l-^ 

 
 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 % iffbd. 
 
 BY 
 
 ADELINE SERGEANT, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "JACOBI'S WIFE," "NO SAINT," ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 EDINBURGH: 
 OLIPHANT, ANDERSON & FERRIER. 
 
 LONDON : HAMILTON, ADAMS & CO. 
 
 18 8 8.
 
 HDINBL KGH : 
 
 PKINTED liY LORIMER AND GILLIES, 
 
 31 ST. ANDREW SQUARE.
 
 ^■1 
 
 ^ 
 5S' 
 
 fv 
 
 a 
 
 
 CONTENTS OF YOL. I. 
 
 CHAPTEK 
 
 I. THE WEDDING (lUEST, 
 
 II. MISS mackworth's story, 
 
 III. IN SUSPENSE, 
 
 IV. "l LOVED YOU ONCE,"' . 
 V. MISS ESHEr's INTENTIONS, 
 
 VI. A NEW HOME, 
 
 II. LENORE, 
 
 VIII. "a HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF," 
 
 IX. THE FIRST MEETING, 
 
 X. A lover's THREAT, 
 
 XI. THE HAND OF FATE, 
 
 XII. Magdalen's guest, 
 
 XIII. HIS SISTERS, 
 
 XIV. MARRYING AND GIVING IN MARRIAGE, 
 
 XV. Cecil's explanation, . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 1 
 
 20 
 
 39 
 
 58 
 
 80 
 
 99 
 
 119 
 
 139 
 
 157 
 
 176 
 
 195 
 
 215 
 
 234 
 
 255 
 
 279
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/seventytimesseve01serg
 
 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 THE WEDDING GUEST. 
 
 It was a pretty scene. The sky was deep 
 blue overhead, flecked here and there with 
 snow-white films of cloud : the sun shone 
 brilliantly upon the old grey church in its 
 green environment of stately trees and velvet 
 turf, upon the dark red roofs of the cottages, 
 upon the glowing faces of the villagers 
 gathered about the churchyard gate. Village 
 people, men, women,. and children, all in their 
 " Sunday best," with smiles on their faces, and 
 flowers in their hands. They had a festive 
 look, and a glance at the triumphal arches 
 with which the roadway and the gate were
 
 2 SEVENTY TIxMES SEVEN. 
 
 decked would have told a stranger that some 
 joyful event was about to be celebrated. 
 
 The church stood on a hill, and from its 
 western door the gravelled path sloped rather 
 steeply towards the gate. The village lay in 
 a hollow, the church rising above it like a 
 giant guardian, all in grey and green. The 
 houses were mostly built of red brick, and the 
 roofs were of a still deeper hue : they had an 
 air of warm picturesqueness, standing back 
 from the road, in their own gardens, where 
 the June roses were now in bloom. There 
 was certainly no want of fl owners in the little 
 Kentish village of Riversmead : the gardens 
 were still gay with blossoms, although so 
 many had been gathered that morning to 
 make wreaths and to fill baskets, and to 
 be tied into posies for the school children. 
 There were few persons present who did 
 not carry flowers to strew under the feet of 
 the beautiful bride, who was that day to go 
 from amongst them and be known by another 
 name.
 
 THE WEDDING GUEST. 3 
 
 Weddings were not very common occur- 
 rences in the little Eiversmead Chiircli, and 
 the village people always flocked into the 
 church and the churchyard to see the marriage 
 party. On this occasion it seemed as though 
 only the sick and the infirm could have been 
 left at home. Such a gathering had seldom 
 been seen at Eiversmead : the people had 
 flocked from far and near ; for the wedding 
 was that of Magdalen Lingard, the Squire's 
 only daughter, and was therefore a great 
 event. Not that the Squire was a rich or 
 powerful man : his estates had dwindled away 
 almost to nothing, and the big house in which 
 he lived was comfortless and poverty-stricken. 
 But Miss Lingard's bright smile and kindly 
 words had made her dear to the hearts of the 
 Eiversmead people, and many of them were 
 deeply grieved to think that they were going 
 to lose her. 
 
 " It '11 be a bad day for us when she 's gone, 
 pretty creatur'," sighed one old dame to the 
 other, as they stood in the green churchyard.
 
 4 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEX. 
 
 '* Many and many 's the pound of tea she 's 
 brought to me, though little enough money 
 she 's had to call her own, as everybody 
 knows ; and the woollen things she 's knitted, 
 and the stockings and the petticoats — she 's 
 the kindest 'art and the quickest fingers of 
 any lady in the country side." 
 
 " She '11 be a grand lady now," said her 
 friend, in reply. "The gentleman she's a- 
 going to marry has got plenty o' money and a 
 fine place near Scarsfield — one o' them manu- 
 fact'ring towns i' the North, I 'm told. She 11 
 be a great lady up there, no doubt." 
 
 " The Lord '11 bless her wherever she goes," 
 said the first speaker. 
 
 "Maybe," said the second — evidently a 
 more worldly-minded person than her friend 
 — " but He won't spare her trouble and sorrow 
 any more than He spares other folk. To my 
 mind, she '11 have a peck o' trouble with her 
 husband's relations ; they seem all to live up 
 Scarsfield way: and I never yet knew a young 
 married pair get on well if they lived amongst
 
 THE WEDDING GUEST. 5 
 
 tlieir own folk. One or t'other 's sure to breed 
 mischief." 
 
 "They'll all love Miss Magdalen," answered 
 the other woman, confidently. " And as for 
 relations. Captain Esher has on'y two sets of 
 them at Scarsfield ; and one 's Mr. and Mrs. 
 St. Aidan, that she's so fond of a'ready, 
 and the other's a maiden lady, Miss Esher, 
 who 's going to leave the Captain all her 
 money." 
 
 " Much he needs it ! He 's as rich now as 
 Creeses," said her friend, rather viciously. 
 
 At this moment some children, near the 
 gate, set up a shout: "They're coming! 
 they're coming! I hear the wheels." Every 
 head w^as forthwith turned towards the road. 
 But the w^heels belonged only to a dilapidated 
 old cab, drawn by a dejected looking horse in 
 the direction leading from the nearest railway 
 station. One or two of the children narrowly 
 escaped a cuff for giving false news, but, 
 luckily for them, public attention was diverted 
 from their misdeeds to the new arrival. The
 
 6 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 cab stopped at the gate ; and the red-faced 
 driver got down from his seat, whip in hand, 
 and opened the creaking door. " It be one 
 of the visitors come from London to the 
 wedding," respectfully murmured a woman to 
 her neighbour. " I heard tell they expected a 
 sight o' folks ; but, bless me, she ain't much to 
 look at, is she ? " 
 
 " In a black gown ! " commented her friend, 
 eyeing the new-comer with much disfavour. 
 '* I thought it weren't lucky to come to a 
 wedding in black. They 're nice little children, 
 ain't they ? if they didn't look so white and 
 peaked." 
 
 Meanwhile the woman paid the driver and 
 dismissed him, then turned her face towards 
 the church, and also, of course, towards the 
 waiting crowd. The gaze of the village folk 
 seemed to disconcert her. She started, flushed 
 deeply, and then grew very pale. With 
 shaking fingers she drew down her veil, took 
 a hand of the two children who accompanied 
 her, in each of her own ; and, thus leading
 
 THE WEDDING GUEST. / 
 
 them, passed up the gravelled walk into the 
 church. 
 
 In the absence of any other object of inter- 
 est, the people watched her as she went. She 
 was not very young — probably between thirty 
 and forty years of age ; her face was worn and 
 lined like that of an aged person, or one wIk ► 
 has known much sorrow ; the cheeks were 
 thin and pale, the veins on the temples pain- 
 fully prominent. Her blue eyes had a strange, 
 haggard expression ; and the fair hair that 
 strayed over her forehead gave her a wild, dish- 
 evelled look. Her dress was plain and even 
 poor ; coarse in texture and sombre in hue. 
 The two childi-en — little girls of three or four 
 years old — were, however, dressed in white, 
 daintily decked with embroidery and blue 
 ribbons. It was suggested by the watchers 
 that they were children of some friends of the 
 bride or bridegroom, and that the woman was 
 their nurse. But a quick-eared school-child 
 deposed to having heard one of them call her 
 "auntie" as they walked up the churchyard
 
 8 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 path. Inside the building, the woman went 
 deliberately to the front pew. It was still 
 unoccupied, being reserved for certain members 
 of the wedding-party; and the old pew-opener 
 hurried up, with an anxious and important 
 face, to turn the ill-advised new-comers out 
 of the prominent place that they had chosen 
 for themselves. The children looked up at 
 him with frightened, imploring eyes, but did 
 not stir. The woman seated herself beside 
 them, and took no notice of the old man's 
 remonstrance. 
 
 " Don't ye hear what I say ? " he grumbled, 
 in a still louder tone. " These 'ere seats is for 
 the wedding-party, I tells ye : come out o' that 
 pew, ma'am, for goodness' sake, or I '11 call the 
 Vicar." 
 
 " Call him," said the woman, lifting her veil 
 and fixing her weird blue eyes upon the little 
 withered man in his black gown, as he stood 
 by the pew and actually shook the door in his 
 agitation of mind. '' Call him, by all means. 
 I wish to speak to him."
 
 THE WEDDING GUEST. 9 
 
 *' I '11 put you into quite as good a pew, 
 ma'am. This 'ere place is reserved for them 
 as belongs to the wedding-party " 
 
 " / belong to the wedding-party," said the 
 stranger, coldly. Then she dropped her veil 
 and said no more. 
 
 The old man, whose name was Binns, turned 
 away in despair. The Vicar, Mr. Kirton, was 
 already in the vestry, and Binns thought of 
 askino^ him to come and dislodo'e the un- 
 welcome visitor, but he was a little afraid 
 that the good clergyman would pooh-pooh his 
 complaint, and say that people must seat 
 themselves in their own way. Binns was un- 
 easy. Visitors kept arriving every moment, 
 and were shown to their places by the Vicar's 
 son — visitors in silks and satins, velvet and 
 broadcloth, resplendent with jewels and flowers 
 and perfume — and this strange woman, poorly 
 clad in rusty black, had taken the best place 
 of all, the place reserved for the most dis- 
 tinguished of the guests ! A\'liat could he do ? 
 
 Carriages rolled up to the gate : the brides-
 
 10 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 maids were standing at the door in readiness 
 for the bride : the distinguished guest had 
 found some other seat, and a general move of 
 expectation showed that the most important 
 personages were about to arrive upon the 
 scene. A little buzz of voices told of the 
 bride's approach. Mr. Kirton and Mr. St. 
 Aidan, the bridegroom's clerical cousin, had 
 taken u-p their position in the middle of the 
 church, where the earlier part of the service 
 was to be conducted. This fact seemed to 
 puzzle the stranger, who had expected the 
 wedding-party to come up to the Communion 
 rails at once, in the old unecclesiastical fashion, 
 and had therefore kept her eyes steadily fixed 
 on the east end of the church. Thus she 
 missed the entrance of the clergymen, and 
 also of the bridegroom with his best man. 
 She now turned hastily round, and, seeing her 
 mistake, rose up. The bride was entering the 
 church at that very moment, mth her atten- 
 dant maidens, dressed in white. Children 
 threw fiowxrs on her path ; the organ pealed
 
 THE WEDDING GUEST. 11 
 
 out a joyful strain, tlie sunshine fell through 
 the coloured windows in rosy and purple 
 patches on her satin gown as she passed up 
 the church upon her father's arm. 
 
 At that moment, the woman in black left 
 her seat and walked do^vn the aisle towards the 
 clergymen who awaited the bride's approach. 
 Her movements were scarcely noticed, except 
 by those in her immediate vicinity, for the 
 eyes of nearly all were fixed upon the wedding- 
 party. Perhaps only old Binns was scandaHsed 
 by the sight of that black figure, edging its 
 way with steady purpose through the gaily 
 decked feminine crowd of guests. Behind the 
 woman came the two children, grasping each 
 other by the hand, evidently frightened at the 
 scene in which they found themselves, but not 
 daring to stay behind. And, as it happened^ 
 the woman reached the clergpnan before the 
 bride was more than half-way up the church ; 
 and when she had reached him, she quietly 
 laid her hand upon his arm. 
 
 Mr. Kirton started violently. He looked in
 
 12 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 amaze at the intruder, then glanced round 
 hurriedly in search of Binns, who Avas seen in 
 the background, Avorking with arms and 
 shoulders through a crowd of stragglers in a 
 vain endeavour to get to his master's side. 
 
 " What do you want ? Go back, go back ! " 
 said the Vicar in a low reproving tone. 
 
 The little group at the foot of the chancel 
 steps looked round inquiringly. The curate 
 laid his hand on the woman's shoulder. 
 *' What do you want here ? " he asked. 
 
 " I have brought Philip Esher's children to 
 see his marriage," she replied, in so distinct a 
 tone that her words were clearly heard by 
 every one within a radius of half-a-dozen yards, 
 and therefore by the whole of the wedding- 
 party ; '^ and to ask him what has become of 
 the woman who ought to have stood in Miss 
 Lingard's place." 
 
 There was a momentary hush. The 
 stranger had again thrown back her veil ; 
 her thin cheeks were touched with a hectic 
 flush, and there was an unnatural brilliance
 
 THE WEDDING GUEST. 13 
 
 in her wild blue eyes. Before lier the mar- 
 riage procession came to a sudden stop ; for 
 a moment the two women who were more 
 deeply interested than any other in the cere- 
 mony about to be performed looked straight 
 into each other's eyes. 
 
 What Miss Lingard saw, we know. What 
 the stranger had already seen was the con- 
 ventional bride, in white satin and white lace, 
 leaning upon her father's arm : pearls, orange- 
 blossom, a diamond clasp, a snowy film of 
 tulle, the tip of a satin shoe — of all these 
 details the unbidden guest was conscious. 
 But suddenly the bride also threw back her 
 veil, and then the wild-eyed, black-robed 
 woman saw something more. 
 
 Magdalen's figm-e was tall and slender, but 
 exquisitely proportioned ; the features of her 
 face were finely cut and full of expression. 
 Her complexion was not rosy, but neither was 
 it usually very pale : the slightest emotion 
 called up a carnation hue to the fair oval of 
 her cheek, just as it made her eyes gleam and
 
 14 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 her mouth ripple over with smiles or tremble 
 with tenderest feeling. But what rendered 
 her face more striking was a certain con- 
 tradiction between this frequent change of 
 colour and expression and some of its most 
 characteristic lines. A peculiarly tranquil 
 look was given by the almost level line of the 
 dark eyebrow^s beneath the smooth white 
 forehead : the well-developed chin spoke 
 of a strong will, and the firmly closed lips 
 of determination. It might be inferred 
 that the quickly changing colour and the 
 varying expressions were the outcome of 
 youth, inexperience, and keen sensibility ; 
 but that behind these were to be found the 
 resolute will, the clear judgment, the unfailing 
 capacity for action, that would make of her in 
 time what the world often calls " a woman 
 of character." 
 
 Close to her stood Philip Esher, the bride - 
 groonl-elect. He was just Magdalen's height, 
 not very tall for a man : lithe, lean, and 
 sinewy ; more singularly handsome than even
 
 THE WEDDIXG GUEST. 15 
 
 the bride herself, partly because of the rather 
 unusual contrast between the colour of his 
 hair and eyes. The closely-cropped head and 
 heavy moustache were golden brown ; his 
 face, though bronzed now, had once been fair, 
 but his eyes were dark, remarkably restless 
 and brilliant, and set in long almond-shaped 
 sockets, like those of an Eastern girl. The 
 forehead was broad and low ; the nose 
 aquiline, with thin nostrils ; the lips also 
 thin, and very much curved. It was curious 
 that with all the physical beauty of this 
 man's face, the first impression produced by 
 it was rarely pleasant. There was a subtle 
 suggestion of possible cruelty, of scorn and 
 hatred, in the curves of that fine mouth, 
 apt to make a psychological student recoil. 
 But as most of his friends and Magdalen's 
 friends had known him for many years, they 
 perhaps scarcely noticed the stereotyped sneer 
 upon his face. Only here and there one or 
 two, more keen-witted than the rest, wondered 
 how Magdalen Lingard, with her high instincts,
 
 16 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 her noble aspirations, could tie herself for life 
 to a man like Philip Esher. 
 
 Magdalen had been leaning on her father's 
 arm. He was a tall, upright man, with a 
 white moustache, and something of a soldierly 
 air. "When the sound of the stranger's words 
 fell upon his ear, his eyes flashed fire, he 
 made an involuntary movement forward, then 
 checked himself and put his arm round the 
 girl's slender waist, as if he feared that she 
 would fall. But Magdalen showed no symp- 
 toms of uncertain balance. She turned pale, 
 it is true, and her eyes grew large with 
 astonishment and dismay, but she kept her 
 confident bearing, and looked the woman 
 steadfastly in the face. 
 
 There was a much more startling change in 
 Philip Esher's appearance. His face grew 
 absolutely livid — more, as it seemed, from 
 rage than fear : he clenched his fist and 
 uttered a word which, profane in itself, was 
 particularly unsuitable at such a time and in 
 such a place. Even Magdalen's brow con-
 
 THE WEDDING GUEST. 17 
 
 tracted as she heard it, and Mr. St. Aiden, 
 his cousin, immediately uttered a short, 
 stern reproof. But Captain Esher did not 
 lieed. 
 
 " Turn her out ! " he said, in a voice hoarse 
 with passion. " Turn her out, I say ! — what 
 does she come for ? " 
 
 '' To confront you wdth the memory of your 
 own evil deeds," said the woman, wdth the 
 peculiarly distinct utterance which made the 
 words penetrate far into the depths of the 
 listening crowd. " To call your past life to 
 your mind : to " 
 
 " This is a most unseemly interruption," 
 said the Vicar, who had meanwhile beckoned 
 to one of his sons and the parish constable, 
 and felt more confident of his position when 
 they W'Cre at his side. " If there is any reason 
 why the service should not proceed, adjourn 
 wdth me to the vestry ; if not, be silent, or 
 I must have you removed. Do you allege 
 any obstacle to Captain Esher s marriage with 
 Miss Lingard ? "
 
 18 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 The woman folded her arms and looked at 
 Captain Esher with a malicious smile, but 
 made no answer. 
 
 " I swear there is no obstacle," said Esher, 
 who was evidently much agitated. " I know 
 of none ; and she knows of none either." 
 
 *' Not even if Alice Mackworth were alive ? " 
 asked the woman, in a lower tone. 
 
 The change in Captain Esher's face was 
 almost answer enough. For a moment he 
 looked sick with dread. And the grey pallor 
 of his lips startled those who had hitherto 
 believed most fully in his innocence. 
 
 " Sir," said Mr. Lingard, sternly, " I must 
 have an explanation of this charge." 
 
 " We had better go back to the vestry," 
 said Mr. St. Aidan to his brother clergyman. 
 ''A few minutes' conversation may put the 
 thing right. Don't you think it would be 
 better ? " 
 
 " There is absolutely no need," said Captain 
 Esher, hurriedly. His tones were lowered, as 
 befitted the place in which he stood ; but he
 
 THE WEDDING GUEST. 19 
 
 moved to Magdalen's side and tried to take 
 her hand, " Magdalen, you believe me, do 
 you not ? " 
 
 She lifted her eyes to his face : a beautiful 
 trust and love shone in their liquid depths. 
 
 "Yes, Philip," she answered, gently. 
 
 " Then why should we delay ? Go on, sir," 
 said the young man, turning triumphantly to 
 the clergyman with his bride's hand clasped in 
 his own. " There is no obstacle, I repeat : 
 have the goodness to go on with the service." 
 
 " Wait, sir," Mr. Lingard interposed, in his 
 impressive voice. "My daughter is under 
 age. I forbid her to give herself to this man 
 until we have inquired into the accusation 
 brought against him. Magdalen, come with 
 me." 
 
 She did not resist, though her face turned 
 pale and the tears rose to her beautiful dark 
 eyes. Mr. Lingard went with her towards the 
 vestry, and the wedding-party broke up in 
 confusion.
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 MISS mackwoeth's story. 
 
 The vestry was a spacious but gloomy room, 
 panelled in oak, with small pointed windows 
 higli in the wall. Oak chests were ranged 
 round the walls, and an oak table stood in the 
 middle of the room. Half-a-dozen surplices 
 and cassocks hung upon pegs on one of the 
 walls, and the table held a few books and a 
 carafe of water. A carved high-backed chair 
 and some w^ooden forms completed the furni- 
 ture of the place. 
 
 Into this room came the persons chiefly 
 interested in the scene w^hich had just 
 occurred. The two clergymen follow^ed JMr. 
 Lingard and his daughter : then came the 
 woman in black, escorted by the vicar's son, 
 
 with the two children clinging to her dress. 
 
 20
 
 MISS MACK WORTHS STORY. 21 
 
 After them walked Captain Esher, reluctantly 
 yet desperately, like a man going to certain 
 destruction. And, last of all, an old lady with 
 silvery hair and a rugged, hard-featured face, 
 rose up from the pew in which she had 
 hitherto been sitting, and stalked solemnly up 
 to the vestry door. She was at once admitted, 
 as having a right to be present at the 
 conference. She was Philip Esher 's aunt, the 
 lady of whom the village gossips had spoken 
 as likely to leave him all her money when she 
 died. 
 
 As soon as the door closed Philip Esher 
 burst out passionately. 
 
 " There is no charge against me of any 
 kind. This woman has made none. Are you 
 not prepared to take my word of honour as a 
 gentleman " 
 
 "Excuse me," said Mr. Lingard, politely 
 but coldly. " I think that a charge has 
 certainly been made. This lady speaks of 
 some one who should stand in my daughter's 
 place. I claim a right to defer the marriage
 
 22 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 until this extraordinary allegation has been 
 disproved. When it is disproved we will 
 beg your pardon for seeming to doubt you ; 
 but with my daughter's welfare at stake I 
 should not be justified in proceeding other- 
 wise." 
 
 Philip Esher turned away his face to mutter 
 an impatient " Tedious old fool ! " in his 
 uncle's ear. Mr. Lingard was a man of the 
 old school : a man of laboured courtesies and 
 studied phrases, and he had never liked 
 Captain Esher. 
 
 " Come to the point," said Mr. St. Aidan, 
 not unkindly, though with a reproving 
 glance at Philip. '"Have you anythiog to 
 say, my good woman ? What reason have 
 you to give for interrupting the marriage 
 service ? " 
 
 The scene was curiously like that of a 
 justice-room. Mr. Kirton had taken the 
 chair at the head of the table, while Mr. St. 
 Aidan stood beside him and put questions 
 or made suggestions with a judicial air. At
 
 MISS MACKWOETHS STORY. 23 
 
 the other end of the table stood the woman in 
 black, with James Kirton on one side, and the 
 children on the other. She looked at that 
 moment like the accused, not the accuser. 
 Miss Esher, Mr. Lingard, and Magdalen 
 formed a little group apart, midway between 
 the table and the door ; and Philip Esher 
 stood beside his uncle, with his eyes fixed on 
 Magdalen. He had tried to get close to her, 
 to put his arm round her and take her hand, 
 but her father and his own aunt had waved 
 him off. One or two questions must be asked 
 and answered before he could be allowed to 
 treat her as his promised wife. 
 
 " What reason had you for interrupting the 
 marriage service ? " asked Mr. St. Aidan. 
 
 " This reason ; he is not fit to be the 
 husband of a girl like that." 
 
 " He is not married, then ? " said Mr. 
 Kirton, quickly. 
 
 The woman looked sullenly at Captain 
 Esher, and then at the two clergymen in 
 turn. "Yes," she said, slowly, after what
 
 24 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 seemed a long and terrible pause; "he is 
 married — he has been married — and these are 
 his two children." 
 
 '' It 's a lie ! " thundered Esher, his eyes 
 glittering, the veins on his forehead standing 
 out like whipcord. ''It's a lie — an infernal 
 lie ! She can't prove it. 1 defy her to prove 
 it. I was never married." 
 
 " Perhaps you will say next that these are 
 not your children," said the woman, coldly. 
 Her excitement had died out as that of 
 Philip Esher rose ; her voice was low, her 
 eye dull, her face colourless. But there was 
 a quiet resolution in her air which made the 
 listeners fear for the result. "Perhaps you 
 will say that you did not desert your wife 
 and her two babies at Wingfield three years 
 ago ? Perhaps you will deny that you ever 
 courted Alice Mackworth ? I can get plenty 
 of witnesses as to that point ; and I don't 
 doubt that I can prove the desertion and the 
 cruelty too. You reckoned without your 
 host, Philip Esher, when you forget me^
 
 MISS MACKWORTh's STOEY. 25 
 
 " Are you his wife, then ? " asked Miss 
 Esher, in a horrified tone. Philip seemed 
 unable to speak; his face expressed an 
 anguish of despair. 
 
 The woman turned to the speaker with 
 a quick gesture of repulsion. ''Me, his 
 wife!" she cried. ''No, thank God. I 
 haven't fallen so low as that. I 'm his wife's 
 sister. I am Louisa Mackworth, and it was 
 Alice that he married." 
 
 " I never married her ! " came from Captain 
 Esher's white lips in a sort of gasp. An 
 evil and maligant look shot from his long 
 dark eyes. And Magdalen, glancing at him 
 then, shivered and drew back. 
 
 " You had better hold your tongue, Philip," 
 said old ]\Iiss Esher, sharply. "You will 
 only make bad worse. Can you prove what 
 you are saying, or can you not ? " she added, 
 turning abruptly to the accuser. 
 
 "Do you think I should come here if 
 I could not prove it ? " said Lousia Mack- 
 w^orth. " I have the papers with me."
 
 26 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 ^' Philip ! " 
 
 It was Magdalen who spoke. The name 
 fell from her lips in a low, agonised wail of 
 entreaty. For the last few moments no one 
 had looked at her ; they had all been absorbed 
 in the words and movements of accuser and 
 accused; but now every eye was turned 
 upon her. She was deadly white ; her eyes 
 were dilated, her lips parted, her hands 
 clasped before her ; her head was slightly 
 turned over her shoulder, as if she were 
 listening to some unexpected sound. 
 
 They knew what it was. The church clock 
 was striking twelve. 
 
 Mr. St. Aidan moved aside with a grey 
 look upon his usually florid countenance, and 
 beo'an with a tremblino; hand to take off the 
 surplice that he had donned that morning 
 with such a joyful heart. " There can be no 
 wedding this morning," he said, as he flung it 
 across one of tlie oaken chests. He did not 
 mean any one save Mr. Kirton and his nephew 
 to hear him. But Maodalen also heard.
 
 MISS MACK WORTHS STORY. 27 
 
 She had always been a girl of great out- 
 ward calmness, great self-control. She had 
 made no outcry, shed no tear during all these 
 bitter moments. But the strain was too 
 much. From the arm that her father had 
 placed around her, she slid quietly, helplessly 
 to the floor, where she lay in a dead swoon, 
 white as her wedding gown, lifeless as the 
 orange blossoms that were crushed in her 
 dark hair. 
 
 They were all beside her in a moment ; 
 one with smelling-salts, and one with water, 
 one raising her head, another chafing her 
 hands. Only Louisa Mackworth and the 
 children held aloof She looked on with 
 cold composure, as if Magdalen's sorrow could 
 be no business of hers. The children, 
 frightened and crying, were hiding their faces 
 in her black gown, and imploring her to take 
 them away. But she made no response. 
 
 Miss Esher took matters into her own hands. 
 
 " Stand back, all of you ! " she said, per- 
 emptorily. •' Get up, Philip Esher, and don't
 
 28 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 make a fool of yourself!" For Philip had 
 grasped the poor cold hand, and was kissing 
 it and calling npon Magdalen to hear him. 
 He had entirely lost his self-possession — he 
 who was generally so self-possessed — and 
 nobody who saw him at that moment could 
 doubt that he loved with his whole heart the 
 woman whom, to all appearance, he had so 
 shamefully deceived. " No, I won't have you 
 here," said the old lady ; and in a still more 
 positive tone, "Go farther off; do you wish to 
 kill her ? Give her air ! " 
 
 "My God! is she dead?" cried old Mr. 
 Lingard, wringing his hands. Then he turned 
 fiercely upon Captain Esher, who had retired 
 a few paces, and stood looking down upon 
 Magdalen's prostrate form with an expression 
 of utter misery. " This is your work, sir. 
 God reward you for what you have done ! " 
 
 Esher shuddered involuntarily. Then an 
 angry light leapt into his eyes. 
 
 " I have done nothing — nothing to hurt 
 her," he declared. " Why are you such fools
 
 MISS MACKWORTHS STORY. 29 
 
 as to listen to that woman's lies ! I tell you 
 I can explain it all in five minutes." 
 
 " Don't tell me ! I don't believe you/' 
 said Miss Eslier, as she sprinkled water on 
 Magdalen's face. " James Kirton, are you 
 there ? See if there isn't a doctor in the 
 church. And send the people away as soon 
 as you can, and bring the carriage round to 
 the vestry door. We had better get the child 
 home as soon as possible." 
 
 " The carriage is at the door already," 
 said James Kirton, reaj)pearing after a few 
 moments' absence. " Here is Dr. Symonds. 
 The people are all crowding up to the vestry 
 door now," he said, turning to his father, 
 " will you come out and speak to them, sir ? 
 And the guests — what are they to do ? " 
 
 " My house is at their service," said Mr. 
 Lingard, catching the words, and spreading 
 out his trembling fingers with a slight depre- 
 catory bow. " They will excuse my presence, 
 and that of my daughter — but the house is 
 open — let them eat and drink — and go ! "
 
 30 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 He turned away and put his liands before his 
 eyes : the shock had unnerved him, and he 
 was shaking from head to foot. 
 
 " My dear Mr. Lingard, don't take the 
 thing too seriously," said the Vicar in an 
 undertone, as he also divested himself of his 
 surplice, and prepared to make his way into 
 the lay world without. " There will be, 
 I trust, only a temporary delay. From what 
 Captain Esher says, I feel sure that he is 
 not so much to blame ^ — that there is some 
 mistake ; we shall have the wedding to- 
 morrow, never fear." 
 
 " I am afraid that I know better," said Mr. 
 Lingard, sternly. He moved away from the 
 Vicar, as if he could not bear another word. 
 Mr. Kirton hurried back into the church, 
 where he spoke to some of the guests, who 
 were still standing about the aisles or sitting 
 in the pews, full of dire consternation and 
 dismay. The pretty bridesmaids were especi- 
 ally to be pitied. Two of them had already 
 been indignantly borne away by their parents,
 
 MISS MACKWORTHS STORY. 3l 
 
 wlio were scandalised at the interruption 
 of the ceremony ; one, Mr. Kirton's own 
 daughter, was in tears ; the other three had 
 come from London, and were staying at the 
 Lingards', to whose house they did not like to 
 return until something definite was known. 
 Mr. Kirton went from one to another, 
 murmuring soft words of explanation that 
 explained nothing, offering the hospitality of 
 his own house to some of the guests, and 
 putting every facility for departure in the way 
 of others. Binns and one or two faithful 
 assistants cleared the church, and, to a large 
 extent, the church^^ard, of village people ; the 
 choir-boys disrobed in the porch, as the vestry 
 was occupied ; the organist locked up his 
 organ ; the ringers went sadly home without 
 the beer which they had been led to expect. 
 One by one carriages drove away, laden with 
 excited occupants : the village women loitered 
 back to their cottages, and the children, 
 to whom a holiday from school had been 
 given, got into mischief far and wide. For
 
 32 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 what would become of tlie tea that had 
 been provided for them; and the presents 
 for their mothers ; and the games in Mr. 
 Lingard's field? These were "treats" that 
 had been expected on the occasion of Miss 
 Magdalen's marriage, and as Miss Magdalen 
 was not married, of course there could be no 
 treats. And at first there was lamentation 
 and mourning and woe amongst the boys and 
 oirls ; but afterwards an evil spirit entered 
 into them, and caused them to wish to visit 
 their disappointment on somebody else's head 
 — no matter whose. Therefore, they got 
 into mischief; and there were more panes of 
 glass broken, more gardens trampled down, 
 more field -gates left open so that the cattle 
 might get out, more poultry chased, more 
 cats worried, and more devilment generally 
 amongst the small fry of Kiversmead village 
 on the day fixed for Magdalen's wedding than 
 there had been in all the previous six months. 
 Nevertheless, they had their tea, and their 
 presents, and their games, that afternoon — at
 
 MISS MACKWORTHS STORY. 33 
 
 least, those of them did who had not been 
 sent to bed by their mothers, nor were being- 
 thrashed by their fathers, nor were in custody 
 of the village constable, nor were sulking in 
 woods and fields miles away from home. But 
 no work was done in the cottages that day ; 
 for the women were all standing at each 
 others doors, comparing notes and telling 
 stories of fine gentlemen and their wicked 
 ways ; so that, when the labouring man came 
 home at night, there was no evening meal 
 ready for him, and a good deal of unpleasant- 
 ness followed. After which, the labouring 
 man resorted to the nearest public-house, and 
 drank and smoked until it was time for him to 
 stumble home to bed, and to that sleep which 
 Solomon tells us is so particularly sweet. And 
 his wife had a black eye in the morning, or a 
 bruise which she did not like to show. 
 
 Such were some of the dire results of poor 
 Magdalen's interrupted wedding. 
 
 When j\lr. Kirton had seen the coast clear, 
 
 D
 
 34 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 he came back to tlie vestry and helped to 
 carry Magdalen to the carriage. She was 
 half-conscious by this time, but not able to 
 walk or speak. Miss Esher followed her into 
 the carriage, and put her arm round her. 
 
 " Let me speak to her — ^just a word," cried 
 Philip, as the girl was borne away. But 
 Mr. Lingard interposed with a stern word of 
 refusal ; Mr. St. Aidan laid his hand restrain- 
 ingly on the young man's arm, and Magdalen 
 — Mao^dalen would not look. She hid her 
 face on Miss Esher's shoulder as soon as she 
 was placed in the carriage, and seemed neither 
 to see nor hear. Philip Esher stamped with 
 fury, and muttered words which his uncle 
 thought it better not to notice, unsuitable 
 though they were. And then the four men 
 — for Mr. Lingard had not accompanied 
 his daughter — went back to the gloomy 
 oak-panelled room, where Louisa Mackworth 
 patiently awaited their return. 
 
 Philip Esher's face had by this time 
 assumed a very dogged and sullen expression.
 
 MISS MACKWORTHS STORY. 35 
 
 j\lr. St. Aidan knew the look — there was a 
 peculiar whiteness about his lips and nostrils 
 — and knew that it boded nothing good. 
 Philip had said that he could " explain ; " his 
 uncle began to doubt whether explanation 
 were possible. Certainly the young man 
 began by carrying matters with a high 
 hand. 
 
 "Now," he said, as he advanced to the 
 table beside which Miss Mackworth was sit- 
 ting, with a dark and threatening brow, 
 *'what is the meaning of this trumped-up 
 story, this farrago of lying nonsense ? I sup- 
 pose I need not remind you that we can 
 prosecute you if you fail to substantiate your 
 charges ? — ivhich you cannot do.'' 
 
 His piercing eyes looked straight into hers 
 for a moment. She read a menace in them : 
 she also read a fear. She smiled slightly as 
 she replied : 
 
 '' You were married to Alice Mackworth on 
 the 7th of February, 1874, at the Eegistry 
 Office in B Street, Bloomsbury, London.
 
