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 DINA.
 
 D I N A 
 
 OR FAMILIAR FACES. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 EDINBURGH: 
 WILLIAM r. NIMMO. 
 
 MDCCCLXV. 
 rj77 r>;nhf<! p^o^,^;,.! j
 
 EDINBURGH : T. CONSTABLE, 
 PRINTER TO THE QUEEN, AND TO THE UNIVERSITY.
 
 
 D I N A 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 " Sir Angus was married fully more than seven years 
 ago to Dina Pentonville, a very pretty Berkshire girl," 
 said Dr. Wilmotte, filling an Indian pipe with tobacco, of 
 which his friend and patient, Captain Archer Calvert, 
 had just been extolling the fragrance. " His sister Edith, 
 then a school girl, was present at the wedding, but, I 
 believe, never saw Lady Lockart again. After spend- 
 ing some months in the Highlands, the young couple 
 r^ went to the Continent, where they remained nearly three 
 ^1 years. On their arrival at Glenrufus Tower, at leng-th 
 ^bent on settling at home, it was evident that they were 
 ^ not living very happily together. Lockart had always 
 ^been subject on slight provocation to fits of violent rage, 
 ^ and such fits were on his return from abroad observed 
 "*> to occur more frequently than formerly. His wife seemed 
 ' extremely wretched when he gave way to them. Appa- 
 ,,rently she had lost any control her beauty and affection 
 Jiad ever given her over them, and was now their victim. 
 ^ The country people often met her roaming in the woods 
 ^with her only child, a dark-haired boy, just old enough 
 ^to walk without assistance, and they remarked that she 
 J was wont to sit for hours in lonely parts of the glen, 
 
 ^^ VOL. I. A
 
 2 DmA. 
 
 clasping him tiglitly in her arms, and witli her hair 
 strewn in disorder over her face and shoulders. They 
 began to speak of her as the ' daft lady/ and there can, 
 I think, be little doubt that something so preyed upon 
 her mind at those times as to make her appear irra- 
 tional. 
 
 " I was not acquainted with the family then, but I 
 have seen a good deal of Lockart during the last two 
 years, and I have twice been present when he has 
 entirely lost command of his temper — on each occasion 
 about some matter really of little moment, but which 
 appeared suddenly to jar upon his nerves, and to put 
 him quite beside himself with pain and passion. Such 
 attacks must have been alarming enough to his young 
 wife, but I scarcely think even their violence quite suffi- 
 cient to account for the extreme dread of them she is 
 said to have shown. I have fancied that, by at first 
 showing fear of him, she wounded his feelings so deeply 
 that his mortification broke out in vexatious slights 
 and crossings, which ultimately made her attribute his 
 fits of anger to dislike of herself However that may be, 
 the poor lady's wanderings in the desolate glen through 
 which the Paifus rumbles l^ecame more and more fre- 
 quent, with, of course, the effect of confirming the popu- 
 lar belief in her ' daftness.' 
 
 "At length a milkmaid surprised her in the act, 
 apparently, of attempting to drown her little son in one 
 of the darkest j)Ools of the peat-browned river. The 
 child was undressed, and the lady, with her clothes and 
 hair in disorder, was holding it down in the water, when 
 she was pounced upon by the milkmaid. The latter's cries 
 brought some wood- cutters to the spot. These after- 
 wards described the lady's appearance as that of a mad
 
 DIXA. 3 
 
 woman, when they forcibly took the child from her, and 
 the girl was positive about her attempt to drown the lad. 
 
 " When Sir Angus heard the story, he became, they 
 say, livid with suppressed anger or excitement, but did 
 not fly into a passion. Lady Lockart was presently 
 examined b}^ two doctors, and, distracted perhaps by 
 her husband's severity, and by the removal of her infant, 
 which had probably been for many a day her only com- 
 fort, she certainly showed serious indications of being 
 out of her mind. The doctors had no doubt that she 
 should be put under some restraint. The necessary- 
 papers were accordingly made out, and she was forth- 
 with sent to House of Dawn, a private asylum on the 
 left bank of the Tay. The milkmaid and the wood- 
 cutters were induced to keep quiet about the affair at 
 the Eufus, and a public inquiry into the facts was thus 
 avoided." 
 
 " And all this took place in Miss Edith's al isence ?" 
 said Calvert interrogatively. 
 
 " Yes ; she was still at school in the Isle of Wight. 
 As soon, however, as his wife was taken away, Lockart 
 sent for his sister, and with her and his son he removed 
 from his ancestral seat and became tenant of Beechworth 
 House. By and by, rheumatism in the legs and feet 
 reduced him to the helpless state in which you now see 
 him." 
 
 " And pray, Ellis, how came you to have a hand in 
 Lady Lockart's death, as is whispered?" 
 
 " You might word the question better," replied the 
 Doctor ; " and yet true it is that in some measure I was 
 the occasion of her death. Wlien all the circumstances 
 attendant on her supposed insanity were described to 
 me by her husband in one of his less reserved moments,
 
 4 DINA. 
 
 I began to suspect that her case was not so hopeless as 
 he supposed it. Her apparent attempt to drown her 
 child weighed little with me. It appeared to me by no 
 means certain that the lady's reputation for daftness 
 might not have helped the milkmaid's imagination to 
 colour the act of simply bathing the boy. Using the 
 privilege of a medical attendant, I argued the point 
 with Sir Angus, and by and by, when the remembrance 
 of happy days spent with his wife in the first years 
 of their marriage softened him, I prevailed so far as to 
 determine him to institute a careful and special inquiry 
 into the state of his wife's mind, with a view to her 
 return home, should that be found possible. 
 
 " Already she had been shut up for more than a year, 
 and I was not, I confess, without misgivings that the 
 confinement might have brought her mind, however 
 sane originally, into the very state it was designed to 
 cure ; for a sane person conscious of being considered 
 mad by every one he comes in contact w^ith must run 
 considerable risk of being driven distracted. 
 
 " Sir Angus requested me to make the necessary 
 examination personally, and I speedily started for 
 House of Dawn — so named, I believe, because, facing 
 the east, it is struck by the first rays of the morning 
 sun as they shine over a long reach of the river. It is 
 a pretty large building. The Tay washes its walls on 
 the east, and its other sides are screened by dense plan- 
 tations. I approached it by the ferry-boat in a warm 
 summer afternoon. The low sun shone with a moody 
 aspect through a hot haze. The yellow waters flowed 
 silently past, moving in broad, winding eddies here and 
 swift currents there. It was pleasant to feel, as the 
 old boatman laboured against the stream, and we slowly
 
 nearecl tlie landing-place, that I was the bearer of a 
 message of peace, and about, I hoped, to be the medium 
 of reconciliation between a couple who had been 
 estranged and separated rather from misunderstanding 
 each other than through any serious offence or failing 
 on either side. I remember wondering^ which, if any, 
 of the river- side windows, on most of which a glare 
 was reflected from the water, was Lady Lockart's : 
 wonderinsf if she looked forth at the boat with ya^ue 
 soulless eyes, or with eyes frenzied by delirium or mois- 
 tened by tears ; whether, in looking at it, some hope 
 was suggested, some yearning awakened towards things 
 beyond those dreary walls thus looming: flaunt ac^ainst 
 the sky. 
 
 " Her window, as I afterwards learned, was a large 
 one which happened particularly to attract my atten- 
 tion. It took the reflected light in a way that distin- 
 guished it from the others, probably because it was of 
 plate glass and without iron bars. It was two storeys 
 above the river, and where, on one of the large panes, 
 the dazzle of light struck less blindingly than elsewhere, 
 I fancied that I could distinguish a pale face looking 
 towards me. 
 
 " The chief physician received me very cordially, 
 and his intelligent expression considerably damped my 
 hopes of finding his patient in a fit state for removal to 
 her home. He thought it better, he said, that I should 
 not visit her at once, better that I should remain a few 
 days in the house, and that a return to her husband 
 should be only very cautiously suggested to her. It 
 was impossible to foresee its effect, he said. Her 
 anguish seemed often very keen. Dreadful recollec- 
 tions, he supposed, haunted her mind, and, apparently,
 
 6 DIN A. 
 
 visions even of immediate danger kept her often for 
 days together in a state of trembling alarm. 
 
 " I dined with the doctors. Lady Lockart's case, it 
 seemed, liad always been regarded by them as an 
 embarrassing one. Sir Angus Lockart's character, too, 
 was not well understood, and the idea had occurred to 
 them tliat natural apprehensions, fears quite justified 
 by facts, working upon a mind in a slightly morbid 
 state, might account for all the symptoms of mental 
 derangement exhibited by his lady since her confine- 
 ment. Had Sir Angus treated her harshly ? the doc- 
 tors inquired ; and, certainly, I suspected him of hav- 
 ing, though in a great measure unwittingly, perhaps, 
 shown some want of forbearance with her. 
 
 " When we had dined, it was proposed that I should 
 take a walk in the vicinity. Meanwhile Dr. Wallis, 
 the manager of the institution, would, he said, see the 
 patient, and try the effect of hinting distantly at my 
 arrival and mission ; — not the most judicious mode of 
 proceeding, as it turned out. I accordingly went out 
 and wandered through the plantations. Q'here I soon 
 lost my way, and failed to make out my whereabouts 
 again until I came unexpectedly upon the river. The 
 sun had by this time set, and the long twiliglit was 
 waning fast. I slowly scrambled through the brush- 
 wood, with the view of reaching the house by keeping 
 on the river's bank, for I was hopeless of finding my way 
 back through the wood. Gradually the darkness in- 
 creased, and by and by I could not always distinguish 
 bush from stone. The water, however, continued visible 
 enough, as it caught some light from the north-western 
 sky and the tinged clouds still lingering in the zenith ; 
 and in the east there very soon appeared the moon,
 
 DIXA. 7 
 
 brooding just above the horizon, and giving promise of 
 better light. 
 
 " Sometimes I was forced by the abruptness of the 
 bank to pass along tlie slimy and shingly shore left bare 
 by the ebbing tide. Turning a corner, I at length came 
 in sight of the tall mansion, and saw most of its numer- 
 ous windows lighted from within. 
 
 " On one side of my path was a perpendicular wall 
 of sand and clay, which the river, it seemed, scraped 
 when flooded by the tide. To climb up this was im- 
 possible. On my other side the gloomful water flowed 
 past, and washed against the muddy shore with a sough- 
 ing, saddening sound. The house was still about two 
 hundred yards off, when, as I was plodding along, slipping 
 and stumbling on the dark greasy stones and clay, my 
 whole attention was suddenly drawn to a window of 
 the second floor. I saw the sash thrown up quickly. 
 A figure moved in the room ; a woman, plainly. 
 Presently she leant over the sill, and seemed to 
 gaze upon the waters below. In a few seconds she 
 retired into the apartment. I waited, doubting if the 
 room were a patient's or that of some member of the 
 household. In a little the woman again came forward, 
 this time holding some bulky object, which she laid 
 carefully beside the window. She withdrew once more, 
 but the next moment reappeared and threw out some- 
 thing white wliicli immediately hung like a rope from 
 the window-sill to the water. 
 
 " That some one was about to escape from the house, I 
 now felt assured. Unhickily, in my eagerness to dash 
 forward arkd give the alarm, I tripped over a stone and 
 feU heavily, hurting my knee and spraining my ankle. 
 I lay half stunned, but saw, though dimly, the woman
 
 8 ' DINA. 
 
 take up the bundle she had placed near the window, 
 stretch her arms round it, and then, having moved 
 herself over the sill, slip swiftly down the white 
 rope. There was a splash in the water, and I had just 
 time to see something float past me on the stream 
 when I ceased to be aware of things. Intense pain in 
 my knee had made me faint. No doubt I remained 
 unconscious for several minutes. When I found myself 
 recovering, the great red moon was glowing upon my 
 face through the river fogs, and looking to my confused 
 vision almost as if it filled the sky. Even after my 
 eyes got rightly focused again, I could not for a while 
 perceive where I was, or renieml)er what had occurred 
 to me. 
 
 " Owing to the spraining of my ankle, I was, of course, 
 unable to follow the fugitive down the stream, and it 
 was only after much toil that I contrived to reach the 
 door of the asylum. When I arrived there the escape 
 was still undiscovered. Of course all the servants tliat 
 could be spared were immediately despatched in boats, 
 or on foot along the river bank, in the hope that the 
 poor woman might have floated long enough to be caught 
 on some rock or jutting tree-stump. But nothing was 
 seen of her by any of them. Some weeks afterwards 
 the remains of a female were cast ashore near Dundee 
 ferry. No other person having been missed about that 
 time, the body was presumed, and no doubt rightly, to 
 be that of the person I saw escape, though perfect iden- 
 tification of either body or dress was found impossi- 
 ble, owino- to their having? been so loner in the restless 
 water. 
 
 '' I need not tell you that the unfortunate fugitive 
 was Lady Lockart. I confess the remembrance of
 
 DIXA. 9 
 
 that night still, now and then, makes the blood seem 
 to grow chill in my veins." 
 
 Dr. ^A^ilmotte spoke feelingly, though in his metho- 
 dical manner. 
 
 " By jingo I I like your nerve, though," cried Calvert. 
 " I could not for the world tell such a story as that 
 with a pipe between the teeth. You doctors get used 
 to such things, I suppose. But what, after all, had you 
 to do with the drowning of the 'daft lady?' Had a 
 stray glimpse of your black brows driven her out of 
 her remainino- wits ?" 
 
 o 
 
 " Dr. Wallis had gone to her room soon after I left 
 the house to ramble in the woods. He dropped some 
 hints of a message from Sir Angus, and Lady Lockart 
 immediately associated it with the passage of the ferry- 
 boat, which she had, in fact, watched from her window. 
 At first the prospect of seeing her child again made a 
 good impression. She was, indeed, radiant with joy. 
 Wallis told me that at that moment the beauty of her 
 face was angelic ; for all her sufferings had failed, it 
 seemed, to wear out her personal charms. He hoped 
 her case was about to take a favourable turn ; but the 
 unlucky repetition of her husband's name reminding 
 her, apparently, of old horrors, she presently sank into 
 a paroxysm of terror and misery. When at length she 
 was in some measure calmed, the doctor left her to the 
 care of her maid, and the latter havino- assisted her to 
 bed, soon after quitted the room. The lady was never 
 seen alive again save by me." 
 
 " Ah, I wouldn't have been in your shoes for a good 
 deal when you told Sir Angus." 
 
 " That, indeed, was a sad task, for in his heart of 
 hearts Lockart loved the poor woman passionately.
 
 10 DIN A. 
 
 He is a clianged man since those days ; rarely beside 
 himself with rage now, and usually extremely mild, as 
 if trying to atone for past errors. In fact, I believe 
 that if lie has not atoned for them, he has at least casti- 
 gated ]iis unlucky soul as severely as ever eremite did 
 his body." 
 
 " Poor old boy !" 
 
 " Nay, he's not so old. Barely thirty, I suspect."
 
 DIXA. 11 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 " Lettees 1" exclaimed Calvert, the foregoing conver- 
 sation being interrupted by the entrance of his factoh'/tn, 
 Tom Crocket, ^Yitll a small salver in his hand. 
 
 The doctor begged that his presence might not inter- 
 fere with the immediate perusal of such of the letters as 
 his friend might wish to look over, and having refilled 
 his pipe, he quietly put his hands into his pockets and 
 leant in a meditative attitude on one of the marble 
 figures which supported the chimney-piece beside which 
 he stood. 
 
 Dr. Ellis Wilmotte was under middle height, strongly 
 built, somewhat eagle- featured, and had a mixture of 
 grey in his stiff black hair which gave him an appear- 
 ance of maturity unusual in a man of nine-and-twenty. 
 Calvert had enjoyed his professional ad\T.ce since his 
 return to Edinburgh, after a hot campaign in India, and 
 a sojourn of some years in the south of England, but he 
 regarded him rather as his friend than as his physician, 
 since, notwithstanding some disparity in age, they had 
 been at college together, and had continued close cor- 
 respondents while Calvert was abroad. 
 
 " Ha !" cried the latter with sudden glee, when, after 
 glancing at some letters which seemed to interest him 
 little, his eye fell upon a bright bkie crest at the head
 
 12 DIN A, 
 
 of a slieet of note-paper which he had just opened. 
 " How odd that I should have overlooked this till 
 now ! She writes the new-fashioned hand, it seems ; no 
 sharp angles. Welcome, thrice welcome, most welcome ! 
 another party in the Cragie woods, Ellis. By the by, 
 Miss Lockart supposed some very urgent case must have 
 kept you from her last pic-nic there." 
 
 " She was not mistaken. I was at Ashcroft farm, 
 watching a child, Espie Gowans, through the crisis of a 
 sharp pleurisy." 
 
 " At Ashcroft ? Then you would not be without the 
 aid of ]\Iiss Grange, of whose zeal in the nursing of that 
 girl I have heard some pleasing anecdotes." 
 
 " I had, indeed, the advantage of her assistance." 
 
 " Ha, ha ! soothing it was, I am sure, to the little 
 patient, and interesting as a study to the doctor. I say, 
 AVilmotte, that's a good sort of girL AVe had lots of 
 that kind in Lucknow." 
 
 " So I supposed. Miss Lushet has some anecdotes of 
 their zeal in your behalf, hasn't she ?" 
 
 " Hang ^liss Lushet !" 
 
 " Ho, my boy, she has not jilted you, I hope ? Many 
 a slip between cup and lip is incident to your state, you 
 know." 
 
 This jesting was gall to Archer, who happened to be 
 really vexed about his intimacy with the lady in ques- 
 tion, but he subdued his impatience, a,nd said merely, — 
 
 " You have fallen, like some others, into an odd mis- 
 take, Ellis. AYhy should you suppose, if you do suppose 
 indeed, that Miss Lushet is or has been anything to 
 me?" 
 
 " I beg your pardon. I scarcely took the lilierty of 
 supposing anything on the subject, but there is a rumour.
 
 DI^^A. 13 
 
 If there 's nothing in it, say so ; or if things are in trim, 
 allow me to congratulate you. Miss Lushet is a grace- 
 ful, mild-mannered, equable-tempered girl. Such a one, 
 save in height, perhaps, as I recommended you to look 
 out for as soon as I saw your fidgety habits. AVith your 
 excitable nerves, you require a companion — " 
 
 " Large enough to keep me quiet by proving a dead 
 weight on my impulsiveness," broke in Calvert. 
 
 " So it's quite off, then," resumed the doctor ; " I'm 
 sorry for it. Her regard for you is said to be obvious 
 to eveiy one." 
 
 Archer sighed and had not the heart to say anything 
 unkind of the girl. 
 
 " Strange fancies mortals are subject to," continued 
 his imperturbable friend. " ^^^hy, Frederick Evans, 
 whom I met on my way here this afternoon, said you 
 were walking with Bracy Lushet at the promenade in 
 the AYest Princes Street Gardens to-day. He seemed 
 scarcely to like it, I thought." 
 
 " Did he ? I wish to goodness he would take her off 
 my hand. That is — no, I'm not sure that I do. But it 
 was no fault of mine meeting her to-day. I was walk- 
 ing up the centre path, at some distance from the per- 
 formers, wondering at the fact that aU the music I heard 
 seemed to come from the echo in the Castle rock, instead 
 of directly from the band, when, on looking round, heed- 
 lessly, I found myself face to face with the two Lushets." 
 
 *' That was a calamity !" 
 
 " None of your chaff ; I say, what could a fellow do ?" 
 
 " Do ? why, thank his stars that !Miss Bracy's sister 
 was with her instead of a handsome man like Fred 
 Evans." 
 
 " Bah 1 there's no arguing with you, Ellis. I tell you
 
 14 DIN A. 
 
 that I don't care a rap for Bracy, except as a friend. 
 I will not be provoked into speaking lightly of a woman 
 who has treated me with wonderful consideration ; but 
 I must say once for all that I have no thought of taking 
 her out to India with me, nor have had any to speak of 
 at any time. I fear, however, some mischief has arisen 
 from my thoughtlessness. Mrs. Melville certainly offered 
 me her congratulations the other day with an air of sin- 
 cerity, and seemed to put her own construction upon my 
 disavowal. Mary IMelville, too, told me that she, being 
 marriageable, scarcely cared to be seen dancing three 
 times in an evening with me now that my choice was 
 made, and yet unannounced ; the facetious little minx ! 
 I would not willingly be the occasion of any mortifica- 
 tion to ^liss Lushet, so, pray, contradict this story. She 
 may be bothered by gossips and cruelly bantered, and, 
 truth to tell, I dearly love the mellow, gentle soul !" 
 
 " Well, Archer, let me at least advise you again not 
 to think of going out witliout a wife. You'd be im- 
 mensely the better of one in many ways. You carry 
 too much sail, you know, and need ballast !" 
 
 " I quite agree with you, Ellis ; it would be a fatal 
 step. Miss Lushet herself has hinted as much ! One 
 should not, indeed, so tempt the winds. AYhat an un- 
 lucky dog I am, now ! Had I met Miss Lock art or 
 Miss Grange half as often last season as I fell in with 
 Bracy Lushet, who was everpvhere, what a different 
 turn things might have taken ! ]\Iarian Grange is really 
 a stunning little lass. Yet how quiet and simple she 
 looks ! What a sweet light there is in her dreamy, 
 violet grey eyes ! The quiet droop of those long eye- 
 lashes of hers on her prettily- tinged cheek has a grave 
 tenderness in it which cannot but give one a pleasant
 
 BIKA. 15 
 
 impression of her character ; for it is truly without 
 affectation or self- consciousness, occurring as it does 
 generally when she pauses to think over what you 
 have said before she gives you her low reply. How 
 smoothly and unpretendingly braided her glossy brown 
 hair is, with its curl or two dropped carelessly as it 
 were, behind her pretty shell-like ear. Ha, I see by 
 the softening of your black brows, Ellis, that you fully 
 appreciate the correctness of my sketch. But attractive 
 as Miss Marian is, I have a notion that the straioiit 
 and gracious Edith Lockart bears away the palm even 
 from her. Though, to be sure, the lustrelessness of Miss 
 Lockart's hair is against her, even in my sight. How- 
 ever, that matters not. Of her I have no chance. 
 Such a man as Ealph Eagle, no little fellow like me 
 need expect to copp with. AVould that i could detest 
 him ! yet rivalry seems out of the question, for the 
 advantage to her in his success is obvious, and I should, 
 besides, be a beast to wish the least ill to a man likely 
 to become a part of her life." 
 
 " Upon my word. Archer, you are very romantic. 
 Eagle indeed, not improbably, has forestalled you ; but 
 had you and he started together, I should have backed 
 you readily." 
 
 " You flatter me, good Doctor. You're not off 
 already, surely?" 
 
 " Yes ; I promised to look in upon the Melvilles 
 about tea-time. I shall tell Miss Mary that she may 
 dance with you still — Miss Lushet being out of favour. 
 Eh? Aiij revoir!'
 
 16 BINA, 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " How on earth was it that I became so over inti- 
 mate with this Miss Lushet, to whom there seems to 
 be something like a conspiracy to tether me for life?" 
 exclaimed Arthur Calvert to himself, as, having nodded 
 his adieux to Dr. Wilmotte, he cast himself into the 
 easiest of his easy chairs. " Let me see ; I met her 
 for the very first time only last winter. At the Mel- 
 villes' ? Yes ; an evening party there. My wounds 
 were at length healed, and even my lingering fever 
 gone, and I, though quite as thin as a paper-cutter, 
 had been reported fit for dancing, if not for duty. It 
 was not as yet, however, advisable to knock about 
 much, and Ellis had prohibited waltzing altogether, as 
 being likely to strain the still tender sinews of my 
 ankle. 
 
 " After a quadrillfe with Miss Lockart — serene Edith, 
 whom reluctantly enough I resigned, I remember, to 
 Fred Evans when the gallop began — I had found for 
 myself a snug corner, out of the way of the skirts. I 
 was enjoying the rest thoroughly, and was not thinking 
 at all of a large damsel who shared the sofa with me, 
 when, as ill-luck would have it, good old Mrs. jNIelville, 
 who never loses a chance of coupling forlorn-looking 
 folk, espied me, and coming up, without warning intro-
 
 mXA. 17 
 
 diiced me to tlie damsel in question. I was quite taken 
 aback, and mumbled the first words of courtesy that 
 came to my lips. Some inches taller tha,n myself, and 
 stout too, the girl was not one whom my vanity would 
 have permitted me to select as a partner ; yet a dance 
 with her, should she be willing, was unavoidable. 
 
 " ' I have cousins of your name,'" she remarked with 
 a bland smile, as soon as I had engaged her, and caught 
 a vis-a-vis for the ficrure then formini>\ 
 
 " Many persons, I find, have cousins of my name, 
 while I, poor wight, have no tolerably near relation in 
 the world; none called Calvert have I had, indeed, 
 since my uncle's palanquin-bearer used his viUanous 
 dirk, the ungrateful brute. 
 
 "'Cousins of your name?' Miss Lushet said, and 
 added, ' they often speak of a Lieutenant Calvert, who 
 defended one of the counter-mines at Lucknow against 
 a legion of mutineers, until the earth fell in and crushed 
 him.' 
 
 " Xow, if there be one thing more than another that 
 I remember with complacency, it is that affair in the 
 counter-mine, for it was a nice thing on the whole, 
 considering the odds I had to do with. Xaturally, 
 then, it was with pleasure that I acknowledged my- 
 self the person ]\Iiss Lushet's cousins were fond of talk- 
 ing about. 
 
 " ' ]\Iy cousins V she went on, looking down on me 
 with a glow of warm approval in her large brown 
 eyes, ' were with other ladies crowded into a small 
 l)omb-proof compartment, or rather cellar, and busily 
 occupied in j)icking lint for the wounded, when you, 
 insensible, and indeed apparently dead, were carried to 
 the door of their chamber, and left tliere, owing to a 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 18 DINA. 
 
 sudden alarm outside, wliicli obliged the soldiers who 
 were taking you to the hospital to set you down and 
 hurry back. The ladies, or some of them, at once' — 
 how the mild- eyed woman's kind words are fixed in 
 my memory — ' at once lifted the litter and earned you 
 forward. Your hurts were examined by a surgeon, 
 and you were soon all over bandages, covering cuts, 
 stabs, and bruises. For days you never opened your 
 eyes or seemed to know what was happening. My 
 cousins and others watched and tended you time about, 
 and many a tear fell on your unconscious face when it 
 was understood how much was due to your firmness in 
 resisting the enemy single-handed. Often I have heard 
 the story how, when a party of miners were Ijeing re- 
 lieved, you went into the cutting alone to estimate the 
 eiistance gained ; how, before the relay came down, the 
 end of the passage was broken through by the opposite 
 miners, and you were in a moment face to face with a 
 party of Sepoys, who rushed at you over the rubbish 
 (as you afterwards described) with exultant yells ; and 
 how you, having with your revolver fired half-a-dozen 
 shots almost at once, struck at the foe with a native 
 dagger you had picked up, and in that way stopped 
 their advance during some breathless seconds, until, just 
 as your own men were arriving to your rescue, the roof 
 of the cutting fell, partly burying you, and completely 
 obstructing the progress of the mutineers.' 
 
 "Thus the gentle lady told the tale. It must be 
 allowed, surely, that after having been as near kicking 
 the bucket as may be without quite doing it, after 
 groaning for years from festering wounds, and after 
 having been brought several times to the lowest ebb by 
 recurrinc^ fevers, one, on first getting into societv again,
 
 DIXA. 19 
 
 is likely to be not excessively strong-minded^ — to be, in 
 fact, rather soft, and, perhaps, more grateful for small 
 mercies than he might be under other circumstances. 
 Be that as it may, however, I am not ashamed to confess, 
 to myself at least, that on hearing so gratifying a recital 
 of what had occurred to me at Lucknow from a stranger s 
 lips, and between the figures of what was only my 
 second dance since my recovery, I felt, to say the least, 
 favourably inclined towards the fair woman who so 
 agreeably tickled my vanity. Then, honouring glances 
 from sweet eyes do raise one in one's own esteem ; and 
 it happened that when the dance was over, I, puny as I 
 was, felt even a certain complacency in giving Miss 
 Lushet my arm and conducting her to one of those snug 
 ante-rooms, which make the ^Nlelvilles' parties so attractive 
 to indolent or talkative folk. There, with my still weak 
 leg on an ottoman, I reclined near my complimentary- 
 partner, and enjoyed hearing her soft voice murmuring 
 at my ear, and began rather to like than otherwise the 
 immensity of her person, which, while she was seated on 
 a low chair, did not seem to domineer over me very 
 mortifyingly. We were left in our retreat nearly undis- 
 turbed till supper-time, when, of course, it became my 
 duty to take her down. She had shown no weariness 
 of my company, and I, for the first time perhaps, had 
 been thoroughly at ease beside a very beautiful woman. 
 But bless my frailty ! I had not all the while dreamt of 
 wooing the lofty creature. Ko ; and, assuredly, neither 
 then nor afterwards did I pay her any attentions to 
 speak of Indeed, I never even thought of her in rela- 
 tion to myself as being anything but a good sisterly 
 being with a friendly voice that was soothing to a bat- 
 tered, solitary soul whose lines had lain over somewhat
 
 20 DIN A. 
 
 jagged paths since boyhood, and who had but recently- 
 escaped from tlie shadow of dark enough days. Yet she 
 and I are talked of, and, to be candid, I have now and 
 tlien a suspicion that she regards me as her lover, and 
 does not disdain my favour. A plague on my sim- 
 plicity !" 
 
 Here the speaker kicked his footstool across the floor 
 of his comfortable parlour with an energy scarcely to 
 have been expected in a man of his fragile appearance ; 
 for Archer Calvert, of the Bengal Horse Artillery, was a 
 slender little fellow, whose constitution had been severely 
 tried by wounds and sickness. Though nearly two-and- 
 thirty, he looked much less, owing to his fair complexion 
 and slight figure. His head was small and graceful, 
 with hair too thin and silky to hide a long scar which 
 crossed liis crown. In keeping with his head and figure, 
 his features were tiny and somewhat dainty in shape : 
 the nose straight and rather sharp, the lips thin but 
 bright-coloured, the chin pointed and the cheeks rather 
 fleshless. His eyes were not dark, but they were very 
 vivid. Their rays seemed to pierce you. You felt, 
 however, tliat there was no sort of malice in them, 
 nothing in their penetrating look to cause you a moment's 
 uneasiness. Archer was, indeed, too imaginative always 
 to read you aright, and he probably saw in your eyes 
 only a reflex of his own kindly nature. Hence the rare- 
 ness with which even his stare offended. A woman 
 beloved by the possessor of those eyes could not but live 
 happily in their light, for would she not continually 
 revel in the perception of the sweetness they would 
 seem to be seeing in hers ? But, as I have said, while 
 Archer's eyes liad this peculiar tenderness, and flattered 
 you by their smile, they were not rich-coloured eyes,
 
 DIN A. ■- 21 
 
 and you could hardly admire tliem for their beauty, 
 even while delighted by their quivering radiance, their 
 gleesomeness, and their unfailing frankness. 
 
 Of soldierly courage Archer had abundance, though it 
 was scarcely of that serene kind so much applauded in 
 the British officer. He would, indeed, remain unalarmed 
 while showers of bullets were lashing in his face like 
 hail, to speak in the popular tongue, but he might 
 probably fail to exhibit that perfect nonchalance which 
 leads a man languidly to express his surprise at the 
 pungency of rifle balls by at the most a slight elevation 
 of the eyebrows. Such passive daring is very fine in its 
 way, and may well excite as decided an expression of 
 admiration as may be consistent with good breeding, 
 but it was not characteristic of Archer Calvert. His 
 courage was actively aggressive. His eyes strained and 
 flashed with eagerness, and his spirit, at least, fought 
 the foe if his hands could not reach him. Perhaps, 
 indeed, lie had too much of the Zouave temperament 
 to be a thoroughly reliable artillery officer. Xow and 
 then accident had indulged his personal pugnacity, and 
 on such occasions his brother officers had not merely 
 acknowledged, but even boasted of little Archer's invin- 
 cible dash. Once, for example, in a late Indian war his 
 battery was suddenly thrown into confusion by an un- 
 accountable panic in an advanced regiment of dragoons, 
 under cover of which he had been taking up a position 
 on the verge of a dense jungle. First the dragoons came 
 back thundering among liis waggons and guns, and 
 then, pell-mell, a rush of wild Sikh horsemen, as frantic 
 as Ghazees, swept through the brushwood, slashing and 
 hacking, right and left, at the half-armed artillerymen, 
 like devils incarnate. For a few minutes Calvert could
 
 22 DINA. 
 
 scarcely distinguish friend from foe, and merely defended 
 himself with half-blind energy from the swords which 
 seemed whirling like wildfire around him. Gradually, 
 however, the wave of battle passing, he began to see 
 about him. At this time he had not above two or 
 three flesh wounds, and he was eagerly on the look-out 
 for the choicest Sikh shoulder on which to try his steel, 
 when, throuf>ii the smoke and dust, he cauoht si2;ht of 
 his colonel in the thickest of the fight, hacked at by 
 three of the enemy at once. Without a moment's hesi- 
 tation he self-denyingly dodged the charge of a wild 
 trooper, and putting spurs to his horse, galloped to the 
 rescue of his chief Ere he could reach the spot his 
 horse was shot dead and dropped under him ; but 
 Archer was not the man to be balked by such an inci- 
 dent. The fall of his horse suggested a means of making 
 the colonel's contest less unequal. In a moment his 
 feet were disengaged from his stirrups, and like a wild 
 cat he sprang into the fray on foot, dashed under the 
 very heels of the, Sikh horses, and plunged his sword 
 into their bowels — one, two, three fierce lunges, and the 
 black fellows' steeds were sprawling under them. The 
 colonel, who lived to tell of that adventure, used after- 
 wards to say that Calvert had done a plucky thing or 
 two, and the remark was considered just.
 
 DIXA. 23 
 
 CHAPTEE lY. 
 
 The siiniDier sun had set when Ellis AVilmotte de- 
 scended from Archer's lodgings, on the first floor of a 
 large house near the west end of Princes Street. The 
 Doctor directed his steps towards a fashionable quarter 
 of the town, and after a few minutes' rapid walk he was 
 moving softly up a richly-carpeted stair, at the head of 
 which an amber- coated footman ushered him into a 
 large and lofty back drawing-room. 
 
 The apartment was enriched and its colours har-* 
 monized by a mellow evening light, for the north-west 
 was still ablaze with gorgeous clouds, — those of the 
 deepest hue arranged in purple banks along the broken 
 horizon beyond the upper Forth, where the far- stretch- 
 ing Ochils bounded the view commanded from four 
 lofty windows. 
 
 Near a table about the middle of the room a young 
 girl bent over an embroidery frame, and her long couleur 
 de soldi curls fell on the lio-ht canvas like streams of 
 
 o 
 
 gold. Against the westmost window appeared, sharply 
 outlined, the well-cut features of a taller girl, who sat, 
 student-like, with a large book before her, and beside 
 another of the windows leaned the rosy cheeks of a 
 plump old lady, who lay snugly in the sootliing hollow 
 of a large easy-chair.
 
 24 DIKA. 
 
 " My dear boy ! " exclaimed the lady, her brown eyes 
 sparkling through her concave spectacles, and her lips 
 disappearing smilingly between her pointed chin and 
 her bird-like nose — for this lady, comfortably fat and 
 rosy, was above eighty years of age, and disdained to 
 separate her venerable gums by the contrivance of false 
 teeth, wdience the curving in point of her fine nose 
 nearly met the round end of her dimpled chin when 
 pleasure or courtesy found expression in her humour- 
 loving mouth. 
 
 " INly dear Doctor," she added, correcting herself, 
 " how late vou are ! We thouMit of you whilst the sun 
 was going down out there highlandw^ards of Fife, and 
 hoped you would come in time to see him in his splen- 
 dour ; but there, behold, you have still his gilded court 
 dutifully lingering over his royal couch ! " 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! " laughed the younger girl, starting up 
 from her work and tripping lightly across the room, 
 "grandmanniia has been treating us to such speeches 
 all the evening. I do wish you had come sooner, Ellis. 
 You are smiling at me for once. Dr. Solemn Brows." 
 
 "Wilmotte, taking the girl's hands, turned her gently 
 till the light shone upon her mirthful eyes. 
 
 " No headache now, I see," he remarked ; " charmed 
 away by the music you were listening to at the prome- 
 nade to-day, was it not?" 
 
 "So you have beriten the gout again?" he added, 
 turning to the old lady. 
 
 " No — yes ; it comes and goes. Mary brings forward 
 the parcel of powders you prescribed whenever she sees 
 me twitchim,^ and, if the threatenincj attack does not 
 at once withdraw, we untie the string, or even have a 
 tunibler brought and rung with a spoon, as in mix-
 
 DIXA. 25 
 
 ing the powders ; that always carries the day — ha ! 
 ha ! ha 1" 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Melville, you have lived long and cheerily 
 without medicine, and I certainly don't wish you to 
 acquire the habit of taking it while it can be dispensed 
 with." 
 
 " Ah, your predecessor, poor, dear Pistledunt, was less 
 merciful when I played him the same trick. I have 
 seen him stamp the floor in a rage. Xay, he once 
 fairly bolted out of the house when I told him that I 
 had tried the Chinese plan of taking diaigs — writing 
 their names on slips of paper and chewing these. Eare 
 old boy ! I missed him sadly for many a day. He and 
 I had been playfellows even in our nurses' arms ; and 
 dear, dear me, how^ lonsr, long aoro ! " 
 
 " By the by," the pleasant lady continued, " have you 
 seen anything of my little ^;ro^e^e Archer Calvert lately ? 
 Our girls saw him in the gardens this afternoon w^alk- 
 ing w^ith Bracy Lushet. He would not allow me to 
 speak of her as his fiancee the last time he was here, 
 but, of course, she is at least in a fair w^ay of being 
 so, admiring him as she certainly does. Am I too 
 incpiisitive ? She is very sw^eet- tempered, and well 
 fitted to prove a steadying companion to our restless 
 friend." 
 
 " I told him so, Mrs. Melville, a few minutes ago, and 
 he rather seemed to take that view of her, though — " 
 
 " Ah, that's very fortunate. I am rejoiced to think 
 that I was the means of bringing them together, acci- 
 dentally, however. I saw them sitting just w^here you 
 are now, so I slipped past the dancers and introduced 
 them to each other ; little thinking, to be sure, what 
 might come of it, for at the time I had something else
 
 26 nixA. 
 
 ill view for the lad ; so short- sighted are we ! Well, he 
 may be happy with Bracy." 
 
 " He did not look extremely so when with her to-day, 
 grandmamma," said Mary J\Ielville, the younger girL 
 " It struck us all that your bland friend rather bored 
 him, and you know she is heavy in the long-run, though 
 a dear friend of mine, and heartily w^elcome to accom- 
 pany us to the Dingle to-moiTOw." 
 
 While speaking, Mary poured out tea at a side table, 
 and handed a cup to Wilmotte. 
 
 " Try this cake," she said, addressing him, " it is as 
 light and harmless as your own powders. Poor, dear 
 Archer ! I think he might have shown more taste, don't 
 you?" 
 
 " I w^as about to say," replied the Doctor, " that 
 though he appreciates Miss Lushet's amiability, there 
 is, I suspect, less probability of his taking her to India 
 than we have been fancying. He acknowledges no such 
 intention even to me." 
 
 " Slyboots. Well, I know whose turn will come 
 next, who wishes our little hero far enough away," said 
 Mary. 
 
 " You do, do you, Miss Wideawake ?" 
 
