L I B RARY 
 
 OF THL 
 
 UN IVLR5ITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 823 
 08feK
 
 IWaA ■^'2-
 
 HONOR CAEMICHAEL 
 
 A STUDY. 
 
 BY HENRIETTA A. DUFF, 
 
 AUTHOR OF " VIROINIA : A EOMAN SKETCH," ETC. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON, 
 
 NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 
 
 1880. 
 
 Right of Translallon lieserced.
 
 gZ5 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 1 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 
 ^' 
 
 
 
 o 
 
 
 
 o 
 
 Chap. 
 
 I.— Peelude and Solo . . . . 
 
 Page. 
 1 
 
 
 II. — Duetto ..... 
 
 30 
 
 
 III.— Teio 
 
 64 
 
 ^' 
 
 IV.— St. Mask's Eoad 
 
 117 
 
 
 Y. — Happier than Happy! 
 
 130 
 
 ''--- 
 
 VI.— The Full Cup .... 
 
 145 
 
 
 VII.— Peotoplasms ! .... 
 
 156 
 
 
 VIII.— Pieeeepoet .... 
 
 . 171 
 
 
 IX.— An Awkwaed Meeting 
 
 185 
 
 
 X.— A Still Moee Awzwaed Meeting . 
 
 203 
 
 
 XI.— ECUME DE MeE 
 
 218 
 
 
 XII.— A Calendae of Feasts 
 
 238 
 
 
 XIII.— Pulling Down the Hedge . 
 
 253 
 
 
 XIV.— Thl Livee d'Heuees . 
 
 267 
 
 
 XV.— Two Aeeivals .... 
 
 285
 
 NOTE. 
 
 The early and lamented death of the Author has 
 prevented the following pages from receiving final 
 revifion at her hands while pajjing through the 
 Press ; but as the ftory is complete it seems un- 
 necejfary to withhold it from the wide circle 
 of friends who loved her, and the Jlill wider 
 one of readers who welcomed and appreciated her 
 work, 
 
 S. R. T. M.
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PEELUDE AND SOLO. 
 
 " The songs of dead seasons, that wander 
 On wings of articulate words." 
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE. 
 
 OMEWHERB in the south of 
 France, not very far back from 
 the high road between Aries 
 and Marseilles, there stands, and has 
 stood for centuries, an old turretted castle 
 called the Chateau de Coulanges. It is 
 built of grey stone, and has high slanting 
 roofs, and deep-set windows overrun with 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 flowers, and a jar din Anglais enclosed in a 
 court at the back. 
 
 The country round is very rich and fer- 
 tile. There is a river, like a silver thread, 
 running through it, and innumerable vil- 
 lages are dotted all along the riverside. 
 There are miles of vineyards and corn- 
 fields, meadows of flax, and valleys alight 
 with pink saragin and golden maize. The 
 beautiful waving woods grow close up to 
 the house, from the uppermost windows of 
 which you can catch a glimpse of Mar- 
 seilles, and its busy glittering harbour, 
 while beyond gleams the blue unfathom- 
 able sea, welling into the bluer illimit- 
 able horizon. 
 
 Nevertheless this Chateau de Coulanges 
 has a dreary, deserted, " Moated Grange " 
 sort of \6ok ; or, at least, it has such a 
 look in its pictures, for I never saw the 
 place in my life, only a great many draw- 
 ings of it, painted and otherwise, and all 
 hanging up, nicely framed and glazed, in
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 the bright trim little sitting-room of an 
 old Frenchwoman, who had known it and 
 loved it well in her youth — in the home of 
 Madame Pleon in fact — Madame Pleon, 
 of whom we shall see more by and 
 bye. 
 
 The chateau has changed hands since 
 her day. It has passed away from the old 
 family, and become the home of some 
 strangers from over the sea. These 
 strangers are good people, wealthy and 
 wise. They have built schools and estab- 
 lished soup-kitchens. They are generous 
 towards the Church, and liberal towards 
 the poor, and do more in a year for their 
 tenants and workpeople than the last Lord 
 of Coulanges did in his lifetime. Their 
 little children go scampering through the 
 woods, waking up the echoes with their 
 shrill ringing laughter, and painting out 
 the shadows with their gay young pre- 
 sence. Their sons are fine fellows, tread- 
 ing carefully in their father's footsteps. 
 
 B 2
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 Their daughters are graceful and fair (one 
 afterwards married the Due de Pro- 
 vence, and the other an Anglo -Indian 
 officer, whose fortunes she followed in 
 peace and in war). They are well spoken of 
 far and near, highly respected, greatly 
 esteemed ; but the memory of the old 
 family is still fondly cherished, and their 
 absence is still deeply deplored — at least, 
 so says Madame Pleon; and it maybe true, 
 for it is the way of the world not to know 
 when it is well off, and to waste itself in 
 unending regrets. 
 
 Do you wonder what all this has to do 
 with Honor Carmichael ? How the his- 
 tory of that old chateau in Provence can 
 affect the simple story of a London clergy- 
 man's child ? Wait and see. 
 
 This is one of the strangest things of 
 life. We can never tell what influences 
 will touch us, what winds will blow on us, 
 what strange unexpected beings may be 
 caught up with us and whirled round and
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 round in the same turn of Fortune's 
 wheel. The hand we never grasped, the 
 man we never met, the life we never heard 
 of, or only heard of, perhaps, to mock at, 
 may yet make or mar our fortunes — nay, 
 may one day rob us of the apple of our 
 eye, or shower down upon us the golden 
 fruit of delight. 
 
 The waters of the Rhine and the Mo- 
 selle, after wandering through many dif- 
 ferent lands, meet and marry at last beside 
 grim Coblentz. Two lives run for years 
 far apart from each other, and then sud- 
 denly converging meet, and are merged 
 one in the other for evermore. 
 
 Do you understand now ? Can you 
 catch the sound of the waters ? the mean- 
 ing of the song ? 
 
 It is the dead hand of Saint Gregory 
 the Illuminator that can alone consecrate 
 the living Patriarch of Armenia. It is 
 always the Past which makes the Present.
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 Such a bright sunshiny day, though it 
 was scarcely yet spring. Abeady there 
 was gold upon the fields and green upon 
 the trees, and blossoms, white as hoar- 
 frost and sweet as May-blooms, strewn 
 thickly over all the orchards and apple- 
 gardens in fair Provence. For a French 
 March is as an English May, except in- 
 deed that his lordship, the sun, is even 
 then less fickle to the vines than he is to 
 the hops, and loves better to laugh in the 
 radiant blue eyes of the south, than to 
 smile and frown alternately in the grim 
 grey face of the north. 
 
 He was laughing now, laughing broad- 
 ly and bravely, as he streamed unchecked 
 through open windows of the west 
 salon of the Chateau de Coulanges, laugh- 
 ing as he danced over the shiny plaque 
 floor, and touched with his glittering 
 fingers the hem of a dusky robe, and the 
 ripple of some soft brown hair. 
 
 The owner of the dusky robe and the
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 soft brown hair, was a girl of about 
 twenty years of age, with a pair of dark 
 Southern eyes, and a pale grave face that 
 had a story in it. She was playing to 
 herself as she sat before the piano in the 
 far corner of the room — to herself and 
 the sunshine only, for there was no one 
 else present. It was a pretty tune she 
 was playing, a soft, dreamy, sing-song 
 sort of thing, full of quaint running 
 variations, and odd breaks and bursts 
 of melody flowing in here and there. 
 But she did not seem to think much 
 about it herself. She was, in truth, 
 thinking about something totally diffe- 
 rent. 
 
 By and by the sun sank to sleep on his 
 bed of crimson and gold, and the church- 
 bell in the neighbouring village chimed 
 the Ave Maria, and tolled the death of 
 another day. 
 
 The player went on playing, however, 
 striking the chords more clearly as the
 
 HONOR CARMICIIAEL. 
 
 twilight deepened, and darkness came on 
 apace ; and the windows being still open, 
 the music went streaming out, as the 
 chill cold night air came streaming 
 in. 
 
 She went on thinking too — thinking of 
 her story, of course. It was a hapless 
 little story, common enough, but none 
 the less sad for that. She had loved 
 once, and had been betrothed to the man 
 she loved, and all had gone well for a 
 time. Then her father had interposed, 
 and the lover had been banished. She 
 would never see him again, for her father 
 on his death-bed had claimed a promise 
 from her, which promise would always 
 stand between her and happiness, like 
 the cherubim with the flaming sword at 
 Eden's gate. 
 
 That was the end of her story — at 
 least, so she thought. But, for once, 
 Comtesse Edmee de Coulanges was wrong. 
 There was another chapter to be added to
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 it to-day, and yet another in the far 
 future, before the Great Author should 
 write the word Finis to it all. 
 
 But Comtesse Edmee was not so selfish 
 as to be wholly absorbed in her own 
 love-story. She would never have an- 
 other, but Arlotte, her young sister, 
 should have one, and a far happier one 
 than her own. Arlotte' s story should be 
 a beautiful story, all full of light, and 
 love, and happiness, the mere reflection 
 of which would gladden her elder sister's 
 heart. Yes, she could see the little bride 
 in her trailing shimmering satins and her 
 floating veil, her dark eyes alight with 
 love, and her sweet lips quivering with 
 happiness. The bridegroom was not quite 
 so distinct. But then, to be sure, he 
 need not appear just yet, seeing that the 
 little bride herself was barely sixteen. 
 He would arrive in due season, of course. 
 In the meantime, where was his destined 
 bride ?
 
 10 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 Comtesse Eclm^e rose from the piano, 
 and went to the window and looked out. 
 The window gave upon the Enghsh gar- 
 den and the courtyard. There was no 
 one to be seen. She went back to her 
 music. 
 
 Little Comtesse Arlotte was accustomed 
 to ramble about the place by herself. 
 There were no wolves, not even in sheep's 
 clothing, in the woods of Coulanges, and 
 the people round were their own people, 
 honest, simple, ignorant folks, who trou- 
 bled their heads but little about changes 
 of dynasties or Spanish marriages, but 
 who had mourned sincerely the death of 
 Count Armand de Coulanges, their lord, 
 and who were loyal and true to his 
 daughters, who now reigned in his stead. 
 So Arlotte roamed about at her own sweet 
 will, fearless and free. 
 
 At last she came in ; not in her usual 
 laughing, dancing manner, with a smile 
 in her eyes, and a merry word on her lips.
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. ii 
 
 but slowly and silently, pushing back the 
 heavy curtain that hung before the door, 
 and then leaning against it, and looking 
 at Edm^e in a strange, sweet, bewildered 
 sort of way. 
 
 Edmee looked up at her and smiled a 
 welcome. She had been thinking of the 
 child as far too young yet for a bride, 
 but somehow, as she looked at her now, 
 her thought seemed to change. Arlotte 
 did not look too young to be loved, or to 
 love either; nay, rather, one might 
 almost think, but for her secluded life, 
 she knew already what manner of thing 
 love was. How strange it seems, thought 
 Edm^e. Does God put the seed of love 
 into every woman's heart, so that it shall 
 be ready to burst and blossom into flower 
 when the true lover comes to gather and 
 carry it off ? And then she thought she 
 would not like any lover to come and 
 carry off her Arlotte. And then she 
 suddenly changed her tune, as she had
 
 12 HONOR CARMICHAEL 
 
 changed her thought, breaking off from 
 Beethoven's " Adelaide," and bursting 
 into an old French troubadour's song, 
 said to have been written by Charles 
 d' Orleans when a prisoner in England. 
 It was a quaint little song, and one that 
 Arlotte liked well to sing. But it was 
 Edmee who sang it now — Edmee, whose 
 ringing, thrilling, pathetic voice her 
 father had loved to listen to in the old 
 days, but which had vibrated so seldom 
 through the rooms of the old chateau 
 since his death. 
 
 ''Ah!" said Arlotte, with a little 
 quivering sigh, as Edm^e came to the end 
 of the first verse. " How good it is — how 
 beautiful !" 
 
 Edm^e smiled again, and went on sing- 
 ing. 
 
 There were many verses to the song, 
 but the spirit of the refrain was always 
 the same. Those sung by Comtesse 
 Edmde might, if translated, run thus : —
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 "• To others, with their laughter, 
 And praise that cometh after, 
 
 Thy songs may gaily call ; 
 To me, so sad and lonely. 
 Oh ! sing for Love's sake only, 
 Or else sing not at all. 
 
 " On others and their measure, 
 Of youth, and health, and pleasure, 
 
 Thy smile may gladly fall ; 
 On me, so sick and lonely. 
 Oh ! smile for Love's sake only. 
 
 Or else smile not at all. 
 " For others' gilded kisses. 
 And others' bartered blisses, ^ 
 
 Thy love may be in thrall ; 
 But me, so poor and lonely. 
 Oh ! love for Love's sake only. 
 
 Or else love not at all !" 
 
 After those first few murmured words, 
 Arlotte stood quite still, silently listening, 
 with her head a little bent forward, 
 her soft dark eyes dilated, and her rose- 
 leaf lips folded together, as though some 
 sweet, strange secret lay hidden behind 
 them.
 
 14 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 Some secret — yes — surely. A secret as 
 sweet as a sugar-plum, and as strange as 
 the bloom of a rare- tinted southern fruit, 
 and fit for the mouth of a sixteen-year- 
 old child. Only, alas ! sugar-plums have 
 bitter almonds inside them sometimes, 
 and the southern fruit may be sour-tasted, 
 for all its pretty painted rind, as Edmee 
 knew very well, and as Arlotte knew not 
 at all, as yet. 
 
 There were five long years stretching 
 between these sisters, (it was a lifetime 
 to one of them,) and they had been a 
 good deal separated hitherto, playing at 
 see-saw with convent life and education 
 generally. But they were very much 
 alike, notwithstanding. They had the 
 same starry eyes and cloudy hair, the 
 same pure-shaped faces, round of cheek 
 and chin, straight and low of brow, a 
 type of face as rare as beautiful, a sort 
 of face all made of flowers, as Mrs. 
 Browning has certainly said somewhere,
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 15 
 
 though, no doubt, in other and prettier 
 words. 
 
 But there the likeness ended. For the 
 rest, the one sister had looked on death 
 face to face, and kissed love lip to lip ; 
 whereas the other had, as yet, scarce 
 seen so much as a dead butterfly, nor 
 known aught of love, save her convent 
 school-friends' rough caresses. Also, to 
 those who could see the soul behind 
 the mask, Arlotte was pretty enough, 
 very pretty, but Edm^e was beauti- 
 ful. 
 
 " Thou art late, petite,^^ said the latter, 
 ceasing her music at last, and speaking in 
 the mildest possible tone of reproach. 
 " Thou shouldst not stay out so late — 
 all alone." 
 
 Comtesse Arlotte smiled, and the close- 
 locked lips were cleft in twain by the 
 lightning of a laugh, as the Italians say. 
 
 " I was nob alone, ma soem\^^ she 
 answered softly.
 
 i6 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 " Not alone ? wlio was with thee, then, 
 clierie F" 
 
 " Who ? — who ? guess, Edmee. Mais 
 non, .thou could' st not guess, for even to 
 me it seems still too good to be true," 
 cried the girl, crossing her arms, and 
 clasping her breast, as if hugging to 
 herself for the last time her own delicious 
 secret. *' Who then but ce beau Anglais, 
 who has been lodging at the ' Lion d'Or,' 
 in the village, for some weeks past, and 
 whom it seems thou, or at least mon 
 papa, knew well in the days of old, but of 
 whom I have never heard thee speak — 
 who — who?" speaking very softly and 
 slowly, as if to draw out the rapturous 
 words to their furthest sweetest length. 
 " Qui done sera fil, sinon Monsieur le 
 Colonel Murray ?" 
 
 ^'Monsieur le Colonel Murray;'^ the words 
 fell flat upon Edm^e's ears. And yet they 
 seemed to be echoing over and over from 
 all corners of the room at once. It was
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 17 
 
 as if all the goblins and gargoyles from 
 the turrets outside, had come in to grin 
 at her. 
 
 '* Dost thou remember the name?" 
 asked Arlotte, eager to talk now that her 
 secret was disclosed. 
 
 Edm^e smiled a little bitterly. Did she 
 remember ? Could she ever forget ? Can 
 a girl forget the love of her heart ? But 
 he — he, her once plighted lover — had he 
 forgotten altogether ? 
 
 " Yes — I remember," she answered, 
 forcing her lips to speak. " Our father 
 knew him very well once, but afterwards 
 disliked him. He called at the chateau a 
 short time ago. He is still here, then?" 
 she added, growing confused, and feeling 
 thankful for the friendly sheltering dark- 
 ness. 
 
 " Not only still is, but always will be," 
 laughed little Arlotte, as she danced 
 across the now dusky room to the further 
 corner in which, her sister and the piano 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 '8 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 Still kept company together. " He will 
 be here always — for I am going to keep 
 him here always — I am going to marry 
 ce beau Colonel Murray." 
 
 Edmde had known what was coming 
 before it came. She heard the words 
 before they were spoken. Women always 
 do in these cases, I think. The idea had 
 barely entered into her head, the thought 
 had not been born a second, and yet there 
 it was fronting her, full-grown and armed — 
 an avengeful Cupid with poisoned arrows. 
 
 It was like a short, sharp, sudden 
 passing from life to death. The dead we 
 fancy know all, the moment they are dead. 
 The living, we fear, know nothing, how- 
 ever long they live. 
 
 Edm^e was dead. The fair brown- 
 haired woman with the music-making 
 fingers, and the soft singing voice, was 
 dead ; smitten down with a word, as a 
 bird by a shot. She had thought herself 
 only half alive before, but now she knew
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 19 
 
 she was wholly dead. She did not moan, 
 nor feel any particular pain. Her lips 
 were frozen, her heart was like ice. She 
 knew all. She felt nothing. She was 
 dead. 
 
 She had one thought however — even 
 the dead may have one regret — one 
 remorse — perhaps even one desire. " Ar- 
 lotte must never know," she said to 
 herself, "Arlotte must never know." It 
 seemed due to him — to her — above all to 
 the child herself, that she should never turn 
 over the pages of that sad old story. 
 
 One may live without love of man, she 
 knew. One cannot live without faith in 
 man, she thought. 
 
 Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps here 
 and there one may come across men and 
 women who are leading, not grandly nor 
 helpfully, indeed, but contentedly enough, 
 a sort of vegetable life, without any 
 special love or faith in them, beyond a 
 root-like affection for surroundings, and 
 I. 2
 
 ao HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 a belief in clailj dewdrops, and showers 
 in due course. Perhaps it would have 
 been better had Arlotte known all, even if 
 it had resulted in some such life as this 
 for her. Perhaps it would have been 
 better had Edm^e told all, and not set 
 herself to spare her — to spare him, for 
 though she herself was dead, as she 
 thought, her ghost was still faithful to 
 the faithless, loyal to the disloyal. 
 
 Her hands went on playing a little. 
 Hands are unsympathetic members, and 
 have little to do with the head, less with 
 the heart — which I hope may be taken, as 
 one excuse for " strikes." 
 
 Arlotte stood by, wondering a little, but 
 not thinking very much about her sister ; 
 for had she not so many other things to 
 think about now ? 
 
 " Why dost thou not speak, Edmee ?" 
 she cried at last. " Why dost thou not 
 cease thy playing and wish me joy ? Such 
 melancholy music as thou art making too !
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 21 
 
 Please stop now — on that chord — so." 
 And down went the little warm hands 
 with a crash, and rested on her sister's 
 cold fingers, till the echo of the notes 
 wailed sadly through the room, and died 
 away at last in silence. " But ah ! mon 
 Dieu — how cold are thy fingers, ma 
 sceitr! One might as well shake hands 
 with a ghost." 
 
 Comtesse Edm^e tried to smile — tried 
 to speak ; but she was a ghost, you know, 
 so could do neither. 
 
 *' One is always cold here, the house is 
 so dull and dreary," continued Arlotte, 
 looking round with an amusing air of 
 patronizing pity. " And we girls are as 
 dull as the house. We never do anything 
 or go anywhere. We never visit Paris 
 because we are Legitimistes. We never 
 have any company here, because we are 
 jeunes dames living alone." (There was 
 another reason besides these two, which 
 Arlotte did not know of, but which
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 Edm^e did). '' Oh ! it lias been dull- 
 very dull, but it will be so no longer. 
 Nous allons changer tout ^a — 7ious autres, 
 Charles et moi.'' 
 
 As the breatli of tlie four winds upon 
 the dry bones in the vision of Ezekiel, so 
 it seemed was the sound of that name to 
 the ghost of Edm^e. She remembered 
 the day when she too had first whispered 
 it in sweet shy happiness ; she could never 
 forget the fearful hour when she last 
 shrieked it in despair. It all came back 
 upon her now with a thrill and a rush 
 that sent the hot blood careering and 
 tingling through her veins. Bone seemed 
 to join to bone, thought to thought. She 
 was knit together once more. She 
 shivered, she shook, she spoke. 
 
 " Have you then found it so dull, poor 
 little Arlotte?" she said, gently. "And 
 since when have you settled to alter it all 
 you and — Charles?" 
 
 *' Since one hour," replied the girl, rap-
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 23 
 
 turously, not noticing the slow grave tones 
 in which, her sister spoke. *' Since one 
 hour, Edm^e. Thou wert still in here 
 making thy music, and we could hear the 
 sound of it as we stood out there over 
 against the pink almond-trees. But I for 
 one did not listen much, for Charles was 
 talking then. And by-and-by, just when 
 the sun went down, he took my hands in 
 his — so — and looked at me — so — and then 
 he told me that he loved me, and asked 
 me to marry him — and I — well I — said 
 yes, of course ; and that, I think, is all," 
 added Arlotte, rather at a loss how fur- 
 ther to explain this sudden attachment, 
 which though born of flattery, and grown 
 up apace through idleness, and ignorance, 
 aud ennui, was yet true love on her part, 
 — at least love pure, if weak, because it was 
 the first, frank, free offering of a young 
 girl's heart. 
 
 *' But why did Colonel Murray meet you 
 there, hiding himself like a thief behind
 
 24 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 the pink almond trees, instead of corainpj 
 up to the chateau witli his heart in liis 
 hand for you to take, mon enfant V^ asked 
 Edmee, still speaking gravely, and feeling 
 that she must know all in order that Ar- 
 lotte should know nothing. 
 
 " Dost thou not know, Edmee ? I 
 thought thou didst ?" returned the girl, 
 surprised. " Ecoutez done. He has told 
 me everything." (Edmee started, but 
 Arlotte went on quite calmly.) " Once, 
 long ago, whilst I was still at the convent, 
 and thou — I forget where thou wert — 
 perhaps away in the north with our aunt, 
 Colonel Murray was grand arai avec mon 
 jmpa, and often and much here at the 
 chateau. For a whole winter this was so. 
 At last, in the spring, un beau jonr, mon 
 jmpa hears that his friend is Bepuhlicain — 
 that he has fought for the Poles, the Hun- 
 garians — que sais-je — moi onjin for anyone 
 or any country where liberty is needed 
 and kings are not. Voila, mon papa qui
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 25 
 
 est furieux, mon Charles qui est chasse. 
 There was no explication^ no scene. It was 
 a political difference, voila tout. But lie 
 has a high spirit, mon Charles. He could 
 not brook being loved to-day and hated 
 to-morrow. He left the chateau, hien 
 entendu, he could not stay to be insulted. 
 But as he went away he vowed he would 
 return some day, and re-enter the chateau 
 as a welcome and an honoured guest. I am 
 going to give him the right to do that, 
 Edmee— I am going to atone for my 
 father's strange conduct — I am going to 
 help mon Charles to fulfil his vow." 
 
 This was the story, then ; the story that 
 Arlotte had been told, and that Edmee 
 must act before her day after day. Her 
 heart sank within her, but she took up 
 her part at once. There was something 
 so confident, so triumphant in her young 
 sister's smiles and words, that she could 
 not have starred or slurred with a word 
 that crystal shield of innocence and trust.
 
 26 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 And indeed wbj should she do so ? The 
 thing that had happened once could not 
 possibly happen twice. The man who had 
 played her false was not likely to deceive 
 Arlotte. So reasoned she, not being of 
 Brabantio's opinon, and not, alas ! know- 
 ing human nature so well as he did. 
 
 " At first I felt almost sorry 1 had any- 
 thing at all to give," said Arlotte, clasp- 
 ing her hands across the back of her head, 
 and peeping into Edmee's white face 
 through the now almost total darkness. 
 " I would rather have been loved for 
 * Love's sake only,' like the troubadour's 
 lady, tu comprendsy 
 
 *' Yes," said Edm^e, still thinking and 
 reasoning within herself. 
 
 *' But it does not matter if there is that 
 as well," continued the girl, eagerly. 
 ** He said so — he said other things did not 
 matter if there was only love." 
 
 ** If there is only love," repeated Edmee. 
 *' Yes, if there is only love — "
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 27 
 
 And then Arlotte fired up. She was 
 not generally quick at guessing other 
 people's feelings, and she was moreover 
 blinded by lier own just now. Still sbe 
 could not help seeing, or rather feeling, 
 that Edmee was very unlike her usual 
 self to-night. 
 
 '' Why don't you speak, Edmee ?" she 
 said, rather crossly. *' You have not given 
 me one good word yet. What are you 
 thinking about ?" 
 
 *' I am thinking — surely you are not 
 thinking," replied poor Edmee, struggling 
 and stumbling, and hesitating. She meant 
 to strike one feeble blow in the cause of 
 truth, and if that failed, she would here- 
 after for ever hold her peace. " Surely 
 you do not mean to marry a man of whom 
 our father so greatly disapproved — a man, 
 indeed, who has told you this much him- 
 self." 
 
 ^' Pourquoi pas ?^^ returned Arlotte, 
 defiantly, tossing her little brown head.
 
 28 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 " Our father, as thou knowest, thought 
 all kings were Dieu donnes, as is our 
 Henri Cinq. I think otherwise. I ap- 
 prove of liberty and patriotism, which is 
 also a kind of love, you know. One must 
 meet to love, ona soeur, and so one day we 
 met by the mill, and another day in the 
 orchard, and to-night, as thou knowest, 
 beside the pink almond-trees. And then 
 it was I said I would tell thee all. He did 
 not wish me to do so at first ; he wanted 
 our engagement kept a secret for a little 
 while. But I said I would — I would tell 
 thee. I knew thou wouldst be glad for 
 me, and I was too happy to keep my hap- 
 piness all to myself." 
 
 But Edmee did not look glad. 
 
 " You are not glad," cried Arlotte, sud- 
 denly realizing that much if nothing else. 
 *' You are not happy for me. You do not 
 care, and I wish — I wish — I had done as 
 he wished, and not told you after all." 
 And then the little hour-old betrothed
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 29 
 
 maiden pulled back the heavy curtain once 
 more, and disappeared behind it in a pas- 
 sion of tears, that rained down and extin- 
 guished her smiles as April showers ex- 
 tinguish April sunbeams. 
 
 As for Edmee, she sat in the darkness 
 thinking still, but waiting no longer ; for 
 she knew that the child Arlotte would 
 never come back to her with a dance and 
 a song. 
 
 Arlotte the bride, the woman, the wife, 
 she would see again, no doubt, but Ar- 
 lotte the child never any more. 
 
 Love is a king, you say. So he is. But 
 is he not somewhat of a murderer as well ? 
 Does he not often destroy our children, 
 and put an end to our home- joys and our 
 mind's peace ?
 
 I 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 DUETTO. 
 
 " "We wait till the heavens above us, 
 The flowering earth, or the seas 
 Shall bring us the soul meant to love us^ 
 And hours much sweeter than these." 
 
 OLONEL MURRAY stood beside 
 the pink almond trees whilst 
 Arlotte de Coulanges, his be- 
 trothed bride, tripped away over the grass 
 and the gravel, and finally disappeared 
 behind a side-door under one of the old 
 grey turrets of the chateau. 
 
 He was a handsome man, with a pale 
 dark face and deep set eyes, and a nose
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 31 
 
 fashioned after a well-known ducal model, 
 and a fine aristocratic air generally. 
 But lie did not look like a happy man, 
 nor a successful one, though his wooing 
 has prospered to-day, and the future 
 must of a surety seem fair enough in his 
 eyes. For Arlotte was not only pretty, 
 but wealthy also, and Colonel Murray 
 was not superior to either charm. 
 
 The sun had set, the shifting shadows 
 were still at last. The grass grew damp, 
 the air grew chill, the feathery wind- 
 blown leaves stood out sharp and distant 
 against the clear topaz-tinted sky, the 
 wet spring blossoms dripped and dropped 
 all over and about him. But Colonel 
 Murray stood there, still leaning against 
 the little frail almond tree, and gazing at 
 the old grey chateau, with its frowning 
 battlements, and grim turrets and towers, 
 for which many a loijau gentilhorrime had 
 fought in the old hard days, and behind 
 which many a noble daymoyselle had lived
 
 32 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 and loved, and been wooed and won. 
 For the De Coulanges liad always been 
 famous for beau by, and their last descend- 
 ants had not broken the good rule. The 
 only question now was about the loyal 
 gentleman. 
 
 The birds were carolling through still 
 chill air, bursting their little throats with 
 their evening hymn. The cows in the 
 field behind were supping off the short, 
 crisp grass, and lowing sleepy good- 
 nights to each other. The dog in the 
 stables yonder was baying at a baby- 
 moon, who seemed frightened at the noise, 
 and inclined to hide its face in the breast 
 of a friendly cloud. The servants in the 
 kitchen were clattering and chattering 
 over their pots and pans, and calling to 
 each other in high treble voices, and 
 singing shrilly over their work, as French 
 servants always do ; but Colonel Murray 
 heard none of these things. 
 
 He stood so still, that a little foolish
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 33 
 
 bird, born perhaps that spring, mistook 
 him for some strange new shaped tree, 
 and hopped about on the grass at his feet, 
 and looked up at him curiously with 
 bright black eyes, and. smooth brown 
 head, quaintly perked on one side; and 
 meditated, no doubt, upon building her 
 nest in his breast when her time for nests 
 should come. But Colonel Murray never 
 saw the bird. What he did see was a 
 bell-shaped face, with a cloud of dusky 
 hair floating round it, and a pair of soft 
 dark eyes, which yet shone like stars, 
 and a mouth, curved and curling, like 
 a crumpled rose-leaf, which had once 
 been his to kiss ; but which now he had 
 put away from him for ever. 
 
 What he did hear was the sound of a 
 song, drifting out from the open windows 
 of the chateau, and over the damp grass, 
 and through the blossoming branches of 
 the trees, and on till it fell upon his 
 ears, as he stood there under the pink 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 HONOR CARMICIIAEL. 
 
 almond-tree ; and brought in its track a 
 whole host of winged memories, as music 
 always has a knack of doing. 
 
 It brought back to him a faint memory 
 of his baby-life, which had been happy 
 and bright, and full of music and flowers, 
 as most children's are, or at least seem to 
 have been in after years. And then his 
 boy-life among his brothers, when the 
 music grew rougher, and the flowers of 
 no use unless they grew into fruit ; when 
 his eldest brother, the coward, used to 
 talk in a quavering treble voice, and turn 
 pale at the notion of a fight; and his 
 second brother, the sneak, used to pipe 
 away in a feeble falsetto, and tell innu- 
 merable tales upside down ; and he him- 
 self, the third, the scamp, used to tumble 
 into every possible scrape, from which he 
 would emerge somehow, black from head 
 to foot, and covered with mire and 
 mud. 
 
 It brought back to him his young life
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL, 35 
 
 in the — Guards, when his eldest brother. 
 Lord MacCraven, had become the Earl of 
 Macpheintart ; and his second brother, 
 the Honourable Thomas, the rector of a 
 fine fat family living ; but he himself was 
 the scamp still, spending his money like 
 a prince, drinking like a lord, and laugh- 
 ing when they told him ruin was staring 
 in his face. 
 
 It brought back to him how that un- 
 pleasant visage left off simply staring at 
 last, and seized him with a grip, and 
 bound him hand and foot ; how the Earl 
 was afraid to help him once, lest he 
 should be asked to do so twice ; how the 
 Rector shook his head, and pointed to 
 his church; and how at last, a debtor 
 and an outcast, he turned his back on 
 his native land for ever, as he thought ; 
 and on his creditors too, he hoped. 
 
