' 1 if . ' • 1^ f.lf • • • 1 : •ifl, T^L'.iaiia.rjfpiJi-t,, L I E) R.AFLY OF THE U N I VLRSITY or ILLI NOIS H252-F V. FREDA X 1 fiO\)tl BY THE AUTHOR OF "MRS. JERNINGHAM'S JOURNAL/ 7N THREE VOLUMES. VOL. L LONDON : RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON, JJnblishcrs in (Drbinarn to ^i;r 4^Tajestj} th£ ^tian. 1878. [/4// Rights Reserved ?[ 8S5 CONTENTS OP VOL. I. CHAPTER PAQF I. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR - - - - 1 II. THE VICAR ------ 24 III. LOST - 50 IV. THE VICAR AT HOME - - - - - 69 V. GATHERING PEAS - - - - - 94 ^ VI. A NEW SITUATION - - - - - 117 ," VII. A QUOTATION FOUND - - - - - 141 VIII. IN HIS STUDY ------ 163 5 IX. QUESTION AND ANSWER - - - - 185 ^ X. A DISCOVERY ------ 200 *, XI. ALL OVER ! ------ 227 ■i < XII. TALKING IT OVER - - - - - 251 i planned that ? We settled I was to be a real beauty. That shouldn't surprise you, Letty, whatever else may." " And I can't help looking round for the Major and Mrs. Cameron, and expecting to ■see them. How long is it since they left Enofland;.]" '' Three months ago.'' *' And where have you been staying since then T Freda gave a great start at the question. Again she blushed as red as a summer rose, AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. 17 and looked at Letty like an angry innocent child. ^* I won't be questioned," she cried, and with her favourite gesture, stamped her little foot on the ground. '^ I ivont. I'll kill you if you question me ! Take me or send me away — love me, or turn me out. I don't mean to say one woid about anything at all. No, never! — I won't — I won't 1" With which very general assertion Miss Freda once more stamped her foot on the ground, and flashed her splendid eyes at Letty with a force that might have knocked a man down, but women are stronger than men when the splendid eyes of one of their own sex is the o]3posing power. So Letty stood her ground, and only an- swered, ver}^ meekly, *^ Dear heart, miss, don't be vexed. / won't question you. You've got your own temper still, I see. What an angry little thing you i*sed to be sometimes — usen't you, my dear *? But what do I care, or why should I question you ? I am content to have you here, if you can be happy here. Miss Freda — that's all." *' Happy here ? " cried Freda ecstatically. VOL. I. 2 18 FREDA. " What have I ever felt that I wanted except Roseberry Farm ? Why, I'm happier than happy. Oh, Letty, icerent we happy, that dehcious dear old summer 1 And what's to hinder us now j? Think of towns and streets, and manners and masters. Hateful rub- bish ! How I detested you all. And didn't I think of liafht and freedom and Hose- berry ? Ah, didn't I ? didn't I ? And now here I am — actually here. I can hardly believe it, Letty, Letty, if you only knew !" And catching Letty in her arms she waltzed her round the room, with an airy grace that was full of joy yet free from ex- citement. "But aren't you hungry, my dear Miss Freda?" cried Letty, stopping breathless and lauQfhin^: in the middle of the dance. " Hungry T cried her friend, astonished. " Of course I am hungry. And I never re- membered it ! I am hungrier than I ever was in my life. I've not been so hungry since I was here. How we did eat then, Letty, and how delicious everything was. Oh, ha^ve you got a cream cheese 1 don't say AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. 19 110 ! — oh, please don't say no! — if only for the sake of the past." Life and death might have hung on the reply, judging from the suppressed enthusiasm " That's get down/' said he gravely. "You are not a dog, but you are a foolish, giddy girl, and I tell you to come down." '' Am I T said Freda. '' Laws ! and I thought I was sensible." " Get off that table," said the Vicar, raising his voice. '' I can't," said she : " I'm stuck," and she made as if she was trying to get off, and try- ing in vain. " It's impossible !" cried he, startled ; " it's ridiculous ; it's intolerable !" He felt as if the world was becoming rather too much for him in the person of this girl, whom he had found lost in the depths of a wood, half hidden by the summer twilight, and had himself brought into his home, till then remarkable for nothing so much as its calm consistency. At that moment a bell rang, loud, clear, and commanding — a bell — that sound of civi- lisation which neither savages nor wood- spirits would understand the meaning* of Freda lifted her hand. '' She wants ' me," she said softly, and gliding from the table on to the kitchen floor, she fluttered past Mr. 86 FREDA. Underwood, dropping as she came near him a mocking graceful curtsey, such as a ball- room maiden might have made, in discharging a too importunate suitor for a waltz, and so left him alone. He swept his hand over his eyes and fore- head. " It is intolerable," he repeated ; " in- tolerable — perfectly intolerable !" And then he sat down by the table and fell into thought, at once deep and vague, overpower- ing and undj5ned, and so he sat, stirring neither hand nor foot, for full half an hour. Then with a mighty effort he roused him- self, walked with masterful steps into his study, and there wrote quickly and almost fiercely, the beginning of the severest sermon on human weaknesses, be they great or be they small, that had ever in all his life proceeded from his pen. As for Freda, she ran laughing upstairs, and findino' Miss Underwood waitino- for her, assisted her with tender care into her bed. '' I am restless often in the night," she said, " and my thoughts wander a little some- times — it must not frighten you ; it is the case for weeks, after these fevers. You must THE VICAR A T HOME. 87 just come to me if I call you, and just talk to me, and let me talk, and so after a while I shall go to sleep again." '^ I am the lightest sleeper !" cried Freda eagerly. ^' I shall be at your side in a mo- ment — at the first word. You may reckon on me entirely ; and as for being frightened, you couldn't frighten me with your pale, sweet face." Maud Underwood smiled. She was too tired to examine into what the girl was say- ing; but the words and the voice sounded soothing and pleasant. She lay quite still, looking happy, and then after a time she slept. It was growing late. Freda had risen €arly, and the day seemed to her, as she turned her thouofhts back on it, full of events and fatigues. So, after a very short time, she followed Miss Underwood's example, and went to bed. She slept soundly ; but in the middle of the night, when the moon was shining full into the room, with that pure, intense light which belongs only to moons, she woke with a sort of start from her 88 FREDA. sleep. At first she hardly knew where she was. We all know that dreamy state of doubt, and perhaps we most of us also know a vivid minute when we are wide awake, although only just awake, and when it requires a violent effort of memory to discover where we are ; when the want of that knowledge, only less dreadful than no longer recognising our own identity, becomes appalling, and the sensation is one of actual relief as memory ceases to play the traitor, and tells us under what roof our bed has been made. I hope to few the relief has been Avhat it was to Freda, when at last it flashed upon her, it was under a strange roof, and not under her own, that she had slept that night. ^' I am not at home ! Oh, I am not at home !" was the cry her spirit sent up in that half-unconscious state, and she refused to accept the pain and the horror, even when for the instant she believed they Avere true. ^' Oh, I am not at home !" came to her at last with a blessed certainty, and not only as a piteous entreaty; and then she became aware of the odd, uncomfortable words that THE VICAR A T HOME. 80 in vexed, Avearied tones issued from the other bed. *^ It is so hard — it is always so ! Sarah, O Sarah, why won't you come '? I shall die here if nobody will help me ; and I sliall die,, for nobody can help me — nobody ever can. Sarah, couldn't you tell me % You mi^ht. It does worry me so very much — so very,, very much/' In an instant Freda recollected everything — where she was and why she was there. She slipped out of bed, thrust her feet into Miss Underwood's slippers, wrapped herself in the warm dressing-gown, and ran lightly to the side of the bed. There lay the poor, pale woman, looking paler than ever in the lovely silver moonlight, with wide- opened eyes, staring vaguely into the space before her. ^' Don't mind," said Freda as, fresh, bright,, rosy-cheeked and red-lipped, she stood by the bed. " I can tell you, I will help you — Sarah can't, but I can — what is it \ Only tell me and see." " It worries me so, it goes through and through my head — in and out — round and •90 FREDA, round — through and through, and then it never comes to an end — how can it, when it always stops in the middle T '' But what is it T cried Freda, getting quite excited. ''You can't help me — ^you can't help me/' she kept murmuring on; ''you don't know anything about it — how should you? You don't know it — how should you ? — you don't know poefcry." " Don't I though 1" cried Freda with a gay laugh; "indeed but I do — lots and heaps. What is it ? just tell me and try." '' It worries me so in the night — you can't think how it worries me ; in the daytime it's nothing, but at night not to recollect what you want is horrible, because you can do nothing. In the day you can conquer your thoughts, but in the night they conquer you, and they are so merciless — that is the oddest thing of all, why one's own thoughts have not mercy on one's self." " Have not they V cried Freda, laughing. "" Mine have." " Ah, you are so young — so very young, you are almost a child." ' THE VICAR AT HOME, 91 _ . _ . . ——-^ ^' Indeed no," replied Freda, slightly af- fronted, '^ I am quite a woman. I have been grown up a long time." " I am almost old," said Maud, " I am not far from thirty. I shall never marry now, because he has married somebody else." ^' So much the better," said Freda cheer- fully. " It's horrid to marry, and it's much nicer not." *' He's not happy, and I'm not happy," continued Maud in a wandering sort of way, as she had spoken all through; ^'and we might have been so happy together." '^ No you wouldn't," replied Freda with decision, '^ you'd have been twice as miser- able ; it's much better as it is." Then, in rather a wild manner, Miss Un- «derwood began repeating verses : " '■ So Love's obeyed by all. "Tis right That all should know what they obey, Lest erring conscience damp delight, And folly laugh our joys away. Thou primal Love ' There — that's all. I canH remember it, and so I go on and on : * Thou primal Love — ' it 92 FREDA. keeps ringing in my ears and working through my brain : ^ Thou primal love — ' " " Hush," said Freda softly, ^' let me speak,, please. " ' primal Love, thou grantest wings And voices to the woodland birds, Grant me the power of saying things Too simple and too sweet for words.'" " Ah yes," cried Maud, delighted, ^' that's it. Oh !" with a great sigh of relief, '^ liow I have wanted it !" and then she repeated the lovely lines over two or three times. '^ Why," she said, looking into Freda's fair, smiling face, as she stood there in the moonlight,. '' you are a good angel come to me on a moonbeam to make me sleep. Say some more — won't you say some more T " Of course I w^ill," cried Freda gaily, " lots more ! You shut your eyes and listen — it sounds ever so much better with the eyes shut." Then, in a soft low voice, she repeated the following verses. The trick that her memory had played when she woke, having perhaps, brought them more easily into her mind : THE VICAR AT HOME. 93 " ' What fortune did my heart foretell % What shook my spirit as I woke, Like the vibration of a bell, Of which I had not heard the stroke? Was it some happy vision shut From mem'ry by the sun's fresh ray % Was it that linnet's song, or but A natural gratitude for day % Or the mere joy the senses weave, A wayward ecstasy of life % Then I remembered— y ester-eve I won Honoria for my wife J ■>•) And as she uttered the last words, and turned her brilliant laughing eyes on Miss Maud Underwood, she perceived that she ^as fast asleep. .— --^i' \ fl^ CHAPTEE Y. GATHERING PEAS. ^HE next morning Freda arose fresh as a lark, and dressing herself very noiselessly, sat in the win- dow that looked out over the pretty lawn and flower-garden, patiently awaiting the moment when Miss Underwood should wake. At last — it seemed to her a long at last, for the restlessness of childhood yet dwelt in Freda's limbs, and she hated sitting still — a faint voice from the bed called : '' Sarah I'^ Freda half sprang to her feet and then checked herself. " I w^on't answer to that horrid name/' said % GATHERING PEAS. 95-. she to herself reassuringly. '^ It's not mine, thank goodness ! but if I allow it to call me, it might just as well be mine, for, after all, what is one's name but that which one is^ called." ^' Sarah !" said the voice again, and this time a little fretfully. Freda compressed her lips resolutely, set her feet firmly on the ground, and with diffi- culty kept her seat. " Where are you ? Do come here." Then she jumped gladly up, ran to the bedside, drew away the curtain, and smiled down at the white face on the pillow. '' Oh, it is you ! is it really you ?" cried Miss Underwood delighted. " And it is not a dream, then T ''' Not a bit of it," said Freda seriously, shaking her head. " Nobody ever dreamt -me." ^' Yes they did," replied Miss Underwood, *' I did ! For though I remember the real past now, and how you came here with my brother, who found you in a wood, yet I was dx"eaming all sorts of impossibilities about you last nio^ht." m FREDA. '* Don't be too sure of that," cried Freda merrily. " Nothing's impossible." *^ Oh how worried I was ! I could not remember some verses I read somewhere years ago, and that have been haunting me night after night since I was ill, and — how strange dreams are ! — I dreamt you repeated them for me and a great deal more. Of course you didn't really say them right, not even in my dream, for I had quite forgotten them, so I could not dream them, but I thought it was all right. How I wish," she was now talking to herself, " I coidd remember them," and then she repeated wearily : " ' primal Love.' " But a look of extreme surprise came into her face when she found herself continuing the stanza : " * Thou graiitest wings And voices to the woodland birds, Grant me the power of saying things Too simple and too sweet for words.' "• Why, that's right !" she cried, all astonish- ment. '^ I remember the verse perfectly now — that's right, and that's what you said to me in my dream !" GATHERING FEAS. 97 ^' And why not V asked Freda quietly. "' What strano^e thing^s dreams are !" con- tinned she, still speaking to herself; '^ and this is perhaps one of the most extraordinary. Professor Stubbs will be delighted — it will just fit in to his theory ; and then, such an authentic anecdote. How lucky his book is still in the printers' hands. He will be de- lighted. I must make Lewes write it all down while it is fresh in my mind. To think •of such a thing happening to me — and just in time for dear Professor Stubbs !" Freda hid behind the bed curtains till she had laughed a little ; and then peeping out again, asked the lady if she would not like some breakfast. '' Yes ; I am quite hungry," was the an- swer. " I do believe that dream has given me an appetite — pleasant excitement does, you know." So Freda gladly escaped from the room and ran down into the kitchen : stopping, however, on the staircase every now and then to relieve herself by a little burst of laughter ** What fun !" she cried ; " what fun ! Pro- fessor Stubbs ! And ivhat luck that his^ VOL. I. 7 98 I'REDA. name should be Stubbs. It might have been any other name, and Stubbs came in so de- Hghtfully. I always mn lucky, I think. Professor Slnl)bs ! Oh, how I do hope he will publish the story of the dream !" Then she went into the kitchen and dili- gently prepared her new mistress's breakfast. Boiling the water and making the toast Avith dainty, nimble hands. She drank a cup of tea and ate some bread and butter first herself, for she was young,, healthy, and ravenously hungry ; after which she took the little tray in her hand and issued forth into the hall. The sound of her approach brought Mr. Underwood out of the parlour. '^ How is my sister to-day T asked he. ^^ Foinely," answered Freda, with a sudden imitation of John Brodie's Yorkshire accent. ^^ By-and-by, could 1 have a little break- fast T said the Vicar rather timidlv. ^^ You T cried Freda, astonished. ^' Yes — I " replied he. "I got nothing to eat last night. I went into the kitchen after — after you had left it, but I could find nothing." GATHERING PEAS. 99 Freda laughed a little as she remembered her own sujDper, and did not doubt that she had eaten the half chicken intended for him. " You be hungry 1" said she. "Yes," answered the Vicar meekly. '^ Bain't there a cook V continued Freda. '' I have been knockingf at her door," re- plied the helpless master of the house, " but she says she is not well enough to get up ; and that Sarah can do everything. But Sarah has not come back," added he, sadly. ''Wall/' said Freda, ''well see about it, after I've fed sister." And so she walked up the stairs, but, when she had ascended a few steps, she looked over her shoulder, and, seeing him still standing disconsolate in the hall, she said softly, " Would you like a cheese for your breakfast V and then ran on as quickly as she dared, without risk to the fraoile bur- then she carried in her hand. He looked after her with new, strange, in- explicable feelings in his heart, the existence of which actually appalled him. " She is too beautiful," he said at last, angrily stamping his foot on the ground. 7—2 100 FRElfk,'': *' No one has any right to be as beautiful as that.'' And he marched into the parlour and slammed the door violently after him. Freda carried up the breakfast to Miss Underwood, tenderly arranged her pillows, and made her so comfortable that she smiled with contentment and said : " I wish you could stay always with me." '^ I wdll stay till Sarah comes back," she replied. ^' I am so glad you like me." " I liked you in my dream," said Miss Underwood, " when you said all those beauti- ful verses to me. Who wrote them, I Avonder, and what book are they in V ^' What, don't you know ?" exclaimed Freda, surprised. ^' I read them years and years ago, and have forgotten all about them ; only when I became ill they haunted me, as forgotten things always do when we are ill, but I have no idea where they come from." '^ Dream of them a,gain then to-night," cried Freda, gaily, " and I will come and tell you all about them." "You repeated more to me — so lovely," said Miss Underwood, who with the sociabi- GATHERING PEAS. 101 lity of convalesence after a long sickness, felt as if she must talk to somebody ; " could I really have made such lovely verses in my sleep ? I, who never can rhyme two lines together when I am awake — it's not possible. " ' Is it the natural gratitude for day V No, I never could have made that line — I'm quite sure of that. I can only have re- membered it." '' Wait till to-night," laughed Freda, " and then, perhaps, you'll find out more about it all." '' Well, perhaps I may," replied the other, doubtfully. " I don't know, I'm sure — at all events I'll write down the dream most care- fully, and then make my brother put it intc form, and draw it up as a case for Pro- fessor Stubbs." *' Bless him !" murmured Freda, under her breath. ^' Has my brother had any breakfast T asked Miss Underwood. " Noa," replied Freda, relapsing into vul- garity at the Vicar's name. " I'm ao^oing to give him sum'ut when you's done." 102 FREDA. '^ Oh, I have quite done, and he is an early riser, and must be in great want of his break- fast. Pray don't stay with me any longer, but get him coffee and eggs and toast, there's a good girl." So Freda returned to her kitchen ; but by the time she had prepared this second break- fast she began to feel rather tired of house- hold duties and to think the joke was be- coming a little tame. However, she took the things into the parlour and spread them before Mr. Under- wood. He thanked her stiffly and sternly, which was the unjust requital paid by his principles to her w^onderful grace. She remained in the room and waited on him, because she thought it would be more amusing than the solitude of the kitchen. Mr. Underwood cleared his throat, and then asked her, with the sternness which now characterised his manner, whether she thought she could cook some dinner for them. "Maybe I might," said Freda. "What shall it be ? A salad, now ? — I can dress a salad." " There is some beef in the house." GATHERING PEAS. 103 *' Oh no, I can't cook beef." ^' You might roast a chicken for Miss Underwood." '' Oh no, I can't roast a chicken." ^' What can you do, then V '' I can dress a salad — and — and — and — oh, I could spread jam on bread : that's a most delicious dinner, it is indeed." '■'' I suppose you could boil a chicken in a saucepan of water ?" said he severely ; '''' some- thing must be cooked for Miss Underwood's dinner." '^ I'll tell ye what," said Freda con- fidentially, " if you'll put it in the pot I'll boil it ; that's going halves, and is quite fair any way." ^' What ridiculous nonsense ! any one can put a chicken in a pot," cried he. ^^ I can't, and I looat, so it's no use nag- ging ; it's like a murder, and I won't do it ; but when once it's in the pot and boiled, I don't mind taking it out again." Mr. Underwood ate his breakfast in silence. He said nothing, and perhaps it was because he could not think of anything to say. 104 FREDA. ^' YoLi take your meals reg'lar," said Freda, and he kept his eyes on his plate, and took no notice of the remark, which did not ap- j)ear to have any particular meaning, or to require any particular answer. *' You will find all the things in the larder," said he at last, rather impatiently, '^ and you may prepare dinner for three o'clock." ^^ Amen," said Freda, and she intoned the word like a ritualistic curate who has never tried to intone before, and w^ho those who hear him certainly hope Avill never try again. The Vicar was startled for a moment, and then made up his mind that he had not heard her correctl}^, and that she had not said " Amen," because that was impossible, but something that sounded like it ; however, he thought it better, not to ask her what it was- she had said, so he remained silent, and felt confused and uncomfortable. He raised his. eyes and found Freda w^as staring at him^ whereupon he coloured up to the roots of his hair. Then he frowned, and said in very severe tones, " Do you want anything V *^ Thank' ee, noa," said she, ^^ what should I'se want V GATHERING PEAS. 105 '' I forgot to tell you," said Mr. Underwood in the same severe manner, and he spoke more for the sake of saying something than for any other reason, he felt his present posi- tion so very queer and untenable, '^ I forgot to tell you that when I saw your mistress yes- terday ^" *^ My mistress T interrupted Freda; "laws t Oh, that's Letty, to be sure. Go on." "Your mistress," repeated Mr. Underwood,, raising his voice and laying an almost spiteful emphasis on the word, " said very kindly," — another emphasis here — "that you might stay as long as Ave wanted you." "All right," said Freda, and nodded her head. " She is not coming here to-night, nor is. the class. I did not see how we could manage without servants." " Laws ! ain't I servants T said Freda. " My good girl/' said the Vicar suddenly^ assuming the familiarity of a superior, " are you aware that you speak very differently at different times T " 'Deed I am," replied Freda, with cheerful acquiescence. 106 FREDA, "■ Then why do you do it ? If you can speak as well as you do sometimes, why do you not do so always T '' Why don't you T said Freda, s ''I ?" cried he, astonished, ^^ why I do." '' Oh, do you, though T said she. ^' Yes, rayther ; %ve know better than that." ^^ I don't suppose you intend to be dis- respectful," began Mr. Underwood, very much as if he did suppose it. ^^ Sarvant, sir," replied Freda. ^' Thankee kindly ;" and she smiled at him with the most bewitching smile in the world, and then gave a little laugh, having kept perfectly grave up to that moment. Mr. Underwood did not know what to say or to do ; he felt as if his brain was whirling round and round, and as if the world was suddenly going to be turned topsy-turvy and everything to be different from what he had ever known it before, as if all he was accustomed to, was to change, was to be put on a new basis, and nothing ever again to wear the same aspect as it had worn yesterday morning, and every yesterday until to-day ; and then he got GATHERING PEAS. 107 suddenly up and walked quickly out of the room. Freda was left behind, laughing with delight. *' How amusing it is to be alive/' said she. ^* How right I was to come here." Then a little cloud floated across her trans- parent eyes. " Yes — it is not ahvays amusing. How could I bear it ? Why did I bear it ? But it is over — it is foolish to remember what is over, unless it is better than what has come ; and nothing can be better than this. I won- der why anybody lives, except for fun. It is nothing to be what you are — that's dull — the thing is to be what you are not. Why, isn't it what everybody does ? Servants ought all to be pretending to be masters and mistresses, and masters and mistresses to be servants — and perhaps they are !" cried she, with a sudden gay laugh. " Perhaps the world is only a big masquerade. Perhaps Mr. Underwood is not a clergyman, or his sister a lady ; he's a dustman and she's a washerwoman, and they are just pretending — making-believe, as the children say. Of 108 FREDA. course that's it. Oh, here's a duchess at least/' she added, as a dumpy woman, in a red and black print dress, with a white apron and mob cap, at that moment came into the kitchen. The woman looked at her, first suspiciously and then severely. '^ Are you the new gal ?" said she sharply. '^ Yes. Are you the old un ?" replied Freda, with imitative sharpness. " Don't give me any of your sarce, Miss- Imperence," said the woman. *^ I'm cook ; this is my kitchen, and I like manners." She advanced a step or two towards Freda as she spoke, who retreated instantly, a,nd raised her hands as if to keep her off. '^ Oh, please 1" she cried ; "' oh, don't — please don't — I'm afraid of cooks !" ^* Oh, you are, are you ?" replied the cook,, mollified. " Small blame to you for that — you've reason. Take 'em the wrong way, and cooks is to be feared of; but you do your part and I'll do mine — a great gal like you must not be idle. Take the basket and ga into the garden and gather them peas for dinner. GATHERING PEAS. 109 Freda stared at her in joyful surprise. " Oh, you dear !" she said ; '^ and you a •cook. Well, if that isn't nice. Why, it's •quite a heavenly thing to do, this summer morning. Where's the basket T The cook pointed grimly to one that hung on the wall. "You leave ^'eavenly' alone," said she. '^ Them's not words for a parson's kitchen. 