," observed 
 Mrs. Carteret, anxiously ; " and Eose is 
 getting very ill." 
 
 " Not understood me ! Pshaw ! she isn't 
 a fool ; she only pretends to be one to get 
 me to leave my keys and letters about, but 
 I ain't to be taken in. She'll find that out 
 by-and-by." 
 
 The return of the small domestic seated 
 in the cab in triumph, with face vacant and 
 fixed as a fine lady's, proved these words 
 correct. Then, as Mrs. Carteret rose to say 
 farewell, her heart softened somewhat to- 
 wards the grim, lonely old woman, who had 
 lived unloved in her mists of prejudices and 
 belief in lies all her life long.
 
 ForgotiQ7i Lives. 211 
 
 " Good-bye/' she said kindly ; '' I think 
 you meant woM by Eose. You believed the 
 as3dnm a good pLice. You did not dream 
 how the child would suffer there.'' 
 
 But Miss Carteret drew back from the 
 proffered hand. 
 
 " I believed what I have always believed, 
 that when my brother married a foreigner 
 he made a fool of himself And I know the 
 asylum is a good place, only you can't ex- 
 pect French kickshaws, and a chef-de'Cinsine 
 there. I wish you good morning, and a 
 pleasant journey back to the flat-pole cab- 
 bages and the buckwheat skilly. There 1 
 you see I know as much about Brittany as 
 you do about England." 
 
 "Bat I think I gave you that informa- 
 tion about Brittany," returns Mrs. Carteret, 
 smiling. " And I hope you will remember 
 equally well the lesson I have now read 
 you on English customs." 
 
 " mamma, don't tease her any more I" 
 cried Kose ; " come away I do come away 
 at once !" 
 
 The cab drives off, and Miss Carteret is 
 left ejaculating to herself — 
 
 " English customs I wooden shoes, men's 
 trousers, female blacksmiths, workers in 
 
 14—2
 
 212 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 iron, coal-pit women, orphan asylums, ogres! 
 I don't know what she has been talkinsr 
 about. And if there is only half of it 
 true, the English are a mad lot, and I'm 
 a fool. I ought to have kissed Eose — I'm 
 sorry I didn't." 
 
 Here the old lady turned suddenly on her 
 small domestic. 
 
 ''What are you staring at, girl? Shut 
 the front door and go about your work di- 
 rectly. Well — yes — I'll go and see an 
 asylum before the world is a week older. 
 I'll judge for myself. I don't believe in the 
 women in trousers, though, that must be a 
 lie, because men would never make such a 
 fuss about a few female doctors, and the 
 franchise, and a bit of property, .while 
 women are forging iron, and breaking coal, 
 and walking about — gracious goodness ! — 
 in trousers and wooden shoes 1"
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 HE cheapest route to Brittiiny is 
 from Southampton to Havre, and 
 thence to Morlaix by steamer. 
 This route Mrs. Carteret intended to take, 
 but on board the Southampton packet the 
 excitement which had o:iven Rose a false 
 strength died out, and she became so ill 
 that her mother perceived with dismay that 
 to continue their journey until she grew 
 better would be impossible, and therefore a 
 delay at Havre was an imperative necessity. 
 This was no pleasant thought to a lady with 
 a slender travelling purse, and means so 
 small and fixed that the slightest unusual 
 call upon them caused anxiety and distress. 
 Full of care she sat beside her daughter, 
 apart from the other passengers, and almost 
 started when a step drew near, and a shadow 
 fell darkly across the pale face of Rose. 
 Looking up hastily Mrs. Carteret encoun- 
 tered the gaze of sad, dark eyes, and saw a
 
 214 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 tall, spare man, with liair nearly white, but 
 brows still singularly black and heavy. But 
 for a stern expression, lowering at times, his 
 face was handsome, and had no look of age 
 on it, though he was certainly past fifty. 
 He turned away the instant Mrs. Carteret's 
 gaze met his, and paced the deck again. 
 Her look followed him, and by some fas- 
 cination or fatality her eyes wandered often 
 towards this solitary, sad figure, with a 
 wonder in them as to some shadowy like- 
 ness which she discovered to some other 
 face, which she had forgotten. 
 
 When darkness fell upon the sea, the step 
 of this stranger pacing the deck constantly 
 near the seat on which Eose lay grew to her 
 a friendly sound, and his figure appearing 
 and disappearing in the gloom seemed that 
 of some silent protector. 
 
 Once, when he stood still a moment and 
 looked npon her, Rose smiled, and then 
 shivered, and with a little blue hand 
 drew her cloak more warmly around 
 her. 
 
 " Are you cold ?" said Mrs. Carteret, 
 anxiously readjusting the shawls in which 
 she was wrapped. 
 
 Before Rose could answer, a soft, costly
 
 Forgotten Lives. 215 
 
 rug was laid around lier, and tlie tall stranger 
 was saying, in quiet tones — 
 
 " Permit me to lend you tliis. It will 
 protect you from the night air." 
 ' Mrs. Carteret looked up from l3ending 
 over her daughter, and caught again the 
 strange, earnest gaze which had before 
 half bewildered her as with some vague 
 memory. 
 
 " Thank you very much," she said, a 
 little stifiBy, " but I think the wraps I have 
 are sufficient." 
 
 '' Oh, mamma, this is so warm and nice," 
 said Eose, ''and I am shivering dread- 
 
 fully-" 
 
 " Pray oblige me by letting your little 
 daughter keep the rug till we land," said 
 the gentleman, with calm politeness. '' She 
 appears to be suffering very much from 
 cold." 
 
 But there was a burning flush on the 
 child's face now, and her eyes looked wild 
 and eager. 
 
 '' Mamma !" she cried, starting up, '' is 
 that Barbara over there ?" 
 
 Involuntarily Mrs. Carteret turned and 
 gazed across the dimly -lighted deck and the 
 wide, dark sea. There was no one near
 
 216 For cj off en Lives. 
 
 them but the stranger. Most of the pas- 
 sengers, hating darkness, had gone below to 
 the cheerful saloon. 
 
 "My dear child, how can Barbara be 
 here ? Lie down again." 
 
 "Over there!" cried Eose. ''And her 
 face is white — death-white ! Keep her 
 away I she frightens me !" 
 
 Alarmed, Mrs. Carteret turned to her 
 new friend for help, and caught a fresh 
 fear from his singularly wistful, sorrowing 
 look. 
 
 '' You think her very ill ?" she cried. 
 
 " She is feverish — she is wandering a 
 little," he said soothingly. "Do not be 
 frightened ; she will be better when she 
 lands." 
 
 " She is very ill ; she will not be better 
 for many days. Oh, I was blind not to see 
 how ill she was !" 
 
 And, in spite of all her calmness, great 
 tears sprang to Mrs. Carteret's eyes, and 
 she wrung her hands together in deep 
 distress. 
 
 "Let me carry her below for you," said 
 the gentleman. " Perhaps the cabin is 
 better for her than the deck."
 
 Fornotten Lives. 21' 
 
 But as he approaclied lier Eose caught at 
 her mother's hand wildly. 
 
 ''Keep Barbara away!" she ^Yhispered; 
 " she wants to kill me/' 
 
 " Eose dear, wont you go into the cabin ? 
 This gentleman will carry you if you will 
 go." 
 
 Mrs. Carteret's voice was steady now, 
 and sweet as music, and her firm, gentle 
 hand, in its quiet touch, seemed to lead 
 Eose out of her fever dream. 
 
 '' I like the deck best," she said quietly. 
 '' Only sit here, mamma, and hold my hand. 
 The cabin would stifle me." 
 
 "I think she is right/' observed Mrs. 
 Carteret, looking up at the tall figure in the 
 dimness. " It is so much quieter here, and 
 the saloon is very crowded and close." 
 
 The gentleman bowed in answer, and for 
 a moment there was a deep silence save for 
 the splash of the sea and the rush of the 
 ship through the waters. 
 
 " May I ask who Barbara is ?" said the 
 gentleman suddenly. 
 
 '' Only a schoolfellow — a young lady in 
 London." 
 
 And stooping over Eose, Mrs. Carteret
 
 218 'Forgotten Lives. 
 
 listened to her breathing. She had dropped 
 asleep, and her face looked grey and cold 
 and deadly white in the moonlight. 
 
 i!J ^ i^ ^ « 
 
 " Hold him ! knock liim down ! shoot 
 him somebody for the love of heaven, or 
 he'll kill the man !" 
 
 These cries from excited French voices 
 bring Oliver de Beauvoir to the window of 
 the big salle-a-manger, in which he sits 
 solitary. He landed an hour ago in the 
 early morning at Havre, and the remains of 
 a good breakfast, which he has demolished, 
 rest on the table. 
 
 He looks out into the courtyard, and sees 
 a frightened crowd standing aloof from a 
 curious sort of fight going on between two 
 men, one a wild haggard creature with long 
 unkempt hair, the other a stout gendarme, 
 fussy and vociferous. And the fight was 
 odd, because it consisted of the haggard 
 creature standing still — at bay if you will — 
 with glaring eyes, while the other danced 
 around him, puffing and panting and shout- 
 ing to him to surrender. 
 
 At this moment the door opened, and, 
 without turning round, Oliver cried ex- 
 'Citedlv —
 
 Forgotten Lives. 219 
 
 " What's the matter ? what's the mean- 
 ing of this ?" 
 
 " It is simply a madman," answers a lady's 
 Toice in English. 
 
 Then Oliver turns and sees a beautiful 
 woman, who, advancing to the window, 
 stands watching the fray pitifully. 
 
 " Ah I Pandour has the worst of it 1" 
 cries the crovvd, half pleased, as the haggard 
 figure with a sudden spring dashes the 
 c^endarme to the ^rround. 
 
 "But it will be our turn next," observes 
 another, shrinking back, as the wild face 
 with blazing eyes turns upon the crowd 
 with a shout of victory. An instant more 
 and he has seized an iron bar lying un- 
 noticed against the wall, and flourishing this 
 above his head he glares upon his enemies 
 with a yell of defiance. 
 
 The mob flies, while the cries of en- 
 treaty to some unknown individual to hold 
 him, seize him, or kill him redouble in 
 force. 
 
 In the midst of this uproar Oliver was 
 amazed to- see his beautiful neighbour quietly 
 unfasten the French window, and step out 
 among the throng. 
 
 " What are you about to do ?" he ex-
 
 220 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 claimed, springing to her side instantly \ 
 ''go back, I entreat yon !" 
 
 '' There is no cause to fear for me," she 
 answered, walking steadily towards the poor 
 frenzied creature, who gazed at her with 
 wild eyes. '' ISTo, do not accompany me, I 
 would rather be alone ; but you can help 
 me if you will by desiring the crowd to 
 keep back. A noise such as this excites the 
 insane to fury." 
 
 There was no need now to bid the crowd 
 be silent, for they looked on in breathless 
 horror as the lady with calm unhurried step 
 approached the madman and addressed him 
 in a sweet, firm voice, not in French, but in 
 his own tongue — the Breton. As he listened, 
 his face changed, his eyes drooped, his lips 
 quivered, and when she laid her hand upon 
 his arm and lowered it gently, the bar fell 
 to the ground from his trembling fingers. 
 
 '' So you are come back !" he cried, 
 joyously clasping his hands together. " It 
 was to search for you I left Quimper. Why 
 did you go away?" 
 