 It brought back to him one wild winter 
 spent among Polish snows, and Polish 
 patriots — a winter full of wild adventures, 
 
 D 2
 
 36 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 and hair-breadth escapes, and desperate 
 deeds done in vain ; and then the summer 
 that followed, a sunshiny summer in a 
 sunshiny land, where hour after hour 
 was spent in gathering up gold in gilded 
 saloons, whilst beautiful women, with 
 laughing voices went floating by, and the 
 smell of flowers, and the strains of music 
 were wafted in from the warm sweet air 
 outside. 
 
 It brought back to him the vision of 
 a fair young face, seen through the dim, 
 clouded window of a travelling caleche, 
 drawn up in a wayside village, beyond the 
 town of Aries, where he was resting on 
 his way to Monaco ; of a noble old head 
 seen beyond ; of serving the travellers in 
 some slight way or other, rescuing a pet 
 dog, or pulling down a blind, perhaps — 
 of the girl's gentle thanks, and the old 
 man's offers of hospitality — of his first 
 sight of Edm^e de Coulanges, as she re- 
 turned with her father one golden autumn
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 37 
 
 day, from their annual visit of homage to 
 the Exile of Frohsdorf. 
 
 He was a scamp, you know, forgotten 
 by his country, forsaken by his friends, 
 and yet, here was one more chance of 
 salvation offered to him. He loved Ed- 
 mee from the first moment he saw her. 
 
 He had known many beautiful women 
 in his day — women of England, haughty 
 and cold — women of other lands, all fire 
 and flame, with their sham passions and 
 pretentious manners, and meretricious 
 beauty ; but he had never seen anyone 
 before like this high-born, high-bred 
 French girl, with her pure, unconscious, 
 flower-like sweetness and grace — this 
 Rose of Provence, whom to look at was, 
 alas ! to long to pluck and wear. 
 
 Count Armand de Coulanges received 
 Colonel Murray most cordially. He was 
 of a cheerful, hospitable nature, though 
 he had somewhat slipped out of society 
 in his old age. There were so few folks
 
 38 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 left in the world whose views chimed 
 with his, he would say, when pressed 
 upon this point, and a De Coulanges 
 could not associate with a canaille 
 steepened in infidelity and new-fangled 
 ideas of all sorts. Better, far better, 
 isolation. But there was another reason 
 also, which was less presentable, perhaps. 
 The Count had " a cause" to support, 
 and " a cause" is an expensive luxury. 
 M. le Comte de Coulanges found it 
 so. The cornfields and vineyards were 
 ground down and pressed into silver and 
 gold, which was sent scudding over land 
 and sea, into mysterious corners of 
 mysterious towns, into little back streets 
 of London, where old historic names were 
 hanging up over barbers' signs, and 
 proud Bourbonists were teaching trades- 
 men's daughters their parlez-vous at 
 the exorbitant rate of half-a-crown an 
 hour. And still more was asked for, and 
 was scraped together and sent somehow.
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL, 39 
 
 He could not help it, ce cher Gomte 
 Armand, as lie was affectionately apos- 
 trophized in those back alleys and 
 mysterious corners. His whole heart 
 and soul were in the good work. What 
 were a few sacrifices in the interests of 
 such " a cause ?" What, indeed, but an 
 honour and a privilege. Not that Count 
 Armand's sacrifices were made at the 
 expense of others, as some folks' are. 
 He did not rob his heirs to pay his con- 
 temporaries. His two daughters were 
 amply provided for by the terms of their 
 mother's settlement, (they were said to 
 be great heiresses, but that was not true,) 
 the rest of the property he might dispose 
 of as he pleased. But he robbed himself 
 of a good deal of pleasure by denying 
 himself to all society, and by refusing to 
 hold intercourse with any except loyal 
 and staunch supporters of His Majesty 
 Eenri Cinq. 
 
 With Colonel Murray, however, it was
 
 40 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 different. He was not a French subject, 
 and his name, moreover, was a passport. 
 The faithful old Royalist had once been 
 in England with his august master, and 
 had there made the acquaintance of Lord 
 Macpheintart, the father of the present 
 Colonel Charles, who was then a little 
 blue-eyed boy, in a kilted tartan petti- 
 coat. His most gracious Majesty had 
 deigned to express approbation of the said 
 nobleman, and instantly the whole clan 
 of Murray became sacred in the eyes of 
 the Lord of Coulanges. It was a lucky 
 chance their falling in with the son of 
 that estimable milor when their caleche 
 broke down that autumn day in the vil- 
 lage beyond Aries. He must come to 
 Coulanges — no, he, Count Armand, would 
 take no refusal — he must be feted, made 
 much of; the son of the man whom His 
 Majesty had praised must learn how 
 faithful French subjects dehght to honour 
 their sovereign's word.
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL, 41 
 
 Colonel Murray's refusal liad been of 
 the faintest kind. He was in search of 
 adventure; lie had no settled plans. 
 The old man had given him a cordial 
 invitation ; his daughter had seconded it 
 by her eyes, if not by her lips. After a 
 momentary hesitation he accepted it, no- 
 thing loth. 
 
 Count Armand enjoyed Colonel Mur- 
 ray's company greatly. He had cut him- 
 self off from society of late, but he had 
 not lost his taste for it. They talked to- 
 gether frankly, the younger man especially 
 so. He told the old man the whole story 
 of his life, the manner in which his 
 brothers had treated him, the miserable 
 minuteness of his younger son's pittance. 
 He omitted nothing, not his reckless life 
 in the Guards, nor his debts, nor the 
 number of his creditors, not even his 
 gambling propensities ; nothing, indeed, 
 except those few wild months he had spent 
 among the snows and wolves in Poland.
 
 42 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 Why he omitted this little fact he 
 scarcely allowed even to himself. He had 
 a motive for detailino^ the rest ; had he 
 no motive for concealing this ? Did he 
 think the adventures of those few wild 
 months hardly worth remembering and 
 relating ? or did he know that of all his 
 offences, and they were neither few nor 
 small, this alone, to the old Legitimist, 
 would be the unpardonable sin ? 
 
 Count Armand listened to the young 
 man's talk most kindly and sympathetic- 
 ally. He had his motive too. He was 
 already an old man, full of years and 
 increasing infirmities, and he leant on 
 Edmee as on a staff ; but he knew he 
 could not do so always. He knew that 
 " young girls must marry." Already she 
 was past the age at which many French 
 jeune dames have homes and husbands of 
 their own to rule over ; already she might 
 have married a page of honour at the 
 Court of Frohsdorf, or the son of an
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 43 
 
 exiled Duke, who was giving dancing- 
 lessons in London, but that neither of 
 these pretendants had seemed good in her 
 eyes, nor in her father's either, for that 
 matter. What if at the end a Bonapartist 
 eagle should swoop down upon his gentle 
 dove? or what if one fine morning an 
 Orleanist cock should crow over the light 
 of his eyes ? or worse still, a red-capped 
 Republican stain with bloody fingers the 
 lily-white hand of his Bourbonist maiden ? 
 Grace I the very idea of such a thing 
 occurring now made him creep — the mere 
 chance of its happening after his death 
 would make him turn in his grave ! 
 
 But here was a way of preventing such 
 a fate. Here was a young man well- 
 born, well-bred, of a family, indeed, con- 
 cerning which His Majesty had spoken 
 highly, a man to whom French politics 
 had been nothing in the past, but who 
 was willing to embrace those of the 
 Count in the future, and who would
 
 44 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 gladly consent to live at De Coulanges, 
 and thereby make Edmee a wife without 
 her ceasing to be a daughter; it was a 
 heaven-made husband, heaven-born, hea- 
 ven-sent, and what could the old man do 
 but fall down on his knees and thank God 
 for the gift. 
 
 And Edm^e ? 
 
 Edm^e's father was growing old and 
 more one-idead than ever, but, even he 
 would hardly have proposed Colonel 
 Murray as a husband to his daughter 
 had he not seen how the girl's whole 
 existence seemed suddenly to beat in 
 unison with that of the Englishman, and 
 how her very beauty had deepened, be- 
 come suffused, as it were, with light and 
 happiness, during the young fellow's 
 residence at Coulanges. It had been 
 merely a girl's beauty before, pure as a 
 lily, and fresh as morning-dew ; it was 
 as an angel's now. Was there yet a 
 third state into which she must pass.?
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 45 
 
 Or do some women go througli life with 
 no otlier experiences save those of love 
 and happiness, and win a saint's crown 
 in heaven without having worn a martyr's 
 palm on earth ? I scarcely think so. It 
 would not be fair. 
 
 Edm^e certainly had no experience of 
 any sort. She was as ignorant of the 
 world as Arlotte in later days. She had 
 seen so few folks, it was natural she 
 should fall in love with this adventur- 
 ous Englishman, you think. She 
 thought so too, once; but she laughed, 
 as the thought faded away from her 
 mind. If she had had the whole world 
 to choose from, it would have made no 
 difference. She loved him ; and what can 
 one do more, or better, than love ? 
 
 As for Colonel Murray, it was all plea- 
 sant and smooth enough for him. The 
 connection was a good one. The wealth 
 of the De Coulanges was known far and 
 wide. His brothers heard rumours of
 
 46 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 his engagement, and wrote gratulatorily ; 
 and bis creditors grew patient, and ceased 
 their clamours for a time. Edmee was 
 more beautiful, more loving, more perfect, 
 day by day ; but above all, he loved her — 
 loved her with that full and rarely stirred 
 tide of passion which overpowers such 
 men as he but once in their lives. 
 
 There was no one to object to the pro- 
 posed marriage. In fact, there were no 
 objections to be made — not even on the 
 score of religion. Colonel Murray having an- 
 nounced himself from the first to be a 
 Eoman Catholic. Half the Murray family, 
 the best half, of course, had always belonged 
 to the ancient and true faith. That was 
 well known. How fortunate that Charles 
 should have followed the pious traditions 
 of the elder branch of his family ! The 
 Abbe Meroigne, a dreamy, gentle-eyed old 
 man, with gold-rimmed spectacles and a 
 snuff-box, declared himself to be well 
 satisfied. He had seen some letters which
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 47 
 
 had passed between Colonel Murray and 
 his cousin, Father Philip of the Oratory. 
 He pronounced them to be instinct with 
 good feeling and piety. 
 
 There was one person, however, who 
 was not quite so well satisfied on this 
 matter as was the Abbe Meroigne. This 
 was Josette Jozeau, waiting-maid to 
 Comtesse Edmee, a handsome young woman 
 with a fine strong will of her own, and 
 even some sort of genius about her, but 
 with only two feelings of affection in her 
 composition. One of these was lavished 
 upon Comtesse Edmee. The other had 
 long since been bestowed upon a certain 
 young fellow in the neighbouring village 
 of Belle-Fontaine. 
 
 This young fellow, who was steady and 
 well-thought of, had been for some years 
 servant to the Protestant pasteur in that 
 village. Suddenly he threw up his situa- 
 tion, went off to sea, and was heard of 
 no more.
 
 48 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 There was a great deal of talk about 
 this of course. But there was less, per- 
 haps, than might have been expected, for 
 several other strange things were happen- 
 ing just then, and even villagers' capacities 
 for gossip are limited. Another disappear- 
 ance had occurred from the house of the 
 pasteur, which excited far more attention 
 than that of Pierrot, the servant. This 
 was the sudden and prolonged absence of 
 a young German lad, Herman von 
 Eeichanau, who had been living for some 
 months past with the pasteur of Belle- 
 Fontaine for the purpose of learning 
 French. He was tlie eldest son of a wealthy 
 and noble family, and a great fuss was 
 naturally made about his disappearance. 
 
 The people round were sympathetic ; 
 Colonel Murray, who had become ac- 
 quainted with the boy during his residence 
 at the " Lion d'Or," in the village of Cou- 
 langes, was untiring in his investigations, 
 and worked away at the matter with all
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 49 
 
 the ardour of an Englishman. But no 
 trace of the boy was discovered. 
 
 He was a weak-minded young fellow, so 
 at least the villagers used to say, and not 
 over generous with his money, though he 
 seemed to have plenty of it. Latterly too 
 he had become addicted to drinking, and 
 to worse things perhaps, also, for he 
 would be seen reeling out of the " Lion 
 d'Or" with his pockets turned inside out, 
 and his thick uncouth German voice roll- 
 ing out the words, *' Ruined ! ruined !" 
 
 These may have been idle tales, how- 
 ever, for the boy was not popular among 
 the villagers, who perhaps even then 
 cherished an instinctive hatred to Teutons, 
 and who soon settled among themselves 
 that he had come to an untimely end 
 somehow. And then, as they had the 
 delightful topic of the fiangailles and 
 approaching marriage of the young lady at 
 the chateau to jabber about over their 
 washtubs and their cabbage soup, they 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 put the thought of this mauvais sujet out 
 of their heads altogether, just as they had 
 already forgotten V affaire of Josette's 
 young sailor. 
 
 With Josette, however, it was different. 
 It is hard to have to lose a hand, or an 
 eye, and to the sailor's deserted maiden, 
 this lopping-off of her object of affection 
 was like losing one of those members. 
 Nothing could replace it. This was the 
 real thing, she would say pathetically, 
 anything else would be but a sham. Now 
 and then some jaunty gan^on at the " Lion 
 d'Or," or some jeune fermier from one of 
 the villages round would humbly bow 
 their knees before Mademoiselle Josette. 
 But she would send them to the right- 
 about fast enough. She did not give 
 away what belonged to her Pierrot. She 
 did not know how it was with him, nor 
 where he was, but she did not believe him 
 to be in the land of the dead. He might 
 return any day and claim his own. She
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 51 
 
 must needs save all she could of love for 
 him —all indeed that was not already be- 
 stowed upon Comtesse Edmee. 
 
 And so it chanced, that even for little 
 Comtesse Arlotte, Josette the maid had 
 no particular affection, except in so far as 
 the younger sister belonged to the elder. 
 *' La petite was a beautiful butterfly," she 
 would say, just as her would-be adorers 
 were, to her, as teazing gnats. But 
 neither the one nor the other was for 
 Josette Jozeau. She was born to stand 
 alone. She was destined to coiffer Sainte 
 Catherine. She was not to be molested, 
 nor lightly spoken of in her presence. 
 These were the resolutions passed upon 
 her by the servant's parliament. She was 
 desirous of reducing her mistress to the 
 same old-maidish condition in which she 
 existed herself, these law-givers added 
 one day, observing the black look she be- 
 stowed upon the young Comtesse' s lover. 
 To all of which Josette was silent. She 
 
 V E 2
 
 52 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 had no love to spare, but it was evident 
 she was not equally destitute of its an- 
 tithesis, nor at all stinting in its use. 
 
 She was forced to be silent, however. 
 She dared not speak in her "lady's 
 chamber;" she would not speak in the 
 kitchen. But though she did not utter a 
 word, she sighed very often, and gazed 
 long and wistfully into her mistress's 
 bright happy face. 
 
 But Comtesse Edm^e took no notice. 
 She was fond of her waiting-maid, who 
 had been for a short time her mother's 
 also. She trusted implicitly to her taste 
 in millinery and even in confectionary. 
 But in the matter of choosing a husband, 
 she preferred exercising her own judg- 
 ment. And who indeed should say she 
 was not right ? 
 
 And yet, perhaps, even in this matter 
 Josette, the maid, might have had better 
 means of judging than her mistress. In 
 the first place, her eyes were not blinded,
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 53 
 
 nor her ears stopped by love. Secondly, 
 her sister, who was cook-maid at the 
 " Lion d'Or," was neither deaf nor dumb ; 
 and thirdly, her mother, who lived in the 
 village of Belle-Fontaine, was well-to-do, 
 much respected, of a sociable turn of mind, 
 given to gossip, and the croniest of all the 
 cronies. 
 
 Neither Count Armand nor his daughter 
 were unaware that certain stories, not 
 altogether of a creditable nature, were 
 circulated in the village concerning the 
 Englishman who was about to be connected 
 with their family. It seemed to them 
 that villages were always sinks of gossip, 
 or rather that such a place as Coulanges 
 must be a very paradis des havards. 
 There was no sort of skilled work done in 
 it, only the ordinary agricultural labour, 
 and what else had the peasants to do but 
 talk, and talk, as they delved and spun, 
 (I wonder whether Adam and Eve gos- 
 sipped about the loves of the beasts in the
 
 54 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 garden of Eden?) using their tongues just 
 as they used their hands. So, at least 
 thought Count Armand and Comtesse 
 Edm^e. And in truth, all over the 
 world, what is there sweeter to a 
 peasant's tongue than picking a prince to 
 pieces ? 
 
 So it came to pass on a windy March 
 day, when the sun was shining, and the 
 birds were singing, and the flowers budding 
 and blowing, and all things round seemed 
 full of sweet young love, and strange new 
 life, Charles Fitz-Eoy Fitz-Alan Murray, 
 and Marie Edm^e Valentine de Coulanges, 
 were betrothed. 
 
 For three days, Life was Love — Love 
 was Life — Love was enough. 
 
 On the fourth day, a cloud gathered — a 
 storm broke. The birds' nests were 
 blown down, the flower-heads were broken, 
 love was torn asunder from love by the 
 blast of evil tidings, and the fury of an 
 old man's wrath.
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 55 
 
 How the news came, Colonel Murray 
 never knew. Perhaps Josette did. But 
 it did not matter, for they were true. It 
 was true he had fought for the Poles — 
 for liberty — for patriots — for rebels — for 
 whatever the Count in his fury chose to 
 call them. It was true that his principles 
 had been republican — true, that he had 
 cast in his lot with that party — true, that 
 he had served them with his sword, and 
 his purse. It was all true. 
 
 And then the Count, who had over- 
 looked so much, became inexorable. He 
 stormed, he raged, he was carried out 
 of himself. He — to have for a son-in- 
 law a man who could hire himself out 
 to fight for revolutions in every country 
 in Europe ; he — to give his daughter to a 
 man of no politics, no faith, no religion; 
 he, Count Armand de Coulanges, the 
 most loyal subject of the last of the 
 Bourbons, and the chief supporter of the 
 Right Divine — never —never — never.
 
 56 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 Colonel Murray's face grew grey, but 
 he answered no word. He wound his 
 arms round the weeping, frightened 
 Edm(^e, he strained her to his heart, he 
 bade her a fierce farewell. Then he put 
 her away from him abruptly — reeled to 
 the door like a drunken man, and stood 
 there for a moment glaring at them, and 
 swearing that he would have his re- 
 venge some day, and re-enter the chateau 
 once more, if not by right, then by 
 might. 
 
 The girl winced and whitened, and 
 shook before his words, like a leaf in a 
 storm. 
 
 " Oh stop, Charles !" she cried. " Oh 
 don't say that, Charles, mon ami.'' And 
 then she gasped for breath, and stretched 
 out her hands feebly, as though she 
 thought thereby to stem the torrent of 
 burning words that were raining down 
 like hailstones from her lover's lips on 
 her father's head.
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 57 
 
 He caught her hands in his. He was 
 beside himself with rage and passion. 
 
 " You too," he said bitterly, looking at 
 her ; " you turn against me too, oh, 
 Edm^e," he cried, tearing from her finger 
 the ring he himself had placed on it only 
 three days before. And then, he flung her 
 from him once more, and fled away down 
 the old oak stairs, and through the 
 budding chestnut woods, and so out into 
 the open country beyond. And wherever 
 he went, that cry, " Oh, Charles, Charles!" 
 went with him too, ringing in his ears for 
 ever. 
 
 It was four years to-night, as he stood 
 beside the pink almond trees, since that 
 night when he was banished from the 
 Chateau de Coulanges. And in those 
 four years many things had happened to 
 both of them. 
 
 In those four years Edm^e had known 
 suffering and sickness, and looked upon
 
 58 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 deatli ; but had never seen sign of lier 
 absent love, nor beard whether he were 
 alive or dead, faithful or faithless. 
 
 Was it any wonder then, that weary 
 with waiting, and sick at heart with 
 " hope deferred," she should give in 
 at last, and utter the promise her father 
 had been craving so long, and which he 
 now demanded with his dying breath ? 
 
 "iWaj^/Ze," he said, feebly, groping for 
 her hand, and closing his own over it, 
 "thou hast had much to try thee, but 
 thou art strong yet. Promise me, now, 
 before I go bence and be no more seen, 
 that thou wilt never wed that evil-dis- 
 posed Englishman, to whom thou wert 
 once betrothed — never, if thou can'st help 
 it, see him, or speak with him, or admit 
 him within these gates again. So shall I 
 sing my nunc dimittis.^' 
 
 Then Edm^e, stooping down, till her 
 warm breath fanned his cold cheeks, and 
 her trembling lips touched his pale damp
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 59 
 
 brow, murmured in a low clear voice, for 
 she too had known the old song in the 
 old days: 
 
 " Mon pere, je te le ]oromets, jamais, oh 
 jamais jolus.'^ 
 
 Colonel Murray was at Baden-Baden 
 pursuing his old trade, when the news 
 of the death of Count Armand de Cou- 
 langes reached him. 
 
 He let a few months go by — the months 
 of mourning. Then, whilst the year was 
 still young, he went back to the chateau, 
 full of resolution, but vague of purpose. 
 
 He went up the well-remembered ches- 
 nut avenues, and along the garden-path. 
 He rang at the great gates, and sent in 
 his name, and waited. 
 
 The Comtesse Edmee was sitting 
 alone when the name was brought 
 to her. She was startled, of course, but 
 she was somehow prepared for this, too. 
 She had felt when she gave that promise,
 
 6c HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 tliat its strength would be tested some 
 day. She refused to see him. 
 
 He tried again and again the next day, 
 but always with the same result. He 
 even tried to bribe Josette, the maid, to 
 admit him privily to her lady's presence. 
 But the faithful waiting-woman turned 
 from him with loathing and disgust. 
 
 He felt if he only could see her for one 
 moment, face to face, his wishes must 
 triumph. Perhaps Edm^e felt the same. 
 She dared not trust herself to see him 
 again. She even gave up her usual walks 
 and drives, lest she should meet him un- 
 awares. Hence it was that Arlotte had 
 wandered about by herself so much of 
 late, whilst Edmee had waited for her at 
 home. 
 
 Gradually, and by slow degrees, for a 
 woman's persistency is not flattering to a 
 man's self-love, and is generally called by 
 him obstinacy, Colonel Murray began to 
 discover that there was no hope for him.
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 6i 
 
 One day, as he turned away from the 
 closed doors, someone threw open a case- 
 ment window, and looked down at him 
 wonderingly. He, hearing the sound, 
 looked up, and saw a girl standing be- 
 hind a creeper-hung window, her face 
 peeping out like a white flower, through 
 the cloud of clematis and ivy. It was a 
 pretty young face, like Edmee's, yet not 
 hers. A face less sweet, less tender, less 
 thoughtful than hers had even been ; 
 but yet a face foolish enough to love, fair 
 enough to woo. 
 
 As he looked up and saw her standing 
 there, half in the sunshine, half in the 
 shadow, half child, half woman, a cruel 
 thought crept into his heart and took 
 root there. He turned away from the 
 chateau, and swore once more he would 
 take that which his hands coveted, even 
 though he sold his soul by doing so. 
 
 He was a desperate man, ruined, de- 
 serted, and that which might have saved
 
 62 HONOR CARMICHAEL, 
 
 him even now, had turned against him 
 for ever. But the world was not worn 
 out for him yet, and if he might not 
 have love, he would at least have life, 
 — " a soft life full of pleasurable ways.'* 
 
 In those past four years he had played 
 high, and lost more than he had won. 
 His brothers had grown incredulous 
 concerning his reported marriage, his 
 creditors rampant. Whatever he did he 
 must do quickly. 
 
 He had done it to-night. 
 
 He had done it as he stood over there 
 beside the pink almond-trees, while the 
 music came floating out over the flowers, 
 and a young girl's hands were caught in 
 his, and a young girl's face was uplifted, 
 and looking at him and wondering. It 
 was a fair young bride he had won; it 
 was half the corn-fields and vineyards, the 
 woods and rivers around; it was a safe 
 future, an assured fortune, and yet the 
 voice in his ears was not Arlotte's happy
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 63 
 
 little whispering " yes," but Edm^e's des- 
 pairing shriek, *' Oh, Charles, Charles, 
 mon ami /" the words on his lips were 
 not murmurs of happiness, or blessings on 
 his bride, but deep-drawn curses for 
 himself, and a cry that echoed back the 
 other, V' Oh, Edmee ! Edmee, my lost 
 love !" 
 
 And then suddenly, as you know, the 
 song ceased — dying into silence, as a star 
 disappears into space — as light goes out 
 into darkness — as joy is turned into pain 
 — as hope is lost in despair — as love 
 never ends — never dies, alas ! but goes 
 on gnawing for ever. 
 
 .^>p^
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 TRIO. 
 
 '^ Hope, memory, love. 
 Hope for fair morn, and love for day, 
 And memory for evening grey 
 And solitary dove." 
 
 CHRISTINA R088ETTI. 
 
 ILL you vow to be safe from 
 the headache on Tuesday, and 
 think it will hold ? 
 No — not you. 
 
 But you will promise never to wed 
 that man, always to love that woman, 
 and fondly imagine that you will never 
 have a headache or a heartache about 
 them (or at least, never show it, if you 
 have one) all the days of your life.
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 65 
 
 Stop ! there's the point. A headache 
 is difficult to hide, one's cheeks grow so 
 pale, one's eyes so dull and heavy. But 
 a heartache — pouf, anyone can hide a 
 heartache ! It only needs a little more 
 laughter than usual, a gayer song, a 
 wittier word, a fonder face than one's 
 wont, and the thing is done. 
 
 There were a bleeding heart and an 
 aching head in the fair domain of Cou- 
 langes in those days; but no one knew 
 anything about them except their owner, 
 so the vow and the promise, the ache 
 and the pain, were well kept, and well 
 hidden. 
 
 Arlotte guessed nothing. To some 
 people love is as spectacles, through 
 tvhich they see better and further than 
 ever they have done in their lives before. 
 To others it acts like blinkers, where- 
 by they can only see that which lies 
 immediately before themselves. Arlotte' s 
 case was the latter one. She was a 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 66 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 mere child still, and her whole soul was 
 absorbed by love. It was not a very 
 big one, and there was not much room 
 in it for other thoughts. When one is 
 basking in the full blaze, and haze, of 
 summer sunshine, how should one think 
 of the eternal snow-hills, nigh at hand 
 though they may chance to be ? 
 
 And so the sisters changed places in 
 life, as people often do, like partners in a 
 quadrille, and the two who had tripped the 
 same measure together previously, made 
 no sign. 
 
 It was true they never met, never 
 touched each other's hands or crossed each 
 other's paths in that dance of life. Had it 
 been otherwise, could Edmee have kept 
 her own secret or his honour? There 
 was some good in that promise made to 
 the dead after all. 
 
 It was his honour she was most anxious 
 to keep sacred. He had betrayed her, but 
 that was her fault as much, if not more.
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 67 
 
 than his. She knew nothing of his life, 
 and she had seen too little of men to be 
 able to guess at his nature. She only 
 knew she had loved him once — loved him 
 still, alas ! though she tried to think she 
 did not. 
 
 The sisters were, as Arlotte had said, 
 ^^ jeunes dames, living alone;" and the 
 elder cared as little as the younger pottr 
 la politique which had been the cause of 
 the quarrel between Colonel Murray and 
 her father. She knew he had suffered. 
 She felt as though she had sinned against 
 him in that matter of the promise ; and 
 now that Arlotte was going to atone for 
 it, should she not be content ? Provided 
 that the beloved one were blessed still, if 
 not by her means, then by another's, what 
 signified the rest ? 
 
 It was not for a long time that she 
 could bring herself to look at things in 
 this light. But she meant to try and do 
 so. She meant to light this candle when- 
 
 F 2
 
 68 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 ever she wanted to read that story of 
 hers. It was a false light, and she was 
 reading her story upside down, as so 
 many of us do, but there was something 
 sublime and heroic about it too. Only, 
 alas ! heroism does not seem to be of 
 much use now-a-days, nor love either, for 
 that matter ! 
 
 And so the dance went on between these 
 two (and there was no tripping or stum- 
 bling), till it ended at last as such dances 
 should do, in a peal of marriage-bells and 
 a dazzle of summer sunshine, and Charles 
 Murray took Arlotte de Coulanges to be 
 his wedded wife, and the music changed 
 its measure and another dance had begun. 
 
 Then, and not till then, Colonel Mur- 
 ray re-entered the chateau, and found 
 himself once more within the well-remem- 
 bered hall, with its tapestry hangings and 
 carved oakwork. Then, and not till then, 
 he stood before Edmee, and touched her 
 cold hands, and looked into her pale face.
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 69 
 
 and found it, even in that moment, fairer 
 to him than the young undimmed beauty 
 by his side. For Arlotte was there, strug- 
 gling with the floating end of her veil, 
 which had become entangled with a stray 
 sheet of tapestry that was hanging loosely 
 from the wall. She had dropped her 
 handkerchief too, and half her flowers as 
 well, for she was one of those unlucky 
 people who always come to pieces some- 
 how, and have a knack of shedding their 
 feathers wherever they go. The conse- 
 quence was, that she was too much en- 
 grossed with her own unhappy condition 
 to have any attention to spare for the 
 meeting and greeting taking place between 
 her husband and sister ; nor did she notice 
 how grey and ashen grew the face of one, 
 how faint and tremulous the words of the 
 other. 
 
 " Unloose me," she said, a little petu- 
 lantly. '' Oh ! what a dust !" and then 
 she let fall her missal-book as well, and
 
 70 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 the clasp flew open, and the binding burst, 
 and all the leaves and little pictures of 
 angels and saints went flying and scam- 
 pering away through the dust. '' Is that 
 an ill omen, Edmee ?" 
 
 " It is an omen that the chateau does 
 not want to lose you, joetite,'' said Edmee, 
 clasping the child-wife in her arms, and 
 burying her face in her shoulder, as if glad 
 of that friendly shelter. " And never 
 mind about the little missal-book ; you 
 shall have mine." 
 
 Colonel Murray carried off his wife to 
 England immediately after their marriage. 
 His brothers had smiled upon him again, 
 and invited them to their houses. He 
 paid his visits, but not his creditors. Pay- 
 ing bills of such long standing seemed to 
 him a grievous waste of money, and as 
 the people had waited so long, they might 
 as well wait a little longer. He could not 
 quite tell the state of affairs yet, but he 
 had already discovered to his dismay that
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 71 
 
 Arlotte's fortune was by no means so 
 large as lie had imagined it to be. All 
 the monies the old Count could disp ose of 
 were vested in various funds for the relief 
 of those noble exiles before alluded to. 
 His daughters were possessed of ample 
 fortunes, on which with prudence they 
 could live luxuriously, though not exactly 
 in the manner Colonel Murray had pic- 
 tured to himself. And prudence, alas ! 
 even of the faintest, feeblest description, 
 was not one of little Mrs. Murray's 
 virtues. 
 
 She must have bonnets like those worn 
 by her sister-in-law, the Countess of Mac- 
 pheintart, and a horse to ride in the morn- 
 ing, and a opera-box at night. She would 
 like to establish a school and almshouse, 
 like those set going by Mrs. Thomas 
 Murray, the Rector of Tattleton's wife. 
 She wanted to buy a basket-carriage for 
 the ancient nurse of the family, who told 
 her apocryphal tales of the exceeding
 
 72 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 beauty of the Honourable Charles in his 
 early infancy, and who was rather better 
 off, in many ways, than the Honourable 
 Charles' wife herself. She ordered velvets 
 and furs, and silks and laces ; dress- 
 makers in broughams visited her, milli- 
 ners with liveried pages carrying neat 
 boxes called upon her ; and would not ce 
 cher Charles buy her that set of sapphires 
 she had seen in Emmanuel's shop — it 
 would go so well with her blue velvet 
 dress, trimmed with point d'Alen9on? 
 There was no end to her wishes, and as 
 they had always been gratified hitherto, 
 having consisted chiefly of a desire for a 
 stick of Sucre de pomme from Belle-Fon- 
 taine, or a new ribbon for her poodle, she 
 pouted and pined when told her wishes 
 were impossible now. I suppose the first 
 conjugal quarrel is always more or less 
 nearly connected with " clothes," and I 
 make no doubt Eve would have shed bitter 
 tears in the garden of Eden had Adam
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 73 
 
 ventured to stint her in the quantity or 
 quality of her fig-leaves. 
 