 " Yes ; you should have seen Mr. Evans hovering 
 about her to-day, and carefully shutting his eyes against 
 all other friends as long as there seemed a chance that 
 Archer might go off. By the by, I hugely detest that 
 habit gentlemen have of giving way to each other. 
 AMiy did Mr. Evans not pass close to her, and thus give 
 her a chance of shaking hands, and, if she pleased, draw- 
 ing him into the conversation ? One cannot always send 
 away a bore merely because he is a bore, so that the 
 fact that one is submitting to be talked to is no proof
 
 DIXA. 27 
 
 t?iat the talker is found agreeable. It is intolerable in 
 a man to keep in the background merely because he 
 sees me treated with persevering attentions by some one 
 in no degree his superior, and whom I may like mu.ch 
 less. Though I have little SA^mpathy with such an over- 
 whelming;' woman, — under whose extended arm I could 
 walk without ruffling my hair, — I think it shameful 
 that Bracy is not allowed an opportunity of choosing 
 for herself She may prefer Evans were it only because 
 his height is the more suitable, but she may be driven 
 to take Calvert should he wish her, merely because 
 neither ^Ir. Evans nor any other man will humiliate 
 himself so far as to let his regard for her appear while 
 Calvert is tolerated. Even the old-fashioned plan of 
 lovers fighting for the lady was preferable, for they at 
 least showed their colours frankly. Yet the fighting 
 plan went upon the absurd idea that the men were 
 to decide among themselves which should have the 
 lady." 
 
 '•'My dear," said Mrs. Melville, ''the courage and 
 energy exhibited by the successful gallant were recog- 
 nised as the highest claims to a woman's hand. The 
 combat under the Castle walls displayed these to the 
 best advantage, and the lady fought for would proudly 
 accept the successful combatant." 
 
 " Listen to grandmamma ! You dear old lady ! I 
 wonder if grandpapa won you in that way. But do you 
 not forget what might happen from the worthier com- 
 batant having a rusty sword, a rotten lance, or even an 
 ill-tempered breastplate ? King Arthur was sometimes 
 beaten by his knights, but though he grandly said his 
 knights were ' better men than he/ should I, therefore, 
 have been content with one of them instead of the
 
 28 DINA. 
 
 noble Artliiir himself, wlio was always so beautifully 
 dressed, wJiose 
 
 ' Haughty helmet, torrid all with gold, 
 Both glorious brightness and great terror bred ; 
 For all the crest a dragon did enfold 
 With greedy paws, and over all did spread 
 
 His golden wings.' 
 
 ' Upon the top of all 
 
 A bunch of hair discoloured diversly. 
 
 With sprinkled pearl and gold full richly drest, 
 
 Did shake, and seem'dto dance for jollity.' 
 
 Yes, I must have my choice free. Let all my knights 
 declare themselves, praise me in songs, and display their 
 accomplishments. That I cannot reward them all is a 
 pity; but those wdio are rejected have at least no occa- 
 sion to feel ashamed. To have been permitted for a 
 moment to rank himself among the aspirants to the 
 consort's seat at my side, may well be considered honour 
 enough for any man. Had women made the laws, no 
 doubt we should have been permitted a few husbands 
 to worry in addition to the one we should have delighted 
 to love. We are hardly used ; but, to be sure, it is 
 some comfort to think that we can usually enjoy the 
 w^orrying of a few lovers before we marry ; which, by the 
 by, we'd never think of doing before thirty but for the 
 risk of being left old maids. I have not done much 
 myself yet in the w^ay of worrying. It w^as a shame to 
 keep me in learning French and w^riting themes on 
 human responsibility until I was seventeen past. You 
 think me cruel, Ellis, but that is quite a mistake on your 
 part. I mean to break a few hearts, but, believe me, 
 scarcely less from pure benevolence than for my own 
 amusement ; for are not we assured by jNIr. Tennyson 
 that it is ' better to have loved and lost than never to
 
 Dm A. 20 
 
 liave loved at all ?' If Lut for me some man might 
 never have loved at all, he is clearly my debtor even in 
 the event of my inflicting upon him the trial of a refusal 
 when at length I bring him to the point." 
 
 " Mary, Mary, what must Dr. Wilmotte think of 
 you ?" exclaimed Sarah Melville from her seat at the 
 west window. 
 
 "Ah, don't I wonder?" sighed Mary, playfully roll- 
 ing a ringlet round the Doctor's wrist, and smiling at 
 the brilliant bracelet it made. 
 
 Wilmotte, who had sat quietly sipping his tea, and 
 wondering at the girl's fluency of speech, dutifully put 
 the bracelet to his lips, and admitted that a man might 
 be fettered by sun-coloured ringlets as effectually as by 
 iron chains. 
 
 " What fun it would be to have you at my mercy, 
 Ellis ! What wouldn't I give for the power of torment- 
 ing you affectionately ? However, I have no chance of 
 that. You cannot suppose me blind, can you ? Ha ! 
 ha ! Sir, I found out your secret long ago ; but how 
 nobly I have acted ! never have I hinted at such a thing 
 to he-r, but have left you to choose your own time, unem- 
 barrassed by any premature consciousness on her part !" 
 
 The venerable lady, snug in her chair, and with her 
 gouty feet wrapt in a red and white Berlin wool rug, 
 seemed to enjoy her grandchild's prattle. Her own life 
 had been an easy one, and she probably remembered 
 that when a girl she had been not unlike this yellow - 
 haired Mary, who thus chatted away altogether im- 
 abashed by Dr. AYilmotte's somewhat serious smile. 
 
 " So you go to the country to-morrow," remarked tlie 
 Doctor, who did not care, apparently, to pursue the 
 subject started by the lively owner of the ringlets.
 
 30 DIXA. 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Melville, " the Dingle lias been got 
 ready for us. We usually go earlier in the season. 
 This year we have been detained in town by my son's 
 engagements. We are to have Miss Lushet, and pro- 
 bably j\Ir. Drycale, with us from the first. You may 
 send us any friend of your own, Ellis ; and be sure to 
 come out yourself as often as you are at leisure, which, 
 surely, need not be seldom at this dull time of the 
 year. Y^ou seem hurried." 
 
 " Eather so, Mrs. Melville ; I wish to see a few town 
 patients to-night that I may have time for Beechworth 
 and Ashcroft to-morrow." 
 
 " Mr. jMelville will be up to tea in a few minutes." 
 
 " I'd have told papa of your being here," said ]\Iary 
 apologetically, when her grandmother thus alluded to 
 her father, ex-Lord Dingleheath, who at the moment 
 was no doubt in the enjoyment of his after-dinner nap ; 
 " only the fact is he still studies very hard after dinner, 
 or, at least, sits in the library with closed eyes lest his 
 attention should wander, as he says. I am almost 
 sorry he has no cases to take to avizandum, now that he 
 has retired from the bench, though I know he used 
 often to spend the night painfully over them. Such 
 beautiful speeches he would read at the advising s next 
 morning ! I used always to look at the beginning and 
 end of each when they appeared in the Scotsman. 
 Such splendid windings-up there always were, in spite 
 of the prudence with which his Lordship often ended, 
 by intimating that he reserved his opinion on certain 
 points raised only incidentally in the case — lest, you 
 know, the expression of his opinion should happen to 
 arrest the progress of healthful litigation !" 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! " cried the old lady merrily. " How slyly
 
 BINA. 31 
 
 I have slipped into one of the back benches and lis- 
 tened — well veiled, you may be sure — to my boy's 
 judgments after he was advanced to the Division ; it 
 would have been impossible to have escaped his notice 
 in the little court in which he sat in the Outer House. 
 Ah, it was fine to see his gi^and air when he lay back in 
 his chair and smiled serenely over his crimson mantle 
 upon the younger counsel. I remember, by the by, Mr. 
 Evans' first appearance ; but he had only a word to say : 
 to move their Lordships to do something or another. 
 The lad's Grecian profile looked well under the white 
 wig; indeed Evans is good-looking. His Lordship, I 
 observed, smiled on the young fellow when he had said 
 his single word, almost as if complimenting him on a 
 successful appearance. Truly he was very benign. 
 Ah, to think of him — yes, sitting there in the back seat, 
 I used to think of him, the learned sage — as he was 
 when a babe, a toddling bairn, a little rioter in petti- 
 coats, a o'awky lad, a hard student, a new -fled2;ed advo- 
 cate, a leading junior, a junior senior, a leading senior, 
 in the black silk gown, and then when first in crimson 
 and velvet ! Dear, dear, whose eye but mine could, as 
 he sat there, see under his horse-hair curls all these 
 strangely-varied figures ? — You icill go ? AVell ; my 
 love to Miss Lockart and Sir Angus when you see them 
 to-morrow."
 
 32 DIXA. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Duff, Miss Lockart's Newfoundland, barked in a 
 friendly way as Dr. Wilmotte stepped from liis carriage 
 next morning at tlie door of Beecliworth House, — an 
 oldish mansion, two miles or so south-west of Edinburgli. 
 A fair, erect and graceful girl of nineteen appeared on 
 the threshold at the same moment, and welcomed the 
 young physician with a frank yet gracious air which 
 expressed kindness while betraying a degree of gentle 
 reserve, arising probably from a habit of self-control 
 rather than from a conscious desire to abate by any 
 touch of coldness from the cordiality of her address. 
 
 AYilmotte took her proffered hand with an air of 
 deference and grave politeness, which became him well. 
 
 " My brother seemed in good spirits this morning, but 
 he has been somewhat depressed since little Ebon left 
 us shoiil}^ after breakfast," the young lady said in a 
 clear, mellow voice. 
 
 " Ah, the bright little fellow is off at last, then. He 
 may reach Oden to-night, I suppose." 
 
 " He miglit easily do so, but it is arranged that he is 
 to sleep at the Queen's in Glasgow, and go on to the 
 coast to-morrow. His nurse thought that the more 
 prudent plan." 
 
 " Perhaps it is. He will be sadly missed liere, but I
 
 DINA. 33 
 
 trust his father will have the gratification of seeing him 
 return with more colour in his cheeks. I am only afraid 
 Sir Angus will order him home too soon." 
 
 " Miss Pentonville has the promise of him «for three 
 weeks," said the lady, smiling, as if she thought the 
 promise not likely to go for much. 
 
 " You will join me in the park after you have seen 
 my brother," she added ; " I shall be anxious to hear 
 how you find him. Come, Duff, come with me." 
 
 Wilmotte, following a servant, entered the house, 
 while the fair girl and her dog walked away across the 
 avenue. 
 
 A clear " Come in" followed the servant's knock at 
 the door of an inner room on the second storey, and the 
 Doctor was ushered into Sir Angus Lockart's study. 
 
 Though the sun of a bright August morning shone 
 into the room, there was a brisk fire in the grate, and 
 Sir Angus reclined in an easy-chan*, with his feet towards 
 the blaze. 
 
 " Hajopy to see you, Wilmotte," he said cordially, as 
 he slid a light writing-desk from the arms of his chair, 
 and grasped the Doctor's hand with a quick pressure. 
 
 It was the hand of a nervous man. The long taper- 
 ing fingers were pure white, small -jointed, and trans- 
 lucent, with finely-pointed nails. The veins on the 
 back were distinct and blue, and the palm silky, tender, 
 and pinkish. 
 
 Little trust need be placed as yet in the science of 
 chirognomy, but it may be admitted that some hands 
 are reliably expressive of their owners' idiosyncrasy, 
 and generally that a certain correspondence between 
 body and mind is not unusual. 
 
 The hand with which Sir Angus welcomed Dr. Wil 
 VOL. I. c
 
 34 DmA. 
 
 motte indicated that he had inherited and kept up re- 
 fined habits, that he was nervous, sensitive, and pro- 
 bably irresolute ; but in reading it thus, allowance had 
 to be made for the fact that its owner was in deli- 
 cate health, and had long been debarred from active 
 exercise. 
 
 " My boy and his nurse," said the invalid, as soon as 
 Wilmotte was seated, "started this morning for the 
 w^est coast to pay a long delayed visit to his aunt, Miss 
 Pentonville. I miss him already, and almost repent of 
 having let him go. I hope, however, that he will be 
 benefited by the sea air, and that he will enjoy — I was 
 going to say enjoy the change of scene, but the truth is, 
 I have grown so horribly selfish that I detect myself 
 dreading the enjoyment he may have among his new 
 friends, lest it should make him think this dull place 
 a dreary home." 
 
 "He can hardly find his aunt more indulgent than 
 his father, or meet with affection greater than Miss 
 Lockart's," said the Doctor, somewhat formally. 
 
 " Perhaps not. But, ah, is not he more to me than 
 children usually are to their parents ?" 
 
 "Do you know what children usually are to their 
 parents. Sir Angus ?" 
 
 " True, Wilmotte, I know little of family life. My 
 own father and mother kept me pretty constantly at 
 school in England, and both died before I left it. But 
 Ebon is a link binding my soul to a sweet and yet bitter 
 past. I feel quite unstrung to -day, — childish. Eeaction, 
 perhaps ; for I contrived to be in amazing spirits when 
 parting with our darling, that the little one might take 
 with him a pleasant last impression of his father, and 
 think with the more gladness of the happy day when
 
 DIKA. 35 
 
 he will return. Strano-e liow exertion and emotion 
 
 weaken me till 
 
 ' The nerves prick 
 And tingle ; and the heart is sick, 
 And all the wheels of being slow.' " 
 
 "His absence will be a sliort one," said the Doctor 
 kindly. 
 
 " Strictly limited to three weeks ; but only with the 
 greatest difficulty confined to that. His aunt's determi- 
 nation to have him as long as possible is astonishing, 
 considering that she has not visited him for fully two 
 years, and never paid him any very particular attention 
 when she was in the way of seeing him. I must say, 
 however, that her letters to my sister have during the 
 last year or two been incessant, and the replies exacted 
 with full details of all the lad's doings, enough to exhaust 
 any patience less inexhaustible than Edith's." 
 
 " In short. Sir Angus, it would seem that the boy is 
 more to his aunt than nephews usually are to their aunts." 
 
 Wilmotte indulged in this parody on Lockart's words 
 somewhat heedlessly, and regretted it almost before the 
 sentence was finished. 
 
 " To his aunt, too," Angus said gravely, " the child 
 may be endeared as all that is left to her of — " 
 
 The word was arrested in his throat, as it were, and 
 he went on without it : 
 
 " And therefore she may covet him," he concluded. 
 
 " That she might naturally enough do in any case," 
 said the Doctor ; " and her desire to have him will not 
 be lessened when she sees the brave lad again, with his 
 glossy jet hair, his winning smile, and his eloquent 
 young eyes, attractive even to a bachelor like me. 
 However, she won't steal him, I suppose. The house
 
 36 DMA. 
 
 in which Miss rentonville resides is some little distance 
 from Oden?" 
 
 " Yes ; it is a secluded cottage. There is a nice 
 garden, and a fine breezy sea in front. I have had a 
 drawing of the house and grounds sent. This, look, is 
 to be Ebon's window." 
 
 He held up a neatly mounted water-colour sketch. 
 
 " A pretty drawing," said Wilmotte. 
 
 " Very, indeed. This honeysuckle round his window 
 delighted the child. I have just written to Lawson to 
 send me some fine honeysuckle plants to train up in 
 front of his room here. The plant is a honeysuckle, 
 isn't it ? Yes, it is quite plain. The sketch was kindly 
 made for me by my sister-in-law's lady companion. 
 Very naturally coloured. Ebon's room will be sheltered 
 from the north by those trees. All, my poor Di — 
 that is my wdfe, Wilmotte, painted no less beautifully. 
 There is, they say, a certain resemblance in the touch of 
 carefully taught lady-sketchers, otherwise, indeed, I 
 mioiit be astonished bv the treatment of that foliaf]je. 
 The sycamore leaves are almost shaped, as well as the 
 general character of the tree expressed, while there is, 
 at the same time, sufficient breadth and shady myste^}^ 
 Poor Dina ! many a time we dropped our tiny anchor 
 and lay under the wooded bank opposite Lucerne, while 
 she painted the Righi, and I read aloud. Ah ! Heine's 
 sweet, fantastic Lieder charmed us then : ' Liebste,' often 
 I read, 
 
 * Bist fill niclit ein Tranmgebild, 
 Wie's in schwulen Sommertagen 
 Aus dem Him des Dichters qiiillt ? 
 Aber nein, ein solches Mundchen, 
 Solcher Augen Zauberlicht, 
 Solcb ein liebes susses Kindchen, 
 Das erschafft der Dicliter niclit.' "
 
 DINA. 37 
 
 Lockart's sombre eyes warmed as lie spoke ; but 
 presently the sweet picture in his mind seemed to fade 
 away, and he sighed. Then, apparently forgetting the 
 Doctor's presence, he said, as if addressing some one 
 far away, 
 
 " ' Du scTiaust micli nicht. Im Dunkeln 
 Steh' icli liier iinten allein. 
 Noch wen'ger kannst du schauen 
 In meiu dunkles Herz liinein. 
 Mein dunkles Herze liebt dich, 
 Es liebt dich und es briclit 
 Aber du sielist es niclit.' " 
 
 Neither spoke again for several minutes. At length 
 Lockart, with singular abruptness, said : 
 
 " jMy sister often urges me to marry. Isn't that 
 odd ? Of course the thing is totally out of the question, 
 at least so it has appeared to me hitherto, though now 
 and then I have, I confess, when sunk in utter dejection 
 and weariness of spirit, really not rejected the suggestion 
 with the horror you might expect. After all, it is a 
 terrible thing to be for ever addi^essing a voiceless shade, 
 
 ' Treasuring the look you cannot find. 
 The -words that are not heard again.' 
 
 Yet, ah, how faithful are the dead ! There are seasons, 
 too, when they seem less dead to us than the living are. 
 Many times Edith, at my side, but whose thoughts I do 
 not know, seems farther from me than the shade of my 
 lost wife, whose whole mind seems revealed to my im- 
 agination. At such moments, lost Dina is all in all to 
 me ; and death having made ' his darkness beautiful' 
 mth her, I long to slip softly out of this pain-racked 
 clay and be wafted into spirit-land at once. I am very
 
 38 DIXA. 
 
 inconstant, though, and there are other times when the 
 world resumes its natural influence, and the utter futility 
 of fondness lavished on a memory — a being who has 
 become an abstraction, strikes me, and a sense of my 
 abject loneliness overpowers me. Ah, the blighted life, 
 vje only know it ! I was reading Eossetti's admirable 
 rendering of Pugliesi's lines to his ' dead lady' when you 
 came in, AVilmotte. Only a true poet could have trans- 
 lated them with such simplicity : 
 
 < To tliink, clear, that I never any more 
 Can see thee as before.' 
 
 And mark the quaint pathos of — ■ 
 
 ' Where is my lady, and the lovely face 
 
 She had, and the sweet motion when she walk'd ? 
 
 Her chaste, mild favonr — her so delicate grace — 
 Her eyes, her month, and the dear way she talk'd ? 
 
 Her courteous bending — her most noble air — 
 The soft fall of her hair ? . . . 
 
 Now I do never see her anywhere.' " 
 
 " You are little if at all above thirty, Lockart. This 
 rheumatic attack in your legs, which has so long given 
 you the look of a confirmed invalid, is apparently going 
 off. I expect you to walk a little before winter, and 
 perfectly next year. Your constitution is not much 
 impaired." 
 
 Ancriis looked thankful, and said, after thinkinc^ a 
 while — 
 
 *' I have no doubt brooded too long over sorrows 
 which brooding does not lessen, but deepens rather. 
 But why should I tliink of marrying, even were it pos- 
 sible to care for any one now ? ^Yith Ebon and Edith, 
 I may surely be content ? 
 
 " Miss Lockart herself may marry soon."
 
 DIXA. 39 
 
 "Marry? ^vliy, she's harcUy more tlian a school girl 
 yet. She attends classes — music, at least ; and — 
 well, she Ls a lovely girl, and some fellow will no doubt 
 w4sh to wile her from me. I shall grudge her almost 
 as if she were my daughter. Yet, to be sure, I shall 
 have no right to complain. The poor child must weaiy 
 of her life here. A dim consciousness that she may 
 have to leave me some day is probably at the root of 
 her wish that I should marry. Or does it arise from 
 her attachment to Marian Grange, daughter of my 
 valued gossip the genial laird of Ashcroft ; with whom, 
 by the by, I have, without your permission. Doctor, 
 agreed to breakfast to-morrow, that we may compare 
 notes on our favourite poet." 
 
 Wilmotte looked for a moment rather put out, but 
 whether by the allusion to Miss Grange or the liberty 
 his patient had taken did not appear in his reply. 
 
 " I have no doubt," he said, " that it will be better for 
 you to go out to breakfast than to dinner or tea. Indeed 
 the more you exert yourself in the morning the better." 
 
 " So you had hinted, I imagined. But we were talk- 
 ing of the squire's daughter, — his elder. Edith has had 
 her up here frequently, but I had hardly seen her till 
 just the other day, when my good sister contrived to fix 
 her beside my chair for a while at a pic-nic we had in 
 the wood. She proved rather an enigma to me, and 
 therefore to some extent interesting. What do you 
 think of her? The idea — Edith's idea — that I might 
 be brought to fancy such a rosebud of a child, even 
 though she be an enigma, is rich enough, isn't it?" 
 
 The Doctor did not find himself ready with a reply, 
 and so, wisely, said nothing. Lockart, as if his un- 
 wonted liveliness had wearied him, presently lay back
 
 40 nmA. 
 
 in his chair with his eyes closed, careless, apparently, 
 whether he was answered or not. 
 
 He had never shaved, and liis short black beard was 
 silky and soft. He had a smooth and high forehead — 
 high, however, with a scarcely corresponding breadth ; 
 well-defined eye-brows, long eye-lashes, a straight nose, 
 and a mobile mouth, not quite concealed by his 
 moustaches, wdiich curled off it into his whiskers. Cer- 
 tainly his face was a fine one; beautiful it was often 
 called, and interesting it w^as felt to be by all who 
 marked the meditative tenderness of his dark and 
 luminous eyes. 
 
 These by and by were opened again, and he apo- 
 logized in his gentle, somewhat effeminate way, for 
 having for a moment forgotten Wilmotte's presence. 
 
 "Any prescription to-day. Doctor?" he added, with 
 a smile. 
 
 Some little discussion regarding the state of the 
 rheumatic limbs lasted for a few minutes, and then 
 Wilmotte bid his patient good-morning. 
 
 The study- door opened outwards into the drawing- 
 room. Wihnotte turned the handle softly, but he pushed 
 the door back wdth unwonted sharpness. It struck 
 something, and, stepping forward, he saw, apparently 
 without surprise, Lockart's valet, Vidocq, staggering 
 backwards with one hand to his ear. 
 
 "Excuse me, Vidocq," he said, pretty loud; "you 
 were about to knock, were you ?" 
 
 " Qui, IMonsieur," replied the fellow, readily ; " Je 
 touche la porte bien doucement et elle me frappe — 
 lourdement. Oh ! Yous n'avez pas une main morte. 
 Monsieur, comme," he added in a lower key, " les pieds 
 de Monsieur mon maitre."
 
 DINA, 41 
 
 Yiclocq understood and spoke English tolerably, but 
 was quick-witted enough to avail himself of his own 
 language on this occasion, the more readily to turn off 
 what had occurred in a humorous way. 
 
 The Doctor saw that the man's head was bleeding a 
 little, and he kindly examined the wound He found 
 that it was a bruise behind the ear. Glancing covertly 
 at the door, which he had already closed behind him, 
 he saw that such a bruise could have been caused only 
 by the handle, and yet Yidocq, though little, stood con- 
 siderably higher than the handle. 
 
 " I trust it does not pain you much ? Your hand- 
 kerchief held to it for a while may suffice to stay the 
 bleeding." 
 
 Yidocq said it was a "little thing, nothing," and 
 smiled his most oily smile, while he thanked the good 
 Doctor for his attention. Then, on his silent shoes, he 
 slipped through the room and vestibule and down the 
 principal stair, at the foot of which he bowed the " good 
 Doctor" from the front door.
 
 42 niXA. 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 " Come Duff, come with me," Miss Lockart had said 
 when AVihiiotte entered the house on his visit to her 
 brother, and Duff had followed his mistress as a 
 matter of course. 
 
 Presently they reached a grass slope beside a dovecot. 
 Here the lady seated herself on the ground, and put 
 her arm round the dog's neck, as he stretched himself 
 beside her, laying his paws before him, and burying his 
 nose between them. 
 
 Her head inclines a little to the right, and we have 
 a half front view of her fine oval face. There is no 
 undue breadth or height in the cheek-bones, though 
 among Highland heather she was born, and smoothly 
 her cheeks curve downwards from the outline of her 
 simply-braided hair, and pass into the dimpled chin 
 below her well-formed lips. Wilmotte generally called 
 her pretty, and the easy graciousness of her air when 
 in company made him sometimes raise the epithet to 
 " beautiful." 
 
 Suddenly a wild beating in the air overhead startled 
 the dog, and he looked up for a moment at a whirl of 
 pigeons striking the wind smartly as they circled round 
 the dovecot. Upon its gabled roof they presently alit, 
 arid the clatter ceased, to be replaced immediately by
 
 DIKA. 43 
 
 loud curooings as the birds strutted about the ridge, 
 dipping their breasts, and spreading their tail-feathers 
 as they bowed in their usual pompous, condescending 
 manner to the yoimg lady reclining on the mossy bank 
 in front of their dwelling. 
 
 Miss Lockart was not slow in acknowledging their 
 civility. She addressed them with a croo, croo, curoo 
 as melodious as their own, and taking off her sun-hat 
 she poured into it some field-peas which she had 
 brought tied up in her handkerchief She then placed 
 the hat upon the grass at her left side, and immediately 
 the pigeons, which had watched her motions, fluttered 
 around her, and alighting on the turf, crowded eagerly 
 to the feast. A joyous one it seemed. Duff' laid his 
 chin across the lady's knee, and winked at it. 
 
 While the young lady's hat is among the pigeons, we 
 can see that Calvert's remark about her hair was not 
 unjust. He called it lustreless. It is very fair hair, 
 something between pale brown and flaxen, and would 
 be beautiful but for its want of a certain golden shim- 
 mer which makes some flaxen hair very lovely. It is, 
 in short, dim or ashy; perhaps what the French call 
 hlond cendre, and Edith knows that it is dim, and a little 
 regrets that it is so. When at the recent St. Andrew 
 Boat Club's fancy ball, she, the Morning Star, did Dr. 
 Wilmotte, the venerable Dean, the honour to waltz with 
 her, he remarked witli surprise, on his arrival at home 
 next morning, that tlie white powder fallen from his dean's 
 wig was mixed, on his right shoulder, with unmistak- 
 able gold dust. However, that certainly was the only 
 occasion on which Wilmotte, at least, had reason to 
 suspect serene Edith of brightening her fair head l)y 
 anything more costly than pomade.
 
 44 BINA. 
 
 The last pea had been swallowed after a noisy struggle 
 for it, and the pigeons were curooing for a further 
 supply, when the Doctor, arriving on the bank, scared 
 them, and with another wing-battery they "swirled" 
 into the air. 
 
 Miss Edith picked up her hat and dusted it carefully. 
 Somewhat forgetfully she had presented so dainty a dish 
 to the birds, and she now had no small difficulty in 
 clearing it thoroughly from down, and in straightening 
 again its delicate straw rim. Doing so, she rose, and 
 the graceful lines of her lithe figure looked very pleas- 
 ing w^hile she somewhat bent over her task. 
 
 " You hold yourself engaged for my wood party on 
 Monday ?" she said at length. 
 
 " Yes," repKed the Doctor ; " I had the pleasure of 
 your note last night. Captain Calvert, with whom I 
 had dined, seemed delighted with his." 
 
 "Some of the girls at my last pic-nic thought he 
 made himself very agreeable," replied Edith, as if to 
 account satisfactorily for her invitation. 
 
 " I don't wonder at that ; he is a capital fellow. By 
 the by, I am going presently to see little Espie Gowans. 
 If you are at leisure, and disposed to call at Ashcroft, 
 we may cross the fields together, while my man goes 
 round by the road." 
 
 " I shall be delighted to accompany you," said Miss 
 Lockart in her frankest manner. 
 
 She whistled on an ivory toy which w^as attached to 
 her watch-chain, and in a few seconds a groom ap- 
 proached from the stables to the rear of the mansion- 
 house. She bade him inform Sir Angus, through his 
 valet, of her intention of walking to Ashcroft, and order 
 Dr." Wilmotte's carriage to the same place.
 
 DIKA. 4:6 
 
 As she turned from him, AVilmotte viewed, not with- 
 out attention, the smooth braids of her fair hair, the 
 pureness of her creamy and slightly rose-brightened 
 cheek, the blue light of her sunny eye, the mild outline 
 of her barely aquiline nose, the short curve of her upper 
 lip, and the swan-like line passing downwards from her 
 round chin ; and it is probable that he admired all these 
 details of her lovely profile. 
 
 Her dress was a simple muslin — pur23le and white 
 check. A short jacket of rich purple silk fitted her 
 back so as to display her slender figure. A plain white 
 collar was fastened at her throat by a ruby button. 
 
 Her hat, a Leghorn straw ornamented with a long 
 white feather, hunq- from her ri^^ht arm. Duff seemed 
 to think that it would be time enough for him to rise 
 when the hat was put on by his mistress ; but, having 
 given her orders to the groom, Miss Edith quietly walked 
 away with the Leghorn still dangling from her arm. 
 Doubtingly, the laz}' fellow looked after her for a little, 
 and then, convinced that she and the Doctor were really 
 moving off, he got up, stretched himself, struck away 
 the turf with his hind feet, and trotted after his lady, 
 between whom and Dr. AVilmotte he presently composed 
 his steps with a quiet dignity suited to his years and 
 character. 
 
 The young people appeared unconsciously to acknow- 
 ledge his presence by conversing with that suave pro- 
 priety which the attendance of a serious chaperon 
 usually imposes. 
 
 AVilmotte's figure in professional black and white 
 contrasted with the lady's. He was neither slender nor 
 particularly graceful. He was barely by an inch the 
 taller, and though by no means stout, he had a thick-
 
 46 DIN A. 
 
 set appearance. His short iron-grey hair, brown eyes, 
 sharply defined hawk nose, ruddy cheeks, and the mealy 
 black and white of his thoroughly shaven chin and 
 jaws also helped to make him singularly unlike his fair 
 companion. 
 
 He looked less refined too ; and indeed his family 
 had only within the last two or three generations 
 emerged from a plebeian obscurity, whereas Edith's 
 ancestors had been people of some mark even before 
 one of them obtained a Baronetcy by the purchase of 
 one of King James's ideal Nova Scotia estates, with the 
 less mythical title attached to it. The Lockarts, to be 
 sure, were not a wealthy family at any time, and even 
 after a long minority, the present Sir Angus had not 
 come into above three thousand a year ; but in a poor 
 country they were sufficiently well off — sufficiently so, 
 assuredly in James vi.'s reign, to pay for a Xova Scotia 
 baronetcy, of which the prime cost was about two hun- 
 dred pounds — equal to £1000 of our money. I suppose, 
 by the by, there can be no doubt that James originated 
 the rank of baronet with the view of turning an honest 
 penny out of it, for the money- value of the title when 
 first conferred by him in England was quite ascertain- 
 able by aspirants, viz., three years' pay of thirty soldiers 
 at 8d. a day ; but the baronets created for this considera- 
 tion under the Great Seal of England — nominally to 
 raise troops for the reduction of Ulster, in Ireland — 
 were as indubitably such as any subsequently 'made, 
 and, being the first of their order, they take precedence 
 of all others, while the fact that they obtained their 
 rank in return for a certain payment into the Treasury, 
 if nothing to their credit, seems at least to indicate that 
 they were men of substance in their day. They were,
 
 BINA. 47 
 
 in fact, required to be so, persons only being allowed to 
 purchase who were possessed of heritage to the amount 
 of £1000 a year, and, it may be added, whose grand- 
 father by the father's side had been entitled to bear 
 arms. Somewhat similar in their origin were the first 
 Scotch baronets — all of them, it is said, chieftains, or 
 at least gentlemen of position. To forward, as was 
 pretended, the reduction by arms of Acadia or ]N'ova 
 Scotia, the King divided it into parcels, each of which 
 was bestowed by Charles i. — the latter's father having 
 died before his scheme was carried out — as a species of 
 barony, accompanied by what has been called, though 
 incorrectly, a hereditary knighthood, created under the 
 Great Seal of Scotland, upon such gentlemen as chose to 
 acquire the title to them at the price I have mentioned. 
 The first to avail himself of the honom- was a Gordon, 
 second son of the Earl of Sutherland. His patent is of 
 date 1625— fourteen years later than that of the first 
 English hereditary knight or Ulster baronet — and the 
 list was gradually filled up in the course of the re- 
 mainder of the seventeenth century. Of the descend- 
 ants of the Ulster and Nova Scotia baronets you can 
 then always be pretty certain that their families were of 
 some consequence prior to the Union, whereas of a 
 baronet of the United Kingdom — the only baronetcy 
 now conferred — you can never without inquiry feel 
 sure that his father was not a shepherd, or his grand- 
 father a still more humble scion of the house of Adam 
 — he himself not improbably having won the title 
 merely as a recognition by his sovereign of distinguished 
 services, political consistency, eminent public virtue, or 
 princely liberality. 
 
 But while Miss Lockart might hardly have deigned
 
 48 DIXA. 
 
 to consider ^Yilmotte's blood equal in purity to her own, 
 lie, on the other hand, might remember that rank with- 
 out fortune is in some reiSpects a questionable advan- 
 tage, and one which does not necessarily confer upon a 
 young lady the privilege of rejecting an alliance because 
 likely to be blessed only by virtue, love, and competence. 
 
 Slowly the couple, divided by Duff, moved along the 
 hill-side to the north of Beechworth House, enjo}T.ng 
 the shade of some tall elms, under which their path was 
 but slightly marked on the thick turf 
 
 " And how did you find my brother?" at length the 
 lady inquired. 
 
 " Decidedly better," replied the Doctor. 
 
 " I am very thankful," said Miss Lockart fervently. 
 " Poor Angus, he has suffered greatly, and I fear, too, he 
 has spent some very unhappy years. His self-com- 
 mand is much greater than it used to be, and he is 
 seldom in a passion now ; but he is far from happy yet. 
 If I knew more of the years of his married life, perhaps 
 I could be of more service to him. He broods over 
 things of which I know little or nothing, and he does 
 not confide in me. Can you, Dr. Wilmotte ?" 
 
 " I see," answered the Doctor, who was a good deal 
 taken aback by this direct question, " that you have 
 no idea how little information I enjoy myself regarding 
 your brother's life. I believe that he lived happily 
 with his wife at one time. From some thinojs he said 
 even to-day, I gathered that he did so at Lucerne. He 
 repeated some playful lines of Heine's as being among 
 those he had been fond of addressing to his wife when 
 they rested in their boat on the lake, that she might 
 sketch. I daresay you have read them. I can give 
 you their meaning only : ' Dearest, art not thou a
 
 niKA. 49 
 
 vision, sprung in a sultry summer's day from out a 
 poet's brain ? Ah no ; for such a little mouth, such 
 bewitching eyes, — such a sweetest-darling pet no poet 
 could conceive !' Having repeated these lines, he ex- 
 claimed, again in German, and still in Heine's words : 
 ' Thou seest me not. Down here in the dark I stand 
 alone. Even less canst thou read my darkened heart. 
 My dark heart loveth thee, it loves thee and it breaks 
 — unseen by thee.' " 
 
 " How^ very kind of you to repeat so exactly what he 
 said ! I know^ the verses well. You see how much he 
 must have been attached to his poor wife, how much he 
 clings to her stilL Could he really have ever been 
 cruel to her, do you think?" 
 
 " Seeing him as he is. Miss Lockart, it is not easy to 
 believe in the stories that have been told of his harsh- 
 ness to her when he returned with her from abroad." 
 
 " It is not," replied Edith gravely. 
 
 A w^all, or rather dike, now arrested the pedestrians. 
 Some projecting stones indicated w^here it was intended 
 to be climbed. Duff sprang up, walked a bit along the 
 broken cope, and then seated himself upon the firmest 
 stone he met w^ith, as if calmly to await the passage of 
 his friends. 
 
 The Doctor, in his matter-of-fact way, mounted to 
 the top at once, and offered his hand to assist Miss 
 Edith. She took it without affectation, her little feet 
 touched the wall lightly and with a spring she came 
 beside him. !N"ot even when standing with her on a 
 narrow and rather insecure stone did Wilmotte ofter 
 more assistance than was perfectly necessary, nor did 
 Miss Lockart seem to expect him to do so. 
 
 Certainly the young lady w^as not self-conscious, and 
 
 VOL. L D
 
 50 DINA. 
 
 Duff might tmtlifully have reported that she used her 
 unsteady elevation only to take a survey of an adjoin- 
 ing field, in which her favourite pony, Scamper, was 
 grazing. She blew her wdiistle, and the shaggy beast 
 trotted towards her, neighing in a playful way, very 
 expressive of the good terms he was on with his gentle 
 mistress. AMien, with her voice, she had sufficiently 
 caressed him, the lady turned, and, withdrawing her 
 hand from the Doctor's, leapt at once among the bracken 
 at the west side of the wall. AYilmotte followed, and, 
 on a somewhat rugged bank, and then on a smooth belt 
 of turf to the south of Craigie wood, the two held on 
 their way to Ashcroft.
 
 DIN A. 51 
 
 CHAPTEE YIL 
 
 A FEW hundred yards to the east of Ashcroft House, 
 and near the farm- steading, stands the humble residence 
 of Sandie Gowans, Mr. Grange's grieve or head farm- 
 servant. It is a square cottage of three rooms, and 
 is chiefly remarkable from its picturesc|uely overgrown 
 thatched roof, — thatched roofs being now comparatively 
 uncommon. A small garden bounds it on the east and 
 north. To the south there is a low meadow, and be- 
 yond this rise abruptly the weather-worn cliffs of Craig 
 Law, an isolated hill of three or four hundred feet in 
 elevation, which stands at the west end of Craigie hill, 
 whereon we left Wilmotte and his fair companion. In 
 front there is a bit of waste ground, limited on the 
 north by the ruins of Craig Castle, of which only frag- 
 ments of a tower remain at this day. The walls of the 
 cottage are much hidden by ivy and luxuriant plants 
 of the wild convolvulus or greater bind-weed. Its 
 small windows are clean and bright, and the threshold 
 is well scoured and sanded. 
 
 There is no one in the room to the left of the door at 
 present. That on the right, though equally quiet, is 
 less deserted. It has a window to the front, and an- 
 other in the south wall, the latter overlooking the 
 meadow already mentioned. Beside this one stands a 
 
 my£Rs\Ty Qp
 
 52 DIFA. 
 
 small bed. A little head lies on tlie pillow, but its 
 face is turned from us. On a stool at the side of the 
 bed a lint-haired boy is busy shaping a lump of wood 
 into the form of a boat with a blunt table-knife, and 
 he appears entirely absorbed by his labour. The room 
 is not otherwise occupied, except by some well-worn 
 furniture. 
 
 Thus peaceful was the Gowans' cottage when Miss 
 Lockart, followed by Dr. Wilmotte, knocked at the 
 door, and then walked into the inhabited room. 
 
 " How d'ye do, Johnny?" said the lady, patting the 
 lad's head almost before he was aware of her arrival 
 
 " Hush," she added, turning to the Doctor, " she 
 sleeps." 
 
 " I'm no sleepin'," said the occupant of the crib, turn- 
 ing a pretty face to greet the visitors, and at the same 
 time stretching thin hands towards the lady. 
 
 " Her hands are cool, and she looks better ; don't you 
 think her so ?" said the latter. 
 
 " Yes," replied Wilmotte, feeling the child's pulse, 
 " she is almost well now." 
 
 " Capital ; the adhesion seems to be nearly complete," 
 he added, after applpng his stethoscope to the girl's 
 chest. 
 
 " Where did you get those pretty flowers, Espie ?" 
 asked Miss Lockart, admiring a glass full of purple 
 pansies and white roses. 
 
 "Aren't they bonny, Miss? Miss Marian broucht 
 them w4ien she cam wi' some sago for me this morn- 
 ing. There she's hersel'," said the child just as the 
 door opened, and a young lady, bare-headed, and with 
 a parasol in her hand, stepped into the room. 
 
 • " Lie down, dear ; you might catch cold," said the
 
 DIN A. 53 
 
 new-comer, hastening to the crib, and arresting the little 
 girl's eager attempt to sit up to greet her. 
 