 '' I am returning to Quimper now," she 
 answered ; " and you too, Ivan, must go 
 back to the hills and woods of Brittany and 
 sing the songs of your own land. This good
 
 Forgotten Lives. 221 
 
 man is vour friend ; do not fear to 2:0 with, 
 him ; he only wishes to put 3^ou safely on 
 board the ship bound for Morlaix. Deal 
 gently with him," she added, as the dis- 
 comfited gendarme and his companion came 
 forward ; "I can answer for his giving you 
 no trouble if you treat him kindly — he is 
 harmless as a bird in his own yillasre." 
 
 '' No one hurts or frightens lyan there," 
 said the poor Breton, walking now quietly 
 between the two men ; " and I sing all day 
 the music of the hills." 
 
 "Sing to me now,"' returned the lady, 
 waving her hand to him, and instantly, with 
 a wistful smile of pleasm-e, he began to chant 
 one of the wild plaintive lays of his country, 
 and, soothed by his own song, he grew 
 gentle and quiet as a child. Many of the 
 bystanders, who were crying out a moment 
 before to anybody and everybody to shoot 
 him like a dog, were moved now to tears by 
 the pathos of the sweet music and his 
 mournful voice. 
 
 As he passed through the gate the lady 
 took a flower from her bosom and put it in 
 his hand. 
 
 " I shall keep it till you come," he said, 
 stopping a moment in his song ; '' you'll not
 
 222 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 forget your promise — you'll come again, and 
 Madlle. Eose too ?" 
 
 '' Yes, yes, we are both returning to our 
 old home, Ivan. You'll see us again in a 
 day or two." 
 
 " You'll keep your word ?" returned the 
 poor Breton earnestly ; "they all cheat me 
 except you. And listen ! don't let the wizard 
 carry you away. I see your face shining 
 snow-white out of darkness when I think of 
 him." 
 
 He held her by the wrist and gazed into 
 her face with a piteous look of fear. She 
 disengaged herself gently, but his words or 
 his new mien had startled her, for she grew 
 pale to the lips. 
 
 " Do not be afraid. I am going home by 
 the next steamer," she said resolutely. 
 
 Then he let her hand go, and went away, 
 taking up now another song, wilder than 
 the first — an old legend of a lover searching 
 for his lost bride, and finding her in the 
 clutches of a demon of the woods, who had 
 fastened on her heart and fed himself from 
 her life's blood. 
 
 One spectator of this scene, standing alone 
 by the old sundial in the courtyard, smiled 
 when he heard the lady's words.
 
 Forgotten Lives. 22S 
 
 " She is mistaken," he murmured to him- 
 self. '* She will never go back to Brittany." 
 
 He was a tall spare man, with iron-grey 
 hair and dark restless eyes, quick in their 
 glances, but full of sorrow — a sorrow almost 
 pain when their gaze was fixed. His face 
 was still handsome, his figure still upright, 
 though he was apparently verging on age ; 
 but there was no appearance of failing 
 strength about him ; his step was as firm, 
 his eye as keen, as the youngest man's there. 
 
 He had not spoken a word during the 
 disturbance, and no one Iiad addressed him ; 
 but this was nothincr strangle, for his silent 
 reserved manner created around him a sort 
 of desert in which he lived alone. During 
 all the excitement he had stood apart, join- 
 ing neither in the fear, the admiration, nor 
 the wonder of those around him, yet no one 
 had watched the lady so narrowly as he had, 
 no one had observed so earnestly her courage, 
 her calm power, and the soothing influence 
 she had exerted over the maniac. 
 
 " If I had not resolved before," he said 
 vv'ithin himself^ '' I am resolved now." 
 
 Then, as she returned across the court 
 with Oliver by her side, he noted that her 
 step was as firm, her lips as red, her eyes as
 
 224 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 clear as though no agitation had touched 
 her heart. As she passed him he raised his 
 hat gravely without either a word or a smile, 
 and she too bowed without speal^ing. This 
 silent salutation, apparently so cold, brought 
 a sudden flush to her cheek, which when it 
 faded left her wonderfully pale. Now, too, 
 for the first time, there was the shadow of 
 some strange fear in her eyes, and her under- 
 lip quivered slightly as she walked on with 
 a more hurried step. 
 
 " Tour courage astonished me," observed 
 Oliver, continuing his conversation, and 
 scarcely noticing this byplay. " I' confess 
 I am not equal to facing a madman in that 
 manner." 
 
 '' The risk was not so great as you sup- 
 pose," said the lady. " I happened to know 
 the poor man well. I have resided in his 
 native village four years. No one fears him 
 there ; ill-treatment — blows, perhaps — had 
 excited him to fury ; a kind word won him 
 back to gentleness." 
 
 " But it was only you who had the courage 
 to speak it," replied Oliver. 
 
 The lady smiled a little sadly, but made 
 no remark, and seeing her silent, Oliver 
 discontinued the conversation.
 
 Forgotten Lives. 225 
 
 " I have been staying here some time 
 owing to the illness of my daugliter," slie 
 said in a moment, " but she is much better 
 now, and I hope to continue my journey to- 
 morrow/' 
 
 Her lip quivered again, and she made the 
 remark in a singular tone, as if she were 
 reassuring herself of some fact which she 
 had doubted. 
 
 " I trust you will have a pleasant journey," 
 said Oliver. '"'Are you going into Brittany?" 
 '•' Yes, my home is there now — not a rich 
 home, but a happy one. The country is 
 beautiful, the climate pleasant, the people 
 kind. What more is there to wish for ?" 
 
 " Nothing I should say," returned Oliver, 
 '•' unless you pine for a larger sphere, and 
 long for the society you would adorn." 
 
 She set aside his compliment as she would 
 a leaf or a straw ; she did not seem even to 
 hear it. 
 
 "No," she said mournfully. "I am very 
 well content v/ith solitude for myself, but I 
 have a daughter, and thinking of her makes 
 
 me doubt " 
 
 She stopped with a sudden sigh, and 
 turned away from the window abruptly. 
 Oliver saw then that the stranger who had 
 VOL. T. 15
 
 226 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 bowed to her at the sundial had drawn 
 nearer, and was standing beneath a great 
 lime-tree, whose shadow quivered over him, 
 and stretching to the window, touched the 
 pale cheek of the lady. 
 
 " And you doubt," continued Oliver, 
 *' whether solitude will be as agreeable to 
 her as to yourself. I think you are right to 
 make that reflection, and I presume, too, 
 that education is a difficulty in a Breton 
 village." 
 
 " It is indeed," she answered ; "in fact it 
 is almost an impossibility." 
 
 " Then you must send your little daughter 
 to school." 
 
 And Oliver half-smiled at the absurdity of 
 his giving counsel to a lady whom, till five 
 minutes ago, he had never seen. 
 
 " I have tried that," she said, and her lip 
 quivered again, " and I found it did not 
 answer — it caused Eose too much suffering. 
 The truth is" — and a pale pink flush mounted 
 to her cheeks — " I am not rich enough to 
 afford a good school, and a bad one is worse 
 than none." 
 
 Her tone had so much the accent of one 
 Avho is arguing over a point with herself, 
 and anxiously seeking to strengthen it, that
 
 Forgotten Lives. 227 
 
 Oliver, out of politeness, could not avoid 
 continuing the discussion. 
 
 " In that case," he observed, " I think 
 you would do well to consider the advisability 
 of a change of residence." 
 
 " Or of circurastances altogether," said 
 the lady, getting a little pale as she smiled. 
 "I must ask some wizard to make me rich, 
 and great, and grand for my daughter's 
 sake." 
 
 This sudden turning of the subject into a 
 sort of jest discomfited Oliver slightly, and 
 he could only give her back her smile as a 
 reply. 
 
 " But you think me right to deliberate 
 on the matter ?" she added eagerly. 
 
 " Certainly, especially with regard to your 
 child's future happiness. These solitudes 
 are bad for the young ; unfortunate attach- 
 ments and unequal marriages often arise 
 from them." 
 
 He said this not so much from conviction 
 as from the desire he had to please her in 
 what he said, the instinctive feeling that she 
 wished him to take this side in the argu- 
 ment growing stronger with every word he 
 uttered. 
 
 " That would be dreadful ; that would be 
 
 15—2
 
 228 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 worse tlian any evil I have thought of or 
 feared yet," she said. "Surely anything 
 would be better than to risk such a fate for 
 one's child." 
 
 Her beauty was so singular, so calm, so 
 passionless, that although she was a stranger 
 and Oliver was an Englishman, and therefore 
 naturally prone to be reserved with a chance 
 acquaintance, he could in this instance be 
 neither sarcastic nor doubtful. The lady 
 was unmistakably a lady, and if she chose 
 to converse with him he could onl}^ feel on 
 his part that he was honoured. She appeared 
 to divine that his thoughts were fixed on 
 her, for, without waiting for a reply, she 
 observed a little hurriedly — 
 
 " Perhaps it strikes you as curious I 
 should ask a stranger for advice, and yet it 
 is simply for that very reason I do so. A 
 stranger is a dispassionate judge ; he knows 
 nothing of one's circumstances, therefore he 
 comes at once to the plain question of right 
 or wrong. Moreover, one never sees a 
 stranger again, so there is less chance of 
 regretting one's confidence, and, in fact, less 
 repugnance to confessing one's doubts and 
 vacillations. Have you never felt this ?" 
 
 Oliver hastened to say he had felt it very
 
 Forgotten Lives. 229 
 
 strongly, but he did not add he had never 
 ventured to put the feeling to the proof. 
 Her calm eyes met his with a shade of 
 anxiety in them, chasing the smile ready to 
 spring to his lips as he spoke. 
 
 " In all human probability," she said, 
 " we shall see each other's faces no more, so 
 I cannot injure m3^self by asking a ques- 
 tion, and it cannot injure you to answer 
 
 it." 
 
 " Decidedly she is the very oddest person 
 I ever met with," thought Oliver. " Do not 
 consult me on a difficult question," he 
 observed, laughing, '' for I assure you I am 
 but meagrely gifted with wisdom. How- 
 ever, I shall be happy to give you my 
 opinion if it is worth having." 
 
 " I think it is worth having," she 
 answered quietly . " The question is simply 
 this : do you believe in presentiments ? — I 
 mean in their existence? And granting 
 they exist, would you think it right to act 
 on a feeling of that kind ?" 
 
 " I cannot presume to give you a reply to 
 that last question," said Oliver ; " I consider 
 it would depend so much on circumstances 
 and on individual character. With regard 
 to presentiments, they certainly exist, but
 
 230 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 where there is one correct a hundred are 
 groundless." 
 
 The lady was silent a moment, then her 
 clear, calm eyes met Oliver's again. 
 
 " Your answer means that you are too 
 much of a stranger to give an opinion. Now 
 it is a superstition of mine that I must have 
 your advice, so if you will not think it very 
 odd, I will tell you sufficient to enable you 
 to give it." 
 
 " I cannot but feel flattered in receiving 
 your confidence," said Oliver. 
 
 " Well, let me explain first a strange 
 circumstance. I have been here a month 
 nearly, detained by my daughter's illness, 
 and during all that time no Englishman has 
 presented himself at this quiet hotel. Last 
 night I had an odd dream. I dreamed an 
 Englishman would come here, and I was to 
 ask his counsel. On entering the salle this 
 morning the first person I perceive is your- 
 self, and the first word I hear is an English 
 word. Now I have told you this you will 
 not wonder so much, perhaps, at my frank- 
 ness : 
 
 " Shall I say T am delighted you had such 
 a dream ?" asked Oliver ; " and that I shall 
 think better of dreams to the end of my life ?"
 
