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 or ILLINOIS 
 
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 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2009 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/maudemaynard01pear
 
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 U
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 ALMOST FAULTLESS" 'A BOOK FOR GOVERNESSES 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON 
 SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE 
 
 1876 
 
 \^All rights reserved]
 
 f^3 
 
 v.i 
 
 
 TO 
 
 \ 
 
 
 
 ^^-^ 
 
 
 MY SISTER 
 
 IX REMEMBRAN9E~^OF MANY KINDNESSES 
 
 «7^
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Wednesday, June 24. 
 My twentieth birthday ! Dame Nature Is a 
 very freakish old lady. It is a trite saying" 
 that she delights in contradictions, but I think 
 it has never been more verified than in the 
 undeniable fact of my having been born in 
 June. How did it happen that I came into 
 the world when it is wealthy with beauty 
 and sunshine ? For I feel perfectly sure 
 that somewhere or other I must have a 
 mark upon me — a mark in some degree 
 analogous to that which Cain bore. It Is 
 certain that I ought to have been born in 
 November, when street-lamps have to be 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 substituted for sunshine, when people are 
 running against each other, and when mis- 
 takes are constantly being made, big with 
 disagreeable results. 
 
 Everyone but myself seems to have some 
 special vocation ; I seem to have nothing to 
 do but to act as a spur to people's wits, and 
 sharpen them up to find excuses for my 
 faults or misfortunes. I really cannot have 
 any place of my own ; I am always either 
 treading on somebody's toes or feeling that 
 they are treading on mine. I have often 
 gravely considered the question, and have 
 never yet been able to find out for what I 
 am destined. 
 
 I remember that papa said in his sermon 
 last Sunday, that ' nothing was useless in 
 God's creation ; everything had its specified 
 Avork and appointed place in the grand de- 
 sign of the Universal and Beneficent Father.' 
 I once ventured to ask papa where he 
 thought my work lay, but I don't think I 
 shall ever ask him again ; he spoke to me
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 3 
 
 for half-an-hour, and he actually prayed for 
 me particularly that night at family prayer ! 
 He did not mention my name, certainly, but 
 I am certain that all the household must 
 have known whom he meant, for he prayed 
 that ' one there present might be led to feel 
 that before any work could be committed to 
 the charge of a workman requisite power to 
 perform that work must be obtained, and 
 that this power often consisted in striving 
 against evil habits and tempers, in checking 
 the manifestations of ungodly dispositions 
 and encouraging such frames of mind and 
 dispositions of heart as would be acceptable 
 in the sight of God and well-pleasing to our 
 fellow-men.' 
 
 It was very wicked of me I know ; but I 
 did feel so angry ! And I am afraid I 
 looked it when we got up from prayer, for 
 my cheeks burned and my fingers tingled. 
 But it was too bad ! for I was sincere, and 
 I did want to do something ; and if ever I 
 do, I am always thrown back upon the old 
 
 E 2
 
 4 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 advice of ' curing my evil tempers and keep- 
 ing my sinful habits In check/ and striving 
 for a * meek and quiet spirit/ If papa had 
 just prayed that Maude might see how wicked 
 she was and what a bad temper she had, he 
 could not have spoken more plainly than he 
 did to my ears. I have never asked him if 
 he could tell me my particular work again. 
 
 I believe I ought to be very thankful for 
 being prayed for, but I cannot say that I am. 
 What a comfort it Is to be able to put down 
 the honest truth and feel that no one will 
 ever see one word of it ! There are so few 
 people that I really like, that I count this old 
 red book one of my dearest friends, 
 
 And this just reminds me what a loss I 
 have had. Dr. Vanny has gone away ! He 
 has gone to the Continent for complete rest 
 and change. I have lost a dear friend for 
 three months. How much I shall miss him ! 
 But, after all, I like places much better than 
 people. I love to wander about our old 
 church when there is not a creature in it. I
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 5 
 
 am afraid I do not like it half so well on 
 Sundays — when I ought to like it the best, 
 I suppose — when the multitude are ' gathered 
 together to worship in the house of the 
 Lord,' papa would say. 
 
 I sometimes lie on the soft orrass and 
 wonder what papa — the Rev. Dr. Maynard, 
 with so many initials to his name that I 
 never could for the life of me put them down 
 in the right order ; when they are spread out 
 they make a tail quite as grand as our old 
 peacock's — I sometimes wonder what Dr. 
 IMaynard would think, did he know that 
 Madeleine, his youngest daughter, was — in 
 fact, a heathen. Seriously and truly, I do 
 not think I am one whit better in my re- 
 ligious belief than any of those poor creatures 
 whom papa preaches for at the ^Missionary 
 Anniversary, and whose condition he elo- 
 quently depicts in his sermon. I am glad 
 that our Missionary Anniversary only comes 
 once a year, for those sermons are an awful 
 length, and I
 
 6 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 Thursday, June 25. 
 
 Why did I sit out yesterday so long- 
 writing ? I cannot remember to think of 
 the time ; it does go in the most unaccount- 
 able manner when I am here alone. I 
 resolve again and again that I will not be 
 late, and then I forget all about it, until a look 
 at my watch puts me into a cold perspira- 
 tion. 
 
 Yesterday when I looked at my watch I 
 found that it was a quarter before seven ! 
 Six o'clock is our tea hour, when we dine in 
 the middle of the day (which we generally 
 do when we are alone ; it suits village 
 matters better), and papa is punctual to the 
 moment. I knew this, and I ought to have 
 been in time. I really deserved that they 
 should be angry with me, only it did not 
 make me dread it the less. However, I 
 made the best of it, and tried to put on a 
 brave face and to appear the last thing I felt 
 — unconcerned. Tea was quite over, and 
 there was one cup standing severe and straight,
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 7 
 
 a Speechless monitor, reproving me with silent 
 sternness, and looking at me from the deep 
 colours of the old china with eyes like Char- 
 lotte's own — and I can give no more awful 
 description. 
 
 ' Just as usual, Maude,' said papa, as I 
 entered the room. 
 
 ' I am ver}^ sorry, papa,' I began. 
 
 ' How is it that the whole family is to be 
 kept waiting for you, Maude,' continued papa, 
 drawing out his watch — that grand old family 
 heirloom, whose large proportions, coupled 
 with the awe inspired by the diamond initials 
 on the back, always sends such a shiver through 
 me when drawn out in that singularly solemn 
 and portentous manner ; it makes me think of 
 drawing a drowning body out of the water. 
 I always shudder when papa's watch is drawn 
 out In that way, for I know It is the prologue 
 to a reprimand. 
 
 * Kept waiting,' I involuntarily repeated, 
 glancing at the denuded teatable, which cer- 
 tainly gave no signs of a hungry family having
 
 8 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 been kept waiting, ' why, you have all finished, 
 I should think, nearly an hour ago.' 
 
 * It is a surprising thing to me, Maude,' 
 said papa, laying down his magazine and 
 restoring the watch to the profound depths of 
 its abysmal retirement, ' it really is a surprising 
 thing to me, that when you are in fault, instead 
 of at once acknowledging it, you invariably 
 begin to argue. I suppose you do not mean 
 to tell me that you are not late.' 
 
 ' Certainly not, papa ; I know I am late, 
 and I am very sorry for it. I only said I. 
 thought .' 
 
 * Then if you are late,' said papa, * have 
 at least the propriety to acknowledge your 
 delinquency, and do not try to defend your 
 faults instead of admitting them.' 
 
 Gypsie here made a diversion by rising 
 and tumbling over a footstool. Dear little 
 Gypsie ! he always does such things exactly 
 at the right moment. I sometimes look at 
 him and wonder if he understands matters 
 and where his intuition comes from, for Gypsie
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 9 
 
 never trips at the wrong moment. When he 
 does upset his tea, or tread on Pontiff, or 
 knock something down, it is invariably at the 
 moment when I want an interruption ; he 
 always gives me breathing time. On the 
 present occasion his misfortune excited so 
 much sympathy in the gentle breast of Aunt 
 Gretta, that it occasioned a little sensation ; 
 and when peace was restored by Gypsie being 
 placed on Aunt Gretta's knee, with a gigantic 
 piece of brown paper steeped in arnica, cover- 
 ing some infinitesimal bruise, supposed to be 
 extremely painful, I improved the opportunity 
 by slipping out of the room. 
 
 I was not hungry ; I did not want any 
 tea ; I knew I was wrong in being late, but 
 I was a very child, and did wish that they had 
 remembered it was my birthday and adopted 
 the good old custom of never finding fault on 
 a birthday. But how silly ! I was twenty 
 years old, and even when I was a child that 
 had never been the custom with me. 
 
 Five minutes after, I heard Charlotte's
 
 lO MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 voice. ' Maude, you are to come down 
 directly.' If they would but have left me 
 alone ! Papa looked up as I went into the 
 room, and said gravely, * Maude, I wish you 
 could get the better of these tempers ; de- 
 pend upon it, my child, your own happiness 
 is concerned as well as that of all around 
 you.' 
 
 What could I say ? I sat down and took 
 my cup, but I could not eat ; there were six 
 plates, and they had all one piece left upon 
 them, each piece bearing silent witness to my 
 defection. If they had all been collected 
 on one plate, they would not have looked so 
 forbidding and relentless. All the time I sat 
 at the table Charlotte watched me. I wonder 
 if Mr. Retnor ever saw her look like that ! 
 I took down my tea at a gulp, and as I 
 finished I saw Charlotte's eyes at the bottom 
 of the cup ! 
 
 As soon as I could I slipped out of the 
 room again and ran upstairs, and was silly 
 enough to let a few tears fall, which I wiped
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. II 
 
 away as quickly as possible, and, washing all 
 traces of them away, hastened down again. 
 
 But papa was out, and did not return until 
 nine o'clock, and Mr. Retnor came with him. 
 I wanted to try to finish up the day well, but 
 I cannot do riorht when Mr. Retnor is here. 
 I never can talk without getting into trouble 
 before that man — that gentleman I ought to 
 say, for I suppose he is a gentleman, even it 
 I cannot bear him. No, I really cannot 
 endure him although he is papa's curate, so I 
 find the best thine for me to do when he is 
 here is to hold my peace. I suppose he is a 
 very proper kind of clergyman, and his ser- 
 mons are very correct ; only privately I feel 
 quite sure that they are not his own ! and 
 there must be something good about him, 
 or papa would not have him for his curate, 
 and Charlotte would not be intending to 
 marry him, which I am sure she is. Money 
 does seem to make things smooth and com- 
 fortable, I can't understand how, but I suppose 
 that is because I have never known the want
 
 12 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 of it. I have heard of people doing the most 
 dreadful things to get money, so perhaps Mr. 
 Retnor may venture on Charlotte. But then, 
 as he is so rich himself, why does he want a 
 wife with money ? I wish he would preach 
 some Sunday from the text, ' Better is a dinner 
 of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and 
 hatred therewith.' 
 
 Papa and he had been to a vestry meet- 
 ing to decide upon the selection of a new 
 schoolmaster. Mr. Morris is leaving ; he has 
 lost his wife and child, and he feels it so 
 dreadfully that he cannot remain in Stone- 
 cross. Papa is very much annoyed at the 
 inconvenience this matter has put him to ; 
 he has great pride in his schools ; they are 
 the best in the county, and noted for their 
 large attendance and thorough efficiency. 
 
 He had not forgotten that I had been 
 late to tea and what he considered my im- 
 patience of rebuke ; there was a something in 
 his manner which brought it all before me 
 again.
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. I 3 
 
 We sat down to the supper-table ; papa 
 repeated a blessing, and somehow brought in 
 the words * restraining grace/ which I 
 noticed he much emphasised. 
 
 ' It is Maude's birthday/ was Aunt 
 Gretta's dear little feminine speech to Mr. 
 Retnor. 
 
 ' No, is it really ? ' said that gentleman. 
 * So happy, Miss Maude, to drink your health 
 and wish you many happy returns of the 
 day/ 
 
 I did not doubt Mr. Retnor's happiness. 
 I never do see him look so happy as when 
 sitting down to a good supper or dinner. 
 He poured out a glass of sparkling Moselle 
 and quaffed it, looking at me all the time 
 from above the glass. 
 
 ' It would not be fair to enquire Miss 
 Maude's age, I suppose,' he said ; ' young 
 ladies are ver}^ particular about their age 
 being known.' 
 
 * I am not at all particular, Mr. Retnor, ' 
 I said. ' I am twenty years old to-day.'
 
 14 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 Charlotte gave me such a look ! I might 
 have thought, if I had had any sense, that 
 Charlotte, who was seven years older, must 
 be twenty-seven, and she might not be par- 
 ticularly anxious for Mr. Retnor to be re- 
 minded of that fact. I sincerely hoped that 
 he did not know there were seven years 
 between us, but I am always unfortunate if I 
 begin to talk. 
 
 Aunt Gretta's feminine treble was again 
 heard. 
 
 ' Yes, Maude is twenty to-day, and I 
 should have made you a plum-pudding, 
 Maude, for I like old customs to be kept up, 
 only I am sure they are so bad for the diges- 
 tion ; you feel their effects for long after- 
 wards, especially if you take too much.' 
 
 ' I should think you feel the effects of 
 bread-and-butter, if you take too much,' said 
 Charlotte, ' it would be strange if you did 
 not.' 
 
 Aunt Gretta went on with unbroken 
 placidity — ' and so Mr. Retnor, I tell the
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. If 
 
 girls that as there are three of them, and as 
 it is such a bad thing, I always make one 
 pudding a year do for the three ; and as 
 Charlotte is the eldest, we have it on her 
 birthday, that is the fifth of March ; there 
 are seven years between her and Maude, 
 and I order one pudding between the three, 
 because they are so very injurious ; don't 
 you think it better, Mr. Retnor ? ' 
 
 There is, not unfrequently, a slight want 
 of lucidity and clearness in Aunt Gretta's 
 explanations, and Mr. Retnor did not seem 
 on the present occasion quite to understand. 
 I am convinced in my own mind that he had 
 been doing a little mental arithmetic, and had 
 found that twenty, plus seven, required such 
 an amount of calculation, that he had not 
 returned to his normal state when Aunt 
 Gretta concluded her sentence ; consequently, 
 he had nothing at hand wherewith to frame 
 an answer. He is not a person of particularly 
 ready wit, rather he is one of prompt action ; 
 so he poured himself out another glass of
 
 [6 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 Moselle instead of replying, and Aunt Gretta 
 is too much accustomed for her questions to 
 remain unanswered to notice it. 
 
 * What have you settled to-night at the 
 meeting, papa ? ' Charlotte asked. 
 
 * The matter is not quite settled, my dear,' 
 said papa, ' but I think our decision will ulti- 
 mately fall on a Mr. Farren ; circumstances 
 seem to point that way ; his testimonials are 
 high and his efficiency seems to be an ascer- 
 tained fact ; but it is an extremely annoying 
 business altogether. I cannot but think Mr, 
 Morris to have been greatly deficient in a 
 due consideration of our convenience.' 
 
 * He could not help his wife dying, papa,' 
 I said. 
 
 Papa stopped in his occupation of cutting 
 Mr. Retnor a second supply of rolled beef, 
 and looked at me. 
 
 ' I was not aware that I said he could, 
 Maude,' he replied, in a quiet, deliberate 
 manner. 
 
 * Oh no,' I said, * of course not — only '
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. I 7 
 
 * You may be sure Maude has some 
 reason for being different to ever)^one else ; 
 she always has such good reasons for all she 
 says,' said Charlotte. 
 
 * I believe I made no remark about the 
 man's wife dying,' continued papa ; ' Mr. 
 Morris puts us to much inconvenience by 
 sending in his resignation.' 
 
 ' A great simpleton he,' said Mr. Retnor, 
 speaking with his mouth full. ' A man with 
 a good house and garden and numbers of 
 things found, and a hundred and thirty a 
 year. I should like to know what he wanted 
 more ! But they are all alike ! this class of 
 men never know when they have enough.' 
 
 * Did he say he wanted anything more ? ' 
 my unlucky tongue asked. 
 
 ' Why, what is he leaving for, then ? ' 
 asked Mr. Retnor. 
 
 ' Don't you understand, Mr. Retnor, that 
 he is leaving because his wife is dead ? ' 
 
 Of course he did not understand ! How 
 silly I was to ask such a question ! Can a 
 
 VOL. T. C
 
 1 8 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 blind man see the beauty of the earth, or the 
 glory of the sky ? Mr. Retnor could not 
 understand. 
 
 * All nonsense,' he said ; * what an ab- 
 surdity ! There's something he wants and 
 can't get, so he must leave ; he might have 
 pitched upon a better excuse than the one 
 he has given ; it's so absurd everyone must 
 see through it. He is discontented about 
 something. If he had any sense he would 
 look out for another wife instead of making 
 so much fuss about the old one. Would he 
 not, Miss Maynard ? ' 
 
 Charlotte laughed — a short, hard laugh, 
 and I mused upon Mr. Retnor's coarseness 
 and vulgarity until he began again in a loud 
 tone — 
 
 ' For my part, I cannot say that I am 
 sorry Mr. Morris is going. I don't think 
 that he was as efficient as he seemed. I 
 have noticed scores and scores of things in 
 those schools which needed altering. I could 
 have put them right in no time, but Mr.
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 1 9 
 
 Morris always had some reason or other for 
 not doing it, and seemed actually to think 
 that he knew as well as other people.' 
 
 ' Perhaps he did,' I could not help saying. 
 
 I was very sorry the moment after when 
 I saw how papa looked at me ; and for the 
 third time I resolved that I would not speak 
 unless spoken to. 
 
 Mr. Retnor went on : — ' I saw Morris one 
 day arguing with a lad, — no end of jargon. 
 He told me afterwards that he was trying to 
 appeal to his better feelings, his moral sense, 
 his conscience. I would have appealed to a 
 quicker sense than that ! I would have laid 
 the cane over his back in no time and seen 
 what he thought of it. Such waste of time 
 when he ought to have been teaching ! That 
 is what he is paid for.' 
 
 Again I could not help speaking. ' Per- 
 haps,' I said, ' Mr. Morris thought that the 
 very best way of teaching — appealing to the 
 boy's higher nature, rather than hardening 
 
 him by physical compulsion.' 
 
 c 2
 
 20 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 Oh, that old Dame Nature! Why did 
 she give me a tongue that never will be still 
 when it ought to ? To see the look Charlotte 
 gave me, and papa ! I think Mr. Retnor 
 went rather red ; I am glad he can blush. 
 
 * You understand so much about these 
 things, my dear,' said papa (if he only would 
 not say ' my dear ' when he is angry !) * that 
 your opinion no doubt is very valuable, but 
 perhaps it might be as becoming to keep it 
 until it is asked for, especially about a matter 
 in which you have no interest. We are told 
 that "he that hath knowledge spareth his 
 words," and that " even a fool when he 
 holdeth his peace is counted wise." ' 
 
 I did not reply, no — I did not, though I 
 burned to speak ; for have I not a great 
 interest in the schools ? Do not all the children 
 know me, and, I hope, love me a little ? I 
 am always happy with them, and they are 
 always ready to run errands for me, and are 
 constantly on the look-out to bring me flowers 
 or fruit or any little thing they can. And
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 21 
 
 they will stop in a moment doing anything 
 wrong if I wish them. I have put an end to 
 many a fight, and coaxed many a combatant 
 into good humour, for in our rambles Gypsie 
 and I are constantly coming upon groups of 
 boys, engaged in all kinds of pursuits, lawful 
 and unlawful. It really was rather too bad 
 of papa to say that I had no interest in the 
 schools. 
 
 Mr. Retnor was not offended ; with all 
 his disagreeableness he really is good-natured. 
 He only helped himself to another glass of 
 wine, and exclaimed, in his usual rough way, 
 * Well done, Miss Maude ! Catch me arguing 
 with a boy for half-an-hour. No ; make them 
 do it, say I, and if they don't, lay the stick 
 on them. I hope this new schoolmaster will 
 be one of the right sort, and if he is not, I 
 must put him up to a thing or two. What a 
 simpleton Mr. Morris is to give up this place 
 because his wife has died ! ' 
 
 * Poor thing ! ' sighed Aunt Gretta, ' I 
 always felt sure she would die.'
 
 2 2 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 ' So did we all,' said Charlotte. ' What a 
 mark of special acuteness, Aunt Gretta, to be 
 sure that a woman will die ! ' 
 
 * I mean, my dear,' said Aunt Gretta, * I 
 mean when I used to see her, as I did, walk- 
 ing out in all weathers, and, I believe,- in very 
 thin boots ; one or two days I have seen her 
 pass the shrubbery gates when I am sure,, 
 with her lungs, she would have been much 
 better in bed.' 
 
 * You and Maggie seem to be of one 
 opinion about bed,' said Charlotte. 
 
 ' And I spoke to her once or twice,' con- 
 tinued Aunt Gretta, 'and recommended her 
 to go in and have some gruel, but she never 
 seemed to think anything of it. Poor thing 1 
 if she had attended to my suggestions she, 
 most likely, would have been alive now.' 
 
 * It is an extraordinary thing to me,' said 
 papa, ' an extraordinary thing, to see how 
 little attention is paid, even in the enlightened 
 times in which we live, and by intelligent 
 men such as Mr. Morris, to the most ordinary
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 23 
 
 sanitary laws. Really, it does argue an 
 amount of carelessness and obtuseness which 
 you would scarcely believe possible. Men — 
 reading, thoughtful men, artisans, mechanics, 
 the better class of labourers, and even school- 
 masters, who, from their very position you 
 would imagine must necessarily be well- 
 informed on these points — neglect the most 
 obvious and simple laws of hygiene. Drain- 
 age, fresh air, pure water, attention to diet, 
 the maintenance of regular habits, suitable 
 food, all appear matters of no moment. A 
 child might perceive these to be palpably 
 essential ; surely, a man ought to need no 
 urging to attend to them. They are indeed 
 slow to understand that "wisdom is the 
 principal thing." ' 
 
 ' But all these things take up so much 
 time and attention,' said Maggie ; ' people 
 cannot be troubled.' 
 
 ' Cannot be troubled! Maggie,' said papa, 
 * I regret to hear such a sentiment from your 
 lips. " Cannot be troubled " to use those
 
 24 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 means which a beneficent and wise Creator 
 has placed in our hands for our good, and the 
 disregard of which must inevitably unfit us 
 for the discharge of our duties ! ' 
 
 Maggie yawned. The exertion of listen- 
 ing to such a long speech had evidently 
 distressed her, and Aunt Gretta immediately 
 suggested the propriety of her going to bed, 
 which proposition Maggie instantly negatived. 
 Disagreeable as Mr. Retnor is, I do believe 
 that both my sisters like him to be here in 
 the evening. Mr. Retnor is simply intoler- 
 able to me, but then I know I am out of 
 tune with everybody. I am bitter. No 
 wonder I should dislike Mr. Retnor. Per- 
 haps he is not so bad, after all. 
 
 ' Educate them, sir, educate them,' he 
 said in reply to papa's last speech. ' We must 
 get a man, not like Mr. Morris, but a man 
 who will drive sense into them nolens volejis. 
 Make them, say I ; I have no notion of 
 " moral suasion " with lubber-headed school- 
 boys.*
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 25 
 
 We had finished supper, and they 
 gathered round the fire. I took some work, 
 and kept away at a safe distance at the 
 other end of the room. I thousfht I should 
 not be tempted to speak then. 
 
 No matter how hot the dav has been, 
 Aunt Gretta will have a fire in the evenings. 
 Sometimes it is very pleasant, for often the 
 evenings are chilly ; sometimes it is overpower- 
 ing ; but then who would think of contra- 
 dicting good, kind Aunt Gretta's whims ? I am 
 sure I would not if I fainted with the heat. I 
 am so thankful that I feel kindly towards some- 
 one ; it is one of my last bits of hope, one of 
 the vestiges of a lingering humanity still 
 clinging about my soured heart. I am 
 capable of some kindly feeHngs, and I hail 
 the existence of these as a miser would 
 treasure some remnant of property of which 
 he felt himself being gradually robbed. 
 Perhaps Aunt Gretta Is weak, but she Is kind ; 
 and if kindness be weakness, let it be. 
 
 They sat round the fire, papa, upright
 
 26 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 and dignified even by the influence of a 
 crisping, curling, crackling fire ; Maggie, 
 almost at full length in the large arm-chair ; 
 Aunt Gretta knitting; and Charlotte, at Mr. 
 Retnor's side, sewing a coarse blue flannel- 
 petticoat. How can she do such work for 
 him to see ! There now ! ill-natured again [ 
 But she always brings out the most con- 
 spicuous work for the poor when Mr. Retnor 
 is with us. Mr. Retnor is an essentially 
 practical man ; his redeeming point is his 
 power of working. I never see that blue 
 flannel-petticoat but when he is here. Now, 
 if Charlotte really likes him, I wonder she is 
 not dreadfully afraid of even appearing to do 
 anything that he might notice, and possibly 
 guess her motive. Charlotte sewed at the 
 petticoat, and Mr. Retnor sat by and 
 thundered out his set of stated opinions. 
 
 ' There are a great many things want 
 altering in the mode of conducting that 
 
 senior boys' school,' he said. 
 
 ' Are there, indeed ? ' said papa, with some
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. ^ 27 
 
 slight dignity ; ' I confess they have escaped 
 my observation.' 
 
 The dignity was thrown away upon Mn 
 Retnor. 
 
 ' Yes,' he said ; ' I have made notes of 
 them, and I will undertake to see my views 
 carried out when the new master comes.' 
 
 Papa slightly coughed. He was always 
 extremely careful never to differ from any of 
 his curates before us. I don't think he liked 
 the tone of Mr. Retnor's last remark, but he 
 only said : — 
 
 ' I conceive, if we get a suitable man, any 
 points which require special attention will be 
 attended to by him.' 
 
 * I will superintend him and see to that 
 matter,' said Mr. Retnor. 
 
 Papa coughed again. ' I have always 
 held,' he remarked, ' that when we deem a 
 man efficient to fill the post for which we 
 select him, it is well not to interfere. The 
 secret of good government I hold to be,, 
 having competent people, and testing the
 
 28 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 worker's competency by results. Too much 
 supervision and interference would, I imagine, 
 imply a doubt of the worker's efficiency, 
 which ought to be above a doubt, until 
 proved to the contrary.' 
 
 ' Ought to be, my dear sir, but when is it ? 
 The only way to have things done at all well 
 is by looking after them yourself; no subor- 
 dinate is to be trusted.' 
 
 ' Again I must differ from you,' said papa. 
 * You would cripple a man's power by con- 
 stant supervision, induce a distrust of his 
 own resources, and thus materially weaken 
 him. Men, who ought, by failures and 
 successes, by observation and experience, to 
 become efficient and capable, would be re- 
 duced to merely mechanical workers. You 
 call forth a man's best powers only by trust- 
 ing him. We do not wish our workers to 
 become machines.' 
 
 ' They can only work under direction,' 
 said Mr. Retnor ; ' in fact, just carry out
 
 MAUDE MAYXAPD. 29 
 
 orders. If you leave things to them, they 
 are sure to go wrong.' 
 
 * I grant you/ returned papa, ' that 
 matters often will go wrong, but to act upon 
 the system you advocate would, in fact, 
 make our workers slaves, and institute a race 
 of dependent, inefficient men ; whereas what 
 we strive to produce is a self-reliant, indepen- 
 dent one ; and chis is only to be done by 
 throwing men on their own resources, giving 
 them the training — the only valuable train- 
 ing — of circumstances and experience, but 
 especially of failures.' 
 
 * But we are not to be inconvenienced 
 by men's failures, when, if they acted under 
 our directions, they would not commit them,' 
 said Mr. Retnor. 
 
 * I think,' said papa, ' that we m^st all 
 submit at times to be inconvenienced by the 
 failures of our fellow-workmen. Such things 
 must arise, and will of necessity always do 
 so. We must take the failures along with 
 the successes ; we reap equal advantage from
 
 30 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 both, if they produce the result which I 
 apprehend they do ; other men's failures 
 teach and enrich us, if we are willing to learn 
 from them ; and we must ever continue learn- 
 ing in this great school of human endeavour. 
 If all the clumsy scholars be expelled, how 
 many will remain ? It is something, Mr. 
 Retnor, to learn to bear with the errors of 
 others, even as our errors are borne with. 
 ^' Bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfil 
 the law of Christ." ' 
 
 Mr. Retnor was silenced for a little time, 
 and I thought I had never seen papa look so 
 nice. I longed to go to him and tell him 
 how much I admired and loved him, but he 
 would have thought me so foolish and weak. 
 Once or twice I have tried, and he has 
 ?lways told me to avoid extremes, and to 
 be on my guard against * injudicious expres- 
 sions of weak feelings.' So I resolved last 
 time when I was tingling all over with shame 
 and confusion at having made myself foolish 
 never to go to him again and tell him what I
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 3 1 
 
 felt, but only to admire him at a distance. 
 But I do sometimes wonder, when papa can 
 talk so well on great subjects, that it never 
 strikes him to apply such principles to every- 
 day matters — little matters, perhaps, he con- 
 siders them, but I have often heard him say 
 in sermons that * nothing is little ; that little 
 things are the small pivots on which great 
 w^heels turn ; that the smallest circumstance 
 is a link in the great connecting chain, which 
 would fall to the ground were that one link 
 snapped.' Can't he apply his grand prin- 
 ciples to me ? Well, well, I can't quite 
 understand it, only I know I like to hear 
 papa talk so nicely ; but I wish he would 
 not only talk as far as I am concerned. Now, 
 if I were his schoolmaster, or a boy or girl in 
 one of his schools, he would see directly how 
 to apply his views ; but his own child ! I 
 suppose that is a different matter. 
 
 Mr. Retnor stopped the conversation by 
 asking Maggie to play. Now, if there is 
 one thing Maggie excels in, it certainly is
 
 32 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 music. How she manages I don't know, for 
 she never takes the trouble to practise. It 
 seems to come to her hke an instinct. 
 Beethoven's Sonatas, Mozart's Masses, Han- 
 del's Symphonies, Mendelssohn's Thoughts — 
 all come alike to Maggie ; It Is the only thing 
 she does- thoroughly except flirting. Mr. 
 Retnor tried to coax Maggie to the piano. 
 The great trouble is to get her there ; when 
 once she begins she goes on, but it is such a 
 piece of work to get her to begin ! 
 
 * Miss Margaret,' he said, with a smile, 
 which I suppose he meant to be persuading 
 and winning — it made his face look exactly 
 like that wide-mouthed cherub with the 
 dumpy shoulders and flattened wings opposite 
 our pew in church — ' Miss Margaret, do 
 favour us.' 
 
 I believe Maggie was more than half 
 asleep, for, loud as Mr. Retnor's voice was, it 
 only had the effect of making her start and 
 rub her eyes, and look at him without speak- 
 ing.
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 33 
 
 ' Do allow me to persuade you, Miss 
 Margaret.' 
 
 ' What to do ? ' said Maggie, looking rather 
 alarmed. * I do not understand.' 
 
 * How can you understand, when you are 
 more than half asleep ? ' said Charlotte. 
 
 * I wasn't more than half asleep,' was the 
 reply. ' Don't be disagreeable, Charlotte.' 
 
 This is the extreme of expostulation upon 
 which Maggie ever ventures with Charlotte ; 
 she never gets any further, and this is made 
 with great effort. 
 
 Mr. Retnor again preferred his request. 
 Maggie looked hopelessly at the piano, and 
 her courage seemed to wane. ' I wonder,' 
 she said, ' why we can't have the piano nearer 
 the — the fire.' 
 
 ' Nearer the arm-chair, you mean,' said 
 Charlotte. 
 
 ' Pray, allow me,' said Mr. Retnor, offer- 
 ing his arm ; ' it will be such a pleasure.' 
 
 Of course Mr. Retnor must always speak 
 the exact truth, as he is a clergyman ; but it 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 is one of the small mysteries of life to me 
 how he can say it gives him pleasure to have 
 Maggie take his arm, and I hear him say so 
 every time he offers it, and he is always 
 doing so when he is here, for it seems im- 
 possible to get Maggie about the room 
 without help, and to Mr. Retnor's active 
 habits, the easiest way to manage is to give 
 her his arm and make her come along : but 
 how he can say it is a pleasure ! Maggie 
 weighs twelve stones now, and she is getting 
 stouter every day, and she leans her whole 
 weight on anyone's arm ; and to say that is a 
 pleasure ! She will sometimes have mine, 
 and, oh dear ! I would far rather carry 
 Gypsie for an hour than have Maggie take 
 hold of my arm for five minutes. 
 
 She looked at Mr. Retnor's arm and 
 seemed about to make some other excuse, 
 but papa said, ' Be so good, my dear, as to 
 comply with Mr. Retnor's request ; all our 
 gifts were bestowed by a beneficent Creator, 
 and should, if possible, be used for the benefit
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 35 
 
 and happiness of our fellow-creatures. "He 
 that is faithful in that which is least, is faith- 
 ful also in much." ' 
 
 Maggie got up with some difficulty, but 
 having accomplished this feat, Mr. Retnor 
 managed to steer her across the room and place 
 her in safety on the music-stool. I will try and 
 remember to-morrow to put a strong chair In 
 the place of that music-stool ; It creaks so 
 tremendously whenever Maggie sits down 
 upon it that I am certain she will break it 
 into splinters some day. Having once begun 
 to play, the great difficulty was over, and she 
 performed in first-rate style ; Mr. Retnor, 
 with his usual effi'ontery and bad taste, taking 
 the opportunity to talk to me. 
 
 Now, If there is one thing more than 
 another in little social matters which I con- 
 sider a mark of bad breeding, it is for anyone 
 to ask a lady to play, and then talk whilst 
 she does it. 
 
 * You are very quiet, Miss Maude,' he 
 said, with a patronising, air after he had 
 
 D 2
 
 o 
 
 6 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 talked for five minutes without getting any- 
 thing but monosyllables in reply. 
 
 * I wish you would be/ I thought, but did 
 not, no, I did not say it. How thankful I am 
 that I did not, for on raising my eyes I saw 
 papa watching me from the other side of the 
 room. 
 
 * Yes,' I said, * I have a great dislike 
 to talking whilst any music Is going on.' 
 
 ' But the music has only just begun,' he 
 said ; ' so I conclude you mean the music 
 of our voices, to which you have been listening 
 at a distance.' 
 
 ' I heard papa's voice,' I said ; ' I did 
 not notice anyone's else.' 
 
 It was quite true. I did not notice any- 
 one's else, for no one's else was worth no- 
 ticing. 
 
 * Now, that Is too bad,' he said, with a 
 grin ; ' I really don't believe you.' 
 
 ' You can do as you like,' I said. 
 
 * Maude,' said papa's voice, and It sounded 
 as If it came across a river on a foggy night,
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 37 
 
 * perhaps what you have to say will do after 
 your sister has finished playing.' 
 
 ' Oh no/ said Charlotte ; ' Maude's re- 
 marks are so valuable they must be given at 
 the moment.' 
 
 Mr. Retnor only moved to turn over the 
 leaf of Maggie's music and left me exposed to 
 the fire of Charlotte's and papa's eyes, which 
 I was indignant enough to return with as 
 broad and unflinchinof a stare as I could. I 
 only hope I did not glare as well as stare. 
 Charlotte has often told me I glared. But it 
 is too bad to pull me up in this way before a 
 visitor ! I don't care a straw for ]\Ir. Retnor, 
 but it would have been just the same had it 
 been anyone else, for whom I did care. 
 
 After Maggie had finished, and Mr. 
 Retnor had assured her it was finer than 
 anything he had ever listened to, he turned 
 to me and asked me if I would sing. I flatly 
 refused. To have him ask me, would have 
 made me refuse. Mr. Retnor appealed to 
 papa ; he is a mean, unkind man ! ' Dr. May-
 
 38 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 nard, do persuade Miss Maude to sing one 
 of my favourite songs ; she does sing so 
 sweetly ! ' 
 
 * I should be happy to see Maude willing 
 to forego her own wishes in order to give 
 pleasure to others,' said papa, with such a 
 deep sigh that it indicated that he con- 
 sidered this a happiness unattainable in this 
 world. 
 
 ' If Maude has a sore throat, Charlotte,* 
 said Aunt Gretta, suddenly awaking from a 
 nap, ' she had much better not sing.' 
 
 * Who said anything about a sore throat ? * 
 snapped Charlotte. 
 
 * I thought you said, my dear,' began Aunt 
 Gretta. 
 
 ' Then you were mistaken,' said Charlotte, 
 decidedly. 
 
 ' I request Maude that you will oblige 
 Mr. Retnor at once,' said papa ; * and remember 
 that whatever we do, we are enjoined to do it 
 " heartily." ' 
 
 Of course I obeyed. My voice trembled
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 39 
 
 SO much that I could scarcely get out a dis- 
 tinct note. I am afraid papa thought that it 
 was anger which made it tremble. It was 
 the effort to keep back hot tears. Well, well ! 
 The ten o'clock bell rang just after for prayers, 
 and Mr. Retnor took his leave. 
 
 I am thankful for prayer-time ; it is a 
 calm in life ; even I cannot be doing wrong 
 outwardly, for I cover my face partly with 
 my hand, so that no one can see how I look, 
 and I am at liberty ! I cannot be speaking 
 or doing what I should not, though some- 
 times I do get so absorbed in my own 
 thoughts that I actually forget to kneel 
 down ! Twice I have remained sitting, until 
 an awful pause, a tremendous hush, has 
 aroused me, and I have found the expectant 
 household on their knees and papa gazing 
 fixedly at me, till, horror-struck, and covered 
 with shame, I have managed to get on my 
 knees too, and the next thing I have been con- 
 scious of was hearing a prayer offered, that 
 'all desire of singularity, all wish to attract
 
 40 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 notice, all self-seeking, might be taken from 
 us, and rooted out of our hearts.' 
 
 Last night papa prayed that self-will and 
 evil tempers might be striven against, and 
 that we might be induced to endeavour to 
 seek earnestly after * those frames of mind 
 and dispositions of heart which were accept- 
 able in the sight of God and well-pleasing to 
 our fellow-men.' How remarkably fond he 
 is of that expression ! Ah me ! I was in no 
 angelic temper when we knelt down, and I 
 am sure I was not in one wlien we arose 
 from our knees. 
 
 After prayers, we immediately retire to 
 bed. Order is the rule of our household. 
 Prayer is commenced the minute after the 
 hall clock has ceased striking the hour of 
 ten. I am glad it is so ! I love the night, I 
 like it to be long. There is no time to me so 
 beautiful as night. Aunt Gretta, dear, kind, 
 good soul ! never troubles her head about 
 night-lamps or candles, so I have precious 
 quiet hours, and when I am not writing or
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 4 1 
 
 reading, I love better than either to throw up 
 the window and be still. Beautiful night ! 
 No storm, no wrestling, no anguish, but 
 peace ! Quiet, brooding stillness. Rest for the 
 weary, the over-burdened, the disappointed, 
 the sorrowing ! No time so beautiful to 
 me as that time when silent night spreads 
 her dark wings over land and shore. I know 
 she hides the woe and wail of a world only 
 for a time, but it is hidden, 
 
 I lighted my candle the moment prayers 
 were over, and hoped I might slip quietly 
 out of the room ; but it was not to be so. 
 Papa called me back. ' Maude ! ' 
 
 'Yes, papa.' 
 
 ' I am grieved at your conduct to-night 
 my child — much grieved ; in fact, your be- 
 haviour is a constant source of grief to me. 
 It is indeed a matter for regret, that our peace 
 and harmony as a family should have such 
 sad inroads made into it by a constant dis- 
 play of temper from you. Surely, my child, 
 for all our sakes, it would be worth while
 
 42 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 for you to try and conquer those faults to 
 which, unhappily, you are so sadly prone.' 
 