 " How are you, Edith ?" she added immediately, turn- 
 ing to shake hands with Miss Lockart and the Doctor. 
 " I am glad you are here. You are just in time to meet 
 some friends. I saw Mr. Eagle and Captain Calvert 
 coming up the avenue. As I knew Espie had only 
 Johnny with her, I thought it was well to slip round by 
 the back way to see her for a moment before going into 
 the parlour. Polly is there to receive them, so they'll 
 not miss me." 
 
 Both AVilmotte and Edith smiled at the idea of the 
 gentlemen being content with the younger Miss Grange's 
 company, but they said nothing. 
 
 " Wee Johnny is a fine nurse the day," remarked the 
 little invalid, evidently that the yoimg lady might feel 
 free to join her friends. 
 
 Miss Marian kissed her and tucked the bed-clothes 
 round her tiny shoulders, while "wee Johnny" stood 
 apart in a corner to which he had taken the first oppor- 
 tunity of retreating with his boat, and where he looked 
 " dour" enough. 
 
 " There comes your tall sister, dear. I can leave you 
 with her at least," said Miss Grange, as she glanced 
 through the south window behind the child's crib. 
 
 The rest of the party also looked through the window, 
 which was open, and admitted a balmy air from the 
 clover-white meadow. A strapping wench, with a 
 hoe over her shoulder, was coming along the path 
 which had brought the Doctor and Miss Lockart to the 
 cottage, and she was singing in a sufficiently musical 
 voice —
 
 54 DINA. 
 
 " They rowed lier in a pair o' sheets, 
 
 An' towed her ovver the wa' ; 
 
 But on the point o' Edom's spear 
 
 She gat a deadly fa'. 
 Then wi' his spear he turned her ower — 
 gin her face was — " 
 
 The line was interrupted by a hand placed for a 
 moment on the gui's shoulder. Vidocq, carrying a 
 bundle of books, had overtaken her. He seemed to 
 speak jestingly to her, and she, facing about, said — 
 
 "I bade him loup, I bade him come, 
 I bade him louj) to me." 
 
 The valet looked puzzled, and then moved nearer to 
 the damsel, who continued, tliough apparently in the 
 words of some other lyric, — 
 
 " An' they twa met, an' they twa plett. 
 An' fain he wad be near," 
 
 she sang, and, with a curtsey, added presently — 
 
 " An' a' the warld micht ken richt weel 
 They were twa lovers dear 
 
 Hey nonnie, nonnie, but love is bonn}^ 
 A wee while when it's new !" 
 
 Yidocq's head inclined entreatingiy to one side, and 
 his right hand waved ; but his words could not be heard 
 in the cottage. The bold girl was not, it seemed, to be 
 thus won. She drew herself to her full height, which 
 surpassed Vidocq's considerably, and sang again — 
 
 " When cockle-shells turn silver bells, 
 "WTien Avine drips red frae ilka ti-ee, 
 When frost and snaw will warm us a', 
 Then I'll be fain tae gang wi' thee."
 
 DIXA. 65 
 
 Her wooer, who probably could not above half under- 
 stand what she said, did not look discouraged, but, 
 bowing and smiling in a courtly way, ventured still 
 closer to the girl, and seemed to make her another 
 tender speech. Good-naturedly or coquettishly the 
 lyrical lass replied in a softened tone : 
 
 ' ' will I gae south vvi' you ; 
 will I be yer honey ?" 
 
 Yidocq, taking such sweet words to express her ac- 
 quiescence, now boldly put his arm round the damsel's 
 waist with the palpable design of kissing her, but hardly 
 were his presumptuous lips advanced when she lithely 
 slipped from him, and with her right fist dealt him a 
 blow on the chest that sent him reeling over the meadow 
 grass and scattered his books about him. 
 
 Heartily the cottage party laughed at the valet's dis- 
 comfiture ;■ and, outside, 
 
 " Haw, haw, haw ! weel dune, Kate ! haw, haw, what 
 a besom it is 1" roared a deep voice in a congratulatory 
 tone. 
 
 Looking to the right, those in the room saw a hay- 
 cart passing into the farm-yard, and a lusty young man, 
 Pike Doherty by name, laughing and waving his cap 
 in honour of the girl's achievement. 
 
 Vidocq seemed to hear both the carter's laughter and 
 the musical peals that passed through the cottage win- 
 dow, and while picking himself and his books up, he 
 ground sundry "sacres" between his teeth, and his 
 flashing eyes shot fiery, revengeful glances after the hay- 
 cart, and in at the open window. The sun shining into 
 the room freely, he could probably distinguish both of 
 the ladies, at any rate, with a look of recognition, he
 
 56 DINA. 
 
 presently paused in picking up a book, and concealed 
 his face. 
 
 Tlie girl, having seen him sprawling on the grass, had 
 turned at once and walked on her way to the cottage as 
 if nothing unusual had occurred. In a minute or two 
 she appeared at the door of the room in which her 
 little sister was holding her levee. Her mind must 
 have been more engaged by her adventure than might 
 have been guessed from her air, for clearly she had 
 not heard the laughter in the cottage. She looked 
 startled and caught on finding the room full. But this 
 was for an instant only, and immediately she curt- 
 seyed and then advanced frankly, greeting the ladies 
 and the Doctor wdth natural grace, and even with 
 dignity. 
 
 Dignity; and why not? Her handsome face, with 
 its rich flush of crimson on the cheeks, her brave black 
 eyes, her abundant raven hair, coiled below a scarlet 
 handkerchief which only partially concealed it, her 
 broad shoulders, her long brawny, perfectly moulded 
 arms, her erect, tall, and vigorous figure, made her not 
 the least noble- looking of the w^omen there. And yet, 
 to be sure, grand creature though she was, no costume 
 would have made her look other than a peasant lass, 
 and the chaste beauty of the serene and gracious 
 gentlew^oman, Edith, and the placid loveliness of the 
 fawn-eyed Marian, lost nothing in her presence. To 
 each her due. Each girl in her style and rank w^as 
 beautiful. 
 
 " Kate !" had exclaimed the little girl in the crib, 
 for she also had seen the fun outside, and her heart was 
 in a flutter of apprehension on her sister's account. 
 
 To have knocked dowai so important a person as Sir
 
 DIFA. 57 
 
 Angus Lockart's valet seemed to her a liiglily iDimisli- 
 able offence. No allusion, however, was made to the 
 incident by any of the party, and, after a few usual 
 questions and courtesies, the ladies and the Doctor bid 
 the little i^atient farewell, and withdrcAv from the cot- 
 tage together.
 
 58 DINA. 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 ^Iarian Grange was three inclies shorter than Edith 
 Lockart; her hair dark brown; her forehead upright 
 and broad ; her nose short, but straight and neat ; her 
 month cherry-lipped ; her chin round and dinipleless ; 
 her cheeks compact, firm, and healtli-tinged. Perfectly 
 to suit her face, her eyes should have been brown and 
 bead-like, but, on the contrary, they were long and of a 
 violet slate colour, and shaded by dark eyelashes of 
 unusual length. Altogether she was very unlike Edith, 
 yet not less good-looking. 
 
 Wilmotte's dark eyes glanced from her to her friend 
 and back again as he held open the Ashcroft gate, and 
 he seemed to admire each in her turn, though, per- 
 haps, his gaze lingered most tenderly on the shorter 
 girl. 
 
 Edith's open blue eyes — eyes of a very heavenly 
 azure — met his as she passed the gate, and she seemed 
 to accept the homage in his glance as merely her due ; 
 but Marian, looking into her companion's face, seemed 
 unconscious of the Doctor. 
 
 Presently the gate swung-to somewhat loudly, and 
 there was a certain tightness about Wilmotte's lips as 
 he followed the young ladies up the avenue. 
 
 ■Having reached a grass plot near the house, the trio
 
 DIXA. 59 
 
 lingered to gather some yellow moss-roses, and wliile 
 thus employed they were joined by Polly Grange. 
 
 "How timely you are, Edith!" she cried, bounding 
 over a bush and kissing Miss Lockart ; " Mr. Eagle and 
 Captain Calvert are here." 
 
 A buxom, flaxen-haired, blue- eyed lass Miss Polly. 
 Somewhat like her sister in features, but cast in a larger 
 and rougher mould, and conspicuously different in the 
 colour of her hair and eyes. 
 
 Mr. Eagle and Calvert came from the house after her, 
 and Miss Grange having greeted them in her own placid 
 way, they seemed emulous to express their pleasure at 
 seeing ^liss Lockart with her. 
 
 Eagle spoke to and shook hands with Edith with the 
 air of a privileged friend, and then gracefully yielded 
 his place to Calvert, in whose address, on the contrary, 
 there was a degree of hesitation or bashfulness. Indeed 
 there was even a slight tremor in Archer's blithe voice, 
 and his eye lost for a moment its peculiar keenness. 
 
 In his light summer tweeds, his slender and wiry 
 figure looked as graceful and pliant as the lady's ; and, 
 allowing for his sex, his hands and feet were quite as 
 fine as the pretty gloveless hand she placed in his, or 
 the tiny foot witli which she slightly tapped the gravel. 
 
 " I overtook Mr. Eagle on the Merchiston road, and 
 so we arrived here together," he said. " He is to preach 
 in this neighbourhood for a friend on Sunday, and says 
 he has come out to beat up for recruits, — Mr. Collins' 
 ordinary congregation being scanty." 
 
 " I enlisted long ago," replied ]\[iss Lockart, as she 
 stepped back with Calvert a few paces from tlie rest of 
 the party. " Mr. Eagle usually returns from Linbrook 
 church by Beechworth to see my brother, and share our
 
 60 DINA. 
 
 cold Sunday dinner. Cold, for thougli ]\Ir. Eagle does 
 not encourage us to style Sunday tlie Sabbath, or tliink 
 that all work is forbidden to Christians on any day of 
 the week, he thinks that as little unnecessary work as 
 possible should be required of those in our service on 
 Sunday, so that they may have leisure for self- improve- 
 ment and recreation." 
 
 Miss Edith could not easily have given any explana- 
 tion less agreeable to Calvert : Mr. Eagle's opinion was, 
 it seemed to show, paramount at Beechworth. What he 
 approved of, Sir Angus and his sister would, apparently, 
 do as a matter of course. 
 
 " I admire Mr. Eagle's fervour and goodness exceed- 
 ingly. Miss Lockart." 
 
 " You cannot admire him too much," said the young 
 lady, so enthusiastically that Calvert gToaned in spirit, 
 and half regretted his own generous testimony to the 
 divine's worth. 
 
 " He is," she went on, " nobly self-reliant, and teaches 
 only what he thoroughly believes, and that too with- 
 out being uncharitable to those who differ from him, 
 and in some cases, I fear, speak ill of him. He holds 
 every opponent to be honest as long as he can, which is 
 very long indeed ; and I half believe he would argue 
 with the Pope himself, doubting not that his view would 
 be accepted if he proved it logically ; for he sometimes, 
 perhaps," added the girl, blushing a little at her own 
 boldness, " forgets how little logic has to do with creeds. 
 Yes, I like him ; we all do." 
 
 " Ah me ! so I supposed from the first," sighed simple 
 Archer to himself ; " and the dear divine cannot but 
 like her in turn. Ha ! he however, at this moment, 
 seems to be entirely engrossed by Miss Marian !"
 
 DIXA. 61 
 
 jNIr. Eagle did, in fact, appear to be talking very 
 earnestly to Miss Grange, while Wilmotte was yielding 
 his attention to her plump sister, who was chatting to 
 him with much volubility. 
 
 " Here comes Mr. Grange," added Edith, before Cal- 
 vert had had time to follow up his mental remark by 
 any audible one, 
 
 Mr. Grange was approaching through the evergreens, 
 and presently he joined the young people, and shook 
 hands with the visitors. 
 
 Large, stout, sleek, and fair was he, and his ruddy- 
 cheeked and well-shaA^en face might fairly have been 
 called handsome. Easy-going, jovial country gentle- 
 man and farmer was stamped on him, from his shining 
 bald head with its border of yellow grey hair, down to 
 his brown field-gaiters and thick-soled shoes. 
 
 " Bah ! I fear I must leave you abeady," he ex- 
 claimed, with an air of mingled amusement and annoy- 
 ance, ere he had done more than greet his friends in his 
 usual cordial manner. " My steam thrashing-machine 
 is making an astonishing row out there. The hands 
 are not up to it yet. Earewell for the moment." 
 
 Without more ado the Squire disappeared among the 
 shrubs in pursuit of his noisy engine, which was indeed 
 booming thunderously in a neighbouring field. At the 
 same time the young people paired off to the door of an 
 old garden situated at the north side of the avenue. 
 
 Calvert kept his place beside Miss Edith, and re- 
 marked with satisfaction that Mr. Eagle seemed dis- 
 j)Osed to content himself with Miss Polly, for whom he 
 had exchanged her sister with Dr. Wilmotte. 
 
 The garden was full of rambling and unpruned bushes 
 and fruit-trees. Roses, honeysuckles, and shrubs of
 
 62 DINA. 
 
 many sorts straggled over the borders among a variety 
 of self-sown annual flowers and rankly luxuriant weeds. 
 The boxwood edging had not been trimmed for many a 
 day, and the gravel of the walks was visible only where 
 the vegetation upon it was foot-worn. Only a few 
 plots of ground, devoted to kitchen plants, were in any 
 sort of order. 
 
 "From the appearance of this garden, one might 
 easily fancy the house deserted," said Calvert, as he and 
 Miss Lockart strolled down the centre path. 
 
 " Mr. Grange," replied the young lady, " takes an 
 interest only in the west gardens, and his sister, Mrs. 
 Beagle, shuns this enclosure on account of its supposed 
 dampness. As for the girls, they, especially Marian, 
 positively forbid the interference of the gardener with 
 the bushes, and even with the weeds. Marian says 
 that owing to letting everything come up, she often 
 finds beautiful wild-flowers and strange varieties of tame, 
 but here seK-sown, plants — What an immense bramble!" 
 
 As she spoke her dress was caught by the long shoots 
 of a bramble bush which had made itself at home on 
 the walk. 
 
 " This must have been growing here for years and 
 years," she added, trying to disengage herself 
 
 " Permit me," said Archer, delighted. 
 
 The thorns were obstinate, and the muslin dress thin 
 and airy, so that it was no easy matter to separate the 
 one from the other. The skirt had to be let down 
 where it was looped up, and then lifted along with the 
 thorns, that busy hands might the more easily pursue 
 the task of disengaging it. 
 
 " A very graceful plant, isn't it?" remarked Calvert, 
 not at all disposed to apostrophise the bramble as a
 
 DINA, 63 
 
 nuisance ; " I wonder it is not generally cultivated in 
 gardens." 
 
 " It bears delicious fruit/' said Edith, holding two 
 shoots apart, while Archer tried to pick the muslin off 
 their thorns. "I suppose it does not grow in India, 
 does it? but you must remember the splendid black- 
 berries on the broken ground where the great landslip 
 occurred to the east of Bonchurch, where, that is, at 
 Bonchurch, not on the landslip, you spent some years, 
 didn't you, on your return from Lucknow ? I was at 
 school there, perhaps you have heard. We, the girls, 
 used to gather blackberries to make tarts, which, I 
 assure you, were first-rate." 
 
 The fair girl also, it seemed, forgot that the bramble 
 had no business on the walk, and that it should have 
 been abused just then on account of its thorny branches, 
 rather than praised for its pleasant fruit. No doubt 
 she found something to admire in the celerity with 
 which the artilleryman's fingers picked three thorns out 
 of the dress at one fold, while his coat -sleeve made six 
 larger thorns hook it up at another. 
 
 " How very provoking ! I am very sorry to give you 
 so much trouble. Captain Calvert," she exclaimed, in 
 her happiest accents, and with an utter disregard of 
 truth. 
 
 " Are not the pink- edged blossoms pretty ?" she 
 added. "They belong to the rose tribe, don't tliey ?" 
 
 Calvert said he thought nothing more likely. They 
 were at least like dog-roses in miniature, and were quite 
 as well guarded by thorns as roses were. Thorns, by 
 the by, were not such repellent things as he had fancied 
 them. Their points hooked somewhat ; no, in this 
 case, it was the whole thorn that curved backwards.
 
 64 DIN A. 
 
 They seemed rather meant to catch the unwary travel- 
 ler than to defend the blossom and fruit. But Miss 
 Lockart must be tired of standing, wasn't she ? Would 
 not she sit on the bench j nst behind her while the bramble 
 was being taken off her dress ? The lady thought this 
 would be a capital plan ; the blood went to the head 
 when one stooped so much as they had to stoop, even 
 with the dress held up ; and, to be sure, with the 
 captive folds of muslin between them on the bench, 
 they could attack the enemy at greater advantage. The 
 sun was not too hot for sitting in ; and, besides, was not 
 the bench partly shaded by the scattered foliage of an 
 old mulberry tree ? — quite a curiosity in its way, though 
 at present it had no fruit to make it very interesting. 
 
 There, then, the pair seated themselves. Rough 
 enough the seat was, but then it was almost secluded 
 by the twisted mulberry. Their friends were a good 
 way off : the Doctor and Miss Grange in a bower quite 
 at the extremity of the garden, and Mr. Eagle and 
 Polly among the black-currant bushes near the east 
 wall. Pleasantest so, wasn't it ? it was such fun to 
 fight the brambles by themselves, and at their leisure ; 
 leisure, for surely there was no need of hurry ? None 
 in the world. Safer, too, for the dress, that plenty of 
 time should be taken, and that only two pair of hands 
 should be at work upon it. This crooked branch might 
 be got off in half the time if cut through just under 
 that bud. Archer said his penknife was available if 
 Miss Edith had quite determined that the branch in 
 question should be cut ; for his own part, he thought 
 that cutting branches would be an admission of defeat. 
 So it would, admitted Miss Lockart; besides, if let 
 alone, this branch would be the most fruitful of all in
 
 niXA. 65 
 
 the course of tlie autumn. It mi^lit, too, be a favourite 
 oi Miss Grange's. She took fancies to such things ; 
 Edith knew she did AVliy, the blossoms were fading, 
 and the fruit setting ah'eady. There, indeed, was a 
 beny quite formed, and even reddish. ISTo, it would be 
 a shame to cut any part of the bush ; that branch 
 especially. But, lo ! from the currant-bushes were not 
 Mr. Eagle and Polly now approaching the mulberry 
 -seat ? Tliey might laugh at the thorn-pickers, and 
 truly the thorns on this branch w^ere dreadfully obstinate. 
 Cut? Yes, let it be cut. So the bramble -runner was 
 severed in two or three places, and in a few more seconds 
 the dress was altogether freed. 
 
 ]Mr. Eagle and Polly looked as if they intended to ask 
 for room on the bench. Calvert declared to his com- 
 jianion that he didn't see why they mightn't have the 
 M'hole of it, now that the bramble was overcome ; and, 
 ere the worthy clergyman and his companion were within 
 speaking distance. Miss Lockart, agreeing with him, re- 
 marked that there w^ere still some gooseberries on those 
 bushes a good way off, on the way to the bower in whicli 
 ]\Iiss Grange and Dr. AVilmotte had sought shade. Not 
 one had he tasted this year, vowed Calvert ; and forth- 
 with he and Edith started for tlie gooseberry bushes 
 in question. 
 
 " Which kind do you prefer ?" he inquired gleefully 
 when glancing back he observed that Eagle and Polly 
 had settled themselves on the vacated bench in a de- 
 liberate way, as if they meant to remain there for some 
 time. 
 
 "The old-fashioned green Gascoignes, if they are not 
 all over," answered the lady, smoothing down her skirts 
 -which seemed to have suffered no material injury. 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 G6 DJNA. 
 
 Calvert quickly gathered a few Gascoignes lingering 
 on some shaded bushes, and heaped them on a cabbage 
 leaf. Now the leaf was rather a stiff one, and it could 
 not well be held with one hand only without letting the 
 fruit roll off it, so that as Captain Calvert must. Miss 
 Lockart insisted, eat his share, the leaf required evi- 
 dently to be held by the right hand of each partaker, if 
 it was to be kept in the proper cup shape. Could he 
 hold it with both hands, and at the same time help him- 
 self to berries from it ? Clearly not. Archer, indeed, 
 privately thought that he might hold the leaf with both 
 hands, while Miss Lockart's dainty fingers popped a 
 berry into her own mouth and into his alternately, but 
 he did not venture to propose this. 
 
 " The green Gascoignes are sweeter than those new 
 green hedgehogs which are cutting out the older berries 
 in the market, owing to their greater size, I suppose. 
 There is a fine one, take it." 
 
 Edith's rosy- nailed forefinger pointed to a very clear 
 berry. 
 
 " No, no ; too good for me," said Archer, picking up 
 a smaller one w^hich her hand had touched in passing. 
 
 His taper fingers, as slender as her own, however 
 much stronger, reflected their bright colour upon her's, 
 and both hands looked rosy as, ever about the same 
 moment, they were contrasted with the green berries 
 and the green cabbage-leaf. 
 
 Calvert had not supposed the gooseberry to be such 
 an exquisite fruit as he found it now. Another leaf 
 full ? Oh, yes, surely ; they were delicious ; and so 
 wholesome too ! 
 
 Delightsome no less were blue eyes beaming gladness. 
 - Pleasant garden ; liow they enjoy it !
 
 DIXA. G7 
 
 All, a late strawberry there ! A beauty. Pluck it 
 with its long stalk, and offer it with a grave bow, as if 
 it were a little nosegay. Watch the white teeth as they 
 bite half of it between the rosy lips, and, gentle soul, 
 covet the other half, which, however, presently follows 
 the first, and leaves the green calyx, with its creamy, 
 bleeding heart. The lady's finger and thumb hold the 
 stalk for a little, as if reluctant to part with it. They 
 drop it at last, however, and Duff, the placid Newfound- 
 land, whose patience has proved inexhaustible, eyes it 
 with a tantalized look, occasioned by his desire to taste 
 it, and his remembrance that he is a carnivorous beast. 
 
 Oh, happy day 1 few were the words spoken ; but did 
 sun ever shine on a pleasanter wilderness of fruits and 
 flowers ? Was ever luck greater than that of finding S(j 
 beautiful a strawberry out of season ? How tenderly 
 the little teeth had cut it ; how sweetly the red red lips 
 had closed and shut it in ! 
 
 And happy seemed the fair one, didn't she ? — gracious 
 always, but now with a most sweet air of meekness and 
 innocent playfulness. 
 
 Archer's bright eyes had long ago recovered their 
 wonted frankness and courage. No flitting blush, no 
 thrill of x^assing thoughts escaped him on that lovely 
 face beside him. He saw that the girl was content ; 
 though conscious, perhaps, of his admiring gaze. Bliss ! 
 Xay, but was her contentment really flattering to him ? 
 Was she not also conscious, alas, that Eagle, the hand- 
 some divine, was looking past Polly Grange's rosy cheek 
 and gazing on her's with — was it not so ? — rapture in 
 his eye ?
 
 68 DINA. 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 Polly Grange, fully persuaded that Mr. Eagle was 
 gazing at herself, blushed bashfully over a handful of 
 roses ; but Calvert was right, Eagle's glance past Polly 
 had reached Miss Lockart. Dr. Wilmotte, sitting 
 beside Marian in a rustic bower at the north-west 
 corner of the garden, thought it extended even farther, 
 and, crossing the white feather that drooped over Edith's 
 neck, settled at last on the calm brow beside him. 
 
 ^Ir. Eagle's eyes w^ere grey, light grey, and full of 
 pale fire ; but, though often keen and piercing like 
 Calvert's, their flashing glances seemed generally to be 
 wasted in space, and arose oftener from the play of an 
 ardent spirit in the bosom of the man, than from the 
 active exercise of the visual sense. His long silky hair 
 was red; his nose Eoman, with a somewhat decided 
 knot at the bridge ; his cheek-bones rather high ; his 
 mouth small ; his chin prominent and sharp ; his fore- 
 liead not full, but arched back, and lofty looking, owing 
 to the front of his head being rather bald. His eyes 
 were deep- set under eaves-like eyebrows. His whiskers 
 followed the shape of the jaw-bone, and ended on each 
 side of the chin in a knot of hair. In colour they were 
 scarcely so red as the hair of his head. He was tall, 
 spare, and slightly bony in figure. His presence was
 
 DmA. 69 
 
 commanding, and, without being either strictly good- 
 looking or remarkably well made, he was generally 
 considered handsome. Personally, both Wilmotte and 
 Calvert were, and felt tliemselves eclipsed by him ; and 
 as they fully recognised, at the same time, the singular 
 straightforwardness of his character, and the noble 
 fervour of his spirit, they naturally regarded him as 
 an}i:hing but a desii^able rival. Although a minister 
 of the Church of Scotland, he possessed a sufficient 
 private fortune, and had never accepted a charge, partly 
 owing to a discursive turn of mind, which he had 
 acquired on the Continent, and partly from disinclina- 
 tion to tie himself more closely down to the AVestminster 
 Confession than he had already done. He did not, 
 however, deny himself the luxury of preaching. He 
 was always ready to occupy the pulpit of any invalided 
 friend ; but, when he did so, he honourably endeavoured 
 to confine himself to the exposition of those doctrines 
 in regard to which his private views were not in conflict 
 with the standards of his church. 
 
 Miss Polly Grange reverenced and admired Mr. 
 Eagle devoutly ; and her fancy that he was now gazing 
 at her was a very pleasurable one, even though it 
 occasioned her some embarrassment, and made her blush. 
 But why, she wondered, did he not say something? 
 Surely he had been a very long time silent. Making 
 a courageous effort to recover her self-possession, she 
 raised her buncli of roses to her face, and ventured a 
 side glance at him. Alas ! his eyes were not fixed on 
 lier, but looked away past her. She dropped the 
 flowers into her lap, and, turning her face to the left, 
 saw ^liss Lockart bite the late strawberry, and, beyond 
 ^liss Lockart, saw her sister sitting in the bower, witli
 
 70 nmA. 
 
 downcast eyes as usual, and as usual witli her Lands 
 placidly folded on her knees. 
 
 Now Polly was jealous of Miss Lockart, and also of 
 her sister. To the latter she made no secret of her 
 regard for their clerical friend, hoping that Marian 
 would feel duly cautioned against worshipping at the 
 same shrine ; but against Miss Lockart she was rather 
 helpless. 
 
 " Isn't she very pretty — Miss Lockart, I mean?" she 
 asked, with somewhat pouting lips. 
 
 "Very pretty indeed. — I was thinking so," replied 
 Mr. Eagle, unaffectedly. 
 
 " She has such nice hair," added Polly, growing ill- 
 natured in her mortification, and pouting still more. 
 
 "Yes," he said, cordially, "very fair and sweetly 
 shaded. I am glad we agree. Some people think it 
 hardly bright enough." 
 
 "Was there ever such a man?" thought Polly, in 
 dire vexation. 
 
 "Your sister too," Mr. Eagle continued, "is very 
 lovely in her own style — so different from Edith's ! 
 How sage she looks, sitting there silent in the arbour. 
 Is she very fond of the good Doctor ?" 
 
 " Oh, very. And Captain Calvert is going to marry 
 Edith. One can see that," said Polly, with more cross- 
 ness than could have been expected ; for she was natur- 
 ally good-tempered. 
 
 Eagle had not been thinking of her at all, as he now 
 admitted to himself with shame. 
 
 "How delicious these roses look," he said, kindly. 
 "Will you give me one ?" 
 
 He was innocent of the language of flowers, but Polly 
 had studied that tongue diligently in a little book
 
 DIXA. 71 
 
 prettily bound in silver cloth with gilded edgings, and she 
 looked conscious and confused. " Could he mean it ?" 
 she asked herself. '' Might she really venture to give 
 him one ? He certainly was very agreeable now, and 
 might not be quizzing her— indeed, he never quizzed 
 her." So she chose the finest moss rose-bud, and, with 
 a beating heart, presented it to him. 
 
 He thanked her, praised its fragrance, and then 
 forgetfully let his eyes wander again towards the lower 
 end of the garden. Xo wonder Polly was jealous, and 
 in danger of falling into bitterness of spirit. Conscious 
 as she was of personal disadvantages, wluch rendered 
 her less attractive, she feared, than her sister, very 
 mortifying must now have been the reflection, forced 
 upon her by Mr. Eagle's renewed inattention, that she 
 had not improbably given away her heart unasked. 
 
 Yet, in the main, Polly Grange was a hearty, jolly, 
 healthy-minded girl ; rather milk-maid like, perhaps, 
 and yet plainly a squire's rather than a gardener's 
 daughter. On the whole, she was not unworthy of 
 that large share of her father's affections which she had 
 retained ever since a display of really generous courage 
 on her part had made him take her to his heart with 
 absolute enthusiasm. One day a peculiarly savage 
 hound, chained in front of a small cellar in Castle 
 Craig, had suddenly seized Johnny Gowans, when that 
 nautical youth was only three years old, and had carried 
 him into the cellar. Polly Grange, aged fifteen, hap- 
 pened to be passing at the time, and, seeing the boy's 
 danger, she, reckless of consequences, darted after the 
 dog, clutched the back of his neck, and shook him with 
 her chubby hands so vigorously that he dropped the 
 child, and resented Polly's presumption by biting her
 
 72 DIFA. 
 
 ."severely on the left arm before her father's bandy-legged 
 coachman could arrive to her rescue. Mr. Grange 
 heard of this with wonder and delight, and in acknow- 
 ledgment of her bravery he had ever since shown his 
 jippreciation of lier by employing lier on every occasion 
 in which he stood in need of manual assistance of any 
 sort. Polly was privileged to fetch a book from the 
 library the moment he asked for it ; Polly was supposed 
 to know into which pocket of his tweed coat he had 
 ])ut that new gaiter with defective buttons, which he 
 had been obliged to take off in the middle of a bog at 
 Dingleheath, when out shootinor with the vounwr 
 
 '- O I/O 
 
 ]\Ielville, and she had an admitted right to put new 
 buttons on to it at ten minutes' notice, and to make sure 
 too that they were sewed on stoutly; Polly had an 
 exclusive claim to the pleasure of carrying his creel, 
 his rod, his water-proof leggings, and his perfectly 
 unnecessary landing-net to the river side, when he 
 went to fish in certain pools and rapids of the Lin; 
 Polly would be permitted to return half-a-mile on any 
 occasion when his short-sight spectacles had been 
 left on the library writing-table ;— in short, no service 
 required by Mr. Grange was believed to be too hard or 
 too much out of the way for Polly to be fully entitled 
 to be expected to do it after she had so thoroughly won 
 her father's heart by her bold and unselfish fight with 
 the untamable hound. It is not to be doubted that the 
 grateful girl would return her father's affection with all 
 the ardour of her warm-blooded nature, and would feel 
 that in it she always had something to fall back upon 
 in every disappointment— one unfailing source of pride 
 and happiness, of which the cruelty of no clergyman, 
 however tall, however grand and Jove-like, could
 
 DIN A. 73 
 
 deprive her. She coutiniied, then, in spite of disap- 
 pointments incident to her uninvited penchant for Mr. 
 Eagle, to be generally joyous and likeable ; and her 
 father justly thought that she had as good a chance as 
 many prettier girls of being, should she wish it, credit- 
 ably united to some appreciating mate ere the soft 
 mellowness of her healthful cheek should assume the 
 harder texture of o'er ripened charms. 
 
 " I have frequently of late remarked that Dr. ^Vil- 
 motte is hardly himself when beside your sister," said 
 Mr. Eagle, quietly, after looking for what appeared to 
 Polly a very long time indeed, into the corner arbour. 
 
 "She has known him ever since — indeed, I don't 
 know how long/' said Polly, not unwilling to represent 
 the Doctor's claims to her sister's regard as standing on 
 a solid footing. " AVe are all very fond of him." 
 
 She would gladly have declared that Marian was 
 attached to Dr. Wilmotte, and thereby have effectually 
 disposed of at least one rival, but she had too much 
 esprit dc coiys to say such a thing seriously ; and, besides, 
 lier sister had never admitted anything of the sort to 
 her. Indeed, though the sisters shared one sunny 
 bedroom with sweet- jessamine shaded windows, ]Marian 
 had never yet spoken to Polly with more than friendly 
 interest of any man whatever ; and it is certain that 
 when Dr. Wilmotte had led her down the garden walk 
 to the rather ruinous summer house, neither her manners 
 nor her eyes revealed to him any feeling very encourag- 
 ing to a lover. She had seated herself on a rickety 
 garden chair, and presently her eyes were hovering 
 dreamily over a pot of blue and white milkwoils 
 standing at the foot of a curtain of wild ivy which 
 screened her from the noon-tide sun. Not improbably,
 
 74 DINA. 
 
 while gazing at them, she was thinking of a little 
 meadow under the stately castle, which commands the 
 under cliff about a mile west of Ventnor Cove. There a 
 friendly hand, armed with an iron-shod walking-stick, 
 had grubbed up those fairy plants, and so enabled her 
 to carry them, roots and all, in a bundle of moss, to a 
 saucer in the window of her boarding-school dormitory 
 at Bonchurch. The friendly hand in question was, it 
 may be mentioned, that of Mr. Alfred Monotone, a 
 gentleman who twice a week attended the private col- 
 lege for the purpose of giving lessons in water-colour 
 drawing. But though a very handsome man, and well 
 born, being in fact a younger son of the Count von 
 Beinherz of Baden, and therefore by courtesy the Count 
 Alfred von Beinherz, Mr. Monotone, as the drawing 
 master chose to be called, never presumed to show — 
 Miss Lamprey, the Lady Principal, was sure of it— such 
 a penchant for any one of his pupils as to justify the 
 girl (in the opinion of the other girls) in flattering her- 
 self that she enjoyed his favour in an especial degree ; 
 and it need not be supposed that Miss Grange, while 
 meditatively surveying the heart-shaped blossoms of her 
 pretty milkworts, was associating them with any very 
 marked attentions on the part of the painter count to 
 whom she owed them. 
 
 Edith Lockart also, by -the-bye, had enjoyed the ad- 
 vantage of that count's instructions in art, and, indeed, 
 from being one of his best pupils, she had become toler- 
 ably intimate with him. Perhaps he had even interested 
 her. It is, at any rate, certain that on her return from 
 school to reside with her brother, after the removal of 
 his wife to House of Dawn, she had talked a good deal 
 about Mr. Monotone, until she was one day suddenly
 
 niXA. 75 
 
 silenced by Sir Angus, and ordered never again to speak 
 of lier teacher. Casually she had mentioned that ^Ir. 
 Monotone was in his own country the Count Alfred 
 von Beinherz, and at this name Angus had, as it were, 
 sickened, and then flown into one of his passions. 
 
 ^\'hy the count's name wounded her brother, Edith 
 did not at that time learn. That Angus, while staying 
 in Dresden with his wife, her maid Annette, and his 
 valet Yidocq, had become acquainted with Yon Bein- 
 herz then a somewhat fast man of fortune seemingly, 
 and that he now hated him with extraordinary viru- 
 lence, was all that he had been pleased to admit to his 
 sister. 
 
 But to whatever thoughts the milkworts gave rise in 
 the mind of Marian Grange, while her sweet eyes 
 hovered over them in the arbour, those thoughts were 
 obscure to Ellis Wilmotte. He sat on an old-fashioned 
 three-legged stool, and his left shoulder basked in the 
 sunshine, w^hile his right, which was next Miss Grange, 
 partook of the shade, which nearly the whole of his 
 companion's figure enjoyed. He had a half front view 
 of ^larian's face, and he did not stint himself in the 
 pleasure of seeing it. The most bashful of men, indeed, 
 might have looked his fill at Marian Grange, so rarely 
 would she think of returning his gaze. 
 
 Wilmotte was in truth not a little fond of her, but 
 this early autumn day, when already she was verging 
 upon her twentieth birth-day, he sat beside her not as 
 her accepted, or even confessed lover, but only as ad- 
 mittedly one of her oldest and steadiest friends. Until 
 quite lately, indeed, he had continued to look upon her 
 as little more than a child— a mistake which even her
 
 76 DIN A. 
 
 small and girlish features did not excuse, for lier figure 
 and habits had been formed years ago, and her violet 
 eyes had long been womanly in their soft serenity. 
 
 Neither by look nor word had he ever expressed more 
 than friendly affection for her. Perhaps he had im- 
 agined that the girl would instinctively perceive that he 
 was her lover. l*erhaps he waited for some indication 
 that she felt herself a woman, and appreciated his affec- 
 tion. It seems more probable, however, looking to what 
 afterwards occurred, that his silence was due to a painful 
 conviction that the maiden had no tendency to think of 
 him in the way he wished, and that the expression of 
 his feelings would be utterly fruitless, or even worse, in 
 so far as it might interrupt his happy intercourse with 
 her and her family. 
 
 Tliere was a certain thrill in his breast, and an occa- 
 sional tremor in his voice as he conversed with her in 
 the bower, which, it may be, indicated a desire to pass 
 the limits of mere friendly conversation, and to ven- 
 ture upon that delicate ground which he had hitherto 
 shunned ; but no attempt did he make in this direction, 
 and presently he became silent altogether. There was 
 nothing awkward in this. Ellis and Marian had been 
 friends too long to dream of talking merely for con- 
 versation's sake. 
 
 Thus it came to pass that, by-and-by, not a whisper 
 scared a large-eyed robin perched much at its ease on a 
 cobweb-covered rake which stood in one corner of the 
 arbour, that not the breath of a single sentence stirred 
 a balloon-like seed of dandelion which rested on 
 AVilmotte's sleeve, and that only the chime of Polly's 
 little chat with Mr. Eagle, and the murmur of soft
 
 DINA. 77 
 
 words where Archer and Edith were sympathetically 
 sucking gooseberries, disturbed the sunny air until, 
 suddenly, a peal of mirthful laughter rang among the 
 leaves of a parched Eg}^tian thorn, or acacia, Avhich 
 drooped over the north wall of the garden, and ^liss 
 Grange, looking up at last, saw^ ]Mary ]\Ielville sitting 
 on the cope-stone they shaded.
 
 DIXA. 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 A LOW basket phaeton drawn by a black pony drove 
 at an easy trot up the Ashcroft avenue, and stopped at 
 the house door just as Mr. Grange approached it on his 
 return from the steam thrashing-machine. 
 
 " Ha, Miss Lushet ! How d'ye do ? delighted to see 
 you. In the Melvilles' basket, eh ?" said tlie Squire in 
 his heartiest manner. 
 
 Miss Lushet was alone in the carriage, and seemed 
 to think the circumstance required explanation. 
 
 " Mary JNIelville is with me, but when we came to the 
 garden wall next the road, she observed a broken cart- 
 wheel standing against it, so she checked Thunderbolt 
 and got out, saying she would climb over on the chance 
 of surprising Marian dreaming in the arbour." 
 
 " Ha, ha ; very characteristic ! The little rogue is up 
 to anything. Allow me to help you out. There. So 
 the Dingle is alive again ?" 
 
 " Yes ; the house was got ready yesterday, and they 
 drove out early this morning, bringing me with them. 
 Mr. Drycale, too, came soon after breakfast, provided 
 with rod and creel as usual. I wonder if Mary got safe 
 off the wall ? I left her sitting on it. She told me by 
 signs that there was some one in the garden, and bade 
 me. drive on."
 
 BIXA. 79 
 
 " There 's a large party in the old garden : !Mis3 
 Lockait, Wilmotte, Eagle, Calvert, and my girls," said 
 the Scjiiire. 
 
 " ]My brave Calvert I I had a delightful walk with 
 him yesterday afternoon at the promenade in Princes 
 Street Garden. He did not speak of coming here 
 to-day." 
 