 Colonel Murray, however, had no scru- 
 ples about venturing, but spoke to his 
 wife sharply enough, as men always do 
 when they have done a foolish thing, and 
 feel that some one ought to be blamed for 
 it. Poor little Arlotte was frightened. 
 No one had ever spoken to her thus 
 before. She never thought anyone could 
 or would do so. She cried, and sobbed, 
 and went down on her knees, and prayed 
 Charles to sell her dresses and diamonds ; 
 finally she made herself ill, and then there 
 was the doctor's bill to pay. Colonel 
 Murray took her diamonds, but not her 
 dresses. Something must be done, but 
 what he knew not. He was at his wits' 
 end, which was not to be wondered at, 
 seeing he had been living on them so long. 
 He was growing reckless and restless once 
 more. 
 
 When Arlotte grew a little better, she
 
 74 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 wanted to go back to Coulanges and 
 Edm^e; but this Colonel Murray would 
 not hear of. " There would be parties to 
 give, and parties to go to, and the devil's 
 own bill to pay," he said roughly, and 
 then he proposed Baden-Baden. The 
 waters would do Arlotte good, he said. 
 The poor little wife trembled at his words. 
 " She would go anywhere he liked," she 
 answered meekly. " Anywhere that was 
 cheap.'* Her poor little spirit was 
 broken. 
 
 And so one sunny day, before they had 
 been married a year, and while the spring 
 was still young, the flowers were just be- 
 ginning to peep out like stars athwart the 
 shadows of the Black Forest, and visitors 
 were beginning to fill the hotels, and the 
 gilded saloons, and the music garden. 
 Colonel Murray and his wife found them- 
 selves running smoothly along the horse- 
 railway from Oos, skimming past the cot- 
 tages, and through the fields of maize, and
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 75 
 
 landed at last at Baden-Baden. And 
 there thev remained some time, for the 
 sake of *' cheapness," as Arlotte had said; 
 and for something else besides. 
 
 All that winter and early spring, Oomtesse 
 Edmee had lived at Coulanges alone. 
 
 She had constant letters from Arlotte, 
 on which she lived, I think — letters which 
 told her that the child-wife was well and 
 happy, that her husband was kind to her, 
 that she liked England very much — would 
 like it perfectly, in fact, if only Edmee 
 was with her there. And with these 
 letters the tender sister was content. 
 
 By-and-by they became shorter, and 
 the spaces between them longer. Arlotte 
 had been ill. Her husband's relations 
 were not so kind to her as they 
 might have been. They were cold, like 
 their climate. She would never get well 
 in England, and longed, oh ! how ardently, 
 to return to the chateau, and so on, and
 
 76 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 SO on. They were dreary little letters, 
 abrupt and sad, but Edmee, being slow to 
 think evil, still forced herself to be con- 
 tent. And so the long black winter days 
 rolled away, and the birds began to 
 twitter, and the trees began to bud, for 
 the spring-tide was at hand once more. 
 
 Comtesse Edmee had a dream one 
 night — a horrible, hateful dream that 
 haunted her soul ever after. 
 
 This was her dream. 
 
 She dreamt that close upon her bed- 
 time, one wet, windy night, when the 
 world seemed to be wearing itself out in 
 a passion of tears, and all the demons of 
 the air were howling and gnashing their 
 teeth as they went sweeping and swirling 
 round and round the walls of the old 
 chateau ; that she was sitting in the 
 little down-stairs salon, where the win- 
 dows run down to the ground, and 
 the jalousies are easily opened from the 
 outside, sitting alone with a book across
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 77 
 
 her lap, and her hands closed over it, and 
 her thoughts travelling far away back 
 into the unchangeable past, or into 
 the uncertain future — anywhere, out 
 of the present — when suddenly a window 
 behind her burst open and a gust of wet 
 wind filled the room, and all the demons 
 came rushing in, and a man as well, who 
 clasped her in his arms and spoke to her 
 wildly, and said that he was mad — ruined 
 — lost for ever — set upon suicide, bent 
 upon crime, from which she, and she 
 alone, could save him. 
 
 In the name of her once living love, he 
 kissed her, by the power of his undying 
 passion he pleaded ; and the face that met 
 hers was the face, and the voice that 
 spoke was the voice, of Colonel Charles 
 Murray. 
 
 She dreamt that she loosened herself 
 from his arms and pushed him away a 
 little, till he sank upon his knees before 
 her, and she looked down upon him piti-
 
 78 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 fully, as a departed spirit miglit look upon 
 one it has loved, and lost, and left for 
 ever. She dreamt that she bade him rest 
 awhile, and fetched him food and wine 
 with her own hands, lest the household 
 should be startled, and the servants 
 scared. She dreamt that she got together 
 all the money she could, and brought it to 
 him, and promised him more soon, at once, 
 to-morrow. And then, speaking for the 
 first time of his poor young wife, she 
 opened one of the long low windows and 
 let him out into the starless, shadowless, 
 weeping night, and bade him ^' begone" 
 in the name of Arlotte. 
 
 And after that dream, it seemed to 
 Edmee that she lay awake, tossing and 
 trembling all the rest of the night. 
 
 In the morning, Josette, the maid, told 
 her mistress that the servants had heard 
 strange sounds at midnight, as of voices 
 talking together, and doors shutting, and 
 windows opening, and that Baptiste coming
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 79 
 
 in at daybreak with his milk-pails, had 
 found a handkerchief lying on the grass 
 under the windows of the little salon. 
 
 The handkerchief was marked " C. M." 
 Comtesse Edmee saw it at once. Josette 
 must have seen it too. 
 
 " She must never know, Josette," cried 
 Edmee, wildly. The dream and the sleep- 
 less night had made her feel so faint and 
 foolish, she scarcely knew what she was 
 saying. " She must never know, you 
 understand. It would kill her." 
 
 It went near to killing Comtesse Edmee, 
 nearer indeed than her faithful waiting- 
 maid had any idea. For the rest, she 
 understood well enough. She understood 
 that Comtesse Edmee was a saint on 
 earth ; but that she had known a long 
 time. She understood that Colonel 
 Murray was a fiend in man's shape, but 
 she had known that too. As for Comtesse 
 Arlotte, it was sad for her, of course, 
 poor little butterfly, but she was vain and
 
 8o HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 foolish, and had not much heart, and no 
 perception at all, or she would have read 
 her sister's story even in the midst of her 
 own happiness ; so she would probably feel 
 nothing now, and was in truth not worth 
 the trouble she was giving. So, at least, 
 thought Comtesse Edmee's waiting-maid, 
 who, like all her kind, saw much, but 
 unlike them, said little. 
 
 All that day a thought which had come 
 to her during the night tarried and abode 
 with Comtesse Edmee. It was no new 
 thought, it was indeed a thought that had 
 been born in her during that past lonely 
 winter, and that had lived with her many 
 a weary day then. But then, then she 
 had put it away from her — then she had 
 refused to let it take shape or form — then 
 she had said, " I may be dead, indeed I am 
 dead to the world, but I will not be buried 
 in a convent. I am not worthy of such a 
 vocation. Such things are for holier, 
 stronger women than I am. For me, oh !
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 8i 
 
 for me, let titer e be another kind of life, 
 lonely indeed, but brightened by the pre- 
 sence of those I love." 
 
 So she had prayed in the old days, 
 struggling, and striving, and wrestling 
 against her fate, and thinking, as we all 
 do, that she might choose her way of life 
 and hold to it. 
 
 But now — now, when her life seemed 
 all at once to have become an accursed 
 thing to those she loved best — now, 
 when her very body was, as it were, 
 cumbering the earth, and she only longed 
 to get rid of herself — the prayer died 
 away on her lips, and the old thought ran 
 back into the old words : *' I will go to 
 my mother's country in the North, and 
 join my aunt there; I will stay for a 
 time, at least, with the Holy Sisters of 
 Notre Dame de Bon Secours." 
 
 She felt she could not trust herself to 
 see Arlotte, or Arlotte's husband again. 
 Brave and careful as she had been 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 hitherto, the strain would be too great 
 now. She understood Charles Murray at 
 last. A word, a look, a sign, even, might 
 betray him and all his ghastly falseness 
 to the unsuspecting eyes of his innocent 
 young wife. Together they might 
 live happily enough, such things had 
 been before, and Arlotte's little heart 
 needed but a drop of love to be content ; 
 but with her standing beside them it 
 would be different. Unwillingly she 
 might absorb that drop of love, might 
 divert it from its rightful channel. 
 
 No, it was best so. It was well 
 there were such refuges for broken 
 hearts and useless lives. She would pre- 
 pare herself for her profession. A nun's 
 life was a beautiful life, and once within 
 the convent walls she would find peace. 
 She would find work too, she hoped, 
 which was a better thing, she knew. 
 There would be the poor and sick to 
 tend and nurse, there would be children
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. Ss 
 
 to teach and young girls to train, and 
 here and there, perhaps, some aching, 
 throbbing heart, tossed about and troubled 
 as hers was now, to comfort and cheer. 
 ^o one had helped her, but it might be 
 her part to help and guide others by the 
 light of her own experience. It might 
 be for this, perhaps, that she was suffer- 
 ing now. 
 
 She made her arrangements quickly. 
 She kept them a secret. It was of no 
 use to consult anybody; it could only 
 shake her determination, and not do any- 
 one any good. A certain sum of money 
 was to be handed over to the convent; 
 the rest of her fortune was settled upon 
 Arlotte and her husband. That, at least, 
 would be of use to her sister's husband, 
 she thought, a little bitterly, as she 
 signed the papers. It was the first fruits 
 of her sacrifice, she knew, for she did 
 not hide from herself that her heart was 
 not wholly in that which she purposed 
 
 G 2
 
 84 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 doing. When all was arranged, she 
 wrote a letter to Arlotte, in which she 
 bade her farewell, and told her of her 
 determination, but not of her destina- 
 tion. 
 
 *' Do not seek for me, iwtite,^' she 
 wrote, and the paper was blotted with 
 her tears. "It is best so, believe me, 
 best for thee, and best, indeed, for me. 
 Earthly love must not intrude upon the 
 trance of heavenly love. Think of me 
 sometimes a little tenderly, and forgive 
 me if this gives thee pain, and remember 
 that always my fervent, unfailing prayers 
 will be for thee and thine." 
 
 The letter ended abruptly, for Edm^e 
 could write no more. She sealed it up, 
 and sent it, together with her livre 
 d'heures, to Mrs. Murray, at Baden-Baden, 
 and then taking Josette, her maid, she 
 travelled away to JSTorthern France, from 
 where Arlotte' s name had come, and where 
 her mother's sister still lived, being a holy
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 85 
 
 woman, and the Lady Abbess of tlie Con- 
 vent of Notre Dame de Bon Secours, at 
 Pierreport. 
 
 Arlotte was frightened when she read 
 Edmee's letter. She could not under- 
 stand it at first, and when at last she 
 did so, she became still more frightened. 
 
 " Edmee had no vocation for a convent 
 life," she said, bewildered. ''It is only 
 people who have committed crimes who 
 become nuns at such an age." (Edmee, 
 with her five years' seniority, was a per- 
 son of extraordinary longevity to the little 
 wife.) '' What has she done ? Oh, can't 
 we stop her, Charles ?" she cried, wring- 
 ing her hands helplessly. 
 
 Charles laughed, a horrible, mocking 
 lausrh that Arlotte had heard often of 
 late, and always shivered under. 
 
 " How can we stop her, child, when 
 we don't know where she has gone ?" he 
 said, in a harsh, grating sort of voice.
 
 86 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 And then he turned and left her all day 
 alone, as his way was. 
 
 He had understood at once, but he 
 scarcely knew as yet what his own feel- 
 ings were. Passion, rage, mortification, 
 grief at having lost her, pride in the 
 thought that it was his love that had 
 driven her into a convent — all these feel- 
 ings were warring together within his 
 breast, and it was impossible to tell which 
 was the dominant one, or which would 
 conquer the rest. And then there was 
 the money — that was something, at any 
 rate, and there before him rose the 
 gilded hells in which he might lose it, 
 and himself too, for a time, at any 
 rate. 
 
 As for Arlotte, she was completely 
 houleversee, as she would have said of 
 herself. She wandered up and down the 
 dreary empty rooms, (Colonel Murray 
 did not like her to go out without a 
 maid, and her last had been dismissed
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 87 
 
 a montli ago and not yet replaced,) 
 making feeble plans in her weak little 
 mind, and talking helplessly to herself. 
 She did not know her own misery, but 
 she wanted to save her sister from what 
 seemed to her a terrible fate. She felt 
 she could do nothing, and yet she went 
 on scheming and planning in her faint 
 powerless way. She did not even know 
 where Edmee was gone, and yet she was 
 determined to prevent her going there ! 
 
 She never thought of her aunt, the 
 Abbess — in fact, she hardly knew of her 
 existence. Edmee, who was older, had 
 been to see her once or twice, but after 
 the death of Comtesse Armand de Cou- 
 langes intercourse between the families 
 had ceased, and the young daughters of 
 the house had been educated at the Con- 
 vent of the Sacred Heart, at Avignon. 
 It never occurred to Arlotte that Edmee 
 might have gone in search of this un- 
 known aunt. She thought of the Sacred
 
 88 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 Heart, and of other convents at Aries, 
 and Marseilles, and Lyons, and even 
 across the frontier and along the Riviera, 
 where young ladies of noble birth and 
 devout aspirations sometimes took the 
 veil ; but she never thought of, she never 
 mentioned, the name of Pierreport. 
 
 She ran over the names of the other 
 convents to her husband when he came 
 in. She begged and implored, she en- 
 treated and prayed him to fly hither and 
 thither, and save and stop Edmee while 
 yet there was time. He laughed at her 
 again in his rough, hoarse way, grumbled 
 over his dinner, and went out once 
 more. 
 
 Poor little Arlotte ! she was not very 
 wise, certainly. A very early marriage is 
 apt sometimes to cramp a woman's under- 
 standing, even while it enlarges her 
 affections. This was a little excuse for 
 Arlotte, and it was perhaps one also for 
 Colonel Murray.
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 89 
 
 When a man is greeted chez soi witli 
 alternate ecstacies and resignations, he 
 generally makes his home-goings as few 
 and as tardy as possible. When he en- 
 counters frowns there, he seeks, and finds 
 too, smiles elsewhere. And in all cases, 
 the more cause a man has to reproach 
 himself, the less will he stand the re- 
 proaches of others. 
 
 In the course of that summer a little 
 daughter was born to Arlotte and her 
 husband. Neither of them, however, 
 seemed to care much about it. 
 
 When the christening time came, 
 the mother wished to call her child 
 Edmee. 
 
 '' It was my mother's name, and my 
 sister's too ; have you forgotten, Charles ?" 
 slie said. 
 
 Colonel Murray gave her a look, the 
 meaning of which was perfectly enigma- 
 tical to his poor little wife. And then he 
 said, sharply and sternly, that he would
 
 90 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 never call liis child Edmee, and the 
 baby was accordingly christened Valen- 
 tine. 
 
 '' He is afraid you will become a nun 
 too, my poor little baby," said Arlotte, 
 trying to explain to herself the meaning 
 of her husband's strange objection to the 
 name. She was rather given to ascribing 
 motives to other people's words and ways, 
 and did not much care whether they 
 fitted or not, so long as they hung on 
 somehow. '' And yet you could not be 
 like a better person than Edmee," she 
 added with a sigh, which the baby echoed 
 with a little gurgling whimper. 
 
 Arlotte liked playing with her baby, 
 but she did not care mucli about it. She 
 was a mere child still, and at seventeen 
 the maternal instinct is rarely developed. 
 It is not till a later period that the full 
 tide of that passion begins to flow with 
 all its mighty overwhelming force. Still 
 she did long a little sometimes to show
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 91 
 
 " her baby" to tbe people who had 
 known and loved its mother when she 
 was a baby too, and she fancied that 
 once amongst them again, she would 
 surely hear something of her dear Edmee. 
 Poor little soul ! she clung with a feeble 
 persistency to the old ties, now that the 
 newer ones seemed to be hanging some- 
 what loosely upon her. 
 
 " Let us go home. I want to go home. 
 If only we were at home," was now the 
 burden of her cry, and her sole topic 
 of conversation with her husband. It 
 was rather a monotonous one, certainly. 
 But Colonel Murray took no notice. 
 He was not only deaf to her entreaties, 
 but dumb too, which probably encouraged 
 her to say the same things over and 
 over again. I have heard of slaves 
 being tortured to death by means of 
 a single drop falling at regular intervals 
 on their heads. Colonel Murray was 
 no slave. He was a tyrant, and the
 
 gz HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 continual drooping of the water had 
 no effect upon him. 
 
 At last, however, he consented to 
 return to Coulanges. The gambling 
 rooms were closed ; the summer was 
 over ; the autumn far advanced ; there 
 was only the winter to look forward 
 to now, and Arlotte did not like the 
 winter, short and sharp as it usually 
 is in those sunny southern provinces of 
 la belle France. 
 
 It was a dreary day when they first 
 came in sight of the Chateau de Coulanges 
 once more. There was no railway at 
 that time nearer than Aries ; and they had 
 posted from thence along the straight 
 high-road with its stiffened hedge-rows, 
 and its long line of leafless poplars, 
 looming through the mists like the ghosts 
 of dead trees, and past the wayside 
 village where Colonel Murray had first 
 seen the sweet face of Edmee de Cou- 
 langes leaning out of the carriage
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 93 
 
 window, and smiling as she spoke ; 
 and so on through the woods, where 
 the sisters had wandered together with 
 their arms round each other's necks, 
 and past the mill where Arlotte had 
 first listened to the words of love, 
 and across the bridge over which she 
 had last driven as a day-old bride. 
 Husband and wife had both so much 
 to think of, that they found little to say 
 to each other during that dreary drive. 
 
 It was a damp, drizzling day. The 
 ground was wet with a fog that was 
 colder than the rain, the sky was murky 
 with mists that were thicker and greyer 
 than the clouds. Even the people, loyal 
 and loving, and French as they were, 
 could scarcely venture out from their 
 cahanes to offer a smiling welcome to 
 the bride on this her tardy home-coming. 
 It was a dismal one indeed. Arlotte 
 shivered as the carriage turned up the 
 chestnut avenue.
 
 94 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 Nevertheless, througli the mist, aod 
 the fog, and her own blinding tears, the 
 poor little thing looked out eagerly. She 
 had been wearying for a sight of these 
 scenes so long. 
 
 She had thought of them so often, she 
 fancied she remembered them all quite 
 correctly. She could have told you 
 the number of trees in the clump on 
 the hill ; her father had been so fond 
 of trees, he would never have one 
 cut down if he could help it. She 
 fancied she knew too how the fields 
 fitted one into the other, with no per- 
 ceptible fence between them, as is the 
 way in the south with large properties. 
 But her fancy had played her false. She 
 had forgotten that gap in the trees 
 there, and the clump on the hill — the 
 tall straight pines, where were they ? 
 She rubbed her eyes, and looked again, 
 but she could not see them even then. 
 And what was that, in the grass field
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 95 
 
 yonder ? a fence ? a wall ? actually a stone 
 wall — how did it come there ? what did 
 it mean ? Arlotte shuddered again. 
 
 How dull everything looked, the old 
 grey chateau in the distance, with its 
 frowning battlements, and night-capped 
 towers, and then the fields and meadows 
 close at hand, brown and damp with 
 the remains of the year's garnered 
 growth. And how dull she felt, too ! 
 She had thought it would be different 
 when she saw Coulanges once more, 
 but she felt just as she used to feel at 
 Baden-Baden, when she looked out on 
 that eternal Black Forest with its grim 
 waving trees, that always reminded her 
 ol the plumes of a hearse. Perhaps it 
 was the wet day that made her feel 
 so dismal. She appealed to her husband 
 on this point, and he agreed with her. 
 He generally did agree to his wife's 
 remarks, if not to her wishes. It saved 
 trouble, and it could not possibly matter.
 
 96 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 He liad lonof since taken to reorard lier 
 as some curious cross between an infant 
 and an idiot. 
 
 Yes — it was the dull day, of course. 
 Arlotte was glad slie liad thought of 
 that. There had been no dull days in 
 the old times. She could not remember 
 one. There need be none in the future ? 
 Arlotte did not feel so sure of that. 
 There was the winter coming on, and 
 Arlotte had a sort of presentiment, it 
 would be a dreary one. And then, 
 though her husband was very clever 
 and kind, of course, still he was not 
 altogether an amusing companion. Per- 
 haps she was too young to amuse him, 
 just as baby was too young to amuse 
 
 her. Perhaps but here the carriage 
 
 stopped at the chateau door, and she did 
 not communicate her surmises to her 
 husband. She got out and walked 
 through the empty rooms, carrying the 
 fog in with her, and feeling as though
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. yy 
 
 a leaden weight were hung about lier 
 soul, and pressing her down heavily. 
 
 Arlotte's presentiments with regard 
 to the winter were justified. Never 
 had there been such weather in the 
 memory of the oldest villager, who 
 died of cold soon after making this 
 statement. For weeks together the 
 roads were blocked with snow, and 
 the sky was as thick as a blanket. 
 The sea-fogs came drifting over the 
 woods and the valleys, and wreathed 
 themselves round the towers and 
 turrets of the old chateau, and 
 hung like damp curtains before every 
 window. Then the wind arose, and 
 blew them back again to their lawful 
 kingdom, and sundry tiles and chimney- 
 pots after them. It was a frightful 
 wind, waking up suddenly in the middle 
 of the night, and bellowing like a 
 giant round and round the old chateau, 
 and into it too here and there. Arlotte 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 used to shake in her bed sometimes. 
 She thought the whole house would be 
 blown down. She would have found it 
 very difl&cult to fulfil her old promise 
 of making the place gay and joyous once 
 more, had she tried to do so that wild, 
 weary, frost-bound winter. 
 
 But she did not try. She seemed 
 to have no power, or spirit, to do 
 anything in those days. She was back 
 in the old home, it is true, but she was 
 out of tune with her surroundings ; and 
 little by little — through fear perhaps of 
 jarring with the poor cold music about 
 her — she became like a dumb note in 
 an organ. Do you think there are only 
 organs in churches, and orchestras in 
 concert halls and opera houses ? You 
 mistake greatly. Why there are bands 
 of music everywhere, in every home, in 
 every school. " Wherever two or three 
 are gathered together," there is a 
 band playing away vigorously. It does
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL, gg 
 
 not always play the music you wish 
 for, but it plays music of all sorts— 
 now a march, then a nursery song, 
 often a love ballad, oftener still a dirge. 
 
 And sometimes, someone wants a solo 
 all to himself, or someone else won't 
 sing the second that is put before him ; 
 and then all the chords go clashing 
 together wildly, and the treble and bass 
 have a furious affray, but the music 
 goes on just the same, though not 
 quite so harmoniously, perhaps. And 
 there is a part for everybody, if people 
 would only do their best with it. But 
 some people are mute because they 
 cannot read their scores, and some be- 
 cause their lute strings are twisted, or 
 because the right hand is not there to 
 show them how to strike the chord, 
 nor the right ear ready to catch and 
 give them the key-note. Arlotte's part, 
 I think, was a little flute-like trill, gay 
 and rippling as any bird's, but she 
 
 H 2
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 did not perform it, because no one 
 seemed to care to listen to it. Had 
 Edm^e been tliere, it would have been 
 different. 
 
 But nothing was heard of Edm6e. 
 Josette's mother had indeed received one 
 letter from her daughter, but it made 
 no mention of Comtesse Edmee. It was 
 full of raptures about the sea, and 
 allusions to Pierrot and his profession, 
 but it gave no address and it asked 
 for no answer. It certainly led one to 
 suppose that Comtesse Edm^e and her 
 maid were living somewhere by the sea- 
 side. But even then, Arlotte never 
 thought of Pierreport. 
 
 The good people of Josette's family 
 were much exercised by this letter. What 
 did it mean ? Where had it come from ? 
 There was not even a post-mark upon it. 
 It had been left at the door of Madame 
 Jozeau's cahane by the weekly carrier, so 
 they could not appease their anxieties by
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 writing. They appealed to Comtesse Ar- 
 lotte, coming up in a stream one day — 
 blu6-bloused men and white-capped women, 
 the relations and village friends of the 
 missing maid — coming up to ask the 
 advice of the great lady of the castle. 
 
 It was a pretty picture, but " the 
 great lady " might as well have been 
 omitted. She was of no use. She could 
 tell them nothing. She could not give 
 a scrap of comfort or help to anyone. 
 Hers was not a helpful nature. She 
 liked being helped herself — being taken 
 care of, and told things. She hated 
 guess-work, riddles, &c., Edmee knew 
 that. And now, where was Edmee ? 
 
 Meanwhile the baby Yalentine throve 
 and grew apace, as babies mostly do, 
 when no one is over -much anxious about 
 them. 
 
 Meanwhile Colonel Murray's debts grew 
 too, and his means of meeting them 
 waxed smaller and smaller. His affairs
 
 102 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 became more and more involved. He 
 journeyed hither and thither ; more trees 
 were cut down, more land let and 
 parcelled out — the old De Coulanges pro- 
 perty which had never yet been sub- 
 divided — and still ruin stared him in the 
 face. 
 
 At last, one day he stood before Ar- 
 lotte suddenly and sullenly, and told her 
 to make her paquets, and be ready to 
 start as soon as possible, for he had let 
 the chateau for a term of years to a big 
 rampaging American family. 
 
 Arlotte sat still, and stared at him 
 blankly. She was never quick at under- 
 standing. 
 
 " They were coming from Marseilles 
 out of Italy, ces Americains,^' he said, 
 ** and they saw the Roman remains in the 
 park, and the view of the amphitheatre 
 at Aries from the bridge. Such things 
 naturally please people who have no ruins 
 at home, and they offered at once a
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 103 
 
 larger sum for the tumble-down old place 
 than I ever have thought of asking. 
 It is a perfect god-send," he went on, 
 rather surprised at her silence but only 
 too glad to take it all in good part, and 
 be conciliatory himself. " So, fais tes 
 paquets, ma femme, we shall be back 
 again some day, never fear." 
 
 Arlotte waited till her husband had 
 done speaking. Then she flashed out 
 upon him : 
 
 " You have let my house — the home 
 of my father's, which no stranger has 
 ever yet entered uninvited," she cried, 
 with clenched hands and quivering lips. 
 " And you have dared to do it all with- 
 out even asking so much as with, or 
 without my leave." 
 
 '' With, or without your leave ?" re- 
 peated Colonel Murray, looking at her 
 — half amazed at, half admiring the 
 spirit he had stirred within her at last. 
 It was like the anger of a little feeble
 
 104 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 bird, but it was better, far better than the 
 dumb apathy with which she had treated 
 him of late, or the wild senseless ecstasies 
 which had been her earlier way. " There 
 seems to be nothing else we can do now, 
 Arlotte," he added, in a gentler voice, 
 which had almost a sad ring in it. 
 
 " Then," she retorted defiantly, throw- 
 ing back her head, and taking no notice 
 of the change that had grown into her 
 husband's words and looks — " with your 
 leave or without your leave, with or 
 without your presence, it signifies no- 
 thing to me, I will remain here ; here at 
 Coulanges, sleeping under a tree, if there 
 is no room for me at the chateau, living 
 in the woods, when driven out from my 
 own home — but here I will remain, to 
 pray beside my father's grave, and watch 
 for tidings of my sister, and save what 
 I can of my property from my husband's 
 hands. There is nothing else I will do." 
 
 Colonel Murray looked at her again.
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 105 
 
 anxiously, lingeringly. He was not 
 touched by her words, which were all 
 froth, and foam, and feebleness ; but he 
 was touched by her looks, her eyes that 
 were flashing, her cheeks that were 
 flaming, her lips that were burning with 
 real pain and passion. 
 
 " It shall be as you wish," he said, in 
 a low voice. And then he turned and left 
 her. 
 
 The chateau was let. He could not 
 undo that. But he did what he could 
 for her besides. He found a little house 
 at Belle-Fontaine, all overgrown with 
 dropping purple flowers, and starry cle- 
 matis, with a garden in front, and a 
 pretty babbling brook behind. He took 
 it for her, and settled her in it. He 
 managed to provide her with money 
 enough for her simple wants ; he let her 
 keep the child, he seldom troubled her 
 with his presence. 
 
 Once she relented. It was the second
 
 io6 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 time he left her after she had gone to 
 the cottage. " Oh, do not go !" she cried. 
 " Do not leave me all alone." 
 
 But it was too late. The die was cast. 
 The deed that had been done could not 
 be undone. 
 
 And so there, all alone, in that tiny 
 cottage, in that tiny village, lived 
 the once proud heiress of half the 
 woods and rivers round — the last born 
 of the De Coulanges name — the girl Ar- 
 lotte, who had despised the old monoto- 
 nous days in the old grey chateau, and 
 who had dreamt of a life, gay and glad 
 and golden as the sun-motes dancing in 
 the air, or the bubbles on the river's 
 surface, and who awoke at last and found 
 it— this !— 
 
 One snowy St. Genevieve's Day, some 
 four years later, a novice, who had long 
 been hesitating and waiting — watching if 
 by chance anyone in the world should
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL, 107 
 
 make any sign of needing her again — 
 wearying herself with pangs, pains and 
 doubts, concerning the fitness of her 
 vocation and the worthiness of her 
 offering, considering where else, and how 
 else, she should lay down the weight of 
 her sins and the burden of her sorrows, 
 took the veil at last in the Convent of 
 Notre Dame de Bon Secours, at Pierre- 
 port. 
 
 That same day, far away in the village 
 beyond Coulanges, a lady lay dying in 
 the flower- wreathed house, while a little 
 five-year-old child stood beside her, look- 
 ing on gravely, with great circling grey 
 eyes. 
 
 The lady had been ill for months, and 
 no one had seemed to think much about 
 her. But since last week the doctor had 
 come oftener, and looked graver each 
 time, and yesterday he had brought with 
 him a nurse from the hospital at Mar-
 
 io8 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 seilles, and had sent off a message to 
 some one in Paris. 
 
 To-day, however, she seemed to suffer 
 less. She lay still and silent, with 
 closed eyes and folded hands, seemingly 
 asleep, or unconscious. Perhaps she 
 would die thus, the nurse had said. 
 
 But the nurse was wrong. 
 
 Suddenly the lady started up, clutch- 
 ing at the bed-clothes, and gasping for 
 breath. 
 
 " Oh Love — Love — Love !" she cried, 
 piercingly sharp and clear. '' Love for 
 Love's sake only, or else love not at 
 all." 
 
 And then, with a shudder, a spasm 
 of pain that shook her whole body 
 and contracted her features, she fell 
 back motionless upon the pillows, and 
 Arlotte de Coulanges, Colonel Murray's 
 neglected, unloved wife, was dead. 
 
 The child caught the mother's last words, 
 and was pleased with their sound. She
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 109 
 
 could not, by any possibility, understand 
 what they meant ; but she kept repeating 
 them to herself, as though, in that way, she 
 might, in course of time, arrive at their 
 meaning. It was just as older people go 
 on sometimes repeating a lie, until at 
 last they come to believe it to be a 
 truth. 
 
 " ' Love for Love's sake only,' what 
 does it mean, Manon ?" she asked of the 
 nurse. " What is Love ?" 
 
 Manon, the nurse, was a God-fearing 
 woman, honest and just; but she 'had 
 gone through hard times with a drunken 
 husband and ungrateful children, and 
 had come out hardened — a result, thank 
 God, not always and not often the con- 
 sequence of that process. 
 
 " Love," she said, sternly, as she drew 
 a sheet over the terribly still thing on 
 the bed — " love is to please oneself, and 
 leave others to fare as best they can. 
 More than that I have never seen in all
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 the sixty years I have known the world." 
 
 '* Love is to please oneself," repeated the 
 child, not understanding this either, but 
 storing it up for future use. And she 
 went wandering in and out of the little 
 cottage, and the woods and the water 
 seemed to say the same thing. 
 
 That evening, at sunset, by the coach 
 from Aries, a gentleman arrived. He was 
 a stranger to the child, and to the nurse 
 too, but not to the dead lady, it seemed. 
 