 36 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 I have liere a copy of the entry in the 
 register. The gentlemen may see it if they 
 please." She pushed a paper across the table 
 to Mr. St. Aidan, who knitted his brow sadly 
 over its contents. " You settled Alice in 
 lodgings, first in London, and then at a 
 country place — Wingfield, in Warwickshire : 
 her twin children were born there, in May, 
 1875 — three years ago. You visited her from 
 time to time, but as she was ill and weak you 
 tired of her ; and at last you wrote her a 
 letter saying that you did not mean to come 
 back, but that you enclosed a cheque for 
 twenty pounds, and that she mustn't expect 
 you to do any more for her. Cruel desertion 
 is what the Law calls that sort of conduct, 
 isn't it, sir ? She stayed on at Wingfield for 
 some weeks, till the money was all spent, and 
 then she tried to get work to do, but there 
 was little work to be found for her weak 
 
 hands " 
 
 "Philip! Philip!" said Mr. St. Aidan 
 getting up and pushing back his chair.
 
 MISS mackworth's story. 37 
 
 "for God's sake say that this story is not 
 true ! " 
 
 " I have said so all along," answered Philip, 
 keeping his eyes fixed on the table, however, 
 *' and you would not believe me." 
 
 '' How much of it is untrue ? " asked Louisa 
 Mackworth, in a voice of hard sarcasm. "It is 
 certainly true that she came back to me, her 
 elder sister, twelve months ago, ill, starving, 
 almost beside herself with misery. What else 
 is untrue ? I have your letter to her in my 
 pocket. Here's the registrar's certificate 
 copied. If any one likes to go to the 
 registrar's clerk in Bloomsbury, or to the 
 lodging-house keeper at Wingfield, either of 
 them will identify Alice's husband, though he 
 did call himself Philip Ash to the landlady. 
 What untruth is there in all that ? " 
 
 The three men who were, so to speak, judg- 
 ing the case, looked sternly, anxiously, at 
 Philip Esher. He was still very white about 
 the lips, and his hands had begun to tremble. 
 For the first time he stammered when he
 
 38 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 spoke, lifted his eyes for a moment to Mr, 
 Lingard s face, and tlien dropped tliem hastily, 
 as if ashamed to look. 
 
 " I — I did not say that I had never known 
 the girl of whom you speak," he faltered ; 
 " your details are falsified — not the main fact, 
 perhaps — but I thought — I thought — that she 
 was — dead." 
 
 "And there you were not wTong," said 
 Louisa Mackworth, composedly. ''Your wife 
 is dead."
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 IN SUSPENSE. 
 
 When Magdalen fully recovered conscious- 
 ness, she was lying in her own little white bed 
 in the room that had been hers since child- 
 hood. As her eyes opened they rested dreamily 
 on the simple furniture — the chintz curtains, 
 the cane-seated chairs, the great blue bowl of 
 joot-pourri, the engravings on the walls — and 
 a sense of utter bewilderment stole over her. 
 Where was she ? These things were familiar 
 to her, and yet she felt like a stranger amongst 
 them all. Ah, the bitter truth then came to 
 her mind : it was she who had changed ; it 
 was she who could never be again the bright, 
 light-hearted girl that she had been when she 
 awoke in the early morning hours of that 
 
 eventful day. No wonder that her world 
 ^ 39
 
 40 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 looked different when seen with such altered 
 eyes ! The sun shone, but its shining would 
 henceforth bring no joy : the roses were 
 blossoming as of old, but their fragrance sick- 
 ened her. And as she thought in this way, 
 she turned her face to the pillow and shed 
 some hot, silent tears of veriest misery. 
 
 She thought that she was alone and un- 
 observed, but such was not the case. There 
 was a lady in the room — an old lady in a 
 brown silk brocade that would have stood 
 alone for richness and stiffness, a high brown 
 bonnet with an aigrette of feathers of very 
 military appearance, and a lace shawl of almost 
 priceless value disposed round her stiff, gaunt 
 shoulders. She had been sitting bolt upright 
 in a high chair for more than two hours, with 
 her hands clasped tightly before her ; but as 
 soon as Magdalen moved she came over to the 
 girl's bedside and laid her withered hand upon 
 the bowed dark head. 
 
 " How are you now, child ? " she said. 
 
 Her voice was naturally rough and harsh ;
 
 IX SUSPENSE. 41 
 
 but there was nothing but kindness in its 
 tones. There was nothing but kindness in the 
 lines of the rugged face, the gleam of the keen 
 grey eyes. And Magdalen felt the kindness, 
 although at that moment it was impossible for 
 her to respond to it. 
 
 " Better, thank you," she said, mechanically. 
 Then she wiped away her tears and lay very 
 still. " How long have I been here ? " she asked. 
 
 "More than two hours, my dear. You 
 fainted, you know ; and then you have been 
 sleeping." It had been a stupor rather than a 
 natural sleep, but Miss Esher did not like to 
 say so. 
 
 " Then," said Magdalen, after a long pause, 
 "it must be after two o'clock. I begin to 
 remember it all now. ... I wish I had not 
 fainted. Philip was just going to — to — 
 explain, he said. I did not hear." 
 
 She waited for a moment, thinking that 
 Miss Esher would interpose with the "explan- 
 ation," which she had not heard. But Miss 
 Esher kept an ominous silence.
 
 42 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 " You came away with me," Magdalen went 
 on slowly, " and so perhaps you have not 
 heard. But of course I know that it will be all 
 right. I never really distrusted Philip, though 
 for a moment, it was a great shock, and 
 I could not bear it. ... It was so very un- 
 fortunate, you see," she said, more eagerly, 
 her beautiful eyes filling with tears, and the 
 colour coming back to her face as she spoke. 
 " So unfortunate that an interruption of that 
 kind should occur, w^hen the party was so 
 large and there were so very many people in 
 the church. It is sure to be misunderstood, 
 and people will think badly of Philip — and 
 father will not like it : all this was quite 
 enough to upset me, was it not ? You will 
 not think me very weak and childish because 
 I fainted at the slightest hint of bad news, 
 will you ? " 
 
 "My dear!" exclaimed Miss Esher. She 
 did not know what to say. 
 
 "But I feel better now," said Magdalen. 
 " You must tell Philip, will you not ? that
 
 IX SUSPENSE. 43 
 
 I shall never be so silly again. And please 
 make liim understand that I did not distrust 
 him : I am quite sure that he can explain the 
 whole matter, and if I had not fainted I should 
 have known all about it by this time. It was 
 very foolish ! " Her voice took a slightly 
 vexed tone : the flush on her cheek grew 
 deeper, and her eyes began to glitter. Miss 
 Esher could not help wondering whether this 
 outspoken confidence in Philip were genuine 
 or assumed for the occasion. But she was 
 wise enough not to seem to disagree mth the 
 girl — for the present, at any rate — and there- 
 fore turned her attention towards the question 
 of food, for the doctor had ordered that his 
 patient should be fed as soon as she awoke. 
 Miss Esher was not surprised that Magdalen 
 would accept only a cup of black coffee and a 
 biscuit : the plainest fare was all that she 
 needed, and she shrank sensitively from any 
 mention of the dainties which had been pro- 
 vided so abundantly for the wedding break- 
 fast. It was difficult to her to take even the
 
 44 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 oofFee and biscuit : every mouthful seemed at 
 first to clioke her, and had she not been deter- 
 mined to do what would l^rino- back her 
 strength and health she would not have 
 touched a morsel. But she had great resolu- 
 tion and great spirit ; and she knew very well, 
 whether she confessed it or no, that a struggle 
 lay before her. She thoroughly understood 
 her father's nature. His pride would be 
 deeply wounded by the occurrence of that 
 morning ; and even if Philip Esher could 
 explain it satisfactorily away, Magdalen was 
 aware that Mr. Lino-ard mio-ht declare that 
 the engagement should forthwith come to 
 an end. That this proceeding would be 
 manifestly unjust both to herself and to 
 Philip, Magdalen did not stay to consider. 
 It was what her father would probably do ; 
 and she must be prepared to fight for her 
 love and happiness. To give Philip up 
 tamely, without a struggle, would, to her 
 thinking, be impossible. 
 
 And supposing Philip could not explain
 
 IX SUSPEXSE. 45 
 
 away the charge that had been brought against 
 him ? Ah, she would not think of that ; it 
 would be too terrible. She had gone through 
 some frightfully black moments of doubt and 
 despair on awakening from her stupor in her 
 own little white bed ; but she was strono-er 
 now. Every mouthful of food gave her 
 courage : every moment's respite from bad 
 news gave her hope. If anything very terril)le 
 had happened, surely by this time Miss Esher 
 would know. 
 
 When she had eaten and drunk, her head 
 felt clearer. She became conscious that Miss 
 Esher, was glancing towards her from time to 
 time with an expression of vague uneasiness. 
 The furtive looks quickened Magdalen's pulses. 
 She beo:an to lono- for decisive action, for 
 knowledge — whether of weal or woe. 
 
 " Has my father come in ? " she asked of 
 Miss Esher, who still sat by her bedside. 
 
 " Yes, my dear ; he came in about an hour 
 
 ago." 
 
 And did not come to see me ? " Her
 
 46 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 breath began to grow short, the colour to 
 fluctuate in her cheeks. 
 
 " He stood beside you for a few minutes, 
 but you were still asleep." 
 
 " And he said — nothing ? " 
 
 ''Nothing definite." 
 
 Magdalen kept her eyes on the speaker. 
 *' Will you please tell me what you mean ? 
 Did he say that Philip had — had — set things 
 straight *? " 
 
 ''We were afraid of disturbing you," said 
 Miss Esher, with an embarrassed look ; " and 
 so we did not speak much. Your father 
 seemed distressed — and that's all I can tell 
 you." 
 
 "Did Philip— is Philip " 
 
 Miss Esher would not wait for the end *of 
 that halting, timorous question. "My dear," 
 she said, bluntly, "it's no use asking me 
 anything about it. You'll hear quite soon 
 enough. I 'm afraid — I 'm very much afraid 
 — that it's a bad business, and that Philip 
 does not come out of it with clean hands."
 
 IX SUSPEXSE. 47 
 
 Magdalen lifted her head from the pillow. 
 *' Do you mean that he has done wrong ? " 
 
 " All men are selfish," said Miss Esher, 
 deliberately. " I don't suppose that Philip is 
 any better than the rest of them. He is my 
 o^Ti great-nephew and I have been very fond 
 of him ; but I 'm not prepared to uphold him 
 throug-h thick and thin." 
 
 ''Oh, Miss Esher! Then you don't love 
 him?" 
 
 The old lady put up her gold eye-glasses 
 and looked Magdalen steadily in the face. 
 *' My dear," she^said at last, " what are you 
 thinking of ? Will love make white, black ? 
 Will love make WTong, right ? You are 
 talking nonsense, and you know that you are. 
 All the love in the world won't make a bad 
 man good if he is bad to begin with." 
 
 " But Philip is not bad ! " pleaded the girl. 
 
 ]\Iiss Esher sighed. " I hope not," she said, 
 rather doubtfully. "He was a selfish lad — I 
 have told you so before ; I can only hope that 
 he is not so black a^ he has been painted. If
 
 48 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 a tithe of that woman's story is true, Mag- 
 dalen, I shall never acknowledge Philip Esher 
 as a relation of mine again." There was a 
 touch of grimness in her manner as she con- 
 cluded. Magdalen was silent ; she knew what 
 the threat implied. Philip was looked upon 
 as the old lady's heir, and Miss Esher was a 
 wealthy woman. 
 
 " I must know," she said, half-aloud, at last. 
 " Miss Esher, I must see my father at once. 
 Would you be so kind as to send for him '? I 
 can't bear this suspense any longer." 
 
 " Your father has gone out. I don't think 
 he will be in for some little time." 
 
 "Gone out! Where?" 
 
 Miss Esher hesitated. Then she said in a 
 very low tone, " My dear, he has gone to 
 London. So much I know. He and Gervas 
 St. Aidan have gone together to see about 
 some entry in a register. They will be back 
 to-night." 
 
 " What entry ? " 
 
 '^ My dear . . . of Philip's marriage. "
 
 IN SUSPENSE. 49 
 
 A white change came over Magdalen's face. 
 " He said he was not married — he could 
 explain " she faltered. 
 
 " He told a lie," said the old lady, curtly. 
 Then she turned to the window and pretended 
 to look out, although her eyes were dim, but 
 she could not bear to see the girl's pale, 
 quivering lips and pathetic eyes. Presently, 
 she came back to the bedside. " Look here, 
 Magdalen," she said, in her harsh tones (Mag- 
 dalen knew that the harshness meant nothing, 
 and covered the kindliest of hearts), " I '11 tell 
 you one thing — perhaps for your comfort, 
 perhaps for the reverse. The woman is dead — 
 the woman that was his wife, or so we are told : 
 we may fairly hope that Philip did not mean to 
 do you a grievous wrong, and that he thought 
 it no orreat harm to conceal a foolish marriage. 
 That 's as far as I can go. I don't believe that 
 there is any legal obstacle to your marriage : 
 there may be a moral one — that will be for 
 you and your father to decide. You '11 want 
 all your strength and all your wisdom, Mag- 
 
 E
 
 50 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 (lalen, and more. If ever you prayed for a 
 right judgment in all your life, my dear, you 
 may pray now ; for your whole earthly life 
 will depend upon it — and perhaps your soul's 
 life as well" 
 
 The tears were running down Miss Esher's 
 rugged features before she had finished : they 
 fell upon Magdalen's forehead as she stooped 
 to kiss the orirl. But Masfdalen did not crv. 
 She looked white and stunned ; she drew the 
 coverlet a little closer alDout her mouth. 
 After a little silence, she spoke. 
 
 " I think I understand. I will try to 
 remember. Will you kindly leave me alone 
 for a little time ? And, oh, there is one 
 thing I must not forget. Please let the old 
 women and the school-children have their 
 treat just as if nothing had happened. I wish 
 it. Everything is quite ready for them, and 
 it would be a pity if the things were wasted." 
 
 " As thoughtful for others as ever," reflected 
 Miss Esher, in descending the stair from 
 Magdalen's room to give her orders. " Re-
 
 IN SUSPENSE. 51 
 
 membering the old women and children in the 
 very midst of her sorrow ! She 's a fine 
 creature. I always thouoiit her too o;ood for 
 Philip — far too good." 
 
 And that w\as how it came to pass that the 
 school-children had their promised feast. 
 
 Magdalen was left alone for more than 
 an hour. What passed in that time she never 
 told. Some agony of grief, of rebellion, of 
 wounded pride, had surely to be gone through 
 in that quiet hour — but nobody knew of it ; 
 nobody listening at that closed door could 
 have heard the sound of a word, a sob, a 
 moan. In after years Magdalen used to think 
 wistfully, pitifully, of herself, as of a child 
 w^hom she was sorry for — a motherless girl, 
 fighting her battle by herself face downw^ard 
 on the floor in that lonely room, reconciling 
 herself, as she once said, with a quiet rever- 
 ence which removed the words from all taint 
 of commonplaceness, to w^hat was for her " the 
 will of God." 
 
 She was peculiarly friendless at this import- 

 
 52 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 ant period of lier life. Slie had no living 
 relations except lier father, and with him she 
 was not in deep sympathy, although she was 
 the apple of his eye, the pride- of his life. A 
 former governess of hers, a Miss Jessop, a 
 gentle old lady with very little to say for her- 
 self, was at the head of the domestic affairs of 
 the household. Magdalen had felt justified 
 in leaving her father in Miss Jessop's care, and 
 did not know how they would have managed 
 without her ; but at the same time she felt 
 that Miss Jessop was not a person on wdiom 
 she could rely for help during hours of grief 
 or mental turmoil. Among the guests, of 
 whom the house had been full, there was not 
 one, except Miss Esher, to whom Magdalen 
 could turn. Hitherto she had known Miss 
 Esher very slightly ; but she knew now that 
 the stiff old lady was as a tower of strength to 
 her, and that her love, her steadfastness, could 
 be depended on in any emergency. Of course 
 Magdalen had friends in the neighbourhood — 
 the Vicar's wife, Mrs. Kir ton, was one — but
 
 IN SUSPENSE. 53 
 
 she shrank from the thought of asking any of 
 them to come to her. As yet she could 
 hardly bear to see her own humiliation 
 reflected in their curious eyes. 
 
 She wished that Mrs. St. Aidan could have 
 come. Aunt Emilia, as Magdalen had already 
 begun to call her, was a loving and lovable 
 woman ; but she was an invalid, and had 
 not thought it advisable to take the long 
 journey from Scarsfield to Eiversmead for 
 the purpose of being present at the wedding. 
 *' I shall see you when you come here in all 
 your magnificence," she had written to the 
 girl, in the bright, half-jesting strain which 
 was very characteristic of the woman. " You 
 know that Malton, your future home, is only 
 three miles from our Eectory, so we expect to 
 see much of you. In the meantime, we sun 
 ourselves beforehand in your splendour, and 
 hope that you will not rob us of our reflected 
 glory by being one whit less magnificent than 
 we have given you out to be." Poor Aunt 
 Emilia ! She was very fond of Philip. This
 
 54 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 catastrophe would be a great blow to her. 
 Magdalen wished that she could have been 
 with her now. 
 
 Between four and five o'clock she put on an 
 old black dress and went into her sitting-room 
 which opened out of her bedroom. Here 
 Miss Esher found her a little later, sitting 
 quietly in a low chair, doing nothing, only 
 toying listlessly with the great diamond ring 
 that she had slipped off the third finger of her 
 left hand, and which flashed in the sunlight 
 as it lay upon her lap. Miss Esher looked 
 at her pitifully. There were black shadows 
 round the girl's eyes ; her lips were pale, and 
 her cheeks had a positively sunken look. She 
 spoke, however, with perfect calmness. 
 
 '' Will you tell me w^hat is happening ? 
 My father has gone to London ? " 
 
 ''Yes." 
 
 ** Without a word to me ! " Her lips 
 quivered for a moment. '' Does nobody know 
 anything ? I think — I — I ought to be told." 
 
 "Have patience, my dear."
 
 IX SUSPENSE. 55 
 
 " I am trying to have patience. But it is 
 very hard. What has become of that — that 
 person — the woman ? " Magdalen^s voice 
 sank to a whisper as she spoke. 
 
 " She is being detained at the vicarage." 
 
 " Detained ! What do you mean ? " 
 
 '' The Vicar will not let her go until your 
 father and Mr. St. Aidan come back. They 
 have gone to prove the truth or falsehood of 
 part of her story ; if it is false, they say they 
 will prosecute her." 
 
 " Oh, they must not do that ! " cried the 
 girl, with a ring of pain in her broken tones. 
 " That would only make things worse." 
 
 " Mr. Kirton seems to think that she ought 
 to be taken into custody for making a disturb- 
 ance in church, whether her story is true or 
 not. For, you see, my dear, she had no 
 motive except the wish to punish Philip and 
 make you unhappy ; there is apparently no 
 legal obstacle to your marriage " 
 
 "No," said Magdalen, mechanically, as if 
 she were repeating a lesson of which she was
 
 56 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 very weary ; "no legal obstacle — only a moral 
 one." Then she caught herself up and 
 resumed a more natural tone. "Dear Miss* 
 Esher, you have been so kind, will you do 
 one more kind thing? Will you let Mr. 
 Kirton and Mr. St. Aidan know that I shall 
 be extremely grieved if this poor woman is 
 prosecuted or punished in any way I It was 
 right that I should know the truth ; perhaps 
 her conscience was not satisfied without telling 
 me. At any rate, I shall be extremely sorry 
 if she is punished. And at such a time — at 
 this time — I think that they should be guided 
 a little by what I wish." 
 
 "I think they will be," said Miss Esher, 
 very much struck by the dignity with which 
 she uttered the last few words. This was 
 evidently no weak girl, utterly overwhelmed 
 by the first stroke of sorrow, and ready to 
 despair because she had lost her love. No, 
 Magdalen Lingard was made of sterner stuff ; 
 and while the older woman marvelled at her 
 strength she also admired.
 
 IN SUSPENSE. 57 
 
 She went away to write a note to Mr. 
 Kirton ; and in her absence Mr. Lingard and 
 Mr. St. Aidan arrived from London. Mr. 
 Lingard asked at once for his daughter, and 
 on learning that she was up and dressed, he 
 went without hesitation to her room.
 
 CHAPTEK IV. 
 
 I LOVED YOU ONCE." 
 
 " My poor child ! " said the father, taking her 
 into his arms as she rose to meet him. " ]\Iy 
 poor darling ! " 
 
 He held her close to him, expecting a shower 
 of tears. But no tears came, and the girl's 
 voice, though stifled, was calm, as she said — 
 
 "What news have you for me, father ? " 
 
 '* News, my darling ? You must give him 
 up, Magdalen ; he is a bad man — not a fit 
 husband for you, my child." 
 
 " His wife is dead ? " He felt her trembling 
 as she asked the question. 
 
 " Yes. But, my dear child — it is a hard 
 thing to tell you, yet it must be told — he did 
 not know that she was dead wdien he first 
 
 asked you to marry him." 
 
 58
 
 "I LOVED YOU ONCE." 59 
 
 There was no answer. Mr. Lingard held 
 her closer to him, and kissed her cold brow ; 
 then, quite suddenly, the storm broke. " Oh, 
 father, father ! " she cried, and burst into bitter 
 weeping — the weeping of one who suffers 
 irreparable loss. 
 
 No more could be said just then. But later 
 in the evening, when twilight was falling, 
 Mr. St. Aidan was asked to go to Miss 
 Lingard's room. The poor father met him 
 at the door. " Yotc go to her — you tell her 
 the story : I can't," said Mr. Lingard, seizing 
 the clergyman by the arm and drawing him 
 forward. Even in that dim light Mr. St. 
 Aidan could see that there were beads of 
 perspiration on the old man's brow. " I have 
 tried — I Ve done my best," he went on, 
 desperately, " but I can't do it ; I only break 
 down and denounce him — and then she won't 
 believe me. Do you go in and tell her the 
 story quietly, there 's a good fellow ; she '11 
 believe you, because she knows that you will 
 not make him out worse than he is."
 
 60 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 "I will do my best," said Mr. St. Aidan, 
 much moved by this entire collapse of 
 Mr. Lingard's usual stateliness. Tlie two 
 men grasped each other's hands. Then the 
 Squire moved away, covering his face with a 
 great red handkerchief as he walked on. 
 Mr. St. Aidan knocked at the door of 
 Magdalen's sitting-room and entered. 
 
 It was a hard task for him. He had loved 
 Philip Esher almost as a son, and the story he 
 had to tell was not to Philip's credit. He was 
 ashamed of his own kith and kin, and he had 
 never been ashamed before. It was his duty 
 to tell the story, and he would do his duty 
 manfully. But he hung his head as he came 
 into Magdalen's room. 
 
 He could scarcely see her at first. She was 
 half lost in the depths of a great arm-chair, 
 with its back to the light. Perhaj)s she did 
 not wish him to see her face. She laid her cold, 
 nerveless fingers in his hand for a moment, and 
 then spoke in low, restrained tones, as if all the 
 strength and energy had gone out of her voice.
 
 I LOVED YOU ONCE." 61 
 
 " My father said you would tell me about 
 it. It was too much for liim. Will you 
 please go on ? " 
 
 " I have a sad tale to tell," said Mr. St. 
 Aidan, feelingly. " You must forgive me if it 
 is painful. It seems, my dear, that in 1874 
 Philip's regiment was stationed at Manchester, 
 and here he made the acquaintance of the 
 Miss Mackworths. The elder sister, whom 
 you saw to-day, was a dressmaker ; the 
 younger, Alice, assisted her. She was an 
 attractive-looking girl, and Philip became — er 
 — attached to her. He persuaded her to leave 
 her home with him ; he took her to London 
 'and married her at a registrar's office. We 
 have been there to-day, and seen the entry of 
 their marriage." 
 
 A httle sigh escaped Magdalen's lips; it 
 sounded almost like a sigh of relief; but in 
 the gathering darkness the Kector of Scarsfield 
 could not see the girl's bent face. 
 
 " So far," he went on slowly, " there was 
 nothing actually wrong in Philip's conduct.
 
 62 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 But there is more to come. He soon tired of 
 his wife. I suppose that, although beautiful, 
 she was ignorant, underbred, perhaps foolish. 
 He took her to a quiet village in Warwick- 
 shire, and there she gave birth to twins — the 
 two little girls who accompanied their aunt 
 to-day. Then — when the infants were only a 
 few weeks old — Philip deserted them and 
 their mother altogether." 
 
 " It can't be true ! it can't be true ! " came 
 in a muffled but passionate voice from the 
 depths of the great arm-chair. 
 
 "My dear, I wish it were otherwise. Miss 
 Mackworth brought us a letter from Philip to 
 his wife, in which he told her that she would 
 never see him again, and that — this is almost 
 the worst of it — that she had been imposed 
 upon by the ceremony at the registrar's, that 
 she was not legally his wife at all. This was 
 a lie, and he knew it to be a lie. Some 
 money — a few pounds for pressing necessities 
 — was enclosed, and this was the last she ever 
 heard of her husband, Philip Esher."
 
 " I LOVED YOU ONCE." 63 
 
 The Eector's indignation disturbed tlie 
 mellow accents of his fine voice ; he cleared 
 his throat, and paused for a little while. 
 
 " Wliy did she not seek him out and try to 
 prove the truth ? " asked Magdalen. 
 
 " Think what she was, my dear ; a poor, ill- 
 educated girl, who firmly believed every word 
 he said to her. She thought that she had 
 been duped, that she was disgraced for ever, 
 and apparently she never held up her head 
 again. She fell into great poverty, and not 
 until she was nearly dying of grief and 
 .starvation did she apply to her sister in 
 Manchester. The sister came to her aid, 
 found her almost out of her mind, took charge 
 of her until she died, and has hitherto cared 
 for the children." 
 • " She is dead, then ? " 
 
 **Miss Mack worth says that she died six 
 weeks after her return to Manchester. Her 
 loss seems entirely to have embittered the 
 mind of this poor woman, Louisa Mack worth. 
 She could not find out for some time what
 
 64 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 had become of Philip Esher, but she devoted 
 her life to schemes of revenge upon him. 
 She searched the papers diligently every day 
 for his name, but she found nothing until 
 last night, when chance — or, shall we say, 
 Providence ? — threw in her way an old copy 
 of a Society paper, in which your engagement 
 to Captain Esher was announced. She set 
 off by the earliest morning train, and arrived 
 in Kiversmead Church in time — only just in 
 time — to interrupt the wedding ceremony. 
 She acted very wrongly ; she was actuated 
 by motives of resentment and revenge ; and 
 yet, Magdalen, although Philip is my nephew, 
 I cannot but feel that you have perhaps been 
 saved life-long misery by the intervention of 
 Louisa Mackworth." 
 
 There was a silence. Magdalen had covered 
 her fece with her hands. At last she said, 
 tremblingly — 
 
 " Is there nothing on the other side ? Has 
 Philip nothing to say ? " 
 
 " Philip," said Mr. St. Aidan, gravely, '' has
 
 "I LOVED YOU ONCE. 6ry 
 
 done his best to disavow his own actions. He 
 strove vigorously to make us believe that 
 Alice Mackworth never became his wife at 
 all. The register proves that he lied. He 
 pretends to think that the children do not 
 belono' to him. I asked him what he thouo-ht 
 had become of the twins which, as he well 
 knew, were born at Wingfield, and he had the 
 insolence to tell me that he advised the poor 
 woman now dead to send them to the work- 
 house ! But I ought not to give you all these 
 details," he added, hearing her breathe hard 
 as she listened. "You have enough to bear." 
 
 " No. I want to hear all," said Magdalen, 
 gently. Then, after a little pause. " Where 
 is he now ? " 
 
 " Phihp, my dear ? I do not know. At the 
 village inn, I believe." 
 
 '' I should like to see him." 
 
 " That is hardly necessary, I think. Your 
 fether w^ould not like it." 
 
 " I think he would consent. I must see 
 Philip."
 
 ^6 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 " My dear child, is it worth while ? " 
 " I must see him," she repeated, sitting up, 
 and folding her hands resolutely before her. 
 After a little pause, she went on in a choked, 
 unnatural voice : " You all seem to think that 
 I must give him up — at once — without letting 
 him have a chance of pleading for himself 
 You have always taught me that no one was 
 l3eyond forgiveness if he were sorry. If Philip 
 
 were sorry " 
 
 The Eector stood up. He was touched by 
 this proof of the faithfulness of her w^oman's 
 nature, but he was also half angry, half scan- 
 dalised. He spoke out freely, not sparing 
 Philip this time, not sparing Magdalen her- 
 self. He talked of the heinousness of Philip's 
 offence, of the insult to all womanhood as well 
 as to Magdalen in his presuming to offer 
 himself to her, of the fact that Philip had 
 not even ascertained whether Alice were alive 
 or dead before making love to Magdalen. He 
 spoke of Philip's cruelty to his wife and 
 children, liis l)ase desertion of them, his denial
 
 •'I LOVED YOU 0^'CE." 67 
 
 of the story when Louisa Mackworth appeared. 
 " He was even anxious to make me believe," 
 said Mr. St. Aidan, bitterly, '' that there had 
 l)een no real marriage — that he had acted 
 only, he said, as nine men out of ten would 
 liave done. Magdalen, can you pardon him 
 for that?" 
 
 She faltered out her secret thought. " Per- 
 liaps he would not acknowledge his repentance 
 to you : perhaps he was ashamed of his wrong- 
 doing, and could not bear to confess it " 
 
 " Oh, child, child ! I did not think that you 
 would be so weak," cried the Kector. 
 
 Mao'dalen covered her face with her hands. 
 '' I cannot help it," she said, almost inaudibly. 
 *' I loved him — with all my heart." 
 
 Mr. St. Aidan was silent. He leaned back 
 in his chair with the air of a man who had 
 said all that he had to say. He saw that the 
 girl was crying ; he grieved with her in his* 
 inmost soul, and yet he was angry at her grief. 
 
 Presently Magdalen withdrew her hands 
 from her face, and rose. She walked to the
 
 68 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 window and looked out for a few moments 
 before she spoke again. "Mr. St. Aidan," 
 she said, at last, " I must see Philip for my- 
 self. I want to see him to-night." 
 
 Once more the Eector tried his powers of 
 persuasion, and once more in vain. Magda- 
 len's quiet determination was proof against 
 all his arguments. He went at last to seek 
 her father, hoping that Mr. Lingard would 
 forbid Philip the house. But J\Ir. Lingard 
 came to Magdalen's room, and, after a few 
 words with her, told her to do exactly as 
 she pleased. "I cannot say that I approve 
 of your decision," said Mr. St. Aidan, gravely, 
 when Mr. Lingard asked him where Captain 
 Esher could be found. " I can trust Maoxla- 
 len," the father responded, and of course the 
 Kector could say no more. 
 
 Captain Esher was at the village inn. He 
 
 -had demanded and been refused an interview 
 
 with Magdalen ; and when, a little after nine 
 
 o'clock, he received a message of invitation 
 
 from her, he triumphed in his heart. ''I
 
 "I LOVED YOU ONCE." 69 
 
 knew that she would not give me up," he 
 said to himself. " She is a brave girl ; she 
 won't be trampled upon. My uncle is really 
 insufferable." He finished the little glass of 
 brandy and water which he had been drink- 
 ing, tossed away his cigar, and followed the 
 messenger decorously to the Manor House. . 
 
 He w\as conducted to Magdalen's own 
 sitting-room, which he knew w^ell. But, as 
 the first glance told him, he was not to see 
 her quite alone. A door into the next room 
 was open, and his great-aunt's grim figure was 
 in full sight. She was sitting erect in a high- 
 backed chair, beside a small table, on which 
 stood a lighted candle and an open book. 
 Evidently she w^as there to keep guard. 
 
 The curtains of Magdalen's sitting-room 
 were drawn, and a shaded lamp had been 
 placed upon the table. The light was dim, 
 but it showed him Magdalen's face and figure 
 as she rose from the chair in which she had 
 been sitting, and stood before him. What a 
 change had passed over her since the morn-
 
 70 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 ing ! Then she had been radiant in satin and 
 lace and precious stones ; now she was dressed 
 in a long, plain, black gown, against which 
 her face and hands showed almost deadly 
 white. " A little theatrical," said Captain 
 Esher to himself, with the glimmer of a sneer 
 in his fine dark eyes. '' She has disposed her- 
 self for tragedy, I see ; and, by Jove, she does 
 it well ! " 
 
 But it was not his rdle to aj^pear conscious 
 of the change in her demeanour. He ad- 
 vanced towards her, stretching out his hand 
 with an eager air. 
 
 " My dearest Magdalen, I knew it ! I 
 knew that you would send for me, I was 
 certain that you would not fail me — 
 noio ! '' 
 
 His confident, even joyous, air took Mag- 
 dalen by surprise. She did not accept his 
 proffered hand : she simply looked him in 
 the face with grave, searching eyes, which 
 disconcerted him a little. He resolved, how- 
 ever, not to show that he was taken aback.
 
 "I LOVED YOU ONCE. 71 
 
 " There was no reason for that interrup- 
 tion : you know that, do you not, Magdalen ! 
 There will be no obstacle to our marriage 
 when it takes place — and you will not keep 
 me waiting long, will you, my darling ! You 
 will forgive me for anything that I have done 
 to displease you, will you not ? " He thought 
 it well to adopt a suppliant tone in the last 
 few words. 
 
 Magdalen struggled to interrupt him, but 
 found it difficult to speak. 
 
 " 1 do not understand," she said at length, 
 rather faintly. " Have you nothing else to 
 say to me — nothing to confess " 
 
 Captain Esher shrugged his shoulders 
 slightly. " You are a sensible woman, 
 Madge," he said. " Don't you remember that 
 I told you some months ago that I had had 
 a — an — aflfair with a girl in Manchester ? I 
 assure you I was perfectly open about it, and 
 you declared that you understood " 
 
 " You did not tell me that you had married 
 that poor girl and then deserted her," said
 
 72 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 Mag'dalen. Her calmness had come back ; 
 her lips were colourless, and her eyes were 
 fixed immovably on the young man's face. 
 He winced under the gaze ; but he had made 
 up his mind to show no emotion, to acknow- 
 ledge nothing, to carry matters with a high 
 hand. "It was the only way to deal with 
 women," he had said to himself. But it was 
 not the way in which he should have dealt 
 with Magdalen. 
 
 He uttered a light laugh, which jarred ter- 
 ribly on her nerves. 
 
 " My dear Madge," he said, '' I did what 
 any other man w^ould have done under the 
 circumstances. My regiment was ordered to 
 Ireland : I had to go with it. Do you call 
 that desertion ? I don't." 
 
 She drew a paper from her pocket and held 
 it towards him. " Do you deny your own 
 handwriting ? " she said. 
 
 He glanced at the paper. It was his letter 
 to Alice, telling her that he meant never to 
 come back, never to see her face again.
 
 "I LOVED YOU OXCE." 73 
 
 Philip Esher lost self-command for a few 
 moments. He stamped his foot angrily, and 
 uttered a word which smote Magdalen with 
 dismay. The colour came back to her face 
 as she heard it, and then receded, leaving it 
 white as snow. But Captain Esher did not 
 care for these tell-tale signs. He snatched 
 the letter from her hand and tore it violently 
 across, then scattered the pieces at her feet. 
 