 Forgotten Lives. 231 
 
 She shook lier head gently as if compli- 
 ments and jests were far from lier thoughts, 
 and his tone chano^ed instantly at a look 
 from her grave eyes. 
 
 " Pray speak without reserve," he said. 
 " As an Englishman I shall be happy if my 
 poor advice can assist a countrywoman." 
 
 For the first time she blushed, and her 
 voice shook, but steadied as she went on. 
 
 " I have it in my power," she said, speak- 
 ing very low, " to place myself and child in 
 a high position — a position which would not 
 only save her from all the dangers and 
 sorrows of poverty, but give her rank and 
 wealth, and yet I hesitate, merely through 
 that superstitious feeling of which I have 
 spoken." 
 
 She ended with her face deathly white, 
 and Oliver saw plainly the trembling of her 
 hands and lips. 
 
 " You dwell too much on these morbid 
 and nervous feelings," he returned. 
 
 " And yet," she interposed eagerly, " I 
 am not usually a nervous person. You have 
 seen that I am calm enough to possess great 
 power over persons nervously or mentally 
 afflicted. So little is it my character to be 
 morbid that I should be ashamed to confess
 
 232 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 this weakness to any friend or rela- 
 tive." 
 
 " The position you speak of you would of 
 course gain by marriage?" observed Oliver. 
 
 " By marriage/' she repeated. " How 
 else can a woman gain position?" 
 
 And a faint colour crept into her marble 
 face. 
 
 " Then, setting aside your superstitious 
 fancies, which are not worth considering, 
 the question, as it appears to me, is simply 
 one of inclination. I am a young man, and 
 perhaps romantic, but I confess nothing is 
 so painful to my feelings as to see women 
 marry only for position. And I believe 
 they always find the bargain a bitter one. 
 A woman soon grows accustomed to riches 
 and rank, but she never becomes reconciled 
 to a hateful yoke." 
 
 She listened to him with drooped eyes 
 and that pale pink flush rising slovvdy to her 
 forehead ; but when he had finished she 
 lifted her long lashes and let her calm gaze 
 rest upon his face. 
 
 " ' Beggars cannot be choosers,' says the 
 proverb. Women are poor, and marriage is 
 the only profession by which they can earn 
 their bread. If a good appointment is
 
 Forgotten Lives. ^38 
 
 offered to a man, assuring him a position, he 
 takes it, even if he does not Hke it much. 
 Women must do the same." 
 
 " But marriage is not an appointment," 
 said Oliver. 
 
 " It is the only appointment women get, 
 and they naturally take the best presented 
 to them." She spoke bitterly in a hard 
 tone, then added — " You are a little shocked 
 because I speak the truth. You forget the 
 frightful poverty of women. Xothing is 
 open to the woman of the middle class but 
 the worn-out hopeless profession of a gover- 
 ness. I am ambitious for my daughter, but 
 there is no field for ambition there." 
 
 Oliver was silent. His own rank was too 
 high, the position of the women of his family 
 too assured, for him to understand this 
 bitterness. 
 
 " You spoke of a hateful yoke," continued 
 the lady more softly. " If it were that I 
 should have no doubt as to m}' duty. I can 
 never win rank or riches but by marriage, 
 but I would not buy them at too heavy a 
 price. No, the man who does me the honour 
 to choose me from out the world has un- 
 happily possession of my thoughts, and 
 interests me more than I can say."
 
 234 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 " Then your mind is already made up," 
 said Oliver, smiling. " And your dream and 
 your superstitious resolve to ask my poor 
 advice are both useless." 
 
 She glanced towards the window, and saw 
 no shadow but that of the leafless lime 
 stretching across the court. The tall watcher 
 who had stood beneath it was gone. 
 
 " I hope not. I hope you will give it to 
 me. You forget my presentiment," she 
 answered, and her face grew grave and sad 
 again. " You forget there is a voice within 
 me which says, ' Mee for your life.' " 
 
 Oliver de Beau voir more than most men 
 hated superstition, though, not ignorant of 
 its influence even over his own mind ; but 
 he had seen his sister, as he thought, a prey 
 to morbid gloom, and the sorrow of her life 
 imbued him with an intense dislike to those 
 nervous troubles which people sometimes 
 create for themselves. 
 
 " If there is no reason for your fears either 
 in the gentleman's character or temper I 
 should advise you utterly to disregard them," 
 he said. " Eeflect how you would regret in 
 time to come the sacrifice you had made to 
 an unreal and superstitious terror." 
 
 "Thank you very much," returned the
 
 Forgotten Lives. 235 
 
 lady gently. "I feel you have given me 
 kind and sensible counsel. You will excuse, 
 I hope, the singularity of my asking it. 
 Dreams are not to be always despised. Here 
 is my daughter ; we will say no more now."
 
 CHAPTEE XVI. 
 
 HE tall stranger with the iron-grey 
 hair was no importunate wooer. 
 He seemed to be waiting the lady's 
 decision with quiet patience, treating her 
 meanwhile witli a certain dignified deference 
 which had a churm even for the lookers-on, 
 and which, therefore, conld not fail to make 
 a deeper impression on the heart he was 
 striving to win. 
 
 Unwilling to appear curious, Oliver re- 
 frained from asking his name ; but interested 
 for the moment in the drama acting before 
 his eyes, and prosecuting his quest for 
 Barbara meanwhile, he lingered a few days 
 at tile hotel, making great friends the wdiile 
 with the lady's pretty daughter. She was 
 just at that age when a man's attentions 
 are most flattering to a girl's vanity, and it 
 amused Oliver mightily to see the little 
 coquettish airs she gave herself. 
 
 The mysterious lover was not staying at
 
 Forgotten Lives. 237 
 
 this hotel ; he had tact and delicacy, and did 
 not obtrude his society or attentions too 
 often on the lady. J^evertheless, they met 
 daily by the sea, and walked together for a 
 few moments. And one day shortly after 
 this talk with Oliver, when he Hfted his hat 
 and bowed gravely, and she returned to her 
 daughter's side, the girl saw on her mother's 
 face that the great decision had been given. 
 
 " Mamma, you have said yes ?" she cried 
 eagerly. " Surely you have said yes ?" 
 
 "You are right, Eose ; I have said yes.*' 
 
 " Oh, how glad I am ! It is like a fairy 
 tale," exclaimed Eose. '' It seems too 
 beautiful and glorious to be true." 
 
 But Mrs. Carteret had no joy upon her 
 face. She sat down by the water's edge, and 
 watched the tide flow silently with wistful 
 eyes. 
 
 "Mamma," said Eose anxiously, "you 
 can't be pondering over it still; you can't 
 be doubting? That's impossible!" 
 
 Mrs. Carteret looked up into her 
 daughter's happy face, and drew her down 
 gently to her side. 
 
 " Eose," she said, " did j'ou ever read a 
 fairy tale that had not a dragon in it, or a 
 wicked magician, or a witch ?"
 
 238 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 " Well, no/' returned Eose reflectively ; 
 " but then the dragon always got killed, or 
 the witch was changed into an owl or a 
 raven, and the prince and princess lived 
 happily ever after." 
 
 " But we want to be bappy noiv, Eose. 
 And perhaps the witch is a raven already ; 
 no need to change her." 
 
 " Then we'll put her in a cage," exclaimed 
 the joyous Eose, " and make a curiosity of 
 her. She can't annoy me ; I'm too happy." 
 
 " Then you are not afraid of the dragon 
 in the castle, Eose, my dear?" she added 
 sadly. '' I fear there is a dragon — an ugly, 
 terrible dragon — else such a fortune as this 
 would not go begging to strangers." 
 
 " What ! is it only a suspicion of yours, 
 mamma?" cried Eose. *' If you are not 
 quite certain there is a dragon, I feel sure 
 there is none — really none. And please 
 don't talk of the fortune going begging, for 
 even a prince might be glad to share his 
 wealth with my dear, beautiful mamma. 
 There is no need to think it such a wonder 
 he should offer you himself and his fortune. 
 Only look at your picture shining in the 
 sea ; surely that's reason enough." 
 
 And Eose leant her head coaxingly on
 
 Forgotten Lives. 239 
 
 her mother's shoulder, and looked with 
 laughing eyes into the wistful, beautiful face 
 gazing down on her with such anxious love. 
 
 " And I am sure he likes you very, very 
 much," she continued in the same happy 
 tone, " else he would not have sta^'ed here 
 all this time only because we are here. You 
 know, mamma, from the minute he saw you 
 on board the steamer he has never left you. 
 And then only do think how kind he has 
 been, and how forlorn you would have felt 
 without him. Why, my dear mamma, who 
 would have carried your poor sick daughter 
 on shore ? who would have looked after your 
 comfort and got you rooms, and a doctor and 
 a nurse, and sent you and me all manner of 
 nice things, if this dear old prince of a fairy 
 tale hadn't done it ? Who else would, have 
 been such a friend? Answer me that, 
 mamma, and don't be glum and dismal." 
 
 Mrs. Carteret seemed anxious not to cloud 
 her daughter's brightness, for she answered 
 gaily— 
 
 " I am very grateful to the prince, dear, 
 and it is a fairy tale, as you say. And if 
 there is a dragon I believe he is a harmless 
 one, living down at the bottom of a well, 
 w^atched over by a raven. And he never
 
 240 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 comes up to tlie light of day except to eat 
 and drink ; then he descends again, and 
 they put a tombstone over him and say that 
 he is dead." 
 
 " What a queer dragon," said Eose. 
 '' What a funny little story you liave made 
 of him. But what a splendid, delightful 
 story the real one is ! I can hardly believe 
 in it yet. Tell it over again, mamma, and 
 first let me hear what I shall have of my 
 own — all my own." 
 
 " You shall have a fairy carriage of your 
 own, and two fairy ponies of your own, and 
 a little man from Lilliput to mind them. 
 And you shall have a fairy bower to sleep 
 in, and a tall horse to ride, and a pretty 
 maiden to dress 3^our hair." 
 
 " When it grows long enough," put in 
 Eose ruefully. '' You see, mamma, how 
 ugly and how ill it made me to be vexed 
 and starved at that horrid school. Ah ! I 
 should soon die if I were poor. I could not 
 bear the miseries and sufferings poverty 
 brings." 
 
 This sudden and adroit change to serious- 
 ness was not without effect. Mrs. Carteret's 
 voice shook a little as she went on in the 
 same gay tone —
 
 Forgotten Lives. 241 
 
 " There is to be no talk of miseries, Eose, 
 while we are counting up all these fairy 
 gifts. You shall have a lovely boudoir, with 
 flowers all about the window, and as the 
 song says — 
 
 " ' You shall walk in silk attire, 
 And siller ha'e to sjjare.' 
 
 " To do good with, T hope." 
 
 And Mrs. Carteret bent and kissed her 
 daughter on the forehead. 
 
 '' But that's not all, mamma," said Eose. 
 " You told me something more last night — 
 something that would happen if — if you 
 were to die, you know." 
 
 The cruel words were softened by the 
 pretty smile and voice and by the caresses 
 of hand and lips which Mrs. Carteret felt 
 upon her cheek. 
 