 The lofty lady's voice was very full and mellow — 
 volummous, as it were, and undulating in swelling 
 waves of sound ; ground- swell waves which never rise 
 keen-edged, or break in bitter spray ; and in this it 
 seemed to harmonize with her person, for she was large 
 and massive, with a figure romidly and softly outlined. 
 Her face was a fine though somewhat full oval; her 
 nose rather hooked, and her other features in keeping 
 with it. Even her eyes partook of the prevailing ful- 
 ness, being large and prominent ; ox eyes, with the iris, 
 however, not quite so dark as the pupil, though of a 
 remarkably deep and liquid brown. They imparted 
 brightness to her expression, and yet were interesting 
 and attractive rather on account of the richness of their 
 colour, and, perhaps, their balmy, it might be even 
 sultry warmth, than on account of any indication they 
 afforded of mental animation. — While, however, her 
 eyes usually betrayed the habitual indolence of her 
 mind, there is no doubt that they could on occasion be 
 surprisingly eloquent, — wither with their wrath, burn 
 with their passion, or melt w^ith their tenderness. 
 
 As she stands on the broad door-step witli the reins 
 still in her hand, there is a degree of dignity in her 
 carriage which is almost imposing. But though even 
 majestic when drawn to her full heiglit, ^liss Lushet's 
 figure never lost a certain easy gracefulness. Her
 
 80 DINA. 
 
 luxuriant braids of cliestnut hair, which rolled in wavy 
 masses ; her smooth and compactly fleshed cheeks ; tlie 
 faultless rounding of her shoulders ; the grandeur of 
 her Juno Lust ; the noble outline of her ample arms, 
 when these were shown ; the long, smooth, oval- nailed 
 hands, all expressed a wealth of highly nourished blood, 
 tm affluent expansion of rich vitality, a regal womanli- 
 ness which made ordinary persons of her own height 
 feel shrivelled beside her, without, however, in the least 
 repelling the most sensitive by the smallest appearance 
 of coarseness or corpulency ; for this noble frauen- 
 zimmer was a model in form, and, in her flowing robes, 
 seemed undegraded by a single gross or jarring line. 
 
 " He came with Miss Lockart, I presume ?" she 
 added, with a just perceptible contraction of her level 
 eyebrows ; level, for from their inner end to where they 
 dipped at the temples they were more"" nearly straight 
 than any other line in her face, and when in the least 
 drawn together, their levelness and steadfast air were 
 remarkable, and gave force of character to a counte- 
 nance wdiich but for them might have often appeared 
 more fitted to grace a Sultan's seraglio than the wit- 
 brightened drawing-room of an English home. 
 
 " No ; he came with Eagle, I think," replied ^Ir. 
 Grange, innocently. 
 
 j\Iiss Lushet smiled, and her brows flew apart and 
 rose, arching a little, as if she were pleased and also 
 somewhat surprised by his answer. 
 
 Her smile was invariably sweet and genuine, and the 
 scarcely parting lips allowed just the narrowest line of 
 white teeth to shine between their living coral. They 
 were full lips, but the mouth being small, their fulness 
 was agreeable, and strictly in harmony with the round-
 
 DINA. 81 
 
 ness of the cliin, and the firm padding of the jaws, of 
 which the outline passed from the chin first in a slightly 
 dipping curve, and then in a full sweep up to the 
 temples. Perhaps the lower half of Miss Lushet's face 
 was predominant, but the whole bore so decidedly the 
 stamp of high breeding and refined habits, that the 
 thorough completeness of the chin and the under half 
 of the cheeks, though in a certain sense in keeping with 
 a comparative absence of expansion in the forehead, 
 suggested general soundness of constitution and present 
 healthfulness rather than anything less to be desired in 
 woman. — Miss Polly Grange's face, by-the-bye, rivalled 
 Miss Lushet's in point of healthfulness, and of fulness 
 without moonishness, but the girls — for the miglity 
 Bracy was, after all, a girl in age — were very unlike 
 in other respects. Miss Lushet was much the larger, 
 and of the more luxuriant growth. Her nose had quite 
 an Oriental smoothness in its curve. She was dark, 
 and her cheeks, glowing and pale by turns, had nothing 
 of the blowsy weather-warmed ripeness which Mr. 
 Grange admired in his more available daughter. That 
 is, their warmth and glow were from within. The 
 crimson blood suffused her transparent skin, or drew 
 back from the pulpy flesh and left her cheek of a 
 blanched yet rich olive, such as you rarely see north of 
 the Alps or Pyrenees ; while, on the other liand, Polly's 
 colour was for the most part permanently fixed on the 
 surface, her cheeks being crimsoned and brown-freckled 
 by the sun, like the south side of a mellowed pippin. To 
 be sure Polly's colour could be heightened, for, as we have 
 seen, she could blush ; but it was only when she did so 
 decidedly that her colour seemed a living thing ; whereas 
 the damask of Miss Lushet's cheeks was always flitting, 
 VOL. I. F
 
 82 DIXA. 
 
 deepening, or disappearing, and showing its sympathy 
 with her feelings — keeping you awake to the fact that 
 it was not a pretty mask but a very vital part of the 
 yomiGj woman, and one of which it would be well to 
 study the ever varying expression. 
 
 She threw the reins carelessly over the pony's back, 
 and looked towards the old garden- door, which was 
 now creaking on its loose hinges. When wide open 
 it seemed to be held so by some one behind it, and then, 
 calm, slow, and stately, appeared ]\Iiss Lockart's large 
 Newfoundland, leading the way before the young people. 
 
 Duffs dignity was at times miposing, and he seemed 
 to know how to make the most of it ; but, after all, he 
 was oidy a dog, and no sooner did he now catch sight 
 of the pony phaeton, than, forgetful of himself, he 
 bounded towards it barking, and scattering the gravel 
 with his feet, in high glee and excitement. Seeing him, 
 the pony, which had just begun to nibble at the edge of 
 the lawn, tossed its black forelock from a white spangle 
 on its face, and neighed joyously ; for Thunderbolt had 
 never been taught to preserve that servile silence while 
 in harness which makes most of our horses seem so 
 dull and spiritless. He and Duff were evidently on 
 speaking terms, and very glad to meet. 
 
 But Duff and Thunderbolt, tliough old acquaint- 
 ances, were not veiy intimate or very familiar with each 
 other's ways, and on one or two occasions they had been 
 known to misunderstand each other. They did so now. 
 The pony neighed in its pleasantest manner, sliook its 
 head, pawed the ground gracefully with its off fore-foot, 
 and looked highly gTatified with the Newfoundland's 
 attentions. But the latter was unfortunately a humorist, 
 and very fond of practical jokes. At first he made a
 
 Dm A. 83 
 
 variety of surprising zig-zags on the walk, dashed from 
 side to side, made light springs forward, and then sud- 
 denly backed, and, with his forepaws spread, crouched 
 opposite the pony, flapping the pebbles with his great 
 bushy tail, and barking and snuffling most amicably. 
 AH this the pony understood and liked, but presently 
 Duff changed his address altogether. He rose and 
 walked slowly towards the pony, stopped, looked at him 
 with a suspicious side glance, crossed the path to the 
 door step, and then, turning only his head, eyed his 
 friend in a sinister-like way, and showed the whites of 
 his eyes ominously. Thunderbolt, much subdued, re- 
 turned his glance with an inquiring one. Then the dog- 
 wheeled round, and from behind slowly approached the 
 pony's legs with an " uncanny" air, and a lowering eye. 
 The pony looked back doubtingiy, drew a little off, and 
 seemed apprehensive. Still Duff advanced deliberately 
 with his ugly air. At last, his upper lip curled slightly, 
 so as to let his teeth be seen, he, when close to the 
 pony's near fore-leg, jerked his mouth towards it, as if 
 to snap at it. But this was too much for Thunderbolt, 
 who, now thoroughl}^ alarmed, swerved violently to the 
 right, and then backed hastily till the phaeton wheels 
 struck the door step, when, finding it impossible to 
 escape that way, he reared a little from his tormentor, 
 plunged, and at last bolted forward and dashed on to 
 the lawn in a panic, followed by Duff in tlie wildest 
 excitement at the success of his ruse. 
 
 Just then, the young folk had clustered outside the 
 garden wall behind the shrubbery, and in two or three 
 steps would be on the walk down which the affrighted 
 pony must rush as soon as it crossed the grass. 
 
 In a moment the lawn was cleared by t]ie phaeton,
 
 84 Dm A. 
 
 but at the same instant Miss IMelville, siii^Drised at the 
 uproar, tripped into the avenue from behind a holly 
 bush, and stood in the middle of the walk, where, seeing 
 what was wrong, she waved her handkercliief to express 
 her disapproval of the tearing pace at which Thunder- 
 bolt was coming upon her. 
 
 ^ow Thunderbolt had not so entirely lost his head as 
 not to recognise his mistress, and respect for her mingling 
 in his agitated mind with fear of the dog, he made a 
 hesitating pause just in time to avoid knocking her over. 
 
 " you naughty, silly Thunderbolt !" said the young 
 lady, grasping a rein close at the pony's mouth with 
 each hand, and shaking it reprovingly. 
 
 But this was not judicious. The creature being still 
 in a fright, and the dog at its heels, Mary's rough recep- 
 tion increased its dismay, and it reared violently, lifting 
 Mary fairly off her feet. The next moment, in coming 
 down, she might have been under it ; but fortunately 
 the wdieels backed, Mr. Eagle's strong hands seized the 
 pony's cheek strap, and held its head up, w- hile Wilmotte 
 caught Mary by the waist and lifted her out of danger. 
 Calvert and the Squire w^ere at hand too, and Thunder- 
 bolt, being no match for four men, submitted at dis- 
 cretion. 
 ' "You silly beast !" cried Mary, somewhat irefully, as, 
 recovering from her surprise, she disengaged herself from 
 Wilmotte's restraining hands. 
 
 "Dear, old, stupid Thunderbolt!" she added, good- 
 naturedly, taking hold of the bridle again, and tapping 
 the pony's nose admonishingly with her forefinger. 
 " Did you mean to knock me dow^n, you ungrateful 
 goose?" 
 
 Thunderbolt, deprecating her displeasure, whinnied
 
 DINA. 85 
 
 eiitreatingiy, and seemed to assure her in his own tongue 
 of his regret, and to express as well as he could his 
 hope that she would consider all the circumstances of 
 the case before she punished him. 
 
 "Well, I forgive you, sir," she replied, magnani- 
 mously, as she turned him round and led him back to 
 the house with much complacency, as if she alone had 
 captured him. 
 
 Meanwhile Duff^ the real cause of all the commotion, 
 had, conscience-smitten, retired, with his tail abashed, 
 behind the denser shrubs. No one, however, had par- 
 ticularly remarked his share in the business, and he 
 soon saw that he might show himself without much 
 danger. He accompanied the party to the house door, 
 and, taking up a position apart, lay in a crouching 
 attitude, wagging his tail in a propitiatory way, and 
 looking from one person to another, as if he would be 
 glad of some recognition plainly indicative of a free 
 pardon. At last Archer noticed him. 
 
 " Here, Duff;" he said, patting his thigh. 
 
 Duff usually bounded towards him joyfully when 
 thus invited, but now he kept his place, and only 
 wagged his tail more energetically, expressing thereby 
 how happy indeed he would be to come, if first well 
 assured that he was not called for the purpose of being 
 thrashed for his mischievous trick. 
 
 "Ha, my friend," said Archer, understanding his ex- 
 pression, "what have you been up to, eh?" 
 
 " Dufl&e !" said Miss Lockart, overhearing Calvf 
 and guessing, like him, from the dog's manner, that 
 conscience was ill at ease. 
 
 Duff perfectly understood Calvert's question a 
 mistress's exclamation, and judged at once that
 
 86 DIXA. 
 
 ill for some punisliment, so, being a prudent beast in 
 his way, he hastily got up and retreated to a more 
 secure distance, where he walked from side to side in a 
 lialf-circle — advancing at one side, hastily retiring, and 
 then coming forward on the other, in a way which to 
 experienced eyes completed the evidence of his guilti- 
 ness. But neither the Squire nor Miss Lushet having 
 noticed the manoeuvres by which he had contrived to 
 indulge his love of fun, no witnegses were ready to 
 testify against him, and so j\Iiss Lockart, ignorant of the 
 nature of his offence, merely shook her head at him 
 admonishingly, and allowed his self- accusing manner to 
 pass without further notice. Duff', with a quick dis- 
 cernment for which he was remarkable, saw immediately 
 that his offence was overlooked, and with a gladsome 
 bark he shook himself, and got the whole affair off his 
 mind much in the same way as he would have shaken 
 water from his fur. Then he bounded about the lawn 
 in great spirits, and finally made up to Thunderbolt 
 with the friendliest gestures, to show, seemingly, that 
 he had never really intended to bite. Thunderbolt 
 scraped the ground good- humouredly, and accepted the 
 proffered explanation like a Christian. 
 
 "But if you had been run over, dear," argued Miss 
 Lushet, in her full mellow tones. 
 
 " Nonsense, Bracy," pouted Miss Melville. " Didn't 
 you see that he stopped the moment he observed me ? 
 T shouldn't have shaken his head ; but that's all I did 
 
 nss. Why, he might have dashed himself against 
 
 avenue gate and broken his knees if I hadn't stood 
 
 3 way. He could not but know me, as he had only 
 
 arted, but he might have been blinded by increas- 
 
 ht before he got much further down the walk."
 
 niXA. 87 
 
 Miss Lusliet shook her head dubiously. She never 
 persisted in a dispute with Mary, partly because she 
 was half conscious of a certain broad simplicity in her 
 own thoughts, which left them open to small thrusts, 
 and made her feel that she was no match for her nimbler- 
 witted friend, and partly because she was always fully 
 conscious of the advantages of her queenly presence, 
 and felt that in yielding any disputed point to Mary 
 she was merely humouring the caprice of a spoilt child. 
 Instead, then, of proving to Mary that she had run a 
 great risk of being killed, she merely kissed her in a 
 motherly way. 
 
 Calvert's expression of mingled dismay and amuse- 
 ment at the perversity of his fate in constantly leading 
 him into "Miss Bracy's clutches," was comic enough 
 Avhen, a moment after he had walked up to the house 
 with Edith at his side, he first observed that ]\Iiss Lushet 
 was of the party. He stood near her when she kissed 
 Mar}^, and as he happened to have his hat in his hand, 
 a horrid dread flitted across his mind that the stately 
 damsel might next pat him on the crown to express her 
 approval of the uncommon energy with which he hac" 
 thrown himself upon the phaeton's wheel. Howev^ 
 she did not pat his head, but merely smiled u^^ 
 benignly, in her most caressing manner, am^ 
 her oratification at meetinf? him a^^ain. 
 
 Her liquid eyes were so large and 
 warmed as she spoke with so much aff 
 ness, that Archer could not help fee""' 
 he made shift to return her co- 
 without betraying his chagrin ' 
 sciousness of having almost 
 flirting with another lady.
 
 SS DINA. 
 
 " A deiicedly handsome and affectionate sort of 
 woman !" he could not help remarking to himself, in a 
 relenting tone, as if he had just been fortifying himself 
 against her, and felt after all doubtful if it were wise to 
 do so. 
 
 " So glad to see you gaining strength and colour 
 every day," she said, looking down on his face, where 
 sallowness was disappearing before a healthy hue, which 
 seemed partly new-gathered English ruddiness, and 
 partly a returning shade of the Indian bronze he had 
 lost in the sick-room. 
 
 His bright grey eyes looked, as usual, frankly into 
 her's, and he was rapidly yielding to the fascination of 
 her manner, when a friendly w^ay she had of moving her 
 hands in front of her while her elbows pressed her sides, 
 — somewhat as a nurse does when inviting a baby to 
 come to her arms, — caught his attention, and so forcibly 
 reminded him of his boyish look beside her, that, like a 
 boy, he whirled round on his heel, half afraid she meant 
 to take him familiarly by the shoulders, and yet chuck- 
 ling inwardly at the comicalness of the idea. 
 
 " Oh, I am all right now, thank you. Pit for waltzing, 
 
 ' hope ;" and he whirled round again, the humbug, to 
 
 ■^"•lat he had whirled before merely to exhibit how 
 
 ' is ankle-joint had recovered from the Sepoy 
 
 had penetrated amongst its fibres. 
 
 dvful," said the bland lady, with a bright 
 
 hly- tinted cheeks, and with still more 
 
 dark eyes. "We shall have a de- 
 
 Dingleheath party on Saturday. 
 
 it?" 
 
 1 a quadrille with ^liss Lushet 
 
 3h, however, he was doomed to
 
 DIXA. 89 
 
 submit now and then — that is, as seldom as circum- 
 stances would permit ; hut to waltz with her I such a 
 thing had never occurred to him. 
 
 "By jingo, the woman's perfectly infatuated!" he 
 said to himself, with an apprehensive shudder. 
 
 " They have an exceedingly good lawn for dancing 
 on," he answered evasively ; and then, feeling that that 
 was scarcely enough, he stammered, — "'Twill be un- 
 commonly jolly, I'm sure." 
 
 "The bowling lawn has not been quite cut up by 
 croquet rings, like the green here," said ]\Iiss Lushet 
 placidly, " and the gardener keeps the turf so short that 
 it aifords, as we found last year, a very pleasant footing 
 even for round dances." 
 
 Archer, at his wit's end, felt that there was nothing 
 for it but to engage Miss Bracy for a waltz, but, just as 
 he was on the point of committing himself, the Squire 
 came to his relief. 
 
 " Luncheon," said Mr. Grange, so that all might hear, 
 " will be on the table at one o'clock. ^leanwhile we 
 may sun ourselves in the w^est flower-gardens, if you 
 please. Miss Lushet, will you honour me ?" 
 
 He bowed with old fashioned courtesy, and offered 
 Miss Lushet his arm. 
 
 " Ah !" sighed Calvert, with an inexpressible sense of 
 relief, as Miss Bracy, sheddmg upon him a parting 
 smile of encouragement, graciously moved off with the 
 Squire. 
 
 "Good heavens, the idea of waltzing with her '' he 
 mentally exclaimed. " Fairly booked, too, even though 
 I haven't asked her. Yet isn't she a loving soul ? Ton 
 my honour, if it weren't running counter to the order of 
 nature, I could almost yield at times, and be her pet
 
 90 DIXA. 
 
 liusband. That delicious blandness is so soothing. What 
 of her size ? it isn't as if she were an immense bony 
 creature, like a starved elephant. So soft and gentle 
 she is ; such a sunny ocean of rock-me-on-her-wavy- 
 breast sort of love is in her great melting brown eyes 
 that — Bless my heart, though, how sweetly Edith 
 smiles ! On Eagle, plague it ! The lucky parson ! Ah 
 me !" and Calvert sighed, not with a sense of relief this 
 time, but in sad hopelessness, and with a gathering 
 shade upon his pleasant face. 
 
 The next moment Miss Lockart, who had been con- 
 versing with Mr. Eagle a little apart, turned and said, — 
 
 " Mr. Eagle and j\Iiss Grange are going to accompany 
 me back to Beechworth after luncheon. Perhaps you 
 will join us. Captain Calvert, and so return to town 
 with Mr. Eac.de." 
 
 Archer thouglit a better arrangement impossible, and 
 said so. 
 
 "And Miss Polly?" said Mr. Eagle kindly to that 
 young lady, who had been pulling her handful of roses 
 to pieces for the last few minutes. 
 
 " I may walk a bit with you," cried the younger Miss 
 Grange gladly ; " but," she added in a dull tone, w^iich 
 brightened, however, with her last words, " I must not 
 go all the way, as papa said he would require me soon 
 after lunch to arrange some of his papers." 
 
 To miss the walk with Mr. Eagle was mortifying, but 
 there was some gratification in being able to si^eak of 
 arranging her father's papers, so gladness, regret, and a 
 touch of exultation alternated in the expression of her 
 unaffected voice. 
 
 Mr. Eagle had a good ear, and divined her feelings 
 perfectly.
 
 DINA. 91 
 
 ■ " By-the-bve, yoii have not yet shown me your new 
 turtle-doves," he said, smiling. 
 
 No entreaty was needed, and she went off with him 
 to the poultry-yard just as Mary Melville gave a final 
 pat to Thunderbolt's neck, and turned her gleeful eyes 
 towards Dr. AYilmotte, who stood with ^Earian a little 
 apart. 
 
 " Oh you precious muffs ; not a single word between 
 you in the two minutes and a half I have spent here 
 in tedious suspense," had been Mary's greeting when 
 Marian and the Doctor, sitting silent in the bower, 
 were startled by her mocking laugh, and, looking up, 
 saw her perched on the garden wall. 
 
 Wilmotte's interview with ]Miss Grange in the bower 
 tending apparently to no favourable issue, he had not 
 felt annoyed by Mary's sudden appearance. He rose 
 at once and went forward to help her down ; but Mr. 
 Eagle reached the wall before him, and so had the 
 better claim to the privilege. The wall was high, too, 
 and Mr. Eagle had the advantage over him of being 
 tail The clergyman held his left hand out firmly as a 
 step, and jMary, blushing, put her pretty foot into it, 
 rested one hand on his shoulder, and then lightly leapt 
 upon the thick bed of cliickw^eed with which the flower 
 border w^as overgrown. 
 
 Mary had been scarcely prepared for ^Mr. Eagle's 
 assistance, not having observed him at first owing to 
 the old mulberry tree, which liad screened him from 
 the spot where she sat, although he, being close to it, 
 could see her very well through its foliage. His 
 unexpected appearance silenced her completely, and it 
 is not improbable that she would have accompanied 
 Bracy in the phaeton had she known that he was in
 
 92 Dm A. 
 
 the garden. The rest of the party coming up, she took 
 refuge beside Marian, whom slie kissed an unnecessary 
 number of times, that her face might have time to 
 recover its wonted clearness before she spoke to Mr. 
 Eagle and greeted her other friends. 
 
 Eagle smiled, and the light of his brilliant though 
 pale eyes was shed down on her very tenderly. He 
 evidently liked the embarrassment she was ashamed of, 
 and, perhaps, thought it fully atoned for the rather 
 unfeminine escapade of climbing the wall. 
 
 Arclier and Edith were much amused by the manner 
 of her arrival, and began chaffing her about it freely ; 
 while Polly Grange, in her matter-of-fact way, felt 
 somewhat shocked by her cousin's freedom in allowing 
 herself to be caught on the top of a high wall by gentle- 
 men, and at the same time could not help thinking how 
 nice it must be to be helped off a wall by jNIr. Eagle, 
 and wonderiniT if on the whole, it would not be a i^ood 
 thing to play some prank equally oictre on the chance 
 of thereby drawing upon her blushes a look of such 
 sweet forgiveness as that which she now jealously 
 observed in Mr. Eagle's eyes. 
 
 As for Ellis "Wilmotte, he was not called "upon for 
 many words, and he and Duff presently led the way to 
 the garden door, which he held open while the dog 
 made its exit in the manner and with the results already 
 described. Mary's little adventure with the pony soon 
 restored his mind to its wonted tone, and, in a little, he 
 found himself engaged in an easy conversation with 
 Marian as he accompanied her to the house. 
 
 Leaving Thunderbolt, ^lary now approached the 
 Doctor. He at once read mischief in her eyes and 
 hastened to say, —
 
 DIN A. 93 
 
 "I hope Mrs. Melville got to tlie Dingle without 
 fatigue this morning?" 
 
 " Oh dear, yes/' cried. Mary, forgetting some teasing 
 speech about the arbour which had been hovering on 
 her tongue, "grandmamma is never fatigued, I think. 
 She bid me be sure to remind you of our dance on 
 Saturday afternoon should I find you here. You'd 
 better engage Marian for something at once. I'll put 
 you down on my card for the first lancers, the rest you 
 may dispose of as you please." 
 
 The Doctor bowed his thanks with perfect gravity, 
 and then with more gallantry than his manner in the 
 summer-house would have allowed one to expect, he 
 entreated Miss Grange to reserve two waltzes for him. 
 
 Marian smiled and nodded her assent. 
 
 " I am sorry I cannot now remain to lunch/' he added. 
 " I have to see widow Doherty, and then some after- 
 noon cases in town/' 
 
 In bidding Marian good-bye, he kept her hand in his 
 with a speaking though restrained pressure for a second 
 or two, and at the same time looked into her soft eyes, 
 which without exactly meeting his were directed towards 
 them in their customary rather absent-like way. Almost 
 any other girl would have been aware of the singular 
 earnestness of his gaze, even without directly seeing it ; 
 but there was nothing in Marian's colour or expression 
 to indicate that she thought of it, while, as for her hand, 
 it is but fair to say that she generally pressed her 
 friends' hands warmly, as if it really gratified her to 
 see them, and the closing of Wilmotte's was in truth 
 so frankly met by the pressure of her's, that she might 
 very well fail to feel the tenderness that he knew 
 expressed itself in every quivering fibre of his fingers.
 
 94 DIN A. 
 
 He looked disappointed for an instant, and then 
 having bowed merely to his other friends, he strode 
 rapidly down the broad avenue and disappeared behind 
 the shrubs. 
 
 Calvert was tlius left alone with three young ladies, 
 all of whom he admired heartily. Happy man ! — not 
 that he felt so exactly. A pretty girl, not in her first 
 season, appears to rejoice above all things in keeping 
 half a dozen men dangling about her, and can distribute 
 her conversation among them in tantalizing morsels 
 which secure their devotion; but a man, unless 
 wonderfully conceited, generally prefers to flirt with 
 one girl at a time, and indeed is quite unable to flirt 
 at all to his own satisfaction when his neat speeches 
 are liable to be overheard by any ears but those for 
 which they are framed. 
 
 "Shall we leave the pony here?" Archer asked — not 
 caring about the pony, but merely wishing to gain a 
 moment in which to consider how he might contrive 
 to carry off the lady he liked best before all three turned 
 into the west garden, whither Mr. Grange had led Miss 
 Lushet. 
 
 " I'll take him round to the stable myself. No ; don't 
 ring, Marian ; you and 1 shall go. Edith can show 
 Archer the way to the gardens. Now, don't be obstinate 
 goodie ; I won't have the groom." 
 
 So saying, Mary Melville put her arm round Marian's 
 waist, and taking Thunderbolt's bridle, marclied off by 
 a back lane which led to the stables.
 
 DIXA. 95 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 Followed by liis carriage, Wilinotte proceeded on 
 foot to ]\Irs. Doherty's cottage, a small dwelling which 
 stood on the road-side about a quarter of a mile from 
 the west gate of Ashcroft park. When within a hun- 
 dred yards of it, he overtook a feeble old man creeping 
 slowly along. 
 
 " Take my arm, Hugli," said the Doctor, " I am going 
 to your sister's to look at her wrist." 
 
 Gratefully, though not till after much persuasion, old 
 Hugh accepted the proffered aid. 
 
 The sun basked on the brown, green, and saffron roof 
 of the cottage, and the well-matured though green foliage 
 of several aged elm trees hung over it in peaceful masses, 
 softly defined against the eastern sky, of which the azure 
 was now dimmed towards the horizon by a bro^vn haze, 
 which, rising from the sea, was slowly gathering in 
 smoke-like banks, and di'ifting up the Forth. Part of 
 the city and the shoulders of Artlmr Seat were already, 
 indeed, obscured by the fog, but the rest of the country 
 was still under bright sunshine. "Where Wilmotte and 
 the old man walked tlie air was serene and warm, and 
 the rising east wind unfelt. 
 
 The cottage was partly covered with ivy, and among 
 that wliicli clung to tlie north chimney some starlings
 
 96 DIXA. 
 
 seemed to have their abode. Two of them were chat- 
 tering in their usual shrill twitter on a branch wdiich 
 hung close to the roof. A long-winged martin brushed 
 one in passing to the chimney, to the edge of which it 
 clung for a second and then dropped inside, whence, 
 however, it almost immediately fluttered, and then 
 darted off as if scared. 
 
 " The damned slut may gang t' hell for what I care," 
 growled a rough voice within the cottage, just as Wil- 
 motte and Hugh reached it. 
 
 At the same moment, Pike Doherty, the widow's 
 grandson, with a ferocious scowl on his large- jawed 
 face, appeared at the door, where, turning and shaking 
 his fist, he roared, with a savage grinding of his teeth, — 
 
 "An, damn it, if she's no gaun there or elsewhere 
 afore I'm back, dash me if I dinna crack her cursed red 
 heid, an' gie her a sark fu' o' as sare banes as ever 
 she — " 
 
 Suddenly he was conscious of the figures outside, 
 and, looking round, found himself face to face with the 
 Doctor and his grand-uncle. 
 
 Pike was a cowardly bully, and, turning on his heel, 
 he slunk away past the end of the house without 
 another word. 
 
 " Shurely the mad ne'er-d'-weel couldna say that o' 
 his auld grannie," muttered Hugh, as he looked into the 
 cottage. 
 
 The widow, his sister, was seated in her large chair 
 at one side of the fire-place. She was bending forward, 
 with her hands resting on the shoulders of a Avoman 
 who seemed to have thrown herself on her knees before 
 her, and who was sobbing hysterically, with her face 
 buried in the old woman's apron.
 
 I) IX A. 97 
 
 "Twas," the kneeler cried between her sobs, "just 
 afore the Martinmas term — and Sandy Craig and Winsie 
 Wright was by — an', gin they hadna gane ayont the sea, 
 wad be here tae tell that I'm an honest lass." 
 
 Neither of the women had noticed the darkening of 
 the doorway; and the widow, bo\\ing still more over 
 the speaker, asked — 
 
 " But he gied ye nae lines ?" 
 
 "What shude I hae wanted lines for, when Sandy 
 and Winsie were by tae witness hoo he took me tae 
 wife ?" cried the other, throwing back her head with a 
 passionate gesture, and looking up with streaming eyes. 
 " Was nae I as weel married as though the minister 
 hissel' had dune it? and dune it the minister wad, 
 hadna we been obleeged to keep it quiet like, for fear 
 ma faither shude hear o't while he was mad wi' Pike 
 for comin' efter me." 
 
 " Ou ay, lassie, I'm no sayin' but ye war married in 
 a sort ; but it's a peety, ye ken, no tae hae ony thing to 
 show for't, at least since Pike winna aloo that he kens 
 oucht aboot ye." 
 
 " Hoo was I tae ken, mem, that Sandy and Winsie 
 wad gang awa sae sune ? And never did I think that 
 Pike wad cast me off like an auld shoe sune as the 
 wean was born — him as was aye sae canty and kind, 
 and took me oot wi" him every Sabbath, till Kirsty Scott 
 was that wud wi' him she'd hae torn his een oot, had 
 nae Jock Martin faun in wi' her and coaxed her awa 
 tae the toun." 
 
 " Aweel, aweel, though lassies are like lamb legs, 
 which '11 neither saut nor keep, ye may be his bit wife. 
 It's a weary world tae some folk, an' I winna be hard 
 on ye ; though hoo ye're tae bide here gin Pike '11 no let 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 98 DIN A. 
 
 ye, I dinna weel ken, for the lad's an awfu' temper o' 
 his ain." 
 
 'Hugh had stepped forward, and his sister now caught 
 sight of him. 
 
 " Puir thing, puir thing," he said slowly, patting the 
 young woman on the back ; " sae ye're Pike's wife, are 
 ye ? I'm no for doutin' it, though a' lassies, belike, hae 
 a ready mou' for a ripe cherry. And ye're a wxel- 
 faured thing eneuch, for what I can see. Had up yer 
 head, lass, and gie's a blink o' yer een. The colony's 
 no oot o' the world, I'se warrant, an' yer friens can 
 send a line or twa that'll mak the callant pit up wi' ye 
 whuther he will or no. There'll aye be a dirty dub 
 atween ye, but I'm no for a man disowning his ain 
 flesh an' blood. The bairn's Pike's, I dout nae. A 
 sonsie wee thing it is tae." 
 
 He pushed aside the woman's shawl, and looked at a 
 very young infant asleep in her arms, and then added — 
 
 " Just a wee darkie, sich as Pike was liissel', for I 
 mind him weel, — a skirlin' bit cratur as wadna be 
 hushed, but kickit and girned for oors, no kennin', 
 puir thingi hoo its mither was deid o' it, an' its faither 
 doon wi' the sma'-pox, that carried him aff no abune a 
 week efter." 
 
 The young woman looked scared ratlier than aftected 
 by this account of the circumstances under which her 
 husband had come into the world. 
 
 " He said that he wad murder me gin I didna get 
 oot o' his gate afore he' cam hame again," she cried, 
 shuddering. 
 
 " Nae fears, nae fears," said Hugh encouragingly ; 
 " the lad's no that bad, though they rin far agee that 
 deils and cutties drive, and he's been a fashions han'fu'
 
 DINA. 99 
 
 this mony a year. But wha's yer faither, lass ? It 
 micht be weel tae bide wi' him a wee, till word comes 
 frae the colony an Pike's been broucht roun' a bit." 
 
 The girl, who had been sitting back on her heels 
 while the old man was speaking, threw her head into 
 the widow's lap again, and sobbed more bitterly than ever. 
 
 "I'm Maggie Miller," she said, " an ma faither's Tam 
 Miller, as is plooman tae Mr. "Winnot. He'd ne'er hear 
 tell o' ma maiTyin' Pike. 'Twas that garred me d'it on 
 the sly like, instead o' in the kirk. He's turned me oot, 
 an' vowed he'll ne'er set een on me again." 
 
 "An' richt lucky he'll be gin he keeps yer ugly mug 
 frae his door," said Pike, speaking through a broken 
 pane in the window. 
 
 The girl shrank terrified w^hen she heard the cruel 
 words, and crouched miserably between the old woman's 
 knees. 
 
 "Damn it, dae ye think I'm gaun tae hae that wee 
 brat faithered on me 'cause ye're no afeared tae tell sich 
 a pack o' lees, ye worthless hizzie as ever honest man was 
 pestered wi' ? I'll gar ye mind yer words, my lass, 
 depend on't; an' gin ye're no yont the Law" (Craig 
 Law Hill, probably) "the nicht, curse me if I dinna 
 mak sou's meat o' ye the morn." 
 
 The savage, a tall, powerful, and dark-browed young 
 man, having howled out this threat, turned to the left 
 and went off again, swearing hoarsely. 
 
 Scarcely had he disappeared when a figure came 
 from the opposite side, and another face looked in 
 through the broken pane. Two great black eyes stared 
 somewhat wildly into the room. Then the face was 
 withdrawn, and the next moment Kate Gowans set 
 down a brown water -pitcher in the cottage doorway.
 
 100 DIN A. 
 
 Her cheeks were flushed, and a tremor in her lips 
 as she spoke, showed that she was somewhat agitated. 
 
 "AVliat's it a' aboot?" she asked, hurriedly. 
 
 No one at once found words to explain the matter, 
 and, somewhat recovering her self-possession, she went 
 on to tell how she had come close to the cottage on her 
 way from the green well, and, without being observed, 
 had overheard Pike. What did it all mean? Was 
 this child Pike's ? and who was this woman, its mother ? 
 
 Wilmotte briefly narrated what had occurred in his 
 presence. 
 
 "Ay, ay, it's his I'se warrant," she said bitterly, after 
 a sort of stricken stare ; for, if the truth must be told, 
 Pike's flattering speeches to herself had of late more 
 than gratified her ; and the discovery that he was 
 already in all probability married, naturally produced 
 a sudden revulsion in her feelings towards him. 
 
 "An' she's his wife, is she?" Kate added, looking 
 with a curious mixture of scorn, anger, and compassion 
 in her face, at the crouching figure. "An he was 
 married lang afore he 'gan courtin' me, be like. Ah ! — " 
 
 Her hands were clenched (they were nearly as strong 
 as Pike's), and her eyes flashed. 
 
 "No that I gied him much encouragement," she 
 continued, with an awakening sense of self-respect ; 
 "but he's a proper lad, and ceevil spoken when he 
 likes, for a' that he has sich a tongue whan angered. 
 He was aye couthie wi' me, I maun say." 
 
 Her eye hardened a little towards the young mother, 
 but the latter at the moment looked up piteously, and 
 Kate, with a sudden throb of compassionateness, dropped 
 on one knee, and threw her arms round the shivering 
 shoulders.
 
 niXA, 101 
 
 '' Puir lassie/' she said tenderly, " ye kent him afore 
 I did, though he's ma ain cousin." 
 
 She stroked the girl's hair and cheeks kindly. Maggie 
 had a comely face, though just now it was very pale 
 and haggard. For an instant she turned it towards 
 AVilmotte, and he recognised in her a young woman 
 whom he had found weeping in North Frederick Street 
 the night before, and whom he had directed to the 
 House of Eefuge. Her brow was marked by a peculiar 
 white scar which had attracted his attention on the 
 homeless woman's face. She recognised him at the 
 same moment, and shrank from his eye confused, though 
 its glance was no doubt friendly enough. 
 
 "She's a bonnie bit thing," the wddow remarKed. 
 
 " Ay, that she is," said Kate, trying to comfort the 
 girl, "though," she added, conscientiously, "she has red 
 hair, an's but scrimpit in hicht." 
 
 The poor mother hid her face again with a weary, 
 despairing look. 
 
 "He'll ne'er come back to me," she sighed, "I'm, as 
 ye say, but a scrimpit thing beside the like o' you." 
 
 "But ye've bonnie een, and a cheerie wee face o' yer 
 ain," said Kate; "and depend on't he'll ne'er see ony 
 thing pleasant in my face again tae pit him bye ye. 
 My certie, but I'll let him ken w^ha 'tis can glower, like 
 the homed deil himsel'." 
 
 She shook her handsome head with a determined air, 
 and knit her black brows. 
 
 The mother gazed at her, but, heartbroken and 
 humbled, she became more and more dejected in looking 
 at her strapping rival. She trembled distressingly ; 
 tried to speak, but only gasped. At last she got up 
 suddenly, WTapped her shawl round the infant, and
 
 102 DINA. 
 
 hurried out of the house before her intention was 
 guessed. The others followed her, but she was twenty 
 yards from the door, on the way to Ashcroft, before they 
 could leave the room. 
 
 " Stay," said the Doctor, when he, with the others, 
 had reached the door, " it may be well not to distress 
 her by following her at once. Pike went the other way ; 
 and I doubt if he will venture to touch her, after having 
 threatened her before us. See, she is taking the short 
 cut towards the farm-yard. Poor child !" 
 
 Kate took up her water-jug, and prepared to go. 
 
 " Keep her in sight, at least," said the Doctor ; " you 
 are a generous lass, I know, Kate, and you will be kind 
 to her." 
 
 Katie Gowans curtseyed, well pleased, though in a 
 stately-like way — the water-pitcher being now poised 
 on her head. She wished them all good-day, and then 
 strode off along the road Maggie Miller had taken.
 
 DIN A. 103 
 
 CHAPTEE XIL 
 
 Though Mrs. Dolierty was a pensioner of the Squire 
 of Ashcroft, and required to do little for her Hving, she 
 did not in her old age show any tendency to become 
 soft and fat ; on the contrar}^, she, as it were, dried and 
 withered, until she came at length to look as if at her 
 death — should she ever die, of which her appearance did 
 not suggest any probability — she would be perfectly 
 qualified to claim a niche as a ready-made munomy 
 among the venerable monks of Kreuzberg. The drier 
 she grew, the more her eyes sparkled, and the brighter 
 her spirit seemed to become. Yet she was not a witch, 
 and no one suspected her of an evil eye. Nor was she 
 a hard woman, — keen, worldly, and merciless as aged 
 women occasionally are. In truth, she was a gentle 
 soul, and withal, perhaps, but too uidulgent to the frailty 
 of others. 
 
 Pike, her grandson, was certainly a blackguard, she 
 remarked quietly, as she followed Dr. Wilmotte back to 
 her kitchen fireside, after they had seen Kate Gowans 
 weU on her way to Ashcroft farm ; but some allowance, 
 she added, must be made for the fact that he was a 
 grandson of that dissipated Doherty whom, in the inno- 
 cence of her youth, she had married to her sorrow. It 
 was not for her harshly to judge the lad. Vice was
 
 104 DINA. 
 
 hereditary, and most to blame were those with whom it 
 originated. jMaggie Miller, or Doherty, as she was quite 
 willing to call the girl, was, too, she feared, not good for 
 much, though, believing her story, and seeing her dis- 
 tress, she felt that she had no choice but to succour her, 
 as far as she niiglit be able to do so. 
 