 Magdalen drew back from him a few paces, 
 and sat down beside the table, resting her 
 cheek upon her hand. She turned sick and 
 faint. Some inner conviction of Philip's 
 worthlessness had come home to her. She 
 was beginning to believe in Mr. St. Aidan s 
 words. 
 
 ** Madge, Madge," said her lover, coming 
 close to her and laying his arm half round her 
 neck, " why do you listen to their nonsense ? 
 You make me forget myself, you see. T did 
 not mean to frighten you. Come, forgive me ; 
 take me as I am ; I am not different from the 
 man I was yesterday, when you said you loved
 
 74 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 me better than all the world beside. Come, 
 Madge, my darling, don't bear malice. I 
 never cared for her; not half as much as 
 I care for you. Why, I never thought that 
 you could be so jealous ! " 
 
 '' I am not jealous," said Magdalen, coldly. 
 
 "AVhat are you, then? You are silent, 
 cold — will you not kiss me once, Madge? — you 
 look at me as if you did not love me any 
 longer ! How is this, Magdalen ? " 
 
 He slipped down on his knees to a footstool 
 beside her, and knelt there, with one hand on 
 her shoulder and the other clasping her cold 
 fingers. It struck him with a momentary 
 dread to find that she did not return the 
 pressure, or bend her face to meet his lips. 
 Was it possible that she was serioush' 
 offended? He flung the question from him 
 with scorn. He could " bring; her round " 
 by a few coaxing words — of that he was well 
 assured ; he had never failed to win a woman 
 yet when he had set his heart upon winning 
 her. Only he saw that he must adopt a
 
 "I LOVED YOU O^X'E." 75 
 
 rather different tone with her : hitherto he 
 had been too brusque, too offhand ; now he 
 must temporise. 
 
 '^Dearest," he said, in the mellow, musical 
 tones into which he could let his voice fall 
 when he chose, " I know what a shock this 
 morning's interruption must have given you. 
 Believe me, I would have spared it you if 
 I could. It was because I did not want to 
 pain you that I told you nothing about my 
 marriaoe. I was wrono; : I will never hide 
 anything from you again. Forgive me my 
 want of confidence in you. It was only that 
 I could not bear that you should think for 
 one moment that I had ever loved another 
 woman, however slightly, beside yourself. 
 Magdalen, it was a venial error ; it came only 
 fi'om my love for you." 
 
 She moved a little, withdrawing her hand 
 fi'om his before she spoke. " I was not think- 
 ing of that," she said, faintly. " I wanted some- 
 thing else. I wanted AVill you answer 
 
 me a question or two frankly, Philip ? "
 
 76 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 " Anything, Magdalen ! " — but his eye grew 
 watchful as he replied. 
 
 " Did — did your wife Jove you ? " she asked. 
 
 '' Love me ! " — Philip had not the sense at 
 that moment to answer without complacency 
 — " indeed she did, poor little thing ! " 
 
 "And yet you wrote her that letter ! And 
 the children; you knew that they were 
 living ? " 
 
 " Hm — not exactly ; I — I thought they had 
 died, in fact." 
 
 " You did not ascertain ? " 
 
 " Well, really, Magdalen " 
 
 " You left their mother to die in want, and 
 your children to go to the workhouse ? Oh, 
 my God ! " cried the girl, her voice breaking 
 into a kind of wail, " I never believed it 
 before ! What are men made of that they can 
 do these things ? " 
 
 She pushed back her chair and rose, wring- 
 ing her hands together. Philip rose too ; the 
 gravity of the situation was apparent to him 
 now.
 
 " I know that I — I — was wrong," lie said, 
 trying to find words that would turn her heart 
 to him again ; "I know that I was a brute ; 
 but you will not be angry with me for the 
 mistakes of my youth, will you, Magdalen ? 
 These follies are all past " 
 
 '* That was no folly : that was a crime," she 
 said, turning to him passionately, with a 
 strange light in her dark eyes. " And it is all 
 the worse that you speak of it so easily — that 
 you call it a ' mistake.' I thought you a good 
 man, Philip ; I was wrong — I was wrong. 
 God forgive you — and God help me ! " 
 
 She staggered as she moved ; he sprang to 
 help her, but she refused his help with a silent 
 shake of the head, and supported herself by 
 the back of the heavy chair in which she had 
 been sitting. 
 
 '' Good-bye, Philip," she said, after a short 
 pause, during which he stood frowning, sullen, 
 impatient, yet with never a word to say. 
 " Good-bye, Philip ; I can never be your wife 
 now. No, do not speak ; do not touch me ; I
 
 78 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 can't bear it. I can only ask you to go away. 
 It is all over between ns." 
 
 "You cannot mean it, Madge? You are 
 not so hard — so unforgiving ? " 
 
 "I do not think that I am unforgiving," 
 said Magdalen, slowly. " It does not seem to 
 me to be a matter for my forgiveness. I can 
 never forget ; that is all." 
 
 " Magdalen, do you not love me ? " 
 
 She faced him again, with that strange light 
 in her eyes. 
 
 " I scarcely know," she answered, simply ; 
 '' but I think — I think that my love for you is 
 killed, Philip, and that it will never live again." 
 
 He caught at her dress with a wild implor- 
 ing gesture. There w^as misery enough in his 
 face now — misery, humiliation, despair. 
 
 " Madge, forgive me ! " he cried again. 
 
 She had turned tow^ards the door of the 
 inner room, and Miss Esher had come forward 
 and was already at her side. She looked at 
 the man's white face for one moment, and a 
 great regret came into her eyes.
 
 I LOVED YOU ONCE." 79 
 
 " Oh, Philip, Philip ! " she wailed, stretching 
 out her hands towards him, " oh, Philip, I 
 loved you once ! " 
 
 And then she fell, as she had fallen that 
 morning, to the ground in a death-like swoon, 
 and for a time it seemed as though she would 
 never wake again.
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 MISS esher's intentions. 
 
 For days Magdalen's life and reason hung in 
 
 the balance. She lay unconscious — either 
 
 quite silent or moaning in delirium that was 
 
 not wild, but inexpressibly pathetic, calling 
 
 upon Philip to come to her and to take away 
 
 "the woman who stood between them." 
 
 Thus she spoke, meaning evidently the dead 
 
 wife, who formed as great an obstacle between 
 
 JNIagdalen and Philip in death as she had done 
 
 in life. It was strange how the sick girl 
 
 seemed to be haunted by that visionary 
 
 presence : Alice's name was constantly on 
 
 her lips, and her form hovered ever before 
 
 those fever-stricken eyes. Her delirium grew 
 
 so painful to the hearers at last that the 
 
 doctor proposed to send for Captain Esher, in 
 80
 
 MISS ESHEr's intentions. 81 
 
 the hope that his appearance would quiet her ; 
 but, even if Mr. Lingard would have yielded 
 to his request, it would have been in vain : 
 Captain Esher had left England, and was 
 supposed to be at some German or Italian 
 watering-place, nobody quite knew where. 
 It would have been almost impossible to track 
 liim and bring him back to Riversmead before 
 the crisis of Magdalen's illness took place. 
 And when this was passed, and she began 
 slowly but surely to amend, there was no 
 more talk of sending for Captain Esher. 
 
 Old ]\Iiss Esher had been the mainstay of 
 the Lingard household during Magdalen's ill- 
 ness. She was a clever, energetic woman, 
 kindly, although a trifle brusque in manner, 
 and she had from the first identified herself 
 with Magdalen's interests in a remarkable 
 way. Philip had always been considered her 
 heir, but she now openly declared that she 
 would have nothing more to do with him ; he 
 was a scamp, and she would never see his face 
 again. She did not say as openly what she
 
 82 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 intended to do witli her fortune ; but it was 
 conjectured that she would divide it, leaving 
 part of it to the St. Aidans, and possibly part 
 of it to Philip Esher's little children, or to 
 Magdalen Lingard. On this subject, however, 
 she never opened her lips. Her keen eyes 
 took note of everything, no doubt : of the 
 Lingard's comparative poverty, of the small 
 economies in which Miss Jessop seemed to be 
 an adept, of poor Mr. Lingard's vain attempt 
 to appear as well-off as his neighbours. 
 Doubtless she saw all these things, though she 
 never appeared to see them. She accommo- 
 dated herself to the customs of the house ; 
 but she lived mostly in Magdalen's rooms, 
 and nursed her like a mother. 
 
 It was fortunate for the girl that Miss 
 Esher was with her at that time ; for good, 
 gentle Miss Jessop, the ex-governess, was apt 
 to lose her head in seasons of emergency, and 
 had neither tact, decision, nor forethought. 
 She would have flown to Magdalen with every 
 little domestic trouble as soon as Magdalen
 
 MISS ESHER's intentions. 83 
 
 was able to understand wliat was said, and 
 probably worried her into another fever, if 
 Miss Eslier had not been by to keep her out 
 of the sick room or (when she did enter) to 
 regulate the subjects of conversation and the 
 length of the visit. I am afraid that Miss 
 Jessop never forgave Miss Esher in her heart 
 for interfering in this manner between herself 
 and her much-loved Magdalen. Certainly 
 she^xould not speak of her without a kind of 
 tightening of the lines of her mousey little 
 face, which betokened displeasure if not dis- 
 like. 
 
 The period of convalescence was the most 
 miserable experience that Magdalen had ever 
 passed through. The sickness of heart, the 
 languor, the bodily weakness, were such as 
 she never forgot ; they taught her lessons 
 which she could have learnt in no other 
 way. The spring seemed to be gone out 
 of her life ; in her sick weariness she 
 cared for nothing, she loathed tbe sunshine 
 that had once been sweet to her ; nothing
 
 84 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEX. 
 
 fair or good was left. But she never 
 expressed these feelings in words. She had 
 put a seal upon her lips. Her father w^ould 
 have been terribly distressed if he had known 
 the depth of her despair, and he had been 
 grieved enough already. Deep down in 
 Mao^dalen's heart was the resolve that, if 
 she could help it, no one should ever suffer 
 pain or injury through her. 
 
 She had seen what life could come to, 
 if spent without love of man or God ; 
 how hearts could be VTecked, souls lost 
 throuo'h selfishness ; and her whole beino: 
 cried out to a higher Power to be saved 
 from this curse of evil-doing. Vaguely at 
 first, then more definitely, the path of her 
 future life became plain to her. She had 
 lost her hopes of personal joy ; her life was 
 all the more dedicated to the joy of others ; 
 for others she would spend herself and be 
 spent. It was natural in the reaction 
 of the shock she had experienced that 
 she should feel as if all happiness were
 
 MISS ESHERS INTENTIONS. 85 
 
 liencefortli dead to Iter ; she thoroughly 
 believed this, and threw herself into the work 
 of self-renunciation with the earnestness, the 
 fervour, which characterised all her doings. 
 It was also natural that when she began 
 to carry out her plans — weariug only her 
 plainest dresses, and declining amusement 
 in rather an ascetic fashion, — Mr. Lino-ard 
 should become seriously alarmed. He saw 
 that Magdalen was fast recovering bodily 
 strength, but he could not understand her 
 gravity, her half-concealed sadness, the las- 
 situde of her gait ; and he began to fear 
 that her mind was unhinged by the trouble 
 that had come upon her. 
 
 Miss Esher reassured him. 
 
 " Don't be alarmed," she said. " With her 
 splendid constitution, recovery is only a 
 matter of time. She is a young woman, and 
 a handsome woman, too ; don't be afraid. 
 We shall see her married to somebody 
 whom she loves with her whole heart by 
 and bv."
 
 86 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 " Not in my time, I am afraid," Mr. 
 Lingard sighed. 
 
 '' Oh, there 's no telling," said Miss Eshei\ 
 cheerfully. " She has had a great blow^ 
 there 's no denying ; and all through that 
 scamp, Philip Esher, whom I will not own 
 as a relation of mine ; but I think that she 
 will get over it." 
 
 "It will take years," said Mr. Lingard 
 gloomily. 
 
 "All years come to an end some time," 
 replied Miss Esher, in a philosophic tone. 
 
 She comforted Mr. Lingard, but she herself 
 was perplexed. Magdalen was strangely 
 silent, even with her ; she did not mention 
 Philip, she did not mention the St. Aidans ; 
 it seemed as if she wished the very memory 
 of the past to die away. But the silence 
 was broken at last. 
 
 It was September. Miss Esher had stayed 
 on at the Manor House at Mr. Lingard's 
 most earnest request, but she was determined 
 to stay no longer. She sought out Magdalen
 
 MISS ESHER's INTE^'TIONS. 87 
 
 one day with a face of grim decision, and 
 told her that she must go. 
 
 Magdalen was sitting in the garden, under 
 a great beech tree. She still looked fragile 
 and wan ; and the crimson cushions that 
 were piled behind her head only threw into 
 relief the startling pallor of her face. Health 
 was certainly returning, but it brought no 
 tinge of colour to those sunken cheeks. Her 
 brilliant yet delicate bloom seemed to have 
 gone for ever. 
 
 ''Why must you go, Aunt Isabel?" she 
 asked. Miss Esher had insisted on Magdalen's 
 giving her this title. " We want you here 
 so much." 
 
 "You forget, my dear," said Miss Esher, 
 briskly, "that I have a house and a garden, 
 and men-servants, and maid-servants, and 
 birds, and beasts, and pets of all sorts to 
 look after. What have they been doing 
 without me all this time I can't imagine. 
 The whole place will have gone to rack and 
 ruin, I expect."
 
 88 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 " I am selfish — I had forgotten," said 
 Magdalen, her eyes filling with tears. " Don't 
 let me keep you, dear auntie. You have 
 been too good to me already." 
 
 " Nobody could be too good to you, child," 
 said the old lady, sitting down beside her 
 favourite, and putting her white, blue-veined 
 hand on Magdalen's knee. " I wish I could 
 take you with me ; but I suppose you won't 
 come f 
 
 '' Thank you, T could not leave my father." 
 
 " Hm, yes, I know. But by and by — tell 
 me honestly, Madge, my dear, would you 
 mind very much coming to Scarsfield for 
 a little time, if I asked you ? Would it be 
 painful to you ? " 
 
 Magdalen winced a little, but answered 
 very quietly, 
 
 " I do not think that it need be painful 
 to me, Aunt Isabel, if you want me. I have 
 heard a great deal about Scarsfield" — here 
 her voice trembled for a moment, — " and 
 I always wanted to see it — especially your
 
 MISS esher's intentions. 89 
 
 house." Her eyes looked sorrowfully into 
 the distance as if she were picturing to herself 
 another house w^hich she had also hoped to 
 see. Miss Esher saw^ the look, and answered 
 it rather too appropriately. 
 
 "My house — the Priory, you know^ — is 
 four miles from Malton. You would not 
 feel that you were in the same neighbour- 
 hood. Philip Esher is abroad ; the house 
 is shut up, not likely to be open for some 
 time." 
 
 Magdalen turned away her head. 
 
 " But I don't mean to ask you just yet," 
 said Miss Esher, in a livelier tone. " I only 
 wanted to know whether you would think it 
 impossible by and by. I 'm an old w^oman, you 
 know, Madge, and if I fall ill I shall not be 
 able to come down here. Would you come to 
 the Priory if I wanted you for a little time ? " 
 
 The tears stood in Magdalen's eyes. She 
 took Miss Esher's hand in hers, and pressed it 
 affectionately. " If ever you want me, I will 
 come," she said.
 
 90 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 " That 's a bargain/' said the old lady, in her 
 quaint, curt way. " I shall hold you to it. 
 Don't forget. And now, I must tell you why 
 I am going home. Emilia is ill." 
 
 " Mrs. St. Aidan ? " 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. St. Aidan. She has overdone 
 herself again. It 's perfectly ridiculous. She 
 ought never to have undertaken the care of 
 those children." 
 
 "What children?" asked Magdalen, quickly. 
 
 Miss Esher stopped, confounded. She had 
 forgotten for the moment to whom she was 
 speaking. She tried to explain her words 
 away. 
 
 " Oh, only some children who have been 
 staying with her — children of a friend — a 
 relation " 
 
 Miss Esher grew confused. Magdalen's 
 eyes, serious and calm, were fixed upon her 
 face. She could not go on. 
 
 " Philip Esher's children ? " said Magdalen. 
 
 "Well — yes, my dear; Philip Esher's 
 childi-en — if you luill have the truth."
 
 MISS ESHERS IXTE>'TIOXS. 91 
 
 " But why are they there ? Why are they 
 in Mrs. St. Aidan's charge ? " asked the girl, 
 quickly. She seemed to have roused herself 
 completely : she sat erect, and a faint flush 
 showed itself in her cheeks. " There must be 
 a great deal that I have not heard," she said, 
 as IVliss Esher still hesitated. " I know 
 nothino; — I have not dared to ask. Aunt 
 Isabel, tell me." 
 
 "There is really very little to tell," said 
 Miss Esher, almost impatiently. 
 
 " "Where is Captain Esher ? " 
 
 The question was very gently asked ; but 
 the older woman dared not look at the 
 questioner, as she replied — 
 
 "At Monaco. Gambling, I believe." 
 
 " Ah ! " The exclamation was almost like 
 a moan. Then, in the same tranquil voice : 
 " What became of Aliss Mackworth ? " 
 
 " That is exactly what we do not know ! " 
 cried Miss Esher, dropping all pretence of 
 reserve, and at once embarking, as she had 
 often wished to do, upon the story. " When
 
 92 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 Philip left the house, after you had fainted, 
 Magdalen, it seems that he was in a 
 terrible state of excitement. He went to 
 the Vicarage, where Miss Mackworth and the 
 children had been taken in for the night — 
 partly in order to keep the woman secure, you 
 know — and he asked to see her. There was 
 SO violent a scene of recrimination and abuse, 
 that Mr. Kirton, hearing the noise, had to 
 interfere. In his presence, Philip vowed that 
 he would have nothing to do with the children 
 — he did not care whether they were his own 
 or not — said that he would not be responsible 
 for them, and that she might bring them up 
 as she pleased, and so on. He must have lost 
 his head completely, for, of course, he knew 
 that the law would compel him to provide for 
 their maintenance whether he wished or no. 
 But the Mackworth woman must have taken 
 him at his word. She evidently did not want 
 the children any more than he did, and was 
 afraid that the whole burden of supporting 
 them would fall upon her. So, early next
 
 MISS ESHER8 INTEXTIOXS. 93 
 
 morning, before the house was astir, she went 
 away, no one knows whither, and left the 
 children behind." 
 
 '' Poor little creatures," Magdalen murmured 
 to herself. 
 
 " Yes, indeed. Nobody seemed to want 
 them, poor little souls. Philip sobered 
 down by the morning, and retracted what he 
 had said — not that he was ashamed of it, 
 judging by his demeanour, but that a little 
 common-sense had returned to him. He said 
 that he would pay her for taking care of them, 
 and wrote and telegraphed to her old address 
 in Manchester ; but she never went back to it. 
 She could not be traced in any direction ; and 
 it 's my belief," said Miss Esher, emphatically, 
 " that she made away with herself." 
 
 Magdalen shrank a little. " Oh, Aunt 
 Isabel, do not say so ! " 
 
 "I must say so, my dear, if I believe it. 
 That 's another sin which Philip Esher has 
 upon his soul. At any rate, she could not be 
 found. Then the question arose. What was
 
 ^4 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 to become of the children ? Philip said that 
 he would send them to school — two mites of 
 three years old ! Then Gervas St. Aidan 
 interposed — you know what a soft heart he 
 has ! — and offered to take them to his wife 
 for a little time, ' until/ he said, * a suitable 
 home could be found for them.' But every- 
 body was certain that Emilia would never let 
 them go, if she once got hold of them ! 
 Gervas took them home, and she was only too 
 glad to have them, although they were Philip 
 Esher's children, and had had such an unfor- 
 tunate history ; but she has worried over them 
 and over Philip until she is laid up, and now 
 I suppose I must go and nurse her." 
 
 '*How good you are. Aunt Isabel I The 
 poor little children ! What will become of 
 them ? " 
 
 '*I think I shall take them to the Priory 
 for a time. It's a great shame," said Miss 
 Esher, candidly. '' There 's that scamp Philip, 
 he makes a low marriage, breaks his wife's 
 heart, behaves scandalously to every one,
 
 MISS ESHERS INTENTIONS. 95 
 
 and yet we must all needs put ourselves about 
 to look after his children ! It would have 
 been much better to find a good school for 
 them and let them stay there." 
 
 " Oh, no ! " exclaimed Magdalen, almost 
 involuntarily. 
 
 " Instead of which, they are to be petted by 
 Emilia — who insists upon it that we are a little 
 hard on ' poor Philip,' as she calls him — and 
 brought up in luxury at the Eectory and the 
 Priory, with every one saying that I shall leave 
 them money ! I shall do nothing of the kind. 
 Philip may provide for his own family. Does 
 he think that I shall install a milliner's 
 daughters at the Priory ? " 
 
 ''The children are not to blame," said 
 Magdalen. 
 
 " Of course I know that, my dear. I trust 
 that I shall show them every kindness in my 
 power. But it would make my father, the 
 late General Esher, turn in his grave if he 
 knew that a little dressmaker's children were 
 to inherit the Priory. No, no : they will be
 
 96 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 provided for otherwise ; and I shall do with 
 the Priory what I choose." 
 
 Magdalen was too weak and weary to appre- 
 ciate the sig;nificance with which these words 
 were spoken. Long afterwards she remem- 
 bered them, and knew what had been meant. 
 Miss Esher's next sentence drove the matter 
 from her mind. 
 
 "Besides," said that good lady, looking 
 before her stolidly, as if she were saying a 
 thing of no importance to any one, " when 
 Philip marries again you may be sure that he 
 will marry for money." 
 
 Magdalen caught her breath. 
 
 "Do you care for him still, then?" said 
 Aunt Isabel, turning upon her sharply, as 
 though she had spoken aloud. 
 
 " Oh, Aunt Isabel, spare me ! " cried Mag- 
 dalen, suddenly bending her face upon her 
 hands to hide her tears. "I cannot tear him 
 out of my heart just yet ! " 
 
 The old lady smoothed the girl's hair with 
 her wrinkled hand. '^ God help you to do it.
 
 MISS ESHERS INTENTIONS. 97 
 
 my poor child," she murmured, " for that 
 man 's not worth the love of any honest heart. 
 I fear sometimes that he 11 bring misery upon 
 you yet." 
 
 " I shall never see him again," said Magda- 
 len, between her sobs. 
 
 " I 'm not so sure of that. And beware of 
 his tongue, child, if ever you do meet him. 
 He has a violent temper and a vindictive one ; 
 but when it is under control he has also a 
 silver tongue. Fair and false — that's Philip 
 Esher's character ; though we were late in 
 finding it out — the worse for us ! " 
 
 " He will never try to speak to me 
 again ! " exclaimed the girl, raising her head 
 with a look of wounded pride. " He would 
 not dare " 
 
 " He has no want of courage," said Miss 
 Esher, warningly. " I would not trust him to 
 
 keep away, if he thought It's an old 
 
 woman's cowardice, perhaps, my dear, but I 
 wish you would give me your solemn promise 
 never to marry Philip Esher ! "
 
 98 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 Magdalen shivered from head to foot. " Is 
 any promise necessary ? '' she said. 
 
 " I think it is," answered Miss Esher, look- 
 ing at her keenly. " However, I won't press 
 it. I thought that perhaps, some day, you 
 might feel such a promise to be a sort of safe- 
 guard. But it 's no matter." 
 
 She sat silent a little time, as if hoping 
 that Magdalen would offer to promise what 
 she had asked ; but Magdalen said never a 
 word.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A NEW HOME. 
 
 So Miss Esher went away to Scarsfield, and 
 Magdalen was left alone witli her father. 
 
 It seemed very strange to her to take up 
 her old life in the old way, and her spirit at 
 first revolted at it. The old routine : visits 
 to the village people, who had once come to 
 see her married, services in the church where 
 she had stood as a bride at the chancel steps, 
 meetings with old friends who could not keep 
 the pity out of their eyes even if they re- 
 strained their tongues ; all these things were 
 hard to bear. She did not encourage the 
 expression of sympathy. Few persons found 
 it easy to accost her on the subject of her 
 great sorrow, though many tried to say 
 
 some " appropriate " words. The outspoken 
 
 99
 
 100 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 sympathy of the village wives was easier to 
 bear. ''Eh, Miss Magdalen," one old cot- 
 tager said, without the least idea of giving 
 her pain, " eh, my dear, what an escape 
 you 've had ! You should surely ha' been 
 very thankful ! " A view of the case which 
 had never occurred to Magdalen. 
 
 Mr. Lingard tried to persuade her to spend 
 the autumn with friends in Scotland, the 
 winter at Cannes or Nice ; and for a little 
 time she did go away from home to try 
 the effect of change of scene. But before 
 long she was again in her old place. It 
 seemed to her a mere shirking of difficulties 
 to leave home at that time. Mr. Lingard 
 was feeble, and wanted her company, and his 
 finances were so encumbered that the strictest 
 economy in housekeeping was necessary. So 
 Magdalen thought that it was right to stay 
 at Eiversmead ; and here, month after month, 
 her life slipped on, varpng little, coloured 
 only by the seasons, brightened only by the 
 sense of duty done. Time brought peace to
 
 A NEW HOME. 101 
 
 her brow, but it did not bring back her girlish 
 bloom ; she was a woman who had known 
 sorrow now, and not a child. 
 
 A year passed thus in comparative peace 
 and quietness, and then Mr. Lingard was 
 struck down by paralysis. He grew w^orse 
 from day to day, and had at last to be fed and 
 soothed like an ailing child. This was a 
 dreary time ; the house was half shut up ; no 
 visitors came, and the paralysed and nearly 
 imbecile old father would scarcely let his 
 darling out of his sight. What secret agonies 
 of impatience, what doubt and fear and 
 weariness she then went through no one 
 would ever know. Magdalen never told. 
 But those dark hours surely had their fruit in 
 the rare power of sjmipathy that developed 
 within her, in the mingled sweetness and 
 strength with which she seemed to be after- 
 wards endowed. She had what has been called 
 "a genius for religion." Her nature could 
 not have expanded in an atmosphere of 
 unbelief The fibres of her heart had been so
 
 102 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEX. 
 
 bruised and beaten down from earthly things 
 that she found her only relief from pain in 
 turning to things spiritual and Divine. 
 WHiether she was in quite a healthy and 
 natural state she did not stop to inquire. 
 The things of this world seemed sometimes to 
 have lost their interest for her ; she had no 
 part or lot in them. And if you had told her 
 that their zest and flavour would all come 
 back to her one day, she would have been 
 horrified and dismayed. 
 
 After two years of this kind of life, Mr. 
 Lingard died. It was then found that his 
 affairs were in a very involved condition, that 
 the house and estate must be sold in order to 
 satisfy importunate creditors, and that 
 Magdalen's sole income consisted of two 
 hundred a year, inherited from her mother. 
 She went through a time of loneliness 
 and desolation, but her tranquillity was not 
 now easily disturbed. And just when she 
 was thinking of taking a quiet lodging in 
 London, where she had some thoughts of
 
 A NEW HOME. 103 
 
 working amongst the poor, a summons came 
 which she could not disregard. 
 
 '' My dear Magdalen," Miss Esher wrote to 
 her, in a shaky hand, " I am growing very 
 feeble. Will you come to me for a little 
 while ? You promised to do so when I 
 wanted you. I want you now. Your old 
 friend, Isabel Esher." 
 
 Magdalen did not hesitate. She packed up 
 her boxes, took a sorrowful farewell of her 
 friends in Riversmead, and started as soon as 
 possible for Scarsfield. 
 
 She knew from description what to expect 
 in Scarsfield. Fifty years ago the place had 
 been a mere village, picturesquely situated on 
 a river-bank, with a rising background of 
 wooded hills. Since then a number of 
 chemical works had been built, and the 
 atmosphere was poisoned by the gases that 
 issued from their chimneys ; gases which 
 were said to be not injurious to health, 
 although they destroyed vegetation, corroded 
 metals, and gave to the streets an aspect
 
 104 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 of extreme old age. It was a busy place, 
 but would never be a very important one, 
 for the river on which it stood was partially 
 choked by sand-banks, which rendered navi- 
 gation difficult even to small vessels, and 
 impossible to larger ships. Miss Esher s 
 house stood on the high ground that over- 
 looked the town. The hills and moorlands 
 had not yet been built over, nor had their 
 beauty been quite destroyed by the smoke 
 which blackened vegetation in the valley. At 
 a stone's throw from the Priory there was 
 still a delightful stretch of heather-covered 
 common and sandstone heights, command- 
 ing a magnificent view of the river as it 
 wound through green flats on its way to the 
 Irish Sea. The Priory grounds were extensive, 
 but the house itself was not as ancient as its 
 name implied. It was built on the site of an 
 old Priory, and had inherited its name ; 
 but there was nothing monastic about its 
 appearance. It was a comfortable-looking 
 red-brick building, of the Tudor period,
 
 ' A NEW HOME. 105 
 
 almost hidden from the high-road, which 
 passed its gates, by trees. 
 
 It was a wet night in autumn when 
 Magdalen arrived. Miss Esher had sent a 
 brougham and a maid to meet her, but the 
 train was late, and Magdalen felt chilled to 
 the bone as she was driven through the busy 
 gas-lit streets, and up the steep road that led 
 to the Priory. She looked through the 
 carriage windows, blurred as they were by 
 rain, with an odd feeling. The murky streets 
 seemed strangely familiar to her ; it was as if 
 she saw something for which she had been 
 waiting all her life. She put the sensation 
 down to her many fancies about Scar sfi eld 
 when Captain Esher used to describe it to her 
 years ago ; and yet the explanation scarcely 
 seemed satisfactory. ''It is like coming 
 home," said Magdalen to herself, with a 
 curious thrill of wonder — almost of super- 
 stitious fear. For how could Scarsfield ever 
 be her home ? 
 
 The carriage turned in at the great iron
 
 106 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 gate. The hall door opened, and a flood of 
 light poured out upon the broad stone steps. 
 Magdalen, half-blinded by the glow, felt her- 
 self drawn into the house by kindly hands, 
 and kissed again and again ; then, as her eyes 
 became accustomed to the light, she saw that 
 she was standing in a spacious hall, and that 
 Miss Esher was holding her by the hands, and 
 saying, " AYelcome, my dear ! " And Magda- 
 len felt that she was welcome indeed. 
 
 The hall was floored with oak, on which 
 rugs and sheep-skins had been thrown ; a great 
 fire burned in the wide old-fashioned grate, 
 and its flames were reflected from the shining 
 boards, the carvings on the great oak chests, 
 the crossed sabres and shields and porcelain 
 upon the walls. The scene was more than 
 picturesque ; it w^as so home-like and so com- 
 fortable that Magdalen loved the place from 
 that moment. And it was well that she 
 loved it, for that house was fated to be her 
 home for many a day. 
 
 Miss Esher looked old and feeble. Her hair
 
 A NEW HOME. lOT 
 
 was snow-white ; she stooped very much, and 
 walked with a gold-headed cane, but her eyes 
 were keen as ever. She saw that Magdalen 
 was cold and weary and dispirited, and she 
 led her upstairs at once to take off her cloak^ 
 assuring her that she must make haste and 
 come do^TL to dinner-tea as soon as possible^ 
 and that she should not allow her to speak a 
 word until she had been warmed and fed. And 
 then she hurried away, telling her guest that 
 she would expect her downstairs in ten minutes. 
 Magdalen was soon ready. She opened her 
 door, wondering a little whether she could 
 find her way to the dining-room, and if the 
 maid, with whose services she had dispensed, 
 woukl be in waiting. No, the maid was not 
 there ; but crouched on the step which led 
 from her door to the landing were two little 
 figures all in white. Two lovely blonde heads 
 caught the gleam of Magdalen's lifted candle ; 
 two angel faces were turned half-timidly 
 towards her as she looked. Whose children, 
 then, were these ?
 
 108 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 " We Ve come to show you tlie way 
 downstairs," said one of them in clear 
 treble tones. " Im Dolly and she's Daisy." 
 And then they held their faces up to be 
 kissed. 
 
 '' Dolly who ? Daisy who ? " said Magdalen, 
 kissing them. But her voice trembled as she 
 spoke. 
 
 " Dorothy Philippa Esher." Need she have 
 asked ? " And we 're six years old to-day. 
 And auntie said that we might fetch you 
 down to tea." 
 
 Magdalen sank down on one knee and drew 
 them close to her. 
 
 " Do you live here, darlings "? " she asked 
 tenderly. 
 
 " Yes, we live with Aunt Isabel. She says 
 that you call her Aunt Isabel, too, so may we 
 call you ' cousin ' ? She says we may if you 
 don't mind." 
 
 " I shall like it very much," said Magdalen. 
 She was looking into the little faces with 
 curiously yearning eyes. Was she seeking for
 
 A NEW HOME. 109 
 
 a likeness to their father ? It was easy 
 enough to find. 
 
 Dolly had inherited Philip Esher's brilliancy 
 of colouring and exquisite modelling of feat- 
 ure. Her long dark eyes were singularly 
 brilliant, her hair was of the brightest golden, 
 her face as delicately tinted as eggshell china. 
 Daisy was softer and paler ; her hair was more 
 flaxen, and her eyes were blue. Magdalen 
 noticed almost immediately that she had 
 clinging caressing ways which Dolly did not 
 possess ; but that Dolly was the talker, the 
 self-reliant leader of the two. 
 
 She went downstairs with the little girls, 
 who led her into the dining-room in triumph. 
 Miss Esher gave her one sharp look as she 
 entered, and distinguished the tear that 
 trembled upon her eyelashes, but appeared to 
 take no notice of it. Even when the children 
 had gone to bed. Miss Esher made no allusion 
 to them ; she talked quietly of many things, 
 asked questions concerning Magdalen's affairs, 
 but said nothing about her own. It was
 
 110 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 with perfect ease of manner, however, that 
 Magdalen said at length : 
 
 " The children must be a great comfort to 
 you." 
 
 "They are nice little things," said ffiss 
 Esher. 
 
 " I did not know that they were still T\ith 
 you." 
 
 " Yes. Emilia was too ill to have them in 
 the house. You don't object, I suppose?" 
 and Miss Esher bent her heavy eyebrows 
 anxiously as she glanced at her younger 
 friend. 
 
 " I am glad to see them," said Magdalen. 
 *'l have often wondered about them, but 
 never liked to ask." 
 
 "Philip Esher is still abroad," Miss Esher 
 went on, abruptly. 
 
 " Does he take no interest in his children ? " 
 
 " Apparently not. He remits money for 
 them sometimes — which I don't use. They 
 may need it some day. — And now, my dear, I 
 hope you will stay with me for a long time.
 
 A NEW HOME. Ill 
 
 for I am growing very old and am lonely. 
 You must not leave me again, Madge, as long 
 as I live." 
 
 Magdalen made no promise ; she had an 
 objection to promises. Besides, it did not 
 seem to her just then very likely that she 
 should stay for more than a few weeks at the 
 Priory. She certainly felt the need of rest, 
 and was glad to take it ; but when she was 
 strong again — strong and well and vigorous — 
 she would go out into the world. 
 