'Go and pick the peas, and leave ' 'eavenly' ^lone !" . Freda obeyed her with gay alacrity. She seized the basket, and danced down the gravel walk that stretched its length from under the kitchen window to the end •of the garden, where a hedge of roses and honeysuckles separated it from the lane. The sun shone out of a sky of cloudless blue, ^nd from the same blue sky a little breeze •came direct, bringing the freshness of a new world into this old one of ours, which in winter seems so nearly worn out. The sun- •shine shed a lovely light, not too intense, as the morning was still young, and a sense of fineness, freshness and delicacy pervaded every- thing with a beauty that appealed to the heart 110 FREDA. as too fresh and delicate to last. Like the bloom on fruit or the purity of snow, if you touched it, it was gone. " Love, thou art very fair ! Love, how fair thou art ! Borne on the summer air. In to this viraiting heart. " Come with the blossom's scent, Come on the swallow's wing, Come with the full content Of an accepted thing. "And as the sunny beam Straight out of Heaven went, Come with the happy dream That tlioii art Heaven-sent !" So sang Freda, as she stood there, a vision of beauty — fresh as the summer freshness that surrounded her — gathering peas in the Vicar's garden ; and as she finished her song- she raised her eyes and found the Vicar standing just opposite to her, with only the row of pea-sticks to divide them, regarding her attentively through that rustic barrier. She laughed a little, and blushed a little, and then she held up her basket to show him how full it was ; and said with an air of modest pride, '' I'm useful." GA THE RING PEA S. Ill " Where did you learn your songs V said he. Freda paused, and coloured a good deal — her beauty, enhanced by her blushes, almost took his breath away. No one ever blushed more prettily than Freda, or looked prettier while this process of blushing was going on, and Mr. Underwood though a vicar waa also a man. ^^ I larned them from a lady," she said at last. " Oh," he replied, " you had a mistress who was musical '{ Have you lived in many situations T " No/' she said rather faintly. " How would you like to go to school ?"" said he with extraordinary abruptness. '' To school !" echoes Freda ; " why, not at all. I'm grown up !" "Yes, you're grown up, but you're not educated, and you are quite young enough to learn. How would you like to go to school and be taught — taught a great many things, and learn — learn to be a ladijT^ He spoke with some hesitation, and little pauses, like a man who had a great deal 112 FREDA. more he might say, yet hardly Hked saying €ven as much as he did. *^One couldn't learn to be a lady," she an- swered quietly. "Yes, you could. I am quite sure you €ould. Suppose, now, you went to school for — say a couple of years — and were taught and lived with ladies — and then after that — " Here he came to an abrupt pause and coloured uncomfortably much, for the Vicar, though he was a good-looking man, with a clear brown face, did not appear to as much advantage when he blushed as Freda did. " Two years at school," said she thought- fully. "' It's startling — but it's not altogether a bad notion either. Two years at school — with heaps of girls. It might be rather jolly — and one's puzzled what to do with one's life just now." The Vicar was too earnestly bent on the plan which had sprung up so suddenly in his mind, to notice how entirely she had laid aside her vulgar phraseology ; or in how odd a manner — for a servant girl — she took his little, or it might fairly be called great, ischeme for her advantage. GATHERING PEAS, 113 '^ How old are you T asked he suddenly. '' I'm seventeen," said Freda. And, as she spoke, she stood there looking seventeen and not a day more. Ah, how sweet it is to be only seventeen ! ^^ Seventeen ! Well, child," cried he almost impatiently, '' you have not lived a quarter of your life yet ; and you think you must always be what you are now. You have only lived a few little years, and you believe you cannot be a lady. Why, with what God has made you, and your whole life before you, you may be anything — anything." She looked at him, and, in doing so, she caught enthusiasm from his. Her fair face glowed, and her sweet transparent eyes glit- tered as she raised them to his. ''' May I V she cried. *^ Anything % May I be something better than I am % Oh, then I will 1" " What are you T he said with a strange impulse, not taking in, the import of the words he said. She regarded him wonderingly. She still held the basket in one hand, and the other slender and girlish, with taper fingers and VOL. I. 8 114 FREDA. rosy palms, played with the pods of j^eas as they hung on the branches before her. '"■ I think I am a self-pleaser," said she softly. " I think I care only for myself." ''How is it?" cried he, his mind again suddenly seizing on the reality and the incon- sistency — '' how is it that you talk as you do now, and as you did before % You must ex- plain this. I insist on an explanation. I will do nothing for you if you don't tell me the truth. I can do nothing for you if you are not true." '' I am true !" she exclaimed, startled and almost angry, and looking more beautiful than ever, with the light kindling in her eyes. " You can speak well," he said severely, '' w^iy don,'t you do so always T '^ I forget when I do." '' You mean you forget when you do not." All trace of anger was gone, and the gay, careless look had returned on the sweet face. *' Oh, very well," she said with a little toss of her bright head in the sunshine, '' please yourself !" "• You mean," he said with decision, " that GATHERING PEAS. 115 you have been taught to express yourself properly, but that you forget and use the lan- guage you were accustomed to in your child- hood." She laughed joyously^ and resumed the •occupation of gathering peas. " What will cook say at my being so long ?" she cried, " and I really am afraid of •cooks." He looked quickly over his shoulder to- wards the kitchen as if he shared the feeling. Then with some haste, addressed her in low, ■serious tones, ^' Think over all I have said — the opportunity may occur — it may be pos- .sible — think it well over^ and don't refuse what Avill affect your whole future life. You don't know all that this going to school may do for you. It is a great deal more than it seems. You don't know all it may do for you, you don't indeed." '' Don't I V she said, smiling ; '' well, I think there is one thing at least that I do know, and that is that you are a very good man, Mr. Underwood. There are few men Avho would be so anxious to help and improve a. poor servant girl whom accident has thrown 8—2 116 FREDA. in their way ; and T am heartily obliged to- you." It was hardly, perhaps, the manner of a servant girl returning thanks to a clergyman, but Mr. Underwood had no time to reflect about that. The cook's voice was heard in the distance, the cook's step was approaching them, and very much as if he did really share Freda's fear of cooks, Mr. Underwood in the same moment went hastily away. CHAPTEK VL A NEW SITUATION. S Freda returned to the house to appease an indignant cook, she looked up into the blue skies de- lightedly and smiled to herself at her own pleasant thoughts, which ran thus : '' How I like him ! what a good man he is, and how kind — how very kind ! Here am I, a stranger, and, as he believes, a servant ; but he thinks I can be improved, and he sets his good-natured brains at work for me, and at once plans to send me to school and have me taught and educated. Was ever anything so kind as that ? And if he will think so much about a stranger, and plan and do so much for 118 FREDA. a stranger avIio has no claims upon him, wliat must he not be always planning and doing for his own parishioners \ I did not know that there was such a man in the world. Ah I if all men were like that." And again that strange expression that I have before described as vindictive, for a brief moment disfigured the lovely features of this- girl of seventeen. It was but a brief moment^ and before she reached the kitchen her sweet face was gay and serene as ever. She attended to the demands of the cook^ and then ran upstairs to dress Miss Under- wood, which task she performed with the utmost delicacy and tenderness. Surely never was maiden more busy than Freda. Then the Vicar carried his sister into the drawing-room, and settled her comfortably on the sofa, with her little table near her^ covered with books, work, and waiting materials. She was eager to tell him about her dream, which she related with clearness and precision, questioning him as to the form in which the narration had better be drawn up for Professor Stubbs. He was very much interested. A NEW SITUATION. 110 '^ The human mind,'' he said, *' is wonder- ful in all its workings, but most wonderful in its dreams. It is strange enough that you should, in your sleep, remember these lines, not thought of for years. But that you should not yourself seem to go through the process of remembering them — that they should come to you through the lips of an- other, so that while one word was being spoken you did not appear to yourself to know what word was coming next, that, I should think, is almost a unique instance, even in this wonderland of dreams." Miss Underwood listened to her brother's speech with a feeling of modest elation. It is pleasant to find you have been unique, even in a dream, " And yet," she said, a little anxiously, "" I think I have heard the same sort of thing described before, as not uncommon in dreams, how you make a speech apparently only to lead to another, and yet that other is spoken by some one else and takes you by surprise." '^ I know," he said ; '' but that does not seem to me nearly so extraordinary or such a metaphysical puzzle as this — in fact, I have 120 FREDA. sometimes tliought that what you refer to is not a puzzle at all. When awake, one thought leads to another in much the same way really as in dreams, only in dreams we put our thoughts into action and make other people utter them ; but have we never imagined con- versations when awake, and found how one thing leads to another, just as if it had been carefully planned, while really we had not intended it at all ? Any one the least ac- customed to composition, particularly of an imaginative kind, will be quite familiar with what I speak of" '^ Oh dear !" said Mies Underwood. " I should have thought in real composition everything v/as planned beforehand, with the most artful care ; according to what you say, authors would often surprise themselves as much as they do their readers." ^^ And so I believe they do ; they begin to write, and one word brings on another word, one idea suggests another idea, and the de- velopment of their stories, and of the characters concerned in them, are actually very often as much matters of astonishment to the authors as to the readers." A NEW situation: 121 *' But if so, how is my dream so surprising?" asked she. '' Because in your dream you were not inventing or imagining, but rememhering ,^' repHed he very gravely, " and your memory came to you through the mind of another and without any apparent effort of your own. I have no hesitation in pronouncing this to be a very wonderful, a very unusual, if not altogether an unparalleled phenomenon in the history of dreams." He spoke with a grandeur of manner suited to the subject, and Miss Underwood said : '' Dear me," and looked gratified, but at the same time almost uncomfortable under the unexpected discovery of what she had done. '' I could not help it," said she at last, a little timidly. '' Help it T said the Vicar, startled. ''She'll never do it again," cried Freda, unable to resist her inclination to say the words. " Probably not," answered he, thoughtfully, *' it would be strange if the same thing did occur twice to the same individual; but I must go out now, Maud. I have plenty to 122 FREDA. do — I will be back to dinner, and in the evening I will, with your assistance, and in great measure from your dictation, draw up a very full report of your dream to send to the Professor. In the meantime I advise you to write down the verses, lest you should forget them, which would sadly destroy the reality and vividness of the narration." And so the Vicar went out and left the two women together. Miss Underwood^ pencil in hand, followed his advice in waiting down the verses, and then began to make notes ready for the w^ork he had laid out for the evening. And Freda ran off into the kitchen to have her laugh out, and afterw^ards to shell the peas she had gathered, and help the cook in various other ways. " How^ happy life is," thought she, as she pursued her work, " if people were all only kind and sfood, the mere fact of living^ would be joy enough. It is only people that inter- fere with happiness, and how easy it w^ould be for everybody to be kind and nice — for my part I think it is so much easier to be kind than unkind, and as to the pleasantness, I suppose no one would dispute that. How A NE W SITU A TION. 1 1% silly ill-tempered people are ! And then if everybody was good — as good now as tliis clergyman is — what a Avorld it would be ! There would be nothing to disturb our perfect happiness — nothing but death." And she gave a little laugh at that, so far off did death appear to the glittering eyes that were only seventeen years old. Some time after this Freda was busying herself in the dining-room, laying the cloth for dinner. She had put some roses in a clear crystal cup in the centre of the table. '' He shall look at something pretty while he eats," said she softly ; ''he is so good that he ought to be petted, and I am determined that he shall be. i'll pet him." And so she arranged the roses with the freshest grace, and laughed over their beauty in innocent delight. While thus employed, she raised her eyes to the opposite wall, where a mirror occupied the usual place over the chimney- piece. The door behind her was open, and a long wide passage leading into the garden lay beyond it. Up this passage, towards the dining-room,. two gentlemen advanced, walking slowly, and 124 FREDA. now and then stop^^ing for a moment as they conversed together in low earnest tones. One of these was Mr. Underwood ; the other was a tall, thin, dark man, with dark hair and eyes, marked handsome features, and a melan- choly, stern expression in his face. At the sight of him, Freda stopped ab- ruptly in her occupation, a crimson flood of colour rushed painfully over her face and then left it of an alarming pallor, whilst every feature seemed alive with horror; her lips parted as if to scream, but she pressed her two little hands one over the other upon them, so as forcibly to keep back the sound. Then she looked wildly round her, with the eyes of a hunted animal seeking for a way to escape. There was no other door in the room. The venetian-blinds outside the win- dows were closed, to exclude the hot rays of the sun; and after a moment, in which actual despair appeared to take possession of her, she darted into a deep recess full of books, w^iich Avas almost concealed from view by the heavy tapestry curtains that hung before it. The next minute the two men entered the room, still talking. A NEW SITUATION. 125 '^ Then you will go to Silchester T said the Vicar. " Is it not the best plan V replied the other in a low stern voice, at the sound of which Freda actually trembled where she stood, and clasped her hands and wrung them wildly. " If you think it likely — if the intimacy was sufficient," said Mr. Underwood doubt- fully. '^ Likely '? Sufficient ?" said the other in a terrible voice ; ^^ and I have damning proof !" '^ For God's sake do nothing rashly." '^ Rashly ?" And he actually laughed ; but it was a laugh horrid to hear. " My friend, what do you call rash ? What could be rash under the circumstances ? Would you consider it rash if I took this revolver" — and he touched the breast of his coat as he spoke — "" and blew his brains out first and my own afterwards ?" " That would be more than a rashness — it would be a crime," replied the Vicar calmly. The extreme quietness with which he 12fi FREDA. spoke had the effect he intended — it subdued the vehemence of his companion, making his wild speeches sound hke bravado, or melo- drama, instead of the expression of intense feeling, as they really were. He glared at the Vicar, as if he would not have been unwilling to turn the w^eapon he had spoken of against him ; but when he spoke, all that he said was : '^ Will you do what I ask you T "Willingly — eagerly," said Mr. Under- wood, just touching his shoulder with his hand. " I will make the inquiries, I will write the letters, and I will write or tele- graph to you as the case requires." '^ The case," repeated the man bitterly, while a dreadful sneer curled his lip. ^' The case ! And I am not dead I" " No !" cried the Vicar eagerly ; " why should you be dead ? There is room for hope ; things may not be as you fear, and even if they are, you will live and over-live it. You have a clear conscience, and with a clear conscience a man can over-live any- thing." " Oh, can he T said the other, with the look A NEW SITUATION. 127 of a devil in his face. " Yes, he can Uve for vengeance. I hope he can hve to punish." " Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord," re- phed the Vicar promptly and solemnly. "■ Hold your tongue !" cried the other man, with sudden fierceness. " My dear Lionel, I niu>it speak. I don't want to worry you ; but you must not lat yourself talk or even think wickedly, for you are not a wicked man. IlememVjer all you have felt and believed till now. These per- sonal circumstances, however dreadful, make no difference in that. It is a horrible trial, but it is a trial just the same ; and the laws of right and wrong are not altered because you are the man tempted to-day, instead of the one, you righteously condemned for yield- ing to temptation yesterday." '* You dare say this to me T " Yes, I dare ; and you will attend to it too, because while I say it, I sympathise with you from the bottom of my heart, and you know I do, old fellow." '^ Don't break me down, Lewes ; I require all that is in me to carry me through what 128 FREDA. lies before me. Don't make me feel. Good- bye." The two shook hands with ahnost painful warmth. ''Good-bye," said the Yicar, ''and God bless you." All the bitterness came back to Lionel's face. " He lias blessed me, hasn't He ?" w^as his answer ; but at the look of grief that came into the clergyman's kind eyes he added quickly, " I beg your pardon." " And I repeat, with all the solemn mean- ing that can be given to those solemn words^ God bless you," said the Vicar. " Say God help you, and I will try to say Amen," replied the other man, and so they parted. The Vicar walked up and down the room, his hands behind him, and grief, almost amounting to despair, kept firmly, back till now, chasing the calm expression from his face. His lips worked nervously, his eyes filled with tears. " Poor fellow," he kept saying as he walked, " poor fellow — j^oor, 'poor fellow !" A JV£ W SITU A TION. 1 2 9 Freda, meantime, was composing herself. She had perforce heard every word, to w^hich, it must be owned, she had hstened vividly, vv^hile a mortal fear had pervaded her whole person as long as the stranger was in the room — a fear that turned her white, and cold and trembling, and at moments threatened her with an unconsciousness that seemed almost like death itself. And now, while Mr. Underwood's voice uttered those pitying words, she kept murmuring under her breath, " He is gone — he is gone — he is gone !" Presently she began to feel her position and all its discomforts, w^hich had been quite lost sight of in the keener emotions of the past half hour. She was crouching in an unnatural attitude behind a heavy curtain, hot, dusty, and cramped, and liable every in- stant to detection, a detection that would not only cover her with shame and confusion, but perhaps betray a secret which she guarded very carefully in her bosom. Was there no wav in which she could ofet rid of this dear but dreadfully inconvenient man, who it seemed to her meant to walk up and down the room saying "poor fellow" for ever. ^' If VOL. I. 9 130 FREDA. I leave this recess alive," thought she, " which I shan't do if I am kept here much longer, I will learn ventriloquism — how useful a know- ledge of it would often be through life, and yet it is neglected, while trumpery useless things are learnt with the greatest expense and trouble. If I were a ventriloquist I could now make cook call him in an angry, surprised tone, and he would be more than man if he did not go to her directly. Oh dear, I am afraid both m}^ legs are broken. I will certainly learn ventriloquism if I escape from this with my life." Then she besran to wonder what would happen if she died there and was found by- and-by quite cold and dead, lying in a little melancholy dusty heap behind the curtain. " And I should not even look pretty," thought Freda. '' I never care when they tell me I am pretty and all that, but I always did wish to look pretty when I was dead — I always did, and now I shan't ;" and at this mournful thought poor Freda, though not in the least really believing that she was going to die, tired, sorry, and worn out, began to cry very softly to herself, but not so softly A NEW SITUATION. 131 that slie was not heard. A hand hastily drew aside the curtain, and then, after a minute's amazed pause, two hands produced her out of lier concealment into the broad light of the summer sun. The tears were still silently rolling down Tier cheeks, and it was a pitiful figure she saw reflected in the mirror over the chimney- piece, where, a little time before, she had watched the approach of the Vicar and his friend. ^^ Oh ! how tumbled I am," she cried, giv- ing herself a shake and speaking peevishly, almost as if she thought it was his fault. " You have been asleep," said Mr. Under- wood. '^ Did I dream there was a — man with you V cried Freda, with contempt in her voice. " You did not," he answered slowly ; ^^ did lie wake you '? did he frighten you ?" " Oh yes, he frightened me," she cried, trembling again as she spoke ; '' he frightened me — he frightened me." " Poor child !" exclaimed the Vicar, putting out his hands as if to take hold of her, but 9—2 132 . FREDA. drawing them back before he had touched her^ while his face became crimson. " Is he gone T she cried, '^ where has he gone ? why did he come % Do you know him r '' He came — on business ; I have known him for years. But why do you ask V '' Oh, how very, very, veri/ odd — and will he come back, Mr. Underwood 1 Tell ma the real truth, will he come back V *'No," said the Vicar, astonished, '^ he won't come back." Freda breathed freely. '^ What did he come about ?" cried she, as- if she thought the suddenness of the question might surprise him into an answer. But he only replied coldly : " Private business." Then there Avas a little silence between them. Freda shook herself about and began to recover composure both of person and of spirit. Meantime the Vicar was regarding her very attentively. '^ It seems curious to me to hear you speak so correctly and in so good an accent," re- marked he at last. It seemed to her as if he A NEW SITUATION. 133 never could leave this inconsistencv alone or forget it. She blushed vividly. " Yes, I can," she said softly. He soothed her^ thinking she was ashamed of being sometimes so vulgar. '* Of course/' he said, " it is natural you should occasionally fall back to what you were first accustomed to. The wonder is that in moments of strong emotion you speak so well. It shows," he continued with elevation, ^'' what you were meant for — it is a wonder- ful proof of a refined nature. In what I hope to do for you I shall only be carrying out that which a wise Providence intended," he added very reverently, and with a look of great joy in his kind serene eyes. ^' What a good man you are !" said Freda. " You like me T he said timidly. " Oh yes," she replied with confidence ; *' I like you very much indeed." " Will you tell me," he said, ^' where you come from, and what your father is ; and have you many relations ?" he added anxiously ; *' brothers and sisters, you know ? or near relations '?" 134 FREDA. ^' I am an orphan," replied Freda ; " T have no brothers or sisters. My father was- a soldier ; he fell in battle before I was born^ and my mother died without even seeing me. Oh, isn't it sad % And yet they were my father and mother, just as much as yours are yours. It seems to me the very saddest thing in all the world." She looked lovely and desolate, standing there before him, and saying such sorrowful, simple things. He longed to take her in hi& arms and comfort her, and beg her to let him make her his wife at once. With the utmost- difficulty he restrained himself, and only replied : '^ My dear child, I am very sorry for you." "And I have neither brother nor sister,, and I don't know that I have a near relation in the world, except an uncle and aunt, and tliey are in Canada." A great joy took possession of his heart as he heard her speak. No relations, no parents^ alone in the world, lovely and sweet and good. And he had found her in a wood, and brought her here to change his whole life,. A NEW SITU A TION. 135 and hers too. Oil, had she not been sent to him ? Was it not all intended ? And so tender and refined as she looked now, speak- ing so well, and seeming so exactly like a lady. Surely there was no need to send her to school. Surely she was fit for any posi- tion ; and the only teaching she required was to teach her to love him. Then he tried to rouse himself from the sweet, enervating thoughts that were invading his whole being with a powerful languor he felt almost unable to resist. '' Not yet," he said to himself. '' I must not marry her yet; there is much to be thought of first — and done. I am not my own. I have voluntarily put myself apart, and given myself away to a special, solemn service. I dare not act in haste, as another man might. I am not my own. No, I must not speak to her yet — not yet." He felt as if he must adopt these two words for his motto, and that no knight of old with vow on his shield could have fought a harder fight than he must now fight under those two little w^ords : ^' Not yet." " Have you had any education ?" he asked 136 FREDA. in as calm a voice and manner as he could command. ^' Not very much/' replied Freda with the smile of a princess. " You can read and write ? " he said seriously. Freda could not help laughing a little. '^ Foinely," she replied with her broad Yorkshire accent, making John Brodie as much her model as possible. He looked discomforted ; and she added hastily, '^ And I can reckon, too — I knows ligures." He turned away in a sort of mute unrea- sonable despair. Then he came back to her. " Why do you speak so T he cried angrily. /' Why do you do it when you needn't ?" " Don't beat me," said Freda, and burst into a girlish, ringing laugh — a delicious sound in that dim, old-fashioned dininsf-room. He looked at her till he smiled himself. " I think," said he, "3^ou pretend to speak badly. You speak (almost in joke) as you used to do long ago ; but, before her maiTiage, you were Mrs. Dowlas's friend, and you learned to speak well, and have been used to A NEW Sn UA TION. 1 37 better things ; and you are not — quite — a — common servant," he added with extreme wistfulness. "No," said Freda calmly; ''I am not — quite — a — common servant." "Drat them girls as won't come when they do be called," said the cook, bouncing into the room with frightful abruptness. " Bless us and save us ! — here's his reverence's self," a.nd she fell back appalled when she dis- covered the clergyman and the servant stand- ing in close conversation together beside the ;dining-table. The Vicar blushed up to the roots of his hair, and had not a word to say for himself, but Freda was not the least out of counte- nance ; no additional shade of pink increased the lovely colour in her cheeks, no confusion clouded her transparent innocent eyes. She looked calmly into the cook's face, and then laughed a little in an amused playful way. " Be I wanted, cook T asked she simply. "Yes, Miss Hidle, you be wanted, and you've a been wanted afore you was found," . said that indignant functionary. Silent and helpless the Vicar stood and 138 FREDA. permitted Freda to be carried off before his eyes by an angry cook, without putting out a finger to prevent it. When alone, he thrust his two manly hands into the thick mass of brown hair that curled over his head, and fell into a deep cogitation. "" I wish it was over," he soliloquised. " I wish I knew what I ought to do. Whether it is a duty to wait. It seemed like a duty just now — but why should it be so ? The position is awkward, and might cause scandal as it is now ; but if once she was my w^ife, it would be only a nine days' wonder. And why should she not be my wife % Miss Melville at the Grange is not half so ladylike, and I'm sure she is so clever she could be taught any- thing. Why did I feel ashamed and miser- able when cook came in ? It is only the name of the thing, and it is neither manly nor Christian to care about the name. And yet in my profession it is impossible to be too careful. I am not my own, and I ought not to dare to act as if I was my own. I know what I will do," cried the poor worried man,, as sudden light broke in upon him, ^^ I will A NEW SITUATION. 