 Having shaken her old head several times in a way 
 which seemed to express commiseration for Maggie in 
 particular, and for the world in general, Mrs. Doherty 
 presently re-entered her cottage, and sitting down, held 
 out her arm for the Doctor's inspection. 
 
 " Puir Sandy !" she began, while Wilmotte applied 
 himself to the bandages, " he's been deid and gane this 
 forty year and mair. Yet dootless Pike's sins will liclit 
 on him still; for as children suffer for their faither's 
 deeds in this warld, mony sins o' the children are, I'm 
 thinkin', veesited on the faithers in the warld below. 
 I wad fain think, though, that e'en for them wha hae 
 the maist tae answer for, a time mil come at last o' rest 
 and licht. I'm nae Papist — ^preserve me, no ! — but it 
 aye has seemed tae me that when oor Lord went doon 
 tae preach tae ' the speerits in prison, which some time 
 were disobedient,' it was tae encourage wi' hope them 
 that without hope would for ever hae cursed the rod 
 that smote them. ' For this cause was the gospel 
 preached also tae them that are deid, that they micht be 
 judged according to men in the flesh.' AAHiat for would 
 they wha had ceased tae be in the flesh hae been preached 
 tae gin they had been aye tae bide singit on this side 
 and on that ? Wad that no hae been tae mock them ? 
 Preach ? Whatever sort o' place the distressed speerits 
 are keeped in, is it no eevident frae that word alane that 
 they are still in the way o' being bettered? Wlia kens,
 
 DINA. 105 
 
 then, but ma gudeman has been this while, no in purga- 
 tory, na, na, but at least in some place at ance o' punish- 
 ment, o' trial, and o' preparation, whar, aye for Ane dear 
 sake, he gets yet a chance o' escape, and will even 
 tDI the fashion o' tliis warld passeth awa', and we are 
 judged ?" 
 
 " Ah, Peggie, Peggie woman, it 's little ye ken o' sich 
 things, I'm feared," said Hugh reprovingly. 
 
 " That's ower true," re2:)lied the widow meekly. "We're 
 a' groping in the dark like. Maistly we dinna ken 
 gude folk frae bad. The bonnie and the sleek and the 
 sober are no aye the best at heart. And we shude 
 mind tae that it 's no aye them that reform wha repent 
 the sairest or fecht wi' the deevil the hardest. Weel I 
 mind when ma Sandy in his sober fits — for whiles he 
 was sober — sae repented that it drave him nigh oot o' 
 his wits, and strecht tae the bottle again. Wearie, 
 wearie ! wi' hoo mony a prayer I've deaved the Lord 
 for liim sin syne !" 
 
 "Prayer for the deid ?" said Hugh, aghast. 
 
 " ^Miat for no, ye gowk ? Gin the deid may be 
 preached tae, shurely they may be prayed for." 
 
 "Ah, Peggie, duma ye be ower shure o' that. Ye 
 dinna think hoo abominable are those that die in their 
 sins. E'en the sins that the maist are caused by sudden 
 gusts o' passion are dune wilfully, spite o' conscience, and 
 wi' hell fair in sicht. Sae it 's aye been wi' me, I ken." 
 
 " Wi' you, ye feckless body," screamed the widow in 
 high disdain. " And what ken ye o' gusts o' passion ? 
 It 's no hard to think, dootless, that the cauldriff sins ye've 
 been wrecked on in yer time micht hae been weathered 
 withoot straining the timbers much. What ken ye o' 
 sich things bye me, wha was wife to a Doherty ?"
 
 106 DIN A. 
 
 Her tone was exultant. The wife of Pike's grand- 
 father, a drunken sailor, was indeed likely to know 
 something of the devil-possessed. 
 
 Silenced by her scorn, Hugh seated himself demurely 
 beside the front window, and by-and-bye began sniffing, 
 with evident enjoyment, at the blossoms of a yellow 
 moss-rose which stood on the sill, and through the 
 leaves of which the sun shed a greenish light on his 
 scanty gi^ey locks. 
 
 " It mmds me o' House o' Dawn," he murmured, as if 
 apologizing for liking the perfume of the rose. 
 
 " House of Dawn ! " exclaimed Wilmotte, at once 
 interested. 
 
 "Ay, sir, seeventeen year I wroucht there, maistly 
 under Sandy Burns, the heid gardener ; and canty years 
 they were." 
 
 " Did you see much of the patients, Hugh ?" 
 
 " Ou ay, sir, whiles, whan they cam oot tae the 
 garden." 
 
 " Do you remember seeing one called Lady Lockart ?" 
 
 "Dootless, dootless. She was a fine cracky body, 
 and mony a time we forgathered, for she was aye fain 
 tae speer news o' her bairn, Maister Ebon, an' whiles o' 
 Sir Angus, 'sune as I had let on that my lass Martha 
 was housemaid at Beechworth." 
 
 " Ah, so she was, I remember. Well, did you think 
 the lady was mad ?" 
 
 "Nae doot she was no jist hersel', sir, or what for 
 wad they hae shut her up, think ye ?" 
 
 " But did she talk to you in a strange manner, so as 
 to make you think her daft ?" 
 
 " Certamly, Doctor. Was I likely tae be that demented 
 mysel' that I wadna ken a silly body when I seed her ?
 
 DIXA. 107 
 
 No but what the piiir leddy aye spoke reasonable eneuch 
 tae me, and speired the names o' the flowers and the 
 like ; comin' aye roun', though, somehoo, tae her bairn 
 at Beechworth." 
 
 " Then she quite understood that the child was not 
 at Glenrufus, where she had left it?" 
 
 " Bootless, sir ; did I no tell her that Sir Angus had 
 taen a tack o' Beechworth House ?" 
 
 " Oh, you had ; and she was always glad to hear 
 what your girl told or wrote you about the child ?" 
 
 " Keen, keen, sir ; hoo it was and hoo it looked." 
 
 " Ah, tenderly, and as if it w^ould have been safe 
 enough in her own keeping ? " 
 
 " Shurely, sir. Ay, ay, however wTang she micht be 
 in some pairts o' her mind, her craze w^as ne'er against 
 her baii^n ; I'll warrant ye that." 
 
 " Against whom had she a craze, then ?" 
 
 " Weel, they did say that Sir Angus had been but a 
 fractious gudeman tae her." 
 
 "They said. But did she herself speak bitterly of 
 him?" 
 
 "Bitterly? I wadna just say that, sir. She scarce 
 named him o' her ain accord, and when she did, 'twas 
 little she said. She'd just speir, may be, if he keeped 
 weel, or the like, and 'specially gin he seemed tae take 
 kindly tae the bairn." 
 
 " She was apprehensive that he would be harsh to it ?" 
 
 " I canna just exactly say, sir, what she thocht ; but 
 Sandy Burns aye had it that Sir Angus had beaten her 
 oot o' her bit wuts through temper ; and at times she 
 would tremble at the mention o' him." 
 
 " As if he had really been cruel to her ?" 
 
 " It micht be that, sir ; but gin she had a craze, it
 
 108 DIN A. 
 
 was dootless mair about Sir Angus than ony ither body, 
 I'm thinkin'." 
 
 " And what had made Sir Angus hard to his lady, if 
 indeed he was so, do you suppose, Hugh ? He seems 
 kind-hearted enough now." 
 
 "Weel, sir, I dinna jist ken, an its no for me tae 
 claver about folk like him." 
 
 " But what have you heard said — anything lately ? 
 I have sometimes fancied that Sir Angus was under a 
 misapprehension about his wife, and even now I might 
 be of service to him if I could ascertain the truth 
 regarding her." 
 
 " Belike, sir ; and things are said dootless that I in a 
 manner ken are no true. Ye ken that sleekit foreign 
 deevil they ca' Vidocq?" 
 
 " The French valet ?" 
 
 " Jist him. Weel, sir, he had a story regardin' w^hat 
 the leddy did." 
 
 " Ah, when abroad, eh ?" 
 
 " Ay, when she ^vas in foreign pairts wi' Sir Angus 
 an' him." 
 
 " Well, what was it ? You had it from your daughter ?" 
 
 "Ay. Bat it maybe w^asna richtly a story either 
 that he tellt. Twas raither that he let oot that he 
 micht tell tales o' her if he liked, but wasna fain, he 
 said, tae speak ill o' her, ye ken. Jist like the nesty, 
 sneekin', fawnin' foreign craetur, wha canna baud up 
 his head like a man — peety me, that I shude speak sae 
 e'en o' a foreign craetur. The dear bairn, Martha, 
 willna believe a word o't." 
 
 " Of Vidocq's insinuation ? " 
 
 " Ay ; for ye see she's acquaint wi' a lass wha has 
 a cousin by the mither's side, yin Annette, or the like
 
 Diy'A. 109 
 
 ootlandisli name, wha was yince maid tae Leddy 
 Lockart." 
 
 "Ah, to be sure, I'd heard the name. And she 
 travelled with the Lockarts, I think ?" 
 
 " In foreign pairts, till nigh upon their comin' hame." 
 
 " And what did she tell her cousin ?" 
 
 " Oh, jist that it was a' lees— a' lees thegither, sir." 
 
 "\Miat, Vidocq's story about his lady?" 
 
 " Ay ; the story that he could hae tellt, but didna, in 
 a manner, ye ken. There was a fearfu' row, she said, 
 aboot it." 
 
 "Annette said?" 
 
 "Ay, tae her cousin, wha in her turn tellt Martha, 
 my lass, whan she went tae veesit her a week by-past 
 the morn. Ye see the nesty, sleek it craetur had wanted 
 tae merry the lass Annette— set him up, the donnert 
 idiot to presume sae ! — and she'd spoken a bit o' her 
 mind tae him; an nae wunder, for wha could abide 
 such a — " 
 
 " Come, come, don't be hard on him. Perhaps he 
 is a trifle over civil in his manner; but Sir Angus 
 seems to find him serviceable enough." 
 
 "That's jist the warst o' it, sir; he's got ower muckle 
 roond his maister, frae what I hear, wi' his saft and 
 gentle ways — though, tae be shure, they say he's mair 
 nor ordinar handy, spite o' his shilpet look an' spindle 
 shanks." 
 
 " So Annette snubbed him ?" 
 
 " That she did ; an' gied him a scart wi' the rough 
 side o' her tongue that he was like tae feel." 
 
 " And he ? " 
 
 "He? Oh, it's weel tae ken what he'd dae ! He 
 jist glowered a while at the lass, and then made a feint
 
 110 DIXA. 
 
 o' thinkin' the mair o' her for her spunk, ye ken. But 
 that was a' in my e'e, for the vera same nicht Sir Angus 
 got intae a waur passion than he'd ever had afore, an' 
 turned the lass oot o' the house, as gin he'd gane clean 
 oot o' his wuts at yince." 
 
 "Not because she'd refused to marry Yidocq, I 
 presume ?" 
 
 " Ha, it's no likely he'd hear oucht o' that, sir. Na, 
 na ; but the sleekit craetur had tauld some tales aboot 
 her and her mistress, no muckle tae the credit o' the 
 ain or the ither. But they war a' lees, she says ; an' 
 awfu' lees dootless they war, for it's no easy tae think 
 o' a foreign craetur like that speakin' the truth e'en for 
 ance and awa." 
 
 " Ha, ha ; w^ell, what exactly had he told of her ?" 
 
 " Oh, jist the leeing story he tells, or winna let oot 
 raither, in the servants' ha' to this vera day. Nay 
 honest body could abide it. The bairn Martha, bless 
 her, wha is far on for her years, an' kens mair o' the 
 warld than ye'd hae thocht — she ne'er took in a word 
 o' it. She said, said she, it was a' an invention o' Satan's, 
 or what's just the same, a' thegither an invention o' 
 Vidocq's — the spitefu' wretch, wha was minded tae 
 revenge himsel' on the lassie." 
 
 " Which he did by slandering her and her mistress ?" 
 
 " Jist that, Doctor. It maks e'en a dazed auld carle 
 like me hot tae think o' it. But that's jist what the 
 malicious deevil did — ruining the vera mistress wha 
 had aye been kind to him, dootless ; for I wxel mind 
 her as a gentie bit bodie, wha Avadna hae hurt a flea, I 
 daur believe." 
 
 " Well, to explain, he told — ?" 
 
 "That he did. He said tae Sir Angus that whan
 
 DINA. Ill 
 
 they were a' bidin' quietly at a toon in thae foreign 
 pairts ca'd Dresden, or the like, a certain foreign coont 
 or earl — sich a like noble as they hae in thae pairts, ye 
 ken ; no wi' lands like oor lords, they say. Weel, that 
 he — that is, the Coont Beinherz — had been ower often 
 tae see the leddy, an hoo the lass Annette had noo 
 made a clean breist tae him aboot the way she had 
 helped tae hoodwink her maister, the hizzie ! — no that 
 she'd really dune onything o' the sort, sir, for Martha 
 aye says 'twas a' lees thegither, an' that the puir lass 
 Annette, efter she was married hersel'— and 'twas con- 
 sequently nae mair onything to her what folk thocht o' 
 her — maist positively vowed tae her cousin that a better 
 conducted leddy nor Leddy Lockart never lived." 
 
 " However, Sir Angus believed the story, it would 
 seem, and dismissed the girl from his wife's service on 
 the spot." 
 
 " Like a hurricane, sir ; for he had his bit tempers, 
 had Sir Angus, when his blood was up." 
 
 " And it was, you imagine, through belief in this 
 story or slander of Vidocq's that his hardness to the 
 unfortunate lady began ?" 
 
 " Sae Martha and me think, for they war like twa 
 doos afore." 
 
 " Like two turtledoves, eh ?" 
 
 " Ay, that 's what the maid, Annette, said tae her 
 cousin on what seemed like tae prove her death-bed, 
 though she got weel again in a while ; and she was 
 likely tae ken, for she'd been maid tae the leddy e'en 
 afore ever she was married tae Sir Angus." 
 
 " Well, Hugh, you've given me a pleasant task : to 
 tell Sir Angus that, horribly deceived by his servant, 
 he drove his wife mad, or something like it, by unjust
 
 112 DIN A. 
 
 suspicions, and was thus the cause of her untimely end. 
 Why, the poor man has already suffered agonies of 
 remorse for the hard words he gave her ; what will he 
 suffer when told that these hard words were not only 
 cruel, but wholly undeserved by his poor victim?" 
 
 " Aweel, aweel, sir, I'll no say but what ye micht 
 find better subjects for a crack wi' the like o' him, wha 
 dootless has meikle tae answer for." 
 
 " dinna ye fear, Doctor," exclaimed Mrs. Doherty, 
 who had hitherto listened quietly ; " dinna ye fear tae 
 speak the truth tae Sir Angus. It may mak him for a 
 while oot o' himsel' wi' vexation at himsel', but depend 
 on it — for, ye see, I ken him weel : ^Miss Lockart, wha's 
 guid tae a' puir folk like me, whiles ca's in the carriage 
 wi' her brother in it, an' a bonnie face he has, spite o' 
 his black beard ; an' I ne'er could abide beards but his, 
 ever since my gudeman that was let his grow tae be 
 like a blackning brush ane fortnicht that he was doon 
 wi' the horrors, honest man. Noo, whar was I, for the 
 thocht o' that has clean put a' thing else oot o' my 
 doitit auld held ?" 
 
 "You were advising me, Mrs. Doherty," said the 
 Doctor gently, " to tell Sir Angus about this sad matter." 
 
 " Ay, sir, and that I hand by, sir. For a' Sir Angus 
 looks sich a glum chiel, depend upon it, Doctor, nae- 
 thing tries him sae sair as the thocht o' his wife's hav- 
 ing gane wrang ; and it's my mind that gin he kent hoo 
 little cause he probably had tae think ill o' her, he'd be 
 a happier man for the rest o' his days, e'en though he 
 micht feel that he had mair than he noo thinks he has 
 tae reproach himsel' wi'." 
 
 " Ah, true. That seems a just thought, Mrs. Doherty. 
 A good woman's instinct is no bad guide."
 
 DINA. 113 
 
 The old woman looked pleased, and the Doctor 
 finished the tying up of her injured arm with pains, 
 which seemed expressive of the respect he felt for her 
 intellifjence and feelin". 
 
 " Keep it quiet," he said, when the bandaging was 
 completed; " and, by-the-bye, Hugh, I beg you will say 
 nothing at present to any one of what you have been 
 telling me about the Lockarts." 
 
 Stepping into his carriage a few moments later, 
 Wilmotte heard the lunch bell ringing at Ashcroft 
 House. 
 
 VOL. L
 
 114 DIN A. 
 
 CHAPTEK XIII. 
 
 After a leisurely ramble among his favourite flowers, 
 Mr. Grange was expatiating to Miss Lusliet on the 
 thriving condition of a field of Swedish turnips, when, 
 at the topmost chimney of his house, rang the bell 
 which Wilmotte heard. It was loud and clear, and 
 instmctively IMiss lAishet turned her steps towards it. 
 
 Luncheon was laid in the dining-room, a large room 
 at the south-west corner of the mansion. 
 
 Mrs. Beagle was already in her usual seat at one end 
 of the long oval table, when the Squire and Miss Lushet 
 entered by one of the west windows. ^ 
 
 Mrs. Beagle was Mr. Grange's sister. She hgji lost 
 her husband, a clergyman of the Church of England, 
 after a very few years of married life. The comforts of 
 her brother's house had cheered her long widowhood, 
 and his orphan daughters liad become her children. 
 
 She was tall and slender, with features which w^ere 
 handsome, in the high -nose style ; and was just over 
 fifty. She now invariably wore a widow's cap, and as 
 invariably a black silk dress, tastefully relieved by 
 white lace about the neck and wrists. Her hair was 
 remarkable for its artistic arrangement at all hours of 
 the day. It w^as always exquisitely plaited, and she 
 was at much pains to keep it smooth and perfect, hang-
 
 DI^A. 115 
 
 ing it carefully on the top of her looking-glass when 
 she went to bed, and never forgetting before she closed 
 her eyes to see that a fine cambric handkerchief had 
 been dropped over it to keep off the dust, which she 
 justly averred was ceaselessly floating about the room. 
 
 The widow Beagle had not always worn her weeds. 
 For a period of about fifteen years, dating from a spring 
 day thirteen months after her husband's death, she in- 
 dulged in a rather gay costume ; but when accumulating 
 years and wrinkles at last led her to suspect that she 
 had ceased to be perfectly marriageable, she resumed 
 her mourning, and sorrowed for her never-forgotten 
 spouse in the unexceptionable dress I have described. 
 
 Thoughtless persons smiled meaningly when her white 
 cap reappeared ; and when they noticed a narrow edging 
 of crape on her new black gowns, they jestingly alluded 
 to the length of time during which her grief had seemed 
 in abeyance. But her more discerning friends had never 
 considered her coloured dresses and spinster coiffures as 
 proofs of indifference to the memory of the deceased Mr. 
 Beagle, or in the least as indications that she had become 
 reconciled to her loss. On the contrary, they saw in 
 their cheerful hues and maiden cut with how much 
 repining she looked back to those blissful years when 
 she, as the rector's wife, had reigned in Appleton ; how 
 bitter must have been to her that mournful hour in 
 which she resigned the rose- shaded parlour of the 
 rectory, and left her cherished lord and spiritual guide 
 alone under the grey pavement of the chancel. Could 
 a widow, they reflected, more effectively declare the 
 happiness of her married life, and her heart-felt appre- 
 ciation of her late spouse, than by showing her willing- 
 ness to become a wife a^ain ? In knowin^^ the deceased,
 
 116 DIXA. 
 
 she had learned to prize men ; with him she had been 
 so gladsome that it was hard to reconcile herself to 
 loneliness henceforth. If, on the other hand, she had 
 had reason to feel indifferent to her husband ; if with 
 coldness and covert disdain she had had to submit to 
 his caresses ; if with relief she had seen him consigned 
 to an early grave, would not she in all probability, 
 taught by woful experience of one, have evermore 
 shrunk from men in general, shuddered at matrimony, 
 and in double weeds sternly sat apart, cold and impreg- 
 nable in the strength of her dear-bought knowledge ? 
 
 As her brother's housekeeper, Mrs. Beagle had always 
 shown a noble exactness in all her arrangements, and 
 an unflinching strictness in her rule. On one memorable 
 occasion, for example, when, upon the removal of a very 
 heavy wardrobe in the pink visitors' room at Ashcroft, a 
 mouse was discovered to have constructed for itself a 
 snug nest out of heaps of cotton-like dust which it had 
 gathered together on the top of the washboard, between 
 the wall and the wardrobe's back, it was even feared in 
 the servants' hall that the upper housemaid would 
 render herself for ever insensible to Mrs. Beagle's just 
 indignation by an over- dose of laudanum or whisky, 
 and that the unfortunate young woman did not mis- 
 count her drops or her glasses was probably attributable 
 not to any reprehensible toleration of negligence on the 
 part of Mrs. Beagle, but rather to the singular warmth 
 with which Mr. Grange, for once in his life, interposed, 
 and pointed out to his sister the impossibility of getting 
 a broom behind an immovable wardrobe which stood 
 tightly between the framework of two doors. 
 
 In her own person a more thoroughly proper woman 
 than Mrs. Beagle never existed, nor could the wrist-
 
 DINA. 117 
 
 bands of any lady have well been either whiter or better 
 starched than hers habitually were. The respect with 
 which she was regarded by her nieces may be judged of 
 from the preciseness with which they addressed her, not 
 familiarly as " Aunt Elly," but deferentially as " Aunt 
 Elenor," and the estimation in which her brother held 
 her stately worth was proved by the elaborate " Elenor, 
 my dear," with which he usually prefaced even his most 
 hurried request. 
 
 Perfectly reliable, straightforward in her own w^ay, 
 clear-sighted, inflexible in her decisions, yet sweetly 
 pliant in her words, as a woman should be, she was im- 
 deniably a person of many virtues, and therefore one 
 whom it is a pleasure to describe. 
 
 To seat herself at the lunch table ere the chime of one 
 had quite ceased to reverberate in the hall, the bell 
 having rung precisely five minutes before the hour, was 
 a duty Mrs. Beagle never neglected ; and to wait for the 
 rest of the family with patience, and in certain cases 
 with resignation, was a thing she was always equal to. 
 She did not complain by look or word if her brother or 
 the girls were late, yet when they were at home she 
 never tasted a morsel until they were assembled. AVhen 
 it happened, for instance, that INIarian came in several 
 minutes after the hour, with, perhaps, a book in her hand, 
 and rather a heightened colour in her cheeks, and, it 
 might be, a blown lock about the front edge of her hair, 
 indicative of running, there was no cold chicken upon 
 Mrs. Beagle's plate, but there was a neat little heap of 
 salt on its border, and her glass was full to the rim of 
 untasted sherr}^ On those occasions — and they were not 
 frequent — she would bend her head gently to her niece, 
 and remark that tlie air was really so balmy that she
 
 118 LIXA. 
 
 herself had felt tempted to linger at her dressing-room 
 window, or that the bell had caught her clipping gera- 
 nium leaves in the conservatory, and that she had been 
 surprised by its faintness — the breeze, she supposed, had 
 carried the sound in the opposite direction. Marian's 
 colour would brighten still more while her aunt spoke, 
 and she would confess, under the protection of her 
 father's encouraging smile, tliat the " Talking Oak" had 
 kept her entranced at its roots till the bell startled her, 
 or that the Mill on the Floss had rendered the bell 
 inaudible. ^Irs. Beagle, whose respect for polite litera- 
 ture was commendable, would then accept a wdng^of 
 cold boiled chicken, wdiich Mr. Grange had previously 
 offered to her in vain, and remark that the elegant 
 books of the Poet Laureate were read by people of the 
 first fashion, she believed, and that a young lady could 
 not easily be too accomplished in these fastidious days, 
 when so many frivolities were considered essential to 
 their education, and household cares had become so 
 generally delegated to responsible servants, whom it was 
 a happiness to be able to confide in, or that about tlie 
 writings of George Eliot she could not speak confidently, 
 and it was a relief to her conscience to know that her 
 nieces perused them with at least their father's appro- 
 bation. She had heard that " Mr. Eliot" was a woman, 
 but it was a distressing fact that that afforded no 
 guarantee of the strict propriety of the books, but the 
 contrary, as women who took male pseudonyms or ape4 
 a masculine style were wont to surpass men in the 
 freedom of their language, and even of their thoughts. 
 She had not, indeed, found leisure herself to read this 
 lady's works, but she was aware that her brother con- 
 sidered that _,the knowledge of human nature they dis-
 
 DINA. 119 
 
 played, and the elevation of the thoughts in which they 
 abounded, made them safe reading for his daughters, in 
 spite of their questionable orthodoxy, and other peculi- 
 arities which she could not dwell upon, and into which 
 she was well aware that it w^as not her province to 
 inquire, since it was to their father that the girls must 
 look for guidance in such matters. His extreme indulg- 
 eice, she was sure, did honour to his heart. And so, 
 having salted a delicate morsel which she had contrived 
 to extract from between the bones of the chicken's 
 pinion, peppered it slightly, and nailed it w4th her fork 
 to :he least bit of soft roll, she would, in raising her 
 fork, glance from clear, calm eyes at Mr. Grange. The 
 Squire, who never encouraged finesse in others by taking 
 a hint, how^ever pardonable it might be made by the 
 neatness with which it was given, would probably at 
 that particular instant be finding a difficulty in extract- 
 ing the cork from a bottle of Bass, then, having overcome 
 the tightness of the cork and escaped Mrs. Beagle's eyes 
 at th3 same time, he w^ould look across the table frankly 
 and compliment his sister upon the general soundness 
 of her opinions, and in the most jovial manner congratu- 
 late himself on being able to agree cordially with her : 
 She was right in giving him credit for judging carefully 
 of the books he allowed his children to read ; and the 
 indulgence of their tastes, as far as that could be 
 prudently done, w^as certainly a thing he honestly aimed 
 at. Between a judicious aunt and an anxious father, 
 he hoped the girls w^ould grow up in safety.— Thus 
 things went on smoothly, and angry words were almost 
 unknown in the family. 
 
 " Shall we be allowed to taste them now ?" Miss 
 Lusliet inquired, as she stepped in over the window-sill.
 
 120 DIXA. 
 
 She alluded to the Swedish turnips, and was not 
 unprepared to find that ^Ir. Grange had ordered some 
 for lunch, so much had he said about their flavour and 
 fattening properties. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha !" laughed the Squire, by way of reply : 
 and then, observing Mrs. Beagle, he said, gravely, — 
 
 " Miss Lushet, Elenor, my dear." 
 
 Mrs. Beagle rose, not hurriedly — she did nothing 
 hurriedly— but with enough haste to show that she vas 
 taken by surprise. 
 
 " Truly happy to see you, dear Miss Lushet." 
 
 " And Mary," said Mr. Grange, finding Miss Mehille 
 and one of his daughters just behind him. 
 
 Mrs. Beagle greeted ]\Iary affectionately. 
 
 " Miss Lockart and Mr. Eagle, Elenor ; and Captain 
 Calvert, my dear." 
 
 These, with Polly, entered by the south windo^\s, to 
 which Mrs. Beagle's back happened to be turned. 
 
 " Charmed to see so many friends," she said, with a 
 somewhat forced smile, which showed her unexception- 
 able teeth. 
 
 She put her hand into Miss Lockart's, bowed cere- 
 moniously to the gentlemen, and then her lucid eyes 
 shot an expressive gleam at her brother's. 
 
 " I heard that you were in the dairy, Elenor, my 
 dear, when our friends arrived, and as they w^ould be 
 sure to see you here, I told Mathew not to cisturb 
 you." 
 
 " You are always so kind and considerate, Arthur. 
 Yes, knowing how anxious you were about the new 
 cream cheese, I went to inquire how it was likely to 
 turn out." 
 
 Mr. Grange was rarely unamiable, yet his love of
 
 DTXA. 121 
 
 humour was sometmies indulged in at the expense of 
 his dignified sister. There was much comicality to him 
 in the sucrorestion that she had been workings in the 
 dairy, knowing as he did the care she took that no 
 menial task should ever soil her perfect hands. But in 
 this instance his joke recoiled on himself Only this 
 morning he himself had put an end to the immediate 
 prospect of a good cream cheese by heedlessly throwing 
 back an outside shutter of the dairy window just when 
 a lime -cart was being emptied to windward of it, and 
 his contrition had been bitter when he learned the 
 consequences. 
 
 Gracefully motioning Mr. Eagle to a seat next her 
 own, ]\Irs. Beagle again took her place at the east end 
 of the table. The Squire always sat at the side of the 
 table, with his back to the wall, facing the four south 
 windows of the room. He handed Miss Lockart to the 
 chair on his right, and Miss Lushet to that on his left. 
 Mary Melville sat beside Edith ; while Archer, with a 
 Miss Grange on either hand, faced the host. This left 
 some seats vacant ; lunch being always laid at Ashcroft 
 for a dozen in summer. It was a sort of open table, to 
 which neighbours and visitors from town were expected 
 to invite themselves as often as they pleased. 
 
 The piece cle resistance on the present occasion was a 
 cold cushat pie, and, as it was in general request, Mr. 
 Grange's devotion to his duties was well exercised. 
 But he could talk while severing the airy paste into per- 
 fect triangles, and dividing a pigeon at the breast with 
 the sharpest of carvers. 
 
 " Vidocq brought me tlie Mahinogion soon after you 
 went to the old garden," he remarked to Miss Lockart. 
 
 '•' Yes, when we were in the Gowans' cottage we saw
 
 122 Dm A. 
 
 him pass, carrying books. My brother supposed you 
 Avould require it to-morrow. He lias read a good deal 
 of it, and has conceived a great respect for Lady 
 Charlotte." 
 
 " A diligent sort of woman. Villemarque, a French 
 antiquarian Viscount, who has been going over the 
 same ground, calls her ' une femrne tr^s-versee dans la 
 langue galloise ;' and he seems a qualified judge, though 
 his national naivete is sometimes entertaining : ' La 
 France,' he says somewhere, 'n'a jamais fait un pas, 
 elle n'a jamais eu une idee sans que le monde en ait ete 
 emu/ By-the-bye, we shall have a fire here, however 
 fine the morning may be, so Sir Angus need feel under 
 no apprehension of getting chilled." 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Grange, he will be pleased to see 
 it. I am afraid, however, that he caudles rather too 
 much. He promised to take tea this afternoon on the 
 shrubbery terrace, where the sun strikes warmly after 
 it has got into the west, and the fresh air will revive 
 him, I am sure. Dr. Wilmotte speaks very favourably 
 of his case." 
 
 " And an exceedingly trustworthy opinion AYilmotte's 
 usually is," said the Squire, emphatically. "For so 
 young a physician his reliableness is astonishing. I 
 have the neatest reoard for him." 
 
 ^lary Melville's smiling green eyes sparkled towards 
 her cousin Marian, who, she knew, always listened to 
 every word Mr. Grange said. 
 
 "He has been extremely kind and attentive to little 
 Espie," said Marian quietly, while she looked fondly 
 at her father's beaming countenance. 
 
 She considered her father worth lookino' at, as w^ell 
 as worth listenini^ to, and her confidence in his
 
 DIXA. 123 
 
 geniality was so complete, that with him, at least, she 
 could always feel entii^ely at her ease. 
 
 Mary, with disappointment it seemed, failed to detect 
 anything exceptional in her cousin's expression while 
 the Doctor was thus commended by her father and 
 herself. 
 
 "He's a thoroughly good fellow," said Calvert confi- 
 dently. 
 
 " I heard old widow Doherty speak of him yesterday 
 in terms that would confirm your most favourable 
 opinion of him," Mr. Eagle remarked with ready 
 cordiality. 
 
 Still Marian did not change countenance, and Mary, 
 with a pouting air, applied herself to half a cushat. A 
 little after, no one having spoken in the interval, she 
 said, — 
 
 " He is a most dutiful doctor, certainly." 
 
 'Tar more than dutiful, Mary," replied Marian 
 warmly. " It is for doing things not strictly in the 
 way of his duty that I admire him so much." 
 
 " Admire him so much 1 ah, poor Ellis !" sighed in- 
 wardly the tender-hearted Mary, commiserating her 
 friend Wilmotte's lot. "Poor fellow, I could almost 
 take compassion on him myself !" 
 
 Mr. Grange's fatherly eyes were bent benignly on his 
 child, and he said slowly, in a low tone, as if finishing 
 the discussion, " Yes ; I have always observed in him 
 a remarkable generosity. He never spares himself." 
 
 " ^lay I trouble you for a potato, Elenor, my dear," 
 he added. 
 
 Mr. Grange looked at his sister as he held out his 
 plate, and was startled by the intense astonishment he 
 saw depicted in every line of her countenance. She
 
 124 DIXA. 
 
 was gazing straight before her with wide open eyes. 
 Her haughty nostrils were flickering, and her fork was 
 arrested half-way to her mouth. 
 
 " How dare — ?" she gasped, unable to say more. 
 
 Her brother followed the direction of her eyes, and 
 saw on the lawn, within a foot or two of the window 
 opposite lier seat, a little man, old and brown, and 
 dressed in a crushed wideawake, and rough grey clothes 
 terminating in muddy leggings. The man was staring 
 as if with hungry greed at the feast.
 
 DIKA. 125 
 
 • CHAPTEE XIV. 
 
 "Bless me, Elenor, my dear, don't you recognise my 
 excellent friend Drycale?" said the Squire, turning 
 somewhat hotly to his sister, as he rose to welcome 
 the stranger. 
 
 Mrs. Beagle closed her eyes in momentary anguish. 
 
 The wideawake shaded Mr. Drycale's face, and Mrs. 
 Beagle had never seen him in his fishing- dress before. 
 Besides, while approaching the window, he had pur- 
 posely assumed as disreputable an air as possible, in 
 order to amuse the young folk. 
 
 Mr. Drycale, of the Scotch bar, was a successful 
 pleader, who enjoyed a large practice. He was a very 
 little man — as successful counsel are apt to be — with 
 small, neat features, and an almost preternaturally 
 puckered face. One might suppose that he had once 
 been somewhat plump, and that having all at once 
 grown thin, his skin, thus rendered too large for him, 
 had shrivelled suddenly. His wrinkles were, at any 
 rate, not obviously the result of hard thinking or of 
 prolonged mental anxiety. Yet his furrowed brow and 
 cheeks were in the eyes of his acquaintance intimately 
 associated with his mental characteristics. They seemed 
 someliow to testify to his crusty good-naturedness, and 
 when he happened to say anything that might be
 
 12G DINA. 
 
 considered bitter, as he stood condescendingly singeing 
 the back of his gown before the juniors' fire in the 
 Parliament House, a glance at the play of his wrinkles 
 generally served to give his victim the impression that 
 he was joking, and so to make tlie pungency of his 
 words endurable. Perhaps he rather affected eccen- 
 tricity, in order under cover of it to indulge his 
 whims, and to speak his thoughts with unconventional 
 bluntness. 
 
 " Most happy to see you, Drycale," cried Mr. Grange. 
 " Here, Polly, take the rod and creel. Caught any ? 
 Let me see. Ha, by the soul of Walton, you have 
 been lucky !" 
 
 " Say successful ; an art like mine would have made 
 the old proser's teeth water, for he was a poor hand 
 with the fly," said the little man, as he bowed to Mrs. 
 Beagle, and took the vacant seat next Miss Polly's. 
 
 "Was he, though?" asked Calvert, sceptically. 
 
 " To be sure, sir ; what else could a contemplative 
 angler be ? The fly fisher who casts up the rippling 
 stream — up rather than down, the trout heading that 
 way, like ships at anchor, and, unlike Lot's wife, never 
 looking behind them, so that you can come upon them 
 unobserved — and who does not throw twice on the 
 same spot must have active limbs, a lively eye, a ready 
 wrist, and all his wits about him, as I have. Why, 
 Walton was only fit to potter about, as lie did, by the 
 side of deep pools, where the big fish, as lazy as himself, 
 would condescend to gulp the dainty bits he dropped 
 at their noses." 
 
 " Well," said the Squire, resuming his seat, and pro- 
 ceeding to cut out a large pigeon for his new guest, 
 " I didn't fancy he was quite so indolent. Assuredly his
 
 DIXA. 127 
 
 wits seldom went wool -gathering before breakfast, his 
 favourite angling time. His eye sharpened and his 
 heart hardened at the sight of a savoury fish hovering 
 sunward of its shadow on the sand. His contemplations 
 such as those he has given in his book, were chiefly 
 the results of a well-filled stomach and a pleasant 
 digestion." 
 
 '•'His heart hardened at the sight of the uncooked 
 fish, Grange ; there at least I agTee with you ; for if 
 that did not make him lively it certainly made him 
 unfeeling. I cannot away with his utter insensibility 
 in the matter of live-bait fishing, and I growl with 
 Byron — 
 
 ' That quaint, old, cruel coxcomh in his gullet 
 Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.' 
 
 The slow torture of the meanest reptile is abominable. 
 Theoretically I prefer the net, as I scruple to deceive 
 the fish ! but then with a net there is no sport what- 
 ever. I sin with my eyes open — so much the worse 
 for me." 
 
 " I don't know why you should think the hooked 
 worm suffers more than the expiring trout," observed 
 Mr. Eagle, gravely. 
 
 " I don't say that it does, but my desire to eat the 
 fish excuses the killing of it. Nothing, however, ex- 
 cuses the use of bait whicli must suffer, that is, of living 
 bait, if I can catch my trout without it." 
 
 The Squire looked knowing, and said, — "You forget 
 that the worm is the fish's legitimate food, and that if 
 left in the water your trout would devour innumerable 
 victims. In sacrificing one worm to catch it, you are 
 in fact merciful, and saving the lives of worms without 
 end."
 
 128 DIKA. 
 
 "Worms always have two ends," said Mary, under 
 iier breath. 
 
 "But my objection," continued Mr. Drycale, "is 
 chiefly to Isaac's practices upon animals of finer struc- 
 ture than earth-worms — frogs, for instance, which 
 probably have keener feelings; for I say with the 
 shade of Virgil, when quoting Aristotle in the muddy 
 circle of hell, that the more the body is perfect the 
 more alive it is to pleasure and to pain." 
 
 " Ah," cried the Squire, and then repeated the poet's 
 words with gusto, — 
 
 ' Quanto la cosa h pift perfetta, 
 Pill senta il bene, e cosi la doglienza.' " 
 
 " But," observed Mr. Eagle, hesitatingly, " is not every 
 creature perfect in its way ? I suspect the nerves of 
 worms are as sensitive as ours, or, if they have no 
 nervous system, something corresponding to nerves. I 
 was lately made aware that a grain of salt dropped on 
 a worm newly unearthed will cause it to spring up and 
 wriggle with the activity of an excited snake — showing 
 the extreme sensitiveness of at least its moist skin. 
 People lay a line of salt in greenhouses sometimes to 
 defend plants from the approach of slugs, and w^ien 
 these dull-looking and seemingly elementary creatures 
 inadvertently touch the pungent substance they too 
 spring off' surprised. Nay, should they roll into the 
 salt they will soon die, writhing : a sufficient proof 
 that—" 
 
 " No, Eagle," exclaimed Mr. Grange, impatient to get 
 in his word ; " no proof whatever that they are in real 
 pain." 
 
 " Why, surely, Mr. Grange, if we are to — " 
 ■ " Not at all, my dear sir ; the creature's writhing and
 
 DIN A. 129 
 
 leaping may be as mechanical as the flying off of a 
 spring when its pin breaks. I could show you a plant, 
 an annual of a foot or two in height, in our garden, 
 of which the ripe and nearly ripe pods have a sensitive- 
 ness to touch equal to that of any animal. It is almost 
 impossible to gather one whole, except when it is green, 
 for the instant you touch it, it bursts and throws itself 
 off its stalk, having split into six parts, each of which 
 has, in a moment too brief for the eye to detect the 
 motion, curled up violently and ejected the seeds. I 
 thought I had taken hold of a grasshopper the first time 
 I tried to pull one of those pods. A grasshopper is not 
 quicker in its motions. Yet the fact is, simply, that 
 each of the six parts which go to form the whole pod is 
 furnished on its inner side with a strong contractile 
 spring (a spring whose tendency is to curl instead of to 
 open out), and that through the centre of the pod runs 
 a thread to wdiich the seeds are attached, and which, 
 being also a sort of spring, takes a spiral form suddenly 
 when set free at either end. A slight touch seems to 
 excite this thread to twist itself, and thus throw open 
 the pod, and the violence with which the six parts of 
 which the latter is formed curl up into the shape of 
 rams' horns breaks it from the stalk. When the seed is 
 ripe, I suppose the pod bursts of its own accord, the 
 contractile power of the spring being then at its height." 
 