 She changed her mind, however. The 
 Priory was a charming old place ; the rooms 
 were luxurious and picturesque ; the gardens 
 were beautifully kept ; there was pleasant 
 society in the neighbourhood ; but none of 
 these good points would have kept Magdalen 
 in Scarsfield if she had not found that, in a 
 sense, she was necessary in Miss Esher's 
 house. The reins of government were falling 
 from the old lady's hands, the children were 
 running wild, the servants were unruly. 
 Before long, Magdalen was ruling, as she had
 
 112 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 learnt by years of obedience and service how 
 to rule : it was felt tbrougliout the household 
 that she must never be allowed to go away. 
 She had a firm hand, but she won hearts 
 as well. The children, especially, adored her ; 
 and, in seeing them about her, Magdalen 
 became aware that they filled up a void in 
 her heart of which she had scarcely been con- 
 scious before. All the sweet motherliness of 
 her nature expended itself on them. In a few 
 weeks she sighed at the thought of ever leav- 
 ing them ; in the course of months she gave 
 up that thought altogether. It seemed to her 
 as if, from her lonely womanhood, she had 
 become a daughter and a mother all at once. 
 Tender cares for old Miss Esher and for the 
 children filled up nearly all her time. 
 
 One summer morning she went into Miss 
 Esher's room at an early hour, as was her 
 custom, and drew aside the window curtains, 
 letting the sunbeams strike gently upon the 
 sleeping face. Miss Esher liked to be awak- 
 ened in this way. But on that summer morn-
 
 A NEW HOME. 113 
 
 ing there was no awakening for her. The 
 kind old face was grey and rigid in the 
 mornino' lio-ht ; the active hands were stiff 
 and cold. She had passed away gently in 
 sleep ; and Magdalen, in the midst of her 
 grief, awoke to the consciousness that fresh 
 changes awaited her. For a moment she 
 murmured at the prospect. " Am I to have 
 no rest — no tranquillity ? " she said to herself, 
 a little bitterly, as she sat alone that even- 
 ing, with her hands tightly clasped upon her 
 lap. Then her heart smote her. She di^ew 
 a devotional book towards her and tried to 
 read. The pages opened at a j)l^ce where 
 Miss Esher had marked a few lines. " Here 
 we have no continuing city." . . . Ah, that 
 was the word of comfort that Magdalen 
 wanted. She read and prayed, like the 
 sweet saint that she was, and felt that she 
 was prepared for all that Providence might 
 send. 
 
 Then came the funeral, and then the read- 
 ing of the will.
 
 114 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 Miss Esher's will had been drawn up a 
 few months after her return from Eivers- 
 mead. She left ten thousand pounds to 
 each of the children, to be paid on their 
 majority. To her natural heir, Philip Esher, 
 she left the sum of one shilling. There 
 were a few trifling bequests to friends and 
 servants ; but the rest of her property, the 
 Priory itself, and an income of six thousand 
 a-year, were bequeathed to Magdalen Lingard. 
 
 And in case Magdalen Lingard should try 
 to hand over this property to anybody else 
 (the Eshers were evidently meant), it was 
 especially provided that if she did not accept 
 it, the whole, including the children's legacies, 
 should go to various wealthy charities in 
 London. 
 
 By this ingenious device. Miss Esher 
 secured the fulfilment of her wishes. If 
 she had not made that proviso about the 
 children's legacies, it was quite possible that 
 Magdalen would have handed over the pro- 
 perty to the London charities. Certainly, if
 
 A NEW HOME. 115 
 
 it had been practicable, she would have 
 transferred it all to Philip Esher's children. 
 But Miss Esher had left her no loophole of 
 escape : she ^Yas obliged to take the house and 
 the money, although, as she said, she could 
 not help feeling that neither rightfully be- 
 longed to her. 
 
 In a private letter addressed to Magdalen, 
 found in an old bureau drawer, Miss Esher 
 begged her, however, to do all that she could 
 for little Dorothy and Margaret Esher. ''I do 
 not want them to be rich," she said ; '' but 
 I want them to have the training that their 
 father lacked. For my sake, Madge, keep 
 them with you as long as you can." 
 
 Magdalen did not need to be asked. The 
 dearest wish of her heart was to keep the 
 children with her. She went to Mr. St. Aidan 
 and made a formal proposition, which she 
 desired that he would lay before Captain Esher. 
 She offered to educate the children, and 
 provide for them until they were twenty-one, 
 if only they might be left with her. " My
 
 116 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEX. 
 
 dear Magdalen," said Mr. St. Aidan (lie 
 treated her as a relation of his own now-a-days), 
 ^' it will never do. You had better let the 
 children go to school." 
 
 " They would be miserable," said Magdalen. 
 
 " Think what you are undertaking, my 
 dear. You will expose yourself to misunder- 
 standing." 
 
 '' Of what kind ? " she asked. 
 
 ''Forgive me if I say it openly : people will 
 think that you wish to re-open friendly rela- 
 tions with their father. He may think so 
 himself." 
 
 Magdalen's eye flashed, but she paused, and 
 then answered quietly, 
 
 '' They are now nearly seven years old, and 
 he has seen them once, I believe, since they 
 were babies. To any one who knows the 
 facts " 
 
 " But people do not know the facts, my 
 dear. However, I will write to Philip if you 
 have made up your mind. You must expect 
 some unfriendly comments."
 
 A XEW HOME. 117 
 
 "I do not mind comments," said Magdalen. 
 But she did mind a letter from Philip Esher 
 which came to her shortly afterwards. He 
 thanked her for her kindness to his poor 
 children ("his poor children ! " echoed Mag- 
 dalen, in amaze, as she read the letter) ; he 
 expressed himself as only too grateful for the 
 very timely help she offered, now that he had 
 lost all chance of the wealth which had once 
 been promised him (there was a sting in that 
 sentence for Magdalen), and he trusted that 
 he was not presuming too much if he dared to 
 hope that her affection for his children might 
 — some day — lead to forgiveness for himself. 
 
 '^Oh, Daisy, Dolly!" cried Magdalen, 
 throwing the letter from her, and rising to 
 her feet with tightly-clasped hands and stormy 
 brow, "if I did not love you so much, my 
 children, I would send you away from me 
 to-morrow ! So this is what Philip Esher 
 thinks ! He will have to learn his mistake." 
 
 She did not answer the letter, but she 
 kept the children with her at the Priory.
 
 118 8EVEXTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 Gradually forming new ties, acquiring new 
 interests, and doing work of lier own devising 
 in her own way, slie soon found her life so full 
 that she had no time for idle dreaming or 
 regret. Even the memory of Philip Esher 
 seemed to her like a vision of the past.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 LENORE. 
 
 Miss Lingard and the St. Aidans were well 
 known, of course, in the '^best society" that 
 Scarsfield could furnish. In fact, they were 
 " County " people. But there were other 
 circles in Scarsfield which were not " County,'* 
 and of which Miss Lingard and the St. Aidans 
 knew next to nothing. The Rector was well 
 acquainted with all the members of his flock, 
 1)oth rich and poor, but his wife visited few per- 
 sons, being an invalid; and Miss Lingard of 
 the Priory, as people generally called her, was 
 understood to have given up society. She had 
 lived in Scarsfield now for three years or 
 more ; she was a woman of twenty-five, and 
 looked older : and she was a woman who, 
 
 most emphatically, went her own way. The 
 
 119
 
 120 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 poor and the sick knew her well, but in the 
 houses of her so-called equals she was rarely 
 to be found. And it would have seemed to her 
 friends the most unlikely thing in the world 
 that she should ever be brought into close and 
 intimate contact with the tradesfolk of the 
 town, even with the richer manufacturers of 
 soaps and drugs, who made their living on the 
 banks of the river Scar. The St. Aidans were 
 fastidious and aristocratic in their tastes ; 
 Magdalen had delicate instincts which caused 
 her to shrink from unrefined or commonplace 
 society. x4nd yet there were persons in Scars- 
 field, not at all of the highest classes, whom 
 Miss Lingard was destined one day to know 
 exceedingly well. 
 
 The High Street of Scarsfield was irregularly 
 built, and ran a devious course through the 
 very centre of the town, widening in the 
 market - place, losing itself in a maze of 
 small streets at one end, and melting into a 
 country-road at the other. The houses at the 
 country-road end, as it may be called, were
 
 LEXORE. 121 
 
 cletaclied or semi-detached, and differed greatly 
 from eacli otlier in character. For instance, 
 the great, solid-looking mansion of grey stone, 
 which belonged to Eichard Brendon, the rich 
 soap-boiler, stood next to a modest little house 
 of red brick, tenanted by an old widowed lady, 
 of very limited means, and her grand-children. 
 The inmates of the two houses were old 
 acquaintances, but their circumstances, and 
 perhaps their dispositions, were as different as 
 the houses in which they lived. 
 
 It was nearly six o'clock on a bright August 
 evenino: when Lenore Chaloner sat in the 
 window-seat of her grandmother's little dining- 
 room, and glanced down the street from time 
 to time with an air of quiet expectation. The 
 window was separated by a very narrow strip 
 of garden from the road, and she could see the 
 passers-by for some distance. Her brother 
 would be home to tea at six o'clock, but I am 
 afraid I must record the fact that Lenore was 
 not watching for his appearance. She had 
 other ends in view.
 
 122 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 Lenore Chaloner was not generally spoken 
 of as a beautiful girl in Scarsfield, where popu- 
 lar taste inclined to plenty of size and colour. 
 In some people's opinion a great charm lay 
 in her hazel eyes, her fair and delicately 
 moulded features, the wave of her nut-brown 
 hair. She was slender, and rather under the 
 middle height, but erect as a dart, and she 
 had remarkably pretty hands and feet. Her 
 sister Kate, a plump, blue-eyed girl of twelve, 
 lounged idly beside her, also gazing out into 
 the street. 
 
 " There 's Bobby," said Kate, as the garden- 
 gate was heard to click. 
 
 Lenore looked up, a dainty pair of eye- 
 glasses perched upon her nose. She scarcely 
 glanced at her seventeen-year-old brother, 
 then opening the front -door. Her eyes 
 wandered uneasily down the road. There 
 was some one else to see : when would he 
 come ? 
 
 ^'There's Mr. Max," said Bobby, from 
 behind her chair. " He 's a-g-oino; home to his
 
 LEXOEE. 123 
 
 dinner. Oh, my ! hasn't he been working us 
 like blacks to-day ! " 
 
 " Are you very busy, then ? " 
 
 " We 're always busy," rejoined Bob1 >}', 
 grandly. " It isn't play in our office, let me 
 assure you. Old Dick" — this was his polite 
 name for Mr. Brendon, the head of the firm — 
 " has been dictating letters to half-a-dozen of 
 us, more or less, all at once ; and little Jimmy 
 Raffles lost one in going to the post, and there 's 
 been an awful shindy. There 's the governor 
 and Mr. Cecil ! Oh, what a beautiful bow ! " 
 
 One of the figures passing the window was 
 that of a stout, tall man, apparently about 
 fifty-five : he had a reddish face, grizzled hair 
 and whiskers, and keen dark eyes. He was 
 accompanied by his son, a young man who 
 looked eagerly towards the window where 
 Lenore was sitting, and raised his hat with an 
 elaborate flourish. The elder man's eyes 
 followed those of his son. Mr. Brendon 
 nodded, in a friendly but unceremonious way. 
 Lenore flushed and smiled, but drew back into
 
 124 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 the shadow of the curtains, so that she might 
 not be seen as she watched the two men turn 
 in at the gates of the large grey house. The 
 second son, Max, had gone on before. 
 
 Lenore turned with a happy light in her 
 eyes, to the tea-table. She had seen all she 
 cared for : she had given the signal tacitly 
 agreed upon by herself and Cecil Brendon. 
 It was understood between them that if she 
 appeared at the window when Cecil was 
 walkinof home with his father or brother, Cecil 
 mio^ht be sure of findino- her diseno'ag-ed later 
 in the evening. The understanding had never 
 l)een put into words, but it existed never- 
 theless. 
 
 Lenore's dead father had been one of Mr. 
 Brendon's earliest friends. It seemed natural 
 to both families that the children should be 
 friends also. Only Mrs. Brendon had of late 
 begun to remark uneasily that the visits of 
 her sons to the little red house were mucli 
 more frequent than they need be. 
 
 Before tea was over, a visitor was announced ;
 
 LEXORE. 125 
 
 but to Lenore's disappointment it was the 
 younger brother, Max, not Cecil. He had 
 a book in his hand. 
 
 ''I ought not to come in now," he said, 
 "but I thought I wouhi leave this book for 
 Lenore. I heard that she wanted to read it." 
 
 He smiled as he spoke, and with the smile 
 the whole character of his face seemed to 
 change. Seen in repose it was inexpressive 
 as a mask ; at times it could be stern, and 
 even obstinate ; but when he lifted his some- 
 what heavy eyelids, and when his brown eyes 
 lighted up, the face was as pleasant as it was 
 powerful. One saw a big nose, a well-shaped 
 mouth, shaded by a thick, dark moustache, 
 square jaws, and a broad, overhanging fore- 
 head, with straight eyebrows, and a mass of 
 unruly dark hair. The features were rugged 
 rather than handsome ; but the fire in those 
 dark eyes, the determination expressed in 
 every line, made his face one to be remem- 
 bered. 
 
 " Cecil wanted me to read it," said Lenore,
 
 126 SEVEXTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 colouring. " He said that he would bring me 
 a copy from the library." 
 
 " He had to send it back. You can have 
 this copy." 
 
 " Oh, thank you, Max. But you will want 
 it." 
 
 " No. I never read poetry. Keep it, if you 
 like. I must go. We are particularly busy 
 to-day." 
 
 " How is that ? " asked Mrs. Chaloner, a 
 mild, grey-haired, old lady, who took a great 
 interest in the doings of the Brendon firm. 
 Lenore was turning over the leaves of her 
 little green volume of poetry, and did not 
 seem to attend to the reply. Yet Max 
 glanced at her as if he wished her to hear. 
 
 " One of the clerks — a fellow called Lloyd 
 — has broken his leg, and won't be able to 
 work for some time. Cecil and I must do his 
 work for him ; unless we put it all on Bob's 
 shoulders," he said, striking the lad in a 
 friendly manner on the arm. " It 's an un- 
 fortunate thing for us."
 
 LEXORE. 127 
 
 " And for the clerk too, I suppose," said 
 Mrs. Chaloner. 
 
 " Lloyd ? Well, I don't know. He is a 
 good Churchman, you see, so Miss Lingard of 
 the Priory has taken him up." 
 
 Max spoke with the faintest possible indica- 
 tion of a sneer. 
 
 " Miss Lingard seems to be very charit- 
 able." 
 
 " I suppose so. I don't know her." 
 
 " And don't want to know her ? " said 
 Lenore, shutting up her book with a 
 smile. 
 
 " Well — perhaps not," Max answered, 
 slightly shrugging his broad shoulders. " I 
 don't like women who make themselves re- 
 markable. They should be pretty and ami- 
 able and quiet — that's my ideal of a nice 
 woman." He looked at Lenore as if she ful- 
 filled his ideal completely. 
 
 " She is very good" said Lenore, accenting 
 the word as if beino- aood were something 
 objectionable. " Mrs. Harte, the curate's wife,
 
 128 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 you know, says that she is kind, but rather 
 unapproachable. " 
 
 "Miss Lingard's a stuck-up old skinflint, 
 and as mad as a hatter," interposed Bobby, 
 decidedly. " Mr. Cecil says so." 
 
 " You can ask him for his opinion : I see 
 him coming in at the gate," said Max, rising 
 from his chair. " Good-bye." 
 
 " Must you go ? " asked Lenore, with polite 
 regret. 
 
 " We don't hunt in couj^les. When my 
 senior comes, I retire," he answered, gravely. 
 
 She went to the door ^^'ith him — just in 
 time to admit Cecil Brendon as Max went out. 
 " You here ? " said the elder brother, not too 
 pleasantly, while Max stood for a moment on 
 the door-step lighting his cigar. 
 
 "Looked in," replied Max, in his most 
 indifterent tone. Then he sauntered away 
 with rather a slouching gait — his hands in his 
 pockets, his cigar in his mouth— and Lenore 
 turned her attention to Cecil. 
 
 Cecil Brendon was said to be the hand-
 
 LENOEE. 129 
 
 somest man in Scarsfield. He was tall, 
 slightly built, and pale ; and this pallor and 
 slightness of build gave him a look of fra- 
 gility which romantic ladies termed " inter- 
 esting." He was dark, as were all the 
 Brendons : his features were regular, his 
 moustache and pointed beard crisped and 
 silky ; but the chief attraction of his appear- 
 ance lay in his remarkably beautiful eyes. 
 They were large, long-lashed, and soft, with a 
 trick of wistfulness in their expression, such 
 as one sees sometimes in the brown eyes of a 
 great Newfoundland dog. Lenore was not the 
 only girl who had come under the influence of 
 those pathetic eyes. 
 
 She opened the door of the little drawing- 
 room at the back of the house. Cecil did not 
 like dining-rooms — there were a great many 
 things that Cecil did not like. He took her 
 hand in his with a caressing gesture, and held 
 it fast as they went in. No definite words 
 had yet been spoken, and yet Lenore, simple 
 and confiding as a child, believed that Cecil 
 
 K
 
 130 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 loved her. Certainly lie never lost an oppor- 
 tunity of making her think so. 
 
 '' You knew that I would come to-night ? " 
 he said, softly. 
 
 " I did not know. ... I thought that 
 you might bring those poems ; but Max has 
 brought them now." 
 
 '' He has a wonderful memory for trifles," 
 said Cecil, in almost a complaining tone. 
 " I mentioned in his hearing that I was 
 obliged to send the book back to the library, 
 and that you wanted it — I meant to send you 
 a copy myself, Lenore, but he has anticipated 
 me. But no doubt you will like it better 
 from him than from me." 
 
 " Oh, no, no ! " said Lenore, half shyly, half 
 eagerly. 
 
 Cecil sat down in an easy chair and shaded 
 his eyes with his long delicate fingers. " It is 
 this wretched business that makes me forget 
 everything ! " he groaned. " I can think of 
 nothing else : it takes the heart out of my 
 life."
 
 LENORE. 131 
 
 " You like your work no better '? " 
 " No better ! I hate it : I loathe it. I was 
 not destined to be a mere man of business — 
 a money-grubber. If only I could have got to 
 Sandhurst ! " 
 
 Cecil's career had been hitherto not very 
 brilliant. After leaving school, he spent some 
 time at a tutor's, meaning to enter one of the 
 military colleges, but he had qualified for 
 neither, and had been obliged to relinquish 
 this prospect. A severe illness had then pros- 
 trated him for some months, and one or two 
 further attempts to enter a profession had 
 failed, chiefly on account of his own indolence 
 and extravao'ance. He was now six-and- 
 twenty, and had done nothing in the world. 
 His own view of the matter, in which he was 
 supported by his mother, was that he need 
 never do anything, that his father ought to 
 give him an ample allowance, and let him live 
 the life of an idle man. With his constitu- 
 tional delicacy of throat and chest, the proper 
 thing would be to let him spend his winters in
 
 132 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 Algiers or Egypt, his springs at Cannes or 
 Biarritz, his summers in Paris, London, or 
 Berlin, and his autumns in Norway and Scot- 
 land. In this way he considered that he 
 could support life with comfort. But Mr. 
 Brendon would not hear of any such thing. 
 He maintained that Cecil was much stronger 
 than he looked, and could do a very good 
 day's work when he chose. Exasperated by 
 Cecil's repeated failures, he had at length 
 given his son the alternative of taking a light 
 post in the Scarsfield office, or of ceasing to 
 receive any allowance at all, and quitting his 
 father's house at once and for ever. Cecil 
 sulkily submitted to work rather than find 
 himself penniless, and was therefore installed 
 in his father's office. This arrangement fell 
 hardly upon Max, who had always taken a fore- 
 most place under his father, but now found 
 himself nominally second, with all his old 
 work to do, and innumerable blunders of 
 Cecil's to correct. Nobody heard Max 
 complain, but it was the opinion of his
 
 LENORE. 133 
 
 friends that his position was well-nigh un- 
 endurable. Cecil had now been in Scarsfield 
 for ten or twelve months, hating his occupa- 
 tion, constantly vexing his father's righteous 
 soul, and thinking himself the victim of an 
 unkind fate. And he turned to Lenore — 
 amongst others — for comfort and condolence. 
 
 " Perhaps you would not have liked Sand- 
 hurst or Woolwich ? " she suggested, rather 
 timidly. 
 
 " I should have been with men of my own 
 calibre — my own standing — and that in itself 
 would be inspiriting," he returned. " I know 
 that I am not clever ; but I should have been 
 of some use in active service — food for powder, 
 at any rate — whereas I am of no use to any- 
 body here." 
 
 " Has anything gone wrong to-day '? " 
 
 '' Everything is wrong. Nothing I can do 
 or say pleases my father. Of "course, it is 
 often my own fault. I think I '11 enlist." 
 
 " Oh, Cecil, Cecil ! " 
 
 " Dear little woman, you would be sorry at
 
 134 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 any rate, if I went away, would you not ? " 
 said Cecil, holding out his hand, and turning 
 the melancholy light of his soft eyes upon her. 
 She laid her fingers timidly upon his for a 
 moment, and then drew them away. 
 
 " If you worked hard, Cecil," she said, 
 hesitatingly, " and tried to please your father 
 in every way, would he not then — by and bye 
 — allow you to go abroad and live your own 
 life ? " 
 
 " Could any one work harder than I do 1 " 
 cried Cecil, irritably. '' I 'm sure I lead the 
 life of a galley-slave." 
 
 Lenore's manner was always gentle, and her 
 heart was as soft as Cecil's eyes, but she was 
 (as Cecil sometimes felt) uncomfortably clear- 
 sighted and inconveniently direct. "Do you 
 think you work as hard as Max ? " she asked, 
 with a naive earnestness which annoyed Cecil 
 not a little. 
 
 " Oh— Max ! " he said, slightingly. " Max ! 
 He 's never happy unless he 's at his tread- 
 mill"
 
 LENORE. 135 
 
 There was a little silence, which he broke 
 at last by a heavy sigh. " I 'm a worthless 
 fellow," he said, his voice sinking into a 
 dejected key. " I 'm not to be compared with 
 poor old Max. But my father would never 
 believe in me, say or do what I might. 
 There's always one unlucky member of a 
 family : one scape-goat ; one black sheep. I m 
 the scape-goat : I 'm the black sheep. I wish 
 to heaven that I had never been born." 
 
 Lenore was almost sobbing. '' Oh, Cecil, 
 don't say these things : you make me so miser- 
 able," she faltered. 
 
 *' But if they are true ? " said Cecil, in a half 
 humorous, half tragic tone. Then he rose, 
 walked over to her side, and began smoothing 
 her pretty brown waves of hair. " I should 
 not like to leave you behind if I went away," 
 he murmured; *'you would have to come with 
 me, would you not, Lenore ? " 
 
 She turned a wonderfully bright face towards 
 him, and smiled through her tears. He smiled 
 at her in reply, but he said no more. It was
 
 136 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 on such fragmentary fare that her love had 
 learned to live. 
 
 " Can you come out with me for a walk ? " 
 he asked. " I want an excuse for not going to 
 the Eoslyns'. Will you come ? " 
 
 She bit her lip. 
 
 "I am so sorry, Cecil, I can't come this 
 evening. Grannie is going out, and I said 
 I would keep house." 
 
 " But that is not necessary ? There are 
 others in the house. Let me tell Mrs. 
 Chaloner " 
 
 " Grannie wdll not like it ; and I promised," 
 said the girl, steadily. " You must not tempt 
 me, Cecil." 
 
 '* Oh, very well." He picked up his hat 
 and made a step towards the door. " Then 
 I must look in at Eoslyn's. Miss Eoslyn 
 challenged me to a game at billiards : it 's 
 a great bore, but I think that I must 
 
 go." 
 
 The sensitive change in her face was not 
 
 lost upon him.
 
 LENOEE. 137 
 
 " Is ]\iiss Eoslyii at home ? " she asked, 
 soberly. 
 
 "Yes, Kuby's at home," said he, with a 
 short laugh. " As blooming as ever. What a 
 handsome girl she is ! . . . Well " — after a 
 pause — "will you come out ^ith me, Lenore?" 
 
 " Thank you, Cecil. I am sorry, but I must 
 not go." 
 
 " No ! I am sorry. Then you throw me 
 back on the Eoslyns ? Well, good-bye." 
 
 He held her hand a trifle longer than usual, 
 perhaps because something in her clear eyes 
 told him that she was not well pleased. The 
 Eoslyns did not bear a good reputation in 
 Scarsfield, and Mr. Brendon had almost for- 
 bidden his son to frequent their house. Of 
 this Lenore was aware, but shrank from openly 
 remonstrating. Cecil felt quite a thrill of 
 new interest in the thought that she might be 
 — ^just a trifle — jealous of Euby Eoslyn. 
 " Poor little girl ! " he said to himself, as he 
 betook himself slowly to the Eoslyn's pre- 
 tentious house •; " poor little Lenore ! she
 
 138 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 would marry me to-morrow if I chose to ask 
 her." 
 
 Meanwhile Lenore was saying to herself how^ 
 much there was good and noble in Cecil 
 Brendon, and how great a work it would be to 
 rouse him from sloth and self-abasement and 
 lead him to a higher life. 
 
 So women dream of men; and so do men 
 think of the women who dream of them.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 "a house divided against itself." 
 
 Me. and Mrs. Brendon had gone out to 
 dinner. Their three daughters were sitting 
 in the library, with the governess, Miss 
 Quittenden, when Cecil entered the house 
 about half-past nine. He had not found his 
 companions to his taste that evening, and 
 therefore returned home early. Finding no 
 one in the drawing-room, he wandered list- 
 lessly into the library, and settled himself in 
 the easiest chair. 
 
 ^liss Quittenden was a woman of fifty, of 
 the grim and forbidding type. Mrs. Brendon 
 abhorred pretty governesses. Gertrude Bren- 
 don was a nondescript, colourless sort of 
 person, two years Cecil's senior. Between 
 
 Max, who was five-and-twenty, and Ursula, 
 
 139
 
 140 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN". 
 
 the next in the family, came a gap of nine 
 years ; and Bessie was only twelve years old. 
 Ursula was the handsomest and the most high- 
 spirited of the three girls, and she was 
 devoted heart and soul to her brother Max. 
 
 " AVhere is Max ? " she asked, looking up 
 from her books as Cecil came in. 
 
 " Don't know. Am I my brother's keeper?" 
 muttered Cecil, under his breath. 
 
 " That 's what Cain said ! " exclaimed 
 Bessie, an inconvenient child with a shrill 
 voice. '' Isn't it. Miss Quittenden ? Now, 
 isn't it what Cain said ? " 
 
 " Speak in a lower tone, if you please, 
 Bessie." 
 
 " But isn't it what Cain said ? And ought 
 Cecil to say what Cain said, Gertrude ? Isn't 
 it wicked ? '' 
 
 "Do hold your tongue, child," said Cecil, 
 with a worried look. "Where's the book 
 I was reading to-day ? One of Khoda 
 Broughton's novels." 
 
 "I sent it back to the library," said
 
 A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF." 141 
 
 Gertrude, primly. The children had got hold 
 of it, and I did not consider it a proper book 
 for them to read. Besides, I wanted ' Koscoe's 
 Chemistry' for myself" 
 
 Gertrude dabbled in science in a neat, lady- 
 like, ineffective way. 
 
 " No one has the slightest consideration for 
 my wishes in this house, it seems to me," said 
 Cecil moodily. '' Ask me next time whether 
 I have finished with a book, if you please, 
 before you send it away." 
 
 *' You had it three weeks," remarked 
 Ursula. "Max said you must have finished 
 with it." 
 
 "Max needn't have interfered." 
 
 " Max never interferes," began Ursula indig- 
 nantly ; but she was not allowed to proceed. 
 
 " Good heavens ! can't this wrangling be 
 stopped ? " said Cecil, with an angry look 
 directed towards ]\Iiss Quittenden. " Isn't it 
 time for these children to go to bed ? " 
 
 " Certainly," said Miss Quittenden. '' Good 
 night, Ursula. Good night, Bessie. If you
 
 142 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 are so quarrelsome, you had better go at 
 once." 
 
 Ursula rose and shut her book with a bang. 
 Bessie dissolved into tears. And at this 
 moment the door opened to admit Max. 
 
 " What 's all this about ? " he said, raising 
 his eyebrows at the sight of Bessie's distress. 
 
 Ursula, looking like a handsome boy with 
 her short, curly hair and defiant face, answered 
 curtly, 
 
 " Oh, we are to go to bed half-an-hour 
 earlier than usual, to please Cecil." 
 
 Cecil began an irritated rejoinder, but Max's 
 calm tones drowned it, much to the advantage 
 of all parties. 
 
 " I have not seen the girls all day. Miss 
 Quittenden. Let them stay a little while, will 
 you not ? " 
 
 Miss Quittenden demurred at first, but 
 finally yielded the point. Silence was 
 restored : Bessie left off* crying and clung 
 fondly to Max, who suff'ered rather than 
 returned her caresses ; Cecil leaned back in
 
 "a HOrSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF." 143 
 
 his chair, conmons of his own ungradousness ; 
 Ursula disappeai^d without another word. 
 In a few moments Max shook off Bessie's 
 grasp, and went in search of Ins miasing 
 sister. 
 
 He met her crossing the hall, and contrived 
 to look as though he had fonnd her qnite hy 
 accident. 
 
 " Where are yon going ? " he asked. 
 
 "To bed." 
 
 " I won't heg yon off another time." 
 
 "Yon dear boy! Max, don't you think 
 that^ as a femilv. vre liave a demon of a 
 temper ? " 
 
 " A devil of a temper," said Max, soberly. 
 
 " And which of ns is the worst ? " 
 
 " On the whole, I think I am." 
 
 " Yon 're nothing to boast o^" said Ursula, 
 fiankly. "Cecil is milk and water to yon 
 when yon do lose your temper ; but then you 
 lose it so seldom ! Oh, I wish C^dl were not 
 my brother, and then I should be free to hate 
 hiTn cordially ! " ,
 
 144 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 "Don't talk in that way, Ursa. It isn't 
 the proper thing for a girl, you know." 
 
 "You are so particular about what girls 
 should do and should not do ! " said Ursula, 
 pouting, but putting her arm fondly round his 
 neck. "You are never satisfied, and you 
 never will be ! Well, to please you, I won't 
 go to bed yet." 
 
 " Don't stay up on my account," said Max, 
 quaintly; and then the brother and sister 
 laughed as they retraced their steps to the 
 library. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Brendon arrived soon after- 
 wards, and came to the room where the others 
 were sitting. Mr. Brendon found a letter 
 waiting for him, and read it while his wife 
 slowly drew off her gloves and answered 
 Gertrude's questions about the dinner-party. 
 Mrs. Brendon had been a beauty, and was 
 still a handsome woman, with fine eyes and 
 hair, but a haughty, dissatisfied expression of 
 countenance. She came of a good Welsh 
 family, and was disposed to look down upon
 
 *'a house divided against itself." 145 
 
 all tilings savouring of commerce. Had Mr. 
 Brendon been of a yielding instead of a very 
 obstinate disposition, he would have had to 
 leave Scarsfield long ago, for his wife detested 
 the town. But he had a fixed determination 
 to be master in his own house and in his 
 own family, and she had almost given up 
 protesting. 
 
 "Why did you not come in during the 
 evening, Cecil ? " she began, discontentedly. 
 " You might have done that, even if you 
 could not dine." 
 
 " There was no need for me to go. I don't 
 care for the Derings." 
 
 '^ They were disappointed at seeing neither 
 of you." 
 
 "Max might have gone," said Cecil. 
 " Why didn't you ? " turning to his brother. 
 
 "Never knew I was asked." 
 
 " Did I not tell you ? " said his mother, 
 carelessly. "I knew you would not care to 
 go. I don't suppose they were very anxious 
 for your society."
 
 146 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 The remark was so disparaging in tone that 
 it created a slight sensation. Gertrude looked 
 up deprecatingly, and Ursula flushed scarlet 
 with anger. Max himself thrust his hands 
 a little deeper into his pockets and smiled 
 serenely. It was only Ursula who suspected 
 that this peculiarly tranquil, half-satirical 
 smile usually covered annoyance or disappoint- 
 ment. 
 
 " Max miorht like to hear of his own invita- 
 tions," she said, being always ready to fight 
 his battles with more zeal than discretion. 
 
 " You can go to bed, Ursula," said her 
 mother, coldly. " I don't want your com- 
 ments on my proceedings. Your manners 
 and those of your brother Max are about on 
 a par." 
 
 Ursula took her departure with burning 
 cheeks. She tried to manifest her sympathy 
 by an extra hug of affection when she bade 
 Max good-night, but as he was not fond of 
 such demonstrations, she only made him look 
 a trifle more bored than usual.
 
 "a house divided against itself. 147 
 
 Mr. Brendon, who had finished his letters, 
 now entered the room, took up a position on 
 the hearthrug, and spoke to Max. " What 
 are you going to do to-morrow ? " 
 
 " My work, as usual, I suppose." 
 - " Who is going to Hartpool, then ? " 
 
 " You said Jackson had better go." 
 
 Mr. Brendon nodded. 
 
 " Then you two will be at the office all day. 
 One of you can do something for me after 
 business. You know all about Lloyd's circum- 
 stances." 
 
 "Yes," said Max. Cecil shrugged his 
 shoulders and looked down. Mr. Brendon 
 took out a pocket-book, and his eyes gleamed 
 a little beneath his grizzled eyebrows. 
 
 " You know Lloyd, I suppose, Cecil ? " 
 
 " Not in the least. Am I expected to know 
 him ? " 
 
 " Certainly, if you pretend to any share in 
 my business affairs, sir. A master ought to 
 be well acquainted with all his employes, 
 with their capabilities, positions, and habits.
 
 148 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 Such knowledge is not thought necessary by 
 every master, but I have always taken an 
 interest in my men, and accordingly have 
 been well served. As your grandfather used 
 to say — remembering the time when he swept 
 out Hare k Hempson's office — a little kind- 
 ness from the principal of a firm goes further 
 than the best wages." 
 
 Cecil did not appreciate a reminder of 
 the fact that his grandfather had been an 
 errand-boy, and therefore made no response. 
 Mr. Brendon addressed himself to his younger 
 son. 
 
 " What do you know about Lloyd ? " 
 
 '' One of our fellows at the office ; a sharp 
 lad, at twenty shillings a- week ; broke his leg 
 and stove in two ribs by a fall, as the men 
 were unloading slate at the wharf last Friday." 
 
 Mr. Brendon nodded, well pleased. " Useful 
 lad, I think ? " 
 
 " Yes ; deserves a better situation. Knows 
 French pretty well, and is good at book- 
 keeping. Helps to support his mother — a
 
 A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF." U9 
 
 widow with three small children," said Max, 
 with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes at 
 his own statistical accuracy. 
 
 "You see what it is to be a thorough 
 business man," said Mr. Brendon, looking at 
 Cecil with reprehension. "Max, you see, 
 knows all about this young fellow, and could 
 give you an equally clear account of all the 
 men we employ. Now you — you take no 
 more interest in them than — than Bessie 
 would. Max ! " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " Call at the Eectory to-morrow afternoon, 
 to give Mrs. St. Aidan the information she 
 requires." 
 
 " Information ! At the Rectory ! " 
 
 " The Rectory." 
 
 " Never spoke to Mrs. St. Aidan in my life," 
 said Max, with an air of reluctance. 
 
