C^wy-t^^'^^ 
 
 G wen 
 
 Or 
 
 The Cousins 
 
 By A. M. Goodrich 
 
 Author of ' Claudia' 
 
 VOL I 
 
 London 
 
 John W Parker and Son West Strand 
 
 1855
 
 /^/ 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 SAVIIil. AND EDWAEDS, PEINTEBS, 
 
 CHANDOS STBEET.
 
 4 
 
 
 
 "1 
 
 M B. 
 
 My fancy in thy pleasant home is free, 
 ■' ^ My heart rejoices while it dwells with thee ; 
 r^ Swiftly beneath thine eye these pages grew, 
 ^ " Mid scenes where loveliness is ever new. 
 In after days, if such for me remain, 
 Thy image still shall every leaf retain, 
 Most prized for the fond spell that calls thee near, 
 O And bids thy accents linger on my ear. 
 
 K 
 
 ^^
 
 Look here upon this picture, and on this.— Hamlet. 
 Pentendo e perdonando. — Dante.
 
 /C/ ^e--0 >^^^ /^ 
 
 Cy^j ri 
 
 PART I. 
 
 If he chance to die young, yet lie lives long that lives well. 
 Besides God is better than His promise. He takes from him a 
 long lease, and gives him a freehold of better value. 
 
 Fuller.— ^o^y State— The Good Cldld. 
 
 f^ 
 
 VOL. L
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 deare, sweete, and desireable child ! 
 
 Evelyn^ s Diary. 
 
 * i RE you at home, Mrs. Irving V 
 
 Xl_ ' Oh ! yes, ma'am ; pray come in.' 
 
 ' I shall spoil your dinner, I am afraid, by the care 
 I have taken to come just at the hour when your 
 scholars are gone to theirs,' said Mrs. Norton, laughing, 
 as she glanced round the neat little schoolroom. There 
 was a veiy tidy, sensible-looking young woman stand- 
 ing at a cheerful fire, preparing the coming meal for 
 herself and the elderly, quiet, cleanly mistress of the 
 school, Mrs. Irving, her mother. 
 
 ' Our dinner is not ready ; the children won't be 
 back for an hour, and my husband is not come in. 
 Pray sit down.' 
 
 ' 1 have scarcely leisure to do that,' replied Mrs. 
 Norton, who rarely had time to get through half the 
 business which she proposed to execute ; but still she 
 took the proffered chair, and, looking at Mrs. Irvnng's 
 daughter, said, ' Don't be angiy with me, Mrs. Irving, 
 though I come to entice Catherine away from you, 
 if I can.' 
 
 ' Well, ma'am, if you want anything, I don't know 
 how I am to say nay.' 
 
 ' When you hear why I want your daughter, I think 
 you will be as inclined to set her to the work I have 
 to propose as I am myself. Still you must consider a 
 little whether you can spare her just now. You must 
 know I have a house full of friends ; Mrs. Faulkner — 
 a very fashionable lady indeed, Mrs Irving,' said Mrs. 
 
 b2
 
 4 GWEN, OR 
 
 Norton, with sometliing between a smile and a sigh ; 
 * a sort of connexion of Colonel Norton's ; and her 
 two daughters, the Eustaces, children of her former 
 husband ; and all their maids and nurses. Now the 
 eldest, Mary, poor thing, I see, is going into a con- 
 sumption as fast as possible ; they talk of her spine, 
 too, and will scarcely let her rise from her sofa. It 
 half breaks my heart to see the child.' The tears came 
 into Mrs. Norton's pretty blue eyes, but she twinkled 
 them away, and went on, only talking a little faster 
 than before, ' She is not eleven ; and the other, Geral- 
 dine, about eight years old, the handsomest creature you 
 ever saw — a splendid child ! — full of spirit and life — 
 too boisterous and too self-willed to be a companion to 
 a little invalid. Mrs. Faulkner doats on them both, I 
 don't doubt ; but still it seems to me that poor Mary 
 is not understood as I should wish. There she lies, so 
 silently, all by herself, never wanting to keep any one 
 near her, and scarcely equal to their breaking in on her 
 when they return from their walk or their drive, full 
 of something which they think will amuse her. She 
 is too ill to be amused in that way, and I have been 
 thinking what can be done for her. They are going 
 to move into a house of their own, and to stay at 
 Brighton to see if the air will strengthen her — not 
 much chance of that, I am afraid ; but meanwhile, I 
 do think it might be a very great comfort to her if she 
 could have such a person as Catherine about her. It 
 is of no use to try to explain what I mean to Mrs. 
 Faulkner, or her fine lady's-maid ; but Catherine — ah ! 
 that is just the thing ; and you have told me that you 
 have thought at times of her going out as a sort of nur- 
 sery governess for a while ; and this poor child is pas- 
 sionately fond of reading, but her weakness often falls 
 on her eyes, and then she can do little in that way ; 
 and to see her fold her pale hands on her breast as she 
 lies on her couch — there is in her attitude the most 
 touching resignation to her enforced inactivity, that 
 you can imagine. I can't understand what makes
 
 THE COUSINS. 
 
 her so different from all around lier — so very much 
 more serious — so earnestly religious — ' 
 
 ' Suffering, ma'am,' said Mrs. Irving, wiping her 
 eyes. 
 
 ' I suppose so/ replied Mrs. Norton, in a tone of re- 
 verence ; then, after a short pause, she turned to 
 Catherine, saying, ' Catherine is really one of the nicest 
 readers I ever heard. I don't mean such praise as I 
 should bestow on your first class wlien they get through 
 the lesson without a mistake. Her reading is quite 
 superior to anything of that sort. Then her ways with 
 children are so good, and she is a capital nurse, that I 
 know. All I want is for her to come up to me, and to 
 take on herself all the attendance that Miss Mary 
 requires. For the future we shall see what course 
 things will take.' 
 
 ' Well, ma'am, as you say, I have always been pre- 
 pared to part with Catherine, and this is the softest 
 beginning, the least like being divided that we can 
 have ; so, if you please, she shall come to you when 
 you like.' 
 
 ' This evening, Catherine, — do you think you can 
 come 1 you can sleep at home for this week — at least, 
 if you prefer it.' 
 
 And Mi-s. Norton took leave of them. 
 
 ' Mother,' said Catherine, — returning after she had 
 taken their visitor down stairs, ' if Miss Mary is like 
 what Mrs. Norton says, I shan't know how to do 
 enough for her.' 
 
 'She is a very kind-hearted lady,' replied Mrs. 
 Irving ; ' any one who suffers touches her.' 
 
 Catherine set to work to arrange everything for her 
 mother's comfort before leaving her. 
 
 ' Good bye, mother dear,' she said ; ' I shall be back 
 again at night.' And in her usual neat and peculiarly 
 plain attii-e she set out to Mrs. Norton's well-known 
 door, 
 
 ' Catherine Irving is here, ma'am,' said the servant 
 to Mrs. Norton, who was watering some flowers in her
 
 6 GWEN, OR 
 
 verandah. A cliild of eight years old was standing by- 
 Mrs. Norton, watching her with interest, and crying : 
 
 ' Oh ! what a beauty ! oli ! that camellia ! I must 
 have it for mamma ; do give it me, let me pick it.' 
 
 But Mrs. Norton warded off the attack on her lovely 
 flower : ' No, my dear, not this one, it is for poor 
 Mary's balcony, you know. It will last a long while 
 for her to look at. Your mamma would much rather 
 that it should give Mary pleasure for several days than 
 wear it herself this one evening, I am sure.' 
 
 ' No, no, mamma must have it. I want to see it in 
 her beautiful hair. She will wear it if I tell her, and 
 Mary won't care ; I am sure she won't, she never does 
 care about anything.' 
 
 ' But I do,' replied Mrs. Norton gravely, and putting 
 down the child's arm ; ' I care, and I do not mean you 
 to have that blossom, Geraldine. Now, come, you 
 shall help me carry these flower-pots into Mary's room, 
 presently, for first we must call Catherine Irving, and 
 take her with us. I want her to stay by your sister 
 this evening while we are seeing the fireworks. Come, 
 where is your mamma V 
 
 She held out her hand to take Geraldine's ; the 
 child drew back, scarlet with passion. Mrs. Norton 
 was astonished. Geraldine darted through the window ; 
 Mrs. Norton following more slowly, perceived her on 
 her knees beside Mrs. Faulkner, hiding her face in her 
 mother's lap, and sobbing violently. 
 
 ' Oh ! mamma, my own dear mamma, I wanted it 
 only for you, it was so beautiful ; I wanted to give it 
 to you, and she was so cross, so ill-natured.' 
 
 Mrs. Norton could not refrain from laughing, as 
 with difficulty she and Mrs. Faulkner collected these 
 words, interrupted by sobs, from Geraldine's lips. She 
 patted the child's luxuriant golden curls, and said : 
 
 ' Now, my dear Diane, do put this troublesome child 
 by for a little, and come with me to see the young 
 person whom I spoke to you about for Mary. She is 
 here, and I want you to speak with her. This little
 
 THE COUSINS. 7 
 
 miscliievous imp wislied to break off my beautiful 
 camellia that I hare nursed up for Mary, just to stick 
 in your hair. That would never do.' 
 
 Geraldine pushed away the hand that caressed her, 
 because she thought the tongue wanting in due respect. 
 
 ' ]My child, my dearest child,' said Mi-s. Faulkner, 
 hanging over her, her dark silken ringlets falling on 
 Geraldme's snowy shoulders, which rose and fell withthe 
 sobs that had not yet subsided. ' You wanted that 
 flower for me ; I know, I see it all. But I would 
 much rather Mary had it, dearest ; we will both give 
 it to her — there, it shall be youi^, and you give it to 
 me, and we both give it to Mary.' 
 
 She folded Geraldine in her arms as she spoke, and 
 the child, raising her weeping face, kissed her mother 
 passionately in retm^n for her honied words, but be- 
 stowed no notice on Mrs. Norton. 
 
 ' Rather cool to dispose of my flower thus,' thought 
 Mrs. I^orton. ' A very pretty sentimental termination 
 to the drama, but not much poetic justice in it, that I 
 can see.' 
 
 Geraldine, thus conciliated, and holding fast her 
 mother's hand, condescended to follow her and Mrs. 
 Norton to the room where Mary lay. Mrs. Norton 
 called to Catherine to join them, and Mrs. Faulkner 
 bestowed on her the sweetest smile of welcome possible. 
 Entering Maiy's room, Mrs. Faulkner went up to the 
 sofa where she lay, and leaning over it, said : 
 
 ' See, my dear Maiy, we have brought you such a 
 nice kind nm-se to be ^vith you, when we are obliged 
 to be away. Lucy Norton knows her well, and says 
 that you will delight in her ; she can read to you, my 
 child, beautifully, and spare your poor eyes, and she 
 shall have nothing else to do but to attend to you. 
 No one shall take up her time, or call her from you. 
 I like her look so much — here, Catherine, come nearer. 
 This is my dear, sick child ; you will find her very pa- 
 tient, very good. She gives no one any trouble that 
 she can help.'
 
 S GWEN, OR 
 
 Two or three tears fell from Mrs. Faulkner's beautiful 
 hazel eyes on Mary's brow. 
 
 Geraldine meanwhile stood, pouting her coral lips, 
 her round cheek stained with her recent tears, and the 
 long dark lashes of her full blue eye still wet and heavy 
 with them. She had fixed a long earnest stare on 
 Catherine, half that of a mere child's wonder, half that 
 of an impertinent spoilt cl^ld. There was something 
 in the announcement that the new comer was to be 
 wholly appropriated by Mary, that she should have no 
 share in her attentions, no power to issue her commands, 
 which gave her offence ; and as her mother ceased speak- 
 ing, she cried, in an unrestrained tone : 
 
 * How plain and common-looking she is ! I would 
 not have a maid like that.' 
 
 Nothing could be greater nonsense than to call 
 Catherine Irving plain and common-looking. Shocked 
 at Geraldine's rudeness, Mrs. Faulkner glanced at 
 Catherine to see how she would bear it, and at once 
 perceived how unfounded the assertion was. For the 
 first time she really bestowed any observation on her ; 
 all the praise she had yet lavished had been without 
 any attention to accuracy; she was merely thinking 
 what would make her and Mary best pleased with each 
 other. Now her eye rested on Catherine, standing 
 there in her simple, almost quaker-coloured dress, her 
 smooth, glossy braids of dark brown hair, her clear, 
 creamy complexion, with a colour perhaps a little too 
 marked for beauty on her fresh, healthy cheek, — her 
 intelligent, bird-like eye, and mouth not less firm than 
 good-humoured. She felt sure that she should like her, 
 especially as at that moment, greatly to her relief, 
 Catherine smiled. Geraldine's passionate, unmeaning 
 remark might pass as a joke, she saw; but Mrs. Norton 
 gave a turn to the joke not very pleasing to the proud 
 little creature : 
 
 ' Well, my dear,' she cried, ' as Catherine is never to 
 do the least thing for you, it does not matter much 
 that she does not please you.'
 
 THE COUSINS. y 
 
 There was a merry laugh at these words, but it did 
 not go round. Mrs. Faulkner felt that it was too much 
 at her darling's expense to like to join in it; and 
 Geraldine could not even smile. As a thunder-cloud 
 on the blue aether, so looked her wrathful temper on 
 her beautiful childhood. 
 
 Poor Geraldine ! 
 
 > | i ij' i l|l »|i i^r 
 >Jl »J« »J»
 
 
 )r*j 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Soft as the scent of flowers — 
 Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers. 
 
 Moir''s Poems. 
 
 WELL, Catherine, do you tliink that poor child is 
 as ill as Mrs. Norton says T asked Mrs. Irving 
 of her daughter, on her return. 
 
 ' Yes, mother, I do indeed ; she is very thin and pale. 
 It makes one's heart ache to see her.' And she began 
 to busy herself with more than common energy in her 
 preparations for supper. 
 
 ' Mother,' she added, after a few minutes, ' I shall 
 love that child.' 
 
 '■ I don't doubt that you will, dear,' replied Mrs. 
 Irving. 
 
 ' That I shall,' said Catherine ; and she did not speak 
 again till, after her father's return, they were, all seated 
 comfortably at their evening meal. 
 
 ^ You will like to know more of what I have been 
 doing at Mrs. Norton's, mother,' she said. ' I wish you 
 had been up with me, and just seen Miss Geraldine — 
 such a magnificent child ; and her mamma — I do want 
 you to see Mrs. Faulkner — but you will soon. I 
 never saw any one so beautiful ; and then her manner 
 — you know what a kind, frank way Mrs. Norton has ; 
 well, it is not a bit like that.' 
 
 ' Do you mean that Mrs. Faulkner is neither frank 
 nor kind?' asked her father, laughing. 
 
 ' Oh ! father, she is so gracious. She spoke as if 
 she were asking a great favour of me when she put 
 her child under my care, and I felt as if it were the 
 greatest obligation any one ever conferred on me.
 
 THE COUSINS. 11 
 
 Every one seems to love her, and well they may. Her 
 poor sick child followed her with her eyes every time 
 she moved. Mrs. Norton is as fond of her as if she 
 were her sister, and Miss Geraldine clung around her, 
 and seemed jealous of every word. They none of them 
 stayed long ; they were going to the fireworks. Miss 
 Geraldine is not at all like her mother, though she is so 
 handsome. I don't think you would know her to be her 
 daughter from any resemblance between them. When 
 I was alone with Miss Mary, though she is so pale 
 and faded, poor thing, there was a look now and then 
 in her that made me think more of Mrs. Faulkner 
 than Miss Geraldine ever would. Mrs. Faulkner is 
 very tall, mother, and slight and elegant. She does 
 not look strong herself; her skin is so white and trans- 
 parent, and just a pink colour that comes and goes; — 
 and such beautiful hair she has, dark brown, and all 
 crisp and waving. She let it down on her shoulders 
 before she went to dress, and it unrolled itself almost 
 to her knees. Just here and there a bright silver 
 thread ran through it ; she laughed, as one of them 
 caught her eye. ' There, Lucy,' she said ; ' see my 
 grey hairs shining. I ought to be wiser than I am.' ' 
 
 ' Why, how old should you take her to be, Cathe- 
 rine ?' 
 
 ' Oh, five and thirty, perhaps — not so much scarcely. 
 Then she has the loveliest little white hand, which she 
 passed through her hair, throwing it back, and looking 
 at us with her soft, hazel eyes ; — soft, yet merry too, 
 and arch. It was very pretty and pleasant while they 
 were there, mother ; but I think more now of the 
 poor, pale child, with just that one bright spot on her 
 cheek, — perhaps it only comes in the evening, — and 
 eyes that glitter till I felt almost frightened at them ; 
 their light was so unnatural.' 
 
 Mrs. Norton that evening had the little episode of 
 the camellia to relate to her husband. 
 
 ' This woman is intolerable,' was Colonel Norton's 
 brief reply.
 
 12 GWEN, OR 
 
 ' How can you say so of the most fascinating creature 
 that ever was seen V exclaimed his wife ; ' and really, 
 Charlie, there are times when you seem to find it easy 
 enough to endure her.' 
 
 ' Thank Heaven, my dear, that she is not my wife, 
 to make a fool of me always, instead of sometimes.' 
 
 ' Oh ! then you feel that she is dangerous?' 
 
 ' Why, she imposes on you — ' 
 
 ' No, no, there is no imposition, no trick, I assure 
 you. She is quite real. All the good you see is quite 
 as genuine as — ' 
 
 ' The folly,' suggested Colonel Norton. Neither of 
 them required a sterner word. 
 
 * Well,' continued Lucy, ' you will allow that you 
 like her better than that very wise woman. Lady 
 Rivers, Mr. Faulkner's sister?' 
 
 ' Certainly, I will acknowledge that, if it be the 
 least satisfaction to you to hear me say so. I never dis- 
 liked any other woman as I dislike Lady Rivers. She is 
 insupportably impertinent. She would walk into your 
 house and regulate everything in it, from the ordering 
 of the dinner of that day to the education of your 
 boys, and the management of your estate. She shrinks 
 from no responsibility, as she would say, with un- 
 flinching fortitude. She has too much strength of 
 mind and strength of will for me.' 
 
 'Poor Mrs. Faulkner trembles like a leaf before 
 her.' 
 
 'But she contrives to evade and to conquer too, 
 though she never employs open resistance. 'When 
 the cat's away the mouse will play;' and Lady Rivers 
 not by, 'poor Mrs. Faulkner' manages to do very 
 much as she pleases, my dear Lucy.' 
 
 'Well, really, you know, if Diane could find out 
 how to manage her own children, she would be 
 the proper person to do it. It is very absurd for 
 Lady Rivers to interfere on every occasion with the 
 Eustaces ; it is not as if they were her own nieces,
 
 THE COUSINS. 13 
 
 ' No, it is not ; and she meddles to such bad pur- 
 pose that I wish she would not do so at all. Diane 
 and her husband would be better without her. Faulk- 
 ner is a good fellow, though I can't altogether get 
 on with him ; and I am sorry for him when I see 
 them worry him.' 
 
 ' He is unboundedly generous to Diane and her 
 children,' said Mrs. Norton. ' There is not the slightest 
 restriction placed on her as to the sums she lavishes on 
 their education, dress, or anything — and as to medical 
 advice for poor Mary, no parent could desire more 
 earnestly to afford her everything that holds out the 
 faintest promise of relief. Diane told me so to-day 
 with tears in her eyes.' 
 
 ' No bad exchange for a young life-guardsman as 
 extravagant and as foolish as herself, this wealthy 
 merchant, on my word.' 
 
 ^ Oh ! don't say that. Poor Harry Eustace ! What 
 a kindhearted, goodnatured fellow he was — and what 
 a handsome couple they were that first season in town 
 after their marriage, and how shockingly they ran in 
 debt.' 
 
 ' Yes. I think that those three years of risk and 
 poverty went far to cure Diane of all the real romance 
 of her nature, though she clings to a semblance of it 
 still. You will see, Lucy, when her daughters are 
 grown up, what lessons she will read them about 
 handsome guardsmen and younger sons. She will not 
 let her beauty, Miss Geraldine, imitate the examjDle of 
 her own youth. A little haughty creature ! I be- 
 lieve that if you asked her now she would tell you 
 that she would trample any coronet but a duke's 
 under her feet. That is what she will learn by heart, 
 and very probably it is Faulkner's weak point also.' 
 
 ' Perhaps so ; and I have no doubt that he will 
 bestow magnificent portions on these girls — not that 
 Mary will live to enjoy one. The child has just 
 her father's look — his dying look, I mean. Poor 
 Diane 1'
 
 14 GWEN. 
 
 ' You are too fond of saying ' poor Diane,' my dear,' 
 cried Colonel Norton, avoiding the painful subject of 
 Mary's malady. ' Depend upon it, ' poor Diane' pities 
 you full as much as you can pity her, for your half-jDay, 
 disabled husband, your homely children in straw 
 bonnets and cotton frocks, and only one house to live 
 in, and that not a large one.' 
 
 ' Nonsense, Charles !' cried Mrs. Norton, indignantly. 
 * Do you suppose that dry, silent man of money, who 
 never knows how to please her but by making her a 
 present, can be to her the least what you are to me 1 
 or that she would not gladly exchange poor Mary's 
 sickly looks for my girls' roses 1 And as to that little 
 proud termagant, Geraldine, I would not have a child 
 with such a temper as hers for all the beauty in the 
 world.' 
 
 ' Stuif ! I would make her a well-behaved little girl 
 in a fortnight.' 
 
 ' It is very easy for you to fancy that ; you don't 
 know the trouble that I have with her. Our children 
 are not used to the sort of thing. As to the boys, 
 when they come in from school, it is terrible ; and they 
 have not found out any simple method of reducing her 
 to obedience.' 
 
 ' Obedience 1' repeated Colonel Norton, laughing. 
 ' She is quite right to make Freddy and Johnnie her 
 slaves ; it is but breaking them in early. I have 
 nothing to say against that ; but, seriously, I won't 
 have my little women plagued, and I am not sorry 
 that Diane saw a house to-day pretty enough to suit 
 her fancy.' 
 
 #.
 
 ^^':C>>J^''^J^'<^<:P^^ ^^-i "^^ '^^ ^^^ o-^ <rv ' vtc^ ' o-^ ' o^ \ ' ~>M) 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Her ways were ways of innocence and joy, 
 But pain is all her dower, and stem disease. 
 
 Yet to Heaven 
 At each calm interval to anguish given, 
 She lifted her full eye and thankful smile. 
 Meek soul, to sorrow reconciled, awhile 
 And each dark hour with thorns of sorrow sown, 
 Shall add a gem to thine eternal crown. 
 
 Thoughts in Past Years. 
 
 WHEN Mrs. Faulkner removed to her own house, 
 she engaged Catherine Ii^ng's services imme- 
 diately during her stay at Brighton. Catherine cor- 
 dially acceded to wishes cordially expressed, saying 
 to her mother : ' There is something about that sick 
 child that I shall never forget as long as I live, even 
 if I see her no more after she goes from here.' 
 
 ' Does she get very fond of you ]' asked Mrs. Irving. 
 
 ' Well, I think she does, but she is so gentle and 
 kind in all her ways that it is not very easy to dis- 
 cover whom she likes best to have about her, or when she 
 is tired. She keeps up to the last, if others seem to 
 desii^e it, and tries to enjoy whatever is done to please 
 her, however little it may be really to her taste.' 
 
 ' How nice of her ! However, she makes more 
 happiness for herself that way than she ever could by 
 indulo-ingj fancies and fretfulness.' 
 
 ' I hope she does ; and I really believe that she is 
 happier on the whole than Miss Geraldine, who is 
 carrying on one perpetual struggle for her own way. 
 I am particularly careful, mother, not to let her have 
 it with me, and yet I don't think that the child, 
 wilful as she is, dislikes me.'
 
 16 GWEN, OR 
 
 ' Oh ! no, she won't dislike you for that, Catherine ; 
 never fear. You have a good temper, and are used 
 to children.' 
 
 * It would never do to be ill tempered with her. 
 Mrs. Faulkner would not allow it for a moment. 
 Firmness is the only thing, and indeed, mother, I don't 
 think that could be carried out, if it were not for Miss 
 Mary. You see they were getting afraid that Miss 
 Geraldine was too much for her, and was doing her 
 harm, and so she was ; now I have to see to that, and 
 what I say must not be, must not be ; and I do hope 
 that dear patient child will have a more comfortable 
 life now than before.' 
 
 ' Why, do you mean to say that her mother could 
 bear to see her disturbed V 
 
 ' I think that she could neither bear it nor prevent 
 it, and that in fact she wants me chiefly for the sake of 
 having some one near who does not mind saying ' No.' 
 She had no difficulty in getting Miss Mary to put up 
 with Miss Geraldine's whims without complaint, but 
 lately she has been forced to open her eyes to the harm 
 that was going on, and feels herself constrained to put 
 a check on it.' 
 
 What Catherine said was very true. Mrs. Faulkner 
 had suspected how much she wanted the assistance ot 
 a strong mind and a firm temper in the management 
 of her two children, before Mrs. Norton delicately sug- 
 gested the want to her ; and when Catherine Irving had 
 been with her a very short time, she began to feel, and 
 to show that she felt, that she was an acquisition that 
 she should iU know how to dispense with. It was for- 
 tunate that Mrs. Norton's selection had been so good a 
 one. Very few women of Catherine's age and station 
 would have borne the ordeal so well as she did. There 
 wei-e trials of temper and of patience in plenty, and 
 other trials more dangerous still. Mrs. Faulkner dis- 
 covered that Catherine had no equal; that no one 
 possessed so much common sense, so much presence of 
 mind, fortitude, patience, or sweetness of temper; that
 
 THE COUSINS. 17 
 
 no one was so ready to oblige, no one di^eacled fatigue 
 or inconvenience so little, no one had such a me- 
 mory, no one's word could be so unhesitatingly be- 
 lieved. Nothing could be well done till Catherine had 
 been consulted, and it was better not to undertake 
 anything that had not received her approbation. 
 
 Catherine's head was not turned. She was even 
 calm enough to perceive that, with all this praise of 
 words, there was nevertheless a little reserve in action 
 all the while, jMrs. Faulkner still preserved a will of 
 her own, and could not altogether exchange the accus- 
 tomed flatteries of Mrs. Collinson, her maid, for the 
 novelty of Catherine's truth. She kept the former 
 about herself, but she was perfectly sincere in saying, 
 that she rejoiced to have the latter about Mary, 
 especially as she had not been long in Brighton before 
 she became, as was her wont, the centre of a circle in 
 which she received adulation enough to have turned 
 a wiser brain, or to have corrujDted a natiu-e less truly 
 kind and generous. Be it that the heart did retain 
 soundness at the core, it was enough to amaze 
 Catherine to perceive that under the influence of she 
 knew not what infatuation, something was at work 
 within strong enough to drag the mother from her 
 child's sick bed, where perhaps she had just been 
 shedding paroxysms of tears, followed, as she must 
 have felt herself to be, to the door by Mary's fond, 
 dying eyes, while not one word of entreaty escaped her 
 patient, self-denying lips, to scenes whence she returned 
 often apparently wearied and disgusted, — wearied with 
 what was meant to amuse, disgusted with others and 
 with herself AVhatever the allurement was — whether 
 idleness, dislike to devise her owti amusement, or to fill 
 up her hours ^vith employments that exacted some exer- 
 tion of her own mind, or thirst of flattery, or love of 
 dress, or all combined, — it lost not its power ; and forth 
 from her home went Mrs. Faulkner, by day and by 
 night, sometimes perhaps not fully aware of her child's 
 state, but sometimes certainly when she would have 
 
 VOL. L - C
 
 18 GWEN, OR 
 
 been asliamed for Mr. Faulkner to have known, as well 
 as she knew herself, how ill Mary was when she left 
 her. 
 
 But Mr. Faulkner seldom visited Brighton, and 
 when he came he exercised no restraining power. He 
 trusted Diane implicitly as a wife and a mother ; for, 
 beautiful as she was, and loving admiration, she was 
 so perfectly free from coquetry that she had never 
 stirred within him the jealousy which he was by no 
 means incapable of feeling, and he could not have a 
 misgiving as to her care of the children whom she 
 appeared to idolize. As Mrs. Norton had observed, 
 he seldom came unprovided with a gift; some 
 sparkling jewel, some costly dress of a new manu- 
 facture, some ornament for tables which already 
 groaned under them ; and Diane accepted all with 
 a grace which seemed to impart something of its own 
 quality to the donor. His austere countenance ap- 
 peared to reflect the sweetness of her smile, and 
 his hard hand to relax at the touch of hers — the 
 softest, whitest, most beautifully-formed ever seen. 
 
 It would have been a difficult task to bring home to 
 Mrs. Faulkner the charge of neglecting or forsaking 
 her ailing child. Never did she quit the house without 
 first repairing to her side ; every evening, in her gay 
 attire, her beautifully-shaped head encircled with jewels 
 which glittered on her dark hair, she would linger in 
 Mary's room to the last moment ; yes, and after her 
 carriage had driven to the door, and her servant had 
 more than once let her know that it was waiting. 
 Wait it always did, but it never was discharged. 
 
 One evening Mary's cheek was more burning than 
 ever, and her eyes brighter. As Mrs. Faulkner sat beside 
 her, her jewelled arm lying across the bed, and the girl's 
 thin fingers playing with a pearl bracelet, letting 
 pearl by pearl pass through them, Catherine was more 
 struck than she had ever been before by the likeness 
 between the mother and daughter. Mary seemed rest- 
 less and feverish, and absent too ; she did not let go
 
 THE COUSINS. 19 
 
 her motlier's arm when the carriage was announced. 
 She looked up as if she wished to speak, and her mother 
 paused, as if unwilling to go till she had spoken, yet 
 afraid to ask what she would saj. At last she said, 
 with a deep sigh : 
 
 ' Mary, my child, I must leave you now. I pro- 
 mised Lady D not to be late.' 
 
 She stooped down to kiss her ; Mary threw her 
 arms round her neck in a sort of ungovernable trans- 
 port very unusual with her. 
 
 ' Mamma, dearest mamma, good night, good night !' 
 And she kissed her again and again, as if she could 
 scarcely detach her lips from her cheek. It was a 
 strange and painful sight to see that splendidly dressed 
 woman, with a face of unspeakable anguish, bending 
 over the emaciated, fevered child, in her white night- 
 dress, disengaging herself with difficulty from the long 
 thin arms that clung round her. 
 
 When Mrs. Faulkner reached the door she stopped, 
 and said to Catherine, with a voice choked with tears : 
 
 ' Catherine, you won't leave her on any account till 
 I return V 
 
 ' No, ma'am ; certainly not.' 
 
 ' Oh ! my child, why must I quit you f 
 
 ' Why, indeed !' thought Catherine. 
 
 Mary had thrown herself on her face on the pillow. 
 Mrs. Faulkner took a step towards her. Catherine 
 could not refrain ; she placed herself between them, 
 and cried, earnestly : 
 
 ' Oh ! ma'am, if you are going, go now.' 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner turned and quitted the room. 
 
 Then Catherine went and sat down near Mary's bed, 
 and took a piece of needlework in her hand that Mary 
 might not think that she was watching for her to 
 raise her face ; even when she knew that the girl was 
 looking up with eyes fixed on her, she took no notice. 
 
 ' Catherine !' said Mary, tremulously. 
 
 Catherine threw her work away, came to the bed- 
 
 c 2
 
 20 GWEN, OR 
 
 side, and knelt down, leaning her arm on it, waiting to 
 hear what would follow. 
 
 Tears stood in the child's eyes. 
 
 * Catherine,' she said, ' mamma is very beautiful. 
 How beautiful she looked to-night ! — It was right 
 for her to go j she had promised that she would, you 
 know.' 
 
 She spoke with a determination unlike herself, and 
 Catherine did not gainsay her — at least, not more than 
 by silence. Mary pursued the perilous subject no 
 further. She lay looking very thoughtful ; and at last, 
 continued : 
 
 ' Catherine, it must be a trial to be very beautiful — 
 must it not 1 and it is one that poor little Geraldine 
 will have to encounter too, though she is not like 
 mamma — no, not a bit. Mamma looks so kind, so 
 goft — oh ! so very kind. How I love to gaze into her 
 tender, melting eyes ; and Geraldine's are almost fierce, 
 they flash so — sometimes, I mean ; sometimes they are 
 very pretty and merry.' 
 
 ' I always think, miss, that for one so young, Miss 
 Geraldine is exactly like that beautiful print of the 
 poor French queen who was so cruelly murdered, that 
 hangs in your dressing-room.' 
 
 ' What 1 Marie Antoinette 1 Yes, so she is. She 
 was not fierce, Catherine. If proud by nature, (and 
 she looks as if she were,) sorrow brought her to learn 
 of Christ ; she became meek and lowly, and her 
 words of forgiveness of her barbarous, wicked foes, 
 were just what fitted the disciple of Him who prayed 
 for His murderers. I have seen her last letter on her 
 tomb. Oh 1 how heaveidy ! that it was that made me 
 procure her portrait. I asked mamma to get me the very 
 best that could be had, and to put it up in my room. 
 She was flattered and idolized for her beauty once, but 
 it could not soften all hearts.' 
 
 * Nor keep any. Miss Mary, if it could win some.' 
 'No,' said Mary ; 'it was not her loveliness that gained
 
 THE COUSINS. 21 
 
 her such fond and faithful friends — glad to die for 
 her, or with her, if that might not be. I was not 
 thinking about Marie Antoinette till you spoke of her, 
 Catherine ; but I am always ready to think of her when 
 anything leads that way. You would wonder — 
 strangers would — she would — if it could be known 
 how much she has been in the thoughts of me, a sick 
 child, lying here — how I have loved her, and mused on 
 her, and wept for her. I should not like to tell ; I 
 never have,' said the child, with increasing agitation. 
 * Sometimes, when I have looked ill, and they could 
 see I had been crying, they could not guess why, and it 
 was all for her. And, do you know, I always pray for 
 her poor daughter — pray that she may be able to for- 
 give those whom her mother forgave — ' Mary hid her 
 face and sobbed with uncontrollable emotion ; * and 
 that she may see her face in Heaven ; and oh ! Cathe- 
 rine, how much I should like to see it there too !' The 
 girl clasped her hands, straining forwards, and gazing 
 upwards, as if she hoped even now to pierce through 
 the veil. Catherine quietly drew her back on her 
 pillow. 
 
 ' My dear child, I must not let you talk more ; you 
 must not agitate yourself at this time of night ; it will 
 be sure to destroy your rest, and that will deprive your 
 mamma of the pleasure of seeing you in a sweet refresh- 
 ing sleep when she comes back. You don't know how 
 happy she looks when she finds you so.' 
 
 ' I can believe that,' murmured Mary. ' I won't 
 talk any more of them. I did not mean, but I like 
 to have told you too. Now you remind me of 
 mamma, I must try to go to sleep, and put off what I 
 really had to say ; only promise, Catherine, to listen 
 to me at another time, and to give me the best advice 
 you can.' 
 
 Catherine promised, and the next day saw the 
 promise fulfilled. She did not remind Mary of 
 her words, but she was sitting with her alone, while
 
 22 GWEN, OR 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner and Geraldine were gone for their 
 afternoon drive, when Mary, after a period of silent 
 musing, said, somewhat abruptly : 
 
 ' Catherine, last night we were talking about beauty 
 — and about its being a trial. Do you think I should 
 ever have been beautiful, if I had been like other girls, 
 healthy and strong?' 
 
 ' Yes, I do,' replied Catherine. 
 
 ' Some people think so, I know — but I have never 
 regretted that loss. I am sure mamma loves me ; I 
 don't believe that she would have loved me any the 
 more for any beauty, however great. But I have 
 sometimes thought that I might have been clever and 
 quick in my learning, and I cannot tell you how keen 
 the mortification was when first I began to perceive 
 that any abilities I naturally had were going from me. 
 Perhaps cleverness and learning would have been too 
 much for me — a greater trial than beauty to — to some 
 people : so God took away the power of acquiring 
 any but that best knowledge which He teaches Him- 
 self. And I ought to be glad,' she added, in a subdued 
 tone. 
 
 ' Yes, Miss Mary,' said Catherine, much touched ; 
 * you may be glad in our Lord's own words, for ' many 
 prophets and kings have desired to see those things 
 which ye see, and have not seen them, and to hear 
 those things which ye hear, and have not heard 
 them.' ' 
 
 ' Yes,' Mary answered, quietly, 'I am satisfied.' 
 
 And satisfied she looked, as she lay there, her hands 
 meekly folded on her breast ; but in a few moments 
 she started, and said : 
 
 ' It was not of myself that I was thinking^ — indeed 
 it was not — but of Geraldine. Everybody says that 
 she is wonderfully beautiful — they all tell her so 
 even now. I am afraid she never will hear anything 
 but flattery ; and yet I do not think that she will be 
 loved — unless — unless she alters, Catherine, at least 
 not by many. We love her of course always, and
 
 THE COUSINS. 23 
 
 everybody must love her sometimes. But I am not 
 haj)py, not at all happy about her, and what can I do ? 
 pray for her, you will say — and so I do ; but sometimes 
 I ask myself if I could say anything to her before — 
 before I go away and am no more seen, Catherine.' 
 
 A strange, unearthly paleness came over her face as 
 she spoke. Catherine felt alarmed. 
 
 ^ Do you think that she is too young to understand 
 me, or do you think, as I sometimes hope, that she 
 might remember what she did not understand at the 
 time, and profit by it later 1 Surely a dying sister's 
 words would not be lightly forgotten, even by a child.' 
 
 *I should hope not,' replied Catherine, with a 
 struggle for self-command; 'but perhaps — ' 
 
 The girl raised herself to look Catherine earnestly in 
 the face. 
 
 'You think that the time is not yet come?' she 
 said. 
 
 Jv^ t/v^ i/v^ 
 '\A^ ••\A^ '■\iy
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 The uncertain beauty of an April clay 
 That now shows all the glory of the sun 
 And by-and-by a cloud takes all away. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 MARY never lost sight of the idea of expostulating 
 with Geralcline, but really found it a very difficult 
 task to carry out. The child, with all her faults, was 
 very fascinating too. There was never a brighter 
 creature than she when she was pleased. But she was 
 a complete little tyrant ; every servant in the house 
 feared, and many among them hated her. It could 
 not be expected that they should relish the fact that 
 their places depended on the caprice of a spoilt child ; 
 they flattered her to retain them, and disliked her for 
 having them in her power, while she gave them back no 
 fondness for their flattery, for she found that it minis- 
 tered very little to- her happiness. Young as she was, 
 already ungoverned passions made her often miserable. 
 Angry, she wanted some vent for anger, and she 
 vented it on her mother's domestics ; fretful, she 
 wanted some one to tease, so she teased them ; tyran- 
 nical, she wanted some one to rule, so she domineered 
 over them. Unfortunately, she was rarely encoun- 
 tered with firm opposition, or a straightforward denial. 
 If provoked beyond endurance they would forget the 
 respect due to her and to themselves, and then, 
 unwilling to abide the consequences of their rashness, 
 were abject in their apologies, and unscrupulous in 
 falsehood. And all this moved the child to con- 
 tempt, for she was wonderfully quick of perception.
 
 THE COUSINS. 25 
 
 Catherine took quite a different course from tlie be- 
 cdnninoj, and it was curious to mark Gerakline from 
 the very hoiu- of her arrival. The child did not like 
 to see any one in the house to whom she was 
 a secondary object. She tried not to understand 
 why Catherine came, and (having shaken off her first 
 sulky fit,) to coax her from Mary's side. Strangers 
 powerfully attracted her ; for novelty she loved in all 
 things. She showed Catherine her prettiest toys, met 
 her in all sorts of winning ways, and when she found 
 her proof against these attractions, began to give 
 her orders which interfered with the duties which she 
 had undertaken with regard to Mary. She was full of 
 astonishment when she obtained neither a ready nor a 
 complaining obedience, and when her wonder subsided 
 she resolved to contest the point. She was not likely 
 to conquer Catherine, who was well used to children, 
 though not exactly of Geraldine's class or training ; 
 and knew how to keep her ground without losing her 
 temper, and for the first time, perhaps, Gerakline found 
 her ^-iolence either pitied or laughed at. Mrs. Faulk- 
 ner could not refrain from smiling when she heard the 
 charges which Gerakline brought against Catherine, 
 and received Catherine's quiet explanations, given 
 with an unruffled face and cheerful tone, and with- 
 out a shadow of doubt that her simple reasons would 
 settle the question. The arguments Mrs. Faulkner 
 hei-self employed when alone with Gerakline, were 
 more indirect, and of a weaker nature : 'You see, my 
 dear, you have everything that you want ; you have 
 your own nurse who has nothing to do but to obey 
 you. I sent for Catherine on pui'pose to be with 
 Mary, that her good-natured face might cheer her, 
 that she might read to her, and amuse her.' 
 
 ' I like to read to her, and to amuse her myself,' said 
 Gerakline ; and so she did, and undoubtedly she was 
 at times the source of great amusement and delight to 
 the sick girl, and could recognise for herself that 
 she had no happier hours than those in which she sub-
 
 26 GWEN, OR 
 
 mitted to the strict control of Catherine, whom she 
 began to understand, and relinquished the vain hope 
 of taking her at a disadvantage. 
 
 She would come from the garden in the bright 
 summer days, crowned with flowers, and her lap full 
 of them, and pouring them out on Mary's couch would 
 sit beside her and weave her gay garlands. Then was 
 she smiling and lovely as the queen of the May, and 
 Mary would gaze on her with delighted eyes, and 
 exclaim : — 
 
 ' Oh ! Geraldine, be always good-tempered. Are 
 you not happier so V 
 
 • Yes, much happier ; why can't it always be ? It 
 is because people tease me.' 
 
 And she hid her rosy cheek on Mary's pillow. One 
 day when the sisters were thus engaged, there came 
 into the room good, honest, dull Charlotte, the house- 
 maid, bearing a little cup with Mary's bitter potion in 
 it. Catherine was busy, and, for a wonder, sent another 
 with it. Mary drank it off without one word, and 
 gave back the cup, saying, ' Thank you, Charlotte.' 
 
 Geraldine watched her with astonishment. 'How 
 can you say 'thank you,' for that nasty stuff, Mary, 
 and how can you take it V 
 
 Mary smiled, and was going to speak, but Geraldine 
 had darted from her side, her eyes flashing, her cheeks 
 glowing ; she caught Charlotte by the gown, shook her, 
 struojorled with her, struck her : 
 
 ' You stupid, clumsy creature ! Your horrid great 
 feet ! My beautiful wreath — my lovely wreath — which 
 I had just made for Mary ! How I hate you ! You 
 did it on purpose. You walked straight over it just 
 to vex me.' 
 
 ' Dear me ! Miss Geraldine, how can you say so ? I 
 am sure I'd not ha' hurt a thing belonging to Miss 
 Mary,' said the girl, an indignant tear starting to her 
 eye. 
 
 ' There — I knew it — ^you don't care what harm you
 
 THE COUSINS. 27 
 
 do to my things. Get away. Mary, why don't you 
 scold her ? Don't you see how disappointed I am V 
 
 ' Oh ! Geraldine, if you could feel how much more 
 you grieve me than Charlotte can !' 
 
 ^ Then that is very unkind of you. I only care be- 
 cause your wreath is spoilt, and this is the return you 
 make !' Geraldine went away weeping, and Mrs. 
 Faulkner could not help seeing, she said, ' that dear, 
 good Mary did not understand how sensitive Geraldine 
 was, and often hurt her feelings without intending it.' 
 
 ' I don't know, ma'am,' replied Catherine, somewhat 
 bluntly ; ' I think Miss Geraldine's temper is bad as 
 well as her heart tender; and if she suffers in her 
 feelings, I am quite sure that Miss Mary does in her 
 health, and some way must be found to prevent these 
 violent scenes happening before her. I assure you their 
 effect is very bad.' 
 
 ' If Geraldine thought that she hurt her sister, that 
 would weigh more with her than any rebukes.' 
 
 ' I hope so, ma'am ; but I don't see that anything 
 affects her long ; and I wish that you would be good 
 enough to let me make some rules about her coming 
 into Miss Mary's room.' 
 
 'If you really think this necessary,' replied Mrs. 
 Faulkner, reluctantly. 
 
 ' It is wonderful what Mrs. Irving takes on herself,' 
 observed Mrs. Collinson ; ' I shall really expect to hear 
 her ask next to make some rules about your visiting 
 Miss Mary, ma'am.' 
 
 ' And if you do, Collinson,' returned Mrs. Faulkner, 
 in a tone that surprised and silenced her ; ' if you 
 do, you will see me obey them. No one can love or 
 understand my poor child better than Catherine does. 
 I am deeply grateful to her.' 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner really felt what she said, and when 
 spring came, and the house at Brighton was to be given 
 up, it was with genuine tears and words wliich, flowing 
 from honied lips, had their source in the heart, that
 
 28 GWEN, OR 
 
 she implored Catherine, as if life and deatli hung on 
 her answer, not to forsake the child ; not to rob her of 
 a treasure just as she knew its worth, but to accompany 
 them in their return to Lascelles, their home. Catherine 
 asked a little time to consider, and to consult her 
 parents, and their long tried friend, Mrs. Norton ; not 
 but that her own heart had prompted her to anticipate 
 the request, and to concur in it. From the first, Mrs. 
 Faulkner's fascinations had made a strong impression 
 on Catherine. All gave her back a portion of the sweet- 
 ness which she lavished on all, but Catherine really gave 
 deep and earnest love. Her character was marked by 
 extreme generosity and a rare delicacy and tact, and she 
 made such candid acknowledgments of her follies and 
 her forgetfulness, and what might seem to some almost 
 bordering on insincerities, as disarmed severity. She 
 would come to be helped with such a pretty childishness 
 when she had got into some great difficulty : ' entirely 
 by my own fault ; — I have been so very silly — so very 
 imprudent.' This was a powerful mode of appeal to 
 one of Catherine's high spirit, ready sense, and helpful- 
 ness. She could not help feeling that if she kept her 
 post at her mistress's side, she might perhaps save her 
 many troubles, lighten many trials, become very useful 
 to her, veiy dear. Her heart glowed at the thought, 
 and she wished to stay with Mrs. Faulkner, not only 
 for Mary's sake, that was a consideration apart and 
 altogether different, but just for Mrs. Faulkner's own 
 
 ^ It seems almost silly and fanciful ; and what is 
 worse, presumptuous, perhaps,' she said to herself; and 
 she tried to state the case dispassionately to her parents, 
 and not till their answer was given, did she whisper to 
 her mother : 
 
 ' I can hardly tell how it is, mother ; I do love Mrs. 
 Faulkner very much : if I am to leave you, I am glad 
 it is to go with her.' 
 
 ' Why, she has been so unboundedly generous to us, 
 one and all, no wonder you feel grateful ; and then the
 
 THE COUSINS. 29 
 
 sick joung lady — it is not surprising that you are bent 
 on being with her/ said Mrs. Irving ; and Catherine 
 answered, ' Yery true j' and yet she felt that after all 
 it was not what she meant. 
 
 ' I shall be glad for you to go to Lascelles/ said 
 Mrs. Norton ; ' I think that you will be of great value 
 there. I shall like to know that you are near Mary. 
 It will be good for all of them.' Mary was very quiet ; 
 she added no supplications to those of her mother — 
 made not one appeal to Catherine's pity or love. 
 
 'You vnll ask your parents about it, will you 
 notj Catherine?' she said, and when Catherine com- 
 municated their acquiescence, Mary was very quiet 
 still. 
 
 Geraldine, after dancing round the room with de- 
 light, threw herself down on her sister's couch, and 
 cried with indignation : 
 
 'I thought it would make you happy to have 
 Catherine, and now you don't seem pleased in the 
 least.' 
 
 Maiy's eyes glistened a little at being thus mis- 
 understood. She held out her hand to Catherine, and 
 said, ' Am I not pleased V 
 
 * Yes,' replied Catherine, undoubtingly. 
 ' I don't believe,' exclaimed Geraldine, ' that she so 
 much as asked you to stay. And I — if I beg you a 
 hundred times to do what I want, you refuse; and for 
 Mary, without a word, you do whatever you find out 
 she desires. Now did you ask her never to leave you, 
 Maryr 
 
 ' No,' said Mary, in a low voice, 'I should not have 
 liked to have asked her that.' 
 
 'I am sure that it would be a very cruel, hard- 
 hearted thing to do so, when mamma says that she 
 has never known anything do you so much good as 
 having Catherine with you. You must not, you shall 
 not, leave her.' 
 
 ' I don't intend it at present, Miss Geraldine.'
 
 iMSMmmmmmmmM 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Dreams, books, are eacli a world ; and books we know 
 
 Are a substantial world, both pure and good .... 
 
 Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I 
 
 Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought : 
 
 And thus from day to day my little boat 
 
 Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably. 
 
 Blessings be with them and eternal praise 
 
 Who gave i;s nobler loves and nobler cares — 
 
 The Poets who on earth have made us heirs 
 
 Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 LASCELLES was a country seat, distant a few miles 
 from London, lately passed from the possession of 
 an old family which had parted with every estate be- 
 longing to it one by one. It wore therefore no un- 
 comfortable air of novelty. There was even old timber ; 
 strange that it should have been allowed to stand long 
 enough to become so ; yet here Cowley might have 
 sung his verses : — 
 
 * Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good ! 
 
 Hail, ye plebeian underwood ! 
 Where the poetic birds rejoice, 
 And for their quiet nests and plenteous food, 
 Pay with their grateful voice.' 
 
 The last possessor had gloried in his oaks, and they still 
 honoured the ground. He was a childless man, and his 
 nephew, on succeeding him, found decided that he could 
 do no better than sell the place as it stood to Mr. Faulk-
 
 THE COUSINS. 31 
 
 ner, the wealthy merchant, who was then looking out 
 for one in the vicinity of London, from consideration 
 of the health of his wife and her declining child. 
 
 Lascelles exactly suited Mrs. Faulkner's taste, after 
 her husband had allowed her to si3end as much money 
 as she pleased in renovating it with great judgment; 
 repairing, restoring, beautifying everything, but mo- 
 dernising nothing. She was at last very proud of it 
 and of herself, and yet in spite of her love for it, half 
 her time was spent on the road which led her from her 
 home to join the aristocratic circle of friends in London, 
 who used to know and pity her as ' that poor, pretty 
 Mrs. Eustace,' and who still condescended to recognise 
 her as the rich Mrs. Faulkner ; a condescension 
 which unhappily pleased and flattered both her and 
 her husband, great as was the encroachment which it 
 made on their domestic enjoyments. 
 
 At Lascelles as at Brighton, Geraldine was almost 
 constantly with her mother, and Catherine with Mary. 
 Geraldine, by stamps, outcries, threats to throw herself 
 down stairs, or out of windows, or to staiwe herself to 
 death, had effectually triumphed over nursery-maids, 
 gradually emancipated herself from nursery governesses, 
 and when her mother drove up to town, usually ac- 
 companied her, because she was too troublesome to 
 be left at home. This was just as Geraldine meant 
 it should be. 
 
 There was a very extensive library of valuable 
 books at Lascelles, and in this room Mary and Cathe- 
 rine soon manifested an intention chiefly to establish 
 themselves. Catherine proposed that to them should 
 be allotted the too long neglected task of sorting the 
 volumes. 
 
 ' We are not equal to classing them as they ought 
 to be classed, ma'am, I know that,' she said ; ' but if 
 we make a careful catalogue, perhaps Mr. Faulkner 
 will show it to some one who understands such 
 matters, and we could proceed under his directions.'
 
 32 GWEN, OR 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner was charmed with the idea. 
 * What a nice work for you,' she cried. ' And the 
 longer it lasts, the better. The next time I go to 
 town I will order you the most delightful pair of 
 
 library steps, like those the dear old Don, Dr. L 
 
 showed me ; and Mary's couch shall be placed here in 
 the window, where she can look out into the garden 
 for refreshment, if she ever does tire of these musty 
 old volumes ; but I really believe she loves them 
 better than Geraldine does her bright flowers.' 
 
 ' Oh ! mamma, differently — quite differently. I do 
 love the flowers and the trees, and if I could run out 
 there to Geraldine, I should very often throw aside my 
 books. I always think when I read that story of Lady 
 Jane Grey, that had I been well and strong, I should 
 have liked to have been out with the hunting party.' 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner looked on Mary with fond pity, and 
 heard her words with surprise. It was difiicult to 
 discover a very high-spirited, animated disposition 
 under Mary's patient subjection to suffering. Cathe- 
 rine had begun to guess at it, from the enthusiasm 
 with which she read such narratives as called it up, 
 and thus to take account of the many privations which 
 the less observant believed Mary to be indifferent to. 
 Geraldine would often exclaim : — 
 
 ' It does not signify to Mary ; she does not care 
 for that sort of thing — but to me ! ' 
 
 And Mrs. Faulkner acquiesced in this view, and 
 actually believed that every trifling denial, delay, or 
 inconvenience, was more severely felt by her impetuous 
 Geraldine than the daily pressure of the cross of sick- 
 ness was by her patient Mary. 
 
 * Geraldine feels disappointment so keenly : she can't 
 endure the least suspense, poor child ! Her sensibi- 
 lity is too acute.' 
 
 All this might be — ^nay, was very true. But who 
 recognised the unexpressed feelings of Mary ? In 
 full measure He alone who could respond to the 
 mute appeal of her upward glance; Catherine drew
 
 THE COUSINS. 33 
 
 nearest to the sick girl, and afforded her a solace which 
 even her mother's love had not ministered. In fact, 
 at this period, Mrs. Faulkner could not fathom the 
 depths of her daughter's mind, nor understand the 
 sources of her patience and increasing joy. An in- 
 stance of this occurred one day, when entering, she 
 found Mary more absorbed than her delicate consider- 
 ation of others often allowed her to be, in the perusal 
 of a volume which had become one of her greatest 
 favourites and constant companions. 
 
 ' What ! my Mary ! not a word for me ! When I 
 am gone, and go I must, you can pore over your book 
 again.' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, dearest mamma, I can ; and indeed I have 
 as many words for you as you like, but just at the 
 moment — ' 
 
 ' You w^ould rather that I did not disturb you, my 
 child?' said Mrs. Faulkner, a little liui-t. 
 
 ' But why need it be interruption 1 I only meant that 
 I should like much better to read you these words than 
 to speak any of my o^vti. They make me so happy.' 
 She held her mother's hand fast and fondly. 
 
 ' Well, Mary dear, read ; 1 love to hear you, if you 
 are sure that it won't be too much for you.' 
 
 ' Oh, no !' and Mary, whose treasure was Walton's 
 Lives, began : 
 
 ' This is about Herbert, mamma, the good, gentle 
 George Herbert ; what he said when he was dying 
 — 'in the time of his decay,' when he would often 
 speak to this purpose : ' I now look back upon the 
 pleasures of my life past, and see that the content 
 I have taken in beauty, wit, music, and pleasant 
 conversation, are all now past by me like a dream, 
 or a shadow which returns not, and are all become 
 dead to me, or I to them ; and I see that as my 
 father and generation hath done before me, so I 
 also shall now, suddenly, like Job, make my bed in 
 the dark ; and I praise God I am prepared for it. 
 And I praise Him that I am not to learn patience now 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 GWEN, OR 
 
 I stand in sucTi need of it, and that I have practised 
 mortification and endeavoured to die daily that I 
 might not die eternally. And, my hope is, that I shall 
 shortly leave this valley of tears and be free from all 
 fevers and pains, and which will be a more happy con- 
 dition ; I shall be free from sin, and all the temptations 
 and anxieties which attend it ; and this being past, I 
 shall dwell in the New Jerusalem, dwell there with 
 men made perfect, dwell where these eyes shall see my 
 Master and Saviour Jesus, and with Him see my dear 
 mother and all my relations and friends. But I must 
 die, or not come to that happy place. And this is my 
 content that T am going daily towards it, and that 
 every day I have lived has taken a part of my ap- 
 pointed time from me, and that I shall live the less 
 time for having lived this and the day past.' 
 
 A burst of tears from Mrs. Faulkner checked Mary's 
 reverent tones ; bending over her child she kissed her 
 passionately again and again, saying, when more com- 
 posed : 
 
 ' My Mary, you must not read such sad books ; they 
 
 you harm, I am convinced.' 
 
 ' Sad 1 oh ! mamma, you do not call that sad V She 
 placed her hands upon her breast, and drew a deep 
 breath ; ' You do not know the good it does me.' 
 
 ' My child, I could not bear this myself, indeed 1 
 could not ; it would destroy me — I am sure of it.' 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner could not recover the pain thus 
 occasioned her ; she afterwards took an opportunity of 
 saying to Catherine : 
 
 ' Catherine, you are a good girl ; do try to cheer 
 Mary and to make her more lively. Don't let her pore 
 over those books too long ; — and that one which she 
 has taken up lately, do put it a little aside, without 
 her noticing it, if you can.' 
 
 Catherine knew that she could not, but she did not 
 give any immediate reply. 
 
 ' Mamma, you are always so generous to me,' said 
 Mary, not long afterwards ; ' and you will think I am
 
 THE COUSINS. 35 
 
 growing gi'eedy, but I do want to ask you a favour ; 
 and then it is instead of something else that I am 
 accustomed to have.' Mary smiled, but her manner 
 all the while was earnest, even anxious. 
 
 ' My dearest child, I am glad that you can think of 
 anything to ask for ; it is difficult to get you to do so ; 
 now Geraldine will fix on a hundred things in a 
 minute,' replied Mrs. Faulkner. ' Come, let me hear 
 your wish. If it can be gratified, Mary, you don't 
 doubt what my answer will be.' 
 
 ' Iso, mamma,' said Mary, slowly. She did not 
 doubt that her mother would grant her wishes with 
 kindness, but she feared that she would not accede 
 just exactly according to the plan which she had 
 framed. Moreover, she was as shy of expressing them 
 as if they deserved a rebuke, which she was, however, 
 sure that they did not. 
 
 ' I have talked to Catherine about it,' she continued, 
 hesitatingly. 
 
 ' And can't you speak as easily to me as to Cathe- 
 rine V inquired Mrs. Faulkner, in a tone that had a 
 tinge of annoyance in it. 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, I can, dear mother. I will tell you at 
 once, then. It is, that I should like, if you j^lease, 
 that you should let me have some little allowance of 
 my own, instead of all the beautiful things you are 
 always bringing me from London. I could do without 
 them very well.' 
 
 ' Could you, my child 1 I should have thought that 
 you could do much better without the other. What 
 possible use can you make of money V 
 
 ' I think I know,' replied Mary, colouring, and speak- 
 ing low. ' If you would let Catherine give it away 
 for me.' 
 
 ' Give it away 1 to whom V 
 
 ' Oh ! there are many; she knows some, she can find 
 out more ; and I have been longing, mother dear, to 
 have something of my very own, — that cost me some- 
 thing, I mean — that I must deny myself to procure — 
 
 D 2
 
 6d GWEN, OR 
 
 in order that I might have to give to the afflicted — 
 to the poor in Christ.' 
 
 Mary's voice sunk quite into a whisper. 
 
 *So I have thought on this way,' she added; 'but 
 you will defeat it quite, if you go on giving to me just 
 the same as before. Don't you see, dearest mamma V 
 
 Her mother could not speak ; she held her child's 
 hand in hers, and seemed lost in looking at and caress- 
 ing the thin fingers. At last she said : 
 
 ' My dear child, of course you don't think for a 
 moment that your papa does not give freely to the 
 poor out of his wealth 1 His donations are quite mu- 
 nificent. I can't tell you how many charitable insti- 
 tutions he subscribes to.' 
 
 ' Ah ! yes, I feel so glad when I think of that. He 
 is very generous.' 
 
 ' Yery. And here, too, at Lascelles, there is a great 
 deal given every year.' 
 
 ' I know ; but I can't feel that it is exactly the 
 same for me. If I were well and strong, then papa 
 could make me his little almoner, you know,' exclaimed 
 Mary, with a smile of exquisite enjoyment at the 
 fancied happiness. ' I could go to the houses of these 
 poor people and read to them if they were sick, and 
 talk to them about the comfort of thinking of Heaven. 
 There would be many things that I could do for 
 them then, and I should want the money less 
 perhaps ; at least, I mean I should not care so much 
 about having some of my own ; but now, lying here, 
 I can only pray for them, and ask Catherine to give 
 them something for me. Then, mamma, they will come 
 to know me and to pray for me, and to thank God that 
 He has put it into the sick girl's heart to think of 
 finding them out. Oh ! what great gain every way ! 
 Who knows what gain 1 Who knows, mother, what 
 sweet ' songs in the night' this may bring to all our 
 hearts !' 
 
 The girl raised her eyes to Heaven as if some notes 
 of the angelic choir reached her thence.
 
 THE COUSINS. 37 
 
 * My dearest child, everytliing shall be as you wish ; 
 you shall have whatever you like to ask for.' 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner betrayed uneasiness while Mary 
 spoke with delight of what she would have done in 
 personal ministering to the poor, had health and 
 strength been allotted to her. One of her weak points 
 was touched. She had a nervous terror of infection, 
 which in case of sickness would have withheld her 
 from crossing the threshold of the cleanliest abode of 
 poverty ; and if she felt this for herself, she felt it with 
 redoubled force for her children. Neither argument 
 nor entreaty would have induced her to allow Mary to 
 run such risks as rose up before her imagination ; but 
 what the girl spoke of was impracticable; therefore Mi-s. 
 Faulkner, who always avoided dispute or contest, if 
 possible, did not discuss the subject. Reliance on 
 Catherine s good sense and prudence led her to assent 
 to Mary's proposal, with the stipulation that she should 
 never think of taking Geraldine with her, 
 
 ' You must not, either of you, put these ideas into 
 Geraldine' s head ; she is much too young and too deli- 
 cate. I would not trifle with her health for the world. It 
 is bad enough to see you, Mary.' And Mrs. Faulknerwept. 
 
 Then, again, Mrs. Faulkner had a great deal too 
 much delicacy to bear the sight of physical suffering. 
 One day, when it was necessary to bleed Mary, she 
 fainted. She had tried to come into the room, because 
 the poor child, rather startled at the sudden proposal 
 of something new to her, had said, ' Oh ! mamma, you 
 will be by me !' 
 
 Mary had a fancy that she might bleed to death, 
 founded on a romantic story in the >S'/jec^«tor, which 
 she had been reading ; but as the old apothecary who 
 operated on her had fortunately more self-possession 
 than the ill-fated lover therein mentioned, no such 
 mischief ensued. She was not given to irrational 
 fears, and, heartily grieved to see how much sufliering 
 her request had caused her mother, never made a 
 similar one again.
 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 Hir herte is very chambre of holinesse, 
 Hir hand ministre of freedom for almesse. 
 
 Chaitcer. 
 
 'IV/TAMMA/ said Mary, the following evening, 
 jyjL ' would you tliink me very fanciful if I were to 
 show you some beautiful verses which Catherine and I 
 read when we were arranging the library'? I have 
 been fond of them ever since.' 
 
 ' I should like to see them, dearest.' 
 