130 let her go back to the farm. There, as Mrs. Dowlas's friend, though beneath me in rank, there will be no room for scandal if I woa her and make her my wife ; and till she- has returned there, I will avoid her with the greatest care, and if brought in con- tact with her will treat her only as my ser- vant." So resolved Mr. Underwood, one of the best men in the world, and a sensible man too; and while these thoughts passed through the Vicar's mind a vision, sudden, unexpected and inexorable, rose up before it. A vision % What was it ? An open window in a pretty sitting-room a pale girl sitting by it — a girl with regular features, grey eyes, and neatly-braided hair,, well dressed, ladylike, composed, decorous. An interesting, intelligent face bent over the book she held in her hand. That book was a Euclid, and the girl was not alone. A man, young and eager, stood beside her explaining to her the difficulties in her studies. Their eyes met as he did so — he smiled, and she blushed. That vision which now arose unsummoned and unre- •'»140 FREDA. lenting from the long-ago days and with re- morseless, reckless power drove the present away, was the Vicar's first love, and that young man was himself. CHAPTER VII. A QUOTATION FOUND. HEN Freda had finished her kitchen work, to which she was strictly- kept by a severe and suspicious cook, she again ran out into the garden to refresh herself. She tried to control her thoughts, and not to let them wander after the dark stern man whom the Vicar had called Lionel ; but not- withstanding all her efforts, they attended on "his steps, and left her no peace. '^ How cruel it is to be haunted/' she cried^ " how very cruel it is to be haunted I What is the use of running away, if one is to be haunted ?" and she looked angrily about her. 142 FREDA. Just then the gate in the lane opened, and Letty came eagerly up to her. The two girls kissed each other. '^ Oh, my dear Miss Freda/' cried Letty, '^ what is it all ? Do you like being here T '^ Yes, Letty, I think I do ; just for a bit, you know. I'll come back to you, Letty." " But are you here as a servant. Miss Freda \ It can't be right for you to be here .as a servant." " But why not, Letty ? There's nothing 'dangerous or wrong in servants, is there ? you see them in every house — they don't bite. Why shouldn't I be a servant as well ^s another T ^' But you're not one. Miss Freda, and the parson thinks you are." *' But that's the fun of it, Letty." " Fun, Miss Freda ? I don't see the fun, and I'm sure it's not right. What would Jack say if he heard of it ?" " Hang Jack !" ^'Oh, Miss Freda!" *' Well, I don't care. I say hang Jack ! :and I don't mind what he thinks one bit ; he's not my parents, or my uncles and aunts, A QUOTATION FOUND. 143 •or my godfathers and godmothers, or anything on earth except Jack." ''You oughtn't to say 4iang Jack/ " repHed Letty very seriously. " And you oughtn't to say I oughtn't io be here. Why oughtn't I to be here ? Are not your Mr. and Miss Underwood two of the best people in the world ? and why oughtn't I to give them help when they want it— and just the help they do want, too ? Why shouldn't I be of use to somebody just for once in my life ?" '^ Oh, as to your being of use, Miss Freda " " Don't you see, Letty, that if they knew I w^as a lady, I couldn't do it, and they wouldn't let me do it. It's just because I'm -a servant, I can. Oh, hang ladydom ! hang ladies and ladydom ! I'm not at all sure I won't be a servant for the rest of my days." *' But you cant, Miss Freda ; you're not one, and you can't make yourself one." " Why not, pray ? What is there to pre- vent my taking service if I choose ? If I hire myself out as a housemaid, and do work, and take wages, I'm just as much a servant 144 FREDA. as Peggy Jones or Ann Smith, and there's nobody to prevent me. I can do it if I please," '' I don't beheve you can," rephed Letty doggedly ; "" nothing could make you a real servant, and you oughtn't to say that it could." " By-the-bye, have you heard about Jack?" cried Freda suddenly. '' About Jack % no, indeed I haven't. What is it ? I haven't heard a word. What is it. Miss Freda T ^' But haven't you heard really 1" " No — no. Oh, is anything the matter ? Why don't you speak — what is it ?" '' Well, that's odd," said Freda thought- fully, '' and yet I don't know that it is oddj I think I can see why you haven't heard." She spoke very slowly, and looked hard at Letty while she spoke, and shook her head a little. *^ Oh, Miss Freda," cried poor Letty, "something is the matter, I know — something has happened. Oh, what is it — why do you think you see why I ha^ven't heard ?" ^^ Because," said Freda, still more slowly. A QUOTATION FOUND. 145 ■^^ because the real fact you see, Letty, is, that there is nothing to hear." ^' Nothing to hear !'^ " No, because nothing has happened," '' Nothing has happened !'* *' Oh, for that matter fifty things may have happened, and probably fifty things have liappened, because things always are happen- ing. I happen to be in the garden now, and you happen to be talking to me — that's hap- pening. But as to Jack, I don't know of anything that has happened to him, and that's why I can understand why you haven't heard of anything. " ^' Oh, Miss Freda, you are deceiving me ; you know you are. You have heard, and there is something," cried Letty, and then she began to cry. ^^ I do assure you there isn't ; my dear Letty, please don't cry ; there's nothing what- ever — upon my word there isn't." *^ Then why did you say there was ?" '^ I didn't say there was." ^' Oh, Miss Freda !" '' Well, really and truly I didn't." VOL. I. 10 146 FREDA. "• Why you asked me if I had heard ; you said the words as distinctly as possible." " I know I did ; but I wish you would try to be exact, Letty. You should try to be exact — Jack likes exactness." '^ I am exact," said Letty, still crying, but now partly with anger, ^' and you're not. Why did you ask me if I had heard T '' Where was the harm ? It was a civil question, and it's known that a civil question deserves a* civil answer." " But is there anything ?" " How should I know V ^^ Why did you say it then ?" " I didnt say it." " Oh !" cried Letty, '' it is too bad. Why did you ask me the question then ?' " Why did you bother me about being a servant T " Oh, Miss Freda, if it was all a trick, and you are giving me this fright for nothing, I declare I'll never speak to you again." " Given you this fright for nothing — why really, Letty, you seem disappointed that something hasn't happened to Jack. I never knew such a girl in my life. I thought you A QUOTATION FOUND. 147 would be as pleased as possible when I told you, and you're quite vexed. Jack wouldn't like that much, I fancy." ^' I'm not — you didn't — he would," cried Letty incoherently. *' I don't believe any- body before ever was so unkind as you are." Then Freda kissed her. " Oh, you baby," cried she, " don't mind — I didn't mean anything ; it's all as right as possible ; nothing's happened, and nobody could hear nothing, nobody ever did. Don't cry, Letty, don't be ill-tempered — there's a dear — now don't." Letty dried her eyes, but her manner was at once subdued and dignified. '^ I shall go home " she said, '^ you don't want me." '' Well, no," replied Freda, '' I don't want you particularly, certainly, but I'm always glad to see you, Letty," added she graciously ; '^ and you're welcome to come in and out here just as you like — ^you are indeed." '' I shall go home now," said Letty, still subdued and dignified. But Freda, though as fond of teasing as a schoolboy or a kitten, had a light heart, and 10—2 148 l^REDA. could not bear to see anybody really vexed. So she threw her arms round Letty's neck and kissed her. '^ Don't be vexed with me, dear old Letty," she said; ^'you know I love you, and you know I don't mean any harm." Letty was easily mollified, and the girls parted excellent friends. The rest of that day passed away without anything particular happening. True to his resolution, the Vicar avoided Freda, and when he came across her, treated her only as a servant ; and Freda began to find it rather dull, moreover she had to dine with cook, which she did not like at all, for cook did not dine nicely, and whatever Freda's theories might be about gentlefolks and servants, in practice she certainly found it more agreeable to associate with the former than with the latter. When the parlour dinner was ready she liked her role of waiting on the Vicar and his sister extremely, although Mr. Underwood seldom spoke to her, and kept his eyes resolutely fixed on his plate, and his ;attention occupied by his knife and fork. Miss Underwood, interested as invalids [A QUOTATION FOUND. 149 are about trifles, was still full of her dream, and eager to tell her brother that she had made notes of it, and written down the verses ; also she was in hopes that she had found a key to what the poem was. '^ In the other lines she repeated, after she had finished the quotation," said she, " the name Honoria occurred. I am quite sure the name Honoria occurred. Now Honoria is an uncommon name, and not common in poetry, so one ought to recollect." " But," said he, ^/ you can't be sure that that was a quotation at all." '^ My dear !" cried his sister, ^^ I couldn't have made it; it was beautiful, and you know I never made a line of poetry in my life, not even when I was awake. Now where can Honoria occur ? do let us try to think." " Perhaps in Thomson's ^ Seasons,' " sug- gested he, " or the ' Triumphs of Temper.' " '' No, that's Serena, and Thomson couldn't — not in the least ; there's nothing in all Thomson half so pretty as this was." ''Nor in Hayley eitherthen, I should think." '"'• Nor in Hayley either ; but it must be some narrative, you know." 150 FREDA. '^ Serena means serene, the personification of good temper. Now Honoria ought to be somebody very much honoured and loved." " Some great person !" said Miss Under- wood doubtfully. " Well, no — not actually a great person, but a person made great by the estimation in which she is held by others." '^ Or by one other," cried Freda, the jug of beer in her hand, to the contents of which sl^ was just going to help the Vicar, and unable to keep silence any longer. Both the others looked surprised. " Yes, certainly of one other," said the Vicar hastily, • " of one other would do," and as he spoke he coloured deeply. '^ Oh, Lewes, I am sure you have been out too much in the sun," cried Maud, *' you are so flushed. I did not notice before how flushed and hot you are ; you really should not be imprudent — you will make yourself ill." "No, no," said he impatiently, "I haven't — I shan't — I am not the laast flushed ; I never felt cooler in my life." A QUOTATION FOUND. 151 *^ But you are very much flushed," an- swered Maud in a low voice. ^VWhy don't you try to think of all the books of poetry with Honoria in them V said he. " All ! I don't believe there's one," replied Maud despondently ; '' it's not a name for poetry ; it's inconvenient, and it's not roman- tic enough. Neither Scott nor Byron would use it." " Pope V suggested he. ** Belinda is something of the same style, but the verses are not the least Popish, and though the name would do exactly for Crabbe, he couldn't have written them either." ' *' Not Crabbed any more than Popish," said the Vicar. '^ Try to think of all the poems with delightful women in them. Honoria ought, ^s you say, to be some one to whom all honour is paid." '^ A queen among women," said the Vicar. " * A perfect woman, nobly planned, To aid, to comfort, and command,' " said Maud. 152 FREDA. '^ A ministerinof anofel," said the Vicar. *' In the house," added Freda quietly. " Hey — what I in the house T cried Mr.. Underwood, very much astonished. *' Why, that's it !" cried Maud, quite ex- cited. ^* The ^ Angel in the House !' Of course that's it — Coventry Patmore — Honoria — Felix — the Dean. Don't you know, Lewes^ don't you remember the ^ Angel in the House r " ^^ Of course I do," cried he ; *' how stupid I was not to think of it before ; but it's such ages since I read the book. But you," he cried, turning to Freda, " how could you know ? What made you say it T " Say what ?" replied she, staring at him idiotically, '^ I didn't say anything." *' You said ' in the house.' " " Laws !" said Freda, '' anybody could say that ; don't you go for to make a fuss about- my saying that. I could say a deal more than that any day." " What made you say it '?" " Laws ! why shouldnt I say it ?" said she stupidly ; '' it's a thing I often say, I'm fond of it." A QUOTATION FOUND. ISa " You can't be fond of saying * in the liouse,' " expostulated Maud. *^ Or say it often/' added the Yicar. '' I am, though," said Freda, " and I do ; I says it often, lots of times, most always, when I've nothing else to say." " She can't understand Avha.t we mean,"" said Maud, addressing her brother. ^^ Bless your innercent 'art," said Freda,, '' but I does. I understand what you mean„ and a deal more." The brother and sister were reduced to- silence, and Freda put down the pudding and gave them plates. They ate their pudding, neither of them looking quite comfortable. '' At any rate," said Maud at last, '' at any rate we know now where it comes from ; and it is most extraordinary, Lewes^ for it is more than ten years since I read that poem. I read it when it first came out. Is not it strange that I should remember it now in my dream V' ^' Everything is strange," replied he, with the air of a man who would not be contra- dicted. •164 FREDA. ^' Is it T said Maud, looking timidly at him. '' There," Said he, rising from the table hastily ; " I won't have any cheese or dessert. I must go out. I can't stay in the house. I have a great deal to do, and must go out." "Don't overheat yourself," said Maud anxiously. " Are you quite well ? I could fancy the hot sun had made you almost a little feverish." " Nonsense," cried he, with unusual cross- ness ; ^' I am perfectly well ; please don't begin fussing about me. I shall be home to tea." And he went out of the room, shutting the door rather sharply after him. " I am sure he's not well," sighed Maud ; ■*' he is so unlike himself, and he has forgotten to carry me back into the drawing-room." And the thought either of his forgetfulness or of her own helplessness, filled Maud's eyes with tears. " I'm sure I could manage," said Freda softly. " I could get you in somehow." But as she put her arms round her to see ivhat could be done, Mr. Underwood came A QUOTATION FOUND. 155 back into the room. He looked penitent, and as amiable and kind as possible, and for the twentieth time the sweet expression of his face struck Freda forcibly. '' If all men were only like that" she sighed, as he stooped over his sister and kissed her. " I have come to settle you comfortably, my dear, before I go out," said he quite ten- derly. And then he lifted her up in his arms, and carrying her into the drawing-room, laid her gently down on the sofa. *' Dear Lewes," she said fondly, and hap- piness once more took possession of her heart. " I shall be back to tea," he said, smiling, ■^' and after that w^e will write out the dream for Professor Stubbs, and have it ready for the morning's post." And so he went away, and this time there was no slamming of doors. '^ There goes the best man in all the world," said his sister, speaking to herself. " I believe it," answered Freda heartily. Miss Underwood looked up at her, and smiled. *' You are a good girl," said she. 156 FREDA. '^ Am I T said Freda. " Because I can see that he is a good man. A bad girl could do that, I fancy." ** I don't know about that," said Miss. Underwood, '^ but I think you are a good girl. It is very nice of you staying here to- help us. You have, as far as I understand, come to the farm on a visit, Mrs. Dowlas being your friend more than your mistress ; and because you found a sick woman in dis- tress, you have given up your own pleasure to help her." '' But I liked to do it." '' Yes ; and that is why I think you are a good girl. If you were not, you wouldn't like it. And we have never said a word about paying you either." Freda's beautiful eyes opened wide at this. " Paying me !" she said, in an incredulous- voice. '' Yes, paying you," replied Maud Under- wood, laughing ; " of course we shall pay you as we are honest people ; but you made no- arrangement with us, and I do believe," she added, watching with much amusement the A QUOTATION FOUND, 157 expression in Freda's astonished face, ** that you never gave it a thought." Freda blushed, furiously, but also laughed. " Oh," she said, ''^^ou needn't think about paying me. T certainly shan't take anything. I consider myself staying on a visit, where I like to make myself useful. Visitors are not paid, you know." " If you were always what you are at times," said Maud thoughtfully, ^' you would be more like a companion than a servant, and it is very pleasant to have you about me ; and xny brother is so much out, it is nice having somebody to speak to," added the invalid with a little sigh, as her thoughts went back to many solitary hours which Freda's young fresh presence would have brightened inex- pressibly. " I don't care how long I stay with you," :answered Freda, '^ or what use you make of me, if you will only tell cook that I am not a new servant, but a friend of Mrs. Dowlas's, ready to help you while Sarah is away, but not to be sat upon or made do dirty work." She spoke and looked now so exactly like a lady, that Miss Underwood experienced a 158 FREDA. fresh astonishment, and said quite apologeti- call}^ : " Oh, yes, indeed I will." "" Now," said Freda, ^' you could not employ me better than in lettinof me read to vou a little ; it will improve me, you know, and be pleasant to you at the same time." ^' Certainly," said Miss Underwood, uncon- sciously beginning to succumb to the subtle tyranny of Freda's influence, like Letty, and Jack, and the Vicar, and everybody else Avho came in contact with her. Everybody else ? If so, why had Freda come to Koseberry Farm % The Vicar returned to tea, and found Freda sitting on a low stool by his sister s sofa, look- ing more beautiful than ever, and reading '^Mendelssohn's Letters" aloud, in refined ladylike accents. He would very willingly have stayed to listen, and let the fair reader continue her employment ; but Freda closed the book hastily as soon as she saw him, and said it was time to get their tea ready. " That girl is not a common servant. A QUOTATION FOUND. . 15^ Lewes," said Miss Underwood the minute they were alone together. " She is much fitter to be maid and companion to an old or invalid lady than anything else. How I should like to have her always near me !" "Perhaps you might," replied the Vicar, colouring furiously. " No ; it would be an unnecessary expense, unless I was to be always ill, which we have not the least reason for supposing I shall be. I Avould not engage her in Sarah's place, even if she would come, which I don't suppose she would ; but it would not be right to ask her, because she is fit for a much better situation. And when I am well ao^ain, I shan't want a companion." " We might have her here, perhaps," said he, " in some other capacity." His sister looked at him inquiringly, and again the colour rushed into his face. " I mean for the sake of improving her,, and allowing her to make herself useful in return. You must know the sort of thing I mean," he added impatiently, " it is done every day." *' Is it ?" replied Maud, with meek doubt. 160 FREDA. *^ I think that the best plan would be to talk to Mrs. Dowlas about her, and find out what her means are, and w^hat it would be really best for her to do. I should like to lielp her." " Yes, I am sure you would," he cried warmly ; '* she has been thrown on us in a manner that seems as if Ave were meant to help her ; it has almost become a duty, I feel that verif strongly, and I am sure you do the .same." *' Well, it had not quite occurred to me in that light," began his sister hesitatingly. " Had it not ? I am surjDrised at that, but you will see it now that it has been put before you ; no serious mind could fail to see it in that light when it has been once put before them." Maud Underwood reflected about this, and began to fear that she had not a serious mind. ^' At any rate," she answered, rather shirk- ing the question — " at any rate I should wish very much to be of use to the girl, for I like lier, and take a great interest in her." ^' I had been thinking," said he, '^ that the A QUOTATION FOUND. 161 Ivindest thing might be to send her to school; !she is clever, but of course only half edu- cated." *' It would be expensive," said Maud, greatly surprised. '^ Yes, it would be expensive." '''' The best plan, I am sure, is to speak to Mrs. Dowlas about her." '' Perhaps so," replied he briefly, and only half satisfied. " And when we have had our tea," con- tinued Maud, ^' I hope that you have not forgotten that my dream is to be clearly stated for Professor Stubbs." '^ Oh yes, your dream," said he wearily, ^' by all means we must see about your dream." Then he added, with sudden ani- mation, '' And she said those verses to you in your dream; is it not strange that you should have wished to know them so long, and at once, when she came, she brought the know- ledge of them to you in a dream ?" ''When she came" — the words already had a strange significance to the Yicar, as if her coming was not only a thing that had to be, but had already become an epoch in his life VOL. I. 11 162 FREDA. in reference to which all things might be dated. When she came — before she came — since she came^ — have we not all had such dates brought suddenly into our lives by the advent of a stranger ? But notwithstanding all that had been said and thought about Freda, she had to spend her evening in the kitchen with cook, while the brother and sister Avere busy with the dream in the drawing-room. Miss Underwood slept so soundly that night, that she had no new dreams to collect for Professor Stubbs in the morning. The first good night she had had since her illness ; and falling into her brother's fanciful way of viewing the matter, she began to ask herself whether the presence of the beautiful stranger, while it had undoubtedly brought her pleasant dreams, might not now have caused her tran- quil slumber. CHAPTER Vlli. IN HIS STUDY. N the kitchen Freda stared at the cook till the cook first fidgeted and then almost shied under the fixed gaze. ^'What on hearth do you do that for?" asked that functionary at last. ^' Can't you keep them big eyes of yourn to your- self r^ " How do you do it ?" inquired Freda anxiously. "Do what, Miss Imperence ? for that you're arter some imperence, / see." " Look like a cook because you are one ?" replied Freda. '' I'm not impudent — I really IJ— 2 164 FREDA. want to know, why do things look what they are, almost always V "I'm not a thing — I won't be called names," answered cook very angrily ; " and if that's not imj^erence — jj " No, it isn't," cried Freda, frightened, '^ it really isn't, because I didn't mean it — I only wanted to know — don't be angry — do tell me — wliat were you like when you were young T " I'm not tliat old," began cook. ^' No, no," cried she, " you're not — exactly so, you're not tliat old — but you have been younger. Now do tell me, like a dear cook — what were you like when you were younger T Of course cook succumbed — Avhat chance had she ? Everybody did succumb before Freda — even a cook. " I was as likely a lass as you'd meet between this and Lon'on town," said she triumphantly. Freda did not seem at all incredulous. " No ; were you T said she, " and were you a cook then % were you always a cook ? Are people born cooks ?" she added rather timidly. ," If ever you seed a born cook I was she," answered the other ; '' but I weren't a cook IN HIS STUDY. 165 when I was a gal — in course not — I'd not be sicli a cook as I am now if I had. I was a kitchen-maid." " Oh — h ! I see," said Freda with a disap- pointed air. ^' it comes bj degrees. And did you look Hke a cook then % If I go on and on being a housemaid, shall I look like one out and out at last T ^' If you tidied up your 'air and wore a hapron, and were civiller in your manners, you'd have a deal better chance," replied the cook severely. " I don't know whether one forms one's ideas on them, or whether the thing is an existence tlieij more or less come up to," said Freda thoughtfully, ^^ but coachmen do look like coachmen, butlers like butlers, clergymen like clergymen, grocers like grocers, artists like artists, and cooks like cooks ; and yet they are all just mere men and women to begin with." " My 'usband was a coachman, and a finer man you never did see," replied cook. " What ! you've got a husband !" cried Freda, quite astonished. *^ And why not, if you please ? Howsom ever, 166 FREDA. he's dead and buried, poor fellow, six years ago come Christmas. I'm a widder." ''■ Well, if one does marry, that's the best thing one can hope for," replied Freda philosophically. '^ Get out with ye for an 'eartless crittur," cried cook, really shocked. Then Freda began to yawn and to look about her rather dolorously. ''What does one do in kitchens all the evening'?" r.aked she. "Are not kitchens dull ? what lives fellow-creatures lead to be sure. I am glad I'm not a fellow- creature — it's much nicer to be one's self" The cook stared at her. " Set you up with airs," said she con- temptuously, '' it's nice to be you, is it % Look arter yerself, young ooman, with yer big eyes and yer pink cheeks, or you'd rather be someun else maybe afore ye're much older." " I wonder what cooks used to be and will be," continued Freda, talking to herself; then questioning her companion seriously,^ " Do you thin]z you ever were a bird T The cook rose up out of her chair in extreme indignation, and replying, " I'll 'ave IN HIS STUDY. 