 " Tut ! it 's merely a matter of business. 
 Besides, I know her. We dined there last 
 Christmas. It seems she drove down to the 
 office when we were all out, and left word
 
 150 SEVE^'TY TIMES SEVEX. 
 
 with Jackson wliat she wanted. Lloyd's 
 mother had been to her cr}T.ng and com- 
 plaining as usual, and she wishes to know 
 whether we mean to take the lad on again, or 
 to help him at all. She wrote to me about it. 
 I '11 give you the note before you go, though 
 it is hardly necessary, as I have told you 
 about it." 
 
 '' What shall I say ? " asked Max. 
 
 " Say," answered his father, checking off the 
 points on his fingers, " say that we will give 
 him work, with an increase of wages, when he 
 is better — allow him for the present half- 
 wages — and pay the doctor's bill." 
 
 " I think you are too liberal," said Mrs. 
 Brendon. " If the St. Aidans have taken 
 him up, there is no fear about his doing well." 
 
 " Their kindness hardly releases us from 
 our duty," observed Max. 
 
 "Miss Lingard visits the Lloyds, I hear," 
 Cecil interposed, " and she is reputed to keep 
 h^i proteges in the very lap of luxury." 
 
 " I hope you do not mean to emulate Miss
 
 "a house divided agaixst itself. 151 
 
 Lingard in her indiscriminate charity," said 
 ]\Irs. Brendon disagreeably. 
 
 " She holds such extreme views," remarked 
 Gertrude. 
 
 "The ^dctim of a misguided enthusiasm, I 
 call her," continued the mother. " A flighty, 
 foolish, young woman." 
 
 " Is she young ? " asked Cecil. 
 
 " Seven or eight and twenty, if not more. 
 She looks thirty, — don't you think so, Miss 
 Quittenden?" 
 
 '' I should conclude so from her appearance. 
 A most unhealthy-looking person." 
 
 " Is she not a relation of the St. Aidans ? " 
 asked Gertrude. 
 
 " No, only a friend. She was once engaged 
 to Mrs. St. Aidan's nephew, but the engage- 
 ment was broken off. I don't wonder at it, I 
 
 am sure." 
 
 *' 1 11 go instead of you, if you like," said 
 Cecil to Max in a low voice. His curiosity 
 was aroused. 
 
 '*A much better arrangement," said Mrs.
 
 152 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 Brendon. " Cecil had far better go ; I would 
 rather Mrs. St. Aidan had an interview with a 
 presentable member of the family." 
 
 " It 's a mercy Ursula is not here," thought 
 Max to himself with his slight, careless smile ; 
 but this time Mr. Brendon roused himself to 
 take up the cudgels in his younger son's behalf. 
 
 " You don't know what you are sapng, 
 Cecilia. Max knows far more about business 
 than Cecil. I like my affairs to be managed 
 by a fellow who understands what he is about, 
 which is more than can be said for Cecil." 
 
 ** 1 'm willing enough to leave it to Max, 
 sir. I would wash my hands of the whole 
 concern very gladly." 
 
 " I daresay you would. You think to play 
 the fine gentleman here as you did in London, 
 and despise honest work for daily bread, 
 which you have neither the industry nor the 
 brains to earn for yourself." 
 
 " Cecil has no need to earn it for himself," 
 Mrs. Brendon put in, sharply. '' I am very 
 sorry indeed to see him spending the best days
 
 A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF." 153 
 
 of his life in drudgery. He has more refined 
 tastes than some members of the family, and 
 ought to be able to indulge them." 
 
 " Yes, on ray money ! " ejaculated Mr. 
 Brendon. 
 
 " Some of it will be his one day, I presume," 
 said his wdfe, with marvellous coolness. 
 
 '* Not unless he behaves himself. He has 
 done nothing in the world hitherto but idle 
 away his time, spend my money, and disgrace 
 my name. He must put his shoulder to the 
 wheel now if he wants to stay in this house. 
 Kefined tastes, indeed ! Confound his tastes ! 
 All that his refined tastes have taug;ht him is 
 to handle business like a baby, and speak of 
 it like a fool ! " 
 
 Mr. Brendon had been walking to the door 
 during the utterance of this speech; he now 
 opened it and left the room, where for some 
 minutes perfect silence prevailed. Cecil had 
 flushed deeply, then turned rather pale; but 
 neither spoke nor moved. His mother ]3ut out 
 her hand and took his: an unusual demonstra-
 
 154 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEX. 
 
 tion of affection from Mrs. Brendon. At last 
 G-ertrucle made some trivial remark about tlie 
 lateness of tlie hour, and her voice roused the 
 other members of the family to action. Cecil 
 left them without a word to anybody ; they 
 heard him bang the door of his own room 
 angrily. Mrs. Brendon and Gertrude said 
 good-night and separated. Max stayed alone 
 for a few minutes to meditate before he turned 
 out the gas. " Certainly we are an ill- 
 tempered family, as Ursula says," he thought 
 to himself; " and a selfish one to boot, as 
 far as I am concerned. Else I should have 
 stood up for Cecil at the risk of a row with 
 my father — which I hate. But Cecil is such 
 a confounded ass ! " And with a slightly 
 bitter expression of countenance. Max put 
 out the lights and went to bed. 
 
 It was a typical evening. There was little 
 peace or harmony in the Brendon family, and 
 the constant bickering was almost more than 
 Max knew how to bear. He loved tranquillity 
 dearly, but he seldom got it in his own home.
 
 "a house divided against itself." 155 
 
 He sometimes tliougiit that his mother posi- 
 tively disliked him ; her strictures upon his 
 manners and appearance were so severe that 
 they seemed to proceed from deeper sources 
 than mere motherly anxiety. The fact was 
 that she resented Cecil's want of success in 
 life, and visited her disappointment upon 
 Max. Cecil had always been her favourite 
 son, and it was inexplicable to her that he 
 should turn out such a failure in her husband's 
 eyes. Max had never counted for much in 
 her scheme of life. When he was a child he 
 had been plain, sickly, and apparently dull ; 
 she had never got over her early distaste for 
 his rough manner and unprepossessing appear- 
 ance. She was not often openly uncivil or 
 unkind to him ; but she was always cold and 
 careless, even scornful, when Max's indiffer- 
 ence irritated her temper. 
 
 To Cecil and Bessie, who were much alike 
 in disposition, and who, therefore, constantly 
 quarrelled when they were together, she was 
 remarkably indulgent. Gertrude was a useful
 
 156 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 ally, whom she treated as a friend ; but 
 Ursula puzzled her. The girl was too hand- 
 some, too clever, too satirical, to be simply set 
 aside and snubbed; she did not plod like 
 Gertrude, she did not yearn for affection like 
 Bessie and Cecil, she did not exhibit Max's 
 capacity for endurance. Mrs. Brendon tried in 
 vain to control her — firm as was her will, it 
 could be resisted, with at least partial success, 
 by Ursula's resolute vivacity. Miss Quittenden 
 had been engaged chiefly on account of her 
 reputation as a queller of unruly girls ; but 
 even her rigid discipline had hitherto proved 
 ineffectual. Yet Ursula could be led by a 
 word from Max or from her father, both 
 of whom she loved devotedly. She and 
 Max were much together, feeling themselves 
 somewhat isolated in the midst of this very 
 divided family. 
 
 Such was the Brendon household ; and 
 perhaps it may be inferred that it was not the 
 best possible school for rising manhood and 
 womanhood.
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 THE FIRST MEETING. 
 
 The dull autumnal day was passing into an 
 evening of steady rain. The wind was chill, 
 and, although the hand of the clock pointed 
 only to the hour of six, daylight was already 
 fading. Two ladies, sitting over a protracted 
 afternoon tea in the Kectory drawing-room, 
 found the bright blaze of a fire very 
 pleasant, and had lingered beside it for up- 
 wards of an hour. The room in which they 
 sat was neither large nor richly furnished, but 
 in all its appointments it gave evidence of the 
 owner's care and taste. Everything in it was 
 fresh and delicate in colour, graceful in form. 
 Plants, pictures, statuettes, rare china, won- 
 derful Venetian glass, were so arranged as to 
 
 give the brightest possible effects of colour, 
 
 157
 
 158 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 and the result, without being garish, v/as 
 cheerful in the extreme. 
 
 The lady who reclined in a chaise longuc 
 before the brightly-burning wood fire was Mrs. 
 St. Aidan, the Eector's wife. She had been 
 an invalid for many years, but her face bore 
 few traces of ill-health. Her quick dark eyes 
 were keen and bright beneath the delicate 
 arched eyebrow^s ; her hair, still brown and 
 soft, w^ould not lie straight beneath her 
 coquettish cap of dainty lace and satin ; her 
 mouth was smiling and sympathetic, her com- 
 plexion almost undimmed in freshness. It was 
 easy to see that she had never made a trouble 
 of her delicate health. 
 
 Her companion was in every way a contrast 
 to her. Her dress was of rich material, but 
 made with scrupulous plainness. Her tall 
 figure, exquisitely proportioned, was perhaps 
 a little too slender, but graceful in all its 
 movements. The fault of her face was its 
 want of colour; the clear, transparent pale- 
 ness of her complexion, perfect in itself, was
 
 THE FIRST MEETING. 159 
 
 more beautiful when heightened by an 
 occasional flush of faint rose-colour. A 
 noble, thoughtful air, something fine and 
 spiritual about the calm features, a bright, 
 benignant expression in the large brown 
 eyes, a tranquil look, given perhaps by 
 the dark level eyebrows and smooth 
 white forehead shaded by magnificently 
 thick dark hair — these were traits so little 
 appreciated by the many that Magdalen 
 Lingard in her six and twentieth year was 
 often described as positively plain. Some 
 people, too, said that her manners were repel- 
 ling and severe ; but then they did not know 
 how sweet could be her smile upon those 
 she loved. 
 
 For some time the two women had been 
 talking over trivial e very-day afiairs, and it 
 was after an interval of silence that Magdalen 
 laid down her cup and asked . whether any- 
 thing had been heard about James Lloyd from 
 Mr. Brendon, his employer. 
 
 " No ; I am hourly expecting a note or a
 
 160 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 visit from him. I heard something about the 
 Brendons themselves to-day, Madge, which is 
 quite as interesting. That handsome son of 
 Mr. Brendon's gives his family great anxiety. 
 Father and son, I am told, are constantly 
 quarrelling, and people say the young man 
 will soon leave the place in disgust." 
 
 " Indeed ! I fear that piece of information 
 sounds to me like a bit of the Scarsfield gossip 
 that you — despise." 
 
 " There 's a great want of human interest 
 in other people perceptible in you, Madge," 
 said Mrs. St. Aidan, with mock severity, 
 contradicted by the lurking smile about her 
 mouth ; " a want of that sympathetic care for 
 others which softens the hard work of the 
 world so much." 
 
 Miss lingard laughed ; • a pleasant, silvery 
 laugh, which came evidently from the heart. 
 That Mrs. St. Aidan was not in earnest she 
 knew well enough. The Eector's wife was 
 simply quoting words that had fallen from 
 Magdalen's lips not long before.
 
 THE FIRST MEETINa. 161 
 
 '' A want of interest in other people's busi- 
 ness, in fact," she added. 
 
 " Well, yes. I must say I like to have 
 some idea about the state of my neighbours* 
 hearts and lives. If one comes into contact 
 with them, such knowledge gives a certain 
 amount of power." 
 
 " Do you think T despise such knowledge, 
 then ? " said Miss Lingard, speaking in a 
 deeper, softer key. " My interest in their 
 minds and souls is surely as deep as yours, 
 Aunt Emilia. In that lies the chief joy of 
 my life." 
 
 She had caught the habit of saying '' Aunt 
 Emilia" from Mrs. St. Aidan's nieces, but 
 sometimes she dropped the prefixed title 
 altogether. 
 
 " Oh," said Mrs. St. Aidan, with a slight 
 deprecatory wave of her hands outward, " I 
 never pretended to high and mystical motives 
 like yours. I care to study common human 
 life ; I concern myself with the daih^ life of 
 men and women ; you, with their devotional, 
 
 M
 
 162 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 transcendental side. And I don't think my 
 intermeddling hurts anybody." 
 
 " While mine may. That is true," answered 
 Miss Lingard, rather sadly. " But take com- 
 fort to yourself," she went on to say, with an 
 arch smile ; " your work must be good, for it 
 concerns the welfare of people's bodies, if not 
 of their souls. " 
 
 " I am a gossiping old woman," said Mrs. 
 St. Aidan, "with a finger in everybody's pie." 
 
 " A beneficent finger," said Magdalen. " I 
 don't know what half Scarsfield would do 
 without you. What did you say to Mr. Bren- 
 don yesterday ? " 
 
 " Asked him whether he would keep 
 James Lloyd's place open for him until he 
 recovered." 
 
 " I wonder whether he will. He is said to 
 be a just man, but hard." 
 
 " I should rather like to know him. He 
 married well — a Grenvil of Stowe-Grenvil — 
 but they don't go much into society. Ah, 
 here comes a visitor. Don't go, Madge."
 
 THE FIRST MEETING. 163 
 
 The visitor proved to be Max Brendon. It 
 suited his convenience to come at this hour ; 
 when, he had also reflected, he was almost 
 certain to find Mr. or Mrs. St. Aidan at home. 
 He came in coolly enough, though, as a 
 matter of fact, he was really feeling rather 
 shy. His mother's remarks on his awkward- 
 ness always recurred to him when he met 
 strangers, and he was apt to disguise a little 
 nervousness under a manner of perfect 
 indifference amounting to hrusquerie. The 
 gleaming, flower- scented room, so different 
 from any of the rooms at his own home ; 
 Mrs. St. Aidan' s bright, resolute eyes and 
 high-bred manner ; the presence of that tall, 
 graceful figure which he knew was that of Miss 
 Lingard, of whom he had heard so much (her 
 back was to the light, and he could not see 
 her face) — all these things contributed to a 
 certain confusion of mind, which made his 
 message difficult to deliver. But he soon 
 recovered himself, and answered the queries 
 that Mrs. St. Aidan addressed to him with
 
 164 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 precision and conciseness. The Eector's wife 
 liad a pocket-book, in which she entered the 
 particulars he gave her with a business-like 
 air which amused Max almost as much as his 
 glib answers were secretly diverting her. 
 
 '' I am much obliged to 'you," she said at 
 last, as she closed her pocket-book. " There 
 is one other question I should like to put to 
 you, although it may seem somewhat wide of 
 the mark." 
 
 " I shall be pleased if I can answer it, Mrs. 
 St. Aidan." 
 
 " Don't think me rude," said Mrs. St. 
 Aidan, gently enough, yet with a keen look 
 at her auditor, as though she wanted to 
 gauge his capacities ; "I am anxious to 
 assure myself of a point on which you are 
 doubtless well informed. Does the kind 
 thoug-htfulness which Mr. Brendon exhibits 
 towards this poor young man exist generally 
 among masters and principals of great houses 
 such as your own ? Is it a common thing for 
 them to look after their disabled servants ?
 
 THE FIRST MEETING. 165 
 
 or are you and your father unusually con- 
 siderate ? " 
 
 The subtle flattery of this speech, which 
 proceeded in perfect sincerity from Mrs. St. 
 Aidan, had the effect of putting Max out of 
 temper. There were difficulties in the way of 
 a reply. His father was seldom so careful for 
 the welfare of the persons he employed as he 
 had been in this case ; and Max surmised 
 that Mrs. St. Aidan's own interest in young- 
 Lloyd had stimulated Mr. Brendon to his 
 present though tfulness. Moreover, several 
 of the merchants, shipbuilders, and manu- 
 facturers near Scarsfield were known to have 
 behaved very hardly to such of their 
 servants as had become disabled through 
 age or accident ; and Max was not fond of 
 publishing his neighbours' ^vrong-doings. So 
 he answered crustily, while his mouth assumed 
 the hard expression that it could sometimes 
 wear : 
 
 " I don't know where the consideration and 
 kindness lie. We simply repair useful ma-
 
 166 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 cliinery when it gets out of gear. It pays in 
 the long run." 
 
 " Oh, I see. You do it for your own 
 interest ? " 
 
 " Certainly. Don't suspect us of weak 
 benevolence." 
 
 " What do you do when your servants grow 
 old ? If you pensioned them off, it w^ould not 
 be a matter of repairing machinery, I sup- 
 pose ? " Mrs. St. Aidan spoke lightly, but 
 she felt curious as to his reply. 
 
 '' Unproductive expenditure. Sheer waste," 
 said Max, grimly. 
 
 " Then — don't think me inquisitive ; but if 
 you were in your father's place you would 
 not have acted in the same way to young- 
 Lloyd ? " 
 
 "No," said Max, tranquilly, but with the 
 glimmer of a smile. " I should have acted 
 quite differently; yes, differently indeed." 
 
 He was thinking to himself of the days that 
 Lloyd's mother had passed in doubt and sus- 
 pense, of the absence of comforts from her
 
 THE FIRST MEETING. 167 
 
 liome, and the refusal that he had met with 
 when he had suggested to his mother, a few 
 days ago, that soup and jelly should be sent 
 down from her kitchen to the disabled lad. 
 But as he sat with his arms folded, and that 
 curiously stern expression stamped upon his 
 foce, Mrs. St. Aidan thought that she had 
 never seen such an example of thorough and 
 uncompromising self-seeking in one so young. 
 But she would not give up interest in him yet. 
 
 " Won't you take a cup of tea, Mr. Brendon ? 
 It is rather cold, I am afraid ; but we will 
 have some more made. Magdalen, will you 
 ring the bell ? " 
 
 "Not any for me, thank you," said Max. 
 Magdalen? A strange name. He glanced 
 at Miss Lingard with some interest as she 
 accidentally turned her profile towards the 
 lioiit. A distinojuished-lookino' w^oman, cer- 
 tainly ; stately, calm, grave — probably not an 
 easy person to live with, thought the irreverent 
 young man, and thirty years old at the very 
 least.
 
 168 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 He rose to go, but Mrs. St. Aidan still 
 detained him. 
 
 " I am afraid we have greatly trespassed on 
 your time. With the views that you hold " — 
 there was a delicate inflection of good-humoured 
 sarcasm in her voice — " you must have found 
 it very troublesome to ascertain all the facts 
 that you have kindly given me to-night. 
 An unproductive expenditure of time, was 
 it not ? '' 
 
 Magdalen turned her head and smiled. " I 
 should suppose," she said, " that Mr. Brendon 
 got his facts second-hand. Aunt Emilia. He 
 would probably depute one of his employes to 
 ascertain them for him ; in saying which I do 
 not mean to depreciate his kindness in coming 
 to repeat them to us to-night." 
 
 '* I came at my father's wish," said Max, 
 bluntly. 
 
 Mrs. St. Aidan laughed. There was an 
 evident antagonism, in which she delighted, 
 between Magdalen and the visitor. 
 
 " Oh, clear your character, Mr. Brendon,"
 
 THE FIRST MEETING. 169 
 
 she cried, gaily. ''Don't let Miss Lingard 
 have things all her own way. Confess that 
 you deputed nobody — that when your father 
 told you of my inquiries, you went to Lloyd's 
 house yourself." 
 
 To tell the truth, Max began to look very 
 black. ''No," he said, almost gruflSiy; "you 
 are quite wrong. I did not go — after you had 
 written to my father." 
 
 Nobody attached any importance to the 
 concluding clause. Mrs. St. Aidan felt baffled, 
 but would not show her disappointment. '' At 
 any rate," she said, "I am much obliged to you 
 for calling, ]\Ir. Brendon, and for the dexterity 
 with which your messenger, or deputy, elicited 
 all the facts that I wanted to know. Was he 
 one of your men ? " 
 
 "One of my father's men," said Max, 
 recovering his wonted serenity. 
 
 "I wish you would let me see him too. 
 I should like to see some one who knew James 
 Lloyd personally." 
 
 " I '11 ask about him," said Max, with
 
 170 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 gravity. " But I must forewarn you that he 
 may be unable to come. My father " 
 
 '■'But you have influence with your father T' 
 
 "Not an atom, Mrs. St. Aidan," he 
 answered, with a smile so irrepressible that 
 it seemed to overflow the whole of his dark 
 face and transform it utterly. *' But I '11 
 inquire." 
 
 And with these words he took his leave. 
 
 When he was gone, there was a silence. 
 Magdalen rose and came forward to the fire, 
 where she stood for a moment or two looking 
 down into the glowing embers. Then she 
 said, abruptly, — 
 
 "I don't like him." 
 
 " My dear Madge ! " 
 
 " 1 don't like him," she repeated. "He is 
 hard and cold and bent on getting money. 
 These are the men that are the curse of the 
 land." 
 
 " Don't be so tragic, my dear child. I don't 
 think he meant all that he said. And after 
 all, he said very little."
 
 THE FIRST MEETING. 171 
 
 *' He said very little," said Magdalen, almost 
 passionately, " but he meant every word. Do 
 you not see ? — lie is out of sympathy with any 
 kind of good work for the poor ; he thinks 
 only of grinding down his men and getting 
 gain for himself ! It is too plain ! " 
 
 The colour had come into her face : she 
 turned and walked across the room and back 
 again, then breathed a deep sigh. 
 
 " I may be mistaken," she said, " I trust 
 I am ; but it is these hard, cold, unsym- 
 pathetic natures that do so much harm in the 
 w^orld, and there is enough sorrow and grief in 
 it already. No," she added, shaking her head 
 resolutely, " I am afraid that I do not like 
 Mr. Max Brendon, and I am almost sure that 
 I never shall." 
 
 Meanwhile the subject of this discussion 
 had walked rapidly away from the Kectory, 
 and was turinng into a shabby-looking little 
 street at right-angles to the High Street of 
 Scarsfield. The houses were so much alike 
 that he had some difficulty in distinguishing
 
 172 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 the one which he wished to find : it w^as 
 Number 44, Dobell Terrace, and, like all the 
 other houses, it had a tiny scrap of garden in 
 front, a narrow green door, and a shallow bow 
 window. It was a place much frequented by 
 clerks and ladies of very limited income, and 
 was as ugly and monotonous-looking a street 
 as could well be found, even in gloomy 
 Scarsfield. 
 
 Max was surprised to see a lady standing at 
 the little iron gate of the house that he was 
 about to visit. She was evidently just coming 
 out, and as she saw Max she started violently, 
 and then laughed, as if to cover some confusion. 
 As for him, he lifted his hat and his eyebrows 
 at the same time. 
 
 "You here, JMiss Eoslyn ?" 
 
 " Well, why not ? " she said. 
 
 She w^as a wonderfully handsome creature, 
 he thought, as she stood at the gate, giving 
 him one of the defiant looks which were sup- 
 posed to constitute part of her charm. She 
 was tall, vigorous -looking, even muscular, with
 
 THE FIRST MEETING. 173 
 
 a wild, natural grace which came from the 
 perfect development of every limb : her dark 
 complexion was relieved by a glow of crimson 
 on cheek and lip ; her eyes and hair were 
 raven-black ; her features a trifle coarse and 
 heavy. She was wearing a dark ulster and 
 plain black hat : unusually quiet attire for 
 Miss Euby Eoslyn, but it became her exceed- 
 ingly well, showing off the fine contour of her 
 figure and the vivid glow of her complexion. 
 
 " Why shouldn't I be here ? " she said, in 
 a tone rather louder than Max thought 
 becoming;. 
 
 " Oh, for no reason," he answered, politely. 
 '' Do you know how James Lloyd is to- 
 night?" 
 
 "No, I don't," she said, in a pettish tone. 
 " Do you think I came to see him f I had — 1 
 had — a — a message — for his mother." 
 
 " I don't see why you should not have come 
 to see him too," said Max, half smiling at her 
 defensive attitude. "He would have been 
 glad of a visitor."
 
 174 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 "Oh," she returned, her face softening a 
 little, *' because he 's ill, you mean ? Oh, well 
 — yes. I did see him. Are you going in ? " 
 
 *'Yes." 
 
 *^Then good-bye. I'm to meet Teddy 
 Bulmer up here at half-past six. And I 
 say " 
 
 "What is it?" asked Max, struck by the 
 unwonted hesitation. 
 
 *' I say," she repeated, lowering her voice, 
 *' don't tell anybody that I 've been here, will 
 you ? It was just a freak of mine. I hadn't 
 any message really ; I just ran out." 
 
 " All right ; I won't mention it, if you wish." 
 
 " Not to any one," said the girl eagerly. 
 *'If you told anybody I should be sure to 
 hear; so mind you don't say a word." She 
 bit her red lip savagely with lier white teeth, 
 and looked at Max with angry, gleaming eyes. 
 " I never thought of finding yoii here," she 
 exclaimed, half resentfully. '' But there ! I 
 know you '11 keep your promise. You won't 
 tell any one ? "
 
 THE FIEST MEETING. 175 
 
 "Not any one." 
 
 " Not your nearest relation, or your dearest 
 friend. For instance, donH tell CeciV 
 
 The change in her voice betrayed more than 
 she knew. It suddenly dawned on Max that 
 he might tell anybody in the world if only the 
 matter were kept from Cecil's ears. It was 
 Cecil whom Ruby was anxious about — his 
 brother Cecil. 
 
 " I promise," he said, more gravely than 
 before. She nodded, as if well satisfied, and 
 then strode away at a swinging pace, without 
 any word of farewell. Max paused, his hand 
 upon the gate, and looked after her with an 
 inscrutable expression. " Cecil ! " he repeated, 
 in a tone almost of dismay. " Don't tell 
 Cecil ! What has Cecil to do with her ! or 
 what has she to do with Cecil ? "
 
 CHAPTEK X. 
 
 A lover's threat. 
 
 The door was opened for him by Mrs. Lloyd, 
 a thin, careworn woman in a black gown and 
 a widow's cap. She had been crying, and 
 carried in her hand the handkerchief with 
 which she was wiping her tears away. 
 
 " I hope nothing is wrong ! " said Max, 
 not trying to hide the fact that he saw her 
 tears. 
 
 "Please come in, Mr. Max," said Mrs. 
 Lloyd, half sobbing, ,as he followed her into 
 the little parlour, where the gas had just been 
 lighted and the blinds drawn down. " I 
 should just like a word with you before you go 
 upstairs. If you would but speak to Jim 1 " 
 
 " What has Jim been doing ? " 
 
 "It's that girl," said Mrs. Lloyd, with more 
 176
 
 A lover's threat. 177 
 
 virulence than she was in the habit of display- 
 ing, ''that girl, Euby Roslyn. She'll be the 
 death of him some day yet." 
 
 Max stood silent and impassive : secretly 
 astonished. The Lloyds were respectable 
 people, and James Lloyd was a remarkably 
 intelligent young man ; but the Eoslyns were 
 wealthy folk, and had lately been trying 
 steadily to get into a better class of society 
 than that from which they had risen. How 
 did it come then that Mrs. Lloyd spoke of 
 Ruby so familiarly ? Max had not been aware 
 that she even knew the girl by sight. Her 
 next words did not explain the mystery. " If 
 you 're going up to see Jim, Mr. Max, I do wish 
 you would tell him what a worldly-minded, 
 designing, bold-faced thing she is ! You know 
 it as well as I do ; and he — he doesn't. She '11 
 break his heart, and he '11 break mine, and 
 that will be the end of it, and what's to 
 l)ecome of those blessed children the Lord 
 only knows ! " And then she wept anew. 
 
 " I '11 go up to Jim and see if I can do auy- 
 
 N
 
 178 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 thing for him," said Max. '' Don't come : sit 
 here quietly and rest. I '11 talk to him for his 
 good, don't fear." And then he closed the 
 door quietly upon her and went upstairs. 
 
 The bedroom into which he made his way 
 was like the rest of the house, poor, but 
 scrupulously clean. James Lloyd was supported 
 in his bed by a framework of curious con- 
 struction : it was evident that he had been 
 seriously hurt and was in much pain, but Max 
 noted ^dth some surprise that his eye was 
 bright and his cheek flushed as if from excite- 
 ment. He had naturally a pale face, wdth 
 rather long and delicate features ; his silky 
 brown hair and blue eyes were like his 
 mother's, but there was an intelligence in his 
 broad brow, a refinement of expression, which 
 she did not possess. He smiled on Max's 
 entrance as if he were glad to see him ; and 
 Max's dark brow and rugged features cleared 
 and brightened until he scarcely looked like 
 the man who had replied so curtly to Mrs. St. 
 Aidan's questions in the Rectory drawing-room.
 
 A LOVERS THREAT. 179 
 
 On the coverlet, before tlie young man, were 
 spread out a number of incongruous trifles, 
 which he touched from time to time vdth his 
 long, delicate fingers, as if he liked to feel 
 them near. There was a broken fan, a pencil- 
 case, a bon-bon box, a scent-bottle, a trumpery 
 little ring, a pile of letters tied round with 
 a pink ribbon — valueless each and all, but 
 seemingly of great importance in Jim Lloyd's 
 eyes. 
 
 " That 's a curious collection," said Max, 
 looking down at it. 
 
 Jim gave a faint little laugh. " Not worth 
 much, are they ? " he said. He was evidently 
 on very friendly terms with his employer's 
 son. "They were presents. They've just 
 been given back to me." 
 
 " Oh ? " Max did not know what else to 
 say. 
 
 "Yes," said Jim, his face flushing sensi- 
 tively, like a girl's ; " she brought them back 
 herself to-nig;ht. You know who I mean ? " 
 
 " I suppose T do."
 
 180 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 " My father and her father began life in 
 the same office," said the young man, slowly. 
 " Her father succeeded, and mine failed : that 
 was the diflference between us. We once lived 
 in the same street and played together. We 
 were sweethearts ever since we could speak, 
 almost. Ruby and I. But she 's changed 
 lately. She came to-night and told me not 
 to write to her again — and brought me back 
 my poor little presents. She is fond of some- 
 body else." 
 
 Max frowned. " Did she promise to marry 
 you "? " he said. 
 
 " We never talked about marriage. She 
 wasn't ever exactly engaged to me. She 's 
 been quite fair and above-board," said James 
 Lloyd, with a brave and steady look, " and 
 I don't like to hear her run down, as mother 
 is apt to do. If she can't care for me, why 
 the sooner she tells me so the better." And 
 he laid his head back on the pillow with a 
 sigh. 
 
 " She needn't have taken the time when
 
 A lover's THEEAT. 181 
 
 you were ill for telling you so," said Max, 
 bluntly. 
 
 " It was my fault, Mr. Max. I got mother 
 to write to her, saying that I had had this 
 accident, and asking her to come here. She 
 came, but she told me that she mustn't come 
 again. It seems that he — he whom she 's fond 
 of — doesn't like her to know me." 
 
 " Who is he 1 " Max asked, with his eyes 
 on the young fellow's face. Lloyd looked up 
 astonished at the sharp tone. 
 
 " She didn't tell me. I don't know." 
 
 But Max, with the girl's words ringing in 
 his ears, "Don't tell Cecil," thought that 
 he knew too well. 
 
 " Is she engaged to him ? " 
 
 Jim's eyehds fell. " I 'm afraid not, from 
 what she said. She seemed to tbink that he 
 loved her ; but she said that nobody knew 
 about it yet." 
 
 "Hm! That looks bad." 
 
 Jim was silent for a time. Then a new fire 
 came into his eyes, a new depth to his voice.
 
 182 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 " If I thought/' he said, " if I thought that 
 any man was playing fast and loose with my 
 Ruby, that any man was going to break her 
 heart, I tell you, Mr. Max, I 'd shoot that man 
 down as if he were a dog." 
 
 ''No, you wouldn't, Jim," said Max, more 
 gently than he was wont to speak. He laid 
 his rough brown hand for a moment on the 
 young fellow's hot, trembling fingers, and 
 pressed them close. '' Leave Miss Roslyn to 
 manage her own afiairs. She would love you 
 none the better if you took it upon yourself to 
 assault another man for her sake. Besides, it 's 
 all nonsense. She is not a girl to break her 
 heart over any man, my dear boy. Put these 
 things away, and don't brood over them any 
 longer. What 's the use ? Don't you know the 
 old song — 
 
 ' Shall I, wanting in despair^ 
 Die becaicse a woman ^sfair? 
 If site he not fair to me 
 What care I how fair she he V 
 
 Come, old fellow, sing that and forget your 
 troubles."
 
 A LOVERS THREAT. 183 
 
 The kindly tone brought a smile to Jim's 
 lips, but he shook his head. " It 's easy to see 
 that you don't know much about the subject, 
 Mr. Max," he said, half shrewdly, half sadly. 
 
 " No, I don't, and don't want to," said Max, 
 as he bade him good-night. 
 
 '* What fools love makes of men ! " he 
 thought to himself, on his way home. " That 
 fellow was as bright and cheery as he could 
 well be a few months ago, and now he 's down 
 in the dumps. And Cecil too — I hope that 
 Cecil 's acting on the square with Lenore and 
 this Eoslyn girl. ' Don't tell Cecil ! ' What 
 upon earth has Cecil got to do with it, I 
 wonder ? " 
 
 He had business in the town which occupied 
 him until nearly ten o'clock. When at last 
 he turned homewards the rain had ceased, and 
 the moon was shining in a tranquil sky. As 
 he approached his father s house, he remarked 
 with some surprise that a figure was moving 
 in the garden, under the shade of the wet 
 evergreens, and he was still more surprised
 
 184 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 as he drew near to find that it belonged to 
 Ursula, 
 
 '' "What are you doing here ? " he. asked, in 
 an elder-brotherly tone of authority. 
 
 But Ursula was not easily daunted. 
 
 " Watching for you," she said. " It has 
 been a horrid evening. Mamma has gone to 
 bed wdth a headache ; Miss Quittenden thinks 
 that I ni in bed too. Papa and Cecil had one 
 of their — shall we call them arguments f " 
 
 Max shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " What can / do ? " 
 
 " I don't know. It 's partly about you. 
 Papa says you do all the work, and Cecil does 
 none." 
 
 *' The old story ! How did that topic 
 arise f 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. There was a lot of 
 letters to write and send ofi", and Cecil said he 
 hadn't done them. Then jDapa was angry." 
 
 " What a fool Cecil is ! " said the younger 
 brother, in no amiable tone. " What is he 
 thinking of? I had better go in, I suppose."
 
 A LOVERS THREAT. 185 
 
 He threw away his cigar, and opened the 
 front door just as Cecil, with a very hang-dog 
 expression on his handsome face, emerged from 
 the dining-room. 
 
 " Ursula says there 's some row about the 
 letters," Max began, with his usual delibera- 
 tion. " Didn't you know they were done ? " 
 Cecil stared at him and said nothing. " They 
 are all in my room upstairs, ready to go by 
 the early post to-morrow. If you 're doubtful 
 about it you might go and get them." 
 
 For once Cecil obeyed, and Max walked 
 into the dining-room, where Ursula heard him 
 making sober explanations to his father con- 
 cerning the ^vork that Mr. Brendon had 
 thought to be left undone. Ursula drew 
 near to listen : she w^as curious about the 
 result. 
 
 "It's a mistake," Max was saying. "He 
 thought there were more to do, I suppose. 
 I assure you they are all written. I looked 
 them over myself before I went out." 
 
 Mr. Brendon seemed confounded.
 
 186 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 " Why couldn't the fellow say so, then ? " 
 he ejaculated. 
 
 Max smiled. 
 
 " Cecil never defends himself I wish he 
 did sometimes." 
 