 ' They are in Spenser, mamma, his Faerie Queene — 
 that nice old quarto, with red-edged leaves, and worm- 
 eaten — only think ! and there are such pretty engrav- 
 ings in it of Una and her faithful lion, and the little 
 babe, and kind Sir Guyon I' 
 
 ' Do you think that Geraldine would like to hear 
 them too 1 Shall I call her while you find the place, 
 and let her sit at my feet while I read f 
 
 ' Oh, but, mamma,' replied Mary, thoughtfully, ' you 
 said I never was to put anything into her head like 
 what we were talking of this morning. Now these 
 verses would be sure to do that ; they did into mine. 
 I don't mean that they made me think of it before 
 anything else. Those words, 'Ye do it unto Me' 
 — are much greater than human words, of course ; 
 but they did lead me to form a plan, a sort of scheme ; 
 and I shall be much happier when it is accomplished,' 
 added Mary, leaning back and drawing a deep breath. 
 
 'Then, Mary, you and I will have the verses all 
 quietly to ourselves,' replied her mother, her interest
 
 THE COUSINS. 39 
 
 and curiosity awakened in what had so powerfully 
 inipressed her child's mind. 
 
 ' You see, mamma, it is about the Ked-cross Knight,' 
 cried Mary, eagerly turning over the leaves. 
 
 * And on his brest a bloudie crosse lie bore, 
 The deare remembrance of his dying Lord, 
 For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore, 
 And dead, as living, ever Him adored. 
 Upon his shield the like was also scored. 
 For soveraine hope which in His helpe he had ; 
 Eight faithfull true he was in deede and word ; 
 But of his cheere did seeme too solemne sad : 
 Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad. 
 
 What a ' soveraine hope' his was ! Mamma, don't you 
 remember you used to be afraid that I should be sad 
 from reading books which told me it was blessed to 
 suffer ? and you see, so this knight seemed ' too solemn 
 sad,' but it was all seeming. When he grew near his 
 victory — when he was listening to Fidelia, and to Spe- 
 ranza, he was not sorrowful then ; only hear : 
 
 ' The faithfull knight now grew in little space 
 By hearing her, and by her sister's lore. 
 To such perfection of all heavenly grace. 
 That wretched world he gan for to abhorre. 
 And mortal life gan loath as thing forlore. 
 
 Mamma, does that make you cry V 
 
 ' Never mind, my child, I want to hear it all.' 
 
 ' This is what you must read to me.' 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner, following Mary's finger, began : 
 
 * ' Eftsoones unto an holy hospitall 
 That was fore by the way, she did him bring, 
 In which seven Bead-men that had vowed all 
 Their life to service of high Heaven's King, 
 Did spend their dayes in doing godly thing : 
 
 * Canto X. stanza xxxvi. first book.
 
 40 GWEN, OR 
 
 Their gates to all were open evermore, 
 That by the wearie way were travelling, 
 And one sate wayting ever them before 
 To call in comers by that needy were and poore. 
 
 * The first of them that eldest was and best. 
 Of all the house had charge and government, 
 As guardian and steward of the rest ; 
 
 His of&ce was to give entertainment 
 And lodging unto all that came and went ; 
 Not unto such as could him feast againe, 
 And double quite for that he on them spent ; 
 But such as want of harbour did constraine, 
 Those for God's sake his duty was to entertaine. 
 
 ' The second was as Alm'ner of the place. 
 His office was the hungry for to feed. 
 And thirsty give to drinke, — a work of grace. 
 He feared not once himself to be in need, 
 Ne cared to hoard for those whom he did breed ; 
 The grace of God he laid up still in store, 
 Which as a stock, he left unto his seed. 
 He had enough ; what need him care for more ? 
 And had he lesse, yet some he woidd give to the poore. 
 
 * The third had of their wardrobe custodie. 
 
 In which were not rich tyres, nor garments gay, 
 The plumes of pride and wings of vanitie. 
 But clothes meet to keepe keene cold away, 
 And naked nature seemely to array, 
 With which bare wretched wights he dayly clad, 
 The images of God in earthly clay ; 
 And if that no spare clothes to give he had, 
 His own coate he would cut, and it distribute glad. 
 
 ' The fourth appointed by his office was 
 Poore prisoners to relieve with gracious aid, 
 And captives to redeeme with price of brass 
 From Turkes and Sarazins which them had stayd ; 
 And though thi y faulty were, yet well he wayed 
 That God to us for^dveth every hour
 
 THE COUSINS. 41 
 
 Much more than that why they in bands were layd, 
 And He that harrowed hell with heavie stour, 
 The faulty souls from thence brought to His heavenly bower. 
 
 * The fifth had charge sick persons to attend, 
 And comfort those in point of death which lay, 
 For them most needeth comfort in the end, 
 When sin, and hell, and death do most dismay 
 The feeble soule departing hence away. 
 
 AU. is but lost that living we bestow 
 If not well ended at our dying day. 
 Oh ! man, have mind of that last bitter throw ; 
 For as the tree does fall, so lies it ever low. 
 
 ' The sixth had charge of them now being dead, 
 In seemly sort their corses to engrave, 
 And deck with dainty flowers their bridal bed. 
 That to their heavenly spouse both sweet and brave 
 They might appear when He their soules shall save. 
 The wondi'ous workmanship of God's own mould, 
 Whose face he made all beastes to feare, and gave 
 All in his hand, even dead we honor should. 
 Ah, dearest God me grant, I dead be not defoul'd. 
 
 * The seventh now after death and burial done, 
 Had charge the tender orphans of the dead 
 And widows aid, least they should be undone ; 
 In face of judgment he their cause would plead, 
 Ne aught the powi-e of mighty men did dread 
 In their defence, nor would for gold or fee 
 
 Be wonne their rightful causes downe to tread : 
 And when they stood in most necessitee 
 He did supply their want and gave them ever free,' 
 
 While Mrs. Faulkner read, Mary lay with folded 
 liands, her eyes sometimes fixed on her mother, some- 
 times closed, — with an expression of delight beaming 
 on her face. Mrs. Faulkner recognised it, and feared 
 to break the charm which called it there. But Mary 
 now broke in of her own accord.
 
 42 GWEN, OR 
 
 * There, mother, ever since I first read these lines, I 
 have thought that nothing could fill me with such joy 
 as to be enabled to do each and all of these works of 
 mercy before the tree falls ; and I do not see any im- 
 possibility — do you 1 And no one in the world could 
 help me better than Catherine, whom you gave to me 
 to be my help and comfort. I have always thanked 
 you and Mrs. Norton for bringing her. I have been 
 much happier since she came.' 
 
 ' Then you were not happy before, my child V asked 
 Mrs. Faulkner, with a pang of jealousy, or self-reproach, 
 or she knew not what. 
 
 'Yes, I was happy; a little lonely sometimes. It is 
 pleasant to have her to turn to, and to find her always 
 ready to talk with me of those things which I care 
 most for ; she has done me a great deal of good in 
 many ways.' 
 
 ' Done you good, Mary !' 
 
 ' I hope so,' said Mary, devoutly. 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner supplied with a lavish hand this new 
 want of Mary's, who accomplished everything to her 
 satisfaction except the checking of the tide of presents. 
 
 ' My dear child,' said her mother, ' pray don't say 
 any more to me about sacrifice ; your life is one per- 
 petual sacrifice. I can't bear it.' And Mr. Faulkner 
 was influenced by a similar feeling; for he, too, 
 was extremely fond of Mary, and indeed with good 
 reason. Her manner to him expressed the sincerest 
 gratitude and respect. She welcomed his customary 
 visit with a cheerful smile of affection. ' So good 
 of him,' she said, 'to come to see me evening after 
 evening. When he arrives here, wearied with business, 
 and wants to be amused a little, (for he is very grave,) 
 he quits Geraldine's bright smiles and playful ways, 
 and dear mamma, and comes to my sofa to hear the 
 same dull answer always. Is it not kind, Catherine V 
 
 ' Yes, Miss Mary. I am sure that he likes to come, 
 and that he loves you very much ; and as to your an- 
 swer, it is not dull.'
 
 THE COUSINS. 43 
 
 So strongly impressed was Mary with tlie idea that 
 Mr. Faulkner needed refreshment in his few home 
 hours, that she carefully abstained from repeating to 
 him her tale of constant suffering. Mrs. Faulkner 
 shrank from the subject, or if she approached, always 
 gave it a false colouring. It was Catherine who 
 frankly, from time to time, replied to the interroga- 
 tions which JVlr. Faulkner addressed to her, with a 
 secret confidence of hearing the truth from her lips 
 alone. Once she observed : 
 
 ' I have not spoken to my mistress so plainly as to 
 you, sir.' 
 
 'Nor ought that to be necessary,' returned Mr. 
 Faulkner. ' Surely she always sees the medical men 
 herself; they ought to set tbe truth before her.' 
 
 Catherine made no answer. 
 
 ' Don't you believe that they do so V 
 
 ' ^Vhy, sir, I think that my mistress, without meaning 
 it, perhaps, has a way of stopping their mouths. She 
 is so afraid of what they might say, that she speaks 
 first, and then she puts all she tells them in the fairest 
 light; every little improvement on which she can 
 ground a hope, she brings forward, and the rest she 
 throws into the shade, as you may see.' 
 
 ' Just so,' said Mr. Faulkner, half audibly. ' Just 
 so. I know Diane. — And the poor child herself?' 
 
 ' I don't think, sir, that she calculates time much. 
 In this, as in everything else, she shows a wonder- 
 ful patience. I do not believe that to Heaven, any 
 more than to us, she cries, ' How long V She lies there 
 waiting — her thoughts so fixed on Eternity that, by 
 comparison, notliing here seems long. Weary as are 
 the hours of sickness, I do not hear her sigh for 
 release. I came one night to her side when she could 
 not refrain from feverish tossing, and asked her if 
 there were anything I could get for her, just to make 
 a change ; she looked up piteously in my face, and 
 said, 'If I could sleep !' almost instantly she added, ' but 
 I shall sleep soon in Jesus.' And then she gi^ew quiet.'
 
 44 GWEN, OR 
 
 Mr. Faulkner bent down his head on the mantel- 
 piece, and Catherine watched the emotion which he 
 could not conceal, with those feelings which the emo- 
 tion of the strong man awakens in us. 
 
 ' Leave me now,' he said, after a few moments. ^ I 
 shall not come to her this evening.' 
 
 ' She sets great store by your visits, sir,' replied 
 Catherine, respectfully. 
 
 'Does she?' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, sir.' And Catherine repeated some of 
 the expressions which Mary constantly used concerning 
 them. 
 
 'Well, I shall come,' said Mr. Faulkner, after listen- 
 ing thoughtfully. ' I will not miss any that remain 
 at my command.' 
 
 He appeared in Mary's room a little later than 
 usual, and she immediately discovered the traces of 
 recent emotion on his countenance. She replied as 
 usual to his inquiries, but did not let go his hand, 
 and looked very wistful. 
 
 'Well, Mary,' said he, trying to smile, 'Avhat is it?' 
 
 'Perhaps I ought not to say, I am afraid you are in 
 trouble, dearest papa. Is it wrong in me to notice it 
 — ^to wish to know why V 
 
 'No, Mary, not wrong. You are quick in ob- 
 serving.' 
 
 ' Oh! one sees every change in the faces one loves.' 
 
 'And you do love mine?' 
 
 ' Papa, can you ask it ? — as if you did not know !' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, my dear child ; I know it well ; and 
 I love you, Mary, and therefore it grieves me ' 
 
 ' I hope it is not about me that you have been 
 grieving ? You must not do that.' 
 
 ' But if I can't, sometimes, help it f 
 
 ' You must help it, as I do, papa. I love myself too 
 well to grieve over my short sufferings here — my 
 greatest earthly good, I know they are ; and you must 
 love me too well to grieve for me.' Mary smiled with 
 angelic sweetness. ' I have wished very much to speak 
 to you 07ice, papa. Let it be to-night, may it?'
 
 THE COUSINS. 45 
 
 ' Yes, Mary ; to-night.' 
 
 ' Well, only a few words — I don't want to pain you. 
 I know you can't bear thanks, but I should like to tell 
 you how grateful I have ever felt for your kindness, 
 and how I have thought more and more of it, lying 
 here ' 
 
 ' Mary, Mary, I can't listen to this ' 
 
 * Only just let me say one word about your kindness 
 to mamma — to my sister — to all ; and your new gene- 
 rosity to me lately. Though I make you cry now, some 
 time you will like to remember these few words, I 
 think.' 
 
 ' My dear child, is there anything on earth I can do 
 for you, now, or later V 
 
 ' Yes, papa — if I may ask — ^ 
 
 ^Whatever you will.' 
 
 ' Why, then — that you won't let the poor feel as if 
 they had experienced a loss — and — that you will be 
 patient with Geraldine, if she should not be very 
 docile. It is not likely that she will be quite as 
 quiet and as tractable as if she had ever suffered or 
 been thwarted any way; but her heart is noble 
 indeed 1' Mary sank back, exhausted by exer- 
 tion and the agitating nature of the topic. Mr. 
 Faulkner called Catherine, in alarm. 'Good night, 
 my child, good night.' And he quitted her. When 
 he rejoined Mrs. Faulkner, she was moving uneasily 
 about the room, disturbed by his prolonged absence. 
 His looks did not reassure her. He was a silent man ; 
 this evening more so than usual. Mrs. Faulkner 
 wished to enliven him, yet dreaded to make the at- 
 tempt. She began to talk on various trifling subjects ; 
 then of her future engagements, — of a brilliant ball to 
 
 be given by the Duchess of , of a dejeuner two 
 
 days hence, weather permitting. 'I may take Geral- 
 dine with me there. She is enough of a child still to 
 pass as one.' 
 
 All these communications on Mrs. Faulkner's part 
 scarcely elicited a remark from her husband, but 
 at this last he cleared his throat, with evident disap-
 
 46 GWEN. 
 
 probation, and a dead silence ensued. Mrs. Faulkner 
 changed colour. 
 
 ' Augustus,' she said, suddenly, ' I don't know what 
 is the matter — something, I am sure. Have you any 
 objection to what I have been saying 1 any reason for 
 wishing me to do differently from what I have proposed V 
 
 ' I should advise you to think, before you involve 
 yourself in all these engagements,' replied Mr. Faulk- 
 ner, drily. 
 
 ' Think 1 — of what V Diane faltered, with a look of 
 consternation ; then laid her hand on her husband's 
 arm : ' Don't torture me, Augustus. Do you find 
 Mary worse to-night V 
 
 'Not particularly to-night,' replied Mr. Faulkner, 
 softened by her unfeigned accents of alarm and distress, 
 although previously he had felt something approaching 
 to disgust and anger at the necessity there seemed to 
 be of his suggesting more attention to the rapid change 
 which was taking place. ' But surely, Diane, you can't 
 be blind to the alteration in her V 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner gazed on him with a look of helpless 
 woe. He regretted the pain which he saw that his 
 words inflicted, and began to temper them. 
 
 ' Speak to Catherine about this. I don't want to 
 alarm you, my love.' 
 
 ' The illness of my dear child unnerves me terribly,' 
 sobbed Diane, bending down her head on her husband's 
 shoulder, and beginning to weep. ' Poor Mary could 
 not bear to see me always with red eyes. I go out to 
 refresh my spirits a little, and then I come back to 
 her, and it does her good. Besides, I take Geraldine 
 out of the way.' 
 
 Mr. Faulkner did not stop to inquire into the 
 meaning of this last sentence, though it sounded 
 strangely. He saw that what his wife said was sin- 
 cere, though weak ; and he more easily forgave the 
 evident want of strength of mind than he had the 
 apparent absence of tenderness of feeling.
 
 
 CHAPTEE YII. 
 
 I trow that to a norice in this case 
 It had been hard this nithe for to see. 
 "Well might a mother then have cryed alas ! 
 
 Chaucer. 
 
 MRS. FAULKNER could not shake off tlie uneasi- 
 ness occasioned by this conversation with her 
 husband, and by Catherine's refusal to tell her that 
 Mr. Faulkner was quite mistaken. If the ensuing 
 week had not been favourable to Mary beyond ex- 
 pectation, she would have given up all idea of the 
 dejeuner. As it was, Mary caught some words respect- 
 ing it, and showed so much feverish excitement and 
 pain at the thought of the plan being relinquished on 
 her account, that even Mr. Faulkner and Catherine 
 arrived at the conclusion that it was best for her 
 mother and Geraldine to go. 
 
 The morning came, and Mary did not say that to-day 
 was not as yesterday. Mrs. Faulkner, before quitting 
 her, pressed her to her bosom time after time. Geral- 
 dine danced round her, beautifully dressed, and beautiful 
 to look upon, eager to depart, and promising to return 
 with much to tell. After the carriage wheels were 
 quite out of hearing, Mary turned to Catherine with 
 tearful eyes : 
 
 ' I am afraid that I have not done quite right ; that 
 makes me imhappy. I was not perfectly true. When 
 mamma asked me how I was, I said, ' much the same.' 
 Oh, Catherine ! I fear I did very wrong. If anything 
 were to happen, and mamma were to be blamed, — it 
 would all be my fault, not hers ; remember that, and
 
 GWEN, OR 
 
 tell papa. I did not think I should ever begin a day 
 again — this praying for another — hoping not to be 
 called before night. Nor would this be if T had done 
 nothing wrong. That alone can make children want 
 their Father to defer His call.' 
 
 But Mary had still days before her, though her 
 mother could no longer doubt that they were few in 
 number ; and whatever might be the trial of abiding in 
 her sick room, she now recognised that to be long or 
 often absent from it was one yet more severe. The 
 increase of leisure thus afforded to Catherine Mary 
 strenuously urged her to bestow in visiting those poor 
 and sick persons in whom she had become individually 
 interested ; particularly one, the daughter of a small 
 farmer, who had returned to her home with the same 
 malady as Mary's, and needed not so much the aid 
 which her wealth could bestow, as such consolation as 
 the presence of Catherine could afford. The interest 
 and love which these two young girls had grown to 
 feel for each other without ever meeting, was singu- 
 larly touching. Day by day kind words were trans- 
 mitted by Catherine ; day by day the same portions of 
 Scripture infused comfort into either bosom, and 
 their messages were very commonly indications 
 of the verse or sentence which appeared fraught 
 with peculiar meaning. Many a holy thought and 
 fervent prayer owed their being to this intercom- 
 munion ; and Mary and Deborah, while they knew 
 not each others' faces on earth, looked forward with 
 earnest desire to recognition in Heaven. It was not 
 as yet possible for mortal eye to discern which would 
 soonest reach the goal. Sometimes, at dawn of day, 
 Catherine crossed the heath to pass an hour or two at 
 Deborah's bedside, and yet to return almost before the 
 household at Lascelles were fully awake. One of 
 these visits Catherine prolonged till near noon ; on 
 entering the house she was about to take her way to 
 Mary's room, when she met Mrs. Faulkner, pale to 
 ghastliness, and in tears. Scarce able to support herself,
 
 THE COUSINS. 49 
 
 she beckoned Catherine, caught her arm, and drew her 
 into the nearest apartment. 
 
 * They have been here, Catherine,' she said, in a 
 tone of hopeless anguish, 
 
 * Who, ma'am 1 — The physicians V 
 
 * Yes, yes ! — why were you absent i' 
 Catherine made no reply. 
 
 ' It is cruel to leave me now but for one moment, 
 when they tell me she is leaving me for ever. Oh, 
 my angel ! Mary, my child, my child, Mary !" and 
 Mrs Faulkner gave way to a burst of the wildest 
 grief. When a little recovered, she sobbed — 
 
 ' Catherine, you must go to her — I cannot. You 
 must tell her — I will not.' 
 
 * What would you have me tell V asked Catherine, 
 in a suppressed voice. 
 
 ' What they have been barbarous enough to tell 
 
 me — that before to-morrow ' Mrs. Faulkner's 
 
 voice was choked with tears. 
 
 'Can you bear that any but your own tongue 
 should speak this?' inquired Catherine, in the same 
 tone as before. 
 
 'Any tongue but mine,' gasped Mrs. Faulkner; *I 
 should die — I would rather die — ^ 
 
 ' Is it possible V said Catherine, with surprise. Mrs. 
 Faulkner sank on her knees. 
 
 ' You drive me wild — distracted — for mercy's sake 
 do as I would have you — you, only, Catherine, only 
 you ; for this I have detained you here ; fail me not 
 at the last moment — have pity — have pity !' 
 
 Catherine raised her up, and placed her on the sofa, 
 nearly exhausted. 
 
 ' What there is to be done, I will do. Be satisfied.' 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner caught her hand, kissed it in token 
 of thankfulness, and pointed to the door. 
 
 Catherine moved away with a sign of acquiescence, 
 and going to Mary's room, found her lying in her lily- 
 like whiteness, her hands resting on the sheets, more 
 than ordinarily still and serene. 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 50 GWEN, OR 
 
 At the sight of Catherine, she raised herself par- 
 tially, and in a low tone of inquiry, exclaimed 
 'Deborah?' 
 
 Catherine came near, and sat down by the bed. 
 ' Gone,' was the sole syllable that she uttered. Mary 
 looked upwards in silence. A tear stole down Cathe- 
 rine's cheek ; Mary turned and took her hand. 
 
 ' Gone first, dear Catherine,' she said. Then added, 
 * but only a little while. — 'A little while and ye shall 
 see Me !' ' she continued, after a pause, in accents of 
 deepest reverence and joy. 
 
 ' Even so,' replied Catherine, sinking on her knees, 
 and for a moment burying her face on the dying girl's 
 pillow. She raised her face, and Mary was instantly 
 struck by its expression. 
 
 ' Catherine,' she said, ' you see a change in me, and 
 I feel it.' 
 
 ' A change has taken place,' replied Catheriae, so- 
 lemnly, ' and I have promised your mother to acquaint 
 you with it,' she added, with a little hesitation. 
 
 ' Poor mamma 1' exclaimed Mary — ' she could not ! 
 But, dearest Catherine, what is there new in what you 
 are saying 1 Bid you think that I required to be told 
 of thisf 
 
 ' Scarcely,' answered Catherine ; ' at least I knew 
 that you would not 'count it strange." 
 ' ISTo, indeed, nor unexpected ; does she V 
 ' That is hardly possible ; but grief — natural grief, 
 must prevail for awhile,' said Catherine, with a falter- 
 ing voice. 
 
 Mary did not answer ; an expression of extreme 
 pity came across her face, and, when she next spoke, 
 it was very faintly. 
 
 ' I have not much to do ; once more I am resolved 
 to speak to Geraldine — once more, but only a few 
 words — they must suffice now — I have spoken many. 
 May these last abide with her ! Do you prepare and 
 fetch her here. And then I should like to see Mr.
 
 THE COUSINS. 61 
 
 Ormonde' (the clergyman of the parish of Lascelles) 
 ' again ; I want to recommend mamma to his care ; 
 and after that, dearest Catherine, promise me that I 
 shall be very quiet.' 
 
 Catherine promised, and resolved to strain every 
 nerve to accomplish that promise. Throughout that 
 day there was no mistress at Lascelles save Catherinej 
 whatever was to be done was done by her with a 
 prompt fortitude, but with so much tenderness and 
 sympathy mixed with her decision, and self-command, 
 and tone of authority, that all felt comfort and support 
 in relying on her. Her first hard task was to control 
 Geraldine, who listened to her words with incredulity. 
 
 ' Mary is not going to leave us. You, and those 
 doctors like to make mamma miserable and me too. 
 She had a beautiful pink colour on her cheeks last 
 night — and so soon? — it can't be — go away — I won't 
 hear you — cruel.' And the child threw herself on 
 her face in her stormy grief 
 
 * But you will not refuse to hear her ? and if you 
 wish to do that, you must try to calm yourself — 
 you would not dare to let her see you thus — ^you love 
 her too well not to give her all your thoughts now; 
 it would make you miserable not to go to her.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, it would,' sobbed Geraldine. 
 
 * Then pray for power to compose yourself — grace to 
 listen to her in such a way as shall not harm her, and 
 shall profit you.' 
 
 ' Pray with me.' 
 
 Geraldine rose, awed into silence. When she sat by 
 Maiy's side there was an expression of fear and wonder 
 mingled wdth sorrow on her face. The words of Mary 
 were few and simple. ' The servant of the Lord must 
 not strive ; but be gentle unto all men j' that was 
 their import. 
 
 ' I have often spoken to you before, more fully, 
 dearest sister,' she said. ' Try to remember what I 
 have said, as if it were part of what I say now — my 
 
 e2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 uNivERsrrv of %mn\
 
 52 GWEN, OR 
 
 breath — you see. "We must part here, my dear one, 
 precious to each and all of us ; and, (oh ! Geraldine 
 keep that in mind) how dear, how precious to Him 
 above. Seek Him, return His love.' 
 
 * Stay, stay with me, Mary. Then I will seek, I 
 will love, what you seek and love.' 
 
 Mary's dying eyes filled with tenderness and com- 
 passion. Geraldine clung round her with a passionate 
 vehemence, which was more than she could bear ; she 
 mutely looked to Catherine for release. Catherine 
 disengaged the child's arms and drew her away. 
 
 To Mr. Ormonde Mary repeated her desire to be 
 undisturbed : 
 
 * Herbert,* you know,' she said, gently, 'sent away 
 from him his dearest, that their grief might not dis- 
 compose him. I don't mean quite away ; I don't mean 
 that I will see them no more ; but, God will console 
 them when I am gone — tell them that.' 
 
 Mr. Ormonde understood her wish, and represented 
 the solemn necessity of attending to it. Mr. Faulkner 
 soon arrived from London, and his presence at once 
 sustained and controlled his wife. Mary perceived 
 this, and her last act was to place her mother's hand 
 in his. A death-like trance succeeded, from which she 
 emerged from time to time, to the astonishment of 
 those who watched beside her. 
 
 * Sweet sounds,' she murmured once, ' sweet sounds. 
 Deborah ! is it you V And later, when they little 
 thought that she would speak again, she whispered in 
 Catherine's ear some words of the sixty-third Psalm, 
 * My soul thirsteth for Thee,' which Catherine took up, 
 and concluded to her evident satisfaction. Then came 
 a stillness which was the stillness of death. 
 
 * 'He looked up and saw his wife and nieces weeping ex- 
 tremely, and charged them if they loved him to withdraw into the 
 next room, and there pray every one alone for him, for nothing but 
 their lamentations could make his death uncomfortable. Their 
 sighs and tears would not suffer them to make any reply, but they 
 yielded Mm a sad obedience.' — Walton's Life of Herbert.
 
 THE COUSINS. 
 
 53 
 
 On tlie gravestone of Mary there were inscribed 
 these words : ' They shall walk with Me in white.' 
 Rev. iii. 4. And white roses and lilies were planted 
 around.
 
 ^^^^ 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Fra gr inamanti cuori il cuor mio geme, 
 
 E impicciolisce, e sua virtil s' atterra ; 
 
 Fra i malignanti cuori il cuor mio freme, 
 
 E orgoglio oppone a orgoglio, e guerra aguerra: 
 
 Fra gli odii altrui 1' anima mia e infeconda. 
 
 D'alti esempj d'amor, deh! lacirconda! 
 
 Silvio Pellico.
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The widow's sorrow is not a storm, but a still rain. 
 
 Fuller. — Holy State. 
 
 IT was evening. In the sitting-room of a small 
 house in Winchester, beside a cheerful fire, on an 
 arm-chair drawn out to the length of a sofa, reclined 
 a sickly-looking woman, dressed in mourning, which 
 appeared less the token of recent bereavement than 
 the habitual garment of a calm, abiding grief Her 
 face, though bearing the marks of suffering, was 
 strongly expressive of undecayed energy. It was by 
 one characteristic that her countenance impressed it- 
 self on memory. Those who thought of Mary Owen 
 saw her looking on them with eyes beaming with 
 intellect, or melting with tenderness, or fired with 
 a certain lofty independence, or full of a mourn- 
 ful regret, a sort of long-looking into ' the days that 
 are no more.' ' Tears, idle tears,' were indeed un- 
 known to them, brightness there was, at times, 
 painful to behold, fed, as it were, by an inward fire 
 preying on the heart, which yet could not be quenched 
 without the extinction of vital heat. They were open, 
 sleepless looking eyes, and she would often press her 
 hand on their lids, from a distressing sensation of over- 
 straining there, and as if she would gladly close them. 
 "Wakeful nights were part of her malady, anxious days
 
 THE COUSINS. 57 
 
 were inevitably her lot. She was a widow, and the 
 mother of fatherless children. 
 
 At a little distance from Mrs. Owen sat the boy and 
 girl who looked to her as their only parent, the light 
 of the lamp falling on them, as side by side they bent 
 over the same volume. The boy was about fourteen, 
 and the girl a year his junior. Neither of them 
 had the rosy freshness of childhood, but rather the 
 wanness of the student. The skin of Hugh was 
 pale and delicate, and the only points that be- 
 tokened health were the redness of his lips, and the 
 clearness of his soft, slow, hazel eyes. His counte- 
 nance was one of great refinement and of almost femi- 
 nine beauty, owing to its gentle, thoughtful expres- 
 sion, and to the profusion of silky chesnut curls that 
 hung round his brow. He was slight and tall of his 
 age. 
 
 Gwen, on the contrary, was diminutive, wholly 
 unlike her brother, and while bearing some resemblance 
 to her mother, retained none of her beauty save 
 the clear grey eye, with its sweeping black lashes. 
 She was what you might call a formal, old child. 
 Her figure had no lightness, no grace ; her complexion 
 no quickly varying hues ; but of fire there was no 
 lack in the glance wdth which she looked up suddenly 
 from her book, exclaiming, with delight, and a tinge 
 of pride also : 
 
 ' Mother, Hugh, I have done it ! I understand it 
 now, I am sure of it.' 
 
 * I don't,' replied Hugh, with a groan. 
 
 The girl, placing her fingers on the volume of Euclid 
 before them, went through the problem they had been 
 trying to work with wonderful rapidity and accuracy, 
 making all light to him that was dark before. 
 
 ' There !' she said, looking with the utmost ear- 
 nestness on Hugh's face ; * don't you think I am 
 right V 
 
 ' To be sure you are ! How stupid ! I see it all 
 now. My little Gwen, what a pity it is that you can't
 
 68 GWEN, OR 
 
 come into school with me to-morrow !' cried Hiigli, 
 patting her head approvingly. 
 
 His mother sighed, and made a slight impatient 
 movement, something like that of a person who lifts a 
 burden from one shoulder to the other for the sake of 
 a little relief 
 
 ^ Well, mother V inquired Hugh. 
 
 ' I was being silly enough to re-echo your words, my 
 dear,' replied Mrs. Owen, laughing. ' I was actually 
 saying to myself that it was a pity that Gwen could 
 not be your schoolfellow in good earnest.' 
 
 ' What, then, mother V said Gwen, quitting her book 
 to kneel beside her mother's chair, and fixing her 
 eyes, which glowed just like the coals in the very heart 
 of the fire, on her ; ' you think you could do well with- 
 out your little daughter — would like two great school- 
 boys better 1 You have not really any value for those 
 pretty lines of Joanna Baillie's which you showed me 
 the other day, and which I learned, thinking you 
 cared for them.' 
 
 'And I do care for them,' replied Mrs. Owen, 
 amused by Gwen's eagerness, and distinguishing plainly 
 the touch of tender reproach that thrilled through 
 the playful tone. ' I do care for them, and especially 
 for the sake of the excellent woman who wrote 
 them.' 
 
 * Say them, Gwen !' cried Hugh, and Gwen began : 
 
 * But she of gentler nature, softer, dearer, 
 Of daily life the active, kindly cheerer, 
 With generous bosom, age or childhood shielding, 
 And in the storms of life, tho' moved, unyielding ; 
 Strength in her gentleness, hope in her sorrow, 
 Whose darkest hours some rays of brightness borrow 
 From better days to come, whose meek devotion 
 Calms every wayward passion's wild commotion ; 
 In want and suffering, soothing, useful, sprightly, 
 Bearing the press of evil hap so lightly,
 
 THE COUSINS. 69 
 
 Till evil's self seems its strong hold betra3dng 
 
 To the sweet witchery of such winsome playing ; 
 
 Bold from affection, if by nature fearful, 
 
 With varying brow, sad, tender, anxious, cheerful — 
 
 This is meet partner for the loftiest mind, 
 
 "With crown or helmet graced — yea — this is womankind !'* 
 
 But you don't look to find much of this in your Gwen. 
 That is the reason why you can dispense with her so 
 easily !' 
 
 Her mother had gazed fondly on her while she was 
 repeating these lines with enthusiasm, and now raised 
 her hand to Gwen's brow to stroke back the somewhat 
 stubborn locks, that she might look into the very depths 
 of her eloquent eyes. At last she said, mournfully : 
 
 * It will be very hard to do so.' 
 
 Gwen took sudden fright at these words. What 
 could be their meaning? Apprehensions the most 
 painful, though perfectly indefinite, passed through 
 her mind. She was liable to these vivid impressions, 
 and, in spite of remarkable self-command at times 
 unable to control the efiect of them. So now she 
 exclaimed : 
 
 ' Mother, mother, why do you say that ! "Why do 
 you look so ? You have some meaning ? Oh ! tell me 
 quick. Three times while we have been sitting there 
 have you unfolded the letter you received this morning 
 and read it. I thought you looked grave when first 
 you laid it down, but you only said, ' It is from Las- 
 celles,' when I asked you about it, and then I turned 
 to other things, and remembered it no more till I saw 
 you reading it over and over again — ^ She spoke rapidly. 
 
 * Gently, my dear Gwen, gently,' said her mother,, 
 placing her hand on her shoulder. It was her custom; 
 to assist her child to subdue what she well knew must 
 be brought into subjection. 
 
 * Supposing that I have some meaning, I can 
 
 * Lady Griseld Baillie. Metrical Legends, by Joanna Baillie, 182 1.
 
 60 GWEN, OR 
 
 scarcely tell it if you ask thus.' Gwen was already 
 quieter. ' Your observation is a true one — that 
 letter is of importance. 'Now as I believe that 
 your lessons are all right for to-morrow, if you will 
 both bring your seats to the fire, you shall hear what it 
 contains. You will have to consider it. I wish to 
 consult you about it.' 
 
 This little appeal to consideration restored Gwen to 
 even more than her usual sedateness. Poor child ! 
 She did not know the severity of the trial that awaited 
 her. Her mother did full well, and therefore it was 
 that she exacted calmness in the outset. Kind, gentle 
 Hugh foresaw that there was some painful communi- 
 cation to be made through this letter, and felt so much 
 for his mother and for Gwen that he forgot that he 
 would probably have a share beyond that of sympathy 
 in any sorrow that could befal them. Mrs. Owen 
 placed and replaced herself and the lamp, and still did 
 not seem to find a position or a light that enabled her 
 to read comfortably. Her manner was slightly hurried 
 and nervous. 
 
 ' It is very kind,' she began. ' Diane always does 
 write kindly. You shall hear what she says : 
 
 * Dear Mary, — How much I wish that you and 
 your two children could come to Lascelles for the 
 Christmas holidays. It is almost strange that you 
 have never done so before,' (' I don't remember that she 
 asked it,' passed through Mrs. Owen's mind). *But 
 indeed you must come now — that is, unless you are 
 really afraid of travelling in the cold weather. Of 
 course, if to do so would quite be your death, I 
 would not urge it ; but I think, if managed with care 
 and prudence, it might be for your good, and I am 
 sure it will benefit your children, — a change in every- 
 thing, and my Geraldine will amuse them ; her spirits 
 would divert any one; I should like the cousins to 
 know each other, dear Mary, as you and I used to 
 know each other.
 
 THE COUSINS. Ql 
 
 * Besides, this visit would be an admirable prelimi- 
 nary to a favourite scheme of mine, which, with 
 your help, I hope to cany into effect ; greatly shall I 
 be indebted to you if you enable me to do so. You 
 know that my poor child has been alone since my 
 angel Mary (your namesake) left us. I have felt 
 much for Geraldine in this, and have done what I 
 could to make amends to her for it. She has been 
 almost always with me, and if I could not be to her 
 all she needed in a companion, I am sure she has been 
 a most charming one to me, and you know Mr. Faulk- 
 ner is much away. 
 
 ' But now people talk to me about my duty. How 
 they teaze and weary me ! My dear Mary, why can't 
 they leave it to my mother's heart to find out that 1 
 Do they suppose that they can love Geraldine as I do ? 
 You know how you have always followed out your 
 own system with your children, and you have every 
 reason to be satisfied. But now people tell me (and 
 Mr. Faulkner unfortunately listens to them) that 
 Geraldine will be spoiled without the society of other 
 children, and that, therefore, she ought to go to school, 
 but that I won't hear of ! 
 
 ' Now for my scheme. Why should not she and 
 Gwen be companions 1 Nature points them out as 
 such. We were companions before them. They are 
 nearly of an age. Spare your child to me for a little 
 while, my dear friend. I know what I ask, but I 
 think I can point out that there will be some advan- 
 tages on her side also. At present her only companion 
 is a schoolboy — (I beg dear Hugh's j)ardon) ; and 
 unless you quit Winchester, which for your son's sake 
 you cannot do, how can you afford your daughter the 
 instruction befitting a girl 1 — such an education as will 
 enable you to carry out the design which I know you 
 entertain, that she shall in future instruct others. 
 
 ' You will yourself make her everything that is ex- 
 cellent and estimable. Hugh will render her a good 
 scholar ; but accomplishments will be required which
 
 62 GWEN, OR 
 
 I do not see her present means of attaining, and 
 it is time to think of them. Let her come here, and 
 share the tuition of Geraldine's masters, by which 
 Geraldine herself will no doubt profit much more than 
 hitherto, when she has a companion. Mdlle. Yernet 
 is a first-rate French governess. A few years will 
 complete the education of both these dear girls. Now 
 do think this over, and consider how valuable a proof 
 of regard you may bestow on your ever affectionate 
 friend, ' Diane Faulkner.' 
 
 'P. S. Do not be annoyed at the little accompaniment 
 to this letter, as if I (I ought to say we, for Mr. 
 Faulkner is quite as anxious as I am to see you here,) 
 were making too certain of your setting out on this 
 journey. Even if you will stay at home, Gwen must 
 start forthwith, and pay her cousin a visit.' 
 
 The accompaniment spoken of was a 10/. note. Mrs. 
 Owen leant back in her chair; she had read with a 
 tremulous voice, and now seemed somewhat exhausted. 
 Gwen was even paler than usual, and her lips were 
 firmly closed. Hugh looked from her to his mother, 
 and then took his sister's hand. It was cold as ice ; it 
 invariably became so when her feelings were deeply 
 stirred within her. 
 
 'You don't mean to decide just yet, mother,' he 
 cried ; ' you talked of considering. There need not be 
 any making up of minds to-night.' 
 
 ' To-night ! no, my dear boy. We must indeed have 
 a little time for reflection, though our decision must 
 not be too long deferred, for Mrs. Faulkner, if Gwen 
 do not accede to her proposal, will have to seek Geral- 
 dine's companion elsewhere. Supposing Gwen to com- 
 ply, still her departure need not be for some weeks, 
 because no doubt these coming Christmas holidays will 
 be full of amusement to Geraldine, and her masters and 
 her governess will probably be absent, — during that 
 period Gwen would sooner remain here with us than 
 join her, I know.'
 
 THE COUSINS. 63 
 
 Gwen replied nothing, but Hugli felt tlie nervous 
 twitchings of the hand which he still held in his. 
 
 ' Now, Hugh, let us have your theme, your prize 
 theme,' said Mrs. Owen, turning the tide of the con- 
 versation into a course of much present interest and 
 excitement to them all. And the re^dsing and the 
 criticising of Hiigh's production engaged them till the 
 hour for sleep.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 This closeness did impair, and a little perish Ms understanding. 
 
 Collier. 
 
 GWEN slept in her mother's room in a little curtain- 
 less bed, near the window. Beyond was a small 
 dressing closet to which Mrs. Owen always withdrew, 
 that she might not disturb her sleeping child. This 
 night as she moved to and fro in it, her eye was caught 
 by some unusually light object in the corner which 
 Gwen occupied. Pausing and looking steadily towards 
 it, she perceived that it was the form of her child sitting 
 upright in her bed. Mrs. Owen could not tell whether 
 she had been startled in her sleep, or whether she was 
 wakeful with anxiety. She hoped only the former, for 
 the moment that she fixed her eye on her, she sank 
 silently down again. Shading the candle with her 
 hand, she took her usual last fond look as she passed to 
 bed ; Gwen's eyes were firmly closed, and her breathing 
 inaudible; as Mrs. Owen turned away, one or two 
 scalding tears forced themselves through her eyelids, 
 but the child uttered not a sound, and her mother lay 
 down in silence on a couch made restless by equal 
 solicitude. 
 
 Unfortunately both the mother and the daughter 
 had acquired habits of reserve towards each other, 
 which originated in strong affection and self-forgetting 
 devotion, but which were deeply injurious to the happi- 
 ness, the welfare they most consulted. Each frequently
 
 THE COUSINS. 65 
 
 crushed inward those thoughts and feelings which she 
 believed would harass and grieve the other, rigidly de- 
 nying to herself the unspeakable relief of pouring out 
 the whole heart, meeting the refreshment of sympathy, 
 and attaining the conviction that at least there was no 
 evil threatening, no grief molesting, no care corroding 
 the one that the other was ignorant of This secresy 
 was for years the mistake of their lives ; but there was 
 much that explained, or even seemed to justify it. 
 
 Gwen often said to herself : ' I must spare mamma. 
 How feverish she looks to-day !' 
 
 Mrs. Owen often thought : ' My child is too young 
 to be burdened with all my anxieties, — an unnatural 
 load for childhood. She has too little freshness and 
 mirth as it is ; people think her a little old creature, 
 I know.' Nevertheless it would surely have been 
 far better for both, had Gwen been taken to her mo- 
 ther's arms on that sleepless night, and had tliey freely 
 communicated to each other every sentiment which 
 Mrs. Faulkner's letter had excited within them. 
 
 As it was, each lay in an enforced silence ; the 
 thoughts of the girl flitting through a fancied future, 
 full of self-sacrifice, self-exertion, and unflinching pur- 
 pose ; those of the mother, the widow, painfully 
 reviewing the past, and striving to bring stern expe- 
 riences to bear on the future. The husband of Mary 
 Owen had been the tutor in the family in which she 
 had lived as a dependent orphan cousin. Some 
 gave her compassion in her loneliness, and Hugh 
 Owen afiection. She loved and reverenced his noble 
 virtues, his rare intellectual gifts ; and now her lone- 
 liness was at an end — his heart, his mind were a world 
 wide enough for her and full enough. At one time 
 the family in which they resided made a continental tour 
 in which Diane, then a girl, beautiful, idolized, soft, 
 sympathetic, and generous, had accompanied them, and 
 had lavished much kindness on her graver cousin, 
 Mary. A British factory in one of the Italian cities 
 proposed to Mr. Owen to remain among them to exer- 
 
 VOL I. F
 
 66 GWEN, OR 
 
 cise his clerical functions for their advantage^ on what 
 they considered an adequate remuneration. He thank- 
 fully accepted the offer, which brought to a close the 
 patient waiting of years for a home he could call his 
 own. He married ; and not till he had passed some 
 time in Italy, did he feel himself forced to recognise 
 the fact that the climate had an alarmingly preju- 
 dicial effect on his health, and in a lesser measure on 
 Mary's ; one summer he exchanged his duty with a 
 clergyman resident in England, and returned to his 
 post invigorated and sanguine. During this period 
 the Owens met with much kindness at Lascelles, The 
 respite thus gained was far too short ; another winter 
 and another summer made terrible inroads on Mr. 
 Owen's constitution. Then came a gloomy period of 
 depression and abstraction, resulting in almost total 
 silence. Mary's love and energy, the increasing in- 
 terest of children, in whom every day brought some- 
 thing new to light, all failed to rouse him from the 
 lethargy which enchained his faculties. He appeared 
 like a victim to malaria ; a low fever preyed on him. 
 While change of air might have been efficacious, he 
 had not believed it so indispensable to health, and 
 even to existence, as to justify him in encounter- 
 ing the evils and difficulties by which he knew it 
 must be purchased. He now felt like a doomed captive, 
 and thought that Mary would soon be left to struggle 
 alone. But, as soon as she became fully alive to her 
 husband's danger, she urged his removal and accom- 
 plished it. One good result, at least, she obtained from 
 the effort. In a more genial air — his native air of 
 Barmouth — the load on Mr. Owen's spirits seemed 
 lightened, and he was again almost what he had been 
 in the earlier, happier days of their companionship. 
 Strong intellect, deep religious principle, warm affec- 
 tions, all resumed their full exercise. He contem- 
 plated his wife's probable position, and prepared her 
 for it to the best of his power ; the few remaining 
 months of his life were devoted to that end, and not in
 
 THE COUSINS. 67 
 
 vain. Mary bore up with the fortitude and generous 
 forgetfulness of elf which had alw^ays marked her cha- 
 racter. She looked on his childi^en, and was content 
 to live to fulfil the directions which he gave her 
 concerning them ; and after his death, her mind and 
 heart seemed in almost closer communion with him 
 than in life. She was a 'widow indeed.' 
 
 Mi's. Owen had friends, who led her to choose Win- 
 chester as her place of residence, in order to send her son 
 to the college. Gwen, her little daughter, born among 
 the mountains of Wales, in the home of her father's 
 childhood, and named by the name most dear and 
 familiar to that happy period, shared from the first her 
 brother s education, tip to the age of twelve she learned 
 everything that Hugh learned, and very little that 
 gii^s usually learn. In music she showed a talent 
 as yet uncultivated, but her mother hoped much from 
 its development. Had it been in Mi-s. Owen's power 
 to place her daughter in a situation similar to that 
 which she had once occupied, she knew its evils too 
 well to have done so. Her hope and aim was to render 
 Gwen capable of earning her own maintenance ; and 
 with the accomplishment of this purjDOse her child 
 mingled the fervent desire of ministering to her mo- 
 ther s comfort ; not quitting her, but working under 
 her maternal roof, and enjoying in hours of rest 
 the exquisite refi'eshment of her presence. ' A look, 
 a tone will revive me when I flag or faint,' thought 
 Gwen. Now these views were undoubtedly favoured 
 by Mrs. Faulkner's proposal. Morning came ; Gwen 
 rose as usual to be ready for the early prayers in 
 the Cathedral, and imdrew her mother's curtains to 
 receive her kiss, for, in winter, Mrs. Owen could not be 
 her companion. Gwen felt that she was drawn closer, 
 held longer to her mother's heart than usual ; she 
 could ill bear this, and disengaging herself, quitted 
 the room, pulling down her thick gauze veil over her 
 face, that no one might see the tears she was shed- 
 ding. She walked rapidly through the streets, but it 
 
 F 2
 
 68 GWEN, OR 
 
 was not tlie cold that quickened her step. There 
 was something very unsympathising in their dry dull 
 aspect, and in the few utterly indifferent faces that 
 met her ; she knew that once within the solemn nave, 
 she should no longer be overwhelmed as now by the 
 sense of orphanhood and of horaelessness that had 
 come over her from the moment when she had lain 
 down on her bed, with the thought of quitting her 
 mother. 
 
 Gwen was on her knees in the quiet chapel in 
 which the early service was said; soothed by the 
 chastened light that was streaming through the co- 
 loured enstern window — soothed above all by the well- 
 known words that were falling on her attentive ear. 
 Moreover, when she stood up to hear and to repeat 
 the Psalms, it seemed as if her Heavenly Father were 
 indeed thinking of her — especially of her — and sent 
 the message of love to give her peculiar comfort. She 
 felt that never had she prayed so earnestly : ' Then 
 cried I unto Thee, O Lord, and gat me to my Lord 
 right humbly.' — ' Bow down Thine ear to me.' — ' Be 
 Thou also my Guide !' 
 
 ' My time is in Thy hand !' ' Ah ! yes, there it is, 
 that is what I want, the support, the very assurance I 
 need. All will go well. This is my staff — my way- 
 faring staff — in this trust I can go forth.' 
 
 There was hope, even joy in the heart of Gwen, 
 though the hot tears were blistering the open page of 
 her little book ; when she left the chapel, she was 
 quite calm, and returning home, entered the room 
 where Hugh and his mother were sitting at breakfast, 
 and with cheerful alacrity. 
 
 This was almost more than they had expected from 
 her, or were quite equal to command in themselves ; 
 for Hugh, on first coming down, and finding his mother 
 alone, and disquiet on her brow, — the shadow, as it 
 were, of a sleepless night, had spoken to her of Gwen, 
 and it was only the sound of her steps on the stairs, 
 that had broken a conversation of painful interest.
 
 THE COUSINS. 69 
 
 ' Mother, do you really think this is what it must 
 come to V had been Hugh's first words. 
 
 ' My dear boy,' answered Mrs. Owen, ' I shall leave 
 the decision in Gwen's own hands, I shall discuss the 
 plan freely with her, but she shall decide for herself 
 
 ' How can you do without Gwen, mother V 
 
 '1 always meant to do withf>ut her for a time; to 
 send her to some school wheio she could have masters. 
 But this plan is more advantageous than any 1 have 
 been able to devise.' 
 
 ' Is it ? Well, if you say that, of course Gwen will 
 go, I assure you, mother, Gwen is wonderfully clever, 
 more clever than most boys. Claveriug says he never 
 saw anything so surprising as her last A'erses. It 
 seems a pity to take her from these good solid studies, 
 and set her to girls' work.' 
 
 'That was just what I thought last night, Hugh, 
 when you regretted that she could not go to school 
 with you,' said Mrs. Owen, smiling ; ' but then, you 
 see, she is a girl, and will have to teach gii-ls. I shall 
 be very much surprised if she do not get on as well 
 with music and drawing as she has with Latin and 
 Euclid.' 
 
 ' What ! you think she has a genius for them V cried 
 Hugh, with pleasure. 
 
 ' I think she has talents that call for cultivation,' 
 replied ^Ers. Owen, more calmly, 'and the obstacles, 
 opposed by poverty, may now be removed. But I 
 hear her returning.' And Gwen entered. 
 
 When Hugh was gone, Gwen, instead of going to 
 her little table, and opening her books as usual for her 
 morning lessons, placed a footstool before her mother's 
 arm-chair, and without looking at her, said : 
 
 ' Mother, shan't we talk to each other a little, now?' 
 
 Mrs. Owen came to her seat, held out her hand, but 
 did not speak. Gwen knelt down on the footstool, 
 and then, raising her eyes to her mother's face, said, 
 in a tone of determination :
 
 70 GWEN, OR 
 
 ' Mother, I know that I must go to Lascelles.' 
 
 ' My dear, there is much to consider before you say 
 that; 
 
 ' I considered all night — almost.' 
 
 * What did you consider V 
 
 ' Why, that this proposal opens the shortest and 
 surest way to my learning all that I must learn before 
 I can be of use to any one ; I shall be taught at Las- 
 celles better than I ever hoped to be taught ; and, oh ! 
 mother, I shall do my very best to learn !' 
 
 ' I don't doubt that, Gwen, but you have more to 
 consider yet ; not only what your cousin offers you, 
 but also what she will expect from you in return. 
 You will have a duty to do by Geraldine, and by her 
 mother — have you thought what it will be, and if you 
 can undertake it V 
 
 Gwen was, for awhile, silent ; then said, tremu- 
 lously : 
 
 ' What duty do you speak of, mother 1 I am afraid 
 that I have been considering nothing but how T could 
 best fit myself for what I hope to accomplish ; all that 
 I have been trying to brace myself for is separation 
 from you.' 
 
 Mrs. Owen bent forward, and kissed her earnestly. 
 
 ' Not unlikely, my dearest child. Now let us think 
 of something beyond this, more important, perhaps, 
 though of less immediate interest to you. You 
 are asked to be a companion to Geraldine, a girl of 
 your own age, but of very different training. I believe 
 that she is singularly beautiful, abounding in gifts 
 which are likely to dazzle and captivate others, and to 
 win flattery for her. My knowledge of her mother 
 tells me what her indulgence at home must be. Now, 
 can you meet her with the forbearance that a spoilt 
 child requires 1 — forbearance, I mean, of thought as 
 well as word and deed. You have no experience in 
 all this, Gwen ; you have been very little with other 
 children.'
 
 THE COUSINS. 71 
 
 ' But, mother, if I am to teach them, to be their 
 governess, all this is just what I want.' 
 
 ' And what a school would better afford you ; but 
 then the expense of a good school is an almost insur- 
 mountable objection. It could only be met by some 
 arrangement that you should be teacher after having 
 been learner. Many trials would beset you there, no 
 doubt.' 
 
 ' Everywhere, when once I leave you,' replied Gwen, 
 sighing. ' I shall not like to be among strangers. It 
 will make me feel shy and awkward. They will try 
 me, and I shall try them perhaps ; for you see, mother, 
 I don't know what my temper may prove. I only 
 know what it is with you and with Hugh.' 
 
 ' Ah ! my dear child, there is a trial which you will 
 surely experience when you quit us, go where you will. 
 To Hugh and to me you are necessarily important ; all 
 that you do, or say, or suffer, has an interest for us. 
 We aid your studies, we mark your progress. Now this 
 never can be equalled among strangers.' 
 
 ' No, mother, no ; but I can think on the day when 
 I shall return, and tell you and show you all I have 
 done. I shall be working with you before my eyes all 
 the while, and it will only be a longer waiting for Hugh 
 than it is now, from the time he goes till he returns 
 from school. Of course I shall feel the difference. 
 It will be dull and dreary to what it is now.' Gwen 
 pressed her hands to her heart, and by an almost im- 
 perceptible motion to and fro, seemed trying to lull a 
 pain she felt there. She presently Vegan again to speak 
 with some slight hesitation, but with an evident determi- 
 nation to make the avowal of what was passing within. 
 
 ' Do you know, mother, I have a pleasure apart from 
 your sympathy, and from Hugh's ; one I shall take with 
 me — one I can't help taking with me. I don't know 
 whether it is selfish, cold-hearted, — but I am afraid 1 
 sometimes forget everything else in it — yes — even you; 
 comfort, I have neglected for it, I know.' Gwen
 
 72 GWEN, OR 
 
 stopped sliort. ^ I mean, the pleasure I take in my 
 work for the work's sake. I am sure this is one of 
 my temptations.' 
 
 ' Perhaps it is, my chikl, and it will have more power 
 over you when you are with those who have not so 
 strong a hold on your aflections as we have,' said Mrs. 
 Owen, tenderly. ' Not so strong a claim on your love, 
 —your pity.' 
 
 ' Oh ! mother,' cried Gwen, catching her hand. ^ I 
 am some little help to you now, and who will help you 
 when I am gone V 
 
 ' I think I can manage for myself and for Hugh ; 
 there will not be too much for me to do, then,' replied 
 Mrs. Owen, with a sad, sweet smile. Then changing 
 the subject, she added: ' Gwen, my child, I must point 
 out one thing : your simple home cannot give you the 
 slightest idea of all the luxury and splendour that per- 
 vade the abode to which you are going, where the in- 
 mates fare sumptuously every day.' 
 
 ' Ah ! I shall never lie down at night without 
 coveting my little corner of your room.' 
 
 ' I dare say not ; but I must not send you to this 
 wealthy home without reminding you that there is a vow 
 on you, to ' renounce the pomps and vanities of the 
 world, and all covetous desires of the same ;' so that my 
 child must check all cravings for larger portions of 
 earthly good for herself, and for those whom she 
 loves more than herself. You must strive to raise your 
 thoughts to higher, more enduring blessings, Gwen, if 
 the slightest inclination to repine should manifest itself 
 in your bosom.' 
 
 ' Yes, mother,' said Gwen, in a low, deep voice, — 
 * counsel me further ; tell me more of what I shall have 
 to fear and to guard against.' 
 
 The mother and the child communed on deep and 
 holy themes; their hearts burned within them, and 
 gradually both sank into a silence, in which they seemed 
 to understand each other's thoughts and meaning, with
 
 THE COL" SINS. 16 
 
 more rather than ^dth less rlistinctness than when they 
 strove to clothe them with words. 
 
 Evening closed in, and Gwen and her mother, the 
 occupations of the day suspended, were sitting gazing 
 into the fire, the former raised her eyes suddenly, and 
 exclaimed : 
 
 ' Mother, I shall like to see Geraldine ; I shall like 
 to see her if she is so wonderfully beautiful ! I love to 
 look on beauty !' She sank again into silence, and pre- 
 sently added : ' I know very well, mother, that I have 
 no beauty — not the least — that I am quite plain ; and 
 I want you to tell me, do you think strangers would 
 call me very ugly 1' The girl looked up with a nervous, 
 sensitive expression. 
 
 ' Very ugly, my dear child !' exclaimed Mrs. Owen, 
 with a painful start. ' How can any face that has intel- 
 lect and feeling in it be that ? I can easily suppose 
 that strangers will bestow little notice on your per- 
 son, Gwen, till they begin to regard with interest, to 
 feel affection for, that which is within. You must 
 be mindful that beauty be found there,' she added, with 
 an attempt at playfulness. ' Remember the meaning 
 of your dear little Welsh name, Gwen, — 'white.' 
 Remember that, my child ! I have much love for it.' 
 
 And that night Gwen's mother laid on her pillow 
 wliile she slept, a copy of some of the verses in Holy 
 AVrit, in which whiteness is mentioned as the emblem 
 of purity. One was : ' Let thy garments be always 
 white.' — Eccl. ix. Another : ' Clothed in fine linen, 
 white and clean.' — Rev. xix. The third : ' And they 
 shall walk with me in white, for they are worthy.' — 
 Rev. iii. Mrs. Owen did not know that a portion of 
 this last sentence was graven on the tomb of Mary 
 Eustace. 
 
 4^
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Ah ! tres humble servante au bel esprit ; voussavez que ce n'est 
 pas la que je vise. 
 
 MOLIERE. 
 
 * TTERE, my dear Mdlle. Yernet, is my cousin, Mrs. 
 Xi Owen's answer to our proposal that she should 
 send her little daughter to share Geraldine's education. 
 Will you oblige me by reading it,' said Mrs. Faulkner, 
 passing a letter down the breakfast table to her French 
 governess, whom she had begged to stay a few minutes 
 in private with her. ' I wish to hear your own im- 
 pression of it.' Mrs. Faulkner felt that this was the 
 wisest thing to ask for; she valued Mdlle. Vernet's 
 opinion, she wished to obtain it while quite unbiassed ; 
 yet could scarcely refrain from declaring her own 
 before the Frenchwoman had half deciphered the letter, 
 and the moment that she regained possession of it, ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 ' I hope we are not going to have a complete little 
 precieuse — not quite the sort of child I thought of. I 
 don't know how all this will suit Geraldine.' 
 
 * Perfectly well, I have no doubt,' replied Mdlle. 
 Vernet, confidently and cordially. ' Mille pardons^ 
 madame, for discountenancing your fears ; but I assure 
 you this is exactly what Geraldine requires. She is 
 growing insufferably idle and outrageously conceited ; 
 and when a clever, well-taught child is brought into 
 close comparison with her, she will begin to discover 
 to her shame that she is totally ignorant of many 
 things which the other knows as a mere matter of 
 course. As to making any proficiency in accomplish-
 
 THE COUSINS. 75 
 
 ments, that she will never do, unless spurred on to 
 exertion by the quickness and energy of a competitor. 
 Ce nest pas qudle est hete. She can learn — she can 
 excel, if she please.' 
 
 ' Nay, my dear Mdlle. Yernet,' observed Mrs. 
 Faulkner, slightly provoked at this freedom of censure, 
 *you never must expect that poor Geraldine will 
 work like Gwen Owen. The one must make it the 
 object of her life to acquire a first-rate education, while 
 the other — ' Mrs, Faulkaer stopped, a little ashamed 
 to end the sentence exactly in accordance with her 
 inward sentiments, which were : 
 
 ' After all, what can learning or all the accomplish- 
 ments in the world signify to a girl like Geraldine ? 
 Mdlle. Yernet aud Lady Rivers are never tired of talk- 
 ing of her ignorance, poor child. I am sure I never 
 knew half so much, and I did veiy well. She speaks 
 French very nicely; she dances beautifully. I am 
 certain she will sing, and that will teach her Italian. 
 It is only that I may keep her at home that I listen 
 to theii- seiTuons ; just that Mr. Faulkner may not 
 threaten a dreadful school again.' 
 
 Such were Mrs. Faulkner's thoughts, and Mdlle. 
 Yernet was gifted with quite enough penetration to 
 read and to reply to them. 
 
 * I am aware that a young lady of extraordinary 
 beauty, possessing great natural powers of fascina- 
 tion, and occupying an advantageous position in 
 society, may easily think that there is little need of 
 study for one who has only to be seen to be admired 
 and flattered on every side. Mais vrainient, madame, 
 she owes it to you, to herself, to me, to make some 
 exertion to do honour to the excellent education wliich 
 she is receiving. Of course, 1 am speaking not merely 
 of the services of so humble a person as myself. I 
 
 include Mr. F and Signor G ;' and Mdlle. 
 
 Yernet ran through a list of all the various instruc- 
 tors who made Geraldine groan, and finished : ' But, 
 madame, allow me to repeat it, I have not the slightest
 
 76 GWEN, OR 
 
 doubt that the very judicious step which you have 
 taken will be crowned with complete success.' 
 
 Mdlle. Vernet rose, not desirous to prolong the 
 conversation. The fact was that, being a remarkably 
 clever, well informed teacher, she found a dull or lazy 
 pupil an almost unendurable torment. She rejoiced in 
 the prospect which Mrs. Owen's letter held out, that in 
 Gwen's mind she should find a soil worth cultivation, 
 and in the child herself a fellow-labourer. It was hard 
 and thankless work with Geraldine, and Mdlle. Vernet 
 often groaned over the task which she conscientiously 
 strove to fulfil. There were too many recommenda- 
 tions to her situation at Lascelles to allow her to 
 throw it up impatiently, though Geraldine almost 
 provoked such an act. The delicacy and gene- 
 rosity of Mrs. Faulkner's disposition were qualities of 
 peculiar value to a person discharging the office held 
 by Mdlle. Vernet ; and if she saw many reasons for 
 remaining as long as she could remain, so Mrs. Faulk- 
 ner saw many for retaining her as long as she would 
 be retained. In her heart, Mrs. Faulkner did not 
 think it a bad thing that Geraldine was so well 
 matched in temper. She had never had so little 
 trouble with any one as with Mdlle. Vernet ; and 
 though at first she had entertained a prejudice against 
 her as selected by Lady Rivers, after some personal 
 acquaintance she candidly allowed that she had great 
 and solid merits. Though the Frenchwoman's lan- 
 guage was often high flown and complimentary, there 
 were aufond much honesty and honour in her cha- 
 racter. She could never have endured the smallest 
 deceit or concealment between a child and its parent. 
 Her ideas of decorum were very strict, and her opinions 
 on all points connected with it rather of the style of 
 the ancien regime of France than of the greater freedom 
 of modern English manners. Mdlle. Vernet, truthful 
 herself, was by no means trustful of others ; partly 
 from long acquaintance with the world, partly from sin- 
 gular keenness of observation. She said that she had
 
 THE COUSINS. 77 
 
 the eye of a lynx, ' and tliat pauvre Mrs. Faulkner, she 
 is as blind as a bat — so blind that if you force her into 
 the light it only gives her pain, and she escapes back to 
 the dusk again.' 
 