 There was a lovable simplicity about the Squire 
 which made hmi always ready to enter with zest into 
 details regarding natural phenomena which to people of 
 the world appear trivial. 
 
 " Then what might more readily be mistaken for an 
 indication of consciousness," he went on, after clearing 
 his throat with a glass of white wdne, '' than the motion 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 130 DIXA. 
 
 of Sarah Melville's sensitive plant at the Dingle ? Not 
 only do its leaves shrink from a slight touch, but it will 
 drop all its leaf-stalks and fold up the whole of its 
 leaves in succession if you continue to irritate it. But 
 plants not only show sensibility to touch, but even to 
 cold and darkness. Look at the careful daisy closing 
 its eye when the sun sets, or even when the shadow of 
 a thunder-cloud gives it the impression that night is at 
 hand ; and look at it opening its eye again when the 
 sun shines forth at the skirt of the dismal cloud, or 
 when dawn brightens the leaves. Dante has remarked 
 this where he compares something to little flowers closed 
 and bowed down by the night frost, and which, when 
 whitened by the morning sun, stand up again all right 
 upon their legs, or at least their stalks, — 
 
 ' i fioretti dal notturno gielo, 
 Chinati e chiusi, poi clie'l Sol grimbianca, 
 Si drizzan tiitti aperti in loro stelo.' " 
 
 " And plants bleed too, uncle, when they are wounded," 
 suggested Mary Melville. 
 
 The Squire smiled. 
 
 "To be sure they do," he said. "You, Mary, have 
 broken many a dandelion's head, and have seen how it 
 bled and shrivelled and died in your remorseless hands. 
 What though its blood be not red? I fancy I have 
 seen green blood. I once observed a spider pounce 
 upon a caterpillar of a vivid green colour and bite a 
 hole in its neck, from which, in a few seconds, a drop 
 of emerald liquid came forth, and left the creature's 
 body of a pale straw colour. By-and-by the caterpillar 
 was dead. As the sap flows away through the plant's 
 wound and evaporates through the pores of the skin or
 
 JDIXA. 131 
 
 bark, the stalk and leaf droop faint-like, collapse, and 
 die like other mortals ; yet unless there should issue a 
 cry with the blood, as from the broken branches of those 
 sinners whom the Florentine found turned into trees, I 
 am not likely to drop the plant and stand in consterna- 
 tion like him, — 
 
 * stetti come I'liom che teme,' 
 
 in the belief that I have unwittingly given pain to 
 some poor soul." 
 
 " Yes, uncle," said Miss Melville, " if neither plants 
 nor worms squeel, how can it be supposed that they 
 find it disagreeable to be killed? I never heard a 
 caterpillar or a snail or a beetle give the slightest 
 scream when bruised. A fly or bee will make a tre- 
 mendous buzzing with its wings, but never a word does 
 it say with its lips." 
 
 " Then you think screaming out is a better proof of 
 suffering than writhing under your hand," remarked 
 Eagle gravely. " Yet I've heard that a sheep usually, 
 unlike a pig, allows its throat to be cut without vocal 
 remonstrance, though we know it can bleat when it 
 likes, and are pretty sure that it suffers in being killed." 
 
 " Ah," said the Squire, " that 's a very fine trait in the 
 character of the sheep. When its allotted span of ease 
 and enjoyment in green pastures has come to an end, 
 and the time has arrived for it to be eaten, it, with a 
 truly beautiful consideration for our feelings, calmly 
 resigns itself to its fate. But for our needs, it would 
 never have existed ; we have allowed it to come into 
 life, and have placed it in the midst of plenty, where, 
 without having to toil for its living or to fight its natural 
 enemies, it has spent its days in peace. In gratitude, it
 
 132 DIN A. 
 
 does not complain when we invite it to pay for these 
 blessings with its mutton." 
 
 This was giving a turn to the discussion for which 
 Eagle was not prepared. 
 
 " I daresay a sheep ceases to live/' he began, " with 
 as little pain as any creature that endures a violent 
 death — " 
 
 " AVhich, after all," cried the Squire, catching a point, 
 " is probably not generally attended with more suffering 
 even in the higher animals tlian death from disease, 
 which we are apt to think of with less commiseration. 
 The sheep must die at some time. So must game, and 
 that often prematurely even when ice spare it. The 
 hawk gripes with its sharp talons many of the grouse 
 which escape our gun. Such is the order of nature. 
 Killing to eat has prevailed from the first. ' The Crea- 
 tor gave,' as Hugh Miller says, ' to the primaeval fishes 
 spines and stings, to the primaeval reptiles trenchant 
 teeth and strong armour of bone, to the primaeval 
 mammals great tusks and sharp claws ; and He of old 
 divided all creatures as now into animals of prey and 
 animals preyed upon.' For my part, though I am not 
 greatly given to shooting, or even fishing, or to other- 
 wise plying the butclier's craft, I have an entire respect 
 for those who are, save, of course, when their spirit 
 is bloodthirsty. Slaying in itself, except of pretend- 
 ers in the reviews, my soul shrinks from, but I love 
 game, as well as crave beef; and when Lemon Mel- 
 ville drops in here with his bag, my heart warms to 
 the goodly youth, while not even his bedraggled and 
 besplashed fishing- coat deters me, as you saw, from 
 cordially embracing this worthy old fisherman when his 
 creel's fulL"
 
 DIXA. 133 
 
 Mr. Drycale, who liad been devoting himself to the 
 good cheer, bowed his acknowledgments and continued 
 his meal. 
 
 " But when the deer-stalker shoots his noble and 
 sweet-eyed victim, wdiat must his feelings be?" asked 
 Eagle, who seemed to have accepted a retainer from the 
 ladies. 
 
 " Of pardonable exultation, if he have honestly stalked 
 it," said the Squire, decisively ; " and such as any re- 
 spectable butcher's feelings in the slaughter-yard may 
 be, if he have done it at a battue. Deer-stalking is the 
 finest approach to the primitive hunting of the noble 
 savage which is left to us. The wild race round the 
 lee-side of the hill ; your breathless pause wdien, as you 
 turn the crag's edge, the royal beast is seen to linger for 
 a moment in a green hollow just out of range ; the 
 despondency you endure when he, snuf&ng suspicion on 
 the gale, bounds on to a knoll, casts a wild glance round, 
 then plunges into the bracken, and gives another mile 
 of trail to follow up ; the hour's toil and search which 
 bring you again close to the herd ; the passionate keen- 
 ness, the fierce strain which, while your frame is quiver- 
 ing to the bones, enables you for the one decisive 
 moment to steady your aim, and pull the trigger just 
 as the watchful eye, too late, turns towards you — all tax 
 and invigorate your powers ; your mind is kept on the 
 alert ; your perceptive and some of your reflective 
 faculties are brought into play ; your courage is exer- 
 cised by the hazards of your headlong run ; your lungs 
 are expanded and your muscles braced ; in short, at sun- 
 down, when you feel for your cigar-case, you are a 
 wearied man, but you have done that which makes you 
 a stronger, braver, brighter man. Thus, too, you have
 
 134 DIKA. 
 
 honestly worked for your venison. Eat it, I say, with a 
 good conscience — a less troubled conscience than can 
 be brought to your beef- steak, any responsibility for 
 such iniquity or cruelty as may be supposed incident 
 to ox-slaughter having been thrown by you — the beef- 
 eater — on another's soul. Yes ; he who will eat flesh 
 acts more nobly in using the bullet, the mallet, or the 
 knife with his own hands than in bribing another to do 
 the deed. Lucky it is for me, then, that I for my part 
 don't doubt the righteousness of slaying to eat either on 
 the moors or in the abattoir, and so can partake of 
 Lemon's hare and pay my butcher's bill with a clear 
 conscience. Yes ; I applaud heartily the man who feeds 
 on his own venison or trout, and sjTnpathize with my 
 excellent sister here, who, while daintily dividing that 
 pigeon's wing, eats it with no less cordial respect for 
 the sportsman than she has ever felt for the honour- 
 able presence of the family butcher, to whom she owes 
 the juicy black-face on which she fervently hopes to 
 dine." 
 
 Mrs. Beagle looked horrified, but did not venture to 
 make any remark. 
 
 " The wild creatures, perhaps, suffer more from fear 
 when hunted, than the tame ones do when driven to 
 the abattoir unsuspicious of their fate," said the per- 
 severing clerg}^man. 
 
 " I do not suppose," replied Mr. Grange, refilling his 
 plate, "that, as a rule, grouse, for example, so suffer 
 at all. They are taken by surprise. Your pointer 
 marks them when they are lying snug among the 
 heather or stubble. You fire almost before they are 
 aware of your presence. Two or three drop, and the 
 rest go on their way — not to weep long, let us hope,
 
 DIXA. 135 
 
 over their bereavements : family ties ceasing appar- 
 ently among most birds as soon as the breeding sea- 
 son is over and the young ones fully able to cater for 
 themselves." 
 
 " A covey is, however, a family party," said Calvert, 
 speaking for the first time. 
 
 The Squire nodded his admission, and resumed ; " As 
 for the greater game, such as deer, you sometimes sur- 
 prise them also ; indeed, when you get a deliberate 
 shot it is almost always by stealth, so that they are at 
 the moment taken unawares and die by the easiest of 
 deaths, if you are, as you are bound to be, a good shot. 
 When they are tracked and hunted down by hounds, 
 their fortune is different. Landseer has vividly enough 
 depicted what they suffer then. But, after all, what is 
 this terror of the hunted stag or fox beyond what the 
 beast would assuredly suffer sooner or later were its 
 home in the desert far from the foot-prints of man ? 
 Your antelope in the African wilds is in perpetual dread 
 of the panther and the lion. It cannot drink at evening 
 without trembling at fiery eyes in the brushwood which 
 borders the stream. Its life is one of constantly re- 
 curring anxiety. Again and again it is chased. Its 
 escapes are hairs-breadth, and many a time before the 
 end comes has blood-froth dropped, in its anguish of ex- 
 treme teiTor, from the creature's nostrils. At last its limbs 
 and luck avail rfo more ; and the lion luxuriates on its 
 quivering flesh, while the skulking hyaenas await their 
 turn to cmnch its steaming bones. What an elysium, 
 comparatively speaking, must life in our Highland 
 forests be to the herds there! Through the greater 
 part of the year, and especially that part of it when 
 their family ties are strongest, they enjoy entire im-
 
 130 DINA. 
 
 muiiity from every foe ; and when tlieir knell sounds 
 at length, it is' at worst the bay of the stag-hound and 
 the whiz that accompanies the final bullet sting. Can, 
 then, that Providence which leaves the antelope among 
 the lions reprove the pasturing of deer upon our hills, 
 or be more wrathful with the rifleman who thins their 
 numbers than with the probably not more humane 
 striped-aproned flesher who drives his flock from the 
 market ? And, surely, as to family ties it may be asked 
 — do we regard them in our herds and flocks ? I wish 
 you to be consistent : allowing the pig cutlet, how can 
 you deprecate the fawn venison ?" 
 
 "In all circumstances we are bound to occasion as 
 little suffering, whether physical or mental, to our 
 fellow- creatures of every rank in the order of creation 
 as may consist with our necessities," said Eagle, making 
 Miss Polly's cheeks crimson in her joyful admiration as 
 he spoke. 
 
 " Of course," said the Squire. 
 
 "Well," continued Mr. Eagle, "we see how dogs 
 pine wdien their masters die ; and Sir Charles Lyell, if 
 I remember right, quotes approvingly in his Antiquity/ 
 of Man an assertion of Huxley's, to the effect that the 
 dog, the cat, and the parrot, return love for our love, 
 and hatred for our hatred — are capable of shame and of 
 sorrow, and even think rationally about wdiat occurs to 
 them." > 
 
 " Yes," replied Grange, after pondering a little, " and 
 I admit that he goes even further. He does not seem 
 to condemn the suggestion of Agassiz, that animals are 
 probably not without a sense of responsibility and 
 consciousness, which, taken in connexion with their 
 m-arked individualities, argues strongly in favour of the
 
 DIXA. 137 
 
 existence in eveiy animal of an immaterial principle 
 indicative of an immortal spirit. Tor my own part I am 
 not averse to the idea of meeting our friend Duff in the 
 spirit land." 
 
 " But you'd never recognise him, uncle, without his 
 shaggy coat," exclaimed M^y Melville. 
 
 " Nor you without your golden hair, my love." 
 
 " You must just come round to what I started w4tli," 
 said Drycale, resigning his knife and fork. " A line 
 is somewhere to be drawTi between the higher and 
 the lower organisms in regard to sensitiveness to 
 pain, physical and mental. We may be able here- 
 after to trace the difference betw^een the spirit-life of 
 mortals and mere animal vitality akin to that of plant 
 life." 
 
 " I thankfully agree wdth you, Drycale," resumed Mr. 
 Grange. "Between the sensations of the oyster and 
 the dog there must be a difference not in degree, but in 
 kind. Fortunately, w^e have not to eat dog flesh, and 
 between at least the so to speak mental sensibility of 
 the dog and that of the sheep, I believe there is little 
 resemblance. Even from our own race we can learn 
 something of such differences. The minds and nerves 
 of certain men are acutely alive to the most trivial- like 
 influences, while other men are stolid and indifferent in 
 circumstances in which the former would groan in agony 
 or expire heart-broken. Cases of conjugal felicity may 
 doubtless occur among pigs, as I feel certain they do 
 {imong men ; but as a rule, hogs scarcely, if at all, mourn 
 for their deceased partners. Even the hen w^hich so 
 passionately defends lier chicks, and seems in such 
 miser}^ when they are clutched by Puss, has apparently 
 no perception to-day of her loss yesterday, and she
 
 138 DINA. 
 
 drops no brine over the tufts of down which mark the 
 fatal spot to which Sparrow-hawk carried her vagrant 
 cheeper but an hour ago. We must indeed fervently 
 hope that consciousness such as ours does not extend to 
 the bottom of the scale, for we are constantly and most 
 unavoidably killing. We can hardly walk out without 
 crushing crawling creatures. I doubt not we were all 
 makins^ devastation with our feet when loiterinoj on the 
 lawn a little ago ; beetles, spiders, flies, slugs, must have 
 received serious, and many of them mortal injuries. Yet 
 walking, and digging, and so forth, cannot be avoided, 
 and the best we can hope for is to shun wanton injury 
 to our unoffending fellow-beings of every size and 
 shape ; and, in hearty disgust, to cut the acquaintance of 
 Master Eobin Eedbreast, who shamefully batters his 
 worm before swallowing it, and of that monster. Black- 
 bird, who smashes his snail by repeated blows upon a 
 stone until the poor wretch's house having fallen to 
 pieces, his feathered enemy is able to gulp him alive. 
 How would you like to be that grasshopper under 
 whose skin an insect lays eggs, which by-and-by pro- 
 duce larvae that gradually eat up all the inside of the 
 grasshopper except the vital parts, which they spare 
 until just before they are transformed into winged in- 
 sects, ere which event they leave their living dwelling, 
 done to death at last. Indeed, indeed," continued the 
 Squire, " the ways of Providence are hard to understand. 
 I unfeignedly believe, though, that a truly Benevolent 
 Spirit ruleth over all, and that in this universal law of 
 alternate destruction and reproduction there is nothing 
 cruel. No living creature whatever suffers in so many 
 ways, or so acutely, bodily and spiritually, as man.
 
 BINA. 139 
 
 Yet we thank God for our lives ; and rare is that anguish 
 of body for which we do not find in the gift of even our 
 brief existence here an ample compensation, and rarer 
 still that anguish of mind and heart which makes the 
 spirit wish that it could wholly cease to be rather than 
 face the avenging future."
 
 140 DIN A. 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 The Squire had sufficient conscientiousness to take a 
 keen delight in justifying his appetites ; hence, in part, 
 the gusto with which he entered into the defence of 
 sport while eating the cushat pie. 
 
 His sister seemed relieved when at length he let the 
 subject drop, and applied himself to a strawberry tart. 
 She did not like free -thinking in any form, and con- 
 sidered her daily dinner of fish, flesh, and fowl as little 
 a fit subject for criticism as her faith itself. An English 
 dinner was a recognised institution. It needed no de- 
 fender. Besides, there was something unpleasant, and 
 even indelicate, in going behind the scenes in the way 
 Mr. Grange had done. Eoast beef, when well browned 
 outside, and not too raw within, was a pretty sight 
 enough ; but as to its antecedents, what had we to do 
 with them ? Beef and mutton were familiar to us at 
 table, and their tenderness was a fair subject of remark. 
 Oxen and sheep, on the other hand, we knew only as 
 ornamental creatures pasturing in meadows or nibbling 
 the short turf on hill-sides, where their lowing and 
 bleating were musical in summer evenings. It was 
 heartless in her brother to dwell on any other view 
 of the matter. 
 
 ]\Iiss Lushet felt no particular interest in the discus-
 
 DINA, 141 
 
 sion. She liked the Squire's manly voice, and listened 
 to all he said with perfect satisfaction and approval. 
 Had he taken another side of the question, her satisfac- 
 tion and approval would have been no less sincere, and 
 she would with equal comfort have finished her share of 
 the pie. She had, indeed, a healthy appetite, and her 
 placid mind w^as rarely fretful about matters she deemed 
 no concern of hers. 
 
 Miss Lockart slightly sympathized with Mrs. Beagle ; 
 the subject she thought an awkward one, especially 
 during a meal. She could not help listening, however, 
 with interest, and she rather neglected her pigeon while 
 doing so. The strawberry tart she evidently enjoyed 
 more than the pigeon, and she allowed the Squire to 
 help her from it twice. 
 
 Mary Melville thought her uncle very amusing, and 
 she chirped inwardly at his occasional earnestness. Men 
 had such odd ideas, she thouoht. AVliat woman would 
 dream of proving that one might eat meat and game 
 with a good conscience ? Women certainly were more 
 practical than men. But the Squire had a nice way of 
 speaking, and it was pleasant to see his brow flushing 
 wlien he grew eloquent. Besides, it was not always 
 easy to know when he was quizzing his hearers or him- 
 self, and in listening to him one experienced that not 
 unagreeable vertigo frequently felt when following a 
 speaker who, even in his graver passages, is not impro- 
 bably hovering on the verge of a joke. 
 
 Marian, of course, gave her whole attention to what 
 her father said. He was her oracle, and his talk con- 
 tributed to form her mind even more than the books she 
 read did. Her enjoyment of his fun was great, though 
 expressed only by smiles and a momentary brightening
 
 142 DIN A. 
 
 of her eyes ; and when he spoke seriously, her sym- 
 pathies were witli him wholly. 
 
 Polly did not follow the discussion very closely, being 
 engaged probably during most of her father's speeches 
 in repeating to herself Mr. Eagle's short remarks and 
 questions, all of which she probably thought very clever 
 and amiable. But she admired her father immensely, 
 and when he ceased speaking she had a confused sense 
 of having heard him say several grand things. Polly 
 had a fine open countenance, and Mary, from the other 
 side of the table, read her thoughts so easily as scarcely 
 to be conscious of the effort. 
 
 As for Calvert, he never troubled himself to talk when 
 beside people who were willing to keep up an interesting 
 conversation without his assistance. He thought the 
 Squire and the others made some remarks very much to 
 the purpose, and he began to look forward to the 12th 
 with a slight increase of impatience. What he enjoyed 
 most, however, was his position in front of Edith, Bracy, 
 and Mary, and between Marian and Polly ; five young 
 ladies, not one of whom was altogether unattractive in 
 her own style. He was rather shy for a military man, 
 but under the shield, so to say, of the Squu-e's long 
 speeches, he viewed his fair friends with rapid glances, 
 and compared them with perfect appreciation of their 
 several " points." Massive and splendid Bracy had a 
 bouquet of crimson flowers under the centre of her 
 towering bonnet front, and perhaps secretly rejoiced in 
 the imposing addition such a bonnet made to those noble 
 proportions of which she was justly vain. Archer could 
 always admire her cordially from a safe distance, and 
 did so now with perfect sincerity, and a sense of thank- 
 fulness that it had not fallen to his lot to sit at her side,
 
 DIXA, 143 
 
 or under her wing, as he mentally expressed it. The 
 gorgeous creature smiled on him from time to time " le 
 couvant des yeux," like an elder sister, wife, or mother, 
 to his no small amusement one moment, and intense 
 alarm the next. When she asked him with her own 
 peculiar majestic blandness to pass the cream, it w^as 
 with a sense of relief and almost of wonder that he 
 heard her do so without addressing him as " My dear." 
 She had never, to be sure, called him so as yet ; but her 
 fond eyes constantly caressed him, or, so he fancied, as if 
 he were already hers. Even w^hen beside Edith, the 
 peerless, he could see that Bracy was a fine girl ; but, 
 ah, how much delicacy there was in Edith's beauty 
 which the others lacked ! Eeverence, tenderness, and 
 sweet delight filled his charmed soul in gazing on Edith's 
 simple loveliness, and her to love seemed with delicious 
 flattery " to raise him in his own esteem," making him 
 twice blest. Her gracefully curved wideawake, with 
 the waving droop of its light feather, helped to com- 
 plete the contrast her fine head presented to Bracy's 
 dark and glowing one. Bracy's bunch of rich-coloured 
 roses seemed in keeping with, and to heighten her 
 lavish beauty, while Edith's flaky white feather no less 
 suited and enlivened the maidenly sweetness of her air. 
 The dark, full-orbed eyes seemed to take him to them- 
 selves in rapturous possession; the sunny azure ones 
 bestowed, undesignedly perhaps, soft glances, moment- 
 ary but entrancing. Each maiden was a foil to the 
 other, but Edith gained most by the contrast, at least so 
 thought Archer. Marian, on his right, he also glanced 
 at. Her profile was no doubt pretty. The nose might 
 well have been larger, but its short straight line suited 
 her cherry-lipped mouth and nice round chin. Her
 
 144 DIN A. 
 
 liigli brow and long-laslied eye he admired. Calm, con- 
 templative woman, and sweet budding girl, evidently 
 she was both ; and the combination was piquant. He 
 would have liked a friendly glance from that violet 
 eye, but the lash drooped more than ever when she 
 turned her head a little to thank him for some occa- 
 sional attention. The honest fellow instinctively ad- 
 mired all lovely things, and unaffectedly indulged his 
 delight in them with those clear, chaste eyes of his, 
 which no one had ever seen smirched by any haze of 
 muddleduess. He did not feel indifferent to violet eyes 
 because he happened to admire azure ones, or fail to 
 rejoice in the sight of rich dark hair because light hair 
 pleased him. Yet he was not in his nature faithless, nor 
 had he been born a Turk. Before only one of those 
 girls, all nearly of an age, though so different in size 
 and appearance, did he bow in perfect homage; she 
 alone made his heart thrill with tenderness inexpressible. 
 Yet of winning her he had little or no hope. He had 
 abandoned himself with ecstasy to the enjoyment of 
 those moments he had passed with her in the old garden ; 
 but hardly w^ere they past ere he remembered with heart- 
 sickness Mr. Eagle's superior claims to the hand he had 
 just touched with rapture. Then, Mary Melville ! Did 
 Archer overlook her because the taller and more o'race- 
 ful Edith Lockart sat beside her ? Certainly not ; having 
 no opportunity at present of conversing apart with Edith, 
 he, while the Squire lectured, could keep his wits about 
 liim, be attentive to every one, and freely indulge the 
 natural catholicity of his taste. He had heretofore 
 flirted from time to time w ith ^lary in a playful way, 
 and with not a little tenderness had he spoken of her to 
 Wilmotte as a " facetious little minx." Her features
 
 LIXA. 145 
 
 were not so fine as Edith's, but they were, he admitted, 
 very neat, and nice, and tiny, and pretty. Her com- 
 plexion was rich and bright in the cheeks, and on her 
 brow and neck of that milky delicacy so rarely seen 
 except in the golden-haired. And as for this golden 
 hair, it was in itself no slight charm. Perhaps it was 
 not of the purest golden tinge, but it was at least among 
 the finest of the ruddy yellows, and brighter and sweeter 
 than that beloved by Titian, and still coveted by the 
 Bride of the Sea's fair maids. Then Mary's eyes— what, 
 even her eyes ? AYell, I called them green, and green 
 tliey were ; that is, a yellowish green, or a green sub - 
 dued by yellow-brown. Such is perhaps the colour of 
 a cat's eyes in certain lights, and a cat's eyes are admit- 
 tedly not pretty. But did even a cat look at us with a 
 beaming, lively, humorous, tender, sweet, heart-bewitch- 
 ing expression, we might feel reconciled to its eyes ; 
 and some such expression made ^Nlary ]\Ielville's eyes 
 pleasing, nay, fascinating, in the most agreeable sense of 
 the word. Their expression seemed to change ihe 
 quality of their colour ; and in speaking of Mary as a 
 green-eyed maid, one did it rather with the feeling that 
 one was giving her a complimentary title. 
 
 " Au eagle, madam. 
 Hath not so greeu, so f|uick, so fair aa eye 
 As Paris Lath," 
 
 said Juliet's nurse persuasively, and not with any irony. 
 Xo wonder, then, if even Mary's eyes were liked by 
 Archer. — And Polly Grange ; what did Archer think of 
 lier ? Not lost on him was her devotion to Mr. Eagle. 
 " Success to Polly," his heart, said, and he thankfidly 
 remembered to have heard of 
 
 " Love that to none beloved remits return of love," 
 V')L. I. K
 
 UG Dm A. 
 
 and ventured, perhaps, to hope a little that gratitude, if 
 nothing more, might touch his noble rival's heart, and 
 make him appreciate the younger Miss Grange's bloom- 
 ing cheeks. And these, to be candid, he himself by no 
 means despised. What beauty there is in mere health- 
 fulness ! Genuine, unaffected, humble, honest, plump, 
 apple-cheeked, dimpled, rub3^-lipped, white- teethed, was 
 Polly Grange. Our slender, sunburnt Archer could not 
 slight such a girl, though his fastidious taste might 
 make him prefer her sister, and, on the whole, assign to 
 Polly the lowest place in the charming group around 
 him, and assuredly he would not have scorned the man 
 ready to " embrace her as his natural good," envying 
 none.
 
 DIXA. U 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 LuxcHEOX over, Mr. Grange and his guests left the 
 table and dispersed about the room and verandah in little 
 groups. 
 
 Mary Melville drew Miss Grange to a couch, saying 
 she had not had a chat with her for an age. 
 
 "You must feel awfully dull, ]Mar, when I'm not 
 here to stir you up," she said, putting an arm round her 
 cousin's waist. 
 
 Xot being able to say that she had found time hang- 
 ing on her hands of late, Marian merely smiled. 
 
 " I do believe they're at it again," added Mary, glanc- 
 ing towards the other end of the room, where Grange 
 and Mr. Eagle were engaged in an animated conversa- 
 tion. " Mr. Eagle, to be sure, did not get his full share 
 of the discussion at table, and so he is making up for it. 
 He's a capital talker when he likes." 
 
 " I hear you've grown rather intimate with him, 
 :\rary ?" 
 
 " Oh yes, Mar ; I favoured him from the first. I had 
 begun to work a purse of my own hair for Fred Evans 
 — ^just in case he should happen to want it ; but the 
 moment I saw ^Ir. Eagle I determined to use up the 
 hair I had cut in making a watch-guard for him!' 
 
 *' Just like you, dear ; to one love constant never.
 
 148 Dm A. 
 
 You became acquainted with him wliile I was at scliool, 
 didn't you ?" 
 
 " I did. Only last winter. One snowy evening our 
 horses slipped and fell in Castle Street — we got such a 
 fright ! —and Mr. Eagle, who happened to be passing, 
 helped us so politely that I told Mrs. Lambert to hunt 
 him up and invite him to her next party. Ellis Wil- 
 niotte, it turned out, had met him in Heidelberg. He 
 lived in lodgings, on the right bank of the Neckar, near 
 old Bunsen's house. Ellis saw him sketch the ' Ges- 
 prengte Turm.' He sketches beautifully." 
 
 " Well, dear ?" 
 
 " Well ? Why, of course, Ellis brought him to the 
 Lamberts ; and he had the sense to appreciate the com- 
 pliment, especially when I told him the share I had i;i 
 it. And didn't he dance nicely, that's all !" 
 
 "Dance!— Mr. Eagle?" 
 
 " Oh yes. It was so jolly ! I never had dreamed of 
 such a thing ; but instead of sittmg down beside me 
 when I sent for him, he — imagine my incredulity ! — asked 
 me to waltz. I had got a seat ready for him by intro- 
 ducing Mr. Evans to Bracy Lushet, who happened to be 
 sitting beside me ; and the two had just gone off when 
 Mrs. Lambert brought up Mr. Eagle. When he spoke, 
 I supposed that he must be simply asking if I meant to 
 dance the waltz with somebody, so I said no, I didn't 
 mean to dance again till I had had a good rest. Then I 
 swept my dress off' Bracy's chair to show him that he 
 might sit dowm and have a chat with me. But, to my 
 surprise, he looked scarcely gratified, and took the seat 
 with evident reluctance, saying that he ho]:)ed he might 
 engage me for a quadrille at least. * Did you want to 
 waltz with me?' I exclaimed, with such a flush of
 
 DIXA. 149 
 
 astonishment that it quite abashed him, as if I had said 
 something very cutting. ' Certainly,' he said, ' I was so 
 daring. Perhaps my profession, if you know it, makes 
 you doubt my skill.' I declare, ^Marian, I could have 
 thrown my arms round his neck on the spot, he looked 
 so ineffably meek, and noble, and kind. ' I shall be 
 delighted to w^altz with you,' I cried, with my w^hole soul 
 in the words ; for imagine my luck. Mar, in having 
 tempted a clerg3'man to dance ! wasn't it a triumph ? 
 and I not oiit either ; for Mrs. Lambert's tea- dances 
 were not to count, and I was not fairly launched till the 
 United Service ball in the spring." 
 
 " So you waltzed with him, dear ?" 
 
 " I should think so. Mar. You wouldn't have had 
 me miss such a chance ? And didn't he dance smoothly ! 
 Such natty steps ; always in time. And he carried me 
 round so firmly — slow or fast, gaining ground or losing 
 with the lead of the music, that I felt myself like a part 
 of the tune, and fancied that had we stopped before the 
 piano we should have spoilt the music, like a note 
 dropped out. And he a minister all the while I and so 
 deferential and charmingly grave when he noticed that 
 I was pretty ! — which he didn't at first, somehow. You 
 may believe me, I observed the impression the moment 
 he received it ! 'Twas such a pity when the dance was 
 done — he enjoyed it so much, poor man ! Fancy w^hat 
 it must have been to him to break loose in that way, 
 and in Edinburgh, of all places ! Something like a 
 Roman priest turning Protestant, and getting a sweet 
 little wife, as Luther did, after having had his head 
 tonsured for ever so many years." 
 
 " I hope the people did not seem scandalized." 
 
 " Xot a bit. He 'd been aljroad for vears, and so
 
 150 BIX A. 
 
 wasn't iniicli known. Besides, a white tie is no mark 
 of clericalness at a party." 
 
 " I am not sure tliat I like the idea of his waltzing ; 
 though Dr. Wilmotte says he once danced, somewhere in 
 England, with a Free Church minister and a curate." 
 
 " There was nothing wrong in it, Coz. I'm sure, for 
 he told me so. Of course I quizzed him at the time, 
 and couldn't hide the glee I was in at having unstarched 
 a clergyman — and such a handsome one ! but he said, 
 tpietly, that it was the simplest thing in the world : 
 He thought dancing in itself a most innocent recreation 
 for young people ; that innocent and delightful recrea- 
 tions were the very things for young people — kept them 
 out of mischief — brought them together in the pleasantest 
 way; that being brought together in a pleasant way, 
 under conditions securing mutual and self-respect, was 
 the very thing for them — giving opportunity for improv- 
 ing and refining intercourse, and for tlie forming of 
 attachments which might prove the blessing of their 
 lives ; that in short, Mar, he couldn't disapprove of 
 dancing among the young laity, and did not see why the 
 young clergy should be held bound to i-efrain from inno- 
 cent amusements in those hours of relaxation which all 
 people need. Indeed, he added, he felt it a duty to 
 dance a little now and then, lest he should bring dis- 
 credit on his profession by appearing to condemn by 
 liis own abstinence a thing w^hich he could not forbid 
 others to practise. A clergyman must be consistent, he 
 thought." 
 
 Marian smiled at her little cousin's warmth. 
 
 " I know that practically he is a very good man, Mary. 
 That is, I have every reason to suppose so." 
 
 " Of course he is ; everybody knows that. But don't
 
 DIXA. 151 
 
 you think he does quite right in waltzing? I'm sure 
 there couldn't have been any harm in waltzing with me, 
 at least. You may as well agree with me, for I'll pluck 
 some of your hair if you don't." 
 
 " Well, dear, I haven't had time to think of it ; but, 
 in a general way, I should fancy it must be wrong for 
 any one to do what it would be \vi'ong for a clergyman 
 to do." 
 
 '•' That's just what I think ; and so I told Mr. Eagle, 
 and he said I was, as you say, in a general way, right. 
 He's a capital fellow — though it was a day or two before 
 I could quite think of him as a ' fellow' at all, he's so 
 grand-looking. Don't you admire him? I see Polly 
 does. Poor dear Poll ; I'm half sorry to be in her way ; 
 she goes in for everything with all her heart so !" 
 " Does he wear your watch-guard, Mary ?" 
 " What a goose you are, Marian ! Do you suppose I 
 gave it to him unasked ? I have it nicely tied up in 
 tissue paper, and if he should persuade me to prefer him 
 to aU my other admirers, why, it will no doubt be a 
 comfort to him to hear that it was destined for him from 
 the first day I saw him. I am thinking, do you know, 
 of making quite a little museum of such things — one 
 for each promising suitor." 
 
 " You began a purse for Mr. Evans, you said ?" 
 " Yes, and at first I meant the rest of the hair I had 
 clipped for it to serve for Mr. Eagle's guard, but some- 
 how, when I came to think of it, I didn't like the idea. 
 Besides, it was back hair, and Mr. Eagle seemed worthy 
 of finer ; so I plucked fresh hair from my front ringlets. 
 It 's no matter, you know ; they grow again. Some day 
 I'll finish Evans' purse, plaiting it in the portemonnaie 
 shape ; for, after all, you see, I may take a fancy to fall
 
 152 DIKA. 
 
 hack upon Fred, who isn't at all had-looking, and is 
 making his way at the har; — not that I care much for 
 the Scotch bar, since it really gives one no cliance of 
 becoming a baroness in time, however old an advocate 
 one may marry ; and it's scarcely worth while being a 
 paper lord's wife, when it isn't thought necessary even 
 to knight our judges, poor men." 
 
 "You dear Coz !" 
 
 " Oh yes, I'm very dear. Now just look ; Mr. Eagle 
 has taken to lecturing Edith instead of your father. Do 
 you know, I'm rather jealous of her. She and hev 
 brother have been acquainted with him such a time ; 
 and he goes to Beechworth whenever he likes. Yet now 
 and then I think she looks softly at Archer, who is quite 
 a brick. Indeed, I used rather to encourage him myself 
 until Bracy got hold of him. There, Bracy's caught him 
 just now at the end of the verandah. Bother ! I'm afraid 
 he's very fond of her; though it's so absurd, isn't it, 
 when she 's such a great creature ? Oh dear, things seem 
 to be going topsy-turv^^ in this Avorld. And who, I 
 wonder, is to get you, my dreamy coz ? Ellis, xVrcher, 
 lialph, or the painter. Count von Beinherz, whom you 
 havered about so when you came home from that Bon- 
 church school ? You need not blush." 
 
 " I'm not blushing, ]Mary." 
 
 "You were though. Don't fancy that anything of 
 that sort escapes me, INIar. However, I wouldn't ad- 
 vise you to think of the Count ; he may have a 
 dozen wives already scattered all over Europe. Those 
 (Cosmopolitan gentlemen are very slippery. — Not to 
 speak of him ? Well, I shan't, since you dislike the 
 subject." 
 
 '•' Mary, dear, I did not say that."
 
 DIXA. 153 
 
 " Perhaps not, but you looked it, and I am not un- 
 feeling." 
 
 '•' What a rattle you are, child ! Suppose Mr. Eagle 
 were to overhear you I There he comes." 
 
 So often had Mar}^ thought half seriously and half in 
 fun of ]\Ir. Eagle as a probable suitor, that her imagina- 
 tion was very ready to depict him with his lofty head 
 Ijowed before her in humble entreaty. She had not, 
 however, in the least determined as yet to confer herself 
 upon him. She liked him, but could she for his sake 
 already give up the pleasure of dallying with the atten- 
 tions of all her other friends ? Could she, for example, 
 forget her " pla^^ellow," Archer Calvert, or cease to wind 
 her pretty hair round Wilmotte's wrist, or even finally 
 abandon the hope of subjugating some one who might 
 prove still nearer her beau-ideal than was any man she 
 at present knew ? It was grievous to think of such a 
 sacrifice, and yet she felt somewhat trembKngly that it 
 might prove difficult to resist the importmiities of a man 
 like Eagle, to whom she could certainly be most happily 
 a ^liranda — in any desert place. 
 
 As ]\Ir. Eagle approached the sofa, she coloured in 
 spite, or rather, perhaps, because of her efforts to look 
 quite at her ease, and her arm tightened round her 
 cousin's waist. 
 
 Xoble in presence, radiant yet sedate, gently per- 
 suasive in his manner, Eagle was not a man to be re- 
 garded without interest by any girl. But he was not in 
 the least egotistical, and he was now far from attributing 
 Clary's blush to his own influence. Mary, then, was in 
 no lianger of being urged to commit herself to any hasty 
 decision regarding his claims to her life-love. Some- 
 thing of this she presently read in his rjuestioning eyes,
 
 154 DINA. 
 
 and suddenly her manner changed. What ! she mentally 
 exclaimed, was he of wliose tender words she had felt 
 afraid not at her disposal ? Had all her charms not 
 enchained him ? Indignant, she flushed at tlie thought. 
 Had her bright beauty and wit been lost upon him ? 
 AVas he indeed free still ? Oh, then, fettered he should 
 be ere another hour had passed, cried her heart, as she 
 bridled with girlish arrogance. She shook her curls and 
 raised her head haughtily, while her eyes sparkled and 
 flashed at the offender. Somewhat in the same way she 
 had looked at Thunderbolt when that beautiful and 
 usually docile animal had surprised her by his revolt in 
 the avenue. She had resented Thunderbolt's caprice, 
 and fearlessly grasped his bridle, never doubting that her 
 tiny hands could stop him, and scarcely did she now doubt 
 that Mr. Eagle, grand as he was, would now unsuccessfully 
 resist, should she choose deliberately to captivate him. 
 
 The good man did not guess her thoughts, and rather 
 blankly wondered at her varying expression. Could a 
 remark he had just made to Miss Grange about the 
 Squire's fine fervour have offended Mary, that she darted 
 at him such fierce glances ? 
 
 " Shall we have Miss Mary's assistance in pulling 
 Fnid to x)ieces to-morrow morning?" he said aloud, 
 bowing to the young lady of whom he spoke. 
 
 "Surely we shall," cried Mr. Grange, who, it hap- 
 pened, was standing not far off examining Mr. Diycale's 
 fly-book. " We could ill afford to lose my pet. Cheery 
 will be even a cloudy morning if we have our own sun- 
 beam in the room !" 
 
 "When will you cease to quiz my hair, you remorse- 
 less uncle ?" replied Mary, shaking her curls again, and 
 looking lovingly in the Squire's honest face.
 