 The next day some more men came, 
 three or four of them, with crape on their 
 hats ; also a low black carriage, with open 
 sides and a gilded roof, and four black 
 horses to draw it. And between them all 
 they carried that poor dead lady away, 
 and returned to the cottage without her. 
 
 The child stood at the door, watching 
 all these proceedings. Manon had tied a 
 black ribbon into her hair, and was stitch- 
 ing away at some black things in the room 
 within.
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. iii 
 
 The man who had known the poor dead 
 lady patted the child's head as he passed 
 and asked her what it was she was 
 marmuring to herself. 
 
 '' Love for love's sake only," said the 
 child, looking up eagerly. " What does 
 it mean ?" 
 
 The man started and turned pale. 
 Some such words as those he had heard, 
 not from his dead wife's, but from his lost 
 love's lips. 
 
 "Mean?" he said, recovering himself; 
 " why, it means nothing at all. Look 
 here, Valentine, here is the only thing 
 worth loving — worth living for, in fact," 
 and he drew a handful of gold out of his 
 pocket. 
 
 " Love means money, then ?" said the 
 child, wondering more than ever, and 
 stretching out her little fat hands towards 
 the glittering coins. 
 
 But the man put temptation beyond her 
 reach, and nodded at the child's shrewd-
 
 112 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 ness. '' She's sharper than her mother, 
 at any rate," he thought to himself. 
 
 The next day he took her away with 
 him. She was dressed in black, and 
 Manon had packed up all her little things 
 in a tiny skin-covered box. As the tra- 
 velling carriage drove slowly over the old 
 bridge, from which the peaked roofs and 
 grey turrets of the Chateau de Coulanges 
 could be seen, the child clapped her hands 
 and began kissing the tips of her fingers. 
 She knew the look of the old place, though 
 she had never seen it so near before. She 
 did not know her father, though he was 
 sitting there by her side. 
 
 '' Why do you do that ?" he asked, 
 watching her. 
 
 '' Because it is mine," said the child, 
 still kissing her hand, and gazing at the 
 chateau as if trying to fix it on her mind's 
 eye ; " or it will be mine some day. 
 Maman me Va dit. Maman showed me 
 many pictures of it."
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 113 
 
 " Yours — Maman /" echoed the father, 
 with a hollow laugh. And then he 
 clinched his money in his pocket, and 
 laughed again. Maman was dead. The 
 chateau was sold. The broad lands of 
 the De Coulanges had passed into the 
 hands of strangers. 
 
 But the child did not know this, of 
 course, and even had she done so she 
 would not have cared very much just 
 then. Her quick ears had caught the 
 tinkle of a bell, and the sound of voices 
 ringing or singing at intervals in the 
 hollow below. It might be some travel- 
 ling show, or a pretty church procession, 
 perhaps. The little Valentine loved sights 
 and shows, and music above all thing's. 
 She stood up in the carriage and peered 
 out of the window, straining her eyes and 
 listening with all her might. 
 
 It was a Church procession. She could 
 see the cross gleaming in the sunshiue; 
 she could hear the deep-rolling Latin 
 
 VOL. T. I
 
 114 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 cliaunt. There was a boy with a bell, and 
 another with a censor, and a long train of 
 people behind. But it was not a pretty 
 procession. All the women were weep- 
 ing. All the men looked very grave.] 
 
 It was a funeral procession toiling up 
 the steep rough road, from the village of 
 Coulanges to the grass-grown churchyard 
 on the hill-side. The people of Belle- 
 Fontaine were there too, for he whom 
 they were going to bury had died a hero's 
 death, and both villages were proud to 
 claim him as their own. They had turned 
 against him in his lifetime, but they knew 
 him by his death. It is the way of the 
 world, among peasants as well as princes. 
 When the seal is removed its impression 
 is seen. These were all common peasant 
 folks, from the cure, who went on before 
 with his choristers and acolytes, to the 
 chief mourner who wailed behind the 
 dead, holding the fluttering end of the 
 pall. But the very nature of their occu-
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 115 
 
 pation seemed to refine them — for the time 
 being, at any rate. Their grief made 
 them gentle. Perhaps coarser natures 
 scarcely realize how far mental suffering, 
 and sorrow, and pain, go towards making 
 a gentleman. 
 
 *' What are they singing ?" asked Valen- 
 tine, as the driver of Colonel Murray's 
 carriage pulled up his horses and took off 
 his hat, and the people went tramping 
 towards the little church on the hill. 
 " What are they singing ?" she repeated, 
 as Colonel Murray made no reply. *' Is 
 it the song the angels sing, that maman 
 told me of ?" 
 
 " Main Old, petite,''^ answered the 
 Colonel, abruptly ; and then, as if to turn 
 the child's attention, " Mais regardez plutot 
 ion chateau, if you like to call it so, it is 
 the last time you will ever see it." And 
 as Valentine strained her eyes, their driver 
 moved on, and Colonel Murray and his 
 daughter sped onwards on their journey. 
 
 I 2
 
 ii6 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 And with Valentine how fared it in her 
 young years, with so uncongenial a father? 
 Why recount her young life, its ups and 
 downs, its little pleasures and greater 
 sorrows ? Kind friends she sometimes 
 found, hard blows she sometimes expe- 
 rienced ; but yet she grew as children will 
 grow under all circumstances ; and when 
 we next meet her you will be able to judge 
 into what sort of girl poor Arlotte Mur- 
 ray's motherless daughter developed.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ST. maek's eoad. 
 
 " Heigh-ho, buttercups and daisies, 
 
 Fair yellow daffodils stately and tall, 
 A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure^ 
 
 And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall , 
 Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its 
 measure, 
 God that is over us all !" jean ingelow. 
 
 evening. 
 
 SPLENDID summer 
 The sun had set, but the twi- 
 light had not yet begun ; there 
 was just that sort of clear haze everywhere 
 which seems to fall from heaven upon 
 the earth " between the lights." Over 
 the hills and far away beyond the spread-
 
 Ti8 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 ing green country, the sun had no doubt 
 gone down with a flare and a glare of 
 crimson and gold, which, if colour could 
 be translated into sound, would be as a 
 trumpet blast; while even herein London, 
 there is beauty enough to make men lift 
 their eyes from the earthly city and strive 
 to catch a glimpse of the heavenly one. 
 Even here there are walls " as of jasper," 
 and streets "as of pure gold," gleaming 
 and glistening in the setting sun. 
 
 But the glory and the crown of all was 
 the sky — that luminous London sky, 
 which is so seldom seen here, and never 
 seen anywhere else. It was not like a 
 country sky, clear-eyed and tender as the 
 eyes of a country maid ; nor sapphire- 
 hued, as it gleams in the south ; nor topaz- 
 tinted, as it hangs sometimes over a 
 dark northern moor. No, it was simply 
 a blue-grey sky, pale, and very misty, and 
 yet just such a sky as one fancies must be 
 shining at this instant over the streets and
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 119 
 
 gates of the New Jerusalem — a skj misty 
 witli '' the smoke of the incense" which 
 ascends with the prayers of the saints, and 
 yet luminous with the light of perfect 
 love, even of God himself. 
 
 It was a summer evening, as I have 
 said. It had been also a saint's day, St. 
 James's day, I think. Evening service was 
 just over at the old grey parish church of 
 St. Mark's. The vicar had taken off his 
 surplice, the organist had pushed back all 
 the music-making stops, the single 
 chorister had shut up a little rose-bud of 
 a mouth; and these three officials, who 
 happened to be nearly related to each 
 other — in fact, father and daughters — 
 were making the best of their way home 
 through St. Mark's Hoad. 
 
 It was a long walk, and not exactly a 
 pleasant one. Perhaps in the old days, 
 when Richard of Grio'ster ate strawberries 
 in the bishop's garden at Holborn, and 
 children gathered cowslips in the fields
 
 I20 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 round St. Martin's, the space between St. 
 Mark's Vicarage and St. Mark's Church 
 may have been fat glebe lands, whereon 
 former vicars literally fed their sheep, and 
 planted their seed, and saw it grow up and 
 bear good fruit. But the latter-day vicars 
 have no such pleasing occupations. The 
 glebe lands have been turned into stony 
 pasturages (a modern Gorgon method of 
 the Hermetic art,) and the human sheep, 
 more headstrong than those of old, live 
 huddled together in pens unfit for brutes. 
 At this moment, however, they were 
 scattered abroad throughout the length 
 and breadth of the street — lambs fight- 
 ing like young lions, ewes, limp and 
 hungry-eyed, slinking about with poor 
 thin faces and plaintive bleating voices, 
 rams herded together in groups, with 
 pipes in their mouths and hands in their 
 pockets, and staring at each other and 
 the passers-by in a painfully stupid, 
 sheepish manner. There were sheep-dogs
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 121 
 
 among them too, dogs dressed up in black 
 uniforms, and bands, and buckles, and 
 buttons, and keeping a sharp look-out 
 over the costermongers' carts, and bits 
 of bone and meat in the butchers' shops. 
 It was a sorry sight in this City of Feasts. 
 Through this unkempt, unwashed flock, 
 then, the Reverend Edward Carmichael, 
 Vicar of St. Mark's, went slowly shoulder- 
 ing his way. He saluted his parishioners 
 gravely now and then, but he walked for 
 the most part with his face bent and his 
 hands hanging down loosely by his side. 
 He was a tall dreamy-looking man with a 
 stooping figure, and a general air of 
 dilapidation and dreariness that seemed 
 to hang about him like a fog. He was 
 learned, and studious, and absorbed by 
 nature, and very ecoQomical of speech. 
 His name was known far and wide among 
 all the learned societies of Europe, but 
 many of his parishioners scarcely knew 
 him by sight, the affairs of the parish
 
 122 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 being chiefly conducted by Mr. Wynch, 
 the curate, a nervous young man of an 
 ardent temperament and an immense 
 amount of energy. 
 
 Honor, Mr. Carmichael's eldest daughter, 
 resembles her father. She is tall too, and 
 has a pale grave face, and a pair of soft 
 kind eyes, blue-grey like the sky. She 
 has fair hair, a gentle voice, and very 
 quiet ways. She is about nineteen years 
 of age, and has been at the head of her 
 father's household (a very small one) 
 almost as long as she can remember. 
 
 Grladys,the other daughter, is only a little 
 baby-thing, eight years old at most. She 
 has laughing brown eyes, with topaz lights 
 in them, and bright fuzzy hair, on which 
 the sun seems to be always shining, and a 
 mouth like the ever-smiling, ever-singing 
 mouths (so, at least, Mr. Stephen Aylmer 
 used to declare) of old Botticelli's angel- 
 children. Not that she was like an angel 
 in any other respect, being nothing more
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL, 123 
 
 nor less than an ordinary spoilt child, 
 sharp and rather pert, and adored by 
 Honor. For Gladys' mother was indeed 
 among the angels, and Honor, though 
 scarcely more than a child herself, had 
 been as a mother to the little sister ever 
 since she was born. 
 
 Such being the nature of the relation- 
 ship between the two, the younger one, of 
 course, made a complete slave of the elder, 
 and tyrannized over her accordingly. 
 Honor did not object, however; slaves 
 never do of their own accord, it is said. It 
 needs a zealous outsider to influence them 
 with a burning sense of their own wrongs. 
 Indeed, in her heart of hearts, I believe, 
 Honor thought it was hard Gladys should 
 have but one slave. Other children had 
 fathers as well as mothers to bow down 
 and worship them. But Gladys' father 
 was a learned, dreamy, silent man, who 
 took but little notice of his girls, and 
 whose thoughts were buried in his books.
 
 124 HONOR CARMICHAEL, 
 
 He had been blessed with a boy once, but 
 he was dead, and now his wife was dead 
 too. His girls were good girls, but they 
 could not fill up the void these had left. 
 Books might do so, perhaps. Study might 
 help to distract his mind. At any rate he 
 was trying the experiment. 
 
 " I wish it was Christmas time now," 
 said Gladys the queen, pushing her little 
 bright face over her father's hand, and 
 looking at her slave as though she ex- 
 pected her to produce old Father Christ- 
 mas, and all his usual accessories, out of 
 her pocket at a moment's notice. 
 
 The slave smiled, as such slaves always 
 smile. 
 
 " I suppose you are thinking of the 
 Christmas-tree in the schoolroom, and 
 all the presents you had given you last 
 year,'* she said. 
 
 '* No, I am not," replied the child dis- 
 dainfully. " I am thinking of the lamps." 
 
 '* The lamps — " repeated Honor, puzzled.
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 125 
 
 "Yes, th^ gas-lamps/' cried Gladys 
 ecstatically. '' I do so love to see tlie lamps 
 lighted — you know I do, Honor. Don't 
 you remember last Christmas Eve, when 
 we came back from shopping very late, 
 and you tvotdd walk so fast that Stephen 
 laughed, and I had to run to keep up 
 with you ? And then it grew quite dark, 
 and they lighted all the lamps all down 
 St. Mark's Road, and there were lights 
 before us, and lights behind us, and all 
 over us too, for the sky was very clear, 
 and bright, and full of stars. And down 
 there, far away, all the lights seemed to 
 join together and make one beautiful 
 flame, and all the air round was quite soft 
 and misty. And Stephen said, good 
 people were like that, and their influence 
 was like the golden light shed by the 
 lamps — at least, he said something like 
 that. Don't you remember. Honor?" 
 
 " Oh yes, Queenie, I remember," said 
 Honor, flushing a little, and laughing
 
 126 HONOR CARMICHABL. 
 
 softly at the child's breathless eloquence. 
 " And I am glad you have such a good 
 memory, too, for it will be some time before 
 you see the lamps again. However, you 
 will have the sea to look at meanwhile, 
 and that will do instead, won't it ?" 
 
 " Oh yes — the sea — and the funny stupid 
 French people who won't be able to speak 
 English," said the child, who was at that 
 happy age when a thought can be turned 
 aside as easily as a blind man out of his 
 path. " And there will be no horrible 
 boy's school at Pierreport, either, will 
 there, Honor ?" she added, a little an- 
 xiously ; this last remark being suggested 
 by the advance of a small regiment of 
 small boys, whom Gladys, in some myste- 
 rious manner, regarded as her natural 
 enemies, and would scowl at accordingly, 
 as a kitten will scowl at a litter of pup- 
 pies, always provided the kitten is at a 
 safe distance off, say nestling on the lap 
 of a velvet gown.
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 127 
 
 This Liliputian regiment was com- 
 manded by a female general, Miss 
 Pincock by name, a fussy little woman, 
 whose sombre uniform of black was re- 
 splendent with bugles. It was escorted 
 by the general's aide-de-camp and pupil- 
 teacher, Master Carraway, who was lean, 
 and lanky, and rapid of growth, and 
 consequently afflicted with a chronic suit 
 of undersized garments, out of which his 
 neck, and wrists, and ankles protruded 
 painfully. 
 
 " So you are really going to-morrow," 
 says the general, who, with her aide-de- 
 camp, had halted to speak to the 
 Carmichaels, while their infantile forces 
 went marching on through the streets, 
 hustling the passers-by, and scattering 
 confusion into the hearts of sundry rickety 
 old apple-women, who had taken root on 
 the edges of the pavement. 
 
 " Yes,'* replied Honor, shaking hands 
 with Miss Pincock, whilst her father was
 
 128 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 slowly waking up to the sense that some- 
 one was speaking to him, and Gladys was 
 glaring at Master Carraway with male- 
 volent eyes. " Yes, we are going to 
 Pierreport to-morrow. I hope we shall 
 have a good crossing." 
 
 *' I hope so ^00," returned Miss Pin- 
 cock, emphatically. (She always talked 
 in italics.) " And a pleasant time whilst 
 you stay at Pierreport. As for Gladys, 
 she is sure to be happy— hsup-pier than 
 happy, in fact, what with the sands 
 
 and the shells " but here the flow of 
 
 the little lady's eloquence was suddenly 
 arrested by Mr. Carmichael, who being 
 awake at last, held out his hand, which 
 was vigorously seized and wrung up and 
 down by Miss Pincock, as though it were 
 a pump-handle and she a drawer of water. 
 
 A series of farewells ensued, good in 
 principle, but tedious in practice — at least 
 so thought little Gladys — and then the 
 friends separated.
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 129 
 
 " Honor, how can any one be happier 
 than happy?" asked the child, as the 
 sisters trudged on once more, one on each 
 side of their father. 
 
 Honor said nothing. She only smiled 
 that steady, silent, loving smile, with 
 which she often greeted the little one's 
 questions. 
 
 " It would be like having too much 
 sugar in one's tea, I suppose," continued 
 the child, compelled to answer herself, as 
 her way often was. " Only the tea 
 would be sure to brim over and spill, if 
 you put too many lumps of sugar into it ; 
 and that could not happen to happiness, 
 could it, Honor ?" 
 
 '^.^r^i^mm^^' 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 HAPPIKR THAN HAPPY ! 
 
 *' Then how grace a rose ? I know a way, 
 Leave it^ rather. 
 Must you gather ? 
 Smell, kiss, wear it ? at last throw away !" 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 EAR readers, I hope you are 
 not already tired of the walk 
 down St. Mark's Road. I told 
 you from the first that it was a long one, 
 and we have yet much further to go. 
 
 We have a good many more friends to 
 meet, too. There was Mr. Himmins, the 
 schoolmaster, who way-laid the vicar
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL, 131 
 
 outside the tripe-shop, and unfolded to 
 him a long list of prospective misdemean- 
 ours on the part of school-children's 
 pennies ; also Mrs. Trimmins, the pew- 
 opener, who was deaf, as well as com- 
 municative, and required to have every 
 remark made to her twice over, which 
 spun out the interview to an indefinite 
 length. There was the Curate, too, the 
 Reverend Auriol Wynch, who went by 
 during the Carmichaels' gossip with 
 Mrs. Trimmins, and who did not stop, 
 but passed on with a bow and a 
 blush. 
 
 Poor Mr. Wynch ! he deserves more 
 than a line in this history, though that 
 was all the conqueror of Europe expected 
 in the history of the world. Not that 
 the Curate himself had anything of the 
 conqueror about him. On the contrary, 
 he was a mild-looking little man, with a 
 nervous shrinking manner and a per- 
 petual twitch in his features, which 
 
 K 2
 
 132 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 had made Gladys say one day, that — 
 " Papa's Curate must have been 
 the original naughty little boy who had 
 made an ugly face, and it had stuck to 
 him ever since, just as his nurse had 
 prophesied it would do, though he was 
 always trying to pull his face back to 
 proper shape." 
 
 Children of any imagination are always 
 on the look-out for the visible wages 
 of sin, and are apt to consider personal 
 imperfections as an outward sign 
 of inward deformity — so that to them, 
 Richard III.'s hump was a token of 
 his murderous intentions towards his 
 nephews. 
 
 This was hard upon Mr. Wynch, who 
 was a good man, a good parson, and a 
 good preacher. He had good prospects 
 too, and it was whispered that he lingered 
 on so long in this unfashionable Curacy 
 of St. Mark's, because somebody else had 
 not yet put off the buckled-shoes and
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 133 
 
 broad-brimmed bat wbicb be was destined 
 one day to pat on. Indeed, a deanery 
 was tbe least tbing tbat could bappen to 
 bim, according to Miss Pincock, wbo 
 took quite a sisterly, one migbt almost 
 say a motberly, interest in tbe ugly 
 Curate. Nevertbeless, appearances were 
 against bim, and in tbe estimation 
 of little Gladys, Mr. Wyncb was 
 but one degree better tban Master 
 Carraway. 
 
 " Tbere is someone else posting along 
 bebind us almost as fast as Mr. Wyncb, 
 only tbe otber way," said tbe cbild, 
 lookinof round to see if tbe Curate were 
 safe out of sigbt. " Wbo do you tbink 
 tbis can be. Honor ?" 
 
 But before Honor bad time to tbink, 
 sbe knew — for a well-known step was close 
 bebind ber, a well-known voice was say- 
 ing, 
 
 " Good evening, Mr. Carmicbael.'' 
 
 Tbe Yicar looked round startled.
 
 134 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 " Ah ! Aylmer, mj boy, is that you ?" 
 he says, with surprising heartiness. 
 '* Why, where did you spring from ?" 
 
 '* Well— from the Club last, I think," 
 returned the young fellow, shaking hands 
 all round. " But for the last ten minutes 
 1 have been tracking your steps like a 
 detective. I went to the Church first, 
 and found you had just gone." 
 
 " Then it is lucky you detected to- 
 night, for to-morrow night we shall not 
 be here to detect," said Gladys, catching 
 the word, but feeling rather vague as to 
 its meaning. 
 
 '' To-morrow night !" repeated the 
 young man, puzzled. ** What does she 
 mean. Honor?" 
 
 ** She means — " replied Gladys, laughing 
 saucily, and throwing the words over her 
 shoulder, as it were ; for the Vicar had 
 moved on again with the child clinging to 
 his arm, like a tiny limpet to a grim grey 
 rock — " she means that we are going
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 135 
 
 away to France to-morrow. I am so 
 glad, and so is Honor — we liave just been 
 talking about it. And so, you see, we 
 sball not be bere," added the cbild, rather 
 at a loss how to perorate her sentence 
 gracefully. 
 
 Mr. Aylmer's face assumed a blank 
 expression, which Honor obligingly en- 
 deavoured to fill up for him. 
 
 '' Are you so very mucb surprised, 
 Stephen?" she said, with a smile, as she 
 strolled along by the young man's side. 
 ^' I suppose it is really rather astonishing, 
 seeing that we so seldom leave home. 
 But this seemed a chance. An old col- 
 lege friend of papa's, who is the English 
 chaplain at Pierreport, wrote and offered 
 to exchange duties with him for six 
 months, and after a little consideration, 
 papa wrote back and accepted the 
 offer." 
 
 '' Accepted ! for six months !" echoed 
 Stephen, who did not seem to be
 
 136 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 particularly well-furnished with original 
 remarks to-day. " And why was I not 
 told of this before, pray ?" 
 
 " It has only just been settled," replied 
 Honor, wondering a little at the aggrieved 
 tone in which her companion spoke. 
 " Of course I should have written to tell 
 you about it before we went away, but 
 I felt sure — at least, I mean, I thought 
 you would come to-night. It is so long 
 since you have been at the Vicarage, you 
 know. Why, Stephen, you look quite 
 grave," she added, snatching with a sort 
 of confused indifference at the first idea 
 that came into her head, as we all do, 
 when we feel we have been betrayed into 
 exhibiting any unnecessary interest in any 
 subject or person. " Don't you like our 
 going to Pierreport ?" 
 
 ''Do you V said Aylmer, turning upon 
 her suddenly, and looking at her rather 
 eagerly. 
 
 *' Yes, I think I do," replied the girl,
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 137 
 
 frankly. "It is stupid never to have 
 been anywhere. One might as well have 
 lived before the days of steamboats and 
 railroads. I have only been once as far 
 as Margate in all my nineteen years of 
 life, and Gladys has never been any- 
 where at all. It will do her good, at any 
 rate." 
 
 " Yes — that's it — always Gladys," cried 
 Aylmer, impatiently swinging his stick 
 round and round, and apparently aiming 
 his remark at a freshly -painted lamp-post 
 they happened to be passing at that exact 
 moment. " You think of no one but 
 Gladys, Honor." 
 
 '' Who else have I to think about, 
 Stephen?" said the girl simply. But 
 Mr. Aylmer disapproved of the sentiment, 
 and did not deign to answer it. 
 
 They walked on a few steps in silence. 
 
 '' Since you think it so stupid never to 
 have been anywhere," he said at length, 
 reverting to a former remark of Honor's,
 
 138 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 *' how would you like to go a little further 
 than Pierreport and see a number of new 
 places?" He had turned the light of 
 his countenance upon her again, and 
 was watching her rather closely as he 
 spoke. 
 
 Honor looked at him too. She was 
 puzzled by his strange manner, and 
 unusually grave way of speaking. 
 
 '* See a number of new places," she 
 repeated. " What do you mean " 
 
 And then suddenly, she too seemed 
 to be afflicted with Mr. Aylmer's late 
 infirmity of looking aside. Only in her 
 case, it was the area-railings, and not the 
 lamp-posts, that took her fancy. 
 
 It was very aggravating of her, wasn't 
 it ? It is always so aggravating of people 
 not to follow our train of thought, how- 
 ever vaguely or recklessly we may drive 
 it along the beaten track of words. 
 Stephen must try something slower, and 
 surer, and plainer. He must make
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 139 
 
 her understand to-day. He could not 
 wait a moment longer. He had waited 
 for months, years he might almost say, 
 with this same thought smouldering 
 in his breast. Now it had sprung up into 
 a sudden flame. Honor must be made to 
 see it. 
 
 *' I mean — " he said, tugging away at 
 his moustache, and speaking in a strange 
 sort of grating voice, like a carriage 
 going down hill with the drag on — " oh. 
 Honor, can't you guess what I mean ? 
 We have known each other so long, and 
 have been so much together, but we shall 
 see little of each other in the future, 
 unless — " (there must have been a very 
 big stone in the way just then, safely 
 bumped over, however) '' unless you can 
 give me a little bit of your life in ex- 
 change for my whole love, and go with 
 me wherever fortune may call me — 
 unless you can make a little room for 
 me in your heart," (rather bitterly)
 
 I40 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 " which Gladys seems to have appro- 
 priated altogether." 
 
 A series of jogs, a mighty thump, then 
 a full stop, but whether the carriage 
 were at the top or the bottom of the 
 hill, the owner thereof did not know him- 
 self. 
 
 Honor, however, understood at last, 
 though for a moment she could not say 
 so. 
 
 The people went hustling and bustling 
 by, the cabs and carriages went rolling 
 past. Stephen and Honor themselves 
 walked on, neither slower nor faster, 
 but just exactly as they had been doing 
 for the last quarter-of-an-hour. And yet 
 all was changed. There was a silent, 
 solemn, pulseless pause within her, 
 like the hush that falls upon the waves 
 when they go curling back from the 
 shore, and stand caught together for 
 a second in a great white heap. The 
 next moment they rush forward again,
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 141 
 
 kissing the sands as they go, and 
 tumbling tumultuously one over the 
 other. Then Honor's heart begins to 
 throb once more, beating back a little 
 faint colour to her cheeks, sending a few 
 faint trembling words to her lips. 
 
 " Stephen — dear Stephen — don't say 
 that. I think — I think there is room." 
 
 Were those the words she said ? Ste- 
 phen never knew. He only felt as though 
 some windows in heaven had been sud- 
 denly flung open, and the stream of 
 passionate delight had flowed over, and 
 flooded his soul. 
 
 " Do you really mean it — my darling — 
 my darling !" he cried. And then his 
 voice too seemed suddenly to have gone 
 from him, passed away into silence, as 
 darkness into light — as stars into space — 
 as life into love ! 
 
 They crossed the road, and turned 
 down the little lane leading to the 
 Vicarage. It was a narrow ill-paved
 
 142 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 passage, bounded by two high grey walls. 
 But to them, at that moment, it seemed 
 suddenly to have become a vrai chemin du 
 Paradis. The walls were garnished with 
 precious stones, the pavement was strewn 
 with pearls. It is so with us all. We 
 furnish our way as we go, sowing amaran- 
 thine flowers, hanging up magical pictures 
 which we fondly fancy will live for ever. 
 They do not live — they cannot last — 
 weeds grow faster than flowers, and the 
 good seed is choked up — and the fog 
 comes in, and the sun, and the dust, and 
 the rain, and our pictures get faded and 
 spoilt, and lose all likeness to realities. 
 But it is something to have possessed 
 them once, and to be able to carry about 
 the memory of them for ever. 
 
 Stephen and Honor walked slowly 
 down their chemin du Paradis (which 
 was otherwise known to the world by the 
 less romantic name of Racket's Alley) and 
 pushed open the little garden-gate in the
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 143 
 
 wall. And there, yonder, was an angel 
 waiting for them — an angel in a white 
 frock and a broad-brimmed hat, standing 
 under the verandah, flapping her arms 
 to and fro, as though they had been 
 wings. 
 
 " How dreadfully slowly you must have 
 walked," cries the angel, spreading her 
 wings, and flying down upon them, with 
 somewhat more speed than Mr. Aylmer 
 thought at all necessary. " I, and papa 
 have been home such a long time — and 
 oh ! Honor how hot your cheeks 
 look, and why do your eyes shine so 
 brightly ?" 
 
 "I think because I am so happy — so 
 extra happy to-night, dear," whispers 
 Honor, burying her hot cheeks in a tangle 
 of sun-coloured hair. The sisters have 
 left Mr. Aylmer standing on the grass- 
 plot, and are going up the verandah steps 
 together, clinging to each other. 
 
 " So extra happy," repeats the child
 
 144 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 musingly, "that must be happier than 
 liappy, I should think— only—only— I 
 hope, Honor, your cup is not so full that 
 it will brim over and spill !"
 
 
 CHAPTER YI, 
 
 THE FULL CUP. 
 
 " There grows a flower on every bough, 
 
 Sing heigh-ho ! 
 There grows a flower on every bough, 
 Its petals kiss — I'll show you how, 
 
 Sing heigh-ho and heigh-ho, 
 Young maids must marry 1" 
 
 CHARLES KINGSLEY. 
 
 T. MARK'S VICARAGE is not 
 
 a modern model parsonage, 
 neither is it situated in a plea- 
 sant part of London. It is an old- 
 fashioned house, square topped, and 
 built of brick, with several sham win- 
 dows outside, and a good deal of space 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 wasted inside. It stands a little way 
 back from St. Mark's Road; and the 
 next best house in the parish is a gin 
 palace. 
 
 Behind the Vicarage, however, as if 
 to make amends for its somewhat ill- 
 favoured face, there lurked an unsus- 
 pected garden. It was only a small, 
 narrow, walled-in scrap of ground, hardly 
 worthy of the name of garden ; but just 
 such a bit of green light and shade as 
 one stumbles upon sometimes amid a 
 tangle of streets, like an odd feast-day 
 coming in the middle of the week, or a 
 single bright spot in an otherwise dull 
 monotonous life. 
 
 It was not much of a place certainly, 
 and one almost wondered to see any 
 flowers there at all. But there were 
 some : a dejected-looking honey-suckle, 
 flapping feebly over the wall, some 
 stunted geraniums, and early blighted 
 fuschias set about in pots.
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL, 147 
 
 There was also a square of grass in the 
 centre, honoured by tlie name of " the 
 lawn/' and at the far end a biggish 
 bed of hollyhocks, which every autumn 
 pushed up their bright heads, and looked 
 out on the world with their many- 
 coloured eyes. The one tree, however, 
 was the pride of the place ; it was a 
 weeping-willow, and was extremely lavish 
 of its tears. Some ivy, too, went crawl- 
 ing over the house, and round the arches 
 of the old verandah. It was smoke-dried 
 and blackened, and carried on the same 
 mournful and funereal suggestions. In- 
 deed altogether the place was not unlike 
 a churchyard — and not a pretty modern 
 *' God's acre" either, bedded with flowers, 
 and tended with loving pious care, but 
 an old, neglected, long-forgotten place 
 of tombs ; grim and damp and mouldy- 
 looking. 
 
 Nevertheless, dreary and dismal as it 
 might seem to others, it was as the 
 
 L 2
 
 148 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 garden of Eden itself to more than one 
 of its occupants that night. The roar of 
 the streets beyond came drifting in a 
 gentle murmur over the wall and the 
 budding hollyhocks ; lights were set in 
 the old brick house ; an old raan sat 
 bending over his papers in one of the 
 lighted rooms, a little child's voice went 
 ringing up and down the passages, and in 
 and out of the house ; but Adam and 
 Eve in the garden neither heard nor saw 
 any of these things. For love, thank 
 God, is a hardier plant than we some- 
 times think, and will spring up spon- 
 taneously in the dismallest spots, devoid 
 of light, or space, or air — ay, even against 
 prison walls, or in fetid alleys, where 
 fainter flowers, such as truth, or patience, 
 or justice, or fair dealing, absolutely 
 refuse to grow. 
 
 They were sitting under the willow- 
 tree — they had been having tea there, 
 in fact. It was a long standing promise
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 149 
 
 to Gladys that they should do so, on 
 this last night in London ; and the child 
 was not one to forget such a promise. 
 