167 no more of your sarce, young ooman," took Freda by the shoulders and forcibly removed her from the kitchen, angrily repeating, "Bird, indeed !" while she slammed the door in her face. , Freda leaned against the wall in the stone passage and laughed heartily. Then she caressed her little shoulders where the cook's hands had been so vigorously laid, and patted them and told them that they were not really hurt. "' What a dreadful thing it must be to be a cook/' she said, " if a cook's like that ! I am sure one ought not to be surprised at anything they do in anger either. I don't know %{:)hat I might not do if I was tliat. Oh ! I am glad I am not a fellow-creature !" Then she looked about her, but her •surroundings were not invigorating or pretty. A whitewashed wall Avas behind her, a white- washed wall was in front of her, stones were under her feet, and she was in a tolerably wide passage with a door at each end of it — one was a glass door, giving a glimpse of a garden with just one honeysuckle in full ilower facing it, and the other an ordinary 1G8 FREDA. door leading to that part of the house in- habited by its master and mistress. Freda's eyes glanced over and took in nothing till they reached the honeysuckle, and on that they rested. "Yes, there is always a honeysuckle," she murmured, " there is always a honeysuckle. Even cook can see it!^ and then she beo-an to lauofh ao-ain as the thought of cook returned to her. " And now what shall I do ? what can I do r This was the question that presented itself forcibly to her mind, and shut out everything else, even while her eyes rested on the honeysuckle. " What shall I do— what can I do V Then she thouofht with a stranofe lonsfinfi: of the pretty drawing-room in which Maud and the Vicar were sitting concocting the story of the dream for Professor Stubbs. " The dream which is really mine," she said. " My act which has become her dream !" She felt there was nothincj she should like so much as to walk into that pretty drawing- room, and sitting down between the pale lady and her brother, talk first to one and IN HIS STUD V. 169 then to the other in her own way and her own language, as an equal, or as she always somehow found herself wherever she went, as the leader of the social circle in which she happened to be — to give utterance to all the ideas that were for ever crowding through her brain, to talk and be talked to as Freda the lady — not as Freda the new servant at Roseberry Farm. To do this would at once destroy all her play, and bring her back out of her pretence world into that world which might be rather tiresome —the world of every-day life. She would have the pleasure of a few minutes' astonishment and bew^ilderment on the part of the pale lady and her brother, and after that she would be only an ordinary Freda^ and they just Mr. and Miss Underwood. She did not understand how unlike an ordinary Freda she must ever be, or what she was swiftly becoming, to at least one of the two individuals she wished to astonish. " But life can't be spent in a stone passage," sh.e said at last. *' I'm nowhere — I must be somewhere — everybody must be somewhere, and I'm nowhere. What shall I do ? what can 170 FREDA. I do ? I know ! I'm the housemaid ! Ill dust master's study !" The idea brought a httle scream of laughter to her lips, and she curtseyed to herself grate- fully, repeating as she did so, ^^ I'll dust master's study ! thank you, dear, thank you, I'll dust master's study !" Then she flew off delightedly, fetched her duster, and entered those sacred precincts — the study of a clergyman. There was a waiting -table with its blotted leather top, and its pillars of drawers. I have often looked at those pillars of drawers in a gentleman's writing-table with .a sort of awe and a considerable respect, wondering what literary or law treasures each one might contain. Once — do not betray me — once I opened one, which I frankly confess I had no business to open, and its contents were — a tangle of packthread, three nails, -and a corkscrew. Since then I have felt less respect for the pillars of drawers and the possible contents thereof. By Mr. Underwood's table stood his easy- chair, and on his desk lay some MS. Some MS. Yes, there was no doubt what IN HIS STUDY. 171 they were : beneath Freda's eyes lay the pages of an unfinished sermon. A new experience in her Ufe certainly. Novelty was her delight, and she did not hesitate to avail herself of this novelty in the study, hlase as she was beginning to feel herself, with life in the kitchen. She read with avidity, and the words she read were these, " Therefore, beloved brethren, let us never cease fighting," the sentence terminated abruptly with the word '^ fighting," the writer having been apparently called off in the middle of his subject. '^ What a horrid sentiment !" cried Freda, '^ never cease fighting ! Well, if that is not the -old man we are told to put off*, I don't know what is — fighting I never cease fighting ! For shame, Mr. Underwood !" and as she spoke the words '^ For shame, Mr. Underwood," she wrote them in large dashing characters under the Vicar's great Oxford caligraphy. Then quick as lightning she drew a pen-and-ink sketch, clever-spirited and telling, though the story was told by few strokes and less shading, of two prize-fighters engaged in "deadly conflict, and under this she traced in 172 I^REDA. the same dashing hand the six words, ^' Never cease fighting — never say die !" and then she looked approvingly at her work and smiled with inexpressible sweetness. " There, Mr. Underwood," said she, '' I flatter myself I have ^improved the occasion.*' What a blessing you are, by-the-bye, a clergy- man who is not always preaching, who does not consider himself bound to improve the occasion, whenever an occasion oflers itself for improvement, and whenever it doesn't either ! Yes, Mr. Underwood, you are a blessing !" Freda then looked round her for something else to do, but found nothing. " The world is growing stupid !" cried she rather loudly ; ^' I am tired of being alone." And even as she spoke the door of the room opened and its master walked slowly in. He started back as if he had no business there when he saw that vision of beauty, the new housemaid, standing, duster in hand^ leaning on his table, and just as he had done when she ran as^ainst him in the wood, he hastily said, *' I beg your pardon !" " Don't mention it/' replied Freda kindly. IN HIS STUDY. 173 But by the time the words were out of his lips he had recollected where he was, and who she was, and all about it. " What are you doing here V he asked rather brusquely. She regarded him with well-opened eyes of mild reproach, and replied, ^' I am dusting your books." " Oh, well," he said doubtfully, ^^ that is right of course ; but take care what you are about, the books are valuable." Freda flourished her duster and set to work, vigorously dashing the dust about with it. '^ I can't think," she said, " where all the dust goes to, can you ? Here it is," pointing to the books, ^^ and there it is," pointing to the air, " but what becomes of it ? I suppose it all settles down again ; and if so, Avhy is it clean to dust things % And is not it the nastiest thing of all, that there should be cmy dirt in the world ? I do think it was a nasty thing to make dirt, don't you T The clergyman was a little shocked at this view of creation, and hardly knew how to answer her. 174 FREDA. " I don't suppose dirt ivas made originally," began he ; but Freda interrupted him. " I don't see why it shouldn't be if sin was," she said pertly ; ^^ and I suppose you've heard of original sin % but for all that, it's nasty." ^^You take a wrong view," again began the clergyman after a startled pause, and again Freda interrupted him. " That's because I'm a housemaid," she said, adding with decision, ^^ and if you were one you'd do the same." " What should 1 do V he asked quietly, a smile hovering about the corners of his mouth. "You'd think about dirt," replied Freda; ^^ it would be your duty." Mr. Underwood looked at her, fresh, radiant, beautiful — a vision that seemed to have flashed out of a world where neither dirt nor decay could exist; he sighed as he looked at her and felt inexpressibly moved, though he could not have explained why, just at that particular moment, the emotional part of his nature should be so aroused. " The sooner you leave off being a house- IN HIS STUDY. . 175 maid and turn your thoughts to something else the better," said he. "There must he housemaids?" repHed Freda^ *^ and cooks?" she spoke questioningly ; "how odd it is ! I have been thinking a good deal about cooks to-night, from being with one, you know," she added in an explanatory tone as she saw his look of surprise at the general statement, " and it does seem to me odd that some people should live only for the sake of cooking dinners for others 1 that that should be a life ! Isn't that queerer than sin ? Doesn't it seem to you much easier to under- stand there being thieves than cooks V Mr. Underwood could not answer her at once for surprise. When he had recovered his presence of mind, he said : " You are wrong in your view ; you take a wrong view of everything. No one is made only for the work they do. We all have to work in one way or another. Household service is a respectable work for women — but all, is only a means to an end. People whom God has not made rich must support themselves, somehow, in this world, which is only a preparation for another." 176 JFREDA. ^* Oh ! please don't !" cried Freda mourn- fully ; " that is improving the occasion with a vengeance, which I was saying only just now you never did !" '^ I hope you had no grounds for saying that of me," replied the clergyman ; ^' T should be sorry to think I deserved it." " Oh, it was praise," said Freda, '' but what did you come in here for ?" She looked round her with the air of a queen, and quite as if it was her boudoir, not his study. ^' I came to look for a book about dreams," he replied, answering the imperious question on the impulse of the moment quite humbly. ^' Get it then, and let me go on w^ith my dusting," was the authoritative answer. But Mr. Underwood, though he sjDoke humbly, felt no inclination to obey this com- mand. By an unexpected and unsought good fortune, he again found himself in this won- derful girl's presence, when he had not ex- pected to see her again that night, and he could not make up his mind to leave it so immediately. He looked earnestly at her as she stood there, duster in hand, with a IN HIS STUDY. 177 mocking light in her beautiful eye and •dimples ready to break out round her fresh rosy mouth. He looked, he cleared his throat, and then he spoke with grave composure : "With reference to that idea of your ofoinof to school, I have a word or two to -say." " Oh, have you ! Why don't you say them then r " I am going to say them. I want to know how much education you have had." Freda laughed lightly. '' Very little indeed," she said. " You can read, and write of course ; what else can you do T '' I can sing," replied Freda, and then, before he knew where he was, she faced him, ■and suddenly began to sing. Her voice, as I have said before, was not powerful, but it had enough strength to place her performance in the rank of real singing, and not of pleasant warbling only. She sang this song straight through, with- out an atom of expression, but with that bell intonation, which made her voice in- VOL. T. '12 178 FREDA. describably pathetic, notwithstanding its pas- sionless freedom. She stood before him a radiant vision of youth, innocence, and joy,, singing fearlessly. FEEDA'S SONG. ^ ii Faithless and friendless, Homeless, untaught, Life seeming endless, Only youth short ; Words to reprove me, Deeds to distress, No heart to love me Or hand to caress. " No one to want me, No one to care, No one to grant me Love's lightest prayer ; No one to miss me, No one to please, No one to kiss me With kisses like these. " Sins unforgiven, Mark'd from my birth, Outcast of Heaven, ^\ Alien on earth ; Joy cannot find me, Hope cannot reach, Yows cannot bind me, And faith cannot teach. IN HIS STUDY. 179 " By life forsaken, Shrinking from death, Feeble limbs shaken, Poor gasping breath. Would you relieve me, Eager to save. What can you give me % Only a grave !" The song stopped here abruptly, without one dying cadence, sung right through, from beginning to end, in the most straightforward manner, with that sweet ring in the voice that might move the most unsympathetic hstener to tears. Her smihng eyes turned full on him as she finished, and her red lips closed firmly after the last word had passed through them. The clergyman stood aghast. ^^ But that is a most shocking song," he cried at last ; " child, who taught you that sad song T ^^ Don't you like it ?" cried Freda, dis- appointed, and almost pouting ; ^^I think it so pretty, it is my best song." *' Your hest song," said he, looking vaguely about him. /' Yes, indeed, and it is aiLcli a pretty tune." 12—2 180 FREDA. " Oh, the tune/' he cried — '^ yes, the tune is pretty enough." " Why, you said it was shocking." ^^ So it is ; I was speaking of the words." " Oh," she cried, ^' what are the words ? I do not think of them ; if the music is pretty that i^ all, and I have enough to do singing it J without bothering about the words." " You should never sing a song without thinking of the words," said he with some severity of manner. " Much you know about singing, if you say that," replied Freda, *'why I sing — J) She w^as just going to say " German and Italian songs without understanding a word of them," when she remembered her role in life, and that she should betray herself if she talked of singing German and Italian songs, so she began to laugh and looked at him roguishly ; whenever Freda had nothing else to do, she found laughing a pleasant and natural occupation, and when she laughed, she, if possible, appeared more beautiful than when she was grave. " Have you never attended Sunday schools? Did you never learn — hymns'?" asked he, when IN HIS STUDY. 181 he had in some measure recovered from her beauty. ^' In course I did — to sing them and say them too : " ' How doth the little busy bee, For 'tis their nature to ; Let dogs delight to bark and bite, To suffer and to do.' " And her merry laugh rang out through the room, till he laughed also. But he re- covered his gravity as quickly as he could, and began to reprove her, when she assumed the half-idiotic air he had noticed in her so frequently at first, and remarked stolidly that she never was a good un at remembering, and never had the top of the class, but she did her best, she did, and she couldn't speak fairer than that. At the same moment another voice — a voice a little querulous, and slightly melancholy — was wafted towards them out of the distance, sounding to the Vicar like a summons back into an older and a duller world. It was the voice of Maud callinsf her brother, who had gone to fetch a book about dreams, and whose 182 FREDA. prolonged absence made the poor invalid, who could not follow him to see what he was doing, both impatient and nervous. With guilty consciousness the Vicar felt glad she could not follow him, and then quickly reproached himself for the feeling. But he knew she would be very much sur- prised if she found him chatting with the servant girl. Then he looked at Freda, and thought to himself, " She is not a servant girl ; it is not only impossible, but she is not one. She is a friend of Mrs. Dowlas's, and she has evi- dently been thrown so much with better taught people, that it is quite as easy for her to talk like them, as like her original equals." She smiled sweetly on him in reply to this look, and he instantly turned his back on her, and walking rapidly up to the book-case, took down one book after another in his search for the volume about dreams. '^ Here it is," he said at last, and book in hand he strolled listlessly out of the room with an over-acted affectation of not thinking about her or knowing she was there. Freda looked after him astonished. IN HIS STUDY. 18S ^' Well, that is odd," she cried ; " but I'm glad he's gone without finding out my boxers. I was afraid every minute he'd look at his sermon and find out my boxers. How I hope he'll come to write when Miss Under- wood and I have gone to bed, and then won't he be astonished I He'll never think / did it ; he'll think it's the sermon has taken to illustrate itself. I do ivonder books never come alive, with all the life and soul there is sometimes put in them, and take to doing things of themselves. If I wrote a book, I «hould never be surprised to find it had written a bit for me after I had left it. I wonder if they get worried at not being made just what they ought to be, and almost feel a spite at their authors for turning them out differently from what they'd like. I'm sure I should, often and often, if I was a book. And it's hard on a book too, that it always must remain just what it is, though its author may change so that you wouldn't know he was the same man. I declare I pity books very much indeed, poor dears !" Then Freda finished dusting the room, and .araiised herself by putting every single thing 184 FREDA. in it into a different place from that in whicli she had found it. After which she mis- matched the books in the shelves, taking; them all out and putting them back again at. random, so that no two volumes of the same work were together. ''That's the only principle," she said;. '' there ought to be a principle in everything,, and that is my principle here." Satisfied with her evening's work, she then went into Miss Underwood's room, resolving to wait there till the lady was ready to go to- bed, as she did not feel inclined to further her acquaintance with either the kitchen, or its inhabitant, the cook. Miss Underwood was in a gentle flutter of satisfaction when her brother carried her in,, and left her with her new handmaiden. '' You can't think how well it reads," she said. '' Lewes has taken great pains with it,. and we have worked it up amazingly. I had not an idea it would read so well." She was referring to her dream. \,—<^'St CHAPTEK IX. QUESTION AND ANSWER. "wQS . ^ RED A was dusting the china in the drawing-room on the next day. I don't know whether she thought a duster was a magic symbol which would be sure to bring a benignant sprite in the shape of an agreeable clergyman to her side, but the Vicar w^as still busy in his study, and Miss Underwood had not yet come down- stairs, though it was nearly noon. The hot sun made beautiful sunshine every- where ; the birds had ceased singing, the flowers were perfectly happy with wide-opened petals, and the scent from the hay-field was- delicious. 1 86 FREDA. Duster in hand, but looking very unfit to have a duster in such Httle rosy and white fingers, Freda stood gazing on the lovely world outside. *'By-and-by I will go and make hay," thought Freda, ^^ it will be heavenly. Hea- venly ! that is the word cook disapproves of. Alas ! I am afraid there will be no hay in heaven. Why should there be if there are no horses % How strangely things go round and round — that all that delightful fragrance and those dear hay-cocks, should only be to feed a horse ! I do wonder whether there will really be no animals in heaven — not even horses and dogs. Oh I how incompre- hensible heaven is, if one begins to think about it, and how far off — how very far off it does seem! I am sure it is better not to think of it at all !" The Vicar entered the room looking worried and uncomfortable. " Miss Underwood is asleep," he said, "** and I don't like to disturb her ; a nap is good for her on these hot mornings. I wonder whether you can write at all well r QUESTION AND ANSWER. 187 ''I?" cried Freda; '' yes, I write particularly- well — why ?" *^ I have sorae notes that must be written," he replied dolefully, " and I am helpless ; I have sprained my hand — I sprained it a month ago, and now I have twisted it again some- how, lifting a heavy desk, and I can't write one bit." ^' And you want me to write for you T cried she joyously ; ^^ how delicious ! I never wrote notes for a man before ; it will be better than making hay." '' Better than making hay !" repeated the bewildered Vicar. ''Ah, you don't understand; that's only what I was thinking about. Now don't dawdle," added she, impatient to begin. '' Come along and I'll write your notes for you. May I say just what I like V The Vicar was very little accustomed to being spoken to in this way. Neither his sister, nor Sarah, nor even cook, had ever told him not to dawdle before ; but this girl, as she spoke, stood there smiling at him, and looking so full of joy and beauty, that he did not know how to reprove her. So he only 188 FREDA, said, rather gravely : "■ You will write exactly what I tell you," and led the way into his study. With the utmost coolness Freda took possession of his easy- chair which stood before the desk at the table, laid a sheet of note-paper on the latter, dipped a pen in the ink, squared her arms preparatory to begin- ning, and then looked up. Seeing him standing and watching her with very mixed feelings on his face, she waved her little hand towards a common chair, and said with the imperiousness of a queen : ^' Sit down there and begin." So the Vicar sat down meekly and began. " My dear friend." Scratch, scratch, went Freda's pen, and then she nodded her head. '' I shall do that when you may go on," said she, ''^ and I shall shake my head if you are too quick." 'Vl have made every inquiry, but your suspicions are all wrong; I hope you have done nothing imprudent." Freda shook her head here. " You are going too fast," she said; ''there — ' nothing imprudent ' — it's getting interesting — what is it you expect he has done T QUESTION AND ANSWER. 189 " Go on writing," replied he sternly. ^^ Go on dictating, then," said she very pertly, ^' or I'll write the rest out of my own head." And the Yicar felt she was so capable of carrying out the threat, that he began dictat- ing again in a great hurry. '■' Captain B. was at F. Park all last week. He is engaged to his cousin. Miss F." '' Give us the names at full length," cried Freda ; '^ initials are low." " Write what you are told," was the reply. Freda laughed, wrote, and nodded her head. ^' It is true that he was at Silchester for two days, but Tom Harvey was with him all the time, and nobody dseP The Vicar pro- nounced those two last words with a strong emphasis, and then said : ^^ Underline nobody dser '^ Tom Harvey and Silchester," cried Freda, all astonishment; then looking back to the first part of the note : ^^ Captain B. and F. Park, and his cousin. Miss F. ! Why that's Captain Buxton and his cousin Miss Fothergill ! But he's not engaged to her, Mr. Underwood, that's quite a mistake ; he's 190 FREDA. offered to her a dozen times, poor fellow, and she never does anything but refuse him." " How can it happen," cried the Vicar, colouring with the shock of extreme surprise, " that you know about these people ? How very extraordinary everything has taken to be " " But he is not engaged to his cousin." " Oh, never mind," he cried impetuously, *' I see how it is. You have been in service with some of these families, and heard all the gossip of the servants' hall 1" Freda stared at him with beautiful wide- opened eyes, and then laughed out with the utmost gaiety. Then she suddenly stopped and blushed all over her face. " Oh !" she cried, *^ Oh ! I cannot — you must not — you are writing to him — you are writing to him !" ^^ To whom ? what do you mean T said Mr. Underwood, more astonished and worried than ever. Freda tore the note, half- written as it was, into twenty little bits. " It is too bad," she said, " I won't do it — nothing shall make me — I won't write another syllable." Q UESTION AND ANS WER. 1 9 L '^ Upon my word/' said the Yicar, mystified and exasperated, ^^you are a very trying girl." Whereupon Freda began to cry. Then he looked at her in a sort of terror. " Don't cry/' he said gently. But somehow or other Freda's tears having once broken free did not seem inclined to stop, and she cried on without attending to him. He came near her. " I entreat you not to cry/' said he, " I can't bear it. Why do you cry T No answer. *^ Speak to me, my dear child ; answer me— why do you cry T " Because," sobbed Freda, her face covered by her two white little hands, and her tears running through the fingers and droj)ping on her lap, "" because I am so very unhappy." ^' But why are you unhappy V persisted he. '■'• Oh, child I you need not be unhaj)py if you will do as I wish; you shall be as happy as the day is long." ^<- Why, what do you wish me to do T asked she, surprised. The Yicar was thrown off his balance. 192 FREDA. Inexpressibly moved by her tears, and wisbinir to comfort her, he broke all his wise resolutions, and spoke months before he had intended to speak. "Tell me," said he very softly, "do you like me ?" Freda, though still weeping — and different from most people, she looked lovely while she wept — almost laughed. " Like you T she said simply, " why of course I do ! I think you are the best man in the world — you are as good as gold !" He was a little taken aback at this frank- ness, but while he coloured, he smiled. " And /like you very much," he said. " Do you ?" cried Freda, delighted ; " that's jolly ! But most people do like me," she added with a little sigh. " Would you like to live here ?" said the Vicar, cautiously feeling his way and speak- ing almost in a whisper. " What, always T said Freda doubtfully, and staring at him with this idea of life sud- denly presented to her mind. " It would be a little slow^ wouldn't it T she added, with a ;great emphasis on the word slow. Q UESTION AND ANS WER. 1 9 Q ^'We could go sometimes to the seaside or to London," lie cried eagerly. ^^ I might always get away for two or three months in the year." " What a good-natured creature you are," answered she, utterincr aloud the thoug^ht in her mind and speaking more to herself than to him. And then she looked at him and smiled quite affectionately. At that moment her beauty and sweetness appeared to him perfect, and he could contain himself no longer. " Freda," he cried, '^ I love you, and I want to make you my Avife." He had said it — the words were spoken, and he almost gasjDed for breath — what would the answer be ? Her incredulous eyes were fixed on his face. They were more than incredulous. It was as if she did not understand the words — not as if she did not believe them. Her rosy lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came. She seemed like an astonished child whom somebody had just assured she was grown up, and who could not even take in the meaning of the assurance. And she VOL. I. 13 104 FREDA. looked so fresh, so innocent, and so lovely, that the Vicar was almost beside himself with hope and fear. ^* Oh, child/' he said, '^ do not you under- stand me ? try to understand me. I love you, I am asking you to be my wife." '' Oh, but I can't," cried she in accents of distress. *' You don't like me enough," he said, but not at all in despair. " I like you of all things," cried Freda ; "it sounds the nicest plan, but — I can't." " I think you can," he said ; "I am quite satisfied for this day if you don't refuse me. I will make you the happiest girl in the world, and I don't believe you are going to refuse to be made happy by me." As he spoke he took her hand in his, and looked tenderly into her face. Freda re- turned the gaze with innocent, sorrowful frankness. " But I must," she cried ; '' it is impossible. I am so sorry." He almost lauo-hed. " But if you are sorry," he said, " you can, and it is not impossible." Q U£S TION AND ANSWER. 