 '' When I die, Eose," she said gravely, 
 '' you will have ten thousand pounds of your 
 own to go away with if you choose, and if 
 you marry, the same sum will be given you 
 as a dowry. Oh, Eose I Eose ! I do this for 
 your sake ! How could a mother refuse 
 such a bribe ?" 
 
 She burst into tears, and covered her burn- 
 ing cheeks with her trembling hands. Eose 
 
 VOL. I. 16
 
 242 Forgotten Lives, 
 
 pulled them down, and showered kisses on 
 her in abundance. 
 
 " Why, mamma, my own dear mamma," 
 she cried out, '' you are doing it for yourself 
 too. Only think how delightful it will be 
 not to be poor any more, not to be afraid to 
 spend a franc, not to be shabby and mean 
 any more, and to have a splendid castle to 
 live in, and a nice carriage to ride in ! Oh, 
 mamma ! how can you be so foolish as to 
 cry ? Don't ! don't 1 You'll make me cry 
 too in a minute." 
 
 And she covered her mother's beautiful, 
 flushed face with kisses and caresses. 
 
 " And if you are doing this for me I shall 
 be so good to you in return, t shall be so 
 thankful and happy that I am sure you'll 
 never, never repent of being such a dear 
 generous mamma." 
 
 " Heaven grant I may not, Eose. If I 
 have doubts these, too, are for your sake. 
 Suppose you should get disenchanted with 
 your fairy tale, and find your castle a prison, 
 and the dragon a harder monster to deal 
 with than v/e think ?" 
 
 Eose laughed at the thought. 
 
 " My dear mamma, how can you suppose 
 iinythiDg so horrid," she cried, " especially
 
 Forgotten Lives. 243 
 
 when there is no dragon, except in your 
 fancy ?" 
 
 Mrs. Carteret glanced at her daughter's 
 joyous face and sighed. It was only J03- 
 and youth that made it pretty now, for the 
 cheeks were pale and thin, the eyes still 
 sunk, and the air of suffering and sickness 
 still lingering on every line. Evidently she 
 would not vex the child with any further 
 thought of drawback or of dragon in the fate 
 now offered to her, yet she spoke seriously. 
 
 " Eiches will make you well and happy, 
 I hope, Eose. You will not grow selfish, or 
 sickly, or hard by having the indulgences of 
 wealth?" 
 
 Eose is shocked and hurt at this= Her 
 great shining eyes, fever-brightened, grow 
 full of tears. 
 
 " Oh, mamma, you cannot think so ill of 
 me ? It is being poor makes me a little 
 hard at times. You know I am obliofed to 
 be sensible and sharp now because you can't 
 afford to let me be generous. Oh ! you'll see 
 when we are rich how good I shall be." 
 
 And her arms are clasped round her 
 mother's neck, and they kiss each other and 
 are silent for a moment. 
 
 "Yes, Eose, I think that is true. You 
 
 16—2
 
 244 For (/ often Lives. 
 
 will grow better in every way with softening 
 influences around you. I have quite made 
 up my mind now, darling, so I hope you 
 will be content. Yes, I should be wrong — 
 mad indeed to fling away the power of 
 assuring your future happiness." 
 
 "And yours too, mamma," says Bose, 
 with a little tremble in her voice, now the 
 final resolve is spoken. 
 
 " And mine too," said Mrs. Carteret, and 
 rising, she stood looking down into the clear 
 sea with a thoughtful face, calm again as a 
 cloudless sky. 
 
 " It is not every girl would like a step- 
 father," observed Rose ; " but. I know you 
 will not let either dragons or ravens separate 
 us, will you, mamma ?" 
 
 "Nothing shall separate us, Hose, after 
 you return from school, and I hope we shall 
 be happy in our new home. I go there with 
 a single heart, meaning only truth., faith, 
 and kindness." 
 
 She murmured these words to her own 
 lips, while Rose, with a shadow on her face, 
 stood silent, revolving the thought of school 
 with a vexed mind. 
 
 " Caii't I have a governess ?" she said, 
 brigrhteninsr.
 
 Forgoften Lives. 245 
 
 " Ah ! Eose, there we see the first of the 
 dragon's scales ; he wont allow a governess 
 at the castle. I have tried m}' hardest, and 
 all in vain." 
 
 " Well, it wont be for long. A year or 
 two will soon slip away," resumed E-ose, 
 cheerfully ; " and you will let me go where 
 Barbara is ; that makes up for a good deal." 
 
 When they met in the dining-hall that 
 evening, Mrs. Carteret thanked Oliver again 
 for havino^ listened so courteouslv to her 
 eccentric request as she called it. And then 
 she told him she was o:oino: awav soon with 
 her daughter — in a day or two, in fact — if 
 Rose was well enough to travel. 
 
 " You are going to Brittany/' said Oliver ; 
 " I heard you mention it to our frantic friend 
 whom you tamed so wonderfully." 
 
 Mrs. Carteret's calm face looked troubled 
 for a moment, then she said steadily — 
 
 " No, not to Brittany now. I am going 
 to Blois." 
 
 " To put me to school," broke in Rose ; 
 " I shall be so miserable for the first month 
 or two. Will you come to see me, Mr. De 
 Beauvoir ? That will be sometliing to look 
 forward to, if you will promise that." 
 
 " I will cei-tainly .come if I should go to
 
 246 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 Blois," answered Oliver ; " that is, if your 
 mother will permit me." 
 
 " 0, mamma will be delighted ! wont you, 
 mamma ? because she can't see me herself 
 for a long", long time. She will leave me at 
 Blois and go home to Brittany to pack all 
 her things, and after that " 
 
 But here Eose suddenly stopped, with a 
 vivid blush, and Mr. De Beauvoir, watching 
 her, laughed and said — 
 
 " And after that what. Hose ? — the deluge 
 I suppose ?" 
 
 " No, nothing ugly like the deluge. What 
 a bad guess !" And Eose laughed out glee- 
 fully. 
 
 " Eose," said Mrs. Carteret, a little an- 
 grily, " I fear you are troubling Mr. De 
 Beauvoir a great deal. It is not at all likely 
 he will go to Blois." 
 
 "I don't know that," returned Oliver; 
 '' I am on a rambling expedition. I mean 
 to go anywhere and everywhere where the 
 Will-o'-the-wisp I follow leads me. So if 
 you will give me leave, and I do ramble 
 into Blois, I will certainly call to see 
 Eose." 
 
 Upon this leave was accorded, and Mrs. 
 Carteret gave the name and address of the
 
 For got ten Lives. 247 
 
 scliool, and Oliver wrote them in his pocket- 
 book. 
 
 " I don't know anything of the place," 
 she said, "but it has a high character, and 
 an old schoolfellow of my daughter's is there, 
 so she will not be friendless." 
 
 Another word or two and Oliver would 
 have found Barbara, but the words were not 
 spoken. 
 
 " It is rather singular," continued Mrs. 
 Carteret, " but Eose in her slight delirium 
 raved so much of this friend of hers that I 
 wrote to her, and her reply, after some 
 delay, came to me from Blois." 
 
 The thread had grown so near as this, 
 and then it snapped. 
 
 Two Havre merchants came in — quiet, 
 grave old men — who had dined at this hotel 
 for twenty years ; then followed a ship cap- 
 tain or two, some laughing Americans with 
 dashing ladies; the waiters come behind 
 them bringing soup. And here was dinner, 
 and talk was over. 
 
 Oliver was sorry when his new acquain- 
 tances left ; they had grown great friends in 
 this little week, and in bidding Eose good- 
 by he promised — more than half-meaning 
 it — that he would pay her a visit one day
 
 248 For (/ot fen Lives. 
 
 at Blois. Mrs. Carteret's face lie never 
 thought to see again, yet a month after- 
 wards, as he was wandering disappointed 
 through the old JSTorman city of Eouen, it 
 flashed by him like a dream, fairer, calmer, 
 more passionless than ever. She did not see 
 him as she passed. She was leaning back 
 in an open carriage drawn by English horses, 
 and the tall grey-haired wooer was by her 
 side. 
 
 Oliver sprang forward eagerly and saw 
 the carriage stop at a great hotel near hj, 
 saw the lady alight, and the gentleman drive 
 rapidly away. 
 
 " Who is that gentleman ?" he said to an 
 English groom loitering in the court. 
 
 " That's my master, Sir Cutlibert Tre- 
 gethas," said the man. 
 
 Oliver felt his heart beat fast, and a flush 
 of anger rushed up to his face hotly. He 
 wT-nt back to his own inn and wrote a note 
 to Mrs. Carteret. 
 
 " Let me see you for a moment," he said. 
 " You were only half- frank when we met at 
 Havre. Had you told me the person of 
 whom you spoke was Sir Cuthbert Tregethas 
 I would not have given you the counsel I
 
 Forgotten Lives, 249 
 
 did. I think it rio^ht to sav there are circum- 
 stances connected with him which you ought 
 to know. I will explain when we meet. 
 Excuse the interest a stranger feels in you." 
 
 He waited %vith impatience for the answer 
 to this, and when it came he tore it open 
 eagerly, and read these w^ords ; — 
 
 " It is too late. I am Lady Tregethas."
 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 ES, I'll do it ! I certainly will ! I 
 could not do better for myself. 
 
 Shoe-blacking, 
 
 bed-maldng, sweep- 
 
 ing of rooms, and a little washing and cook- 
 iDg too, I dare say. I wish I'd known before 
 they learnt all this. I might have saved 
 myself heaps of trouble. I'll see the com- 
 mittee and do it." 
 
 This mysterious soliloquy is Miss Car- 
 teret's, spoken very decidedly to herself as 
 she stands on the draughty staircase at St. 
 Cecilia's, watching the orphans file into the 
 dining-hall to eat their allowance of mutton 
 and dry bread. 
 
 '' Can I see any of the committee to-day ?" 
 she asks, turning to Miss Paring, who, all 
 smiles to a visitor, is, nevertheless, making 
 an angry telegraph of her hands to the girls 
 to get out of the way as fast as they can. 
 Their pale, hungry, weary looks, the utter 
 dejection and vacancy of their faces, do not
 
 Forgotten Lives. 251 
 
 always, as she knows, impress a stranger 
 favourably. 
 
 "The committee don't meet to-day,'' she 
 says, " but Mr. Crank, the chairman, happens 
 to be here, and 3^ou can see him, doubtless. 
 Make haste, girls !" 
 
 " Don't hurry 'em," observes Miss Car- 
 teret. " It's a good chance to see them all 
 together as they go in to dinner. They look 
 rather pale, don't they?" 
 
 " Not at all. It's the light in this passage 
 being rather dim gives them that appearance. 
 We are all very healthy here. There are a 
 few in the hospital certainly, but only with — 
 with a slight affection of the eyes — that's 
 all." 
 
 The extremely cheerful tone in which this 
 is said, leads Miss Carteret to suppose, that 
 it is rather an excellent thing than otherwise 
 to have merely an ophthalmia, and having 
 always believed what she hears, instead of 
 what she sees, she returns quite gaily — 
 
 " I am glad to hear they are all so healthy. 
 My sister-in-law would have it the place 
 made her child ill." 
 
 " That's impossible !" observes Miss 
 •Paring, closing her lips tightly. " Mrs. 
 Carteret was a most unreasonable person.
 
 Forgotten Live> 
 
 She expected the most ridiculous indulgences 
 for her daughter, and of course the committee 
 couldn't relax rules for her." 
 
 " Of course not. But what did she want, 
 though ?" 
 
 Miss Paring drops her voice modestly. 
 