 * What have I done to-night ? ' I asked. 
 
 * Maude, it grieves me much that, how- 
 ever kindly you are spoken to, you invari- 
 ably evince a disposition to defend yourself, 
 and argue the point, instead of at once 
 admitting your error and being thankful to 
 have your faults patiently and kindly pointed 
 out.' 
 
 * I only asked what I had done,' I said, 
 in as steady a voice as I could command. 
 
 ' There is no occasion for me to enu- 
 merate the many exhibitions of evil temper 
 which have occurred this evening,' said papa ; 
 ' I regret to say that they are too apparent 
 to all around you and too unpleasant a 
 subject for me to dwell upon. It is an ex- 
 traordinary thing to me, Maude, that you 
 never will under any circumstances acknow- 
 ledge yourself to be in fault.' 
 
 I turned away. What could I say ? and 
 as I turned away a heavy sigh from papa
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 43 
 
 followed me. I would have given worlds 
 for power to speak, and tell him that I did 
 not wish to do wrong, but it would only be 
 wasting words ; I had tried long ago, and 
 had given it up in despair. 
 
 ' Maude,' called Charlotte, as I was leaving 
 the room, ' Maude, perhaps you will be kind 
 enough in future to give your family the benefit 
 of your rude speeches when they are alone ; 
 if our visitors are to have the pleasure of hear- 
 ing them, we may close our doors at once.' 
 
 ' What have I said ? ' I demanded, 
 fiercely. ' You have accused me, and you 
 shall tell me. What have I done ? I have 
 a right to know, and I will. Out with it.' 
 
 The vehemence with which I spoke 
 made ever^^one look at me. Charlotte made 
 no reply, except one which of all others 
 rouses my blood and sets me on fire. She 
 smiled a smile at papa of such mingled 
 sympathy, distress, and grief at my passion 
 as almost drove me wild. I was not, and I 
 had not been wicked ; and for Charlotte to
 
 44 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 pity papa because he had such a daughter, 
 and herself because she had such a sister, 
 when she made me so, was more than I 
 could bear. 
 
 ' Maude,' said papa, in a low, deep voice, 
 
 * retire to your own room and there pray in 
 secret that the God who " heareth in secret" 
 may forgive you the dreadful exhibition of 
 temper which you have just shown to your 
 sister.' 
 
 I came up at once. Pray ! It is long 
 since I prayed. I laugh at the idea. Pray, 
 indeed ! If God were just and kind, would 
 He not have some pity on me ? 
 
 After I had sat by the open window until 
 all the sounds in the house were still, I stole 
 out softly, and crept into Gypsie's room. Fast 
 asleep though he was, he put his little hand 
 in mine when he felt my touch, and murmured, 
 
 * Sister Maude.' I could not stay long ; I 
 should have wet his pillow so with tears that 
 I was afraid he might find it out, and say 
 something before them.
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 45 
 
 I was calm when I Qrot back to mv own 
 room. A few minutes after there was a 
 knock at the door, and, opening it, I saw Aunt 
 Gretta In costume a la ?^?^zV— slippers, dress- 
 ing-gown, and a night-cap with a border two 
 inches high, closely tied under the chin with 
 a piece of red flannel and a fold of grey 
 flannel round her throat. 
 
 * Maude, my dear,' she said In a whisper, 
 * you are not at all well to-night. I have 
 brought you some globules of " aconite " ; It 
 will be the best, I think, or you may take 
 "Pulsatilla," If you will. Let me feel your 
 pulse ; yes, it is going very fast ; slight fever 
 and bad sore throat, I have no doubt. Dear, 
 dear, how soon you do take cold, to be sure I ' 
 
 * I have no cold, Aunt Gretta,' I said. 
 
 ' Why, my dear ! Now, do not be contra- 
 dictious ; your eyes are as red as can be with 
 cold. Let me look at your tongue. Yes, I 
 thought so ; a slight febrile affection Induced 
 by cold. Stay — I think pilules will be better 
 than globules. I will get some.'
 
 46 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 * Dear Aunt Gretta, please don't. I don't 
 want it, indeed I don't.' 
 
 ' Not want pulsatilla ! What then do you 
 want ? Will you have " bella donna " ? ' 
 
 * No, no ; please Aunt Gretta, don't ' 
 
 ' Don't what ? I wish you would not be 
 
 childish, Maude. I haven't perfect faith in 
 homoeopathy myself, I confess, and I would 
 not have Dr. Vanny know for the world that 
 I use it so much ; still, for some things I am 
 convinced there is nothing like it. Now, for- 
 instance ' 
 
 * Please Aunt Gretta, I shall get cold, and 
 you will too if we stand here.' 
 
 It was a happy thought ; the only possible 
 way in which I could have induced Aunt 
 Gretta to leave me without a history con- 
 nected with homoeopathy. 
 
 ' Very true, my love. How thoughtless 
 of me ! Good gracious, Maude ! if you 
 haven't got your window wide open ! Oh 
 dear, what will become of us ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing, if only you will go. Aunt
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 47 
 
 Gretta. I don't mean to be unkind, but 
 please do go. Here, I will swallow the 
 bottleful of those white dots, if that will do.' 
 
 ' Maude, you really are very trying ! 
 You must on no account take more than one 
 pilule or three globules now, and to-morrow 
 morning first thing I will send you some 
 more. Get into bed as quickly as you 
 possibly can ; here is a piece of red flannel 
 to wrap round your head ; red flannel is 
 an excellent thing, my old doctor always 
 said ' 
 
 ' Aunt Gretta, I am getting such a cold,' 
 and I managed to execute a sneeze which 
 fairly drove Aunt Gretta away, and I got 
 the door closed. 
 
 By the way, I wonder where that piece 
 of red flannel is ? I haven't the faintest idea 
 what I did with it. 
 
 How pleasant it was to be alone again 
 by the open window ! Yes, this world is 
 beautiful ! After all, I am not sorry that 
 my birthday is in June.
 
 48 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Friday, June 26. 
 Yesterday, I thought I would rub out the 
 remembrance of that evening of my birthday, 
 and try to please papa ; but, somehow, I began 
 badly. I got up early, and thought I would 
 take Gypsie a long walk, for papa is a great 
 advocate for early rising and walking before 
 breakfast. 
 
 We had a beautiful walk ; two miles, or 
 nearly three, and we came in with lovely 
 flowers all dew-laden — dog-roses, wet and 
 shining ; pinky-pale convolvuli ; the frail 
 wood-anemone, the blue gentian and delicate 
 columbine and drooping blue-bell, and some 
 lovely fern-leaves among them. I laid them
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 49 
 
 down before papa on the breakfast-table as I 
 wished him 'good morning.' 
 
 * Good morning, Maude/ he said, in a 
 tone which showed me what a good memory 
 he had. 
 
 I did not Hke to offer to kiss him. I am 
 so dreadfully afraid of seeming to ask for 
 kindness when he thinks I do not deserve it. 
 
 * We have had such a lovely walk, papa,' 
 I said. 
 
 * " We," ' said papa. 
 
 * Gypsie and I.' 
 
 * You have never been taking that child 
 out, Maude, on an empty stomach ! ' exclaimed 
 Aunt Gretta, in horror. 
 
 I confess the thought of Gypsie's empty 
 stomach had never struck me. 
 
 * Really, Maude, I do wish you had a 
 little more judgment,' said papa. 
 
 * I thought you liked us to go out before 
 breakfast so much,' I said, and I am afraid a 
 slight accent of despair or impatience mingled 
 with the words. 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 ' Beginning to cavil as usual, Maude ! 
 Did I ever say I did not like you to go out 
 before breakfast ? * 
 
 * But you found fault with it, papa/ 
 
 ' I found fault ! your father is not in the 
 habit, Maude, of finding fault without suffi- 
 cient reason.' 
 
 ' Of which there is no lack, I am sorry to 
 say,' said Charlotte. ' Just look at the mess 
 you have made with those rubbishing flowers 
 on the clean breakfast-cloth.' 
 
 ' And wet with dew ! ' cried Aunt Gretta. 
 ' Oh, Maude, my dear child, you will have 
 taken your death with cold as well as 
 Gypsie ! You will both be laid up before the 
 day is out.' 
 
 ' I am quite well, Aunt Gretta,' said dear 
 little Gypsie. 
 
 ' I think " aconite " will be the best,' 
 soHloquised Aunt Gretta, bending over her 
 homoeopathic case, which she had drawn 
 from her pocket whilst speaking. 
 
 ' I have never objected to your taking
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 5 1 
 
 moderate exercise before breakfast,' said 
 papa ; ' but all at once to take up a matter in 
 this vehement way, without the least judg- 
 ment, and to exhaust your little brother as 
 well as yourself ' 
 
 ' We are not exhausted, papa,' I ventured 
 to put in. 
 
 ' Can you not admit your fault even in 
 such a small matter as this, Maude, without 
 making contention about it ? ' 
 
 ' I do not want to make any contention,' 
 I said, with tears in my eyes ; ' I only wanted 
 ' but I could get no further. 
 
 ' Perhaps you will sit down, Maude,' said 
 Charlotte ; ' we want to begin breakfast, and 
 it will be rather inconvenient to be kept 
 waiting until you have done talking ; it may 
 be some time.' 
 
 I sat down, but all the brightness had 
 gone out of me. 
 
 * Are they not pretty, papa ? Are not 
 Maude's wild flowers beautiful ? ' said Gypsie, 
 holding some up for papa's notice. 
 
 T. 2
 
 52 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 * They are very pretty, my boy ; all God's 
 gifts are *'good." " He has made all things 
 beautiful in their season," and ** all His works 
 praise Him/' ' 
 
 'We went nearly three miles,' pursued 
 Gypsie, innocently, * a beautiful ' 
 
 Gypsie forgot to finish his sentence, he 
 was so much startled by Aunt Gretta's ex- 
 clamation. 
 
 * Three miles on an empty stomach ! My 
 dear Maude, how could you be so thought- 
 less ? And after the pilule I gave you last 
 night. Three miles ! and they are so bene- 
 ficial, and you did not have the other which 
 was waiting for you. Poor little Gypsie I 
 can see is quite worn out. It is very kind 
 of you indeed, Maude, to do so much for 
 Gypsie and to get such beautiful flowers, but 
 do think another time what you are doing.' 
 
 ' Whatever possessed you, Maude ? ' said 
 Maggie. * I would not have walked one mile 
 before breakfast to save my life.' 
 
 * I daresay you would not,' I said.
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 53 
 
 * Dear me ! now don't be cross. I wonder 
 you should take the trouble to be cross.' 
 
 * I am not cross,' I said. 
 
 Charlotte laughed — a laugh which is 
 infinitely more trying to me than any words, 
 and papa said, ' Maude, if you would have a 
 little more consideration and thoughtfulness, 
 you would not be so constantly committing 
 these follies ; this is just where you get 
 wrong. No one finds fault with you for 
 taking a little air and exercise before break- 
 fast ; that is highly desirable and beneficial, 
 and habitually what I do myself; but there 
 is, or ought to be, moderation and consistency 
 in all things. We are enjoined to " let our 
 moderation be known unto all men." ' 
 
 Maggie yawned, and by that sign I knew 
 papa's speech was finished. Aunt Gretta, 
 who had left the room, now returned with a 
 wine-glass in each hand, in which was a small 
 quantity of milky-looking water, which she 
 administered to Gypsie and myself, and after- 
 wards, being persuaded that neither of us
 
 54 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 were absolutely sinking, she resumed her seat 
 at the breakfast-table, and, the letters happily 
 being brought in, attention was diverted from 
 Gypsle and me. 
 
 I must not write any more now. It is 
 my afternoon at the school, and I will really 
 try and not be late. I should like, too, to 
 have a few minutes to say a kind word to 
 Mr. Morris, as I may not see him again before 
 he leaves. This new schoolmaster will come 
 next week. How I do hate having strangers 
 
 about ! 
 
 Sunday, June 28. 
 
 What a lovely morning ! It is delightful 
 to get up early on Sunday morning and 
 listen to those bells pealing through the 
 sweet summer air. The Stonecross bells are 
 always rung on Sunday morning, from seven 
 to eight. I never hear any peal of bells 
 equal to it. 
 
 It is one of my happiest hours, this early 
 hour on Sunday morning. I hope I shall 
 get through to-day without trouble ! But that
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 55 
 
 is more than I can expect. Still, I will try 
 and keep my temper. I feel so sore and 
 wounded — touchy, I think that is the word. 
 I have read somewhere that when a man has 
 been flayed, the slightest touch hurts him ; 
 and so I think it is with me. 
 
 I heard papa say something about asking 
 Mr. Morris up to dinner to-day, as it is 
 his last Sunday. I hope he will, though it 
 is not very pleasant generally having these 
 sort of people up, but then Mr. Morris is very 
 simple and unassuming ; besides, he is in 
 such trouble that one cannot help wishing to 
 be as kind as possible to him. 
 
 I think I shall venture to take Gypsie 
 out for a stroll in the garden. Here he 
 comes ! I hear his pattering feet. * Sister 
 Maude ! ' * Yes, Gypsie, coming ! ' 
 
 Sunday Evening. 
 
 Well, the day is over, and it has not been 
 very bad. I have been very happy with 
 my children in the Sunday-school. But it
 
 56 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 comes with a terrible feeling to me sometimes 
 that I ought not to be happy, and that I must 
 be a vile hypocrite. What does it matter ? 
 Life is all a sham from beginning to end. 
 And surely it is not wrong to enjoy the 
 children's hymns ; I could almost cheat 
 myself into the belief that I am a Christian 
 when I hear those little untimed voices sing- 
 ing— 
 
 I want to be like Jesus, 
 
 I never never find 
 
 That He though persecuted was 
 
 To anyone unkind. 
 
 I want to be like Jesus, 
 
 So gentle and so meek, 
 
 For no one marked an angry word 
 
 That ever heard him speak. 
 
 And again : 
 
 Though often here we're weary, 
 There is sweet rest above, 
 A rest that is eternal. 
 Where all is peace and love. 
 Our Saviour will be with us. 
 E'en to the journey's end. 
 In every sore distress 
 His promised aid to lend. 
 
 If I only believed it ! When Dr. Vanny
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 57 
 
 returns, I shall do much better on Sundays, 
 for he always comes up some part of the day. 
 Mr. Retnor constantly comes to dinner on 
 Sunday, and he rouses such a feeling of 
 opposition in me, I can't describe it. He is 
 one of those men who have the most extra- 
 ordinary and immense capabilities for making 
 one uncomfortable. If you have a pet theory, 
 Mr. Retnor is sure to advance something in 
 direct contradiction to it ; if you have a 
 thought rather precious which you don't want 
 canvassing before other people, that man is 
 sure to come down upon it, and drag it into 
 light ; if there is a subject above all others which 
 you are anxious to avoid talking about, Mr. 
 Retnor is certain to pitch upon that particular 
 subject, and examine it in all its bearings with 
 such a rough hand and coarse touch, you can- 
 not keep silence. If there be a pugnacious 
 point in your disposition, that point is sure to 
 be assailed by Mr. Retnor. And he constantly 
 comes to dinner on Sunday. I wish the Con- 
 vocation, at their next assembly, would issue
 
 58 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 a decree, requiring every clergyman to dine 
 at his own table on Sundays, or, if he hasn't 
 one, at his landlady's. That is very selfish 
 of me. I daresay there is many a poor curate 
 whose Sunday's dinner at his rich rector's is 
 one of the things for which in his morning's 
 service, he gives 'most humble and hearty 
 thanks.' But then, Mr. Retnor is not poor, he 
 is very rich. And then, every family is not like 
 ours. I daresay to many the clergyman dining 
 with them is a real boon. Well, I can only 
 say it is not a boon to me, and I wish the 
 bishop of the diocese would take the matter 
 into serious consideration, for I am certain 
 that nothing short of an ecclesiastical regula- 
 tion or a civil law will keep Mr. Retnor at 
 home to dinner on Sundays. 
 
 I am truly sorry for poor Mr. Morris ! 
 How glad I am that I went to see his wife 
 before she died ! He seemed as I came from 
 church with him to dwell upon his trouble 
 with such a longing to speak about it, that 
 one cannot but indulge him.
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 59 
 
 * I thought we had so many happy years 
 before us, Miss Maude,' he said. 
 
 ' Indeed, I am very sorry for you, Mr. 
 Morris,' I said ; 'it must be such a dreadful 
 trouble, that very few can sympathise \vith 
 you/ 
 
 ' It was very kind of you to come and see 
 her,' he said ; ' she often hoped you would 
 come to see baby.' 
 
 ' Indeed, that was nothing. I am very 
 glad now that I did. It was a very pretty 
 little baby,' I added, not knowing quite what 
 I ought to say. 
 
 I wished I could think of something, but 
 nothing would occur to me ; it seemed to me 
 that nothing could comfort in such a trouble. 
 But it was something to keep him away from 
 Mr. Retnor, who would have begun to talk 
 to him with a perfect forgetfulness that he 
 was talking to a man who was smarting 
 under a heavy trouble. 
 
 Gypsie had been walking along quietly 
 by us, his little hand in mine. He had been
 
 6o MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 witnessing poor Mr. Morris's evident distress 
 in wondering silence, and he now began to 
 talk in a confidential undertone to me. 
 * Where has the pretty baby gone to, Maude ?' 
 
 * Gone to heaven, dear Gypsie,' I was 
 obliged to answer. Under the circumstances, 
 what could I say ? To have admitted a 
 doubt of there being a heaven before Mr. 
 Morris, who devoutly believed his wife and 
 baby to be there, would have been absolute 
 cruelty. 
 
 ' Whv did it go ? ' asked Gypsie. 
 ' Because God saw fit to take it,' I said, 
 answering what I thought I ought to. 
 
 * Was it kind of God to take it, Maude, 
 when Mr. Morris loved it so much and 
 wanted it to stay ? ' 
 
 * God knows much better than we do, 
 Gypsie.' 
 
 ' Does He never do the least bit wrong ?' 
 asked Gypsie. 
 
 * Never.' Oh, my wretched self ! But I 
 must talk properly to Gypsie.
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 6 I 
 
 * How do you know, Maude ; are you 
 quite sure ? * 
 
 * The Bible says so, Gypsie, and papa says 
 that all that is in the Bible is true.' 
 
 * It didn't seein kind of God to take away 
 Mr. Morris's baby, and its mamma, did it, 
 Maude ? ' 
 
 * No, it did not ; but then it might be 
 really kind.' 
 
 * If I were God I would not do what 
 seems unkind, would you, Maude ? I would 
 try to seem kind, because you know it is so 
 much nicer to seem kind. I am very sorry 
 that God makes Mr. Morris so unhappy. If 
 I had been God I would not have taken the 
 little baby away, Maude, would you ? ' 
 
 * I cannot possibly tell, dear Gypsie. 
 The Bible says that God always does right.* 
 
 ' Well, I will try and think so, Maude, if 
 )'ou say so ; but I shall ask God in my prayer 
 to night to seem kind as well as to be kind. 
 But the baby has gone ; it will be too late. 
 Do you think, Maude, if I prayed very much
 
 62 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 that God would send Mr. Morris his baby- 
 back again ? ' 
 
 * No, Gypsie ; but perhaps God might 
 make Mr. Morris not feel so very unhappy.' 
 
 * Then, Mr. Morris,' said Gypsie aloud, 
 and turning to Mr. Morris, ' I shall pray very 
 much to-night, and if the baby can never 
 come back, perhaps God would hold it in his 
 arms a little bit, and just let you look at it 
 and kiss it ; you would like that very much, 
 would you not ? ' 
 
 ' Hush, hush, Gypsie, dear,' I said. 
 
 Fortunately we were just at home. Papa 
 met me at the door. Mr. Morris had said 
 he would like to walk on a little further, as 
 there was time before dinner. ' Maude ! ' 
 papa said, ' I want you for a moment in the 
 library.' 
 
 My heart sank. ' Maude, I want you in 
 the library,' has a dreadful sound to me. 
 This time it was to show me the extreme 
 folly of indulging Mr. Morris in a display of 
 exaggerated feeling with a view to exciting
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 63 
 
 sympathy ; It could do no good, and certainly 
 did great harm. And I had felt so happy when 
 I saw Mr. Morris's look, and heard his word 
 of thanks when he left me at the gate ! 
 
 I got out into the garden where I could 
 not be seen, and gave way to a passion of 
 tears. I know it was a small and insignifi- 
 cant circumstance, not worthy of tears. But 
 it is so hard ! Whatever I do with the kindest 
 motives or best intentions, to be misjudged 
 in this way ! I am afraid of doing anything, 
 afraid of speaking or looking as I feel. I 
 wonder if there is a God, why He could not 
 take me instead of Mrs. Morris. 
 
 Gypsie found me out in a few minutes, 
 and put his loving arms about my neck and 
 kissed my wet cheeks. * Maudie, Maudie, 
 why are you crying, what is the matter ? ' 
 
 * Nothing, dear Gypsie.' 
 
 * Nothing ! then why are you crying ? 
 Oh poor sister Maude ! it is for the dear 
 litde baby ! ' 
 
 ' No indeed, Gypsie, it is not.'
 
 64 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 * Then what is it ? It is for the baby, 
 and I mean to ask God to night-to let you 
 see it as well as Mr. Morris.' 
 
 * Do you, Gypsie ? ' 
 
 * Yes. I think God will hear me. I 
 prayed so much last week that my white 
 rabbit might not die, and it did ; so now I think 
 God can never do two things which seem so 
 unkind together ; one would be enough, and 
 I think if I ask Him, He will bring the baby 
 back for you and Mr. Morris to see. I mean 
 to ask Him very much to-night. We shall 
 see ; ' and Gypsie sat thinking a minute with 
 his head on my lap; and then he suddenly 
 asked, * Maude, did God see it to be right 
 that my white rabbit should die ? ' 
 
 * I suppose so, Gypsie.' 
 
 * You only s'pose so, Maude ? ' 
 
 * I feel almost sure of it, Gypsie.' 
 
 * I don't,' said Gypsie, decidedly. ' I asked 
 God that night why He let it die, and He 
 never answered me; so I s'pose He didn't 
 like to tell me that He didn't know why ; '
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 65 
 
 Gypsie asked, after a moment's pause, 
 * Maude, will my white rabbit see the baby 
 now ?' 
 
 * No, I think not, Gypsie.' 
 
 ' But, Maude, why ; if God took them both, 
 and they were both so pretty, could'nt He 
 put them both together ? ' 
 
 * The white rabbit had no soul, Gypsie ; 
 and the Bible says the baby had a soul.' 
 
 ' Who gave it its soul ? ' asked Gypsie. 
 ' God.' 
 
 * Then, why didn't He give my white rabbit 
 a soul i* ' 
 
 ' Animals don't have souls,' I said 
 evasively, and feeling that Gypsie's questions 
 were getting something too hard for me. 
 
 * But why ? If God has souls, why 
 doesn't He put them in rabbits as well as 
 babies ? I am sure it was quite as pretty as 
 the babv. mv white rabbit was. I shall ask 
 Him to-night to bring a soul for my other 
 rabbit, when He brings the baby back a little 
 bit ; but perhaps God does not like black 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 rabbits as well as white ones ; but if He does, 
 and brings it a soul, then when it dies it 
 will see the baby, won't it, Maude ? ' 
 
 Dear little Gypsie looked so earnest 
 and hopeful at this new view of the case, that 
 I warmly assented, and he was satisfied. 
 
 If papa had heard me ! I hope Gypsie 
 will forget all about it. The first bell rang 
 just then, and when the second rang Gypsie 
 and I were in our seats at the table. 
 
 Mr. Retnor began, as I was sure he 
 would, upon subjects most harrowing , to 
 Mr. Morris. The poor man looked im- 
 ploringly at me, but I durst not say a word ; 
 only I did try to bring other subjects of 
 conversation forward, even at the risk of 
 Charlotte's anger. Mr. Retnor is always 
 willing to talk to me. 
 
 But was he born without any tact, any 
 penetration, any power of seeing, when he 
 was inflicting actual pain upon those around 
 him ? I believe he was. I believe if I had 
 told him that he had made this poor school-
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 6"] 
 
 master miserable throughout the whole of 
 dinner, he would have thought I was out of 
 my mind. 
 
 He was in great good-humour for me for 
 talking to him. Had he seen what was 
 passing in my mind ! I was prepared for 
 Charlotte's remarks to me afterwards, and 
 they came as truly as a ship full sail into 
 harbour ; but I did not care, for I had saved 
 Mr. Morris a little pain, though I had not 
 saved him from some questions as to the state 
 of mind in which his wife had died. ' Did 
 she express contrition, penitence ^. ' (I suppose 
 for general faults, Mr. Retnor did not specify.) 
 ' Had her end been peace ? ' Could Mr. Morris 
 count with assurance upon her being among 
 the ' eternally saved .-^ ' He (Mr. Retnor) 
 trusted Air. Morris did not dwell on 'vaeue 
 hopes ; ' it was always well to have sub- 
 stantial ground to rest upon in these cases ; 
 he feared ' death -bed repentances were the 
 most deceitful things under the sun.' 
 
 How could he sav such things ? Did 
 
 P 2
 
 68 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 being Mr. Morris's minister give Mr. Retnor 
 any right to drag to light before other people 
 that subject which of all others should be 
 sacred ? Odious man ! Mr. Retnor is an 
 odious man. I cannot help saying it, though 
 it is Sunday night, and I have been listening 
 to his sermon this afternoon. He is a 
 thoroughly odious man. It relieves me very 
 much to write it, and I think the words look 
 remarkably nice upon paper. I am glad that 
 I have the power of being rude and disagree- 
 able to him. 
 
 We all went to church in the after- 
 noon except Aunt Gretta and Maggie. 
 Maggie never goes, and papa does not insist 
 upon it, though I know he wishes it. She 
 would sleep all the time if she did, so I can- 
 not see what advantage it would be to her. 
 Aunt Gretta does not go, because she thinks 
 it so bad for the digestion to walk after 
 dinner. Papa sits in the reading-desk, and 
 fortunately when he is sitting down he can- 
 not see my corner ; neither can Mr. Retnor,
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 69 
 
 ours being one of those queer, odd-shaped 
 pews, which fit round the pulpit. Charlotte 
 listens most attentively to every word which 
 falls from ]\Ir. Retnor's lips ; she must have 
 a delightful time. Gypsie generally falls fast 
 asleep when the sermon begins ; nobody 
 ever thinks of finding fault with him for 
 doing so, for he is only five years old. I 
 put him against me, and all his golden curls 
 are crushed up, and his little chubby hand 
 clasps mine. If I believed the Bible, I 
 should say he looked the picture of one of 
 those little ones which ' do always behold 
 the face of the Father in Heaven.' 
 
 I am sure the sight of him keeps the 
 Sunday-school children in the gallery quiet. 
 I can see them looking with such dumb 
 admiration, and nudging each other to look 
 at him. 
 
 I stayed to shake hands with Mr. Morris 
 when we came out of church. He was turn- 
 ing away, when he hesitated. I thought he 
 wanted to say something, but did not know
 
 70 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 how to frame it. At last, he said, * Miss 
 Maude, would it be taking a great — that is — 
 might I — should you think it very imperti- 
 nent of me ' 
 
 I tried to help him. * Pray tell me if 
 there is anything I can do for you, and it 
 certainly shall be done.' 
 
 ' Miss Maude, would you ? ' I don't 
 think he would ever have got it out, but 
 Charlotte and Mr. Retnor appeared in the 
 distance, and he hurried to say, ' Would you 
 sometimes go and see her grave, and not let 
 the flowers run wild ? No one will look 
 after it now I ' 
 
 ' Indeed, I will,' I said ; ' you may depend 
 upon me tending it and keeping it most 
 carefully.' 
 
 * God bless you, Miss Maude ! ' and the 
 poor man got away before Charlotte and Mr. 
 Retnor came up. 
 
 Papa had stayed behind whilst the charity 
 of so many loaves (according to the will and 
 bequest of Mistress Margaret Maynard some
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. J 1 
 
 worthy ancestor of ours) was being distributed 
 to twelve poor women of the parish of Stone- 
 cross, shire. Gypsie and I had the walk 
 
 home to ourselves. We always go by the 
 river-side when we are alone, and climb the 
 stiles like village urchins ; and though it is up 
 and down and round and about, we both think 
 it is delightful. 
 
 The sweet stillness of this June afternoon, 
 with only Gypsie for my companion, was 
 enchanting^ ; and we resolved to make a weekly 
 visit to Mrs. Morris's grave, and I think the 
 best time will be on Sunday evening, when 
 Charlotte has her class. 
 
 Mr. Retnor came to tea, but, fortunately, 
 
 he had to leave early to take the duty in the 
 next village. 
 
 There is Charlotte's Bible-class commen- 
 cing; I hear them singing. What a slow, 
 solemn dirge for those clear young voices ! 
 I declare it makes me long to strike up ' Sally 
 in our alley,' or ' Methusalem, Methusalem,' 
 or shout ' Hallelujah ' as I heard them
 
 72 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 shouting it in that little Methodist chapel 
 this afternoon when we came from church. 
 That chapel is Mr. Retnor's thorn in the flesh. 
 I believe he would gladly have the trouble 
 of carrying away every inch of it, stone by 
 stone, with his own hands, and flinging them 
 one by one into the river, than it should stand 
 there, a grief to his body, and a trouble and 
 perplexity to his very soul. I have a ma- 
 licious pleasure In looking at it, and thinking 
 what a tidy, comfortable little place it is. 
 They really were making a frightful noise as 
 we passed this afternoon. What lungs they 
 must have ! I don't wonder at Aunt Gretta 
 finding out so many cases of sore-throat and 
 bronchial aflection in the village. I have 
 the greatest curiosity to know what they do 
 inside that little building ; the sounds pro- 
 ceeding from it on Sunday afternoon are 
 perfectly exhilarating ! they make me feel as 
 if I could dance a hornpipe on the green in 
 front, and Gypsie always begins to caper 
 about when he comes within hearing distance,
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 73 
 
 without knowing in the least why or where- 
 fore. 
 
 I really cannot bear to listen to that tune 
 of Charlottes any longer. I will shut my 
 book up and go out.
 
 74 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Tuesday, June 30. 
 
 I HAD not to go to the girls' school to- 
 day, though it is the day on which I usually 
 go down. The children are having holiday, 
 as the new master does not come until Wed- 
 nesday. 
 
 Aunt Gretta and I spent the morning in 
 making calls. Of all social duties I do think 
 * makinof calls ' is the most disaorreeable. To 
 have to say, and look, and be what is ' pro- 
 per,' is the most horrid way of spending a 
 morning of which I know. If only I might 
 have stayed at home with Gypsie ; but no, of 
 course I must go, because Charlotte was not 
 in the humour, and Maggie said she could do 
 nothing all day but sit in the shade. It really 
 is too bad !
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 75 
 
 I had to put on a rustling silk this hot 
 day, and take a card-case in my hand, and 
 look smiling and pleased, when In my heart I 
 felt as savage as an out-witted diplomatist. 
 And then to have to sit in a close carriasre on 
 a day like this is suffocating ! I am sure this 
 morning I could scarcely breathe. Aunt 
 Gretta was occupied all the way in discovering 
 a spot of grease on her rich new satin, specu- 
 lating how it got there and the best method 
 of having it taken off. ' Why must we wear 
 rich silks and satins ?' I asked. ' My dear, 
 we must do what is becoming to our station 
 in life,'Avas the reply. I wish we might dress 
 like our forefathers, in the skins of wild beasts. 
 I would choose the skin of a hunted hyena, or 
 a chained panther, wrestling and striving to 
 be free. 
 
 We left dear little Gypsie running wild in 
 the garden, looking so cool and summer-like 
 in his brown holland suit and straw hat, and 
 kissinof his hand to ' Aunt Getta ' and ' Sister 
 Maude,' and very sorr}^ that ' Maudie' had to
 
 76 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 go and make calls instead of staying with 
 
 him. My darling ! If it were not for you, I 
 
 often think that when I am twenty-one — nay, 
 
 it is twenty-five in not married — but when I 
 
 get my own fortune, I would travel far beyond 
 
 the seas, and try if I could not live well, live 
 
 worthily, not crushed, but brave, upright ! 
 
 But what is the use of writing in this way ? 
 
 Gypsie and I will have a ramble in the woods 
 
 to rub off the effects of this morning's dose of 
 
 calls. 
 
 Wednesday, July i. 
 
 I thought Gypsie and I would have such 
 a pic-nic in the woods to-day ! I was coaxing 
 Aunt Gretta all yesterday afternoon, and at 
 last gained her consent. I had to persuade 
 her that no evil beast would devour us, that 
 we should not have a sun-stroke, that we 
 should not get our feet soaked through in the 
 brook, that we should ,not be stung all over 
 by gnats, that it would not come on a thunder- 
 storm and we be struck by lightning, that no 
 tree would fall upon us, that no gypsies would
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 77 
 
 attack us — Papa being a magistrate, and par- 
 ticularly strict in enforcing the regulation — that 
 none but a little Gypsie should torment us. 
 This last declaration made Aunt Gretta smile ; 
 and when I promised that we would each 
 take two globules of 'aconite' when we re- 
 turned, and swallow some more the next 
 morning, I carried my point, and gained per- 
 mission to instruct the housekeeper to prepare 
 what we wanted for our repast. And then, 
 after all my trouble, if papa did not inform us 
 at dinner that he had been to the schools this 
 morning to see his new master installed ; that 
 he had invited him to come and take tea with 
 us this afternoon, and of course we should all 
 treat him witli 'courtesy and kindness,' look- 
 ing particularly at me when he made this last 
 request, which look I quite understood. 
 
 It is an old charge against me that I am 
 so ' dignified' — no, they do not give me such 
 a large word — rude, ill-mannered to this class 
 of people ; (I suppose I was so to Mr. Morris 
 last Sunday morning). I am sure I never
 
 78 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 mean to be, and 1 do not believe that I am. 
 I confess I cannot see the necessity for the 
 constant demand upon our time which these 
 people make. Every official of every degree 
 must be Invited at stated Intervals to drink 
 tea at ' the Rectory.' Papa invites them as 
 regularly and methodically as old Putman 
 says, ' Amen,' from the clerk's desk on Sunday 
 morning. I suppose It Is one of the duties 
 devolving upon a rector, but I am sure It is 
 a very disagreeable one for his family. Papa 
 makes a perfect martyr of himself to the 
 duties of his * parish.' It is his very Jugger- 
 naut, and he would throw himself before the 
 wheels of the car and die a glorious death of 
 self-renunciation for the villages of Stonecross, 
 Longfarm, and Sandrun. 
 
 Every schoolmistress and schoolmaster, 
 the teachers and scholars, the clerk and bell- 
 ringers, the vergers and sextons, the pew- 
 openers and church cleaners, and the whole 
 body of choirs, organists and singers, from 
 the three villages, each and all must, at
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 79 
 
 appointed times, either have their beer in the 
 servants' hall, or their tea in the parlour of 
 Stonecross Rectory. I suppose it is all right, 
 but that makes it none the less troublesome. 
 It is so very difficult to know how to talk to 
 the female part of them ; they come in such 
 very extraordinary best clothes and best man- 
 ners, and they look so uncomfortable and ill 
 at ease. I am always thankful when these 
 evenings of official duty are over. These 
 people do such things in their efforts to be 
 polite ! They put their feet or chair on your 
 dress every time they move, drop their bread 
 and butter on the cloth, and then, in their 
 violent efforts to take it up, let it fall on the 
 floor, and are sure to upset either their tea or 
 a vase of flowers. 
 
 I believe I am very cross. I really am 
 disappointed that Gypsie and I cannot have 
 our pic-nic in the woods ; it may be so long 
 before we have the chance again, and Aunt 
 Gretta does take such hours of persuading ! 
 And now, when it was all arranged, to have
 
 8o MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 to stay at home because this stupid old school- 
 master must come to tea, and as the clergy- 
 man's family we must attend to the * good of 
 the parish.' Such nonsense ! It Is nonsense, 
 even though the Rev. Dr. Maynard, with all 
 the initials after his name, said it. 
 
 One thing I am glad of, and that is, that 
 it is a man and not a woman who is cominof 
 to tea. I always find men, even the silliest 
 of them, better to entertain than women. 
 They do not know exactly what you have on, 
 and what you ought to have had on ; what there 
 is to tea, and what there ought to have been ; 
 what you said, and what you ought not to 
 have said ; how much new furniture there 
 was in the room, and how much old ; what 
 wages James and the waitress probably have, 
 and what they ought to have ; what an 
 amount of work the housemaids do, and how 
 much they ought to do. Men do not notice 
 all these things with that small, and yet 
 magnifying, glance which characterises women 
 generally. They seem to have eyes all over
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 8 I 
 
 them when they come here. And yet, for 
 the good of the parish, all has to be borne. 
 I wonder when the ' good of the parish ' will 
 be eternally secured. 
 
 Really, if I were not very bad-tempered, 
 I should not grudge these people the small 
 pleasure of saying — they have been ' at the 
 Hall ;' they have 'taken tea at Dr. Maynard's.' 
 But when they are females, it does happen to 
 fall rather heavily on me. Papa withdraws 
 after tea ; Charlotte will not be troubled to 
 talk to them ; Maggie plays with her fancy 
 work, and stares at them from the depths of 
 the arm-chair ; and though Aunt Gretta is as 
 kind as possible, it is not very entertaining 
 for them to hear all the evening of Provi- 
 dential openings, homoeopathy, allopathy, hy- 
 dropathy, feelings and frames of the various 
 organs of the body ; so I have to do my very 
 best to make the evenings pass ; and a pre- 
 cious piece of work it is sometimes. * Thank 
 you.' ' Oh, no.' ' Oh, yes.' 'Just as you like.' 
 ' Certainly.' ' I am very much obliged.' These 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 six phrases, with inflections, slight verbal 
 changes, and small alterations, give the entire 
 compass of their conversational powers. 
 
 I am so cross that I will not write any- 
 more. I will put my book away and dress. 
 I must not go down looking like this, or what 
 will they say to me ? I do hope this new 
 man — whatever is his name ? — I cannot re- 
 member it ; but I do hope he is not a creature 
 who will give himself airs, and make himself 
 very much at home. I hope he will quite 
 understand that he is simply asked in his 
 official character, as papa would ask the 
 sweep, if he considered it a ' duty he owed to 
 the parish.' Poor Mr. Morris and his wife 
 were plain, sensible people, who never forgot 
 their position however much you noticed them. 
 I wonder what this man's wife is like — by 
 the way, I don't know if he has one. It is a 
 
 quarter to six ! 
 
 Half-past Ten. 
 
 I could not sleep if I went to bed, so I 
 think I will write a little. All is so quiet that
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 83 
 
 I can distinctly hear the babble of the brook 
 over the stones ; there is not another sound, 
 but now and then the breath of the wind 
 through my chesnut and sycamore. 
 
 I love to look out upon the garden at this 
 hour. Why, oh, why should I have to wake 
 to-morrow to the pain and disappointment 
 which beset my life ? It is vejy hard. Is 
 there a God ? and, if so, am I too small, too 
 insignificant a creature in this great world of 
 glory and beauty for Him to notice or hear 
 my cry ? Shall I never be helped, encou- 
 raged, told, at least, that I sometimes have 
 tried after the right, that I did make some 
 effort ? Will a hereafter ever come to throw 
 any light over the rough way I have gone ? 
 And if it should come, what will it be to me ? 
 A vacuum, a chaos, annihilation, despair ! — 
 what, I know not and I care not. My heart 
 has long been growing hardened, and when 
 touched, only shows itself defiant, daring, 
 dangerous ! 
 
 And yet — yet. how fair and beautiful is 
 
 G ?
 