 Nor would anyone have wished her to 
 forget, for the feast had been a plea- 
 sant one, though of a silent order. 
 Mr. Carmichael, who never contributed 
 much to the general stock of conversa- 
 tion, on other occasions, always kept a 
 book beside his plate at feeding times. 
 
 Gladys had flitted about hither and 
 thither in the lawless manner dear to 
 his heart, whilst Stephen had sat by 
 Honor's side, pouring water into her 
 tea-pot, putting sugar into the cups, 
 doing those hundred and one nothing- 
 nesses, which are so small and 
 trivial in themselves, but which mean so 
 much when done under certain conditions 
 and by certain hands. For love is a 
 sacrament — a baptism unto a new life, 
 and its tiniest acts, and words, and looks, 
 are ihe signs and forms thereof, like the
 
 I50 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 cross made in water on tlie child's brow, 
 which implies the whole scheme of re- 
 demption in all ages. 
 
 And then, by-and-by, Mr. Wynch had 
 come in, and had drunk his tea with a 
 series of twitches, and looked back 
 wistfully at the pair under the tree, as 
 his Yicar hurried off to the lighted-up 
 room, and the parish papers. And 
 Griadys had gone off also, to superintend 
 the packing of her doll's wardrobe, no 
 doubt, and enjoy a few last passages of 
 arms with Martha, the maid. And the 
 other two had sat on in that subtle 
 silence, which is often more expressive 
 than all the talking in the world, while 
 the earth grew dimmer and darker, 
 and the amber-tinted sky deepened into 
 solemn purple at night's holy approach ; 
 and all round the soft London atmos- 
 phere which is at once so misty and 
 so luminous, waxed golden and tremulous, 
 as down St. Mark's Eoad Gladys' be-
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL, 151 
 
 loved lamps were being lighted one by 
 one. 
 
 All ! those happy moments — " if they 
 could but last," as the mason said, whilst 
 still in the air, when he fell from the 
 house-top to the street below. 
 
 " There is more of life's delight 
 In one hour such as these, than many years ; 
 For life is measured by intensity, 
 And not by dial^ dropping sand, or watch." 
 
 " How beautiful everything is !" said 
 Honor, breaking the silence at last. 
 There are times when silence becomes 
 oppressive, and feelings must find their 
 vent in words. 
 
 "Even I?" asked Stephen, with a 
 smile. " In the old days, you used to 
 say I was the ugliest, crossest, hate- 
 fullest boy that ever was born. Have 
 you changed your opinion now?" 
 
 The girl's only answer was a smile ; 
 but what a smile ! bright and beautiful
 
 152 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 as the sun's first glint on the dew-drops, 
 sweet, and swift, and sure as the sum- 
 mer lightning, when it tears the sky- 
 open, and shows us through the rent a 
 glimpse of the gleaming white heavens 
 beyond. Then she rose suddenly, and 
 pushed her way out from under the 
 willow branches. 
 
 *' Honor, you do not speak — you do 
 not answer me," said Stephen, following 
 her, and arresting her steps, as she 
 reaches the old verandah. " Have you 
 nothing to say to me ? Shall I come 
 to Pierreport for my answer?" 
 
 '' To Pierreport — yes," she whispers, 
 looking at him with her frank tender 
 eyes, while the low-growing leaves fan 
 her cheeks, and kiss her soft smooth 
 hair. 
 
 " And till then you will be as silent 
 to everybody else as you have been to 
 me, won't you, Honor?" says Stephen, 
 looking at her with passionate delight.
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 153 
 
 " Silent?" repeats Honor, with a start. 
 
 " Silent — upon this little matter — which 
 — which we have settled together to- 
 night," returned Stephen, hesitating, 
 while he fingers rather nervously the 
 dusky ivy leaves that seem to be hold- 
 ing a sort of moonlight revel round him. 
 " You see, I would rather tell your father 
 myself, and there is not time to do so 
 now. Besides, my prospects are not very 
 brilliant at present; I have not yet re- 
 ceived the promised letter from my uncle 
 in India." 
 
 '' India ! oh, Stephen !" said Honor. 
 And then her hands, which had been fin- 
 gering the leaves too, dropped down and 
 fell into each other. 
 
 It was a sudden revelation. Until that 
 moment Honor had never realized that 
 her cup of happiness being full — brimming 
 over, in fact, as little Gladys had said — 
 something must needs spill out of it. And 
 that something — what was it going to be ?
 
 154 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 Honor knew, but she dared not answer 
 the question, even to herself. She only 
 stood there, still and silent, with her 
 hands caught together and her head 
 drooping as she listened to a certain 
 rustling and shuffling that was going on 
 behind the hollyhock hedge. 
 
 " I shall follow you very soon," said 
 Stephen, interpreting her change of coun- 
 tenance in the manner most flattering to 
 himself. And then he pushed his own 
 face up a little nearer, the better to look 
 at hers, no doubt. 
 
 They are close together, for Honor 
 is still standing on the verandah-steps, 
 and Stephen is leaning against the iron 
 railing below. Their lips just meet — like 
 flowers blown together by the soft sum- 
 mer wind — the dark curly locks and the 
 fair shining hair mix and mingle together 
 for a moment — then a bird-like voice from 
 behind the hollyhocks — 
 
 " Gladys !" cried Honor, turning away
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 155 
 
 from Stephen's arms and darting up the 
 verandah steps. 
 
 '' Always Gladys," said Stephen, not 
 jealous now, as indeed he had no right to 
 be ; but looking after her and laughing, as 
 he strode away in the darkness with the 
 echo of her voice ringing in his ears.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 PEOTOPLASMS ! 
 
 " Then when we meet and thy look strays toward me, 
 Scanning my face and the changes wrought there, 
 * Who/ let me say, * is this stranger regards me, 
 With the grey eyes, and the lovely brown hair?' " 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
 TEPHEN AYLMER was in that 
 chronic condition common to 
 many young men of the pre- 
 sent day. He was waiting for something 
 to do. 
 
 He had been waiting a long time, five 
 or six years at least ; in fact, ever since 
 he had left the roof of the Rev. Edward
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 157 
 
 Carmicliael, whose pupil he had been. 
 Nor did there seem any immediate pros- 
 pect of his patience being rewarded. 
 Meanwhile he was amusing himself by 
 playing at various professions, taking 
 care to leave off each game directly 
 he found himself beginning to tire of 
 it. 
 
 Once, indeed, soon after he had left the 
 vicarage. Sir Henry Aylmer, governor of 
 an Indian province, and the young fellow's 
 uncle, had written and offered his nephew 
 a post in that country. But Stephen, 
 who was at that time enjoying himself at 
 Oxford, and who had not quite made up 
 his mind as to whether he meant to be- 
 come a poet or a painter, had declined the 
 offer with very scanty thanks. Where- 
 upon the uncle had relapsed once more 
 into silence or indifference, and being a 
 man of a scriptural turn of mind, " washed 
 his hands " of his nephew, as he himself 
 expressed it.
 
 158 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 From Oxford young Aylrner went to 
 Munich, and from Municli to Florence, 
 and from thence half round the world. 
 He did not go to India, however, but tra- 
 velled as lie said to make sketches and 
 pick up ideas. He had no lack of talents. 
 On the contrary, his misfortune was to 
 possess too many, and they all seemed to 
 be fighting within him for supremacy one 
 against the other, like tradesmen in a 
 country town competing for custom. 
 
 He had an ardent artistic tempera- 
 ment, neutralized by intense restless- 
 ness. He could work for an hour, he 
 could be enthusiastic for a day ; but 
 he soon wearied even of his own 
 emotion, and, as I have said, was given 
 to skimming the cream off a good many 
 things, and to abandoning each when the 
 time came for churning the cream into 
 butter. Am I wrong in thinking that 
 a taste for cream, and an incapacity 
 for churning, is one of the saddest
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 159 
 
 gifts nature bestows upon her children? 
 Young Aylmer laboured under another 
 disadvantage. He was an orphan (which 
 perhaps accounted for his remaining so 
 long under Mr. Carmichael's tuition), and 
 his father's small fortune had lain by for 
 a good many years, and consequently ac- 
 cumulated pleasantly. When Stephen 
 came of age he found himself rich enough 
 to be careless of work, but not indepen- 
 dent of it. His fortune was sufficient to 
 enable him to live comfortably, and enjoy 
 himself moderately, but not sufficient to 
 pay for all his various experiments in 
 various professions. The life at Munich 
 and the studio at Florence had cost some- 
 thing, and there were bills coming in from 
 Oxford still. He found when he returned 
 from his grand tour that he had broken in 
 upon his capital. This alarmed him. He 
 was not near starvation yet, but he was 
 sufficiently frightened to swallow a biggish 
 slice of humble pie. He wrote to his uncle
 
 i6o HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 and inquired meekly whether there was 
 any post now vacant in his province 
 which he was qualified to fill? It was 
 Honor who urged him to do this. She 
 looked over his shoulder as he wrote, and 
 sealed the letter when it was finished. 
 " It will be so good for you to have some 
 real work to do," she had said in her old- 
 fashioned motherly sort of way. 
 
 Stephen looked at her doubtfully. It 
 was one of the times when he thought she 
 might have guessed a little at that story 
 he was obliged to tell her so plainly in 
 St. Mark's Road. 
 
 In course of time, an answer came from 
 India. It was brief, and to the point. 
 There was no vacancy at present. It 
 was possible one might occur shortly. 
 Should this be the case. Sir Henry would 
 write again. Meanwhile Stephen would 
 do well to qualify himself for any appoint- 
 ment by improving his knowledge of Hin- 
 dustanee and Indian affairs in general.
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL, t6i 
 
 Steplien and Honor were great friends. 
 They had always been so since the awful 
 moment, when he, a long-legged awkward 
 boy of ten had first stood in the Vicarage 
 drawing-room, and was stared at merci- 
 lessly by four other boys, whose com- 
 panion he was destined to be, while his 
 tutor went blundering about among the 
 chairs and tables, and blinked at him 
 feebly now and then, and made faint re- 
 marks to an invalid lying on a sofa near 
 the window, from the side of whom a 
 little toddling girl came forward and put 
 her small soft hand into his, and looked 
 up at him with her blue-grey eyes, and 
 lisped " I will like you, boy." 
 
 It was very absurd, almost laughably 
 so. It was just like the mouse that tried 
 to patronize the lion, or the daisy who 
 declared she would keep all the dew-drops 
 that fell to her share in her golden cup for 
 the overshadowing oak-tree to drink. So, 
 at least, thought Stephen Alymer, as the 
 
 VOL. T. M
 
 i62 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 little child's soft fingers silently stole into 
 his own grimy palms. But all the same 
 their touch comforted him. He had 
 been used to blind adoration from his 
 mother hitherto, and now there seemed to 
 be no one to offer it, or indeed to take any 
 notice of him at all except this child. 
 The boy valued her attentions accordingly 
 and drank daily of the daisy's dew. I 
 wonder whether he ever remembered the 
 fate of that little flower ? 
 
 They were great friends, but they used 
 to quarrel a trifle now and then. The 
 oak-tree would be rough at times, and 
 then the daisy would shut up her golden 
 cup and let him have no more dew that 
 day. Next day, however, she would give 
 him a double allowance ; which is a way 
 many women have of reconciling a past 
 sense of injury with a present gush of 
 compassion. And if there is not much 
 justice in it, there is at any rate a good 
 deal of pathos.
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 163 
 
 Honor's nature was essentially womanly, 
 and from a very early age she had learnt 
 to be motherly. She had not had much 
 care taken of herself, poor little soul, but 
 she had early learnt that her way of life 
 was to take care of other people. Her 
 mother had been a confirmed invalid, 
 whose colourless existence was scarcely 
 missed from the house when it vanished, 
 save by the husband to whom she had 
 been the '' one love of his life," and 
 the little daughter who had grown up to 
 bear her parent's burdens with a patience 
 and tenderness beyond her years. And 
 then there was Gladys, a mere baby, laid 
 upon the lap of another baby, but who yet 
 lacked nothing of a mother's care, or a 
 mother's love. It is a great thing, no 
 doubt, to discover one's vocation in life, 
 but it is rather a misfortune, I think, to 
 have to practice it whilst one is very 
 young. 
 
 It certainly was so to Honor Carmichael. 
 
 M 2
 
 i64 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 At a time when other girls are counting 
 balls and their parties, or at best, evolving 
 a new dress out of an old one, this little 
 motherless maiden was adding up the 
 butcher's bills, and gravely discussing in- 
 fantile diseases with the family doctor. 
 She led an isolated life, and had no one 
 to guide her, and nothing to lean upon, 
 except her own judgment — which is gene- 
 rally a broken, or at any rate a feeble 
 uncertain reed for so young a girl. Her 
 governess had died when her pupil was 
 seventeen, and it had not been thought 
 necessary to replace her. Her father, 
 who had always disliked society, had shut 
 himself up entirely since his wife's death, 
 and lived among his books like an oyster 
 in its shell. He gave up taking pupils, 
 and devoted himself to his studies. Mean- 
 while, Honor, who was only a girl, not a 
 book, grew up (almost unknown to her 
 father) with a sweet, eager, wistful face, 
 and a heart so full of tender cares and home
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 165 
 
 duties, there seemed to be scarcely any 
 room in it for anything or anyone else. 
 
 " 1 do not know — I think I must be 
 very cold-hearted," she had said one day 
 to Mr. Wynch, the curate, to whom she 
 had once been engaged for a weary 
 month ; ''I have tried, but I do not feel 
 as if I should ever be able to love you." 
 
 " Perhaps your time for love has not 
 yet come, dear," the good little man had 
 answered, hoping against hope, and 
 twitching his poor face terribly, as he 
 took back the ring he had placed on her 
 finger himself, and which she now 
 pulled off of her own accord with a 
 delicious tug of relief. 
 
 " I do not think I shall ever have time 
 to love," she said, flushing up. " Not 
 anybody or anything new, I mean," she 
 added, trying to make matters smooth, 
 but failing altogether so far as Mr. Wynch 
 was concerned. And then she went back 
 to her butcher's books, and let down a
 
 i66 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 tuck in Gladys' frock, and looked out the 
 sermon her father was to preach next 
 Sunday, and tried between whiles to feel 
 a little sorry for Mr. Wynch, but only 
 succeeded in feeling — oh ! so glad for 
 herself. After all, she certainly could not 
 be much of a loss to anyone, except per- 
 haps to the home people, and all the old 
 things there. So, at least, she thought of 
 herself. 
 
 Stephen Aylmer, I suppose, must have 
 been a part of the old things, for he 
 seemed to slip quite easily into his place 
 immediately after his return from his 
 journey round the world. Perhaps, in 
 truth, he had never slipped out of it, 
 though Honor told him frankly she had 
 not thought of him once during all his 
 five years' absence, and should certainly 
 not have known him in his present bronzed 
 and bearded condition, had his name not 
 been announced at the door. 
 
 " Should you not ?" said Stephen, not
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 167 
 
 quite knowing whether to be offended or 
 amused. He had been accustomed of 
 late to a certain amount of flattery and 
 deference from mothers who believed his 
 fortune to be greater than it was, and 
 daughters who admired his sentimental 
 dark eyes and dreamy poetic air; and 
 here was this girl, whom he had 
 known from her babyhood, and who 
 had lived in a hole all her life — a Lon- 
 don hole, be it well understood, narrow 
 and cramped, and smoke-beclouded — and 
 who had known nothing, and seen no- 
 thing, and felt nothing, snubbing him 
 on their very first interview after a long 
 separation. It was either very humili- 
 ating or very ludicrous. 
 
 She was a pretty girl, however — a very 
 pretty girl indeed she looked, as she sat 
 there under the old verandah, with the 
 shadow of the wind-swayed leaves fleck- 
 ing her fair hair and her grey dress ; and 
 her soft blue-grey eyes looking up at him
 
 i68 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 with that strange, wondering, uncon- 
 scious Undine expression in them, which 
 they never wholly lost in all the long 
 years that came after, in which her soul 
 was wide awake, and painfully alive to 
 every breath of love, and hate, and joy, 
 and pain ; yes, she was certainly looking 
 very pretty just then, or else the travelled 
 and most experienced Stephen would 
 hardly have taken the pains to continue 
 his conversation with her. 
 
 " Then I am glad to find that my 
 memory is better than yours," he said. 
 '' / should have known you anywhere ; 
 you have not changed a bit." 
 
 Honor laughed incredulously. 
 
 "Not changed a bit!" she cried. 
 " Why I was only fourteen when you 
 went away, and now I am nearly twenty, 
 and feel a hundred." 
 
 " That may be so," maintained Stephen, 
 stoutly, " but all the same you are not 
 changed a bit."
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 169 
 
 And Stephen was right. Honor was 
 not changed a bit, had hardly grown at 
 all. She was a child still — a child in her 
 utter unconsciousness and absorption in 
 her present duties — a child in her total 
 want of thought and feeling for the 
 future. In some ways, indeed, she was 
 quite as much of a child as Gladys 
 herself, and it was only after hearing of 
 some of the wonders of the world from 
 Stephen Aylmer, that she found out it 
 was stupid to have lived in one place all 
 her life. That young craftsman had been 
 half inclined to resent, half disposed to 
 profit by the result of his handiwork. 
 
 It is true there are people who go 
 through life without making such dis- 
 coveries, and it is also true that they are 
 by no means the least agreeable or the 
 most useless folks in the world. Sisters 
 who live in communities often do so, and 
 so do women who are brought up and 
 nurtured by the tenderest care, and who,
 
 lyo HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 in the course of nature, pass from love to 
 love, and change their homes and duties 
 perhaps, but not their conditions of life. 
 But it was not to be so with Honor ; it 
 never is, I think, with those whose 
 destiny it is to influence in any great 
 measure other lives by their own. She 
 had slept long, but she was going to 
 wake now. We must be awake to move 
 ourselves or others. We may toss about, 
 talk incoherently in our sleep at times ; 
 but then, who cares to listen ?
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 PIERREPOET. 
 
 '"' Strong and free, strong and free, 
 
 The flood-gates are open — away to the sea." 
 
 CHARLES KINGSLEY. 
 
 HE Carmichaels had a prosperous 
 journey both by land and by 
 sea. Miss Pincock's aspirations 
 for her friends' welfare on that point were 
 gratified. 
 
 They have been, by this time, about 
 three weeks at Pierreport, and certainly, 
 so far as her father and little Gladys 
 were concerned, Honor had had no rea- 
 son to regret the chance that had brought
 
 172 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 them thither. Mr. Carmichael, in par- 
 ticular, looked ten years younger, and 
 twenty degrees better than he had done 
 in London. He had brought his books 
 with him, but he took them out walking 
 over the long yellow sands, or up and 
 down the steep, twisting, winding street, 
 and he read them as he went, instead of 
 in his stuffy little study at home. He 
 still kept them beside him at meal- times, 
 but he made a ponderous joke one day 
 about '' Bacon for the mind, and bacon 
 for the body," which was highly appre- 
 ciated, and ever after he tried to say 
 something elephantinely funny concerning 
 the quaint little dishes prepared for him 
 by the united efforts of Honor and Rosa- 
 line, the cook. He even caught himself 
 laughing once, over some little witticism 
 of Gladys', in an odd, pathetic, half-sad, 
 half-wistful way that touched Honor 
 strangely. When would they all be so 
 happy together again ? How strange it
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 173 
 
 is that grown-up beings can never enjoy 
 the present, without over-shadowing itbya 
 thought of either the future or the past. 
 Honor, you see, was a child no longer. 
 She had a future now. 
 
 As for little Gladys, her days were 
 passed in a series of ecstatic delights, 
 to which the hours by no means sufficed. 
 She passed long sunny mornings on the 
 sands, piling up palaces which the waves 
 knocked down. She tasted the sea-foam, 
 and found its saltness intoxicating. She 
 dabbled her little white feet in shallow, 
 shining, sun-warmed pools of water, left 
 behind, forgotten, perhaps, by the sea, 
 their mother. She went to market with 
 Eosaline, where two sous bought more 
 than two sous have ever done before or 
 since; while men in blue blouses, with 
 their hands in their pockets, and their 
 feet among pots and pans, (the apparently 
 chronic condition of market-men in 
 France,) would turn cautiously amid
 
 174 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 their crockery and stare at the English 
 child, with her floating hair like vraisfils 
 (Tor; and old wrinkled-faced women, 
 sitting cosily under gigantic umbrellas, 
 red, blue, green, a,u choix, would hunt 
 among their freshest wares, and find many 
 a ripe reme claude, bursting with yellow 
 sweetness, for the lips of the Hite jprin- 
 cesse, or present her with great bunches 
 of creamy pink roses to match her cheeks. 
 French people, even among the lower 
 orders, have always such a passion for 
 beauty. 
 
 Furthermore the child had established 
 a nodding acquaintance with her opposite 
 neighbour, the little curly-headed son of a 
 hairdresser, Gaspard Bonnet by name. 
 Also she had made a friend among the 
 sisters of the Convent of Notre Dame de 
 Bon Secours hard by, and on one occasion 
 had nearly precipitated herself from the 
 window in her anxiety to kiss her hand to 
 Soeur Genevieve. She learnt to jabber
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 175 
 
 French fast enough ; she wore a big flop- 
 ping hat and yellow sand-boots ; her little 
 hands grew sunburnt, her tiny turned-up 
 nose was freckled, her — but what is the 
 use of writing down all these things ? 
 Every blade of grass has its drop of honey- 
 dew, every grain of sand a diamond for 
 such children as Grladys Carmichael. 
 
 And Honor ? 
 
 With Honor all was well too, and even 
 if had not been so, I don't think anyone 
 would have been the wiser. She was 
 never a girl to think much about her 
 own feelings, in fact, as she would have 
 told you herself, she had never hitherto 
 had time to do so. If other people were 
 happy, that was enough for her. There 
 is a Turkish proverb which says, '' The 
 candle does not give light to itself." If 
 those she loved had light enough — love, 
 and all the other necessaries of life, Honor 
 was quite content to be their candle. 
 
 But at Pierreport, it must be con-
 
 176 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 fessed, she had more time for thinking 
 about herself than she ordinarily had in 
 London. There were no schools to visit 
 here, nor any poor parishioners to lament 
 with over short-comings in the matter 
 of coals, or the degeneracy of things 
 in general. Neither were there any 
 weekly worries in the shape of butchers' 
 bills ; Rosaline undertaking all the details 
 of housekeeping, and performing her 
 duties in the most jealous and mysterious 
 manner. So Honor was free to dream 
 dreams, and think about her secret all day 
 long if she chose. And as she found both 
 occupations very agreeable, she spent a 
 good deal of her time upon them, espe- 
 cially upon the latter. For a secret which 
 is all one's own (all one's own and one 
 other's. Men erdendu) not unfrequently 
 gets more attention than it deserves. 
 One must look at it so often to see if it 
 is safe. 
 
 It was so with Honor. She was always
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 177 
 
 pulling out her secret, and looking at it 
 in such a constant and open manner, that 
 she used to wonder sometimes that other 
 people did not see it too. And for my 
 part, I wondered also. There was love 
 written so clearly in her happy dreaming 
 eyes, and joy painted so distinctly on her 
 bright smooth cheeks, that whoso'er ran 
 might read. No one did seem to care to 
 read it however — more's the pity, perhaps. 
 It was written there plainly enough one 
 sunshiny morning, as she sat on the sands 
 gazing at the sea, grey in front and green 
 behind, with the irregular white line of 
 English coast faintly gleaming in the 
 background, whilst Gladys played round 
 her, building her castles, and looking a 
 little wistfully at other master-builders 
 who had workmen under them. She 
 would have liked to join them, even as 
 a hireling, but no one invited her. French 
 children generally regard English children 
 as unapproachable, and English folks, it 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 is well known, down to the last genera- 
 tion, have a natural distrust of one 
 another. 
 
 " How fast they jog along," said Gladys 
 the builder, striking work for a time, and 
 looking back at Honor, who was sitting 
 behind her, building her castles too. " It 
 is just like the hearses coming back from 
 a funeral." 
 
 " My dear little woman !" said Honor, 
 startled, as the child's words fell across 
 the thread of her own very pleasant pri- 
 vate meditations and broke it. " What a 
 dreadful comparison ; and what is it that 
 jogs along like a hearse ?" 
 
 " Why the bathing-machines, of course. 
 They r-rumble along over the sands, just 
 like the hearses coming back from Kensal 
 Gr-reen." (Gladys had just achieved pro- 
 nouncing a French " r," and though it 
 stuck like a burr on her tongue, she was 
 not a little proud of the accomplishment). 
 " I often see them going down St. Mark's
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL, 179 
 
 Road, when the funeral is over, and all the 
 mutes sit outside amoug the feathers, and 
 they talk together, and sometimes even 
 laugh — and I always feel so sorry for the 
 poor dead person they have left behind in 
 a hole. It would be much nicer to be 
 buried in the sea, I think," continued the 
 child, musingly. " The sand would be so 
 soft and nice to he on, and the waves over- 
 head would sound like church-bells toll- 
 ing, and " 
 
 ** What nonsense you are talking, 
 Gladys," said Honor, rather sharply. 
 It seemed to her, somehow, that a cloud 
 had suddenly gone over the sun. 
 
 " Well, perhaps I am," admitted Gladys, 
 candidlv, "but even nonsense is better 
 than nothing at all, and you never speak 
 at all now. Honor." 
 
 '* Don't I, darling?" said Honor, with a 
 sudden rush of compunction. Had she 
 then been so selfish, thinking her own 
 thoughts and neglecting her little sister, 
 
 N 2
 
 [8o HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 and had the child found it out before she 
 had done so herself ? " Come then, we 
 will make up for lost time now," she 
 said. " Shall I tell you a story, or would 
 you like to go into the town and look at 
 the shops ?" 
 
 The child, who found a strange attrac- 
 tion in the narrow streets, full of funny 
 shops and bustling people, who clattered 
 about in their wooden shoes and stared at 
 them as they passed, instantly chose the 
 latter proposal. She picked up her spade 
 and her basket of shells, and Honor 
 threw her thoughts to the winds, and off 
 the sisters started, arm-in-arm, as their 
 way was. 
 
 It was nearly mid- day, and the streets 
 were very hot, and the air still and wind- 
 less. Everything seemed to be asleep in 
 the sun, the old women under their um- 
 brellas, the dogs on the door-steps, the flies 
 on the cakes and creams in the window of 
 the patissier. Even the gleaming grey
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. i8i 
 
 water, lapping lazily against the wet 
 wooden beams of the little harbour, sang 
 a sort of irresistible lullaby, as it rocked 
 the small brown fishing-craft that lay 
 slumbering on its breast. One boat, 
 indeed, braver than the rest, had spread 
 her brown sails, and set off confidently 
 in the hope that at high tide a wind might 
 arise and drive her out to sea. 
 
 But she had only drifted a little way 
 across the harbour, and there she was 
 now, hovering over the shining waters, 
 like a brown butterfly pinned on to a 
 sheet of paper. The rest of her compa- 
 nions, less venturesome, remained huddled 
 together in a corner of the harbour, where 
 they looked indeed like 
 
 " Dead flies, well nigh stagnated.'* 
 
 " Oh ! how hot it is," said Gladys, almost 
 panting. 
 
 They turned down the next street. It
 
 i82 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 was a sort of passage, dingy and therefore 
 shady. 
 
 "If we go along here, and then up 
 those steps at the end," said the child, 
 looking round and recognizing her where- 
 abouts, " we shall go past Lili's house. 
 Do let us do that, Honor." 
 
 Honor prepared to do it, of course. She 
 always obeyed the little one implicitly. 
 
 " But who is Lili ?" she asked. 
 
 " Oh, don't you know Lili — Eosaline's 
 niece," cried Gladys, communicatively. 
 " She comes to our kitchen sometimes, 
 and Rosaline always gives her a big basket 
 to carry away with her. Her mother is 
 a fish- wife, and she has two little brothers 
 called Hyacinthe and Yiollet. And they 
 live in such a funny little house, and they 
 always keep their door wide open." 
 
 They had reached the top of the steps, 
 whilst Gladys was detailing all this valu- 
 able information. A steep street now 
 rose before them, paved with large round
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 183 
 
 slippery stones, and bounded by houses 
 so liigh and narrow that they seemed 
 almost to meet at the top, like trees in 
 an avenue. All of them seemed, too, to 
 follow the fashion of Lili's house in the 
 matter of open doors. Perhaps, on the 
 whole, this was fortunate, as it gave 
 the casual passer-by an opportunity of 
 inspecting the most ordinary and do- 
 mestic occupations of the dwellers within, 
 and of ascertaining, by the use of his 
 eyes, that these avocations were not 
 exclusively connected with stale fish, as 
 he might otherwise have imagined by 
 means of another sense. 
 
 For this was Mont St. Michel, the 
 fishing suburb of Pierreport, and here, 
 amid clouds of brown nets, and gusts 
 of fishy smells, the matelots and mate- 
 lottes with their teeming families did love 
 to dwell. 
 
 " Here come Lili and her mother," 
 cried Gladys ; as a short, stout woman in
 
 i84 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 a black petticoat, and a tight wliite cap 
 tied under her chin, with a little girl 
 dressed exactly like her holding on to 
 her skirts, came clattering down the 
 street in their big wooden shoes. 
 
 Gladys ran forward to meet them with 
 outstretched hand and beaming face. 
 But the fish-wife either did not or would 
 not see the English child; she looked 
 resolutely on the other side, and went 
 on clattering faster and faster, and 
 louder and louder. The little girl peeped 
 out of one of her eyes at Gladys, and 
 grinned a little greeting; but her hand 
 being in her mother's she was dragged 
 quickly on. Gladys fell back disap- 
 pointed. 
 
 *' They don't seem to know me," she 
 said, in an aggrieved tone of voice. And 
 then she looked up at Honor, expecting 
 some sympathy — which, for once in her 
 life, she did not get.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 AN AWKWARD MEETING. 
 
 " Singing : and as the sweet voice of a bird, 
 Heard by the lander in a lonely isle, 
 Moves him to think what kind of bird it is 
 That sings so delicately clear, and make 
 Conjecture of the plumage and the form ; 
 So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geraint. 
 
 Who thought and said, 
 
 * Here, by God's grace, is the one voice for me.' " 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 ONOR had grown dreamy and 
 meditative again, and Griadys 
 was thinking of her own wrongs 
 with regard to Lili, so the pair walked 
 on in silence for some time. 
 
 Honor was rather troubled in her 
 mind. She did not like the notion of 
 an acquaintanceship between Gladys
 
 i86 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 and Rosaline's niece; but she did not 
 know how to prevent it. Rosaline, who 
 was a fine-looking woman, with black 
 eyes, and gold earrings, and an appa- 
 rently unlimited supply of crisp white 
 caps, was not a person to be spoken 
 lightly to. Moreover she was not even 
 the Carmichaels' own servant, but had 
 merely passed into their service for the 
 time being, together with the church, and 
 the chaplain's rooms in the Rue Bon 
 Secours. And the chaplain himself would 
 as soon have thought of finding fault 
 with the shape of his church windows, 
 as Honor of objecting to any thing hitherto 
 done by the immaculate Rosaline. Never- 
 theless she felt rather uneasy. 
 
 Meanwhile the sisters had been clam- 
 bering slowly up the steep slanting street, 
 which, widened gradually as they mounted. 
 It opened out at last on an old grey 
 church, standing alone on the top of the 
 hill, with a borderland of churchyard
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL, 187 
 
 straggling up after it, and a pretty green 
 landscape stretcliing out beyond. The 
 church was full of votive offerings, silver 
 hearts, and crosses, and model boats with 
 quaint touching inscriptions appended 
 to them. It was the fisherman's church ; 
 within its walls simple, faithful women 
 were wont to kneel with streaming 
 eyes and agonized hearts, when their 
 " men " went away from them ; and before 
 its altar they would bring their thank- 
 offerings when those dear ones, their 
 fathers, husbands, brothers, lovers re- 
 turned in safety from the dangers of the 
 deep. The church was called St. Michel. 
 But the sisters did not go in to in- 
 spect these offerings. They lingered for' 
 a moment at the churchyard gate, and 
 looked out over the tombs at the pretty 
 far-stretching country beyond. There 
 was a wood in the background, and a 
 white shining road leading towards it; 
 in front there were some fields full of
 
 i88 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 waving wheat, and a windmill or two, 
 set here and there as if to remind the 
 corn of its approaching destiny. And 
 then just before them wound an enticing- 
 looking lane, cool and shady, and bounded 
 by high green hedgerows, down which 
 Queen Gladys immediately elected to go. 
 