 '' She j)ositively wanted me to ask the 
 gentlerpen to let her child wear drawers. 
 As if I could speak of such things to the 
 committee ! It was quite out of the ques- 
 tion.*' 
 
 '' I should think so indeed ! A likel}^ 
 thing a lady could ask a pack of men such a 
 queer question as that !" 
 
 Miss Carteret forgets there is no one to 
 ask hut the " pack of men," who alone have 
 power to clothe and to unclothe, to feed and 
 to starve, at St. Cecilia's. Not being used 
 to think of women as fit creatures to possess 
 any power or responsibilitj^ it does not strike 
 her either that it might be more modest and 
 more convenient if one or two ladies were 
 joined to the committee, to whom the needs 
 of girls would not be quite unknown, and 
 who might be appealed to without over- 
 whelming a set of modest old men with utter 
 confusion. 
 
 " Yes, really I Avas shocked," said Miss 
 Paring, coughing a little into her hand
 
 Forgotten Lives. 253 
 
 " It's as bad as tlie Avomen in trousers/' 
 returns the other. 
 
 " Women hi trousers I" and Miss Paring 
 looks as if she thought grim Miss Carteret 
 was a little crazy. 
 
 '' Yes ; they ain't seen in liondon, though. 
 They are up in Lancashire somewhere. It 
 sounds odd, don't it ? We shall be told of 
 men in petticoats next, I suppose. Lord ! 
 it has just struck me the committee ought 
 to wear petticoats when they come among 
 so many girls." 
 
 A slight giggle above them makes Miss 
 Paring look round severely, when she is met 
 by Miss Minshell's round eyes, who, with a 
 little deprecating curtsey, says in her softest, 
 slyest way — 
 
 " I didn't like to pass, please, ma'am, while 
 you were standing on the stairs with a lady. 
 I was afraid of troubling you." 
 
 " You had better pass at once, Miss 
 Minshell ; your dinner will be cold." 
 
 Miss Minshell passes with an extra curtsey 
 to Miss Cai-teret, and her uncovered round 
 back, her cropped head, bare elbows, and 
 scant garments, do not present a pretty 
 picture as she goes heavily downstairs. 
 
 '' I suppose it cures 'em of vanity," 
 observes Miss Carteret reflectively.
 
 254 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 "I beg your pardon — I don't catcli your 
 meaning/' returns the governess. 
 
 '' The dress, you know. It must be an 
 excellent thing to root out self-conceit and 
 vanity from all these young minds." 
 
 " Oh, excellent, I assure you ! The insti- 
 tution does that most thoroughly; it cuts 
 off all that sort of thing with their hair the 
 first day they come in." 
 
 Miss Carteret is much edified by this 
 information ; she eyes the pinched, pale, 
 ugly, dejected crowd, now emerghig from 
 the hall-door, with increased complacency. 
 
 " Ah, it is a Christian work which this 
 institution performs, and you and the gentle- 
 men engaged in it are greatly privileged, 
 Miss Paring." 
 
 " Greatly, indeed 1" says that lady, lifting 
 up her eyes piously. 
 
 " And I am sure the committee feel it so. 
 You have onerous duties to perform, Miss 
 Paring.'' 
 
 If poor Miss Paring performed all the 
 duties put on her she would have reason to 
 say so, but since they would be beyond the 
 powers of a human steam-engine, she wisely 
 lets them alone and takes things quietly. 
 
 " They haven t been long at their dinner.
 
 Forfjotten Lives. 
 
 poor things," remarks Miss Carteret cheer- 
 fully. " JS'ow 1 call that quite a virtue not 
 to saunter over dinner." 
 
 "We dont permit them to linger over 
 their meals ; it induces idleness and gluttony. 
 Everything here is made a moral lesson of — 
 even food." 
 
 Miss Carteret is brought into a high state 
 of admu'ation by this. She bes^ins to srlow 
 with charity. 
 
 " Well, I'm sure ; and fancy my sister-in- 
 law despising all this excellent training for 
 her daughter ! If I had twent}^ orphans I'd 
 send 'em all here." 
 
 " And the institution would gladly take 
 them — clothe, feed, and educate them, Miss 
 Carteret — of course if — if properly elected, 
 vou understand." 
 
 Dim as poor Miss Carteret is she under- 
 stands this, and nods assent. She knows that 
 twenty orphans wdthout gifts, subscriptions, 
 publicity, puffs, and money would be a poor 
 present for St. Cecilia. 
 
 ''As for your niece. Miss Carteret," con- 
 tinues the governess, " it was a good thing 
 she left us. She was not a fit child for this 
 institution — a little creature full of vanity 
 and daintiness, desj^ising her clothes, and
 
 256 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 rejecting the good wholesome food of the 
 chanty. It is mj opinion" — lowering her 
 voice — " we should have had a great deal of 
 trouble with her to break her in. And she 
 might have died under it," adds the lady to 
 herself in a mental whisper. 
 
 Miss Carteret sighs and shakes her head ; 
 she deems it a sad misfortune that Eose 
 was not left here to be cured of her vanity 
 and selfishness, and changed into a perfect 
 character, by the wholesome discipline, the 
 humbling dress, the unappetizing fare, the 
 shoe-blacking lessons, and other cold, bare, 
 ugly ways of St. Cecilia's. 
 
 The whole institution having now been 
 seen by Miss Carteret through Miss Paring's 
 eyes and the vision of other officials, she is 
 led to the board-room where Mr. Crank 
 sits in state, with Mr. Scrattle in a smaller 
 chair opposite to him. That gentleman's 
 morning lesson of humility has apparently 
 been equal to a Turkish bath, for he is in 
 a profuse perspiration, and his eyes are 
 starting from their sockets. 
 
 " Mr. Scrattle, set a chair for this lady !" 
 cries Mr. Crank in a voice which shows 
 Miss Carteret at once that Mr. Scrattle is 
 a very inferior creature to the great man 
 who speaks.
 
 Forfjotten Lives. 2b7 
 
 " What can I have the honour of cloinof 
 for you, madam ?" he continues, thrusting 
 aside a ledger in a threatening way and 
 closing it with a ferocious bang. He has 
 heard her name is Carteret ; lie thinks it 
 wise to frighten her a little. 
 
 Miss Carteret is very much frightened 
 and very deferential. 
 
 " Being anxious, sir, to see St. Cecilia's 
 with my ou:// eyes " 
 
 She stops here in increased alarm, ob- 
 serving Mr. Scrattle has dipped his pen in 
 the ink apparently with the view to take 
 down her words. 
 
 This pause enables me to remark that 
 Miss Carteret is quite unconscious that she 
 has not been seeino- thing's with her own 
 
 CD O 
 
 eyes, but through official spectacles and the 
 aid of official voices, which have politely 
 instructed her in what way to resrard the 
 visions presented to her. 
 
 " Well, madam," interpolates Mr. Crank, 
 ''you have seen the institution. You are 
 welcome to do so. This charity is open for 
 public inspection on appointed days. All is 
 unreservedly free, madam^ to — to parents of 
 orphans — guardians I mean," coi'recting 
 himself as the thought struck him that 
 
 VOL. I. 17
 
 258 Forfjotten Licc^. 
 
 orphans do not usually possess parents, 
 " and to visitors in general. Eh, Mr. 
 Scrattle ?" 
 
 "" Quite so, sir." 
 
 Poor Miss Carteret turns her little limp 
 head from one side to the other with eager 
 deference as they speak, and then essays her 
 
 I was going to observe, sir, that the 
 
 money 
 
 " If you are going to presume, ma'am, 
 that the money presented to the charity by 
 its benefactors is to be drawn out of it again, 
 vou are wistaken' — and down comes Mr. 
 Crank's hand upon the ledger with a thump 
 which startles Miss Carteret out of her chair 
 with a little scream — '' mistaken, ma'am, for 
 if it does not benefit the orphan — the un- 
 grateful orphan — for whom it was intended, 
 til ere are other orphans whom it does, and 
 whom it shall benefit, ma'am." 
 
 Here Mr. Scrattle bends forward and gets 
 purple and apoplectic in his endeavour to 
 catch Mr. Crank's liard, worldly old eyes, 
 which are rolling vaguely in the effort to look 
 generously indignant. Giving up at last 
 this attempt to make a telegraph of himself, 
 Mr. Scrattle speaks out.
 
 Forgotten Lives. 259 
 
 " This lad J, sir," lie says, " is the one 
 whose strenuous exertions in the orphan's 
 cause enabled her to present to this noble 
 institution the sum '' 
 
 " And nobody wants it back," put in Miss 
 Carteret with sudden desperation ; '' and I 
 didn't come here to talk about it." 
 
 There were still signs of speech about her ; 
 she was not completely quenched, luckily 
 both for Mr. Crank and Mr. Scrattle, whose 
 minds were too set upon money for an}' thing 
 less than a icedge to let in another idea upon 
 them . 
 
 Mr. Crank has to put a sudden stopper 
 upon his generous wrath, and altogether to 
 pull himself up, and in doing it he is con- 
 scious of looking foolish. He glares angrily 
 at Mr. Scrattle. 
 
 " Another time, sir, you'll have the good- 
 ness to represent things to me in a proper 
 manner, and not lead me to suppose that — 
 that a generous benefactor " 
 
 "Pray say no more, sir," interposes Miss 
 Carteret ; " I am very sorry for the mistake." 
 
 '' I beg your pardon, sir," says Mr. Scrattle 
 humbly; "it shall not occur again, sir." • 
 
 Being thus apologized to by both persons 
 whom he has insulted, Mr. Crank is mollified, 
 
 17—2
 
 260 Forcjotten Lives. 
 
 and his wheels move again as though re- 
 freshed with oil. It occurs to him now that 
 he m.ay as well let Miss Carteret name her 
 business, and so he asks it as blandly as the 
 Crank nature will permit him. 
 
 " I was going to observe that the money 
 wanted to keep up this place must be an 
 immense sum," she says with great defe- 
 rence ; '' and of course it must be hard work 
 sometimes, and you must have a good deal 
 of anxiety about the orphans — you and the 
 other gentlemen." 
 
 Mr. Scrattle hides a smile with his big 
 hand, but Mr. Crank keeps a grave counte- 
 nance. 
 
 " Immense anxiety, ma'am — more strain 
 than we can bear at times. Especially when 
 the days come round for paying salaries. 
 There are a great many paid officers in this 
 establishment, ma'am." 
 
 " And the poor orphans, Mr. Crank ; they 
 must be the principal cause of your anxiety, 
 of course." 
 
 "Of course, ma'am. You are right; it 
 is for their sakes the salaries are paid, and 
 tlib officers kept." 
 
 The risible muscles of Mr. Scrattle's face 
 grow convulsed, and a sudden cough makes
 
 For a off en Lives. 261 
 
 him purple, yet lie subsides instautly into 
 quietness as those bloodshot old eyes roll 
 his way angrily. 
 
 " And I have been thinking, Mr. Crank, 
 you v^'ould be glad to get one of the orphans 
 off your hands if possible," says Miss Car- 
 teret, cheerfully. 
 
 '' Xo, ma'am, we are glad to have orphaus, 
 not to o^et rid of them. Thev leave us at 
 the proper age, not before." 
 
 Miss Carteret's face falls, but brightens 
 again as Mr. Crank desires Mr. Scrattle to 
 ascertain, if some fortunate orphan may not 
 be old enou2:h, to avail herself of Miss 
 Carteret's benevolent intentions. 
 