 84 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 this little scene before me ! And for Chris- 
 tians who believe that there is a heaven 
 lovelier far, and that it is really prepared for 
 those who fulfil certain conditions here, and 
 that the fitness for it often comes through suf- 
 fering, is not that thought enough to make 
 them willing to bear the suffering ? I suppose 
 it would be. 
 
 But then, who knows anything about it ? 
 It is all vague, uncertain, visionary. As for 
 what papa and Mr. Retnor preach, I really 
 don't believe one word of it. I suppose 
 preaching and living by what they preach are 
 two very different things. It is all a mystery 
 to me from beofinnins;" to end, and never a 
 greater mystery than when papa gets up into 
 the pulpit, and looks so grand and noble, and 
 says such eloquent and finished sentences. 
 He is so stately in his bearing, he has such a 
 melodious voice, such a patrician mien, he 
 sets his Oxford gown off to perfection ; and 
 his mass of quite white hair is all round his 
 face like a halo. But when I do listen to his
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 85 
 
 sermons, it is always with a kind of dread of 
 hearing something for myself. I should not 
 be in the least surprised were he to lean over 
 the side of the pulpit, look down upon me, 
 and say, * Maude, my child, have you got 
 the better of your temper ? Remember, he 
 that " ruleth his spirit is better than he that 
 taketh a city." ' I have drawn thick, black ink 
 lines over that verse. I have blotted it out 
 of my copy of the Bible. Papa presents each 
 of us with a fresh copy, beautifully bound, 
 every other birthday. I cannot bear to see 
 the book ; it is associated in my mind with — 
 no, I will not say with what, but I cannot 
 believe that if there be a God, and He made 
 all things so beautiful as they look now. He 
 would ever give those words for me to be 
 tormented and driven wild by them. 
 
 But why should I think about this when 
 I feel happier to-night ? It has been quite a 
 — I was going to say a happy evening. Mr. 
 Retnor was called away to see a dying pa- 
 rishioner — why he ever came I don't know.
 
 86 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 I am sure he was not asked, for papa must 
 see his overbearing manner to his inferiors^ 
 and he would not, I know, have asked him 
 to-night ; though really this schoolmaster, — 
 this Mr. Farren, does not seem the least like 
 an inferior. An inferior to Mr. Retnor ! no, 
 it would be difficult to find that. For shame, 
 Maude ! Mr. Retnor is of a county family, 
 has a large fortune, once asked you to be his 
 wife (though no one knows of that\ and 
 probably will be your brother-in-law. 
 
 But this Mr. Farren does not seem at all 
 the kind of man you would expect him to be. 
 And yet he is the son of a mechanic ! I 
 heard him say so, and with as much apparent 
 satisfaction as if he were announcing himself 
 to be the son of a duke ! What was it I 
 happened to hear him say to papa — the words 
 attracted my attention. I think they were 
 these — ' The royalty of right-doing.' The 
 royalty of right-doing ! I don't quite under- 
 stand what it means. I wonder in what sense 
 he was using the phrase.
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 8/ 
 
 How he talked to papa ! He was as 
 much at home with him as if he had known 
 him all his life, and combated papa's favourite 
 opinions with as much composure and firm- 
 ness as if he were talking to one of his rough- 
 headed schoolboys. I thought papa looked 
 a little astonished, especially when, making 
 some quotation in Latin, he afterwards trans- 
 lated it for Mr. Farren's benefit, it appeared 
 that the translation was quite unnecessary. 
 Mr. Farren understood the original quite as 
 well as Dr. Maynard himself. After this, I 
 listened as much as I could to what they said. 
 
 ' Are you, then, a Latin and Greek scholar, 
 Mr. Farren?' inquired papa, drawing himself 
 up, sitting very erect in his chair, putting his 
 eye-glass to his eyes, and speaking in a slow, 
 deep, measured voice, which seemed to come 
 from a long way down his chest. Did he 
 mean to annihilate this poor young school- 
 master — did he mean to crush him with a look 
 for his audacity in presuming to understand 
 the languages in which Dr. Maynard, his
 
 88 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 patron and benefactor, was so learned a 
 scholar ? I know not. I only know that he 
 drew himself up and settled himself firmly, 
 until his chair creaked like a dozen doors 
 turning on rusty hinges. 
 
 Mr. Farren neither sunk into the earth 
 and disappeared from the orbs behind the eye- 
 glass, nor stammered, blushed, and looked 
 foolish. He replied, unconcernedly, * I do 
 not venture to call myself a scholar ; I have 
 some slight acquaintance with those lan- 
 guages/ 
 
 * A-hem,' coughed papa ; 'it is not often 
 we find a man — ah — a man occupying a post, 
 I will venture to say, so honourable and useful 
 as that of a schoolmaster of a large national 
 school who is able to boast of — of that class 
 of acquirements.' 
 
 * I trust I have made no boast of it,' said 
 Mr. Farren, quietly ; * and I believe scarcely 
 any amount or variety of knowledge will be 
 useless to a man who is anxious rightly to 
 teach others.'
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 89 
 
 * Certainly not, certainly not,' said papa. 
 ' I truly rejoice to find that we agree on this 
 point' 
 
 Mr. Farren bowed. 
 
 ' You will, however, I trust,' continued 
 papa, ' equally agree with me that what is 
 desirable for the youth of an agricultural dis- 
 trict, like the one we at present inhabit, is a 
 sound, practical, elementary English educa- 
 tion ; an education comprising all essentials 
 and excluding all matters of supererogation.' 
 
 ' Certainly,' said Mr. Farren, I could not 
 help thinking in a very indifferent tone. 
 
 ' You, I infer, Mr. Farren, have had an 
 education different to that which is generally 
 bestowed upon — upon ' 
 
 * Upon certificated teachers.' 
 
 * Ah, yes ! upon certificated teachers.' 
 
 * I am not aware that I can claim a large 
 amount of superiority over my fellow-teachers. 
 Happily, when I was a boy, a gentleman in 
 our neighbourhood discovered whither my 
 tastes tended, and was kind enough to en-
 
 90 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 courage them in various ways. It is to his 
 generosity that I owe anything more than the 
 most ordinary education. I have worked my 
 own way up, Dr. Maynard.' 
 
 * So much the better,' said Dr. Maynard, 
 evidently reHeved by finding that his new 
 schoolmaster was not an Oxford professor in 
 disguise, or the scapegrace son of a lord. 
 ' So much the better. If there is one man 
 whom I revere in this world of workers above 
 another, Mr. Farren, it is the man who, hav- 
 ing surmounted difficulties and vanquished 
 hindrances, at length enjoys the well-earned 
 success his merit demands.' 
 
 Again Mr. Farren bowed. I fancy Dr. 
 Maynard's remarks were slightly too much 
 that of the patron to suit his taste. 
 
 ' Your father,' continued papa, * would 
 doubtless be pleased to see his son steadily 
 advancing in the pursuit of knowledge.' 
 
 * My father, sir,' said the young[- man, ' has 
 been dead some years, and at his death the 
 maintenance of a widowed mother wholly
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. gi 
 
 devolved upon myself; consequently, I was 
 obliged to relinquish my favourite pursuits 
 and turn to the most available means for 
 earning what is, unfortunately, a necessity, 
 which does not come to us poor men for the 
 mere asking — money.' 
 
 * Ah ! ' said papa, ' money ! Yes, un- 
 doubtedly, a necessity ; the acquisition of 
 which however is to be held as far inferior to 
 the acquisition of the stores of the learned 
 and wise, by which our minds are enriched 
 and fortified against the inevitable ills of life. 
 *' The love of money," Mr. Farren, says a great 
 man — greater than you or I, sir — *' the love of 
 money is the root of all evil." ' 
 
 * Unquestionably,' said Mr. Farren, with 
 some lurking humour about his mouth ; ' but, 
 unfortunately, I never had such an intimate 
 acquaintance with it as to be able to form an 
 attachment to it.' 
 
 Papa looked, I thought, a little scandalised, 
 and his lips appeared to be in a position to utter
 
 2 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 the word * levity ; ' but as no word came, per- 
 haps it was only my fancy. 
 
 * It is often,' he said, * it is often, Mr. 
 Farren, a happy thing for a young man of 
 spirit and energy to be thrown entirely upon 
 his own resources ; it develops an immense 
 amount of power which might otherwise lie 
 dormant/ 
 
 ' I cannot but think, sir,' said Mr. Farren, 
 ' that the cases are rare in which a little money 
 might not confer more benefit than the absence 
 of it is likely to do. The ** latent power" 
 which is developed without it might be more 
 efficiently developed with it' 
 
 * I certainly do not agree with you,' said 
 papa. 
 
 ' Ah, well ! ' said Mr. Farren, 'it is a 
 difficult thing to learn to prize what we have 
 never known the want of I, who have been 
 restrained and fettered all my life by the want 
 of money, who have tasted high sources of 
 enjoyment only to have the awakened taste 
 thrown back upon me in strengthened desire
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 93: 
 
 for more, may perhaps find some excuse if I 
 place a value on money which the wealthy^ 
 man can never discover.' 
 
 * The highest sources of gratification, Mr. 
 Farren, are undoubtedly open to the man 
 without means, almost equally as to the man 
 with them.' 
 
 ' I am unhappy enough entirely to dis- 
 agree with that remark, with one exception,' 
 said Mr. Farren. 
 
 ' I am anxious to know what that excep- 
 tion is,' said papa. 
 
 ' The royalty of right-doing is an equal 
 prerogative of rich and poor,' said Mr. Farren ; 
 ' but, even here, I hold that men of wealth 
 have far greater incentives to this same right- 
 doing than poor men.' 
 
 * I cannot admit that at all,' said papa. 
 
 * Look, sir, at the numberless blessings 
 which wealth enables a man to bestow upon his 
 fellow-creatures ! Is there a greater incentive 
 to deeds of benevolence and generosity than 
 witnessing the happiness to others which that
 
 94 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 generosity secures ? Look at the intellectual 
 gratification which wealth affords ! Is it not 
 a mighty inducement to further effort to taste 
 the high pleasures these gratifications secure ? 
 Look at the woe and suffering which it alle- 
 viates ! What puts a man on such a vantage- 
 ground of contentment with himself and the 
 world as the consciousness of being a bene- 
 factor ? And, further and stronger, look at 
 the terrible temptations from which wealth 
 saves a man ! ' 
 
 * I certainly do not agree with you,' said 
 papa. 
 
 ' Sir,' said Mr. Farren, very earnestly, 
 ' consider a moment how many and terrible 
 are the crimes to which poverty sometimes 
 urges a human being. Goaded by the un- 
 quenchable desire to possess that from which 
 he is debarred, he is not master of himself, 
 and commits deeds from which his moral 
 nature, in the summer atmosphere of compe- 
 tency, would have shrunk with loathing. The 
 whole awakened being of the man cries out
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 95 
 
 for that which he cannot have, and of which 
 there is no hope of his ever having ; and the 
 insatiable demand, alas ! often proves too 
 strong for his powers of resistance.' 
 
 * Surely, such views are extremely dan- 
 gerous for a young man to advocate,' ex- 
 claimed papa. 
 
 * I am not advocating them, sir ; I am 
 merely stating what experience has, unfor- 
 tunately, proved in numberless instances to be 
 true. I deplore that such should be the case ; 
 but a sensible man cannot be wilfully blind to 
 indisputable facts, however much he may 
 lament them ; and it surely becomes those who 
 are placed beyond the power of ever knowing 
 what such temptations mean, to deal very 
 gently with the erring. There is a strong 
 tendency in human nature to judge with 
 terrible severity the sins which by circum- 
 stances are out of the power of those who 
 thus severely judge.' 
 
 * Mr. Farren, as a clergyman of the Church 
 of England, I hold that the grace of God is
 
 96 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 sufficient to overcome any temptation, how- 
 ever Inherent and overwhelming, and however 
 strong any conjunction of circumstances may 
 combine to make it. " Resist the devil, and 
 he will flee from you ; " and, again, *' There 
 hath no temptation befallen you, but such as 
 is common to man." ' 
 
 * Undoubtedly, sir, in your position as a 
 clergyman these are doctrines which are con- 
 sistent with your profession to hold.' 
 
 ' I trust, Mr. Farren, that I have your con- 
 currence in these all-important points.' 
 
 Papa looked as if he would cashier him on 
 the spot if the reply were not in the affirma- 
 tive. It was a modernised miniature version 
 of ' Mahomet or the sword ? ' But what about 
 the freedom of opinion and system of tolera- 
 tion of which papa prides himself upon being 
 such an advocate ? 
 
 ' Undoubtedly, sir; what I wish to advance 
 is simply this — that mercy and leniency are 
 the most becoming attitudes for one man who 
 is placed above temptation to assume towards
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. . 97 
 
 another man to whom that temptation may 
 come In a shape fiercer and hotter than hell 
 Itself; 
 
 * Mercy, undoubtedly, as a great man tells 
 us, Is "mighty In the mightiest." I do not dis- 
 pute that, Mr. Farren ; but there Is an Injunc- 
 tion also In a book, the contents of which, I 
 trust, are as familiar to you as to myself, that 
 our " moderation should be known unto all 
 men. 
 
 ' Sir ?' said Mr. Farren, evidently not catch- 
 ing papa's meaning, so unconscious was he of 
 having expressed himself warmly. 
 
 ' Time will moderate all extreme views,' 
 continued papa ; ' It Is undoubtedly charac- 
 teristic of youth to be warm In expression as 
 well as ultra In sentiment. Time, Mr. Farren, 
 Is a cure for all things.' 
 
 ' You think so, sir ? I am happy In having 
 the result of your experience ; but I believe It 
 Is a difficult thing for any man to sympathise 
 with what he has known only in theory.' 
 
 Here my attention was taken by Aunt 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 Gretta. I should like to have heard papa 
 and his schoolmaster talk longer. Surely, he 
 is different to most men of his class ! And 
 he is different in other things too. He neither 
 spilt his tea nor trod on our dresses ; he did 
 not tumble over a footstool in his hurry to be 
 polite, or upset a plate of bread and butter. 
 
 He would not stay supper, but left soon 
 after Mr. Retnor came in. I wonder how it 
 is that Charlotte always sees some fault in 
 everyone, even when they never exist. When 
 we sat down to supper, she said to papa, 
 ' Well, papa, your new schoolmaster wants a 
 little conceit taken out of him.' 
 
 ' Indeed, my dear. What have you 
 noticed about him ? ' 
 
 How can papa think so much of Char- 
 lotte's opinion ? I am sure she is most unjust 
 in her remarks. 
 
 ' He seems conceited and pragmatical, but 
 he may be a worker for all that. Could you 
 not have put him on a lower salary, as he is 
 not a married man ? '
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 99 
 
 ' The idea did not occur to me,' said papa. 
 ' If he does his work well we shall be satisfied.' 
 
 ' I think Miss Maynard's suggestion a very 
 good one,' said i\Ir. Retnor ; ' the surplus 
 might be devoted to repairs and conveniences 
 in connection with the schools or alms-houses.' 
 
 ' I think there is a sufficient fund for all 
 that is necessary,' said papa; ' so we will leave 
 Mr. Farren to the enjoyment of his hundred 
 and thirty a year.' 
 
 ' It is certainly more than a single man in 
 his position wants,' said Charlotte, ' w^hen he 
 has so much found besides.' 
 
 * Perhaps he may have wants, Charlotte, 
 which all men in his position would not have. 
 He seems an exceedingly well-educated young 
 man. I infer that he has no mean acquaint- 
 ance with the learned langfuagfes.' 
 
 ' Ah !' said Mr. Retnor, ' what does a man 
 in his position want with that ? Mere waste 
 of time and money.' 
 
 ' I think so too,' said Charlotte. ' It is 
 only putting ideas into his head quite un- 
 
 H 2
 
 TOO MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 suitable, and making himself think he is 
 somebody when he is nobody. He looks full 
 of his own opinions.' 
 
 ' So I thought/ said Mr. Retnor. ' He 
 will find that won't do here ; he will have 
 to do as he is told.' 
 
 * We must not " despise his youth," ' said 
 papa ; ' and do not let us forget to exercise 
 ''that charity which thinketh no evil." ' 
 
 Dear, good papa ! Oh, why cannot he 
 apply that ' charity ' to me ? I mt^s^ be bad 
 if I am beyond the reach of charity. 
 
 * I wonder where he has been brought up, 
 to have no ear for music,' said Maggie. * He 
 never seemed to hear me when I offered to 
 play to him ; the man can't have a soul.' 
 
 ' Margaret,' said papa, ' the fact that man 
 became a *' living soul " when his Creator 
 breathed into him the breath of life, cannot 
 be denied by any human being ; do not, then, 
 I beg, speak lightly of such a tremendous 
 fact.' 
 
 * I hope,' remarked Aunt Gretta, before
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. lOI 
 
 Maggie had finished yawning, ' I hope that 
 young man will see that the beds are well 
 aired in the school-house. It would be a sad 
 thing if he caught rheumatism. There is 
 never any safety if beds are left/ 
 
 * Mr. Morris only left on Monday,' re- 
 marked Mr. Retnor. ' There has scarcely 
 been time for the furniture to gather damp, 
 so I think we may conclude that Mr. Farren 
 runs no risk.' 
 
 ' Well, yes, certainly,' said Aunt Gretta. 
 ' It is not a long time, but still, I wish I had 
 thought of advising him to put a hot bottle 
 in his bed.' 
 
 'Good gracious, Aunt Gretta!' exclaimed 
 Maggie. ' Telling a schoolmaster to put a 
 hot bottle in his bed ! What will you think 
 of next ? ' 
 
 ' It is not a thing to be despised, my 
 dear,' said Aunt Gretta. ' It is a real comfort 
 at any time. I remember ' 
 
 Charlotte interrupted Aunt Gretta by 
 asking Mr. Retnor some question about the
 
 I02 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 archery meeting which Is to be at Caldon 
 Hall next week. 
 
 One thing I noticed about Mr. Farren 
 which did please me so much. Gypsle took 
 such a fancy to him ; and whenever Gypsle 
 takes a decided fancy for anyone, he does not 
 soon change. And how kind Mr. Farren 
 was to the little man ! He took him on his 
 knee and chatted to him as if he were his 
 own little brother. Charlotte says It was a 
 great liberty, and very impertinent. I don't 
 think it was at all. I really don't think that 
 Gypsle left Mr. Farren's side all the evening 
 until Baynes came for him. He asked him 
 all kinds of questions, which Mr. Farren 
 answered with perfect readiness ; and Gypsle's 
 questions are not always easy to answer. I 
 am sure Mr. Farren Is not only a reader, but 
 a keen observer. There was no attempt to 
 evade Gypsle, but he went Into every matter, 
 and made It interesting, and then listened 
 with the greatest gravity to Gypsle's history 
 of his rabbits, and doves, and pigeons. He
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. IO3 
 
 is fitted for something better than a village 
 schoolmaster ; he will never stay here. 
 
 For the first time in my life, I believe I 
 hurried down from hearing Gypsie say his 
 prayers. I begin to think I am not fit for 
 that kind of thing, and perhaps I ought not 
 to deceive Gypsie. 
 
 Well, I must go to bed. It is actually 
 striking one o'clock. Oh, that archery meet- 
 ing next week ! I do hate going out. What 
 a pleasant evening this has been ! I am not 
 sorry that Gypsie and I were prevented going 
 to the woods.
 
 I04 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Sunday, July 5. 
 
 A BEAUTIFUL day again ! Such sunshine, 
 and such a wealth of beauty in the garden. 
 Next month we shall have to go to the sea- 
 side. I wish we were not going. To be in 
 an hotel with Charlotte is — never mind. ' The 
 royalty of right-doing.' I remember it was 
 Mr. Farren who used those words. I 
 wonder if I could try and have it. I must 
 remember to go and look at Mrs. Morris's 
 grave to-day. I will keep my promise to 
 that poor man, though papa says I am con- 
 stantly promising things and not performing 
 them. I should not like them to know I 
 had promised that. Gypsie and I will go 
 this evening when Charlotte is having her 
 class.
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. IO5 
 
 Sunday evening. 
 
 How quiet all is ! Miss Vernon and her 
 brother, from Caldon Hall, walked home 
 with us from church, but did not stay dinner. 
 All the conversation was about the forth- 
 coming archery meeting. I wish I might 
 stay at home : it is my day at the schools. 
 It will be such a large party, and we are to 
 be dressed in costume. I hate costumes. 
 Why cannot we all dress as we choose ? I 
 would go in brown holland. I never should 
 have been in that archery club, but, like every- 
 thing else, I am made to do it w^hether I like 
 it or not. Charlotte and Maggie engaged to 
 be in it, and then w^hen it came to the point, 
 Maggie found that it was too much trouble 
 to practise, so, of course, it fell upon me. I 
 protested against it, but papa wondered that I 
 could ' indulge my selfishness,' and requested 
 that I would at once comply ; it was sad that 
 in so small a point as this I could not be 
 obliging. The archery itself I like well 
 enough ; but it is the dress, the company —
 
 I06 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 no, I am afraid, if I look into my secret 
 heart, it is the having to go with them. It 
 does make me very unhappy when papa and 
 Charlotte say things to me before other 
 people ; but, after all, I don't see what good 
 I get by writing about this on Sunday. Let 
 me think about something else. 
 
 Papa did preach a splendid sermon this 
 morning. I tried with all my heart to listen, 
 for I think it must be right to listen to the 
 sermon at church on Sunday morning. ' The 
 royalty of right-doing.' The words so often 
 come into my head, and I mean to try 
 after it. Papa's text was : ' Though I give 
 my body to be burned, and have not charity, 
 it profiteth me nothing.' How eloquently he 
 dwelt on the constraining power of love — 
 what it had nerved men to endure ; what 
 it had incited them to do ; what raptures of 
 enjoyment it had brought them ! Then with 
 what power and pathos he dwelt on the 
 sufferings and anguish of martyrs and men 
 of old ! I could scarcely keep back the
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 107- 
 
 tears. And when he had wrought his hearers 
 up by his description until they quivered and 
 trembled with a strange sympathy, and were 
 roused to deepest admiration and pity, he 
 drew the anti-climax — that all this suffering, 
 and heroism, and endurance, were nothing — 
 less than nothing — in the sight of God, if 
 there was not along with it that ' charity 
 which sufifereth long and is kind ; which 
 thinketh no evil ; which beareth all things ; 
 believeth all things ; hopeth all things ; en~ 
 dureth all things.' 
 
 And then, what a picture he drew of the 
 results which follow from the possession of 
 this charity, or from the want of it ! Truly, 
 he seemed speaking of heaven and hell ! 
 And then, how this charity was to be 
 obtained — by the grace and power of the 
 Holy Spirit, through a devout belief in the 
 mediation of our Lord and Saviour ; through 
 constant prayer, watchfulness, fastings, and 
 especially by the grace vouchsafed through, 
 the medium of the blessed Sacraments.
 
 I08 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 That is all that I can remember ; and for 
 a first attempt, I think it is very fair. 
 
 I mean to try and listen every Sunday 
 morning ; only I went so red when I recog- 
 nised texts which papa often quotes at me ! I 
 should be vexed if anyone guessed why I was 
 blushing. I sit exactly facing the gallery. 
 How Mr. Farren did listen to that sermon ! 
 I am sure he must have been delighted. I 
 am glad that papa is such a good preacher. 
 I often think that when he is preaching he looks 
 like those pictures in Gypsie's Sunday book : 
 Elijah expostulating with the priests of Baal ; 
 or Moses, pleading with the wilful congrega- 
 tion of Israel ; or Daniel, calm and grand, 
 kneeling unmoved, with the eastward window 
 open, while fancy pictured the den and the 
 roar of the lions ! There is one of David, 
 but I could never fancy papa like David. 
 When I have read to Gypsie about David, 
 it has always seemed to me that he was so 
 human, so sinning and repentant, so loving 
 and untutored, so impulsive — just saying to
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. IO9 
 
 friend or foe what came uppermost — that I 
 think, if I believed the Bible, David would 
 be my favourite character. 
 
 The school children behaved well to-day. 
 I could fancy that Mr. Farren has made a 
 difference already, though they never behaved 
 very badly. How could they, just opposite 
 papa ? Still, there was a difference to-day, I 
 am sure. There was one curly-headed very 
 little fellow fell fast asleep ; he always does 
 every Sunday morning ; it used to keep Mr. 
 Morris employed quite half the time of the 
 morning service to keep that child awake ; 
 and then the poor little fellow looked so 
 miserable, constantly falling asleep, and con- 
 stantly being awoke. I wondered if Mr. 
 Farren would take any notice of him, or 
 shake him and pull him, as Mr. Morris used 
 to do. He did take notice of him ; for when 
 he saw his head gradually sink lower and 
 lower, until he was only kept in his seat by 
 the boy who sat next him, what did Mr. 
 Farren do but lean towards him, pick him
 
 no MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 Up like a ball, and gently put him on his own 
 knee ; and there Bobble slept through the 
 whole of the sermon. 
 
 I could not help noticing this, though I 
 did try to listen to the sermon ; indeed, I did 
 listen all the time, but Gypsie whispered to 
 me, ' Maude, Mr. Farren has put Bobbie on 
 his knee, and he is letting him be fast asleep ; 
 put me on your knee, Maude, and let me be 
 fast asleep.' 
 
 ' Hush, Gypsie,' I whispered ; but Gypsie 
 could not ' hush,' with such a sight straight 
 before his eyes ; and he grew so urgent, and 
 kept repeating, ' Put me on your knee, Maude, 
 like Mr. Farren has put Bobbie,' until I was 
 obliged to do it, and he fell fast asleep too. 
 
 I was sure Charlotte would be angry, but 
 I really could not help it, and, as I expected, 
 she said to me at dinner, ' I really wish, 
 Maude, you would not be so ridiculous as to 
 nurse Gypsie in church.' 
 
 ' Nurse him ! ' exclaimed papa, ' I hope 
 you did not act so foolishly and indiscreetly.
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. Ill 
 
 Maude ; a due decorum In the house of God, 
 the place where His honour dwells, should 
 be observed even with the youngest child.' 
 
 ' I only just put him on my knee,' I said, 
 feeling very guilty. 
 
 ' Only just ! ' said papa ; ' is not that 
 exactly what your sister remonstrated with 
 you for doing.' 
 
 ' I asked Maude, papa,' said Gypsie. 
 
 ' There was no harm in that, my dear little 
 boy ; it was very natural you should. I am 
 speaking to Maude for not having more 
 discrimination and judgment than to comply 
 with such a thing.' 
 
 ' There surely was no harm in nursing 
 Gypsie,' I said. 
 
 ' Your old habit, Maude, of caviling ! I am 
 not saying there is harm in nursing Gypsie. 
 What is perfectly right in your own home, 
 may not be suitable in the house of God, 
 *' whither the tribes go up to worship." " All 
 things are lawful unto me, but all things are 
 not expedient." '
 
 112 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 * Mr. Farren nursed Bobbie/ said Gypsie, 
 stoutly ; ' may not Maudie nurse me, papa ? * 
 
 Papa coughed. Gypsie had quoted an 
 unexpected precedent. 
 
 ' Maude seems to think that no one can do 
 anything for Gypsie but herself,' said Char- 
 lotte ; ' if you had not put the notion into the 
 child's head, he would never have thought of 
 such a thing.' 
 
 * I beg your pardon, Charlotte ; Gypsie 
 both thouofht of it and asked for it' 
 
 * Make an argument of it,' said Charlotte, 
 'and lose your temper.' 
 
 I certainly took Charlotte's advice, for I 
 exclaimed (oh ! I am so sorry I did ! this was 
 not the ' royalty of right-doing '), ' If I did, I 
 should only be doing what you do every day 
 of your life.' 
 
 ' Maude,' said papa, ' I am grieved and 
 astonished to hear such language from you to 
 your eldest sister. Is this a proper and fitting 
 state of mind for one who has just come from 
 the house of God ; for one who has just
 
 MAUDE MAYXARL). I I 3 
 
 listened to an exposition upon the divine gift 
 of charity ? ' 
 
 ' I am afraid Maude did not listen.' said 
 Charlotte ; ' she must have been occupied in 
 observing the conduct of the schoolmaster. 
 Perhaps she thought she could derive more 
 benefit from that than from the sermon.' 
 
 ' I have derived as much benefit appa- 
 rently, Charlotte, as you have,' I said, ' what- 
 ever my occupation has been.' 
 
 ' Maude,' said papa, in a louder tone. * I 
 am extremely displeased with your ebullition 
 of temper, your persistency in wrong-doing. 
 Is this all you can manifest of the " meek and 
 quiet spirit which is in the sight of God of 
 great price ? " ' 
 
 * Why don't you speak to Charlotte, papa ? ' 
 I asked. ' She is never in the wrong ; I always 
 am.' 
 
 ' Why can't you let her alone, Charlotte ? ' 
 said Maggie ; ' you began it ; let her nurse 
 Gypsie, if she wishes to. If she likes to be 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 TI4 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 smothered, let her. I'm sure it's hot enough 
 without making a fuss.' 
 
 Gypsie had got up from his seat, and had 
 now both arms round papa's neck. ' I am so 
 sorry, papa dear ; I won't ask Maude again.' 
 
 ' My dading, you have nothing to be sorry 
 for ; you have done nothing wrong.' 
 
 ' And Maudie hasn't, dear papa, has she?' 
 
 Papa frowned. ' Go back to your seat, 
 my darhng ; you have done quite right,' 
 and papa kissed Gypsie's forehead. 
 
 Gypsie stopped on his way back to his 
 seat to kiss Charlotte. She returned the kiss 
 with interest, and when he came back beside 
 me he slipped his little hand in mine, and 
 gave me a look which said more than a hun- 
 dred kisses. 
 
 Dear little Gypsie ! Why am I not more 
 like him ? I couldn't have kissed Charlotte, 
 not if I had been trodden under foot the next 
 moment for not doing it. I have an uncon- 
 querable aversion to kissing, when my heart 
 does not go with my lips ; it seems to choke
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. I ] 5 
 
 me. I feel as if a strong hand drew me back, 
 and a mocking voice branded me a hypocrite. 
 Heaven knows what it has cost me some- 
 times to give a kiss when every throb of my 
 heart has opposed it. I never see Gypsie 
 naughty ; I never saw him cross in my Hfe. 
 I — I am sure I have the devil in me some- 
 times ; I am sure I am possessed ! If they 
 v/ould but be just to me, only just ! How can 
 I help being bitter ? ' Charity,' — bah ! I will 
 not think about that sermon ! And I did 
 mean this morning to try after the ' royalty of 
 rio^ht-doino:.' 
 
 I 2
 
 Il6 MAUDE xMAYNARD. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Thursday, July 9. 
 
 We went to Caldon Hall yesterday, and 
 the archery meeting was pronounced a great 
 success. We had luncheon in a splendid 
 marquee, and a ball in the evening. I am so 
 glad that it is over. I did beg to go home 
 with Gypsie, when Watson came for him, but 
 papa would not let me, and took the oppor- 
 tunity of taking me aside for a moment to tell 
 me not to let him see any more of these pecu- 
 liarities, but to try and make myself as little 
 unlike other people as I could. I could not 
 help telling him that I thought I was very 
 like other people that day, as I was dressed 
 in uniform, which speech of course brought 
 upon me a reproof
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. I I 7 
 
 There was a large company. Charlotte 
 won the silver arrow, and jMr. Retnor took it 
 down for her. She was in the most extraor- 
 dinary state of good nature. I never remem- 
 ber anything like it. She was only cross with 
 me four times during the whole of the day, 
 and twice was during the drive home. To 
 win the silver arrow, and M"r. Retnor to seize 
 it from its elevated position and present it to 
 her ! I believe she will marry that man ! 
 
 Maggie looked lovely, and exerted herself 
 so tremendously to flirt, that now her exhaus- 
 tion is complete ; she has scarcely spoken 
 since. 
 
 There were a number of officers from the 
 
 Tenth -now in C ; old friends of 
 
 Maggie's. What does she find in them so 
 attractive ? I never yet talked to an officer 
 who was worth the trouble of talkins: to. I 
 would rather at any time spend an hour with 
 old Smith, our sexton, than with the tallest 
 man in the service. Their only care in life 
 seems to be to wax the end of their mous-
 
 I I 8 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 tachios, drive tandum, and stare at pretty- 
 girls through an eye-glass. 
 
 I danced every dance. I wonder how 
 that was. I am sure I never expected it. I 
 don't think Charlotte was pleased, but then I 
 could not help it ; and I thought if I had to 
 dance, I might as well enjoy it, and try to 
 forget that papa and Charlotte were there. 
 I wish, however, that I had not danced so 
 often with Captain Marshall, for I heard some 
 one talking about it, and I hate that kind of 
 gossip. What right had that old Mrs. Screw- 
 muff to put my name and Captain Marshall's 
 together ? I wish people would mind their 
 own business. I had a perfect right to dance 
 with him all evening if I chose. 
 
 When we were at home, I actually slipped 
 off to bed with but one reprimand from papa. 
 ' It was scarcely becoming in me to make so 
 much objection to going, and then to enter 
 into the amusement so heartily.' I listened 
 quietly, and then disappeared. I went into 
 Gypsie's room for a look at him. I never in
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. II9 
 
 my life went to bed without a look at Gypsie. 
 He was flushed and hot, and he flung his 
 little arms out when I knelt by him, turned 
 round, and murmured something, and I am 
 sure I cauorht the word * Maude.' 
 
 If you were to go away, Gypsie ! But then 
 I think papa loves Gypsie so ver\' much, that 
 even he could not bear it. But the difficulty 
 is how is he to be educated. There ! I will 
 not think about it. 
 
 Wednesday, July 15. 
 
 Gypsie and I have had our day in the 
 woods, and a glorious day it was. 
 
 Charlotte and papa went yesterday to spend 
 the day at the Marstons', and we got off as 
 soon as they were gone. I knew they would 
 not be back until ten o'clock, so Gypsie and I 
 did not hurry. We went away into the very 
 heart of Colbeck Woods, taking Pontiff with 
 us for safety. He is such an immense fellow, 
 and carries well, and lets Gypsie ride on his 
 back ; so he was ver}^ useful, for our basket
 
 I20 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 was well filled. Mrs. Carew is decidedly a 
 good housekeeper. 
 
 How beautiful the woods were ! Gypsie 
 was buried in ferns high above his curly head, 
 and the thick netted branches overhead saved 
 us from all possibility of a sun-stroke. Aunt 
 Gretta might have been quite happy. How 
 delicious it was to climb up the slippery paths 
 with ' many a fall between ; ' to stay on the 
 rustic bridges and listen to the brawling 
 streams ; to rest on the grass, shut out from all 
 human eyes in those grand solitudes ; to 
 scramble down the banks and gather clusters 
 of the pale blue forget-me-not, and make 
 them into a wreath for Gypsie's straw hat ; 
 and every now and then to come out upon 
 some open platform and gaze upon a pano- 
 rama each time more beautiful than the last ! 
 One could see all the central chain of hills in 
 
 shire ; undulating, rising, falling, melting 
 
 away in blue distance ; here and there dotted 
 with white villas, red farm-houses, groves of 
 fir-trees, and sometimes a church steeple or
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 121 
 
 tower. Then, we stood upon the top of a 
 steep rocky bank, and gazed down a ravine 
 cut out and partially planted with young trees 
 and shrubs, now growing into luxuriance and 
 beauty, for there have been great quarries in 
 this wood, which are now very slightly filled 
 up and planted with flowering shrubs. 
 
 At last, we reached the top ; and what a 
 view burst upon us ! Gypsie gazed awe- 
 struck, and I — I could not help a tear or two 
 falling. We did not speak until Gypsie broke 
 the silence by saying, as he sank upon the 
 grass, — ' Sister Maude, I should like to go to 
 heaven.' 
 
 ' Gypsie,' I said, ' do not talk in that 
 way.' 
 
 ' I should, I should,' he repeated, very 
 earnestly. 
 
 ' Do not, dear Gypsie,' I said. 
 
 * Maude, this is so pretty, it makes you 
 cry; it will be much prettier in heaven, but 
 you will not cry there.' 
 
 ' How do you know I shall not, Gypsie ?
 
 122 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 ' Because I have heard papa read It on 
 Sunday, and I have read it myself ; and then 
 if I go to heaven I shall see Mr. Morris's 
 dear little baby, and I shall tell it that I saw 
 its papa, and that he wants to see it again 
 very much.' 
 
 ' But, Gypsie, I could not possibly spare 
 you. What should I do without my Gypsie ? ' 
 
 ' If God wanted me, and told me to come, 
 you'd have to spare me, Maude.' 
 
 ' I could not, Gypsie ; I should not know 
 how.' 
 
 ' But perhaps if you ask God, He will 
 teach you how, Maude. Will you ask Him ?' 
 
 ' No, Gypsie, indeed I will not ; God 
 could not be so cruel as to think of your 
 leaving me.' 
 
 ' God cannot be cruel, I know. It is only 
 big, rough boys who are cruel, like those 
 boys we saw the other day pulling the flies' 
 wings off. God is not a big, rough boy ; 
 and if I went to heaven, don't you think, 
 Maude, that God would take me in His arms
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. I 23 
 
 and kiss me, and say, like you, '' Dear little 
 Gypsie ? " ' 
 
 ' I am sure He would, Gypsie.' 
 
 ' Then I should like to 2^0 very much, 
 Maude. I should like to feel what God's 
 arms are like.' 
 
 ' No, Gypsie, no,' I said. 
 
 ' But I should, Maude ; wouldn't you ? I 
 like to lie in your arms, Claude, and I like 
 you to rock me to sleep, though I am a boy. 
 I should like much better to lie in God's 
 arms, and feel Him rock me to sleep.' 
 
 I kissed Gypsie again and again, and 
 then set off to run races with him, and he soon 
 forgot about what he had been talking, and 
 was laughing as merrily as if he had never 
 stood, with his lar^e blue eves fixed on the 
 scene before him, telling me he would like to 
 feel what ' God's arms were like.' 
 
 Then we had our dinner ; and, after rest- 
 ing awhile, we rambled on and on, and so 
 spent the afternoon, until we began to de- 
 scend, stopping half way to have our tea ;
 
 124 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 viz., Strawberries and cream and cake, and 
 taking care to give Pontiff his share. Then 
 Gypsie grew tired, and when we were at the 
 bottom of the wood we sat down to rest on a 
 large stone covered with mosses and lichens, 
 and I could not resist taking him on my knee 
 and singing to him, and he actually fell asleep. 
 I thought then how foolish I had been, and 
 how w^as I to get him home. I could not 
 carry him, and there was no alternative but 
 awaking him. It seemed so unkind to sing 
 him to sleep and then to arouse him, that I 
 was still hesitating, when he seemed likely to 
 be roused without any trouble on my part. 
 Five or six of the elder village schoolboys 
 came tumbling along the path, and following 
 them, and reading a book he held in his hand, 
 was their master — Mr. Farren. 
 
 He seemed amused at seeing me with 
 such a burden on my knee, and after he had 
 passed me he turned back and said, ' You 
 seem in some perplexity, Miss Maynard ; 
 will you allow me to carry your little brother 
 home ? '
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 1 25 
 
 ' I should not like to give you the trouble/ 
 I said. 
 
 ' If you will give me the pleasure/ he said, 
 ' I shall be very glad. Gypsie and I are 
 already on very good terms/ 
 
 * Yes/ I said ; ' Gypsie is always on good 
 terms with everybody/ 
 
 ' In that/ he said, 'he is a most uncom- 
 mon character, for I have found out already 
 that he has a good deal of character. Since 
 I was at your house, he has come to the 
 schools with Dr. ]\Iaynard and claimed my 
 acquaintance.' 
 
 ' Yes, he told me he had been talking to 
 you.' 
 