 It was at that moment that Cecil re-entered 
 the room with a bundle of sealed envelopes 
 in his hand. He laid them on the table before 
 his father, saying, " I did not know that they 
 were so nearly finished." 
 
 Ursula did not see the glance of intelligence 
 exchanged between the brothers, but she heard 
 Mr. Brendon's sharp response, 
 
 "Then you ought to have known, sir. You 
 should do your work thoroughly. However, 
 as they are done " 
 
 And he turned over the envelopes with an 
 unsatisfied sort of grunt, and cast a keen 
 glance at Max, as if he were somewhat suspi- 
 cious of that young man's unmoved demeanour. 
 Whether he thought or did not think that the 
 explanations given him were meant to be 
 misleading, he seemed to find it inexpedient
 
 A LOVERS THREAT. 187 
 
 to investigate further, and liis sons waited 
 patiently for his next remark, knowing well 
 enough that he was settling himself into good 
 temper again. 
 
 " Well," he said at last, " did you verify 
 these, Max ? AVere they correct ? " 
 
 " They are quite correct." 
 
 " Let them go by to-morrow's post. Hence- 
 forward be more regular in attending to your 
 duties, Cecil. Perhaps you have been more 
 so than I gave you credit for — I don't know. 
 Well, good-night.'' 
 
 He held out his hand to Cecil, patted Max's 
 shoulder in passing, and betook himself to his 
 own room. Ursula advanced from the hall 
 into the dining-room, expecting to hear more 
 about the matter in hand ; but, instead of 
 that. Max walked to the table where the 
 remains of some one's late meal — probably 
 supper — were still lying, and asked coolly, 
 " Is this cheese good ? " 
 
 " Decent," answered Cecil, lifting his eyes 
 for a moment. Whereupon Max began to
 
 188 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 eat some with great relish, and Cecil moved 
 away from the table, saying merely, " Ring 
 the bell for Perkins when you 've finished." 
 
 " All right." 
 
 Cecil walked towards the door, his head 
 slightly bent, and his eyes abstractedly fixed 
 on the carpet ; but at the door he looked up 
 and noted the scene before him — Ursula lean- 
 ing with her elbows on the back of a chair — 
 Max standing at the head of the table com- 
 posedly eating bread and cheese. Something 
 comical in the situation seemed to strike his 
 volatile fancy ; he turned round, burst out 
 laughing, and laughed till he was tired. 
 
 " AVhat amuses you '? " asked Max, a piece 
 of bread half-way between his plate and 
 mouth. 
 
 " How much supper are you going to eat in 
 that uncomfortable position ? " retorted Cecil, 
 recovering himself 
 
 " Indeed," said Max, " I had no dinner." 
 And he helped himself to more cheese. 
 
 Cecil was silent, but stood with his back
 
 A LOVERS THEEAT. 189 
 
 against the door, as though he were waiting 
 for something else. It came presently. 
 
 " Look here," said the younger brother, 
 speaking with great deliberation as he con- 
 tinued his evening meal, " I wish another 
 time you 'd do your o^\ti — pious frauds — 
 yourself." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 '•' You know well enough." 
 
 Cecil shot an uneasy glance at Ursula, which 
 Max interpreted. " Ursula's safe enough," 
 he said, with a touch of contemptuous rebuke, 
 which brought the colour to Cecil's face. 
 " She won't tell your secrets." 
 
 " I '11 go away if you like," said the girl, 
 promptly. 
 
 *' There's no need for you to go ; stay here, 
 I want you. I should like to know, as a 
 matter of curiosity merely, why you hadn't 
 already said out like a man that you did not 
 write those letters, but had asked me to do 
 them for you ? " 
 
 '' Why didn't you say so yourself? "
 
 190 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 *' Because I didn't choose. If lie had asked 
 me, I suppose I should. What on earth made 
 you say they were not done ? You spoke to 
 me about them yesterday ! '' 
 
 *' You said you coukln't do my work as well 
 as your own," said Cecil, with a sort of sulky 
 meekness. 
 
 /'Hang it! I said I oughtn't to," Max 
 answered with an odd twist of his mouth, 
 which might have been a smile had not his 
 brows gloomed so persistently. " Didn't you 
 leave that piece of work with the understand- 
 ing that I would see it done ? " 
 
 " I suppose so." 
 
 " Well, please to remember then that I 
 don't generally leave the governor's business 
 in the lurch to be done or undone as the 
 chance may be. You might have had the 
 sense to know that I shouldn't shirk what 
 I had undertaken to do. You should have 
 trusted to me. There would not have been all 
 this shindy, I presume, if you had had the wit 
 to be sure that those letters were done."
 
 A lover's threat. 191 
 
 "You're rather hard on a fellow," said Cecil, 
 in an injured tone. " How could I be certain 
 that you had done them ? " 
 
 " Because I generally keep my word," said 
 Max, drily. '' If you leave your work to 
 chance, you know I won't do it for you. But 
 when you kindly inform me that you have left 
 it to me, and I don't object, of course I take 
 it as a bit of my own work. I should have 
 objected if the case had been less urgent, by 
 the bye. And I hope yoa '11 finish off your 
 o^TL work for the future ; I 've quite enough to 
 do without arranging yours. I may mention 
 that your accounts are in such a confounded 
 mess that it took "me two hours to get them 
 straight before I could begin the letters." 
 
 " When did you do all that work ? " asked 
 Cecil. 
 
 " In my leisure hours." 
 
 '* Wliich he hasn't any," said Ursula. 
 
 " When are your leisure hours ? " 
 
 " Their limits are, at present, not fixed." 
 
 " I know ! " interposed Ursula, once more,
 
 192 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 " He never went to bed last night. Jane told 
 me that his candles were burnt out, and that 
 his bed had not been slept in. He can't deny 
 it, you see, Cecil." 
 
 Max held his peace ; Cecil stood upright, 
 with a conscience-stricken question in his 
 eyes. He spoke more earnestly than was his 
 wont as he said, 
 
 " I 'm awfully sorry. I did not know that 
 you had so much work on hand." 
 
 '' I haven't. I like working late, that 's 
 all. 
 
 I ought to have done it myself, I know." 
 Of course you ought." 
 If there is anything I can do for you," 
 said Cecil, in a subdued voice, " I will " 
 
 " I don't know that there 's anything you 
 can do for me," said Max, coolly, "except 
 answer a plain question. Ursula, suppose you 
 either stop your ears for a moment, or run 
 into the next room. Thanks," as the girl ran 
 away, laughing. " Will you tell me some- 
 thing I want to know ? "
 
 A LOVERS THEEAT. 193 
 
 - Well— yes, if I can." 
 
 "Are you going to marry Miss Euby 
 Eoslyn ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Does she think that you are in love with 
 her?" 
 
 "How can I tell what she thinks?" said 
 Cecil, with a very uncomfortable look. 
 
 " I warn you," said Max, slowly, " that you 
 will have trouble by and bye if you entangle 
 yourself with that girl — trouble that you will 
 have to get out of by yourself. I have helped 
 you out of many a scrape, but that will be one 
 in which I shall not be of much use to you." 
 
 " What have you heard ? what do you 
 know ? " cried Cecil, with an angry glance. 
 
 "Never mind. Eemember that I've warned 
 you, that is all. If you are carrying on a 
 double game, it will be the worse for you in 
 the long run." 
 
 He expected an outbreak of anger, but, to 
 his surprise, Cecil turned and left the room 
 without a word.
 
 194 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN, 
 
 Someliow the little scene gave Max an 
 uneasy feeling. Cecil's untrustworthiness, his 
 instability of mind, impressed themselves upon 
 him more forcibly than ever : he was " hard 
 to bind, ill to find," as the proverb has it, and 
 Max augured ill for the happiness of any 
 woman who had anchored her heart upon so 
 uncertain a foundation. He hoped, sincerely 
 that it was not Lenore. Ruby Eoslyn, he 
 thought, might take care of herself: but 
 Lenore was too gentle, too delicate, to bear 
 ill-treatment. And yet — if it were Euby 
 whom Cecil meant to throw overboard — what 
 would be the influence of his action upon 
 poor James Lloyd ? For the lad's threat had 
 had a meaning in it, and Max presaged harm 
 to his brother in whatever way the thing 
 might end.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE HAND OF FATE. 
 
 Max's visit to the Rectory was shortly 
 followed up by an invitation to dinner from 
 ]\Irs. St. Aidan. He was half-disposed to 
 decline it, for he had divined, with his accus- 
 tomed shrewdness, that Mrs. St. Aidan wanted 
 to " draw him out," and Max made up his 
 mind that he would not be drawn out at all. 
 With this resolution he accepted and went, 
 but, being in this uncommunicative mood, he 
 talked very Httle, and made short, dry answers 
 to Mr. St. Aidan's remarks. The Rector, who 
 was fastidious, lifted his eyebrows over 
 " Emilia's swan," as he dubbed young Brendon 
 in his mind. " Emilia's swans," he used to 
 
 sav, " were apt to turn out very ugly duck- 
 
 195
 
 196 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 lings indeed." And there was nothing par- 
 ticularly swan-like about Max. 
 
 Eather to Max's annoyance, Miss Lingard 
 was present. It seemed that she came often 
 to the Eectory — always w^hen Mrs. St. Aidan 
 wanted help or amusement. Max did not 
 understand her manner, which was reserved, 
 though perfectly courteous, and he was a man 
 who did not like what he could not under- 
 stand. At the same time he could not but 
 acknowledge that she was pleasant to look 
 upon. She was dressed in some rich-looking 
 material of a dull red colour, with wide, yellow- 
 ish lace of exquisite workmanship falling away 
 from her throat and over her beautiful wrists. 
 If he had not heard anything at home about 
 her "peculiar views," her '' flightiness and 
 foolishness," he would have thought her a 
 rathar attractive person. But he was pre- 
 judiced against her, and he was fair enough to 
 allow that he was prejudiced. 
 
 It did not suit well with his preconceived 
 notions that two lovely children, who appeared
 
 THE HAXD OF FATE. 197 
 
 for a few minutes before dinner, and were 
 then sent back to the Priory under the care of 
 a servant, should show themselves absolutely 
 devoted to her. Max heard a little colloquy 
 outside the drawing-room window which gave 
 him a new idea of Miss Lingard's qualities. 
 
 " Won't you come home, Maidie, dear, 
 before we go to sleep ? " 
 
 " No, darlings. Say good-night to me 
 now." What a tender, musical voice she had, 
 after all ! " Don't keep awake for me, my 
 Daisy." 
 
 "No, Maidie. You've got no flowers in 
 your pretty dress. Take ours — then you will 
 remember your two daisies all the evening." 
 
 " As if I needed reminding of you ! Fasten 
 them into the lace. Thank you, my darlings. 
 Good-night. Be good while I am away." 
 
 She had two marguerites in her dress when 
 she re-entered the room. Max glanced at 
 them with curious interest : he wondered for 
 a moment what it would have been like to 
 hear such loving accents, such tender words.
 
 198 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 when lie was a child himself. He had known 
 very little love : it was a plant that had not 
 flourished in the Brendon household. 
 
 When the ladies left the table, and the 
 Rector and his guest began to talk, Max soon 
 discovered the reason wdiy he had been asked 
 to dinner — or thought that he discovered it. 
 Mr. St. Aidan had set his heart on establishing 
 a night-school and a series of popular lectures, 
 in order to provide amusement and instruction 
 for a set of navvies who had been working on 
 the railway line near Scarsfield. With these, 
 he thought that a few classes for other boys 
 and men, perhaps of a somewhat superior type, 
 might also be established. He w^anted to 
 know where a large room could be obtained 
 for his purpose, and thought that Max might 
 help him in his search for one. 
 
 " I wonder why he fixed on me for that sort 
 of thing," said Max to himself, with some 
 vexation. But he answered with his usual 
 indifference of manner that he did not know 
 where any such room was to be found.
 
 THE HAXD OF FATE. 199 
 
 " I 'm sorry for tliat," said the Eector. 
 "The fact is, I thought that there might be 
 an empty warehouse or a spare room on your 
 premises that your father might let us have — 
 at not too high a rent, of course. But if you 
 know of none " 
 
 Max deliberated for a minute or two. 
 " There 's a house in Gay Street," he said, 
 slowly, '' w^hich my father might let for the 
 purpose. I looked at it myself the other day. 
 It has two rooms on the ground floor which 
 might be made into one ; and the smaller ones 
 would serve for class-rooms. I '11 speak about 
 it, if you like." 
 
 " Thank you. If the rent is not too high. 
 And if we begin our classes, I hope that we 
 may count upon you to encourage your em- 
 ployes in coming to them." 
 
 Max hesitated again, much to the Eector's 
 perplexity. It was with something cj^uite like 
 a blush that the young man spoke at last. 
 
 " I 'd better make a clean breast of it," he 
 said, with a shamefaced smile. " The fact is
 
 200 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 that some of our lads and tlieir friends have 
 been coming to me once or twice a-week for a 
 little reading, arithmetic, and so on— and, of 
 course, I think that they would be much 
 better taught if they were in your hands ; I 
 shall be only too glad, but— " 
 
 "But they might object," said Mr. St. 
 Aidan, looking at him with a kindly interest 
 which he had not felt in his visitor before. 
 " Couldn't we amalgamate ? I am very glad 
 indeed to hear of this work of yours, Mr. Bren- 
 don. They would come to us if you came too." 
 
 " Well, I suppose so," said Max, still with 
 embarrassment. '' I hardly like to tell you 
 the ground of their objection " 
 
 " Oh, I know. You want to keep the clergy 
 out of it ? " Then, as Max laughed a little by 
 way of answer, the Kector went on quickly : 
 " I know, that 's the usual thing in these big 
 manufacturing towns. But we mean to be 
 quite unsectarian ; it is not to be distinctively 
 religious work at all. Miss Lingard, who 
 started the idea, was strong on that point —
 
 THE HAND OF FATE. 201 
 
 curiously strong, as she is a profoundly reli- 
 gious woman herself. But she understands 
 the needs of the people in a remarkable way. 
 We must talk this over another time, Mr. 
 Brendon. I am much interested in your 
 work, and should like to hear more of it. I 
 wonder that it never came to my ears 
 before." 
 
 " There was nothing to talk about," said 
 Max, almost too bluntly. '' The lads worked 
 and I looked on ; that was all. Nothing to 
 make a fuss about." 
 
 He almost regretted having mentioned the 
 matter, and was grateful to the Eector for 
 saying nothing about it in the drawing-room. 
 But here Mrs. St. Aidan attacked him on a 
 different topic. 
 
 " I have been to the Lloyds, Mr. Brendon," 
 she said, smiling at him, and speaking in the 
 peculiarly sweet, gracious way which had won 
 Max's liking from the very first. 
 
 " I hope that James Lloyd is going on 
 well ? " said Max, unconcernedly.
 
 202 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 Mrs. St. Aidan lifted a white forefinger and 
 shook it at him. '' You can't deceive me this 
 time," she said. " I have heard your praises 
 sung, Mr. Brendon. The Lloyds look upon 
 you as kindness itself. Surely you have not 
 been acting up to the principles you avowed 
 the other day ? " 
 
 "I avowed no principles; I have none," 
 answered Max. 
 
 " We must judge from Mr. Brendon's deeds, 
 not from his w^ords, henceforward," said the 
 Eector, in a very friendly tone, which rather 
 surprised Mrs. St. Aidan, who had been 
 thinking herself alone in her liking for her 
 silent guest. '' Magdalen, will you sing to us 
 to-night ? " 
 
 As Miss Lingard sat down to the piano, 
 Max looked round him, and was conscious of 
 a sensation of rest and peace which he seldom 
 experienced. He liked the room, though it 
 was not half as grand as his mother's drawing- 
 room. The colours were bright and dehcate, 
 yet cool ; the curtains were white and rose-
 
 THE HAND OF FATE. 203 
 
 colour, the chintz was white and pink. The 
 floor was polished and strewn with rugs and 
 skins. Flowers filled every vase in rich 
 profusion. A work-basket stood on an 
 ottoman ; the Guardian lay open on the 
 floor ; a white fox-terrier had established 
 himself in the most comfortable chair. It 
 looked untidy, Max thought, but charming; 
 he did not quite know why. 
 
 The way in which he was treated flattered 
 and soothed him. The Rector and his wife 
 tried to make him feel at home, and they 
 succeeded. Their high-bred, polished, yet 
 kindly manner, the courtesy which was almost 
 deferential, combined with a subtle, jesting 
 vein, in itself a kind of compliment, were new 
 and pleasant to Max Brendon. The atmos- 
 phere was congenial. He had been over- 
 looked, snubbed, and despised in the society 
 where Cecil shone, and had quietly set the fact 
 down to his own inferiority ; but here, in a 
 household which was confessedly "aristocratic" 
 in sentiment, he felt himself in harmony,
 
 204 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 at peace with himself and all the world. It 
 was odd : he never could have expected it ; 
 but it was true. 
 
 Suddenly Magdalen began to sing. She 
 had a beautiful contralto voice, which had been 
 most carefully trained. Max's knowledge of 
 music was of the slightest, but he had an 
 intense love for it. He sat charmed, entranced, 
 startled by the beauty of the sound, the w^hile 
 she sang. When she ceased, he came to 
 himself with a little sigh, and wished that she 
 could sing for ever. What a pity ! what a pity 
 that a woman with such a gift should 
 be so unpopular in Scarsfield — should lead so 
 peculiar a life ! Yet, when he thought over 
 it, he did not exactly know why her life 
 should be called peculiar I She lived alone 
 with children and old women, and visited the 
 poor and needy. *' Nothing so very peculiar 
 in that,'' thought Max, as he looked at the 
 fair singer's graceful back while she still sat 
 at the piano, and noted the perfect lines of 
 neck and chin and oval ivorv cheek. " Plain ?
 
 THE HAND OF FATE. 205 
 
 old maidisli ? peculiar ? It seems to me she 
 is a very beautiful woman." 
 
 He did not stay late, and when he was gone, 
 Mr. St. Aidan launched at once into the story 
 of the young man's unaided efforts for the 
 welfare of the lads whom his father employed. 
 "I told you so!" cried Mrs. St. Aidan, 
 clapping her hands. She lay back upon her 
 invalid couch smiling, with a satisfied light in 
 her pretty eyes. " I knew that there was 
 something good in him. Confess it, Magdalen ; 
 confess that you were mistaken." 
 
 " I was mistaken," said Magdalen, bending 
 down to kiss her as she said good-night ; " but 
 although Mr. Brendon may be very good, you 
 will not ask me to like him exceedingly, will 
 you ? " 
 
 " I shall insist upon it," said Mrs. St. Aidan, 
 laughingly, but Magdalen shook her head. 
 
 No. There was something that she did not 
 like about Mr. Max Brendon : some implied 
 criticism of her doings, some silent disapproval 
 of her methods, which she had divined from
 
 206 ~ SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 the very first. He was a man of the world, 
 worldly, so she thought ; and naturally he did 
 not care for the mode in which she worked, 
 by constant appeal to the higher side in 
 herself and others. There had come to her 
 lately a faint haunting consciousness that she 
 was perhaps cutting herself off too much from 
 the general life of the world ; that there was 
 a slight tendency to morbidness and unreality 
 in the seclusion which she loved. She tried 
 to banish this notion : she called it a tempta- 
 tion to evil ; and yet, after all, she was only 
 five-and-twenty, she was full of strength and 
 health, she had beauty, and she had riches, 
 and life was opening before her still. She 
 w^as not a nun ; she had never forsworn the 
 love and beauty of the world. It was not 
 that she was tired of the work which she had 
 been doing ; she was still eager for the good 
 of those around her, but she had begun to 
 want a wider sphere. Old women and 
 children were all very well in their way ; but 
 she wanted to work amongst people who were,
 
 THE HAXD OF FATE. 207 
 
 like herself, in the prime of life. And amid 
 these jarring tendencies and emotions Max 
 Brendon's want of sympathy, as she deemed 
 it, made him a repellant influence which she 
 would fain avoid. 
 
 But it seemed as though Fate had decided 
 that she and Max Brendon were often to he 
 thrown in contact. 
 
 It was a cold, wet summer. The month of 
 July was noticeable for violent storms of wind 
 and rain, and in the midst of perhaps the 
 worst storm of the year it happened that Max 
 was returning home from a business journey 
 to Weston, a small town some five miles from 
 Scarsfield. Weston lay in the grassy lowlands 
 beyond the heights on which Upper Scarsfield 
 was situated. The road led upwards for two 
 or three miles, then became level, and after- 
 wards descended towards Scarsfield, past the 
 heather-covered waste ground which lay near 
 the Priory, past the Priory itself and the 
 Eectory, and straight into the High Street of 
 the town.
 
 208 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 Max was driving a dog-cart. He went 
 slowly, for the wind was blowing in his face, 
 and the night was already dark, although it 
 was not much more than nine o'clock. Before 
 he had gone far the wind increased to a very 
 hurricane, and the broken branches that 
 clattered down from the swaying trees on 
 either side of the road told of a danger which 
 had not occurred to Max's mind when he set 
 out. 
 
 " I almost wish I had stayed in Weston," he 
 said to himself at one point in his journe}^ ; 
 " these falling branches will startle the mare, 
 if they don't cause any other accident. How- 
 ever, it 's too late to turn back." 
 
 He got clear of the shady lane without any 
 injury, and drove more rapidly along the open 
 high road. He was bes^innino; to descend the 
 hill towards Lower Scarsfield, and the wind 
 had lulled a little, when it seemed to him that 
 he saw a white moving figure on the roadside. 
 The mare saw it too, and shied ; but Max had 
 her well in hand, and compelled the skittish
 
 THE HAXD OF FATE. 209 
 
 creature to stand still while he looked back. 
 On such a night it was not fit for any woman 
 to be abroad, and he had some idea of offering 
 to drive the wayfarer into Scarsfield. Perhaps 
 it was only a labourer in a smock-frock after all. 
 He looked back, stood up, and shouted, and 
 looked again, but to no avail. The figure had 
 vanished ; but, after backing the dog-cart a 
 few yards, and straining his eyes into the 
 darkness of the night. Max thought that he 
 distinguished a strange white heap upon the 
 ground — a heap that half rose and sank again. 
 Certainly he heard a cry for help — a feeble, 
 wailing cry, like that of an ailing child. He 
 jumped out of the cart, and, leading the mare, 
 managed to get close to the mysterious white 
 object, which lay — now without moving — on 
 the pathway at the side of the road. He put 
 out his hand and felt it : the darkness was so 
 great that his eyesight assisted him little, but 
 the clothinoj that he fingered assured him that 
 some miserable woman had sunk down by the 
 wayside. ^
 
 210 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 He had some matches in his pocket : he 
 struck one, shading the flame carefully with 
 one hand. By its light he saw the prostrate 
 form of a neatly-dressed woman, her face 
 deadly pale, her eyes half-closed, her limbs 
 rigid, as though she suflfered pain. A 
 light-grey waterproof in which she was en- 
 veloped gave her figure the distinctness which 
 had attracted Max's attention. He conjectured 
 that she was very ill or had met with a serious 
 accident. It was with a sober face that he 
 rose from his stooping position and, after a 
 moment's hesitation, tied the reins to a gate 
 that stood conveniently near. Then he re- 
 turned to the woman's side, lifted her head, 
 and chafed her hands. He was not the man 
 to leave her lying where he had found her 
 on a night so wild as this, but he began to be 
 sorely puzzled as to what he ought to do. 
 
 The change of posture seemed slightly to 
 revive her, for presently she opened her eyes 
 wide upon him, and said sharply — 
 
 " Where am I now ? Who are you ? "
 
 THE HAND OF FATE. 211 
 
 "I am afraid you are ill. Where do you 
 come from ? " asked Max, answering tlie 
 question with another. 
 
 She hardly seemed to hear, but tried to 
 rise, and then sank back with a moan of pain. 
 "Oh, I am hurt! I am dying I" she cried 
 feebly, and then lapsed into complete insensi- 
 bility. 
 
 Max was in a dilemma. If he left her while 
 he went to get help from Scarsfield, she 
 might, for aught he knew, die before he 
 returned. He could not possibly lift her into 
 his high dog- cart without assistance. Was 
 there no house near from which he could get 
 friendly aid ? Surely there was a house not 
 far away ; he could see its chimneys dimly 
 revealed against the sky — what place was it ? 
 He did not stay to think. Only when he had 
 laid the insensible woman down upon the 
 grass once more, and reached the gate of the 
 house in question, did it occur to him that he 
 knew it — had known it all his life. It was the 
 Priory — Miss Lingard's home.
 
 212 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEX. 
 
 " So much the better," he said to himself as 
 he rang the door-bell sharply and decisively. 
 " It is just the thing she will like to do if she 
 is the woman I take her for." 
 
 He had gone to the back-door, and the man 
 who opened it looked at him suspiciously. Max 
 made known his errand — there was a woman 
 in the road who was ill and needed assistance 
 — would Miss Lingard send out some brandy, 
 some wraps, and one or two of her servants 
 to assist him in getting her into his trap, when 
 he would at once drive her to the hospital. 
 
 He had not long to wait. In an incredibly 
 short space of time Miss Lingard herself 
 appeared, clad in a dark waterproof cloak, 
 with wraps across her arm and a flask in her 
 hand. Three servants, two men and a 
 woman, followed her ; and, although Max did 
 not make the remark to himself at that 
 moment, he remembered afterwards to have 
 noted that each member of the party was as 
 composed and self-possessed as though the 
 matter were one of daily occurrence.
 
 THE HAXD OF FATE. 213 
 
 He exchanged two or three words of expla- 
 nation with Miss Lingard as he led her to 
 the spot where the woman was still lying. 
 He made no apology for troubling her : she 
 liked him the better for not doincr so. When 
 she reached the woman's side, she knelt down 
 beside her, and, by the light of a lantern which 
 one of the servants carried, proceeded to pour 
 some brandy down her throat, and to examine 
 a little into the nature of her illness or injuries. 
 
 " I think that her leg is injured : she must 
 have fallen," said Magdalen at last. " Give 
 me the lantern, Jones." 
 
 She took the lantern, and felt the limb 
 tenderly, but skilfully. A moan came from 
 the woman's lips : she opened her eyes and 
 fixed them on Magdalen's face. 
 
 " I fell down," she murmured. " I can't 
 walk. I came. ... I came ... to see 
 Philip : I heard that he lived this way. Do 
 you think that he '11 remember me ? that he '11 
 remember . . . Alice — Alice Mackworth of 
 Manchester ? "
 
 214 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 " She is wandering, poor soul," said one of 
 the servants, marvelling that his mistress 
 looked so pale. 
 
 Magdalen suddenly arose and stood erect, 
 with clasped hands, as though turned to stone. 
 Max was startled by the change in her 
 demeanour : she looked like one who has 
 received a terrible shock. But the pallor and 
 the hesitation lasted for a moment only. She 
 turned to her servants and gave her orders in 
 her usually calm and collected way. 
 
 "Lift her carefully," she said. ''We will 
 take her to the Priory; it is there that she 
 will stay."
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 MAGDALEX'S GUEST. 
 
 Max felt it his duty to protest. 
 
 "Miss Lingard, you know notliing of the 
 woman : she may be a very unsuitable person 
 to take into your house." 
 
 Magdalen only smiled. 
 
 He remembered the smile afterwards, and 
 was puzzled by it. The red light of the 
 lantern had flashed upon her face, and showed 
 a curious look of mingled compassion, amuse- 
 ment, even a little scorn. It said to him very 
 plainly that Magdalen despised his prudent 
 advice, and would have none of it. But per- 
 haps this interpretation was not quite correct. 
 
 He helped to Kft the insensible woman and 
 
 to carry her to the house. Magdalen went 
 
 before the little procession, walking swiftly, in 
 
 215
 
 216 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 order to make arrangements for the reception 
 of her strange visitor. Much preparation was 
 not necessary. There was always a guest- 
 chamber ready at the Priory, and the guests 
 were sometimes of the neediest. 
 
 The men laid their burden down upon the bed, 
 and softly retired. Max lingered in the passage 
 outside the door until Magdalen appeared. An 
 old nurse had taken charge of the sufferer, and 
 Miss Lingard came out to give further orders. 
 
 " You will want a doctor. I have my dog- 
 cart here. Shall I drive to Dr. Ellison's, and 
 send him up ? " Max asked. 
 
 " If it is not troubling you too much." 
 
 " Not in the least. I will send him or 
 bring him myself as soon as I can. I hope," 
 Max hesitated a little as he spoke, "I hope 
 that you will not repent your kindness." 
 
 " I am sure I shall not. I feel inclined to 
 thank you for coming to me for help," she 
 said, earnestly. " And you will not think me 
 rude — but — you will bring the doctor as 
 (piickly as you can, will you not ? "
 
 MAGDALEN S GUEST. 217 
 
 " I will. Good-night, Miss Lingard." 
 
 He could not help smiling a little at her 
 impatience. She looked eager, anxious, yet 
 younger and lovelier than he had yet seen 
 her, perhaps because of the unwonted flush 
 upon lier cheek, the light of a strange excite- 
 ment in her eyes, the tremble of her parted lips. 
 Max took that picture of her away with him 
 as he went out into the night. He repeated 
 to himself over and over again that she was 
 eccentric, that he did not like eccentric 
 women, that he did not like her. But what 
 a sweet face she had ! He could not get it 
 out of his mind ; it haunted him like a ghost. 
 He wished that he could forget it. 
 
 Dr. Ellison was at home, and gladly ac- 
 cepted Max's offer of a drive to the Priory. 
 The doctor tried to extract information from 
 his companion on the way, but Max had none 
 to give. 
 
 " You don't know who the woman is ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " And Miss Lingard does not know ? "
 
 218 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 " I suppose not." 
 
 " I wonder if she had any reason for taking 
 her into her own house," said the doctor, more 
 to himself than to Max. " She is not the 
 woman to do things from caprice." 
 
 '' You know her well 1 " asked Max, forget- 
 ting his reserve. 
 
 " I know her, and admire her. I reverence 
 her," said the doctor, shortly and decidedly. 
 '' She is beyond praise." 
 
 The words gave Max a subtle pleasure ; he 
 could not have said why. 
 
 He meant to o-o straio;ht home after takino- 
 
 (DO O 
 
 the doctor to the Priory ; but, yielding to an 
 impulse which he himself thought unaccount- 
 able, he offered to wait and drive the doctor 
 home again when he had seen his patient. 
 And as Dr. Ellison agreed to this. Max left 
 the doo^-cart in the charo'e of a man at the 
 lodge (he had found his way now to the front 
 entrance), and entered the house with him. 
 
 He was shown into the room where Miss 
 Lingard usually sat. It was a plain, almost
 
 MAGDALEXS GUEST. 219 
 
 bare-looking room ; there was matting on the 
 floor ; the only articles of furniture were book- 
 cases, rush-bottomed chairs, and a writing- 
 table. Here he stayed for some time — so 
 long, in fact, that he grew^ rather wxary of 
 waiting and began to yawn. But at last foot- 
 steps were heard upon the stairs ; the door 
 was opened, and Magdalen came in, followed 
 by the doctor. Her face still wore the look of 
 suffused brightness, almost of exaltation, 
 which had struck Max as so remarkable. She 
 was flushed, and her eyes were strangely 
 bright ; but her voice and manner were per- 
 fectly calm as she exchanged a few words 
 with the doctor, and then turned to bid Max 
 good-bye. 
 
 Dr. Ellison had walked into the hall, look- 
 ing for his hat ; for one brief moment Miss 
 Lino'ard was alone with Max. She e'ave him 
 her hand and spoke with a sweeter, friendlier 
 look and tone than he had ever yet obtained 
 from her. 
 
 " You do not know what you have done,"
 
 220 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEX. 
 
 she said, " but I thank you for it all the 
 same. I thank you with all my heart." 
 
 He fancied that a slight moisture came to 
 her beautiful eyes as she turned away. He 
 could not reply ; he w^as astonished, he was 
 struck dumb. What had he done to deserve 
 these almost passionate words of thanks ? 
 Would she not tell him, some day, what 
 she meant ? 
 
 Yes, one day she did tell him. But that 
 day was still far off, and she dreamt not of 
 it yet. 
 
 She waited quietly in the hall for a few- 
 minutes when the two men were gone, as if 
 seeking to recover her composure before 
 returning to the sick-room. The lights were 
 out ; the fire in the wide grate was burning 
 low. Not a sound could be heard : it seemed 
 as if the old house were empty and desolate. 
 Desolate indeed it had often seemed to Mag- 
 dalen, but it did not seem desolate now. It 
 was filled with memories and hopes — memories 
 of those whom she had taken in and helped and
 
 MAGDALEN" S GUEST. 221 
 
 comforted, even as slie had taken in the home- 
 less wanderer for whom Max had asked her 
 aid : hopes for many who had gone back to 
 their work in the world, strengthened and 
 cheered by her care for them and theirs. For 
 this was the work of Magdalen's life, which 
 caused her to be called eccentric by those who 
 knew her only by outside report : her house 
 was always open to the needy and the suffer- 
 ing : she had made it in very truth a '* house 
 of rest," a haven for those who were tempest- 
 tossed ; and her heart was as open to the weary 
 and sorrow-stricken as were her house and her 
 hands. 
 
 But this new-comer was not like the others. 
 Of all whom she had helped, there had not 
 been one connected with her by any tie but 
 that of a common humanity. But this woman, 
 this outcast, this wanderer, had uttered 
 names which Mao^dalen could never hear un- 
 moved. " Alice Mackworth ! " — It was the 
 name of Philip Esher's deserted wife, the 
 mother of those children who were dear to
 
 222 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 Magdalen as her own kith and kin. And she 
 came, she said, " to see Philip " — and would 
 he remember her ? What did it all mean ? 
 Was it that Philip's wife was still alive, 
 and that she had come, by a strange coinci- 
 dence, to the very house where her children 
 lived, where there was one who would love 
 her as a sister, and nurse her back to health 
 and strength and happiness ? 
 
 It was this conviction that had irradiated 
 Magdalen's face, and make her thank Max 
 Brendon for all that he had done. 
 
 Standing in the dim hall, w^here a feeble 
 flicker of light from the expiring fire only now 
 and then struggled through the gloom, the 
 brightness went out of Magdalen's expression, 
 the momentary triumph from her heart. 
 
 After all, if it were true, what did it mean 
 but greater sorrow, perhaps even greater dis- 
 grace than she had contemplated ? Had 
 Captain Esher known nothing of the truth 
 all this time ? Magdalen shuddered as she 
 reflected that there was nothing in his past
 
 Magdalen's guest. 223 
 
 history to give lier any confidence in tliat 
 sense of honour, that sense of duty, which she 
 might have counted on in some men. And, 
 whether he had known it or not, what had 
 been this poor woman's history during the last 
 few years ? Where was her sister, the stern 
 woman who had stopped Philip Esher's marri- 
 age with Magdalen, but who had also averred 
 that Alice, his wife, was dead ? 
 
 There was a mystery somewhere : and 
 Magdalen brooded over it with bent brow and 
 hanging head as she ascended the stairs that 
 led to the poor wanderer s room. A lamp was 
 burning, and the fire was blazing brightly, 
 but a screen had been placed round the bed, 
 so that the invalid's eyes might not be dazzled 
 with the lisfhts. An old woman in a close 
 white cap sat beside her. This was Becky, 
 Magdalen's former nurse and faithful friend, 
 who was always ready when helpful work was 
 to be done. 
 