 Mr. Scrattle starches rapidly and serious]}' 
 throuj^h a bigf book. Yes, there are three 
 orphans about to be launched upon the 
 world, about to be deprived of those de- 
 corous and lovely garments, about to be 
 denuded of the privilege of blacking their 
 own shoes, and of faring sumptuously every 
 day at St. Cecilia's board. Who are they ? 
 What are they ? Whom have they got 
 belonging to them? 
 
 Two have friends who are coming for 
 them on the appointed day ; the other has 
 no known kith or kin — a disreputable uncle
 
 262 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 last seen a year ago very drunk, and igno- 
 miniously expelled the premises, having dis- 
 appeared into space. This happy orphan, 
 so poor that not a single relative has thought 
 it worth his while to put in an appearance 
 and claim a right in her, is Miss Emily 
 Minshell. 
 
 " And a very nice girl she is," said Mr. 
 Crank, running his tliick finger across the 
 book, and resting it on her name. " A very 
 nice girl, indeed. A great favourite with 
 the committee, eh, Mr. Scrattle?" 
 
 " Quite so, sir — higlily deserving orphan, 
 
 SU". 
 
 " There, you hear her character, ma'am. 
 You could not do better than take Miss 
 Minshell." And Mr. Crank makes three 
 hard little raps with his forefinger on her 
 name. " You'd like to see her, of course ?" 
 
 '' Yes, I should," returns Miss Carteret. 
 
 Accordingly Miss Minshell is sent for, 
 and pending her arrival Mr. Crank asks 
 sweetly in what capacity Miss Carteret in- 
 tends to make use of her valuable ser- 
 vices. 
 
 " Eh ? hem — as a sort of companion," 
 says the ancient lady. " I suppose she is 
 fit for that."
 
 Forgotten Lices. ^2Q>'i 
 
 " Well, she is rather young, you know ;" 
 and Mr. Crank's eyes roll over Miss Car- 
 teret's antique countenance with a twinkling 
 look. " Still, it will be a very fortunate 
 thing for her, ma'am, to have you for a 
 companion. Ah, here is the young h^d^^" 
 
 A very odd figure Miss Minshell makes 
 in her scant gown as she seats herself and 
 packs her feet under her chair. 
 
 '•' Xow, my dear," says Mr. Crank so- 
 lemnly, " attend to me. In a few days you 
 ' go hence to be no more seen.' No, no, I 
 don't mean that exactly. In fact, you leave 
 the asylum." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 *' And you have no place at all to go 
 to ?" 
 
 *'Xo, sir." Miss Minshell looks here 
 into Mr. Crank's face to see whether or not 
 she had better cry. She decides in the 
 negative. '' But the committee promised, 
 sir, they would try to find a situation for 
 
 55 
 
 me. 
 
 " So they did. But tell me tirst what you 
 would like best." 
 
 And Mr. Crank shakes his forefinger 
 secretly at Miss Carteret to bid her mark the 
 pious and virtuous answer of his favourite
 
 264 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 orphan. Meanwhile Miss Minshell falls 
 into a profound study, and revolves the 
 question mightily in her mind. Then she 
 stands upright in her eagerness. 
 
 ''Please, sir, I should like to be put 
 apprentice to a pastrjxook. There isn't 
 anything I can tliink of I should like so 
 much as that." 
 
 '' A pastrycook ! That's a very odd 
 idea." 
 
 " Please, sir, it would be so nice. Oh, 
 please, sir, I often think it would be 
 heaven!' 
 
 And Miss Minshell hugs her arms to- 
 gether and quivers with excitement. 
 
 *' Well, you can learn to make pastrj^ with 
 me," observes Miss Carteret. 
 
 Miss Minshell scarcely glances at her; 
 her eyes are fixed nervously on Mr. Crank. 
 
 " I can't do that," he says. ''' The asjdum 
 has no funds to pay lor apprenticeship. 
 Besides, there is something better offered 
 you. This lady proposes to take you as a 
 companion ; and — and the committee will 
 certainly gladly accede to her wish," he adds 
 hastily. 
 
 Oh, how the poor greedy, flabby face falls ! 
 — how bitter is the disappointment iii the
 
 Forgotten Lives. ^65 
 
 small hungry eyes I A companion ! What's 
 that ! It means nothing, it teaches no- 
 thing ; it may have emoluments in the shape 
 of pies, but the chances are it has not, 
 whereas to be a pastrj^cook is glorious, and 
 it is a trade which certainly is never with- 
 out victuals, and good victuals too. Thus 
 sensible Miss Minshell argues, and sheds a 
 few tears in the silent yearnings of greedi- 
 ness. 
 
 '• It is natural you should be sorrj' to go 
 away ; we excuse that," says Mr. Crank. 
 " But you must cheer up and get ready for 
 your departure." 
 
 " Please, sir, I haven't any clothes," re- 
 turns Miss Minshell, sulkily. She is too 
 dejected to be readj' with smiles. 
 
 '• How is that ?"' asks Mr. Crank. " You 
 can't carry away the orphans' things from 
 this establishment," he adds with virtuous 
 severity. 
 
 " I don't want to, sir," says Miss Min- 
 shell, and she looks down upon her bare 
 arms and her big feet with something like 
 tears in her eyes. 
 
 " ril get some clothes made for her 
 exactly like them," cries Miss Carteret in an
 
 266 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 Miss Min shell turns and stares at 
 lier. 
 
 '' Why, I should be hooted in the streets," 
 she says in intense dismay. 
 
 A sound of laughter hursts forth, appa- 
 rently from Mr. Scrattle's ears, for his 
 mouth is close shut, and Mr. Crank's own 
 lips relax, and he forgets to grind him to 
 powder. 
 
 " My dear lady," he says, " our orplians 
 only wear the costume while here, not after- 
 wards. Now, Miss Min shell, what is he- 
 come of your own clothes ?" 
 
 " Uncle took 'em away in a bundle, and 
 I think he's lost 'em, and that's why he is 
 ashamed to come back," answers that young 
 lady with great volubility. 
 
 *' You should have taken care of your 
 things yourself^' remarks Miss Carteret. 
 
 '* How could I when I ain't let?" 
 
 This reply evidently so perplexes Miss 
 Carteret, that Mr. Crank condescends to 
 explain, that the Cecilian orphans are not 
 permitted to keep their own habiliments 'at 
 the establishment. 
 
 " They naturally want to wear them," 
 says Mr. Crank, " and that engenders 
 vanity."
 
 Tor [J often Lives. .267 
 
 Now the Enoflish are content to let their 
 ahle-bodied and then* weak-bodied rehitions 
 and neighbours suffer many miseries for the 
 good of their souls. Let the misery be in- 
 flicted with a good moral lesson, and the 
 result is satisfaction — to the lookers-on. 
 Hence Miss Carteret beams -s^^th content- 
 ment as she hears Mr. Crank's explanation. 
 It is a meritorious deed to crush out vanity, 
 and she feels like a helper in the good work, 
 as she thinks piously of the crowd of poor 
 feeble girl-orphans whom she has just seen, 
 with hideous clothes upon their backs and 
 poor food in their stomachs. Ugly gar- 
 ments cause dejection, and bring forth 
 humihty ; insufficient food is the root of 
 obedience and subordination. What greater 
 virtues can be desired for the female sex 
 than these ? Xow, if an objection be raised 
 to these remarks by observing, that the dress 
 worn by the orphans, is one which com- 
 pletely adorned and contented our great- 
 great -grandmothers, I reply by asking why 
 the habiliments vrhicli pleased our paternal 
 ancestors have not been retained for the 
 orphan boys? I am aware that in many 
 instances such a dress is maintained, but in 
 equally many instances I affirm it is not.
 
 268 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 It is changed to a costume far more sensible, 
 and in most cases far more becoming. 
 
 The reason is obvious. The committees 
 and trustees of charities and of orphan 
 asylums are men. They understand the 
 needs of boys, and strive, to a certain ex- 
 tent, to supply them ; they hioiv nothing of 
 the needs of girls, or, knowing them, they 
 deliberately deny the necessity of supplying 
 them, because ignorance, poverty, and pain 
 are considered good for girls, and therefore 
 our female orphans are a pitiable army of 
 ill-clad, ill-fed, ill-educated objects. 
 
 They walk about in the stays and tippets 
 of Queen Anne, and they learn the lessons 
 that Queen Charlotte thought good for girls. 
 And no one cares, because they will grow 
 up to be women, not men, and this country 
 is accustomed hitherto only to look to the 
 needs of its men. 
 
 Let us go back to Miss Min shell, who is 
 calmly revolving in her own soul the possi- 
 bility of being carried out of St. Cecilia's in 
 a box for the want of clothes. 
 
 '' I suppose they'd let me go in a hamper, 
 sooner than I should take away the orphan 
 things," she says to herself 
 
 " It is a sad pity your uncle lost that
 
 Forgotten Lives. 269 
 
 "bundle," observes Mr. Crank. " Had you 
 anything valuable in it, my dear?" 
 
 " I had a very good frock, and a petti- 
 coat only washed once/"' cries Miss Minshell, 
 quite eagerly, '* a new pair of stockings, a 
 chemise, and a pair of " 
 
 " Oh, my goodness gracious me!" exclaims 
 Miss Carteret.. "'Will nobody stop her?" 
 
 Mr. Scrattle explodes. The laughter 
 rushes to his ears first, as usual, and, fail- 
 ing to find egress there, it opens his mouth 
 and overpowers him. 
 
 Miss Minshell — the innocent cause — 
 stares in bewilderment. She is so used to 
 all these things, so accustomed to tell even 
 her ailments to the committee of gentlemen, 
 
 that she can but wonder whv a mere cata- 
 
 </ 
 
 logue of her personal eftects has caused 
 laughter and confusion. She bursts into a 
 giggle herself when, b}' seeing a smile on 
 Mr. Crank's hard lips, she knows it safe ; 
 and she is quick to perceive his amusement 
 and Mr. Scrattle's is caused, not by her 
 naive list of goods, but by the horror and 
 dismay on their visitor's countenance. 
 
 Poor Miss Carteret, hot from head to foot, 
 is in a hurrv now to be o-one. 
 
 " If the institution will provide her with
 
 270 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 one set of clothes, I'll procure lier another. 
 I'll bring them with me, and come for you 
 this day week," she says, rising hastily. 
 
 " I can't promise you the institution will 
 provide clothes," replies Mr. Crank. " It is 
 not the rule to provide departing orphans 
 with anything except — except coffins. We 
 are obliged to do that now and then. How- 
 ever, it wont cost you much to get a suit — 
 say second-hand— a jacket and a pair of 
 trousers." 
 
 " Whab !" screams Miss Carteret, and her 
 poor, thin, old-maidenish face is in a flame. 
 
 *' Bless my soul!" returns Mr. Crank, 
 " I beg your pardon. I don't mean that, of 
 course, I was thinking about boys some- 
 how ; I forgot I was among the girls. 
 Well, you'll get what's proper, I dare- 
 say." 
 
 Mr. Crank has not the least idea of what 
 is proper. His masculine mind has not 
 been able to master the details of the female 
 toilet, althouo^h he has been chairman of a 
 female orj^han society for so many years, so 
 he will not again commit himself by an 
 attempt to particularize. 
 
 "And how about the young lady's salary?" 
 he says quickly.
 