 * So I am sure Gypsie will have no objec- 
 tion to my being his bearer, if you have none, 
 and it will save you the necessity of awaking 
 him.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' I said ; ' but you came into 
 the woods with some of your boys ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; but they will do quite as well with- 
 out me ; ' and as he spoke, Mr. Farren lifted
 
 126 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 Gypsie in his arms, and Gypsie, with a little 
 crrunt, settled himself as if he had been accus- 
 tomed to those arms all his life. 
 
 ' Gypsie and I have been having a day in 
 the woods,' I said ; ' we were disappointed 
 before, so it has been a greater pleasure 
 now.' 
 
 ' You believe, then, that disappointments 
 at first, result in greater satisfaction after- 
 wards ? ' 
 
 'Well, no — yes; I think so generally — 
 don't you ? ' 
 
 ' I cannot yet answer that question from 
 experience, as I should like to ; but, going 
 from lesser to greater, it follows that those 
 whose life has been all disappointment here, 
 will have one of intensified blessing here- 
 after.' 
 
 ' Do you believe in a hereafter, Mr. 
 Farren ? ' 
 
 How could I ask such a thing ? How 
 could I, and to the village schoolmaster, a 
 man so greatly my inferior, and about whom
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 12/ 
 
 I knew so little ? How could I let this 
 stranger see into the deepest and darkest 
 recesses of my most miserable heart ? I 
 cannot tell. I was not afraid of saying such 
 a thing, or of hearing what he said to me. 
 
 ' Yes,' he said, * I certainly do. This 
 belief is my stronghold, into which the pain 
 of earth drives me for shelter ; it is the only 
 key which solves the otherwise unsolvable 
 problems of life ; the thought of it is the spur 
 to duty, the antidote to pain, and the rest for 
 weariness. But you — you, I perceive, have 
 only had enough of pain to drive you into the 
 dark caverns of hopelessness and despair ; 
 you need more yet to make you emerge on 
 the other side, and feel the sunshine which 
 cannot penetrate the gloom in which you 
 grope.' 
 
 For a second I stood still with astonish- 
 ment. In one minute this man — a poor, 
 working, insignificant schoolmaster — had put 
 into language what I had never dared to do 
 myself. He had told me that I was an un-
 
 128 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 believer, and said that I wanted more pain — I, 
 who had been inclined to believe myself a 
 monopolist of that article ! and he had spoken 
 with the utmost confidence of being himself 
 somewhere where I had yet to get ! Cer- 
 tainly, his words implied that. How had he 
 got to know my secret thoughts, and turned 
 them out in this fashion ? I had no reply to 
 make. 
 
 * Look at your little brother,' he con- 
 tinued ; * what will become of him when he 
 dies ? ' 
 
 ' He is not going to die,' I said. 
 
 ' That is more than you or I can say ; 
 nay, it is not more, for most certainly he is 
 o-oine to die. Now, tell me, what will be- 
 come of him ? Annihilation, nothingness, 
 nonentity — what ? If so, it is a pity he has 
 been made so fair ; he might just as well 
 have been ugly and bad-tempered — detest- 
 able. It would have been kinder to make 
 him so ; you would not have felt the pain of 
 parting from him for ever nearly so much,
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. I 29 
 
 for, according to your belief, you will never 
 see him again.' 
 
 * Mr. Farren, how can you talk in this 
 way ? ' 
 
 * But it is truth ; you have said what is 
 equivalent to it. You ma}- lie down to sleep 
 any night with the comfortable conviction 
 that soon you will never see Gypsie again. 
 Do you like the prospect ? ' 
 
 * Mr. Farren, do you not need some of 
 the charity about which papa preached on 
 Sunday morning ? Was not that a splendid 
 sermon ? ' 
 
 ' Pretty well,' he said. 
 
 I think this man the most audacious and 
 impertinent that ever breathed. ' Pretty 
 well,' to a sermon that numbers of educated, 
 wealthy, influential men had driven four 
 miles that hot morning to listen to ! A scho- 
 larly, learned, eloquent discourse ; and here 
 was the schoolmaster pronouncing it ' pretty 
 well,' and that commendation qualified b}' the 
 tone in which it was given. I positively 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 could make no answer ; his assurance took 
 away my breath. 
 
 ' The sermon did not do you much good,' 
 he continued, coolly, as he altered Gypsie's 
 hat, so as to protect the little face from a lin- 
 gering sunbeam which fell upon it. 
 
 * Well, upon my word ! ' I could not help 
 exclaiming in a tone of unmitigated surprise. 
 
 'Yes,' said Mr. Farren, 'I perceive you 
 are astonished at what you consider my im- 
 pertinence ; but again, I am only speaking 
 the truth. However, I have no wish to appear 
 impertinent, and, as we are just at the gates, 
 perhaps you will ask one of the servants to 
 come for Gypsie.' 
 
 I had no choice, though I longed to ask 
 him what he could possibly mean by saying 
 the sermon had done me no good — the ser- 
 mon, too, to which I had listened so atten- 
 tively. He supported his little burden against 
 the gate at the entrance to the flower-garden, 
 evidently with the intention of not going 
 another footstep ; and I thought he did not
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. I3I 
 
 intend to speak another word, so I walked in 
 and told James to come out for Gypsie. and 
 Mr. Farren said, ' Good night/ and disap- 
 peared as soon as James had taken the child. 
 I got Aunt Gretta to let me come to bed 
 before papa and Charlotte returned, for I 
 really was tired. Besides, I wanted to think 
 over my conversation with Mr. Farren. What 
 an extraordinar)* man I The coolness and 
 assurance with which he talked to me I A 
 man who cannot, by possibility', have had 
 any intercourse with good society in his life 
 to say ' Pretty well ' to Dr. ^Maynard's daugh- 
 ter when she asked him if her father's sermon 
 was not splendid. Upon my word ! I will 
 know what he meant by saying the sermon 
 did me no good. What a queer ending to 
 our day in the woods ! but, on the whole — 
 yes, without a doubt — it certainly was the 
 happiest day I have known for a long time, 
 and I went to sleep thinking of that con- 
 versation with Mr. Farren. 
 
 K 2
 
 132 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Sunday, July 19. 
 
 Sunday morning again ! This week, or 
 last week I should say, seems to have gone 
 much more quickly than usual. I really 
 think that papa and Charlotte have not 
 been quite the same since Wednesday. That 
 day at Marston Hall must have done them 
 good. 
 
 I will try and keep my tongue and temper 
 quiet to-day. I will be on my guard, and 
 when Charlotte is having her class this even- 
 ing, Gypsle and I will take some flowers to 
 Mrs. Morris's grave. I must not forget my 
 promise to that poor man. There is the bell, 
 and breakfast will be ready in a quarter of an 
 hour, so I must go to Gypsie.
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. I 33 
 
 Sunday Evening. 
 
 Another grand sermon from papa to-day. 
 His text was: 'Whosoever shall offena one 
 of these little ones that believe in me, it were 
 better for him that a mill-stone were hanged 
 about his neck, and that he were drowned in 
 the depths of the sea.' I wish I were one of 
 these ' little ones ; ' then perhaps, they would 
 be afraid of offending me. 
 
 I feel sure it was a splendid sermon, only 
 I cannot, with all my trying, remember any- 
 thing to put down about it. I could not, for 
 the life of me, help thinking all the time of 
 Mr. Farren's words about the sermon last 
 Sunday not doing me any good. It was 
 the most natural thino- in the world I should 
 
 o 
 
 think of it, for he was, as usual, sitting with 
 the children exactly opposite me, and again 
 he took little Bobbie on his knee, and let him 
 sleep there. Of course, I dared not touch 
 Gypsie ; indeed, the dear little fellow never 
 asked me, though he looked very earnestly 
 at Bobbie.
 
 134 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 The children behaved wonderfully well at 
 school to-day. T fancy Mr. Farren under- 
 stands the secret of keeping them in order 
 a little better than good Mr. Morris did. He 
 certainly understands how to interest them, 
 for Mr. Retnor being engaged (I suppose 
 he had been disappointed of his supply of 
 sermons), Mr. Farren gave them an address, 
 and I never saw children so interested in my 
 life. He has a wonderful gift for interesting 
 children. No wonder Gypsie and he are 
 already such good friends. 
 
 In the evening, when papa was out, and 
 Charlotte with her class, and Maggie on the 
 sofa, and Aunt Gretta reading ' Graham's 
 Modern Domestic Medicine,' Gypsie and I 
 gathered a basketful of beautiful flowers, 
 and set off, hand in hand, to Mrs. Morris's 
 grave. 
 
 The heart must be a very heavy heart 
 Indeed — more than over-burdened with care 
 —it must have lost the very spring and power 
 of re-vivification, or be drearily enduring
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. I35 
 
 until the merciful opiate of an endless blank 
 shall bring relief, if it can find no gratification 
 in the peaceful calm of our English scenery 
 in the quiet of a July Sabbath evening. 
 
 Gypsie felt its influence in a strange hush 
 of appreciation, while his eyes took that large, 
 dreamy look, and his steps fell slower and 
 softer, and his little hand clasped mine more 
 tightly, till at last I was constrained to ask, 
 ' What is it, Gypsie ? ' though I knew quite 
 well what it was. It was the felt presence 
 of beauty — rest, following labour; harmony, 
 putting aside discord ; fairness, hiding im- 
 perfection ; peace, mingling in the air, blend- 
 ing with the sunlight, whispering in the 
 breeze, breathing from the flowers ; touching 
 the trees with a fuller green, carpeting the 
 earth with a richer glow, tinting the sky with 
 a deeper blue, and painting the clouds with 
 a lovelier tingle. It was Peace — and this 
 influence found a small entrance into my 
 wayward heart, and, in some little way, laid 
 passion and turmoil to rest.
 
 136 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 And so Gypsie and I walked on in silence, 
 only sometimes stopping to listen to the 
 evening anthem from the birds, or a deeper 
 tone of the wind, and we scarcely spoke until 
 we entered the church porch. As we did so, 
 Gypsie stopped a moment, and read aloud the 
 words carved there in quaint old characters : 
 ' I am the Resurrection and the Life.' 
 
 I wonder what made Gypsie do that. I 
 wonder still more what made the words enter 
 my heart. I assented to them ; I believed in 
 them ; nay, I rejoiced in them. For a moment 
 the great Hereafter was a truth to me, a 
 mighty fact, an overwhelming reality. I did 
 not cavil ; I did not complain ; I did not halt. 
 That hour in the churchyard last night was 
 the happiest hour I have yet known. Ah ! 
 if it would have lasted. Will it ever come 
 again ? 
 
 Gypsie and I laid the flowers on Mrs. 
 Morris's grave. I should think Mr. Morris 
 must have spent all he had on that monu- 
 ment. Poor man ! as if it made any differ-
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. I 37 
 
 ence. What does it matter whether she were 
 buried in the loneHest isle of the Pacific, or 
 the deepest depths of the Atlantic, or the 
 dreariest heio^ht of the Andes ? ' I am the 
 Resurrection and the Life.' Yes, it did 
 matter. The depths of love must now and 
 then have some flow, or they will break the 
 barrier, and the poor human vessel will be 
 engulphed. ]\Ir. Morris fulfilled a necessity 
 of his nature when he grave his all to do what 
 human longing could do for the dead. It 
 was the poor, but only expression in his 
 power of, ' Would God I had died for thee ' ' 
 
 I was thinking of the human heart, of its 
 weakness, its powerlessness, its utter feeble- 
 ness, as contrasted with its will, its desires, 
 its longings, when Gypsie, who had at lar.t 
 arranged and re-arranged the flowers to his 
 satisfaction, suddenly seemed to throw oft" the 
 influence of the scene, and bounded from my 
 side, and when I looked at him, he had his 
 hand in that of Mr. Farren. 
 
 They were coming towards me. I went
 
 138 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 to meet them. There is a path through the 
 churchyard to the village, a shorter way than 
 going round. Mr. Farren had been going 
 along this path, and I did not know that he 
 would like Gypsie to interrupt him, so I put 
 out my hand for Gypsie to come back to me, 
 but Gypsie did not come. 
 
 ' I am interrupting you, I am afraid,' said 
 Mr. Farren, lifting his hat ; ' Gypsie must be 
 my apology ; his wishes, I believe, are law 
 with everyone.' 
 
 ' Yes ; no one ever thinks of refusing him 
 anything.' 
 
 Gypsie had drawn Mr. Farren to the side 
 of the grave. ' Mr. Farren,' he said, ' poor 
 Mrs. Morris and her little baby lie here ; they 
 died, so they were put here. I asked God if 
 He would let the baby come back for a little 
 time, and my white rabbit too, but God has 
 not let them yet ; perhaps He may soon, be- 
 cause the baby's papa wanted so much to see 
 it ; so I mean to go on asking God.'
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 1 39 
 
 ' I would not, if I were you, Gypsie,' said 
 Mr. Farren. 
 
 'Would you not?' and Gypsie opened 
 his eyes very wide. 'Why would you not 
 Mr. Farren ? Maude said I might, and that 
 perhaps God would send them.' 
 
 Mr. Farren looked at me. I believe I 
 blushed, and said somethincr about ' o;enerallv 
 assenting to all that Gypsie said ; it saved 
 trouble, and he might as well believe it as 
 not.' 
 
 Mr. Farren gravely listened until I had 
 finished, and seemed to wait afterwards as if 
 he were expecting something more, but I had 
 nothing more to say. I only felt that I was 
 getting redder and redder. 
 
 ' Gypsie,' he said, ' God loves to hear you 
 pray to Him, and He likes to send you what 
 you ask for ; but there are some things He 
 will never send you, any more than your 
 Aunt Gretta would give you a cup of scalding 
 milk to drink because you asked again and 
 again for it.'
 
 140 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 ' But I wonder why God hasn't sent them 
 yet ?' said Gypsle. ' I think perhaps He must 
 have been so busy, you know, He hasn't had 
 time ; He'll have some more time p'raps by- 
 and-by, and then p'raps He'll do it' 
 
 ' But, Gypsie, if you ask as often as you 
 can, God will not send back either the baby 
 or the rabbit.' 
 
 Gypsie's rosy mouth quivered, and a sha- 
 dow came over his bright little face, and the 
 blue eyes filled with big tears. 
 
 ' Then I think God is quite unkind, I do ; 
 and I don't think the baby can be happy with 
 Him, or my white rabbit either. I wish I 
 had it back again, I do. I was always kind 
 to it.' 
 
 ' And God is always kind,' said Mr. Far- 
 ren ; ' if He were not. He would not have 
 taken the baby, nor would He keep it now. 
 God knew the baby would be far happier up 
 there than here ; that is why He took it ; that 
 is why He keeps It. Do you see how beauti- 
 ful that sky is, Gypsie, where God is ? and
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. l/\.T 
 
 where He has taken the baby to Is far more 
 
 beautiful, and the baby is quite happy, and 
 
 would not at all like to come back. God 
 
 took it up there at once when it died.' 
 
 ' T/ia^ is heaven,' said Gypsie ; ' I know 
 
 that. How long, Mr. Farren, would it have 
 
 to stay here before God told it to get up and 
 
 ofo to Him ?' 
 
 • ' It would not have to stay at all ; it went 
 
 at once ; only the body which God gave it 
 
 was left here.' 
 
 ' It was left here for us to put flowers 
 
 over,' said Gypsie, confidentially. ' Sister 
 
 Maude told Mr. Morris that she would, and 
 
 Maude always does what she says she will. 
 
 We shall come every Sunday evening and 
 
 put flowers here ; will you come too, ^Ir. 
 Farren ?' 
 
 ' I think not,' said ]\Ir. Farren. 
 
 Gypsie was thrown back ; it was the 
 newest thing in the world to him to have a 
 request refused ; he could not understand it, 
 but he did not press the matter — a word is
 
 142 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 always enough for him. He was quite silent 
 a moment, and then he began again. 
 
 ' If God is so very good, why did He let 
 Mr. Morris cry so much and be so very sad ?' 
 
 ' Did he cry much ? Did you see him ?' 
 
 ' I didn't see him ; big men never let little 
 b)oys see them cry ; but I know he did, be- 
 cause — because — I know he did,' concluded 
 Gypsie, unable to find a logical reason for the 
 strong impression he had received of Mr. 
 Morris's grief; ' and why did God let him ?' 
 
 ' Do you remember, Gypsie, one day last 
 week, when you came with your papa to the 
 schools, telling me a long tale about Pontiff 
 p-ettine a thorn into his foot, and how lame 
 he was for days, and what trouble James had 
 to get it out, and how much it hurt Pontiff, 
 and how he tried not to let James touch his 
 foot?' 
 
 ' I did not tell you a long tale,' said 
 Gypsie, fixing upon the word in Mr. Farren's 
 question which had offended his ear. 
 
 ' Do you remember telling me a short and
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. I 43 
 
 very interesting tale ?' said Mr. Farren, with 
 perfect gravity. 
 
 ' Yes, I do remember that,' said Gypsie, 
 with dignity. 
 
 'So do I,' said Mr. Farren. 'Would it 
 not have been very unkind of James if he had 
 let Pontiff's foot alone, just because it pained 
 him to have it touched ? If James had not 
 taken the thorn out, the pain would have got 
 much worse ; the pain Pontiff had then saved 
 him from pain afterwards, and James knew it 
 was better for him to have it.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Gypsie, wonderingly. 
 
 * It gave Mr. Morris great pain to lose his 
 wife and baby ; it gave Pontiff great pain to 
 have his foot examined. God saw that the 
 pain would be good for Mr. Morris ; James 
 saw that the pain would be good for Pontiff 
 Pontiff would be very glad when it was over, 
 and he was quite well again, and knew w^hy 
 it had been done. Mr. Morris will be very 
 glad when it is all over, and he knows why it 
 has been done.'
 
 144 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 ' Does he know now ?' asked Gypsie. 
 
 * No, not now ; he will some day.' 
 
 'Who will tell him?' 
 
 'God.' 
 
 'When?' 
 
 ' Some day, I cannot tell you what day.' 
 
 ' To-morrow, Mr. Farren ? do you think 
 God will tell Mr. Morris to-morrow ?' 
 
 ' I think not.' 
 
 ' But when ?' 
 
 ' I cannot tell you when, Gypsie, only I 
 know that He will.' 
 
 ' I wish then He'd be quick,' said Gypsie ; 
 ' don't you think He's rather slow, Mr. 
 Farren ?' 
 
 ' No, I do not, Gypsie.' 
 
 'I do,' said Gypsie; 'and I think Mr. 
 Morris does. Mr. Farren, may I ask God to 
 hurry a litde and tell Mr. Morris ?' 
 
 ' Yes, I think you might, Gypsie.' 
 
 ' And God would do that, would He, if I 
 asked Him ?' 
 
 ' I think perhaps He would.'
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 1 45 
 
 ' How would He do It, Mr. Farren ? 
 Would He call Mr. Morris up to heaven, and 
 tell him, and then send Him down again to 
 teach the boys ?' 
 
 * No, Gypsie ; I think God would not do 
 that, because when people once go to heaven 
 they never come down again ; but He might 
 whisper all about it into Mr. Morris's heart, 
 then Mr. Morris would be satisfied.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Gypsie ; ' I do think perhaps 
 God might do that, because He sometimes 
 whispers to me, and then I am satisfied.' 
 
 ' When does God whisper to you, Gypsie ?' 
 
 'Sometimes. He whispers sometimes at 
 night after Maude has kissed me and gone ; 
 He whispered to me as we came here to- 
 night ; He whispered to me when we were at 
 the top of Colbeck Woods on Tuesday. I 
 often hear Him, I do.' 
 
 ' What did He say, Gypsie ? ' 
 
 ' Different things.' 
 
 ' Tell me one. What did He say on 
 Tuesday ? ' 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 ' " Gypsie, I am God. I live in heaven ; 
 I love you ; you shall see me some day 
 soon. 
 
 There was a silence ; Mr. Farren broke 
 it — ' Gypsie, help me to arrange these 
 flowers ; we will put them differently ; ' and 
 Mr. Farren had altered every one before 
 they finished, and Gypsie, in the interest of 
 re-arranging them, had soon forgotten the 
 conversation ; and then Mr. Farren began 
 telling him a tale about some boys — a tale 
 which made Gypsie laugh heartily, and as 
 we turned to leave the churchyard, he was 
 looking as if there had never been a serious 
 thought in his head. 
 
 Part of the way to the rectory from the 
 churchyard is also part of the way to the 
 school-house, and Mr. Farren went along 
 with us, finishing the story as he went. When 
 he had done, he showed Gypsie some wild 
 flowers in the hedge, and as Gypsie ran to 
 gather them, Mr. Farren said to me — 
 
 ' Do you believe that Gypsie will one day 
 see God, Miss Maynard ? '
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. I 47 
 
 I hesitated, and did not speak. 
 
 * If it should be so, you will too — that is 
 certain/ 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 He said no more, and I knew he 
 would turn off in three minutes down the 
 lane to the school-house. I was determined 
 to speak : ' Mr. Farren, will you tell me 
 what you meant when you said, the other 
 day, that you were sure papa's sermon did 
 me no good ? ' 
 
 ' I did not say I was sure, did I ? ' 
 
 * You said you thought so.' 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Why do you think so ? ' 
 
 ' It is difficult always to give a reason for 
 our thoughts,' he said. 
 
 ' But you had some reason for thinking 
 so ?' 
 
 * I judged partly by what I have seen of 
 you, and heard you say ; by what I have 
 noticed of you in church — by many things. 
 I think you were trying to listen to that ser- 
 
 L 2
 
 148 MAUDE MAVNARD. 
 
 mon, because you thought it was your duty 
 to listen ; you had no enjoyment in so doing, 
 except the enjoyment of feeling that such a 
 finished, scholarly discourse denoted that your 
 father was a man pre-eminent in talent and 
 education. Am I not right ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; tell me some more.' 
 
 * There was some secret cause at work — 
 I do not yet know what it was — which effec- 
 tually prevented you from deriving any real 
 benefit from the sermon : every now and 
 then some allusion had some particular influ- 
 ence over you ; it gave you great pain, it 
 caused your brow to contract, your eyes to 
 droop, and even as much as your lips to 
 quiver ; and these symptoms were restrained 
 from becoming more than symptoms by a 
 keener emotion. I cannot say what that 
 emotion was, unless it was a deep sense of 
 justice which revolted, and a painfully hurt 
 self-respect. I do not know. I must go 
 now. My path lies in this direction, yours in 
 that. Good evening, Miss Maynard.'
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. I 49 
 
 ' Good evening,' I said. 
 
 And he went. When Gypsie came run- 
 ning to me next time, I was alone. 
 
 ' Where is Mr. Farren ? ' he asked, in a 
 disappointed tone. 
 
 ' Gone home, I suppose, Gypsie ; he 
 turned down the lane leading to his own 
 house.' 
 
 ' Gone home I and I had just gathered 
 these flowers for him. Why did he not come 
 with us and stay supper, as jNIr. Retnor does ? ' 
 
 * I did not ask him, Gypsie ; and if I had 
 done, he would not have come.' 
 
 ' Why, Maude ? ' 
 
 ' Mr. Retnor is a friend of ours, and a 
 clergyman.' 
 
 ' And is not Mr. Farren a friend of 
 ours ? ' 
 
 ' Well, no — not exactly.' 
 
 ' What is he, then, Maude ? ' 
 
 * He is only the teacher.' 
 
 * And Mr. Retnor teaches, and papa 
 teaches, don't they, Maude ? only they teach
 
 150 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 big people In the church, and Mr. Farren 
 teaches Httle boys in the school. Aren't 
 little boys as nice to teach as big people, 
 Maude ? ' 
 
 ' A great deal nicer,' I said, kissing him. 
 
 'Will you ask him to come to supper, 
 next time, Maude ? ' 
 
 ' I can't, Gypsie.' 
 
 * Why can't you ? ' 
 
 < It — it — perhaps it might not be conve- 
 nient to Aunt Gretta, you know.' My ^^m- 
 voque brought its own punishment. 
 
 * I will ask Aunt Gretta,' said Gypsie, 
 quickly, ' and then we shall know for another 
 time.' 
 
 * Oh no, Gypsie,' I said quickly, ' you 
 must not. Do you understand, Gypsie ? I 
 do not wish you to do so.' 
 
 * Why, Maude ? ' and Gypsie raised his 
 large, waiting blue eyes to mine. 
 
 * Just because I don't wish you ; will you 
 promise me, Gypsie, not to say anything 
 more about it ? '
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. I5I 
 
 * Very well, Maude.' 
 
 * Gypsie,' I said, when we came to the 
 gate, ' we have been out such a long time ; 
 will you go to bed at once when we get in ? ' 
 
 'If you wish me, Maude;' but Gypsie 
 could not help a little look of disappointment 
 coming into his face. He sometimes sits up 
 to supper on Sunday night. 
 
 He went in and kissed Aunt Gretta and 
 Maggie, without a word ; and I sent Baines 
 away, and put him to bed myself, and then 
 sang him to sleep. 
 
 What a strange Sunday this has been ; 
 but what a happy one !
 
 152 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Wednesday, August 4. 
 We are going to Scarborough next month. 
 I think I never disliked the idea so much. I 
 suppose it is the thought of leaving home ; 
 and yet we have always gone away for six 
 weeks or two months, in the summer ; two or 
 three times we have stayed three months, and 
 I have been glad to be away. I wonder why 
 I dislike it so much more than usual this time ? 
 I have not been able to write lately, we 
 have had so much company ; the officers from 
 C are constantly driving over and lunch- 
 ing or dining with us. I wish they would not 
 come so often — except for Maggie's sake — it 
 gives her pleasure ; and why should she not 
 have all the pleasure she can ? She is growing 
 quite animated. I am glad she is happy.
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. I 53 
 
 But I very much dislike Captain Marshall 
 coming so much ; somehow or other, I always 
 seem to be with him. At lunch, or riding, or 
 archery, it always happens so ; of course, it 
 cannot always be chance, and I am really 
 afraid that he does it on purpose. I used to 
 think a little time ago that I would marry 
 anyone, no matter who he was, who would 
 take me away from here, except, of course, 
 Mr. Retnor; from the very first, I could not 
 bear him. But Captain ^Marshall is different; 
 he is gentlemanly, kind, well-educated, and 
 agreeable. What am I saying ? My opinion 
 of officers must have altered very much. I 
 used to hate them ; but then, I think, I hated 
 everybody. I am sure I feel different ; I 
 believe I am growing kinder, more tolerant, 
 less bad-tempered, less irritable. I believe I 
 am learning a little to bear unjust reproof. 
 When it is over, I get out into the garden 
 and think about — oh, anything that is pleasant 
 and makes me forget it. 
 
 There is another thing. I have begun
 
 154 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 to say a few words of prayer before I get into 
 bed ; at least, I have a book, and repeat a few 
 words of prayer from it. I wonder how long 
 it is since I have prayed before ? I blush to 
 think ! But how could I, with this dark hope- 
 lessness of God, or truth, or right in the 
 world ? Since that ni^ht — that niorht in the 
 churchyard, I have begun to pray. It is true, 
 I only say it, but perhaps it does me good ; 
 who knows ? 
 
 I am troubled about Gypsie. Papa still 
 talks of school for him ; indeed, there seems 
 nothing else ; he must be educated ; he will 
 be six years old next October. Papa is quite 
 distressed at the idea of his not having regu- 
 lar lessons, and yet he could not manage to 
 teach him himself Anyone can see that in a 
 moment. Papa can write splendid sermons, 
 and argue, and talk, and quote, and do all 
 that kind of thing, but he could never teach a 
 little child. He is critically skilled in Greek 
 and Latin, and no mean scholar, I believe, in 
 Sanscrit, and Hebrew, and Arabic, and I do not
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. I 55 
 
 know how many modern languages ; but he 
 would not have the least idea how to set 
 about putting Gypsie on the road to the same 
 learning. Besides, he has abundance of work 
 on his hands. Sermons and treatises, pastoral 
 and magisterial work, archeological and anti- 
 quarian researches, and all kinds of things of 
 which I do not even know the name. And 
 papa will never have a tutor in the house. 
 How I wish some plan could be devised. 
 Could not papa pick up some grisly, ossified, 
 withered, scraggy-looking old Mentor, who 
 regarded women generally as mighty blun- 
 ders ? I have heard of such men. But what 
 am I saying ? What a teacher for Gypsie I 
 am picturing ! And also, were the most un- 
 sightly pedagogue that ever dimmed his sight, 
 bleached his hair, and lost his senses over 
 Latin and Greek roots — were such a man to 
 be found, and come to Stonecross Hall, I 
 would wao-er all the new dresses which Aunt 
 Gretta, is getting ready for Scarborough, that, 
 by some means or other, Maggie would flirt 
 with him.
 
 156 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 But she is pretty well engaged just now ; 
 and apropos of this, there is the sound of 
 horses' hoofs ; those officers again ! What a 
 
 ^ood thing it will be when the Tenth 
 
 leaves C . I must go, or Aunt Gretta will 
 
 send for me. I did want a little quiet time 
 to think and write ; we seem to have been in 
 such a constant bustle lately with having so 
 
 much company. 
 
 Sunday, August 29. 
 
 Our last Sunday at home for six weeks. 
 I hope it will be a happy one. I never try 
 now to force myself to listen to the sermon, so 
 I have nothing but enjoyment at church. The 
 quiet, the feeling that I shall be left alone for 
 two hours at least, no misunderstandings, no 
 apprehensive fear — it is rest. Then there is 
 one prayer which, wicked as I am, I really 
 do love. It seems to me that my heart, with 
 all its burden, lays itself down in that prayer. 
 Whatever I am thinking about, those words 
 arrest me, and I often find myself uncon- 
 sciously repeating : — ' By Thine Agony and
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. I 57 
 
 bloody sweat ; by thy Cross and Passion ; 
 by Thy precious Death and Burial ; Good 
 Lord, deliver us.' 
 
 And I like, too — I like to spell out letter by 
 letter those words on the monument of Carrara 
 marble, between the two windows nearest our 
 pew. I do this every Sunday morning, and 
 then I turn to my Prayer-book, and surrepti- 
 tiously read those words, * And we also bless 
 Thy holy name for all Thy servants departed 
 this life in Thy faith and fear, beseeching 
 Thee to give us grace so to follow their good 
 examples that with them we maybe partakers 
 of Thy heavenly kingdom.' If ever I wish I 
 were a Christian, it is when I read those 
 words ! 
 
 There are but four words on that white 
 marble monument. These are the words : 
 * Isabel, Marianne, Madeleine Maynard.' 
 
 Nothing more. And yet, it is such a 
 splendid monument. I once heard Dr. 
 Vauny say, in talking about mamma, that on 
 her death-bed she made papa promise that
 
 158 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 he would not have one word put, but her 
 
 name. I wonder, I have often wondered, what 
 
 made her ask this. 
 
 Sunday Night. 
 
 I see I wrote this morning that I hoped 
 to-day would be a happy Sunday, and it has 
 been — not happy at all — for Captain Marshall 
 drove over this morning and went to church 
 with us. I wish he would not have sat in 
 that corner exactly opposite me at church ; it 
 was stupid of him ; nobody ever thinks of 
 sitting there. I could not see the school 
 children at all without edging to one side or 
 other of my vis-a-vis, and I did not like to do 
 that. 
 
 When we came out of church, we turned 
 to go home by the fields ; it was such a lovely 
 morning ; but I did not enjoy it. 
 
 ' What a pleasant walk ! ' began Captain 
 Marshall. ' Dear, how delightful ! This is 
 charming, to be sure ! ' 
 
 He would have made precisely the same 
 remarks had we been walking over a cinder-
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. I 59 
 
 path, past dirty hovels, and in the mirky atmo- 
 sphere of a November day. However, there 
 was truth in what he said ; it was deHghtful 
 this August morning ; so I assented, I hope 
 without any of what Charlotte calls my 
 ' tartness.' 
 
 ' Charming old church ! ' continued Captain 
 Marshall ; ' and, by George ! what a sermon ! 
 Dr. Maynard beats any other preacher I have 
 ever heard into fits. I never listened to such 
 a sermon in my life. Miss Maude. It did me 
 good ; upon my word and soul it did.' 
 
 ' Can you tell me the text ? ' I said. 
 
 This was a poser. The citadel was sur- 
 prised and the enemy attacked unawares. 
 Captain Marshall blushed to the very roots of 
 his hair, and stammered, 'Upon my word ! Ah, 
 really ! I really, I — I don't exactly remember 
 it just now — just at this moment, but I assure 
 you, I did know. I paid the very greatest 
 attention.' 
 
 'Then can't you remember the text,' I 
 said, grimly.
 
 l6o MAUDE MAYJsARD. 
 
 It was too bad. I know it was; but I did 
 want to learn the extent of Captain Marshall's 
 Biblical knowledge, and I was soon satisfied. 
 
 * I think,' he said, with some slight hesita- 
 tion, ' I think, if I am not mistaken, it was out 
 of the — the — the Second Book of Psalms, was 
 it not, Miss Maude? (hang it, is there a Second 
 Book of Psalms ?) ' This was sotto voce, as he 
 caught a glimpse of my face. * Now, Miss 
 Maude, it's too bad ! You are laughing at me. 
 If you had asked me to describe, the line of 
 fortifications at a siege, or the order of battle 
 during a campaio^n, or even the names of the 
 sick in our hospital, I could have told you, on 
 my honour I could, as well as any man in 
 ours. But to come down on a fellow for the 
 text, and that when he has been thinking of 
 something else all the time ! ' 
 
 ' But you told me you were paying the 
 very greatest attention.' 
 
 ' Well, I was when I was not thinking of 
 something else.' 
 
 ' That is honest, for a moment since you
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. l6l 
 
 said you were thinking of something else all 
 the time.' 
 
 ' Did I ? You take me up so sharply, 
 Miss Maude ! I must be careful of what I 
 say ; one doesn't stay to consider every word 
 when one talks to ladies.' 
 
 ' It appears not.' 
 
 ' You never would get on if you did,' con- 
 tinued the Captain, ' and they would not like 
 it either.' 
 
 ' Would they not ? ' 
 
 ' No ; I am sure the generality would not. 
 A fellow must out with what is uppermost, or 
 he might as well say nothing at all.' 
 
 ' Which in some cases would be a great 
 deal better,' I said. 
 
 ' Perhaps it might,' said Captain Marshall, 
 not at all put out by my pettish curtness ; 
 * though a good many of us would have to 
 shut up altogether. If we had to conside^- 
 whether everything we said was just what it 
 ought to be, we should not get three speeches 
 made from sun-rising to sun-setting.' 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 l62 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 ' But if they were three sensible speeches, 
 they would be better than a hundred foolish 
 ones.' 
 
 ' That depends upon taste/ said the Cap- 
 tain, stoutly. ' I think, though I daresay I 
 don't know how to put it rightly, but I think 
 there is a fitness even in such things as talk- 
 ing : one wouldn't begin to talk to a lady about 
 barracks and orders and measurement and 
 rations, or about matters we discuss at the 
 mess-table. Nor would one begin to talk in 
 a ball-room about war and the sick and the 
 wounded. As I say, I think there's a fitness 
 in things, and to put wise speeches into silly 
 people's mouths at wrong times would only 
 make them look like the frog striving to be 
 as large as the ox.' 
 
 * Very true,' I said, amused at his way of 
 putting it ; ' and as you and I are neither of us 
 wise people, we must be content to listen and 
 learn when others are talking.' 
 
 * I don't know about that,' said Captain 
 Marshall. ' I like talking to you because I
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 1 63 
 
 always go away feeling a better man, and I 
 think one ought to do the best one can to be 
 made a better man, especially on Sundays. I 
 don't wonder at people who live in a place 
 like this being good ; but how can anyone be, 
 in the din and noise and babble in which our 
 fellows spend their evenings ? If ever I marry, 
 I shall sell out' 
 
 ' And be a coward,' I said. 
 
 Captain Marshall looked ver}- much sur- 
 prised. ' WJiat did you say ? ' he asked. 
 
 'i beg your pardon,' I said ; ' never mind, 
 it was nothing. I am too apt w^hen I am not 
 on my guard to speak out what comes upper- 
 most' 
 
 He smiled. ' Then you don't always stay 
 to consider beforehand what you should say. 
 But I do mind, Miss Maude ; I want to know 
 what you said/ 
 
 * I said, *' And be a coward." ' 
 
 ' Why, do you think I am that ? ' he asked, 
 in the greatest surprise, and again reddening 
 
 M 2
 
 164 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 furiously. ' If I believed you really thought 
 that, I would go and hang myself.' 
 
 ' And be a greater coward still,' I said. 
 
 * Well,' he said, *I can't understand you 
 in the least. I should have thought that a 
 woman would have been grateful to a man for 
 his being willing to hang himself rather than 
 live to have her bad opinion.' 
 
 ' I don't feel grateful at all,' I said. ' In the 
 first place, I am quite aware that did I express 
 the most humiliating opinion about you, you 
 would never for one moment entertain the 
 faintest idea of hanging yourself ; and, also, I 
 cannot imagine any woman deriving the least 
 gratification from the fact of a gallant captain 
 preferring to dangle in his dressing-gown and 
 slippers by a piece of hemp from his bed-post 
 instead of rushing at the call of duty to meet 
 his fate in the fore-front of battle.' 
 
 ' Bless my soul ! ' cried Captain Marshall ; 
 * but you take it up so seriously, Miss Maude, 
 and put it so strongly ! ' 
 
 I hope he felt silly ; he looked so ; and I
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 1 65 
 
 don't think he will talk to me about hanmne 
 himself again. 
 
 ' Depend upon it,' I said, ' life, with the 
 prospect of " broad ancestral lands," has too 
 many attractions for Captain Marshall for 
 him to be troubled about anyone's bad 
 opinion of him, especially when he does not 
 deserve it.' 
 
 ' Well, life has a great many attractions 
 just now, I confess,' he said, with a sigh, which 
 evidently was meant to sound as if It came 
 from his heart ; if so, his heart must have 
 been very near his mouth — perhaps it was 
 just then. 
 
 It was now my turn to look rather silly, 
 which I did, to my heart's content, and washed 
 for the tenth time that morning, that Captain 
 Marshall had stayed to hear prayers read at 
 the Barracks Chapel rather than drive over 
 to Stonecross. 
 
 ' You don't really think me a coward, do 
 you. Miss Maude ?' he asked, when he had 
 finished sighing.
 
 1 66 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 ' Of course, I don't,' I said. ' At least, I 
 have never thought anything about you.' 
 
 ' A-hem ! — but — I wish, you know — upon 
 my honour — I wish you would think about 
 me sometimes — just sometimes, you know.' 
 
 Captain Marshall tried to look sentimental, 
 but it would not do. Nothing more unsenti- 
 mental than his face can be imagined. A fair 
 Saxon physiognomy : features, well-shaped 
 and cast by Nature in a firm mould ; a mouth 
 pliable, easily moved, and denoting a tempera- 
 ment which lacked decision, and was readily 
 swayed ; a deep blue eye, varying, changeful, 
 quick, easily dimmed or easily brightened ; 
 a colour that came and went like a boy's ; the 
 whole surmounted by a profusion of light 
 brown curling hair, tossed mto order rather 
 than arranged, and always being put into dis- 
 order by the restless movement of his hands 
 — those hands being aristocratic, well-shaped, 
 and beautifully kept ; but hands, nerveless 
 rather than nervous ; flexible, languid, droop- 
 ing, unless suddenly empowered by some ex-
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. I 67 
 
 traneous energy' or fire, foreign to his own 
 character ; hands that were fitter to be clasped 
 than to clasp ; to be led rather than lead ; 
 hands, which if they fell into other good ones, 
 might be made useful, honourable, working 
 hands, but otherwise might be marred by 
 unholy touch and sin-defiled by unworthy con- 
 tact. His figure denoted the same ; upright and 
 well-made, habit and temperament had given 
 him the air of a man who lacked energy and 
 decision ; a man who needed an anchor, who 
 was ready to take advantage of any gale that 
 might blow, and so be wafted hither and 
 thither, and finally — stranded or safely har- 
 boured ? Heaven knows. 
 