 The woman was under the influence of 
 narcotics, but her sleep was fitful and uneasy.
 
 224 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 Magdalen sent the old nurse away and took 
 lier place beside the bed. There was light 
 enough for her to see distinctly the worn and 
 w^asted features, and on these Magdalen gazed 
 in deep anxiety, not unmixed with fear. 
 
 It had been a pretty face : so much was 
 certain. The fair hair tossed wildly over the 
 pillows had once been bright and abundant ; 
 the blue eyes, now closed, were still remark- 
 able for their beauty. The features bore 
 traces of illness and care, but they were 
 delicately cut. She looked older than Alice 
 Mackworth — Alice Esher — could really be ; 
 but the hardships of her life might have 
 impressed that look of age upon her face. 
 And as Magdalen looked and looked, it seemed 
 to her that she saw more and more clearly a 
 likeness to one of Philip's children — to little 
 Daisy Esher, whom she had always fancied to 
 be like lier unknown mother. It was Dolly 
 who resembled Philip ; Daisy, with her blue 
 eyes and meek face and winning little ways, 
 was like somebody whom Magdalen had never
 
 Magdalen's guest. 225 
 
 seen. Was it the mother of these children 
 who lay before her now ? 
 
 A movement of the sleeper displaced her 
 coverings ; Magdalen rose to put them 
 straight. Her gentle fino'ers came in contact 
 with something hard, and, almost without 
 knowing what she did, she drew out a little 
 locket tied by a black ribbon round the 
 woman's neck. It was a poor little locket, 
 battered and worn ; the fastenings had grown 
 weak, and came loose in Magdalen's hand. It 
 flew open, and she saw — was it not what she 
 had almost expected to see '? Why then 
 should she catch her breath hard, and look at 
 the pictured face before her with something 
 like aversion, mingled with dread'? The 
 locket contained a bit of golden-brown hair, a 
 wedding ring, and an old photograph of Philip 
 Esher's handsome, smiling, cruel face. 
 
 Magdalen shut the locket again, and put it 
 back into its place, rearranged the tumbled 
 coverlet, and smoothed back the tangled hair ; 
 then she sat down again in her chair at the
 
 226 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 bedside. Few could have told from a view of 
 her calm, pale face, her quietly folded hands, 
 what a storm had suddenly been aroused in 
 the heart that seemed so tranquil. The 
 sight of that photograph had brought back a 
 tide of memories beneath which judgment and 
 will went down. She had long ceased to 
 dream of Philip Esher ; and yet — she was 
 suddenly conscious that she had not forgotten 
 him. The light of his mocking eyes was 
 still before her ; the amused, satirical turn of 
 his mouth had power over her still. 
 
 But, as she considered the matter, she knew 
 well enough that her predominant feeling was 
 not that of love, or of what the world calls 
 love. It was anger, resentment, almost en- 
 mity. She was bitterly indignant with him 
 yet. She was surprised to find herself feeling 
 so strongly on the subject. She thought that 
 she had conquered herself; that her troubled, 
 undisciplined heart was still. But it had 
 awakened once more wdth throbs of passionate, 
 burning pain ; with the old intolerable sense
 
 MAC4DALEN's guest. 227 
 
 of humiliation ; and she knew not where to 
 turn for comfort. 
 
 Did she not know ? Her heart smote her 
 for the thought. There was a book in whicli 
 she read day by day, which had been her 
 guide in perplexity, her safeguard in danger 
 and in woe. Desperately she turned to it at 
 this moment, seeking some counsel or some 
 comfort. There was a Testament on the table 
 at her side ; she opened it and turned over its 
 leaves in the dim light, her eyes roving here 
 and there, up and down the page. 
 
 Presently she stopped short : her mind 
 arrested by something that she had seen. She 
 sat with the book in her hands for some 
 minutes ; then she laid it down and bent her 
 face upon it as if in thought or prayer. 
 Tears came as a welcome relief; when she 
 lifted her head again, the calmness had come 
 back to her eyes, the grave serenity to her lips. 
 
 " How often shall my brother sin against 
 me and I forgive him ? " she had read. " I 
 say unto you, imtil seventy times seven."
 
 228 SEVEXTr TIMES SEVEX. 
 
 There was to l3e no limit, then, to forgive- 
 ness of wrongs. She had harboured hatred 
 in her heart to Philip Esher all these years. 
 Now and for ever she would put it away from 
 her. If she had never foro-iven him before, in 
 the presence of his neglected wife, she would 
 forgive him now. 
 
 In the early dawn the sick woman opened 
 her eyes and fixed them on Magdalen with a 
 questioning look. Magdalen spoke to her, 
 soothed her with kind words, and assured her 
 that she would be taken care of until she was 
 well and strong. The woman listened, but 
 did not respond ; the terrified look in her 
 eyes did not die away. It w^as with some 
 hesitation, some rapid beating of the heart, 
 that Magdalen said at last, " Will you tell me 
 your name ? " 
 
 The woman was silent for a moment, and 
 then said feebly, though distinctly, " Mack- 
 worth.'' 
 
 " And your first name is ? " 
 
 " Alice."
 
 Magdalen's guest. 229 
 
 She spoke with her eyes fixed on the wall 
 before her, as if she were repeating something 
 that she had learned by heart. 
 
 *' Alice," she said. " Yes, Alice — Alice — 
 Alice — that's it ; I know it now. They gave 
 me a diflferent name before. He will know 
 who it is if you tell him that Alice wants 
 him." 
 
 " "Who ? " asked Ma2:dalen, bendino^ over 
 her. 
 
 " Philip Esher. Send for him." 
 
 " YeS; I will send for him," said Magdalen. 
 And then the wild blue eyes closed, and the 
 poor creature fell into another restless 
 sleep. 
 
 Miss Lingard could do an impulsive thing 
 sometimes, in spite of her outward com- 
 posure. She did not stay to consult her 
 friends : she did not put the matter into the 
 hands of Mr. St. Aidan, her natural adviser : 
 she went straight to the point with a noble 
 simplicity of purpose which should have 
 commanded respect. Perhaps she did not act
 
 230 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 very wisely, but she did what her heart tokl 
 her to do, and for the moment beheved that 
 she was doing welL She went to her writing- 
 table and wrote to Captain Esher. 
 
 " Dear Captain Esher," she began, " I trust 
 that you will pardon me for troubling you 
 with a letter ; but I have to write on a matter 
 of importance whicli I do not wish to make 
 public. 
 
 *' A woman was brought to my house last 
 night in a very sad condition. She was found 
 fainting by the wayside, greatly in need of 
 help. She had sustained severe injury through 
 a fall, and now lies here dangerously ill. She 
 tells me that her name is Alice Mackworth, and 
 asks me to send for you. She has your 
 likeness with her, a lock of your hair, and a 
 wedding-ring. 
 
 " If this woman is your wife — and although 
 we were told that she was dead, I am inclined 
 to think that this is the case — will you not 
 come to her, and as far as possible repair the 
 wrong that you once did ? Whoever she may
 
 MAGDALEX'S GUEST. 231 
 
 be, she has asked to see you. It is only just 
 that I should tell you this, and give you the 
 opportunity of setting matters right. She 
 will be here until you come, and I beg of you 
 not to delay. — Yours truly, 
 
 " Magdalen Lingard." 
 
 She knew that he was abroad, so she 
 enclosed her missive in an envelope addressed 
 to his solicitors, with a request that it should 
 be forwarded. 
 
 Then she began to be afraid of what she 
 had done. It was not that she believed her- 
 self mistaken in the facts. As the days went 
 on she saw no reason to suspect that the 
 stranger who had come to her door was any 
 other than the person that she gave herself out 
 to be. " Alice Mackworth " was her name, she 
 repeated ; and Magdalen grew into the habit 
 of calling her simply by her first name. She 
 seemed uneasy if any other name were used ; 
 and, as perfect tranquillity of mind and body 
 was the first thing requisite for her recovery, 
 Magdalen humoured her in this as in every
 
 232 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 other matter. But to the household in general 
 she was known as Mrs. Mackworth. 
 
 More of her story she had not seemed 
 inclined to tell. A long, tedious illness 
 followed upon her entrance to Magdalen's 
 house, and made her hostess loath to question 
 her. And the doctor sometimes hinted that 
 there was some strange weakness of intellect, 
 some lapse of memory, the extent of which he 
 could not exactly fathom. It was best to 
 treat her like an ailing child, and recall 
 nothing painful to her mind just yet. 
 
 Weeks passed away before an answer 
 arrived from Captain Esher. But it came at 
 last, and this was what Magdalen read. 
 
 " Dear Miss Lingard, 
 
 "Your kind interest in me and my affairs 
 has afforded me the deepest gratification. 
 I am sorry that absence and press of business 
 engagements will prevent me for the present 
 from availing myself of your welcome invita- 
 tion, but at some future time I shall be very 
 glad to renew our old acquaintance.
 
 MAGDALEN S GUEST. 233 
 
 " Let me assure you that tlie person you 
 speak of has no connection of any kind with 
 me, and is probably presuming on your good- 
 ness. My poor wife most certainly died in 
 her sister's house at Manchester ; I have seen 
 the certificate of her death, and her tombstone 
 in Hulme Churchyard : I have also spoken 
 with persons who 'saw her die. There is 
 therefore not the faintest need for you to 
 distress yourself on her account. 
 
 " Permit me to thank you for a communica- 
 tion which I take as a token of more friendly 
 feeling than you have of late accorded to one 
 who still humbly considers himself — Your 
 devoted servant, Philip Esher." 
 
 Magdalen pushed the letter away from her 
 with burning cheeks and flaming eyes. Was 
 this all that she had gained by her champion- 
 ship of Alice's wrongs ? It was plain what 
 Philip thought ; he looked on her letter simply 
 as an invitation to him to come back to her ! 
 
 And the worst of it was, she felt sure that, 
 sooner or later, he would come !
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 HIS SISTERS. 
 
 Ix spite of Max's assertion that he had no 
 
 influence with his father, Mr. Brendon was 
 
 always ready to listen to suggestions from 
 
 him, and anxious if possible, to act on them. 
 
 It was owing to his representations, therefore, 
 
 that a house in Gay Street was let at a 
 
 nominal rent (which Max himself undertook 
 
 to pay) to Mr. St. Aidan, who thereupon 
 
 started a series of classes and evening lectures 
 
 for boys and working-men. Max brought his 
 
 own lads, and thus formed a nucleus of an 
 
 institution which later on developed great 
 
 proportions, and became an undoubted powder 
 
 in Scarsfield. He himself taught a class two 
 
 or three evenings in the week, and other 
 
 helpers were rapidly found. Miss Lingard 
 234
 
 HIS SISTERS. 235 
 
 gave three evenings a week, and started a 
 class for girls as well as for working-men. 
 Slie came into contact occasionally with Max 
 at these Gay Street rooms, but only occasion- 
 ally, for he was too much occupied at this 
 time to think long of anything but business, 
 and when he had finished his lesson to the 
 boys he generally went back to the oftice 
 instead of waiting to see the other teachers. 
 
 He had lately been thrown into company 
 with a man named Darley, the proprietor in 
 part of some chemical works, in which Mr. 
 Brendon was already interested, although his 
 name did not appear in business transactions. 
 Max who was his father's right' hand in every- 
 thing, had obtained for himself a small share in 
 the chemical works, and had them much more 
 at heart than his father's business. When 
 Darley, becoming involved in money diffi- 
 culties, desired to get rid of his responsibilities, 
 it occurred to Max, who had a strong specu- 
 lative turn, that he might purchase the 
 " concern " and become sole proprietor. This,
 
 236 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 of course, he could not do without his father's 
 co-operation, and, as he was not fond of asking- 
 favours, some time elapsed before he could 
 make up his mind to broach the subject. 
 Finding, however, that he would lose his 
 chance if he did not act quickly, he mentioned 
 the project to his father in a careless, off-hand 
 manner, as if it were merely a sudden thought. 
 Mr. Brendon cut him short at once. He had 
 no money to spare for risky investments. 
 Darley's works had never been successful; 
 they were in an unfortunate spot, whence the 
 fumes w^ere killing all the trees in Captain 
 Esher's park. Esher had already threatened 
 to prosecute the proprietor, and might do it 
 at any time. Besides, Max ought to be con- 
 tented with his present position. Max said, 
 *' Very w^ell ; there 's an end of it, then," and 
 changed the subject. 
 
 But later in the day Mr. Brendon reverted 
 to it. He asked some questions, which brought 
 to light the fact that Max had been seriously 
 studying the details of the business. Uncon-
 
 HIS SISTEES. 237 
 
 sciously lie betrayed, too, that he had set his 
 heart on the scheme ; and JMr. Brendon was 
 not the man to be uninflueDced by his son s 
 desires. He set off for Darley's works without 
 saying any more to Max, inspected the place, 
 saw Darley and his own solicitor, and then 
 came back to his private room at the office, 
 where Max was as usual quietly and efficiently 
 busy. 
 
 " ^Tiat would Cecil say to that scheme of 
 yours ? He might think it unfair, eh ? " said 
 the father, turning his back on Max, as he 
 opened a drawer and pulled out some 
 papers. 
 
 A gleam came into the young man's eyes, 
 but he simply answered, after a pause, " You 
 mean about Darley's place ? " 
 
 '' Yes. If you 're equal with Cecil here, 
 and master there, what will he say ? And 
 what will your mother say?" Mr. Brendon 
 closed the drawer and turned round, looking 
 shrewdly at his son from under his grizzled 
 eye-brows.
 
 238 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 " I could drop this," said Max — meaning 
 his work in Mr. Brendon's ofl&ce. 
 
 " But I don't want you to drop this." 
 
 "The matter had better end there, then," 
 said Max, coolly returning to his work, as if 
 there were nothing more to say. But he was 
 not discouraged : he knew his father's ways. 
 
 Mr. Brendon grunted, and kept silence. 
 
 '' You 've not been altogether well treated," 
 lie said, presently, in a reflective tone of 
 voice. '* You had the first place here before 
 Cecil came back : it was rather like cutting 
 you out when I installed him in the office, 
 wasn't it ? " 
 
 " I never made any objection," said Max, 
 rather gruffly. Certainly father and son were 
 very much alike. 
 
 " You might have done. I always meant to 
 arrange something special for you, if he stayed 
 on ; but I did not think of your leaving us. 
 I don't see how we are to get on without 
 you. 
 
 "I won't leave you, then," said Max, with-
 
 HIS SISTEKS. 239 
 
 out looking up from his writing. " Put it out 
 of your head, sir. I was a fool to mention 
 it." 
 
 " You were anything but a fool to mention 
 it," responded Mr. Brendon with a short 
 laugh. " I have been over the works this 
 afternoon. I fancy that they would pay in 
 the long run. I might take Cecil into part- 
 nership by way of a sop to him and his 
 mother, and set you up independent of us 
 altogether." 
 
 Max laid down his pen, and put his hands 
 before him on the desk, pressing his finger- 
 tips together in a reflective manner. "Who 
 would take my place here ?" he asked. " Cecil 
 could not." 
 
 " Cecil 's a terribly useless fellow. No, I 
 should have to look after things more closely 
 than I have been doing hitherto." 
 
 "That would not do for you, father. Let 
 me stay on here for a time, gTadually dropping 
 the work as I see my way, and training one or 
 two of the office fellows to divide it between
 
 240 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 them. There is young Chaloner ; he 's a 
 bright lad : and James Lloyd, a thoroughly 
 conscientious fellow." 
 
 ''Too much for you to do." 
 
 " I think not. Darley's place is not fifteen 
 minutes' walk down the canal bank from here. 
 I timed it yesterday." 
 
 " How long have you had this plan in your 
 head, I should like to know ? " 
 
 "Only for a short time." And then Mr. 
 Brendon entered upon business details, in 
 which the two were speedily absorbed. Mr. 
 Brendon concluded the discussion in these 
 words : — 
 
 " It seems as if it would do. Of course I 
 shall have to change the disposition of my 
 capital in my will if I do this for you. You 
 are getting your share now, you understand." 
 
 " Certainly, sir." 
 
 " I would rather do more than less for you,. 
 Max, but I must consider others as well as 
 you. I shall be sorry to lose you from the 
 office."
 
 HIS SISTEES. 241 
 
 " You won't lose me yet," said Max, taking 
 the hand that his father held out to him. 
 " I shall not go until everything is in good 
 trim here. I am very much obliged to you, 
 sir " 
 
 ''Yes, yes, we'll take all that for granted. 
 Walk down with me to Darley's, will you ? " 
 
 Thus unemotionally was a matter settled 
 which involved a complete change in the 
 manner of Max's life and his position in the 
 world. He had thought of borrowing capital 
 from his father, and paying back the loan by 
 instalments, but Mr. Brendon chose rather to 
 purchase the works and transfer the whole 
 right to his son by deed of gift, together 
 with capital sufficient to start him in an in- 
 dependent career. These arrangements took 
 some time to carry out, but eventually Max 
 became sole proprietor of " Darley's Caustic 
 Works," as the building was generally called, 
 and seemed likely to develop into a prosperous 
 man on his own account. 
 
 ]\Iax was very much gratified. It had been 
 
 R
 
 242 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 the dream of his life to work for himself, not 
 as a subordinate, but as a master, and, 
 although he would not have acknowledged the 
 fact, he had been bitterly disappointed when 
 Cecil's return to Scarsfield had deprived him 
 of the place in his father's office which seemed 
 to be his by right. 
 
 He did not now entirely discontinue attend- 
 ance at his father's office, but managed to get 
 through a good deal of his old work by way of 
 screening Cecil's deficiencies and making things 
 easy for Eobert Chaloner. In addition to his 
 room at home he had a bedroom fitted up for 
 himself at the Caustic Works, so that he 
 might sleep there when he preferred not to 
 annoy his mother by coming home late at 
 nio'ht. His ambition was to have a house of 
 his own — a home, where, until lately, he had 
 imagined that Ursula should hold sway. But 
 recently there had come a slight distaste for 
 the notion of Ursula's management. He loved 
 his sister as dearly as ever, but he began to 
 feel that he wanted more than a sister's help :
 
 HIS SISTERS. 243 
 
 he wanted a different kind of affection — tlie 
 tenderness and the joy that come of a woman's 
 love. In short, Max wanted to marry, and, 
 again, until lately, he would have said that he 
 knew precisely the kind of woman whom he 
 wished to make his wife. She must be his 
 junior by some years ; she must be pretty, 
 amiable, engaging, teachable ; he would rather 
 she were poor than rich, and he was quite sure 
 that he did not want her to have strong 
 opinions on religious subjects. 
 
 Lenore Chaloner was his ideal woman ; and 
 he had several times thought seriously of 
 asking her to be his wife. Unless, of course, 
 Cecil meant to marry her. 
 
 By which it may safely be concluded that 
 Max was not in love with Lenore Chaloner. 
 He had an idea that he would not marry for 
 love ; he had had a sharp experience of " calf- 
 love " before he was twenty, and now, he 
 imagined, the time had come for making a 
 wise and prudent choice, undisturbed by 
 passionate folly of any kind.
 
 244 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEX. 
 
 It was an odd thing, he considered, that 
 Lenore's image had of late seemed somewhat 
 blurred and indistinct in his mind, as if he 
 were forgetting its graceful outlines. Instead 
 of it there rose up before him continually the 
 picture of another and very different face ; 
 pale, serene, grave, yet sweet, with finely-cut 
 features, broad tranquil brows, hair black as 
 night, and deep, dark eyes that held both 
 sadness and knowledge in their liquid depths. 
 A contrast indeed to Lenore's girlish pretti- 
 ness ! This was the face of a mature woman, 
 who had known what it was to suffer and to 
 love, and with such a woman Max was certain 
 that he had no concern. She was flatly 
 opposite to all his theories of what a woman 
 ought to be. But, strangely enough, he could 
 not get Magdalen Lingard's face out of his 
 mind. 
 
 It was partly for this reason that he did not 
 linger long at Gay Street on the evenings 
 when Magdalen was to be there. " An 
 infatuation for a face," as he called it to him-
 
 HIS SISTEES. 245 
 
 self, ought to be discouraged. He tried not to 
 see her, not to speak to her. And it was easy 
 enough to avoid her, for she never thrust her- 
 self in his way. Mr. St. Aidan thought that 
 his interest in the classes for working; men 
 was dying out, but this was not the case, 
 though he was sometimes so tired that it was 
 as much as he could do not to fall asleep over 
 the wearisome reading^ and writing; lessons. 
 He had a careworn look, and excused himself 
 from one or two of the Eector's invitations on 
 the ground of want of time. " Making haste 
 to be rich ! " observed ]\Ir. St. Aidan to his 
 wife, with a half-sad, half-contemptuous smile. 
 " Poor fellow ! I am disappointed in him 
 after all." 
 
 Ursula was right when she once said that 
 Max was more misunderstood by his friends 
 than by his enemies. 
 
 It was by accident rather than design that 
 he met Miss Lino;ard one evening; after the 
 l3oys had gone away. Ten o'clock had struck, 
 and Max had volunteered to help the Eector
 
 246 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEX. 
 
 in rearranging some books in a cupboard. To 
 tell the truth, that vision of a face had been 
 unusually troublesome all day, and he felt 
 inclined to try whether a meeting with its 
 owner would not lay the ghost. He had not 
 seen her for some time, and he was startled 
 by the pallor and the weariness of her face. 
 
 ''Wait for me a moment," said Mr. St. 
 Aidan, bustling away into another class-room 
 with a pile of linen-covered books. " 1 11 
 escort you home, Madge." 
 
 Miss Linoard sank down on one of the 
 benches with an unconscious air of fatigue 
 which struck pain to Max's heart. For a 
 moment she closed her eyes. 
 
 "You do too much," Max said to her 
 abruptly. "You are over-tired. You ought 
 not to have come to-night." 
 
 She opened her eyes with a look of slight 
 surprise. 
 
 " There is no one to take my place here," 
 she answered, gently. 
 
 "No one can do your work as you do it,"
 
 HIS SISTEE8. 247 
 
 said Max, almost roughly ; ''I know that well 
 enough, but surely somebody might be found 
 to help." Then he broke off, and added, with 
 a vexed knitting of the brows, " I beg your 
 pardon. Of course it's no business of 
 mine." 
 
 She smiled. She was not oftended, he 
 remarked, but she looked a trifle roused and 
 amused. He turned away, impatient and 
 angry with himself. Why should he have 
 manifested any interest in her doings ? They 
 did not matter to him. Only he did not like 
 to see a woman half killing herself with work 
 —that was all. 
 
 '' Your sister teaches in the Sunday school 
 at ■ St. Jude's, Mr. Brendon," said Magdalen, 
 presently. " Do you think that she would 
 help us here ? " 
 
 Max looked at her and hesitated. " I don't 
 know. She might. Shall I ask her ? " 
 
 " I thouoht of callino; on Mrs. Brendon," 
 said Magdalen, " and trying to enlist Miss 
 Brendon' s sympathies."
 
 248 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 " I 'm afraid," said Max, in a low tone, " that 
 her sympathies are not easily enlisted." 
 
 Here Mr. St. jiidan returned, and nothing 
 more was said. Magdalen was a little sur- 
 prised by Max's manner, and wondered whether 
 he judged his sister harshly, or whether she 
 were really a very impracticable person. 
 
 She paid her visit next day and formed her 
 own conclusions. 
 
 Mrs. Brendon was lofty and patronising : 
 Gertrude uninterestino' and uninterested. 
 
 o 
 
 Cecil lounged in and out of the room again, 
 superciliously polite ; Bessie was forward and 
 pert, and sulked when her mother snubbed 
 her. Ursula did not appear. 
 
 Magdalen's keen eyes observed all that was 
 painful in the scene, and she judged leniently 
 of Max's shortcomings ever afterwards. It 
 must have been uphill work for him to interest 
 himself in the poor at all, after }'ears spent in 
 the midst of such a family. 
 
 She met with no ■ success when she asked 
 Gertrude to help her Avith her class. Gertrude
 
 HIS SISTERS. 249 
 
 had no fancy for giving up even one evening 
 a week for the sake of a " set of shop girls." 
 Neither aid nor sympathy could be looked for 
 from mother or daug^hter ; and when Mao^dalen 
 rose to go she felt chilled and discouraged, 
 although her gentle serenity was apparently 
 undisturbed. 
 
 She did not see Max again for a couple of 
 nights, and she noticed, when they met, that 
 his face wore a singularly troubled and dis- 
 satisfied expression. 
 
 " I was unsuccessful," she said to him, with 
 a smile. 
 
 " Yes, I know. I am sorry. You did not 
 see Ursula ? " 
 
 " No. Is she another sister ? " 
 
 " She is too young and too — too — inexperi- 
 enced to be of any use, I am afraid ; but she 
 would like to come for one evenino- to look 
 and listen, if you would allow her. She has 
 teased me into asking you." 
 
 " I shall be delighted to see her. Perhaps 
 Mrs. Brendon will let her come regularly ? "
 
 250 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 ** I can't say," Max replied, rather shortly. 
 " I don't think she wishes it : but Ursula 
 generally gets her own way." 
 
 The dissatisfaction of his tone was evident. 
 Magdalen w^ondered, but did not like to ques- 
 tion. Perhaps Ursula was only a repetition of 
 Gertrude, with a little school- girl curiosity 
 superadded ! But she invited him to bring 
 her, w^henever Ursula liked to come. 
 
 Max's own opinion was that permission for 
 Ursula's visit had been dearly bought by a 
 violent quarrel between the girl and her 
 mother, and a subsequent appeal to Mr. 
 Brendon, who had decided in Ursula's favour. 
 Mrs. Brendon was deeply offended ; Ursula, 
 saucily triumphant. Max, sore and bitter in 
 heart at the unhappy state of affairs, mani- 
 fested his dissatisfaction by appearing only at 
 meals and w^earing his gloomiest countenance. 
 
 He escorted her to Gay Street, as he had 
 promised to do, but he said scarcely a word to 
 her on the w\ay thither, and Ursula, usually 
 on such good terms with him, felt that she
 
 HIS SISTERS. 251 
 
 was in disgrace. She was too proud to let 
 him see that this troubled her ; and her eyes 
 were very bright, her smiles very sunny, when 
 she was introduced to Miss Lingard^ with 
 whom Max left her when he went to his own 
 class. At the close of the evening he went 
 back for her, and found her talking eagerly 
 with Magdalen. It was plain that she had 
 been enjoying herself; her colour and her 
 animated look told Max as much. " Any- 
 thing new ! " he muttered to himself, knitting 
 his brow as he waited for her to don her out- 
 door attire. 
 
 " You'll let me come every week, Miss 
 Lingard, will you not ? " Ursula was saying 
 eagerly. " I should dearly like to teach that 
 little lame girl — oh, it will be delightful 1 
 Every Wednesday at eight o'clock. I '11 be 
 most regular " 
 
 ^' Ursula ! " Max could not keep his voice 
 from growing peremptory, and his brows dark. 
 *' You are not free to dispose of your time in 
 that way."
 
 252 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Brendon," said Magdalen, 
 who had been looking half-pleased and half- 
 perplexed. " I was going to ask her a ques- 
 tion about her home duties." 
 
 Ursula gave her shoulders an impatient 
 twist. 
 
 " Do you think," Magdalen asked, with a 
 glance at Max's face, " that Mrs. Brendon 
 would object to her coming to help me now 
 and then ? " 
 
 " I am sure of it," said Max, moodily. 
 ''Ursula has her studies; she wdll not be 
 allowed to leave them for a wdiole evening 
 once a week." 
 
 Ursula's eyes flashed angrily, and then as 
 suddenly filled with tears. Magdalen saw 
 the change in the girl's face, and pitied her. 
 She could not quite understand Max's tone ; 
 it seemed to her harsh and unkind ; but she 
 did not know all that had gone before. As it 
 chanced, however, she said the very thing 
 that was good for Ursula to hear. 
 
 " Patience, my dear ! " she murmured, lay-
 
 HIS SISTERS. 253 
 
 ing her hand caressingly on the girl's arm. 
 " Perhaps you will be able to help me by and 
 bye when your school-days are over. I cannot 
 have you here if your mother disapproves of 
 your coming ; your work would never prosper 
 if it began in disobedience." 
 
 Ursula lifted her tear-filled e5^es for a 
 moment to Miss Lingard's face, then stood 
 downcast and silent. Magdalen drew her 
 aside ; she did not want Max to hear all that 
 she said. But Max's ears were very quick. 
 
 " ' We needs must love the highest when 
 we see it,' " she quoted in her sweet and 
 gentle voice. " What is ' the highest ' for 
 you just now ? To follow your mother's 
 wishes, dear child. No good will come of 
 neglecting the duty that is nearest to you." 
 
 " That is," said Ursula, passionately, " that 
 I am to go home and do lessons, lessons, 
 lessons, all day long, and have no real work in 
 the world ; and you will go on working here 
 and — and — forget all about me ! " 
 
 Mag;dalen was inclined to smile at the
 
 254 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 tremble in tlie girl's voice, but sbe restrained 
 berself. After all, it was nothing to laiigli at. 
 
 Poor Ursula, goaded into rebellion in an 
 uncongenial home, yearning for an affection 
 which was withheld, had suddenly caught a 
 glimpse of the beauty of work for others 
 less favoured by fortune than herself. Her 
 whole nature responded to Magdalen's gentle 
 call. She was ready to fall down and worship 
 her new friend ; and lo, the idol was quietly 
 rejecting her adoration ! 
 
 " I will not forget you," said Magdalen. 
 " You will help me when you are older. And 
 perhaps your mother will let you come to the 
 Priory sometimes when you have a holiday. 
 I will write a note to her about it. Believe 
 me, dear, you will be happier if you give 
 up your own will and your own way. Ee- 
 member that ' obedience is better than sacri- 
 fice.' " 
 
 She kissed the wistful face as she said good- 
 bye.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 MAERYING AND GIVIXG IN MARRIAGE. 
 
 Ursula was at the impressionable age when 
 friendship must be enthusiastic if it is friend- 
 ship at all. She was burning to confide her 
 admiration of Miss Lingard to Max, but she 
 did not like to break the silence in which the 
 first few minutes of their walk home were 
 passed. He was seldom angry with her ; but 
 she knew that he was angry now or else he 
 w^ould speak instead of lighting a cigar and 
 then walking with his hands in his pockets in 
 a sulky way. At last she could bear it no 
 longer, and said, petulantly, 
 
 " Why don't you talk ? " 
 
 " I 've got nothing to say." 
 
 ^'Why notV Then, after a pause, "You 
 
 255
 
 •256 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 generally help me : you are not usually so 
 cross." 
 
 " Help you I What do you wish to do now? 
 Help you to defy your mother's wishes ? You 
 know I will not do that. I brought you here 
 to-night under protest." 
 
 Ursula w-as rather dismayed, and, but for 
 the influence of Magdalen's words, would have 
 been angry. 
 
 " I don't mean that," she said, in a sujd- 
 pressed voice. " I meant — I mean — that I'll 
 try to do what she w^ants. Miss Lingard 
 made me see that I ought." 
 
 " Oh ! So a word from Miss Lingard, whom 
 you have never spoken to before, goes further 
 than anything your own family can say." 
 
 " You never said anything." 
 
 "You knew^ what I thought. Not that 
 what I thought seems to have been of much 
 consequence." 
 
 Ursula hated crying ; but she was obliged 
 to raise her hand and dash aw^ay one or two 
 tears that were dimming her eyes at that
 
 MARRYIXG AXD GIVIXG IN MARRIAGE. 25/ 
 
 moment. Max saw the gesture, and bis 
 heart softened at once. 
 
 " Never mind," he said, kindly, putting his 
 hand through her arm. " If you mean to do 
 better, it doesn't matter who made you see 
 the rio[hts and wrong's of the case. There is 
 something horrible to me in seeing a girl defy 
 and disobey her mother ; it is unnatural — 
 unwomanly." 
 
 " It 's so difficult sometimes to get on with 
 mamma ! " Ursula murmured with drooping 
 head. " You don't know how unreasonable 
 she is ! " 
 
 " Don't I ? " 
 
 He turned away his face and recollected a 
 few of the instances in which Mrs. Brendon 
 had been ' unreasonable ' in her demands 
 upon him : instances far more numerous than 
 any that Ursula could enumerate. " It 's hard 
 for a girl to bear," he said to himself with a 
 stifled sigh, as he drew her closer to his side, 
 and spoke with a tenderness which he seldom 
 allowed himself to exhibit.
 
 258 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 " There are plenty of things in the world 
 that we must make up our minds to bear 
 quietly," he said, " and when we know what 
 our duty is, we have no excuse for neglecting 
 it. You and I, Ursa, both have our diffi- 
 culties ; let us put a good face on them and 
 bear them together. That will help us both." 
 
 " Dear old Max ! I will try. And you won't 
 be cross with me any more ? " 
 
 " Be a good girl, then ! " said Max, suffering 
 himself to be drawn into the shadow of the 
 shrubbery (they had reached the garden gate) 
 and vehemently kissed before they entered the 
 house. Ursula gave him a curious look as 
 they stood on the front-door steps together. 
 
 "It's an odd thing," she said, ''that you 
 and Miss Lingard take just the same tone in 
 talking to me. You have not been consulting 
 with her, have you ? " 
 
 "Not I," laughed Max, feeling his face 
 grow hot for some reason or other. " I don't 
 know her well enough to consult her." 
 
 " Then you must be naturally much alike,"
 
 MARRYING AXD GIVING IN MARRIAGE. 259 
 
 said Ursula, as she went on. And Max was 
 annoyed with himself for feeling pleased. 
 
 Ursula's submission to Miss Lingard and 
 Max involved submission to her mother, and 
 she never did things by halves. Max was 
 amazed to hear her words that night to Mrs. 
 Br en don : 
 
 " Thank you for letting me go to Gay 
 Street, mamma. I ni sorry I was rude and 
 ill-tempered about it. I '11 try to behave 
 better in future." 
 
 " I 'm sure I hope you will," was Mrs. 
 Brendon's ungracious response, as she allowed 
 the girl to kiss her coldly proffered cheek. 
 
 But the words had perhaps some effect on 
 her decision, when a note from Miss Lingard 
 arrived, inviting Ursula and Bessie to tea at 
 the Priory on the Saturday following. Mrs. 
 Brendon was not insensible to the advantages 
 of being friendly Avith a woman so intimately 
 connected with * the County ' as Miss Lin- 
 gard. Certainly she was living in retirement 
 for the present, but she might take wp the old
 
 260 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 society-life at any moment ; she might even 
 marry splendidly and keep open house at the 
 Priory, and then what a good thing it would 
 be if Ursula had gained a footing there ! Oh, 
 yes ; the children might go to the Priory ; 
 that, as Mrs. Brendon carefully explained, was 
 a very different thing from joining Miss 
 Lingard in foolish schemes at Gay Street. 
 Ursula curled her lip disdainfully at this dis- 
 tinction, but wisely restrained her tongue, and 
 the invitation was accepted. 
 
 When Saturday came, however, Bessie had 
 a cold, and was obliged to stay, at home. 
 Ursula went, escorted by Max, who was to 
 take leave of her at the door ; and as he did 
 not come home to dinner Mrs. Brendon 
 supposed that he had gone to " his beloved 
 Chemical Works, as usual." But between 
 eight and nine o'clock Miss Lingard's carriage 
 arrived, bringing both Ursula and Max ; and 
 it transpired, under cross-examination, that 
 Max also had been to tea at the Priory. 
 