 Forgoiten Lives. '21 \ 
 
 Miss Carteret makes herself very stiff. 
 
 '' There will be none expected, of course, 
 since I provide the girl with clothes.'' 
 
 " My dear, you had better thank this lady 
 for her intended kindness, and leave us," ob- 
 serves Mr. Crank with unconscious sarcasm. 
 
 Miss Minshell duly does as she is bid, but 
 there are thoughts within her that only 
 torpedoes and scorpions could express as she 
 makes her modest curtsey and retires. 
 
 In her absence it is not surprising that 
 Mr. Crank and Miss Carteret come cjuickly 
 to an understanding, and Mr. Scrattle notes 
 down in the minute-book that Miss Minshell, 
 by the efforts of the committee, is eligibly 
 placed out in a good situation as companion 
 to a lady, salary to be considered on a future 
 day. 
 
 As she jolts homewards in a crowded 
 omnibus Miss Carteret congratulates herself 
 on her day's work. 
 
 "No idleness, no greediness, no finery, 
 no vanitv, no lim^erino: and lolhmj over 
 meals. Ah ! what a blessino- to have a o-irl 
 with all that rooted out of her I I'll give 
 the other one warning directly I get home." 
 
 Poor Miss Carteret ! she dreams of turnins: 
 Miss Minshell into a pattern rnaid-of-all-
 
 272 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 work. Little does that unfortunate orphan 
 think of tlie fate awaiting her. Yet, though 
 bound to pity the fatherless and the stranger, 
 I say again — 
 
 Poor Miss Carteret !
 
 CHAPTEE XYIII. 
 
 WO years have rolled away since we 
 left Oliver de Beauvoir with that 
 letter in his hand which told him 
 of Mrs. Carteret's marriage to Sir Cuthbert 
 Tregethas. This event startled him. At 
 Bosanken he had seen, or guessed, that much 
 of his sister's unhappiness sprang from some 
 mysterious source hidden at Caerlerrick, and 
 he pondered anxiously now on the chance 
 of this marriage influencing her life for 
 good or evil. Would those eccentric annoy- 
 ances which came in the shape of flowers, 
 gifts, and even more singular forms, reach 
 her still, or would they cease ? In fact, was 
 the implacable Sir Cuthbert to alter now 
 into a mere Benedict, who hated his neigh- 
 bour in a civil, commonplace way : 
 
 Cui'ious on this point, Oliver wrote to his 
 sister giving an account of his rencontre with 
 Sir Cuthbert's bride. Then he asked eagerly 
 whether Caerlerrick was conducting itself 
 
 VOL. I. IS
 
 274 Forgotten Livt 
 
 in a saner manner now it had a mistress, 
 or were those exasperating communications 
 which drove Bosperis mad still showered 
 upon her by some Bedlam hand ? 
 
 In her reply Lady Theresa assured him 
 Caerlerrick was a shut tomb, from which 
 nothing issued. Not even a flower had 
 reached her since Sir Cuthbert's return with 
 his bride. She implored him, however, not 
 to accuse that proud and gloomy man of 
 any wrong towards her or Mr. Bosperis, for 
 none existed. If there were indeed a wrong 
 it was not on his side. As for the letters, 
 which she could not deny had reached her, 
 by means of which she was ignorant. Sir 
 Cuthbert had long ago haughtily and in- 
 dignantly denied all knowledge of them. 
 He had done this when Mr. Bosperis, in 
 the first passionate rage of his jealousy, 
 had accused him as the disturber of his 
 domestic peace. 
 
 Knowing that his sister's mind was im- 
 penetrable with regard to the secret cause 
 of her sorrow, Oliver accepted this answer 
 without further question. But the mystery 
 with which she had shrouded her dealings 
 with Caerlerrick gained a new interest in 
 /.is thoughts by his remembrance of Lady
 
 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 Tregethas. Like a shadow of sorrow i'ol- 
 lowing bis steps, this memory came upon 
 him in his wanderings, seeming to fall like 
 a breath on many a picture and statue, 
 giving it the likeness of her beautiful face 
 as it passed. But this impression, as all 
 impressions did with him, wore away, and 
 he led his careless, easy life, happy wherever 
 he went, Hked while he stayed, forgotten 
 when he was gone. 
 
 He soon wearied of his romantic search 
 for the girl whose name had excited his 
 sister's feverish imagination, and who had 
 herself pleased his fancy for a day. He was 
 a versatile man, not a steadfast one. He 
 delighted, he amused, he fascinated. But 
 somewhat like a figure in a kaleidoscope — 
 as you gazed at one phase of him with a 
 pleased eye it faded into another, and you 
 wondered which was the real man, and in 
 trying to grasp liim the mind grew dis- 
 satisfied, and you wearied even as he did. 
 Yet he found Barbara without looking for 
 her, as we find a wild flower or a rare fern 
 by the wayside. 
 
 So long a time had elapsed that in his 
 correspondence with his sister he had ceased 
 either seriously, or gaily to speak of his 
 
 lb— 2
 
 276 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 search for " that myth called Barbara." He 
 was at Baden, gambling seriously in that 
 stupid, ugly, butchering work called pigeon^ 
 shooting, when a great packet of letters 
 addressed to Beauvoir Park, and re-directed 
 by that extremely placid and lazy nobleman, 
 his brother, Lord De Beauvoir, reached 
 him. Among these was a letter from Lady 
 Tregethas. It had evidently been forgotten 
 or laid aside at Beauvoir, for it was dated 
 so long back that it was now nearly two 
 years old. Oliver read it with his old 
 curiosit}^ coming back upon him sharply. 
 
 Lady Tregethas wrote with the anxiety of 
 some concealed fear or pride. She trusted 
 her hurried note had not given him a false 
 impression. She had not meant to express 
 regret, nor did she feel it. She had cause 
 only to rejoice that she had yielded to an 
 affection justified by esteem. 
 
 " She is like all the host of female martyrs 
 who marry for position," said Oliver ; " they 
 would rather die than own it. The greater 
 the fact of their having taken a husband for 
 money or rank, the bigger are their protes- 
 tations that they chose him for love." 
 
 With the memory of Sir Cuthbert's 
 gloomy proud face, gathering in a frown
 
 Forcjotien Lices. ^11 
 
 upon his brow, he flung the letter down, 
 and the page slipping over displayed a post- 
 script — 
 
 " If you really call to see Eose, will yoa 
 write and tell me how she looks? I vearn 
 to hear news of her from some one who has 
 seen her face." 
 
 '•' That w411 o^ive me a chance of fiinofinc: a 
 missile within the precincts of Caerlerrick," 
 cried Oliver, delighted. '•' I'll go home 
 throuijh Blois. I believe it is horridiv out 
 of the way, but that's no matter." 
 
 He io-nored the fact that Ladv Tres^ethas 
 had written the request, before she could 
 possibly have gained an insight into the 
 hatreds and enmities, which she would now 
 have to share with her husband. At all 
 events, the letter had only just reached him, 
 and he cared little for the date. 
 
 He went to Blois to see Eose and he 
 found Barbara. He presented his card and 
 asked for Miss Carteret with some mis- 
 giving. 
 
 "Perhaps she is gone," he had said to 
 himself, '' and I have made one of my wise 
 journeys, as I did when searching for my 
 myth." 
 
 " Yes, Miss Carteret was here. Would
 
 278 Forgotten Lives, 
 
 monsieur trouble himself to walk into the 
 reception-room, while she took the card to 
 madame ?" 
 
 This from the neat handmaiden who 
 opens the door wide, and invites Oliver to 
 slide across the polished floor and seat him- 
 self in madame's fauteuil beneath madame's 
 portrait, which, stout and smiling, looks 
 down on him from a huge frame. 
 
 Then as the door closes, a girl seated by 
 the window reading lifts her bent head, and 
 he recognises, with a sudden throb of the 
 heart, the face he had never quite for- 
 gotten. 
 
 "Miss Lethbridge!" he cried. "Is it 
 possible ?" 
 
 He comes forward eagerly, he holds out 
 his hand, he clasps Barbara's; while she 
 still stands as in a dream, a flush of joy 
 upon her cheeks, and the liquid notes of his 
 voice thrilling in her ears like the sound of 
 a remembered spell. 
 
 " How surprised I am !" he contmues, 
 forgetting to let go her hand. " And how 
 well you look !'' 
 
 The colour vanishes from Barbara's 
 cheeks, leaving her face pure as a white lily, 
 and her lips tremble a little as she speaks.
 
 Forgotten Lives. 279 
 
 " I am not so surprised as you, Mr. De 
 Beauvoir,'"' she says; ''for my friend Eose 
 has often talked of the possibility of your 
 coming hither to see her. She will be 
 delighted to hear that you are come at last." 
 
 And, passing him, Barbara goes to the 
 door. 
 
 " You are not running away surely. Miss 
 Lethbridge ?" he cries. 
 
 '•' It is quite contrary to French etiquette 
 that I should stav here," she answers. 
 " And besides you and I are strangers, and 
 your visit is not to me." 
 
 " Strangers ! Then you have quite for- 
 gotten me. Miss Lethbridge ?" 
 
 '' Oh, no, I remember you perfectly, Mr. 
 De Beauvoir. You were kind enousrh to 
 aid me when an accident occurred to the fine 
 carriaofe in which I was ridinsr." 
 
 " Through my mad driving," returns 
 Oliver. " Don't go, pray don't go!" 
 
 He is warm and eager, Barbara quiet and 
 self-possessed. 
 
 " But indeed I cannot stay," she says. 
 ** Madame would be quite dismayed to find 
 me here when she enters with Eose. You 
 forget that you are not my fj'iend — that you 
 did not inquire for me."
 
 280 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 " How could I guess you were here ? I 
 have been looking for you over half the 
 world." 
 
 " For me !" exclaims Barbara, and her 
 cheeks burn painfully. " You are jesting, 
 Mr. De Beauvoir." 
 
 " I assure you I am not. Miss Lethbridge. 
 You are the daughter of Dr. Mordaunt 
 Lethbridge, are you not ?" 
 
 "Yes, certainly," she says simply, too 
 surprised for further words. 
 
 " I was sure of it !" cried Oliver in 
 triumph. " And I have a letter for you 
 from my sister." 
 
 " From your sister !" And Barbara stands 
 like a statue of araazement, pale, with parted 
 lips and eyes fixed on him half in terror. 
 
 Meanwhile he takes from his pocket-book 
 a well-preservQd letter, and lays it in her 
 trembling hands. 
 
 At this juncture the door opened, and 
 Eose, all brightness, and beauty, and smiles, 
 in her prettiest French toilette, ran in 
 eagerly, and Oliver did not even see her. 
 
 " Have I grown out of your recollection, 
 Mr. De Beauvoir ?" 
 
 The little silvery voice, slightly thin but 
 sweet, strikes his ear in a remembered tone.
 
 For(jotten Lives. 2 SI 
 
 and Oliver turns and sees Eose, and the 
 great lady of the establishment, large and 
 affable, standing by her side, smiling on him 
 like her picture. He greets her and Eose 
 immediately in French. 
 
 " You have grown more charming than 
 ever. Mademoiselle Eose, but my memory 
 is very faithful — I should have recognised 
 you anywhere. Madame, you and Blois 
 have done wonders for mademoiselle. I 
 shall tell milady her mother that she is 
 * belle comme une Eose.' " 
 
 Poor little Eose is charmed by this com- 
 pliment, as is madame, who knows better 
 what compliments are worth ; but then this 
 one comes from an Englishman, therefore it 
 counts, for does not all Blois know that 
 most Englishmen knock down women and 
 trample on them ? 
 