 I thoueht all this in the moment I looked 
 at him, and I forgot how fixedly I did look at 
 him in that moment. 
 
 ' Well,' he said, and he had grown very red 
 under my gaze, ' well, Miss Maude, what is 
 your report ? Not an '' evil one," I hope. 
 You see now I do know something about the 
 Bible. I believe I heard every word of the
 
 I 68 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 First Lesson this morning. Don't be like 
 the spies and give an evil report, though it 
 may not be a land flowing with ** milk and 
 honey." ' 
 
 ' I believe it might be made a good land/ 
 I almost involuntarily said, with a smile. 
 
 ' Hang it ! I am sure it might,' he ex- 
 claimed, ' if only you would undertake it.' 
 
 1 was at a loss for a reply sufficiently 
 foolish to convince Captain Marshall that I 
 took all he said in jest, and, happily, we were 
 just at home ; and before we reached the hall 
 door my compar ion stopped. I observed that 
 his countenance had changed, and instead 
 of looking exultant, as he had done when I 
 announced my opinion of the ' land,' he looked 
 very crestfallen. 
 
 * Miss Maude,' he began. 
 'Well, Captain Marshall,' I said. 
 
 ' On my honour,' he said, ' I am not quite 
 sure how I shall get through dinner.' 
 
 * Are you not well ? ' I was bound in 
 courtesy to ask.
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 1 69 
 
 ' Oh, yes — yes,' he said, ' as serene as the 
 sky ; but I mean — that is — your father, you 
 know, Dr. Maynard' 
 
 ' Well ? ' I said. 
 
 ' Don't you understand me ? ' he said. 
 
 * No, indeed,' I said. ' I don't know who 
 could.' 
 
 ' I know I'm very stupid,' he said, apolo- 
 getically. ' But you see. Miss Maude, being 
 Sunday, there's no knowing what the gover- 
 nor — I beg your pardon, I mean what Dr. 
 Maynard — might take it into his head to say 
 to me at dinner-time ; you know, I should 
 not like to lose caste with him, and on my 
 word of honour I don't know in the least 
 what the sermon was about. Do you think 
 he'll question me ? ' 
 
 I could not help laughing. ' Why, of 
 course he won't,' I said. ' What an idea ! ' 
 
 * Oh, thank you ! I am so relieved ! You 
 see I have never been here on Sunday 
 before, and I didn't know what the — what 
 Dr. Maynard might think it proper to do.
 
 170 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 I hold him in the greatest possible respect, 
 but he's so confoundedly clever, I don't feel 
 quite at home with him like you do.' 
 
 Like I do ! I ran indoors and up to my 
 room, leaving Gypsie to pilot the Captain 
 into the drawing-room. 
 
 Captain Marshall took Aunt Gretta into 
 the dining-room in due form, but before he 
 took his seat at her right hand, he managed 
 to whisper to me, ' Don't let me put my foot 
 into it. Miss Maude.' 
 
 As soon as we were all seated, and grace 
 had been said, papa turned to his guest. 
 
 'Well, Captain Marshall, what do you 
 think of our church, our chanting, our manner 
 of conducting the sublime and impressive 
 Liturgical Service ? I believe this is the first 
 time we have had the pleasure of seeing you 
 in Stonecross Church ; I trust it may not be 
 the last ; that is, if you have found this 
 morning's service conducive to your spiritual 
 edification, as well as gratifying to your 
 educated and intellectual tastes.'
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. IJI 
 
 Captain Marshall looked dumbfounded. 
 I am convinced a roar of cannon at his ear 
 would have been the greatest possible relief. 
 He had not the faintest idea of what papa 
 had said, or a notion of what he ought to 
 say in reply, and in his distress he looked 
 piteously at me. To my infinite relief, Aunt 
 Gretta took advantage of the pause. 
 
 ' I hope you did not feel any draught. 
 Captain Marshall,' she said. • I am not 
 quite sure, I have never been able to decide 
 positively whether or not our pew is quite 
 free from draughts. I hope you did not find 
 a draught where you sat ? ' 
 
 * I beg pardon — a what ? I found myself 
 amazingly comfortable and delighted.' 
 
 'Dear me! I'm very glad, I'm sure,* 
 said Aunt Gretta. ' I was afraid you would 
 find the heat very inconvenient ; it comes 
 through the window near our pew with 
 great power/ 
 
 ' I was exceedingly comfortable,' said 
 Captain ^Marshall.
 
 172 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 ' I'm sure it's very good of you to drive 
 such a distance on such an awfully hot day,' 
 said Maofo^ie. 
 
 ' I did not feel at all hot,' said the gallant 
 Captain. ' I felt a delightful breeze.' 
 
 ' I wish we could feel it now,' said Char- 
 lotte, rather shortly. 
 
 Captain Marshall looked a little confused. 
 
 * The best way Is to take the weather 
 as one finds it,' remarked Mr. Retnor. ' If 
 people give way to their fancies and feelings, 
 there is no end to It. Some people can't go 
 to church because It's too hot, others be- 
 cause It's too cold ; some because It's too 
 dry, and others because It's too wet. I have 
 no patience with such whims.' 
 
 If this speech were meant for Maggie's 
 edification, it was lost upon her. Her thoughts 
 
 had wandered to the barracks at C , long 
 
 before Mr. Retnor had finished speaking. 
 
 ' Where Is Captain Snuffins to-day ? ' she 
 asked. 
 
 ' He's off into the country to spend the
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. I 73. 
 
 day with three or four others,' said Captain 
 Marshall, ' or he would have joined me ; a 
 prior engagement, Miss Margaret, an urgent 
 one, was the only thing which prevented him 
 coming.' 
 
 It was very good-naturedly done, no 
 doubt, of Captain Marshall, but it was not 
 exactly the truth, for he had informed me on 
 our way to church that he had left Captain 
 Snuffins * soaking in bed,' and could not get 
 him out at the ' point of his sword.' It never 
 occurred to our s^uest that he was tellino- a 
 lie ; such a paltry matter as that wasn't worth 
 lying about. He would have stood to be 
 shot at rather than lie to his colonel on any 
 matter connected with his regiment, and he 
 would have fought a duel, without hesitation, 
 with any brother-officer who had called him 
 a liar ; but this was nothing at all. Captain 
 Marshall swallowed his wine, and ate his 
 dinner, and laughed and chatted without 
 thinking about the matter another second ; 
 he had said what came uppermost to keep
 
 174 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 his friend, Captain Snuffins, in Miss Mar- 
 garet Maynard's good graces. A very kind 
 fellow and a true-born gentleman was Captain 
 
 Marshall. 
 
 * I have not yet,' said papa, ' had an 
 
 opportunity of hearing what Captain Mar- 
 shall thinks of our manner of conducting 
 the service of our beloved church. I should 
 like his opinion as to our chanting, our con- 
 gregation, our probable influence as a church, 
 the views we advocate, the doctrines we dis- 
 seminate, the principles we preach : it is well 
 at all times to remember the injunction to 
 have our conversation " seasoned with salt," 
 especially upon the Sabbath day.' 
 
 Captain Marshall looked as If he would 
 much have preferred to endure the process 
 bodily of being ' seasoned with salt ' rather 
 than be obliged to have his conversation so 
 seasoned. Again he looked at me, but what 
 could I say ? For my very life I dared not 
 interrupt, and at length, in desperation, he 
 stammered out, ' I think, sir — I think it was
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. I 75 
 
 all very fine ; really, remarkably so ; but I am 
 afraid I didn't understand it all as I ought to 
 have done.' 
 
 Papa coughed. His guest was evidently 
 not in that state of grace in which he ought 
 to have been, after listening to the morning's 
 discourse. Whether he could be brought 
 into it by entering into an argument, or 
 whether courteousness bade his host pass it 
 over, seemed to be the question papa pon- 
 dered. I broke in : 
 
 ' Did you observe the school, Captain 
 Marshall ? ' (How could he, when he sat 
 with his back to it ?) 
 
 * The school ? ' he said ; ' what school ? ' 
 
 ' Our Sunday-school, sir,' said Mr. Retnor ; 
 ' my Sunday-school and Miss Maynard's, I 
 may say ; a sight, sir, for any clergyman to 
 show with pleasure, and any hearer to see 
 with profit. There is no Sunday-school 
 equal to it in any parish in the country. 
 The pains Miss Maynard and I have be-
 
 176 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 Stowed Upon our schools — Sunday and day 
 schools — no one can calculate.* 
 
 ' Dear me ! ' said Captain Marshall ; ' I 
 am sure it is very good of you.' 
 
 ' There is nothing like working yourself, 
 sir,' continued Mr. Retnor, still more loudly ; 
 ' take my advice, Captain Marshall, and 
 whatever you want doing, let it be done 
 under your own eye.' 
 
 ' But what's the good of that ? ' said the 
 Captain. ' There's no use in having ser- 
 vants, if you are to be ever after them. What 
 a confounded deal of trouble you would 
 make for a man, Mr. Retnor.' 
 
 ' The only way, sir, the only way. If I 
 did not see after everything myself — I and 
 Miss Maynard — I mean, of course, leaving 
 general supervision to our esteemed Rector, 
 what would become of everything ? ' 
 
 A profound question, the answer to which 
 would involve a calculation to which Captain 
 Marshall was not at all equal. 
 
 ' Really, I don't know,' he said.
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. I 77 
 
 * Of course, you don't, sir,' proceeded the 
 curate, in a louder voice ; * of course you 
 don't ; who could ? I'll trouble you for that 
 decanter, Miss Maude.' 
 
 ' I trust,' said papa, ' that we all remember 
 that " Paul may plant and Apollos water, but 
 it is God that giveth the increase." ' 
 
 *Ver)^ nice, I'm sure,' murmured Captain 
 Marshall ; * is it a quotation ? Fancy I have 
 heard it somewhere before.' 
 
 Papa looked scandalised, and Mr. Retnor 
 almost shouted, ' There is not a bov in our 
 Sunday-school, or a girl either, I'll warrant, 
 who could not tell without thinkinof where 
 those words are.' 
 
 I thought Mr. Retnor as rude as usual, 
 and I remarked that it was a pity the chil- 
 dren should be taught to speak without 
 thinking. 
 
 ' I extremely disapprove, Maude,' said 
 papa, ' of a bad habit, in which you indulge, 
 of talking lightly on the most serious sub- 
 jects ; it is a habit extremely to be depre- 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 cated, and one which I have often warned 
 you against. " A wholesome tongue is a 
 tree of Hfe ; but perverseness therein is a 
 breach in the spirit." ' 
 
 ' Maude is so very sharp,' said Charlotte, 
 with a sneer ; ' it would be a pity to deprive us 
 all of the pleasure of hearing how witty she 
 can be.' 
 
 'Such a habit,' continued papa, 'origi- 
 nates in a frivolous, vacant, and unbecoming 
 frame of mind — a frame of mind which you 
 would do w^ell to strive against, Maude ; we 
 are to ''strive against the sin which doth 
 most easily beset us." ' 
 
 I said nothing ; but I blushed to the ears 
 at being reproved before Captain Marshall. 
 I was more afraid of his pity than anything 
 else about him. He looked as if he were in 
 a Scotch mist. "What is the matter?' he 
 said ; ' is anything the matter ? ' 
 
 ' I hope not,' said Aunt Gretta. ' If you 
 on't feel well, Maude, my dear ' 
 
 ' I am quite well, thank you,' I said.
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 1/9 
 
 ' I dare say she feels the heat,' said i\unt 
 Gretta, apologetically ; * Maude always does 
 feel the heat.' 
 
 ' Who doesn't ? ' said Mas^srie. ' I don't 
 think anyone feels it half as much as I do.' 
 
 ' Of course not/ said Charlotte ; ' no one 
 ever does feel anything half as much as you do.' 
 
 * You should rouse yourself, and do a 
 little more work. Miss Margaret,' said ]\Ir. 
 Retnor. ' Excuse me, but you know I am a 
 privileged person. I assure you, you would 
 find it the most refreshing state both for 
 body and soul.' 
 
 ' I wish you would not talk about work,' 
 said Maggie, pettishly ; ' it's work, work, 
 work with you and Charlotte from morning 
 till night. Whatever is the use of always 
 working and always talking about it ? You'll 
 work until there is nothing left for anyone else 
 to do.' 
 
 ' Which will be a happy state of things 
 for you,' said Charlotte. 
 
 ' Maggie is not strong, and could not 
 
 N 2
 
 l8o MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 bear much,' said Aunt Gretta. * I wish I 
 could persuade her to take the white of an 
 egg, beaten up, twice a day; it is such an 
 excellent thing.' 
 
 * The devil tempts an idle man, but a 
 busy man tempts the devil,' said Mr. Retnor, 
 with a tone and manner worthy of a mob 
 orator. ' If I see a man only eating his dinner, 
 I like to see him do it in earnest, and as if he 
 meant business.' 
 
 No one contradicted Mr. Retnor's state- 
 ment. It was evident that he often gave him- 
 self and others a treat. 
 
 * I have to work, whether I like it or not,' 
 said Captain Marshall ; ' for my man will 
 get so confoundedly drunk sometimes, that 
 there's the very deuce to pay. I beg ten 
 thousand pardons, Dr. Maynard ; but it is a 
 fact that the fellow lies drunk many a time, 
 while his master does his work for him.' 
 
 * Then his master is a great simpleton,' 
 said Mr. Retnor. ' Excuse me. Captain Mar- 
 shall, but do you mean to tell me that you
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. l8l 
 
 let your man lie drunk while you do his 
 Avork ? ' 
 
 * I can't help it,' said the Captain. * What 
 am I to do if he will drink ? ' 
 
 ' To do, sir ? Turn him out by the shoul- 
 ders, and let him starve in the street.* 
 
 * My dear sir ! A gentleman could not do 
 that ! ' 
 
 * Why not, sir ? A gentleman can do his 
 duty, I presume.' 
 
 * If it be not too disagreeable,' said Captain 
 Marshall, shrugging his shoulders. ' But to 
 turn a poor fellow into the street, just because 
 he forgets himself sometimes ! Why, your 
 Bible does not teach you that, sir, does it ? ' 
 
 ' Sir ! ' interrupted papa, as if such a ques- 
 tion could be put to none other than himself 
 — the proficient in Oriental languages — ' Sir, 
 our Bible teaches us to give no license to sin, 
 to show no quarter to iniquity, to harbour no 
 curse, to give place — no, not for an hour — to 
 Avhat is wrong, foul, hateful, and otherwise to 
 he deplored and avoided. I regret much that
 
 1 82 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 any man of large means and influence should 
 allow himself, in a case of flagrant sin, for one 
 moment to be swayed by a maudlin charity 
 and a sentimental weakness, not becoming a 
 brave man.' 
 
 Captain Marshall knew not what to say. 
 His conscience had never represented his 
 good-natured and patient endurance of his 
 servant in anything but a self-gratifying light. 
 
 * I am sure/ he said, * I am very sorry. I 
 did not know that it was anything so very 
 dreadful. The poor fellow has a wife and 
 children depending on him, and he's such a 
 drunken rascal, that if I turned him off, I am 
 afraid he would not be able to get a place 
 anywhere else ; at least, not unless he mended 
 his ways, which, I confess, I don't think there's 
 much chance of his doing in this world.' 
 
 ' Then, sir,' said papa, in his deep, sono- 
 rous tone, * there is no chance of it in another. 
 Where the " tree falls," there, sir, shall it; 
 lie.' 
 
 ' Don't you see, my dear sir,' said Mr..
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 1 8 
 
 O 
 
 Retnor, in his vulgarly familiar manner, 
 ' don't you see that you might be made this 
 man's salvation, if you would set to work at 
 once, and in earnest ? ' 
 
 ' I might,' said the Captain, alarmed, 
 ' w/ia^ did you say I might be made ? ' 
 
 ^ Everything, my dear sir, everything. 
 When a man works himself there is no limit 
 to what he may accomplish.' 
 
 * But he may wear himself out,' said Aunt 
 Gretta ; ' he must get exhausted. I am no 
 advocate for this great amount of work ; few 
 systems are equal to it.' 
 
 Mr. Retnor loftily passed by this interrup- 
 tion. He went on, ' Look here. Captain Mar- 
 shall, as soon as you get home, take your man 
 by his collar, hold him fast, and let him see 
 you are in earnest. Say to him, " Listen, you 
 drunken rascal. If I find you at it once again, 
 out into the streets you go, neck or nothing, 
 and starve if you like." And out he should 
 go, If I had him to deal with, even if he were 
 found dead in a gutter the next morning.'
 
 184 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 Captain Marshall could not see . It ; I am 
 glad he could not. 
 
 ' I have no doubt you are right,' he said, 
 ' but I acknowledge that I cannot quite see it 
 in that light. I daresay I have not been the 
 most careful of masters, and to treat the poor 
 fellow in such a way is not according to my 
 notions, though perhaps I am wrong.' 
 
 * You are not wrong ! ' I cried. I could not 
 help it, but I could get no further. Captain 
 Marshall looked at me so gratefully, Charlotte 
 so angrily, and papa so reprovingly, that, 
 happily for myself, my tongue clave to the roof 
 of my mouth. 
 
 * You will find it as well, Maude, my dear,* 
 said papa, * if you will learn in silence occa- 
 sionally, instead of trying to show how much 
 you can differ from everyone else.' 
 
 * I am sure it's very good of Miss Maude 
 to take my part,' blundered poor Captain 
 Marshall, evidently thinking it incumbent on 
 him to do something to get me out of a 
 reproof, into which he had been the means of
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 1 85 
 
 bringing me. * I never was up to an argu- 
 ment about anything ; it is not much in my 
 line/ 
 
 * My dear sir,' said papa, with the air of 
 an archbishop addressing a beardless curate, 
 ' my dear sir, I trust this Httle discussion will 
 not have been wholly thrown away upon you. 
 Youth is often — nor can I deny that under 
 some aspects it is not altogether an unpleasing 
 trait — youth is often swayed more by feeling 
 than by sound views, and, without due cau- 
 tion and rigid self-control, that warmth of 
 feeling and heedlessness of expression may 
 degenerate into looseness of principle and 
 laxity of conduct. It is the part of a brave 
 man to set his face as a flint against any matter 
 — especially a matter involving a point of 
 moral conduct — which is not in accordance 
 with that regularity and probity, the attain- 
 ment of which ought to be the aim of every 
 individual. I trust, wherever your lot be cast, 
 you will advocate the principles of unswerv-
 
 1 86 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 Ing integrity, strict sobriety, and unimpeach- 
 able moral rectitude.' 
 
 There was a pause. Papa waited for a 
 reply, but none came. It required a minute 
 at least for Captain Marshall to recover his 
 breath, which he had not dared to take during 
 papa's speech ; and when he could recollect 
 himself, he took the wise step of giving an 
 answer which, though it might not be all the 
 answer Dr. Maynard expected, would not, at 
 least, involve his guest to any considerable 
 extent. 
 
 ' I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you,' 
 he said. 
 
 This struck me as something of an anti- 
 climax, and I tried to go through a prolonged 
 sneeze. The pause continued, until at last 
 papa wisely ended it by returning thanks in 
 a sentence framed and worded for some one's 
 benefit. Whether it was for Captain Mar- 
 shall's or mine, I am still doubtful. 
 
 It was pleasant to get into the garden, and 
 there, amid the odour of flowers, the hum of
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 1 87 
 
 insects, and Gypsie's little pattering talk, for- 
 get that, though I had tried to help the poor 
 Captain, my desire had, as usual, signally failed 
 in accomplishing its object. 
 
 School-time soon came ; that Is always a 
 pleasant time ; and happily I managed as we 
 walked down to the village to evade the 
 Captain's questions about an afternoon service, 
 and I had the satisfaction of hearlns: his dos:- 
 cart pass the school-house ten minutes after. 
 
 Gypsie and I went with our flowers to the 
 churchyard after tea, and had a very quiet 
 walk home. Our last Sunday here for six 
 weeks !
 
 1 88 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Wednesday, September i. 
 
 We. start to-morrow. Aunt Gretta's packing 
 is finished ; she has been a fortnight over it. 
 She will be a fortnight in unpacking and 
 /arranging the things when we get to Scar- 
 borough, and she will be a fortnight before 
 we leave in packing again ; so employment is 
 provided for her for most of the time. 
 
 Charlotte, too, will have Mr. Retnorsome 
 of the time. Scarborough is Elysium to 
 Maggie. With lying in bed, dressing, walk- 
 ing on the Spa, and flirting, she has a 
 glorious time of it. Two or three of the 
 officers have declared their intention of going, 
 so we shall have company independently of 
 visitors.
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 1 89 
 
 Papa, too, will compose, translate, study, 
 reflect, explore, and, as a general relaxation, 
 superintend the conduct of the three Misses 
 Maynard, and by his watchful supervision 
 preclude any stain or blemish being brought 
 upon the good old name of Maynard through 
 the thoughtlessness, perversity, or Inherent 
 * queerness ' of the youngest daughter. 
 
 And Gypsie and I ? We will have a 
 happy time. Why not ? The world Is not 
 all dark, Gypsie ! 
 
 I have just come from your bedside, 
 havlnor crept there shoeless and quiet to steal 
 another look at my darling. There he lies ; 
 tossed, and turned, and tumbled, till he looks 
 as If he had dropped out of heaven, and had 
 not yet found his right place on earth. I 
 have relieved my soul by ten dozen kisses, 
 and crept back. 
 
 Yes, Gypsie, we will have a happy time ! 
 The sea Is blue, and fresh winds blow from it, 
 and they cool hot hands and tired hearts. The 
 sky is clear, and there shines from it a radi-
 
 IQO . MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 ance and a light which steals into weary souls, 
 and warms them again into life and vigour. 
 The earth is green and fresh, and there comes 
 from it a beauty and a brightness which thrills 
 one's being. We will be happy, Gypsie ; why 
 not ? And the month will soon pass away, 
 and we will come back again to Stonecross, 
 and to the church, and the schools, and to — 
 to Mrs. Morris's grave. 
 
 I was there to-night. It seemed a duty. 
 A whole month, and I could not go. It was 
 right to go to-night ; yes, I am sure it was. 
 I am very glad that I went. 
 
 It looks so fresh — not bright, only green, 
 cool, refreshing, like, I could fancy, the pro- 
 mised land looked to Moses when he viewed 
 it from Nebo. If that history be true, how 
 much Moses must have longed to enter in ! 
 
 To-night I would have been quite willing 
 to lie by that poor woman if I might have 
 been at rest. Perhaps my usual malheur, 
 ■' fatality' — what is it ? — has followed me more 
 closely to-day ; perhaps my evil genius has
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. I9I 
 
 been quickened into keener life ; perhaps it 
 was only the heat, or my own bad temper, 
 not Charlotte's unkindness, and papa's con- 
 stant misunderstanding. 
 
 I longed to get out of the house to-night ; 
 my heart was very heavy, and my head ached 
 sadly ; so I gathered some flowers and went 
 to Mrs. Morris's grave. I did not take Gypsie 
 with me. I did not want him to see that I 
 had been crying. 
 
 As I said, the grave looked fresh, green, 
 cool. I can describe it in no other way. I 
 had tried to keep it like that. I had a feeling 
 that Mr. Morris would not like brip-ht colours, 
 gay flowers, oppressive perfumes, only some- 
 thing that seemed restful. 
 
 I stayed there a long time, and was rested. 
 I was coming away, when I saw Gypsie's 
 friend, the schoolmaster, in the churchyard. 
 He must have seen me too, for he came 
 towards me, and began to speak about 
 Gypsie. 
 
 ' You are leaving to-morrow for a month
 
 192 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 or six weeks ? ' he said, when he had finished 
 what he was saying about Gypsie. 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 * You have made arrangements as to your 
 school and class, and work in the village, of 
 course ? ' he said. 
 
 I cannot think how it is, but this man, 
 whom I have not spoken to half-a-dozen 
 times, seems, in some extraordinary way, to 
 take the right to say just what he chooses to 
 me. I cannot understand it, only I know it 
 is very pleasant. 
 
 I had not made any arrangements. I 
 never give myself the trouble to do that. 
 The luckless man whom papa had engaged 
 to do duty for him during his absence, must 
 have found himself extremely puzzled to pro- 
 vide for the various small matters he would 
 find left without anyone to see after them. 
 
 * No,' I said ; ' I have arranged nothing.' 
 
 ' That is not wisely done,' said Mr. Far- 
 ren ; ' if work of this kind is worth doing, it 
 is worth doing well.'
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. I 93 
 
 ' Somebody will see after it,' I said. 
 
 ' Somebody is nobody/ he said. ' There 
 is an amazing amount of work in the world to 
 be done by "somebody," which, of course, 
 never is done ; and if it were, it would in no 
 . degree lessen the amount of responsibility 
 incurred by others.' 
 
 ' Am I among the others ?' I said, smiling, 
 
 ' Unquestionably you are. Work, in itself, 
 is a responsibility and a power committed to 
 you, and to treat it either with inattention or 
 listlessness, betokens a great fault somewhere.* 
 
 * Very possibly,' I said. ' I know I have 
 a great many faults.' 
 
 ' But one, of which you do not think much, 
 and yet it is a great one, is the indifference 
 which acknowledges faults without making an 
 effort to cure them, and the notion that it is a 
 virtue — a mark of candour and amiability — 
 to acknowledge them in a general way.' 
 
 ' Well,' I said, for the truth of his remark 
 came home, and I winced under it, ' I am 
 sure I am much obliged to you.' 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 ' I am glad you are,' he said, gravely, and 
 without the least alteration in his tone; 
 * when anyone feels under obligation, gene- 
 rally speaking, they have pride enough not 
 to incur it again.' 
 
 ' And how am I to do that ? ' I said. 
 
 ' By removing all necessity of being told 
 again. If you give way to listlessness — I 
 care not how deep the cause lies — the indul- 
 gence of the feeling is only a polished form of 
 cowardliness. Who is to take care of your 
 large class of children when you are away 
 enjoying yourself? Who is to do your work 
 in the village ? You enter into these matters 
 now, because it furnishes something for you 
 to do in the absence of other things ; but 
 if their place were supplied by a more en- 
 grossing pursuit, they would all fall to the 
 ground.' 
 
 'And I care not if everything did,' I could 
 not help exclaiming, relieved from the bottom 
 of my heart to be able for once to speak out 
 what I felt, without fear of reprimand. ' I
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. I95 
 
 care not if everything did ; I would not stoop 
 an inch to pick them up again.' 
 
 ' I know you would not. On ever}lhing 
 you do it is written that it matters not how 
 soon it all ends ; you see weariness and dis- 
 satisfaction in all, because you have not yet 
 learnt to work for something beyond the 
 present. Your motive is derived only from 
 the circumstances of the hour, and therefore 
 failure and vexation, which must arise some 
 time or other in all work, puts a stop to all 
 your transient energ)^ Feeling is the all- 
 powerful guide with you, and a sorry life of 
 ups and downs it leads you.' 
 
 No one — excepting my old friend Dr. 
 Vanny, who sometimes takes it into his head 
 to give me a hard rub and be very disagree- 
 able and cross — no one had ever spoken to 
 me in this way before. Fault-finding and 
 misunderstanding were nothing new ; but for 
 the truth to be put before me so boldly, and 
 yet so kindly, as if I were a rational creature 
 
 and worth convincing, not forcing, was a 
 
 2
 
 196 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 totally new experience ; I thrilled under it. 
 If he would but go on talking I cared not 
 what he said ! 
 
 * I have nothing to do/ I said. ' I would, 
 so willingly, lie down here and be at rest.' 
 
 ' That notion of rest is a mistake,' he said. 
 * If a guilty conscience can haunt a hereafter, 
 your rest is a delusion. It is a selfish seeking 
 for what you have no claim to — you have 
 never earned rest ; rest is for the worker ; but 
 you are not a worker ; you are only a dreamer, 
 and when you awake from your dream, you 
 may find the opportunity gone and the possi- 
 bility vanished.' 
 
 * I have nothing to do,' I repeated. ' Why 
 should a poor woman like Mrs. Morris be 
 taken, when she was needed so much, and I 
 be left?' 
 
 ' God is quite able to govern His own 
 world without any suggestions from you,' was 
 the reply I received ; * if He chose to take 
 her and to leave you, you have nothing at all 
 to do with it.'
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 1 97 
 
 ' I have everything to do with it,' I ex- 
 claimed. ' What is the use of my Hfe ? ' 
 
 * That is a grave question,' he said ; ' one 
 which I am glad to hear you put to yourself, 
 if you will but diligently seek out the answer.' 
 
 ' I have asked it many times,' I said, ' and 
 I do not care to ask it now. I am utterly 
 regardless ; things may happen as they choose. 
 I suppose I shall do as other people do, get 
 through life somehow, die, and there will be 
 an end of it' 
 
 ' There will not be an end of it,' he said ; 
 ' there will then be a beginning ; but you are 
 not trying even to get ready for that begin- 
 ning, and yet you have " nothing to do." ' 
 
 ' Nor have I. I could drop out of my 
 place to-morrow, and it would make no dif- 
 ference except ' 
 
 ' Yes, Gypsie. It would make a difference 
 to him, I suppose ? ' 
 
 ' You suppose ! Oh, Mr. Farren, you hzow 
 it would.' 
 
 * But you assured me again and again, just
 
 198 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 now, SO positively that you had nothing to do, 
 that I imagined for a moment it was the 
 truth.' 
 
 * It is the truth,' I said. 
 
 * Pardon me, it is not the truth ; it is a lie 
 — yes, even that. It Is better to find out the 
 truth and face it than to cover it with pretty 
 words, and let it go by. If it be true that 
 Gypsie would miss you, it is equally true that 
 you must have work. If one human soul has 
 the power of influencing another human soul, 
 there is work for it to do ; and also, if you 
 could find no human being who has not the 
 least power or influence over any other human 
 being, I will still show you one who has a 
 mighty work to do ; work enough to fill up 
 every space of a long life. And so long as 
 there is work, there is plenty of room for hope, 
 and no room for despair. If God gave a 
 human being no work, he would give him no 
 hope ; and if He gave him no hope, he would 
 give him despair ; and if He gave him 
 despair. He would at once take him to hell.
 
 MAUDE MAYKARD. I99 
 
 instead of leaving him to take up room upon 
 earth.' 
 
 As I Hstened, a strange new impulse crept 
 over me. Then, there really was something 
 which would be left undone, did I not do it. 
 This man would not tell me a lie. I lifted 
 my eyes to the blue sky above, but it was the 
 same ; I looked on the earth around, it was 
 the same ; but I felt a first faint feeling of 
 belief ; some ray of hope had entered my 
 heart. 
 
 Mr. Farren went on : ' I cannot tell what 
 work is before you, but that there is some, I 
 no more doubt than I do my own existence. 
 Your saying you would like to die is a morbid 
 desire to create a sensation. Should such an 
 event be likely to occur, you would anticipate 
 with satisfaction and complacency the com- 
 ments which might arise and the regret which 
 might be expressed. Your saying that you have 
 no work is a phase of the same disease. You 
 would like to have it contradicted, and to be 
 assured that you have a vast amount of
 
 200 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 important concerns committed to your guid- 
 ance ; in fact, that the world could not move 
 on without you. Your declaring that no one 
 would miss you is a symptom of exactly the 
 same disorder. You want to feel that you are 
 somebody very necessary, and that a whole 
 village would go mourning if you disappeared 
 from the midst. And because you have not 
 all this, you will have nothing ; you will do 
 nothing, and you cover the idleness which 
 shrinks from what it ought to do by cheating 
 yourself into the belief that it is humility and 
 self-distrust.' 
 
 I neither spoke nor looked a reply. Such 
 words were utterly new to me, and I blushed 
 with conscious shame, for I knew it was true. 
 And he said it so gently, yet so firmly, that I 
 admitted it at once. 
 
 He looked me full in the face. ' Am I not 
 right,' he said ; * have you not yet to learn 
 to believe in God ? I don't say, to say you 
 believe, but to do it. Have you not to assure 
 yourself without a doubt that there is a Here-
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 20I 
 
 after — an eternity, a rest, call it what you like 
 — that depends on the need which you feel 
 the strongest ; but that there is something 
 which will satisfy that need, be it what it may 
 — have you not to teach yourself that you are 
 unfitted for that state, and to learn how to 
 become fitted ? and yet you say that you have 
 no work to do ! ' 
 
 I did not interrupt him, and he went on : 
 * Here is work enough, how much ! And 
 to be ready for it, you have to fling off the 
 falsehoods and sophisms which blind you, and 
 to seize and hold fast the truth. Do this, and 
 when you have done it, you will ask, in won- 
 der, which of all the duties which throng 
 around you, you can do first, and how you can 
 get them all done in so short a time as life.' 
 
 I did not speak, and he did not for some 
 time, and when he did, he said, ' You must 
 go home now ; it is growing late, and the dew 
 is falling,' and I turned to go. 
 
 Through the churchyard, along the lane, 
 over the fields, Mr. Farren and I went with-
 
 202 MAUDE MAYxNARD. 
 
 out exchanging another word, until we came 
 in sight of the Hall, and I said, ' Mr. Farren, 
 will you tell me one thing — how do you know 
 anything about me ? ' 
 
 ' I have been asking myself as I came 
 along,' he said, ' how it has happened that I 
 have talked to you as I have done. But I 
 do not repent ; no, I am very glad. When 
 one has passed through a fever oneself, it is 
 impossible to mistake the symptoms in 
 another. I detected them in you the first 
 time I saw you, and I was sorry, I never 
 see anyone in the dark but I experience an 
 intense longing to show them, as far as I can, 
 that there is light and warmth somewhere ; 
 and if they can be persuaded that it exists, 
 they will possibly seek after, and perhaps 
 find it. I know exactly how you are feeling ; 
 the disease is growing upon you, and in time 
 it may affect Gypsie.' 
 
 'No,' I said, 'nothing bad touches him.' 
 ' It cannot be so always,' he said ;' if there 
 is one thought which would be a remem-
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 203. 
 
 brance of agony, it would be the thought of" 
 having done harm to Gypsie.' 
 
 * If there is a God, He will take care of 
 Gypsie,' I said. 
 
 * He will,' said Mr. Farren, ' because there 
 is no " if," in the case ; but it may be in a 
 manner which you would not like ; nor will 
 that fact free you from responsibility ; and in 
 a world where so much is needed, it is a pity 
 for so much to be thrown away. Position, 
 education, talents, influence, and riches, they 
 can do so much ; and so much has to be done. 
 Will you do it ? ' 
 
 ' I will try,' I said ; ' but how can I ? ' 
 
 * Ah ! ' he said, ' there it is — how ? But, 
 Miss Maude, you and I have both read — at 
 least, somehow we have heard ; it may be a 
 legend, or a fable, or the truth — we have heard 
 that somewhere among the Judean hills there 
 once lived a poor man, who had wonderful 
 riches ; a weary man, who could give rest ; 
 a weak man, who could give comfort ; a. 
 hungry man, who could supply food for body
 
 204 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 and soul ; a man who ate and drank with 
 sinners, and yet had mastery over all sin ; who 
 wept, and could dry tears ; who suffered, and 
 could save from suffering ; who died, and 
 could raise from death ; who was buried, and 
 yet lives, and will live, we are told, for ever 
 and ever. If this be a legend, it is more 
 beautiful than the fables of mighty Rome, or 
 the lore of classic Greece. If it be a truth, 
 it is worth inquiring into, thinking about, 
 and perhaps — believing. Good night. Miss 
 Maude. 
 
 Of course, he meant Jesus Christ. He 
 must have done.
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 20$. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Scarborough, Tuesday, October 5. 
 
 We have been here five weeks, and I have 
 never found time to write even in my diary. 
 There seem to be no quiet times. With 
 dressing, and pic-nicing, and bathing, and 
 boating, and riding, and attending to Aunt 
 Gretta, and giving all the time I can to 
 Gypsie, I have no leisure. 
 
 I do long to be at Stonecross again. I 
 do not think this hotel life suits me. It is 
 very grand, I daresay, to have clerical -looking 
 waiters with white ties and noiseless footsteps 
 to supply every want and put before you 
 courses at dinner, until you forget what you 
 began with, long before you get to the end ; 
 but I would far rather have our good old 
 James and the waitress at home.
 
 206 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 All this State and Immensity delights 
 Maggie ; it disgusts and wearies me. She 
 thinks the most delicious life in the world is 
 to breakfast at ten ; spend the morning in an 
 elegant ' costume ' on the ' Spa,' flirting to the 
 extent of her by no means limited powers ; 
 then to dawdle another hour over luncheon, 
 and pass the afternoon lying down, deciding 
 what dress she shall wear at dinner, what 
 officer she shall flirt with that evening, what 
 * appearance ' she shall make on the Spa or at 
 the dance. 
 
 Charlotte, I think, enjoys it. She does 
 not favour me with her confidence, but she 
 and Mr. Retnor are really engaged. I have 
 tried very much these last five weeks to please 
 her, and to patiently bear her rebukes, and I 
 cannot help thinking that perhaps I have suc- 
 ceeded a little ; at least, she has twice said, 
 ' What has come over you, Maude ? You 
 have got some new crotchet In your head ; 
 I wish it may last ; ' so surely, that is an 
 admission that I am a little changed for the
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 20/ 
 
 better. And I know Maggie has made 
 plenty of use of me, and I have always to be 
 dressed in good time for dinner, that I may 
 be useful to her. 
 
 These are very little things, but still they 
 are all I can do ; and I laid awake three or 
 four hours that last night at home, thinking 
 what I could do in the way of ' right-doing.' 
 
 Then, I have not so much of papa here. 
 Though he certainly does not miss any 
 opportunity of admonishing me, the oppor- 
 tunity does not occur so frequently as at 
 Stonecrosss. He has been over there twice, 
 and stayed three or four days each time. I 
 wonder how it looked ! How I should like to 
 have seen it ! I wonder that Aunt Gretta, 
 and Charlotte and Maggie, are not longing 
 to be at home again. I really do much dis- 
 like this life, excepting the long walks I get 
 alone with Gypsie. 
 
 Sometimes we wander for hours on a 
 quiet part of the sands, far away from the 
 troops of visitors, and with only the waves
 
 208 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 for our companions. Sometimes we find 
 quiet nooks in the cliffs — hermit-like spots, 
 where we can sit as we used to sit at Stone- 
 cross ; and instead of having the song of the 
 brook, we have the deep voice of many 
 waters. Sometimes we roam along the 
 cliffs ; sometimes on the road to Scalby, 
 sometimes to the woods beyond, sometimes 
 to the Forge Valley, and watch the sun 
 beginning to set, and talk, as Gypsie and 
 I love to talk, for it is only now and then 
 we can get away for so long together. 
 
 But even when we cannot, we try to leave 
 the swarms of children and nursemaids, 
 young ladies and their beaux, and anxious 
 papas and mammas, and find out some nook 
 behind a rock, away from the eternal chatter 
 of people and the noise of that everlasting 
 band, and sit down and talk. What Gypsie 
 says always comes fresh as the dew of 
 heaven, while the chit-chat — I will not say 
 conversation — of the people here is flat and 
 wearisome ; nay, more, it is stupid, silly, and 
 senseless.
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 209 
 
 This morning we have been on the bridge 
 and in the gardens with three officers, and I 
 cried with vexation when I came back to 
 think that I had spent my time in such a way. 
 Not one word that was worth listening to ! 
 And to think that I should have spent t^vo 
 hours — not spe7it them, wasted them — in walk- 
 ing up and down the Spa, dressed like a 
 figure in a milliner's shop, in company with 
 Captain Marshall, Captain Snuffins (Maggie's 
 friend), and a Major Priggins ! 
 