 On this clear-sightedness Mrs. Faulkner allowed her- 
 self to rely, saying, ' There can't be much amiss, or 
 Mdlle. Yemet would have perceived it.' ' Mdlle. 
 "Vernet approves ; I am sure no one else need blame.' 
 She rejoiced to be saved the troublesome and, to 
 her, odious task of detecting, checking, or punishing 
 faults. ' I am very glad,' on the present occasion she 
 repeated to herself, ' that Mdlle. Yernet is well pleased ; 
 I only hof)e Geraldine will be equally so, I could not 
 have borne to have disappointed Mary Owen, as she 
 sees promise in the plan for her orphan child.' 
 
 Reopening the letter, she began to read again 
 those parts on which her misgivings had been chiefly 
 founded. Her eye ran over the following passages : 
 
 ' I may safely say that it is not a mother's partiality 
 which leads me to pronounce Owen's abilities to be of 
 no common order. Hitherto she has shared her bro- 
 ther's education, and has had neither opj)ortunities nor 
 time for the acquirement of those branches of educa- 
 tion to which I think girls are too much restricted. This 
 may make her appear rather behind, than in advance 
 of many of her own age ; but to overcome the apparent 
 disparity will be a spur to her efforts, and I hope it 
 will soon be discovered that a solid foundation has been 
 laid on which these lighter structures may be readily and 
 rapidly erected. Indeed I anticipate that the at- 
 tractions of music and painting will excite an enthu- 
 siasm which I should have been unwilling to kindle 
 before her mind was in some degree strengthened by 
 calmer studies.' 
 
 ' Dear me, this quite frightens me ;' and Mrs. Faulkner 
 broke off, and glanced at another part of the letter. 
 
 ' You must not, my dear Diane, expect to find a 
 pretty plajiihing in my little plain girl. I will not, for 
 her sake as well as for yours, suffer you to meet with
 
 78 GWEN, OR 
 
 any surprise or disappointment here. I remember well 
 your predilection for beauty, and in Geraldine you have 
 told me it is fully gratified. I congratulate you, but 
 pray don't let your eyes look for any such gratification 
 from the sight of Gwen. She is destitute of anything 
 commonly called beautiful. Yet I don't despair of 
 your discovering gradually what I have often remarked 
 with pleasure, certain gleams of intellect and of feeling 
 which positively illumine at times a countenance other- 
 wise formal and inanimate. My child is pale and 
 diminutive, but there are moments when the heart and 
 mind looking through her eyes, redeem her at once 
 from insignificance.' 
 
 ' Ah ! I can understand all this better,' said Mrs. 
 Faulkner. ' Come here,' she cried, to Catherine, who 
 had entered; 'come here, and you shall read what Mrs. 
 Owen says of Geraldine's future companion, and tell 
 me if you think it will do. Mdlle. Yernet is charmed.' 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner watched Catherine's countenance as 
 she read, but soon began talking herself, giving expres- 
 sion to her own ideas, and replies to those which she 
 supposed were passing through Catherine's mind. 
 
 ' Gwen has been brought up in a most peculiar way, 
 I have no doubt. Dear Mary Owen is the best crea- 
 ture in the world, but she is so strict. I never could 
 get on with her, because, you know, Catherine, every- 
 thing like rigidity is terribly irksome to me.' 
 
 ' Kigidity to an only child ! it seems impossible.' 
 
 ' Oh ! but I don't mean that Mary has anything 
 but the gentlest manner you can conceive, to every 
 one. All her severity is for herself; but she has such 
 a strict way of thinking, that one can't help feeling sure 
 that she must really condemn more than half one does 
 or says, though she is so kind all the while. She has 
 a horror of everything that she calls self-indulgence. 
 Now I believe that a child brought up in that way 
 would be soured for life. I have quite opposite ideas. 
 I am sure it would never have answered to have put a 
 bit and bridle in Geraldine's mouth, and to have pulled
 
 THE COUSINS. 79 
 
 tliem incessantly, fretting her to death, ruining her 
 temper. It would never do with a high mettle, and I 
 would not subdue a noble spirit for the world. No ; 
 mj principles of education are quite different.' 
 
 Catherine could not, would not, repress a smile. 
 
 ' Now what do you mean, Catherine,' cried Mrs. 
 Faulkner, colouring as she spoke as brightly as a girl 
 of fifteen. ' Why should you smile V 
 
 ' But, ma'am, you are smiling, too.' 
 
 ' Am I f said Mrs. Faulkner, turning away her head. 
 Then again looking Catherine in the face, she added, 
 after a momentary hesitation, ' Can you believe it ? I 
 really am so silly — when first I read that letter, I felt 
 more than half afraid of G wen's coming, poor child !' 
 
 She laughed as if this were all a joke, but Catherine 
 could see her secret discomfort, and Mrs. Faulkner 
 could perceive that she saw it, — and stopping short, she 
 said, 
 
 ' Is not this nonsense 1 I think I can win a child's 
 heart if I ask for it, Catherine V 
 
 ' I think so, indeed,' replied Catherine, warmly. ' It 
 must be a cold heart that you could not touch,' was her 
 inward thought ; but Catherine, with all her fondness for 
 her mistress, seldom proffered this sort of acknowledg- 
 ment. Those whom she loved had some way of reading 
 her genuine love and admiration, but it was without 
 the use of words on her part. She scarcely ever as- 
 sented to commendation when uttered by other lips, 
 unknowingly testifying to the truth of those lines : 
 
 Therefore when others praise thee I am still, 
 For deeper thoughts than theirs my besom fill. 
 
 She would speak in their justification when they 
 were unduly or unjustly blamed, but even here she 
 showed more abstinence than is common, natural 
 penetration suggesting that a warm defence or a cutting 
 rebuke will sometimes turn an idle talker into a vehe- 
 ment asserter, or even a confirmed enemy. That which 
 now restrained Catherine from the full expression of
 
 80 GWEN, OR 
 
 her feelings, was the conviction that her mistress's 
 winning ways were a snare to her, — that she was too 
 sure to please, to be as careful as Catherine would have 
 had her be, that she was doing what was worthy of 
 esteem. She had often felt the application of these 
 words to Mrs. Faulkner's character: ' A fair-sj^eaking 
 tongue will increase kind greetings.' 
 
 Catherine was not alarmed at the account of Gwen 
 any more than was Mdlle. Yernet. She gave back the 
 letter with a calmness which re-assured Mrs. Faulkner. 
 Geraldine would have been excessively disappointed if 
 Gwen had now been rejected. She was full of eager- 
 ness and excitement about this novel scheme. She 
 framed many little plans in favour of the new comer 
 which were very generous, — more generous perhaps 
 than delicately considerate. She showed a wish to load 
 her with presents, but all she said had a tone of pa- 
 tronage in it, and Catherine doubted how it might be 
 if Gwen were not disposed to accept that which was 
 proifered in such a spirit. Mr. Faulkner listened in 
 silence when his wife told him that everything was 
 charmingly arranged with Mary Owen. He only 
 thought it was a pity that Lady Rivers could not have 
 been consulted about it,but he did not express his regret, 
 and Mrs. Faulkner could repeat to herself with hearty 
 self-congratulation : 
 
 ' Well, this is all my own doing ; Lady Rivers made 
 no suggestion here; — did not beg me to decide for my- 
 self, only she must say — must just point out — . No, I 
 have arranged it all, and I am sure it will answer.' 
 
 It was now two years since Mary died. Her mother 
 seldom reverted to that season of affliction. She had 
 bewailed her child tenderly, but other causes, besides 
 her own aversion to pain, had urged her not ' to re- 
 fuse to be comforted.' It was sad for Mr. Faulkner 
 to return evening after evening to a house darkened 
 by habitual gloom. 
 
 ' I owe it to Augustus, to my child, to myself, to 
 everybody, to curb this grief, and struggle with my
 
 THE COUSINS. 81 
 
 too great sensibility. I know all this is true, though 
 it is barbarous in Lady Rivers to place it before me 
 in her hard way. And dear, good Catherine — she 
 does not rightly understand me either — she does not 
 see how necessary it is for me to have something to 
 take me out of myself. I dare not brood over the 
 past, as she would counsel.' 
 
 But however Mrs. Faulkner might impugn Cathe- 
 rine's judgment on some points, she would not, for a 
 moment, hear of her quitting herself and Geraldine. 
 
 '■ Make your own terms, Catherine, but remain with 
 us. You cannot, I am sure you cannot, justify it to 
 yourself to refuse me.' 
 
 Catherine remained, but day by day her tongue 
 found fewer occasions for uttering the name of Mary. 
 Yet the last words of the sister she had loved rang 
 long in Geraldine's ears. For awhile Catherine had 
 but to raise a finger, and say ' Remember !' in order 
 to still the wildest storm ; but when the time came, 
 as come it did, for this expedient to prove first weak 
 and then powerless, Catherine resorted to it no more ; 
 to do so seemed a profanation of the girl's dear 
 memory. 
 
 Any temporary amendment in Geraldine was de- 
 stroyed by the increasing idolatry of her mother's love, 
 now concentrated in her. The child's passion and ca- 
 price grew more and more intolerable, and Mrs. Faulkner 
 could not, at leng-th, turn a deaf ear to the complaints 
 which met her on every side. Moreover, they reached 
 other ears than hers, and she trembled for the conse- 
 quences. She must devise some rapid plan of im- 
 provement, or she felt that the reins of government 
 would be taken from her hands. She was at once per- 
 plexed and irritated. 
 
 ' I see,' she said, ' there is quite a cabal formed 
 against my poor child — organized by Lady Rivers 
 probably ; this is not her father's house, and she v/ill 
 be made to feel that, no doubt. But I am her mother, 
 and no one shall tear her fi'om the only bosom which 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 GWEN, OR 
 
 Nature bids to cherish her. I am not so spiritless as 
 they think. The most cowardly creatures defend their 
 offspring. I can rouse myself when I see those I love 
 threatened. Unassisted, I have hit on a scheme that 
 shall overthrow them all.' 
 
 All this energy and indignation were awakened by 
 a proposal made by Mr. Faulkner, through Lady 
 Rivers, to send Geraldiue (now in her thirteenth year) 
 to school ; and the result is to be found in the letter 
 which Diane, without loss of time, addressed to her 
 cousin, Mary Owen. 
 
 On the evening of the day on which the letter was 
 despatched, Collinson, while engaged in dressing her 
 mistress for a ball, repeatedly sighed deeply, gave her 
 one thing when she asked for another, begged her 
 pardon for making her repeat her words, and at last 
 applied a handkerchief to her eyes. 
 
 ' Why, is anything the matter with you, Collinson V 
 asked Mrs. Faulkner. 
 
 ' Oh no, ma'am, nothing at all ; I beg your pardon, 
 I am sure, ma'am.' 
 
 ' But why should you beg my pardon ? Are you ill 1 
 If so, pray go to bed. Catherine will sit up for me 
 willmgly.' 
 
 ' Oh no, ma'am, thank you. I should be very sorry 
 to leave any part of my duty for Mrs. Irving, or any- 
 body to perform. I will sit up till you return. I am 
 quite well, I assure you, ma'am ; only — I don't like to 
 intrude my domestic feelings on you — a lady of so 
 much heart, so very feeling — oh no, it is quite out of 
 the question ' 
 
 ' Now, Collinson, pray don't go on like this ; speak 
 plainly, and tell me what distresses you.' 
 
 ' My great responsibilities,' replied Mrs. Collinson, 
 casting up her eyes and sighing — (' One pin more if 
 you please ; that bow has not the right set,) — great 
 indeed ! an orphan child — not a whole orphan, but 
 motherless, you know, ma'am.'
 
 THE COUSINS. 83 
 
 'What? your brother's daughter, whom you had 
 here for a fortnight in the summer V 
 
 ' Yes, ma'am, a sweet chikl — a very sweet child — 
 and no one to look to but me.' 
 
 ' What do you mean V cried Mrs. Faulkner. ' I never 
 thought of any distress there 1 Surely your brother 
 does very well V 
 
 ' I mean, ma'am, no one to look to but me for a 
 mother's affection, and for anything you can call edu- 
 cation. I am sure the pains I took last year with 
 that child that she should not get into vulgar common 
 ways, ma'am — and very teachable the girl is by nature, 
 and really 1 doat on her something like you do on 
 Miss Geraldine, if I may say so without offence, 
 ma'am ; I am sure I mean none.' 
 
 CoUinson just remembered that Mrs. Faulkner had a 
 decided objection to hear her affection for Geraldine 
 compared to that of even any other parent for a child, 
 and she hastened on with a little more embarrassment 
 than she would otherwise have evinced, saying — 
 
 ' T have often thought, ma'am, that if the dear child 
 were but nearer, she might in a manner be a companion 
 and a comfort to Miss Geraldine, who would often 
 enough be glad of a playfellow, and this would bring 
 her under my own eye, and I should be less uneasy 
 about her.' 
 
 It did not require more to make Mrs. Faulkner 
 understand Collinson's meaning. She saw plainly and 
 quickly enough sometimes, and now she answered, with 
 her invariable gentleness and good breeding — 
 
 ' Ah ! yes, I see, Collinson ; I quite see all that you 
 mean. I am sure that it would be good for Miss 
 Geraldine to have a comjoanion ; and I have in- 
 vited a little cousin of ours to stay with her, to be 
 educated with her in fact. It will suit them both, 
 poor children, for Miss Owen, like my child, is an 
 only daughter. Collinson, you must not vex yourself 
 over your responsibilities j they are not those of a 
 
 G 2
 
 84 GWEN . 
 
 parent. Can't your brother look out for some nice 
 school for little Sarah 1 Inquire, and let me know 
 something about it.' 
 
 Collinson stood aghast, scarcely recovering herself 
 sufficiently to thank her mistress for these last kind 
 words. Mrs. Faulkner turned as she left the room, 
 saying— 
 
 ' You can do just as you like about sitting up for 
 me, Collinson ;' adding, to herself, ' I don't want her 
 to think I am angry, poor thing.' 
 
 ' So, a ]»oor cousin is to come, is she T said Collinson, 
 as she closed the door. 'A pretty chance she will 
 have with Miss Geraldine ! Sally's would have been 
 better.' 
 
 -^
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 Tout ce qui est serieux lui par^it triste ; tout ce qui demande 
 une attention suivie la fatigue. — Fj^n^lon. 
 
 * T "WISH that we were not going to the ball to-night,' 
 X said Geraldine, for the twentieth time, on the 
 day on which Gwen Owen was expected at Lascelles. 
 
 ' Then why don't you stay at home with me V asked 
 Catherine. 
 
 'No, I can't do that,' returned Geraldine, after a 
 pause of astonishment ; ' but I should like to see the 
 first of this little Owen if it were another night. She 
 begins by being troublesome, I see. Why could she 
 not come yesterday?' 
 
 ' One day more at home was what she asked for. 
 Miss Geraldine, and she won't like to be called ' this 
 little Owen.' ' 
 
 * Well, what is her other short, odd name 1 Gwen ! 
 Gwen ! I don't like that — it is very ugly, but not 
 much trouble. Now, Catherine, you are not to show 
 ber a single thing belonging to me while T am away. 
 Mind that !' 
 
 ' You need not fear,' said Catherine, drily ; 'the child 
 will be much too tired to think of amusement to-night, 
 and besides, I am afraid that her heart may be too 
 too full of other things — ' 
 
 ' Oh ! I hope she won't be cross and crying, which 
 you seem trying to prepare me for,' exclaimed Geral- 
 dine ; and in a few moments she quite forgot Gwen in 
 her delighted anticipation of her coming ball. She
 
 86 GWEN, OR 
 
 must examine tlie white dress prepared for it, and the 
 wreath of natural flowers for her hair. ' Certainly,' Mrs. 
 Faulkner had acknowledged on its arrival, ' it has cost 
 about twice as much to procure these blossoms, and to 
 have them properly mounted, as the most beautiful 
 artificial ones would have come to, but then I can't 
 bear anything false for a child. These are fresh and 
 lovely as Geraldine herself. Every one must allow 
 that they are in much better taste.' 
 
 " Yery pretty, ar'n't they V cried Geraldine, peeping 
 into the box at them. ' I must try them once again.' 
 
 ' They will lose all their freshness if you do.' 
 
 ' I don't care ; I will.' A camellia bud rolled on the 
 floor. ' Never mind ; I don't !' cried Geraldine, as 
 Catherine stooped to pick it up. 
 
 ' Dear me. Miss Geraldine, you have on your white 
 shoes already !' 
 
 ' I know I have. I wish, dear Catherine, that you 
 could see me dance to-night. Don't you V 
 
 ' No, miss, I don't. I should be sorry to go out, 
 and to let Miss Owen come, and no one but Ann 
 to give her tea. CoUinson is going to see you, you 
 know. I have seen you dance times enough. There 
 is nothing so very wonderful in it.' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, yes, there is. I don't believe Gwen will 
 ever dance like I do. I don't believe any one can. 
 You shall see me now.' And wild with spirits, she 
 danced before Catherine like a fairy. 
 
 ' Oh ! my wreath,' she exclaimed, and suddenly 
 changed to the stately step of the minuet, which, child 
 as she was, suited her better than the more rapid 
 dance, and she hummed the music to herself as she 
 went. 
 
 ' You will be quite tired out before the evening,' 
 was Catherine's only remark. 
 
 ' So I shall,' replied Geraldine, quickly, and down on 
 the floor she sank, Catherine snatching that moment 
 to disengage the flowers from her hair. 
 
 In the evening, as Mrs. Faulkner went down stairs
 
 THE COUSINS. 87 
 
 to her carriage, she talked all the while to Catherine 
 about Gwen. 
 
 ' The poor child will be wretchedly tired and fright- 
 ened, I dare say, at the thought of seeing so many 
 strangers. I am not sorry on her account that we are 
 going out to-night. We can't expect to make her 
 happy at once ; but to-morrow, my dear Geraldine, 
 you must be as kind and as gentle as possible to her ; 
 and I must try — not to make her forget her mother — 
 I don't mean that — I should not like my child to 
 forget me in the kindness of another — but still to turn 
 to us for love and sympathy. Meanwhile, not one of 
 us can do half so well by her to-night as you, my dear, 
 good Catherine. A nurse's arms are next to a 
 mother's ! No one can reassure and comfort her as 
 you can. Yes, I am quite satisfied that we are doing 
 the kindest thing in the world by her.' 
 
 Geraldine sprang in after her mother, very well satis- 
 fied too, though with much less reasoning ; and Cathe- 
 rine said to herself, 'I believe it is just as well as 
 it is.' 
 
 The sound of approaching wheels soon called Cathe- 
 rine back to the door ; the carriage stopped, a little 
 girl got out of it. She was much smaller than Cathe- 
 rine had expected, though she had been told that she 
 was small of her age ; and when she came into 
 the light, her face was pale and her eyes red and 
 swollen. Gwen had cried much on her journey, shed- 
 ding all those tears which she had lefused to allow to 
 flow during her last day with her mother and Hugh. 
 The sudden light half blinded her, and she stumbled 
 on the steps of the house instead of rimning nimbly up 
 them. She felt very shy and angry with herself 
 for being so awkward, and her fall seemed an ill omen 
 on arriving at her new abode. Catherine took her 
 hand kindly, and led her up to the schoolroom. There 
 was a cheerful fire, and tea prepared on a small table 
 beside it. The boiling of a bright kettle was the only 
 sound that greeted them. Gwen observed the vacancy
 
 88 GWEN, OR 
 
 of tlie house as she passed through it with wonder, but 
 was so bewildered that she neither heard nor under- 
 stood what Catherine explained to her until she had 
 repeated it all again. The governess was absent, and 
 Mrs. Faulkner and Geraldine were gone to a ball. 
 
 * Gone to a ball !' said Gwen. 
 
 * A child's ball partly/ replied Catherine. ^ Miss 
 Geraldine is very fond of dancing — are you V 
 
 '1 don't know,' returned Gwen, shyly; *but I 
 should like to see a ball very much. I shall like to 
 hear Geraldine's account of it to-morrow.' 
 
 ' I dare say she will amuse you. She always has 
 plenty to tell when she comes home. But balls are no 
 novelty to her ; she has almost too many of them, 
 especially this Christmas.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Faulkner will not return till late V 
 
 ' Certainly not — not before one o'clock. Are you 
 tired V 
 
 ' I think I am.' 
 
 'And hungry?' 
 
 ' No, not at all.' 
 
 ' You shiver ; you are chilled.' 
 
 * No,' answered Gwen. She knew that her shiver- 
 ing was not from cold, but she concealed her nervous- 
 ness, and thought to herself that she could scarcely tell 
 whether she was glad to have escaped the meeting with 
 so many strangers that night, or sorry not to have got 
 it over. 
 
 Catherine contrived in a short time to make the 
 child more comfortable, and they talked together 
 with friendliness, except that Gwen occasionally re- 
 lapsed into total silence. Catherine soon led the way 
 to the little room prepared for her with a due atten- 
 tion to her comfort. 
 
 ' Thank you, I never want to be undressed or dressed, 
 or anything of that sort,' said Gwen, in reply to 
 Catherine's proffered services. 
 
 Catherine saw at a glance that the girl was scru-
 
 THE COUSINS. 89 
 
 piiloiisly neat ; lier dark hair was very smooth, her 
 plain dress in perfect order. 
 
 ^ A queer little figure !' thought Catherine. ' I am 
 afraid Miss Geraldine will laugh at her. Plenty of 
 independence and determination, I will answer for it.' 
 And she wished Gwen good night. 
 
 The moment that the door closed Gwen knelt down 
 and unlocked her box, forgetting her fatigue, thinking 
 only that there were some things in it which she was 
 resolved to look on before she lay down in bed, and to 
 place where she could see them the first thing in the 
 morning. 
 
 ' I sha'n't feel so dreadfully lonely, then. Why did 
 I say I would come here ? Why did I pretend to be 
 so brave, and there was no reality in it ? Oh ! if I 
 were but at home again !' She wept passionately. 
 ' Oh, mother ! Oh, Hugh ! You cannot hear me — you 
 cannot see me ! But that is fortunate. They are 
 thinking about me — perhaps speaking of me — or not 
 speaking, only because they can't ! They are sitting 
 by the fire. Hugh has not lit mamma's candle yet. 
 They miss me. Poor Hugh ! he has done many little 
 things for mamma to-night that he has never done 
 before, and many little things that I always did for 
 him are left undone, and he tries to do as well 
 without !' 
 
 By this time Gwen had arrived at her chief trea- 
 sures. There was her Bible and Prayer-book, in 
 plain, good binding — her father's gift; and Ken's 
 Manual of Devotion for the Use of the Winchester 
 Scholars, exactly the same as Hugh's — her mother 
 gave them each one. These must always be by her 
 bedside. Then there was Hugh's last present — a good 
 print of Winchester Cathedral, in a neat frame ; that 
 must hang on the wall just opposite her bed. She 
 would then see it the first thinj? in the morning, 
 and it would bring with it the thoughts of the early 
 service she had always gone to there — salutary, sus-
 
 90 GWEN. 
 
 taining thoughts, though reminding her of present pri- 
 vation. She would say Ken's Hymns as she looked 
 at it, and the memory of sweet music would float 
 around her. While planning thus, she thought of the 
 morning and evening hymns in a new book — her 
 mother's last gift — which she had been reading during 
 the day. ' I am sure I shall be very fond of it, but 
 it is quite a new book as yet.' It was the first edition 
 of The Christian Year. ' There is a nice shelf there 
 for my books. I must just place two or three of theni 
 on it ; it will give the room such a home look ; and 
 then I will go to bed.' 
 
 In a few minutes Gwen had arranged the half-dozen 
 volumes which Hugh had selected for her that she 
 might not forget her Latin, and having now worked 
 off some of her excitement, she lay down and fell fast
 
 ' r^r^K^ ?,;5*^5 '^•^^^K^ ^.-^(^ ?,-^?' ^^?*\? !^#^ 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A lovely apparition, sent 
 To be a moment's ornament. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 AT two o'clock in the morning Geraldine sprang out 
 of her carriage, not the least tired, not the least 
 sleepy. * How should she be when she had enjoyed 
 the most delightful nap on mamma's shoulder, and that 
 nice swan's-down cape round her the while V The ball 
 had been quite enchanting ! 
 
 ' And how do you like Gwen, Catherine ? Of course 
 she came ? I never once thought about her the whole 
 evening. How could I ? But I must see her before I 
 go to bed. I am resolved.' 
 
 ' Nonsense ! Miss Geraldine. "What is there to see 1 
 The poor child is in bed and asleep long ago. She was 
 quite tired, and she seems shy ; you must not frighten 
 her by your wildness.' 
 
 ' I won't frighten her. I will go quietly, on tip- 
 toe, stealing along, and no one can hear me in these 
 thin shoes.' 
 
 ' But the candle — ^you will throw the light exactly 
 in her eyes, and startle her out of her sleep.' 
 
 ' No, I won't ; I will shade it with my hand j and 
 Catherine, dear, you see I am resolved.' 
 
 So Geraldine flew up the staii-s ; and Catherine fol- 
 lowed, and overtook her before she entered, for she 
 was really employing great caution in turning the 
 handle of the door. Nevertheless, when she reached 
 the foot of the bed, in her eager curiosity she forgot
 
 92 GWEN, OR 
 
 her promise about the candle, and let the light stream 
 full down on Gwen's pale face and swollen eyelids. 
 
 ' Mother !' escaped the lips of the child as she moved 
 in restless distress. Geraldine did not heed the pathetic 
 exclamation. She turned to Catherine, and cried, 
 ' How ugly !' in a tone of disappointment and aversion. 
 Gwen started up in her bed. Catherine caught Geral- 
 dine's arm and drew her forcibly back, closing the door. 
 Gwen sank down again in darkness, and in a moment 
 slept. When she awoke in the morning Catherine 
 was standing by her, smiling : 
 
 ' Well, you will get up refreshed. You have slept 
 well, have you not 1 You will not be so tired as Miss 
 Geraldine, after all !' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes,' said Gwen, ' I have slept, and dreamt 
 too — such a pleasant dream ! I thought I saw a young 
 girl standing by my bed, with flowers in her hair — all 
 in white — so lovely! I never saw any one half so 
 lovely in reality, but in my dreams I think I have 
 before now. She vanished in a moment when I was 
 just going to speak to her, and I can hardly persuade 
 myself that it was unreal even yet,' cried Gwen, 
 starting up. 
 
 * It was no dream at all,' replied Catherine, laughing. 
 ' It was Miss Geraldine in her ball-dress. She would 
 come to look at you before she went to her own room. 
 I scolded her for her nonsense. I thought it would 
 disturb you.' 
 
 ' Oh ! I don't mind that,' said Gwen, quickly. 'Then 
 it was really Geraldine V A nd she began to get up 
 with great alacrity. 
 
 ' Why what a little active creature you are ! When 
 did you find time for all this unpacking V asked Cathe- 
 rine, looking round the room with wonder. 
 
 ' Oh ! before I went to bed last night.' 
 
 A dijfferent reception met Catherine at Geraldine's 
 bedside. 
 
 ' I am so sleepy,' she said, yawning, ' 1 sha'n't get 
 up to breakfast. I am sorry I went to look at Gwen
 
 THE COUSINS. 93 
 
 last niglit, because now I am not the least bit curious 
 about her. Does she look any prettier this morning, 
 Catherine 1 I am sure I shall never love her if day- 
 light make no improvement in her.' 
 
 ' Now really, Miss Geraldine, you have had quite 
 enough of this nonsense. I cannot believe that you will 
 be unkind to this fatherless child, just because you 
 choose to call her ugly. If not a beauty, she can do 
 much more than you can — dress and undress herself, 
 and arrange her hair so neatly.' 
 
 ' Dear me, Catherine ; I should not like to do any 
 of those things at all — not even to put on my own 
 shoes.' 
 
 ' More the pity, miss.' 
 
 ' What an odd night-cap Gwen wears — not a bit of 
 lace on it ! I shall put her on one of mine, and see 
 how she looks then.' 
 
 ' Now, Miss Geraldine, are you going to pay any 
 attention to what I have just said; or are you going 
 to torment this poor child out of the house by your 
 whims V 
 
 'I hope not, Kitty,' cried Geraldine, jumping up 
 and throwing her arms round Catherine's neck. 'I did 
 form so many kind plans about her, and I can't bear 
 that they should be all thrown away ; and as to being 
 ugly, mamma was saying yesterday evening, about 
 Sophia Mundy, the ugliest girl in the room, ' every 
 one would be handsome, if they could.' But don't 
 you see, that if you let me tell you just what I think, 
 I shan't be so likely to tell it to Gwen V 
 ' I don't know as to that,' replied Catherine. 
 Mrs. Faulkner was not much more charmed by 
 Gwen's appearance than Geraldine had been ; but the 
 excessive kindness of her manner rendered it impos- 
 sible for the little girl to detect this; and Gwen, 
 whose imagination took quickly fire, was full of 
 admiration and delight, as she watched in silence, 
 without intentional evidence of either sentiment, 
 every look, every movement of Mrs. Faulkner and
 
 94 GWEN, OR 
 
 of Geraldine. Geraldine, tliougli gratified by this quiet 
 homage, soon needed something more to amuse her, 
 especially on a day so languid as the day following 
 a ball. When Gwen understood that her powers of 
 entertainment were put into requisition, she shook off 
 some of her shyness, and fulfilled the task very toler- 
 ably to Geraldine's satisfaction. The two children 
 went out to play in the garden. Presently Geraldine 
 returned, her cheeks scarlet, her eyes brimful of delight. 
 
 'How hot you are, my dear child,' cried Mrs. 
 Faulkner, in alarm. 
 
 ' Very,' said Geraldine, tossing her bonnet on the 
 ground, and shaking back her hair. 
 
 ' And no gloves !' exclaimed her mother. 
 
 ' Oh ! I suppose I have lost them in the garden.' 
 
 * I beg you will never take them off, Geraldine. 
 Your hands — your beautiful hands ! — Now tell me 
 what you have been doing.' 
 
 Gwen came into the room quietly, and looking as 
 demure as possible. Geraldine poured out an enthu- 
 siastic account of all that they had been about, ending 
 with, ' I never had such fun before, mamma, never.' 
 
 ' My dear Gwen,' said Mrs. Faulkner, after listening 
 to the recital with some dismay, ' all your plays seem 
 to me boys' plays.' 
 
 ' Are they, ma'am f said Gwen, with deference ; ' I 
 never had any but Hugh to play with.' 
 
 Thus, the holidays yet remaining promised to 
 pass veiy merrily and happily. Geraldine wished 
 that tiresome Mdlle. Vernet — those horrid Masters, 
 were never coming back again. Gwen desired their 
 arrival with all her heart. That Geraldine should 
 have a play-fellow for a whole week and never once 
 quarrel with her, was more than Catherine could 
 hope, and the storm which she daily expected at 
 last arrived. There was no important cause of dis- 
 sension ; but hearing their voices growing gradually 
 louder and louder, Catherine approached as Geraldine 
 exclaimed passionately —
 
 THE COUSINS. 95 
 
 ' I am beginning to find out that you are as ill- 
 tempered as you are ugly.' 
 
 ^I am not ill-tempered/ replied Gwen, casting 
 aside all the rigid self-constraint which Catherine had 
 already, at times, seen her practise. ' I have been long 
 enough with Hugh, and he never called me so, and I 
 shall not believe it because you choose to say it.' 
 
 ' Believe it, then, because I say it,' said Catherine, 
 laying her hand on Gwen's shoulder. 
 
 ' At this moment you have lost your temper. Take 
 my advice, go away, and you will soon regain it.' 
 
 Gwen submitted, for Catherine's language was calm 
 though forcible, and her manner kind as well as firm. 
 As soon as she was gone, Catherine turned to Ge- 
 raldine — 
 
 'Oh, Miss Geraldine, will nothing conquer your 
 love of tyrannizing 1 Can you not feel how mean it 
 is to exercise it over a child in the situation of your 
 cousin V 
 
 Geraldine sobbed, as much with sorrow as with 
 anger. The children were reconciled before night, and 
 this first quarrel was forgotten by both. 

 
 ^^^^^^^^^^^^^>^ 
 
 CHAPTER yi. 
 
 II est vrai que la dame est tm peu embarrassante de son natural ; 
 j'ai toujours eu pour elle une furieuse aversion. — Moliere. 
 
 GERALDINE was sitting at her mother's feet, 
 resting her elbow in her lap. 
 
 ' What do you think, mamma 1 Gwen says that 
 brown frock which she has put on to-day because Lady 
 Rivers is coming, is her best ! Now, if I had not seen, 
 the gray one, I should have thought it must have been 
 her worst.' 
 
 Geraldine spoke these words with the utmost dis- 
 dain, and Mrs. Faulkner replied with as much reproof 
 in her tone as she knew how to make it convey : 
 
 ' My dear Geraldine ! now I will tell you what we 
 will do, instead of making such very ill-natured re- 
 marks — fetch me my writing-book, and a pen and ink, 
 here to this table, and I will write a letter to Mrs. 
 Owen about Gwen's dress. Don't you suppose she 
 would like to have frocks just as pretty as yours, if 
 she could ]' 
 
 ' I don't know, mamma j she pretends not, but I 
 think that she would.' 
 
 ' To be sure she would, and I have a scheme about 
 it. Make haste. I want to write before Lady Rivers 
 comes.' 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner quickly accomplished her letter, ran 
 her eye over it, signed and sealed it before Lady Rivers 
 arrived. It was as follows : 
 
 ' I write in the full confidence that you will not 
 hesitate to gratify a most reasonable wish, as you
 
 THE COUSINS. 97 
 
 sliail hear. I particularly desire that while Gwen 
 is under my roof the two girls should have every- 
 thing alike ; I am sure it will be much more judi- 
 cious, much better for them in a moral point of 
 view than making a difference between them. I 
 thought of asking you before (but things go out of 
 my head, I have such a wretched memory), just to 
 let me dress Gwen, while she is with us, exactly as I 
 dress Geraldine. You can't eflfect this at a distance, 
 you know, and Gwen is too young to transact such 
 important business, so you must leave it entirely to 
 me. I am sure you will see the good sense of this 
 plan.' 
 
 Now Lady Rivers is at the door. We have 
 often heard of Lady Rivers ; we have never seen her 
 yet. Mr. Faulkner always speaks of her in the tone 
 of one deeply impressed with admiration. ' My sister 
 is as fine a woman as you can wish to see.' 
 
 To this Mrs. Faulkner almost inaudibly responds : 
 ' I suppose she is handsome V 
 
 ' My dear, you ladies never think each other so.' 
 
 Catherine overhears this little colloquy, and says to 
 herself : ' How Mr. Faulkner can look at my lady 
 and think her beautiful, as I know that he does, and 
 then turn to Lady Rivers and call her handsome, I 
 cannot imagine. To my fancy, I never saw any one so 
 stiff, so ungraceful, who does so little credit to all her 
 rich clothes. And my dear mistress, on the contrary, 
 every movement has a charm ! and her smile — Lady 
 Rivers can't smile — she looks harder than before.' 
 
 Geraldine cries when she catches the name : ' It is 
 of no use to scold me for calling Lady Rivers that 
 ugly, odious woman, for I always will, — when papa is 
 not by !' 
 
 Nevertheless, Lady Rivers enters, as her brother pro- 
 nounces her, a decidedly handsome woman. She was 
 tall, ungraceful and ill-formed, although her head and 
 throat were grand and Juno-like, affording an instance 
 of a classical and magnificent style of features accom- 
 
 VOL. I. h;
 
 98 GWEN, OR 
 
 panied by a tone of mind and manners incorrigibly in- 
 elegant. Her countenance was harsh, certainly, and 
 harsher with every succeeding year ; her voice was 
 unmelodious, her choice of dress remarkably injudicious. 
 Gaiidy, ill-assorted colours hurt the eye, and each 
 fashion as it prevailed was adopted by her in its most 
 exaggerated form ; while her sister-in-law's exquisite 
 taste preserved her from every extreme. With Lady 
 Rivers came her twin daughters, Jemima and Agnes. 
 They were about Geraldine's age. Jemima was an 
 unattractive girl, rendered more so by the subjection 
 in which her mother thought it right to hold her. 
 By her system all expression of thought and feeling 
 was checked ; she did not train either ; she dwarfed 
 them. 
 
 As to poor Agnes, a cloud had rested on her intellect 
 from her birth, through wliich it ever seemed to be 
 struggling, like the pale moon through a mist, and 
 always unsuccessfully. She appeared like one groping 
 in the dusk, frightened on the smoothest and most 
 familiar path. Her wan, troubled face, could not be 
 seen without awakening feelings of interest ; and if the 
 mind were torpid, the heart was more than commonly 
 susceptible. There was something so very affectionate, 
 so very dependent, so very full of pathetic pleading in 
 her looks and ways, that she touched all hearts, and 
 attached some. Of the number of the last was Geral- 
 dine's. It was a singular and a moving sight to behold 
 the fondness which existed between these two children. 
 Geraldine felt herself irresistibly drawn towards Agnes 
 by the bonds of pity, and Agnes' lustreless eyes had a 
 liquid look of joy when Geraldine approached. No 
 effort would Geraldine spare for her amusement. She 
 would dance before her, sing to her, bestow pains 
 on her such as were bestowed on nothing else, and 
 exulted in having taught her many a little accom- 
 plishment which others had pronounced unattainable 
 by her. 
 
 * It is just because you think you can't do it that
 
 THE COUSINS. 99 
 
 you can't,' would Geraldine say, striking tlie ground 
 with her little impatient foot. ' Look at my fingers, 
 now look at your own. Have you not as many ? Are 
 they not as long? Have they not the same joints as 
 mine ? yes : then they can do what mine can do, and 
 must, Agnes, do you hear 1 I won't kiss you again 
 till you have tried — no, not if it be till next week.' 
 
 And Geraldine's urgency prevailed in more points 
 than could have been supposed possible. 
 
 ' And now, Gwen, you must be very, very kind to 
 Agnes,' was Geraldine's injunction that morning when 
 Lady Rivers' note, promising a visit, arrived. 
 
 ' I am sure you will,' said Catherine, taking an op- 
 portunity, when Geraldine was absent, to explain to 
 Gwen what the state of Agnes really was. ' I do love 
 to see Miss Geraldine with her,' she added. ' It is 
 just one of the traits which prove how really good her 
 heart is.' 
 
 Gwen was sent for to see Lady Kivers. The 
 children were all constrained and silent in the presence 
 of so formidable a person ; but they were soon allowed 
 to escape into the garden, and amuse themselves. 
 Agnes, frightened at the sight of a stranger, would 
 scarcely let go Geraldine's hand, which tried her patience, 
 and she did not behave quite so admirably as Gwen 
 had been led to expect. 
 
 Lady Rivers, as soon as the children were gone, 
 passed a few comments on Gwen, and especially ob- 
 served how sensibly Mrs. Owen dressed her girl, 
 * I mean for one who is to seek her livelihood.' Mrs. 
 Faulkner thought of the letter lying beside her, blushed, 
 felt guilty, but tried to appear not to have heard the 
 remark. Every one was glad when Lady Rivers' car- 
 riage returned to the door. There was not one person 
 at Lascelles who did not dislike her, except Mdlle. 
 "Vemet, who always spoke of her as a woman of great 
 judgment and discretion, and unfortunately this sole 
 approver was absent. Mrs. Owen's answer to Diane's 
 very pretty letter was prompt and simple. She said, 
 
 H 2
 
 100 GWEN. 
 
 * I cannot but feel the generosity and kindness of your 
 proposal, but there are objections to the plan which 
 strike me too forcibly to allow me to accede to it. I 
 do not see that Geraldine could derive any lasting 
 benefit from a system purely arbitrary, and at 
 bottom fictitious. It cannot produce a real equality 
 between her and Gwen on such matters as these. 
 They are and must be unequal, and you can no more 
 convince your child that she is no richer than that she 
 is no handsomer than Gwen. Bring up Geraldine to 
 know how to excel others in wealth and beauty. 
 Teach her what her conduct and feelings ought to be 
 to those inferior to her in both. As for Gwen, you 
 ask me — as you will perceive if you reflect for a moment 
 on the proposition made to satisfy the promptings of 
 your kind heart — to consent to the formation of 
 habits that would be unsuited to her mode of life, 
 from the moment that she quits you. I must there- 
 fore beg you to leave me to replenish her wardrobe at 
 the yearly visit which we have agreed that she is to 
 pay to me.' 
 
 ' These very sensible people always plague and gain- 
 say me in whatever I propose, Catherine,' said Mrs. 
 Faulkner, reading this letter to her. ' But that one 
 pink frock which I have already given the child, she 
 must keep. Poor little thing ! I know she liked it.'
 
 #^#^#^^##^#v#^^# 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Fast, fast tlie spirit clings 
 
 To the form of old beloved things ; 
 
 And deep and deep 
 
 The affections sleep 
 That waken to Nature's visitings. 
 
 Remains of W. S. "Walker. 
 
 MDLLE, Yernet returnecl from her holidays to 
 resume her labours with renewed vigour. She 
 liked Gwen from the first ; ' her eyes vouched for her 
 abilities,' she said. It would not have been easy to have 
 found a rival for Geraldine in beauty, so perhaps it was 
 as well that point should be altogether out of the 
 question. Besides, it was her mind which needed to 
 be awakened, and urged to put forth its powers. 
 
 Mdlle. Yernet had resolved to emj^loy the instru- 
 mentality of emulation, and to excite it to the highest 
 degree that she could. Possibly she did not know 
 those lines : 
 
 Her aim, when emulation misses, 
 She turns to envy, stings and hisses. 
 
 And the sense of them was as strange to her as the 
 sound. She unscrupulously prepared to excite the 
 stormy spirit of competition in a child already far too 
 full of violent feelings, and in another with whose dis- 
 position she was perfectly unacquainted. Eager to try 
 its power, she paused not to consider the danger. She 
 never duly recognised, and therefore could not teach
 
 103 GWEN, OR 
 
 her scholars, that there ought always to be a far 
 higher and purer motive for the attainment of excel- 
 lence than that of emulation. 
 
 ' Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which 
 is in Heaven is perfect.' 
 
 A genuine love, an unwearied contemplation of the 
 highest excellence, the diligent observance of the apos- 
 tolic injunction — ' Whatsoever things are true, what- 
 soever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, 
 whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are 
 lovely, whatsoever things are of good report ; if there 
 be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these 
 things;' — surely may work far more than the petty 
 striving to crawl an inch beyond some weak fellow- 
 worm. 
 
 True, there is a mark set before us to aim at; but 
 the space which we have to measure, with all the 
 trepidation of hope and fear, is the distance from that 
 mark, not the distance from each other; and small 
 scope is there for exultation to him whose arrow has 
 gone a yard beyond his brother's, while both have fallen 
 short of the aim. True, St. Paul urges us to run a race 
 for a crown, but it is not to the spirit of competition 
 that he appeals in order to incite us. Those promises of 
 praise responding to our natural thirst for it, accorded 
 to us in Holy Writ, do not foster or sanction the desire 
 to outdo others, but minister to the honourable, glow- 
 ing delight which the spirit feels in securing the appro- 
 bation of those whom it most venerates. And what 
 generous mind can meditate on the Apostle's words 
 without rejoicing that the Christian race is not exclu- 
 sive as that of which he speaks, where 'but one 
 receiveth the prize V 
 
 Fortunately, various causes combined to render Mdlle. 
 Vernet's experiment less perilous than from its own 
 nature it might have been. There was stinging and 
 hissing enough before long, certainly, but not so much 
 from envy as other emotions. Geraldine was at once 
 too proud and too generous to be prone to so base a
 
 THE COUSINS. 103 
 
 feeling. She had. a strong conviction that, however 
 glaring her deficiencies on this or that point might be, 
 however great the shame to which her teachers occa- 
 sionally put her, still, on the whole, there was something 
 which placed her immeasurably above her competitor, 
 and never felt really discomfited and abashed. Envy 
 might possibly have efiected an easier entrance into 
 the heart of Gwen, but thence it was repelled with 
 the horror which the first detection of its presence na- 
 turally excited, in one who kept that heart 'diligently.' 
 Moreover, the progress which Gwen made was so rapid 
 and commendable, that she had no temptation to envy 
 on those points on which Mdlle. Yernet incessantly 
 urged the girls forward. Geraldine was not in the 
 least vexed to see Mdlle. Yernet and Gwen warm and 
 steady friends ; but she did feel, and gradually became 
 disposed to resent, the guarded coldness which the latter, 
 meaning to avoid altercation, day by day assumed to- 
 wards herself; and found it the more displeasing because 
 Mdlle. Yernet frequently affirmed that Miss Owen 
 had beaucouj) de sensibilite as well as tous les talens. 
 One day a circumstance occurred which confirmed 
 Mdlle. Yernet's assertion. The governess had selected 
 for her pujuls' French reading the beautifully- written 
 little dramas of L'Ami des Enfans, assigning to each a 
 part to be read in turn. Her choice one morning fell 
 on the touching story of ' VEcole Militaire,^ and she 
 naturally took the part of Le Gouverneur herself, giving 
 to Geraldine that of Le Directeur, who seeks the first- 
 named personage to describe and comment on the sin- 
 gular deportment of the new scholar, Edouard, and the 
 curiosity and interest which he has awakened. When 
 Geraldine read the words, ' II est tres ardent h Vetude^ 
 et rien ne pent le detourner de ses travaux,' she turned 
 to Gwen, and cried : 
 
 * Oh ! Gwen, this is you exactly ! you must certainly 
 be Edouard. Let us see how it goes on.' 
 
 ' Mais dans les heures de reldche il est /roid, sombre, 
 et silencieux au milieu de ses camarades — ' * II s'e leve
 
 104 GWEN, OR 
 
 contre eux coinme un m/ar de glace.^ Geraldine looked 
 up miscliievously, and added, ' Not so very unlike, 
 either.' 
 
 Such an address as this made Gwen freeze the 
 harder, and she read without expressing interest till 
 she arrived at the confession which Edouard makes to 
 le gouverneur of the poverty and the sufferings of his 
 neglected family. When she had completed the sen- 
 tences — ' Et Von veut que je me rejouisse lorsque mon 
 cceuT est noye dans les larmes. On veut que je mange 
 un meilleur 7norceau que mon pere nen a mange depuis 
 treize ans'' — she burst into a flood of tears, all the more 
 passionate for the restraint which she had imposed on 
 herself to the last moment, and, darting out of the 
 room, resumed her place at her lessons no more that 
 morning. 
 
 ' Ah ! je devine tout P was Mdlle. Vernet's excla- 
 mation, as she and Geraldine recovered from the con- 
 sternation into which Gwen had thrown them. ' Have 
 you not observed how she gives the pieference to the 
 driest bread and the plainest dish on the table, denying 
 herself the sweets and the delicacies which children 
 usually love so well? I see it all now !' 
 
 So did Geraldine, for she easily believed what 
 touched her heart or fancy ; and she repeated with 
 much tenderness, to her mother, all that had occurred. 
 Mrs. Faulkner was moved and surprised. 
 
 ' But, my dear, I am sure Mary Owen is not in such 
 miserable circumstances as your story speaks of. 
 Mdlle. Vernet likes a little French exaggeration ; you 
 must not put such fancies into G wen's head ; she will 
 hurt herself, and she looks like a little ghost now. I 
 know what I will do. Catherine shall find out what 
 truth there is in this.' 
 
 Gwen, when kindly questioned by Catherine, would 
 say no more than that she could not help crying — cer- 
 tainly the story did make her think of her home, or 
 rather made her feel that, had she been in Edouard's 
 place, she could not have done otherwise than as he
 
 THE COUSINS. 105 
 
 did. But she had not practised any remarkable abste- 
 miousness since her arrival at Lascelles ; she was 
 accustomed to plain fare onlj, but never had known 
 restriction in that. She could not partake of the 
 bon-bons, and preserves, and cakes which Geraldine 
 was always eating ; they undoubtedly would make her 
 
 m. 
 
 Gwen spoke the truth, and here the matter dropped.* 
 
 * I shall run the risk of inviting some of my readers to peruse, 
 for the hundredth time, the touching anecdote annexed to the drama, 
 LEcole Mllifaire, rather than that of leaving any destitute of the 
 pleasure of seeing it for the first. 
 
 ' Un enfant de tres bonne naissance, place a I'ecole militaire, se 
 contentait depuis plusieurs jours de la soupe et du pain sec avec de 
 I'eau. Le gouverneur, averti de cette singularite, Fen reprit, 
 attribuant cela ^ quelque exces de devotion mal entendue. Le 
 jeune enfant continuait toujours, sans decouvrir son secret. M. P. D. 
 instruit par le gouverneur de cette perseverance fit venir le jeune 
 eleve ; et apres lui avoir doucement represente combien il etait 
 necessaire d'eviter toute singularite, et de se conformer a Tusage 
 de I'ecole, voyant qu'il ne s'expliquait point sur les motifs de sa 
 conduite, fut contraint de le menacer, s'il ne se reformait, de le 
 rendre a sa famille. Helas, monsieur, dit alors 1' enfant, vous 
 voulez savoir la raison que j'ai d'agir comme je fais ; la voici : dans 
 la maison demon pere je mangeais du pain noir en petite quantite ; 
 nous n'avions souvent que de I'eau a y ajouter. Ici je mange de 
 bonne soupe, le pain y est bon, blanc, a discretion. Je trouve que 
 je fais grande chere, je ne puis me resoudre k manger davantage, 
 me souvenant de I'etat de mon pere et de ma mere, 
 
 * M. P. D. et le gouverneur ne pouvaient retenir leurs larmes, 
 en voyant la sensibilite et la fermete de cet enfant. Monsieur, 
 reprit M. P. D,, si monsieur votre pere a servi, n'a-t-il pas de 
 pension? Non, repondit 1' enfant. Pendant un an, il en a sollicite 
 une : le defaut d' argent I'a contraint d'y renoncer, et il a mieux 
 aime languir que de faire des dettes a Versailles. Eh bien, dit 
 M. P. D., si le fait est aussi prouve qu'il parait vrai dans votre
 
 106 GWEN. 
 
 bouche, je vous promets de lui obtenir 500 livres de pension. 
 Puisque vos parents sont si peu k leur aise, vraisemblablement il ne 
 vous ont pas bien fournile gousset ; recevez pour vos menus -plaisirs 
 ces trois louis que je vous presente de la part du roi ; et quant ^ 
 monsieur votre pere, je lui enverrai d'avance les six moisde la pension 
 que je suis assure de lui obtenir. Monsieur, reprit 1' enfant, com- 
 ment pourrez-vous lui envoyer cet argent ? Ne vous en inquietez 
 point, repondit M. P. D. ; nous en trouverons le moyen. Ah ! 
 monsieur, repartit promptement 1' enfant, puisque vous avez cette 
 facilite, remittez-lui aussi les trois louis que vous venez de me 
 donner. Ici j'ai de tout en abondance ; cet argent me deviendrait 
 inutile, et il fera grand bien a mon pere pour ses autres enfans. — 
 UAmi des Enfans, par Berquin.
 
 ? ;vtj!icf V^ef ^"i^^ ^Qti^-T 3p)^i?t. ^?^e# 5^2^ ^^^ VS^ ^^^ '^^^, 
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 Pour bien peindre les gens vous etes admirable. — MoliI:re. 
 
 MAMMA, I want you to take me out in the car- 
 riage,' said Geraldine. ' Gwen has established 
 herself in the school-room this fine half -holiday, with 
 her desk, and says she must write home to Hugh. I 
 sha'n't move her, I can see. When I asked her again, 
 she only looked more ]*igid ; so I give her up, and 
 come to you, dearest mother. You always can and 
 will amuse me.' 
 
 ' Yery well, my child,' replied Mrs. Faulkner, glad 
 to have Geraldine, and a little jealous of Gwen's having 
 won her away lately. ' We will amuse each other.' 
 
 Now let us see how the frigid-looking Gwen is 
 amusing herself ; quite as well as Geraldine, we should 
 think, when we take a look at her. The v/eather was 
 bright and frosty, and she was sitting beside a cheerful 
 fire, the blaze of which, reflecting itself on her cheek, 
 relieved it from its usual pallid hue. Her pen was 
 flying rapidly over her paper. Every now and then 
 a smile curled her lip and brightened her eyes ; she 
 paused to contemplate her ideas with complacency, 
 and then hastened to commit them to writing. When 
 her letter was completed she got up and stood over 
 the fire, reading it through again. She had indulged 
 herself in detailing to Hugh all the pent-up secrets 
 of her heart, telling him everything, and all that she 
 thought of every one with whom she had made any 
 acquaintance since she had seen him. 
 
 ' It is to me like sitting at a play, and I am better
 
 108 GWEN, OR 
 
 pleased to listen than to talk. Everything is to 
 me a complete change from mamma's quiet little 
 room, and my Winchester studies, and my games 
 with you. Can you believe it 1 both these last 
 have made me rather an object of alarm here. I 
 don't think any of them like me as well as if I could 
 not construe Latin. Mrs. Faulkner is frightened 
 at my skill in jumping, but Geraldine has plenty of 
 life and fun naturally, and enjoys it. I am sure I 
 sha'n't learn to wish to be a fine lady. I should 
 be sorry to lie on the sofa all day, like Mrs. Faulkner, 
 ringing the bell for something to do, and changing her 
 dress half a dozen times, for the same reason, I imagine. 
 Her maid is as fine a lady as herself Our French 
 governess is a very clever woman — a Parisian — horri- 
 fied at my pronunciation, but I hope I shall soon 
 improve it. Geraldine, who has been so long with her, 
 out of pure laziness talks very often the most wretched 
 stuff for French that you ever heard. Yesterday, 
 when Mdlle. Yernet called out, ' Qui est la ?' she 
 answered ' Je / but of course she knows better. She 
 reminds me much of those verses which we have often 
 laughed at ; 
 
 Ma fille, 
 
 Mabille, 
 
 S'habille, 
 
 Babille, 
 
 Se deshabille. 
 
 I don't love any one here so well as Catherine Irving. 
 I don't know what to call her ; she used to be the 
 nurse. There is an excellent English library, of which 
 I believe that she has made more use than anybody. 
 I hope I shall have many a pleasant hour in it — my 
 pleasantest. Oh Hugh ! if I could by a wish bring 
 you there ! Mr. Faulkner comes down from London 
 every evening, but really he is so silent and grave that 
 I wonder sometimes what makes him come so far. 
 Every one seems afraid to speak in his presence.
 
 THE COUSINS. 109 
 
 Geraldine stands in aN\^e of him, and of no one else. 
 He brings Mrs. Faulkner a number of pretty pre- 
 sents, and she is just like a child with them ; it is 
 amusing to see and to hear her ; only you would 
 think her very silly if I repeated some of the things 
 that she says. Sometimes I am fond of her, and 
 like to listen to her. At first I thought I could never 
 tire of looking at her and at Geraldine, they are so 
 beautiful ; but I am beginning to be glad to turn occa- 
 sionally to Catherine's sensible, good-tempered face, or 
 to jMdlle. Yernet's ugly, clever, ill-tempered one 
 instead. 
 
 'Lady Rivers, Mr. Faulkner's sister, also comes 
 here, very fine, very proud. I don't think she is at 
 all like a lady : she takes notice of me to humble 
 Geraldine, but we neither of us care for that. 
 Mrs. Faulkner and her daughter are both generous. 
 I wish, with all my heart, they would give me fewer 
 presents. There is something about presents that I 
 hate ; they make me think of the Roman girl, who 
 was crushed to death by the soldiers' glittering shields. 
 I know there is no sense in this comparison, but it 
 comes into my head. Certainly, I do feel oppressed by 
 favours, followed by treatment that I don't like : that 
 is the truth of it. Mrs. Faulkner and Geraldine 
 gall me (the one intentionally, the other not), for 
 Geraldine wants to tyrannize over me, and Mrs. 
 Faulkner evidently thinks I am to be pitied, and I 
 find it easier to put down Geraldine's impertinence 
 than to bear this compassion.' 
 
 This is enough to show the pervading tone of Gwen's 
 letter. It must be added, that she had already, in 
 writing to her mother, commented on all that gave 
 her scope for praise and gratitude. 
 
 Gwen folded her letter and sealed it ; the next 
 thing was to take it down to the letter-box. As she 
 turned to leave the room there flashed across her 
 mind an instance of generous consideration on the 
 part of Mrs. Faulkner, that she could not think of
 
 110 GWEN, OR 
 
 without being touched by it. The first time that 
 Mrs. Faulkner saw a letter to her lying on the table, 
 she said : ' Gwen, you don't know the rule of the house j 
 Aldridge always pays the postage of every letter that 
 goes from it. Now — don't say one word — it is the 
 rule, and do you think it can be broken for a little 
 thing like you 1 certainly not.' 
 
 ' It is this liberality,' thought Gwen, ' which gives 
 me the power of wiiting to my home so freely and so 
 frequently as I have done, and can it be right, in the 
 very letters she sends for me, to comment in this way 
 on her and on her child 1 — to detail every folly, fault, 
 or weakness, witnessed by me, because I have been 
 taken into the bosom of her family ? Am I beginning 
 an honourable course? this is the first step I have 
 taken in it, and I can still go back.' 
 
 Gwen returned to the fire, and put her letter, which 
 she had spent the whole of the fine afternoon in 
 writing, into it. She chose rather a black spot to 
 place it in, not absolutely certain that she would burn 
 it after all ; therefore, she avoided the heart of the fire, 
 and she stood still and watched it gradually blacken, 
 curl, and shrivel till the sealing wax, getting thoroughly 
 hot, broke into a blaze. The deed was done, not ex- 
 peditiously, but effectually. As Gwen stood looking 
 with satisfaction as well as regret, on the white ashes, 
 Geraldine ran up stairs and into the room, crying : 
 
 ' Well, Gwen, have you finished your letter V 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Gwen, drily. 
 
 * Where is it ? you don't mean to say that you have 
 burnt it V Geraldine's quick eye fell on the ashes. 
 
 ' I don't mean to say anything,' replied Gwen, turn- 
 ing away. ' I mean to go out for a run.' She knew 
 it was too late to write another letter. 
 
 ' Well, you are odd !' exclaimed Geraldine. ' Wait, 
 I am coming too.' 
 
 As the girls were crossing the hall they met Mrs. 
 Faulkner, who asked : 
 
 * Have you put your letter into the box, Gwen V
 
 THE COUSINS. Ill 
 
 Gwen's cheek flushed a little, partly because she 
 knew that Geraldine was waiting for her answer. 
 
 'No, ma'am,' she said, distinctly. 
 
 ' What ! could you not finish it in time V remarked 
 Mrs. Faulkner, with surprise. 
 
 ' Oh ! mamma, I really believe that what she had 
 been writing all the day she put at last into the fire ! 
 Now do, Gwen, just speak the truth — it is so curious.' 
 
 ' The tinith !' repeated Gwen, proudly ; ' I have spoken 
 the truth.' And she walked up the stairs to fetch her 
 bonnet. 
 
 ' ^Yhat a little disagreeable thing it is !' cried Geral- 
 dine. ' But she can be pleasant enough when she 
 chooses. She amuses me more than any one, some- 
 times.' 
 
 And Gwen did choose to be very amusing that 
 evening, though she could not consent to be always at 
 Geraldine's call, just when she would have her. There 
 were times when Gwen wished to amuse herself She, 
 too, was an only child, and though not indulged 
 with the same indiscriminate, foolish fondness 
 lavished on Geraldine, she had been too much an 
 object of tender consideration to be able to forget her- 
 self at all times for others without an efibrt. Then, 
 again, the lively interest which her mind took in its 
 pursuits would not allow her to break away as Geral- 
 dine did, fluttering like a butterfly from flower to 
 flower. Gwen, like the bee, would stay till she had 
 extracted the honey, and, moreover, would often not 
 be satisfied without going straight home to the cell to 
 store it away. These are old similes, but very true as 
 applied to these children. 
 
 ^•^•^^^"t-^ 
 
 -$'###4-* 
 
 -$-#•§!• 
 
 ^
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 If 'tis not to be had at home, 
 She'll travel for a martyrdom. 
 
 Crashaw. 
 
 ANOTHER fine half-holiday arrived, on which, 
 though Gwen acknowledged that she had no letters 
 to write home, Geraldine found that she could not 
 draw her out of the library by any means that she 
 could employ. She had sought her everywhere, and 
 at last found her sitting on the floor, with a book in 
 her lap, and a pencil and paper, which she pushed out 
 of sight. 
 
 ' Gwen, Gwen, how I have hunted for you ! Now 
 do come out.' 
 
 ' Not now, Geraldine ; indeed I can't. I want very 
 much to read a little of this book.' 
 
 ' Why what is it ? Oh ! that Fleury which Mdlle. 
 Vernet wanted, and made me nearly break my neck 
 in scrambling for. It is a book that no one cares for 
 but herself. Do let it alone, and come with me.' 
 
 ' No one cares for 1' replied Gwen, her eyes darken- 
 ing in their own peculiar way with enthusiasm. ' I 
 care so much. I read a bit when she made you reach 
 it down, and I resolved to read some more the first 
 minute I could, and that is now.' 
 
 ' Well, it is very selfish.' 
 
 ' But, Geraldine, how is it more selfish in me to stay 
 here when I have begun reading, than in you to wish 
 me to come away V
 
 THE COUSINS. 113 
 
 ' Oh ! because the half-holidays are given on pur- 
 pose for you to play with me.' 
 
 But Geraldine went away, thinking that if she got 
 Gwen out against her will, she might not prove an 
 agreeable companion, and Gwen called after her, with 
 a touch of compunction : ' I'll come presently.' 
 
 Geraldine departed ; Gwen pulled out her pencil and 
 paper again, and with her book before her, open at a 
 narrative which had struck her imagination power- 
 fully, she wrote on and on, sometimes veiy rapidly 
 and continuously, sometimes pausing and reflecting. 
 The occupation interested her so much, that she did 
 not observe that the whole day had passed since she said, 
 * I'll come presently,' nor did she hear Geraldine steal 
 into the room and come behind her ; suddenly she felt 
 two hands on her shoulders, and heard a cry : 
 
 ' Verses, I declare. Then I will read them ; that is 
 but fair. As you have done nothing else to make my 
 time pass pleasantly, you shall at any rate give me your 
 verses to amuse me.' 
 
 ' No, no, Geraldine, they are not amusing — I dare 
 say they are very bad — I am quite sure that you will 
 not like them.' 
 
 ' Let me judge of that. I feel curious to see them.' 
 
 ' You can't make them out ; I can't myself. I have 
 scribbled them so fast — ' 
 
 ' You have been here several hours, I am sure.' 
 
 * Have I ? but that is not long, for I have finished ; 
 at least, I know I must alter and put a great deal right 
 — and there are places to fill up.' 
 
 ' Come, come, Gwen ; is it a story 1 Let me hear it. 
 I'll sit here where I can look out of the window if I 
 find it dull' 
 
 G wen longed to hear the sound of the verse, and she 
 did not know to whom she could read it. Of MdUe. 
 Yemet she felt afraid; Catherine she had thought of, 
 but Geraldine insisted, and she began. She gave a 
 brief explanation, reading the following sentences in 
 rieury: 
 
 VOL. L I
 
 114 GWEN, OR 
 
 EULALIA.— A Sketch * 
 
 ' A.D. 303. A Merida, capitale de Lusitanie, Eulalie, vierge de 
 famille noble, souffrit le martyre, agee seulement de douze ans. 
 Des I'enfance elle avait montre une gravite au-dessus de son ^ge. 
 Elle montrait aussi une telle ardeur pour le martyre que ses parens 
 la tenaient cachee loin de la ville dans une maison de campagne. 
 Mais elle s'ecliappa la nuit toute seule. — Fleury, Histoire EccU- 
 siastique, livre Sme, xlvii., Marty res dj* Espagne. 
 