 " Keally," said LIrs. Brendon, in a tone of
 
 MARRYING AXD GIVING IX MARRIAGE. 261 
 
 disgust, " you might have known better, Max. 
 Of course she did not mean you to go in." 
 
 Max cast a comical look of depreciation at 
 his sister, and was silent. 
 
 " Max could scarcely help it," said Ursula, 
 eagerly. " It began to rain just as we reached 
 the Priory door, and Miss Lingard came up 
 and insisted on his comino; in. Then the rain 
 did not stop, and we were all talking and 
 amusing ourselves, and then tea came in." 
 
 " I am surprised," said Mrs. Brendon, coldly; 
 "a very odd thing, indeed! Well," — looking 
 full at Max — " if you suit each other, you might 
 do worse. Max. 1 have no doubt that you 
 could live very comfortably at the Priory." 
 
 It was a rare thing for Max to change 
 colour. On this occasion he actually blushed ; 
 a dusky red, w^hich would have been painful 
 to witness by sympathising persons, rushed 
 into his face and coloured it to the temples. 
 But Ursula w^as the only sympathising person 
 in the room ; the others — Mrs. Brendon, 
 Gertrude, and Miss Quittenden — were very
 
 262 seve:nty times seven. 
 
 much the reverse. He was standing in the 
 full light of a blazing gas-chandelier, and their 
 eyes were upon him. It was too uncom- 
 fortable ; he bit his lip, and made a step 
 towards the door. 
 
 Mrs. Brendon laughed aloud. " Stay a 
 moment," she said. " I heard a report the 
 other day of which I took no notice at the 
 time ; I see now that it may be true. This 
 was not the first visit that you have paid 
 to the Priory, I believe ? " 
 
 Ursula started — less at the question than at 
 the watchful look which showed itself in her 
 brother's eyes. He paused a moment before 
 answering. 
 
 " I have been there once before on business," 
 he replied. 
 
 " Once. Very well. Then I would advise 
 you," said his mother, in a significant tone, 
 " to time your visits more carefully. It is 
 well known that you see a great deal of 
 Miss Lingard, and that you certainly stayed 
 at her house one night until nearly midnight.
 
 MAREYIXG A^'D GIVIXG IX MARRIAGE. 263 
 
 These things do not look well, I assure yon, 
 and. they are talked about." 
 
 Max's eyes lighted up as though by some 
 inward fire, but he only answered gravely and 
 steadily, 
 
 " I have told you already that I have been 
 to the Priory once only before to-night. It 
 may have been a little late when I was there, 
 but as I went on a business matter, that could 
 not be helped." 
 
 *' Indeed ? And how^ about the woman that 
 you took to her house one night ? Who was 
 she, and why did you take her to Miss 
 Lingard ? Ursula, you had better go away ; 
 there is no need for you to hear of these 
 matters." 
 
 " There is nothing in the least that Ursula 
 may not hear," said Max, whose look showed 
 that he was roused at last. "Be so good as 
 to let her stay and hear the truth of that 
 story. I found a poor woman by the roadside 
 one night as I was coming from ^Yeston. 
 She was insensible, and I could not leave her
 
 2G4 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 imbelped. I went to the nearest house for 
 aid. It happened to be Miss Lingard's, and 
 Miss Lingard was kind enough to take the 
 poor creature into her own house and nurse 
 her back to health. I went for Dr. Elbson, 
 and afterwards I drove him home. The 
 woman was a stranger to me, and also to 
 Miss Lingard." 
 
 He hesitated a little over his last words. 
 Was she a stranger to Miss Lingard, after all ? 
 Then he hurried on. 
 
 "That is the whole story. If any foolish 
 reports have got about the town with respect 
 to it, I must beg of you to contradict them 
 when you have the opportunity." 
 
 " T have only your word for your story. I 
 can believe anything ridiculous of Miss Lin- 
 gard. I am sorry that I allowed Ursula to go 
 to her house. I consider that woman a perfect 
 fool, and I should not be surprised at anything 
 she did ; she might even marry — you ! " 
 
 The fire in Max's eyes grew brighter than 
 ever.
 
 MARRYIXG AND GIYIXG IX MAKRIAGE. 265 
 
 " Miss Lingard is a woman for whom I 
 have the greatest respect," he said, "and 1 
 will not stay to hear her name bandied about 
 in this way. You oblige me to say, mother, 
 that unless I and my friends can be treated 
 with civility in this house, I must make some 
 arrangement for leavino; it altoo^ether. I 
 don't wish to do that — for my father's sake, 
 but I must ask you to remember that I am a 
 man now, and not a child." 
 
 He walked straight out of the room at the 
 conclusion of his speech, leaving Mrs. Brendon 
 divided between fear and anger. She knew 
 well enough that Mr. Brendon would never 
 forgive her if Max were driven from home by 
 her bitter tongue ; and secretly she resolved 
 to curb it a little, so that Max need not carry 
 out his threat. 
 
 Ursula could not escape at once, though she 
 was longing to go to her brother and express 
 her s}Tnpathy. When she was free, she sped 
 softly to his room and knocked at the door. 
 His voice told her to enter, so she crept in.
 
 266 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEX. 
 
 hushing her movements lest Mrs. Brendon or 
 Miss Quittenden should hear. The window 
 was wide open, and he was leaning out of 
 it, doing^ nothing. The room was in dark- 
 ness. 
 
 Ursula laid her hand on his shoulder, and 
 he put up his own to take it. 
 
 " Dear Max ! I am so sorry." 
 
 " Don't talk about it, Ursa ; I 'm afraid I 
 lost my temper." 
 
 ''You won't go away?" she said, clinging 
 to him as if afraid. 
 
 "Not unless I am driven. A man must 
 make a home for himself sometime or other, 
 I suppose. You must come and keep house 
 for me." 
 
 "You'll be getting married," said Ursula in 
 a low voice. 
 
 There was a moment's silence ; then he 
 turned round and kissed her on the forehead 
 by way of dismissal. 
 
 "You had better go to bed," he said. 
 " Don't fret over my affairs, Ursa. I don't
 
 MAEEYIXG AND GIVING IX MARRIAGE. 267 
 
 suppose I shall ever many, so you may make 
 up your mind to be my housekeeper." 
 
 Ursula ran away to her own room, noticing 
 as she went that he turned the key sharply in 
 the lock of his door, as if he meant to guard 
 himself against all further intrusions. 
 
 He told his sister in private next morning 
 that he did not feel inclined to go to St. Jude's 
 with his family ; he should go to the Parish 
 Church. Ursula, of course, could not accom- 
 pany him ; and she sighed for the freedom of 
 action which he possessed. The Parish Church 
 was the one in which ]\Ir. St. Aidan officiated 
 — w^here Mag;dalen and ''her children" went 
 on Sundays. 
 
 Probably Max knew the latter fact. He 
 was not displeased to find that the verger 
 had placed him two seats behind Miss Lingard, 
 in such a position that he could easily see her 
 face. He wished he knew^ whether she had 
 heard the foolish gossip about himself and her. 
 She must be aware that he w^as behind her, for 
 Dolly looked round at him and smiled, and
 
 268 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 then whispered into Magxlalen's ear. But no 
 change came over the tranquillity of that fair, 
 grave face. 
 
 Meanwhile the fatigue of the past week's 
 work was telling upon him. He almost 
 wished that he was sitting in his accustomed 
 seat by the stone pillar at St. Jude's, where 
 he could go to sleep without any one's being 
 the wiser. But sleep was not to be thought of 
 when Miss Lingard was in sight, so he leaned 
 back, crossed his legs, and looked towards the 
 preacher, who by this time had entered the 
 pulpit. 
 
 " ' Kejoice, young man, in thy youth,' " — 
 the Eector's tones rang out sonorously as he 
 announced his text — " ' and let thy heart cheer 
 thee in the days of thy youth, and walk in the 
 ways of thine heart, and in the sight of thine 
 eyes : but know thou that for all these things 
 God will bring thee into judgment.' " 
 
 Max was too sleepy to listen. He was 
 thinking about the many-coloured lights from 
 the windows, the form of the interlacing
 
 MARRYING AND GIVING IN MARRIAGE. 269 
 
 arches overhead, the pure profile that Miss 
 Lingard turned to him as she sat with her 
 face towards the pulpit, when — crash ! his 
 prayer-book, which he had carelessly kept in 
 his hand, fell to the floor, its clasp striking 
 heavily against the stones. He saw Dolly's 
 bright eyes fixed upon him with a look of 
 deep reprobation, and felt so discomposed and 
 so wide awake that he heard the last few 
 words of the sermon very distinctly. The 
 Eector was quoting Frederick Robertson, and 
 his sentences lingered for many a long day in 
 Max's mind. " ' What is it which is to you 
 the greatest and the best that you would 
 desire to realise ? The character of the rich 
 man, or the successful, or the admired? 
 Would the worst misery which could happen 
 to you be the wreck of prosperity ? — the 
 worst shame, not to have done wrong, but to 
 have sunk in the estimation of society ? Then 
 ... in the nomenclature of Heaven, where 
 names cannot stand for things, God sees you 
 as an idolater — your highest is not His high-
 
 270 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 est. The name tliat is above every name is 
 not the description of your God.' But there 
 are some among us," said the preacher, and in 
 what followed Max's eyes rested once more 
 upon Miss Lingard's face — " there are some 
 among us to-day of whom, as of Cornelius, it 
 may be said that their prayers and alms are 
 come up for a memorial before God ; who offer 
 up continually a threefold sacrifice — the sacri- 
 fice of praise and prayer, the sacrifice of 
 penitence and thanksgiving, the sacrifice of 
 body, soul, and spirit — and these are the men 
 and women whom you contemn and despise 
 because their holy lives are a silent reproof to 
 yours. ' These we have scorned, oh false and 
 frail ! ' At these, it may be, we have laughed 
 and sneered l)ecause they have lived our 
 Lord'S blessed Gospel in word, thought, and 
 deed. Let us then beware how we speak or 
 think of such a man — of such a woman — lest 
 we should have to say within ourselves at the 
 Advent of our Lord, *This was he whom we 
 had sometimes in derision and a proverb of
 
 MARRYING AND GIVING IN MARRIAGE. 271 
 
 reproach : we fools accounted his life madness, 
 and his end to be without honour : how is he 
 numbered among the children of God, and his 
 lot is among the saints. Therefore have we 
 erred from the way of truth, and the light of 
 righteousness hath not shined unto us, and 
 the sun of righteousness rose not upon us. . . . 
 We have gone through deserts where there 
 lay no way ; but as for the way of the Lord, 
 we' have not known it. What hath pride 
 profited us ? or what good hath riches with 
 our vauntings brought us ? All those things 
 are passed away as a shadow. . . . But the 
 righteous live for evermore.'" 
 
 Max was none the less interested that the 
 first distinct thought that crossed his mind 
 after the benediction was the rather peculiar 
 one : 
 
 " She won't fret about a little scandal, if 
 she 's the woman I take her for ! My lot is 
 evidently not among the saints." 
 
 And he went home to dinner. 
 
 Perhaps it was fortunate for him that Miss
 
 272 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 Lingard's doings were about this time banished 
 from Mrs. Brendon's mind by her anxiety con- 
 cerning a great bazaar, where she and her 
 daughters were to preside at one of the stalls 
 in conjunction with a certain Lady Larpington, 
 who had been one of Miss Grenvil's friends 
 before her marriage with Mr. Brendon. Lady 
 Larpington had two daughters, and Mrs. 
 Brendon would gladly have sacrificed ten 
 years of her life if she could see either 
 Beatrice or Violet affianced to her beloved 
 Cecil. She was too prudent to take any one, 
 except perhaps Gertrude, into her confidence ; 
 and yet all the household knew perfectly well 
 what she wanted. Even Cecil knew. But he 
 was too much engrossed with his own con- 
 cerns to think much about her plans : certain 
 complications which had arisen out of his 
 habit of " letting things drift " were now 
 causing him a good deal of trouble. He was 
 not even grateful when Max, by a word or 
 two of raillery, tried, to put him on his guard. 
 " What a fool you are ! " was all that Cecil
 
 MARRYING AND GIVING IN MARRIAGE. 273 
 
 deigned to reply ; not meaning any incivility, 
 but only that he could do without his 
 younger brother's interference. Max made 
 no further remark, but withdrew into himself, 
 as a snail retires into its shell when a too 
 confidingly protruded horn has come into 
 contact with foreign and probably inimical 
 l^odies. 
 
 Cecil's behaviour had of late puzzled his 
 friends, and it had puzzled Lenore Chaloner 
 most of all. Up to that evening on which she 
 had ventured a criticism upon his conduct, 
 and then declined to go out with him, he had 
 been constant in his attentions to her. He 
 had then, be it remembered, told her that he 
 was going to the Roslyns'. Since that day he 
 had been seen at the Roslyns' house time after 
 time ; he had played billiards with the son of 
 the house, tennis with the daughter : he had 
 walked, driven, and boated with Miss Roslyn, 
 and had been asked more than once whether 
 it were true that he was about to marry her. 
 Somethino', thoudi not all, of this had come
 
 274 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 to Mrs. Brendon's ears, and seriously dis- 
 turbed her; slie had never approved of his 
 * flirtation/ as she called it, with Lenore : but 
 an engagement, or even a flirtation, with Kuby 
 Eoslyn was far less to her taste. Besides, she 
 knew, and Cecil knew too, that Mr. Brendon 
 would vigorously oppose a marriage with 
 one of the Roslyn family. He had had busi- 
 ness dealings with old Mr. Eoslyn, in which 
 he had accused Roslyn of actual dishonesty, 
 and there was a very bitter feeling between 
 the two men. And if Mr. Brendon opposed 
 his son's marriage, it was likely that his oppo- 
 sition would be successful, for he had not let 
 Cecil out of leading strings as yet, and the 
 young man was entirely dependent upon him. 
 It was for this reason that Mrs. Brendon w^as 
 exceedingly jealous of Max's freedom from all 
 trammels, and thought that Cecil was treated 
 by his father with great injustice. If she 
 could only induce him to marry a girl of good 
 family like Beatrice Larpington, she thought 
 that Mr. Brendon would make the young
 
 MARRYING AND GIVING IN MARRIAGE. 275 
 
 couple a handsome allowance, so as to relieve 
 Cecil from the necessity of working. Thus 
 she schemed and planned for her eldest son, 
 not knowing that all she did tended to his 
 harm rather than to his good, by making him 
 more selfish, more effeminate, more despond- 
 ent of himself, than even nature had fashioned 
 him of her own free will. 
 
 The Bazaar was to last three days, and the 
 Brendons were busy at the Town Hall all the 
 time ; but Lenore Chaloner, who had pro- 
 mised to help at the stall of a Miss Mann, 
 was not able to appear until the evening of 
 the second day. Her grandmother had been 
 ill, and required her presence at home. She 
 looked very pretty as she took her place. 
 She was dressed in white cashmere, soft and 
 warm, because the November winds had 
 begun to blow ; her brown hair fell in loose 
 silky weaves over her white forehead : her 
 delicate cheeks were rosy, her hazel eyes bright 
 wdth anticipation. She had not seen Cecil for 
 long ! and he surely would be there ! Surely,
 
 276 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 surely, he would speak to her, and she should 
 have him by her side once more ! 
 
 He came : she saw him at his mother's stall, 
 talking to the Larpingtons. He did not look 
 her way. Ah, yes, he did — she got a stitl' 
 ])0W, unaccompanied by a smile or any sign 
 of friendliness. Lenore's heart stood still. 
 What had she done ? what was the matter ? 
 why did Cecil look so white and strange '? 
 She turned back to her goods and began to 
 tie up parcels with trembling fingers and 
 dimmed eyes. Was she to be a stranger to 
 him henceforward ? she was asking of herself. 
 Even if he cared for her no longer, she 
 thought that he might at least show her 
 ordinary civility. How could he be so 
 cruel? 
 
 She retreated to a bench behind the stall, 
 and sat down, wondering why she should feel 
 so unutterably tired. She sat there, alone, 
 for some moments, until suddenly the sound 
 of voices fell upon her ear : two persons had 
 come to a bench belonging to the next stall,
 
 MARRYING AND GIVING IN MARRIAGE. 277 
 
 and had seated themselves with their backs to 
 Lenore. Evidently they were engaged in 
 earnest conversation, and did not notice the 
 slender little figure on the other side. 
 
 '' If you care for me as much as you say 
 you do " — Lenore recognised Ruby Roslyn's 
 voice — "you ought to make our engagement 
 public. Why need you be so afraid of your 
 fother ? I 'm not afraid of mine ! " 
 
 " You forget that I am absolutely depend- 
 ent on my father," was the answer. It was 
 Cecil who spoke. 
 
 " Tell me at once that you are tired of me," 
 Ruby broke out passionately. " Then I shall 
 know what you mean." 
 
 " How could I be tired of you, darling ! " 
 said Cecil. But his voice had a weary 
 sound. 
 
 Lenore rose hastily. She could bear no 
 more. And as she moved away, Cecil, hear- 
 ing the sound, sprang up and looked to see 
 who had been sitting so near. Starting a 
 little, he caught sight of her face — pale,
 
 278 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 patient, mutely reproachful, yet resigned. 
 His eyes fell : he sighed bitterly as he turned 
 back to the woman whom he had taught to 
 love, but whom he loved not in return. Had 
 he ruined the happiness of two lives ? of 
 Lenore's life, as well as of his own ?
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Cecil's explanation. 
 
 Lenore went back to her duties at the stall, 
 
 although the bright lights and colours swam 
 
 in a confused mist before her eyes, and the 
 
 strains of the military band sounded to her a 
 
 long way ofif. She did not know that her face 
 
 was pale, or that there was a look of pain in 
 
 her soft eyes ; but Cecil Brendon, although 
 
 keeping well aloof, was remorsefully aware of 
 
 her changed expression. Ruby Ros1}ti had 
 
 at length gone home ; and when she was 
 
 out of sight he ventured to draw nearer to 
 
 Lenore. Before she knew that he was 
 
 beside her, he had whispered a word into 
 
 her ear : 
 
 " Lenore ! let me explain " 
 
 She started and looked up. Then she 
 
 279
 
 280 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 moved away from him, and began quietly to 
 rearrange the articles for sale upon her stall. 
 Not a word could she utter ; but the action 
 was sio-nificant enouo;h, 
 
 Cecil did not try to speak again, but with a 
 vexed, miserable face, hovered round her while 
 she steadily attended to her goods and her 
 customers. Then he quietly went and fetched 
 a cap of tea, of which she stood in great need, 
 for she was faint wdth weariness of body and 
 mind. 
 
 " No, thanks." 
 
 " You mast : you are killing yourself." 
 
 She made a gesture as if she would have 
 said, " What does that matter ? " and motioned 
 away the cup. He j)ut it down on the table, 
 and retired to a little distance, hoping to see 
 her take it. She did take it up — at last ! — 
 but only to convey it to Miss Mann, wdio 
 drank every drop lingeringiy and appre- 
 ciatively. 
 
 Cecil w^atched, and hated Miss Mann from 
 the bottom of his heart.
 
 Cecil's explanation. 281 
 
 He hated his brother almost more, for the 
 time bting, when he saw Max enter the hall, 
 and immediately make his way up to Lenore. 
 " You look very tired : shall I get you some 
 tea ? " was the first question. Lenore said 
 "Yes, please," with a sense of relief, and 
 drank the tea thirstily. "When Max took 
 away the cup, Cecil could not refrain from 
 drawing near to murmur, 
 
 " So you refused because you would not 
 take anything from me ! " 
 
 " Miss Mann was very tired," was Lenore's 
 response. 
 
 " You can pity every one but me." 
 
 " You do not need pity." 
 
 " Do I not ? Look at me." 
 
 The eo'oism of his utterances was less 
 
 o 
 
 apparent to Lenore than the trouble in his 
 voice. Yet she did not answer : she was 
 resolved to stand firm against his pleading, 
 but a mist swam before her eyes. 
 
 " Please don't talk to me : I must help Miss 
 Mann:"
 
 282 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 " I must talk to you : I must explain — I 
 can t let you think as you do of me." 
 
 "This is no time or place for explaiu- 
 mg. 
 
 " It is the time — I will find a place. The 
 ante-room where the players go for refresh- 
 ments is quite deserted : let me have five 
 minutes only. Lenore, you are cruel — cruel ; 
 and I am the most miserable man on earth." 
 
 The low tones of impassioned pleading were 
 not lost upon her : she hesitated, faltered, 
 " Five minutes only," and found her hand 
 placed within his arm, as he led her instantly 
 away from the stall through the crowded room 
 to a spot in which he thought that they could 
 speak together in peace. It was a small room, 
 dimly lighted, and separated from the Town 
 Hall itself by a passage and another apart- 
 ment. There was very little danger of 
 interruption, so long, at least, as the musi- 
 cians were still playing. 
 
 Lenore sank down in the chair that Cecil 
 dragged out from the wall for her; and
 
 CECIL S EXPLANATION. 283 
 
 he, bending over her, saw how pale she 
 looked. 
 
 " You are tired : thoroughly exhausted," he 
 said. " Won't you let me fetch you a glass of 
 Wine 5 
 
 "I never drink wine, thank you," she 
 answered, with a great effort to keep her 
 voice steady enough for even those trivial 
 words. 
 
 *' It isn't that you never drink wine ; it is 
 that you will not let me do anything for you. 
 I have offended you, but haven't you punished 
 me already ? Will you never believe in me 
 again, Lenore, my darling '? " 
 
 He saw that she shuddered slightly, and 
 turned away from him. 
 
 "Don't; you hurt me," she said, with an 
 accent as of physical pain. 
 
 Cecil was on his knees beside her next 
 moment. 
 
 " Hurt you, my darling ; hurt you f What 
 have I done ? " and he wound his arm round 
 her, for the shiver that again ran through her
 
 284 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 frame, and the whiteness of her lips, made 
 him fear that she was about to faint. But at 
 his touch she recovered herself. 
 
 " I am tired, as you say," she answ^ered, 
 looking him full in the face, in spite of the 
 weakness that still threatened to overcome 
 her; "I have had too much to do, and — 
 please take away your arm, Cecil ; it has no 
 business there. Had you not better get up ? " 
 
 **Not till you tell me how I have hurt 
 you." 
 
 "You will force me to leave you, Cecil." 
 
 "No, no; I wdll force you to stay, my 
 darling," and before she could prevent him he 
 had seized both her hands, and was covering 
 them with kisses. 
 
 "Cecil," she said, and then stopped, and 
 almost wept with shame and anger, " how dare 
 you ? how can you ? Oh, you hurt me by 
 this more than by anything else ! " — and her 
 tears fell fast and unrestrainedly. 
 
 Cecil released her hands as suddenly as he 
 had grasped them.
 
 Cecil's explanation. 285 
 
 " Hurt you hy showing that I love you ? " 
 he asked, slowly. " How can that be ? It 
 might have hurt you if — if you had loved me 
 as I love you, but that, you know, you did 
 not do. Thank God for it ! If you had 
 loved me, we should indeed be miserable 
 now." 
 
 Lenore buried her face in her hands. Cecil 
 rose, walked to the mantelpiece, then turned 
 and looked at her irresolutely. 
 
 ''You know," he went on, "that I have 
 always loved you. iVlways, Lenore ; I swear 
 it. But I thought that you did not care for 
 me. Could you not have helped me a little ? 
 Lenore, Lenore, did you not know that I 
 loved you ? " 
 
 " Indeed," Lenore replied, like another 
 Ophelia, " indeed, Cecil, you made me believe 
 so." 
 
 " And I did love you ; I love you now," he 
 cried, but he held himself back, as if afraid to 
 touch her or to speak too fervently, while a 
 strangely despairing look came into his eyes.
 
 286 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 " And I was not mistaken ; you love me 
 too ? " 
 
 "Yes," she answered, lifting her face from 
 her hands, and meeting his gaze with complete 
 abandonment of her former reserve : "I love 
 you with all my heart." 
 
 Cecil turned to the mantelpiece and rested 
 his arms and head upon it. His face was 
 hidden ; but every now and then his whole 
 frame was agitated by a long heavy breath, 
 almost like a sob. 
 
 " What a blind fool I have been ! " he said 
 at last. " I love you, Lenore, I love you 
 better than all the world beside, and yet — 
 what can I do ? I have promised to marry 
 Ruby Roslyn." 
 
 For a few moments Lenore was silent. 
 Cecil dared not look up ; he waited for her 
 to speak, half expecting an outburst of strong 
 emotion. But her first words were curiously 
 calm, and spoken in a low, quiet tone. 
 
 " Why did you make me love you at all," 
 she said, " if you could not be true to me ? "
 
 Cecil's explaxatiox. 287 
 
 " You can't reproach me more bitterly 
 than I reproach myself," said Cecil's stifled 
 voice. 
 
 " I did not mean to reproach you. I have 
 no right to complain." 
 
 " Your very tones and looks are a reproach 
 to me. Do I not see that I have given you 
 pain ? And we might have been so hapj)y ! 
 Well, perhaps it is better for you ; you will 
 meet somebody worthier than I am : but if I 
 had known that you loved me " 
 
 " Was it my fault, Cecil, that you did not 
 know 1 " 
 
 "No, it was my own ; the worse misery for 
 me ! What a fool I have been ! " 
 
 " But since it has turned out in this way," 
 continued Lenore's low, soft tones, in which 
 Cecil could hardly distinguish the carefully 
 smothered ring of pain, " it will be better to 
 speak of it no more. Why could you not let 
 the matter rest ? Why make me acknowledge 
 that I loved you ? For I do love you, Cecil, 
 dear ; I love you with all my heart " and
 
 '2S8 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 here her calmness gave way. '' I shall never 
 love any one else ; l)ut you did wrong in 
 making me tell you of it, and we must forget 
 it; we shall get over it — in time." And 
 there she broke down altogether, and could 
 say no more. 
 
 '' I can't bear it," said Cecil, striking his 
 foot angrily on the floor ; "is any man 
 compelled to break the heart of the woman 
 that he loves ? Lenore, I can't bear your 
 tears ; they make a coward of me,'' and he 
 came and stood beside her, his own eyes 
 unconsciously filling with bitter drops. " You 
 shall be my wife in spite of all. It would be 
 a sin for me to marry another woman, when 
 T can love none but you." 
 
 Lenore caught her breath, and made a 
 desperate effort at self-control. ''You must 
 not talk in that way," she gasj^ed. 
 
 " And why must I not, my own darling ? 
 We love each other. I have made a mistake 
 — true ; must that mistake spoil our lives for 
 ever ? "
 
 CECIL S EXPLANATION. 289 
 
 " Doing right never sj^oilt any one's life, 
 Cecil." 
 
 "Doing right is loving you, my sweet. 
 Ah, you forget ; I loved you first. I only 
 strayed from you to her by chance, as it were, 
 and for a time ; she has no claim upon me." 
 
 '' She can claim your promise. You made 
 none to me." 
 
 '•' But you can claim my heart." And Cecil 
 put his arms round her and pressed his lips to 
 her forehead. She tried to thrust him away 
 from her, but she could not succeed. 
 
 ''Would you have me lie to her and say 
 I loved her? God knows I have told lies 
 enough ! You would not ruin me for this life 
 and the next ? I shall be a ruined man the 
 day I marry Ruby Roslyn." 
 
 And Lenore so far believed this to be true 
 that she could make little answer. 
 
 "Say only that you forgive me for any suffer- 
 ing I may have caused you, and that you love 
 me still ; then I shall have strength to live my 
 
 life out and make a better thing of it ; but say 
 
 u
 
 290 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 that you despise and hate me — then what does 
 it matter what becomes of me ? The sooner 
 I marry Ruby, or blow my brains out, the 
 better ! I shall despair of God and man." 
 
 *' Hush, Cecil ! " Lenore's composure came 
 back as his decreased. "You do not speak in 
 the way to make me love you — only I love 
 you already ; l3ut, come what may, you must 
 do right." 
 
 "Must do right? Does that mean that 
 I must marry a woman whom I — despise ? " 
 
 Lenore drew herself away, and looked at 
 him steadily. "It means," she said, "that 
 you must not treat Miss Roslyn — as you have 
 treated me." 
 
 Cecil was silent, the hot colour flooding his 
 face. 
 
 "I do not mean to reproach you," said 
 Lenore, steadily, "but you must think of 
 what you did. You made me believe in your 
 love ; you drew me on to love you ; then you 
 left me without a word ; and though it may 
 be wrong to say so now, Cecil, you know that
 
 CFCILS EXPLANATION. 291 
 
 I did suffer. I thought that my heart would 
 break. It has not broken ; and yet — and yet 
 — I vdW not let any woman suffer for me as 
 I have suffered. How could I rejoice if I 
 knew that she was mourning because I had 
 won her lover away from her ? No, Cecil ; you 
 have given that pain to one woman already ; 
 she has conquered it ; I do not feel it so 
 keenly now ; and you shall give it to no one 
 else with my consent." 
 
 '^ What can you mean, Lenore ? " asked 
 Cecil, slowly. 
 
 " That you shall not break off your engage- 
 ment to Miss Eoslyn for my sake." 
 
 '• I will not marry Ruby Eoslyn." 
 
 '•'And I will not marry you." 
 
 "Lenore, Lenore, how can you torture me 
 in this w^ay ? Is it for punishment ? " 
 
 " I don't want to punish you, Cecil." 
 
 " But you do not love me ? " 
 
 '' Don't I ? " And she put her hands before 
 her face. 
 
 In a moment Cecil was kneeling before her.
 
 292 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 pulling away her fingers and covering them 
 with kisses, even with tears. For a little time 
 she could do nothing to check his ardour ; but 
 at last she recovered her self-possession, and 
 spoke firmly. 
 
 *'This is enough," she said, drawing away 
 her hands and rising from her chair. " I have 
 seen you for the last time. There must be an 
 end of it now. Say good-bye, Cecil, and let 
 me go." 
 
 " I will not let you go unless you say that 
 you forgive me." 
 
 '' I do forgive you." 
 
 " Then I will never give you up." 
 
 She froze him by a look. " You will not 
 forget, henceforward," she said, "that Miss 
 Roslyn is your promised wife." 
 
 He turned away half sullenly and let her 
 pass ; but when she neared the door, she 
 glanced over her shoulder and saw him stand- 
 ing listlessly, dejectedly, with drooping head 
 and sombre, melancholy eyes. Her woman's 
 nature could not bear the sight. She went
 
 Cecil's explanation. 293 
 
 back to him and laid her hand upon his arm. 
 " Dear Cecil," she said, " forgive me if I have 
 hurt you too. Oh, my darling, good-bye ! " 
 
 He tried to draw her to him, but she eluded 
 his grasp, and fled out of the room. She was 
 not a moment too soon. The musicians came 
 Hocking in : " God save the Queen " had just 
 been played, and the bazaar ^Yas about to 
 close for the nis^ht. It was after ten o'clock. 
 Utterly forgetful of home and visitors, Cecil 
 strode out into the gas-lit streets, conscious 
 of a savage satisfaction in the fact that a 
 drizzling rain had begun to fall, and that 
 in a few minutes he was drenched to the 
 very skin. 
 
 The Larpingtons, who were staying at Mrs. 
 Brendon's house, were much disappointed to 
 find that Cecil did not appear that evening. 
 Nobody but Mr. Brendon and Max had had 
 time for dinner that day, so a supper had been 
 prepared for the bazaar workers, and a very 
 merry party gathered together in the dining- 
 room. It was just such an occasion as Cecil
 
 294 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 loved, and every one was astonished, and some 
 were uneasy, when midnight came and he had 
 not yet returned to the house. Max's convic- 
 tion was that he had gone home with the 
 Roslyns, but he kept that conviction discreetly 
 to himself. It was nearly one o'clock when 
 the company dispersed. Max was finally left 
 to let the last visitor out at the front door, 
 and to lock up afterwards. Feeling vaguely 
 uneasy about his brother, he remained for a 
 few minutes on the door-step, wondering what 
 had become of him, and whether anything had 
 gone wrong with his afiairs. He had not 
 liked the look of desperation that he had seen 
 once or twice lately on Cecil's face. After a 
 little meditation on the subject, he took a few 
 steps down the garden walk to find out 
 whether it was still raining, and to cool him- 
 self after playing a game in the hot, gas- 
 lio'hted billiard-room. He almost stuml)led 
 over a dark figure leaning against the railing, 
 a couple of yards away from the gate. 
 
 " Hullo ! " he said, rather sharply. Then,
 
 CECILS EXPLANATION. 295 
 
 in a quieter tone, '* Oh ! I see. Where have 
 you been ? " 
 
 '' What's that to you?" growled Cecil, 
 raising himself into an erect posture. 
 
 *' Oh, nothing. Didn't anticipate the 
 pleasure of meeting you here ; that was all." 
 
 Cecil's answer was an ejaculation of a kind 
 so rare from him that Max said immediatel}', 
 
 '^ There' s something wrong ? " 
 
 " Can't you see that there is ? " 
 
 " I see that there soon will be, if you don't 
 look out. Why, man, you're wet through. 
 There 's a fire in the library ; you had better 
 come in and have something hot, or you '11 be 
 laid up." 
 
 Cecil submitted, and followed his brother 
 through the glass doors of the billiard-room 
 into the library, where a fire still burned 
 brightly. Pale, wet, jaded, Cecil dropped 
 into a chair, and cowered over the embers 
 with a shiver. 
 
 " Get off* your boots," said Max, prosaically. 
 " And your other things too ; I '11 bring 3'ou
 
 296 SEVENTY TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 your dressing-gown. You must be daft to 
 stay out in this wet weather." 
 
 And, relieving his feelings with this north- 
 country expression, he heaped some logs on 
 the fire, and went upstairs ; whence he 
 returned with C^ecil's dressing-gown and 
 slippers. 
 
 '^You'll be rheumatic to-morrow if you 
 keep on these clothes," he said, observing that 
 his brother had not stirred. 
 
 Cecil sighed, looked up, and began to unlace 
 his boots ; seeing which sign of life, Max went 
 to hunt for the brandy-bottle, hot water, and 
 a tumbler. It took him some minutes to find 
 these articles, and when he re-entered the 
 library he was relieved to see that Cecil had 
 divested himself of most of his wet clothing, 
 and had wrapped the dressing-gown round 
 him. The l^randy stopped his shivering, and 
 made his lips less blue ; it would have been 
 better if he could eat, but he declined every- 
 thing with an impatient shake of the head. 
 
 '' You had better go oft* to bed when you
 
 ceOil's EXPLAXATIOX. 297 
 
 are warm," said Max, stirring the fire with the 
 tip of his boot. He would never have taken 
 any of these precautions for himself; but 
 Cecil's throat and chest were known to be 
 delicate, and Max did not like his look. 
 
 '^ I shall not sleep if I go," Cecil said at last. 
 
 "Nonsense, you'll sleep well enough. I 
 hope there is nothing seriously amiss ? " he 
 asked, more gravely. 
 
 '' Indeed there is." Cecil's sio-h was almost 
 a groan. 
 
 " What 's wrong ? " 
 
 Cecil was silent for a little time. '' I don't 
 know that I can do better than tell you," he 
 said, rousing himself, but carefully averting 
 his face. " I 'm in an awful mess, and don't 
 know how to get out of it. Perhaps you can 
 help me." 
 
 "Perhaps so. Go ahead, old'fellow." 
 
 END OF VOL. I.