 We seemed to attract a great deal of 
 notice. Did people envy us, and, If so, for 
 what ? Our dress ? I should have liked to 
 have tied a stone to every trunk of finery 
 belonging to us, and cast them into the 
 waves. I am tired to death with this ever- 
 lasting — 'What shall I wear to-night. Maude?* 
 
 * How did you think I looked last night?* 
 
 * Did that pink suit me as well as the blue ? ' 
 ' I wonder which dress Captain Snuffins 
 admires the most.' ' I have had that on four 
 times, I shall not wear it again here.' * I 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 2 10 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 declare if that ugly Miss hasn't got a 
 
 dress just the colour of my new silk ! What 
 a fright she looks in it ! ' &c., &c., &c. These 
 are the unending themes of Maggie's con- 
 versation. 
 
 I am cross this afternoon, very cross, I 
 feel sure ; but perhaps the still heat of the 
 clay causes me to feel like this. It is a 
 strange day, so oppressive that I can scarcely 
 breathe with the window wide open ; it must 
 portend a storm. Captain Marshall said it 
 did ; and how the clouds have gathered and 
 blackened ever since we came in ! Papa has 
 gone to Burlington and taken Gypsie with 
 him. I wanted Captain Marshall to go with 
 them, but he would not. Stupid man ! I 
 want to make myself dislike him, and I am 
 afraid I cannot. Perhaps, after all, the best 
 thing will be to marry him. Now, let me try 
 and think what we really did and said this 
 morning, and see, after all, if there was any- 
 thing in it worth being cross about. 
 
 Charlotte and Mr. Retnor were not of our
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 2 I I 
 
 party. They are to be married shortly. They 
 conduct their business — both the walking 
 and the talking — in their approved method of 
 doing everything ; prompt, vigorous, decided. 
 No lingering, loving looks ; no prolonged part- 
 ings — delicious in their pain— with Mr. Retnor 
 and Charlotte. The other day I watched 
 them make their way up Olivers Mount, 
 looking as unlike two lovers as anyone can 
 well imagine two people together — male and 
 female — to look. Mr. Retnor always walks 
 very quickly, firmly, and with long strides ; his 
 head carried perfectly straight on his shoul- 
 ders, looking neither to the right hand nor to 
 the left ; he steers onward — straight on. He 
 always seems, when walking, to have some 
 unseen goal in view, to loiter on the way 
 to which would be instant destruction ; he 
 never pauses to rest, like Gypsie's picture of 
 Christian in the arbour ; but when he has 
 reached his destination, he turns round, and 
 walks back with the same unfailing, resolute 
 step, as if an equal pressure of business 
 
 P 2
 
 212 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 awaited him on his return. Charlotte marched 
 by his side, not looking a whit less resolute 
 or more Inclined to loiter than he. I wondered, 
 as I watched them, If they had laid a wager 
 who should get to the top of the mount first. 
 Mr. Retnor Is constantly urging Maggie to 
 climb up Oliver's Mount. Maggie lifts up 
 her hands, and gives the most musical little 
 scream at the Idea. 
 
 Maggie and myself, Captain Marshall, 
 Captain Snuffins, and a Major Prigglns, 
 made our party this morning. How Maggie 
 can endure Captain Snuffins, I cannot think. 
 He is almost as disagreeable as Mr. Retnor ; 
 he is too vapid and senseless to be quite 
 as disagreeable. Captain Marshall seems a 
 sensible, manly fellow by him. Major Prig- 
 gins Is a bachelor of fifty ; a man who has 
 * seen the world ' and thinks it betokens his 
 high breeding and extensive knowledge to 
 exhibit his disgust at everything good and 
 great, and to season his conversation with 
 all kinds of expletives. Certainly, Captain
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 213 
 
 Marshall was the best of the trio, and he 
 very sensibly proposed that we should take 
 a boat instead of strolling on the Spa, but 
 Maggie was not in the humour for it. 
 ' It is so hot,' she said. 
 'Well,' said Captain [Marshall, 'that is the 
 very reason why it would be so pleasant to 
 be on the water. Not that it isn't extremely 
 pleasant being anyw^here in such company. 
 I don't mean that, of course ; only I think 
 that a boat would be pleasanter ; there's 
 always such a nice breeze on the water. 
 What do you say, Miss Maude ? ' 
 
 ' I should like it very much,' I said. ' I 
 always prefer boating to any other way of 
 spending the time, and one's only object here 
 seems to be to spend the time.' 
 
 ' I am so glad we think alike,' said Captain 
 Marshall, complaisantly. ' Come, Miss Mar- 
 garet, let me persuade you.' 
 
 But i\I aggie was unpersuadable ; of course 
 she was, with a new morning ' costume ' on, 
 with eighteen graduated flounces and frills.
 
 214 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 * How can you be so inconsiderate, Capr 
 tain Marshall ? ' she said. ' The last time we 
 boated you splashed the spray all over my 
 new hat' 
 
 ' He did ! ' shouted Major Priggins. * By 
 Jove, Miss Margaret, he deserved ducking 
 for it. Why didn't you tell me, and I would 
 have given him a dip to teach him better 
 manners.' 
 
 * Marthall ith'nt a lady'th man at all,' 
 lisped Captain Snuffins, in his tones of 
 ineffable sweetness. * He thows more to 
 advantage in a camp, Mith Maude, or at 
 the head of hith regiment, than in a drawing- 
 room. I will thay that for him. Plenty of 
 pluck no doubt he'd have on a battle-held.' 
 
 ' I'm much obliged to you, I'm sure,' said 
 Captain Marshall, ' for your good opinion. I 
 wish everyone thought the same of me.' 
 
 These last words were said with a look 
 at me — a sheepish look — perhaps he thought 
 it touching ; whatever it was, it was seen by 
 Major Priggins, who burst into a laugh so
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 2 I 5 
 
 loud that it thrilled the delicate nerves of 
 Captain Snuffins, who perceptibly shivered — 
 like a scented tea-rose quivering in a rough 
 blast of wind — delicate creature ! 
 
 ' By George ! ' said the Major, when he 
 had finished his laugh, ' I saw you ! Never 
 mind, old boy ! Don't tell tales, eh ? If you 
 can't sigh like a — what is it old Shakespeare 
 says ? — " sighing like furnace." You see. 
 Miss Maude, I know something of literature. 
 Egad ! what a fine-looking girl that is ! Saw 
 her yesterday on the Bridge — didn't look her- 
 self at all then — looks herself to-day, and a 
 very fine self it is. What a bust ! and eyes 
 as black as — as thunder. Did you speak, 
 Miss Maude ? Beg pardon, thought you did 
 — shall be happy to listen when you do. By 
 George, another ! — not quite so fine as the 
 other, though ! — looks somewhat seedy — sat 
 up too late last night — never do that, young 
 ladies — take my advice — advice of an old 
 stager — spoils complexion — and brings on — 
 brings on — liver complaint, I believe.'
 
 2 [6 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 * What a great deal you know, Major 
 Priggins, to be thure ! ' said his subordinate. 
 
 * Of course — why shouldn't I ? Studied 
 many things in my time. Ah, ah ! very 
 interesting studies too, some of them. Capital 
 place this Scarborough for seeing human 
 nature ! What, the deuce ! If there isn*t 
 that confounded Plumpkins walking with 
 
 Miss ! Meant to walk with her myself. 
 
 Never mind ! — she'll think better of it to- 
 morrow. Greatest fool that ever walked, that 
 Plumpkins ! ' 
 
 ' Not quite,' I thought. Did I look it ? 
 I hope not. I must have looked something, 
 for Major Priggins stopped to put up his 
 eye-glass at me, as he was beginning to 
 speak again. 
 
 ' Anything wrong, Miss Maude ? What's 
 the matter ? Got a pain in your back or a 
 tight shoe on ? Saw somebody you didn't 
 wan't to see walking with somebody you did 
 want to see ? Never mind, won't be with 
 them to-morrow, I'll wager my head ! '
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 2 I J 
 
 ' I wish you would,' I thought, and lose 
 it. 
 
 My lips opened, but I choked the words. 
 
 ' Don't seem to be enjoying yourself,' 
 continued the jNIajor. ' Wish I could make 
 you happy — nothing like making pretty girls 
 happy — could spend my life doing it — charm- 
 ing employment ! Miss Maude, what can I 
 do for you ? ' 
 
 ' Maude doesn't like enjoying herself like 
 other people,' said Maggie. ' What an ugly 
 shape ! Do look, Captain Snuffins ! how hor- 
 ribly that dress hangs ! Before I would be 
 seen out such a fright ! ' 
 
 ' Ith, Mith , bleth my thoul ! ' cried 
 
 Captain Snuffins. ' I've no doubt in the world 
 the thinkth herthelf a great beauty ! Mon- 
 throuth mithtake ! Ath you thay, Mith ]\Iar- 
 garet, her dreth ith horrid ! ' 
 
 'What taste some people have, to be 
 sure,' said Maggie ; ' they seem to try and 
 make frights of themselves.' 
 
 * Egad ! ' cried the Major, ' but the most
 
 2l8 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 part of them needn't try ; they can save 
 themselves that trouble. What is Marshall 
 sulking about ? Want a boat with Miss 
 Maude, eh ? Never mind — don't be chap- 
 fallen, man. I daresay Miss Maude will do 
 something else for you quite as nice.' 
 
 * You will oblige me, Major Priggins,' I 
 began, in wrathful tones. 
 
 ' Eh ! can I ? So glad ! ' he interrupted. 
 ' Do tell me how. It's the very thing I want 
 to know. Saw that girl a week ago — '' her 
 bright smile haunts me still ! " What were 
 you going to say, Miss Maude ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing,' I said, as shortly and sharply 
 as I could. 
 
 ' So sorry ! thought you were. Try again 
 — perhaps you may think of something — 
 make me very happy to hear it ! By 
 George ! but it is monstrous hot, and no 
 mistake ! Nice seat here — plenty of room — 
 good view — see everybody. What a noise 
 that sea does make ! — confound it ! wish it 
 would be still a bit ! — very hot for it to be
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 21 9 
 
 running about so fast — must put itself Into a 
 great perspiration — eh ! eh ! what a joke ! ' 
 
 Apparently Major Priggins thought It a 
 very good one, for he laughed until he had 
 to take out his pocket-handkerchief to wipe 
 his face. Captain Snuffins joined in with his 
 infantine treble. Captain Marshall looked at 
 me, and did not laugh. 
 
 ' Would you not like a boat ? ' he said. 
 ' Do now, Miss Maude, and we'll leave the 
 others here ; they needn't come, you know.' 
 
 * Oh, needn't they ! ' exclaimed Major 
 Priggins. ' Pretty good, by George ! I 
 should think they need not ! What do you 
 say. Miss Margaret ? Must they ? Ton my 
 word, if they fall overboard, they'll be a 
 couple of water-ducks, and no mistake ! ' 
 
 * Quite withy, 'pon my thoul,' simpered 
 Captain Snuffins. 
 
 ' Withy ? What's that ? You aren't think- 
 ing of Samson and Delilah, are you ? ' said 
 Major Priggins. ' Oh ! witty — beg pardon 
 — 'pon honour, Snuffins, beg pardon ; really 
 do.'
 
 2 20 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 ' But do, Miss Maude,' persisted Captain 
 Marshall. 
 
 ' No, I won't,' I said ; I dare say rudely, 
 I felt so provoked. 
 
 'A young lady's ''no" goes for "yes," 
 Marshall,' said the Major. * Pick up your 
 feathers, my man ; Miss Maude means 
 yes ! 
 
 ' I always say what I mean,' I said. 
 
 ' Thuch decithion ! ' murmured Captain 
 Snuffins. 
 
 * Oh, don't begin arguing ! ' cried Mag- 
 gie ; ' if you begin with Maude, she never 
 finishes.' 
 
 ' Should like to begin, 'pon honour,' said 
 the Major ; ' very charming, never to finish. 
 Don't you think so, Marshall ? ' 
 
 ' That depends,' began Captain Marshall. 
 
 * Not at all, man. Hang it ! What a queer 
 temper you're in ! what's it all about ? Miss 
 Maude, have you been looking cross ? ' 
 
 ' Maude always looks cross,' said Maggie, 
 * when I enjoy myself the most. She thinks
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 221 
 
 it's all waste of time. What's the eood of 
 coming to Scarborough, if you are not to 
 enjoy yourself ? ' 
 
 * Enjoy it ! ' I said ; ' do you call this 
 enjoyment f ' 
 
 * The very height of it,' simpered Captain 
 Snuffins, edging nearer Maggie ; ' now, ithn't 
 it, Mith Margaret?' 
 
 ' Of course,' said Maggie, simpering back. 
 ' Oh my ! Look at that petticoat ! work half a 
 yard deep ! it's sure not to be real ; she's 
 such a common-looking person, not a lady at 
 all. I wonder what it cost a yard ? ' 
 
 * Thomething very conthiderable,' said 
 Captain Snuffins, with a deeply meditative 
 air. 
 
 * So you don't like Scarborough, Miss 
 Maude,' said the Major. 
 
 ' Like it ! ' I exclaimed, ' I hate it ; I 
 don't mean it, but the people and the habits, 
 and the way of spending time.' 
 
 * How energetic ! ' exclaimed Captain 
 Snufhns.
 
 2 22 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 * La, Maude ! ' yawned Maggie, ' don't 
 now begin to argue, it's so hot ! ' 
 
 ' Dare thay Mith Maude likth reading, 
 and all that kind of thing, better,' said Cap- 
 tain Snuffins ; ' now, / think thith ith abtho- 
 lutely delightful.' 
 
 ' Literary turn, eh ? ' said the Major ; 
 'very nice indeed, all that kind of thing — 
 Byron, Moore, Shelley, &c. &c. — liked it my- 
 self in my young days — find it too fatiguing 
 now. Miss Maude, but very charming in you. 
 Look at that old puppy ogling that girl ! How 
 he is dyed and got up ! Hang it ! before I 
 would dye my whiskers, I'd be shaved ! ' 
 
 ' Why, I thought you did dye them, 
 Major,' said Captain Marshall, innocently. 
 
 ' Go to the devil, sir, with what you 
 thought, and wait there until I send for you ! ' 
 shouted the Major, in a rage. ' Beg pardon, 
 Miss Maude — really do, Marshall — didn't 
 mean it — but you should think before you 
 speak.' 
 
 ' I did think,' said the crestfallen Captain
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 223 
 
 Marshall ; ' Vm sure I thought it was only 
 the truth.' 
 
 * I wouldn't be cross, I'm sure,' said 
 Maggie ; ' it really is too hot to be cross.' 
 
 ' I hope you don't feel very fatigued,' 
 said her companion ; ' you don't look it — 
 thuth a charming colour, to be thure ! ' 
 
 ' Here's Miss , Maude got a charming 
 colour,' said the Major. ' Excuse me. Miss 
 Maude, but you do really look rather blue. 
 Don't find no very agreeable company, I'm 
 afraid. What can I talk about to amuse you, 
 as you won't talk yourself ? ' 
 
 ' If you will find something worth talk- 
 ing about, Major Priggins, I will try and 
 talk.' 
 
 ' Really — very obliging. Miss Margaret, 
 what interests your sister ? ' 
 
 ' Dirty children,' said Maggie, ' and Sun- 
 day-schools ; sitting by herself, and going to 
 mysterious places with Gypsie. Maude is 
 very stupid, I must say. I believe she would
 
 2 24 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 come out even here in a gingham, if she 
 might/ 
 
 * And would look as well as anybody 
 else in silks and satins ! ' exclaimed my ad- 
 mirer. 
 
 * Bravo ! ' cried the Major ; ' well done, my 
 boy ! Isn't that something to please you, Miss 
 Maude ? ' 
 
 * No, not at all,' I said. 
 
 * I give in,' said the Major ; ' do some of 
 you suggest something that will please Miss 
 Maude.' 
 
 * Theemth to be rather difficult,' said 
 Captain Snuffins. * I find wonderful amuthe- 
 ment here ; niceth plathe going, Thcarbo- 
 rough. Don't you think tho, Mith Mar- 
 garet ? ' 
 
 * Oh, charming ! ' said Maggie ; * but 
 Maude is always different to everyone else. 
 Who is that handsome man. Major Prig- 
 gins ? ' 
 
 * What handsome man ? ' cried the Major. 
 * He handsome ! He has a hooked nose ; he
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 225 
 
 has Indeed, Miss Margaret. He's staying at 
 
 the ; younger son of some unknown 
 
 family — has to put on those airs because he 
 hasn't much else to put on — worn that coat 
 ever since he came — has, 'pon honour, poor 
 dog ! I wonder you should admire him ! ' 
 
 ' I don't admire him particularly,' said 
 Maggie, who had in perfection the art of 
 making herself agreeable to whatever gentle- 
 man she talked to. ' There are a great many 
 handsomer men here,' she added, with a fasci- 
 nating smile. 
 
 Major Priggins bowed. 
 
 ' I think there are a great many muffs,' 
 said Captain Marshall ; ' seems to me the place 
 is full of them.' 
 
 * Dear me ! ' cried Maggie. ' I wonder you 
 should say so. Captain Marshall ! How very 
 rude of you ! You're a perfect bear ! ' 
 
 ' And a very thulky one, too ! ' lisped the 
 treble at Maggie's right hand. 
 
 'Large mind Marshall has,' said the Major ; 
 ' must have, eh, Miss Maude ? — can't find 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 2 26 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 amusement In what interests us — must be 
 pre- occupied, to say nothing more — pour out 
 your sorrows, old boy, and I'll shrive you — 
 that's the right thing, isn't it, Miss Maude ? 
 — that's in your line — go to church every 
 Sunday, Miss Maude, at home?' 
 
 ' Certainly,' I said. 
 
 * And to Sunday-school ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 'Very nice, I'm sure! Dear me, what a 
 sudden colour — very nice to blush so — looks 
 so interesting — ten times better than rouge — 
 never rouge, Miss Maude, when you blush so 
 charmingly — nature's rouge — putting it on 
 rather thickly just now. Marshall goes to 
 prayers regular as the clock — good boy, Mar- 
 shall — goes when he's not on duty, Miss Maude 
 — does his duty on or off — nice church at your 
 place. Miss Maude ? — oh ! beg pardon — papa 
 clergyman — charming old gent — quite for- 
 gotten that — heard Marshall say what a 
 preacher he was — intense respect for the cloth, 
 and for him in particular — have, on honour —
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 22 7 
 
 felt it when quite a boy — didn't know what it 
 was then — know now — right feeHng, you know, 
 and all that kind of thing ! ' 
 
 ' If I don't think ith beginning to rain ! ' 
 said Captain Snuffins. 
 
 ' Rain ! ' cried the Major. ' Ought to 
 know better — confound it ! what is it raining 
 for ? — felt a drop — two drops — true as the 
 compass — raining, and going to pour down, 
 and no mistake ! What a confounded nui- 
 sance ! ' 
 
 ' I'm sure I am very glad,' said Captain 
 Marshall ; ' anything for a change.' 
 
 ' Oh, you disagreeable ! ' cried Maggie. 
 * He says he's very glad, and I've got on my 
 new " costume " ! What shall I do — what shall 
 I do?' 
 
 * Why, go home,' bluntly suggested Cap- 
 tain Marshall. 
 
 ' And how am I to get there, I should like 
 to know ? ' said Maggie. ' I can't have a car- 
 riage here. I shall have my dress ruined. 
 
 Q 2
 
 2 28 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 Oh, Captain Marshall, you really are dis- 
 agreeable ; you're almost as bad as Maude ! ' 
 ' Why, I didn't bring the rain,' said the 
 Captain. 
 
 * No, but you said you were glad ; and I 
 know in your heart you're very glad. I be- 
 lieve you want my dress to get quite spoiled. 
 What shall I do ? ' 
 
 * Make as much haste as you can,' said the 
 practical Captain ; * we can get a carriage at 
 the gates.' 
 
 * With now, I'd my military cloak to thap 
 you in,' said Captain Snuffins ; ' thould be tho 
 glad ! ' 
 
 When we reached the gates. Captain Mar- 
 shall, on whom always devolved anything that 
 had to be done, soon found a carriage, and put 
 us in, and as he did so, he said, ' I hope, Miss 
 Maude, you are not wet.' I hope my answer 
 was very civil, for we left him standing hat in 
 hand, and looking quite radiant. 
 
 Captain Snuffins went with us ; he being 
 formed of that delicate material which will
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 2 29 
 
 not bear a shower of rain with impunity. 
 How would he stand a shower of grape-shot 
 or a volley of musketry ? 
 
 Well, I left Captain r^larshall happy, and 
 am glad I did. Shall I marry this man — shall 
 I ? This question comes to me again and 
 again. It comes now, as I sit by this open 
 window, pen in hand, trying to recall every 
 word of our morning's entertainment. This 
 is the way in which we have spent our time 
 for the last five weeks. I honestly believe 
 that this is a fair sample of all our conversa- 
 tions in our walks and drives. I have not 
 exaggerated a thing ; I have put it down as 
 far as I could remember, word for word. And 
 is there one syllable that is worth recalling, or 
 was ever worth uttering ? Not one. 
 
 How pleasant this rain is ! It is coming 
 now, fast and heavy. All day there has been 
 the feeling of a storm in the air — a quiet, dim, 
 strange brooding ; a whisper of something to 
 come ; a mysterious Presence, as if the storm- 
 god hovered invisible. It seems wrong to
 
 230 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 break this strange, still gloom, even with the 
 noise of the falling rain ; it seems as if it 
 oueht to wait until we see what the silence 
 portends. 
 
 There ! I hear a low growl — the first 
 sullen footstep of the storm ! Now a flash ! 
 How it shot over the sea ! And the waves an- 
 swer. They lift themselves up in strange 
 beauty, growing wilder and wilder every 
 moment. Billows now they are — billows, 
 angry and tossed, and lashing themselves into 
 fury ! Papa and Gypsie ! They are not home 
 yet, but the steamer must be in. I have been 
 watching the last half-hour to see them drive 
 up. I wonder how it is that they do not come. 
 They expected to be back before now. I wish 
 Gypsie were here. There is the dressing- 
 bell ; I will go and help Maggie.
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 2^1 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Wednesday, October 6- 
 
 I havp: had such a dreadful headache all the 
 day that I have not been able to do any- 
 thing. Aunt Gretta insisted upon my lying 
 down. I have been tiy^ing, but I could not 
 sleep. I cannot lie any longer ; I cannot be 
 still. I will try and think quietly about last 
 night, but it seems too dreadful even to think 
 about. My little Gypsie, my brother I I 
 could not give you up. You are all I have, 
 Gypsie. I can look straight into your eyes, 
 and not blush and be ashamed for I know 
 not what. I can put my arms round you, 
 and shed hot tears and hot kisses, and you 
 do not reproach me and make me shrink 
 back. I can sit with your little hand in
 
 232 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 mine, and feel that I am not altogether 
 accursed and cast out from every loving 
 heart. My little Gypsie ! But God has not 
 taken you ! I reverently acknowledge that 
 there is a God, and that He is merciful ! 
 
 Can I give any connected account of last 
 night ? I will try. Let me think. 
 
 We had dinner, but it grew dreadful 
 towards the end, for the storm raged furi- 
 ously, and though they shut it out, and the 
 room was brilliantly lighted, and there was 
 as much noise and laughing as usual, I heard 
 every roar of the sea, and every sough of the 
 blast. I was not far from Aunt Gretta, and 
 it seemed as if her voice found its way to 
 my ear every instant. She was talking 
 about papa and Gypsie to an old lady who 
 sat next her. They must have been mutually 
 pleased with each other, for their tongues 
 wagged faster and their words grew quicker 
 each moment. Captain Marshall was very 
 kind : he tried to talk about everything he 
 could, to prevent me thinking about the
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 233 
 
 * White Jacket,' the steamer papa and Gypsie 
 had gone in ; but still, I could hear Aunt 
 Gretta's voice through all. She was saying 
 that if papa and Gypsie were not washed 
 overboard, the packet would never make its 
 way in that night, and they would be out at 
 sea until the morning, and they would both 
 take cold and die, or, if not, they would be 
 cripples all the rest of their lives from rheu- 
 matism. If they stayed on board, they 
 w^ould be drenched to the skin ; and if they 
 went into the cabin, they would be stifled 
 with the heat, and there would be sure to be 
 someone there just recovering from fever, 
 and they would take it, especially Gypsie — 
 children always did catch things so soon — 
 and if he recovered from the fever, he would 
 have nervous debility or congestion of the 
 brain. 
 
 I was so foolish and nervous, that I 
 found myself listening to Aunt Gretta, as if 
 she were a prophet, and was thankful, when 
 w^e rose from the table, to slip into my own 
 room.
 
 234 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 I threw up the window, and what a scene 
 was before me ! Was it terror, or fear, or 
 anguish, or desire, which made me fall on 
 my knees by the open window ? I cannot 
 tell. Nor do I know how long I had been 
 there, when the door suddenly opened, and 
 Maggie entered. She came into the dark- 
 ness, almost like an apparition ; her white 
 evening dress gleaming In the gloom, and 
 the jewels on her neck and arms glittering 
 in each flash of the lightning. 
 
 * Good gracious, Maude ! what are you 
 doing ? ' she exclaimed. ' Praying ? Oh, my 
 goodness, what a flash ! What on earth will 
 become of papa and Gypsle ? They haven't 
 come yet, and no one knows what has 
 become of the packet. It ought to have been 
 in two hours ago. There's another flash ! Oh, 
 I wish we were all safe at home ! ' and Maggie 
 began to cry piteously. ' It was so stupid of 
 papa to go and take Gypsle,' she sobbed. 
 
 ' Hush, Maggie. You must not say so of 
 papa. Who could have foreseen a storm a 
 day like this ? '
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 235, 
 
 * Who indeed ? And Reynolds had made 
 my pink barege look lovely for the pro- 
 'menade to-night, and this horrid rain to 
 come ! I did want to wear it, for that vulgar 
 Mrs. Conder is sure to get one the same 
 shade. I saw her looking at me the whole 
 time when I wore it before. Oh dear ! I 
 wish they would come ! It would not do to 
 go down to the drawing-room to play and sing 
 until they do come, would it, Maude ? Do you 
 think people would say anything, if I did ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I should think they would say a 
 good deal,' I replied, shortly enough. 
 
 ' Dear, you needn't speak in that tone. 
 Why shouldn't I play ? Charlotte is sewing,, 
 as if for her life, and Mr. Retnor is talking 
 the most horrid stuff to some gaunt man 
 with a flat nose. You never saw anyone so 
 ugly. He put his great foot on my dress just 
 now, and has torn it quite two inches.' 
 
 ' Oh, Maggie ! do leave my room,' I said. 
 
 ' I am sure I won't ! Where am I to go. 
 to ? You are dreadfully ill-tempered, Maude!.
 
 236 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 Good gracious me ! What a flash ! I beheve 
 it has bhnded me. I shall have such a head- 
 ache after this, and look as white as a ghost 
 to-morrow ; and I can't put on that blue dress 
 I meant to wear, if I have no colour. Will 
 it never give over raining ? Listen to the 
 wind ! 1 shouldn't wonder if Gypsie's new 
 velvet suit isn't quite spoiled.' 
 
 I could bear it no longer. I got up to 
 leave the room, but a tremendous peal of 
 thunder seemed to make the house shake, to 
 its centre. Maggie screamed aloud, and held 
 so fast to me that I could not move. In the 
 silence which succeeded the peal and the 
 scream, a knock was heard at the door. I 
 savagely shook off Maggie, who immediately 
 buried her head in the bed-clothes, and 
 stopped her ears with both hands. I ran to 
 the door — it was a maid with a message — ' If 
 you please, miss, if you are not engaged, a 
 gentleman would like to speak with you a 
 moment.' 
 
 * I am not engaged. Where is he ? '
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 237- 
 
 * He is waiting here, miss.' 
 
 I followed the girl out of the room, and 
 a few yards further on I found Captain 
 Marshall. He stood uneasily, chanofino- from 
 one foot to the other. ' Miss Maude,' he 
 began, ' I beg your pardon for interrupting 
 you, but I thought — you know — I felt sure 
 you're anxious, and it's not so bad outside. 
 One always feels these storms more, listening 
 inside ; and I thought perhaps you would 
 like to go down to the pier, and then you 
 would see Gy^sie the first. I am going now. 
 The packet is sure to be in before we get 
 there ; no doubt, she's damaged some of her 
 machinery. These trip packets are often old, 
 crazy things, but there's not the least real 
 danger ; she's sure to be in, and then you 
 can come up with Gypsie.' 
 
 ' A thousand thanks. Captain ^Marshall/ 
 I cried. ' I have been longing to go.' 
 
 I ran off before I had finished speaking, 
 and Captain ^Marshall cried out, ' Be sure 
 you wrap up, Miss Maude, as much as ever
 
 •238 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 you can ; it blows a hurricane, and put on 
 something water-tight' 
 
 I was ready in two minutes. Fortunately, 
 Maggie had buried her head so deeply and 
 stopped her ears so securely, that she neither 
 saw nor heard me. 
 
 ' Well, if you aren't a brick ! ' was Captain 
 Marshall's exclamation, when I re-appeared. 
 ' Excuse me, Miss Maude ; why, how the — 
 how you do walk ! ' 
 
 We were at the foot of the grand stair- 
 case, and stood on the flight of steps leading 
 to the entrance, before he had finished 
 speaking. 
 
 ' You take away my breath more than 
 the storm,' he said, laughing. ' Do take my 
 arm ; you'll be blown into the sea if you 
 don't.' 
 
 ' No, no,' I said ; and not another word 
 was exchanged between us until we reached 
 the pier. 
 
 I noticed a crowd of people — anxious, 
 waiting, looking, fearing ! Wives and children
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 239 
 
 and sisters and brothers of fishermen, whose 
 little barques were being tossed on the ocean 
 like a straw, flung hither and thither by the 
 wild winds of heaven. Praying, sobbing, 
 stood some of the group — calm, tearless, 
 others — but I ^could not think of them. The 
 packet — where was the packet, which should 
 have been in so long ago ? Not a sign — not 
 a trace of her visible ; not a light, not a 
 signal, to tell she neared us ! Nothing but 
 the howl of the wind, the crash of the 
 thunder, the glare of the lightning, and the 
 boom of the waves, which burst with fury 
 and dashed with madness over the pier and 
 the shore and the rocks. I was drenched 
 to the skin in a moment, but I did not feel 
 it. I heard Captain Marshall begging me 
 to stand back and come to a more sheltered 
 place, but his words had no meaning. I 
 heard a confusion of voices around me in the 
 lull of the storm, and I noticed the words 
 * packet 'and ' Flamborough Head.' There 
 was danger, then — real danger. Had the
 
 240 MAUDE MAYNARD, 
 
 packet met with some bad accident ; could 
 she weather the gale ; had she rounded the 
 Point ; was that a signal of distress heard ; 
 had she many on board ; who was her 
 captain ; would the storm have commenced 
 before she left ; had they put back, or never 
 started ; was she strong, fitted for a storm — 
 but who had foreseen a storm like this in 
 October — could she remain at open sea all 
 night, and not be engulphed ? 
 
 I heard it all ! Gypsie, my Gypsie ! The 
 one on this wide earth who had always loved 
 me, whose warm kisses had kept my heart 
 from breaking, the touch of whose hands 
 had kept my life-blood flowing ! Gypsie, 
 swallowed up in the boiling sea, lashed by 
 those billows into eternity ! Gypsie, entombed 
 in those huge mountains of water ! Gypsie, 
 lying cold and stiff where my hands could 
 not reach him, my love could not rescue him, 
 my touch could not warm him, my kisses 
 could not give him life ! 
 
 No, no ! Great God of Heaven ! My
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 24 I 
 
 soul cried out to Thee then ! It acknowledeed 
 Thee ! Thou canst not be so cruel, so 
 terrible in Thy power ! Take me, if Thou 
 wilt ! Let Thy waves dash this poor worth- 
 less body to atoms against these rocks — it 
 matters not ! Let the wild sea laus^h and 
 play and toy with these limbs until not one 
 remains clasping the other ! Let the winds 
 carry these atoms to the four comers of the 
 universe ; let not one vestige remain to tell 
 that I have ever trod Thy earth, but spare 
 my darling ! God, Thou wilt, Thou must, 
 Thou shalt ! Holding there, with both 
 hands clinging to the nearest support I could 
 find, firm and moveless, I vowed it, and grew 
 still ! My love was mightier than the 
 maddened sea, firmer than the rock, stronger 
 than the waves ! Gypsie shall be saved ! 
 
 The life-boat had put out. Brave men, 
 noble men ! who cared little what befell them, 
 if only they might save some. Again and 
 again the lightning showed it riding gallantly 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 on the billows, buried in the trough of the 
 sea, dark amid the glittering scintillations. 
 
 I was conscious that Captain Marshall 
 kept as near me as he could, trying to shield 
 me, and cover me with something which he 
 held in his hand, and then, as the storm grew 
 more and more violent, he urged my return, 
 begging me at least to come to some shelter, 
 or to come under cover of the Lighthouse ; 
 but I did not reply one word, not even when 
 he swore at his own folly in bringing me out 
 on such a night. 
 
 And still the storm grew, and the vexed 
 sea shook the shore in a wild and furious 
 embrace, while flash after flash of blinding 
 light showed the ruin made. In those 
 momentary glimpses, we saw spars, and 
 timber, and planks, strewing the sea like 
 fragments of sea- weed. And now two — 
 three — four bodies are washed on shore, and 
 there clutched by strong hands, made wild 
 with anguish ; and we heard the cry of the
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 243 
 
 widow and orphan of fishermen mingHng 
 their undertone of agony with the shrieks of 
 the tempest. 
 
 But Gypsie shall live ! ^ly soul had said 
 it, and it should be ! 
 
 A peal as of a world being rent in twain ; 
 a light like the glare of a blazing universe ; a 
 blast of the wind, as if every power of the 
 infernal regions were being let loose on a 
 doomed earth ; a boom of the sea, as if every 
 son and daughter of Neptune rang out their 
 voices in one mighty wail ! — and there was a 
 pause, a hush, a calm ; and in that calm, a 
 voice close to me spoke, and the words it said 
 were these — ' Be not afraid, only believe.' 
 
 I did not start, or turn, or move, or 
 tremble. I did not try to see where the 
 words came from — from heaven, or earth, 
 or sea, or sky, or man, or God ! I only 
 listened. 
 
 Again a crash, a glare, a boom ! Some 
 shrieks of anguish — then a lull ; and again a 
 voice ; and the words it said were these — 
 
 R 2
 
 244 MAUDE MAVNARD. 
 
 ' He holdeth the waters In the hollow of His 
 hand.' 
 
 Again the artillery of heaven rang over 
 earth, and the sea lifted up her voice and re- 
 plied. Again a lurid glare shone on pale faces 
 and powerless hands, and again there was a 
 lull, and again a voice, and it said — ' There 
 shall not a hair of his head perish.' 
 
 I believed it, yes, I believed it. I held 
 my breath, but I heard no more ; for amid the 
 din and roar of the storm, arose a cry — - *-She 
 comes ! The packet ! She will weather the 
 storm ! ' and then every voice was lost, while 
 the heavens spoke, and the echoing earth 
 and the heaving sea replied. 
 
 She did come ! Her lights gleamed ; the 
 wild sea flooded her decks, her lights were 
 extinguished, all was dark ; she was lost to 
 sight. Again the sky was lit up, and she 
 showed a dark mass In the glitter and 
 radiance, and again all was dark ! Lights 
 again ! and again the stormy sea extinguished 
 them ; and then, as If in defig^nce, there burst
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 245 
 
 forth from the rolhng and pitching funnel a 
 blaze and a volume of flame. It rose, lurid 
 and vivid, from the black abyss of ocean, like 
 a fire from the v&ry mouth of hell ! One 
 moment, and it was gone ! All was dark save 
 where the lightning played its forked beams 
 over the boiling trough of the sea. A mur- 
 mur, a sob, a cry, and as it died away, a 
 voice close beside me said, ' He bringeth 
 them into the desired haven.' 
 
 He did ! Lights again ! They gleamed, 
 they glittered, they glared ! they were extin- 
 guished ! but the next forked flash showed 
 the steamer — not prostrate, not engulphed, 
 not sinking, but making headway ; wrestling, 
 tossed, but nearing the shore ! Onward she 
 came. • The life-boat was nearing her,' and 
 she was nearing it. 
 
 A slight calm. The wind sunk a little, the 
 thunder was not so loud, the lightning not 
 so vivid ; a little, a little respite ! The steamer 
 came nearer and nearer. No sound rose 
 from the crowd. Strong men hushed their
 
 246 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 breath, and little children forgot to cry. 
 Nearer! close at hand ! but she can come no 
 nearer. She halts, she stops, she is at a stand- 
 still, but for the dash and swell and heaving- 
 of the waves. And now the life-boat is close 
 to her — a pause — she is filled, her full comple- 
 ment, and we wait — how long ? It is done I 
 They are safely landed ! Captain Marshall 
 speaks ; he is close to me. He has been down 
 helping them on shore. ' They had not come, 
 but no fear now ; they will come in the next 
 lot. Dr. Maynard is so plucky, he would 
 wait ; but Gypsie is safe — as safe as if he 
 were in your hands, Miss Maude ! ' 
 
 Again a flash showed the life-boat close 
 to the steamer ; again she filled, she came 
 in, she went back ; and the moments were 
 hours, and the hours days, and the days 
 years, and the years a lifetime ! 
 
 Could I see in that flash — was it, a tall, 
 dark, erect figure ; and closely clasped to 
 him a child ? Darkness again, all darkness, 
 but they were close now ; they were coming
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 247 
 
 off one by one, hove on shore by hands 
 unflinching, steady, firm — hands which seized 
 and held each passenger Hke a vice. I saw 
 them — papa and Gypsie ! I could see by the 
 light of the lanterns and torches now. There 
 he was ! his long hair tossed by the storm ! 
 One moment more, and they would be on 
 shore. Papa had to put Gypsie out of his 
 hands for the men to take ; and in that 
 moment the sea gave one wild heave, as if in 
 madness that she had been robbed of her 
 prey, and a cry rose from the shore ! One 
 had been washed overboard, and that one 
 was Gypsie ! 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 I tried to rush for^vard. A strong hand 
 — Captain Marshall's — held me back, bound 
 me fast, and rooted me to the spot ; striving 
 and writhing, and wrestling, but all in vain ! 
 I could not move, but they could not stop 
 my seeing, and my eyes seemed to pierce to 
 the depths of the sea. One horrible instant 
 of anguish and horror, and a man plunged
 
 248 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 into the sea, which rolled back with an angry 
 howl like the wail of a lost spirit. I saw him, 
 and knew him ! He battled, he strove, he 
 sunk, he rose ; he showed a speck on the 
 seething waves ; he disappeared, he floated, 
 he had got Gypsie ! Saved ! It rang along 
 the shore. I remember nothing after that.
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 249 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 Saturday, October 9. 
 
 I AM better to-day. I will try and finish. I 
 can bear to think about it now, because 
 Gypsie is beside me. 
 
 I suppose I must have fainted the 
 moment I knew that Gypsie was safe. For 
 I remember nothing more until I opened my 
 eyes and found myself in a strange place. I 
 tried to sit up. A voice said, ' She is better 
 now, poor thing ! ' I turned to look at the 
 woman who had spoken. ' We brought you 
 in here, Miss, for a while. You are better 
 now,' she said. 
 