 But the hedgerows, alas ! were gay de- 
 ceivers, and only existed for a very short 
 way down the lane. When they came to 
 an end, the sisters found themselves 
 walking on a bare bleak bit of road, cut 
 apparently out of the very edge of the 
 hill. On one side there was a steep 
 white path, half cut into steps, winding 
 away like a serpent through the bushes 
 and down to the shore ; on the other, 
 rose a row of stiff small houses in various 
 stages of erection. It was evidently new 
 ground they had chanced upon — a place 
 full of possibilities ; but devoid as yet of 
 interest or association. 
 
 Most of these houses were mere shells
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 — protoplasms of dwelling places, filled 
 with dust, instead of human beings. One 
 house, however, seemed to be both 
 finished and occupied. It was a small 
 house just like the rest, with green 
 jalousies, and a tiny flowerless garden in 
 front. Its jalousies were open, and so 
 were the windows, and through the space, 
 sun warmed, sunlighted, a stream of 
 music came floating out, drifting over the 
 little dreary garden, and flooding the 
 narrow dingy lane. 
 
 The music was a voice — a young girl's 
 voice, pure and clear as well-water, but 
 rich and luscious withal; and the song 
 that she sang was that song of Madame 
 Amable Tastu's, which is so full of 
 sorrow, and so void of suffering. 
 
 " monde ! 6 vie^ 6 temps^ fantomes, ombres vaines, 
 Qui lassez a la fin, mes pas irresolus ; 
 Quand reviendront ces jours, ou vos mains etaient 
 
 pleines, 
 Vos regards carressants, vos promesses certaines, 
 Jamais, 6 jamais plus !"
 
 igo HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 "Is fchat good singing?'* asked 
 Gladys, who though a chorister of St. 
 Mark's, entertained but a poor opinion 
 of her own performances. *' I don't like 
 it at all," she added, shaking her golden 
 head, and laughing. 
 
 Honor laughed too — a little low strange 
 sort of laugh, that had somehow the 
 shadow of shudder trembling through it. 
 But she did not answer the child. 
 
 They walked on, nearing the house 
 with the open windows, and looking up at 
 it as they approached. The houses were 
 numbered already, and this one was 
 marked No. IV., but No. lY. of what— 
 rue — passage— venue, neither Honor nor 
 Gladys had the least idea. They learnt 
 to know it well enough though; one of 
 them indeed far too well, before those 
 Pierreport days were over. 
 
 Suddenly the house-door of No. lY. 
 opened, letting out a fresh burst of music 
 and two gentlemen as well, who stood for
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 191 
 
 a moment on the threshold talking to- 
 gether. Then they strolled leisurely 
 down the garden- way, unlatched the gate, 
 and went out into the lane. 
 
 " How she zings /" said one of them in 
 good, round, vibrating, Teutonic English, 
 as he passed the sisters. He was walking 
 along with his face upturned, and his soul 
 far away from his body, and being 
 somewhat clumsy as well as exceedingly 
 bulky, he rolled up against little Gladys, 
 and nearly knocked her over. " Ah ! 
 entschuldigung,'' he said, setting the 
 child straight with his big hands. And' 
 then with a heavy sigh, as if drawn out 
 of the depths of an unfathomable heart, 
 he added to his companion : " It is just 
 like all the angels, her zinging J' 
 
 His companion laughed in a strange 
 grating way. He was considerably older 
 than the other, and could not naturally be 
 expected to express such raptures. 
 
 " Yes — she sings well enough," he
 
 192 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 returned carelessly, and in unmistakable 
 
 English. "Not indeed so well as " 
 
 with a sigh too, which he checked in- 
 stantly, as he checked his words, *' I 
 mean not altogether after the manner of 
 the angels, as perhaps you will find out 
 for yourself some day, Herr Graf." 
 
 Herr Graf rubbed his hands, and looked 
 as if he had received the most acceptable 
 compliment in the world. He was one 
 of those big, blue-eyed, blundering fel- 
 lows, with fair curly hair, round rosy 
 cheeks, and a hesitating uncertain way of 
 moving and speaking, such as Nature 
 turns out by the bushel in all countries, 
 and from which the great Fatherland is 
 certainly not exempt. They are usually 
 men of one idea, frank, foolish, faithful, 
 with a peculiar knack of tumbling into 
 scrapes, and an honest way of scram- 
 bling out of them. They are weak, and 
 easily led both to good and to evil ; they 
 suifei keenly sometimes, but they do not
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 193 
 
 suffer long, and on the whole they lead 
 lives as happy and worthy as it is given 
 to mortals with good consciences, and 
 humble hopes for the future, to enjoy 
 here. 
 
 The Graf's companion was a very dif- 
 ferent looking man. He was tall and 
 slight, with something of the ancien 
 mousquetaire in his manner and bear- 
 ing. He had deep-set steel-coloured eyes, 
 and a heavy grey moustache. His hair 
 was streaked with grey too, and his 
 nose was gracefully hooked— not irregu- 
 larly peaked after the fashion of Mr. 
 Punch or Napoleon Trois, but with that 
 true aristocratic look with which a benefi- 
 cent providence has gifted some of our 
 noblemen, in order, no doubt, that humbler 
 folks might be enabled to hang up their 
 hats upon them. He was Enghsh un- 
 doubtedly, and yet his clothes had a 
 decided foreign cut. From his looks he 
 might have been a Duke ; he was in truth 
 
 VOL. I. ^
 
 194 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 an Earl's son, and a man of certain age 
 and standing, and yet he seemed to be 
 paying immense deference to the mean- 
 looking boyish German by his side. 
 
 Meanwhile the sisters had wandered on 
 down the lane, which by this time had 
 begun to turn and twist about like a 
 wriggling wounded worm. The white 
 path down to the sea seemed to have lost 
 itself in a tangle of furze-bushes. The 
 unfinished houses had come to an abrupt 
 termination ; and over the hedges and the 
 piles of rubbish, the singing girl's voice 
 drifted faintly and plaintively, like a far- 
 away bell at sea. Another sudden bend, 
 another sharp curve ; the road was grow- 
 ing narrower and rougher with each step 
 — and then, lo and behold it ended alto- 
 gether, in two walls of mud and a 
 damp-looking field. 
 
 Alas ! it is not only country lanes 
 which end like this. There have been 
 many and many a bright beginning in
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 195 
 
 this world of ours, whose progress has 
 been checked by the mire of sloth and 
 indolence, or choked up by stones rolled 
 against it by envious and ungrateful 
 hands. For life is one long battle ; and 
 all our forces are useless — our armies 
 of energy, and thought, and hope, fight 
 in vain — unless we set out with a vanguard 
 of sappers and miners, prepared to throw 
 down as well as uprear. 
 
 ''I suppose we must go back," said 
 Honor, surveying rather ruefully the. 
 perspective of mud, stretching out like a 
 dim dark sea before her. "I think 
 those steps will take us down to the 
 shore, and if so, we can go home that 
 way." 
 
 " But if so, we shall have to go back, 
 and pass that stupid awkward man 
 again, who tumbled up against me just 
 now," objected Gladys, rubbing an imagi- 
 nary injured shoulder. 
 
 What else was to be done ? The muddy 
 
 2
 
 196 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 field and the stile led apparently nowhere, 
 except perhaps to one or two black-look- 
 ing cottages in the distance ; the winding 
 path most likely went down to the shore. 
 After a moment's consideration, the sisters 
 turned back. 
 
 Gladys' injurer was still ambling up 
 and down in front of the house with the 
 open windows. His head was still up- 
 turned, his soul had evidently not yet 
 returned to its body, or, to speak more 
 correctly, his heart to its home. He was 
 alone. His companion had disappeared. 
 From the other end of the lane, the figure 
 of a woman was seen approaching. 
 
 '* Why — here comes Madame Pl^on," 
 said Gladys, making out the figure as it 
 drew nearer. 
 
 '' And who is Madame Ple^on ?" inquired 
 Honor, " you seem to know everybody 
 hereabouts, Queenie." 
 
 " Madame PMon is a sort of head bathing- 
 woman," explained Gladys. " She calls
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 197 
 
 herself tlie superintendent of the ladies 
 who bathe, and she is always on the beach 
 every morning till one o'clock. I saw her 
 thereto-day; but it was at Lili's house 
 that I saw her first," added the child, pre- 
 paring for a meeting and a greeting. 
 
 Madame Pleon, however, was not equally 
 prepared on this occasion. Her head was 
 turned away, not in the direction of the 
 singing voice, but towards the steps 
 and the winding path. There must have 
 been something very interesting to her in 
 that spot, for she crossed the road sud- 
 denly and looked again. She was a tall 
 handsome woman of about forty years of 
 age, well-dressed in a costume that was 
 half paysanne and half hourgeoise. She 
 carried a basket under her arm — a flat 
 open basket, with no handle and no cover, 
 and containing probably her marketings 
 for the week. 
 
 The basket was full to the brim. There 
 were all sorts of miscellaneous articles in it,
 
 iqs honor carmichael. 
 
 from a pair of sabots to a fine fat oisoUy such 
 as it would have gladdened the heart of 
 good King Henry to see in a house-wife's 
 hands. All the things lay loosely huddled 
 together, and Madame Pl^on carried the 
 basket, which was a wide one, by merely 
 stretching her arm across it. 
 
 And so it chanced that Herr Graf, back- 
 ing slowly with his eyes upturned towards 
 Maison Numero quatre ; and Madame, walk- 
 ing towards him rapidly, but looking in 
 the other direction, came into sudden and 
 unexpected collision. The basket and its 
 contents were upset, and Honor and 
 Gladys, who happened to be passing at the 
 precise moment, seemed to be somehow 
 mixed up in all the confusion. 
 
 Herr Graf was profuse in his apologies. 
 He poured out a torrent of entschuh 
 digungs. He bowed and scraped indis- 
 criminately to Honor and to Madame 
 Pleon. He stroked the oison in the most 
 paternal manner. When order was once
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 199 
 
 more restored, however, his head resumed 
 its slanting position, his face its rapt ex- 
 pression. The sisters and Madame Pleon 
 went their waj, each in a different direc- 
 tion, and left him standing before the 
 house. 
 
 " What a very awkward, clumsy man !" 
 said Gladys, feeling somehow as though 
 her suspicions with regard to her shoulder 
 had been justified. '' And see, there is a 
 letter lying on the ground. That must 
 have dropped out of the basket, too." 
 
 The child began running back, but at 
 that moment the Graf also caught sight 
 of the letter, and picked it up, and brought 
 it to Honor. 
 
 " Is it yours, Mademoiselle ?" he asked. 
 
 Honor shook her head. The letter was 
 addressed to Madame Pleon, but there 
 was no other direction on it. The Graf 
 glanced at it too. 
 
 He started as he read the direction. 
 *' Madame Pleon !" he repeated, in a won-
 
 200 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 dering tone. And then he stared at the 
 words again, and then he looked at Honor 
 as though he half expected her to explain 
 some mystery to him (it was strange how 
 instinctively even strangers would turn to 
 that sweet grave face for help or advice), 
 and then he took to his heels, and, fat and 
 burly as he was, seemed absolutely to fly 
 after Madame Pl^on. 
 
 " Are you not coming, Reichenau ?" 
 cried his late companion, suddenly shoot- 
 ing up his head above the steps. '' We 
 shall miss the train unless you make 
 haste." 
 
 " One little moment," panted the Graf, 
 still on the track of Madame Pl^on. 
 " One little moment, good friend, I will be 
 with you." 
 
 The Graf's little moment, however, 
 turned out to be a long one — so long, in- 
 deed, that Honor and Gladys had time to 
 walk to the end of the lane and back 
 again before he had concluded his conver-
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 201 
 
 sation with Madame Pl^on. He turned 
 away at last, but he still looked very much 
 excited, and was writing down something 
 in his pocket-book as he came along. He 
 did not even pause to give one lingering 
 look to Maison Numero quatre, but went 
 quickly down the steps and rejoined his 
 companion. They hurried on together, 
 and Honor and Gladys following, could 
 see their black heads bobbing in and out of 
 the winding-path, till at last they dis- 
 appeared in a curve of the road that led 
 to the town. 
 
 The sisters walked on slowly. They 
 could not hear the music any longer. It 
 was all very still and quiet in that lonely 
 path among the furze-bushes. 
 
 Suddenly — behind them — there was a 
 rush, a flutter, a sound such as the waves 
 make when they suck in their foamy lips 
 and run back from the shore to the sea ; 
 and something dashed past them — some- 
 thing in a blue dress, like a bit of Italian
 
 202 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 sky, something witli a lovely flushed face, 
 and gleaming grey eyes, and rough brown 
 hair curling in a sort of crop, under rather 
 a shabby hat. 
 
 " That was the girl who was singing, 
 I am sure," said Griadys sagaciously. 
 " And oh, Honor, did you see the holes in 
 her boots ?" 
 
 " My dear little woman, you must not 
 always be looking out for holes in other 
 people," replies Honor rather senten- 
 tiously. '' But come now, let us see how 
 fast we can run down this last flight of 
 steps." 
 
 ''Are we late, then?" asked Gladys, 
 looking up into her sister's face with 
 what Eosaline would call a sour ire fin. 
 *' Or are you expecting Stephen ?"
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A STILL MORE AWKWARD MEETING. 
 
 " Just saved, without pulse or breath, 
 Scarcely saved from the gulp of death." 
 
 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI. 
 
 F Honor had been expecting 
 Stephen she was doomed to 
 disappointment; and I hope 
 she committed to memory, before break- 
 fast next morning, that soothing text : 
 " He that expecteth nothing, shall not be 
 greatly disappointed." 
 
 Now that I have written this down,
 
 204 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 however, I am not quite sure that I 
 approve of the sentiment. Are not the 
 most melancholy and disappointed people 
 in the world just those who tell you with 
 a sigh, that " they never expect anything 
 good or pleasant to happen to tliemy 
 And does not expectancy contain half, 
 and a good half too, of the delights of 
 life ? The bird that is winging his way 
 towards us is a far finer fellow, sings 
 more sweetly, flies more fleetly, than any 
 amount of tame house-birds we may hold 
 in our hands. If, when he comes and 
 nestles in our bosoms at last, he turns 
 out to be but of a common species after 
 all, what does that matter ? We have, 
 at least, had the felicity of imagining 
 him beautiful. It is better to expect 
 something pleasant, even if one is dis- 
 appointed in the end, than never to expect 
 anything at all, or only something dis- 
 agreeable. At any rate, one has had 
 the pleasure of anticipation.
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 205 
 
 The morning after tliat meeting in 
 the lane rose bright and beautiful, which 
 was lucky, as an event which had been 
 looked forward to for some days was 
 about to take place. Gladys was to 
 bathe for the first time in her life. It 
 was an event which was remembered 
 for many and many a long year after. 
 
 The child woke early, almost before the 
 sun, and long before the nuns in the con- 
 vent opposite had begun to chant their 
 prime, or the milk-women and their 
 donkeys to tramp through the streets 
 with their clinking cans. But Honor 
 did not wake so soon, nor, indeed, at 
 all, till little Gladys, in her eager excite- 
 ment, roused her with a kiss. Then she 
 woke smiling. Perhaps — who knows? — 
 she had been dreaming of her bird. 
 
 The sisters were early down on the 
 beach, but a good many other people 
 were earlier still. They had to wait 
 some time before their turn came. They
 
 206 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 were not much to be pitied, however, 
 for it was a lovely morning, as I have 
 already remarked. The air was sharp 
 like salt, and " strong like wine." 
 There was a briskness, a keenness, a 
 sort of metallic brightness everywhere 
 that was very exhilarating. The sun 
 shone like a king's face, and the wind, 
 salt-tasted too, curled Gladys' golden 
 hair, and wrinkled the crests of the 
 waves as they ran races along the shore. 
 Overhead, the sky was full of shifting 
 colours, subtle and sweet, while the sea, 
 catching here and there broken reflections 
 of broken beams, glittered and gleamed 
 like a field ablaze with fire-flies. 
 
 Honor, sitting on the shining sands, 
 with her hands clasped round her knees, 
 and her sweet blue eyes straying far 
 away over the waves and the waters, 
 to yonder faint grey cliffs of England, 
 thought she could have looked at these 
 things for ever. She really had quite a
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 207 
 
 passionate love for the sea. It had 
 divided her from Stephen, it is true, 
 but it seemed to connect them, too. 
 He on that side, and she on this, and 
 the waves moving between them like 
 winged messengers of love. Honor, you 
 see, had learnt to be fanciful and poeti- 
 cal, since she had been in love. 
 
 Gladys, however, was of quite a 
 different opinion, and thoroughly agreed 
 in the sentiments of Madame Pleon, who 
 was standing on the beach beside her. 
 
 " Ah ! ;petite dame, it is weary work, 
 waiting, n'est-ce pas V she said, looking 
 down, and addressing the child with that 
 perfect mixture of familiarity and respect 
 which Southern people know so well how 
 to blend. "But courage, it is a work 
 one must needs get used to, if one 
 means to tarry long in this world of 
 ours." And her dark face softened into 
 a smile, as she looked down again at the 
 pretty, impatient, restless child.
 
 2o8 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 There was some mystery about Madame 
 Pl^on. Some of the Pierreport people 
 shook their heads when they spoke of 
 her : others looked after her with a sort 
 of wondering curiosity. She was not of 
 their town, that was clear. She was 
 from the South, by her speech. She 
 lived in a little lonely cottage beyond 
 Mont St. Michel. She had but few 
 visitors, for she was not sociably inclined. 
 She was reputed to have performed some 
 miracles of swimming, and to be in 
 possession of various medals presented 
 to her by various Humane Societies. 
 She hated the sound of an English voice, 
 and the sight of an English face, and 
 that was about all that was known of 
 her. 
 
 There was always a tolerably large 
 English colony at Pierreport, so Madame 
 Pl^on had ample opportunities of ex- 
 ercising her feelings towards that nation. 
 She could be impartial in the matter of
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 209 
 
 machines, but, Frenchwoman as she was, 
 she could not pretend to be poHte. She 
 hated la perfide Albion with an absurd, 
 old-fashioned, unreasonable sort of hate. 
 
 And yet, here she is, this sunshiny 
 morning, smothering her feelings, and 
 wasting her time in talking to a little 
 yellow-haired English child, who sits on 
 the sands at her feet, and looks up at 
 her with wondering brown eyes. Such 
 a thing has never happened before. 
 Francette, the bathing woman, and An- 
 toine, the driver, look on in surprise. 
 In truth, it was almost a mystery to 
 Madame Pl^on herself. JSTevertheless, 
 she seemed disposed to brave public 
 opinion. 
 
 '' Some of those people in the sea are 
 thy compatriotes, petite,*' she said, in that 
 deep-toned voice of hers, which was as 
 unlike the sharp shrill voices of the 
 people round, as a flute is unlike a penny 
 whistle. " They are foolish a faire peur, 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 2IO HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 but they swim like fishes, that must be 
 allowed. But then, the time they remain 
 in the sea, c^est incroyahle. Figurez-vous, 
 Mademoiselle,'" (this was addressed with 
 great politeness to Honor, who was not 
 listening at all, but was still gazing at 
 the faint line of English coast,) '' there 
 is one jeune dame yonder who has been in 
 the sea for more than an hour. She is 
 amusing herself, and does not think of 
 those who wait on shore for her machine. 
 Oh, yes, she is English, pour Men sur. 
 It is only the English who are thus 
 selfish and greedy. But stay, we will 
 have a revenge. Her machine shall be 
 drawn up out of the water, and Made- 
 moiselle la nageuse shall have the felicity 
 of swimming to shore.'* 
 
 Madame Pleon's revenge was speedily 
 accomplished, and a few minutes later 
 Honor and Gladys found themselves reel- 
 ing and rattling over the sands, in a dark, 
 dripping, jolting machine.
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 211 
 
 '' Is it rougli ?" asked Gladys, as with 
 a miglity lurch the vehicle came to a full 
 stop. 
 
 " Eough — oh no, dear ! it is not at all 
 rough," replied Honor, peeping out. 
 " And, oh ! Gladys, there is a lady over 
 there swimming so beautifully. I wonder 
 whether she can be the English lady 
 Madame Pleon was telling us about just 
 now ?" 
 
 " Let me see," said Gladys importantly. 
 "Yes, she does swim well. Can you 
 swim, Honor ?" 
 
 Honor shook her head, and confessed 
 she was minus that accomplishment. 
 
 " No ? what a pity !" continued Gladys. 
 " But I tell you what you could do. 
 Honor. You are so tall you could 
 easily stand upright where that lady is 
 swimming. And that would do quite as 
 well, you know, for then if I were 
 drowning, you could stoop down and pick 
 me up ; could you not, Honor ?" 
 
 P 2
 
 212 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 " I don't know, dear. I don't want 
 to make the experiment upon you." And 
 the clear sweet eyes dimmed at the very 
 thought. 
 
 The next moment, the sisters were 
 dashing and splashing about in the water, 
 like the merriest of merry mermaids. 
 
 The swimming lady still attracted 
 Gladys' attention. 
 
 " Hark — she is singing now. Let us 
 go up nearer, and listen." 
 
 '' No, no, Queenie, it is time for you to 
 go in," said the prudent elder sister. 
 "Besides, it is rude to stare at people, 
 you know." 
 
 "Perhaps she would like it," suggested 
 Gladys. " And — listen — Honor. Don't 
 you hear? she is singing the same song 
 that the lady sang in the lane yesterday. 
 Jamais, 6 jamais plus, I can hear the 
 words quite plainly. And it is, yes, it 
 is," she added, wriggling herself round in 
 Honor's arms, to get a better view of the
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 213 
 
 swimmer, "it is the same ladj who flew 
 past us yesterday. I can see her eyes, 
 they are so curiously bright— just like 
 polished steel — and — and just see how 
 funnily she is going now. Honor — all on 
 one side — do look." 
 
 Honor did look, but she saw nothing ; 
 for just at that moment the object of 
 Gladys' admiration ducked her head under 
 a wave. 
 
 " She is only amusing herself, dear," 
 said Honor. And then lifted the child up 
 in her arms, and set the little white feet 
 on the green slimy slippery steps of the 
 machine. 
 
 " I don't think she is, though," returned 
 the child, with her face still turned 
 towards the sea. " Her hands are trem- 
 bling so — and — oh Honor what's that?^^ 
 cried Gladys with a shudder, as a sharp 
 shrill cry rang out across the water. 
 
 Honor heard it too, and looked round 
 again. She saw two white arms flung
 
 214 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 up wildly, fall back suddenly, and dis- 
 appear. Then there was a faint splash, 
 and after the splash — a silence. 
 
 Some one on the shore called out for 
 help, but the place was deserted just 
 then ; it was about one o'clock, and people 
 had gone home for their children's din- 
 ners. Madame Pl^on had retreated to 
 her little pavilion to make up her daily 
 compte. Antoine, the driver, who was 
 half an idiot, was munching his dejeuner, 
 (bread and onions), as he sat on his horse, 
 high up on the sands with his back to 
 the sea. Help from the shore would be 
 long in coming, and Honor felt there 
 was not a second to lose. 
 
 She could not swim, but she was very 
 tall, as Gladys had said, and strong too, 
 she fancied. She lifted the little one into 
 the machine, and then dashed once more 
 into the sea. 
 
 It was getting rougher each moment, 
 for the tide was running in quickly now.
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 215 
 
 The waves knocked her down as she 
 went dashing through them, but she 
 got up again, and went on boldly and 
 bravely. 
 
 The sea rose round her — deeper behind 
 — darker before, and tall as she was, she 
 was nearly out of her depth by this time. 
 Her feet scarcely touched the sand, her 
 eyes were full of salt-water and spray, 
 she was gasping for breath — panting — 
 staggering, but the motion of the waves 
 buoyed her up for a while, and she, 
 managed to struggle on somehow. 
 
 The water was clearer here however, 
 and deeper too — and down there — just 
 before her — she could see myriads of 
 shell and starfish, beating backwards 
 and forwards in the undercurrent of the 
 sea — and — and something else as well — 
 something loose and straight as ribbon 
 sea- weed, or a girl's tangled hair — some- 
 thing white as chalk, or a girl's upturned 
 unconscious face
 
 2i6 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 For a second, Honor stood still as if 
 breathing a sigh, or a prayer. Then with 
 a wild step forward, a desperate plunge 
 through the maddening waters, she threw 
 herself down — down — till her lips meet 
 the cold lips under the sea, and her 
 fingers are caught in a web of drenched 
 drowned hair. 
 
 And after that she remembered nothing 
 more. 
 
 The waves buoy her up again, drive 
 her back a little. Her feet find their 
 footing ; her lips open once more to inhale 
 the sweet breath of heaven ; she stands 
 erect for a second, with a girl's dead, or 
 exhausted, form tightly caught within her 
 arms — but she knows nothing at all about 
 it. 
 
 She pushes the wet hair off her brow. 
 She shudders and shakes in qyqvj limb. 
 She looks round wildly once. 
 
 Then, slowly her eyes seem to close 
 again — the waves begin to gurgle like
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 217 
 
 burial-bells in her ears — and the sand — 
 is it the sand ? flutters across her cheek, 
 and falls like angels' kisses upon her 
 lips
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 ^CUME DE MER 
 
 " The earth hath bubbles, as the water has^ 
 And these are of them." 
 
 MACBETH. 
 
 HEN Honor opened her eyes once 
 more, she was lying, not under 
 the sea, but on the sandy 
 wooden floor of the comfortless machine. 
 The angels were all gone, except 
 Gladys, who was kissing her sister's cold, 
 clammy fingers, and Madame Pleon, who 
 if not much like an angel, was at least 
 a ministering spirit, employed at that 
 moment in pouring something warm and
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 219 
 
 life-restoring down the half-drowned girl's 
 throat. 
 
 But life, just then, seemed a long way 
 off to Honor Carmichael, and scarcely 
 worth the trouble of travelling back to. 
 She looked round slowly once, as if bid- 
 ding good-bye to all things near, and 
 then closed her eyes again. One of her 
 attendant spirits was in despair. 
 
 '' Oh, Honor — Honor, don't keep your 
 eyes shut like that. I don't like it. Don't 
 you hear. Honor ? Gladys does not like it.". 
 
 Honor did hear, but she could not say 
 so just then. Nor could she quite 
 open her eyes again. But she opened her 
 arms, stretching them out a little wildly, 
 a little uncertainly, and that did as well. 
 The child flew into them, and lay curled 
 up on her sister's breast, like a folded 
 flower at sunset. 
 
 Madame Pleon looked at them, till her 
 bright black eyes grew quite dim and 
 misty. *' There were other sisters once,"
 
 220 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 she murmured to herself, " who loved 
 like these; and yet they were parted." 
 Then she opened the door quietly, and 
 disappeared. 
 
 By-and-by Honor's memory began to 
 tingle once more (her throat had been on 
 fire for some time past), and shaking her- 
 self up to a sitting position, she rubbed 
 her eyes vigorously, and said in quite her 
 usual voice, '' Where is she ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know, Honor, dear," 
 cried Gladys, plunging and kicking with 
 delight at seeing the loving blue eyes 
 wide open once more. " A big wave 
 went over you, you know, and then 
 Madame Pleon and Antoine rushed into 
 the sea, and picked you up, and another 
 lady too. And Madame Pleon brought 
 you in here, and Antoine carried the lady 
 away somewhere else. And a lady on 
 the beach said you were so brave, and 
 ought to have a medal. But I did not 
 care about your being brave. Your eyes
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL, 221 
 
 were close shut, and your face was so 
 white, and oh ! I was so frightened." 
 
 «< Were you, my darling — T am so 
 sorry," said Honor, winding her arms 
 closer round the little one. " But it's all 
 right now, you see," (a very big loving 
 stare) '' only I should like to know how 
 the lady is — " 
 
 " Oh, she do well, a merveille, allez^^^ 
 answered Madame Pleon returning, and 
 speaking in that comic sandwich sort of 
 language (one word of English between 
 two of French), which she had arranged 
 and composed expressly for the benefit of 
 the bathers. " We send for M. le medecin ; 
 but before he arrives, I rub la jeune joer- 
 Sonne back to life. Et vous, mon enfant ? 
 how do you? dites donc?^^ 
 
 " Oh, I am all right," answers Honor 
 cheerfully, testifying to the same, by 
 working away rapidly at the completion 
 of her toilet. 
 
 ** All right — that's all right," returns
 
 222 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 the Frenchwoman. " I always say there 
 is nothing: like that blessed eau-de-vie. 
 But are you really able to walk, chere 
 mees?" she added, somewhat anxiously, 
 as she saw Honor making for the door. 
 
 " If I could not, it would be the fault 
 of your blessed eau-de-vie, I should 
 think," replies Honor, laughing. And 
 then she goes down the machine steps, 
 perhaps a trifle more carefully than usual, 
 and waits on the sands for Madame 
 Pleon. 
 
 " Are you going back to see that lady 
 now ?" she asks, as the Frenchwoman 
 joins her. "Because if you are, I 
 should like to go with you — that is if it 
 would not be intruding ?" 
 
 Madame P16on stands still for a mo- 
 ment, and looks at her a little doubtfully. 
 
 " Intruding — non, ce rCest pas ^a," she 
 says hesitating. "But you see, I do not 
 know, I am not acquainted with this 
 young lady, and I am not quite sure
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 223 
 
 whether I ought to present her to you, 
 Mademoiselle." 
 
 " I should not have thought, under the 
 circumstances, that an introduction was 
 necessary," says Honor, laughing at 
 Madame Pleon's comme il faut scruples, 
 and feeling rather excited by the mys- 
 terious manner in which she had spoken. 
 
 Madame Pleon, however, was not ac- 
 customed to being laughed at. She did 
 not understand it ; French people seldom 
 do ; and she was rather disposed to take , 
 offence. 
 
 '' Come," she said, captiously. " It is 
 no business of mine. I do not know who 
 you are that I should care, except that 
 you have a look in your eyes that reminds 
 me a little — of some one I once knew. 
 As for the other young lady," (with a 
 shrug) ^' je vHen sais rien, either. True, 
 I have eyes, and ears, and a memory too, 
 and doubtless le hon Dieu does not give us 
 these things for nothing. Still, seeing
 
 224 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 and hearing, and even remembering, that 
 is autre chose from knowing. But come 
 now, here we are arrived at the little 
 pavilion,'^ she continued, rejecting the 
 shower of apologies and thanks with 
 which Honor proposed appeasing her in- 
 jured feelings. " Entrez toujours, Mademoi- 
 selle, la petite restera dehors un petit moment" 
 
 Mademoiselle la petite somewhat ob- 
 jected, but on being assured by Honor, 
 it would " really be only a petit moment" 
 she consented to wait outside in the sun- 
 shine, and admire Antoine's exploits 
 among the machines. 
 
 Honor followed Madame Pleon through 
 the open door of the gaily-painted 
 pavilion, and along a narrow corridor, 
 lined with bathing-dresses, and bladder- 
 like caps set out to dry. She was feel- 
 ing rather excited. Something new and 
 strange was certainly going to happen to 
 her. Hitherto her life had been so quiet, 
 so monotonous, a natural succession of
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 225 
 
 seasons, nothing more. Things had 
 grown up beside her as a tree grows. 
 JN'othing ever seemed to happen unexpec- 
 tedly. Even Stephen's love, like Gladys' 
 life, was to her, but as the summer 
 flower of the spring-tide bud ; the tree 
 had blossomed, the flower had unfolded ; 
 it was very sweet — very beautiful — that 
 was all. 
 
 They had reached Madame Pleon's little 
 business room by this time. Honor looked 
 round curiously. There was the lady 
 superintendant's comptoir, with her papers 
 still scattered about, and on a table 
 in the corner the remains of the dejeuner, 
 from which she had been ruthlessly called 
 away by a cry on the beach. In another 
 corner there was a pile of blankets heaped 
 up against the wall, on which rude and 
 slanting couch a young girl was reclining. 
 