 * But the verses/ cried Geraldine ; ' the verses !' 
 ' They begin here,' said Gwen. 
 
 ' A child at eve through orange-gardens strayed, 
 A strange and untold grief upon her preyed. 
 From Merida her anxious parents fled 
 When Christian blood remorseless tyrants shed j 
 For much they feared their child would seek to share 
 The martyr's pangs, and would her faith declare j 
 Not by compulsion, but in wild defiance 
 Of all that man can do, and firm reliance 
 That none are blest as they who 'do not love 
 Their life to death,' but seek their joys above. 
 'Twere vain to argue with a maid whose breast 
 Enthusiasm from infancy possessed. 
 They fled the city, sought the rural home. 
 Where for twelve summers 'twas her wont to roam, 
 There hoped the cooler breeze, the flowers' perfumes, 
 The songs of birds, the fever that consumes 
 Her fragile frame will calm — her mind engage 
 With milder fancies, fitting more her age. 
 Eulalia guessed their aim, and inward crushed 
 The appeal of passion, to her lips that rushed ; 
 Confirmed in purpose grew; no watchful power 
 Shall long withhold her from the wished-for hour. 
 
 * These verses were composed before tbe writer bad met with. 
 Prudentius.
 
 THE COUSINS. 115 
 
 ' I cannot linger in these gloomy shades 
 
 Where many a Christian ghost my peace invades ; 
 
 I hear their sighs oft whispered 'mid the trees, 
 
 I hear their shrieks oft borne upon the breeze, 
 
 The waterfall repeats the martyr's name — 
 
 They all invoke me — all upbraid with shame ! 
 
 I will not tarry where I dare not tell 
 
 My firm design — the martyr-list to swell. 
 
 Why did they bring me here 1 'twas easier far 
 
 In Meiida to plunge me in the war — 
 
 The idol's temple to profane — o'erthrow 
 
 The senseless image, and my life forego ; 
 
 Their heathen fears with biting words to grieve, 
 
 And boldly to avow all I believe — 
 
 My brother scaled last year that wall of stone. 
 
 And found his way to Merida alone ; 
 
 To reach the Circus — that was all he sought, 
 
 Where men with beasts for men's diversion fought. 
 
 Oh ! I would mingle in more glorious strife ; 
 
 And shall they force me to preserve my life 1 
 
 When it hath been my earliest treasured hoj^e 
 
 With Christ's assailants front to front to cojdc. 
 
 In daily musings — dreams that came again — 
 
 I have replied to questions of stern men. 
 
 Have stni maintained the truth, and seen their eye? 
 
 Glare on me fiercely — marked their fuiy rise, 
 
 Scofied at their menaces, and heard them give 
 
 The final doom — ' No longer shall she live !' 
 
 And is this but an idle dream — no more 1 
 
 And shall it pass and leave me as before ? 
 
 The longed-for struggle shall I never meet, 
 
 To die in flames, wake at my Saviour's feet 2 
 
 The palm may ne'er again so near me wave. 
 
 And ne'er beneath me yawn the martyr's grave — 
 
 Oh, how unkind the friends who seek to save ! 
 
 Now, if I 'scape, I may not bid adieu. 
 
 False to their bidding, but to somewhat true 
 
 That whispers in my breast, ' Eulalia, fly ; 
 
 Haste, Christian maid, to Merida, to die.' 
 
 I 2
 
 116 GWEN, OR 
 
 ' Oil, no, no !' cried Geraldine ; ' don't let her !' 
 ' She must,' answered Gwen. in a tone of deep 
 determination. 
 
 * The day hath passed in weak regrets ; 'tis night, 
 
 The stars are out, the moon serenely bright — 
 
 She smiles upon my path, she cheers me on. 
 
 Dare I still doubt 1 'tis time that I were gone — 
 
 Down the lime avenue I'll fleetly pass, 
 
 And none will hear my foot-fall on the grass ; 
 
 Farewell, dear pleasant home, thy silent courts 
 
 Shall never more re-echo to my sports. 
 
 Dear parents, e'en in thought I dare not greet 
 
 You now. Forgive your child her sole deceit. 
 
 When first you miss me, what will be your fears, 
 
 Your grief, when first my death shall meet your ear=3 1 
 
 'Twere cruel and vain to bid you not to mourn, 
 
 But, oh, may God to joy your mourning turn ! 
 
 Wipe from your pallid cheeks your tears away, 
 
 And ye shall henceforth as my natal day 
 
 Observe my day of death, exult to claim, 
 
 Writ in the martyrs' list, Eulalia's name !' 
 
 'You know, Geraldine, the early Christians did 
 keep the martyrs' day of death as their birth-day j 
 was not that beautiful and true V 
 
 * I scarcely can discern, with streaming eyes. 
 
 The lofty towers of Merida arise ; 
 
 And scarce will bear me on my bleeding feet — 
 
 How lag the steps that, starting, were so fleet ! 
 
 The goal's in sight — the race is nearly run, 
 
 I'll reach the city with the rising sun ; 
 
 The Sun of Righteousness, with power to heal ! 
 
 That thought forbids me fleshly pangs to feel. 
 
 My heart beats high with hope. Ye feverish throbs 
 
 Rack not my brain — and cease, convulsive sobs ! 
 
 In this cool stream my weary limbs I'll lave. 
 
 And of the passer-by a morsel crave ;
 
 THE COUSINS. 117 
 
 Then fresh and blithe as morning breeze, the gate 
 Entering, will challenge my desired fate !' 
 
 ' The child hath gained tie portal, and hath passed, 
 
 And some a curious look upon her cast. 
 
 And some in pity stopt, and deemed it strange 
 
 A child so gentle thus was left to range ; 
 
 For they could read her birth and breeding high. 
 
 Despite her way-soiled garb, torn feet, and haggard eye. 
 
 But, if the maiden's looks amazement woke, 
 
 Yet stranger seemed her questions when she spoke. 
 
 ' Oh, tell me where the judgment-hall, I pray, 
 
 And sit the judges there from break of day?' 
 
 * Ay, little one, and toil, I wot, till eve, 
 
 Yet many a Christian unchastised leave ; 
 
 In yonder stately hall their councils meet.' 
 
 On sprang Eulalia, with untired feet. 
 
 ' Nay, do not thrust me back, I have words to speak 
 
 Will dearly please your judge, whose face I seek. 
 
 I am a feeble child — I know it well, 
 
 And yet a weighty secret have to tell.' 
 
 ' Pass on,' the surly sentinel replied ; 
 
 Eulalia stood before the judge, and cried — 
 
 ' You search for Christians ; take me, I am one — 
 
 I hate your idols, and their altars shun ; 
 
 I mock their worshippers, e'en Caesar too, 
 
 If he to senseless wood and stone can sue.' 
 
 ' Whence is this maid — who let her here intrude ? 
 
 From Christians she hath learnt this language rude. 
 
 Go home, fair child, and tell them they're to blame 
 
 To make thy tongue the vehicle of shame.' 
 
 ' I am untutored, and by none am sent ; 
 
 Unseen I left my home, my steps here bent. 
 
 To seek the baptism stern of blood I come, 
 
 And will not quit you till you seal my doom. 
 
 Why this unwonted pity? you have slain 
 
 Many as young and tender ; some in vain 
 
 Have asked compassion. You perchance refuse 
 
 To grant me death, because 'tis death I choose !
 
 118 GWEN, OR 
 
 Cannot your eyes in torments still delight ] 
 
 You are not, surely, weary of the sight 1 
 
 I'll not believe that I arrive too late, 
 
 And supplicate in vain a Christian's fate.' 
 
 A priest passed by, who bore the sacred flour 
 
 To sacrifice ; she cast it in a shower 
 
 Upon the earth, and cried, with scornful smile — 
 
 * See how I make your holy things most vile 1' 
 
 * Bear her to instant death,' the judges cry ; 
 The executioners are ever nigh ; 
 
 They seize the maid ; her sudden ire is o'er — 
 Not an invective, not a struggle more ; 
 A heavenly mildness settles on her face, 
 She has subsided into maiden grace; 
 Her slender hands she folds upon her breast, 
 And kneels as one who prays ere taking rest. 
 The savages have scourged her — not a cry 
 Has passed her lips — their taunts gain no reply. 
 With stripes of gore is laced her skin of snow — 
 
 * By this inscription men my faith may know/ 
 She meekly said. They lighted torches bear, 
 And quickly scorch the locks of raven hair 
 That fell about her like a glistening veil ; 
 
 In suffocating smoke her breathings fail. 
 Then drooped her youthful head upon her breast ; 
 Yain are their torments — she is with the blest. 
 Some saw a snow-white dove that pierced the skies, 
 And some affirm thus martyrs' spirits rise 1 
 
 * They left the corpse in scorn upon the ground, 
 But burial meet for virgin soon it found : 
 Fast fell the flaky snow ; the beauteous maid 
 In shroud of glittering whiteness was arrayed ; 
 And soon a sepulchre above her rose. 
 
 And hid her from the gaze of mocking foes.' 
 
 Gwen stopped, and Geraldine burst into tears. Gwen 
 threw her papers hastily on one side, and embraced her, 
 partly gratified by seeing the effect of her verses, partly
 
 THi; COUSINS. 119 
 
 moved to more affection towards her by the sight of 
 this sensibility than she had ever felt before. While 
 she was trying to soothe her, Catherine came in : 
 
 ' What is this V she said, Ibut she quickly perceived 
 that it was no quarrel. 
 
 ' It is all Gwen's verses,' cried Geraldine, somewhat 
 like a child who is angry at the pain occasioned it by 
 an object which nevertheless attracts it. ' They are 
 so di-eadfiil. But, Catherine, you must hear them too, 
 and then you will cry, I know.' And Geraldine sobbed 
 afresh. 
 
 ' Come, let me see them, may I V asked Catherine. 
 ' Oh ! no, you can't. I must copy them before any 
 one can read them but myself.' 
 ' When were they written V 
 
 ' Just now,' said Geraldine, ' while I was out at play; 
 only think !' and she insisted that Catherine should 
 hear them, and that Gwen should read them over again. 
 Catherine listened with interest enough to satisfy 
 Geraldine, and to show Gwen that the tone of feeling 
 which had led to the composition of them was under- 
 stood by her. 
 
 Evening was closing in. The two girls were still 
 sitting beside Catherine, — Gwen holding one of her 
 hands, and by her tight pressure of it, evidencing with- 
 out words her emotion ; — Geraldine's head lying on her 
 lap, her long golden hair streaming over it, and 
 Catherine's other hand intertwined with fond affection 
 in the bright and beautiful curls. The child suddenly 
 shook them back, and raising her head, gazed earnestly 
 in Catherine's face, saying : 
 
 ' Have there indeed been those who have died like 
 this 1 — so young — so brave 1 Oh ! Catherine ! Do 
 you think Mary could have done so V 
 
 Catherine paused. She answered, with deliberation, 
 * I don't think that the tale is like Mary. She would 
 have stayed in the home to which her parents had con- 
 veyed her, enduring the privation they imposed, with 
 just such patience as that with which she used to en-
 
 120 GWEN, 
 
 dure her sickness ! and in thus doing, she would have 
 done better than Eulalia.' 
 
 .' Better !' exclaimed both girls at once. 
 
 * Certainly that which was more difficult; it would 
 have cost Eulalia more to stay than it did to go/ re- 
 plied Catherine. 
 
 * Yes,' said Gwen, ' because it would have done vio- 
 lence to her highest feelings. Of course she felt 
 satisfaction in following whither they led her !' 
 
 ' True ; but if she had recognised that God, by sub- 
 jecting her to her parents' authority, did not at that 
 time require the sacrifice which she could offer Him 
 with so much joy, but rather one which cost her dear — 
 dearer than her life — I mean the foregoing of the mar- 
 tyr's palm, and a share in the fate of those whose 
 faith she shared, and whose afflictions she coveted: 
 would there have been no satisfaction in acquiescing 1' 
 
 * Yes,' said Gwen, in a low voice, and she looked 
 down thoughtfully. 
 
 ' Oh !' cried Geraldine, ' T wish her parents had never 
 run away from Merida in the beginning, and then they 
 might have died together !' 
 
 Geraldine was not slow in communicating Gwen's 
 work to her mother. Mrs. Faulkner thought that 
 whether the verses were good or bad, it was very clever 
 of Gwen to write them. She was no judge of poetry, 
 she knew, but she did wish that Gwen would not 
 choose such painful subjects any more. She could not 
 help crying ; who could ] She did not like such ideas 
 to be put into Geraldine's head ; to be sure she could 
 not carry them into execution now. ' I should have 
 thought it my first duty to fly, and to take her with 
 me under such horrible circumstances. It is not the 
 least use to talk to me of anything else.'
 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Una medesima lingua pria mi morse, 
 Si che mi tinse I'una e I'altra guancia, 
 E poi la medicina mi riporse. Dante. 
 
 rPHE time came when Geraldine ceased to find 
 JL amusement in Gwen as in a new toy. She grew 
 tired of her, and often called her prim and conceited. 
 Mdlle. Yernet, who was a clever woman rather than 
 one of sound judgment, and certainly not possessed of 
 a good temper, quite overshot her mark as far as 
 Geraldine's improvement was designed, by setting up 
 Gwen in comparison to her on all occasions, and lauding 
 her as being much more ' sage,' — much more ' clever 
 and industrious.' 
 
 * One and all, no doubt !' exclaimed Geraldine, 
 mimicking Mdlle. Vemet's tone admirably, for the gra- 
 tification of Collinson, whose society she sometimes 
 selected in preference to that of her governess or her 
 cousin. 'One and all, no doubt; nevertheless there is 
 an accomplishment in which I defy her to surpass me — 
 the art of plaguing. How mad I can make Mademoiselle ! 
 and as to Gwen herself, never have I had maid or teacher 
 whom I could torment as I do her ; and by such little 
 things — mere trifles, that would not discompose me in 
 the least. I see her growing more and more frigid, just 
 because within she is gettino: hotter and hotter. It is 
 very silly to call her as stiff as the poker, for you 
 know when iron is hot you can bend it, and you can't 
 bend her. To be sure you can strike sparks of fire out — ■ 
 plenty of them. It is something like stroking pussy's
 
 122 GWEN, OR 
 
 hair tlie wrong way; Gweii's eyes get like coals, 
 and I am sure I could see them in the dark. I should 
 not like to shut myself up in a dark room with her 
 when I have thoroughly heated her, so I can't ascertain 
 that fact.' 
 
 ' And why not. Miss Geraldine ? what do you think 
 she would do to you V asked Collinson, laughing. 
 
 ' Fly round my throat, and strangle me, perhaps, for 
 I am sure there would be no shaking her off.' 
 
 Catherine came into the room ; nothing she disliked 
 more than to find Geraldine with Collinson. This 
 Geraldine knew, but unabashed, she cried : 
 
 ' I am counting over all the little harmless modes of 
 amusement of which Mdlle. Yernet cannot deprive me. 
 I believe I can reckon at least ten different ways of 
 tormenting her and Gwen. First, to begin with Gwen : 
 putting the whole school-room in disorder just after she 
 has arranged it beautifully. Only think of that silly 
 woman supposing for one moment that she should put 
 me to shame, by installing Gwen in the office of keep- 
 ing all the book-cases, and the writing-table, and 
 everything else tidy, with sundry comments on the 
 discomfort and vexation which she has daily endured 
 through my slovenly ways. Yesterday she actually 
 ventured, she said, to tell Ann that now there 
 was a young lady in the school-room, she might put 
 the new cloth on the writing-table. When it was 
 brought, Gwen arranged it proudly — made it hang just 
 the same length all round — and the proper distance 
 from the ground. I pulled one of the corners — you 
 know they have heavy tassels on them, — and said that 
 it looked much better a little degage. Gwen said 
 nothing, but put it straight. I pulled it crooked again, 
 and she straight again. I could not allow that. I 
 gave it rather a sharp twitch while it was still in her 
 hold, and oh ! sad catastrophe, more terrible and sudden 
 than even Mdlle. Yernet could have anticipated ! over 
 went the inkstand, just replenished by Gwen, and the 
 black ill-natured stream took the course which led it
 
 THE COUSINS. 123 
 
 over her poor little writing-case, whicli she takes such 
 care of !' 
 
 'Which her brother, her only brother, gave her,' 
 said Catherine. 
 
 ' Her brother, her only brother,' repeated Geraldine. 
 ' Why, I have no brother at all, and I do very well. 
 But if you had seen Gwen's look then ! — the flash of 
 lightning ! I felt myself all over to find out where I 
 was struck. I was going to wipe the writing-case, when 
 she snatched it from my touch, and darted out of the 
 room into her own, and locked the door. I could hear 
 her washing and scouring the poor book in a way which 
 I knew must spoil it. I called to her to stop — no an- 
 swer. I am sure I don't care whether it is spoiled or 
 not!' 
 
 * What a fuss !' cried Collinson. 
 
 ' Miss Geraldine,' said Catherine, ' you have talked 
 a great deal too much nonsense and untruth too. You 
 do care — you know very well that you care — else why 
 did you beg your mamma to bring you another writing- 
 case from London, unless it was that you felt ashamed 
 of your fault, and sorry for your cousin's vexation !* 
 
 For the first time Geraldine looked out of coun- 
 tenance, and coloured : ' Nonsense. I am not a bit 
 ashamed. How do you know that 1 want it for her 1 
 I told mamma to bring one tmce as large and twice as 
 convenient in every way, and to give twice as much 
 money for it as the other could possibly have cost : there !' 
 And Geraldine paused, as if to challenge the applause 
 of her hearers, and from one she received the desired 
 tribute. 
 
 ' Well, I know who will be ashamed when she sees 
 how generous you can be, and will wish then that she 
 could have kept her temper, and not have been jDut 
 out by such a trifle,' said Collinson. 
 
 ' I don't tliink,' observed Catherine, quietly, ' that 
 Miss Owen's value for the gift will depend on its size 
 and price exactly. If you show her that you are sorry 
 to have hurt her feelings by idle mischief, which had
 
 124 GWEN, OR 
 
 no such object in view, I dare say she will not think 
 more about it.' 
 
 * Her feelings !' cried Geraldine ; ' it was the writing- 
 case that was hurt, I believe. There is the carriage, 
 and mamma coming, who knows how to put everything 
 right that is wrong. She sees me — she holds up a par- 
 cel to me, smiling — to tell that she has done all I asked 
 her to do, as she always does — dear, good mamma !' 
 And Geraldine bounded down stairs. 
 
 * What a giddy creature,' said Collinson, laughing. 
 * Not much good to lecture her.' 
 
 Catherine made no reply as she quitted the room. 
 Mrs. Eaulkner had scarcely put her foot on the step of 
 the carriage when Geraldine was at her side, her golden 
 curls dancing on her shoulders, expressing, as it were, 
 her impatience. 
 
 * Give it me, give it me, quick !' she exclaimed. 
 
 * What, Geraldine ! not one kiss V 
 
 * Twenty, if you please, mamma, only not now,' 
 cried Geraldine, reluctantly granting one, while at the 
 same time tearing the paper from the packet, and 
 scattering it on the ground. 
 
 ' Beautiful !' she pronounced. ' She ought to be 
 very glad that the other was spoiled.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Miss Geraldine, for shame !' It was Cathe- 
 rine's voice. 
 
 ' Catherine, you have been teasing me all day,' cried 
 Geraldine, passionately, and brushing past her, she ran 
 up to Gwen's room. Now, of all the annoyances which 
 had begun to rain plentifully on Gwen of late, there 
 was not one that she disliked more than Geraldine's 
 mode of rushing into her chamber. Shy, nervous, 
 sensitive, to be broken in on thus suddenly in moments 
 of imagined privacy and security, to be surprised when 
 sometimes weeping for her lost home, or struggling 
 with an exasperated temper, or writing those effusions 
 which were a relief to a burdened heart, was peculiarly 
 trying to Gwen, and not less so at this moment than
 
 THE COUSINS. 125 
 
 at former periods. Geraldine observed not liow she 
 "svas occupied ; she hurried to the table where she sat, 
 threw down the gilded, showy, and really beautiful 
 case before her, exclaiming, breathlessly : ' There, 
 Gwen, that is for you — because I spoiled your other, 
 you know.' 
 
 But the exclamation of gi'atitude and delight which 
 Geraldine had expected, came not. As the heart did 
 not utter it, neither would the lips. 
 
 ' This case — this handsome case for me T said Gwen, 
 slowly. ' Oh ! no, thank you, Geraldine. I would 
 rather not — indeed I would — it is much too good for 
 me — not at all what I wish — the other suits me ex- 
 actly—even now. Indeed it was not so much hurt as 
 I thought at first, and I am afraid, Geraldine, I was 
 very ill-tempered about it.' 
 
 Softened into this acknowledgment by Geraldine's 
 generosity, but firm in her refusal of the costly gift, 
 Gwen put it from her, Geraldine gazing on her with 
 amazement : ' What ! not take it — when I got it on 
 purpose for you — you little, proud, ill-tempered crea- 
 ture. This is nothing but bearing malice — unless, 
 indeed, Catherine prepared it all — taught you to give 
 me a lesson, perhaps ! Now, will you have it or not V 
 
 ' Certainly not noiv, thank you,' replied Gwen. ' No 
 one has taught me anything about it — I speak for 
 myself 
 
 ' What a hypocritical ' thank you.' Why can't 
 you say ' I hate you and your gifts,' then I should 
 believe you.' 
 
 ' But it would not be true, and I can't say what is 
 untiiie. to obtain the honour of your belief,' replied 
 Gwen, superciliously. 
 
 ' If you could either love or forgive, if you had an 
 atom of generosity or good temper in you, you could 
 never behave like this,' cried Geraldine, with increasing 
 fire. ' There,' she said, snatching the case from the 
 table, and thi'owing it on the ground, ' it may lie there
 
 J 20 GWEN, OR 
 
 for any one who likes it. I will never touch it again.' 
 And she quitted the room as abruptly as she had 
 entered it. 
 
 Gwen looked at the case lying on the floor, and 
 then burst into tears : ' Oh, mother ! oh, Hugh ! 
 How miserable 1 am here ! how much of this am I to 
 bear 1 I never understand when I am right and when 
 I am wrong. I did use to know that at least, when I 
 was with you.' 
 
 Meanwhile Geraldine hastened to her mother's 
 room. There she found Mrs. Faulkner and Catherine, 
 whom, in spite of her recent accusation, she was better 
 pleased to see than Collinson. The latter never got 
 her out of her difficulties, the former, usually did. 
 Besides, the girl had a full conviction that the one 
 she could trust, and the other not. She chose to be 
 waited on, flattered, 'sugared,' as she called it, by 
 Collinson ; and ' then I like a little of your mustard 
 and vinegar all the better, Catherine,' she would say. 
 So she chose to qualify Catherine's rebukes, well know- 
 ing that there was not a temper in the house that 
 could bear comparison with hers. At present she 
 walked up to her mother's toilette-table with glowing 
 cheeks, and an air of considerable mortification : 
 * What do you think, mamma ? She says she does not 
 like it — she positively will not have it.' 
 
 'Well, my dear, I am sorry for it,' replied Mrs. 
 Faulkner, good-naturedly ; ' if she does not like it, it 
 can't be helped. I really thought I chose the prettiest 
 there, but we can change it.' 
 
 ' She won't like anything,' exclaimed Geraldine, 
 impetuously. ' That is what she means.' 
 
 ' No, no, I am sure you are mistaken. I am sure 
 she must be pleased with your kindness, if not with 
 my taste.' 
 
 ' I don't think so,' replied Geraldine, pouting. 
 
 ' Have you been kind V asked Catherine. Geraldine 
 darted an angry look at her.
 
 THE COUSINS. 127 
 
 *Now don't be too hard on the child,' said Mrs. 
 Faulkner. ' What could be kinder than to think of 
 this at all V 
 
 ' But, madam,' continued Catherine, ' I wish to 
 ascertain if Miss Geraldine did give it in a manner 
 that could make it acceptable. No one knows better 
 than you do that half the value of a gift lies in that. 
 This poor child cared extremely for the book which 
 her brother had given her — not half so handsome as 
 Miss Geraldine's, of course — but can't you imagine, 
 ma'am, what she thought of it 1 the first she had ever 
 had — and brought from her home, and purchased with 
 the scanty savings of a school-boy's purse. I dare say 
 Miss Gwen knew well how many a little thing Hugh 
 must have denied himself to get a present for her ; 
 whereas. Miss Geraldine has nothing to do, but to run 
 and ask you to buy her the prettiest and the costliest 
 thing you can see, and it does not make the least 
 difference to her in any way what you give for it. It 
 is natural enough that Miss Gwen should think more 
 of her brother's generosity than of what is called 
 generosity in Miss Geraldine. I don't deny that it 
 was a kind thought, and it may have been a kind 
 deed — but was it V 
 
 ' I was kind enough,' replied Geraldine, by no means 
 blind to the truth of Catherine's remarks, ' till she 
 said, in her cold way, that she would not have it.' 
 
 ' And then V 
 
 ' Then I answered that it was her ill-temper and 
 malice that made her refuse.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Geraldine, that was not the way,' cried Mrs. 
 Faulkner ; ' but, really, Catherine, I can't helj) being 
 afraid that this girl has an unforgiving temper. Where 
 is the case, Geraldine, my love 1 Shall I take it to 
 herf 
 
 ' I don't care whether she accept it or not, now. I 
 have been so teased about it,' sobbed Geraldine. 
 
 ^ Oh ! but if she comes and thanks you for it V
 
 128 GWEN, OR 
 
 * I don't want her tlianks,' returned Geraldine, 
 thinking it very unlikely, from what she remembered 
 of Gwen's demeanour, that they would be proffered. 
 
 ' Did you leave it with her V 
 ' It is on the floor in her room.' 
 
 * On the floor. How odd ! How did it come there V 
 ' I threw it there.' 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner was ashamed to look at Catherine, 
 but, rising, said : ' Here, give me my dressing-gown, 
 Catherine, I will see about it myself.' 
 
 Gwen heard a light knock at her door. This was 
 treating her with a delicacy which she always met 
 with from Catherine, but it was not her well-known 
 and usually welcome knock. Whose, then, could it 
 be? She answered it, and there stood Mrs. Faulk- 
 ner, looking so pretty in her white dress, and her 
 beautiful dark hair hanging about her, and her delicate 
 little slipj^ered feet, and as kind as pretty, and Gwen 
 felt both. 
 
 ' May I come in, my dear f 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, ma'am,' replied Gwen, hastily disencum- 
 bering a chair of the books that lay on it, to make her 
 a seat. As she followed Mrs. Faulkner's eye to the 
 writing-case stretched on the floor, she coloured 
 deeply, picked it up, and laid it on the table with 
 care. 
 
 ' It is a pity to see it there, is it not, Gwen V said 
 Mrs. Faulkner. 
 
 ' Yes, indeed, ma'am,' replied Gwen, quite incapable 
 of accusing Geraldine. 
 
 ' But I don't blame you for that. I know how it 
 came there. Geraldine told me all about it. She 
 always does tell me everything, and never tries to 
 screen herself after these little fits of passion. Now 
 Gwen (and she drew her gently towards her) don't you 
 think it would have been kinder — and I am sure your 
 mother wishes you to be kind — to have accepted Geral- 
 dine's pretty present, when she had so much pleasure 
 in offering it V
 
 THE COUSINS. 129 
 
 ' I could not/ said Gwen, in a low, deep voice. 
 
 Unfortunately, Gwen's mood was not in the least 
 comprehensible to Mrs. Faulkner, and she only felt, as 
 she had said to Catherine, afraid that her temper was 
 unforgiving. 
 
 ' But, Gwen,' she said, after a short silence, ' don't 
 you think that you ought to try to forget the past ? 
 She did not even mean to hurt your book.' 
 
 ' No, I don't believe that she did — ' 
 
 ' Then why is it so difficult to forgive T 
 
 ' It is not that,' said Gwen. 
 
 But Mrs. Faulkner, instead of stopping to ask what 
 it was, partly from the aversion which she always had 
 thoroughly to examine any subject, and j^artly because 
 she was thinking much more of making things smooth 
 for Geraldine than of taking any real pains with the 
 characters of either of the children, or feeling any lively 
 interest in Gwen, continued : 
 
 ' You never will get on well with Geraldine, unless 
 you can forgive and forget her little passions. She 
 does not mean what she says in them ; there can't be 
 a sweeter temper than hers when they are over. I 
 want you to be friends, Gwen, and to be happy 
 together. I sent for you here that you might make 
 each other happy, and I know that your mother would 
 be gi'ieved, as I am, if there be differences and disputes 
 between you for ever.' 
 
 Gwen's tears began to flow. 
 
 ' Here, give me the case — the cause of this silly dis- 
 pute ; I will take it away — lock it up ; neither of you 
 shall see it any more.' 
 
 ' Oh ! but, ma'am, if you think I ought to keep 
 it—' 
 
 * Why, Gwen !' cried Mrs. Faulkner, losing patience, 
 *you really don't know whether you like to keep or 
 to part with it.' 
 
 ' No,' said Gwen, sadly, ' I don't. I should wish to 
 do exactly as you think best. 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 GWEN. 
 
 'Then keep it, by all means/ replied Mrs. Faulk- 
 ner, starting up; and she kissed Gwen and hurried 
 away. 
 
 Gwen afterwards tried rather stiffly to tell Geral- 
 dine that she had never doubted that she had meant 
 to be very kind, but Geraldine would not hear one 
 word of explanation. 
 
 'It is all right, now — don't let us talk about it, 
 please !' 
 
 And the beautiful writing-case lay on Gwen's table 
 unopened.
 
 */vU .AA* %/^j JV^ •ATrf tAA» iAA< t^yfV» v/1H^. i/Cru c/vVj fc/vU i/VU 
 '^r^ '^s^y "^jy %a/> '^J^^^ '>jy "^jy "^jy "^jy '^/^^ '^jy ""^iy 'My 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 A sweet attractive kind of gi-ace, 
 
 A full assurance given by lookes, 
 Continuall comfort in a face 
 
 The lineaments of Gospel bookes. 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 CATHERINE one day came to Gwen's room to ask 
 her to take a walk on the common to see a poor 
 cottager residing on it. She often made Gwen the 
 companion of her visits to the poor, but could never 
 obtain permission to take Geraldine where she thought 
 it would have been so good for her to go. Even Gwen 
 had been forced to plead earnestly, as she did not often 
 plead. 
 
 ' Indeed, I am used to the sort of thing ; mamma 
 has always wished me to be so. I know it is only 
 what she would desire,' she said, when first Mi-s. 
 Faulkner nervously started objections on seeing her 
 prepare to accompany Catherine as a matter of course. 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner yielded not unreluctantly — 'in full 
 reliance, remember, Catherine, in full reliance on your 
 discretion.' 
 
 ISTeither Mrs. Faulkner nor Geraldine could under- 
 stand why Catherine and Gwen cared so very much 
 to cany this point. A remembrance of Mary stole 
 across Mrs. Faulkner, and unnerved her opposition. 
 * Not that Gwen in the least resembles Mary — oh I 
 dear, no ! But who ever was like that sweet angel, 
 except herself ]' 
 
 ' One moment, Catherine, and I am ready,' answered 
 
 K 2
 
 132 GWEN, OR 
 
 Gwen, clieerfully, turning the key of her old, blotted 
 writing-case as she spoke. 
 
 Catherine's eye glanced at Geraldine's present. ' I 
 don't think I have ever found you using this,' she 
 said. 
 
 ^ No,' replied Gwen, with some confusion ; ' I don't 
 think you have.' 
 
 ' Now I should like to know why you were so averse 
 to accept it — whether it was simply that your pride 
 was hurt by Miss Geraldine's violence, or what it 
 wasf 
 
 'Well, Catherine,' answered Gwen, thoughtfully 
 and humbly, ' I don't think that it was all pride. I 
 have asked myself that, I could not endure that 
 Geraldine should fancy that she could give me what I 
 should like as well — better, than Hugh's gift. If she 
 had just said, ' I never meant to injure his, and I am 
 sorry,' I could have forgiven, and forgotten too, soon 
 — at once, perhaps ; but I could see that she treated 
 his with contempt, just because hers was something 
 finer, and she expected me to do the same !' 
 
 As they walked across the common, Gwen said to 
 Catherine : 
 
 ' Talk to me about Mary, as you do sometimes when 
 we are together thus. Tell me, was she the least like 
 Geraldine — to look at, I mean 1 Would a stranger 
 have known them to be sisters V 
 
 ' I can scarcely tell — I think not ; but I never saw 
 her till sickness had made such ravages as to render 
 it hardly possible that much resemblance could be 
 traced between the wan, thin, fragile-looking girl and 
 a child glowing with health and brightness, like Miss 
 Geraldine. People told me that there never had been 
 the same promise of beauty at any time — that Miss 
 Geraldine saucily spoke of her as ' dear, plain Mary.' 
 I can only say that to me she was beautiful — not just 
 at first, perhaps. There are looks of hers that will 
 linger by me till my dying day. They are among my
 
 THE COUSINS. 133 
 
 sweetest recollections of tlie past — tliej are my plea- 
 santest companions in the present, and certainly my 
 best reminders of what is to come, and I heai-tily wish 
 that you had seen them too. They would have taught 
 any beholder, I tliink, to understand better those words, 
 * Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evi- 
 dence of things not seen.' The holy joy that some- 
 times brightened her countenance was so lively that it 
 suggested the belief that some foresight, some foretaste 
 had been vouchsafed to her of those pleasures which 
 are at God's right hand. But she did not think so ; 
 she said that it was purely hope that animated her, 
 and no assurance gave her more satisfaction than that 
 which is written, ' Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, 
 neither have entered into the heart of man the things 
 which God hath prepared for them that love Him.' 
 She did not like any books that attemj)ted to picture 
 them too definitely. She used, with a faint tone and 
 gesture of distaste, to stop me if I read such to her, 
 making no further comment ; she was modest and 
 diffident in finding fault, even with books. She seldom 
 said more than, ' I don't want to hear that, Catherine, 
 thank you,' and then seemed to shrink away into her 
 inner self. But if no human pen has written about 
 Heaven what it gave her much satisfaction to hear, 
 there were verses in the Book of Revelations which, 
 uncommented on, she would never weary of. They it 
 was which used most frequently to bring into her clear 
 face the ecstacy of happiness I tell you of, and then 
 her loving heart was fain to embrace all others in the 
 same hope and joy. However, among other things 
 of which she was fond, were some verses in an old 
 book. Miss Gwen, that I should like to show you at 
 home.' 
 
 ' Catherine, can't you say them now 1 I should like 
 to hear them.' 
 
 * Of course, I have them by heart, for her dear me- 
 mory's sake,' and Catherine repeated, feelingly :
 
 134 GWEN, OR 
 
 * He is a path, if any be misled; 
 He is a robe, if any naked be ; 
 
 If any chance to hunger, he is bread ; 
 If any be a bondman. He is free. 
 If any be but weak, how strong is He ! 
 To dead men life He is, to sick men health, 
 To blind men sight, and to the needy wealth, 
 A pleasure without loss, a treasure without stealth !' 
 
 * Beautiful !' said Gwen. ' Is there not more V 
 ' Yes j this anticipation of Heaven : 
 
 * There is a place beyond that flaming hill 
 
 From whence the stars their thin apjiearance shed; 
 A place beyond all place, where never ill 
 Nor impure thought was ever harbored, 
 But saintly heroes are for ever said 
 To keep an everlasting Sabbath-rest, 
 Still wishing that of which they are possest, 
 Enjoying but one joy, but one of all joyes best. 
 
 The book is called Christ's Victorie and Triumph 
 in Heaven and Earth over and after Death. There 
 are many other fine stanzas in it, particularly two on 
 our Lord's forty days' fast in the wilderness, after which 
 the angels ministered unto Him. I think I can say 
 those.' 
 
 ' Dear Catherine, do.' 
 
 ' But to their Lord, now musing in His thought, 
 A heavenly volly of light angels flew. 
 And from his Father Him a banquet brought 
 Through the fine element, for well they knew 
 After His lenten fast He hungry grew. 
 And as he fed, the holy quires combine 
 To sing a hymn of the celestial Trine, 
 All thought to pass, and each was past all thought divine. 
 
 ' The birds' sweet notes to sonnet out their joyes, 
 Attempered to the layes angelical. 
 And to the birds the winds attune theh poise.
 
 THE COUSINS. 135 
 
 And to the winds the waters hoarsely call, 
 And Echo back again revoiced all, 
 That the whole valley rung with victory. 
 But now our Lord to rest doth homeward flie — 
 See how the Night comes stealing from the mountains high !' 
 
 'That makes me think of Spenser,' cried Gwen. 
 * And you used to read things like this with Mary V 
 
 ' Many such ; I read a great deal with her.' 
 
 ' I wish I had been here in those days, Catherine. 
 Oh ! how much happier, how much better they would 
 have made me; sui-ely every one under the same roof 
 must have felt the influence of her presence ?' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Catherine, with a sigh ; ' but the influence 
 of her memory. — that abides with us.' 
 
 ' I wonder how Geraldine, how Mi^s. Faulkner can 
 be exactly what they are, if it be so,' thought Gwen, 
 but she knew that this was not a thought to be breathed 
 to Catherine, w^ho never encouraged nor allowed com- 
 ments on the faults or deficiencies of her mistress, or of 
 her mistress's child, to be addressed to her. Yet who 
 felt, deplored them as did Catherine ? She was not 
 soiTy that their arrival at the cottage they sought broke 
 off the conversation just when it had reached a some- 
 what painful point, and that sympathy with the present 
 should recal her from the past, and forbid her to 
 speculate on the future. 
 
 The one circumstance of the writing-case, which we 
 have given in aU its details, will convey an accurate 
 idea of the species of trial which Gwen was called on 
 to encounter, and the species of annoyance which 
 Geraldine was alio wed, wantonly rather than maliciously, 
 to inflict. And surely it was no easy task for a girl so 
 young as Gwen, well-principled it is true, and in part 
 already disciplined, but accustomed to be the object 
 of the tenderest affection and interest, to accommodate 
 hei'self to a situation so little premeditated, where, if 
 her talents and her energy procured her respect, it was 
 not untinctured with the fear which chills love, and 
 where aU her natural deficiencies were recognised with
 
 136 GWEN, OR 
 
 disdain or pity. As Gwen herself expressed it to 
 Catherine, who ventured to point out Mrs. Faulkner's 
 exceeding kindness: 'It is very true, but she pities 
 me : mamma never pitied me.' To herself, Gwen added : 
 * mocked by Geraldine, pitied by Mrs. Faulkner, — but 
 I can bear it.' 
 
 In a certain mode Gwen could bear much, though 
 often 'vexed as a thing that is raw.' She never 
 had the violent ebullitions in which Geraldine was 
 constantly indulging. There was something in vio- 
 lence which to Gwen appeared contemptible and lu- 
 dicrous too. She had come to a practical understand- 
 ing of what has recently been better expressed than 
 she or I could express it. ' We sometimes think of the 
 passionate man as of a man of strong will, and of real 
 though ungoverned energy. But the word passion de- 
 clares to us most plainly the contrary, for, as a very 
 solemn use of it declares, it means, properly, 'suffering;' 
 and a passionate man is not a man doing something, 
 but one suffering something to be done on him. When, 
 then, a man or child is ' in a passion,' this is no coming 
 out in him of a strong will, of a real energy, but rather 
 the proof that for the time, at least, he has no will, no 
 energy. He is suffering, not doing; suffering his an- 
 ger or what other evil temper it may be, to lord over him 
 without control. Let no one, then, think of passion as 
 a sign of strength.'* So Gwen had found out. She saw 
 that passion exhausted and enfeebled Geraldine; she 
 had felt the same effects of it on herself; that she 
 might be strong, she strove for self-mastery, and as far 
 as repression of outward vehemence went, she had 
 attained it in no small degree. But she did not quell 
 the spirit of sarcasm strong within her. She did not 
 forbid herself to turn and sting when struck and trodden 
 on. She could chafe Geraldine into madness, and often 
 did ; and unhappily Mdlle. Yernet, instead of rebuking 
 or even checking Gwen, sometimes exulted in Ge- 
 
 * Trench On the Study of Words.
 
 THE COUSINS. 137 
 
 raldine's discomfiture, — sometimes even forgot her duty 
 so far as to make use of Gwen's biting tongue as a 
 "weapon. Had not the far more judicious Catherine, 
 better regulated in temper and in mind, been at hand, 
 more mischief woidd have happened than really did occur. 
 Over each of the children she exercised a restraining 
 influence; both felt, and one at least acknowledged, 
 her just aj)peals to heart and to understanding. Both 
 loved and respected her. To none would Geraldine so 
 candidly confess her faults, while Gwen was ever ready 
 to trust to her fairness, and believe in the truth of her 
 verdicts. She felt that whatever favour or kindness 
 she might meet with from others, from Catherine alone 
 did she receive unvarjdng justice, — and this Gwen 
 valued far beyond any other concession that human 
 beings can make. The exercise of impartiality showed 
 in Catherine a mind raised above the influence of pas- 
 sion, for she loved Geraldine almost as tenderly as her 
 mother did, and was scarcely less sensible of her at- 
 tractions. But Gwen, if destitute of like charms, had 
 awakened no small interest in Catherine, who was 
 capable of understanding somewhat of the depths of 
 her heart and mind, and who reverenced her conscien- 
 tiousness, truth, and zeal. She watched her now engaged 
 in a sore conflict, and lent her what aid she could, but 
 she knew that the victory must be with Gwen herself, 
 and that something must work from within, in the 
 failure of which all outward energy would be in- 
 sufficient. 
 
 Since Gwen's first arrival at Lascelles, she had spent 
 one week at Easter with her mother and Hugh, a 
 boon won for her by Geraldine, who exclaimed : 
 
 ' I am sure we are always hearing enough of rewards 
 for industry, and rewards for good behaviour, and for 
 early rising, and for neatness, and for pimctuality 
 from Mdlle. Yernet, given in that incomi^arable estab- 
 lislmient in which she was herself educated, and of 
 which she is a praiseworthy example. No one ever 
 earned them all more justly than Gwen, so, mother,
 
 138 GWEN, OR 
 
 do let us give lier a prize, and I know what it shall 
 be, — a week's holidays at home. Now, Gwen, what 
 say you to that T 
 
 This generous consideration touched Gwen deeply; 
 She replied little in words, but the language of her 
 eyes was so unmistakable, that Geraldine was perfectly 
 satisfied. Gwen went home, and warmed by gratitude, 
 spoke with no little enthusiasm of the kindness she 
 received, with no little toleration of Geraldine's faults ; 
 at a distance it was not so difficult to lose sight of 
 them, and of the trials common to her daily life at 
 Lascelles. Gwen found abundant recompense for all 
 her toil in the approval of her mother and Hugh, and 
 their unfeigned surprise at the progress which she had 
 already made. She returned more ambitious of excel- 
 lence, more hopeful of its attainment than ever; more 
 acceptable therefore to Mdlle. Yernet, and more irksome 
 to Geraldine. 
 
 It was within a month of the long Midsummer va- 
 cation, a portion of which Gwen was to pass at Win- 
 chester, when some slight circumstances which might 
 have escaped less observant eyes than Gwen's, made 
 her start as on the brink of a precipice, and exclaim ; 
 ' What if I should go, never to return !' 
 
 The fact was, that matters had been gradually grow- 
 ing worse, because they had not grown better. For a 
 time Mrs. Faulkner had indeed kept her eyes as reso- 
 lutely closed to whatever threatened the overthrow of 
 her plan as Gwen could desire ; but all were growing 
 weary — teachers, servants, all ; all felt that things 
 could not go on as they did. What, then, would 
 ensue ? This was the inquiry Gwen made, first with 
 terror, then with a feeling of despair. 
 
 ' Will the attempt to educate me with Geraldine be 
 relinquished as quite unsuccessful, and will all the 
 good I promised myself from it disappear like the 
 morning dew ? Is this Geraldine's fault, or is it mine ? 
 What have I been about? Am I on the point of 
 losing that which was to make me not a burden but
 
 THE COUSINS. 139 
 
 an assistance to mj motlier 1 My absence even now 
 enables her to do for Hugh more than she could do 
 before ! But I see it all — I shall not return.' 
 
 These thoughts harassed Gwen unceasingly. Sleep 
 and appetite forsook her ; she concealed the want of 
 them as well as she could, but her pale unhappy face 
 attracted Mrs. Faulkner's attention more than once ; 
 and she said to Catherine, with a sigh : 
 
 ' What can be the matter with that child 1 Have 
 she and Geraldine been quaiTelKng more than usual ] 
 I am afraid tliis never will do.' 
 
 ' No, ma'am,' replied Catherine ; 'they have certainly 
 had no pai^ticular disagreements just now. I will see 
 what it is.' 
 
 Catherine repaired to Gwen's room that night. She 
 found her in bed, certainly, but awake, her eyes red 
 from want of sleep or weeping. Catherine placed the 
 light so as not to distress them, and then seated her- 
 self, taking one of Gwen's hands that lay near her ; 
 the other arm was tossed over her head. She looked 
 anything but at rest. 
 
 ' And now, jNIiss Gwen, tell me, what is the matter 
 with you V 
 
 Gwen did not speak. 
 
 ' I am the fii^t person you ever saw here — the first 
 person who brought you into this little room, and 
 tried to make you comfortable in it. I should have 
 thought that you might have spoken to me without so 
 much difficulty. 
 
 ' I ca,n't speak without difficulty to any one,' answered 
 Gwen, ' and on such a subject !' 
 
 '\Yhat subject?' asked Catherine, surprised at these 
 last words. 
 
 ' AYell, Catherine, I don't know — it may be all fancy 
 — yet how it does torment me ! Perhaps you will 
 say it is merely my own idea, but I can't help fearing 
 that when I go home at Midsummer, I shall never 
 retm-n here.'
 
 140 GWEN, OR 
 
 ' And do you care very mucli about returning V 
 Gwen looked on her with astonishment. 'Do I 
 not V she said, half resentfully. 
 
 * Then I am surprised that you have not in some 
 respects behaved differently/ remarked Catherine, 
 quietly. 
 
 ' Surprised,' repeated Gwen, slowly, ' and ashamed — 
 I feel both.' Then suddenly raising herself, and turn- 
 ing her dark eyes full on Catherine, she said, ' Do you 
 think that it is quite too late f 
 
 ' For what V 
 
 ' To make these differences you spoke of — ' 
 
 *Do you understand clearly what they ought to be?' 
 
 * Ah ! yes — I think I do. I mean, trying to get on 
 better with Geraldine,' said Gwen, timidly. 
 
 ' And how would you do that f 
 
 * In more ways than one. She thinks she teazes me, 
 and so she does ; but I know that I teaze her, and 
 when she does not see how, she feels it.' 
 
 * Quite true,' said Catherine. 
 
 * Yes, I lash her with my tongue — I make her feel 
 that I despise her childishness, her ignorance, her 
 caprice — I — ' Gwen was going on with increasing 
 emphasis, when she stopped abruptly, either checked 
 by the expression of Catherine's face, or some whisper 
 of her own conscience. She threw herself down on her 
 pillow and cried, ' For such petty, unworthy triumj^hs, 
 for such a game as I should blush for my mother and 
 Hugh to see me play, I have been casting away all that 
 I intended to achieve for them ! I have risen in the 
 morning and staked all that I have lain here planning 
 to do, on a contest with Geraldine — for what V She 
 burst into an agony of tears. 
 
 Catherine regarded her with compassion ; she let her 
 emotion have its way, and, when it began to subside, 
 bent over her, saying gently : 
 
 'What, Gwen — are there no eyes piercing where 
 your mother's and your brother's cannot enter, about 
 your bed and about your path, spying out all your
 
 THE COUSINS. 141 
 
 ways ? Are there no kind angels gi'ie\^ng to see a 
 Christian child relinquishing high and holy motives, 
 to be the sport and slave of evil tempers ? What think 
 you do those pure beings feel for us when they see us 
 losing our way and our reward 1 My dear child, you 
 have been fixing your eyes too much on earthly in- 
 citements, bending your thoughts too much on work- 
 ing out a scheme of your own. You are failing 
 altogether — you are beaten down ; but rise, take a 
 higher flight this time, and you will do better. Now, 
 think a little, and tell me. Did you come here solely 
 for yourself and your own mother? Don't you owe 
 anything to Mrs. Faulkner ? Are you not bound to 
 accomplish her project as much as your own? She 
 very generously denies you no advantage that she 
 thinks you will avail yourself of, even such as for 
 Geraldine alone she woidd scarcely provide. But she 
 did not send for you here merely to teach you all 
 that you are eager to learn, but to make you a com- 
 panion to her child, and an impro\4ng one too ; and if 
 she finds that Geraldine is only the worse for you, why 
 should she ask you to return V 
 
 'But I can't be expected to make Geraldine 
 different from what I find her.' 
 
 ' You might even accomplish that, and at least you 
 need not aggravate her faidts,' replied Catherine. 
 
 ' From this time, Catherine, you shall see ; she shall 
 not provoke me, and I will not provoke her.' 
 
 ' Don't be too confident — don't promise too much.' 
 
 ' You must help me,' said Gwen, timidly ; ' a look — 
 a word from you — ' 
 
 ' Nay, that seems sometimes to make you more stub- 
 born.' 
 
 ' I know,' said Gwen, with shame, ' when I am 
 checked — pulled back — I do feel inclined to press for- 
 ward ; but I will not now. I desire to stop — I will 
 do so at the least touch.' 
 
 Catherine smiled ; she thought that a strong hand 
 would be requii'ed to hold the bridle.
 
 142 GWEN, OR 
 
 * I know I sliall want help,' added Gwen. 
 
 * Yes,' rejDlied Catherine, ' and you have been taught 
 where to seek it.' 
 
 Gwen threw her arms round Catherine's neck, 
 pressing closely to her, and whispering : 
 ^ And you — will you not seek it for me f 
 
 * I will,' said her friend ; and Gwen lay down to 
 rest with a peace and hopefulness long absent from 
 her breast. 
 
 The child rose up with all her resolutions in full 
 vigour. 
 
 * I think things will go better now, ma'am,' said 
 Catherine, to Mrs. Faulkner. 
 
 *I am sure I shall be very glad,' replied Mrs. 
 Faulkner, languidly, 'but don't tell me anything 
 about it. I really am quite wearied by these childish 
 squabbles.' 
 
 Catherine desisted. She felt that it would be an 
 useless labour to repeat to Mrs. Faulkner all she 
 learned and observed of a character like Gwen's. ' Let 
 her actions speak for herself,' she thought ; ' after all, 
 words are of no value but as the promise of deeds.' 
 
 Gwen's deeds were really worthy of Catherine's 
 hopeful anticipations. The peace of the ensuing 
 month was felt by all, though fully accounted for by 
 none. Gwen would not quarrel, and Geraldine was 
 surprised at a change which she could not comprehend 
 nor describe. By degrees she accustomed herself to 
 go on more quietly with her cousin, finding it rather 
 dull sometimes, and turning elsewhere to expend her 
 caprice or discontent — for when was a spoilt child 
 ever contented ? 
 
 Gwen went home, and exercised with extraordinary 
 fortitude her old habit of keeping back from her 
 mother whatever she thought likely to harass her ; 
 she guarded all her secret discomforts from Hugh 
 also, lest he might indignantly or inadvertently reveal 
 them to Mrs. Owen. She expatiated freely on the
 
 THE COUSINS. 143 
 
 excellent instructions wMcli she received from Mdlle. 
 Vernet, spoke of Catherine with cordial affection, of 
 Mrs. Faulkner with gratitude. She could also talk 
 of Geraldine, her beauty, her vivacity, the idolatry 
 bestowed on her — but here she grew more reserved, 
 and avoided all ground that might lead to dangerous 
 inquiries. 
 
 ^.W^i^.^
 
 CHAPTEE, XII. 
 
 And tlius slie sayd in hir benigne voice. 
 
 Chaucer. 
 
 rOPt tliree years after Gwen's arrival, Mcllle. Yernet 
 consented to remain at Lascelles. At tlie end of 
 that period she suddenly took more serious offence 
 than she had ever been known to evince before, at 
 some fault on the part of Geraldine, which did not 
 appear more culpable than many a previous one 
 which had been forgiven. This time, however, she 
 was not to be mollified. She was resolved to take 
 her departure, and after all, Mrs. Faulkner was less 
 unhappy about it than Mdlle. Yernet had anticipated. 
 She Avas, in fact, rather tired of the clever French- 
 woman and her system, a scolding, forcing, urging 
 system : Geraldine had never loved her, and now they 
 parted in high wrath. Catherine had some esteem for 
 her, and therefore felt some sorrow for her loss ; Gwen 
 cared more than any one, and Mdlle. Yernet regretted 
 in Gwen the scholar who did her most honour of any 
 she had ever instructed. There were many points of 
 sympathy between the two. Gwen had derived some 
 good and some evil from her intercourse with her ; 
 more good than evil, certainly, for Mdlle. Yernet had 
 more good than evil to impart. 
 
 The next proposition was, that Geraldine should 
 go for a year to a very grand and very expensive 
 seminary for finishing young ladies' education ; the 
 idea amused her greatly, and she readily adopted it.
 
 THE COUSINS. 145 
 
 ' It will be entertaining to have ten companions 
 instead of one — indeed I don't call Gwen much of a 
 companion — and all new ! I think I shall like it very 
 mucli, and if I don't, you know, I can come home. 
 But \A hat will become of Gwen V 
 
 A cloud j^assed over Gwen's face, a cloud not to be 
 seen through, an expression not to be read in a 
 moment, and not even a moment for scrutiny did she 
 all'.'w. She left the room quickly, reached her own, 
 seovired herself against intrusion, and for a while 
 battled not with distress. 
 
 ' Much has been done for me — very much — ^yet the 
 sight of more beyond makes it all seem as nothing. 
 This is very wrong, very ungrateful ; but I don't know 
 how to help it. Geraldine, who is utterly regardless 
 of all means of self-improvement, who would as soon, 
 sooner, go to a dancing school to play with the girls 
 tljcre than compete for any worthier prize — on her all 
 this IS to be thrown away — all this is denied to me ! 
 But I am in quite a wrong path now — I know that well.' 
 
 Reproaching herself with these repinings, Gwen 
 strove hard, as she had often striven before, to bring 
 herself to be 
 
 Thankful for all God takes away, 
 Humbled by all He gives. 
 
 ' I do think that poor girl will be grievously disap 
 pointed if you go to Staunton Avithout her,' said Mrs 
 Faulkner, after the sight of Gwen's pale face and 
 contracted brow, as she returned to her usual occu- 
 pations. 
 
 ' Disappointed !' repeated Geraldine. ' Disappointed 
 to go back to her mother and to Hugh, and away from 
 me I I thoucrht she would be delighted.' 
 
 'Ah!' observed Mrs. Faulkner, shaking her head, 
 and surprised at her own penetration, ' you can't in 
 the least understand how that girl's heart is set on 
 getting on.' 
 
 VOL. I, L
 
 ]46 GWEN, OR 
 
 * No, indeed I can't in the least,' replied Geraldiue, 
 laughing. ' But, dear mamma, I will not let you talk 
 just like mademoiselle herself.' 
 
 'What I am thinking of is that I can't bear to 
 grieve this poor little thing, if all she wants to make 
 her happy is to go with you — ' 
 
 ' To be finished, mamma, as Lady E-ivers calls it.' 
 
 * I am sure Mr. Faulkner would not refuse his per- 
 mission ; it is but a hundred pounds, or so, difference.* 
 
 ' What can that signify f cried Geraldine. 
 
 But in her heart, Geraldine felt that she would 
 rather have gone to Staunton without Gwen tl'Laii 
 with her. 
 
 ' I would sooner have it all new. Gwen will be 
 watching me, and remarking how I behave to the 
 other girls — I don't know how I shall behave to them 
 — I never have been in any place like it before.' 
 Geraldine had a half-defined dislike to the idea of 
 the constraint that she knew Gwen would be to her. 
 She was right. It would undoubtedly have been far 
 more for her good to have gone alone, with none to 
 mark any amendment in her conduct, any unwonted 
 acts of concession and subordination, to make her, in 
 fact, too proud to mend or to alter. But Mrs. Faulk- 
 ner had not sufficient judgment to consider this ; she 
 was stimulated by a good-natured desire to accomplish 
 to the utmost the wishes of Gwen before she returned 
 to her mother, and Geraldine had a native generosity 
 which forbade opposition. Mr. Faulkner was per- 
 fectly willing to acquiesce in Diane's proposal j he 
 saw its kindness, and the execution of it gratified hia 
 own liberality. Mrs. Faulkner was eager to enjtvy 
 the pleasure of giving pleasure. She called Gwen to 
 her sofa. 
 
 ' My good little patient Gwen, into what beautiful 
 order you have got my netting-silks ! I really thought 
 they never could have recovered Geraldine's last 
 sorting of them. You deserve a reward, and you 
 shall have one. Sit down and write by this post to
 
 THE COUSINS. l-i7 
 
 your dear mamma, and ask her leave to go to Staunton 
 witli Geraldine. Shall you like that, Gwen ?' And 
 she gave her a kiss. 
 
 Gwen's eyes sparkled, and she returned Mrs. Faulk- 
 ner's embrace with a sudden warmth which astonished 
 each equally. 
 
 ' How generous you are — you have always been !' 
 she exclaimed, speaking with agitation and difficulty. 
 
 ' l!^o, no, never mind that ; make haste ; you will be 
 too late for the post, and why should you be in sus- 
 pense any longer than is necessary 1 Not that your 
 mother will refuse, will she V replied Mrs. Faulkner, 
 smiling brightly. 
 
 Gwen felt that she had never yet been half grateful 
 enough for all Mrs. Faulkner's kindness. She could 
 not restrain herself; whether her letter were to be too 
 late or not, some present expression she must give to 
 the emotion that filled her heart. She rose hastily, 
 left the writing-table, and came back to Mrs. Faulk- 
 ner's side, and kneeling down, looked earnestly in her 
 face. She even caught her hand, and pjressed it to 
 her lips — 
 
 'If I could make some return — could prove my 
 gratitude 1' 
 
 ' My dear child !' cried Mrs. Faulkner, startled and 
 afi'ected on seeing Gwen so much unlike anything she 
 had ever been before ; ' My dear child, 1 don't want 
 any proof of gratitude. I am quite sure you feel a 
 great deal more than is necessary — a great deal more 
 than you ever say. It is a pleasure to me to do any- 
 thing for dear Mary Owen's child, and you have 
 always repaid my care by the pains which you have 
 taken. Nothing has ever been thrown away on you, 
 Gwen.' 
 
 ' Nothing shall be,' replied Gwen, in a low voice. 
 
 ' There, go back to your letter.' 
 
 Gwen complied, and as she wrote it she was feeling 
 what Mrs. Faulkner's generous spirit would not have 
 borne to hear, and what her owti heart would not 
 
 L 2
 
 J 48 GWEN. 
 
 have uttered had there been more of love mixed with 
 her gratitude — 
 
 ' This is a great debt ! I hope God will one day- 
 enable me to repay it in some measure.' 
 
 A day did arrive — little anticipated by any — in 
 w^hich Gwen requited all that she had received — in 
 which the balance was incalculably on her side. 

 
 ^ Tiler Tiftr 'ti(^ 'tiSr titr *■ 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Grief joys, joy grieves on slender accident. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 THE whole plan of Staunton was full of delight — 
 full of promise for Gwen. Her mother, too, 
 augured well of it, and for her sake accepted this 
 costly boon from the Faulkners, proftered with the 
 delicacy which is the indis2:>ensable ornament of gene- 
 rosity. 
 
 ' Now,' thought Gwen, ' I shall test myself I have 
 hitherto had no one to measure by but Geraldine, and 
 she is neither clever nor industrious ; in many ways 
 her performances are disgraceful, and she does not 
 care. I know very well that now, when so much 
 money is going to be lavished on her, she does not 
 really mean to exert herself on any one point except 
 her singing ; that she values. She sees the influence 
 it has over others — the power it gives over their 
 admiration and their feelings. It is a great gift — 
 great as her beauty — greater almost. Could the 
 plainest woman sing as Geraldine may and will, all 
 hearts vv^ould open to her. M. Biirger said the other 
 day that my touch on the piano was to me what a 
 fine voice is to a vocalist ; it is a less fluctuating 
 possession. I will content myself with it. Then Ge- 
 raldine has little but her voice to boast of; — how 
 hard it is to teach her a song !' 
 
 ' I shall like to be thrown into the midst of a whole 
 circle of girls — I have seen so few ; mere dressed-up 
 dolls in a drawing-room I count as nothing. I shall
 
 160 GWEN, OR 
 
 know my companions as I know Geraldine — heart and 
 mind ; I shall gain experience, become better acquainted 
 with myself; every change of circumstance furthers 
 that — I have found myself very different at Lascelles 
 from what I was at home — no such feelings tormented 
 me there as here — my temper was unruffled. Would 
 it have been better for me never to have quitted Hugh 
 and my mother V 
 
 No, Gwen, it would not. Many more painful ex- 
 periences are yet in keeping for you, and till they be 
 passed, you know neither yourself nor Geraldine. Well 
 for both will it be when that lacking knowledge shall 
 be obtained. 
 
 Geraldine, who had given ready acquiescence at 
 first, as the day arrived wliich was to separate her 
 from her mother, grew alarmed. The idea of departure 
 became as odious as it had been pleasing. 
 
 ' Why am I to go from dearest mamma, and beauti- 
 ful Lascelles to this stupid school, to learn a quantity 
 of things that I hate, and that no one will ever care 
 or find out whether I know or not ? It will make me 
 extremely ill, I am sure of that. Study always has made 
 my head ache, and now I shall cry till I am blind.' 
 
 ' My dearest child, I would not for worlds that you 
 should injure your beautiful eyes; but really I thought 
 you particularly wished to go to Staunton, and have 
 lessons from Signor Fioritura.' 
 
 * But I can have him from London. I suppose 
 papa would rather pay for that than kill me by send- 
 ing me away when I don't like to goV 
 
 ' There are so many reasons why you should spend 
 a short time at Staunton ' 
 
 ' Pray don't tell me any of them — they will not 
 make the least difference to my feelings. I did believe 
 that you loved me, but you never can if you persist 
 in sending me from you !' and Geraldine burst into a 
 passionate flood of tears. 
 
 ' My child, my dear child ! I do love you, only too 
 well. But really last week 1'
 
 THE COUSINS. 151 
 
 'Last week, yes; but now that tlie time is come, it 
 is quite a different thing, and I will stay here.' 
 
 ' Poor Gwen and her mother ! how disappointed 
 they will be if this scheme is relinquished !' 
 
 * I can't help that ; am I to be sacrificed in every- 
 thing to her 1 And what a little cold-hearted ambitious 
 thing she must be to wish to quit you and Catherine 
 — whom she pretends to be so fond of — just to get to 
 Staunton, where she loves no one.' 
 
 ' Oh ! but you forget her purpose.' 
 