1 95 '^ Oh, but it is," she said, shaking her head ^nd speaking very mournfully ; *' I never can marry you." '' But why not ?" ''' It is quite impossible," she said, '^ quite impossible." *' You mistake," he cried, ''^ you don't un- derstand. I have frightened you. You must liave time to get accustomed to the idea." ^^ Oh dear no," she replied, '^ I am not in the least frightened. I am only so extremely sorry." ** But, my dear little girl," he said, Avith "the tenderest, gentlest air of j)i^otection imaginable, ^^ there is not the least occasion to be sorry. Your innocent mind can't take in the notion of marriage with one in my position, but you require nothing but a little time to get accustomed to it, and I will give you time. I am not going to hurry you in the least." '^ As if that could make any diflference !" cried Freda. " And let me assure you that you are fit for the position I offer you. You are a lady in yourself, whatever your birth may be. la 13—2 196 FREDA, a week you would feel quite at ease as mis- tress in the house where you are now a servant." *^ Oh, don't go on so/' cried she impa- tiently. " There is no reason in the world," began he, a little impatient in his turn. '^ Yes, there is." " Very well ; what is it then ?" cried Mr. Underwood, with the triumphant certainty in his voice of a man who knew he had asked a question to which there was no answer. '^ I am married already," replied Freda. ^' You !" cried he, dro]3ping her hand, and starting back a yard from her. ^' Married ! oh, nonsense — you are notr '^Yes, I am. I heg your pardon, but I am." " You are married T " Yes ; isnt it a pity T '^ You mean to tell me," said he, speaking slowly and still incredulously, '* that you are married — that you are actually married T " I mn so sorry," said Freda. Mr. Underwood took a rapid turn up and down the room, and then came up to Freda, Q UESTION AND ANS WER, 197 and stood before her, his eyes flamin^^ with anger. ** But then you are a very wicked girl to have come here pretending you were not," he cried. Freda shrank down on her chair, and put up her two hands as if to keep off a blow. *' I didn't," she said, '^ I never thought of pretending — I never thought about it. What could I suppose it signified to any one but myself? You found me in the wood, and I just stayed to help you." '■^ Oh yes," said he very slowly, " I found you in the wood." It seemed to him in some strange way at the moment, as. if those words explained it all. But then he looked sternly at her again, " Why did you not tell me ?" he cried, and there was still anofer in his voice. "But why should I tell you ?" repeated she ; '' do people go about crying out that they are married, to everybody ? I told you the minute you asked me to marry yoii^' she added simply. '' I should think so," said he grimly, '^ but that was rather late in the matter, wasn't it?" 108 FREDA. '' Yes, indeed it was," replied Freda very earnestly, '' but then I did not know there was any matter at all. I had not the least idea you would want me to marry you, or I would have told you before." He reflected a little. Surely he was right, and she was wrong ? Surely he had reason to complain ? Another idea struck him that favoured this view of the case. *^ You agreed to go to school — to be edu- cated," he cried ; '' was that nothing % — was that not deceiving'? Do married women go to school % And with what object did you suppose I was to do it \ — to put you there'?" " Oh," cried she, disappointed, '' was that really it ? Ah, I see you are not so very kind as I thought you. I am quite sorry, do you know," in a little confidential manner intensely bewitching ; " I really thought you were the best man possible. I thought that it was mere goodness made you propose it,, and it wasn't — what a pity !" " But why did you agree to go to school T said he, feeling as if she was making him the culprit^ and anxious to turn the tables. % Q UESTION A ND ANS WER. 199 '* Why shouldn^t I go io school ?" replied Freda naively ; " there are heaps of things I could learn, and I thought it might be rather good fun on the whole ; however, I didiit agree, though I didn't refuse. I was think- ing about it." '^ Well, it doesn't seem right," said the Vicar, ^^ it can't be right. You have deceived us all." ^, '* No, I haven't," persisted she, " not about that, certainly not about that," and here she stopped a little and blushed very much. " I never thought for a minute about telling you that ; it never occurred to me you were de- ceived. If I had known of any reason, I would have told you at once." '^ Known of any reason !" repeated Mr. Underwood, with supreme disdain. '^ Yes,'* she cried eagerly, ^' indeed I would ; but if you sit next people at dinner, or travel with them in a railway carriage, and talk ever so much, you are not deceiving them because you don't tell them you are married." " It's not the least the same thing," said the Vicar. 200 FREDA. '^ It is," she cried, " and more tlian the same tiling. Oh, how tiresome you are not to see it ! Wasn't I a maid-servant just helping in your kitchen, and you a clergy- man ! and I have only been here a couple of days. How could I suppose you would wish to marry me ?" ^^ Is it only a couple of days ?" asked the Vicar in a dreary voice ; '^ well, well." ^^ Oh, I beg your pardon," said Freda, '^ only I rea,lly couldn't have helped it, and I'm as sorry as ever I can be, I am indeed. I do beg your pardon." The Vicar was beginning to recover him- self, to collect his senses, and recall his dig- nity and self-command. ^' There is no use in being sorry," said he coldly, '^ and no use in saying anything more. The best thing to do, is for both of us to for- get as soon as possible all about it." " But how can we forget ?" said Freda simply. ''Oh yes, I know what you mean — jDretend forgetting, like Christian forgive- ness. Yes, of course we can do that, and we'd better begin at once." She rose from her chair as she spoke. QUESTION AND ANSWER. 201 " If I had a duster," said she, " I'd settle these things a little ; dear me, the poor lady will be wondering why you don't come, and bring her downstairs — it's long past her time. And she must have been awake a good bit." The Vicar looked at her for a moment in silence, and wondered at the adaptability of women. Here was this girl practising her ** pretence-forgetting " in a moment, with the greatest ease, while he — when could he even pretend to forget 1 " I will go to her," he said very coldly, and so he turned away, and went quickly out of the room. Instantly Freda gave up pretending to forget. She sank down into his easy-chair, settled herself comfortably, took out her pocket-handkerchief, and had a good cry. '^ It is all wrong together," she said, ^^ and it will never get right. What a pity, what a pity, what a dreadful pity !" and she cried over the wrongness more heartily than she had cried for a very long time. ^' I can't stay here," she said, ^' I must go back to Roseberry Farm, and that poor thing must get some one else to take care of her — and 1202 ' FREDA, she liked me — and it was so pleasant. What bothers men are ; I Avish they Avere all monksv If this stupid man hadn't wanted to marry me, and so spoiled everything, we might *have gone on being quite happy together. I can't tMnh why men are so foolish ; the world would be twice as nice if they were as sen- sible as women ; but I suppose they never will be, they're made sillier, poor things, and can't help it." Meantime the poor Vicar, who I think was. really very much to be pitied, instead of going up to his sister, rushed out of the house and plunged into that wood in which he had found Freda, and from which he had inno- cently brought her home, to make him both foolish and miserable. His mind was in a state of bcAvilderment and confusion, and it was not till he had thought out his disappointment, that he began to recollect what had led to it. Her extraordinary conduct in refusing to write that letter — had she refused ? He could not clearly remember ; but something about it had made her cry. Was it anything he had said to her % Here aof-ain he could re- Q UESTION AND ANS WER, 20^ member nothing clearly. The scene so mo- mentous to him that immediately followed having blotted out or confused the preface, that was of comparatively little importance. The only thing he felt sure of was that she had been in service with some of the people he was making her write about, and that she consequently knew more of their concerns than he did. Then he beofan to blame himself for his folly in allowing himself to fall in love with a girl in a lower rank of life than his own, and of whom he literally knew nothing. He thought of his first love, with her calm, sen- sible face, her even manners, and well-regu- lated mind ; how fondly attached he had been to her, how sweetly and slowly that affection had grown and ripened, and how it had filled and satisfied his whole being. How cruel he had felt her father's refusal, founded as it was only on the facts that his living was small, his private means smaller, and his interest smallest of all. And how, when they had separated, and his Anna {his Anna !) had been taken abroad, he had believed that they would for ever remain :204: J^REDA. faithful to each other, and that it was not possible either could form another attachment. Where was Ms Anna now ? Did she still •care for him ? or had her affections also wan- dered to some one else \ And so inconsistent is man (not woman !) that a keen pang of jealousy smote the Vicar's heart, as this idea entered into it. Then he began to think once more of Freda. Beautiful, innocent, deceiving, war7'Z6(i Freda! Married ! and who to ? To some low fellow in her own rank of life ? The idea made him shudder and double his peaceful clerical fist, and long to do an injury to somebody un- known. But then her rank of life was not very low ; her demeanour and language when she chose, were perfectly ladylike ; it was almost as if she had played at speaking the bad English of the servants, she had lived among, for fun. She was a friend of Mrs. Dowlas, the wife of a most respectable farmer, ^nd had probably lived as schoolroom maid or lady's-maid in families of distinction. She was a soldier's daughter, she had said so her- self, and in all probability therefore she was also a soldier's wife ; that, and that only, of Q UESTION AND ANS WER. 205- all the reasons he could think of, would ac- count for her husband's absence, and her own independence, and even of her, though mar- ried, entertaining the idea of allowing him to put her to school. The husband no doubt was abroad with his regiment for a term of years ; and this last idea gave Mr. Underwood a sensation of re- lief, which was extremely foolish. Having thus settled Freda's affairs for her,4and also having decided to his own satisfaction that neither her father nor her husband could be in a lower position than that of a non-com- missioned officer, the Vicar returned to the- house a wiser and a sadder man than he had left it a few hours earlier. CHAPTER X, A DISCOVERY. •T was not till some time after Mr. Underwood had returned home, brought his sister downstairs, and gone through the ceremony of pretending to eat some dinner — fortunately for him he was seated at the opposite end of the table from Maud, and Freda's vase of flowers was be- tween them, so that she could not perceive what a very empty ceremony it was — it was not, I say, till some time after all this had happened, that he suddenly recollected that the post had gone out, and that he had sent no letter by it. What was to be done ? He thou2rht of the note he had beofun, and which A DISCOVERY. 207 lay on his study table torn into a number of •small bits, and wondered at the reckless im- petuosity of the girl who had so torn it ; and, -as he wondered, the calm, kind face and quiet ways of his first love came, vividly up before liis eyes. But this was not the moment to think about either his first love or his second. It was of very great importance that his friend Lionel should receive, as soon as possible, at least some portion of the communication Freda had written and destroyed. Mr. Underwood had tried his hand at dinner, and found that, though still weak, he was able to make some use of it ; he would not, there- fore, be reduced to applying to cook, and seeing whether she could make an amanuensis whose services might be accepted, which ap- peared to be the only other alternative left him. No ; he might at least write a tele- graphic message, and it was only by the means of a telegram that he could communicate with his friend for the next twenty-four hours. And a telegram, he now reflected, was a better way of communicating with him than 208 FREDA. a letter would have been. In his quiet life^ in the retired country village, telegrams were- hardly ever used, or he would undoubtedly have thought of this before. Accordingly he repaired to his study, and sitting down in that easy- chair in which he had last seen Freda's lovely form — that chair in which, alas, she had changed from the creature he was determined to make his wife into the creature who was the wife of another man — he wrote his telegram, as follows ; but not at once, for it took our country clergyman a considerable time to plan a telegram, and put all he wanted to say into twenty words : ^' Your suspicions are undoubtedly false. He was elsewhere, and cares for some one else. Pray come here at once." The words had been counted off on his fingers a good many times before they were reduced to their present number, and still conveyed all the intelligence he thought it really essential to communicate. '^ If I can only get him here," he thought, " before he has done anything very rash, and convince ■ A DISCOVERY. 209 him that he is at present quite under a mis- take, and can discover nothing unless he sets out on a different tack." After that he took the telegram to the nearest railway-station himself His sister had told him at dinner that Freda had walked over to pay Mrs. Dowlas a visit at Roseberry Earm, but would return at night and sleep in her room. " But really," Maud had added, '' I slept so much better last night — indeed, so per- fectly well, that I shall very soon not require any one to be in my room. Oh, by-the-bye, I had a message from Sarah this afternoon, and she hopes to be able to return to-morrow or next day." The Vicar could not help feeling dreadfully guilty, whenever his calm and unsuspicious sister uttered Freda's name. " What would she think of me if she knew all ?" he thought ruefully to himself '^ Will she ever know all ? Shall I ever have courage to tell her ? When this is over, when the girl is gone and forgotten, shall I sonT* even- ing, in the twilight hour, tell her the story ? The story of what ? Of my mad, reckless VOL. I. 14 210 FREDA. love for a servant, that made me in two days ask her to be my wife, and how I found I had been madly and recklessly loving a married woman. Could she ever respect me again if she knew it ? and can I, who do know it, ever respect myself again T So mused the poor Vicar on his way to and from the railway-station ; and, as he so mused, it cannot be denied that he was a very uncomfortable clergyman. He felt, also, as if he was a guilty one. And yet it would be hard to decide that he had really done or felt anything wrong. Could he help loving Freda ? and, loving her, was there any harm in asking her to marry him, even though her rank in life was lower than his ? He had been hasty, certainly ; he should have waited. But then men in love, generally are hasty, and seldom do wait. What the Vicar blamed himself for, was falling in love at all. He actually had fallen in love, and he considered he ought only to walk into love, in a stately and thoughtful manner. He had rushed up to Freda in a minute, when he ought to have taken a slow turn towards her that might have brouo'ht him to her side in weeks or yi DISCOVERY. 211 months. And had he only been capable of taking that slow turn instead of making this rush, he felt that he should never have asked Freda to be his wife at all; no gentleman could, thoughtfully, steadily, and prudently, become attached to a servant girl, and ask her to marry him. As a clergyman, his thoughts, mind, tastes, and wishes, ought all to have been so well regulated, that this little ^episode in his life would have been impossible. It was shameful ; it was disgraceful ; and he well deserved the punishment, however severe, that his folly, and worse than folly, had brought upon him. So mused the Vicar in the bitterness of his disappointment and consequent remorse, and there can be no doubt that such musings made him a very uncomfortable clergyman. How his conscience would have dealt with him, or how he would have dealt with his conscience, had Freda been unmarried, and had Freda accepted him, it is not necessary to speculate about, for Freda had refused him, and Freda was married. About eight o'clock on that evening, the tall, dark, handsome man he called Lionel 14—2 212 FREDA. walked abruptly into his study. Miss Under- wood had a headache, and was on the sofa in her own room. Good gracious !" cried the Yicar. " Ts it Cl you { His thoughts were entirely occupied with himself and Freda, so that the appearance -of his friend was an astonishment to him ; though when you telegraph to a man begging him to- come to you at once, it is not reasonable to be surprised if, some hours afterwards, he walks up to you. This was evidently Lionel's view of the matter, and he said, rather testily : ^^ Did you not telegraph for me T " Oh, yes ; of course ; to be sure," said the poor Vicar. " And I am very glad to see you."^ And, as he spoke, he shook his hand heartily. " What do you mean T said the other, sternly. *' Why do you do that ? Why do you say you are glad to see me ? We parted only yesterday, didn't we ? Your telegram wasn't an invitation to dinner, was it ? What does all this mean ? Why did you send for me ? If you have anything to say, say it !" He looked ten years older than the previous day, and as men sometimes do if they have ^ DISCOVERY. 213 not been in bed all night, pale, cadaverous, and vindictive ; and he spoke with almost impertinent freedom and force. Painfully the Vicar collected his thoughts and controlled his manners. " Be patient," he said mildly ; " I have a great deal to tell you." ^^ Patient !" replied the other. He only repeated the one word, but a long speech •could not have been more eloquent. ^' You are all wrong about Brereton." " How do you know that ?" " He spent last week at Fothergill Park." " That's a lie, for he was at Silchester." " I know ; he went to Silchester for two days. Tom Harvey was with him all the time, and no one else." '■^ How do you know that .^" ** From Harvey himself, who told me all about it ; and he's not a fellow to tell lies, or that a man would choose as a companion who had guilt in his heart." '^ Oh, Harvey told you himself T " Yes ; I went to Harvey at once. I thought he might know something, and, with- 214 FREDA. out giving a hint of my reasons, I learnt all about it." ^' And he told you this T ^•Yes, he told me this, and a great deal more besides. Brereton is in love with his cousin. Miss Fothergill, and has been so for a very long time." '' I think that's a lie." / *' I wish you wouldn't, A^iiiarbies. I know you don't mean it, but it sounds as if you kept applying that word to me." " Of course I don't mean it ; but how can a man pick his words % T say the first that come. Oh yes, I dare say I'm a brute, but so much the better for me. If you can't stand my roughness, I'll just go away." And he turned on his heel, and seemed as if he were at once going away. ^^ I think you had much better wait and hear all I have got to tell you," replied Mr» Underwood quietly. ^' You take such a confoundedly long time about it." " I don't. Harvey knows it as a fact. He has been in his confidence all alono-." A DISCOVERY. 215 '' I don't think much of love that makes confidences." '^ The question isn't what sort of love Brereton feels, or is capable of feeling, or what you think of it, but whether his time and thoughts have all been taken up with his cousin, in consequence of his being attached to her in his own way." '' Oh, very well. Go on ; only remember 1 don't believe a word of it." '^Nonsense ; you do. You are not a fool, and you believe wiiat Harvey says." *^ Cant you go on '?" " He offered to her more than once, and she refused him, liking him all the time, but doubting his principles and stability." '' She had reason enough. " But this week things came to a crisis. He has paid off his debts and been living steadily, and just at the time you thought him so differently employed, he was staying at the Park, the accepted lover of another woman." '^ If I could believe this to be true — )> X '' But, Venables, be reasonable — do try to be reasonable. Harvey was there himself, and told me all about it." 216 . FREDA. ^' Wasn't it rather odd of him to tell it, eh ? Doesn't it seem as if there was some motive T "■ Motive ? Not at all ; nor was it in the least odd. I began to ask him a few ques- tions about Brereton. He had just been up to the neck in his love affairs, and was full of them, and delighted to get a listener. He poured the whole story out to me at once. There was no motive at all, and nothing in the world could be more natural.' "" Well, I suppose — 5) )» '* Lionel, you really are the most obstinate fellow on earth ; once an idea gets into your head, there is never any getting it out again ; and I declare you are almost sorry to give this one up, because you want to take ven- geance on somebody, and you thought you had found your man." ^^< '"' Yes," said Lionel V-ena,bles sternly, and with a wicked look in his eyes, ''^ I do want to take vengeance on somebody." " Hejoice that this dreadful thing has not happened, and that you may still hope," said the Vicar solemnly. " Rejoice I Hope ! I'll tell you what, my friend — joy and hope are over for me hi this A DISCOVERY. 217 world, and the only things left me are ven- geance and the power of punishing." " It is wrong to talk so," " Just as you like. I'm not a man who requires to talk much, luckily; but my thoughts are my own, at any rate." " Yes ; but if you put thoughts into words they become more real, and are likely to last longer." "" Do they, by Jove ! Much you know about it, Lewes. The thought that is never spoken is the one that haunts a man longest." " I don't know," said the Yicar ; " if you have bad thoughts, it is both wrong and foolish to speak them. It is like giving them a visible form, and making actual things of them." ^' And what are the thoughts themselves, then r '^ They are a man's worst enemies/' replied the Vicar very gravely, ^' which he must always be doing battle with till they are his slaves, instead of his being theirs." ^^ '■ ' Lionel Yenables gave a short mocking laugh. '' Well," he said, "- 1 don't admit that my thoughts are bad ; they are the only 218 FREDA. thoughts that a man in my position, if he i» a man at all, ought to have, or can have." " We won t discuss it," said the Vicar. *^ No, certainly ; we won't discuss it. I have no time for discussion. The question is, what am I to do now T '* Have you no other clue ? — no possible landmark T " None, whatever. This seemed to me sa certain, that I set desperately out on the one road, which it is only this minute I find leads to nothing. I did not even make an inquiry ; it was to me impossible but that this must be true. I feel," continued he, passing his fingers through his hair, " like a man who is dead beat, for the moment — only for the moment^ you understand." Mr. Underwood looked at him very kindly and sorrowfully, though he did not dare utter a compassionate word. ^^ You will sleep here to-night," said he ; " and to-morrow fresh thoughts and ideas will come, and you will be fit for action again." y^^t^ Once more Lionel Venables gave that short mocking laugh, a laugh that was most unplea- A DISCOVERY. 21 ^^ sant to hear, though the utterance of it might perhaps afford the laugher some rehef. ^' Sleep here to-night, my poor Lewes ?" cried he. " And do you really suppose I can sleep ? Do you think I have slept in a bed since — since — it happened? What would become of me, I wonder, if I tried to sleep 1 What do you suppose I am made of? Are parsons really formed out of different stuff from laymen ?" And he scanned the Vicar's face and form, with sardonic, contemptuous scrutiny. '^ Alas, no," said the Yicar, with a back- ward glance at his own affairs ; ^' I am afraid they are just as weak as other men." Then Lionel turned his white, ghastly face,, and wild, restless eyes, towards his friend^ and said, with a touch of horror in his voice^ and he almost whispered the words : ^' Do you think I can sleep anywhere while the question still remains unanswered, of tvhere she is f " While the three last words were still on his lips, and the Vicar's face had caught the terror that looked out of his, and the two men stared with dreadful meaninof into each 220 FREDA. •other's eyes, the door of the room suddenly •opened. Freda came in. She wore her servant's dress, though the heat of the day had made her throw aside the cap, and she carried in both her hands a little tray, having on it a cup of tea, with cream and sugar, for the Vicar. The tears that she had shed that morning had only slightly deepened the rose tints on her exquisite cheeks, and lent a dewy softness to her brilliant eyes, giving them a new and very touching expression. Her beauty was as perfect as ever — as fresh, as innocent, and as childlike, her eyes as transparent, her brow as cloudless — but a tender light lingered on her face that enhanced every charm, pro- phetic of what she might one day become if a noble womanhood succeeded to her gay girlhood. The Vicar looked at her, and a sharp bitter pain stabbed his heart. His friend also looked at her, at first carelessly, then curiously, and then like a man in a dream. His white face got whiter. He trembled from head to foot. A look of abject fear A DISCOVERY. 22T came suddenly into his stern eyes. He threw his ariDs up into the air, and then clasped them over the top of his head. ^* I am going mad," he said. The Vicar believed him ; he %oas going mad. He saw it in his eyes and in his ac- tion, but he instantly cried out : " No, you are not — you are not. You are only worn out with Avant of food and sleep." Freda dropped the tray out of her hands. It lay on the floor at her feet, the delicate china broken into a hundred pieces, while she stared straight before her, and gave a loud scream. She would have fled from the room ; but, seeming to divine her intention, Lionel darted forward and seized her — seized her ruthlessly, seized her fiercely — and held her in a strong man's grasp, that her delica.te strength was powerless to resist. Eager with fear, Mr. Underwood tried to separate them, but tried in vain. ^^ What," as he reflected, almost mad with terror him- self, as he found the fruitlessliess of his efforts, " what is the strength of a sane man against that of one who is insane T And he ^22 FREDA. firmly believed that his unhappy friend had ^one suddenly mad, his mind having broken down under a burthen too heavy for it to bear, and expected that he would murder this innocent and beloved girl before his very eyes ; for where could he look for help in a solitary country house, with only an invalid lady upstairSj and a female cook in a far-off kitchen % ^A^4^ Lionel T^nables turned suddenly on Mr. Underwood. He did not give up his grasp of Freda, but holding her steadily w^ith one liand, with the other he collared the clergy- man. "You have been hiding her," he said hoarselv. *' No, no," cried Mr. Underwood sooth- ingly. " No, no ; I have not. This is all a mistake. She is a sers^ant — a girl had in to help." " She is not /" shouted Lionel. " She is my WIFE. You have been hidinof her all the time." *' Poor fellow," thought the Vicar, with his mind full of the one idea ; and he con- tinued to soothe him. A DISCOVERY, 223 *^ You are misled by some curious like- ness, and the light is growing dim. Let the girl go. She is a most respectable person, on a visit at a farmhouse here — let her go." ^^ Oh," cried Lionel, with a dreadful sneer, ^' she is this and she is that — a servant and a visitor, and a most respectable person ; but, for all that, she is ray ivifcj and you are a liar." The Vicar raised his hand, gently touched liis forehead for an instant with the tips of his fingers, and turned significant eyes towards Freda, who looked up at him with a white face pitiful to see. Then he addressed Lionel, in tones of mild reproof : " She is 7iot your wife, and you must not speak to me in that Avay. You must con- trol yourself. You are getting out of harness, and must pull up. Exert yourself. Don't give way. Look well at the young woman, and you will see how mistaken you -are." '^ What fool's rubbish is this ?" replied Lionel rudely ; but, as he spoke, he dropped the grasp he held both on the Vicar and on 224 FREDA. Freda. '' Exert myself, must I ? Getting^ beyond my own control, am I ? Now see here, Mr. Underwood, I am going to call you to account for this, and you had better look to- yourself, and not trouble your head about me." ^' My dear child," said the Vicar to Freda, '^ make haste and run away." ^(\i^j Lionel Venables swore a horrible oath, walked up to the door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. Then he turned round and faced the Vicar. " How dare you, you villain T cried he. ^^ Hush — hush !" said Mr. Underwood. "You are a vile hypocrite!" cried LioneL ^^ You, a clergyman and professor of religion,, and act like this !" " For God's sake, hush ! You don't know what you are talking about ; you are speaking in the dark — you are under a delusion." " I am not. I am under no delusion. I proclaim you a vile hypocrite, and unworthy to be a man. Knowing as well what you have not done, as what you have, I proclaim you this. I am under no delusion. I don't accuse you of being this woman's lover ; but A DISCOVERY. 