 ' Yes ; I should like to go home, to the 
 Hotel. I think I could walk now.' 
 
 * There is a gentleman outside, Miss. I'll
 
 250 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 tell him you are better ; ' and when she left 
 the room, I heard a voice, which I recognised 
 as Captain Marshall's, enquiring how I was, 
 and if he might come in, and then he ap- 
 peared. 
 
 ' Are you really better, Miss Maude ? ' 
 he said. ' My goodness ! I hope you'll take 
 no harm. What a fool I was to bring you out 
 such a night ! But you are better ? ' 
 
 I did not speak, and Captain Marshall 
 said hurriedly, * Gypsie is quite safe ; quite 
 safe, on my word and honour ! ' he repeated, 
 as he saw the doubt in my eyes. 
 
 * Who saved him ? ' 
 
 * By George ! I don't know. The 
 pluckiest thing in creation ! He swam like a 
 tortoise ; never saw anything like it in my 
 life ! What a mercy to be sure. Miss Maude ! ' 
 
 ' But do you not know who he was ? ' 
 
 * No ; no one does yet ; but I'll get to 
 know for you. I'll enquire about it ; but 
 would you not like to go home ? ' 
 
 ' Yes please, at once,' and I tried to walk 
 to the door, but tottered.
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 25 I 
 
 ' Stay, stay,' said the captain ; * I'll get you 
 a carriage in no time, if such a thing is to be 
 had on such a night as this ; it's enough to 
 blow the soul out of one's body. Sit down^ 
 Miss Maude.' 
 
 I did so, and as he shut the door I closed 
 my eyes, and seemed to hear again the words, 
 ' He brinofeth them to their desired haven.' 
 
 Did no one know who had saved Gypsie ? 
 Yes ; I did. 
 
 We were soon at the hotel. The noise 
 and bustle even in the hall seemed over- 
 powering. I slipped aside before my ap- 
 pearance had been noticed, and in my 
 bewilderment turned to the friendly captain, 
 who was still with me — ' Will you ask some- 
 one to take me to where Gypsie is ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly ; but if I may suggest, Miss 
 Maude, I would ask you to go to bed at once 
 and have something hot, or you will take 
 your death of cold. I will tell Miss May- 
 nard,' and before I could stop him he was 
 gone.
 
 2^2 MAUDE MAYNARD, 
 
 Tell Charlotte ! In whatever state I 
 was I knew, I was certain of one thing — 
 Charlotte's anger ; and I wanted to be spared 
 it until I felt stronger. But it was too late. 
 Captain Marshall had gone, and he soon 
 returned with Charlotte, to whom he had 
 evidently been describing my state in warm 
 terms. He then left us together. 
 
 ' What is all this ? ' Charlotte said, as she 
 deliberately surveyed my appearance. ' Some 
 new folly, I suppose ! Surely, there is enough 
 anxiety to-night without you adding to it. 
 Where have you been ? ' 
 
 ' On the pier,' I faintly said, longing that 
 I could get away from her gaze. 
 
 ' On the pier, a night like this ! You really 
 would try the patience of a saint, Maude ! 
 Have you no common sense, that you must 
 add to everyone's trouble by acting like a 
 child ? I suppose now you wish to be nursed, 
 and made a heroine of ? ' 
 
 ' I do not want to give any trouble,' I
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 
 
 03 
 
 said, as firmly as I could speak ; ' I only want 
 to know where Gypsie is ? ' 
 
 ' Gypsie will do quite well without your 
 care, thank you,' said Charlotte, with a 
 sneer ; ' we can perhaps manage to see after 
 him. It would be a more desirable way of 
 showing the love for Gypsie, of which you 
 make so much parade, by behaving like other 
 people, instead of setting him such an 
 example of folly.' 
 
 My nerves had been strongly wrought 
 upon, and I could not bear it. I sobbed 
 aloud. ' Charlotte, vou are verv cruel ! ' 
 
 ' Am I, indeed ?' said Charlotte. ' Can't 
 you tell me something new ? I trust you 
 may meet with no greater cruelty as you- 
 pass through life ; ' and she left me without 
 another word. 
 
 With a great effort I reached my own room. 
 I rang my bell, but I repeated the ring three 
 times before I was attended to. Amonof 
 those multitudinous bells, and with that armv 
 of visitors, the only wonder was that any
 
 254 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 person ever was attended to. When a 
 chamber-maid appeared, she Hfted up her 
 hands. 
 
 ' Good gracious, Miss ! were you on board 
 too ? ' 
 
 * No, no ; but I have been out, and am 
 wet.' 
 
 * I should think you are wet. Miss. You 
 look as if you had come out of the sea ! 
 What can I do for you. Miss ? Shall I ask 
 your aunt or sister to come ? ' 
 
 ' No, no, I want to see Gypsie.' 
 The girl expostulated, but I would not 
 listen. One look would be enough, but that 
 look I must have, or I could not close my 
 eyes ; and when I was somewhat more pre- 
 sentable, she helped me along the corridor, 
 for I could scarcely stand, and I went into 
 Aunt Gretta's room, where Gypsie had been 
 taken. 
 
 Aunt Gretta was too much occupied in 
 the delightful occupation of nursing to notice 
 me, and Charlotte, who was there too, merely
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 255 
 
 looked at me as I went in ; but I saw all I 
 wanted to see — Gypsie quietly sleeping, his 
 breathing regular, his face calm, his hair 
 falling about him ; just as I had seen him a 
 dozen times in his own little bed at home. 
 I kissed him, unheeding Aunt Gretta's warn- 
 ing hand, and Charlotte's angry look, and 
 then I stole out of the room to the girl, who 
 waited for me outside. 
 
 She hurried me back, and without a word 
 on my part, helped me to undress, and put me 
 into the bed she had warmed for me. Then 
 she went out of the room and soon returned 
 with some hot cordial, which I swallowed as 
 unresistingly as a child. I was only anxious 
 to be alone, and she soon left me. 
 
 I lay back on my pillow, every limb 
 aching. The lightnings flashed still before 
 my eyes, and the thunders rolled in my ears ; 
 and around me was the sea — roaring, tossing, 
 foaming ! I saw it again in all its fury I and I 
 pressed my hand tightly over my eyes to 
 shut out that sight on the shore, that cry
 
 256 MAUDE MAVNARD. 
 
 from the crowd, that rush into the sea ! And 
 there came to me again the words, sweet and 
 low, as I had last heard them — * Be not afraid, 
 only believe ; ' and I did believe. 
 
 I went down in the morning, feeling stiff 
 and ill. The first person whom I saw In our 
 sitting-room was papa. He looked just as 
 usual. I went up to him and kissed him. * I 
 hope, papa, you are none the worse for last 
 night.' 
 
 * Not any, thank you, which is a cause of 
 great thankfulness and calls for much grati- 
 tude on my part. My danger was unforeseen 
 and unexpected, and from it I have been 
 mercifully delivered ; but I much regret to 
 learn that you voluntarily and unnecessarily 
 exposed yourself to the fury of the elements ; 
 and I fear, from what Charlotte says, that 
 you will have to incur the penalty of your 
 temerity in a fit of illness.' 
 
 ' Of course, you must make the worst of 
 It to papa,' I broke out, to Charlotte, who was 
 making breakfast with her usual alacrity and
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 257 
 
 business-like manner, and looking precisely 
 as she always looked. ' You are always trying 
 to get me into trouble, Charlotte.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' she said, coolly. * I am sure 
 I might spare myself the pains, as it seems 
 likely you would get yourself into trouble 
 under any circumstances.' 
 
 * I wish you would leave me alone, 
 Charlotte ; it is all I ask of you.' 
 
 I trembled all over, and was irritable to 
 the last degree : I knew I was. 
 
 ' IMaude ! ' interrupted papa, severely, ' I 
 much regret to observe your words and 
 manner in speaking to your elder sister. 
 Surely, it is most unbecoming in you to be 
 causing dissension at a time when humility, 
 gratitude, and thankfulness should be the pre- 
 vailing sentiments of our hearts.' 
 
 ' I am grateful ; I am thankful,' I said ; 
 * but why should Charlotte always be allowed 
 to taunt and vex me ? ' 
 
 * Well ! ' said Charlotte, ' nice language, I 
 am sure ! Perhaps you will be kind enough 
 VOL. I. s
 
 25 B MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 to inform us for our edification what I have 
 said.' 
 
 ' Your temper and manner at this moment, 
 my child,' said papa, ' bespeak anything but 
 gratitude and thankfulness. Surely, the 
 events of the past evening might have taught 
 even you how unworthy it is to make a 
 quarrel over totally inadequate causes.' 
 
 ' What quarrel have I made, papa ? ' I 
 held fast by the table, for I could scarcely 
 stand ; my cheeks were burning, my hands 
 deathly cold. I had not wanted to quarrel ; 
 I had come into the room very thankful for 
 papa's safety, and anxious to let him see that 
 I was so. 
 
 ' Oh dear me, no ! Maude never quarrels ; 
 she has the sweetest temper in the world,' 
 said Charlotte. 
 
 ' I did not speak to you, Charlotte ; I 
 spoke to papa ; and I asked what quarrel I 
 had made.' 
 
 ' And is not your sister to be allowed to 
 speak, Maude ? I suppose in such an im-
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 259 
 
 portant matter as your exculpation, only your- 
 self is to be heard.' 
 
 ' Papa, you are very unjust to me ! ' 
 
 * Indeed ! ' said papa. ' It is rather a novel 
 mode of procedure, I must acknowledge, for 
 a daughter to accuse her father of injustice, 
 because he mildly recommends her not to 
 quarrel ! ' 
 
 ' You will not see what I mean,' I cried. 
 ' I am always wrong. Do what I will, I get 
 into trouble ! ' 
 
 ' It should show you, ]\Iaude, how bad 
 must be the temper, and how sinful the habits 
 in which you habitually indulge, if such be 
 the case, when everyone around you is 
 striving for your welfare and anxious to do 
 you good. How often have I warned you, 
 that that untamed will and violent temper of 
 yours will bring you bitter fruit some day, 
 if you do not strive to subdue them ; for 
 "where envying and strife is, there is con- 
 fusion and every evil work." ' 
 
 * Maude is such a martyr ! ' put in Char- 
 
 s 2
 
 26o MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 lotte. * Nobody suffers like she does ; It is 
 only a wonder how she lives through it 
 all ! ' 
 
 * Should some real trial befall you, Maude,' 
 said papa, ' as unquestionably it must do, 
 before you pass through this '' vale of tears," 
 you will then, I trust, be taught to feel how sad 
 is that disposition which I have often pointed 
 out to you, and which Is a source not only 
 of great misery to yourself, but, unfortunately, 
 to all with whom you come in contact. _ The 
 wise man says that " he loveth transgression, 
 that loveth strife." ' 
 
 ' Anything more ? ' I said. ' Have you 
 anything more, papa or Charlotte, to say ? ' 
 
 Papa looked surprised, as well he might. 
 I suppose the devil was in me. ' I have this 
 to say, Maude,' he said, severely, ' that unless 
 you can better control your temper, and act 
 In a more becoming manner to your sister 
 and myself, it will be well for you to retire to 
 your own room until you are in a suitable 
 frame of mind to again mix with the family
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 26 1 
 
 circle. " A reproof entereth into a wise man, 
 more than a hundred stripes into a fool." ' 
 
 I went without a word. Maggie was 
 just coming in at the door as I left. I must 
 have looked wicked, for she seemed amazed 
 at my appearance, and exclaimed, ' Good 
 gracious, Maude ! what is the matter ? ' I 
 made no reply, and passed by her. 
 
 I suppose I must have walked up and 
 down my room for an hour, until I could 
 endure no longer. I went into Aunt Gretta's 
 room. There Gypsie lay, still fast asleep, 
 looking as if no storm had ever rocked, or 
 wild winds shaken him. It seemed as if 
 good angels had lured him to rest, and were 
 now keeping watch over him. No one else 
 was there. My heart was strangely touched ; 
 wild, passionate throbs of love heaved it ; 
 bitter, deep spasms of pain moved it ; a dark 
 sense of unkindness and injustice weighed it 
 down ; a burning sense of shame oppressed it ; 
 but I did not shed one tear until Gypsie 
 stirred in his sleep, and, putting out his little.
 
 262 . MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 hand, as if feeling for something, murmured, 
 ' Maude, sister Maude/ Then I could bear 
 it no longer, and broke away, for fear my 
 sobs should awake him. 
 
 I put on my hat, and slipped out before 
 the visitors were stirring, and went down to 
 where we had stood the night before. There 
 was nothing there to tell me of what had 
 been — nothing but the remembrance in my 
 heart ! The rolling waves chased each other 
 on to the beach as merrily as if no white 
 faces had ever looked upon them. But every 
 incident of the previous night was vividly 
 before me. I saw it all again, — and as I saw 
 it, my heart softened, melted, subdued. I 
 trust I was grateful. I hope I was thankful. 
 I believe that the All-merciful saw in that 
 moment that I was not bitter, not harsh, but 
 humble and penitent. I grew calm and quiet ; 
 gradually the words which I had heard that 
 morning passed from my recollection, and I 
 listened to others. — ' Lo, He bringeth them 
 to the desired haven.' He had done it, and
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 263 
 
 would He not again ? Tossed about, It might 
 be ; tempest-driven, with my poor weak heart 
 like an untrue helm, and my passions like so 
 many fierce winds and waves rocking the un- 
 steady bark upon an angry sea; — still, the same 
 Hand would guide me through the breakers, 
 past the rocks, into the ' desired haven.' 
 
 I believed it. My newly-born faith, which 
 had almost been extinguished, revived. I 
 trusted, and was at rest. 
 
 Then, when the people began to come 
 out, I left the beach and walked quickly away 
 into the country. I never stopped to think 
 how weary I was. It was three o'clock in 
 the afternoon before I came back to the 
 hotel, and then I felt that I was tired. I 
 dressed carefully for dinner, and lay down on 
 the couch in my bedroom. When the bell 
 rang it needed some resolution to approach 
 the dining-room. Captain Marshall was 
 standing by the entrance, and his exclama- 
 tion was, ' Good heavens, Miss Maude ! are 
 you ill ? '
 
 264 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 ' No,' I said, ' but I am tired ; please 
 don't take any notice of it ; ' and I went in 
 with him to our seats. 
 
 Involuntarily my eyes sought Charlotte's ; 
 they always do. What magnetic power is it 
 which attracts me to her ? There was just 
 the look on her face which I expected to see. 
 
 Captain Marshall was very good. He 
 took no more notice of my looks than every 
 now and then to exclaim, ' My goodness. 
 Miss Maude! you do look ill! ' and to upbraid 
 himself for having taken me out the night 
 before. All his conversation was about the 
 storm and Gypsie's deliverance, and he was 
 so fluent that he only needed an assent from 
 me now and then. 
 
 ■ But one thing I roused myself to ask, 
 ' could he tell me who had saved Gypsie ? ' 
 No, he could not; he had made every possible 
 enquiry, but he could learn nothing. No one 
 knew. It was some stranger, who in the 
 confusion had slipped away. Dr. Maynard 
 had been busy about the same matter all
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 265 
 
 the day, but with the same resuh. With 
 such numbers of visitors in Scarborough, one 
 man might be quite unknown, but Captain 
 Marshall was quite certain no trouble had 
 been spared either by Dr. Maynard or 
 himself. 
 
 At last dinner came to an end. I 
 managed to stop Aunt Gretta on the way to 
 the drawing-room, and whisper, ' Aunt Gretta, 
 I don't feel well. If you think I might I 
 should like to go to bed.' 
 
 Aunt Gretta was delighted. I do not 
 mean to say delighted that I was poorly, but 
 with my acknowledging it, and appealing to 
 her for help. She would instantly have 
 hurried me to my room, but one thing re- 
 mained to be done, and I had resolved to do 
 it. Papa always retired to our sitting-room 
 some time after dinner. I made my way to 
 the room. Papa had just gone in. I went 
 up to him and told him I was very sorry I 
 had spoken as I had done that morning, and 
 I hoped he would forgive me, and I would
 
 266 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 try not to do it again. Was this the * royalty 
 of right-doing,' I wonder ? I hope it was. 
 He talked to me for a quarter of an hour, 
 and then let me go. 
 
 It was well he did ; it was with the 
 greatest difficulty I reached my room, and 
 there Aunt Gretta had for once the pleasure 
 of administering as many globules as she 
 chose, and putting me to bed like a baby, 
 and then she consented to leave me alone 
 that I might try and sleep. 
 
 Gypsie is quite well, and beside me now. 
 I coaxed him to go to sleep, and then laid 
 him down here. Gypsie always has his 
 dinner in the middle of the day, and I have 
 had it with him to-day, as I was not able to 
 go down-stairs.
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 267 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Wednesday, October 13. 
 
 We are going home to-morrow. Aunt 
 Gretta has taken some persuading before she 
 could be induced to let me travel. I feel 
 quite well, and have been wandering about 
 all day with Gypsie, bidding ' good-byes ' to 
 our favourite haunts ; and the last place we 
 went to was the spot where I stood that 
 night when Gypsie was so nearly drowned ; 
 when he would have been, had it not been 
 for — for what ? 
 
 Gypsie has not a clear recollection of 
 that nio^ht. I think the frio^ht must have 
 bewildered him so much that he cannot 
 remember anything distinctly, for he seems 
 only to have a confused consciousness of the
 
 268 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 whole matter. Since that night he has 
 become so mnch dearer to everyone of us, if 
 that be possible, that I feel almost sure 
 nothing will induce papa to send him away 
 to school. Papa has spared neither time nor 
 money to find out who it was who saved his 
 boy, but all in vain. 
 
 Saturday, October i6. 
 
 We are at home now. Charlotte has 
 been so busy with her village work, and papa 
 with the same. Aunt Gretta with the un- 
 packing and the house, and Maggie with 
 resting after her fatigues, and — when she 
 could o-et a listener — recounting^ her flirtations 
 at Scarborough, that Gypsie and I have been 
 left to our own sweet wills. We have distri- 
 buted all our presents. Gypsie remembered 
 everyone, from Mrs. Carew, our stately house- 
 keeper, to the poor boy whose Sunday dinner 
 he carries every Saturday afternoon. 
 
 And to-morrow will be Sunday ! Instead 
 of the clinking jar of those bells at Scar-
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 269 
 
 borough. — as little in harmony as the clerg}^- 
 men of their different churches, — I shall have 
 the clear, ringing chimes of Stonecross, as 
 sweet as if they were rung by angel -hands, 
 and heard through the open gates of heaven. 
 I shall not have the sound of the sea, but I 
 shall have the low winds murmuring through 
 the woods, the songs of the birds, the perfume 
 of the autumn flowers, and Gypsie's little 
 voice — harmony itself — making all else in 
 concord. 
 
 Sunday, October 17. 
 
 The church looked just as usual this 
 morning. There were a great many strangers 
 there. There always are, when papa comes 
 back after an absence. And papa himself! 
 He might have been away six hours, instead 
 of six weeks ! He looked unchanged in the 
 slightest particular. Mr. Retnor was in the 
 reading-desk in his own particular style of 
 surplice. It is a remarkable fact about Mr. 
 Retnor's surplices, that they never do, by any
 
 270 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 exception, look fresh and clean. He must 
 have them ' got up ' in the village, I suppose, 
 and yet, I am sure there is not a washerwoman 
 in the place who would not be ashamed 
 to turn out such a piece of work from her 
 laundry. He must crumple them up on pur- 
 pose to suit his notions before he puts them 
 on ; perhaps he thinks it looks more like 
 ' business ' to have his surplice soiled. If he 
 were going to be my husband — but then he 
 isn't. And of all things I never dare suggest 
 a word to Charlotte about Mr. Retnor ; so he 
 will have to go on wearing his soiled-looking, 
 crumpled surplices, and my eyes will have to 
 go on smarting with beholding them. Per- 
 haps, after all, it is only his awkward way of 
 putting them on. Some people are so 
 essentially crooked by nature, that they in- 
 voluntarily give a twist even to their outer 
 garments. 
 
 Papa preached to a most attentive and 
 large congregation. They had been deprived 
 of his sermons for six weeks, and so were
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 2/1 
 
 prepared to value his inestimable discourses 
 more than ever. Little Bobbie did not for- 
 get to fall asleep, nor did his kind friend for- 
 get to take him upon his knee, in order that 
 his slumbers might not be broken by the cuffs 
 and nips of boys to whose evil hands Satan 
 doubtless extended his benevolent patronage. 
 
 I have some very good news to tell ! Dr. 
 Vanny has returned. He dined with us. 
 After being away three months, how delight- 
 ful it was to see him at our table again ! His 
 health is quite restored. 
 
 Both at dinner and dessert the con- 
 versation was about that terrible night at 
 Scarborough, and papa expressed again and 
 again his regret that it had been impossible 
 to find out to whom we were so indebted, 
 and Dr. Vanny asked some questions, just 
 in his old queer way ; and Mr. Retnor 
 intimated that if papa had been engaged in 
 preparing sermons, and Gypsie in learning 
 lessons, as they ought to have been, they 
 would never have been thrown into such
 
 272 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 danger. Certainly, Mr. Retnor has ^s much 
 disagreeable presumption as any man I know, 
 and now he has more than ever. He calls 
 me ' Maude ' with the greatest possible 
 assurance, as if he had known me from a 
 baby ; and actually, because he is going to be 
 Charlotte s husband, he once offered to kiss 
 me ! Such impertinence ! He shall never 
 do that as long as I have a tongue in my 
 head or fingers on my hands. Mr. Retnor 
 kiss me indeed ! But I will not write about 
 him. 
 
 Aunt Gretta was troubled because she 
 was quite sure that whoever it was who had 
 saved Gypsie, he must have taken his death 
 with cold, gone to his lodgings, and died 
 forthwith. ' Of course, we had not been able 
 to hear of him ; how could we, when he had 
 died, and most likely been buried within 
 two days of his death ? Who would look after 
 him in lodgings during the season in Scar- 
 borough ? ' She even suggested the possi- 
 bility of his having been buried alive in the
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 273 
 
 universal hurry of life in such a town, and 
 the advisability of Dr. Vanny's writing to the 
 municipal authorities to state the circum- 
 stances and to urge them to institute an 
 enquiry. Dr. Vanny was ver}' test^\ It is 
 the one fault of my dear old friend the Dr., 
 that he seems as if he could not ' get on ' with 
 Aunt Gretta. If she coi^ld quarrel, she and 
 Dr. Vanny would have a regular fight of it 
 almost every time he comes to the house ; 
 but Aunt Gretta cannot quarrel. 
 
 Charlotte hoped that whoever the 'person' 
 was, he would not, because he had done one 
 good thing, give himself ' airs ' for the rest of 
 his natural life ; and Maggie could only 
 shiver at the recollection, wonder if he were 
 a handsome man, an aristocrat or a boicrcreois, 
 or, more probably, a parveiitc. Scarborouo-h 
 was full of them. 
 
 ' Whoever he was, Maggie,' remarked 
 papa, 'he committed the most humane, 
 generous, and self-sacrificing action which one 
 human being could possibly perform for 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 2 74 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 another. Our thanks and gratitude are 
 equally due to him, were he a duke's son or 
 a peasant. In either case, he is a man made 
 in the image of God, who at first created 
 them, "male and female !" and in His "own 
 likeness." Let us not be too ready to draw 
 invidious distinctions, for He hath "made of 
 one blood all nations of men." ' 
 
 ' I am happy to hear such a sentiment 
 from your lips, my worthy friend,' said Dr. 
 Vanny, in a particularly dry tone. * There Is 
 too much of this blue-blood caste now-a-days. 
 We are too ready to snuff at our neighbour's 
 coat, because It is not so black as our own.' 
 
 ' I beg I may not be misunderstood,' 
 said papa. ' I am the last man ' — ' I 
 know that,' I heard Dr. Vanny say, under 
 his breath — ' the last man,' continued papa, 
 ' to advocate those extreme views, those 
 sentiments of ultra-liberalism, which un- 
 doubtedly sap the foundations of society, and 
 overturn those rlo^ht distinctions which are 
 the safeguard and bulwark of all ranks.
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 275 
 
 Such views are pernicious in the extreme, 
 and cannot be too earnestly deprecated. Let 
 us not entertain most remotely those senti- 
 ments which, advocated without judgment, 
 are so inimical to our safety as a nation, and 
 our peace as individuals. " Let every man 
 abide in his own calling," were he a prince or 
 a duke who saved Gypsie.' 
 
 ' If he were either the one or the other,' 
 said Dr. \"anny, ' it was a rash and incon- 
 siderate action of him. He should have 
 waited for a more fitting opportunity to show 
 his heroism, and not put out his hand to save 
 the son of an untitled man, albeit one so rich 
 and influential as Dr. ]\Iaynard.' 
 
 ' You slightly misapprehend my senti- 
 ments, Dr. Vanny,' said papa. 
 
 * Not at all, my good sir ; I have known 
 and understood them quite too long to be in 
 danger of misapprehending them now. ^ly 
 little friend here is very quiet on this matter, 
 eh, Maude ? I daresay you felt it enough at 
 
 the time — too much perhaps ? ' 
 
 T 2
 
 276 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 * I should think Maude was Hkely to feel 
 it/ said Charlotte, *as she added in no small 
 degree to our trouble, by exhibiting her usual 
 want of consideration for others in getting 
 wet to the skin, and then being laid up.' 
 
 ' Heigho ! ' said the Dr. ' What is this I 
 hear, Maude ? Getting wet to the skin ? It 
 is a good thing that Dr. Vanny is back again, 
 I see.' 
 
 * I am sure it is,' I said, with my whole 
 heart. 
 
 ' I very much regret,' said papa, * that 
 Maude has not yet learned to show that 
 proper self-restraint and requisite self-repres- 
 sion which are so indispensable to a due 
 balance of character and to an adequate per- 
 formance of duty. '' The ear that heareth 
 reproof abideth among the wise ! " ' 
 
 ' Tush, tush ! ' said Dr. Vanny, irrever- 
 ently. Ttwas natural enough the child should 
 want to see what was going on, especially if 
 Gypsie were in the case, or in the sea, which 
 means much the same thing.'
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 277 
 
 * Plenty of energy you see you have, 
 Maude ; ' said Mr. Retnor, ' if only that 
 energy were rightly directed, and under 
 proper guidance, what a valuable quality you 
 would find it, and what a worker you would 
 become ! ' 
 
 ' I don't want to become one,' I said, 
 waspishly. I cannot endure Mr. Retnor 
 calling me ' INIaude,' in that familiar manner. 
 
 ' What is this ? ' said Dr. Vanny. ' My 
 little girl does not want to be a worker ? I 
 will never believe that ; I know better.' 
 
 * I do ; I do want to be one,' I cried. ' I 
 did not mean that, I only mean — I meant 
 
 * You appear to be somewhat uncertain 
 as to what you do mean, Maude,' said papa. 
 ' I should advise you to be more on your 
 guard against these violent expressions. We 
 are told to be '' swift to hear, slow to speak," 
 and, again, " a wholesome tongue is a tree 
 of life."' 
 
 * I am sure I shall never cease to wonder
 
 278 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 all my life how it was that Maude did not 
 die,' said Aunt Gretta. ' I never knew about 
 it until two days afterwards ; for I was so en- 
 gaged with Gypsie and my brother that night 
 that I had not any time to look after her at all.' 
 
 ' That is the very reason why she did 
 not die,' muttered Dr. Vanny. 
 
 ' Did you speak, Dr. Vanny ? ' said Aunt 
 Gretta, politely. 
 
 ' No, ma'am,' he said, curtly, and I heard 
 him add, ' not to you.' 
 
 * I can only look upon it as a special 
 intervention of Providence, in fact, a miracle,' 
 continued Aunt Gretta, ' that I should not 
 have been able to nurse her, and she had not 
 in consequence a dreadful attack of some- 
 thing — brain fever at least.' 
 
 * Brain fever does not come on, madam, 
 by getting wet,' said Dr. Vanny, 'and the 
 days of miracles are passed.' 
 
 * That is a question which will admit of 
 discussion,' said papa, setting his spectacles 
 further on his nose, and assuming a firmer
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 2/9 
 
 attitude In his chair. ' I do not pronounce 
 myself an authority upon such a point ; never- 
 theless, many able and learned divines, nay, 
 men of other professions, hold ' 
 
 *Yes, I have no doubt they do,' inter- 
 rupted Dr. \"anny ; ' but if you \vere out, 
 Maude, you saw something of this matter 
 that night. Did you not see at all who it 
 was who risked his life to save Gypsie ? ' 
 
 A sickly horror had stolen over me the last 
 two minutes. I do not know why I shrank 
 from saying that it was the village school- 
 master. I felt Dr. Vanny would put the 
 question to me. He always had such a way 
 of going straight to the root of a thing. He 
 must be a most dreadful man for anyone to 
 be with who has a secret. Mr. Retnor saved 
 me — most unconsciously, most unknowingly 
 — but he did it; and here I, for the first time 
 in my life, record my everlasting gratitude to 
 hirn. I thanked him from the bottom of my 
 heart for beginning to give, in his loud, 
 pompous manner, a reply to papa's last obser-
 
 28o MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 vation, as If he had never heard Dr. Vanny 
 speak at all. I will never hate him again ; I 
 will try to like him ,* nay, if he persists, I will 
 even let him kiss me, dreadful though it may 
 be, but I will wash my face well afterwards. 
 ' Regarding that question,' he said, ' I cannot 
 see the practical value of it. Generally 
 speaking, no real use comes of arguing 
 abstract questions ; therefore, such a habit 
 may be pronounced a waste of time. Where 
 nothing useful can be gained by discussion, 
 it is so much valuable breath lost.' 
 
 * I entirely differ from you, sir,' said papa, 
 warmly. 
 
 * Of course you do, my dear sir,' said Dr. 
 Vanny ; ' we all know you do. Rectors 
 always entirely differ from their curates, and 
 no one who has the pleasure of knowing you 
 and Mr. Retnor, but will perceive that you 
 form no exception to the general rule. Tell me, 
 Maude, I want to know ; did you not catch a 
 glimpse of this fine young fellow who plunged 
 so heroically into the ''foaming deep" after our
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 28 I 
 
 Gypsle ? I would lay a bet, that dark though 
 it was, you know as well as possible, if he had 
 curly hair, and what colour his eyes were.' 
 
 I knew that it was no use trying to evade 
 Dr. V^anny. If he saw I was trying to do 
 that, it would only make him more resolute 
 in finding out what I endeavoured to conceal ; 
 but an appeal to his kindness was never in 
 vain. I felt all the colour leave my face, but 
 to come in a richer glow, and I looked up to 
 him with eyes, which I hoped expressed all I 
 w^ished. 
 
 * Well, well ! ' he said, ' I see you don't 
 like to think about that night, so we'll say no 
 more about it, but be thankful, as we ought 
 to be ; and mind you never do such a thing 
 again as go and stand for an hour in a 
 drenching storm. Who was with you ? ' 
 
 ' Captain Marshall,' I said. 
 Dr. Vanny whistled, and arched his eye- 
 brows. 
 
 * How could you do such a thing, Maude ?' 
 said Maggie. ' You would not have a thing
 
 282 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 on fit to be seen, and I'm sure there wouldn't 
 be a wave left in your hair. I never heard 
 of such a ridiculous thing in all my life !' 
 
 * I have heard of a great many more 
 ridiculous things,' said Dr. Vanny ; ' and as 
 for a wave in her hair, Maude would have 
 plenty of waves before her eyes, letting alone 
 her hair ; though I have no doubt, if it comes 
 to that, she had some there too, eh, Maude ? 
 The waves aren't very particular where they 
 go on such a night. But never mind, we'll 
 say no more about it. Sunday-school this 
 afternoon, is it ? Time to be going ? Put 
 on your bonnet then, and I'll walk part of 
 the way with you.' 
 
 Very glad I was to get away, and Dr. 
 Vanny said nothing more about it on the 
 way to school. 
 
 Charlotte was very busy all the evening 
 with her class, so Gypsie and I took our 
 accustomed walk before it became dusk, and 
 soon found ourselves at the side of Mrs. 
 Morris's grave. There was not a weed or a
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 283 
 
 stray leaf, or a faded flower to be seen. It 
 had been tended and cared for, better, if 
 possible, than Gypsie and I could have done 
 it. It looked fresh and green as ever, with 
 a very little touch — scarcely perceptible — of 
 autumn on the leaves. I knew who had 
 taken such care of it, and I thanked him in 
 my heart. 
 
 Gypsie looked at the grave, and then 
 said, ' IMaude, how nice it looks! Someone, I 
 think, must have made it look so nice.' 
 
 Yes, Gypsie was right ; someone had 
 made it look nice. 
 
 We walked home ; we were very happy. 
 I was, and Gypsie always is ; and as we 
 went along, the sky began to flush with 
 autumn sunset-hues ; — golden, red, crimson ; 
 spreading, mingling, deepening ; until, in one 
 blaze of glory, the sun looked out, gave one 
 brilliant smile to the earth, and then sank 
 away. Before we reached home a slight 
 coolness was in the air, a tender mist in the 
 valley, and a faint night-breeze had sprung
 
 284 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 up to hold sweet twilight talk with autumn 
 flowers. 
 
 I had some rebuffs at supper, but they 
 came very lightly. And now, I am sitting 
 by my open window. There is not a sound 
 but the continuous chirp of the corn-crake in 
 the hedge ; and just now and then I can 
 catch, as usual, the far-off babble of my brook. 
 I wonder how long I have been sitting here. 
 I love to sit here so quietly. It is peace ; it 
 is rest. 
 
 It is a very beautiful night. The moon- 
 light floods the earth with glory, and there is 
 a spot I know where — 
 
 The marble bright in dark appears, 
 The mystic glory dies away. 
 
 And so I suppose I must think of ' closing 
 eaves of wearied eyes.'
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 285 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Wednesday, October 20. 
 
 This morning, when papa came in to dinner, 
 he was two minutes late by my watch, and 
 also by the timepiece, and, as he regulates 
 and winds up that timepiece himself, he micst 
 have been late ! 
 
 When dinner was nearly over, he said, 
 * Gypsie, I have something to tell you ; ' and 
 when he had teased him a little by pretend- 
 ing he would not tell him (papa can both play 
 with, and tease Gypsie), he said, ' You are to 
 begin now and work, Gypsie ; I have engaged 
 someone to come and give you lessons.' 
 
 Gypsie was all delight and astonishment. 
 I saw in a monent that Charlotte knew all 
 about it. By-and-by, it came out that papa
 
 286 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 had engaged Mr. Farren to come up in his 
 spare time three days a week, and teach 
 Gypsie. 
 
 ' The village schoolmaster ! ' exclaimed 
 Maggie. ' La papa ! you can't be in earnest.' 
 
 ' I am certainly in earnest, Maggie. I 
 always try in my conversation to avoid " foolish 
 talking and jesting which are not convenient." 
 I am glad that Mr. Farren has agreed to my 
 request. I have been trying for long to form 
 some arrangement for Gypsie. Nothing else 
 has suggested itself to me ; so I am obliged to 
 take the best that offers, in fact, the only one. 
 It is only a provisional arrangement. It is 
 imperative that Gypsie have lessons. I will 
 not have a tutor in my house; so we must 
 soon make up our minds to let Gypsie go 
 to school. There is no alternative, but we will 
 put the evil day off a little longer.' 
 
 Maggie shrugged her shoulders at papa's 
 speech, and was silenced, and Charlotte said 
 that she hoped Mr. Farren knew what work 
 meant, and did not expect that he was coming
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 287 
 
 to teach Gypsie by way of amusement. She 
 should take the opportunity, if she could 
 spare the time, of being in the room for two 
 or three lessons, and seeing that he did what 
 he ought to do. 
 
 ' I think it will do very well for the 
 present,' said i\unt Gretta. ' I am sure I 
 dread beyond everything Gypsie going to a 
 public school. I don't believe they ever half 
 air the beds ; and boys are always getting their 
 feet wet, and no one sees after them or puts 
 them in hot water.' 
 
 ' '' Them," ' said Charlotte, but she said no 
 more ; and if she had, she would not have 
 been able to vex Aunt Gretta. Aunt 
 Gretta's grammar is beyond question. 
 
 ' I have had a long talk with Mr. Farren,' 
 continued papa, ' and, on the whole, I am 
 much pleased with him, although I am at a 
 loss to understand why he should at first 
 have absolutely refused to accede to my 
 request ; I had considerable difficulty in 
 inducing him to agree to it at all.'
 
 288 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 * Really ! ' said Charlotte. ' He has all the 
 manner about him of a man who thinks him- 
 self above his position.' 
 
 ' I have not observed it/ said papa. * Self- 
 respect is an essential element in any worthy 
 character ; it enables a man to go through 
 the duties of life with credit to himself and 
 satisfaction to others. I cannot regret that 
 Mr. Farren has this quality, although it is 
 true that if not kept in check, there is danger 
 of it degenerating into vanity. An uadue 
 estimate of his own qualifications is a most 
 undesirable feature in the character of any 
 man, more especially a young man, and one 
 who undertakes to teach others.' 
 
 * What objection, pray, did Mr. Farren 
 state ? ' said Charlotte. ' I hope he is con- 
 scious of the great favour you have done 
 
 him ?' 
 
 ' Of that I cannot speak with any degree 
 of certainty,' said papa ; 'nor am I able to 
 give you his reasons for at first refusing to 
 accede to my proposition ; he was not parti c-
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 289 
 
 cularly open In stating them, nor did I deem 
 it my affair to endeavour to become ac- 
 quainted with them. I beHeve the principal 
 Inducement which influenced him to as'ree to 
 my wish was the statement which I made, 
 that it was the only alternative, but sending 
 Gypsle to school, which step would be pro- 
 ductive of great sorrow to each member of 
 the family, particularl}' at present, when we 
 have scarcely recovered the shock we sus- 
 tained from our anxiety at Scarborough.' 
 
 ' Anxiety, Indeed ! ' said Aunt Gretta. ' I 
 shall never forget it, to the end of my life. I 
 have no doubt everyone in the village felt 
 anxious too. To think of such a thing! ' 
 
 ' La, Aunt Gretta ! ' exclaimed Maggie, 
 ' How could the people know of it a hundred 
 miles off ? ' 
 
 * How silly it is,' said Charlotte, * to talk 
 of what people felt and suffered ! If people 
 would only act instead of feeling ! ' 
 
 ' Well, my dear,' said Aunt Gretta, mildly, 
 ' It is given to some to do, and others to feel.' 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 ^ I wonder what good feeling does ? ' said 
 Charlotte. ' A great deal of good Maude did 
 on the pier that night ; yet I suppose she felt 
 — probably both cold and wet.' 
 
 ' Poor dear child, yes,' said Aunt Gretta, 
 pityingly. 
 
 ' There would be some use in Maude 
 feeling,' continued Charlotte, ' if it would 
 teach her any sense ; but as that seems to be 
 hopeless ' 
 
 * La, Charlotte ! let her alone,' said Maggie; 
 ' we have had enough of it. I would talk 
 about something more agreeable. Can't you 
 talk about Mr. Retnor ? ' 
 
 ' ril trouble you to mind your own 
 business,' said Charlotte ; and Maggie shrank 
 into herself again. 
 
 * Mr. Farren knew how anxious we had 
 been,' said papa, when this little sisterly 
 dialogue had passed ; ' for he was in Scar- 
 borough for a day or two, and heard of it there. 
 His holidays, as you are aware, occurred 
 during our absence. He happened, inad-
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 29 1 
 
 vertently this morning, when talking about 
 Gypsie, to say something which led me to 
 infer he had been there, and I asked him. I 
 am a little astonished, as Scarborough is 
 scarcely the place at this time of the year for 
 a man in his position.' 
 