 ' No, I don't ; but I am tired of hearing of it, more- 
 over I don't believe in it. Had she no such impulse, 
 she would work on just as she does now. Let her go 
 then, and toil as much as she likes, and may all good 
 success go with her. Let Gwen go and work for her 
 mother, and I will stay and play with mine ; then we 
 shall both have what we like best.' And Geraldine 
 hung round her mother with smiles as persuasive as 
 her tears. Gwen came into the room at this moment, 
 Catherine following her. 
 
 ' I sha'n't go to Staunton,' cried Geraldine, looking 
 over her shoulder. A deep shade of annoyance came 
 over Gwen's face. 
 
 ' Now, Gwen, don't look so black ; you may go if 
 you please, and it will please you none the worse to 
 leave me behind, I know that. You can go, if your 
 heart is set on it ; my heart is set on staying here, with 
 my own dear mother. There, Catherine, is not this a 
 good plan for every one V 
 
 ' No, miss, I don't see that it is a good plan for any 
 one but Miss Gwen,' replied Catherine, quietly. 
 
 ' Well, I am happy to have your approval of any 
 pai-t of it; nevertheless, had you withheld it, my own 
 approbation generally sufhces for me, you know. Now 
 will you be so good as to desire Collinson to separate 
 my clothes from Gwen's, and to go on with the packing 
 which T had stopped altogether.' 
 
 ' But, Geraldine, my dear, this is really impossible.' 
 
 ' Impossible ! I never know what that means.'
 
 ]52 GWEN, OR 
 
 ' 'Now only wait a little. Catherine, come with me, 
 I want to sj^eak to you,' said Mrs. Faulkner, leading 
 Catherine into the room beyond in much distress, and 
 leaving the two girls together. 
 
 * You see, this child will not go.' 
 Catherine made no answer. 
 
 * Do you think she will V 
 
 ' I don't see why not, ma'am.' 
 
 'Why, she says she shall be ill and miserable. 
 What duty can there be in the infliction of so much 
 pain V 
 
 ' I thought, ma'am, you had several reasons for send- 
 ing her to Staunton, and T don't hear one for keeping 
 her at home except this fit of wilfulness.' 
 
 'Oh! Catherine, don't be harsh; this is not mere 
 wilfulness, it is love for me. You don't expect me to 
 be insensible to that?' Mrs. Faulkner melted into 
 tears. 
 
 ' Indeed, ma'am,' said Catherine, affectionately, ' I 
 can easily believe that separation is painful to you 
 both; but I thought you had made up your mind to 
 it. And Mr. Faulkner — so much has been said to 
 him ; I hardly think he will like to find everything 
 reversed again.' 
 
 ' No, I know ; and Lady Rivers — that hard woman 
 . — what an advantage it will give her. She will never 
 cease to talk of my weakness.' 
 
 ' I don't like Lady Rivers, ma'am,' said Catherine, 
 decidedly, ' and I should be sorry to give her reason 
 on her side.' 
 
 ' Oh ! she always has that,' replied Mrs. Faulkner, 
 despondently. ' But 'really, Catherine, I dread the re- 
 sponsibility of sending that child away so much against 
 her inclination.' 
 
 ' Do you, ma'am V said Catherine, with a smile, pro- 
 voked by hearing Geraldine's voice in the other room. 
 ' I shall go to Staunton, if I please, — and I do please.' 
 
 ' What a sudden change !' exclaimed Mrs. Faulkner,
 
 THE COUSINS. 153 
 
 colouring ; ' but if tMs last, it will remove all diffi- 
 culties. \Ye must not take too much notice; Geral- 
 dine does not like that.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ma'am, pardon me ! but what an evil it is for 
 this poor child to be so capricious. Pray decide for 
 her, and let her abide by your decision. Miss Geraldine 
 is sixteen now, and these extremes become every day 
 more dangerous.' 
 
 Mi^. Faulkner was forced to listen to unwelcome 
 truths, because she was actually a prisoner in the 
 room to which she had retired, from the dread of an 
 immediate encounter with Geraldine. But there was 
 a silence in the adjoining apartment, which seemed to 
 say that she had quitted it. Catherine opened the 
 door, and found only Gwen. ' Well, IMiss Gwen V 
 
 ' She Avishes to go now.' 
 
 * What made the change V 
 
 '1 can scarcely tell, — some objection that Collinson 
 made about the packing, — something that Geraldine 
 chose to fancy about my not wishing her to go,' 
 
 Catherine closed the door, and came nearer to Gwen. 
 
 * You are very desirous to go to Staunton,' she saicL 
 
 * Very,' replied Gwen, not raising her eyes. 
 
 * Well — you will go — you will both go. I am sure 
 of it' 
 
 * I have been very anxious and very fretful all day, 
 Catherine, I know I have. It is hard to be so tor- 
 mented, — and Geraldine changes every minute.' 
 
 ' Poor girl ! I pity her more for her fickleness, than 
 you for your uncertainty.' 
 
 ' Ah ! I suppose so ; that is what mamma would say, 
 I know. But, I can't help minding this more than I 
 ought; and now that you tell me that we certainly 
 shall go, I feel ashamed of not having borne uncer- 
 tainty better.' 
 
 ' That is just as it always is,' replied Catherine. 
 * The moment that a trial comes to an end, that a 
 burden is lightened, we regret that we did not employ
 
 J 54 GWEN. 
 
 more strengtli in tlie bearing of it; but these are vain 
 regrets if they don't make us exert om'selves more in 
 after trials.' 
 
 ' It is not wrong in me to wish to go to Staunton 1 
 It is to finish Geraldine's education, you know,' said 
 Gwen, smiling through the tears that glistened in her 
 eyes, and with a little touch of satire in her tone, — 
 * and to make me fit to go home to my mother ; they 
 won't want me here.' 
 
 ' Geraldine, in the midst of her nonsense, stipulated 
 that you should not be disappointed,' observed Catherine. 
 
 ' Did she V cried Gwen ; * that was kind. They 
 always have been unboundedly generous to me, one 
 and all. I wish — oh ! how I wish that I could be so 
 to them !' 
 
 ' You can ; every one can be generous.' 
 
 ' How V asked Gwen. ' Oh ! I believe that I know 
 what you mean : by showing gratitude, kindness, for- 
 bearance; amongst strangers even Geraldine may care 
 for those gifts. I would do a great deal for my bene- 
 factresses.' 
 
 * Every day do a little for them,' said Catherine, who 
 observed that among the various epithets which Gwen 
 used, ' love' had no place. And she left her. 
 
 * It is indeed more blessed to give than to re- 
 ceive,' thought Gwen ; ' far more blessed in its efiects 
 on one's own heart. Here is Catherine, to whom they 
 owe so much, — how she loves them ! And I, who re- 
 ceive so much, find that difficult.' 
 
 The next morning Geraldine and Gwen started for 
 Staunton. 
 
 (?^.>li<r^^
 
 ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^1^ 
 
 ^f^^ 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 Her bounty, sweetness, beauty, goodness, such 
 That none e'er thought her happiness too much ; 
 So well inclined her favors to confer, 
 And kind to all as Heaven had been to her. 
 
 Waller. 
 
 THE midsummer term was nearly completed. It 
 was a pleasant day in June. Under the shade 
 of a lime-tree avenue sat a girl, making a sketch of the 
 old house at Staunton, its terrace, and the sheet of water 
 beyond it; and near her, stretched on the grass, with 
 Gertrude of Wyoming in her hand, lay Gwen. The 
 two could scarcely be called companions, though near 
 enough to exchange speech with each other if they 
 wished; but Dora Biddulph was engrossed with her 
 drawing, and Gwen, if engi'ossed with Dora, desired 
 to give no evidence of this fact; only she could not 
 help raising her eyes from her book, and gazing on her 
 long and earnestly at times. 
 
 ' So beautiful and bland,' she repeated from the poem. 
 ' How well those words may be ajjplied to Dora ! How 
 inapplicable are they to Geraldine !' 
 
 A comparison between the two was commonly 
 instituted by their companions. Before Geraldine ar- 
 rived, Dora reigned undisputed Queen of Beauty, 
 enthroned by others, unambitious of a sceptre herself. 
 When former scholars flocked together on their return 
 and discussed new comers, Clara Ford announced, 
 in that peculiar tone which always left her companions 
 half in doubt whether she were laughing at or with 
 them, that the handsomest and the ugliest girl who had
 
 156 GWEN, OR 
 
 ever entered Staunton were arrived : ^ Yes, Dora, 
 handsomer than you are, and uglier than — let me see 
 — I must of course in common civility (the rules 
 of which I plead guilty to having violated in my 
 passing remark to Dora), except the present company 
 — ^well then — uglier than Miss Orme, our little English 
 assistant last half. What else they will prove, time 
 will show ; further I pronounce not than that there is 
 plenty of pride in the aquiline features of the one, and 
 some genius in the dark eye of the other ; both of 
 which, I opine, will tend to disturb our loving harmony 
 and our indolent peace.' But although Geraldine's 
 beauty had startled all, many, having grown familiar 
 with it, returned to their old creed that no one could 
 be so lovely as Dora. Her features, it was true, were 
 not more finely formed than Geraldine's ; her figure, if 
 as graceful, was less commanding ; and her complexion, 
 though soft and delicate, was less brilliant than her 
 rival's. Her large hazel eyes had in them a depth of 
 love and kindness; and her smile, breaking into 
 dimples diffused sweetness round her mouth. When 
 grave, the serenity on her beautiful brow could only 
 be the reflection of peace within, and which spread 
 peace around her. To gaze on her face was like look- 
 ing on an untroubled lake in the cloudless sunshine of 
 noonday, not in the bright promise of morning, or the 
 pensive shade of evening. There seemed too much 
 happiness to admit of hope or regret. Contentment, 
 sympathy, were the predominant expressions of her 
 countenance; and Gwen, as she now gazed, ap- 
 peared to drink in her fill of satisfaction, — a feeling 
 which proceeded not solely from the contemplation of 
 the agreeable object before her, but from the inward 
 conviction which gave rise to these thoughts : ' How 
 lovely she is, and what unmixed delight 1 can take 
 in her loveliness ! Ah ! yes ; now I feel sure of myself. 
 Sometimes I have dreaded lest Geraldine's beauty and 
 brightness were in any degree the cause of the estrange-
 
 THE COUSINS. 157 
 
 ment between us. No. I perceive now that where 
 I most admire, there too can I love most. I am not 
 envious.' And this conviction, too strong to be here- 
 after H]iaken,was full of unspeakable sweetness toGwen. 
 
 It is not possible for one human eye to be long 
 fixed on another without attracting it. Dora paused 
 in lier drawing, pushed back her silken tresses, as 
 glossy as a raven's wing, and cast an involuntary 
 glance on Gwen. 
 
 ' Wliat is it that pleases you so much, Gwen V she 
 asked. 
 
 Gwen, since she left her home, had grown less de- 
 monstrative, more constrained than she naturally was; 
 but at this moment she relinquished all guarded cold- 
 ness, and resolved to yield to the impulse to give a 
 free expression to the feelings of her heart. She rose 
 and came to Dora's side, knelt down by her, and look- 
 ing, not at her dra^dng, as Dora expected, but up in 
 her face, said : ' The sight of you ; that is what pleased 
 me, Dora.' 
 
 The expression of genuine love and admiration 
 whicl) beamed in her eyes as she said these words, 
 sm'pi'ised and touched Dora, whose sole reply was to 
 bend lorward and give her a kiss. This Gwen read 
 rather as an act of kindness than affection. Perhaps 
 she was right. Her heart swelled within her. ' How 
 very much I love her,' she thought, ' and how little 
 she guesses it ! What wonder ? Every one loves her 
 — according to their own power of loving — and why 
 should she value what I have to give V The gleam of 
 delight quite faded from Gwen's face. Dora saw the 
 change, and took her hand. She had often suspected 
 that Gwen was not very happy, and was a little lonely, 
 though she had her cousin, and Dora's kind heart had 
 wished to draw nearer to hers than it had ever yet 
 done. She would make the attempt now, and in so 
 doing must not startle her. 
 
 *(Jome, Gwen,' she said, with gentle playfulness,
 
 158 GWEN, OR 
 
 * your looks and your words are a riddle to me, and 
 one I have a fancy to read. You were pleased just 
 now, and already the pleasure has passed away. If 
 I furnished you enjoyment, it has been very short- 
 lived.' 
 
 Gwen pressed her hand, and tears trembled in her 
 eyes; for, frigid and immovable at times, she could 
 also be surprised into the liveliest emotions. 
 
 '■ How could looking at me excite that pleasure 1 I 
 thought it was something in your book — ' 
 
 ' Oh ! no, no — it was as I said. I was watching 
 you and admiring your beauty, and then I felt such 
 delight, such comfort in perceiving how I could love 
 and admire it. But you can't understand.' 
 
 ' Can't I ? Can't you make me V 
 
 ' I will try,' said Gwen, after a pause. ' At times I 
 have felt afraid, Dora, that I had not a nature gene- 
 rous enough to rejoice in another's beauty. Geraldine 
 was the most beautiftd person I had ever seen till I 
 came here, and I did not rejoice in hers. I have 
 heard peojDle say plainly sometimes, and insinuate at 
 others, that ugly women are likely to envy beautiful 
 ones. I am ugly — I should like to be beautiful. I 
 was afraid I might be envious, unknown to myself ; 
 but now you have convinced me that it is not that — 
 and I am very thankful.' 
 
 ' Dear Gwen ! who could ever have suspected you of 
 such a fault V 
 
 ' I myself — sometimes — before I knew you, but now 
 no more. Is not that comfort V And Gwen's face 
 brightened ao-ain. 
 
 o o 
 
 ' But,' said Dora, earnestly, ' there is not one of us 
 that has not base, ungenerous feelings sometimes.' 
 
 ' Yes, and it grieves our pride to know tliis ; and 
 there is a wide difference between the pride that is 
 stung to the quick by the discovery of them, and the 
 penitence that mourns over their existence,' said Gwen, 
 thoughtfully. ' I know all that, but I don't think I 
 am deceiving myself here. I am sure that I can love
 
 THE COUSINS. 159 
 
 one like you, and sure that it is not envy that has 
 prevented my ever feeling a like tenderness towards 
 her. Let me rejoice in the capacity you have revealed 
 to me, Dora.' 
 
 'But the sadness that followed so soon?' asked 
 Dora. 
 
 ' Why, I was thinking how valueless my love is to 
 you ; it is my treasure, not yours. I don't mean to 
 speak of your returning it ; it would be folly in you 
 to give me back what I give. There is nothing in me 
 to stir up the sentiments which you awaken. Who is 
 there that does not love you? and you may choose from 
 the best — ' 
 
 ' Oh ! Gwen,' cried the simj^le-hearted Dora, ' you 
 ought to put all this into the verses which I know 
 that you write. It is not a bit like anytliing but 
 poetiy.' 
 
 '■ There !' said Gwen, and her whole countenance 
 darkened ; ' I knew it — I knew if I ever foolishly 
 spoke half there is in my heart, this is how it would 
 be — people would think me mad, or not in earnest. 
 Yes, it is just like that German story — of the man 
 who has gold that he dug in fairy land, and when he 
 pulls it out to pay mortals, it all turns to bits of flin6, 
 and copper, and glass — all rubbish — all useless — all 
 despised !' 
 
 ' I see what you mean,' replied Dora, with soothing 
 sweetness ; ' it is my stupidity — I know that. I 
 always have recognised that I am not clever enough 
 for you, Gwen j and now let me whisper a little secret 
 in your ear. I always have been afraid of you till now. 
 It is a real pleasure to me to hear you talk of loving 
 me ; all my fear v/ent away at those words. And I 
 begin to fancy, too, that if you really love me, I imiy 
 be able to make you happier, Gwen, than sometinu-yy 
 you seem to be.' 
 
 ' Do I seem unhappy ? do I make you afraid of jrx.' % 
 I thought they feared me at Lascelles, because I kite; »v 
 more than they did ; but here — '
 
 160 GWEN, OR 
 
 ^ Oh ! it is not that/ replied Dora ; ' don't be vexed 
 — but you have at times an odd, dry manner, and as if 
 you were even secretly angry, though no one knows 
 exactly why; and you say things — I can't describe 
 them. Clara Ford is always turning us into joke, but 
 we are not afraid of her — ' 
 
 ' Because she is only fond of the ridiculous, and just 
 for the sake of laughing ; and I — I am sarcastic,' said 
 Gwen. 
 
 ' Oh ! no, not sarcastic,' exclaimed Dora, looking 
 ten-ibly alarmed at such a hard word. 
 
 ' Yes, I have a biting tongue — when I choose,' con- 
 tinued Gwen. 
 
 ' Oh ! but, Gwen, don't choose,' said Dora, laying 
 her hand tenderly on her arm ; ' it is not right — it is 
 not like Christ.' 
 
 After the utterance of that solemn name the girls 
 kept silence awhile. Then Gwen, in a low voice, said : 
 ' I do pray that my tongue may be kept with bit and 
 bridle. Will you pray for me V 
 
 ' Indeed I will,' returned Dora, her face beaming 
 with a heaven-born expression of love and charity. 
 ' It is so kept, I am sure — I have observed, we all 
 have — wonderful instances of forbearance and of self- 
 command in you since you came here. It is very nice 
 to see you with your cousin. You never flatter her, 
 yet you will not join in a laugh against her when she 
 behaves absurdly. You never take upon yourself for 
 knowing so much more than she, or indeed, any of us 
 know. You help her often enough, I am s\ire, and 
 never boast or take advantage of it after.' 
 
 *I owe a great debt of gratitude to Geraldine's 
 family and to herself,' replied Gwen, ' and I will not 
 easily be turned aside from paying it. But do you 
 mean that this is what you, all of you, think, and do 
 you believe that Geraldine thinks any of it V 
 
 ' I am sure that we think it ; and as to Geraldine, 
 she is fond of you in her way, I really believe, and she 
 does not seem to know when she galls you.'
 
 THE COUSINS. 161 
 
 'Perhaps not,' said Gwen, 'and I hope I do not 
 often flinch now,' 
 
 * Oh ! but this is very bad,' cried Dora ; ' if you 
 could once speak plainly together, then you might each 
 give up whatever annoys the other, and both would 
 be so much happier.' 
 
 Gwen shook her head. ' You don't know — it has 
 gone on for years now — and then, no one ever does 
 speak plainly to Geraldine except one — ' 
 
 ' Who is that one V 
 
 * Her nurse. She speaks plainly to every one — to 
 Geraldine — to Geraldine's mother — to me ; but then 
 she can — ' 
 
 ' Why ? What do you mean V 
 
 * I mean,' said Gwen, after a pause, ' that when 
 Catherine speaks the truth, she speaks it in love — and 
 I, if I allow myself to speak it at all, am very apt to 
 speak in anger.' 
 
 * Ah ! that is it,' observed Dora, pensively. Gwen 
 could not resent this acquiescence. It humbled her. 
 ' But it need not always be so,' added Dora, hopefully. 
 ' You are growing older, more patient ; by degrees 
 you will be better able to speak to Geraldine as a 
 friend, and she seems to need one. Poor girl, if it be 
 with her as you say, what a pity it is that she has 
 turned so much more to Henrietta Smart than to any 
 one else since she has come here ! Surely she is of all 
 the least worthy to be her companion. I suppose it is 
 because she is used to flatteiy. There is Gertrude 
 Markham — well deserving her name — (' perfect ti-uth,' 
 you know, it means) — so frank, so upright, looking 
 every one in the face, and never supposing but that 
 they intend precisely what they say — ' 
 
 * Yes,' replied Gwen, 'once or twice she has taken 
 Geraldine at her word, and completely discomfited 
 her. That is the last way to take her — ' 
 
 ' I believe it would be the best,' said Dora. ' Then 
 there is Clara, who seemed to amuse her very much at 
 firsts-' 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 162 GWEN, OR 
 
 ' But she never supposed that Clara was to take the 
 liberty of laughing at her just as much as at others.' 
 
 'And Augusta Clare, who is very good-natured; 
 but I think she grew a little tired of waiting on 
 Geraldine ; and Adelaide Gordon — so pretty, so lady- 
 like, so quiet, so very fair and just always.' 
 
 ' Yes, but quite able to hold her own in her gentle 
 way. She has no idea of letting Geraldine encroach, 
 or win by storm or sunshine her cloak from her — you 
 know that fable, Dora 1 The greatest disgrace that I 
 ever got into with Catherine was through drawing a 
 picture of Geraldine, first coaxing, then threatening. 
 Catherine took it from me and burnt it.' 
 
 ' How did you bear that V 
 
 ' Sullenly, at first ; but I knew she was quite right. 
 You see, I thought my composition so very clever, 
 that I did not like to watch it shrivelling on the 
 coals.' 
 
 ' Any one of the girls we have mentioned is far 
 superior to Henrietta Smart. She really is a mean, 
 sly girl, and Mrs, Darner would not, I think, be sorry 
 to part with her.' 
 
 ' There they are now on the terrace,' said Gwen ; ' I 
 hope they don't see us.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Gwen, we must make Geraldine welcome if 
 she comes. How are we to win her from Henrietta if 
 we don't V 
 
 Gwen felt that she coidd not make her welcome at 
 that moment. 
 
 ' Geraldine is worthy of better things,' said Dora, 
 earnestly. 
 
 Gwen did not answer. 
 
 ' Surely you see that there is a great deal in Geral- 
 dine V asked Dora, anxiously. 
 
 'Of what r 
 
 ' Of that which is fine and interesting,' said Dora. 
 
 ' I suppose there is,' replied Gwen, slowly. ' Cathe- 
 rine loves her very much — much more than she loves 
 me.' 
 
 ' Is Catherine fair to you V asked Dora, quickly.
 
 THE COUSINS. 163 
 
 ' Perfectly/ was Gwen's prompt reply. ' The best 
 friend I have. 
 
 ' I am very glad to hear that. How good for you V 
 
 ' Very.' 
 
 'But, Gwen, if Catherine love Geraldine so well, 
 try to find out why.' 
 
 ' Oh ! I know many reasons why — she loves her 
 mother veiy much — she loved her sister very much — 
 and she loves Geraldine herself — and Geraldine's 
 behaviour to Catherine is very different from her 
 conduct towards almost every one else.' 
 
 ' And it is not for the sake of flattery that she 
 makes that difference V 
 
 ' Catherine can't flatter.' 
 
 ' Well, then there must be a great deal of good in 
 Geraldine, or she would not love Catherine, nor Cathe- 
 rine her. But what of her sister — poor thing ! has 
 she lost one V 
 
 ' Yes, some years ago ; before I came to her ; a child 
 so fit for heaven ! Catherine often speaks to me of her. 
 She says that Maiy's room was like a little chapel in 
 the house, a spot to which every one went to calm 
 each violent feeling, and to drive away each vain and 
 worldly thought ; that to di'aw near to her bed-side 
 was an involuntary prayer. May I tell you about her V 
 
 ' Oh ! do — but to have lost one like that. Alas ! 
 poor Geraldine !' 
 
 As Dora said these words, Geraldine stood beside 
 them. ' Poor Geraldine !' she cried, in an indignant 
 tone j ' poor Geraldine ! Don't think that I have been 
 listening to your talking — Henrietta might do that 
 — not I — I stole along, Dora, to look over your 
 shoulder at your drawing, and surprise you. I never 
 thought that you would be speaking of me. Gwen, 
 you are a little viper, to come here away from our 
 home — and make me to be pitied by your stories !' 
 
 * Her eyes flashed — and, 
 
 Oh ! what a deal of scorn looked beautiful 
 In the contempt and anger of her lip. 
 
 M 2
 
 164 GWEN. 
 
 Gwen started up, and burst into tears : ' Oh ! Dora, 
 a viper !' 
 
 Dora was older than either of the girls j she was 
 eighteen. With all the sweetness and dignity natural 
 to her, she took Geraldine's hand. ' Geraldine,' she 
 said, ' you will be sorry for those words. She was 
 going to tell me of Mary, and I said, ' Poor Geraldine, 
 to have lost such a sister.' ' 
 
 Geraldine gazed wildly on Dora for a moment ; 
 shame for her mistaken violence, grief at the sound of 
 her sister's name, both appeared on her countenance. 
 Gwen had sunk down on the grass again. Geraldine 
 threw herself beside her, buried her face on her neck, 
 and sobbed : ^ Forgive me ! Gwen.' 
 
 Dora, kneeling by them, placed their hands in each 
 other, and, in a low whisper, as the passionate sobs of 
 both subsided, she said : 
 
 * May she go on with what she was saying, Geral- 
 dine r 
 
 Geraldine made a sign of assent, and Gwen, with a 
 strong effort at self-command, for the sake of com- 
 pliance with the wish of Dora, began in a low voice, 
 to repeat the chief of what she had ever heard from 
 Catherine respecting Mary, the sufferer and the saint. 
 A holy and a softening influence had the simple nar- 
 ration of these facts on the three girls, who were thus 
 engaged in their consideration. Never had there been 
 so much of gentleness, humility, and love in the hearts 
 of the cousins as when they moved slowly towards the 
 house at Dora's side, each regarding her with reve- 
 rence, as one actuated by the same spirit which had 
 animated Mary, and rendered by it so infinitely supe- 
 rior to themselves. Each felt, that not since they had 
 been at Staunton had they spent one of their after- 
 noon holidays so happily or so profitably as that one 
 with Dora.
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 How oft, oh thou compassionate, must thou mourn 
 Over the wayward deeds, the thoughts of pride, 
 That thy pure eyes behold. 
 
 Poems by F. A. Butler. 
 
 OH ! Geraldine,' said Gwen, to her cousin, when 
 they were alone, •' how very glad I am that you 
 did not happen to bring Henrietta Smart with you 
 to-day ; we should never have had the peace and 
 comfort we enjoyed mth Dora if she had been there — 
 she has a strange art of creating and keeping up misun- 
 derstandings. Besides, we never could have made her 
 our companion in what we talked of How different 
 with Dora ! Did you not feel, I am sure I did, as if 
 a dear familiar friend were with us both ! I know 
 what Dora thinks of that sort of feeling.' 
 
 ' What V asked Geraldine, quickly. 
 
 'She thinks,' replied Gwen, after a thoughtful 
 pause, ' that in the fellowship of Christians there is no 
 strangeness ; that when hearts meet in communion 
 about high and holy things — you know what I mean, 
 Geraldine, such things as we thought and spoke of 
 to-day, — it makes very little difference whether they 
 have or have not met in familiar intercourse before.' 
 
 ' But,' said Geraldine, musingly, ' if I had been told 
 this morning that I could have talked thus with Dora 
 and you before night, I should not have believed it.' 
 
 ' I wish that you always had been more with Dora, 
 and less with Henrietta.'
 
 166 GWEN, OR 
 
 ' Now, Gwen, I can't credit that. You like being 
 with her yourself, and I am sure you have not wanted 
 me !' 
 
 Geraldine spoke with a little indignation, as well as 
 incredulity in her tone. The perverseness of years 
 was strong in her. She felt that Gwen and Dora 
 were trying to influence her. From Dora she could 
 bear this pretty well, but not so well from her cousin. 
 ' Gwen is imitating Dora, and a little overdoing her 
 softness,' flashed through her haughty mind. Gwen 
 was silent ; Geraldine's manner had wounded her, but 
 that was not all. Something within whispered that 
 while in words she called Geraldine to come and share 
 with her what she held as an inestimable treasure and 
 a delight such as she had rarely tasted — communion 
 with Dora — in heart she could scarcely bring herself to 
 breathe ' a full, free wish,' to gain her to acquiescence. 
 Gwen laid her head on her pillow, harassed by this 
 self-reproach. 
 
 * What would Dora think of me if it could enter 
 her mind to imagine that I do not fully participate in 
 her generous zeal to do Geraldine good ? that, ab- 
 sorbed in myself, I covet her love, and cannot bear to 
 have it in any measure diverted from me ? Ah ! if she 
 knew all this, she would pity me as she does Geraldine, 
 and desire to infuse purer motives, higher thoughts, 
 into my mean, unworthy heart.' 
 
 Considering thus, Gwen fell asleep, and in the 
 morning, the first self-question was : * Can I share 
 Dora with Geraldine V 
 
 While she was dressing she began, however, to 
 perceive that the answer she gave to this question was 
 important only to herself She could not enforce any 
 restricting rule on Dora's free love, and bid her seek 
 her and abandon Geraldine to Henrietta. ' So then,' 
 she murmured, tears starting to her eyes, which she 
 dashed away with angry shame, ' I have always to give 
 way to Geraldine at every moment. She can snatch 
 from me whatever I value, and have carefully sought
 
 THE COUSINS. 167 
 
 for. I must hide my treasures, or resign them to her. 
 This is ever so — ' 
 
 * No,' said conscience, ' it is not so here. It was 
 Dora's own choice to welcome Geraldine — not merely 
 that Geraldine rushed in to win her from me. And 
 Dora will not be able so much as to conceive what I 
 mean by such feelings as irritate and vex me now. I 
 don't understand them myself There is something 
 wrong, I know, yet I don't feel as if I could either 
 conquer or escape from 'it. I am quite sure that I am 
 not obeying the injunction ' to love one another with 
 a pure heart, fervently.' ' 
 
 Gwen knelt down, and prayed, and rose up with a 
 resolution to reveal to Dora precisely what she did 
 feel, and to ask her assistance in examining how far 
 such feelings must have a debasing effect, a tendency 
 to separate one subject to them from such purified and 
 elevated natures as Mary's, as Catherine's, as her own. 
 
 Fortunately the day was Sunday ; otherwise, the 
 ordinary routine of the school might not have allowed 
 Gwen any opportunity of conversing with Dora apart, 
 and to speak a few hurried, interrupted words might 
 only have been a groundwork of misunderstanding 
 and mischief. As it was, Gwen had cause to fear that 
 she should miss the occasion for which she watched, 
 for Dora had risen up full of the warm hearty desire 
 to break the chain of habit rather than of feeling 
 which united Geraldine to Henrietta, anxious to 
 strike 
 
 'While on the stithy glowed the steel,' 
 
 and not to lose any ground gained on the preceding 
 day. Geraldine, she saw, was somewhat disposed to 
 keep aloof, a little too proud, perhaps, to make ad- 
 vances, but Dora's sweet cordiality put such reluctance 
 to flight ; they were soon engaged in conversation 
 with each other, and ended by walking side by 
 side to church. Gwen followed behind, silent, ab- 
 stracted, ungracious. She could not listen to her com-
 
 ]68 GWEN, OR 
 
 panion. She could not talk herself. Dora thought 
 that her friend must share her own happy feelings, 
 and, fortunately, Gwen's veil concealed her anything 
 but happy face as the girls passed, one by one, up the 
 seat appropriated to them in the church. 
 
 Gwen strove to maintain a mastery over herself, 
 and her honest struggle was not without its reward. 
 She grew calmer, more contrite, more loving, able to 
 embrace a larger circle of affection, and to look 
 further beyond the little present. She remained stead- 
 fast to her design of speaking frankly to Dora the first 
 moment that she could, but the uncertain arrival of 
 that moment — the probability of disappointment and 
 interruption just when she should think it secured — 
 harassed her and filled her with a feverish impatience. 
 Then she tamed herself — cooled herself down again. 
 She thought of Jeremy Taylor's simile of the lark, 
 when he is speaking of such as under the influence of 
 outward circumstances, ' pray to God with a troubled 
 and discomposed spirit.' 
 
 * For so have I seen a lark rising from his bed of 
 grass, and soaring upward, singing as he rises, and 
 hopes to get to heaven, and climb above the clouds. 
 But the poor bird was beaten back with the loud sigh- 
 ings of an eastern wind, and his motion made irre- 
 gular and unconstant, descending more at every breath 
 of the tempest than it could recover by the vibration 
 and frequent weighing of his wings ; till the little 
 creature was forced to sit down, and pant, and stay till 
 the storm was over, and then it made a prosperous 
 flight, and did rise and sing as if it had learned music 
 and motion from an Angel as he passed sometimes 
 through the air about his ministries here below. So 
 is the prayer of a good man. When his affairs have 
 required business, and his business was matter of dis- 
 cipline — his duty met with infirmities of a man — and 
 then his prayer was broken, and his thoughts were 
 troubled, and his words went up towards a cloud, and 
 his thoughts pulled them back again, and made them
 
 THE COUSINS. 169 
 
 without intention, and tlie good man sighs for his in- 
 firmity, but must be content to lose the prayer.' 
 
 Thus did Gwen feel herself sorely buffeted, and 
 blown hither and thither out of her heavenward course. 
 At this moment the high tones of Geraldine's voice 
 and the sweet but less powerful notes of Dora struck 
 her ear, mingling in strains of peace and love ; they 
 seemed soaring together, mutually bearing each other 
 up in that serene sether to which she could not 
 reach. 
 
 ' And would I separate them — break this beautiful 
 and holy bond ? How miserably wrong-hearted must 
 I be !' Gwen bowed down her head over her book. 
 Kone saw the scalding tears that fell and blistered the 
 words which her swimming eyes permitted her not 
 to discern ; the blot remained, and long afterwards 
 Gwen would look at that page, and reflect on the 
 moment of theii- falling. 
 
 The girls returned home in the order in which they 
 had come, and Gwen could not refrain from inwardly 
 uttering, in her vexation, ' All her interest is trans- 
 ferred from me to Geraldine. I am not so dull as to 
 overlook that. Shall I, then, speak to her of myself, 
 and gain at best from pity to-day wnat yesterday I 
 Avon from love V 
 
 At this moment Dora, passing, laid her hand lightly 
 on Gwen's ; that gentle pressure caused an entire revo- 
 lution in Gwen's feelings : 
 
 ' I don't deserve her tenderness and consideration ! 
 but she shall learn how little I deserve it. I will wear 
 no veil to her. She shall know me as well as I know 
 myself, and if she love me, shall be aware of what she 
 loves.' 
 
 No one could be more different than Gwen as she 
 went and as she returned. Her step was lighter ; she 
 felt that she had been ungi-acious to the honest Ger- 
 trude, who observed with surprise the ready interest 
 and animation with which she now conversed. 
 
 ' Had you a headache this morning V she asked.
 
 170 GWEN, OR 
 
 ' No,' said Gwen ; ' I will tell you the truth, Ger- 
 trude — I had a temper-ache.' 
 
 Gwen would not now dignify her dissatisfaction with 
 any finer name, and Gertrude laughed at the frankness 
 of the avowal. 
 
 ' Well, I must assure you that you are a far more 
 agreeable companion since it has taken its departure.' 
 
 And the girls talked gaily to each other all the way 
 home. 
 
 Gwen was in the corridor which intersected the 
 chambers, and involuntarily lingered as she reached 
 Dora's door, but she heard her step coming, and would 
 neither stop nor turn. Dora was at her side, and 
 threw her arm round her : 
 
 ' Dear Gwen, I liked to hear your voice with Ger- 
 trude ; it sounded cheerful, and I thought we were all 
 happy to day.' 
 
 Gwen gave a nervous twitch, and turned away her 
 head. ' I wish I could be with you for a little, Dora,' 
 she said. 
 
 'Well, so you can,' cried Dora, throwing open her 
 door. ' Come in here.' 
 
 Gwen had too much decision of character to waste 
 any of the moments which she prized. She knew 
 exactly what she wanted to say to Dora, and did not 
 wait for her to ask. 
 
 'You were happy, Dora, Your goodness, your 
 sweet temper makes you so ; but I cannot be happy 
 because I am not like you — not like anything I ought 
 to be, and I can't bear that you should think me the 
 least better than I am. I must tell you what wrong 
 bad feelings I have, and how miserable they make me.' 
 She stopped short, checked by the expression of sur- 
 prise and distress on Dora's face. ' I see,' she added, 
 ' it is ver)^ cruel to disturb your peace, to turn your 
 thoughts out of their pleasant course into my troubled, 
 perplexed, fretted current. Ah ! I am very selfish, 
 for I never thought till now how painful it would be
 
 THE COUSINS. 171 
 
 to you to see that where you have been thinking of 
 nothing but good, there is so much evil.' 
 
 ' I am sorry,' replied Dora, ' very sorry to find yoa 
 vexed, when I thought that you were happy and 
 hopeful about Geraldine, and glad that yesterday had 
 made us understand each other — ' 
 
 ' But you don't understand me, Dora.' 
 
 ' Don't I V replied Dora, sadly. ' I am soriy for 
 that. I wanted to be a comfort to you.' 
 
 Gwen threw her arms round her neck : ' Dear, 
 dearest Dora, I have never had comfort equal to what 
 you have given me except in my own home. But I 
 am afraid it will be no comfort to you to know me 
 better. I am afraid it can only be to love me less. 
 Perhaps you will think it better for us both to have no 
 more to do with each other.' 
 
 ' Now, Gwen,' said Dora, raising her face, with one 
 of her sweetest smiles, ' you are not in earnest.' 
 
 ' I am,' returned Gwen, mournfully. * You will 
 find that I have a most unhappy faculty of turning to 
 poison what ought to be good wholesome food, and if 
 that be the case I ought to be deprived of it.' 
 
 ' It sounds plausible ; but go on, and let me hear,' 
 said Dora, playfully. 
 
 ' I was very happy with you yesterday, only 
 wishing all the while that no one else would come near 
 us. T was very happy still, however, when, after 
 Geraldine's coming, all ended so peacefully. Oh ! I 
 would not, I am quite sure, I would not for the world 
 that Geraldine should not have come, and that we 
 should not have held that conversation about Mary. 
 I was happy as we walked home together — but after- 
 wards — last night — this morning — I cannot conceal 
 from myself what I felt — ' She stopped. 
 
 ' What did you feel V 
 
 ' That I could not give you up to Geraldine,' replied 
 Gwen, passionately ; ' that I could not cede the place 
 which I hoped I had gained in your heart. Many and
 
 172 GWEN, OR 
 
 many a time have I been forced to yield to her — 
 things she never thought of till my enjoyment of them 
 brought them into her notice ; and here again was she 
 to be my rival V 
 
 ' Oh ! Gwen, it was not rivalry that was in our 
 hearts yesterday as we walked homewards !' 
 
 ' No,' said Gwen ; ' these stormy feelings had not 
 risen up within me then. But afterwards — yes, now' 
 — and she looked hopeless and miserable. 
 
 Dora threw her arms round her, kissed her tenderly, 
 soothed her with silent caresses, did not loose her from 
 her embrace till she was soothed, and then, in a low, 
 sweet voice, she said : 
 
 ' Are not you sure that I love you, Gwen V 
 
 Gwen's only answer was an earnest kiss. 
 
 ' I thought,' continued Dora, ' that there could not 
 be a firmer bond of union, a safer seal to our love than 
 joining together to do good to a sister — ' Gwen only 
 pressed closer to her, and thought of the injunction to 
 which Dora was yielding obedience : 
 
 ' Who art thou that wouldst grave thy name 
 Thus deeply in a brother's heart ? 
 Look on this Saint, and learn to frame 
 
 Thy love charm with true Christian art 
 
 No fading frail memorial give 
 To soothe his soul when thou art gone, 
 But wreathes of hope for aye to live, 
 And thoughts of good together done.' 
 
 ' Besides,' said Dora, gently, ' I thought I owed a 
 sort of debt to Geraldine ; I felt some self-rejjroach, as 
 it were, about her. When first she came, I am afraid 
 we all deemed her too proud — a little impertinent, per- 
 haps ; we were none of us used to that sort of conduct, 
 and I fear we did not take it in the right way alto- 
 gether. I think that she even singled me out, and if 
 I had responded to her preference, or whatever it was, 
 she might never have grown so intimate with Hen-
 
 THE COUSINS. 173 
 
 rietta. Tliis seems veiy conceited,' cried Dora, break- 
 ing off and blushing ; nor would she add that she 
 had been chiefly disinclined to meet Geraldine's ad- 
 vances by dislike to her behaviour to Gwen herself. 
 ' I am sorry now, but perhaps it is not yet too late.' 
 
 ' Oh ! no, no, let us hope not,' cried G^ven, with 
 ardour ; ' forget my past un worthiness, dearest Dora, 
 and let me at least try to work at your side.' 
 
 And Gwen, who never again knew a fear that Dora's 
 affection for her would suffer diminution through the 
 warmth of her interest in Geraldine, was thencefor- 
 ward her zealous co-operator, and gradually acquired a 
 greater generosity of sentiment than on this point she 
 at first manifested. Was it likely, then, that she 
 should lose gi'ound in Dora's heart ? In fact, the two 
 girls were peculiarly calculated to contract a very inti- 
 mate and constant friendship. The gentle, sympa- 
 thising, humble-minded Dora could understand the 
 somewhat morbid sensibility of Gwen's imaginative 
 character, and was neither deeply wounded nor in- 
 censed by the shafts of satire which she could not 
 refrain from sometimes levelling at her dearest com- 
 panions. If they pricked Dora, the place did not 
 rankle, but healed again in a moment. Not gifted 
 with any remarkable talents herself, she had sufficient 
 intelligence to derive very great pleasure from the en- 
 dowments of others. She loved to look up to, to admire, 
 to venerate. She did not covet nor contend ; she 
 thought too little of herself to feel a wish to appro- 
 priate the gifts of others. She was happy enough in 
 ministering to their possessors. 
 
 ' I do hope, Dora,' said Gwen, one day, ' that you 
 will never marry any but a great genius. However 
 irritable, however egotistical he may be, you will be 
 able to bear it. You won't even be conscious that you 
 are bearing anything ; and if he occasionally breaks 
 out into expressions of gratitude and self-reproach, you 
 won't know what he means. Oh ! you are born to be
 
 174 GWEN, OR 
 
 the wife of a genius — to humour all his caprices, and 
 still more, to understand all his heart craves for — to 
 read all his moods — ' 
 
 ' Thank you,' replied Dora, laughing. There was a 
 whisjDer in her heart which she did not communicate 
 even to Gwen's ear : ' A very great genius — well, cer- 
 tainly, he is that — but irritable, selfish — oh ! no. 
 Well, Gwen, what are you thinking of more V 
 
 ' Why, that when you meet with such an one, and 
 give him all your heart, you will have none left for me, 
 and I shall hate him,' replied Gwen, as much or more 
 in earnest than in jest. 
 
 ' Oh ! no, I don't think you can hate him,' replied 
 Dora, eagerly; then, checking herself, she added, gently, 
 ' I shall love you on to the end, and why should you 
 hate any one dear to me V 
 
 Dora was so very simple in her manners and 
 tastes, so very unassuming, that even Henrietta Smart, 
 who was desirous to form an aristocratic circle of 
 friends, and looked on the opportunity of doing so 
 afforded her at Staunton as the one great advantage 
 she derived from being a scholar there, — was perpetually 
 in danger of forgetting that of all Mrs. Damer's young 
 ladies. Miss Biddulph stood foremost in high birth and 
 rank; — far above the wealthy merchant's adopted 
 daughter, Geraldine Eustace. 
 
 Dora did not find it too late to conciliate Geraldine 
 and to win her love, and how could she not be the 
 better for loving Dora ? But, unfortunately, after the 
 midsummer vacation Dora Biddulph was to return no 
 more. The knowledge of this fact made Geraldine 
 often assert, to the great discomfort of Gwen, that she 
 should not come back either. 
 
 ' Surely, Geraldine, you had much better stay an- 
 other half-year,' said Dora. ' You will not be seven- 
 teen till March.' 
 
 'You are speaking for Gwen, not for me, Dora. 
 What good will it do me to be here, when you are 
 gone? I learn very little but what you teach me
 
 THE COUSINS. 175 
 
 yoii know. But don't make yourself unhappy about 
 my cousin. I can settle anything for her that I like, 
 and if she desire another half she shall have it. I 
 wish you would come to us at Lascelles, Dora. I want 
 mamma to see you, and you to see mamma. You are 
 the two most loveable people in the world. Now,' 
 said Geraldine, reddening as she spoke, ' if Gwen does 
 not love her, she must be very cold-hearted — ungrate- 
 ful— 
 
 ' But she does — I am sure she does ; she has often 
 told me how very kind, and lovely, and loveable your 
 mother is,' cried. Dora, eagerly. 
 
 Geraldine looked only half-satisfied. 
 
 ' I doubt if she loves her enough,' she said. 
 
 Great was Geraldine's delight in returuiug to her 
 mother ; and Mrs. Faulkner, of course, thought no 
 endeavours to please and amuse her could be too lavish, 
 and, in all respects, did her utmost to obliterate any 
 traces of the stricter school-discipline to which her 
 daughter had been for awhile subjected. Geraldine 
 was soon as mutinous as ever, and carried the point 
 on which her heart was most set — that she should 
 return to Staunton no more. 
 
 Gwen went to her own home. Hugh had now kept 
 some terms at Oxford, and her ambition was fired for 
 him as well as for herself He had terminated a most 
 creditable career at Winchester, and, reaping the fruits 
 of his exertions, had now won many honours. He re- 
 joiced, and led Gwen to rejoice with a purer, higher 
 feeling than that of ambition, — a flame their mother 
 had never fanned. Mrs. Owen communicated to Gwen 
 that she was invited by the relations of a lady much 
 out of health, to accompany her to Madeira, to pass the 
 winter, — a proposal intended for the benefit of each, 
 and which awakened in her some hope of regaining a 
 portion of her own exhausted strength. The question 
 was whether Lascelles could still be the home of Gwen 
 for six months longer. No sooner did Mrs. Faulkner 
 understand these circumstances, than she promptly pro-
 
 176 GWEN. 
 
 posed to send Gwen to Staunton till Christmas, and 
 begged that Hugh would join her at Lascelles during 
 the winter vacation, adding that Gwen must, after his 
 departure, remain with her until Mrs. Owen's return 
 and establishment in the home which she contemplated 
 in London, as soon as her daughter should be restored 
 to her. These generous offers were accepted by the 
 Owens with sincere gratitude. 
 
 (^^
 
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 Things which, abide nearest the fountain spring 
 
 Of our affections cannot bear the light 
 
 Of common day, but shrink at ruder sight. 
 
 Thoughts in Past Years. 
 
 CHRISTMAS came, and G^ven took leave of Staun- 
 ton for ever. After the midsummer vacation 
 slie had returned there alone, freed from Geraldine's 
 j^laguing, deprived of Dora's sympathy, at least, of its 
 daily, hourly expression. She supplied this loss as 
 well as she could, by a full and frequent correspondence 
 with her friend, in which she permitted herself a 
 more unrestrained communication of her feelings than 
 perhaps she had ever put on paper before, for with 
 Dora there were fewer restrictions in force than with 
 her mother, though to her also could she write at this 
 particular period, far more freely than when at Las- 
 celles. Yery salutary to Gwen was this temporary 
 release from constraint. It was an unbending of her 
 spii'it, a softening at all times needed by her, and 
 perhaps now more than at other seasons, for she was less 
 than ever under the influence of the affections in daily 
 life. On her first return to Staunton, to find Dora 
 no longer there, was to Gwen to sustain a distress 
 which she revealed to none, and wliich rendered her 
 averse to other companionship, indisposed to contract 
 new intimacies, more uninviting in her deportment 
 than before — she could not desire nor endure to have 
 Dora's place supplied — she would sooner feel her want 
 than allow another to be her substitute. It was only 
 by Dora's own gentle admonitions that she was won 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 GWEN, OR 
 
 from this siiUenness of mood, and brought to welcome 
 demonstrations of kindness from her present com- 
 panions. But Gwen was not very attractive, and less 
 so when depressed by any inward suffering. Unfor- 
 tunately, too, she had acquired the habit of living 
 under the expectation of being misunderstood, and 
 withoat the hope common to youth, of readily and 
 ordinarily exciting love — for the kindness she met with 
 at Lascelles was not the result of individual affection, 
 and she keenly felt the difference. Gwen was gene- 
 rous, willing to serve and to oblige, but shyness and 
 reserve often hindered a manifestation of these senti- 
 ments, and when they passed unheeded, because unper- 
 ceived, she would shrink into herself, wounded and 
 annoyed. But by degrees these qualities came to the 
 knowledge of her companions, and it became a not 
 unfrequent expression among them : ' Oh ! Gwen will 
 help us, she is always ready.' Gwen's heart warmed 
 at such words as these, and she rarely disappointed the 
 confidence reposed in her. But it was in the fuller 
 development of her heart in affection for her mother, 
 brother, and friend, that Gwen found safety from an 
 intellectual absorption which might have deadened her 
 sympathies, and involved her in a selfish ambition. 
 Never did she work so hard and so uninterruptedly at 
 her various studies as at this time, and it was a most 
 wholesome refreshment to receive or to write a letter 
 warm from the heart. 
 
 Dora, to whom these effusions were new, welcomed 
 them with delight. The force and originality of all 
 that Gwen wrote made her correspondence constantly 
 interesting, but there was also a certain penalty to be 
 paid for the enjoyment of it, for she was not a little 
 exigeante with her friend, as to reciprocity of sentiment, 
 and a free and speedy expression of it. She told Dora 
 that she could disregard from others shortcomings 
 that she would not endure from her. ' You must not 
 leave me unsatisfied, unresponded to — others may — I 
 don't expect or ask from them what I know by per-
 
 THE COUSINS. 179 
 
 ception, by experience, I can extract from you. There- 
 fore, when jou do not understand and sympathise with 
 me, it seems as if you wilfully inflicted an injury, and 
 I resent, I cannot tell you how keenly, the wrong I 
 sustain. Is it not Lord Bacon who records a saying, 
 ' We are bidden to forgive our enemies, but we are not 
 bidden to forgive our fiiends V This is what I feel 
 in your case, Dora ; I cannot forgive, I cannot excuse 
 you, unfortunately, if you fail to render me one 
 particle of the affection I crave.' Thus would Gwen 
 wi^ite, if she construed a brief reply as a cold one, or if 
 her patience were tried by unavoidable delay. But 
 Gwen, if irascible, could also repent so fully and freely 
 that a more inflexible judge than Dora would have 
 been prevailed on to pardon ; and when reduced to 
 contrition, she had yet one stronghold in which she 
 always found safety : 
 
 ' You know, Dora, that however much I torment by 
 ill temper, I never have, for a moment, given you 
 ground for suspecting me of growing chilled and 
 changed.' On earth we can possess nothing beyond a 
 mixed good. It would have been better for Gwen had 
 her friend been rather less disposed to indulge her 
 tendency to morbid sensitiveness, and the egotism 
 which is its consequence, and to a certain jealousy 
 which as the accompaniment of extreme affection, in a 
 measure gratified, while it harassed Dora. This sort 
 of hothouse culture of Gwen's sensibilities made her 
 very susceptible of the change to the atmosphere of 
 Lascelles, and was partly the cause of grievous faults 
 as well as of acute suffering. It happened that she 
 arrived there at a moment when no one was free to 
 think much about her. She took refuge in the antici- 
 pation of Hugh's coming. That, indeed, was one full 
 of delight and of exultation, for she knew that in some 
 points, and precisely those of which Mrs. Faulkner had 
 a lively appreciation, her brother was as unlike herself 
 as possible. 'Mrs. Faulkner certainly cannot pity 
 mamma for having such a son as Hugh. I know very 
 
 N 2
 
 180 . GWEN, OR 
 
 well how often she had pitied her for her little plain 
 danghter ; here, on the contrary, I dare say she will be 
 moved to envy. No one can dispute that Hugh is 
 handsome, and he has the sort of beauty which Mrs. 
 Faulkner will admire — elegant, refined.' Secure that 
 Hugh would be approved of, Gwen followed another 
 train of thought, which resulted rather in fear than in 
 hope. 
 
 ' Hugh is coming for me,' she said ; ' Geraldine 
 has her mother, and all the pleasures that mother 
 provides for her. I shall have Hugh, and I shall 
 want nothing else — and Hugh will have me.' And 
 she felt a half -wish that Geraldine should keep to her 
 lively threat to let her cousin Hugh quite alone. 
 
 ' He will be much too learned for me. I wish, Gwen, 
 you and he would talk Latin together. It would be 
 improving for you, and I should feel total ignorance 
 less than partial.' To her mother, Geraldine added : 
 ' I hope that Hugh is not so dreadfully clever as his 
 sister. I am afraid. But if he is a great prig and 
 very tiresome, I need not take any notice of him, you 
 know. Gwen can have him all to herself, and she will 
 like that.' 
 
 The day came, the hour approached of Hugh's 
 arrival, and unobserved, unquestioned, Gwen took 
 her bonnet, and walked down the avenue, and into 
 the drive beyond, intending to look out for him there 
 — to be the first to see and welcome him. * Oh ! yes,' 
 she murmured, 'the very first — I must be that — I 
 would not share that moment even with Catherine, 
 and certainly with no one else.' Gwen had felt irri- 
 tated, she scarce knew why, whenever Geraldine had 
 uttered Hugh's name. She could not bear ridicule on 
 this subject, and yet she feared that if she showed her 
 sensitiveness, Geraldine would make it her delight to 
 tease her and her brother too. She had controlled her 
 feverish impatience all the morning while with Geral- 
 dine, and indulged it now by starting ofi" alone to meet
 
 THE COUSINS. 181 
 
 him. Unheeding what she was about, she passed through 
 the last gate of the grounds beyond which neither 
 she nor Geraldine had ever set foot alone, and pursued 
 her way along the high road without even pausing to 
 consider whither it led, or if it were the one by which 
 Hugh must approach. She walked with increasing 
 speed, like one persuaded that every step brought her 
 nearer to a desired object, and fortunately it did so. 
 Thoughts of Dora broke in, and mingling with thoughts 
 of Hugh, created a painful doubt lest many others 
 which she had indulged were such as neither would 
 approve. Their mild looks rose before her, and with- 
 out losing their mildness, spoke warning and reproof. 
 Gwen stopped short, and asked herself, ' Is it possible 
 that I am in danger of turning this great good now in 
 store for me into evil ? Ingi-atitude to God — that 
 would be — what grief to Hugh, and to me !' 
 
 At this moment Gwen heard the sound of approach- 
 ing wheels — Hugh might pass her by, not expecting to 
 see her there ; she placed herself in the centre of the 
 road, and stopped the driver by raising her hand ; 
 she could not speak, her voice failed her. Hugh looked 
 from the window with astonishment and pleasure : 
 
 * You here, Gwen ! you look pale — you can scarcely 
 stand — jump in, and drive back. You are quite 
 knocked up, my dear little sister.' 
 
 He was at her side. ' No, Hugh, no, T am not 
 tired,' she gasped ; ' I thought we might walk back 
 together.' 
 
 ' Walk,' cried Hugh, ' how far is it V 
 
 ' A mile, and more, to the gate,' said the driver. 
 
 * Had you not better drive V 
 
 ' Oh ! why !' replied Gwen ; ' it will take so much 
 longer to go on foot.' She put her hand on Hugh's 
 arm imploringly ; Hugh closed the carriage door, and 
 gave the driver his directions, then drew Gwen's arm 
 within his, and moved slowly on. 
 
 ' Dear Hugh,' said Gwen, fast recovering, ' I had no
 
 18^ GWEN, OR 
 
 idea where I was, nor how far I had come. I never 
 meant to quit the grounds. I am afraid that I ought 
 not to have done so.' 
 
 * No great harm, surely,' replied Hugh ; * and I am 
 here to take you home again. I am only afraid that 
 you have tired yourself.' 
 
 '■ Oh ! no,' said Gwen, ' not that.' 
 
 And the brother and sister had so much to ask and 
 to tell each other, that the mile and a half seemed but 
 a few yards in length. Gwen sighed as they reached 
 the gate at Lascelles. 
 
 ' Here we are,' cried Hugh, as he threw it open. 
 * How much I shall like to see the place where you 
 have passed many years, and the cousins who have 
 been in our stead to you !' 
 
 ' In your stead, in mamma's stead !' exclaimed Gwen, 
 startled out of her self-command. ' No, no, nobody 
 ever has been, can, or shall be that, though for my 
 mother's sake I would endure all things.' Tears came 
 into her eyes. 
 
 * Dear Gwen,' said Hugh, tenderly, ' no doubt you 
 have felt this separation more, far more than I can 
 understand. Boys, men, are accustomed to the sort of 
 thing from the first.' 
 
 * I have,' replied the girl, in a choked voice, * felt 
 the separation, and many things besides.' 
 
 * "What do you mean, dearest V asked Hugh, dis- 
 tressed by her manner. * Surely you have been happy 
 here on the whole f 
 
 <■ Well,' said Gwen, ' perhaps I have ; at any rate, I 
 have certainly had a great deal to be thankful for.' 
 
 ' But you do love Mrs. Faulkner and Geraldine ?' 
 
 ' I hope I do,' replied Gwen ; then added, in a live- 
 lier tone, ' I will tell you whom I love with all my 
 heart — that is, Catherine Irving.' 
 
 '• Oh 1 the nurse — the old servant ?' 
 
 ' If an old servant, she is still a young woman, and 
 'nurse' only means that she nursed poor Mary Eustace 
 night and day till she died. Were it summer, Hugh,
 
 THE COUSINS. 183 
 
 how beautiful yon would think this place. Even in 
 its winter garb it looks well. The hoar frost on 
 these trees yesterday was exquisitely beautiful. It 
 looked really as if all the fairy silversmiths had been 
 at work, and how they must have rejoiced in their 
 laboui's ! But I will take you into the conservatory, 
 and you will think yourself in the midst of summer 
 again. Here we are,' she cried, running up the steps 
 to the hall door, opening it, and leading Hugh rapidly 
 through the fine hall, and the drawing-room furnished 
 with remarkable elegance, into the spacious conser- 
 vatory beyond ; then standing still in the midst of her 
 favourite tropical plants and birds, enjoying her 
 brother's delight, she exclaimed, ' Mrs. Faulkner has 
 given me all the flowers on these shelves, for my 
 own !' 
 
 ' How very kind !' 
 
 ' Very,' repeated Gwen, feeling as if she had not re- 
 cognised this kindness as fully as she ought, till re- 
 minded of it by the cordial gratitude of Hugh's tone. 
 
 ' This is like one of the beautiful palaces in the 
 Arabian Nights^ said Hugh. ' We have not yet dis- 
 covered a living being in it.' 
 
 ' I suppose they are in the garden,' replied Gwen, in 
 a tone of annoyance. 
 
 Hugh seemed desirous to put an end to the few 
 minutes that were to her so delightful. Her brother 
 did not perceive the feelings by which she was in- 
 fluenced. He had neither her keen observation nor 
 morbid tendency, although possessed of delicate sen- 
 sibility, and the most even temper in the world. 
 
 ' There they are,' he said ; ' two ladies — I see 
 them.' 
 
 *We can pass this way into the garden,' replied 
 Gwen, making an effort to vanquish at once a repug- 
 nance which she knew to be vain. Hugh must know 
 those who had hospitably invited him into their 
 home, must encounter their fascinations, and would
 
 184 GWEN, OR 
 
 probably yield to their charm, as she herself had done 
 in the beginning. Then if he departed before the spell 
 was dissolved, he would probably remark her coldness 
 with wonder and displeasure. If he tarried long 
 enough to estimate their characters truly^ he must, 
 like her, be content to bend under an oppressive 
 debt of gratitude. Though more than once her lan- 
 guage had bordered on that of warning, she abstained 
 from the distinct utterance of any, feeling it ungenerous 
 to teach Hugh to meet with suspicion the kindness 
 which would be lavished on him, unless impeded by 
 caprice or prejudice. 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner and Geraldine having perceived the 
 approach of the Owens, came to meet them. At first 
 Geraldine had cried, ' Oh 1 let us stay here ; they will 
 come to us.' 
 
 But her mother either did not hear or did not heed ; 
 and Geraldine, choosing rather to precede than to 
 follow, now advanced, with the prettiest voice and 
 manner imaginable, holding out her hand to Hugh, 
 and saying : 
 
 ' Are you my cousin, Hugh Owen 1 Are you Gwen's 
 brother ? See, mamma ; here is Hugh. Is it not 
 odd V And she looked at him with undisguised sur- 
 prise and approbation. 
 
 ' Why odd, my dear V asked Mrs. Faulkner, laugh- 
 ing. ' Did we not expect him V 
 
 ' We expected — some one not the least like him ; I 
 never thought that an Oxford double first could be 
 anything but a most alarming- looking person, and I 
 fancied that no one who pores over books could be tall 
 and upright. Gwen, are you sure 1 — is this Hugh V 
 
 Hugh coloured, and felt rather shy at these pro- 
 longed observations concerning him, but was gratified 
 to perceive that Geraldine was undoubtedly much 
 better pleased with what he was than with what she 
 had expected him to be. On his own part, he had 
 not imagined anything half so beautiful as Geraldine
 
 THE COUSINS. 185 
 
 at this moment looked, glowing with the effect of the 
 fresh, elastic air, and with the excitement of seeing a 
 stranger. 
 
 ' Do not be such a silly child,' said Mrs. Faulkner, 
 drawing Geraldine's hand within her arm. ' Hugh is 
 very much like his father when first he joined our 
 family, but still more resembles a sister of Mr. Owen's, 
 whom I remember once to have seen, but cannot re- 
 collect what became of her. She was a beautiful girl. 
 Gwen, I think, was her name.' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Hugh, ' my aunt. She is in India. 
 Her husband is a brave and highly esteemed officer — 
 Colonel Campbell.' 
 
 ' Gwen,' repeated Geraldine ; ' Oh ! then, you see, 
 Hugh ought to have been Gwen, and Gwen ought to 
 have been Hugh. That would have made it all 
 right.' 
 
 Gwen was quite alive to the meaning of this speech, 
 but reading in it the full acknowledgment of her 
 brother's superior beauty, heard it without displeasure. 
 Hugh, set at ease by Mrs. Faulkner's kind reception, 
 soon found himself walking up and down the terrace, 
 talking to her with all the ease of relationship. Gwen 
 followed, never weary of looking at him, marking how 
 much he was grown, and charmed to see how frank, 
 yet how graceful his manner was. Geraldine, a little 
 tired of finding herself in the background, ran down 
 a slight declivity at one end of the terrace to the edge 
 of the recently frozen pond, and cried out that she 
 must try whether the ice would bear. Her mother 
 screamed in alarm, but Geraldine was already on it, 
 not a little frightened at her own daring. Hugh 
 hurried to the brink to relieve Mrs. Faulkner's terror, 
 and to aid Geraldine. As he arrived he heard the ice 
 begin to crack ; and the girl, losing all presence of 
 mind, extended her arms, exclaiming, ' Save me, I 
 shall sink 1' and fell on the surface. 
 
 "With a little difficulty, Hugh brought her to the
 
 186 GWEN, OR 
 
 bank, but no sooner did she attempt to walk than sbe 
 gave a cry of pain, and caught his arm. 
 
 ^ My dearest child, what have you done V cried Mrs. 
 Faulkner, shedding a flood of tears. 
 
 ' Broken my leg, I am sure,' sobbed Geraldine, in 
 return. 
 
 * Twisted your ankle, most likely,' observed Gwen, 
 promptly. 'Lean on me as well as on Hugh, and just 
 try to put your foot to the ground.' 
 
 ' It is too much pain,' cried Geraldine, angrily, and 
 sick and half fainting, she leant her head on her 
 mother's shoulder. 
 
 *You must let me carry you to the house,' said 
 Hugh, kindly. ' I can do it very easily ; don't be 
 afraid.' 
 