225 you have taken her into your house and hidden her, and told he upon he to me, who behoved you to be my friend, and to whom you were pretending to be honest and fair all the time. You are all alike, you clergymen — Jesuits and hypocrites. Faugh ! I count you a meaner liar than the thief in the streets." Mr. Underwood turned away from him and rang the bell violently ; then he went up to Freda, and said : ''I am afraid you are very much fright- ened." '^ Oh, it is horrible !" cried she, with parched lips that could hardly form the words ; " but he must not say such things to you. Let me speak to him. He has not been hiding me " (she now addressed herself to Lionel) ; ^' he has not, indeed." " What do you do here, then ?" he said, in low, suppressed tones, turning his head quickly away, and speaking to her without looking at her. " It was all an accident," she began. I " But Mr. Underwood stopped her. " You had better not answer him," he said VOL. I. 15 226 FREDA. in a low voice ; *' that will probably only aggravate the mischief. He thinks you are his wife." " I am his' wife," replied Freda quietly. CHAPTEH XI. ALL OVER ! T was the second time that day that Freda had uttered four words that had first stopped the beating of the Vicar's heart, and then made it leap tumultuously in his breast. At first when he heard her say ^' I am his ^vife !" he was perfectly incredulous, and felt only a great shock of surprise. '^ Nonsense, you are not !" he cried. ^'Yes I am," said she, -'and I am so ^orry." '^ You — are — his — wife ?" cried the Vicar, almost panting between the words. '^ Isn't it a pity V said Freda simply. 15—2 228 FREDA. *^ And you came here ? and you have been deceiving me ? It is all a trick ! a lie !" Mr. Underwood looked about him as he spoke as if he did not know where he was or Avhat he was saying. " Oh no/' said Freda sorrowfully, *^ I only came to see my friend — all the rest wa& accident." (Accident — is anything accident ?) *^ You are not a servant !" exclaimed he^ beginning to see light. She smiled and shook her head. *^ I wish I was," she said, " I wish I was your servant ; but unfortunately I am a lady." " You will go back with him now," said the Vicar, and his voice, though he did not mean it, was not glad. " No, indeed I won't !" said Freda very earnestly ; " I can't bear him." Here Mr. Venables seemed to think it was time to interfere. " I will not take her back," he said ; ^' she has forfeited her right to live in my house." '* Nothing shall ever make me go back," said Freda. '^But why?" asked the clergyman : ''you ALL OVER! 220 liave bound yourselves to each other by the most solemn vows, and you have no right to separate." '* That's nonsense !" cried Freda ; ^^ and he is so horrid, I can't live with him." '^ After leaving my house, I will never permit her to re-enter it," said Mr. Venables. *'What was the meaning of your leaving it V asked the Vicar severely. " I never had a happy minute since I went there," said she, ^^and almost every minute has been happy since I came away." She seemed to think that she had given quite a sufficient reason. ^' The circumstances of your flight must be explained," said her husband in a low, passion- ate voice. " There were no circumstances, and I didn't fly," answered Freda coolly; ''I went off in a cab with a very bad horse." " Nobody knew where," said he in the same tone of suppressed passion. '' Of course not," replied she, almost laugh- ing ; '' there would have been no use in going if they had. I told the servants I meant to visit a friend, and I wrote and told you the 230 FREDA. same. You go and visit friends when you please — why should not I ?" '^You hear her/' said Lionel Ye nabl ^s^^^ turning to the Vicar. *^ Of course she is very wrong," replied he ; '^ we must make her see that — but of course you also see that she is as innocent as a. child." " I k}io\\^ nothing about innocent children/^ replied Mr. Venables, shrugging his shoulders. " I'm not an innocent child/' cried Freda indignantly ; '' I'm seventeen — I'm quite grown up." " Why did you go aAvay T asked Mr. Underwood. ^' Because he was coming home/' said she promptly, again evidently considering that she had given a reason quite sufficient to account for her conduct. " You did not live happily together T '• Horribly !" said she. ^' I dislike him beyond everything, and the life was wretched." '^ She has not a particle of sense," cried the irritated husband ; ^' she was always thwarting and annoying me." '^ No, I wasn't," said she, *' that was you ;. ALL OVER I 231 ^^ '* I'd have done well enough if you'd only have kept quiet, but you ivorried so." "What did she do ?" said the Yicar ; ^^ could not you have guided her, and moulded her T <- Mr. Y^nahles cast up his hands. " You don't know her," cried he. ^' But what did she do ?" " Everything and nothing — nothing that a sensible woman or a wife should have done, everything that you might exj^ect from an idiot or a child." '^ Don't believe him," said Freda; "it was all him. You've no notion how horrid he is, or how miserable he made me." " I can't imagine anything she could do you might not have had patience with," said the Yicar deprecatingly. " Life was not worth having," said Mr. Yentiblee ; " everything was wrong, she dis- graced me everywhere ; I never had a quiet minute. The first time the Bishop slept in my house she made him an ap23le-pie bed, and when I took her to stay at my uncle's the judge's, she came down to dinner (and there was a large party) in one of his old wigs." " Yes, I know that was wrong," said i'reda, 232 FREDA. hanging her head ; " I oughtn't to have done ** I can't understand people marrying each other and not being able to conform and give up a little," said the Vicar. " I can't understand people marrying each other at all/' cried Freda. " Then why did you marry him ?" ^^ Oh !" she said impatiently, '^ wasn't it silly ? I could beat myself for being such a donkey. I can't tliinlz why I did it, only my uncle told mc, and aunt said girls had to marry, and this was the best opportunity ; and then I hadn't the least notion how horrid he was, or that I should hate him so. He pretended to be nice — I wouldn't marry him now on any account." '^ You hear her/' again cried her husband ; '^ ihis is the sort of thing I have had to put up with, and I did put up with it all. I left her for a fortnight, and came back determined to reason with her, and try to make our lives better, and then I found she was gone." '' Oh, how glad I am/' she cried heartily, *' if you meant to reason with me — that was always worst of all !" ALL OVER! 233 *^ It seems to me there are no grounds for a separation," said Mr. Underwood ; " the quarrels have all been about trifles, and nothing is wanting but a little mutual for- bearance." " I won't forbear," cried she, " it's too tire- some ; you might do it for a time, or for a purpose, or on a visit — but not at home ; if you are to be always forbearing it's too tiresome, and life wouldn't be worth having." " I won't take her back," reiterated her husband, ^^ nothing will induce me to take her back ; she has chosen to leave me, and she must abide by her choice." *' Why did you marry her ?" asked the Vicar, now addressing the question to him and speaking very gravely. A strange expression crossed Lionel Venables' face ; there was a world of feeling in it, but no softness — only a sort of passion of regret and remorse. " I loved her," he said briefly, and then gave a laugh that wasn't pleasant to hear, and added bitterly, " Wasn't I a fool ?" ^^ I don't know," replied Mr. Underwood, thinkinof of himself. 234 I'REDA. Then he roused himself. '' But you two must not separate," he sald^ ^^ on no better grounds than these ; it is too fooHsh. You will soon learn to suit your- selves to each other, and it would be a great sin to separate." ^^ That's rubbish," said Freda ; " we can't be bound to be miserable all our lives because we just made a mistake once. I couldnt live with him, and I do so want to be haj^py — oh ! please let me be happy." ''Well," said the perplexed clergyman, " perhaps you might stay apart for a little time, till you have both cooled down. What do you propose ?" turning to Mr. Venables ; '' what arrangement will you make ? where shall she live ?" Mr. Venables folded his arms, frowned heavily, and looked as obstinate and deter- mined as a bull-doof. '' I have nothing to do with her," he said ; '' I propose nothing, I make no arrangement; % she may live wliere she pleases. She chose to leave my house, and I have nothing more to do with her, and will have nothing more till the longest day I live, so help me — ■)■> ALL OVER! 235- ^' Hush, hush !" cried the clergyman, stop- jDing him before the sacred name had passed his hps ; *^ don't pledge yourself to anything." '' But I am so glad," cried Freda, ^' that is just what I wish ; I never knew him so nice before, nor half so nice. I shall live at Rose- berry Farm." " Will you live here — with my sister V said Mr. Underwood, yielding to the impulse of the moment, and speaking without reflec- tion. '' That would be nice," replied she grate- fully; "but oh no!" she cried, stopping — "I'd better not ; you know you wanted to marry me ;" then she stopped short, blushed very prettily, and said, " Oh, I beg your pardon." " What r cried her husband in a voice of thunder, and glaring more like a wild beast than a man, first at one and then at the other. Freda's love of teasing instantly came into play. "Oh, nothing," she said, "never mind. I'd better not have mentioned it." Then she looked at the Vicar and gave him a smile and a nod, then at Lionel again,. ^36 FREDA. and said soothingly as one might speak to a child, *' Don't think about it any more." Mr. Underwood had coloured crimson, and seemed ready to sink into the floor. Lionel turned on him in a fury, almost glad perhaps to find a vent for the suppressed and bitter passions within him. " What does she mean ?" cried he in a ter- rible voice, " you shall account to me for this." The Vicar collected himself, and looked his friend straight in the face. " There is nothing to account for/' said he frankly, but a good deal ashamed of himself. *^ I was a fool, that's all. I did not know «he was married, and so I was a fool !" ^' In three days !" said Lionel, staring at him wonderingly. ^^ Yes/' said Mr. Underwood, sighing, " in three days; and," he added, " when one looks at her, it doesn't seem so very foolish either, but still I know it wasr " I suppose all men are fools/' began Lionel. *^ Yes, indeed they are," interrupted Freda eagerly. *' We can none of us resist a pretty face " ALL OVER! 237 continued he bitterly, and without paying her any attention, ^^ however paltry the spirit within may be ; but I think I may be allowed to say that under the peculiar, the very peculiar circumstances, the less you have to do with her the better." *' I don't want to have anything to do with her," said the Vicar sheepishly. " Oh, don't you ?" said Freda, in rather a piteous voice. " Of course he doesn't," said her husband ; ^' no one who really knew you would. You would wear out anybody's patience." '^ It is because you have said so much against me," cried Freda resentfully, '^ and told him about the Bishop ; so ill-natured — • when he is a clergyman too. I do hate tell-tales — I do." ^' You disgrace yourself by every word you speak," said Lionel. '' He's always telling me that I'm dis- gracing either myself or him ; it is such rubbish," said Freda, ^^ and one does get so tired of the same thing over and over again, even if it was worth saying at first, which this isn't." •238 FREDA. " But seriously, Yenables," said the Vicar, '*' what do you intend to do ?" '^ Nothing," rephed that gentleman, the bull-dog expression coming into his face again. '' Nothing I but you must do something. You must make her an allowance, and find a fitting home for her. She tells me she has no relations except an uncle and aunt in Canada. Was that all true ?" cried lie with sudden recollection, turning to Freda. ^^ True !" cried she, ^^ yes, of course it was true — Uncle Fred and Aunt Fanny, Major and Mrs. Cameron. They went to Canada just after I was married, and they are the only relations I have anywhere at all, I believe." *' And any intimate friends ? Were you ■ever at school ? Is there any one you can go to r ^* Oh no ; Uncle Fred's regiment was in New Zealand as long as I can remember any- thing, and it is only two years since we came home, and then we spent that delicious sum- mer at Roseberry Farm, with the two dear old things, who are not there now, and Letty ALL OVER! 239 and Jack ; and after that Uncle Fred was ill, and we had to move him about and take care of him, but didn't make acquaintance, and then I was married, and they went to Canada. •So you see I know no one hardly." ^^ And of course were never at school T " They wouldn't have sent me to school, and if they had, I wouldn't have gone. They alwavs let me do whatever I liked. You were the first person who ever talked of putting me to school." And she glanced shyly at her husband, who scowled and replied : '* Was he ! and, upon my word, I think it would be the best place for you." Freda laughed softly. " I won't go," said she. *^ But under these most deplorable circum- stances, what do you think of doing ?" asked Mr. Underwood with solemnity. '^ They are not one bit deplorable circum- stances," said Freda stoutly ; ^' the only thing in the world I care for is being happy. I am happy now, and I was miserable in Eaton Square." '' But there is a great deal more than that 240 FREDA. z you should care for," said he, not wanting to preach, yet feeHn^ as if he couldn't let such a sentiment pass quite unnoticed. " Oh yes, I know," said she, nodding her head, ^' about making other people happy, so I do when they're nice — but not him," lightly pointing towards her husband for a moment, " I couldnt care about his being happy, you know, he is such an awful ninny." She spoke quite confidently, as if she did not think there could be two opinions on that part of the subject. " He is your husband," said the Yicar. '^ For Heaven's sake let us have no more of this balderdash," said the husband; ''surely we may all be content that more Avords are only waste of time ; I won't have you talking to her about me in that way — it makes me sick." '' And besides," said Freda, " hell be much happier too, without me than with me." " You take it for granted through all this ihat happiness is the only thing to be thought of," said Mr. Underwood. Freda's beautiful eyes opened wide, and were fixed on him with innocent wonder. ALL OVER! 241 " Why, what else is there T asked she. " Doing right," was the cahn reply. " Oh yes, of course," said she ; '' but there's no wrong or right in this ; it's just a question of where one is to live, at one place or another, or with one person or another. Where's the difference V ^' There is a very great difference," replied he. ''But to do right," continued Freda, '' is such a very unsatisfactory sort of rule to go by, except for poor people who are tempted to do wrong ; we needn't mind, for we're not inclined to steal, or murder, or do bad things, and so we needn^t think about doing right, need we T The last words were spoken in a tone of innocent inquiry. The Vicar gave a sort of groan, and Mr. Fane exclaimed : ^' Pray don't preach her a homily — it's no use, she is without any moral sense at all ; and if you were to persuade her that it was her duty to live with her husband, it would be just labour lost, for nothing would induce her husband to allow her to do so. VOL. I. 16 242 FREDA. She left me of her own free will, and she will never return with mine." . " She left you on a visit to her friends," said the A-^icar, shirking the truth in his anxiety to see some vista of light through the gloom. '^ Don't make out things worse than they are. Put the best face on matters and it will all blow over." Then Lionel Fane turned on his friend, and addressed him passionately, though in a low concentrated voice that was entirely re- moved from violence. '^ Look here," he said, ''you talk of making things worse than they are — of putting the best face on the matter — of its blowing over. I have only one answer to make to all this miserable patchwork — / loved her /" The way in which the three last words were uttered made the Vicar thrill all over, and even Freda, armed as she was, cap-a- pie^ in the heartlessness of unawakened youth, started as if a new revelation had almost touched her soul — almost, but not quite. Mr. Underwood saw the whole story in a moment, the man's passionate, unrequited love, the exquisite hopes, nay the certainty of ALL OVER! 243 intense happiness with which he had married, tind the desperate disappointment which, in a strong nature Uke his, had turned all the sweetness to gall. He felt remorse for Freda, hut he looked into the lovely face and tran- sparent splendid eyes, and no remorse was "there, only the sou'p(^on of a new expression like a startled fawn. Was it possible that these two could ever he happy together ? Was it possible that this man and this woman — no, this child — ^nd therein lay the hope — could ever un- derstand each other '? This child — therein lay the hope ; Freda was only a child, a very charming and, truth -to say, rather a naughty one ; but still, be it in her charms, or be it in her faults — only a ohild. • Only a child ! woeful look-out for a man of strong intellect and strong passions, to have married a child. Some children are never •children, some children never grow up at all. Some souls are never found by the bodies Avhich they were intended to inhabit. Freda was an Undine, on whom marriage had not bestowed a soul. Was the fault in her hus- 16—2 244 FREDA. band, or in herself ? And if marriage had not given it to her, Avould the gift ever come, or Avould the body die before the soul had found it ? Clever men marry pretty girls now and then with the intention of forming and moulding them, as Mr. Underwood had sug- gested to Lionel Fane. It is a dangerous experiment, and rather a foolish thing to do unless the pretty girl is aware of the inten- tion, and is willing to be formed and moulded. David Copperfield had no such idea when he married Dora. He was desperately in love with her just as she was, without a thought beyond. When they had been married six months or so, he, for the first time, began to think it would be a good plan to form her mind. After trying the experi- ment for a little while, it occurred to him that she had no mind to form, and then he quietly desisted. But as Dora always remained all, and more than all, that she was when he first knew her ; as she was the prettiest, sweetest^ simplest, most loving, innocent, and unselfish of created beings ; and as it was only for such qualities David had fallen in love, without ALL OVER! 245 uny ideals or aspirations beyond — I, for my part, have never forgiven him for being dis- satisfied with her, or for recovering from her loss as soon as he did, and being perfectly happy with a strong-minded second wife. Her husband ought to have adored Dora quite as much as her lover, even though she might give him oysters for dinner when there was no oyster-knife in the house, not succeed in keeping accounts, and be capable of no higher literary achievement than ^'holding the pens " for him when he wrote. Poor, pretty, loving, humble Dora ! Your husband ouoiit to have adored the little fingers that held the pens so patiently and happily for him — ouhj for him — without re- gretting that they were incapable of making any other use of those pens, or that their owner could not really appreciate the use he made of them. What did that matter as long: as she was Dora — his first love, and the wife of his heart ? Dear Dora, I have always loved you, and I have never forgiven David Copperfield for the wisdom that •enabled him to discover that his first mar- riage was a mistake. 246 FREDA. But all this has very little to do with Freda, Mr. Underwood, and Lionel Fane. " Are you going to stay here, or are you going home T asked Mr. Underwood, Avho felt that the three could not spend the rest of their lives in this sort of conversation, but that some result must be arrived at, and some action taken. '^ Neither," was the brusque reply. '^ Where are you going then ?" " To the devil, if you like, just as soon ai? anywhere else. Don't trouble yourself about me, my friend ; I can take care of myself I shall go away, and this side of the earth will not soon see me again." ^^ Is the devil on the other side T cried Freda joyously. ^' Hush, hush !" interrupted the Vicar sternly. " You will go abroad — will travel," he continued, putting his friend's intentions into commonplace language ; " very well — not a bad plan, I dare say. And she 1" "' And she !" repeated Lionel Fane bit- terly. " My lawyers shall communicate my intentions. She shall have an allowance, and may live at the farm there with the friends- ALL OVER! 247 she has chosen for herself. My lawyers ! What a blessed century we live in when lawyers step over broken hearts and make everything straight — God save us all !" And with these words on his lips, sounding like a curse rather than a prayer, and a bitter mocking laugh, Lionel Fane strode out of the room, wdthout even a look at Freda, who stood there gazing full at him in all her won- derful beauty, with radiant unabashed eyes. She turned with joyful eagerness to Mr. Underwood. " Is he really gone T she cried ; '^ will he really leave me alone T and she clapped her hands. ''' Doritr he said sharply; " I can't bear it. I believe you have broken his heart." Freda was grave in a moment. " Oh no," she cried, '' he can't endure me ; he was always cross ; he never did anything but scold ; he dislikes me above everything, and so do I him." "' Child, he loves you," replied the Yicai quite solemnly. *' Now you are cross too," said Freda, pouting ; *' love is kind, and makes people 248 J^REDA. happy. He was unkind, and made me as miserable a little girl as ever was heard of since Cinderella. You have not the least notion what I endured, or what a horrible life it was. I would have done anything to get rid of him ; I would have poisoned him cheerfully if it hadn't been murder — I would indeed — and I used to wish that it wasn't murder." ^^ You thought, and think only of yourself," replied he, rather sadly. " I don't," she cried; " I would do anything on earth for kind people who loved me — don't you knov) I would ?" and she looked at him with the sweetest affection. *' I would do any- thing for you — and with such pleasure. I should really like to be your servant, and I would wait on you, and pet you, and make you the most comfortable creature that ever was known." Mr. Underwood could not keep from re- turning her smile, as the girl looked frankly and joyfully into his face. After which he sighed, and answered reluctantly: '' You must not talk in this way. You are not my servant, and you are — his wife." ALL OVER! 249 ^ *' Oh, don't," she said pitifully; '' don't nag on about that. I am not his wife now — he has gone away and left me. It is not I who have left him. He has given me up — we have given each other up — and it's all over now, and so nice." *' It is not all over; you are still husband and wife — and husband and wife you must continue to be till the end of the chapter." ^' Who's cross now T remonstrated Freda, ^^ I can't tliink why you should be so ill- natured. Have you really let him set you against me ? Is it because he told you about the bishop's apple-pie bed ? Oh, come now, you needn't mind that ; he was such a little bit of a man that it couldnt signify." She spoke gravely and earnestly, and he looked at her, all other emotions losing them- selves in surprise. Was she really only a child, notwithstanding her seventeen years of life and three months of marriage ? A humorous twinkling laugh that flashed momentarily from her eyes as he looked, showed him as momentarily that she saw the absurdity of her own words, enjoyed it, and was not a mere child. And then leaving 250 FREDA. those beautiful eyes, left him also in doubt whether he had only imagined that it had been there at all. In doubt also as to how much or how little intellect had been granted to this exquisite creature, by a pn^digal nature, that had certainly given her everything else^ if it had denied her a mind. CHAPTER XIL TALKING IT OVER. OUR position," said the Vicar, " is^ a very painful one, and we must seriously consider what it will be best to do." '^ Oh, but it isn't painful !" cried she eagerly,. *^ not the least — it was when I had to live with him, but it is delicious now. I could j ump over the moon ; I feel as light as a feather." " Do you T he replied gravely. **And if I had not come here, T should never have known you — think of that !" she cried with the prettiest certainty of sympathy^ and taking a step towards him in a confiding way. 252 FREDA. He tried to speak coldly in reply, but failed altogether. '' My dear child," he said, ^' my sister and I will both be your friends in any way that we can." ''Yes," replied Freda, "and she is very nice ; but I like you best." And again she smiled at him with innocent frankness. '' Maud will be very much surprised," said he. *' She will like thatl'' replied Freda gaily ; ^' / like being surprised, of all things." " I suppose," continued the Yicar thought- fully, '' that the best thing you can do is to remain at Koseberry Farm for a time. You went there wishing to pay your friend a visit, and you might stay with her a few weeks at :any rate." ''Yes," replied Freda, "I thought of nothing better till you found me in the wood " — a thrill went all over the Vicar's frame at the sound of the last words, but the girl was utterly unmoved by the speaking of them — ^' and brought me here ; but it has