 DU^A. 155 
 
 " You can bring my friend Dr3xale over, and even 
 Miss Lushet may condescend to favour us/' said Mr. 
 Grange, glancing as he spoke towards the verandah, 
 where Miss Lushet was still in conversation with Archer 
 Calvert. 
 
 " Perhaps," he added, " you may persuade Sarah or 
 your cousin Lemon to take the fourth seat. Thunder- 
 bolt doesn't kick at four in your basket, does he ?" 
 
 " Certainly not, uncle ; but you must arrange to dis- 
 cuss moral philosophy at the least when you invite 
 Sarah to a talky-talky breakfast ; and as for Lemon, he 
 greatly prefers Bell's Life over his cofiee." 
 
 " Such a choice is not unbecoming in an officer and 
 country gentleman," remarked Mrs. Beagle, as she 
 passed to a seat a little behind Mr. Eagle. 
 
 " You, Mr. Eagle," she continued, " do not, I am sure* 
 condemn innocent recreations. The late Mr. Beagle 
 attributed to hunting, for example, much of the manly 
 courage for which our English squires are remarkable, 
 and he lowered an extremely high fence by which a 
 former rector of Appleton had tried to stop the fox- 
 liounds." 
 
 Mr. Eagle could not courteously reply to this without 
 turning from Miss Melville's sofa. 
 
 " Hunting hardens and invigorates those who engage 
 in it, and IMr. Grange might have pled for it as earnesth^ 
 as he did for other kinds of sport which are attended 
 with more bloodshed, and call for less courage and en- 
 durance," he said with deliberation, as he took a seat to 
 which the position in which Mrs. Beagle had placed her- 
 self seemed to direct him. 
 
 Mary ^lelville felt an additional qualm of mortifica- 
 tion when she saw him thus withdraw, and, without
 
 loG DIXA. 
 
 any sliow of reluctance, seat himself for a conversation 
 with the widow. The fascinating and con(|uering things 
 she had supposed herself to be on the point of saying to 
 the lofty divine in order to bring him humbled to her 
 feet, went quite out of her head when he turned away. 
 Ah, how mistaken she had been in regard to his feel- 
 ings ! Didn't he, then, care for her at all ? How could 
 he forsake her merely to prose about fox-hunting with 
 that stifip old woman her aunt ? It was vexatious. But 
 of course she was not jealous of Mrs. Beagle — a woman 
 so much the divine's senior that she might almost have 
 been his mother. Had he turned in the same way to 
 Mr. Drycale, her mortification would have been the 
 same at that critical moment, in which her heart and 
 her vanity were alike in a flutter. Yet Mrs. Beagle was 
 a handsome, and in most respects a very fairly preserved 
 woman, — tall, slender, erect, clear-eyed, high-featured, 
 and dignified. Her teeth were, to be sure, artificial, her 
 hair borrowed, and the pleasing warmth of her cheeks 
 occasionally liable to be rubbed off. But a man of sense 
 like Mr. Eagle would not cavil at such trifles surely. 
 Mrs. Beagle was rather prematurely bald, and some of 
 her most conspicuous teeth had been accidentally in- 
 jured ; while it was just owing to a temporary weakness 
 in her circulation that her cheeks, when left to them- 
 selves, looked disagreeably pallid, especially just when 
 her nose began to redden before showers. That, for the 
 sake of her friends, she sought the aid of art to supply 
 the shortcomings of nature, was surely not an unpardon 
 able offence. Fronts for. the concealment of grey hair 
 merely, are not easily justified, and still less is dye ; 
 grey hair being scarcely less a beauty in one sex than 
 in the other, and some persons being tolerably good-
 
 DIKA. 157 
 
 looking only when tlieir Lair becomes white. But bald- 
 ness in a woman is somehow peculiarly displeasing, and 
 a wig is desirable, not to make the woman look younger 
 than she is, but simply to improve her appearance, and 
 so enable you to converse with her in comfort. A wig 
 is, in truth, rarely deceptive, and seldom, we may be- 
 lieve, is it supposed to be so by its wearer. Mrs. Beagle 
 would never, surely, have doubted that Mr. Eagle knew 
 she wore frpnts, even had he not happened to meet her 
 once flying across a passage between her bedroom and 
 dressing-room with a bare crown, strewn with the poor 
 remnant of that glorious auburn cloud under which 
 Kaeburn in her childhood had painted her brown eyes 
 peering. The plaiting of her false locks was certainly 
 very artful and their fit perfect, but everybody might 
 well be supposed to know that their rich colour and 
 bright gloss were inconsistent with the wrinkles about 
 her temples, and the dryness of her finely chiselled lips. 
 Had she really wished to deceive, it may be presumed 
 that she would have chosen a dimmer hair, and recon - 
 ciled herself to having a good many streaks of white in 
 it — a frank confession of maturity which would have 
 disarmed criticism, and so propitiated her less amiable 
 friends, that they would probably have spoken of her 
 as fully ten years younger than they actually were in 
 the habit of calling her. Then, as for ]\Irs. Beagle's 
 teeth, the fact that they v^ere made of fine porcelain 
 may not have diminished the satisfaction Mr. Eagle felt 
 in looking at her handsome face. There is, perhaps, no 
 advantage enjoyed by this generation over those which 
 have gone before it, which is more to be prized than 
 that of being able, at a moderate outlay, to renew its 
 teeth for the second time. Nature never intended men
 
 158 DIKA. 
 
 to lose their teeth soon after middle age, and to spend 
 the rest of their days in an unsightly and wretched 
 way, fumbling with empty gums over morsels which it 
 is no longer possible for them to bite with delicious 
 enjoyment of the inner juices. She designed our second 
 teeth to last for life, or at least till that inevitable sink- 
 ing of the whole system sets in by which men are 
 gradually and mercifully reconciled to their end. That 
 they do so rarely is our own fault, not always, though 
 often, of each of us individually, but onr fault as families 
 and communities addicted to unhealthful habits, vices, 
 and evil pamperings of our appetites with unwholesome 
 meats and drinks. Let us be thankful, then, that the 
 transgression of her laws is not more severely visited 
 upon us, and that by a simple contrivance we are x^er- 
 niitted to obviate one of the sad results of our folly. 
 Why, madam, with these splendid new grinders, better 
 almost than those of your youth, you are able to masti- 
 cate everything that is good for you just as well as ever 
 you were. Your face, too, preserves its natural form, 
 and when you smile it is delightful to see pure pearls 
 between your lips in place of the dingy stubs and dark 
 blanks your grandmother displayed when looking equally 
 good natured. And then, really, there is hardly the 
 least deceit in them. After you have reached a certain 
 time of life, if you are of such rank as to have probably 
 lived carnivorously with the aid of a savoury cook, few 
 people suspect you of continuing the use of your origi- 
 nal set. Who, since the jovial professor hit upon 
 chloroform, would think of so afflicting his age ? The 
 porcelain, ivory, bone, or actual borrowed teeth — poor 
 little Fantine's for instance — whichever you use, are 
 taken for granted by your friends, and you, be assured.
 
 DIN A. 159 
 
 cannot do better than smile and reciprocate the com- 
 pliment. 
 
 An unexceptionable woman of her years, then, Mr. 
 Eaole mav well have considered Mrs. Beac^le, and it is 
 possible, too, that he did not dislike her much. He 
 believed her to be capable of strong attachment, and 
 she really was so. Xo cat ever was more unfeignedly 
 attached to a particular hearth-rug than Mrs. Beagle 
 was to her Appleton rectory ; and now that Ashcroft 
 was her home, she could not have left it with a whole 
 heart unless it might be to dwell in some equally 
 eligible house, sucli, perhaps, as one which Mr. Eagle 
 was known to possess in the neighbourhood of Edin- 
 burgh. 
 
 Still Mary Melville was certainly not jealous of her 
 aunt, but only annoyed at the little value Mr. Eagle 
 appeared, on this occasion, to attach to conversation 
 with herself Several pungent remarks rose to her lips ; 
 but strange to say, so unwontedly shy was the ready 
 girl to-day, all of tliem fluttered thence in whispers 
 addressed only to Marian's ear.
 
 IGO LIKA. 
 
 CHAPTEE XA^II. 
 
 While Eagle's politeness to ^Irs. Beagle was tluis 
 fretting Mary, Miss Lockart and Polly were seated on 
 the south lawn, just outside of the verandah trellis. They 
 were plucking daisies, and tlirowing them at each other 
 as a substitute for conversation ; but neither seemed 
 much engrossed by the game. Frequently Polly's 
 attention wandered, and her eyes peered through tlie 
 roses climbing up the trellis. Just then, a ripe daisy - 
 head would hit her nose, and, startled, she would turn 
 sharp on Edith, half forgetful of the fun of the thing. 
 Then, having had their little laugh, and bickered each 
 other again, botli girls would, after a while, be uncon- 
 sciously plucking the daisies to pieces with their restless 
 lingers instead of pitching them at each other, and 
 would gaze, one always through the rose-bush at Eagle, 
 nnd the other sometimes through the rose-bush, and 
 sometimes along the verandah, to where Archer and 
 }Jiss Lushet were talking. 
 
 Throwing daisies seemed to be found rather a dull 
 Cfame, in fact ; but it did not strike Calvert in that 
 light apparently, since for all reply to Miss Bracy's 
 I'emark : " You will find the Indian climate more try- 
 ing tlian you did formerly when in perfect health, and 
 you may reiiuire more comfort in your bungalow than
 
 DIN A. 161 
 
 servants — ," he, breaking in upon her sentence, ex- 
 claimed, " Wouldn't it be jolly to have a roll on the 
 grass, or a daisy fight ? Will you come ? Pray do." 
 
 Miss Lushet smiled and nodded twice, less, probably, 
 to express her willingness to roll on the grass than her 
 amusement at her friend's incorrigible light-headedness 
 whenever she tried to make him talk seriously about 
 his duties to himself on his return to a tropical clime. 
 
 The lawn in front of the dining-room had not been 
 mown for a week at least, so there were daisies enough. 
 Archer got a handful at once, and laying himself care- 
 lessly down, began throwing them at Polly. He seemed 
 to be a bad shot, for several struck Edith instead. Edith 
 ducked her head, making a shield of her wideawake. 
 That encouraged him, so he battered away at her 
 directly, and hit her wonderfully often, considering 
 how many times he had missed Polly. Edith did not 
 return his fire, but her nicely-formed hands were busy 
 gathering, and, by-and-by, she suddenly leaped to her 
 feet, darted at Archer and cast a shower of blossoms 
 down on his face. Polly at the same moment, though 
 with a less graceful litheness and lizard-like quickness, 
 jumped forward, tripped up the elbow on which he was 
 leaning, and pushed him over. 
 
 " Oh, what fun !" screamed Mary ]\Ielville, forgetting 
 in a moment all her chagrin, and springing through the 
 window nearest her sofa. 
 
 She seized Archer's hat, threw it away, and then 
 caught one of his hands in botli of hers. Polly grasped 
 the other, and the two girls, forthwith, drew the little 
 hero of the countermine writhing over the turf, while 
 Edith diligently scattered daisies in his eyes. 
 
 With great agility Archer twisted out of their hands 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 162 DIKA. 
 
 and got on liis knees, but only to be pounced upon 
 again and tumbled over, amid shouts of laughter that 
 made the house-walls ring. 
 
 Miss Lushet seemed to enjoy the scene with the 
 complacency of a domestic tabby of mature age watch- 
 ing her kittens at play. She laughed, and patted her 
 palms approvingly, while she walked round the group 
 and looked as if regretful that she could not with pro- 
 priety partake further in the fun. 
 
 Mr. Grange also enjoyed it immensely, and began 
 l)oking his fingers into old Drycale's ribs, as if he pre- 
 sumed that he too would like to have some sport. But 
 daisies were rather light missiles for a man of Mr. 
 Grange's weight. Had there even been dandelions at 
 hand he would probably have joined the game at once. 
 As it was, he looked about dubiously, as if wondering 
 what he could do in the matter. Then a thought struck 
 him, and running off nimbly he hopped over a low wire 
 fence bordering the lawn, and having taken up an arm- 
 ful of hay from a heap in the south park, jumped back 
 again and threw it over the victimised artilleryman 
 before any one had observed his move. The hint was 
 enough : wrinkled Drycale, Mi\ Eagle, Polly, Edith, 
 even sedate Marian, and the Squire himself, again 
 went over the fence, and, returning laden with hay, 
 speedily almost buried Archer, and with him Mary, 
 who, clinging to his arms, had prevented his escape 
 while the others were absent. 
 
 Miss Lushet laughed softly ; and ^Irs. Beagle, from 
 a window, cried " Bravo." 
 
 When IMary was nearly covered up with Archer, Mrs. 
 Beagle smiled, and, glancing at Eagle, cried bravo still 
 more cordially ; but Miss Lushet somewhat checked
 
 DIKA. 163 
 
 lier applause, and said, " Oh, such a quantity of hay ! 
 might it not smother them ?" 
 
 The suggestion seemed to strike Eagle. 
 
 " Stop," he cried ; " they are not moving." 
 
 It was only for a second that the hay had been still, 
 but he snatched up a heap of it, and displayed two 
 faces very near each other, but not looking choked at 
 all, unless with laughter. 
 
 " Let me go ; do, do, do !" cried Mary, laughing, and 
 slirieking, and shaking Archer's head, which she had 
 grasped by its scanty silken locks. 
 
 His hands were clasped behind her neck, and he lay 
 as quiet as she would let him, while his merry eyes 
 turned from her face to the spectators and back again, 
 and he smiled with a sort of mysterious expression. 
 
 Suddenly Mary stooped her head, slipped under his 
 hands and sprang to her feet, and then, the moment 
 she was up, gathered a quantity of hay and buried 
 Archer's face again. The others followed her example, 
 and the youth disappeared entirely. But the hay over 
 him did not toss about. He evidently was not kick- 
 ing ; and presently Bracy, who had at last joined the 
 game, lifted it off, anxiously. 
 
 Archer had not moved, and he still lay smiling and 
 looking from Mary to the others in the same meaning 
 way. 
 
 " Shall I tell ?" he said at last, gazing with solemnity 
 at !Mary. 
 
 " No, indeed, you shan't," she said, decidedly. 
 
 " He means you to think that I kissed him, that's 
 all," she added, looking round saucily, wdiile she plucked 
 grass blades from her hair. 
 
 A shout of lauciliter greeted this sallv, and, under
 
 164 DINA. 
 
 cover of it, Calvert got up and shook himself like a 
 terrier quitting tlie water. 
 
 " Well, well, ha, ha, ha," laughed the Squire, " all 's 
 fair, you know, in ha, ha, ha, as in war." 
 
 An explanation which seemed to satisfy most of the 
 party, and especially Mrs. Beagle, who having come 
 forward, patted Miss ]\Ielville's head with her gloved 
 hand. 
 
 Miss Lushet smiled at it, — what did she not smile at ? 
 but there was seriousness in her glowing eyes as she 
 looked at Archer and Mary alternately. 
 
 Edith smiled too, as in duty bound. There was 
 however a certain questioning anxiety in her eyes, as in 
 Bracy's ; and she glanced furtively at Archer, wonder- 
 ing, perhaps, if in point of fact he had kissed Mary. 
 Eagle happened at the moment to be looking at her, 
 and, conscious of him, she turned away with a slight 
 blush, and almost fell over Duff, who w^as rubbing 
 himself against her gown. 
 
 Duff had arrived too late for the fun. He had heard 
 the uproar while he lay reposing sleepily in the stable 
 after a substantial dinner of scraps, carried to him from 
 the lunch table. At first he felt too lazy to rise, but as 
 the laughter grew louder, and even Thunderbolt in his 
 stall neighed responsive to it, he rose and yawned, and 
 then trotted, as if discontentedly, through the plantation. 
 But when he reached the lawn, Mary Melville was 
 making her pert reply to Archer, and, as he could not 
 see the humour of that, he remained quiet till Edith 
 found him at her side. A dog wise in his generation 
 was Duff. He never took unnecessarily violent exer- 
 cise immediately after dinner if he could help it, w^ell 
 knowing that as one gets up in years it does not do to
 
 DINA. 165 
 
 trifle with the stomach. So now, having got out of his 
 mistress's way with as little exertion as he could, he 
 laid himself down calmly and stretched his limbs on 
 the hay-heap. 
 
 Seeing him diverted Miss Lockart's attention, and 
 restored her presence of mind, which, for no reason she 
 could easily have defined, she had for a moment lost. 
 
 " Ah, I fear it is time we were setting^ out," said Miss 
 Lockart ; Duff's obvious intention of falling asleep re- 
 minding her by a species of contrariety that her visit 
 had already been a long one. 
 
 It was now, in fact, nearly two o'clock. 
 
 " I shall be ready in a minute," said JNIarian, moving 
 away, with the intention of putting on her walking 
 dress. 
 
 " Take a woollen shawl over your arm, dear," said her 
 father, who was looking townwards from one end of the 
 verandah. " The wind has become easterly, and is bring- 
 ing a haze up from the sea ; you may have a chilly 
 afternoon." 
 
 " Yes, papa." 
 
 " The basket, if you please," said Mary, who had rung 
 for a servant. " Mr. Drycale, shall I drive you home ? 
 you will not fish again to-day, I suppose ?" 
 
 Mr. Drycale shook his head. He would prefer walk- 
 ing to the Dingle, but ^liss ^lelville might take his 
 rod and creel. 
 
 He had seated himself beside Mrs. Beagle, wlio was 
 talking to him in her best manner, and he meant appa- 
 rently to flirt with the widow for a little before leaving, 
 as jNIary afterwards remarked to Bracy Lushet. 
 
 Thunderbolt was soon annonnced. All the party, 
 except Drycale and Mrs. Beagle, would, they said, go
 
 1G6 DIN A. 
 
 round the house by the west lawn to the front door to 
 see the girls off. 
 
 Archer found himself walking with Miss Lushet. 
 
 " My father," she remarked in her caressingly bland 
 tones, " spoke this morning of exchanging into a regi- 
 ment in Bengal, and I am happy to think that, should 
 he do so, he may arrange to start with you in October." 
 
 Calvert felt all the nerves in his frame jerk, and for 
 the moment he was struck dumb. 
 
 " So, so," he thought when somewhat revived, " she's 
 determined to be with me whether I ask her or not. 
 That point seems settled. Upon my word, she 's a cool 
 hand !" 
 
 Aloud, it was as much as he could do to say, 
 "Ah!" 
 
 A few steps further on he took courage, and looked 
 up in her face with the half- mirthful, half- frightened 
 expression which had become habitual to him when 
 conversing with Bracy, and, as usual, her beauty, and 
 the unaffected fondness in her expression, told on his 
 susceptible heart. Almost he felt prompted to say 
 something tender ; but Edith, who was walking on 
 before w^ith the Squire, looked back just then, and the 
 anxiety Mr. Eagle had noticed was again in her eyes. 
 They were, as it were, shaded by it. Archer observed 
 them, and his yielding speech died away in an inward 
 sigh : " How happy could I be with either !" 
 
 Miss Bracy being constitutionally warm, generally 
 carried a fan, and with it she now tapped Archer on 
 the shoulder, and playfully said,— 
 
 " How dreamy you are to-day !" 
 
 It was an immense relief to Calvert that almost at 
 the same time they reached the phaeton.
 
 DIKA. 167 
 
 ]\Iary jumped into it liglitly and took the reins, and 
 he gravely assisted the slower, though far from inac- 
 tive, Bracy, who pressed his hand affectionately when 
 seated. 
 
 " You should see my father. Captain Calvert, aV)out 
 the journey," she said. " He w^ll be going to London 
 in a few days most likely to settle the exchange." 
 
 Calvert nodded and smiled, and his eyes sparkled 
 brilliantly on the noble girl, who really looked very 
 lovely in her own style, seated thus in the low carriage. 
 Her rich brown eyes lost less colour in the sunshine, 
 he observed, than Mary's green-grey ones, which w^ere 
 now twittering in the light ; for that volatile damsel 
 was still laughing in her heart at her little joke about 
 what had happened under the hay. 
 
 Eagle handed the whip to Mary. 
 
 " Good-bye, Mr. Eagle," she cried cheerfully. 
 
 " Till to-morrow !" she added, giving her pretty head 
 and shining ringlets a proud little toss, as if saying, 
 " Ha, ha, sir, I'll be even with you to-morrow, won't I ?" 
 
 Then she touched the tips of Thunderbolt's ears with 
 the lash, and, as he trotted off, she looked back with a 
 gay, ringing laugh as if she had said something witty 
 or playful, though, in fact, she had only thought it. 
 
 " Dear little Mary !" said the Squire, quite tenderly, 
 for the younger Miss Melville w^as his especial favourite, 
 and he thought her laugh very musical, and, some- 
 how, even more enlivening than his own Polly's hearty 
 one. 
 
 Miss Lockart, Eagle, and Calvert now took leave of 
 him. 
 
 " I shall not require you this afternoon, dear," he said, 
 with kind consideration to Polly, who had whispered a
 
 168 DIKA. 
 
 somewhat flurried inquiry liow soon he would need her 
 in his study. 
 
 Polly was rejoiced ; now she might go all the way to 
 Beech worth. Calvert would surely monopolize Edith, 
 and as for Marian, why, with her she would, at least, 
 divide Mr. Eagle's attentions.
 
 DIN A. 169 
 
 CHAPTEE XYIIL 
 
 ScAECELY had they left the avenue, when they met 
 Kate Gowans, breathless and flurried. 
 
 Kate, on leaving Mrs. Doherty's cottage, had followed 
 and watched Maggie Miller until she saw the poor girl 
 lay herself as if to sleep in the corner of a half- cut 
 do\^m haystack. She had then hastened home with 
 her water- pitcher. Detained by household duties, it 
 was some time before she could return, provided with a 
 tin can of broth to Maggie's relief, and when, at last, 
 she was able to do so, Maggie was no longer at the 
 stack. Much vexed with herself, she had humed about 
 to the different cottages connected with Aslicroft farm 
 inquiring for the fugitive. 
 
 Miss Grange and her friends having seen nothing of 
 Mafjgie, Kate detained them but for a moment, and then 
 hastened on to search the farmyard, while they continued 
 on their way past the grieve's cottage. 
 
 " Little Espie Gowans will miss Ebon Lockart now 
 that he is off to Oden," said ]\Iarian, addressing Mr. 
 Eagle, with whom and Polly she had dropped consider- 
 ably behind Archer and Miss Lockart. " Tlie little 
 fellow was often brought down to see her during her 
 illness by his nurse, who is some relation of the 
 Gowans."
 
 170 DIXA. 
 
 " Miss Pentonville might surely have come to Beech- 
 worth wlieii so anxious to see her nepliew," said Mr. 
 Eagle, meditatively. 
 
 " I believe she used to do so before Lady Lockart 
 was drowned," said Marian, " but now she never leaves 
 Oden for a day. I don't know why. It is far from 
 the homes of her relatives. I think she went to it 
 originally for sea-bathing with her late brother Leonard, 
 when he was sent home invalided from India. An 
 English lady, whom she calls her companion, resides 
 with her, and the two ladies live by themselves, deso- 
 late, one may say, in their sea-shore cottage, which is 
 distant even from the nearest manse, and fully a mile 
 from Oden village. It does seem an odd fancy. I 
 know that Sir Angus would give his siste. -in-law a 
 hearty w^elcome were she to consent to live with him. 
 He has proposed this to her, I believe, but quite fruit- 
 lessly." 
 
 They were now close upon Craig Law^, and about to 
 pass its broken north-eastern extremity, which rises 
 abruptly from the edge of the meadow into which Kate 
 Growans had so unceremoniously tumbled the valet 
 Vidocq. A slice seems to have been cut sheer off the 
 shoulder of the hill, but the wound is old, and yellow 
 and grey lichens have skinned over the crude rock, 
 while in crevices, here and there, the seeds of various 
 trees have taken root, and produced stunted specimens 
 of their race. The top of the cliff is not by any means 
 the top of the liill, but from where the Ashcroft party 
 had arrived nothing higher than its crest is visible. 
 
 Miss Lockart had stopped to call Calvert's attention 
 to a group of foxgloves, and Eagle and the jMisses 
 Grange were soon beside her.
 
 DIN A. 171 
 
 " What can that woman mean by standing so near 
 the edge ?" exclaimed Polly, throwing back her head to 
 look at a figure on the highest point of the precipice. 
 
 " Take care, you fool ! " she added, waving her hand- 
 kerchief. 
 
 Apparently the person she addressed had not ob- 
 served their approach, — indeed a projecting rock had 
 hidden them from her until they were almost under 
 the hill. At the voice she started back. In doing so, 
 her foot slipped on the short dry grass and she fell. 
 But for a scraggy furze bush, which she grasped, regard- 
 less of its prickles, she would have been over the cliff 
 in a moment. As it was, she saved herself, but in 
 doing so a bundle dropped from her arms, and fluttered 
 down the perpendicular, almost overhanging rock. About 
 twenty feet from the top, a stunted, though bushy 
 mountain-ash or rowan-tree grew on a grassy ledge of 
 three or four feet in width, which, like a balcony, 
 divided the cliff into an upper and lower precipice. 
 The fluttering bundle was caught by the branches of 
 this rowan and held fast. Scarcely was it so, when 
 the woman, wdio had uttered a shriek of anguish wdien 
 it left her arms, recovered her footing, and stepping to 
 the very verge again, seemed for a moment as if about 
 to throw herself over. Evidently she would have done 
 so, had not she, in bending forward, observed, ere it was 
 too late, that the bundle hung safe in the rowan-tree. 
 Seeing it, she dropped on her knees, and, holding by 
 the furze bush with one hand, stretched herself over 
 the rock, eagerly gazing down. 
 
 Those below expected to see her overbalance licrself 
 and fall headlong ; but she held fast by the tough 
 branch.
 
 172 DIN A. 
 
 " It 's a baby, I am sure it 's a baby," cried Polly. 
 " Look, it is kicking and throwing out its arms. Oh, 
 Mr. Eagle, what shall we do ? Hear ! it is crying to its 
 mother." 
 
 The bundle contained a baby, without doubt. The 
 little one's cries were audible even to those some eighty 
 feet below it. 
 
 " It will fall through— oh, it will fall ! See how the 
 branches bend !" cried Polly again, wringing her hands. 
 
 To reach the child either from above or from below 
 seemed impossible, so perpendicular was the grey rock, 
 broken only by fissures and irregularities, in some of 
 which seedling ashes, thorns or dog-roses, had rooted 
 themselves. 
 
 While Polly cried and wrung her hands with a sense 
 of utter helplessness, Edith and ^larian stood for a little 
 in speechless dread, expecting to see the child come 
 down ; and then, moved by one impulse, they ran to the 
 foot of the rock immediately under the rowan-tree, as if 
 in the desperate hope of catching the infant, should 
 it fall. 
 
 "My shawl, my shawl !" cried Marian. 
 
 Calvert, who carried the woollen shawl Mr. Grange 
 had advised his daughter to take, was scanning the 
 precipice with the eye of a cragsman. He brought the 
 shawl forward at once, and spread it out. Eager hands 
 grasped its corners, and it was held tight, as nearly as 
 possible under the child. It would break the fall cer- 
 tainly, but, too probably, only the fall of a little body 
 already deprived of life by the rapid descent. 
 
 Eagle, too, had examined the cliff, in search of some 
 practicable path either from the top or the bottom. 
 Nothing like one he had seen, however ; and he joined
 
 DIN A. 173 
 
 the sliawl-liolders just as Archer begged him to take 
 his place. 
 
 Archer was an expert climber, at least he had been 
 so in his boyhood, and he fancied he could distinguish 
 a series of clefts and tufts of grass or brushwood by 
 which it might not be wholly impossible to at least 
 approach the shelf on which the rowan grew. 
 
 He cast off his loose coat, untied his neckcloth, and 
 unbuttoned his shirt, so as to set his throat free. 
 
 His friends were so intently watching the child, ex- 
 pecting every time its little arms were thrown out that 
 it would slip between the twigs, that they did not 
 observ^e Calvert's preparations, which, indeed, did not 
 occupy him half a minute. 
 
 Immediately under the child the rock was nearly as 
 smooth as a wall, and hardly less perpendicular ; so 
 smooth and perpendicular, in fact, that it seemed 
 probable the infant might reach the ground, which un- 
 fortunately w^as stony, without touching anything by 
 the way. A mouse could hardly have climbed this part 
 of the cliff, but on the right the face of the rock was a 
 o'ood deal broken, and one could imai^dne a cat oettincc, 
 by great caution and perseverance, to a bushy point 
 even a little above the ledge, but two or three yards to 
 one side of it. Between the bushy point and the ledge 
 the rock was smxooth and clean-cut almost to the base of 
 the cliff. Archer, however, evidently thought of reach- 
 ing this point ; and his keen eye distinguished a hori- 
 zontal crack running from it right across the precipice, 
 and above the site of the rowan. This did not appear 
 to be more than an inch or two in breadth, and there 
 was no parallel crack near it, either above it or below, 
 so that it did not seem to an ordinary eye to offer any
 
 174 DIXA. 
 
 means of getting to the ledge. Still Archer's gaze rested 
 on it, as if he conceived that even such a rift might be 
 put to some use. Tliere was, at least, no other break 
 whatever connecting tlie rowan-tree with any attainable 
 part of the cliff. 
 
 His plan was quickly matured, and before his motions 
 were noticed by any one except the mother, hanging 
 over in terrible suspense, he had begun the ascent. 
 Silent and fixed, the woman looked at the babe and at 
 Archer alternately, herself entirely unaljle to assist in 
 the delivery of her little one. Were it to fall to certain 
 death before Archer arrived at the spot, she would, 
 there could be little doubt, jump after it, though in 
 doing so she would most likely crush one or other of 
 the shawl-holders — a fact of which it was clear the 
 latter found no leisure to think. 
 
 A few crevices, large enough to admit his lithe fingers 
 and small toes, enabled Calvert to climb the first tw^enty 
 feet of wall-like rock, and in a minute or two he was 
 on the first prominent jagg, and holding fast to the 
 scanty ivy growing there. 
 
 At this moment Edith turned her head towards him, 
 and almost let go the shawl in her dismay at seeing 
 him already at a lieight and in a position which, from 
 her point of view, seemed most dangerous, and which 
 she could not before have thought attainable. 
 
 Her breathless " Oh ! " drew the attention of the others. 
 
 Their horror in becoming aware of Archer s desperate 
 resolution made them forget the child. Before they 
 could speak, however, a shrill scream from above re- 
 called tlieir attention to it. It was kicking more rest- 
 lessly than ever, and the bending boughs looking about 
 to yield their burthen, the mother had shrieked, and for
 
 DIXA. 175 
 
 a moment been again on the point of throwing herself 
 over. But the brandies did not give way, and his 
 friends could venture to look at the climber again. 
 
 " Oh, do not try ! " entreated Marian, her anxiety 
 painfully divided between the infant and Archer. 
 
 "You will certainly be killed!" said Polly, tears 
 starting in her eyes. 
 
 Edith could not add her prayers to theirs, for her 
 tongue clunoj to her mouth, and in her alarm she could 
 only entreat the bold adventurer with her eyes. 
 
 " It is quite impossible to be of the least use even if 
 you get to that place, a few yards from the child," urged 
 INIr. Eagle, "and it is madness to attempt even that. 
 Look at the bare rocks, without a single chink for the 
 feet." 
 
 " Stop, I say !" he added, losing temper, and more 
 disposed to command than to entreat. 
 
 Calvert, however, paid no heed to any one, and on 
 from brake to tuft and tree he went steadily. Some- 
 times in getting up a steep bit he seemed actually over- 
 hanging, and sometimes when he came to a sort of 
 stepped slope he ascended on all-fours like a monkey. 
 Already he had attained an elevation of some fifty feet, 
 when he came to one of the largest of the ash trees. It 
 was just strong enough to bear his weight, and he 
 secured himself upon it while stopping to take breath. 
 
 Perched there, at a giddy height, he deliberately 
 viewed the rest of his way. He was still at least thirty 
 feet below the child, and as he was nearly as much to 
 one side of it he would require to advance, after a little 
 at least, in a slanting direction in order to gain that 
 point of the rugged portion of the cliff which was 
 nearest the airy cradle.
 
 176 DIXA. 
 
 " In vain to tell him to come back now," said Eagle, 
 in a stifled voice, " for to descend is evidently impos- 
 sible." 
 
 " Oh, if the tree should break !" said Polly, speaking 
 almost inaudibly ; for it was felt by all that they must 
 not now disturb Archer. To startle or confuse him 
 would be instantly fatal. 
 
 Calvert was breathless, but not disheartened. 
 
 "Confound the child," he growled, annoyed by the 
 cries and struggles of the infant for wdiich he was 
 risking his life, and which seemed bent on rendering 
 his toil fruitless. 
 
 He saw it now very distinctly, and perceived that 
 its position was even more unsafe than he liad supposed 
 it. If it kicked much more violently it would assuredly 
 l^reak through the tree. This fact, which its cries did 
 not for an instant allow him to keep out of his mind, 
 disturbed him more than the perils of his way. He 
 might win the ledge, he thought, or at least it seemed 
 to him just practicable ; but there was, he feared, every 
 chance of his doing so a moment too late. 
 
 Eefreshed by his rest, he again prepared to climb. 
 The tree he sat on grew at the foot of a smooth pro- 
 jecting and over- leaning bed of rock, some ten feet in 
 thickness, which stretched like a belt across the cliff 
 immediately above him. There was no means of passing 
 over this except by ascending the tree, and as that 
 barely reached the top, the difficulty could not be 
 escaped by simply climbing it. 
 
 Fortunately there were some strong weather- twisted 
 branches of a stunted hawthorn projecting over the 
 rock. Carefully Archer stepped up from branch to 
 branch, leaning the while against the smooth belt of
 
 DIXA. 177 
 
 stone. The ash at its strongest parts was verv' little 
 thicker than his leg, and he had, in rising up its trunk, 
 to trust his feet on branches that seemed scarcely fit to 
 bear him. His back was against the wall, and his 
 hands were spread out on each side against it. He 
 steadied himself thus while rising by means of his feet 
 alone upon the fortunately stiff, though, it might turn 
 out, brittle boughs. He was soon high enough to touch 
 the thorn -bush overhead. One of the strongest branches 
 he grasped, and then slowly turned until he faced the 
 cliff. The firmness of the upper tree enabled hira to 
 put his feet on smaller parts of the ash than would 
 otherwise have supported him, and at length, by a 
 great muscular effort, he twisted himself as it were 
 round the branch he clung to and got upon the pro- 
 jecting stratum of rock, which to his friends had ajjpeared 
 altogether insurmountable. 
 
 Safe there, he closed his eyes, feeling dizzy and sick 
 from the excessive strain he had undergone ; a strain, 
 through sympathy, keenly felt even by those who had 
 watched his progress from below with suspended breath 
 and bloodless cheeks. 
 
 Xo one could have ";iven the framle-lookin^^ fellow 
 credit for half the muscular strength he displayed, and 
 yet it was probably in some measure his lightness and 
 slenderness that made it possible for him to do what 
 he did. His arms had much less to lift than those of 
 a stouter man would have had. What he did would 
 liave been play to jMr. Blondin, but, at fifty feet from 
 the ground, it was for Calvert a sufficiently perilous 
 feat. 
 
 The rest of his way was easier, indeed there seemed 
 broad enough steps of turf and frequent points of rock 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 178 DIXA. 
 
 to liold by as far as to the bushy spot to which he 
 asph'ed. A less wary climber would have hurried at 
 this part, but Calvert weut on as calmly as ever. The 
 cushion -like steps of turf projecting from the breaks in 
 the stone invited his feet, but he knew how likely they 
 were to yield if he rested fully on them. As much as 
 possible, he supported his body with his hands, cling- 
 ing always to some secure bush or projection before 
 trusting his foot to any turf knob, however compact 
 looking. 
 
 At last the place he had all along had in view was 
 reached, and he breathed freely on a bracket of rock 
 thickly covered with dwaxf-ivy and weather-beaten 
 ])uslies. 
 
 His friends, who, in their anxiety about him, ha<l 
 for some time been holding the shawl almost uncon- 
 sciously, now sighed with one accord, and, shuddering 
 sj^mpathetically, turned to each other with a somewhat 
 wan smile of mutual congratulation. So far all was 
 well ; the worst was to come. 
 
 " What will he do next ?" was in every one's mind. 
 He was actually higher than the child, but at least two 
 yards' breadth of perpendicular rock separated him 
 from it. 
 
 Fortunately it was less restless than before; and its 
 mother, as if hopeful that the climber might somehow 
 reach it in time, was holding herself further back — lier 
 own life seeming again, no doubt, more precious to her 
 than it had been at any time since the babe dropped 
 from lier arms. 
 
 Archer could see that she was red-haired, young and 
 pretty — very pretty, though singularly marked by a 
 scar above one eye. His interest in the child's life was
 
 DIXA. 179 
 
 doubled by the youth and prettiness of its mother — 
 there's no denying that — and with revived eagerness 
 he examined his position. Should the child remam at 
 rest a little longer all might be well, he thought. 
 
 " Keep quiet now, will you ?" he cried to the young 
 woman, whom he heard murmuring to the infant. 
 
 He measLired with his eye the space between him 
 and the grassy ledge, and reconsidered the practicability 
 of reaching it in the manner he had from the first pro- 
 posed. Certainly the feat seemed not altogether im- 
 possible, though the risk was evidently fearful. Then 
 it suddenly occurred to him that tliough he might suc- 
 ceed in crossing, to return in the same manner with 
 the child in his arms was entirely out of the question. 
 
 '' Ha, ha, that's very rich !" he said, actually laughing. 
 
 Then he looked back for a moment at the way he had 
 come, and saw the equal impossibility of going, even 
 alone, more than a few steps down without being pre- 
 cipitated to the bottom ; for descending a crag is in- 
 finitely more hazardous than climbing up one. But he 
 had not time to think much of this, the infant beginning 
 to cry and toss about its little legs as if to recall his 
 attention. 
 
 Without a good run, which was not to be had, it was 
 impossible to leap the space which divided him from 
 the rowan-tree. His position was the higher, it is true, 
 but a leap of seven feet over a sheer descent of eighty 
 would he dangerous enough under any circumstances 
 for a man of his height, and it was assuredly not to be 
 attempted here. Archer rubbed the dust and clay from 
 liis fingers carefully. Slippery fingers might prove the 
 deatli of him. At his side began the horizontal chink 
 in the cliff. It occurred where two layers of rock met
 
 180 DINA. 
 
 imperfectly. Jackdaws had their nests in it, and fami- 
 lies of them were fluttering over the hill and chattering 
 about the intruder. Certainly they had never seen a 
 human being so near their premises before. At some 
 parts the rift was a few inches wide, while at others it 
 was scarcely half an inch, and here and there it closed 
 altogether. 
 
 Archer's intention was still unsuspected by those 
 below, while, as quietly as his vexation at the babVs 
 impatience w^ould allow, he sat looking across the crack, 
 and scanning its edge critically. Presently he seemed 
 satisfied. Facing the rock and bending to the left, he 
 put his fingers into the chink, and, slipping off his rest- 
 ing place, hung against the cliff by his hands alone. 
 
 Thus he had determined to cross the gulf, as the 
 vacancy between the bushy point and the rowan ledge 
 niidit be called. Six inches or so at a time he moved 
 his hands along the chink, his wiry fingers closing 
 tightly upon the sharp edge of the rock. Three feet he 
 passed safely, and the terrified spectators beneath began 
 to hope that the daring fellow would in a few seconds 
 reach the ledge, and save the child ; but he had now 
 got to a part of the rift where some moss and grass 
 rounded its edge. Calvert had previously observed this 
 spot, but seeing that it extended to little more than a 
 few inches, he had hoped to stretch past it. One can- 
 not, however, easily take long stretches when the whole 
 weight of the body is borne b}^ the fingers. 
 