 The girl looked up as her visitors en- 
 tered, but said nothing. She was very 
 young evidently, and she looked at that 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 moment, perhaps, younger than she really 
 was. Her feet were curled up under her; 
 her hair fell in a matted mass over her 
 shoulders. Her face was very pale, and 
 her whole attitude like that of a tired 
 child ; nevertheless, by the gleam of the 
 grey eyes and the sheen of her blue dress, 
 Honor recognized at once the bright-faced 
 girl who had shot past her, like summer 
 lightning, yesterday morning. 
 
 '' Mademoiselle," said Madame Pleon to 
 the girl on the blankets — she had under- 
 taken to do the honours, but she was not 
 going to do them with a very good grace 
 — " here is the noble young English lady, 
 who by the aid of the Blessed Virgin and 
 all the saints, saved the Hfe of Mademoi- 
 selle half-an-hour ago.'' 
 
 The grey eyes of Mademoiselle glanced 
 up quickly, then down again ; but her lips 
 said nothing. 
 
 " Surely," continued Madame Pleon, 
 still in her position of mistress of the
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL, 227 
 
 ceremonies, " Mademoiselle cannot mean 
 to leave unthanked the young lady to 
 whom she owes so much." 
 
 Thus urged the girl opened her lips, 
 though she did not look up again. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," she said in French, 
 " permit me to express to you my thanks 
 for having saved a life which is not of 
 the smallest value to anyone." 
 
 *' Surely that is not true," said Honor, 
 startled by the strangeness of the speech. 
 
 "Mademoiselle knows best," said Ma- 
 dame Pl^on, shrugging her old shoulders 
 again .and staring hard at the girl. Then 
 she picked up a bundle of bathing-dresses 
 and left the room. 
 
 Honor stood still a moment, uncertain 
 whether to follow her, or to pursue her 
 acquaintance with the girl on the floor. 
 
 The latter settled the matter. 
 
 " Is she gone ?" she asked in English, 
 clasping her hands behind her head, and 
 looking up at Honor with a quaint, comic 
 
 Q 2
 
 t«8 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 expression on her face. " Dieu soil beni ! 
 Come and sit here on this pile of bathing- 
 dresses — faugh ! how they smell of the 
 sea — and let me tell you that I did not 
 mean to be rude or ungracious to t/ow." 
 
 The emphasis was flattering. A pretty 
 appealing smile had succeeded the mock- 
 ing impish look, and Honor, as she took 
 her seat on the pile of bathing-dresses, 
 could not help feeling that the world was 
 the richer for her morning's work, or rather, 
 that it would have been the poorer had 
 those eyes and lips, and that dainty little 
 figure altogether been still lying mute 
 and motionless beneath the waves. 
 
 " I always make a point of being rude 
 to old Pl^on on principle," continued the 
 girl. ''She hates me so, you know," she 
 added, as if in explanation of the prin- 
 ciple. 
 
 " She does not like English people, 1 
 have heard," said Honor, trying to put a 
 mild face on the matter.
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL, 229 
 
 " Oh, but she has some especial and 
 particular hate for me," returned the girl, 
 with a strange grating sort of laugh. '' I 
 do not know the reason of it, but I found 
 it out before we had been here a month. 
 And when people hate one without a 
 cause, one may as well give them a reason 
 for doing so, I think." 
 
 Honor was puzzled by the rapid changes 
 in the girl's manner. They were so quick 
 and sudden, it seemed almost impossible 
 to follow them. 
 
 '' You do not live here then ?" she said, 
 
 " Live here ! no, I should hope not. I 
 loathe and detest the place. But we have 
 been here a couple of months already, 
 and I cannot think why my father stays 
 on. We do not generally remain so long 
 in any place." 
 
 '* "Where do you live, then ?" asked 
 Honor. And the moment she had asked 
 the question she thought it was, perhaps, 
 rather an impertinent one.
 
 230 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 " I don't live anywhere," replied the 
 girl, abruptly. " I have no home.'* 
 
 There was something so startling and 
 sad in the way in which the girl's voice 
 sank from its sharp, defiant, single notes, 
 to a plaintive pathetic chord, full of many 
 tones of feeling, that Honor's heart was 
 touched. She was more sorry than ever 
 that she had asked the question. 
 
 '' What are you looking so melancholy 
 about ?" said the girl, pushing up her 
 little bright chin after a moment's pause, 
 and peering sharply into Honor's face. 
 " Don't think that J want a home. What, 
 one of your dull English homes," she 
 cried, letting her voice run up again, till 
 its glad high notes rang out like a peal of 
 bells, " where the father talks about the 
 weather all day long, and the mother 
 scolds her maids, and the girls mend their 
 stockings, and the boys run away for very 
 dullness — merci! I don't think that sort 
 of life would suit me. Is it yours ?"
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 231 
 
 " Not quite," replied Honor, laughing. 
 *'I mend my stockings certainly, but I 
 have no mother and no brothers. I have 
 onlv one little sister to take care of, and 
 my father never talks about the weather, 
 and very seldom about anything else." 
 
 " Oh ! how dreadful — are you not 
 alarmed about him ?" said the other, 
 laughing too. " And a little sister to 
 take care of " (repeating Honor's words 
 in her quaint Frenchified English). " Is 
 not that a trouble?" 
 
 " A trouble ! Gladys a trouble ?" says 
 Honor, indignant as any mother. " Ah ! 
 you do not know — you have never seen 
 her. And I must go now," she added, 
 rising, " she is waiting for me outside." 
 
 " Oh, do not go yet," said the other, 
 rising also off her pile of blankets, and 
 shaking her hair back from her forehead, 
 till it fell in a bright rippling stream all 
 over her shoulders, and far down below 
 her waist. *' Do not go yet — I have seen
 
 232 HONOR CARMICHAEL, 
 
 her, and I saw you, too, yesterday in the 
 lane beyond Mont St. Michel. But I did 
 not understand, because I have no one to 
 care for me ; no one to care about myself. 
 I cannot tell what it would feel like. I 
 am all alone." 
 
 " All alone !" repeated Honor, gently. 
 " I am so sorry for you. But surely you 
 have some friends ?" 
 
 '' I have my father," replied the girl, 
 briefly. " I have no friends. That 
 was my father you passed in the lane 
 yesterday," she continued, after a pause, 
 during which Honor remained silent 
 and thoughtful. " I knew you again 
 the moment you came into the room. 
 You have a look in your eyes that one 
 does not easily forget — a sort of restful 
 look, as though, here and there, some 
 poor tired souls had leant against yours 
 and found peace. Is that so?" she 
 asked, with a sudden change of voice. 
 '' Or has the look only grown into your
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL, 233 
 
 face tlirougli having had to rock the little 
 sister so often to sleep?" 
 
 Honor remained silent. There was a 
 sort of half-mocking, half -plaintive ring 
 in the girl's voice, which she could not 
 understand. Was she laughing at her, 
 or envying her ? 
 
 " That was my father," continued the 
 girl, slowly, watching Honor. " He is 
 English. My mother was a Frenchwoman. 
 I cannot remember her, she died twelve 
 years ago, when I was six years old. 
 My name is Valentine Murray; what is 
 yours ?" 
 
 '' Honor Carmichael," said our gentle 
 Honor, softly. And then, the thought 
 of the time when it should be Honor 
 Something-else came rushing across her 
 mind, and she blushed all over, and 
 trembled a little, and her eyelids quivered 
 and fell, like little drifting white clouds 
 across the misty blue sky of her 
 eyes.
 
 234 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 Valentine Murray watclied her as if it 
 might be some curious book into which 
 she was glancing. 
 
 " What are you thinking of ?" she 
 asked, abruptly. 
 
 The question brought Honor back with 
 a leap out of the past into the present, 
 and sent her thoughts flying out of her 
 own life into that of the girl by her 
 side. How lonely it must be, how poor, 
 and thin, and miserable ! how different 
 to her own, which was so full and rich 
 with many sorts of love ! Could she not 
 spare her some little scrap out of her 
 great abundance ? What is the use of 
 being rich, if one can never give away 
 anything ? 
 
 " I am thinking," she said, very 
 softly, and stammering a little, " that it 
 must be terribly sad to be so much alone 
 as you say you are ; but if you like — that 
 is, if you choose, you need be so no 
 longer. For I think God must have in-
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 235 
 
 tended us to become friends, you and I, 
 and so let us meet this morning in the 
 sea." 
 
 Her voice trembled less as she went 
 on ; but she was very glad when her 
 little speech was concluded. It was like 
 making an offer of marriage, she thought. 
 How dreadful it must be to be a man, 
 and have to make such proposals to 
 women! And then, supposing one was 
 rejected ? 
 
 There was no fear of rejection in this 
 case, however. Valentine looked rather 
 surprised ; but far more pleased than 
 surprised. She flung her arms round 
 Honor's neck, (she was a little thing, 
 and Honor was very tall ; it was rather 
 like a bear hugging a pole,) and kissed 
 her with effusion. 
 
 " Will you really be my friend ?" she 
 cried. " I never had one before. How 
 funny it seems; and a friend made 
 in the sea too. Ecume de mer — is
 
 236 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 that to be the emblem of our friend- 
 ship ?" 
 
 Honor turned away. Valentine was 
 laughing again in that strange, mocking 
 sort of way, which had already grated 
 more than once upon her ears. There 
 was certainly something rather tuneless 
 about her, but no doubt that would 
 vanish w^hen they knew each other better. 
 Meanwhile, it was perhaps as much 
 Honor's fault as Valentine's, if they were 
 not quite in tune at first. At least, so 
 thought the honest, simple-minded, Eng- 
 lish girl. 
 
 At this moment the door opened 
 suddenly, and Gladys came rushing in. 
 
 " Oh, Honor — Honor, what a long 
 petit moment you have been ! Are we 
 never going home ?" There was no lack 
 of music about the child. She was a 
 tune herself, a little tune all played in 
 the treble, and with no bass notes at all, 
 as yet.
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 237 
 
 The bass notes followed on tlie lips of 
 Madame Pl^on. 
 
 '' I come to say," said that instrument, 
 in its deep vibrating tones, " that Madame 
 
 la Comtesse de M , having witnessed 
 
 the heroic conduct of Mademoiselle 
 Vanglaise in the sea this morning, begs 
 to have the honour of offering her car- 
 riage to take her and Mademoiselle la 
 jpresque-noye home." 
 
 " Oh ! no — no," cried Honor. " I am 
 quite well now, quite able to walk home, 
 and come," she said, turning to Valen- 
 tine, " are you not better also, and will 
 you not walk up with Gladys and me?" 
 
 And so the trio started, and their friend- 
 ship, doomed also to prove so fatal, was 
 thus begun.
 
 ^SS^ 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A CALENDAR OF FEASTS. 
 
 " It is a pleasure indeed to converse with this girl : 
 
 oh, rare gift ! 
 Rare felicity, this ! She can talk in a rational way, 
 
 can 
 Speak upon subjects that really are makers of mind 
 
 and of thinking^ 
 Yet in perfection retain her simplicity." 
 
 A. H. CLOUGH. 
 
 |LTHOUGH Honor had proposed 
 with eager poHteness that Miss 
 Murray should accompany her 
 home, she was not a Httle nervous as to 
 the manner in which her father would 
 be likely to receive an unexpected guest 
 at his dinner-table. Such a thing had 
 never happened before. Hospitality after
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL, 239 
 
 a certain kind, the Yicar indeed prac- 
 tised, that is, towards the curates and 
 schoolmistresses of the parish, in the 
 matter of teas, and also towards various 
 beetle-browed professors, old cronies of 
 his own, whose suppers taxed Honor's 
 powers of ingenuity. But to the chance 
 of *' entertaining angels unawares," Mr. 
 Carmichael had never given a thought. 
 
 Honor, accordingly, was not a little 
 alarmed at her own audacity in making 
 such an experiment. 
 
 *' I am afraid papa will be late," she 
 said, trying to prepare her friend's mind 
 for a possible rebuff. "He is a very 
 learned man, and is just now engaged 
 in compiling a dictionary of dead 
 languages, which occupies his thoughts 
 a good deal. I believe his name is 
 well known among savants in every country 
 in Europe." 
 
 Miss Murray expressed the pleasure it 
 would give her to make the acquaint-
 
 240 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 ance of so distinguished a person. 
 Her curiosity, at any rate, was ex- 
 cited. 
 
 " I shall feel frightened," she said. 
 " I have never known any one so wonder- 
 fully clever." Which was true. The 
 specimens of the nobler sex she had 
 hitherto encountered, had certainly not 
 been of the book- worm order. 
 
 All this flattering fear and pretty 
 preparation, however, was wasted. Mr. 
 Carmichael came in at last, but scarcely 
 took any notice of his daughter's friend. 
 He did not even seem surprised to see 
 her, which was, to Miss Murray, per- 
 haps the cruellest cut of all. The fact 
 was, he was never surprised at anything. 
 His mind being always so full, it could 
 seldom manage to take in a single extra 
 impression ; and if Honor had invited a 
 party of matelotes to dinner, or Gladys 
 had brought home a menagerie of mon- 
 keys, he would, I think, have helped them
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 241 
 
 all round to soup, and tlien quietly sub- 
 sided into his book. 
 
 Which was exactly what he did on the 
 present occasion. 
 
 He came in hurriedly, with his book 
 under his arm (a bilious-looking, brown- 
 paper-clad customer it was, this time) ; 
 listened to Honor*s story in his usual 
 breathless, inattentive sort of way, praised 
 the girl's conduct in words few and 
 common enough, in all truth, but which 
 made her cheeks glow again ; shook hands 
 with Miss Murray, and then, sitting 
 down to the table, had probably forgotten 
 all about the matter before he had finished 
 saying grace. 
 
 Dinners were always rather a solemn 
 fonction chez la famille Garmichael, as 
 Rosaline, in her capacity of parlour-maid 
 which she assumed when her duties as 
 cook were completed, used invariably to 
 observe. And to-day, owing probably to 
 the presence of a stranger-guest, that 
 
 YOL. I. E
 
 242 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 meal proceeded even more silently. It 
 was a sunny, sleepy afternoon. The 
 persiennes were closed, but through their 
 cracks a few lines of light came filter- 
 ing and flickering over the shining floor 
 and the white spread table. 
 
 The street was quiet. Every now 
 and then the horses on the cab-stand 
 opposite would fidget a little, and hit 
 their iron-hoofs against the hot stone 
 pavement ; or their cockers would yawn 
 uneasily, and flip their whips, and dis- 
 course to one another in a language 
 composed apparently of nothing else but 
 v.s. and s.s. ; or a matelote^s song of 
 sauterelles would be uplifted shrilly, and 
 die away into silence ; or a child would 
 cry, or a dog would bark, but other and 
 more exhilarating sounds there were none 
 without. And within, there was only a 
 languid buzzing of flies, and a gentle 
 murmur of knives and plates, and the 
 frolement of Rosaline's gown against the
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 243 
 
 floor, as she brought in her flats^ one by 
 one. 
 
 Miss Murray seemed to find this silence 
 rather irksome. It was her knife and 
 fork that discoursed most frequently, 
 and if she could have made the flies buzz 
 a little louder, I think she would have 
 done so — anything to break the mo- 
 notony of the feast. It was so dreadful 
 to see that formidable old man readinof 
 away at the end of the table. If he 
 was so clever, why did not he say 
 something ? She wanted him to speak to 
 her, or at any rate to look at her. But 
 he might as well have been deaf and 
 dumb, and blind into the bargain, for all 
 the notice he had taken of her. 
 
 She hazarded a remark at last. It was 
 about the fricandeau, and she followed it 
 up by sundry interesting observations 
 concerning the cookery of various nations, 
 to which Honor replied to the best of 
 her ability. Gladys paid her the compli- 
 
 R 2
 
 244 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 ment of staring at her wliile she spoke, 
 and Rosaline stopped short in her peram- 
 bulations round the table, to listen with 
 evident relish to a description she was 
 giving of the mode of feeding common 
 to a certain Graf von Reichenau, who 
 seemed to be a friend of her father. 
 
 " Raw ham, you know, and then blue 
 trout and pink cabbage, mixed together, 
 and all shoved down with a knife." But 
 Mr. Carmichael took no notice of her witty 
 remarks. Dinners and diners were 
 evidently not in his line. 
 
 She must try some other subject. 
 
 " What a beautiful day it is," she 
 began, conversationally, after a pause. 
 " Have you been for a walk, Mr. Car- 
 michael?" 
 
 Complete silence on the part of every- 
 body. Mr. Carmichael takes no more 
 notice of the clear silvery tones addressing 
 him, than he does of the flies buzzing 
 on the window-pane. A fact probably
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 245 
 
 more gratifying to the flies than to Miss 
 Murray. 
 
 She repeats her remark, with the 
 same result. Gladys begins to giggle a 
 little. Honor interposes. 
 
 '* I am afraid papa does not hear you," 
 she says softly. " He is always so much 
 engrossed with his book. Will you have 
 some more oeufs a la neige ? It is one 
 of Rosaline's famous dishes. I should 
 think even your German friend would 
 appreciate it." 
 
 Honor spoke apologetically, but she 
 did not attempt to rouse her father from 
 his studies. She continued her conversa- 
 tion with Valentine, however, chiefly 
 upon culinary matters, and in a spasmodic 
 sort of way, till finally it languished and 
 faded away. Gladys, whose tongue 
 usually wagged freely enough, sat mute 
 and motionless as a china image. 
 
 " You are just like a china mandarin 
 I once saw in a tea-shop," said Miss
 
 246 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 Murray, still pursuing her idea of being 
 funny, even if it were only in the infantile 
 department. *' It wagged its old head, 
 and put out its old tongue, and made 
 just about as many remarks as ycu have 
 done. How would you like to be set 
 up in a window to be looked at, little 
 Gladys?" 
 
 Little Gladys, who scarcely understood 
 what was being said to her, pursed up 
 her mouth as if scoring down the insult 
 to be answered at some future time ; and 
 then opening it again, contented herself 
 with lolling out her tongue in the sug- 
 gested fashion. But she said nothing. 
 Valentine was baffled once more. 
 
 She was baffled merely, not beaten. 
 In fact she was even at that moment 
 preparing for another attack. It was 
 clear that weather was no more within 
 Mr. Carmichael's beat than cooking 
 had been ; indeed it was foolish of 
 her to have wasted a second of time or
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 247 
 
 thought on the matter. Had not Honor 
 warned her that her father never dis- 
 cussed such things ? She must try some- 
 thing different, and try it in a different 
 way. 
 
 " Is that German you are reading ?" 
 she asked suddenly, just as Mr. Car- 
 michael began to turn over a fresh page 
 of his strangely-lettered book. It was 
 a good opportunity, and she seized it. 
 
 Mr. Carmichael looked up slowly from 
 under his grave bent brows. Miss Mur- 
 ray's voice was a clear ringing one, and 
 she had certainly spoken in season. By 
 the bye, what gift in the world is there 
 equal to this one of " speech in season?" 
 otherwise called " choosing your opportu- 
 nity." It is better than any amount of 
 learning, or power, inasmuch as it is the 
 pendulum of power, the balance of genius. 
 It has in fact, an alchemical force of its 
 own, and has been known to endue a 
 fool with the appearance of wisdom, a
 
 248 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 coward with the name of hero, an 
 abandoned sinner with all the attributes 
 of saintship ; whereas impulses and in- 
 stincts, however generous and true, often 
 only mislead and betray their possessor. 
 But this is only par parenthese, as it 
 were, and to draw attention to one of 
 Miss Murray's most admirable qualities. 
 
 " This is a Greek book," said Mr. Car- 
 michael, surveying her slowly, while the 
 unturned page hovered for a moment be- 
 tween his finger and thumb. 
 
 Miss Murray gave a little gasp. She 
 seemed to be suddenly filled with that 
 breathless, boundless admiration which 
 Moli^re's " Femmes Savantes " entertained 
 towards a man who knew " du grec, ma 
 soeur.'*^ 
 
 " It is a short history of St. Gregory 
 the Illuminator, and a tolerably complete 
 one ; I borrowed it from the library here," 
 continued Mr. Carmichael, still looking at 
 her. It was very surprising, certainly, that
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 249 
 
 any one should take an interest in bis 
 studies ; but then there was no end to the 
 marvels daily occurring at Pierreport ? 
 
 " St. Gregory the Illuminator was the 
 founder of the Armenian Church," he went 
 on, dropping of£ his items of information 
 like pearls from a chaplet, " and the 
 Armenian Church is an offshoot of the 
 Greek Church, which, as you are aware, 
 is the established Church of Russia." 
 
 Whether Miss Murray was aware of this 
 theological fact, or not, is doubtful. But it 
 did not matter, she had got her clue. 
 That was all she wanted. 
 
 " The ceremonies of the Russian Church 
 are very interesting," she said presently, 
 as if she too were making an original and 
 instructive remark. 
 
 " Have you ever been in Russia ?" asked 
 Mr. Carmichael, suddenly interested. 
 
 " No, but I have known a great many 
 Russians," answered Valentine, promptly. 
 
 " Ah !" says Mr. Carmichael, in a tone
 
 250 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 of satisfaction. *' And may I ask whether, 
 from personal intercourse with them, you 
 formed an impression that they will be 
 the coming race with regard to literature, 
 as well as politically the future rulers of 
 the world ?" 
 
 " They are certainly a wonderful peo- 
 ple," replies Valentine, ready for any 
 emergency, though a little bewildered by 
 the political and aesthetic problem thus 
 suddenly put before her. " There was a 
 very clever Russian family we once 
 met " 
 
 Mr. Carmichael disposed himself to 
 listen. The page fell back unturned. 
 
 But Miss Murray's clever Russians 
 were only skilled in the matter of modern 
 languages (a matter beneath the contempt 
 of a learned man), and as the story had a 
 tendency to drift towards Homburg, Mr. 
 Carmichael forsook it on its road thither, 
 turned over his page at last, and resumed 
 his reading very contentedly.
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 251 
 
 Dinner was concluded by this time. 
 
 '' I am afraid your father does not like 
 me, dear," said Valentine to Honor, as 
 they passed into the salon together. It 
 was her nature to be rendered uneasy by 
 the presence of a single crumpled leaf in 
 her bed of roses. 
 
 " Oh, you must not think that," said 
 Honor, quickly. " As I told you before, 
 papa seldom speaks. He thinks too much 
 to talk much. But I am sure he will like 
 you when he knows you better. Every- 
 body must do so." 
 
 And strange to say, Honor's prognosti- 
 cations on this point were correct. 
 
 That same evening at tea-time — (I am 
 sorry to have to introduce you to another 
 eating-scene, but the hours in English 
 households are usually marked by repasts. 
 It is a daily calendar of feasts — breakfast 
 o'clock, dinner o'clock, &c., the time be- 
 tween being computed to or from these 
 epochs) — at tea o'clock then that evening,
 
 252 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 before he began to read, Mr. Carmichael 
 remarked : — 
 
 " That was a nice intelligent girl you 
 brought home to-day, Honor. Above the 
 average I should say." 
 
 " I don't like her," said Gladys briskly, 
 shaking her little golden head. The child 
 had been full of the visit they had all just 
 paid to Madame Pleon, in her cottage be- 
 yond Mont St. Michel, and of the clock 
 she had seen there, and the piece of 
 charred wood which had fallen on Mon- 
 sieur Pleon's head and killed him, and all 
 the rest of the wonders. Her tongue 
 had gone on chattering in one unceasing 
 stream, making up apparently for its 
 silence at dinner time; but she stopped 
 short now, and looking full at her father 
 with her keen brown eyes, she repeated — 
 '' I don't like her at all, and I don't 
 think Madame Pleon does either."
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 PULLING DOWN THE HEDGE. 
 
 ''' Love thy neighbour, yet pull not down thy hedge." 
 
 GEORGE HERBERT. 
 
 F Honor had been disposed at 
 first to pity her friend's sad lot, 
 and, indeed, had been chiefly 
 drawn towards her out of a feeling of com- 
 passion for her lonely condition, as de-. 
 scribed by herself, she soon found reason 
 to alter her opinion in that respect. Valen- 
 tine to be pitied? No, indeed — envied 
 rather. Honor thought. She was so 
 bright, and beautiful, and clever. She 
 could do what she liked all day long, and
 
 254 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 as old Mademoiselle Madelon, her dame de 
 coynjmgnie, managed their menage, she had 
 no household cares to trouble her head, 
 such as sometimes puckered the pretty 
 brow of our Honor. She laid herself 
 out to amuse others, which was a 
 laudable away of amusing herself. It was 
 pleasant to be in her company, and the 
 Carmichaels soon enjoyed that privilege 
 pretty often. In fact, they were all de- 
 lighted with her. 
 
 Even Mr. Carmichael. He did not seem 
 to take much notice of her, but he talked 
 to her a good deal in his slow dreamy 
 way. He lent her one of his books to read, 
 which astonished Honor very much. He 
 even ventured one day to admire her sing- 
 ing — he, the Vicar of St. Mark's, whose 
 former opinion concerning music was that 
 it was ** no worse than any other noise," 
 and who could with difficulty be persuaded 
 to buy new chant-books for his choir, now 
 found himself waxing eloquent on the sub-
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 255 
 
 ject of Miss Murray's singing, comparing 
 it to " poetry set on fire, and words float- 
 ing on the wings of melody," and other 
 graceful and poetical metaphors. Valen- 
 tine was highly flattered by all this 
 homage, though she did not understand 
 one word of the book he lent her, and only 
 about half of the learned man's conver- 
 sation. 
 
 " Your father's remarks are very im- 
 proving," she would say, smothering an 
 embryo yawn by turning it into a laugh. 
 " But do not you ever see anyone 
 more amusing — more of your own age, I 
 mean ?" 
 
 " We don't know anyone here," replies 
 Honor, demurely. " Papa does not wish 
 us to make acquaintance with any one. 
 He says it is not safe in these continental 
 towns." 
 
 Valentine glanced up at her quickly, 
 and then smothered a laugh (rather a 
 shrill, sharp one), by turning it into a
 
 256 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 yawn. " Heigh-ho !" she said, and went 
 back to her singing. 
 
 Sometimes afterwards, when Honor 
 looked back on this part of her life, she 
 used to wonder how at that time she 
 could have had any thought or affec- 
 tion to spare for Valentine. Had not 
 Stephen absorbed them all ? And was he 
 not coming soon to claim them? How 
 then could there be room for any one 
 else in her heart ? She used to worry her- 
 self greatly about this. She fancied she 
 had been disloyal to Stephen, and had 
 given away to another that which be- 
 longed by right to him. But I think she 
 was wrong. I think her present instincts 
 were better than her after- thoughts. For 
 Love is a thing that can never be spent, 
 and the more one gives, the more one 
 has to give ; and the more one takes, 
 perhaps, the more one wants. 
 
 And so Honor and Valentine became 
 great friends, and their friendship gave
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 257 
 
 tliem mucli mutual satisfaction, although 
 Honor could not help feeling at times 
 that Valentine was not always quite in 
 tune with her, as it were, and Valentine 
 knew very well that her friend's way of 
 life was different from her own. 
 
 " Perhaps ^that is why I like hearing 
 about it so much," said Honor, one day, 
 when Valentine had been expatiating upon 
 the difference between her own vagabond 
 life, and Honor's caged life, as she called 
 it. '' It seems to me just like a story." 
 
 And so it was, a very pretty story ; but 
 not altogether a good one, I think. And 
 if our Honor could have heard it right 
 through, from the beginning, or if she 
 could have peeped on to the end, as one 
 can do in a printed book, I think she 
 would not have been quite so eager about 
 turning over the pages. 
 
 As it was, however, she was deeply 
 interested. It seemed to her a quaint, 
 unusual, poetical sort of life, this gipsy 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 life of Valentine's. It was, at any rate, 
 very unlike lier own, which had been 
 always spent amid the same brick and 
 mortar landscapes. 
 
 But Valentine's life seemed to have been 
 full of varying pictures, and beautiful dis- 
 solving views ; each one prettier than 
 the last. She had no Gladys, that was 
 true. Honor pitied her for that. But 
 then everybody could not possess a 
 Griadys. There would be too many little 
 girls in the world, if that were the case. 
 
 Valentine was not so absolutely alone 
 as Honor had at first imagined. She had 
 her dame de compagnie, Mademoiselle 
 Madelon, a funny, little, nut-cracker faced 
 old woman, who wore mittens, and a 
 black lace veil round her head, and 
 gossipped a great deal with Madame Pul- 
 liot, the landlady, and who was not an 
 amusing companion for Valentine, cer- 
 tainly ; but there might be worse — Madame 
 Pulliot herself, for instance. And then
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 259 
 
 there was her father, who was always 
 coming and going (it was rather unkind 
 of him to leave her so often), and some- 
 one else in the background. Honor 
 could not understand the half-mocking, 
 half -pitying tone in which Valentine 
 sometimes spoke of herself. She thought 
 her friend's lot by no means a bad one. 
 I suppose we all of us draw pictures of 
 each other's conditions and characters, 
 according to our own artistic perceptions 
 and experiences ; and we should, no doubt, 
 be not a little astonished were these 
 friendly portraits to be suddenly set be- 
 fore us. On the whole, however, I fancy 
 they are usually about as true to the 
 original as those painted by ourselves, of 
 ourselves. 
 
 And so these two went on chirrupping 
 and chattering away happily together, and 
 exchanging their simple little conj&dences, 
 and pulling down their hedges one by one. 
 It was very foolish of them ; but it was 
 
 s 2
 
 26o HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 what every womai], worthy of the name 
 of woman, does once at least in the 
 course of her life. *' Walk in, dear 
 friend," she says, in the trusting gene- 
 rosity of her heart. '' See, I have made 
 the way clear for you. Come into my 
 fields ; pluck my daisies and buttercups ; 
 wear my jewels if they suit you ; peep in 
 at the skeleton hanging up in my cup- 
 board — nay— do not refuse me ; take the 
 latch-key — come whenever you can." 
 
 Thus says she, pulling down her hedges, 
 one by one, and looking rather hot over 
 the work of demolition. 
 
 And then, by-and-by, there is robbery. 
 The jewel-case is stolen, perhaps, or the 
 skeleton is dragged into the light of 
 day. And who could have done this thing 
 save she for whom the hedges were 
 thrown down, and the secret winding 
 ways shown and explained ? Believe me, 
 over much trust in human nature always 
 breeds a thief. And the worst of it is,
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 261 
 
 that the hedges once pulled down can 
 never be replaced, except by a stone wall, 
 high and cold and impassable. 
 
 But women when they are pulling down 
 their hedges, never think of the walls. 
 Honor certainly did not ; but went on 
 pulling down her hedges, and laying bare 
 her land for her friend's inspection. 
 There was one hedge, however, she did 
 not touch. It was Stephen's hedge, of 
 course, and she could not be expected to 
 pull down that. And yet as she had 
 destroyed so many, it was almost a 
 pity perhaps she should leave one 
 standing. 
 
 As for Valentine, she made a great 
 show of pulling down her hedges, and 
 believed she had done so quite satisfac- 
 torily. Honor thought so too. But, in 
 truth, she had only removed a stick here 
 and there, and pulled down a twig or 
 two, so that on the whole her hedges 
 were rather more intricate when she
 
 262 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 left off, than they would have been 
 had she never touched them. 
 
 Honor's life lay stretched out before 
 her, like a water-colour landscape, faint 
 indeed, but clear, in which St. Mark's 
 Road, and the Church, and the 
 Vicarage, together with Miss Pincock 
 and Mr, Wynch, all stood in proper 
 perspective and due proportions. Even 
 the figure of a certain Stephen Aylmer 
 was visible in the same light, and Valen- 
 tine, had she been so disposed, might, no 
 doubt, have elicited a more tangible repre- 
 sentation of that rather misty personage. 
 But she did not seem to care. She was 
 perfectly satisfied with the outline pre- 
 sented to ber. 
 
 Of Valentine's life, however, Honor 
 had but few pictures, except those which, 
 as I said, she painted for herself. These 
 were, for the most part, blurred, indistinct 
 sort of things, as Honor knew well 
 enough. She thought it was her own
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 265 
 
 fault, lier own want of skill, and slowness 
 of apprehension. But it wasn't : it was 
 the fault of the sitter. She was per- 
 petually jumping about from one thing to 
 another, and then back again. Honor 
 found it hard work, trying to follow her, 
 and when, after a forced march, she 
 arrived breathless and panting at any 
 given spot, Valentine would dart off once 
 more like a fire-fly in a field of maize. 
 It was very charming of her, no doubt, 
 very clever and quick ; but it was 
 sometimes a little confusing to her 
 friend. 
 