been such fun, taking you in, and being vulgar, that I TALKING IT O VER. 253 am afraid Letty and the farm will seem a little flat— won't it T And she asked the question anxiously, evidently expecting him to tell her whether it would or not. What could he say to her ? Could he tell her she had sinned — that she had, in one way, been false to her vows — that she had ruined two lives and broken a man's heart % Could he tell her she ought now to live quietly and repentantly, commune with her own heart and be still \ This innocent, fairy- like creature ? this gay, joyous child % Fane had said that she had no moral sense — no- knowledge of the difference between right and wrong, and the bewildered clergyman felt that it must be so ; but he also had a sort of feeling as if moral senses and righteous- differences ceased to exist where they touched her. If he preached to her she would either laugh or cry. If she laughed, what good would his preaching have done her % If she cried, he should feel himself the most guilty of men, and should think of nothing but comforting her as quickly as possible. Not knowing what to do or to say, or what 254 FREDA. lie ought to do or to say, he remained silent — absolutely silent. ^' If I go, you will come and see us very often, won't you T she said, smihng, and with ^ sweet little emphasis on the *' very." " I will," he replied impulsively. IVeda shrank back a little. " I hate ^ I will/ " she cried, pouting ; '' ever since he and I said it in a church, I have hated it. And then to make me say, ' I, Winnifred Ethel,' such nonsense ! but I had quite forgotten that — that was one of my hopes — since I am never called Winnifred Ethel — never have been in all my life — since I am Freda, don't you think it gives me a chance that we are not married at all r She looked at him with such keen easrer inquiry that her eyes forced him to answer her. " I am no lawyer," he said quietly, "but it •does not require a lawyer to settle that question. Put every hope of the sort on one side and have done with it. You are married, ^nd nothing can unmarry you. You are his wife — you are Mrs. Lionel Fane, and must TALKING IT O VER. 255 xemain so as long as you are both of you -alive — death only can divide you ! ' What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.' There are no more solemn words in the English language than those — and none more binding." He said more than he need — repeating the words and dwelling on the facts, as much for his own sake as for hers — and takinof a sort of cruel pleasure in doing so, a pleasure foreign to his nature, and that surprised him- self. But she met him fearlessly, facing the truth with a cheerfulness that he could not -command. *' Very well then ; I must give all that up," she said. ''And I don't see that it matters so much- — though of course it would be pleasanter not; but if we never see each other again, and he will Icee'p at the other side of the world, it won't much matter. What a comfort it is that the w^orld has two sides to it !" And she gave a little wave of the hand, and lightly raised her eyebrows, as if she, at that instant, got rid of the whole thing at once and for ever. \^ 256 FREDA. Mr. Underwood fell into profound thought, then shook himself and spoke. " I think," said he, ^' that you had better return to Roseberry Farm this afternoon." " This afternoon ! Oh dear ; and I like being here so much the best ; you cant want to get rid of me." " I am only thinking of what is right for yourself" "My bed won't be aired," replied Freda, regarding him with mild reproach ; ^' it's not fair upon Letty." " Nonsense 1" he cried impatiently ; "it must be done, and trifles should not stand in the way." "Very well then, if I have a rheumatic fever," began she ; but he looked at her as she stood there, the very personification of youthful health and beauty, and laughed. Freda, charmed at this, joined instantly, and her sweet merry laugh rang out, and at the delicious sound, he stopped his own laughter and felt ready to cry. "' Oh ! how nice it is to laugh again !" cried Freda, drawing a great breath like a sigh of satisfaction. TALKING IT OVER. 257 " I will take you back to the farm," said Mr. Underwood. " Oh, then I will go," she exclaimed joy- fully ; "I would do anything for a walk with you r She ran away and reappeared in her hat. " May I not wish Miss Underwood good- hye ?" she asked with an air of childlike submission, which, whether assumed or not, became her Avondrously, as all her airs did. Mr. Underwood coloured and hesitated. ** No, I think not ; she shall come to visit you, or you can visit her if she is not well enough to do so ; but it will be best not to see her till she knows and understands who you are. I shall tell her all about it this evening, and after that you can meet ; but it would be too confusing for her if you went in on her now — she is not at all strong." " Not strong enough to bear me /" laughed Freda. " Oh, very well, please yourself. •Come along then ; but we needn't go right off to the farm, need we ? We may take a run through the wood ?" Her manner was irresistibly coaxing, but it produced no effect on Mr. Underwood. VOL. I. 17 . 258 FREDA. a " No, Freda, never again," lie said firmly ; I shall take you to Roseberry Farm and leave you there with Mrs. Dowlas, and you must tell her that you are married, and that your marriage is not a happy one, and that you have come to stay with her for a few weeks in consequence." " I shan't tell her a word about it," replied Freda coolly ; ^' it would be disagreeable." " If you don't, / shall then," he answered with equal coolness ; ^^ you have no right to a shelter under their roof unless they know all your circumstances." " My circumstances !" cried she, " as if I was a bankrupt. I haven't got any circum- stances, I never had ; and as to a ' shelter under their roof,' it's downright nonsense calling my staying with my own old Letty that /" " Notwithstanding which, she and her husband must hear all about you, either from yourself or from me. It is quite possible Mr. Dowlas would rather you did not remain there — under the circumstances," he was going to say, but substituted the words ' " very long," instead. TALKING IT OVER. 259 Again Freda's gay girl-laugh rang out, making the air beautiful with its sound. ^' What, Jack !" she cried delighted ; " much you know about it ! Jack adores me ! I'm his fairy princess — his angel — his star — his Honoria ! my ^ footstep dignifies the grass ' to him !" " What, Jack too T said the Vicar, almost humorously; "well, well!" Freda stared at him without comprehend- ing his meaning. " Jack's an old dear," she said, " and so is Letty ; they are a couple of old dears, and they are as fond of me as ever they can be, and so am I of them." " And are my sister and I a couple of old dears too T asked Mr. Underwood dryly. And so the two walked out into the sun- shine together, and turned their steps towards Koseberry Farm. The Vicar looked down at the lovely creature beside him with a sort of dreamy wonder. '' Lionel Fane's wife — Lionel Fane's wife," he repeated to himself over and over again — "Lionel Fane's wife." 17—2 260 FREDA. '^ You must leave me to tell Letty my own way," said she suddenly ; " I won't have you interfering, you know. She'll be ever so astonished, and in an awful state ; she thinks there's nothing like being married, and as to leaving a husband, I do believe Letty will scream quite out loud, you know, at the mere thought of it — I do indeed." " I am sure she will be very sorry and very much shocked," replied Mr. Underwood, in the most proper manner possible. " Don't be cross ; that's an ill-natured way of putting it now, isn't it T was the answer of the incorrigible one. "You must remember," said the Vicar gravely, " that Lionel Fane is one of the oldest friends I have in the world." " Not really T '' Eeally and truly." "You mean one of the people you have known longest. You can't mean friends." " Why not T " Because you're nice, and he's horrid." " I mean friends — he is a dear old intimate friend, for whom I have a strong affection, and of whom I have a high opinion." TALKING IT OVER. 261 The Yicar said these words very clearly and slowly, and in a rather loud voice. Freda stopped short in her w^alk, pushed her hat back, and stared up into his face. '^ How extraordinary," she cried, " how wonderful ! I could not have believed it." '' In my opinion," continued he, ^^ the woman whom Lionel Fane loved, and who understood him and was worthy of him, ought to be one of the happiest women in the world." " Then why are you so different ?" cried Freda pettishly ; '■'' why aren't you like him, instead of being as different a,s light from darkness, or joy from sorrow V ^^We did not make ourselves," said the Vicar; ''but there are many respects in which I should be very glad to resemble your husband, in which I unaffectedly regard him as my superior." '' Oh you story-teller !" cried Freda ; '' how dare you say such things as that ! as if I could believe it." They had now reached Roseberry Farm, which looked bright and pretty in the level 262 FREDA. rays of the setting sun ; but Freda regarded it with somewhat discontented eyes. ^' It was lovely to me till I'd been at the Vicarage," she said, sighing, "but it will be slow after that. How tiresome it is that nice things give up being nice when you've had nicer !" The Vicar reflected with a sigh that the Vicarage, with its calm pleasures and routine of useful duties, and the placid companion- ship of its invalid mistress, would seem very slow indeed to him after the thrilling excite- ments of the last few days. He had been a contented man a week ago — what was he now % " Is it possible," he said to himself, ^Hhat the two days' knowledge of a girl — a child — can chanofe the whole tenour of a sensible man s life ? And not a very high-principled, or — or — well-behaved girl either," added he with a sigh. *' I wonder whether, after all, I am a sensible man." Which reflection was not of a consolatory nature. Letty received them with kindly smiling Avelcome. She was delighted to see the Vica.r, and asked gladly if Miss Freda had come back to stay. " Yes, I have come back to stay, Letty," TALKING IT OVER. 263 replied that young lady rather languidly, ''that is if you'll have me; but Mr. Under- wood says you won't, nor Jack either. Poor old Jack — do you think he'll turn me out, Letty T Jack's wife laughed at this. '^ It's likely, is not it ?" she cried, thinking it all a mere joke. " You're welcome as the flowers of May wherever you go, Miss Freda, but you're welcomest of all to me and to Jack." '^ He says I'm married," said Freda in an injured voice, and pointing with her thumb >over her shoulder at the Vicar, who stood a few steps behind her. "" He? — who? — says — wliatf gasped Letty. *' He — this Vicar of yours — will have it that I'm married," repeated Freda complain- ingly. Letty stared in blank astonishment from the one to the other, and from the other back again to the one. '' Oh, Mr. Underwood, she isn't — no more nor you are — she isn't indeed." *' I really wonder how you can," said he, indignantly, to Freda. '264: FREDA. ^' It's quite easy," she replied airily ; " you could do it yourself — you could indeed." ^' Have it your own way, and tell it your own way/' he said rather doggedly; '^ I shall take my leave." " If you do," threatened Freda, with sud- deji animation, " I won't say another word about it — and she shall never know^ — never — - not Avhen I am on my death-bed — not when you have buried me in your churchyard and said the Burial Service over me, as you'll have to do, if I die here," added she spitefully,. " because you're the Vicar — there !" Mr. Underwood shrank with actual physical pain from the idea these wild words presented to his mind. But he recovered himself in a moment, and addressed Mrs. Dowlas : "Your friend has something to tell you about herself," he said quietly, " something very sad and very important, which you ought to know before she becomes your visitor." Letty's rosy face became almost pale at the solemnity of his voice and words. She looked earnestly at him and then turned her eyes on her friend. • " Dear heart, miss, what is it T she cried. TALKING IT OVER. 265- But Freda's eyes opened wide in reply,, with an expression of, to all appearance, the most unfeigned astonishment. She shook her head slightly, and made two light move- ments with her pretty hands in a delicate dainty way ; one was to touch her forehead with the tips of her fingers, and the other to raise her closed hand to her mouth, and for an instant seem as if her lips drew something from between the thumb and fingers. - Mrs. Dowlas was uncommonly startled ; she looked with inquiring amazement at the young lady, and from her glanced towards the clergyman with a shocked, puzzled, half- ashamed expression. He for his part, stand- ing behind Freda, of course saw distinctly^ the signs she made, and felt astonished, y^o~ voked, and finally extremely uncomfortable. He did not clearly see what he had best say or do; whether he had better ignore her be- haviour, or notice it ; in fact, whether he had better say or do anything or nothing. And the extreme annoyance of the idea, ridiculous as it was, that Mrs. Dowlas miofht think there was some foundation for Freda's dumb show, broug^ht the colour into his cheeks, thouo^h he 266 FREDA, could have beat himself when he found that it was doing so. However, he was determined not to be con- quered, and he stepped forward and addressed himself to Mrs. Dowlas, just as if Freda had not made that insulting sign. " Your friend," he said, " is married, and is married unhappily. Her husband is perhaps the oldest and dearest friend I have in the world. She left him and came to you, and he did not know where she was. They have just met at my house, and agreed to live sepa- rately. Are you going to deny any of this ?" he added almost angrily, turning to Freda. " Of course not," she replied calmly ; '* I never deny what you say if it's true ;" and she laid a great emphasis on the " if." Letty was all amazement. She could not take in, or understand, or believe a word that was being said to her. " Dear heart. Miss Freda I" was all she could say, with round eyes and gaping mouth. " She is not Miss Freda," said the Vicar, almost maliciously; " she is Mrs. Fane — Mrs. Lionel Fane." " That I deny, because it's not true/' cried TALKING IT OVER, 267 the young lady very indignantly. *^ We have given each other up ; we are never to live to- gether, and it would be mere rubbish to be called by his name. I am not Mrs. Lionel Fane. I hate the name, and I hate the girl who bore it — poor miserable slave ! She is not me — I am Freda !" Then she sidled up in her most coaxing manner to Mr. Under- w^ood's side, and said softly, '''Let me be Freda." ~ '' Child," he replied, ^^ I have nothing to do with it. I can neither let you, nor pre- vent you. You are what you are — what your own deed has made you — the wife of my friend — Mrs. Lionel Fane." And he re- garded her with yearning eyes, that seemed to look through her, at the lost Freda — the Freda never to be his again — no more Freda — for ever and aye Mrs. Lionel Fane — the wife of his friend. " Very well," she replied, recovering herself rapidly, and reconciling herself to the inevit- able actual, as she always seemed to do when she was beaten ; " very well — but nobody shall call me so. I am Freda, and only Freda ; I won't answer to any other name. I know I can 268 FREDA. do it," she added triumphantly, " because I didn't go when she called me ^ Sarah \ I wanted to go to her ever so much, but I wouldn't while she said ' Sarah/ and I didn't I so I hnow I can do it." *^ But are you really married, Miss Freda T ^^ Of course I am, Letty. Don't bother — there's nothing in that ; everybody marries — Aunt said so — but I've married as little as possible, because I don't like it. And so, here I am !" But Letty's tears were w^elling up, out of her kind honest eyes. *^ And you're not happy — you are unhappily married ! Oh, Miss Freda ! And I thought you would marry such a lord some day ! and there is nothing in the world so dreadful as an unhappy marriage — nothing — nothing. " And with the last nothing Letty quite gave way, put her apron to her eyes, and wept. *^ Now you're silly," said Freda, looking half inclined to cry too; '^that's when they keep married — when they live together. Of course that's dreadful — didn't I tell you so ? I said I had been miserable, and that you TALKING IT O VER. 269 were not to ask me a question, because I was to be happy ; but that's all over, Letty, you •goose — don't you see that it's all over ? I'm here^ and he's there.'^ " But you never can be really happy," sobbed Letty ; *' never happy, like Jack and me." n I should hope not !" cried Freda vehe- mently. '' I wouldn't be happily married on ^ny account ; that would be worse than all. Since we must do it, the only thing is to do it unhappily, and then you're rid of it in no time, and it doesn't much signify, and it's almost as if you hadn't done it at all." '' Oh, Miss Freda— Miss Freda ! If you only knew !" wailed Letty. " Yes, that's it," cried the clergyman, with a fierceness and passion in his manner which startled both the girls ; ^^ if she only knew ! If she only knew — and she will some day. My God, she will, some day !" He cast his hands up in the air as he spoke, unconscious that he did so, and scarcely himself understanding what he said, or why he said it. Freda ran up to him, and cried, with the sweetest eager childishness : 270 FREDA. "No, I won't ; indeed I won't, not if you don't wish me to. I "proiimiie ! There ! I never broke a promise in my life. Dont be vexed." He looked full into her eyes, and then shaded his own. "You poor child!" he said, sadly and gravely ; " ivhat is it that you are promising ?" Freda reflected a moment, and her face became greatly astonished when she found she did not know. She blushed, and hung her head. " I don't know," she murmured. Then looking up, recovering herself, and all eager- ness : " But anything you like. Explain it to me ; tell me what it is, and I'll promise — only don't look so very sorry ; I can't bear it." And she took hold of his hand in both her little ones, and gazed affectionately into his face. He withdrew his hand sharply, as if her touch hurt him, and walked a step from her side. Freda looked at him surprised. " Oh," she sighed, " how cross you are t Don't be cross ; I wish you wouldn't." And TALKING IT OVER. 27 1 her lips flitted over her poor Httle rejected hands with a h'ght kiss, as if to atone to them for his roughness. With a mighty effort, an effort so mighty that its action, though only of a moment, in- fluenced his good heart as long as that heart beat in his body, the clergyman put down and trampled on all thought of self, and thought only of her. He jDut out his hand, took one of hers in it^ pressed it in a friendly manner, and not one shade of colour deepened in his cheek, not one flickering, gleaming light shone in his eyes. '^ Don't mind me," he said in a kind, en- couraging voice ; "it is not what you think. 1 was not cross. I understand you, and I will be your friend, and help you in any way in which I can." " You nice thing !" cried Freda, delighted. ** T a7?i glad !" Letty had by this time had her cry out, and recovered herself She addressed Mr. Underwood quite apologetically : *^ I'm sure I beg your pardon, sir," she said ; " but it came sudden-like on me, and •272 FREDA. it's very sad. And is it really so % Will it never be better V '' Who can say T he replied. '^ It is as it is, and we must make the best of it." His voice sounded like a knell to parting joys, and his eyes were full of gloom ; but he roused himself in a moment. '^ Do you object to have her here T he asked. " Me object to have Miss Freda I" ejacu- lated Letty Dowlas. *^ And will your husband not object ?" Freda's laugh rang out at the question, and even Letty, though not up to laughing-pitch, smiled, till her broad, honest smile might almost be called a grin ; and both girls uttered the same word at the same moment. The word they uttered was only " Jack !" but the voices and manners spoke volumes, and seemed to settle that part of the subject for ever. Strange to say, the Vicar had a feeling akin to irritation at this. *' Of course," he said very gravely, '^nothing can be really settled till Mr. Dowlas has come home and judges for himself In the mean- time, it is best for Mrs. Fane to remain here. TALKING IT OVER. 273 It will only be for a few days T he added, questioningly. '"'' Jack comes home Saturday night," said Jack's wife, with a beaming smile. ''■ By that time perhaps Mr. Fane's lawyer will have written, and some arrangement can be made," replied Mr. Underwood, a little stiffly. " Some arrangement is made," cried Freda ; " I've made it. I shall stay here till I'm tired of it, and then I shall go somewhere else." The clergyman, hardly knowing what to reply to this announcement, safely said : '' We shall see." ^^ Of course we shall see," laughed Freda, who was quite herself again, ^^ as we are none of us blind. But now, you know, I can go any- where, and do anything, which is a blessing. I wonder whether Vienna would be a good place to begin with ?" she added thoughtfully. " ^IZ/ the pretty sham jewellery seems to come from Vienna ; but then I do long for the skating at St. Petersburg. Paris, I think, would be awful fun in the season ; and, above everything, I want to go to Jerusalem." VOL. I. 18 274 FREDA. Then she started and cried hastily : "" They are none of them on the other side of the world, are they T Mr. Underwood gravely reassured her. " Because, you know, the devil's there,'' she said cheerfully. " Don't I" said the clergyman. *' Well, he will be very soon, if he isn't now, 1 know," she replied very demurely. *' I shall have to study geography, so as to be always qxiite sure luhich the other side of the world is, for, to tell the truth, I'm not sure now." ^' It's the antipodes," said Letty. '* I wonder," cried Freda suddenly, and turning her radiant face towards Mr. Under- wood, "whether it really ivoiild be a good plan for me to go to school '? I know very little geography, and not much of anything else !" He shrank painfully as she said this, for her words recalled the buried past almost more vividly than he could bear ; but he answered her quite quietly : " Perhaps it would not be a bad plan ; you are only seventeen " (he sighed here) ; ^* not TALKING IT OVER, 275 at all too old, and for a year it might be the best thing you could do." *' I really think I should like it," cried she, with excitement ; " and I could come away the minute I didn't." ''Nothinof can be done till we hear from Mr. Fane's lawyer." *' That 18 such nonsense," pouted Freda ; '' it's me, not the lawyer, we're going to put to school." ^* Nothing can be done till we hear from Mr. Fane's lawyer," repeated he in a loud voice. '^ Please yourself," said she ; ''' J don't care. I shall do what I like." Mr. Underwood felt that the conversation was becoming foolish and useless ; that he had done and said all that it behoved him to do and say ; that he had no further business here, and that to take leave and go home was the natural and right thing for him to do. And yet he shrank indescribably from doing this natural and right thing, and caught at any excuse not to take leave, and not to go home. He was suddenly seized with a dread of home, and with a heart-sinking sense of the 18—2 276 I'REDA, ' dulness and insufficiency of his home Hfe. Home — yes ; and, when he returned home^ he must tell his sister all, and he must conceal from his sister all. He must tell her wha Freda was, and what passionate, strange scenes had been enacted in his quiet study ;. and he must conceal from her the thoughts and feelings, stranger and yet more passionate, that had been raging in his heart — the heart that she believed was open to her. Can any one wonder that the Vicar shrank from re- turning home ? " May I come up and see Miss Under- wood?" asked Freda, smiHng sweetly upon him. He hesitated. " Yes, certainly. She will be very glad. Don't come to-morrow ; come next day. I must tell her, and make her understand the whole thing. Come and see her the day after to-morrow." *' Does she know him as well as you do V asked the wife abruptly. For a moment he did not understand her ; then a strange look came into his face. '* Yes," he answered ; " his sister and Mr. Fane knew each other intimately, though it was a long time since they had met." TALKING IT OVER. 277 ''I'm sure, though, that she'll agree with me that he is horrid," said Freda confidently ; '*'' because women always do know about men — men never do know really about each other — never ; but women do." " That is your experience, is it ?' replied Mr. Underwood dryly. '' I don't care a halfpenny about experi- ence," cried she ; " that's rubbish. Experience is no good at all to anybody or to anybody else. I just say it because I hioiv it ; and there can't be a mistake then !" *' I understand," replied Mr. Underwood, '* quite ; but I don't tlmik you will find your- self right here. Maud does not agree with you." '' Doesn't she T said Freda, and, for a moment, looked blank ; but only for a moment. *'' Oh, that's because she is ill and nervous, and all that sort of thing," she added, with her usual power of recovery. '' She loould if she was well." Mr. Underwood gave rather an odd little smile ; and then, raising his hat, wished the two girls " Good-evening," and left them standing at the door of the farmhouse, where 278 FREDA. Letty had stood alone, on the night of Freda's arrival, thinking of Jack. He walked back to the Vicarage with slow, lingering steps, and plunged in serious and sorrowful thought. CHAPTER XIII. RETROSPECT. ^ T was not as easy a task as it might seem to any one not acquainted with the history of the past, for Mr. Underwood to tell Maud who Freda was. He disliked having to do it particularly, and he was quite aware that his sister would dis- like the tale when she heard it, even more than he disliked it in the narration. No word had ever passed the lips of either to the other on a subject so painful and so delicate, but Mr. Underwood knew as certainly in his own heart as if his sister had told him in plain words, that her girlish affections had long ago been won by his handsome friend. 280 I^REDA. Lionel Fane, and that she had never forgotten him. He did not now, any more than at the time, blame Fane for this. It was not his fault that he was better looking and more attractive than the men Miss Underw^ood was in the habit of associating with, or that in the extreme intimacy caused by his friendship with her brother, and by their being all young to- gether, she had misinterpreted his meaning, and imagined she was being wooed for her- self, when she was only being cultivated as a friend's sister. Inexperience has often made a girl — especially if she is a sentimental one — fall into this mistake, and Maud Under- wood, in the days of which we are speaking, though a very nice, was undoubtedly a very sentimental girl. She had only just returned home from school, when introduced to her brother's college friend, who came to spend a long vacation with him at her mother's house. This mother — a gentle invalid — left the three young people entirely to themselves, "Lewes," in her eyes all perfection, being a sufficient chaperon for anybody ; and entirely sharing her daughter's delusions, anticipated with delight the not far-off day when she should RETROSPECl. 