 But Geraldine was very much afraid, and screamed 
 several times before she could be safely laid on the 
 couch which Gwen, who had run on, wheeled close to 
 the door of the conservatory by which they could 
 enter, then hastening away to call Catherine : 
 
 * Do come quickly into the drawing-room. Geral- 
 dine fell on the ice, and has sprained her ankle, I 
 think. Mrs. Faulkner is crying, and Hugh has carried 
 her in.' 
 
 Catherine was ready with bandages and fomenta 
 tions in an incredibly short time, and pronounced, 
 without hesitation, that the ankle was strained and 
 the leg not broken. 
 
 ' Now, Miss Geraldine, it is of no use to twitch away 
 your foot ; I must bind it. What could make you go 
 on the ice V 
 
 'I wanted something to amuse me, Catherine. 
 Mamma was talking to Hugh — no one was taking 
 any notice of me, and I did it partly to startle them.' 
 
 ' Well, you have startled us all, and hurt yourself 
 also,' said Catherine, drily. ' You will be badly off 
 for amusement now.' 
 
 ' Oh ! no, every one must try to entertain me if I
 
 THE COUSINS. 187 
 
 have to lie here long. I am sure they will. I know 
 that mamma will think of nothing else, and I expect 
 nearly as much from Hugh.' And Geraldine turned 
 to him with an appealing smile. ' He was kind and 
 quick enough to save me from slipping under that 
 hon'id ice. I heard it crack ; it would soon have 
 yawned — would it not ]' 
 
 ' Oh ! don't speak of it,' cried Mrs. Faulkner, with 
 a shudder. ' We must all do our best for you, poor 
 dear ; but remember you have made us very angry. 
 I have sent for the surgeon, and I sha'n't be happy 
 till he has been here, although I dare say Catherine 
 knows as well as he.' 
 
 The surgeon came, and pronounced the strain slight, 
 not likely to confine Miss Eustace to the sofa for more 
 than a week. 
 
 ' A week !' exclaimed Geraldine. * What a stupid, 
 tiresome man that is. I shall attend to no one but 
 Catherine. Pi^y don't let him come again. From the 
 fii^t moment that I saw how tall Hugh was, I made 
 up my mind that we would dance every evening while 
 he was at Lascelles.' 
 
 Gwen was extremely active and ready in her atten- 
 dance on Geraldine, showing presence of mind and 
 common sense. She was a little surprised when alone 
 with Hugh to find that he did not make the slightest 
 comment on the ^vilfulness which had occasioned 
 Geraldine's accident. He was delighted with Mi-s. 
 Faulkner's manner, ' and how beautiful Miss Eustace 
 — Gei^ldine is !' he said. ' I am sure that your Dora, 
 of whom you have written to me all the while that 
 you were at Staunton, can be nothing like her.' 
 
 'Kothing like her,' replied Gwen, proudly. 'As 
 different as possible, indeed. Some people might differ 
 as to which is the handsomest, but, as to the question 
 whether Dora is beautiful or not — just ask Geraldine.' 
 
 ' I will,' said Hugh ; and when they had retui'ned 
 to the drawing-room, and he had seated himself near
 
 188 GWEN, OR 
 
 the arm of Geraldine's sofa^ lie did ask her whether 
 Miss Biddulph was the extraordinary beauty that 
 Gwen declared her to be. 
 
 ' Oh !' cried Geraldine, with animation, * I believe 
 that is the one point on which Gwen and I do agree ; 
 to be sure it is one on which there can be no difference 
 of opinion. Oh, mamma, I wish we had Dora here ; 
 I begged her to come, but she only shook her head, 
 and said Christmas must be passed at home. If you 
 could see her — her lovely face — her silken black hair. 
 If you could hear her voice, it is so gentle — so persua- 
 sive — ' 
 
 Gwen smiled : ' Do you think, Geraldine, if she had 
 been by the pond to-day, and had said in her peculiar, 
 low tone, ' Don't, Geraldine,' that you should have 
 gone on it V 
 
 ' I can't tell; I felt very mischievous just then, and 
 when I heard mamma scream, I could not help taking 
 a little slide.' She took her mother's hand playfully 
 as she spoke. 
 
 ' Naughty child ! Strange that you should like to 
 torment me !' 
 
 * Mamma,' continued Geraldine, with a look of mock 
 awe, * was it not fortunate for me that Lady Kivers 
 was not in the garden ? — nor papa "? — but he must 
 know presently. You won't make out a very bad case 
 for me, mother dear, will you V 
 
 Hugh, during this little dialogue between Geraldine 
 and Mrs. Faulkner, had been chiefly engaged in 
 thinking how pleasant it was to hear the former express 
 her generous, cordial admiration of Dora. 
 
 ' She, indeed, need never fear a rival,' he thought. 
 
 It was strange that it did not occur to him at that 
 moment that surely Gwen's enthusiasm about her 
 beautiful friend was therefore more remarkable than 
 Geraldine's. 
 
 ' Tell me, Hugh, what do you know about Dora V 
 
 ' Gwen's letters have been full of her. I also know 
 young Lord St. Ruth, her father's ward, very well. If
 
 THE COUSINS. 189 
 
 lie goes abroad for the long vacation, lie wants me to 
 go with him as his tutor, and perhaps I shall.' 
 
 ' Where r 
 
 ' To Switzerland.' 
 
 ' Oh ! mamma, let us all go to Switzerland ; I should 
 like it so much.' 
 
 Mr. Faulkner's step was heard ; he entered the 
 room : ' Why, Geraldine, are you ill 1 What has hap- 
 pened V 
 
 ' Nothing very bad,' said Mrs. Faulkner, coming for- 
 ward to meet her husband. ' Poor child ! it was only 
 that she fancied that the ice was hard enough to bear 
 her, and she slipped, and strained her ankle. Mr. 
 Cooke says it is but very little.' 
 
 Mr. Faulkner could only be moved to pity by such 
 an account of Geraldine's disaster. 
 
 ' Owen, my good fellow ! have you found your way 
 to Lascelles] — Very happy to see you.' 
 
 4-
 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Ne I'examinons point dans la grande rigueur, 
 Et voyons ses defauts avec quelque douceur. 
 
 MOLIERE. 
 
 THE next day and the next everybody was em- 
 ployed in amusing Geraldine, and she had many 
 wants, and many ways of employing all her subjects. 
 She displayed considerable talent for despotic rule. 
 Gwen evinced as much alacrity as any one at first ; 
 the second day, still more the third, she could not 
 smother a hope that when Geraldine should be well 
 again, she herself might have a little more of Hugh's 
 society. Under existing circumstances, perhaps Gwen's 
 pleasantest hour was one passed with Catherine in 
 talking about her brother, and hearing what she 
 thought of him. Gwen had observed, but she did not 
 make known her observation even to Catherine, that 
 during her months of absence at Staunton, her cousin 
 had developed wonderfully from the school-girl into 
 the young lady, and she remembered with a start that 
 Hugh also was no longer a boy — the boy she used to 
 play with. Gwen was fond of saying to herself, ' I am 
 not a child now,' and if she were not a child, neither 
 were others. 
 
 The second evening, Geraldine said : 
 
 ' I really think, Hugh, that if you were to shake up 
 my pillow, fetch me another, then raise me up a little, 
 so as to be supported by them, and next tell Gwen to 
 look for my music, to open the piano, and to play an 
 accompaniment for me, I could sing you a song or
 
 THE COUSINS. J 91 
 
 two ; and you really deserv^e something, for you have 
 been very good to me all day.' 
 
 ' I have had abundant reward,' replied Hugh ; ' this 
 is the overflowing of your generosity.' 
 
 ' I was afraid,' said Geraldine, with a very pretty 
 air of penitence, ' that I had been too cross to say one 
 civil word to anybody for their pains all this day. 
 That is why I want to sing, because I can sing sweetly 
 when I speak sourly. You shall judge, if Gwen will 
 be good, and play.' 
 
 Gwen was surprised to hear this acknowledgment 
 of the fretfulness and impatience which she had re- 
 marked, while Hugh, touched by the tone of self- 
 accusation, denied the justice of it. He listened with 
 unspeakable delight to Geraldine's songs. Elated by 
 his admiration, she went on with increased spirit. 
 Then she wanted to sing one of which Gwen did not 
 know the accompaniment. 
 
 ' How tiresome ! what nonsense. Gwen, where is 
 the use of your playing so well if you can't read a 
 simple thing like that V 
 
 ' It is not simple, this German accompaniment,' said 
 Gwen ; ' the vocal part may be easy.' 
 
 * Do try it, Gwen,' cried Hugh, eagerly. ' You will 
 succeed, I am sure. You really play very well.' 
 
 ' Have you been able to find that out V asked Gwen 
 inwardly, but she silenced the bitter question, while 
 she bent her head over the music for a moment. 
 ' "Well, I will try,' she said, looking up. She had con- 
 quered. 
 
 It was an aii' of deep pathos which she had to accom- 
 pany, and while so engaged, she called up Dora's sweet 
 face before her to smile on her in approval ; earnestly 
 and lovingly did she gaze on it, and spoke with her in 
 such music as she could make. Geraldine's voice — 
 her ringing, melodious voice had died away. Gwen 
 went on — \\ith the remaining bars of the accompani- 
 ment they supposed, but now she took up the air, and 
 continued a modulation on it of beauty and feeling
 
 19.2 GWEN, OR 
 
 tliat thrilled through all their hearts. They felt too 
 much pleasure to interrupt her by one expression of 
 surprise, until she concluded of her own accord. 
 
 ' Why, Gwen,' exclaimed Geraldine, ' all that was 
 your own. How beautiful ! But if I had not made 
 you begin, you would never have done this — you may 
 all thank me for Gwen's performance ; I hope you will 
 perceive that.' 
 
 Gwen trembled, and her cheek was flushed with 
 excitement. Hugh saw how she was moved, and 
 left Geraldine to come to her side. He took one of 
 her hands, and said in a voice meant for her alone : 
 ' Dear Gwen, how eloquent these fingers are ! How 
 you will delight my mother ! Have you often played 
 like this before 1 Can you when you will V 
 
 Gwen looked up, her eyes swimming with tears that 
 half quenched the strange fire which glowed in them. 
 She had not been so happy since Geraldine first shared 
 Hugh with her — taking, as usual, the lion's share. 
 
 * When I will 1 Oh, no — ^but sometimes — I was 
 playing to Dora,' she said, smiling ; and then she 
 thought how very little even Hugh could understand 
 what she meant. 
 
 The next morning Hugh approached Geraldine's 
 sofa, and said : 
 
 *I have planned something that will be good for 
 you ; you are not able to walk even to-day ; but let 
 me carry you down to the pond in a chair, and put it 
 on the ice. I am going to skate ; you can t think how 
 you will enjoy such a drive as I will give you. The 
 ice is now so frozen that I am sure Mrs. Faulkner 
 cannot have a fear, and I am very safe, indeed I am.' 
 
 ' Are you V replied Geraldine. ' At present you 
 stand very high in mamma's favour. She considers 
 that you saved my life. I don't ; therefore I can't be 
 expected to feel an equal fervour of gratitude, can 
 11 — But really you did come here just like a hero of 
 romance, snatching me from imminent peril, almost 
 before we had interchanged a word with each other.
 
 THE COUSINS. 193 
 
 The only proper continuation to sucli a beginning is 
 that you should fall hopelessly in love with me ; that 
 
 is de rigueur, — of course you have commenced .' 
 
 Geraldine knew that she was going a little too far. 
 She did not quite venture to look Hugh in the face as 
 she ran on, to see how he took it. She would not have 
 hazarded the speech at all if Gwen had been by, and 
 placed, she scarcely knew whether in caution or in 
 malice, a marked emphasis on the word ' hopelessly.' 
 Gwen came into the room, and Geraldine exclaimed : 
 ' I like your plan, immensely. Gwen, I am going on 
 the ice ; run for my bonnet, and all the fm- you can 
 find. Hugh is to make a sledge of my chair — it will 
 be charming.' 
 
 * But I never meant that we should go without Mrs. 
 Faulkner's permission,' said Hugh, gravely, 
 
 * Quite time enough to seek it when my chair is on 
 the ice,' replied Geraldine, haughtily ; angry with Hugh 
 for thinking that lie could ask permission for her to 
 follow her own will. But Hugh was not to be shaken. 
 Not till he had found Mrs. Faulkner, and patiently ex- 
 plained to her that the ice had been hardening night 
 and day, and how much harm it did to Geraldine to be 
 shut up so long, — how anxious she was to try, and how 
 experienced a skater he was, — and had obtained a con- 
 sent, a reluctcint one, ' wrung fi'om her,' Mrs. Faulkner 
 said, did he return to carry his fair cousin down to the 
 water. 
 
 Geraldine had thrown her cloak upon the floor, her 
 bonnet on the chair, herself on the sofa. She did not 
 wish to stir. She did not intend to go out. 
 
 * Don't you, really?' said Hugh, much disappointed. 
 '■ And I have just prevailed with Mi's. Faulkner, chiefly 
 by telling her how much you desired this. She was 
 coming down herself to see us; and here is Gwen, all 
 ready.' No, Geraldine thought the skating would be 
 very dull, stupid work. 
 
 ' Dull, stupid work, Geraldine !' cried Gwen. ^ Oh! 
 no, certainly not that.' 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 19-4: GWEN, OR 
 
 ' Well, tlien, Gwen,' said Hugh, with spirit, ' give 
 me the chair, and come down; you shall try it, and 
 Geraldine can see us from the window.' 
 
 Now Geraldine felt quite sure that to watch them 
 from the window could not prove otherwise than very 
 dull, so she rose quickly, put on her cloak, and with a 
 little vestige of hauteur, desired Hugh to carry her. 
 The fresh air and the exercise brought back the roses 
 to her cheeks, and good humour to her mind. She was 
 soon full of enjoyment, glowing with health and plea- 
 sure. Mrs. Faulkner gazed on her and her young 
 charioteer with admiring eyes, and Gwen could not help 
 sharing the same feeling. Geraldine was safely carried 
 back, and Hugh was again at Gwen's side. 
 
 ' It is your turn, now, Gwen ; but why don't you 
 skate? That is what you would enjoy. I will get a 
 small pair of skates, and teach you.' 
 
 The next day Geraldine was able to reach the 
 billiard-room, and played several games with Hugh. 
 
 Thus the vacation was passing away day by day, 
 week by week ; how swiftly, how enchantingly to Hugh ; 
 how tediously, how painfully to Gwen. 
 
 At first Gwen argued with herself as to the strange 
 disquietude which harassed her. ' How odious these 
 sensations are ! Is it that I am miserably jealous ? Is 
 it because I thought that Hugh came here for me, that 
 I feel this uneasiness % He is never unkind, no — nor 
 neglectful — but everything is different from what I 
 expected. Oh ! Lascelles, Lascelles, what an unhappy 
 place you are to me ! All that is sweet in itself seems 
 to turn to gall, and all that is good to evil. I doubt 
 whether I could enjoy even Dora's society; and as to 
 my mother — not for worlds would I have her here — 
 she would feel too much for her poor Gwen, as none 
 ever have felt for her. One glance of hers would dis- 
 cover the secret of years, and force me to lay bare the 
 wounds I have stanched without ever betraying their 
 existence.'
 
 THE COUSINS. 195 
 
 But Gwen soon grew convinced that lier vision was not 
 distorted by any selfish consideration, when it told her 
 that Geraldine was using every means in her power in 
 order to fascinate Hugh, and ' thought -sick,"' heart-sick 
 was the sister to see him gradually beguiled of his 
 affection by Geraldine's newly-develojDed coquetry. 
 
 'There is nothing but vanity in this; how can he be 
 so weak as to suppose otherwise 1 He may empty his 
 heart of happiness for his whole life long, and what 
 return will he obtain but mockery from her, and cold- 
 ness and contempt from her parents 1 Can he have so 
 little knowledge of the world as to look round on all 
 this sj^lendour, see Geraldine the reputed heiress of it 
 (for whom else has Mr. Faulkner to turn to), and be- 
 lieve that she will reject the yet untasted cup of j^lea- 
 sure which is brimming over for her, to realize his 
 romantic dreams 1 Or would he, rich in gifts of intel- 
 lect as she is in those of beauty and fortune, renounce 
 the honourable career before him, to live here her con- 
 tented slave, receiving from her parents the very 
 bread he eats 1 What can he contemplate 1 What is 
 here for him to hope 1 What is there not for him to 
 fear ? Or rather, for me to fear for him 1 If he could 
 but know her better — see her as she is — he must then 
 recognise how incapable she would be of making his 
 happiness, even were she willing to try. He is quite 
 dazzled by her. I heard him yesterday reject with 
 disdain those lines of which he used to be fond : 
 
 ' A creature Bot too bright or good 
 For human nature's daily food.' 
 
 That is not Geraldine, certainly; nor do I think the 
 character described in them would satisfy Hugh, and I 
 am not surprised. I should not wish it. Dora far sur- 
 passes them. But what has become of all his musings 
 and his love for Una, for Griselda, for the Lady Cus- 
 tance ? I never hear him speak of them now. He 
 
 o2
 
 196 GWEN, OR 
 
 dares not talk of them to her. She would laugh him 
 to scorn. What would she make of lines like these '? — 
 
 ' In liir is high, beaute withouten pride, 
 Youthe "withouten greenhed or folie, 
 To all hir workes vertue is hir guide, 
 Humblesse hath slaien in hir tyrannie. 
 She is mirrour of alle courtesie.' 
 
 Or these of Griselda : 
 
 * In hir great estate 
 Hir ghost was ever in pleiue humilitie ; 
 No tendre mouth, no herte delicate, 
 No pompe, no semblant of realitee, 
 But ful of patient benignitee, 
 Discreet and prideles, ay honorable. 
 And to hir husband ever meke and stable.' 
 
 And as to Una, she would understand her just as 
 little. Geraldine cannot enter into that which ' makes 
 a sunshine in a shady place.' ' 
 
 These thoughts passed through Gwen's mind, while 
 her eyes were mournfully following her brother, as he 
 paced up and down the ten^ace, book in hand. If Hugh 
 had seldom appeared to think or read lately of 
 * heavenly Una and her milk-white lamb,' or of patient 
 Griselda, (or perhaps thought with a sigh, and abstained 
 from reading because of a regret) he had fallen on a 
 volume in the library of Spenser's sonnets, which 
 seemed to describe Geraldine in all her wondrous 
 beauty admirably; and now with Gwen's eye upon 
 him, was he repeating, with occasional breaks, either to 
 follow his own fancies more freely, or because the poet 
 said something not in unison with them, a passage here 
 and there which had become a favourite with him; as 
 this : 
 
 * Fair is my love when her fair golden hairs 
 With the loose wind ye waving chance to mark ; 
 Fair when the rose in her red cheek appears,
 
 THE COUSINS. 197 
 
 Or in her eyes the fire of love doth spark. 
 Fair when her breast like a rich laden bark, 
 With precious merchandize she forth doth lay. 
 Fair when that cloud of pride that oft doth dark 
 Her goodly light with smiles she drives away. 
 But fairest she when so she doth display 
 The gate with pearls and rubies richly dight.' 
 
 Hugh paused ere he added the next lines; however 
 it was but for a moment, and then he repeated them : 
 
 * Through which her words so wise do make their way 
 To bear the message of her gentle sprite. 
 The rest be works of Nature's wonderment, 
 But this the work of heart's astonishment.' 
 
 Alas ! poor Hugh ! why, even Geraldine would 
 have clapped her pretty hands, and laughed her mer- 
 riest laugh to hear her words called ' so wise.' 
 
 But if Hugh lived in a dream, so delightful that he 
 would not venture to ask himself whether he were awake 
 or sleeping, so also were there hours in which Gwen, 
 young and truthful, and far more deceivable than she 
 believed herself to be, could scarcely refuse to share the 
 delusion, though to her it was exquisitely painful. ' Is 
 it possible,' she would then exclaim, * that Mrs. Faulk- 
 ner's interest, Geraldine's unbounded efforts to please, 
 can have any serious meaning 1 Whatever Geraldine 
 sets her heart on, she will demand and strive to exact 
 from those who have shown her universal indulgence 
 hithei-to, 1 doubt not' 
 
 Gwen shuddered at the possibility that Geraldine 
 might become her sister, fill the first place in Hugh's 
 heart, and claim one in her ovra, which at this moment 
 positively recoiled from her. How eagerly did she 
 watch for proofs — 'trifles light as air,' — that Geral- 
 dine's vanity, not her heart, was touched. Miserable, 
 dissatisfied, scrutinizing, Gwen was an agreeable com- 
 panion to no one, and every day there was less appear- 
 ance of peace between her and Geraldine ; surely Hugh
 
 198 GWEN. 
 
 must perceive that. He did, but he also thought that 
 it was fully as often endangered by some keen, sarcastic 
 remark of Gwen's, as by some act of tyranny, half- 
 playful, half-passionate, on Geraldine's part. Mrs. 
 Faulkner observed Gwen's increasing dejection. She 
 supposed it was because Hugh's departure drew near. 
 She had thought Geraldine perfectly delightful through- 
 out the visit, full of spirits, and so kind and anxious to 
 entertain her cousins. ' Gwen ought to be grateful to 
 her, and I am sure that Hugh is. He is a dear, hand- 
 some boy. I really am sorry that he should take to 
 be a tutor like his father before him. 1 hope he won't 
 carry the imitation further, and fall in love with a 
 portionless girl, such as his mother was. Those poor 
 marriages are miserable things.' 
 
 Catherine had never seen Geraldine in her present 
 character before, and could not altogether understand 
 what was going on, much of it passing not immediately 
 under her eye; and then to her Gwen and Geraldine 
 were still children. 
 
 But a crisis came, and the whole thing seemed to 
 vanish like a scene in a play. 
 
 ^
 
 WMW^W^^WW^WWW 
 
 MJ^ 
 
 HK.ii^ 
 
 CHAPTER XYIII. 
 
 L'et^t ou je vous vois affige trop mon ame, 
 
 Et je vous donne avis qu'on trahit votre flamme. 
 
 Ah ! son cceur n'a pour vous que de feintes douceurs — 
 
 Cela se peut, ma soeur ; on ne voit pas les coeurs — 
 
 He bien ! c'est assez dit, et sur cette matiere 
 
 Yous allez recevoir une pleine lumiere. 
 
 MOLIERE. 
 
 HUGH'S last day liad arrived. On the following 
 morning he was to start for Oxford. Geraldine 
 and her mother made known, at breakfast, their inten- 
 tion of dri\'ing into London ; there were sights to be 
 seen, and shopping to be done. 
 
 ' Neither of which admit of delay V said Hugh to 
 Geraldine, in a tone of interrogation, addressed only 
 to her ear. As surprise and something like disap- 
 pointed expectation mingled in Hugh's question, Ge- 
 raldine's sole reply to it was an assumption of offended 
 dignity, and leaving the room at once, she only re- 
 turned prepared to accompany her mother. But Mrs. 
 Faulkner always made the carriage wait half an 
 hour, and this time Geraldine spent, whether premedi- 
 tatedly or not we cannot decide, in conciliating Hugh. 
 She called him to the conservatory, in order that he 
 might select and gather a bouquet for her — was all 
 smiles and gratitude for his exertions in her behalf, 
 and the moments flew veiy pleasantly till Mrs. Faulk- 
 ner appeared. Geraldine could not refrain from fresh 
 indulgence of her love of teasing, and her last act was, 
 as they went to the carriage, to bestow on her mother 
 exactly the flower which Hugh had particularly chosen 
 for herself. Nor did her blue eyes acknowledge the
 
 200 GWEN, OR 
 
 slightest perception of his annoyance ; they looked on 
 him with childish simplicity and much kindness, and 
 she threw herself back in the carriage, saying : 
 
 * I sha'n't come home without the song you want to 
 hear — your last evening — you shall have everything 
 your own way. I suppose you must not go with us 
 — because of Gwen.' 
 
 ' No,' said Hugh, ' I can't. Because of Gwen,' he 
 repeated to himself, as he re-entered the house ; and 
 though he would not, indeed, have forsaken her, he 
 felt rather glad that she was not at his side — that he 
 could pass a few minutes alone. 
 
 Meanwhile Gwen had watched from her window 
 the departure of the carriage with delight. 
 
 ' They are fairly gone now !' she said, drawing a 
 deep breath ; ' no more change of mind about that.' 
 She did not reproach herself with selfishness, though 
 she knew that her satisfaction was Hugh's disappoint- 
 ment, for she believed that Geraldine's voluntary ab- 
 sence during this, his last day, might save him a much 
 sorer pang than he now sustained. She had felt a 
 little surprise to see Geraldine go away ; but she knew 
 that her caprice was so great that she would often 
 break oflT in what appeared to be a very earnest pur- 
 suit, and forfeit the prize, to follow a new course with 
 a new end in view : and now that her own inexpres- 
 sible relief was united with Hugh's advantage, why 
 should she not rejoice 1 She hurried over the business 
 that detained her, and went in search of her brother, 
 whom she found in the library, in one of the recesses, 
 leaning on a step of the book-ladder, seemingly lost in 
 the interest of his book. Gwen came softly behind 
 him, looked over his shoulder, and read the lines : 
 
 * Rudely thou wrongest my dear heart's desire 
 In finding fault with her too portly pride ; 
 The thing which I do most in her admire 
 Is of the world unworthy most envied. 
 For in those lofty looks is close implied
 
 THE COUSINS. 201 
 
 Scorn of base things, and 'sdeign of foul dishonor, 
 Threatening rash eyes which gaze on her so wide 
 That loosely they ne dare to look upon her. 
 Such pride is praise, such portliness is honor, 
 That boldness Innocence bears in her eyes. 
 And her fair countenance like a goodly banner 
 Spreads in defiance of all enemies. 
 Was never in this world ought worthy tride 
 \Yithout some spark of such self- pleasing pride.' 
 
 A conviction flashed through Gwen's mind, as she 
 read aloud the first lines, which led her to continue to 
 the end, with marked irony in her tone. Hugh felt 
 it ; he put his hand over the book as she ended, and 
 removed his shoulder from tlie arm which leaned on it. 
 Gwen could not submit to this check. The time, the 
 occasion, the provocation — for we may call it so — all 
 urged her on. She felt, when Hugh even thus gently 
 shrank, as it were, from her touch, that it was Geral- 
 dine who interposed herself between them. 
 
 ' Is it possible,' she exclaimed, * that you can imagine 
 this to be a description of Geraldine 1 — that you can 
 discover anything to love, or to admire, in pride such 
 as hers ? Ah ! if you knew that its chief indulgence 
 has been to tramjDle on your defenceless sister — But 
 you shall know ; the time is come when it is better 
 that you should see her in her true colours. How very 
 faint you must have deemed my praise — how very 
 lukewarm my love, where Geraldine was concerned ! 
 And did it never occur to you that there must be 
 something that I could not applaud — something I 
 could not love beneath her fair exterior and her beguil- 
 ing tongue ? Oh, Hugh ! I never thought for my own 
 sake to tell any human being what I have endured 
 here, but for your sake I will tell you. Remember, I 
 would bear as much over again for the same cause — 
 for my mother. I came here lonely, young ; shivering, 
 as it were, in leaving my home and the two I had to 
 love me, and every one knew why I came. If she had 
 any native generosity in her heart (I don't value the
 
 202 
 
 GWEN, OR 
 
 prodigality that cruslies with gifts) — could she have 
 made it her sweetest jest to turn into ridicule the 
 poor little plain orphan girl, with no other portion 
 than such talents as Heaven had pleased to give her ? 
 Could she have found in her a fit object, not merely 
 for her sport, but to expend the violence of her tem- 
 per on ; to treat, not only with caprice, but with cruel 
 injustice ? She has been a tyrant to one who, as she 
 knew, did not dare to resist — for what resistance could 
 I have made that would not have cost what was dear 
 to me as my life 1 I believe it would have killed me to 
 have been sent home. I was forced to submit if I 
 would remain, and I did submit that I might remain. 
 For me it is nearly over j I have given them no just 
 cause of offence ; they may not love me — I don't 
 desire their love. And now I would have left their 
 house in silence, and never henceforth have allowed 
 my tongue to reveal Geraldine's faults, did I not see 
 you the plaything of her vanity, and believe that she 
 is working you all the ill in her power, perhaps rejoic- 
 ing in this new way of torturing me. Fond of rule I 
 have always thought her, but I knew not how deceit- 
 ful, till now that I see her endeavouring by every 
 means she can employ to persuade you that she feels 
 what I am certain she does not feel.' Gwen spoke 
 with a vehemence that made her language seem rather 
 that of passion than of truth. Hugh, at first amazed, 
 bewildered, nevertheless was the first to recover him- 
 self. 
 
 ' Be calm, Gwen, I implore you.' 
 
 ' I may be agitated,' replied Gwen ; ' how can I 
 help it, when thus impelled to break a silence long 
 rigorously imposed 1 But it is for your sake that I 
 break it. I am not speaking under the influence of 
 anger. What I have said is not exaggerated ; this, 
 and a great deal more than this, is true. Geral- 
 dine is not worthy of your love, if she would 
 accept it ; but she would reject it with scorn and 
 mockery. She has been brought up utterly to disre-
 
 THE COUSINS. 203 
 
 garcl the feelings of others when they interfere with 
 her own (for feelings I allow she has), and which is 
 worse, when they merely cross her caprice and her 
 hnmonr. Whoever is brought into contact with Ge- 
 raldine must be the one to suffer and to yield, for she 
 will do neither — not even for her mother, who has 
 weakly idolized her ; if for any one, for Catherine, 
 whom she respects — ' 
 
 ' Catherine !' interrupted Hugh, faltering; 'Catherine 
 loves her if you do not.' 
 
 ' Catherine loves her, I acknowledge ; but she could 
 not, she would not gainsay one word that I have 
 spoken. And you, Hugh, how long is it since you 
 have learnt to doubt my truth V 
 
 ' I do not doubt your truth, but I think that you 
 judge harshly ; that you look on Geraldine with an 
 eye of prejudice — ' 
 
 ' Do you V exclaimed Gwen, starting up. ' Now 
 that I have spoken, I must be believed.' And she 
 quitted the room, leaving Hugh expectant, but of what 
 he knew not, and he bent down his head on his folded 
 arms. 
 
 After the lapse of a few minutes Gwen, accompa- 
 nied by Catherine, returned, pale, and looking invincibly 
 determined. 
 
 ' JMiss Gwen, what can this mean V cried Catherine. 
 
 ' You shall hear,' replied Gwen, her voice trembling. 
 ' Circumstances have impelled me to reveal facts to my 
 brother which he doubts. He thinks that I am mis- 
 taken, prejudiced, that I have not seen plainly, nor 
 judged truly the things that have been so long before 
 my eyes. You can decide this question. You are too 
 fair, Catherine, to gainsay me if I speak only truth. 
 Am I right or wrong in telling him that Geraldine's 
 temper is violent and capricious — that she is careless 
 what she makes others endure or sacrifice for her satis- 
 faction — that she is vain and frivolous — that her 
 sugared words are lavished on strangers just as her 
 affections are set on a new toy or trinket — and that
 
 204 GWEN, OR 
 
 whosoever believes solid feeling to go with them is 
 bitterly deceived. Flatterers and dej)endents she seeks 
 to command. Friends !' — 
 
 Gwen paused — Catherine looked from one to the 
 other ; she understood all now — more than Gwen, 
 who had intended to guard her brother's secret, meant 
 her to understand. She pitied Hugh, but felt a pang 
 of a keener nature than that of compassion on hearing 
 the spoilt passionate child whom she loved, and for 
 whom she often feared, spoken of with such forcible 
 reprehension. She was amazed at Gwen's fearless 
 denouncement, and startled at the explosion of long 
 smouldering resentment. She had felt for Gwen, 
 recognised the evils of her position, and done what she 
 could to lessen them ; she now perceived that she had 
 never probed the wound deep enough, never ascertained 
 how far the iron had entered into her soul. While 
 Gwen spoke, she stood before Catherine little less 
 proud and vehement than Geraldine herself could be. 
 And when Catherine turned her eyes on the mute 
 anguish of Hugh's countenance, she could understand 
 why this wrath was stirred, if she could not forgive it. 
 
 * Mrs. Faulkner,' she replied, ' has idolized Geraldine 
 as her last and only child, and her great beauty and 
 winning ways have made all this worse. She has been 
 over indulged, and often do I fear that the correction 
 of suffering may be in store for her ; but I am sure it 
 is not such high and stormy words as these that will 
 do any good. I am surprised, Miss Gwen, that you 
 can have spoken thus of Miss Geraldine, in my hear- 
 ing, or that of any human being.' And Catherine's 
 voice faltered. 
 
 ' You do not contradict anything that I have said,* 
 replied Gwen, in a half-suffocated tone. * Keep to 
 that point now, Catherine, in mercy keep to it. If I 
 have told him one word that you can disprove, dis- 
 prove it — if you cannot, render me the justice to say 
 that I have not spoken in malice.' 
 
 ' Of that your own heart will judge better in a
 
 THE COUSINS. 205 
 
 cooler hour,' answered Catlierine. ' I will not saj you 
 have spoken untruthfully. Mr. Owen, none of us have 
 hitherto regarded Miss Eustace but as a spoilt child, 
 and I hope you have not either ; years hence may 
 you meet her again, and find her a woman with 
 many noble qualities brought out, and every evil 
 temper subdued, an honour to her station, «nd the 
 comfort as well as the delight of those who most 
 cherish her. But I will not conceal from you or from 
 myself that there is room for dread as well as hope, 
 nor deny that Miss Gwen has had a great deal to bear 
 here — more than her temper was equal to ; still I 
 think that whatever be the motives or feelings which 
 have impelled her to the proceedings of this day, she 
 will come to regard them with sorrow.' 
 
 ^Xever, never,' sobbed Gwen, 'will I regret what I 
 do for him.' 
 
 'AYell, of that we will not speak now,' replied 
 Catherine, and she left the room. Gwen approached 
 her brother, and gladly would have thrown her arms 
 round him, and hung upon his neck, but she dared 
 not, for Hugh started as she drew near, and said, 
 hastily, ' Gwen, I can't talk now, nor listen, let me go 
 out. I will see you later.' He snatched up his hat, 
 and Gwen watched him walk quickly along the terrace, 
 and into the wooded paths beyond. When she could 
 see him no longer, she sank down on the lowest step of 
 the ladder against which he had been leaning, buried 
 her face in her hands, and said, ' What have I done V 

 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Beneath thy magic note 
 
 My heart is as a slave, 
 
 And sinks and rises like the boat 
 
 Upon the heaving wave. 
 
 Alas ! that hollow art 
 Such raptures should bestow. 
 Alas ! that sounds so full of heart 
 From heartless lips should flow. 
 
 Remains of W. S. Walker. 
 
 WHAT have I done V 
 This question, in a dull tormenting tone, con- 
 tinually recurred, yet gained no conclusive answer. 
 Gwen could not wish to revoke the past, nor could she 
 review it with satisfaction. 
 
 ' Miss Gwen, you here still, and the luncheon un- 
 touched ? Where is Mr. Owen V asked Catherine. 
 
 Gwen rose with an air of bewilderment ; a mixture 
 of pride and of shame prevented her from looking 
 Catherine in the face. 
 
 •' I don't know. I will find him. Why, what hour 
 isitr 
 
 ' Three o'clock' 
 
 'And it was eleven,' murmured Gwen. She ran 
 swiftly upstairs, snatched her cloak and bonnet, and 
 descended again as rapidly. ' Poor Hugh, can he have 
 been in the cold all this time ? And this day was to 
 have been happy !' exclaimed she, stopping short, as if 
 appalled by a sense of the extreme misery in which 
 she had, as it were, involved her brother and herself; 
 dashing away the tears that blinded her, and resuming 
 her speed, she arrived at the end of the terrace, entered 
 the wood, and hurried on to a summer-house on its
 
 THE COUSINS. 207 
 
 edge. ' Here,' slie tliought, ' Hugh is likely to be,' and 
 liere lie was, chilled with the cold, the light of his eye 
 quenched, and the glow on his cheek faded. He cUd 
 not notice her approach until she had seated herself by 
 his side. The change which Gwen observed pierced 
 her to the heart, and without a word, for she felt as if 
 the sound of her voice must be torturing to him, she 
 hid her face in her hands, and wept as quietly as she 
 could. But Hugh did not leave her to weep long, 
 without attempting to minister comfort ; he put his 
 arm kindly round her, and wiped, nay, kissed away 
 her tears ; still he seemed as if he knew not what to 
 say. At last, in his soft voice, he murmured, ' My 
 dear Gwen, do not cry, you make me much more 
 unhappy. I understand it all now, my poor little 
 sister ; but your task will soon be over. You will 
 return to my mother.' 
 
 ' I can't, till May,' said Gwen ; ' but, Hugh, I am 
 thinking of you alone ; indeed I am. Why did you 
 ever come here 1 I bore what touched myself alone, 
 and could bear it, but this I could not endure. Yet I 
 don't know whether I have done right or wrong. 
 Oh ! Hugh, would you rather I had not spoken V — 'un- 
 deceived you,' she was going to say, but she felt that 
 the words, though tiiie to her ears, must be harsh 
 to his. 
 
 ' Oh ! no,' replied Hugh. ' I would not be ignorant 
 of the painful past,' and again he was silent. 
 
 ' Do come home,' ventured Gwen ; ' you have been 
 so long in the cold.' 
 
 But Hugh did not heed the sujDplication ; he laid 
 his hand on her arm, and said : 
 
 ' Gwen, this is the last time I shall be with you for 
 the present, you know. There are some things that I 
 must say. I was not so foolish, so vain, as you seemed 
 to dread that I might be. I never thought of her as 
 you fancied — she never gave me cause or right to do 
 so. It was no more than — don't you know — can't you 
 remember V
 
 208 GWEN, OR 
 
 * What V said Gwen, in a very low voice, after 
 waiting awhile, anxious to lead him on to speak freely, 
 yet afraid that the least interruption might check or 
 retard rather than assist the utterance of his thoughts 
 and feelings. A faint flush passed over his cheek, and 
 Lis eyes sought not Gwen, but wandered to the 
 furthest point of the landscape. 
 
 ' You know those words of Shakespeare,' he added, 
 with difficulty, ' about ' a bright, particular star V How 
 often have I thought of them since I have been here. 
 And it seemed that I might have been happy in this re- 
 membrance of her had such a remembrance been left me. 
 It is to see that bright star fall, Gwen. Oh ! there it is.' 
 
 * Ah !' cried Gwen, agonised by his words, ' it was 
 just that delusion which I could not bear — that you 
 should enthrone her — consecrate to a vision of your 
 imagination all the true, warm feelings of your noble 
 heart. Call it back, Hugh, reserve it for a worthier 
 object.' 
 
 ' Don't let us talk of that, Gwen,' said Hugh, quietly; 
 ' a few words of Geraldine, and I have done. Think 
 how very young she is — and her mother, whom I was 
 weak enough to fancy everything that a mother ought 
 to be — think how she has injured her 1 Depend upon 
 it, in years to come, Geraldine's character will yet 
 triumph over these injurious circumstances, and dis- 
 play its own worthier nature. You heard Catherine 
 express this belief — I share it — I wish you could.' 
 
 * It may be so,' said Gwen, doubtfully. 
 
 ' It will — oh ! Gwen, if you could have aided it — 
 could have been her friend !' 
 
 * She does not want the sort of friendshi]) you are 
 thinking of ; she would not endure me for a friend.' 
 
 ' She endures Dora.' 
 
 Gwen hid her face ; she was disarmed : 'I am not 
 Dora,' she said, with sadness. 
 
 * Try to be like Dora,' returned Hugh, earnestly. 
 * You love her ; it is not so difficult to try to be like 
 what one loves.'
 
 THE COUSINS. 209 
 
 ' Nay, then,' said Gwen, ' Geraldine, too, might 
 try.' 
 
 ' For my sake,' added Hugh, ' if not for hers, will 
 you be patient with Geraldine, kind to her, for the 
 remainder of the time that you are here 1 Oh ! Gwen, 
 for your own sake I might ask it ; you cannot consider 
 too seriously your present position, nor wrestle too 
 earnestly with its temptations. Think on those solemn 
 injunctions in obeying which alone can you find safety. 
 Think on those sacred words which surely may be 
 applied to it — ' 
 
 ' Go on,' said Gwen. 
 
 'Let all bitterness, and w^rath, and anger, and 
 clamour, and evil speaking, be put away from you, 
 with all malice. And be ye kind one to another, 
 tender hearted, forgiving one another, even as God for 
 Christ's sake hath forgiven you.' 
 
 * Hugh,' said Gwen, with self-abasement, ' Dora has 
 sho\\TL me those words before.' 
 
 ' May they be graven on your heart and appear in 
 your life !' 
 
 ' But,' said Gwen, timidly, ' you see it is ' kind to 
 one another,' and ' forgiving to one another ;' all this 
 is mutual, and that would make it so much easier.' 
 
 Hugh was silent awhile, then he said : 
 
 ' Gwen, you do not often plead to have things made 
 easy — why then here, where you know you may ask and 
 have strength 1 But surely Geraldine is far more 
 thoughtless than cruel. I have seen her carried away 
 by her own fancies to forget others, but I have never 
 seen her ^vilfully unkind.' 
 
 ' That is just how she often provokes me,' said Gwen, 
 dejectedly; 'by doing and saying the most irritating 
 things v/ith the greatest good humour and the brightest 
 smiles. But, Hugh, I will try more than I ever have 
 tried,' she added, emphatically. 
 
 This was enough for Hugh, Of few words and 
 modest professions himself, he did not exact from 
 others reiterated promises, or manifestations of feeling. 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 GWEN, OR 
 
 He rose now, and drawing Gwen's band within his 
 arm, began to walk homewards. Gwen detained him 
 ere they reached the terrace : 
 
 ' You will not tell my mother anything relating to 
 the past V 
 
 ' No,' replied Hugh ; and stopping short, he caught 
 Gwen in his arms, held her to his heart, and gave her 
 one kiss on her forehead. Gwen did not know 
 whether she deserved full, free forgiveness for this 
 day's deed or not, but she felt that Hugh had forgiven 
 her, and this conviction was soothing and strengthen- 
 ing too. As they approached the house they heard 
 the carriage on the drive. Gwen looked frightened, 
 Hugh, pale. He went to the door, and helped Mrs. 
 Faulkner and Geraldine to alight. Gwen followed 
 him. 
 
 ' Well, my dear Hugh — well, Gwen, how have you 
 entertained yourselves f asked Mrs. Faulkner. 
 
 ' They have not touched any food since the morning,' 
 said Catherine, angrily, as she took Mrs. Faulkner's 
 cloak. 
 
 ' Have you not 1 For shame ! You both look 
 quite pale and ill. I am provoked.' 
 
 ' How dull you seem !' cried Geraldine, springing up 
 the steps. . ' You have not been able to get on without 
 me, I see, and I have been sorry all day that I left 
 you.' 
 
 ' Not very kind to me, that regi'et, my dear,' ob- 
 served Mrs. Faulkner. 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, mamma, poor Hugh's last day, you know, 
 and I shall have you to-morrow, and to-morrow, and 
 to-morrow,' said Geraldine, kissing her mother. 
 
 ' Ring for some cake, that we may feed these hungry 
 ones. I am famished too ; and next they shall see 
 the pretty things we have brought for them.' 
 
 Like an eager child, she snatched the various 
 packets from Catherine's hand, tumbled on the floor a 
 piece of rich silk, unrolled many yards of ribbon, 
 shook a bundle of matches into a heap of worsted,
 
 THE COUSINS. 211 
 
 and then cried, pettishly, that she could not find what 
 she wanted. Just then the servant brought in two 
 more parcels. One was a travelling desk, which 
 Geraldine instantly seized on, showing all its con- 
 veniences, and proved that not one thing was wanting. 
 
 ' There, Hugh, that is for you — when you set out 
 on your travels with Lord St. Ruth. I should think 
 you would have the grace to write to us upon it some- 
 times. And here is a secret drawer — so very secret ; 
 there you may treasure any esj^ecially precious little 
 notes, Hugh — on pale pink paper — ' 
 
 Hugh bore all without flinching, was very grateful 
 for the kindness of his cousin, and the desk did 
 exactly suit him in every way. 
 
 ' There was no time to have your name put on it,' 
 said Geraldine, bending down and polishing the brass 
 plate industriously; suddenly looking up, she ex- 
 claimed : ' It is very disagreeable that you must go 
 so soon,' and again she returned to her occupation. 
 
 Catherine stood by, and thought her more than 
 ever a child, and a charming child. Gwen pronounced 
 her more than ever a coquette — yes, already a finished 
 coquette. Hugh felt oppressed at heart, and Mrs. 
 JFaulkner's delicate tact told her that there was some 
 element of pain in all this, though she could not 
 exactly discover what. 
 
 ' My dear Gwen,' she said, ' you are not forgotten. 
 Here is a shawl that took my fancy and Geraldine' s, 
 and you must wear it for our sakes.' 
 
 Gwen drew it round her ungracefully enough, but 
 struggled not to be ungracious, feeling, as she had 
 felt often before, that she could better endure to wear 
 the trifles of dress for their sakes than to receive 
 from them gifts of deeper import. 
 
 Great was the relief aflTorded both to Hugh and to 
 Gwen when Mrs. Faulkner observed : 
 
 ' We shall not be alone this evening. Mr. Faulk- 
 ner brings down some friends with him — some that I 
 
 shall like you to know, Hugh. Mr. W , the cele- 
 
 p 2
 
 212 GWEN, OR 
 
 brated traveller ; and A and L , both very 
 
 remarkable men.' 
 
 ' I want some flowers for my hair,' said Geraldine, 
 walking towards the conservatory. 
 
 ' Will he follow her V asked Gwen of herself, with 
 a beating heart. Hugh did not move, and she breathed 
 more freely. In a few moments Geraldine's voice was 
 heard from within. 
 
 * Hngh, will you come and gather this fern for me V 
 
 ' Oh ! do,' cried Mrs. Faulkner, eagerly ; ' it looks 
 so lovely in her golden hair.' 
 
 Hugh obeyed. Gwen would have darted from the 
 room, but she checked herself, and remained, standing 
 by the fire, listening to Mrs. Faulkner, who attributed 
 her dull abstraction to grief at the prospect of her 
 brother's departure, and sympathised with her as well 
 as she could. 
 
 ' Poor little thing !' she thought. ' I do believe 
 that, in her odd, dry way, she has a good deal of 
 feeling.' 
 
 Certainly Geraldine and Hugh were a long while 
 in srathering the branches of fern which Geraldine 
 bore in her hand trophy-wise, when she returned. 
 She looked very like a beautiful wingless Victory. 
 
 ' I can't tell how they have treated you, Hugh,' was 
 Mr. Faulkner's greeting when his guests were assem- 
 bled before dinner, ' but you certainly don't seem the 
 better for your visit to Lascelles.' 
 
 This remark did not make any great impression on 
 its hearers generally, but it pierced Gwen to the heart. 
 She placed herself at dinner where she could see 
 Hugh's face. More than one scalding tear started to 
 her eyes in the course of her scrutiny of it, and she 
 bent over her plate to hide the agony of apprehension 
 which seized her. She knew how delicate her brother 
 was, and remembered how he had spent the day. 
 
 When passing through the hall after dinner, Geral- 
 dine paused beside Gwen, and said, ' I see how un- 
 happy you are. I really am sorry — '
 
 THE COUSINS. 213 
 
 ' Oh ! don't, pray don't,' Gwen hastily replied, and 
 disappeared. 
 
 Geraldine looked after her for a moment. ' I was 
 sorry,' she said, 'and she would not let me be so.' She 
 followed her mother into the drawing-room, and 
 throwing her arms round her, cried, ' Mamma, how 
 unlike Gwen and Hugh are ! I can't fancy them 
 brother and sister. Gwen is such a little touch-me- 
 not. I tried just now to show that I was sorry to see 
 her vexed about Hugh. She would not let me say one 
 word. She flew upstairs.' 
 
 ' Some people can't bear observation, my dear ; 
 when they are unhappy they always seem cross, and, if 
 you try to console, it only makes them worse.' 
 
 ' Well, I must let her alone, then,' said Geraldine, 
 and she went to the j^iano. 
 
 Gwen soon re-appeared, pale, subdued, but certainly 
 not cross. On reaching her own room she had thrown 
 open the window-shutters, and let in a tide of bright 
 moonlight. She stood in it till somehow it seemed to 
 have a purifyiug, blanching effect on her, to take the 
 angry heat out of her soul ; all earthly cares grew 
 shadowy and unreal, like the mists that lay near the 
 ground ; heavenly hopes came out one by one, as the 
 stars of the firmament ; and Gwen knelt in the broad 
 rays with clasped hands, and prayed. Her tears were 
 dried, but not parched up ; dried, as if fanned by an 
 angel's wing. 
 
 There was much intelligent, agreeable conversation 
 in Mrs. Faulkner's drawing-room that evening, but 
 Geraldine did not appear greatly to regard it. She 
 had intended and expected that Hugh should ask her 
 to sing immediately that he entered the room ; but, 
 on the contrary, he took with modesty a share in the 
 conversation which did him much credit, and gave 
 pleasure to those engaged in it. Gwen listened with 
 delight, beguiled for the time of her sadness ; but 
 Geraldine took no pride in the approbation which 
 she saw Hugh win. Can a woman give a more un-
 
 ^14 GWEN, OR 
 
 equivocal proof of indifference? At last she fairly 
 yawned. 
 
 ' Gwen,' she said, pettishly, ' if you would not have 
 me die of weariness, do go and play something.' 
 
 ' I can't play now,' replied Gwen, with decision. 
 
 ' Why not V 
 
 Gwen made no answer, but Geraldine did not there- 
 fore desist from her importunity. 
 
 ' How very ill-natured you are, and every one is 
 tiresome to-night !' she exclaimed, with increasing dis- 
 composure. 
 
 ' What do you want, my dear child V asked Mrs. 
 Faulkner, good-naturedly. ' Something, I am sure,' 
 
 ' Yes, mamma, music to keep me awake,' answered 
 Geraldine, with a little toss of her head. 
 
 ' You had better sing to yourself You won't be in 
 danger of falling asleep then. Go and look over the 
 music that you brought from town to-day. Hugh 
 will bring you some lights to the piano.' 
 
 But no, this did not please Geraldine at all. She 
 had no idea of singing for her own amusement. She 
 continued her interruptions till the whole conversation 
 was broken up by her meaus. Then, when requested 
 to sing, she still refused. She had asked Gwen to 
 play, and why should she deny her ? She ought not 
 to make so many objections about such a trifle. 
 
 ' It is a bad habit for young ladies, certainly,' said 
 Mrs. Faulkner, and Gwen immediately rose, went to 
 the piano, and began to play. She could not under- 
 stand why Geraldine had made a point of her acquies- 
 cence ; certainly not that she might listen, for from 
 the moment the music began she heard her talking 
 and laughing gaily, and scarcely was the piece ended 
 than Geraldine was at her side with a song in her 
 hand, begging her to play it. It was not one of 
 Hugh's favourites — that comforted Gwen — and she 
 complied, doing, as she always did, her very best to 
 aid Geraldine and to render justice to her j^owers. 
 Geraldine felt the advantage which she derived
 
 THE COUSINS. 215 
 
 from Gwen's accompaniment, and often begged it in 
 her most prevailing manner. She also possessed a 
 harp, and knowing that she never looked more beau- 
 tiful than when playing on it, had conquered her in- 
 dolence enough to acquire some proficiency on this 
 favoui-ite instrument. Now drawing it towards her, 
 she began to strike the first notes of ' Al mio castel 
 natio,' the pathetic air and words of which she knew 
 touched Hugh deeply. Certainly Geraldine never had 
 looked lovelier than on this evening. She was dressed 
 in white ; the fern which she had gathered was 
 fastened in her hair and in her bosom by ornaments 
 of scold. She never executed her son^ with truer 
 efiect, and her face still retained the impress of its 
 sentiment when Hugh came to her side. How could 
 he be elsewhere 1 She held out a bracelet which she 
 had taken from her arm, and bid him fasten it ; she 
 saw that he obeyed with a trembling hand. 
 
 ' Sing once again, Geraldine,' he said. 
 
 Geraldine turned to her harp and suddenly began 
 the gayest air she knew. As it ended she said, laugh- 
 ing : 
 
 •' You see I don't like to be serious too long.' 
 
 ' ]S"ot long enough, perhaps,' replied Hugh. 
 
 Geraldine opened her large blue eyes in astonish- 
 ment — a sort of childish astonishment. 
 
 • Do you know,' she said, 'that you spoke just like 
 Gwen V 
 
 ' Did I V replied Hugh, moving away from her ; 
 but in a few moments, remembering the danger of 
 awakening suspicion of his sister by change of de- 
 meanour in himself, he returned, and for the rest of 
 the evening talked to her only that trifling nonsense 
 which he now thought pleased her best. 
 
 'm^V'm
 
 f7/» «s7-^ t7't s^ 
 ® (57® (5A® ©"aS (5n3 
 
 A. onLU. ,>4i^- ^>J/»>i j\U>^j 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 When thou art gone there creeps into my heart 
 A cold and bitter consciousness of pain. 
 
 Poems by F. A. Butlbk. 
 
 THE following morning Hugh and Gwen met together 
 in the breakfast room at an early hour. Geraldine 
 hated early hours ; therefore she acquiesced readily in 
 her mother's observation, that of course the brother 
 and sister would like best to be alone with each other. 
 
 By tacit agreement no allusion was made to the pre- 
 ceding day. They spoke of their mother and of her 
 hoped-for return from Madeira. Hugh gladdened his 
 sister's heart by his cordial admiration of her attain- 
 ments at Staunton, and spoke tenderly on subjects 
 referring to herself and her future life, avoiding those 
 which bore upon his own. All this Gwen understood, 
 and her heart swelled with grief and love. She ob- 
 served his looks anxiously when first they met. 
 
 ' Did you sleep, Hugh V she asked. 
 
 * Not much, dear.' 
 
 Gwen sighed, and began making the tea, while Hugh 
 looked through the window, and cried: 
 
 ' There really are some snowdrops peeping out, there, 
 by that bush. I must have them, indeed I must.' 
 And throwing up the window, he vaulted through it, 
 gathered them, and re-entered. He shared his j)rize 
 with Gwen, saying fondly as he did so : 
 
 ' Don't you remember that we used to call you our 
 little snowdrop V 
 
 Catherine came into the room for a moment, to wish
 
 THE COUSINS. 217 
 
 Hugh good-bje. She declared herself little satisfied 
 with his looks ; they never had pleased her from the 
 first, and now less than ever. Hugh laughed at the 
 advice she bestowed on him, but promised to follow as 
 much of it as he should remember. Catherine perceived 
 the solicitude with which Gwen listened to her words, 
 and her almost maternal heart was touched ; she took 
 a fi'iendly leave of Hugh. Yery few words went with 
 the brother's and sister's parting. 
 
 ' God bless you, my Gwen. Strive for his blessing,' 
 was Hugh's whisper. 
 
 ' God bless you, Hugh. Let me hear very soon how 
 you are.' 
 
 Hugh was gone. ' "Would he had never come !' 
 thought Gwen, with bitter vain regret. Hugh, as he 
 passed the gate of Lascelles, and looked back from the 
 last point that commanded a view of it, did not reiterate 
 that wish. 
 
 Gwen darted upstairs as she lost sight of Hugh's 
 vehicle, bolted her door, and threw herself on her bed 
 in a passionate flood of tears. Two or three hours 
 later she joined Mrs. Faulkner and Geraldine, pale and 
 silent as a ghost, with the look of one prepared to do 
 or to suflfer anything that they might impose. As 
 they were ignorant of her past agitation, all this seemed 
 to them strange and exaggerated. No one could un- 
 derstand it but Catherine, and to her Mrs. Faulkner 
 said now as often before — 
 
 ' Gwen Owen is a very peculiar girl. Her father 
 was an odd abstracted sort of man, with strong feelings, 
 certainly. She is just like him. I can't bear to think 
 what she would suffer if anything were to happen to 
 her mother, who really, you know, is in a very precarious 
 state.' 
 
 ' I sincerely hope that her daughter may be permitted 
 to be with her again before death separates them,' said 
 Catherine, earnestly. 
 
 ' I desire it with all my heart,' replied Mrs. Faulkner, 
 kindly, ' if not — poor Gwen — I would do what I could
 
 218 GWEN. 
 
 for Mary's orphan, Heaven knows. I could easily get 
 over lier odd ways and temper, but I never think that 
 she and Geraldine suit each other very well, though 
 they can't now be said to quarrel.' 
 
 ' Miss Owen won't quarrel,' returned Catherine. 
 
 * No. I declare it would be more natural if she would, 
 sometimes.' 
 
 ' So I have heard Miss Geraldine say,' replied Ca- 
 therine, laughing. 
 
 ' I think that the girls have certainly done better 
 since they were at Staunton, have they not V 
 
 Catherine did not answer. 
 
 Geraldine felt very dull after Hugh's departure. She 
 would not walk, she would not sing, but sat by the 
 fire, and read the last new novel, and perhaps fancied 
 herself a little in love with Hugh; but then she was 
 not nearly so sure as she desired to be that she had 
 made a conquest of him. The next post brought letters 
 from Madeira, but none from Hugh; Gwen sent on 
 his mother's, and begged to hear from him. Some 
 days later, a feeble scrawl arrived, written from his 
 bed. He was suffering from a feverish attack, produced 
 by cold, he believed, but he was better certainly. After 
 this he had a relapse. Great were Gwen's anxiety and 
 misery, and every one felt for her, but none save 
 Catherine knew the secret springs of alarm and self- 
 reproach in her bosom. There came for two or three 
 days regular bulletins of Hugh's progress from Lord 
 St. Ruth. 
 
 ' This is kind and nice,' remarked Mrs. Faulk- 
 ner; and Gwen, in writing to Dora, told her how 
 grateful she felt to Hugh's friend, and how amiable she 
 thought that her father's ward must be, of which re- 
 mark Dora took but little notice in her reply. There 
 was, in fact, beyond doubt, always some constraint 
 in her way of speaking of Lord St. Ruth, and Geraldine 
 rashly pronounced that he was no favourite with Dora ; 
 but Gwen suspended her judgment, for she would pass 
 none hastily that was adverse to one who showed 
 affection for Hugh.
 
 c^(^A^!^A^#ji§^A^^ji^(^A^^/f^^i®i((^^(^y^<f@(^ 
 
 CHAPTEK XXI. 
 
 Dear land of sunny memories, tkine own 
 Tliou makest every heart that once has known 
 Thy loveliness and grace. Whene'er the breeze 
 Blows from the south among our native trees, 
 Whene'er a cloudless sky above us smiles, 
 A pensive thought of thee the soul beguiles. 
 
 ' A FOREIGN epistle for you, mamma,' cried G-eral- 
 xjL dine, one morning, bringing the letters with her 
 to the breakfast table. 'You always like that, you 
 know. What a hold la hella Italia keeps on your 
 affections after so many years' absence ! How many V 
 
 ' Twenty-two, my dear, at least,' replied Mrs. Faulk- 
 ner, with a sigh. ' It would be strange indeed if the 
 impressions then received could ever fade. All the 
 bright colours of youth and hope, Geraldine, existed as 
 well as those of Italian skies.' 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner spoke with really deep feeling, for 
 with her visit to Italy was associated not only the 
 memory of the common enjoyments of a happy girlhood, 
 and the fascinations of that lovely land, but also of her 
 first acquaintance with the husband who had possessed 
 those qualities which Diane could best appreciate ; the 
 kindliness, grace, and beauty which realized to her 
 mind everything that fancy could picture in a lover. 
 It was in Italy that Henry Eustace had met her, and 
 wooed, and won. 
 
 ' But this is a treat in itself,' added Mrs. Faulkner, 
 as she broke the seal. 'It is a letter from my dear, 
 my oldest friend, the companion of my gayest hours.'
 
 220 GWEN, OR 
 
 'Who is it that you mean, mamma? Madame 
 Baldovini V 
 
 ' Of course, my dear. Marianna.' 
 
 ' Oh ! that means Marianne, I know ; an English 
 friend of yours, who married and remained at Florence 
 when you and Mrs. Owen came home, chiefly she said 
 because it was such fun to defeat the machinations of 
 the priests and the relations, and to carry off the young 
 Count from the Florentine ladies who were dying for 
 him.' 
 
 ' Nonsense ! this stuff is your own invention, my 
 dear,' said Mrs. Faulkner, colouring a little as she 
 spoke. 
 
 ' Oh ! not at all, mamma ; I have heard it from you 
 a hundred times. I think I should rather like this 
 same friend of yours, detta la Marianna. Let us go to 
 see her, if you love her so much. I should enjoy just 
 such a winter as you had in Florence, private thea- 
 tricals and all. First to be presented in London this 
 spring — that is indispensable — then start for Italy in 
 the autumn. Hugh should take us through Switzerland ; 
 I really believe it would do you good. You are very 
 delicate. Be a little more so. Just a slight (very 
 slight, dearest mother), cough this spring, and Dr. W. 
 will pronounce on the necessity for the delightful plan 
 I have devised. Poor little Gwen ! she must keep 
 school the while. Her mother will be home in May. 
 I am sorry for her. It can't be helped.' 
 
 Gwen, who continued her breakfast with imper- 
 turbable gravity, remarked, drily : 
 
 ' When it is as you say, I sha'n't want anybody to 
 be sorry for me. I quite understand, Geraldine, that 
 you are to play and I to work, and I would soonest 
 have it so.' 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner was struck by the decided tone of 
 Gwen. These few pointed words seemed so exactly to 
 hit off the vocation of the two girls — Geraldine, so 
 beautiful and bright a creature, with her playful smiles, 
 her golden hair hanging round her face, elegant in
 
 THE COUSINS. 22 J 
 
 dress and manner, — and Gwen, witli her little prim 
 figure, long and formal face, all appearance of youth 
 lost in the deep thought of her brow, and colourless 
 cheek, — ' They are meant to walk in very different 
 paths !' 
 
 'And your father?' said Mrs. Faulkner, reproachfully. 
 
 ' Oh ! papa must spare you for one winter ; he could 
 have Lady Rivers, and Jemima, and dear Agnes to 
 keep house for him.' 
 
 ' Geraldine !' cried Mrs. Faulkner, in alarm, ' you 
 never know where to leave off when you are joking. 
 Pray don't suggest, even in the most trifling way, such 
 a horrid idea as that Lady Rivers should fill my place 
 for a short or a long time !' 
 
 ' Mother, dear — as if I meant to annoy you — as if I 
 hated Lady Rivers less cordially than you could desire !' 
 
 ' For shame, Geraldine !' 
 
 ' Well, mamma, we had better hear what JNIadame 
 Baldovini says ; that will put you into good humour 
 again, now that my idle chatter has rufiled your temper 
 a little more than is agreeable so early in the morning. 
 I know by experience that it is very bad to begin the 
 day by being in a passion.' 
 