 " Are you really engaged to that Graf 
 von Reichenau ?" asked Honor, one day, 
 after Valentine had been giving an ex- 
 tremely ingenious and ridiculous represen- 
 tation of that uncouth personage's words 
 and ways. It was very wicked of her; 
 but whenever Valentine talked like that, 
 she could not help thinking of poor Mr. 
 Wynch at home. " You are always
 
 264 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 laughing at him, you cannot really be 
 engaged." 
 
 " Mais oiii,'^ replied Valentine, with a 
 tragic smile. She was sitting on the 
 window-sill, swinging her feet. '' We are 
 betrothed — helas ! " 
 
 " But why — why did you do it ? " 
 ''/did not do it, ma chere,'^ responded 
 Valentine, with great solemnity. " My 
 father did it. We met Grraf von 
 Reichenau accidentally at Marseilles in the 
 spring of this year. Our families had 
 been previously acquainted, through an 
 elder brother, I think, who has been dead 
 many years. Graf Otto is in possession 
 of the family estates. They he near 
 Frankfort, and are very fine, I am told. 
 My father made the arrangement at 
 once. Fathers do all these things here, 
 you know. It is very convenient, and 
 saves one a good deal of trouble. Why 
 does not your father find a beau jeune 
 homme for you, Honor ? "
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 265 
 
 Honor coloured all over, from the roots 
 of lier hair to the tips of her fingers. But 
 Valentine's eyes were straying far away 
 down the dingy lane, and over the 
 red-roofed town, to where the sea in its 
 blueness was swelling and swaying, back- 
 wards and forwards, to the music of 
 the waves. So neither saw the other's 
 face. 
 
 " It saves one trouble, but it also gives 
 one trouble," continued Valentine, pen- 
 sively, leaning her head against the 
 window- frame. " Love must always be a 
 trouble, whether one has it, or whether 
 one is without it. Not that I have ever 
 had any to know — oh. Honor, Honor, I 
 wish I had !" And then this strange 
 impetuous girl jumped down from her 
 window-seat, and flung herself on her 
 knees down by Honor's side, and kissed 
 her hands, and laid her head on her lap, 
 and cried a little, and then laughed after- 
 wards at herself, for crying.
 
 266 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 She was always so : a hundred tilings 
 in a hundred seconds; mocking, tender, 
 reckless, defiant, one by one ; but enig- 
 matical always. 
 
 Honor soothed her as best she could. 
 She did not understand ; but understand- 
 ing is not necessary to sympathy, what- 
 ever it may be to forgiveness. She always 
 felt a little twinge of self-reproach when 
 Valentine talked in this fashion. She 
 could never have been so outspoken 
 herself. Valentine would talk openly 
 of her absent lover, but Honor never 
 breathed a suspicion that she possessed 
 such an article. She was frank and 
 generous enough, in other matters; but 
 there are some hedges which the most 
 confiding souls refuse to pull down, and 
 Honor felt that this was one of them.
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 THE LIVRE DHEUEES. 
 
 ''' For God above 
 Is great to grant as mighty to make : 
 And creates the love to reward the love." 
 
 KOBERT BROWNING. 
 
 HE house in which the Murrays 
 lived was a new one, so far as 
 walls and floors went, but the 
 furniture within was of undoubted and 
 indisputable antiquity. How many genera- 
 tions had sat upon those spindle-legged, 
 creaking chairs, and looked at themselves 
 in those blotchy smoke-dried mirrors, it 
 was impossible to say, but they had all
 
 268 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 been conveyed thither, the protesting 
 chairs, and the rest of the long-suffering 
 furniture, I mean, of course, by Madame 
 PulHot, a wealthy widow, who owned 
 several houses en ville, and who had added 
 this one o la campagne to her list as a 
 speculation. 
 
 Madame Pulliot used to say it was a 
 special interposition of Providence which 
 provided her with the idea of transport- 
 ing her old meubles (it is curious what 
 strange forms and shapes latter-day 
 miracles seem to take, according to some 
 folks,) from No. 1, Place Imperiale to 
 No. 4, Avenue Mont St. Michel. No. 1, 
 Place Imperiale was fitted up with miles 
 of stamped red velvet, and acres of 
 looking-glasses with gilt borders. It 
 was very hot, and dusty, and glaring. It 
 commanded a good view of the sea and 
 the adjacent bathing-machines, and was 
 constantly perfumed by fishy smells from 
 the neighbouring port. The moment it
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 269 
 
 was ready for visitors it was engaged by 
 a charming family from Glasgow. Well- 
 thought of ? je crois Men. And rich ? But 
 so rich, they might pave a passage under 
 the sea from France to England with gold 
 and silver, and not feel the want of it. 
 This charming family occupied Madame 
 Pulliot's splendid appartement the whole 
 summer, and went away rather suddenly 
 in the autumn, the firm of MacB. & 
 MacC, of Glasgow, having failed, and 
 the red velvet and gilding (both of which 
 were not a little worn) remaining unpaid 
 for to this very day. Truly, it seems some- 
 times as if some other agency besides 
 Providence had to do with these miracles 
 after all. 
 
 Madame Pulliot came up to her little 
 maison de campagne, during the summer 
 months, for change of air, and also to 
 look after her property, as she would 
 say with a knowing wink. She seldom 
 went to look after her property in the
 
 270 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 Place Imperiale, but then the MacB.'s 
 had paid a small sum on entering, and 
 engaged to pay a very large one on 
 leaving the house ; whereas, MM, les loca- 
 taires of No. 4, Avenue Mont St. Michel 
 (the Murrays were the sole locataires of 
 the tiny house, Madame Pulliot herself 
 occupying state apartments in it) had 
 only agreed to pay their rent weekly, 
 and had managed to do so hitherto, in a 
 praiseworthy, if spasmodic, sort of way. 
 There was a small sum owing now, which 
 gave Madame Pulliot an immense feeling 
 of injured dignity and angelic endurance, 
 and furnished forth the didactic part of 
 many of her conversations with Made- 
 moiselle Madelon. 
 
 Madame la Propietaire and Mademoi- 
 selle la dame de compagnie were very good 
 friends. It was, perhaps, rather a case 
 of faute de mieux, at least, on Mademoi- 
 selle Madelon's side, as the little dayne de 
 compagnie, with a deep-drawn sigh, used
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 271 
 
 to own to herself and her mittens. She 
 had been accustomed to such much better 
 society, until — until an unfortunate dull- 
 ness of hearing had come over her. But 
 she never sighed in Madame Pulliot's 
 presence ; it was delightful to see the 
 two old heads waggling close together, 
 and the two generous souls exchanging 
 delicate courtesies in the matter of coffee 
 and gossip. 
 
 In this manner, Madame Pulliot had 
 confided to her friend the whole history 
 of her life. How she had been born 
 the daughter of a small epicier in the 
 town, and at an early age had become 
 the wife of his partner. How both men 
 had an aptitude for saving, but in such 
 a strange confused way, (" they would 
 spend a louis to save a franc, ma 
 chere,'^) that on various occasions they 
 were brought to the brink of ruin, 
 from which they were dragged back by 
 her consummate talents alone. How,
 
 272 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 after the death of both, (she seemed 
 to have regarded them somehow in the 
 light of twin husbands, and, in truth, 
 the husband was scarcely a year younger 
 than the father, and died only eight 
 months after him,) she had caused their 
 affairs so to prosper, under her single- 
 handed guidance, that she might — being 
 still not bad-looking, and a veuve — which 
 some men like — and wealthy — which all 
 
 suitors approve — some day, perhaps 
 
 The story of our lives, when written by 
 ourselves, is always profoundly interest- 
 ing — to ourselves. 
 
 Mademoiselle Madelon's story was of a 
 less sensational order. A httle, quiet, 
 drab-faced woman, not clever enough to 
 be a governess, nor pretty enough for 
 a demoiselle de magasin, nor devote enough 
 for a religieuse ; she had drifted naturally 
 into the rank of dame de compagnie, the 
 narrative of whose various situations 
 sounded very dull and tame after Madame
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 273 
 
 PuUiot's more exciting and romantic 
 autobiography. It was necessary, there- 
 fore, to import a few stirring adventures 
 out of her employers' histories, in order 
 to give brilliancy to her own. And this 
 Mademoiselle Madelon did, though not 
 so liberally as Madame Pulliot could have 
 wished. 
 
 " Les affaires de Monsieur voire Colonel 
 are keeping him away a long time," re- 
 marked Madame la Proprietaire to Made- 
 moiseile la dame de compagnie, one fine 
 morning. Madame Pulliot was possessed 
 of a sharp shrill voice, which it was a 
 pleasure to listen to : at least so thought 
 poor Mademoiselle Madelon, who, when 
 most people spoke, heard little else except 
 a sound as of wind in her ear. For her 
 personal appearance, Madame Pulliot was 
 round and fat, and not at all like a 
 heroine. She had a wrinkled shining 
 face, like a last year's apple, and a pair 
 of bright black eyes that twinkled at 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 you like beads. She affected much mag- 
 nificence in her dress, and wore a 
 photographic portrait of the two deceased 
 Spiders on each of her arms. Valentine 
 detested her and her bangles almost 
 as much as she detested Madame 
 Pleon. 
 
 " Oui, oid,'^ nodded Mademoiselle Made- 
 Ion. " Monsieur is absent a long time 
 because he has gone a long way. He 
 has gone to visit the future home of 
 Mademoiselle sa fille, and to make 
 arrangements about the marriage." 
 
 " Avec ce gros gargon d'Allemand V in- 
 quired Madame Pulliot. She had heard 
 it all before, but there are two subjects 
 one is never tired of discussing; one's 
 own good fame, and one's neighbour's ill 
 name. 
 
 Mademoiselle Madelon nodded again. 
 She was no recluse, not she, and she 
 liked to jaser as well as anyone, but there 
 were limits to all conversation. Madame
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 275 
 
 PuUiot had not hitherto been much accus- 
 tomed to good society. 
 
 " Je n'aime pas les Allemands, moi,^' 
 continued Madame Pulliot, consciously 
 or unconsciously impenetrable ; " mais, 
 mafoi,l am sorry for thsit jeune Jiomme, 
 Is the marriage to be soon, chere 
 amie T^ 
 
 " Je n^en sais rien,^* replied Mademoi- 
 selle Madelon, pursing up her lips. Ma- 
 dame Pulliot was certainly over-stepping 
 the limits of polite conversation now, and 
 it was only friendly to bar further out- 
 breaks of ignorance by a stone wall of 
 dignity. Besides, when one is in pos- 
 session of anything coveted by some one 
 else, one likes to dispose of it in one's 
 own way, and at one's own time. 
 
 " Will the marriage take place from 
 this house ?" asked Madame Pulliot, 
 again. The question was one of personal 
 interest to her ; and she was meditating 
 whether the red velvet sofas from the 
 
 T 2
 
 276 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 Place Imp^riale miglib be hired out for 
 the occasion, and how much she could 
 make M. le Colonel pay for them. 
 
 But Mademoiselle Madelon replied 
 again, 
 
 '' Je n' en sais rien, Madame.^^ She was 
 certainly not well-bred, cette pauvre Pulliot. 
 
 "It will neither be here, nor there 
 nor anywhere else," cried Madame Pulliot 
 irritated beyond the power of profiting by 
 her companion's genteel example. *' Je 
 les connais Men, moi, ces gens la ; and you 
 will do so, some day, my poor friend — 
 when it is too late, perhaps ; and then 
 maybe you will regret never having a word 
 to fling to your faithful Pauline Pulliot. 
 Mais tenez, voila la fille du Ministre Anglais, 
 who comes to visit your demoiselle, Bon- 
 jour, Mademoiselle, your friend awaits you 
 with impatience," (this is addressed with 
 great politeness to Honor, who passes by, 
 smiling at the two old women hob- 
 nobbing together at the garden-gate.)
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 277 
 
 " It astonislied me somewliat how a 
 demoiselle si doux as that one is apparem- 
 ment, can be friends with your petite 
 ogresse. 'No doubt, however, it is well it 
 should be so. The good must be mixed 
 with the bad, the wheat with the chaff, 
 else the world would be a far worse 
 place than it is, and you and I, chere amie, 
 might never have been bound together by 
 the cords of so tender a friendship." 
 
 With which parting philosophic, and 
 poetic shot, the wheat and chaff in question 
 parted suddenly, as if blown asunder by 
 a breath of cold wind. 
 
 Meanwhile Honor had found Valentine 
 awaiting her with impatience no doubt, 
 but for the time smothering her feelings 
 by burying her head in the depths of a 
 small cow-skin covered trunk. She was 
 so engrossed by this occupation, that she 
 did not hear her friend enter. 
 
 " What are you doing ?" cried Honor,
 
 278 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 looking round with an amused glance. 
 And indeed she might well ask. 
 
 The whole place was strewn with a 
 variety of miscellaneous articles, bonnets 
 and boots, dresses of an antique shape 
 and faded grace, all the paraphernalia of 
 a lady's toilet, even a child's toy or two, 
 scattered here and there, and all lying 
 together and sticking to one another in 
 the most lover-like manner possible, till 
 it seemed as if the contents of a (limited) 
 co-operative store had been emptied out 
 upon the floor. And there, in the corner, 
 knelt Valentine with her head in the box, 
 like a cat in a cream- jug. 
 
 " Are you preparing for a sudden de- 
 parture ?" asked Honor, ruthlessly trying 
 to separate a silk apron from an india- 
 rubber shoe, which from their venerable 
 appearance and unwillingness to sever, 
 seemed to have been partners for years. 
 " It reminds me of a sketch of a picture, 
 to be called the ' Flight of the Israelites,'
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL, 279 
 
 which Stephen , which a friend of 
 
 ours once made, and showed me. He 
 would have been quite delighted with this 
 scene." 
 
 The cat in the cream-jug looked 
 up. 
 
 '' I am afraid we are rather like the 
 Israelites sometimes, and do spoil the 
 Egyptians," she said, wincing a little. 
 '* But we are not going away just yet. 
 Do you wish we were. Honor?" 
 
 Honor shook her head, and laughed* 
 And then the natural answer, and or- 
 dinary greetings took place between the 
 girls. ''You have grown to like Pierre- 
 port pretty well, after all," says Honor. 
 
 Valentine owned that she had done 
 so. " It will always seem like a sort of 
 home to me," she said with a sigh. 
 There was something very touching in 
 this young vagabond's vague, undefined 
 idea of a home. 
 
 " Do you always travel about with all
 
 28o HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 this baggage ?" said Honor, looking round 
 again and laughing. 
 
 " Oh dear no !" said Valentine, with 
 one of her sudden changes of voice 
 and manner. '* We generally travel about 
 with a tooth-brush apiece, and leave our 
 boxes behind us to be picked up next 
 time we pass that w^ay. This one must 
 have been left here some years ago, and 
 my father found it at the Custom-house, 
 and told me to open it, and see if there 
 happened to be anything in it worth 
 having. But I have not come upon much 
 yet except baby-clothes." 
 
 She had knelt down before the box once 
 more, and was laughing as she pulled out 
 the little frocks, pink and blue and lilac 
 cotton, common enough, but neatly made, 
 as if by a mother's fingers. 
 
 " Were they yours?" asked Honor, to 
 whom the sight of little garments always 
 appealed tenderly. 
 
 " I suppose so — I don't remember,"
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL, 281 
 
 answered Yalentine carelessly. " Ha — 
 what's this?" 
 
 " This," was a little well-worn livre 
 d^heures ; bound in faded purple velvet, 
 with a tarnished silver clasp, and the 
 name, " Edmee" engraved on the clasp. 
 
 " What a dear little book !" cried 
 Honor, as Valentine held it up. "To 
 whom did that belong ?" 
 
 " I do not know," said Valentine, 
 absently. She was looking at the name 
 on the clasp, and trying to recall some- 
 thing that came looming towards her, 
 vaguely and dimly through the mist of 
 years — as one tries to make out the 
 outline of a church tower through a 
 London fog. 
 
 " Who was Edmee ?" asked Honor. 
 " Was it your mother's name ?" 
 
 " No — my mother's name was Arlotte. 
 I know that much, or rather that little. 
 My father never speaks of her, and all I 
 know is that she came from Provence,
 
 282 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 and had some property there, which was 
 sold at her death. T wish it had not been 
 sold !" 
 
 " I suppose he loved her so much, he 
 could not live there without her, and 
 cannot bear to speak of her," said Honor 
 with unconscious satire. She remembered 
 how her father had mourned the loss of 
 his wife, and, consciously or unconsciously, 
 most of our views of the outer world are 
 drawn from home pictures ; at any rate 
 when one is still young and a tyro at the 
 art. " Do you not know who Edmee 
 was ?" asked Honor again. 
 
 '' Not I," returned Valentine, running 
 back to her old laughing way. " Some 
 penurious old frump, I should say, who 
 wore out everything to its last stitch 
 before buying another. Why are you so 
 much interested in the matter, Honor ?" 
 she asked, laying the book down on the 
 table. 
 
 *' I do not know," replied Honor,
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 283 
 
 growing dreamy in lier turn. " Only it 
 seems so sad to have lived and loved 
 once, and been loved too, perhaps, in 
 return, and after that to be buried away 
 for ever so long ; and then by-and-by to 
 wake up again, and find that the world 
 has forgotten one altogether — even one's 
 name. Like the book, you know." 
 
 "About the book, I do not know," 
 said Valentine, laughing still, but sighing 
 a little at the same time. " But I think 
 it must be better to have been loved once,, 
 even if one is buried for good and all 
 afterwards, than never to be loved at all." 
 
 "Oh, but that could never be," cried 
 Honor quickly. " Being loved, is surely 
 the same thing as loving. I mean, if one 
 has the power of loving, as most of us 
 have, one is certain also to get the gift 
 of being loved." 
 
 " I hope you may find it so, ma chere,^^ 
 returned Valentine, in her most sarcastic, 
 worldly wise way.
 
 284 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 '* I am sure I shall," said Honor, lifting 
 up her sweet lucid eyes. " Not perhaps 
 always in exactly the same way, or in 
 equal proportion, but sooner or later, in 
 some way or other, I am certain, Love's 
 seed must bear Love's flower."
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 TWO ARRIVALS. 
 
 " A little while a little love 
 The hour yet bears for thee and me, 
 Who have not drawn the veil to see 
 If yet our heaven be lit above." 
 
 DANTE G. ROSSETTI. 
 
 speech of Honor's 
 sat for a while 
 
 m 
 
 FTER that 
 the girls 
 silence. 
 
 It was a lovely fresh morning. The 
 sea danced to and fro, like a child at play. 
 The earth was its mother, looking on and 
 smiling. The sun laughed like a great, 
 glad god, and did his best to make others 
 laugh too. He was not an idle god either.
 
 286 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 for he had already swept the sky clear 
 of cobwebs, and was now warming the 
 air with his breath, and flinging down 
 his jests upon the sea, in a stream 
 of broken beams. Far away, over there, 
 sky, and sea, and air seemed to meet and 
 mingle together, and resolve themselves, 
 as it were, into a three-fold chord ; but 
 here, close at hand, they were as single 
 notes, vibrating separately, but each in 
 answer to " the dominant's persistence," 
 — good things in themselves, and glad, 
 but gladder still, by the power of the 
 sun. 
 
 " There is the English steamer coming 
 in," said Valentine, who was sitting, as 
 usual, in her favourite window-seat, *' I 
 wonder if it has brought anything, or 
 anyone, for either of us." 
 
 It was a very harmless speculation, 
 wasn't it ? Nevertheless Honor blushed 
 furiously as she heard it. She was sitting 
 at the table, mending her friend's gloves ;
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 287 
 
 for, notwithstanding her vague desires for 
 a home-life, Valentine Murray was entirely 
 destitute of any idea of home ways and 
 home duties. In the earlier days of their 
 friendship. Honor had tried to instruct her 
 in the mysteries of the needle. But 
 Valentine had proved unteachable. She 
 could learn best by watching, she said; 
 and Honor, good, painstaking Honor, had 
 given her what instructions she could in 
 that manner. She moved away suddenly 
 now from her seat facing the light to the 
 further end of the room, under pretext of 
 getting some more silk. 
 
 " Perhaps your father will come by that 
 boat," she said, forcing her lips to speak. 
 She was so angry with herself for 
 blushing. 
 
 '' Not my father," said Valentine, 
 watching her friend's face rather than her 
 hands this time. She was not much given 
 to observation as a rule, but she could 
 not help seeing that something had stirred
 
 288 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 and moved that usually calm, still, un- 
 demonstrative Honor. She made no 
 remark, however, but went on with her 
 own subject. " My father is not coming 
 from England, but from Germany — from 
 somewhere near Frankfort, I believe, in 
 which favoured district the Castle of 
 Reichenau is situated. Do you know 
 those parts ? No ? Well, perhaps you 
 will do so someday. Perhaps you will 
 honour with a visit some friends of 
 yours who may happen to be living 
 there." 
 
 '' 1 think you had better honour us with 
 a visit in London, first," said Honor, im- 
 pulsively. And the moment after she was 
 sorry she had given the invitation. What 
 would her father say ? What would little 
 Gladys say? What would Mr. Wynch 
 and Miss Pincock, and various other 
 parishioners say, to this strange, foreign, 
 gipsy sort of girl she was proposing to 
 introduce among them?
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 289 
 
 The gipsy, however, accepted the 
 invitation, quite gravely. 
 
 " I should like to go to England very 
 much," she said, "I have never been 
 there. My father says the air does not 
 suit him." 
 
 It was really a pity there was no one 
 present to understand the unconscious 
 sarcasm of this speech. Valentine, might 
 have had a dim inkling as to her own 
 meaning. Honor had none. She came 
 back to her seat by the table, quite* 
 calmly and quietly, but without the silk 
 she had been to fetch. 
 
 Valentine resumed her attentive con- 
 templation of the dingy lane, and the 
 little town glistening in the hollow, and 
 the sea shining like the sky beyond. 
 Honor was no longer so interesting to 
 watch. 
 
 Suddenly she exclaimed — 
 
 " Someone has arrived after all, though. 
 I hear a sound ! — I see a form ! — a man ! 
 
 VOL. I. U
 
 290 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 — my father ? Yes, it is my father. I 
 must go down and prepare his mind for 
 an interview with his daughter's pre- 
 server." And she jumped down from 
 her perch, and ran away. 
 
 The greeting between father and 
 daughter was not, however, a lengthy pro- 
 cess. Almost immediately after Valen- 
 tine's departure, the pair entered the 
 salon together, and Colonel Murray was 
 presented to Honor. 
 
 She recognised him at once as the elder 
 of the two gentlemen who had been 
 walking in the lane that morning when 
 she had strolled into it, unawares, with 
 Gladys; and even had she not done so, 
 she would have known him anywhere from 
 his strange likeness to Valentine. They 
 had the same great grey eyes, and hand- 
 some, clear-cut features, straight brows, 
 and curling lips,— even the same chins, 
 peaked and pointed, '' hard and bright." 
 Honor had never noticed Valentine's chin
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 291 
 
 before, but sbe looked at it now, and then 
 back at her father's. It was one of those 
 straight hard chins, such as sometimes 
 appear to belong to the musician type of 
 face, and are always indicative of a deter- 
 mined, pitiless, cruel character on the 
 part of the possessor. Honor, however, 
 was not learned in Lavater, and had pro- 
 bably never heard of Faustina Imperatrix, 
 so the likeness between the chins struck 
 her merely as a curious link between the 
 father and daughter. 
 
 Their voices were alike, too ; many- 
 toned, and wide of compass. They were 
 like many-stringed instruments, capable of 
 playing any kind of tune. The tune 
 Colonel Murray was playing now was a 
 psalm, deep and full, with a grand bass 
 like a rolling wave. 
 
 " I am so rejoiced to think that my 
 daughter should have found such kind 
 friends during my absence," he said ; and 
 then he sat down by Honor's side, 
 
 u 2
 
 292 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 and asked her about her home and 
 family, and thanked her again for the 
 service she had rendered to him and his 
 daughter. 
 
 Being thanked is, perhaps, a pleasant 
 process to some folks ; but Honor did not 
 like it, and never knew what to say in 
 return. She did not like Colonel Murray 
 either, and wished he would talk to his 
 daughter instead of to her. It might 
 be more polite to talk to her, but it 
 seemed rather unnatural. She tried to 
 picture to herself how her own father 
 would have acted under the circumstances. 
 
 It was difficult, for Mr. Carmichael 
 hardly ever left home, and Honor had 
 never been separated from him for more 
 than a few hours each day. But she 
 could fancy his coming back after some 
 such absence, and looking at his children, 
 and saying nothing ; and then finding his 
 books, and pretending to read, but look- 
 ing at them still, over the tops of the
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 293 
 
 pages. Once, such a picture, or sucli a 
 reality, would have made her angry ; but 
 she did not think either would do so 
 now. Silence would at least be better 
 than this ceaseless babble to a stranger. 
 
 It is sad but true, that we seldom ap- 
 preciate the comforts of our own homes 
 until we peep in and behold the cold, 
 cheerless, cushionless rooms of our neigh- 
 bours ; never know how well our own 
 shoes fit, until we see how painfully our 
 brothers' toes are pinched. This may be 
 a selfish satisfaction, no doubt — of the 
 earth, earthy — and yet let us go down on 
 our knees, and pray God it may come to 
 each of us before we are homeless, or 
 have to go barefoot. 
 
 Honor wished she could go away. It 
 seemed to her that she was intruding 
 here ; but it had been previously arranged 
 that her father and Gladys should walk 
 up and fetch her away in the after- 
 noon. She had no choice but to wait.
 
 594 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 She waited impatiently, however, looking 
 at her watch now and then, and out of 
 the window continually, thereby losing 
 much of the Colonel's interesting conver- 
 sation. 
 
 " I was on the Rhine yesterday, and 
 at Strasburg last night," he was saying, 
 in his melodious voice. " The weather 
 was very fine ; but the season is certainly 
 more advanced there than it seems to be 
 here. All the wall-fruit was gathered, 
 that is, it was in the neighbourhood of 
 Frankfort, where I have been staying. 
 Do you know that part of the world. Miss 
 Carmichael ?" he asked, in almost the 
 same words, in which his daughter had 
 put the same question. 
 
 Honor, hearing herself addressed by 
 name, turned round, and confessed that 
 she did not know that part, nor indeed 
 any part of Germany, in fact had never 
 been out of England before. 
 
 " It is a beautiful part of the world,"
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 295 
 
 continued the Colonel. '* And the place 
 at which I was staying is magnificent." 
 And then he enlarged on the splendours 
 of Schloss Reichenau, and the kindness 
 and hospitality of its owner. 
 
 Honor glanced at Valentine. This was 
 probably intended for her edification, and 
 she was malicious enough to expect to 
 see her friend's cheeks become suddenly 
 tinted by the same uncomfortable, unin- 
 vited artist, who had rushed upon her 
 and painted her own a little while sine©. 
 But she was disappointed. Valentine sat 
 in her window-seat, perfectly calm and 
 cool, and provokingly indifferent. She 
 did not even turn aside her head. 
 
 '' Are you preparing for a fancy ball, 
 Valentine?" asked Colonel Murray, sud- 
 denly breaking off in his panegyrics of 
 Schloss Reichenau, and addressing his 
 daughter. He glanced round the room as 
 he spoke. It was a lovely afternoon. 
 Everything outside seemed to be flooded
 
 296 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 with rivers of golden light. Inside, the 
 stream was less abundant, less full, but 
 it flowed in nevertheless, straying over 
 the girls' heads and hands, and flinging 
 a shower of bright firework sort of light 
 on the piles of clothes, heaped up here 
 and there on the floor. 
 
 Valentine began to explain whence 
 these objects had come, and the nature 
 of her afternoon's occupation. Her 
 father did not seem to be listening much. 
 His eyes were following the zig-zagging 
 course of a sunbeam. 
 
 " What's that?" he said, with a start, 
 as the sunbeam, or his eyes, lighted at 
 last on the shining clasp of the little 
 '' Book of Hours," with its well-worn 
 edges, and deeply engraved name. 
 " Where did that come from ?" 
 
 " It came out of the old box," 
 replied Valentine. '' I turned it out 
 amongst the other things. It was hardly 
 worth putting into the box, I should
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 297 
 
 have thought ; such a shabby little thing 
 as it is." 
 
 Colonel Murray did not answer. It 
 was a shabby little thing. There was no 
 possibility of contradicting that state- 
 ment. But then to some of us shabby 
 things say more than any amount of brand 
 new ones. They speak a language we 
 knew long ago, and thoughts we had 
 forgotten, till we hear it sound unex- 
 pectedly again. 
 
 Honor looked round at the little book, 
 and then back at the Colonel. Perhaps 
 he knows to whom ifc belonged, she said 
 to herself. Why does not Valentine ask ? 
 And then she forgot all about the matter, 
 and listened eagerly for her moment of 
 release. 
 
 It came at last. 
 
 '' I see them, Honor," announced Va- 
 lentine, from the post of observation. 
 " Here comes Gladys running on a- head, 
 and your father behind, and another
 
 298 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 gentleman with him — young — tall — hand- 
 some — dark. Who is it, Honor ?" 
 
 But Honor did not answer, because 
 she did not hear the question. She was 
 down, and away, and out in the lane, 
 before Valentine had finished making her 
 comments. 
 
 " Stephen — Stephen !" she cried, run- 
 ning out towards him. 
 
 " Dear Honor, are you glad to see 
 me ?" he said, as he caught, and held 
 her hands in his. 
 
 That was all. Several pairs of eyes 
 were watching them, of which fact Honor 
 became immediately and painfully con- 
 scious. There was the father looking 
 round puzzled at his daughter's unusual 
 exuberance of delight; there was the 
 little sister gazing up wonderingly, and 
 the friend peering through the garden- 
 gate, with her quick keen glance ; while 
 from above, another pair of eyes, in- 
 scrutable as the Sphinx's, cold and grey
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 299 
 
 as northern icebergs, looked down upon 
 the scene. 
 
 '' Good-bye, Valentine," said Honor, 
 pushing her bright, happy face through 
 the bars of the gate, and kissing her 
 friend's cheek. But she did not say, " I 
 shall see you to-morrow," or "When 
 shall we meet next ?" as she usually said 
 when they parted. She forgot all about 
 that, or perhaps she had not time, for 
 Mr. Aylmer came up just then, and drew 
 her away. 
 
 " Who is your friend ?" he asked, as 
 they walked away, side by side, out of 
 earshot. 
 
 " Her name is Valentine Murray," re- 
 plied Honor. " She is really a great 
 friend of mine. I will tell you how she 
 became so by-and-by. Don't you think 
 her beautiful P" asked the girl, enthusi- 
 astically. 
 
 " Beautiful— no !" replies Stephen, em- 
 phatically. " She is handsome, I sup-
 
 300 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 
 
 pose; but I scarcely looked at her, I 
 was looking at — sometliing better, I 
 think. But you must tell me now, at 
 once, how she became your great 
 friend, or else I shall be jealous, little 
 Honor." 
 
 Honor told him, as quickly as she 
 could. It was a long story ; but she cut 
 it short. She was so anxious to come 
 to the end. " And now, Stephen, tell me 
 all that has happened to you since — since 
 that night, when we said good-bye to 
 each other?" 
 
 " Nothing has happened to me, dear," 
 said Stephen, rather sadly. " I have not 
 even heard from my uncle in India. I 
 suppose he has gone up to the hills, or to 
 some place or other where letters do not 
 follow him. Or perhaps he may have 
 nothing to offer me, and so does not 
 write." (Honor's face, bright already, 
 grew brighter still at these words) " Any- 
 how, I thought I might as well await my
 
 HONOR CARMICHAEL. 301 
 
 fate in France as in England. Some- 
 thing seemed to draw me here. Can 
 you guess what that something was, 
 Honor ?" 
 
 Honor looked up shyly, and smiled a 
 little. Stephen caught her hand in his, 
 and pressed it with a confident, re-assur- 
 ing glance. They both thought they 
 knew, or had guessed, at any rate. But 
 alas ! guess-work is a poor thing, and 
 knowledge is finite, and neither of them 
 hit the truth that summer's night at 
 Piei'report. 
 
 END or THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON" : 
 
 Printed by A. Schulze, 13, Poland Street. (S. & H.