281 see that daughter the wife of a handsome, good, agreeable man, and more than hand- some, good, and agreeable, a man who was Lewes's friend. At the school to which Maud had been sent — a finishing school for young ladies, not a teaching school for little girls — all these young ladies had been, secretly to others, confidentially among themselves, in love with some one ; most of them had been in love with the curate, a man with sleek dark hair, bril- liant white teeth, and who preached in a black gown and lavender kid gloves. They none of them knew him to speak to, but many of them believed that they often met his e37^e, both in church and if they passed him any- where out of doors. They were sure he was charming, and they thought he was ascetic ; an idea even prevailed that he was an advo- cate for clerical celibacy, which naturally made those who entertained it, more in love with him than ever. There was something so delightfully romantic and pleasing in an utterly hopeless attachment, and such, an attachment to a clergyman who approved of clerical celibacy, must be ; but one girl, better 282 FREDA. read than the others, destroyed this happj notion by the assurance that she hiew, if this was the case, he would preach in a surpHce. Among the Reverend James Smith's adorers — adoring him, however, in a re- markably mild and modest manner, and per- fectly contented with the adoration alone, without an idea, or even a wish, that she should ever form a nearer acquaintance with the object of it — was Maud Underwood, and this attitude of mind, consistently preserved for eighteen months, made her, on her return home, perfectly ready to fall in love with a real live lover, in the shape of her brother s friend, and instal him in the place of the lay figure which the curate had actually been. She began by merely regarding hm% as a lay figure too, a new hero, pushing the old one aside and assuming his place, and she had no^ intention of feeling any way differently to- wards the one than towards the other, and this was her idea of being in love. But the new hero talked to her, smiled on her, made her laugh, lent her books, admired her playing,, and loitered a few minutes in the garden with RETROSPECT. 28S her by moonlight, after Lewes had gone in- doors to see if tea was ready, and now and then dropped words and gave looks that made the inexperienced girl, certain that he cared for her. This was a different thing indeed to an unknown curate in a black gown and lavender kid gloves. She became rapidly and really attached to him, and looked back with contempt to the Reverend James Smith and the feelings he had excited in her. This^ was the real thinof. Oh how different from the imitation ! A sentimental fancy in an igno- rant heart is certainly, when compared with a true love, what moonlight is to sunlight,, and what water is to wine. Mrs. Underwood delighted in hearing all that her daughter had to tell her, of looks and becks and wreathed smiles, or of the things- that stood in the place of these, in the happy,, easy intercourse subsisting between Maud and Lionel. It is a wrong — often committed by kind natures, but no less a wrong — ta tell a girl that a man loves her, and to lead her to talk of her feelings for him. If it is a mistake, and after all the man does not love her, it is an irremediable wrong ; but it is na 284 FREDA. less a wrong if it is not a mistake, and he does. The man himself ought to be the first to draw aside the maidenly veil that hides what she feels, and the person who ruth- lessly takes his place commits high treason against love. If I had a wife, I should find it very difficult to forgive any one who had heard from her own lips, that she loved me before I did myself ; but unfortunately Lionel Fane never put himself into a position to- wards Maud to resent her confidences to her mother. He never gave Maud a thought •except as a nice-looking, pleasant, sensible girl, with whom — as his friend's sister, and an agreeable specimen herself of young ladyhood — he liked to be intimate. His ideal wife was to be perfectly beautiful and unutterably charming, and Maud as little resembled her, as a withered leaf resembles a half-blown moss-rose. For all that, of course he mig}it have fallen in love with Maud, and have discovered what a much better hue feidlle-mort was than rose colour, only he did not, but remained perfectly faithful to his ideal. Before the young men returned to college RETROSPECT, 285' Mrs. Underwood (though not in Maud's. jDresence) took her son into the conJidenGe,, and informed him that Lionel Fane was evidently in love with his sister. Lewes- believed, and was delighted. The world ho lived in was a very beautiful one, and that Lionel and Maud should marry was only what was to be expected in such a world. It made everything perfect, and perfection of course was what was to be expected. There was some little surprise felt that the unconscious hero of this romance did not speak before he left the house. Ample opportunity was given him on the last evening, and again a few minutes' tete-a-tete was arranged before; the final breakfast, but not a word was said. Maud herself was so thoroughly contented with the warmth with which he shook hands^ with her at parting, the lingering pressure,, the look and the smile, and with the few words spoken at breakfast, contrasting what his breakfasts would be ^' till he came again " with this one, besides a number of other little words and looks, all bearing a special meaning to her pre-occupied mind, that she wished for nothing beyond, and was left with" a 286 FREDA. full satisfied heart, delighting in the sweet consciousness that the world was an empty, barren place to her till they met again. She enjoyed keenly the happiness of misery, undisturbed by her mother's disappoint- ment, which the gentle lady knew better than to confide to her daughter. In fact her mother consoled herself tolerably soon with the idea that he considered Maud too young for him to bind her yet, and knowing how retired a life she led, and that he should hear all about her constantly in her letters to her brother, that he would wisely wait till his next visit. The next visit, however, proved to be only of a few days, as the hero had other engagements and other friends to be attended to, and could not spare the whole of a long vacation to one house, but the few days were utterly perfect, and so was he. The favourite tree, the favourite book, the favourite view, the special glitter of the moonlight on the river, the custom for the young man to at once accompany Maud into the garden after dinner, all were remembered, and remembered with an evident pleasure in remembering, that could only have one mean- RETROSPECT. 287 ing, at least so felt both mother and daughter. But there was more than this, for the par- ticular rose for which Maud had wished, to train round her bedroom window, was brouo^ht her, with the hope thafc she had not procured one already ; and she was asked, before he had l^een half an hour in the house, if she still preferred Longfellow to Tennyson, and if she had yet learned to distinguish Prince Bismark from Count Cavour. Nothing could be more satisfactory. For five years this state of things con- tinued. Visits were paid, and everything was delightful, but at twenty-four Maud's feelings were different from what they had been at nineteen. The signs and things that had been sufficient for her then, fell short of bringing her full contentment now, and dissatisfied yearning filled her heart even in the hero's presence, and distressed her when he was gone. Her health began to fail, while her mother became first anxious and then unhappy ; and it was just when this half preparation for the dreadful blow that was to follow was beginning to be felt, that Lewes came home on a visit without his friend, who 288 FREDA. had been expected to accompany him, and outstaying Maud on the first night, in a long and painful conversation with his mother, convinced her that she had all along been under a mistake, and that Lionel Fane did not care, never had cared, and never would care for their Maud. In fact, that Lionel Fane was in love with somebody else. It was not a real love — Lewes saw that — but it occupied him for the present — this young man's fancy — and it had led to open talk about love, women, and marriage, between the two, and then, Maud's brother had learned how far from having ever given her a thought in that way, his friend had been, and how very different a woman it must be, from the woman Maud was, that could be Lionel's queen. Maud's secret and her mother's hopes had — even in the shock of this conversation — been carefully guarded, and remained sacred, untouched ground. Lewes had no confessions on that score to make to his mother, no re- proach from his own conscience. Her name had never been mentioned between them except when Lionel sketched playfully their three future lives, giving himself and Lewes RETROSPECT. 289 the wives he thought would suit them, and then portraying the gentle, mild, amiable, hard-working country clergyman — the very antipodes to himself — with all his fine noble qualities of a different type, who was to make Maud hap23y, and whom he heartily hoped she would soon meet with. Poor Mrs. Underwood felt as if she under- went the bitterness of death itself, while she listened to her son — listened — believed — sub- mitted ; but belief and submission were not necessary only for /ler, they must come to Maud also, and therein lay the sting and the agony. Her gentle eyes never closed in sleep through the whole of that night, but watered her pillow with their tears. The next day she was so ill that Maud was frioiitened, and it was while nursing her mother in her darkened room that she heard and accepted her own doom ; accepted it without much rebellion, believed what she was told without many struggles, but fdt not the less deeply on that account that her sun had set, and light had gone out of her life for evermore. During that most melancholy blank that can come in any woman's life — the annihila- VOL. I. ID 290 FREDA. tion of a belief that, when annihilated, destroys not only the present and future, but, most cruel of all, leaves her not even a past — Maud Underwood fell into bad health. She grew paler than ever, and thinner; she lost her appetite and her sleep, and then she suddenly became very weak, no one having known that her strength w^as gradually giving way. In- deed, she did not know it herself, but went on doing things as usual, till one day she found she could do nothing. Some time after that she had a rheumatic fever. Rheumatic fever does not appear to be a romantic illness, and no one could suppose it was the consequence of a love disappointment. So Maud w^as safe from the comments of her friends ; but she never recovered her health, and w^as very sub- ject to rheumatic feverish attacks afterwards. Between her and her brother not a word was ever spoken, as if he knew anything of what her feelings and hopes had been ; nor did he, in the blindness of youthful manhood, at- tribute her bad health and rheumatic fever to any mental cause. He was very sorry Lionel had not loved her, and there was an end of it. Mrs. Underwood perhaps never recovered RETROSPECT. 291 from the blow. She died about two years afterwards, and then Maud kept house for her brother. Her meetings with Mr. Fane, now a fashionable man living in London, while her home was a Welsh rectory, were few and far between. She never betrayed her- self, and she never ceased to love him. God knows what hopes or what visions of a possible future still lay buried in her sfentle heart, perhaps unsuspected even by herself; but when, a few months before the oj)ening of this stor}^, she took up the Times one morn- ing, and glancing with idle eyes over the register of marriages, read his name among them, it nearly killed her. *' On the 5th instant, at the parish church, Cowes, by the Rev. James Brown, incumbent, Lionel Fane, Esq., of Eaton Grove, barrister- at-law,toWinnifred Ethel, only daughter of the late Charles Cameron, Captain 17th Lancers." She did not faint or scream. She went about the house as usual that day ; but she ate nothing at dinner, though in the evening she talked his friend's marriao^e over with her brother, and said everything about it that was right and proper, and wondered who the 19—2 292 I^REDA. lady was, and what she was like, and quite agreed that it was very strange he had heard nothing of her, till the Times announced that she was Lionel Fane's wife ; and she smiled sickly smiles, and even laughed a little at the oddity of the whole thing. For several days she went about as usual, but she never slept at all, and if those nights of hers had had any witness, no surprise would have been felt at her wan looks and want of appetite. At the end of the sixth day she sickened and took to her bed. The ailment puzzled her doctors at first, but it gradually developed into nervous low fever, accompanied by fearful rheumatic or neuralgic pains, which left her quite helpless, and only the wreck of her former self, when it at last did leave her after many weeks of suffering. She was only recovering gradually and painfully from this illness when her brother met Lionel Fane's wife in the wood, and brought her back with him to nurse her. And now his task was to tell her that iliis was what he had done, and wlio the girl was that he had brought home to her ! Lewes had been travelling abroad with his RETROSPECT. 293 friend only a few months before his unex- pected marriage, and there had been no idea of any particular lady then ; but two days after the announcement in the Times, he received a letter written on the weddinof eve, and tell- ing him the romantic story of Lionel Fane's love. And the romantic story of Lionel Fane's love was this : He was staying in the Isle of Wight for a day or two on a yachting excursion, and walking back to his hotel quite late one even- ing", was cauo^ht in a violent thunderstorm. The rain fell in torrents, the lightning flashed horribly — the thunder rattled all round him till the earth shook under his feet. He looked about for shelter, and fortunately, as he thought, found it in a cave on the sea- shore, where he was walking. He was very glad to find himself safe and sound, neither struck by lightning nor yet wet to the skin, and with a covering over his head. He looked exultingly round him, and as he did so, some strange, subtle influence told him that he was not alone. Not alone ? what nonsense I Sea anemones and mussels, and other strange ocean creatures might be on 29+ FREDA. the rocks or in the tide, but other life- human life — there could be none, except his own. He looked and he listened, his mind almost violently pronouncing this negative, when lo, he heard — and there could be no mistake about that — he heard soft, reo^ular breathing — the breathing of a being framed and made like himself— a child, perhaps — not a man — but still a human being. Very much startled, he gazed about him everywhere, but still could see nothing. He stepped softly in the direction of the sound, passing behind some high rocks as he did so, and then the mystery was suddenly solved. He stood in what was more a fissure in the cliffs than a cave, as it was for the most part open to the sky, and through this opening the rain poured down ; but the light of heaven poured down also, and illuminated, notwithstanding the storm, the only covered part of the fissure. There, sheltered from the rain and lying on the ground fast asleep, as the soft, regular breathing had indicated, he found a young girl. Her dress was white, decorated with blue ribands, and fell in graceful folds over her graceful figure. Her straw hat, trimmed RETROSPECT. 295 with the same colour, she had taken off and placed beneath her head as a pillow between it and the shell-covered rock. It was Freda, and we need not therefore say that the face he beheld was one of perfect beauty. The exquisite childish features, the childlike purity of colouring, the long dark lashes curled on the lovely cheek, the shining hair partly twisted round her head, with curls hanging down liere and there. Lionel Fane thought of mermaids and water-sprites as he looked at her, for surely no human girl could be so divinely beautiful ; but the shining hair, which in that case should have been green, was burnished brown, and he shook his head iis he came to the conclusion that she must be a mortal maiden. The earnestness of his gaze of course woke her, as we all of us know an earnest gaze will ; it does call back the w^an- dering spirit from another world, and any one a,ware of this fact may surely believe in some, at least, of the miracles of mesmerism. Obedient, then, to this wondrous power of another pair of eyes, Freda opened hers and bent her radiant sraze full on the stran2:er. Then she sat up and smiled at him. 296 FREDA. *' Oh, you have come !" she cried. " T am very glad." " You expected me !" " Yes, I wanted you. Now you will show me the way home." *' You — wanted me !" he cried, astonished and inexpressibly touched. " Of course I did," was the answer, given a little impatiently. " I am lost, and I want to go home — why don't you take me r She looked at him almost angrily, and when angry her beauty was indescribable. He felt as if he was there only to obey her. Accepting her, as he had suddenly dis- covered her lying asleep in the cave, as a possibility, all the impossibilities of life be- came possible after that ; but the rain still fell in torrents, and he silently pointed to- wards it as they stood under the rocky shelter, and then looked deprecatingly into her eyes. The gesture and look appeased her. *' Oh, it is raining," she said. " Yes, you are right; we must wait." A vivid flash of blue forked licjhtnini^ RETROSPECT. 297 rushed down into the space in front of them through the yawning chasm above, Ht u]3 the rocks with its fearful light, and seemed as if it would set even the wet sands on fire. For a moment everything was blue, dazzling, horrible. She made a half spring forward to meet it, and held her hands out as if she would bathe them in the beautiful, fearful light. He caught hold of her with an exclamation of horror, and drew her back. " Do you not like it T she said, quite coolly. '^ I di>uifond of lightning. I always long to stand in it and feel it, and here seemed such a chance ; but never mind," she added consolingly, as if she thought he must be vexed with himself, '' I see it is raining ; you were quite right, we must wait." Then she looked up at him suddenly, and said : '' Don't you hate waiting '?" He returned the look, and replied quietly : " Not just now." She saw how the rain was falling, and laughed sweetly. *' You don't fancy a walk in the rain. I wonder you mind it in those thick things. ■298 I^REDA. Look at mine." And she handled her white frock rather contemptuously, and lightly stamped her little foot on the rock it rested on. Then she gazed into his face, and called out, ''What! is it yoii''^ Why, I have got 3^our photograph I" He began to believe that he had not found her there asleep in reality, but that he was asleep himself and dreaming about her ; and he felt, rather than recoOTiised, that when he woke, life would appear a dull, dreary thing without her, and that he must prolong the dream as long as possible, and do his very best not to be waked from it. He listened in eager fear lest some noise should wake him, but he only said, in a vague, dreamy sort of a way : '' You have got my photograph ?" ^' Yes," she said, scanning his features with scrutinising eyes ; " there can't be a doubt of it ; but one is never quite sure about the colouring in photographs, so it did not strike me at first. However," with an air of satisfaction, " the colouring is quite right — just what I intended it should be. I am glad of that 1" RETROSPECT. 299 *' And how on earth did you get my photo- graph T " I got it at Lmcoln's, in High Street," she replied Hghtly ; ^' and I gave one shilHng for it. You were done there, were not you T *^ Oh yes ! I certainly was done there. But why did you buy it T '^ Because it was so handsome," she an- swered promptly, and without the slightest embarrassment. ^' Aunt and I agreed we would each of us buy the photograph we liked best in the collection; and I bought you, and she bouofht the Duke of Teck." Lionel Fane coloured deeply ; but Freda's blooming cheek did not deepen one shade in its delicate rosy hue. It evidently did not occur to her that she had said anything personal. Meantime the sea was encroaching on the shelter where they stood, and, with a startled feeling, it occurred to Fane that the tide was coming in, not going out. He looked about him, and saw very disagreeable signs that the whole of the place they occupied was within high-water mark. He then turned his eye upwards, but did not see any ascent 300 FREDA. practicable for a lady, on the steep sides of the fissure. Fane was a brave man, but a strange little creepy feeling went over him which surprised himself. Fearful of alarming her, hs addressed his companion in accents of extreme gentleness. '' How did you come in here T was his question. She pointed at once to the outside cave, through which he also had entered. " I was lost on the sands," she cried; "I had taken a ramble over the cliffs, and descended on to unknown sands. Being lost, I got tired, and so I came in here and went to sleep. I always go to sleep when I'm tired ; don't you ? Dear me ! we must go farther in ; my feet are getting wet. How fast the waves are coming up to us. Do you know I never saw the sea before we came here the other day % Think of never having seen the sea! It's beautiful, isn't it? But I have, always lived in the middle of things till now." "Do you think you could climb up the side of that rock there, with my help T' was the only reply Fane made her. RETROSPECT. 301 '^No, I don't; and I certainly won't. Why should I V " To prevent your getting wet. Don't you see that the tide is coming in upon us very quickly, and — that — you will be wet '?" He hesitated, but said no word about danger, though in his own heart he Avas actually appalled by the extremity of the danger with which he believed they were threatened. "Oh! I understand," she said, looking about her coolly. '^We are going to be drowned. Why, you look quite white ; you are frightened, I do believe ! It's awfully commonplace, though. I have read of the situation in lots of books ; haven't you ? There's always a man and a girl in it — some- times two girls ; the girls are saved, and the man is generally drowned. That's what you mean, isn't it ?" " You take it quietly," he said ; " but I am afraid it is no joking matter. I am afraid there is — some — danger. You must allow me to help you up the side of the cliff as high as possible, and then see what can be done." 302 FREDA. " Yes, I dare say ; and you would leave me there, while you climbed up to fetch men, and ropes, and lanterns. But it will be very silly of you to get lanterns in broad dayliglit ; only they always do; and the girls — be there one or be there two — always manage to keep clinging on till they're fetched. But maybe you would not fetch me at all ; so I'd rather stay here. It's all very stupidly common- place." Then Lionel Fane assumed that tone of command which was natural to him, and which became no man better. " This is folly," he said. '' You must do what I tell 3^ou. Both our lives are in danger, and we have not a minute to lose.'* As he spoke, he climbed up a little way, threw one arm round a projecting rock to steady himself, and stretched the other down to her. *' Come," he said with authority, '^ come at once." She threw back her head, and looked up at him Avith shining, mocking eyes, and smiles din)pling all round her mouth. She was ex- quisitely, irresistibly lovely at that moment ; and Lionel Fane felt almost beside himself RETROSPECT. 303 with fear, which mingled strangely with feel- ings hitherto unknown to him — wild, deli- cious, and painful. Then she folded her two little hands before her in a demure attitude^ dropped a curtsey, and said, '^ No, thank you, sir ;" while her eyes mocked him, like the eyes of a beautiful, wicked sprite. But the waves of the sea did not care for this exquisite beauty; and even as she curtsied and spoke, one broke close beside her, and covered her with its white foam, splashing over her from head to foot. It took away her breath ; but as she recovered herself she laughed. ^' Oh, you silly!" she cried; ^* come down. You do look so funny clinging to that rock \ I couldn't help keeping you there ; and now I've got wet. It's a shame, and all your fault. Come down, will you % There's not a minute to lose. Of course, there's a way up ; I knew it all the time. / noticed it before I went to sleep ; but men never do know or notice any- thing." He jumped down to her side, inexpressibly relieved. '' Oh, you coward !" she cried, with gay 304 FREDA. sauciness. *'I do believe you were frightened to death." Then, before another leader- wave had come to sprinkle its white foam over her, she led him behind the rocks where he had found her asleep, and showed him a rough but well- trodden, and by no means too difficult way, that would evidently lead them to life and liberty on the top of the cliff. ^' Go first," she said imperiously, " and I can follow you with little help." He did go first, but she required, and he gave her, a great deal of assistance before they reached in safety the much- desired goal. By the time they stood side by side on the smooth grass, the storm was over, the rain had ceased, the sky was cloudlessly blue, and the setting sun glorious. He looked at it all with the eye of an artist, and, turning to her for sympathy, forgot it all at the first glance of her splendid eyes, the first glimpse of her exquisite face. She was evidently feeling it too. She drew a little sighing breath, and gazed up into the skies above her, and then around her at cliffs and ocean, entranced and delighted ; and at RETROSPECT. 305 that moment he endowed her soul and heart Avith all the charms and graces that God had given her person. They walked quickly on, as the clothes of both were wet. ** I am very glad you found me," she said, smiling. ^' I really might have slept on and been drowned ; and the next man who en- tered that cave would have found a dead girl lying there instead of a sleeping one." '' Don't 1" he cried, shocked and hurt at the w^ords so simply uttered. He seemed to see her before him, lying in the cave dead, instead of sleeping ; and he could not shake off the impression, though she was at his side, radiant with youth and beauty. He felt as if he should one day see her dead, and be powerless to rouse her ; while he stood over her helpless, his own life wrecked in the loss of hers. Her pretty, prattling voice roused him from the horrible thought. "Now I shall take you home, and intro- duce you to uncle and aunt," she was saying. He wished nothinor better. If uncle and aunt were the people who made her home, VOL. I. 20 306 FREDA. his most earnest desire was to be introduced to them ; though he did not yet admit to himself that this was in order that he might break up that home, and persuade them to give this wonderful child to him as soon as custom permitted. Such, however, was the case. He was already deeply, though uncon- sciously^ in love. Freda's strange attractions had worked havoc in his heart as quickly as they w^orked havoc in the heart of his friend Lewes Underwood only a few months later. Verily, beauty is a power that should not be despised or overlooked by either man or woman. END OF VOL. I. BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD, SURREY- i(''?f('ff^:r/'^.t:h^ UNIVERSITY OF ILUNOI8-URBANA 3 0112 046430895 {'fj-'i^: '^i^-^-'i**:*^ ,Tii