 ' I allow,' replied Mrs. Faulkner, as her eye ran over 
 the letter, ' that what Mariauua says ought to enable 
 me to bear a great deal of provocation — it makes me 
 so very happy ! I am not sure, Geraldine, that it 
 will please you equally as well ; it quite overthrows all 
 your pretty schemes — at least for the present ; she is 
 coming to England — she must almost have reached 
 Calais — she tells me to write to her there. It is some- 
 thing about a disputed will of one of her English rela- 
 tions that brings her here. She must be in or near 
 London, on account of those dreadful lawyers. She 
 shall feel quite like a foreigner, she says, after so many 
 years' absence. She fears London will be quite ruinous, 
 poor thing ! 'With my limited income! What ought I 
 to do 1 Advise me, my friend.' Of course 1 will — 
 no difiiculty in that — I see at once what she must do —
 
 222 GWEN, OR 
 
 come here — it is quite near enough to town — she can 
 have the carriage every day if she likes to drive up to 
 her lawyer — and she can see him before she comes 
 down — I will write — oh ! this is delightful !' 
 
 Could Madame Baldovini have seen her friend at 
 that moment, radiant with joy and with kindness, no 
 doubt she would have asserted that she looked not one 
 whit less lovely than when she had last beheld her 
 twenty years ago. This was just one of those occa- 
 sions on which Diane heartily rejoiced in being the 
 wife of the wealthy merchant — generous as he was 
 rich — and mistress of the beautiful house which she 
 delighted to throw open to her friends. 
 
 ' I must write this very morning,' she said, rising 
 hastily. ' I can't consult Mr. Faulkner about it, and 
 there is no reason that I should — nothing in the world 
 in it that can annoy him, or that he can disapprove of 
 I shall tell him this evening all I have done. The 
 poor thing must hear from me at Calais — ' As Mrs. 
 Faulkner hastened to the library to write her letter, 
 she could not avoid acknowledging to herself that it 
 would possibly — nay probably reach Mme. Baldovini 
 quite in time, if not despatched till the following day. 
 
 ' But why delay V she argued. ' Mr. Faulkner al- 
 ways allows me to invite whom I will. I am sure he 
 was very patient when that odious Mrs. Mauley 
 seemed as if she never meant to leave us. And then, 
 if I speak to him before I write. Lady Rivers being 
 in town just now, he may not want to answer till he 
 shall have seen her ; and she is sure to raise some 
 objection, solely because it is my wish, for really no 
 reasonable one exists. I shall write at once ; I see 
 that is the only sensible course to take.' 
 
 Diane, seated at her escritoire, was in a few 
 minutes giving herself the indulgence of composing 
 just such a letter as she was sure that Marianna would 
 like to receive, and would write to her, were she in a 
 similar position ; quite unrestricted in its offers, for 
 Diane was ever averse to allow that ' it is necessary
 
 THE COUSINS. 223 
 
 that liberality should as well have banks as a stream. 
 Having resolved to write first, and to consult Mr. 
 Faulkner afterwards, she broke down the banks of 
 prudence, and ran on in an overflowing tide of affec- 
 tion, and promises, and professions — the first of which 
 she believed herself to feel, and the two last she sin- 
 cerely meant to perform. While she said ' Marianna 
 would do and feel just the same for me,' it did not 
 occur to her unguarded, generous nature, thatifMme. 
 Baldovini's epistles were as warm and as profuse in 
 professions as her own, yet circumstances never had 
 allowed their sincerity to be tested ; while, on the con- 
 trary, her words had frequently been verified in deeds. 
 Before closing her letter, Mrs. Faulkner read Mme. 
 Baldovini's a second time, undisturbed by Geraldine's 
 observations. She now first remarked the announce- 
 ment that her friend's son, Ippolito, would accompany 
 her. ' A boy she could not leave behind her ;' — about 
 Geraldine's age, I suppose — a mere child ; Italian boys 
 are so, never away from their mother's side. Of 
 course, he must come too — but why not ? Keally he 
 can't be in Mr. Faulkner's way, though perhaps he 
 might think he would ; my letter must go — I can't 
 re-\\T.'ite it — a postscript will do.' And this Mrs. 
 Faulkner rapidly added, feeling, as she did so, that 
 however admirably adapted for Mme. Baldovini's 
 perusal her epistle might be, she should be very un- 
 willing to submit it to Mr. Faulkner's eye ; nay, as 
 she sat there alone, she crimsoned at the thought. The 
 letter was accordingly despatched before her husband's 
 return, and Diane prepared for dinner with nervous 
 trepidation ; she was, as sometimes occurred, rather 
 late, and had no time for any conversation before they 
 met at table. She intended to approach the subject 
 she had in petto with all her usual grace and tact, but 
 Geraldine, of course, defeated these little schemes, 
 and revealed the secret before any preparations were 
 made for its disclosure. Her thoughts had been run- 
 ning on the Baldovini all day, for she had found Las-
 
 224 GWEN, OR 
 
 celles very dull lately, and looked forward to tlieir 
 arrival as to a novel occurrence. Before she had been 
 seated five minutes, she turned to her mother, and 
 began : ' When your Italian friends will be here, 
 mamma — ' Mr. Faulkner looked at his wife in sur- 
 prise ; she coloured a little, and was vexed with her- 
 self for doing so. 
 
 ' My dear Augustus, I was shockingly late to-day ; 
 I had no time to read any of my letters to you. I 
 meant to reserve them for the evening, but Geraldine 
 never can keep any secret, therefore I must tell you at 
 once that a very dear — a very old friend of mine — 
 one you have often heard me speak of — Marianna 
 Baldovini — is not yet in England, but will be imme- 
 diately. It makes me unspeakably happy to think 
 that 1 shall see her again. She begged for a letter at 
 Calais. I thought that I could not well miss even one 
 post, so you see I did not wait for your return ; I 
 have written and invited her here. I knew what 
 your wishes would be in such a case — I could not 
 doubt them.' 
 
 ' Of course not,' replied Mr. Faulkner, decidedly ; 'of 
 course you must have her here. How could I object 
 to your showing her that proof of a regard, of which, 
 as you say, I have heard a great deal V Mr. Faulkner 
 gave one of his odd smiles, which fretted Diane a little, 
 because she said she knew that they were always pro- 
 voked by what he called her absurdities. 
 
 'But Geraldine said 'your friends,' continued Mr. 
 Faulkner, with sudden alarm. ' I trust I am not to 
 have a foreign count to entertain. I hope her husband 
 is not to accompany her !' 
 
 Diane laughed heartily at his consternation. 
 
 ' No, indeed ! I never could have inflicted that 
 punishment without your full knowledge and consent, 
 I assure you.' And she felt much elated to think how 
 harmless what she had done must appear, compared to 
 what she might have been tempted to do. Then 
 resuming her former tone of sensibility, she added :
 
 THE COUSINS. 225 
 
 ' In fact, my poor friend has been a widow for five 
 years, I think, and has known all those griefs and 
 changes which time brings. She is full of energy ; 
 she has an independence — a courage I cannot emulate. 
 Ooly think of her setting off for England at this 
 season, with only her son, a boy — a mere boy — the 
 Contino. He will be with her ; but never fear, we can 
 take very good care of him, without troubling you. 
 The girls can amuse him, and learn Italian.' 
 
 ]\Ir. Faulkner was satisfied, and thought no more of 
 the Baldovini till the following day, when he called 
 for his sister, to bring her do^vn Avith him to Lascelles. 
 They were nearly there, when he chanced to mention 
 'Diane and those Italian friends whom she is ex- 
 pecting.' 
 
 Lady Rivers inquired his meaning. 
 
 * Oh ! you don't know — I forgot ; — a Madame Baldo- 
 vini, an Englishwoman who married a Florentine noble- 
 man — she is a widow, poor thing. Diane used to know 
 her ; they are devoted friends indeed, and she has 
 asked her to Lascelles. It was only yesterday that we 
 heard that she would be in England almost imme- 
 diately.' 
 
 'Indeed ! Madame Baldovini — I do remember to have 
 heard something about her — a woman who turned 
 papist to get on in foreign society ; that is, to obtain 
 a husband and a coronet. I wonder that you have 
 allowed her to be asked into your house.' 
 
 As the carriage stopped at this moment, Mr. Faulk- 
 ner was spared the trouble of exonerating himself from 
 blame, by explaining how little he had to do with the 
 hospitable invitation accorded to Diane's friend. Lady 
 Bivers entered Lascelles resolved to sift the matter 
 thoroughly, and poor Mrs. Faulkner was little aware 
 what was in store for her, while welcoming her almost 
 as graciously as if she were one of those she was best 
 pleased to see there. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Je sais que yous parlez, madame, le mieux du luonde. 
 En beaux raisonnemens vous abondez toujours, 
 Mais vous perdez le temps et tous vos beaux discours. 
 
 MOLIERE. 
 
 LADY RIYEES began her attack on her sister-in- 
 law as they were sitting round the fire in the 
 evening, before Mr. Faulkner had joined them. Mrs. 
 Faulkner had rejoiced, during dinner, in being able to 
 speak to her husband with perfect freedom on the sub- 
 ject of her friend's arrival, and therefore felt rather 
 more equal to the inevitable encounter than usual. 
 
 ' Pray, Diane,' was Lady Rivers' first interrogation, 
 ' is Madame Baldovini coming to live in England V 
 
 ' Oh, no ! she has a son, to whom she is perfectly 
 devoted.' 
 
 ' A son ! what may be his age V 
 
 *I don't know ; beginning to grow up, I suppose.' 
 
 ' Has she left him in Italy V 
 
 ' Certainly not ; she would not leave him for the world. 
 He is to her what Geraldine is to me.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! I hope he is not quite so unruly,' replied 
 Lady Rivers, with a smile scarcely less severe than her 
 frown ; she added : * You mean, then, that this young 
 gentleman accompanies his mother V 
 
 ' 1 do,' said Mrs. Faulkner, hastily, ' and I shall be 
 charmed to see him. We shall all like to have him. 
 A boy of his age will not be the least annoyance to 
 Augustus.'
 
 THE COUSINS. ,227 
 
 ' What age V asked Lady Rivers, but Mrs. Faulkner 
 did not seem to hear her, and she continued : ' Annoy- 
 ance to Augustus, no ; I should think there was more 
 danger of that from his mother.' 
 
 ' Madame Baldovini is a remarkably clever, agreeable 
 ■woman, and my particular friend,' said Mrs. Faulkner, 
 with emphasis. 
 
 ' So you have told me ; but I can scarcely fancy my 
 brother getting on well with any one so completely 
 foreign — ' 
 
 ' Marianna always did know how to get on well with 
 every one,' replied Mrs. Faulkner, carelessly ; well 
 knowing how extremely Lady Rivers disliked the ap- 
 pellations of ' Marianna,' and ' Diane.' It was hard to 
 be angry with 'Diane,' because it really was Mrs. 
 Faulkner's name, and she could not bear the blame 
 of it. 
 
 Lady Rivers looked determined that Madame Baldo- 
 vini should know the mortification of failure once. 
 Mrs. Faulkner was harassed and uncomfortable. Her 
 sister-in-law's presence always robbed her of her native 
 ease and grace. Lady Rivers had not yet exhausted 
 the subject. 
 
 ' Is the stay of your friends in England to be long V 
 
 ' I really don't know ; it is not easy for them to 
 calculate, when it depends on lawyers.' 
 
 ' I suppose it will not all be passed at Lascelles ? 
 Madame Baldovini being an Englishwoman must have 
 relations on whose attentions she will have a greater 
 claim than on those of a mere friend.' 
 
 ' 1 don't imagine that she has any relations left ; but 
 I hope to give her a welcome which will make it 
 impossible for her to feel lonely on visiting her native 
 land, even after so long an interval of absence from it,' 
 replied Mrs. Faulkner, with spirit, and she rose and 
 crossed the room, as if in quest of her work-box, say- 
 ing to herself the while: 'A Qnere friend; I wonder 
 what a mere friend is?' 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 GWEN, OR 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner was thankful to see Geraldine enter 
 the room at this moment. Sometimes she was un- 
 willing to call her to her aid, and rather would endure 
 what Lady Rivers could inflict than rouse the storm which 
 was sure to break when she and Geraldine were 
 thrown together. They were, and always had been 
 foes. Lady Rivers did not get on much better with 
 Gwen who declined her patronage, while Geraldine 
 resented her correction. Geraldine disliked her, as a 
 'disagreeable tyrannical woman, who fretted and vexed 
 mamma whenever she came to Lascelles, and even 
 made her cry sometimes, and could turn and twist 
 papa any way she pleased almost ; for when he seemed 
 to have given, or at least to be about to give, his con- 
 sent to some plan, the most delightful in the world, 
 she would prevail on him to reject it.' It is true that 
 Lady Rivers could make her brother harden when 
 half inclined to melt ; but to retract a promise of 
 acquiescence, no one could effect that ; for which very 
 cause Mr. Faulkner was not ready in according pro- 
 mises. His wife had once or twice tried the plan of 
 exclaiming : 
 
 ' Oh ! but you have promised — ' and met with so 
 sharp a rebuke that she now seldom got further than 
 an observation, sometimes a tearful one : ' Well, I did 
 think that you meant to gratify me in this — and so, 
 perhaps, you did, if — ' 
 
 But by the time that she arrived at the if, she was 
 made sensible that the experiment was dangerous. 
 H er words were more than once cut ofi" by a dry, ' You 
 know my intention now, Diane.' 
 
 On the present occasion, however, having won the 
 concurrence of her husband very easily, it was not to 
 be supposed that Mrs. Faulkner would submit to Lady 
 Rivers' cross-examinations and insinuations. Still she 
 was better pleased to owe her silence to Geraldine's 
 presence than to her own administration of any check 
 sufficient to restrain one over whom a delicate reproof
 
 THE COUSINS. 229 
 
 liad no power. During the rest of that evening Mrs. 
 Faulkner, protected by her husband, by Geraldine, 
 by Gwen, could ventm-e to set her foe at defiance 
 more than she had ever yet done, though when she 
 retired at night, terribly weary of Lady Rivers' cate- 
 chetical mode of examination, she said to Catherine, 
 * She makes me so nervous that I scarcely know what 
 I say before her.' 
 
 This interview with her sister-in-law confirmed Lady. 
 Rivers in a long-cherished opinion that Diane was one 
 of the silliest women in the world, and she laboured, 
 as in the discharge of a sacred duty, to impress Mr. 
 Faulkner with a like conviction ; it was no less her 
 purpose to persuade him that she herself was the 
 wisest, if it were only for the discovery of Diane's 
 all-pervading folly. Unfortunately, Lady Rivers had 
 more success than she merited, for she did not duly 
 estimate either her sister-in-law or herself The one 
 shut her eyes wilfully on her own folly ; she had but 
 to open them to be wiser — I do not say wise ; the 
 other, throughout life, mistook the cunning of a narrow 
 intellect, and the self-seeking of a mean spirit for wis- 
 dom and for prudence. 
 
 Lady Rivers thought it her duty to make one more 
 effort, in her drive to London with her brother the 
 next morning, to convince him that Diane ought not 
 to have taken so decided a step as that of inviting these 
 Italians into his house without previously consulting 
 him. But Mr. Faulkner could not be brought to look 
 on the subject in this point of view. 
 
 ^ Diane knows that I never interfere with her former 
 friendships unless there be some serious objection in 
 the way. I don't see that here. What does it signify 
 whether she throws away a few hundreds on this whim 
 or on another 1 All ladies have their fancies — on this 
 point Diane really feels warmly, and after all you do 
 not know that Madame Baldovini is unworthy of her 
 friendship.'
 
 230 GWEN. 
 
 ' I don't like Englisliwomen who marry foreigners,' 
 replied Lady Rivers. 
 
 Mr. Faulkner assented emphatically, but did not 
 show the least wish to retract the carte blanche he had 
 given his wife as to her reception of the lady who had 
 been guilty of this great offence. 
 
 -^m^
 
 #^^#^^##^^#^#^# 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 I was born to speak all mirth, and no matter. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 IT was in the month of March that the Baldovini 
 arrived in England, and they were expected at 
 Lascelles with much excitement, not only by Mrs. 
 Eanlkner, but by both the girls. They felt not a little 
 shy of the introduction of the young Count Ippolito, 
 whom his mother spoke of as her ' idolo,' and her 
 *tesoTO,' but did not particularly describe otherwise. 
 They wondered whether he could speak any English 1 
 of course he could, having an English mother — and 
 were rather nervous as to whether he would under- 
 stand their Italian. But Mrs. Faulkner diminished 
 their fear by telling them that it would be unneces- 
 saiy to address him in anything but French, unless 
 they wished it, as every well-bred Italian could con- 
 verse fluently in that language. Gwen, however, fer- 
 vently trusted that the young Count would speak 
 Italian, and not that ' anti-toscanissimo gergo nasalel 
 which Alfieri pronounces French to be. She hoped, 
 too, that he would read to them the poetry of his 
 native land, but Geraldine did not desire this at all, 
 but only that he might sing duets with her ; both 
 Geraldine and Gwen had their wishes gratified. 
 
 ' Why, Miss Geraldine, don't you know that Madame 
 Baldovini and her son are arrived, and in the drawing- 
 room V asked Catherine. 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, I know it perfectly. I peeped from the 
 balcony, and saw a fine lady covered with fur and lace,
 
 232 GWEN, OR 
 
 get out of the carriage, and a gentleman, quite tall — 
 could that be the Contino ? with a cloak, also trimmed 
 with fur — muffled up — how very ridiculous ! how effemi- 
 nate ! Hugh would laugh at such precautions on the 
 coldest day, delicate as he is. I don't intend to go down 
 stairs yet. I shall leave all the bustle and trouble of 
 receiving them to mamma and Gwen. I hate that 
 sort of thing. I shall stay here till dinner time, I 
 think, Catherine, unless I am called, and certainly I 
 sha'n't go then.' 
 
 ^ How very absurd you are, Miss Geraldine,' replied 
 Catherine. ' This is all to give yourself a little im- 
 portance.' 
 
 * Is it ? Shame on you to say so. It is fondness for 
 you that makes me stay here by your side,' said Geral- 
 dine, who was sitting on a low stool by Catherine, 
 employed in pulling out one by one the pins with 
 which Catherine had marked her work. ' Now why 
 should I go to these outlandish people V 
 
 * Because, till now, you were dying of curiosity to 
 see them. I am glad, however, that you can control 
 that feeling. Miss Geraldine. Perhaps you are strug- 
 gling with it on purpose.' 
 
 ' No, no j I never make those struggles ; they are 
 very ungraceful. I leave them to Gwen. It is just 
 that which makes her so stiff and rigid. I like to be 
 sans gene, you know. But I will tell you the real 
 reason of my staying here, Catherine, if you wish tx) 
 hear it.' 
 
 ' Just as you please.' 
 
 ' It is a little secret.' 
 
 * Well, it will be safe with me.' 
 
 ' Ah, you are curious, I see. Now for the treason. 
 I am inclined to suspect that mamma will make a little 
 too much of these people, and that I shall find it rather 
 tiresome. You know I don't like very sentimental 
 friendships. Dora and Gwen almost provoked me 
 sometimes. I think that I shall leave mamma and 
 Marianna entirely alone.'
 
 THE COUSINS. 233 
 
 * You mean that they won't want you.' 
 
 ' No, I don't,' replied Geraldine, angrily ; ' mamma 
 will always want me ; I am very sure of that.' 
 
 ' Yet you won't scruple to let her alone 1 And 
 what do you intend to do with the young Count V 
 
 Geraldine perceived, or fancied that she perceived, a 
 slight increase of interest involuntarily betrayed in 
 Catherine's tone, and this, of course, it became her 
 delight to baffle. ' I don't know yet. We shall see.' 
 
 She looked up with a smile, and added, ' Gwen 
 intends that he shall teach her Italian.' 
 
 ' He will have an apt scholar,' replied Catherine. 
 
 ' Do you think Gwen sure to succeed in everything 
 she intends V asked Geraldine. 
 
 ' Certainly not. No one ever did. But 1 expect 
 she will have an uncommon share of success.' 
 
 ' Because she is so clever 1 and so hard working V 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Catherine, do you think I am clever V 
 
 ' I really cannot tell. You are so idle that it makes 
 it difficult to judge. Sometimes I am inclined to think 
 you so, and sometimes the reverse.' 
 
 ' Thank you, my very discriminating, plain-spoken 
 Catherine,' said Geraldine, making her a low courtesy. 
 * Now have you the slightest notion of a certain sort 
 of pleasure — malicious, perhaps, you will call it — par- 
 ticularly beguiling to a person, not very clever, as you 
 say, not at all profound and painstaking, or systematic, 
 suddenly by a coujJ-de-main to sweep off the victory 
 from one like Gwen 1 Sometimes this is a temptation 
 to me.' 
 
 ' A temptation,' replied Catherine, gi-avely, ' remem- 
 ber, Miss Geraldine, the word you are using.' 
 
 ' Yes,' cried Geraldine, hastily, ' but not in that 
 tone, Catherine ; I did not speak in that tone, nor 
 must you ;' and she put her hand before Catherine's 
 mouth. 
 
 ' Really, Miss Geraldine, one would think you were 
 a child of seven years old — see what you have done to
 
 234 GWEN, OR 
 
 my work T said Catherine, suddenly discovering the 
 mischief perpetrated by idle fingers. 
 
 * And yet I am in truth seventeen ! and hope to be 
 presented in May. But I am very silly — that is just 
 what I was going to confess, and now you see it speaks 
 for itself.' 
 
 ' Geraldine, my child,' cried Mrs. Faulkner, at the 
 door of the room in which Geraldine and Catherine 
 were sitting, ' come here. Why were you not down 
 stairs ? Come with me to Mme. Baldovini. I am dying 
 for her to see you.' 
 
 ' She will see me quite soon enough, mamma.* 
 
 * No, my dear ; she is naturally impatient to do so. 
 And what do you think, Catherine 1 She asked me if 
 Gwen were my daughter ! I tried to make her remem- 
 ber Mary Owen, but could not in the least succeed ; 
 they never got on at all, to be sure. Her memory is 
 fresh as yesterday for me and all she really loved. 
 Come, Geraldine, I am longing to take you to her !' 
 
 * Well, I don't so much care now that she is in her 
 own room. But mind, mamma, only for a minute.' 
 
 * Yery well, my child, just one look at you !' 
 Geraldine rose, and allowed her mother to lead her 
 
 to the apartment assigned to Madame Baldovini. 
 When there, she found herself in the presence of a 
 handsome, elegantly dressed woman, whose first look 
 and tone deprived her of the power, had she retained 
 the wish, to display any pettishness or egotism, so 
 completely were they those of one conversant with the 
 world, equally accustomed to the dignified formalities 
 of courts, or the graceful ease of the most intimate circle. 
 She received Geraldine with a smile which displayed 
 very beautiful teeth, extended the whitest and most 
 graceful hands possible, and kissed her affectionately 
 on each cheek. Geraldine felt certainly much as- 
 tonished, and uncertain whether or not she was pleased. 
 But there was something beyond all doubt satisfac- 
 tory in Madame Baldovini's little step back, and 
 look of profound and almost breathless admiration,
 
 THE COUSINS. 235 
 
 followed by a delicate congratulation uttered in a sub- 
 dued tone to Mrs. Faulkner, calling her ' dearest 
 Diane,' with the prettiest foreign accent, which charmed 
 Geraldine in spite of herself, and made her forget all 
 the queen-like airs of condescension which she had 
 meant to display at this interview. Madame Baldovini 
 was in fact a most accomplished actress, and Geraldine 
 and her mother knew little about the matter. Mrs. 
 Faulkner's seeming aflfectations were parts of her very 
 nature, while Geraldine's artifices were transparent as 
 those of a child. 
 
 4- 
 
 '^^-^^-^
 
 CHAPTEK XXIY. 
 
 I noted her not, but I looked on her. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 GERALDINE flew to Gwen's room: 'Well, Gwen, 
 ■what do you think of Madame Baldovini ? Is she 
 not excessively handsome, and beautifully dressed, and 
 has she not very good manners ? Don't you think that 
 she is quite different from any one else you ever saw V 
 
 Gwen answered with consideration : ' I never did 
 see any foreigners before, except Mademoiselle Vernet, 
 and one or two governesses.' 
 
 ' She is not a foreigner — only rather foreign, certainly. 
 There is something in her very kind — so much heart, 
 Gwen.' 
 
 ' She is kind in manner,' replied Gwen, who had been 
 gratified by receiving from Madame Baldovini precisely 
 the same courtesy which she exhibited to others. She 
 was invariably courteous. 
 
 ' Now I want to know what the son is like.' 
 
 ' He is just what I — what any one would expect an 
 Italian to be — like a picture.' 
 
 'What, moustaches, and dark hair? He is quite 
 grown up. I saw that — as tall as Hugh.' 
 
 ' And taller,' said Gwen, solemnly, which made 
 Geraldine laugh heartily. 
 
 ' And handsomer, Gwen V 
 
 ' I dare say some people would say much handsomer,' 
 replied Gwen, embarrassed by Geraldine's mirth. 
 
 ' Did he speak any English V 
 
 * Not one word. Nothing would induce him to do
 
 THE COUSINS. 237 
 
 so. His mother tried in vain. I am sure that he un- 
 derstancU it perfectly. He looks as if he did; but he 
 would only answer in French.' 
 
 ' And you spoke French with him V 
 
 ' Of course.' 
 
 ' Did you make any blunders V 
 
 ' I think I did, for I was frightened.' 
 
 ' Frightened !' repeated Geraldine, scornfully. ' I 
 am sure I will not be frightened by him.' 
 
 ' I could not help it,' said Gwen, ' at first, but I don't 
 intend to be so again, either. You speak as if you had 
 seen him as well as his mother V 
 
 ' Oh ! I watched them as they got out of the carriage, 
 and very nearly met him on the stairs as I came here, 
 but I was resolved that he should not see me.' 
 
 ' How do you like Lascelles, caro mio T asked Madame 
 Baldovini of her son, as he entered, almost at the 
 moment that Geraldine quitted the room.' 
 
 Ippolito shuddered, rolled an arm-chair towards the 
 fire, with its back to the window, ensconced himself 
 in it, and throwing back his head, replied with an ex- 
 pressive shrug : 
 
 ' 2s on troppo' They had travelled in a keen March 
 wind. ' There,' he said, looking at the fire, ' is our only 
 sun now.' 
 
 ' The warmth of reception makes some amends for 
 the chill of the climate, I think,' replied his mother. 
 ' But I assure you my friend's manner is by no means 
 a specimen of that of her countrymen in general. I 
 can't let you hope that. We shall be frozen to death 
 perhaps when the Padrone di casa returns this evening. 
 Diane is much more like a pretty Frenchwoman than 
 an ordinary Englishwoman.' 
 
 ' Yery affected,' returned Ippolito, ' seccante.'' 
 
 ' She is wearisome, certainly,' allowed his mother, 
 
 'but munificent as a princess, and unsuspecting and 
 
 kindhearted in the highest degree. Depend upon it 
 
 that she will fulfil to the utmost that charming letter
 
 238 GWEN, OR 
 
 which we received from her at Calais ; and really, 
 Ippolito/ she said, glancing round the luxuriously fur- 
 nished apartment, which Mrs. Faulkner had taken pains 
 to beautify, because she knew that everything in En- 
 gland would look cold and cheerless to Italian eyes, 
 'we are very well here.' 
 
 'Oh, very;' replied Ippolito, indolently; 'but, mother, 
 you told me that Mrs. Faulkner had a daughter, a 
 miracle of beauty, and yet no sooner did you enter the 
 room, and see that ugly little girl, than you hazarded the 
 supposition that it was she. What could you mean V 
 
 ' Why, I had only heard of her beauty from her 
 mother, you know,' said Madame Baldovini, laughing 
 heartily, ' and I could not be sure how far maternal 
 eyes might deceive themselves. I admire you far more 
 than any one else does, no doubt.' 
 
 ' No doubt,' returned Ippolito, looking at himself 
 with consummate satisfaction, in a mirror which re- 
 flected him from head to foot, and coming to the con- 
 clusion that not one characteristic of Italian beauty 
 was wanting in the image he saw there. Crisp curls 
 of hair, black and glossy as a raven's wing, clustering 
 round a head of classic form, eyes of wonderful brilliancy 
 and depth of colour, features finely cut as chisel ever 
 sculptured, teeth of surpassing whiteness, ' il lampeggiar 
 del riso' and a frown like that of young Achilles on 
 the walls of Pompeii, Such was Ippolito at the age of 
 twenty, and not less the spoiled idol of his mother (whose 
 side up to this age he had seldom quitted), than Geral- 
 dinehad been that of her parent; adding moreover to 
 her natural haughtiness of character, all the prejudices 
 of high birth and rank, and of the narrowest possible 
 education. 
 
 ' I have seen the real Geraldine, now,' said his 
 mother, after she had amused herself sufficiently in 
 watching his survey of himself 
 
 ' Well, what is la bella Giralda like V asked Ippo- 
 lito, yawning. 
 
 ' You will be a little more excited when you have
 
 THE COUSINS. 239 
 
 seen her than you are now. I shall only say that she 
 is very stately and proud, and she has a right to be so.' 
 
 ' Oh ! a piece of ice — a beautiful statue that is to be 
 set up for us to worship.' 
 
 ' No, I think not that,' replied his mother ; ' but I 
 won't speak of her again. By-the-bye, what penetrat- 
 ing eyes that little dark girl down stairs has. I don't 
 much like her look.' 
 
 ' I do,' said Ippolito. ' ^ brava se nan e hella. I 
 dare say I shall much prefer her to your beauty.' 
 
 * You can pass to your room through that door ; there 
 is a communication between us. It is time to prepare 
 for dinner. Mr. Faulkner comes down every day from 
 the counting-house, where he is making millions, I dare 
 say. Punctuality, you must learn, is the vizio of these 
 English. Come, don't alarm him the first day, for 
 really, Ippolito, you know, we cannot do better than 
 stay here.' 
 
 When Ippolito entered the drawing-room with his 
 mother, he thought that the other ladies must be dressed 
 for a ball, so different was their toilette from what he 
 would have seen in his own country, on an occasion so 
 private. There now followed an introduction to Mr. 
 Faulkner, and very formal it was on his part, certainly. 
 Of Ippolito he felt especially afraid, because he did not 
 exactly know in what language to address him. He 
 had in some measure protected himself against the 
 young foreigner by bringing with him a clerk of his 
 house, whom he did not often treat with so much con- 
 descension, — 'a whipper-snapper fellow,' he thought 
 him, 'but he knew that he was a capital hand at French.' 
 To Geraldine, Ippolito was next presented, and then 
 rather overpowered by all he had gone through, he 
 seized with eagerness a vacant chair by Owen, who 
 he knew could and would talk to him, and devoted 
 himself to her till he was called on to conduct Mrs. 
 Faulkner to the dining-room. Mr. Faulkner was 
 speedily relieved of all fear as to his power of entertain- 
 ing Madame Baldovini; her ease of manner and
 
 240 GWEN, OR 
 
 unwearying discourse soon restored him to equanimity. 
 He found that she amused him very much, and she had 
 the art to make him feel that he in turn was agreeable 
 to her. Her voice, pitched unusually high to English 
 ears, drowned the French which prevailed at the upper 
 end of the table. Ippolito, who was really more lively 
 and amusing than his mother, in the society of strangers 
 became mute, though his pride would not have allowed 
 him to acknowledge that he was shy; neither Mrs. 
 Faulkner's good-nature nor Gwen's various remarks 
 could elicit much conversation from him. He was no 
 less struck by Geraldine's beauty than his mother had 
 anticipated, and to watch her in silence was his chief 
 occupation, framing an idea of her character, and of the 
 manner in which he should meet her later. He saw 
 that she might justly be pronounced proud, and he re- 
 solved to refuse the homage which she would be 
 disposed to command. Easy conquests she must already 
 despise, he said to himself, for he was quite surprised 
 to see these two young girls in a position so different 
 from that which they would have taken in his own 
 country. ' Their manners and conversation,' he after- 
 wards told his mother, ' were such as might have been 
 rather expected from the brides of last year than from 
 girls who ought only just to have emerged from their 
 convents.' 
 
 * But convents they have none,' replied Madame 
 Baldovini. ' In a month or two Geraldine will be in- 
 troduced to all the gaieties of a London season. The 
 opera, the ball-room, will reckon her among their 
 brightest ornameuts — that little plain girl is only a 
 poor relation, I fancy. I don't know what will become 
 of her.' 
 
 When the ladies withdrew, Ippolito looked implor- 
 ingly at his mother, and would gladly have made his 
 escape with her ; but now was the time of triumph 
 for which Mr. Lomax had been eagerly waiting ; the 
 time of accomplishing his assertion made to Miss 
 Eustace, that he would draw out the young foreignec
 
 THE COUSINS. 241 
 
 and discover what he was fit for. Ippolito was con- 
 strained to be his victim, and chose to fancy that 
 fresh torture was in store, when, on entering the 
 drawing-room, in consequence of his mother's de- 
 claration of his passion for music, Mrs. Faulkner sent 
 him with Geraldine and Gwen to the piano. But the 
 first chords struck by Gwen, the first tones breathed 
 by Geraldine, could not fail to convict him of error. 
 He condescended to be pleased, to become animated — 
 nay, even to seat himself at last at the piano and sing 
 one short song. It was vain to ask for a second. 
 
 ' His voice was utterly ruined by the climate for the 
 present,' he said, ' and he doubted whether it would 
 recover during his stay in England, if ever.' 
 
 It was a fine tenor, and Mrs. Faulkner remarked 
 that he and Geraldine might sing duets well together 
 — a remark which received no countenance from Geral- 
 dine, who had decided that the young Count might 
 seem shy, but was in fact very conceited. 
 
 'I can see that I shall find him extremely dis- 
 agreeable,' she thought, as she turned over the pages 
 of her music, ^vithout condescending to speak. 
 
 ' How strikingly like the portraits of Marie An- 
 toinette Geraldine is !' exclaimed Madame Baldovini, 
 looking at her in her proud beauty at that moment. 
 
 * Ah ! every one has observed that resemblance 
 fi.'om her very childhood,' replied Mrs. Faulkner. 
 
 * What a brilliantly fair skin !' observed Madame 
 Baldovini, half apart to jNIrs. Faulkner ; but all heard 
 the ejaculation, and it seemed strangely enough the 
 occasion of Ippolito's speaking in the most enthusiastic 
 terms to Gwen of the dark beauties of his own land, 
 till Geraldine attained to the mortifying conclusion 
 that he thought every one else insipid. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 *ilp <il(? *$? *i^ *$? 4? ^ 4? 4? 'i^ 'J' *J^ 
 
 c^ c)|(j O^J t)f(i c)fe tj(> cjjtj t^ 
 
 CHAPTER XXV, 
 
 For the wliicli she wept heartily, and said she cared not. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 * "11 /FY dear Catherine/ exclaimed Mrs. Faulkner, ' I 
 -LtJL had no idea that Madame Baldovini's son was so 
 completely grown up.' 
 
 ' I thought that you knew his age, ma'am,' replied 
 Catherine, quietly. She had frequently heard her 
 mistress mention that Mary and Ippolito had been 
 born nearly on the same day — a circumstance which 
 formed an additional link between herself and her 
 friend. 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner longed to say or to make Catherine 
 say, ' I hope he will not think of falling in love with 
 Gerald ine ;' but the latter she could not effect, and, 
 greatly as it would have relieved her to proffer the 
 remark herself, she refrained from thus bearing evi- 
 dence to her own precipitation and imprudence. 
 
 ' I am sure,' she said, fretfully, ' I do not know how 
 I shall get rid of him. It will be terrible to have him 
 idling at Lascelles all day. I looked forward to the 
 quiet enjoyment of my friend's society, and thought 
 that I could let the children take care of themselves.' 
 
 ' But indeed, ma'am, there are no children here now,* 
 replied Catherine, earnestly. As to the quiet enjoy- 
 ment which Mrs, Faulkner had anticipated, Catherine 
 could not at all picture to herself what that would 
 have been ; but she supposed nothing incompatible 
 with a daily morning or evening visit to London, and 
 attendance on as many Entertainments as the season
 
 THE COUSINS. 243 
 
 afforded. The society of an old friend was certainly 
 not sufficient for Madame Baldovini, who desired to 
 see everything that was to be seen. She was, indeed, 
 also willing to talk to her friend by the hour, as she 
 said, 'most confidentially, knowing how Diane could sym- 
 pathise with her. There is a great difference, and you 
 understand it, Diane, between feeling for and with a 
 person. You are one of the few who can do both. I 
 place full reliance on your regard, and then I enter- 
 tain such a high value for your opinion.' 
 
 This was soothing after Lady Rivers' undisguised 
 contempt ; and Mrs. Faulkner trusted that, if so clever 
 a woman as Madame Baldovini could thus esteem her 
 judgment, she need not suspect herself of just having 
 done a remarkably silly thing. 
 
 Mi-s. Faulkner was for a time an excellent listener, 
 and really amused and interested by all she heard, but 
 she began ere long to perceive that Madame Baldovini 
 absorbed all the interest herself, and cared very little 
 to know in return the details of her friend's life, and 
 still less of her feelings. Mrs. Faulkner was a little 
 disappointed, and moreover disconcerted, on finding 
 herself in a secondary position. However, Madame 
 Baldovini's caressing manner and lively gratitude kept 
 any half-defined sensations of this nature in abeyance. 
 On more accounts than one, Mi^s. Faulkner recognised 
 that she could not do better than acquiesce in her 
 friend's evident wish to be introduced to the gay 
 world. 
 
 * It is certainly safer,' she thought, ' than staying at 
 home, and providing Ippolito with no occupation but 
 that of flirting T^dth Geraldine. Really at present he 
 takes quite as much or more notice of Gwen — how 
 very odd ! — when Geraldine is near.' And the silly 
 mother could not quite reconcile herself to this want 
 of homage to her daughter's charms. In accordance 
 with her decision, the carriage was ordered nearly 
 eveiy morning for London ; the day was spent in 
 sight-seeing, and the evenings occasionally in enter- 
 
 R 2
 
 244 GWEN, OR 
 
 tainments. But Mrs. Faulkner was inflexible in pro- 
 hibiting Geralcline from partaking in the latter. 
 
 ' No, no, my dear, you are no longer a child, and I 
 cannot allow you to appear anywhere in the evening. 
 It really will not do now till you are regularly intro- 
 duced. It cannot be.' 
 
 Geraldine pouted; but, when she found that she 
 showed dissatisfaction in vain, she desisted. Still her 
 dignity was nearly overcome, when Ippolito, on the 
 first evening after the decision of this weighty point, 
 exclaimed, with astonishment, on finding her alone 
 and dishabillee in the drawing-room before the ap- 
 pearance of the two elder ladies : 
 
 ' Is it possible that you are not going with us to- 
 night 1 You talked of the ball ; you said how you 
 expected to enjoy it. You never gave me the slightest 
 idea of this all day. You have acted with caprice on 
 purpose to torment me.' 
 
 Geraldine was startled at his vehemence, but she 
 answered, pettishly, ' I assure you that I was not think- 
 ing of you in the least, and it is I myself who am tor- 
 mented.' 
 
 Tears stood in her eyes. 
 
 ' What can this mean V asked Ippolito, more gently. 
 
 ' Only that mamma has decided that I am never to 
 go out in an evening,' said poor Geraldine, too proud 
 to weep, angry to be under control, and impatient of 
 the loss of pleasure. 
 
 ' Then why should we V cried Ippolito, hastily. 
 
 'What difference can it make as to thatf asked 
 Geraldine. 
 
 ' Every difference,' replied Ippolito, taking a hurried 
 turn up and down the room. 'It is just that you 
 should be punished sometimes. You love to inflict 
 punishment yourself. You are vexed now ; neverthe- 
 less, it consoles you for your own loss to see that it 
 deprives me also of enjoyment. I know all this well. 
 Catliva r He was lashing himself into a passion. 
 
 * What nonsense you talk !' said Geraldine, colouring.
 
 THE COUSINS. 245 
 
 The door opened, and Mrs. Faulkner and Madame 
 Baldovini entered in full dress, charmed with each 
 other and themselves. Both looked extremely hand- 
 some. Madame Baldovini's toilette studiously rectified 
 every defect of nature, and concealed the inroads of 
 time ; while Mrs. Faulkner's, though selected with 
 taste and much consideration, had nothing false in it. 
 Indeed, beside her more artificial friend, Diane ap- 
 peared simple, but it was a simplicity which, even at 
 forty, became her well. Ippolito thought only of ' La 
 Cenereutola,' as he called Geraldine, whom they left 
 inwardly very disconsolate, and no kind fairy waved a 
 wand to transport her after them. 
 
 ' I have only Gwen,' she said, with an angry move- 
 ment of her shoulder ; but she was soon forced to con- 
 ciliate her sole remaining companion, coaxing her to 
 the piano to practise a song which she thought she 
 should like to sing the next morning to Ippolito. ' Not 
 that I believe a word of his caring whether I went or 
 not to-night ; he is not half so good-natured as Hugh, 
 and is always teasing me.' 
 
 Still Geraldine could not doubt the fact that thence- 
 forward Ippolito found many ingenious ways of throw- 
 ing obstacles in the way of evening engagements from 
 Lascelles. 
 
 From the commencement of this acquaintance there 
 had been no great promise of harmony between Geral- 
 dine and Ippolito, it must be allowed. Geraldine had 
 been accustomed to considerable submission on the 
 part of Hugh, who, if he sometimes ofi'ered a firm re- 
 sistance (as when he refused to place her on the ice 
 without Mrs. Faulkner's permission), in all that con- 
 cerned himself, and the relinquishment of his own will 
 or pleasure to her merest caprice, yielded with his cha- 
 racteristic mildness, and atforded her so easy a conquest 
 that she ceased to covet and was even at times ashamed 
 to accept it. ' There was no triumph in it,' she said, 
 ' and Hugh was a kind creature, who did not deserve 
 to be ill-treated.'
 
 246 GWEN. 
 
 It was far otherwise with Ippolito. Both alike 
 proud and impetuous, they were perpetually quarrel- 
 ling, yet always together. Cross each other as they 
 might, there was still some strong principle of attrac- 
 tion. Sometimes Ippolito would be very sullen for at 
 least half a day, and sometimes Geraldine would come 
 to Catherine, her cheeks the brightest geranium colour, 
 her eyes sparkling, and would declare that ' the Italian 
 boy was perfectly intolerable — his impertinence — his 
 rudeness — his conceit — why was he to be borne with V 
 
 ' Well, then, Miss Geraldine, you had much better 
 let him alone. He is in the schoolroom with Miss 
 Gwen. Nothing could be quieter than they were 
 when I went through just now — both drawing. Can't 
 you go to your mamma, or amuse yourself V 
 
 ' That is like them !' cried Geraldine, angrily. ' Yery 
 quiet when I am not there. Yes ; both want me to 
 think that they are much happier without me.' 
 
 ' Of course they are, if you will be so fretful and 
 impatient,' replied Catherine, quietly. 
 
 ' It is very well for Catherine to speak thus,' thought 
 Geraldine, much discomposed by her tone of acquies- 
 cence. ' I am convinced that Ippolito will be exces- 
 sively mortified if he hear me singing just as if nothing 
 at all had happened.' 
 
 Accordingly, she tried what effect one of her gayest 
 songs would produce, and it was not long before she 
 and Ippolito were quarrelling together over a duet. 
 How did Gwen like this ? She only bent her head 
 lower over her drawing. Ippolito had some talent for 
 painting, and some knowledge of it. He was teaching 
 Gwen what she did not know before, but now he was 
 gone from her, and she must find out and rectify her 
 errors for herself 
 
 ♦J" >I« T'
 
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 ©Vs qVs @yffl ©vs ay© sV© Sx© fiV© £v© av^ 
 
 CHAPTER XXYI. 
 
 She hath no portion in life's work or play, 
 Its changes or its cares. Her doom is said. 
 
 Eemains of W. S. Walker. 
 
 IT was not long before Lady Rivers made a point of 
 calling at Lascelles. 
 
 ' How tiresome, for we were just going out !' cried 
 Mrs. Faulkner ; ' and I see Jemima's carriage coming 
 up the drive.' 
 
 ^ And must we stay at home for that V asked Geral- 
 dine. 
 
 'Certainly, my dear, and no doubt she will have 
 brought Jemima and Agnes to see you.' 
 
 ' Oh ! T sha'n't encounter them yet. They will stay 
 some hours now they are once here. I shall make my 
 escape to the billiard room — for the present, at least,' 
 said Geraldine, darting through the door, and Ippolito 
 of course following her. 
 
 * Pray don't all run away,' exclaimed Mrs. Faulkner, 
 in distress. 
 
 Gwen quietly seated herself, and said, ' I can take 
 care of the two girls.' 
 
 Madame Baldovini had not the least intention of 
 withdrawing ; she liked strangers, and she particularly 
 wished to meet Lady Rivers. She had heard quite 
 enough of her, directly and indirectly, to excite curiosity, 
 if not alarm. 
 
 Lady Rivers was come to Lascelles to see and to 
 judge for herself. This gave a more than ordinary
 
 248 GWEN, OR 
 
 severity to lier demeanour ; it could not be justly 
 called dignified, because there was a tincture of doubt, 
 and of suspicion, and of curiosity — all of wliicb are 
 singularly undignified emotions. The meeting between 
 her and Mme. Baldovini was in itself an entertaining 
 scene, only there was a lack of spectators to be enter- 
 tained. Mme. Baldovini being the person least occu- 
 pied by personal feelings, was most capable of relish- 
 ing it, and she afterwards told her son that it had been 
 ' impayahle.^ 
 
 Lady Rivers glanced round the room as she entered, 
 desirous to take in the whole of what might be going 
 on in it at once. This rendered her manner so pre- 
 occupied that she responded with a very ill grace to 
 Mrs. Faulkner's very graceful introduction of her 
 friend. The first subject of conversation which Madame 
 Baldovini introduced was her great happiness at Las- 
 celles. 
 
 ' Your kind brother — it is impossible for me to 
 express the gratitude which I feel for his noble recep- 
 tion of us. It is indeed gratifying — deeply gratifying 
 — that such a favourable impression should be made 
 on my son's mind by my country-peoiDle, the first time 
 that I bring him among them. He already loves Eng- 
 land for the sake of the English, just as I would have 
 him. He, no more than myself, can ever forget the 
 generous hospitality which has met us. How happy 
 it would make us to look forward to a time when we 
 might manifest our feelings in deeds, not words. But 
 there seems little chance of that. I shall never, I fear, 
 see Mr. Faulkner in Florence ; do you think I shall, 
 Diane 1 — Not, indeed, that my home there is what it 
 once was,' — she looked down and sighed. 
 
 Lady Bivers immediately concluded that Madame 
 Baldovini never intended to return to it, but probably 
 would attempt to live on Mr. Faulkner's bounty for 
 the rest of his life. 
 
 ' When you leave Lascelles,' she asked emphatically, 
 ' do you return to Italy V
 
 THE COUSINS. 249 
 
 ' jSTo, I think not ; to Paris ratlier. I delight in 
 Paris ; and Ippolito does not know it as he should.' 
 
 ' I particularly dislike France and the French/ said 
 Lady Rivers ; ' they are a very false people.' 
 
 ' I think it is,' replied Madame Baldovini, with the 
 blandest of smiles, ' that they have hearts too kind to 
 like to utter any disagreeable truths,' and she glanced 
 at Diane as she spoke. 
 
 'I am English enough to like truth sans far d', said 
 Lady Rivers, stiffly. 
 
 ' Do you ?' cried Madame Baldovini. ' Ah ! one must 
 be so very superior to be able to encounter that.' And 
 she assumed an air of awe and deference. 
 
 Lady Rivers felt as if there was more than she 
 understood in this conversation, and turned to Mrs. 
 Faulkner to disengage herself from the subtle foreigner, 
 as she deemed her. 
 
 ' I have brought my daughters to see your young 
 people, Diane. I hope they will not miss Geraldine.' 
 
 ' Oh, no ! she is at home. I must send for her,' 
 replied M^'s. Faulkner ; not, however, taking the mea- 
 sure. 
 
 ' We heard the billiard-balls when we were in the 
 hall,' said Agnes, anxious to see her favourite. 'I 
 think Geraldine was playing.' 
 
 ' Alone f asked Lady Rivers. 
 
 'I dare say your son is playing too, Marianna,' said 
 Mrs. Faulkner, colouring slightly. ' He is very fond 
 of the game, and very skilful.' 
 
 ' Most Italians are,' replied Madame Baldovini, care- 
 lessly. 
 
 '■ Gwen, my dear, look for Geraldine, will you ?' said 
 Mrs. Faulkner ; and Gwen left the room. 
 
 In about five minutes Geraldine entered, and soon 
 after her Gwen and Ippolito. He had requested Gwen 
 to stay and have a game with him, but she replied 
 that she would rather not. 
 
 'What ! you only allow me to be your companion 
 when you have no others at command, Miss Gwen,'
 
 2.10 GWEN, OR 
 
 said Ippolito, with a mock air of being injured, and 
 he followed, for he thought it dull to be left alone. 
 Lady Rivers looked aghast when he entered. 
 
 ' Can this be your son V she asked, as Madame Baldo- 
 vini introduced him. 
 
 'Why not?' said his mother with a smile. 
 
 ' Diane always spoke of the Count as a mere boy. I 
 did not, therefore, expect to see a young man of his 
 age and appearance.' 
 
 Madame Baldovini laughed heartily : 
 
 ' I know Diane always has been very odd on that 
 subject. Now confess, Diane, did you not expect, 
 when I drove up to your door, to see Ippolito asleep 
 on my lap, and were you not speculating with alarm 
 on all the probable tricks which the monkey might 
 play ; for, of course, Italians are more mischievous 
 by far than your good English boys V 
 
 ' I certainly had forgotten how years had flown,' 
 replied Mrs. Faulkner, not a little embarrassed. ' I 
 had not thought him so old as he is.' 
 
 ' I hope I have behaved with something of the dis- 
 cretion suiting my advanced age,' said Ippolito, who 
 occasionally condescended to utter a sentence of per- 
 fectly good English. 
 
 ' Your cousins would like to go to the school-room, 
 Geraldine,' remarked Lady Rivers, in the tone of com- 
 mand rather than of suggestion. (' Surely he won't 
 think of going with them'), she inwardly added. 
 
 ' Gugine /' cried Ippolito, in a tone of wonder, meant 
 only for Geraldine's ear ; but she replied with a haughty 
 movement of her head, resolved that, whether he under- 
 stood her English or not, her meaning should reach 
 Lady Rivers. 
 
 ' Cousins ! not the least cousins in the world. Not 
 the slightest relationship. 
 
 Then adding in a more good-humoured voice : 
 
 * Come, girls, come with me. We shall find some 
 way of amusing ourselves, I dare say.' 
 
 She led the way, explaining as they went : ' There
 
 THE COUSINS. 251 
 
 is no scliool-room now, you must know, Gwen, indeed, 
 studies here a good deal still, but it is our morning 
 room, our boudoir, in fact — not our school-room.' 
 
 Geraldine, to her astonishment, perceived on turning 
 to Agnes, that her lustreless eyes were full of tears. 
 
 * Why, what is this V she exclaimed hastily. ' What 
 is the matter with you V 
 
 ' Not the least relationship,' repeated Agnes, in a 
 melancholy voice ; ' I always thought you my cousin !' 
 
 * Your sister, if you will,' cried Geraldine, throw- 
 ing her arms round her, and kissing her pale cheek. 
 'Dear, dear Agnes, I did not say that for you, nor 
 would I have said it for the world, if I had thought 
 it could have hurt you. But,' she added, looking 
 towards Jemima, ' I won't be ordered by one who is 
 not my aunt ; that is what I meant. However, ' com- 
 mands are not constraints ;' a sentence I learned of you, 
 Gwen, and much admire.' 
 
 ' It is not mine,' replied Gwen, ' a man said it.' 
 
 * Well, a woman can act it,' returned Geraldine. 
 When the Ri verses were gone, Ippolito began to speak 
 
 of the Divin Agnese. 
 
 ' Don't dare to mock at Agnes,' cried Geraldine, her 
 eyes flashing, her cheeks crimson. ' If you do, I shall 
 think you have a very bad heart.' 
 
 ' But if it be only in order to see you look so beauti- 
 fully indignant,' said Ippolito, fixing his . eyes on her 
 with admiration. 
 
 ' Ippolito,' continued Geraldine, eagerly, ' when you 
 think or speak of poor Agnes, of dear good Agnes, 
 remember your pictures of St. Agnes and her lamb,' 
 
 ' My girls shall never go to Lascelles again while 
 that young man is in the house,' said Lady Rivers to 
 herself, drawing up the carriage window, while Ippolito 
 was yet making a graceful bow, and then throwing 
 herself back into the corner of the carriage with the 
 air of a person who has made a wise and inflexible 
 resolution. By this action she escaped seeing the 
 grimace with which the young Italian, prone to
 
 252 GWEN. 
 
 mimicry, turned away as soon as lie discovered in how- 
 bad a humour she was. 
 
 ' It is really intolerable to see how things are allowed 
 to go on/ continued Lady Rivers, sinking into a reverie 
 which lasted some time, and from which she started to 
 exclaim : 
 
 ' Jemima, what is that you are saying V 
 
 ' Nothing, mamma,' stammered Jemima, alarmed at 
 the stern interrogation. 
 
 ' I heard you mention the Count's name ; — some 
 remark you made as to his being handsome. I beg 
 that I may hear no more conversation in that style. 
 I suppose you learnt it from Geraldine Eustace, but I 
 have told you before that I always wish you to con- 
 sider that very ill brought up young person as a warn- 
 ing, and not an example.' 
 
 ^#^#^Y
 
 CHAPTER XXYII. 
 
 And now, what change comes o'er her now ? 
 'Tis the pang that shoots like an icy dart 
 Through all the cells of her woman's heart. 
 
 Remains of W. S. Walker. 
 
 PRUDENCE rather than justice made Mrs. Faulkner 
 suggest that Geraldine andGwen should take turns 
 fairly in the drives which formed the morning's amuse- 
 ment. At first she gloried in her generalship, but ere 
 long sustained a total defeat. Gwen greatly enjoyed 
 these expeditions. It was a novelty to her to see and 
 hear so much, and there was a season during which 
 Ippolito, seated at her side, addressed her with as much 
 alacrity as he did Geraldine, and with as great or greater 
 appearance of deriving gratification from her remarks 
 in return. He only betrayed to Geraldine his admira- 
 tion of her beauty, but he spared no pains to show 
 Gwen that he recognised her talents ; the novel sensa- 
 tion of being rightly appreciated gave a fluency to hei 
 speech which it had never before possessed, and she 
 replied to the lively sallies of her companion with wit 
 more poignant than his own. The delight of these 
 hours was increased if she found on her return that she 
 still kept her ground in the presence of Geraldine. It 
 failed to strike her for a time that Ippolito's adherence 
 was more than once owing to a determination to pique 
 Geraldine for her unprovoked announcement that 
 she had done very well without them, and was quite 
 sorry to see them back again so soon. ' I will punish
 
 264 GWEN, OR 
 
 this impertinence ; she shall change her tone,' thought 
 Ippolito, and he had not long to wait for his triumph. 
 
 Gwen began to suspect — vaguely at first — she could 
 not but shut her eyes to the painful idea when it 
 flashed across her — but being brave, opened them again, 
 and boldly challenged that which caused her alarm. 
 Was she merely an instrument in Ippolito's hands, 
 played on by him for a purpose of his own 1 With 
 her usual self-command she closely scrutinised his con- 
 duct, without betraying her employment, and gained 
 strong confirmation of her doubts. Her pride was 
 wounded, her indignation roused; perhaps a yet deeper 
 feeling lay in her bosom. But to have evinced aught 
 that could be construed as jealousy would have been 
 almost death to Gwen. A change soon took place in 
 Ippolito's behaviour which added fuel to her anger, and 
 made it burn with a fierceness that she could not 
 always conceal. Instead of welcoming her when her 
 turn came, and half leading her to believe that he saw 
 it arrive with something like preference, he grew sullen 
 and silent when Geraldine was not of the party, and 
 treated Gwen more than once with neglect bordering 
 on rudeness, which she found it difficult to endure. 
 Still she gave little token of her perception of the 
 difference, beyond excusing herself when invited by 
 Mrs. Faulkner to go out. Geraldine naturally took 
 the vacant seat, and Mrs. Faulkner, seeing her child 
 radiant with happiness, and enjoying to the full eveiy 
 circumstance of the hour, could not help feeling her 
 own pleasure greatly heightened, and acknowledging 
 that Geraldine presented a far more agreeable spectacle 
 to her eyes than Gwen, with the troubled countenance 
 which she had of late so often shown. 
 
 On a beautiful April day, without a cloud on the 
 sky or a passing shower, abounding in the smiles, un- 
 stained by the tears of nature, Gwen was standing at 
 an open window, looking down on the terrace beneath, 
 already gay with spring flowers. The air was full of 
 the songs of birds, and above their voices was heard the
 
 THE COUSINS. 255 
 
 ringing, musical laugh of Geraldine. To this, and this 
 alone, Gwen was listening, so intently that she did not 
 hear the door of the room open, and Catherine enter. 
 Suddenly, with an impatient movement of her foot, she 
 uttered one word, — ' pavonneggiarsi /' Her tone was at 
 once angry and deriding. A tremor passed over her 
 diminutive frame as she spoke. Her lip curled and 
 quivered. If Catherine understood not her word, she 
 understood these accompaniments, and felt distress and 
 agitation at the sight. Gwen's quick ear caught the 
 sound of her breathing. She turned and met her eye. 
 It was not shame nor fear that came over her face, 
 though her discoveiy of Catherine's presence seemed to 
 hold her as if rooted to the spot for a moment. The 
 next she raised her hand, and beckoned her with a 
 certain rapid movement of her fingers which she had 
 learned of Ippolito. Leaning on the window-sill, she 
 drew Catherine towards her, and pointed down to the 
 terrace where Geraldine, in a beautiful silk dress which 
 Mr. Faulkner had lately given her, of the colour of a 
 pigeon's neck, or of the face of the sea on a stormy day, 
 when the beams of the sun play on it, was walking to 
 and fro, sweeping majestically on, all glittering in her 
 beauty and her finery ; now stopping to gather a flower, 
 now raising her white hands to her hair, and now re- 
 clining on the stone balustrade which edged one part 
 of the terrace. All this while Baldovini remained in 
 the alcove, holding a guitar in his hand, now and then 
 striking a chord on it, and she talking and laughing 
 with him. Whatever Catherine thought, she said 
 nothing, and Gwen, in a choked voice, and unconsciously 
 tightening her grasp on her companion's arm as she 
 spoke, exclaimed: 
 
 ' There ! do you see that ? A few weeks back it 
 might have been Hugh !' 
 
 Catherine was angry with Geraldine, and ashamed. 
 What refuge then did Truth leave to Love, save 
 silence 1 In a moment Gwen spoke again : 
 
 ' jSTow tell me, Catherine, what does Geraldine make
 
 256 GWEN, OR 
 
 you think of? — walking to and fro — all so gandy and 
 proud — what is she like? Go and ask Ippolito the 
 meaning of that word I uttered j ust now, pavonneggiarsi ! 
 See what he answers, and if he does not know how 
 well it fits Geraldine. So do you, Catherine. You 
 pretend not to understand ; I will tell you. To peacock 
 oneself ! Who can deny its application V 
 
 There was such bitter scorn in Gwen's manner, that 
 Catherine could not help replying with quickness : 
 
 * Well, Miss Gwen, if she has the beautiful feathers 
 of the peacock, she has not its voice.' 
 
 She knew that was the right blow to hit, and she 
 could not resist hitting it at that moment in defence of 
 the child she cherished ; Gwen, pale before, turned 
 paler. Catherine suspected that in this outbreak there 
 was yet more of self at work in Gwen's bosom than in 
 the former battle which she had fought, as she averred, 
 for Hugh. She could not but pity the girl as she stood 
 before her, torn by conflicting feelings, though she re- 
 garded her with displeasure. Indeed, there had been 
 a chill and a reserve in their intercourse from the day 
 when Gwen had first allowed herself to speak with unre- 
 stricted censure of Geraldine. Catherine now addressed 
 her gravely : 
 
 ' Miss Gwen, it was God that made Miss Geraldine 
 so beautiful.' 
 
 'And who was it,' cried Gwen, passionately, the 
 blood rushing up to her very eyes and forehead, ' that 
 made her so proud and so unfeeling towards those whom 
 God has not made beautiful V 
 
 At these words a sensation as of faintness came over 
 Catherine, and she sat down on the window seat, resting 
 her head on her hand. In another moment Gwen was 
 kneeling before her, her face buried in her lap. Ca- 
 therine felt very sad, and tears trickled down her 
 cheeks. She could only breathe a prayer for these two 
 young girls, who seemed to have much to try them in 
 their own widely different natures and positions. As 
 she prayed, she placed her hand on Gwen's head, for-
 
 THE COUSINS. 257 
 
 getting her anger, and commending her to God. Gwen 
 felt her softened touch, and looked up, her large 
 melancholy eyes pleading for pardon. 
 
 ' You,' she said, ' have been ever kind and true to 
 me. You could see something to care for in the little 
 plain girl who came from a home where she had been 
 but too tenderly cherished. You loved me once, 
 perhaps. You don't love me now — you can't. I have 
 
 found out that . Oh ! Catherine, are you not 
 
 frightened to see how wicked I am becoming — am be- 
 come V She clasped her hands on her breast. ' This 
 heart how bad, how black it grows ! My God ! What 
 feeling scome into it ! Thou, Thou only knowest.' 
 She bowed down her head, and moved her body back- 
 wards and forwards as with the restlessness of agony. 
 
 ' Oh ! Miss Gwen !' cried Catherine, ' this is not 
 the way to behave. Try to find out what these evil 
 feelincjs are, to struggle with, to control them.' 
 
 ' I will, indeed,' she answered solemnly. ' I ^\dll 
 struggle and conquer, God being my helper. But I 
 will not stay here any longer. I have more here than 
 I can wrestle with. If I remain much longer, when I 
 go home not even my mother will be able to love me. 
 I must go — and soon — at once — don't you think so, 
 Catherine V 
 
 ' Yes, Miss Gwen, I should think so, if it were pos- 
 sible. Had Mrs. Owen been in England, I should have 
 thought so ever since — ' 
 
 ' When V asked Gwen, anxiously. 
 
 * Since that first day when you spoke so much against 
 IVIiss Geraldine,' replied Catherine, her displeasure 
 reviving. 
 
 ' I said nothing then but what was true,' returned 
 Gwen, in a tone of mingled assertion and interrogation, 
 * nor now. You know, Catherine, that no one really cares 
 for me, or values me here. I would not demand more 
 than justice, and it is precisely that which I do not 
 obtain. Some people (her eye glanced involuntarily 
 towards the garden), praise my talents and my accom- 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 GWEN, OR 
 
 plisliments as if they were the only gifts to be admired ; 
 I must be blind not to see that Geraldine's beauty 
 eclipses them all. But it is not this that I complain 
 of/ she added, hurriedly, as if vexed with herself for 
 the allusion she had made ; ' why, however, should I 
 stay here to complain at all 1 I am sure Geraldine 
 does not want me as a companion now, and she can 
 spare me as a foil. No one will be the loser — no one 
 will even miss me, unless you do, and you will not 
 regret me, Catherine. Why should you noiv T She 
 turned away, and softened into tears — a very few. 
 
 Catherine took her hand : ' Miss Cwen, it is true, 
 that for your own sake — for more reasons than one, 
 if you could go away now, at once — I should say go.' 
 