 ' And the expense of travelling such a 
 distance ! ' said Charlotte. ' But this class of 
 people is as improvident and careless as the 
 poorest among the labourers ; and then in 
 case of sickness or want of work they come 
 on institutions or friends, or the parish. It is 
 perfectly shameful ! * 
 
 ' Charlotte ! ' I said, but I said no more. 
 Thank Heaven, I said no more ! It was 
 enough ; it — and the look which I have no 
 doubt accompanied it ! 
 
 Everyone looked at me. I was a fool to 
 speak ; I know I was, but I could bear it no 
 longer. 
 
 * Now for a scene,' said Charlotte. ' Maude 
 has such a strange amount of superfluous 
 
 feeling that the village blacksmith, tailor, and 
 
 u 2
 
 292 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 shoemaker no doubt occupy a position in her 
 favour, as well as the schoolmaster.' 
 
 ' Undue sympathy with Inadequate ob- 
 jects is Invariably the mark of an ill-regulated 
 mind,' said papa. ' I have often observed in 
 you, Maude, the desire of exhibiting this 
 diseased state of feeling from no other motive 
 than a wish to appear singular.' 
 
 I did not speak. Again I thank Heaven 
 that I did not, and I slipped out as soon as 
 possible and got into .the open air. 
 
 Through the garden, through the fields, 
 through the lane into the wood ! Again I 
 thanked Heaven that I did not speak ! 
 
 Oh, the sweet silence and breathing 
 fragrance of the autumn woods ! A winsome 
 sense of changing beauty rests now on my 
 trees. Beautiful woods ! through whose mazy 
 labyrinth of foliage I can look up and see 
 the blue heavens, and still hold my new and 
 weak belief that there is a God, and that He 
 rules on earth, as well as in heaven. 
 
 And now, one thing is certain — Mr.
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 293 
 
 Farren is coming to teach Gypsle. I shall 
 sometimes see him, sometimes speak to him, 
 sometimes — what am I saying ? I will write 
 no more ; but one thing is certain — Mr. 
 Farren is coming to teach Gypsie. 
 
 Sunday, October 24. . 
 
 To-day, Gypsie and I went as usual to 
 the churchyard. Alas ! I am afraid our 
 walks there are coming to an end, for Aunt 
 Gretta happened to see us starting, and the 
 sight put her into great distress. ' To go 
 out when it was growing dark and a fog 
 probably coming on, and autumn, and winter 
 cominof soon ! She could not let us do such 
 a thing on any account' And it was only 
 by the utmost entreaty and supplication 
 which I could employ that she gave way ; 
 and, seizing the relenting moment, we set off 
 without further let or hindrance ; but it will 
 be the last time I must take Gypsie ; and as 
 for myself, — well, I must take my chance. 
 
 It certainly was growing dark, so we
 
 294 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 could not Stay long, and as we were crossing 
 the open road which leads through the 
 churchyard we saw Mr. Farren. He comes 
 that way, the path through the churchyard 
 is so much shorter than going round. I am 
 glad it was not too dark for him to recognise 
 us ; I feared at first that he was going to 
 pass. I wanted to speak to him for five 
 minutes, because it is so long since I have 
 seen him, and Gypsie loves him so dearly. 
 He ran to meet Mr. Farren now with great 
 delight, and said, ' Mr. Farren, you are 
 coming up to the Hall to teach me ; I am so 
 glad ! I will try and never give you any 
 trouble.' 
 
 * You never give any trouble, Gypsie,' he 
 said, after he had wished me * good evening ; * 
 and he then turned to me and asked how I 
 had enjoyed my stay at Scarborough, and I 
 told him * not at all.' 
 
 * How is that ? ' he said. 
 
 * What was there to enjoy ? ' I asked. 
 
 * Everything, I should think. Society,
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 295 
 
 friends, pleasures, amusements, and a large 
 share of what must surely please you — the 
 beauties of a beautiful world.' 
 
 * I liked the sea,' I said ; ' I always do, 
 especially when it is rough and stormy. I 
 liked the beautiful walks when Gypsie and 
 I could go alone, and I liked being out 
 in a boat, especially when there was danger. 
 This is the sum-total of my enjoyment. 
 Everything else I hate. The company, the 
 hotel-life, the Spa, the fashion, the amuse- 
 ments — they are all utter abomination to me.^ 
 
 * Even in all these,' he said, ' was there 
 nothing that could give you pleasure ? ' 
 
 * Not a thing,' I said. * I hated the place 
 altogether, and longed to be at home again.' 
 
 * And yet, when you come home, things 
 are equally wearisome and distasteful.' 
 
 * I never said so, Mr. Farren.' 
 
 * Excuse me, you have tacitly admitted it 
 often, and I feel sure that such is the case. 
 Does not the fault, then, lie something deeper 
 than mere scene or society ? *
 
 296 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 * Perhaps It does,' I said. * Are you going 
 to lecture me, Mr. Farren ? ' 
 
 * No, indeed ; that Is not my province. 
 Mere lecturing would never do you any good, 
 if you would bear It, which you would not.' 
 
 * Indeed, indeed, I would.' I was going 
 to add 'from you,' but I stopped In time. 
 My eyes filled ; I could not help it ; and it was 
 quite too dusk for Mr. Farren to see that. 
 I am afraid my voice must have faltered a 
 little. 
 
 ' Would you ? ' he said. * I am very glad to 
 hear It. Three months ago I am sure you 
 would not have borne It. It shows you are 
 improved.' 
 
 * I do think, Mr. Farren, that I have 
 improved a little. I am sure I have tried very 
 much whilst I have been In Scarborough.' 
 
 * Then I am quite sure you have suc- 
 ceeded,' he said, in such a kind tone. ' No one 
 ever tried earnestly and sincerely without 
 gaining — I will not say success — but certainly 
 some success.'
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 297 
 
 * Do you think so ? ' I said. 
 
 * I am sure of it. We never patiently and 
 truly work in vain. All you have to do now, 
 having begun, is to go on well ; you must 
 not stop half-way. However hard it seems, 
 you must patiently go on until it becomes 
 easy.' 
 
 * Mr. Farren, it will never be easy for me 
 
 to do right, you do not know .' I did 
 
 not finish, and he did not seem to notice it. 
 
 * I know,* he said, ' I know that it is 
 awfully hard when one feels bitter, to conquer 
 it and become forgiving ; but it is possible, 
 and it is a work worth accomplishing. If 
 you only did this one thing well, your life 
 would not have been an idle one, for this is 
 the hardest work you could have. You 
 would have an object in life, — to give of your 
 very best, what costs you the most — unto 
 God ; not maimed and imperfect gifts, but 
 that which is hard to obtain, and which costs 
 many a dearly-bought battle before it is 
 obtained. These are not imaginary foes,
 
 298 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 but real, living, actual ones ; fiends, which 
 wrestle for your soul ; devils, which would 
 tear from you your rightful possessions. You 
 must conquer them, or they will conquer 
 you/ 
 
 We had just come to the turn where his 
 road branches off from ours, and he said, 
 * You must walk as quickly as you can ; it is 
 getting dark, so I will go with you, and take 
 care of Gypsle/ 
 
 I am very glad of two things. One Is, 
 that Mr. Farren always says that I am to do 
 a thing — does not ask me, if I will ; and 
 another, that when talking to me— I don't 
 know how, but in some strange way — he 
 seems to understand just what It Is I want 
 and to use the right words to express it ; 
 strong words, I mean ; words which seem to 
 take hold of my need. It seems to me that 
 in the three or four times I have talked to 
 him, I have gained more help than in the 
 whole course of my life before. 
 
 We went along together. How pleasant
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 299 
 
 it was ! Gypsle, holding fast by Mr. Farren's 
 hand, and I on the other side. I did not 
 want to talk ; it seemed so much rest, and 
 promise of security to be by him. I felt he 
 quite understood me, and instead of trampling 
 me down — down, he was willing to put out 
 his hand and lift me up, until — until I had at 
 least, like the man whom papa read about 
 last Sunday morning, escaped from the pos- 
 session of the Legion which had many a 
 time rent and torn him. 
 
 The turn at the end of the lane brought 
 us in view of the Hall gates, and I knew we 
 should be at home directly. I said, ' Mr. 
 Farren, have you been away during your 
 holidays ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' he said. 
 
 * At Scarborough ? ' 
 
 ' I have spent the most of the time at , 
 
 a little village in Hampshire.* 
 
 ' But were you not in Scarborough at all ? * 
 
 ' I did run over for a day or two, once or 
 twice.'
 
 300 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 * Once or twice,' I repeated. 
 
 Mr. Farren quickened his footsteps, and 
 began talking to Gypsie. ' Gypsie, will you 
 like lessons ? Tell me, what would you wish 
 the most to learn ? ' 
 
 * Mr. Farren,' I interrupted, ' have you 
 heard what a dreadful trouble we had about 
 Gypsie and papa at Scarborough ? ' 
 
 * A dreadful trouble ? ' he repeated. ' No, 
 I have not heard about it.' 
 
 * Not about their going to Burlington, 
 and a storm coming on as they returned ? 
 We thought they would all have been 
 drowned, and that the packet would never 
 get in safely. They had to come in in the 
 life-boat, and just as they were coming on 
 shore, a huge wave washed — oh, it is too 
 dreadful to talk about, even now. Did you 
 hear nothing of all this, Mr. Farren ? ' 
 
 * I did hear some tale, but these kind of 
 things are usually so exaggerated, that it is 
 well not to believe all you hear.' 
 
 ' But this was quite true ! No exaggera-
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 3OI 
 
 tion could exceed the reality. I have never 
 witnessed such a dreadful storm before.' 
 
 * Perhaps you have never witnessed one 
 at all,' he said, coolly. ' Storms usually are 
 dreadful if they are worth the name, and it is 
 probable that the first one you witnessed 
 would seem to you very terrific, though it 
 might be nothing more than an unusual 
 easterly wind.' 
 
 If anyone else had made such a speech 
 to me ! Just as if I were a baby, and didn't 
 know what a storm meant ! I ouo^ht to, after 
 having stood an hour on that pier. 
 
 ' This zaas a storm,' I said, ' and a very 
 terrible one. I am not speaking without 
 knowing what I am talking about ; and it 
 was a time of wretched anxiety and fearful 
 suspense to me.' 
 
 ' I am sorry for that,' he said, gently. ' 
 
 * Have you heard nothing about it, Mr. 
 Farren ? ' I said. 
 
 ' I did hear something,' he said ; * I fancy 
 from Dr. Maynard, when he was talking to
 
 302 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 me the other morning, but I understood that 
 it was something to be thankful for, not a 
 " dreadful trouble." ' 
 
 ' It was a dreadful trouble while It lasted/ 
 I said. * Of course we were thankful that they 
 were saved.' 
 
 ' Then I would try to think more of what 
 you have to be thankful for than of the 
 '' dreadful trouble." ' 
 
 ' The very thing,' I said, ' about which I 
 both want to think and talk. It was of 
 Gypsie's deliverance I wished to speak to 
 you, Mr. Farren.' 
 
 I think he had not expected that I should 
 reply in that way to him. 
 
 ' Mr. Farren,' I said, ' do you know the 
 particulars of that night ? I mean about 
 Gypsie being rescued ? ' 
 
 * No one has told me any particulars,' he 
 said. ' If Gypsie were saved from a sudden 
 death, everyone who loves him has great 
 cause for thankfulness, and for a firmer belief 
 that the God who saved him Is essentially a
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 303 
 
 God of love — not of harshness. You are 
 just at home, so I must wish you, *' Good- 
 night" ' 
 
 ' You must stay a moment, please ! I do 
 want to speak to you ! ' 
 
 * I shall be very happy,' he said ; ' but you 
 must excuse me again reminding you that it 
 is growing late, and is now nearly dark.' 
 
 ' I want to speak to you,' I repeated. 
 * Mr. Farren, someone plunged into the 
 foaming sea, and at the imminent risk of 
 his own life, saved Gypsie.' 
 
 He laughed. ' Pardon me ! but " foaming 
 sea," and " imminent risk," are large terms, 
 and would figure well on the pages of a 
 three-volume novel. Has not your excited 
 imagination supplied a great deal, and in- 
 vested an ordinary occurrence with something 
 of the hues of romance ? ' 
 
 * It was not an ordinary occurrence ; it 
 was a moment of frightful horror ! Gypsie 
 would have been lost without the shadow of 
 a doubt, but for the exertions of this stranger.
 
 304 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 It was more than " imminent peril " — It was a 
 miracle that his life was spared ; ^Aezr lives, 
 I should say — Gypsle's and his deliverer's.' 
 
 I was not out of temper ; I spoke quite 
 calmly. 
 
 * A miracle pre-supposes the existence 
 and power of a Divine Being-,' he said. ' I am 
 glad that Miss Maynard has cast away what 
 she once allowed herself to hold — a disbelief 
 In God.' 
 
 ' I cast it away that night, for ever,' I 
 said, ' I did indeed, Mr. Farren ! I will never 
 disbelieve again — never ! ' 
 
 * Say you will try not. You do not know 
 what crises your weak faith may have to pass 
 through ; you do not know by what depths 
 of doubt and fear and anguish you may be 
 assailed ; you do not know what is before you.' 
 
 * Mr. Farren, there can be no greater 
 grief to me in the world than to lose Gypsie. 
 I thought I had lost him that night. God 
 gave him back to me. I will never doubt 
 
 asfam !
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 305 
 
 ' God grant it ! ' he said. ' But you do not 
 know ! To hold fast your beHef in God 
 through all the anguish of life is heaven ; to 
 lose faith in Him is hell ! — hell in your heart, 
 and the near step to hell in reality. You 
 have reason to look back upon that night 
 with gratitude for more reasons than one.' 
 
 ' I have indeed,' I said ; ' but, I want to 
 ask you a question.' . 
 
 ' It must be some other time, then,' he 
 said. ' I cannot allow myself to keep you 
 another moment. Good-night, ]\Iiss ?^Iay- 
 nard,' and he lifted his hat. 
 
 ' Allow me, at least, if you will not hear 
 what I have to say, allow me to thank you.' 
 
 ' For having taken care of INIrs. ^Morris's 
 grave during your absence,' he said, quickly. 
 ' It was a pleasure to me to do it ; I am glad 
 you have a pleasure in finding it done. 
 Good-night' 
 
 And he left me. I do not care. I know 
 it, and he knows I do ! I am very happy. 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Wednesday, November 4. 
 
 Gypsie is getting on famously with his 
 lessons. Mr. Farren comes three times a 
 week ; and how Gypsie does enjoy those 
 hours ! Charlotte kept her word, and was in 
 the room during the first week, but I con- 
 clude that either she was satisfied that Mr. 
 Farren did his work well, or she did not 
 much like her occupation, for she has not been 
 in since. 
 
 Mr. Farren comes from twelve o'clock 
 until two, and he and Gypsie have the library, 
 and Aunt Gretta sits there with her knitting, 
 as guard, to see that no evil beast devours 
 them, and sometimes I sit with her. Gypsie 
 is almost always with me, so it is the most
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 307 
 
 natural thing in the world for me to be there 
 when he is having his lessons. It is pleasant, 
 it is very pleasant. 
 
 I cannot remember anything very pleasant 
 about my own lessons. I don't think they 
 were very interesting. Perhaps it was my 
 own fault. I could not bear to do things at 
 the regular times, and certain things at stated 
 hours. Our governess was the very soul of 
 order and method ; at the right hour and 
 right minute a thing must be done. I used to 
 feel as if I were in the stocks, or if something 
 which I could not break were binding me fast. 
 If she would have let me study what I felt 
 inclined to at the moment, I do think I could 
 have done better ; but I suppose that would 
 never have done. And then to be fastened 
 up in the school-room, until the exact hour of 
 releasing, no matter what state I was in, or 
 what state the beautiful world outside was in ! 
 When the sun shone so gloriously on the 
 fields, and the wind ran hither and thither, 
 and played such merry games with the trees 
 
 X 2
 
 308 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 in my wood, and the brook kept calling 
 loudly to me to come out and wade in it, and 
 the wood-doves repeated the call, and the 
 trees took it up, and beckoned me too! It 
 really did sometimes seem very hard. I am 
 certain that I could have learnt infinitely 
 more alone with Nature, my own dear teacher, 
 whom I love, than I could by the hardest 
 work in the school-room ; but Miss Masters 
 did not understand that at all. 
 
 However, I did not begin to write about 
 myself, but about Gypsie. He does not seem 
 ever to have hard lessons to learn, and puzzle 
 his dear little active brains over. Mr. Farren 
 will read, and then talk to him upon some sub- 
 ject opened out by the reading, one thing lead- 
 ing on to another. I love to listen to all that 
 he tells Gypsie. Sometimes about the grand 
 old men of old — Roman warriors and Grecian 
 heroes ; Egypt's haughty kings and philo- 
 sophers ; Hebrew sages, and Christian mar- 
 tyrs ; poor, dark heathen, who cherished their 
 little ray of light until they awoke and found
 
 MAUDE MAYXARD. 3O9 
 
 themselves in the full blaze. Gypsle's blue 
 eyes kindle and his face lights up with enthu- 
 siasm — perhaps inspiration, and I can see his 
 little heart is bracing itself up — 
 
 To blend his soul's sublimest needs, 
 With tasks of every day. 
 
 And I am sure that even now — 
 
 Great thoughts, great feelings come to him. 
 Like instincts, unawares. 
 
 No wonder : Mr. Farren talks about these 
 men in such a graphic way ; not as if they had 
 lived and died two thousand years ago, but just 
 as If he had seen them and talked to them him- 
 self, and learnt their trials and discourage- 
 ments. And then, coming to later times, he 
 tells the histor}' of his own countr}' with a 
 vividness and reality which makes it like a 
 tale to Gypsie ; and when he takes him over 
 battle-fields, and pictures them with a power 
 which makes one fancy one sees the whole 
 scene, I have heard Gypsie exclaim as if he 
 stood on the spot. Mr. Farren always
 
 3IO MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 finishes when he sees Gypsle getting too 
 excited. 
 
 And then how he reads poetry ! until 
 Gypsie catches his very tone and cadence and 
 repeats his pieces with an emphasis and 
 appreciation which would do credit to an 
 Oxford man, reciting his prize poem. I hope 
 Gypsie will stand some day in that theatre, 
 and electrify the audience, and be deafened by 
 the thunders of applause. I know whom he 
 will have to thank. If ever that occur ! 
 
 Some days Mr. Farren will take Gypsie's 
 hand, and they will go into the garden and 
 learn there. Sometimes it is a flower dis- 
 sected, sometimes It is an insect, sometimes It 
 is the flecked cloud, careering in wild fan- 
 tastic shape. But I cannot describe the 
 * teachings manifold ' which Mr. Farren 
 draws from one thing or another. Gypsie 
 may well count these hours his happiest, and 
 wait impatiently for their return. No wonder 
 that all the work which Mr. Farren leaves for 
 him to do between the lessons is done as soon
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 3II 
 
 and as well as it can be done. I always help 
 Gypsie with this work ; I like to hear Mr. 
 Farren say how well and neatly it is done. 
 
 I did not mean to write all this, but it is 
 in my heart. I am glad for Gypsie s sake, 
 and I am glad that my life is so much 
 happier. Charlotte is so very much engaged 
 that she really has not time to scold me as 
 usual, and she lets me do a little sewing for 
 her. It is true that it is not very interesting- 
 work — long seams and hems, which I cannot 
 see why Reynolds or Baines, or the sewing- 
 woman, who has been here for a month, and 
 will remain until after the wedding, could not 
 do quite as well. But then, perhaps Char- 
 lotte thinks that it will keep me out of mis- 
 chief; and when I asked her, she said I 
 might as well be doing something useful as 
 doing nothing. I hate and abominate plain 
 sewing, but I am really trying to put my very 
 best work into this, for I want to give her 
 what has cost me something, and then I 
 think I shall feel better towards her ; besides,
 
 312 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 is It wrong to think it about such a Httle 
 thing ? Mr. Farren once said something 
 about giving God the very best, even in little 
 things ; not the ' maimed and halt and im- 
 perfect ; ' therefore, I shall put my very best 
 work into this plain sewing. 
 
 Saturday, November 21. 
 
 Charlotte's marriage is to be on Christmas- 
 day ; and how soon that will be here ! It 
 will be like a mountain weight off my heart 
 to feel that she is not in the house ! Mr. 
 Retnor has taken the large stone house with 
 the pretty garden round it ; it is not ten 
 minutes' walk from the Hall. It has such 
 lovelv views from the windows ! Aunt Gretta, 
 let me go over it with her the other day when 
 Charlotte was at C , buying dresses. 
 
 I rambled over the house, and one room 
 I went into had a pleasant bay-window look- 
 ing towards the village, and I could see from 
 it the schools and the school-house very plainly. 
 A building — half in the style of a Swiss chalet.
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 313 
 
 and half of an English house, rather a mixture, 
 blending the picturesqueness of the one with 
 the comfort of the other. I wonder If Mr. 
 
 Farren feels It Jio7ne ; I wonder . There 
 
 were large bunches of crimson berries shining 
 out and flecking the white of the walls with 
 a brilliant relief All the summer flowers 
 which ran over it are gone ; only some of the 
 hardier plants on the balcony survive. I am 
 not sure that it does not look prettier now 
 than It did In Its summer dress. 
 
 Aunt Gretta was so happy going over 
 the house, measuring, arranging, fitting, cal- 
 culating, that she left me a very long time to 
 my reflections in the bow-window, and I was 
 oflad she did. It seemed to me that I had 
 not been half long enough when she called 
 me to go. I hope Charlotte will sometimes 
 wish me to come to her house. I should 
 like now and then to stand In that bay- 
 window and look at the view.
 
 314 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Wednesday, December 9. 
 
 I COULD not help It, I could not ! I did get 
 into a passion, I know I did ! It is the old 
 tale, perhaps, it was all my fault ; it might be ; 
 I do not know, but I know that it breaks my 
 heart. Day after day, it is the constant 
 striving, and always failing — always hoping 
 for, and never having ! Try as I will, it 
 always comes to the same thing ! Oh, it is 
 hard, hard ! Never a little help, a little word 
 of kindness ; never a hand put out a little 
 way to aid. All day long I have been trying 
 to do right, and all day long I have utterly 
 failed. I will not write about it, I am blinded 
 
 with tears, I am . 
 
 I cannot think what Is the matter with
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 315 
 
 me. I think I never felt so weak in my life ; 
 even Gypsie's love is more sometimes than 
 I can bear, and a word of kindness from any- 
 one else makes me sob like a baby. 
 
 Monday, December 21. 
 
 On Saturday, I went to see poor Betsy 
 Colder. She has been m.uch worse lately, 
 and I have not been to see her for a month. 
 I could not go. The last time I went to see 
 one of my old women, she looked at me 
 through her spectacles for a long time, took 
 them off, wiped them, and exclaimed, ' Miss 
 Maude, honey ! how bad yer do look, to 
 be sure ! Poor child ! what's the matter wi' 
 yer ? * After that, I resolved I would not go 
 until I felt stronger. When will that be, I 
 wonder ? 
 
 Perhaps if I were to go from home I 
 should be better. This morning there was 
 a letter from Aunt Louise — mamma's own 
 sister. She and uncle have returned to 
 E norland for a time and have taken a house
 
 31 6 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 at Banton, and Aunt Louise wrote to ask if 
 papa would let me go and stay with her. 
 How I wish he would ! But I am afraid there 
 is no chance. I have never paid a long visit 
 alone, and I do not think papa will let me. 
 Aunt Louise cannot come to Stonecross, for 
 her husband is a great invalid ; but she begs 
 that I may go to her, after the wedding is over. 
 
 But I was saying that I w^ent yesterday 
 to see old Betsy. I could not bear the old 
 creature to die without making an effort to 
 see her, and she has sent three times to ask 
 me to go. 
 
 I met Dr. Vanny, and he walked with 
 me part of the way. He did me a deal of 
 good ; he always does when we are alone. 
 But he had to leave me, and I walked on 
 alone. 
 
 Poor Betsy was so pleased to see me, 
 that I was glad I had made the effort to go. 
 I got through my visit with a great effort, 
 and was very thankful to get into the open 
 air again.
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 317 
 
 It was four o'clock when I left, and 
 growing dusk — a still, quiet, December day; 
 a day when the sun had never appeared ; a 
 day of oppression, when Nature seemed 
 struggling with some hidden weight ; a day 
 when all that was striving, upward, pro- 
 gressive, seemed checked and kept back. 
 The earth wore a face of patient, quiet calm ; 
 an expression of endurance and submission. 
 
 I was glad that it was growing dusk ; I 
 was glad to be out alone ; I was glad the 
 sun had not shone that day ; I was glad that 
 Nature seemed as if she had to be still, and 
 wait and hope. Her mood suited well with 
 my own ; I coloured all her features with my 
 own feelings. Was It weak, was it wrong, 
 was It cowardly, that hot tears fell as I 
 walked along ? They fell on the hard 
 earth ; they blurred the dim view ; they 
 blinded my eyes, and my steps were uneven 
 and unsteady. I was thankful, for — 
 
 The eyes which cannot weep, 
 
 Are the saddest eyes of all. ,
 
 3l8 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 I remembered that spring would follow 
 December days ; they must pass away, and 
 warmth would come after the cold. Perhaps 
 from where my hot tears fell, flowers of 
 beauty and promise might spring. 
 
 I heard someone behind me, after I had 
 left Betsy's cottage at Longfarm about ten 
 minutes. I thought I knew the step, and I 
 hoped he would pass me without recognition. 
 I turned my head on one side that he might, 
 but he must have known me before he came 
 up, for he stopped as soon as he reached me 
 and said, ' Good afternoon, Miss Maude.' 
 
 I am glad that he called me * Miss 
 Maude ; ' it was almost the first time ; until 
 now, he has generally said, ' Miss May- 
 nard.' 
 
 ' I have a holiday this afternoon, as you 
 will know,' he said, and he seemed to be 
 speaking without looking at me. 
 
 I had not known it, and I was obliged to 
 say so. He did not seem surprised. He 
 weat on : ' I have been to Longfarm and
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 319 
 
 Sandrem, making arrangements in connection 
 with the schools for the twenty-fifth.' 
 
 * Indeed ! ' I said. 
 
 * It was Dr. Maynard s wish that I should 
 undertake this matter. It is pleasant to see 
 how the children are looking forward to their 
 treat.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' I said again. I had nothing 
 else to say, for I had not been told of any of 
 the arrangements, and all I longed for was, 
 that he should not know that I had been 
 crying. He went on, as if he did not notice 
 •my short replies. 
 
 * Yes, it is very pleasant to be in a 
 position which enables you to give pleasure 
 to others. I should think that is one of the 
 things which must greatly add to the happi- 
 ness of your sister and Mr. Retnor. The 
 twenty-fifth will be a day of rejoicing in all 
 the three villages. It is a pleasant way of 
 celebrating such an event, is it not ? ' 
 
 *Yes,' I said. 
 
 ' I have always had peculiarly warm
 
 320 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 feellnes about the observance of Christmas- 
 day and Christmas-eve/ he went on, 'and 
 could never sympathise with the people who 
 do not look upon it as in any way to be 
 distinguished from other days. I should like 
 the happiest associations of my life to linger 
 about Christmas-day. I should like every 
 feeling of unkindness, if I had any, to have 
 their death-blow on that day. I should like 
 any event which gave me happiness to take 
 place on that day. I should like to die on 
 that day, after having worked as long as I 
 could work, and done all I could do.' 
 
 ' Do you think as much of work as Mr. 
 Retnor and Charlotte ? ' I said, trying to 
 smile. 
 
 ' I never think about what they think,' he 
 said, quickly. ' I remember the time when I 
 had a great aversion to work — as great an 
 aversion as I have now an unconquerable 
 desire. Restlessness may in part produce 
 this ; I do not know ; but I can say now, 
 " Trust in yourself, and you have begun to
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 321 
 
 live." Still, the time is not far distant when 
 I shrank with the maudlin nervousness of 
 untried power and untested strength from 
 work ; w^hen the very thought of it jarred 
 me, and the anticipation of it fatigued me. 
 I thank God for it now, as one of the greatest 
 helps to bear unavoidable suffering, and as 
 the best cure for that which is curable.' 
 
 ' Yes,' I said, not knowing what else to 
 say. 
 
 ' My parents, Miss Maude,' he went on, 
 ' were uneducated, poor people, and the 
 hopes of them both centred in me, whom 
 they unfortunately thought a prodigy, and I 
 was taught to think so too. I was petted and 
 spoiled. I was taught that I was born to 
 make myself a name, to amass wealth, to 
 become one of the learned men of the earth. 
 I grew up to believe it. I was wilful, 
 capricious, selfish, irritable, and discontented. 
 (He never was, I am sure! How could he 
 say what was not true ?) I thought I was a 
 genius — a child of talent and power ; one 
 
 VOL. I. Y
 
 322 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 not fitted for mean or common work, one on 
 whom fortune would one day lavish her 
 treasures. And so I lived through my 
 youth, with everything provided for me that 
 the hardly-earned money of my parents could 
 find. I entered upon my manhood to 
 awaken from my dream and meet the 
 realities of life. Instead of being wealthy, I 
 was poor ; instead of being courted and 
 flattered, I was neglected and obscure ; 
 instead of having a great name, I was ignoble 
 and unknown. At twenty-one I was a man 
 without a shilling in the world, and with an 
 old mother dependent on me. Six years 
 have passed since then — years, first of bitter- 
 ness, anger, and desperation ; then of sin, 
 sullenness, and despair ; then of subdued 
 pain, and listless striving ; then of better 
 striving, resolute endurance, rigorous duty 
 and strongly-subdued aspirations, and — of 
 peace. At twenty-seven I find myself an 
 insignificant village schoolmaster, wholly 
 dependent upon health and work for main-
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 323 
 
 tenance ; without a near relation, without a 
 name in the world ; and I have no prospect 
 of ever being anything else. I once dreamed 
 of being distinguished ; that was the dream, 
 this is the reality. And yet, after all, I find 
 life worth living, if I can do my duty. It 
 was not marked out in my plan of life that I 
 should live and enjoy as others ; but such as 
 that plan is I have fulfilled it There is the 
 point. No matter how I came off at the end 
 — vanquished or victor, crowned or conquered 
 — I have done my work : done it, with all 
 my power of doing ; and though it may have 
 been with pain and failure, still it shall stand.' 
 
 ' But you are so good,' I said, * you are a 
 Christian.' 
 
 ' So far from being good,' he said, ' to use 
 
 your phraseology, I am so " bad," that 
 
 whether I am a Christian or not, even I do 
 
 not know myself. I have times of doubt 
 
 and difficulty, of temptation and anguish and 
 
 bitterness, such, as I pray God, you may 
 
 never know! I find life a tremendous battle, 
 
 Y 2.
 
 324 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 infinitely small as my battle-field is. I find 
 myself a ceaseless foe to myself. I find that 
 memories of the past, weariness of the 
 present, shrinking from the future, combine 
 to mar my content night and day. I find 
 that I am bitter, envious, unjust. I find my- 
 self murmuring against God and man. But 
 through all I try, and will try, to do my 
 best, both as to enduring and working. And 
 I encourage the hope that to all things there 
 is an end, and I seize and hold fast the fact, 
 that though I am groping in darkness, there 
 is light somewhere, and it is possible that I 
 may one day be in it.' 
 
 He had roused me from myself ; he had 
 taken hold of me and dragged me out of my 
 despair. His step, his manner, his voice, his 
 bearing, arrested me. My tears were stopped. 
 Some of the December mist had cleared 
 away in the distance ; I saw the lights of the 
 village ; friendly eyes they seemed — looking 
 upon us out of the darkness, which was 
 gathering fast. I quickened my steps to
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 325 
 
 keep up with Mr. Farren, who had walked 
 more rapidly, as it seemed to me, uncon- 
 sciously keeping pace with the vehement 
 manner in which he spoke. Why had he 
 talked in such a manner to me ? Never 
 before had he told me anything about him- 
 self. I wished he would o-q on: I did not 
 
 o 
 
 want one precious moment to pass without 
 his speaking. 
 
 When he next spoke his manner was 
 utterly changed. In the calmest and most 
 ordinary tone, he began as if he had never 
 broken off from the subject of Charlotte's 
 weddins: — ' The children are to have tea at 
 five in the larorest school-room, which is to 
 be beautifully decorated for the occasion. 
 All the people are to have dinner — a Christ- 
 mas dinner. Three dozen of the children — a 
 dozen from each village — are to be suitably 
 dressed, and strew flowers in the path of the 
 bride. Everv old woman in each villas^e Is 
 to have a pound of tea and a new dress. A 
 committee Is formed to make and carry out
 
 326 MAUDE MAYNAFD. 
 
 arrangements. Dr. Maynard wishes every- 
 one to have a treat. It Is his doing. I respect 
 him for it, and I am sure you must all be 
 very glad that so much pleasure will be 
 given.' 
 
 I assented. I had known nothing of all 
 this until he told me. * I hope it will be a 
 fine day,' he went on ; * sunshine outwardly 
 and inwardly is what will make everything 
 pass off well — even vexations and annoy- 
 ances, which, I take it, are a component part 
 of every day's work. I think the children 
 will behave well and be orderly ; I will an- 
 swer for those from Stonecross, as they will 
 be upon their honour ; and, such being the 
 case, I do not doubt they will do exactly what 
 they ought to do. 
 
 * You will not be here ? ' I said. 
 
 ' I shall not be here.' 
 
 I did not say anything more ; the pang 
 was so bitter, the pain so cruel, the disap- 
 pointment so great. I was a fool, I am a 
 fool; I know it ! If I might but lie down and
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 327 
 
 die ! If the Bible be true, I should then 
 
 What am I sapng ? I know it is true, 
 because Mr. Farren believes it, and it says 
 something about the ' weary being at rest.' 
 I am weary ; will it be very long before I 
 am at ' rest ' ? 
 
 He said nothing for a few minutes, and 
 then he spoke in a very gentle tone — ' I 
 have but one human being in the world who 
 holds the claim of relationship upon me, and 
 that one is old and poor — an aunt Since I 
 have honestly tried to find out if there were 
 any work in the world left for a disappointed 
 man to do, I have found out that it makes 
 her very happy for me to go and see her and 
 take her a Christmas gift, so I do it' 
 
 * Papa will not be pleased.' 
 
 ' Will he not .'* I regret that, though I 
 see no reason for such being the case. I 
 have a belief that the season of Christmas 
 belongs to the poorest man in England for 
 his very own. You forget that it will be my 
 holiday.'
 
 328 MAUDE MAYNARD. 
 
 * No, I did not forget ; but Papa will think 
 it shows a want of respect/ 
 
 * I am not answerable for what Dr. May- 
 nard may think.' 
 
 * No ; but you do not wish to displease 
 him.' 
 
 ' I do not wish it ; I should not put my- 
 self out of the way to cause it. If the plans 
 and habits of my life should happen to do it, 
 it will not give me a moment's concern, pro- 
 viding I entirely perform my duty to him.* 
 
 How firm his tread was, how upright his 
 mien, how ringing his voice ! Poor and 
 unknown, he was In thraldom to no man ; he 
 walked the earth free, while I — I 
 
 No other word passed. I could not see 
 the lights now. The December fog settled 
 thick and damp upon the earth. I could not 
 see a star In the sky, and I had seen them 
 coyly looking down before. I could not see 
 my way ; I stumbled over stones and rough- 
 ness, my eyes were very dim. 
 
 We were at the garden-gate in five
 
 MAUDE MAYNARD. 329 
 
 minutes more. In those five minutes I 
 resolved — God helping me — I would never 
 speak to Mr. Farren again — never, never ! 
 I think I was more than weak — I was mad — 
 going so. I must have been, else why did I 
 one moment resolve this, and breathe in that 
 moment freely and firmly, and the next — the 
 
 very next . He had taken my hand to say 
 
 * Good-bye,' and I — I could not help it — it 
 came — it would come — I said, ' Mr Farren, 
 do not go, be here on Christmas-day ; stay, I 
 ask you ; ' and he only said, ' I will stay,' 
 and I was alone. 
 
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 BALLADS AND TALES. Illustrated by the Author. 
 THE FOUR GEORGES. THE ENGLISH HUMOURISTS OF THE 
 
 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. With Portraits and other Illustrations. 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. To which is added the SECOND FUNERAL OF 
 
 NAPOLEON. With Illustrations bv the Author. 
 DENIS DUVAL ; LOVEL THE WIDOWER ; AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
 With Illustrations. 
 CATHERINE, A STORY ; LITTLE TRAVELS : and the FITZBOODLE 
 
 PAPERS. Illustrations by the Author, and a Portrait 
 *♦* TAi Volumes may be ?iad separately, price js. dd. each in cloth, or ts. 6d. each in boards. 
 
 London: SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 Waterloo Place.
 
 W. M. THACKERAY'S WORKS. 
 
 THE POPULAR EDITION. 
 
 Complete in Twelve Volumes, Crown 8vo. with Frontispiece to each 
 Volume, price 5^. each. 
 i.-VANITY FAIR. 
 
 s.— THE HISTORY OF PENDENNIS. 
 3— THE NEWCOMES. 
 4.— ESMOND AND BARRY LYNDON. 
 5.— THE VIRGINIANS. 
 
 6._THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP, to which is prefixed A SHABBY 
 GENTEEL STORY. 
 
 7.— PARIS, IRISH, AND EASTERN SKETCHES :— 
 
 PARIS SKETCH-BOOK. | IRISH SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 
 
 8.— HOGGARTY DIAMOND, YELLOWPLUSH PAPERS, & BURLESQUES :— 
 
 THE GREAT HOGGARTY DIAMOND. 
 
 YELLOWPLUSH PAPERS. 
 
 NOVELS BY EMINENT HANDS. 
 
 JEAMES'S DIARY 
 
 ADVENTURES OF MAJOR GAHAGAN. 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE RHINE 
 
 REBECCA AND ROWENA. 
 
 THE HISTORY OF THE NEXT FRENCH 
 
 REVOLUTION. 
 cox's DIARY. 
 
 THE FATAL BOOTS. 
 
 9.— THE BOOK OF SNOBS, AND SKETCHES OF LIFE & CHARACTER:— 
 
 THE BOOK OF SNOBS. 
 
 SKETCHES AND TRAVELS IN LONDON. 
 
 CHARACTER SKETCHES. 
 
 MEN S WIVES. 
 
 THE FITZBOODLE PAPERS. 
 
 THE BEDFORD ROW CONSPIRACY. 
 
 THE LITTLE DINNER AT TIMMINS S 
 
 10. -ROUNDABOUT PAPERS AND LECTURES:— 
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. 1 THE ENGLISH HUMOURISTS OF THE 
 
 THE FOUR GEORGES. I EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON. 
 
 II.— CATHERINE, &c.:- 
 
 CATHERINE. 
 
 LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 
 
 DENIS DUVAL. 
 
 12.— CHRISTMAS BOOKS:— 
 
 BALLADS. 
 
 THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB. 
 
 CRITICAL REVIEWS. 
 
 LITTLE TRAVELS. 
 
 MRS. PERKINS S BALL. OUR STREET. 
 
 DR. BIRCH. I THE KICKLBBURYS ON THE RHINE. 
 
 THE ROSE AND THE RING. 
 
 This Volume may also be had in Extra Cloth Gilt, Giit, Edges, price 6j. 
 
 *,• This Edition may be had in Sets of Twelve Volumes, handsomely bound in cloth, 
 gilt top, price ;^3 ; or in half-morocco, gilt, price ;^5. 5^. 
 
 London: SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 Waterloo Place,
 
 
 I 
 
 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 
 823P319M C001 w1 
 Maude Maynard / 
 
 3 0112 088987281 
 
 ^^i 
 
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