 Meanwhile Barbara holds Lady Theresa's 
 letter in her hand, and stands among 
 them uncertain and silent; but in a mo- 
 ment Oliver breaks through madame's 
 volubihty and Eose's prattle, and says to 
 her earnestly — 
 
 " Wont you read your letter. Miss Letli- 
 bridsre ? I am anxious you should read
 
 282 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 Barbara breaks the seal as madame nods 
 to her afFal)ly — 
 
 " Ah, you have brought a letter for 
 Mademoiselle Letbrids. From some of her 
 parentage of course ?" 
 
 "No; from my sister. Lady Theresa 
 Eosperis. I have the pleasure, madame, of 
 recognising a friend of my flimily in Miss 
 Lethbridsre : and I wish I had known earlier 
 that she was under your care. I should 
 then have delivered my sister's letter long 
 ago/' 
 
 " Barbara a friend of yours ! a friend of 
 your sister's !" exclaims Eose in extreme 
 amazement ; " well, I should never have 
 guessed that. I have talked of you so many 
 times, and she never once said she knew you 
 or your family." 
 
 " Vot is dat you zay ?" said madame 
 suspiciously, plunging into English suddenly 
 as Eose had done ; " may 1 zee dis lady's 
 letter?" And true to her French instincts, 
 as a dragon guarding a garden of girls, she 
 holds out her hand for it. 
 
 Instinctively Barbara looks at Oliver, and 
 he smiles ; then she puts the letter within 
 madame's large white lingers, and she reads 
 this : —
 
 Forgotten Lives. 283 
 
 "Dear Miss Lethbridge, — I write to 
 entreat you to permit me to be your frieDcI. 
 I had tlie pleasure of knowing your father 
 years ago when I was quite young. Per- 
 haps you may have heard him say he once 
 practised in the town of Stoneleigh in 
 Devon. During that time he attended my 
 family, and he was greatly liked and re- 
 spected by my dear father. This fact would 
 be sufficient in itself to interest me in his 
 daughter, but ni}' own personal recollections 
 of Dr. Lethbridge add to my earnest desire 
 to be considered your friend. I have just 
 heard that he and your mother are both 
 dead, therefore I am the more anxious to 
 prove to 3^ou the esteem and kindness in 
 which his memory is held by myself and 
 family. 
 
 " Will you write to me when my brother 
 gives you this ?" 
 
 There were tears in Barbara's eyes when 
 madame laid the letter down with a satisfied 
 smile. Lady Theresa's kind words of her 
 dead father had touched her heart, and it 
 seemed hard to her that a stranger should 
 read them. 
 
 " You will write to the lady at once, my 
 dear," says madame, going back sweetly to
 
 284 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 Frencli again ; "and monsieur will do me 
 tbe pleasure to come for your letter/*' 
 
 " I will come to-morrow," said Oliver^ 
 with liis eye on Barbara ; " and if madame 
 will honour me so far, I will bring a car- 
 riage and ask her and the young ladies to 
 accompany me in a drive through the 
 environs of Blois." 
 
 Madame Avouid be delighted, especially if 
 there was room in the carriage for monsieur 
 her husband. 
 
 Monsieur was a little wizen man wha 
 wore spectacles, and ran after moths and 
 butterflies with a ^auze bas^ at the end of a 
 
 O <-J 
 
 stick. He lived in the porter's lodge out- 
 side the garden wall, where he had a little 
 room all to himself, with a dome to give him 
 light, by reason of his sole window being 
 bricked up, because it overlooked the sacred 
 precincts wherein the pupils walked. 
 
 Madame worked very hard for this little 
 man, who disported himself all day in the 
 fields running nimbly after butterflies ; and 
 she sent him two j?:?/<2^^ every day for his 
 dinner, and very good dishes too they were, 
 being exquisitely cooked. In fact, he lived in 
 clover, and grew very thin on it, those 
 running-matches of his in the meadows, with
 
 Forgotten Lives. 285 
 
 winged vagrants, keeping him like a 
 veritable Egyptian mummy in the way of 
 iiesh. 
 
 It was tlie dream of madame's life to 
 gain money enough to give this little man 
 the realization of his dream — to build a 
 museum for his native town in which to 
 enshrine the victims of his net. Impaled, 
 poisoned, suffocated, or starved, they lay 
 now in glass cases, on which he gloated 
 diurnally, rubbing liis dry hands together 
 in rapture. 
 
 Place in the carriage being accorded to 
 this little gentleman, and the pleasure of an 
 introduction promised on his return from a 
 distant expedition after a dragon-fly, Oliver 
 took his leave. And when he was gone, 
 Eose somehow felt aggrieved, while Barbara 
 was happy, blushing, and full of dreams. 
 
 " I'll never forgive you," said Eose in a 
 voice of tears. " You mio^ht at least have 
 told me you knew Mr. De Beauvoii'." 
 
 A rush of colour flew over Barbara's face 
 and neck. 
 
 " I had no right to say I knew him, 
 Eose. I only met him once by accident, 
 and I was not aware his sister knew my 
 father."
 
 286 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 But Rose was not to be appeased. It 
 was too disappointing to a school -girl to 
 have a friend come to see her, who thrust 
 her aside to pay his most distinguished 
 attentions to another. 
 
 " I was frank with you. I told you 
 everytldng','' said Rose. "And considering 
 the times and times we talked of Mr. De 
 Beauvoir, I think you might have told 
 me. 
 
 ''I had nothing to tell/' said Barbara. 
 '' I assure you, Eose, until he came here 
 to-day, I never saw him but once in my 
 life." 
 
 " Well, why have kept that one inter- 
 view a secret ?" 
 
 Barbara was silent, but Eose saw the 
 swift colour coming and going on her face, 
 and grew more angry. 
 
 " I hate secrets," she said. " I am sure, 
 Barbara, I have told you all mine. And 
 you know I am going home next year to 
 that old castle in fear and trembling. I 
 am never to be happy, it seems." 
 
 " Is that my fault, Eose ? Would not I 
 make the dragon's castle a fairy palace for 
 you if I could ?"
 
 Forc/otten Lives. 287 
 
 " Oil, I am not a oliild now, Barbara 1 
 Don't talk to me as if I were a baby. 
 Nothing will alter the dreary old castle. 
 I can see how miserable mamma is in it, 
 and of course it will be worse for me.'' 
 
 "Why worse for you, Eose?" Barbara 
 demanded. 
 
 " Why, because, I'm 3'oung, and I want 
 to be happy. And how cross you are to-day, 
 Barbara." 
 
 But even as Eose said this she relented, 
 ashamed, and a soft pink flush crept 
 up from her pretty chin to the roots 
 of her hair. Then she laughed, and said 
 Barbara knew her ways, and didn't mind 
 them, she was sure. And so they kissed, 
 and the little cloud seemingly was gone. 
 Meanwhile, as Oliver went back to his 
 hotel, he said to himself — 
 
 '"' How those two girls have changed 1 
 They have grown into women, and Barbara 
 is beautiful, yet she has the same face. I 
 wonder if I have. It makes a fellow feel 
 old to see the difference a couple of years 
 makes in others. I think it is time I 
 gave up bachelorhood and took the world 
 seriously."
 
 288 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 Then lie whistled, and felt sorry Barbara 
 was only a doctor's daughter, a person by 
 no means eligible for an earl's son. In a 
 moment he broke from whistling into a 
 laugh, and said there was no reason why such 
 a thought should come to him at all. 
 
 " I must cultivate Eose in order to fling a 
 stone into the ogre's castle," he said, " and I 
 must get better acquainted with Miss 
 Lethbridge for Theresa's sake. This 
 Quixotic offer of friendship must not be car- 
 ried out unless I see it would be quite a safe 
 thing for her in every way. Theresa is 
 morbid. A sensible friend would do lier 
 good, not a romantic one. Ah ! I see I am 
 in for a stay at Blois for a week or two, to 
 make a study of character." 
 
 Then, musing still, he congratulated 
 himself that the mystery concerningBarbara 
 w^s over, or rather had never existed, and 
 there would be no latent fear in his mind 
 when his sister made her acquaintance. 
 She would simply receive her as the 
 daughter of an old friend. 
 
 Great was Oliver's triumph over this 
 fact. 
 
 " I don't know^ whom Theresa imagines 
 the myth Barbara to be," he said, '' but I
 
 Forgotten Lives. 289 
 
 am glad the real Miss Lethbridge has a 
 parentage of flesh and blood, and doesn't 
 spring from that bad man's dream. Better 
 bring a snake to Bosanken than anv one 
 linked even by a gossamer thread with the 
 mad misery at Caerlerrick. I woula never 
 have helped Theresa to find this girl if I 
 had seriously thought such a connexion 
 possible." 
 
 Oliver forgot that it was his sister herself 
 who, searching her childish recollections, 
 had lighted on the name of Lethbridge as 
 one once familiar to her. Then gradually she 
 remembered a tall, spare figure, and a kind, 
 earnest face, seen often at Beauvoir during 
 those sad years when her mother was slowly 
 dying. When her life, which was but a 
 long sickness, was over, the place grew 
 painful to her husband, and he quitted it 
 for ever, taking his family to another seat 
 of his in Wales. Thus Devonshire faces 
 and scenes grew dim to Lady Theresa. 
 She wrote to her eldest brother, and asked 
 if the Doctor Lethbridge who had attended 
 her mother was still at Stoneleigh. And 
 Lord De Beauvoir, in his lazy answer, 
 written after weeks of waiting, told her 
 that he had been hunting up information 
 
 VOL. I. 19
 
 290 Forgotten Lives. 
 
 for lier, and tliis was tlie sum of it : — 
 Doctor Letlibridge left Stoneleigh, and 
 accepted some appointment or partnership 
 in London, soon after their own departure 
 from Beauvoir in their early days, of which 
 she spoke. JSfo one in Stoneleigh knew 
 anything about him now, except that in 
 London he had not been a successful man, 
 and he had died, leaving a widow and one 
 child — a daughter, he believed — very poor. 
 Some one said Mrs. Letlibridge was dead 
 also, but he did not know this for a 
 fact. The man was forgotten in his old 
 neighbourhood, and reall}^ he (Lord De 
 Beauvoir) had taken a most fatiguing task 
 in raking him out of that blank tomb, old 
 people's memories. He wondered why h s 
 sister wanted a skeleton. He hated dead 
 people for his part, and liked to let their 
 bones rest. 
 
 Lady Theresa pondered over this infor- 
 mation. She had her own thoughts and 
 fears about a Letlibridge who certainly was 
 not the child of the good doctor. But it 
 was possible that the Miss Lethbridge Oliver 
 had met might be his daughter, and on this 
 €hance her letter to Barbara was written and 
 despatched to him to deliver to her should
 
 i'orgotten Lives. 291 
 
 he find her. And at the same time Lady 
 Theresa cherished a latent belief, that this 
 girl might yet prove to be the child for 
 whom she sought so eagerly, and yet so pain- 
 fully — ^the child who was the link between 
 herself and Caerlerrick, the link w^hich 
 mysteriously allied her with that hidden 
 hand which sent her gifts and tokens. 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
 iONDON: 
 
 SAVILl/, EDWASDS AXD CO., PRIIfTEBS, OHAITDOS STREET, 
 
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