 ' More reasons than one !' repeated Gwen, changing 
 colour. ' What do you mean V 
 
 Catherine's only reply was : ' If your mother had a 
 home, I should advise you to go to it. I think you 
 are as well able now as you ever will be to begin your 
 plan of tuition. But till her return I don't see what 
 you can do.' 
 
 ' I do,' said Gwen, promptly ; ' I have thought of 
 something for myself 
 
 ' Pray do not act in haste, Miss Gwen. It can 
 scarcely be right for you to take any step without 
 consulting Mrs. Faulkner.' 
 
 ' I will consult her when the time comes for so doing ; 
 that is not yet, Catherine. Trust me, I think I am 
 right now.' 
 
 Gwen hastened to her own room to execute her 
 project. This was to write to Dora. She told her 
 that her mother would not be in London till May, but 
 that she had a strong desire to quit Lascelles imme- 
 dia,tely, if possible ; and ' indeed, if I could put before 
 you quite plainly every motive I have, — ^which most 
 gladly would I do, if I ought — ' 
 
 Gwen's pen stopped — ' Is this true T she asked — 
 ' No, no, I could not ! I could not hide my face on 
 Dora's bosom, and tell her alV
 
 THE COUSINS. 259 
 
 She hastily erased the two lines, and began again. 
 'You would approve them. Can you assist me to 
 effect this piu'pose ? Can you point out any situation 
 which I could undertake for these few weeks ? Ad\'ise 
 me to the best of your power — I may not speak more 
 freely to you than I am speaking, but one thing more 
 I must add, and entreat you to believe it (pray do 
 not, through affectionate partiality, refuse to accept 
 this truth) ; it is much more on account of fault in 
 myself than of fault in any other, that I desire to quit 
 this place. Weakness, beyond what you would expect 
 to find, and many feelings worse than weak that you 
 would grieve to detect, exist in me. But, Dora, you could 
 scarcely grieve more than I do, and could I convince 
 you how infirm is one who has too often prided herself 
 on strength, you would say as she says to herself, ' fly 
 — and look not for safety but in flight.' ' 
 
 Dora's answer was not long delayed. She ^\T:ote, 
 ' Come to me, Gwen ; come at once, and remain till 
 your mother's home is ready for you.' There was 
 further explanation to convince Gwen how wise and 
 practicable this plan was, and how agreeable to Dora. 
 Gwen was con^dnced, though at this moment she would, 
 as far as she was herself concerned, rather have gone 
 among strangers than subject herself to the deep 
 seeing eye of a friend. ' A few weeks ago, how differ- 
 ently should I have welcomed the thought of a idsit 
 to Dora in her own home !' she said, with a sigh. 
 
 Catherine congi-atulated her heartily on this invita- 
 tion, and she submitted it to Mrs. Faidkner. At 
 another time it might have rendered her an object of 
 envy, even to Geraldine, but now she seemed regardless 
 of it. 
 
 ' Good bye, Gwen, give my love to Dora,' was her 
 leave-taking of her cousin, after her four years' domes- 
 tication at Lascelles". 
 
 ' God bless you, ^liss Gwen,' were Catherine's few 
 words, and Gwen knew that they were those of earnest 
 prayer.
 
 260 GWEN. 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner's speeches were very kind, but less 
 profuse than ordinary. She seemed jtreoccupied — 
 absent — unable to attend to Gwen. Madame Baldo- 
 vini kissed her, and called her dear, and Gwen shrank 
 away. To Ippolito she gave a hand as cold as ice, 
 which he carelessly took, and as carelessly relinquished. 
 
 ' What a piece of marble,' he said, with an expres- 
 sive shrug as the door closed on her. 
 
 Geraldine contradicted him, because she always did 
 contradict him. She was not thinking much of Gwen : 
 ' Marble !' she said ; ' a coal of fire I should call her 
 sooner. She is like a fever-fit — always hot or cold.' 
 
 Gwen threw herself back in the carriage, covered 
 her face with her hands, and wept, as she had never 
 wept before. 
 
 ' And this,' she said, ' is the looked-for day of quitting 
 Lascelles !'
 
 MMXM^KXmm^ 
 
 CHAPTER XXYIII. 
 
 E pur quel fasto, e quella 
 Sua fierezza m'alletta . . . 
 
 II suo leggiadro viso 
 Non perde mai belt^ : 
 Bello nella pieta 
 Bello e nell'ira. 
 
 Metastasio. 
 
 ^"PHE day of Gwen's departure was a very stormy 
 X one with Geraldine and Ippolito, At the close of 
 it, Ippolito went to his mother s room, threw himself 
 into her arm chair, and exclaimed, after a moody silence 
 of a few minutes : 
 
 ' Madre ! I adore this beautiful English girl.' 
 
 * Is this possible ]' cried his mother, in a tone of 
 surprise quite as natural as if it had been real, so 
 perhaps it was real; how can we tell what was true 
 and what assumed in Mme. Baldo\ani ? 
 
 ' Quite possible ; it is so,' replied Ippolito, shortly. 
 ' I can forgive her want of birth ; she has the pride of 
 a princess ; who could ever guess that her extraction 
 was plebeian. I shall take her to Italy, and glory in 
 my bride.' 
 
 His mother surveyed him for a moment, as if she 
 found something highly amusing in his language, then 
 observed quietly : 
 
 ' As to her extraction, there is no necessity for you 
 to afflict yourself about that. Captain Eustace was 
 the penniless son of a noble family — nor is that of her 
 mother in the least plebeian. Thus, what appears to be
 
 262 GWEN, OR 
 
 your solitary objection is easily removed; now for 
 your real difficulties. It would be well if those could 
 be overcome witli the same facility. You don't seem 
 to have discovered them for yourself. Allow me to 
 explain them.' 
 
 Ippolito, while his mother addressed him in this tone 
 of irony, rose, and paced impatiently to and fro. 
 
 'When Mr. Faulkner, the wealthy English mer- 
 chant, adopted this beautiful orphan as his daughter, 
 no doubb he looked forward to her union with one of 
 the nobles of his own land ; such mesalliances as you 
 would term these, are of common occurrence here, and 
 are considered mutually advantageous. To balance 
 your scorn, I must explain to you that I have no 
 doubt that Mr. Faulkner holds all foreigners in supreme 
 contempt. Their old birth, their high titles, their 
 long existing patrimonies, cannot retain respect while 
 their coifers are exhausted. These are English pre- 
 judices. I don't know how you will overcome them. His 
 first idea will be that you want his daughter's portion 
 to prop up your poverty.' 
 
 'Mother, you wish to drive me mad. "What are 
 his money bags to me V demanded Ippolito, fiercely ; 
 and taking another turn, he muttered to himself, ' if 
 they have formed such insulting ideas of me, they have 
 founded them on your greedy acceptance of every gift 
 you could incite your hostess to offer.' 
 
 ' What are his money bags to you V replied Madame 
 Baldovini ; ' I should be very sony to see you possess 
 Geraldine without them.' 
 
 Ippolito stopped short before her : ' Mother, once for 
 all, you must learn to know that I love her — my life 
 depends on this.' His tone was that of real passion. 
 
 ' I have often watched you with her, and thought 
 you trifling.' 
 
 'Then you thought wrong,' said Ippolito, vehemently. 
 ' She may trifle — but I — never — and let her trifle as 
 she will, she must, she shall be mine. I have not told 
 my love yet. She has listened to no accents such as
 
 THE COUSINS. 268 
 
 mine. I kno\7 not liow often she may have heard the 
 cold pleadings of her countrymen, but I am sure that 
 the ice round her heart is unmelted, and the fire of my 
 words shall — ' 
 
 ' Piano, piano,' interrupted his mother. ' It is a 
 pity to waste this on me. This is all for Geraldine. 
 It is pretty and poetical, and I dare say will avail vnih 
 her — perhaps with Diane — but as to Mr. Faulkner — 
 Now, my son, I must speak frankly, I doubt that 
 this will prove a very vain idea. If you have no 
 caution, no judgment — if you place no confidence 
 where you owe it entirely, you will surely sufier defeat 
 at your first step. Be patient — wait my directions — 
 I do not promise that I will win the prize for you — 
 but I will soon tell you what I think of the possibility 
 of success.' 
 
 And now Madame Baldovini employed all her acute- 
 ness to discover a secret which had hitherto bafiled and 
 perplexed Lady Rivers, who never had been able to 
 elicit from her brother anything like a plain declara- 
 tion of what he meant hereafter to do for Geraldine 
 Eustace. 
 
 Madame Baldovini easily extracted from Diane the 
 fact that Geraldine was wholly without any provision 
 save what Mr. Faulkner's generosity should make for 
 her ; in fact, during her widowhood she and her chil- 
 dren had subsisted on a pension contributed by the 
 noble relatives of Henry Eustace, and resigned most 
 thankfully from the day that she became Mr. Faulk- 
 ner's wife. Her brief trial of dependence was alluded 
 to with tears in her eyes. Thenceforth Mr. Faulkner 
 had treated Diane's children as his own, and Mary had 
 repaid him with loving gratitude, while Geraldine had 
 scarce ever bestowed a thought on the measure of her 
 debt. Their mother had not taught gratitude to one 
 child or carelessness to the other, yet that Geraldine 
 was careless might be more justly attributed to her 
 than that Mary was grateful. 
 
 Absent from home the greater part of his time,
 
 264 GWEN, OR 
 
 ambitious, speculative, absorbed in business, Mr. 
 Faulkner rarely expressed an opinion on the ordinary- 
 affairs of every day, but there were certain boundary 
 lines which he allowed no one to transgress. People 
 might live long with him without coming on one of 
 these tracks^ or learning their existence ; Diane rather 
 suspected than knew where they lay, and Geraldine 
 was wholly unacquainted with them. Mr. Faulkner 
 wore the appearance of giving ' with simplicity,' because 
 he could not endure thanks. But when the time came 
 for applying the test of deeds to those who were his 
 debtors, no one felt more acutely than he the keenness 
 of the tooth of ingratitude ; he knew not how to par- 
 don those who forgot his benefits when the hour for 
 remembering them came. 
 
 Madame Baldovini had taken great pains to conciliate 
 the favour of her host since she had been an inmate of 
 Lascelles, and flattered herself that she had succeeded. 
 Bhe now strove to penetrate into his future designs for 
 Geraldine. She soon ascertained that they were am- 
 bitious in no small degree, and in spite of his reserve 
 and taciturnity, that his heart was set on the beautiful 
 girl. From that time she recommended her son to 
 relinquish the whole scheme. ' It never will succeed.' 
 
 * It must, it shall,' was Ippolito's reply. 
 
 Next she counselled patience, but he had none. And 
 was not Geraldine on the point of being taken to 
 London, to be seen, admired, sought after by all the 
 world 1 The thought drove him mad. Love without 
 jealousy was inconceivable to Ippolito, and he treated 
 his mother with the fretful wrath of a spoilt child for 
 many hours after her proposal. 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner was shocked at his disrespect. 
 
 ' What a horrid temper you have,' said Geraldine. 
 
 Ippolito's eyes flashed : ' Have I not seen you a 
 thousand times worse, and for no reason, or a child's 
 reason V he asked, tauntingly. 
 
 Geraldine coloured. ' And may I inquire,' she asked, 
 with mock reverence, 'the very sufiicient reason for
 
 THE COUSINS. 2G5 
 
 tlie Signor Conte's petulance V She had paused to 
 
 select the most undignified term she could think of. 
 Ippolito caught her hand, looking earnestly in her 
 
 beautiful face, and replied : 
 
 ' You, you are the cause. Is that sufficient V 
 
 ' What do you mean V said Geraldine, angrily, and 
 
 she drew away her hand. But Ippolito offered her no 
 
 explanation.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 Moi je veux me fachei', et ne veux point entendre. 
 
 MOLIERE. 
 
 "VTEXT day, when Geraldine paid her morning visit 
 X 1 to her mother, she found her much discomposed. 
 
 ' Dearest mamma, you look quite vexed. What is 
 it all about 1 I must know.' 
 
 ' Nothing, nothing, my darling. There — take away 
 your arms ; I can't let you detain me here. People 
 are all waiting for me at the breakfast table. Come, 
 Geraldine, my dearest.' 
 
 ' Then there is something wrong, mother V 
 ' No, no, I did not sleep very well — a mere trifle.' 
 * I sha'n't eat my breakfast till I knov\^.' 
 ' Now don't, my dear Geraldine, if you see me 
 vexed, vex me more,' said Mrs. Faulkner, imploringly. 
 And for once Geraldine yielded, and for once Mrs. 
 Faulkner thought that Madame Baldovini certainly 
 did talk too much, and was glad when she saw her 
 unlock her writing- desk and begin what she called her 
 immense correspondence. Geraldine and Ippolito went 
 to idle in the music-room, and Mrs. Faulkner did not 
 interfere with them because she wanted to have a talk 
 with Catherine. 
 
 ' Do come here, Catherine,' she said, throwing her- 
 self into an arm-chair. ' 1 want to tell you something 
 so vexatious, so annoying.' The tears stood in her 
 eyes. 
 
 'My dear mistress,' said Catherine, affectionately, 
 approaching her, * I hope it is not anything very 
 serious.'
 
 THE COUSINS. 267 
 
 ' Well, Catherine, yon won't call it so — at least, I 
 don't expect tliat you will/ replied Mrs. Faulkner, 
 trpng to smile ; ' but it is seriously annoying, if not 
 worse. I may be more comfortable when I shall have 
 talked it over with you.' 
 
 * I hope you will, ma'am.' 
 
 'What do you think Mr. Faulkner told me last 
 night ? I am sure Lady Rivers is at the bottom of it, 
 and that vexes me, as well as poor Geraldine's disap- 
 pointment.' Mrs. Faulkner could not refrain from 
 prefacing the disclosure of her annoyance by assigning 
 Lady Rivers as its cause, knowing this to be a very 
 likely mode of insuring Catherine's sympathy and 
 awakening her indignation, for she entertained a 
 steady antipathy to that lady's system of interference, 
 which she had seldom seen exercised with pure motives 
 or in a good cause. ' Mr. Faulkner says that he has 
 quite made up his mind that Geraldine shall not be 
 presented this spring. I was just speaking of the sen- 
 sation I was sure she would cause, and mentioning 
 how sensibly and firmly I had acted in refusing to 
 take her out with us lately — quite with Madame Bal- 
 dovini's approbation, you know. He cut it all short, 
 saying that it was not his design to take a house in 
 town till next year, when Jemima Rivers would be 
 ready to be presented too, for that Geraldine was too 
 youDg and quite unfit to begin a season in London. It 
 was so cruel of him to speak of the delicacy of my 
 health and the great advantage of Lady Rivers's society, 
 as if I would trust my child to that odious woman — 
 as if I were not capable of any exertion for her sake ! 
 The advantage, Catherine — only think — the advantage 
 of having Lady Rivers with us !' 
 
 Catherine could plainly see the many advantages 
 which were to accrue to Lady Rivers from this plan, 
 but was not sure that it would be productive of any 
 to her mistress or to Geraldine. She knew Mr. Faulk- 
 ner too well to believe that he had spoken until he 
 had resolved, or that, resolved, he would relinquish his
 
 268 GWEN, OR 
 
 resolution. As there was a year's time to consider how 
 to endure Lady Rivers's presence, and what benefit 
 might be derived from it, Catherine's present impulse 
 was to say : 
 
 ' Do you think, ma'am, that Miss Geraldine will be 
 very much disappointed at not going to London f 
 
 ' ! yes, poor child, her heart has long been set on 
 it.' 
 
 ' It is not exactly an affair of the heart, ma'am, is 
 it 1 She likes pleasure, and gay dresses, and all those 
 things very well, and is in a flutter at the expectation 
 of them. But really, ma'am, I am afraid at times lest 
 her heart should be set on something more serious.' 
 
 ^ What do you mean, Catherine V said Mrs. Faulk- 
 ner, turning red and pale, and in a half angry tone. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, ma'am,' replied Catherine, re- 
 spectfully. ' I have tried to address you more than 
 once ; you have been aware of that, and surely you 
 don't need anything that I could say to make you — ' 
 
 ' Pray speak plainly, Catherine. I can't bear this. 
 How my head aches ! This is sad teasing.' 
 
 ' I am very sorry that your head aches ; but I am 
 afraid hearts will ache before long, ma'am. Can it 
 be right for Miss Geraldine to have that young Italian 
 Count always about her as he is since Miss Gwen's 
 departure "? It did not please me before, and now it is 
 worse. I see a great deal going on that I do not like, 
 but cannot check, otherwise than by pointing it out to 
 you. The service of years, ma'am, must excuse me." 
 
 ' Oh ! Catherine, don't talk of excuse. I know your 
 motives — I know your devotion — but really,' said Mrs. 
 Faulkner, changing from the warm, natural tone in 
 which she had first addressed Catherine, to one of 
 often ded dignity — ' Madame Baldovini is my oldest 
 friend, and in what respect she and her son are not 
 qualified to be the associates of me and my daughter, 
 I cannot perceive ; yet sometimes Lady Rivers, some- 
 times you, Catherine — ' 
 
 ' Ma'am, I do not wish to speak of Lady Rivers j I
 
 THE COUSINS. 2G9 
 
 cannot tell wliat her objections may be — mine are not 
 to any ordinary intercourse ; but I should like to 
 know — to lead you to answer the question to yourself 
 at least — whether your friendship to Madame Baldo- 
 vini will induce you to concur in her design of marry- 
 ing her son to Miss Geraldine.' 
 
 ' Catherine, I really am excessively angry. This is 
 more than I can permit. People must think I have 
 great powers of endurance to harass me as they do ; 
 but I can resent for others, if not for myself. Madame 
 Baldovini is incapable of harbouring secret designs of 
 any description ; she is perfectly open ; her nature 
 all frankness ; her delicacy excessive. She would not 
 stay a day under my roof if she believed me capable 
 of suspecting her. But that I am not. I know her ; 
 no one else can. It is very absurd that they should 
 pretend to do so.' 
 
 ' I am aware, ma'am, that you and Madame Baldo- 
 vini were girls together, and that you were fond of 
 each other then ; but since, in all these intervening 
 years, what has cemented this friendship 1 There has 
 been an occasional interchange of letters and many 
 generous tokens of remembrance on your part ; beyond 
 this—' 
 
 ' Beally, Catherine, I cannot allow myself to be 
 cross-questioned in this manner,' interrupted Mrs. 
 Faulkner. 
 
 ' Oh ! ma'am, pray do not use such wounding terms 
 to one whom you urge to speak plainly, and at times 
 invited to think herself — not so old a friend as Madame 
 Baldo^T.ni, certainly, yet — ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, Catherine, I know it — the most proved, 
 the truest friend I have — the one I could least aiford 
 to lose, and that by my own temper ! But you will 
 forgive me — there — I know it — don't say anything. 
 To tell you the truth, I have been more vexed than I 
 have known how to bear. Mr. Faulkner said, among 
 other things, that the Baldovini had been here loncj 
 enough now, and that the sole advantage of moving to
 
 270 GWEN, OR 
 
 town would be to make them aware of tliis fact. 
 Now Lady Rivers must have suggested this ; Augustus 
 never would have thought of it.' 
 
 *I am sure I have !' replied Catherine. 
 
 ^It is very unfeeling, very ungenerous,' said Mrs. 
 Faulkner. ' As to the Count, of course he must admire 
 Geraldine — everybody does ; and she perhaps is a little 
 too fond of that sort of thing. I fancied once or twice 
 that she was inclined to flirt with Hugh Owen, but 
 really there was nothing at all in it.' 
 
 ' Nothing,' replied Catherine, with a sigh. 
 
 * Nor in this.' 
 
 Catherine made no answer ; she saw that her 
 cautions were inefiectual. 
 Geraldine opened the door. 
 
 * Mother, why are you here 1 I feared you were ill. 
 I remembered your looks this morning. You and 
 Catherine both seem vexed now. I must know, with- 
 out more delay, what this means.' 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner and Catherine were taken by sur- 
 prise; it was not possible to admit Geraldine into 
 their confidence, and Mrs. Faulkner saw no refuge 
 except in returning to the original source of annoy- 
 ance and subject of the conversation. 
 
 * My dear child, I did look vexed this morning, it 
 is true ; but it depends on you whether the vexation 
 be great or small ; I shall feel it just as you do ; I 
 fear only your disappointment.' 
 
 ' In what way f cried Geraldine, looking from one 
 to the other ; she changed colour, and feared she 
 knew not what ; an indistinct thought of Ippolito 
 rushed through her mind. 
 
 ' Your papa has taken a resolution with which I am 
 only to-day acquainted. I fear it will be useless to 
 attempt to prevail on him to cliange it.' 
 
 * What is it V demanded Geraldine, with impatience. 
 ' He thinks that you are too young to be presented 
 
 this year ; in fact, he has made up his mind that it 
 will be much better for you to wait for his niece till
 
 THE COUSINS. 271 
 
 next season, and there is an end of our going to 
 own.' 
 
 At lier mother's first words Geraldine had felt only- 
 relief, but gradually her countenance clouded, and she 
 exclaimed, after a pause : 
 
 ' Wait for Jemima ! What have I to do with her V 
 She walked to the window and then back again : 
 * This is all Lady Rivers.' 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner did not speak. 
 
 * What right has she to interfere ? I never obeyed 
 her, and I never will.' 
 
 ' My dear, it is your father who determines. He 
 thinks, too, that my health is delicate, and that it will 
 be an assistance to have her.' 
 
 ' She to live with us ! Then I would not go ; I 
 would never go out with her — never ! Oh ! mamma, 
 do you think I could endure her 1 — scolding me for 
 ever, and making harm out of eveiything I do. I 
 would rather be shut up all my life than go anywhere 
 with Lady Rivers, and you may tell papa so if you 
 like. Now if it were Madame Baldovini, I should 
 not mind that so much. Why could not she stay with 
 us in London as she does here V 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner shook her head despondently. 
 
 ' Why not, mamma 1 It is just what you would 
 enjoy.' 
 
 ' It would not suit your father ; you know he does 
 not like foreigners.' 
 
 ' What prejudice — what injustice ! But he does like 
 Madame Baldovini, I am sure, and she is no foreigner ; 
 and as to her son, I suppose he is not to be disliked 
 merely because he is an Italian, is he V 
 
 ' Oh ! I don't mean that he dislikes either of them ; 
 I am sure that he has been most kind to them as my 
 friends ; but really he does not intend that we should 
 go to town this year.' 
 
 ' What ! I am to be sacrificed to Lady Rivers's ill 
 natiu-e and unkindness,' replied Geraldine, bursting 
 into teai-s.
 
 272 GWEN. 
 
 ' oil ! my dear cliild ! I can't bear tliis,' cried Mrs. 
 Faulkner, embracing lier. 
 
 ' But you must bear it/ sobbed Geraldine, ' for I 
 sliall cry till you prevail on papa to give up tliis piece 
 of tyranny.' 

 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 I am amazed at your passionate words. 
 I scorn you not. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 CONSISTENTLY with her threat, Geraldine came 
 down stairs with eyelids red and swollen, ate her 
 luncheon in silence, and could scarcely take anything 
 that was offered to her without fresh tears. Madame 
 Baldovini regarded her with commiseration, and 
 directed inquiring glances towards her mother, who 
 did not venture to make any reply to them. Ippolito 
 said nothing ; he watched with real anxiety his oppor- 
 tunity to ask of her, and her only, the cause of her grief. 
 
 'Will you drive with us, Geraldine f asked her 
 mother. 
 
 ' Certainly not,' replied Geraldine, and she quitted 
 the room to return to her own. 
 
 ' Does not Ippolito accompany us V asked Mrs. 
 Faulkner, uneasily, as she seated herself in the carriage 
 beside Madame Baldovini. 
 
 ' I suppose so ; where is he 1 How intolerable of 
 him to keep us waiting, my dear ! Where can he be?' 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner desired the servant to seek the Count ; 
 he returned after a fruitless endeavour to find him. 
 He was not in the house. 
 
 ' Oh ! he will amuse himself,' said his mother; ' pray 
 don't think any more of him.* And they drove off. 
 
 Geraldine's head ached with crying. She strolled 
 into the garden. 
 
 'They are all gone out to enjoy themselves. No one 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 GWEN, OR 
 
 cares for me.' And she began to weep again. Ippolito 
 was standing beside her, when, startled by a footstep, 
 she removed her handkerchief from her eyes. She 
 looked amazed, frightened, pleased. 
 
 ' Geraldine,' he exclaimed, passionately, 'what occa- 
 sions your grief?' 
 
 ' I thought you were gone,' said Geraldine, turning 
 from him. 
 
 ' Gone ! leave you in this state ! I would die sooner ; 
 all the morning I deplored your absence. I did not 
 venture to ask where la Giralda was, — and then to see 
 you return so unlike yourself — ' 
 
 ' I cannot explain things to you,' replied Geraldine, 
 hurriedly ; ' I could never make you understand why I 
 am vexed. What I could tell, would appear childish ; 
 what I can't tell, is what I feel here.' She put her 
 hand on her heart. 
 
 ' You think it impossible for me to feel for you — ^you 
 reject my sympathy V 
 
 ' Indeed I do not, for I have no other,' answered 
 Geraldine, the pearly drops forming again on her long 
 lashes. Ippolito thought that he had never seen her look 
 so lovely before. Geraldine now tried to make him 
 comprehend her grievance, and to explain Mr. Faulk- 
 ner's cruel decree. She had said that she did not ex- 
 pect Ippolito to enter into half the reasons which made 
 her feel so angry, but still less had she anticipated the 
 flash of delight which lit up his countenance as he first 
 gathered the import of her words. 
 
 ' You too, then, find pleasure in seeing me plagued !' 
 she exclaimed, breaking off indignantly. 
 
 ' And you,' replied Ippolito, ' could you for a moment 
 suppose that what you now announce would grieve me 1 
 Do I not thus escape the torment of knowing you to 
 be surrounded by a thousand adorers ? Here you have 
 but one, and these tears show how little that one con- 
 tents you. Soon you will banish me hence, I doubt not. 
 My happiness will find a tomb, but I rejoice that you 
 cannot wreathe it with flowers ; you will weep when I
 
 THE COUSINS. 275 
 
 am gone, tliougli not for me. Why, Geraldine, this 
 startled look ? Do not; pretend to have been blind to 
 my love. It has been your pride to crush every ex- 
 pression of it.' 
 
 ' I don't know what you mean ; I thought you were 
 dull because Gwen was gone; you always cared more 
 for her than for me.' 
 
 ^ Gwen !' exclaimed Ippolito, in a tone of the utmost 
 scorn, ' you know that I have not had a thought or 
 feeling but for you from the first hour I saw you.' 
 
 \yith Geraldine and with her mother, time passed 
 very differently. Mrs. Faulkner, harassed by ill-defined 
 anxieties, brought her drive to as speedy a termination 
 as possible. She could not listen to Madame Baldo- 
 vini's unembarrassed conversation, she could not rest 
 till she had regained her home, and pleading a headache, 
 hastened up stairs, relieved not to encounter Geraldine 
 in the way. But Geraldine was in her room awaiting 
 her, and gave her no respite. 
 
 ' Pray do not ring for Collinson. I must have you 
 all to myself And she poured forth a revelation of 
 the love which Ippolito had always felt for her, and 
 which now she knew was the sole thing on earth that 
 she valued. 
 
 ' My child ! what is it that you tell me V exclaimed 
 Mrs. Faulkner, sitting the very image of consternation 
 and of woe. 
 
 ' Oh ! mother, mother,' cried Geraldine, hiding her 
 face in her mother's lap, ' why do you look on me 
 thus, when I tell you that I am so happy V 
 
 ' My dear child !' said Mrs. Faulkner, bending over 
 her and bursting into tears ; ' your father will never 
 listen to this for one moment.' 
 
 Geraldine started up, and regarded her mother with 
 astonishment. 
 
 ' AY hat do you mean 1 Not listen ! what can you 
 mean 1 When have you or he ever denied me anything 
 necessary to my happiness ? Would he kill me i 
 Would you let him kill me ]' 
 
 t2
 
 276 GWEN, OR 
 
 ' No, no, I don't mean that,' cried Mrs. Faulkner, in 
 extreme alarm. ' But he would see so many objections 
 to a foreign marriage for you. I am sure he would 
 never let it be. Ippolito and you must not think of 
 this any more.' 
 
 ' Not think of it ! We will think of nothing else, 
 live for nothing else.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Geraldine, why did you not speak to me 
 sooner Y 
 
 ' I could not,' replied Geraldine, bending down her 
 head, and burying her blushing face in her hands ; ' I 
 could not. I never knew whether I loved him or hated 
 him. He tormented me. I was miserable. But now ! 
 I am very happy.' And she looked up, her face radiant 
 with its youthful joy. 
 
 ' Oh ! mother, surely you love Ippolito T She caught 
 her hand ; then relinquishing it, incensed at the delay 
 of her mother s reply, she added : ' Not that I care 
 who loves or who loves him not. I love him. That 
 suffices him, and it suffices me.' 
 
 ' This is all very wrong — and very dishonourable in 
 Ippolito,' said Mrs. Faulkner, rashly. 
 
 ' Dishonourable f repeated Geraldine, with indigna- 
 tion. 'What has dishonour to do with Ippolito? 
 Why should I not be proud to be his wife V ' 
 
 ' His wife ! what, and leave us ! I who have so 
 idolised you, — and all for a child's fancy f 
 
 ' I am no cliild now,' said Geraldine, proudly ; ' and 
 the sooner I make myself understood the better.' 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner threw her arms round Geraldine's 
 neck, and burst into tears. 
 
 ' Geraldine, Geraldine, this must not be. It is all 
 folly, worse than folly, and I have exposed you to it. 
 Mr. Faulkner will never forgive me. He will never 
 hear of it ; and remember, you owe him the love, the 
 gratitude, the submission due to a father.' 
 
 ' 1 should owe him very little love or gratitude if he 
 were to try to deprive me of that on which my happiness 
 depends; and submission I do not owe him.'
 
 THE COUSINS. 277 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner looked aghast. 
 
 ' Since when, Geraldine, has such an idea as this 
 come into your head V 
 
 Geraldine hid her face for a moment, as if fratherinar 
 up courage to look on the thought steadily. Then 
 throwing back her head, she replied proudly and 
 passionately : 
 
 ' Since you placed him who is not my father between 
 me and Ippolito.' 
 
 ' Ungrateful, rebellious child ! Mr. Faulkner has 
 been the best of parents to you, the most generous ; 
 moreover, he is your guardian, and to him any rash 
 proposals of this young man must be submitted.' 
 
 Geraldine laughed scornfully. 
 
 ' Unfeeling girl !' sobbed Mrs. Faulkner. ' I then 
 am not to be regarded as a mother.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, always the kindest — the fondest. But 
 can you, who never have denied me yet anything that 
 it was yours to grant, now torture me — now set a 
 tyrant over me 1 No, no, I will not believe it.' 
 
 ' A tyrant, Geraldine ! What a word to apply to 
 my husband, who all your life has taught you to forget 
 that you were fatherless !' 
 
 Geraldine felt some shame, some compunction. 
 
 ' But I alv/ays — ' she exclaimed, and sto2:)ped short. 
 
 It was prudence that checked her ; she was about to 
 Sfive utterance to a sentiment which, if avowed, she 
 saw might be employed against her. ' I was always 
 afraid of papa,' would have been the sentence completed. 
 'No, no,' she said to herself, '1 will show no fear; I 
 will feel none.' 
 
 ' The moment that Mr. Faulkner comes,' said her 
 mother, who had gathered boldness from the slight 
 change in Geraldine's manner, ' he must be informed 
 of everything. All must be jDlaced in his hands, unless 
 indeed I can prevail on you to dismiss this nonsense 
 for yourself, which would be far better.' 
 
 There was a knock at the door, given by Sarah, 
 Colliiison's niece, who had been allowed to effect an
 
 278 GWEN, OR 
 
 entrance at Lascelles, as an attendant on Madame 
 Baldovini. That lady begged to know if slie could 
 speak to Mrs. Fanlkner before post time. 
 
 ' Yes, I will come to her — in her room V 
 
 ' If you please, ma'am.' 
 
 Glad to escape from Geraldine, and imploring her to re- 
 flect quietly on all she had said, Mrs. Faulkner hastened 
 to Madame Baldovini, whom she found seated at her 
 desk. She closed it immediately, rose, took Mrs. 
 Faulkner's two hands, and led her to the sofa. No 
 one could be more troubled than Mrs. Faulkner, no 
 one more inwardly cool than Madame Baldovini. 
 
 ' My dear Diane, I find these children have been 
 talking nonsense to each other.' She fixed her black 
 eyes keenly on her. 
 
 ' I really don't half know what it means,' said Mrs. 
 Faulkner, somewhat relieved to find Madame Baldovini 
 possessed of the subject. 
 
 ' It means that Ippolito has fallen desperately in love 
 with Geraldine; not very wonderful, seeing how 
 charming she is.' 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner seemed ready to faint. 
 
 ' I am very grieved,' she faltered. ' I confess I did 
 not foresee. It is most unfortunate.' 
 
 Madame Baldovini looked surprised : 
 
 ' My dear Diane, do I find this a subject of regret or 
 even astonishment to you 1 Pardon me if I appear 
 struck by inconsistency; the happiness of my child is 
 at stake. Why, oh, why have you cruelly exposed him 
 to your daughter's fascinatious if such were your 
 feelings V 
 
 ' I know I am quite to blame,' was poor Mrs. Faulk- 
 ner's only explanation. 
 
 ' I believe that my son's rank and birth entitle him 
 to address any lady however noble. As to himself — I 
 may be partial, certainly, but here Geraldine and I 
 are of one mind. Poor child, I am sure from the first 
 moment that I saw her, my sentiments towards her 
 were quite those of a mother, and indeed till to-day I
 
 THE COUSINS. 279 
 
 had thought that yours were no less warm in favour 
 of Ippolito.' It was now Madame Baldovini's turn to 
 conceal her face in her handkerchief 
 
 ' Mj dear Marianna,' began Mrs. Faulkner, greatly 
 touched, ' I can quite understand your feelings — ^be as 
 angiy with me as you will — but it were vain for me 
 to make concessions which Mr. Faulkner would require 
 me to retract. I know his opinions, his prejudices if 
 you vrill — the difference of country, of religion, of 
 habits — oh ! these objections are insuperable, indeed 1 
 feel they are.' Mrs. Faulkner became far more fluent 
 as soon as she had shielded herself behind her husband, 
 and hurried on : * I have been very imprudent — I 
 went on fancying them children. Forgive me if you 
 can.' 
 
 ' I could forgive any injury to myself,' replied 
 Madame Baldovini, proudly, ' but to my son — and as 
 to his being a child, — if you were to see, to hear 
 him — ' 
 
 ' Oh ! DO !' cried Mrs. Faulkner, shrinking with 
 horror. 
 
 ' Then I am to understand that Geraldine is Mr. 
 Faidkner's adopted daughter — that his authority is in- 
 disputable — that you anticipate disapproval, and there- 
 fore you decline showing any countenance to their 
 wishes V 
 
 ' Indeed I can't,' said Mrs. Faulkner, evasively. 'And 
 if your son would believe what I say — would spare 
 himself and Mr. Faulkner the pain, the uselessness of 
 any further appeal ' 
 
 At this moment Ippolito opened the door between 
 his mother's room and his own. At the sight of Mrs. 
 Faulkner he started, then advanced towards her with 
 a face of anything but despondency. 
 
 ' Ah ! Madame Faulkner,' he exclaimed, in French, 
 ' am I not truly presumptuous ? I cannot have a 
 moment's repose till you have forgiven me.' Mrs. 
 Faulkner found herself constrained to listen to the 
 eloquent description of his passion for Geraldine, and
 
 280 GWEN, OR 
 
 his entreaties for her own favour. ^ Et puis, elle 
 mfbaiine /' 
 
 He uttered these words in tones of exultation, 
 which Mrs. Faulkner could scarcely have borne to 
 destroy, but that they brought vividly before her the 
 idea of parting with Geraldine ; in that fear she forgot 
 compassion for Ippolito, and exclaimed : 
 
 ' No, no — she is a child — she does not know what 
 she says.' 
 
 ' Geraldine knew well what she said,' replied Ippolito, 
 haughtily, 'when she accepted my heart and gave me 
 her own. That I ought never to have offered the one 
 or asked the other, unsanctioned by you, I acknow- 
 ledge — I come to beg your forgiveness.' 
 
 ' Oh ! you have that — indeed you have. It is myself 
 I cannot forgive.' 
 
 ^Yourself?' repeated Ij^polito, with surprise. 
 
 * It will be difficult to make my son understand the 
 feelings which the expression of his attachment to 
 your daughter awakens,' said Madame Baldovini, with 
 stateliness. 
 
 ' I am afraid it will,' replied Mrs. Faulkner, without 
 resentment, and with real regret. ' I am afraid that 
 I cannot make either of you understand how it grieves 
 me to seem unkind, unfriendly. I shall never be able 
 to explain,' she said, turning to Ippolito, ' how impos- 
 sible all this appears to our English ideas. Mr. 
 Faulkner — ' 
 
 ' But surely Mr. Faulkner is not the chief person to 
 be consulted here,' interrupted Ippolito. 
 
 ' Assuredly he is,' cried Mrs. Faulkner, flying to her 
 only place of refuge. Madame Baldovini also was 
 alarmed at the imprudence of her son, and interposed : 
 
 ' In that case it would be a poor return for the 
 generoiTS hospitality which we have received from him, 
 to pursue this point any further without his know- 
 ledge. You see that Ippolito did not understand your 
 daughter's position. Our plain duty now is to ascer- 
 tain Mr. Faulkner's sentiments.'
 
 THE COUSINS. 281 
 
 At this moment Catherine called her mistress from 
 the room. ' Madam, here is a letter from Mr. Faulk- 
 ner. I went to your apartment with it — I found Miss 
 Geraldine in hysterics — I have done all I coiild for her 
 — she insists on seeing you.' 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner did not show that alarm which she 
 would have displayed on another occasion. She broke 
 the seal of her letter, and glanced her eye over it. 
 
 ' It is only that he is detained in London to-day. 
 I will tell them so before I come to Geraldine, poor 
 child/ and she re-entered the room she had quitted. 
 
 ' Mr. Faulkner will not be here to-night. We shall 
 have time to consider what is best to do — but now I 
 must go to Geraldine.' 
 
 ' I have considered,' said Madame Baldovini, 
 promptly ; ' we cannot too soon relieve you from the 
 embarrassment of our presence. Lascelles is no place 
 for us in this uncertainty. We will quit it at once, if 
 you please. Could you allow us to go to town this 
 evening 1 We have a friend who will receive us.' 
 
 Ippolito, who was walking up and down, stopped 
 short, and started. His mother implored silence by a 
 glance. 
 
 ' This is very painful,' said Mrs. Faulkner. 
 
 'My dear Diane,' replied Madame Baldovini, 'not 
 half so painful as remaining here.' 
 
 ' Oh 1 then it must be as you like. I will order the 
 carriage immediately.' And she went away. 
 
 * Why is this V demanded Ippolito, angrily. 
 
 ' For your good,' replied his mother, gaily. ' Anima ! 
 We shall return. I don't esteem the day lost ; but it 
 is mere waste of time to stay here, with this weak, 
 silly woman, who cannot answer for herself for five 
 minutes together. It was quite a sudden thought of 
 mine to go to London. I will see Mr. Faulkner myself 
 before he has had any consultation with his wife. I 
 shall try my power — I don't despair.' 
 
 Madame Baldo%dni had also come to the decision 
 that her son should not see Geraldine again until she
 
 282 GWEN. 
 
 had ascertained what ground could he gained with 
 Mr. Faulkner. If his prejudices were invincihle, she 
 hoped to carry Ippolito away from the scene of danger. 
 But it was only by getting him now to London that 
 she could retain the slightest hope of effecting this 
 purpose. ' If I gain the victory with this stiff old 
 merchant (and I may), we will return here in triumph ; 
 if not, I must take Ippolito to Paris, for really he is 
 quite mad now. Besides, I don't think I could bear 
 Diane's sentiment and her remorse all through this 
 evening.' 
 
 She reconciled Ippolito to her view of the subject, 
 and made her preparations for departure with alacrity.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 . . . from hours of weary waking 
 I'll to my di'eams — still in my sleep 
 To feel the spirit's restless aching, 
 And e'en with eyelids closed to weep. 
 
 Poems by ¥. A. Butler. 
 
 CATHERINE, what am I to do V Mrs. Faulkner 
 poured forth her distress to her faithful servant. 
 'Let Madame Baldovini and her son go, by all 
 means,' was Catherine's prompt reply. ' I will order 
 the carriage, and attend to their departure ; and pray 
 don't give any hint of it to Miss Geraldine.' 
 ' Oh ! Catherine, this is very cruel.' 
 
 * But, ma'am, do you intend to yield V 
 
 * I can't ; and there is Mr. Faulkner — but my poor 
 child — I must go to her,' and she hastened away. 
 
 'Mrs. Faulkner desired me to ask at what hour you 
 would like the carriage for London,' said Catherine, 
 addressing Madame Baldovini respectfully. 
 
 Ippolito threw himself on a chair. 
 
 'In an hour, if you please,' replied Madame Baldo- 
 vini, somewhat disconcerted by the calmness which she 
 had now to encounter. Meantime Mrs. Faulkner was 
 sorely buffeted by the tempest of Geraldine's angiy 
 sorrow. It seemed to her that hours elapsed between 
 the ordering of the carriage and the moment of depar- 
 ture, although, really, jVIadame Baldovini's arrange- 
 ments were made with wonderful celerity.
 
 2<S4 GWEN, OR 
 
 Geraldine started up from a silence that lier mother 
 had hoped was slumber. 
 
 ' Carriage wheels !' she said ; ' it can't be pajja — it is 
 too early. You will not admit any one else 1 Only 
 think, if it were Lady Rivers.' And she threw herself 
 again on her face. 
 
 * No one will be admitted — I am sure of it.' 
 
 Geraldine stretched out her arm and rang the bell. 
 She susjiected some mystery. Her mother trembled, 
 but did not dare to move. 
 
 ' What carriage is at the door V asked Geraldine, 
 imperatively, of the servant who answered the bell. 
 
 ' The carriage for Madame Baldovini,' said the 
 woman, perplexed. 
 
 ' Mother,' said Geraldine, as the door closed, ' did 
 you think of being so barbarous as to let him leave me 
 without my knowing it even V 
 
 And she sprang from the sofa, and began hastily 
 arranging her disordered dress, Mrs. Faulkner stand- 
 ing helpless by. Catherine entered, and perceived in a 
 moment Geraldine's design. She closed the door, and 
 said : 
 
 ' Ma'am, surely you will forbid Miss Geraldine to 
 see the Count again without Mr. Faulkner's know- 
 ledge. This cannot be right.' 
 
 Geraldine's eyes flashed : ' Am I to be ruled by a 
 servant V she demanded. 
 
 ' Oh ! Geraldine, be persuaded by me,' returned her 
 mother, imploringly. 
 
 Geraldine darted to the window, and threw it wide 
 open. The carriage was driving off. She uttered a 
 piercing scream. 
 
 ' Oh ! Catherine, she will throw herself out,' cried 
 Mrs. Faulkner, all past scenes of violence rushing 
 across her mind. The girl turned with a look of 
 anguish that pierced both their hearts. ' You will 
 repent this,' she said, and fell fainting in Catherine's 
 arms. When she recovered, she found herself on her 
 bed, her mother and Catherine beside her. She looked
 
 THE COUSINS. " 285 
 
 on them \\-ildly for a few minutes, struggling ^dth the 
 strange obliteration of rememlbrance that follows a 
 swoon — retracing with ease the events of yesterday, 
 but perfectly unable to recal those of the last hours. 
 But she regained consciousness only too soon, as her 
 look of misery expressed. Shaking her head impa- 
 tiently at some fond entreaty on her mother's part, she 
 said : 
 
 ' Oh ! that a mother's love should turn all to false- 
 ness, and that I should live to see it !' 
 
 Then, with a mixture of despair and anger, she 
 turned from them, and nothing would induce her to 
 speak or eat that evening. 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner, alike unhappy and alarmed, in turn 
 reproached herself and Catherine, who heard and an- 
 swered her with patience. 
 
 ' Why did you not force me to open my eyes earlier ? 
 Why did you not sooner speak with all the plainness 
 of this morning 1 It was too late then.' 
 
 ' Much too late, ma'am,' said Catherine, with a sigh ; 
 ' but indeed, it was not my first attempt.' 
 
 ' And poor Madame Baldovini ; I have behaved 
 vilely to her, too — turning her out of my house in this 
 manner — and why 1 All for the consequences of my 
 o^vn sad folly. There is not one of them whom I 
 dare look in the face — certainly not my poor Geral- 
 dine. Oh ! Catherine, she di'ove me away from her 
 bed-side ; you must go and take the place which ought 
 to be mine.' ]Mi*s. Faulkner clasped her hands and 
 shed tears. 
 
 ' It is true I am spared a meeting with Mr. Faulkner 
 this evening, but it is a mere respite — it must come to- 
 morrow.' 
 
 ' Indeed, ma'am, I think you will be much happier 
 if you take Mr. Faulkner's advice about aU this as soon 
 as you can have it.' 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner sighed. 
 
 ' I am sure that he will blame me severely ; I must 
 bear that. I see now the reasonableness of his sus- 
 
 o
 
 286 GWEN, OR 
 
 gestions yesterday. I fancied that they came from Lady 
 Hi vers, and that made* me set myself against them.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ma'am, pray get rid of such suspicions ; speak 
 quite plainly to him ; his judgment is all you have to 
 rely on now, and when he sees how much you blame 
 yourself, he can't but be sorry for you ; and I do hope — ' 
 
 ' What, Catherine — that he will consent V 
 
 ' Oh ! no ; I did not think of that. I can't forget 
 the real objections which exist — the difference of coun- 
 try and of faith ; and the young Count seems to have 
 a very violent temper. I cannot suppose that Madame 
 Baldovini has brought him up well.' 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner blushed to hear the condemnation 
 which Catherine's plain sense involuntarily passed on 
 the woman whom she had allowed to flatter her unre- 
 strainedly for some weeks past. 
 
 ' I meant,' said Catherine, ' that I hope Mr. Faulk- 
 ner will not forget that Miss Geraldine has been used 
 to the greatest indulgence. I don't think severity 
 will do well, employed of a sudden.' 
 
 * Catherine, I am dreadfully alarmed for her. Do 
 see if you can persuade her to take something. I 
 dare not approach ; it only makes her angry.' 
 
 It was true that Geraldine hid her face at the sight 
 of her mother, and repulsed her by words and gestures. 
 This made Mrs. Faulkner wretched. W hile Catherine 
 watched with soothing silence by her child, she was 
 left in solitude, which became insupportably oppressive 
 to her. She was not one who could ' suffer and be still.' 
 She liked to talk her misery away, and now there was 
 no ear to listen to her lamentations. 
 
 ' Oil, heart ! oh, heavy heart ! 
 Why sighest thou without breaking ? 
 Because thou canst not ease thy smart 
 
 By friendship nor by speaking.' 
 
 Suddenly the thought occurred to her that she would 
 write a letter to Madame Baldovini. ' I am sure that 
 I ought to do all I can to soften this to her.'
 
 THE COUSINS. 287 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner always found consolation in lier pen. 
 She wrote a long epistle, longer than was likely to be 
 wise, but she said that she was much happier after she 
 had completed it. It was certainly a very kind letter, 
 fuU of generous offers of everything except retracta- 
 tion, and rested emphatically on her conviction that 
 Mr. Faulkner's objections to the marriage would be 
 insuperable. She ventured to steal into Geraldine's 
 room before she went to bed, and to look upon her 
 child. Geraldine had known many periods of pas- 
 sionate grief, but few of real heartfelt sorrow. There 
 had been her days of mourning for Mary ; there had 
 been many a storm for trifling provocations. Some- 
 thing whispered to Mrs. Faulkner's inmost heart what 
 she was loath to hear — that Geraldine was not trifling 
 now. She slept ; she had wept herself to sleep. One 
 white arm was thrown over her head ; her golden hair 
 had escaped all bauds. She looked very beautiful, and 
 very sorrowful too. Her mother, who dared not rouse 
 her by a kiss, turned away sadly, slowly, to seek a 
 couch made torturing not only by the thorns of pre- 
 sent anxiety, but by the pangs of awakening remorse, 
 which began to mutter in her ear that she had many 
 a cause of self-reproach in the past heavier than this 
 recent act of egregious imprudence. She could not 
 silence conscience as she had often silenced the voice 
 of importunate friendship. She could not say, ' How 
 cruel at such a moment to recal the follies, the errors 
 which cannot be retrieved V Nor cry, ' These recrimi- 
 nations may be just; I dare say they are, but they are 
 very ill-timed and iujudicious.' The only thought of 
 comfort she could fix on was that Geraldine slept, and 
 therefore must, after all, be less wretched than herself. 
 
 ^^^
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 lo non distinguo 
 Se prego o minaccio. 
 
 Metastasio. 
 
 GERALDINE rose exhausted with the violence of 
 the past evening, and the restless night which 
 had followed the brief slumber in which her mother 
 had seen her. Towards her she persisted in haughty 
 silence. Of Catherine she inquired : 
 
 ' Have you learned why papa did not come last 
 night V 
 
 ' He was merely detained, as he sometimes is, by 
 business. He will be here this evening as usual, no 
 doubt.' 
 
 Geraldine, like others, was speculating on an appeal 
 to Mr. Faulkner. Presently she rose, the colour 
 mounting on her cheek, her lip quivering. 
 
 ' What is it you are seeking, my dear child V said 
 Catherine, with all the fondness she had shown her in 
 many an hour of childish trouble. 
 
 ' Let me alone — don't touch me,' was Geraldine's 
 suffocated reply, and she broke from her and went in 
 search of her mother, whom she had not voluntarily 
 approached before that day. She knelt down beside 
 her, took one of her hands, and, in a slow, impressive 
 half-choked voice, and with a tearless eye, she said : 
 
 ' Now hear me, mother. If you in any way preju- 
 dice papa against Ippolito — if you try to persuade him 
 to meet us with an arbitrary denial — if you kill all 
 our hopes of happiness with this your own hand' (and 
 she cast her mother's hand from ber), ' I tell you I
 
 THE COUSINS. ■ 289 
 
 never will forgive you. Mother, I never could love 
 you again 1' 
 
 The unhappy girl clasped her hands on her breast, 
 and %vith head bent low, as if considering with her- 
 self, she continued, in a tone of thrilling anguish, 
 ' I don't know now that I can ever love you as I did 
 yesterday morning.' 
 
 ' Geraldine !' exclaimed her mother, with a sharp 
 cry of pain. 
 
 Geraldine seemed startled, moved, and called out of 
 herself : 
 
 * Well, mother,' she said, ' if you were to undo all 
 you have done — if he were here again beside me, and 
 did not look as if he had been so very miserable as I 
 have been — perhaps I might forget these horrible 
 hours !' 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner had despatched her epistle to Madame 
 Baldovini, and towards evening obtained a reply, 
 which she read thrice over, and at last laid it down 
 again, still with a perplexed look. 
 
 ' What did I write V she asked herself 'If I could 
 but see my letter ! What can I have said V 
 
 Perhaps her mind would not have been much clearer 
 if she had re-examined her letter. Certainly Madame 
 Baldovini had somewhat wrested the sense of it, and 
 Diane might not by any scrutiny have been able to dis- 
 cern how her friend discovered so plainly as she said 
 she did, that the feelings of a mother, and of a high 
 and generous nature, brought their hearts into perfect 
 unison. 
 
 ' Concern for the happiness of our children; that 
 is the sole pulse that throbs in either. I never 
 have for a moment feared that the prejudices (you 
 must forgive the too frank expression) of that ex- 
 cellent, upright, princely-minded man, Mr. Faulkner, 
 once overcome, Ippolito's happiness, bound up indis- 
 solubly as it is with Geraldine's, would suffer any 
 injury from your opposition.' As to the point of Mr. 
 Faulkner's decided negation, Madame Baldovini meant 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 GWEN, OR 
 
 to ascertain that for herself. She must see him — must 
 clear herself and her son from the slightest imputation 
 of having forgotten his claims on their gratitude. She 
 was just about to seek an interview which 'will be 
 terminated by the time that you read this, dearest 
 friend.' 
 
 The whole letter was skilfully written. Madame 
 Baldovini was very skilful, and thought yet to prevail 
 with Mr. Faulkner, 
 
 Diane was not without a similar apprehension; but 
 the first sound of her husband's footstep as he entered 
 the house, told her that he had defied all arts of per- 
 suasion. She exchanged her causeless terror for a 
 better grounded dread of his severity. He hastily 
 came into the room in which she was sitting ; Geraldine, 
 warned, implored by Catherine not to incense, had not 
 dared to await him. 
 
 ' Come with me,' he said shortly, to Mrs. Faulkner, 
 and she rose, trembling so violently that she could 
 scarcely walk, and followed him like a culprit. 
 
 ' Diane, what folly have you been guilty of !' asked 
 her husband, in a tone such as she had never heard 
 before, as soon as they had reached his library and 
 closed the door, 
 
 ' I don't know,' began Mrs. Faulkner, faintly, resting 
 her hand on the table, and looking as if she would 
 sink to the ground. 
 
 Mr. Faulkner pushed a chair towards her. 
 ■ ' Sit down. You do know. Add no falsehood to 
 folly. I was aware of the latter, and have trifled with 
 it too long. The former, I hoped, was not in your 
 nature. Do not let me find myself mistaken.' 
 
 ' Pray — pray, speak more plainly,' said Mrs. Faulk- 
 ner ; she would fain have added ' more gently.' 
 
 ' More plainly !' repeated Mr. Faulkner, with a short 
 angry laugh. ' Are you not perfectly aware that your 
 precious friend, Mme. Baldovini, came to me to-day to 
 ask 7ne to allow your daughter to marry her son 1 — that 
 is, to ask me to portion her richly for this purpose.
 
 THE COUSINS. ■ 291 
 
 What your sentiments were, she said, she had no 
 doubt, but your reliance on my judgment and gene- 
 rosity was so implicit that you would not utter a 
 word until this appeal had been made.' 
 
 ' Indeed, Marianna's maternal feelings have misled 
 her ' 
 
 ' Yery probably,' replied Mr. Faulkner, scornfully ; 
 ' but beneath your eye has this folly been carried on, 
 and am I to believe that up till this time you have 
 been in the dark concerning it ? — and if not, with 
 what candour did you gainsay my words of a few days 
 since V 
 
 ' I was blind — miserably blind. I solemnly assure 
 you, Augustus, you cannot blame me as I blame my- 
 self. It is dreadful to see these poor young creatures 
 so unhappy ! — ' 
 
 ' These silly children ! — for the contemptible train- 
 ing which they have received has left them both the 
 children which they ought not to be.' 
 
 ' Geraldine is only seventeen.' 
 
 ' Too young a great deal to be allowed to become 
 the victim of her own or others' folly.' 
 
 ' Too tender not to be treated very tenderly,' cried 
 Mrs. Faulkner, bursting into tears. 
 
 Mr. Faulkner looked on her only with anger. 
 
 * For the present,' he said, ' I take her treatment into 
 my own hands, and therefore beg you to do me the 
 favour to acquaint me precisely with all you know on 
 this foolish subject.' 
 
 Poor Mrs. Faulkner could with difficulty collect her 
 ideas, and command her words, while her husband 
 walked up and down the room, his head bent forward, 
 his brow knit, his whole demeanour one of inflexible 
 determination. Once she paused, gasping for breath, 
 her heart throbbing almost audibly. When she began 
 again, she varied a little from her first statement. Mr. 
 Faulkner stopped her sternly : 
 
 ^ No prevarication, if you please.' 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner coloured :
 
 292 GWEN. 
 
 ' This imputation I do not deser\'e.' 
 
 ' Go on/ said Mr. Faulkner. She obeyed. 
 
 At the conclusion, Mr. Faulkner seemed a little 
 mollified ; in a gentler tone than he had yet employed, 
 he said : 
 
 'You may go now, Diane. Do not communicate 
 to Geraldine any part of what has passed between us. 
 I will speak to her myself this evening. If you dis- 
 regard this injunction you will seriously displease me, 
 and injure her. Indeed, I should advise yon not to 
 discuss this subject again with her, either before or 
 after I shall have told her my decision.' 
 
 'It is not possible to carry acquiescence so far,' 
 replied Mrs. Faulkner, emboldened by a feeling of 
 despair. 'Where is my child to weep, but on my 
 •bosom?' 
 
 ' At least,' said Mr. Faulkner, with returning stern- 
 ness, ' if it must be your office to dry the tears which 
 your folly has caused to flow, be mindful not to check 
 them by any infusion of false hopes of change in me. 
 My decision is irrevocable.' 

 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 A un passo estremo 
 Non costringermi, Padre. lo mi protesto 
 Farei . . . chi sa ? 
 
 Di . . . che faresti, ingrata ? — 
 Tutto quel clie farebbe una disperata. 
 
 Metastasio. 
 
 AT dinner, Mr. Faulkner -was the only person whose 
 demeanour was not perceptibly altered. Mrs. 
 Faulkner looked ready to faint. When her husband 
 spoke, which appeared to her oftener than usual, she 
 answered with a nervous precipitation, and generally 
 wide of the purpose, provoking an impatient gesture, 
 or an angry interjection in return. Geraldine glanced 
 first at one then at the other, with a half alarmed, half 
 resentful air ; it was only by a great effort that she 
 remained in the room, and a burning spot of colour 
 settled on her cheek. 
 
 Such a repast was worthy to have been eaten in 
 pui'gatory. At length it was over. Mrs. Faulkner 
 rose, and Geraldine with her. 
 
 ' My dear Geraldine, stay here,' said Mr. Faulkner, 
 clearing his throat. 
 
 Mrs. Faulkner tottered. Geraldine saw this, and 
 sprang to her side. 
 
 ' Mamma is ill. I will lead her to the other room.' 
 
 Mr. Faulkner approached, with anger in his eye. 
 He caught Mrs. Faulkner's wrist, and uttered in a 
 voice meant only for her : 
 
 ' No scenes, I beg.' But he saw that she was really 
 ill. He supported her himself, and said to Geraldine :
 
 294 GWEN, OR 
 
 ' Call Catherine to the drawing-room ; I will take 
 your mother there.' 
 
 When Catherine and Geraldine returned, Mrs. Faulk- 
 ner was stretched on the sofa, Mr. Faulkner standing 
 by her with a glass of water in his hand. She revived 
 in a few minutes, opened her eyes, and looked mourn- 
 fully on her daughter, who watched her with eagerness. 
 
 ' My child, I am better now, Catherine will stay 
 with me ; go with your father.' 
 
 ' Not while you are ill,' replied Geraldine, bending 
 over her affectionately, and kissing her forehead. Her 
 mother felt a tear fall on it. 
 
 ' Go, go, pray go,' she repeated, faintly. 
 
 * Your mother ought to be perfectly quiet,' said Mr. 
 Faulkner. ' Catherine will know best what to do for 
 her. Come with me.' 
 
 Geraldine followed him. They resumed their seat. 
 
 ' Geraldine,' said Mr. Faulkner, after a pause which 
 he felt it painful to break, yet knew that it was cruel 
 to prolong, ' I have a few words to say to you on au 
 occurrence which has caused me much dissatisfaction. 
 There has been a great deal of folly going on in this 
 house without my knowledge. I don't blame you for 
 it. Your mother ought to have known better, but she 
 did not. This nonsense took a tone which it never 
 ought to have assumed without my sanction. Under 
 my own roof I ought to have been the first acquainted 
 with it.' 
 
 * I thought so from the first,' said Geraldine, abruptly. 
 
 Mr. Faulkner looked at her with surprise and satis- 
 faction : ^ I am glad to hear it, Geraldine.' He knew 
 not her real meaning ; knew not that she had wished 
 to announce to him from the first the absolute inde- 
 pendence of action which she claimed. He went on : 
 * It was placed before me to-day by Madame Baldovini 
 herself, and I at once gave her proposal the only answer 
 it can ever receive from me, and one to which I trust 
 your good sense will lead you to submit ; believe me, 
 Geraldine, any exertion of self-control this may call for
 
 THE COUSINS. ■ 295 
 
 on your part at this present moment, will be fully ap- 
 preciated hj me, and liereafter will be rejoiced in by 
 you.' He had softened his tone to as much kindness 
 as he could infuse into it on a day of so much irritation 
 to him. 
 
 ' What was your answer, papa V asked Geraldine, 
 turning pale. 
 
 ' That it was quite inconsistent with my concern for 
 your lasting happiness to give my consent to such a 
 marriage.' 
 
 Geraldine did not wait for Mr. Faulkner to finish 
 the speech she had challenged, but exclaimed, with 
 vehemence, gazing wildly in his face : 
 
 ' And do you really think that these few cold words 
 are to crush all hope of happiness, all life and love out 
 of our hearts 1 And Ippolito, did he acquiesce V 
 
 'He behaved like a madman,' was the reply in 
 Mr. Faulkner's mind, but far from his lips. ' Of course,' 
 he said, briefly, ' he must take my decision.' 
 
 ' If he do, if he do,' returned Geraldine, clasping her 
 hands, ' you will have to answer for killing her whom 
 you choose to call your child ! Remember, I am not 
 your child. You might have a better right to destroy 
 me thus, if I were.' 
 
 ' Geraldine,' said Mr. Faulkner, rising slowly, ' let 
 me hear none of this extravagance. I will not permit 
 it. Your mother made you my ward ; I have considered 
 you my daughter. I require your dutiful submission, 
 and I have reason to expect your fullest confidence that 
 your welfare will be safe in my hands. Go, Geraldine, 
 I forgive yoiu- impetuosity, because you are but a child.' 
 
 ' I am no child,' replied Geraldine, risiug and stand- 
 ing before him in stately height. ' I am a woman. I 
 was a woman from the moment that he told me that 
 he loved me. I was a vain, trifling child till then. I 
 cried for trifles, and they were never refused me. I 
 ask now for what the whole happiness of my future life 
 depends on, and I will not be denied.' 
 
 Mr. Faulkner was astonished, not so much by her
 
 296 GWEN, OR THE COUSINS. 
 
 violence as by the haughty decision of her tone, and he 
 was far more hurt than he ever told by her rejection of 
 his paternal care, by her utter absence of filial afiection. 
 Geraldine little knew how long the wound she thus 
 recklessly inflicted would rankle. Perhaps had she 
 seen now how it inly bled, she might have been moved 
 to compunction. As it was, there was no betrayal of 
 feeling in the dry tone in which Mr. Faulkner at 
 length replied : 
 
 ' Geraldine, I have for some time suspected this spirit 
 of insubordination in you. It must be conquered. 
 Quit my presence. You have held language unfit to 
 be addressed to me. Go to your chamber, and reflect 
 on it. Do not descend again to-night, and do not ex- 
 pect me to recur to this subject.' 
 
 ' I shall go to mamma,' replied Geraldine, too much 
 agitated to consider how much ground she would lose 
 by petty altercations at such a moment. 
 
 * Do as I have commanded you,' was Mr. Faulkner's 
 reply, in a tone of thunder, which had never met 
 Geraldine's ear before, and aghast she fled. 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLIN0I9-URBANA 
 
 3 0112 045860076