 Keenly he looked into the cleft while he hung by 
 both hands ; but the eye alone was not sufficient to 
 assure him of the nature of the edge, and he had to feel 
 along it with his left hand, while with desperate firm- 
 ness supporting himself by 'his right. The edge felt soft
 
 DIXA. 181 
 
 and round. Ilis fingers would slip if he clung to it. 
 But his pause was only for a second or two. He suc- 
 ceeded in reaching past the soft place, and was just able 
 to seize a sharp point beyond it. This he grasped with 
 his left hand, and then, quickly crossiug it with his 
 right, he got hold of the edge farther on, while his body 
 swung along nearly a foot of the wall at once. 
 
 What was the baby, compared to the brave climber ? 
 Of course the shawl was now held by rigid hands under 
 the fearful gap, and the babe, if it fell, would, unheeded, 
 be dashed to bits on the splinters at the base of the 
 precipice. Archer, if his fingers failed him, would, on 
 the other hand, drop into the shawl eighty feet below 
 his present position ; alas, it was only a slight summei 
 shawl. 
 
 However, the greatest danger seemed now over. The 
 desperate fingers had found a clean-cut edge. Inch by 
 inch, he hitched across the face of the rock, and his 
 fio^ure dan<?led nearer and more near the rowan's ledge. 
 With a less anxious strain, he pressed the stone. His 
 brow began to flush, and his heart to beat more calmly, 
 as he progressed. A little farther, he thought, and he 
 would be hanging over the grassy balcony. But again 
 the edge began to feel less sharp under his fingers. 
 There was no moss, indeed, but, which was worse than 
 mossiness, the edge no longer formed an acute or right 
 angle, but an obtuse one ; the rock within the rift 
 slanting up instead of being level or inclining dovrn 
 from its edge. 
 
 Trusting his whole weight to one hand again, he felt 
 for a place to hold by. He found one at some little 
 distance, and by a great effort secured himself upon it, 
 For a moment he seemed to rest, and then, once more,
 
 182 DIXA. 
 
 lie held by his right hand only, while with the left he 
 sought for another point to gn^asp. This time he felt 
 for sharp rock in vain. The under side of the crack 
 more than ever sloped upwards. There was now no 
 corner or jag whatever within reach of his hand, and he 
 must inevitably slip off if he tried to go an inch farther 
 along. Already his hands were benumbed and blood- 
 less, owing to having been so long above his head. 
 Could he return ? Impossible ! His strength was fail- 
 ing, and the moral shock occasioned by a sudden per- 
 ception of his awful position now made it ebb quickly. 
 Desperately he clung with a last convulsive effort. He 
 heard a shout — shouting below ; a weird-like laugh 
 rang overhead; the blood "birred" in his ears, and he 
 heard no more. Insensible, his fingers yielded sud- 
 denly, and he dropped. 
 
 Yes ; but not into the shawl, such as it was. Those 
 who held it had with one accord let it go just when his 
 fingers gave way. Edith had fainted ; Marian had 
 clasped her hands over her eyes and sunk on the grass. 
 Everything had seemed to Eagle to be whirling. A 
 ghastly mountain, lurid and overwhelming, seemed to 
 him to roll round and round his head, while he felt 
 himself, as it were, tumbling to illimitable depths 
 through a whirlpool of rocks. 
 
 He was the first, however, to recover something like 
 a steady consciousness of his actual whereabouts. The 
 girls he found lying in different attitudes near -s^^here he 
 stood bewildered. In a little, Marian rose beside him, 
 and grasping his hand, burst into tears. Edith remained 
 dead-like on the gi'ound, and Polly Grange was by turns 
 soTjbing hysterically, and rolling on tlie grass laughing 
 strangely like a mad creature.
 
 DIXA. 183 
 
 At lengtli lie looked up, and on the grassy ledge saw 
 Archer holding up the baby towards its mother — tossing 
 it up, and catching it again, and crowing the while like 
 a cock at sunrise. 
 
 When Calvert's hands relaxed and he dropped, it was 
 on to the end of the green balcony, which it had been 
 his object to reach. Unconsciously he had got above 
 its near end. The rift his fingers were in, past, as has 
 been said, over it, and he had got along much farther 
 thaa he supposed, so that when he fell it was but a few 
 inches. The slight shock recalled his senses, and 
 almost immediately he was able to gain his feet, and 
 take the infant from its dangerous position in the 
 rowan bush. 
 
 " A chubby little kid it is too. Ha, ha, shall 1 toss 
 it up to you, lass ? Xow then, catch !" he cried, pre- 
 tending to throw the babe back to its mother, twenty 
 feet over head. 
 
 The poor woman screamed in terror, and he stopped 
 that game. Then he looked down at his friends and 
 smiled. His eye moistened as he saw their different 
 expressions, and his cheek was blanched for a moment 
 when he observed Edith's unconscious face. He signed 
 to Eagle to attend to her, and dazzling was tlie sparkle 
 of his eye when in a little he saw her move voluntarily, 
 and turn her face towards him with a look of min^ded 
 
 o 
 
 joy and incredulity.
 
 184 Dm A. 
 
 CHAPTEE XIX. 
 
 Macjgie Miller's fragile style of beauty, made piquant 
 by its rarity among field girls, having found favour in 
 Pike's eyes, he, to do liim justice, had married her in a 
 legal though irregular manner ; but the timid, and, in 
 fact, weak-minded girl was too soft and spiritless, and in 
 her somewhat exacting affection too wearisome to suit 
 him long ; and when his fellow-labourers, Sandy Craig 
 and Winsie Wright, left the country for America, he, find- 
 ing himself thus disembarrassed of the witnesses to his 
 marriage, very soon made an excuse for quarrelling with 
 and forsaking his not yet publicly- acknowledged wife. 
 
 When, shunning her neighbourhood, he arrived at 
 Ashcroft farm, and took up his abode with the widow 
 Doherty, Kate Gowans, though his cousin, had heard 
 little of his habits, and nothing of his private marriage. 
 He was a handsome, though coarse-grained youth, and, 
 taken by his black eyes, Kate, though already lialf 
 engaged to a less showy suitor, Tom Crocket, was not 
 ill-pleased when in his passionate way he expressed a 
 warm admiration of her beauty. His admiration was, 
 indeed, by no means affected. Perhaps Kate in a few 
 w^eeks had made a stronger impression upon him than 
 had been produced by any of the other women he had 
 in turn admired.
 
 DIXA. 185- 
 
 Frightened rather than driven from her home by the 
 harshness of her relatives, ]\Iaggie, already for a good 
 while forsaken, had wandered for some days about the 
 country, and then into to\vi% whence, after a night in 
 the damp streets-^for she failed to reach the Eefuge to 
 which Wilmotte directed her — she had found her way 
 on sore and weary feet to the widow's, in the vain hope 
 that once she got entrance there Pike might be induced 
 to relent. How little chance there was of his really 
 doing so, his savage words quickly proved ; and that he 
 would be the more embittered against her by her inter- 
 ference with his new passion, poor Maggie felt keenly 
 as she noticed Kate's remarkable beauty. In coming 
 to his grandmother's cottage, she had done the most 
 disagreeable thing in her power ; and in coming at this 
 time in particular, she had made that offence unpardon- 
 able. This was her feeling^ as she knelt before the 
 widow ; this rendered Kate's kind words of no avail. 
 Never, never more would he look on her but with the 
 fiercest hatred and most revengeful malignity, shudder- 
 ing she thought. Despair took possession of her heart, 
 and in the frenzy of agony she sprang up and fled from 
 the cottage in the manner already described. 
 
 Of Pike's violence, the scar on Maggie's brow was 
 sufficient evidence. That he would treat her as he had 
 threatened, she did not doubt. 
 
 So fast she sped along the road, and through the 
 fields, that Kate, unable to run on account of the water- 
 pitcher on her head, had some difficulty in keeping her 
 in sight. But this was for a few minutes only. Sorrow, 
 semi-starvation, and much walking, had exhausted the 
 poor girl's strength, and when, ere she reached Ashcroft 
 farm-place, she came upon a half- cut-down stack of last
 
 18G DIKA. 
 
 year's hay wliich stood in a field in winch newly-cut 
 wheat was drying in the sunshine, her feet were unable 
 to cany her farther, and with a moan she sank upon 
 some loose hay lying in the corner of the stack. 
 
 Convinced tliat Maggie neither would nor could leave 
 this resting-place soon, Kate, as has been said, passed on 
 to attend to her household duties ere taking further 
 steps on behalf of the miserable young mother. That 
 on her return, by-and-bye, Maggie was no longer to be 
 seen, requires to be explained. 
 
 The haystack had been cut into on its south side, 
 and the sun would have warmed the corner into which 
 ^laggie sank, but for a harrow, which on end and over- 
 lain with straw stood in front of it. A quantity of 
 scarlet poppies, gathered and left by children no doubt, 
 w^ere strewn about the ground. 
 
 It was a pleasant corner to lie in, and, even in her 
 wretchedness, Maggie was not quite insensible to the 
 softness and fragrance of the hay into which she sank. 
 
 Oh, to die there ! sweetly to cease to live, her broken 
 heart sighed as she felt the soothing softness of her bed. 
 In her state of physical prostration, her death did not, 
 indeed, appear to her an improbable event. Faint from 
 famine and fatigue, she felt half dead already. Her 
 limbs could no longer carry her, her heart was sick, 
 her mind bewildered. Eest, rest and peace were all 
 she had strength to wish for. 
 
 And these she was about to have in the fullest sense, 
 suddenly she fancied, as exhausted nature began to 
 taste relief in approaching sleep. Half instinctively, 
 as her brain grew drowsy, she folded her shawl round 
 her babe, and clasped the little thing tightly to her 
 bosom. Perhaps it would die with her, if she indeed
 
 LIXA. 187 
 
 were dying, or should it survive her, some pitiful passer- 
 by might take it and nurse it. Presently her eyes 
 closed, and for a considerable time her sleep was sound. 
 But her child did not sleep. Perhaps it was hungry ; 
 at any rate it was restless in her bosom. It moved 
 about its little hands, and sometimes pushed its fingers 
 into its mother's open mouth. It cried, too, at intervals, 
 and wailed a good deal. 
 
 Far too much exhausted was ^laggie to be awakened 
 now, even by her ot\ti infant's voice. It disturbed her 
 rest, though, enough to make her dream. 
 
 Sweet death had relieved her from all her pains ; this 
 was her dream. Such ineffable rest and stillness she 
 had not known in her lifetime. She was now tranquil, 
 because dead — dead, and yet in her bosom her babe 
 still lay and smiled in her face. An angel with large, 
 blue, lo\TLng eyes, was hovering near, and waving slowly 
 in the air his silver}^ golden- edged wings. The motion 
 of the air made the child blink pleasantly at the beauti- 
 ful angel. Away beyond the angel was semi-darkness, 
 and in the darkness there was strife amid lurid waves ; 
 but she did not mind that ; slie had escaped from all 
 strife, and was now still and safe upon a placid shore. 
 She was not holding the child : it lay in her arms, be- 
 cause it had been there when she died. The angel 
 evidently knew that she could do nothing for it, since 
 he did not speak to her, but looked pitifully on the 
 cliild, and, she was sure, meant to take it up presently 
 and soar away with it to veiy high mountains he had 
 come down from ; mountains where, as she could see 
 over his shoulder, the sun was dazzling on millions of 
 roses, among which the cliild could not fail to be happy. 
 For herself she was content to lie alone dead until she
 
 188 DINA. 
 
 was quite rested. She had been dreadfully weary, and 
 though there was certainly no longer any sense of sore- 
 ness in her limbs, which were, indeed, quite insensible, 
 being dead, she did not feel ready to rise yet. No doubt 
 she would come alive again in good time, for so she had 
 always believed the dead do. Meanwhile death was 
 cool and delicious, and she had nothing to wish for 
 just now, since the soft-eyed angel would take care of 
 her little one, her innocent babe, which, by-and-bye, 
 when entering upon the new life she had become quite 
 refreshed by death, she could ask for or even catch for 
 herself, may be, among the roses on the mountain. 
 Mildly the angel bent forward, as she had been expect- 
 ing he would, and, stoppmg the motion of his heavenly 
 -wings, smiled at the babe so sweetly that it laughed up 
 iti his bright face and put out its pretty pink fingers to 
 meet the tapering hands, white like a beautiful lady's, 
 which were advanced as if to lift it from her breast. 
 White ? the hands had been wdiite ; but now ? — surely 
 there was a change. Were they not charred as if by 
 fire ? had not they long nails ? were they not wholly 
 black ? Oh, they were devil's paws ! The angel had 
 gone in a moment. A scraggy fiend, with gloating eyes, 
 was in his place. Its wings were thorny like a bat's, 
 and jerked fitfully — making a jarring noise, too, like a 
 rusty hinge ; — someliow, without Avonder she heard this, 
 as without wonder she was conscious of seeing while 
 dead. This demon clutched her infant. She would 
 have screamed, but her tongue was fixed and voiceless ; 
 she would have held the child fast, but then her arms 
 were numb, and she could not tighten them round it, 
 being dead. So the monster snatched it from her un- 
 opposed, and, in an instant, it was thrown under his
 
 ^ 
 
 LIXA. 189 
 
 feet, and he danced a ^\ihl dance upon it, digging his 
 horny heels into its little body ! This, however, was 
 enough to make the very dead arise. Her voice broke 
 forth at last in a shriek of anguish, her anus were 
 stretched out, and, lo, she was alive again, awake under 
 the open sky, and her child was crying in her lap ; for 
 she had frightened it, and even bitten its finger in her 
 own fright ! 
 
 The poor woman had not in fact slept much more 
 than half an hour when the ^ivid dream awoke her. 
 She nibbed her eyes, shuddering, and then looked 
 round in blank dismay. 
 
 Of her dream she had almost immediately only a 
 confused recollection. One thing, however, was clear 
 to her mind : Pike, or a devil — most likely Pike him- 
 self — had tried to snatch away her baby while she 
 slept. He hadn't succeeded, for it was in her lap, and 
 he had vanished ; but as he had been there but a 
 moment ago he could not now be far off, and he might 
 try again to rob her. Once, while she was walking 
 with Pike in her happiest time (a spring-day after their 
 marriage, — a Sunday it was, and they walked on the 
 edge of a clover field, which had been in corn the year 
 before, as she remembered) she had come unexpect- 
 edly upon a very young wild rabbit sitting innocently 
 on the path nibbling a dandelion leaf. Delighted, she 
 was on the point of stooping to caress it, so tame it 
 looked, when Pike, uttering an oath, crushed it with his 
 iron heel, and wished himself a chance of getting rid of 
 all vermin as easily. That Pike, should he snatch the 
 child from her now, would crush it under his heel as he 
 had crushed the rabbit, she felt certain. Nay, she could 
 liardly get it out of her mind that he, somehow, had
 
 190 DIXA. 
 
 already stamped, and even danced uj^on it, grinning at 
 her tlie while like a horned devil she had seen pictures 
 of ; only, to be sure, that must be nonsense, seeing that 
 the babe was quite safe, and crying no doubt only just 
 from hunger. 
 
 She wondered if she had time to feed it before Pike 
 wouhl come again. There was no noise near, and 
 while she listened she lifted the child from her lap and 
 it suckled greedily, getting little enough probably from 
 its half- starved mother. 
 
 Nothing stirred near her ; but that might be because 
 Pike was cunningly lying in wait for his opportunity. 
 He certainly could not be farther off than the other side 
 of the stack. Her every limb trembled. He would 
 dance on the infant, and she should be alive to see it, 
 though next he would, of course, dance on her. Every- 
 thmg was horror. How had she missed the sweet death 
 she had almost courted ? or had she, in fact, been dead 
 a while ? Her mind refused to fix itself on anything 
 definite. What must she do ? Ah, already the ground 
 was swimming with blood, the babe's and her own — hot 
 blood, such as she had seen reeking in — ; no, no, it was 
 the red poppies : how silly ! of course she could see it 
 was the red poppies quite well Pike might, indeed, 
 have gone away for this time. And if he had, mightn't 
 she escape ? — not escape for ever, no ; Pike would not 
 spare her long. Hadn't he said he would make pig's 
 meat of her ? and wouldn't he make that of the infant 
 too ? Alas, she could not lie down again hoping the 
 baby might die with her quietly, or, at worst, as she 
 had before anticipated, be picked up by compassionate 
 strangers, and nursed kindly because of its mother hav- 
 ing died miserably. No, Pike would be before the
 
 DIXA. 191 
 
 compassionate strangers, and tlie only thing left for lier 
 was by some means to be quite sure of its dying with 
 her. 
 
 Past the harrow Maggie could see Craig Law ; and 
 its cliff in shadow looked to her very high and per- 
 pendicular. Her eyes flashed : might not she spring 
 from it, she thought, and be killed with the babe in a 
 moment ? She had heard that people who leaped from 
 a great height became insensible before they touched 
 the ground, and never knew anything about the crash 
 that killed them. Here, then, was the very best thing 
 she could do if Pike gave her time. 
 
 Her energy came again in thinking of this. She rose 
 stealthily, and peeped round the sharp corner of hay, 
 newly cut in a clean line. Xo one was in sight. 
 Cautiously she crept out, and, step by step, satisfied 
 herself that Pike was not at hand, and that she was 
 quite alone. Xow was her chance ; and so, clasping the 
 child, she started at a run over the stubble, and in a few 
 minutes disappeared in a plantation between the corn 
 field and Craig Law. 
 
 The ground under the trees being swampy, liad been 
 cut up by open drains. These occurring among thick 
 underwood and long grass, greatly embarrassed Maggie 
 in her flumed state of mind, and it was a considerable 
 time before she emerged at the other side of the wood. 
 
 Then the hill proved steep and slippery, and tried her 
 terribly ; but her dream, or the thouglits it had given 
 rise to, had made Pike twice a savage in her eyes, and 
 fear of wliat he would do to her, and especially to the 
 child, should he overtake her, spurred her flagging steps. 
 
 Just as Marian Grange spoke to Mr. Eagle of Ebon 
 Lockart's frequent visits to Espie Gowan's, Maggie
 
 192 DIXA. 
 
 reached, at last, the shoulder of the hill. There she was 
 plainly beyond the immediate grasp of her infuriated 
 husband, for she could see a long way behind her, and 
 he was not visible, so she walked less hurriedly — nay, 
 loitered, towards the top of the cliftl 
 
 She got to it at length, and stood looking down. A 
 strange thing came into her head. Was she, after all, 
 quite certain that babies died or became insensible before 
 they touched the cruel rocks at the bottom of a preci- 
 pice, in the same way as she had been assured grown- 
 up people did ? How could any one know that they 
 did so, when babies had never been known to commit 
 suicide ? Her enfeebled mind was puzzled by this, and 
 an ever vivid imagination, for which she had been noted 
 among her fellow work-girls, began to picture to her her 
 infant in agony on the points of the sharp rocks strewn 
 at the foot of the cliff. She shuddered, and lookimr 
 down, her brain began to grow giddy. 
 
 It was at this moment that she was surprised by 
 Polly's cry, and saw, vaguely, a group of people already 
 almost under the spot she had thought of leaping from. 
 
 Bewildered, she started back, and stumbling, let the 
 child drop from her puny arms. 
 
 All thoughts of self-destruction, all remembrance of 
 Pike vanished from her mind, while Archer Calvert was 
 scaling the dangerous precipice ; and no blissfulness 
 ever exceeded Maggie's when she saw her darling safe 
 at last in his friendly hands — though, alas, still far out 
 of her reach.
 
 DIXA. 11)3 
 
 CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 " Xow then, Mr. Eagle," shouted Calvert, " suppose 
 you look out for some thirty yards of rope." 
 
 "There's plenty in the stackyard," cried Polly 
 joyfuUy. 
 
 " I shall drop it to you from above," said Eagle. 
 
 " Yes, that will be the best plan." 
 
 Polly and Mr. Eagle at once hurried off to the farm- 
 yard. 
 
 " Let me have your shawl to wrap the kid in, and 
 then go down to the foot of the cliff^' said Archer, look - 
 ing up. 
 
 Maggie having dropped her shawl to him, without 
 demur, withdrew from the edge and retraced her steps 
 over the shoulder of the hill, in order to make the 
 needful circuit by which alone she could get safely 
 down. 
 
 Archer had a talent for tossing babies, and even for 
 catching them again, but he was an indifferent hand at 
 holding them. It was therefore with satisfaction that 
 he caught the shawl, made it into a nest among the 
 grass farthest from tlie front of his balcony, and then 
 packed the child neatly into it. The creature had had 
 so much air and exercise while swinging on the tree, 
 that it was now well disposed for sleep. In fact, before 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 194 DIN A. 
 
 it was quite settled in its new berth, it was, to Archer's 
 great contentment, sleeping soundly. 
 
 Thus relieved of it, Calvert looked down upon Edith 
 and Marian, who, not being required, they supposed, to 
 assist in bringing rope, had seated themselves together 
 on a bank a few yards from the foot of the rock. There 
 they were very quiet, for besides that the distance ren- 
 dered talking to Calvert fatiguing, neither of them, it 
 is probable, felt disposed to speak. Their hearts were 
 too full. Their anxiety and misery had been intense, 
 and in proportion to it was now their thankfulness. 
 Edith, perhaps, had suffered the most, at least her hap- 
 piness seemed, if anything, the greater, for, from time 
 to time, a bright tear gathered in her eyes and rolled 
 over her upturned cheek. 
 
 Archer's keen sight discerned something in her face 
 which made his heart beat quick. Her sight, though 
 good, was hardly equal to his, and as in looking up 
 eighty feet at him she did not see his countenance so 
 clearly as he saw hers, she had nothing to warn her 
 that he might read in her face feelings which she, per- 
 haps, did not mean to express ; and of fondness reveal- 
 ing itself in her look of excessive gladness, Archer, 
 indeed, supposed himself to catch the expression in her 
 tear- sprinkled face. At the same time, however, he 
 saw plainly that Edith's eyes were not addressing him 
 though fixed upon him, and in the midst of his happi- 
 ness in the discovery that he was not an object of in- 
 difference to her, he was conscious of a degree of 
 awkw^ardness in, as it were, surprising her secret while 
 she remained unaware of its having escaped her. 
 
 Willing to conceal his embarrassment, he somewhat 
 hurriedly seated himself beside his charge.
 
 DIN A. 195 
 
 " Xow for a weed," he said, feeling for his cigar case. 
 
 That, however, was not forthcoming, and immediately 
 his shirt sleeves reminded him that he had thrown off 
 his coat. 
 
 " Bother," he muttered, rather chagrined. 
 
 "Xow I shall be miserable," he added, but with a 
 smile, as if he were amused at his own annoyance. 
 
 The smile was followed by a chuckle of satisfaction, 
 caused by the timely reflection that tobacco smoke 
 might have awakened " the kid." 
 
 " Ha, ha ! I do believe I should have had to sit mum 
 with the creature sucking my finger !" he said, smiling 
 timorously over the infant as he thought of the more 
 than doubtful effects of sitting " mum." 
 
 His humour was a little forced, and neither the child 
 nor the absent cigar had possession of his mind, if one 
 might judge from the eagerness with which his gaze 
 again turned to the grass bank at the foot of the cliff*. 
 Just then Marian happened to look at her companion, 
 and from her face, still up-turned, she glanced quickly 
 to him. Owing to the nearness of the gii'ls to each 
 other, and their distance from himself, Archer's glance 
 embraced them both sufficiently to let him see Marian's 
 face very well even while his gaze was fixed on Edith's, 
 so he was fully aware of her movement, and perceived 
 her face clearly enough to know from it that she under- 
 stood the expression of his. Only for an instant her 
 glance lit on him, and then she placed her hand on 
 Edith's, and her lips moved. Edith started a little, and 
 bent her head forward so as to hide her face from him. 
 Archer almost gasped, so strange a thrill of mingled 
 delight and apprehension was in his breast. Marian 
 had read his heart in that brief glance, he felt assured.
 
 196 DINA. 
 
 and something of what she had read she had — was it 
 not evident ? — imparted to Edith. 
 
 Had ]\Iarian looked up again, she would have seen 
 that he had grown very pale, and that the light of his 
 eyes was singularly intense ; but she did not look up 
 again. Edith's hand — the one Marian had touched — 
 was in her lap, and it held her straw hat, which lay on 
 her knees, with its long white feather drooping next 
 Marian. Marian, resting on her right hand, now leaned 
 towards Edith, while with the fingers of her left she 
 lightly stroked down the feather. Archer knew by the 
 motion of her fingers, and by the way she inclined 
 towards her friend, that she was speaking to her, and 
 that in a low tone : moreover, that she was saying 
 something w^hich made it difficult for her to look in 
 Edith's face, perhaps, lest by doing so she should pain 
 her by the detection of a blush there. 
 
 For some time Editli evidently did not reply. Then, 
 by a slight motion of her head, he judged that she said 
 some single word, and at the same time he remarked 
 that her companion more emphatically stroked the 
 feather down, speaking the while, probably. Was that 
 sweet little soul, Llarian, pleading for him, or was she, 
 in sad remonstrance, saying things fatal to his hopes ? 
 Modest Archer wondered which. Had Marian's hand 
 stopped and rested heavily on the feather, or, still worse, 
 on the hat itself, or liad her fingers closed, and her face 
 been steadily raised to Edith's, he would have felt his 
 cause in imminent peril ; but her hand continued light 
 and caressing upon the feather, and a peculiar wavering 
 of the fingers over it was, he felt, evidently due to the 
 nervousness or timidity she would naturally feel in 
 speaking to Miss Lockart of that which she certainly
 
 DIXA, 197 
 
 must be speaking about. Yes ; the little girl was 
 plainly saying kindly, generous things of him. He had, 
 in fact, he remembered, flattered himself that she, sweet 
 sage, had from the first deigned to approve of him, and 
 that too without, it seemed to him, the remotest refer- 
 ence to herseK — without egotism. Assuredly she was 
 now taking his part ; affectionately drawing fi'om her 
 friend a confession, perhaps, and at the same time 
 giving her delicate hints about the cruelty of letting her 
 feelings appear only when she supposed him too distant 
 to read them in her face ; or, it might be, hesitatingly 
 saving^ thincrs which she thous^ht needful to make it 
 clear to Edith herself what her feelings towards him 
 really were ; for Edith might have no more practical 
 consciousness of her love than she had of his impression 
 that her eyes had revealed it to him. 
 
 Still moved the fingers, and more than ever they 
 touched the feather caressingly, and with seeming com- 
 placency. They never by any chance rubbed it up, or 
 betrayed the least irritation in their motion. Could 
 there be a better sign ? 
 
 Xow they stop — suddenly they were arrested. Edith 
 had turned and placed her hands on ^larian's shoulders. 
 For a little, she looked her full in the face, and shook 
 her head at her in a sort of affectionately reproving 
 way. Then caressingly she placed the tips of her 
 fingers on Marian's hair, and smoothed it off her brow. 
 Marian's face rose at this, and she smiled expressively, 
 whereupon Edith blushed and hid her face on Marian's 
 breast. 
 
 All tliat spoke eloquently to Archer. Every gesture, 
 every motion, however slight, had its meaning for him. 
 
 Was he egotistical to an absurd degree in seeing
 
 198 BIN A. 
 
 some allusion to himself in every action of his fair 
 friends ? 
 
 " Oh, you love — you wicked, good little thing !" that 
 was what he supposed Edith to say when she suddenly 
 caressed Marian ; and these words he supposed to mean, 
 " I am so happy to be convinced that he likes me," and 
 " I shall love yon so mnch for this !" 
 
 It is a pleasant and sustaining thing to have an 
 imagination which delicionsly indulges one's vanity. 
 We congratulate Captain Calvert on his. He is su- 
 premely happy up there, and after looking about for 
 something on which to lavish his feelings, he, wholly 
 forgetting what a plague it may prove should it be 
 made restless, impulsively snatches up the infant and 
 actually kisses it again and again, to, at any rate, the 
 unspeakable delight of the poor thing's mother, who, 
 having reached the foot of the hill, is standing humbly 
 a little way behind Miss Grange and lier companion, 
 looking up. At the third kiss she laughs and claps her 
 hands in ecstasy. 
 
 Maggie's spirits had revived w^onderfully, and her 
 pretty little face had brightened so much in the course 
 of the last few minutes that it might hardly have been 
 recognised as that which we saw in anguish at old Mrs. 
 Doherty's feet. 
 
 Her laugh recalled the girls from their own affairs to 
 hers, and they at once rose to speak to her. Marian 
 frankly took both her hands, and pressing them kindly, 
 kissed her brow, and told her how thankful she was to 
 see the infant safe. Her eyes confirmed her words, and 
 she looked into the young woman's face not searchingly 
 but tenderly. Edith's eyes were as little impertinent as 
 hers, and they too looked bright congratulations, while
 
 BIX A. 199 
 
 she softly and a little tremulously repeated wliat ^lariau 
 said. 
 
 In Maggie's sickly, yet still pretty face, the girls read 
 a history of trial and suffering, and instinctively re- 
 frained from asking how it happened that she had ven- 
 tured so near the edge of the precipice. This was not 
 the time, and it was perhaps not at all for them to 
 inquire into that. A suspicion might cross their minds ; 
 but that the young mother was overjoyed by the safety 
 of the child, did not admit of doubt, and that, in the 
 meantime, was enough for them. 
 
 Poor Maggie appreciated their kind words, and so 
 much was her mind apt to be engrossed by a single idea, 
 that, in her gladness, she quite forgot that she had been 
 on the verge of a great crime. By some accident, of 
 which she did not trouble herself to think, her child 
 had got into a perilous position, and while in danger of 
 at any moment falling to a horrible death, it had been 
 gallantly rescued. That was all that her mind could at 
 present take in, so there was nothing in her air to con- 
 firm the ladies' suspicions — nothing to damp their cor- 
 diality. 
 
 Archer's enthusiasm, of course, awakened the child, 
 and it began to cry. The C|uick mother's ear soon heard 
 it, and Maggie looked anxiously up. He dandled it in 
 his arms in the way he imagined nurses were in the 
 habit of doing, while its mother crowed and waved her 
 arms below in a fond endeavour to soothe it by signs. 
 Still it squalled, and he, at last, tried, after all, the 
 effect of giving it a finger to suck, and of doing what he 
 described as sitting mum. His success was perfect, and 
 in a few seconds he was able to deposit the little thing, 
 quite pacified, in the shawl nest.
 
 200 BIXA. 
 
 From his elevated position overlooking tlie farm-build- 
 ings, he now saw Eagle and Miss Polly hastening from the 
 stackyard. In ten minutes or so they would be above 
 him. Meanwhile he would carry out a happy idea. 
 
 Some crimson blossoms of the wild geranium had 
 caught his eye. The plants grew in the soil produced 
 by generations of lichens and mosses, which had 
 flourished and decayed on the weather-worn surface 
 of the rock, of which the northern exposure allowed it 
 always to retain sufficient moisture for their support. 
 Archer would make a little nosegay, he thought, and 
 throw it down to that graceful girl, Edith, as at once a 
 love-gift and a something that might serve to remind 
 her of the feelings her anxiety had called forth. 
 
 He gathered the finest blossoms, and, in doing so, he 
 observed with delight that other pretty plants were 
 within his reach. That beautiful fern, the maiden-hair 
 spleenwort, was abundant in the crevices. The less 
 graceful, but fresh- coloured polypody tufted the more 
 prominent angles. Grasses with ripening feather}^ 
 heads were beside him. Slender harebells hung over 
 the edge of the balcony ; and, best of all, when he 
 stretched for a handful of bells, he found between his 
 fingers, in sweet bud and bloom, a plant of the corn- 
 field forget-me-not. This last he placed in the centre 
 of his bouquet. Eound it he set the contrasting 
 geraniums, round these the spleenworts, for w^hich in 
 their turn he arranged a border of bluebells, backed by 
 polopody ferns and grass plumes. 
 
 Archer had such a love of neatness that he was quite 
 absorbed in the ordering of his flowers. Some of the 
 tougher grasses he used as strings, wdth which to tie 
 the stalks together ; then he found in his w^aistcoat-
 
 DIKA. 201 
 
 pocket a visiting-card, which, without looking to see 
 whether it bore his own name or a friend's, he rolled 
 into a bouquet-holder. Having fastened the flowers 
 into it, he wrote on the outside with his pencil, " Edith." 
 Then, when neither of his friends was looking up, he 
 dropped the little nosegay thus carefully constructed, 
 so that it might fall at their feet. 
 
 Marian saw it alight and picked it up. Eeading 
 " Edith" upon it, she at once presented it to Miss 
 Lockart, who, seeing her own name, blushed. For a 
 few seconds Edith held the flowers as it were timidly, 
 while her eyes — brighter than the harebells and bluer 
 than the cornfield forget-me-nots — hovered over them 
 in a sort of suspense, then, as if with an effort, summon- 
 ing courage, she, without waiting till her blush faded, 
 turned her rosy face to Archer, and bowed her thanks. 
 Her lips were parted slightly, quivering somewhat, and 
 she smiled only with her eyes, which sparkled through 
 a gathering moisture. 
 
 Maf^^ie ^^liller was too much eng^af^ed in thinkincj 
 about her child to see anything of this exchange of 
 courtesies, nor was it remarked particularly by Kate 
 Gowans, who was standing behind the young mother 
 in rather open-mouthed wonder. 
 
 At last Kate had found the truant ; but where was 
 her child ? and how came a young gentleman in shirt- 
 sleeves to be seated on a mere knob of rock so far up 
 the face of the precipice there ? 
 
 While she wondered a figure suddenly appeared upon 
 the hill, and stood dark against the sky. Other figures 
 followed, and she recognised [Mr. Eagle and some of the 
 farm-labourers, accompanied by Miss Polly Grange. 
 At the same time, a number of work-people who had
 
 202 DINA. 
 
 seen or heard something of what was going on, began to 
 assemble beside her, where they stood watching with 
 lively interest the proceedings of those on the hill. 
 
 Mr. Eagle lost no time in tying one of several ropes 
 he and his assistants had readily procured in the farm- 
 yard to a horn-like point of rock just above Archer. 
 The rope dropped upon the rowan-tree, whence Archer 
 gathered it and examined it narrowly. The part of it 
 hanging above him being between him and the light 
 sky he could not so inspect, and had to trust to Eagle's 
 assurance that it was quite sound. 
 
 " We had better have two, however," he remarked, 
 whereupon his friend immediately placed a second rope 
 of equal strength beside the first. 
 
 " Now for it," said Archer, picking up the child and 
 laying it on the grass, careless of its remonstrances. 
 
 He made a sort of bag of the shawl, and tied the end 
 of one rope firmly to it. Then he put the babe mto 
 the bag, and looked up and down, as if for a moment 
 in doubt w^hich way it would be best to despatch it. 
 
 " It had better go down, as the mother is there," he 
 said. 
 
 He turned his face windwards to test the strength of 
 the breeze. The east wind had fallen, and there was 
 no danger of an object hung beside the cliff being blown 
 against it, so Archer laid the rope confidently over a 
 projecting forked branch of the rowan and slowly let it 
 slip, so that the bag, now full of wailings, dangled clear 
 of the rocks and descended softly and steadily towards 
 the anxious eyes and throbbing hearts beneath. 
 
 Duff', who had hitherto, perhaps in consequence of 
 slow digestion of his pie scraps, preserved a placid
 
 DINA. 203 
 
 indifference to Calvert's x^roceedings, now rose and 
 bounded forward, bent upon catching the descending 
 bundle. He was with difficulty held down by Edith 
 and Marian, while Maggie, pale as ashes, and then 
 flushed with exultant joy, received it into her arms. 
 
 Eeady hands helped her to loosen the knots, and 
 presently she was able to retire with the infant safe in 
 her bosom to a grass bank, whither she was followed 
 by all the country women. 
 
 " Hurray !" cried the men once. 
 
 Once ; and then they looked ujd, evidently consider- 
 ing that it would be time enough to give free vent to 
 their feelings when the rescuer of the babe was equally 
 safe ; for already they had had time, in looking at the 
 cliff, to appreciate his devotion. 
 
 Archer shifted the rope from the branch and put the 
 other beside it, for the single one, far more than suffi- 
 cient for the little child, might perhaps scarcely bear 
 his own weight. He must, too, have the rock to cling 
 to now and then in venturing to slip down some eighty 
 feet of rope. But, of course, such a descent was nothing 
 to his climb, and need occasion no anxiety in his own 
 mind or among his friends above and below. The ropes, 
 fastened, as I have described, to the top of the cliff hung 
 just across the front of his balcony, and thence down 
 upon the face of the rock, save near the foot of the cliff, 
 where they hung free. 
 
 In a few seconds Archer was twenty feet down, and 
 at the first of several knots on the rope. There he clung 
 with one hand to a crevice, while he put his feet into 
 another hole and took breath. 
 
 Thirty feet more he did in the same style : hands and
 
 204 DINA. 
 
 knees tight round the rope and slipping smoothly down 
 it, while he touched the stone here and there with his 
 toes to keep his shoulders clear of the frequent jags, 
 which would otherwise have torn his shirt. 
 
 Other thirty feet and he would be on the level 
 ground. 
 
 Duff, again at liberty, and whom it was not supposed 
 needful to restrain this time, bounded about, joyfully 
 barking. 
 
 Archer had now to slip along the rope, quite clear of 
 the rock, as the latter slightly overhung from his pre- 
 sent resting-place. 
 
 He did so amid a rousing cheer from lusty lungs, 
 and then, within five or six feet of the grass, let go 
 his hold, rejoicing. 
 
 Something happened then which was not very clearly 
 seen by his excited friends. Instead of finding him on 
 his feet among them, they saw him lying with his head 
 against the base of the cliff, motionless. Astonished, 
 they hesitated a moment, then touched him, and, still 
 unable to realize the possibility of anything having 
 "befallen him, raised him doubtingly. He was quite 
 insensible, and his right temple bled. An intelligent 
 ploughman hastily entreated the people to stand back, 
 and then gently took Calvert in his great arms and 
 carried him to a grass hillock a few yards from the 
 
 ' ■-' Miss Lockart and her friend, mute in wonder and 
 dismay, followed. The latter bound her handkerchief 
 round Archer's head as soon as he was laid down, and 
 sat on the ground, resting him tenderly on her arm. 
 Edith tremblingly felt his pulse.
 
 DIKA. 205 
 
 Arclier was alive, but liis unconsciousness was total. 
 Had lie fainted merely, or was his skull fractured, as 
 the bruise might suggest ? What could they do ? 
 
 Edith remembered that there was a stream at hand, 
 and she hurried to it, returning in an instant with her 
 handkerchief dripping. She moistened and bathed 
 Archer's head — an easy matter where the hair was so 
 scanty. Soaked aprons and red and blue cotton hand- 
 kerchiefs were quickly pressed upon her from all sides, 
 and the cooling cloths were applied again and again 
 — without effect. 
 
 A cry for " the doctor" arose among the women, and 
 Marian observing one of the Ashcroft gi'ooms in the 
 crowd, breathlessly bade him take a horse and hasten 
 in search of Dr. Wilmotte ; the nearest country doctor 
 being, she remembered to have heard, in town for the 
 day. 
 
 Meanwhile they could but carry their unlucky friend 
 as tenderly as might be to the house. 
 
 Miss Grange's woollen shawl was thrown with others 
 over a board, lying near, and Archer was carefully 
 placed upon it. His tweed coat was laid over him, and, 
 at Marian's suggestion, he was carried by a tall man at 
 the head of the board, and by a little one at the foot, 
 so that he lay on a slope, with his head sufficiently 
 raised. The two girls, very pale and stunned, though 
 ready with help, walked beside him, one on eacli side, 
 and continued to bathe his temples. 
 
 The accident was simple enough. Archer, in high 
 spirits, and, ^vith his accustomed naivete, in no way 
 inclined to hide them, naturally quitted the rope, as I 
 said, before his feet reached the ground. Obtiusive
 
 206 DINA. 
 
 Duff, bounding and frisking, happened to be immedi- 
 ately under him, and he coming down suddenly at the 
 last, alit partly on the dog's back, and, in consequence, 
 fell against the rock, striking his head with consider- 
 able violence. 
 
 In this provokingly trifling way the brave fellow 
 came to grief, like a storm- strained boat driven upon 
 the rocks of its long-looked-for haven. 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
 li